Every material gain has a cost, either a material or moral wage imposed, from energy expenditure to consequences. The consequences discussed below are among the most predictable. While guileless libertarians babble about the supposed Law of Unintended Consequences supposedly bumbled into by our executive and legislative rulers, the primal man knows otherwise.

By primal man I mean a man who has not let go of his instincts, of his native suspicions, who understands the seething quest for power that fills the souls of men who aspire to high positions. Men who work with their hands, who fight, remain in touch with their primal self more often than those who have acquiesced to the simpering guilt matrix of sissy society.

So, when the most powerful men in a society get together, we know that they are among the most intelligent, not among the most stupid as modern myth would have it. Furthermore, these men understand the complex levers of power in a society that feigns democracy—which is complex indeed, as the idiot masses are lead up the meat chute of souls in the false belief that they are deciding the course of their nation, when in fact they are nothing but cattle thirsting for the trough and averse to the shocking prod.

To speak the whimpering tongue of mewing cattle, to appeal to cow and steer and align one’s self with the rare bull, the masters of the meat chute of souls must not be idiots but men of genius, the dark counterpart of the good shepherd of Judeo-Christian belief. And let us keep in mind that even a good shepherd does much that is evil to his sheep.

When the most powerful men in the world—many with spoiled sons and grandsons among their wealthy friends and cohorts—they well knew the debilitating effects that rots the souls of most boys and men when they are not required to sustain themselves and provide for their children. So, when the most evil men of my grandfather’s generation joined in conclave to re-enslave a nation whose people had dangerously begun to think of themselves as free, they well knew the consequences to come.

On my last shift at work in a suburban supermarket, in a middle class neighborhood, I experienced three child sightings between the hours of midnight and 3:30 a.m. One thing that you discover about customer shopping patterns when you work in a 24-hour supermarket is that families on welfare have no circadian structure to their day. Families that do not work, that only consume, live in a cyclic limbo, like zombies always wandering and seeking to feed. Latino, Caucasian and Black, all behave as if there is no beginning or end to the day once they get their snouts into the government feedbag.

A tall, muscular man, of about 22, walks in to buy a meal. He works in some kind of security job in the hip hop lifestyle. His sister has four children by four men, who are well-dressed but starved for food and attention. He has promised them doughnuts if they will, “Shut the hell up.”

These children, ranging from three to ten years are in their glory, like healthy minds released on a spring day from the confines of a stifling classroom to play among the daisies and buttercups of an idyllic parkland. Chirping with wide grins, squealing in glee, raising little voices in glorified excitement at the sight of the freshly baked doughnuts emerging from the bakery, they test the patience of their uncle, but he indulges them with stern words as he herds them along, all dressed up in their Sunday best for this wonderful excursion to the grocery store at 3:10 a.m. He seems a good, hard man. But how will he, as he makes his way in the world, working the doors of nightclubs and making sure important thugs don’t get shot, how will he raise the children cast into the arms of the feedbag state by four drones and one whore?

The system designed by a cabal of the types of men he would serve as a chafferer to, have already engineered their dysfunction.

A former coworker, a woman my age, comes into the store with her manless extended family. Her once blonde but now dirty gray-tinged hair and her pointy chin, give her more the look of the English poor than of the destitute Irish, though both strains are apparent in her haggard form. She is not yet hideous, not even ugly but hard and well on her way to hagdom in her T-shirt and jeans.

Her daughter is a dissipated blonde mess who might have been pretty if not for a studied neglect, slouching along in flannel pajamas and flip-flops. The daughter holds the sacred plastic card called Independence as she walks stupidly around, either sick, tired or stoned.

Next to her walks a five-year-old boy, barefoot and in swimming trunks, having walked in from a lot where I have found syringes discarded by local junkies. His T-shirt proclaims a tour of some rock band and seems old. He asks his mother for many things with a tentative voice and an uneager face, half turned away. She nods “no” in drooling sloth and he remains vigilant, on the lookout for something he might get that mother would approve of.

Stone-faced and fit, my former coworker holds on her hip a two-year-old boy, naked but for a diaper, wearing a close crew-cut like his older brother—both apparently of the same paleface father. As he reaches tentatively for something on the snack rack, he slides down her narrow hip and she catches him with that leathery arm and says in her gravelly tone of voice, “Don’t worry, baby, Granny gotchya.”

A snack is purchased for each boy from the “food side” of the card.

Two packs of cigarettes, one for whore and one for hag, are the main purchase, from the “cash side” of the card.

Not a father in sight, as decreed by the system that bribes women to remain single with children.

The Great Society, welfare system with which the rulers of a democracy a generation ago bought themselves a Roman style mob is not the only ingredient in postmodern, cradle-to-grave emasculation. But this system of human degradation, in which the least able are bountifully encouraged to seek the worst in themselves, has provided the upward rot which has poisoned our society from root to stem, keeping well in mind that “society” is a purely masculine—usually martial—concept which is now utterly festooned with feminine cultic values. The spread from the underclass root of this toxic rot may be traced in the very sentiment of the beleaguered middle class, who more often than not, are jealous, angry and envious of these welfare slaves, rather than pitying them for the doomed souls that they are.

Indeed, in the supermarket business, it is very common for most “food side” independence card purchases to be made by a well-to-do middle class man or woman, who has bought a white junkie’s card at 50-cents on the dollar in order to fund a fantasy football or office party.

This Civilization rotates on a broken axis—and the maw of Fate gapes wide.