"To shut us up, you'll have to make us a present of
wooden pajamas, after sprinkling it with lead."
The Tijuana Story
When the police have a vice squad, special units dedicated to the eradication of vice, virtue can live above ground. When the police have a virtue squad, self-appointed units of roaming, moralizing libertines who promote vice as a synthetic alternative to virtue, you have a one-way ticket to Fuzzyland.
The Tijuana Story tells the story of a newspaperman embroiled in hardcore vice wars on the seedy streets of a Mexican border town. He is threatened and attacked from every angle by the Syndicate, a coalition of marijuana-pushing nightclub owners who control the streets through fear and intimidation. Since the world of the 1950s wasn't yet on the fast train to Fuzzyland, the Tijuana Syndicate didn't have a self-righteous virtue squad, and therefore did not presume to improve the world by mutilating the genitals of minors, or installing transsexual gorillas in the ladies' room. By today's standards, the seedy, narcotics-soaked establishments of sin in The Tijuana Story look like cathedrals of moral restraint. The profligate wastoids of the past actually wore suits to cover their shame.
Today, they employ beauty filters to enhance it.
Who will prevail in the war for control of reality? Will the respectable, gringo face of the Syndicate accept his 30 pieces of silver, or will he go down like a warrior in wooden pajamas? Will the information prostitute who lures drunken, ignorant voters into the alley to be blackjacked and robbed by a shadowy DNC operative ever see the light? Will the goofballs who sell goofballs to the goofballs repent of their wickedness?
Will the hophead assassins prevail against the truth?
I believe the world has a one-way ticket to Fuzzyland. For this reason, I am very careful with my time, and where I step. Potholes of doubt, anger, and loathing are scattered all along the path. I watch out for them. The news has become a giant billboard for hell, and I only look at it out of the corner of my eye. Not only because it makes me sick, but because it makes me mad as well. I don't believe there's time to ricochet my soul off those deadly, useless emotions. And while it would probably feel good, I'm not going to pretend this election is going to make any difference, because then I'd have to pretend the last election was legit.
I simply can't place any faith in the denial of reality.
I find myself praying for the safety and salvation of Donald Trump, not that he would become the president "again." I find I am totally incapable of pretending he legitimately lost in 2020, a narrative promoted by the Fuzzyland Virtue Syndicate designed to keep us on the conveyor belt of false hopes, to set us up for a great disappointment that will drive us into furious despair. The time has come to throw our delusions, dreams, and would-be virtues at the feet of Jesus, from whom they came in the first place. The time to cease from trying to save the world with them is now. And while it might be fun to rub the noses of any old-school liberals who are still asleep into the fact that Bush-era supervillain Dick Cheney is endorsing Kamala Harris, the fact remains that if they don't see that glaring red flag on their own, there's nothing to say to them. They are like drunks in the middle of a blackout.
They are citizens of Fuzzyland, now.
I would say, "God have mercy on us all," but we're at the point where God will only have mercy on those who will accept it. If you won't have it, you won't get it. There is still time. In 5 minutes, there may not be.
"Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Romans 10:13).
Good luck.
