//
archives

Archive for

Caesar’s Dead and DemonRatz Have the Rattle

So.

It has been said that Julius Caesar had a disease, was dying, and he KNEW it !

Of course, this would make his death a sort of suicide-by-cop.

I will be excoriated for this one, but I see a parallel in the attempts to minimize the death of Christ (it “had” to happen, and Brutus/Judas was a “necessary” pawn to complete a master plan).

Yeah.

If you (and I implore you to do so) dig in and search for all the myriad articles on J.C. (Caesar, although there are myriad on Christ as well, which I implore you also to do) – you will find a number of conspiracy theories.

But the one tie that will bind all the search results is – what happens AFTER J.C. was killed (chaos – Christ and Caesar).

The world devolved into a fallen state of depravity and unparalleled brutality.

At least Caesar was simply stabbed (his was over quick, compared to the suffering of Jesus).

And today, Jesus still suffers.

Why?  His children have learned nothing.

Consider for a moment (yet again) Pilate (one of Julius’ “progeny”).

“What is this thing called the Truth?”.

Well, it is where journalists get it all wrong, don’t you think?

They don’t comprehend the truth.  Part of it is, they follow the wrong Master.

But, that is a story for another day.

We are talking Caesar here (and DemonRatz – or did not get that?).

Yup.

There is a danger in the aftermath of assassination, and Assassination is a dirty, dirty game.

Lot’s of “innocent” people get hurt.

But it is the nature of politics.

Searing hot, fingers get burned.

Musician Willie Nelson, right, appears at a rally in support of Rep. Bernie Sanders, I-Vt., at a farm in Charlotte, Vt., Tuesday, Aug. 8, 2006. Sanders is running for the open seat in the U.S. Senate left by incumbent Sen. James Jeffords. (AP Photo/Toby Talbot)

Especially when they travel down the path of impugning the reputation of another.

Glass houses, anyone?

I honestly think this whole, new phenomenon witnessed in the demise of the DNC is part and parcel of rampant drug use.

Their brains are fried.

Like breakfast bologna.

Fried.

Well, so…where is the hope?  The change?

I think I sense a rising ground swell in the Libertarian Party.

The guys just need to come up with a good logo or mascot.  Get the guys who designed Pink Floyd’s pyramid-rainbow, for example.

Why not?

They need a great band to represent them too.  Why not Floyd?

Oh well.

Let’s think about one thing here though.

Unlike Caesar, DemonRatz are not really dead.

They just smell that way.

While on the ropes (thank you Obama), they have not been delivered the death blow (nor will they).

However, a rising Libertarian Party might prove as useful as the Bull Moose.

They would serve as a plausible counter-weight to the Leviathon that is the GOP (IF Congress gets its act together – those eleven retard repubs need to go – stinking up the place worse than the DemonRatz).

So, in closing.  Do your homework.  Killing Caesar was a bad, bad thing.

Trying to assassinate a President’s character…also – bad, bad, bad (tsk, tsk).

Falling on one’s own sword is a good thing (especially when, like Judas Iscariot or Marcus Brutus (yes, he committed suicide as well), you got it coming).

However, in politics, there really are no death blows.

Only a staggering death of thousand wounds (and the unfortunate part is – not the players who bleed, but rather, the Nation).

Let’s hope that some leaders rise from this blood letting.

My money is on Trump.  He seems to be sealing leaks, and bandaging a lot of old wounds.

Soon we will be pert as a rutting buck.

High time.

The Cult of the Victim, Condemned

“Night is here again, baby,
Stretched out on my bed
Seeing all kinds of crazy notions
Running around through my head

One hand is on my pillow,
One hand on my head,
I see a million nightmares
Tearing around in my head;

I need a progressive woman;
I need an awfully liberal woman.
I need a social conscious woman
To ease my revolutionary mind.”

-Woody Guthrie, “My Revolutionary Mind”

“Crazy notions running around through my head”.

