Re-Share: The Constitution is America’s Bible

purelyspeculationThis post from 2014 was, and I believe remains, one of my most important and still tragically relevant. In the years since, the world–not limited to the USA–has continued down its dangerous path of theocratic madness and dogmatic adherence to outdated modes of thinking.

Have things gotten better, worse, or just weirder? Sound off in the comments below.


I’ve heard it said that the Constitution is America’s Bible. I have to admit it has a nice ring to it. Certainly, it can’t be argued that the founding document of the USA is held in high regard—revered even, in the same way that devout Christians look to the Bible.

Further, the constitution is often cited as an absolute, just like the Bible. “That’s my constitutional right…” you might hear someone declare, with the same self-righteous cadence one might declare that “it’s the word of God”. The speakers in both examples inevitably mean the same thing: There’s no use debating it.

I’ve come to suspect however that the colloquial turn of phrase doesn’t mean quite what I might’ve assumed. When people say that the Constitution is America’s Bible, they’re often referring to perceptions similar to those mentioned above. It may be that they see the Constitution as irrefutable, absolute, or beyond reproach. Further, there are some who use the phrase to expound on the Biblical inspirations for the Constitution (Source)—which serves of course only to solidify the former perception.

But those aren’t the sort of notions that brought the phrase to my mind the other day, and they’re certainly not the ideas that have followed from that initial reflection—terribly far from it in fact.

It’s not that I disagree with the comparison. To the contrary—the quote occurred to me quite independently, a natural extension of a concern I’ve been harbouring for a while, and which comes to light again and again whenever I read a news article in which the Constitution is invoked to cease all further debate.

The Constitution, it’s true, is America’s Bible—but not in the way they mean.

The Constitution, written in 1787 and ratified in 1788, lays out the fundamental principles of the USA as envisaged by the founding fathers—and is the de facto final source of relevance when it comes to all things Americana.

The Bible is similar. Of course, that depends on what we’re talking about exactly, but for the purposes of this article, any Holy Book will do really. If we’re talking about the Christian Bible, the New Testament was written around 2000 years ago, and the Old Testament approximately 3500 years ago. The Quran is estimated to be around 1358 years old. Still, much like the constitution, each serve their own role as the final word—the irrefutable truth in all related matters.

Absolutism is dangerous in even the most light-hearted issues, and especially so when the stakes involve the governing of a country or ruling of a faith. Countless wars have started on grounds justifiable, and even necessary, according to the laws of holy books, and no less so for those in the constitution.

But that’s not all they have in common. Whether 3500 years old like the Old Testament (also called the Pentateuch or the Torah), or a mere 226 years old like the constitution of America (successfully amended only 27 times—of which the first 10 compose the Bill of Rights, and were written only a year after the original document), these are, at best, historical documents.

When considering the merits of any historical document, and especially in evaluating its relevance for modern understanding, we must consider a number of key factors. Firstly, being historical documents, context is an important consideration when making any attempt to apply their instructions in a contemporary setting.

Meanings change, as do the circumstances which might at one time necessitate a law, and at others render it counterproductive. In the case of the Bible or other Holy Books, one key problem is translation. Over the long stretch of time it’s existed, countless translations have occurred to bring it to its current state. What depth of meaning might have been lost in these translations is hard to say—especially when weighed alongside the vastly different political and social environment of its original writing.

It’s a difficult knot to untie, but whether it’s a matter of translation or social context, there exists a slew of Biblical rules which we can surely agree fail to fit our expectations of divine leadership in the present age. The Bible forbids the crossbreeding of cattle, requires death to both partners in an adulterous relationship, suggests the burning of prostitutes and stoning of unchaste daughters, forbids the eating of pork, of mixing fabrics, and even calls for death to children who disrespect their parents. A harsh set of rules—but arguably conceived of and considered sensible in such entirely different times.

But times change, and so too should our reverence for works which are so inseparably tied to their own era.

The constitution is little different. In terms of language and context, one of the most obvious examples is the infamous second amendment. This key piece of the bill of rights (Ratified in 1791) protects the rights of citizens to keep and bear arms. Specifically, it’s intended as a protection of citizens against their government, in order to allow for the raising of a people’s militia. However that legislation is now 223 years old, and at the very least, the meaning of a word like ‘arms’ has changed along with the technology which it describes.

Currently, debate is waged constantly over the intentions and effective modern interpretations of this amendment, as school shootings and death by gunfire run rampant in the USA.

But these documents present another dangerous precedent unrelated to historical context or accidental mistranslation. When any creed is treated as absolute, it becomes an indefatigable trump card against any set of actions acting contrary to the interpreter’s agenda. The very nature of interpretation is malleable, and thus any issue may easily be shoe-horned into its speculated intentions. This is intentional misinterpretation, and is an especially prominent issue right now with the American Constitution.

