Success, Fight Club, Strippers and Socialists

“We have just lost cabin pressure.” – Fight Club

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The second rule of Wilder Club is if this is your first visit, you have to comment.

I had a conversation with a friend today.  Oh, sure, I hear you say, what would an iconoclastic iron-jawed individualist with a body odor redolent of medium rare ribeye (with just a hint of pepper) like John Wilder need with a friend?  I guess we all have our little weaknesses.  And dogs follow me.  Because I smell like steak.

In this particular case as with most of my friends, I’ve known this friend for years.  I’ve known most of my close friends longer than The Boy has been alive, and he’s in college now.  It’s nice.  If a day, a week, a month or a year goes by, so what?  We can still restart the conversation where we left off.  It’s as comfortable as watching a movie you’ve seen a dozen times.

I’ll make the observation that the only place where the character of people change is in a movie – almost all of my close friends have the same sense of humor and the same sense of values that they had when our friendships were forming.  Absent a significant emotional event, people are a constant.

And I like that.

There is a corresponding trust that comes with being a close friend – honesty.  That’s why when talking with my friend, I really enjoyed the chance to be honest.  Honesty is difficult because it requires that trust, because really honest criticism is hard to take, even when it comes from a friend.  Or a co-worker.  Or a relative.  Or someone you just met.  Or your UPS® delivery guy.  Oh, wait.  Most people don’t like honest.  But my friends do.

This particular friend is really in a good position in life, which seems to be a common pattern with my friends.  He has a spouse that makes more money than he does, and, in general, the household probably brings in enough cash each month so that Nigerian princes send emails to them asking for money.  They’re wealthy enough that they donate to the homeless.  This appears to be a more socially acceptable donation strategy than my “donation to the topless,” scheme.

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Yes, this is the only joke that I’ve ever seen that involves both the Greco-Roman philosophy of stoicism and stripping.  I’m sure that Seneca would be proud.

But lest ye want to class my friend as the evil, selfish, wealthy type, he’s not.  The family has a huge number of kids, and it’s a close family.  My friend is constantly taking time off to go to athletic events, and when we catch up, I can sense that the relationship he has with his kids isn’t a surface relationship – it’s genuine and deep.  I can tell, because I know people who understand genuine relationships, who listen to both sides of a family argument – my neighbors.

And yet . . . despite the wealth, despite the great family, my friend feels that there’s something missing.  He is as high as he wants to go in the company he works at – any higher and the travel demands would pull him away from family.  He’s long since mastered his job – there is little that can be thrown at him that he hasn’t seen in the last fifteen or so years.  So, his condition is one of high pay, mastery of work, and, improbably, discontent.

John Wilder:  “You realize you have an advantage that 99% of people would die for.  You’re financially secure.  You can quit your job anytime.  Literally, you could walk in to your boss this afternoon and quit.  Your lifestyle wouldn’t change a bit.”

Not Elon Musk:  “Yes.”

Unlikely Voice of Wisdom John Wilder:  “So, what is it you want to do?”

Really, I Promise It Isn’t Elon Musk:  “I need to think about it.”

Channeling Tyler Durden From Fight Club® John Wilder:  “No.  If you think about it, you’ll end up doing nothing but thinking about it.  You have to do something.  Physically start it.  This weekend.  I’ll check back on Monday to see how you did.”

There is a scene in the movie Fight Club™ where Tyler Durden holds a gun to the head of a liquor store clerk.  If you haven’t seen the movie, I strongly suggest it.  I probably watch it once a month while I write – I think there are few movies that communicate the human condition in modern life so well.

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Pugsley doesn’t miss many school days.

JACK, in voiceover:  On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.

CLERK:  Please… don’t…

TYLER DURDEN: Give me your wallet.

Tyler pulls out the driver’s license.

TYLER:  Raymond K. Hessel. 1320 SE Benning, apartment A.  A small, cramped basement apartment.

RAYMOND:  How’d you know?

TYLER:  They give basement apartments letters instead of numbers.  Raymond, you’re going to die.  Is this a picture of Mom and Dad?

RAYMOND:  Yes.

TYLER:  Your mom and dad will have to call kindly doctor so-and-so to dig up your dental records, because there won’t be much left of your face.

RAYMOND:  Please, God, no!                            

JACK: Tyler…

TYLER:  An expired community college student ID card.  What did you used to study, Raymond K. Hessel?

RAYMOND:  S-S-Stuff.

TYLER:  “Stuff.”  Were the mid-terms hard?  I asked you what you studied.

JACK:  Tell him!

RAYMOND:  Biology, mostly.

TYLER:  Why?

RAYMOND:  I… I don’t know…

TYLER:  What did you want to be, Raymond K. Hessel?

Tyler cocks the .357 magnum Colt© Python™ pointed at Raymond’s head.

TYLER:  The question, Raymond, was “what did you want to be?”

JACK:  Answer him!

RAYMOND:  A veterinarian!

TYLER:  Animals.

RAYMOND:  Yeah … animals and s-s-s —

TYLER:  Stuff.  That means you have to get more schooling.

RAYMOND:  Too much school.

TYLER:  Would you rather be dead?

RAYMOND:  No, please, no, God, no!

Tyler uncocks the gun, lowers it.

TYLER:  I’m keeping your license.  I know where you live.  I’m going to check on you.  If you aren’t back in school and on your way to being a veterinarian in six weeks, you will be dead.  Get the hell out of here.

JACK:  I feel sick.

TYLER:  Imagine how he feels.

Tyler brings the gun to his own head, pulls the trigger — click.  It’s empty.

JACK:  I don’t care, that was horrible.

TYLER:  Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessell’s life.  His breakfast will taste better than any meal he has ever eaten.

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How dare you . . . make Greta uncomfortable.

And it’s true.  I tend to think that everyone’s life would be a little better if they had Tyler Durden to be a life coach, to ever so gently coax them to be the best they can be while holding a .357 magnum Colt® Python™ to their head.  That seems to be a bit frowned upon, so that leaves my friends with me.  See how lucky you are?

In my role as Dr. Durden, I’ve noticed that there’s a problem some people have.  It’s being too clever.  It’s thinking.  How do I know?  It’s my problem that I try to compensate for by writing and doing.  If I think about doing something, it will never get done.  I keep thinking about fixing the bannister that broke when we moved in to the house a decade ago.  It’s never been high on my list, since people falling down stairs is funny, with extra points if they are really old.  But thinking about doing something never accomplishes anything.

If I plan to do it, it will get done.  Half of my time driving to and from work on a day I’m going to write a post, I’m writing it in my head, selecting jokes, thinking of themes.  It’s also spent thinking of how I’m going to connect the idea I want to share with students who might be forced to read this post when Mrs. Grundy tells them to compare and contrast my work with that poseur, Mark Twain, in high school in the year 2248 (that’s when Kirk will be a sophomore).

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Okay, generally on my drive to work I have about five or ten minutes between cars, so it would take several hours to get a group of cars behind me like that.  But a man has to have goals!

It may look like I’m driving to work, but I’m really plotting out what I’m going to write about.  To be honest, it sometimes takes both lanes to do that.  I wish the State Patrol® would be a little more understanding to artists like me.

Thankfully, The Mrs. is.

The Mrs. and I had a conversation the other night.  It may or may not have involved wine – I’m not telling unless I’ve been subpoenaed and am under oath to a House subcommittee.  Actually, it wasn’t so much a conversation as The Mrs. describing to me how she felt about this little project I publish three times a week.

I don’t make any money on this blog, though I’ve made clear since day one that can change at any time.  I have plans for several (eventual) ways to do that including adding subliminal messages causing you to want to pay for my health insurance.  It looks like it’s already worked for Bernie Sanders.

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In a socialist paradise all bloggers make $450,000 a year, right?  But I worry that for this Christmas we won’t have an Elf on a Shelf, we’ll have a Bernie on a Gurney.

No, at this point, writing is a hobby.  But it’s a hobby that takes over 20 hours a week, sometimes closer to 30 hours.  I still have a job, and I won’t stop interacting my family, so most nights I won’t even start writing before 9pm.  A lot of that time comes from time I’d normally be selfishly engaged in what you mortals call “sleep”, but a chunk of that time comes directly from time I’d be spending with The Mrs.

When I’m writing, I’m simply not available.  I’m writing.

The Mrs.:  “You know, I would certainly have an issue with the time that you spend writing, if it weren’t important.”  There was more to this, where she detailed the number of hours I spend.  But I keyed in on the word “Important.”

I was a little surprised by that.  “Important?”

The Mrs.:  “Yes.  I can see that what you’re writing about is important.  People need to hear it.  So keep doing it.”

Okay, that proves she never reads this stuff.

But as I talked more with my friend, the concept of “meaning” came up.

My Friend Who is Really Most Certainly Not Elon Musk:  “So, it’s about meaning?”

Suddenly as Wise as the Roman Philosopher Seneca John Wilder:  “That’s silly.  You don’t go off chasing ‘meaning’ in your life.  Pick out something you like to do, and do it.  But figure out how to make it important to other people.  You like to woodwork, right?  You say you never have time to do it.  Do it this weekend.  Film it.  Put it up on YouTube®.  I’ll be checking up with you on Monday.”

I asked myself, why is my friend working at all?  I think because he feels he’s supposed to work.  That having a job is a rule, it’s what he’s always done.  The problem that many of us have is that we tend to create rules where there aren’t any rules.  I’m not sure why.  Perhaps we need to justify what we do.  Perhaps it’s like my two important rules for life:

  1. Don’t tell everything you know.

Success?  My friend is already successful in most ways a person can be successful.  Their life is really good.  I told them, directly, “You’ve been given so many gifts.  If you don’t make something special of your life, you’re wasting it.”

Interestingly, this applies to you, too.

And me.

How will your breakfast taste tomorrow?

How One Texas Court Case Defines The Future For A Seven Year Old . . . and The United States

“There’s no basement at the Alamo.” – PeeWee’s Big Adventure

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“I guess we’d better turn over our guns.” – No Texan Ever

In 1836, Colonel William Travis surveyed the situation.  It was grim.  He was surrounded.  His troops were outnumbered.  He was out of deodorant.  Defeat was certain.  The information his messengers brought back was clear – there would be no rescue.  With this certain death in mind, Colonel Travis addressed the defenders of the Alamo:

Colonel Travis:  “We must die,” he began. “Our business is not to make a fruitless effort to save our lives, but to choose the manner of our death.  We can surrender and be executed.  We can attack and be butchered.  Or, we can remain in this fort, resist every assault, and to sell our lives as dearly as possible.”

Travis then drew a line in the dirt with his sword.

Colonel Travis:  “I now want everyone here who is determined to stay here and die with me to come across this line.  Each man-”

Captain Triggered:    “Or woman.”

Colonel Travis:  “Or woman, to come across himself-”

Captain Triggered:  “Or herself.”

Colonel Travis:  “Or herself.  Furthermore, every man-

Captain Triggered:  “Or woman.”

Colonel Travis:  “Why don’t you shut up about women, Captain, you’re putting us off.”

Captain Triggered:  “Women have a perfect right to play a part in our movement, Colonel Travis.”

