NOTE TO AMERICANS WHO SUPPORT SOCIALISM-be careful what you wish for!
Poor Man Survival
Self Reliance tools for
independent minded people…
www.poormansurvivor.net
ISSN
2161-5543
A Digest of Urban
Survival Resources
THE GLOBAL SOCIALIST TAKEOVEr
TO YOUR COUNTRY-What now?
The politics
of fear have done their job and frightened Americans on a level almost no one
alive has seen.
Now that
the polls have closed, it's obvious that we need to be more prepared than EVER
for unforeseen emergencies. It’s not clear who won and it’s unlikely we’ll
know before Friday…personally, I find it scary that socialists managed such an
effort to BUY the election with Soros and Bloomberg [Zuckerberg, Obama and
other wealthy globalists] have spent more than $600 million to gut America.
In the next few weeks, Republicans
could have a net gain of 10 House seats.
INSTEAD OF
SITTING SOMEWHERE in the 180s,
Republicans have north of 200 House seats, making themselves an extremely
powerful minority no matter who wins the White House…
There’s not much you can do about
the election but you should keep your eye on improving your personal and
financial defenses.
A Biden win will ensures higher prices on everything,
shortages, erosion of our rights & big socialist changes.
NOTE TO AMERICANS WHO SUPPORT SOCIALISM-be careful what you
wish for!
Soros, Bloomberg, et al spent record amounts trying to steal the election...co-conspirator media lapdogs aided & abetted the theft.
There are
currently some very disturbing trends evident on a global level, one of them
(among a number of others) being the push for mandatory vaccination, another
the perversion of children and young people’s minds via so-called sex education
and the promotion of the LGTB agenda, and the promotion of the
Marxist/Communist/Socialist agenda, which is the subject of an e-mail sent to
me by my friend Jack and which I feel deserves to be shared because of the threat
socialism poses to us all.
“The Democrats have expanded the
electorate with large numbers of refugees from communist/socialist countries
and foreigners here illegally. At the same time, they have insisted on amnesty
and rejected assimilation. All of these new immigrants will vote 80 to 90
percent with Democrats. Motor Voter laws register everyone to vote when they
get their driver’s license, that includes the ineligible and illegal aliens.
The likelihood of fraud grows as Democrats encourage it.”
It has been
well known by scholars of Communism for a long time that Leninist/Marxist
takeover of a nation follows just 4 incremental major steps:
1) Demoralization. This psychological step often takes
10 to 30 years to demoralize an entire nation. It particularly concentrates on
young people (and initially getting as many young children into childcare
centres as possible away from their parents so that they can be indoctrinated
by the state). When they grow up, they then turn as a group against the values
of their parents, in a period where their country’s population is often divided
up between the haves and have nots. Today we call the haves ‘baby-boomers’ who
own a lot compared to their younger siblings called ‘millennials’ who own very
little and are severely “demoralized” about the future due to inflation and the
difficulties involved in getting ahead. Demoralization is now complete in most
nations. Once this psychological divide is created the next step is
implemented.
2) Destabilization: This only takes about 3 – 5 years.
Oppressive taxes are introduced against the ‘have’ middle classes and the
economy is driven toward collapse. This is Jacinda’s Ardern’s job in New
Zealand in the next 3 years if elected.
3) Crisis: After this period of
“destabilization” is completed, comes the full political and economic “crisis”
which lasts only about 6 weeks where the economy totally collapses culminating
with the full Communist dictatorship takeover.
4) Normalization: Once the new Communist or Fascist
socialist dictatorship assumes power, this final, infinite period is referred
to as socialist ‘normalization.’
In free market
economies, the "invisible hand" of supply and demand tends to
automatically guide resource allocation, which historically has resulted in
greater efficiency than centrally planned models. Economist F.A. Hayek
elaborated on this issue in his classic book, The_Road_to_Serfdom.
Because centrally
planned economies are less capable of properly allocating investments, and
because they can distort the free market through interventions, there is
greater risk of mal-investments -- i.e. poor investments that do not create
greater wealth, made by both central planning institutions within government as
well as private investors.
