The days of our lives to remember are every day, not merely during officially sanctioned holidays and the fêtes declared crucial by a religion or by a ruler. I try to make of each day, a celebration of life; and of each dream worth dreaming, a reality, a mission of work that, with the help of the Almighty, can come true. The late great Joan Rivers once stated, in response to the carping about her acerbically truthful comedy: “You do have to learn, if you want to be a satirist, you can’t be part of the party.” I learned that truism at a very young age, during my combative time of working in what used to be called The Media. And I’ve been extremely consistent in my choices to remain outside of any party. I do well, extremely well, attending the party of 1. My decision to leave journalism came as a result of many experiences and observations, but, most importantly, because I wanted to protect the nascent artist within myself. I wished to nurture (if not save) my ability to view the world with objectivity, although complete objectivity is a hopeless ideal — a goal that can never be achieved. In some instances, striving for an unattainable goal is not a virtuous endeavour. The idealist rejects the possible, in order to peevishly fixate upon the impossible. The idealist is then the enemy of the real.
It’s morally wise and aspirational to dream the impossible dream. It’s utterly reprehensible to reject an imperfect world because you blame such a world for your inability to realize a dream on this earth. Maybe the faults reside within yourself, but you lack the courage to face them. Condemning those external forces — over which you’ve little control — there’s the recipe for personal misery, and the modus operandi for the Fourth Estate. Mass-manufactured gripes and groans have become the headlines of the day, any day, every day. The phony martyrs of Americanism are out there with their rip-off acts, in force, in front of The Camera, playing the victim, even carrying their own body chalk. The Victim Party publicly overshadows any brotherhood of man. Such an alliance does exist, though it’s not publicized. Maybe we’re better off that way, permitting private feelings to flow through private lives. More than a force multiplier, holding your emotions sacrosanct is the way it ought to be.
The real victims, however, worldwide, are the innocent citizens, persecuted by rogue Government thugs. The slipshod stupid sidekicks of these taxpayer-financed thugs are the Moron Media, who focus on the never-ending hostile vibrations of . . . Guns. A gun possesses no moral standard of its own accord. It does not shrilly demagogue like the corrupt politician who wishes to illegally strip the U.S. Constitution of the Second Amendment. The morality of a gun is determined by the person using it. And that fact, that reality cannot be tolerated by the Gun-Grabbers of Government. They’re down to just a few “issues” now, all of which are repressive, basically fascist, and piles of horsepucky. If you can’t beat them, you steal from them. That’s the desperado gimmick of the anti-liberty, anti-democracy, anti-sanity jerks in the clown show of Government, here, there, anywhere. There’s historical precedent for this swipe of the hype.
During the rather hysterical 1932 national election of the U.S., which came on the heels of the 1929 Stock Market Crash, the “beliefs” of each candidate got switched. To listen to Mr. Herbert Hoover, was to hear the political positions of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. To listen to FDR, was to learn the civic and governmental philosophy of Hoover. I’m not sure if each man decisively pre-arranged for this exchange of sound bites, but it worked very well for the patrician Democrat while it sunk the election ship of humble Herbert. We don’t have a national humble hero, or patrician leader, or real President anymore. There’s just a depraved, demented puppet with a bad brain, and a bad hand. In the Old West, the most threatening danger to a successful gunfighter came from other gunfighters. They wanted to shoot and kill him for the mere act of building a reputation. The Code of the West, however, triumphed the virtue that held there’s no acclaim, no glory, no fame, no merit and no honor in shooting a man with a bad hand.
A man with a bad hand isn’t up to a showdown. This one probably won’t even show up for the showdown. He’ll just go down, somewhere, to be replaced by another treasonous stooge, another corrupt puppet with strings pulled by the Chi-comm Masters. No glorious reputation can be built off of the flailing and failing charlatans in the official sanctums of power in the U.S., in France, in England, in Scotland, in Ireland, in Canada: they’ve all got bad hands. They’ve got bad hearts too. The world today needs warriors with good hands, and good hearts. The world needs heroes, more than ever before. Such men, and women, have shown up at the Not-O.K. Corral in your town, in your county, in your city, in your district, in your shire, in your province, in your state, in your nation. And they’re giving the whack-job willies to the robotic usurpers of liberty, installed in seats of constitutional power.
Some of the courageous challengers have already gotten knocked out of the rigged ring through nefarious exploits and filthy payoffs. Heck, there’s one champion who keeps getting banned for life from even getting close to that electoral ring! I’m reminded of the level-headed statements handed by Victor Laszlo, the hunted freedom fighter of the Resistance, to Nazi Major Heinrich Strasser: “And what if you track down these men and kill them, what if you killed all of us? From every corner of Europe, hundreds, thousands would rise up to take our places. Even Nazis can’t kill that fast.” Even globalists can’t keep buying human pawns (politicians) that fast. The greedy ghouls are running out of the malleable greenhorn mouthpieces, strutting in their skinny suits, straight from the Davos factory.
We, the Patriots, must bear in mind what the Japanese call “the wise bamboo”: Bend so that you do not break. There are also these words of wisdom from the Spanish poet, Antonio Machado, of the Generation of ’98: “El ojo que ves no es ojo porque tú lo veas, es ojo porque te ve.” "The eye you see is not an eye because you see it, it is an eye because it sees you.”