A Time For Violence
Miyamoto Musashi
I was at the gym with a client where I was going to run him through a workout. I had decided to wear a hanging earring that day, which was not my usual gym attire, and my client being a typical prick said, “What’s with the gay earring.” Diving into my Communications bag, I saw the cleaned and pressed Non-Violent statement, “I feel very hurt when you say that because my need for respect is not being met.” I pushed that wimpy comment aside and dug deeper, where I found a beautiful crumpled up, dirty, stinky statement that better suited the situation, “That would really hurt my feelings if I gave a shit what you thought.”
“You took the low road,” says the New-Age Pussy. “Why not show him how his statement made you feel and help him to see the power of his words and that he could have made another choice that was more supportive.” I would probably tell the New-Age Pussy that no one can “make” you feel anything and if you feel upset by another’s statement then perhaps you should take responsibility for your own feelings and self-study—of course I’d use the Sanskrit word svadhyaya so as to “name drop” from my accumulated knowledge base and thus make myself feel somehow superior for being able to recall a piece of random trivia—and discover what button that is embedded in you that is so available for the pushing.
I would just do that to bust balls, of course, because even more than a prick client, a New-Age Pussy is one of the most annoying creatures that God has put on this planet, perhaps more irritating than even that mosquito that buzzes your ear when you are trying to go to sleep.
Yes, we can always explore how to seek union. I am pretty much for that, especially if it involves me sticking my dipstick in a vagina. But there is also a time to tell a prick he’s a prick and I am pretty much for that as well, which metaphorically involves me poking some asshole with my dick-like ways.
If you are in high school and each day a bully steals your lunch money, gives you a flying wedgie and beats you like a piñata as you’re dangling by the waistband of your Fruit of the Looms and you go home and your father tells you to go into school the next day and tell the bully that his actions hurt not only your body (and your underwear) but your feelings, you tell your father to take his pussy advice and fuck it, because clearly his balls have shrunk up from not getting any action since marriage and maybe if he fucked some form of pussy he’d regain some of the testosterone that used to qualify him as a man.
I’d tell my son to steal a power saw from the Shop class and cut off that bully’s fuckin’ head with it and then bring the head to Home Ec and see if he could make something like a bowling ball bag with it. Sure Child Protective Services would come to take my son away from me, in which case I would power saw a few of those fuckers—as opposed to all the parents that let government workers actually take their children away from them, speaking of pussies. If they didn’t send it the military that are patrolling our streets in violation of the Posse Comitatus Act that prohibits the government from using the military for law enforcement, they’d probably send in the S.W.A.T. team which would do what it does best—kill innocent people—after which they’d place my son under the care of Child Protective Services where, due to their spotless record, he’d be five times as likely to be molested than if he were living in a boys home run by pedophile priests. But at least we’d deal with that bully in a way different from the pussy dad’s advice where the only hope for surviving the friendly discussion about feelings would be if the bully actually laughed himself to death.
You may think my example ridiculous, but what would you do if Child Protective Services came to your door and was going to take your child away from you because “someone reported that you yanked the child’s arm and later reported seeing a bruise on her arm,” when you know that she was walking into traffic and you grabbed her arm and yanked her back to safety? Or what if after doing personal research you weren’t certain that the H1N1 Swine Flu vaccine was safe and decided that you would not inject your children with it and then Child Protective Services came and either tried to force inject your crying, screaming children with the vaccine or took them away from you to be “protected,” not only from the myth of the pig virus but also from you, a parent who didn’t fold to controlled media hysteria?
If you answered either of the last two scenarios, “I’d go through the legal system and get my kids back,” you’re a pussy. I have heard a lawyer talk about parents having their children taken away from them for some bullshit and then spending a year in legal battles while their children remain in the custody of the Child “Protective” Services pedophiles. I know a holistic healer whose son was taken from him from same Child “Protective” Services because he didn’t follow the “procedure” of “nourishing” his kid processed foods and “healing” him with toxic chemicals.
