Rebalancing the Scales

If you believe in a creator, why seek to negate or prohibit the free operation of creation?

Should the creator at some later time, speak to man regarding his creation. It makes no logical sense for him to ask man to override the previous rules of his creation.

If this voice is truly the creator. Then the possessor of this voice has become evil and debilitated. Why wouldn’t the creator just alter his creation to his liking.

Any voice in your head asking you to go against what is already created, is not a being with the ability to create. This voice is clearly an enemy of creation, a force of evil and not a force of creation, regardless of the identity of the voice.

do you FULLY accept the market as your personal lord and savior. Do you TRULY pledge not to NEVER interfere and impose your beliefs on others using force of any kind?

Or are there exceptions in your mind. What if the market in question are roads dominated by inconsiderate fucks with no courtesy or regard for their fellow drivers whatsoever. What if the ditches are filled with people hawking their wares to those traveling by, with no regard to the adjoining property owners preferences.

What if the market includes loud partying neighbors, who won’t listen to your pleas for quiet. What if you can’t afford the price the market demands in order to solve your noise problem. And you’re forced to endure something and you find yourself powerless. Will you really acquiesce to the market, and seek intelligent solutions without resorting to force. Or will you reach a breaking point and chimp out sooner or later against the market?

What if the market in question is the internet, filled with diabolical spammers who inconvience millions for every dollar they make? Is there a point where a market becomes so dysfunctional that you do advocate intrusion by forces of order?

What about billboards everywhere ruining your enjoyment of nature. What about broadcasts that wash over your property without your permission. What about nonstop assaults on your time by salemen. What if your real life becomes a living version of spam. Where nearly everyone you meet is trying to sell you something. What if social order as you know it goes away, and everyone is a relentless huckster with no off switch?

What about retail districts where crimes occur, and the merchants there decide it isn’t worth their effort to stop them. What about industrial neighborhoods where rapes and murders occur in the adjacent lands. And the industrialists figure it isn’t their problem. What about door to door salesman that come by your place while your at work. And try to lure your children into bad things. Who proposition your wife. Men who say they’re better than you, and that your family should leave you.

Do you really accept the market, regardless of how bad it sometimes get. Do you commit to only improving the market, or accepting things the way their are. Will you truly adhere to the NAP in all cases. Or will you find yourself tempted to intervene, just this one time. Just in this one egregrious case where the market has become evil and unfair. Where the market is harming some to the benefit of others. Do you really even understand what a market is?

It’s easy to see the evil of theonomists. They advocate destruction of spontaneous order on the imagined orders of their Sky Savior. But do you see your own evil. Do you see the error of your ways when you advocate the destruction of spontaneous order for your imaginings of what is moral and what is fair. Are you so blind, and cognitively dissonant. That you think you can have the prosperity that comes from a market. And also have the comfort and tranquility that comes from some class of people having a mechanism to negate the market for whatever reasons they find sufficient.

Repent from your failings. Commit only to the mechanism of the market and to no other. Accept no authorities or systems of coercions. Accept only the spontaneous order of the market. And expect only your own opportunity to right the market, whenever you find it inadequate or lacking in some way. Refrain from destruction of the market in all cases. Not just in the cases that you find the market tolerable and acceptable. But rather refrain from each and every destruction of the market, in any and all cases.

The day the Terrorists who hate our Empire of Freedom attacked our Death Star.

How much do I love the Market and The Agora? I wouldn’t oppose an individual opening his own Soylent Green Factory right next door. That’s my “insane” level of commitment.

Every day there’d be trucks full of dead pets, departed family members, batches of aborted babies from clinics, murdered prisoners from local prisons and jails, murdered undocumented aliens rounded up by the Federales. Capitalism and industrialism at its most brutal and basic.

I wouldn’t opposed cans of Soylent Green being sold right there in my supermarket. $0.79 a can. An all white label with large green block letters. Soylent Green – A proud product of the Zappos Food Corporation. 70% human, 10% dog, 10% cat, 10% assorted other rendered animal flesh.

If someone wants to buy it and eat it. Good for them. If my neighbor accepts $50 cash for signing a contract with Soylent Green to make the final arrangements for his grandmother when she passes away, good for him. It’s none of my business. I’m for allowing a real market, with all peaceful possibilities. Includes some that seem good, and others that seem bad. Sometimes very very bad.

Not to worry though. That kind of Laissez faire and market thought is dead here. People just acquire and hold. They are utterly clueless about making profit from their property. They have only assets and the liability of keeping everyone else at bay.

Everything is either or. Almost every American is either a helot, with no significant property. Or a vassal, who owns significant wealth, but only in the way a vassal holds an assigned limited ownership.
Not in the way a freeman with a functioning mind might own property, and see how he could use it to his advantage and profit, given some forethought.

Any American who tries to use his property beyond this vassal role, to build his own factory, or means of production, even to use his own dependents to his own advantage, will quickly find the helots and vassals ganging up against him. And self-righteously robbing him and giving his improperly used property back to the state, for reassignment. The nerve of some men, thinking they aren’t mere vassals of the Lord of the Sky or the Lord of the Common Morality.

And this is why vassals are so absolute about no one being allowed on their lands for any reason. Being vassals, and not freemen, they are incapable of conceiving of using other men for their advantage in a cooperative sense. Give me $50 and you got 4 hours of all you can hunt. Give me $100, and you can sleep and work in my woods for a month.

Vassals are only able to officially hire people through the state system of homage and fealty. Only able to buy things through the state system of buyers and sellers. Otherwise, they jealously patrol their holdings and make sure no one steps foot on them without their express authorization. Their free market IQ is about 50, at best.

It is only the American criminal class, and the marginalized classes that still practice some free trade and participate in true exchange and agora. Vassals and men of respect and status are all either lone wolves, or they band with their neighbors in a kind of feeble fiefdom.

You might see a vassal’s produce stand out in the country that is one of these kinds of fiefdoms. Because the vassals can only agree on their rights to sell limited, low margin commodities that no one could be offended by. These roadside stands are tolerated because they are only cosmetic and will not result in anyone become truly wealthy and rising above his vassal status.

If only the vassals were true freemen, then everything under the sun would be held for sale at these roadside stand. Some of the vassals kids would be there. Slaves for a week, would read the sign. Do with them whatever you non-violently will. $1000 for the ugly ones. $5000 for the cute ones. Even cans of Soylent Green, were they to exist. Vassals would never stand for this of course.

Vassals are all either Christian monotheists. Or atheist monotheists. Atheist monotheists don’t belief in any intangible beings. But they do still believe in a one size fits all monotheistic form of self-governing. They are no less oppressive than the Christians. In their cynical form of live and let live, it is only allowed that you live in a way that doesn’t offend any of your fellow vassals. Which is to say, very little to no freedom at all.

It’s easy to proclaim oneself a free spirit. Because you know all the other vassals in your fiefdom have your back. They won’t let anything new or different come about. Vassals love the status quo. And love harkening back to how great things used to be. Ignorant that it is their very own prohibitionist, anti-capitalist mindset that has made things so very bleak. The helots have always been opportunistic louts. They haven’t changed. Its the vassals who’ve lost all intellectual ability to buy and sell things. To offer whatever services they can provide to any and all market buyers at whatever it will bear.

Vassals never want to start at the beginning. They want to sell things from the beginning at a profit, unwilling to do the work and sacrifice that it takes to define and then defend a market of your very own creation.
– – – – –
Of course the Bible was plagiarized by the Jews and then culturally stolen wholesale by Paul and the Christians, and then again by Mohammed and the Muslims.

Buddha‘s mother was told by an angel that she’d give birth to a holy child destined to be a savior. As a child he teaches the priests in his temple about religion while his parents look for him. He starts his religious career at roughly 30 years of age and is said to have spoken to 12 disciples on his deathbed. One of the disciples is his favorite, and another is a traitor.

He and his disciples abstain from wealth and travel around speaking in parables and metaphors. He called himself “the son of man” and was referred to as, “prophet”, “master”, and “Lord”. He healed the sick, cured the blind and deaf, and he walked on water. One of his disciples tried to walk on water as well but sunk because his faith wasn’t strong enough.
– – – – –

Transitions; Morals; Alliances and Dissolutions – A Conversation with Paul Craig Roberts
“This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers. There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in the fire.” – Carl Sandburg

So Eric, you want to know what the difference is between a sin and a crime?
Anything God, in His recorded word, says is wrong is a sin. As creator, and thereby owner, of the universe, He gets to make the rules. And He is quite capable of protecting His word.
For example, in Exodus chapter 20 He sets out 10 principles. The next 3 chapters are examples of how those principles are to be applied, what is known as case law. (there are many other examples in the Torah, but this is the largest single compilation)
Some of these sins have punishments attached to them, execution, restitution, stripes, etc. These designate crimes, as the civil government is expected to deal with them. If it is not a sin, it is not a crime. However, not every sin is a crime. If there is no punishment linked to the sin, then God has reserved punishment for Himself. E.g., failure to lend to your poor brother.
Another way to say this would be, if it is not immoral, it should not be illegal, but not everything that is immoral should be illegal.
Now as for the question of ‘victimless crimes,’ if God has said it is wrong, then He is the victim of violating that standard . But again, remember the difference between a sin and a crime.
You may say that if I believe that, I am not a libertarian. Well, I never claimed to be. As I understand it, the basis of libertarian claims to individual rights is self-ownership. Well I do not own myself. God, the Creator, owns me. I do, however, find much in common with libertarians such as you and many of the others on this blog, and I enjoy interacting with you. (Some of you even enjoy some of my humor.)
Can I prove that I am right? No, but neither can you prove that I am wrong. At the end of time we will find that out. I am not here to try to convince you, just offer my point of view.

I think most here understand the wisdom of driving at a speed we have the skill to drive at. And of using safety devices we freely choose to is what’s best for all.

And most of us find it ludicrous when Clover says some special State Priests must decree what is the holy speed. And what is the holy safety device. And all who transgress against these state Priests will face the full wrath and vengeance of the State. So it is written in the National Scripture. So it is done.

I am far less sure that most here understand the wisdom of voluntarily choosing a mate who conducts herself in a manner I as an individual man have the skill to deal with. And of her and I choosing together to attend an Evangelical Lutheran church as a kind philosophical touchstone institution. A place with behavior recommendations we are both free to follow or ignore, whatever we each feel is best for among ourselves. No one else need be involved.

And most of us find it ludicrous when some God-Clover says only special State Priests can decree that woman be joined to us in the holy sacrament of marriage. And that this ordained union means we are stuck with the person till death do us part.

That carefully choosing our mates is good. And using birth control and planning for children is good. Just because some Man says it is. And some other conduct is bad. That getting drunk and having sex with all manner of people, many of whom you might not even remember being with afterwards is bad. Again just because some Man says it is.

It is Cloveritic, unless you can point to convincing evidence, to pretend that a woman who doesn’t know who the father of her child is bad. And that the woman who controls herself and her man. And knows who the father of her child is. And where her man is at all times. Is good.

It is obvious to you, the vast spectrum of what is right on the road. Yet it is obscurred to you, the vast spectrum of what is right in the bedroom and in the public agora. Some men sleep around and don’t cause any problems. Just as some speed and don’t wear seatbelts and cause problems. Don’t be so easily convinced to be a “Sex Clover” by those who argue from intimidation and historical custom.

God-Clovers say we must go to the Robed State Priest and get his special permission and authorization for altering our relationship. That having sex with more than one woman is violating the clearly posted sexual partner limit. That not wearing a condom, is like not wearing a seatbelt. And that all who transgress against the Family Court Priests will face the full wrath and vengeance of the State. So it is written in the National Scripture. Which is put in place by God. And so it is done.

It is not proven that a man who gets 20 different women pregnant and then has nothing more to do with them is of lesser value than the man who is celibate. Or is in a relation with a female according to New Testament Protocol.

Nor that the fat man who eats 5000 calories a day and sits on a couch, is of lesser value than the man who has 10% body fat and works out and jogs 5 miles every other day.

There are tendencies, and likelihoods. But underlying your disapproval of the promiscuous and the gluttonous, it is likely far less solid objective footing than what underlies your understanding of gravity or acceleration of force in a straight line.

Leaving the realm of the Clover is far more than merely recognizing the most obvious flaws of Cloveric reasoning. It’s also of looking deep into everything you think you know, and coming to valid conclusions and self-knowledge. How much of what I know is real. And how much of it is mystical superstitions that I really can’t logically support, if required to do so?

