Category: The Crazy Years

Land of Confusion

“I know what you mean, Blair.  Trust’s a tough thing to come by these days.” – The Thing

Pretty soon they’ll just cast a bird.  I can see it now, “Heron of Troy”. (all memes as-found)

I’m old enough to remember the song Land of Confusion coming out.  It was from Genesis, which really should have been named “Phil Collins and some other white GloboLeftist dudes.”  The video was and is hideous.  It was intentionally hideous.  I rewatched it again before writing this and ended up regretting it.  If there is place for the True, Beautiful, and Good, well, brother, that video wasn’t it.

Okay.  I assure you, this isn’t a review of a forty-year-old video, but rather the phrase that comes to my mind as I write this particular post.  The world is really into WTF territory, a true Land of Confusion.

What’s going on?  Is it time to start drinking heavily?

The largest product launch in the history of product launches is going on.  Of course I mean Artificial Intelligence.  A.I. has distorted everything, and I mean everything in our economy.  There is (in my humble opinion that is more often wrong than right) no particular reason that the stock market should be doing as well as it is.  A double Snack Wrap© meal with some fries and a drink costs $8.00.

The Dalai Lama went to Vegas last year because he loves Tibet.

That’s two tortillas, some Official Chicken Product®, a sauce, some shredded lettuce, potatoes deep fried in estrogen-laden oils, and, if you’re lucky and made the right choice, water or coffee.  I guess this is an example of fake money for fake food.

Wouldn’t a bit a of steak be better?  Even a little bit?

Gahhh!  I keep wandering.  Like I said, Land of Confusion.

If you really do a deep dive into the main prophet of A.I., Sam Altman, I assure you that you’ll become concerned that Sam is managing a trillion-dollar business with the potential that, if it fails, to lead to another Great Depression.  But, hey, if it succeeds, there’s a 20% chance that humanity might be erased like mosquitos in a pup tent.

Honestly, I wouldn’t hire Sam Altman to manage a Taco Bell® in Modern Mayberry, but I guess that fast talking, double-dealing (according to Musk) and just plain greasy-seeming guy is the kind of person that we want to turn the economy over to.

If a robot commits a robbery and it’s caught after the battery dies, will police have plans to charge the suspect?

We’re riding the edge.  And this sort of inflation on the bubble of reality has led to other inflations.  Silver is following the classic signs of a bubble.  But unlike A.I., silver is real.  What’s real?  Well, whenever I have a question like that I just leave it to old Jack Burton (Big Trouble in Little China):

Egg Shen:  “(You) can see thins no one else can see.  Do things no one else can do.”
Jack Burton:  “Real things?”

Egg Shen:  “As real as Lo Pan!”
Jack Burton:  “Hey, what more can a guy ask for?”
Egg Shen:  “Oh, a six-demon bag!”
Jack Burton:  “Terrific.  A six-demon bag.  Sensational.  What’s in it, Egg?”
Egg Shen:  “Wind, fire, all that kind of thing.”

At this point I feel like Jack Burton.  I’m just looking for something real.  And silver is real.  I can pick it up, feel its density, hear it go ‘ping’ like silver does, and give it to my sons when I die.

But silver went up.  Then it went down.  I hear rumors that a certain bank dumped all of its short positions when silver hit its recent low.  Will it pop up in the next week?

I have no idea.

I’m not sure I care.

I’m just tempted to but a contract and go for delivery and show up to a COMEX® warehouse in a rented car from Budget™ and pick up 340 pounds of silver for the grins that would give me and then play Snake Plisskin from Escape From New York trying to get out of, well, New York where most of the COMEX vaults are.

The most famous human who bounces is that Irishman, Rick O’Shea.

The price of computers is also exploding.  Why?  Well, A.I., silly.  Bill Gates (who the Epstein Files would indicate might have had to get rid of a nasty case of some Indonesian junk that’s going ‘round) has said, nah, man, why do you have a computer at all?

The idea, I think is to make computers like the one I’m typing on to be unaffordable.  On one hand, I can see that if A.I. can do the calculations to weaponize the DNA from warts to infect humans into violent zombies or hack into the Pentagon instead of running a screensaver that might be a problem.

