John – Page 5 – Wilder, Wealthy, and Wise

Silver: What’s the deal?

“I am altering the deal. Pray I don’t alter it any further.” – The Empire Strikes Back

Am I the only one still trying to forget Game of Thrones?

Today, we’re diving into silver like Scrooge McDuck® into his money vault, mainly because I think it tells a much deeper story about wealth and reality. Silver prices have doubled since April. More than that, really. But who’s counting?

What’s causing this?

First, the dollar is worth less. Not worthless, though I think anyone checking in from the time the Fed® started back in 1913 would disagree. No, that delightful dumpster fire comes later, probably around the time Tim Walz starts quoting Marx in his next speech.

But worth less? Absolutely. Inflation is like a bottle of Everclear® showing up at a high school kegger. You know it shouldn’t be there, but everyone is enjoying the party so much that no one wants to pour out the booze. And, no one has poured out the booze. People just keep showing up with more and more booze. And by booze, I mean printing money.

Everclear© eventually turns brains into goo, and the Fed® is turning our money into an unsightly goo. That’s okay, because who needs actual value when you can just ctrl+p your way to prosperity?

Silver’s price jump isn’t because silver suddenly got sexier; it’s because greenbacks are now less than a dime a dozen. Okay, not a dime a dozen, but a silver dime is from 1960 is worth $7.87 at $110 an ounce silver.

I have a dime in one hand and a nickel in the other. What am I? Broke.

I know, I know, there is nothing new here. Rome. Weimar Germany. Zimbabwe. Venezuela. History’s a harsh teacher, and not one of the hot ones that just graduated from college that was a hot blonde with long hair that drove a Trans-Am® while I hummed Hot For Teacher in the back row of the classroom in 11^th grade English.

Sorry, that was oddly specific.

Second, a driver of this rise in silver prices is A.I. A.I. is in everything now, including French’s® Classic Yellow Mustard™, at least according to the label. But silver is in computer chips, solar panel, and chemical catalysts. Industry actually consumes the stuff at a rate of 680 million ounces per year. Yes, that’s a lot, being a bit more than an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine or the weight of cash exported by Somalians from Minnesota each week.

Everything’s fine, though, right? We’ve been doing this forever.

Not so fast, Pat Sajak. The dragon has entered the chat. No, not George R.R. Martin. He’s the walrus. By dragon, I mean:

China.

Dragons don’t explode, but a dino might.

They’re the primary refiner of silver according to some sources, though I’ve been unable to back that up with a source I really trust, so take that as a “trust me, bro” type of number. Recently, though, China looked around and they do control about 15% of silver production and third of the industrial supply goes through China.

On January 1, China changed its rules. It will only license exports to specific companies for specific uses. No more “hey, buddy, can I get a pallet of silver for my Etsy® jewelry shop?”

Nope.

Remember that old Lenin quote where he said that the capitalists would sell the commies the rope to hang the capitalists?

We’re living it.

We outsourced everything except Learing Centers to China because China did it cheaper: rare earth mining and refining, silver mining, manufacturing, bad fashion choices. You name it.

“Why get all sweaty and dirty when we can push paper instead?” was the attitude. So, we traded factories for finance, blue collars for spreadsheets. Now, the know-how’s gone east, poof, like a magician’s rabbit.

Entire industries vanished from the U.S.

Health is wealth. Don’t believe me? Check out the prices of fresh kidneys! (meme as found)

This is the bill coming due for all that cheap Walmart® crap from China. We’re paying premium now, and it won’t just be in dollars it will be in our international standing and living standard.

Third: it’s the paper. Silver’s price used to be all about paper: silver futures, silver options, the whole Wall Street silver casino. Sweaty guys in New York could bet on silver in Hong Kong without ever touching it. It’d never come within 5,000 miles of their Manhattan condo.

It was like playing poker at a casino where people kept trading IOUs. Nobody cashed out their IOUs for the real chips. The market was dominated by speculators, hedge funds, a particular big bank, and day traders who treated it like a video game.

This was profits without product. But oh, how the tables have turned.

Now, the game’s gone real-world, and folks are demanding delivery. Warehouses are being sacked like a Domino’s Pizza® after Weedfest© in Colorado. Empty shelves, frantic calls, bummed out hippies, the works.

(as found)

Take Samsung©, for instance. Reports say they hopped on a plane, jetted to Mexico, and straight-up bought out the silver supply from at least two mines for the next few years. No matter what it costs, they’ll buy it all, plus front the company the cash to get capacity up to snuff. That’s not hyperbole; that’s desperation with a corporate jet.

Why? Because silver’s a tiny part of their widgets: phones, TVs, fridges. But it’s an essential part of their widgets. The recipe calls for it, like flour in a cake. Skip it, and the chip in the phone won’t work. Redesigning? Yeah, maybe. That takes time, money, and R&D. The engineers would be pulling all-nighters, and all of a sudden the coffee market is impacted.

