Space Force 7

Hola Hombres, it’s been a while since I wrapped at ya. But your old pal Jim Anchower has been pickle dicked like a crunchy’s cucumber. And now my ride is all fucked up. My most recent whip is a 2002 Toyota Camry. For the first time in the Anchower League of Memories, I have a vehicle that was now dropped from mamma car pussy in at least a moment past Y two fucking K baby!

You long time fans will know that I’ve never been for the imports, but the Camry came up in a land swap where we swapped two pieces of land, except my land was worth more than his land, so he threw in my new Camry. Except it wasn’t land Amigo, it was Pocatello Pirate Dust. I show up with a fat rock of Uncle Donny’s famous bar snack, and Rick Yukon dropped in with what I can only describe as a broken piece of bud that someone lost under a restaurant table. So I told him the deal is off, and he saw my rock, and his jaw hit the floor. Slackjaw, like his sister just gave him a Christmas Card, that kind of jaw. He spoke slow … “Anchower, good man, I must have that Chilean Chow Chow. I will give you my car.”

I looked down at his car, and this wasn’t even the kind of car that Anchower would want in his stable. It was faded grey, bone stock engine, AM/FM with a CD. But I was between vehicles at the time, using my number one and my number two, the two-cylinder piston engine below my nutsack. And I told Rick. “Sorry man, this rock is worth more than that car.” So Rick tells me that he’ll throw in the little bud of herb, and I shook his hand. The rest is history, Anchower is back on the road.

But let’s say Amigos, that your Anchower budy has fallen for a married woman. Perhaps she is a married woman who Anchower knew back when she was a fair maiden. And since I left her, she lived her life, met a good guy and now lives with a little less misery than she did before she was married. What does your Engine Jim do? I guess she’s my new tortured soul. Your’s truly, Anchower, sower of pain and evil.

The neutrino flux needs to statistically concentrated. The key is the mass to volume ratio of a cubic meter of space, consisting of actual mass of the average total mass of three flavors of neutrinos through the volume, versus the total average relativistic mass of all above ground-state photons in that volume. I believe that the weak interaction with the photons can be considered as negligeable compared to the weak interaction between the neutrinos and the coupling surface. And yes, Amigos, I wrote neglige and able because I do not plan to send this woman a neglige. I don’t want to be a creep, I just want to have her in my life in a non-intimate way. Is that selfish? Yeah. Should I not do it? Do I even have that kind of control as a man in a woman-man interface? Maybe with some women, not with a woman as experienced and skilled at the language of love as she is. So these questions are meaningless. She owns the machinery, and I am the hired hand. I just happen to have knocked on the factory door when she needed a dumbass like me to shovel coal.

There may well be a transition somewhere where the Relativistic speed of the boat would benefit through near light-speed coupling at the reaction interface. Perhaps at that point the weak-field reaction may even improve. But it should be possible to build a “wind tunnel” version of the Weak Force Jet. I would need to show an improved weak force interaction cascade with the device turned on, versus the device turned off. And it might even be possible to measure the change in momentum of the reaction surface.

I think this is the core of the Weak Force Jet. Ultimately, our vacuum pantry doesn’t consist of much. We have above ground state photons, below ground state photons, neutrinos of oscillating flavor and a spare fermion here and there, about one atom per cubic centimeter, so that’s about 100 x 100 x 100, some million fermions per cubic meter. It may or may be enough to move a snail’s dick halfway across the dash of a 1974 AMC Pacer and a straight six. But if the measurements agree then we can either use it or walk away. I would prefer to use it.

Right after humans walked on the moon, the future seemed wide open. Then the future shut down again, we didn’t have the means to travel through space in any meaningful way, at speeds significant portions of 3×10^8 meters per second. So we stayed here, Musk dreams of putting people on Mars. Yeah, putting people in a fucking vacuum. People need to be on pretty planets like Earth. Or at least we need; to look for a pretty planet like Earth.

And then, when we spend a few years realizing there are none like Earth in our corner of the Milky Way, we will come home, in non-relativistic time, and say, “Shit’s fucked up out there, and shit’s fucked up in here. This is the only planet like this in all these motherfucking stars.” And then maybe we will find a way to fix all the shit on the planet that all the dead people before us broke … and we broke a good bit too. (As I type this, West Africa is being converted into global rare earth element mine. Dug up, polluted and fucked right and center. We can get the REEs out of the ground in clean and sustainable ways, we just need to do it. If anyone wants me to help them mine REEs in a sustainable way, please visit the lab in Golden. I’ll give you a good deal on that one.)