Your belief that holding a job and earning an income is a good, is not to be assumed without challenge. What about the taxes you end up paying. What about the good supporting the evil. what if people on welfare are less damaging than the productive people who submit to the commands of the state and provide the Ruling Class the tax resources they need to oppress us all?

What if the real freedom heroes are the ones that non-violently break the laws to thrive as rebels and not give material support to these bloodthirsty authoritarians? What if legally owning substantial real estate, homes, vehicles, and domestic goods is in fact a grave evil.

Because the only way you get those things is to simultaneously support the Vampire State. To be the true Welfare Queens. The minority with significant wealth who need the Armed Goons to keep all their shit out of the vast hordes of babbling grinning predatory morons.

I’m not an anarchist who condones harming those with wealth. Even if they knowingly support the state. I am an anarchist who asks the wealthy and productive class to not impose their preferred order on those less productive and disciplined. Less able and less skilled. Less moral and less rational.

I don’t want any forced redistribution from the well off to the poor. But I also don’t want any forced participation in a productive society, one that relies on forcefully civilizing and controlling our natural impulses for reason of profit and wealth creation.

– – – – – – –
Teachings of John Calvin on Marriage and Family [Teachings is Cloverese for Shit John Calvin demands goes down, or else heads will roll and violators will suffer]

Calvin made marriage and divorce, children’s welfare, and sexual sin matters of both church and state, and many of the reforms that he and others initiated – new rights and duties for wives in the bedroom, fault-based divorce on grounds of adultery and desertion, protection for impoverished widows, and more have made their way into civil and common law traditions on both sides of the Atlantic.

Like Luther, Calvin held a high view of marriage, seeing it as “a good and holy ordinance from God.” It was not, however, a sacrament any more than farming, building, or barbering, which were also ordinances, “for it is required that a sacrament be not only a work of God but an outward ceremony appointed by God to confirm a promise. Even children can discern that there is no such thing in marriage.” He scorned the Roman Catholic basis for sacramentalizing marriage by translating “mystery” as “sacrament,” concluding that Catholics were either deceived by the meaning of the Latin word or else ignorant of the Greek language.

At the same time, he insisted that marriage was instituted by God as a perpetual law in force until the end of the world. Any rupture of that law has its origin in the depravity of humanity.

For believers, marriage is an indissoluble bond, and spouses connected by marriage no longer have the freedom to change their mind and go off elsewhere. If they find it impossible to live with each other, they are bound nonetheless and may not take a new spouse. On the other hand, if an unbeliever wishes to divorce a spouse on account of religion, the believer is no longer under marital obligation. In such a case, “the unbelieving party makes a divorce with God rather than with her partner.”

Like Luther, Calvin saw adultery as the one cause for divorce in Jesus’ teachings. As far as he was concerned, the Old Testament penalty for adultery should be enforced, making divorce unnecessary, but “the wicked forbearance of magistrates makes it necessary for husbands to put away unchaste wives, because adulterers are not punished.” Divorce under such circumstances gives the innocent party freedom to remarry, for Jesus’ condemnation of remarriage as adultery applied undoubtedly only to “unlawful and frivolous divorces.”

Although Calvin was very conservative in his theological view of divorce, like Luther his practice was more liberal. His “Ecclesiastical Ordinances,” adopted by the Little and Large Councils of 1561, allowed three grounds for divorce and remarriage other than adultery: impotence, extreme religious incompatibility, and abandonment.
http://www.theologicalstudies.org.uk/article_divorce_snuth.html

John Calvin Marriage and Family Life

John Calvin sought marriage to affirm his approval of marriage over celibacy. Like Luther he disapproved both of celibate priests and of the institution of monasticism. He asked friends to help him find a woman who was “modest, obliging, not haughty, not extravagant, patient, and solicitous for my health.”

His marriage. In 1539, he married Idelette de Bure, a widow of a converted Anabaptist in Strasbourg. Idelette had a son and daughter from the previous marriage. Calvin had a family life. Only the daughter moved with her to Geneva. In 1542, the Calvins had a son who died after only two weeks. Idelette Calvin died in 1549. Calvin wrote that she was a helper in ministry, never stood in his way, never troubled him about her children, and had a greatness of spirit. They appear to have enjoyed a warm relationship and a happy marriage. He grieved her death, revealing a depth of emotion that many depictions of him fail to notice.

He wrote to Farel that he was all but overwhelmed with grief. He chided Catholic priests for pretending to be celibate while providing “for themselves while they can” and he described Rome as “a fetid and abominable brothel”. However, such sexual misdemeanors were actually excusable, since celibacy was contrary to nature in the first place.

John Calvin and the Institutes of the Christian Religion

Published first in 1536, the Institutes of the Christian Religion is John Calvin’s magnum opus. Extremely important for the Protestant Reformation, the Institutes has remained important for Protestant theology for almost five centuries. Written to “aid those who desire to be instructed in the doctrine of salvation,” the Institutes, which follows the ordering of the Apostle’s Creed, has four parts. The first part examines God the Father; the second part, the Son; the third part, the Holy Spirit; and the fourth part, the Church. Through these four parts, it explores both “knowledge of God” and “knowledge of ourselves” with profound theological insight, challenging and informing all the while. Thus, for either the recent convert or the long-time believer, for the inquisitive beginner or the serious scholar, John Calvin’s Institutes of the Christian Religion is a rewarding book worthy of study.

Saaaaaaaaaafety. Sinnnnnnnnnnnnnners.

I find it ironic that Christians should be so concerned with homosexuals. The worst part about homosexuals, from a straight guys point of view, is they often work in common cause with many other authoritarians to disrupt and impede healthy male culture.

An ideal male friendly culture recognizes that women are seen as intellectuals and beings with important viewpoints and abilities to contribute. And at the same time, also seen as beings that might be objectified and seen as physical vehicles to have sex with and produce children with.

If everyone could be cool about this. Could let laissez faire reign supreme, life could be grand for all concerned. Including the homosexuals and Christians. Leave men alone to act as men, and they can’t help but carry along all the sundry low productive and unproductive subgroups that want to merely squeal and prance around. Or want to ready fairy stories and chant and holler about magic sky people.

Many homosexuals have recently behaved like squeaky fifth wheels and participated in the thwarting of what should be straightforward and simple protocols for dealing with the duality of women in an intelligent and beneficial to all way.

The problems homosexuals cause, however pale in comparison to the wanton destructiveness of most Christians.

The covenant of Christians is to violently remove the foreskin of their infants. It is to redirect a good deal of the healthy male sexual drive into serving some kind of otherworldly being. To be blunt, Christians are seventy times seven more queer than homosexuals when it comes to their bottomless desire to thwart what could be straightforward and simple protocols for dealing with the duality of women in an intelligent and beneficial to all way.

And Christians are such nasty sneaks about it too. I see David over at RonPaulForums getting all doe eyed and being surprised that libertarians are so concerned with sexual freedom over other freedoms.

Well no shit, we’re concerned. It’s been scientifically proven that males value sex over food even. That means it is often THE HIGHEST NEED OF ALL.

Just like the clovers pretend they are the innocent reasonable ones, all the while supporting cagings and murderings for seatbelt and speeding violations. Christians also pretend they are the innocent reasonable ones, while supporting an intolerable hell on earth culture for every red blood sexually healthy male.

The Babylonians wisely used churches to find mates, and for men to select from a large pool of faithful women who came to the commons for the natural purpose of being chosen and of choosing their mates.

Homosexuals were around then too, and their small minority did their business in a similar way, while not impeding the majority males who built all the temples and provided all the food, transportation, and everything else everyone counted on.

Highly attractive single females held the highest of high stations in ancient times. Before the scourge of Christians settled upon free men like streams of anti-sexual locusts and ate out everybodies sustenance and made normal sexual behavior nearly impossible.

The Muslims are following in the Christians footsteps, and are making quite a misery in their own right. But they still have a long way to go before they cause as much damage and destruction as have the Christians.

Sure the Jews were annoying, but they tended to keep to themselves. They weren’t clovers who wanted to convert everyone in the world. They considered themselves above the rank and file of the world, and they didn’t want a lot of outsiders around that didn’t understand their ways. Exactly in the same way that Eastern Asians conduct their societies today.

Clovers are easy to dismiss they are pathetic low intelligent worshippers of the state. Christians are more difficult to dismiss, though most of them are as bad or worse than the clovers. They are often highly intelligent and the things they worship are complex and seem to have real substance if you don’t analyze their beliefs thoroughly.

When you look at what Christians really accomplish. Writing things. Building places to worship. Redistributing wealth. You start to realize they are far less productive than regular men who use their sex drives to live normal lives, rather than to serve some incoherent fuzzy common good with little to no rhyme and reason to it.

Worse than Christians low accomplishments. Is their unparalleled ability to screw up everything for normal, non-circumsized, non-herd minded sexually frustrated. Jizz for Jesus useless fuckery.

If you Christians want to get your queer boners on stoning people. Burning animals for sacrifice. Mindfucking women to deny their sexuality. That is your right. But don’t expect us to have any sympathy or love for any of the craptastic folderol you come on here to peddle.

Clover is a second hander, and can’t do a blessed thing without the state. Most of you Christians are first hand Stalins and Nurse Ratcheds of the worst sort. You are clear and present dangers to healthy heterosexual males of all kinds. Leaving aside the threat you pose to homosexuals, idolators, and non-believers for the moment.

The Jews wisely hide their books, and are well aware, that if any regular person read what was in the Talmud, they might reasonably seek to evict them from their society ASAP. The Christians want everyone to see their psycopathy. Like Jeffrey Dahmer proudly showing you what’s in the fridge.

Or like Wild Bill proudly showing everyone the scriptural passage that empowers him to demand that “Ye Puts The Lotion On Ye Skin, Or Else Thou Gets Thee Hose Again.” [Book 3 of Malaki. 2nd Letter to the Children of the Corn]

http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/peter-degroot-shot-by-police-in-slocan-investigation-confirms-1.2798446

This is/was Peter DeGroot, a man in his forties, who according to neighbors was a decent fellow who had fallen on hard times financially and mentally. They claim he wasn’t dangerous and there was no need to kill him.

When police responded to a domestic call that for a yet unexplained reason included DeGroot, DeGroot shot at the officers with a rifle, and then ran into the woods.

The shot fired by DeGroot and the returning fire from the police caused no injuries, and a manhunt was on.

For the next 5 days police searched the town of Slocan, B.C., in Canada, and finally found him in an abandoned shack at a rock quarry, where DeGroot was killed. No details about how/why he was killed have been issued by the RCMP.

What’s more immoral you guys?

Supporting a death penalty for homosexual contact on the testimony of two or three witnesses (without the mass surveilance state.)

Or

Supporting the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagisaki for the “greater good”?

I’d say that both are immoral, but the former is far, far, far, far, FAR less immoral than the latter. Its not even close, in my mind. But, I think some here would say the latter is less immoral because its based on “secular” premises rather than Christian ones.

I too am personally proud that I have extinguished any desires I once had to impose my idea of “the good life” on others. I harbor no animosity toward people who’ve not harmed me, nor threatened to. I embrace live – and let live.

I consider this a critical addendum to any ethical system. The NAP is both external and internal. One seeks to avoid causing harm to others – but not merely that. One does not wish harm upon anyone who has not caused harm themselves first. One is appalled by the thought of it.

I am by no means settled on what harm is. But anything violent or life-threatening to others seems harm by most definitions.

Copying things from the internet without payment. Bringing my own food and drinks to the movie. This I don’t consider elevating to the level of harm in nearly all cases.

In the aggregate, this laissez faire attitude towards non-violent non-life-threatening crimes may weaken and damage the free market itself.

I consider that far better than our current evils. Potentially cheating the market, producers, and property owners out of things, as long as no one’s life is threatened. This may sometimes not qualify as being excellent to one another. But it is better than violating the NAP to achieve absolute order and justice.

I advocate doing these things, if at all, in secret, and not spreading this secret to knowledge to the general population, which is filled with people who advocate initiating violence and force against one another.

Trying to be supermen sounds good, but rarely works. It’s far more to succeed in the margins, because we’ve set up far lesser, but more absolute and devoutly followed law of criminal conduct and general protocol of honor, among enemies of state and authoritarians.

