Nobody Loves Raymond:

Out of town race-baiters, the Church of the Creator sans church leader Matt Hale who was arrested in Illinois last Wednesday on charges of soliciting murder, were met by a pro-diversity counter-rally today in Lewiston, Maine.

Attendees at the 4000 strong counter rally included Maine politicians from Governor Baldacci to Senator Olympia Snowe, tripping over themselves to daringly weigh in as anti-racists. Absent from the days festivities was Lewiston Mayor Larry Raymond.

Larry Raymond claimed mayorial infamy last October when he penned a letter to Somali immigrant elders in his town urging them to slow the exodus of Somalis from Atlanta, Georgia. Raymond requested the Somalis “to exercise some discipline and reduce the stress on our limited finances and our generosity. We have been overwhelmed and have responded valiantly. Now we need breathing room.”

The letter went over like a lead balloon. When Raymond’s written pleas for fiscal breathing room hit the Lewiston town hall like a plummetting Blackhawk amid accusations of racism, the 71-year-old mayor quickly retracted his request and apologized to the immigrant community. A fat lot of good it did him today as rally leaders bayed for Raymond’s immediate resignation.

My heart, however, doesn’t exactly bleed for the frazzled mayor of Lewiston. Although it’s too bad that he’s being accused of being a racist when there is no evidence that he is any such thing, but when a bureaucrat like the mayor takes a hit like this one, surely, he should ask himself, if the huddled masses are depleting the town coffers by taking advantage of the fact that the city is shovelling money at them, then just where does such a problem originate?

The Thing That Wouldn’t Die

Who’d have thought something as innocuous as a birthday party for an outgoing centagenarian senator could yank Senate giant Trent Lott from the helm of the majority? I just happened to channel surf up to the birthday celebration on CSPAN last weekend and I must admit that I barely remember Trent Lott’s statement about how the country would have been better off if Thurmond would have won his 1948 Presidential election bid. It sounded a lot like, “Blah, blah quip, yadda… mah venerated colleague… blah, nudge-nudge, better off if yak and now let’s have a hand for…”

The whole thing put me in mind of a watered down Hollywood roasting, only lamer, but I was drawn to it – sort of like a sidewalk bystander watching the aftermath of a minor traffic wreck. It was about what you’d expect, a good natured, bi-partisan send off for the senior senator from South Carolina complete with a Hayman fire sized birthday cake blazing away with 100 of those *really* funny candles that won’t blow out. The organizers of this function somehow missed an opportunity to get Terry Barton to wheel out the cake. That would have been right in keeping with the tacky tone of the affair, but I guess Ms. Barton was otherwise occupied last week.

Who’d have thought something as innocuous as a birthday party for an outgoing centagenarian senator could yank Senate giant Trent Lott from the helm of the majority? I just happened to channel surf up to the birthday celebration on CSPAN last weekend and I must admit that I barely remember Trent Lott’s statement about how the country would have been better off if Thurmond would have won his 1948 Presidential election bid. It sounded a lot like, “Blah, blah quip, yadda… mah venerated colleague… blah, nudge-nudge, better off if yak and now let’s have a hand for…”

The whole thing put me in mind of a watered down Hollywood roasting, only lamer, but I was drawn to it – sort of like a sidewalk bystander watching the aftermath of a minor traffic wreck. It was about what you’d expect, a good natured, bi-partisan send off for the senior senator from South Carolina complete with a Hayman fire sized birthday cake blazing away with 100 of those *really* funny candles that won’t blow out. The organizers of this function somehow missed an opportunity to get Terry Barton to wheel out the cake. That would have been right in keeping with the tacky tone of the affair, but I guess Ms. Barton was otherwise occupied last week.

I still can’t figure what possessed Sen. Thurmond’s daughter, Julie, to use the occasion to publicly announce that she was pregnant. The senator never batted an eye at the news of the impending birth of a grandchild. However, Ol’ Strom was fully engaged when a Marilyn Monroe impersonator took the podium to do a breathy rendition of “Happy Birthday, (Mr. Senator)” a la the trampy speed-fer-breakfast/seconal-with-nightcaps performance 40 years hence from the real Monroe to her boyfriend, Jack.

