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Anthony St.

John versus the DisUnited States of America

This essay is dedicated to my beloved Sarah who has been an unfailing inspiration in the creation of it...

7,500,000,000 WORLD POPULATION!

Before I begin this essay, Anthony St. John versus the DisUnited States of
America, I wish to present to you, my dear readers, an excerpt from the
beginning of another piece of writing, Why I Live Beyond the DisUnited States of
America, written many years ago. I sincerely hope that what I am about to
write now, will be the most scathing anti-American composition ever written,
and that it will wake up the American sheepleor, at least, those who have
their own interests at heart above and beyond the benefts of the entire
American Democracy that I believe has evolved into being a criminally
organized society and not a civilized state that cherishes the welfare of its own
peopleparticularly those in need of it:

hilosophical psychiatrist, R D Laing, was endowed with immense courage, vision
and vigour, and by reason of his unique skills made valuable contributions to
psychiatry and caused to come to be events which startled and disrupted long-
established analysts of the mind. Laing was a member of that mental health infantry
squadron carrying out a mission meant to clear the way for the main body of troops. His
insights into schizophrenia, the worlds most debilitating mental disease, will never be

Like many illustrious warriors favoured with superhuman eminence, Laings frst jumps,
off the high board into the murky pools of the unconscious, neurosis and psychosis, were
belly fops. Heroic in nature, Laing did not return home from battle after his preliminary
overthrows. He climbed up far above the ground again, lunged, cut through gloomy waters,
and touched bottom where he scraped his skin and bruised his bones yet more. He went
back again and again and again and persevered, until his death, searching for something
new in the treatment of mental patients.
From page 102 to 104 in Self and Others, Laings masterpiece, he talks about a little boy of
fve who runs to his mother holding a big fat worm in his hand, and says, Mommy, look
what a big fat worm I have got. She says, You are flthyaway and clean yourself

The mothers response to the boy is an example of what Ruesch (1958) has called a
tangential response. In terms of the boys feeling, the mothers response is at a tangent.
She does not say, Oh, yes, what a lovely worm. She does not say, What a flthy worm
you mustnt touch worms like that; throw it away. In this response there is a failure to
endorse what the boy is doing. A state of transitory confusion, anxiety or guilt might be
generated in him.

Bateson, Jackson, Haley and Weakland in their article, Toward a Theory of

Schizophrenia, Behavioural Science (1956), discuss this condition and term it the double-
bind pattern. According to the authors, the likelihood of such a confguration exists when
these six elements are present: two or more persons; repeated experience of the state of
affairs; a primary negative injunction: Do not do this. I will punish you if you do; a
secondary injunction conficting with the frst at a more abstract level, and like the frst,
enforced by punishment or signals which threaten survival: a negative gesture, a tone of
voice, a posture, etc; a tertiary negative injunction prohibiting the victim from escaping
from the feld: false promises of devotion, affection or love; and, the absence of these
constituents when the victim learns that his or her universe is composed of, essentially,
double-bind patterns.

The victims, in this scenario, are caught in a mesh of contradiction between two
conclusions and they cannot decide how to act or react rationally. He or she cannot make a
sane choice. The prey is deceived and, to survive, must mislead others to protect himself
or herself. They learn to reject what is genuine, and lay blame on what is unreal or real
ridiculing as immature what might in fact be responsible. Persons trapped in this double-
bind pattern cannot establish a sensation of genuineness with another human being.

There are three things I am particularly proud of, among many others: I have
not been in the DisUnited States (DUS) since 31 December 1975; the 19 April
2017 letter from the DUS's State Department attesting to the fact that I am no
longer a DUS citizen, and what I have framed and appended to a wall in my
home here in Italy; and, I did not stay pinched in a DUS double bind vise.
My story is both fascinating as it is long, but in this written material, I will
concentrate on three particulars that have repulsed me so, that one would
agree with me that I had no choice but to sever, as completely as possible, any
and all connections I might have and had with the DUS.
I have chosen these three areas of disgust that are the following: my Roman
Catholic education; Wall Street-New York; and, my tour in Vietnam as an
Artillery frst lieutenant in the DUS Army.
I passed a total of sixteen years being indoctrinated by nuns and priests, and I
hated almost every minute of that experience. I am not alone feeling this way.
I am particularly pleased to see The Waning of the Roman Catholic Church
become a reality, and some of my Roman Catholic personal observations can
be shared by reading How I Repelled the Advances of Pedophilic Roman Catholic
Priests (
At the St. Bonaventure University, in Olean, New York, I joined the Reserve
Offcer Training Corps (ROTCROTSEE), and was commissioned a
second lieutenant in the Artillery the day before my graduation at which I
received a Bachelor's of Arts degree in Philosophy (June 1966). That Roman
Catholic university had made a business deal with the Pentagon to have its
ROTC unit established on its up-state New York campus, and to require all
the mostly male university students to participate in the ROTC program for
the frst two years of its four-year length. In return, classrooms and other
facilities were constructed for the university by the Pentagon, including a
friary for the Franciscan monks who flled the dumpsters outside The Hotel
with enormous amounts of beer and whisky bottles. In the last two years of
the program, I studied Field Artillery theory and tactics, military science, and
geopolitical strategies.