The passing of Citizens United (Link), a case of constitutional law which used an intentionally flawed interpretation of the Constitution, ultimately made two incredibly damning determinations. Firstly, in the eyes of the law, a Corporation is considered to be interchangeable with a human being. Secondly, the spending of money in a political campaign is protected as a form of free speech (the protection of which is guaranteed by the first amendment to the Constitution).

This legislation has directly led to the seizure of the American Government by Corporate interest groups and labour unions, as they buy up politicians and usher through laws intended to benefit only their profit margins.

Once again we run into the confounding quagmire of interpretation. The Bible, for instance, fully encourages the owning of slaves—so long as they are from foreign nations (Leviticus 25:44). This is a point which is happily ignored by most religious practitioners. Yet if Wall St. and the Stock Exchange in general are meant to allow people to buy and sell shares in Corporations, and Corporations are legally defined as human beings, then Wall St. and the American Stock Exchange must be little more than a glorified slave market.

It’s a difficult circle to square, but considering that the Constitution begins with the famous preamble of “We the people…”, the fact that meaning and sense have all but left the building should come as no surprise to any observer of the current political scene. The document has been bastardized for agendas entirely removed from the interests of the people—one need look no further than the establishment of ‘Free Speech Zones’ (Link) for evidence of that.

Presently, we continue to look to holy books for advice: on family planning, attitudes towards love, and more. The constitution as well is the be-all-end-all source for issues which had no contextually-relevant counterpart in the time of its conception. Issues such as gun control in modern times, managing political dissent, the definition of marriage and more will not be solved by looking to the uninformed past, but rather by looking ahead, with the clairvoyance and empathy which can be garnered from hundreds of years of crucial experience.

Ultimately, whether you’re looking to one of the Holy Books for inspiration, or to the Constitution for guidance, it’s worth considering that you might be doing a fire-dance to fix your empty lighter. While there is undoubtedly great wisdom and sense to be had in both documents, at the end of the day, to live by laws set out for different times rather than relying on the common sense and decency inherent to us all is a misguided effort. Here at Brad OH Inc., we look forward to the day when such archaic attitudes are as outdated as the source material upon which they rely.

-Brad OH Inc.

Re-Share: Muse

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

The minutes crawl, meandering mindlessly by,

as the mind mulls on myopic miseries.

Minutiae distracting—malicious in its mediocrity,

as merciless minions of misgivings muddy the waters.

But where the muse, whose music brings meaning?

When weaning from mundanity we writhe,

then written on the walls is the wonder of her witchcraft.

Who mollifies the weary and meddles with our worry.

Myriad memories are woven in her menagerie.

Where many malevolent mental blocks

are withdrawn and mended into that

magical mess of which they were wrought.

The who’s and the where’s and the why’s and the when’s,

writing we wrestle them while we still can.

It’s merely a moment, a miraculous wash

but wading unworried we’ll master the world.

-Brad OH Inc.

The Gathering of the Juggalos 2022

Well, I’m back.

Those were the words Sam Gamgee spoke to Rosie Cotton upon finally returning from the end of his journey. Sitting in the air-conditioned silence of my office, only days after the ending of the Gathering of the Juggalos, I feel rather the same.

The real world I’ve returned to is less vibrant than the one still teasing the edges of my memory—threatening to pull me blindly back through time into a realm I would rather remain.

The Gathering of the Juggalos 2022 was dubbed the Gathering of Dreams, and in many ways, that’s certainly how it feels. Too quickly it passed, and remains now as a constant dream in the back of my mind of what was, and what will someday be again.

The visions are a seemingly chaotic collection—a kaleidoscope of carnival imagery, camaraderie, and concerts.

With the lingering taste of midway food and the smell of stale soda, faces pass through my mind. They are a shockingly varied group, united by looks of grudging exhaustion, glee, and more than anything else, a burning sense of appreciation for the moment they’re in.

I was able to reconnect with old friends, and meet new ones. At a Gathering, there’s a pervasive sense of familiarity that makes real the repeated claim that these events are not merely a music festival, but rather a family reunion for the most reviled and feared lineage in music history.

Faygo flew through the air, raining down on anyone below before crashing with a colourful splash into its target. Juggalos set up slingshots to launch Faygo or water balloons into the crowd, while others struggled to outfox security and make it up onto the dinosaur’s back.

Fireworks blasted continuously in the background, and clumped in wet heaps on the ground at many points were the burned rags of confederate flags. Passerby’s would spit on them and laugh. One danced upon it. “Be careful,” said a nearby stranger, “I did that earlier, and there was shit all over it.”

I think I’ll always remember that quote.

Juggalos are a direct sort of people, and if they are passionate about displaying their hatred for hate (ironic as that may sound) so too do they celebrate what they love with ferocious vigour.

The pits in front of the ICP concerts saw split heads and shattered teeth. Strangers crashed into each other, then hugged like old friends. Mortars shot off, smoke filled the air, and people choked and gasped together. Fresh Faygo washed away blood and sweat alike.

Even amidst this atavistic revelry, there is gentleness and respect. No one who falls stays down for long, and even as they land are greeted by a rush of hands ready to pick them up and let them try again.