Colonel Travis:  “Why are you always on about women, Captain?”

Captain Triggered:  “I want to be one.”

Colonel Travis:  “What?”

Captain Triggered:  “I want to be a woman.  From now on I want you all to call me Loretta.”

Colonel Travis:  “What?”

Loretta:  “It’s my right as a man.”

Davy Crockett:  “Why do you want to be Loretta, Captain Triggered?”

Loretta:  “I want to have babies.”

Colonel Travis:  “You want to have babies???”

Loretta:  “It’s every man’s right to have babies if he wants them.”

Colonel Travis:  “But you can’t have babies.”

Loretta:  “Don’t you oppress me.”

Colonel Travis:  “I’m not oppressing you, Captain Triggered, you haven’t got a womb.  Where’s the fetus going to gestate?  You going to keep it in a box?”

(Loretta starts crying.)

Davy Crockett:  “I’ve got an idea.  Suppose, Colonel Travis, you agree that Loretta can’t actually have babies, not having a womb, which is nobody’s fault, not even the Mexicans, but that he can have the right to have babies.”

Jim Bowie:  “Good idea, Davy.  We shall fight the Mexicans for your right to have babies, brother.  Sister, sorry.”

Colonel Travis:  “What’s the point?”

Jim Bowie:  “What?”

Colonel Travis:  “What’s the point of fighting for his right to have babies, when he can’t have babies?”

Davy Crockett:  “It is symbolic of our struggle against Santa Ana.”

Colonel Travis:  “It’s symbolic of his struggle against reality.”

norris.jpgI’m just waiting for his next movie:  Walker, Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

This week another line was crossed.  Like the Alamo, it was really just another custody dispute in Texas.  Unlike the case of Santa Ana versus 3,000 crazy Texans, the custody case was about a real child, rather than a typical Texas divorce or Oklahoma tornado – where in either case someone loses a mobile home.

If you haven’t heard about this case, it involved a seven year old boy.

This particular seven year old child has been the subject of an ongoing trial that gathered national attention, and with good reason.  The child is a boy.  The father attempted to gain full custody of the child because the mother saw him liking the movie Frozen and wanting to dress like the main character.  I have never seen the movie Frozen.  Perhaps if Frozen was written by Matt Bracken (LINK) and starred a bunch of Soviet-era tanks, I might have been interested.

But this boy who likes Frozen is seven.  I recall when I was seven.  I wanted to be an astronaut, exhibiting a desire to dress in a helmet and coveralls, and pretending a plastic M-16® was a laser.  Ma and Pop Wilder, being concerned, took me to a psychologist.  The psychologist suggested that they transition me from the real M-16© that I kept by my bedside to a laser pistol and launch me into orbit at the earliest opportunity.  The psychologist explained that I had astro-dysphoria, which could be treated before I reached puberty though gravity blockers.

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I now identify as Tyler Durden.  But so do several people.

Okay, that didn’t happen.  But there was a kid in my class who played with his sister’s Barbie™ dolls.  Even in second grade we made fun of him for that.  Last time I saw him he wasn’t playing with Barbie© dolls.  He was playing nose guard for their high school football team.  What would have happened if he was seven in 2019?  I think he might have been given a dozen needy housecats and a barrel of chardonnay.

But a jury in Texas (Texas!) ordered that the mother get custody of the “trans” child so the mother could raise the child as she wished, which included “transitioning” the boy named James into a girl named Luna.  Included in the order was that the mother had full authority to give the boy hormone blockers as he approached puberty to suppress him becoming more manlike as puberty hit.

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Keep in mind, Silence of the Lambs was a horror movie, not a “how-to” manual.

On Thursday (10/24/2019) it appears sanity prevailed.  The judge in the case overturned the jury verdict and awarded the husband joint custody – in this case the mother cannot make sole medical decisions about James.  The boy’s father hailed it as a victory, but the judge also issued a gag order – neither party can talk any more in the media about this case.  This may be the last we hear about James until he’s 18.  More about that gag order later.

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The one time the jury voted to acquit me, it was great!  I got to keep all that money!

I did not sit in the jury box.  I’ve often been reluctant to criticize juries because I wasn’t there as the evidence was presented.  I wasn’t there to hear the testimony, to see the people involved in the case.

In this case it doesn’t matter:  I will criticize mercilessly, like a hungover, sleep-deprived Viking named Jen Vilder in the depths of a nicotine fit.  11 out of the 12 jurors, who voted to allow the mother to turn a seven year old boy into a girl, are monsters.

Each of them.

The point of principle is very strong here – as a society we simply do not allow seven year old children to make life changing decisions.

  • We don’t allow them to drink booze.
  • We don’t allow them to vote.
  • We don’t allow them to drive.
  • We don’t allow them to get tattoos.
  • We don’t allow them to own guns.
  • We don’t allow them to have ear hair.

These laws are in place because society rightly realizes that seven year old children have the brain capacity of a slightly mobile houseplant.  I have ice cubes and ribeye steak in my freezer that are older and wiser than your average seven year old child.  Children are malleable – Marx knew that.  Stalin knew that, too.  Stalin said, “Education is a weapon, whose effect depends on who holds it in his hands and at whom it is aimed.”  This is nothing less than an attempt to devastate an entire generation and demoralize a people.

I speak from the experience of raising children, from being involved in youth organizations, and adopting “a few” random seven year old children from the Wal-Mart© parking lot.  I have never met a seven year old capable of writing a letter to Santa that would get past the screening Elf, let alone making decisions that could lead to permanent deformation and infertility.

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I hope this doesn’t make you Claustrophobic.

I’ll throw this in here:  if you’re an adult, and want to pretend to be a female?  I’m not sure I care.  It appears that this just might be a gimmick for guys to dominate both male and female athletics.  It’s not like women are transitioning to men to become a linebacker for the New England Patriots® – they can’t, because there’s no real affirmative action for football – society takes football seriously.

I have, however, heard that the latest complaint of the trans community is that it’s transphobic when lesbians won’t date trans women.  Yes.  Let me restate the complaint – trans people think that lesbians should be forced to date people with guy parts.

Frankly, that amuses me.

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“Hannah” took “her” team to a world championship.  Yay!

It’s wonderful when the Community of the Woke has to deal with the consequences of Wokeness, and tries to explain that men can have periods and women can drive well.  As long as I don’t have to believe it, I can take a Monty Python® view and wait for the trans community to argue that, even though men can’t have periods, they have the right to have periods.

Genius!

It’s fine to watch adults ignore reality – watching a man that has transitioned to being a woman play rugby with actual women is amazing – it shows that before long that trans women will conquer all of sports.  Biological women?  They can stay home and make sandwiches, I guess.

But kids are different.  Drag queen story hour at the library?  Wow.  That wasn’t a thing since Weimar Germany.  And we all know what happened after Weimar Germany (hint:  it rhymes with “Mitler”).

The remaining part of this story that bothers me is the gag order.  Sure, it’s in the best interest of the kid.  I’ll agree to that.  But if dad loses custody?  If Dad, who gets to see his son 56 hours a month loses the next court battle and his mother transitions him to “Momma’s little girl”?  We won’t hear about it because dad can’t talk about it.  And that . . . could be a travesty.

Colonel William Travis drew a line in the dirt in the Alamo.  The consequences were simple:  step over that line, and fight side by side with Travis, to the death if need be.

But a different kind of line was drawn in Texas this week, a line that is so profound that it should shake every reader to the core.  What bothers me, and what should bother you the most about this case is that it wasn’t the dictate of a crazed bureaucrat or judge.  No – in this case the judge was the sane one.  11 out of 12 jurors in the Lone Star state voted that a seven year old boy should be allowed to become a girl, is a sign not that society is collapsing, it’s a sign that society has collapsed.

I’m thinking that in Modern Mayberry, that wouldn’t go over very well.

Texans?  Stand up.  The line you have held dear has been crossed.

How long will you stand for it?

Hold the line.

On the other side?  Madness.

Leftism is a Religion, and Kipling is the Cure

“Remember, we can’t question the mores of the natives.” – The Man Who Would Be King

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Our main weapons are . . . oh, sorry.  I triggered Briana by saying “weapon.”  To the safe spaces!

I had a subject picked out for today – despite your thinking that I might think up these topics in a booze and PEZ® induced haze on the spur of the moment by throwing Velcro®-covered toddlers* at a “Wilder Post Idea” mat placed on the wall to come up with humorous combinations of idea, I don’t.  Maybe I should – it actually sounds like a lot of fun, except, well, having to be around toddlers.  The upside would be throwing them.

No, dear reader, I try to map out these posts at least two weeks in advance using the much less amusing no-toddler-involved pen and notecard method.  I then do notes and research at least a few days in advance.  But last week I looked at my notes for the post I had planned.  It’s a big, complicated, ambitious post, so I’d been working on those notes for more than a week.

It’s not ready yet.

Thankfully, I have toddlers, Velcro© and a wall I have a list of ideas for posts written on notecards that I keep in several notecard boxes.  I’ve got several hundred ideas, depending on the category.  In truth some of them are little more than crude sketches in in crayon.  In reality, these are not second-rate ideas – they’re just ideas that I haven’t gotten to yet.  And I pulled this one out of the box:

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It means: “Leftism as a religion.”  It’s obvious, right?

You may or may not have a religious beliefs – I do.  I don’t bring up my religious beliefs on this blog as religious concepts for the purpose of discussing religion – I’m not the guy who would be good at that.  I try to stick with religion and how it relates to society.  With the exception of the immediate cultural references and political figures of our time, I aim to make a lot (50%?) of these posts timeless – something someone could pick up in 20 years (or 200 or 2000), and still get a chuckle and a bit of wisdom out of while wondering just who the hell Johnny Depp was, and why does the Great Bard of The New Dark Ages™, that handsome devil John Wilder keep writing about him.

But in 20 years (or 200, or 2,000), Leftism will still be seen as a religion.

I think religion is built into us, biologically.  In 2012, the best scientific research on this was:

“We have found a neuropsychological basis for spirituality, but it’s not isolated to one specific area of the brain,” said Brick Johnstone, professor of health psychology in the School of Health Professions. “Spirituality is a much more dynamic concept that uses many parts of the brain. Certain parts of the brain play more predominant roles, but they all work together to facilitate individuals’ spiritual experiences.” (LINK)

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Okay, is it just me that thinks that it’s funny that the guy who studies brains and religion goes by the name of “Brick”?

As Brick says, most people have a religious inclination.  Some folks who read this blog are atheists – and I’m not here to try to convert them.  The ones that are here are the cool kind of atheist who, most often, don’t hate people who have religion.  They are, for lack of a better term, libertarian atheists – they don’t care if you believe.  Just leave them out of it.  On average, however, people want to believe in something.  Our brains are hard-wired for it.

And that’s why Leftism appeals as religion – it’s an effective way to drum up a group, and nearly 70% of atheists are Leftist in the United States.  So, Leftism cloaks itself as a rational, political movement, but it’s really a religion:  a religion as weird and deformed as Bernie Sanders’ aorta.  Let me explain:

Religion is a relationship between man and a higher power.  The deformation present in Leftism is that man is that higher power.  Look at the statues to Lenin, Stalin, and the posters of Fidel and Hugo Chavez.  Man has replaced the higher power – man is the object of worship.  Let’s dig a little deeper.

