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At last check, little Alfie Evans was hanging on for dear life at Alder Hey Hospital. His parents have lost their bid to bring him to Italy for treatment, a last ditch effort perhaps but alas, we’ll never know the outcome. The same doctors who said he would quickly stop breathing and quietly slip away when they removed his life support four days ago have decided it would be best to just end the little guy’s suffering by letting him slowly asphyxiate; a fate and an ending I’m quite sure none of the nitwits on the UK’s highest court would wish to endure personally. The European Court of Human Rights also declined to intervene, telling you all you need to know about human rights in the European Union.

who gets to decide?

When does one become so cold and indifferent to the suffering of others that you could literally stand by and watch this child suffer this death? I can’t grasp the concept here; someone needs to help me understand. I’m absolutely serious. We go to great lengths to sustain those who have robbed us, assaulted us, beaten us, raped us, and murdered us; yet we declare that this child needs to die; it is our will. On strictly moral and ethical grounds, of course.

To start with, we have socialized medicine to consider here; is Alfie diagnosed with a degenerative brain disease or not? Should it matter to anyone outside his immediate family? Only in the sense that hey, you’ve got to understand that there are limited resources available and we can’t be wasting time and money on an individual with no hope for survival. That’s the reality of it my friends. This is what the citizens of the UK have chosen; this is what they want. It’s all part of the comfort and trust they place in the hands of those they never meet, never see, never speak to, who ultimately get to decide who is and is not of any value to the citizenry at large. On strictly moral and ethical grounds, of course.

And so we have a political structure that wishes to intrude into the private lives, rights and decisions of its citizens. It’s one thing to decide that you’re not willing to foot the bill; quite another to say, “and because we don’t wish to foot the bill, you’re not allowed to go anywhere else on the planet either. You see, we don’t want you to prolong his suffering and he should pass with dignity.” Again, on strictly moral and ethical grounds, of course.

This has always struck me as odd; I have friends, dear friends, who have repeatedly crossed the border to the very same country that they crap on on a daily basis over how selfish we Americans are, how narrow minded, how this, how that, only because they needed that MRI quicker than 7 months from now, or their government funded knee replacement was denied or their next dental appointment is not approved for another 3 months. (Chew on the other side…) Odd, as I said, because socialized medicine is rationing, pure and simple, and it benefits no one; least of all those who continue to support it all the while endeavoring how to get around it. And in all of these countries, you can hear the same stories of shortages here or there, shortages of beds, shortages of diagnostic tools, of doctors, nurses, drugs, bedpans, and toilet paper for goodness sakes… And you have bureaucrats insisting that you have rights and freedoms, no more or no less than your neighbor but oh, by the way, we decided today that you’re going to have to die laying on a gurney in the hallway, gasping and wheezing because we don’t really think you’re worth the money and we don’t have a room for you to expire in anyway.

So just what is the appeal of socialized medicine and how the heck does it work? If it’s about cost, why can’t the UK just let the parents take their son to Italy; it will cost the UK nothing to not condemn this child to death. A bonus if he passes away out of the country; a sort of morbid “told ya so” from those who erroneously thought he would pass quickly, even after not being able to diagnose him in the first place. So maybe it’s not about money.

Maybe it is about compassion and morality and ethics and all of the other flowery words they use to stir up emotion and belief in the system. Again, is it really moral, ethical, compassionate, whatever buzzword you want to use to persuade the easily persuaded, to allow this child to suffer this slow, agonizing death when another country, another group of doctors elsewhere believe they can offer hope? Isn’t that what real compassion is? Is this about professional, or national pride? If it costs you nothing, if there is a chance that you might be wrong, doesn’t this child, any child, any human deserve that chance?

No, he doesn’t deserve a chance. You see, it doesn’t matter that it will cost them nothing to let his parents try; it is, and always will be about controlling the population; controlling their citizens by restricting their rights to make decisions about their health and the health of their loved ones. And, it’s about the superiority of government power and position over parental rights. Ultimately, governments that should be inferior and responsible to their citizens, get to have the final say over your life, your death, and that of your children. And you willingly gave them that power. Not only are you decent and caring for the common good; you’re quite moral and ethical too. That is until you drive across the border for that crown that’s been bothering you.

