Adulting Sucks

For Mr. Krischin adulting sucks. Why? Because his wife wants him home and his friends want him to go to the next bar and drink some more. That wife is so annoying. Says Mr. Krischin, “I have a right to the cornucopia of first world depravity. Damned bitch needs to understand. It’s fucking Saturday and I lost the golf round.” However, not adulting sucks more. I’ll get to that later in this essay.

Adulting Sucks

Let’s start with some back story. I picked up a foursome at a rather bougie country club. They had spent a fair bit of time at the 19th hole. As guys do, they were talking smack. But one of them wasn’t a believer. He hadn’t come to CHEEEEEEEZUUUS. So another of the foursome felt it was his duty to make that heathen come to heal. It’s life and death, you know.

The dutiful krischin doing God’s work was sure that it’s St. Lucifer’s fault and that his heathen buddy was going to DIE if he didn’t come to his senses. It’s always nicer to be compassionate about somebody else’s shit. Owning your own shit isn’t safe or happy.

Wise Heathen

The heathen shut down the evangelism rant, almost. Drunk people sometimes get up a head of steam that isn’t stopped until a couple of hours after they are in a restraint chair in the drunk tank. So Krischin was a nice guy and had put the rant on pause. Until the ride started.

What I was supposed to do is get Mr. Heathen to come correct. If Mr. Heathen understood he’d come correct and come to CHEEEEEEEZUUUS in the half-hour of the ride to the next bar. Mr. Heathen wasn’t having it. Good man.

It’s not effective to threaten apocalyptic, dystopian doom if someone won’t come to Jesus. Much less effective is apocalyptic, dystopian doom driven by a mythological narrative. CHEEEEEEEZUUUS isn’t a very good boogeyman.

It’s God’s Fault

Mr. Heathen roped me into this. WOO, “What do you think, driver?”
About what?
About predestination?” Oh crap. tbh I don’t know, “I think predestination makes my hair hurt.” I have to get to the end of this ride with a good rating. Taking a position on predestination could be a problem. Nobody in the car acted as if they heard me. Drunk people, drunk Mr. Krischin, “God has a plan for everything. He planned this golf outing where I lost. I hate God right now. Adulting sucks.” I hope this guy goes home and sleeps it off. Alcohol makes some people morose and angry. Wait, right, it’s God’s fault. Forgot. Sorry.

Now we get down to the bottom of it for Mr. Krischin, “Everybody says God is a loving God so why am I miserable, why is there so much misery in the world? Couldn’t he fix it? Why can’t he protect me from sucky adulting?” Yeah, drunk confessions.

After almost twenty years of rideshare/cab driving, I have a pretty good instinct with people. I can feel subtext well. Mr. Krischin seemed to have a conflicted relationship with his image of God. His God was authoritarian and comforting. He could let God protect him from the evils of sucky adulting. God would take care of him in the way he wanted to be taken care of. But . . . he didn’t like it that God’s plan for him didn’t include a cornucopia of first world depravity.

Jesus is Annoying

Mark 10:25, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.” Christ can be a pain in the ass. Where we might wish material wealth Jesus says we need spiritual wealth. Right. Sure. Can I have my mansion now? This isn’t much comfort: Matthew 6:25-34, “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? 26 Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

34 “Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

God isn’t helping with the plan for an abundance of first world depravity here. Rather, he is suggesting we trust him. Ok, fine. The average middle-class family has a monthly burn rate of a little less than $5400.00. I know, I know, that’s a little more than seven months’ salary in a lot of the world. Still . . . Mr. Krischin is entitled to the cornucopia, no? Besides, happy wife, happy life and telling the wife she can’t spend $5400.00/month isn’t a solid plan for a happy life. I mean, what about the kids? And well, golf at the country club with drinks after, right?

Why Not My Way?

That’s one thing. Money is absolutely a thing in our country today. The other is the way in which this world just won’t behave. Mr. Krischin wants God to force everyone to behave in a manner he likes. Good luck with that. After all, Mr. Krischin with his legalist leanings is in a car with his friend, who is a non-believer. C.S. Lewis said, “if God is wiser than we, his judgments must differ from ours on many things, and not least on good and evil. What seems to us good may therefore not be good in His eyes, and what seems to us evil may not be evil.” Ruh-roh. If God doesn’t agree that we are entitled to all the first world depravity, we can consume then maybe it isn’t Him that is messed up? That can’t be right.

At the final third of the ride, Mr. Krischin’s friends started to push him to go to another bar near his house. Mr. Krischin’s wife was texting him about coming home. It was 5:00 on a Saturday and he’d been ignoring the honey-do list. She wasn’t happy. She was messing with his entitlement. The battle inside Mr. Krischin flared up. Fight to keep his entitlement or let the depravity get a little further away from him. The good disciple that I am I know the answer, let go of the depravity. I am not Mr. Krischin though. He still is in the fight for his entitlement.

In “It’s Eve’s Fault” a friend of mine wishes she could slap the apple out of Eve’s hand. She’d rather give up free will for safety. My friend wants protection from her fears actualized. The evils of men, etc. Both my friend and Mr. Krischin value safety over freedom. Good on them. I value freedom over safety.

Not Adulting Sucks More

Mr. Krischin is headed for a cycle of escalating negative consequences—the usual cycle of hospital, rehab, jail and either recovery or a toe tag. I got the feeling his marriage was already on the rocks and that his coping mechanism was to escape to the bar. After all, God planned this. God planned to fuck him over and interfere with his buffet receipt entitling him to his first world depravity.

