Too late, too bad for the Light Brigade
It really is too late, and there really is no hope of saving the republic. Just telling the truth. Everything depends on the rule of law and that is gone. The only fact that matters is the bar associations across the nation have been weaponized against Trump and the attorneys who dare to represent him. They are being targeted for disbarment. This tells us just how deep the rot has gone. It’s not just the headline makers; it’s the glunks and drones in the institutions beneath the bosses.
Here’s the truth. I admire Trump for his courage and his mission. But would I like him in person, want him in my house for dinner? No. Do I want him in the White House? Yes. Absolutely. But that’s also a measure of how we got this far down the road to ruin. My Dad died at the precise moment of the turn of the century. He would have been a Never Trumper. Something about class. Not caste but class. Trump is not a gentleman. Which was always my Dad’s first priority in men. He would have listed that first before the (suddenly banished) Duty, Honor, Country of the West Point creed.
I talk often about my age. Not because it hurts my joints but because it’s a marker of memory. Everyone under the age of 50 did not live through the disaster of the 1960s and know about it only from the writers who have labored overtime to cover up its fatal sins.
So many things they do not know because they were not there and the history is tainted by lies and omissions. One of the books of my Boomer Bible (The Book of Damn Yankees) is 25,000 words long, in these days of Kindle a book unto itself. It ends with the assassination of the President, a harbinger of doom in 1963. An event which is ironically back in the news of the moment, because the evidence has come to light that the assassin was not Oswald but a Coup d’État carried out by some runaway cabal of intelligence agencies within the government. Which means we are now into our third, maybe fourth such coup against the men elected President of this free democratic republic. JFK, Nixon, Trump in ‘20 and probably in ‘24. All within the space of 60 years. If you’re 50 you have adult memories of possibly 30 of those years. And reliable knowledge of none of them.
What the under-50s missed. The first crippling invasion of the United States, not across the southern border but within the middle class, a wave of illegal marijuana that captured a generation and paved the way for hashish, LSD, peyote, cocaine, crack, methamphetamines, heroin, ecstasy, oxy, and the Fentanyl Holocaust we’re experiencing right now. See, the under-50s don’t remember there was a time when parents weren’t smoking weed in the dark when they thought the kids were asleep, and selective lawlessness got ingrained in every institution, including the professions sworn to protect justice and health and the Ten Commandments. And, yes, it was a wave, a veritable tsunami that rolled in and over all the rules of behavior the Greatest Generation didn’t quite succeed at instilling in their spoiled progeny. My freshman year at boarding school half a dozen seniors were expelled for sneaking out of a French play in DC to go drinking. By my senior year, there were two whole dormitories where every door opened on a bedspread and the smell of incense vainly trying to cover the stink of pot. And if they caught you, they didn’t expel you anymore. There wouldn’t have been enough students left to carry on the gentlemanly charade.
What the under-50s missed. Woodstock Nation. Mud and sex in public and an entire rural region reeking of marijuana. The pride trophy of having been there. Whole music careers made from having performed on stage there. Because the under-50s also missed the time before the Beatles, when the music was to contemporary eyes naive and utterly absent politics or serious sexual innuendo. Rap? It would never have reached a record producer or a radio station. All the bleeps add up to the truth the young’uns still recognize — ho’s, m_____f___ers, and ‘Cap yo ass.’
What else did they miss? The fouling of the language. F-bombs in public. Women as obscene in their everyday conversations as men ever were behind closed doors. The slob fashion that eliminated coats and ties and ladies in passing, so that we have come to accept without even noticing underwear as outer wear, female trousers that vividly outline the nether lips (ref. Kamelto Harris)…
…and super baggy male trousers called cargo shorts that cover the knees and make men look like overgrown little boys who just smell bad and wear F-bomb T-shirts.
When abortion was a shameful thing, not the creed of a new atheist religion. Enough about that. Probably only the over-70s remember such a time.
And the destruction of sex, the pleasure, the mystery, the various demimondes which survived under various masks that did not include physical sexual mutilation by greedy doctors who have been in it only for the money since psychologists translated every pathology into a series of drug prescriptions.
Result? Everybody is a fake. Especially the under-50s. Nobody really believes in God. How many movies do we have to see where parents lose a child and abandon their faith because God didn’t save their kid? Guess what. Such people do not believe in an afterlife. Not really. They may think they do. But their religion is as fake as their so-called principles and morals. What they are is nihilists, because they believe official science more than their lying eyes.
Weighed in on this 33 years ago. It’s not true that God is irrelevant or just not there. How else can you possibly explain that these connections are not spurious but intrinsic?
Click on the graphic to see the enormity of the file. It’s no longer feasible to rule God out of the
picture. He’s embedded everywhere, and the reason you’re venal and empty is you can’t see it.
There are no more philosophers, writers, poets obsessed with the necessity of learning and meaning. Nobody reads the books on the NYT bestseller list. Nobody reads much of anything anymore. There are no more great men. Women think they are great when most of them are mere neurotic, mediocre dupes of a lie called feminism that is transforming them into fat ugly poseurs and ludicrous parodies of male achievement. It’s never occurred to them that 100 years is nowhere near enough for women to catch up to the astonishing creative brilliance of men.
A title on the door is the same as life accomplishment to the feminists now, and they don’t know the difference. But why should they? Now that there are no men worthy of the name, they are in charge everywhere and don’t you dare expect them to be accountable for anything they do. Especially not preserving human life when conjugating without a pill or a rubber is so much fun.
Why the war for civilization in the west is over. The cultural rot goes deep deep deep.
Meaning we should go quietly in surrender, gentle into that good night? No.
Hell no.
Just don’t expect to survive the last battle before us…
The Charge of the Light Brigade
I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
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