We need to be able to leave Earth to properly protect Earth.

To do that, we will need near-light-speed boats. So yes, we need to develop the Weak Force Jet, because why the fuck not? If we get really, really lucky, a few of us might even be able to see some hell-forsaken rock in some nearby star before they haul our withered ass back to Wyoming to dump us into a hole in the ground where the only remaining family never bought a tombstone.

We need the Weak Force Jet, dude.

I don’t want to take anything away from you young kids, especially not Z, you people have been dealt a rough-ass hand that approximately started with the World Trade Center falling on your heads, and pretty much ended with the the planet finding out they had just been genomically-raped by a bunch of well-meaning maniacs.

But this isn’t about y’all. This is about you young folks who are not X and are not Z, but rather the generation of violently-gifted Mozarts who decided that everyone older than you — other than your parents and grandparents — should be made to suffer in a Jesus-like pose but after having been accused of things like rape and murder … y’know, the stuff that doesn’t play so well in Peoria.

I have no intentions to discredit a single one of you. You in fact are smarter, more athletically-gifted, more community-centered than an X could possible be. But there is one thing that you don’t get to take to the grave with you. Your spoiled-asses didn’t invent being “woke.” As a representative from my inebriated tribe of Xens, I will now give you one tiny little example of what kind of juice we were running when we were your age.

Yeah, them Depression Era motherfuckers, they ran hooch, and hippies ran cocaine, or weed, depending on the quantity of the initial investment, and my great-uncle’s generation ran peaches up from Grand Junction in the back of a Model T pickup over the fucking Continental Divide on tires the width of a fat tire bike. And those 1800s-era folks, they could reach orgasmic attainments from the taste of those peaches, because they had sucked up rare and unimaginably delicious nutrients from that soil. But we didn’t run anything like that, and we don’t run whatever you run, I guess the vapes and weed and brewed and fermented hooch. And that’s good that you younger folks run hooch just like those guys like my Great Uncle Shep who used to haul those peaches in that fucking Model T, but you know what, back then, a gentleman just simply might not be able to procure a Chevy truck, and he had to make do with what he had, because the alternative was pulling the peaches with my grandpa’s draft horse. And my grandpa loved that draft horse, he wasn’t about to lose that horse on some hare-brained scheme to run peaches over the Continental Divide. Even now, in this era of being genomically-raped by well-meaning maniacs, I say that my gramps made the right choice. That horse was far too valuable on the short beer runs from Tivoli, to likely lose her completely on a Rabbit Ear’s Pass run. Holy mother of Hell, she was a beautiful horse. And in the end, Great Uncle Shep was forced into a new kind of business, one that involved trucks, and that made him a wealthy man. But my grandpa got to go not too long after his last horse, and that is a truly wealthy man. Am I right cowboys?

But us X, we don’t run hooch, or chemicals, or things grown from the ground like peaches and indica and sativa or whatever you young folks call that stuff.

Y’see, we ran something purely metaphysical. All that half-spin stuff that every generation other than our’n ran, my generation, we just didn’t even have the coin for that. We were truly broke in every sense of the word. You young folks might not see this now, but back after WWII, a lot of the smartest, suavest, people. They fucked like bunnies, because they were gorgeous humans, just like you younger ones. And those gorgeous humans made your parents. But us Xens? we were made by the ones who fucked up. The ones who didn’t plan their shit too well, the ones who ended up working the register at the TG&Y, hoping and praying that Albertson’s would actually call her back, because that was a union job and it paid better than $1.50 an hour, which wasn’t total shit money back then.

Those were the busted ones, they had us. And y’see, the broke-ass kids had to make their own entertainment. So I made my own entertainment. And this, is where I tell you of the kind of metaphysical, bosonic, integral-spin mind hooch that we used to run. After I describe the story, you will understand why you Millennials have a lot to learn from those broken punk rock hillbillies who you call Generation X.

The story is one of those little glitch-exploitation devices that have been known to bankrupt corporations and lead to lives filled with horridly delightful memories of the insane. A lot of us hacked bosons with computers, but some of us, we hacked bosons with the beauty of artistry itself. More to come, pronghorns and prongvags …

The emerging concern of synthetic nucleotide that are inserted into DNA and especially RNA backbones is that of the “chiral dislocation.” Specifically, the chirality of the DNA and the (reverse chirality of the) RNA comes form the torsional stress on the nucleotide on the genetic backbone. In a natural nucleotide molecular bond to the backbone, the molecular structure of the molecules creates a torsional stress on the backbone, which tends to comply with the Newtonian Stationary Action Principle, where the manifold system of the backbone to the approximate center of the DNA nucleotide and the full length of the RNA nucleotide, creates a Laplacian, where there are no local minima. The chirality of the genetic backbone can then be calculated with a high degree of linearity and few — if any — dislocations, which would show as a “kink in the wire.”

