How to Corrupt a Country Without a Shot Fired

Yuri Bezmenov didn’t come stomping in like some villain in a spy novel. No, sir. He drifted in quiet as a hush puppy frying in a cast iron skillet, carrying a warning wrapped in manners and memory. He was a man who’d seen behind the curtain, a former Soviet propagandist who ran from the cold and found himself telling the American people how their whole beautiful country could fall apart—not with bullets, but with ideas.

His warning wasn’t about tanks and bombs. It was about slow rot—like a peach gone soft on the windowsill. He called it ideological subversion, a way to unravel a country from the inside out, like pulling a thread on a Sunday dress until the whole thing comes undone.

There were four steps to this quiet sabotage, and honey, if they don’t sound familiar, you haven’t been paying attention.

Stage 1: Demoralization (15–20 years)
This first step is the slowest. You don’t shout people into hopelessness. You whisper them there.
Start in the schools, swap wisdom for ideology. Turn history into a shame spiral. Make goodness seem naive and tradition feel like a punchline. It doesn’t take long before folks can’t tell what’s real anymore.
We see it now:

Students who believe free speech is dangerous but TikTok is gospel.
Folks so cynical they’d rather mock than mend.
Teachers walking on eggshells, scared to speak up against keeping the biologically stronger out of the biologically weaker dressing rooms and sports areans. .
Once people are demoralized, you could wave truth in front of their faces and they’d still blink past it like it’s a smudge on their glasses. It ain’t ignorance—it’s conditioning.

Stage 2: Destabilization (2–5 years)
Now that folks are unmoored, you start rattling the rafters. Undermine trust in every institution that used to steady a person: justice, economy, even neighborliness.
You don’t need to break the system. Just bruise it bad enough that people start thinking it’s not worth saving.
You’ve seen it:
Police defunded in towns where folks sleep with one eye open.
Every news station telling a different version of the same story.
Grocery store prices climbing like summer kudzu.
It’s like living in a house where the lights flicker and the floorboards creak—but no one’s calling the electrician. They’re too busy arguing about whose fault it is.

Stage 3: Crisis (2–6 months)
This is the part where it all goes sideways. A spark hits the gasoline and the chaos goes national. Could be a virus, a riot, a recession. Doesn’t matter. The goal’s the same: panic.
And when folks are panicked, they’ll trade almost anything for the promise of calm—even if it means handing over the keys to their own freedom.
Remember?
COVID lockdowns that felt more like house arrest.
Cities on fire in the name of justice.
Toilet paper wars in the supermarket aisle.
A crisis doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to make people afraid.

Stage 4: Normalization
And then, when the dust settles and folks are too worn out to argue, you call it normal. You wrap control in pretty paper and say, “This is just how things are now.”
Surveillance sold as convenience.
Censorship spun as protection.
Silence praised as civility.

The truth is, we’ve been frog-boiled. We’re standing in water that started out cool and easy, and now it’s bubbling, but we’re still trying to convince ourselves it’s a hot spring.

So What Now?

Bezmenov didn’t spill these secrets to scare us. He did it because he’d seen what happens when folks don’t fight for their own minds. He wasn’t waving the American flag—he was holding up a mirror.
The way back is quieter than the way down. It starts with teaching truth like it’s a birthright, not a relic. It’s turning off the noise and listening to that still, small voice that says, “This isn’t right.”
Read banned books. Ask questions no one wants to answer. Raise kids who have backbones and manners. Don’t trade your conscience for comfort.

You want to fight propaganda? Start by telling the truth—even when it’s out of season.
This isn’t just a battle for policy or politics. It’s a battle for the soul of a country. And we don’t need an army—we need people who remember who they are.
Let them come for the hearts and minds. We’ll be sittin’ here with truth in one hand and grit in the other.

Ancient Truths, Southern Roots, and the Art of Being Excellent Without Bragging About It

 On Excellence, Soul, and Why Rhetoric Matters: A Southern Reverie with Ancient Roots

Let me tell you something the Greeks knew and most folks forgot: arete ain't just a pretty word—it’s the whole point of being alive. It means excellence, sugar. Not just win-the-trophy excellence, but deep, holy, purpose-filled living. The kind where your soul hums like a well-tuned fiddle because you're doing exactly what you were made to do.

