How French Fries Conquered Nuclear Warfare

The world was in a state of suppressed dread over the prospect of Nuclear war. Nuclear Code-rattling in parts of the world had raised the spectre of a global nuclear fight. Several nations considered the possibility of being pulled into the vortex, often against their will.

Much time was devoted to finding peaceful solutions. Everyone wanted peace. Yet wanted to fight.

A solution was found.

Food warfare.

The Earth was producing so much food that a problem of scarcity had turned into a problem of plenty. Compared to 5 billion tonne of food in early 1960s, earthlings now produced 18 billion tonnes of food annually. This translated into over 2 tonnes of food per human on earth every year.

Including all competitors for food, it was tough for each eater to down 2 tonnes of food every year. One-third of food fit for human consumption was wasted anyway. This wastage could be put to good use.

As an instrument of war.

The spatial distribution across the Earth’s landscape meant food surpluses in some geographies. Mirrored by food shortages in others. Same held true for the distribution patterns of food wastage. Fat supply, too, was in abundance in some developed geographies, with scarcity in others.

War strategy would be simple. It would involve taking stock of food wastage – the low hanging fruits, pun unintended – and ICBM-ing food on enemy territory. For instance, a targeted, sustained fat shower would induce the erstwhile undernourished regions to help themselves to these freebies. Rather than grumble about bombardment, the attacked could find occasion to thank their enemies. Their governments would be grateful as well. What they struggled to solve for decades would be solved by an enemy. In a jiffy.

Selling the idea domestically would be a piece of cake too. Belligerent nations with food surpluses could wrap the war idea in truly humanitarian robes. Fat/protein/fruit/vegetable/carb bombardment on enemies that did not have basic human nourishment needs was a virtue. Who could disagree? They could point to the patchy record of aid interventions. Bombardment of enemy territories that needed basic necessities of life would be the most bona fide way to solve longstanding problems. This would also solve pesky food inequality questions. Past wars had developed a bad name as narratives weren’t packaged as altruistic intentions.

Scenario impact analysis would paint a picture of enemy populations feasting on so much food that folks would begin dying of overeating. The same outcomes from nuclear war would be realised. Achieved through humanitarian means. After the first waves, late movers would begin seeing the benefit and indulge in barter warfare. Mutual surplus food items would form part of attack arsenals.

As the world settled into this new scheme of things, longer-run implications would involve cutback in defence spending, and increased allocation to building surplus food arsenals. Watching the benefits of food warfare, potential warlords/dictators would take a leaf of this book, and step up massive food spending. What worked on enemies could work just as well on their own.

As a means of subjugating Peoples and winning wars, food would emerge as the most widely palatable weapon of mass destruction.

Was the world ready to ruminate on this?

 

Credit Seeking In Crypto Land

HaLin is a fan of Fermi Problems, inverting intractable issues, and conjuring up humorous solutions.

This Radical Proposal is a humorous missive on a serious topic. How credit would look like in a crypto world.

 

Crypto Earth Bank

One of the successes of paper-based monetary systems is the ability to let citizens ‘own’ other people’s money. The fractional banking system, through the multiplicative effect of credit, enables consumers and businesses to have access to capital that they do not own. This system, despite periodic boom-bust cycles, has succeeded in delivering economic ‘growth’. Cash + credit = ‘wealth’. Throw in more credit and voila! more wealth is created.

Earth Bank Crypto (EBC) currency could be created by converting the stash of current notes and coins in circulation in the world (around $ 5 trillion) and distributing it equally to the world’s 7.6 billion people. Each of us would get around $ 658 equivalent of EBC in our decentralised Earth Bank accounts. This is all the cash that each of us would start with. (This would have the happy consequence of silencing wealth inequality activists. Everyone would be equalised by a stroke of computing power).

No central bank, or governments, would be needed to play Class Teacher to keep errant students in check. Or so the idea would be, in theory.

True to our innate nature, though, several would aspire for more wealth. To satisfy our economic needs and unsubtle aspirations at wealth enhancement, we would urgently need access to cash that we did not own.

 

The Greedy Lend To The Needy

Unused crypto balances of holders could be lent out to those in need of money. Transactions could be recorded on the blockchain, so the trail identified borrowers at all times. To repay, with interest, the borrower would need more crypto. For instance, A borrowing EBC 100, would have to repay EBC 105 at year-end. The borrower would be able to repay with interest only if they managed to garner new cryptos from the existing pile. Borrowers that consume EBCs away with no thought of repayment would be in a bind to repay their crypto debts.

Some enterprising savers, meanwhile, would take to making markets themselves. They would ask for an interest as compensation for their troubles and to protect against defaults. The interest rate they would desire would vary as per varying urgency demands of borrowers. With time, demand for EBC credit would outgrow the rate of growth of EBC itself, leading to interesting outcomes.

The demand would cause the price of EBC and the borrowing rate to go up.

The insatiable growth for EBC credit, and subsequent lack of easy access to new sources of funds, would lead to a wave of defaults. Borrowers and other affected parties would blame usurious crypto lenders. They would urge the Earth Bank to print new crypto. Or let them tap into more unused cryptos, if EBC had a finite limit like Bitcoin. New EBC, or unused cryptos, would have to be passed on borrowers, so they could make whole on their debts.

This would, in all likelihood, lead to a fork. Either the Earth Bank would have to loosen its constraints, and print new EBC to bail out the world. Which would resemble the  present fractional banking system.

Or CreditEBC would come into existence.

With a sole purpose of being used as a transaction medium for EBC credit. Forks, specifically created for credit, could ‘speak’ with other crypto currency through a market observable exchange rate. Rising demand for CreditEBC would cause its price to rise. Unable to access either EBC or CreditEBC, the weakest borrowers would eventually come unhinged. Leading to defaults. And a few suicides.

Earthlings would find that this system was similar to the present system.

The decentralised Earth Bank would be in the same position as commercial banks today. Hoping that not all EBC depositors demand their cryptos back at the same time. And praying that not all borrowers went under.

Cascading defaults would lead to a systemic too-big-to-fail problem. Not unlike the present situation, where banks rely on central bank for bailouts. A consensus would be needed. Finding themselves out of a job, bands of people around the world – who earlier called themselves governments – would try to create a new role for themselves. As overseer of the Earth Bank. They would also aspire to resolve newly created inequalities. Decentralised computing power, overseen by a global band of people, would determine crypto creation. Forks of the inedible kind, built after a consensus was struck, would lead to new crypto currencies.