And yet . . .

A personal computing device has been available to me my entire adult life, and having my information in my house, on a hard drive I own is normal to me.  Having to depend on the Indians running Microsoft® to not dump a tikka masala or a curry into the server and bring down my posts, family memories, and also kill Mabel’s life support in the ER in Cleveland doesn’t seem like the best idea.

Honestly, keeping Indians away from everything seems that way, but YMMV.

Then there’s Hollywood®.  It appears that the only thing they want to create is unmitigated racist crap.  Yes, racist.  How else do you explain the cast for the latest Troy® movie, which features a black woman as Helen of Troy.

Here’s the take of one wag on X®:

What’s the difference between Syria and Detroit?  How you get stoned.

A black woman as Helen of Troy?  That’s bad.  It’s not only bad, it’s offensive.  It is, again, the opposite of the True, Beautiful, and Good in every single sense.  And if the opposite of the True, Beautiful, and Good is Evil, well, there you go.  And Zendaya (yes, that poor dog-faced girl Zendaya) playing . . . Athena.  You know.  A god.  And Zendaya is a Midwest 5/10 on a good day.

Sigh.  Land of Confusion.  Again.

The most non-crazy item I’ve seen this week is Elon Musk saying that he’s thinking about putting a million data centers in orbit for creating A.I. processing.  At least they won’t be subject to Sanjay dumping his sambar into the SanDisk® and stopping sanitation in San Francisco.

Oh, too late.  Have you seen San Francisco?

Imagine how insulted Elon’s girlfriends feel when he says they look like a million bucks.

When Elon is fantasizing about putting a million of something into space is the most sane item of the week so far, it should tell you something.

When I read the headlines, I think back to my New Year’s resolution:  drink more water.

So far, with the news in January, I’ve only gotten to:  drink more.

 

Silver: What’s the deal?

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

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

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

What’s causing this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry, that was oddly specific.

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

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

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

China.

Dragons don’t explode, but a dino might.

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

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

Nope.

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

We’re living it.

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

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

Entire industries vanished from the U.S.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(as found)

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

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

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

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

Hmmm, which one? (as found)

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

Is silver in a bubble?

Beats me.  Maybe.

Maybe not.

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

Beats me.  Maybe.

Maybe not.

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

It’s just gone.

I’m sure it’ll be fine.

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s talk about India.

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be very afraid.

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

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

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

Odd.

I had to.

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

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

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

The crimes?  Allegedly:

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

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

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

What a model minority!

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

Yup, a model minority through and through.

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

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

Shortage or not, unqualified drivers kill.

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

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

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

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

The AWFUL Truth About Minnesota

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

One kind of bird sticks together:  vel-crows.

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

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

The term bothers them because it’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This has been common knowledge for all of civilization.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But think of the clicks!

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

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

So, why the handwringing over AWFUL?

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

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

What wins?  Strength.

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

The Clock Ticks: Make It Matter

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’re all dying, right this second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phenomenal.

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

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

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

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

Adams would call this a bad frame.

Zoom out.

Reframe.

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

Life, unfolding heartbeat by heartbeat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make the most of every second.

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

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

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

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

You’ve got one life.  Make it matter.

Civil War 2.0 Mid-Month Update: Setting The Stage

“The provisional government currently considers northern Minnesota to be a potential safe zone.” – World War Z

Why are women and children evacuated first during disasters?  So we can think about a solution in silence. (all memes as-found)

Minnesota is the current flashpoint in our march towards Civil War.  It is a revealing event for several reasons.

First, GloboLeftists are awful.  Kyle Rittenhouse shot three people while defending his life.  All were felons.  The fat lesbian that was shot in Minnesota?  She had lost custody of her children.  Women get custody in about 80% of cases.  I’ll let you do the math.

Second, how did she and her live-in fetish partner make money?  It always comes down to that, but these people are getting funding somewhere to fund their lifestyles.  In the middle of the workday, if the dead lesbian and her fetish partner can just drive around spending all their time and gasoline, someone is paying for it.  And it didn’t come out of the lesbian’s poetry earnings.

