A Previous Subtle Effort By The Same Obama Propagandists

How symbolic, the red and blue spheres merge and the resultant color is a deeper shade of blue. Propaganda is considered effective if it is subtle and delivers a covert or subliminal message without the subject being aware of the intent. In this image, the profile of Obama was superimposed over the merging of Conservatism and Socialism with the profile of Obama and the result is a deeper shade of blue; picturesque and convenient, Obama brings the country together and we are united under a deeper shade of Marxism. It was created by the same team that made the Chrysler commercial; it hasn’t achieved fruition, but not for a lack of effort by Obama and his lackeys.

Our public school systems have been infiltrated with the Leftist Part Line for decades. At first the message was so vague, we thought it was merely coincidences, teachers and text writers surely couldn’t be so blatant and obvious with their political agenda; oh, but think back, while we refused to call liars and Socialists as such, they increased their efforts and relied on terrorists like Bill Ayers, confidant to our president, for the Leftist message now in our children’s text books.

Now, either Eastwood has allowed himself to be duped like a moron or he is a part of the deception; regardless of his intent, he has been used as a key element in the Leftist propaganda movement. Unfortunately, we have all been played for dupes by the creative schemers of the Left for while Eastwood tells America we are at the halftime of the recovery, during the halftime of the largest event in television history, the insidious message is implied that America needs to give Obama four more years to complete his anemic recovery, that seems to elude everyone but billionaires, bankers, and others on the dole.

The fact that Chrysler is staging a fart, stumble, fall type recovery based mainly on enriching Obama cronies and unions with our taxpayer money is pushed from our consciousness; since, we receive the subliminal message to equate the auto maker’s efforts with our fight against terrorism, the struggle of Obama to win reelection, and the struggle of the two athletic teams. In the excitement of the neo-gladitorial struggle portrayed on the boob tube, we are supposed to lose ourselves in the excitement and intellectual numbness of the game, much like the games in Rome that staged to entertain the masses or the mob in Rome to keep them content and less likely to riot. Thus in a similar way, we are played for fools by the people who stage our games; no they aren’t staged to prevent us from rioting, but what an excellent time to exploit our self-imposed stupor to insinuate a covert message to reelect our failed president by one of his corporate acquisitions, with a percentage of Obama’s funny stash money, more commonly known as tax payer money.

Oh, but you say the message is vague and imprecise, how can you make the connection: sorry people, the message is supposed to be vague and imprecise, it is supposed to leave a subliminal impression that will encourage the mobs of unthinking drones to vote for Obama once again; after all, hasn’t he struggled valiantly to repay his contributors and unions with taxpayer money, at least when he can find time between golf games and vacations. The fact that the connection is obvious to those who are alert and cognizant means the message is there. If you want to deny it, like Eastwood who so gallantly gave his check to charity, but also willingly gave his image and voice to the Marxism of Obama, means you either endorse the Socialist cause or you are to dense to notice the ever deepening pool of Obama Socialism.

Whether you hunt lions, Grizzlies, or men, there is a moment that defines the hunt; a mere split second can mean the difference between success or cataclysmic failure.

I was recently lion hunting in Colorado, it was a beautiful day in the mountains: the sun was bright, there was a few inches of fresh lightly packed snow, and the temperatures were in the twenties; of course, the temperature dropped with increases in elevation.

The snow was perfect for reading sign and there were plenty of Mountain Lions on the mountain, but the fresh tracks were from cats that were too small; still, it was a pleasure to see that the main predator of Colorado was thriving and that there would be excellent hunting in the future. The big cats were hanging out somewhere else, and more specifically the mature males with the brown patch on their rump were probably checking out the real cougars for liaisons of a more delicate nature; for it would soon be the season for lion humpy-rumpy if memory serves correctly. I think back to the time, many years ago, when an amorous cougar thought I looked pretty sexy in the moonlight, with a big boar beaver strapped to my back and walking on thin rotten ice over a wild river in flood; but that’s the kind of hunting story my fellow hunters like to hear at night around the fire after a couple shots of rye.

We were hunting in perfect conditions, and we were seeing many tracks, but none were worthy of a spirited chase by the hounds. Only the large tom lion is considered fair game, and they were either hiding or having a convention somewhere else in the mountains; this is why they call it hunting, and it is the mark of an amateur to become frustrated and not enjoy the beauty of the day and the mountains.

During the same period in Idaho, a similar scene was taking place, but on this trip the hounds man had a hunter who wanted to kill a cat with a bow. The bow is a primitive weapon and a legitimate weapon; it has been used effectively by hunters for several thousand years. I have nothing against bow hunting; I have enjoyed bow hunting and may yet hunt, once again, with a bow in the future, but hunting with a bow requires familiarity and practice to be competent. Primitive man depended on the bow to avoid starvation. We are no longer faced with such a demanding lifestyle, but hunters have a responsibility to provide a clean death and not to endanger himself or others with unwarranted danger because of his unfamiliarity with the bow.

On this particular hunt, as related to me by a rancher friend from Idaho, who has a friend with a pack of hounds, who makes a business of guiding lion hunters. His hunter waited until the hounds had a large lion treed before stringing his bow and notching an arrow to take aim. Normally, a cat will stay in the tree and not challenge a pack of five hounds, but depending on predictable behavior from wild animals is like trying to predict human behavior.

This cat jumped into the pack of hounds, while our hunter was still preparing his bow for the climax of the hunt, the cat killed four of the five hounds in the length of time an arrow would have needed to reach the cat. The huntsman’s best hound quit the melee and opted for the old parable of discretion being the better part of valor, before having his carotid ripped open. Then the cat quit the scene of carnage, and our hunter was still struggling to string his bow.

When people have asked me about the dangers of Grizzly hunting, I tell them it’s not as dangerous as you might think, but you just need to realize, some days you kill the bear and on other days, the bear kills you.

It would be funny, except it is closer to the truth than you may realize. We Conservatives are now engaged in a presidential primary; a primary that is as interesting and as dangerous as lion or bear hunting. We have the media and our Republican Elites trying to select our candidate without us and if we take too long to string our bows and notch our arrows or opinions, they may select our candidate without our input and we will have essentially been killed, for all practical purposes.

Tim Thomas, the goalie for the Stanley Cup winning Boston Bruins, declined an invitation to the White House and the opportunity to gaze upon the royal Narcissist. Massachusetts is aghast at the nerve of a mere athlete making a political statement; especially when the statement is in direct contradiction of the state’s love of Socialism and their great hope for the future of the world.

Massachusetts Governor Patrick thought the grievous snub was a direct result of the public’s lack of courtesy and grace; although, goalies have never been known to be overly courteous, and their grace consists primarily of moves orchestrated to stop hundred mile an hour pucks and defending their nets with a ferocity that few of us can comprehend; however, Mr Thomas has exhibited qualities that mark him as an independent thinker and not the sort of sap that responds to the ultimate fan, who wants desperately to be among great athletes and cultivate a symbiotic mutual admiration.

Governor Patrick of Massachusetts expressed Liberal outrage at the official snub, but was willing to concede that Thomas has the right to his own opinion, and this is truly a notable concession from the Governor of a Socialist State. We should all be thankful that citizens living in Massachusetts still have the right to personal opinions and the right to refuse an invitation from a Socialist President.

“He’s a phenomenal hockey player and he’s entitled to his views,” Patrick said. “It just feels like we are losing in this country basic courtesy and grace.”

The governor said while he strongly disagreed with many of the policies of former President George W. Bush, a Republican, he was always respectful when they met.

“I always referred to him as Mr. President, I stood when he came into the room. There are rules to live by,” Patrick said.

The opinions of Thomas were well stated and reflected disappointment with the current president. He made an effective statement in a Liberal State that will probably make his tenure with the Bruins more difficult in the future.

I believe the Federal government has grown out of control, threatening the Rights, Liberties, and Property of the People.

This is being done at the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial level. This is in direct opposition to the Constitution and the Founding Fathers vision for the Federal government.

Because I believe this, today I exercised my right as a Free Citizen, and did not visit the White House. This was not about politics or party, as in my opinion both parties are responsible for the situation we are in as a country. This was about a choice I had to make as an INDIVIDUAL.

This is the only public statement I will be making on this topic.

Actually, not everyone is swept away by those who presume royal status, and many refuse to participate in the charade of political lunacy that supposedly honors those of great achievement so that they can stand in awe of those of outstanding mediocrity. Throughout Queen Elizabeth’s Reign, she has been snubbed by over 250 high achievers who refused to participate in receiving honors of dubious merit from a near meaningless monarchy. Many artists and writers: Lucian Freud, Henry Moore, Roald Dahl, CS Lewis, Francis Bacon, and my personal favorite Twentieth Century British author Aldous Huxley, have chosen to forego the honor of a personal audience and awards like the CBE, Commander of the Order of the British Empire.

The late author, JG Ballard, summed up his antipathy with the British Monarchy:

“The whole thing is a preposterous charade, thousands of medals are given out in the name of a non-existent empire. It makes us look like a laughing stock.”

Although Ballard and Thomas expressed different reasons for their aversion to participating in a silly charade; essentially, they both refused to be sucked in by the phony pomp and circumstance so typical among rulers attempting to define their own dubious relevance among individuals of merit. Congratulations Tim Thomas, you stand among many men of merit who have refused to be used by those who want to borrow your fame and accomplishments. Hopefully, you will play on several more Stanley Cup Teams in the future, regardless of their location.

Hasta La Vista Kim Baby!

Kim Jung Il’s life: a soliloquy in lunacy and madness.

Often the sages admonish
Oh Death, be not so proud
A tender soul’s last wish
The welfare of others be allowed

Death unkind, strikes indiscriminate
History records with only a wretched few
Death comes not soon enough to elate
The drop of his miserable carcass in its tomb

This could well be a scripted scene from a remake of Orwell’s 1984:

This is a more realistic response.

