The Left In America has nothing but disdain and scorn for those of us who will not accept their ideology.
In other words, they hold every true and real American in contempt.
I use the term ‘Left In America’ when referring to the Leftists who live in The United States because their beliefs are completely foreign to everything America stands for. They are alien invaders, talking in a language that many of us have trouble truly comprehending because it cloaks itself in normal dress, manipulating the definitions of our words in subtle ways, to the point where understanding what’s afoot is very difficult. The Left In America possesses enough cunning to know that their beliefs, if stated clearly, repulse us, so they take such words as ‘freedom’, ‘rights’, ‘liberty’, and ‘compassion’ and distort their real meanings. Eventually, after years of incessant repetition, their perverse definitions win out, with the original meanings lost amidst an ocean of confusion, distortions, and lies. They treat us like Pavlovian dogs. They think we’re stupid and easily deceived. They despise us.
Mark Steyn has a prime example of the Left In America’s contempt for us:
The Tsarnaev family were admitted to the United States as refugees supposedly because they were in fear of their lives in the Russian Federation. It’s so deadly that Tamerlan vacations there for six months. Meanwhile, thanks to Green Cards and a naturalized younger son, any and all of the Tsarnaev family can return to live in the US any time they want. Why is this in the interests (to use a quaint concept) of the American people?
The immigration “debate”, now apparently concluded, was a joke, and Americans are the suckers of the world for putting up with it.
The Left is playing us for suckers and too many of us are allowing them to.
How do we reach these people? Are they too far gone? If not, what will it take to force them to open their eyes? Perhaps our efforts are wasted on them because they are the kind of people who will only wake-up when the America comes crashing down all around them — when they are hit upside the head with a 2×4.
Could This Be One Explanation?
…Straightforward radical, barroom debater when the spirit moved him, [Marcel] blew up the system left and right with his verbal blasts. But have a few honest-to-goodness crises, and all of a sudden, deep down inside, he began to get worried, wondering if maybe the crumbs that fell from the hands of the bosses and profiteers, decked out in their suede, weren’t better than no crumbs at all. He wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, but the idea had struck him that, as long as the bosses are rolling in money, and killing themselves to make more—between two hunting trips, of course, or two elegant evenings by that fine old hearth—the people manage to get their share, even if, sometimes, it may take a little squawking. … Yes, in his heart of hearts Marcel adored the suede way of life. You could think what you wanted about it and no one could stop you. But blow it to pieces? Bring it toppling down, if the chance ever came? No, never! At least, not Marcel! Then defend it, maybe? No, not damn likely! You don’t defend social injustice, not even when you’re much better off than the ones who have justice to spare. There it is in a nutshell. Could that be one explanation? Marcel is the people, his mind is their mind, half Durfort and half suede, not exactly the most compatible couple, but getting along by and large. And the people won’t lift a finger to help. Not in either direction. We’re not still back in the Middle Ages, when the poor exploited serfs would take cover behind His Lordship’s walls the minute the tocsin pealed its warning that bands of marauders were loose in the land. If the boss—sorry, I mean the seigneur—didn’t have enough troops, then the workers themselves—excuse me, the serfs—would take to the ramparts, while their wives went bustling about, preparing the cauldrons of boiling pitch. When you worked for His Lordship, you may have lived badly, but at least you lived. Not so when the lawless bands came plundering through, and left you with nothing to do but starve. Marcel isn’t any less bright than his forebear the serf. But the monster has eaten away his brain, and he never even felt it. No, Marcel won’t go running to man the ramparts against the Ganges horde, the latest marauders to pillage Fortress West. Let the troops fight it out by themselves. That’s their job! And if they retreat, if they turn tail and run, it’s not up to Marcel to bring up the rear and rush into the breach! He’ll sit by and watch today’s forts being sacked, watch them loot today’s castles: the steel and concrete walls; the cellars, stuffed to the rafters with food; the storerooms, crammed with supplies; the workrooms, never idle; the parapet walks, the drawbridges, thundering under the constant tread of feet; the fertile lands; the tower strongholds, filled with gold and silver. Yes, he’ll let them all go. He can’t think anymore. They’ve gelded his will of its instinct for self-preservation. … That night, having heard his Durfort, Marcel would fall asleep with an easy mind. “You see,” said Josiane, “like I told you, it’s the bosses who’ll pay for that gang. All the ones with money. Besides, so they’re heading this way in their boats, all million of them. What’s the fuss? They’re not going to get here so quick, don’t worry! Take my word, that … that armada, like they call it, won’t come anywhere near us. And even if they do, if they’re such poor things, like everyone says, well …” And on, and on, and on. … Hook, line, and sinker….
—The Camp Of The Saints, Jean Raspail, Chapter Eighteen
