The Dope

 

What is the Dope? Some might conclude that the Dope is some kind of drug. Drugs are certainly part of the equation, but the Dope is not a drug. At least not in any conventional sense.

The Dope is all around us. The Dope is society. The Dope is conventional wisdom. The Dope is social convention. It is money and medicine, and the spaces where the two meet. Most of the world is on the Dope.

If you're not already on the Dope, then you had better get on it and quick. Why, one simply can not live in today's world without the Dope.

The Dope has many ingredients. It's sort of a stew, really. Most of the ingredients are lies, but they are all sugar-coated, so that most never really notice. These lies are so easy to swallow that they are practically ingested by rote, the damage already done before anyone has a clue.

It begins with the schooling. Schooling is a critical component of the Dope. The Dope can only work with a people who are docile. The first lesson of school is that you MUST ALWAYS respect authority. Questioning authority can ONLY lead to trouble.

These are the metrics. You must achieve the metrics according to a timetable.

You must achieve high marks.

You must select courses to prepare you for a specific discipline, one which is in high demand and commands a high salary.

You must also engage in many extracurricular activities and volunteerism. Because colleges love that shit. (That last part, at least, is true)

YES!! Because you simply must go to college. Because that piece of paper confers legitimacy. You are nothing without it.

Public (state) school education. Check

University indoctrination. Check

There are many who will feed you these lines. Some of them are just useful idiots, repeating something that someone else said. Because it sounded smart. There are others who perpetuate these lies because it serves them personally. Or their "pet" agenda. That's a polite way of saying grift. The credentialist class; the street level retailers of the Dope. They give you that first taste. 

Then they turn you on to the bankers. Next vital ingredient in the Dope: credit.  It seems so benign. There is another word for it that they shush-shush until later: debt.

You simply have to take on debt! Unless you are a trust fund baby, there is simply no other way! Think of it as an investment. In yourself! The banks are there to help you get started.

Now, that last line is kind of tricky. It's not an outright lie, just a shading of the truth. The banks are there to help you get started. Started on a lifetime path of servitude. To them, the banks. The banks figure prominently in the composition of the Dope. Bankers are the underwriters of the Dope.

Establishing credit (accumulating debt). Check

There is a certain amount of theatre to the Dope. Even your narcotic varieties of dope (lower case) require something more than just the intoxicant. It's gotta have vibe, I guess is how they would put it today. In order that the Dope actually be the Dope, there has to be a buzz to it and a buzz around it. The buzz around the Dope is what helps draw others into it's clutches. Conformity is a potent weapon to wield, especially when one considers how easily it can be manipulated. In order for this to work, people have to be talking about the Dope.

The Dope is the narrative. The script that everyone is supposed to follow. It's the continuation of a script, the foundation of which was put down in school. It doesn't have to be true because the truth is not it's purpose. It's purpose is only that the script be heard and repeated by as many as possible. Create the buzz. Get people talking about the Dope. How good the Dope is. How easy the Dope is. How natural the Dope is. It's just... what you do. Enter here, that next vital component to the Dope: the media.

The media, in all of it's numerous and ugly permutations, is a digestive system for the Dope. It assimilates all of the disparate parts into it's gaping maw; swallowing them whole to work out all of the contradictions, breaking them down to conform to the narrative. It absorbs what it needs to, and then excretes all the rest into a common, brown paste that all can recognize. An adjunct to the media, advertising, plays a vital role in the process. They are not just buying ad time; they're also buying the content. This assures the perfectly balanced texture for a stool that is easily passed. Every time.

These steaming coils are plated up and sold as filet mignon and most never notice. They have been conditioned not to ask questions. They have been numbed by the Dope. The media's presentation of reality becomes a wallpaper; a backdrop mural against which daily life plays in the foreground. It's just a part of the scenery, a set in a play titled The Asch Conformity Experiments. Validating the Experiment's findings, they answer the question: If one can get these results from only eight, imagine if eight thousand? Or million? 

