17 August 2008

Bile XXXIX, version I (Just Fucking Read It!)

Here's the post that I think probably represents best the whole Unclean Philosophy. No frills, just Unclean being Unclean:

  • In the world I see - you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.
    -Tyler Durden

    We are almost there, by God. Almost to the point where this huge, malignant zit pops in an orgasmic purge of puss and infected blood. Call it a metaphorical cleansing of the societal hair folicles. Call it a bullimic purge of the excess of modern society. Or call it what it is, the end of a self-destructive cycle of laziness and ignorance. It won’t matter. The end result will be the rapid decline of a society that once prided itself as the Light and the Hope of the modern age. An alternative to the self-destruction inherent in Marxism. An alternative to the lack of individuality inherent in Fascism.

    What we’ve evolved into is an example of the bastardized ideals and half-assed devotion to the principles that founded this Republic. Oh sure, we’ve seen universal suffrage, gender and racial equality all come about without a major revolution. Moreover, we’ve weathered the defeat of Nazi Germany, the Japanese Empire, and the Soviet Empire. Plus, we’ve achieved monetary hegemony over the economic distribution of oil since the early 1970s. Yet, none of those things have guaranteed our continued existence. For what will defeat us will not be our lack of a powerful Navy, a two front war, or an unsound fiscal investment to keep up in an arms race. What will defeat us is our inability to identify who our enemy is.

    Now, contrary to what the news would have you think, our enemy is not the current President of the United States. Nor is it the inability of Brittney Spears to conduct herself as if she were older than 18 years of age. This problem has nothing to do with Madonna’s adoption, Simon’s displeasure with the hirsuite individual singing in front of him on American Idol, nor whether or not Brad Pitt is morally justified in banging, and subsequently marrying, Angelina Jolie.

    The enemy is our expectations. We have allowed ourselves to be stuck here, bemoaning our lack of security, our credit rating, and the relative prospects of sexual gratification.

    What we have not considered is the cost of our freedom to do these things and explore these paths. Do they include some form of sacrifice? Will I need to risk anything in the maintenance of this self-autonomy? Is it possible that I might be inconvenienced? Be unpopular? Will I have to tell the ignorant assholes around me things that they might not wish to hear?

    Yes. You may. In fact, this world does not resemble the world in which you grew up. We all grew up assuming that this would all be a rerun of the Eisenhower era, that we would all assume jobs where the money would come easy as long as we worked honestly, while the military kept the barbarian hordes off the gates and outta the market. Where our children would grow up fearless, and our golden years would be spent in reflection on the net gain that we had factored into human existence…

    …But, that ain’t happening, is it? The barbarian hordes blew up the fuckin’ trade center, for Chrissake, and are probably making inroads into blowing up our local International Airport right now as we read this. The Soviet God of Communal prosperity has been defeated and replaced with the Mohammedan God of Universal supplication to the Sharia. The difference is that the Commies just wanted us to be communist…the Mohammedans want us to all die as infidels right fucking now.

    And in the midst of all of that, all of this dire posturing, are the American people…

    …sitting for an evening worried that the current venture in Iraq isn’t progressing fast enough. Worried that somebody else’s kid might enlist and get killed over there. Worried that we’re spending too many tax dollars on the war. Worried that we may be over there for another one or…[gasp!]…two years. Concerned that the idiot on TV, that is cowering at Howie Mandel’s feet, might pick the $1,000,000 case out of the bevy of shapely young spokesmodels…

    Yet, the truth of it is this: We have forgotten what it means to sacrifice. We have forgotten what it means to truly do without. We have forgotten what it means to be hungry. And the resulting lack of perspective has left us ripe for conquering by those who can remember such things. It happened to the Athenians, the Romans, and the English.

    So, what shall we do? Where do we regain that perspective of privation of years past? Do we shed the trappings of the elite, where each family is assured of a home, heat, food, and a dry place to sleep? Can we expect the masses to shed their dependency of comfort? Can we ask our children to suffer, simply because it will, indeed, build character?

    No, we are past that. We are at a point in history where a child can get expelled in school for fighting. Physical violence has been deemed anti-social and any who display the tendency are immediately ostrasized from the herd. And thus the herd grows weak. Because of the lack of trial. Because no displays of physical courage are allowed. Because men are now made by people who were not willing to take a punch from anyone, for anything, no matter how dire the situation.

    And we find ourselves dissatisfied by the lack of courage present in our society. We find ourselves longing for the days of our youths when we were willing to fight over a slight on our good name. We wish our sons had that sense of manly pride, that priceless sense of honor. We wish in vain.

