Blog description.

Accentuating the Liberal in Classical Liberal: Advocating Ascendency of the Individual & a Politick & Literature to Fight the Rise & Rise of the Tax Surveillance State. 'Illigitum non carborundum'.

Liberty and freedom are two proud words that have been executed from the political lexicon: they were frog marched and stood before a wall of blank minds, then forcibly blindfolded, and shot, with the whimpering staccato of ‘equality’ and ‘fairness’ resounding over and over. And not only did this atrocity go unreported by journalists in the mainstream media, they were in the firing squad.

The premise of this blog is simple: the Soviets thought they had equality, and welfare from cradle to grave, until the illusory free lunch of redistribution took its inevitable course, and cost them everything they had. First to go was their privacy, after that their freedom, then on being ground down to an equality of poverty only, for many of them their lives as they tried to escape a life behind the Iron Curtain. In the state-enforced common good, was found only slavery to the prison of each other's mind; instead of the caring state, they had imposed the surveillance state to keep them in line. So why are we accumulating a national debt to build the slave state again in the West? Where is the contrarian, uncomfortable literature to put the state experiment finally to rest?

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Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Euthanasia Debate (NZ): There’s a Seminary Trained Catholic Chairing the Committee - Truly.



More Monty Python-esqe scorn and disrespect being shown by a too complacent National Party. Today I find that National MP Simon O’Connor, selected to chair the Committee into our (urgent) need for euthanasia legislation, is a practising Christian who trained for the seminary before becoming an MP. Of all the MPs, John Key allowed this, and I believe for only one reason.

Mr O’Connor, who believes presumably that if he has any hand in euthanasia becoming law in New Zealand he will burn in a fiery pit for all eternity, believes this is not an issue. The below was preceded by my asking when the committee would be taking public submissions:




No, the chair can subtly, and not so subtly, control a lot more than mere process. And besides, there’s the farcical symbolism involved here. Because have no doubt whatsoever on the stance of Catholicism toward euthanasia: thou shalt not. I believe no euthanasia law will come from the internecine machinations of this committee which after this time doesn’t even have guidelines set.

More, Judge Collins confirmed from Leticia Seales case the euthanasia debate is one for responsible government. My take on that being it’s not a conscience issue, but one for the government of the day as the only body which is able to make and have law enacted (the ballot also not appropriate). So long as the government fools itself into the luxury this is a conscience issue, it will never act:









And so Lecretia Seales has died, a petition has been delivered to Parliament – because poll after poll indicates the majority of New Zealanders believe we should have euthanasia law, other than the medieval superstitionists – but instead of responsibly enacting government led legislation, National fobs the issue off to this committee, then middle finger firmly wagging in the air, appoints the MP who trained for the seminary to the chair.








We, and our inalienable rights, are constantly played for fools. We need a revolution. We need to destroy (peacefully) this stifling nanny state. We need a small state minarchy with individual rights constitutionally front and centre; but between the Big State Progressives and the Conservatives of National, that isn’t going to happen at the emoting booth. Because this is the state of free choice in New Zealand:





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Tuesday, August 4, 2015

The Psychosis of Trophy Hunting: Cecil the Lion.



I’m sick of writing how animal welfare is the chink in my rationalist armour, because the contradiction doesn’t concern me. I have no argument against anything Lindsay Perigo says in his piece on the senseless (40 hour long) cruel killing of Cecil the lion by the monstrous American dentist, Walter Palmer. Lindsay is categorically correct in his summary:

Rights pertain to the species capable of conceiving them—human beings. Cecil had no concept of rights—just ask any zebra or tourist he might have eaten. Humans may arguably bestow honorary rights on animals incapable of conceiving them (or protect them via ordinary human property rights), and prosecute each other for their breach, but let's keep our empathy for Cecil in perspective. It shouldn't blind us to or trump—much less justify—man's inhumanity to man.

Lindsay is correct in a way that my old Catholic friend who believes God created animals for, quote, ‘man’s enjoyment’ is wrong. BUT, regardless, my empathy for the animals in this piece remains unbounded.