I propose a modified version of what Ted said to Bill –
Be excellent to each other.
Failing that, don’t kill or gravely injure one another. Especially one who has not initiated force or violence against you. Refrain from this both personally, and in your use of third parties.
That is the sum total of my religion.

don’t be a clover

don’t be a clover

bill & ted’s excellent adventure script

More topics of the ‘wasp variety.’ [topics that will f you up and sting yo ass, if ur not careful]

I’d say it might be okay to take pictures of your naked kids and sell them to “collectors” far away. As long as they’re untraceable. [This requires actual knowledge, not just wishful sentiment.]

No one is really harmed. However, if the collectors are able to figure out real world details of subjects of the pics. Or if the kids later become aware. Or if a collector becomes obsessed and threatens you to allow him an “in person” visit of the young art models, or else, well that is something entirely different.

A poor Nigerian mother sells one of her kids kidneys for $40,000 to a guy in Singapore where it’s legal. Possibly problematic, but seems peaceful, assuming the kid “consented.”

An Palestian family pays a Jewish surgeon to implant large breasts and surgically mature the look of their prepubescent daughter, and she then makes 6 figures as an adult actress.

If the girl consents, what is the harm. Isn’t it up to the family and individual to do the cost benefit in this case?

People do vary. Circumstances and beliefs vary. Our morality changes as we age. A murder, rapist, strong arm robber, will probably mellow after age 35. Time heals all wounds and blunts all malevolences. By the time he’s 50, he might be perfectly safe to be around.

NSFW Not Safe For Work

Milo Moiré is a Swiss artist and model known for her nude performances and the use of her body in her art. Moiré was born in Switzerland in 1983, is of Slovak and Spanish origin, and works from Düsseldorf, Germany.

Oh, performance art. You never cease to amaze us.

The latest instance of eye-opening art spectacle comes courtesy of Swiss artist Milo Moire. During 2014’s Art Cologne fair in Germany, she “gave birth” to an artwork by seemingly squeezing paint eggs out of her vagina onto an empty canvas.

She did so in a very public space outside the fair, providing unsuspecting passersby with a visual overload of a nude woman laboring — quite literally — for the sake of art.

“The ‘PlopEgg Painting’…releases a loose chain of thoughts — about the creation fear, the symbolic strength of the casual and the creative power of the femininity,” the video’s description reads.

“At the end of this almost meditative art birth performance the stained canvas is folded up, smoothed and unfolded to a symmetrically reflected picture, astonishingly coloured and full of strength.”

Moire is no stranger to boundary-pushing performance. For her “Script System” piece, the artist rode public transit in her birthday suit, surprising more than a few commuters with her unabashed nudity.

She follows in the footsteps of a long line of provocative artists — Marina Abramovic, Yoko Ono, Franco B — who have used forms of nudity as a means of artistic disruption.

Watch Moire’s video below (warning: graphic content):

Performance Artist Milo Moire Performs ‘Plop Egg’ at Art Cologne 2014. No brushes, just a vaj is needed to ‘paint’ the artwork.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wRM_Wyj7elI

Eric,
I think sometimes like David, I too play the “drama queen.” Being hyperliberal, and also hypercritical (using emotional speech only) just feels right.

I’d like to further explore “Gay Pride/Free Love/Public Nudity” internationally. It does appear that the most advance techno-exporting powerhouse nations are also the most tolerant.

Of course ‘meriKa of late does it all wrong, makes everyone feel miserable and pressured about everything. That’s their Modus Operandi. Divide and isolate all competing powers. Increase and redistribute powerlessness and misery.

Toronto – 2012 Dyke March
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MFSIebIU6g

Japan’s First Lady joins 2014 Tokyo LGBT Pride Parade
http://www.lgbtqnation.com/2014/04/japans-first-lady-joins-thousands-marching-in-tokyo-lgbt-pride-parade/

Swiss Performance Artist Milo Moire Walks Naked on the Swiss Art Show ‘Art Basel’
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=1c9_1404700630

Austria: Thousands march for gay pride in Vienna *EXPLICIT*
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=b68_1402776539

USA: Activists strip off to protest ban on nudity – “my Bush doesn’t steal elections”
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4f1_1400373600

Naked Bikeriders in Seattle – Pridefest 2014
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=cab_1404426372

Amazon and the PTB caught redhanded manipulating news site popularity.(might have happened to EPautos too)
http://www.wnd.com/2014/10/caught-red-handed-news-site-deception-uncovered/?cat_orig=us

Nobel Prize – Underhanded Way English Beat German as the language of science
http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-29543708

Starting in 1917 when the US entered the war, there was a wave of anti-German hysteria that swept the country.

“In 1917 it’s often hard to keep in mind that large portions of the US still speak German,” Gordin says.

In Ohio, Wisconsin and Minnesota there were many, many German speakers. World War One changed all that.

German was criminalised in 23 states. You’re not allowed to speak it in public, you’re not allowed to use it in the radio, you’re not allowed to teach it to a child under the age of 10.

Until 1923, the anti-German laws were the law of the land. What that effectively did, was decimate all foreign language learning in the US.

In 1915 Americans were teaching foreign languages and learning foreign languages about the same level as Europeans were. After these laws go into effect, foreign language education drops massively. Isolationism kicks in in the 1920s, even after the laws are overturned, and that means people don’t think they need to pay attention to what happens in French or in German.”

This results in a generation of future scientists who come of age with limited exposure to foreign languages.

That was also the moment, when the American scientific establishment started to take over dominance in the world.

And you have a set of people who don’t speak foreign languages, They’re comfortable in English, they read English, they can get by in English because the most exciting stuff in their mind is happening in English. So you end up with a very American-centric, and therefore very English-centric, community of science after World War Two.

You can see evidence of this world history embedded into scientific terms themselves.

When the U.S. joined in World War I, an anti-German hysteria quickly spread in American society. German-Americans, especially immigrants, were blamed for military acts of the German Empire, and even speaking German was seen as unpatriotic.

Many German-American families anglicized their names (e.g. from Schmidt to Smith, Schneider to Taylor, Müller to Miller), and German nearly disappeared in public. Many states forbade the use of German in public and the teaching of German in schools.

An extensive campaign forbad all things German, such as performing the music of German composers at symphony concerts. Language was the focus of legislation at state and local levels. It took many forms, from requiring associations to have charters written in English to banning speaking German within city limits.

Some states banned the teaching of all foreign languages, though most only banned German. A bill was introduced in October 1918 to create a national Department of Education, intended to restrict federal funds to states that enforced English-only education. The Lutheran Church was divided by an internal battle over conducting services and religious instruction in German.

On April 9, 1919, Nebraska enacted a statute called “An act relating to the teaching of foreign languages in the state of Nebraska,” commonly known as the Siman Act. It provided that “No person, individually or as a teacher, shall, in any private, denominational, parochial or public school, teach any subject to any person in any language other than the English language.” It forbade foreign instruction to children who had not completed the eighth grade. A total ban on teaching German in both public and private schools was imposed for a time in Ohio, Iowa and Nebraska.

German never recovered its position as the second language in the United States.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German_language_in_the_United_States#Persecution_during_World_War_I

During World War I, anti-German hysteria led to restrictions of the use of the German language, as well as civilian internment.

Anti-German fervor played out in the forced registration, internment, and oppression of German-Americans.

Many Americans were fearful of German-American citizens’ loyalties to the German Empire. Theodore Roosevelt, in particular, denounced “hyphenated Americanism” in wartime.

Many German-named food and streets were renamed. For example, Berlin, Michigan became Marne, Michigan, frankfurters became hot dogs, and sauerkraut became liberty cabbage.

The German language was restricted in the midst of anti-German fears. Nebraska and Iowa both passed laws limiting the speaking of German in schools and other public places.

In 1917, President Wilson passed two pieces of legislation that imposed restriction on German-born Americans. The U.S. government attempted to keep a list of all German-born aliens or citizens, and imprisoned more than 4,000 from 1917-1918 for allegedly assisting the German war effort.

NSFW time.
http://i.imgur.com/DTvL6XZ.gif A scientist pleasuring a pig for “research purposes.”

Scientists trying to bring a pig to orgasm.
submitted 5 months ago by spaghettiBlasphemy

[–]nevets12 162 points 5 months ago
Same technique I use. Niiccceee

[–]feelsoplain 50 points 5 months ago
Give em the ol octo-nip grip mmm

[–]Bacon_Crispies 11 points 5 months ago
What do you call it? The Piggy Back?

[–]khovel 6 points 5 months ago
it’s called the pork grind

[–]MissChievousJ 4 points 5 months ago
Bringing home the bacon

[–]StReeTkiNG069 2 points 5 months ago
They need the techniques of the guy in the earlier post about making animals feel good

[–]god_why -2 points 5 months ago
ahahahahaa i can see you now high fiving some scientists.

[–]MahaliAudran 92 points 5 months ago
Not trying to make the pig orgasm but sexually stimulate it to increase insemination.
http://www.pork.org/Resources/385/ArtificialInsemination.aspx#stimulatingfemale

[–]FiendishBeastie 9 points 5 months ago
The clip is also used in Mary Roach’s TED Talk “10 Things You Didn’t Know About Orgasm”.

[–]Rac1stp1gman 26 points 5 months ago
You’re going to have to commit. Now off with the lab coat.

[–]tecal2002 54 points 5 months ago
Remember kids. If you wear a lab coat and write stuff down, it’s not bestiality, it’s science!

[–]Javon66 38 points 5 months ago
Josh why are you playing with that pigs nipples.
For science!

[–]nation101 14 points 5 months ago
Get on this Mike Rowe!

[–]drweird 19 points 5 months ago
As someone with professional experience here, I find pressing down on their rump, and a knee pressing lightly into their side works best. You also don’t have to climb onto the pig all weird like that. :/

[–]joe_joejoejoe 16 points 5 months ago
You are now a moderator of /r/TheRedPill

[–]peppereth 8 points 5 months ago
I too am a professional pigfucker AmA

[–]drweird 1 point 1 month ago
I was precisely that. I worked doing AI (Artificial Insemination) on an industrial research pig farm. Basically computer generated boar/sow matches via genomic sequencing, breeding super-pigs. We sold semen around the world, some boars having over 500k offspring (world record?). Also sold sows and boars to farms to “raise” the farm’s breeding genetic pool by inducing some super-pig into their pool.

[–]batardedbaker 10 points 5 months ago
Funny story. I had some friends who had an indoor pig who would go into heat. A buddy was joking around and pretending to hump the pig doing a technique similar to what you just mentioned while verbally consoling her for the mood she was in. Lo and behold he unintentionally got her off. We all looked around stunned at what just transpired.

[–]kcwamparp 3 points 5 months ago
I used to think it was funny the way their ears shook, or trying to get a guilt the first time that was always fun

[–]german_gun_dog 16 points 5 months ago
o_o. My work here is done.

[–]friedlizardwings 8 points 5 months ago
whenever job prospects are looking low, i will remember this man.

[–]demon_ix 7 points 5 months ago
I hate my job, but I’m not wanking pigs, so I got that going for me, which is nice.

[–]wholesalefish 4 points 5 months ago
this guy is probably making a pretty penny playing with pigs. it’s probably still better (by better in this case i mean less stressful) than working in the food/beverage industry.

[–]beergoggles69 56 points 5 months ago
It’s not easy to get a pig to orgasm- just ask my wife

[–]Creeda 52 points 5 months ago
Which one is the pig, her or you?

[–]beergoggles69 12 points 5 months ago
Just practising my vaudeville act

[–]HorsePecker 18 points 5 months ago
Horses do not copulate with pigs.

[–]ISTRANGLEHOOKERSAMA 25 points 5 months ago
not with that attitude

[–]HorsePecker 13 points 5 months ago
Well, I never Ծ_Ծ

[–]CriticalThink 5 points 5 months ago
A scientist tries to bring a pig to orgasm and nobody bats an eye. A redneck tries to do the same and everyone loses their minds.

[–]Tom35 2 points 5 months ago
What is he doing with my wife.

[–]Wild_Hunter 4 points 5 months ago
Afterwards, the scientist can be heard saying ‘That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.’

[–]gokism 3 points 5 months ago
I wonder what on that guys resume made him the most qualified to attempt this?
Yes Mr. Porker I used to bring pigs to orgasm on my daddy’s farm as a hobby. I’ll need some Barry White music and some lotion.

