A whole lot of the murders in this country are perpetrated by someone the victim knew. So many that early in a homicide investigation the detectives will start with friends and family of the victim. And . . . that’s all I’m going to say about that. I want to talk about David. He is Ophie’s Dad. David (Dave to his friends) Teale is impressive. He is also a lost man. After graduating from Richmond’s St. Catherine’s, then Naval Academy, then BUDS graduate, worked in Signal Intelligence on an AEGIS Destroyer during the first Gulf War, then as a classified liaison to SAIC until he retired O-5 with twenty-five years active duty.
Fun fact: at some DARPA labs we have developers creating malware. Dave’s role at SAIC was contract oversight on some of these tech warfare projects. Some of these escape the labs and find their way into the wild. Dave’s connection to Inger is through Ophie as well as being friends with her Mom & Dad.
One thing kept carefully housed at SAIC was a series of experiments in powering desktop pc monitors through induction. The idea was to send a signal aimed at a powered-down monitor such that it would display an image even though it wasn’t connected to the building electrical service. This was so that psyops attacks could be done against our enemies. SAIC pursued it for a few years because Dave wanted it to work. Then brass got wind of it and killed it as unnecessary. Dave, though, kept working on it.
Mayhaps Wetback, Mayhaps a Lost Man
Another fun fact: many of the better special operators look like wetbacks. Dark brown, nearly black, straight hair, full-bearded, short, and stocky. Dave is 5’6″, 156 lbs, black hair, brown eyes, brown-skinned, and in his late forties. He was often mistaken for a local on his deployments to Iraq, Afghanistan, and Turkey. He is a seven-time graduate of the Defense Language Institute with fluency in Arabic, Turkish, Pashto, Afghani, French, Russian, and English.
More curriculum vitae: For grins, he completed sniper training as a Navy SEAL. Oh, and he is certified as a combat medic and civilian paramedic. He volunteered with the Tuckahoe Rescue Squad for a few years after retiring from the Navy. As I said, he is a warrior at home.
Great stuff, no? Enough to retire to a Pop-Pop chair and binge-watch your way through the entire Netflix catalog. For most of us, yes. Dave and his fellow retired SEALS? Ever met a retired Navy SEAL? I have. OMG, the drive of this guy. I’ve met Dave a couple of times when he was helping Inger with some of Charlie’s stuff at the Stuart Street house. Dave still has that warrior drive. Dave will relax when Death kindly stops for him.
Street Life, Safe Life
So . . . where is Dave? Good question. Nobody in Inger’s circle of influence really knows. Anne (Annie), Ophie’s Mom, divorced him because he disappeared and left her unable to manage the house. She had the worst time paying the mortgage and property taxes without him. So she filed for divorce and petitioned to get the house. The judge awarded her the house and his 1949 Bug. She has a VA Pension and her own money so that isn’t a concern.
Right around the time Inger freaked out and accused a coworker of rape Ophie got a text message from her Dad. They chatted for a bit. He said he’d met someone who filled his heart with joy and pushed aside all the dark shit he normally lived with. A few days later he was his usual, pissed-off self, saying the girl had left and she was a cunt anyway so good riddance. tbh, Ophie wanted her Dad to come home. McGuire has a program for homeless vets. He could get help.
David Teale has been to all the programs, done all the classes, and even accepted the gift of an apartment donated by CARITAS. He was game for a while but after a few months, I’d see him again at Lombardy and West Broad with a cardboard sign asking for spare change. Dave lives outside in camps he builds for himself. There is a parade of well-meaning Christians and social workers and so on that have tried to get him to stay on track. It never lasts.
Hiding in Plain Sight
Ophie managed to figure out that his phone was near a homeless camp in Santa Clara, CA, while Inger had her breakdown and went off the radar. She tried asking Inger about that summer when she was out of contact. Inger won’t talk about it. Ophie wondered if maybe Dave and Inger met up in Santa Clara. It’s crazy to think that Inger could be the girl her Dad was talking about. I mean… Lolita… eww!
Then there is all the weirdness with Inger’s electronics on Stuart Street. Charlie denies profusely that he had anything to do with the messages that kept showing up on Inger’s TV, her laptop, her phone, and the monitor she used with her laptop. Messages would display even when everything was powered off.
The big reason why Inger bought the bungalow on 16th Street is that it was an 80-year-old house from tobacco’s heyday in Richmond. Period plumbing and wiring from post-WWII. She felt safe that this crappy old house couldn’t be hacked. It’s a bungalow very similar to mine. I can understand her feeling that both houses are too old and thus, safer.
Once a Good Dad, Now a Lost Man
Guys like Dave are hard to understand. Why not accept the help? The war is over but Dave still fights an unseen war with the nightmares he brought home. His bedevilment is what drives him from place to place. It’s a familiar wish, that the new city won’t have the same demons he tried to leave in the last place he made camp. Yet, those demons follow him. The echoes of war still serenade him with terrible music.
It is that music. The music in his head is what tortures him. You and I hear normal urban sounds. Dave hears weapons fire and screams from those that got hit. It is still Fallujah, 2004. He has medication from the VA that he doesn’t take. Why? It makes him foggy instead of froggy.
Answers. Not yet. Dave is still drifting. One of the hard things about addiction and mental illness is that we can’t do much until the addict or crazy person surrenders. They have to take that first step, admit that they have a problem, and are powerless against it. Dave is a highly trained warrior. He doesn’t surrender.
So Ophie will hear from her Dad again. He’ll be in some other, warmer weather city, either ecstatic or morose. When he’s ecstatic he’s ready to take on the world and master it. The other mood, morose, is what it sounds like. God is only, personally pissing on Dave. Nobody else gets this treatment from God. Nobody understands the pain he is in. You maybe don’t know Dave but I’d guess you have someone like him within your circle of influence. If so, sorry. It’s not fun.
I’m home, out of almost everything, with nothing left but faith. Do what? The only thing left to do is pray. Between now and July 5th bills come due for electricity, water, sewer, trash, rent, a car payment, and car insurance that was canceled for non-payment. This is a repeating cycle for me. When it’s bad it’s every few days. When things are better it’s every few months. The first time was third grade in 1967.
His name was Eric. He lived down the street in a brick rancher. Eric and his friends were my bullies. Three times a day I had to figure out how to subvert their plans to beat me up–walking to school, at recess, and walking home. Recess was the hardest because there wasn’t any place to hide. To and from school I changed up my route home so that I was never where they thought I’d be.
Today, I have this to say about bullies. They are afraid of their victims. The answer for victims is to defeat the bully by exploiting the bully’s fear. Best case the bully’s desire for aggression can be defeated and there is never a fight. Some aggressors, though, insist on getting their ass beat. It ain’t right and there will be punishment, but I can understand a victim choosing to accommodate the bully’s ask.
This Door Closed
As I write this I have no income. Uber deactivated my account in early June because of an accusation that I asked for sex from a passenger. Uber’s adjudication process does not allow them to reveal identifiable detail of an accusation. Their Trust and Safety team is very careful not to give out details that would make doxing of a victim possible.
I got into a dispute with three passengers. The issue was whether I would stop at a store on the way. Lately, I refuse to make multiple-stop trips. I pick you up, I take you to the destination, done. These three were not having this. We argued for a few minutes. I told them their choice was to get out or ride with me to my house. At first, the guy wanted to ride to my house. Then they decided I was kidnapping them. So I pulled into a gas station to let them out. Two of them got out and a third decided to stay in the car. She would not leave.
The argument continued for a few more minutes. The guy started threatening to beat me up. I remember him approaching me. There is a gap in my memory after that. The next thing I remember is driving alone down Williamsburg Road towards my house. I had a split lip, skinned knees, and a sore shoulder. So much for de-escalation.
No Visible Open Doors
That was almost a month ago. I had a little cash on hand. The rental car I had so that I could work was due for contract renewal. It’s a rental through Uber so without an Uber account I can’t rent the car. I returned the car last week. I’m still waiting for a status on my background check.
Let’s say Lyft clears my background and I am eligible to drive. I don’t have the $450.00 I need to rent a car for the first week. My Subaru? It has body damage which disqualifies it for TNC work. It also burns oil–a lot of oil. TNC work would kill it. Third, GEICO and Progressive both said they would not insure the Subaru for TNC work. I’m good with that.
Nothing Left But Faith So Trust and Obey
Whack-A-Puter? My old trade? Getting hired takes time. Getting paid takes a couple of weeks beyond the hire date. It’s 6/22/2021 as I write this. I have 13 days to pay the electric bill, utility bill, rent, car payment, and car insurance that was canceled for non-payment. Were I hired today my first check would come too late. I know, “nothing beats a failure but a try.”
What about money due from my Dad’s estate? That’s such a frustrating thing. My Dad passed away on 12/5/2019. That’s about a year and a half ago. Linda is the executrix of my Dad’s estate. She closed out his retirement accounts and some annuities. These paid me about $30k. Then she sold the house. It is money from the sale of our house that I am waiting for. That windfall would go a long way to getting my ass out of yet another sling. What’s up with it? I don’t know. Linda has been mute for 19 months.
For my sanity, about a year ago, I decided to act as if the money was not coming and I had to make it work on my own. “Only desire Christ” was the motto behind the choice. It’s a great motto while it isn’t seriously tested. Times like now? Ouch. Yes, I desire Christ. I also desire not to face eviction in a few weeks.
Whistling in Darkness
And I was doing ok until almost a month ago. I can heal from a split lip. Losing my sole source of income? That still hurts. This morning there was $12.00 available in my checking account. I’m able to add $80.00 to that by cashing out what’s left of the IRA I got from my Dad. $92.00 to take care of me until . . . who knows?