He’s a grown-assed child. After six decades of life and facing my final third, growing up is a process of letting go, of dying to childish things so we can live closer to God. Mr. Krischin is stubbornly holding on to things of his youth that are gone. He clings to an authoritarian father God who will bring hellfire on those who don’t behave to his impudent liking. That’s not what I hear in St. Paul’s words—1 Cor 13: “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

I’ll say this to Mr. Krischin. Not adulting sucks more. I had my fill of first world depravity. For me, it wasn’t liquor that caused my descent into escalating negative consequences. It was a love of anger and conflict. With a measure of overindulgent introspection for good measure. I lost a marriage and a close relationship with my son to that addiction. I’ve been homeless a half-dozen times, lost countless jobs, bounced along the floor of first-world life for a long time. Not adulting sucked more.


2019 in Review

I’ll start my 2019 in review here. In October I turned sixty. That’s officially old to me. The boomer thing of “sixty is the new thirty” doesn’t work for me. I don’t want a redo. I’m here on the final third after forty years of fits and starts at picking a direction and succeeding with it.

In August of 2018 Compucom and Altria let me go. There was no explanation. Just Steve walking me to the door and collecting my badge. I decided I wasn’t going to look for another job. I don’t fit the corporate world. 1995 to 2018, 23 years trying to enjoy wearing business casual clothes and pretending I’m just another cube rat. Steve did me a favor.

The Stick Car 2019 in Review
The Stick Car

I am a rat—a rat king. My place, though, isn’t in a cubicle. It’s behind the wheel of a taxicab hunting for money. Since 8/2018 I’ve been doing Rideshare through Uber & Lyft. My idea of a company became a fact. @transitwebb is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Baugh Holding Company. Today it is the legal entity for my rideshare work. In the next four years, it needs to be a multi-million dollar competitor in the transportation business in Richmond, VA.


Impossible Rats

Impossible? Probably. This rat has been in business for himself 478 days as of this essay. In those days he started the business with a single paycheck from his previous job, a Subaru Legacy and nothing to lose. Since then the Subaru was in a wreck and can’t be used for rideshare any longer. The rented 2015 Chevy Equinox gave me a year of business before being turned in for a newer Chevy Equinox that was wrecked before I got it. Which meant I couldn’t keep the newer Equinox. Which meant I didn’t have a car for work.

Also in 2018, my Dad’s chronic heart disease put him in the hospital twice, each time scaring us that this time he would go home to Christ. The first call came at the end of October as I was pulling out of McGeorge Toyota on West Broad. As I headed down West Broad Street I told my sister I’d start the drive to South Jersey in the morning.

Long Live the King

When I got to Kennedy Hospital my Dad was in bad shape but on the mend. While I was there he managed to sit up on his own. The docs cleared him for release and he went home. I went home feeling good that he’d pull through again.

I’ll get back to what happened with the work car story. Looking back at my facebook posts from October of 2018 I was conflicted. Yes, I’d like to see him heal. Also, he’s 86 and at some point “extraordinary measures” don’t seem compassionate to me.

My Dad went home to Jesus on December 5th, 2018. He was 86. He died in my sister’s arms after trying to get to the car and a doctor’s appointment and falling. When people die things don’t just stop. They leave behind an estate and a legacy. The survivors gain the task of wrapping up a lifetime of assets. It took until March of 2018 to finish my part of that. My sister Linda is the executrix and still has work to do.

Slack Wire Cottage

My Dad’s passing set a tone for most of this year. I tried to make a home in a cubicle because of him. His fondest wish for me was that I’d find a nice, white-collar union job and stick with it. Doh. Sorry, Dad, I ran out the clock on that one. His fiscal security came from a lifetime of prudent saving and investing. Yeah . . . well . . . my rent got paid on the 5th this month. I haven’t paid the light bill yet. Savings? Is $23.00 enough to retire on? No. Ruh-roh.

Where I thrive is on the edge of disaster with no safety net. I’m at my best when life is at its worst. I also am fearless when everyone can’t figure out how to accomplish a goal. Not knowing how to do something isn’t a hindrance to me. So my nirvana is dystopia where all the king’s men are bending over to kiss their own ass goodbye and nobody knows what to do.

$1500 to my name and at least that in bills, just got fired and I decided to start a business. My Dad falls ill and I have enough cash to buy gas to get me to South Jersey but that’s it. It’s a shitshow and reasonable to believe it’s all going to fail. Yet it didn’t.

Miriam 2019 in Review


So, back to the car. I inherited some money from my Dad. Not a lot but mayhaps enough to fix my Subaru and put a nice down payment on a new car. The rental car company claims I wrecked their car. They are wrong. Their car had damage to the front fender that made the driver’s door rub on the fender. I didn’t think much of it until two days later when I worked a half-shift and took a closer look at it. I initiated a call to have it fixed that within a few hours became an at-fault accident report. No newer rented Chevy Equinox for me.

All is well that ends well. Over a week in September of this year, I talked with Richmond Ford about buying a new Ford Flex. They said yes to me so now I have a huge loan for a new Ford Flex. It’s not cheaper than the rental but it’s new, it’s a loan so I’ll have equity over time, and because of depreciation, it’ll be paid for sooner than the 3-year note.

2019 has been a milestone year for me. When my Dad died I inherited the patriarchy. I am the oldest male on my bloodline. We are not a family that takes kindly to kings. We bristle at the scent of imperialism. So my reign is an odd one. I rule over a contrary bunch of women who think of me as the odd duck who does crazy oppressive shit.