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I saw Lenin pick his nose the other day – I always knew that communists had no class.

The components of a religion are:

  • A belief system that doesn’t require proof.

It’s taken on faith. Leftism doesn’t require any more proof than is in Hillary’s chardonnay.  Every single Socialist or Communist government has resulted in thousands to millions of deaths, and all of them fail, either Soviet-style, Cuba-style, or Venezuela-style over time.  Ask an ardent socialist or communist, and they really will tell you that socialism in Venezuela would have really worked if only it had been given a chance.  I guess 10,000,000% inflation (per year) in a country with the greatest oil reserves in the world is a sign of a successful, functioning socialist economy.

  • There are (in most religions) demons – a power opposing the higher power.

Just as people are the higher power in Leftism, people are also the demons.  It’s the unbeliever (people like you and me) that is causing difficulty.  Leftism is great at finding and identifying scapegoats to point at to proclaim that they are the cause of all problems, Stalin and Mao were awesome at that(In the World Murder Olympics, Communists Take Gold and Silver!).  Most commonly, it’s people who are successful.  In Leftist terms, people are successful only because they are taking the success that rightfully belongs to the victim class.  Communism is great at finding villains, and great at finding victims, too.  Sadly, it runs out of the money of the villains.

  • There is a method of salvation.

The method of salvation for a Leftist is joining the Left.  It is becoming versed in the various High Holy Words of Leftist Salvation such as privilege, Climate Change© (formerly Global Warming™, the 1%, racist, social justice, assault rifle, greed, change, economic justice, fascist, and progress.  No actual change in personal comfort is required – taking a private jet to transport Leo and his starlet of the week to a Climate Change® conference is okay, as long as Leo keeps repeating that fossil fuels are evil.  I mean, a Leftist donates one kidney, he’s a hero.  When I donate ten?  They called me a monster.

  • There are sins – rules that cannot be broken.

You would think that most actions that were counter to the High Holy Words of Leftist Salvation would be wrong and would brand you a sinner.  That’s wrong!  You can falsely claim a person of another race put a noose around your neck when you went to Subway®.  It’s sad that you then have to hire immigrants do it, because it’s a job American’s won’t do.  Or falsely claim that a person of another race cut your dreadlocks.  Obviously, these are racist acts, but there is to be no punishment for them, because being a racist isn’t a sin, as long as you are a believing Leftist.  Being rich because you’re an evil capitalist isn’t even a sin.  There is only one true sin:  heresy (see below).

  • There is heresy.

This is the ultimate sin.  Thinking a thought counter to the ideals of the Left is bad, and itself punishable by re-education in a Leftist government.  But to dare utter a thought that’s counter to one of the catechisms of the Left?  That is the ultimate sin:  heresy.  Wrongthink.  Thoughtcrime.  But it’s okay if you’re not from this country.  You can ignore all of the above, because it’s wrong to judge an immigrant on a moral basis.  I mean, what could go wrong with marrying your sister?

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I’m worried about a cat and chardonnay shortage in 2023.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t think that the people on Wall Street care about me any more than your average communist.  But thieves and people on Wall Street (but I repeat myself) only want my money.  Leftists want my money and my soul, The Mrs.’ soul, and the souls of my children in exchange for power.  I keep wondering . . . what’s the catch?

I used to enjoy engaging in light argument for fun with people who disagreed with me politically.  It was nice.  I learned a lot.  I learned where my arguments were weak.  I learned where I was wrong.  And when I was wrong, I admitted it, gave them the point and moved on.  It was fun – a great way to be exposed to new ideas and learn.  One two hour argument with me being pro-Second Amendment arguing with a friend who was against gun ownership ended . . . when I asked him if he had a gun.  He started laughing, and admitted he had what CNN® would call an arsenal.  He was having fun with me for two hours.  But I learned.

I don’t do that in person anymore.  If a friend who is Leftist brings a point up, mainly I’ll ask questions.  I don’t argue.  Friendly light arguments have gone from an enjoyable conversation to one where true emotion is unleashed and the person on the Left gets angry.  Heresy, you know.  So, I ask questions.  I don’t try to make points – I listen, and ask what the solutions should be.  But interjecting Wrongthink?  It simply won’t work.

That, primarily, is the difference between the Right and the Left.  The Right is confident enough that history has shown that the answers of the Right, though brutal, are effective (Kipling, Gods of The Copybook Headings, and It’s Different This Time).  The answers of the Right will return, not because they are ideologically pure, but they are the only methods known that actually work.  I’ll leave the word last to Kipling*.

*No toddlers were hurt in the writing of this post or the associated poem.

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I spent several hours trying to fix the kipling on my car today with Pugsley.  Turns out it was just a corroded battery terminal.

Gods of the Copybook Headings,

By Rudyard Kipling, 1919

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

 

Original of Crayon drawing by “My daughter Teresa” [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)] via Wikipedia Commons.

And, no, I don’t have a daughter named Teresa.

Regrets? Don’t Regret Anything, Unless You Want Me To Slap You When You Are Old.

“Nothing leaves alive.” – Dreamcatcher

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See, now Darth Vader® has no regrets.  Except for being in Episode III.

I’ve never written anything before that made me want to go to a hospice and slap a bunch of old dying people, but this particular post led me there.  I’ll explain.  It’s okay, it’ll all make sense in the end.  I’m a trained professional.

I have made many mistakes in my life.  Most of them I don’t remember – they were small and didn’t have any consequences, or at least any consequences I’ve seen yet.

Then there were some slightly larger mistakes – let’s call them medium size mistakes.  There have been consequences to these.  Again, medium-sized mistakes most often lead to medium-sized consequences.  A scar here (carve away from your thumb, not towards it), a stock gone to zero there (thanks a lot, Enron®) and one really bad car trade when I was 24 . . . medium-sized.  Medium-sized mistakes are big enough for a big sting, but whatever permanent impacts there might be aren’t immediately fatal.

The biggest ones – I won’t give a laundry list of those.  Most of those were where either passion, inexperience, a momentary lapse of character or judgement, or (worst of all) when all three contributed to a mistake.  Some mistakes lasted longer, some were short.  But all stung.  The biggest include a marriage that led to divorce, underestimating a sociopathic boss, and wearing that white dress to my little sister’s wedding.  I mean, I look fabulous in it, but some brides just have to be the center of attention.  Also a bit weird because she wasn’t really my sister.

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Staaaaaart again . . . .

To put it bluntly, I am the author of almost every problem I have.  If I didn’t cause the problem, I’m probably complicit in creating the problem or not dealing with the problem.

But I don’t regret it.  None of it.  Not the victories, certainly, and not the failures.

Why?

Life is a one-shot deal.  And life is a ratchet.  It only turns one way – we can’t take anything back.

Regret isn’t a one-shot deal, though.  If there’s anything that will burn a hole in your soul, it’s regret.  Regret never comes alone – it brings guilt along for the ride.

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My biggest fear is having a heart attack during a game of charades.

If I were to dig more deeply into those feelings – regret and guilt are just ways that fear manifests itself.  Fear of . . . what?  Regret is a fear that the consequences of your choices or actions will impact you negatively, and cannot be changed.  Here is a list of some of the common regrets from people on their deathbed (from a former palliative care nurse named Bronnie Ware, and, yes, I spelled that right – blame her parents, not me):

  1. “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”
  2. “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.”
  3. “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.”
  4. “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.”
  5. “I wish that I had let myself be happier.”

Even a quick look at this list tells me one simple thing:  regret is for losers.  I have never seen a whinier pack of self-serving weakness since I last watched a Democratic presidential debate.  Everything, absolutely everything on this “top five” list is just, well, sad.

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Me?  I’m still holding out hope for a pyramid.

Would you like to go to your grave worrying about any of those things?  I can’t imagine doing it.  I refuse to let regret rule me.  And I refuse to let any decision I made twenty years ago rule me.  Hell, I refuse to let any decision I made last week rule me, except for choosing that convenience store egg/muffin sandwich – I don’t need to explain why.  Deal with the consequences?  Certainly.  But regret?  No.

Let’s go down the “top five” list:

Not living a life “true to yourself”?  I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.  I was talking with a guy the other day who quit his job because his boss asked him to do something illegal.  That’s being true to yourself – he walked away without a paycheck but with his values and beliefs intact.  If you’re not being true to yourself, you’re either weak or flighty.  The good news?  Anyone who reads this blog is neither.

Wishing you hadn’t “worked so hard”?  That’s also nonsense.  A soul thrives on doing good work that matters.  Doing good work excellently is hard.  The Mrs. teaches, and works hard at it – I can see from her talking about her students, talking about the ones who learned and improved, the ones who keep coming back to her classroom to report on their lives that her work matters.  Working hard at work that matters is what makes us the best humans we can be.  If you think you worked too hard, you weren’t doing anything worth doing.  The good news?  Change now.  You have an entire lifetime to fix that mistake.

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I got fired from the calendar factory.  They get really mad when you take a day off.

Didn’t have the “courage to express my feelings”?  Wow.  This is the weakest on the list, so far.  Number one:  do you have feelings that matter?  Most feelings are stupid – and I have stupid feelings, too.  Thankfully, I’m not a five year old – I am at least twelve.  I get to examine my feelings and reject those that don’t reflect my values, my virtue, my beliefs.  I get to choose.  If I feel slighted by something silly or petty?  I get to choose to understand what a fool I’m being and ignore that feeling.  Again, if you don’t express your feelings, that’s not always a bad thing.  Your feelings are often stupid.

I’m sorry that “staying in touch with your friends” was so hard.  But it’s really not.  The people you care about, that care about you, are there.  They always have been, they always will be.  I don’t Facebook® much – why?  I call my friends, on an actual phone.  I text my friends.  Am I often the one that calls first?  Sure.  Do we develop different lives, does life pull us away for a while?  Do hundreds or thousands of miles separate us?  Maybe.  But I make quite a few phone calls.  And mostly my friends pick up. Sure, it’s true that the biggest miracle Jesus exhibited in the Bible was having 12 11 close friends (thanks, Judas) after the age of thirty – but you just need a few – a few that will have your back.  A few you can share with.

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Also, as a single guy it was easy to make friends.  Lots of girls I asked out wanted to be friends.

Seriously – number five on the list is a wish for “letting themselves be happier.”  Happy is easy (All You Will Ever Need To Read About How To Be Happy* (*Most of the Time)), being significant is hard.  It requires hard work while being true to yourself.  It requires expressing those feelings that your virtue allows to exist.  Friends?  The good ones will be with you forever, and you can restart your conversations with the slightest hint of time passing, even if you haven’t talked regularly in a decade, if they’re true friends.

I’ve never thought about going to a hospice and slapping someone, but this list made me want to do it.  I know, I know, it’s too late for them.  And this is the list of people who had regrets.  People like me?  I don’t have a single regret at this moment of my life.  Not one.  In a hospice, I hope I’d be the, “Regrets?  No.  More clam chowder, please,” guy.