When inserted into the RNA or DNA backbone, synthetic proteins need not follow this linear manifold, because energy is added to the system through the human engineering and synthetic process. The potential danger of these dislocations is that the surface energies of the dislocations can and do manifest below the Kelvin barrier for the protein molecules, which — like a prion — can lead to unintended effects on natural protein structures.

I tend to put a video at the end of these things, this one is amusing, but it shouldn’t detract from the real concerns of chiral dislocations which can result from a bunch of gung-ho genetic scientists who have about as much experience characterizing the smaller-than-Kelvin-barrier structures as they have in rebuilding a Fuji 488.

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds …” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

It seems pointless by now to cry about this new flavor of tyranny that we have so eagerly embraced. It is here and it seems nearly impossible to divert the juggernaut; people are going to do what they do. If it means ruining families, friendships, freedoms, social justice, liberty, then that is what will be done to obtain this foolish consistency that we desire. Whatever it takes to obtain our consistency now seems well worth the sacrifice, because it seems the only thing we can do to allay our fears. And with no real collective ability to discern the lies of poorly wrought statistics, the fears will undoubtedly be with us for a while.

But is this new method do effective because of fear, or is it something more?

I have long been amazed, and I have even noticed it in myself, how “little” my mind can be with these foolish consistencies. I remember running through hundreds of pages of legally-binding documents, with no intention other than to the make sure all the spaces between paragraphs were the same size, or that only one space came after the period at the end of a sentence, rather than two. Certainly there was little need for me to do this, but it seemed to give me some comfort at the time, at least I was “doing something.” I could avoid thinking about the pointlessness of my tasks, if I simply scoured the world for inconsistencies. I could avoid thinking about how miserable I was in those jobs if I could successfully divert myself to the necessity of ensuring that the capitalization of certain words remained consistent across documents. The emotional disorder in this activity was not mine alone. In fact, my entire corporate department shared my dysfunction. It seemed normal because none of us wanted to contemplate our general misery, our children raised by strangers, our debt unrelieved by our long hours on the job. The foolish consistency seemed no longer foolish, but rather prudent.

Now the world is again on the precipice, we happily ignore the coming catastrophe to the natural world as we bulldoze pristine African wilderness to make way for the rare earth element mines, so we can drive electric vehicles to save the planet. We ignore our children who can no longer see each other’s faces, behind their COVID masks, an entire generation with a form of contact Asperger’s Syndrome from lack of facial connection. We ignore the debt, we ignore the lack of manufacturing, we ignore the looming humanitarian crisis of dissidents who stand up to their totalitarian lords. As long as we can create this foolish consistency in our little minds, we can ignore all of it. Throw the conscientious objectors to the new Transgenic Warfare under the bus, let the wheels crush their skulls, at least we won’t have to worry about catching their nonexistent disease.

We crave this compliance because we can’t fathom how to solve our real-world problems, how to extract the rare earth elements in a clean and sustainable way, how to respect others who don’t share our decisions, how to clean the air, clean the water, keep food on the table, keep a three year old Haitian child from death by diarrhea, or a 90-year-old woman who has had her home taken by the State to pay for the fees of the group death home into which she has just been rolled. Our training primarily consists of an ability to find a new television show on the computer, or purchase something on Amazon. We have no clue how to save that child from the diarrhea, so we don’t try and we instead kick in the head of anyone who dares to challenge the status quo.

These mandates, this demonization of people who have chosen a different path, even a more prudent path which we do not have the expertise to understand, these are necessary actions to help us avoid the realities of the world we have inherited.

We crave consistency in our neighbors and family not because it actually matters, but because it is easier than the alternative, and we have lost the ability to parse the information that is beamed into our heads through our eyeballs and our earholes. We can’t possibly know what to believe, so we let politics define the science, we let politics define the statistics, we let politics define the law, and we let politics define our ideals of social justice.

