The Voice of Reason: A V.I.P. Pass to Enlightenment (26 page)

No one has been a more vocal advocate of change than President Barack Obama. The man stole the hearts and minds of disenfranchised Americans with that single word. It was the greatest act of mass-hypnotism in the history of the world. With a snap of his fingers, a wave of his hand, and by uttering the word “change” seven hundred million times, the nation became transfixed, as if merely listening to the word would alter the world for the better.

Nothing really changed, but at least the promise of the rhetoric was fulfilled. Out with the old, in with the new: the progressive agenda is advanced, while the old conservative docket is put on the backburner. But how often does anyone stop to think, “Is the new thing really going to be better than the old one?” Traditional ideas, values, systems, principles, and even people get cast aside as the new wave of righteousness rolls ashore. The waves crest higher and higher with the shrieks and complaints of the American Left.

Among those complaining and shrieking loudest and most often is Bill Maher, a lefty political pundit masquerading as a comedian. On his show, Maher crowns himself dictator of America and then creates the “new rules” Americans must abide by, or else suffer the consequence of not getting to sit at the table with the cool kids. Every week Maher goes over his set of rules, cleverly disguised as punchlines at otherwise low points in the show, followed by a three-to-four-minute description of said rule in action, delivered in a manner that is half-comedy and half-seething vitriol.

But, again, are his new rules better than the ones laid down by our forefathers two hundred plus years ago as they framed our Constitution and the nation we have become? Does Bill Maher have some insight that eluded these great men, some of the greatest thinkers in modern history? Is it possible that the old rules were in fact superior to the new ones? Let’s take a look at the old and new rules of charity, and I’ll let you decide.

There was a time when charity meant that nice people put on their best smiles, came to you with hat in hand, and made their most passionate case for their cause. If you were kind enough, gentle enough, righteous enough, you may have offered up a few of your hard-earned dollars to help with their plight. Realizing the uncertainty of future funding, these people were exceedingly careful in how they spent every dollar you donated. Furthermore, society pitied these poor souls who required help. This made the recipients of charity hesitant about accepting the help and services of others, or at least cautious about abusing the goodwill of their neighbors.

Fast-forward a few decades. Now “charity” is liberal double-speak for “a group of people smarter than you are showing up at your house with guns, taking about half of what you earn, and giving it to their friends.” Sure, some of it will go to the truly needy, but the bulk will go to the well-connected. And the rest will be used to create a permanent class of people who feel righteously entitled, not just to take your money, but to live a good life off it and simultaneously condemn you for living an even better life than they do. When charity is a choice, people’s goodwill is divvied up equally among those they feel are the neediest. When charity is an obligation, the donors become jaded, the recipients become entitled, and the truly needy are often left out in the cold.

Don’t get me wrong: Not everything old is better. Google is a better search engine than AOL, Cael Sanderson is a better wrestler than Farmer Burns, and Chael P. Sonnen is better than all that came before him. But in the immortal words of Issac Newton, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” For new to truly be better, it must be based on using the wisdom of those before you, expanding upon it, and coming up with something a step beyond. This holds true for search-engine development, wrestling technique, or political dogma. Ideas that worked in the past can work in the future. It’s foolish to throw the baby out with the bathwater, when a simple tweak to a proven conservative formula could easily be the answer to the situation at hand. We just need to stand on the shoulders of giants, not the shoulders of self-righteous people like Bill Maher.

n my line of work I’ve heard it all, and frankly, I’m sick of hearing people say one thing but mean something entirely different. This is especially true in the world of mixed martial arts. To help you cut through all the mumbo jumbo, I will now offer my translations of the most typical lines you hear in the sport, and the true meanings behind them.

ack when I was a sociology major at the University of Oregon, I had two roommates, Kevin and Jessie. While I was busy studying and building my genius, they liked to play pranks on each other. Some were harmless, and others were rather vicious. One that fell somewhere in the middle took place on April 1 of my sophomore year. On this particular day, I walked into the kitchen to find Jessie brewing a disgusting concoction in a giant salad bowl. He started by pouring in a little milk, then he added some eggs. I didn’t think much of it until he pulled a container of lunch meat from the fridge and started shredding it into little bits and dropping it into the bowl.

“What the heck are you doing?” I asked.

He said nothing, just kept a sinister smile on his face as he put a lid on the salad bowl and then poked small holes into the top, as if there were something in the nasty sludge he needed to keep alive.

I knew something was up, so I followed him as he carried the sloshing bowl to Kevin’s room. I watched in amusement as he wedged the bowl into the narrow space under Kevin’s bed. It wasn’t until he removed Kevin’s mattress and poked holes in his box spring that I realized the extent of his commitment. He didn’t want Kevin to immediately notice the smell; he wanted the stench to slowly work its way up through his box spring, through his mattress, and then infiltrate Kevin’s dreams.

I knew the punch line was going to take a while, so I went back about my business. So did Jessie. Sometime around the middle of May—six weeks after April Foolss Day—Kevin came into the living room and proclaimed, “My room stinks.” I went in to investigate. His room didn’t just stink—it smelled worse than a toilet in the slums of Mumbai. I had completely forgotten about Jessie’s little prank. I was in the process of helping Kevin find the source of the stench when Jessie pulled me aside and reminded me about the little brew he had deposited under Kevin’s bed.