If you’re one of those tortured Red Pill souls like me that is paying attention to what is going on in America then I’m sure you’re probably getting to the point where you feel like you just can’t take it anymore.
You’re looking for a way out of being so informed. Go ahead, admit it. Like they say, the first step in solving a problem is admitting that you have a problem. You’re probably flirting with the idea of taking the Blue Pill and just saying the hell with it. After all, any Blue Pill taker will tell you that ignorance is bliss.
If you’re a Red Pill taker then you know that it’s torture to be an informed citizen in America. You keep asking yourself wouldn’t it be much easier to just let it go and become a low-information voter. It’s okay, you can admit it. You’re among friends. I know you’re thinking how nice it would be, how peaceful you would feel if you just turned it all off and stopped paying attention. In other words, take the Blue Pill.
But no, you say. I can’t do that! My country needs me to pay attention! It’s my duty! And if I just keep paying attention, voting, writing my senators and my representatives then they will eventually listen and things will turn around in America. If I just keep sending those emails then one day the politicians will start to tell the truth.
Red Pill citizens know better.
Deep down inside I’m sure you’re thinking it’s a fool’s errand to pay attention, and if you just had something that would prove it to you once and for all then you would gladly take the Blue Pill, unplug yourself from reality and stop paying attention. I know how you feel. You’re looking for the preverbal “a ha!” moment. That’s the moment when you will decide that’s it’s just not worth paying attention anymore and that you’re just going to take the Blue Pill and go live in the rabbit hole.
You’re looking for salvation. If so, then read on because I’m going to set you free, fellow citizen.
Over the Memorial Day weekend I finally received my welcome dose of salvation and I found it in a most unlikely place. And I wouldn’t in good conscience be able call myself an American if I didn’t share this salvation with you.
So where did I find salvation? You’ll never guess. I didn’t find it at a church, online, or from the mouth of one of the many silver-tongued devils that currently represent us in Washington. Nope. I found salvation in a much simpler place.
I found salvation at a flea market.
While visiting my in-laws in North Carolina over the Memorial Day weekend, we took a day trip to a flea market close to the little town of Faith, NC. While driving through that little idyllic town I saw a window sign that was a harbinger of things to come. But after seeing the flea market, I wasn’t even sure that the advice given on the window sign would be enough to save America.
After we parked the car in the flea market’s gravel parking I took a look around me. We were surrounded by plenty of expensive luxury cars as well as a number of old beaters. This told me that the patrons of the flea market represented people from all levels of the economic food chain. Yep, by the looks of the cars in the parking lot there were just as many rich folk as there were po’ folk shopping at the flea market.
As we strolled into the flea market the first thing I saw was a small snack bar. The item at the top of the menu was “tongue”. It didn’t say beef tongue, lamb tongue, pig tongue or even human tongue. Just “tongue”. Who in the hell eats tongue? It’s served on a stick, by the way.
There is a better chance that I will pilot the next Space Shuttle mission than eat tongue, especially tongue served at a flea market. Oh, I forgot. We don’t have a Space Shuttle anymore. That was old America. New America can’t put a man or woman into orbit. Sorry. But you get my point. And just a word of warning – if any of you are thinking about eating tongue at a flea market, I can promise you it will lead to gastrointestinal distress.
As I wandered down the long isles and looked into the booths I was amazed at the products that were offered for sale. The first booth I stopped at sold old cans of motor oil and used underwear. You heard me right. I meant to say “used”. The motor oil wasn’t used, just the skivvy drawers. The motor oil was old but it wasn’t used, because, you know, who would bother with used motor oil. Apparently it’s a different story when it comes to skivvies.
The next booth sold Christian-themed T-shirts and bongs. Yep, bongs. And they also sold Bibles written in both English and Spanish for two bucks apiece. Pray and get high was the obvious message.
Another booth sold deodorant, nose rings and Slim Jims. And if you were so inclined, they also had a jar of pickled eggs floating in pink water for fifty cents apiece. I hear pickled eggs go great with tongue on a stick.
While walking around the flea market I saw more ankle tattoos and baby strollers than I could count. I know love is blind, but damn there was some ugly love at that flea market. And by a rough count of baby strollers, that ugly love is reproducing at an astounding rate.
Near the end of one isle was a booth that sold baby blankets, hair care products, brass knuckles and lots of knives. Being a Marine, I love a good sticking knife as much as the next guy but I wouldn’t expect to find one on sale next to a pile of baby blankets.
And then there were the restrooms… You haven’t flirted with death until you use the restroom at a flea market, especially on a hot day. Think of the smell of ammonia and roadkill. I knew things were bad because the Grim Reaper was standing by the door dressed up as an old man wearing a cowboy hat. He was eating tongue on a stick.
My salvation came near the end of our visit to the flea market. After looking at all the booths and deciding that I didn’t need a Slim Jim or a good sticking knife, brass knuckles, a piece of unfinished furniture or a ceramic whatnot, much less an order of tongue on a stick, it dawned on me. I looked at the people around me and that’s when I found salvation. By the looks of the crowd, what they were buying and what they were eating, I knew right then that paying attention in America really is a fool’s errand and that the argument for taking the Blue Pill is strong.
Even though I found salvation at the flea market amidst the tie-dyed T-shirts and velvet portraits of Jesus, any Red Pill citizen will tell you there is no going back once you have taken the Red Pill. The Red Pill stands for the truth, no matter how painful it is, and you cannot unlearn the truth. Once you know it, it will keep you awake at night.
For those of you still sitting on the fence with a Blue Pill in one hand and a Red Pill in the other, I wish I could honestly make the argument to you that you should take the Red Pill. But after my trip to the flea market I just don’t know anymore. After all, if there are people out there eating tongue on a stick and wearing nose rings while pushing a baby stroller, I’m not sure that even the Red Pill can save us.