My affection for our own “Daily Pic” and the sentiments behind it notwithstanding, I winced a bit at the sight of the spectacle and moved on. It was only borderline sleazy, a lightweight abashment that Trent Lott had every reason to think was behind him by last weekend. So imagine Lott’s dejection as Tuesday rolled around and the weblog whisperings of Lott’s allegedly abiding racism emerged full bloom into the mainstream. He had to be wondering just what all the flap was about. Bush smacked him hard midweek an now Nickles nails him for the knockout punch on Sunday.

So, is it Merry Christmas or Sayonara, Mr Lott? I can understand why the Republicans had better give it some serious consideration, but I don’t give even the slightest damn about this segregation swivet as long as 100% of Lott’s colleagues and critics, alike, are still advocating for my own Lynette WarrenPosted on Categories GeneralLeave a comment on The Thing That Wouldn’t Die

Team Play

With all due respect to my friends on the Team Liberty cultural revolutionary committee, I bristle at the thought of being known as an activist. To me, activism brings to mind visions of the mentally impaired – banner wavers who flop down before the treads of oncoming trucks in the interest of animal rights or who slather their naked bodies with ketchup and play dead in protest of some ever-unspecified aspect of free trade. The idea of lifting a torch and leading the victimized masses (I hate the masses and I generally don’t give a damn when they get victimized) up the hill to the Evil Oppressor’s Castle is unfathomable and queer to my very nature.

I do admit that Kennedy and I are not very good team players. It’s a good thing that we run this operation from 3000 miles apart, or else we’d constantly find ourselves at each others throats and never get a thing done with it. Well, actually I’m looking forward to my impending move to the Nutmeg State, even if the face time takes a toll on my business relationship with the No Treason staff out there. Even so, I’m dead serious about my shortcomings as a team player.

It became such an item of contention that the editors of No Treason have been, in the fashion of a chi-com late night critiquing session, dragged from our virtual beds and carted into a room full of clucking tongues, wagging fingers, and chants of “shame, shame” for not doing enough for libertarian causes. We were admonished to get off our backsides and get ourselves active in a real and tangible libertarian cause rather than just kvetching and whining on a website about the state of things.

With all due respect to my friends on the Team Liberty cultural revolutionary committee, I bristle at the thought of being known as an activist. To me, activism brings to mind visions of the mentally impaired – banner wavers who flop down before the treads of oncoming trucks in the interest of animal rights or who slather their naked bodies with ketchup and play dead in protest of some ever-unspecified aspect of free trade. The idea of lifting a torch and leading the victimized masses (I hate the masses and I generally don’t give a damn when they get victimized) up the hill to the Evil Oppressor’s Castle is unfathomable and queer to my very nature.

I do admit that Kennedy and I are not very good team players. It’s a good thing that we run this operation from 3000 miles apart, or else we’d constantly find ourselves at each others throats and never get a thing done with it. Well, actually I’m looking forward to my impending move to the Nutmeg State, even if the face time takes a toll on my business relationship with the No Treason staff out there. Even so, I’m dead serious about my shortcomings as a team player.

It became such an item of contention that the editors of No Treason have been, in the fashion of a chi-com late night critiquing session, dragged from our virtual beds and carted into a room full of clucking tongues, wagging fingers, and chants of “shame, shame” for not doing enough for libertarian causes. We were admonished to get off our backsides and get ourselves active in a real and tangible libertarian cause rather than just kvetching and whining on a website about the state of things.

“You could show more outrage,” we were told, but as my co-editor, aptly puts it in “The Revolution Will be All Business,” there is no Ghandian struggle, no mob, no movement that can accomplish what an average individual minding his own business can do when he seriously takes up the affair of quietly moving his own financial resources outside the reach of the pilferers and takes charge of the manner in which he governs his private life without regard to the sanction of the state or the state’s minions.

If it’s been months since you read Dick Freely’s article, “Do Something!” take another look at it to see what I’m talking about. Well before Freely ever penned his timeless offering on personal liberty, I chose that very route. It amounts to more than just a knock-off piece of irreverent humor. It’s my emphatic opinion, that therein lies the brightest potential for individualism and it goes miles above and beyond the implications that any free state project or any annual tête à tête of think tankers can bring to the board.

