China’s Unrestricted Economic War on America

“You can go off and rule the Universe from beyond the grave.” – Big Trouble in Little China

I guess the French are sensitive about jokes like that.  Sore losers.

I’ll admit it right up front. For years I did exactly what millions of other Americans did. I rolled into Walmart©, grabbed a cart, and filled it with cheap Chinese stuff:  tools that broke after one use, plastic Godzilla© toys that lit up for a week, and clothes that wore out by the second wash.  It was easy. It was affordable.  And yeah, I played along, just like everybody else.

We called it “free trade.”  What was it really?

It was the slow, deliberate hollowing out of American manufacturing.

Factories closed.  Main street died.  Towns emptied.  Skills vanished.  Whole supply chains got shipped overseas under the polite fiction that cheap imports would make us all richer.

They didn’t, at least long term.  They made China richer and left us weaker.  The base of our economy, the ability to make things, got gutted while we congratulated ourselves on saving a few bucks on a toaster while the Chinese progressed to manufacturing iPhones® on a global scale.

Found two lumps on my car battery, had them tested.  One came back positive.  Looks like it’s terminal.

But manufacturing was just the opening act.  Now let’s talk about our farms.

In the last couple of years we’ve seen Chinese nationals caught red-handed trying to bring biological weapons straight into the heart of American agriculture.  Take the 2025 case out of Michigan:

Two Chinese citizens, one a University of Michigan scholar with a PhD in plant pathogens from a Chinese university and the other her boyfriend, got busted trying to smuggle fusarium graminearum into the country through Detroit Metro Airport.  That fungus isn’t some harmless underarm cheese cultivated by AntiFa.  Nope.  This fungus wrecks wheat, barley, and corn before they can be turned to their highest possible use, making booze.

This fungus can wipe out entire harvests and has the added bonus terror of pumping out mycotoxins that poison livestock and people.  Being late to the party for any crime not committed by white guys who were their paid informants, the feds called it an “agroterrorism weapon.”

What has 43 actors, four settings, six writers, and one plot?  430 Netflix® movies.

The “scholar” is a Chinese Communist Party member.  They were caught in July 2024.  The FBI noted this was the second such case involving a Chinese national tied to the same university in a matter of days.  The second.

In days.

How long have these shenanigans been going on.  Florida is known for cocaine, Florida Man®, and orange.  Back in 2005, citrus greening showed up in Miami.  The disease is caused by a bacterium native to Asia, spread by the Asian citrus psyllid, another Asian import.

Nobody knows exactly how it arrived.  Within a few years, citrus trees stopped producing decent fruit.  Groves died by the thousands.  Production got cut in half.  Farmers went broke.  Entire communities that had grown oranges for generations watched their livelihood rot on the diseased trees.

Florida used to be the orange juice capital of the world.

Is it a coincidence that a devastating Asian disease suddenly explodes in America’s second biggest citrus state or part of a longer pattern?

The Earth is has a high proportion of surface covered with water, but little of it is carbonated.  The Earth is flat.

Then there’s the poultry industry.

Since early 2022 the chicken farmers have been culling birds by the tens of millions because of highly pathogenic avian influenza:  bird flu.  Under the Biden administration the numbers got biblical:  over 168 million birds affected across commercial and backyard flocks in nearly every state.  The result?  Massive egg shortages, price spikes, farmers watching their entire operations wiped out in days.

The virus spreads through wild birds, sure.  But the timing, the scale, and the economic damage line up awfully neatly with a strategy that weakens America’s food production without a single missile being fired.

I’ve said it before on this blog and I’ll say it again: the Chinese government actually seems to care about making the majority of its people successful.  Yeah, individual rights get stepped on. That’s how Chinese society has operated since at least 232 B.C., when Wang Chung won the battle of Win Kong over the Chang Sing and something like 78 million people died.

In the middle of the battle, I switched to my knife to save ammo.  Now I’m banned from playing paintball.

Are the Chinese ruthless?

Absolutely.

But the rulers in Beijing have always understood that a strong, productive Chinese population is the foundation of their national and international power.  They invest in their people and push them to succeed to keep the machine humming.  Contrast that with our own leadership, which often seems to compete to be the bigger champion for bringing in illegals:  Democrats as voters and welfare targets or Republicans who want cheap labor.  If having millions of illegals or millions of Indians in a society is an advantage, well, China must be falling behind.

Right?

China looks at the world and sees that there’s only one nation standing between them and outright global dominance: the United States.

Open war?  Too expensive, too risky, and today’s Chinese just won’t make the sacrifices the old Chinese would to eat their enemies.

But why bother when you can win without firing a shot?

That’s exactly what two People’s Liberation Army colonels spelled out back in 1999. Qiao Liang and Wang Xiangsui wrote a treatise called Unrestricted Warfare.  This is nothing less than a blueprint for beating a technologically superior enemy by doing, well, whatever was necessary.

Forget tanks and jets.  Qiao and Wang (good name for a urologist) talked about “beyond limits combined war”, and it was exactly that.

“Hey, NASA, your mom said I was big enough.” – Pluto

Trade warfare, financial warfare, resource warfare, PEZ™ warfare, ecological warfare, psychological warfare, smuggling warfare, media warfare, drug warfare, network (cyber) warfare, technological warfare, fabrication warfare, economic aid warfare, and international lawfare.

The idea was simple: use every possible tool to erode the enemy’s strength while pretending you’re just a friendly neighbor.

How many of those boxes have they checked?

  • Trade warfare? Done. They flooded our markets, stole our manufacturing base, and used the WTO like a Trojan horse.
  • Financial warfare? They’ve been buying up U.S. debt, manipulating currency, and positioning themselves to pull the rug out when the time is right, which might be now.
  • Ecological warfare? See the citrus groves and the poultry barns and the Michigan fungus folks.  Introduce a pathogen here, a pest there, and watch the food supply strain.
  • Smuggling warfare?  Fentanyl, anyone?
  • Cyber and network warfare?  Constant hacks, intellectual-property theft, missing hard drives from Los Alamos, and infrastructure probes that never quite rise to the level of “war.”
  • Psychological and media warfare?  Want to bet that China was stoking the fires on both sides in Minnesota during George Floyd?

The playbook was published over twenty-five years ago while we patted ourselves on the back for cheap socks and iPhones.

But not if I were a ghost hunter.  Then?  Pair of normal socks.

China has been at war, and hope to win before the rest of the world even notices.  It’s unrestricted economic warfare, and it’s already here.

But thankfully, we’ve had Godzilla® help us learn the true source of economic wealth in society.

Flipping houses.

Every Where You Look: The Game

“I’m giving you a choice:  either put on these glasses or start eating that trash can.” – They Live

“I’m hear to chew bubblegum and kick ass.  And I’m all out of bubblegum.”  (all memes as found)

Most posts aren’t connected, outside of they’re all written by me.  However, the last few have been following a theme that’s pretty old:  mistaking The Game for reality, even Plato wrote about it.  There are times we all get stuck in it.  It’s pretty seductive.  We mistake The Game for reality, often to our own detriment.

What’s The Game?

The Game is where life moves away from reality.  Money (or currency, or cash, which are not the same thing but we’ll use interchangeably in this post) was invented as a way to make trade easier.  Gold and silver were great because they didn’t rust, could be split up in itty bitty increments, and couldn’t be printed.

