Why Government Shutdowns Signal A Civic Failure, Not A Constitutional One

Chapters

• 0:00 Opening And Host Credo
• 1:26 Founders’ Vision Meets Modern Shutdowns
• 5:12 Power Of The Purse Explained
• 9:59 Shutdowns As Moral And Civic Failure
• 15:35 Separation Of Powers And Executive Creep
• 20:06 Federalist Lessons On Faction And Compromise
• 25:18 Budget Math And Performance Politics
• 30:04 Literacy Over Outrage
• 35:22 Omnibus, CRs, And Lost Accountability
• 41:20 Debt, Hypocrisy, And Guardrails
• 47:10 Discipline From Battlefield To Budget
• 53:02 Citizenship As Daily Duty
• 58:40 Article I Clauses And 2025 Deficit
• 1:05:10 Why Congress Avoids The Hard Work

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:00

Forged in combat, tempered in peace, unbroken by politics, unshaken by pressure. This is a man who leads when others hesitate, and speaks truth when others hide. He's not here to play games, kiss rings, or win popularity contests. This is the Walt Blackman Show. Where courage meets clarity, where facts don't flinch, and where the Constitution still means exactly what it says. Walt is a groundbreaker. The first black Republican ever elected to the Arizona House of Representatives, a decorated 21-year U.S. Army combat veteran who led from the front lines of war to the front lines of America's political battlefield. He fought for freedom overseas. And now, he fights for truth, justice, and accountability. Right here at home. Guided by duty, honor, integrity, faith, and an unbroken oath that doesn't end when the cameras turn off. You're listening to the Walt Black Men Show. Unfiltered, unafraid, unapologetic. Because duty doesn't end with the uniform, it just changes missions.

SPEAKER_01: 1:26

Picture this: the year is 1787. Philadelphia's air hangs heavy with humidity and hope. Inside Independence Hall, a collection of men, some philosophers, some farmers, all audacious dreamers, argue not about party platforms or campaign donations, but about survival itself. The revolution had bought independence, but not solvency. Soldiers were unpaid, creditors were impatient, and the young republic was wobbling like a newborn cult. On the table lay parchment destined to outlive empires, the Constitution. Every ink stroke was a gamble against chaos. Madison leaned forward, Hamilton paced, and Franklin, half amused, half exhausted, whispered, A republic if you can keep it. Now, if old Ben could look at today's headlines, government shutdown imminent, he'd probably sigh, pour another glass of sherry, and ask, So you couldn't keep it funded either? That, my friends, is where our story begins. A government that has the constitutional blueprint for fiscal responsibility, yet repeatedly drives itself into the same ditch, blaming the founders for not installing guardrails. The irony is Shakespearean. Congress, endowed by Article I, Section IX, with the power of the purse, has become the political equivalent of a teenager with a credit card and no sense of interest rates. The Constitution is clear. No money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence of appropriations made by law, not by executive whim, not by bureaucratic autopilot. By law, passed, debated, and signed. In other words, Congress was built to be the nation's adult supervision. Somewhere along the way, the adults left the room. Now, when the government shuts down, it doesn't really shut down, it sulks. Essential operations, national defense, social security, the lights in the Capitol keep running. What stops is everything that reminds us we're supposed to be competent. The Smithsonian closes, passports stall, small businesses wait on loans, and soldiers wonder if payday means IOUS again. In my years, wearing a uniform, we called that a failure of logistics. In Congress, they call it strategic leverage. Translation: we didn't do our homework, but we're blaming the principal and demanding extra credit for our leadership skills or lack thereof. The founders gave Congress the purse because they believed financial power was moral power. Madison wrote that it was the people's weapon against tyranny. Today, it's a blunt instrument used for political hostage taking. Continuing resolutions have become the new currency of cowardice, temporary band-aids on self-inflicted wounds. It's government by procrastination. Imagine running your household like that. Honey, the mortgage is due. Relax, we'll pass a two-week continuing resolution while we negotiate the electricity bill. And yet, this dance repeats every fiscal year. The question isn't why Washington fails, it's how it manages to fail so predictably. Part of the answer lies in the slow death of the separation of powers. When Congress refuses to legislate on time, presidents step in with executive orders, reallocations, and emergency declarations. The founders called that despotism by convenience. Courts occasionally swat them down, but by then the precedent metastasizes. We've blurred the constitutional line so severely that the branches now share dysfunction like a family heirloom. You hear pundits say the Constitution is outdated. No, it's underread. I meet plenty of self-styled constitutionalists who can quote the Second Amendment with the accuracy of a sniper, but think Article I is a prequel to Article II. These are the same keyboard patriots who post memes about liberty while depending on federal subsidies to pave their driveways. God bless them. They mean well, but you can't defend a document you've never actually read. Let's talk Federalist number 58. Madison warned that the power of the purse would be the most complete and effectual weapon for the people's representatives to secure accountability. But he also warned that if factions seized control, that same weapon could become a dagger turned inward. Fast forward two centuries, Congress wields the dagger so often it's dull from overuse. Each shutdown is a ceremonial stabbing of its own credibility. What makes this tragedy comedic is that many of those causing the gridlock claim to be strict constructionists. They insist they're honoring the founders by refusing to compromise. That's like honoring George Washington by refusing to wear pants because he didn't own jeans. Compromise wasn't weakness to the founders, it was arithmetic. Without it, you don't get a constitution. You get chaos. Now, humor me for a moment of civic math. The federal budget is about$6 trillion. Roughly two-thirds is mandatory spending, Social Security, Medicare, debt interest. The remaining third, discretionary spending, is what Congress actually votes on. So when they shut down the government, they're squabbling over a slice of the pie, then flipping the entire table. It's performance art masquerading as fiscal policy. I've sat in rooms where budgets were negotiated down to the decimal point. In Arizona, we're constitutionally required to balance ours. That means every legislator, regardless of party, must eventually face the arithmetic, not the applause meter. Washington could learn something from the desert. When the water's scarce, you don't argue about who gets the bigger mirage. But let's dig deeper because beneath the politics is a moral dimension. Each paycheck missed by a federal worker, each veteran waiting on a claim, each hospital delaying equipment purchases, they're all casualties of legislative vanity. Madison called public debt a public curse. Jefferson wanted each generation to pay its own bills. Today we borrow from grandchildren we haven't met and call it stimulus. The founders feared monarchs. We've built a debt dynasty. Picture Benjamin Franklin, quill in hand, watching C-SPAN from whatever celestial pub he's currently