The American Civil War is being fought all over the country right now. That's what "big government" means, it's what "socialism" means. Sharing American wealth the the N-Words. Yeah. Are you skeptical? Here's how that works. In brief.
The South lost the war. They tried to leave and we stopped them. They were better fighters, proud, stubborn as hell, but we outnumbered, outspent, and out teched them, and they can't forget.
They lost the civil war, then, a hundred years later, they lost civil rights.
When they lost the first time they turned their hatred on the freed slaves - for being the cause of the war and to show the North that they had won nothing. "How you like bein' free now, boy?" "Look what y'all did to them nigras when you free um." Their hidden guilt didn't help any. Keeping the black man down became the symbol of Southern resistance and still is.
"We ain't never givin' up. And we ain't never givin' them monkeys nothin'. Not one red cent of..."
...the taxpayer's money. And that's what it's about.
The South voted Democrat for a hundred years because the Republican Party was the party of Lincoln. Lincoln, who wouldn't give them their god-given freedom under the constitution (which, actually, doesn't speak to the question directly.) Lincoln couldn't let them go; he was the nation's leader and it is the leader's job to give his country all the power and prosperity it can sustain; to give it biggest possible footprint on the globe. Whole, we were on the verge of exploding onto the world stage; split, we become two second-rate ex-colonies quarreling over scraps. But the South wanted to walk and fought like devil cats to do it, lost, and voted Democrat.
Until the civil rights movement woke them up, and they figured out that the same spirit that lead the Democrats to appease them in 1860 lead them to support the freedom riders in 1960. And again, standing in the school doors with crossed arms, in front of burning churches with armed crosses, at the polls with their poll taxes, they lost. Whupped like a chicken-stealin' hound.
I was a civil war reenacter in the centennial sixties, and again a few years ago. I was down there. The first time they were out there to say they ain't forgot. This time they're even more bitter; they say, "It wan't about slavery." Listen to the marching songs, Johnny Reb, that the bluebellies sang - they even sang them in battle, tongues swollen with thirst - then tell me it wasn't about the slaves. "He fought to make men holy, we fight to make men free." "...and tho' they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave..." And on and on.
Their song goes,
I hates the Constitution, This great Republic too;
I hates the Freedmen's Buro, In uniforms of blue.
But it's funny; the next lines goes,
I hates the nasty eagle, With all his brag and fuss;
But such is Southern Pride that rather than admit that their fighters were broken - and really, they weren't - they became the spit-spraying patriots and the core of the US military. Until after Vietnam, the Marine Corps was the confederate army in forest green. And the stanza ends...
But the lyin', thievin' Yankees
I hates' em wuss and wuss.
We broke the southern economy. You wouldn't think so to drive through the south now, along the highways everything's neat, trimmed, freshly painted and prosperous. You have to go back in to the woods. But we broke it, and they had to leave Dixie to live, so they went north, to the factories. And they bred. More Scots-Irish than the land could hold. So now they're in North Dakota, east Oregon, SoCal, they're the militias in Michigan and grain jobbers in Kansas. They're everywhere, turning the maps red. And with them they bring the secret directive - secret except on their back porches of a summer's night - "Keep the Enword Down. Not One Red Cent." They'd starve their own tornado bait cracker-ass redneck meth-head shit-kicker ass off fifth generation welfare just to see to it that the black family down the track can't get food stamps. They'd kill off every high school class but gym to keep the little girls with the made-up names from getting into college. And they'll keep mouthing code words like "big government" and "socialism" and "welfare state" to make sure that the people who should still be slaves can never lift their head and walk light-hearted down Main Street in America.
That's what's driving the "conservative" agenda in this and every other national election, in every contest in both houses and the courts. It's the key to the code.
You know, we should have let them go. The civil war was the end of a fiction of freedom in the land named US. But not with your captives, y'all, not with your police and your courts and your law and your cotton and your slaves, no, you had to be put down, dawg.
I hear it said that's it's better down there now. That the kids are kind of over it. You think so? I don't know. I do know that this is a racist nation, but that's not a lot to say and it's another story.
Oh, I'm a good old Rebel,
Now that's just what I am;
For this "fair land of Freedom"
I do not care a damn.
I'm glad I fit against it-
I only wish we'd won.
And I don't want no pardon
For anything I've done.
I hates the Constitution,
This great Republic too;
I hates the Freedmen's Buro,
In uniforms of blue.
I hates the nasty eagle,
With all his brag and fuss;
But the lyin', thievin' Yankees
I hates' em wuss and wuss.
I hates the Yankee nation,
And everything they do;
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence too.
I hates the glorious Union,
'Tis dripping with our blood;
And I hates the striped banner-
I fit it all I could.
I followed old Marse Robert
For four years, near about.
Got wounded in three places,
And starved at Point Lookout.
I cotch the roomatism
A-campin'in the snow,
But I killed a chance of Yankees-
And I'd like to kill some mo'.
Three hundred thousand Yankees
Is stiff in Southern dust;
We got three hundred thousand
Befo' they conquered us.
They died of Southern fever
And Southern steel and shot;
And I wish it was three million
Instead of what we got.
.
I can't take up my musket
And fight' em now no mo',
But I ain't a-goin'to love' em,
Now that is sartin sho';
And I don't want no pardon
For what I was and am;
And I won't be reconstructed,
And I do not give a damn.
I'm a Good Old Rebel
