Escape from a clay-footed king

By Glenn Fairman

When you finally gin up the courage to extricate the fangs of the parasite from your throat, there is bound to be some blood spilled, and the European Union has been that monster. It is a utopian construct impressed down upon the diversity of thought and action of autonomous peoples, an unblinking Master with an end toward pale homogenization – a materialist mockery profaning one's ancient freedoms.

In an era of quaking hearts, the lost political virtue of sovereignty is traded on an economic calculus like so much bread on a weighman's scale. Such timidity is inconsistent with the frigid air of hyperborean freedom. For true men, men not yet debased by the accumulation of goods and the promise of ease, the goads of pain, risk, and manly liberty will ever trump the sheepish triad of complacency, acquiescence, and subordination. In the final accounting, men who choose to live as cattle should not complain when they are called upon to die like them.

If the heft of your pocketbook holds precedence over your will towards free self-determination – rendering you a subject of an abstraction rather than a citizen in your own land – then you deserve the derision of your chains, and much more.   If this artificial European House of Cards cannot bear that one serf should escape the velveteen bonds of a Clay-Footed King, then to quote Nietzsche: "That which is falling should be pushed."

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