We will come out of this mess at some point … hundreds of thousands of Europeans have taken to the streets to protest. But we will lose a lot more before we can hold back the juggernaut. But as long as we allow the lens of politics to define statistics, science, rational decisions, and safety from the hints of disaster, we will not come out of this mess any day soon.

A small handful of the people who read this post will decide that they hate me, for I advocate a renovation of the sport of rowing that has become a tradition in their families. When the working class kids show that good rowing technique and world record times have nothing to do with good breeding and wealth, then the sport will have to change. I’m not going to be some heartless rowing socialist who screams at these rich kids that “life sucks sometimes, and this is what you get when spend more time partying than in the gym and on the erg, and in the water and studying for your classes.”

But that is the reality for a good number of students from what I call the “Rowing Class” which tends to mostly include people who may have had their water and gas shut off because they didn’t have the emotional fortitude to pay the bill, but they have not had their water shut off because they could not only not find enough money to pay the bill, but they couldn’t find enough time from their obligations to apply for public assistance. (The gas was shut off a long time ago.) The reality of rowing is that the best erg monkey in the world needs to get in the water at least a bit of the time. Yeah, slides are great under the erg, but they don’t change the power-transfer, as much as just make your Concept II look friggen awesome as smoked ceviche. Heck, I don’t even have a slide and I’m the future champion of the Monte Carlo U-250 Invitational in the men’s senior heavyweight division. If you can’t get your shit bird ass inside a shell, on the water, then you will never have an idea of how to properly couple into the water. An erg has a largely linear relationship to viscosity and speed, and on-the-water boat has a HIGHLY nonlinear relationship to viscosity and speed. So a good rower will adjust her or his attack angle from their paddle position constantly through his or her run, because when the boat first starts to move, the turbulence is largely from the blade tips rather than the hull. But as the boat comes up to speed, the turbulence transitions to a system that interacts between the blades and the hull. A single-place rower will then have to adjust his or her attack slightly as he or she transitions to a boat with more rowers, because the turbulence becomes a large-body problem, and a good rower can take advantage of a lot of nonlinearities in her or his power transition strategy.

And that’s the reason why so many people who read this are going to get pissed at me. They can’t ignore the basic physics of moving a displacement hull through a linear wave system. This is established in the rowing community. But when they try to ignore the less-basic physics of moving a transitional hull through a non-linear wave system, their heads explode a year later when they see that the teams who respected the strategic advantages of coupling into the non-linear wave system won a lot of events. They look at their fabled family legacy come to slow and sad end, as even the $160,000 high performance shells they donated to XYZ University can no longer reliably deliver the cups, or the pickle dishes.

And the reality of this is that a cup-winning crew is a cup-winning crew because they have just enough coaching not to fuck up their rows, and they have some good minds on the boat. This is not some kind of “coxswain rocket surgery.” This is stuff that every rower in the crew and in the team need to learn.

And yet, none of this really matters all that much when you’re cutting air on the Pain Sled.

When you’re on the erg, your power-transition is much more simple, and not just because you’re yanking on a symmetric solid bar rather than an asymmetric oar or two. It’s much more simple because air has something that water does not … it’s easily compressible. And because it’s easily compressible, the vaguaries of your power-transition tend to manifest themselves as noise, or maybe a little harmonic buzz from the erg, perhaps a little heat in both the erg mechanisms themselves and the air around the fan. But what those nonlinearities do not do, is turn themselves in tiny pneumatic hammers that work against the forward movement of a displacement hull in water.

What does this mean for competitive rowing? There are potentially world-class rowers who have never been in a boat, and because they have neither been in a boat nor have any immediate plans to be in a boat, they will remain on the cataclysmic fringes of rowing. It’s hard to find flatwater, it’s expensive to buy rowing shells, it’s tough to build the pace boat and support boat programs, and it’s damned near impossible to build a crew house that doesn’t become the center of a gaping hole straight to Gary, Claude and Satan himself. Rowers are … erm, an unusual kind of athlete. Global Rowing has found rowing prodigies in poverty and brought them up through the universities and club programs. But Global Rowing has failed to do what Optimists International did for sailing. Unlike the Optimists, they have failed to create a simple, open-source build plan for simple One Design rowing shells. If you throw a bag of weed into a crowded party at the Yacht Club, half of the demented souls in that place would admit to growing up sailing Optis on some hell-forsaken polluted lake in some industrial wasteland somewhere. The Optimists turned a bunch of dirty kids into millionaires by giving them a class conduit to the Societal Pleasures of Sailing. Yeah, sailing Optis was fun, but how many people now see them as anything other than a kid’s boat, rapidly replaced by the Bic O’Pen. Who? A handful of hardcore sailors who don’t gave a rat’s ass about a conduit to a bunch of wealthy people who need to hire them to beat up their bowman for langauge unbecoming of a stevedore. They sail the shit out of those Optis, in shit weather, in bailing conditions. But they do it not because the Optis are good sailboats, but because the Optis are the smallest possible boat on which a sailor can experiment with tactics and get a near immediate feedback from the wind and the water to guage to the soundness of the strategy.