That’s not to say that such concerted and collective enterprises have no value, but much like the trip to the moon, they have more to offer in the journey and the development of the mission than in what awaits at the targeted destination. Such efforts yield limited return and barely go beyond that which can be achieved via the use of informal networking systems that are now available to individuals – average joes across the continent from Moclips to Magog with access to a phone and modem.

This is why I won’t hang my hopes for liberty on any activist or collective endeavor and neither will I rely upon others to blow a hole in the side of the cattle car so that I may escape it. There will be no Moses for libertarians. No Anti-Marx. No promised land of freedom, except for the one I make for myself and my own. I’ve already taken foot bail without the leave of Pharaoh and I won’t look back in outrage for those who choose to stay within the porous walls of a city which cannot hold them.

He’s Your Sprog…

A woman has ultimate say in whether or not she’ll bear any child and the fact that she chooses, repeatedly in the months long process, to bring forth her child is a clear acknowledgement that she will see to the well-being of her infant. It constitutes concrete recognition of her duty to care for her child’s needs at least until such point as she can arrange for someone else to voluntarily take over the care of the child.

Children are born as the consequence of a series of deliberate and cognitive decisions that only their mothers make, such as 1) Will I have sex? 2) Will I use birth control? 3) Will I carry this child to term? 4) Will I elect to keep this child rather than to adopt it out?

Those are each questions that take considerable thought and deliberate action to implement over the course of time. However, if potential mothers would face up to just one question, it would solve almost all custody and support issues existing today. It’s a question which has been so far relegated into the background that it’s hardly ever featured in these sorts of discussions, but it’s what women need to put the most emphasis on.

Is this man worthy of fathering my children?

A woman has ultimate say in whether or not she’ll bear any child and the fact that she chooses, repeatedly in the months long process, to bring forth her child is a clear acknowledgement that she will see to the well-being of her infant. It constitutes concrete recognition of her duty to care for her child’s needs at least until such point as she can arrange for someone else to voluntarily take over the care of the child.

Children are born as the consequence of a series of deliberate and cognitive decisions that only their mothers make, such as 1) Will I have sex? 2) Will I use birth control? 3) Will I carry this child to term? 4) Will I elect to keep this child rather than to adopt it out?

Those are each questions that take considerable thought and deliberate action to implement over the course of time. However, if potential mothers would face up to just one question, it would solve almost all custody and support issues existing today. It’s a question which has been so far relegated into the background that it’s hardly ever featured in these sorts of discussions, but it’s what women need to put the most emphasis on.

Is this man worthy of fathering my children?

It’s only in recent times that the above question of utmost importance has been driven into obscurity by the perversity of a statist system that inevitably awards the most irresponsible behaviors. Throughout the ages, women have realized the importance of being selective about the men with whom they breed and have recognized that they are ultimately responsible for the care and upbringing of their children, but the burgeoning nanny state vigorously selects for numb-cunted felon factories who siphon the public dole, it encourages good for nothing ex-wife princesses to use their crotchfuit as an excuse to soak their ex-husbands for a 20 year meal ticket and it has muddled the heads of the masses into thinking that some external force must always ride to the rescue of any bedraggled madonna who ends up in the cold with her sprog because of dismally poor choices on her own part.

It’s clear to me that women are, by nature, 100% responsible for the children they bear. If the prospect of having children is such a burden to them, if they cannot shoulder that responsibility on their own, it’s imperative that they use special care and caution in the selection of a mate and/or get a signed contract addressing the duties of each parent toward their children and each other if needs be.

This is not so hard to figure out, but in the event that it’s all just too complicated there is always the option of remaining child free.

Up In The Air

I’m no nostalgia freak, but I do spend a good deal of my time in airports bemoaning the loss of the innocence that Gil Elvgren captured with such pure justice in this painting. He probably did it 50 years ago, but what you see there in the bright day’s breeze on the airfield is something you could have observed just a couple of years ago. It was freedom, beauty, respect, and intrepid courage. Elvgren may not have given it a conscious thought, but it’s all right there in the painting.