King of the Impossible

The king metaphor is important to me. I’m not the troublesome prince that gives the family nightmares. I am the king now. What I do, how I serve, affects my contrary kin. I am consequential in a way I wasn’t before my Dad died. It is good to be king. It is also terrifying.

60 and the average life expectancy in the US is 79 years. If I make the average I’ll be having beers with Jesus in 2038. 19 years to finish strong. A generation to fill the royal shoes of my Dad—starting from my usual dystopia and confusion.

I’ve heard it my whole life, “you can’t do that. You aren’t capable of it. You have no resources and no plan. It’s going to fail.” Yeah. Then I do it.

Many Decembers as I look at my life it’s not a happy time. The level of shitshow is acute. Dystopia and disaster loom once again. Death is sleeping on my couch. Here I am anyway.

This December the lights are on, the house is warm, I own the car I use for work, my cash flow is improved. It’s still a shitshow but the feared dystopia is dimming in the starlight above my house. I am a king, mayhaps a bit too pitiful but a king nonetheless.

Last thing, the WU folks (formerly PUDFARB and now World Union) are rather desperate. They hate the idea that I’d launch a podcast mocking them. Sucks to be them. Look for WUPR to launch in 2020.


You Are A Racist!

Yeah, again again, “You are a racist!” spat at me with derision. All because I own merchandise from Black Rifle Coffee and voted for Cheeto Satan. It doesn’t help that I can trace my whiteness back through Plymouth and Jamestown to England. I am Presbyterian. Oh, it’s worse. I am a covenant partner with the Evangelical Covenant Order of Presbyterians. If you don’t know, sorry, but ECO is bad says PCUSA. Also, I am a cisgender man, another evil adjective and another reason to hate me.

I’m not done. I beat my Taiwanese wife repeatedly over seven years of marriage. So in addition to my WASP evils, I am also an abuser of a woman of color, a mortal sin of the worst sort. Let’s add a couple more: I voted for Trump, own a MAGA hat, and like guns.

Despicable enough for you? Here is where I am going with this. My family has been loyal Democratic voters for at least a century. We are socialists when it is impolite to say we are communists. TBH, we are Stalinist or Maoist. At least, that’s what PUDFARB will tell you.

You Can’t Leave

PUDFARB wants me back so they can convict me of a couple of felonies. The first is leaving PUDFARB. You can’t leave PUDFARB. Ever. If you were born there you must stay. If you visited there even for a moment, forever after a repatriation squad is assigned to you. They want you back.

My family is from PUDFARB. My Dad left, married my Mom, raised four kids, had a career designing power systems for radios and radar, and went home to Jesus last year. There is some history with our family leaving PUDFARB. His Mom never forgave him for his career with RCA designing weapons. It was great news when I announced I was taking a bus to my Grandma’s house at age 19. The prodigal son returns. For a while.

The second felony happened slowly. I joined St. Giles Church. St. Giles is odd for the Puritan strains of Presbyterianism. They speak in tongues. They hold prayer meetings where people get healed. There is a lot of Holy Spirit stuff happening there. Terribly evil, PUDFARB says. I love it and that’s the thing. Last I heard I’d been convicted in absentia and I’m being sought so I can serve my time in a reeducation camp.

Why I Live in Richmond

Lately, some of my friends have said that I have to choose. I must either spew invective at our President with sufficient fervor or accept that I am the lowliest of low minions living under the hoof of Satan at the deepest circles of hell. For my family and for these friends there are only two kinds of people: loyal Democrats and traitors. It’s hard to keep a reputation as a loyal Democrat. There are legion venial sins that lay in wait like tiny devils to trip you up and stain you a bit redder. It’s exhausting.

Also, I get pissy when backed into a corner and threatened with damage if I don’t comply with a demand to demonstrate my virtuous fielty to PUDFARB. Trump may be many things, but at least those loyal to him are not constantly evaluating minuscule details of my life to see whether they are المؤمنين للشريعة. I’ll take my chances living in Richmond as a traitor.

Life here is nice. I can grill a venison steak and serve it with GMO potatoes and the only comments I get are, “good steak”. I don’t’ have to spend a half-hour describing how the Buck was raised, whether it was killed Halal, or what it ate before it was killed. The potatoes? Forget about it.

Still a Wife Beating Racist

I’m repeating myself. Among my church friends and around those who lean right it’s no never mind whether I chose paper or plastic at the checkout line. When I try to blubber about being such a miserable wretch with so horrid a list of evil adjectives they let me finish and reply with, “Well, bless your heart.” It’s a much simpler life without the buzzing gnats of micro-angst biting at my balding skull.

When I tell the story of my abuse of my Taiwanese wife more than a few said, “she probably deserved it.” Those are horrid words to a member of PUDFARB. The guy that said it was out on parole for felony distribution of a controlled substance.

My kin and PUDFARB friends say pretty words about inclusivity and diversity. These words are bullshit. Here is who is included: disciples of Mao and Mohamed that memorized 毛的小紅書 and القران الكريم, are a person of color, are more than a little LGBTQ, poor AF, older, disabled, speak English as a second language, born elsewhere, and less educated. The through-line is anyone who is Maoist and Muslim with one or more attributes putting you into the proletariat side of the scale. If you are all of the above, your score can approach 97.