Money is an invention.  Collectively, humans made it.

We also invented interest rates.  Back a year or so ago (I’m too lazy to look it up) I invited everyone to think differently about the world by changing one simple thing:  eliminate interest on money.

If you haven’t seen the movie They Live, you should.  But when I suggested that “Let’s pretend that interest rates don’t exist,” I felt like Rowdy Roddy Piper trying to get Keith David to put on the ZZTop® sunglasses that (spoiler) allowed humans to see that half the people around him were aliens.

I mean, we didn’t get in a fistfight that lasted 20 minutes, but no one wanted to play a different version of The Game.  It was such a fundamental departure from the way the current world worked that people just couldn’t imagine it.

This is what The Game does.

I’ll guarantee that your great grandparents moving across the American West or settling in Kentucky or working a farm in Virginny could have imagined life without interest rates.  Many of them may not have borrowed money at interest at all.

In their lives.

It’s not that money didn’t matter, it most certainly did.  But if you grubstaked a house on the prairie you might have had to borrow a dollar or two until the crop came in, but it was probably to the store, and it probably wasn’t at interest.  Who would even loan against a farm?  Land was free for those that could homestead it.  Banking for everyone is a new invention.  Just like interest rates, it was just a new rule for The Game.

The reason?  Why not extend The Game to everyone so that they could transfer their wealth at six percent per year to the owners of a bank?

Large amounts of society are like this.  It is a large part of why it was so crucial to the COVID tRUsT tHe ScIENce crowd.  This was in a time of general insanity as the “trans-women are women” and “women are exactly like men” and “black people are really oppressed and George Floyd was murdered” hysteria hit peaks.

All of these are symptoms that The Game is afoot, and there is nothing a person who has bought into The Game will fight more than having the rules of The Game challenged.  And if individuals fight hard, the system will fight even harder.

January 6, anyone?

If I were a suspicious man, I’d think this was all an intentional plan to move away from the real to the fantasy world of make-believe things like money.  The transition for money moved from:

  1. Money is something tangible. Gold, yes.  Silver, maybe along with some copper and nickel.  But I don’t trust silver or copper or nickel much.
  2. Okay, gold is so important you can’t touch it but you can keep your silver coins. Only the government.  Oh, and the gold that we just took from you?  We’re going to immediately double its value.  But the dollar will always be backed by gold.
  3. Silver in coins are too expensive to make. We’ll just make them out of base metals.
  4. Gold?   We’re just going to have dollars.  You can buy your gold back.
  5. Pennies? Too expensive to make, we lose money on every single one we make.  We’ll skip ‘em.
  6. Say, have you tried some of this electronic digital cash so we can track everything you buy? So convenient and easy!

The reality has been twisted, and taking your money from you via interest payments and taxes wasn’t enough, they had to take the money, too.  The rules of The Game have been changed.

And me arguing that getting rid of interest rates is a crazy thought experiment?

The way your money was taken the same way your rights are taken.  They are removed slowly, people are nudged.  If you follow the Supreme Court, the plain language of the document has been twisted so far as for some judges to believe that somewhere in the Constitution is the protected right of dual citizens to

  1. Exist, and
  2. Serve in jobs like congressman or as a federal judge.

But, yet, the plain language allowing me to own military-grade weapons means that I shouldn’t be allowed anything more powerful than a shotgun pellet gun bb-gun squirt gun dart gun Nerf™ gun, and my right to the Nerf® gun isn’t absolute.

The rules of The Game have been changed.

Okay, I made this one.

The same way that your rights are taken is the same way your values are taken.

Imagine society in 1950.  Perfect?  No.  If you didn’t mow your lawn, you couldn’t get a job or a loan.  Society rejected you, but those may have been features, rather than bugs.

Likewise, gays couldn’t adopt and certainly couldn’t get jobs where they would be alone with children – that would be insane!  But then The Game changed.  The Catholic Church decided that they could trust gay priests, since priests were celibate and, besides, God loves gay people, too, right?

Ouch.  Not so much.  It wasn’t the “priest” that caused the problem, it was the “gay”.

Gay people existed then.  Not in such large numbers because, for large numbers of gay people today “gay” is a choice.  And back then, the choice was made for you, and communities who had sexual fetishes about latex-covered toasters didn’t exist because there was no Reddit™ to connect them all.

That was better.  Rule changes to The Game have spread farther, faster in our connected world.

But our values have been ripped away via rule changes to The Game.  Nothing is wrong, except thinking something is wrong.  Silly.  The Game is about inclusion.  Even to the point of including people who hate you.  This is what is wrong with the world today.

Yeah.  See what that’s doing with birth rates.  But its also on purpose.  These values have been chipped at every year since at least the 1950s until the only value that The Game will leave you with is the value of money.

And they’ll even take that away from you.

Just try on the damn glasses, why don’t you?

Change, Propaganda, And Painting Lessons

“You were looking for a way to change your life.” – Fight Club

His pizza was also burnt and his beer was frozen.  He couldn’t pull anything out on time.

I’ve stared at the ceiling at 3 a.m. more times than I care to count in the past, wondering why some things in my life change and others stay stuck like a rusted engine nut on a ’78 Jeep® pickup.

Change.

It sounds simple.  Turn left instead of right.  Take the red pill or the blue pill or both.  Eat the salad.  Quit the habit I want to quit.  But the real change, the kind that rewires who I am, doesn’t happen because somebody tells me to change.  Change doesn’t happen because the boss is watching or the government posts another billboard.  Change happens when something inside me finally decides it’s time.

And the crazy part?

I control that switch.  No matter what my situation looks like right now, no matter how many birthdays I’ve stacked up, that control is still mine.

Let me tell you what doesn’t work.

But the boarding agent said she could have pie once we got to our seats:  “There’ll be a piece when you are done.”

First, someone trying to make me change.

Forget it.  I’m stubborn.  Bull-headed, really.  Push me, and I’ll dig in like a moist Missouri mule afflicted with mucus.  I’ve sent pushy salesmen packing more times than I can remember.  They come at me with the hard sell, the guilt trip, the “you really should” speech, and my natural reaction is to do the exact opposite.

It’s not rational.

It’s not even smart sometimes.  But it’s me.

Second, someone with power hovering over my shoulder, monitoring me.

Sure, I’ll toe the line while they’re looking. I’ll smile, nod, and change exactly enough to get them off my back.  The minute the spotlight moves, though?  Back to business as usual.  No buy-in.  No real shift.  Just temporary theater.  I know I’m not the only one.

Third, the whole society-is-watching angle.

This is Big Brother with a million little henchmen.  I’ll admit it:  back when I was a kid, the “Give a hoot, don’t pollute®” campaign actually worked on wee Wilder.  I picked up trash and felt good about it.  But that was simple.  Today it’s different.  Now it’s algorithms written for the fat-breasted blue-haired virtue warbler.  It’s social pressure and cameras everywhere, all trying to nudge behavior.

My kids wanted a puppy for Christmas, but I told them they were eating ham like everyone else.

I see it for what it is: a fancier version of the same old “boss is watching me” game.

I might play along in public when I absolutely must, but inside?

Still no sale.

So, what actually moves the needle?

Only one thing I’ve ever found works that works on me or anyone else:

changing values.

And values don’t change because of logic.  They change because of emotion, and not common emotions like “cold” or “sleepy” or “salt.”  No.  Raw, strong, gut-punch emotion.

