PEOPLE For  Mathematically Perfected Economy™ (PFMPE™)  :  mathematically perfected economy™ (MPE™) is the singular integral solution to 1) inflation and deflation, 2) systemic manipulation of the cost or value of money or property, and 3) inherent, irreversible multiplication of debt in proportion to a vital circulation, engendering inevitable systemic failure at a finite system lifespan defined by an inevitable, terminal sum of insoluble debt. Mathematically Perfected Economy™ is every prospective debtor's right to issue their promise to pay, free of extrinsic manipulation, adulteration, or exploitation of that promise, or the natural opportunity to make good on it.

MORPHALLAXIS, January 14, 1979.


As easily, accurately, and reliably as we can calculate the interest a person must pay on a debt next month, we can project the maximum possible lifespan of any purported economy subject to interest.

All the while, debt continues to multiply in proportion to the circulation, or the commerce which can be sustained by it; and there is but one and one only solution. Humpty Dumpty will fall, despite whatever shenanigans try to keep him on the wall. But the egg itself is already so rotten, that to re-use it in lieu of a new carton laying by would certainly comprise one of those greatest possible insults to the ostensible intelligence, integrity, and even promise of humanity.

mike montagne

mike montagne

The pattern of interest policy we decided to expect of policy makers itself turns out to have maintained substantially lower rates than have been deployed, and so today our projection has to be adjusted for that. Conservatively, we can expect the deployed rates to have shortened our projected maximum possible lifespan of approximately 2020 AD by some 5 years, making the adjusted maximum "possible" lifespan approximately 2015.

Accounting for a general practical lifespan falling some 5 years shy of that then would make the general practical lifespan approximately 2010 AD.

Tuesday, April 22, 1997


In the wake of a party platform which explicitly declared that if they were returned to power by the 1912 election the Democrats would not create a central bank, within the very first year of the Wilson presidency the people were betrayed by 1913's creation of the very thing they had voted down.

The dark history surrounding that event is well enough known; and yet it is not even necessary to know of it to understand the potentials, vulnerabilities and consequences of the issues at play. But because interest is even the only intrinsic process introduced by the imposed system, we know then that the very purpose of the private entities which were so carefully cloaked in the guise of federal offices was to multiply debt upon us for unlimited profit, come whatever may.

The purpose of the so called Federal Reserve System then was only that a currency subject to interest would require us to perpetually maintain a vital circulation by re-borrowing interest and principal as ever escalating debt. Thus even by reducing availability of the perpetual stream of credit which is necessary to perpetually replenish the circulation, the pretended monetary system was inadvertently given the further power to impose immediate collapse by deflation.

The so called Federal Reserve could withhold credit or make credit unaffordably expensive to deflate the circulation. So by this ready, facile power of deflation, the parasitic entity could take direct possession of vast indebted assets, as debtors deprived of a vital circulation could only fail to service their debts.

As the day unfolded, because there are no other reasons or purposes, this would be how and why they would perpetrate the first so called Great Depression.

The private so called Federal Reserve Banks therefore took this place at the core of the nation with the very purpose of unearned profit by these means — the very license to which then is to lift all ethical restraints from their fundamental opposition to any and every society which tolerates usurers to issue their currency.

The very deceptive name of this enmical, parasitic entity then is a practically necessary part of an incredible, purposed deception; and the only possible real purpose of all this is as much as to cast the nation to the fate not only of illimitable unearned taking from it, but terminal taking by a currency which can only multiply said consequences to no effect whatever but eventual collapse.

The stock/"securities" market bubble of the 1920s of course was the same kind of thing we see today. It was only a false manipulation of ostensible value, accomplished by aggressive short term lending to debtors, drawing them in to the allure of buying and selling "securities" again and again at ever higher prices than the original purchase. If these private "banks" did not already own the subject property, an obvious and very evident purpose of course would be that this false manipulation of value could soon be terminated by withholding the vital further credit necessary to service the debts of the false bubble itself. The related circulation would thus deflate, and the "banks" would immediately become the real owners of the contested property.

Thus amidst the false bubble of an ostensible stock market boom comprised merely of liberally free, unjustifiable masses of credit, Republican presidential candidate Herbert Hoover promised permanent prosperity:

"We have not yet reached the goal, but given a chance to go forward with the policies of the last eight years, and we shall soon, with the help of God, be within sight of the day when poverty will be banished from the nation."