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The Boy made me some fake ramen noodles this summer – it was an impasta.

To be clear – it’s not that I don’t care.  It’s not that I’m not blameless.  It’s not that I was always right.  Not one of those things is true.  But I have done the most important thing I can think of:  When I do something I regret, I’ve changed myself so that I won’t (Clintoncide, John Bolton’s Waifu, and October Market Crashes: Knock on Wood) do that thing again.  I cannot change the past.  But if I have learned, if I can help others not make the same mistakes while not repeating my own mistake?  Like an algebra teacher for the soul, I have taken something negative and turned it into something positive.  The bonus is I get to end the dreams of high school freshmen in the process.

And I’m not planning on having any regrets tomorrow.  If you have regrets?  Fix them now or recognize them for the dead weight they are and cut them loose.

The alternative?  Trust me, you don’t want to have me chasing you down in a hospice and slapping you silly.

BONUS SOUP MEME!  I made too much soup meme by accident.  Enjoy.

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The Best Monopoly Game For Your Leftist In-Laws

“World Socialism will be achieved peaceably. Our military role is strictly defensive. Is that understood?” – Octopussy

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A capitalist, a socialist, and a communist were meeting up.  The socialist was late.  “I’m sorry,” he explained, “I was standing in line for sausage.  The capitalist asked, “What’s a line?”  The communist asked, “What’s sausage?”

When I was a kid, say, younger than sixth grade, I loved to play Monopoly® at Thanksgiving.  It was great – it was simple to understand, and it involved buying properties to make money from the other players.  My Mom and Grandma would play along.  The fun part for young-me was that if you played the game right and got lucky roles you could reduce the other players to bankruptcy and evict them from your house.  I’ll miss Mom.

After a while Monopoly™ became not a game I looked forward to, but one I dreaded at Thanksgiving.  Why?  The game goes on forever, and the biggest determiner to who wins isn’t great playing ability – it’s luck.  It’s like playing Candyland© with houses.  So, I guess in that respect, it’s like owning real estate in California.  Also, at Thanksgiving I decided that eating enough tryptophan-drenched turkey to knock me on my sorry Thanksgiving butt was more fun, and the couch was as soft as the Cowboy™ defense.  But that was before Monopoly© Socialism™.

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But is it a gluten and conflict-free toilet paper made in a sustainable carbon-neutral factory?

Through whatever mechanism that Amazon© uses to track my purchases, it decided that I might be interested in a copy of Monopoly™ Socialism® as well as the tree-free-vegan-bamboo toilet paper.  I’m sure the toilet paper is carbon neutral, but I was more interested in the game, but sadly, Monopoly© Socialism™ was out of stock.  Amazon™ assured me it would be back in stock soon enough.  Part of the charm for me were some of the (actual) questions that other purchasers asked on Amazon®:

  • Do I have to wait in a long line for the privilege of purchasing this game, like a breadline in Venezuela?
  • Is the board waterproof so Progressive tears won’t ruin it?
  • Are there rolling blackouts? Do the players get to eat zoo animals?

With purchasers asking those questions, I knew I was in with my people.  I hit “add to cart” and it was on its way.  It arrived last Wednesday.

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Before candles, what did socialists use for lighting?  Electricity.  Which might explain why there were no utilities on the board.

The box was smaller than the usual Monopoly© box – the reason being that instead of just folding up the game board into halves, it folded up into quarters.  No biggie.  I thought that we’d keep the board game on a shelf, and perhaps pull it out next month to Make Thanksgiving Uncomfortable Again©, but Pugsley saw it, and convinced The Mrs. that we should play it on Saturday night.  As it didn’t look like learning the rules wouldn’t require an advanced degree in game design nor require the Supreme Court to weigh in on disputes, I agreed.

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I hear that after Ginsburg is gone, Leftists are worried that the decisions will be Ruth-less.

I have only one piece of advice when it comes to playing Monopoly® – do not allow The Mrs. to be the banker – she cheats.  I’m not making this up.  The Mrs. cheats gleefully and more-or-less openly (though she thinks she’s being sneaky) after a few glasses of wine.  It wasn’t three rolls into the game that I saw The Mrs. had been pilfering from the bank’s funds.  But The Mrs. obviously hadn’t been listening when I read the rules – the game is based on socialism, so you don’t win by having the most money.  You win by “helping” in the most projects, things like the “Rise Up” collective bakery.  If you help, you can put one of your Virtue Signal* tokens on the project while the community fund donates to the project.

*The game does not call these tokens Virtue Signal tokens, but the idea is to openly and publicly have other people pay for something that makes you look virtuous, so, to-may-to, to-mah-to.

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A Marxist, a Socialist, and a Communist tried to get into a bar.  The bouncer kicked them out after checking their IDs – “Come on back when you’re 21, guys.”

Money comes from the collective.  The game starts with 1848 dollars in the community fund, since the Communist Manifesto™ was published in 1848.  There is absolutely no reason to use one dollar bills in the game, so they tossed them in just for that joke so you can have 1848 dollars.  Nice touch.

I said the game starts with that much money in the community fund.  Every individual player starts with an socialist approved equal amount of zero dollars, so it was easy to see that The Mrs. was in a full on cheat when I saw she had a little pile of currency snuck back.  How does the game go if players don’t have money?  Easy.  If you don’t have money to buy property start a project or pay a fine, it comes from that initial pile of 1848 dollars, which gets replenished when you pass “Go” and get your living wage of 50 dollars, and you put in five for the community.

It’s not like that happened.  We didn’t make it all the way back to Go.  None of us even made it all the way around to Go.

The game ends either when a single player wins by playing all of their Virtue Signal tokens.  The game also ends when all of the 1848 dollars of community money is gone.  And if you run out of the 1848 dollars?  You lose.  Heck, everyone loses.

1848 dollars doesn’t last long.  And we’re not good socialists, so we all lost.

That loss, I think, is the underlying message of the game.  In socialism, pretty soon you run out of other people’s money to spend and everyone loses.  The game cost me $19.99, and it will be worth it to bring it out during Thanksgiving to be slightly more interesting than whatever snoozefest is going on in Detroit®.  It’s not like we wanted to talk to the Leftist side of the family anyway, right?

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I think if there Batman©-type Virtue Signal™?  It would have Justin Trudeau’s face.  I mean, without makeup.

But you can’t buy the game for $19.99.  It seems like Hasbro® has stopped making it.  Why?  I don’t know, and it’s useless to speculate if it sold out or if Hasbro™ folded to political pressure.  If you want to buy it on Amazon™ now, it’s selling for (cheapest price with free shipping) about $45, though it looked to be a bit cheaper elsewhere.  After playing the game, I certainly can’t recommend it at that price, unless you really want to trigger your Leftist neighbor/friend/relative.

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Maybe we should start calling Facebook™ and Twitter© Socialist media?

The reviews by purchasers at Amazon© are very positive, and they’re by verified purchasers.  The negative reviews, however, aren’t by verified purchasers, and one of them is obviously by someone who never even bought the game.

The reviews by websites on the Internet weren’t really reviews.  They were a listing of complaints that Monopoly® Socialism© didn’t accurately portray socialism.  I’m thinking that the talent of these people has been wasted – where were they when they could have been complaining that Marvel® movies don’t accurately portray superpowers or that Breaking Bad© isn’t a realistic view of teacher insurance policies in the Albuquerque Public School System?

It was as if this minor and humorous critique of socialism in the form of a board game had to be beaten back because the one thing that Leftism cannot stand is . . . being made fun of.  My favorite line from a review was this one where the reviewer almost (but not quite) achieves self-awareness:

Reading between the lines, the game’s designers are saying that with no incentive to work nothing gets done.

Somehow, that was intended as a dig against the game designers.  But it turns out that it’s an accurate representation of reality.  If there is no incentive to work, nothing gets done.  Period.

The simplest version of that statement is, “if you don’t’ work, you don’t eat.”  I’m pretty sure the reviewer (who has written thousands of posts for a clickbait site) would probably not show back up to work if they stopped paying him – he wouldn’t keep writing what the boss said if he couldn’t pay the rent or buy soy milk and chicken tendies.

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Socialism looks great on paper.  Unless that paper is in a history book.

It’s clear this game isn’t a real take on socialism, because the end of the game doesn’t feature a failed government, a population in near-starvation, shattered lives, and a blasted economy that will take a generation or more to heal.  In our house, the game ended up with a second bottle of wine, a different game, and a nice evening.

The one negative review that’s correct is this one, and it’s mine:  Socialism is a silly basis for a game, because everyone always loses.  And that’s why Monopoly® Socialism™ caused so many Leftist panties to twist:  because it got it 100% right.

 

Bad Bosses, Part I, Including Garfield as Written by H.P. Lovecraft

“Michael, we don’t have a lot of time on this earth!  We weren’t meant to spend it this way.  Human beings were not meant to sit in little cubicles staring at computer screens all day, filling out useless forms and listening to eight different bosses drone on about mission statements.” – Office Space

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“That’s what she said.”

I had just gotten the greatest performance review of my life.  It was outstanding in every way.  My boss (let’s call him Miller, it goes with the song) went on and on about how I was a stunning example of every possible good quality a person could have, and how I was universally loved, admired, and generally made women fertile just through a fleeting glance, and made men better than they thought they could be through the slightest example.  If the company needed someone to walk across a pond, on the top of the water, John Wilder was your guy.

For about a second, I bought it.  Flattery works because your mind really wants to believe all those nice things.  It’s like a horoscope, keep using nice adjectives, and you’ll find one that the person is already predisposed to agree with.

Then I thought about it – this guy Miller, my new boss, has been with the company about a month.  He barely knows where his office is and he’d only visited my office once.  For him to write a performance review like this?  I didn’t believe it.  As much as I’d like to think of myself in such glowing terms, I rejected his flattery.

Beyond mentally rejecting his praise as an attempt at manipulation, I also made the mental note never to trust Miller.

Why?

Anyone who will be quick to praise will be quick to condemn.  Besides, when I looked at him while he was smiling, he only smiled with his mouth – never with his whole face.  He was smiling because he was “supposed” to be smiling, not because the smile was genuine.  During those smiles Miller had the dead, flat eyes of a predator, like he was attempting to see if you were fooled and really believed the smile.

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I never did meet Miller’s wife – I think her invisibility suit worked pretty well.

I was careful to document every conversation with him.  Always trust your gut, people, unless your gut says socialism is a good deal.  If your gut says that, remember:  never go full Bernie.

I worked pretty far away from the company headquarters, where Miller’s office was.  I set up weekly calls to keep him informed on what I and my team were doing.  I’d done this in the past for my previous bosses.   These calls allowed them to understand what we were doing, and digest it for top management if they needed to.

Except.

Except I found out from a colleague that during these meetings, most of the time Miller was shopping for things online, teaching himself to play the banjo, translating Garfield® into cuneiform (did they even have lasagna in ancient Sumeria?) or, in general, not paying any attention to what I was saying.  My colleague noted that Miller generally wasn’t listening at all.

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If you get the cuneiform wrong and accidentally translate a passage from the Necronomicon© this is what you get.