I posed naked for a magazine once.  The lady at the 7-11® counter sure overreacted.

Take when I became a new father.  One minute the world revolved around me.  The next minute I was holding this tiny human who depended on me for everything, and I realized the universe didn’t orbit John Wilder anymore unless I put on enough weight to create my own gravity well.  That was a big deal.

Not a lecture.

Not a chart.

Just pure, overwhelming emotion.  My values shifted:  “providing” and “protecting” now were more important than “buzzed” and “sleepy”.  Everything else got rearranged around that.

I’ve seen the same thing in guys who barely survive a heart attack.

One day they’re carrying an extra seventy pounds, puffing on cigs, eating like a fat girl on a date with a blind man.

The next day after their slow dance with the reaper?

They drop the weight, kill the habits, start running, and turn into the most irritating health evangelists you’ve ever met, nearly as bad as bicycling atheist vegan transexual Harvard™ grads.

Nearly dying does that, I guess.

When I’m surrounded by my family, with my last breath I want to say:  “Hey, you guys want to see a dead body?”

It’s not a gentle suggestion from a doctor.  It’s terror and relief and gratitude and fear all slamming together at once into the conclusion that there are a finite amount of seconds left on that clock.

Emotion rewires the hardware.

That’s also exactly how propaganda works.  It skips the logic and goes straight for the deepest buttons we have: lust, fear, the need to belong, pain, despair and the need for PEZ™.  Most of them are negative, because negative is easy to manufacture, and negative sticks.

And in 2026 we’re swimming in it.

Screens, news, ads, entertainment are a constant bombardment trying to shift what we value without us even noticing.

One excellent YouTuber® on this subject is Screenwashed™, and he talks about how films are used to destroy our culture.  He breaks down the subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways Hollywood rewires what we think is normal, what we think is heroic, what we think we should want.  I’m not sure exactly how long it’ll be before they come to get this guy, but I’d suggest you give him a look.  Here’s one of his videos.

Even I, the mighty John Wilder, am not immune from propaganda.  I’ve caught myself feeling emotions I didn’t ask for after watching something “harmless.”  That’s why I’ve gotten deliberate about what I let into my head.

I pick and choose.

I pause and ask: What emotion is this feeding me right now?

Why?

Does it line up with the man I want to be, or is it nudging me toward someone else’s script?

The external stuff can scream all it wants.  The pressures, the trends, the crises, the propaganda machines can poke and prod and threaten.  But the final decision on what I value?  That’s mine.  Always has been.

The best addiction to have is injecting yourself with brake fluid.  You can stop anytime you want.

We can all flip it.

Not because some expert or politician or trending hashtag told us to. Not because someone’s watching or shaming.  But because we decide to let in an emotion strong enough to move the values that actually run your life.

Starve the propaganda.  Examine every emotion that shows up at your door and decide if it gets to stay.

Change isn’t a mystery.  It’s not reserved for the young or the lucky or the disciplined.  It’s a simple, stubborn fact:  I control the basis of it.  I always have.  And so do you.

The world can keep pushing.

I’ll keep deciding.

In Which I Discuss What Mustard, Ramen, Historical Timekeeping, Fasting, And Booze Have In Common

“Oh, no.  I gave it up for Lent.” – Fletch Lives

I heard the Pope saw a giant mouse and tried killing it with his bat.  Now he’s the first Pontiff banned from Disneyland®.

I’m hoping everyone had a very Happy Easter, I know I did.  And, if you’re Orthodox, I hope you have a Happy Easter this coming weekend.  I know they’re not the same, and I think that the difference in dates has something to do with the metric system and/or the French, so there’s another reason to hate the metric system.  There’s no real need to find another reason to hate the French.

Regardless, before Easter, there is Lent.  Not every Christian observes Lent.  And, just like The Matrix not every Christian knows what Lent even is.

Last year, though, I became more aware of Lent when a younger person was walking down the hallway at work with ash on their forehead.  Immediately I blamed Gen Z’s lax grooming standards, but then dimly remembered it was Ash Wednesday.

So, I started researching.  What the heck was Ash Wednesday?  Well, it’s the start of Lent.

Turns out that Lent is something more than what I find in the drier after running a load of cotton shirts.  It is 40-day period of fasting, prayer, repentance, and preparation for Easter.  Adam Piggot had a post on fasting/diet during Lent on his now-MIA website, and the fasting part caught my eye.

Things Gen Z has to give up when fasting. (as found)

I’d fasted in the past, so I decided, what the heck.  Lent is only 40 days, so I’ll put up with meager food for most of the week, swear off the elevator (our office has the only one this side of Pixley), and do a bit more research.

They lied.

Lent is totally not 40 days, it’s 46 days.  Apparently, Catholics take Sunday off so they don’t count that in the period.  Then there are a lot of specific restrictions on what they can eat and when.  If you’re Catholic, you already know.  If not, well, look it up.  Summary:  the Catholics have a bunch of rules.

Okay.  Fine.  But my food restriction would last Monday through Thursday since we have family dinners on Friday and Saturday.  In 2025 I decided that would only eat a single package of ramen each of those days, and on Friday and Saturday I could eat whatever the family was having.  Oh, and have whatever I wanted to drink on the weekends.

The Mrs. can’t attend next week’s Innuendo Conference, so I guess I’ll have to fill her slot instead.

Turns out that eating ramen is a great way to make sure you have enough sodium in your diet, which is great if you’re trying to keep your blood pressure up.

But I did notice something else:  whenever I thought about cheating and having something other than boring ramen, I thought about the story of Jesus.  Even if you’re not a believer (I am) the idea of Jesus suffering the whipping and Crucifixion made my “the only thing I can eat today is a package of ramen” seem really small and petty.

Eating nothing but ramen wasn’t going to kill me.  I mean, high blood pressure might, but boring ramen wouldn’t.

That first Lent went fine.

For 2026, I decided to up the ante.  I decided I would start the 46 day period the Sunday before Ash Wednesday.  Why?  Same reason as above:  I’d do my 46 days, but I’d still eat with family on Friday and Saturday for evening meals.

Still not allowed during Lent 2026. (as found)

But from Sunday through Thursday night, five days a week?  I’d eat nothing at all for 120 hours straight, every week, except vitamins.  No food:  not even a mustard packet.  When I mentioned my planned Lenten eating schedule, The Mrs. scoffed:

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it.  Are you making up your own rules and start some sort of cult?”

John Wilder:  “Yes, and you can’t join because all of the followers are gonna have to shave off all their body hair and give up bathing for a year and dye themselves blue to show their purity.  Or maybe immerse themselves in vegetable oil for a year.  I’m still working out the details.”

I would have told my cult a joke about Jonestown, but the punchline was too long.

Also, I wouldn’t eat before 3pm on any day but Friday, which is when The Mrs. and I meet up at a local diner to have lunch every week.  So, every week it would look like this:

All day Sunday-Thursday (the very soonest 3pm) no food.

Friday, Lunch and Dinner.

Saturday, Dinner, but no food at all until 3pm.

Why 3pm?

Because that’s when fasts could be broken during Lent in ye olde days.  3pm was the “ninth ecclesiastical hour”, or literally nine hours after the Sun came up.  Back then all time was local.  Noon was when the Sun was at its zenith and midnight was 12 hours later.  Time zones started because railroads required them so they could accurately measure how late the train was.