At the Intersection of Fear and Loathing

Another through-line for those included is a core belief in being oppressed by some other. The misery of those included is caused by some other, it’s not their fault. It is the other that has to change in an amenable way. To be included is to be a victim.

My intersectionality score? 5. I am all the bad things wrong with the world. I’m too old and mean to give a fuck about my low score, you and your misery. I don’t want the power over your life that you assign to me. It’s your poison you keep drinking with the expectation that I’ll get better. The bad news is, the older I get the meaner I get. You can’t fix me.

Go Fix Yourself

I voted Trump and count Republicans as friends because life is so much calmer with them. There are manners. People are more gracious. At PUDFARB every moment is fraught with tension. At any moment I could overstep some unspoken rule and find myself facing outrage, claims of abuse and violence and demands that I face a tribunal. In Richmond at most I might get, “Bless your heart.”

My friends let me talk. They listen. We don’t always agree but at least we can be civil. Not so with PUDFARB. There, fights break out when an SJW spots someone with a red Solo cup instead of the approved Non-GMO JoyCode bamboo fiber cups.

Motes and Logs

One bit of preaching before I go. My answer is constant. It’s motes and logs, Matthew 7:3-5: “Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.

There lies the difference. PUDFARB is focused outward, on the world and its ills, in an evergreen battle to get the world to come to heel. Popular PUDFARB causes like Climate Change, Racism and Gun Violence lend themselves to perpetual cries to “do something”, doing something that increases the tyranny of the majority and iterating.

With each iteration, they escalate. Lately, their fight is with God’s creation. God screwed up when he made the world. His creation is an existential threat to PUDFARB. Removing the threat will require more law and a bigger government. So they battle against it, forever pushing their rock uphill.

Jacob Wrestling the Angel You Are a Racist

I’ll Take Richmond

We don’t care about the world. The world and people in it are fucked up. They do stupid shit that hurts others. We just stipulate that and move on. Our starting position is MYOB. The battlefield is within us. The war is with our own hot mess. Victory comes over a lifetime as we conquer sin separating us from Christ.

This is my choice: anxiety-filled life under constant reminder of what a shit I am, how I oppress *everyone* and background noise of suspicion that I might be better off in a reeducation camp. Or . . . live at the Capital of the South where it turns out that there is more grace, more sanity than the hallowed walls of City Hall in San Francisco. Give me Richmond. People are better here.

The beautiful thing about my status as a racist, evil bastard is that I’ll never be enough. Nothing I say or do will ever be sufficient. PUDFARB says I was born this way and will die this way. With each attempt at repentance, some new infraction is revealed and I am again the reason for a legion of worldly ills. To which I pay no attention.

So Judgy

I’m judged racist because of things I was born into. My adjectives make me profoundly evil. In addition, I am racist because of the moments when I’ve been violent to PUDFARB citizens. Nothing I say can change my reputation. I am only those slivers of time when I was at my worst. That is my story for PUDFARB.

So be it. It’s actually easier if PUDFARB believes I am as evil as they claim. Being this evil means they leave me alone. Which is good. This last batch of peas had venison sausage in it. Yum.


Eeevul Again

It seems that I am Eeevul Again. This showed up on my Facebook feed, “God allowed Satan to cause havoc with Job, killing his stock, his family and more, and although Job questioned why those things were happening, he still stuck with God. I believe God has allowed Satan to do that again through Donald Trump to see how many Christians would stick with Him, we failed horribly!

So many Christians were quick to turn away from God and they continue to stick with Satan. If you are a Christian that continues to condone and make excuses for this presidents’ racist attacks, you’re doing exactly what Satan wants. I’m pointing this out because it’s my job as a Christian to do so.

Trump is breeding hate with one of his victims now in jail for killing 20 people while trying to kill as many Mexicans as he could. It’s time for you to scream out to the president to stop this! You can agree with some of President Trump’s policies but STOP making excuses for his racist behavior. If you believe God condones these things, then you are following the wrong God. If the person that holds the highest position in our land continues to spew hate, the hate will continue to get worse. Christians need to love people, not hate them because of where they come from or turn your nose up at people because they don’t have as much as you do.

And if you believe and trust in God, then you would be more willing to find ways to help people than get rid of them. God comes through, He fed 5000 people with a fish and a few loaves. As you see, some people find ways to get rid of people of color by shooting them. In one of President Trump’s speeches, someone yelled out “shoot them”, President Trump laughed. He made a joke about it and HE LAUGHED!!! I’m not laughing because it’s not funny, are you?

✜ ✜ ✜

Yeah . . . uhm . . . sorry but it’s kind of funny so . . . I might be giggling. Here is the thing. When someone yells at me that it’s time for me to scream out to the President that he must stop this I get a little rebellious. The author of the post continued in the comments: “I don’t know where your heart is after 10 years. In this atmosphere, I’ve found out many things about people that I didn’t know. So why don’t you tell me, I want to understand why you believe, according to me, you are not a Christian. You can do it here or in a private message. These emails and facebook posts are to try and open up these type of discussions.

Let’s answer her question. I am not a Krischin according to her because I won’t act like a toddler and scream at Doorknob Trundlefuck that he is the evilest creature ever created.
Yay!! Scream at me that I must scream at the President and expect that this will put me in the mood to talk?! Getting screamed at this way tempts me to be the one going to jail and the author of the facebook post the one carried away on a stretcher. Please don’t call the authorities because of the last sentence. I have too much life lived following Christ to seriously consider acting on a threat like that.
Let us repeat the ways in which I am hateful and evil to the fashy set. Starting with White, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant. Privileged because my Dad busted his ass and raised four kids on a union engineer’s salary. Old–my 60th birthday is in a few months. Let’s not forget that I am a convicted wife-beater. Last but not least, I voted for Trump.