The impact of
mal-investments is deflationary; credit is destroyed, asset prices fall,
investors become more hesitant and reluctant, and the appeal of sitting tight
in cash grows. Unless, of course, the central bank can stimulate the economy
through inflationary monetary policies, in which case cash might be devalued as
well.
More at these links and below:
Your 30+ Free Reports await on the other side of this link.
Below is a repeat of an earlier posting
regarding how socialism will gut our nation…
How to feed yourself and your family
1. Barter and Bribery
I am going to begin with food because most of my family’s
activities, as I remember them, focused on and around acquiring food. That’s
the only way to be when you live under socialism because food is not something
you just go out and buy. Under socialism, food is something you “organize.”
Imagine that suddenly, due to some deuced thaumaturgy, all the food in all the
stores and restaurants had vanished, leaving only sardines, mustard, and
vinegar on the shelves. This is what happened to our stores during the early
1980s. The food was rationed, and as in all just and fair societies, everyone
received an equal ration. The rations were distributed in exchange for monthly
government coupons, which everyone received at their workplace, along with
their paychecks. Each person received the same exact coupons for four pounds of
meat, two pound of sugar, two pounds of flour, and one gallon of vodka per
month.
Whatever food was sold
in the stores, it was delivered intermittently, twice, sometimes three times
per month at undefined and unpredictable times. Whenever the food was
delivered, it was aggressively fought for and taken away within minutes by
people standing for days in winding lines. So what do you do when you’re stuck
in the city and no store carries any food, and you have no idea when it will be
delivered? Fear no more: there are some unbeatable, proven, and tested
strategies that can help you organize all the food you need.
The first infallible
approach is to find a few local alcoholics and barter your vodka coupons for
their meat coupons. This was never a miss. The Slavic soul, eternally torn by
existential anxieties of meta-proportions, is naturally prone to alcoholism,
and our town, no different from any other Polish town, was always full of drunk
philosophers and poets. They hung out in front of the liquor stores, in parks,
and in bus stations, delighting themselves with Polish vodka, ethanol, and cheap
aftershave, casually quoting Mayakovski and Pushkin in a drunken daze. They
were always part of our colorful socialist reality, the sad misfits who refused
to play by the rules and be productive builders of our brilliant socialist
future. For that refusal, they were alternately held in awe and reviled by the
local townspeople. During that fateful decade of the food coupons, however,
they suddenly became revered. Each drunk was a potential source of four
additional pounds of meat and two pounds of flour per month, so the entire town
surreptitiously prayed for their health and long life. The competition for
their meat coupons, though, was fierce. You had to line up to your drunkard
right after you received your monthly coupons, because if you were just a few minutes
late, someone else was sure to snag your drunk’s coupons in front of your nose.
Every month, at the same time, my mother, graceful as a gazelle, marathoned her
way through the bread lines to meet my father at his office to pick up his
vodka coupons, and then she’d marathon back to town to meet Mr. Józio and his
friends at the usual spot in front of their beloved liquor store to exchange
our vodka coupons for their meat coupons. Poor Mr. Józio, with his drawn-out
face, red nose, and Okudzhava’s songs . . . may he rest in peace.
A second
food-organizing strategy is to fabricate a health concern that would qualify
you for additional meat coupons. Anemia or various muscle and bone disorders
are always a good idea. If you are lucky and have a friend who is a doctor, he
or she might be willing to help you choose a disease that requires an
additional consumption of protein. If you don’t have a doctor friend, be
prepared to bribe one so he or she is willing to write you a prescription for
an extra meat ration. My mother did have a doctor friend but she didn’t need to
fabricate anything because, luckily, I had a bone disorder so rare and obscure
that no one on the government meat panel was able to verify whether, indeed, I
justly qualified for an additional portion of meat coupons.