So said Herbert Hoover in his speech accepting the Republican nomination for President on August 12, 1928, a mere year before the private so called Federal Reserve Banks would cease the credit to sustain servicing their false bubble's debts, thus orchestrating their intended multiplication of debt into a mass take, a coup de grace at the imposed end of the first 15-year lifespan of their system of usury in an event we now merely call the First Great Depression. Thus with a terminology either intentionally cloaking cause or leaving cause to mystics, we strip this very man made, man caused, man sought, wholly artificial event of a name which would even allude to its necessarily iniquitous nature.

And so to mere unwarranted hopes of equally or even more hapless and inept supporters, Herbert Hoover registered one of the most preposterous, indelible lies of history. And so furthermore, as is the case for any political quest which ignores or does not solve the real causes of whatever issues face us, the rest of the country and world, however impertinent, would suffer with them, only to one day many years off, merely re-commence the march to inevitable failure in the end of a second inherently limited lifespan of the very same iniquitous system — a system now proven, and in fact even then proven, to have one consequence only.

Hoover spoke for most middle-class people. They only thought the American dream of unlimited plenty was close to fulfillment. The huge industrial machine which had begun building up during the Civil War had reached fantastic heights of mass production. Assembly lines poured out products by the millions, while advertising stimulated the consumer to buy them. From privy, ice-box, and buggy the country moved almost overnight into the New Era of bathrooms, electric refrigerators and automobiles. Washing machines, vacuum cleaners and telephones promised to make life easier and more convenient. Homemade amusements gave way to radio and the movies. American business and American salesmanship had in fact put the nation aboard an express train rushing toward permanent prosperity, but the permanence of the prosperity which indeed we would have achieved otherwise itself hinged on the sustainability and propriety of the monetary system to which it was subject.

Failing to understand the facade of a monetary system which had been imposed upon them, they never dreamed the inertia of their train could be stopped by withholding credit. They never dreamed that their interdependence in fulfilling the multiplying obligations imposed upon them itself meant that over night, the withholding of credit even in one critical sector would bring the rest down like a house of cards.

Nonetheless, a little careful study would have made all that so clear that a national union would have existed which not only understood and foresaw these probable calamities, but recognized how serious it indeed remains that we unite upon nothing less than absolute solution.


The writer Louis Adamic, wandering through what he called "the tragic towns," told of the idle men he saw in Lawrence, Massachusetts:

I saw men standing on the sidewalks clapping their hands in a queer way, obviously just to be doing something. I saw men talking to themselves, walking around, stopping, looking into shop windows, walking again.

For several minutes I watched an elderly man who stood on a deserted corner near the enormous and idle Everett Mills in the posture of an undotted question mark. He did not see me. Every now and then he swung his arms, not because it was cold, but no doubt because he wanted activity other than walking around, which he probably had been doing for years in a vain effort to get a job. He mumbled to himself. Then, suddenly, he stepped off the curb and picked up a long piece of string from a pile of rubbish, and his big, work-eager hands began to work with it, tying and untying feverishly. He worked with the string for several minutes. Then he looked around and, seeing me, dropped the string, his haggard, hollow face coloring a little, as though from a sense of guilt or intense embarrassment. He was shaken and confused and stood there for several seconds, looking down at the rubbish heap, then up at me. His hands finally dropped to his sides. Then his arms swung in a sort of idle reflex motion and he turned, hesitated a while as if he did not know where to go and finally shuffled off, flapping his arms. I noticed that his overcoat was split in the back and that his heels were worn off completely.


Unemployed Chicagoans.

Teachers teach without pay to save the country. Everywhere, people attempt by the most extreme measures to overcome the obstacles placed before them by a false 'economic' system — which itself is the ruin of prosperity.

In Chicago, a school principal testified in January 1932:

"I said to the teachers last fall, 'Whenever you have a discipline case, ask this question first, What has he had for breakfast?' Which usually brings out the fact that he has had nothing at all."

Another gave this testimony:

I shall give you one instance. We were practicing for a chorus and a little boy about twelve years old was in the front line. He was clean in his overalls, but didn't have very much on under them. He was standing in the line when all at once he pitched forward in a dead faint. This was two o'clock in the afternoon. When he was revived, I tried to find the cause and he said he was hungry. He had not had anything to eat since the day before.