Full immersion into monolithic media messaging. Check

The schools, primary, secondary and colleges, have physical facilities. Yet as an institution, they are not a concrete entity.  As an institution, we refer to these collectively as education. Education is an abstraction.

Banks often have impressive buildings, though not always. Whether ostentatious or nondescript, there are walls, a roof, doors that lock and a secure vault. But that is not where the banks do what they do. Banking, as an institution, is likewise an abstraction.

The media has many houses. From towering Manhattan office buildings to basement "studios", and various iterations between the two. These are physical locations that provide a "platform" for the message. The platform, like the institution of media itself, is that intangible cloud where words and ideas dwell. It too is only an abstraction. 

None of this is to say that abstractions are of no value; they indeed have their place, but they can not serve as a foundation for anything solid. Abstractions are incapable of supporting physicality. The Dope is an abstraction. 

The only thing that an abstraction can support is illusion. The greatest abstraction of all is the State. When we refer to "the State" that means ALL of it. Federal, state, county, municipal and township; all of these are man's pathetic attempt at supplanting the natural law. The State has no physicality. It has no eyes nor ears with which to see or hear; no hands to set upon it's charges; no mind or will of it's own. The State is a vessel created and occupied by those who wish to impose their will upon others, an act that would be physically impossible to perform on their own. They hide behind the protections accorded to themselves within their laws, while employing force doctrine upon those that they "rule". As the State has no corporeal being, it must hire muscle to act in it's stead. They call these people regulators, or prosecutors, or inspectors. Most of all they are referred to as police. Broadly speaking, the entire regime is categorized as law enforcement. It is easier and more accurate to just call them what they are: hired thugs. Every last one. And they are all on the Dope.

The State can not exist without the Dope. The Dope keeps the subjects of the State convinced that the State is necessary, benign and working in their favor. The Dope keeps a fresh crop of subjects always convinced that donning a uniform and a badge in service of the State is a noble and virtuous endeavor. This belief, over time, evolves into a siege mentality; that it is a contest of "us versus them". Thus is the hammerhead created, one of the ugliest unintended consequences of the Dope.

The hammerhead is, at heart, a closeted uniform fetishist. Their lives have been deliberately choreographed in one form of cosplay or another. They are fertile ground for the Dope. Once they have been conferred the authority that comes with a rank or a badge, and of course lethal weapons, they are transformed into hammers. You know the old saying: when a hammer, everything looks like a nail. This became an old saying, like most old sayings, because it is true.

There are some other old sayings that would seem apropos to this discussion. "If you pass enough laws, then all are made a criminal." That one is most often attributed to the Stalinist era of the Soviet Union, though like most Soviet ideas, it probably wasn't original. Maybe it isn't really old enough to qualify for the category of "old sayings"; it nevertheless applies to our current condition.

There are precious few places remaining in America where one might go and not be snared in a web of competing jurisdictions. I would be willing to wager that, in some locations which historically have been more authoritarian in nature, if one were to print out every single applicable legal code in force at the given set of coordinates, then there would be enough paper to circle the globe. Maybe twice. Compile the entire list, descending in rank from federal, state, county, municipal and township, one is then confronted with a legal monolith for which there can be no other intent, but to bludgeon their citizens into meek submission. The smug expression that comes with a certain knowledge that, no matter what, we're going to get you, is not worn upon the face of the State; rather, it is worn upon the faces of the people who pass and "enforce" these laws. The State has no face of it's own.

Lest I be accused of hyperbole, I will concede one point. The existence of these multiple, competing and often contradictory legal jeopardies, do not actually entail significant risk of jail time. There is the humane and merciful alternative of fines. Penalties. You know, a strongarm tax. Let's just call it what it is. More laws = mo' money! Why else have such superfluous authority with random, if not selective, enforcement? And every single party to this massive fraud enjoy what is called "qualified immunity". Could you just imagine abuses to occur with a system like that? It does, in fact, virtually assure that it does. This is what they call the Law. The Law is that final, lethal speedball shot of the Dope.