[–]Joebranflakes 10 points 5 months ago
Because allowing the pigs to do it naturally can result in injury as they are way bigger then nature would allow. Simply put, we have turned pigs into living meat factories. And in case anyone is wondering, I have 3 racks of ribs and 4 lbs of bacon in my freezer.

[–]RimelSilver 3 points 5 months ago
Thanks I was not aware of this. Throw all those ribs on the flame I’ll bring the beer. 😉

[–]warmhandswarmheart 3 points 5 months ago
Can you imagine being this guy and trying to explain to your kids what you do at work?

[–]quanafay 3 points 5 months ago
This is actually not a scientist. He’s the inseminator. That’s right, it’s his job to go around and arouse pigs and fill them with sperm. Experience shows that the mother pig tends to have a greater chance of conception, and often times has more piglets, if she’s had an orgasm while being inseminated.

[–]maxpower2013 4 points 5 months ago
That’s not how you do it. I should know. First you have to bring flowers. Then turn on some Barry White.

[–]Soggyclam 2 points 5 months ago
Maybe some wine to loosen them up a bit

[–]fatalerror500 2 points 5 months ago
What’s a pigfucker make these days? Viable job

[–]fuckyofeelings -2 points 5 months ago
The fuck dude. One of the few posts that made me question our existence? Did he just strive to get a pig to orgasm for science when he was a kid?

– actually, it’s likely an artificial inseminator, not a scientist.

Can someone tell me which one they would kill first? And why? Who would they kill next? What corrective action is required for the killing to end?

Does Israel need “Christian Reconstruction?”

Or is okay for them to remain Jews?

What does Joel McDurmon have to say about Israel. Are his words binding on me, were I to join his group? Or can my partner and I fly out to Tel Aviv for the next festival in peace?(In UK, Israel, and Progressive Nations, your significant other often isn’t Gender Identified.)

Tel Aviv, Israel trumps New York – named Worlds Best Gay City

– Is anyone here anti-sodomy? [By which I mean, inserting an erect penis into another being’s anus.] I’ve never tried it, but feel neither positive nor negative about it myself.

Ron Paul Forums Response To David –
phill4paul, author of 22,437 posts on the forum:

OMG! FF(FreedomFanatic=David) is incensed by something. Get the fuck over it and please gain ten years to join in these debates again so you can be less of a drama queen….

To quote EP: (phill4paul’s post)

EP
I certainly don’t demand that people relinquish their belief in anything. Whether Jesus is Lord – or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or shape-shifting reptiles.

I am not interested in such things myself. And there are many other things I don’t like and would not personally have anything to do with.

But so long as people aren’t violent and don’t cause harm to others – then go in peace.

That’s my message.

Next post not by David…

fr33 – author of 7,654 posts on RP Forums…

People like you are the type that I don’t turn my back on and always keep my eye on. If enough of you live near me (and that could be the case now), and the state as we know it didn’t exist, I could very well be burned at the stake. I’m willing to risk losing the state though. People like you tend to be kinda weak.

Popular religious author and former Roman Catholic nun Karen Armstrong sees a potential for fascism in Christian Reconstructionism, and sees theologians RJ Rushdoony and Gary North as: “totalitarian.

There is no room for any other view or policy, no democratic tolerance for rival parties, no individual freedom,” Berlet and Lyons have written that the movement is a “new form of clerical fascist politics.”

I found Joel MCDurmon on the internet. Watched his highest rated video. 10,500ish views. Which is with some other guy and there’s loud background music playing. Listened all the way to the end, and I have no idea what he is talking about.

Looked at his site and other sites where he’s mentioned. Again, I get nothing out of him.

Joel is always talking in a derivative second hander voice. And speaking in assumed inside baseball terms, that no one is going to be familiar with.

I can’t see what someone not steeped in years of this alternate belief system – Christian Reconstruction – could hope to get out of watching and listening to him.

If I can paraphrase Joel McDurmon: “We’re all going to take back society, and make sure it is in full compliance with the laws of Feng Shui.” Of course, instead of Feng Shui, he said more of his “inside baseball” Christian wonkery, which I am utterly unable to grasp a single word of.

Christian Reconstructionists advocate a theocratic government and libertarian economic principles. They maintain a distinction of sphere of authority between family, church, and state.

For example, enforcement of moral sanctions under theonomy is done by family and church government, and sanctions for moral offenses is outside the authority of civil government (which is limited to criminal matters, courts and national defense).

However, these distinctions become blurred, as the application of theonomy typically increases the authority of the civil government; prominent advocates of Christian Reconstructionism have written that according to their understanding, God’s law approves of the death penalty not only for murder, but also for propagators of all forms of idolatry, active homosexuals, adulterers, practitioners of witchcraft, and blasphemers, and perhaps even recalcitrant youths (see the List of capital crimes in the Bible).

American Vision’s Joel McDurmon responded to these criticisms by denying that Reconstructionists have promoted coercive means.

Conversely, Christian Reconstructionism’s founder, Rousas John Rushdoony, wrote in The Institutes of Biblical Law (the founding document of reconstructionsim) that Old Testament law should be applied to modern society and advocates the reinstatement of the Mosaic law’s penal sanctions.

Under such a system, the list of civil crimes which carried a death sentence would include homosexuality, adultery, incest, lying about one’s virginity, bestiality, witchcraft, idolatry or apostasy, public blasphemy, false prophesying, kidnapping, rape, and bearing false witness in a capital case

-If CR’s are going to be the ones to overthrow Fedzilla, then I will provisionally wish them well, because I think I would have an easier time escaping their brand of tyranny, which isn’t as widespread and all-encompassing as the current DC tyranny.

God Hates Lady Gaga – Westboro Baptist Church’s Parody of “Poker Face”

The God Hates Fags Church Makes Amazing Vines

Coming soon: Vegan Rights. Soon any restaurant or grocery store that provides food will be required to serve Vegan food as well. Vegan pride marches. Vegan only housing. Require pictures of animals being slaughtered on all meat packages. Limit to amount of meat you can consume.

From what I’ve heard, the Centauri System is always looking for candidate Centaurians.
You should be half man, half horsepowered.
A rocket man versed in propelling matter using motive force and kinetic mechanics.

Like the mythical Centaur. A real gear head vector, willing to abandon the known scalars of the Earthly Gravity Well for challenges and adventures of the uncharted and uncertain.

Their Mesoplanetary Hub is in an undisclosed region about the size of West Virginia in NorthWest Saudi Arabia along the eastern shore of the Red Sea. Annual rainfall 1.7 inches. Ave temp 78F. There are four human cities nearby that generate water using desalinization: Haql(pop 25k), Duba(pop 22k), Wajh(pop 27k), Umm Lajj(pop 34k)

Are you willing to relocate anywhere. Do you require a mesoplanet rocky terran earthlike environment, or are you willing to live on a cold psychroplanet, hot thermoplanet, or orbital microgravitational environment?

If you rotate this solar system map forward in time:
http://www.theplanetstoday.com/

You’ll understand when the necessary Centaurian missions will need to depart Earth in order to go into orbit/land at the optimal times when the target celesital object is closest

Ave Dist to Moon 0.24 million miles
Ave Dist to Venus 26 million miles
Ave Dist to Mars 49 million miles
Ave Dist to Mercury 57 million miles
Ave Dist to Ceres 164 million miles
Ave Dist to Jupiter 391 million miles
Ave Dist to Saturn 750 million miles

Next Mission Arrival Times (add travel time to determine departure time)

Jan 2015 Mercury & Jupiter
May 2015 Saturn
May 2015 Mars
Aug 2015 Venus
Ceres Constant Missions to speed colonization

Current missions include constantly scheduled convoys of humans inhabiting cyanobacteria greenhouses and other facilities. Astronauts live out the rest of their time in space. It’s all one way missions. Each resupply module includes new components and materials to build up the various solar system hubs.

WvB:
Rocketry will free man from the remaining chains, the chains of gravity which still tie him to this planet.
We can overcome gravity, but sometimes the paperwork is overwhelming.
For my confirmation, I didn’t get a watch and my first pair of long pants, like most Lutheran boys.
I got a telescope. My mother thought it would make the best gift.
Basic research is what I’m doing when I don’t know what I’m doing.
I have learned to use the word ‘impossible’ with the greatest caution.
One good test is worth a thousand expert opinions.
The best computer is a man, and it’s the only one that can be mass-produced by unskilled labor.
“Our sun is one of a 300 billion stars in our galaxy. Our galaxy is one of hundreds billions of galaxies populating the universe. It would be the height of presumption to think that we are the only living thing in that enormous immensity.
All you leave for posterity is what you place inside other’s heads. Education, in other words, and not earthly possessions, is the ultimate legacy, the only thing that cannot be taken away.”
I’m convinced that before the year 2000 is over, the first child will have been born on the moon.
― Wernher von Braun

Per Ardua Ad Astra
Galt’s Pylae Stellarum
onward and upward to the stars

Nearest Exoplanets
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_nearest_exoplanets

Alpha Centaur Bb
Luhman 16 AB(a or b – not known which binary dwarf star the planet orbits)
Epsilon Erdani b,d, and c
Groombridge 34b
Tau Ceti b,c,d,e,f

There are 1400 stars within 50 light years distance.
Of the 133/1400 of those stars visible to the naked eye, 18 have planetary systems
There are 65 known exoplanets within 50 light years

Habitable planet criteria:
ESI Earth Similarity Index
SPH Standard Primary Habitat
HZD Habitable Zone Distance
HZC Habitable Zone Composition
HZA Habitable Zone Atmosphere
PC Planet Class
HC Habitable Class

Exoplanet Kepler 298d
ESI 0.68
SPH 0.0
HZD -0.86
HZC -0.11
HZA +2.11
PC Warm SuperTerran Mesoplanet
77.5 day year. SemiMajor Axis 0.31 Earth Orbit
2.5 times radius of Earth
Ocean planet thick gas dwarf/giant

http://www.topastronomer.com/StarCharts/Constellations/Centaurus.php
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alpha_Centauri

Very well written article, and spot on! this 2 set of laws thing is ridiculous and you nailed the double standard precisely, cleanly, and unarguably. Good job!

More people need to realize this simple fact…you aren’t allowed to defend yourself against a cop. It’s so fundamentally stupid…you can legally defend yourself against literally anything else (natural disasters, other people, animals, dogs, germs, etc…) but if the other person is a cop, you are EXPECTED to be non-resistant under all circumstances legally. Absolute bullcrap!

If a cop attacks me, and if I’m going to be charged with assault anyway for merely defending, that fucker’s getting every bone broken so at least HE feels the pain for a while. FFS, you literally touch a cop and you’re “assaulting” him. what’s next…”He looked at me with a glare in his eyes, that’s MENTAL ASSAULT and you’re under arrest!”?

Once fighting a DUI (I was innocent) my lawyer told me with a straight face that even though I had no witnesses, the judge has to consider my story and the cop’s equally. EVERYONE in the room started laughing like mad, and even the lawyer eventually smiled and admitted that yeah, probably not going to happen. (BTW, found guilty with no evidence, no sobriety check, and literally cop saying “looked stoned to me” and the judge saying “I trust the cop”. It was 3:00 AM, so my eyes were red from being tired. Small town cops, turned out he and the judge were best friends from school, but anyway, enough ramble…)

Cops need to lose their special privileges right now, they’ve already lost the respect of the people, so that means they will lose the cooperation of the people…and then they will eventually lose the ability to relate to the people. eventually the people will amke it so they lose the ability to control them too.

That’s when the fun starts…

Posted on October 10, 2014 by Martin Armstrong

Civil-Asset

In rem (Latin, “power about or against ‘the thing’”) is a legal term describing the power a court may exercise over property (either real or personal) or a “status” against a person over whom the court does not have in personam jurisdiction. This was all based upon ancient tradition known as Deodand, which was a thing forfeited or given to God. In reality, Deodand was the law concerning an object or instrument that became forfeit because it has caused a person’s death – such as a runaway horse and wagon. The term deodand is derived from the Latin phrase “deo dandum” which means “to be given to God.”

The English common law the king merely replaced God with himself. Deodand traces back to the 11th century in England and was applied by the king to confiscate assets until Parliament finally abolished it in 1846. Nevertheless, under this law, a chattel (i.e. personal property) was considered a deodand whenever a coroner’s jury decided that the property had caused the death of a human being. In theory, deodands were forfeit to the king who was supposed to sell the chattel and then apply the profits to some pious use. Of course, once any government gets its hands on money – just forget it – it is their’s.