I don’t expect this little boy to live much longer. I’m not a doctor and have no idea what his true prognosis is. I don’t quite believe that anyone truly does. We may not fully know what his ailment was until he’s autopsied. But the cause of his death will surely be the heath care system that has more to lose by his recovery than by his passing. No, not a doctor; a father. And like many others, one who would be doing everything I could to save my son or daughter if I were in that position. And I would look for guidance from our doctors and get down on my knees and beg for clarity from above. And at some point, I too would decide that I cannot allow my loved one to suffer any longer.

As a father, that is not only my right; it is my burden. It should not belong to someone who can only value the life of my loved one on the basis of the color in his ledger.

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I struggled choosing the gift. He’s quite mechanically inclined, as he aptly demonstrated the night he removed his own ankle bracelet, so it had to be something he could do with his hands, something that he would find engaging, but not too challenging. Hopefully, I’d find one that didn’t have a bazillion little parts, beyond his limited finger dexterity. A simple wood-working project, that would do. I got him the pirate ship and a birdhouse, small balsa wood models that would fit together simply with the tap of the harmless wooden mallet included in the package.

The dust of one's existence is easily wiped away..

The dust of one’s existence is easily wiped away..

On the way there, we discussed the gifts; too many small nails we decided. Tiny brads no longer then half an inch each, gave us pause. I could envision them scattered on the floor, spilled into his bedclothes or worse, finding their way into his mouth. We pulled over at a Toys “R” Us on the way to find something more suitable if we could. Not really sure of what mental age we would find him in, we settled on a beautiful stuffed German Shepard, warm and soft. Someone to keep him company.

Walking down the corridor was disheartening. Broken minds and withered bodies littered the hall, many staring blankly at empty walls no more than a foot from their faces. A few were aware enough to wave to us, either mistaking us for someone they knew or begging for someone, anyone, to spend a few precious moments with them; one woman kept pointing to me and motioning to a bouquet of flowers in the middle of the barren institutional table she leaned on, as if she was proud of the gift or possibly thanking us for it.

The door to his room was partially opened and I rapped loudly, knowing there was a possibility that his hearing aids were on low. As it turns out, we woke him from a late morning nap. He stirred slowly on the bed, half startled and disoriented but smiling nonetheless. As he greeted us and slowly struggled to a sitting position, Di sat across from his uninviting hospital bed on the only chair in the room; a small folding office chair, the kind you would pull from the basement only if you ran out of decent lawn chairs. The drapes on the window behind her were tattered and worn, threadbare and barely hanging off the curtain rod that looked as if it was mere seconds shy of dropping from the wall. There was nothing in the room to describe its inhabitant; the tan and gray walls were completely barren; no paintings, pictures, frames, decorations or signs of life what so ever. Fitting décor for a place to warehouse those with broken minds.

I asked him if he knew who we were and he said of course, but he never mentioned our names. He asked us how far we had traveled, a question meant to hide the fact that he truly had no idea who we were but which masked his embarrassment that he didn’t. I told him who we were anyway and he admired my sweatshirt emblazoned with the “UNH Wildcat” logo. It pleased him greatly as he touched the raised letters on my shirt and repeated “Wildcat, that’s fantastic,” repeating the growl of a wildcat for us several times. We told him we had a gift for him and he struggled to open the gift bag; I held it on his lap and pulled the stuffed dog from it. He was positively delighted; he asked us if it had a name and we told him no, that he could name it whatever he wanted. I specifically picked the Shepard from the shelf, remembering the story of the Shepard he once had as a boy. There was no connection. He was proud to put it on the small under-sized nightstand near the other small stuffed dog already there. He kept repeating that he wished it could bark, showing us what sound he wished it would make to keep the other residents, who had a tendency to wander into his room uninvited, at bay. He turned and asked us how far we had travelled. And again, we told him.

He said he wouldn’t be there long; he couldn’t wait to go home. He assured us he was going home soon, he just didn’t know when. He never said, but it was clear from his eyes that he not only didn’t know when; he didn’t know where. Where was home? He asked us where his car was? I assured him that it was in his garage, right where he left it. He admired my shirt and asked me where we had traveled from.

The conversation went just that way; seconds of him smiling, us making him laugh, him asking where his car was and how far away we lived. He spoke of boredom (not once while we were there did any staff interact with him at all), how at times it was too loud to sleep but today was quiet because many of the residents had gone for the day, other things to do. I’m quite sure he didn’t have the capacity to realize that none of them were able to go anywhere. I asked him if he remembered our tradition of decorating my house for Christmas, as he stood on the lawn in front of the porch and directed the work. His face lit and he assured me that he remembered, and how much he enjoyed it as well. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to fool me or himself, but I decided that I wasn’t going to let go of this memory and told him that we loved it too.