Utter submission to all law, no matter how unjust or absurd. Check

You're all being herded into their cities, to live like rats in cages. Railroaded into an existence designed for perpetual indebtedness and servitude, while they insult you with their perverted acclamations for "Equity". They cry crocodile tears for democracy, yet blatantly thwart it's will whenever it should raise it's ugly head against them. And you, John Q. Citizen? You actually get the privilege of voting for this. Doesn't really matter what you vote for anyway: this is still what you're gonna get, friend.

Did you spend your teens/early twenties living a life calibrated to a GPA and/or semester schedule? Yes? Your Dope journey begins here.

Have you lived your entire adult life calibrated to a credit score? The Dope.

Hold a mortgage? The Dope.

How many car loans/leases? The Dope.

Any other installment loans? Credit card debt? The Dope, and again, the Dope.

Do you know how many dollars in interest you paid last year? You don't, do you? You, my friend, are almost certainly on the Dope.

Have you thrown yourself all in with a political party? Do you still hold faith in the institutions of this society? If yes to either or both of these, you are definitely on the Dope.

Not all are ready, but we extend the invitation to those who may be: Are you ready to get off the Dope? It is surprisingly simple. You don't have to surrender civilization. You just have to separate yourself from this society. Civilization is the hardware. It has physicality. You can build upon it. Society is just the software. It's an operating system. It is an abstraction supporting only what abstractions can support: an illusion. This society has nothing for you to build upon. The lesson of your life is simply this: you're going to have to figure it out for yourself. That, my friends, is your undilutable slang truth for the day.

Overpass Confessions

 

Through watering eyes

the tunnel below

White lights in a streaking blur

Diesel fume's

Sweet perfume

Suddenly not so sure

The convictions brought you to this place

lose their momentum

in the face

of your sobering confrontation

Your mortality awaits

Surrendering all hope

yet still pray the end is painless

Like a fly on the windshield

because you couldn't buy the rope

Biggest twat on the planet

 

Langley: Real Surname, or where you were born?

Hell's Chronicles: The Graham Cracker Endowment

 

It was a typical Saturday night/Sunday morning at Hell, Inc. Central Intake Center. This night of the week, during the northern hemisphere's summer months, was always chaotic. The eve of the sabbath in the Christian world could be reliably counted upon to provide a boon of drug overdoses, fatal gunshots and vehicular accidents. Add to this the many long-running conflicts around the globe, and the on again/off again Iran war, it was a banner day for new admissions.

In Hell, as in the overworld, July often marks the vacation season. Much of the big brass, including Reggie himself, were off from their normal duties. The Devil and his erstwhile chief of staff, Mr. Hemingway, had left to attend the Swift-Kelce nuptials. That was long over; they were now suspected to be on a prolonged rum bender, somewhere in Cuba. This left HR Director Sam Kinison in charge of operations in the front office, and Hell's Undersecretary for Intake Affairs, R. Lee Ermey, as the duty officer for the Intake Center.

There are, in fact, numerous misconceptions about Hell and how it operates. Damnation, while it may seem straightforward enough, is a rather complicated matter. Ironically, there are those who never quite find or achieve their purpose in life, but then somehow manage to shine in their afterlife; to actually find some twisted form of redemption in their damnation. Then, there are those who just really enjoy the work. Gunnery Sergeant R. Lee Ermey was of the latter category.

For readers familiar with Hell's Chronicles, it is known that we often extol the virtues of HR Director Kinison. There is not enough to be said for the improved efficiency and value of services rendered since Director Kinison's historic reforms. Among these are the installation of wall-to-wall big screens throughout Central Intake. Such a thing might seem counter-intuitive to many, until one realizes that this was not done for the purpose of entertainment; rather, as an instrument of torture. This elevated Kinison's innate sadism to a level unattainable in mortal life. We now remind you that this is also the man responsible for hiring Sergeant Ermey.