In Latin was ninth ecclesiastical hour was called None (or “Nona Hora”).  And that’s when the fast for the day could be broken.

Makes sense, right?  Nine hours after 6am is . . . 3pm.

Except . . . when you say that word, None, it’s pronounced like “known”.  And is the basis for a word you’re familiar with.

Noon.

Wait.  Noon isn’t at 3pm.  Noon is at 12:00pm.

In no place except when I lived in Fairbanks was noon nine hours after the Sun rose.

What gives?

The medieval folks were dirty cheaters, and wanted to eat, so since they could only eat after the ninth hour, they pretended that 12:00pm was 3pm.  I am not making any of this up.

Cheaters.

I, however, would not be a dirty cheater.  Except for on Friday.  And since I’m making my own rules in advance, it’s not cheating.

I did not give up cigars.  (as found)

Let’s address the elephant in the room:  on whose authority am I making up my own rules.

Well, mine.  I’m not a Catholic because of the 180-day probationary period and all the paperwork (it might require a Papal decree to get me in, don’t ask) and they wanted a blood sample and a credit report.

Or maybe that was my first job?

Regardless, I’m not trying to meet a particular set of rules.  And my variations were primarily there to keep closer relations with my family.

Besides, the Orthodox start their Lent on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday, too and I think you can join them without shaving off all of your body hair and not bathing for a year, though they can eat as much shrimp and seafood as they want during Lent.

No, I wasn’t trying to follow a set of rules with Lent.  I did it for the intent:  to get closer to the Big Guy.

I guess this is why cats were created. (as found)

Also, I’d give up booze for the whole period.

Sigh.  Yup.  All 46 days.  I also resolved to pray, but I didn’t set hard and fast rules on how much and when.  But I did pray.

The results?

I think Lent worked.  I met every goal that I set.  I’m down at least one size on my pants.  Several aches and pains seem to disappear entirely when I’m in a fasted state.

That’s good, and it probably means I should figure out what I’m eating that’s causing it.

I also got 10 more hours of sleep a week, which might sound decadent but it’s really moving from 5 hours a night to 7 hours a night.

And, yeah, I feel closer to The Big Guy and am much more grateful.  The primary goal was accomplished.  If you look at the memes, though, you can see I’m still an awful human being, but we already knew that and at least I feel bad about it now.

Would parts of this work for a non-believer?  Certainly.

Am I asking you to do what I did?

Absolutely not.  This is completely a YMMV situation.

You know who you are.  (as found)

To celebrate the end of Lent, I’m gonna take my cult out for seafood like the Orthodox get to eat all during Lent.  I’m cheap and seafood is expensive here, but tonight we’ll just be one big happy blue oyster cult.

The War Against Your Life: Noelia Castillo And The Machinery of Medically Assisted Murder

“All of you, just wait and listen to me!  You can wrap it up any way you like.  You are about to commit murder.” – The Wicker Man (1973)

(all memes as found)

The GloboLeftElite views human life, especially Western human life, as a blot on the world.

To them, it’s problem to be managed, a resource to be harvested and replaced.  They do not say this in public.  They wrap their policies in the language of compassion, equity, and progress. But the results speak louder than any press release: lives destroyed, families shattered, and the quiet erasure of the people who built the West and the modern world.

No better proof exists than the case of Noelia Castillo Ramos, who was recently murdered as a needle entered her arm and injected chemicals that ended in her death.

In 2022, Noelia was a teenager living with her family in Spain.  Her family lost their home.  The state, in its infinite benevolence, sent officers, perhaps a dozen cops, to remove her from her parents’ care and place her in a government-run group home.  There she would be “properly cared for.”

The home housed her alongside North African migrant youths.  Many of these “youths,” as is common across Europe, were not teenagers but men in their twenties and thirties who found that pretending to be a teen gave them invincibility to the European legal system and access to (actual) teenage girls.

Noelia was allegedly gang-raped.  Multiple times.  Sources across social media and independent reports describe three separate assaults, at least two of them involving groups.  She tried to report the rapes.  According to accounts, staff, GloboLeftist women running the facility, refused to allow formal complaints.  I can only assume that they thought that documenting the crimes would make the “migrant youths” look bad.

Better to protect the narrative than the girl, right?

Broken, Noelia made a desperate choice.  By her own later admission, she was coked up when she jumped from the fifth floor of a building.  She survived the fall, but she was left paraplegic.  Noelia was trapped in a body that no longer obeyed her and a system that had already failed her at every turn.

She requested medically assisted murder (MAM), the clinical euphemism for state-approved killing.  Spain legalized euthanasia in 2021.  The request was reviewed.

Approved.

On March 26, 2026, Noelia Castillo Ramos was euthanized at Hospital Residencia Sant Camil near Barcelona.  She was twenty-five years old.

Her organs were almost certainly harvested.  In countries that have embraced MAM, organ procurement follows the death, often coordinated so efficiently that viable organs are taken while the patient is still alive under anesthesia.  We don’t allow that with animals:  we call that vivisection.

Hospitals bill for the procedures to put those organs in other bodies.  Transplant networks profit.  And in the macabre calculus of the system, those organs may well have gone to the very migrant rapists whose presence destroyed her.

The rapists?  Free.  Never arrested.  Likely still living on government benefits in government housing, fathering the next generation of “youths” who will speak a foreign language and practice a foreign culture to Spain.

The group home operators?  Unpunished.  The state officials who removed her from her family? Still removing other children.  The women who allegedly silenced her reports?  Still employed.  The GloboLeftElite that welcomed the invasion and then covered for its consequences?

Still in power.

If this were an isolated tragedy, we could mourn it and move on.  It is not.  Instead of an individual, let’s zoom out and look at a system.  After all, a system is what it does.

Look at Canada.

Medically Assisted Murder accounted for 5% of deaths in 2024, one in twenty Canadians dying by state injection.  The growth rate slowed to “only” 16% in 2023 after averaging 31% in prior years, but the machine is still accelerating.  MAM is now the fifth leading cause of death in the country.

96% of those killed are white.  Whites make up about 70% of Canada’s population.  The disparity is not random.  It is the predictable outcome of a policy aimed at the historic population of the West.

Canada does not merely allow MAM, it actively promotes it.

Government literature, hospital protocols, and even Veterans Affairs have offered MAM to veterans facing long wait times for care, to the disabled, to the poor, and to those whose only “illness” is poverty or despair.  Cases now include people with chronic pain, neurological conditions, frailty, and socioeconomic desperation.  Poor people.

Ontario data shows that among non-terminal MAM recipients, over 25% lived in the poor areas. The state does not heal:  it offers the needle.

Organ donation after MAM has become a growth industry.  Canada leads the world in the percentage of MAM deaths followed by organ procurement.  Hospitals and transplant programs benefit financially.  The same system that fails to protect the vulnerable in life profits bigly from their death.

The abusers are never punished.  The bureaucrats who run the homes, the politicians who open the borders, the activists who scream “racist” at anyone who notices the pattern always remain untouched.  The invading migrant populations imported by the GloboLeftElite continue to receive housing, benefits, and protection while native girls like Noelia are removed from their families, violated, silenced, and finally killed.

This is not incompetence. It is not a series of unfortunate accidents.  It is the system functioning exactly as designed.  A system is what it does.

