Collections of civilized humans, ever since the beginning of recorded history have always, in one way or the other, found themselves yearning, begging and pleading with their respective deities for a savior…

A supernatural altruistic person of a thing, whose heart pumps communal comradery, whose skin secretes the sweat of virtue and whose lungs exhale holistic kindness.  A walking deity of sorts, who they expect will rise up and remove from power, what they perceived to be the enemy of goodness…

Eventually, these civilizations grow restless. Assuming their pleas have fallen on deaf ears, or, after simply becoming too anxious to wait any longer, they identify someone from within their populous who seems to match the archetype of what they’ve been begging for.  Sometimes these men or women are indeed divinely touched. The gift of gab is stitched onto the tongue of some, who pick up their inherited podium and go on to serve their purpose as great orators; while others bequeathed with the sword of conquest, go on to serve their purpose as gladiators. However; most often the populous is misled into selecting nothing more than charlatans.  Weaklings, shivering under the weight of the flimsy blanket of false virtue they’ve sown together in order to conceal their brittle character. All the while, waiting for the opportunity to trade in the weight of their facade for a cash bribe, or, some other form of corruptive persuasion…

Either way, no sooner than he or she has served their picture perfect purpose, or, ends up getting tangled up in some lame attempt to con those who trusted them the most, those who so adamantly begged for their representation, begin to backslide. Can you blame them? They find themselves partaking in the exact activities they begged to be save from.  Until again, they grow weary of the pain they bring upon themselves, and begin falling upon their knees, to once again climb into the cart to be pulled along that long wooden roller coaster, of inclining redemption followed by declining damnation.

It’s almost too sad of a reality to ponder, except for the fact that…

Every-once-in-a-while, the beholder finds that his subjects are indeed worthy of IT’s intervention. In those instances, instead of turning a deaf ear, he molds a leader into a seed, that he plants deep into the fabric of his civilizations.  There that seed lies dormant, fine tuning its senses by absorbing the nutrients from the soul of the Earth, while IT sets up the climate. Then when the season is right, like a sprouting fern or budding rose, it comes bursting up from the slums of the Earth and begins to grow.

When extending its limbs of influence and power up toward that Golden Globe which lights the world, it doesn’t merely take on the role of an orator or gladiator. Instead, it produces the good fruit, and begins pollinating the minds of elite thinkers from all walks of life, in order that they may step away from the treachery of past and unite behind anew ideology to serve as correctors.  A legion of well-reasoned thinkers, united by an ideology—not for the purpose of merely satisfying the sugar sweet desires of the populous—but instead to correctly aligned them with the intelligently designed future.

The Dingo is a collection of satirical epic tales, laying out how IT went about forming, planting and nourishing one such seed.

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