Let us not apply our diseased and unfortunate logic to their fallacies, their circular arguments and their ad hominem, because these are only airs, acts that are put on for the benefit and hope of our understanding.

the sad and undeserving apology of a liberal

(Discovered in the half-burned journal of a forgotten and undeniably tiny man whose name Time has already forgotten, and reprinted here only for the faint glimmer of Wisdom which unfortunate Liberals might take for their own)

… but would that we could tear the scabs from our blind eyes and see that we are among unrecognized great men, who struggle at great cost to their civilized composure and eloquence so to enlighten our enfeebled minds with the great concepts of governing men, of a well-managed pocketbook and the methods and machinations of conflict, would that we could so easily communicate that we – we do not choose this lot in life, but are instead — and indeed — stricken by a disease whose cure can only be achieved by the total abolishment of its vectors from these lands, a disease that cripples our minds by tearing open our hearts; a disease that leaves us unable to adequately comprehend the most simple of fiscal and political concepts, that renders us incapable of understanding what is presented to us by these great men unless they handicap themselves to the most coarse and roughest of speech, hobble themselves to a crude manner of cursing, that sharp turn of the vindictive tongue that recriminates us for our own silliness and stupidity, in the language of the dirty men, the poor and filled with stench, so that we might know the truth of our unprocessed hopes: they are hopelessly infantile, dreams filled with fantasies, mermen and unicorns.

Would that we could recognize the trouble under which they toil, burdened by such dim men as ourselves, but as we are wholly without sense of our own, we clamor instead for a moment with a man who entices our most basic urges, who stirs our fickle and unlearned hearts with the words only a charlatan, a huckster, the most evil of snake oil salesmen could dare utter to stir the stricken: hope, dream, change, and the most detestable of words, those arrangements of letters that so powerfully reinfect us that our deplorable illness, our depraved and sullen sickness, is only redoubled: words that I should dare not speak except to warn those poor, poor spirits like myself who have no hope of redemption or reclamation in this world – words such as we & us.

We dare to hope, instead, for salvation; we cling to our dreams of progress, we sad extremists who tear our world asunder looking for a future that will not, and can never, be. That, dear friends, is the stuff of which we were born. We were not self-made, nor did we choose the curse of compassion that inflicts us with the terminal illness that our greater men call being ‘liberal,’ – that cancer that spreads socialist death and destruction everywhere – and indeed it is our own hubris to think that our superior brethren could deign to address us with any semblance of what we consider intelligent or considered discourse is possible, for we – mentally stunted and inferior animals – can no more recognize or comprehend the methods and ways by which we must be governed than we can utter anything of great value, anything more than platitudes, mere chatter and empty promises.

And the leaders we choose! No more than straw men, with heads full of air and hands that do the devil’s work – to spend, to spend, to steal from our superiors and provide us with enough bread and circuses to keep our baser urges at bay, to mollify our inconsolably simple minds and distract us from the real work at hand. How dare we affront our superior men with such insolence!

That is what we, the lower men, do, because we are ruled by our hearts and not our minds, and cannot conceive of the grand yoke to which this Animal must be tied, and tied well. So let us not labor against the harsh words and plain speech of our better brothers, even though we are so simple-minded – less than mere children in the greatness of their presence, understanding and intellect, that we do not even catch a glimpse of meaning within their angry and bilious speech.

Let us not design to speak our flawed and mistaken truth to their endlessly repeated slogans. Let us not apply our diseased and unfortunate logic to their fallacies, their circular arguments and their ad hominem, because these are only airs, acts that are put on for the benefit and hope of our understanding.

Let us instead accept our lot, acknowledge the lesions that cloud our minds, the disease that prevents us from being grateful, instead, for the difficulties they must endure in their excruciatingly painful attempts to bend their awesome and unmatched intellect to our level — Gods reaching down and scooping ants out of the mud, Gods reducing their beautiful and unrestricted song into a series of screeches and barbaric yawps such that we might understand.

For this is what we inflict on our better men, such pain and suffering even as they so kindly attempt to enlighten us on the error of our ill-designed and diseased ways – And we, wretched ones, how dare we even call ourselves men and not beasts of burden – for we do not even understand the shrill and rancorous cries that tear and bloody the throats of these good-natured and well-meaning men.

Therefore let us be only silent, and submissive, and let these stronger men take on the burden of governing this animal, and let us instead labor on ridding ourselves of the symptoms of our great malady. Let us forget to dream. Let us turn, instead, against one another and learn the truth of this world – to kill or be killed. Let us not struggle against the great way of things – the strong survive, and the strong rule. The weak exist to die or to serve the stronger, who have so skillfully proven the rectitude of their ways. Should any stumble, fall or perish, then that shall be their lot, and we should never seek to reach out a hand to another unless it serves our own needs, because by this means the weak are weakened further: man survives on his own, or not at all.

Perhaps then, we might bravely call ourselves ‘cured’ of our ways, but that would never and could not be true. At least we would be good servants of great men, remembering our station and lot in life and not engendering such pain and difficulty in the lives of our betters because we succumbed to our sickness and remembered to care. And then the best men, they could live in their simple peace and silence, govern without our unwise and wearisome interference, and the natural order of Men and God be restored.


Mila (Jacob Stetser)

Mila is a writer, photographer, poet & technologist.

He shares here his thoughts on Buddhism, living compassionately, social media, building community,
& anything else that interests him.

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