How Far Is Too Far?

The line in the sand. | Bernard Spragg. NZ | Flickr

I cancelled Netflix yesterday.

I’m done giving my money to companies that flagrantly promote the sexualization of children. Indeed, I’ve been watching less and less television and movies over the past few years because I demand something more than pornography when I’m looking for something entertaining.

I’ve often said that this move towards the corruption and exploitation of children, and the war on the very concept of the sacred nature inherent in childhood, will be the place that decent humans will not stand for.

Child abuse is the line in the sand for most of us.


But, I am still chagrined that it took so many of us so long – that our tolerances were so high – that we have allowed the state of the world to progress so precipitously to the demonic side.

Inferno (Dante) - Wikipedia

I had a talk with my middle daughter last night about a bully she met on the playground yesterday. She’s six and he’s eleven. He pushed her off one of those balance bridges that has small circular platforms connected to chains suspended from a support.

She got a little abrasion on her palm, but it was no big deal. Later, her new friend tripped in the playground and the older kid pointed at her and laughed.

My daughter was feeling pretty bummed about this.

Her new friend suggested to her something I’ve suggested in the past when she said, “He probably has hard feelings about something inside himself, and he’s just putting those feelings on somebody else.”

Wise kid.

But, as I was discussing this with my daughter, I told her this, “If that happens again, or if he causes problems for others, then you’ve got to stand up to him. You’ve got to – and this is very important – you’ve got to keep very calm and tell him ‘Hey, what you just did isn’t right. You need to stop that, and if you keep bothering us you’re then we’re going to have problems.’ The reason you need to stay calm is that bullies feed off of other people’s negative emotions.”

My daughter was a bit squeamish at this, “But, I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“I know you don’t, sweet heart, and this isn’t about hurting anybody. But, do you want this kid to keep on pushing you around, pushing your friends around and trying to make other kids feel bad?”

“No, dad, I don’t.”

“Okay, then you’ve got to stand up for yourself and your friends when somebody is trying to hurt you. If he keeps causing problems, then come talk to me and I’ll teach you what you need to do.”

“Okay daddy.”

“We’re Luncefords, and Luncefords have courage enough to stand up for what is right, don’t we?”


“That’s my girl!”

Classic Geek Gal: Celtic Warrior Queen Boudica | Geek Gals

When divides open up, if one can have a meaningful conversation in the early stages, the conversation alone will typically help to reconcile the two sides at least enough to keep the chasm from widening so far that a bridge cannot exist between them.

People are far more aligned in their desired outcomes than the fearmongering media and demonophilic politicians would have us believe. When we have the hard conversations that lead us to remember this fact, we most often come to a place where, even if concord is not possible, a singular irreconcilable issue can be tabled in favor of a civil relationship between both parties.

But, if we never deal with the issues head on, then the disagreement festers and simmers like a blister during a summer heat wave, and sooner or later a blister that continues to be exposed to friction pops.

Then we’ve got an open wound, and things get a lot more sensitive when that happens. Suddenly, the wounded party pulls back at the slightest contact with the wound and put’s on their favorite song, “You Can’t Touch This!”

Yet we humans are emotionally fallible creatures, and when someone pulls back violently from us, we often take offense. When we get offended, we typically do one – or sometimes a combination of – several things:

  1. We withdraw from the other, lancing our own blisters, but we never remove the issues causing friction and the agitation continues.
  2. We work against the other, after this perceived slight, to undermine their progress and hammering away at the other issues that form the foundation of their beliefs.
  3. We continue to press on the wound outright, seeking to turn the popped blister into a raw and bleeding wound.

Once there is blood, all bets are off.

Nobody cares who drew first blood, after both parties are bleeding, they only know that they want more of it, and that the other side is going to be the donor.

My dad used to say, “I don’t care who started the fight, but I’m the one who’s going to finish it.”

Bleeding earth by Aleythus on DeviantArt

When I was five years old, my dad and I stopped by his friend Monty’s house. We’d stop by there on a Saturday or Sunday is we were in the area, just to say hello, and my dad would have a beer with Monty and make fun of him for owning a Jeep.