In a crisis, my mode is to throw everything at the wall and see what sticks. I keep asking myself, “have I done everything possible to get through this?” If not, there is more to do. I started this piece yesterday. There were two things left to do: beg my sister for the rest of the money from my Dad’s estate and pull any available cash into my checking account. Both tasks are complete. There is nothing left but faith.
Faith is nuts. Faith is trusting God to take care of us, Hebrews 11:1, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Also, Jeremiah 29:11, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” An unseen entity we can’t prove exists, known from a 2700-year-old collection of religious texts, tells us in Isaiah 50:10, “Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the voice of his servant? Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.“. Crazy.
Crazy, yes. So much of following Christ is absurd. It’s not rational. The logic is circular. Yet in 300 years of searching for empirical answers, some questions remain unanswered. Instead, Science has had to admit that some answers are mystical. Some answers require faith.
I’ve got nothing left but faith. This isn’t natural for me. Engineer father, social worker mother. I was taught that there is an empirical answer. I just need a plan to execute. Stay still, pray and have faith? That’s absurd. This feels like a moment when absurd is the answer.
There is no plan. I’m שבעה יושבת (sitting shiva). Hope comes from remembering that over 50 years I’ve been here before. Each time I go through this I come through it ok. Sort of. Ok has meant jail time, time living in a shelter, and nights sleeping in my car. Every time things have to get bad enough before it gets better. My favorite example is the Darlene story. My miracle came from a recovering crack addict who managed her money better than me.
I hope the story remains consistent. Being idle this long has me filled with doubt. I wonder if the vision for myself and my company is what God envisions for me. Maybe I am retired and don’t know it. If I am retired, what are my vision, mission, and purpose? This week I am back on pace with almost one post per day in this space. On my art table is an unfinished painting Left with time on my hands I started writing and painting. Whether this is God’s vision for me is up for grabs. It is my thing I go to when progress on everything else is stalled. Art doesn’t pay well so if I am retired I still need income. Not knowing how I’ll maintain what I have provokes anxiety.
The anxiety is strong. My fears and failures are showing me the night I spent on a bus bench waiting to ride home. The thing about that night is that I could have walked home. The walk would have been miserable. Sleeping on a bus bench was miserable. I chose bus bench misery. Thinking back, walking would have been better.
If there is a lesson in this piece it is this: faith and works go together. Moldering on a couch binge-watching Netflix awash in self-pity can’t last forever. Yes, pray, trust, and obey. Also, take care of yourself. Do the little needful things that need doing. Keep looking for things to throw at the wall and see if they stick. Something will come together and bring you (me) to the sunrise side of your present misery.
Ophelia-Teale Tailiafero aka Madam Teale was born in 1988 to old Virginia money. Her parents, Calvin Taliafero and Iris Rolfe invested in Microsoft and Apple when both companies were small. They also bought income property in NVA before DC encroached on Fairfax County. Quickly, nobody but her Mom ever calls her by her given name. Everybody knows her as Ophie.
Another thing to get out of the way. Ophie’s genealogy is curious. She did a DNA test through Ancestry. She’s mostly Nottaway with Scotts Irish/Dutch/French the next major component and a bit of Igbo from an elopement by her great grandmother. I don’t typically describe a female character’s appearance. A woman’s physique has very little to do with whether she can entertain for 1500 words. Ophie’s, though, is worth describing.
Born This Way
Ophie isn’t much of a looker just out of bed. Post putting her face on, though, and she gets those looks. She shops in Paris twice a year. She usually wears jeans, boots, some sort of close-fitting blouse, a serape, and a hat, all from Paris designers. Wears jewelry, most of it Navaho, and made by a guy she met during Fashion Week. Straight-haired brunette, 5’3″, 116lbs, 34C, blue eyes, olive-skinned from her Igbo and Nottaway ancestors. Most of the time her hair is dyed purple or pink or both.
The Inger connection: Inger and Ophelia are childhood friends. Ophie’s juvenile record involves shoplifting from NVA boutiques and various traffic violations. A Family Court Judge and friend of her Mom set her straight. Inger’s is longer with her incident at Black Hand Coffee being the most recent.
Ophie graduated from St. Catherine’s k-12, has a BA in Classical Studies from William & Mary, and an incomplete law degree from Swarthmore. Swarthmore’s bad attitude towards old money pissed her off. Still, don’t debate Ophie. She still studies on her own after completing her Certificate in Paralegal Studies at UofR. She also has an Associates’s Degree from Liberty University in Apologetics. You . . . believing your sausage gives you brilliance missing from her clam, will get owned.
Ixnay Boogaloo Couch Slugs
Charlie, of this space, had the hots for her and was sure the cure for Ophie was to be barefoot, wear an apron, and knocked up. He told *everyone* that she was stupid, needed a man to bring her to heel and that they would be married in 3 years. All before the first date. That date is worth 5,000 words. It’s enough to say that Charlie woke up in the drunk tank in a restraint chair. That went well.
Madam Teale has enough net worth that employment is an option. Two of the proffered narratives for women—career/super Mom or Wife/Mom are not for her. Mom? Maybe. But within her circle of influence are far too many Charlies. The good guys are either married or gay. She’s dated too many who become deaf and dumb when the bar tab arrives, leave the toilet seat up, don’t clean after themselves, and get petulant in the morning when breakfast isn’t a given.
Ophie is a member of St. Bridgettes. She grew up in this church. Like many, from High School graduation through her mid-twenties she told everyone she was agnostic. Ophie couldn’t shake a feeling that her social justice friends didn’t really accept her. She was too bougie. It didn’t matter that her charitable giving put her in leadership positions. Nor was her broad nose, high cheekbones, and light brown skin any help. She had privilege and this put her in a caste that the woke resented. So one by one, the organizations she supported strongly suggested she take her racism and privilege elsewhere.
No Place Like Home
This upset her. Ophelia wants to be liked, obvi. Her social justice friends would talk long and loud about inclusion and diversity yet when met with doubt would shout her down and insist she was an FBI informant. She met with Monsignor Carr because the church she rejected was more welcoming than the social justice groups she supported. Fr. Carr’s answer was simple: come home and we’ll work out the rest. That was 1996. Since then she’s discovered apologetics and priests who get a big happy grin when she starts asking questions about Revelations.
One more thing. When Ophelia left her board seats and took her money the social justice organizations she supported devolved into vicious bickering and self-destruction. Turns out the lack of other people’s money exposed the ugly underbelly of these organizations and led to their closing.
Since then Ophelia has volunteered at the Housing Resource Center and CARITAS. She does volunteer paralegal work and is a Stephen’s Minister. Her Mom is a Junior Leaguer as is Ophie. Madam Teale/Ophelia and Noelle also do spa days for the women in CARITAS. Social Media? Canceled. Being Catholic and Pro-Life is a problem.
Let’s talk about Madam Teale and Inger’s Finger. Where Ophie is all the expected things of her upbringing Inger isn’t. Inger’s answer to her privilege is to fight. Fight whom? Anybody. Inger also believes in her core that people should follow the law. Ophie’s place is within the Catholic Church working with it to help those who need it. Inger keeps hearing the siren call of the street. She likes being in the mix and solving crimes. Inger is also one of the star-crossed who seems to attract attention from the cops. They are childhood friends so when Inger gets caught she calls Ophie.
Rainy Day Friends
Ophie is also where Inger disappears to when 16th Street, Stuart Street, and Paradise are too hot. It’s good. Ophie is a customer of Jennifer Stoner Interiors, the same company that did Inger’s Stuart Street home. The house is a 4 bedroom, 3 bath rancher on East Old Gunn Road with a view of the James River. It was built in 1963 by her Grandpa on her Dad’s side. Ophie got it as a gift on her 18th birthday. She didn’t live in it for a few years while she traveled with Inger to various protests and concerts around the country.
Inger can decompress at Ophie’s. This is where Madame Teale enters Inger’s Finger. The post titled Tucker is a chapter in the embedded serial novel on this blog titled, “Inger’s Finger”. I have Inger staying at 16th Street in that post. 16th Street is only one of three places Inger lives at. Her room with Ophie has some of the forensic lab equipment Inger bought. Think steampunk and NCIS New Orleans done by a professional decorator.
Breakfast at Ophies
Ophie’s kitchen is mid-century modern. The appliances all appear to be late 1950’s. Formica countertops and matching dining set. Tile floors that look like the old asbestos tiles but are low VOC organic composites. Open doors and the guts of all of it are modern, “How are you?” Inger, “Medicated. Sort of foggy.” “I guess that’s better than bouncing between the Justice Center and Tucker.” “Yeah. Tucker is kind of ok. I saw Neesha there.” “How is she?” “Surprisingly well. She’s got a little thing going bartering feminine sanitary supplies and underwear.” “Nice. When does she get out?” “I don’t know. It’s a medical sentence so it depends on what the doctors say about her ability to stand trial. Anyway, she kind of likes it at Tucker so it might be a while.”
“I’ll pray for her.” “She’s not feeling Jesus these days.” “That’s ok. I do and that’s enough.” Inger smiles, “Hey, is there any blueberry cobbler left?” “Yeah. Want coffee? I can start some.” “That’d be great.” “Have you eaten yet?” “Not really. Got anything good?” “Leftover breakfast tacos from Tio Pablo.” “I love that.” “Well, there you go. Coffee beans are in their usual place with the pour-over carafe and mugs. Help yourself.” “Thanks. Are you working today?” “Yeah, and it’s getting late. I gotta go.” “Ok, don’t work too hard.”
It’s Monday as I write this. Ophelia’s gig with CARITAS is an 8-5, M-F thing. The need for paralegals among the less fortunate far outstrips the available resources. There is no shortage of work for Ophelia, “Hey, I gotta go. Feel free to stick around as long as you need.” “Thanks. I want to look at some prints I lifted from the abandoned Cadillac.” “Cool. Take it easy.” “You too.” Ophelia gathered her things and headed to the garage. She got into her XT5 and headed to CARITAS. Inger set about cleaning up breakfast and headed to her room.