    Fact is, our sons have been taken from us. Our daughters thrown under the expedient bus of political correctness, and multi-culturalism. We watched in silence as it happened, first in academia, then in the mass media, and finally in our children’s schools. And we are forced, like A Clockwork Orange, to watch helpless as our offspring are isolated and killed by peoples more determined than us, because we were too weak to stand up and teach them the right way to perceive happiness and fight for what they believed. They were shown that anger was wrong, and the lack of righteous anger will be their undoing. They were shown that violence was evil. And the inability to kill those who would take their freedom will be their undoing. They were told to tolerate all cultures and beliefs. And the inability to fight for what they believe in will be their undoing…

    And it all comes about by the decisions that we have made the past twenty years. And it all comes about by the selfishness and softness of a generation who has known no hardship. And it all comes about by the ignorance of the true soul of liberty.

    The soul of liberty is violence, and the willingness to do violence to any who may take it from ye. You must mistrust those who want to make you “safe”, because “relative safety” and “freedom” are diametric opposites.

    God willing, there will come a counter to the softness that has pervaded. The “Jackass” phenomenon is a misguided reflection of that entire concept. Boys kicking the shit out of each other is a time-honored concept borne of times when strength and courage were requirements for one to be recognized by the tribe as a Man in fact and title. Nowadays, a driver’s license is all that is required. So, we must raise our boys to be hard, irrespective of the tears that they may shed…for they will thank us later.

    “Rub some dirt on it, boy.”

    “Walk it off.”

    “That’s a GOOD scar there, son.”

    Bottom line is this: We must make up for the lack of our own society by remaking it to our own liking…one dude at a time. The problems that beset this nation are a result of fifty years of malaise and inattention. We must spend our time upon this earth in an attempt to right the ship, create strong, independent thinkers among our own progeny, and accepting nothing less than that same willingness to sacrifice from our very selves. Because the end game that we imagined when we watched “WarGames” with Matthew Broderick has come before us in the guise of a turban-wearing, Koran-quoting, Mohammedan fascist motherfucker who wants you, me, our wives, and our kids to perish from this earth tomorrow…because he believes it is God’s Will. These psychotic assholes will not get weaker in our lifetime, only stronger because of the inaction by the baby-boomer-worthless-fucking-idiots who have been running the country for the last nineteen years. And the only thing that will stand between those psychotic Mohammedan assholes and this Republic, here in about twenty years, is the ability of our sons to go and kill them. And the ability of our sons and daughters to make decisions regarding immigration. And the ability of our children to have the perspective to understand that the value of their individual liberty is in direct preportion to their willingness to sacrifice themselves in the name of that liberty.

    Only then, when we have taught these lessons to our children, made these sacrifices, taken into account the true price of our Republic, only then may we hold our oaths to be complete. That we have supported the Constitution, that we have defended it. That we well and faithfully executed the duties of the offices that we entered…no matter when.

    Only then, my friends, may we have peace.

    Viva Res Publica,
    Unclean

Bile XXXIX...the lost Bile

I was searching for some shit earlier, and found that, as I renumbered all the Bile, I had left one out...and probably one of my favorites. This is from December of 2006, and is something that I'm proud of:

  • It was 0600 as I boarded the plane. Laura did this on purpose, and it shows just how astonishingly competent that she truly is. I mean, come the fuck on. If she gets me a flight out of McLaren in Vegas at any time past 0900 and I’m either in a strip club or on the casino floor until 0400 night prior. This way, she KNOWS I’ll be in bed at the steamingly shitty hotel that I booked for myself by 2300 at the latest.

    The hotel. That’s a fucking chapter all of its own. It is an establishment known as The Wild West Gambling Hall. It’s off the strip, barely, and rightly so. It is cheaper than death and seedier than my prom date. I checked in about 2000 and was interested to see that the woman checking me: 1) was the reason for the weight capacity signs in elevators; and 2) had AT LEAST ten pieces of metal inserted into her head. Piercing, my ass, this lady had lost a fight with a fucking staple gun.

    Anywho, as I checked in, I asked the rotund pin-cushion where the closest place that I could find a bottle was. She directed me across the gambling floor to the sundries vendor. As I walked across the floor, I was laughing my ass off…OH MY GOD. Where in the fuck did they get these people from? Everyone in that joint, (and that is a PERFECT term for that place), was well past their warranty. HIGH MILEAGE. Truckers, young burnouts, druggies, inveterate gamblers with too much aggression and absolutely zero judgment, and dealers assigned by name to this place from Sauron himself. These fucking dealers made the ones at the Remo look like Mother Teresa. Most had degenerated to the point where they only existed in a spectral fashion and you could only see them if you looked to one side and picked up motion out of your periphery. I truly think it was like gamblers’ hell. Fuck up enough in the big casinos and they send you here. To make an incredibly long story short, I purchased a bottle and a six pack from a woman, A WOMAN, who was a spot-on match for Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstien, and went back to my room.