The third reliable
tactic is to bribe local shopgirls to tip you off when food (or anything else
for that matter) is going to be delivered to their shop, so you can be the
first one in line. This approach requires dogged practice and perspicacious
people skills, as you have to know whom to bribe and how. Money doesn’t mean
anything in a world where there are no material goods to buy. That’s the beauty
of socialism. In capitalism, there are goods you can buy, and that is why it is
corrupt. You can imagine my absolute shock when I arrived in the U.S. and
realized that money does have a purpose, and that, yes, there are goods you can
actually simply purchase without coupons or bribing anyone. In socialism, money
really isn’t everything since there is nothing, I mean nothing, that you can
buy with it.
Under socialism,
bribing is an art, as enigmatic and effervescent as any other art out there. A
shopgirl in the grocery store, for example, can be bribed with pantyhose. A
shopgirl in the lingerie department can be bribed with milk and eggs for her
kids. A shopgirl in the cosmetics department can be bribed with ham or oranges
so that she can bribe a shopgirl in the electronics store with a bottle of
perfume to tip you off when the laundry machine or radios will show up. A
shopgirl in the pharmacy can be bribed with a pair of American jeans and
lipstick. And a shopgirl in a shoe store can be bribed with hemorrhoid cream
and aspirin for her father. In other words, to be able to effectively manage your
bribery ring, you need to get to know all of your shopgirls and their current
needs. If she’s pregnant, she’ll need plastic bottles and terrycloth diapers
for her baby. If she’s getting married, she will need white shoes. The goal of
the effective bribing strategy is to maintain long-term relationships with all
your shopgirls, remembering their birthdays, their mothers’ birthdays, the ages
of their children, and the histories of all their ailments, from late periods
to dandruff.
My mother managed her
shopgirls with virtuoso PR skills, cruising listlessly through our town from
one shopgirl to the next, checking up on them like a trainer checks up on his
best brood of horses. The bribed shopgirl could do two things for you: first,
she could give you a tip about when goods, from cheese to bras, will be
“thrown” into the stores; and second, she could hide one or two objects of your
desire under the counter and sell them to you after the locust swarm of hungry
masses left her store. Getting something from “under the counter” led to a
well-earned gasconade; it was a sign of your supreme intellect and superior
social status. It made it patently obvious to everyone how well you were
connected, elevating you in an instant on our inconspicuously sturdy socialist
social ladder. “Where did you get that sausage (scarf, chewing gum, etc.)?”
“Oh, I got it from under the counter,” you boasted, casually flaunting your new
spoils. Like Proust’s madeleine, the unforgettable simple, everyday pleasure
one derived out of the green jealousy of one’s lesser friends who couldn’t get
anything from under the counter would often sustain you on many lonesome line
standing nights.
Yes, because if you
succeed at getting a tip from your shopgirl about the next delivery of the
desired good, you must now prepare to stand in line. To stand in line, you need
to bring a sleeping bag, pillow, and thermos with hot drink of your choice.
Many professional line standers had developed their own specialty recipes for
the drink that would most effectively keep their bodies warm and their minds
awake. The secret was a proper ratio of coffee to vodka, meticulously blended
into a smooth, full-bodied mix to suit one’s mental capacities and body weight.
If you haven’t been blessed with the stamina of the professional line standers,
you can always find solace in the arrangement with your family members to stand
in your place for 6- to 8-hour shifts for three to seven days, depending on the
desired object in question. Bread lines would take sometimes as little as 24
hours, but the lines for toilet paper or sugar could take three days to a week,
sometimes even longer. What robust community-building took place in these ludic
lines, with people chatting up their neighbors, and finding lifelong friends,
lovers, and spouses. Nothing bonds you like not knowing whether, after four
nights of freezing temperatures, you will or won’t be able to buy a wreath of
12 rolls of toilet paper . . .
Since pregnant women
and women with children are given priority, make sure that all the pregnant
women and children in the family are on high alert and ready to be called to
duty or borrowed on a moment’s notice. If you do have a small, carry-on child
of your own, consider starting a small business renting your child for a fee.
