Lying Dog-Faced Pony Socialists: A Call to Save Free Markets

A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-64293-744-2

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-745-9

Lying Dog-Faced Pony Socialists:

A Call to Save Free Markets

© 2021 by Madison Moore

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Cody Corcoran

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York • Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

To my grandfather, James Earl Huntley Jr., who is supposed to lend me five dollars until payday.

And to my mom, Elizabeth Lee, who sacrificed every comfort in her life to provide every opportunity in mine…and who loved me even when I was a leftist.

Contents

Preface: Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Chapter 1      Sugary Sweet Socialism

Chapter 2      Socialism Unpacked

Chapter 3      An Immortal Faith

Chapter 4      Free Market Enterprise on Trial

Chapter 5      Free Market Enterprise: The Moral Choice

Chapter 6      The Legitimate Critiques of Free Market Enterprise

Chapter 7      Boris Yeltsin’s Infatuation

Chapter 8      Dog-Faced Pony Soldier, Over and Out!

Appendix: A Bonus Interview

Endnotes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Preface:

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

I don’t really care to see Joe Biden, I told my professor. Can I stay at the hotel until y’all come back?

We’re not here to reinforce your beliefs, he said. We’re here to get you to learn. You’re going.

Fair enough.

I sluggishly dragged myself out of my shared hotel bed and dressed for the day.

Don’t try to dress to impress, my professor had explained before the trip. We’ll be knocking on doors and trying to stay warm. School clothes are fine.

He had me at don’t try. I had accordingly packed my comfortable quasi-hobo clothes, happily leaving my makeup in Georgia (mistake #1).

I wasn’t opposed to hearing him speak, but we had already seen all the Democratic presidential candidates give their stump speeches at a massive event in Manchester, New Hampshire, the night before. I felt little desire to listen to Biden lecture aimlessly about job loss, cancer, and death. Nothing personal, I just had enough stress of my own with an eighteen-hour course load. I thought my time would be better spent sleeping in than listening to a litany of problems void of any concrete solutions.

I doubt my professor anticipated the massive impact that his answer would have on my life. I sure didn’t.

With my early morning fate sealed, I accepted the event as an opportunity. After all, I planned to craft my final course paper on Joe Biden’s primary performance in light of the impeachment trials. What better source for details than the candidate himself? Upon arriving at the venue, we sifted into the surprisingly short line, and the question hit me like a freight train: How do you explain the performance in Iowa, and why should the voters believe that you can win the national election? This was my chance to go directly to the source, and I wasn’t about to waste it (you know, since I didn’t exactly have a choice).

Vice President Biden concluded his stump speech and began fielding questions from the audience. After two or three questions, he called on me and handed me the mic. I’m generally a pretty confident person, perhaps too much, but in that moment it all evaporated. Even though I felt little interest in Biden personally, I couldn’t help but be immensely intimidated by the Grand Canyon-sized power gap between us. This man had worked in close quarters on classified national security issues with President Obama, and I had dropped out of school last semester after failing all of my classes. To say I was nervous would be an understatement.

As respectfully as I knew how, I shot my question.

He shot back his own.

Iowa’s a democratic caucus. Have you ever been to a caucus? he asked.

My nerves acted without my consent. Without thinking or hesitation, I nodded affirmatively, even though I had not been to a caucus (mistake #2).

No, you haven’t. You’re a lying dog-faced pony soldier. You gotta be honest, Joe Biden quipped at me, and the audience laughed.

I felt my stomach drop and my heart accelerate. The former vice president of the United States just called me a liar on what was effectively national TV. How could I have been anything other than humiliated? He continued basking in the ease of softball questions for the next fifteen minutes or so, which helped redirect the room’s attention and minimally assuage my embarrassment. He concluded the town hall and stuck around for handshakes, pictures, and even a cringe-worthy Backstreet Boys parody from my classmates…which went viral.

As the crowd began to disperse, I found myself suddenly swarmed by mics, cameras, and lights. Numb, I saw the grim reaper of the media before me, ready to hammer the last nail into the coffin of the liar. I had screwed up big-time, and I can honestly say I’ve never felt so terrified. I mustered a rambling answer in which I attempted to diffuse the conflict. Critiquing only his speech content and momentum, I had no intention of further picking any fights with the former vice president of the United States.

After the cameras lost interest in me, I mingled around the venue, making small talk and taking a couple more interviews as journalists from various media outlets approached me. Buzzfeed, the Washington Post, and others asked me what I thought about his response. I delivered as best I could honest answers, always noting I had not been to a caucus but simply got nervous in my response. My professor, my classmates, and I then loaded into the car, on our way to pick up some lunch.