As one might well imagine, those finding themselves suddenly in the midst of the throngs of Hell's new supplicants can be rather bewildering. Now, try to imagine this in a dark, cavernous hall that goes farther than the eye can see, with big screen televisions lit up on the walls all around. The individual subject must know that they have arrived in Hell, at that moment when realizing that every single television had the volume setting of a late-night infomercial fed through a Bose sound system. If the decibel level failed to stun them, then the content upon the screens would, in nearly all cases, reduce them to blubbering babies in fifteen to thirty minutes. Sometimes less.

Director Kinison had devised a very regimented broadcast schedule. To begin with, they aired re-runs of Mr. Belvidere, around the clock Monday through Thursday. These broadcasts were interrupted at four-minute intervals to air commercials. The same commercials. All day, every day. It was Bob Dole hawking Viagra; William Devane pitching gold coins; Robert Conrad challenging you to knock that battery off his shoulder, and finally, a reminder from the Humane Society to spay and/or neuter your pets.

I know. Utterly diabolical, isn't it? But that's not all, no. For Fridays, Director Kinison mined deep, deep into the darkest depths of his soul for even greater horrors. At 12:01 AM on Friday commenced some of the most gruesome television viewing within any one twenty-four-hour period since..., since the invention of television. It was a marathon of re-runs, in an entirely random order, from a selection of The Phil Donahue Show, The Porter Waggoner Show and The Sally Jesse Raphael Show. These ran at the same four-minute intervals, with four commercials airing in each break. The commercials were presented in a chronological order from a complete, alphabetical library of every auto insurance commercial ever aired, oldest to latest. At the end of the broadcast day, they had completely run through the Allstate library and one quarter of the way through the Farmer's Insurance catalogue. In subsequent broadcast cycles it would take three weeks to exhaust all of the Geico commercials, which incidentally took fifteen percent less time than it would have with a comparably sized library of any competitor.

The piece de resistance came with a weekend-long marathon of The View, sponsored with the same banal parade of pharmaceutical commercials as are aired during the program's normal broadcast. A committee of former ad executives (yes, they do all go to Hell) determined that these commercials are of no more value and are every bit as off-putting in Hell as they are on Earth.

In yet another demonstration of his bold and daring management style, Director Kinison entrusted Sergeant Ermey to, as he put it "have some fun! Get creative!", in his absence. The man has flawless instincts. Ermey accepted this invitation with gusto, starting out with around the clock re-runs of The Chevy Chase Show, regularly peppered with Sid's original Sham-wow infomercial. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, though it could barely be heard over the blaring televisions. 

By Saturday evening Ermey decided it was time to stir it up a bit more. At 7:00 PM everything went dark, the shrieking din of the big screens fell silent. To the crowd filling the great hall this came as a great relief. Being new to the establishment, there were many who had moments of gratitude. Of course, any veteran of Hell knows that such instances are only momentary and are certain to be followed by something even worse.

After a few minutes, all of the screens on the left wall lit up, resuming their deafening volume. It was a live broadcast of Fox News Channel. Some cheered. Most groaned. After a few more minutes, all of the screens on the right wall came to life in a similar fashion. These screens displayed a live broadcast of CNN. Some cheered. Most groaned. The Sergeant was pleased.

It was shaping up to be just another Saturday night at the Central Intake of Hell, Inc. Sergeant Ermey found a seat available in the Intake's comms booth, with an empty desk where he could (and did) put up his boots. This was the time for a well-deserved cigar, one of those fat Honduran things. Ermey relaxed there for some time, puffing away and building a considerable cloud within the booth. It was feeling a lot like the good old days in the barracks. After having spent a few years in Hell, Ermey was finding the experience rather like being in the US military, just with better food and a more clearly defined mission statement.

Shortly after midnight there was a shift change at the booth, one nameless, faceless schlub to replace another. Ermey paid them little mind, instead focusing on the monitors on the board...

"... this is a Fox News Alert: South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham has died suddenly, following a brief illness. This is a breaking story...."

and then, a short time later from Iranian State Television...

"...I congratulate the Iranian people on the death of US Senator Lindsey Graham, who has been sent to hell."