Socrates, bless his philosophical heart, said if you want to be happy, you gotta be good. Not Instagram-good. Not charity-auction good. But honest-to-God virtuous. Justice, wisdom, courage, self-control—that’s the real gold. And he didn’t say you might be happy with those things. He said you will be. Guaranteed. Like biscuits rise when the oven’s hot.

Now Aristotle came along with a bit more science to his soul. He said we humans are creatures of reason, and we’re at our best when we live like it. Eudaimonia—that’s their fancy word for deep well-being—isn’t just a feeling. It’s a way of being, a life soaked in purpose and lit by virtue. He believed that to flourish, you can’t just sit around with good intentions. You’ve got to act right. Be useful. Sharpen your gifts. Live with aim.

Epicurus? He thought pleasure was the goal, but not the kind you find at the bottom of a margarita. He meant the kind of peace that comes from knowing you’re living clean, living true. He saw virtue as the road that leads to joy, even if it isn’t always paved.

Now the Stoics—they were tough as a two-dollar steak. They said virtue is the only thing that matters. Storms may come, fortunes may fall, but if your soul’s steady, you’re rich in all the ways that count. They didn’t care much for gold or beauty or power. They believed your worth was in your choices, your grit, your grace under pressure. And honey, that’s something the modern world needs a heap more of.

As for Viktor Frankl—he came much later, but he spoke like a man who’d walked through fire - because he did. He said life’s meaning isn’t handed to you—it’s carved out in how you suffer, how you love, and how you create. Even when all else is stripped away, you still get to choose your attitude. That, my dear, is soul-deep freedom.

And then there’s rhetoric. Lord, don’t get me started. It used to be the art of persuasion, of moving folks with your words, not manipulating them. Aristotle called it “the ability to see what will persuade in any given situation,” and Cicero—now he believed a real orator needed a good heart, not just a silver tongue.

But rhetoric’s a double-edged pie cutter. It can serve the truth or dress up a lie in pearls and perfume. The Greeks feared that slick talkers could lead the crowd straight off a cliff—and history’s shown they weren’t wrong.

Still, in the right hands, words can build a republic, mend a marriage, or light a fire in a lonely heart.

So what’s the takeaway?

Live with purpose. Speak with care. Know your worth ain't in your wallet or your waistline, but in your will. Be excellent—not for applause, but because that’s how your soul sings. And when the world tries to sell you shortcuts or sweet-sounding lies, remember this: truth has roots, and virtue never goes out of style.

The Science Delusion

When Facts Wear Lipstick and Sell You a Dream

Once upon a time, science was slow, careful, and humble. It sat quietly with its spectacles on, testing, tinkering, and waiting patiently for the truth to show itself. These days, science’s cousin—let’s call her Opinion Science—has gotten herself all gussied up and gone to work in marketing.

If you say, “A study shows…” or “Scientists say…” people stop thinking and start nodding. We’ve been trained to worship lab coats like vestments, and academic acronyms like scripture. But much of what parades as “science” today is storytelling in a white coat—designed to sell you a product, a vote, or a worldview.

Real science asks questions. Spin science already knows the answer—and it always sounds suspiciously like what someone’s selling.
Behavioral science, social science, climate science, food science—these often rely on feelings, guesses, and interviews with people who are scared to tell the truth. And yet, we treat these “studies” like commandments etched in stone.

The result? We’ve traded our instincts for experts. Traded discernment for credentials. And we’ve confused “being informed” with simply being manipulated in fancier fonts.

Science is a tool—not a savior. It can build bridges and mend bones, but it cannot tell you why you cry in the shower or how to forgive your father.

And when we let science pretend to be philosophy, morality, or meaning—we don’t just lose our wonder. We lose our will.

