Obama won’t send an army, he’ll send your neighbor, the one with the IRS job. Or you’ll try to travel and a local NHS satrap will show up to investigate you, express serious doubts about your online comments, and ask you to get in his car, quietly please, as your wife and kids look on– and your neighbors whisper, “I always thought something was strange about him.” Some municipal quisling will bring four or five officers and arrest you for making a video, or for refusing a smart-meter on your home. You will be shamed in the local paper, not the New York Times.
Death-or-glory charges are for the fresh young recruits. Cannon fodder, sadly. But their story comes long after the thousand paper-cuts of the Diktat. The apparatchiks are your neighbors. And you won’t raise a gun to the man with whom you’ve shared a meal.
If Solzhenitzyn’s “how we burned in the camps later” essay doesn’t WAKEN us to the fact that it’s not “them” but it’s folks right here, next door in our communities, then we are doomed to lose this country. You have friends with public sector jobs who can’t afford to lose them. Hell, the garbage collector doesn’t want to lose his job. He’ll report you for not recycling if it’s required of him. Nice people will unwind the strands of liberty one “concern” at a time.
Brave talk, this idea of forming a militia to counter such tactics. But they’ll never use the tactics you’re imagining. It won’t be a bang, it’ll be a whimper. Freedom is fragile, and it’s lost one city block at a time. One tax return at a time. One example at a time.
Would it surprise you? It would not surprise me.
If you stop for a second to think, it certainly makes a lot more sense than sending the current version of the Sturmabteilung trotting down main street. Just as in nature, you want to pick off the slow ones from the back of the herd, quickly and quietly as to not spook everyone into running away in a panic. Panic among the Proletariat is a reaction that makes it hard for the Party Elite to maintain control, and that is what it is all about these days. Control.
Just like the song says, I don’t like Mondays. I like them less these days.