One Roman Catholic memory from St Bonaventure University that remains

fxed in my mind is the following: When I initiated my studies in September
1962, I took a freshman course in World History presided over by a
Franciscan monk whose nickname was The Spike. Far from being a
Franciscan poster priest, The Spike was notorious for showing up for class
smelling like an opened Irish whisky bottle and had a devilish, sadistic smile.
He was tyrannical with his students. On the frst day of class, he seated all of
us in alphabetical order, kept a chart of our seating and names for him to take
attendance at each class. He told us succinctly: Three 'cuts' (absences) and
you fail my course. But, what was truly unique about him was the way he
treated the co-eds (female students) in his classes. St Bonaventure, in 1962,
was 99% male with not even a hundred female students, and those included
some nuns. The Spike would order the fve or six women in our class to sit
in the front row. When his grand moment arrived, he would exclaim out loud
for all: Ladies, cross your legs and shut the gates of Hell. Then, like a
Shakespearean actor, he would pompously twirlas if he had uttered some
eternal truth about womento the blackboard and write some Roman
Catholic medieval gibberish. The girls, naturally, remained silent taking their
priestly insult as a part, among other things (panty and bra raids in their
dormitory), of what was needed to graduate from St Bonaventure University.
Double bind for them.
It must be noted here that in those years the presence of a priest or nun,
carried with it an implicit authoritarianism that had been fne-tuned over the
centuries. Their wish could be our command. My own Irish-Catholic mother
would jump at the chance to drive nuns to the doctor's or dentist's when
called to do so. So, when we are considering young children, who have been
sexually abused by nuns or priests, we should understand that they were
overwhelmed by the authoritarian vein in these clerics who could easily
control the victims' minds and dupe them into doing anything they might
desire to do to themcast under the nun and priests' spells of autocratic
persuasion. The only way to eradicate the cancer of pedophilia is to challenge
the authority of the Roman Catholic church, and bring nuns and priests down
to Earth with the rest of us. Why should they not be permitted to marry? To
keep them, too, in a double bind? Don't leave our child alone in catechism
In Vietnam, the Roman Catholic chaplains held religious swayI never saw a
rabbiand frequently they accompanied us at our meeting-up points before
some combat assault (CA [Charlie Alpha]) to give us general absolution,
whether one was a Catholic or not, before returning to their chapels, one
being on Camp Enari's grounds (Fourth Infantry Division, Pleiku), to count
communion wafers for the next day's mass. Roman Catholic chaplains were
gung-ho, and one of them, next to whom I had sat on my fight to Saigon from
Travis Air Force base in California in August 1967, fanned crosses over as
many B-52s he could on both sides of the landing strip as we touched down
for refuelling in Guam. The Fourth Division Roman Catholic chaplain, a full-
bird colonel, made raids on enlisted men's barracks ordering the removal of
Playboy centerfolds, yet he was not able to shut down the Sin City outside
Camp Enari where shacks, fabricated out of crushed Budweiser beer cans,
served as brothels, barber shops, tailor shops, laundries and other services
run by corrupt Army supply sergeants who ruled over the black market for the
sake of Milton Friedman's dog-eat-dog capitalism. I accuse the Roman Catholic
church of complicity in promulgating the Vietnam War's crimes against humanity.
When I returned from Vietnam the family put on a WELCOME HOME
FROM THE WAR partya low-key affair that was more flled with advice for
me to screw the Army by faking a diffcult-to-diagnose back ailment than it
was in bringing me back into the family fold. They screwed you; now you
screw them! I was deeply disappointed. No one wanted to hear what had
happened to me during that year (1967-1968), and I was almost glad that they
did not for fear I might have offended their delicate sensibilities. That was a
mistake, I now realize. I was trying to understand them more than they were
attempting to do the same for me. Double bind.
Two of my very, very Roman Catholic uncles, one of whom worked for Merrill
Lynch, had been with the company almost from its inception, and was the
head of the IBM department where he honchoed 400 women who all day
long punched tiny rectangular holes in data cards. The other was the mid-
western DUS buyer for the Woolworth company. I just had to say the words
Can you help me? and I am sure I would have been on my way to becoming
