Fried Frogs and Commissars March 13 2014

Have you ever chased a slick-skinned, sixteen inch bullfrog around the kitchen while your mama's hollering, "get that frog out of my house"? Fried frog legs were a staple when I was growing up. Not the whole frog, just the back legs. Nothing better - nothing tastier, more succulent than fried frog legs. Yep, its true. Those legs would twitch and sometimes jump clean out of the pan. Always keep the lid on. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County had nothing on these big boys once they warmed up from the ice chest.

I eventually moved up to higher ground and left those warm water denizens behind - just wanted you to know that I have real experience with those metaphors of the boiling frog syndrome that seem so apropos today. (We never boiled them back in those days. We fried everything. Boiled frog always turned out tough and stringy. It's true though, sometimes those amphibians would swim around in that pot while you turned the heat up, and they'd be cooked before they knew it.)

Well, you can take this literally, figuratively or any way you want but it doesn't change the underlying reality. Our self-ordained statist overlords and their Chekist organs have spawned hordes of commissars in their alphabet soup agencies. They are cloaked in different garb and names these days but their sociopathic actions reveal their true Stalinist lineage as political agents who enforce the will of the Party.

Just ask the Ukranians about commissars of the Leninist/Stalinist variety and how it worked out for them. (WARNING! NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.)

The Ukranian word holodomor is quite instructional.

So, what's the take-away here? Yeah, they are coming after your guns, your water, your land, your wood stoves, your food and your seed while they are taxing your air and sunlight. Nothing personal here. Nothing to see. Move along. Class enemies are completely expendable - mere pests to be exterminated in a kinder, gentler, incremental, Fabian way if the sheeple cooperate. A more painless, humane gas if you please. This way to the relocation camps.

Resist and the spell is broken. Then, they are through your door. You are on the floor with a boot on your neck and the muzzle of an M-4 in your ear.

What's next? Better to have ambushed them in the stairwell Solzhenitsyn-style?

Friend, I relate these cautionary tales as a warning to goad you into action. By the time they are on your doorstep it's too late. You must engage before they arrive at your line in the sand. Play offense. Pick your battles. Play your own game in the time and space of your choosing. Don't play their game. Change the ground of engagement on your terms.

"Sounds pretty abstract. Can you be more concrete?"

Take the name, rank and serial number of every commissar that ventures into your area of operation. That's right. Make lists. You know the drill - red lists, blue lists, etc. Flip the tables on them. They have their lists, we have our lists. At some point we let them know we have our lists. Jes talkin a little psyops. Completely non-violent you see.

You turn on the lights. Remember what it's like to open the door to a dark room in New York City, flip the light switch and watch the cockroaches run to any dark crevice? That's what we're about here. "A little light if you please."

Remember, soulless commissars have no light, energy or power of their own. As true parasites, they require a host. Don't be a host and feed them your light or energy by engaging them on their terms.

Rather, flip them into the pan they have prepared for you and turn up the heat.

I have a special treat for you in your fried commissar quest. Check out the free downloads in our Tool Shed. We will soon be posting a document that lists 198 tried and true methods for overthrowing dictators and their commissar minions. Keep checking the Tool Shed and learn how to cook your commissar and, oh by the way, remember to keep the lid on the pot.

The next time you're eating out and the waitress asks, "how would you like your commissar?" just tell her, "extra-crispy."

From the Mountains of Montana,
New Ordnance

 

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