On this particular day, I saw a kid in the backyard of the house next door swimming in a blowup pool. I asked my dad if I could go over there and see if he wanted to play. He said sure, so I went.

The kid invited me in, and a threw off my shirt and shoes and jumped in the pool. We were splashing around, having a good old time, but then one of us said something that made the other mad.

I don’t remember who or what, but it was likely me, since I have a habit of saying things that other folks don’t appreciate.

What I do remember was that this argument escalated, and that the kid told me he was gonna show me, and ran into his house. I, foolishly, continued to play in his pool.

He came back out about five minutes later, maybe less, and approached me very furtively with one hand behind his back. He told me to leave right now, but I was pissed and stayed in his pool just to be obstinate.

So he pulled out his Swiss Army pocket knife and stabbed me in my right side just above the hip bone.

It went in about half and inch, and I screamed and pulled it out. He screamed too, with a look of sheer terror mixed with disbelief plastered across his face, then ran back into his house.

I ran over to Monty’s house, told my dad what had happened, and we went over to the kid’s front door to talk to his parents.

They said I started it – which I probably did – and that he had asked me to leave – which he had – and so they refused to acknowledge that their five year old son had done anything significantly wrong when he had stabbed another five year old with a pocket knife. My dad told the parents that they were assholes, and they slammed the door in our faces.

Circling The Wagons: Shutting Out The Rest Of The World To ...

At a certain point, unless we’re taking significant action in alignment with our principles and the work being done to undermine them, we’re actually doing the work for the enemies of our principles.

See, if you claim to be standing on solid principles, but refuse to defend them with anything other than words – words typically fed to you by those who are cynically using your outrage as a platform to build their relevance and influence from – then when an outside observer see your failure to act they can only be left with the sense that either your principles are not worth fighting for, or that you don’t actually believe them…or both.

And they’d be mostly correct on that second observation, regardless of the truth in the first, because how dear are your principles to you if you’re not willing to fight for them, really?

I believe that most of the American population – the population of the world, for that matter – have a dearly held belief that childhood is sanctified as precious and should not be corrupted.

I believe that most of us would be willing to act in support of the defense of childhood…except for one little thing:

You’ve allowed yourself to be conditioned into inaction on every other principle that you hold dear.

There have been protests, and marches, and riots and looting, sure, but these have all been coopted by the same groups that have coopted every other emotional response in the populace, and if we’re being perfectly honest, many of these emotional responses have either been designed or strongly influenced by these same groups.

What groups you ask?

The Secret Governing Cabal.

Just kidding…kinda.

There are intelligence agencies, news media, entertainment media, political think-tanks, oligarchs, corporate lobbyists, financial cabals, politicians and so forth that have created networks of groups which are loosely aligned in certain directions.

But, and this is an important point, they are not all steered by a handful of evil old men receiving transfusions of adrenochrome laced baby blood while plotting the next hundred years of chattel slavery for the masses.

The truth is closer to the idea that there are a thousand of these rooms, and they’re all vying for slices of the same influence and control pie. Also, probably only one or two of them are getting transfusions of adrenochrome laced baby blood.

Nevertheless, the fact that there are a million would-be overlords instead of a hundred doesn’t really change the reality on the ground for the rest of us. We are still being manipulated and coerced by vested interests with massive amounts of money, power and influence behind their intentions.

How is this power employed?

Through the education, government, financial and entertainment mechanisms that have been constructed or repurposed into propaganda and enticement machines kept well lubricated by the grease of our emotional outrage for decades.

We’re talking DC, London, Brussels, Hollywood, Wall Street, Moscow, Beijing, Fox, CNN, MSNBC and so forth.

This could be a much longer article – a book really, and a thorough job would be a series of books which would take a lifetime to write – if I were to explore all of these concepts in depth. And honestly, though I do have a good idea about how the genesis of this meta-netowork of influence arose and how it operates several layers deep, I am not knowledgable enough to be able to expound upon the intricacies of the systems in play.

However, for the purposes of this article I can keep it fairly simple.

