The DIMS and Obama-fellating media have successfully bullied the Republicans into silence. Having been a vertically-challenged male my entire life (I’m a full 5’6” at 50+ years), I’ve encountered plenty of bullies. I know what motivates them and I know how to shut them down. (I also know how to kill a snake.)
You may recall that engaging the media and rejecting their predicates/narrative helped propel Newt to victory in the South Carolina primary last year. It was a hopeful sign for those of us in the trenches, but the wuss GOP-e closed ranks behind Romney. You know the rest of the story.
As long as the Republicans accept the rules set by the RATS, they will lose. I won’t. I will push-back and defend my family and my business. I will go down swinging, if it comes to that.
At this point I am like you. Political correctness and the rest of the leftist thought control/speech control I am now in open rebellion.
I don't call them DemocRATS anymore they are Filthy Communists or Filthy Bolsheviks. I am now in open rebellion to their mindset
A retard is a retard, and a communist is still a communist. As you say, I simply don't accept their dominion over me. I am 50+ and 6'4" and a fit 230 lbs, and I have never been bullied in my life and I for damned sure am not going to start now.
They will seek to disarm us, and silence us. They are going to use Obamacare to exterminate us by denying us medical care. They will let us die of neglect. If that doesn't work expect them to imprison us in places like the north slope of Alaska.
They are creating and environment of 10 felonies per day. Where an average person will commit 10 felonies per day through the normal course of living.
The Universe has as many different centers as there are living beings in it. Each of us is a center of the Universe, and that Universe is shattered when they hiss at you: "You are under arrest."
If you are arrested, can anything else remain unshattered by this cataclysm? But the darkened mind is incapable of embracing these displacements in our universe, and both the most sophisticated and the veriest simpleton among us,drawing on all life's experience, can gasp out only: "Me? What for?"
And this is a question which, though repeated millions and millions of times before, has yet to receive an answer.
Arrest is an instantaneous, shattering thrust, expulsion, somersault from one state into another.
We have been happily borne—or perhaps have unhappily dragged our weary way— down the long and crooked streets of our lives, past all kinds of walls and fences made of rotting wood, rammed earth, brick, concrete, iron railings. We have never given a thought to what lies behind them. We have never tried to penetrate them with our vision or our understanding. But there is where the Gulag country begins, right next to us, two yards away from us. In addition, we have failed to notice an enormous number of closely fitted, well-disguised doors and gates in these fences.
That's all there is to it! You are arrested!
And you'll find nothing better to respond with than a lamblike bleat: "Me? What for?"
That's what arrest is: it's a blinding flash and a blow which shifts the present instantly into the past and the impossible into omnipotent actuality. That's all. And neither for the first hour nor for the first day will you be able to grasp anything else.
Except that in your desperation the fake circus moon will blink at you: "It's a mistake! They'll set things right!"
And everything which is by now comprised in the traditional, even literary, image of an arrest will pile up and take shape, not in your own disordered memory, but in what your family and your neighbors in your apartment remember: The sharp night-time ring or the rude knock at the door. The insolent entrance of the unwiped jackboots of the unsleeping State Security operatives. The frightened and cowed civilian witness at their backs. (And what function does this civilian witness serve?
The victim doesn't even dare think about it and the operatives don't remember, but that's what the regulations call for, and so he has to sit there all night long and sign in the morning. [The regulation, purposeless in itself, derives, N.M. recalls, from that strange time when the citizenry not only was supposed to but actually dared to verify the actions of the police.]
For the witness, jerked from his bed, it is torture too—to go out night after night to help arrest his own neighbors and acquaintances.) The traditional image of arrest is also trembling hands packing for the victim—a change of underwear, a piece of soap, something to eat; and no one knows what is needed, what is permitted, what clothes are best to wear; and the Security agents keep interrupting and hurrying you: "You don't need anything. They'll feed you there. It's warm there." (It's all lies. They keep hurrying you to frighten you.)
The traditional image of arrest is also what happens afterward, when the poor victim has been taken away. It is an alien, brutal, and crushing force totally dominating the apartment for hours on end, a breaking, ripping open, pulling from the walls, emptying things from wardrobes and desks onto the floor, shaking, dumping out, and ripping apart—piling up mountains of litter on the floor—and the crunch of things being trampled beneath jackboots. And nothing is sacred in a search! During the arrest of the locomotive engineer Inoshin, a tiny coffin stood in his room containing the body of his newly dead child. The "jurists" dumped the child's body out of the coffin and searched it. They shake sick people out of their sickbeds, and they unwind bandages to search beneath them.
For those left behind after the arrest there is the long tail end of a wrecked and devastated life. And the attempts to go and deliver food parcels. But from all the windows the answer comes in barking voices: "Nobody here by that name!" "Never heard of him!" Yes, and in the worst days in Leningrad it took five days of standing in crowded lines just to get to that window. And it may be only after half a year or a year that the arrested person responds at all. Or else the answer is tossed out: "Deprived of the right to correspond." And that means once and for all. "No right to correspondence"—and that almost for certain means: "Has been shot."
The Gulag Archipelago
Chapter 1
Pgs 7-9