PHILOSPHY FOR THE TRENCHES

[From the unpublished book Philosophy for the Trenches]

“You can push us and push us and push us—but eventually we’re going to push back.”

Chapter 1: Opening Salvo

“Can only one person make a difference? Hell, in fact, only one person can make a difference. Two make a committee, and a committee never accomplished a damn thing, anyway.”

                —Jackson Jones

I’m not presumptuous enough to think I have the answers. I don’t. No one does, so be very suspicious of know-it-alls claiming to possess bright ideas—even if it’s me. Answers are Holy Grails, which we believe exist, then spend our lives pathetically searching out and never truly find.

Maybe Life is this ceaseless and hopeless quest. It might be this way deliberately, as intended by Intelligent Design or by Evolution, whichever nonsense you prefer. By whatever result our hopeless journey arose, it doesn’t mean we don’t try to make sense of Life, though. And if we’re going to try, it might as well be our damnedest best.

Wish us luck. Weez shuh gonna needz it.

Therefore, I must emphasize this book is not intended as a conceited “Tao of Joe.” But if you want to call it such, I’d be grateful and feel I actually accomplished something remarkable.

No, my friends, all I’m doing with this book is sharing with you what I got. I hope it’s something worthwhile. I hope you find it interesting. But, more importantly, I hope you find it provocative and it makes you think a little. All of us damn well need to think more for ourselves and not assume other folks are taking care of our business.

Because they damn well aren’t.

Neither am I proclaiming to possess the be-all-end-all insight; though I will let you take a gander at my thoughts, such as they are; maybe it’ll help you sort out your own ideas a little better. Writing this book certainly helped me sort out mine.

To begin with, allow me to offer up the notion that we stop pussyfooting around and instead examine Life in a hard way, not like a bunch of crybaby faggots.

Whew, that felt good! Using the word faggots, I mean. I’ve already offended at least some of you. I hope. Faggots? Why, he’s probably a homophobe who [sniff] needs mandatory sensitivity training.

At this point, early on our trip, I’m going to share with you a central theme—warning—of this book: There are those who would force me to undergo this training they so confidently believe I need, an ominous fact which should terrify faggots and non-faggots alike if they have a lick of sense. And too many damn well don’t.

I feel particularly sorry for those of you afraid to use the word “faggot” or any other slur for that matter. Yes, sadly, we’ve debased way too many folks to this level of fearful impotence derived from a deluge of coerced “goodness.”

Disgusting limp dicks the lot of us. And it isn’t the kind of flaccidity that Viagra can fix. Nope. Indeed. We’ll talk a lot about phony compassion and empty outcries for freedom, which is nothing more than a false front to hide the gleefulness at being able to forcibly exert control over others. In fact, what I just told you in the preceding sentence is not a bad definition for Wokeism.

I’m reminded of what Anthony Burgess said in his funky book A Clockwork Orange: “Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him?”

Oh yeah, think about it. There are a lot of folks wanting to force a lot of “good” behavior on other folks. Liberals and Conservatives alike. But there’s something far worse—wanting to forcibly insert and permanently install so-called good thoughts into somebody else’s mind. This is the crusade of the Woke inquisitor. And the Woke ain’t fucking around about it, no siree.

Obviously, I can’t speak for anyone except myself, but do you know what I want for me? I want the strength and courage to excavate beneath the layers of denial and obfuscation we’re not keen about digging through. I don’t want to be afraid of getting dirty, afraid of digging, afraid of finding. I hope I can persuade you to abandon a pernicious groupthink that says, “If we don’t dig, the buried things don’t exist, right?” Which is just as harmful as believing, “Don’t worry, the government will solve the problem.”

Folks may go years without taking a single peek down in their cobweb draped cellars or stinky crawl spaces. The same is true with meaningfully examining issues regarding their government and society—and their own lives, for that matter.

Examine the musty basement? Hell, yes! Get on down there! And shovel underneath there, too. Sure, it’s dank and smelly, and who knows what’s buried in that putrid dirt. Might it hold horrors like a socio-economic or political equivalent of serial killer John Wayne Gacey’s crawl space—or worse—if we’re unlucky? But lots of crap is down there that needs a good checking out. We need to do it before any more bodies are added. Bodies in this case being a whole lot of foolishness on all of our parts. Man, doesn’t that crawl space ever run out of room? Guess not.