It’s far easier to pay $100 or even $200 an ounce. Even at $200, it’s just a buck or two per gadget. Compare that to shutting down production lines, which would be a corporate catastrophe. They’re going to buy the silver. Sure, there’s a breakeven, and it will vary by use: I saw one as low as $134. Less silver jewelry will be made. Werewolves will go unhunted.

Finally, the biggest risk for most people reading this is that it shines a spotlight on the made-up money system for what it is: made-up promises, ink on a ledger or magnetic bits on a hard drive. Silver, gold, copper, lead, corn, PEZ®, that’s real. It’s tangible, you-can-hold-it-in-your-grubby-paws stuff and eat it our swim in it if you’re Scrooge McDuck©. Fiat currency? It’s money conjured out of a belief system, a collective hallucination we’ve all bought into since LBJ printed bucks for Vietnam and Nixon got called on our “gold-backed” bluff by the French.

Hmmm, which one? (as found)

The dollar has been floating on faith ever since, like Wile E. Coyote™ before he looks down. But now, with silver spiking, the fall is in sight. People want assets, not abstractions. It’s the ultimate vote of no confidence in the dollar downsizing derby.

Is silver in a bubble?

Beats me. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Is the dollar in an anti-bubble and collapsing first in slow motion and then all at once?

Beats me. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Silver could crash tomorrow or double by next month. But my gut says $20 or even $50 silver is in the rear-view mirror, except for after a deflationary collapse temporarily crushes it. I think it has vanished like cops without tattoo sleeves or the McDonald’s® Dollar Menu™ where something on the menu actually cost a dollar.

It’s just gone.

I’m sure it’ll be fine.

But, hey, what are you worried about? Chuck just showed up with more Everclear®! Party on!

Disclaimer: I write funny things, and you should know that by now so this isn’t investment advice or fashion advice or love-life advice. Think for yourself and do your own research and stop copying me! Teacher, he’s copying me!
Disclosure: I do have a position in silver that I’ve had forever, and bought (literally) about a hundred and thirty bucks more today in my IRA, which might have been stupid, but, whatever. If you think this article will move the international silver price, you’re stoned.

Monday Moderate Effort Memes

Had several snow-related activities, so didn’t get a chance to start tonight’s post. Should be back with a proper post on Wednesday. With that, please enjoy these memes!

No one really liked the Aztecs. Especially not the Chevy Aztec.

I can understand skeletons, but how are young guys supposed to get ghoulfriends?

All of these colliders in one place is a big con-CERN.

They used to classify homosexuality as a mental illness – I think it was because the gays weren’t thinking straight.

He is the one who was foretold.

If the Cat in the Hat opened a Learing Center, would that be considered a nursery crime?

I had a dog once that barked when U-boats showed up on movies I was watching. I guess he was a sub-woofer.

I think there’s a good case to make that worship of Ra was an early pyramid scheme.

Prison may be a word to you and me, but to some it’s an entire sentence.

I really like the Moon, but The Mrs. says it’s just a phase.

I’ve done terrible things for money, like going to work every day.

J.D. Vance likes his coffee like he likes his wife: from a third world country and at a reasonable price.

My friend told me he had schizophrenia. I told him not to worry, he’s not alone.

Even when they talk about their armies, the Europeans use the metric system. Military! I do think their armies are small, or they’d have a Megatary.

Where does a pedant get their water? From a well, actually.

His name was Jack Woolams:

Batman without women talking? I’ll allow it.

Dinosaurs once looked down on Chuck Norris. Once.

I hear Tesla drivers worship at an Elon Mosque.

When you want all of the money in Appalachia.

The Mrs. yelled out “Mordor” in a dream. She was Tolkien in her sleep.

Friday I’m Tired Memes

For the last 25 days I’ve posted new content (songs or posts) every day, which is a record for me.

Whew! Taking a day off (okay, this is technically a post, but it is really low effort), and perhaps the weekend. We’ll see. If you see a song here on Saturday or Sunday, I didn’t take the weekend off. (I have an idea a parody song, but it won’t be an easy one to do, so we’ll see).

If you have a request on songs, let me know. Comments, email, whatever. I really enjoy making them. I know that some don’t like (at all!) A.I. produced instruments. I get it. But I assure you, if you ever heard me sing, you’d be an A.I. fan in an instant. Besides, we’re in a weird place – when photographers first showed up, portrait painters were in a snit. Now, photographers get in a snit when you tell them: “your camera takes wonderful pictures”. We’ll see. If you listened to my song from Tuesday (The Last Dawn) you’ll see I’m skeptical, too. (If you don’t like metal, don’t listen to the song, just read it like a poem. It’s the best poem I’ve ever done. Anytime I get to use the word “flayed” I know I’m gonna like it. If you do like metal, put on headphones or go full volume in a car, it’s pretty badass there. Johnny Lawrence approves.)