The GloboLeftElite has made their priorities clear for years.

Western birth rates collapse under the weight of taxes, housing costs, delayed marriage, and cultural contempt.  Families are undermined.  Children are taken by the state under pretexts of “safety.”  Migrants are imported in numbers that guarantee cultural replacement.

Crime spikes, especially sexual crime against native women and girls, yet reporting is suppressed and prosecution avoided to protect the narrative.  When native men can’t find jobs because they are replaced by nepotistic ethnicities or cheap third world labor, it is celebrated.  When the victims break through drugs, despair, or suicide attempts, the state offers not justice or healing but death.

And then it harvests the remains for profit.

Noelia Castillo is not an outlier.  She is the logical endpoint of the system doing what it was designed to do.

A girl taken from her family, housed with the invaders the elite celebrate, raped, silenced, crippled, and finally euthanized.  Her death removes one more native European from the ledger. Her organs may sustain others, perhaps a new heart goes to the very demographic the GloboLeftElite has decided will inherit the continent.

The rapists breed.  The state continues its removals.  The machine hums on.

The GloboLeftists celebrate, openly now, another victory, another white womb removed from the equation, another family line aborted before it started.

The emotional weight of this cannot be softened.

Imagine the final moments: Noelia, paralyzed, knowing the men who destroyed her walked free while she faced the needle.  The pinch as the injection enters the vein.  The slow fade.  The last conscious thought that the system which failed her at every step had now decided her life was the problem to be solved.

That is the future the GloboLeftElite has built.  Not for themselves:  they live happily behind walls and private security.  No, this future is for you, for your children, for every Western family that still believes the state exists to protect them.

The West is being euthanized.  Not in one dramatic collapse, but one approved injection at a time.  One silenced rape report.  One removed child.  One body of harvested organs. One replaced line of children and grandchildren who will never walk the Earth.

And the people who designed it, cheered it, and profit from it sleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that the blot they despise is finally being erased.

There is no softer way to say it.

The needle is already in the arm of the civilization that built the modern world.  The question is whether we will watch it empty, or whether we will stop the hand that pushes the plunger?

Why Henry VIII Would’ve Killed for Your Tuesday

“Dying in our sleep is a luxury that our kind is rarely afforded.  My gift to you.” – Kill Bill:  Volume 1

I guess he had a bad heir day.

Henry VIII could have anyone killed in England killed, whenever.

That’s a historical level of flex, right?

“Off with his/her/their/xir head!” and boom, problem solved.  The only way he could have had a more complete solution is if he had ye olde Hellfyre Missyll that he could have obliterated the parts with.  Hank had more wives than most guys have pairs of underwear, threw parties that made Vegas look like a church potluck, and ate so much roasted swan he probably needed a crane to get out of bed.

Yet the poor bastard was miserable.  Hank’s leg was a festering horror show of oozing sores that never healed. Doctors, if you could call them that, mashed it with hot pokers and prayed to Saints who were clearly not looking out for Henry.

Summers?  Hank oozed sweat in every royal crevice like a Somalian in a daycare because air conditioning hadn’t been invented yet.  Winters?  Drafty castles that made your average Motel 6® feel like the Ritz™.

Fresh vegetables in January?  Forget it, unless you counted the mold on last year’s turnips.  Antibiotics?  Nope.  He died at 55 looking like a bloated, angry grape because a simple infection laughed at him.

Bill Gates claimed that it was hard to give away $100 billion.  Then he discovered divorce.

Meanwhile, the poorest person reading this right now has:

  • Climate-controlled comfort (except when the power goes out and we all act like it’s the apocalypse)
  • Aspirin that kills headaches faster than Henry could yell “treason”
  • Strawberries in February flown in from well, wherever, for $2.99 a pint
  • A phone in their pocket with more computing power than NASA used to put men on the Moon, back when they still did that sort of thing

And we complain the Wi-Fi is slow.

As a society, we’ve lost the plot.  We chase the next luxury like it’s the last helicopter out of Saigon, never noticing we’re already living better than every king who ever lived.

Marie Antoinnette didn’t like the chopper that took her out of France.

That’s where fasting, prayer, and meditation come in.

They don’t add luxury.  And they’re not anti-luxury, either.  Instead, they intensify life real life by pulling away things that dull it.  They rip the blindfold off so you can finally see the ridiculous abundance that’s been hiding in plain sight.

Take camping, which is another life-intensifier.  Or better yet, backpacking, because backpacking is camping for people who like suffering without a car nearby.  You hike ten miles with everything you own on your back.  Hot shower?  Nah.  Cold beer?  Dream on, pal.

Clean socks after three days?  Suddenly they feel like silk sheets at the Four Seasons®.  That lukewarm instant coffee at sunrise after a 14,000-foot summit?  Nectar of the gods.  And that single cigar you packed for the top?

It tastes better than the $80 Cuban some hedge-fund guy is smoking in his climate-controlled man cave.  The Luxury Meter resets.  Hard.  The stuff I took for granted becomes decadent again.

I felt motion sickness on the airplane yesterday.  It didn’t help having all of those people screaming for lifejackets and rafts.

That’s exactly what fasting, prayer, and meditation do as I get older, except I don’t have to carry a 40-pound pack or sleep on rocks.

Let’s start with fasting, because I actually do this every week and some of my happiest days are while I’m doing it.

Yes, I’m the weirdo who smiles while hungry.  Judge away.  After 72 hours without food, that first bite of whatever I eat next hits different.  It’s not “dinner.”  It’s a religious experience.

Last week I broke a fast with a salad of lettuce, and my own dressing (olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and Frank’s Hot Sauce™.

I swear the lettuce tasted like it was grown by angels on Mount Olympus. I actually said “thank you” out loud to vinegar.  The Mrs. asked me, “Are you planning on starting a cult?”

“No, it’s too hard to find enough people who are willing to shave off all the hair on their bodies.  Just no commitment nowadays.”

Fasting reminds me that food isn’t a background app:  it’s a miracle, a gift.  My ancestors fought wolves for scraps, and won.  That’s why I’m here.

Right now I’m so hungry I could eat my watch, but that would be time consuming.

Henry VIII had entire forests of deer murdered for his gouty pleasure and still died angry.  Me? I can open the fridge and there sits last night’s leftover steak and a bag of midget tomatoes.

Fasting turns the volume down on “I want more” and turns it up on “Holy crap, this is amazing,” when one of those ripe tomatoes explodes flavor in my mouth as I bite into it.  Prayer does the same thing, but with gratitude instead of hunger and with fewer seeds.

I’m not talking about the fancy stained-glass, organ-music version.  I’m talking about the five-minute reciting the “Lord’s Prayer” or just sitting there praying “thanks” for all the little miracles in my life, like cigars.  Thanks for the roof that doesn’t leak. Thanks for the truck that started this morning.  Thanks for antibiotics that would’ve saved Henry’s leg and probably at least one of his marriages if the Habsburgs weren’t trying to kill him.  Thanks for the fact that I can complain about gas prices while eating pineapple from Costa Rica on a pizza in February.

I think that if I do this regularly my brain chemistry changes.  I cease envying the guy with the bigger bank account and start noticing that I’ve never missed a meal, except on purpose.

And then there’s meditation, which I used to think was for hippies in hemp pants smoking hemp and praying to a bong with hi-fi playing sitar music in the background.

