ICE officers stopped by our farm yesterday.
“We need to inspect your property for illegal aliens,” one of them said.
I replied, “Alright, but whatever you do, don’t go into that field over there.”
The officer in charge exploded.
“Mister, I have the authority of the federal government behind me!” he barked, reaching into his back pocket. He yanked out a badge and shoved it in my face. “See this fucking badge? This badge means I can go wherever I want on ANY land. No questions asked, no answers given. Am I clear? Do you understand?”
I nodded politely and said, “Be my guest.” Then I went back to my chores.
About ten minutes later, I heard screaming.
I looked up and saw six ICE agents running for their lives, being chased by my big, mean, old bull.
And with every step, that bull was closing in fast.
It looked like they were about to get gored for sure.
So I dropped my tools, ran over to the fence, and shouted at the top of my lungs:
“YOUR BADGE! SHOW HIM YOUR FUCKING BADGE!”
I think it was Robert Greene who said, “When you meet a swordsman, don’t bother reciting poems—bring out your sword and fight.”
I cannot fault Eni for exhibiting feminine traits. For crying—no, for weeping—because his best friend is about to be wedded. Some men are more feminine than they are masculine, and perhaps that is their cup of tea. Let them sip it quietly.
But what I have every issue with is the rising cultural demand to not only tolerate but standardize this behavior as the model of manhood. That’s where I draw the line.
It is, by all rational standards, not related to masculinity. Women have said time and again that they want men who are in tune with their emotions. But in practice, they do not mean men who cry publicly—regardless of the circumstance. What they want are men who feel deeply, yet hold themselves with a certain majesty. A dignity—a righteous command. Not men who crumble like wet paper in the presence of sentiment.
It is one thing for a man to feel. It is another for him to leak. And no, they are not the same. We’ve become too comfortable with blurring lines simply because it makes people feel better about their own indecision. But clarity was never the enemy. Confusion now parades itself as progress—and men like Eni, have, sadly, become its poster boys.
I do not blame him for crying. I blame the world, no the women that clap for it. That says—“yes, this is the kind of man we need more of.”
A digression here:
Why do women clap for such outpouring of emotions:
Because applause is cheap when it costs you nothing. Because it feels good—progressive, even—to say “men should cry more,” until it is your own man sniveling before a challenge, sobbing at the weight of responsibility, or breaking down when you need him to stand.
Women clap for male vulnerability the way people clap for underdog stories—they want to watch it, not live with it. They cheer it in theory because theory is clean. It has no mud, no consequences. But real life is messier. Real life requires a man who can absorb chaos, not cave to it. Women say they want softness, but their bodies lean into strength. Their instincts reach for composure. Their safety depends not on how much you feel, but on how much you can withstand. The clapping is performance. The choosing is primal—it cannot be changed.
The big question is this: Do we need men who quiver in the face of sentiment, who fall apart in public, who have no quiet reservoir of steel to hold their emotions? Or do we just enjoy the spectacle of a man undoing himself for our comfort?
There was a time when restraint was considered virtue—not pathology. When silence in pain was not seen as emotional constipation, but as discipline—divine strength. The kind of strength that says, “I feel it. But I will not let it spill here.”
That time has been ridiculed, spat on, and dismissed as toxic. And yet—who do women cry to when the world burns? The same men who have learned to bottle thunder in their chests and still speak calmly. You don’t walk into a storm naked and call it honesty. You wear armor. That’s what masculinity was built for.
I’m not saying men should be stones. But by God, they must not be streams either. You cannot weep like a widow and expect the world to lean on you. A man’s emotions must be housed, not homeless. Tamed, not theatrical.
Honed like a blade—not broadcast like “El Cuerpo Del Deseo”.
I’ve seen too many women praise “vulnerability” in public—only to choose men who possess nerves of steel—calm, calculated men who chew bottles for breakfast and eat molten lava for dinner. It’s not hypocrisy. It’s instinct. A crying man does not signal safety. He signals exposure. And no matter how loud the modern script insists otherwise, no woman builds her future on a puddle.
So yes—when you meet a swordsman, don’t recite poems. Bring your sword. When you meet life, bring your spine. When you’re called to be a man, be a mountain, not a weeping babe.
@MissSassbox It's unbelievable that black people are entertained by this nonsense. This song is trash because they see you as trash. Songs like this takes away your self worth and identity. AI composed nonsense and y'all feel entertained? Foolish fools.
The desire to live outside of your means. Some of yall are meant to be regular ass people with regular ass lives, regular ass partners, and regular ass houses/vehicles. The sooner you accept that the lives these celebs and influencers live isn’t for you the happier you’ll be.