This was a very profitable venture for some entrepreneurial mothers. My mother,
unfortunately, had no ambitions to own her own business, so I missed out on the
adventures of being a rent-a-child, but I did have an opportunity to
participate in some momentous line events, like, for example, the 1982 four-day
line for pork chops. . .
Remember, federal
money magicians have declared inflation inducing low interest rates to be a
permanent fixture-that means our dollar will continue to be debased. [Many
banks now have policies or No Service directives against a variety of
pro-liberty businesses, especially anyone dealing with guns and ammo sales.
[Stockpile gold and silver now…there is a war on cash].
Pro-Freedom views are
now routinely suppressed on social media as well.
Start a
neighborhood barter club
http://www.grassrootsgrantmakers.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/Neighborhood_Bartering_Club.pdf
2. Urban-rural
alliance
When all the above
food-organizing strategies fail, you need to send one or two members of your
family to live in the country. Under socialism, the countryside has more
streamlined access to food, so one of your family members has to move there,
regardless of how much of an urbanite he or she claims to be. Fortunately for
us, we didn’t have to send anyone away, as my grandparents already lived in the
countryside. Though they didn’t have any land of their own, they did raise
their own chickens in the backyard of their house where the garage used to be.
Every Sunday, we travelled to my grandparents’ to pick up a few eggs, which my
grandfather carefully wrapped in our socialist newspaper one by one. Every now
and then, when someone was sick, a chicken had to be sacrificed to make chicken
soup for the sick person. My father, the sensitive intellectual type that he
always was, would always find something else to do when chicken-slaughter time
came. My grandfather was like his son, so the job of killing the chicken would
inevitably fall to my grandmother. My mother—the
chicken-slayer-in-waiting—specialized in plucking it. Plucking a chicken was
always a joyous affair for us kids as we blithely spread the floating feathers
all over the house, thus successfully irritating both my mother and my
grandmother at the same time, as they were trying in vain to amass all of the
feathers in one place with the noble goal of making out of them either a pillow
or a comforter at some later time, during the long, dark winter evenings.
My grandparents would
exchange some of their eggs for milk with their neighbors who raised a cow in
their garage, and from the milk, my grandmother made sour cream, butter, and
once in a while, some ice cream. For those of you who have never dealt with raw
milk, here’s a valuable insight: raw milk, when left alone out of the freezer
for a day or two, does not spoil. It turns into kefir, then into sour cream.
Then, if you beat it for long enough, it will turn into butter. Raw milk, when
left alone for two minutes, gathers kind of fur coat on top of it. American
store bought milk, like milk in every other civilized country that customarily
pasteurizes its milk, doesn’t produce the “fur coat.” This is good because
every child in the underdeveloped countries that doesn’t customarily pasteurize
its milk hates that “fur coat,” as it gets between your teeth. American store
bought milk, like milk in every other civilized country that customarily
pasteurizes its milk, also doesn’t produce sour cream, or butter . . . or ice
cream . . .
In socialism,
food-organizing activities are family affairs, and they depend on many members
contributing in various capacities, depending on their skills and hobbies. To
supplement your family’s diet with all-important proteins and antioxidants, you
can choose to hunt, fish, or gather. Under socialism, every family has to have
at least one hunter, one gatherer, and a few fishermen in its midst. My uncle
Charles was the hunter, and once in a while, usually before holidays, he would
gift us with a piece of dead deer, a duck, or a rabbit. As almost every family
had one Uncle Charles who hunted, before each holiday, our gray socialist
bungalows were adorned with rows of dead ducks and rabbits hanging outside each
window, frozen and waiting to be stuffed for a festive holiday dinner.
Everyone’s dead ducks and rabbits were fluttering on a rope outside, since the
temperature outside was usually colder than the temperature inside our
freezers. One holiday, my mother brought a live rabbit from somewhere. She put
it up in the bathroom, shut the door, and ordered my father to go kill it. My
father refused, so the rabbit lived happily in our bathroom for a couple of
days, until my mother, tired of picking up his poop, called in one of her work
friends, who came in, killed and skinned the rabbit, leaving my father in utter
dismay over his masculinity.
