Groobers, Shickle and Otherwise
Unstable countries are unstable, this not always being obvious in those countries, and then comes a man on a horse. The United States, methinks, is not particularly stable.
That anything seismic might happen is an idea doubtless inconceivable to most Americans, who still remember the America of Reader’s Digest, but is daily less improbable. Weimar America is not stable. The cracks in the foundations, the social crumbling and virulent antipathies grow daily more evident.
The economy declines, jobs leave for other climes, the petroyuan looms, college graduates crushed by debt find no work, the middle class shrinks, and the young begin to live perforce with their parents. Times of diminishing expectations are dangerous.
City after city joins the ranks of the bankrupt, semiliterate, corrupt black Bantustans which by honest naming would be called Lower Third World. Their culture is utterly alien to that of Eurowhites. Across the open border to the south pour huge waves from the Latino slums, less alien to Eurowhites, less hostile, but nonetheless threatening to form yet another country within a country. The Third World proportion of America closes rapidly on a full third. Despite desperate attempts to impose multicultural harmony, experience shows that widely disparate peoples who do not like each other do not enjoy happy endings. My country ‘tis of three, sweet land of dystrophy….
America can no longer be called a democracy. The Constitution recedes in memory. Congress and the Supreme Court amount to nothing. Washington rests uneasily in the hands of a half-mad clique of geopolitical illiterates, warlike misfires playing dangerous games like little Kaiser Wilhelms in a sandbox. Presiding over the city is Septimius Severus, Bokassa III, a negligible pol from Chicago who doesn’t like whites or understand European norms of government. He will keep the borders open and civil liberties in retreat.
A sort of insanity rules, warning of stress building along many political San Andreas faults waiting for the Big One. A pathologically aggressive United States bombs countries almost at random while little boys are dragged from school in handcuffs for pointing a finger and saying “Bang.” Girls suffer from bulimia and anorexia, lunacies nonexistent in psychically healthy societies. A crack-brained feminism makes cockamamie circuses of the universities. Bastardy runs at a perilous thirty percent among white women, verging on cultural disintegration, and seventy percent among blacks. The epicene young grow in sheltered, meaningless hothouse-suburbs, never having worked, baited a hook, been in a schoolyard fight, or existed outside of a feckless bored helplessness.
From the cellars come prancing homosexuals, men in dresses and panties, the surgically altered inverts and sadomasochistic hobbyists. The high schools are become drug markets, differing only slightly from the middle schools. Life is a cabaret, old chum, here in Caligula’s bedroom.
An actual breakup of America does not seem inconceivable. Maine wants out. In the Southwest, Hispanics move rapidly toward demographic and then voting majorities. These states were once part of Mexico, and Mexicans know it. If they chose to ignore the federal government? Mississippi is thirty-seven percent black. An increase of five or ten percent by birth or immigration, a tipping point, white flight, et voila, a black republic. Would Washington send troops to retake these regions? It can’t even enforce its marijuana laws in Colorado and Washington State.
Below this seething maelstrom of degeneracy lie dangerous shoals of cultural conservatism, of people who believe in two sexes and birth within wedlock and orderly society obedient to law. They are quietly very, very angry at seeing everything they stand for eaten away by the multi-culti, touchy-feely, everything-goes miasma emanating from Washington. They speak of personal responsibility, learning the multiplication tables, English as the national language, and no toleration of crime– and they know who commits it. Whether you think them simple-minded and fascist or wholesome and self-reliant defines which side of the gaping cultural divide you inhabit.
In times like these arises a yearning for a strong man to sweep away the filth, banish the disorder, and restore a possibly existent former Elysium. Such desires usually involve assertion of the national myths, in this case of the brave, self-reliant, and clean-living Davy Crockett and the immaculately wholesome small towns of Norman Rockwell. These never were, which doesn’t matter. The America of 1960 came much closer than what we now have.
And so a strong man arises from somewhere. With luck you end up with Lee Kuan Yew instead of Mussolini or, worse, that dark squatty effeminate blond Aryan superman of the Beer Hall Putsch. Unfortunately you can’t tell who you have got until after you have got him.
Authoritarianism is not without a pull. Among old hands who have been around the East one not infrequently hears approving reference to the immigration-and-customs forms the stews handed out on final into Singapore’s airport. I doubt that I can quote it verbatim, but I can come close.
“There is a death penalty in Singapore for importation or possession of drugs. This penalty is carried out.” Color in the original. Singapore’s problems with drugs were, well, exiguous. Why, who would have thought it?
In these conversations there usually comes up the case of the young American caught vandalizing cars in Singapore. The punishment is a particularly agonizing form of caning. This caused horror in the US on one side of the cultural divide, but satisfaction on the other. “Reckon the stupid bastard’s going to key any more cars?” As a society becomes ever more permissive and lawless, this sort of thinking gains in attractiveness.
In America, something is going to happen. It will not happen just now. Things are not yet bad enough. Wait. Whether it will be a continued slow sinking into an internally chaotic semi-bushworld status, or a serious war with Russia and China started by brain-burnt sexagenarian adolescents in Congress and pasty neocons with Napoleonic fantasies, or a coup by the military, or something else, I don’t know. A Pentagonal coup d’état does not seem likely, granted. Our generals are not greatly political as long as they get their toys and wars, and they lack the doughty moralism of a Hindenburg or Ludendorff.
In practical terms, though, four helicopter gunships and twenty Black Hawks of troops arriving over Washington from Quantico would do it. Whether the public would care enough to do anything about it, or whether there would be anything they could do, is uncertain. Enough people are sick enough of the current state of things that they might say, what the hell, give it a try. The crucial question world then be how the rest of the military would respond.
Think of it as Merle Haggard versus Justin Bieber. Or Sarah Palin versus Paris Hilton. But something is going to happen.
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