Dig, fools, dig.

And if we’re not going to do it—then who? And if not now—when?

Hell, why not us and why not now.

You might wonder where I get the ideas I’m sharing. Hey, who knows. These thoughts have been swirling around inside my head for some time; developing, morphing, and crystallizing as I’ve grown, changed, and solidified as a person. Why did it take me so long to share? I guess I wasn’t ready yet, not having lived enough of life to be worthy of pontificating about such ideas—and maybe I’m still not up to the task—my self-doubt sufficing for humility.

But I don’t want to wait any longer. I can’t.

You see, time is running out.

For all of us.

I’m not a religious man, something I’ll discuss later on, but I pray with the conviction of a true believer that I’m not the only person who hears the fine grains of sand in the hourglass relentlessly streaming from the diminishing silica cone above to pour onto the now vastly larger mound of sand underneath. Fine feathery grains encased in glass, and yet I can’t hold my hands tight enough against my ears to block out the horrid, relentless noise. And it’s burying us, man—and still alive, too.

I guess the foundation for these ideas of mine comes from reading, observing, listening, and thinking—lots of the last thing (maybe too much for my own good). For example, sitting in an airport terminal, watching people from all over the world walk by, teaches you things which maybe you can’t articulate but are important, nevertheless.

One day while waiting for a flight, I took notice of the couples passing by. Two-by-two and nary an ark: couples in love, harried couples with children, couples who tried to convince themselves they were in love, couples with only one of them in love, old couples who’d obviously been in love for decades, and other couples who aren’t so in love anymore.

Considering my lack of success with women and not having any of my own kids, I’d say I’m an objective observer. What exactly did watching people at the airport teach me? Maybe nothing, my friends, but it sure seemed like a good lesson about something. A lesson that gets you to think is as important as one that gets you to learn. We’ve got to start using our noodles and not foolishly assume others are using theirs on our behalf. I’ll say it again: Because they aren’t.

In addition to studying real people, I also enjoy watching political pundits on television, listening to them on the radio, reading their books and editorials. Some of these folks are smart, some are fools, damn too many are puppets for a party line clutched in grim death by the group to which they belong or sympathize with. We just know these groups have scores of high-paid consultants to come up with their clever empty snippets, which we accept as insightful wisdom and leadership.

Important note to television networks: Booking the chairman of either major political party is an absolute waste of airtime. What they are going to blather on about is concrete predictable: rigidly inane talking points and popinjay posturing. Honed razor-sharp by polls and focus groups and smarmy underlings hopped up on caffeine and cigarettes.

Who are the most interesting guests? The ones who get my attention are the apostates, iconoclasts, contrarians, heretics. Love those guys and gals. Particularly if they’re interesting and politically incorrect, unafraid about approaching the sacred cathedrals of groupthink and nailing their Ninety-five Theses to the door of whatever notion needs a good beating on.

I respect people with thoughtful opinions who are willing to analyze all sides of an issue—and perhaps surprise you by taking a position opposite to what you’d expect their side to espouse. I’m none too thrilled about pundits who stridently and blindly adhere to their side’s talking points, no matter what. Another example of such an attitude—imbecilic party chairmen being the first—is a pro-choice person who supports any abortion, at any time, under any circumstances, with absolutely no limitations or restrictions.

Is such stridency justified in regard to the abortion issue? While we’re here, why don’t we stick the shovel in the dirt—

CLUNK.

I think we hit something.

What if a black, transgender, lesbian doctor performed abortions for couples using the procedure for sex selection, and primarily for those using it to choose boys over girls? (I threw in the black transgender lesbian part to make the situation even more complex and, hell, inflammatory for all I care.)

What if scientists someday conclusively prove that homosexuality is genetically based and can test for it in the womb—and then some prospective parents of the right-wing ilk decide to snuff out their gay children before birth? Conversely, you might have some gay parents kill their heterosexual fetuses out of good old spite.