    [Twelve hours later] So there I was, on a plane bound for Washington D.C., by way of Baltimore/Washington International. I had a stop somewhere in-between that I can’t bring to mind, except for the fact that the bartender at the Chili’s airport bar wore a “Kerry/Edwards 2004” button on his apron, and that I can never go back there. But that’s not important. What is important is that it occurred to me right then, on the plane, as we entered the atmosphere at several hundred miles per hour on a Friday morning that I would not be expected to operate heavy equipment or a motor vehicle until sometime Sunday evening. Just then, on cue, the stewardess asked me if I would care for a beverage.

    “Yes,” I respond, “I’ll have a bloody Mary. Keep ‘em coming.”

    And while I suspected it at the time, this was the beginning of one of the most legendary benders of all time.

    For my Birthday, you see, Laura had purchased me air travel to D.C. in order to meet with a buncha former Marines, respected executives, and a few other friends of Michael C Cochran, male prostitute. The Group, which was formed by a number of officers from the finest Division in the Marine Corps back in the late 90’s (1st Marine Division, By God), was formerly known as SCAM-D (Southern California Association of Marines-Drunken…or some shit, I honestly can’t remember. And don’t fill up my inbox pissed about it either, we don’t even go by that name anymore anyhow.) This august body had met yearly for the past four or five years at such places as Vegas, New Orleans, Toronto (or Montreal…I can’t keep them straight. It’s Canada, so who the fuck cares.), and Chicago, in order to drink, have a respectable meal, and enjoy watching Eric Martin morph into a drunken pig. In 2003, they wandered into Chicago during the end of one of the few pennant races that the Cubby Bears have been in over the past 25 years. I was in Career level school (fat fucking good it did me) in Fort Sill, Oklahoma when Mike called me from Wrigley hours before the Cubs would clinch the NL Central for the first time since World War II, while I watched on television. I really wanted to attend one of this….things.

    So, this year Mike talked to the boss. Laura, happy at the prospect of having me around the house forever, decided to get me the fuck outta the house for the first time since I went on terminal leave and sent me to see St. Michael of Ann Arbor, et al.

    After the stewardess delivered the Bloody Mary to me at 0732 on Friday morning, I did not draw another sober breath for the next sixty hours. I did not put down my glass for the next 48 hours. I wandered through taxi cabs, shopping malls, city streets, and hotel lobbies with a drink in my hand. The only person to actually correct me was a young waitress in a sports bar in Old Town, and she just wanted me to order something from the bar. (After drinking the rest of the can of Bud Light that I was carrying, in a single draught, I politely apologized and asked for a Sam Adams.)

    The fact that I’m still alive, and not in jail or working in some kitchen is a tribute to Mike’s circumspection, Eric Martin’s guile, and my own skills at talking the Devil into setting himself on fire.

    But I’ll get to all that as we go. Tonight I want to personally thank the editorial board from the Los Angeles Times, because they sent me. The fuck Off.

    Ladies and Gentlemen, it ain’t the fucking destination, it’s the goddamn trip. Stand the fuck by.

    BILEVol. XXXIXAn Honest Appraisal and Counter-Insurgency

    1) “Somebody get Elanor Roosevelt’s biographer on the phone…” I was at the office the other day, checking out the editorial tripe pushed out like so much fecal discharge from the respected media sources, when something got my attention. The Los Angeles Times had actually done something intelligent for a change. They went to academia, you see, and asked various respected muck-a-mucks how they thought various historical individuals would handle the problem of Iraq. They asked these individuals who were smart about Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Julius Caesar, and Genghis Khan to write 1000-1500 words on this topic. It was interesting, I will grant you that, and I don’t doubt the conclusions that those individuals drew. All entries were well thought out, logical, and realistic. I enjoyed reading these pieces.

    (I won’t put in a link here because I caught it on The Early Bird, which is a DoD news compendium and is accessible only through DoD validation. However, I encourage reading these pieces. Go to the Times online and check ‘em out.)

    But as “The Night Fox” said in Ocean’s Twelve: “I thought about that for like a really long time.” And the more I thought about it, the more pissed off I became. We see everyday in the media that we are losing this war in Iraq. Everyfuckingday. We hear and see and read everyday about what a travesty the Bush administration has been since the outset of hostilities. We’ve all heard the arguments: “The WMD was the false basis for initial hostilities”…”We should have concentrated on al Queda and left Sadaam alone”…”This is a quagmire that will hang around Bush’s neck like Vietnam has been hung about the neck of LBJ”…”GWB has gutted the constitution unlike any other war-time president before him”. I mean, for the love of Christ, Gerald Ford is telling the world that Bush shouldn’t be in Iraq, and that guy’s fucking dead. Enough already. STOP IT.

    It won’t play.

    Answer me a question real quick. When was the last time President Bush closed down a meeting of a State legislature anywhere in the country? Lincoln did it. In Maryland. In 1861.

    How ‘bout this: When was the last time we interred hundreds of thousands of Muslims in concentration camp under the justification that we couldn’t verify whether or not they were spies? FDR did it.

    Okay, when was the last time you heard someone arrested and sent to jail for ten years for “making a speech that obstructed recruiting” for military service? Woodrow Wilson signed the Espionage Act of 1917 into law that had just that effect.