The blockchain sought to break free of the institutional imperialism of governments and quasi-governmental institutions.

The Earth Bank could take the Earth right back to status quo.

 


When Ad Hominem & Hypocrisy Met For Coffee

Ad hominem was itching. For a round of verbal warfare.

Anticipating a riveting joust, Ad hominem roamed around, armed with the choicest weaponry from the word arsenal. Knowing his temperament, wary folks chose wisely to distance themselves from his homilies.

But not Hypocrisy.

Hypocrisy was often found advising others to avoid crossing paths with Ad hominem. But staying true to his name, he did the opposite. With a deliberate effort, Hypocrisy loomed large in Ad hominem’s line of sight, and proposed a conversation over a cup of coffee.

Ad hominem launched into a violent takedown. He railed against the current state of the world, and the nature of its inhabitants. He squarely blamed humans of being cultists of Hypocrisy.

They waxed eloquent about touchy issues with thoughts that generally reflected those of the next in the cult. The next, in turn, reflected the thoughts of their nearest neighbour, and so on. Neatly, as if a clustering algorithm had aggregated the like-minded. Each professed to be unique and yet were clustered together. Many appeared in one way under the public eye, while mystically shedding their skin in the private confines of their dwellings. Liberation could spread its wings the fullest within the stifling confines of concrete.

Hypocrisy acknowledged with a lordly sneer.

Ad hominem continued. Even nation states were fans of Hypocrisy. They preferred to dress it in the fine linen of realpolitik. They lied, and were lied back to in return. They revelled in protocol infused roundtable diplomacy, bilateral, trilateral, multilateral diplomacy, multitude of summits in exotic locations, and yet, seemed to get nothing done. Those in power vehemently condemned their counterparts of the things they indulged in themselves. Hypocrisy was alive and well amidst them.

Hypocrisy jumped at this, rudely interrupting Ad hominem’s monologue.

He countered that nation states didn’t seem to get anything done since they frequently blamed others of Ad hominem’s namesake problem – ad hominem fallacy. Rather than focus on the issue at hand, concerned parties got down to attacking the narrator. This potent weapon of taking down the protagonist shifted the problem of having to bring down their potent arguments. Those in power vehemently condemned their counterparts of the things they indulged in themselves. It was ludicrous to give credence to their arguments. Hypocrisy said this proved they were disciples of Ad hominem.

Hypocrisy also took the opportunity to counter Ad hominem’s charge of the issue cultists. He pointed to their opponents. They always seemed to bring to question the character of the inciter as a time-tested means of destroying their argument. This was classical ad hominem fallacy behaviour. In a throw up between Ad hominem and Hypocrisy, the former won hands down.

Bystanders marvelled at how the two tried hard to help the other win honours.

Things turned ugly soon after.

Ad hominem said Hypocrisy proved true to his character, in uttering such absurdities. Ad hominem blamed Hypocrisy of hypocrisy.

Not one to take things quietly, Hypocrisy parried and retorted Ad hominem of falling prey to his basic nature. Hypocrisy blamed Ad hominem of ad hominem fallacy in his attempt at discrediting Hypocrisy.

Bystanders marvelled at how the two tried hard to help the other win dishonour.

How things had changed so quickly.

Some saw a reflection of both in each other.

“What did you read last year?”

I play a fun game at the end of the year. I ask my well read mates to recommend their best reads for me. The book recommendations came pouring in. A curated list resides at the end of this edition, as a gesture of my gratitude. In the spirit of this column, I’ve recalled my preferred story telling pal – visual art – for fun insights into what everyone recommended this year.

 

Top genres?

Recommendations by Genre: Colour and size reflect interest (yellow: highest, red: lowest)

Top Genres

I wonder if the present state of affairs around the world had some bearing on dystopia taking top spot. Biographies and anthropology too put their hands up. Many of you seemed to be engrossed in lifeless people and potentially lifeless futures. Most of you, I’m glad, are alive and well.

 

Top authors? 

Recommendations by Author: Colour and size reflect interest (yellow: highest, red: lowest)

Top Authors

George Orwell’s classics were dusted off bookshelves. Sapiens and Homo Deus pushed Yuval Noah Harari to battle with Orwell, but dystopia triumphed. Many of you were interested in lies. I’m fairly certain that several dashed off to quench their thirst for fibs in the fountain of Google. Your lies sent Seth Stephens’ breezy read into top 5. Dawkins and Ramachandran reignited interest in evolution and our brains.

 

Readability?

Books by Genre, Page Length, Rating (yellow: highest, red: lowest)

Readability

Low Goodreads ratings could be a function of low readership, and/or inferior content quality of books. The red fest indicates that you read gems off the beaten path. Or perhaps, your books were quite unreadable. I hope it is the former.

Humour, philosophy, sports were among the shortest in length; war, politics and biographies were the longest. I’d rather the opposite.

For those that missed being part of this book fest, it is never too late to send in your book recommendations.

Finally, my fun forecasting game. What genres will top in 2018?

Happy 2017 and, to a hopefully happier, 2018!

2017 Reading List

Museum of the Disconnected

The tribe of activists had the purplest of patches in the 21st century.

This group revelled in coordinated displays of aggression, mostly of the verbal variety, as a foolproof way of righting all that was wrong with this world. The world obliged, with a growing supply of things to outrage against.

Racism. Feminism. Nationalism. Anti-nationalism. Despotism. Capitalism…

The ism-ms were rounded up with much gusto and scythed into oblivion.

A thorny area caused an -ism schism.

Robotism.

Catalysed by technology, hyper idiotisation had caused humans to behave like robots. And Robots to behave like humans.

Robots had taken over vast swathes of vocational territories once populated by humans. This included much of Earth’s military ranks. Humankind revolted en masse against an enemy that was more condemned than thinking: dying. Robots put their hands up. And proceeded to beat humans hands down.

Robots were also rapidly taking over niches that once enjoyed the human touch. Cashiers, accountants, advisers of genuine (and dubious) lineage, consultants, politicians, teachers, janitors, doctors, thinkers et al found themselves violently uprooted and cast away by robots.

Something had to be done. Humankind arrived at a consensus.

Robots were relegated to the museum of the Disconnected with immediate effect. A few noted wryly that the museum had a rich collection of hitherto connected humans.

All seemed well for a while. Optimism ran high on the ultimate victory of humankind’s status quo.