Normally, that’s not a problem, I ran had been running my end of things for years, and after a few years you get used to the usual problems – and are expected just to handle them.  But my boss had a boss – call him my Grandboss.  When my Grandboss wanted to know about some aspect of what I was doing, he’d ask my boss, Miller.  Since Miller had literally no idea (despite weekly written reports and the phone call mentioned above) what I was doing, he did the simple thing:  he made it up.

Most of the time, it worked fine.  My Grandboss generally had an idea of what was going on, even if the specifics were a bit off.  But when the results my boss made up promised didn’t happen?  The Grandboss got mad.  Very mad.

So mad, in fact, that my Grandboss called me up one day and was yelling.  I explained, calmly, the real situation and the plan, and that seemed to calm him down.  He checked up a few more times to make sure what I said was really happening, and then went away.  But the troubles with Miller continued.  Our conversations became a random affair – one day he would be polite.  The next day, he would be literally yelling over the phone.  What had started out as a bad feeling based on that too-good-to-be-true performance review had morphed into a full-blown sitcom level bad boss.

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I mean, can you imagine such micromanaging?

I had one or two advantages – first, I had been at the company much longer and had several well-placed friends, and second, I wasn’t a deceitful sack of weasel meat.  I’m certain that my boss was lying based on my informants at headquarters, and I’m equally certain that the things Miller was saying weren’t very positive. It’s been several years, and my career is still recovering from his “help.”

I’m ashamed to admit it, but one of the happiest days of my life was when Miller got fired.  “But, you can’t fire me!  You don’t even know what I do!” were his comments as they took away his keys and allowed him to pop his personal possessions in a box and gave him a complementary cement bag (for the weight, dear).  And, he’s right – the Internet sure won’t surf itself.

As near as I can tell, the company didn’t skip a beat in his absence.  I’ll also admit that on the day he got fired, I had one of the best workouts of my life.  The entire time I worked out that lunch, I just listened to Mack the Knife on a loop for 45 minutes of the best treadmill time I’ve ever put in.  I smiled every second.  Why Mack the Knife?  I have no idea.  I rarely listened to it before, and haven’t listened to it even one time since that day until tonight.  As I write this, it’s on a loop in the background.

It may be a song from a Marxist play written by a Leftist, but it makes me happy that it made so much money – after the Marxist author died.  Also?  The most upbeat song about multiple murders.  Bonus trivia:  Lotte Lenya, mentioned in the song, played Rosa Klebb in the James Bond movie From Russia with Love.

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As you can see, she’s the perfect Bond® girl for 2019.

I’ve tried to feel bad about feeling so good because Miller was fired.  Even years later, it’s still a pleasant memory.  Yeah.  I shouldn’t feel good about that, but I do.

Okay, the choice was a single post that was twice as long as this, or this broken into two parts.  I chose two parts.  Next part is on Friday.

Freedom: Violence is the Answer

“A new age has begun, an age of freedom. And all will know that 300 Spartans gave their last breath to defend it.” – 300

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One night I heard a noise on the deck.  A raccoon was bringing me back a book that I had lost a few years ago.  “It’s a miracle!” I said.  “Not really,” said the raccoon, “your name was written on the inside cover.”

The dogs barked.

The dogs never bark, unless a Terminator® is here yet again looking for that stupid Sarah Conner.  The dogs were safely in their crates for the night.  I’ve spent thousands of hours (yes, thousands) downstairs writing hundreds of thousands of words at night after the family was safely asleep, and not one time ever (yes, ever) had our silly dogs ever barked.

As they barked, I heard something on the deck above.  It sounded like a piece of deck furniture sliding.  Yeah, sure, you say, there aren’t a lot of burglars that move furniture to announce their presence, especially not at 1 AM.  You’re right.

But . . .

There is one thing that I do know – if there was an actual burglar upstairs, the consequences could get bad, and quickly.  Nonviolent burglars try to rob you in the day when they think that nobody’s home.  But a burglar that’s coming into your house when they know that someone is there?

They mean you harm.

Bad guys at night are actually looking forward to doing bad things.  The sound of a shotgun ratcheting a shell into the chamber will scare the Schumer out of a daytime burglar, but it won’t deter an attacker at night.  They’re looking for violence, and fully expecting to kill everyone in the house.

I blame violent video games, or maybe gluten or high fructose corn syrup, or worse yet, them playing video games about violent gluten while snorting high fructose corn syrup.

Regardless, I got up from the solitude of writing on my couch and got a pistol.  Oh, sure, you may leave pistols lying about your palatial residences like we Wilders leave our PEZ® on the coffee tables for the crowned heads of state that come by to feel the perfect shapes of our skulls, but we keep ours out of the public areas.  Mine are in places that I would normally sleep, like under the dining room table, in the hot tub, or behind the wheel of my car while driving to work.

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Oh, yeah, I left one on the bridge!

So I went upstairs.  I quietly opened my bedroom door and had to decide:  the .45ACP or the 9mm?  I chose the 9mm.  Why?  It was closest to the door, and all it required was a longish reach upwards.  Could anyone else in the house reach it?  Nope, but is a 9mm all that dangerous anyway?  I mean, if a Pope can survive it, it can’t be that bad.

I pulled it out of its case as I walked towards the back door.  As I got near the back door, I activated the best feature of the 9mm – the laser mounted right under its barrel, which I bought for $10 from Amazon®.  The idea of the laser mounted on a pistol, for all three of my readers that never saw Terminator®, is to show the shooter right where the bullet is going to go.  In my case, I turned it on because any actual person on the back deck, seeing a laser, would probably think twice about their “invading Wilder Manor” plan.

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9mm – what I teach my daughters to shoot gnats with.

The dogs were still unsettled as I reached for the doorknob.  As these dogs are really not dogs, but barking rats that have tails that wag when you call them a good boy, they’re really always unsettled.  I turned on the outside lights and painted every piece of deck furniture with the laser.

Nothing, except for the overly ambitious spider that builds a web face-high across the back door every day.  I didn’t really expect there to be anything, since I live in Modern Mayberry.

In checking the crime statistics to prepare for this post, I looked up Modern Mayberry.  It shows up as being a crime-ridden area, since there actually was a murder here in 2016.  It was, as I recall, a guy who killed his girlfriend (or vice versa) over infidelity.  But random murders?  Not here.  Gang violence?  Not here, since the closest thing we have to a gang is the pre-school soccer program.  I hate those monsters.

I believe there are petty burglaries that occur here, but those are almost all during the daytime.  Why?

Everyone here has guns.  Okay, that’s an exaggeration.  But I would estimate that at minimum, 10% of the households could be armed and lethal in 2 minutes or less.  I would estimate that 50% could be armed in 10 minutes or less.  And I would estimate that 80% would have a gun in their hands in 20 minutes or less, but by then you’re dead or the cops are here.  However, if you are a criminal, this isn’t good.

Why?

Me.  And my neighbor.  When he moved in, he had no idea that he was living next to The John Wilder, but he showed me his latest toy – a nice AR tricked out with a green laser and a bunch of other bling.  I have no doubt that he’d be happy to explain to the Sheriff why he perforated someone breaking into his house.  That explains most of the residents of Modern Mayberry.  And you can be certain that the District Attorney is one of us, too.  He declined to prosecute a homeowner for emptying a magazine into a criminal that had shot the homeowner, even though the homeowner had shot the fleeing criminal in the back more than once.

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Would this be a neighbor you prefer?  Put me in the “yes” category.

The homeowner is a valued member of the Modern Mayberry community.  The criminal?  In jail.  The criminal’s civil suit against the homeowner?  Yeah.  That was dismissed.  Nobody could be found guilty of that here.

If you were to try to rob a house here at night, the next time you took a drink of water you’d look like a fountain.  A fourteen-year-old kid trying to boost a bike at 3 in the afternoon?  Probably not going to get shot.  But that same kid at 3AM?  You have as much chance of surviving the night as a Snickers® bar does at Rosie O’Donnell’s house.

And let me stress again:  no one here has a problem with that.

But that’s not how it always was.  It used to be that violence was the exclusive right of our rulers.  And it was so not only for legal reasons, but for practical reasons.

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Plus who knows how much for hair spray.

Let’s go back to the middle ages.  Technology had advanced to the point where a knight in a full suit of armor was pretty much only going to be at risk from another knight, and they never fought except over who got the remote control at Knight School.  Their armor was strong steel, and penetrating it was difficult.  To a normal citizen serf of the day?  A knight might as well have been a superhero – there was no reasonable way a normal citizen could hurt a knight.

What did it cost to outfit a knight and his horse?  In the area of $500,000 to $3.5 million.  The higher cost was probably due to the need to decorate it with the 15th Century equivalent of Hello Kitty® stickers, but $500,000 was daunting.  Even the armor of a “man at arms” was probably in the range of $20,000 or more, but one of those would be a poor competitor for a mounted knight.

Swords were huge, double-handed affairs.  Why?  To penetrate the armor of a knight you had to swing a heavy mass of steel at them.

Until.

Until the English longbow came to the front.  The beauty of the English longbow is that, when fired all at once, a mass of them could penetrate all but the best armor of the day.  At Agincourt, Henry V’s archers and knights took down 10,000 French, to (possibly) fewer than 500 English deaths.  It is written on Henry V’s tombstone about conquering the French:  “Look, Ma, no panzers!”

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Oh, sorry.  I’ll leave you to go back to smoking, Ma’am.

A longbow takes, in modern times, at least six weeks to learn to shoot well.  A sword?  Years.

The longbow made warfare more accessible to the common man.  The result is well known – increased freedom for the common man.  Before the king required Englishmen learn the longbow, a knight got pretty much what he wanted.  After the longbow?  A bit more difficult, because if the knight’s demand was too much?  A group of men could make his demand as null and void as Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s womb.

This levelling of force included fortresses.  A tall castle with stone walls was impregnable short of a long siege, having been designed to resist stone thrown from catapults.  But after cannon, castles were as done as Facebook® to a teenager after grandma started “Liking” their posts.

This trend continued.  Soldiers shed armor, and the most potent weapons became affordable by even the most common man.  By the time of the Revolution®, any American could hold in their hands the equivalent weapon of a British soldier.  And not be trained in years like a swordsman, or in weeks like an archer, but in days.  The investment in money went down, too – a good musket would cost about a month’s earnings for an American around the time of the Revolution™.

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The Second Amendment wasn’t written about this – it was written about freedom.

People talk about democracy?  In this way violence was democratized.  Never in the history of mankind had a place been as free as America, but only part of it was philosophy – the rest was applied engineering.  The Brown Bess was a British weapon, but it was the most common weapon used on both sides of the Revolution.  Ordinary American citizens had the same weapon as the best armed British soldier.  The result?

Tyranny lost.  Arbitrary will could not be imposed upon free men.  The Congress was stopped from legislating tyranny not only by the Constitution, but by the willingness of good men to accept the legislation.

This situation of increasing freedom kept going.  “God created men.  Sam Colt made them equal.”  Any American could put 12 rounds in a pair of Colts® on his hips after the Civil War, plus another 15 in a Winchester™ in the scabbard on his saddle.  Was the Old West© a killing field?  Well, yes.  In Dodge City, the murder rate at its peak was probably a little over twice what it is today in Baltimore today, but at least there wasn’t any rap music.