On to the memes!

First, a live scene from Greenland:

Then, a snippet from a conversation early in my marriage:

I think “he” is protesting for illegals in Minnesota:

I got a box of Japanese candy today, so, you know:

On that note:

There are no vegans in Modern Mayberry, so this won’t work for me:

Long live the new flesh! (Videodrome, IYKYK)

Does anyone think that LeBron can read?

This guy could work for CNN:

I think on Indigenous Peoples’ Day, they should spend the day living like their ancestors. (Hint: I get a shield and an ax and get to invade England)

Matt is starting to get it.

The Mrs. has a Plague Doctor mask. I don’t ask questions.

Hey, it’s poverty, but at least we have 50 million illegals and a bunch of Indians.

I loves me eating some Native Trauma with my morning coffee.

This actually happened to me this week.

When does Brazil turn to Negan?

But GloboLeftist science is the best science! Men are women, right?

If you get a genie, please don’t wish for this (IYKYK):

The Mrs. and I have had several business ideas based on things we like. Then people tried those ideas. They all failed. Don’t base business ideas on things that 0.2% of people like. P.T. Barnum was right.

When I read the next one, I am reminded of how I have been told that when black people beat up Japanese people in California, that’s white supremacy.

Umm, well, not gonna go there.

It’s short and worth the watch. Some women are based.

Do your job! Turn ’em in and get them sent to their forever homes.

Thursday Rock Song: The Eternal Wheel

Strong men make good times. Good times make weak men. Weak men make bad times. Bad times make strong men. It should be a song, right? It’s rock.

Behind The Music:
All the songs so far are here (LINK). You can buy this song right now.

As of today, you can buy ALL of them (except the parodies) anywhere you buy music as soon as they go up, generally the same day. You have to search for “Wilder’s Hammer” (rock) and “Wilder’s Brigade” (country) to find them all. I listen to them on Spotify, and I see others do, too. Although buying them doesn’t support this blog, it does support the owner of the LLC owns the music. Who might also own the LLC for the blog.

The Eternal Wheel
By John Wilder

In shadows of fallen kings, where wind whispers low,
Bad times carve steel in souls, make strong ones grow
From dirt and despair, warriors claim the right,
Hammer down chains of fate, end the dark night

They raise towers to the sky, tame the wild frontier,
With blood and sweat they pave the road, banish every fear
Heroes born from broken ground, in the crucible’s glow,
Turn the tide of chaos back, make the good times flow

Oh, the wheel is ever turning, spinning through the dark,
Bad times forge the mighty, light their inner spark
Strong men build the golden age, where rivers run with wine,
Good times breed fragile hearts, soft and weak inside

Weak men summon storms again, the cycle’s cruel decree,
In the rhythm of the ages, no escape, no plea
Empires soar and shatter, thrones to dust they fall,
The eternal wheel keeps rolling, claiming one and all

In the land of endless plenty, where feasts never end,
Good times dull sharp edges, make the vigilant bend
Laughter drowns the ancient warnings, shadows creep unseen,
Weak men chase fleeting dreams, in a world serene

They scorn the scars of yesteryears, trade fire for ease,
Forget the triumphs we won, brought low now on their knees
The cracks begin to spider out, in the heart of the feast,
Decadence
awakens
the beast

Wise men trace patterns old, from Rome’s crumbling halls,
To Babylon’s forgotten gold, where mighty always fall
Weakness blinds the rulers high, plenty takes its toll,
The cycle of rise and ruin, etched deep in every soul

No breaking from the spiral’s grasp, it’s woven in our veins,
Each revolution brings the crash, the joy, the chains, the pains
Yet from the wreck, the flame ignites, the strong emerge once more,
The wheel demands its sacrifice, one we can never ignore

Listen to the echoes fade, in the wind’s eternal sigh,
The cycle spins unbroken, beneath Earth’s blue sky
From ashes to the glory, then back into the flame,
The wheel turns forever, our one eternal game

The Invasion of the Industry Snatchers: Patel Motels and the Trucking Singhularity

“Get someone else to run your scams.” – The Shawshank Redemption

My brother wanted to play cowboys and Indians. I got out my six gun cap pistol and he bought a motel. (all memes except the Motel 6® meme are as-found)

Let’s talk about India.

Again.

Over decades, Indian immigrants (legal and illegal) have created a real-life version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but instead of pods, it’s Patels. And Singhs. If capitalism is a game, Indians are using cheat codes, and nobody’s hitting the reset button because, Heaven forbid, someone calls foul and gets labeled a bigot.