What if the Ku Klux Klan opened an abortion clinic and offered free abortions—and only to minority and Jewish women? Hell, what if the white-bedsheet boys paid these women to undergo the procedure? I’m sure there’d be some black crack whores who’d take the Klan folk up on the offer—and aren’t these the babies the pro-abortion crowd says shouldn’t be born, anyway. While the latter situation is unlikely to happen, abortion for sex selection does occur, and too damn often, especially in cultures where male children are particularly valued. In other words: Female gender is the disease, and abortion the cure.

Sex-selection is profoundly tragic, and I hear not a voice of concern from those who swear they are ardent supporters of women’s rights. But it’s inside the womb, they’ll argue, and not a “person” until birth. Ah, my friends, don’t think the walls of the uterus can contain the moral inconsistency afoot. None of us are that clever.

What about using abortion for culling the unborn afflicted with defects or imperfections—or even trivial traits which are not wanted? This occurs, and not infrequently. Where’s the line drawn in the shifting ethical sands whose velvety silicate waves are relentlessly pushed along by winds increasing in ferocity in direct proportion to our technological advances? What’s an imperfection that justifies such action? Downs Syndrome? Wrong color hair? Not smart enough? Dwarfism—or just not tall enough to make the varsity basketball team? Spina bifida? Predisposition to getting cancer or heart disease or Alzheimer’s or obesity or mental illness? Predisposition to smart-aleckyness? In retrospect, for many parents, I bet this last one is ohhh so tempting.

The abortion rights activists insist it doesn’t matter. The choice must be absolutely unfettered. Society, specifically women, must be slaves no longer to any limits or constraints on their reproductive rights.

Choice? Freedom? The two seem to go together. Yet we’ve heard little protest from the pro-choice side about coerced abortions reportedly occurring in some countries (e.g., communist China). An abortion, whatever the circumstances, is apparently a glorifying affirmation of…abortion or the freedom to have an abortion—or that nobody can tell a woman what to do. Hell, even if the choice is made for the woman, as long as it’s for an abortion, that’s the important thing. Somebody having an abortion. For abortion-rights extremists, it’s not really choice, it’s abortion that matters.

My sympathy goes out to the prospective parents who find out their fetus is afflicted with a serious birth defect, particularly one with a bleak prognosis, and I sure as hell don’t have any magic advice that’ll make the decision easier about their terrible situation. And I can’t say I’d fault them for the conclusion to have an abortion.

But, man, I read a story I wish like hell I hadn’t, because it haunts me to this day: A news report about a woman in Great Britain who underwent an abortion because she found out that her baby was going to be born with a harelip.

Jesus Horatio Christ! A harelip is a cosmetic flaw that can be readily fixed after birth! Does “choice” trump the tragedy and horror of in utero sexism—or “harelipism”? Does this sort of personal decision exemplify and exalt our society’s freedom, or does it tragically illuminate our shallow and craven nature? I bet most people feel uneasy reading a story like this—even many pro-choice folks. But what about the others on whose head not a single hair is tousled by an ethical typhoon such as this? It’s up to the woman, no questions asked, no judgment dared proffered, no consequences pondered. What’s missing inside such people that it doesn’t bother them in the least—or, at a minimum, give them pause to take a dry gulp of air and then think about what it means? A personal choice like this affects all of us in ways which must be profoundly bad.

Blind stridency prevents us from rationally examining and then discussing issues, and from considering the real consequences of our actions (or inactions); it, in effect, makes us the damnedest fools. This is particularly true for the militants among us—be they pro-choice, animal rights activist, feminist, environmentalist, anti-tax pitbull, confiscatory socialist, or hysterical diversitist. I wonder why we refer to these people as militants, when the idiots wouldn’t know a bayonet from a baguette.

Anyway, here’s a comment, followed by a reality check, for every militant feminist who shouts the lives of women in America are “Hell on Earth.” The fault of men, no doubt, or more specifically—because of white, Christian, capitalistic, heterosexual, Republican men. In short: The Bastards!

Comment. Boo. Effing. Hoo.

Reality check. Hell on Earth?

