More Mayberry… Less Fallujah

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  1. A military man, a colonel no less, saying “We don’t need this”? I’m stunned that the truth actually burbled forth for once.

  2. Concord NH City Council Meeting 8.12.2013

    More Mayberry. Less Fallujah.

    The Ballistic Engineered Armored Response Counter Attack Truck requested on the city’s application to DHS stated that it is to be used against activists that promote peace, love, and freedom. This use is unlawful and unconstitutional.

    “We don’t need this. We really don’t. I’m a retired Colonel in the Marine Corps. I saw a sign back there that said we want “More Mayberry, Less Fallujah”

    I spent a year in Fallujah. You know what, When I first got there, I didn’t have armored Humvees. I traveled over 10,000 miles over there. And sometimes you got to deal with and go with what you have. That’s part of the job. That’s number one.

    The second thing is though, when I was in Iraq, I was in charge, I was the Administrative Defense Coordinator for several Iraqi provinces. My job was to man, train, and equip the Iraqi army in those provinces. And I did everything I could to make that army as strong as possible.

    And I can tell you right now, Homeland Security would kick their butts in a week! What’s happening here is we’re building a domestic military. I’m speaking up against this now, because it’s unlawful and unconstitutional to use American troops on American soil.”

    • “But, but but, it’s not CALLED an army!”

      Just like there’s no such thing as traffic ticket “quotas” because we call them “Performance targets”?
      Because we call it “Asset forfeiture,” it’s not theft.
      And because we term it, “Catastrophic skull trauma,” you’re not dead to due to a caved in skull?

      Someone said, Democracy is two wolves and a lamb deciding what’s for lunch. The Second Amendment makes a well-armed lamb.
      Corollary:
      If it’s two lambs, especially if well-armed, and one wolf: The lambs become carnivorous.

      Wolves MUST tend the sheep, and cull the weak and stupid.
      What we have now is an inversion of the natural order.
      We are punished for being freedom-loving, intelligent, and capable. immaturity, mental disorders, and stupidity (and all sorts of vices) are rewarded.

      Eh…
      Mongol General: What is best in life?
      Conan: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.

      Or to hear the bleating of the sheep, while you enjoy a mutton dinner…

      • Everywhere Mary the Parking Maid went
        The Sheeple fed her Meter
        Her Fleece was bright stench of freshest Red
        They groveled and bled as they pleased Her

        To Life contrary her Graveyards grow
        With Thumbscrew Silverbells
        And Groinvise Cockleshells
        And Pretty Iron Maiden Guillotines all shining in a Row

        • lol

          Mistress Mary, Quite contrary,
          How does your garden grow?
          With Silver Bells, And Cockle Shells,
          And pretty maids all in a row.

          misallocation, quite a vexation
          how does your garden grow?
          with silver dollars & golden collars,
          and shitty trades all in a row.

        • Up the airy mountain,
          Down the rushy glen,
          We daren’t go a-hunting
          For fear of little men;
          Wee folk, good folk,
          Trooping all together;
          Green jacket, red cap,
          And white owl’s feather!

          By the craggy hill-side,
          Through the mosses bare,
          They have planted thorn-trees
          For pleasure here and there.
          If any man so daring
          As dig them up in spite,
          He shall find their sharpest thorns
          In his bed at night.
          ____

          A certain nature of this whole situation: As you sow, so shall you reap.
          Our ersatz overlords forget this; we must remind them, as Thomas Jefferson wrote.
          They’ve forgotten the Gods of the Copybook Headings.
          Kipling wrote it as well.

          The Gods of the Copybook Headings

          ——————————————————————————–

          AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
          I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
          Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
          And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

          We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
          That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
          But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
          So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

          We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
          Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
          But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
          That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

          With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
          They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
          They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
          So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

          When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
          They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
          But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
          And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

          On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
          (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
          Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
          And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”

          In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
          By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
          But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
          And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”

          Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
          And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
          That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
          And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

          As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
          There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
          That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
          And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

          And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
          When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
          As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
          The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

          (Kipling @ http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_copybook.htm)

          We need to remind people why Redcap’s hats were red…

          The Fairies
          William Allingham

          http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/10186/

          Up the airy mountain,
          Down the rushy glen,
          We daren’t go a-hunting
          For fear of little men;
          Wee folk, good folk,
          Trooping all together;
          Green jacket, red cap,
          And white owl’s feather!

          Down along the rocky shore
          Some make their home,
          They live on crispy pancakes
          Of yellow tide-foam;
          Some in the reeds
          Of the black mountain lake,
          With frogs for their watch-dogs,
          All night awake.

          High on the hill-top
          The old King sits;
          He is now so old and gray
          He ’s nigh lost his wits.
          With a bridge of white mist
          Columbkill he crosses,
          On his stately journeys
          From Slieveleague to Rosses;
          Or going up with music
          On cold starry nights
          To sup with the Queen
          Of the gay Northern Lights.

          They stole little Bridget
          For seven years long;
          When she came down again
          Her friends were all gone.
          They took her lightly back,
          Between the night and morrow,
          They thought that she was fast asleep,
          But she was dead with sorrow.
          They have kept her ever since
          Deep within the lake,
          On a bed of flag-leaves,
          Watching till she wake.

          By the craggy hill-side,
          Through the mosses bare,
          They have planted thorn-trees
          For pleasure here and there.
          If any man so daring
          As dig them up in spite,
          He shall find their sharpest thorns
          In his bed at night.

          Up the airy mountain,
          Down the rushy glen,
          We daren’t go a-hunting
          For fear of little men;
          Wee folk, good folk,
          Trooping all together;
          Green jacket, red cap,
          And white owl’s feather!

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