And that’s the legacy of the Optimists in this one. They saved the sport of sailing from Death by Luxury. Global Rowing has not done that, it has created a two-pronged monster, with the gifted athletes on ergs, the gifted and lucky athletes in shells, and the neither gifted nor lucky but rather wealthy athletes, in single skiffs.

I have found a small company that manufactures folding rowing shells. I have obtained a sample and with some key modifications, I believe that they can present an inexpensive way for erg rowers to acquire a very inexpensive entry to in-water rowing. With this product, I believe that Global Rowing can acquire gifted athletes from other more lucrative sports, and expand our reach into every economic class and subclass in the world, including West Africa and Haiti. I have decided to follow the lead of Optimists International, and purchase all of this technology, in order to Open Source is Opti-style, to allow the lowest possible cost, time and expertise barrier of entry for new rowers.

This will need some calibration, but it’s a starting point.

Roz rowed say 3000 miles in 103 days. She rowed at an average speed, where 4,828,032 meters divided by 8,899,200 seconds, gives 0.54 m/s. Next, a micronized length of her row is thus 4.82 meters.

Degree in physics not necessary, only that you apes just pay attention in your classes so that you can row what you need to row. Improve the accuracy of that standard as necessary, but the MicroRoz is now 4.82 increment meters at an average speed of 0.54 meters per second.

So lessee, taken down to the practice and training of a student of rowing, if you are training for the 1,000 meter, for instance, then you would divide 1,000 by 4.82, you should get 207 and some change. Tell them to keep the change. So now multiply 207 times 4.82, and you get 997.74. That’s the distance you give your pace boat driver, or program into the ergometer. Now, you need to tell your pace boat driver how fast to go, tell your driver to do what they need to do keep it at 1.94 kilometers per hour. For you erg rowers, you aren’t from wealthy families like the in-water rowers, so you’ll need to actually crack a textbook open. You are rowing a distance of 997.74 and you need to set your erg computer to X number of seconds so that the paceboat has an average velocity of 0.54 meters per second. Bust out your pencils and Tupac it. Figure it out, if it’s easy for you, help someone for whom it’s hard. Type that number into the pace boat’s time.

And then you row.

If you obliterate the pace boat, then start to nudge your MicroRez down, take off a second or two from the pace boat’s total time and row again. Don’t take off too much too fast. If the pace boat is faster than you, then you need to train more to reach your Minimum Integral MicroRoz. And remember, you probably have something resembling nice, flat water. Roz had to pull that average speed in really rough conditions, that speed averaged about 1 mile per hour, which is about the speed you walk when you’re ambling through a store looking for stuff to buy. But on the open ocean, the rower has to fight a lot of conditions that the flatwater competitive rower and erg rower can mostly ignore. Roz’s boat had to be built for survivability, something which that rowing shell that your grandfather donated to the program, has not. Your grandpa bought the program a good boat, And it will help you beat some people whom your grandpa hates, because they screwed me in a land deal once. But this sport is opening, it’s changing. The erg, and the U-250 and the Folding Rower have brought people into this sport who have a drive with which you may not have been born. If you want to row as fast as your old grandpa Rick, then you will need to get into Optimists International, and get them to restart their old Opti sailing program, but this time for rowing.

At some point, I will calculate my world-record Unsanctioned-250 run of 45.0 seconds, and I will show all of you how my row stands in MicroRoz.

Again, if you obliterated the pace boat, don’t whack too huge of a chunk off your time at once. Progress in rowing needs to tend forward, and when you pick a too-optimistic time as a young-person, you lose a lot of the fun and beauty of the sport. This is not about becoming a Grand National champion like Grandpa Rick, this is about becoming a better rower and a better person. If you ever feel that rowing isn’t fun, you get into that boat and you row the most beautiful run you’ve ever had. Every stroke a masterpiece. If you can row a beautiful run, that’s more beautiful than fast run. But don’t you ever pull that shit in a race. Your opponent is on that pain sled because he or she thinks that you might be a better racer. If you find yourself loosing, you push hard to the flags, you may not feel that you’re worthy of the Pain Sled, but your opponent is worthy of your best possible time, and your opponent deserves a level of respect that you might not have for yourself. If you’re sure there is no way you can catch up in that race, you give your opponent every bit of effort you can drive. And that, you apes, is called “Sportmanship” you shit-birds.