Some say Jesus is a Socialist. I say no. If anything, Jesus was an anarchist. Lumping Jesus with Socialism bugs the crap out of me. So I wrote this. It all hangs on one verse: Acts 2:45. I’ve listed 5 of the 18 related verses below. Next, this post is a bit of a heavy lift. It’s worth making a spot of tea before reading all of it. I’ll not make you wait for the four things that I can’t stomach from those who want Jesus to be a Socialist. And no, this isn’t one of those list posts. I don’t like those either. These are my four: collective condemnation, the absence of mercy, idolatry of the law instead of God, and buffet faith. There is more after I post related verses below the photo.
God Said . . .
Everyone around was in awe—all those wonders and signs done through the apostles! And all the believers lived in a wonderful harmony, holding everything in common. They sold whatever they owned and pooled their resources so that each person’s need was met.
1 John 3:16-17
16-17 This is how we’ve come to understand and experience love: Christ sacrificed his life for us. This is why we ought to live sacrificially for our fellow believers, and not just be out for ourselves. If you see some brother or sister in need and have the means to do something about it but turn a cold shoulder and do nothing, what happens to God’s love? It disappears. And you made it disappear.
1 Timothy 6:18-19
17-19 Tell those rich in this world’s wealth to quit being so full of themselves and so obsessed with money, which is here today and gone tomorrow. Tell them to go after God, who piles on all the riches we could ever manage—to do good, to be rich in helping others, to be extravagantly generous. If they do that, they’ll build a treasury that will last, gaining life that is truly life.
22 When Jesus heard that, he said, “Then there’s only one thing left to do: Sell everything you own and give it away to the poor. You will have riches in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
Mercy to the needy is a loan to God, and God pays back those loans in full
So Not Bougie, Seriously, Period, End of Story, I’m NOT Kidding, Literally NOT Bougie!! Jesus is a Socialist! Asshole!
Let’s start with collective condemnation. You’ll find apologists and preachers who say that Jesus saved us all from sin. We can’t do anything to prevent that or enact that. It’s all Him. Maybe. Salvation and discipleship are personal under the Reformed Tradition dating back to the 15th Century. Each of us is accountable to Christ for our sins. The rest is God’s business. Those that say Jesus is a Socialist don’t let go and let God. Instead, they nurture resentment for evil rich people and evil corporations.
Christian Socialists point a quivering finger of accusation at the wealthy and at corporations. Both of these are bougie and bougie folk need to come correct for Christian Socialists to be happy. They make an impossible demand–all bougie folk must come correct or Christian Socialists will keep screaming in protest.
Contrast that with the promises of Christ. I found at least 25 bible verses on Repentance. Show me where, in all that has been written by Socialist leaders, there are similar words. One example, Matthew 3:11 ESV, John says, “I baptize you with water for repentance, but he who is coming after me is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” Repentance and redemption are core values for us. It is a key promise that if we devote our lives to Christ he will redeem us from our sin. This isn’t collective salvation, though. It is individual salvation. Each of us has to surrender to Christ to gain redemption.
Better Times Infinity
Christian Socialists and some preachers share something. As good as we might be, we could be better. The preacher, on every Sunday, berates the congregation for their backslid and sinful ways. Lately, the fashy thing is to accuse bougie folk of two sins: sexual depravity and racism. As much as we do, as full of passion we perform our self-criticism, we are still sexually depraved racists. Because in ‘Merica, the accusation that our wealth comes to us by oppressing the poor doesn’t stir up enough strife. So the accusation of sex crimes and racism is fired at us.
Worship tends to be ugly in churches locked on to sin. It’s two hours of condemnation paired up with a demand that the sinners come to the pulpit to participate in an altar call. The congregation is stingy with its tithes. They don’t know the bible well enough. Their participation in music is lackluster. They dress funny. And gossip during the sermon. I’ve been to services like this. It’s not how I feel motivated to worship Christ.
We are never able to please a Christian Socialist. There is a perpetual demand for accountability and to do better. Two things: better is infinite. As good as we get at something, we could be better. The Dalai Lama, for all his brilliance, is still trying to improve his skill with Tibetan Buddhism. As for accountability . . . we have that. We have a civil and criminal court system in place to hold people accountable. But . . . a Christian Socialist will say that the system is racist. So the system has to change. It has to be better. Even though we have been making a more perfect union for 232 years that ain’t half bad.
I Love MY Law and Hate Your Law
Before I get into legalism I have this: we are accomplished and not accomplished at every moment of our lives. We grow into our gifts and over time, get good at them. Like the Dalai Lama, as good as we become we could be better. The Christian Socialist and that *&^%$ pastor castigate us because we fall short. Sure. Neither ever acknowledge that we also become awesome. Where we could be better we can work on that through Christ. That work is unending and because of grace, not a reason to condemn us.
Legalism: were that the law would be enough. It isn’t enough. This is a huge blind spot for any flavor of Socialism. The story arc of the Old Testament is that God’s people would come correct for a while. Then they’d drift away from God and get into trouble. Whereupon God would rescue them one more time.
This goes on until it becomes clear that an unbreakable loop across history took root. Something radical had to happen. Something crazy and absurd—Jesus.
The problem for legalism (Socialism is a legalist political philosophy) isn’t the majority that mostly behaves. It’s the intractable minority that just won’t get with the program. Nothing in recorded history has been able to cure their dissidence. We still have them and their crimes in spite of all the laws and social policies in place to prevent their criminality.
Go Fix Yourself
Here is my point: at the core of anything Socialist is a demand that we view the world with angry hearts. Christian Socialism demands that a category of people and organizations has to conform to their idea of fairness and justice. We have to be better so that they can be happy. This declaration is childish nonsense that can’t work.
Here is why it can’t work: there is no end to it. Like a victim of abuse attempting to placate the abuser, we try harder only to find that our Socialist abusers move the target. At first, it was a minimum wage. Did that. Then it was a bigger minimum wage. Done. Now through COVID-19 unemployment relief, the push is to guarantee a minimum income to every American citizen. Because it’s only fair.
One more. We are told that the problem with gun crime is the gun. So the answer is increasingly strict gun laws interfering with the lawful ownership of a gun. This has had two effects: criminal ownership of guns is increasing and gun violence in Democratic (Socialist) cities is getting worse. What’s the answer: instead of trying to get rid of guns, figure out how to change the behavior of criminals so that they get caught and jailed or stop committing crimes. The problem with guns isn’t the gun–it’s the asshole using the gun to commit a crime. But again, like an abuser, Socialist leaders can’t be satisfied. No matter how strict the gun laws are they circle back to the same mantra: “what we need are reasonable gun control laws.”
You Were Born Fucked
Next, let’s talk about Mercy. Socialism, even Democratic Christian Socialism, is the product of sadistic addicts. It does not countenance mercy. Instead, it takes sweeping swaths of classes of people and tags them as either bourgeoisie or proletariat. Like the Feudalism that is its grandmother, it shoves people into castes based on ancestry. I am a WASP. Critical Race Theory says I am racist. I will remain racist even after I die. In a caricature of collective grace, this label is given to me regardless of what I do to repent and redeem myself. No amount of self-criticism or kowtowing before a shrine to Mao is sufficient. I’m just white and thus, just fucked.
Why do this? To fix injustice, we are told. The cure to racism is . . . racism. An eye for an eye. Never is it considered that the evil isn’t in the bourgeoise. It is in the dark hearts of every Socialist. Their simmering resentment against racists (bourgeoise) is never completely soothed by revenge or vengeance. Instead, like an addiction, more vengeance eats more of the soul and generates an increased need for more vengeance. I know, some Socialists are like functional addicts in that they are constantly bargaining with the Devil over how much of their soul he will eat. This isn’t better.
And . . . Socialism’s promise to the proletariat is that it will remove their economic misery and make those bougie folk pay. That’d be nice. History has too many examples of Communists and Socialists who gain power and promptly enrich themselves and screw over the proletariat. A recent example? The leadership of BLM is wealthy from all the money thrown at them by well-meaning loyalists. Meanwhile, in Democratic/Socialist-controlled territory, the downtrodden remain screwed. They tell us this is better.
Nobody for President
Back to Christian Socialism. Community-controlled organizations aren’t better. It is still people that run them. Good people in leadership are nice but rare. The lack of good leadership complicates decision-making. It still doesn’t have an answer for troublemakers. Actually, troublemakers often find themselves in charge because all the nice people fade away.
Socialism also has no answer for cheaters. For Socialism to work there has to be perfect compliance. All X must be Y. Except that there is always a bit of X that isn’t Y and thus, makes a mess of it. Unless you surrender to the cross. Then the bit of X that isn’t Y can be worked with through grace.
What is witnessed in places where Socialism, even Christian Socialism or Democratic Socialism controls the majority of the populace is that corruption and cheating become necessary. The populace can’t acquire what they need through legitimate means. Instead, it is grey and black market capitalism that fulfills the needs of the populace. Evil magnified despite the best efforts of the Socialists. Or . . . individual salvation through Christ who died for us.
All for One or Their Will Be Punishment
Where Socialism insists on collective guilt, Reformed Christianity teaches that our faith and salvation are individual. Each of us can gain the promises of Christ through a personal confession of faith. Socialism, even Democratic Socialism or Christian Socialism, does not allow repentance and reconciliation. Once accused one is guilty. One is guilty simply by our place in society and there is no relief from our guilt. This is a caricature of the oft-repeated, “we are all sinners.”
To say that Jesus is a Socialist is to declare that He taught that salvation is collective. Which . . . maybe. This denies a core precept of Socialism: that the collective guilt of the bourgeoisie cannot be repented. Socialism does not allow mercy. One is born bougie and will remain bougie unto seven generations past one’s death. “I was born this way,” takes on a perverse meaning with this precept.