So ask questions. Trust your gut. And remember: the truth doesn’t always come in a lab report. Sometimes it comes from your grandmother, your conscience, or a good hard look at the sky.

Retail Asset Protection - Bless This Crazy Mess

 Once upon a time—many jeans ago—I was a Loss Prevention Detective at Bloomingdale’s. Yep, me. Tucked upstairs behind a wall of monitors, sipping lukewarm coffee and eyeing folks like I was born with X-ray vision. And while most jobs blur together over the years, that one still shines like a rhinestone in a box of bolts.

Now, I worked with a whole team, but Dave? Dave was my people. The kind of guy who didn’t just show up—he showed up. Took me seriously, too, right from the start. Probably because on day one, while he was easing into his shift with a newspaper and a donut, I pointed at a screen and said, “Uh, Dave? I think that guy just stole some jeans.”

Dave looked up slow, the way men do when they’re hoping you’re just being dramatic. But then he saw it. “Holy sh*t,” he muttered, tossing the paper and calling in backup. Next thing I knew, he was sprinting through the parking lot like it was the Boston Marathon—rules be damned. (We weren’t supposed to step off the curb, but rules used to be more... suggestions.) One police car clipped a median and popped a tire. But hey—we got the guy.

That moment sealed our partnership. We worked like a charm after that. Trusted each other. Laughed a lot. Not bad for retail surveillance.

But like all good things in retail, the job dissolved—people left for the police academy, the military, or in my case, a sales job that paid double and didn’t require chasing denim thieves through snowbanks.

Years passed. Titles changed. But that job? That was fun. Right up there with being a paramedic, only with fewer bodily fluids.

Flash forward to 2018. I went back into LP, this time at Target. Thought I’d be slipping back into the rhythm like a favorite pair of jeans. Turns out, the jeans had holes. Big ones.

Target had gone corporate. Real corporate. My store was in "makeover mode," but the real horror show wasn’t the new fixtures—it was the creepy men creeping on customers (sorry, guests), and the leadership that wanted it all kept hush-hush. Nothing to see here, folks! Just a woman being followed in aisle 3.

Then came Tom, my new Asset Protection Manager. He had the warmth of a dead fish and the enthusiasm of a soggy cardboard box. Told me I cared too much and maybe I should be more like Craig and Sam. (Both men. Both mediocre. But apparently “diverse” was code for “not you.”)

I asked to transfer. He said no. I said bye.

Macy’s was next. Plain clothes this time—finally, back to the glory of blending in. The tech was fancy (TrueVue towers that scanned your purchases like something out of Minority Report), but the department was a mess. Manager wore five hats, had time for none, and training was thinner than gas station grits.

Still, there were moments. The team would come alive during a case and, for a hot second, it felt like old times. But when we weren’t chasing bad guys, we were mostly chasing our tails—unclear policies, no leadership, and the kind of drama that makes reality TV look tame.

I used to say that if I won the lottery, I’d do this job for free. But now, I’d rather take my winnings and run. Not because of the thieves—but because corporate stopped caring. The criminals have more rights than the folks trying to stop them.

Still, if you’ve got a sixth sense for shifty eyes and you like solving puzzles that involve purses with false bottoms, give it a shot. You might find your niche. Investigations. Internals. Audits. Or like me—just watching and noticing what no one else does.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not grateful. But if you land on a solid team and keep your sense of humor close, you’ll find a kind of weird joy in catching the bad guy and drinking bad coffee under bad lighting. And honey, that’s not nothing.

Sorry Bob !

 

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My dad, Bob, died way too young—just 50 years old—after being diagnosed with ALS at 48. That kind of grief hits you like a freight train you didn’t see coming. But what hit me harder, years later, was realizing just how much sense he actually made.

He tried his best to pass on values and a backbone. But bless his heart, he didn’t realize the sheer force of culture that would come for me. See, he was a product of the 1940s and ‘50s—where folks said “yes ma’am,” and looked their neighbors in the eye. I came of age in the whiplash world of the ‘70s and ‘80s, where Madonna was preaching “Express Yourself,” and Cosmopolitan was basically a handbook on how to ignore your instincts in favor of being “liberated.”