Of late I have had the occasion to become exposed in ancillary fashion to the dispossessed.

I’ve taken note of the things they talk about.  “Crazy notions”.

They amble and ramble about the bible, their own conviction, the condemnation of all those who do not share in their fallen state.

Some may be delirium from alcohol, others suffering from the madness that is drug abuse.

Of course, all-the-while, we have cultural elites in Californication advocating the microdosing of LSD to “expand their minds”.

From my perspective, this is just a trickling that is headed down the same murky stream as the imaginations gone wild of the average street person.

Crazy from the heat.

But there is an extrapolation to this as well.

Liberals actually believe this fallen state is somehow divine.

They worship at the altar of those who must rely on their policies to survive.

Of course there are those who wish to escape this madness, this hell.

But a state that pushes them there, keeps them there, and convinces them they want to stay there only compounds their misery.

It is a sad commentary, but it is a truism that the liberal would have us all there.

Living on the commune of the looney.

California is a prime example of this.

They mis-manage their water by forgoing the building of a dam, thinking that later they will simply petition the Federal Government to help them with something they screwed up.

Why should everyone have to pay for those who mis-manage?

Well the obvious answer is that we can not turn our backs on it any more than we can turn our backs on the street people.  There, but for the grace of God, right?

But those who perpetually get themselves in trouble are then written off to skid row.

It has always been this way, probably always will be.

But now we have STATES on skid row.

Barack Obama’s home state (ahem) of Illinois.  Skid row.

California. Jersey.  Kentucky, D.C. and Maryland. New York and New Mexico (Mercatus Center, George Mason University, 2017).

In Armour Square and Austin on the West Side of Chicago do you see the raging effects of skid row diplomacy on a grand scale.

And all-the-while the Democrats point fingers and blame capitalism and the Republican party.

It is a mentality they have created, and one of “this is caused by someone else, and somebody HAS to help me”.

Well, yes.  But only up to a point.

I’ve talked to people on skid row who say don’t help this one, or that one as they are perpetually in this system with no intentions of getting out.

And this sub-culture of a sub-culture is right.

The tiny minority who will escape this will do so by “seeing the light”.

By realizing their “victimization” is being driven by a political culture that needs them there.

Without the dis-possesed, the liberal can not live.

The are like the blood-sucking vampire who feeds only in the shadows, the crevices where the successful fear to tread.

So it is a cult that is driven by a reliance on escapism.

A euphemism for a nation-at-large that thrives on the such.

The Democratic National Convention

From Hollywood to HBO, video games to sexting and vexting on hand-held devices, it is a Nation of dependency.

Yet these pockets of those dropping off the grid is growing.

People are returning to old ways.  They are dropping the internet and turning back to their churches for hope.

And who can blame them?

Where is the hope on skid row?  You damn sure will not find it in the policy of the liberal.

Since FDR they have promised an end to poverty, and yet they have made nary a dent.

They are hollow men, with hollow words, and they have no real intention of helping the situation.

Like the junkie on the street needs his drug, the liberal politician needs the junkie for his policies of government reliance.

They mandate such idiocy as solar panels on every house and factory in California, yet they scream to the rest of the nation to bail them out when their policies fail.

The junkie on the street steals to support his habit; the liberal steals from everyone else through a constant requirement for bail out.

The parallels are stark, but very real.

So what is the answer?

There is no easy one for the poverty, but my home state of Tennessee ranks among the nation’s top financial performers.

We are extremely conservative.

Our poor and down trodden, we go to the streets for.

We minister to them through our churches.

We feed them.

Clothe them.  Even house them.

The homeless actually travel from other states to come here to our system.

And why?

It is not a system based on a state that forces compliance, but rather, a state that encourages us all to look at the problem as though it is one that affects us all.

We all live in this, and we all deal with this.

Are we likely to make it go away?  Very doubtful.