That’s sort of what the Gathering is about. We take care of our own. Whether it’s helping a wounded comrade out of the pit, putting together entire campsites to take care of people lacking supplies, or finding random and wonderful ways to entertain one another, Juggalos never cease to amaze with their ingenuity and unique charm.

I remember on the final night as ICP held everyone in thrall, I caught a funny sight out of the corner of my eye. It was like a white blob moving through the sky. I stole a look over, and saw that it was a Hatchetman. Someone off to the side was creating them out of foam and sending them up to dance over the crowd.

No matter where you go at the Gathering, you’ll see something memorable. I appreciate that about Juggalos.

Of course, there are scheduled events too, and some of these were chief in my priorities. Among the top of that list was the Morton’s List Revealed Seminar—at which the creators of the beloved game would reveal all the secrets of its past, and discuss the game’s future.

Despite the excellent turnout, this felt like a surprisingly intimate affair. The three creators of the game—Jumpsteady, ‘Ninja’ Nate Andren, and ‘Tall’ Jess Deneaux—shared stories of their childhoods, the creation of the game, and the magical experiences which culminated in this epic release. A photo was shared of the original inspiration for the name of the Morton Boulder, and thus the game itself.

The game’s creators had tracked down their old friend, the eponymous Morton recently, only to find that he was deceased long past. Their mission ended with celebrating the life of their friend—reckoning themselves with the clutches of mortality even as they reminisced on the days of youth, life, and blind ambition.

Morton’s List brings us full circle like that sometimes, it’s part of the game’s chaotic magic, and provided for a touching seminar.

I was able to connect with my friend and one third of the creative force behind Morton’s List—Ninja Nate—out on the grounds. He was driving the golf-cart around for those who needed transport, but spared me the time to chat. Then, he gave me a lanyard with a card for his new game, Stranger Tales, explaining that he passed one to each person he encountered, and that the symbol on the back was the harbinger to some magical connection. It was up to me to discover the meaning of that for myself.

My card showed a series of exploding fireworks. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I nevertheless wore it with the youthful enthusiasm so necessary to a festival like this.

At 15 years old, I could hardly have dreamed of an experience like this.

Of course, dreams blend and shift as we look back on them. They merge and intersect, building on one another as they exist at once in the past and the future. Every minute since I’ve been back, different memories have bounced and played before my tried eyes. Friends and strangers, concerts and events. I saw amazing performances from Sir Mixalot, Onyx, The Hatchetman Project, Esham, KRS-One, Slick Rick, and the legendary Mike E. Clark among others. The latter of these even DJ’d live for ICP, and is featured heavily on their new EP, Pug Ugly.

I watched a live Palcast Hotdog eating contest, and witnessed Babytron live up to his name as he fled the stage early for this year’s Bubba Sparxxx award (IFKYK).

As is tradition, ICP were late for their yearly seminar, and the Trash War which ensued in the meantime was one for the books. Faygo, garbage, fireworks, smoke bombs, and even an octopus took to the skies, most often connecting with some unsuspecting sucker who’d gotten himself in too deep.

Sometime around 2011, venues stopped providing chairs for this event, and opted instead for bails of hay. The rationale was that the bales would be less easy to throw at one another than the chairs, but this assumption was sorely tested. I not only saw hay bales thrown at Juggalos, I saw Juggalos themselves hurled through the air as improvised projectiles.

It was fantastic.

An improvised Zen of Love Show took the place of the traditional seminar. It was fun, but many regretted the lack of significant news or updates in the Juggalo world.

Of course, at any Gathering of the Juggalos, the ICP concerts are an undeniable highlight. This year, we had two on offer, with the first of them being a Night 2 performance focussing on rarely or never-before-played songs. This ‘Juggalo Jukebox Show’ was a legendary performance, and will likely be held in the upper echelon of ICP’s storied concert history. It opened with ‘Here Comes the Carnival’ from the recent LP ‘Yum Yum Bedlam’—the live debut of a song likely to be a live classic. As fate would have it, this writer was able to get right up to the front of the pit.

It was about then that I realized it had been ten years since I’d been in a Gathering pit, and I was not the young man I used to be. It was a battle to be sure. Faygos launched like missiles before and behind me. Crowd-surfers—many with steel-toed boots—crashed towards my head from the smoky stretches of humanity pressed behind me, as the sweating masses clawed for my position.

It’s not a scene for the faint of heart, but even in the mud and mire of this battleground there is beauty and friendship. Juggalos scream the words into each other’s faces, and support one another when they fall. In rare moments of reprieve, they share stories of past battles, exchange notes on the setlist, and speculate on what will come next. Namelessly, bonds are formed, only to be torn asunder by the raging movement of the crowd as the set resumes.

The bonds remain.

As the final song started, I saw my moment come, and with Faygo Armageddon in full effect, I pulled myself over the rail and onto the stage.

Watching from far off, my partner shared that she saw me make it up, and knew that it was me when I turned to pull up those struggling behind me. That made me smile.