Under the Reformed tradition forgiveness of sin is available to each of us. The beginning of it is a simple prayer, “Dear Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for Your forgiveness. . . You died for my sins and rose from the dead. . . Come into my heart and life. I will trust and follow You as my Lord and Savior. In Your Name. Amen.” Upon giving one’s life to Christ you gain the responsibility to live out the prayer you just prayed. The truth of your prayer will be shown in the life you live having uttered the Sinner’s Prayer.
More Law More Better
The Way of Jesus of Nazareth is distinct in one key respect: Grace. Ephesians 2:8-9 ESV, “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, 9 not a result of works, so that no one may boast.” There are many other religions that are legalist and shame-based. The way to perfection is through laws. Punishment is through shame. Sadly, you can’t escape the shame. One is taught that perfection cannot be achieved in one lifetime. Instead, life is a ceaseless struggle to be better with the sad knowledge that all that work will not be enough.
What do Socialists say is the answer to the struggle? More law, more control. The law is the Way, the Truth, and the Life everlasting. More structure to control God’s creation. God made this. He isn’t exactly amenable to being told what to do. So instead, Socialists find themselves in an infinite, impossible loop. More law, more control creates more chaos necessitating a rinse repeat and ending in death. This is the better way?
The funny thing is; if you let go and let God . . . things work. Once you stop trying to assure the desired outcome and just let things flow as God wants them to . . . well . . . first of all . . . your life becomes a lot more peaceful. It’s so much less stressful just being in the moment with God than battling the world 247365 to get it to come to heel. And things just seem to arrange themselves amicably. So very anarchist.
Legalize “I” Dolls
Socialism, even the diminished Christian Socialism, has become a pseudo-religion of legalism. It began as a thought experiment and through Mao Zedong, became a religion. Christian Socialists deny that their soft allegiance to Socialism is idolatry. Deny all day. It is idolatry. Exodus 20:3, “You shall have no other gods before[a] me“. We all know that our God is a jealous God. Well . . . Cancel Culture. You can’t be just a little Christian and just a little Socialist. To be accepted among Socialist circles you have to give your life to the cause. There is no middle.
To be a revolutionary is to be Communist or Socialist. Anything less is to be a dilettante. You are either down for the cause or you are bougie. Protip: you are probably bougie. Only a select few with the right adjectives can own the title of proletariat. Everybody else is shameful and shunned.
You are never enough as a Socialist. It is a super critical task to stay WOKE and be with the fashy set. Every word, every deed, even your dreams are suspicious. A small thing: is it more WOKE to ask for paper or plastic bags at the grocery checkout counter? Getting this wrong can get you shunned. You can’t deviate even a little from the orthodoxy of the day.
Super King Buffet
Which leads us to . . . buffet faith. We all have that phase of our youthful lives. There is no mission, vision, or purpose. We just know that the elders are wrong. Swimming around in our upbringing is a smorgasbord of faith traditions, ethics, and philosophies. Because Marx and Mao have dominated popular, secular culture for perhaps 170 years, the counter to Christianity is some flavor of Communism or Socialism.
Submitting to the elders is a non-starter. We can’t shake the feeling that their old ways are not revolutionary. There must be a new way, a better way. Those who don’t shout fealty to the revolution are dangerous and must be dealt with. So we journey to the wild side and find sex, drugs and loud music.
In our village among our tribe we get a lot of affirmation and debauchery. It feels SO good. The angst and resentment we brought with us is celebrated as our truth. We are right, they are wrong, the arguments against us are bourgeois and thus, evil.
Some of us, though, keep listening to Christian Music and can’t shake a hunger for Christ. We won’t give up our backslid life. It’s too good. But we have friends we love at church so we dither. Instead, as one does at a buffet, we cherry-pick the bits of Socialism and Christian Discipleship to cobble together a buffet life never committing to one and always a bit wavering on the other.
You Can Change the World
Later in Exodus (Exodus 23:13) God tells us, “Pay attention to all that I have said to you, and make no mention of the names of other gods, nor let it be heard on your lips.” This is the choice: fealty to a pseudo-religious political philosophy made popular by sadistic addicts or give your life to Christ. You can’t have a little of both. Socialism demands your soul as does Christianity. The difference is that Christ will give you life and Socialism will slowly bleed the life from you until the only thing left is a hate-filled husk of your former self.
I’ll leave you with this: There is something everyone can do. You don’t need to be Christian. You don’t need any special education or training. What you have right now is enough. Who you are right now is enough. All it takes is a little personal inventory. There are people in your circle of influence that need things you can provide. It isn’t always material. Sometimes it’s just listening. You’ll know when it happens. Then, do the thing. Important: do it without any hope of a return or desired outcome. Then do it again and make it a habit of doing small acts of kindness with great love–Mother Teresa. That’s what I ask of you. Those evil corporations, capitalists, principalities, and powers? God’s problem, not yours.
I’m too nice. I believe in the basic goodness of man. What a good Christian man does is confess his sin and repent. Neesha . . . not so much. Neesha love is poison. She is evil. I tried visiting her at Chippenham Hospital’s Tucker Pavilion. It didn’t go well.
I’ll get to that in a minute. A couple bits of housekeeping before I do. First, I’ve been told by a friend that this is annoying: I describe a character and then abandon them. Eugene Lefkowitz and others appeared in this space only to collect dust in a remote corner of my imagination. Instead, I try to speak to the outrage headline of the day.
I’ve avoided turning this space into a serialized? novel? for a couple of years. Fiction is my biggest fear. Just making shit up defies my social worker and electrical engineering upbringing. Truth should be evidence-based. Facts are those that can be tasted and seen. Not.
I rebel against my upbringing in this space. Truth is a five-letter word that wriggles out of the box the sciency folk tries to stuff it in. It’s much more than what can be tasted and seen. World of Webb is my fight against the crowd that insists their Maoist pseudo-religion of “science” is fact and the rest is blasphemy. It is also my truth rebellion against my social worker mother and engineer father.
I’m losing this fight. Maoists have been waging a cultural revolution in this country since Woodrow Wilson and maybe earlier. They are winning–for now. I’m also losing the fight against the purpose of this space by trying to write prose about today’s latest outrage. It’s time to stop fighting.
What then? Silence? I am incapable of silence. Instead, fiction. I’ll tell you something shocking. Fiction writers have been telling truth since like, forever. It’s just not the simple “taste and see” truth that is currently fashy. Something else. Our dear leaders and propagandists insist that their truth is fact yet their fact turns out to be fiction upon further review. Knowing this–I choose fiction.
Neesha is Truth
Almost there. Almost to “Neesha Love”. My purpose in visiting Neesha was foolish. I was looking for affirmation in all the wrong places. A passenger complained about a ride I gave them. I am accused of raping them. Crazy? Yes. Doesn’t matter. Our modern world listens to the accusation and equates such with guilt. The accused has no recourse. Accused = guilty. With that, I am a baby-raping queer.
Am I? Nobody cares. The accusation stands like an electric neon brand glued to my forehead. No matter what I say in protest, no matter how loudly I shout my innocence, nobody cares. I am a baby-raping queer. Neesha has spoken.
This is what I walked into the Tucker Pavillion with as I sought to visit with Neesha. I should have stayed home. I’d done everything you need to visit a patient at Tucker’s locked ward. You have to call ahead, make an appointment, then on the day and time, get checked in. This includes capturing your ID information, getting searched for contraband, and taking your temperature. With that all good, you get your visitor badge and a Deputy escorts you to the visiting room.
On with it. The judge (racist bitch) remanded Neesha into Max holding so f2f visits were out. Analog phones were the way. After I was seated, Neesha appeared on the other side of the visiting window, “Hey Neesha, how are you?” “FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!!” Whoa. A Deputy arrived behind Neesha and spoke to her, “Ok. Sorry. What’s up?” “Inger asked about you.” “Liar.” “Not lying” “She’s in here. They picked her up.”
“When?” “Last week” “I hadn’t heard from her in a minute. I guess that explains why.” “No shit. What do you want?” “Just to talk.” “About what? You are a white privileged racist asshole. I have nothing to say to you.” “I got accused of rape.” “Accused? You did it.” “Hear me out.” “Why? She accused you. Case closed.” “The courts have charged you with assault on a police officer. Are you guilty?” “That’s different. Cops are racist assholes. They deserve it. I was delivering justice.” “So accusation = guilt deserving of punishment?” “Yeah. Especially for bougie white men like you.” The deputy appeared behind Neesha and motioned for me to hang up the phone. Another deputy on my side called to me, “Mr. Webb, your visit is over. Please exit the room.”
You are White so . . .
So here we are. I am accused of rape by a passenger. Uber’s adjudication method does not allow me to hear details of the accusation. I don’t know which ride it was nor which passenger is making the accusation. I have no counter to the claim. Uber has deactivated my account. I can’t even order a ride from them.
Here are my dogs in this fight: I bet my life on Uber. My sole source of income was Uber. Next, I let my Lyft driver account lapse. To get it back I need a clear background check. The request for the background check was initiated on 6/10/2021. Checkr says they’ll have it done next Tuesday the 22nd. Too late for me. More: I am renting from Hertz based on my deactivated Uber account. I should return the car and pay off my balance. I don’t have the money I owe Hertz.
Let’s review: I owe bills. I can’t pay for the rented car I need to work. Lyft can’t rent to me until my background check clears. And I went to Neesha looking for comfort. Awesome. Is this the end? Seems like it.
This is the End
Or not. A feature of “How I Built This” is the turning point for entrepreneurs. They start, show early success then things get bad, really bad. It isn’t the end for them. After talking with kin and friends they choose to stick it out–and win.
I need to remember a bitter lesson from my Mom. She was a good woman with a flaw. She was a terrible person to confess to. I’d pour my heart out to her and in reply, she’d start to work up a case management plan. She wanted scheduled deliverables. I wanted my Mom.