Turns out it’s just shutting up for five minutes.  Sit.  Breathe.  Notice the thoughts racing around like caffeinated squirrels.

After a few minutes the squirrels calm down.  And suddenly I notice things. The warmth of the coffee mug.  The feeling of my head against the back of my chair that just happens to adjust six ways.  The ridiculous luxury of quiet.

Only self-aware people will understand this joke.  You know who you are.

Henry VIII never had five minutes of peace:  someone was always trying to poison him or marry him or overthrow him or he had another wife to kill.

I can have it peace and quiet whenever I want, and it costs exactly nothing.

When I do all three together it’s like a factory reset on my soul.  The constant “I need more” noise fades.

I’m not saying sell everything and move to a cave and become a monk.  I like my truck, my cigars, and my central heat as much as the next guy.  But I’m not going to let “luxury” make me the modern version of Henry VIII:  rich in stuff, poor in joy, angry at the world because the sores never heal and the wives won’t die.  These things remind me that the real luxury isn’t the next thing, it’s realizing the things I already have would’ve made kings weep with envy.

Though say what you want about Henry, he did have a cure for wives who had headaches.

Happiness, Desire, Whiskey, and Purpose

“Is this making you happy?” – Fight Club

Why are mathematicians always happy?  They know that the root of anything negative is imaginary.

“Happiness is all that it wants, and resembling the well-fed, there shouldn’t be any hunger or thirst.” – Epictetus

Think back to the moment that were really content.  Happy.  Maybe it was after a nice steak.  Maybe it was after a draw on a good cigar.  Maybe it was in on the bench seat of a 1978 GMC® truck on a warm summer night.

Whenever it was, in moments of true contentment, true happiness, you don’t want or need anything.  The moment is complete.  It is as it is.  I feel that way after I write a post I’m especially happy with.  I feel that way most mornings after the first sip of coffee.  In those moments, in those times, I simply don’t need anything more.

W.C. Fields:  “Always carry a whiskey flask in case of a snake bite.  With that in mind, always carry a small snake.”

This is why I say that happiness is the easiest thing for most people, most of the time.  It’s simple.  Stop wanting what you don’t have.

Done.  Easy.  Unless it’s air.  I need that most of the time and get quite cross and panicky when I don’t have it.  And water, yeah, I need that on occasion.  Food?  Not an issue.  Like most people in current-day USA, I could skip a meal or a few dozen meals and still be physically fine.

So, happiness is easy.

My brothers Sin and Cos stayed out in the Sun too long.  They’re now tanned gents.

Why then, are most people unhappy?

They want what they don’t have.  In some cases, they want what they can never have.  Some mid-tier 8 who spends a night banging Brad Pitt now wants a Brad Pitt type guy to love her.  That’s simply not going to happen in this universe because Brad Pitt has all the twenty-year-old 10s he wants to have, and one of them might be a keeper.

So, our mid-tier 8 is unhappy.  If she didn’t think she deserved Brad Pitt, well, she might have a chance to be happy.  But, no, she’s made herself unhappy.  And, she’s made herself unhappy in the stupidest way possible:  she’s pining for something she will never ever be able to have.  In her case, it’s confusing being Mrs. Right Now with being Mrs. Right.

After A.I., how will programmers make money?  Selling their laptops.

This unhappiness didn’t come from outside her:  she made it up.  So, whenever I’m unhappy, it’s typically because of a really simple reason:  reality isn’t conforming itself to the way I want it to be.  You know, the post didn’t say what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it.

The post is outside of me.  It’s something I made.  I can choose what I can do with it.  I can abandon it.  I’ve done that about five times, I think.  I can decide, “You know what, good enough.”  I’ve done that a few times.  But most of the time, when I press the button that schedules the post, I’m happy.  Very happy.  I put in the effort on a cause that was worthy of my time.

If I’m unhappy with a post, it’s because I chose to be unhappy about it.  I write because it is something that makes me, on balance, very happy.

If it didn’t, I wouldn’t do it.

The problem, though, is happy people don’t get much done.  That’s why weed and vidya games are bad.  They give bliss without accomplishment.  It’s the easy road to happy.

But that sort of happiness, for me at least, is without meaning because it’s without accomplishment.  I’m unhappy all the time, but I’m unhappy about (mostly) things I choose to be unhappy about.  I rarely choose to be unhappy about things I can’t control.  If I can’t control it, it’s just the way the world is.

When you break up with an A.I., does it experience machine yearning?

But if I’m unhappy, and I think it’s worth the effort, even if it’s big, I’ll choose to be unhappy to try to make it happen.

That’s the definition of purpose.  It might be small, like mowing the lawn.  It might be big, like changing the world.  But I get to choose.  It should fit my talents.  And, as I’ve been prattling on about them, yeah, it should be in service of Truth, Beauty, and Goodness.

It needs to be worth it, and that defines what worth it is.  Well, at least to me.  YMMV.

I think so many people are unhappy because they simply don’t have a purpose, they don’t see a way that they can be of substance, be of consequence in a world where 8 to 10(!) billion people exist.  It’s overwhelming.

It makes one feel small, sometimes.

But me?  I keep pushing.  I’ve even distilled my purpose down to a sentence:  “To make visible that which would otherwise not have been seen.”  So, the writing is kinda core to a purpose like that, unless I want to sit in the backyard yelling at the squirrels on how they’re being inefficient with their nuts.

Do Catholics ever give up cleaning their drier filter for lint?

Purpose, then, is a double-edged sword.  It provokes me to action, and leaves me with a fire inside.  But this is one that I choose to carry.  It’s one that I wish to have.

I control (mostly) my emotions.  Being happy means not wanting.  Except when I choose what I want.  And right now?  I want elimination of Evil, a steak and a cigar.

In that order.  But I’ll work on getting rid of the Evil while I enjoy my steak and cigar.

The Wilder Guide to Self-Reinvention

“Ultimately, anybody could crash on an island like this, and the idea of being surrounded by strangers and getting to reinvent yourself in some way is sort of readily identifiable.” – Lost

The NFL® has an obscure rule that players cannot own ducks or geese.  Those are called “a personal fowl.” (all memes as-found)

Sometimes I’ve felt like I’m stuck in a sequel nobody asked for.

Same plot, same villains, same scriptwriters, same predictable ending where the hero, me, ends up in the same place where the movie started.  All of it happened, and all of it changed nothing.

Reinvention sounds like one of those self-help buzzwords peddled by people with suspiciously not-grey hair, perfect teeth, and look like they smell vaguely of Lemon-Scented® Pledge™.

Me?  I’ve lost most of my hair, have okay but not perfect teeth, and more often smell of cigar than citrus.  I’m not selling you anything.  Except songs.  And you can listen to all of those for free.  But if reinvention is done well, it changes everything, which should be no surprise because it’s in the name.

I’ve reinvented myself a time or two.  Switched careers, changed habits, even moved across state lines once.  It’s never as glamorous as the brochures promise.  I have never yet experienced a slow-mo training montage with Eye of the Tiger blasting in the background.  More often it’s like grinding through a B-movie script where the director keeps yelling “Cut!” because I flubbed the line again.

Plot twist:  it was really Freddy Kruger™ that killed Martin Luther King, Jr.  After all, he had a dream . . .