Once an animal of any
sorts was killed by whoever had the nerve to do it, every part of its corpse
was utilized for something. The fur was used to make hats, gloves, and vests.
The insides and intestines became sausage, and the bones became the basis for
various soups and sauces. Parts such as tongue, brain, and liver were specially
prepared and considered delicacies. Somehow, I have never ventured into this
area of Polish cuisine, so the taste of those delicacies will forever remain
foreign to my taste buds, but there are those who swear by a piece of cow’s
tongue in cream sauce, or pig’s brain fried with salt and butter. Most recently
I’ve come to discover that some of these delicacies, a necessary component of
any third-world cuisine’s habitual utilization of leftovers, are considered
highly prized gourmet staples in some of the most sophisticated urban venues
across America. Apparently, at both ends of the global economic spectrums your
meals are the same. Of course, the price of cow’s tongue or pig’s feet in
mushroom sauce depends on whether they’re served on a socialist plate in your
grandmother’s kitchen or on luxury tableware in a five-star American restaurant,
with one lone piece of pomme de terre (kartofle in
Polish) on the side. Despite my dislike of fine Polish cuisine, however, one
thing I did eat religiously was my grandmother’s sausages, which she homemade
twice a year in her living room: intestines pulled over the meat grinder
machine would fill slowly with fat, veins, and everything else that was left
over from whatever animal we were consuming at that time. My grandmother smoked
the sausages above her oven, and we fried it on long wooden sticks over the
bonfires that we made every summer and fall in the backyard of my grandmother’s
house . . .
3. The manly art of
fishing and my own Nietzschean prerogative
Under socialism,
fishing is the only hobby that husbands can indulge in with impunity, without
their wives nagging them endlessly over it. My uncle Zbyszek was the best
fisherman in our family, and he spent his every evening and entire weekends,
from 5 am to 9 pm, fishing. My aunt Eva never said a word of complaint. My aunt
and uncle were considered to have one of the most agreeable marriages in our
town. I don’t know whether it was because Uncle Zbyszek was never home, always
gone fishing, or whether it was because he always brought plenty of fish back
with him, thus ensuring that my aunt always had something to put on the plates
of my three cousins, all growing boys. The fish diet apparently worked as all
three of them have grown to be six foot tall.
When my father took up
fishing, my mother was thrilled. Finally, my father had matured and found a
constructive activity—unlike reading—that would enrich our family pantry.
However, my mother’s delight quickly transmuted to despair as my father,
despite spending his weekends away fishing, was bringing home no fish. As we
soon found out, there were two causes of this failure: first, my father, unlike
every other fisherman out there, used oatmeal, instead of worms, as his fish
bait. Second, whatever confused vegetarian oatmeal-loving fish he did somehow
manage to catch, he always released it back into the river. We discovered this
when one day I was sent as a spy to go fishing with him. Once my mother made
the gruesome discovery, she put me in charge of killing the fish that my father
had caught before he could release it. As I sat there, next to my fishing
father, reading book after book, chewing lazily on thin leaves of grass, and
waiting for a fish to bite our oatmeal, I too started to fish. My father had
infinite patience, untangling my carelessly thrown line from the nearby bushes,
putting the tiny soggy oatmeal grains on my hooks, and staring for hours at our
two motionless floats. To kill time—the only killing he was ever able to do—we
talked. Our conversations ranged from Kant’s philosophy to the construction of
a kinescope and the universe. To this day, I think that everything I learned
about the world, I learned while fishing with my father. . . .