The visit was short, barely an hour. He smiled often, we made him laugh. He asked us where his car was and how long was our drive. He asked us if the dog had a name. He said he was bored; there was nothing for him to do. I wondered if he would have been more connected to others, to himself, if he had some stimulation, a least a picture on the dammed walls or possibly someone to speak to. The smell of the institutional meal was wafting down the corridor and we knew his lunch would soon be coming. We decided we needed to let him have his lunch, to keep him at least on this small schedule. We told him we had to leave and he stood and hugged us. He wanted to walk us up the corridor to the nurse’s station but no further; anything more tires him out he told us. He asked us how long we had to travel and we told him. We said goodbye and exchanged kisses on the cheek, though his hug reminded me of the cordial embrace one gives and receives from someone who was once a passing, fleeting acquaintance.

On the way home, I realized I had been sitting in hell’s waiting room. I saw the shell of a man I admire; empty, void of identity. He wakes in a strange room in a location he can’t identify. All he was, all he knew, shattered images in time, lost forever in a cloud of nothingness; no attachment, no past, nothing to remind him of who he was or who he is. I wondered if he was in emotional pain; can one long for those you never knew? Is all that’s left a daily void? Every minute of every day, surrounded by strangers, some you just met thirty minutes ago; many who tell you they’ve know you all their lives. Is it frightening to be forever surrounded by people you don’t recognize, including the one who stares back from the bathroom mirror?

So many things I wanted to tell him; so many things I wanted to say; things that would be quite startling, confusing, possibly unnerving coming from a complete stranger. I would tell you that I miss you; that we love you. That you mean so much to us, the couple you just met and will probably forget before we even reach the highway on that drive that we told you about so many times.

We are fragile. We make memories to hold, to comfort us as we get older. We reminisce fondly of those who have shaped our lives, many molding us into the person we have become. It is nothing short of utter desolation to lose all we were, all we are, and to forever be in a world where we are strangers to ourselves too.

After all; who are we if we are not the collection of moments we gather to ourselves over the span of our lives: that collection of experiences, faces and events that apparently can be easily wiped away like some useless writing on a forgotten chalkboard.


Never liked crunchy peanut butter; always went for the creamy style. I guess the taste may be the same when you get down to it; after all, creamy is just the peanut ground to a finer texture, no hint of the shape or physical definition of the aforementioned peanut. Totally unidentifiable at that point. Of course, there are those who just swear by the texture, relishing in the remaining crunchy bits of peanuts that escaped the factory-grade grinding wheels that were set just so, leaving the sought-after bits and pieces they desire in their PB&Js.

Was this a difficult choice?

Was this a difficult choice?

Dr. Gatter is hawking her own less crunchy “bits and pieces”. She instructs her would-be customers that she can have her factory alter their manufacturing process to a “less crunchy” methodology, leaving the buyer with a product that’s far more intact, if that’s what they prefer. Wouldn’t it be nice if she was only discussing the lifeless, lowly peanut? But alas, like those who are defending her, she sees no more value in a human life or human dignity than she sees in a peanut. This is, remember, the definition of women’s health. Creamy or crunchy. A woman’s right to choose.

The abortion debate always brings out the worst in both sides of the question. No movement. No collaboration, no compromise. You either support this heinous procedure or you hate women. Simple. Or, if you support any reasonable approach to restraining abortion, you get blasted by both sides; defending murder, not protecting life; a msyoginist who wants women pregnant but in the kitchen makin’ those sammiches. Whether either extreme end of the spectrum wants to believe it or not, there are a vast number of people who find abortion abhorrent, see it as taking an innocent life but quite possibly, something that they would continue to accept under narrow circumstances. For many of us, it’s about saving a woman’s life; not her life style. Of course, we’re not much appreciated by either side.

If it wasn’t so disturbing a topic, the recent Planned Parenthood revelations about selling broken babies would illuminate where we stand on the scale of humanity and simple dignity. I scour the papers, web and blogs quite a bit and the conversations about the recently released videos are downright depressing. Both sides have dug in deep but the debate is somewhat slightly skewed. Believe it or not, the majority of the debates end up wandering around the validity of the video; was this a set up? Was the video edited or doctored? Was she taken out of context? “This group is out to get Planned Parenthood” some say, “so anything they produce or present is slanted and not to be believed.” It’s almost as if they want you to believe that someone had a gun to her head, that she had a written script in front of her, a coerced confession as it were, all fake, not real. This doesn’t really go on in today’s society. Truth is, I don’t know exactly what the law says in great detail about trafficking in human body parts, but if you’re standing so close to the legal line that you could be pushed over it by the slightest breeze, then maybe your intentions aren’t as pure as you would have us all believe.