I can describe what could once be found at just about any local airport, but it’s a great shame that only a fraction of the people I describe this to will have the slightest inkling about what I’m saying a few years from now.

I’m talking about a time when you could drive up to a terminal and park your car without having a smiling chimp ask you to pop your trunk so he could crawl inside for a wee look around. When you would walk into a terminal and see relaxed aviators, ground crew and passengers who, in spite of any tribulations in their day, still exhibited the qualities of human intelligence and respect for their fellow airport denizens.

I mean a time when, unless your carry-on popped open accidently, or unless the breeze blew your dress up, your personal items were likely to remain so. Even in the case of the above blonde dish, at least there would be some thoughtworthy joy obtained by all within view. Now any thrill to be had is to be delivered at the latex-gloved hands of some GS-5 meticulously rifling through your things as per some directions outlined in the Code of Federal Regulations. Just fucking lovely.

The Elvgrenesque light is gone from the airfield. It was real, but what it’s been replaced with is nearly unbearable. I literally avert my eyes from it when I travel. I don’t have a melodramatic bone in my body, but I have to shut down because of the intensity with which I suffer in places like the dismal little “Gate 71” area satellite terminal for United Express puddle jumpers at LAX where the stench of the gray carpeting is the foundation for connection purgatory. It’s where passengers are taken on buses across the tarmac and herded into obnoxiously appointed rooms wherein they must endure the constant gate announcements screamed into the most hideous of PA systems.

Each announcement screamed, I say, with the urgency of some teevee show paramedic attending a coded patient. Screamed, with the regard that a delouser at Ellis Island might have employed against the wide-eyed huddled masses (except these masses are more glassy-eyed than wide-eyed and not so much huddled masses as shuffling masses.)

Screamed by squatty, Cheeto-fed, twenty-something, brick-brained gate agents stuffed into the most unfetching polyester get ups. They couldn’t manage their own car payment schedule, much less a scheduling curve ball due to delayed equipment or overall ground congestion.

These little sub-human gate slobs are brought to us courtesy their oblivious, numb-cunted parents who have conveniently produced them to populate the surreal circus wrought by a combination of post 9-11 phobia and stato-masochism. Just one more thing. Just one more bridge across the River Styx, that conveys us from the open, airy intelligence that it takes to appreciate a playful Elvgren beauty, right into a dank gray nightmare.

We’re cooked.

“We are dead and this is HELL.” — Nadine, The Stand

Enough Already

Hollywood’s latest hardened fem empowerment flick, ENOUGH, features an abused woman who discovers that the dream man she married isn’t all she thought he was.

It’s a classic rehash (Julia Roberts did it in 1991 with SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY), but much like the ever-popular “makeover” days on Oprah and Maury, this formula is a tried and true crowd pleaser and a sure box office pay off as a date movie. Women enjoy seeing a guy who’s got it coming get kung fu-ed by the poseable Barbie Doll du jour (Jennifer Lopez in this case). And in the “Yes, my sweet, I would adore nothing better than to go to the chick empowerment movie with you on Friday evening to hone my sensitivities in those regards” department, it is a prime opportunity for men to catch an ample glimpse at plenty of tense and writhing Latina anatomia.


Jennifer Lopez asserts her “divine animal right” in the movie ENOUGH

What’s my problem with this, you ask? Not a thing so far. When it’s all said and done there’s really nothing wrong with a movie reiterating what most of us already ought to know: the state may be getting very good at looting your ex’s paycheck so you can still afford to contribute next to zero by way of value to anyone, but if your former prince charming is a determined psycho, the cops can’t always save your mooching hide from him. So sometimes the only thing for it is to lay off the bon-bons for a couple weeks, get buff, and kill him.

Even so, where would we women be without our friends to validate us? How could we sisters soldier on if not by exploring the deeper fundamentals of natural rights via our girlfriends’ flawless epistemologically derived orts of wisdom like the one Lopez’s movie pal served up in ENOUGH when she advised, “You have a divine animal right to protect your own life and the life of your offspring.”