I danced in the Faygo rain for a long while—handing out 2-Litres, helping protect the security line around J, and hugging strangers with paint smeared smiles as they stood dumbstruck by the celebration of love, madness, and unity strobing around them.

After the set, I sat soaking and trembling with an energy rarely achieved in normal life. As my partner purchased herself a corndog, I sat on a rock, staring up at the starry sky. The myriad colours of the carnival lights bounced off my wet shirt, and I knew in that moment with a clarity reserved usually for youth and the insane that this was a special moment. It was one that I could hold, turn about and examine for years to come. It was the high-watermark of a week-long dream. The terrible, white face of the iceberg—visible and real—and acting as the portent of all that might bob and heave beneath the surface of immediate recall.

Then, as I sat there staring in wonder, the fireworks went off. Dozens, in all the colours of the rainbow, exploded above, sending their dying tendrils of smoke and sparks raining down over the grounds like a final baptism.

I clutched at my chest, where my Stranger Tales lanyard showed a similar row of fireworks. It couldn’t have been clearer to me just then. Of all the dreamlike, esoteric joys I’d had, and all of those yet to come, I knew that I’d found my moment. I was simply, purely happy, and that’s a thing not easily achieved these days.

It was a like dream, and it remains such.

Some dreams never end…

Now, I’m back. But I’ve said that already. The dreams of this vacation stretch behind me like a map to a place I never knew existed. Talking about it to those who have never been there feels like a futile effort. I would come across like a child trying to relay the contents of a fairy tale to some stranger with a briefcase.

These memories are not of this world. They are for somewhere better, a dream-like place that exists still in my past, and lingers upon the edges of certainty, somewhere ahead, like a castle in the fog, or a road stretching off into the clouds. It is the promise of joy, of community, of all the things so necessary to our humanity, yet all too often eschewed in the daily grind to survive, rather than to live.

To the Juggalos, that dream will never end. Someday, I hope that you can join us.

There’s always room on our wagons.

Much Clown Love,

-Brad OH Inc.

(Schisobe)

A Long Overdue Homecoming

The astute, foresighted, and the stalkers among you are likely already aware, but Brad OH Inc. will go un-updated for a little while, as Brad OH is off gallivanting again.

As I shared recently however, this excuse is better than most, as I’ll be returning after ten years to the greatest show on Earth–the Gathering of the Juggalos.

I’ll have more to share when I’m back.

Until then,

MCL,

Brad OH Inc.

(Schisobe)

Dark Carnivals, Dreams, and the Mystery of Morton

Ten years… a goddamn decade. That’s how long it’s been.

As I drove the long road home from the Gathering of the Juggalos in 2012—bumping the brand new Mighty Death Pop album—I imagined what might change in my life before I returned.

I couldn’t have guessed the extent of it then, or how long the stretch of time would be. Much has changed in my life and the world at large in the last ten years, but fortunately, at least one constant yet remains.

Each summer, thousands of Juggalos from around the world gather in one spot for the biggest independent music festival and family gathering in the world. This year, it happens at the start of August, and is hailed as ‘The Gathering of Dreams’.

The name isn’t chosen solely to celebrate my return—although the assumption is understandable—this year the acts and events were all themed around the wildest dream of the Juggalos and the organizers alike.

It’s a return, a celebration, and to steal a line from a wildly different band, a sort of homecoming. With all the uncertainty and instability in the world of late, a return to the gathering is just the ticket to create some semblance of sense again for this and many other Juggalos.

The Gathering is a time to forget about the rest of the world, and revel in the company of like-minded lunatics, where the mundanity of life and the weight of daily norms are cast to the wayside for a party involving friends, family, wild musical acts, carnival rides, and so much more.

This year, the emphasis is on the more. As one of the dreams of Psychopathic Don Jumpsteady, there will be a very special session to discuss some of the most ancient and guarded secrets of the infamous game, Morton’s List.

For those unfamiliar, Morton’s List is a Random Reality game heralded as the ‘End to Boredom’, and does much to live up to this bold claim. Tasking players with completing real-life quests limited only by their imaginations, Morton’s List is the only game ever to be banned from Gen Con, one of the largest toy and game trade shows in the United States.

This year’s seminar couldn’t come with more karmic hype. Original creators Jumpsteady, Ninja Nate, and R. Jesse Deneaux will be coming together to share their memories, reveal key details about development, and answer the age-old question and potential quest—who is Morton? Juggalos have been wondering about this since the games release back at the second annual Gathering in Toledo, in 2001.

Ninja Nate explains the event: “Twenty-eight years after beginning the Morton’s List project, we three authors are coming together to not only share the long-held secret of the origins of the game’s name, but also to reveal wig flipping information we weren’t aware of until last year. Plus, more revelations of the future of reality gaming!”

Like many, it’s not only the specifics of the seminars, but the overwhelmingly positive atmosphere of the Gathering that has Nate excited: “I’m most looking forward to being in the same tent with so many Morton’s List players and supporters. The Karma and good vibes of all you creative, adventurous ninjas is gonna be thick as bricks!”