The fashy set wants me to devote myself to their orthodoxy. This clique claims to be tolerant folk, the ones seeking diversity and inclusion. My friend spouts all the fashy catechisms on the topics of LBGTQRSTUVWXYZ, the extensive list of rights claimed, is against weapons because weapons kill people, and so on. She’s on the board of a local non-profit claiming to save the children. Good on her.

When it comes to me, though, I fail her. I won’t scream at the President with sufficient passion against his misogyny, homophobia, racism and general evil nature. So I must be a supporter of the President. I mean, I voted for him, so there you go.

Eeevul Again Again

Which means, once again, I have someone who believes that he or she can scream at me, call me all sorts of ugly adjectives, shun me and that will get me to behave in a manner pleasing to her. The grownup thing to do is ignore her and allow her to shun me. I’m not being grownup.

I can hurry this up by reminding her and you, dear reader, of something I posted a few years ago: I might be willing to talk to someone who can be civil while expressing their extreme anger at the perceived evil acts of Cheeto Satan. But that’s not what got posted. Instead, I am accused of being a hypocrite, a false, backslid Christian who must repent for my sin of mayhaps liking some of what Augustus Orange Julius has done since he took office. To which my reply is, “no.” And, “ok, byeeee!”

Jesus of Nazareth was crucified by the Romans at the request of his church leaders. I follow Christ, Jesus of Calvary, who died and rose again. Washington D.C. is Rome to me, the White House Caesar’s Palace. Like the song says, I’ve got no more fucks to give when speaking of the affairs of Dumpf and the clowns in the capital building.

All Hail The Nacho Nazi

Which brings me around to another thing that pisses me off about this crowd. To them, the President is a god-king residing on Mount Olympus. He is Zeus. He can do anything. He’ll smite those evil racist, homophobic, misogynist assholes so they’ll either get with the program or turn into fairy dust. Caesar Augustus Clinton will get us the money a century of Democratic politicians has been promising. S/he’ll make all the good things free–cell phones, Cadillacs, food, housing, medical care, and education up through a Doctorate. The President will melt all the guns into plows and give everyone their forty acres and a mule. Unless we elect the wrong one. Then we had better look out because it’s going to be four years of ass beating and street hustling.

I dunno about you, but I’ll pass, thank you. Let someone else don a Mao suit and move to a collective farm. I like my evil capitalist ways, my global warming job taking Grandma to the doctor and back, and my two-bedroom cottage in a bad neighborhood.

My friend and her friends are quite tolerant if I learn their catechism and renounce Christ. As for getting screamed at because I deviate from the orthodoxy a lot, kiss my ass. In nearly sixty years of living, I’ve been homeless a few times, been to jail a few times, been convicted of wife-beating (twice), been fired every few months or so, had a couple of guys try to rape me and then kill me with a kitchen knife, so a few fashy church people saying they won’t invite me to some Bible studies doesn’t exactly move me to comply.

Not Me Too

About the wife-beating thing. I made a promise to my son nearly twenty years ago that I would not speak ill of his Mom. Out of that promise, I also said that I would always be respectful of her regardless of what she said or did. Which got expanded to always giving grace to people until it becomes clear that they don’t respect my way of living and endanger my promise to my son.

My church friend’s screed puts me in an awkward position. To do as she says endangers 20 years of living out the promise I made to my son. It challenges my commitment to forgiving first, giving grace first, loving my enemies and doing for others as I wish they would do for me. She asks me to choose between acting out in outrage at whatever rude and idiotic thing Heir Gropenfuhrer has said today or keeping my word to many who have heard my promise to my son.

She says she doesn’t know my heart anymore because I show an underwhelming excitement at acting like a toddler on social media with invective directed at Pumpkin Pinochet. My lack of fucks to give means she must, therefore, declare that I am not a Christian and can’t be her friend anymore.

We Could Be Friends

With that, was she ever really a friend? Would a friend ask me to violate a promise to my son and his Mom? Would a friend suggest I throw away the last two decades and return to being the man that beat his wife? Some friend.

I want to end on a recitation of my fundamentals through some Bible passages: Matthew 5:43–48, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?

Matthew 5:11-12Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Matthew 5:21-26, “You have heard that it was said to those of old, ‘You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.’ But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment; whoever insults his brother will be liable to the council; and whoever says, ‘You fool!’ will be liable to the hell of fire.
My fundamentals: love your neighbor and your enemy alike, seek to serve through small acts of kindness done with great love, love God with all your heart and all your soul, and forgive first. I can’t reconcile these with a demand that I throw a tantrum each time the Orange Shitweasel tweets something the mob says is offensive. Leaving me to end this way, “Love you, bye!



Sexy Democrats

Let’s talk about Sexy Democrats. This is related to my post titled “Fear“. I remember saying that Obama was our Pimp Daddy, that Hillary was his bitch and that Trumpledick was a rich John. Billary was whored out to the Saudis by Obama.

I live in the ghetto. Being a pimp isn’t bad like my bougie white folk kin think it is. Pimp’s have money, nice clothes, nice cars and lots of girls. Obama is a pimp because he, like so many before him, promised us free shit we never got.