Education was crippled. The funds to pay for it came out of local taxes. As incomes dropped in the early years of the depression, tax revenues shrank. In small towns and big cities budget cutters made the public schools their victims. Plans for new buildings were shelved. The knife cut textbooks, equipment, salaries. Teachers were fired, and fifty pupils were crowded into rooms designed to hold thirty. The school year was clipped short, sometimes down to six or seven months. Departments were dropped and special services slashed.

In some places schools survived only because the teachers made the sacrifice. Salaries were cut as much as 50 percent. In rural areas some teachers were paid as little as $280 for an eight-month school year. Often teachers would get not money, but promises to pay later; but still they went on teaching.

Some teachers and students tried to protest. In Chicago, 14,000 teachers were desperate after almost two years of doing with but a few weeks' pay. In April 1933 the New York Times reported from Chicago:

Patience has reached its end. Morale has broken down. Discipline has become extremely difficult. The Board of Education last Wednesday considered a resolution to close the schools. Only the fact that the Spring vacation begins April 27 prevented its passage. Only the threat that, by striking, the teachers would forfeit their pension rights and their civil service standing has thus far prevented the closing of the schools by a general walkout.

That week 15,000 high school pupils struck to back their teachers' cry for help. Many teachers, hungry and threadbare themselves, had somehow managed to find bread or a pair of shoes for their students. Thousands of unpaid teachers stormed Chicago's City Hall to demand their back pay, and with pupils and parents paraded their picket signs through the Loop. They invaded several banks, disrupting business, to insist that bankers lend the city money to pay teachers' salaries. Regiments of police, on foot and on horse, moved in and, as one reporter said, "in a moment unpaid policemen were cracking their clubs against the heads of unpaid school teachers."


At the onset of the depression, Henry Ford, one of the auto's Big Three, had astounded everyone by announcing a seven-dollar day. This one-dollar increase over his previous daily minimum for common labor was his spectacular response to President Hoover's request that industry freeze present wages [from dropping,] to fight off disaster. Ford's gesture was page-one news. But the publicity front of this one-man battle against the depression obscured another fact, reported by the New York Times: Ford was cutting wages severely in the middle and upper brackets of labor. He paid off men in one department and hired them in another at lower wages.

Ford mechanic Robert L. Cruden described what was actually happening inside Ford:

In the fall of that year... Ford stated that thenceforth $7 a day would be the minimum wage in his plants. Immediately the bosses at the Rouge plant came around saying, "Go like hell, boys. If you're gonna get that raise you gotta increase production!" On our job production was raised from fifteen pans of stock a day to twenty-two, as a result of which one entire shift of our gang was laid off.

Down the line from us, one man was given two drill presses to tend instead of one, as formerly. The inspector on our job was taken off and we had to do our own inspecting and still keep up the new production rate. This speed-up took place all over the plant. It is significant that, concomitant with the wage raise, nearly 30,000 men were laid off from the Rouge plant.

The claim that wages are never cut in Ford plants has always been part of the stock in trade of Ford publicity agents. But men are "transferred" from department to department, their wages being cut as they moved. I worked (in 1929) with men making $6.40 who had been making $7.20 and $7.60 before their transfer. A lathe operator of my acquaintance was recently transferred to washing, and cut from $8 to $7.60 a day. Even workers in the aristocratic Lincoln plant are not immune — last spring all those making more than a dollar an hour were cut to that figure. As a result of this process, very few workers in Ford plants now make more than $7.60 a day.

To the outsider, this may seem high wages — but most Ford workers have lately been working only three days a week. In 1930 the wages of the average Ford worker were lass than a thousand dollars. Taking into account the prevailing three-day week, the seven weeks of enforced idleness and a daily wage of $7.60, the worker made $959.20 during that year! In 1931 wages were cut and the working week reduced to one or two days a week.

Ford claims not only that there are no wage cuts in Ford plants, but there are none in any of the $3,500 plants which make parts for him...

The Kelsey-Hayes Wheel Company, makers of Ford wheels, has cut wages of its tool-makers from $1.10 an hour to eighty cents, and increased the hours of the night shift to fourteen a night, seven nights a week. The Detroit Gear Company, makers of small Ford parts, took a leaf out of its master's book — it laid off all men getting ninety cents an hour and re-hired them at seventy-three cents. At the same time their working hours were increased from nine to eleven and a half...


