Horsepower & Free Markets With CAO BX3

Enjoying the CAO BX3 at the annual Myrtle Beach Run to the Sun Car and Truck Show.  Drinking from a Red Plastic Cup.  Beautiful weather....

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:15

Broadcasting from the sun-drenched asphalt paradise of the Run to the Sun car and truck show here in Little Beach, where the chrome is brighter than most political promises, and unlike those promises, it actually reflects reality. I've got a cold domestic lager sweating in a big red plastic cup, classy, timeless, and economically efficient. No unnecessary frills, no government subsidy required, just barley, hops, and freedom. And in hand, today's co-host, the CAO BX3 from CAO Cigars, a bold box pressed beauty wrapped in Brazilian brilliance, because apparently, even cigars understand diversification better than most central planners. Opening draw, a constitutionally protected pleasure, first light, and there it is. A little cocoa, a well-balanced budget, except this actually exists. I'm walking past a row of 57 Chevies that look like they drove just drove out of a time when people solve problems with wrenches instead of committees. The engines gleam, the owners beam, and nobody here is asking for permission to enjoy themselves, which is refreshing. In an era where fun often comes with regulatory disclaimers. A guy in a folding chair nods at me and raises his beer. That's the unofficial handshake of liberty right here. There's something deeply American about this scene. You've got thousands of people gathered voluntarily, no mandates, no participation guidelines, just mutual interest and shared passion. You want to talk about spontaneous order? Forget textbooks. This is it. No central authority told these folks how to restore a 69 Camaro. No bureaucrat designed the flame paint job that's so filled with neon and blues and oranges, and yet everything works beautifully. Funny how that happens when people are just left alone. Meanwhile, I pass a truck so lifted it could file for its own zip code. The owner proudly explains the custom suspension, the engine swap, the hours poured into it, no government grant, no infrastructure bill, just time, skill, and probably a few arguments with a socket wrench. It kind of looks like a truck stuck on top of giant tires. That, my friends, is the free market at work with better aesthetics. About a third into the CAO BX3, and it's settling into kind of a groove, the peppers mellowing chocolate notes. They're stepping forward with a little bit of nuttiness creeping in. Kind of like a think tank after two glasses of bourbon. It's it's really nice, and the burn line as straight as a libertarian's answer to should the government do that. Draw effortless. Unlike filing taxes. I take a sip of the lager, crisp, simple, honest, the kind of beer that doesn't try to lecture you about its origin story or its emotional journey. It just shows up and does its job. There's a lesson in that somewhere. One of the best parts about these events are the people. Total strangers striking up conversations like old friends, no tribalism, no algorithm feeding outrage, just hey man, nice ride. I get pulled into a conversation about carburetors by a guy named Dale, who looks like he's been tuning engines since before I was born. He explains the air-to-fuel ratios with more clarity than most politicians explain, well, anything. Especially nowadays. We laugh, we debate, nobody storms off, nobody calls anyone fascist. It's almost like civil discourse is possible when not monetized. You ever notice how none of these cars would pass modern regulatory scrutiny? Half of them would get flagged, defined, and possibly emotionally evaluated. Too loud, too fast, too fun. If these vehicles had to go through today's approval process, we'd still be riding horses, and even those would require permits. Excuse me, sir. Is that naturally aspirated stallion? We're gonna need in emissions data. There's no moment here walking between the rows of polished steel and roaring engines where it hits you. This is what freedom looks like in practice. People creating, trading, restoring, enjoying without needing a 400-page manual on how to do it. No one here is asking for control. They're just exercising it. And that is the difference. The crowd is exactly what you want it to be: laughing, relaxed, sun soaked. You've got retirees, families, gearheads, a few folks who look like they accidentally wandered in and decided to stay. Everyone's gotta drink a story or both. And let's be honest, there's something magical about a large red plastic cup, the great equalizer. It doesn't matter if you're drinking top shelf IPA or budget lager, it all looks like the same in that cup. Kind of like how Liberty doesn't care about your status, it just works. Now the cigar is hitting its stride now, richer, deeper, a little more intensity, like a debate that's finally getting interesting without evolving into nonsense. The flavors are layered but not pretentious, it knows what it is, and it doesn't apologize for it. There's a lesson there too. The ash holds strong like a well-defined principle. I tap it gently, watching it fall onto the pavement. A small reminder of all things, even at the best smokes, eventually come to an end. Unlike government programs. As the sun dips a little lower and the shadows stretch across the rows of vintage metal, I take one last slow draw. Events like this remind you that freedom isn't some abstract theory, it's tangible. It smells like gasoline and cigar smoke. It sounds like reviving engines and easy laughter. It looks like people choosing, building, sharing. No mandates, no micromanagement, just life. And maybe that's the whole point. Not perfection, not control, but just the space to exist, create, and enjoy, preferably with a good cigar and a cold drink in hand. So until next time, keep your ash long, your government small, and your engines loud. This has been a final episode of Liberty on Nicotine.

SPEAKER_01 7:37

I strike the match on the spine of the stage. What it's burned, what it's a day, every month on the eye. Freedom from Gold Flag! Every fucking revolution, every flag constitution! Ladies of the smoke of the free color season, which is the shit Laddy Snow.