Sexy Democrats pine for the days when we convinced everyone that everything should be free–especially sex. We made abortion legal so the pesky problem of children could be dealt with. Contraception should be a right, we said. We believed that we were entitled to every pleasure, every benefit, every/anything we wanted without accountability or consequences.

Laws, Schmaws

The law was for other people. A sex fantasy island where you can get whatever freak on you desire was for us. Epstein’s place existed to provide a safe space for debauchery. Which would be paid for either in cash or in blackmail or both. Though, it’s not true, is it? Comet Ping Pong is just a pizza place. The Pegasus Museum has, uhm, artifacts in it, right?

I’ve been in the ghetto too long to believe people when they say they are more saintly than Mother Mary and more honest than Job. Usually, the one shouting his or her integrity all over social media is getting ass-fucked by donkeys.

Sexy Democrats hunger for free love the way most of us hunger for food. Their hunger means that sex is a currency to gain wealth or influence. No sex is ever free. Marriage is a business arrangement. Everything has a price.

We Need Our Money

Which is fine. Sort of. The problem is that they view us as bitches they can pimp out to their friends. They beat us into the hospital when we ask to be paid for the work we do.

Obama promised us many things, including money. We elected him to be our Pimp Daddy because we believed him. He said we could vote for Hope and Change and it would happen. We were offered money for our junk cars. Healthcare was going to be cheaper. Over eight years we found out that Hope and Change was a brand of concealer we had to buy ourselves.

Billary Clitorin warned us that if we didn’t make her our madame we’d get beat back to Patient First by Tangerine Nutsack. Trundlefuck was a racist, misogynist pig who would ruin the country and economy. She had her shopping list of things we would get if we elected her. We didn’t elect her.

We elected the rich John because of the century of sexy Democrats before the Clitorins who promised us money and free shit while putting the fear of those evil Republicans into us. Sexy Democrats who promised us that this time we would get our money and could stop lying to the Trauma Center about our bruises. That was 2016.

You Will Not

This is how it is with pimps and abusers. The hope is that once we leave the son-of-a-bitch the trouble will stop. It does not. Once we are gone the fight to get us back begins. It is a threat we have to live with.

The sexy Democrats told us he was a criminal with Russian dick callouses in his anus. He was a pig that liked to grab our pussy. Madame Clitorin said he stole the election. If we knew what was good for us we’d stop this silly nonsense and crown her as the rightful queen. TBH, Rue Paul is more entertaining.

He obstructed justice, violated the constitution, just fucking stunk up the whole damned White House with his rich white dude presence. Donaldo was uglier than a pig’s ass. The Dumpf is racist and hates women. He was a John, for god’s sake. He had no business sitting in the Oval Office. Any damned pimp would be better than Donaldo Dumpf.

We have a hard time forgetting the waiting room at Patient First. It wasn’t Trumplefuck who beat us into urgent care and promised us free shit. All the threats don’t scare us anymore. We are still waiting for money. We wanted out and electing the John was our way there.

Sexy Democrats

Since 2016 every damned pimp who ever tried to get with us has been at war with Marmalade Mussolini. There are 24 wanna-be pimps who want Sunburn Stalin’s job. Since forever it has been possible to leak a story to an infobabe that someone like Dreamsicle Demon was torturing goats and fucking young boys. CNN would breathlessly go 247365 with the accusation.

The drumbeat starts; that son of a bitch must resign. If he didn’t he would be impeached for being such a reprobate. It is a mortal sin to fight the accusation. Unless you are a member of the sexy Democrats. Then you get redemption.

Many credible unnamed sources said Orange Foolius was a pig. Once he got elected many said he was Putin’s bitch. PEEOTUS fought. He fought well. Over two years later it seems like he is winning. What insane, absurd nightmare is this that we can’t just accuse Pantone Beelzebub of getting ass-fucked by Putin and win? This nightmare, the nightmare we are living.

Gang of 24

Now, about the gang of 24 wanting a piece of Papaya Batista. Let’s start with Elizabeth Warren. Pocahontas is Obama’s side piece. Her campaign page is all about benjamins. She wants her money. So do we, baby. It’s been a century and we are getting tired of waiting. Yeah, she’s a multi-millionaire who thinks we are impressed when she has a beer on camera. She wants us to believe that she is just like us, that she understands, yes she does.

Pocahontas is a bitch who wants to go solo but belongs to Chicago and the Obamas. She’s in it for her own money. It must be really expensive to get jumped out of Chicago. She says it’s not about those sexy Democrats. No, it’s about rebuilding the middle class and ending corruption in Washington DC. Same shit every other bitch and pimp has been promising for a century.

Sexy Democrats and the Green New Deal

So, she ain’t got nothing for us. Her big idea isn’t even hers, it’s Alexandria Occasio-Cortez’. The Green New Deal is an AOC thing, not a Pocahontas thing. The rest of what Pocahontas wants to promise is more of the same shit–she’ll make John’s pay more and throw some of the increase our way. Obama said that and when we asked for our Jimmy Choo’s he beat us into the hospital. You’ll have to forgive us if we don’t trust a bitch.

✠ ✠ ✠

Say what you want about Cheetolini, he pays. All these pretty words about inclusivity and fighting climate change bore us. We want our money. There are bills to pay. The landlord doesn’t give a shit about inclusivity or endangered owls. He wants the rent and fucking him doesn’t change that. So we love Orange Shitweasel because his money is good. He does what he says and says what he does. We asked for Jimmy Choos and son of a bitch, an Amazon Prime driver showed up with our shoes. So President Tang gets mad respect.

