Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
David T. Cloft 
Listen up, cadets — your dusty old institution is under siege… from me, the world’s most offended armchair critic. As someone who’s never fired a rifle, never been marched at 5 a.m., and whose greatest battle was choosing between oat milk or almond at Starbucks, I hereby launch my campaign to transform West Point into Soy Boy University — the safe space you never knew you wanted.
In 1787, our founders wrote something radical into the Constitution: every official—civilian, military, executive, judicial—would swear allegiance not to a man, but to an idea. Article VI makes it clear: the oath is to the Constitution. Period.
If we’re going to call the AR the “Modern Sporting Rifle,” let’s stop pretending it should be chambered in something that looks like it came out of a Pez dispenser.
Here’s a fun riddle: what do you call a man who works for the President of the United States and thirty-one other heads of state — all at once — and can’t tick off any of them? Answer: The SACEUR.
The idea of a solid, industrial-grade, perfectly rectangular block of sleep is about as old as the lightbulb—and about as natural as chicken nuggets.
America has the attention span of a goldfish on an energy drink. If a war isn’t trending, isn’t hashtagged, or doesn’t have a Marvel movie tie-in, it simply evaporates from public memory. And so we forgot Bosnia.
Forget the Kremlin. The real threat to America isn’t Putin’s tanks—it’s the slow, grinding implosion of our own economy. The almighty dollar, once the bedrock of global finance, is leaking power as BRICS nations build workarounds
Science loves to strut like it has every answer. Neurons fire, brain scans glow, and voilà — that’s you. Except… not really. Because when it comes to consciousness — the simple fact that you’re aware that you exist — science is still fumbling in the dark.
I never met my grandpa, but I know enough about him from the rifle he left behind — a .35 Remington that thumps like a mule and feels like it was carved from a block of American stubbornness. He called it a “good bush gun,” and he was right. I
We all know the iconic photo: an old Union veteran in blue shaking hands with a Confederate in gray at the 1913 Gettysburg reunion. It’s become the symbol of forgiveness — proof that America “healed” fifty years after the Civil War. But the truth underneath it is far more complicated.
We used to believe the housing market ran on freedom, work, and responsibility — the idea that if you saved and worked hard, you’d earn the keys to your own home. That myth still sells well, but the current cycle is revealing something darker: a culture conditioned to dependency.
We’ve built an empire around something that doesn’t actually exist — not in any tangible, survivable sense. Our currency, the almighty dollar, is a human invention with no intrinsic value, no caloric energy, no sheltering power. You can’t eat it, you can’t heat your home with it, and it doesn’t grow in the soil — yet people live and die by it.
Next year marks twenty-five years since that blue-sky morning when the towers fell, the Pentagon burned, and the nation swore we’d never forget. We promised unity, courage, and vigilance. We sang “God Bless America” on the Capitol steps. And then, almost overnight, we traded freedom for fear and called it patriotism.
Somewhere back in the bell-bottom era, a few folks decided religion was too “organized,” so they built a new one out of incense, tie-dye, and wishful thinking. They called it the New Age Movement.
Part III – Rescuing a Dying Tradition: Rebuilding the American Hunter “If We Don’t Pass It On, We’ll Bury It Beside the Campfire.” The numbers are grim but not terminal. Hunting can be saved—but not by bureaucracy. It will be saved the same way it began: neighbor to neighbor, family to family, and a kid’s …
Over the last two decades, that melting pot has been turned down to a simmer and replaced with a salad bowl, where every group keeps its own flavor and dressing. What used to fuse us together is now being sorted into separate piles of identity — and our biggest cities are leading the way.
When America moved to the city, the hunter stayed behind. Today, roughly 80 percent of Americans live in urban areas.
That migration broke the generational hand-off—the unspoken chain of grandfather to father to child.
When Congress passed the Pittman–Robertson Act of 1947, it did something rare: it trusted ordinary citizens more than bureaucrats. Hunters agreed to tax themselves—an excise on firearms, ammunition, and archery gear—to restore the nation’s wildlife. Every box of shells, every rifle sale, sent dollars straight to state conservation agencies. No congressional earmarks, no political games.
Only in Michigan can you buy weed on every street corner, marry whoever you want, and change your gender at will — but if you drop an apple on your own land, you’re suddenly an outlaw. That’s not freedom. That’s bureaucratic tyranny disguised as wildlife management.
When I retired in 2017 and finally got settled back in Michigan around 2019, I decided to try something new — teaching. I earned my interim certificate and took a job in what turned out to be one of the poorest counties in the state, measured by home values and income. You could see the poverty in the houses, the roads, and, more than anything, the expectations kids had for themselves.