The newly homeless were evicted directly to the street.

Miners were supporting their families on as little as five dollars a week. This vivid account of a visit to a mining settlement — a company town in the West Virginia hills — as written by Edmund Wilson:

The people who work at Ward, West Virginia, live in little flat yellow houses on stilts that look like chicken-houses. They seem mean and flimsy on the sides of the hills and at the bottom of the hollow, in contrast to the magnificent mountains wooded now with the forests of mid-June. Between those round and rich-foliaged hills, through the middle of the mining settlement, runs a road which has, on one side of it, a long row of obsolete col-cars, turned upside down and, on the other, a trickle of a creek, with bare yellow banks, half-dry yellow stones, yellowing rusty tin cans and the axles on wheels of old coal-cars. There are eight hundred or so families at Ward, two or three in most of the houses, and eight or ten children in most of the families. And these families are just as much prisoners, just as much at the mercy of the owners of their dwellings as if they did live in a chicken-yard with a high wire fence around it.

This settlement is situated in a long narrow valley which runs back among the West Virginia hills. The walls rise steep on either side, and the end of the hollow is a blind alley. The Kelley's Creek Colliery Company owns Ward, and the Paisley interests own Mammoth, another settlement further back in the hollow, where the houses are not even painted yellow and where the standard of living is lower than at Ward. The people who live in those houses mine coal from the surrounding hills. They work from eight to twelve hours a day, and they get from $2.60 to $3 for it. They are paid not in United States currency, but in chicken-feed specially coined by the companies — crude aluminum coins, thin and light and some of them with holes in the middle... The company "scrip" is worth, on the average, about sixty cents on the dollar. The company forces the miners to trade at the company store — the only store of course on its property — and goods are sold there at so much higher prices than at the non-company stores only three miles away that the miners never come any nearer than 60 percent to their money's worth....

When times are hard, as they are at present, and the coal business, which never does well, is doing particularly badly, the operators cut their rates and make up the difference to themselves an their stockholders by getting more work for less pay out of the miners. They put in mechanical cutters and loaders, and lay off as many men as they can. According to their practice, the first to go are the men over forty-five and the men who have been crippled in the mines (at Andrew Mellon's mine, they never keep a man who has been injured). Ad a medical examination weeds out the other classes of workmen. If it is found, for example, that you are unable to read the bottom line of type on an oculist's chart — as comparatively few people can — you are likely to be eliminated. And the result is that the children at Ward sometimes go without food for days and that they have so little to wear that they are sometimes more or less naked and cannot even be sent to the union for clothes. Even at the time when their fathers were working, they had no shoes to go to school, had hardly ever eaten fresh meat or vegetables and had never known milk since they were weaned form their mothers. Their dish consists of sow belly, potatoes and pinto beans. If they had been living in certain of the other camps, they would probably already have died from drinking water polluted by the outhouse and so escaped the pains of starvation.


Thirteen-year-old Depression share-cropper.

Actually, for the American farmer the disaster of the 1930s was but a new depression piled on top of an old one. It had started back in 1920, after World War I. American farmers faced strong competition from the reconstructed nations of Europe. They also faced the problem caused by their own efficiency: because they could produce more than they could sell, prices dropped. It was a buyer's market, and farmers could do little to change the picture.

The farmer staggered under debts he had piled up to buy land and tools needed to meet the wartime production demands. Now he could not cut production because he hoped to earn the cash to meet the interest and the principal on his mortgage. Farm prices in the 1930s fell lower and lower, but the taxes on his land and the prices he paid for his necessities did not drop. The farmer was caught in a vise between fixed costs and falling prices.

Hoover's Federal Farm Board urged farmers to plant less so as to up their prices, but there was no incentive for doing so. [And of course, with financiers controlling altogether the market, the available circulation, and mortgages incurred under different, original circumstances, it was impossible for the farmers to afford to reduce production: Hoover's theoretical remedy was entirely a facade.] From 1920 to 1932 farm production did drop 6 percent, but prices fell ten times as much — by 63 percent. Farmers could only watch in despair as corn hit 15 cents, cotton and wool 5 cents, hogs and sugar 3 cents, and beef 2.5 cents.