a junior executivelickety-split. My father was a low-level administrator at the
Federal Detention Headquarters (FDH) in Greenwich Village, and he, too, I
suspect, could have pulled strings, as the saying goes, to set me on a career
at the Department of Justice.
My heart was not in any one of these ways to earn a living mostly because I
had had some idea about how these relatives were spending their lives. So
unhappily so. My Merrill Lynch uncle, who smoked two packs of flterless
CAMELs a day, sent me or one of my cousins on Sundays for reflls of a tin
can with beer freshly poured from the tap at the local saloon, and he once
sternly warned me: Play the stock market to lose. I took the hint. My
Woolworth uncle was an upright, uptight, stuffed shirt and a notorious
cheapskate. He lived in Clarendon Hills outside of Chicago, and he attended
baseball games sitting near, he said next to, Mayor Daley. I would not have
wanted to labor in the same company he did. My father was a very serious
individual, and whenever I would ask him the meaning of a word, he would
tell me to look it up in the dictionary. At home, there was a Smith-Corona
portable typewriter on which I practised writing sentences. When I would
visit FDH, my father's friends would put handcuffs on me, and make me sit in
a cell to teach me what it would be like if I broke the law. Just kidding, of
course! Once, Marilyn Monroe came to FDH to visit Arthur Miller, and I
begged my father to let me meet her. (I had already met some famous
detainees including Russian spies who were doing the math homework of the
kids whose fathers worked at FDH, and the Italian Vito Genovese whom my
father addressed as Mr Genovese.) It was impossiblefor security reasons,
I was toldand I always wondered that if I had pinched Marilyn on her
derriere, would I have written, one day, a New York Times best-seller How I
Sexually Abused Marilyn Monroe at the Tender Age of Nine!
I just could not wait to get away from New Yorkit being too fast for my
body, but too slow for my mind. I wanted out of that hypocrisy. Besides, my
body needed sun & fun in order to come down from the often intolerable
stress it had received as I walked around Southeast Asia with my calloused
thumb fxed to the safety of my M-16 rife. I moved to Hollywood Hills,
Florida. War was not really hell for me, but it was a jarring experience.
Thanks to it, I learned to appreciate my life the more in that it had been
almost taken away from me so often. I knew about 40 of my comrades who
never did return home alive. I read 72 books while in Vietnam. What was I
expected to do to keep my mind off the incompetent, often vile individuals I
was serving with, and who went marauding around the Central Highlands, on
the border of Cambodia and Laos, destroying Nature wherever they wentas
if they owned the place? My dear reader, do you think I learned something? I
What did I learn, you ask? Well for one, I learned that Americans can be frst-
class hypocrites and unreliable twits. Double binders. Let me single-out John,
an acquaintance of mine, a churchlike Irish-American Catholic, who was a
vice-president for the 1960s' City bank in New York. John was the account
manager of the Diocese of Brooklyn's stock portfolio. He told me, kidding all
the way, that when I went to Vietnam, I would be helping to make the
Roman Catholic church richer by fring Artillery ordnance manufactured by
companies that the Diocese of Brooklyn probably had invested in! He, who
you can be sure was needed more at the bank than in a uniform in Vietnam,
sent me a picture of himself and his family, when I was in Vietnam, in front of
their home in Bayside, Queens, with a huge American fag draped from the
dwelling's bay window. The letter was inscribed: We support our boys in
Vietnam. I am certain he did! I accuse Wall Street of complicity in sustaining the
Vietnam War's crimes against humanity.
I only wish I could have told John, before his death, about my assignment as
an aerial forward observer, fying reconnaissance missions in the AO (area of
operations) of the Fourth Infantry Division (Snowfake Division/Ivy
Division) at Pleiku in the mosquito-infested Central Highlands. An aerial
forward observer, a fying redleg, earned an additional $110.00 a month of
combat pay. We were issued a fak-jacket, CAR-15 (a snub-nosed M-16),
banana magazines with tracer bullets, a .45-caliber pistol, handgrenades, and
smoke grenades. The Cessna L-19/01 Bird Dog, is, or was, a single-engine
aircraft that held two individuals. It was suped-up for heavy duty work fying
over the beautiful Vietnamese jungles in search of enemy infltrations or
targets. When I reported to the Fourth Division's make-shift airport with its
dirt landing strip, I met my pilot, a captain, who was dressed with a red-