Effectively, a jury decided that a particular animal or object was a deodand and then appraised its value and the owners were expected to pay a fine equal to the value of the deodand. If the owner could not pay the deodand, his township was held responsible.

Today, civil asset forfeiture has been so abused by the US government it amounts to outright theft. People cannot afford costly lawyers and the government exploits the poor all the time to just confiscate cash, cars, and houses. The police are using it just as the troops in Rome turned against the people to pay for their salaries. The police have been transformed into the enemies of the people for whatever they can confiscate they just get to keep.

Dear Eric,

Timely article. Here’s another one, right on the same page.

http://www.libertysetsquare.com/massive-open-carry/

Can we fight Police Brutality with “Massive Servility” ?
September 30, 2014 | By Jack | 7 Comments
Decision time: speak softly and carry big sticks…or protest loudly with empty hands and get beaten by big sticks?

On August 29th, 2014 Trevor Lyman posted this video essay on LibertyCrier.com: Is It Time to Open Carry at Protests?

Lyman is not the first person to suggest that peaceful protesters can deter abusive police tactics by carrying firearms openly. But his “Massive Open Carry” strategy was first proposed not a month before the Ferguson, Missouri protests, so the topic is controversial all over again.

My favorite part of the Torah, is you can just take it and start using it and completely ignore the people you stole it from. Just pretend like God said it was okay. Guess you Jews forgot to make a commandment against stealing your commandments. Stupid Jews.

Jewish Year Historic Event
0001 Adam & Eve created – 1st Generation
0130 Seth born – 2nd Generation
0930 Adam dies
1056 Noah born – 10th Generation
1658 The Flood
1948 Abraham born – 20th Generation
1996 The Tower of Babel – Speech Is Confused
2006 Noah dies
2018 Covenant with Abraham
2048 Isaac born – 21st Generation – Sodom & Gomorrah destroyed
2216 Joseph – 23rd Generation – Sold into Egyptian slavery
2332 Egyptian enslavement begins
2448 Moses leads Exodus from Egypt – Torah revealed at Mt Sinai
to all 3 million Jews
2533 Othniel, first Judge leads Israel
2883 David anointed king over Israel
2924 King Solomon (Shlomo) begins his rule
2935 First Temple completed
2964 Two Jewish Kingdoms: Rechavam – Judah) and Yeravam – Israel begin their rule
3320 The King of Babylon conquers Judea, takes holy vessels and children of the royal family
3338 The First Temple is destroyed.
3392 Achashverosh becomes king of Persia
3399 Esther taken to Achashverosh
3404 Decrees dispatched by Haman, 3 day fast ordered by Esther, Haman executed
3405 Haman’s ten sons executed. Esther’s account added to Talmud.
3410 Second Temple Built
3597 Hanukkah – Recovered Temple from Greeks, Smashed Statue of Zeus
3830 Second Temple Destroyed by Roman Emperor Titus.
3979 Mishna compiled
4128 Jerusalem Talmud compiled
4260 Babylonian Talmud recorded
4398 Islamic conquest of Jerusalem
4800 Birth of Rashi
4891 Birth of Rambam/Maimonides
5002 Burning of the Talmud in Paris
5004 Tartars capture Jerusalem
5050 Expulsion of all Jews from England
5155 Expulsion of all Jews from France
5235 Rashi commentary printed in Reggio de Calabria -beginning of Hebrew printing on printing press
5240 Inquisition established in Spain
5252 Expulsion of all Jews from Spain
5414 First Jewish settlement established in North America -New Amsterdam
5551 French National Assembly grants full civil rights to Jews.
5680 England receives Mandate over Palestine
5698 Kristallnacht riot against Jews in Germany
5708 State of Israel is declared

Today is 1-15-5775 BTW, for any who don’t accept the great memory hole war on history that happened in 3761, or year 0 for you majoritarian newspeaking doublethinkers.

Who is Cuffy Meigs?

And confronting her (Dagney Taggert) daily there was the final product of it all, the heir and collector – Cuffy Meigs, the man impervious to thought. Cuffy Meigs strode through the offices of Taggart Transcontinental, wearing a semi-military tunic and slapping a shiny leather briefcase against his shiny leather leggings. He carried an automatic pistol in one pocket and a rabbit’s foot in the other. (3.5.3.15)

That’s the best character sum-up in the whole book. Cuffy truly is the logical, inevitable end result of the type of government that’s in power. As the looters began to pass increasingly restrictive laws and using increasing force, for a Cuffy Meigs to gain a position of power was the next logical step.

He is basically a thug, a would-be gangster. And in a government that operates on corruption, backstabbing, and illegal activity, it stands to reason that a criminal would move up the ranks swiftly. Cuffy is no ideologue, and he seems to find James ridiculous. He’s always yelling at him and calling him “Jimmy.” Cuffy is disrespectful and ready to knock heads together, and the other looters seem scared of him.

Seeming to tire of the ideological crowd, he stages his own coup of Project X, the pinnacle of the government’s ideas on force and control. Cuffy of course doesn’t know how to operate the machine, and in a fit of stubbornness he blows up the entire facility, killing himself and everyone else in a hundred-mile radius. This is a rather fitting legacy for a person who seemed to appreciate, and even long for, violence.

Kelly W. Patterson. NVCopBlock.org editor and longtime local activist, shortly after a hit and run “accident” that may have been an assassination attempt by the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department.

Let The Fire Burn. A history of the conflict of the City of Philadelphia and the Black Liberation organization – MOVE – that led to a disastrously violent final confrontation in 1985.

Hero Brent Aguilar of Clovis NM slams an epileptic woman to the ground while on a noise disturbance call.

Brent Aguilar photo Clovis NM.

NM State Trooper opens fire on Mom and minivan filled with 5 kids, because she refused to take the traffic ticket he wrote for her.

Video Of Cops Executing Albuquerque NM Homeless Man Enrages Community. Discussion by Young Turks

Police investigate Brent Aguilar after traffic stop

Consensus on liveleak. Brent will be fired, but not be charged. City will pay the victims, not the guilty party.
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=582_1411164145

“I became concerned if the struggle continued the possibility of both of us falling on the ice would increase and the potential for injury to Melanie or myself was greater because of the struggle so I took Melanie to the ground.” – squealed Brent the lying pig.

Attorney makes second excessive force accusation against Brent Aguilar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxGdXhH4iV4

Officer Brent Aguilar of Clovis, NM Police Dept. breaks the cheekbone of a compliant passenger and lies about him resisting

Let the heroes know what you think of this.
[email protected] Mayor Lansford
[email protected] Police email.

This may go a bit off topic but the curious case of Eric F(r)ein comes to mind.

This guy allegedly shot and killed a PA state trooper and shot and wounded another PA state trooper in an “ambush” last month. He is now on the run and there is a continuing massive manhunt in PA for him.

Just about every electronic travel info billboard in PA now has his face and name on it stating that he is wanted for homicide. These signs show his name as Eric Fein.

Yet a google search brings up the same images of him but with either the name listing of Fein or Frein.

So which is it? Why the uncertainty of his last name if the authorities are so certain as to who he is?

Maybe I am reading too much into this but it just struck me as odd.

Anyway, bringing all of this back to Eric Peter’s article, does anyone think for a second that this accused Eric F(r)ein guy’s case will ever get to a courtroom?

I do not pretend to know the truth to all of this but I do know that once one is labeled a “cop killer” he very, very rarely survives the “attempts” to “bring him to justice”.

IOW, this F(r)ein guy will be killed by “law enforcement” first chance they get and US amerikans will say “good job” furthering their blind support of the police.

You might find the discussion I have been having with a statist copsucker informative: http://blog.kentforliberty.com/2014/09/the-crimes-of-clovis-officer-brent.html
In another post I pointed out that those who support cops are dropping the ball, unless they wish to further erode the “legitimacy” of cops. (In others’ eyes, not mine, since I see absolutely zero legitimacy in the police.)
There is nothing they won’t turn inside out to justify.

“Look! You fools! You’re in danger! Can’t you see? They’re after you! They’re after all of us! Our wives…our children…they’re here already! You’re next!” —Dr. Miles Bennell

Just like in the book/movie, I’m the only one left now. Real life is always different. In the real world, you recognize everyone has changed, but there’s little you can do about it except make send digital missives to strangers, some of whom might be having the same experience. If only I hadn’t gotten paranoid when I was waiting to depart via the John Galt Travel Bureau. When I forfeited my one and only chance. Maybe there’s still a chance for the rest of you, if you can find the place.

John Galt Travel Bureau

You walk in as though it were an ordinary travel bureau, the stranger I’d met at a bar had told me. Ask a few
ordinary questions—about a trip you’re planning, a vacation, anything like that. Then hint about The Folder a
little, but whatever you do, don’t mention it directly; wait till he brings it up himself. And if he doesn’t, you
might as well forget it. If you can. Because you’ll never see it; you’re not the type, that’s all. And if you ask
about it, he’ll just look at you as though he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

I rehearsed it all in my mind, over and over, but what seems possible at night over a beer isn’t easy to
believe on a raw, rainy day, and I felt like a fool, searching the store fronts for the street number I’d memorized.
It was noon hour, West 42nd Street, New York, rainy and windy; and like half the men around me, I walked
with a hand on my hood, wearing an old windbreaker, head bent into the slanting rain, and the world was real
and drab, and this was hopeless.

Anyway, I couldn’t help thinking, who am I to see The Folder, even if there is one? Name? I said to myself,
as though I were already being asked. It’s David Moleman, and I’m a young guy who works in a bank; a teller. I
don’t like the job; I don’t make much money, and I never will. I’ve lived in New York for over three years and
haven’t many friends. What the hell, there’s really nothing to say—I see more movies than I want to, read too
many books, and I’m sick of meals alone in restaurants. I have ordinary abilities, looks and thoughts. Does that
suit you; do I qualify?

Now I spotted it, the address in the two-hundred block, an old, pseudo-modernized office building, tired,
outdated, refusing to admit it but unable to hide it. New York has a lot of them west of Fifth.
I pushed through the brass-framed glass doors into the tiny lobby, paved with freshly mopped, permanently
dirty tile. The green-painted walls were lumpy from old plaster repairs; in a chrome frame hung a little wall
directory—white celluloid easily-changed letters on a black felt background. There were some twenty-odd
names, and I found “John Galt Travel Bureau” second on the list, between “A1 Websites” and “Ajax Financial
Advisors.” I pressed the button beside the old, outdated elevator door; it rang high up in the shaft. There
was a long pause, then a thump, and the heavy mechanized box began rattling slowly down toward me, and
I almost turned and left—this was insane.

But upstairs the John Galt office had divorced itself from the atmosphere of the building. I pushed open the
pebble-glass door, walked in, and the big square room was bright and clean, fluorescent-lighted. Beside the
wide double windows, behind a counter, stood a tall gray-haired, grave-looking man a telephone at his ear. He
glanced up, nodded to beckon me in, and I felt my heart pumping—he fitted the description exactly. ‘Yes,
United Air Lines,” he was saying into the phone. “Flight”—he glanced at a paper on the glass-topped
counter—”seven-o-three, from Keene, NH to Umm Lajj, Tabuk, Saudi Arabia, and I suggest you check
in ninety minutes early.”

Standing before him now, I waited, leaning on the counter, glancing around; this was the man, all right, and
yet this was just an ordinary travel agency: big bright posters on the walls, metal floor racks full of folders,
printed schedules under the glass on the counter. This is just what it looks like and nothing else, I thought, and
again I felt like a fool.

“Can I help you?” Behind the counter the tall gray-haired man was smiling at me, replacing the phone, and
suddenly I was terribly nervous.

“Yes.” I stalled for time, unzipped my windbreaker. Then I looked up at him again and said, “I’d like to—get
away.” You fool, that’s too fast! I told myself. Don’t rush it! I watched in a kind of panic to see what effect my
answer had had, but he didn’t flick an eyelash.

“Well, there are a lot of places to go,” he said politely. From under the counter he brought out a long, slim
folder and laid it on the glass, turning it right side up for me. “Fly to Buenos Aires—Another World!” it said in
a double row of pale green letters across the top.

I looked at it long enough to be polite. It showed a big silvery plane banking over a harbor at night, a moon
shining on the water, mountains in the background. Then I just shook my head; I was afraid to talk, afraid I’d
say the wrong thing.