With farm prices so low, most farmers, living under the shadow of mortgages, knew that sooner or later they would go under. Many owners of small farms were driven into tenancy. Foreclosures and bankruptcy sales were already frequent.

What was being done? Nothing that amounted to much, said Will Rogers:

I thought we was going to have some Farm Relief to report to you by this Sabbath day. But the commissions are just gathering data. They won't take the farmer's word for it that he is poor. They hire men to find out how poor he is. If they took all the money they spend on finding out how he is, and give it to the farmer he wouldn't need any more relief.

But soon as winter comes he will be O.K., soon as snow flies he can kill rabbits, that will be the biggest relief he has had so far.


Note title of auctioneer, bottom line.

As farms and personal assets are confiscated by the thousands, unity draws the line how far the dispossessors can go. Without a solution the line is only drawn so far back as what we understand and know how to rectify. If, at the time, all the people had understood the system itself to have been at fault, and exactly how to rectify that, perhaps no dispossession whatsoever would have been successfully imposed.

There was the story of the Widow Van Bohn whose husband was killed in a cyclone. Word went around her county that she was to be dispossessed. The farmers got together and went, several hundred strong, to the bankers. They assembled in great numbers the day of the sale. Thousands came from many different towns. It took three hours to clear the roads after the would-be sale. They all came to see that Widow Van Bohn kept her farm. She kept it.

There were stories of chattel-mortgage sales where all the goods were bought in for a few dollars, a quit claim was signed and a collection taken up to pay for the sale.

"In our part of the country, in Minnesota," a farmer said, "when a sale comes on, we warn people that anyone buying a place won't find life worth living there. Won't no one buy from him, sell to him — there won't nobody speak to him."

In another place where a sale was effected, only four people were allowed to bid. Telephone wires were cut to prevent people calling the sheriff...

I have never heard speeches which were more to the point, or which seemed the result of more mature deliberation. The farmers were generally conservative in political and social points of view; they had been driven by the relentless sweep of events into a militant position. The farmers themselves talk of this Conference as a historic occasion. They say from the platform and to each other, "We are making our Declaration of Independence as that other glorious declaration was made in Philadelphia, in 1776."

The delegates drafted a program and marched to the Capitol to present it to the Senate and the House. They asked that half a billion dollars be appropriated for immediate cash relief, with local committees of farmers to administer it. They also sought government regulation to cut the profits of food processors and other middlemen, so as to raise the prices farmers received for their crops and livestock. And they wanted no more evictions.

These proposals were read on the floors of the Senate and House, and handed to President Hoover. But Congress and the President rejected them.

Two months later farm debts were still rising. As one farm after another went on the auction block, Ferner Nuhn sent to the Nation in March 1933 this eyewitness account of a forced sale in Iowa:

A raw, chilly day. The yard of the farm, churned black in a previous thaw, is frozen now in ruts and nodes. Where the boots of the farmers press, a little slime of water exudes, black and shiny. Through a fence the weather-bleached stalks of corn, combed and broken by the husking, stand ghostly in the pale air. The farm buildings — machine-shed, chicken-houses, big-houses, corncribs — sprawl and gather again in the big, hip-roofed red barn, and strike a final accent in the thrust of the tiled silo. The farm is kempt and has a going air; there is nothing run-down about it. The fields spread away, picking up other farm clusters sections off — remote, separate, dim under the big gray sky. One feels the courage of the isolate units, each swinging its big segment of earth. Perhaps they call for too much; perhaps the independence is doomed; but something of worth will be gone if it goes.

There are 300 farmers here. It is a Quaker community, long established, conservative. The farmers are mostly middle-aged, very workaday in overalls, sagging sweaters, mud-stained boots. They talk quietly in their slow, concrete manner, move about little.

They are neighbors of a farmer who can no longer pay interest on a $2,000 mortgage. These farmers have known him for years; they know he would pay if he could. They know the debt and the interest are three times as hard to pay off now as when the mortgage was given. Some of them know that soon their own property may be endangered by defaults. They know that this particular mortgage was given on stock, and that the farmer has offered the stock in settlement. And they know that the mortgagee refused the offer, demanded a sale instead — a sale of personal property, as provided by law....

The mortgagee stands off at one side, with his attorney. They are talking with the auctioneer. The farmers look that way once in a while, and while their glances are not friendly they show no open animosity. The auctioneer comes away. Some farmers surround him; they want to be reassured that no household goods will be put on sale. The auctioneer reassures them. The farmers nod grimly; that much has been accomplished anyway. There are no leaders, no haranguers, no organization. In fact, this is the first affair of the sort in the county.