At this point, the validity of the video is moot. Whether this doctor or the one previously recorded knew they were being recorded (unfair!) or not only changes the narrative away from the procedure that needs to be addressed out in the open. How anyone can justify pulling a live child out of the womb, stopping at the point of leaving the head inside so one can puncture the skull, suck out the brains and then crush the skull to make the final removal easier, well that justification is hard for me to accept.

Defenders of Planned Infanticide want to keep the focus on the veracity of the video, not about the horror of the procedure that started the whole conversation to begin with. And as deeply as they study this video, looking for any edits, trying to put words or statements in “context”, maybe they should be forced to view one other video in greater detail. (Please do not click this link lightly; it is very disturbing. I apologize for the horrific scene.) This is the video that should be discussed on the nightly news, in every home, in legislative bodies. Many who support this procedure have never seen this, never taken the time to see exactly what it is they are asking me and others like me to accept. And yet, they know this is out there, know the horror of it, but chastise me, call me a hater because I am repulsed by it. Please tell me that we are, as a race, as humans, far better than this type of abomination.

If you I and cannot agree that this is a barbaric way to end the life of a human baby, then we will certainly never be able agree on when that life began in the first place. Show some humanity. In fact, it should be easier than choosing your favorite brand of peanut butter.


Haven’t heard much about Justina Pelletier, a young girl I had previously written about who was for all intents and purposes, kidnapped by the Boston Children’s Hospital with the legal authority and weaponry of the State of Massachusetts. Her crime? Being a sick young girl whose parents had opted to follow the medical advice of their team of doctors from Tufts Hospital over the well-connected authority of BCH. After a year of state sponsored medical experiments, she finally returned home to Connecticut, and Google searches reveal nothing about her since then. The state it seems, is no longer concerned that her parents are abusing her medically. More likely, they decided they could no longer dance their macabre dance of tyranny in the public eye. Not that they could be wrong. No, it will always be presumed by weight of the legal records that the state had the moral authority to steal this child from parents who were unfit to decide what was in the best interest of their child, and it was the parents who should forever be ashamed of the year long near-death imprisonment of their daughter at the Boston Children’s Hospital and Penitentiary.

Tell her to jump? Or give her a push?

Tell her to jump? Or give her a push?

Maryland too has had to correct parents gone astray. Child Protective Services in Silver Spring rescued the ten and six year-old children of Danielle and Alexander Meitiv after their children were found alone in a Silver Spring park earlier this month. The Meitivs are “free-range” parents; a ridiculous term that, one assumes, is to delineate them from the “helicopter” variety of parents so prevalent today. (Disclaimer; I’ve logged a few hours in my own “Kid-Sikorsky”. Mine may have felt that they were independent and on their own; not so much. Stealth dad as it were…)

Again, the state decided that instead of picking the kids up, they’d just hold on to them for a while. The kids had promised to be home by six; they were two blocks from home when the police picked them up and held them for over two hours before sending them to Child Protective Service ten miles away. They finally released the kids to their parents at ten-thirty, four hours later than the kids had intended to be home and ten miles farther away then the two blocks they could have covered in less than fifteen minutes. Probably less than five minutes if the police had just brought them home.

Who in their right mind let’s their kids wander alone these days, especially kids that young? Makes me think of my school days though; We lived within, just within, the minimum distance that would have allowed us to ride the school bus and we walked or rode our bikes to school every day. State law, you see. We were state-sponsored “free-range kids” before it was cool. By law. But of course, back then, we didn’t have all these nut-jobs waiting in the bushes or lurking in some dark, broken-down shanty in the neighborhood the way we do now. Oops, my mistake. Of course we did. And we have them now only because we’re not allowed to restrict them from “adjusting” back into society or lock them up forever; and heaven forbid we be allowed to know which houses they may be occupying on the state enforced “free-range” walk to school. No, I don’t allow my kids that kind of freedom, whether they think I do or not. And it’s a good thing too or they’d be cooling their little heels in the back of some squad car or locked away in some comfy little state-sponsored juvi-hall, ala Justina Pelletier, victims of parents so horrible that the state just has to step in. Nothing worse for a child than his parents.