painted fight helmet and a red silk scarf around his neck. On the helmet, in
yellow lettering, blazoned the words: The Red Baron. I thought this might
be a jokeI didn't expect it. We fxed ourselves in our places and latched our
seat belts. I was behind him and set somewhat below him, and as he revved up
the motor, he contacted the mini control tower, and requested clearance to
take off. He had asked me if I knew how to fy a plane. I said no. He
responded that he would teach me; just in case he became wounded. We were
both connected by intercoms set in our fight helmets. We pulled up into the
air rather abruptly, and looking out of my open side window, I could see
immediately magnifcent views of greenery as far as my eyes would permit.
The pilot told me to test my CAR-15 to see if it was functioning because, he
added, he was not sure that my predecessor had cleaned it properly. The
tracer bullets made cleaning rife barrels very diffcult. I fred some volleys
into the air, and watched the red tracer rounds allow me to lead my bursts
wherever I wished. Suddenly, The Red Baron pulled back on the throttle
and aimed the plane for the skies. Then he abruptly dropped in a vicious
descent. He was laughing, and said he wanted to know if I would lose my
cookies and vomit all over the inside of his plane. Then he went looking for
the enemy instructing me to keep my eyes fxed below especially giving
attention to tree lines and places that would afford cover for the enemy. For
the most part, we remained high enough out of small arms' fre. Yet, if The
Red Baron's eye caught sight of possible enemy movement, we would drop
stat to have a closer look. I kept thinking what would happen if our plane's
engine fammed out. At one point, The Red Baron viewed two Vietnamese
who were wearing peasant hats (Asian conical hats). I could see they were
unarmed, but I could not distinguish whether or not they were women or men
crucial for permitting us to engage an enemy or not. I would have been
expected to zero these hostile farmers with my CAR-15. It was not the
occasion to give The Red Baron a lesson in military ethics. He was ranting
and raving and hungry for a kill. (How did The Red Baron ever be promoted
to captain! How was I, The Hippie Lieutenant, promoted to frst lieutenant
and then almost begged to be promoted to captain if I re-upped for another
year! I kept asking myself: Am I in the U S Army or some kind of Crazy
House? My dear reader, now you understand why the armed forces became
all-volunteer in 1973!) All in-coming soldiers to Vietnam were required to
read the terms of the Geneva Convention and a list of rules and regulations
for treating civilians in our AO. We had to date and sign these directives. CYA
(COVER YOUR A*S.) At the Fourth Division's briefngs, we were carefully
instructed to pay attention to rock formations on trails leading into
Montagnard villages which could indicate that the village had recently
experienced a birth or death or some sickness. Telling The Red Baron to not
shoot at unarmed civilians, seemed to me a fruitless task. He was really a silly
boy. He kept screaming gung-ho hollerings as he dived and then climbed to
get out of small arms' range. I think he was trying to re-enact some World
War I or World War II Hollywood war flm he had seen. The poor soul was
looking for some WWI aerial dog fght with an enemy that did not possess
an air force! I wanted to tell him that Vietnamese peasants did not have fghter
jets, B-52 bombers, or Artillery, but I thought that might upset him!
(Disgustingly unfairone might say.) Then it happened! The Red Baron, by
now frustrated with two of the villagers whom he assumed were playing him
for a fool, opted to contact a squadron of nine B-52s fying somewhere over
our heads at 30,000 feet, and give the f*****g gooks a carpet bombing they
would never forget, and at the same time expend an enormous amount of
munitions that would keep Wall Street stocks ripe and juicyincluding
John's Diocese of Brooklyn portfolio! The Red Baron put me in radio
contact with the Air Force squadron leader, and he ordered me to work up for
the Air Force a fre mission that would include map coordinates, weather
conditions, and target identifcation. The squadron leader would then have to
get permission from his higher ups for the carpet bombing. I was now in an
ethical quandary, a double bind. If I refused to calculate the data, The Red
Baron could court-martial me. If I obeyed, I might be part of the killings of I
couldn't even guesshow many Vietnamese people who never, ever did
anything to offend me! I told The Red Baron I might throw up. He
immediately levelled the plane, told the B-52 squadron leader to abort the
mission, and chewed me out for the rest of the trip back to Pleiku shouting at