Those who relegate themselves to the pyres of destitution will find an almost insurmountable set of obstacles that might lead to their escape.

But through the kindness of a prosperous state, they stand a chance.  And there are those willing to help them escape that bleak strata that is the dirt of the street.

And some will escape.

Some will climb out.

Horatio Alger is alive and well.

Lil’ Orphan Annie, and the dreams this tale elicit – alive and well.

Hope is eternal and charity – real charity – is a possibility; but not a likelihood in a state that perpetually feeds this dragon of dependency and doom.

It is time to get tough.  Feed them, but make damned certain they understand that we will not tolerate their cycle of dependency – be it for the junkie on the street, or the Nation-State like California constantly getting itself in trouble and then seeking a handout from the rest of us.

Time to pony up, liberal.

Time to face the harsh reality of responsibility.

 

 

Le Polemic du la Pugiliste

‘Ems fightin words, beeyotch!

Yep.

Fighting words.

Yo momma wears army boots.

Republicans, they all NAZIs.

You know the routine.

And each and every lousy, no-count, scum-sucking liberal demonRAT, is, well, evil.

It is the politics of destruction.  The destruction of self.  The destruction of dignity.  The destruction of character.

But then, in American politics, when did any exist anyway?

Should this not really all be about what we are doing to improve our lot in our corner of the Universe?

Some say life is a struggle.

I say “it can be”.

It can be a dream too.

You know, a guy living in the streets can well consider the entire city to be his palace.

Bright lights, fresh water.  Scraps of food, here and there.  I suppose the occasional pigeon, if one were feeling “fancy”.

But whatever your delusion of happiness, it is most likely, and simply, a delusion.

Even when you are from the highest echelons of society.

How so, Precipii?

Consider this.

Nothing, and I do mean NOTHING can compare to the mansion Jesus Christ prepares for us in his Father’s house.

Now.

Think about this.

He says “I go there to prepare one for you”.

Now, get this.

What if every single breath changes that preparation.

What if the play that is our lives, the acts we perform and those performed for and against us; the violent storms of nature, and the effect they have on our existence, both from the standpoint of survival, and a modified survival based on damage done; or the simple course of events, say, striking it rich in a gold mine, or losing it all on “one toss of the die” – what if every single, solitary moment in this compendium of moments shaped that mansion in the sky?

Well, I propose it does.

But this is not ying and yang.

This is not give and take.

There is no…tally sheet.  No point bead on a scoring string in life’s game of snooker.

No balance sheet, no “bottom line”.

The debt is paid, the game is won, and all one has to do…ALL ONE has to do, is simply believe.

But what does that mean, believe?

I can believe I am the Easter Bunny.  It doesn’t make it so.

What does make it so?

What consecrates this life?

Well, I would argue it is the principles we actually stand for (and not those we simply say we stand for).

What if that mansion got bigger, and bigger, and bigger – each time, with each breath, each time you get something “right”.

Well, what is right and wrong?

Is it right, for example, to be a sore looser?

Is it right to say that you are a champion of the children, yet all-the-while, the man behind the curtain is committing infanticide?

Is that “right”?

It is not even righteous.  Not even when balanced against what happens to the damned Mother (who I personally am absolutely sick of hearing about.  Time to kick Mothers (at this least this type) right in the wazoo).

Who cares what happens to the damned Mother.  I don’t give a cow pie what right she says she has with her own body.  It is the body of the child in question here, stupid.

OKAY.  Enough about abortion.

What about death panels, Dr. Phibes (if you really are a doctor. Probably a Canadian doctor, or one of them Englishter Doctors).

What about caring?  What about caring for the sick.  The dying.  The lame, the insane, the morose, or the afflicted. What about that, Dr. Phibes, you damned DemonRat.

When a socialist system is more about the people playing golf, than those who would most likely rather be playing golf…there is a serious problem.