We arrived at the restaurant and I called my parents, tears already flowing in a steady stream. The reality of the situation paralyzed me with fear: this was big news, I was at the center of it, and I had zero control of how it would be interpreted or perceived. I knew Joe Biden had sold me a nonreturnable, nonrefundable ticket to cancellation. I was done for. Rightly or wrongly, I had become the lying dog-faced pony soldier, and it was international news.

My email inbox steadily filled with new mail; most of it wasn’t concerning my overdue library books. The media attention came in waves, as did my paralyzing helplessness to regulate what was shown or what was said. By the end of the week, my question and Biden’s response to it had been covered by nearly every major and minor news outlet in America as well as a few in the UK and Australia. The video had been retweeted by Donald Trump Jr., mocked by Stephen Colbert and Trevor Noah, discussed by former speaker of the House Newt Gingrich and Ben Shapiro, and dissected by countless others. Most were critical of Biden and gracious toward me. I will never be able to fully express my gratitude for that favorable outcome.

As an extremely private person, I never wanted a stranger to search my name and find personal information about my life. For this reason, I didn’t use public social media before this encounter, but I couldn’t allow fear to keep me from speaking truthfully about my experience with Biden. Hiding became pointless. The same day he insulted me, an otherwise uneventful February 9, he dropped an astonishing three points in the national polls. The following week, as the media covered my response and as he came in fifth in the New Hampshire primary (receiving zero delegates), he dropped an additional 5.2 points in the national polls. It was the most precipitous, continuous decline of any candidate in the 2020 presidential race at the time, and it was the only time Biden ceded his frontrunner position in the polls to Bernie Sanders. I went from anonymous to recognizable overnight—something I had neither requested nor anticipated.

More than this, I found it strange that his insult to me should be the one to go viral. Combative interactions with voters were hardly new for Joe Biden. Since starting his 2020 campaign for the presidency, he had already called other voters fat, liars, and told them to simply vote for someone else. In fact, he had even used the same insult he used on me when talking to another college student during a different campaign. It didn’t make any news waves then. What was so special about this interaction? And then I realized that the only voters he had accosted were men. Only men were asking him questions critical enough to elicit a confrontational response. I happened to be the first woman he verbally accosted on the campaign trail, and for whatever reason, people really took notice.

If all I contributed to the 2020 election cycle was to accidentally highlight Biden’s bizarre rudeness to voters, I will consider my civic duty fulfilled. However, there is some lesson to be taken from the fact that the media took serious notice when he accosted a young woman but not when he accosted many men. I’m not sure precisely what, but there has to be something said for that.

Not the End: The Beginning

As difficult as it was to endure, this bizarre, unexpected notoriety lit an incessant flame inside of me. Before the Biden debacle, I, like many, had become resigned, if not satisfied, to settle for a life of anonymity. Apart from my intense desire to become the next Hannah Montana at eleven years old, I never wanted fame…but to be known for this would be infinitely worse than anonymity. Just imagine being remembered solely as the lying dog-faced pony soldier. Who wants that for their life? For their mark on the world? Hard pass.

I knew I had to find a way to distinguish my life and my work from the seemingly inescapable brand Joe Biden had stamped on my forehead. I didn’t know when or how or why. I simply knew deep in my gut this wasn’t over. This book, in one sense, is not only an attempt to reclaim my identity from a well-known politician stamping me with an unforgettable insult, it is also an attempt to capitalize on this accidental notoriety for a productive purpose. I didn’t ask for a platform, but I got it. When life gives you lemons, you take time to consider the economic systems that allowed for lemons to be both profitable and accessible on the consumer market.

Okay, maybe not all that, but…you get the point.

Coincidentally, I was undergoing somewhat of a political and philosophical metamorphosis at the time. I grew up in a culturally and politically conservative home and carried many of those same values into college: work hard, make your own way in life, give back, and remember God is watching (basically, don’t be an idiot). Having spent the better part of two years immersed in perhaps the most concentrated leftist circles in America—the college debate community—I felt politically homeless.

For my first two years of college, I bought and practiced as best I knew how the leftist doctrines of wokeness, intersectionality, and admiration for socialism. I denounced my skin color, the supposed privilege that came with it, and my country that had ever only perpetuated injustice. As much as was needed to maintain my left-of-center identity, I spoke the lingo, took offense often, and disdained whiteness wherever I found it. Including my own skin.

Coming from a regular public high school, I entered college with zero understanding of the ideology I was being sucked into or of the pernicious origins and implications of such beliefs. Though I had phenomenal teachers, I was ill equipped for what lay ahead. Ever so subtly, I had been primed for this since middle school. Every Black History Month that rolled around, I was reminded of the evils that white men, my race, had inflicted on