While we definitely don’t have a perfect society (nor should we ever expect one as I’ll discuss later), nevertheless, the women in our country have it quite good. Or to put it another way: If this is Hell on Earth, then Hell must have a ton of sub-basements. And we aren’t anywhere near the lowest level. [Since this paragraph was written, we’ve seen the rise of the transgender cultists and their enablers who are hellbent on demolishing the rights of women, children, and homosexuals (and sanity in general), so we may reach those sub-basements yet.]  

Look to the Muslim world or the tribal worlds in Africa if you want to see truly horrific oppression of women; and the subjugation of these women continues with no end in sight. Hell, look to our own society where a freakish politically correct element (the Woke) egg on certain mentally ill women (and men) to undergo so-called “gender affirmation” treatment, which includes surgical mutilation and pharmaceutical poisoning, rather than get them the true mental health therapy they need.

Be careful if you’re reading this book in public, don’t let anyone look over your shoulder; we’re not even allowed to whisper uneasiness about underlying psychological issues afflicting our so-called transgender folks. I mean, if someone wanted to be “blind as a bat,” would you cavalierly allow a medical procedure to poke out his or her eyes? But we think nothing about slicing off a dick—if that’s the person’s choice. We’re not allowed to express (or even think about) any untoward thoughts about Woke-blessed barbarism.

Ask Miss Militant Feminist, what have you done lately for women in these other societies who actually live in a hell? Women who can’t vote, who can’t go outside uncovered, who can’t participate in sports, who can’t be alone with men outside of their immediate family, who have no choice in a marriage partner, who can be killed for infidelity or even for being raped or having an insufficient dowry, who can’t drive cars, who get snuffed out in the womb because they weren’t going to be born a son, who get snuffed out after birth because they weren’t born a son, who can only be treated by female doctors—and female doctors can only treat other women, even if this means dying from lack of prompt medical attention.

I’m not a feminist ideologue, but I’m willing to go to war to end female genital mutilation or to prevent the stoning of an unfaithful wife. Would you? Or would you pack away your phony-ass candlelight peace vigils and wage war only if a Democrat were president and wanted to do so, assuming acceptable polling numbers?

Yup, just as I thought.

Stridency makes a person foolishly blind, deaf, and retarded. Doesn’t seem to affect the vocal cords, though. As an increasingly disgruntled Republican, I’m not going to say that in the thousands of local and state elections held every year, the Republican candidate is always better than the Democratic opponent. To believe such a thing is idiotic. Of course, there’s no shortage of idiots in the world. And even the best of us has our idiotic moments. I do, too.

Though as I write this, I have yet to see a Republican offer up the retarded notion that there are more than two genders. Among the Democrat elites, such lunacy is widely espoused, and done so out of cowardice, connivance, or the actual demented belief that it is, in fact, true. 

One can argue convincingly that there isn’t much difference between the two major political parties regarding many issues. Don’t be fooled by the performative theater. Both parties are slaves to the oligarchy, which means they love forever wars and fiscal irresponsibility. The Democrats, though, have embraced in a death grip a host of other evils.

Did you ever wonder why they’re called parties? Maybe it’s because they screw around (party) rather than getting down to serious business. An aforementioned shared trait is that both Democrats and Republicans are big spenders—of our money. When there isn’t enough money for all the current expenditures (as is always the case), the irresponsible tax-cutting Republicans increase future taxes by borrowing, the sob-sister Democrats increase current taxes (and borrow to increase future taxes)—and both do so because the Republicans want to pretend they aren’t socialists and the Democrats want to pretend they aren’t communists—and neither party is capable of making any tough choices necessary as regards fiscal responsibility. As far as expenditures of money go, both sets of fools invariably sacrifice the future for short-term political gain. Every godblessamerica time. God damn us, because we keep on letting them get away with it!

And, boy, both parties sure enjoy meddling in other people’s affairs, though the affairs they stick their nose into differ to some extent or degree. Economics. Womb. Bedroom. Bloodstream. Lungs. School textbooks. School curriculum. School lunches. School vending machines. Television. Video games. Music. Religion. Firearms. Raising kids. Past wrongs. Hurt feelings. Self-esteem. The language we use.

