Rusty's Armory

The Converso’s Boots: A Pinball Meditation on Walmart Socks

Posted on January 6, 2026

Shining Them On: Firing Orders in a Reformed Universe

The Morning Desk: An Eclectic Pinball Meditation

A note to the reader: This is a meditation, not a thesis. The grammar here is a bit like a pinball machine—the thoughts might bounce off the bumpers in ways you don’t expect, and the timing is more important than the syntax. It’s meant to be observed, not dissected. If you’re looking for a diagram, you’re in the wrong place. We’re just checking the spark plugs today.

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Did you ever notice how much effort we spend these days trying to rename things that have worked just fine for a thousand years?

I went to a new urologist the other day. Now, you’d think a urologist would be the last person on earth to be confused about the basic “plumbing” of the human race. But before we even got to the reason I was sitting on that crinkly paper table, she introduced herself with her “preferred pronouns.”

I just sat there. I didn’t argue. I’ve reached an age where I’ve decided to just “shine ’em on.” It’s like being a Converso in 15th-century Spain—you nod at the official religion of the day so they don’t take your shoes and clothes.

Because that’s the real threat, isn’t it? It’s not just the words they want; it’s the leverage. In the old days, if a man didn’t have a wife who could weave and darn, he was walking on the bare floorboards of life. But today, the system has a different way of leaving you barefoot. If you don’t use the right “grammar” in the office or the exam room, they don’t just correct you—they strip you. They go for the “shoes and socks”—your livelihood, your standing, your ability to walk through the world without being a “deviant.”

They’ve made the price of “integrity” so high that you have to choose between your beliefs and your ability to stand on your own two feet.

We’ve “reformed” the language so much that we’ve turned the most important things in life into a mockery. Take “Marriage.” It used to be a fortress. It was a binding treaty between two people who realized that if they didn’t weave and hunt together, they’d end up on Skid Road.

But then we decided that “weaving and darning socks” was a form of oppression. So we outsourced the socks to Walmart—where they’re cheap, by the way—and we outsourced the “protection” to the State. Now, marriage isn’t a fortress anymore; it’s more like a temporary lease on an apartment. And the moment one person decides they don’t like the wallpaper, the law shows up to help them tear the building down and take whatever “shoes and socks” you have left in the closet.

I look at the young men in college today and I feel for them. They’re walking through a minefield of “reformed” definitions, knowing that one wrong word could leave them penniless and barefoot before they even get a job. They’re told their utility is toxic and their integrity is optional. So, a lot of them are doing the only logical thing: they’re withdrawing. They’re “keeping on truckin’,” but they’re doing it alone. They’ve realized that if the “estate” is just an empty box and the “contract” is a trap for their boots, there’s no point in signing the paper.

I’m fortunate. In my house, we speak the original language. We decided a long time ago that divorce was off the table, but murder wasn’t. We didn’t build a huge financial estate, and we didn’t care to. Our number one goal was simply to have someone to grow old with.

That’s a “16-cylinder” goal in a world that’s running on lawnmower engines.

I don’t know if the world can fix the mockery it’s made of things. My faith tells me the future is going to be pretty grim, and the love of many is going to grow cold. But for me, I’ll keep my “private definition” of the truth. I’ll be polite to the urologist, I’ll buy my socks at Walmart, and I’ll go home to the fortress I built with the only person who knows my real firing order.

I guess I’ll just keep on truckin’.