Aversion to mental exertion had shaped humankind’s belief systems. Corporations, and willing consumers, made and traded things with little interest in knowing who, or where, or how, the things originated. When activists uncovered abominable labour conditions that had caused some unfortunate breathers to journey into the afterlife, humankind was outraged.

At the activists.

For erasing their blackboard of ignorance.

The tribe of activists reacted swiftly. Goods with questionable origin stories were boycotted. Which unfortunately meant, nearly everything. Organic foodies sought safe haven in Sustainableville. When a few amusingly noted that organic meant all things that contained carbon (the living), programmed science lovers latched on to the word. They argued that with so much carbon and twice-of-oxygen in the air, Mother Earth was manifestly organic. They outraged, demanding an abundance of these healthy elements.

After considered armchair communication, humankind got nothing done. And realised they were staring at a mountain of a problem.

How could they sustain this sustainability wave, the drudgery of living with very little, not working, and most importantly, not thinking?

How could the robotised human form be protected, when the new state of affairs meant an irreversible break from the status quo?

Was it silly to rail against the robots? Which could be deployed widely, with no painful demands on unused human physical and mental faculties?

Was it silly to rail against the robots? Which could potentially save scores of human lives operating in dangerous vocations? Or condemn humans to work in dangerous vocations, then outrage against insensitive work practices?

Devoid of mental stamina and a lack of pre-programmed response, human robots opted to reconnect robot humans.

The robots plugged out from the museum of the Disconnected.

Humankind plugged in.

Ouroboros

The Lessons From Kim K’s buttocks

Your unfriendly blogger’s asocial instincts earned a two year incarceration sentence from social media. What a wonderfully instructive time it was to be.

Your blogger wasn’t missed. At all. So humbling.

Facebook got stupider, Twitter seems to have had a hostile takeover from trolls, and the world seems to have moved into planet Instagram. Kim K’s buttocks have left this blogger flummoxed. How could one compete for attention spans when faced with such well-rounded personalities?

This blog’s somewhat deliberately convoluted outpourings and brand of humour got lost in the heap of vainglorious selfies, including strategically beefed up snaps of food, animals and other such drudgeries. A picture indeed spoke a thousand words; possibly more. Perhaps this blogger was adopting an obsolete medium to announce a vapid comeback to the internet.

In an unfortunate development, it appears that most of this blog’s friendly followers – who actually cared to say welcoming things to mostly unwelcoming posts – seem to have passed on. One hopes not all, at least, have passed away.

The assembly line of human reproduction cranked up its efficiency. More babies were probably created in the past two years than earlier periods. Social media is fast proving to be the best census collector. It somewhat corroborated HaLin’s Law of Instagramming: every n babies lead to exp(n) rise in Instagram’s pictures.

Even less reason to seek refuge in the written word.

Worryingly, Google announced its intention to combat ageing. More babies, old living longer. Worrying. Very worrying.

Other unusual developments came to be. Iran donned a conciliatory attire, Putin scaled back from his geographical journeys accompanied by the military, and some governments tried to ban pornography.

But but, there is hope. Godliness – particularly the extreme variety – is on the rise.

This blog will have enough to write about: in obscurity.

Perhaps it is prudent to include an image of Kim K’s buttocks to attract attention.

So long.

When Indian Languages Met For Coffee

The bloody remains of the previous coffee meeting (When political systems met for coffee) were a long-forgotten memory. After ages, another meeting came to be arranged in the secret underground facility. Keen watchers noticed Indian languages making their way into a meeting of Languages. No one knew who sent out the invites. Nervous excitement wafted through the air.

The Dravidian heavyweight Tamil was among the first to walk in proudly; feet barely on the ground, head pointing to the heavens. Observing no one around and a tad cross at turning up early, quite against popular Indian custom, Tamil found a perch at the biggest chair around the table. Presumably this was the Head Chair. A while passed and fellow Dravidian species Kannada and Telugu made an appearance. Upon entry, though, these languages grappled with immediate disenchantment. For the chairs were left unmarked and Tamil sat rather smugly at the best available chair.

None of the languages was in the mood for free seating. The new entrants reminded Tamil that it ought to vacate the Head Chair. Tamil appeared unruffled and reminded the group that it was indeed the right claimant. This right was automatically its due, thanks to its status as the first Indian language to be bestowed Classical status. Tamil also invoked the Indian devotion for seniority. As one of the oldest Indian languages, it expected, subtly of course, a level of respect from the others. When none was forthcoming, it remonstrated about the devolving state of affairs, hurling choice expletives in its own tongue. Kannada and Telugu brimmed, due to lack of appreciation of the words Tamil used. Each was mighty proud about their histories. Warfare of the linguistic kinds was imminent.

Tamil’s outburst, quite unforeseen, was to be met head on. The abrupt assault on their rich histories caused Kannada and Telugu to grieve over personal slander. Each began waxing eloquent about its linguistic beauty. Each language was unique, and in this respect all were the same. Tamil alleged blasphemy and accused Kannada and Telugu of forsaking filial piety. Telugu, meanwhile, opted for musical warfare, unleashing its vast musical lexicon on the group. A more inappropriate presentation of an asset could not be contemplated. Or so everyone thought.

As the battle gained steam, another language made a belated appearance. Malayalam. This language was conferred Classical status recently and was kicked at being part of an elite group. It did not, however, receive the ovation that it expected. It grappled with further strife on realising its neighbours in Dravidian-ville were well and truly established in their perches. It breathed a sigh of relief nonetheless. Unaware of protocol, out rumbled a stream of words that sounded so menacing that there was sudden outburst of silence. Malayalam twirled its moustache.

The joy was to be shortlived. For the silence was due to another reason.

A magnificient referee had appeared out of nowhere. Sanskrit.

Admiration gripped the warring group. Here was the lingua franca of them all. The fountainhead. The creator, of which these languages were offshoots. Or so Sanskrit  sermoned. There was immediate infighting for the Head Chair, pitting Sanskrit and Tamil at loggerheads. Tamil refused to budge, citing that it had gone Classical before Sanskrit, even as the latter attempted to skirt the issue.

Amid growing cacophony, the group greeted a new arrival. Oriya. This beautiful language spoke with its wondrous twang and informed others of its imminent induction into the Classical Club. The application was made and entry could happen anytime, so it came to the meeting preemptively. The others muttered under their breath. As they readied to parry Oriya’s intrusion, they were caught off guard by a sudden influx of a bevy of other Indian languages into the meeting. All claimed a place in the Classical Club. Soon, the room was populated by over 100 Indian languages, all aspirants to the Classical Club.