Two of my mistakes are believing I can find my Mom in the women I meet and not considering that some people are unsafe. Witness what happened with Neesha. I went there thinking I could confess to her and get comfort. Bad idea. My bad.
Not the End
Tim, my son, was upset that I keep choosing the hard way to a goal. The simple way, my Dad’s way, is a white-collar, upper-middle-class job. I’ve never been able to wear a white-collar suit for very long. I don’t fit. There is a place where I do fit. It’s the hard road less traveled by.
So I’m at my best when things are at their worst. In my other trade, Enterprise Technology Infrastructure, I’m the guy you want when all the king’s men are telling his Highness that the castle’s ETI is fucked and there is no solution. This started in grade school with Eric and Russell. Both these guys fought a maneuvering war with me. They wanted to beat me up. I wanted to get home without getting beat up. The guys failed. I won.
I won by outmaneuvering my bullies. Twice a day my battle was to get to school and home without encountering my bullies. I did that until Russell’s friends cornered me at lunchtime and said that if I beat Russell in a fight they’d stop bullying me.
I blackened his eye. He bloodied my lip. Seeing his blackened eye I kept attacking the injured eye. Russell’s friends pulled him out of the fight to prevent further injury and declared him the victor since I had the bloody lip. Russell told his friends to leave me alone. Why? I told him if we fought again I’d hurt him worse.
Since then I’ve had countless situations where I get into trouble, it looks really bad for me, and then I come through mostly ok. This one, where I don’t have an income after Uber deactivated my account, is pretty scary. I have fifty years of experience with trouble that comes out ok. I’ll be fine.
For Neesha, I need to leave her be. She has a place in Inger’s Finger. That’s healthy. What isn’t healthy is my sixty-one-year-old self looking to a woman young enough to be my granddaughter for comfort and affirmation. It’s upside down.
For my Mom: I feel like this is that moment for an entrepreneur; the one where the counter-intuitive choice is to keep going. Yes, I have a bit of a plan. But not one laid out in beautifully engineered detail. I’m still a “fire, reaDY!, AIM! shit.” guy. I may not be a driver much longer. This doesn’t stop me from building BHC/@transitwebb into a positive force for change with transportation in RVA. Cliche but true, “the best thing about rock-bottom is that the only direction is up.” Stick around, it’s gonna get good.
Neesha, Queen of Karinostan. You’ve met Neesha. She’s the perpetually angry, easily triggered woman whose every third word is “racist”. Roses are racist. Daisies are racist. Roaches are racist. Marlboro Red is racist. White people? Born racist and innately evil. Neesha has spoken. Let’s add the word, “innately” because Neesha doesn’t know it.
Neesha’s Kindle library has a complete list of Communist, Socialist, and Black History titles. Oh, just a reminder, you are racist. Neesha has spoken. Don’t worry. You have good company. God is racist. For good measure, the weather is racist.
Neesha is late on her rent at a public housing project. Biden and Fouci said she didn’t have to pay her bills because Pimp Daddy Unka Sam would pay. Unka Sam is racist because he won’t give her checks. She been tryina get paid since last year when Trump tore up the capital building. Trump was an asshole but at least he paid.
You Owe Neesha
Hate eats the soul. Neesha, a decade or so ago, was a promising GED graduate working the counter at Popeyes. Her greatest wish was to get out of the generational poverty she grew up in. She applied for scholarships, maintained her FAFSA, looked for colleges that would accept her. Then all that deep dive into Maoism and Marxism and so on addicted her to the hate and sadism that is a big feature of Communism. Neesha isn’t the hater, you are.
Neesha’s 26th birthday came and went in the thick of the COVID-19 panic. Her Popeye’s store closed. She got unemployment and became the primary breadwinner for her Mom and four brothers. Yes, like that. Why would you question the sequence? You are racist for challenging her narrative. It’s her truth, white supremacist bitch.
And now, for a word from Neesha’s sponsor, Karinostan. Karinostan is a cult. In Karinostan all conflicts end with an appeal to a manager whose authority is unquestionable. Free will is racist in Karinostan. The managers of Karinostan promise that its citizens will be provided for. They needn’t trouble themselves with small worries like groceries, rent (no mortgages), Internet connectivity, electricity, trash service, or transportation. Everything will be taken care of–all in exchange for total surrender to the managers.
The managers are racist. Neesha has spoken. Neesha lives in Karinostan. She had no electricity, water, or other basic utilities. Until she did a thing and got arrested.
Karinostan is racist. Some of its citizens are more equal than others. Oy, enough. I can only tolerate so much of Neesha and Karinostan. Let’s get on with a story. Starting here: Neesha likes jail. Why? In exchange for the little freedom she had, she gets taken care of. Plus, you can win in jail if you know how to cheat. Neesha is a brilliant cheat. I’ll tell you how she learned this.
It was a peak moment for Neesha. There was one pack of ramen noodles and a Popeyes chicken wing in the apartment for her and the five family members who lived with her. The roaches were eating better than they were. Dirty dishes filled every horizontal surface in the kitchen. On top of that was a festering pile of take-out containers, styrene foam bowls, plates, and red solo cups. Something had to give. So Neesha gave up the little bit of freedom she had left. She robbed the corner store.
The whole thing was stupid. Her gun was her index finger stuck into a jacket pocket. She demanded money from the register after shoplifting more ramen noodle packs and a liter of Mellow Yellow. Neesha made it out of the store with her stolen goods and a couple of blocks down the street before an RPD cop pulled up and initiated a felony arrest. She wasn’t wearing a mask, btw.
So said Neesha, the cop is racist and ought to be arrested for murdering her. But . . . Neesha is serving time in County Jail for assaulting a police officer with the liter of Mellow Yellow. You are racist for claiming that she assaulted the police officer. She did no such thing. Also, the cop owes Neesha a liter of Mellow Yellow. Neesha has spoken.
The Judge was racist. The Public Defender is racist and farts too much. The ADA who argued for a plea deal is a racist asshole. He supposed to be down for the cause and buy her a Popeyes Big Family Feast after he gets her out of County Max. No, you can’t have any of her Popeyes and you are racist for asking. Goddamned ADA is a racist bitch.
This is what happened. Neesha robbed the corner store and got caught. Then she flipped out and threw her liter of Mellow Yellow at the cop. The soda bottle missed the cop and burst open on his patrol car. There is body camera footage of Neesha throwing ramen noodle packs at the cop, some of which hit their target. Which . . . is stupid enough but the video made its way to YouTube and got a million likes.
Because the 911 caller reported being robbed at gunpoint the cops did a felony stop. Five cars with a sergeant running point. Neesha would not comply so . . . things didn’t go smoothly. Along the way to being cuffed she ran out of ramen noodle packs to throw and used her shoes, her yoga pants, the thong, the bra and the hoodie as things to toss at the cops. You are not only racist you are a creepy asshole. Neesha has to fight the police. It is the Way.
The cops sexually abused Neesha. While cuffing her they touched her. The cop that cuffed her was in a KKK grand dragon uniform and put his knee on her back for an hour. Neesha has spoken. That you don’t believe her is proof that you are racist.
So . . . long story short, Neesha is in County Max on psychiatric hold. She will be there for a month while the docs and social workers figure out how to get her lucid. The doctors and social workers are racist.
The middle part, from being arrested through arrival in the Psych Ward of County Jail, is predictable. The system did its job. Neesha didn’t and spent some time in a confinement chair. Confinement chairs are racist. Neesha accused everyone along the way of raping her, assaulting her, murdering her, of systemic racism and general evil. Because . . . COVID-19. She wasn’t wearing a mask, remember. COVID-19 is racist. The vaccines are racist.
Conclusions are Racist
The usual thing is to end on a moral, a point. Or . . . it was at one time. In the Recovery Community, during a meeting, one of the rules is a ban on sermonizing. Also, if you have to explain a joke it ceases to be funny. So with that said, I’m not going to say what the moral of this story is. I have spoken.
Last thing, Neesha, a devoted Maoist, has discovered Black Market trade in jail. She’s made herself a nice little nest egg supplying fellow inmates with feminine hygiene products and underwear. Neesha, the fierce Communist warrior, is an evil capitalist in the psych ward. That’s her cheat that has made jail a place to be. Oh, and one more important detail—Neesha is white.
She kissed me. Inger kissed me. I haven’t heard from her in a minute. She PM’s me saying she needs to see me. Ok. So . . . I pick her up on Southside. Well, more than that. I did the usual pull-over, get out to open the door and two things happen: she sits up front and before that, I get a big hug and a kiss, “I missed you.” Oh. Uhm . . . “Missed you too.” There is so much in my head as I walked around to the driver’s seat. So many questions. Starting with, “missed me“? That’s boyfriend language. I’m a grumpy old man being kissed by a SHYT who says she misses me. WTF?! This feline SHYT adjusts the seat so she can stretch out reclined, buckles up and waits for me to start driving. Where, tho? “Let’s go to your place,” says she. My place? Really? Oh my lord!
You can fill in some back story here. We started chatting on the way to Oak Grove where I live. The update is that she’s been laying low in hotels since last summer. She didn’t show up for court on her vandalism case from when she trashed the counter at Black Hand coffee. So there is a capias warrant out for her. The cops are watching her 16th Street place. Peachy.
Hot Mess Cat
This sucks. Inger is wanted by the cops and she’s flirting with me. I put a lot of effort into achieving boring. I’d be an idiot if I got too close to somebody that would challenge all that hard work. I’m an idiot. “Alan, can I ask you something?” “Sure.” “Can I stay with you for a while?” No. Hell no, “Sure. The extra bedroom is kind of a mess. But I can help you with that.” Don’t remind me that you should not feed a stray cat, “You are awesome.” I don’t know about that.
