Let’s say you’re tribesman in an ancient tribe. Morning! Crawl out of your bed made of rocks and squirrel pelts and greet the new day. Men are men and gather around the fire to drink beer out of ram’s horns and discuss the problems of the world while the women do most of the work. After a few days when boredom sets in and you grow tired of another meal of the gals’ flat-bread breakfast cakes, for which they grew the grain and threshed it and ground it and baked it, you say “this AGAIN?” One of the guys looks up and announces “Let’s go kill a mastodon!” Now you’re talking.
Life as it was meant to be. Weapons are gathered, and face paint applied, in a masculine sort of way, of course. Somebody draws a hunting scene on the cave wall and creates uncertainty in the group about his gender orientation, and fearfulness that he will apply for an arts grant. Whatever. Off you go. Adventure! The open road! Except there are no roads and you end up crashing through thickets and brambles and WHERE ARE ALL THE FREAKING MASTODONS?? Oh, yeah, we killed all those off and we’ll have to settle for a geriatric antelope and a couple of slow rabbits. You get back to camp and divide up the spoils and have a feast. Not too bad, all in all.
What is wrong with this picture? Everything! Because one of your fellow tribesmen found a copy of a libertarian political handbook in the shrubbery that says a group of people has no right to decide how to share the wealth of the group and it’s socialism and theft of the antelope that only one of the hunters actually killed. Is there a moral to the story? Lots of them. The end.