Annual Fundraising Appeal
Over the course of 21 years, we’ve published many unflattering stories about Henry Kissinger. We’ve recounted his involvement in the Chilean coup and the illegal bombings of Cambodia and Laos; his hidden role in the Kent State massacre and the genocide in East Timor; his noxious influence peddling in DC and craven work for dictators and repressive regimes around the world. We’ve questioned his ethics, his morals and his intelligence. We’ve called for him to be arrested and tried for war crimes. But nothing we’ve ever published pissed off HK quite like this sequence of photos taken at a conference in Brazil, which appeared in one of the early print editions of CounterPunch.
100716HenryKissingerNosePicking
The publication of those photos, and the story that went with them, 20 years ago earned CounterPunch a global audience in the pre-web days and helped make our reputation as a fearless journal willing to take the fight to the forces of darkness without flinching. Now our future is entirely in your hands. Please donate.

Day12Fixed

Yes, these are dire political times. Many who optimistically hoped for real change have spent nearly five years under the cold downpour of political reality. Here at CounterPunch we’ve always aimed to tell it like it is, without illusions or despair. That’s why so many of you have found a refuge at CounterPunch and made us your homepage. You tell us that you love CounterPunch because the quality of the writing you find here in the original articles we offer every day and because we never flinch under fire. We appreciate the support and are prepared for the fierce battles to come.

Unlike other outfits, we don’t hit you up for money every month … or even every quarter. We ask only once a year. But when we ask, we mean it.

CounterPunch’s website is supported almost entirely by subscribers to the print edition of our magazine. We aren’t on the receiving end of six-figure grants from big foundations. George Soros doesn’t have us on retainer. We don’t sell tickets on cruise liners. We don’t clog our site with deceptive corporate ads.

The continued existence of CounterPunch depends solely on the support and dedication of our readers. We know there are a lot of you. We get thousands of emails from you every day. Our website receives millions of hits and nearly 100,000 readers each day. And we don’t charge you a dime.

Please, use our brand new secure shopping cart to make a tax-deductible donation to CounterPunch today or purchase a subscription our monthly magazine and a gift sub for someone or one of our explosive  books, including the ground-breaking Killing Trayvons. Show a little affection for subversion: consider an automated monthly donation. (We accept checks, credit cards, PayPal and cold-hard cash….)
cp-store

or use
pp1

To contribute by phone you can call Becky or Deva toll free at: 1-800-840-3683

Thank you for your support,

Jeffrey, Joshua, Becky, Deva, and Nathaniel

CounterPunch
 PO Box 228, Petrolia, CA 95558

The Future is Bleak

The Whitey Report

by MICHAEL MCDAETH
Don’t get me wrong I like whitey. They are fun to hang with at a barbecue. They can grill a steak I’ll give them that but beyond running the grill or picking out jewelry I wouldn’t put them in charge of anything. They are way to overconfident about everything they do. They fill out their March madness brackets that way; convinced they nailed the final four they’ll drop a thousand dollars on it no questions asked. They max out their credit cards and quit their jobs because, despite all the evidence to the contrary, they think they have talent or they believe their totally unique life story is a certain best seller. If they only had someone to write it down.
They believe in ghosts, UFOs, angels, Bigfoot, fairies, dice, cards, astrology, new age, old testament, but not that their consent is manufactured no that’s too farfetched. Whitey will believe in anything but the real world. And oh how they love to dream. It fills the space in their movies, their music, they spoon it into their coffee. If you don’t have a ready-made dream in life, they think you are mentally ill.
They have dominated for so many years, every whitey generation believes that they have inherited the earth, lock stock and barrel. In that regard they work all the angles. They think they can think compartment-ally. And it works! They’ve created a world of specialists working in windowless boxes. The stalwart Capitalist steps forward in grey skies and blue, “What we need is more capitalism.” The great Economist, “Your life is your wallet, stupid. Get that straight and everything else will fall into place.” The revered Reverend, “Praying twice a day will cure what ails you.” The grave General, “War is inevitable.” Individually they may do little harm but collectively it’s a disaster. The excuses are built in. “I only make the bombs I don’t drop them.” “I only fly the plane I don’t declare the war.” And on and on. It’s a system that is almost entirely chutes and ladders.
They adore their go go gadgets. If one were to trace the material sources for all their gadgets there would be a line to nearly every polluted and corrupted region on the planet. From the Middle East for its oil. Africa for its oil, lumber, diamonds, minerals. Ditto for the Americas and the Far East. They want it all. They call it a way of life.
They get tripped up by their own concept of time. They love and abhor their little clocks. Tick tock tick tock. Whitey has got to get something done. Wrapped up in there as well is an almost pathological fear of death. They don’t want to die. They fight it all the way. They will cut themselves up if it’ll shed a few years off the mirror. Their fear of death makes them secretly wish the end of the world is coming on their watch. No shit. They’ve been reading up on it and are astonished it has gone on this long. They are all tuckered out. What does it all mean? Blah. Let’s get to the bottom of this thing already. They cannot imagine the world going on without them. That is why they love a good end of the world twist to their story: zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, armageddon, ancient prophecies – whatever – they are onboard for all the worst case scenarios. “Panic in your head!” Whitey says so with wringing hands in brow furrowed worry on the outside and all goose-bumpy gleeful on the inside. But change? No, they won’t do that. It’s the overpopulation of others. It’s China and India getting into the game – putt putt fart fart.
Whitey will allow millions to perish then spend billions trying to save the last two. And they’ll pat each other on the back for doing just that. When faced with the truth of their technologically induced woes their answer is always for more of the same. “We can do it better.” Anything other than more technology is unthinkable. Anything other than more speed is absurd. More and more and more. Laptops will save African children. Robots will sweep the floors. Drones will fight the wars. Pills will calm the nerves, provide the boners, spread the happy. Solar panels will fill a niche. Put more air in your tires. Recycling is better than nothing. And nothing is what they cannot do. They would rather end the world right now than do nothing. For whitey it is the ultimate sin.

Michael McDaeth is a writer and musician living in Seattle. He is the author of the novel Roads and Parking Lots. He can be reached atmmcdaeth@msn.com