If Mr Palmer weren’t bad enough, now we have American accountant Sabrina Corgatelli, who is relishing her fifteen minutes of fame posting sicko pictures of the wildlife she has slaughtered. Ricky Gervais’ observation about this woman who is killing and maiming her way through Noah's ark, is apt:



Following from that, within my own philosophical framework, I wonder if the libertarian minarchy I advocate is possible in a society populated with a subset of violent psychotics. I use that word advisedly.

This’s the dictionary definition of psychosis:

An acute or chronic mental state marked by loss of contact with reality, disorganized speech and behavior, and often by hallucinations or delusions, seen in certain mental illnesses …

I’m afraid Corgatelli’s words cause concern against this definition as the benchmark. According to this human iteration on the theme of evil:

'Everything I've done here is legal, so how can you fault somebody because of their hobbies?' she said.

For her the killing of a sentient creature for enjoyment (not for food or self-preservation) is a hobby.

'To me it's not just killing an animal, it's the hunt.

If she had the capacity – and she’s a heartless bitch, so she doesn’t – to think around the empathy by-pass involved in that statement, she might understand that killing after the torture of the hunt on an animal scared out of its wits, possibly painfully maimed as Cecil was, is more repugnant.

'Everybody just thinks we're cold-hearted killers, and it's not that. There is a connection with the animal, and just because we hunt them doesn't mean we don't have a respect for them

That last idiot notion seems at the heart of this psychotic trophy hunting industry; noting you are a cold-hearted killer, Sabrina, the civilised mind doesn’t buy into this communing with nature bullshit – you’re just getting your jollies by perpetrating senseless slaughter. You might have Enya playing in your damaged head, but you’re just killing. If you want to commune with nature, grow veges, or take your camera on safari instead. (How does this even work? I have so much respect for you Mr Giraffe: bang, there, I've killed you. I have so much respect for you Hippo mate: bang, I've killed you. ... No, I don't get it.)

It’s hard to avoid the logic that to monsters such as this accountant and her dentist buddy, a war fought for no reason other than the hunt, would be seen by them as communing with mankind, or some such rot.

Indeed, her final comment – in the context she has paid money and made a ten hour flight to stalk the animal concerned before killing it with primitive bow and arrow - has me wondering:

'Giraffes are very dangerous animals. They could hurt you seriously very quickly.

Is psychosis the right word? These monstrous dreks who are communing with their inner-psychotic bring to my mind another definition – retardation:

(Psychiatry) psychiatry the slowing down of mental functioning … [snip] … Impaired intellectual development.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Literary Ramble VII: Richard Ford & Mike Hosking. + Rugby World Cup in Wowser World.



Some scattered thoughts with the loosest relationship to literary life, (in which I’m still struggling through Richard Ford’s Independence Day - [for the Philistines, that's not the movie with the aliens in it]).

Much of my problem sixteen years ago when giving up smoking (tobacco) was the publicly funded anti-smoking group, ASH. They were big then. I’d go cold turkey for a week until one of their busy-body-bossy ads wanting to clamp down on this, tax that, came on the telly, and then in a blind fury I’d get myself direct to a dairy and buy another carton. They turned smoking into a principle.

Since September last year I have dropped twenty percent of my body weight, making me four fifths of the man I was surprisingly easily despite my love of food and booze (it takes a little discipline, that’s all really) . The rough spots have been every article and news item with an academic wowser wanting to tax the foods and the booze I love; an Arrogance of Altruists who insist I be forced to their monotonous mantra that a long lived low calorie life is better than a happy one. I didn't lose my weight by counting calories, and had to sacrifice little enjoyment of life, but if I had wanted to remain my weighty self that was my business, so bugger off.

This dreadful state-advocacy wowserism slithering its way out of Progressivestan continues to take more words in here. Previously mentioned, as proof we have a progressive literature, I’ve even had the Going West Literary Festival lecturing me about my booze intake (for fucks sake).  

Progressivestan. I first mentioned that term in this post regarding the Progressive campaign to get Mike Hosking fired - not to make a point, to have him fired - over an interview he did (or comment he made – I can’t remember which and don’t care) regarding Ponytailgate:

… I’d rather a bit of discomfort, hurt feelings or anger from time to time, than a regulated media, thanks, or forced to live in Progressivestan [snip] ... The geography of Progressivetan is a grey and indolent wasteland, populated at each town centre with a public stock in which rebellious thought is captured and put on display for public learnings … for the common good (of course). There is but one colour in this lifeless land, red, the rivers of blood flowing from a Marxist past into the future.


