America’s going to Hell in a bucket. There’s a killer on the road. It’s time to buy ammunition. Lots of it.
When Jim Morrison died in Paris on July 3, 1971 an autopsy was not performed because French law didn’t require it. He was 27 years old. The official cause of death was congestive heart failure brought about by alcohol and heroin abuse. He was buried at the Cimetiere du Pere-Lachaise, Paris, France. To this day, young couples engage in sexual intercourse at night on his grave – an act said to bestow good fortune on the revellers. He is apparently interred a few plots downwind from Honore de Balzac. The year before he died he wrote “Riders on the Storm”. He hated that people only thought Riders was about a killer hitchhiker. For James Douglas Morrision, this song had a deeper, spiritual meaning – and he meant it as a warning.
The rock star’s father, George Stephen Morrison, commanded US Naval forces during the Tonkin Gulf incident in Viet Nam in 1964. For his service, Captain Morrison would later be elevated to Rear Admiral status by the US Navy. For all his wild, drug fueled and rebellious life, Jim Morrison wrestled with demons and a schizophrenic personality disorder. He was taught rock-solid morals and values by a conventional family – but he never could tempermentally confine his lifestyle within their ethical parameters or otherwise conform to their expectations. He certainly wasn’t US Navy material.
Jim Morrison was a conflicted, boiling cauldron of mental disquietude. He was an iconoclast, a bipolar soul who oftimes brandished a vagabonds’ contempt for all things orthodox. Jim Morrison wrote “Light my Fire” while living on a rooftop in Los Angeles – attending UCLA – and eating only canned beans (and LSD) for six weeks. His Doors band-mate, Ray Manzarek, always treated him as if he were bundled sticks of dynamite with a lit fuse. Oddly enough, Jim Morrison loved his father and listened intently whenever his Dad regaled him with tales of Naval warfare and the devastation of conflict. It’s rumored that Jim Morrison wrote his hauntingly enigmatic song “This is the End” in 1967 after a graphic conversation he’d had with his father about the Viet Nam debacle. 1967 was a particularly bad year in ‘Nam. Draft riots erupted throughout the USA. Chaos was everywhere.
Was Jim Morrison some kind of drug-addled prophet? Was he warning us all of the perilous decline America was facing in its near-term future?
“Riders on the Storm” offers some tantalizing clues:
Riders on the Storm
Riders on the Storm
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out on loan
Riders on the Storm
There’s a killer on the road
His brain is squirmin’ like a toad
Take a long holiday
Let your children play
If you give this man a ride
Sweet family will die
Killer on the road…….yeah
Girl, you gotta’ love your man
Girl, you gotta’ love your man
Take him by the hand
Make him understand
The world on you depends
Our life will never end
Gotta’ love your man….yeah
The context of present days lends new meaning to this song. Into this society we’re born, into this world we’re thrown……unteathered, uncommitted to anything, wandering with little purpose.
In the meantime, there’s a killer on the road……stealthily working his malevolent wiles to gain our confidence…..worming his way into our comfort zone. His brain is squirming with malign intent, plotting acts of desperation and homicidal rage. All this happens while we enjoy our holiday…..while our children play……everyone is in blissful denial of the killer’s cursed objective. All clues are overlooked…..all hints of danger are unheeded.
Love. The traditional family…..the Biblical relationship: man and woman. Morrison warns her to cherish her mate, take him by the hand and make him understand. The very world depends on their love. On their offspring. Continuation of life hangs in the balance. Our civilization, our future depends on her loving her man. On marriages staying together. On families enduring.
America today is at a crossroads. There’s a killer on the road. Our society, our culture, our way of life, our Constitution, our legal system………..it’s all going to Hell. Did Jim Morrison see this coming? Was he some LSD-laced Edgar Cayce or Nostradamus?
What can we do? We can send a message. How?
Purchase all the ammunition you can get your hands on. Whatever your particular weapon is – get ammo for it by the wagonload. Buy it in bulk.
Once the powers that be see these numbers spike and stay spiked, they’ll know we’re serious.
Time to pick a side. Time to send a message.
I’m not advocating that you shoot anybody. I’m just saying: stack those boxes of goodies sky-high.
It’s an investment…….money in the bank.
Some people invest in Bitcoin. Some invest in gold or silver. Some people prefer lead. Ammo prices never drop. Just remember – in the infamous Dakota Territory wild West town of Deadwood, the price of one drink of whiskey was one bullet. That’s why today we call it a “shot”. Ponder that while listening to some Doors tonight.
