Starving the Monkeys: Fight Back Smarter

by Tom Baugh

  Similarly, find some listings for things like lewd suggestions to a minor. To a mother, a casually dressed unkempt 20-year-old man saying "Hey, baby" or even "Hi" to her seventeen-year-old daughter might be considered a lewd suggestion. But only in our time is such a thing an offense worthy of felony conviction. And even then based on no evidence other than hearsay or the testimony of a biased party, who only needs to spin enough drama to convince a jury. Or blackmail a plea bargain, which for the purposes of the lifelong destruction of the offender is good enough. And in the process we create a true enemy of the state with literally nothing left to lose and an axe to grind.

  First Wife proposes, should we require laws such as these to protect young girls, a system in which men are allowed to demand proof of age. Demanded prior to sex and as a condition of the offer, these men would then, in effect, card all women they find attractive. Failure to produce proof of age would negate the offer and thus no offense would have occurred. Should the female produce false identification, the man would then be absolved of any wrongdoing.

  This system could even ride atop secured text messaging and be practically instantaneous, with a permanent record of the liaison and the preliminary data handshaking available for inspection. Such a system would prove safer for the women than mine of inspecting a driver's license, which exposes the women to stalker risk should she not be interested. Men could then essentially shop for women of suitable legislative and reproductive potential by querying their PDAs as they undulate past. Ah, modern romance. So much for chasing cute giggling girls through the berry patches.

  On a related topic, men are often charged and convicted with stalking offenses. Many times these offenses include those activities such as plucking away on a banjo outside her window until he embarrasses her into going to dinner to get him to shut up. Now that time-honored cheese of woo turns into a restraining order. And the Daddy-with-shotgun walking out onto the front porch has been replaced by the much more destructive police-with-handcuffs and arrest-warrant.

  Either of these models satisfies the chase-me-catch-me drama gene bred into women over countless generations of primitive man. But only one of these is highly destructive to male ethic. A young man might survive five daddies with no permanent effect other than a boost to his self-esteem for challenges having been ultimately overcome as a rite of passage. But, one arrest encounter brands him for life. Similarly, what used to be called great sex is now called domestic violence.

  All of mankind dragged itself out of the caves into the modern world without the protection of these laws, which are too easily abused. However, only in our time have young women needed the protection of someone other than Daddy, uncles and brothers. Traditionally, these men were often in the best possible position to determine whether she was in any actual danger or not. They also represented a challenge to the suitor, that once surmounted, proved his suitability for her reproductive capacity. Or in the case of the frat party crasher, whether she was stupid and got what her drama deserved.

  One possible reason for societal change is that now the daddies, uncles and brothers are the genetically or psychologically engineered emasculates themselves. As emasculates, they too depend on the state to protect them from the predators. And now predators are defined, of course, as those few men who have rejected the emasculation, and whom often suffer the consequences of this defiance of the collective.

  So what does this psychosexual rant have to do with the State of Texas? In particular that model of liberty hauling away 400 children and 133 women to separate internment camps from the Yearning for Zion Ranch in April of 2008?

  Everything. By casting the raid and mass violation of civil rights in sexual terms, that state, populated by the chronically repressed, was able to trigger the primal reactions within all of us to ignore the facts. Unfortunately for the victims in Texas, the facts include the lack of any prior evidence whatsoever. Even the initial phone call which precipitated everything which followed was later shown to be a hoax. A hoax which the state authorities declined to validate before leaping into action.

  As a bonus, rumors of cyanide abounded to link in memories of Jonestown. The monkey collective, in its deliberate ignorance, cared nothing about the legitimate farm and dye uses for cyanide. In any event, this hysteria, as all hysteria is, turned out to be about nothing. The cyanide turned out to be merely literature about cyanide, presumably as part of a school research paper. The media, and all of us, played along because we were told it was about the children. And because we wanted to believe the drama and put them in their place.

  But what about the issue of underage girls marrying older men? In times past, the normal family consisted of an older man with a younger wife. The man, having already made his fortune and established himself, was more capable and able to provide for a family than he would have been at a younger age. The older man's wisdom and experience more than made up for its lack in the young woman. This was such a powerful reproductive advantage that even today in our modern society young women remain attracted to older men, despite ourselves.

  Of course, with such a system of offset ages it would be difficult to lure a naive young couple into desperate financial struggle at the hands of the state. This spirit of independence would make it difficult to spawn welfaric voters generation after generation, and so the monkey collective would weaken. Interestingly, generational welfare only became possible in our modern world once the forces of niceness began demanding societal changes.

  Polygamy? For most of human experience polygamy was the rule of the day. This practice was interrupted predominantly by the Catholic Church in the western world for two millennia. While doing so it suppressed independent thought and progress of all kinds while it ignored the contents of its own carefully crafted Bible.