Yes, words. This last one is the critical step in getting at what ultimately both parties—but I’m going to insist it’s particularly those darn Wokesters—want to meddle in more than anything else: our thoughts. Make no mistake about this; it’s our minds they want to control, because if you control these, you can rule utterly. Controlling language is the essential step toward mind control, which is total control.

George Orwell knew. Warned us. Wrote two great books to clearly illustrate his point. Ray Bradbury added another great book warning us. And we still haven’t listened. We won’t until it’s too late. But thanks anyway, guys, for Nineteen-Eighty-Four, Animal Farm, and Fahrenheit 451.

But meddling is such delicious fun, ain’t it? And fools do it in search of their vision of a perfect society, their Eden or utopia or Shangri-La or whatever. But those who seek Paradise too often create Hades. And, unfortunately, while they’re at it, they make it suck for the rest of us, too. One should always keep in mind that the word utopia does not derive from the Latin word for paradise—it comes from the word for nowhere. Spell it (mostly) backward and you’ve got yourself the title of another book!

Fast train to nowhere, and we surely borrowed the money for the ticket.

Financial imprudence and meddling are bad enough. Yet, the worst characteristic shared by both Republicans and Democrats is that neither party expects anything of us remotely resembling greatness or sacrifice. And this fact should alarm the hell out of us—but, ho hum, it never does. Never damn does.

I remember a time shortly after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, when our leaders were afforded the opportunity (and obligation, actually) of asking us to steel ourselves for a long, difficult battle against an intractable, vicious foe. But, instead, political correctness won out over leadership—and from the goddamn start!

They quickly told us, did they not, that we were at war—but “not with Islam.” They kept harping about this, trembling at the thought of cold, honest political incorrectness, meekly ignoring the fact that we are indeed at war with a good-sized chunk of Islam that certainly endorsed the terrorists’ handiwork. I bet a lot of Muslims saw the Twin Towers crumble into a pulverized bloody rubble and shouted, “Praise be to Allah!”

No, in addition to imploring us for a continued dishonest political correctness, one of the first things asked of the American people by our leaders in regard to this so-called war was—keep shopping. Unbelievable. Keep shopping? (As an aside, the term “War on Terrorism” is grammatically stupid. It’s terrorists who were the enemy. You don’t bomb an ideology. You bomb its proponents.)

Yes, if we didn’t continue buying stuff, the terrorists would win. Each swipe of a credit card held in our doughy, uncalloused hands was somehow a well-honed warrior’s scythe hewing the ranks of our enemies. Well, that’s unquestionably the mark of a great people—shopping.

Could you imagine Winston Churchill saying to the British people on June 4, 1940: “We shall shop on beaches, we shall shop on the landing grounds, we shall shop in the fields and in the streets, we shall shop in the hills; we shall never stop shopping.”

John Paul Jones should’ve yelled from the deck of the Bonham Richard: “We have not yet begun to shop!”

After the Battle of the Alamo, the folks in Texas could’ve rallied the troops with, “Remember the Mall!”

If only we’d were blessed with these sorts of leaders back in June 1944. Rather than have men perish on the hellish landing beaches of Normandy, we could’ve sent them shopping instead!

Don’t be insensitive and keep on shopping. An inspiring message outta the yaps of our great leaders. I’m shaking my head in disgust as I write this—disgust mostly at us for putting up with the madness. Perhaps we should entertain the idea that we are indeed pansies and deserve to lose to the terrorists if that’s the best that’s expected of us by our leaders—or us of ourselves.

Do I have solutions? Bright ideas? Don’t allow me to get away with merely claiming I do.

Suggestions would be a more accurate description. Suggestions perhaps worth trying. Suggestions likely not any worse than what we have been doing (or not doing). In some cases, I don’t even offer this much, merely serving up to you a discussion on a topic—and a hope it leads us somewhere meaningful—or at least to some overdue pondering.

Do I expect anything of my fellow citizens? You bet. I’m going to expect more of you than I do of “our” government. I’m going to expect more of you than I do of your political party or whatever other groups you belong to. But I’m going to expect more of myself than I do of you. Solving great problems or accomplishing great deeds is impossible by expecting little of men.