One of the curiosities of this current battle against the conscientious deniers of the COVID vaccine is the placement of public policy as a new kind of science. In horse sense, it seems reasonable enough, if economists can claim their guidance as science, then why not public policy experts, who often work alongside the economists? Science acquires its own gravity, it often has the ability to silence dissent if pulled from the ass with sufficient gravitas.

In his recent opinion piece, Jonathon Meer suggests that these conscientious deniers of the most recent bit of Genetically-Engineered miracle to be bestowed upon our unworthy butts should hold responsibility for their medical costs, should they contract the lab-leak du-jour after having refused the vaccine. He ends his new public policy suggestion with “Real adults take responsibility for their decisions.”

Apparently, in Meer’s newly scientific worldview, buoyed by measurements of a vaccinated populations with few if any control groups, that these fully insured Americans just finished licking their wounds having broken into the Capitol, and now hordes of these ungrateful dimwits now either recover in hospitals or die on the public largesse that allows them to soak in vast societal benefits in their natural, unvaccinated state.

It surely would take a tenured professor of public policy, pulling in a sweet hundred grand per year, with a pension and solid health insurance to suggest that a portion of his fellow Americans are anything less than “real adults.” Meer seems ignorant of the reality that unlike his fellow full-time employees in higher education, tens of millions of Americans actually have not a dot of health insurance. Too broke to afford the market insurance, but slightly too wealthy to qualify for public aid, these “real adults” have to navigate a life where their daily decisions tie directly to their health. Some of them choose not to risk the fallout from the genetically-engineered solution, because if the free vaccine they receive from their corner pharmacy happens to make them ill eventually, they will have little recourse. Many of these people trust the whims of Mother Nature more than they trust the historically-established follies of the pharmaceutical industry, and they lose their jobs and even family connections because of their idealism.

When your science is public health, one need not worry about things like functionalized carbon and protein structures below the Kelvin barrier, they need not worry about torsional stresses on the RNA backbone, they need not worry about the kind of things that kept Frances Oldham Kelsey in a state of constant attack against an initially belligerent pharmaceutical industry that dismissed concerns of “hesitancy” which is exactly the word that Meer used in his opinion. Those who decided to ignore their feelings of “hesitancy” with Thalidomide had a markedly increased chance of giving birth to children that were unvaible, or pharmaceutically-mangled for the rest of their lives.

Like many children who want to keep their birthday cake beautiful, but also devour it, Professor Meer wants to shift the burden of the unvaccinated away from those who are vaccinated, while simultaneously using this population as the de facto control group for this new class of genetically-engineered vaccines and then thrust them further into poverty and public dependency by taking away their jobs. Professor Meer has obtained his ability to look at the unwashed masses of conscientious objectors of the new Genetically Modified Organisms due to his wealth. Should mRNA technology prove unreliable or even dangerous the as-yet untested long-term, he will still luxuriate in public-enabled health. But what of the uninsured, and people in Developing Nations who don’t have access to the level of healthcare that Professor Meer takes for granted? They’ll drop like beheaded sea bass, same as they usually do, same as they did when a laboratory leak of GMOs pinpointed their broke-asses with surgical precision and killed some four million people.

Professor Meer adopts a fairy tale cost metric where these unvaccinated have actually pulled dollar bills out of his pocket, and Professor Meer has clearly stated that he doesn’t want to share, he writes “But why should the vaccinated bear those financial costs?” Again, his position of luxury ignores the reality that is in in fact those without any health insurance at all who have subsidized his lifestyle, while his employer is able to deduct their significant contribution to the costs of his public health from their taxable revenue. Even a regular for-profit company is able to do this, let-alone a non-profit institution. This cost of insuring people like Professor Meer then falls to everyone who pays taxes, including the uninsured and those who choose not to receive injection of genetic engineering.

Meer fails because he doesn’t have the tools of science to apply to his argument. Without the benefit of long-term data, he has very little actual guidance to the economic outcomes of this global rollout of genetic engineering. Like 1950s policy designed to bridge society to the post-nuclear apocalypse world, his theories to what comes after the GMO are unmeasured.