There’s a strange hot, shiny thing up in the sky today, I dimly remember it but its been a while since I’ve seen it. The last two weeks have varied from drizzly to drenching downpour to hail, then did the same thing the next day. And the next. I dumped three inches of rain out of the rain gauge last Thursday and four more on Monday. The weeds in the garden are shading out the tomatoes and I can’t even walk into it without sinking in above my ankles. I was about to start searching the internet for predictions of Globull Flooding. It’s not supposed to rain again til Saturday, so much for a night out Honky Tonkin’ on Friday. I’ll be crawling around killing my back, hips and knees pulling damn weeds.
I can live with that, unlike the leftist enemies of everything good and right about America. They’re contemplating full blown revolution because Trump gets another Supreme Court appointment. I remember the hopelessness I felt daily as the hobnailed boot of Barak the muslim communist pressed my face into the street, I can empathize with the leftist wacko communist bastards, it warms the cockles of my tiny little grinch heart to see them suffer like this. “OMG!!!!!!!!!!! We will not be able to slaughter innocent babies in the womb anymore! The Nazi’s are taking over.” It makes me rub my hands and chuckle with evil glee, like a magnificently bearded Dr Evil watching his laser bearing sharks.
I’ve got some special music for y’all tonight. Whitey Morgan and the 78’s were just invited to perform at “The Mother Church of Country Music.” That doesn’t mean the grand ol’ opry, it means the Ryman Theater in Nashville, where the Opry used to perform, before they sinned. I’ve played Whitey for y’all before, he’s the grandson of Kentucky hillbillies who moved to Detroit after WWII to get jobs in the auto factories. Detroit used to have a burgeoning country music scene. Whitey started singing in 2005, outlaw country music in the style of the outlaw himself, Waylon Jennings. Like Waylon, Willie, DAC and the other outlaws Whitey tours at a pace comparable to running from the law. Well, its payin’ off. Its nice to see one of my heroes getting some well earned props and rakin’ in some bucks. Lord knows everybody could use some of that. Let’s start with Whitey covering an old Townes Van Zandt tune, “Waitin’ Round To Die.”
When I was a kid the radio was a constant companion, one of our few connections with the rest of America, that and the three tv channels we got if the antenna was pointed the right way. AM was pretty reliable, late at night driving the tractor across countless acres I could even pull in stations from St Louis or Chicago. If the weather was just right during daylight I could get FM country music from Pipestone MN, 25 miles away. Paul Harvey was a staple, “The Rest of the Story” was a favorite. Then one day I heard Paul Harvey was an advocate of selective breeding for humans. I went to the google of those late seventies days, my high school library and searched the micro-fiche records. It turns out it was true. He believed the human race was degenerating and felt the only hope for it was selective breeding as practiced by farmers on sheep, hogs and cattle for millennia. Even at my tender age I was less than enamored with humanity in general but then a thought occurred to me…
Who get’s to decide? That was my first self-discovered “first principle” and its played a part in guiding my social and political decisions ever since. I fully agreed with Mr Harvey, generally speaking the human race sucks, its filled with charlatans, thieves, grifters, liars and democrats, but I repeat myself. If it wasn’t for other people the world would be a pretty nice place.
We practiced some basic selective breeding with the sheep we raised on the farm. If a ewe (female sheep) had twins or triplets we kept her, if she only had a single lamb she went to market. So what would be the plan for human selective breeding? Who would decide who went to market and who got to breed, with whom?
Ponder that while Whitey and the 78’s play their version of a Scott H. Biram song, “Still Drunk, Still Crazy, Still Blue.”
As a young child I loved to read, once introduced to the library I couldn’t get enough. By the time I was in third grade I’d read every book the Ruthton Public School had on the subject of dinosaurs. I was fascinated. My mother hated me asking her how to say the latin “scientific” names, before long she didn’t even look over her shoulder she just said “sound it out.” Too bad they stopped teaching phonics. Somewhere along the way I found a paperback with a picture of a Tyrannosaurus Rex on the cover. It turned out to be by Michael Creighton, the book that would become “Jurassic Park.” To hell with dinosaurs, I’d discovered Science Fiction. By the time I discovered my First Principle I was steeped in Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, George Orwell and Aldous Huxley. Selective Breeding sounded like something straight out of Huxley and his “Brave New World.”
Who gets to decide? Individuals. Each and every damned individual, good choice or bad its the best way, it allows the most freedom for the most individuals. Anything less is dystopian, tyrannical, sick and f*cking twisted. Anyone who would propose such a scheme is despicable. In addition to science fiction I was steeped in the classics, like that phrase, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
All those decisions can be made by asking and answering that one simple question, “Who Get’s To Decide?” The answer to that question is in the very next sentence of that first of its kind document, “That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.” Government can decide but only if I give my consent. Only if I give my consent. I no longer consent, our gov’t is corrupt from the floor up. Congress is ruled by lobbyists and their offers of campaign money, democrats seek the advancement of their agenda to control every facet of our lives, much worse than even Huxley’s fears. The Republicans serve the Chamber of Commerce and anyone else who offers money, anyone other than the people who elect them. By all rights we should have burned it down an started over, we still may, I’m still open to that option, the left keeps pushing me toward that option. I’d drive a horse drawn plow eighteen hours a day if I could plow DC under the ground and salt it afterwards. Destroy it like Rome did Carthage, let history wonder how heinous their sins were that they deserved to be wiped from the face of the earth and from human memory and the democrats with it.
Let’s end with Whitey singing the Johnny Paycheck classic outlaw country tune, “11 Months 29 Days.” You can ponder how it fits with the rest of my thoughts. I love y’all.