There is a movement toward the barns. The auctioneer mounts a wagon. The first thing offered is a mare. It is rather strange that live stock is offered first; the usual order is machinery first. The defaulting farmer stand silent holding the mare; he is a man almost elderly, quiet, staid-appearing; and he stands embarrassed, smoothing the mane of the mare. The auctioneer goes through his regular cry. The mare is sixteen years old, sound except for a wire cut and a blue eye. What is he offered, what is he offered, what is he offered, does he hear a bid? He tries to make it sound like an ordinary sale. But the crowd stands silent, grim. At last someone speaks out. Two dollars.. Two dollars! unheard of, unbelievable, why she's worth twenty times that!

The silence of the farmers is like a thick wall. The rigamarole of the auctioneer beats against it, and falls back in his face. The farmer holding the mare stands with his head hanging. At last, without raising his eyes, he says, "Fifteen dollars." This is a ne wand distressing business to him, and he is ashamed to make a bid of less than that.

" I hear twenty, a twenty, a twenty? Why she's worth twice that much." The auctioneer is still going through the make-believe. He keeps it up for five more minutes. A pause, and a voice speaks out, "Sell her." It is not loud, but there is insistence in it. Like the slice of a plow, with the tractor-pull of the crowd reinforcing it. The auctioneer hesitates, gives in. The silent, waiting crowd is too much. "Sold." After that there is less make-believe.

Three more horses are offered. They are knocked down to the farmer, with no other bids, for ten dollars, eight dollars, a dollar and a half. The farmer is learning. The machinery comes next. A hay rack, a wagon, two plows, a binder, rake mower, disc-harrow, cultivator, pulverizer. A dollar, fifty cents, fifty cents, a quarter, a half a dollar. Sold to the farmer. His means of livelihood are saved to him.

But the tax and mortgage sales went on. Between 1930 and 1935 750,000 farms were lost through foreclosure and bankruptcy sales.


US war veterans leave Capitol without answers to grievances placed before the government. The destination of those who defended freedom and the Constitution? Homelessness — while the international banks called the Federal Reserve sent our gold to Germany, building Hitler's military clout for WWII.

US war veterans leave Capitol without answers to grievances placed before the government. The destination of those who defended freedom and the Constitution? Homelessness — while the international banks called the Federal Reserve sent our gold to Germany, building Hitler's military clout for WWII.

Hoover shows his disregard for the thousands of homeless and jobless American Veterans who marched across the country to ask for jobs or bonus pay they were otherwise to wait twenty years for — despite a depression produced at the hand of the new 'Federal Reserve' the government had established.

Perhaps the most dramatic protest of the period was the Bonus Army march on Washington in the spring of 1932. Veterans of World War 1, starting with only 300 from Oregon and gathering strength as they moved, came to lobby in Congress for passage of the Patman Bill. The Bill proposed immediate payment of a veteran's bonus, authorized by Congress in 1924, but not due and payable until 1945. Over a quarter of a million ex-soldiers, jobless and hungry, needed that money now, but President Hoover opposed paying them. Nevertheless, Congress had paid them about half the bonus over his veto. Now 20,000 veterans were demanding the other half.

From Washington, John Dos Passos reported on the camp the Bonus Army had pitched on the edge of the nation's capitol:

Now they are camped on Anacostia Flats in the southeast corner of Washington. Nearly twenty thousand of them altogether. Everywhere you meet new ragged troops straggling in. A few have gone home discouraged, but very few. Anacostia Flats is the recruiting center; from there they are sent to new camps scattered around the outskirts of Washington. Anacostia Flats is the ghost of an army camp from the days of the big parade, with its bugle calls, its mess lines, greasy KPs, MPs, headquarters, liaison officers, medical officer. Instead of the tents and the long tarpaper barracks of those days, the men are sleeping in little leantos built out of old newspapers, cardboard boxes, packing crates, bits of tin or tarpaper roofing, old shutters, every kind of cockeyed makeshift shelter from the rain scraped together out of the city dump.