haunting. He leans forward, squints through the centuries, and mutters, gentlemen, we gave you a republic and not a revolving door of continuing resolutions. You can almost see him shaking his head, wondering how a nation that split the atom and mapped the genome can't seem to balance a checkbook without holding a press conference. And then, of course, there are the perennial crusaders who scream, drain the swamp, blissfully unaware that they've merely installed luxury condos on the same marshland. The bureaucracy endures every administration like a cockroach after the nuclear blast, impervious, adaptable, and somehow unionized. The real drain plug, ironically, isn't found in a campaign slogan or a cable news chiron. It's right there in Article I. Congressional oversight, fiscal restraint, and the radical concept of accountability, but enforcing it would require actually reading beyond the headlines, a hazardous and unfamiliar duty for modern politicians whose literacy seems inversely proportional to their screen time. Here's the uncomfortable truth. Congress doesn't fear the Constitution, it fears accountability. That's why the appropriations clause might as well be printed in invisible ink. Every dollar must be drawn from the Treasury by law. Simple sentence. Yet we spend trillions through omnibus bills that arrive thicker than the book of Genesis and read by about as many people. That's not lawmaking. That's legislative speed dating. Meanwhile, the executive branch loves the chaos. Each failure by Congress expands presidential latitude. Emergency powers become routine powers. Madison's checks and balances start to look like bounce checks. And let's not forget the chorus of pundits who declare each shutdown a constitutional crisis. No, it's a constitutional failure. The document hasn't failed us. We've failed to meet its intellectual requirements. The Constitution expects literacy and loyalty. It assumes readers, not retweeters. Now I realize this level of civic literacy sounds elitist to those who think political science is optional. But democracy without comprehension is like chess without strategy. You're just moving pieces until someone yells checkmate and nobody knows why. Humor me again. Imagine if the founders attended a modern budget hearing. Madison would ask for ledgers, Hamilton would demand revenue projections, Franklin would tweet sarcasm from the gallery. Then someone would bring up polling data and Franklin would whisper, gentlemen, the lightning rod still works. What we face today isn't merely a budget impasse, it's a philosophical one. The Constitution was written for a citizenry that valued reason over rage. Now outrage is currency and ignorance is brand identity. We celebrate those who speak their mind even when their minds need subtitles. The real patriots, the ones who read, think, question, rarely trend online. They're too busy holding the line between fact and fiction. And so when the next shutdown looms and pundits bicker over blame, remember this. The founders didn't design a system that runs on autopilot. They designed one that runs on duty. Congress doesn't need another continuing resolution. It needs a continuing education. When I raised my hand to uphold the Constitution, I didn't swear to a party or a platform. I swore to a principle that power must serve the people, not itself. I've seen what happens when command fails in battle, people die. When command fails in Congress, the Republic bleeds. Different field, same consequence. If Franklin were here, I'd ask him, Ben, how do we keep the Republic in the 21st century? And before I could finish, he'd already be smirking that mischievous grin and the kind that says, you people really screwed this up, didn't you? He'd take one look at Congress, one look at Twitter, and one long swig of whatever passed for 18th century bourbon and say, start by reading the instructions. Reading the instructions? These people can't even find the table of contents. They think Article I is a Netflix password. Franklin would nod, utterly unbothered, dip his quill, and mutter, gentlemen, we gave you a republic, not a reality show. And somewhere in the corner, Madison would be Googling how to file for intellectual asylum. Because let's face it, our founding generation wrote a blueprint, and our current one treats it like IKEA furniture, missing half the screws, skipping all the steps, and blaming the Swedish when it collapses. So read them, demand your leaders read them, because every shutdown is not just a budget failure, it's a civics failure. And the Constitution, unlike Congress, doesn't take a recess. A republic, if you can fund it. A simple clause, a conditional phrase, one that would make any grammarian proud and any modern politician uncomfortable. Because a republic is not a self-licking ice cream cone. It doesn't sustain itself by slogans or social media algorithms. It requires intellect, stewardship, and, yes, math. Three elements are tragically short in supply on Capitol Hill. Let's be honest, Congress doesn't lack intelligence. It lacks intellectual honesty. Members can quote TikTok trends faster than they can recall Article I, Section 8, the part that literally lists what Congress is supposed to spend money on. And if you ever doubt how far we've strayed, remember that the founders debated tariffs and tonnage duties with more seriousness than today's lawmakers debate trillion-dollar deficits. Jefferson and Hamilton may have been adversaries, but at least they argued in sentences that required complete thoughts. Modern fiscal debates are more like interpretive dance routines. Plenty of motion, no discernible meaning. But let's zoom out. The shutdown at its core is not a budget issue. It's a civic morality issue, because money in government is not just currency, it's covenant. When the government collects a dollar from the people, it takes a moral oath to use that dollar for the common good, not for political theater. Every continuing resolution is an IOU stapled to the Constitution, signed not with ink but with excuses. Now, humor is a constitutional right too, so let's use it. Picture this James Madison, the father of the Constitution, the guy who literally wrote the instruction manual, walks into a modern congressional appropriations hearing. He adjusts his powdered wig, takes a dignified seat, and says, Gentlemen, how many appropriations bills have you passed this year? The chairman clears his throat and proudly announces, none, but we did rename a post office and held six hearings about each other's tweets. Madison blinks once, twice, looks around, and in that calm Virginian voice says, This is why we can't have nice republics. Then he stands up, reaches for a musket that no one remembers authorizing, and mutters, I'm drafting an amendment for common sense. Franklin's ghost would be in the gallery, sipping whiskey and whispering, told you so. Jefferson would be scribbling, Dear God, make them read on parchment, and Washington would have quietly excused himself to go fight the British again, because apparently that was easier. Meanwhile, Washington's head would still be spinning somewhere over the Capitol dome, yelling, appropriations, you're supposed to appropriate, not appropriate time for selfies. And Madison, he'd just look down from the heavens, check his notes, and sigh, a republic, if you can keep it. And apparently, if you can spell it. You see, Madison understood something timeless. Governance requires discipline. He wrote in Federalist 51 that ambition must be made to counteract ambition. What he didn't anticipate was that ambition would eventually be replaced by attention seeking. Congress doesn't