"Well ho-lee shit! Looky there! We got us a Nancyboy! How'd those camel jockeys get a scoop like that? Get Director Kinison on the horn, Sparky!"

The tech was startled by this outburst at first, but quickly recovered to execute Ermey's order. While he was dialing, Ermey reached over the panel to switch on the intercom. The Sergeant clutched the microphone from it's stand, fumbling for a moment. The tech adeptly turned with his free hand to engage the microphone switch. Ermey gave a curt nod in thanks, then leaned into it.

"ATTENTION! This is Gunnery Sergeant R. Lee Ermey, acting director of this here shit show. All of you maggots can shut your mother-humpin' pieholes, effective immediately! It has been brought to my attention that within the last hour, a very special new admission has passed through our gates. It is my solemn duty to ensure that this individual is accorded the protocols befitting a closet queen war pig. Security detail will sweep until this individual is found and brought to me at the Intake comms station. Subject: Graham, Lindsey, US Senator, South Carolina, aged 71. Probably find him on his knees in the Ukraine line. That is all!" 

Ermey snapped the mic smartly back into it's cradle, then looked to the tech. Reading the query in the Sergeant's eyes, the tech held his hand over the mouthpiece and reported, "Still holding for Director Kinison, Sir." Then after a moment the tech thought to add, "That was good, sir."

"It was, wasn't it? Damned if I don't impress myself sometimes!" 

Ermey plugged the stump of his cigar back into one corner of his mouth and began a slow, deliberative pacing back and forth. His thick, bushy brows were knitted in concentration. Clearly there was something further on his mind. He wasn't given a long time to ponder whatever it was.

"I have Director Kinison, sir."

Ermey took the phone from the tech. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Sarge. Everything okay there? Sorry to keep you waiting. I just got off the weirdest call..."

"Yes, Sam. We're fine here. I am sorry to disturb you, but I just discovered something I thought you should be aware of..." 

"Ree-ee-eal-ly...heh heh. Do tell!"

"Lindsey Graham died and Iranian television got the scoop on him being sent here!"

"Graham...Graham... is that the graham cracker heiress?"

"No Sam. Lindsey Graham, US Senator? From South Carolina...that's not what's important here. What about the Iranians?"

"Oh, that? Of course they got the scoop! They're leasing studio space from us. I thought everyone knew that!"

" The Iranians, Sam?"

"Yeah, it's one of the Big Guy's deals. He offered the same to Fox and CNN. Whole thing got nixed because he refused to validate parking, can you believe it?"

"Oh! Well, the boss already knows about it, so... I am sorry to have bothered you, Sam."

" s'alright, Sarge. Lindsey Graham... that's one of Cheney's butt buddies, isn't it?"

"Why, I believe he is, sir!"

"Right...right. When you have him, send up my way, would you?"

"Certainly!"

"Yeah...they can be bunk mates and work mates..."

"Now see! That... that right there. That's why YOU are the Director, Sam. What will they be doing?"

"What?"

"What's their work assignment?"

"I've got them giving rim jobs over in the Hindu section. Hope he likes curry."

 It's not that I have hardened my heart.  It's that I have refused to dull my mind.

Meet Officer Waddac Hunt of the Fort Worth PD

 

We don't know what her name is. Yet. When it is revealed, I will do everything I can to make sure everyone in America does know it. Why? Well, for the simple fact that she is a covert SJW masquerading as "the law", who has no business with a badge, a sidearm, or any place in civil society.

At a "pride" event on June 27 the following occurred, according to this report:

“Street preachers Richard Penkoski and David Grisham were subjected to multiple violations of their First Amendment rights while attempting to preach on public property.

Upon arrival, they were immediately met by Fort Worth police officers who blocked their access to the public street and sidewalk, threatening both men with arrest for trespassing if they entered the area. When Grisham reminded officers that he had previously sued the City of Fort Worth in 2014 over this exact issue – a lawsuit that resulted in a settlement and an official apology from the city – the officer dismissed the prior case, stating, “I don’t care, you can file whatever lawsuit you want.”

