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Truth

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.

About precipii

An aged anti-hippie, ...

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