counteract the executive anymore, it competes with influencers. The C-SPAN floor has become open mic night for outrage, and the Constitution has become background decor. Now, when I say that, I can already hear the chorus online. He's attacking patriots. No, I'm describing amateurs who cosplay as patriots. Real patriotism is constitutional literacy married to moral courage. What we often see today are keyboard crusaders who declare the government illegitimate every time they misunderstand a clause. The irony is they scream about tyranny while depending on government checks they condemn in the same breath. That's not tyranny. That's therapy by contradiction. A republic cannot survive on vibes and hashtags. It survives on knowledge. The founders were not influencers, they were architects. They built a structure so intricate that even its flaws teach lessons. Take the budget process. It was designed not for efficiency, but for accountability. That's why it's difficult. That's why it requires negotiation, compromise, and transparency when Congress bypasses that process through omnibus bills thicker than law textbooks. It's not being efficient, it's being evasive. And let's talk about that word, omnibus. It's Latin for everything, which in congressional translation means everything we didn't have the courage to debate individually. It's fiscal cowardice hidden behind a foreign language. Madison would have laughed and then written a federalist paper titled On the Tragic Comedy of Irresponsibility. The Constitution, for all its brevity, contains profound financial wisdom. Article 1, Section 8, enumerates the powers of Congress to tax, to borrow, to regulate commerce, to pay debts. Notice what's missing: the power to spend without conscience. The founders gave us checks and balances not only between branches but within ourselves. The act of deliberation was designed to humble ambition, not reward it. Yet somehow, modern legislators have turned humility into a political liability. The more performative the indignation, the higher the fundraising totals. Now you can't talk about the power of the purse without addressing its modern misuse. Continuing resolutions, debt ceilings, and the political hostage rituals we call negotiations. The debt ceiling debate is the political equivalent of arguing over who gets to set the kitchen on fire first. We raise the ceiling, congratulate ourselves, and never ask why the floor keeps collapsing. Budget discipline in this town, these people couldn't balance a seesaw, let alone a ledger. And the funniest part? The same lawmakers who scream about runaway spending every time a Democrat's in the White House are the same ones who hand out tax cuts and subsidies during a Republican one like Oprah giving away cars. You get a loophole, you get a loophole, everybody gets a loophole. Fiscal virtue in Washington has the lifespan of a fruit fly, and not even a healthy one. We're talking the kind of fruit fly that's been living off spilled Red Bull in a congressional break room since 2002. They lecture the public about tightening belts while voting themselves bigger ones. They rail against deficits with the same passion they reserve for photo ops, then vanish faster than accountability after an ethics report. If hypocrisy were renewable energy, we'd have solved the energy crisis decades ago. You could hook the Capitol Dome up to a turbine of self-contradiction and power half the country by lunch. You can't yell about spending when you're the one buying votes with a credit card, at which point Ben Franklin would lean over from the afterlife, raise a glass, and say, he's not wrong. We invented lightning, but apparently not accountability. But this isn't new. The founders predicted it. In Federalist 10, Madison warned that factions driven by passion rather than reason would tear at the fabric of the republic. He didn't foresee Twitter, but he might as well have. Today's factions aren't defined by ideology. They're defined by algorithms. People no longer think, they echo. And echo chambers, unlike deliberative chambers, don't produce budgets. Let me draw a parallel from the battlefield. In combat, discipline saves lives. You follow orders not because you agree with every word, but because cohesion matters more than ego. Congress could learn something from that. The Constitution is the chain of command. Its text is not a suggestion. When legislators abandon that discipline, they create chaos, not courage. And chaos like debt compounds interest. Sometimes I wonder what a congressional oath sounds like today. I do solemnly swear to uphold the Constitution, unless it's inconvenient, in which case I'll post about it. Oaths without comprehension are just noise. The founders didn't give us freedom to be foolish. They gave us freedom to be responsible. Now let's address the ultimate irony. The people least qualified to interpret the Constitution are often the loudest about defending it. I've seen social media threads where someone cites the constitutional right to drive without a license or the First Amendment right to not pay taxes. My favorite was a post claiming the founders wanted no federal budget at all. If ignorance were taxable, we could balance the deficit by Tuesday. Humor aside, this ignorance is dangerous because it fuels apathy. When citizens disengage or substitute outrage for understanding, the system deteriorates. A republic demands educated participation. Jefferson wrote, if a nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be. He didn't tweet that, but it should be trending daily. Government shutdowns are not constitutional crises, they are constitutional betrayals. Every missed deadline, every delayed appropriations bill is a dereliction of duty. Congress was designed to guard the treasury, not loot public patience. The power of the purse is the heartbeat of self-governance. When that heart stops, the Republic goes into civic arrest. So what's the cure? Education, integrity, and consequence. The Constitution doesn't need revision. It needs readers. Congress doesn't need new slogans. It needs courage. And citizens don't need more outrage. They need literacy because patriotism without comprehension is just noise wrapped in a flag. In Arizona, we balance our budgets because we must. It's law, not choice. We debate, we argue, we compromise, and then we get it done. Washington has forgotten that formula. Accountability isn't an enemy. It's the guardian of freedom. Fiscal restraint isn't austerity, it's morality. Let's end where we began with Franklin's rye prophecy. When asked what form of government they'd created, he replied, a republic if you can keep it. He didn't say a party or a platform or a perpetual campaign. He said republic. That word means shared responsibility, and keeping it means funding it, not just financially, but intellectually, through understanding, vigilance, and respect for the very text that made us possible. So the next time someone waves a pocket constitution while shouting about tyranny, ask them gently, have you read Article I, Section 9? Because if they haven't, they're not defending the Republic. They're decorating it. And if the founders could see us now, maybe they'd gather again, not in Philadelphia, but in the halls of Congress and remind us that self-government isn't about power. It's about purpose, the purpose to deliberate, to compromise, to govern. When we talk about a government shutdown, it isn't just about closed offices or delayed paychecks. It's about a collapse in civic character. Because the truth is a nation doesn't drift into dysfunction by accident. It has to be educated into apathy. And we, the supposed heirs of a