The world awaits the apparent madness of the heir apparent and the ubiquitous and fawning attention by our State Department to insure adequate supplies for the country and an effortless transition of power from one totalitarian despot to another, like when we aided Kim and his transition of ultimate Nepotism.

From the pen of Hitchens, 2005:

One tries to avoid cliché, and I did my best on a visit to this terrifying country in the year 2000, but George Orwell’s 1984was published at about the time that Kim Il Sung set up his system, and it really is as if he got hold of an early copy of the novel and used it as a blueprint. (“Hmmm … good book. Let’s see if we can make it work.”)

Actually, North Korea is rather worse than Orwell’s dystopia. There would be no way, in the capital city of Pyongyang, to wander off and get lost in the slums, let alone to rent an off-the-record love nest in a room over a shop. Everybody in the city has to be at home and in bed by curfew time, when all the lights go off (if they haven’t already failed). A recent nighttime photograph of the Korean peninsula from outer space shows something that no “free-world” propaganda could invent: a blaze of electric light all over the southern half, stopping exactly at the demilitarized zone and becoming an area of darkness in the north.

Kim, Rest In Hell, you evil bastard!

Christopher Hitchens 1949-2011, essayist, provocateur, wit, atheist, Brit-American and honest man, passed away on December 15. A Socialist early in life who evolved into a Marxist and eventually into a Conservative Marxist (a distinction he coined), later in life; Hitchens played no favorites and took no prisoners with his writing, he sought victims from both the Left and the Right, using his views of incompetence and dishonesty to guide his sharp critiques of those he eviscerated with indifference and without remorse, but regardless of whether you agreed with him, and he almost always bucked public opinion, he had the ability to make you think.

In this country, we have a phony pantheon of self-proclaimed intellects, starting with the president and his crew of faux intellectuals, but we have a few men who can write, Krauthammer, Sowell, Hanson, Horowitz, Goldberg, men who can write and make you think; Hitchens was among those who have a tremendous grasp of history and can write in a manner that will cause you to think and reconsider. There is a common thread among these writers and several others; they are honest in their opinions and expression. They have not let solipsism become immersed and diverted into proscribed theories of thought and writing that must conform to the party line without deviation or independent thought. No one can say that Hitchens wrote within the boundaries of Leftist drivel that we read in the New York Times or watch on the Main Stream Media. He was honest to his own convictions and was willing to let his thinking evolve when exposed to new evidence.

Hitchens excoriated the Clintons, George Bush, Kissinger, Mother Theresa, Sara Palin, and many others, but he could do it with wit and style.

Typical Hitches in the giddy-up:

“[George W Bush] is lucky to be governor of Texas. He is unusually incurious, abnormally unintelligent, amazingly inarticulate, fantastically uncultured, extraordinarily uneducated, and apparently quite proud of all these things.” – Hardball with Chris Matthews, NBC, 2000

“‘Bombing Afghanistan back into the Stone Age’ was quite a favourite headline for some wobbly liberals. The slogan does all the work. But an instant’s thought shows that Afghanistan is being, if anything, bombed OUT of the Stone Age.” – Daily Mirror, November 2001

“The noble title of ‘dissident’ must be earned rather than claimed; it connotes sacrifice and risk rather than mere disagreement …”

“Do bear in mind that the cynics have a point, of a sort, when they speak of the ‘professional naysayer’.” “To be in opposition is not to be a nihilist. And there is no decent or charted way of making a living at it. It is something you are, and not something you do.” – Letters to a Young Contrarian, 2001

“[Mother Teresa] was not a friend of the poor. She was a friend of poverty. She said that suffering was a gift from God. She spent her life opposing the only known cure for poverty, which is the empowerment of women and the emancipation of them from a livestock version of compulsory reproduction.” – Slate, October 2003

“The search for nirvana, like the search for utopia or the end of history or the classless society, is ultimately a futile and dangerous one. It involves, if it does not necessitate, the sleep of reason. There is no escape from anxiety and struggle.” – Love, Poverty, and War: Journeys and Essays, 2004

“Those who had alleged that a million civilians were dying from sanctions were willing, nay eager, to keep those same murderous sanctions if it meant preserving Saddam!” – The Weekly Standard, May 2005.

“The Bible may, indeed does, contain a warrant for trafficking in humans, for ethnic cleansing, for slavery, for bride-price, and for indiscriminate massacre, but we are not bound by any of it because it was put together by crude, uncultured human mammals.” – God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything, 2007

“My own view is that this planet is used as a penal colony, lunatic asylum and dumping ground by a superior civilisation, to get rid of the undesirable and unfit. I can’t prove it, but you can’t disprove it either.” – God Is Not Great

“The only position that leaves me with no cognitive dissonance is atheism. It is not a creed. Death is certain, replacing both the siren-song of Paradise and the dread of Hell. Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more.” – The Portable Atheist: Essential Readings for the Non-Believer, 2007

His support of the Iraq War and deposing of Saddam Hussein, and denouncing the Islamo Fascism of the Middle East put him at odds with the Left.

“I got hold of a copy of the video that showed how Saddam Hussein had actually confirmed himself in power. This snuff-movie opens with a plenary session of the Ba’ath Party central committee: perhaps a hundred men. Suddenly the doors are locked and Saddam, in the chair, announces a special session. Into the room is dragged an obviously broken man, who begins to emit a robotic confession of treason and subversion, that he sobs has been instigated by Syrian and other agents. As the (literally) extorted confession unfolds, names begin to be named. Once a fellow-conspirator is identified, guards come to his seat and haul him from the room. The reclining Saddam, meanwhile, lights a large cigar and contentedly scans his dossiers. The sickness of fear in the room is such that men begin to crack up and weep, rising to their feet to shout hysterical praise, even love, for the leader. Inexorably, though, the cull continues, and faces and bodies go slack as their owners are pinioned and led away. When it is over, about half the committee members are left, moaning with relief and heaving with ardent love for the boss. (In an accompanying sequel, which I have not seen, they were apparently required to go into the yard outside and shoot the other half, thus sealing the pact with Saddam. I am not sure that even Beria or Himmler would have had the nerve and ingenuity and cruelty to come up with that.)”

His opinion of Michael Moore:

“If Michael Moore had had his way, Slobodan Milosevic would still be the big man in a starved and tyrannical Serbia. Bosnia and Kosovo would have been cleansed and annexed. If Michael Moore had been listened to, Afghanistan would still be under Taliban rule, and Kuwait would have remained part of Iraq. And Iraq itself would still be the personal property of a psychopathic crime family, bargaining covertly with the slave state of North Korea for WMD. You might hope that a retrospective awareness of this kind would induce a little modesty. To the contrary, it is employed to pump air into one of the great sagging blimps of our sorry, mediocre, celeb-rotten culture. Rock the vote, indeed.”

On George Bush:

“[George W. Bush] is lucky to be governor of Texas. He is unusually incurious, abnormally unintelligent, amazingly inarticulate, fantastically uncultured, extraordinarily uneducated, and apparently quite proud of all these things.”
“The general view was that you were a provincial Texan with no interest in doing anything much except shrinking the budget and cutting the maximum tax rate. (This general view was more or less right.)”

“George Bush made a mistake when he referred to the Saddam Hussein regime as ‘evil.’ Every liberal and leftist knows how to titter at such black-and-white moral absolutism. What the president should have done, in the unlikely event that he wanted the support of America’s peace-mongers, was to describe a confrontation with Saddam as the ‘lesser evil.’”

His latest book, a memoir, Hitch-22

“I became a journalist partly so that I wouldn’t ever have to rely on the press for my information.” – Hitch-22, 2010

“What is your idea of earthly happiness? To be vindicated in my own lifetime.” – Hitch-22

“Cheap booze is a false economy.” – Hitch-22

“Where would you like to live? In a state of conflict or a conflicted state?” – Hitch-22

A man whose favorite author was George Orwell, will have redeeming qualities.

Yes, he criticized George Bush and Mother Theresa, he may have been an avowed Marxist, but he called out phonies on the Left and the Right. He admired America’s fighting man and felt that America’s Revolution was the best revolution. He was a wit and a great thinker; among the greatest wits of this era.

One of my favorite essays of his, is this hit piece is on Hillary and Bill, it deals with the honesty mentioned earlier:

Why on earth would we choose to put the Clinton family drama at the center of our politics again?
By Christopher Hitchens|Posted Monday, Jan. 14, 2008, at 12:15 PM ET

Hillary Clinton
Seeing the name Hillary in a headline last week—a headline about a life that had involved real achievement—I felt a mouse stirring in the attic of my memory. Eventually, I was able to recall how the two Hillarys had once been mentionable in the same breath. On a first-lady goodwill tour of Asia in April 1995—the kind of banal trip that she now claims as part of her foreign-policy “experience”—Mrs. Clinton had been in Nepal and been briefly introduced to the late Sir Edmund Hillary, conqueror of Mount Everest. Ever ready to milk the moment, she announced that her mother had actually named her for this famous and intrepid explorer. The claim “worked” well enough to be repeated at other stops and even showed up in Bill Clinton’s memoirs almost a decade later, as one more instance of the gutsy tradition that undergirds the junior senator from New York.
Sen. Clinton was born in 1947, and Sir Edmund Hillary and his partner Tenzing Norgay did not ascend Mount Everest until 1953, so the story was self-evidently untrue and eventually yielded to fact-checking. Indeed, a spokeswoman for Sen. Clinton named Jennifer Hanley phrased it like this in a statement in October 2006, conceding that the tale was untrue but nonetheless charming: “It was a sweet family story her mother shared to inspire greatness in her daughter, to great results I might add.”