Oh, if you’re the kind of person who at this moment is whining at my using the word men in the last sentence, which is a grammatically correct term meaning men and women in this case, then YOU are definitely part of the problem. But, by all means, keep reading—but please stop being a pussy; if not now, then soon for Christ sakes! Thanks for reading the book, though.

Why did I write this book? Mostly fear, I think. Fear I’m the only one who has these ideas or is frustrated at the fecklessness and inanity of government and society. I tremble to think I might be the only one who believes it’s stupid and unfair to give the in-state college tuition rate or drivers licenses to illegal aliens, whose blood boils at the vileness of political correctness, or who wants honesty and integrity recognized as desirable traits rather than perversely treated as character defects. I’d feel awfully foolish, alone, and crushed by hopelessness if it turned out I am the only one.

I’m not, am I?

There are many books about the topics I discuss, written by smart, scholarly folks—as evident by the large number of footnotes and well-researched references in their books. These books have an important place in social dialogue; I love reading them and have certainly been influenced and become better informed from reading them. Yet this is not to be one of those books.

We’re in the trenches and there’s gooks in the wire. We’ve got bayonets, not shrimp forks. These other books have the feeling of safety, well back of the front lines. The shots these authors take are long-range artillery or surgical airstrikes using high-tech weapons launched from far, far away. I’m a simple man. Blunter. I prefer the bayonet charge above all else. I’ll leave the footnotes to other written works.

I pray my book helps, somehow. I would be ecstatic if I saw an increased number of critical-thinking citizens who respectively question the plans (or excuses) put forth by people of power and influence and who don’t sheepishly accept all that is told to them as if an oracle had just spoken come from examining warm entrails inside a marbled temple. I want to see more citizens who expect that dealing with problems is always accompanied by costs (monetary and non-monetary), are willing to carefully consider those costs, and then are ready to pay—or, conversely, decide not to pay and then accept the consequences of this decision. I would like to see less whining, more self-reliance, and an embracing of lofty goals. I want fellow citizens who demand specifics from their leaders—or those who would be their leaders.

Damn, we so desperately need citizens who aren’t afraid to say, “I don’t care about this particular problem and am not going to invest any effort in dealing with it.” We need more folks who can remain steadfast, look the latte-sipping, hysterical activist in the eye and tell him or her: “I’ll solve a portion of that problem and that’s the most I’m willing to do at this time.” Best of all would be an increase in the number of citizens telling our leaders, “I love your idea, Mr. Politician; it is after all a cause I fully support; but until you tell me exactly how you’re going to pay for it when we’re already up to our asses in debt, you can go to blazes.” Man, we need these kinds of heroes.

Courage comes in many forms, and I want more courage for me—and the rest of us. I hope to see a brave people who aren’t held hostage or overreact to the shrill cries and recriminations of those whom we greatly outnumber just because these others are outrageous enough to make a good story for the news media. Maybe, if more of us are brave, I won’t feel so scared, and I’m so damn tired of being afraid. Aren’t you?

What gives me the right to pontificate on any of this?

Nothing really.

I’m nobody—nobody just like you. I’m on the battlefield and in the trenches with you, a forgotten nameless soldier without whom wars could not be fought or governments govern—and lives could not be lived. I merely decided to write you from the trenches; that endlessly difficult place in which most of us spend our nondescript lives. We’re here every day slogging through life, trudging toward an eternally ephemeral victory; and, though we usually don’t face real bombs or bullets, we are certainly shot at by Life’s weaponry of myriad caliber, range, aim—and destructive force; bombarded and strafed by work, family, love, children, taxes, inflation, retirement worries, world events, political correctness, crime, education, the condescension of celebrities, among so damn many other projectiles.

During World War I, General Ian Hamilton, at the Battle of Gallipoli, wrote of his men in the trenches: “Dig, dig, dig until you are safe.”

But you can never dig deep enough, my friends.