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Where’s Selleck?  This picture needs more Selleck.

Today, legal firearm ownership is through the roof.  The weapons are of high quality:  these firearms are nearly the same ability as firearms used commonly by the military.  In many cases, a family home is better armed than the local police department – I’ve been to Modern Mayberry’s office and wouldn’t trade.  We’re better prepared, too.  It might take me three minutes to have an AR ready to go, but it would take our local police twenty minutes at least to mount an effective force to come “save” me.  More than likely if I were unarmed, they’d just be there to photograph the bodies.  Police aren’t the first responders.  Police are second responders.

Prepared or not:  you are the first responder.

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In no case have I ever seen a cop do anything but get ready to fill out paperwork.  The good news?  You’re on your own.

There is no nation on Earth as armed as the United States.  Modern Mayberry is a good example of that, where I’d expect 90% of citizens have more than one gun, and the cost of a decent firearm is $500 or less.  Are we free here?  Certainly.  Do we fear our neighbors shooting us?  Certainly not.  I could toss a pistol on my hip and the biggest thing most people would worry about would be that I got to the counter at Burger King™ to order before them.

Ten drones hit the Saudi oil processing plants recently, taking out millions of barrels a day of the world’s oil production.  Ten drones.  And from what I can see, the drones cost a few thousand dollars each to make.  Today, the parts and programming to make those drones isn’t hard to come by.  Even the GPS tracking wouldn’t add much to the cost.  The ability to destroy targets from hundreds of miles away is less expensive than a used car.  A crappy used car.

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Hey, he went on to drive the Pork Chop Express.

Millions of barrels of world oil production was taken down for less than the cost of a new Camaro®, and a new Camaro™ won’t even get you a date with the local meth tramp.

The implications on freedom of drone technology aren’t clear.  I’d expect, however, that a government would have to take into account the fact that, at least in the United States, they govern a people that that wishes to be governed.  This puts in place limits on government.  The second the government wants to push the people too far, the calculus of violence will rapidly favor the people, and not the government.

Despite all of the nonsense-bragging from the left that a dozen people from flyover Red States aren’t equal to an aircraft carrier, I know who I’d pick.  I’m not stupid, I’d pick both of them – I want the people and the aircraft carriers.  But if I had to pick one, I’d pick the dozen people from flyover states.  They won’t shoot down many F-35 fighters, but I’d be willing to bet if you asked any soldier if he’d rather fight Afghans or Red State Americans unleashed, he’d want to go up against the Afghans any day.

When a country’s leaders want to enforce tyranny, the first thing they do is to take away the weapons of the common man.  After that, atrocity is the playbook.  A free people, with arms, will not suffer tyranny.

Here is Vladimir Lenin’s order to his henchmen in about (I haven’t found the date) 1918:

“Comrades! The insurrection of five kulak districts should be pitilessly suppressed. The interests of the whole revolution require this because ‘the last decisive battle’ with the kulaks is now under way everywhere. An example must be demonstrated.

  1. Hang (and make sure that the hanging takes place in full view of the people) no fewer than one hundred known landlords, rich men, bloodsuckers.
  2. Publish their names.
  3. Seize all their grain from them.
  4. Designate hostages in accordance with yesterday’s telegram.

Do it in such a fashion that for hundreds of kilometers around the people might see, tremble, know, shout: “they are strangling, and will strangle to death, the bloodsucking kulaks”.

Telegraph receipt and implementation.

Yours, Lenin.

Find some truly hard people”

Would Lenin’s order work in Texas?  Would that work in Kentucky?  Would that work in Indiana?  In Michigan?  In Ohio?

No.  Not in 2019.

The war on guns isn’t about keeping schools safe – that’s actually trivial to do without taking guns away.  It’s trivial to do without Red Flag (Red Flag Laws, or, How To Repeal The Second Amendment Soviet-Style Without A Pesky Vote) laws.

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I hear that Lenin’s ghost wants universal health care.  But with rope.

The only thing taking guns away from Americans does is to make it easier for the Lenin Squad® in the House to take whatever they want.  And if Americans are disarmed?  They will take whatever they want.

In Modern Mayberry, it was likely a raccoon or an opossum on my deck.  But if it wasn’t, the red dot of the laser playing across the forest near my house probably convinced the bad guys that this house certainly wasn’t worth ending their life for.  More than likely it convinced a raccoon that a world-famous blogger was willing to fight him to the death for the rights to lick a cat food can clean.

He didn’t have to worry.  A raccoon going after a cat food can isn’t what I worry about – even though it might scare the dogs.

But if it was a government raccoon?  Hmmmm.

The Global Warming Memo They Don’t Want You To See (Okay, I wrote it.)

“Yes, it keeps me up at night. That and the Loch Ness Monster, global warming, evolution, other fictional concepts.” – House, M.D.

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Looks like she uses Coppertone® for her sunscreen.

I intercepted a note from the Global Warming Community(C) to the media using the extremely old technique of making it up.  Here it is in it’s entirety, with no further commercial interruptions.

It’s the end of summer, so the Global Warming Community™ would like to take a moment to remind you that hot summer weather is a sure sign of Global Warming®.  Cold winter weather is just weather.  And if there are more hurricanes, you can bet that it’s a sign of Global Warming©.  If there are fewer hurricanes, you can also bet that is a sign of Global Warming™, too.

Firstly, please ignore that our models aren’t even close to accurate:

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Please ignore previous climate predictions that had the 97% Consensus© like the one by “42 top American and European investigators,” which stated . . . “The main conclusion of the meeting was that a global deterioration of climate, by order of magnitude larger than any hitherto experienced by civilized mankind, is a very real possibility and indeed may be due very soon.”  Please ignore these other predictions, too:

  • Worldwide famines by 1975. You remember those, right?  On August 10, 1969, Paul Ehrlich stated that “The trouble with almost all environmental problems is that by the time we have enough evidence to convince people, you’re dead.”  Ehrlich is still alive.
  • On April 16, 1970, it was announced that there would be an ice age starting in the first third of the new century because there would be enough air pollution to “obliterate the Sun.”
  • Ehrlich wasn’t happy to have just one spot on the list. In 1970, he stated that there would be water rationing by 1974 and food rationing by 1980.  And the oceans would be as dead as Lake Erie.  Please ignore the tilapia your wife had for dinner last month.
  • In 1974, it was noted that sea ice had increased 12% between 1967 and 1972. It was also noted in the article that “This appears to be in keeping with other long-term climatic changes, all of which suggest that after reaching a climax of warmth between 1935 and 1955, world average temperatures are now falling.”
  • Time® magazine noted in June, 1974, that, “Telltale signs are everywhere – from the unexpected persistence and thickness of pack ice in the waters around Iceland to the southward migration of a warmth-loving creature like the armadillo from the Midwest. Since the 1940s the mean global temperature has dropped about 2.7°”
  • From the New York Times Book Review, July, 1976: “The Cooling, so writes Stephen Schneider, a young climatologist at the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colo., reflecting the consensus of the climatological community in his new book, “The Genesis Strategy.”
  • From the New York Times, January, 1978 headline: “No End in Sight to 30-Year Cooling Trend.”
  • 1980: Reports were that acid rain will kill us.  Please ignore that in 1990 the report came in:  acid rain is not really a thing.
  • June 24, 1988, Dr. James Hansen said, “Our climate model simulations for the late 1980s and the 1990s indicate a tendency for an increase in heatwave drought situations in the Southeast and Midwest United States.” Please ignore that 1988 was the driest year in the upper Midwest in the last 31 years.
  • In September of 1988, it was noted that “A gradual rise in sea level is threatening to completely cover this Indian Ocean nation [The Maldives] of 1196 small islands in the next 30 years.” Please ignore that the Maldives are still there.
  • Hansen also noted that “The West Side Highway [which runs along the Hudson River] will be under water (by 2018).” Please ignore that it’s not.
  • In 2004, one prediction was that Great Britain would be “Siberian” by 2020. Four months to go!
  • In June of 2008, Dr. Hansen said that the Arctic would be ice free by 2013 to 2018. Please ignore that it’s not even close.
  • In December of 2008, Nobel Prize Winner® Al Gore noted that the Arctic “polarized (sic) cap will disappear in 5 years.” Please ignore the 14,000,000 square kilometers of ice that was in the “polarized” area.  And please ignore all of the other people who said the same thing.
  • Please don’t go to the CEI blog where all of the above (and more) is documented (LINK).

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I wonder if she can say “indeed” as deeply as Brian Blessed?

Please remember how charming the clinically depressed, autistic child suffering from whatever “selective mutism” is and obsessive compulsive disorder.  Realize that this is certainly the best leader the Global Warming Community® can offer for climate change because if you make fun of her you’re making fun of clinically depressed autistic that suffer from “selective mutism” and OCD, and to dispute anything she says is hate filled.  Please note that the Global Warming Community™ did nothing manipulative or unethical in having a child with mental issues be our spokesperson.  Thankfully, the Global Warming Community© has managed to get the Global Warming Agenda® into schools so impressionable children with mental issues can become so upset that they lose 22 pounds due to worry.

greta

Luisa-Marie Neubauer is a “Green” (read communist) who is the handler for Greta Thunberg.  The Internet says she works for Soros, but I find that connection a bit tenuous – I think being communist is probably enough.

Please ignore how the primary discussion during climate conferences has been how much money developed countries would have to pay to undeveloped countries.  Thankfully, the media has ignored projections that the Paris Treaty™ might cost the United States as much as $2.5 Trillion a year, and only make the climate slightly cooler, as low as 0.17°C cooler in the year 2100 than without the agreement.

Please ignore how many Global Warming™ temperature graphs start in 1978, one of the coolest years on record.  This is like picking that day you drank fifty beers and saying you’ve made progress because you’ve cut down consumption by 50%.  Please ignore Dr. Roy Spencer’s (LINK) graph, even though it also starts at the cool period in the 1970’s:

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Also, please ignore that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s advisor stated about her Green New Deal™:  “Do you guys think of it as a climate thing?” Saikat Chakrabarti asked. “Because we really think of it as a how-do-you-change-the-entire-economy thing.”  Please ignore that the primary driver for many Global Warming Agenda™ items are about control of people and economies, and if we really wanted to eliminate carbon emissions the Global Warming Community™ would have embraced nuclear power thirty years ago.

Also, Please ignore these Greenland Ice Cores from Joanne Nova’s site (LINK):

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Also, please make sure you don’t publish “stop having babies because a person in the United States has a bigger Carbon Footprint™ and adds more to Global Warming© than the wonderful citizens of the third world” articles right next to “we need more immigrants to replace all the babies we’re not having.”  It’s okay in the same issue, but not right next to each other.