Perfect. It worked, in other words, having been coined long after Sir Edmund became a bankable celebrity, but now its usefulness is exhausted and its untruth can safely be blamed on Mummy. Yet isn’t it all—all of it, every single episode and detail of the Clinton saga—exactly like that? And isn’t some of it a little bit more serious? For Sen. Clinton, something is true if it validates the myth of her striving and her “greatness” (her overweening ambition in other words) and only ceases to be true when it no longer serves that limitless purpose. And we are all supposed to applaud the skill and the bare-faced bravado with which this is done. In the New Hampshire primary in 1992, she knowingly lied about her husband’s uncontainable sex life and put him eternally in her debt. This is now thought of, and referred to in print, purely as a smart move on her part. In the Iowa caucuses of 2008, he returns the favor by telling a huge lie about his own record on the war in Iraq, falsely asserting that he was opposed to the intervention from the very start. This is thought of, and referred to in print, as purely a tactical mistake on his part: trying too hard to help the spouse. The happy couple has now united on an equally mendacious account of what they thought about Iraq and when they thought it. What would it take to break this cheap little spell and make us wake up and inquire what on earth we are doing when we make the Clinton family drama—yet again—a central part of our own politics?

Hitchens considered Thomas Jefferson the Author of America, and admired the writings of Thomas Paine, Evelyn Waugh, Bob Dylan, and George Orwell. Although he was an atheist or an anti-theist as he called himself, it is interesting to note that he appreciated Dylan and Waugh, whose works are deeply rooted in theism.

He was a complex and complicated man, who refused to tell you what you wanted to hear, but instead concentrated on honest opinions; he was an honest thinker, and we need to recognize the advantages of honest men over partisan hacks and propaganda politicians. A political system like our Republic requires differing opinions and a swing of power and influence like a metronome; how refreshing it would be to have politicians and pundits with wit, who could offer ideas in opposition that would tend to make America stronger rather than intentionally trying to destroy the country to rebuild or transform America into some form of Marxist tyrannical dystopia.

Who among us has not yet known fear?
up close heard the mighty grizzly roar
a child, trembling in the dark with tears
For our Fear itself has history and lore

Many of us fear the night
and stay so near the light
Fear stalks us in different ways
Master fear or cower all your days

Fear is real or created
Thus evil can be elated
Using fears to manipulate
Satan’s key to Hell’s gate

Skook 09

Irrational fear is one of our most dangerous enemies. H1N1 is an irrational fear, every year the seasonal flu kills 40,000 people with challenged immune systems and H1N1 is a more benign flu than the seasonal flu; yet, because of the Obama administration’s irresponsible hype over this flu, an unrealistic fear became a form of national hysteria.

I once saw irrational fear consume a friend, years ago; his name was Johnny or Barb Wire Johnny. He was one of the best horsemen, I’ve ever known. Johnny lived in the bush country of Northern British Columbia; he was an outfitter, trapper, and horse trainer. A small man with long black flowing hair, black locks of hair that the most beautiful women in the world can only dream about.

With a gentle heart and calm steady hands he could make the best ranch horses, mountain horses, pack horses, and driving horses I have ever seen. For all his abilities, Johnny had his personal demons; like many in the North he was part native and possessed a weakness for alcohol, a common affliction in the North Country.

Johnny also had a taste for high venison; most of us ate moose and moose hardly ever spoils, but Johnny liked to hang his venison until it started to spoil. It caused him to have a permanent case of dysentery and Johnny never quite made the connection.

Like many of the old timers, Johnny wore moose hide moccasins and leggins, in the winter he also wore a union suit beneath his moose hide clothes. That’s a pair of woolen long johns with a two button flap in the back for life’s necessaries.

Unfortunately, Johnny might be overtaken by his dietary problems at any moment, so he liked to stuff straw or hay in the back door of his union suit, just in case. Moose hide stretches and Johnny was always stretching his leather leggins from riding horses and stuffing the hind end with straw. It was funny to watch a little man with an oversized and sagging butt walking away, but I never said anything.

I was Johnny’s connection to the outside world, I brought the whiskey, horses for training, and cash paying hunters. I lived on a ranch with a phone, an asset that is considered a real advantage for a business man. There was usually at least a dozen people listening to every conversation, but it was a phone. I helped him with the hooves, shoes, and teeth, and he taught me of the mystical world of man and horse or the science of turning two critters into one, many of the same lessons I use in my business to this day.

Johnny struggled for a long time trying to make spurs out of barb wire that would work with moccasins, no matter what he did he couldn’t get them to stay in place. Eventually, I made a pair of spurs in the forge that would work for tiny moccasin’ed feet, he was so grateful it was touching. Little did he know, I would use his knowledge and techniques to build a business that would take me all over the world.

On a cold October day, I was bringing in a couple of hunters from the States along with several green colts for Johnny to train, when darkness overtook us. Traveling in the dark is risky business, it’s easy to lose an eye or run a snag through yourself or your horse, so we made camp about twelve miles from Johnny’s cabin. The temperature dropped to 30 below, and the hunters suffered from the cold; but I didn’t want the hunters to ride in the dark, there are just too many accidents waiting to happen.

We rode into the yard in the grey light of a snowy morning and heard screaming like someone was torturing Johnny in the cabin. I drew my rifle from the scabbard and jumped off my horse and hit the ground on the run. The cabin door was latched from the inside, I kicked it open while listening to Johnny screaming in agony. I stepped into Johnny’s cabin expecting to put rounds through one or more bad guys.

Johnny saw me and yelled, “Shoot him Skook! Shoot him!”

I surveyed the scene in front of me, propped my rifle against the cabin wall, drew my knife and walked towards Johnny‘s bunk.

During the night the fire had gone out and Johnny’s moisture laden breath froze his beautiful black locks to the iron bedstead. While trapped by ice and his own hair, Johnny let his imagination run away with him, he dreamed or envisioned the devil holding him down by the hair; consequently, he promised to give up drinking when he saw his departed mother praying for him over the tongue of the wagon if only she could help him out of this fix.

I drew my knife through Johnny’s hair next to the iron rail, he jumped up and ran outside to collapse on the ice and snow in front of the two hunters who were still on their horses and probably thought they had ridden into an asylum.

I walked outside, knelt down and consoled Johnny, who was in his sweat soaked union suit and barefoot. “Skook, Skook you are the bravest man in the world. You threw down your rifle and took on the devil with your knife. There has never been a braver man than you.”

I smiled, all I had to do is let Johnny carry on with his delusion and I would be a legend in the Omineca Peace Region for a hundred years. I told him the truth, “No Johnny, the devil wasn’t in the cabin. Your hair was frozen to the iron rail on your bed.”

Johnny looked at me as if I were crazy. “I, I saw my mother on the tongue of the wagon praying for me.”

I shook my head, “No Johnny, it’s impossible to see your mother on the tongue of the wagon from your bed, that was your imagination.”

Johnny was slowly regaining his grasp of reality. “I swore if I could get loose from the devil, I would give up whiskey, but the devil didn’t really have me.”

“No Johnny, the devil wasn’t there,” I told him.

“Then I don’t have to give up drinking!”

I could see an advantage disappearing, I tried another direction, “It depends on how you look at it Johnny.”

Suddenly with an inner calm, Johnny asked, “Did you bring the whiskey?”

I couldn’t lie, “yes, I have whiskey.”

“Good, I need a drink, you talk to those hunters while I get ready and then we will take them out for a hunt.”

Johnny’s hysteria is not much different from the hysteria over H1N1 or the Global Warming Hoax; Johnny was duped by his own imagination and was on the verge of believing anything during his delusion, especially if I had taken sadistic pleasure in perpetuating the delusion.

Americans are proving to be a gullible people, following the pied piper-like images of Al Gore and Obama. Their delusion and vivid imagination is being used to ensnare them into the belief that the government will save them from destruction and death, if only they will trust the good intentions of the Socialist State or Obama’s omnipotence. Thus our lemming like public is being duped by the Obama administration.

A basic difference between me and the Obama administration is that I didn’t want to use a delusion to advance my agenda.

Epilogue: This article was written and published in ’09; since then, many of us have forgotten this attempt by Obama to seize control. It failed, thank goodness, but we should not forget these pathetic attempts of leadership and the acquisition of control. Don’t think for a minute we would not have heard how Obama, had saved us from a terrible disaster, if the vaccine would have been ready, and not to mention the tidy little profit for the select drug company. Incompetence in government can work to our advantage occasionally.

As a country boy with six years of formal schooling, I am hardly the one to question the role of intellectuals in politics; however, after reading an article by Gary Gutting in the New York Times, I am reminded of a university professor who asked me to help him with a mule problem.

I love mules, but you must be careful with a mule, they can kick with lethal force if they feel they have been offended. Since most of my career with horses has been directed more toward sorting out human problems, rather than equine problems, I was a little apprehensive at the prospect of trying to help this professor and his mule. To be honest, professors tend to be among the least capable in matters dealing with animals and simple everyday problems. Problems that men of humble origins and trades can often solve with little or no deliberation, often baffle learned men, who tend to struggle with theory and morality rather than simple and obvious solutions.

In my youth, I helped several professors who wanted to be closer to the past and nature by owning and riding a horse. Fair enough, everyone needs an excuse for owning these expensive beasts, and seeking some elemental force of nature, makes as much sense as the rest of the excuses. However, mules often have a proclivity for exacting revenge on the human race for perceived injustices of a past life; therefore, I believe, mules are best handled by bona fide mule men, not university professors living in nineteenth century log houses, who want to get in touch with their roots (human not tree), but I heard a calling to help my fellow man and I saw an opportunity to make a few bucks.

I rode my Triumph motorcycle out through the country and enjoyed the colors of fall. I marveled at the beauty of the hardwood leaves after the frosts had killed them, and arrived at the professor’s farm with more than a little trepidation for what might lay ahead, hoping I wouldn’t end up like the colorful leaves.

