JAN’S FRESH REAL NEWS
                         © 2001: Jan Cox
                                          *********************************************

August 9, 2001.
 
 
 
 
 

          PIGEONS WHO DON’T SING -
   ‘CAUSE THE SCORE’S IN A LANGUAGE
           THEY DON’T UNDERSTAND
             ___________________
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

While skimming through a bookstore,
the father picked up one, and read the title aloud to the son:
”'The World’s Greatest Swindles & Confidence Games,'” then said to him:
“The title itself is a fraud --
for the author will actually be reporting on the world's worst deceptions:
the cons that were uncovered; the flim flams which failed.

The really breath taking buncos -- no one knows about;
for no matter how well planned, grand & complex a con is seen to be -- --  after it has been revealed,
by definition, there are much better, more intelligent & ambitious ones which -- since they succeed -- no one knows about,”
then laying the tome down, added:
“And here is where human thought become the center of the story."
 
 

They exited the store and began strolling the mall.
”There have been a large number of books written on this subject,
each new one claiming to include newly discovered schemes which,
in their cleverness & ability to deceive, outshine all previous ones,
but as always, the unrecognized structural confines of human thought
keep anyone from ever bringing up the simple fact that
there are no, ‘master criminals’  in jails  --  only bunglers,
the geniuses of the trade remain free & unknown.”
The father bumped his hip solidly against the boy’s,
knocking him off stride as he asked:
”Beginning to sound interesting?”  They passed a clothing store for pests.
 
 

”Remember that I am not talking about direct, self-revealing swindles
that are little more than slightly concealed, robbery,
which is quickly discovered by everyone,
(such as a broker promising investors a triple digit monthly return,
and simply disappearing with their funds on the thirty first day) --  no,
I speak of a confidence game in which the pigeons NEVER realize that they have been plucked  -- ‘But how can that be?!’ (I hear you scream)
(Shhh,  keep your voice down)
how can an intelligent person be constantly conned and never even
suspect what is going on?   Surely, something would clue them in,
and reveal the fraud for what it is.    SURELY!
(Shhh, you’ll disturb the other neurons.)”
 
 

Out of a confectionary stepped a candy butcher,
life sustaining fructose, dripping from his guilty, sticky hands.
“See, that’s what I meant when I commented on the book title:
nothing is ever known -- by its very definition --
about the confidence schemes that succeed;
they work entirely by intellectual deception & stealth,
and so go --  unnoticed.
So you see, you were being foolish back there when you hollered out
that it was impossible for a relentless fraud to go undiscovered:
that is the whole strategy of a con as opposed to a robbery:
in the latter you pull a gun and demand money from the victim;
you get it; you turn and run; he begins to shout: ‘I’ve been robbed!’
and the crime is instantly, common knowledge,
but in a con (when executed by a pro,
[and do I ever have a particular one in mind]),
the crime is committed on a minute by minute basis,
and yet from the victim is nothing heard
for when done correctly, the victim never ever realizes that he IS one.
If the victim himself cannot tell that he has been victimized,
then from any ordinary perception --  no crime has been committed;
no one has any sensation of anything being amiss;
the con rolls on like a well tuned Rolls,
and the pigeons ride along in blissful stupor.
 

Is this starting to tug at your suspenders, son;
is your reticular formation beginning to loosen its belt?”
Many opportunities to stop & shop, appeared -- then dropped,
as they pressed their promenading & inner galactic duck hunting.
“While it lacks the necessary nefarious intention to be classified a crime,
there is a 24/7 con game going on which is a main supporting player
in collective man’s normal drama, but which is at the same time,
a kibitzer-in-the-dark who drives a select few characters on stage,
to distraction  --   in othello words my boy:
the universally successful, unrealized con game that IS
human consciousness
is also the behind-the-scenes maneuvering that such as we
are born to grapple with,
but as with any other combat:
you do well to recognize who you are tussling with;
you would think that the first thing a combatant would want to know is
the identity of his opponent  --  but too commonly  --  not so
with the out-branches of our family tree.
As a rule, those related to our bloodline who declare that they have
taken up, The Great Challenge to solidify in themselves,
that which is presently fragmented,
never gain a personal knowledge of what precisely it is,
with which they struggle.
Oh, they certainly have names for it,
and reinforce one another’s claims of correct identification --
but it is just part of the unrecognized con;
suckers who might accidentally stumble up too close to the
machination machinery can be tossed an intriguing but meaningless
bit of additional --  ultra private, ‘Insider’s tip’ and they will immediately
settle down, and in fact quite often then insist on investing even more
of themselves in the infinite fraud.

A Master Con is a master con,
but he goes without honor in his own home  town –
since properly fleeced sheep n’er know they’ve been shorn,
indeed, if patted sweetly on the head, will thank the shearer.
 
 

Speak up lad,
is it beginning to ring your bell that what I am actually talking about
is what the relentless flow of automatic thought through
your off-duty mind does to your consciousness?!”
He rapped the lad upside his head.
”Hello!  Can you hear me in there?  Is anyone home?”
(This was a little game they liked to play when they were away from a
Western Union office, or one of the secret surveillance cameras,
[their existence --  another one of their private mental sports]),
when just then the son did ask:
”But what if there really WAS a little camera hidden in men’s heads,
recording everything that goes on in there?!”
the elder froze  --  then facially assumed a terrifying tibetian type
demonic mask demeanor and shouted:
“How dare you say; ‘What IF’ --
you know I do not waste my time in mere speculation:
whenever I say; ‘What if such-&-such is how things really are?’
I mean by god, that that IS how things are,
and I am not just being careful not to frighten a child
with too much reality all at once.      
Hah!” and he repeated in feigned disgust what the son had said:
”’What if there WAS a little camera hidden in our heads’!   Hah!"
 

The old man stopped talking as they started up the stairs to the next level,
then at the top, he turned back on the words.
“Although not in any sense that would
Make any sense to ordinary men,
the thoughts that life runs through a man’s mind
when it is not actively involved in some specific problem solving which requires his fullest possible attention
pull a con job on his overall consciousness of both
what goes on in life and in himself, in matters, non essential.

The undirected, non specific thoughts that endlessly parade through your consciousness day & night perpetrate a never uncovered con
wherein the professionally produced illusions of the con
fool you into believing that the dreams & schemes that the con
tells you exist  --  do exist;
while under the full sway of the fraud, you can be made to believe
that black is white; up is down; loss is gain,
and the nonexistent, right there in front of you --  almost visible --
all you have to do is imagine  --  just a little bit ,
and it all comes into focus, mentally speaking.
 

YOU'VE BEEN CONNED --   and by the best  --  by yourself, (apparently);
your own brain has deceived you, (seemingly),
using your own thoughts as its front man,
but it is an operation based entirely on, apparentlies & seeminglies,
for illusions are the very nature of a good con.
 

Do you begin to even get a quick glimpse of what is going on?
Or could what I am even telling you now be a part of The Great Con?”
and from behind they were suddenly contacted by the sweets butcher
who returned to them the severed head of stupid certainty
that they had dropped when passing him earlier.
 

    Ahhhhhhh  --   a consumer’s life in the mall         ----           of mirrors.
 

                                                     J