revolutionary document, have managed to turn constitutional duty into political improv. The founders didn't envision this republic as an autopilot democracy. They envisioned it as a thinking machine, a system powered by reason, deliberation, and humility before the law. But when emotion replaces intellect, governance collapses into noise. Today, Congress doesn't deliberate, it performs. Legislators don't argue to persuade, they posture to trend. It's not about policy anymore. It's about performance art in tailored suits. I sometimes imagine Madison, the quiet genius who wrote half the Constitution, sitting in on a modern fiscal hearing, hands clasped, dignified posture, patience thinning, and across the table? A senator quoting Facebook memes as if they were the Federalist Papers. According to founding fatherMemes.com, Madison said taxes are theft. Madison would blink so hard his wig would reboot. He'd slowly turn to Franklin and whisper, Are we sure this is the posterity we secured? And Franklin, who's seen everything from revolutions to reality TV, would probably shrug, sip his wine, and say, They're still free to embarrass themselves, James. So technically, liberty endures. At that point, Madison would request to be redrafted into the Declaration of Independence just to get some peace, and Franklin would raise his glass to the camera and toast to posterity. May they one day learn to Google before governing. But this isn't funny when you realize what's at stake. Every time Congress misses a budget deadline, every time it punts its duty to the next session, it teaches citizens that dysfunction is normal. And once dysfunction becomes normalized, tyranny becomes easier to rationalize. Because when order collapses, chaos always invites control. Madison understood that, which is why he wrote that the chains of the Constitution must bind all men lest ambition be made to counteract ambition. And yet, what we see today is not ambition counteracting ambition, it's ambition applauding incompetence. We've reached a level of political absurdity where shutting down the government is considered a campaign achievement. Imagine that, celebrating paralysis as patriotism. That's not statesmanship, that's Stockholm syndrome with flags. Now let me make this clear: this isn't about party labels. Dysfunction doesn't wear red or blue, it wears ignorance. Fiscal irresponsibility is bipartisan. The founders warned us that faction would rot the republic from within, and they were right. When ideology replaces intellect and outrage replaces order, the Constitution becomes just another prop in the theater of grievance. Take the budget brinkmanship we see every year. Politicians threatening to default on the national debt, like gamblers threatening to burn down the casino if they lose. The debt ceiling was designed as a guardrail, not a stage prop, but in Washington, even guardrails become podiums. They raise the ceiling, hold a press conference, and congratulate themselves for not detonating the country. That's like a pilot taking credit for not crashing into a mountain he steered toward in the first place. And here's the tragicomic twist. Every one of them swore an oath to support and defend the Constitution, not interpret it according to their poll numbers, not uphold it unless the donor base disapproves. Support and defend. That means learning it, applying it, and living it. The oath wasn't written in disappearing ink. If you really want to test a leader's integrity, ask them to quote the appropriations clause. Watch how quickly their confidence evaporates. Everyone knows the First and Second Amendments. They make great t-shirt slogans. But Article 1, Section 9, that's where the real power lives. That's where accountability breathes. No money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence of appropriations made by law, it's so simple it hurts. And yet Congress violates that principle annually through continuing resolutions, omnibus bills, and fiscal gimmicks that would make a used car salesman blush. The founders didn't just give Congress the purse, they gave it a conscience. They expected lawmakers to understand that every dollar spent unjustly is a dollar stolen morally. When Jefferson spoke of generational debt, he wasn't predicting inflation. He was warning about moral bankruptcy. And in that sense, we're already insolvent. Now here's the part that stings. The American people have tolerated this mediocrity. We've accepted incompetence as inevitable. We expect gridlock, applaud defiance, and reward outrage. We've turned our political system into a talent show where charisma beats comprehension and noise beats nuance. The founders called us to self governance. We've settled for self indulgence. You see, the Constitution was never meant to run on. Autopilot, it was meant to be actively stewarded by citizens who read, question, and think. But civic literacy has been replaced with partisan liturgy. People memorize slogans instead of studying systems. We have more self-proclaimed constitutional scholars online than we have citizens who've actually read Article 1 through 7 in sequence. And when ignorance organizes, knowledge retreats. I once heard someone say, the Constitution is too complicated. No, ignorance is complicated. The Constitution is written in plain English. The problem is we've replaced plain reading with emotional decoding. We interpret it through filters of identity, ideology, and internet mythology. The founders wrote a rule book for a republic. We treat it like a suggestion box for convenience. Now, I don't say this from an ivory tower. I've sat in the legislative trenches. I've watched colleagues use the Constitution as a shield when it suits them and as a rug when it doesn't. And I've seen what real compromise looks like, the kind that costs you applause but earns you progress. The founders understood that liberty without discipline collapses into license. And fiscal license, the permission to spend without restraint, and is just another form of tyranny deferred. Let's talk about tyranny for a second. Not the kind shouted about online, but the real kind. Tyranny isn't always a man in uniform. Sometimes it's a system that quietly robs the next generation of solvency, one unbalanced budget at a time. It's not dramatic, it's bureaucratic. It comes not with boots, but with binders. Every unfunded promise, every unpaid bill, every deficit passed along is an act of economic servitude disguised as governance. Now, if you mention that, someone will accuse you of being cynical. I'm not cynical, I'm observant. Cynicism says nothing can be fixed. Constitutional realism says nothing will be fixed unless we return to first principles. And first principles are stubborn things. They demand reading, reasoning, and responsibility. They don't trend, they don't tweet, and they don't care how we feel. Humor me for a moment of perspective. When the founders debated the Constitution, they did so in a room without air conditioning, microphones, or focus groups. They argued about taxation, representation, and debts incurred from war. These were men who'd literally pledged their lives and fortunes to create a framework for fiscal integrity. Compare that to today, where legislators can't agree on lunch without consulting a pollster. It's enough to make Franklin walk out of Independence Hall and take up exile in the Bahamas, but there's hope, and it lies in education, not legislation. A republic's greatest weapon isn't its army or treasury, it's an informed citizenry. We don't need another political revolution. We need a literacy revolution, one where Americans read their founding documents as sacred civic