The professor was glad to see me and dropped the standard pretensions of a tenured professor with condescension for all those who speak with country accents and wear cowboy boots. He seemed to be almost childlike in his excitement at my presence. He was proud of his farm, a former homestead, it was over 150 years old. Some poor homesteader had put his whole life into this 160 acres, a quarter section that at best, could barely yield forty bushels of topsoil an acre, it had never grown a decent crop and today it was a struggle to grow a garden, but it had once again, grown another crop of hard wood trees. But the professor owned it now, and it was a beautiful farm, despite not having crops or pasture.

He showed me, his log barn, his fine harness carriage, his buckboard, and his mule Emily. It was a match made in heaven; he loved the mule and the mule loved him. Emily was a mule that had never been abused by cruel hands and she was a model citizen. I had worried over problems that didn’t exist.

While the professor gushed over his mule and his farm, I began to wonder why I had been summoned to this farm. Everything seemed perfect, far better than most equine situations I am called to visit. The professor finally had to take a break in his speech to catch his wind and I asked why he needed me.

He apologized and said,”I need you to raise the front door of the barn.”

I was once known as a guy who could or at least try to do anything around a farm or ranch, but this seemed like ann odd request. It was an old square log barn and had large blocks of limestone located in strategic spots for a foundation. It was a good system, but not really designed to last a 150 years; the blocks had settled a little deeper every spring during the rains, and now the barn was a little lower than normal, but still high enough to function well. I tried to tell the professor the height of the lintel was well within the realm of reason, but he was agitated that I couldn’t grasp the seriousness of the problem.

He said I would need to see the problem myself, and put a halter with a lead shank on Emily and led her through the front door of the barn. I’ve only worked with thirty or forty mules, so I don’t really know if this is typical mule behavior, but when she walked through the door, she carried her ears straight up and rubbed them against the oak lintel of the door. As a horseman, I have been asked to deal with some bizarre problems, but this didn’t really seem to be a serious problem.

When I told the professor my feelings, he was incredulous, “Don’t you realize, she will wear the hair off her ears.” He showed me a vague strip of wear on the front of her ears. I wasn’t totally convinced that the perceived wear of the mule’s ears and the lintel were related, but some arguments aren’t really worth getting started.

I explained that the lintel over the door of the well made dove tailed barn was a special log, chosen for its strength, grain, and straightness. If I sawed into the log, we might be inviting trouble by compromising strength at a critical spot, that spot being the span over the door.

He was lost in deep thought over this information being added and causing complications to this unique predicament. I broke the silence by saying, “There is a much easier solution.”

With a look of incredulous exasperation, he twisted his lips to the side of his face, to hear my solution, “I can dig a trench about eight inches deep in the dirt beneath the door.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “It’s not her damn feet I’m worried about, it’s her ears.”

This professor considered himself an intellectual, and to him, I was but a mere tradesman of mortal lineage. True to the myopia of philosophy, his only concern was the ears of the mare, and he was determined to reach a conclusion by employing critical thinking: I was limited, by nature of an inferior intellect to solutions not based in theory and critical thinking, but to those related to real and practical solutions.

Mr Gutting is a professor of philosophy at Notre Dame; and is convinced of the superiority of critical thinking, but fails to mention the utter failure of the Obama Administration, an administration made up exclusively of critical thinkers from academia. Yet, after this stark demonstration of dismal failure by critical thinkers, we are supposed to be reassured by Mr Gutting’s self-serving arrogance, that seeks to legitimize a personal image of importance, after all, he writes for The Stone, “A forum for contemporary philosophers on issues both timely and timeless.”

With unabashed arrogance, Gary assures us of his intelligence, by informing us that he is among the most august of critical thinkers, “I’m an intellectual myself”; it’s just possible, that within this particular oxymoronic phrase, may be a clue to this deviant personality that is currently running amuck in government and in a permanent state of denial as to the charges of incompetence and corruption. Denial has become more than a river in Egypt, it is an endemic example of hubris among the not so bright intellectuals, currently in serving in the Obama Administration, who are teetering above the abyss of failure and humiliation.

From the nimble but dull fingers of Gutting and the pages of the NYT:

What is an intellectual? In general, someone seriously devoted to what used to be called the “life of the mind”: thinking pursued not instrumentally, for the sake of practical goals, but simply for the sake of knowing and understanding. Nowadays, universities are the most congenial spots for intellectuals, although even there corporatism and careerism are increasing threats.

It is such a joy, to read of someone describing himself as an intellectual, who writes with such finesse and precision. I am reminded of a cowardly man doing battle with a bed of rattle snakes while armed with a grub hoe. After reading this pregnant phrase of many vectors, “someone seriously devoted to what used to be called the” it’s obvious that intellectuals aren’t required or expected to write well. For reference, we know Hemingway was the master of the simple and concise sentence, and Melville was a genius with the complex double and triple entente; may we assume Gary Gutting is the champion of lost and bewildered adverbial phrases.

It would be easy enough to eviscerate Gary Gutting on the merits of his writing ability and embarrass him in front of his peers and anyone else who can read, but it is his message we seek. For if there is a protasis within this fart, stumble, fall style of writing, it evades the reader. For while his prose delights the ear of those who crave the mundane and boring, his adverbs assault our dignity in a relentless pursuit of relevance, but like the dog chasing its tail, his periphrasis becomes his catharsis. Relating to Aristotle, in Chapter VI of Poetics, “Tragedy through pity and fear effects a purgation of such emotions.”

Gary Gutting is primarily concerned with Newt or more precisely, fear of Newt. Newt is a bit of a problem for Leftists; oh fear not, they have excess baggage charges and they are ready to confront and dun him for back payments, but that is not the strategic issue. The prospect of an empty suit engaging Newt in debate is the terrifying issue. Oh dear, it brings to mind the great defeats of history, Stalingrad, Waterloo, The Little Big Horn. There is always the excitement of the contest beforehand, and the first few minutes when hope still springs eternal, before that same hope becomes a forlorn hope, but it is only a matter of time, before they are faced with the inevitable prospect of annihilation and utter defeat.

How best to neutralize the prospect of a witless pseudo-intellectual champion being embarrassed in the arena of ideas and indirectly casting aspersions toward all those who say with arrogance and condescension, “I’m an intellectual myself”; there is a simple solution, impress upon everyone, that intellectualism is a collective team effort of critical thought and that is how ignorance must be defeated. One man can’t be expected to lead a country; he needs a gaggle clueless intellectuals.

Unfortunately, Newt doesn’t need a team for a debate or a teleprompter, and pitting him against a fool who seems to be bewildered without his faithful teleprompter, will be like slaughtering lambs in an abattoir. A scene that doubtless will cause even the most cold blooded Socialist to admit the futility of resisting the epiplexis of a Newt/Hussein comedic tragedy.

Poor Gary, in an attempt to establish credibility as an intellectual and advance his vague aphorisms, he tries to use the obligatory and token reference to poor Plato, a man who understood the inherent weakness of adverbs and relied as little as possible on the ancients for guidance. We can assume that Gary not only understands the Cliff Notes version of Plato, but he is not afraid or reluctant to employ a deluge of adverbs.

In his “Republic,” Plato put forward the ideal of a state ruled by intellectuals who combined comprehensive theoretical knowledge with the practical capacity for applying it to concrete problems. In reality, no one has theoretical expertise in more than a few specialized subjects, and there is no strong correlation between having such knowledge and being able to use it to resolve complex social and political problems. Even more important, our theoretical knowledge is often highly limited, so that even the best available expert advice may be of little practical value. An experienced and informed non-expert may well have a better sense of these limits than experts strongly invested in their disciplines. This analysis supports the traditional American distrust of intellectuals: they are not in general highly suited for political office.

We now know that in a politically correct world, we need intellectuals to prescribe correct thinking and appreciation; otherwise, we might lose ourselves in original thought processes.

Intellectuals tell us things we need to know: how nature and society work, what happened in our past, how to analyze concepts, how to appreciate art and literature. They also keep us in conversation with the great minds of our past. This conversation may not, as some hope, tap into a source of enduring wisdom, but it at least provides a critical standpoint for assessing the limits of our current cultural assumptions.

Read his entire article if you must, but be prepared to ask yourself why tuition must continue to rise for your children and grandchildren, and will this dubious degree they seek at such expense, teach them to write with the clarity of Gary Gutting or will they be able to maintain the skills they acquired in high school.

But it does not support the anti-intellectualism that tolerates or even applauds candidates who disdain or are incapable of serious engagement with intellectuals. Good politicians need not be intellectuals, but they should have intellectual lives. Concretely, they should have an ability and interest in reading the sorts of articles that appear in, for example, Scientific American, The New York Review of Books, and the science, culture and op-ed sections of major national newspapers — as well as the books discussed in such articles.

It’s often said that what our leaders need is common sense, not fancy theories. But common-sense ideas that work in individuals’ everyday lives are often useless for dealing with complex problems of society as a whole. For example, it’s common sense that government payments to the unemployed will lead to more jobs because those receiving the payments will spend the money, thereby increasing demand, which will lead businesses to hire more workers. But it’s also common sense that if people are paid for not working, they will have less incentive to work, which will increase unemployment. The trick is to find the amount of unemployment benefits that will strike the most effective balance between stimulating demand and discouraging employment. This is where our leaders need to talk to economists.

Knowing how to talk to economists and other experts is an essential skill of good political leaders. This in turn requires a basic understanding of how experts in various fields think and what they might have to offer for resolving a given problem. Leaders need to be intelligent “consumers” of expert opinions.

According to Gary Gutting the intellectual philosopher, our leaders should now, not only be intelligent consumers of intellectual thought but must read the Leftist dogma of Scientific American, the New York Review of Books, and effete pseudo-intellectual rags like the New York Times, but they must also have the ability to listen to monotonous circumlocution and derive a pretense of meaning from gibberish. Intellectuals are now to be elevated to a higher standing, not only in the community, but more importantly in government and leadership. For now, they will advise and direct our leadership so they can make intelligent decisions and we are left with the story of Emily’s ears.