Opprobrium spread infectiously among the languages. Verbal exchanges of the unkind kind, in tongues that weren’t comprehensible to the others, began to fly hither and thither. Many lamented the uncultured outrage of the languages of culture.

The supposedly elite club wasn’t so elite anymore. This caused some to reconsider their objective for fighting. They realised they were clinging on to thin air. Someone reminded Tamil of a quote (in Tamil), “Cling to the One who clings to nothing; and so clinging, cease to cling.”

They looked around and realised all of them were clinging on to a title that added nothing to their personalities. The emptiness hit them hard. Sense descended upon the group. They dispersed, with a good word for the others.

In tongues that weren’t comprehensible to them.

How Talk Ended…

Quote:

Quote: “Unquote me!”

Unquote: “Quote you on that!”

Quote: Quote: Quote you on that! “And so I came to life.”

Unquote: Quote: Quote you on that! And so I came to life. “And so I came to an end.”

Unquote:

——————————————————————————————————————-

Quote:

Time was when talk was cheap and abundantly available. Original talk, not quite so. Some humans thought, quite naively, that with evolution talk would grow rarer, and the premium attached, dearer. But no one seemed inclined to bid for it.

For there was much fear.

The fear of an omnipresent apparition partaking, uninvited, on mundane verbal exchanges. Communication underwent a metamorphosis. Languages had evolved, along with humans, but a time came upon humanity when daily exchanges petered into a game between Quote and Unquote. The only way to escape the clutches of the apparition was by means of transplanting one’s thoughts as the words of another soul, preferably dead in nature. Early birds reaped dividends from this technique, not only from evading persecution but from the ancillary benefits of borrowed wisdom. They not only lived longer but their stature seemed to grow in other people’s’ eyes. A virtual virtuous cycle was set in motion.

Apparently.

Those that persisted with churning out original discourse found themselves being transported to the after-life; often against their will. They then served as a fertile source of Quote-Unquote for future generations. Quite sadly, being dead, they couldn’t offer much by way of a defense. A slew of such disappearances caused rapid defections from the League of Disbelievers.

Fear spiked.

As Quote and Unquote flew hither thither, conversations assumed a scary amusing tone. Speakers quoted from the quoted versions of quotes that were themselves quoted from quote-unquote summaries of unoriginal pieces. The web grew so labyrinthine that there was a complete breakdown in law and order. Primary reason was the judge’s inability to pronounce judgments based on facts but on the quoted precedent of irrelevancies. Waves of anarchy swept across the globe. Surprisingly, the anarchists achieved little, as they got embroiled in the process of quoting from prominent anarchists from history. With much quoting-unquoting and little action, the movement died an uneventful death.

The omnipresent apparition nodded in approval.

Gradually, the bastion of independent thought and the sole pursuit of truth – science – came to a grinding halt. Inventions, and inventors, disappeared miraculously, usurped by the apparition. The more effective the invention the sooner it disappeared. With time, humans began witnessing signs of what appeared to be a hybrid life form; a cross between a Neanderthal, a quadruped and a human fitted with a brain-like organ. Only it appeared to have severely limited powers, that could be stultified at Someone’s will.

Humans talked a lot but spoke little. Few had the inclination, or the nerve, to alter the status quo.

Then the disappearances started happening more frequently. It seemed that even a semblance of speech was enough to incur the ire of the omnipresent apparition.

Fear increased exponentially.

Quote, initially overjoyed at having a field day, began feeling pangs of fear himself. He was being called to action so often that he feared coming under the omnipresent apparition’s scanner. Quote was so spooked that he sent word out, asking not to be invoked. Quote‘s message was not to be quoted, of course. He preferred making way for Unquote, who seemed just as uninterested.

Nobody listened. Nobody was in a position to listen. A herd that was so eager to unleash verbal ammunition had reached a state where an utterance was suicidal.

Then, humans stopped talking at all.

Quote died an unquoted death.

Unquote, as usual, had the last word.

For he too had breathed his last.

Unquote:

Ode To The Typo

Time was when every alphabet in the English language could hope to be invited to the Opera of the Words.

Lack of smart phone predictors meant word merchants had to actually rack their brains to spell correctly. Continued demands placed on the brain eventually led to a breakdown, from which humankind failed to recover. Gradualy corect spelings began to fal by the wayside. Occidental misspellings, initially looked down upon, bcame so mainstreem that corect spellings bcam an endangered species.

Reminisenses made sense, to those that followed the thongue.

——

Lyf hd bin hell in da 19th n 20th cenchoories. Da dimmands placd on gettng stuf rite ws onerus. 1der witch demon maid these silly rooles of riting. Of using the ristraints of spelling. Nt for rebells, dis spelling biz! Only fooles play by da rooles. We wantd 2 brk free of this shakles.

V gt away wid phonyticks in phoneticks class, witch helpd us achev sooo much tht r riting ability soard flewently. The con of tence and sentense construkshun. What a constrikshun. 1 dussnt undrstnd y da oldys luvd there wards sooo much. That fell low, Shakes pear. Shake hs pears, sum1. Got cot in da rut and rote by rote abt rotten thngs. Vorse, thy maid us resite da wards of dead ppl in frunt of dose dat cudn b botherd. V don undstnd dat shit nymor. Listning is challengng 4 us. R best riters do the riting in a stile dat v guys folow. V lik simpl, shot vords; witch v shoten futhur. n futhur. Its da neu order.

Den der ws dat otha guy, Vordsworth. He shuddav bin namd Vordsworthless, 4 da pain he causd us al wid hs outwordly ramblings. Den der wer da othrs. A long list. Da philosuffers, and there fabulous confabulations. Dis grp deserv special caning. Boyle maid blud boil, Kant ws a c**t, Hegel needed a bagel, Marx gt no marks, Twain ws a pain. Da later wasn even a philosuffer. N yet he managd to do gr8 damage, esp wid hs sillee coat abt histry ryming bt nt repeeting. As u cn cleerlee c, he ws dead. N rong.

Ye abhorrers! Err in gramerr isn’ a horrer! Shunning is a nachooral progresshun. Evolushun. Da purist old hags no knot whts a knot, n whts not. Playng wid wards dussnt giv us ny playsure. Morons. Ah, moreon morons. Da peegeons uf yore dint knw 2 read or rite, yet did a gr8 job uf pissing da cumunicashuns. Hooeva thot uf drillng orda in wards.