    Where am I going with this, you ask? Well, it’s just this: We are at war with a people who want to kill you, and me, and everyone we know, as soon as they can. They are called Islamofascists and they are out there, right fucking now, planning something that will result in the violent death of Americans somewhere. They don’t have the sexy Hitlerian mustaches, and they don’t occupy a position of power other than what our media grants them. They are criminals, no better or worse than drug dealers or street thugs, but by virtue of the popularity granted them by CNN and FoxNews and every other Goddamn media outlet, they are granted a status that has been amplified by many orders of magnitude. In light of what they have done in the past, however, and what they MIGHT be capable of now, their causes have been given de facto legitimacy. And what has this President done in response to this? Has he interred an entire demographic? Has any government, local or federal, arrested someone for obstructing the recruitment of those who might fight for the Republic? Fuck No.
We’re fighting a “light” war. Like light beer, it blows. We want the Mohammedan Fascists to die, but don’t wish to inconvenience anyone in the process. We demand success in Iraq, but we bitch and whine every time someone acts in an aggressive manner that results in unfortunate, but necessary, collateral casualties. Can any of you imagine Genghis Khan passing an order that forbids entry into a mosque in a country that he was invading? How ‘bout Abe Lincoln? That fuckin’ guy burned down an entire region of his own country to win a war, for the love of God. (“I want a crow that flies over the Shenandoah valley to bring his own rations”)
How ‘bout this, I was listening to that idiot fucking lawyer that FoxNews employs as a legal analyst the other day bitching about the fact that some Imam got thrown off a plane after vocally, and loudly, proclaiming al-Queda and bin-Laden as the saviors of Islam. In 1942, two large corn-fed individuals would’ve beaten that motherfucker within an inch of his life and been acquitted of it. Today, we hear from the conservatives in the media that throwing that ass-clown off a plane was unconstitutional. Whatthemotherfuck?

Think back to the national pulse on 12 September 2001. We wanted blood. We would not stand for the attack on our people, for the slaughtering of innocents, for the degradation of our Republic. No fucking way. What has happened since then? Are we asleep, again? Once, we had the courage of our convictions. Are those convictions any less worthy of our courage five years later? Three months after that attack, a man named Steven de Beste wrote a very good piece about the fact that our courage was commonly underestimated around the world, but they were wrong to think that we would lay down after 9/11:

“The historical pattern is that people who become comfortable also become complacent and decadent. It's happened many times in the past, and it's happened now in Europe. I think it was an easy mistake to assume it had also happened to us.
Indeed, since 9/11 there have been many in the world who have demonstrated that they still don't understand our national spirit, or understand that at the core we have not become European. In fact, when we began to demonstrate that fact, many tried to convince us we should, to no avail.”

Later in that same article, that I read hours after reading the Los Angeles Times pieces, I found this quote:

“About ten years ago I remember exchanging email with someone in New Zealand who made a comment to the effect that the US had once been willing to engage in serious war and to make real sacrifices to win, but no longer was because its people had changed. I responded, "Don't bet on it." I assured him rather coldly that we had not changed in that way, and that the fire and steel were still within us. I told him that if he had not seen any evidence of it recently, that was only because there wasn't anything going on we thought was that important. I told him that it took a great deal to rouse us and to cause us to commit to full-scale war. But if we were sufficiently provoked or if the issues were sufficiently important to us, we are just as willing to fight today as our predecessors had ever been in times past.”

Now, it seems to me that the only person in a position of leadership, who is in the public sector today, who continues to exemplify these hardened, realistic, strong characteristics is the very man who is in the position to fight this war. The current President of the United States, when compared with other war-time Presidents (to include his old man) is doing a fantastic job. Economically, we enjoy prosperity like no other nation in the world. (One in which the poorest among us must suffer with dial-up ISPs) Since 9/11, when was the last successful attack on American soil by the Mohammedan horde? In Iraq, we have lost fewer men than in any protracted war that we have ever fought. Like Jerry mentioned to me a minute ago, even when we pass 3000 killed in action, we will still be short, in the fourth year of this war (1,460 days) of the total casualties suffered IN ONE DAY on 6 June 1944. Is this war any less vital than that one? Is this cause not worthy of that sacrifice? I’ve tortured myself with the answer to that. I have come to the conclusion that this sacrifice is necessary. We have to stop these fuckers there, in Iraq, now. The alternative is that our word means nothing in the international community, and that we will forever be assailed by those who see no evidence that we are willing to act in a decisive manner to defend our own way of life. If we should shitcan this President and the ideals that he has professed since 2003, then we will never be trusted by anyone else…ever.