Our fate can change the course of our lives in a split second; often, it is beyond our control, but we must be ready to adapt and be resourceful enough to make the best of new circumstances. America is likely to see some dramatic economic changes in the next few months. We must be resolute to endure the possible collapse of the world’s economic systems. I suggest having supplies on hand to last at least a month and plans to unite with family members in case communications fail. I hope, I am wrong, but with leadership that seems intent on destroying or at least inhibiting the economy, the possibility of collapse is a real possibility that is heightened with the refusal of profligate members of the EU to impose austerity upon their entitled masses or the reluctance of those entitled masses to accept sacrifice; therefore, despite efforts by the overly leveraged Obama administration to avert the collapse of European Socialism, essentially by borrowing money to loan it to countries drowning in debt and unable to borrow the same money from legitimate sources. The world will now see how interrelated the international banking systems are and how fragile the US economy is under an incompetent Socialist leadership that like the leaders of the EU refuses to confront the problems of debt, entitlement, and profligate spending. Perhaps this story will give us hope for the future and for overcoming adversity by turning a disaster into a future with different possibilities.

This is part three of the Oregon Trail story. If you haven’t read the first two parts, Three Island Crossing and The Spaniard don’t worry about it, there’s still an adventure story here, without the other two. The violence is graphic as is life: you will not find me being politically correct, so please don’t bother to mention those indiscretions.

Cougar Cub of the Metis (pronounced MayTee)

Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, as he was named by a proud French father with a sense of humor, who spent a total of three winters with a beautiful Indian maiden before deserting her to go trapping in the wilds of what was to become British Columbia, and never bothering to return. She died of starvation four winters later and left her child to beg for survival among the village of teepees belonging to the Metis people of Lac La Biche, near Fort Edmonton. Louis ingratiated himself from family to family as the food supplies fluctuated with the hunting success among different families.

Louis earned the nickname Cougar Cub honestly enough, by raising an abandoned Cougar Cub to maturity, as a boy of about twelve. The cougar stayed with him for almost two years; until, the call of the wild beckoned it, away from Louis, to join nature in its true feral state. From the day the Cougar left and for the rest of his life, Louis was never called Louis again; he was Cougar Cub of the Metis. Cougar was a bright lad destined for leadership. At least, several of the Metis elders considered him an excellent choice. He was not given to hard liquor, a vice that ruined many of the young men. He wasn’t quarrelsome or mean to weaker people. He had a quick mind and often provided good suggestions in the tribal lodge. He also had keen eyesight an uncanny ability to carve objects from wood.

He was an orphan of the mixed blood people, a large tribe called Metis; a mixture of different Native American tribes and French or other European types, they lived not quite as natives and not quite as Whites. They were unique and made every effort to remain that way. True eclectics, they had no reservations against adopting the features they liked from either culture.

They were a hardy race. Horses, hunting, singing, drinking, and the lusty pursuits occupied their free time. They often worked as voyagers, courier du bois, and trappers, but their favorite pastime was hunting buffalo.

Every year, a hunt was organized from Fort Edmonton in the fall. It was not just for men; it was a family affair with a dichotomy of labor that recognized the importance of women within the family. It was also a chance to renew old friendships and learn the news of the Metis people. Women, children, and old people were all anxious to participate in securing meat for the winter and the one big annual gathering of the Metis people.

The vehicle of choice was the Red River Cart, a single axle horse or ox drawn cart with wooden axles; actually, there was no nails or metal; the entire vehicle was built of wood using mortise and tenon, and dove tail joinery. For people who could not afford nails and screws, the Red River Cart, named for the area that would eventually become Manitoba, the wooden cart was a creation of genius. With axles made of Maple to reduce flex, felloes were made of ash or oak because it could be bent with steam and because of its durability, and the hubs were made of elm because of its resistance to splitting; the Red River Cart came into prominence in 1800, primarily to service the fur trade, it was in use from Minnesota and into the farthest trading posts of Canada. The carts were primarily pulled by oxen; especially, in the boggy country, the maximum payload was nine hundred pounds on trail conditions and forage that a horse couldn’t survive on. An ox could cover 25 miles a day in the bog country without roads. In the drier prairies, horses were used about half the time. The could manage sixty miles a day, but the payload was reduced to five hundred pounds.

In the east and in Minnesota, the cart was primarily used for the fur trade, but once the Metis saw the advantages of the Red River Cart in buffalo hunting and migration, their lives were changed almost instantly.

The Red River Cart, named after the original designation for the country that was to become Manitoba, where it was the only vehicle that could travel through the bogs, it became a symbol of pride for the Metis; for it reflected the migratory ability of the horse Indians of the Plains, who used the travois and the pack horse to carry their possessions and yet, the technological advantages of a wheeled vehicle, without a complicated steering mechanism for a front axle, reflected their White heritage.

The Metis’ carts of the plains carried supplies for each family, and their teepee or wickiup, the buffalo hide tents of the plains. The children, old people, and women carrying children or with infants took turns walking and riding; while the young men dashed around on fiery horses trying to impress the young women. Older men, who had already had their share of horse falls and the broken bones that come with such accidents, were content to walk their horses with an occasional burst of speed for something important.

The teenage girls rode their horses in a group at a walk and tried not be too obvious in their admiration of the wild and reckless riding of the young men competing for their attention. They giggled and covered their mouths as they looked at each other when a youth would ride by and drop off one side of his horse at a gallop to let his feet hit the ground and be thrown almost effortlessly back on the horse’s back.

There were approximately 800 carts when they left the campground South of Fort Edmonton and more would join up as they traveled south to hunt the traditional hunting grounds West of Medicine Hat to the mountains. The buffalo could be anywhere in this vast country. The scouts were excellent trackers and they would be sent out to find the herds and then report back. They would find the buffalo eventually, but until then, everyone who wasn’t a scout was taking part in a celebration of life and the social life of the hunt.

The wheels and axles of the carts were without grease, because the grease became a trap for dirt and sand, causing the wheels to seize from trapped dirt; thus the continuous whine of wood upon wood was horrendous. The noise was so loud when hundreds of them were moving, that people could no longer carry on conversations. The screeching noise could be heard for miles. Whites from England, who heard the noise compared it to a thousand bagpipes getting started.

The Metis didn’t like the orderly White man’s method of travel, they preferred to spread out on line and not breathe the dust of those in front of them, at least if they weren’t following a narrow trail.

The Metis were a proud and handsome race from many different tribes, but in time and after a few generations, they lost the cultural traits of their home tribes and felt alienated as their connections became less distinct. Whites often discriminated against them, thus they felt united in their common heritage, which was a diverse mixture of heritages and blood.

There was bitterness among some who felt the sharp slap of rejection from both Whites and Native tribes, but most had a surreal appreciation for life and nature, with a cheerful disposition and a smile for everyone, they were determined to let no one else intrude on their happiness with bigotry and hatred.

Cougar was one of these young men. He loved the outdoors and the animals, but he had an uncanny ability with wood. With only the most basic tools, he made tables, chairs, and desks with a fascinating ease that seemed effortless.

At Lac La Biche, an old carpenter from Switzerland observed him working as a boy, using little more than a knife. He was amused and brought out an old leather satchel with fine old European carpenter tools.

He gave young Cougar a combination square, a ruler, two chisels, a plane, two saws, a brace and bit, and a small spirit level. He spent several hours with the boy teaching him about numbers, how to use the different tools, and how to sharpen them.

From that afternoon of instruction and those few tools, Cougar became a carpenter and eventually had a thriving business in Fort Edmonton by the time he was twenty. He was wealthy enough to buy tools and hardwoods for furniture from Ontario and have it shipped to his shop in Fort Edmonton. The wives of Edmonton’s most successful men, all wanted the furniture that Cougar made in his bustling shop.

He had missed the hunt for several years, but he planned to go this year and renew his old friendships. He had a traditional Red River Cart that he used to deliver his furniture and various projects, but he wanted to show off his skills and appreciable success, with a new finely made Red River Cart. He ordered iron axles and steel rimmed oak wheels with iron races from Ontario and began drawing plans for the most beautiful Red River Cart ever built.

He was not a man who could do anything half way. The cart would reflect his pride and craftsmanship. He had no family, so he would drive the wagon and have a hunting horse tied to the back for the actual hunt.

He ordered a new rifle, he could afford the best, so he bought the new Sharps buffalo rifle. The project was easy for him, but he still went out of his way to make his cart a work of art. The body was framed in Oak, sheathed in Maple, and trimmed in Walnut. The wood was finished with a walnut stain made by Cougar by cooking walnut hulls down to a gelatinous mass and straining away the solids, then applying the stain in thin layers until he obtained the color enhancing quality of the stain that allowed the beautiful grain patterns to show through. Hot bees wax was later rubbed into the wood to preserve the finish. Traditionally, the carts were built free of nails by using classic mortise and tenon and dovetail joinery, this aspect was Cougars stock and trade.

Cougar dreamed of driving his cart across the prairies for more than acquiring a buffalo. For this was a chance for him to say to the friends of his childhood, that he had become a success in life.

When Cougar finished his cart, he hitched up his driving horse and drove through the dirt roads of Fort Edmonton. Whites, Metis, and Indians all cheered the young man and his masterpiece whether they knew him or not, for his cart was an image of grace and beauty, that represented the open prairies and the freedom of the Metis people.

Cougar felt a mixture of pride and happiness for his cart to be so well received. Now, he needed his cooking and sleeping gear, and a teepee. He drove over to the fur trading post and told the manager he needed a smaller buffalo hide teepee and the rails. He bought cooking utensils and a set of crockery; he splurged a bit on the crockery in case he met a potential wife and invited her and her parents for dinner.

He drove out onto the campsite at daylight on the morning the hunt was to begin. The teepees were being taken down and the camping gear loaded on the carts.