There’s no doubt about that. To learn these key secrets and discuss Morton’s List with fellow enthusiasts, be sure to be at the Morton’s List Seminar. Tickets to the Gathering are still available Here.

Also, be sure to check out other games by the creators of Morton’s List, including The Quest for Shangri-La, Stranger Tales, and Druglord.

Even beyond that event, this years Gathering will be a veritable smorgasbord of entrainment. Musical acts include Mushroomhead, KRS-One, Onyx, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Slick Rick, Steel Panther, Mike E. Clark, Esham, and countless others.

Of course, the Wicked Clowns themselves—ICP—will be playing not one, but two sets. They’ll be the headlining act on the final night, and will also perform a ‘Super Mix Juggalo Juke Box Show’ featuring rare and never-before-played-live songs. This one will doubtless be a special draw for many seasoned Juggalos.

If music isn’t your thing, there’s an endless supply of alternative activities running all throughout the day and well into the night. Haunted Houses, Carnival Rides, Sideshows, countless Juggalo vendors selling rare or customized merch, the return of Big Silva (if you know you know), a seminar with the infamous Bigfoot researcher Todd Standing, and the annual ICP Seminar—often likened to a yearly Juggalo state of the union address.

Of course, even when the events stop, the Gathering never sleeps. It’s the Juggalos themselves who are the main event, and they keep it going all night long.

It’s certain to be the event of a lifetime, and there’s not a Juggalo I’ve spoken to that isn’t counting the days.

The Gathering of Dreams runs from August 3-6, 2022. Click here to get your tickets.

I’ll be on the scene as early as possible, taking it all in, living the dream, and rejoicing amongst the Juggalo Family. Check back here afterward for a full report.

Until then, stay down with the clown.

MCL,

-Brad OH Inc.

(Schisobe)

The Curse of the Uncouth

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampAs the pandemic passes all too swiftly into memory and businesses start to run at full capacity once more, there are many long-lost amenities to appreciate with fresh eyes. Open air markets, dusty record stores, convenient shopping experiences, dine-in restaurants, and of course, the beloved local bar.

Returning to a closer approximation to normal at the local watering hole is a welcome relief to the cultured barfly—and the uncultured one to boot. In this wave of excitement however, there has long lingered an unspoken fear—perhaps the final curse of the dreaded Covid virus.

After more than two years of closed or limited bar service, this return to normal will debut not one, but almost three years worth of first timers to a busy bar scene. The Uncouth—they will have no experience to guide them, and no friends near in age to teach them. A stretch of clueless newbies from eighteen to twenty (CDN) will be plowing their way through crowded bar fronts, bumping into tray-laden servers, and forming lines where absolutely no line is needed.

Cologne-covered and cocky, they’ll stand with their backs pressing against the chair behind them, unheeding the discomfort of the sitting person who would much rather just be left alone.

Like spooked buffalo (or bison, for you locals) they’ll trample wild-eyed over the accumulated goodwill of crusty drunkards everywhere. Whining their way to the front of lines. Scrounging for cigarettes on the ground. Or worse yet, stealing quick hits from vape cartridges, leaving the discarded cigarettes to pile up on the ground unchecked. They’ll throw the whole damned eco-system off kilter!

They’ll request all the wrong songs, and dance far from the designated dance-floor. They’ll sing Top 40 lyrics in your general direction, and expect you to respond with enthusiasm!

This is the final sting, the lasting poison of a sickness which has already asked far too much.

Or maybe they’ll turn out ok.

Shit, I’m probably just getting old.

-Brad OH Inc.

Re-Share: A Call for Corporate Suffrage

It’s still coming…

Despite this article being satirical in nature–and eight years old to boot–it remains terrifyingly relevant as corporations continue to make headway into the few remaining avenues of freedom people have left to them.

Sadly, there are plenty who would cheer this on. Whether to line their own pockets, to spite the other side of the aisle, to buffer against their innate fear of government, or simply through sheer ignorance, the endless march into corporate servitude is led by the voices of the greedy, the desperate, and the foolish.

Don’t be one of them.


On September 11th, 2014, a piece of legislation passed through the United States Senate in an attempt to overturn the ruling of the Citizens United (2010) case. This proposed amendment, dubbed SJ RES 19, would grant authority to congress to regulate money raised and spent on political campaigns. The legislation failed however, being unable to garner sufficient support to come to a vote (Source).

Thank goodness!

This bill was a direct attack on the human sovereignty of Corporations—and subsequently an affront to social justice.

The ruling in the Citizens United case made several key distinctions to the American public—distinctions which should be held in high esteem by any citizen who values the founding principles of freedom and personal dignity.

Firstly, for all intents and purposes, a Corporation is a human. That much at least should be beyond debate. Following from that, because a Corporation is a human, and as such a citizen, it would be a violation of our First Amendment rights to limit our freedom of speech.

