by Robert Gore
There are many ways to murder; depravity encounters no limits to its diabolical designs. A dramatic staple: a trusted friend or relative administers gradually increasing quantities of an undetectable poison as a formerly vigorous victim inexplicably wastes, withers and finally succumbs. An unsuspecting or corrupt coroner closes the case, official cause of death a long illness. The murderer gets the estate, until the decedent’s devoted fill-in-the-blank starts asking questions and nosing around, suspicion mounts, and the heinous homicide is exposed.
Such will be the plot line when the story is written of America’s murder. In its prime, the victim met every challenge. After a devastating and ruinous war against itself, America built the world’s most prosperous economy, providing opportunities and better lives for millions. Full of ambition and energy, America became a hotbed of innovation and an industrial powerhouse, the nation that gave birth to the terms “consumer,” “middle class,” and their essential antecedent, “the work ethic.”
“Ah,” said the first phalanx of America’s Grima Wormtongues, “all that exuberance and activity can’t be good for you. Sit a spell and we’ll bring you soup and hot tea. And here’s a blanket against the chill.” An America that wasn’t sick in the least, nor chilled, mistook deadly solicitousness for genuine concern. With a boisterous indifference to the finer points of etiquette, it slurped the poisoned soup and tea.