The doughboys have changed too, as well as their uniforms and their housing, in these fifteen years. There's the same goulash of faces and dialects, foreigners' pidgin English, lingos from industrial towns and farming towns, East, Northeast, Middle West, Southwest, South, but we were all youngsters then; now we are getting on into middle life, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks off breadlines, pale looking knotted hands of men who've worked hard with them, and then for a long time have not worked. In these men's faces, as in Pharaoh's dream, the lean years have eaten up the fat years already....

In the middle of the Anacostia camp is a big platform with a wooden object sticking up from one corner that looks like an old-fashioned gallows. Speaking goes on from this platform all morning and all afternoon. The day I saw it, there were a couple of members of the bonus army's congressional committee on the platform, a Negro in an overseas cap and a tall red Indian in buckskin and beads, wearing a ten gallon hat. The audience, white men and Negroes, is packed in among the tents and shelters. A tall scrawny man with deeply sunken cheeks is talking. He's trying to talk about the bonus but he can't stick to it, before he knows it he's talking about the general economic conditions of the country:

Irony and abuse of power of the greatest kind. US veterans, black and white together, fight with troops intent on evicting them from the outskirts of the Capitol.

Irony and abuse of power of the greatest kind. US veterans, black and white together, fight with troops intent on evicting them from the outskirts of the Capitol.

"Here's a plant that can turn out everything every man woman, and child in this country needs, from potatoes to washing machines, and it's broken down because it can't give the fellow who does the work enough money to buy what he needs with it."

Give us the money and we'll buy their bread and their corn and beans and their electric ice boxes and their washing machines and their radios. We ain't holding out on 'em because we don't want those things. Can't get a job to make enough money to buy 'em, that's all."

In mid-June the Senate overwhelmingly rejected the Patman Bill. Early in July, to get the demonstrators out of sight, Congress voted to pay their passage home.

About 5,000 left Washington and their makeshift camp. With Congress adjourned, rumors floated about that the Hoover Administration was ready to oust the remaining bonus seekers, by force if necessary. It was hard to believe.

The President was already campaigning for re-election on the platform that his wisdom had kept the country peaceful and the unemployed quiet and loyal. Would he be foolish enough to use bayonets against war veterans bearing petitions?

Paul Y. Anderson reported for the Nation the choice the President made:

Hoover's campaign for re-election was launched Thursday, July 28, at Pennsylvania Avenue and Third Street, with four troops of cavalry, four companies of infantry, a mounted machine-gun squadron, six whippet tanks, 300 city policemen and a squad of Secret Service men and Treasury agents. Among the results immediately achieved were the following:

Two veterans of the World War shot to death; one eleven-week-old baby in a grave condition from gas, shock, and exposure; one eight-year-old boy partially blinded by gas; two policemen's skulls fractured; one bystander shot through the shoulder; one veteran's ear severed with a cavalry saber; one veteran stabbed in the hip with a bayonet; more than a dozen veterans, policemen, and soldiers injured by bricks and clubs; upward of 1,000 men, women, and children gassed, including policemen, reporters, ambulance drivers, and residents of Washington; and approximately $10,000 worth of property destroyed by fire, including clothing, food, and temporary shelters of the veterans and a large amount of building material owned by a government contractor.

Anderson and other reporters said they believed the troops, commanded by General Douglas MacArthur, were used to evict the veterans from Washington for a political purpose "to persuade the American people that their government was threatened with actual overthrow, and that the courage and decisiveness of Herbert Hoover had averted revolution." Tanks, gas, sabers, bayonets, and fire had been used against unarmed men, women, and children "to show the country that the danger of 'insurrection' was real and that the Administration had prepared to meet it," wrote Anderson.

As the gassed and wounded veterans fled Washington, Malcolm Cowley of the New Republic followed them. In Pennsylvania he caught up with them at a temporary camp and talked to some of the Bonus Marchers:

Mile after mile we passed the ragged line as we too drove northward to the camp at Ideal Park. We were carrying two of the veterans, chosen from a group of three hundred by a quick informal vote of their comrades. One was a man gassed in the Argonne and tear-gassed at Anacostia; he breathed with an effort, as if each breath would be his last. The other was a man with family troubles; he had lost his wife and six children during the retreat from Camp Marks and hoped to find them in Johnstown. He talked about his service in France, his three medals, which he refused to wear, his wounds, his five years in a government hospital. "If they gave me a job," he said, "I wouldn't care about the bonus.... Now I don't ever want to see a flag again. Give me a gun and I'll go back to Washington."