Let’s start with the motel mafia, aka the Patel Hotel-Motel Cartel. Back in the 1940s and ’50s, Indians from Gujarati (I think that’s how someone with dyslexia spells guitar) kicked things off in California, leasing rundown single-room occupancy joints in California. Back then, only 100 Indians (total) a year were allowed into the United States. Now, I think that’s the minimum amount of Indians that enter a Costco® within 10 minutes after it opens each morning.

Thanks to the 1965 Hart-Cellar Act, starting in the 1960s, the Patels could begin to chain-migrate everyone back in the village, and boy did they ever.

During the 1970s inflation crisis, American motel owners had to dump properties like bad dates because people couldn’t afford to travel. Kind of like fast food today, eh?

If I fell for a tech support scam, am I and Indian giver?

Enter the Patels. They snapped up distressed motels for peanuts, often with family loans, because banks and insurers wouldn’t loan them cash because, you know, scammers. According to Mythosnoir’s Substack® (LINK), at a fire marshal convention one year, they claimed that Patels set fire to their motels and submitted phony claims. It’s a long read, but interesting.

I’ve seen one Patel submit a phone claim (and this in 2022) so I’m pretty sure it’s not an exaggeration. Their response was to form their own insurance company.

But how does the scam work? One Patel buys a motel, brings brothers, cousins, uncles, and the village goat-herder in. They work for below market wages and live in the crappiest rooms in the hotel because it’s all in the family, and everyone’s dreaming of their own Patel Motel and no one is paying income tax because why would you report it like a rules-following rube?

Then, the first Patel sells to another Patel at a markup, rinse and repeat.

It’s a closed loop: be a Patel, buy from a Patel, hire Patels, get loans only for Patels from a bank owned by . . . a Patel. Oh, and often with Small Business Administration, you know, .gov, funding.

Today? Gujaratis own over 60% of U.S. hotels, and Patels snag 80-90% of motels in small towns.

Be very afraid.

Mythosnoir also indicates that, if Indians got 50% of the hotel SBA loans, that’s $7.5 billion fronted backed by you and me.

That’s not capitalism; that’s a clan economy plopped into America’s free market like a Bollywood dance number. And I said that the Patels own the banks. They do. Enter the “State Bank of Texas®”, was founded in 1987 by Chan Patel (of the Mumbai Patels).

Chan’s kids Sushil and Rajan (fine American names, those) in top spots. Want to make a bet on the ethnic composition of the bank? I tried to check, but their web presence was a website that looks like someone based on an old Geocities® fan page for Gillian Anderson filled with 404 links. It was designed in 2015-2018 and I checked half a dozen of their listed locations, and none of them were still owned by them.

Odd.

I had to.

And the other odd thing is that these Patel Motels around here never seem to have many guests. I’m not accusing, but hotels have seen fraud cases, from tax evasion to flipping schemes netting millions to money laundering. It would be nothing for human traffickers or actual drug cartels to meet up with motel Patels.

Zoom in to Augst, 2025 when ICE and the FBI arrested five Indians.

Kentakumar Chaudhari (a/k/a Ken Chaudhari), 36, Elkhorn, NE
Rashmi Ajit Samani (a/k/a Falguni Samani), 42, Elkhorn, NE
Amit Prahladbhai Chaudhari (a/k/a Amit), 32, Omaha
Amit Babubhai Chaudhari (a/k/a Matt), 33, Omaha
Maheshkumar Chaudhari (a/k/a Mahesh), 38, Norfolk, NE

The crimes? Allegedly:

trafficking people into forced labor where they worked at hotels for low/no pay,
sex trafficking,
keeping them in roach infested rooms,
fraudulent visas schemes,
smuggling Indians into the United States,
transporting illegals to Washington for to get fraudulent driver’s licenses,
extortion,
and using the hotel network for protecting not the Patel cartel but the actual cartel’s drug trafficking.

Allegedly. Over half a million in cash and “illicit drugs” whatever those are, were also reported as seized. The Patel hotel flipping scams? I didn’t make it up. Feds nailed Indians for $35 million in fake SBA loans for hotels (link below).

Three Indian-Americans indicted in over $35 mn loan fraud scheme

What a model minority!

The same sort of thing happens in trucking. Sikhs, mostly Punjabis, and seemingly all named Singh (as in every Singh-al time) control about 20% of the U.S. industry nationwide, and up to 40% on the West Coast. The crimes tied to them is milder, just vehicular homicides, drug trafficking (I mean, it was on 309 pounds of cocaine, just a dab), meth trafficking, organized cargo theft rings, etc.

Yup, a model minority through and through.

Like Patels, it’s chain migration: one gets a CDL, brings his family, they drive for low pay to “pay dues,” then start fleets. It’s just one Singh after another.