Well sure. It’s all so clear now. Here I was thinking the whole bunny-hugging lot of dizzy female celebs prancing about in bare-assed protest of fur coats and red meat was explained away by the fact that their lightweight intellects won’t go the distance that it takes to distinguish the difference between human and animal nature.

I figured somewhere in the heads of these puff-brained, over-privileged bints, they still carry imagery of themselves as six-year-olds, twirling about in their color coordinated bedrooms, protected from the realities of life that lead to the understanding that human beings evolved, survive, and exist by virtue of our unique nature and that no animal, no matter how cuddly and seemingly intelligent, begins to rival the importance of what even one real human being is.

I’m truly captivated and, though I’m not one to eagerly wade into voluminous treatises on rights derivations, I do feel compelled to give the above nimble-witted assertion regarding self-defense a further look.

“A divine animal right…”

I had presumed that was divine as in “sacred” or “proceeding directly from God”.

Or should I be turning my attention toward a more volant definition of the word divine, as in the Divine Miss M sense? If that’s the case, the postulate does begin to attain optimum coherance. I read somewhere that Bette Middler is an animal lover. She would, no doubt, approve of the logic behind ascribing rights to human beings based upon the purer, more fundamental animal rights model. Indeed she might well assert that animal rights are the foundation or, so to speak, “the wind beneath the wings” of human rights.

Now onto: “to protect herself and her offspring”

That much would seem to fall from its own obvious weight. However, employing the right to self-defense with the already discussed modifying clause – one’s divine animal right – widens the foundation for… about anything that animals do, right?

Shit howdy. There’s your free pass for every pilfering collectivist that could ever shake a copy of an Audubon Society Field Guide in the air.

“I hereby derive my rights from those of The Graceful Seagull in flight, who, by his Divine Right, pillages the nests of other cliff dwelling sea birds. I, in turn, may also excercise my Right to pillage your belongings in order to ensure a more perfect survival of my needs and the needs of my offspring. If that means I vote money out of your pocket to buy my prescription drugs, or to school my own little “nest-nuggets”, you’d better cough up or else I’ll send someone over to fuck up your nest in a hurry.”

If we human beings are to derive our rights from our observations of animal behavior, well, just about anything goes. I mean, it may be arguable to some whether or not we have the right to load the atmosphere with fossil fuels emissions, but we certainly would have a “divine animal right” to piss on our neighbor’s landscaping. We can agree on that much, can’t we? And why stop there?

What about your divine animal right to gang bang the neighbor’s wife if you catch her alone in the front yard some enchanting moonlit night? It all falls into the realm of clearly precedented animal rights.

It was only a movie. Just the fancy of some boiler plate screenwriting team, but all this mind gook that it’s based upon is a clear and present product of popular thought. It’s not only being disseminated in the cool comfort of the summer cinematic mind massage, it’s, as the Visa ad says, everywhere you want to be. The streets, universities, stores, backyards, and barbeques. The stuff that passes for thought or profound wisdom is often rank and penetrating. You can ignore it with limited success, but you won’t escape the odor of it. Eventually it will reach you where you live.

In Defense of Liquid Joe’s

The folksy, light-hearted tone of the “Gone Fishin” sign doesn’t sit well with Debra Hudson, Oseguera’s aunt.

“I wanted to see that the place was actually closed, and I saw the ‘Gone Fishin’ sign. I took that as a slap. I took it personally. I know that’s not how they meant it, but they should have just said, ‘Closed.’ That just seemed a little big.”

In January 2000 Christopher Oseguera,18, and Casey Dugdale, 19, perished in a fiery crash when their Jeep Wrangler was rear-ended by a pick-up truck driven at 70 mph by Paul Upwall, a piss drunk patron of Liquid Joe’s bar in Salt Lake County, Utah.

Upwall left Oseguera and Dugdale to die, trapped in the burning Jeep, while he fled on foot from the scene. He was apprehended the following day at his home. Another passenger in the jeep, Aaron Sharples, was critically injured, but survived because he had been thrown clear of the wreckage.

The folksy, light-hearted tone of the “Gone Fishin” sign doesn’t sit well with Debra Hudson, Oseguera’s aunt.