Those that are funding this are looking to create the moment when they seize absolute power.  The playbook hasn’t changed in centuries.  The first step is to create unrest, and to try to find that incident that galvanizes their side to violence.  Remember all those bricks conveniently left out during the George Floyd protests?

Violence is the key to creating instability.  That instability is then used to create a larger movement, which leads, ultimately, to open war so that power is finally and irrevocably put in the hands of the group leading the unrest.  This worked in France a few times, in Russia once, but failed in Germany, leading to the other side ultimately gaining power.

But violence is the playbook, and power is on the line.

How does this finally spin out of control into a full-blown Civil War 2.0?  One avenue is through collisions of authority.

Here’s an example:  Tim Walz, in a fit of stupidity, calls up the State Patrol in Minnesota to arrest ICE agents.  Trump responds with elements of the 82nd Airborne and parts of the 1st Marine Division.  Of course, there’s a protest, and Walz calls out the Minnesota National Guard.

Trump immediately federalizes the Guard, but leadership under control of Walz disobeys orders.

Gavin Newsom, seeing the opportunity to get some more press coverage, does the same in California.  Now it’s national.  Maybe the cartels even join in, since they might have decided that business was fine, but owning their own country carved out of northern Mexico and southern parts of the United States might be even more fun.

At this point, many groups are indiscriminately tossing lead, and true civil war is unlocked.  I wouldn’t want to be a Trump voter in a blue hive or an illegal in a red town.

This could happen in the span of hours.  There are plenty of flashpoints that are ready to explode.  For instance, Philadelphia sheriff Rochelle Bilal (Yes, she is.  Feel free to look up a picture.) said that, “ . . . the criminal in the White House would be able to keep” ICE agents out of jail.

And I heard that Philly was so nice!

To be clear, Civil War 2.0 doesn’t have to start during Trump’s administration.  It’s more likely to, though, if the GloboLeft get to the point where they feel that they’re on the verge of losing it all.  I think the GloboLeft feel like they’re going gain control of the Senate and perhaps the House after the midterms.  This would lead to Trump essentially being an agent of chaos and annoyance to the GloboLeft, but one that can’t pass any laws.

If the 2026 election happens without Civil War 2.0 breaking out, I predict two years of impasse until the 2028 election.  Given that amount of time, it’s likely that the GloboLeft will have made many millions of illegals and imports voters, even if they aren’t citizens.  They want to have the final election, and if that’s how they take power, they’re fine with that.

But if it comes to violence, well, they’re fine with that as well.

They actively seek to have deaths like the dead lesbian in Minnesota.  They love to have martyrs to their cause so that they can show what stunning and brave victims they are.  Partially, this is to infect the “it’s crying so it’s a baby” instinct latent in women, and especially so in women who haven’t had children or have decided to murder their own unborn children.

That’s a guilt-debt, and having someone like the dead lesbian to trot out is just what they want.  Notice how they put themselves on roads, daring people to run them over?  They hate themselves and they hate their own lives, so ending it all to become a tragic martyr to their cause is a perfect end for them.

But if it comes to dishing out violence, they and their pets are more than willing to accept those conditions.  They talk about violence all of the time.  When someone on the TradRight mentions it, immediately they’re shut down by other people on the right.

GloboLeftists feel free to talk about “punching Nazis” and mean it.  They are not afraid of embracing violence and destroying entire towns.  Keep in mind, that even if you are a middle-of-the-road “both sides suck” voter, you are a Nazi to them.  They reveled in the assassination attempt on Donald Trump and were driven to ecstasy by the death of Charlie Kirk.

They want you dead and replaced by a more compliant populace.

Are the ICE raids a wonderful opportunity for them?

I believe so.  I think that the time leading up to the 2026 midterms is a time where we are at a heightened likelihood of the initiation of Civil War 2.0.  The GloboLeft is fueled by fear and hate, and one long hot summer could lead to Civil War 2.0 breaking out in 2026.