  Only in a polygamist system were most women able to mate and reproduce with capable men. Capable men are the relative minority in any society, then as now. Recently, the forces of niceness have discovered that by controlling the relationships between consenting adults that they can have more influence over people's decisions than ever before. In any event, if these women choose to be multiple wives, in a free society whose place is it to tell them how to live their lives? On the other hand, if a woman chooses to have multiple male partners, and all parties are consenting and happy with the arrangement, who else should have a say? Or is modern serial marriage, with families ripped apart by a succession of divorces, truly better for the children?

  "Yes!" the monkeys shout, as they then get to gnaw the flesh of the victims and turn their despair into dependence. Is formalized polygamy, as promoted by some fringe groups, truly the societal evil which we are led to believe? If so, then certainly the informal polygamy found in our inner city government housing systems qualifies as well. Bring the buses, and haul them all away, and I mean the entire community, not just the presumed evil-doers, to internment camps for relationship inspections. Or else admit that we need to get out of the business of legislating relationships between consenting adults. But to do so would reduce the power of the state, and indirectly the power of your neighbor over you. Or you over him or her, and that is why the monkeys hate polygamy.

  So what about the children? Weren't some underage girls in that "compound" found to be pregnant? Let me put this in context. Imagine that in any good-sized neighborhood, say of a hundred or so families, that one 13-year-old girl was found to be pregnant. Would it then be reasonable for the government to swoop in, seize all the children and women, including yours, carting them off to internment camps? Does your neighborhood have a pregnant underage girl? If so, fire up the Baptist buses and empty out every house within the bounds of the neighborhood. This sounds absolutely absurd in that context, and yet it happened to them right under our noses, with us cheering every day of the spectacle.

  The Nazis wished they had been able to direct public opinion like that, with all portions of the political spectrum aligned so perfectly. With such a system they would have been able to han
g Jews on every street corner with the public dragging them to their deaths instead of nervously glancing away. They apparently just didn't have the evolved monkey collective which we enjoy today.

  So, we have now come to the point that the forces of niceness can rid itself of any challenge, no matter how harmless, simply by framing it in sexual terms. In the case of Waco, they made the mistake of not whipping up public opinion first. In Ruby Ridge they just simply didn't kill off everyone, leaving no victims to the tragedy alive to complain.

  The mistake with the Yearning for Zion Ranch is that the victims of the tragedy weren't killed off in a precipitated conflagration as with the Branch Davidians. Even so, public opinion was so biased against the victims, for the presumed crimes of a very few, that any victims are now powerless to complain. But who would they complain to? Both sides have guilt on their hands. The Democrats ran Waco, the Republicans ran this latest affront against their own citizens. And don't be fooled by the lack of killings in this latest incident. Only the pacifism of the Zions themselves prevented tragedy. Don't doubt that the Republicans wouldn't have been just as eager to drink their blood as their Democrat fellows did in 1993.

  And yet, the common thread with both of these abuses of liberty is that they both happened in Texas. Which leads one to wonder who the actual wackos in Texas are. Of course, it is the people who keep voting for these abuses. And never complain a peep when they happen. B e c a u s e t h e s e abuses are exactly what they voted for. But there is so much more to Texas and Texans. Not only are they eager to kill their own citizens on a righteous whim, they also don't like to mix mammals and alcohol. They also think they should tell women what shapes of plastic they can have for toys. I suppose that means that not everything is bigger in Texas. And I'm sick and tired of them supplying destructive Presidents. And killing the good ones. Enough, already.

  The only good Texans are the ones who act like the old Texans, the Alamo Texans. The Texans who came from everywhere else in the early 1800s to find that Galt's Gulch. The Texans like Ross Perot and Ron Paul and Charlie Wilson, men with faults and opposing positions but at their core dedicated to liberty, even if only his own liberty in the latter. The Texans before they found oil and became Baptist Arabs. But these Texans aren't in charge any more.

  But I'm OK with the state of Texas being run by oil-drunk sexually repressed crazies who soak up regulatory profit and disaster relief cash while posing as economic wizards. That is what the Constitution is about. I just wouldn't be caught dead living there. Because in that buckle of the Bible Belt, expressing any different point of view will probably get you caught dead.

  If you managed to stick in with this book and get to this point, I applaud you. Most of you still reading this are feeling a sense of fascination like watching a train wreck, you just can't turn away as I apparently smash my reputation into flaming giblets. If so, I have done my job and entertained you for the last few hours or so. But hey, I warned you to not read this far, or at all, didn't I? Put it down now and go take that shower which you feel you really need to wash this peek into my mind out of your soul.

  I have abandoned now the pretense that this book is about entrepreneurship. It is about something more important, and at the foundation of entrepreneurship. This book is about liberty, and the battle of the collective against the individual. And the collective is winning as it progressively disenfranchises the individual year after year, issue after issue. Some small handful of you reading this are the disenfranchised minority themselves, and feel a sense of kindred spirit which seems to smooth some of the rage within you. It is for you, the innocent yet presumed guilty, that this book is really written.

  Those of you who are starting to suspect that you wear the suit of a monkey, turn away now as the rest gets much, much worse. You really won't like how this ends, so put this book down and write me off as a crackpot right now. Or learn from this book and join us, casting your monkey ways aside.

