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oldenglish

KABARS THREAD.

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Bout time you had your own thread you old timer motherfuckin macgyver trainridin mother fucker.

 

(you could interpret that as the Kabar Appreciation Thread)

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Let's Drink To That

 

I got a gallon of Carlo Rossi paisano sittin' right here.

 

I'm embarrassed to admit how much I enjoy posting in 12 oz. It's becoming a bad habit, like smoking. But it's nice to know people enjoy my writing and rambling.

 

Do you know I was the only anarchist in my school in 1969? I had one friend who was a Libertarian, and we argued about something you guys never heard of, called "The Waterhole Theory."

 

It goes like this:

 

A guy is walking across the trackless desert and about to die of thirst, and he happens upon a waterhole. Overjoyed, he falls on his face, drinks his fill, and then, once saved from dehydration, he realizes he has a steady supply of food, because all the animals of the desert must come there to drink.

 

A few days later, another derelict staggers up.

 

If the first guy is an anarchist, he says "Welcome, brother! Drink all you want, and we can share this waterhole and live here together in communist harmony, share and share alike."

 

But if the first guy is a Libertarian, he says "Welcome, customer! What have you got to trade for a drink of my water? You can have all you can afford."

 

In both instances, the first guy is trying to control the outcome, but most people can't see that. In the first scenario, the true anarchist sees himself as the second guy. In the second scenario, the true Libertarian sees himself also as the second guy.

 

(sigh.) It was complicated. Have a drink.

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im drinkin you old mufugger (i mean that in a loving respectfull way)

i got a train coming for you to.

 

now to read what you wrote.

 

aint 12oz the best bad habit ever?

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so... both scenarios prominently feature the idea that the 1st guy to the wateringhole has any REAL claim to it, perhaps a sort of 'iminent domain' idea... which is basically an Imperialist viewpoint...

 

"You can't OWN property maaaan!"

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if i hadda strap i woulda popped the second mother fucker in the leg after he said that and say "how much you wanna charge me to help you live?"

 

im having a drink.

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Smart got it in one

 

We argued about it for hours. It provided endless entertainment at Anarchist/IWW/DSOC/Libertarian Party get-togethers.

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if i hadda strap i still would shot the mofo that asked to charge me.

 

share and share alike motherfuckers, if you aint trynna share neither am i. cept the death my strap provides.

 

needless to say, if the second guy woulda made an offer i woulda accepted and time come around offer him the chance to shoot me and honor his word to save me.

 

so that makes me christ right?

 

just kidding.

 

i think i repped christ a bit to hard. god showed up and blackened my eye and trieda say he coulda jacked me to begin with.

 

really the death threats at my front door was unneccessary.

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You crazy kids make me wish I knew more about the socio-political world.

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Guest Trousersnake

kabar do you know anything about flying?

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How I morphed from an Anarchist to a Marine.

 

Actually, it was a gradual intellectual/emotional experience, but it didn't appear that way to outside observers.

 

I was married to my trainhopping/hitch-hiking partner, Dee, whom I had met while living in a commune in Houston. (That's a pretty good story in itself, but not very germane to thie topic.)

 

Trouble in Paradise: she and I had engaged in a big ass argument about whether or not we should camouflage ourselves as trade union flacks, and join the AFL-CIO as organizers, or whether we should continue to hold our principles and be true to revolutionary anarcho-syndicalism and the "One Big Union" ideal put forth by the IWW. (I know this sounds unbelieveably naive and stupid---all I can say is it was the last gasp of the Sixties and we were die-hard anarchists.)

 

She thought we should come in out of the cold and make peace with the mainstream AFL-CIO guys (we knew some of them.) I was pissed. I thought that the only reason she wanted to compromise was the money. If we came in out of the cold, we could probably easily get jobs as union flunkeys, and it probably would pay a lot better than being a semi-employed unskilled anarchist organizer.