Me?  I’d have declared an insurrection, called out the troops, surrounded the areas of the riots, arrested everyone using whatever force was necessary, taken them all to camps, deported anyone who wasn’t a citizen, and tried the rest for insurrection, since what they’re doing now is far worse than January 6.

But I like simple solutions.  The clock, though, is ticking

Ghost Lesbians in the Sky

Seriously, FA and FO seem to be foreign concepts to entitled liberal white women.   Why don’t you all make this viral?  I think this would put a lot of sand up GloboLeft panties.

Behind The Music:
All the songs so far are here (LINK).
That’s a LOT of songs.  I’m listening to one right now.  I mean, I wrote them, so I should love them and think they’re the best ever.  And I do.  Seriously, I wake up humming these things and it makes me start the day by thinking I can chew roofing nails and spit out bullets.  I’ve grown 2 inches, have most of my hair back, and women now bow when they see me since I started listening to these badass tunes.  My testosterone is so high because of this music that when sweat drops off my body plants flourish within the release of my bodily fluids within seconds.  YMMV.

As of Sunday, you can buy ALL of them anywhere you buy music by searching for “Wilder’s Hammer” or “Wilder’s Brigade”.  Although buying them doesn’t support this blog, it does support the owner the LLC for the music.  Who might also own the LLC for the blog.

One of my songs has already had radio airplay, so my quest to have full control of all media in 2026 . . . is going ok.  Enjoy!

Ghost Lesbians in the Sky
by Johnny Wilder (apologies to Johnny Cash)

An old lesbian went riding out
One bright Minnesota day
Upon a road she rested
As she tried to stop ICE anyway
When all at once a mighty mess
Of bulb head illegals she saw
Plowin’ down the snowy road
And up the pavement draw
Their butch saviors were on fire
And their crewcuts were made of steel
Their eyeglasses were black and shiny
And their carpet breath she could feel
A bolt of fear went through her
As her car thundered up her thigh
For she saw the agent there
And he heard her mournful cry
Yippie-yi-oooooooooo
Yippie-yi-yaaaaaaaaay
Ghost lesbians in the sky
Their faces gaunt
Their values blurred
Flannel all soaked with snow
She’s trying to figure pronouns preferred
She was a driver but now just cargo
‘Cause they’ve got to drive forever
On those pronouns in the sky
For Somalis cheating all
As they drive on, hear their cry
As the video cameras recorded her
She heard one call her name
If you wanna save your soul
From hell saving people who hate you
Then, lesbian, change your ways today
Or with us you will ride
Trying to catch the Somali grift
Across these endless skies
Yippie-yi-oooooooooo
Yippie-yi-yaaaaaaaaay
Ghost lesbians in the sky
Ghost lesbians in the sky
Ghost lesbians in the sky

Escape From New York: Mamdani Edition

“We, the soldiers of The National Liberation Front of America, in the name of the workers and all the oppressed of this imperialist country, have struck a fatal blow to the fascist police state.” – Escape from New York

I don’t watch soccer.  If I wanted to see grown men try to score for 90 minutes, I’d go to a bar. (all tweets® as-found)

I’ve been to New York City once.  I flew in to JFK, met with some friends, drove up north to a cabin he owned, and, drank some beer, and then saved the President from the Duke of New York (He’s A Number 1!) after his escape pod landed there.

That was fun.  I mean, not the New York City part, but the beer and saving the President part.  When I got to my friend’s apartment, it was a third-story Manhattan thing that was smaller than a closet.  Yet, he was married, and two people lived in this tiny place.

It’s not like he was poor, either.  He did okay, and his wife was an executive vice president at a company you’ve heard of.

They owned a car, and we were going to take it to their cabin.

How do you make a sandwich in Venezuela?  Put a meat coupon between two bread coupons.

He asked me if I wanted to go with him to get it.  What he meant was that he was going to take a taxi two miles to the building where it was stored.  He had to schedule picking it up, because they packed the cars in like sardines and have to work a dozen our so out to get to his, which, after seeing it, probably took 20 minutes.

These were people that were in the 1%, and my life was easier in almost all respects even though I made a fraction of the money that they made.

