Attribute to L. Neil Smith’s The Libertarian Enterprise

I never thought it would be possible, but I think I’m suffering from news exhaustion. Usually I have the television on twenty-four/seven, even while I write, even while I sleep, and I know that the conflict between Donald Trump and the Dumbocrats is going to be regarded as historic, someday, either the end of the Republic or a new beginning. But I’m tired of Adam Shitt’s ugly, stupid face, of Nancy Pelousi’s Parkinsonian voice, and to take it further, if I have to listen to what Mayor Butt Petegieg regards as ideas, or Fauxcahontas’ wavery quavery substitute teacher delivery much more—both of them regarding what they intend to do with my fucking money—I think I’m going to throw up.

Meanwhile, uncounted numbers of brainless, pathetically ignorant young studenty-types, encouraged by traitorous video hairspray-heads, are actually taking seriously a vile clutch of candidates cheerfully representing a form of bloody-fingered kleptocracy that cold-bloodedly slaughtered 200,000,000 innocent individuals in the last century. If truth in advertising were applied to politics, Democrats would be known as the Murder Party. Think about it: there’s something about death these ghouls and goblins simply can’t resist.

My daughter, one of the fiercest young MAGA warriors I know of, says, “So turn off the TV—it’s called the idiot box for a reason,” After another four years, she’s looking forward to voting for Don Jr., for Eric (either of whom would give us another beautiful, intelligent, and gracious First Lady), or even for Ivanka—whose Presidential candidacy would give leftists a case of cognitive dissonance the size of Mount Rushmore (a woman, and a Jewish woman at that—but a Trump!). Last night my daughter even confessed to holding out some hope for Barron. None of us Smiths like dynasties very much, but the communists who call themselves progressives, Democrats, and liberals may have made it necessary. The news for freedom all my life has been nothing but bad; I want some good news for a change.

There is a bright spot here and there. Prince Andrew, Duke of York is in big trouble with his mummy (a dynasty all by herself). It seems that he was good buddies with that soulless child-buyer, mass-rapist, and procurer Jeffrey Epstein, he of Orgy Island and the Lolita Express. Andy participated in some of the frivolities Epstein hosted and got photographed doing it. The idea of an English prince locked up in an American prison, as unlikely as it may be, warms the cockles of my heart (whatever that means) as it surely would those of Thomas Paine and Samuel Adams. Convicts do have a way of dealing with child-molesters.

Jeffrey Epstein, by the way, did not kill himself.

Another thing that makes me tired is that all we ever seem to get is the wrong news. As you may know, I’m a science fiction writer. I know a lot about science. As you also may know, I have made many accurate predictions about “the shape of things to come”. I have been hearing unadulterated blather for the last quarter century or so about “global warming” and other such hoaxes (remember “acid rain” and “ozone depletion”?) I know that changes in the Earth’s climate (and the climates of Jupiter and Mars) are driven by changes in the Sun. I also know that carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is a very good thing. It helps the grass and trees and flowers grow and makes the bees and butterflies happy. I know that we are coming off of a carbon dioxide “drought” millions of years old, and that the greenest times—like the Carboniferous Period—were those with many times the current level of carbon dioxide.

You can imagine how I feel—more importantly, what I think—about laws designed to limit opportunity, murder the future, and steal from me, while every effort is made by communist politicians, parlor-pink pundits, and their TV golliwogs to shame productive individuals and make them feel guilty for the enormous good they do humanity. Attacking the fuel industry, which makes civilization—along with historically unprecedented prosperity and freedom—possible, betrays these barrel-scrapings as the slinking low-lives they are. Their Utopian dream is to leave you squatting in a hut of mud and cow-shit while your wife dies in childbirth.

And while communist politicians, parlor-pink pundits, and their golliwogs on TV concentrate on fake dangers to enrich themselves and enhance their powers over us they ignore the very real danger that threatens humanity. On several occasions in Earth’s prehistory, big rocks have fallen from the sky—if you can call something the size of Manhattan a rock, and 40,000 miles an hour falling—nearly killing every living thing on the planet. The last time was only a few thousand years ago, during the age of giant mammals, when North America got more or less denuded of life. I’ve also been, many times, to a mile-wide hole in the Arizona desert (it’s sort of a shrine to me) where something the size of a Volkswagen bug soiled the loincloths of Paleo-Indians within a fifty-mile radius.

Worrying about the global warming con-game with a real threat like that hanging over our collective heads is like worrying that a little kid on a tricycle will hit you on the knee, while a 100-car freight train is barreling at you down the track. What the flaming hell is it going to take, the loss of a major city, before some of these imbeciles pay attention? The sainted Albert Gore, cute little Greta Thunberg, and their pustulent ilk will go down in history as genocides for distracting our species from its genuine, urgent necessities.

That, of course, is why I support formation of a United States Space Force (or an Acme Space Force, Inc., if you insist on the private market) to detect, deflect, and/or destroy these chunks of sky-junk before they can do any more damage. The trouble is, as much as I love it, my soap-box is only about half an inch tall, and nobody’s listening, anyway.

Except, of course, for you, Dear Reader.

 

*Hat-tip to Kitty Woldow