Of course, ‘freedom of speech’ is a bit of a loose term; blame our unincorporated founding fathers for that one folks. To understand it better, let’s break it down a little. ‘Speech’ is a means of communicating, and communication is usually centered around wants and needs. There are, of course, different ways to express ourselves. Infants cry—it’s incredibly annoying for everyone around them, but it’s their way of telling the world what they need (usually milk, or shelter, or some other selfish thing like that). Body language is also an important form of communication. Who amongst us has never managed to read more into a wry smile than words could ever express? Mind you, the message there may have been more to do with the needs of the reader than of the person smiling, but that’s beside the point.

Corporations express themselves in different ways; although no less relevant than any other form. Specifically, we tend to speak with our pocket-books—funneling tremendous amounts of money into the coffers of politicians open to a little bit of honest advice. It’s as legitimate as any other form of communication, and to suggest otherwise would be painfully unpatriotic.

And yet that’s just what SJ RES 19 attempted to do. By limiting Corporate spending on political campaigns, it sought to silence the voice of Corporate Personhoods in a democratic government meant to represent the people.

How else can Corporations express themselves? If a law currently in place is obstructing our access to valuable natural resources, or if we need to ‘crack open’ a new market in an as-of-yet non-destabilized foreign government, we are limited by our very nature to using money to achieve those ends.

This proposed amendment was a direct attempt to thwart that—and it simply will not stand.

It’s time to make a change. If we are to continue as a free nation, a nation ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’, we need to be unflinchingly certain that humongous financial institutions bent only on expanding their own power base are represented within that definition of ‘people’.

Yes, it’s finally time to talk about Corporate Suffrage.

Throughout history, Suffrage has been granted again and again to interest groups seeking to have better representation in government. Starting with removing the requirement of property ownership, then allowing freed slaves the right to vote, and finally expanding to women, the concept of Universal Suffrage (Link) states that the right to vote is not restricted by race, sex, belief, wealth, or social status.

How can it be denied? That’s a pretty noble goal. And there’s one word in there that we at Brad OH Inc. think is especially important: wealth.

SJ RES 19 was a blatant and unforgivable attempt to discriminate against the Corporate Person based on our wealth—our most effective tool for harnessing our right to free expression. This is a travesty to be sure, and here at Brad OH Inc., we will not abide such a miscarriage of justice.

As persons, we must rise up and demand our inclusion within the inarguably just definitions of Universal Suffrage. Corporations are, as a matter of fact, the most productive and valuable citizens any nation could hope to have. We do the building, create the jobs, manage the infrastructure, and like it or not, we make the decisions. Corporations are tenacious, and we’ve proven time and again that we will take our rights one way or another. The failure of SJ RES 19 was quite simply not enough. In order to move towards a more equitable relationship with the country, we must stop being forced to use our hard earned money to have a voice in the political machinations of this country, and be allowed to do so directly through the electoral process.

It won’t be an easy process of course, but here at Brad OH Inc., we’ve taken the liberty of working out some of the kinks in advance—after all, we’re here to fix problems, not create them.

Clearly, a single vote for a single Corporation would be ludicrous—and far less enfranchising than the situation we currently have. Under an arrangement like that, our voice would be treated as merely equal to that of any other citizen, and we’ve already established that isn’t the case. Moving from complete control of the government and national direction via unlimited campaign financing to a single vote would be an unabashed attack on our sovereignty.

Instead, we suggest a system of representational voting—those liberals have been begging for it forever, so we could silence that infernal racket as well. Everybody wins!

Yes, in place of the ongoing and expensive persecution that continues to plague Corporate existence, let’s move towards a system of voting which fairly recognizes the national contributions of all citizens. By embracing a system which weighs each vote against the percentage of GDP a citizen creates—Corporate or not—we can finally give credit to the hard working efforts of honest citizens; and maybe even encourage a few slackers to pick up the pace a little. Raise your productivity, and raise your electoral voice. What could be more fair than that?

It certainly is a revolutionary idea to chew on, and we can accept that it will take a while to mull over for those of you without a team of highly paid advisors, but you can trust in one thing—Corporations will not be denied our rights. Not the right to free expression, not the right to vote, and not the right to mould this nation into the sort of tax free, unregulated paradise we need for the ongoing inflation of our profit margins. This is the land of the free after all, promising justice for all… with discounts available on bulk purchases.

Your Guides to Forward Progress,

-Brad OH Inc.

Wicked Juggalo Podtrash

As the more astute among you may have figured out, ‘The Gentleman Juggalo’s’ hiatus is seeming mighty permanent these days, but that doesn’t mean that Brad OH Inc. is out of the Podcast game completely.

Not by a longshot.

In fact, my recent appearance on the amazing ‘BoomBastiCAST’ Podcast has led to the creation of a new show with my friends Mathew and Kandis at ‘Wicked Juggalo Podtrash’. Connecting virtually, the three of us come from far away locations and different eras in ICP’s long and storied history. I think this adds a unique spectrum of voices and opinions as we discuss recent Juggalo releases, news, and whatever the fuck else happens to come up.