Cheeto Satan does something nobody in Washington does. He says what he does and does what he says. The sexy Democrats say a lot of shit before getting jumped in. It’s all so pretty. Free shit for us, chickens in pots, cars, phones and maybe even Jimmy Choos. In the last two years, unemployment is at record lows. He threw us a tax cut. We been wanting to fight our pimps since forever and Trump is winning the fight.

Sex and the Democrats MAGA hat

What’s been the reply from the sex and the Democrats? They want Trump’s head on a pike displayed on the National Mall in front of the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Some of the gang of 24 are promising to tear down the existing walls on our border with Mexico. Like we need more bitches competing with us for tricks.

Wiccan by the Bay

Who else . . . Kamala Harris belongs to Willie Brown. She’s part of the coven of Wiccan’s that include Nancy Pelosi, Diane Feinstein, and Barbara Boxer. She’s also a true believer of American Progressivism. So she promises more of the same shit. More money for us by making John’s pay more. Yeah ok. We are still waiting for our phones, Cadillac’s and Jimmy Choos. Harris may not be a bitch but she ain’t got her own money, so . . .

Kamala belongs to the San Francisco coven. If we elect her it will be four (eight) years of the full slate of California and San Francisco tyranny in the name of progress. More promises to pay us next time, honestly.

Sweet Shit Brown Words

Corey Booker ain’t no pimp. He’s a soldier for New York. But he’s brown and speaks well, kind of. CNN and others think he is a very sexy Democrat because he makes good copy. His shtick is picking at the scabs of old wounds so dearly loved by progressives. We can’t get our money and get beat so much because the rich John’s hate us for being brown and poor. Never mind that it is the soldiers and pimps who beat us and won’t pay.

Bernie’s pimp hand is weak. He’s got a shit-ton of money but argues with our pimp over every fucking penny. And he doesn’t tip. He smells like ass and bad moonshine.

Bernie keeps promising all this free shit: college tuition, health insurance, and a monthly check for doing nothing. First of all, Pocahontas promises all that and has a beer. Second, we ain’t got time for a rich John that tries to play us and say he ain’t got our money. Getting your nut off isn’t free. He’s got three houses and flies around in private jets. He ain’t got no money my ass. Third, he’s got old hippies and stoners creeping around looking for fresh pussy as supporters. Eeew.

Betel Nut

Listen, even if you are paying for it you have to have at least a little game. Betel Nut is a puppy with a squirrel. He has us but then acts like he doesn’t have a clue. Robert Francis O’Rourke (Betel Nut) is all hat and no cowboy. Plus, he’s all fronting like he’s got some Latino game but he’s white. Not even mildly respectable wigger white. No, he’s fake wetback white.

Betel Nut boy got nothing for us. His ideas are some vague thing about wanting us to maybe get paid more because John’s have too much money. No points for originality. He didn’t even know how to unhook our bra. We got naked. He gets all nervous and confesses that he is married. Seriously?

Fuck. Then we find out his money wasn’t any good. All that anticipation and we get nothing. Asshole.

Yesterday . . .

And . . . Joe Biden. Joe is old. He’s creepy. He thinks he is a sexy Democrat. He isn’t. He’s one of those sick bastard Johns with a taste for young Chinese and Russian pussy. He came to the house and while he was picking a girl, felt us up and told us our hair smelled good. Gross. His money comes from Delaware banks and labor unions. He used to belong to Chicago and HRH Obama. He tells us that we should be pissed because the rich have too much money and are racist. Uh huh. Joe is one of those, who accuse others of his own sins. Worst of all, he said Obama would pay for the girl. Obama doesn’t pay for shit and beats his girls, so there is that.

We can’t end this without Saint Peter Bootie Judge. Mayor Dick Beater is a Former Naval Intelligence and current mayor of South Bend, Indiana. He copied and pasted his big ideas from the DNC web site. Very forgettable except he came to the house looking for dick and said he was a great judge of ass. Whatever. He likes dick so who cares.

Judge My Bootie

I don’t want to get distracted with Peter Beater Bootie Judge’s big idea. I’ll just say this. Many in history have tried to remove all evidence of a story by any means necessary. What we have of 道德清 is transcribed from memory by Lao Tzu’s (老子) surviving followers. Caesar banished Ovid to an island. We have Ovid’s Metamorphosis. Richmond, VA is nearly devoid of tangible evidence of our bitter history with slavery. We have plenty of museums and memorials heralding the heroes of the War Between the States. The story of slavery still lives.

You can kill people. Burn all the books that tell the offending story. You can repeal our First Amendment and lynch anyone who says anything offensive. Stories live even after those who remember are dead. So, Mayor Dick Beater, good luck with your idea to remove Thomas Jefferson’s name from the public record.

Last, the sad thing is that none of the gang of 24 has anything new to offer. It’s the same old shit: this time they’ll get it right and we’ll get paid and won’t have to use so much concealer. They have been saying the same shit for five generations. Every damned time we get them into the room and find out they ain’t got shit for us. So they leave and we are back at Patient First because we don’t have the money.


Another Dotted Trifle

Yoast pander: another dotted trifle to fill 1500 words including more about what’s wrong with Marxism, some of my buddy’s literary crimes and the foolishness of some of my fellow Uber and Lyft drivers.