text, not partisan scripture, where schoolchildren learn that checks and balances aren't metaphors but mechanisms. And where elected officials remember that their duty isn't to dominate but to deliberate. Let me say something radical. The Constitution isn't fragile, it's resilient. What's fragile is our reverence for it. The document can withstand ignorance, but it cannot survive indifference. Every generation must relearn it or lose it. The founders knew this. That's why Franklin didn't promise permanence. He said, if you can keep it, it was always conditional because liberty without literacy is expiration dated. So when the next shutdown comes, and it will, remember, the government didn't fail because the Constitution is weak. It failed because Congress forgot how to read it. And when the pundits start their blame game, remind them that accountability isn't partisans, it's patriotic. The Republic isn't dead. It's just waiting for the people to pick up the owner's manual again. And maybe, just maybe, if we do, the next time Congress sits down to debate the budget, they'll start with something radical, the actual text that gave them the job in the first place. Because the Constitution doesn't need defenders who shout. It needs citizens who understand. The measure of a republic has never been its wealth, its armies, or even its inventions. It's always been its character. Character is what holds a nation together when the lights go out in Washington, when the bills pile up and when truth becomes negotiable, and character like credit is easy to lose and hard to rebuild. We live in an age where ignorance is confident and knowledge is apologetic, where a tweet can overthrow a fact and a meme can assassinate history, where constitutional patriotism too often means brand loyalty rather than civic literacy. And yet, this document, this 4,543-word masterpiece written with quills and conviction, remains the single most revolutionary idea in the history of governance: that power is limited, duty is sacred, and freedom has rules. That's the paradox the founders understood. You can't have liberty without limits. Freedom without form is anarchy, structure without virtue is tyranny. Somewhere between those extremes lies self-government, the delicate balance they handed us. But when Congress fails to fund the government, it's not just a fiscal malfunction, it's a moral one, because a republic that cannot execute its own laws has ceased to be sovereign. It's merely surviving. Shutdowns are not symbols of courage, they are confessions of failure. They are the legislative equivalent of leaving the house unlocked and blaming the neighbors when it gets robbed. And every time it happens, the same chorus rises. It's the other side's fault. The founders would laugh, then cry because they warned that faction would become the substitute for reason. And here we are, two centuries later, proving them prophets. Now, you'll hear modern pundits call this gridlock, but that word is far too polite. Gridlock is what happens when equals disagree. What we're witnessing is dereliction. A Congress too afraid to lead and too addicted to spectacle to legislate. The Constitution does not authorize temper tantrums in place of appropriations. It requires diligence, courage, and arithmetic. Arithmetic, that ancient art of adding, subtracting, and occasionally multiplying humility. When you strip away the talking points and the sound bites, the truth is simple. Congress has one job the Constitution demands above all others, to manage the public purse. Everything else, from war powers to oversight to impeachment, stems from that duty. You can't secure the blessings of liberty if you can't secure the lights on Capitol Hill. And so when I say a republic, if you can fund it, I'm not just being clever. I'm describing the thin line between order and absurdity. Because fiscal collapse doesn't begin in the treasury. It begins in the classroom, when we stop teaching how government actually works. It begins when history becomes optional and outrage becomes required. There's a saying among soldiers: discipline is the difference between chaos and command. That principle applies to nations too. Discipline is what keeps a republic from turning into a circus. But right now, our political ringmasters are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the whip. And yet, despite the dysfunction, I still believe in the brilliance of the design. Because the Constitution was built for crisis. It was written by men who had lived through chaos and chose law instead of vengeance. They built a system so resilient that even our incompetence hasn't destroyed it yet. That's divine architecture. That's grace in parchment form. But grace like credit runs out if you stop earning it. If the founders could send us one message across the centuries, it wouldn't be vote harder. It would be think deeper. They'd remind us that citizenship isn't a spectator sport. It's a daily discipline. It's reading before reacting. It's questioning before condemning. It's knowing that the Constitution doesn't bend to emotion. It steadies it. The American experiment was never guaranteed. It's a lease renewed each generation with the ink of comprehension and the sweat of participation. Every election, every budget, every debate is another payment on that lease. And if we default on understanding, the Republic forecloses. Let's try a small experiment, a civic stress test for the self-proclaimed patriots among us. No need for weapons or slogans, just words, comprehension, and perhaps a functioning prefrontal cortex. If you cannot name two clauses from Article I of the Constitution, the document you claim divine custody over, perhaps sit this one out before storming the metaphorical Bastille. The founders, after all, fought tyranny. They did not audition for reality television. And if you think the Bill of Rights was printed on the back of a beer can or that the Federalist papers were a country band, consider a moment of reflective silence, preferably in a library. If you believe freedom of speech means freedom from consequence, or that the First Amendment was designed to protect you from ridicule, congratulations. You've confused liberty with narcissism. And if you think civic duty ends at the ballot box and begins again at the next outrage cycle, you're not a patriot. You're a spectator at the world's longest halftime show. The truth, and I realize this word now sounds radical, is that patriotism is an act of discipline, not decoration. It is the quiet work of reading what others only repeat, of questioning what others simply repost, and of defending a republic that demands comprehension, not just emotion. The founders didn't draft a constitution so that future generations could cosplay revolution between commercials. They envisioned a republic animated by intellect, not impulse, citizens who could distinguish self-government from self-promotion. But somewhere along the continuum of progress, civic virtue mutated into political theater. We have perfected the choreography of grievance, marching in circles, waving slogans like talismans, confusing the catharsis of shouting for the substance of citizenship. The modern patriot's uniform is not a uniform at all. It's a wardrobe of outrage accessorized with indignation and a smartphone camera set to record. We live in an age where symbolism has devoured syntax. The flag is still revered, but fewer people can identify the amendment that allows them to burn it or to defend it. It's constitutional karaoke. Everyone knows the chorus, but no one remembers the verses. Jefferson dreamed of an informed electorate. We've settled for an entertained