I’m usually all about parent’s rights, but still ready to admit to and scream about the idiots among us who shouldn’t be allowed to raise a potato plant let alone a child. I’m pretty damned consistent about it too. The “free-range” idiots are placing their kids at risk; one I wouldn’t take. But we’ve assigned guilt to them for things that might happen; might happen because we’ve allowed society and our neighborhoods to devolve into areas where our children can no longer roam alone. It pisses us off that these boneheads let their kids walk alone and so we attack them; it’s easier than fixing the problem we should address. But the state knows best. We can’t be too inhumane about the cretins that make our streets dangerous; instead, let’s lock up the kids that can’t follow the rules. Parents just can’t be left alone to decide. Or can they?

Okay I’ll bite. Why then do we celebrate the courage it takes for a parent to decide they want to send their child down the path of gender reassignment at the ripe old age of three? Or Four? Apparently, little Jacob, formerly a little girl named Mia informed her parents that she wanted to take the “free-range” walk down transgender lane as young as age two and hey, Boston is enamored with their strength and courage. This is no mere tomboy phase we’re assured; it’s the real thing. The four year-old told us so. She’s only two years away from getting busted for walking alone to the park, but we’ll set her on the path to self-mutilation and years of therapy, quite content in the knowledge that the parents are doing the right thing for their child. This time; on this issue.

Let the hate and derision begin. I’m bigoted. I’m evil. I’m hateful, spiteful, and probably a whole of bunch other things I’m sure I’ll shortly be made aware of. And let’s get the other stuff out of the way as well. No, I don’t know what they’re going through. No, I don’t hate people who are different. It just seems that we’ll bend ourselves into all sorts of contortions for the malady-du-jour, and no I’m not making light of this as much as it pisses me off.

We indulge these illnesses, without even letting this child approach an age where she can be exposed to others around her as she starts to mature naturally. We make no assumption that she may grow out of this or may develop a mechanism to cope, never truly supporting her in the body that she is in, fully exploiting and amplifying her illness, setting it in stone in her psyche as we wait for the opportunity to permanently disfigure her body to match? Is this not in fact, cruel? Of course, we’ll be told that we’re cruel to let her suffer, how horrible it will be to make her wait until she gets old enough to rationally make this monumental, permanent change on her own. If she felt her left hand didn’t belong to her, really felt that way, would we also encourage her to remove the right? If she were anorexic, would we feel it was cruel to help her see her body in reality, to help her accept and understand the fact that her mind is broken and the problem is not in her weight? Or would we acquiesce, tell her yes, we agree, please eat less, you’ll feel much better about yourself dear. We don’t encourage any other of these types of illnesses; we don’t pat ourselves on the back for our courage to indulge them. Why this one? Do we really believe that we’re doing the right thing when we have what in reality, is a very basic and rudimentary understanding of the complexity of the mind, let alone the brain itself? Do we really believe this is the cure, and believe it so strongly that we’ll do anything we can to make the change easier, faster, and more “natural?” Are we really so worried about her being too “different” to be accepted, by others as well as herself, that we’d make her infinitely more unique? Or is that the goal? If she told us she really believed she was a bird, would we take her to the rooftop and toss her off, hoping that in some way she’d eventually be able to fly?

Go ahead, throw the darts, but I can’t wrap my head around this one. I would suffer along side of my child, encouraging her and helping her to reach the age of maturity, helping her to understand that she can be whoever she wants to be; the girl she wants to be. But I would never encourage her to live this confusion, to give up fighting against it until she was old enough to rationally, competently make this decision on her own. And until she spends any time exploring what it means to be a girl, to be the body nature developed her to be, to have her first crush, to watch other boys develop and mature around her, then these parents are just allowing her to walk to a distant park, all alone and unprepared for either the journey or the destination.

At the end of this walk, the cops can’t bring you back home.


There’s a cute little analogy running around the web about vaccines. A lot of my friends of the progressive bent have been posting and re-posting it, hoping to shame and embarrass their “anti-vaxxer” friends, another cute phrase designed to impugn anyone who disagrees with big government thinking; a common tactic on the left when their arguments are flawed and fly in the face of personal freedoms. The analogy goes something like this; you have the personal freedom to remove the brakes from your car, but you’re not that stupid are you? What idiot in his right mind would do such a thing and expose themselves and those around them from unnecessary risks. Friggin’ idiots would, that’s who. And you’re not an idiot are you? Sweet. How far should we take this analogy? Let’s see where it leads.

Anti-lock stupidity...