I didn’t see the attraction of New York City then, and I don’t see it now.  I mean, here in Modern Mayberry if I shoot my .30-06 off the back deck it’s Wednesday.  But in New York City, it’s national news.  But as bad as it in the Big Apple, it’s now worse.

Zohran Mamdani (by his name, a fine Irish lad, no doubt) was just elected Mayor.  He’s not a Democrat.  No, that’s not retarded enough.  He’s a Democratic Socialist®.  That must be like “extra-fancy” ketchup.

Mamdani’s policies are just as American as his name and upbringing.  I mean, you can feel the love, because his Director of Appointments, Catherine Almonte Da Costa said back in 2016 posted, “It’s important that white people feel defeated.”

Whelp.

This was the woman hand-picking key officials in City Hall, and her worldview sees white folks as the enemy to be crushed. And Ms. Almonte Da Costa wasn’t alone.  On Mamdani’s campaign trail, he called for raising taxes specifically on “whiter neighborhoods” to fund his socialist schemes.

So, it’s about money.  And power.  I mean, it always is, but most of the time they’re not so blatant.  Let’s dig into his housing policies, for one.  These seem designed to eviscerate the concept of private property altogether. On purpose.

Cea Weaver (her parents couldn’t afford a consonant for her first name) is Mamdani’s pick for Director of the Mayor’s “Office to Protect Tenants”.  Weaver isn’t just a tenant advocate.  Nope.  She’s a full-throated opponent of homeownership itself.  In her own words, she’s called for seizing private property and described individual homeownership as a tool of “white supremacy.”

Must be news to COMMUNIST China, which now has, what, a 90%+ homeownership rate?  Re-read that.  NYC is officially farther left than the CCP.  Achievement unlocked!

Cea (I wonder if anyone besides me refers to her as the Cea-word?) believes homes should be owned collectively, like some throwback to the Soviet Union where the state decides who gets what (and who is:  never you and what is:  never what you want).

According to the NY Post®, Cea-word’s mom has a $1.6 million house in Tennessee.

Weaver’s background as executive director of Housing Justice for All® screams daddy issue GloboLeftist.  What were those commies at Housing Justice for All in favor of?

Rent freezes, eviction moratoriums, and government takeovers that have already tanked property values in every progressive stronghold where they’ve been tried.

But it gets worse.  I mean, worse than being in New York in the first place.

Mamdani’s support for the Community Opportunity to Purchase Act (COPA) is a dagger to the heart of property rights. Under this new law, if you want to sell your multifamily building, you must first offer it to the city and favored nonprofits.  Like the Quality Learing Center.  For how long?  Six months.

Six months.

An owner must notify the Department of Housing Preservation and Development (HPD), and these friends of Zohan “qualified entities” get first dibs.  If you finally get an offer from a private buyer, NYC and its pet nonprofits still have a right of first refusal to match the offer within 15 days.

But this is no surprise, since Mamdani has openly hailed South Africa as the blueprint for New York City. In his inauguration speech, he electrified his crowd by declaring, “South Africa is the model for New York,” praising its post-apartheid “transformative justice.”

South Africa now has more racial laws than it did under Apartheid.  But the quality of life is better.  Wait, what?

Have you heard about what’s happening in Johannesburg lately?  That “model” is a crumbling mess of blackouts, rampant violence, street piracy, skyrocketing rape rates, and economic disrepair.  South Africa is built on corruption scandals, farm seizures, and a GDP that’s flatlined

Great role model, but no coincidence.  Mamdani’s family ties run deep into anti-Western activism.  His father, Mahmood Mamdani, has long peddled narratives glorifying “resistance” movements, including defending suicide bombers.  Apparently, the manual for suicide bombers is called C4 Yourself, but I digress.

The warm embrace of collectivism has resulted in the greatest tragedy in human history:  communism in the twentieth century.  That doesn’t matter.  My guess?  Lots of New Yorkers are going to be doing a real-life reenactment of Escape from New York.

Snake Plissken had it easy.  He only had to escape roving bands of violent criminals who wanted to kill him.  New Yorkers in 2026 will have to escape taxes, too.