Where's My Free Phone?

There are two key words that we need to be discussing in America right now. They both start with "E," and they are crucial to the future of our country. The two words: Entrepreneurship and Entitlement. 

Fundamentally, the two can't coexist in the same environment. Quite simply put, they destroy each other.

 If I offer you the names of a few of America's great innovators, inventors, and creative leaders what comes to mind? Names like Edison, Ford, Franklin, Jobs, Walton, etc. Very successful men to say the least, but how much of their success was GIVEN to them? None. They saw a need and met it. They worked. They earned. They deserved their success (and yes, their riches too). Their names became synonymous with success and innovation. They weren't victims, and they weren't basing their success on a hand out or a hand up.

 On the other hand, give me one name of a person who has become great because of all of the entitlements he or she has been given in life. Show me the person who was handed everything they needed without working for it and became successful. It doesn't exist.

 Yesterday we voted for more entitlement. We voted to keep our welfare intact. We voted to stay lazy and complacent. We voted to become a nation of getters, and not givers. We voted to become a nation that attacks the successful.

 Entrepreneurs need desperation in order to succeed. Entitlements destroy the desperation. Entitlements say "life may not be perfect, but it's good enough." It eliminates the pressure to chase perfection and creative success.

 There's a choice to be made America. It transcends political parties. Will you embrace the entrepreneurial spirit that desperately pursues success? Or will you expect cradle to grave care from your government and thereby forfeit your name, your legacy, and your life?

One of My Favorites

The Sierry Petes (or, Tying Knots in the Devil's Tail)

Away up high in the Sierry Petes,
Where the yeller pines grows tall,
Ole Sandy Bob an' Buster Jig,
Had a rodeer camp last fall.

Oh, they taken their hosses and runnin' irons
And maybe a dog or two,
An' they 'lowed they'd brand all the long-yered calves,
That come within their view.

And any old dogie that flapped long yeres,
An' didn't bush up by day,
Got his long yeres whittled an' his old hide scorched,
In a most artistic way.

Now one fine day ole Sandy Bob,
He throwed his seago down,
"I'm sick of the smell of burnin’ hair,
And I 'lows I'm a-goin' to town."

So they saddles up an' hits 'em a lope,
Fer it warnt no sight of a ride,
And them was the days when a Buckeroo
Could ile up his inside.

Oh, they starts her in at the Kaintucky Bar,
At the head of Whiskey Row,
And they winds up down by the Depot House,
Some forty drinks below.

They then sets up and turns around,
And goes her the other way,
An' to tell you the Gawd-forsaken truth,
Them boys got stewed that day.

As they was a-ridin' back to camp,
A-packin' a pretty good load,
Who should they meet but the Devil himself,
A-prancin' down the road.

Sez he, "You ornery cowboy skunks,
You'd better hunt yer holes,
Fer I've come up from Hell's Rim Rock,
To gather in yer souls."

Sez Sandy Bob, "Old Devil be damned,
We boys is kinda tight,
But you ain't a-goin' to gather no cowboy souls,
'Thout you has some kind of a fight."

So Sandy Bob punched a hole in his rope,
And he swang her straight and true,
He lapped it on to the Devil's horns,
An' he taken his dallies too.

Now Buster jig was a riata man,
With his gut-line coiled up neat,
So he shaken her out an' he built him a loop,
An' he lassed the Devil's hind feet.

Oh, they stretched him out an' they tailed him down,
While the irons was a-gettin hot,
They cropped and swaller-forked his yeres,
Then they branded him up a lot.

They pruned him up with a de-hornin' saw,
An' they knotted his tail fer a joke,
They then rid off and left him there,
Necked to a Black-Jack oak.

If you're ever up high in the Sierry Petes,
An' you hear one Hell of a wail,
You'll know it's that Devil a-bellerin' around,
About them knots in his tail.

Gail I. Gardner, 1917, from Orejana Bull