I will admit to doubting this course. Any who know me and have spoken with me about the domestic policy carried out by this administration knows that I have doubted it. I was wrong to have done so. We need to be more vigilant and more unaccepting of those who would have us crawling senselessly about the floor like a dog. We are in a fight, and we must continue that fight until we win. Because, if we quit, those who wish to destroy us will not, and we will just end up doing this again at the expense of something more dear than we wish to sacrifice. An Iraqi Democracy is optimal. Sadaam is dead and that is a check in the block. However, the need to kill Mohammedan Fascists is upon us, and we should never shrink from that challenge. Until they are all dead. Period.

2) “One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic…” One other aspect of the Los Angeles Times editorials was the myopic treatment of this counter-insurgency. Genghis Khan and Julius Caesar both fought “small wars” in ways that we are forbidden from reproducing. They countenanced absolutely no resistance. When they found it, they killed any and all who were involved…and their families….and their communities…and anybody who knew them. There was no collateral damage estimate performed, they just fucking killed people. At some point, the people stopped resisting the inevitable.

Now, I’m not professing a widespread repeat of My Lai 4. The wanton destruction of innocents only inflames the populace in its resistance of our occupation. What I am advocating is that we stop treating the accidental death of every innocent Iraqi as an indictment of the failed policy of Donald fucking Rumsfeld. (People, get the word out today, the atrocities at Abu Gharib were the result of ineffective leadership at the prison, and were in no way reflective of the leadership of a guy in an office 10,000 miles away in Washington D.C.) Men with weapons, in close proximity to other men with weapons who wish to kill them, present a significant threat to anyone in the area. The fact of the matter is that the Marines in Iraq don’t want to kill any who don’t manifestly deserve it anymore than Amnesty International. True fact. Because they are the ones who have to suffer the secondary and tertiary effects of that incident. Specifically, no Battalion Commander is going into Iraq with the mindset that killing a bunch of non-combatants is a neutral position. They are judged by their ability to neutralize enemy activity, and they cannot do so by being so heavy handed that they run around killing innocents. So they will, by virtue of their job, do what needs to be done. Problem is, the Battalion Commander in Iraq is second guessed by so many people, for so many reasons, that we have, in effect, rendered him ineffective by half. He still has battlespace, and he’ll still do what he can to stabilize it, but the second-guessing that has taken place since 2004 for every tactical action, individual action, or decision made or missed has been oppressive to such an extreme that I cannot adequately express it. (Ask me sometimes why the Regimental commander must clear indirect fires and air strikes) Also, whether we like it or not, that DIRECTLY translates to the squad leader through his company commander. So what happens, in effect, is that each squad leader out there right fucking now is as worried about getting fired/arrested as he is worried about enemy action. True fucking fact. Our constant attention to the ten year old, hair-lipped, blind Iraqi kid killed in the air strike that also killed Zarqawi is not helping that young Sergeant.

It is a tragedy. I am sorry that it happens. I cannot give a shit.

To do so loses sight of one over-arching aspect of warfare: mission accomplishment. We have to get shit right in that country. This Nth degree of attention paid to every single fucking collateral casualty has resulted in not only reduced effectiveness by our forces, but is completely misunderstood by those whom we would shepard into the fucking light. I have read at least ten articles over the last eighteen months in which Iraqi leaders were damn near begging for us to be MORE aggressive. They understand force, they are our allies, they know what works with their countrymen, they are more concerned about killing the bad guys than they are worried about us harming innocents.

Great bit that ties in here. I have been treated, by virtue of my last boss, to innumerable lectures of past counter-insurgencies that stretched well past the point of me wishing stab myself in the eye-socket. After a while, some of it sunk in, and I realized something. Those most successful counter-insurgencies did not give a flying fuck who was harmed in the prosecution of the fight at-hand. Ashurbanipal worried about non-combatant casualties? Whatthefuckever.

We don’t need to go that far, but we need to go further than we are currently, and that is a direct function of the outrage that we show here, on the sidelines, when a wedding party gets smoked in the process of killing the better part of a hundred fuckers that are putting IEDs in on us. Everyone needs to trust the fact that the fucker that we spent the better part of 20 years training might actually know what the fuck he’s doing.

Another solution, my dear friends, lies within our very own history:

In the late 19th century, Texas was in the middle of what we call “sectarian violence” today. On the one side, you had people who had driven cattle a thousand miles over iffy terrain to market, using every means at their disposal to water and care for those cattle in the process for almost three generations. On the other side, you had people who bought and paid for their very own propertie (nod to Cartman) and wished to enclose that propertie, to include water sources, with barbed wire purchased and installed at great expense. So those who drove cattle would need the water and would cut any wire in their way to water. Those who put up the fences would defend their property. Violence ensued. People died in a ditch. Up comes a man in a dark coat with a badge. He’s a Texas Ranger sent to that area to quell the violence. He pulls the muck-a-mucks from both parties in and gives them a variation of the following speech:

“Look, I don’t give a good Goddamn who is right or who is wrong in this. I don’t care who started it. I don’t care who died yesterday, and what act is planned for tonight that will avenge that individual. THIS STOPS NOW. The next person involved in this dispute, who fires a round in anger, gets a bullet in the head. Right then, or as soon as I can contrive it. No Judge, no trial. Dead. Then, I’m gonna come get one of you, whichever side started it, and I’ll kill you. Quite possibly both of you. I don’t care if you didn’t order it. And I don’t care if someone acted without your authority. I will kill you anyway. Questions? No? Okay. Good evening, boys.”