And whatever you do, please don’t let anyone know that we’re at the characteristic end (more or less) of a typical interglacial warm period (LINK) and that our demise is much more likely to come by ice than fire, unless you read George R.R. Martin (and I must note it takes him about 415,000 years per novel nowadays:

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Lastly, please, please, please ignore the fact that the International Panel on Climate Change® came up with the conclusion that variance in the Sun’s output doesn’t impact climate.  Yes, even though there is ample evidence that the gigantic thermonuclear reactor in the sky just might have something to do with climate (Climate Change, Solar Output, Ice Ages, The Planet Vulcan, And Old Guys With Beards).

We’ll be back next spring to remind you that if we don’t act in the next (checks watch) five minutes . . . WE ARE ALL DOOMED!

Zen and the Art of Marshmallows, Delayed Gratification, Soviet Tanks, and Russian Motorcycles

“Look, the marshmallows aren’t even toasting!  They remain a comfortable sixty-eight degrees!” – The Tick

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Come on, we know that the real villain in Stranger Things™ should have been Stay Puft®.

Once upon a time when I was a five-year-old Wilder, my kindergarten teacher gave me a marshmallow.  “Johnny, if you can wait five minutes before eating that marshmallow, I’ll give you a second marshmallow, and you can enjoy them both.”  The teacher then walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I thought furiously.  This must be some sort of trap, with stakes that high.  I looked around for cameras.  Aha!  There they were, disguised cleverly as a new box of chalk and a pencil sharpener.  They’re monitoring me, just as I suspected.  Little did they know, I had anticipated this entire scenario when I had debriefed my friend Thomas A. Anderson* (known on the Dark Web® as Neo™) the previous day.

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Also?  Keanu never ages – he saves that for the picture in his attic.  He looked the same in kindergarten as he does today.

With effort, I slowed the beating of my heart using a technique I had learned from Master Ginsu® during the years I had spent training in Tibet to be a Fake Purse Ninja©**.  I had trained.  I was ready for this.

Very slowly and subtly I pulled a second marshmallow from the front pocket of my Tough Skins® jeans from Sears©.  I put it in my palm.  Quick as a cobra, I then reached out for the marshmallow the teacher had left, but only appeared to leave it there on the plate.  In reality, I had swapped out the marshmallow on the plate for the one I’d brought in my pocket.

In a practiced move, I pretended to pick my nose while in reality I was eating the marshmallow the teacher had left to tempt me, leaving the imposter I’d brought from home in its place.  I felt the rush of the sugars dissolving in my mouth.  Now I could finally understand what Spot was trying to tell Dick and Jane.  The fools!

But I shook my head to clear it of these deep thoughts.  I had finished my surreptitious swap just in time – I heard the footsteps in the hall outside the room, and saw the two dark shadows under the door, letting me know that the teacher was looming like a monster that had slowly slithered out of the bowels of the Earth and decided to go into elementary education.  My heart, despite all of the training began to race again.  The door knob turned.

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Who knew it was that easy?

The teacher had another marshmallow, and started to place it next to my cleverly replaced fake.  She stopped.  She picked up my marshmallow, the one that had brought from home that had been sitting in my pocket for six hours before I made the swap, and studied it.

“Oh, Johnny.  This is gross.  There is lint in this marshmallow.  And bits of string.  And, is that a BB?  This won’t do, this won’t do at all.”  Drat.  I never counted on the relative filth of my pockets giving me away.

I had been caught.  I knew that this would go in my Permanent Record.  Ruined!  And all at the age of five.  Perhaps I could salvage my defeat and defect to the Soviet Union so I could be closer to Bernie Sanders?

Before I could go to Plan B and steal an F-15E from the nearby airbase and leave the country at Mach 2.5 my teacher continued, “No, this won’t do at all.  Let me get you a fresh marshmallow.”  She left the room and came back with two clean, pristine, marshmallows.

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It also felt like this when I swapped our baby for a baby with a better jawline at the hospital just after “Pugsley” was born.  Those nurses hardly ever look away.

Success.  And she never knew what hit her, which would make this the perfect crime.  I ate the second and third marshmallows.

Maybe I overthink these situations?

Nah.

I left the school and then a helicopter exploded behind me as I got into the school bus for the trip home, because that just looks really cool.  And I didn’t even look back.

Okay, absolutely none of that was true, except the exploding helicopter.

But what is true is that a Scientist did a study where they gave a four or five-year-old a marshmallow and promised them a second marshmallow if they didn’t eat the first.  They then followed these kids for 40 years.  Yes.  40 years.  Here’s a (LINK).  Turns out that those kids that waited for the second marshmallow had higher SAT scores, were skinnier, drank less, got stoned less, generally dealt well with stress and had a lot of friends.

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The best way to win an argument with your wife is if it never happened.  Enough vodka works, too.  Does that make this the “Ketamine Maru” scenario?

To be clear:  they never gave me the marshmallow test, because I would have completely Kobayashi Maru’d*** it.  Besides, they were too busy taking knives away from me.  Yes.  In kindergarten.  That’s how you spell freedom.

The concept of the marshmallow test is that the ability to delay gratification is good, and leads to better life outcomes.  We see this all of the time – the ant and the grasshopper was a famous fable – the ants work all summer while the grasshopper goes to meth parties.  Then winter hits, the ants start to party, but the grasshopper is left all tweaked out, tapping at the window of the anthill.  The ant party then intensifies to drown out the tapping and then everyone cheers when the grasshopper finally shows the good sense to just die already.

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Ahhh, Darwinian fables.  They skipped over the part where the ants eat the grasshopper’s frozen corpse.

There is a balance that defines a struggle between now and the future.  If you’re skewed too far to the now, you can certainly bet that all of your decisions will be made without regard to the consequences.  I want the marshmallow now, dangit!  The teacher might not bring me a second marshmallow.  There might not even be a second marshmallow.  Heck, the teacher might not even come back and I’ll be stuck in this room forever.

For most of my life, I’ve lived the “marshmallow later” life.  I think the biggest example of this is that I buy life insurance.  On my life.  I use money that I could use to pay for buying a vintage Soviet T-34 tank (I found one for sale in Poland) and spend it on life insurance.  Okay, $60 a month won’t buy a vintage Soviet T-34 tank from Poland, but you get the picture.

But for the rest of this post, I’ll use (sometimes) Marshmallow to refer to future orientation, and Anti-Marshmallow to refer to “eat it now” orientation.

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It’s a project car, honey.  The guy who sold it to me swore it was one owner.

Future orientation is spending money on something that pays off ONLY IF YOU ARE DEAD.  You will never, ever in your life receive a dime from your own life insurance, unless you have a comically complicated plot to fake your own death.  Yet, if you’re like me, you pay for it so your family can have the best tier of Internet service after you die, because after all, YouTube® isn’t going to watch itself.  In my mind, life insurance is the ultimate Marshmallow test.

Preparing for disasters is another Marshmallow test (Be Prep-ared) that over 90% of your neighbors don’t do at all.  Sticking to a diet is another (The Last Weight Loss Advice You’ll Ever Need, Plus a Girl in a Bikini Drinking Water) that’s not real popular.  I will admit that I buy my share of silly crap on the Internet.  I have several hobbies worth of kits and tools and stuff ready to build when I retire, and that’s Anti-Marshmallow behavior, but the only real hassle with them is finding a great place to store them until I’ve got the time to mess with them, what with the basement being full of ants, grasshoppers, and empty ketamine argument winning bottles.

A few weeks back I made a joke, “I could either spend it on me now, or spend it on an extra box of Depends® when I’m 90.”  If one were to truly be Marshmallow, one would always pick the future comfort, over the comfort of today.  But life is a balance.  If all you do is pick the future, you become the janitor who worked 80 hour weeks for 80 years cleaning schools to leave Harvard® an extra $20 million to turn liberal rich kids into CNN® anchors.

If you become completely Anti-Marshmallow, well, you’re broke.  Those are two extremes.  Maybe this time you want Moderation?

Last week I mentioned that Moderation is for Monks, and Adam Piggott, Gentleman Adventurer added some great thoughts.  You can read it here, and you should (LINK), in fact you should be reading him daily.  Anyone who says, “Be the very best bastard that you can be,” is worth your time.

And he says moderation is good – moderation in having a cigar, and not the box.  Splitting a bottle of wine with your wife on Friday, but not on all days ending in the letter y.  And that’s Discipline, which is very Marshmallow.  But is Discipline moderate in 2019 when the motto of the Western world is if it feels good, do it?  Probably not.

But yet, there’s a time to be Marshmallow, and a time to be (at least a bit) Anti-Marshmallow.  Maybe a T-34 is overkill – I don’t live anywhere near Kursk****.  But maybe, just maybe, I should get a Ural®.  The Mrs. has already signed off on it and said “You should get that.  It looks cool.”  To Marshmallow or to not to Marshmallow.  I guess to be Marshmallow, at some point you have to eat the marshmallows.  Otherwise Harvard© will.

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I hear Elon Musk is including anti-gravity as a new Tesla® feature.  If I bought a Ural®, I’d skip the Russians and the machine gun, because the Russians would drink all my booze and then invade Colorado only to be thrown back by a plucky school Spanish club.*****

Me?  I don’t like marshmallows all that much.  Except on ‘smores®.  And then I roast mine slowly to get the full mushy goodness without it turning into something that looks like a cat caught at Hiroshima.

Which, I guess is the Marshmallow way to eat marshmallows.

 

*The Matrix.  Too bad they never made a sequel to that movie.

**Bowfinger.  If you haven’t seen it, you’re dead to me.  Yes, it’s that funny.

***Star Trek II, The Wrath of Khan.  Really?  Please tell me you already knew this one.

****Sort of like Burning Man®, but for tanks. 1943.

*****Nope.  You can figure this one out.

Be Prep-ared

“Be prepared, son.  That’s my motto.  Be prepared.” – The Last Boy Scout

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The most prepared person is my friend, Justin Case.

When I was a kid, camping meant backpacking.  I had the good fortune to live in the mountains, where it my daily view waiting for the school bus was what people took vacation from work to see.  Heck, it was valuable enough to them that they would buy an SUV to haul a miniature home to come and experience for five days.  But to me, that wasn’t camping, that was daily life.  It’s amazing how we can become bored by splendor when surrounded by it daily.

Backpacking was camping.  When you camp as a backpacker, everything that goes up the hill goes on your back.  You are the SUV, which may explain why Pop Wilder put a bumper sticker on my butt.

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Okay that wasn’t it, but if it were 2019 the sticker would say, “Hey, vegans, you can thank me for killing that cow that was eating all of your food.”

When you backpack for more than a day or so, you really learn what’s essential.  The Boy and then later Pugsley joined the ranks of a familiar organization in hopes of becoming . . . “A member of an elite paramilitary organization: Eagle Scouts®” so that they can avenge me after the communists put me in the drive in movie camp.  I just know that there won’t be Raisinettes©, because communists hate Raisinettes™.

When The Boy first joined Cub Scouts® (the younger version where parents have to camp with the kids), my brain still equated camping with backpacking.  The tent I bought for camping with him?  A good four-man backpacker.  If you know anything about tents, you know that a four man tent is not big enough for four normal-sized humans.  In fact, it was just big enough for me and The Boy and our gear, and it was one you had to get on your knees to crawl inside.  To sleep on?  Self-inflating sleeping pads.