Truth be told, I wish I’d listened more to Dad more and less to pop culture’s parade of bad advice dressed in sequins and lip gloss. Virtue got marketed as old-fashioned. And having no morals? That got sold as freedom. Y’all—that was a lie. A polished, pretty, wildly profitable lie.

If I had a time machine and a second chance at those formative years, I’d turn down the volume on the world and lean in to Dad's voice. He was trying to teach me something sacred. And Lord knows, I finally get it.

As for my website name? I picked SorryBob.com in honor of my dad. The name Bob is plain, simple, and as old as white on rice.  And sorry, Bob—but this girl had to fall on her face a few times before she stood up with a clear head and a clear heart. I think Dad would be relieved to see that I finally see what he meant.

Because here’s the thing:
We are all worthy of happiness.
But real happiness isn’t handed to us.
It’s earned through freedom.
And freedom? That starts with courage.
And courage? It shows up when you finally start believing in yourself.
That’s the real circle of life, y’all.

These days, we’ve got wolves in self-help clothing. Exploiters selling “empowerment” while robbing us blind of our dignity. They don’t want us free—they want us frazzled, dependent, divided, and distracted.

My daddy believed in community—not disunity. He didn’t live long enough to see the internet, but I believe—if we use it right—it can be the most powerful tool for good since the printing press. It can unite people who care. People who dare. People who see what’s going on.

And I believe we’re those people.

So, here are Eight Things I’ve Learned (Usually the Hard Way):

1. Apathy limits opportunity; awareness and action limit the opportunists.

2. Knowledge is power—but only if you use it.

3. Actions speak louder than posts (and words).

4. Keep it simple, unless you're trying to confuse and control people—then by all means, complicate it to death.

5. Chase dogs (the four pawed and loyal kind) and dreams, not people. 

6. The only free cheese is in a mousetrap.

7. You teach people how to treat you.

8. Choose happiness—not helplessness.

And to the Happiness Hijackers out there? We see you. And we’re coming with grace, grit, and good boots.

  

   

Lent, Butter, and the Business of Becoming Better

 Now, I was raised Catholic—like fish-on-Fridays, ashes-on-Wednesdays, and guilt-for-dessert kind of Catholic. But these days, I don’t claim religion so much as I claim reverence. Not for pews or pulpits necessarily, but for something more mysterious. Something you can’t quite explain, but you know it when it stirs in your bones.

Call it soul. Call it the voice inside. Call it the Holy Ghost or just good ol’ fashioned gut instinct. But I believe in it.

Because deep down, we do know right from wrong.
Even if the world’s gotten noisy with Happiness Hijackers trying to sell us peace like it's a product—marketed in soft pastels and subscription boxes.

But real happiness?
Well, it’s tricky.

Sure, I love sunshine on my skin, music in the kitchen, and folks who laugh easy and love hard. Give me color, warmth, and people who show up when things get messy—that makes me happy.

But deep happiness—the kind that stays even when the lights go out and the room gets quiet—that comes from purpose.
From doing the thing you were made to do, even if the only witness is your dog and the dishes.

Lent, at its heart, is a time to pause.
To reflect.
To repent, if that’s your rhythm.

Me? I’ve already got a highlight reel of regrets and a tendency to self-scold. So for these next 46 days, I’m trading in shame for shape-shifting—the good kind. The kind where you turn inward, clean house, and make room for more light.

And no, I won’t be taking the Sundays off. I know myself. One skipped day leads to one excuse leads to, “Well, maybe next year.” My willpower melts faster than butter in a cast iron skillet, so I need rhythm and resolve, not loopholes.

I’ve always loved a fresh start. A new year. A clean calendar page. A Monday morning with a sharpened pencil.

So that’s what this is.
Forty-six days to show up for my life with more heart, more intention, more discipline, and a whole lotta grace.

Because every faith, every practice, every good book or wise granny I’ve ever met, seems to circle the same truth:

Be the best version of yourself.

And that’s something we can all believe in.