In the changes I’ve made, however, I have learned more than a few things.  First, real reinvention demands a brutal assessment of what’s True, Beautiful, and Good and how that differs from what I see in the mirror.  People, me included, want to believe pretty little lies whenever they can.  Real assessment is required.

If it isn’t hitting at least three out of three of the True, Beautiful, and Good criteria, why bother?  I try to take stock without mercy.

Is it True?

Does it square with reality, or am I kidding myself?

Is it Beautiful?

Does it create something worthwhile, or is it just pumping out more plastic widgets for the landfill?

Is it Good?

Does serve a higher purpose, or is it just vanity?

If the answer’s a resounding “meh,” to any of these three, it’s not worth the effort.  If I lie to myself here, the whole reinvention turns into a farce.

Would you like three alternative punchlines?

Hollywood peddles a different script, of course.  Change is always Good™, wrapped in a rom-com bow.  Picture the uptight stuffed-shirt.  Khakis pressed, 401(k) maxed moping through life until a random crazy hot chick crashes in.

She’s got purple hair, a tattoo of a dreamcatcher, and a backpack full of “experiences.”  She drags him to a rave in the desert, teaches him to juggle fire and smoke weed, and poof, he’s ditching the corner office for a food truck.

Roll credits, cue the indie soundtrack.  This is celebrated as a modern goal.

Reality check:  I’ve crossed paths with more than a few random crazy hot chicks.

Positive contributions?  Slim to none.  All the experiences rhyme, though:  a whirlwind of chaos, pain, and stories that start with “So there I was…” and end with lawyers or bail money.

Random crazy hot chicks didn’t reinvent me, they just rearrange the furniture in my life until nothing fits.

Real change doesn’t need a manic (or maniac) minx catalyst.

She keeps sending mixed messages.

It just needed me to stare in the mirror and decide the current plot sucks.

Change itself?

That’s the bonus, the change is immediate.

Change happens now, effects come with time.  Flip the switch.

Boom, reinvented.  The results take time.  The bigger the change, the more patience required for the results.

That’s why urgency is my ally.  Time multiplies effort like compound interest, and the old saying goes:  When’s the best time to plant a tree?  The best time to start is 20 years ago.  The next best time is now.

Silly me, I would have thought the next best time would have been 19 years ago, but maybe I missed that day in Arbor Academy.

The message, though, is clear.  Act now, act deliberately.  Not in a panic but with a purpose.  Delay, and I’m just leaving Future Me a bigger debt.

Which brings us back to the noun.  The what.  I had a boss that would always slow me down with this one simple question:  “What do we want the outcome to be?  Start with the end in mind.”  Again, the criteria for me is simple.  Is it True, is it Beautiful, is it Good?

Also, how I frame the change dictates the ending and the success or failure.  Any change that constantly demoralizes me is doomed.  If I have an end state in mind, and I’m not there, I’m failing.  Right?

No.  Remember the montage.  Starting the montage is the success.  You’ve gotta have a montage.

Seriously, though, my mind rebels against endless punishment.  Why should I keep showing up if every step feels like defeat?  For me, I often measure effort rather than outcomes.  Build a habit of study, and not measure myself against the end.  Even a little progress (if the change is big enough) is what I’m looking for.  Patton put it perfectly:  “A good plan executed now is better than a perfect one executed later.”

My dudes, attitude is everything.

There are exceptions:  any positive reinvention that energizes me?  That’s the winner.  It creates a feedback loop:  my effort sparks momentum, my momentum delivers wins, my wins fuel more energy.  These can even be bits of the montage, if you will.

Quick wins?  I grab them whenever I can.  I’m wired for routine.  Once a habit locks in, it’s tougher for me to break than to keep.  Like autopilot, I set the course, and it flies itself.  Your mileage may vary, but for me, momentum is king.  Get the ball rolling, and inertia works for me, not against.

I’ve learned to not wait for a muse.  She’s probably off with that random crazy chick anyway.  Just consistent action.

At its core, reinvention isn’t about morphing into someone else.  It’s honing the best of who I am, aligned with Truth, Beauty, and Goodness.  Brutal honesty spots the flaws, urgency launches the fix, energy sustains the burn, and time polishes the gem.  When it clicks?  It’s worth every sweat drop, every dawn patrol, every skipped shortcut.

Whenever I am at a crossroads I always stare into a bowl of rice, hoping to find a grain of truth.

I’m beginning to think the only bad ending is the one where I don’t change.  Oh, and all of the Disney® movies since 2017 or so.  They all suck.

No To Resolutions, Yes To Future Me

“You’re right.  We could sit around here all day, talking, passing resolutions, making clever speeches.  It’s not going to shift one Roman soldier.” – Life of Brian

When I farmed sprouts I was assertive.  I was an alfalfa male.

I have mentioned before that the whole New Year holiday has never resonated with me.

New Year’s Eve means amateur drunks on the roads, bad decisions, and an excess of early September births.  One of the things that I thought about when I was a kid (not born in September!) was the idea of a resolution.  I’ve always thought of a resolution as a promise not outwards, but inwards:  a promise from today me to future me.

I tried it a few times when I was young.  As I got older, I decided that resolutions didn’t make sense.  I have now decided that Future Me is probably in a better place to make decisions than Current Me.  I mean, Past Me in 2020 should have bought a lot of gold, as Current Me can now attest.  So, promising Future Me something that Future Me might not even want isn’t the best idea.

I mean, twelve-year-old me wanted to join the Columbia® Record Club™.  Twelve CDs for one cent!  Now I realize that the Columbia™ Record Club© is a circle of hell somewhere between having to listen to Whoopi Goldberg for 20 minutes a day and having to smell Whoopi Goldberg for 20 minutes a day.

I lost my ABBA CD.  Where did the disco?

I’ve since thought about changing Current Me into a better Future Me.  I decided to do that instead.

So, I wrote down on a piece of paper, “Making 2026 The Best Year Ever”.

Nice header.  Could I do it?  Jury is still out, and I never judge a story until I see the end.  I’m giving it a current “okay”.

I wrote down this stuff the second week in January, so I’m two weeks in.  I was rather stunned on how making some small changes could translate into immediate and large results, making a whole year’s goal in a week.  Guess I was aiming too low.  Lots of times, my guess is that the biggest thing standing between me and a goal is me just doing it.

I’m not going to share entirely the things I’m doing, but one of the actions that I could take was:

Spend an hour a day doing something for Future Me.

This was absurdly successful on day one.  It’s the art of anti-procrastination.  Find something that would make life easier for Future Me.  Spend an hour doing it, every day.

That’s it.

They used to call it Stalin.

I’m actually doing that right now. Normally I write these the night before I post them.  Tonight, I’m writing this a day earlier than I normally write a post.  Each minute I spend on the post is a minute I won’t have to spend tomorrow.  The other bonus is it will give me time to review it and edit it and think about it.

This works well.  Absurdly well.

Most of the other things have been based around organization.  My den now looks much better, and when I walk into the room, it makes me happy to be there, rather than staring at a pile of papers I know I have to deal with on a messy desk.

Now, that stack is half as high and I know that with four or five more hours, my den will be my favorite place in the house.

Moore’s Law says that transistors double every two years on a chip.  They do that by making them smaller, so less is Moore’s.

The part about devoting an hour to it is important.  Most of the time my procrastination works on the idea of, “well, it will take me six hours to do that, so I’ll wait until I have six hours.”