This is same reasoning used by pussies regarding how to get rid of a politician who has committed treason by violating the Constitution, such as George W. Bush did with his illegal wiretapping program that the Congress had told him was illegal and yet he still did, where they say in their most self-deceptive, “we still have the power” voice, “We can vote him out.” I’m not into mobocracy, but those criminal traitor bastards need to be hung from a tree. Of course I wouldn’t suggest that regarding Obama the Kenyan’s abandonment of the Constitution for fear of being called a racist, as while I judge a politician by his heart and his actions, others seem to judge them by their empty words and skin color.. I remember one client of mine saying, “And Obama was a Constitutional lawyer, so he’ll protect our rights.” I knew that this New World Order scumbag would just use his Constitutional expertise to design end runs around it while still under the auspices of legality.
I’m not going to tell you how to raise your kid. From what I see around me, most parents are poisoning their kids with processed foods and life-denying religion and their children would probably have had a better chance of being a functional human being had they been aborted as an 8-month old fetus, providing great pictures for the Anti-Choice movement to use when they’re out and about killing abortion doctors in the process. To take them away from you and have them fed processed foods, life-denying religion and penis by a perverted “protection” agency is not the solution. What I will say is that I, for one, will bite off any hand that touches my children without my permission and if they try to take my children, either they or me will be taking an express stop to the grave.
Gandhi was asked about what he’d do if after India was back in the hands of the dot-heads if the Pakis made an invasion. He said some bullshit like, “I’d welcome them in to share the land with us.” Wake up and smell the sweaty Indian, Gandhi! Your fairytale Defense Department would end your country faster than your people would have time to say, “Would you mind adding some curry sauce to my breakfast cereal?” When the Indian airplanes flew overhead to bomb the shit out of Pakistan, Gandhi hid his bald head and would have shit his diaper if a reporter asked him, “No really, what should we do besides your pussy idea of doing nothing?”
Non-Violence worked in the struggle for India’s independence because as much as the British liked to club Indians over the head, they still liked to retain the air that they were civilized and drank their tea with their pinkies in the air, so after bloodying a few thousand Indians under media scrutiny finally they said, “Fine, take the bloody country!” I’m sure the ass-kicking that the Colonies gave those tea-swilling pantywaists a couple hundred years ago weighed in on the situation as well.
Hitler was a psychopath with a tiny moustache that was bigger than his miniscule penis but he was no pussy and he would have pulled Gandhi aside and told him, “Listen bitch, if I see any of you dot-heads protesting, I’ll make you honorary Jews, if you know what I mean,” and Gandhi would have shit his diaper and left and told his followers, “Go back to your homes and shut up. We’re Hindus, not Jews!”
When I was looking for a picture of the Dalai Lama for my piece called “A Nobel Obamanation” [http://rebelyogi.com/a-nobel-obamanation.html] where I wrote about how Obama’s silver tongue not only gives Michelle a good connilickus but was apparently worth an award that was originally designed for people who have actually done something rather than just talk about doing something—oh, and a million dollar prize as well, which Obama will probably use to buy a few more houses in illegal real estate scams and inject more of his family with the mercury-free/squalene-free Swine Flu vaccine that the public is not privy to and are too stupid to demand the ineffective vaccines they want without toxic additives that are making their kids morons—I came across an article from The Times of India where the Dalai said that terrorism cannot be tackled by applying the principles of Non-Violence because the minds of terrorists are closed. He went on to say, “I love President George W. Bush,” which resulted in me closing my “Free Tibet” donation allotment and putting all that money into the “George W.’s Bomb The World Fund.” I found out that Obama, too, donates to that cause, his last contribution to the GWBTW Fund being 13,000 more troops to Afghanistan. [http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/oct/13/obama-afghanistan-troop-deployment]
Even Marshall Rosenberg, the creator of Non-Violent Communication (NVC), who has worked successfully with bridging communication gaps peacefully between Hutus and Tutsies who had their families killed at the hands of those Hutus, to finding understanding—not endorsement—of child molesters and whose Center for Non-Violent Communication, according to their website, has “helped negotiate peace between individuals, families, communities, political factions and nations,” [www.cnvc.org] has acknowledged that there is a time to drop the Non-Violent ball and start swinging the wrecking ball.