 

I was wrong. It wasn't the money. It was a guy. An organizer and employee of the Communications' Workers of America. My girl was an action junkie. She loved having two guys fighting over her. (I loved her, but the truth is the truth.) She loved it when she had me fighting with her ex-husband, the right-wing, racist KKK sympathizer. Once that conflict died down (and neither of us got killed) she fell for some asshole at the CWA.

The reason I argued so hard against "coming in out of the cold" is because I was fighting my own internal battle about what I believed. I was tired of anarchism. I was tired of being the only person, or maybe one of three or four guys who believed in anarcho-syndicalism and the IWW. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was all a big self-delusion. It certainly didn't pay much, and nobody seemed to respect my point of view. Everybody, including my high-school buddy, the Maoist (who later married my ex-wife) dissed anarchism as being hopelessly utopian and incapable of organizing the working class.

To tell you the truth, I was pissed-off and disillusioned with the working-class people I knew. They could not care less about class conciousness or battling racism/sexism/etc. They all wanted more money, bigger pick-up trucks, bigger houses, vacations in Hawaii, etc. Only the stupid-ass politicals like myself gave a fuck about trying to create a more egalitarian society. Except for the Black nationalists, the black people that I knew were completely mystified as to why I would fuck up my life by being a revolutionary, and they weren't about to risk a goddamned thing to support us in any way. And the whites were just as bad. It was like Animal Mother in "Full Metal Jacket." ("If I got to die for a word, my word is pooon-tang.")

And, I had a pretty awful secret, for an anarchist. I secrtetly still loved my country.

When I saw Old Glory whipping in the breeze, I couldn't help but feel a swelling of pride. I felt a lot of sadness, and a feeling of obligation, whenever I saw a National Cemetary. ("Those guys died for me. I should be living for them.")

I secretly visited Marine Corps recruiters, to talk about enlisting. Business was bad for them--they had lots of time on their hands. We talked and talked about the Corps. I had a brother-in-law, whom I greatly respected, who was a former Marine. He thought I was crazy for believing in anarchism. But he told me once "The Marine Corps was the most Communist thing I was ever a part of."

My wife and I had a frank discussion one day. I told her I thought the Marine Corps looked pretty good. She told me "Go ahead, if that's what you want to do." What I didn't know was that she had a boyfriend in the wings.

When I signed up, I called my brother-in-law up to tell him. I thought he'd be proud of me.

He said "You little shit!" and hung up on me.

 

My anarchist friends, who talked miles of bullshit about revolution, but didn't know the first fucking thing about combat, were appalled. One guy actually told me he would never speak to me again.

 

I was kind of apprehensive about it. But I was glad I'd done it, I wanted to make a change. Boy--did I ever make a change.

 

The Government started making plans to watch me like a hawk. They planted an NIS agent in my boot camp platoon, a guy I liked a whole lot, named Ainsworth. After two or three weeks he actually asked me about anarchism. That's when I knew---my friend was an agent. I had never mentioned politics or anarchism to anyone in the platoon, never.

But Ainsworth told me he knew all about anarchism. He told me he was an anarchist "too." So I said, "Really? What do you think of Peter Kropotkin? How about Errico Malatesta? Or Bakunin?" Blank look.

 

We were still buddies, but I knew I couldn't trust him any more. It felt really fucking lonely. I was the Platoon Guide. Ainsworth was my First Squad Leader.

As we went through Boot Camp, we got harder and harder. The first week when they put us in the Pit for twenty minutes, some of the younger recruits actually cried.

By Third Phase, we were "born again hard." They offered me the Enlisted-to-Officer Program. I wanted to accept in the worst way, but I knew that if I accepted, they'd find out about the anarchist shit for sure. And I'd probably get kicked out of the Marines.

 

I told the officer "no." I said "Sir, I just want to finish boot camp, and go be a rifleman." He nodded, like "That's what I thought, you little pussy." When I got home from Boot Camp, my bank account was empty, and my wife was fucking a liberal Democrat.

 

I went back in the Corps, fully intending to be a professional soldier. I intended to be a career Marine, a life taker and heart breaker.