“I wanted to see that the place was actually closed, and I saw the ‘Gone Fishin’ sign. I took that as a slap. I took it personally. I know that’s not how they meant it, but they should have just said, ‘Closed.’ That just seemed a little big.”

In January 2000 Christopher Oseguera,18, and Casey Dugdale, 19, perished in a fiery crash when their Jeep Wrangler was rear-ended by a pick-up truck driven at 70 mph by Paul Upwall, a piss drunk patron of Liquid Joe’s bar in Salt Lake County, Utah.

Upwall left Oseguera and Dugdale to die, trapped in the burning Jeep, while he fled on foot from the scene. He was apprehended the following day at his home. Another passenger in the jeep, Aaron Sharples, was critically injured, but survived because he had been thrown clear of the wreckage.

The only thing Upwall’s victims had done to deserve their fate was to stop at a traffic light while driving home from watching a hockey game. Paul Upwall was 100% responsible for slamming three young men into an instant inferno, but the state of Utah is getting serious about holding bar owners responsible for the carnage their customers cause on the state’s highways.

A few years ago I had a scrape with a drunk driver, an obnoxious, raging boar who damaged my sister’s parked vehicle. My experience was trivial compared to what the families of Upwall’s victims had to face, but I can surely understand why Utahns seek to end the nightmare of DUI damage across their majestic plateau.

Any debate over the state’s authority to license at all is undeniably part of the more pertinent and overarching problem here, but I’ll leave that part out for now and concede that Utah is acting within the bounds of the licensing agreement that Liquid Joe’s signed onto with the state. However, holding a business culpable for the crimes of its customers is a perverse way of addressing any problem.

“We need to have rigorous enforcement and also rigorous prosecution so that the licenses of bars are revoked when their actions result in a death,” said Art Brown, president of the Utah chapter of Mothers Against Drunken Driving.

And it is just this kind of enforcement advancement that some national research shows to be beneficial. A study published in the most recent issue of Advances by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation suggests that cities “consider greater restrictions on alcohol accessibility and disciplinary measures for alcohol outlets that violate beverage laws.”

It’s too easy to fall into the trap of blaming the management of a hard partying imbibery for their customers’ behavior and to forget that the true core of the issue goes right back to that of individual responsibility. Are alcoholic beverage distributors also to be held liable since they know, or must know, that the businesses to which they sell have reputations for getting people drunk? Shouldn’t Seagrams know that Liquid Joe’s is using their product to mix up a concoction called a “Mind Eraser”?

Just how far and wide can the state seek to spread the distribution of culpability?

“But tackling enforcement of serving over-intoxicated patrons is much more than a DUI issue,” [Lt. Ed Michaud] said. “When bars and restaurants break the rules and serve too much to a drinker, they also contribute to domestic violence, alcohol poisoning, fights and other alcohol-related problems.”

The possibilities are endless.

When Anarchists Attack

It’s not as if you hesitate to turn your back on them. You see them
as domesticated, congenial, even. They’ll cheerfully watch your money on the bar for you
or hold your place in line if you need to make a quick trip to the rest room or to the
phone. You may have had them in your home as guests. Certainly, in spite of leftist
mischaracterization of them, anarcho-capitalists are often generous and on top of
everything else, they make the perfect designated drivers due to their rational natures.
So why fear them?

Why, indeed. Only because they can be provoked at any given
moment for the most subtle of reasons and because of the sheer deadliness of their
arguments. Granted, the incidence of lethal anarchist attacks is relatively low, but the
consequences can be severe, especially to the comfortable paradigms of conservatives and
Libertarians.

Anarchists have been known to walk the assorted,
unsuspecting conservative or Libertarian safely across the street only to gut him right on the sidewalk. It’s not a
pretty prospect. When it happens to you, you’ll likely be reminded, as you lay bleeding,
that your designated driver contract only bound them to drive you home safely and that
there was no agreement on their part to actually not kill you on your doorstep. Good
point, you think, as you lose consciousness and the world, as you knew it, draws in and
darkens.