This is the way. Aggressive. Decisive. Infuckingdescriminate. Leave the cultural shit to the FAO. This is what they respect. This is what they will obey. I’ve sat at the table with these assholes, and if I had the latitude to give the above speech, with a Marine Sniper behind me with an M40A1, and execute the “or else” clause when it all turned to shit, then 2/7’s AO in the city of Fallujah woulda been like Lubbock inside of a week.

If we do this theater wide, and make good on it, then shit will stop now.

One fuckin’ riot, one fuckin’ Ranger...

Fin,
Unclean

11 August 2008

Bile XLIX: Friendship Day Bile!

I found out earlier today that today is International Friendship Day. I'm fucking serious. Please allow me to quote the little placard that earlier today I found proclaiming this day :

"International Friendship Day is celebrated on the first Sunday of August worldwide. Friendship Day is an opportunity to remember the important contribution friends make in our lives and to let your friends know how much you value and appreciate their friendship."

[Please note, I realize it's the 10th, and last Sunday was the first one in August. I'm guessing it comes after the first full week. Work with me here.]

Well, seeing as how you who get this qualify as the closest thing I'll ever have to someone who will claim to at LEAST know me, much less call me friend, I guess this is just fuckin' perfect. Consider yourselves appropriately greeted/appreciated/acknowledged on this auspicious day.

And kiss my fuckin' ass.

Friends, it's like the olive in your martini, the rocks in your scotch, it's...


BILE
Volume XLIX
Immigration, the Nanny State, and a Return of Apathy

1) "Mi llamo es siete de ocho. Resistance if futile. Prepare to be assimilated..." This is getting tiresome. We've spent a couple of hundred years building a common identity. We've got a national character that is among the most distinguished on the planet. Unique. Unmistakable. We have built a republic after repelling a dictatorship. We have grown over the years to become the most powerful state that the world has ever seen. In the past, people flocked to our cities, hoping to become recognized as a native, hoping to share in the wealth, both fiscal and moral, that our republic had come to represent.

Then it all changed. Immigrants now flock to my republic looking for a handout. Unlike previous generations, however, they will not assimilate to the local culture. They maintain their often repugnant traditions. They make no effort to learn the language. They believe that their existence in the republic is supposed to merit the rest of us taking care of them, just because they travelled a couple of hundred miles, and crossed a fuckin' river. They take jobs that we will no longer debase ourselves to perform. Their children suffuse the educational system with mounting problems concerning communication, because no teacher can understand a word that comes outta their fuckin' mouth, much less frame information that will educate them in any appreciable way. These people have apparently reproduced so successfully in their homeland that it has become imperative that they seek greener pastures in my homeland.

Enough already, by God. I've had it. The state of Texas needs to pass a limit on the number of New Yorkers that are allowed to move into The Republic annually. Seriously. You can't swing a dead cat around three times in downtown Dallas without hitting a dozen or so city boys from Nueva York obsessed with finding a decent curb side parking spot, a loaf of marbled rye bread, and a coffee shop. The urban sprawl of New York city has apparently reached past the Red River.

Everything should have limits. Anything can be taken to an extreme. Aristotle taught us that. It's time to tell this like it is. Texas needs to put up border control checkpoints on both the Red River and the Sabine.

Quick, someone tell me. How many baseball games on ESPN, on Wednesday and Sunday nights since April, have featured teams that did not call New York home? Two. A Cubs/Cardinals game, and a Boston/Anaheim game. That's it.

The other day, I tuned into a Rangers game that was being played in The Ballpark At Arlington. It featured the loathed Yankees in opposition. Imagine my consternation when Jeter came to the plate amid thunderous applause. The one man who has witnessed the demise of the once-proud squad of the late 90's, who has caused the Rangers more pain than a team ERA over 5.00, and who calls Alex Rodriguez friend. This man was cheered at The Ballpark in Arlington.

That was when it hit me. We've pegged the fuckin' fun meter back home in Texas. Seriously, folks. Pretty soon we'll start electing people like Hillary and Mario Cuomo to positions of power, and we'll let those idiots implement stupid shit like rent control and gun control, and then we'll inherit all of that other silly liberal shit that has been adopted up north. All our football teams will start to lose with incredible regularity. (Yes, yes. I realize the Giants won the Bowl last year...but name one really good college football team from New York. Just one. Besides, how many New York High School Football programs have prompted the writing of a book, two movies, AND a television series? (Odessa Permian: "Friday Night Lights" and "Varsity Blues".) The prosecution rests.)