Anti-lock stupidity…

The last time I had my brakes fixed, I don’t recall Midas handing me a twenty page document to detail the possible side effect and dangers associated with new brakes. How many people one wonders, have died from complications due to having their rotors turned? Any people suffer a stroke? Anyone suffer a severe adverse reaction? Anyone develop any rare cancers from new brake pads? If new brakes are so safe, shouldn’t the government fully indemnify Midas the way they have the pharmaceutical companies? Why not? Maybe “Big Brake” needs the same congressional relationships enjoyed by “Big Pharma.”

So at the end of the day, what my friends are saying is that eventually, at the point of a gun, the government should pull up to your driveway with their Homeland Security tow truck and take your car by force. All for the benefit of the greater good, or at least “for the children.” Fascism always goes down a little easier when it’s “for the children.” What ever happened to all the other catch phrases that mattered to the left? “My auto-body, my choice” comes to mind. How about, “keep your government out of my garage?” After all, if someone identifies as “brakeless”, who are we to judge. Brakeless cars are cars too; they should be able to share the road with everyone else. Don’t want to damage my car’s self-esteem and all. Yeesh.

No. I’m not a “vax-denier” or whatever term of derision is currently in vogue. I grew up on military bases where immunization was a ritual. Couldn’t start the new school year without those shots. You got your pencils, your glue, construction paper and a whole week of pretty irritated shoulders. Hell, I even have the residual scars some of these wonderful advances in medicine left behind. Did my part, thank you. Of course, I never got to volunteer. And my parents weren’t given much of a choice. Big government put the brakes on us, as it were.

Fast forward to the birth of my two children. My wife and I never made any decision alone; we researched and questioned our pediatricians unmercifully. Luckily, we had doctors who were more concerned with the health of our children than the health of the government; or the pharmaceutical companies for that matter. We steer clear of the flu vaccine; my inoculated friends seem to get the flu more often than I do. And the school system was unrelenting in trying to jab our daughters full of Gardasil; luckily, our doctors weren’t too keen on the risks associated with the wonder drug of the day. But as they say in the media, “the science is settled”….

So now the push. Why now? My daughters, or anyone’s children who are unvaccinated, pose the same risk to you and your offspring as they did three months ago. Or three years ago. Question; if your vaccine is so effective, why the hell are you afraid of those who don’t get it? I thought you’re rendered immune? Is your miracle poisonous cocktail effective or not? Can’t say for sure can you? So you blindly, willingly, inject yourself with who knows what and you still roll the dice that it’s effective, playing the odds on only one side. You poo-poo the risks associated with the side effects but are willing to take the risk that you’ve been injected with a chemical cocktail that may be no more effective than chicken soup. But at least your car has brakes. Government brakes. Maybe it’s not a car; maybe it’s a cattle truck.

Now we see the uptick in cases of measles; where does this come from? How many unvaccinated children just miraculously, spontaneously developed measles? Something they ate? Something they caught from the cat? No, more likely the administration knowingly subjects you “brakers” and your vaccinated kids to children from third world origins, places where, unlike the USA, these diseases have not been eradicated. If little “jimmy or Suzie trust-fund liberal” goes to school in a place like, oh, Lynn Mass, he’s sitting at a desk next to a child(?) whose age we aren’t even allowed by law to inquire about. What the hell makes you think we know their medical history? But this flood continues unabated, the real topic we should be discussing, while we debate whether or not Joe citizen has brakes on his car. Hear that sound? That’s the beeping noise of the truck backing up in your driveway, ready to remove your “car” from your responsibility. You’re too stupid to own a car; cars belong to everyone. It takes a village to raise a car. As it were.

So, for all of you “brakers” out there; you continue to give this administration cover. They flood your communities with diseases that used to be a distant memory and convince you that the only way to address the problem is to surrender more of your personal freedoms, give into the fear that it’s your neighbors; people you have known and trusted for years, that are the problem. If only there was a law that could be used to compel these miscreants to bare the arms and buttocks of their children for government approved inoculation and indoctrination, you’ll fee safe. Safe and smug I might add.

It’s not about brakes. Soon, it’ll be where you can park your car. How many cars you can have; what type of car you can have. Or, whether you can have a car or not. And as you continue to move down this path, remember, you are pushing for a world where they can, at the point of a gun, come and take your car. It’s for the children you know; keep feeding into the hysteria that they manufacture to convince you that they are the only solution to the problems that they create.

No problem; just keep pumping those brakes…..

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