After posting that a helpful follower on Twitter told me although I have some great ideas, I marginalise too many people.

Really? No, I'm not the one trying to close everything down, so your advice goes unheeded, but thanks.

American/Canadian author Richard Ford, of the Left politick before the Left destroyed any use they had via identity politics, pinned down the (Left)-liberal character well.

Quoting Ford’s character Frank Bascombe in the novel Independence Day:

“In truth I don’t much like Betty McLeod, despite wanting to rent the house to her and Larry because I think they’re probably courageous. To my notice she’s always worn a perpetually disappointed look that says she regrets all her major life choices yet feels absolutely certain she made the right moral decision in every instance, and is better than you because of it. It’s the typical three-way liberal paradox: anxiety mingled with pride and self-loathing.”

Now, go look at some of the vitriolic threads against Mike Hosking on Twitter. The ruling ethos of Progressivestan is an arrogant bitterness which overflows and poisons all it touches, as it attempts to control language, silence thought crimes, segregate the delights of difference, and control our bodies through our diets with its curious wowser’s puritanism that, as H. L. Mencken said, can’t stand seeing somebody – Mike Hosking for example - happy, with his upbeat, can-do, satisfied view on life. In reference to ponytailgate it’s what separates an important feminism born of individualism from the dreadful feminist sharia born of Marxism that would eradicate individualism and with that, free expression.

In that same novel, Independence Day, Richard Ford could have saved the Left (and its prisoners victims) a lot of trouble if they had heeded Frank Bascombe’s wisdom as he …’

‘… peer[ed] up at a control-less TV, bracketed high and out of reach and where Reverend Jackson in an opened-collared brown safari shirt is being interviewed by a panel of white men in business suits, who’re beaming prudish self-confidence at him, as if they found him amusing; though the Reverend is exhibiting his own brand of self-satisfied smugness plus utter disdain, all of it particularly noticeable because the sound’s off. (For a time this winter I considered him ‘my candidate,’ though I finally decided he couldn’t win and would ruin the country if he did, and in either case would eventually tell me everything bad was my fault.)’

Amen.

But then, Richard Ford; I guess he’s just another privileged, middle-aged white man, whose words are not valid because identity is validity in this world where we have cast adrift philosophy, volition, self-responsibility and meaning.

If you wonder why a man of reason like myself comes to the Gulags being built in Progressivestan with such anger, that’s because you can’t be party to the ‘why’ of my deep seated antipathy towards puritanism and humourless wowserism gained from an Exclusive Brethren past. My (immediate) family buried our father just this last March (here’s my eulogy given at his funeral to this gentle-man): during the burial, hiding behind a hedge of the Springston cemetery were two of his Exclusive siblings, or some type of direct relations – I couldn’t care less about them or who they were - who, as with all four of my grandparents, and all aunts and uncles bar one, have not been allowed anything to do with my family since I was four years old, when God (dripping irony here) was good enough to have impregnated my mother with an IHC daughter who the dour, whiskey breath elders took to be the work of the devil – nice buggers aren’t they - so we were happily cast out. And don’t panic, my IHC sister is probably the happiest of our clan.

So you better be worried when I see the same abusive, bullying thou-shalt-not-puritanism in Progressivism and its devotees humourless campaigns to silence and publicly shame every individual who is not them, and is found wanting. They need to be driven back to the joyless prisons they've created of their minds with all the passion and non-violent ferocity we can muster as free wo/men.

Another post in the service of whatevers; thank you.

Sorry, one more thing: if you're thinking of going to the local pub to watch Rugby World Cup games with friends, forget it, this is Wowser-World, there won't be pubs able to meet the new YOU CAN'T DRINK OR ENJOY YOURSELF regulations, and even if you could find one, and you drank moderately, under Iain Wowser-Galloway's halved blood alcohol limit you couldn't drive yourselves home again: that's why rural hospitality is, effectively, dead. Seriously, revolution: we're way past the time for one.


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