one. Hamilton wrote that energy in the executive was essential to good government. We've redefined energy as the ability to trend on social media before lunch. Madison argued that ambition must counteract ambition. Today, ambition just retweets itself. True patriotism is quiet, difficult, and thankless. It pays its taxes, reads its laws, and occasionally admits it might be wrong. It demands the humility to ask, could I be mistaken? A phrase now considered un-American by people who misquote the founders while using spell check. Franklin's warning still echoes, a republic, if you can keep it. Keeping it was supposed to require intellect and restraint. Instead, we've industrialized outrage and franchised ignorance. Our civic dialogue has become an arms race of adjectives, each side escalating rhetoric, while the republic quietly suffocates beneath the noise. If the Enlightenment were alive today, it would file a restraining order against our news cycle. Reason has been evicted, replaced by whatever headline delivers the largest dopamine yield, and yet, beneath the static, the old blueprint remains, a document written not for the loudest among us, but for the most thoughtful. Because the founders didn't gamble their lives, so their descendants could audition for history with slogans. They believed liberty was a discipline, something studied, practiced, and protected by minds capable of self-correction. The Republic endures not because of our noise, but in spite of it. And so the next time someone declares themselves a patriot, hand them a copy of the Constitution, no commentary, no cue cards, no emojis. Tell them it's the longest-running reality show in the world, and participation requires reading comprehension. That, my friends, is what Franklin meant by keeping it. So to my more performative compatriots, before you wrap yourself in the flag, try reading what it stands for. Before you quote Jefferson, recall that he also wrote in complete sentences. And before you invoke the Constitution, make sure you can find it without using Google's I'm feeling lucky button. Patriotism, real patriotism, isn't something you can shrink wrap, slap on a t-shirt, and sell beside a grill of discount hot dogs. It isn't a business plan reverse-engineered from a slogan or a cult of personality. Out on the highway in Sho Low sits a monument to mediocrity pretending to be a movement, the Trump Store, a roadside shrine to grievance, run by a self-anointed tough guy who confuses volume with valor and commerce with conviction. He struts around in cargo shorts and counterfeit courage, a keyboard warrior in retail cosplay, preaching America first, while stocking shelves with flags made, ironically and predictably, in China. His business model begins and ends with one name, one logo, one idol Trump. Everything else, including thought, is optional. This is patriotism repackaged as personality cult, capitalism wrapped in camouflage, the theology of the uninformed. He sells fury by the bumper sticker, performs toughness for tourists, and calls it conviction, proof that in America, even delusion can turn a profit if you print it in red, white, and blue. The founders didn't pledge their lives so a strip mall strongman could monetize their revolution. They built a republic for thinkers, not mascots, for citizens, not brand ambassadors, because real patriots don't need a costume, a slogan, or a clearance rack. They don't worship men, they uphold principles, and they understand that freedom isn't found in a cash drawer. It's kept in a conscience. To my colleagues in government, remember your oath. It wasn't a photo op, it was a covenant. The Constitution is not a suggestion. It's not an accessory to ideology. It is the operating manual of the republic. And every shutdown is a page you've refused to read. And to the citizens, yeah, the real stewards of this nation, don't settle for slogans. Demand substance. Demand leaders who can explain Article I before they exploit it. Demand budgets written in ink, not excuses written in air. Because the republic doesn't collapse when enemies attack from without. It collapses when apathy attacks from within. I've served in combat and I've served in the Arizona House of Representatives. One battlefield demanded courage, the other demanded an almost monastic patience. But both taught me an immutable truth. Discipline is destiny. Whether you're holding a rifle or a gavel, the principle remains constant. Abandon discipline and you surrender the mission. They scream slogans now instead of solutions. America first, anti-fascist, save democracy. Each one shouted like an incantation meant to summon legitimacy out of thin air. The irony, of course, is that the volume of conviction has inversely tracked with the presence of character. In Washington, patriotism has become a brand and outrage a marketing strategy. Those who refuse to kiss the ring, any ring, are instantly excommunicated, labeled traitors to the tribe, ideological heretics unfit for the next photo op. Labels have replaced logic, extremist, radical, socialist, rhino. The dictionary of division grows thicker than the budget it distracts from. Partisans fling names like confetti, and each new insult buys them another appearance on cable news. The result is a capital city starved of the only currencies that ever held value here. Political courage, honor, duty, and integrity. Courage to tell the truth when it's inconvenient. Honor to stand by principle when the poll numbers collapse. Duty to the Constitution rather than to the algorithm. Integrity, the rarest commodity of all, in a town that mistakes loyalty for virtue and echo chambers for evidence. If Madison could hear this circus, he'd probably draft a new amendment requiring leaders to think before tweeting. And Franklin, he'd raise a glass, smirk, and say, they're still free to embarrass themselves, so technically liberty survives. Real discipline doesn't trend on social media. It doesn't require a hashtag or a flag-shaped shirt made overseas. It's the quiet, uncomfortable work of thinking before speaking, of reading before reacting, of governing rather than gesturing. I've met people who can quote the Second Amendment flawlessly but couldn't identify the first if it walked up and introduced itself. They confuse volume with virtue, decibels with depth, and think conviction is measured by how many people they've yelled at online before breakfast. Discipline is not about noise, it's about nobility of purpose. It's the distinction between serving your country and auditioning for a reality show about serving your country. And when you lose that discipline, and whether on the battlefield or the house floor, you don't just fail your mission, you forfeit your moral authority. So, yes, I've seen both wars, the one fought with weapons and the one fought with egos. And I can tell you the first was dangerous, but the second, the second is existential. The Constitution was our mission, and it still is. It's not a relic to admire, it's a responsibility to execute. Every clause, every comma was written to remind us that freedom isn't a feeling, it's a formula. We're not meant to worship the founders. We're meant to continue their work. And that work demands knowledge, sacrifice, and a willingness to rise above our worst instincts. Because when ignorance and arrogance unite, the Republic trembles. But when knowledge and virtue lead, it stands unshaken. So here's the truth: we don't need another revolution. We need a restoration of civic virtue, constitutional understanding, and moral seriousness. We need leaders who value principle over performance, and citizens who value study over slogans. And