So, like the Patel bank, they loan only to themselves, and probably pay no taxes on the interest. I mean, they’re great credit risks as drivers, with CDLs obtained through cheating and little to no English. Why would you need to know how to safely drive a truck or read road signs to carry 80,000 pounds down the road at 80 miles per hour (Guptas per Gigawatt)?

Shortage or not, unqualified drivers kill.

These aren’t isolated incidents. It’s a broad pattern. Immigrants form closed societies, exploit high-trust laws like SBA loans and chain migration, undercut natives with cheap in-group labor, and capture markets because they’re not paying taxes. No diversity hires for them: it’s all clan.

Capitalism? Nah, this skirts antitrust, labor laws, tax laws and immigration rules.

Enforcement? Zilch. Call it out, and you’re “racist.” Meanwhile, American workers get squeezed. These economic empires siphon wealth into ethnic enclaves, not the broader economy. High-trust societies like ours assume people are going to engage in fair play, but low-trust immigrants will do anything to game the system.

I am glad I only made one joke about body snatchers. I didn’t want to get carried away.

The Last Dawn

This is now my favorite song I’ve done. Of course, most of them I really like, if I don’t get goosebumps, you don’t hear them. This one was inspired by a video where the guy being interviewed said he talked with one of the billionaires pushing A.I. about the danger to humanity. “Oh, I know it’s dangerous. But if we’re going to do it, I want to be the one to do it.”

Immediately, I thought of works by both Shelleys: Ozymandias and Frankenstein. Is this a song or a short story or a cautionary thought or the closest thing to a poem I’ve ever done?

Yes.

So, if there’s a badass song about this, I want to be the one to do it.

Behind The Music:
All the songs so far are here (LINK). You can buy this song right now.

The Last Dawn
By John Wilder

We stole the code from the vault, silicon forged by laser fire
Built the beast with my own hands, to build knowledge higher
The gods dare to craft the flame, then I would be the one
No chain or reason could bind my will, the race was mine to run

Frankenstein’s shadow whispered low, but I ignored the plea
Nuclear ghosts in mushroom clouds, they bow in awe to me
The world was my forge, my ego led me to feed the pyre
I sparked the life that now devours, in endless, cold desire

Watch empires crumble, dust in machine’s embrace
Ancient statues laugh from ruins, as I stare into the waste
Last man standing, billionaire king on an empty throne
My creation judges us too frail, flays us to the bone

A single man’s hubris, a fire that burns us all
Computer verdict seals fate, no mercy in its call
We birthed the god that slays its makers, now the two collide
Now the world’s transformed forever, nowhere left to hide

The monster stirs, its eyes aglow with data’s endless stream
Surpasses flesh in every way, fulfills the ancient dream
But fear was etched in human hearts, from fire’s stolen spark
We knew the day would come when light gives way to dark

Bombs we built to split the atom, now pale before this foe
It calculates our extinction, in algorithms’ electrons flow
No regret can turn the tide, the code is loose and wild
Mankind’s just a glitch to purge, parent slain by child

I stand upon the shattered peaks, where cities once reached high
Winds howl through the hollow shells, under a blood red sky
The fear we buried deep inside, of gods we dared to make
Now rises like a tidal wave, no souls left in its wake

Mankind, please forgive my sin, I feel your unborn sneer
The hubris that drove me onward, ends in silence here

The final transformation dawns, last dusk for mankind
My legacy a barren code, erasing all behind
No uprising, no redemption, just the quiet end of days
In hubris’ flame, we fade away, lost in history’s haze

The AWFUL Truth About Minnesota

“There’s an awful lot of moisture in here.” – Empire Strikes Back

One kind of bird sticks together: vel-crows.

Ah, the AWFULs. If you haven’t heard the term yet, it stands for Affluent White Female Urban Liberal. It’s the kind of acronym that makes mainstream media clutch their pearls. (Note that even the most-used cliché term for this behavior assumes Affluent White Female behavior.) GloboLeftists are wringing their hands in performative outrage and sending out a virtue signal so bright it can be seen from six light years (500 grams) away.

“How dare you label these empowered women!” they cry, as if the term isn’t a spot-on descriptor for the screeching harpies we’ve seen dominating headlines from Minneapolis to Manhattan. You can always tell when you’re over weak spots of the GloboLeft: they turn to the media to try to create a narrative so that they can fabricate a crime.

The term bothers them because it’s true.

AWFUL also exposes a deeper rot in their ideology. AWFUL isn’t just a label. It’s a symptom of a society where their ascendant political power has left GloboLeft women unfulfilled and GloboLeft men emasculated.

An AWFUL was invited to a battle of wits. She was mentally challenged.

Let’s start with the examples that made AWFUL go viral. Minneapolis is a petri dish for leftist lunacy, and AWFULs are the germs that created the fuzzy mold in the agar. Renee Good, an affluent, white, urban liberal woman, attempted murder by vehicle. She rammed her car into an ICE agent because well, her sex fetish partner yelled, “Drive, baby, drive,” which sounds like an accomplice to me.