To clarify to all the idiots out there who think they know me because they got the Swami X decoder ring from the Cracker Jack box, which is about as rare as a golden ticket in one of Willy Wonka’s chocolate bars, and who pretend to be able to decipher in my writing truth from fiction from fantasy, character from personality from tomfoolery and who will then send me an email telling me how you “get” me and how I voiced words that were locked up in your heart but you couldn’t formulate because you were vaccinated with mercury and other poisons and are now semi-catatonic, I do support Non-Violence—when it has a chance of working. When it doesn’t, there’s something tired and true—violence. For all you Bible thumpers out there, let me throw you a chunk of raw Jesus and watch you claw the infidels over it:
There’s a time to live, a time to die;
a time to wear your diaper and put your hands in prayer position by your heart,
and a time to make a fist and kick some fuckin’ ass.
—Rebel-ution, 1:5
I was in another one of my low cycles with Michael the Crackhead, the wave right after what appeared to be a deep connection where he would berate and insult me. He finally made some suggestion regarding physical violence towards me and I had enough. I tore off my zippered sweatshirt and threw it on the ground. In an intense but somewhat calm manner I said, “You do not want to get physical with me because I am telling you, it will not be pretty.” Michael asked something stupid like if I’d hit him first or counter-strike. I repeated, “All I’m saying is if it gets physical, it will not be pretty.”
Miyamoto Musashi was an early 17th Century swordsman who won about 60 one-on-one battles to the death and then went to a mountaintop where he wrote his classic text on strategy in combat, The Book of Five Rings (Go Rin No Sho); incidentally his combat strategy was the foundation of the first combat martial art I studied for years, Go Rin No Sho Special Combatives. Musashi said that it is necessary “To Know Collapse” in your opponent. When I was fighting in the ring or watching from the sidelines, I could always recognize “Collapse” in another fighter. Even the untrained eye can see physical collapse coming on in another, like when one fighter is stunned from a big blow, but I could see when the mind collapsed—and sometimes this happened before even the starting bell rang.
I saw it in Michael’s eyes: he Collapsed. The words that followed from his mouth were a cross between saving face and “please don’t hurt me.” I gathered up my sweatshirt and told Michael that from now on when we passed each other that we could acknowledge the other but I don’t want to have any more discussion beyond that. And I left.
The New-Age Pussy will protest that my ego got the better of me and that I should have had ompassion for this crackhead and not have wanted to bust a cap in his ass. They would have had me say, “Michael, when you threaten me with violence it upsets me as my need for survival is heightened.” These are the same pussies that have never been face-to-face with a drug addict calling them a “nigger” or jumped in between and stopped one street person from hitting another street person with a stick.
I’m reminded of Rodney Dangerfield’s character in the movie Back To School, where he was a billionaire business man who went back to college for some reason and was sitting in an Economics class and when the arrogant teacher talked about the steps to setting up a business, “Thornton Mellon” chimed in with his real-world advice about needing to grease the local politicians to avoid zoning “issues” that would come up and the local Teamsters, etc. The snooty teacher told Mr. Mellon that bribes and corruption may be how he does business but it is not how the legitimate business world functions. The teacher turns his back to Mellon and approaches the blackboard (an archaic instrument that was used up until the late 20th Century) while saying, “The next factor to ask is where to build our factory?” to which Mellon replies, “How about Fantasy Land?” to the laughter of the students. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlVDGmjz7eM]
These armchair pussies are the same ones preaching New-Age mantras about “loving everybody” and the first time the world doesn’t act according to Mr. Roarke’s Fantasy Island version about how their wet dreams say it should operate, they’re panties go in a whirl and they act passive-aggressively—because their “Non-Violent” philosophy only works in the laboratory when everyone around them is wearing white lab coats and dosing each other with hippie hugs and incense and they are too pussiated to do anything that overtly contradicts all the garbage to which they have sworn their allegiance.