maybe, just maybe, the next time a fiscal storm hits, Congress will remember that the power of the purse is the power of the people, and that spending money you don't have on promises you can't keep is not patriotism. It's betrayal with a press release. Benjamin Franklin's voice still echoes through time. A republic if you can keep it. Well, keeping it doesn't mean shouting louder than your neighbor. It means reading longer than your phone battery lasts. It means voting with knowledge, not emotion. It means understanding that freedom is not free. It's invoiced annually, payable in discipline. And so, yes, a republic if you can fund it, if you can read it, if you can rise to its standards instead of sinking to your feed, because the constitution is not failing us. We are failing to live up to it. But failure in a free nation is never final unless we stop learning. And today we find ourselves at the disquieting intersection of constitutional impotence and fiscal spectacle, a place where the founder's blueprint meets modern bureaucracy and loses every round on points. Congress was given the most sacred and sobering power in a republic, the power of the purse, because the framers understood something timeless. Financial stewardship is not just political, it's moral. James Madison, that quiet genius of structure and restraint, said in Federalist Number 58 that this power may in fact be regarded as the most complete and effectual weapon with which any constitution can arm the immediate representatives of the people. That's not just prose, that's a battle order. The founders handed Congress a constitutional sword and said, use it to defend liberty, not to perform theater. But instead of warriors for accountability, we've got influencers with gavels. Congress has turned the power of the purse into the wallet of convenience. The Constitution gave them authority. Twitter gave them applause. Guess which one they chase? Let's start with the basics. Article 1, Section 7 of the Constitution, the origination clause. It reads, All bills for raising revenue shall originate in the House of Representatives, but the Senate may propose or concur with amendments as on other bills. That clause wasn't filler text. It was the founder's firewall between taxation and tyranny. They wanted the act of raising money to originate closest to the people. In the House, whose members face the voters every two years. That means every tax dollar, every spending measure, every fiscal decision is supposed to begin with the direct consent of the governed. Fast forward to 2025, and we've turned that clause into a historical footnote. Congress doesn't originate accountability anymore, it originates excuses. When Madison wrote that control of revenue was the most complete and effectual weapon of the people, he meant that fiscal restraint was how liberty defended itself. Today, that weapon's collecting dust in a committee drawer while members of Congress rehearse their next cable news soundbite. And that brings us to Article 1, Section 9, Clause 7 in the Appropriations Clause, the moral backbone of the Republic. No money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence of appropriations made by law, and a regular statement and account of the receipts and expenditures of all public money shall be published from time to time. 41 words that separate a constitutional republic from a monarchy. No president, no agency, no bureaucrat can legally spend a dollar unless Congress authorizes it by law. That's the check. That's the discipline. That's the covenant between the taxpayer and the state. Now let's talk about how that covenant is doing. According to the Office of Management and Budget, total federal outlays for fiscal 2025 are about$7 trillion, 23.3% of GDP, total receipts,$5.4 trillion, 17.9% of GDP. The deficit,$1.6 trillion. That means Congress is spending roughly$1.30 for every$1 it collects. Imagine a family running their household that way. Honey, we only made$5,400 this month, but don't worry, I put$7,000 on the national credit card. Jefferson would have fainted. Madison would have written another Federalist paper titled On the Folly of Fiscal Illiteracy. The founders called debt a public curse because they'd seen what debt does. It weakens nations from within. It enslaves future generations to the comfort of the current one. Jefferson said, it is incumbent on every generation to pay its own debts as it goes. Instead, we borrow from grandchildren we haven't met to fund programs we don't evaluate. And when Congress runs out of time, because of course it always does, it reaches for the magic words continuing resolution. That's political Latin for we didn't do our homework, but we'd like an extension. Every year, 12 regular appropriations bills are supposed to pass. Defense, transportation, health, education, and so on. Article 1 demands it. Transparency demands it. Reality demands it. But instead of deliberating, they roll everything into an omnibus bill, a 3,000-page monstrosity no one has read and everyone pretends to understand. They drop it at 2 a.m., pass it by 10 a.m., and hold a press conference by lunch. That's not legislating. That's legislative laundering. Let's call it what it is. Congress has replaced Article I with autopilot governance. The power of the purse has become the abdication of responsibility. It's fiscal performance art. Loud, emotional, utterly unconstitutional. Now humor me for a moment. Picture James Madison walking into a modern budget hearing. He takes a seat, adjusts his powdered wig, and asks, Gentlemen, how many appropriations bills have you passed this year? The chairman clears his throat and says, None, but we did rename a post office and hold six hearings about each other's tweets. Madison would blink twice, glance toward Franklin, and whisper, Are we sure this is the posterity we secured? Franklin would sip his wine and say, They're still free to embarrass themselves, James. So technically, liberty endures. Meanwhile, up in the gallery, Washington's ghost is probably shouting, appropriations! You're supposed to appropriate not appropriate time for selfies. That, my friends, is the state of governance in 2025. Congress has intelligence. It just lacks integrity. It has access to arithmetic, but no appetite for discipline. And somewhere between patriotism and performative outrage, we lost the constitutional plot. The budget process, when done right, is simple. Revenue bills originate in the House. Appropriations follow. OMB and CBO publish transparent accounts. The president signs but cannot spend unappropriated funds. That's the design. Deliberate, transparent, accountable. But what do we have instead? Continuing resolutions, omnibus bills, borrowing sprees dressed up as investments, and press releases masquerading as legislation. The founders gave us a republic built on law. We've turned it into a subscription service for dysfunction. And if you're wondering how we got here, it's simple. In combat, if you ignore your field manual, people die. In Congress, if you ignore your constitution, the republic decays. The principle is the same. Discipline saves lives, and discipline saves nations. The Constitution isn't a suggestion. It's the operating manual of freedom. Article I isn't optional homework. It's the mission statement. When members of Congress say the budget is complicated, what they really mean is accountability is inconvenient. And here's the part that stings. A state legislator in Arizona is constitutionally required to balance a budget every year. No continuing resolutions, no kicking cans, no excuses. We debate, we deliberate, we compromise, and then brace yourself, we