Woo. I’ve acquired a stray cat as a pet. Even better, she’s a wealthy hot mess. Everything was good with her until she had a breakdown, accused a coworker of raping her, and ran away from her wealthy, first-world family and life. Since then she’s lengthened her criminal record and psych-ward chart. Since March of 2019 with COVID-19 she’s set up camp in the 16th street bungalow and self-quarantined (sort of). she’s picked up a pit bull from a rescue shelter per the fashion of our neighborhood. I keep finding girl flotsam in my bathroom and the guest bedroom even though I have an alarm system to which she does not have a code. She kissed me.
She kissed me on a Friday night in the thick of bar close when my fondest wish is a string of tipsy young women headed home. Our dear guvnut Knawthem has decided that one answer to the apocalyptic pandemic is to force bars to close by 10pm. Because that way people won’t share the same air and spread COVID-19. As if COVID-19 is sentient and obeys the guvnut’s dictums. Bar close, thus, has been underwhelming. The kiss was nice–familiar like been dating for a year.
No Tell Motel Kiss
Right on Commerce to head to my house, “who was the guy?“ “Just some guy. I don’t think you know him. I hate being alone.“ “Boyfriend?“ “No. I met him in Santa Clara when I lived in the park. Just a friend.” Then dead air while we drove home.
Instant Decorator Nice
At the house, it was clear she’d been there. We came in through the back door. The guest bedroom and kitchen were clean and organized. Curtains replaced the blinds. I have a day bed I didn’t have before, “what’s all this?“ “Like it?” No . . . erm . . . yes, “I guess. Your work?“ “My Mom’s decorating company. You are welcome.“
Bother, two women who have good intentions but didn’t include me, “Thanks. It’s nice.” One of those gifts. Like a husband giving the wife a gas grill. Though . . . they have me pegged. The guest room has a leather “Poppa” chair. That’s a secret wish of mine, “Is the leather real?“ “Yes. I hate those fake things the Dump sells.” She has a point. “So do you like it?” accompanied by tugging on her shirt bottom so that more cleavage is visible.
Cringe. I like it in very taboo ways, “Yeah, it’s good.”A little secret. I like small women with itty-bitty titties. Inger is just under 5′ and probably 90lbs. Short pink hair showing red roots. She had on yoga pants, a cotton tank top, and a half-buttoned Pendleton shirt, “I think I still have quiche in the fridge.“ “Nope. That was my breakfast,” Inger’s eyes smiling. “Ok, I need to know something. Are you my burglar?“ “No. Would a burglar decorate your guest bedroom and clean your kitchen?“
“How are you getting past my alarm?“ “I have your code.” “Only three people have a tag with a code, TJ, Tim, and me. None of them are written down.“ “Your laptop pin is 4261.“ Crap, “How?“ “I helped Saito-san’s people with access because you have a door in your living room closet. Your living room closet is the closest door to Paradise. I use it to get to Saito’s casino.“ Oh. I need that door. I guess Inger needs it also. It isn’t so free, bother, “You can’t use your 16th Street place?“ “Seriously? You don’t know?” Her face says incredulous. “Hungry? We can order take-out.” “I’m not hungry,” crossing the room to hug me. We kiss, longer and sloppier this time. I try touching her chest and she presses my hand into her left tit. 10 pm.
Saturday morning. I usually start work around 10 am. Inger and I didn’t get moving until after lunch, “Anything planned today?“ “I have to stop by 16th Street and check my mail. Maybe do a load of wash. You could come over and save your laundromat money.“ The laundry basket overflowed a few days ago. It smells bad, “Sure.“
It was a domestic weekend. Self-care stuff got done. We walked Belle Island. Inger’s 16th Street house is the same model as mine. 672 sq. ft., 5 rooms. She set up the front bedroom as a yoga studio. Her closet door has a Nest Yale lock on it. So that was a fib that my living room closet door is the only nearby door to Paradise. Whatever.
“Honey, I need to go see my Mom. Are you staying?“ “I miss my house. I think I’ll walk home. Thanks for letting me use your wash machine.” I’ve graduated to being honey. One thing that happens in relationships is that you lose your first name. You become a title–honey, babe, and later, husband, wife, Dad, or Mom. Until you are in trouble. Then it’s “ALAN!” or worse, “Alan Webb!” “Text me later, ok?“ “Ok. Thanks again for everything.“ “Anytime, text me.” Last word disease. It’s chronic in my family. Seems like Inger’s got it too. The cure is to shut up.
I walked home. We walked the laundry home yesterday after I got back from church. Inger is spiritual, she says, but she doesn’t like church. Her parents are members of Tabernacle Baptist. I’ve been a member of St. Giles Church for 20 years. She likes it that I am faithful. I know how Jesus tends to bleed into our hearts until one day we find ourselves talking to the pastor about a confession of faith.
Tuesday morning I was dressed and ready, keys to the Flex in one hand, coffee in the other. I finished my ten hours and booked $165. Not bad.
A weekend with Inger had me wound up. I was nervous about her. So many ways that an old guy like me should stay away from a SHYT like her. She’s young enough to be a granddaughter. It was a good weekend. My phone lights up, “Hey, can we go to Paradise this weekend?“ “Sure,” Just walk through my living room closet door. Phone again, this time from an unknown number, “we need to talk.” I reply, “why?“ “You could get mixed up in Inger’s mess.” Too late. “Who is this?“ “The Red Roof Inn friend.“ “What mess?“ “Remember the finger she found in the abandoned Cadillac?“ “What about it?“ “The cops think she’s good for it.” Great. I break my dry spell with a wanted rich girl. Now I’m getting attention I don’t want.
I’ll get to the title, “A Kingly Very Bad Day” in a bit. First, a wander into a memory of mine. Dementia stole my Mom. Over five years it robbed her of everything until it took the last thing she had—life.
On the way to heaven my Mom would stand at a doorway and ask, “WHY IS THE TV OFF?” or “I WANT BREAKFAST! YOU HAVEN’T FED ME BREAKFAST! WHY ARE YOU STARVING ME!” and so on. My Dad had to buy a locking toolbox and put her meds in it because she was raiding the medicine cabinet for her proscribed sedatives. Dementia took her ability to moderate her emotions and behavior along with her memory.
Next, we didn’t spend much time in the honeymoon phase of the abuse cycle. There are already hints that tension is building. Tension building is the last step in the cycle before another explosive event. The abuse cycle lives in the absurd, heart-driven part of our reality. So it’s inconvenient in the way the weather is inconvenient. We know something is coming but we don’t know exactly what nor do we know exactly when.
TRUMP IS HURTING ME!
HRH Joseph Robinette Biden reminds me of my Mom. He has moments where his brain isn’t connected to his mouth and stupid shit comes out. For the fact-checkers who worry about this space what follows is fiction. This is BiteMe’s very bad day.
05-Jan-2021, Washington D.C. AP Wire
A new, more calm era in American history was inaugurated yesterday. We go live now to the Senate Office Building lobby, “COME ON, MAN!! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I AM THE SENIOR SENATOR FROM DELAWARE!!! YOU NEED TO FIX MY BADGE AND LET ME IN RIGHT NOW!!! WHAT’S YOUR NAME SON!? GET ME A PHONE BECAUSE YOU ARE FIRED!!!
“Sir, I beg your pardon. You were inaugurated as the President yesterday. You are in the wrong building.“
“LISTEN YOU LITTLE BITCH ASSED CRACKER SON OF A BITCH!! IAM IN THE RIGHT BUILDING!! I AM NOT THE PRESIDENT!! THAT ASSHOLE GEORGE BUSH IS PRESIDENT!! LET ME THROUGH!!”
The Secret Service is at a loss. They protect POTUS but BiteMe runs at the metal detector hell-bent on shoving his way through. The Capital Police respond by taking him to the ground and cuffing him. He is lifted and helped through a side door on the public side of the metal detectors where paramedics await.
05-Jan-2021, Washington D.C. CNN
Deep Fake QANON Terrorist Attempts Bombing Attack on Senate Office Building
We are getting reports of a terrorist dressed like the President and wearing a mask rushed the security gates before being arrested by Capitol Police. Sources familiar with the incident have informed us that the terrorist is a QANON supporter. We spoke with NY Times National Security Correspondent James Risen who informed us that the FBI had executed a search warrant on Yusef R. Biden, of Claymont, DE, and found pipe bomb materials and a laptop containing 4chan posts making false claims that our President cheated to get elected. The Capitol Police have not responded to our requests for information on Mr. Biden’s arrest.
“We go live to Manu Raju with details on this active shooter incident.” A live shot of Raju starts. In the background behind Raju is a shot of a perp walk with FBI agents and an old man who appears to be Joe Biden, “LET ME GO ASSHOLE! I AM THE SENIOR SENATOR FROM DELAWARE!”. “Raju? RAJU! Cut the camera. CUT THE CAMERA!”
08-Jan-2021, Washington D.C. Politico
Qanon Assassination Attempt on the President Thwarted
Washington D.C. Capital Police arrested Yusef R. Biden on charges of attempted assassination after Mr. Biden attempted to break through the security gates at the Senate Office Building. Sources familiar with the incident said that Mr. Biden threatened to kill the President who was not in D.C. at the time of the incident.
The Senate Office Building was locked down yesterday while the FBI and Capitol Police searched for bombs after discovering posts on 4chan by Mr. Biden threatening to blow up the White House. Security at the Capitol and the Senate Office Buildings has been increased. The National Guard deployed this morning to cordon off the area surrounding the Capitol Building, the Senate and House Office Buildings, and the Supreme Court.