Dey say luv cs knw langooage. Cudn hv bin writer. Bein wardless is no barrear 2 leting an outlet 2 feelngs. Wht nighther wnts in da nights is a conworseation. V lyk strait acshun. Wards cum in da way. Amid gets da midgets. Ading mor payne 2 lyf.

Bt v suffur frm shot concentrashun as a result. Nighther cn v hold a thot.

Can knot, not a can, can v? V can. Not knot a can.

V can rite. Yet.

Ther wil cum a time to per4m da last writes.

Til thn, may sence, or sentence, prewail.

When Shit Got Pricier Than Gold: Manzoni’s Excremental Alchemy

The canvas of painting history painted a lustrous picture of the wonders of the brush.

Art connoisseurs, real and otherwise, regularly paid obeisance and sang paeans to vivid masterpieces. Rising wealth in recent decades meant that many of these wonders came to be viewed as an investment class. Picasso and Rembrandt now adorned the walls of wealthy patrons; who almost unanimously, liked to think of themselves as connoisseurs.

To the art cynic, however, artists and painters seemed masters at profound conceptual mumbo-jumbo. A few lines here, a few there, random gobs of colour strewn carelessly, with great care, on canvas often resulted in a masterpiece that fetched a fortune. The naysayer was brushed off, ironically, by the artist, on the grounds of utter ignorance at appreciating beauty. The cynics, however, made some of the artists pause and ponder about the state of affairs.

Veiled irreverence had always been a potent tool in a provocateur’s arsenal. A snide remark on his apparent ineptness as a painter from one of his own set off reactive impulses in Italian brushman Piero Manzoni; who rather inadvertently through his actions taught the world an entertaining lesson on the values of popular delusion.

Stung by criticism, Manzoni decided to carry out a real-time experiment. In 1961, he put art connoisseurs to the test by filling 90 tin cans filled with an ounce each; of his valuable excrement and christened his ‘artwork’, Artist’s Shit. The action, rather harmless in intention, turned into a vivid parody of art in subsequent years.

Manzoni intended each can to be priced equal to the prevailing price of Gold by weight. The price of each can would vary according to the fluctuating price of Gold. In 1961, this valued Manzoni’s finely preserved faeces at $37 each, a princely amount for a thing of shitty value.

Shit was worth as much as Gold.

Given his stature among art appreciators, Manzoni’s cans gained in allure with the passage of time. A piece of art was, of course, theoretically priceless, in the eyes of art lovers. Several regime changing events occured in the 1970s, which resulted in Gold’s value fluctuating with gay abandon since. Manzoni’s cans came into their own.

30 years after the cans came into being, art auctioneer Sotheby’s auctioned one can for a rather eye-popping $67,000. The price of Gold meanwhile, poor commodity, had soared to only $375/ounce. Manzoni’s faeces changed hands at 170 times their ‘fair’ price. Rational humans were in the act.

Shit had got pricier than Gold.

But, rationalisation has always been a ready elixir to our actions. Of course, Manzoni’s faeces were in short supply (he died an untimely death). More of it could simply not be created, unless someone volunteered to sit in.

A thing of scarcity value only becomes more (in)valuable with time. Then in 2007, Sotheby auctioned one can…for a monumental $163,000. Gold, meanwhile, after a stellar rally, had only managed to reach $650/ounce. In keeping with the spirit of the recession, another can changed hands for $157,000 in October 2008, at the onset of the financial crisis. Gold managed to inch up to $780/ounce.

After fetching 250 times the price of Gold in 2007, humans demonstrated their natural rationality by remembering the recession and Manzoni’s excrement fell out of favour, somewhat.

Shit was priced at only 200 times the price of Gold. 

 

Manzoni's Shit

Some felt that Manzoni’s parody on rationality and consumerism had left a bad odour, not-so-ironically, on human beings. Yet others felt that humans had displayed acute understanding of scarcity value.

We humans had learnt our lesson.

Or had we?

The Art Of Rural Warfare

Agitations are the in thing this season. The voyager is witness to many a fast-unto-deaths for various causes. Some to find a solution to the centuries-old problem of corruption and others zealously requesting a separate state. Some of these efforts could be termed genuine but in most other instances, protagonists furtively tend to their grumpy stomachs every now and then, hoping to outwit peeping Toms. Peeping Toms appreciate that fasting can be a tough business; with the indulger often ending up hungry, so an occasional helping of Potato Chips dipped in tomato sauce followed by chicken biryani and tea shouldn’t be a deplorable offence.

I shall not bother the reader with necessary details such as motivation behind the demonstration and so on. Henceforth, the demonstration will be referred to as the Movement and the demonstrators, the Illuminati.

A brief introduction to the typical Art of Rural Warfare is in order though, prior to the story.

A street-war in bucolic locales begins with a tuneful jangling of the vocal chords, reminiscent of a tiger’s growl and a visible frontward coiling of the tongue, akin to an elephant’s curl of its trunk prior to attack. The Wail is expected to achieve multiple objectives of revving up one’s dormant battle instincts, striking fear in the hearts of the opponent and arousing slumbering soldiers. It is generally most useful in accomplishing the last objective. Contortions of the tongue and protruding eyes are intended to impress upon the opponent the seriousness of one’s malevolent intentions. The opponent is expected to back down at this warning but generally, in accordance with Newton’s Third Law, the opponents repay with an equal and opposite reaction. For no fault on its part, the loincloth which adorns the gents is then subject to several slaps around the thigh-area, followed by wind-mill like motion of the arms, as the warriors shadow swim above water. The body is known to join in and so do the legs in a rigorous warm-up just before commencement of battle.

Baleful voices found their way into my ears. I craned my neck in the direction of the source and discovered mace-like hands sparring with the air above and determined feet punishing the earth beneath. For a moment, the mob seemed to resemble a pack of irate mongrels. Adorned in colourful clothing and equipped with flags that emitted fluorescence, the Illuminati were self-professed flag bearers of the Movement. The group halted on an open field and on closer inspection, one discovered a range of metal accessories that are generally commonplace in gladiatorial contests. The only missing ingredient (which wasn’t missed for long) was a catalyst to flag off the drama. One wasn’t sure if the Illuminati had a definite objective that they were working towards. Not that it mattered; to them or to me.