If our lives are a somewhat analogous form of grinding warfare, then politicians are the USO shows which comes to humor us cannon fodder from time to time. They entertain us with their rhetoric and pontifications about our predicaments, though getting specifics from them can be harder than pulling teeth from the mouth of an unanesthetized Great White shark. (I apologize for the hokey quip, but I believe it’s accurate.)

Politicians don’t know any of us, but they claim to be doing so much for us—for the American People. They speak for us and fight for us—and look out for us and our “best interests.” They know what’s in our hearts and what we want and need. So they say, as if consultants and polls and focus groups had proven the poets wrong and were instead the true windows to our souls. But how can you actually care about someone you’ve never met; in fact, never will meet? But they say they do. And this is what should’ve made us suspicious all along. Suspicion is a healthy primordial emotion; it’s what gives the uneaten wildebeest each day.

Celebrities who’ve chosen to involve themselves in politics make many of the same assertions as the politicos do on our behalf. They also know what’s best for us—us little people…us black people (not African-American, damn you!)…us poor people…us oppressed people…us Indian people (I guarantee you that they’ll be wimps and use the term Native Americans, First Nation, or indigenous.)

Yet, I doubt celebrities know us any better than the politicians do. Celebrities who drive fancy cars we’ll never drive, live in gigantic houses we’ll never live in, go to extravagant parties we’ll never be invited to—and, in fact, if we dared show up at one of their gala events, we would get our asses thrown out by hulking security guards. (If you don’t believe me, try it sometime.)

A movie idol or rock star might buy a gaudy outfit of clothes worth a year’s (or more!) wages for the rest of us. Yet these famous people care, and speak, and know, and all that stuff on our behalf. They’re unbelievably well paid to entertain us, singing songs, playing make believe. If half of what we read in the tabloids is true, their lives are generally a lot more screwed up than our own sorry existence. How they think this gives them any special insight or standing to know what’s best for us is beyond me.

Or that we’d give a rat’s ass to hear what they have to say.

Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Celebrity! I’m so lucky you deign offer up your precious enlightenment to our benighted humdrum world. Thanks for showing me—and the other unfamous folks—the way to your vision of Nirvana. I know I couldn’t have done it without you, especially your palaver about the environment or illegal immigration. Oh, I realize you and your posse burn up more fossil fuels jet-setting around the world and consuming conspicuously than I ever will in living my inconsequential, Neanderthal life; but I appreciate your preaching to me about conserving gasoline and other natural resources. I have only one car and you have a dozen, you live in a house (or several houses) that used up a hell of a lot more trees in building than did my cracker box abode, but I’m sure you know what the hell you’re talking about and what’s best for me—and our dear Mother Earth. Don’t you?   

Screw your phony-ass, self-righteous carbon-offsets! Getting someone else (read poorer and darker skinned) to do your dirty work for you is not sincere environmental awareness. Oh, another thing: How many tons of soil were mined in extracting the diamonds, emeralds, and other precious stones, as well as the lovely shiny metals, which were used to fashion your totally unnecessary bling-bling? How about the bling adorning the collar wrapped around the neck of your ridiculously coifed and pampered dog. Am I to understand bling is even stuck on the critter’s doggy bed, doggy dinner bowl? I hear some of you famous folks own pets who have their own personal assistants, spend time at hugely expensive pet day spas, fly first class. And did I hear correctly? Feng shui consultants for doghouses. Doggy yoga. Doggy massage. Personal doggy chef.

Yeah, just like me.

But keep on spouting off how the likes of murderer Stanley “Tookie” Williams or Abdul Mumia Jamaal should be granted mercy and released to live in our midst—our midst, not in the midst of YOU and your kind. Hell, if a murderous scumbag were paroled and forced to live in the same house with a self-righteous celebrity, I might gleefully go along with that. And I bet the celebrity would be sleeping with one eye open.

Wide, wide open.

Man, I’d pay-per-view big bucks to watch that reality show.

Hey, celebrities, I spit on your pontificating to me from your imported Italian marble mansion steps. Pthewy!

Yes, politicians and celebrities meddle in the lives of other people they don’t even know exist. Reminds me of some good advice my grandmother used to say when her sons (my father and uncle) would start sticking their nose into each other’s business; she’d tell them, “Taking care of yourself should be a full-time job.”