  If you won't cast aside the way of the monkey, then please, oh please, don't read that next chapter. I mean it.

  Chapter 18, The Drug War

  No stratagem ever devised by the monkey collective has been more destructive to the spirit of the individual and liberty than the War on Drugs. My first introduction to the common insanity which surrounds our Drug War came about as a result of my work in Desert Storm. Although I joined the Navy because I wanted to fly and ultimately be an astronaut, I joined the Marines for a variety of reasons explained previously. One of these reasons was to avoid the boredom and nausea of daily flight, so I selected a ground option out of the Naval Academy. As fate, a wench of irony, would have it, I wound up being assigned to fly in the back of a KC-130 in a communications van during the war.

  A combination of my unrepaired childhood broken nose, the resulting deviated septum, and the dry and sandy climate of the Middle East caused me to have a recurring nose bleed. Fortunately, this affliction was not serious enough to be debilitating, just enough to be disgusting to be around. My first few flights I spent hunched down in my seat. In this position I scribbled on my clipboard held against the wall to keep the blood running down my throat by my looking up at it. Otherwise, the blood dribbling all over my little flip-down table and running into Staff Sergeant M's lap over the course of the ten-hour flights might get in his way.

  The Navy Corpsman I saw for this problem at the Jubail airbase had a simple enough solution and handed me a tube of a miracle cure. His instructions were to coat the offending septum with a dollop of this goo and handed me a little pouch of cotton swabs. I promptly lost the swabs, leaving me to use rifle cleaning swabs from the armorer instead. This treatment worked as advertised. Although this goo had a slight aromaticity, I never again spilled so much as a drop of blood for the remainder of the war. So equipped, I was able to perform my normally ground job from the air.

  It was a picturesque sight. Each evening, our little band of warriors perched on crates of missiles at the edge of the busy airfield waiting for our KC-130 to fly in to haul us off. From time to time a Marine attack helicopter would taxi by, the rotor wash and blinking lights adding to the surrealism. Lacking wheels, helicopters taxi by hovering a few feet off the ground. This is a disturbingly impractical aerial maneuver made more impractically disturbing by the pilot being distracted by the sight of a Marine officer digging around in his nose with a six-inch stick. And probably a little disturbed by the five other Marines around him not seeming to notice or care. I might as well have been wearing overalls and sporting a banjo.

  As it turned out, our little unit managed to ride in the back of the KC-130s for enough missions to qualify for the Air Medal. Although honored and appreciative of this recognition, I was a bit embarrassed by it at the time. I pointed out that we were about as deserving of this Air Medal as I was of getting a Purple Heart for my nose bleeding in the face of the enemy. Had I peered over the edge of the plane's open cargo ramp at the battlefield below without my prophylactic dose of magical ointment that would have been literally true, of course.

  Not all of my Marine peers agreed with my perspective. I intended these remarks to distinguish us from the vast majority of our fellow Marines who were genuinely heroic and more deserving of decoration. But, my meteoric meritorious and somewhat whimsical rise to the lowest level of Senior Air Directorship past them had left some of my fellow junior officers a bit ruffled. And neither did my opinions on President Bush the First endear me to those bitter few, the gathering storm of the collectivist forces of niceness within our midst.

  I chose to serve my nation under the leadership of President Reagan. I had spent my entire academy life immersed in our national culture hardly an hour's drive from the Great Man himself. His many direct influences on me included the appointment of Jim Webb as his Secretary of the Navy despite that hero's political rough edges. The choice of Webb for that post culminated in the selection of Al Gray as Commandant of the Marine Corps. And we were on our way to a 600-ship Navy, many of which would be the fines
t warships ever devised. America was a great place to be, and a great place to serve.

  I could never understand why such a great man as our President could have selected such a worm as George Herbert Walker Bush to be his running mate.

  Internet Research

  Research George H. W. Bush, and his father, Senator Prescott Sheldon Bush, and his grandfather, Samuel Prescott Bush. Wikipedia has excellent concise articles for each. As I have come to know since then, Reagan the candidate had despised the ideals of this agent of privilege as he ran against him in 1980. So, Reagan had determined after his primary victory that George H. W. Bush would not serve as his running mate. But, in a late-night smoke-filled room at that Republican National Convention, a meeting whose details are probably lost to history, things changed. That great man whose deceptively simple speeches belied a deep understanding of our Constitutional values would make the most important mistake of his life. His justification to allow that worm his turn was to ensure that the party would carry certain key states.

  One of those states which Bush was to carry was Texas, he being an oilman, of course. We are led by modern pundits to believe that his fortune was entrepreneurial, based solely on merit and a model for our own efforts. But, a close reading of family history finds the lie in that. Although Bush presented himself as a Texan, his roots were in elitist New England. Once it seemed that his political career came to an end as the primaries wore on he moved to his grandfather's estate in Kennebunkport, Maine. In the process, the worm sold his residence in Houston as it no longer seemed to carry any political weight. He cast this address aside as he would supporter and promise alike. As he would anything which retained little value to this consummate manipulator and former Director of Central Intelligence.