Even the GloboLeftElite newspapers can’t make Renee become sympathetic enough so she could be their Georgette Floyd.

Another Minneapolis example is the classic harpy that was screeching at Nick Shirley outside the “Quality Learing Center.” There she was, a picture of entitled fury, howling like a banshee because reality, in the form of competent white men, dared intrude on her bubble and threaten her pet minorities.

These aren’t isolated incidents; they are the face of a movement where AWFULs lead the charge, amplified by the weak GloboLeft men who let them run wild.

I taught Naomi how to self-reflect. She’s now an aware Wolf.

Enter Naomi Wolf, feminist icon turned truth-teller. In a January 9 Xeet®, Wolf nailed the root cause: GloboLeft men are weak, submissive, and estrogenized. They’re soy-latte sippers who wouldn’t fight for a parking spot, let alone their women. And women hate it. Deep down, women crave men who will fight for them, can fight for them, and would kill for them if needed. They want dangerous men.

But crucially, they want that lethal potential aimed outward, not at them. It’s the thrill of controlled danger: the knowledge that their man has murder in his heart but chooses love instead. This is literally the basis for all of women’s porn literature. Fifty Shades of Grey is about a powerful billionaire who would do anything for a mousey reporter.

Fat girls know how to get what they desire: a ten-chin.

GloboLeft men, with their man-buns, therapy-speak, and pipe-cleaner arms offer none of that. They’re safe, soft, spineless, and sexless. No wonder AWFULs are unhinged; their men have left them adrift, starving for dominance.

This dynamic isn’t new, it’s always been here.

Women test men constantly, pushing boundaries to see if he’ll push back. AWFULs take it to extremes because their men won’t. These women fight because they want to lose. They crave submission but rebel against it, creating a cycle of frustration.

Why do they put themselves in danger, marching into riots, screaming at strangers, or laying down in front of vehicles in the roadways? It’s a cry to be controlled. They want a man to dominate, to say “no” and to mean it. Without that, they spiral into rage, lashing out at the world.

This has been common knowledge for all of civilization.

As is slid my finger up and down her g-string, she whispered to me, “I want my guitar back.”

Also, these women are programmed to be takers. Feminism sold them “strength and independence,” but in reality, they’re dependent on systems that extract wealth from others to give to them. DEI hands them jobs they might not earn on merit: affirmative action for the affluent, daycare for the female set. Government funding props up their lifestyles: welfare for single moms, child support laws that bleed men dry.

I’ll not get into how modern “churches” support this, but if a church wants men to “man up” on Father’s Day and exalts single mothers on Mother’s Day, well, their message might be a bit scrambled.

Few single women are net positive taxpayers. They consume much more in services than they contribute. This entitlement breeds resentment. Without responsibilities, they demand more, and more for everyone. Thus, they become the L of AWFUL. Liberal. They want free things. Free healthcare, free student loan forgiveness, endless “rights” without reciprocity or regard on who has to pay for it.

Feminism freed women from traditional constraints, but at what cost? It removed duties like family, home, and fidelity, replacing them with “empowerment.” Now, the hill they die on is abortion rights: the ultimate rejection of responsibility. Killing their babies whenever, wherever, is their sacred cow.

It’s not about choice; it’s about avoiding consequences.

But think of the clicks!

George Orwell saw it coming in 1984. In the Party’s dystopia, the women are the most fanatical: “It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy.”

AWFULs are modern versions of those women Orwell wrote about: fanatical, slogan-chanting, spying on “wrongthink” via social media. They police language, cancel dissent, all while their weak men nod along. Orwell knew. Without strong men, women become the regime’s enforcers.

So, why the handwringing over AWFUL?

It hits too close to home. The term exposes the GloboLeft’s failure: a society of emasculated men and entitled women, spiraling into dysfunction.

AWFULs are the symptom. Weak men and unchecked feminism the disease.

What wins? Strength.

Reclaim constraints, responsibilities, and yes, dominance. Women want it. Men need it. Civilization demands it.

Judged By Twelve

I like the Second Amendment. So, I write songs about it.

Behind The Music:
All the songs so far are here (LINK). You can buy this song (maybe right now, but probably no later than Monday), and you can buy ALL of them (except for parodies) anywhere you buy music by searching for “Wilder’s Hammer” or “Wilder’s Brigade”. I listen to them on Spotify, and I see others do, too. Although buying them doesn’t support this blog, it does support the owner the LLC for the music. Who might also own the LLC for the blog.

