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...

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?


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


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