After being forced outside the barricades, the confrontation escalated as multiple officers allegedly threatened to cite the men based on the subjective reactions of attendees. A female officer stated they would be cited if they said anything “offensive.” When Penkoski responded that offensive speech is protected under the Constitution and is not a crime, the officer claimed it fell under disorderly conduct, stating, “Well, yes, that is the conduct.”

This wasn't in the UK, where one might expect to see this sort of abuse. This was in deep red Texas. It seems that officer Hunt is doing a little freelancing, though to be fair she was not alone. She was joined by other "officers" who made similar threats. I don't know about those other stooges, but there is this:

https://youtu.be/R7pgKf1S61s

This is from the Trinity Pride Event in 2025. Same officer? Maybe? I guess we can't say for sure. Some facial recognition software could probably settle the question, but absent that we will let you be the judge.

The City of Fort Worth PD was cautious in their official response; however, they did make it a point to say that "...the officer’s statements were “not accurate,” ordered First Amendment refresher training for officers, and confirmed that public sidewalks remain open for speech." Call me a cynic, but I find little comfort in their assurances.

Huh. First Amendment refresher training. Are they sure it's a refresher? Wouldn't it be prudent to do some screening of the officers before they are hired? You know, maybe make certain that they actually have a basic understanding of the Constitution? Before giving them deadly weapons and the authority to bully citizens on behalf of the state? Between the two videos taken from both events, there appears to be an awful lot of making up the rules as they go along. This is a privilege accorded to those wearing the badge but is never to be permitted for the mere mortal citizen.

Another privilege accorded to these thugs is the ever elastic "disorderly conduct" statute. Whenever they have been bested by a citizen who knows the law better than they do, there is always the sweeping and deliberately ambiguous disorderly conduct. It's a catch all for when they can't find any other charge to issue. Disorderly conduct is the final refuge of dirty cops who think it's okay to make up the rules on the fly. It happens everywhere, in part because it is permitted and, in some instances, encouraged.

The good citizens of Fort Worth are apparently laboring under the misconception that their local PD is striving to assure the safety of ALL, as is their charge. It would appear that this, in fact, is NOT true. It appears that there is, at the very least, a contingent of "officers" who consider it their duty to extend an extra-constitutional layer of protection for an LGBTQ community that might be offended by something said. Where is that on the lawbooks again? 

Though it is contrary to my nature, I am obliged to extend the benefit of the doubt to the Fort Worth PD. The ball is in their court. They have the chance to demonstrate whether or not they are one of those jurisdictions where this type of abuse is permitted. Or encouraged.  It's not like this sort of thing is unprecedented in Fort Worth. There was a time when a black man could commit a crime in Fort Worth, and have the full force of the courts pressed upon him for the offense, while a white man committing the same crime could skate. Especially if that white man was wealthy or well connected, but mostly just for being white. That was the regime of "Jim Crow". Of course, they did away with that sort of thing decades ago. Right?

The right thing to do here would be to fire this "officer" and bar her from ever serving in any department ever again. A "first amendment refresher" is tantamount to ordering a remedial driving course to an Indy 500 driver. It would be a reasonable expectation that an Indy 500 driver already knows how to drive. Just like it is a reasonable expectation that our police officers have an understanding of the Constitution and what it says.

Gag on a flag

 

Don't know if you've heard, but there is an anniversary of some consequence coming up. This coming Saturday marks the two-hundred-fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. It is marked as the birthday for the nation, though if we're being entirely accurate, it is actually the anniversary of conception. It is likely impossible to forge any agreement on this, in a nation where there is already such antipathy surrounding any discussion which weighs the question of conception vs. birth. Thus, we shall simply stipulate to the birth side of the argument. Happy Birthday (?), America!

The last time there was this much hyperbole attached to the 4th celebration, was fifty years ago, then the occasion of the bicentennial. Some of you may still have some of the commemorative glasses or mugs that were commissioned for the occasion. If one examines their change with any regularity, it will be seen that there are yet a fair number of the bicentennial quarters in circulation. That summer was an orgy of red, white and blue. As a nation still sorting out Watergate and it's repercussions, it might easily have been an ambivalent celebration. It came at a time when the wounds of the Vietnam War were not yet fully healed, and in the shadow of the humiliating fall of Saigon only a year before. The occasion was not without some tarnish, but as a nation we remained naïve enough to indulge in some patriotic fervor.  