Yes, it should. And the benefits suck and you don’t get paid for overtime, my friends.

I’m not a politician. I’m not a celebrity. I’m one of you. When I’m not in a cynical mood, it seems to me that most Americans are generally good, decent, hardworking, and want to be left alone for the most part, while having a government that competently handles the basics.

Ah, The Basics! One man’s pothole is another man’s AIDS medicine.

Don’t kid ourselves. We aren’t going to get consensus as to what comprises the basics, but I believe most of us will gladly pay for the potholes to be fixed and begrudgingly shell out for the AIDS drugs—but don’t expect us to accept or condone the high-risk behaviors that disproportionately contribute to HIV transmission: intravenous drug use, unprotected homosexual sex, promiscuity. I bet most of us think a city council has too much damn time on its hands if it wastes any effort voting to make its city a “nuclear free zone.” Such an action is an empty, childish, self-important gesture, which makes a good story for the press but doesn’t tamp asphalt into a single pothole—or provide a single dose of AIDS medication. Most of us are okay with giving welfare to someone who’s down on his luck; but, by God, our blood pressure rises precipitously at the thought of supporting someone who irresponsibly has more fatherless children than she can afford to take care of on her own. And how many crack-addicted babies can someone give birth to before we forcibly have her fallopian tubes tied? But those who argue against mandatory birth control for idiots won’t hesitate one whit about forcing the rest of us to take care of the offspring of these idiots—in fact, I bet you they’ll take great pleasure in the forcing us part.

Choice only applies to some things, my friends.

Most people give the benefit of the doubt to newly arrived legal immigrants, wishing them success in their new country; but we aren’t going to spend a dime on the illegal alien who cuts in front of those other would-be immigrants patiently waiting to come here by following our rules. We’re a fair people, after all. No matter what the Woke say.

Cutting in front of the line and other preferential treatment. Let’s talk about that a moment for the benefit of the rich, famous, well-connected, all-knowing, and powerful—

Remember this, Mr. Politician and Mr. Celebrity. We get really, really pissed off when somebody cuts in front of the line. It’s just like you arriving at the trendy nightclub or upscale restaurant and waltzing in ahead of us, the great unwashed nothings we apparently are. When you sweep by the proles because of your status or fame, the rest of us seethe behind the velvet ropes. And these ropes won’t hold us forever. Nosiree. Yes, we’re good and decent (though you snidely think otherwise)—but there are limits. And you’ve pushed us past them—oh yes, you have!

Take this message back to Hollywood and Washington, D.C. and Aspen and Manhattan and The Hamptons and Malibu and Jackson Hole and Martha’s Vineyard and St. Tropez and all your fancy-smancy parties and exclusive hangouts: We’ll bend over backwards to help our fellow man—if it’s of our own choosing—but we aren’t going to be forced by you to bend over forwards, anymore.

In the end, I may leave you with more questions than answers, more uneasiness than comfort, more despair than hope. And perhaps that’s a better thing if sadly true. Life has taught me that the longer I live, the less I know. Learning is simply discovering more and more questions—and not cowering at the dearth of answers.

The only thing I know for sure is this—NEVER trust anyone who lacks a sense of humor. It doesn’t matter if the humor has a racist, sexist, anti-Semitic, homophobic, or any other politically incorrect element to it. A person who can’t laugh at a joke is dangerous; particularly a person who will go out of his way to persecute (or actually prosecute) those he considers politically incorrect. For this humorless prick will gladly ship our asses off to the gulag if given the opportunity. Make no mistake, good people—a mirthless affectation of self-righteousness hides something sinister.

And that something is usually a pogrom.

This book may seem a hodgepodge of topics—and subtopics, as well. It is. But so is Life. And Life is hard, so damn hard that it’s a wonder we can endure it. We certainly don’t outlast it.

I wrote this book for those of us in the trenches. So, maybe, we’ll discover if there are enough of us, and if we have enough in common—and enough mettle within ourselves—to do something about our lots in life.

If not, we’ll just keep digging.

Until we are safe—or buried.