"That's right, buddy," said a woman looking up from her two babies, who lay on a dirty quilt in the sun. A cloud of lies hovered above them. Another man was reading the editorial page of a Johnstown paper. He shouted, "Let them come here and mow us down with machine guns. We won't move this time."

"That's right, buddy," said the woman again. A haggard face — eyes bloodshot, skin pasty white under a three days' beard — suddenly appeared at the window of the car. "Hoover must die," said the face ominously.

"You know what this means?" a man shouted from the other side. "This means revolution." — "Yes, you're damned right it means revolution."

But it didn't. Bread riots and hunger marches "do not necessarily mean revolution," as economist George Soule wrote in Harper's that August. "People may smash windows because they are hungry, without wanting a government overturn or knowing how to bring it about."

It was ordinary folk who made up the Bonus Army, just as they made up the millions of unemployed. They were farm workers and factory hands, skilled mechanics and white-collar workers, foremen and professionals. "Every one of them has been thoroughly whipped by his individual economic circumstances," said Mauritz Hallgren. "There is about the lot of them an atmosphere of hopelessness, of utter despair, though not of desperation. They have no enthusiasm whatever, and no stomach for fighting."


Propaganda, blatant lies, or incredible stupidity?

Vote-for-Wilson re-election truck asks (top question on vertical side-panel behind cab), 'WHO BROKE THE MONEY TRUST?' About to become the real owners of the country... the central banking business would never be better. Certainly Wilson had not 'broken' the 'money trust.' On the contrary, he had ensured the money 'trusts' would have every power necessary to breaking the people.

In April 1932, Kansas editor William Allen White wrote a letter to a friend, Walter Lippman, the political columnist. Both men were Republicans, and both were deeply shaken by the depression. In his letter, White said:

If out of this thing cannot come some permanent peace of mind and economic security for the average man, the manual laborer, the small fellow who has other talents than the acquisitive faculties, we will have lost the world as well as our own souls. If the fear motive is to persist on and on as the prod in the pants of humanity, if we cannot supplant hope and joy for fear, if the capacity for financial reward is to be the sum of all our virtues, what's the use of all this travail?

Travelers crossing America that summer saw a land of harsh contrasts. Surplus food was being spilled into the ocean or piled high in grain elevators while men were breaking store windows to steal a loaf of bread. Shoe factories were shut down in New England while children stayed home from school because they had nothing to put on their feet. Billions of dollars nestled safely in bank vaults while hundreds of cities issued scrip because they had no currency to pay their bills. Families went in ragged clothing while farmers could not market millions of bales of cotton. All this in the richest country on earth, with the fattest acres, the tallest buildings, the mightiest machinery, the biggest factories.

Who was to blame?

All this was at the hand of the Federal Reserve System.


"To find the players in all the corruption of the world, 'Follow the money.' To find the captains of world corruption, follow the money all the way."

mike montagne — founder, PEOPLE For Mathematically Perfected Economy™, author/engineer of mathematically perfected economy™ (1979)

While 12,000 homes a day continue to go into foreclosure, mathematically perfected economy™ would re-finance a $100,000 home with a hundred-year lifespan at the overall rate of $1,000 per year or $83.33 per month. Without costing us anything, we would immediately become as much as 12 times as liquid on present revenue. Transitioning to MPE™ would apply all payments already made against existent debt toward principal. Many of us would be debt free. There would be no housing crisis, no credit crisis. Unlimited funding would immediately be available to sustain all the industry we are capable of.

There is no other solution. Regulation can only temper an inherently terminal process.

If you are not promoting mathematically perfected economy™, then you condemn us to monetary failure.

© Copyright 1979-2008 by mike montagne and PEOPLE For Mathematically Perfected Economy™. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.Copyright 1979-2008 by mike montagne and PEOPLE For Mathematically Perfected Economy™. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

PEOPLE For Mathematically Perfected Economy™, Mathematically Perfected Economy™, Mathematically Perfected Currency™, MPE™, and PFMPE™ are trademarks of mike montagne and PEOPLE For Mathematically Perfected Economy™, The trade name, Mathematically Perfected Economy™, may only be used, and may freely be used, only by permission, and only by countries complying with the prescription for Mathematically Perfected Economy™ herein.

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