I can still recall this in great detail. I was a gawky and impressionable young lad of almost fourteen, that summer between eighth grade and freshman year. Still a boy, discovering a man's appetites. As a child I had been raised on GI Joe and The Ballad of the Green Berets. Between Walter Cronkite's nightly broadcast of the war scores and local television late night theater of the day, I had been fed a steady diet of war. Is it any wonder then, that I developed an appetite for it? A veritable library of war stories, military histories and other tales of courage lined the bookshelves of my room. Other shelves were filled with models, completed in painstaking detail, of fighter planes, bombers, battleships and aircraft carriers.

I was from an age we now know as Generation Jones. I'm not sure I like the moniker, but appreciate the phenomenon at least being acknowledged. We are the children of another "Silent Generation"; the last generation of Americans to remain convinced of the myth that we, these United States of America, were the bastion of freedom and the world's arsenal against tyranny. In that world, if you did not believe these things then you were not a patriot. In that world the lessons of the Vietnam War still had not been fully absorbed. It was still alright to indulge the soldier fantasies of your adolescent sons. Especially since we still lived under the threat of the Reds.

I had begun reading Ernie Pyle's Brave Men at the start of the summer break. In one of the chapters chronicling the Italian campaign, there was a very detailed account of how soldiers had built a dugout, complete with timber shoring. Not a mere foxhole, but a full-sized dugout that the average man could stand in without stooping. I read this convinced, "Hell! I could build that!" Out the back door of our house there was a short yard within a fence. Beyond the fence was brush and a hill that dropped into a gulley, running all the way down to the creek below. I found a spot I considered perfect. Far enough down the hill so as not to present any profile, and with a full, unobstructed field of fire down the hill. Also, a view of the span across the creek. From my very limited study of the subject, I was convinced that this was an excellent defensive position. With a solid dugout and some sandbags, I'd be damn near invincible. At least that's what all of those war movies seemed to indicate. 

I would imagine that most in this audience are well acquainted with the diligence and follow through of your typical thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy. This is a quality that is timeless and will apply equally in any era. So it was, that for a period of about two weeks, armed with shovel, pick and spud bar, I toiled under a warm June sun. After two days I learned the value of work gloves. After a week I had a hole about four feet square and nearly as deep. I had battled off deerflies and ticks; I was blistered, battered, but not yet beaten. For part of the second week, I enlisted the help of a couple other boys from up the ridge. I then learned that two extra bodies and shovels trying to operate in that space was not actually that much help. It did reduce a lot of the physical strain. At the end of two weeks my "dugout" was a six-foot-deep hole carved out of a hillside. That is as far as it ever got. And, as it turned out, that was good enough for the purpose of having a cool place to smoke undetected. And storing cigarettes. And skin mags. Come on! You were fourteen once!

Alright, now comes the weird part. Is it already weird? I don't know, I lived it, so who am I to say? The completion of this magnificent work occurred about a week before the 4th. The time spent digging it, the inspiration for it and the time spent in that hole, are all more memorable to me than the actual day of the bicentennial. The fourth of July 1976, the occasion of our nation's bicentennial, I spent out in my foxhole with a pack of Salems, a transistor radio, and the unsettling conviction that the Soviets, detecting our defenses compromised due to our celebrations, were going to launch a massive first-strike. I was a weird kid. And this was before drugs!

I find myself looking back at that time and seizing upon that one aspect. That maddening paranoia induced by the Cold War. My lonely foxhole vigil fifty years ago seems comical now, but however extreme, however irrational, that fear was a real thing. Thankfully, I outgrew this. The world can be grateful for 1970s girls and shitty, brown dirtweed for showing me the error of my ways. We should all shudder to think at what might have happened, if that martial mania had continued along with the subsequent amphetamine and hallucinogen abuse. That was a time when it was widely considered that the Soviet Union was the direst threat that we faced as a people.