Before I could perform
my assigned duty, however, the caught fish had to be measured. Each fish had to
be of a proper size to be taken home, and if it was too small we were obliged
to release it under socialist law. Some dishonest or desperate fishermen would
take home every fish they caught regardless of its size, but not my
compulsively correct father. Oh, no. Our fish had to be the right size, and if
it was too small, it was released into the river, with all the somber ritual
fit for the occasion. Once the fish was deemed large enough to end up in my
mother’s pan, I did the honors of getting it across the fish Styx. It’s been
over twenty years since I last went fishing, and over twenty years since I
stopped eating meat. I never stopped eating fish, though. If the mere sight of
skinless chicken makes me gulp, I don’t even blink when I sink my teeth into
raw fish meat. Perhaps because this is the only animal I can catch and kill
with my own two hands. This is the death that I don’t have to outsource. It is
my sole responsibility, with all its grisly, gory details and all its pain . .
. This is my Nietzschean prerogative . . .
One time my father was
late from work. As the night was slowly setting in, my mother sat there
motionless, vacantly starring at the crepuscular horizon. Did he got shot,
arrested, or perhaps just run away to America?—which would actually be quite a
desirable outcome, as he would then be obliged, by the latent forces of
patriarchy and patriotism, to send us regular care packages. When my father
eventually came home, carrying the customary toilet-paper wreath neatly wrapped
around his right shoulder, he was beaming with pride. Yes, maybe he wasn’t the
fearless fish-killer she dreamed of him to be, but hell, he organized 12 rolls
of toilet paper and that must have counted for something! I never again saw
such feeling of valiant pride on my father’s face as on that cold winter night
of 1981 when organizing a wreath of toilet paper was as miraculous as Christmas
and Hanukkah combined. In that one triumphant moment, he redeemed himself and
all the fish, chicken, and rabbits that he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.
4. Fields, forests and
foraging
To supplement your
family’s diet with vitamins and antioxidants, you must learn to gather. You
gather everything: mushrooms, berries, herbs, and anything else edible you can
find in local irrigation ditches, parks, meadows, and forests. Every autumn,
like everyone else, my family took a trip to the nearby forest to gather. We
wandered around, with wizened frondescence beneath our feet, sinking softly
into the dark, green, moist moss, with our eyes firmly fixed on the ground,
bantering casually with each other over who found what and how much. How many
mushrooms? How rare? What berries? How big? During every gathering season, we’d
heard many sensational news stories about some poor family here and there who
in their ignorance of the forest got themselves poisoned with mushrooms or
berries they had just recently gathered and were just dying in convulsions at
their local state-owned hospital. But we didn’t worry. No. My mother knew all
the mushrooms in our forests and all the berries. Somehow without much effort,
soon I learned them too. I also knew how not to get lost in the forest, which
side of the trees the moss grows on, and what to do when you meet a hog with
her piglets. My mother pickled the mushrooms, dried them, fried them, and
rolled them in dumplings. She used the berries for pierogi and a thick wild
berry syrup that we drank when we were sick. Last fall, my husband and I took a
stroll in the local forest here in New England. There were warning placards
posted all over: don’t feed the fowl, don’t pick mushrooms, don’t pick berries.
The sun shined through the sparse leaves, and my husband was testing the zoom
of our new Nikon on one lonesome butterfly, when suddenly I realized that I had
never felt more a stranger in America than I felt right here in this strange
forest, which I didn’t know. I didn’t know its trees and its birds. I didn’t
know its mushrooms and its berries. I wouldn’t pick them even if the placards
weren’t there because I had no idea what they were, and I wouldn’t know what to
do with them anyway. . . . This was not my forest. This was a forest I could
get lost in and never find my way back home from. . . .