me that if I soiled his plane with my puke, I would have to pay $10.00 to have
it cleaned. FTAdevoid of an ethical core! In 1977, Protocol I of the Geneva
Convention adjudged carpet bombing a war crime.
The Roman Catholic church will now be taken under consideration to a
greater degree, mainly because it is a constant source of unethical sustenance
when the armed forces of the DUS requires supernatural permission to defy
international law. All the DUS's armed services are replete with cliques of
zealous Roman Catholic offcers and non-commissioned offcers. They are all
backed up by the tenets, canons, promulgated by the saintly St Thomas
Aquinas who philosophized for the Roman Catholic church those principles
which kick war upstairs and offer a sanctimonious defence of them. Any Jesuit
will tell you: God sometimes works in strange ways. But he loves you
(George Carlin)! Aquinas did not advocate and theorize dogma popularizing
Listen to St Thomas Aquinas's (1225-1274) three conditions for a justifed war:
1. War must be waged by a properly instituted authority.
2. War must occur for a good and just purpose.
3. Peace must be a central motive even in the midst of violence.
This is the stuff, Henry The Carpet Bomber Kissinger and generals in the
Pentagon have pinned to their war maps at Harvard University and the
Pentagon. Tell that to a soldier in a foxhole, and he will tell you where to go!
What could be a good and just purpose for war? Killing? I never met a soldier
in Vietnam who did not want peace while he was serving there. In fact, we all
counted the days to going home after our one-year stint was overjust to be,
at least, alive to do so! One can guess that if St Thomas Aquinas, the Roman
Catholic Stagirite, were alive today, he would be a golden share client of
Goldman Sachs! And being a cleric he would not have to pay taxes on his
profts! Peaches and cream!
Niccol Machiavelli (1469-1527) is another power-hungry dolt often called
upon to justify war by those who send others, from their swivel chairs, to fght
for them. Machiavelli is often attributed with the the ends justify the means
canard, but this ascription is not necessarily well-grounded. What is though,
is Machiavelli's pessimistic view of life, and his notion that fre must be fought
with frenot a sound philosophical basis. He says the winner stands to be
the most powerful. And it should not surprise us that he is one of Henry
Kissinger's favorite political theorists and a big hit at the Pentagon. ONCE
WILL FOLLOW and MIGHT MAKES RIGHT. I cannot say how many times
I had heard these pronunciations when I was stationed at Fort Sill, Oklahoma,
the home of the ArtilleryThe King of Battle.
In this world of Big Pigs and Little Pigs and Little Pigs wanting to be Big Pigs,
one has to wonder why 80% of all startups fail. Something dramatic is a-
happening! The greed and corruption is so top-heavy, the whole system is
threatened with collapse. Rubber bands and chewing gum are holding the
capitalist system togetherI am not a communist!and any day now, this
horror will smack us all in the face! But, in the meantime, keep teaching your
cats to login into FACEBOOK, Say goodnight to Koichi in Japan, Send kisses
and hugs to Maria in Peru, Tell Cassidy in Florida that her Doberman
Pinchers are magnifcent, Happy day also to you, AL-Hashmi, Bonne soire,
Yousf, Love to your fur babies, Georgia, Goodnight and sweet dreams to you,
too, Marsha, Good evening friends!, Joy in my heart seeing you, Sweetie, It's
time for me to go to bed, Your cat is gorgeous, It's Wednesday! Have a happy
hump day! Happy day to Helene and friends, Sweet dreams to the whole
world, Thank you for your inspiration, Thank you from the bottom of my
heart, Have a wonderful weekend, I'm so happy to be with you today! Send
me pictures of your dogs, cats, horses, and pythons, Send me pictures of the
full moon, the half moon, the waning moon!, Send me pictures of the seaside,
the mountainside, Send me pictures of beautiful women and handsome men,
Send me pictures of beautiful babies hugging their dogs and cats, Send me
pictures of you all kissing the snouts of your horses, Send me pictures of
beautiful works of art, Send me pictures of your holidays in Bali, Send me
pictures of your favorite band, Send me a picture of your favorite political
fgure, Send me pictures of black people beating up white people, Send me
pictures of white people beating up black people, Send me a picture of your
favorite food, Send me a picture of your dying grandmother, Send me a
picture of your pregnant grandmother, Send me PICTURES and PICTURES
and PICTURES, I want to SEE and SEE and SEE! But, PLEASE, I implore
Authored by Anthony St. John
2 December MMXVII
Calenzano, Italy

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