Hollywood is run by pedophiles, rapists, murderers, psycho/sociopaths, exploiters and narcissists.

DC is run by pedophiles, rapists, murderers, psycho/sociopaths, exploiters and narcissists.

Wall Street is run by pedophiles, rapists, murderers, psycho/sociopaths, exploiters and narcissists.

Brussels, Beijing, and Moscow are run by pedophiles, rapists, murderers, psycho/sociopaths, exploiters and narcissists.

FOX, CNN and MSNBC are run by pedophiles, rapists, murderers, psycho/sociopaths, exploiters and narcissists.

So then the question becomes:

What are we going to do about it?

File:The smoking room in a gentlemen's club. Reproduction of a wo ...

Justin and his twin brother Jake were high school seniors in 2006.

Justin had gotten into football in junior high while Jake had gotten into cross-country running, and their physiques developed very differently. Justin got absolutely jacked, and joined the 1100LB club his senior year while Jake was setting state records in the 8000M on the cross-country team.

They were both academically above average & star athletes, and both very popular in their circles, but while Justin’s football prowess earned him the admiration of most the school, Jake’s cross-country success made him a bit of a pariah amongst the “cool kids,” including some of Justin’s fellow football teammates.

Jake got picked on pretty relentlessly. But, he didn’t want to seem like a pussy, so he kept his mouth shut for years. He bore the name calling, the harassment and the mean-spirited pranks with grace and kept his mouth shut.

Then things got physical.

Brady, one of the biggest linebackers on the football team who had the violent streak that often comes with getting beat down for years by an abusive father, had taken a particular interest in tormenting Jake. Part of this may have had to do with the fact that Justin, also a linebacker, was all-state and a far better player than Brady. This inspired jealousy.

But part of it was certainly just the seeming weakness of character he observed in Jake. Jake never fought back. He never spoke up.

This is the predators playground.

It started with shoves into the lockers, tripping Jake’s legs up causing him to fall and so forth.

Jake didn’t say or do anything, and Justin never knew. That is until one day, Justin saw Brady grab Jake arm and swing him into a concrete pillar support in the commons of the school.

Jake wasn’t one to hesitate.

He sprinted towards Brady, who didn’t notice Justin rushing towards him until Justin’s fist was already swinging towards his face. Brady’s head turned just in time for Justin’s fist to connect square with his mouth.

Only one of the three teeth that Justin knocked out of socket lodged in his middle knuckle. Brady swallowed the other two in a gout of blood as he landed upon the hard floor of the commons.

Justin began to kick Brady in the gut and head until Jake got between them and pleaded with Justin to stop.

Brady went to the hospital and didn’t return to school for three weeks. Missing teeth, four broken ribs and a punctured lung – amongst many other contusions and minor injuries – take awhile to recover from. So does the embarrassment a bully feels when he learns he’s not the toughest kid on the playground.

Justin was expelled. A promising college football career was forfeited and he settled for a GED and some welding classes.

Jake continued breaking records in cross-country, and doing well in his academic pursuits. He’d been offered a half-ride scholarship to a great university, and his parents were thrilled. He felt pretty guilty about his brother’s fate, but Justing told him to make sure he did well enough in college for the both of them.

Brady, when he returned to school, was very withdrawn. He quit the football team, and was unengaged in class. He sat by himself at lunch, and when asked later, nobody remembered having more that a word or two with him after the incident. And for the next three months, bruises were seen on his face which seemed to move around. Almost as if they were fresh ones, and not those left by the fist and foot of Justin.

The last day of school arrived. Justin had a surprise for Jake. He’d been saving his welding earnings, and had just the day before purchased a ten-year-old Honda Civic with 220,000 miles for $1100 as a graduation present for his twin brother.

Jake needed a car for college, Justin figured, and twins have that kind of special connection which allows them to be this kind of selfless with one another.

Justin was waiting in front of the school, parked illegally on the wide sidewalk leading from the front doors, and was leaning on the passenger side of the Civic waiting for Jake to emerge.