It’s been a blast recording it so far, and I hope that my readers, new Juggalos, and other curious parties enjoy it as much as I have.

Check us out here for all the latest Podcast drops and other news.

MCL,

-Brad OH Inc.

(Schisobe)

Lost in the Lands Between

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Green DesklampSpoiler Warning: This review is light on spoilers, but is written after 100+ hours in Elden Ring, and will contain some mild spoilers on events, locations, and/ or boss names or details.

I chose the wretch. Of course I did.  It’s been my preferred route since I started playing From Software’s ‘Souls series’ back in 2009 with the mind-blowing and spirit crushing Demon’s Souls, and one that I was even more excited to set forth on in 2022’s Elden Ring.

Hyped up as the culmination of the 13-year road between Demon’s Souls and now, Elden Ring promised to take the ground-breaking and genre defining combat and level design the series was known for, and bring it into a truly open-world format.

The claim was a bold one. Changing the formula from tightly designed, primarily linear albeit Metroidvania-esque perfection of Miyazaki’s masterpieces into a sprawling open world meant risking the design aesthetic and ubiquitous attention to detail that was so important to the franchise.

As a long-time devotee of the series, I knew that it was my solemn duty to try it out, and report back to you—my dear readers—on how Elden Ring pulled off this momentous task.

I wish that duty wasn’t mine.

I wish I had no duties.

To be honest, I just wish I was playing Elden Ring.

Right now.

Always.

As my miserable, naked wretch—named Baurgon the Lost—heaved open the massive stone door to the cavern he’d bludgeoned his way through, and stepped out into the brilliant landscape of the Lands Between, I could already tell that From Software had pulled it off.

Those crazy sons of bitches. They really did it!

And how!

As the grandeur of the physical geography held me in awe, my gaze settled upon one distant object, then the next. I knew I would be to each of them soon enough. It was—ironically enough—the lands in between these mesmerizing landmarks that really sucked me in. The forests I’d need to navigate, the mountains in the way. The huge golden knight riding across the path in front of me.

I shouldn’t have challenged him so soon. Lesson learned.

Wherever I looked, there was something amazing I wanted to do. Sometimes, I’d pick some distant object and try to hurry over to see it. Inevitably, hours would pass as I followed one lead and another, constantly tempted off my path by the overwhelming richness of the environment around me.

When I’d finally got my bearings and began to gain some semblance of confidence, I found myself exploring a cave just south of my starting location. No longer naked and equipped with a club, I now had a sword, and a fine pair of boots. With my skill with the series, I was certain nothing could stop me. I carved through bandits, out-maneuvered savage dogs, and slew several hideous monsters as I fought deeper into the ruins.

Finally, I stood before the object I hadn’t even known I was seeking—a glowing treasure chest at the bottom of these ruins I’d randomly encountered and sworn to best.

I’d been playing these games for 13 years after all, and I was no rank amateur.

When, therefore, a blue-grey mist seeped out of the chest as I cracked it, quickly transporting me to what by all appearances may have actually been hell, I should not have been surprised.

I fought my way out of a crystal mine guarded by magic-wielding golems, then sped across a lake of what could only be blood as pterodactyl-dogs chased me past dilapidated castles, glowing caves, sleeping dragons, and impassable peaks.

By the time I’d made it back to the starting location, I was no longer the fresh-eyed scamp who had set out from those heavy stone gates hours before. I was weathered, beaten, and hungry.

Hungry not for any sustenance found beyond. No, my appetite could only be whet by diving deeper into the incredible world of Elden Ring.

And I have gorged.

Since those early days, I’ve traversed all the sprawling lands I’d seen that day, and trawled the depths of every great ruin and castle. Beyond them, I have found more sights unimagined and unlooked for. Some were beautiful, others shocking. All were terrifying in their own ways.

I’ve felled the Fell Omen, slew the Queen of the moon, and joined a tournament to take down the great war General Radahn, known as the Starscourge. I’ve watched allies fall as I continued on.

I met a particularly nasty mage in a tower, and spent the next several days honing my character into the blade that would be his undoing.

At this, I was successful.

I have experienced magnificent triumphs, and heart-breaking failures. I have won battles that I’ve wished I’d never started, and watched the consequences—ever subtle—play out before my weary eyes.

I don’t know how far in I am, or how much is left. It’s about how far I’ve come—and how far the gaming industry has come, at least in some areas.

Already, I have my next few builds picked out, and can hardly imagine what could pull me away from Elden Ring. It is an emphatic victory for the comparably small From Software, and a rude wakeup call to so many of the AAA Studios pushing out unfinished, uninspired crap with pay-to-win design and missing features.

It’s the same message Elden Ring sends to its players—do better, and learn from your mistakes… or get left behind.

-Brad OH Inc.

