While I was wandering through Costco the other day as one of the 5% without some ridiculous mouth thong wrapped around my piehole, I began to re-think the French Revolution. Maybe it’s gotten a bad rap. Still, Marie Antoinette only suggested that the normal eat cake – hey, who doesn’t like cake? But she didn’t demand that the people humiliate and degrade themselves in every aspect of their lives.
But our garbage elite does to us, and so many Americans are sheep who eagerly obey. Independence Day has come and gone, this year being not just a reminder of the greatness of the American ideal but a painful reminder of how so many of our fellow Americans have fallen short. They are delighted to forgo the strenuous rigors of citizenship in favor of the flaccid idleness of serfdom.
It’s pathetic, and unworthy of a great people.
What the hell are these sheep thinking?
They were commanded by their betters to wear a mask inside, outside, while they drive their ridiculous Prius with the “I’m With Her” and “COEXIST” bumperstickers. They were told not to wear one, then to wear one, then to wear two, and they did. The elite told them to get the vaccine because it would protect them, that the shots would make them free again, and they took the shots, but then immediately afterwards the master caste told them that while they were now immune, they still had to wear a mask because…science or something. It was never quite clear. Yet the sheep eagerly did so. They got bait and switched, and the sheep were satisfied with the switch part.
There’s nothing sadder than seeing some Chardonnay mom in a park in the sunshine with her little kids, all made up like suburban banditos. But sporting a badge of shame on their faces is just a start. There’s never enough humiliation for the sheep; maybe degradation gives meaning to their empty lives, allowing them to feel something, anything.
The elite wants to shear the sheep of self-respect, and the sheep line up, clutching copies of Ibram X. Kendi’s (née Henry Rogers) obnoxious CRT handbook. They are told that they must accept personal responsibility for the slaves they never owned, and that they must therefore be accountable to people who were never slaves. And they obey, joyfully competing to most completely abase themselves, shedding their history and their dignity and trading it away for the chance to be further disrespected and disenfranchised for the sin of having their great-grandfather come from the wrong continent.
The media tells them to eat bugs, literally. The insect imperative is an evergreen story in the state media – how some obscure “experts” contend that red meat, the food of proud men and women, must give way to consuming cicadas and crickets. Why is it so important to get us to gobble beetles? Because we love red meat, and it gives us joy, and that can’t be allowed. No, we have to be broken, and it doesn’t get more broken than complying with the demand to fry up and nosh on a handful of locusts for the giddy amusement of our alleged betters, who certainly will not be giving up their ribeyes anytime soon.
The excuse the elite gives for the bug-eating thing– there’s always some excuse for their bizarre demands – is the weather, and how we must fear it instead of the things that truly threaten us. If we’re worried that it might be a degree hotter in a century, we’re not going to be worried about the elite’s Chi Com friends taking over, or the elite consolidating its wealth and power at our expense. Pay no attention to the aspiring tyrants behind the curtain – take cover, it’s sunny! Or cold – remember, every kind of weather is proof positive that climate change is a thing and if you doubt it, you hate science.
Of the same ilk is the demand that we pretend ugly people are beautiful. Victoria Secret did very well with attractive women, but people like attractive women and that thought crime must be punished and all residual resistance to the elite’s latest aesthetic decree must be purged from society. The placing of grody on a pedestal accomplishes two things. First, it has the effect of making our generally fugly elite feel better about itself, since when we elevate mediocrity it’s their time to shine. The second is that we all know that a bulbous walrus, or a dude pretending to be a girl, or a bony harridan with a bitter scowl and purple hair, are not actually hot. The fun comes with making the proles lie and say that they are. Everyone knows it’s a lie; everyone knows the emperor is going commando, so the juice comes from making people lie anyway. If you can make them lie, you own them. And so many of us are happy to hand over their personal pink slips to the elite.
It’s important to erase the competition, so God has to go. The elite tactic is to belittle and assault the believers – your First Baptist Church is a hotbed of pathogens and must be closed, but topping the list of essential enterprises is the Peppermint Cheetah. In the name of COVID – what can’t pandemic panic do? – it’s out with “Amazing Grace” and in with “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”
And they create idols to replace the Lord, to which the sheep reverently bow down. Did you see that ridiculous statue of Diana unveiled the other day? The tacky totem features that frivolous bippy with some generic boy and girl, leading them into a bright future of uninspired white wine and ennui. Move over Sistine Chapel, we’ve got the People’s Princess and she’ll make your pain go away. Perhaps the statue-knockers were onto something.
And the sheep eagerly agree with the elite demand that they own no guns, that they be disarmed, the better to encourage the kind of docility fitting for the bottom rung of the feudal ladder. You see it in Europe, where the people shrug and accept life under unaccountable bureaucrats knowing that there’s nothing they could do about it anyway even if their low-T civilization were to suddenly rediscover its manhood. Once Europeans sent crusaders to battle the heathens; today, they sit in rapt attention, childless and chestless, watching some auto-tuned crooner sing about how s/he loves to boogie all night long as Liechtenstein’s entry in the Eurovision Song Contest.
Mostly, the sheep are told to pretend they aren’t sheep. And they do so even if the shame of their submissions somewhere, deep down inside them, gnaws at them.
We are the greatest nation on earth, which today is a sad commentary on the human race as a whole. And sadly, so many of our fellow Americans are unworthy.
Be worthy, and prepared, because change is coming.
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My sixth Kelly Turnbull action thriller, The Split, is almost ready to be unleashed. It’s got guns, liberal mockery, and more guns. America has split into red and blue nations, and our hero has to go back in and regulate. Prep by getting the most recent bestseller, Crisis, as well as my other four novels, People's Republic, Indian Country, Wildfire, and Collapse!