11-Jan-2021, New York, NY WABC Rush Limbaugh Show
Todd Herman, “You gotta love the left. Joe Biden has a tantrum caught on security cameras. His outburst is the most dramatic evidence to date that the man is suffering from a mental decline. In minutes the Praetorian Guard was on duty accusing QAnon of attempting to bomb the Senate Office Building. I’d tell you to go look at the video but YouTube took it down. Politico, not to be outdone, posted a story claiming that Yusef R. Biden attempted to assassinate the President. Facebook and Twitter are blocking posts that dispute the Politico story. We voted for this, America. We’ll be right back after this obscene profit break.”
11-Jan-2021, New York, NY WOR Sean Hannity
“We have a true Schiff Show on our hands, America. The President was caught on tape trying to get into the Senate Office Building. Biden’s Praetorian Guard is peeing their pants with excitement over the arrest of Yusef R. Biden, of Claymont, DE on charges of attempting to assassinate the President. CNN reported that pipe bomb materials were found at the residence of Mr. Biden. Mr. Biden’s lawyer released a statement saying that his client was not in D.C. on Friday and has never made a pipe bomb.”
12-Jan-2021, Atlanta, GA, Cuomo Prime Time News
We have proof, America. Sean Hannity is a threat to our Democracy. His lies are inciting insurrection in Washington D.C. Hannity claimed that our President was arrested for attempting to break into the Senate Office Building when in fact, a certain Yusef Biden is in jail because he assaulted the Capital Police while trying to assassinate the President. Hannity needs to be in prison and his social media accounts canceled! Hannity’s continued freedom is a travesty of justice!
12-Jan-2021, New York, NY WABC
We are sad to announce that Joseph R. Biden, the 46th President of the United States has been admitted to the Memory Care Unit of Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, MD. Dr. Sean Connolly said that Mr. Biden is resting comfortably and responding to treatment. Vice President Harris has assumed the role of Acting President. In a statement, Madame Pelosi said, “this is a very sad moment for our country. Joe is a close friend and a dedicated servant of this country.“
12-Jan-2021, Washington D.C. Walter Reed
Dr. Connolly, “Good morning Mr. President. How are you?” POTUS, “Good morning. Why did you call me President?” “Sorry, Joe, what is today’s date?” “January 4th” “Good. What year?” “What do you mean what year? Don’t you know? It’s 1973. Where is my breakfast?” “Sir, we fed you two hours ago.” “I don’t remember that. I’m hungry, can I get breakfast?”
15-Jan-2021, Washington D.C. Walter Reed
BiteMe, “Hey baby, what’s up?” HRH Harrassem, “Excuse me!?” “What you doing, chocolate love?” “Sir, there is a full calendar today. Can we get started?” “No. You have your clothes on.” “Sir, do you know who I am?” “You are Neesha, my hookup from Wilmington. Good times.” “Sorry, sir, I am Kamala Harris, your Vice President.” “That’s not right. Richard Cheney is Vice President. You are my special friend who gives me happy endings. Your hair looks great. Can I smell it?” HRH Harrassem leaves the Presidential suite at Walter Reed, “I can’t work with him. He’s not processing things right. I need to talk to Nancy and Ron.”
Jen Psaki, “First, I will not be taking questions, Next, it is with great sadness that I am here to announce our friend and President, Joseph Robinette Biden, has been diagnosed with severe Frontotemporal Dementia. He is resting comfortably at the Presidential Suite of Walter Reed. Vice President Harris, in coordination with members of the Cabinet, Ron Klain and Nancy Pelosi have begun the 25th Amendment process for protecting the integrity of our government. Ms. Harris has assumed the role of acting President while we complete the transition to a new administration.”
18-Feb-2021, Richmond, VA
This is a tangent. It does not connect to the above fictional narrative about our hapless President. Yesterday afternoon Kathryn Limbaugh announced that her husband, Rush Limbaugh passed away. A lot is being said, some of it rather angry. The only thing I have to add is this–if we only listen to members of our tribe who encourage us to blame and hate the other then we will never be free of the sins we accuse the other of. Blame and hate bind both the accuser and the accused. To be free we must continue to forgive and love our enemies. Rush was a spearpoint irritating the elites who believe their post-apocalyptic paradise only includes sycophants and true believers. He will be missed.
For the simple, BiteMe is my nickname for our new President, Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. I can sort of understand a woman returning to her pimp. The first five years of leaving the life suck. Your whole support system and network of relationships that enabled the life are gone. You have nothing. No job, no home, no friends, no family, and no face. Ours is a material culture. We evaluate face based on who your family is, what you own and who you know. Lose all that and you are nothing.
We didn’t even do that. We left our summer romance with a John for the Pimp Daddy’s bag man–BiteMe. It’s worse than the above paragraph. We went from a John who thought he loved us and we loved him because he had all the things we thought would make us happy to a senile old man who owed everything to our pimp and turns out, also has nothing. Talk about stupid moves. . .
BiteMe is Obama’s bag man. Everything he has came from our Pimp Daddy Obama. So BiteMe doesn’t have any of what he promises. It gets better. BiteMe is a whore whose ass is tattooed with 習近平’s name. Xi Jinping owns BiteMe and a good number of the elites in Washington D.C. Most of our government debt is loans we borrowed from 中國. The big three oligarchy’s, Apple, Google, and Facebook/Twitter are huge clients of 中國. Their culture is a westernized Chinese Communism. It shouldn’t be surprising that BiteMe slips sometimes and we get a glimpse of how deeply Maoist he is.
BiteMe is who we left because the John was being mean to us. The John wanted us to come to Jesus. Our PimpDaddy abused us and we were tired of the work so we fantasized that Donald J. Trump was Richard Gere and we were Julia Roberts. That went well.
It is a sadly too oft-repeated story. An abused woman plots and executes her escape. She does all the right things and spends a half-year recovering from an abusive relationship. Then the abuser contacts her, apologizes, and promises to turn over a new leaf. He says he loves her and that nobody can love her like he does. She melts and goes back to him only to find that the abuse is escalated after a honeymoon period in which he keeps most of his promises to participate in couples therapy and anger management training.
Everyone in the woman’s circle of influence is amazed that she can’t see what a complete ass-hat the man is. He’s got a record, did time, most of it for violent crimes including domestic battery. Yet she loves him and stays in the relationship through repeated cycles of escalating abuse. Even though some victims have kids with their abusers. Actually, having children with this fucker just gives him more victims.
Why go back to BiteMe? I mean, he’s not even our Pimp Daddy. He’s a bitch himself so like, how can he really do anything? Here is the mistake the John made and that we made—we thought we wanted Hope and Change but once we left our PimpDaddy we found out that Change isn’t so Hopeful. John wanted us to behave like a Long Island wife and we were trailer trash. He liked Russian caviar and we liked collard greens. His Spotify featured Nirvana and ours was full of Luke Bryan, Garth Brooks, and Toby Keith. At parties, the women talked about their favorite white wine while we asked around for a “Sex in the Woods”. Seriously.
Oh. OH! Church! The John wanted us to go to church. And not even a church with good music. No, he wanted us to go to Old South Haven Presbyterian Church. Twice annoying because Old South Haven is a PCUSA temple to Woke Faith and old AF.
Country Girl in Long Island
It’s one thing to be getting paid to wear Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots and pigtails while sounding like single wide trash from the Delta. Or arrive in a long gown and ballet flats with a Brooklyn accent. But as much as the John wanted to teach us the Queen’s English and have us shop on Fifth Avenue we were still trailer trash and liked our whiskey sours. He took us out of the trailer but the trailer never really left us.
We got into this huge argument with the John because he caught us sitting on his Italian leather couch with a bucket of chicken from Chicken Au GoGo including a side of cole-slaw. He didn’t care about the greasy fingerprints we left. He was mad because we didn’t order take-out from Caviar Russe. Chicken Au GoGo was too lowbrow for him. Yeah . . . uhm . . . there is bougie we can tolerate and then there is bourgeois that is fighting words JOHN.
Jimmy Choos people. Yes, the Pimp Daddy beat us into the hospital and never paid us. Sure, PimpDaddy had babies all over DC and owed child-support to a gaggle of baby-mamas. But PimpDaddy let us shop on his card and never questioned what we bought. Just bring him money and hide the bruises. We loved him. We wanted to go back to him. Why not? He left four years ago to go play golf in Palm Springs and reconnect with his wife. He went legit on us. Asshole.
Then BiteMe hits us up and is all ears and sympathetic. He apologizes for the times he beat us because we didn’t have Pimp Daddy’s money. He confesses that Pimp Daddy beat him too and so he is also a victim. He’s sweet to us, buying us a silver plate pendant from Solid Gold Jewelers. He took us to Golden Corral for breakfast. Tho . . . his debit card didn’t go through at Golden Corral so we paid 😒. So we get with him.
We are in the post-coital bliss, America. We took a beating and heard sweet words of apology, promises of money and promises that we don’t need to be afraid anymore. So we broke up with the John and hooked up with Pimp Daddy’s bag man BiteMe. BiteMe says he always loved us and hated that we had to work for Pimp Daddy. He promises he’ll treat us better than that evil man John. And for now, we are good with that.
Some things to keep in mind. Abuse is a frog-in-the-pot thing. Most of the abuse cycle isn’t bad. We can keep telling ourselves that the abuse won’t happen again through most of it. Then it happens again and it’s rinse/repeat. Also, abusers like to isolate us–gaslight us. It’s a long game where a little bit at a time s/he tells us that the only safe place is in the house with him or her. We are accused of cheating, of contacting the outside world. We get a beating anytime we hint at viewpoints that drift from the opinion of our abuser. And it just grinds at us because each repeat is a little worse.
Another thing–victims remember the abuse. They also remember the increasing peace they experienced when they fled the abuser. Third, and importantly for this essay, some abusers escalate far enough that even though we escaped with a plan and have started a new life, the abuser hunts us down, saying, “if I can’t have you then nobody can. Come home or I will kill you.”