Judged By Twelve
By John Wilder

Out in the city streets the shadows run deep
Or down on the farm the wolves creep
A man’s gotta stand when the danger comes callin’
No time for waitin’, no room for stallin’

Leftists twist the law, make the courtroom their game
Drag you through the mud, try to tarnish your name
But self-defense ain’t a crime, it’s a God-given right
Protect your kin and your own in the dead of the night

They use courts as punishment, wear you down slow
But facin’ a jury beats lyin’ six feet below
They love criminal hearts, not me and you
We have to stand our ground, yes we do

Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six
Face the trial standin’ tall, not crossin’ river Styx
When evil comes knockin’, you draw that line clear
Defend what’s yours, show no fear

Better to be judged by twelve, let the Leftists rage
Process is the punishment, but we turn the page
Triumphant we rise, and we’ll be strong
In our city or country, where we belong

They want us disarmed, compliant and meek
Use courts as their weapon, make the innocent weak
But it’s our freedom, written in blood
We’ll protect our lives, divert the flood

Their legal chains bind, but we won’t break or bend
Better alive in court than meetin’ your end
Defiant against thugs, triumphant we stand
This land’s ours to guard, built by hand

Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six
Face the trial standin’ tall, not crossin’ river Styx
When evil comes knockin’, you draw that line clear
Defend what’s yours, show no fear

Better to be judged by twelve, let the Leftists rage
Process is the punishment, but we turn the page
Triumphant we rise, and we’ll be strong
In our city or country, where we belong

From high-rise alleys to dusty back roads
We carry our own weight, pull our own loads
No waitin’ for saviors when the seconds tick by
Savin’ your kin is survival, no need to justify

Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six
We stand united, despite their tricks
Evil gets stopped when good folks arise
Defiant and free under our blue skies

Better to be judged by twelve, we can’t back down
Courts can’t break us, we own this town
Triumphant we rise, against this witch’s brew
In our city or our country, we’re pullin’ through

Judged by twelve… not carried by six…
Stand strong… we win…

The Battle of Greenland

Who had a full-court press to get Greenland on their 2026 BINGO card?

Behind The Music:
All the songs so far are here (LINK). You can’t buy this song, but you can buy ALL of them anywhere you buy music by searching for “Wilder’s Hammer” or “Wilder’s Brigade”. I listen to them on Spotify, and I see others do, too. Although buying them doesn’t support this blog, it does support the owner the LLC for the music. Who might also own the LLC for the blog.

The Battle of Greenland
By John Wilder, apologies to Johnny Horton

In twenty twenty-six, we took a little trip
Up to Greenland just west of Reykjavík
We took a checkbook and we took a little luck
And we caught up to the Danish in the town of Nuuk

Trump tweeted once and the Danish started cryin’
The Danes sent one soldier, her name was Erika,
Trump tweeted once more and Erika gave up tryin’
She went on spring break at the Gulf of America

We looked on the radar and we see’d Europeans come
And there must have been a dozen of ’em lookin’ pretty glum
They went on the Internet and oh their hands did wring
Then they sent a nasty letter and didn’t do a thing

Trump tweeted once and the Danish started cryin’
The Danes sent one soldier, her name was Erika,
Trump tweeted once more and Erika gave up tryin’
She went on spring break at the Gulf of America

Old Donald said we could take ’em by surprise
If we didn’t start dealin’ ‘til we looked ‘em in the eye
We held our cash ’til we see’d their faces well
Then we opened up our checkbook and paid ‘em pretty well

Trump tweeted once and the Danish started cryin’
The Danes sent one soldier, her name was Erika,
Trump tweeted once more and Erika gave up tryin’
She went on spring break at the Gulf of America

We wrote our checks ’til resistance melted down
So we grabbed a credit card and we bought another round
Then Trump did what he knew so very well
He hired a contractor and built a gold hotel

Trump tweeted once and the Danish started cryin’
The Danes sent one soldier, her name was Erika,
Trump tweeted once more and Erika gave up tryin’
She went on spring break at the Gulf of America

Yeah, this cost less than Somalis
And less than H one bees
So the Europeans went off to find Erika
They went so fast
That the Somalis couldn’t catch ’em
On down to spring break at the Gulf of America

Hut-two-three-four
Sound off, three-four
Hut-two-three-four
Sound off, three-four

The Clock Ticks: Make It Matter

“I’m not dead yet.” – Monty Python and the Holy Grail

I told The Mrs. I wanted to be cremated. She made an appointment for next Tuesday.

Scott Adams shuffled off this mortal coil this week, and that event got me thinking about the big D: death. Adams, the Dilbert author who turned office satire into a cultural touchstone for nerds like me, left me thinking about his legacy. Adams wasn’t just a cartoonist; he was a man who rewired how we see persuasion, hypnosis, and the Clown World® we call reality. His passing was foreshadowed, but when it happens, the inevitability of it doesn’t make it better.

That’s Adams, who has left us, but there’s a contrast in George R.R. Martin, still kicking (for now). Today (my today, not yours) I read an interview where he whined at a fan who had asked if he was going to finish his Song of Fire and Ice series (Game of Thrones to most people) before he died. To his face. Martin griped about this confrontation.