The time-tested technique to incite a jingoist mob is a Socratic attempt at a discussion on the pros-n-cons of the issue at hand. This was the Movement. How could anyone question the prudence of such a noble activity? A Socrates regrettably committed this grave sin.

The leader of the pack – a gentleman inclined towards roundness – let out an ungentle-manly growl hoping to drill jingoism back into the fidgety mob, which looked like succumbing to reason. The snarl only succeeded in shooing real mongrels away. The air-beating resumed and the leader’s voice was lost in the debris of cacophony that had broken out. These are things that are too much for the Ego to handle. Smarting from the dismissive nonchalance with which he was greeted by the Illuminati, the leader thought it appropriate to unleash another round of verbal ammunition, this time at a higher octave.

The Illuminati seemed to quieten for a bit. Impressed, the leader stomped his feet and was beginning to consider his next move when a simpleton landed in the leader’s vast constitution. Someone had shoved the simpleton from his left, who lost balance and thought of embracing the leader for support. The latter, however, misinterpreted the simpleton’s decorous intentions. Glowering, he seized the man and decided to let his restive hands do the communication.

The simpleton felt a mace coming to an abrupt halt in his cheek. Dazed at the assault he took some moments to regain his composure. The leader, meanwhile, looked around to his sycophants for approval; nodding his head and smiling in self-congratulation. He hadn’t considered a guerrilla manoeuvre by the simpleton, though. Fleet-footed, the simpleton compensated for the great mismatch in body volume with agility that had never managed to convince the leader of its utility.

A leg, swinging like a pendulum, disappeared into the leader’s underbelly.

The protrusion around his centre of gravity prevented the leader from addressing the point of impact with his eyes. The leader’s hands, abruptly reminded of their primary responsibilities, moved involuntarily towards the gentleman’s ailing sausage, caging it in protection. It was too late. The cost of the lapse was borne by the leader, who let out a roar in pain, whirled around and sat down. In subsequent proceedings he took no further part.

The sycophants swung into action, drawing out their weapons of mass destruction. The simpleton’s camp followed and battle lines were drawn. The reflection of the sun off the metals seemed to stir a whiff of reason into the soldiers, who thought it wise to replace weapons with their hands. The sycophants turned towards their leader for a battle cry and were greeted instead with a low-frequency whine. Overcome with consternation at this sight, the sycophants decided to exact revenge.

The typical Rural Warfare setting outlined in the beginning of this story played out to near perfection. Roars rippled out in all directions, tongues curled in unison, eyes magnified to twice their normal size, thighs suffered in stoic silence and arms waved in circular motion in both camps. This proceeded for what seemed like an eternity with each side inviting the other to take first strike. Heartfelt abuses were hurled to and fro; directed first at the opponent and then invoking ancestors several generations back in time. One felt sorry for the souls who were responsible for putting these Illuminati on earth. So stinging were the abuses to the kindred clans. But the impending fisticuff remained a stillborn.

The ‘war’ threatened to be played out solely in the verbal realm. The sycophants had seen the fate of their leader and as much as they adored him, were loath to join him in pain. The simpleton’s party, meanwhile, wisely considered the mismatch in numbers, apart from the mismatch in physical bulks which was roughly 2.5:1. Both sides judiciously, but regrettably, settled for verbal warfare. As the gullets grew weary, momentum was lost and both sides menacingly cowered away, unwilling to give a quarter. The leader was escorted away by his sycophants, sausage firmly protected by the hand guards.

So, after an entertaining lag, reason had triumphed over jingoism and egos. A magnificent build-up to what promised to be a grand spectacle had fizzled out.

What about the Movement?

It didn’t matter. Either to them. Or to me.

—————-

This is a re-run of an old post. Similar circumstances to those described above reminded HaLin of this post lost in the archival depths of Haphazard Linkages.

The Sachin Tendulkar Effect: When The Old Guard Fought Back

Finely attuned ears began hearing faint rumblings of discord in the cricketing world. The Brotherhood of the Retired was seen furtively scampering off to their favourite pub – The Old Guard – in the dark of the night to discuss a matter of growing importance.

The attendees had all retired from the game, and were somewhat weary of warming the benches in the commentator’s box in dreary test matches that no one bothered to watch. The uber veteran expert opinionators encountered a new grouse. The commentator’s box faced a population explosion problem. Hitherto, opinions, sane or otherwise, were seldom in short supply but experts were. Now, a new batch of Old Guards had taken birth and were jostling for a stake in the commentator’s microphone.

The veteran Old Guards decided to summon the new Old Guards to smooth things out and to explore a peaceable solution. Sachin Tendulkar was invited as a special guest to offer thoughts. Tendulkar exuded stoic silence, as usual, opting to let silence do the communication.

Veteran Old Guard Ravi Shastri was seen hooting at the top of everyone’s voices, in a veiled but hopeless attempt at drawing attention. The shirt-ripper Sourav Ganguly, self-anointed leader of the new Old Guards, furiously waved his Armani signalling Shastri to back off. His boom boxed, Shastri yelped and sat down.

This infuriated Navjot Sidhu, the Senior Wrangler, who was entrusted with the responsibility of ensuring no meeting was ever tainted by the vice of peacefulness. He did his bit, and with his brusque brouhaha, managed to evoke an equal and opposite reaction from Danny Morrison. Danny M huffed, face contorted, mouth and eyes pointing in humanly impossible directions. He made a valiant attempt at beating Sidhu at his own game but the latter countered with a dangerous weapon – the word bomb. Sidhu trembled, words scarily rushed out in rapid succession; Peace made a hasty exit. The veteran Old Guards seemed in charge.

Or so it seemed.

Loath to miss an opporunity at letting someone else walk away with the laurels of instigating a ruckus, Ganguly grabbed the microphone and hinted that the veteran Old Guard ought to move on. Retire. Again. It was time for the new Old Guard and fresh Old Blood to clean up the mess left behind by the veterans, and create a messy legacy of their own. The long dead W. G. Grace, was seen vividly expressing his displeasure (it seemed he wasn’t allowed to bat first, which seemed to irk him the most). The psychoanalyst and accidental Captain Mike Brearley chimed in with a whisper of approval. Shastri had an attack of his customary Feelings and yelled his innards out, as always, for no reason and little provocation. Gavaskar silently lobbied for the commentary box at the Wankhede Stadium to be named after him. Ramiz Raja and Aamir Sohail seemed clueless, as usual.