Ooh-fuckin'-RAH. I divorced my wife, packed my shit, and shipped over to the First Marine Division, at Camp Pendleton, California. Welcome home, Marine.

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its weird kabar,

 

the other night, i swear i could put my carving knife through my friends neck and make sure the tip sticks the door frame. its just, i would have to be really angry to do that you know? more angry than the five hits for no reason i took to the face. man, shit......if i hadda strap homey, id be heartless killer style. kill familys with no second thoughts. but lets blame all this on the fact i have seen over a million murders on tv not to mention some real life experiences. you know? ima lover not a fighter. and i never want to be a killer, even when provoked.

 

guess thats why i rep Christ.

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ima capitalist man......

 

shit i do it just as easy as bush or rummy or powell or rice with the blood on my hands.

 

im sayin once i do it theres no stoppin. this is why i wont own a gun, why i wont harm people and why i advocate nonviolence. its my right as an american to know i can heartlessly kill another human and never feel bad about it. shit what you think all this rationalization about drugs crime and graffiti taught me.

 

mother fucker shows up at my door and threatens to kill me and my girls family and thinks i wont do the same without feeling bad about it?

 

mother fuckers needa stop tripping and start smoking.

 

i dont give a fuck.

 

kill me.. ill come back and kill three generations of your family the way i was taught.

 

so lets just chill and smoke.

 

you feel me?

 

 

my father was a paid goverment killer that killed his way out of poverty. actually on both sides.

 

dont think i didnt learn that lesson.

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also,

 

i have a lot of issues with violence.

 

you see Road to Perdition.

 

where at the end when tom hanks son is trying to shoot his fathers killer and his father shoots the killer in the back and his son is like "i couldnt" and his father says "i know" and smiles?

 

its like that except i know i could and i never want to.

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My 12th Grade Homeroom Teacher would be so surprised

 

The woman really despised me. She would be astounded to read these posts. Once she and I got into a argument in homeroom (there used to be a set-up where every student was a member of a "Homeroom Class" and that teacher was like the boss teacher over you and your class schedule.)

 

Anyway, Mrs. Hurst (that was her name) hated me with a passion because I was a smart-ass and a malcontent and an anarchist. And I helped publish the school's "underground" newspaper, Reality , to boot.

 

In the middle of us trading remarks, she screamed "Mr. KaBar! You are going to wind up DIGGING DITCHES, you mark my words!" I said something all smart ass and sat down.

 

LESS THAN A YEAR LATER, I was working for a plumber as an apprentice in the summer, doing guess what? Digging ditches for water lines.

She was a bitch, but the woman had my number, no doubt.

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as soon as i read the first few replies to this thread, i figured it was time to propose this...everyone on 12 oz. who actually writes should a: search for kabar on 12 oz. and actually read what the fuck is said, cuz serious knowledge is dropped in every post, and b: next time you're on mission (provided you actually write) throw-up a shout out to kabar. peace.

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Trousersnake

 

Actually, my father trained to fly B-17 bombers in WWII, and one of my uncles flew B-25's. My Dad has been fascinated with airplanes and flying his entire life. He is building a Experimental aircraft in the shop at his house, sort of like building a motorcycle or a hot rod, only with retractable landing gear. He gas-welded the entire frame, and has either manufactured or modified everything on it. I don't know if he'll ever get to fly it now---he's like 78. One of my sisters said she intends to get a pilot's license so she can fly it.

 

I had every chance in the world to be a teenaged pilot. My Dad owned several airplanes over the years, but I was pissed off at him a lot of my adolescence, and wouldn't do anything he wanted me to do. I was an idiot. But I could EASILY have become a licensed multi-engine pilot before age twenty. BUT I WAS STUPID AND I KNEW EVERYTHING. What can I say? I got to put my hands on the stick/wheel a few times when my Dad took me flying. It was kind of exhilarating and scarey at the same time. I don't know why I didn't take to flying. Just didn't. Wish I HAD.

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