“Something quieter, maybe?” He brought out another folder: thick old tree trunks, rising way up out of
sight, sunbeams slanting down through them-“The Virgin Rain Forests of Brazil, via Serra Verde Railroad.”
“Or”—he laid a third folder on the glass—”Bermuda is nice just now.” This one said, “Bermuda, Old World in
the New!”

I decided to risk it. “No,” I said, and shook my head, “What I’m really looking for is a permanent place. A
new place to live and settle down in.” I stared directly into his eyes. “For the rest of my life.” Then my nerve
failed me, and I tried to think of a way to backtrack.

But he only smiled pleasantly and said, “I don’t know why we can’t advise you on that.” He leaned forward
on the counter, resting on his forearms, hands clasped; lie had all the time in the world for me, his posture
conveyed. “What are you looking for; what do you want?”

I held my breath, then said it. “Escape.”

“From what?”

“Well—” Now I hesitated; I’d never put it into words before. “From New York, I’d say. And cities in
general. From worry. And fear. And the things I read in my newspapers. From loneliness.” And then I couldn’t
stop, though I knew I was talking too much, the words spilling out. “From never doing what I really want to do
or having much fun. From selling my days just to stay alive. From life itself—the way it is today, at least.” I
looked straight at him and said softly, “From the world.”

Now he was frankly staring, his eyes studying my face intently with no pretense of doing anything else, and
I knew that in a moment he’d shake his head and say, “Mister, you better get to a doctor.” But he didn’t. He
continued to stare, his eyes examining my forehead now. He was a big man, his gray hair crisp and curling, his
lined face very intelligent, very kind; he looked the way ministers should look; he looked the way all fathers
should look.

He lowered his gaze to look into my eyes and beyond them; he studied my mouth, my chin, the line of my
jaw, and I had the sudden conviction that without any difficulty he was learning a great deal about me, morethan I knew myself. Suddenly he smiled and placed both elbows on the counter, one hand grasping the other fist
and gently massaging it. “Do you like people? Tell the truth, because I’ll know if you aren’t being honest.”

“Yes. It isn’t easy for me to relax though, and be myself, and make friends.”

He nodded gravely, accepting that. “Would you say you’re a reasonably decent kind of man?

“I guess so; I think so.” I shrugged.

“Why?”

I smiled wryly; this was hard to answer. “Well—at least when I’m not, I’m usually sorry about it.”

He grinned at that, and considered it for a moment or so. Then he smiled—deprecatingly, as though he were
about to tell a little joke that wasn’t too good. “You know,” he said casually, “we occasionally get people in here
who seem to be looking for pretty much what you are. So just as a sort of little joke—”

I couldn’t breathe. This was what I’d been told he would say if he thought I might do.
“—we’ve worked up a little folder. We’ve even had it printed. Simply for our own amusement, you
understand. And for occasional clients like you. So I’ll have to ask you to look at it here if you’re interested. It’s
not the sort of thing we’d care to have generally known.”

I could barely whisper, “I’m interested.”

He fumbled under the counter, then brought out a long thin folder, the same size and shape as the others,
and slid it over the glass toward me.

I looked at it, pulling it closer with a finger tip, almost afraid to touch it. The cover was dark blue, the shade
of a night sky, and across the top in white letters it said, “Visit Enchanting Rigil Kentaurus!” The blue cover was
sprinkled with white dots—stars—and in the lower left corner was a globe, the world, half surrounded by
clouds. At the upper right, just under the word “Rigil Kentaurus,” was a star larger and brighter than the others; rays shot
out from it, like those from a star on a Christmas card. Across the bottom of the cover it said, “Romantic Rigil Kentaurus,
where life is the way it should be.” There was a little arrow beside the legend, meaning Turn the page.

I turned, and the folder was like most travel folders inside—there were pictures and text, only these were
about “Rigil Kentaurus” instead of Paris, or Rome, or the Bahamas. And it was beautifully printed; the pictures looked
real. What I mean is, you’ve seen color stereopticon pictures? Well, that’s what these were like, only better, far
better. In one picture you could see dew glistening on grass, and it looked wet. In another, a tree trunk seemed
to curve out of the page, in perfect detail, and it was a shock to touch it and feel smooth paper instead of the
rough actuality of bark. Miniature human faces, in a third picture, seemed about to speak, the lips moist and
alive, the eyeballs shining, the actual texture of skin right there on paper; and it seemed impossible, as you
stared, that the people wouldn’t move and speak.

I studied a large picture spreading across the upper half of two open pages. It seemed to have been taken
from the top of a hill; you saw the land dropping away at your feet far down into a valley, then rising up again,
way over on the other side. The slopes of both hills were covered with forest, and the color was beautiful,
perfect; there were miles of green, majestic trees, and you knew as you looked that this forest was virgin, almost
untouched. Curving through the floor of the valley, far below, ran a stream, blue from the sky in most places;
here and there, where the current broke around massive boulders, the water was foaming white; and again it
seemed that if you’d only look closely enough you’d he certain to see that stream move and shine in the sun.
In clearings beside the stream there were shake-roofed cabins, some of logs, some of brick or adobe. The caption
under the picture simply said, “The Colony.”

“Fun fooling around with a thing like that,” the man behind the counter murmured, nodding at the folder in
my hands. “Relieves the monotony. Attractive-looking place, isn’t it?”

I could only nod dumbly, lowering my eyes to the picture again because that picture told you even more
than just what you saw. I don’t know how you knew this, but you realized, staring at that forest-covered valley,
that this was very much the way America once looked when it was new. And you knew this was only a part of a
whole land of unspoiled, unharmed forests, where every stream ran pure; you were seeing what people, the last
of them dead over a century ago, had once looked at in Kentucky and Wisconsin and the old Northwest. And
you knew that if you could breathe in that air you’d feel it flow into your lungs sweeter than it’s been anywhere
on earth for a hundred and fifty years.

Under that picture was another, of six or eight people on a beach—the shore of a lake, maybe, or the river in
the picture above. Two children were squatting on their haunches, dabbling in the water’s edge, and in the
foreground a half circle of adults were sitting, kneeling, or squatting in comfortable balance on the yellow sand.
They were talking, several were smoking, and most of them held half-filled coffee cups; the sun was bright, you
knew the air was balmy and that it was morning, just after breakfast. They were smiling, one woman talking,
the others listening. One man had half risen from his squatting position to skip a stone out onto the surface of
the water.

You knew this: that they were spending twenty minutes or so down on that beach after breakfast before
going to work, and you knew they were friends and that they did this every day. You knew—I tell you, you
knew—that they liked their work, all of them, whatever it was; that there was no forced hurry or pressure about
it. And that—well, that’s all, I guess; you just knew that every day after breakfast these families spent a leisurely
half hour sitting and talking, there in the morning sun, down on that wonderful beach.

I’d never seen anything like their faces before. They were ordinary enough in looks, the people in that
picture-pleasant, more or less familiar types. Some were young, in their twenties; others were in their thirties;
one man and woman seemed around fifty. But the faces of the youngest couple were completely unlined, and it
occurred to me then that they had been born there, and that it was a place where no one worried or was ever
afraid.

The others, the older ones, there were lines in their foreheads, grooves around their mouths, but you felt
that the lines were no longer deepening, chat they were healed and untroubled scars. And in the faces of the
oldest couple was a look of—I’d say it was a look of permanent relief. Not one of those faces bore a trace of
malice; these people were happy. But even more than that, you knew they’d been happy, day after day after day
for a long, long time, and that they always would be, and they knew it.

I wanted to join them. The most desperate longing roared up in me from the bottom of my soul to be
there—on that beach, after breakfast, with those people in the sunny morning-and I could hardly stand it. I
looked up at the man behind the counter and managed to smile. “This is—very interesting.”

“Yes,” he smiled back, then shook his head in amusement. “We’ve had customers so interested, so carried
away, that they didn’t want to talk about anything else.” He laughed. “They actually wanted to know rates,
details, everything.”I nodded to show I understood and agreed with them. “And I suppose you’ve worked out a whole story to go
with this?” I glanced at the folder in my hands.

“Oh, yes. What would you like to know?”

“These people,” I said softly, and touched the picture of the group on the beach. “What do they do?”

“They work; everyone does.” He took a pipe from his pocket. “They simply live their lives doing what they
like. Some study. We have, according to our little story,” he added, and smiled, “a very fine library. Some of our
people farm, some write, some make things with their hands. Most of them raise children, and—well, they work
at whatever it is they really want to do.”

“And if there isn’t anything they really want to do?”

He shook his head. “There is always something, for everyone, that he really wants to do. It’s just that here
there is so rarely time to find out what it is.” He brought out a tobacco pouch and, leaning on the counter, began
filling his pipe, his eyes level with mine, looking at me gravely. “Life is simple there, and it’s serene. In some
ways, the good ways, it’s like the early pioneering communities here in your country, but without the drudgery
that killed people young. There is electricity. There are washing machines, vacuum cleaners, plumbing, modern
bathrooms, and modern medicine, very modern. But there are no radios, television, telephones, or automobiles.
Distances are small, and people live and work in small communities. They raise or make most of the things they
use.

Every man builds his own house, with all the help he needs from his neighbors. Their recreation is their
own, and there is a great deal of it, but there is no recreation for sale, nothing you buy a ticket to. They have
dances, card parties, weddings, christenings, birthday celebrations, harvest parties. There are swimming and
sports of all kinds. There is conversation, a lot of it, plenty of joking and laughter. There is a great deal of
visiting and sharing of meals, and each day is well filled and well spent. There are no pressures, economic or
social, and life holds few threats. Every man, woman and child is a happy person.” After a moment he smiled.
“I’m repeating the text, of course, in our little joke.” He nodded at the folder.

“Of course,” I murmured, and looked down at the folder again, turning a page. “Homes in The Colony,” said
a caption, and there, true and real, were a dozen or so pictures of the interiors of what must have been the cabins
I’d seen in the first photographs, or others like them. There were living rooms, kitchens, dens, patios. Many of
the homes seemed to be furnished in a kind of Early American style, except that it looked—authentic, as though
those rocking chairs, cupboards, tables and hooked rugs had been made by the people themselves, taking their
time and making them well and beautifully. Others of the interiors seemed modern in style; one showed a
definite Oriental influence.

All of them had, plainly and unmistakably, one quality in common: You knew as you looked at them that
these rooms were home, really home, to the people who lived in them. On the wall of one living room, over the
stone fireplace, hung a hand-stitched motto: “There Is No Place Like Home,” but the words didn’t seem quaint
or amusing, they didn’t seem old-fashioned, resurrected or copied from a past that was gone. They seemed real;
they belonged; those words were nothing more or less than a simple expression of true feeling and fact.
“Who are you?” I lifted my head from the folder to stare into the man’s eyes.

He lighted his pipe, taking his time, sucking the match flame down into the bowl, eyes glancing up at me.
“It’s in the text,” he said then, “on the back page. We—that is to say, the people of Rigil Kentaurus, the
original inhabitants—are people like yourself. Rigil Kentaurus is a planet of air, sun, land and sea, like this one.
And of the same approximate temperature. So life evolved there, of course, just about as it has here, though
rather earlier; and we are people like you. There are trivial anatomical differences, but nothing important.

We read and enjoy your James Thurber, John Clayton, Rabelais, Allen Marple, Hemingway, Grimm,
Mark Twain, Alan Nelson. We like your chocolate, which we didn’t have, and a great deal of your music.
And you’d like many of the things we have. Our thoughts, though, and the great aims and directions of our
history and development have been—drastically different from yours.” He smiled and blew out a pull of smoke.
“Amusing fantasy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I knew I sounded abrupt, and I hadn’t stopped to smile; the words were spilling out. “And where is
Rigil Kentaurus?”

“Four and a half light years away, by your measurements.”

I was suddenly irritated, I didn’t know why. “A little hard to get to, then, wouldn’t it be?”

For a moment he looked at me; then he turned to the window beside him. “Come here,” he said, and I
walked around the counter to stand beside him. “There, off to the left”—he put a hand on my shoulder and
pointed with his pipe stem— “are two apartment buildings, built back to back. The entrance to one is on Fifth
Avenue, the entrance to the other on Sixth. See them? In the middle of the block; you can just see their roofs.”
I nodded, and he said, “A man and his wife live on the fourteenth floor of one of those buildings. A wall of
their living room is the back wall of the building. They have friends on the fourteenth floor of the other
building, and a wall of their living room is the back wall of their building. These two couples live, in other
words, within two feet of one another, since the back building walls actually touch.”