New York city is the stereotype of urbanization. And the urbanization of this culture is the main reason for it's undoing, people. People who don't live in close proximity to ten gazillion other people are actually more polite, they respect one another's property more, and are generally more in touch with their feral roots. The roots that keep a man in tune with what is important...his liberty and not his safety.

Hold on a minute. That might be where I wanted to go. Hold on just a second.

Safety v. Liberty...

Rural v. Urban...

It occured to me the other day, as I explained to my progeny-- who were momentarily sated at the dinner table after one of my fantastic meals-- that feral animals were cunning, tough, and adaptive enough to ensure their survival. Anyone who has hunted wild turkey can attest to this. They're incredibly savvy birds, given to honed instinct and an impressive tactical cunning. Whereas their domesticated cousins are as fantastically stupid and become fatally scared for little reason. My sainted mother loves to tell a story about when she was growing up, and there was a pen of domesticated turkeys on her father's farm. One Sunday morning, a fox came close to the pen, smelling easy prey. Before said predator could figure out a way into the pen, the turkeys inside flipped the fuck out and started running about madly. Several of those doomed creatures ran into the fence headlong, hard enough to kill themselves. That night, the new local preacher came to the Stiles' house for dinner. My sainted Grandmother prepared one of the aforementioned turkeys. Following a sumptuous repast that featured this kamikaze turkey, my uncle Dale (who was 10 years old at the time) pushed back from the table, rubbing his belly in satiation. "Momma," he said, "that turkey that the fox killed was very good..." The silence was deafening.

People, that is where we are headed. Think about what most urban folk would do in response to any threat, be it a man with a gun or a hurricane: "Oh my fucking God! Somebody call the police/government!"

Wrong answer. You're better taking care of yourself rather than relying on a master, and most people, who don't live near fifteen gajillion people, know this. A threatening man with a gun should be shot, by God, or at least pistol whipped. If a natural disaster should hit, you get out there and fix what must be fixed yourself, because John Law's got other shit to worry about.

A little-reported story back in 2005 was that the rural town of Beaumont, Texas (90 miles west of New Orleans) was hit by a Cat 5 hurricane roughly a month after Katrina hit New Orleans. Betcha didn't hear about that, didja? Know why? Because the vast majority of that rural folk had been preparing for that eventuality for years. They had stocks of canned food, boats, fresh water, you name it. Those feral animals took care of themselves and their neighbors. They refused to be victims. Men and Women without masters. Masters of the own destiny. Strong. Capable. Undaunted. The media, therefore, had no story. So you never heard about it.

Meanwhile, three years later, you see shit in the daily news about the people in New Orleans waiting for FEMA to settle up. Not a word from Beaumont. Nary a one.

Feral v. Domesticated.

Now, Texas doesn't have anything like a patent on feralism. By no means. I see it out here in the desert on a daily basis. It's in Wyoming, Idaho, Minnesota, Tennessee...you name it. The true spirit of this nation is in its rurality. New Yorkers and other East Coasters can claim that they are the center of the universe, and those idiots waving to the camera on the street behind the Today show set will cause people to think so. But just so you and I know better, let's say it right here and right now. The spirit of this republic is not Boston, New York, Houston, Dallas, Los Angeles, or Chicago. It is Twentynine Palms, California, Andrews, Texas, DeQueen, Arkansas, and any other shitsplat town you can name. The people there are tough, self-sufficient, and ask for nothing from anyone. This used to be a concept that all men were familiar with, before half the Americans became domesticated and decided to trade their liberty for safety. They deserve neither.

When the bill of entropy comes paid...and it will...stay out of the major cities, people. New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago will be like Lord of the Flies. Those people ain't gotta clue.

2) "I've decided that you're too stupid to make decisions. Therefore, we will all act exactly the same..." Oh my fucking God. Check this shit out. I'll give ya a sec, as I pause to freshen my bourbon...

Ya ready?

Okay

People, in case you missed the news--oh, say, since 2003--we're nose to nose with a people who want to end our way of life. They want to kill you, and me, and every single fucking person we know. Dead. And your Secretary of the Navy is worried that I might burn a square or throw in a dip somewhere in proximity to an individual that might breathe and cause that person an early death sometime in the next fifty fucking years, due to that incidental contact.

Perspective time: I spent the majority of last week in uniform, helping Andy with controlling live fire ranges. While doing so, I breathed in copious amounts of HC smoke from smoke grenades that were used in training to obscure a simulated enemy position by Marines who were breaching an obstacle. I also breathed in fumes from a 50 lb. bangalore torpedo that breached an obstacle on Range 400. I've sucked down smoke from shots in Iraq that were as large as 75,000 lbs worth of Net Explosive Weight. Someone, anyone, please tell me how semi-daily exposure to my second-hand smoke is going to top that? Even better, explain to me how my smokeless tobacco is a threat to anybody in any respect? Someone, please, tell me how this is more dangerous than, say, a piece of lead out of the AK-74 of that Mohammedan who is shooting at Marines and Sailors right now, or the shrapnel from an artillery projectile buried on the side of the road that is ignited next to a Coalition patrol. You can't, because it isn't. And the moment of joy that is derived by that Marine and/or Sailor who is, admittedly, addicted to that nicotine, when he inhales the morning's first cigarette, or the momentary satisfaction from the buzz from that first dip of Copenhagen, outweighs your attempt to make me a better domesticated animal. You fuckin' asshole.