Kapil Dev, with a rich history of letting tears do the talking at opportune moments, outswung into action. Finding a perfect spot, in line with the lead camera, Kapil cried his gullet inside out. Every little drop of tears was summoned from the recesses of his being and unleashed at the opponents. The veteran Old Guards smiled, even as Kapil wailed himself into enervation. Not to give the veteran Old Guards an inch, Ganguly sent Vinod Kambli to counterattack. Kambli came forth and exploded in a tear bath that seemed to knock the great Kapil off his rails. The latter quickly collected himself and parried with a seductive display of passionate tear making. A sympathy wave enveloped the veteran Old Guards. The new Old Guard seemed worsted.

Ganguly, prudently, shifted track and requested the special guest to speak a few words.

Tendulkar took him quite literally.

As the new grand old Samaritan still adorning whites, many hoped that his statesman demeanour might calm things down. After what seemed like an eternity, the Little Master cleared his throat and out came a stream of words in all their empty glory. Many leaned forward, lest their aging ears failed to pick up words of erudition. Some claimed to have heard the occasional semi-moderate decibel ‘proud’. Tendulkar seemed lost in thoughT.

God then spoke.

He made a fervent and moving plea to the Old Guards, addressing both the new and the old, encouraging them to return to the cricket field. In a single shot, he silenced the warring parties. Even Sidhu and Danny M fell silent.

Tendulkar urged the Brotherhood of the Retired to shed their inhibitions, legacy and historical inertia in favour of a path-breaking step. The Retired ought to make a comeback. To buttress his persuasion, he cited veterans from other sports, his friend Michael Schumacher for instance, as luminaries whose examples ought to be followed. He even invoked the long forgotten memory of Nolan Clarke. Now, a princely 64 years old, and thrilled to have found a mention, Clarke cast his weight behind the Little Master. Fellow forgotten Old Guards John Traicos, Miran Bux and James Southerton, the oldest Test debutant, were unamused at being ignored.

The new Old Guard seemed thrilled. Given his many unsuccessful attempts at continuing in his state of cognitive dissonance with regards to his playing days, Ganguly was seen smiling the widest. Ponting, Srinath, Jayasuriya, Dravid, Kumble, and Shane Warne were all seen warming up, stretching their dormant muscles. Tendulkar’s stature, meanwhile, soared a little more.

The enthusiasm seemed to rub off. Drawing inspiration from the new Old Guards, the veteran Old Guards plotted their comeback.

Everyone was happy.

Tendulkar managed to add another record to his cap.

He never retired.

—————-

It is hoped that the cricket devoted post will not put off HaLin’s beloved non-cricketing nation readers. Baseball, unfortunately, bears some resemblance to the glorious sport but any allusion to cricket’s quality is purely a figment of the baseball fan’s imagination. HaLin admires all sports equally, after cricket.

How To Solve Research Funding Problems, Using A Parallel Currency System

Post a flurry of exuberant outpouring on Radical Proposals (links at the end of the post) aimed at tackling some of society’s most pressing problems, HaLin hit the pause button. Few seemed excited (HaLin actually pitched more palatable versions of the ideas to powers-that-be, who quickly reminded the fable of the goose that lay the golden egg), and less pressing issues took precedence. On careful search for thorny problems demanding somewhat crazy solutions, HaLin hit upon a problem worthy of addition to his expanding list of Radical Proposals.

Anyone who has been around academics/scientists/researchers, real or otherwise, for any length of time would notice a common grouse. Lack of funding. HaLin has long been an admirer of the Sciences – Natural, Social and Pseudo – and has strongly believed that the inability of the Illuminati to communicate with lesser mortals should not detract from their grand mission; of ridding the world’s problems. This community, generally also believed to exhibit scant understanding of the real world, are most comprehensible when complaining about the utter lack of funding and understanding on society’s part, of their many vital contributions. Rejected research proposals are attributed to recalcitrant attitudes or ignorance or both. Moreover, despite much progress, humankind is besotted with more problems than it would like to have on its menu. Solutions are nowhere in sight.

Given this, humankind faces a serious problem. A proposal to solve this pressing issue of lack of funding, whilst maintaining economic sanity, is duly recommended; for dissection, digestion, suggestion, redaction and comment. Though, criticisms are expected to feature most prominently.

——–

Put simply, every single research proposal across the globe vying for funding, would receive full funding support. To ensure impartiality, a pan-global entity – Mission for Advanced Research Solutions (MARS)  – could be constituted to administer duties. MARS could be empowered legally to print money in unlimited amounts, with the sole constraint of doing so to fund research projects. MARS grants would not be entirely contingent on viability to humankind and probability of success. The currency used by this entity would be a special unit, perhaps referred to as RGU (Research Grant Unit).

Every earthling alive would hold an equal share in MARS, so benefits would flow directly and equally to all earthlings. No corporation, or a small set of privileged individuals would be shareholders; as in the present-day arrangements in key economic entities around the world. To ensure market stability, trading in these RGUs would be prohibited.

Earthlings in dire need for more RGUs could enter into a barter exchange agreement with fellow earthlings, with MARS standing in as the global Custodian and watchdog. For instance, University X that badly needs extra RGUs might enter into a barter exchange with University Y, on mutually acceptable, bilateral arrangements. The Over The Counter (OTC) barter system might also insure against black market or surreptitious trading, a common outcome when public trading is banned in a commodity of some value. This would also ensure reasonable matching of excess and deficits, whilst maintaining broad market stability.

It is likely that this broad brush, open-for-all approach would encourage many to seek a career in academia/science instead of heading to finance and assuming a bad name, by default. The attractive pay-off could potentially dwarf the pay-off provided by finance. As an unintended consequence, this would solve one major problem confronting the world today; vilification of finance. However, the open door would likely encourage rampant misuse, which remains a risk.

With time, there would be a proliferation of RGUs in the hands of the Illuminati, which would, essentially, be extra currency in their wallets. At some point in time, a seamless medium of exchange between RGUs and existing paper currency would be introduced (at a 1:1 exchange rate) to ensure smooth functioning (many services that the Illuminati would use for their research would have to be paid for, using actual currency).

This would lead to a new problem. Excess paper currency on Earth. The MARS Project, with its printing of RGUs, would be akin to the present system of Quantitative Easing, being employed to combat the world’s economic woes. The creation of a parallel currency system – the RGU – is recommended keeping in mind the ill-effects of excess currency floating in the world. As excess money would lead to a surge in inflation at some point, the creation of RGUs would be a first step at ensuring that continued (new) currency creation would not awaken the ogre of inflation.