The big man smiled. “But when the Robinsons want to visit the Bradens, they walk from their living room
to the front door. Then they walk down a long hall to the elevators. They ride fourteen floors down; then, in the
street, they must walk around to the next block. And the city blocks there are long; in bad weather they have
sometimes actually taken a cab. They walk into the other building, they go on through the lobby, ride up
fourteen floors, walk down a hall, ring a bell, and are finally admitted into their friends’ living room—only two
feet from their own.”

The big man turned back to the counter, and I walked around it to the other side again. “All I can tell you,”
he said then, “is that the way the Robinsons travel is like space travel, the actual physical crossing of those
enormous distances.” He shrugged. “But if they could step through those two feet of wall without harming
themselves or the wall—well, that is how we ‘travel.’ We don’t cross space, we avoid it.” He smiled. “Draw a
breath here—and exhale it on Rigil Kentaurus.”

I said softly, “And that’s how they arrived, isn’t it? The people in the picture. You took them there.” He
nodded, and I said, “Why?”

He Shrugged. “If you saw a neighbor’s house on fire, would you rescue his family if you could? As many as
you could, at least?”

“Yes.”

“Well—so would we.”

“You think it’s that bad, then? With us?”

“How does it look to you?”I thought about the headlines in my morning paper, that morning and every morning. “Not so good.”

He just nodded and said, “We can’t take you all, can’t even take very many. So we’ve been selecting a few.”

“For how long?”

“A long time.” He smiled. “One of us was a friend of a member of Lincoln’s cabinet. But it was not until just before
your First World War that we felt we could see what was coming; until then we’d been merely observers. We
opened our first agency in Mexico City in nineteen thirteen. Now we have branches in every major city:’

“Nineteen thirteen,” I murmured, as something caught at my memory. “Mexico. Listen! Did—”

“Yes.” He smiled, anticipating my question. “Ambrose Bierce joined us that year, or the next. He lived until
nineteen thirty-one, a very old man, and wrote four more books, which we have.” He turned back a page in the
folder and pointed to a cabin in the first large photograph. “That was his home.”

“And what about Judge Crater?”

“Crater?”

“Another famous disappearance; he was a New York judge who simply disappeared some years ago.”
“I don’t know. We had a judge, I remember, from New York City, some twenty-odd years ago, but I can’t
recall his name.”

What about Malaysia Flight MH370?

I leaned across the counter toward him, my face very close to his, and I nodded. “I like your little joke,” I
said. “I like it very much, more than I can possibly tell you.” Very softly I added, “When does it stop being a
joke?”

For a moment he studied me; then he spoke, “Now. If you want it to.”

You’ve got to decide on the spot, the middle-aged man at the Lexington Avenue bar had told me, because
you’ll never get another chance. I know; I’ve tried. Now I stood there thinking; there were people I’d hate never
to see again, and a girl I was just getting to know, and this was the world I’d been born in. Then I thought about
leaving this room, going back to my job, then back to my room at night. And finally I thought of the deep green
valley in the picture and the little yellow beach in the morning sun. “I’ll go,” I whispered. “If you’ll have me.”

He studied my face. “Be sure,” he said sharply. “Be certain. We want no one there who won’t be happy, and
if you have any least doubt, we’d prefer that—”

“I’m sure,” I said.

After a moment the gray-haired man slid open a drawer under the counter and brought out a little rectangle
of yellow cardboard. One side was printed, and through the printing ran a band of light green; it looked like a
railroad ticket to White Plains or somewhere. The printing said, “Good, when validated, for ONE TRIP TO
Rigil Kentaurus. Nontransferable. One way only.”

“Ah—how much?” I said, reaching for my wallet, wondering if he wanted me to pay.

He glanced at my hand on my hip pocket. “All you’ve got. Including your small change.” He smiled. “You
won’t need it any more, and we can use your currency for operating expenses. Light bills, rent, and so on.”

“I don’t have much.”

“That doesn’t matter.” From under the counter lie brought out a heavy stamping machine, the kind you see in
railroad ticket offices. “We once sold a ticket for thirty-seven thousand dollars. And we sold another just like it
for six cents.” He slid the ticket into the machine, struck the lever with his fist, then handed the ticket to inc.
On the back, now, was a freshly printed rectangle of purple ink, and within it the words, “Good this day only,”
followed by the date. I put two five-dollar bills, a one, and seventeen cents in change on the counter. “Take the
ticket to the John Galt Depot,” the gray-haired man said, and, leaning across the counter, began giving me
directions for getting there.

It’s a tiny hole in the wall, the John Galt Depot; you may have seen it—just a little store front on one of the
narrow streets west of Broadway. On the window is printed, not very well, “John Galt.” Inside, the walls and
ceiling, under layers of old paint, are covered with the kind of stamped tin you see in old buildings.

There’s a worn wooden counter and a few battered chrome and imitation red leather chairs. There are scores
of places like the John Galt Depot in that area—little theater-ticket agencies, obscure shuttle offices,
employment agencies. You could pass this one a thousand times and never really see it; and if you live
in New York, you probably have.

Behind the counter, when I arrived, stood a shirt-sleeved man, smoking a cigar stump and working on some
papers; four or five people silently waited in the chairs. The man at the counter glanced up as I stepped in,
looked down at my hand for my ticket, and when I showed it, nodded at the last vacant chair, and I sat down.

There was a girl beside me, hands folded on her purse. She was pleasant-looking, rather pretty; I thought she
might have been a stenographer. Across the narrow little office sat a young Negro in work clothes, his wife
beside him holding their little girl in her lap. And there was a man of around fifty, his face averted from the rest
of us, staring out into the rain at passing pedestrians. He was expensively dressed and wore a gray Homburg; he
could have been the vicepresident of a large bank, I thought, and I wondered what his ticket had cost.

Maybe twenty minutes passed, the man behind the counter working on his papers; then a small battered old
bus pulled up at the curb outside, and I heard the hand brake set. The bus was a shabby thing, bought third-or
fourthhand and painted red and white over the old paint, the fenders lumpy from countless pounded-out dents,
the tire treads worn almost smooth. On the side, in red letters, it said “John Galt,” and the driver wore a leather
jacket and the kind of worn cloth cap that some cab drivers wear. It was precisely the sort of obscure little bus
you see around there, ridden always by shabby, tired, silent people, going no one knows where.

It took over an hour for the little bus to work south through the traffic, toward the tip of Manhattan, and we
all sat, each wrapped in his own silence and thoughts, staring out the rain-spattered windows; the little girl was
asleep. Through the streaking glass beside me I watched drenched people huddled at city bus stops, and saw
them rap angrily on the closed doors of buses jammed to capacity, and saw the strained, harassed faces of the
drivers. At Fourteenth Street I saw a speeding cab splash a sheet of street-dirty water on a man at the curb, and
saw the man’s mouth writhe as he cursed. Often our bus stood motionless, the traffic light red, as throngs flowed
out into the street from the curb, threading their way around us and the other waiting ears. I saw hundreds of
faces, and not once did I see anyone smile.

I dozed; then we were on a glistening black highway somewhere on Long Island. I slept again, and
awakened in darkness as we jolted oft the highway onto a muddy double-rut road, and I caught a glimpse of a
farmhouse, the windows dark. Then the bus slowed, lurched once, and stopped. The hand brake set, the motor
died, and we were parked beside what looked like a barn. It was a barn.The driver walked up to it, pulled the
big sliding wood door open, its wheels creaking on the rusted old trolley overhead, and stood holding it open
as we filed in. Then he released it, stepping inside with us, and the big door slid closed of its own weight.

The barn was damp, old, the walls no longer plumb, and it smelled of cattle; there was nothing inside on the
packed-dirt floor but a bench of unpainted pine, and the driver indicated it with the beam of a flashlight.
“Sit here, please,” he said quietly. “Get your tickets ready.”

Then he moved down the line, punching each of our tickets, and on the floor I caught a momentary glimpse, in
the shifting beam of his light, of tiny mounds of countless more round bits of cardboard, like little drifts of
yellow confetti. Then he was at the door again, sliding it open just enough to pass through, arid for a moment
we saw him silhouetted against the night sky. “Good luck,” he said. “Just wait where you are.” He released the
door; it slid closed, snipping off the wavering beam of his flashlight; and a moment later we heard the motor
start and the bus lumber away in low gear.

The dark barn was silent now, except for our breathing. Time ticked away, and I felt an urge, presently, to
speak to whoever was next to me. But I didn’t quite know what to say, and I began to feel embarrassed, a little
foolish, and very aware that I was simply sitting in an old and deserted barn. The seconds passed, and I moved
my feet restlessly; presently I realized that I was getting cold and chilled. Then suddenly I knew—and my face
flushed in violent anger and a terrible shame. We’d been tricked! Bilked out of our money by our pathetic will
to believe an absurd and fantastic fable and left, now, to sit there as long as we pleased, until we came to our
senses finally, like countless others before us, and made our way home as best we could. It was suddenly
impossible to understand or even remember how I could have been so gullible, and I was on my feet, stumbling
through the dark across the uneven floor, with some notion of getting to a phone and the police. The big barn
door was heavier than I’d thought, but I slid it back, took a running step through it, then turned to shout back to
the others to come along.

You have seen how very much you can observe in the fractional instant of a lightning flash—an entire
landscape sometimes, every detail etched on your memory, to be seen and studied in your mind for long
moments afterward. As I turned back toward the opened door the inside of that barn came alight. Through every
wide crack of its walls and ceiling and through the big dust-coated windows in its side streamed the light of an
intensely brilliant blue and sunny sky, and the air pulling into my lungs as I opened my mouth to shout was
sweeter than any I had ever tasted in my life. Dimly, through a wide, dust-smeared window of that barn, I
looked—for less than the blink of an eye-down into a deep majestic V of forest-covered slope, and I saw,
tumbling through it, far below, a tiny stream, blue from the sky, and at that stream’s edge between two low roofs
a yellow patch of sun-drenched beach. And then, that picture engraved on my mind forever, the heavy door slid
shut, my fingernails rasping along the splintery wood in a desperate effort to stop it—and I was standing alone
in a cold and rain-swept night.

It took four or five seconds, no longer, fumbling at that door, to heave it open again. But it was four or five
seconds too long. The barn was empty, dark. There was nothing inside but a worn pine bench-and, in the flicker
of the lighted match in my hand, tiny drifts of what looked like damp confetti on the floor. As my mind had
known even as my hands scratched at the outside of that door, there was no one inside now; and I knew where
they were—knew they were walking, laughing aloud in a sudden wonderful and eager ecstasy, down into that
forest-green valley, toward home.

I work in a bank, in a job I don’t like; and I ride to and from it in the subway, reading the daily papers, the
news they contain. I live in a rented room, and in the battered dresser under a pile of my folded handkerchiefs is
a little rectangle of yellow cardboard. Printed on its face arc the words, “Good, when validated, for one trip to
Galt’s Gulch,” and stamped on the back is a date. But the date is gone, long since, the ticket void, punched
in a pattern of tiny holes.

I’ve been back to the John Galt Travel Bureau. The first time the tall gray-haired man walked up to me and laid
two five dollar bills, a one, and seventeen cents in change before me. “You left this on the counter last time you
were here,” he said gravely. Looking me squarely in the eyes, he added bleakly, “I don’t know why.” Then some
customers came in, he turned to greet them, and there was nothing for me to do but leave.

Walk in as though it were the ordinary agency it seems—you can find it, somewhere, in any city you try! Ask
a few ordinary questions—about a trip you’re planning, a vacation, anything you like. Then hint about The
Folder a little, but don’t mention it directly. Give him time to size you up and offer it himself. And if he does, if
you’re the type, if you can believe—then make up your mind and stick to it! Because you won’t ever get a second
chance. I know, because I’ve tried. And tried. And tried.

I can attest to the double whammy in financial costs to taxpayers when it comes to police misconduct.

Back in the 1980’s my dad was the victim (along with four other people) of police misconduct (two incidents, same rogue cops). Long story short, they were very fortunate, unlike most victims of police misconduct, to find some justice (two officers and their chief were forced to resign).

But the costs were high not only to my dad and those other four people. Taxpayers took a huge hit.