5. The organic country
garden
When everything else
fails and you’re unable to organize any food, you can always grow it. When I
came to the U.S. I was amazed by the sheer size of American lawns. Under
socialism, every arable piece of land you own has to be used to grow something,
from potatoes and cucumbers to chives and roses. Small gardens and big ones
adorned the fronts of our houses, our windows, and our balconies. The concept
of the idle lawn was a luxury only party officials could afford. Because the
government couldn’t feed everyone, not with the sizes of their lawns, it came
up with the idea of having people feed themselves. Yes, the socialist
government, more so than a capitalist one, encourages self-reliance. In
American capitalism, if everything else fails, you can always depend on the
constitution and your lawyer. In socialism, you really have nothing and no one
to depend on except yourself. There is no constitution, and if there is one, it
serves the government. The lawyers and the entire legal system serve the
government. The government serves the government. It is so very wrong to argue
that socialism is a nanny state. It is socialism that makes people achieve the
true epitome of self-reliance. Since most people, however, were living in
government-owned bungalows and only a very few lucky ones had their own country
homes with gardens, the government had to provide greater access to land, and
so the concept of shares, small plots of land on the outskirts of the city, was
born. To get your very own share, you had to file an application and wait two
to five years. If you were so lucky as to be awarded one of the shares, you had
to quickly put a little fence around it and build a small shed in which you
would keep your gardening tools and hide from the rain. Some people
circumvented government regulations on hut sizes, building elaborate dachas
with running water and electricity. My father, however, to my great dismay
built only a little wooden shack. Notwithstanding my unfulfilled fantasies of
dacha sleepovers, the fact remains that there was nothing more hair-raising
than riding out a spring storm while squeezed in our shack; no Disneyland ride
will ever beat that. The small shack shook to its core, the aluminum roof
magnified the sound of each raindrop and each thunderclap, and our tiny window
brightened ominously with each flash of lightning.
Your share had to be
neatly divided into sub-plots, rotated yearly to ensure the greatest variety
and most abundant harvest. Your trees had to be planted 5 feet from the borders
of your share so they wouldn’t cast a shadow over your neighbors’ crops. Our
family spent almost every weekend on our share, with my mother plowing,
planting, weeding, and picking whatever needed to be plowed, planted, weeded,
or picked at the time. For a long time, I enjoyed all the dirt involved, the
buzzing bees, the smell of flowering potatoes, the smell of fresh soil, and the
focused silence of my mother. But my father had a profound dislike of our
share, though I don’t know whether it was because he simply wasn’t the
gardening type, or because our shack didn’t have TV. At that time, I followed
my father’s lead, so I too eventually came to dislike our gardening weekends,
leaving my mother alone with Mother Earth. Fortunately, they understood each
other well enough to dismiss our constant whining. Food was food, after all,
and as much as my father and I hated the long, monotonous days in the scorching
sun, we liked the fruits and vegetables that my mother concocted against our
will.
SIDEBAR:
Examples of hostilities toward
Trump and his supporters abound, but leftists' threats of terror are even
greater should Biden win the presidency.
When it comes to election
polls, we need to acknowledge one key development in the U.S. today: most major
polls are now political propaganda, NOT real assessments of any voter
preference.
How do I know this? Three
reasons…
First and foremost, because
the pollsters have admitted it. Recently Pew Research wrote that the response
rate for polls today is 6%.
SIX percent. As in, if they
call 100 people, only
six participate.
While evidence suggests
that well-funded, telephone-based surveys still work, they have become
much more difficult and expensive to
conduct. Difficult because the swarm of robocalls Americans now receive, along
with the development of call blocking technologies, means that lots of people
don’t answer calls from unknown numbers. Response rates have gone from
36% in 1997 to 6% today.
Useful stuff
DIY
Flash Bang Devices
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eumDa4-mHg
https://www.instructables.com/id/stun-grena
Having your home burglarized can be a terrifying experience.
Even if you aren't there when it happens, it can shatter your sense of security
and make you feel violated. And if you are there when it happens, your very
life could be at risk.
According to the FBI, there were 1,928,465 burglaries in the
United States in 2013. That's one every 16 seconds. And a third of these
burglaries happened to homes where a door or window was left unlocked, which
brings me to the point of this article.
Many burglaries could be prevented if people didn't make so
many home security mistakes. If a burglar is absolutely determined to get into
your home, in particular, he will probably find a way. But as long as you avoid
making mistakes (like leaving a window unlocked), most burglars will skip your
home in search of an easier target...
17 Common Home Security
Mistakes
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