Honestly, I’ve never camped with anyone that I wanted to kill more.  When I was sharing the tent with him, every time I’d start to drift off to sleep, The Boy would shake me back awake.  Every time.  Why?  Because, allegedly, I would snore.

If you have never spent two nights camping with someone who intentionally wakes you up just as you’re getting ready to go into deep sleep, you may not understand that’s the sort of thing that makes you think . . . “You know, The Mrs. could produce a decent copy of The Boy that looks a lot like this one.”

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I shouldn’t make too much fun of Charlie Sheen – I hear he’s got a new show set for later this year – Two and a Half Personalities.

Everything I brought camping for that first Scout© trip including the tent and cooking gear fit into one decent-sized backpack.  Surely everyone else had the same idea about camping, right?  No.  When I got there I saw that spacious, palatial multi-room tents with cots, tables, and even sinks was the norm.  On one camping trip, the leader even brought a gasoline-powered electric generator for powering his tent.  I’m pretty sure at least one family brought a television, but since I was sleep-deprived, my memory might be suspect.

It was at that point I realized that outside of where I grew up, camping meant “living in a fabric palace with every possible amenity known to man.”

Yikes.  Eventually I gave up and bought my own fabric palace for camping with the The Boy and Pugsley when they were Cub Scouts©, though I stopped before we bought a generator and sink.  But when The Boy moved over to the actual Boy Scouts®?  Things changed.

The idea of camping there was that the boys (not the adults) were responsible for their own cooking, cleaning, equipment, and logistics.  They planned the meals, they selected the cooks, they divided the work, and nobody considered a fabric palace with a generator – it was not quite the austerity of backpacking, but it was close.  One especially nice rule was “no phones” for the kids.  As I was an adult leader in this elite paramilitary organization, I got to go camping quite a lot – sometimes over 30 days a year.

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My first trip, packing took an hour.  My most recent trip, packing took about five minutes – I’ve discovered that if I forgot it?  I can live 48 hours without it.

I experimented with gear – what gear made sense, what gear should be thrown out.  Thirty days of camping gives a lot of testing time, and do it over the course of several years?  Soon enough you’ve put nearly 150 days into the field for gear testing.  I learned what was useful, and what was useless.  Probably the best lesson was about things that were sometimes useful.

What was always useful?  The list is in (more or less) order from “never give up” to “might give up based on the trip.”

  • Clothing – Fully half the days of the year near Modern Mayberry, if you chose to go camping and it wasn’t raining, you’d need no more than your camping clothes to sleep. Might it be a chilly night on some nights?    But you’d be okay.  We often forget that the first line of defense against everything from sunburn to bugs to cold weather that we have is our clothing.  Clothing also keep us from getting arrested, or at least that’s what my probation officer keeps saying.
  • Shoes – Foot protection is important – no protection on the feet, you won’t be moving around. Sure, people in the distant past . . . yada yada.  It takes years to build up the appropriate calluses on your feet to walk around.  Having good shoes is just a trip to buy them.
  • Tent – I know one leader that made due with a tarp. I know one that only used hammocks.  I liked actual tents – it keeps the bugs out.  I eventually caved, and in car camping I use a tent that I can stand up in.  I know the others could work for me, but that’s what I chose because I’m old.  It was also good down to -15°F (-456°C).
  • Knife – I always carry one. Can cut a rope, I can cut dinner, but I just can’t cut the mustard.
  • Matches – In the winter, staying warm is a must, and fire can cook food.
  • Sleeping Bag – I take a sleeping bag, even in summer – worst case, you can sweat all over it.
  • Cot – I experimented with sleeping foam, and inflatable sleeping pads, but a cot is about the best. Sleeping pads are a pretty close second.
  • Coffee Cup – Yes, for coffee. But also for soup.  Or stew.
  • Bowl – I started out using a fancy mess kit. I know one person who used a Frisbee®, but I just settled on an unbreakable ceramic bowl.
  • Cookware – The bowl could double, if it was metal. I’m all for having both a bowl and a cooking pot.
  • Spoon – Spoons are like bowls on the end of sticks. Amazing that people would invent a smaller bowl to empty a larger one.
  • Book – I always took one, I always read one. Nice during down time.
  • Toilet Paper – Better than using poison ivy leaves.
  • Folding Chair – Sure, silly, but it was always used. You can only stand so long.  A stump works, certainly, and when I backpack we’d pull up a log.  But chairs are nice.
  • Light for Inside the Tent – Mainly useful for reading the book.

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This was nearly as useless as that glass hammer that I got from E-Bay®, or that wooden frying pan that I got from Amazon©.

What was sometimes useful?  The order is less useful here, since depending upon weather or other conditions, some of these would really be essential.

  • First Aid Kit – I still always carry one, though mine is a bit more tricked out than an over the counter version – I’ve added Super Glue®, butterfly bandages, a foam splint, and blood clotting agent. It’s hard to be John Wilder:  Civil War Surgeon® without a bag tools.  Did I mention I have a knife?
  • Bug Spray – Depending on the time of the year, this is really nice to have. I tried not showering as an alternative, but that only works as a people repellent.
  • Rope – Paracord is about right – you could always use more if you were hauling something heavy, but we never ran into any situation where paracord wouldn’t work.
  • Rain Poncho – Useful when it was raining, in theory. In practice, when it’s raining and 80°F out, it’s not required unless you happen to be made out of sugar.  When it’s raining and 40°F out?  It’s a necessity.
  • Water Bottle – Why isn’t this useful for every trip? Well, most places we went had water.  If they didn’t?  We brought it.  If unlimited fresh water wasn’t the case, I’d revert to my backpacking days where a water bottle and a water filter were near the top of the list.
  • Saw/Axe/Hatchet – Most fires that we made were out of small wood that we could easily break by hand. We used saws/axes/hatchets more for making things.  In deep winter camping, we’d probably want better firewood, so a saw becomes more useful.
  • Map – This is listed in “sometimes useful” but only when we taught map reading. We never went any place so far off the beaten path where a map was required.  If you didn’t have a cell phone?  This might be useful once again.
  • Frisbee/Football – Good times. And football doesn’t mean soccer ball.
  • Flashlight – When I started camping, I thought this was essential. Between firelight, moonlight, and starlight, rarely did I use a flashlight after the first thirty days.
  • Cell Phone – Okay, I’ll admit I surfed Drudge® while I was camping. And it’s great to have as an emergency backup, if there’s signal.

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I always carry a knife when I have a flashlight – you won’t see me taking a stab in the dark.

What was rarely (if ever) useful?

  • Compass – Modern GPS technology and cell phones have made this of similar usefulness as a buggy whip. I have several.
  • Bear Spray – Not very good for spicing up my chili when camping. When hiking, scouts make enough noise that bears are afraid.  And my (alleged) snoring would keep any bear away at night.
  • Wallet – Nothing useful there for camping, unless they need to identify the body.
  • Keys – Useful before and after camping. Not so much during.

A camping trip isn’t the end of the world, so there are things that we plan to take with us that we consumed during the trip:

  • Water – Needed. Unless you’re a kangaroo rat.  Clean water is of great importance, but maybe we take it for granted – and remember, it’s no substitute for beer.
  • Food – Unless you have a medical condition, over the course of any short duration, food is not a necessity, it’s a comfort item. We were comfortable campers.
  • Paper Towels – 99% of cleanup is done with paper towels. Not a necessity.  But nice.
  • Soap – To wash dishes. Or yourself.
  • Trash Bags – In a pinch, you could use them for rainwater collection, as a poncho, or weave it into a plastic rope to let yourself out of a psychiatric prison again. We just put trash into ours.

“Here’s a lesson to test your mind’s mettle:  take part of a week in which you have only the most meager and cheap food, dress scantly in shabby clothes, and ask yourself if this is really the worst that you feared.  It is when times are good that you should gird yourself for tougher times ahead, for when Fortune is kind the soul can build defenses against her ravages.  So it is that soldiers practice maneuvers in peacetime, erecting bunkers with no enemies in sight and exhausting themselves under no attack so that when it comes they won’t grow tired.”

– Seneca the Dead Roman Dude

“It is precisely in times of immunity from care that the soul should toughen itself beforehand for occasions of greater stress.  If you would not have a man flinch when the crisis comes, train him before it comes.”

– Also Seneca the Still Dead Roman Dude

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Roman algebra was boring.  X was always equal to 10.

One of the best parts about camping is that it allows you to walk away from 2019.  It allows you to leave behind the past and live with virtually no technology younger than 70 years old.  Camping pulls you away from most of the meaningless parts of our world, and it’s interesting to see people cope with moving from an environment that manages to provide amusement on demand to one where high-tech includes propane stoves and fire.

One particular campout brings this one to mind – an adult was continually whining about the weather.  Sure, it was November, and there was a constant rain.  Thankfully, we had an adult whining about the weather every chance he got.  Since the boys were off doing their own thing, they weren’t exposed to the negativity – the boys loved it, cooking oatmeal in the rain for Sunday breakfast.  Several thought the campout was one of the best they’d been on.

The lesson?  You don’t need most of the things you think you need, not even good weather.

Things that you need that you don’t think you need:

  • Practice – spending that amount of time away from a house taught me a lot about what I need, and what I don’t.
  • Mental Toughness – The life we have on a daily basis isn’t really normal, especially when compared to the lives people have lived throughout history. We live in luxury, with a great freedom from want, and ample food for everyone:  whether it gets distributed is another matter.  Living without these luxuries for a week and learning you can be happy with less is a great way to prepare for emergencies.
  • Amusements – Simple things like a deck of cards can help with the withdrawals from 2019. The next step is meaningfully connecting with people.  Crazy idea, that one.
  • Purpose – Understand why you’re doing all of this. Having a purpose that’s beyond Facebook® is priceless.

Here are some lessons I picked up from Hurricane Ike:

  • 90%+ of people don’t prepare at all until the last minute.
  • Unless you’ve practiced, you’ve forgotten something. I forgot propane for the gas grill, my neighbor had some.  He forgot gas for his car.  I had some.  Even trade.
  • Unless your family has practiced, they’ll be mentally weak. Even just a few days without power had people missing it, and in the aftermath of the hurricane, it got hot.  With no air conditioning, Houston was just plain horrible.  None of us were used to that.  Another week of no power and I’d have shipped off the rest of the family to a hotel.

The basics of survival are simple:  Air for breathing.  A place to get out of the cold.  Water.  Eventually, food.  Survival is hard to practice for – taking a few days off and camping is easy.  Taking a month off is harder, and taking a year off is nearly impossible for anyone who has bills to pay.  But if you’re ready for a disaster that lasts a month?  You’ve already gone to the head of the class.  And if you’ve learned to not murder your child because he wakes you up every time you start to snore so that sleep is impossible?

Well, that’s a positive, too.

Remember:  just because it hasn’t happened, doesn’t mean it won’t.  And when you’re prepared for a range of outcomes, both physically and mentally, you’re ahead not of 90% of the population, but 99%.  What will the future bring us? That’s a big question, but if you prepare, remember that practice is a part of the preparation.

As Concerned American always notes over at Western Rifle Shooters (LINK), “This material will be on the final exam.”