Since the village was found liable in the civil suit, not the rogue cops that committed the crimes, so taxpayers footed the bill. However this is years later after years of lawyers doing the things lawyers do. That is run up the billable hours.

By that time, the village had spent over two million dollars defending these rogue cops. And when they lost, they were ordered by the judge to pay all the legal expenses of the five victims. Since the five victims knew it was taxpayers, not the cops paying, decided to forgo damages outside of their legal expenses (six figures at that point). So they did give taxpayers a break, since they all could have gotten good sized settlements.

The village insurer refused to pay the over two million, since the insurance didn’t pay for that type of thing, and a bond was floated to pay the legal expenses. I think it was recently paid off. Remember this was the 1980’s, so a two million dollar loss was even bigger then today.

One rogue cop can easily bankrupt a town.

Good article Eric. It really boils down to equal justice under the law. I believe most people are simply far to indoctrinated now to ask the basic questions needed to reverse the trend so it will play out in time. If history is any guide, there will be violence. That is unfortunate. For my part, I treat all government agents (e.g. judges, politicians, cops, bureaucrats, etc.) with respect and kindness. Kind of like you treat a puppy that can bite but is poorly trained and ill tempered. The phrase “Bless your heart” comes frequently to mind.

People are pods.

Almost everyone I know is a pod. They have no real feelings. They exist, breathe, sleep.

To be a pod means that you have no passion, no anger, the spark has left you…of course, there’s a very strong case for being a pod.

These pods avoid pain, ill-health and mental disturbance. In many aspects, being a pod is good for them. It leaves them in a very dull world but that, by the way, is the world that most of us live in.

You choose to be one of the pods for the same reason people welcome going into the army or prison. There’s regimentation, a lack of having to make up your mind, face decisions, taking risks.

People are becoming vegetables. I don’t know what the answer is except developing an awareness of it. That’s what makes reading Jack Finney’s Body Snatchers or watching the picture Invasion of the Body Snatchers helpful to me.

Don’t hold your breath waiting for this to happen, the corrupt court system gave these parasites carte blanche by legitimizing “resisting” as a crime, they’re all in the same incestuous relation: them against us.
The “officer feared for his safety” bullshit is what drives me round the bend; if these “heroes” are really such chickenshit pussies they should seek another line of work, maybe they could be librarians (no offense to actual librarians intended). At least firemen know that their job will sometimes require running into a burning building, and they seem ok with that. My job before I retired involved working on high voltage power lines out of a bucket truck. Wouldn’t have held that job very long if I told people freezing in the dark after an ice storm that they’d just have to tough it out till springtime because I feared for my “safety”.
It’s probably too late for us to reverse this absent some violent retribution on these psychopaths; most cops joining up these days are ex-military who probably signed up so they could kill people and be “heroes” instead of going to jail for murder. Now they can still get away with murder and you haven’t a chance to defend yourself, my 12 gauge wouldn’t even make a dent in an MRAP if the PTB decide to send a SWAT team to my house. All that’s missing now are the brown shirts and swastikas.

When Dishonest Abe spoke of gunvermin ‘of the people, by the people, and for the people,’ he was positing a major change. John Adams spoke instead of ‘a government of laws, NOT of men.’ (emphasis added) This is one way of saying ‘Equal justice under the law.’ Costumes, badges and guns should not put one above the law. Nor should any other position, even that of ‘Decider.’
Some of those who post here are opposed to the concept of limited liability of corporations. I admit there can be problems, but I submit that those problems are caused by gunvermin interference, not by the corporations themselves. But at least there is SOME liability, even if limited. And it is the corporation (and its owners) that are held liable in those cases, not the tax cattle.
The Torah is very specific that one law is to apply to all, that neither the rich nor the poor should be favored or discriminated against. “You shall not discern faces.” I.e., your decision should have nothing to do with who is involved. Justice is to be the pursuit of all.
Of course a big part of the problem is that we have gotten away from the idea of laws as being derived from moral principles and shifted to ‘positive’ law, the idea that the law is WHATEVER the gunvermin says it is. ‘Malum prohibitum,’ as I saw it referred to on another thread this morning. The reason many (most?) people have accepted this is that we have become (have been for some time) a humanistic society. Man is the measure of all things. This goes back at least as far as the Constitution, which opens, “We the people.” That is to say, man is in charge.
I’ve rambled long enough for now.

Eric, I enjoyed reading this. For whatever reason, I often post something unrelated to your articles. This time it’s a summary of Rabbi Ayn Rand’s Gospel: Atlas Shrugged – Chapter 1. Keep up the good work.

Eddie Willers, special assistant to the vice president in charge of operations of Taggart Transcontinental Railroad, is accosted by a bum on the streets of New York City, who asks him, “Who is John Galt?” The question is an expression of futility — a slang phrase that indicates a hopeless situation. Eddie doesn’t like the question, just as he doesn’t like to see shops closing along Fifth Avenue and other previously prosperous streets. He is troubled by the steadily declining revenues of the railroad and the diminishing industrial output of the country in general.

Eddie speaks to James Taggart, president of the railroad, regarding the desperate condition of the track on their Rio Norte Line that serves Colorado, the last state whose industrial production is booming. He reminds Jim that Colorado — the home of Ellis Wyatt, whose discovery of a new method of extracting oil from shale rock led to the boom — is vital to the country’s survival and can’t be left without transportation. Taggart Transcontinental needs new rail now. Jim says that his friend Orren Boyle, the head of Associated Steel, has experienced unavoidable delays in the production of his rail and can’t be blamed. Eddie says that Hank Rearden of Rearden Steel, the last great steel producer in the country, can provide the rails. Taggart refuses to consider Eddie’s proposition.

Jim’s sister and Eddie’s boss, Dagny Taggart, returns from a trip to examine the Rio Norte Line. Dagny found the line in worse shape than she expected. She tells Jim that she has cancelled the order with Associated Steel and placed it with Rearden. Dagny has ordered rail made not of steel but of a new product, Rearden Metal. Jim objects on the grounds that the new metal has never been tried before and hasn’t been approved by public opinion. Dagny, who studied engineering in college, tells him that she has seen Rearden’s formula and tests, and she’s convinced that Rearden’s invention is superior to steel. Dagny also says that she’ll use Rearden Metal to rebuild the Rio Norte Line and win back shippers from Dan Conway’s superb Phoenix-Durango Railroad, which now carries most of Colorado’s freight traffic. She’s determined to save the railroad from the consequences of Jim’s policies, especially his construction of the worthless San Sebastian Line which, she asserts, the socialist Mexican government will imminently nationalize.

Other things besides her brother’s destructive policies disturb Dagny. For example, she wants to promote Owen Kellogg, an efficient employee of the Terminal Division, but he quits and leaves the railroad industry entirely. Furthermore, Dagny heard a young brakeman on her returning train whistling a theme that sounded like a composition of Richard Halley, the composer whose works she loves. But Halley retired suddenly eight years ago and disappeared. When she questioned the brakeman regarding the new piece, he replied that it was Halley’s Fifth Concerto. After she reminded him that Halley wrote only four, he became evasive. Dagny calls the company that publishes Halley’s music and finds that he hasn’t written a new piano concerto.

Analysis

The American economy is gradually collapsing. Industrial production is in steady decline, stores are closing, and workers are unemployed. A general gloominess pervades the culture, giving rise to the rhetorical question, “Who is John Galt?” The question expresses the widespread belief that no one can answer the difficult questions facing the American society. Dagny and Eddie contemptuously reject this pessimistic attitude and fight it.

Ayn Rand sets up a contrast immediately between Dagny, the story’s heroine, and her brother, Jim. Both are businesspeople, but each holds markedly different moral and political theories. Dagny is a model of the spirit and practice of capitalism. She believes in industrial production and profit — hard work and earning large amounts of money. She orders rails from Hank Rearden instead of Orren Boyle because Rearden delivers his product and Boyle does not. Likewise, Dagny will provide freight service to Ellis Wyatt and the Colorado industrialists but not to the destitute economy of socialist Mexico because Wyatt and his colleagues produce but the Mexican economy does not. Jim, on the other hand, is an example of the spirit and practice of socialism. He believes in sacrificing for the “public good” and in giving chances to the little guy, rather than dealing with those already successful. He orders rail from Associated Steel instead of the efficient Rearden Steel in order, he says, to give Orren Boyle a chance. Likewise, Jim builds the San Sebastian Line at a cost of millions to give the impoverished Mexicans an economic opportunity. Dagny seeks to earn profit; Jim seeks to serve the public welfare. Because of their underlying differences, Dagny and Jim clash regarding the San Sebastian Line, the choice of steel companies, and many other things.

Jim lacks a mind of his own. Public opinion is an important consideration for him. For example, he’s afraid to take a chance on Rearden Metal because the product is new and not yet accepted by society. Jim Taggart isn’t a man willing to trust his own judgment, and he’s not one to innovate or take a chance on inventions or new methods. Dagny, on the other hand, isn’t concerned with what people believe or say. She has a mind of her own and follows her own judgment. For example, she studies Rearden’s formula and examines the results of his testing in order to understand the metal’s superiority. Dagny is a rigorous engineer concerned only with the facts of the metal and its capabilities, not with the public’s beliefs or fears. Dagny says that she’ll take full responsibility for the metal’s performance, and Jim finally agrees to the purchase of Rearden metal rails. Dagny stakes her future on her own judgment.

This chapter also shows the ominous collapse of American industrial production. The closing plants and stores, the rising unemployment, and the lack of consumer goods aren’t the only elements adding to the growing gloom. The retirement and mysterious disappearance of brilliant, talented individuals in a wide range of fields adds to society’s pessimistic outlook. For example, Richard Halley, the brilliant composer whose music Dagny loves, has retired and gone into seclusion. Likewise, Owen Kellogg, a rising young star of Taggart Transcontinental, tells Dagny that he’s leaving not only the Taggart line, but railroading entirely. He loves his work, and he doesn’t plan a career in another field, but he leaves. Owen’s reasons are a mystery to Dagny; she finds his actions inexplicable.

The question of the new piece of music also troubles her. She knows with certainty that only Richard Halley could’ve written the melody that the young Taggart brakeman whistled. But the boy’s attitude became evasive when Dagny reminded him that Halley wrote only four piano concertos. And the publisher of his music assures her that Halley is retired and has stopped writing. There is no fifth Halley concerto. What, then, was the young brakeman whistling? Why did he tell her it was Halley’s Fifth and then retract his claim?

The steady decline of American prosperity reminds Eddie Willers of the oak tree that stood on the Taggart estate when he was a child. The tree was huge and powerful and stood for centuries. In fact, Eddie thought that it would always stand there. Its roots were deeply embedded in the soil, and Eddie thought that if a giant grabbed the tree, he would be unable to uproot it but would swing the hill and the entire earth with it “like a ball at the end of a string.” The youthful Eddie thought of the oak tree as a symbol of strength and solidity and felt safe in its presence. However, lightning struck the tree. When Eddie looked into its trunk, he discovered that the interior had rotted away long ago. The trunk was merely an empty shell, no longer containing living power. The adult Eddie experiences the same feeling when walking into the Taggart Building. He always felt safe there, in the midst of its great power and its capacity to provide train service to a continent. But now when he walks into the president’s office — the heart of the building and of the railroad — Eddie doesn’t find the energy of a great living power. Instead, he finds the deadly inner corruption that is James Taggart.

The oak tree, giving the appearance of strength and vitality, is a symbol to Eddie. It reminds him that things aren’t always what they seem — particularly that the outward appearance of power isn’t necessarily an accurate indication of inner reality. Taggart Transcontinental (and the U.S. economy in a more general sense), although powerful and seemingly safe through many years, has now rotted away. Eddie wonders what is causing the deterioration.

Glossary

Who is John Galt? This phrase is uttered as a sign of despair and hopelessness. The question lacks specific meaning and cannot be answered. Its use in everyday language is a sign that people believe answers don’t exist to the problems that plague American society. Dagny and (to a lesser extent) Eddie are dynamic thinkers and people of action who believe that answers are possible and that positive steps can be taken to save American society. Consequently, they reject the pessimism that this question embodies.

Rearden Metal This is the new substance created by steel industrialist Hank Rearden after ten years of demanding effort. The new metal is lighter, stronger, and cheaper than steel. Although its innovative nature frightens people and it hasn’t been accepted yet, Rearden and Dagny both know that this product will revolutionize industrial production.

Who is Clover?