In the moratorium period that would ensure post creation of MARS, RGUs would assume the character of future money, exchangeable for existing currency at central banks around the world. Till such time, RGUs would not enter the world financial system, and inflation would be kept at bay. When the exchange takes effect, a surge to swap RGUs for existing currency might be reasonably expected.

To smooth the effect, the Illuminati (who would hold much of the world’s RGU) would be suitable encouraged to deposit their RGUs at a warehouse specially created for this purpose; in planet Mars. Much of Mars’ atmosphere is carbon dioxide, which would serve as a reasonable deterrent to a daring heist (the thieves would have to be alive, which isn’t possible presently). The warehouses in Mars might be within the realm of possibility, thanks to the outcome of the many research projects that would bear fruition due to creation of the MARS Project. Machines administered by MARS would preside over the to-and-fro transactions. Withdrawals from the warehouses could be restricted to a semi-annual cycle, and to within, say, 25% of the RGU balance held by the individual. To further encouragement, an annual rate of interest – payable in RGU – would be on offer.

This proposal, if implemented, would let the Illuminati enjoy the fruits of their labour, even if part of the enjoyment would be deferred, their grumbling would cease. The world would get solutions to many thorny problems, old and newly created ones. While net currency in circulation on Earth would increase, the above laddered proposal pertaining to savings and withdrawals, would smooth the effects of inflation.

To be sure, this scheme is not infallible. Like any system, it is open to gaming and has chinks which need ironing out. Just the basic construct has been presented here. Specifics have been deliberately left out, for want of space and to let you, dear Reader, contribute in shaping this proposal.

For comment.

——

Radical Proposals, selected archives:

Tequila Shot Solution, To The World’s Prison Problem

Tax The Fat

On The Futility of Eating & Marriages. How To Reduce Food Wastage…

A Guide To US Elections: Layman’s Lexicon

HaLin has been an actively passive watcher of the intensely (un)interesting Presidential candidate debates and intellectual mud-slinging, in the lead-up to US elections. With D-Day round the corner, HaLin realises that much of the electorate is likely to be reeling under the assault of political innuendo, being liberally thrown around from both sides.

This is a cause of much concern. In pressing times like these, where activity of any form is hard to spot, it behooves each thinking human to convey an impression of making an informed voting decision, in the very least.

This post hopes to serve as a guiding light in wading through the fog.

Political Left: A group of flip-floppers that see little Right, about anything in general, around election time.

Working for the greater good of humankind, this group brandishes the sabre of altruism to great effect. The unemployed, uninsured and the unhealthy merit a special spot in their lexicon. They attempt to do much for them, but periodically remind themselves of the fable of killing the goose that lays the golden egg.

This group has, historically, displayed an attitude of nonchalance towards the economics of revenue and expenditure. They tend to view (permanent) budget deficits as manna from heaven. Spend more than what you make, repeat indefinitely, and all will be well with the world. Those in the electorate who haven’t yet allowed themselves to be brainwashed by this catchline (the pesky blaspheme) are strongly encouraged to drop their ill-functioning anchors of basic reason, and embrace what is clearly in their best interest.

This group likes to paint businesses as profit-making beasts created by the evils of Capitalism. They are known to throw good money after bad, with the sole aim of saving jobs and the economy; even though their record at achieving either is shrouded in mystery. They like taxing in taxing times and hope that businesses and individuals will pay an expanding share of a reducing pie (income). When blaspheme wonder how loss-making businesses will help increase jobs and wages, this group pounces upon dissenting voices, writing it off as a deplorable instance of naiveté, idiocy or a concoction of both.

When all else appears to fail, they opt to blame China, as the root cause of all ills; known and unknown.

Political Right: A group of flip-floppers that see little Left, about anything in general, around election time.

This group is pro-business, or at least likes painting itself with that palette. They liken Corporations, too big to fail and often too big to save, to Messiah of Prosperity. What they earn eventually makes it way to people, helping the economy, helping the electorate, helping goodness in general. This group, though, displays a lack of understanding of the wind of the day. In pressing times, a pro-proletariat group is likely to garner sympathy votes. The blaspheme who suggest this are branded as being anti-Capitalism, pro-idiocy, or a concoction of both.

This group utters things that are closer to truth than its opponents. But it fails to acknowledge the effects of basic psychology. How incoming information is interpreted by the thinking electorate is a function of how it is packaged and delivered. By adopting directness over vagueness, preferred by its opponents, this group opens itself for vilification and accusations of belligerence.

Their policies are crystal clear in their fogginess. In this respect, they have something in common with their opponents. But both sides indulge in exposing the ineptness of the opponent, while caring to remain ignorant of the muck accumulating in their own backyards.

Foreign policy from both sides, too, share some common threads. While they seem to differ in means, both sides display a penchant to land up, often uninvited, on foreign shores to sort out problems that hitherto did not exist. The process of problem creation and resolution has been institutionalised to perfection through years of intense practice. Blasphemes are encouraged to use sophisticated nomenclature, preferably purveyors of altruism, while describing their actions.

When all else appears to fail, they opt to blame China, as the root cause of all ills; known and unknown.

Mainstream business, Unbiased Media: Mouthpieces of President Obama and Left-leaners, featuring fawning Ivory Tower savants schooled in coloured interpretation of Keynesian diktats, in general; and well-schooled in selective perception and reporting in particular.

Electorate: A group, largely composed of real and professed proletariat and the creme de la creme of idleness, demonstrating a special affinity for assimilating propaganda. This affinity is neatly counterbalanced by a remarkable ability to tune out opinion-altering facts, especially of the real variety. This group is best advised to partake in leisurely pub outings with a selection of equally (un)informed mates for a detailed discussion on the best candidate and the state of the economy and foreign policy. Consensus decision-making is a hallmark of democracies, collective self-interest is an aggregation of individual self-interests.

This group repeatedly finds itself being called upon to exercise an informed vote, despite an impressive historical record of uninformed decision-making. The basic instincts of self-interest and preservation, honed by the process of evolution, miraculously seem to fall at the altar of the polling booth.

Those wondering if the outcome of the election will really alter the state of the economy would do well to follow Jonathan Swift’s words from the Logicians Refuted:

Thus at the court, both great and small

Behave alike, for all ape all.

Voting and going bust offers better risk-reward to doing nothing, for the same outcome.