I have been playing Miss Reporter longer than those elected to public office typically serve, and I’m sick of the recirculation of flawed ideas. Today, flashmobbers celebrated their disdain for Valentine’s Day with a pillow fight downtown. I didn’t hear about it until it was too late, so I shall celebrate this holiday of commercial love by posting fallacies, analyses, and song. Why? Because

Money can’t buy love.

(P.S. The hyperlinks go to news items of the day. Google the lyrics for credits. This is only a blog, not a scholarly contribution.)

  • Things that “create jobs” are good. The people who threw eggs at my car created jobs for people who raise chickens, grocers, and the evil truck drivers who burn hydrocarbons to bring the eggs to market. The paper towel industry also benefitted, increasing demand for rainforests. Killing rainforests is bad for the environment, but if Amazonians can’t make any money off their trees, they’ll grow something else on the land. In the end, everything creates jobs with economic multipliers as long as your limited perspective does not include displaced jobs.

    It’s a vulture culture.

  • Parks make communities prosperous. In reality, it was probably prosperous communities that could afford nice parks in the old days, rather than the other way around. I’m not sure why we need to be building parks off tax dollars when half the families can’t afford to feed their own kids.

    I don’t think I can take it, ‘cuz it took too long to bake it, and I’ll never have the recipe again. Oh, no!

  • Giving government money to businesses grows the economy. Giving money to businesses promotes inefficiencies. Those who must make it or break it on their own are forced to produce items consumers are willing to buy. They must know which corners to cut when the going gets tough. Businessmen who wish to rely on the power of pull and tax subsidies only know how to ask for more when consumers aren’t all that interested.

    If my best isn’t good enough, then how can it be good enough for two?

  • Federal money given to public services helps local budgets. The money is touted as being free, and it often represents an extra-Constitutional activity, at least in the context of a reasonable reading of the document. It is usually free the first year, and then obliges the local government to subsidize its expanded scope in later years.

    Don’t turn around, uh, oh. Der commisar’s in town, uh, oh?

  • Complaining accomplishes anything. I don’t like to complain. I would rather be in a position to, say, write an alternative to Obamacare. Unfortunately, I must slave-wage to people who want me to poke fun of others when I could be doing something constructive.

    I’m a fool to do your dirty work.

  • Raising awareness accomplishes anything. This is merely a copout for people, like me, who lack courage and imagination. It is akin to witchcraft; that is, trying to accomplish things by remote control. It keeps people from getting dirty in giving of themselves.

    I don’t want to go through the motions.

  • Those who can win a popularity contest will be better risk takers, for two or four years, than they were before or after. It is popular to want a government to keep people in cages, well fed and safe from having to make choices and possibly be wrong.

    It is better to have never loved at all than to have loved and lost.

In sum,

You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need.
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you’re on the street,
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed.
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight,
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.

And after a while, you can work on points for style.
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,
A certain look in the eye and an easy smile.
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,
So that when they turn their backs on you,
You’ll get the chance to put the knife in.

You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder.
You know it’s going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you
get older.
And in the end you’ll pack up and fly down south,
Hide your head in the sand,
Just another sad old man,
All alone and dying of cancer.

And when you loose control, you’ll reap the harvest you have sown.
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone.
And it’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw
So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone,
Dragged down by the stone.

I gotta admit that I’m a little bit confused.
Sometimes it seems to me as if I’m just being used.
Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.
If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this

Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone’s expendable and no-one has a real friend.
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
And everything’s done under the sun,
And you believe at heart, everyone’s a killer.

Who was born in a house full of pain.
Who was trained not to spit in the fan.
Who was told what to do by the man.
Who was broken by trained personnel.
Who was fitted with collar and chain.
Who was given a pat on the back.
Who was breaking away from the pack.
Who was only a stranger at home.
Who was ground down in the end.
Who was found dead on the phone.
Who was dragged down by the stone.