Did my “ego” step into the mix? Maybe a touch but when there is a time for action you don’t take a legal pad and analyze the pros and cons of your actions, like a dead New-Age Pussy who has removed all spontaneity from life in the hope that they can control their emotions. Spontaneity died with the blackboard to all those predictable pussies. You can take just about any New-Age pussy and put her in any situation—place her at an outdoor music festival, or in the middle of a street riot, or eating dinner at a raw food restaurant—and you can write out exactly how she will react in each and every situation because she is about as predictable as a “Tax Protester Goes To Jail” article in The New York Times on April 13th to scare the teetering out of thinking and researching the Income Tax fraud for themselves.
For someone who is “alive,” he may dance and sing at the outdoor music festival—or he may want to sit alone and meditate; he may run with the masses in the street riot—or he may stand and hold firm, seeking to stop the perpetuators of the violence; he may order the Three-Pea Salad in the raw food restaurant, a steal at only $27.95, or he may order a pizza delivered to his table.
It was midnight about a week later and I was taking Abandon for a walk to Central Park when I saw Michael walking his bicycle towards me. He has a way of talking polite developed over the years to manipulate greenbacks from passersby and has a three-octave range of language, from a low-pitched, “Sir” to a Mariah Carry-ish, dog whistling, “Nigger!” that would make any opera singer jealous.
“Swami, I wanted to apologize for, for how I acted last time we talked. I was drunk then, I’m straight now.” He was about as straight as Tom Cruise at the glory hole after drinking 10 martinis with pink paper umbrellas in the alley right outside his bar of choice, The Bunghole. He went on, “I needed you to set me straight, to draw the line. I needed that. Thank you. I would never want to fight you. I mean, I’ve studied martial arts like you. Remember you saw me in the park that morning training…?”
He got a little sidelined on a crackscapade but soon came back.
“Remember when you gave me that radio? I mean, you didn’t have to give me that—and you gave me $20 before you even knew me!”
Now while I did give him a box radio, the $20 donation was patently false, but I felt like I was hearing Bluto’s inspirational speech in “Animal House” when he said, “Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?” and I knew to just shut up and let him roll. [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8lT1o0sDwI] [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q47bpOCTcaY] (full speech)
He started to cry. “I respect you, Swami. I value our friendship. We’ve talked over the years. I’m a nice guy. You can ask the pastor at Times Square Church and he’ll tell you.”
I bit my tongue to prevent me saying something insensitive like, “Was his dick in a little boy’s ass at the time he told you that—because if it wasn’t, I’m guessing you’re making this up.”
Now I spoke. “Michael, I know you’re a nice guy. But when you’re drunk, which is all the time, it is much harder for others to see the nice guy that resides under all the nonsense.”
“I don’t just drink. I do crack, too,” he confided.
“I figured that. Look, it’s out of my expertise to help you get off of drugs. But, as I told you before, I will take you down myself to someone like a drug counselor who can help you get this monkey off your back.” While I am not a drug user myself, I know some of the lingo. “I would love to have you over to my place and watch a kung fu movie together but you’re not stepping a foot in my house on drugs.”
Michael continued to cry and share a line or two about how much he respected me and all our sharing over the years. I finally told him that I needed to get Abandon to the park soon or the bitch wouldn’t stop nagging me for the rest of the night.
“I love you, Swami.”
And I was at one of those crossroads I’ve been at many a time and which never gets any easier, despite the fact that I’ve removed my heart and replaced it with a lump of coal: how do you respond to someone who has told you those three words when you’re “just not feelin’ it”?
Sometimes I just say it back like a lying parrot. As much of a sell-out as I feel to my word, that is almost easier to live with than the awkward silence following my other standard response, “How about those Yankees, huh?” In this case I just smiled and left, saying something lame like, “Take care, brother.”