So, what about today? What has changed in fifty years? Well, the names have changed. There are different players on the board. I have to say that I believe the only thing that has really changed is the perception. Today there are a growing number of Americans who believe that the greatest threat that we face as a people, comes from within. From our own government. It may actually be a majority of Americans by now. I will assert that the exact same case was true fifty years ago. It's just that fifty years ago, there was only a minute fringe who believed it. Today, this passes for common knowledge. 

I feel like we need to have the same conversation around the 4th, as we often need to have about Christmas: do you actually know what you are celebrating? Just as Christmas means more than just presents and fancy feasts, the 4th should mean more than fireworks, a long weekend and grilling in the back yard. The death of any republic is an ill-informed populace. At the very least, Americans should be informed that July 4 marks a declaration, a beginning of a new idea, a conception which was ultimately borne into a Republic.

July 4 announced to the world that we would manage our own affairs, no longer a collection of vassal states bound to a British Empire. This Declaration of Independence is the founding document of a nation, stating that we would govern ourselves. What this document was missing was the how; what form of government was to take shape? What kind of country would we be? It would require a five-year war and another eight years of wrangling before we arrived at, what Franklin aptly opined, "a Republic. If you can keep it." It seems now that, two-hundred-fifty years later, we are still trying to sort this out. 

There is one ubiquitous symbol for the holiday: the American flag. Whether flown, waved or affixed to soda cans, it is everywhere. This flag is meant to be the label; the symbol of a sovereign people united in an ideal. Fifty years ago, it could be said that the vast majority of Americans at least had some sense of what this ideal was. The ideal had already been perverted; we just didn't know it yet. Whether we had it right or wrong, there was a general consensus of what this flag symbolized. I, for one, no longer believe this consensus exists. I could, of course, be wrong. But I don't think I am.

Today there are growing numbers who seem to believe that this symbol alone does not speak to their understanding of America. It is not enough for the red, white and blue to be hoisted up the flagpole. To their thinking, this flag is not inclusive enough. To their thinking, this flag must cohabit the flagpole with a pride flag. And a Palestinian flag. Hell, in some cases even a fucking Somali flag. I wouldn't use a Somali flag to wipe my ass. You'll catch dysentary doing that!

Flags are everywhere. Everyone has their own banner now, part of the virtue signaler's accessory package. Like laws and currency, their numbers inflated to a degree that whatever value they may have once had, that value has been greatly diminished. For most, any expression of patriotism is limited to one week a year, around the 4th, when they display and wave that flag. They don't know what it means, can't even define what a Republic is. But hey! I'm waving the flag, see! That makes me a patriot. No, it does not. Not all are huntsmen, who can blow the huntsman's horn.

It is difficult to change people. It can't always be done, and when it is successful it requires a great deal of time and effort. Most sensible people consider that there is too little reward for that much effort. Most sensible people are right. Something we could do, in less time and very little effort, is change the flag. If mayors can arbitrarily declare which flags are to be displayed over city hall, then I see no reason why this should be difficult. Let's change that flag so it is an accurate depiction of the thing it is meant to symbolize. I propose a field of white (a symbol of innocence). In the center of the field there shall be a lone sheep, being spit-roasted by a red elephant on one end and a blue donkey at the other. I figure the donkey is best suited for the ass end, but that could go either way. In either case, the imagery would still be more accurate.

So, enjoy your long weekend. I hope you all have a great time. Gorge yourself on char-grilled burgers, wieners and brats. Eat up all the baked beans, potato salad and slaw you can cram onto the Chinette plate. Swill down all the Pepsi, sweet tea or adult beverages that your bladder will permit. Hell, have a giant pig roast, if that is your want. Just be sure to save enough room to choke down a generous portion of the flag. Suck it down hard to be sure you get it all. In subsequent days, if you start dropping star-spangled turds, then you'll know that you are cured.