He received many admiring glances when he joined the procession and a few faces showed scorn, especially from some of the young men riding spirited half broke horses.

They were the least of Cougar’s worries, he was here to see boyhood friends and find a wife.

Cougar brought his basic carpenter tools and fixed several wagons for people, free of charge.

The Metis hunters traveled far to the Southwest searching for the elusive herds. The scouts had located massive herds of a hundred thousand spread out along the Sheep River, about three hundred miles south of fort Edmonton. These people had a different concept of time, for them the objective of the hunt was to secure meat for the winter, so the distance was of little concern. After driving for several days, they camped on Fish Creek and made plans for the hunt the next morning on Sheep Creek about ten miles to the South.

The hunters planned to encircle the herd before daylight and kill as many as possible before they stampeded, they would then follow the herd until the horses were exhausted and kill as many as possible. They would try to kill enough so that every wagon had a carcass and a buffalo robe to take home for the winter.

There was a problem, Cougar couldn’t hunt and drive his cart at the same time.

He made several repairs for Jerome, who had a charming wife and a beautiful daughter. He had been admiring the sixteen-year old maiden, Hawk’s Cry from a distance; she resembled the high-cheeked native type more than her French ancestors, she had thick long black hair, there was only one feature that gave away her White heritage, her eyes were green with a golden brown ring around them.

Although her father wore the White Man’s clothing like Cougar, she and her mother dressed in traditional native dresses of tanned leather with intricate beadwork and porcupine quills decorating the area covering their breasts. They could barely communicate with Cougar, since they mainly spoke in their native tongue. Cougar spoke in a combination of French and English that was difficult for someone unused to the Metis to understand.

He invited Hawk’s Cry and her parents to dinner that night. It was a simple dinner, but they were impressed with the polite young man’s friendly nature and a well-cooked meal of bacon, beans, potatoes with butter, and cornbread.

After dinner he asked in sign if Hawk’s Cry could drive his wagon to his kill site, since he was alone. Her parents looked at her with a look that said it was her choice. He could see the disappointment in her eyes at first, because she was an excellent rider and hoped to borrow a horse, to be as close to the action as possible, not back with the screaming kids and old people, but she realized that Cougar Cub was a special catch and he might lose interest if she said no.

She agreed with a smile and the dinner party was over, Cougar asked Hawk Cry’s father, Jerome Fast Horses, if he would ride with him in the morning. Jerome’s eyes flashed and he was proud to have the young man ask him to ride with him. He was thirty-nine, and most men were no longer riding on the buffalo hunts at that age. Jerome promised to be ready at two hours before daylight.

It was customary for women to break camp and load the gear, but Cougar thought it might seem presumptuous of him to expect Hawk’s Cry to load his teepee.

Everything was loaded and his driving horse was hitched to the cart when Hawk’s Cry walked to his camp. She smiled, climbed in the driver’s seat and was one of the first carts to get on the trail. She arrived on a hill above Sheep Creek about a mile away and heard the first rifle shots just as the sun was burning away the early morning fog away.

The buffalo stood in silent confusion as thirty or forty of them dropped to their knees and then fell over sideways. One of the shots was poorly aimed and hit a hoof. The animal bellowed in pain and started to run on three legs. This strange behavior caused the rest of the herd to stampede to the West. Some of the herd crossed the creek and were shot as they scrambled up the opposite bank. Soon all the hunters were running alongside the horses and firing at close range into their backs.

Within a few minutes, the majority of the buffalo had outrun the horses, and it was all over. There were buffalo carcasses spread out for five miles along Sheep Creek and she saw where at least two riders and their horses had fallen, and were trampled to death.

She felt a moment of sadness, but this was life, you hunted and sometimes you died in the pursuit of the animals. It was a fairly simple explanation for the human toll below.

She drove Cougar’s cart down to the river to look for the men and her mother followed in her father’s old cart. She heard her mother call her name and turned to see her pointing to a small Fleur de Lis flag waving in the air about a mile up stream. Her father’s father had given it to Jerome when he was a young man. It was awarded by French soldiers to her relative for gallantry in a battle back East. He always had it with him and today it was perfect for his wife to locate his buffalo.

Hawk’s Cry saw Cougar working on a huge carcass about two hundred yards beyond her father; he had the traditional blue and white Metis flag, with the symbol for infinity. She waved to her mother and drove up to Cougar with a big grin. She was dressed in a white smoke tanned deerskin dress trimmed with martin and moose hide moccasins trimmed in beaver. These clothes were not meant for work, they were worn to catch Cougar’s attention.

The ploy worked well, when he saw her, he was speechless. He stood up to look at her, stepped backward to trip and fall over the gut pile. She smiled with flashing eyes and a mouth full of snow white teeth, he still couldn’t say anything in front of her overwhelming beauty.

She told him he had killed a good buffalo in sign language and turned to let him appreciate her feminine form. He still was unable to speak. She said in a language he didn’t understand, “I will put on my work dress, and help,” but he was oblivious. He watched her in awe as she pulled her best dress over her head to reveal one of nature’s most perfect feminine forms. She wondered why Cougar was being rude and staring at her nude body. She wasn’t shy, but it was considered rude to stare at someone’s nude form.

Cougar stared at the first nude female he had ever seen, for half a minute and then dropped down to continue skinning the carcass. Hawk’s Cry laughed at his strangeness and slipped one of her old dresses over her head and changed moccasins. She started to tie the leather thong to tighten the V neck opening over her breasts, but then decided to leave it open, since Cougar seemed to enjoy looking at her nakedness, maybe he might want to look some more.

She was quick with her hands and together they skinned the buffalo in short order. Cougar was lost in love, but he couldn’t look at her, and she was beginning to realize the power she had over this talented young man.

Cougar split the skull with an ax to remove the brain for tanning the hide and cut out the tongue for lunch. They quartered the animal and Cougar lifted the quarters into the cart. Hawk’s Cry tried to help with the lifting, but he was so strong, she was just in the way.

They drove over to her dad’s kill and Hawk’s Cry felt so proud sitting next to this handsome young man with the finely made cart and the freshly killed buffalo in the back. She decided, she wanted this young man for a husband, the sooner the better.

When they drove up to her parent’s buffalo, Cougar handed the reins to Hawk’s Cry and jumped out to help Jerome lift the quarters into the cart and then suggested they wash upstream and cook lunch. Her parents somehow understood or at least agreed to follow him to a nice campsite away from the gore and the stench resulting from butchering so many large animals.

The four of them washed at the creek, Jerome told Hawk’s Cry of what a fearless hunter Cougar was and how he shot four animals by riding right next to the buffalo with the reins on his horses neck and riding with just his legs. He said Cougar was just like the hunters of the old days.

Hawk’s Cry listened, but showed none of her parents’ enthusiasm; she seemed to be oblivious to the hunting abilities of Cougar as she pulled up her skirt to expose thighs the color moose hide moccasins and began to wash the blood from her knees and hands. Cougar was watching from such short range that he lost his balance on a slick rock a fell into the swift water. The others laughed and Cougar felt awkward and humiliated. Jerome and his wife suspected that Cougar was smitten with their daughter, and they were excited to see how this ancient dance of love was to be played out.

They decided to set up their teepees and spend the night, then leave early the next morning. They cooked a big feast that night and many people stopped by to congratulate Cougar and thank him for his hunting skills. There were several single girls who looked at Cougar with an appraising eye, but Hawk’s Cry made sure to be sitting next to him throughout the evening and smiling at all the visitors. Cougar felt funny, he wasn’t self-conscious around the other girls and they were much easier to talk with, since it was more common to speak a mixture of French and English rather than the native tongue, but the other girls respected Hawk’s Cry and her claim to the handsome young buffalo killer.

A group of young men came into their camp after dark. It was obvious they had been drinking. They took plates of food without asking, but it was a feast. The leader was loud and belligerent. After taking a few bites he said the buffalo was spoiled and unfit to eat. He broke his plate by throwing it on a stone next to the fire and then turned to smile at Hawk’s Cry as if she might be impressed with his behavior.

Jerome stood up and tried to walk the young man out of the camp, but he pushed Jerome away and pulled a knife and looked at Jerome and then Cougar.

He told them the girl was his and he was going to take her. Cougar jumped to his feet and walked toward his rifle and suddenly felt the razor edge of a skinning knife cut his cheek through to the teeth. The drunken boy drew back to slash again when he was hit above the eye with a good sized rock, thrown by Hawk’s Cry. Cougar started for his rifle again and felt the boy on top of him. He grabbed the boy’s wrist that held the knife and they were locked in mortal combat.

Cougar tripped the boy and they fell. Cougar wrapped both his hands around the boy’s knife hand, took the knife away from him and stood up. The boy stood up and lunged for Cougar’s rifle, but he had no idea how to work the mechanism and when he realized it was hopeless, he swung it like a club at Cougar’s head.

Cougar ducked and jumped forward and cut into the boy’s gut with the knife. He heard air escaping and the foul odor of a bowel being cut open, the boy had his hands around Cougar’s throat and was cutting off Cougar’s air in a last ditch effort to kill him. Cougar aimed the knife upward and thrust it hard toward the boy’s heart. The hot blood squirted all over his fore arm and wet Cougar’s body from the waist down with the hot pulsing liquid, the boy went limp and fell to the ground. He was dead.

Cougar looked at the boy and knew the Red Coats patrolling the country for American whisky sellers would hang him for killing the boy, no matter what the circumstances. The boy’s friends were mounting their horses and soon galloped away into the night.

He had to move fast. Cougar started loading his cart. Jerome talked with his family for a few minutes and started loading his cart. Cougar had his cart loaded and told Jerome in sign language that he was heading south to the United States. Jerome tapped his chest and then pointed his vertical palm south and then pointed with his index finger.