actually pass it. If we can do that in the desert with limited staff and fewer lobbyists, then the United States Congress with 535 members and a$7 trillion checkbook has no excuse. But Washington doesn't run on discipline anymore. It runs on dopamine. Every tweet, every outrage cycle, every grandstanding hearing is designed to raise profiles, not revenues. Congress doesn't legislate. It live streams. The founders anticipated passion, but they expected reason to moderate it. Madison wrote in Federalist No. 10 that faction was the disease of republics. But he also believed education was the cure. He didn't foresee cable news or social media, but he understood what happens when emotion replaces intellect. And that's exactly where we are. Outrage is currency, ignorance is brand identity. We celebrate people who speak their mind even when their minds need subtitles. Look, I'm all for plain talk, but plain talk without plain understanding is just noise. The Constitution expects literacy, not loyalty. It assumes readers, not retweeters. Every time Congress misses a deadline, every time it punts a responsibility, every time it hides behind a continuing resolution, it teaches citizens that dysfunction is normal. And once dysfunction becomes normal, tyranny becomes easy to rationalize. Congress is supposed to pass a concurrent budget resolution by April 15th. Twelve appropriations bills must be enacted by October 1st, the start of the fiscal year. You know how many times they've hit that mark in the past quarter century? Zero. Not once. Instead, they legislate by emergency, governing through crisis to avoid accountability. It's political arson followed by self-congratulation for calling the fire department. Jefferson warned that public debt would enslave posterity. Franklin said, a republic if you can keep it. Madison insisted that no nation could preserve its freedom in the midst of continual warfare, fiscal warfare included. They weren't just drafting history, they were predicting our headlines. We don't have a revenue problem. We have a responsibility problem. Congress collects enough to fund the core functions of government. What it lacks is the courage to say no, courage to reform, courage to prioritize, courage to stop treating every spending bill as a campaign commercial. Now, humor aside, and believe me, some of this is comedy gold, this is deadly serious because when Congress fails to do its constitutional duty, it doesn't just inconvenience federal workers or delay passports. It weakens the Republic itself. Every soldier who's ever waited for a paycheck during a shutdown, every veteran whose claim gets delayed, every small business whose loan stalls, those aren't statistics. They're casualties of legislative vanity. In Federalist number 51, Madison wrote that ambition must be made to counteract ambition. What he didn't foresee was ambition replacing ambition. Members competing not to legislate better, but to perform louder. The C-SPAN floor has become open mic night for outrage, and the Constitution is the background decor. And yet, despite all this, the framework still works. That's the miracle. The system is resilient. The parchment holds. What's failing isn't the Constitution. It's Congress's willingness to operate within it. Let's test that for a moment. Article 1, Section 9, Clause 7. No money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence of appropriations made by law. If Congress passes another continuing resolution without debating appropriations line by line, is that consequence of law or consequence of laziness? If you're a member of Congress listening right now, here's your reality check. Article one doesn't give you an escape clause. The appropriations clause isn't optional. You can't Instagram your oath. You can't tweet your way through duty. When I raised my hand and swore to uphold the Constitution, I didn't swear to a party, a personality, or a platform. I swore to a principle that power must serve the people, not itself. In uniform, when command fails, people die. In Congress, when command fails, the republic bleeds. Different battlefield, same consequence. And yet hope isn't lost because the Constitution, like the Republic it built, was designed to survive mediocrity. It can outlast incompetence. What it can't outlast is apathy. Franklin warned a republic, if you can keep it, keeping it doesn't mean shouting louder or fundraising faster. It means reading the text, respecting the limits, and remembering why Article I exists in the first place. If you're listening to this and you've never read the Constitution cover to cover, start tonight, it's 4,543 words. That's shorter than most political speeches and infinitely more honest. Because here's the truth a republic doesn't die from outside attack, it decays from internal neglect. So do the men and women in Congress stop performing and start legislating, pass the 12 appropriations bills, respect the origination clause, obey the appropriations clause, publish the receipts and expenditures from time to time as the Constitution commands. You don't need another continuing resolution, you need continuing education to the citizens. Demand better. Don't settle for slogans. Don't confuse volume with virtue. The founders didn't bleed for partisanship. They bled for principle. The Constitution doesn't need defenders who shout. It needs readers who understand. Because at the end of the day, the Republic isn't maintained by politicians, it's maintained by the people, the informed, engaged, disciplined people who refuse to outsource their responsibility to the loudest voice in the room. And if Congress won't do its job, then it's up to us to remind them firmly, factually, and constitutionally that power in this republic flows upward from the governed, not downward from the grandstanding. So, yes, Madison's warning still stands, Franklin's prophecy still echoes, Jefferson's conscience still speaks, and Article I still reigns if we choose to enforce it, because the Constitution isn't failing us, we're failing to live up to it. But failure in a free nation is never final unless we stop learning. So let's learn. Let's read, let's keep the republic, and this time let's fund it. Before I close out today's episode, let me tell you where you can find the Walt Blackman Show. You can listen to me on every major podcast platform: Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, YouTube, Podcast Addict, and Player FM. Or if you want to go straight to the source, visit my main channel at the Walt Blackman Show.buzzsprout.com. That's where you'll find all my latest episodes, archives, and updates on what's coming next. Follow the show, hit that subscribe button, and share it with your friends, family, and anyone who still believes that facts, faith, and the Constitution matter. Leave a review, let me know what you think, and help me keep building a platform where truth isn't filtered, freedom isn't optional, and courage still has a voice. I'm Walt Blackman, and this is the Walt Blackman Show. Until next time, keep the faith, keep your integrity, and keep the Republic.

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Disclosure. This program was produced with the assistance of technology authorized under the Americans with Disabilities Act 42 USC section 12101, supporting combat veterans with service-connected injuries. Walt Blackman sustained a traumatic brain injury from an improvised explosive device while serving in combat. The use of adaptive technology enables him to continue his mission with clarity, duty, and honor. His message remains grounded in integrity, service, and his oath to the Constitution of the United States.