Abandon looked up at me and said, “Finally!” but I didn’t react in the usual, “Shut up, bitch!” followed by a kick to her boney ribcage the way I normally would have. I was too busy reflecting on something and it wasn’t how I could rub it in the face of all the New-Age Pussies that my spontaneous truthful “violent” action was more effective in this case than their pre-planned “Non-Violent” lie of a life, although I was planning to rub their tuna fish-smelling faces in it.
It was that I still had a gap in being able to love anyone that wasn’t actually sucking my dick. Well, that’s not exactly appropriate here, as Michael has on occasion given me head for a little money for rock. And I do love my mother and while she has given me a few handjobs disguised as “helping you clean those tough to reach areas,” the closest my dick has come to her mouth is when I kissed her on the same day I strained my neck trying to blow myself.
But my “How about those Yankees, huh?” shined a flashlight beam on the fact that I still saw a chasm between my privileged soul-searching self and this sorry-ass man who I just left, perhaps just a soul-searcher who was a little less privileged than myself. He didn’t want to wear the label of “street loser” anymore than I felt guilty about pinning it on him.
I looked forward to the day when I would bury this elitest ego that kept me from not only saying, “I love you,” but actually feeling “I love you” for everyone of God’s children, including the whino, crack street losers.
REFLECTION:
How do you feel about “violence”? Do you think it is ever warranted? How many different degrees of violence are there? If someone kills someone that seems to be fairly obvious “violence.” Punching someone in the face is probably equally “easy” to decipher. How about yelling at someone? How about talking calmly to someone with an underlying implication that he is a moron, i.e. the Passive-Aggressive Pussy approach? Reflect on your understanding of violence and if you think it may ever serve a useful purpose.
MEDITATION:
Imagine yourself in a situation where a burglar has entered your house and is ready to do harm to you and you brain him with your Louisville Slugger. You go to court and the jury finds it was “Self-Defense” and you are let free. And while you may not be thrilled about taking another human life, do you feel the least bit guilty for your violent action?
Imagine yourself knocking out a man who was about to do harm to a woman. The woman is a little shaken up but very grateful. Not “self”-defense—but defense of another. Do you think it was morally wrong of you to act in this way? Perhaps you should have called the police instead? They would have been very useful—cordoning off the area and drawing a chalk line around the victim’s dead body.
Imagine yourself fighting in a war to defend your country’s freedoms. As you are sitting there, death possibly waiting for you the next time you poke your head above the ledge of your foxhole, you ask a fellow soldier, “Is this really about freedom? I mean, what are the chances that this little country 6,000 miles away from home will ever pose a threat to us?” Can you justify this violence for yourself? He responds, “If they are not stopped they will invade other helpless countries and how can I allow innocent people anywhere to be harmed by aggressors?” The same situation with two different reactions to the violence, one seeing it as useless and the other seeing it as serving a point. Who is right? Is there a “right”?
Bring yourself back to where you are sitting now. While you may be diametrically opposed to the use of violence, aren’t you glad that there are men and women in uniform who are willing to engage in violence for your protection, from our military to our police force?
In your fantasy world there may be no violence. Until that vision becomes a reality for all of us, perhaps there are times for violence—when the means for Non-Violence have been exhausted.
Everything can collapse. Houses, bodies, and enemies collapse when their rhythm becomes deranged. In large-scale strategy, when the enemy starts to collapse, you must pursue him without letting the chance go. If you fail to take advantage of your enemies’ collapse, they may recover. In single combat, the enemy sometimes loses timing and collapses. If you let this opportunity pass, he may recover and not be so negligent thereafter. Fix your eye on the enemy’s collapse, and chase him, attacking so that you do not let him recover. You must do this. The chasing attack is with a strong spirit. You must utterly cut the enemy down so that he does not recover his position. You must understand how to utterly cut down the enemy.
—Miyamoto Musashi, Go Rin No Sho