It looked like Cougar was going to have company along for the ride on his bid for freedom. Suddenly, he had an idea. Jerome and the women would take the carts south to Sweetwater Montana and Cougar would head straight for the Glaciers to the South. The Red Coats would track the wagons and if they caught up to the wagons it would be too late to catch him. They would then drive down to the Great Falls and he would meet them there in two weeks.

The communication was all in sign language, for them it was much more accurate than trying to speak in the fragments of several languages.

They left a few moments later: the wagons bound to the Southeast and Cougar in a lope to the South.

Cougar would cross the High River about ten o’clock and then cross the Oldman River before noon. With luck he should cross the border before daylight the next day.

The NWMP detachment sent one man to bring in the killer, Mike Irons or Iron Mike as he was known to the Indians and American Whiskey traders. Most outlaws gave up when they knew Iron Mike was on their trail. He inspired respect and fear in the wild country. He was fair, but if you resisted, Iron Mike shot you before the court could hang you. He was an expert tracker and used to Indians making a run for the border. He was on the trail of the two carts by nine the next morning. It would be easy to run down the two Red River Carts.

The story he heard from the Metis boys didn’t add up, but that wasn’t his problem. That’s what they have courts for, he was just a man hunter and the law west of Medicine Hat. He slowed his pace and tried to piece together the odd story. Young man by himself, old man with beautiful daughter and wife, they are hunting buffalo and camped together. They get two buffalo and a young man comes into their camp and gets butchered.

“Wait a dang minute,” Mike said aloud to himself, “They were supposed to have four horses. There’s only tracks for three.”

He dismounted and walked a circle around the tracks to be sure, “Well, I’ll be, they almost out smarted Iron Mike.”

He rode hard to the southwest looking for a lone track headed straight south.

About ten miles from the border, he picked up a single track. The horse was exhausted and unable to track straight. This had to be him. He came to the border and saw Cougar leading his horse about sixty yards into the US.

“This is Constable Mike Irons of the North West Mounted Police, turn around and come back or I will shoot you dead.”

Mike fired a warning shot and Cougar pulled his rifle from the scabbard and shot Mike’s horse through the heart in less than a second, and then dropped down below a hill and disappeared.

Mike felt fear for the first time in his career, he felt his blood turn cold and he felt himself shaking; he had just looked death in the eye, this young man was a stone cold killer and a deadeye shot.

He took his tack off the dead horse and started the long walk home, feeling lucky to be alive.

Cougar kept his horse walking until they had walked several miles to the east and came to a nice valley with good feed and a creek. He turned his horse loose and laid down to sleep between two rocks. Cougar slept the rest of the day and all through the night. He caught his horse the next morning. The horse was still exhausted and sore. He walked beside his horse, so that the only weight he carried was the saddle. Cougar carried his rifle; he didn’t want to have someone like Iron Mike getting the drop on him again.

After two days of walking beside his horse, the horse seemed to be regaining its strength, but Cougar kept walking, hoping to insure the recovery of his horse.

A few days ago, he had a beautiful cart that was admired by almost everyone in the Metis nation, a possible romance with the most alluring girl he had ever seen, a closeness with a family group he genuinely liked, a buffalo carcass in his wagon, and a good meal in his belly. Now, because a drunk walked into his camp, he could be hanged in Canada, he was on the verge of starvation, and leading a lame horse.

Life’s fortunes can change quickly; especially when you are trying to be someone you aren’t. He was a carpenter with a good business at Fort Edmonton, not a buffalo hunter.

They will be shocked to hear he is wanted for murder. He had a few carpenter tools in the wagon, not much more than the old Swiss carpenter had given him when he was a boy, but they were in his cart and hopefully his cart was in Great Falls.

He met some Indians on the trail. He had never seen Indians like these. There were three of them and they each had human scalps tied to their saddles.

Cougar used sign language to tell them he was Metis from Canada and the Red Coats wanted to hang him for killing a man.

Their faces showed no emotion, until he said a Red Coat was hunting him and wanted to hang him, he then saw a measure of respect emerge from the eyes of these warriors. They asked when he had last seen the Red Coat and he said he had shot his horse two days ago at the border.

The warriors admired his rifle and he thought they might try to kill him for his rifle, but instead they gave him a foot long piece of pemmican. Cougar asked how far to Great Falls and the warriors said it was two more days to walk and he would cross a good trail when he walked through these rocks hills.

He was surprised when they told him they wanted to hunt this Red Coat and they had to leave. The three warriors rode off silently as they followed Cougar’s back trail.

The three warriors were the most dangerous men Cougar had ever seen, but he had learned some valuable lessons: never show fear, and violent men respect men who are capable of violence.

They had treated him well and had even given him food to ward off starvation, but now he had a new problem, his moccasins were worn out after walking over this rocky trail and his feet would soon be bleeding if his horse didn’t overcome his lameness.

Iron Mike cached his tack under a cottonwood and continued on with just his rifle, when the bullet ripped through his thigh and he felt his right boot fill up with blood almost immediately. He looked down to see the pulsing of his blood moving his military issue riding trousers. He knew this would be his last fight.

The rider who shot him now was riding straight towards Mike with a lance aimed for his chest. Mike waited until the horse was only two strides away and sent a bullet through the center of the man’s chest.

The Indian dropped his lance and rode harmlessly by Mike to fall and die a few seconds later. The second rider was charging right behind the first, he fired and missed Mike. Mike drew his revolver and fired three rounds before the last round hit the man in the center of the forehead, rolling him backwards out of the saddle. Mike emptied his revolver at the third rider as the lance tore through his chest, killing him instantly.

The third rider turned his horse to look at the battle scene and the glory that no one would hear ever about at tribal fires. He could hear the air sucking through the hole in his chest as the lung filled with blood and he felt lightheaded while drowning in his own blood.

He thought to himself, “These Red Coats are great warriors,” he raised his hand to appeal to the spirit world and fell from his saddle to die a few minutes later gasping for air.

Cougar rode the last thirty miles into Great Falls and found his people camped upstream on the North side of the river. They greeted him like long lost family and made cooked a feast of buffalo hump roast and potatoes.

Hawk’s Cry traded several roasts for a new pair of over the ankle winter moccasins for Cougar and he was touched by her concern for his welfare.

After dinner that night, Cougar asked Jerome what he planned to do. Jerome said there was free land in Oregon and he thought they could all go there together in the spring. Cougar felt tears come to his eyes at the sense of belonging to a family group. The two men embraced and Cougar told him they would head to Oregon together.

That night, as Cougar was sleeping in his teepee, Hawk’s Cry slipped in between his blankets. At first he thought she was cold, but then he realized she had ideas of her own. He had no idea of what to do, but Hawk’s Cry was an excellent teacher. From that moment on, they communicated in the language of love. The next morning, she moved all her belongings into Cougar’s teepee and they became a couple for the rest of their days.

The winter seemed a magical time for Cougar’s family. He and Hawk’s Cry fell deeper in love with the passage of time. The family had great meals in the evening and Jerome’s family had a quick mind for learning the English of the frontiersmen.

The fur trader of Great Falls paid Cougar a twenty dollar gold piece to build a twenty by twenty log home.

People were amazed at Cougar’s craftsmanship and tried to entice Cougar into staying in the area to build homes, but Cougar wanted to distance himself from his crime in Canada and Oregon, with its free land, seemed like a good idea.

In the spring after the creeks and rivers settled down and were safe to cross, the little family of four, that was soon to be a family of five, set out to the southwest, hopefully to join up with emigrants on the North side of the snake, and continue on to Oregon.

They were on a well-worn trail that had been used for thousands of years by buffalo hunters, but now the trail was busy with miners headed north to the Montana Gold Rush of 1860. The miners were causing resentment among the native people, and there were already incidents of violence.

Cougar’s family avoided the hostility, because they traveled with women and showed respect to the natives they met on the trail.

The trail was an ancient migration route that had served Indians and wildlife for thousands of years as it weaved through the mountain valleys and crossed into the country that was to become Idaho. In Idaho the winds raged and left them exhausted at the end of each day.

They met some Shoshone along a fast, deep river and asked the name of the river. The leader made a wriggling motion with his hand out away from his body several times. In the international language of the Plains Indian, this meant the River of Many Fish.

Jerome and Cougar made sure they traded with the Indians they met. Cougar kept them well supplied with buffalo and elk with his Sharps rifle. Cougar also carved small figures of buffalo, fish, eagles, and horses. The Indians considered them to be sacred talismans and traded valuable goods and camas root for them.

On an early morning during breakfast, Cougar and his family saw five Indian buffalo hunters on horseback chasing a buffalo that bristled from so many arrows stuck in its hide, that he looked like a big speed porcupine; except the bull was much faster than a porcupine and much faster than the exhausted Indian ponies. None of the arrows seemed to be deep or lethal enough to cause the animal to slow down enough to allow them to finish him with their spears.

Cougar pulled his Sharps out of the scabbard and at a distance of two hundred yards, put a 50 caliber round just behind the left shoulder of the running buffalo in mid-stride. In the split second before the front feet hit the ground, the animal lost all control and power in its front legs and collapsed onto his great shaggy head. His momentum caused him to roll on over onto his back after standing on his head for an instant, he bounced on his back and into the air twice before the massive body came to a complete stop. He was dead.

The Indians yelled out some cheers and held their bows in the air and then rode over to the dead bull and attacked the still bleeding carcass like wolves. While Cougar’s family began to break camp, they noticed the Indians cutting off long portions of the gut and squeezing out the contents from one end and eating the intestine from the other end. Another Indian was eating the heart and still another was eating from a huge chunk of raw liver.

Jerome laid his hand on Cougar’s shoulder and said in a mixture of languages and sign, “They are starving. Their bodies tell them to eat the most nutritious organs first; this is what starvation looks like. You are a good provider my son; otherwise, we might be in the same condition.”

The scene had a profound effect on Cougar, and he vowed to never allow his wife or her parents to ever go hungry.