That’s not good.  It’s a thought that allows me to rationalize putting something off until tomorrow.  But if I have to do it because I owe Future Me, it gets easier.  I just go, start, and put in an hour, and be free to stop after that hour is done.

Wow.  The results have been big.  I think one of the big hurdles to overcoming procrastination is just doing the very smallest part of what I’m planning on doing.  Tonight, it was:  ”Okay, I’ll open Word®.”  Opening Word© is easy.  One second later, I’m staring at a blank page.  I remember a video I wanted to reference for this post, and 30 seconds later that video is up in the adjacent window.

Boom.  Ready to go.

Absurdly easy, yet now I’m two thirds of the way through the first draft of the post.  That’s work that Future Me doesn’t need to do.  It’s done.  I’m actually not at all unhappy now, but tomorrow me will be absurdly happy that he was given this little gift of time.  (I can verify this)

Is the past tense of William Shakespeare Wouldiwas Shookspeared?

That’s just one example.  But to build the Future Me I wanted to build, I decided to see if there was a path.  If there was a path, I’d break it down to the smallest possible step.  Once I had that step, it actually solves another hurdle:  the brain hates failure.

Or, at least mine does.

It would rather have a mediocre non-win than a chance to lose.  So, I break the task up into smaller tasks that are impossible to fail at.  Open Word®.  Who can’t open Word™?  This actually short-circuits the willpower part of life.  If it’s easy to do, I’ll do it.

An example:  if I think of shaving my face (I haven’t done that in years, but hang with me) I can think of it in two ways.  First, I can think, “I have to shave my face.  Every day.  For the rest of my life.”

That’s soul-sucking.  Awful.  And you know you can never win because the hair keeps growing back.  I know people who think like that.  Ugh.

Or, I can say, “Shaving, two minutes in the shower, done.”

I try not to make things bigger than they are.

I also need to build out a mechanism to change that doesn’t require willpower, about which I believe Mr. Twain said, “lasts about two weeks, and is soluble in alcohol.”

What can I replace willpower with?

Willpower is easy.  I’ve quit tobacco dozens of times.

Aversion.  Yeah, it’s a negative emotion.  So what?  I’m actively avoiding something, and I need to visualize that person I don’t want to be, and then act in the opposite way that produces that person.  It’s actually much easier than willpower, and the farther away from that person that I don’t want to be that I drift, the better.

I don’t have huge changes to make (though with a few, I’m expecting huge results) and I plan to revisit this every week, and see what the next steps need to be, or, if Future Me has gotten smarter and decided that there’s an even better way to go.

Okay, I cheated.  I decided to make one New Year’s resolution for 2026.  I decided to resolve to gain weight and exercise less.  Perhaps I’ll fail at that one, too.

The Post of Christmas Past

“The most enduring traditions of the season are best enjoyed in the warm embrace of kith and kin.  Thith tree the a thymbol of the thpirit of the Grithwold family Crithmath.” – National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

The Mrs. made a Christmas decoration out of $100 bills.  She called it her Aretha Franklins.

Notes:  I’ll have a new song tomorrow and two for this weekend.  I am, however, debating on putting together a post for Friday.  We’ll see – it’s a coin toss right now and probably depends on how sleepy I am after Christmas dinner.

Ahhh, Christmas.  One of the things that has become traditional in the time since the VCR ruled supreme is, of course, the Christmas movie.  Many of them are quite bad, but a few stand out in my mind and they’re below.  This doesn’t include Christmas TV specials, of which A Charlie Brown Christmas is clearly the very best.

It’s a Wonderful Life is on the top of many lists and it’s the oldest on this list with the next-oldest showing up forty years later.  It’s got a solid cast, and a message that, perhaps, unbridled capitalism isn’t the way so it probably makes Libertarians sad.  Yet, the reason it’s so popular is, like Night of the Living Dead, the copyright holders failed to renew that copyright in 1975 so television stations could flog it like a rented horse and pay nothing.  If you have ever been around people in the broadcasting business, “free” is their heroin, so they played it over and over because, hey, free Christmas heroin.

Home Alone is a funny movie, but not horribly Christmas-y.  Change the setting to Thanksgiving or summer vacation or the execution of a convicted killer based on a wacky misunderstanding and nothing really changes.  But a lot of people really like this one, so it’s in.  And it is hilarious, especially the Stooge-esque scene of mayhem at the end.  Heartwarming?  I little.  It tries but mainly fails, because my heart is mainly immune from warming.

Die Hard?  Yes, it’s a Christmas movie.  The real villain in the movie was Joseph Takagi.  Why?  He scheduled an office party on Christmas Eve.  Who does that, the Japanese Grinch®?  The movie is really well made from start to finish, and holds up to repeated viewings.  And, after all, as my kids say, “It’s not really Christmas until Hans Gruber falls off Nakatomi tower.”

Elf.  So, let me get this straight, Santa kidnapped a baby and we give him a pass?  I’m not really that fond of Santa movies.  Why?  I don’t know.  Let’s just say I figured out that scam pretty quickly and hold a grudge.  But Will Ferrell is generally funny, and plays childlike enthusiasm very well, especially bouncing it off of Jimmy Caan.

A Christmas Story.  Top tier, and probably tied for my very top spot as a Christmas movie.  It is very uniquely a story about Christmas in America before globalism and while commercialism was still amateurish (Drink more Ovaltine®?).  It did also capture that great sense of joy, wonder, and anticipation that comes from being a kid awaiting his first shootin’ iron.  It also was wonderful at showing a family that was cohesive despite of (and maybe because of) the daily ups and downs and struggles.  When I was younger, I saw it through Ralphie’s eyes, and then through the eyes of The Old Man.  Perfect on all levels.

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.  Did I ever mention that the clerks at the grocery store would let me buy National Lampoon® when I was 8?  I think they would have sold me booze and smokes, too.  Regardless, this is clearly the best of the movies that National Lampoon™ ever put its brand on.  I’d also say it’s the most consistently funny movie on this list.  Randy Quaid still makes money autographing photos with “Shitter’s Full.”  Why can’t I have that career?

Scrooged.  This is a favorite of The Mrs.  Peak Bill Murray hamming it up with a message that, perhaps, it’s not all about him, but rather his family, which (as far as I can tell) nearly all in this film playing various roles.  But maybe stapling the antlers to the mice would have been an interesting scene to make the movie more engaging?  I think the late, great Michael O’Donoghue was the spark on the script, but whoever was responsible, they did a very good job bringing this story into the 1980s.  Making fun of commercialism while bringing $100,000,000 back to the bank was pretty good work.

Fatman.  It’s Mel Gibson as Santa taking a contract with the military-industrial complex to produce weapons because business is down while being pursued by a hitman.  Santa Claus becomes John McClane?  Barely a Christmas movie.

The Long Kiss Goodnight has Geena Davis at her hottest playing an amnesiac assassin in a story written by the guy who wrote Predator and directed by the guy who directed the only move I’ve been in (The Adventures of Ford Fairlane).  Christmasy?  No, not really even though it’s set at Christmas.  And, this is crucial to the plot, but it could be almost any holiday.  Why on the list?  It’s an excuse to post a picture of Geena Davis.

I very much expected this list to be longer, and, in fact, had to throw on a few that I normally wouldn’t (Fatman, for instance) to pad it out.  I’m imagining there weren’t a lot of surprises on the list.  Did I miss any of your favorites?