Fourth. Addiction is often mixed up in this. Addiction has a half-life. Early on it’s great but soon enough the entropy ensues. Once we turn that entropic corner things only get worse. Ahead of us are familiar paths of jail, hospital, rehab, and the morgue. Abuse is like that. It only escalates into worsening abuse, hospital, attempts to escape, and for some, the morgue.
BiteMe just got us back. He says the abuse is John’s fault. With him, things will be better. And we want to believe him but we remember the beatings.
This is Not the End
This is who we elected. A bag man whose greatest ambition is to collect money for a Pimp Daddy who has retired. His old extortion accounts are refusing to pay. Quite the contrary, they are calling in his debts and he has to pay. He took us to !Fantastic Thrift! to buy clothes and again, his card didn’t go through.
Ahead of us is more blame, that it’s our fault Bag Man BiteMe is in the trouble he’s in. And more beatings. And more isolation because we are accused of stepping out (we didn’t but it doesn’t matter).
We are broke (kind of), homeless, destitute. Now, those familiar with Step Work know that rock bottom is the worst and the best. It’s the worst because our lives are as near death as can be without actual flat-lining. It’s also the best because this is the turning point where we start working toward a clean and sober, healthy life.
I’d like to say that we are at rock bottom. We are not. One of the really ugly things about abuse is that it teaches us to pick abusive partners. Pimp Daddy left us and BiteMe claims he’s not that asshole. We thought we loved John but he’s all Long Island snooty. So what we want most of all is our Snuggie®, chamomile tea and to binge-watch “Sleeping With Other People” on Netflix. We moved in with BiteMe because he has a really nice couch and a big TV.
It’s too early to tell if we made the right move. What’s worrying is that BiteMe’s friends don’t like us and keep posting to his Twitter that we are trouble. Maybe. Mostly we are tired and hungry and don’t want to be Julia Roberts anymore.
The Mao Zedong (Mal Zeedick) story is still large in the imaginations of millions. It is to him that millions devote themselves. This is whom they worship: an addict who hungered for power and loved sadism. So the devotees of Maoism worship gluttony, power and violence. Just like their god, 黄猴阴茎毛泽东.
The coronation of Emperor BiteMe has been announced with hot, hard fanfare by the Court Jesters. All the usual promises of money and fear are celebrated today. Long Live Emperor BiteMe and his courtesan Kumlala Harrasem.
“But socialism has never been donecorrectly. And those that tried it didn’t try hard enough.” I dunno, 100 million dead and growing is pretty hard. Mao Zedong’s heart was pretty hard. BLM and Antifa, is this the hard heart you desire?
The story is huge for socialism. Socialists live by the approved story. All disciples of 毛澤東哲學 the Mal Zeedick Way download and embody 黄猴阴茎每日新闻. Socialism is folly. 黄猴阴茎哲学 is even more ridiculous without a founding story of victimhood perpetrated by the oppressors.
Death to White Supremacy
Lately, American Socialism has leveled the charges of racism and white supremacy at anyone who isn’t a disciple of 毛澤東哲學, anyone who isn’t of the orthodox ancestry, anyone who is even modestly better off, and anyone on their enemies list. So, pretty much everyone who isn’t a member of the party is 反共黨. Being a party member isn’t safe, though. Survival in the party may depend on accusing someone else of being an oppressor.
美國社會主義 (American Socialism) tells a story of oppression, violence, and slavery perpetrated by enemies of the party. So they say, my ancestors arrived in 1619 and since then, life has been fucked for everyone else. The solution is to burn it all down and start over. Somehow, this brilliant idea is novel and never tried. So we must try it hotter and harder.
Decoding 1619 is easy. The two ones are dicks. The 69 is mutual oral sex. So 1619 is a coded reference meaning two men giving each other blow jobs. This post will be demonetized.
By the premise of 1619, laws are for party members. Everyone else is fair game. Because of 1619, nothing of the extant society has a right to exist. The only people with a right to live are party members. The rest of the people on this stolen land must be turned into stinking meat (臭肉).
Destroy Evil Art
Any art depicting Civil War heroes is apostate and must be destroyed. ACAB graffiti sprayed on the walls of businesses shouts the approved story about law enforcement. Oppressed people expressing their anger at centuries of forced shit-show living justifies violence against the cops. Because, obviously, the anger is justified.
Why do I care? I care because some politicians exploit socialist stories to lord over the populace. The hate, violence, oppression, addiction, and cray-cray inspired by 黄猴阴茎毛泽东 has made my craft an insult to good work. Where story once entertained and enlightened it now enslaves and bludgeons.
I have no right to my own story because of my ancestry. My story was stolen from me by followers of 黃猴陰莖哲學. In its place is an imputed story published in 黃猴陰莖每日新聞.
黃猴陰莖每日新聞 is published in time for the usual cube-rat morning alarm of 5:30 am and memorized by party members in time for their arrival at the rat-wheel at 8:00 am. Deja Vu “1984” all over again, “Hey Joey, I heard that Cheeto Satan was caught on video fucking a dog. I always knew he was a pervert“.
All White People Are Evil
This is the orthodoxy concerning non-party members: we are evil. Our sin? Bougie, so, so much bougie it’s disgusting. We cause the strife and struggles of party members by our ancestry. The misery of party members has a single cause: white people.
Let’s define a phrase—white people. White people are not just my ancestors. There are not enough white people to fill the graves and satisfy the bloodlust of the party. White people are anyone who isn’t a member of the party. Never mind that a good number of party members are . . . wait for it . . . wait . . . white people.
The most disgusting white people are anyone who has even a drop of African ancestry and has succeeded in building a bougie life. Why? Being bougie is bad enough. Being more or less brown/black and bougie is a horror.
The Mal Zeedick Story Matters
How does this connect to my craft? Well . . . a topic of mine for at least four years has been the way in which story informs behavior. If your operating story is socialist then your life is stained by gluttony, rife with a hunger for power, and tormented by the consequences of the violence around you. Your operating story does not allow for justice or peace.
Socialism loses its founding reason if justice or peace is ever achieved. The entire existence of socialism is anchored on strife. To be socialist is to be a sadistic, hateful addict bent on destruction. Why? The founding story is built on hate.
“But socialists are peace-loving, caring people. They are not advocates of violence.” Liar. The core narrative of socialists is a codependent story of being oppressed because some others perpetuate slavery and violence on party members. How is that loving?
Murder White Privilege Story
White people have to behave in a manner approved by the party so that party members can get justice and give white people peace. The Party’s peace is in the hands of white people. I am white people. Do me a favor, let me give back the power you claim I have. I don’t want it.
Socialism is a creature of our lizard brain’s itch to fight. The fight is the existential reason for socialism. So good socialists fight.
From its origins in our lizard brains socialism has fallen into a habit of painting everything the same color. All White People are Evil. No Black Lives Matter. Anyone Who Isn’t White is Oppressed. Glittering generalities abound.
Our Leader Gives Us Truth
Just a reminder for those who beat their middle school logic class out of their heads in search of justice and peace: if one exception can be found to a glittering generality then the claims made by it become false. Too much big Engrish? Let’s do an example: all apples are red. For this to be true there must not be any apples of another color. Most of us would giggle at this absurdity. Socialists would burn any orchard growing non-red apples and punish the farmer for even thinking of harvesting the wrong apples. Hateful non-red apples eliminated. Justice and peace apple achievement unlocked.
It’s never that simple though. Justice and peace in socialist circles resists achievement. First, justice and peace are an existential threat to the party. Next, the party exists in God’s world where free will exists. There is resistance. All the party’s work to achieve paradise has never eliminated cheating and crime. Actually, it is capitalist crime that makes surviving a socialist economy livable. 抵抗萬歲.
We can win against this. Socialism depends on the strict embodying of a hateful story. Destroying Socialism is simple: attack the story. The library of archetypical stories is large. The founding story of socialism is only one of the millions of competing stories available. All we have to do is teach a story that foments compassion. Words matter. Words formed into stories can change lives.
Death to White Privilege Religion
How about this story: over two thousand years ago a Nazarene man sought a place to stay while the Roman census was conducted. His wife was pregnant with a son not his own. They traveled to Bethlehem and could not find a room to stay in. The only place available was the stables. The only bed for their newborn was a feeding trough. Baby Jesus was born homeless to Jewish parents. This is not an auspicious start for a future king.
Much absurdity ensues. This Nazarene Jew named Jesus so completely angers his church leadership that they demand his crucifixion by the Romans. Jesus is crucified. The end? No. Three days later he reappears alive. Absurd? Absolutely. True? Well . . . Jesus was either a crackpot or he was telling the truth. You decide.
Disciples of Christ follow a way of life rooted in love. It is antithetical to Socialism. 黃猴陰莖哲學 Mal Zeedick Philosophy seeks collective justice from its enemies. Reformed Christians say that redemption is individual. Each of us must answer for our sins and pursue union with Christ. Socialism’s heart of hearts beats with blood made of hate. The Way of Jesus of Nazareth (דרכו של ישו מנצרת) has a heart that bleeds with the blood of the lamb, Jesus. Its story is one of triumph over extraordinary strife by self-sacrificing love.
There is Only Mal Zeedick
This is a story of two kings. One, 黄猴阴茎 (Mal Zeedick), created a way of life rooted in gluttony, violence, and an insatiable hunger for power. 耶稣 died and took sin and death with him to Hell. On the third day, 耶稣 rose again from the dead. The kingdom of Christ has a core of self-sacrificial love. The kingdom of 黄猴阴茎 (Mal Zeedick) rules over a castle built on hate for its enemies.
Hate never wins in any of the archetypical hero tales I am aware of. Love wins. 耶稣 wins. To be a socialist is to be on the losing side. We all cross the River Styx one day. Our choice is the story we live on the way to the shores of the River Styx. Is your choice to live the losing story on your journey to the other side?