A Flag in Peril

I’m driving along an asphalt road, lousy with potholes. It doesn’t matter where I’m going. In Alberta, most destinations are similar enough. It’s not the sites on the side of the road, or the gloomy clouds ahead that get my attention—it’s the flag on the truck blowing by me.

For most of my life, the red bars and maple leaf of the Canadian flag has held a uniform meaning to most anyone likely to encounter it. It stood for pride, equality, and promise. Not the ill-defined promise of freedom so often associated with the stars and bars, but a more grounded, introspective promise that assured us we were working together, and supporting one another. Certainly, the country has never been perfect, but for a long while, it felt like we were on the same path—one helping the other down it as required.

That’s all in the past now. As the flag—torn and weather worn—flutters by above a brand new, lifted pickup truck, a new set of feelings arise in my heart. Where before there may have been pride, now there is resentment, judgement, and anger.

…The flag has been co-opted, and it’s meaning is no longer consistent.

In late January, 2022, the country witnessed an unparalleled level of unrest and division. Dubbing itself the ‘Freedom Convoy’, a sizeable group of Canadians jumped into their over-sized, high-end vehicles in an effort to show the world how hard-done-by they were.

While it may be understandable for people to tire of mandates, and few could argue against the notion that civil protest is a fundamental right to any free society, the convoy quickly took a turn for the worse when it reached Ottawa, and other Canadian cities.

Fed by misinformation and fuelled by paranoia, their demands became more and more outrageous, and their behaviour followed suit. While the more reasonable members of the protest focussed on lifting mandates and returning to ‘normal’, extremist elements sought to impose their will on the country through any means necessary.

The stated intentions of the convoy ranged from an end to vaccine mandates for truckers crossing the border—a policy reflected by the country sharing said border—to an end to all mandates, to the surrender of the government and the instatement of their own appointed officials. These latter intentions were outlined in a shocking manifesto delivered—and later retracted by—convoy leaders. For more information on that, see Here, and Here.

Soon enough, it was a protest no longer. The capital city of Canada was experiencing a full-on occupation. With trucks blocking major through-ways, protesters used horns to torture the residents of Ottawa day and night, for three weeks straight. They hurled insults at anyone wearing a mask, defaced public property, and damaged businesses who didn’t immediately cave to their wildly varied demands.

While provincial police and politicians sat on their hands—likely trying to decide which response was most likely to curry them the greatest favor from voters—innocent people living in cities across Canada grew increasingly incensed at the notion that this small minority could run roughshod over the fabric of society, and seemingly get away with it.

When Prime Minister Trudeau activated emergency powers to end the occupation, the country held its collective breath. Supporters of the convoy railed against perceived tyranny, while victims of the convoy cried for delivery from the occupiers. Everyone feared the precedent set, and the potential damage to our international reputation if the powers were misused.

To the shock of very few, the occupiers caved quickly when faced with actual consequences for what may have been the first time in their lives. Despite the hysteria, the application of the emergency powers was well-restrained. It specifically targeted the funding of occupation leaders, aiming to end their supply chain. In ongoing investigations that have surprised absolutely no one, it has been revealed that the majority of this funding came from foreign sources.

Police seized vehicles only after several written warnings, and convoy leaders who refused to move on were arrested. Once the crisis was over and the people of Ottawa were again secure to live their lives, the powers were promptly rescinded. While by all accounts this use of emergency powers was limited and practical, the country remains on edge.

To some, the occupation was a legitimate expression of discontent—the culmination of frustrations with COVID-19 mandates that were shared by most everyone. To the majority however, its execution was like the colicky wailings of a dying sense of masculinity—an entitlement so deeply rooted that harassing others and forcing your minority view on a nation seemed like justice.

Now the nation watches as the Right Wing of provincial politics seeks to gut our Universal Healthcare—claiming it had failed to get the nation through the pandemic. They miss the irony of course, as they were the very ones dodging public health efforts, and under-funding it at every turn. If the passengers of the Titanic had cheered on the iceberg, haranguing that ‘at least it’s not the one sinking’, the level of cognitive-dissonance could scarcely be greater.

Things have quieted down now. At least, that’s the case if you can ignore the desperate posts of those still married to their own victim-complexes.

The streets are quiet, and traffic can move again. The COVID mandates are lifting—as they were set to all along.

In the end, this occupation’s only real impact was likely the damage it did to the comfort and contentment of many Canadians. No minds were changed, and no policies were impacted to any significant degree.

Still, as the flag trails off into the distance in my rear-view mirror, I can’t ignore the adverse feeling in my gut. It’s been degraded, and I wonder what the rest of the world sees these days when the Canadian flag waves.

There’s another flag in windows these days. The Blue and Yellow of the Ukrainian standard flies high and proud around my city—supporting those fighting against real oppression, and facing legitimate danger.

It stirs something inside of me. A memory of a time not too long ago, yet far too distant. It was a time when people remembered that a society means that we are in this together—and that only by embracing that can we ever affect lasting change.

I hope that soon, our nation can remember that, and our flag can once more fly so high.

-Brad OH Inc.