You Are Your Own Problem

Posted on | March 18, 2016 | 28 Comments

To follow up on the Tumblr feminist whose examination of OKCupid caused her to “reach the unfortunate conclusion that almost every man in this world is completely intellectually and spiritually void,” let me reiterate this: People are responsible for their relationships.

We do not live in a medieval society where the scions of dynasties are forced to marry the heiresses of other dynasties in order to advance their families’ political and economic interests. Given the wreck and ruin so many young people make of their romantic lives, perhaps a return to arranged marriages wouldn’t be such a bad idea, but as it is, everyone in America 18 or older is entirely free to choose their own partners — or get on feminist Tumblr and become a crazy cat lady.

Feminist Tumblr? https://t.co/lCayAu5w6A

You're gonna need one of these. #FeminismIsCancer pic.twitter.com/lVLlTNcZ6K

— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) March 18, 2016

Freedom and responsibility are inseparable, but our culture today does not teach young people what responsibility means. Between the influence of media, careless parenting, and the government-run education system, America is producing a generation of irresponsible narcissists who think they are being oppressed if anyone criticizes their selfish hedonism. Therefore, permit me to quote a great poet:

Try to get yourself a bargain son.
Don’t be sold on the very first one.
Pretty girls come a dime a dozen,
Try to find one who’s gonna give you true lovin’.
Before you take a girl and say I do, now,
Make sure she’s in love with you now.
My mama told me, “You better shop around.”

Thus spake Smokey Robinson, the poet laureate of soul, and this timeless wisdom must be passed along to future generations. Last year, the leading Men’s Rights Activist (MRA) Paul Elam acknowledged the fact that “many personality disordered women have especially honed skills at ‘fooling’ their target into thinking they are something they are not”:

They have refined expertise in figuring out what makes you tick and indeed an uncanny ability to project precisely what they know you want to see and hear.
They are the master of the Love Bomb and will pile on adulation and admiration from the earliest moments in the relationship, almost smothering you in unconditional approval. . . .
With some rare exceptions, men can screen out high-conflict, high-maintenance, high-frustration and high-danger women with a relatively small amount of consciousness and the willingness to accept responsibility for their own choices.
For some men that means taking a rather bitter dose of medicine in the form of the truth.

You can read the whole thing. What is important — whether you are male or female — is that young people learn to accept their own shortcomings and failures, and thus avoid the psychological trap of rationalization and scapegoating. A genuinely wise young person, I would argue, should recognize not only the timeless truths of Motown, but also of Christianity. The Golden Rule is a sound moral precept, and one of the greatest truths you can ever learn is this: “There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” (Hint: Charlie Sheen.)

A young man who imagines he can go out “playing the field” and leave a string of broken hearts behind him without consequence is a fool. Sooner or later, his luck will run out, and when the Million-Pound Sh*thammer comes smashing down on him, the fool thinks he is an innocent victim.

Justice delayed is not always justice denied. When the evil you do comes boomeranging back to whack you upside your foolish head, you may not recognize this as repayment for the wrong you did others long ago. Therefore, pray that God will protect and guide you: “Get wisdom, get understanding . . . Forsake her not, and she shall preserve thee.” And learn to be grateful to God for every lesson you learn the hard way. “Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.”

When I was 18, I fell hopelessly in love with a girl and was this close to an irrevocable commitment. Alas, like Othello, I loved not wisely, but too well, and was ruined by my own impatience. One night I had returned home from college expecting a date with my beloved, who inexplicably was kept home by her mother. My pride injured — although she assured me no such injury was intended, and that it was only at her mother’s behest that she could not go to the dance — I determined to find companionship elsewhere. Well, if any young fools haven’t figured this out yet, let me set you wise: Girls talk.

That was how I got my heart broken — for my beloved would not forgive me kissing that talkative girl — and I had no one to blame but myself. “Nobody’s fault but mine,” to quote another great poet of that era.

In hindsight, I should thank God, for I dodged a bullet, escaping a tragic outcome, had that teenage romance proceeded to consummation. Oh, friends, I had been this close and in those days I was to seduction what Gretzky was to hockey: “He shoots! He scores!” But this was not to be, and you may not believe in God, but whatever you call it — fate, destiny, karma — the transcendent and cosmic purpose of life was at work.

No broken-hearted 18-year-old wants to hear that, of course. Deeply hurt, I became embittered and my pain made me quite cynical.

Oh, romantic embers still glowed somewhere in my heart, but my mind became ice-cold. Looking back at the ensuing decade and the emotional debris left scattered in my wake, I can count two or three girlfriends who actually hurt me, but the much higher tally on the other side of the board haunts my conscience. Better to suffer an emotional injury than to inflict it, however accidental the harm may be. Emotional bonds develop no matter how we may seek to evade them, and what were we doing back then? A legendary poet perhaps said it best:

We weren’t in love.
Oh, no, far from it.
We weren’t searching for some
Pie-in-the-sky summit.
We were just young and restless and bored,
Living by the sword. . . .
I used her, she used me,
But neither one cared.
We were getting our share.
Working on our night moves.

Yeah, “getting our share” — selfish hedonism — may seem harmless, and if everybody’s doing it . . . Well, it was the ’70s and I was a Democrat then.