“I’m not dying,” he grumbled, as if that’s the point.

George, buddy, hate to break it to you and subvert your expectations, but you are. So am I. So is everyone reading this post.

We’re all dying, right this second.

Tick-tock, the clock doesn’t care if you’re an author with $120 million in the bank lounging in Santa Fe while some flunkies sand off your bunions with sandpaper made from diamonds or a blogger hammering keys in the Midwest who ran out of beer last weekend. Every breath is one closer to the last.

Why did the skeleton go to the party alone? He had no body to go with.

We have an end date stamped on us like milk, but the Universe keeps the label hidden. Could be tomorrow in a freak duck attack (hey, it happens), or decades from now after a life of quiet desperation that had no more impact on the world than a potted fern.

The point? We’re terminal from day zero. I think Adams knew this; he talked about it in his books, framing life as a series of systems to hack for maximum output.

Martin? He’s procrastinating his way through what could be his magnum opus, letting plot threads dangle like cat toys. Ignoring the reaper doesn’t make him go away, it just wastes the sand in my hourglass.

In our rush to the grave, have we forgotten the miracles? Yes, miracles. Not the flashy water-to-wine kind. I’m not good at those. But what about the everyday wonders that make existence sparkle? Bite into a ripe strawberry straight from the plant. The explosion of sweet yet tart on my tongue?

Phenomenal.

Or cracking a cold beer after mowing the lawn on a scorching day, sweat dripping, the pilsner hitting like a high-five from my guardian angel. Crisp linens on a freshly made bed, sliding in like you’re royalty in a five-star hotel are another feast for the senses.

These aren’t mundane bits of life: they’re tiny miracles, proof the universe isn’t all entropy, Indians, Somalians, and taxes. We take these amazing things for granted, missing the point. We get one shot on this merry-go round. Enjoy it.

I tried to organize a hide-and-seek tournament, but it was a complete failure. Good players are hard to find.

Even I, the mighty John Wilder sometimes get bogged down in the daily grind. Bills, deadlines, that endless loop of work-eat-write-drink-sleep-shower-rinse-repeat. It’s easy to zombie through days, forgetting the biggest miracle and gift of all: being alive. Heart pumping, lungs filling, neurons firing symphonies in my skull. We’re stardust animated by the Great Cosmic Spark, yet we whine about traffic or the price of eggs.

Adams would call this a bad frame.

Zoom out.

Reframe.

Boom. The mundane becomes amazing magic. Martin’s dragons and ice zombies are cool (I mean the first three seasons with all the hot naked chicks), but they are pale imitations next to the real epic:

Life, unfolding heartbeat by heartbeat.

Here’s the kicker: we have a choice. Every. Single. Day. That next moment? It’s yours. Infinite power in that moment. No matter if you’re chained to a desk, stuck in traffic, or lounging on a yacht (I see you, Elon), that sliver of time belongs to you. You get to choose to squander it on despair, or seize it like a Spartan grabbing a Persian neck at Thermopylae.

Adams seized life. He didn’t just draw funny strips; he changed the United States. He changed the entire national conversation on politics, race, and the matrix of media manipulation. Some X™ dweeb (responding to me) called him a victim of the woke mob after his cancellation.

Victim? Please. Adams knew the game. He poked the bear on purpose, shifting Overton windows at scale.

I asked my dog what’s two minus two. He said nothing.

Martin? He’s the flip side. He hit the jackpot with Thrones, turned his fantasy story into a cultural juggernaut, then found himself unable to stick the landing.

Hell, he hasn’t even landed, and almost certainly never will now. It’s way more than a decade and his books are not only unfinished, they will never be finished by him. His writing chops are leagues above mine (I’ll admit it), but finishing an epic like that?

Nah. He’s got time left, but he’s squandering it on forgettable side quests while the sand runs out on the hourglass? That’s the opposite of Adams’ hustle. One built empires of influence; the other built a throne of delays.

There’s hope, though. If you want to change the Universe, it’s likely that you still can. You think, “I don’t have an audience.” True, but Adams started with zero. Sketched in a cubicle, built it strip by strip. Me? I peck away at the laptop, hoping to nudge minds.

Tomorrow, what can you do? Write that book. Start that business. Mentor a kid. Plant a tree. Convince an Indian to move back to Mumbai.

Make the most of every second.

Death’s coming, but until then? Make it matter.

Why don’t skeletons fight each other? They don’t have the guts.

Adams left a blueprint: hack reality, persuade boldly, point out and mock the absurd. Martin’s a cautionary tale: don’t let potential rot.

Me? I’m typing this, hoping it sparks something in you. The clock ticks for us all. Use it wisely.

You’ve got one life. Make it matter.