It’s not as if you hesitate to turn your back on them. You see them
as domesticated, congenial, even. They’ll cheerfully watch your money on the bar for you
or hold your place in line if you need to make a quick trip to the rest room or to the
phone. You may have had them in your home as guests. Certainly, in spite of leftist
mischaracterization of them, anarcho-capitalists are often generous and on top of
everything else, they make the perfect designated drivers due to their rational natures.
So why fear them?

Why, indeed. Only because they can be provoked at any given
moment for the most subtle of reasons and because of the sheer deadliness of their
arguments. Granted, the incidence of lethal anarchist attacks is relatively low, but the
consequences can be severe, especially to the comfortable paradigms of conservatives and
Libertarians.

Anarchists have been known to walk the assorted,
unsuspecting conservative or Libertarian safely across the street only to gut him right on the sidewalk. It’s not a
pretty prospect. When it happens to you, you’ll likely be reminded, as you lay bleeding,
that your designated driver contract only bound them to drive you home safely and that
there was no agreement on their part to actually not kill you on your doorstep. Good
point, you think, as you lose consciousness and the world, as you knew it, draws in and
darkens.

Be ready for it. It’s bound to happen and when it does,
applying just a little common sense and drawing on the experiences of others can make all
the difference in your chances of surviving when anarchists attack.

All will seem well. You’ll be having a hell of a good time
swatting statists with your rolled-up, large print copy of the Constitution. There you’ll
be, just wailing on some contemptible, socialist rodent that you’ve got solidly cornered
when, out of the blue, you hear a voice from behind your own lines quietly say, "What
gives you the right to rule me?"

You turn to get a lock on the voice. The cornered rodent
scurries away. So begins the real conflict.

"Why don’t you just unroll that piece of pulp you’re
holding there and tell me if you see my signature on it?" suggests the voice, which
you now recognize as a stringent former ally in the battle against the political evils of
the previous administration.

You respond that, of course, there are no signatures there,
but the consent is implied. "It’s a social contract. You choose to live here so you
choose to live by the laws. If you don’t like them, it’s all the more reason you need to
work to change the laws and your elected representatives. No excuses for not acting. No
mercy for whiners. Didn’t vote, don’t bitch. Anyway, even though I don’t agree with most
of the laws, we need laws. We just do."

I warned you it wasn’t a pretty prospect.

You continue. Your field of vision narrows and you grasp at
anything that flies past your stream of consciousness in your mounting desperation to
silence the voice that keeps insisting it has given no consent, implied or otherwise, to
bestow authority on a document drawn by the scantiest representation, even among the
populace of its own originating era.

You do a bit more thrashing and then you start arguing
necessity. Inevitably W.W.II is invoked along with the virtues of conscription in fighting
the good war. You get shot down. You begin to hallucinate, as evidenced by weird
illuminations whimsically embroidered in the margins of your argument, i.e., "lichen
is a social contract between a fungus and an alga."

If fate is merciful, you’ll be called away from whatever
forum or venue you’re in by some external force for a finite cool down period. It can be
overnight or a matter of days, but it is the crucial return to the discussion afterwards
which will determine your survivability.

It is at this point that you’ll do one of two basic
categories of things.

One, you’ll decide that the ideas being put to you are
unthinkable. You’ll, consequently avoid all thought on the issue itself by concentrating
considerable mental capacity on winning the argument. You may embark on a calculated
defensive or you may choose to launch an offensive, which will be fierce, but irrational.
(You won’t win, but if you’re the sporting type, you’ll derive some satisfaction from the
adrenaline rush.)

Whether choosing to hold a defense or going on the
offensive, it will require you to turn away from the logic of the argument and draw deep
from the primordial recesses of rote thought and indoctrination. It’s not that you can’t
think, it’s more that you must keep returning to low points in your intellect where
habitual and even infantile thinking tends to pool up.

If you persist, you’ll draw abundantly from the brackish
wells of un-replenished reflexive response and, with any luck, you’ll deplete them. It’s
not much of an alternative for thought, but it’s not altogether unproductive discussion,
either. On the up side, even your worst argument can reveal something useful, if only at a
second glance later on down the road.

Or two, you might consider folding a losing hand.