Besides, you're trying to be my Ma. Stop it. She smokes too, and will absolutely kick your fucking ass.

Next. You Nancy motherfuckers. We've given you the airplanes. We've given you every enclosed space in the ENTIRE state of California, and several other states/municipalities. Keep your nanny-state-worried hands off the out of doors. That shit belongs to US, by God. Note that passage in the link above, about "no smoking within 50 feet from building entrances". Fuck you. Does the smell of cigarettes bother you, sweetie? Then don't come out my door then, ya pussy. I could give a flying fuck at a rolling donut if you can smell my burning cigarette as you approach an exit. You'll live. Trust me.

This is another bit closely related to the above diatribe about feral v. domesticated. People, me burning a fucking square is not going to kill you...ever. The assholes who have decided that it will were paid 19 kazillion dollars by the anti-smoking lobby to decide that very conclusion. Beware of scientists who are funded by fascists with ginormous fucking checkbooks.

But as Tyler says "On a long enough time line, the life expectancy for everyone turns to zero." We can occupy our days and months worrying about the rat feces in our Campbell's soup, or the urine content in our Lobster Bisque, but all of that worrying is for naught. You live your life, you do what you gotta do, you die. Nothing in this world or the next will stop the fact that, when it's your time, you're gonna fuckin' die. Nothing. Not your relative consumption of cholesterol, nicotine, radium, or Carbon Monoxide. You're still gonna fuckin' die. I've heard all of these arguments about responsible consumption. Fuck you and everyone who resembles you. My personal satisfaction with the fact that, right now as I'm typing this, I'm smoking a Camel Light and drinking a shot of Basil Hayden's Bourbon with a Sam Adams behind him, while you're in bed at 2251 on a Sunday following a meal of tofu with soybean curd and a light salad with no dressing, cannot be overstated. I will live a satisfying life. You and I will die at approximately the same time, with your asshole so tight that it could fuse sub-atomic particles, while I loose this mortal coil with a smile on my fuckin' face.

I've got a moving 25 ft. "Authorized Smoking Section" sign that follows me everywhere I go. If you don't like it, don't come and see me. I'll survive the disappointment. Trust me.

3) "This guy is rude and uncouth!" No shit, sweetheart. There is a reason why they call me "Unclean". The following is a brief compendium of shit that is but worthless weight on the train of society, that I could not care less about, if you were to set me on fire and force me to watch...

--The Dust Pollution in Yucca Valley, CA. Sarah heard this on the radio earlier and came bouncing into the kitchen a couple of hours ago laughing at the absurdity. Folks, Sarah is 14. She heard that Yucca Valley, CA is concerned about the air pollution resulting from aerated dust that results from people driving on dirt roads. They have, apparently, made billboards admonishing folks to slow down as they move around on dirt roads in order to keep air pollution under control.

As Sarah pointed out. "Dad, it's DIRT"
As I said at the very same time, "It's fucking DIRT"

My friends, could one of you please call me and explain just why in the blue fuck should I worry that the air may be polluted with...dirt? I remain unconcerned. Enough so that I went four-wheeling in Sean's truck down Morongo Road today, as I went on-base to get groceries...

--The 2008 Summer Olympics sob stories. Look, I'm in awe of these athletes. They have come through hell and back to even be considered for the competitions that they have entered. That fact is enough, by God. I don't need a twenty minute diatribe about the fact that each and every one of them had to overcome poverty/sexual assault/drunk driving/appendix cancer/asthma/drug addiction/dead relatives. I just hope that they achieve the excellence that they've hoped for. Life is life, people. It is often hard, and we've all got our own rancorous stories of heartbreak and defeat. Every single athlete that is/has competed in this Olympiad has made an adult decision to do so, despite or in contravention to whatever might be in their best long-term best interests. I applaud each and every one of them...categorically. Please stop telling me about their dead pets and ailing aunts...thank you.

4) Epilogue. If anyone wishes to reach me, I can be found between "what the fuck?" and "Jesus, who comes up with this shit?" at TTECG, training these battalions to go and fight. In the evenings, I type this shit. While I will never say "No" to an Exercise Force, I will inevitably deride that operations officer with a layer of sarcasm. Sorry, I gotta be me.

So good to see you once again

I thought that you were hiding from me.

And you thought that I had run away.

Chasing a trail of smoke and reason.

Prying open my third eye
-Tool

Unclean