They passed near the carcass and the Indians waved them over. There were five of them and they had the bull cut up and divided into six equal piles on the hide. The Indians loaded one of the piles into the two carts along with the huge tongue as a measure of appreciation. They each rode up to Cougar and touched him with their hands and bows to try and share in his uncanny accuracy with the rifle.

Cougar reached under the seat and gave each of them a small wooden talisman and for the young chief, Bull Calf, he placed a buffalo carving, about half the size of a fist with a small hole drilled through its back and suspended from a leather thong, around his neck.

It was this small act of kindness that insured the legacy of Cougar and their safety. The Blackfeet were in a famine and Cougar broke the famine. He later gave the hunters talismans and they all had great success from that point forward. Cougar was given a status of protection until they passed into Oregon and later on the protection was extended to Colonel Fallon’s wagon train. He was considered to be a shaman and a legend among Indians of the Northwest.

The word spread by moccasin telegraph of the Metis from Canada with the repeating rifle who never needed a second shot, who was a shaman who carved animal spirits from wood that gave hunters and warriors extra spiritual guidance. Thus many Indians were willing to travel for days to get a buffalo or elk carving that would enhance their hunting skills.

Whether there was actually magic in the carvings is debatable, but the results were never in dispute, for the Blackfoot nation once again regained their hunting luck and the tribe began eating well. To the mind of a stone-age man, Cougar was the man who changed their luck, many gamblers of modern cultures blame lesser objects for good luck or bad. Perhaps Cougar gave them the confidence they needed or maybe there was magic in his carvings, the main thing was that the people were no longer starving and they gave the credit to Cougar.

Cougar had heard the miners speak of the Snake River and how treacherous it was, but if it was more treacherous than the River of Many Fish, it must be an extremely dangerous river, it was at that moment, he realized the problem. The Whites were interpreting the wavy hand-signal as the symbol for a Snake, when it was actually the symbol for many fish. This was a great relief and he quit looking for a ford. He could now follow the Snake on the North bank and join up with a wagon train on this side or he could meet a wagon train on the north side of the Three Island Crossing.

As they traveled on the plateaus of the North Snake, they were accepted without the hostility and animosity that was building because of the increased traffic of miners and emigrants. The Indians were intrigued by these mixed bloods, who were fluent in sign and traveling in these amazing carts. They came to trade salmon and flint knives for amulets carved by Cougar. The carved salmon, buffalo, horses, and eagles were the most popular.

Cougar’s group came to the Three Island Crossing and he did a brisk business repairing damaged wagons. He passed up opportunities to travel with different groups because he felt there was a need to wait for the right wagon train.

Jerome had learned to trust the instincts of Cougar, and even though he wanted to go on to Oregon, he trusted Cougar’s judgment.

When Cougar saw Colonel Fallon with his cavalry hat, he knew that this was the group he was supposed to pair up with. He stood by on the bank and watched helplessly while Captain Levin drowned, but when his body was recovered along with the wreckage of his wagon, he started building the Captain a casket from the wreck of the wagon.

Colonel Fallon was astounded at the speed and accuracy that the young man used to create the dove tail corners and mortise and tenon top and bottom.

After the little ceremony, Cougar asked the Colonel for permission to join the wagon train. He told him he comes with his own Blackfeet escort that will follow them to Oregon and make sure they will not lose stock to horse thieves and they will not be attacked.

The Colonel was suspicious, but Cougar told him he was regarded as a type of shaman and the Blackfeet had sworn to protect him as long as he was in their territory.

The Colonel called over Mr. Tomlin to translate for him since there was a combination of languages and the Colonel wasn’t sure of the message. Mr Tomlin and Cougar talked in sign and then Cougar turned to call in the Blackfoot chief with the buffalo carving, and he and Mr. Tomin engaged in several minutes of parley in sign.

“Colonel, we best take this young Metis, Cougar is his name, with us. He is the best insurance policy we can have. Anyone who tries to hurt him will die by the hand of these hostiles. They rarely like each other, but Cougar kept their tribe from starving and they figure he is pretty special. We better take him and be glad he wants to travel with us.”

The Colonel was surprised at Mr. Tomlin’s candor and trust. He turned to look Cougar in the eye and said to Mr. Tomlin, “Tell him we try to make fifteen to twenty miles a day and he and his father-in-law will be expected to keep up and pitch in with camp chores.”

Mr. Tomlin used sign to translate the message and Cougar broke into a big grin and replied in sign.

Mr. Tomlin looked at the Colonel and said, “He says the two carts can easily make fifty miles a day and he is an excellent hunter and marksman, if we need meat.”

“He’ll make friends fast if he can bring a buffalo into camp,” the Colonel told Mr. Tomlin.

Cougar laughed grabbed his rifle and said something to his wife in the native language and jumped on his horse to ride off with the Blackfeet.

Later on that afternoon, Cougar returned and the two carts headed North and returned close to dark with half a buffalo in each cart. Some of the wagon train members came to him with tears in their eyes to thank him for the fresh meat; many of them had been living on fry bread and a few bits of smoked salmon they had traded the last of their silver coins for.

Cougar had made friends once again.

Epilogue: This is a novel with a degree of historical accuracy. The characters are fictional; their struggles are real and based heavily on the author’s experiences in the wild country.

Liberalism Run Amuck

A seven year old boy takes the John Wayne image of manhood seriously, and is now in big trouble.

A 7-year-old boy is being investigated by his South Boston elementary school for possible sexual harassment after kicking another boy in the crotch.

A seven year old boy was being choked and robbed of his gloves, when he kicked his attacker in the nuts. Thus he ended the assault and prevented the theft.

The school system now claims that the response was an example of sexual assault and they are conducting an investigation.

The mother of first grader, Tasha Lynch:

“He’s 7 years old. He doesn’t know anything about sexual harassment.”

Mark Curran the perpetrator, said his attacker had been bullying him all week on the bus.

His mother says the boy reported to her:

“He just all of a sudden came up to him, choked him. He wanted to take his gloves, and my son said, ‘I couldn’t breathe, so I kicked him in the testicles,’”

“He couldn’t breathe. He was trying to defend himself, I don’t find that sexual harassment. I find that defending himself.”

Ms Lynch says she received a phone call informing her that the incident will be treated as sexual harassment because of inappropriate touching.

“Your son kicked a little boy in the testicles. We call that sexual harassment.”

She is expected to attend a disciplinary hearing at the school on Monday.

Boston Public School System is investigating the incident, but refuses to comment.

The Boston Public School System may decide that girls can no longer kick rapists in the nuts or else they will face disciplinary action for improper touching and sexual harassment. So don’t teach your kids to defend themselves or send them to martial arts schools; let them be beat, robbed, and raped by someone who is disadvantaged, it is the Liberal Way, and remember to vote Democrat

Bis interimituc qui suis armis perit… Syrus

He is doubly destroyed who perishes by his own arms.

The GOP candidates are struggling for position like horses in a long race; except they must contend not only with each other, but with Obama’s State Directed Media as well. For the MSM is intent on ruining the reputation of all but their personal picks with innuendo, fraud, false accusations, and lies. If there is an element of truth within the onslaught of smears, the public, except for the witless believers and those who suck blindly of the Socialist teat of Marxist pablum, have become immune to the assault of the media.

We must remember, the successful GOP candidate has a tremendous advantage; he can run against Obama’s dismal failures. Obama’s State Run Media can attack you personally, but they can’t erase the utter failure and incompetence of Obama.

Yet, the intrepid runners of the GOP refuse to offer, us the Anti-Obamites, the bones we hunger for so desperately: those same bones that would guarantee victory for the runner who would be so bold to make the commitment to drain the cesspool of corruption that is Washngton. We the Anti-Obamites, and certainly not all Republicans, are waiting to join the crusade for a runner who has the temerity to stand against the entrenched corruption of the beltway. You may trust that we will vote for any skim milk candidate who promises to not be Obama. Oh yes, we will trudge to the polls in a half hearted effort and vote for anyone who has a half-assed chance to beat Obama, but if you want to clinch the nomination and win the general election in a landslide with an unprecedented mandate from the American people, just promise to end the Crony Capitalism that Obama has made into an institution of Washington; promise to push for tort reform, promise to repeal Obama Care, promise to promote welfare reform and prosecute welfare criminals, promise to defund Democratic radio like NPR and PBS, promise to end the Insider Trading by members of our congress and Senate, promise to end the pork especially the pork funding Obama’s reelection and the Democratic Party, promise to shut down the national Labor Relations Board, promise to open up drilling in the US and have an energy program that works for the US and not against us, promise to shut down the EPA and end the nonsense that is little more than a ploy to gain control over our citizenry, promise to quit strangling the country over the Socialist Hoax of Global Warming, promise to shut down the borders and enforce our immigration laws, promise to end entitlements for those who are here illegally and illegally milking our strained system, swear to defend this country against its enemies, promise to encourage job growth and not to inhibit job growth with regulations, and promise to fight wars to win, rather than using them for political advantage.

The formula for success is easy; it may seem like a lot, but the candidates have been only too happy to dance around the issues and be everyone’s favorite whore or a typical politician, but we aren’t looking for a favorite whore or a cheap phony like Obama; we are looking for an honest statesman who is committed to ending the corruption in our capital.

Obama’s media pimps lead the GOP candidates like sheep to the abattoir; while you make fools of yourselves by pleading to protect the incomes of the wealthiest of Americans in his theater of the absurd, over half of whom are Obama Marxists, he keeps you from confronting the real issues, and you indirectly give credibility to the Occupiers by standing against them to defend their Marxist benefactors who fund them and Obama; thus he keeps you from attacking his failures and those same issues listed above, and many more we are concerned with. Obama and his State Directed Media will be more than happy to control the nomination process and the election: the question is, are you willing to let him control the process.

‎”I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ‘Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death.” (Leonardo da Vinci, 1452 – 1519).