When Jake saw Justin, he jogged over to him, a smile on his face and asked him what he was doing there. Justin smiled, tossed the keys to Jake – he dropped them, then picked them up – and told Jake that the car was his and that they should go for a spin.

Jake was dumbstruck for a moment, until Justin teased him a little to shake him from his reverie, then he began to walk around to the driver’s side.

At that same moment, Brady drove parallel to the Civic in his father’s Bronco on the asphalt drive which was intended for loading and unloading of the students.

Brady got out of the Bronco, circled around the front of the vehicle and began walking towards the twins. He had a spiked bat in his right hand.

Both Jake and Justin froze for a moment, the sight of Brady with a spiked bat locking them on their heels for a second or two.

That’s all the time Brady needed. He ran towards Jake and without a word swung the bat at his head. It connected, and the spikes – nails Brady had hammered through the bat – lodged in Jake’s skull so deeply that Brady couldn’t immediately pull it out.

This gave Justin time to shout Jake’s name and being to run towards Brady. But a spiked bat wasn’t the only weapon Brady brought. The glint of polished chrome flashed in the sunlight as Brady produced a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at Justin.

Justin froze again.

Brady pulled the trigger once, twice, three times…

Justin’s jaw was no more, and his collar bone exploded, but the third round missed as Justin was falling and it lodged in the shin of a freshman girl walking towards the parking lot behind him.

Brady walked the two steps between the sprawled out form of Justin and continued pulling the trigger until it clicked.

Jake was shaking violently on the ground behind him, the spikes in his brain having caused a seizure. Brady walked calmly over to him, put his booted foot on Jake’s head, and removed the bat with a grunt.

Then he swung it again, and again, and again.

All the students who had witnesses this horrific display had either run away, or frozen. Nobody had run towards the murderous event. The only sounds were the screams of the panicked students and the even louder screams of the girl who’d been shot in the leg.

Justin was dead, blood and gore and half his head splattered and pooling on the ground around him.

Jake was dead, half his body still twitching while blood poured from him in the ragged wounds the spiked bat had left.

Brady pulled a second pistol from his waistband, it too was polished chrome which gleamed in the sunlight as Brady placed the barrel in his mouth, angled it upwards toward his brain and pulled the trigger.

The gun flew from Brady’s hand, hit the concrete and fired another round into the Bronco. It pierced the passenger side door, and lodged in the dash. The disturbance had somehow caused the radio to turn on, and Alice Cooper’s School’s Out began blasting out of the speakers.

“School’s out for summer! School’s out forever!”

Brady was dead, the crown of his skull blown away in a hole the size of a softball and blood pouring forth from the wound.

The seeping blood from Justin and Jake and Brady met in the depression in the concrete that lay in the space between their dead bodies. Their blood mingled and joined as one in gruesome metaphor for their united tragic deaths.

The Bronco was still running, the grumbling motor providing the bass notes to the lofty notes of the rapidly approaching emergency vehicles, an eerie dissonance contrasting the the music.

“Well we got no class
And we got no principals
And we got no innocence
We can’t even think of a word that rhymes
School’s out for summer
School’s out forever
My school’s been blown to pieces”

Life Is in the Blood | Answers in Genesis

The more ground we give, the more we stay silent and the longer we allow ourselves to be distracted by cheap thrills, petty politics and recycled garbage entertainment the harder it becomes to draw that line in the sand.

But, are you willing to continue to provide financial support to monsters?

Are you willing to continue to give your attention to monsters?

Are you willing to continue to vote for and defend monsters?

Or not?

I’ll leave you, abruptly, with this challenge and let you think it over:

Cancel your Netflix.

Turn off the television.

Stop watching Hollywood movies.

Begin writing every day.

Begin reading every day.

Join a boxing gym and/or a grappling gym.

Invest in guns, ammo and training in how to use them.

Lift weights and eat right.

Spend time with people you love as often as you can.

Enumerate your principles.

Draw the line in the sand.

Ready yourself for action.

And when your enemies make themselves known to you, by crossing that line, raise your voice in warning.

“If you take another step, there will be consequences.”

And remember, my friends, nobody takes you seriously if you don’t keep your promises.

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