This “fight” the DemonRats have drummed up…this boxing match, this battle-to-the-death-royale — what it is really all about…REALLY all about…is their own sense that sanity, power, intellectual advantage, prestige, political clout – everything that once made them the second-most powerful party in the Nation has now escaped their grasp.

Now they look like dunder-heads (and the more they squirm and struggle, the tighter the grip becomes).

Methinks it not simply an appearance.

They’ve come to believe their own personae, a personae created by the P.R. dudes.

They’ve basically out-run their own legend (one they created for themselves).

They have over-run their position, and now they have no body politic to back them up.

Deep in enemy territory, with the supply line cut.

And so how do they respond?

When I was a kid, whatever grade I was in, the teacher liked to take us on “field trips”.  Maryville College was a favorite.

I remember touring the lab.  Seeing the brain in the bell jar.  The dissected cats, veins and arteries flayed and dyed either red or blue (signifying existence or depletion of oxygen).

But in the context of this article, the incident with the snake and the little, white mice comes to mind.

This demented student (and, seriously; he was – he “got off” on showing little kids what happens when you drop little white mice into the snake cage) – well, he showed us what does happen when you drop a bunch of pink-eyed, little, white mice into the snake’s cage.

Maybe the Libertarians need to pick a white ferret as their Mascot. DEMONrat killuhs.

The snake devours the first three or four, tuit suite.

But that fifth.

Man, I don’t know if it was because the snake’s belly was full on the first four and he was getting a bit lethargic, or if it was the Herculean effort of that last mouse as JUMPED, STRAIGHT up from a standing position, three or four times, and finally in acrobatic fashion flips at the last second and grabs onto the window screen that served as a lid to the cage.

But here he is, holding on for dear life, and I’m praying “please God, give this one a break.  He doesn’t deserve the fate of his compatriots”.

But, alas, gravity took over, and, curses, he too was dinner.

Of course Professor Beavis there at Maryville College was really getting off on this one.

Along with a bunch of the nerds in class who thought it was cool, seeing Wild Kingdom in the flesh.

Poor little pink-eyed mice.

But, it is there fate.  Right?

It is what happens in nature.

For a while, you live high on the hog being fed mouse food every day, and then…BAM, you are some snake’s dinner.

Well, I look at the DemonRats today, and this what I see.

Those pink-eyed little mice.

Only, I had compassion for the mice.

I have little of anything for these over-grown rats.

Well, I do envision an anaconda turned loose on them.

How’s it feel now, Big Daddy Rat?

Hmmmm?

When there is corruption so rife that even your core beliefs become suspect -yeah, there is trouble in paradise.

So, here we are with these pink-eyed rats, putting up their dukes to us.

We’ve already one, again and again, and yet here they come with their protests, and their howls, and their angst, and their weapons drawn.

Yawn.

Seriously.

Yawn.

Cock-a-dooddly-doo.

You ever seen a Rooster strut?  You get the feeling they’d even strut when they get the living poop beat out of them.

Well, in this political polemic, that is exactly what happened.

And yet, here they strut.

They strut in the streets.

Strut on T.V.

They even strut when they paint up our streets with their vile graffiti.

But you know what?

Really and truly?

What are we looking at here?

Well, I will tell ya.

t’s a by-god implosion.

They are imploding.

Disintegrating.

Right before our very eyes.

EVERYTHING they once held dear; EVERYTHING they once stood for; EVERYTHING they built, everything they designed, everything they envisioned, everything they hoped — DASHED against the rocky crags of over-inflated egoistic ignorance of what is really, really, real.

The American people have spoken, poop-birds.

The American people DO love their country.

THEY want what is best for it.

No longer do your models fit that bill.

Get over your damned bad selves.

The libertarians have much to gain, and would be well-advised to begin scheduling debates with Republican candidates (and to my fellow Republicans – I hope you are listening – you should not only entertain that idea – you should encourage it by taking the initiative and scheduling the debates with them).

Beats the hell out of arguing with dogs, frothing at the mouth.

Archives