There was, however, a nice Republican girl whose existence I never even imagined back in those days. She was not only a Republican, but a Christian from a pietistic sect that frowned on the sins of dancing, alcohol and tobacco, to say nothing of my other favorite amusements. And by the time fate or destiny or whatever resulted in our meeting one autumn evening in 1987, I had “looked around enough to know,” to quote another poet, and pretty soon I found that I had “fooled around and fell in love.”

“Just win, baby” — that’s what Al Davis told his famous Oakland Raiders, and when the coach sends you into the championship game, you’d better be ready to play for keeps. A good Christian wife? Boy, when God answers your prayers, despite every reason He might have to ignore your prayers, it’s time to buckle up your chinstrap and win.

By May 1989, I was a married man and the father of a baby daughter, and here I am nearly 27 years later, a father of six and grandfather of two.

 

No one who knew me when I was in college and living The Democrat Lifestyle™ ever would have predicted this. Our firstborn girl we named Kennedy — my idea — but I promised my Republican wife that our next daughter would be named Reagan. Four sons later, she arrived.

Thursday our miraculous daughter Reagan, now a seventh-grader, gave a presentation at school about Ronald Reagan. The students were required to dress up as the historic person they were presenting.

My daughter Reagan, 13, dressed up
for her 7th-grade history presentation
as Ronald Reagan (wearing a @YAF pin). pic.twitter.com/9et8noPnhd

— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) March 18, 2016

So there she is, Reagan McCain, who knows about “A Time For Choosing” and “Mister Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” and can even tell you a thing or two about President Reagan’s economic policies. She is keenly intelligent, scoring 99th percentile on the ITBS. Her brains and her beauty are likewise hereditary — some would say the latter trait is owed entirely to her mother’s side of the family — and Reagan has been quite thoroughly schooled in the deadly menace of Communism and its 21st-century manifestation, Crazy Cat Lady-ism. Her extraordinary intelligence notwithstanding, Reagan will not go to Harvard — dear God, not Harvard — nor shall she fall prey to The Godless Men at Yale. Were it up to me, she would attend the University of Alabama (Roll Tide!), but if I should die tomorrow, let my final wish be recorded that Reagan (and all my other descendants, forever) shall stay far away from the Ivy League, which is Decadent and Depraved. Amen and selah.

"The more the plans failed, the more the planners planned."
— Ronald Reagan, 1964https://t.co/DjFvI0NMzT

— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) March 17, 2016

Freedom and responsibility are inseparable. My responsibility as a parent requires me not only to warn my sons against those “high-conflict, high-maintenance, high-frustration and high-danger women” described by Paul Elam, but also to raise daughters as good as their mother. (Perhaps no one could ever be that good, but this is the goal we aim toward.) My old friend, the novelist Tito Perdue, an erudite man steeped in classical learning, once mentioned to me the legendary valor of the ancient warriors of Sparta, who died to the last man at Thermopylae. “How many Spartans would it take,” Tito asked, “to overthrow this whole rotten modern culture? Ten thousand? Five hundred? One?”

And where is that mighty hero of antique courage? He is not whimpering and whining because he can’t find a girlfriend, I’ll tell you that much.

Winners win and losers lose. Freedom requires responsibility, and fellows must cease this pathetic nonsense of complaining about the results of their own folly. If a fool gets himself mixed up with a Pretty Little Liar, whose fault is that? Do not blame her. You are your own problem.

You will find no heroes on OKCupid or Tinder. Nor does the young hero squander his time playing videogames or watching TV when he should be hitting the gym, studying history, or reading his Bible.

Stand up! Stand up for Jesus,
Ye soldiers of the Cross!
Lift high His royal banner,
It must not suffer loss.

Yes, I am too well aware that many readers who have supported my research into radical feminism are not Christians. Many critics of feminism are secular humanists or even avowed pagans, and I will not offend you by preaching any sermons today. The Camp of the Saints is encompassed about with enemies, so that God calls everyone who can fight to join this battle, and let every man hear Christ the eternal King speak now as did Henry at Agincourt on St. Cripin’s Day:

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

There will be time enough to discuss theology after the battle is won, when the heroic victors in this War of Ideas — lest anyone misunderstand my martial rhetoric — shall wear upon their brows the laurel crown.

Is every man in this world completely intellectually and spiritually void? No, ma’am, we are not. Some of us yet have poetry in our souls.

We are quite old-fashioned, almost medieval you might say, in our devotion to ancient customs and creeds, to ideas of duty and honor that the modern world does not know. Some young men are still romantic, although respectful and wise, for the hero must eschew The Democrat Lifestyle™ if he would serve in this army. Love conquers all, and fate can sometimes arrange things in ways that seem quite miraculous. Let us close today’s service, therefore, with inspirational music.

Everything young people ever need to know about love can be found in old Motown songs. #Truth https://t.co/xbNVckPvUH

— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) March 18, 2016

Perhaps you don’t believe in miracles, but as for me, I have seen Smokey Robinson and the Miracles with my own eyes. Selah.

 

"I hate feminism. It is poison." — Margaret Thatcher pic.twitter.com/nhx2wUxZkz

— FreeStacy (@Not_RSMcCain) March 14, 2016

 

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