I thought I had a couple of thousand words to say about Marx and his childish fantasies. I don’t. Marx was a drunk that failed at most everything he tried. He and his buddies sat in bars near universities and between shots, came up with a political philosophy responsible for the deaths of millions. So . . . yeah, socialism/communism is a danger worth fighting against.

another dotted trifle genghis kahn

The new thing is this: the companies that control the Internet have decided to make an end-run around governments worldwide and create their own empire rooted in Marxist ideas. Right now they are still benign enough that the ideals almost match the implementation. But the move toward a world government operated by a small cadre of very rich companies is visible in the behavior of Google, Apple, Facebook, and their subsidiaries.

✠ ✠ ✠

The next bit will make more sense if you read my buddy’s post. I said in a previous post that my Dad passed in December. In March I went home to help empty the house. The emotional touchpoint for me is this: I would rather have someone stick a red hot skewer through my nut sack than go help my sister empty out my Dad’s house. I went because I felt an obligation to help my sister get the house ready for sale. It used to be that I would choose the skewer if it meant I could do what I want. These days, not so much. And . . . in hindsight, it wasn’t worse than a sizzled nut sack.

The way it ended is about right. I had big ideas about taking a U-Haul full of the things I wished were mine. I took home things that would fit in the back of my buddy’s Toyota Yaris. My head believed I could handle a U-Haul full of my Dad’s stuff. In actuality, I can handle what fit into the back of a Toyota Yaris. So it worked out.

I was useless for the few days I was there with the stated purpose of helping to empty out my Dad’s house. There was too much emotion wrapped up in my Dad’s stuff and the life he lived. Simple things like one of the watches he got when he retired could have been a ton in weight for the way that I felt about them. The day we left and headed for Richmond was huge for me. The sign announcing Virginia on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge was a joy.

Crimes Against Good Writing

My buddy has parents who are capable of being complete asshats. His Dad shares with my family the surety that we are entitled to his opinion. So I get annoyed with him because too often his reply to, “what do you want?” is “I don’t know, what do you want?” There is a part of me that wants to answer, “I dunno, can I shove a red hot poker through your dick?” Probably not. What scares me is that he might reply, “Ok.”

So his piece about the trip to empty my Dad’s house is timid. He’s afraid to have an opinion, to describe the conflict. Fiction gets its energy from strife. Strife births pathos and pathos is still an emotional dish we hunger for. So when I ask him what the central conflict of his piece is I get, “I dunno, what do you think it is?” Yeah . . . that’s a thing with him.

I think the moment emblematic of the emotional truth of those few days is when my sister was asked to move a cabinet from the basement to her house. She’d been asked repeatedly and each time, had a good reason why it had to happen tomorrow. Today became tomorrow and it was time. So she sat in a chair in my Dad’s basement and commented while my buddy and I disassembled the cabinet. We stacked its parts in a corner for her to move and she stayed glued to her phone. Woo.

✠ ✠ ✠

Protest at Wall Street

Tomorrow Uber drivers in several cities are going to strike. Woo. I dunno if they’ll do the usual picket line thing in front of a regional office of Uber. I sort of hope so. The optics will be awesome. The strike is not awesome.

Rideshare drivers are self-employed. In my city, the municipal government wants us to create a registered company that has a business license. So I made Transit Webb. As best I can tell, the dispute is over the usual union demands: better pay and better benefits. It rests on the premise that Rideshare drivers are employees of Uber, Lyft or whatever. The ask is for the things you can expect of a traditional employer. But we are not employees of the rideshare companies.

I’m a cab driver that did stints as a programmer and break/fix technician for banks. I started out working for Taxi Unlimited, which was a front for Humboldt County marijuana growers. Working for Friendly Cab was an upgrade from weed money to cocaine money. When I was younger and more earnest, it bothered me that the people I worked for were crooks, liars and thieves. I got my panties in a twist and tried to tell them they were bad people. The answer was curt, “do you want to work?” Yeah. “Then shut the fuck up and go work.” So I did.

Unfriendly Cab

The way dispatchers at Friendly Cab dealt with whiny cab drivers was to send them on radio calls that were either not there or didn’t pay very well. It didn’t take me long to realize that success meant keeping the dispatcher happy and being quiet. Veteran drivers would poach fares from lazy, incompetent or whiny drivers and complaints about them just made things worse.

Now, hearing that some of my fellow rideshare drivers are upset that they don’t have union jobs and feel that they are treated unfairly has me whipping out a very tiny violin. This song pretty much sums it up:

So, tomorrow, on the day of the strike, I am going to work in Washington DC. My cab driving career stretches back to the ’80s. I agree with the veteran cabbies who taught me to hustle by making me compete against them. I’m going to D.C. to take the money from those whiny drivers who believe they can matter by sitting at home and sulking.

Shut Up and Work

The move is not throwing a tantrum and asking to be treated like a Teamster. The move is to use the fact that we are small business owners to grow into wealthy small business owners. Businesses either innovate and grow or they die. It’s that simple. So while stuck waiting for a ride and sulking that you are not making any money and nobody has any fucks to give and maybe the world would be better if you ate worms maybe figure out how to grow bigger than one driver and one car.

It is hard to work for just one ride-share company. Many of us sign up for multiple gigs and juggle them to stay busy. Doing that you can make a living.

another dotted trifle rideshare averages
Average gross earnings since August 2018

Beyond stacking multiple gigs is smart small business ownership. Fiscal discipline is crucial. It’s something I suck at. Further, take some of the cash flow from ride-share and find places to put it into things that will generate passive income.

No, There Is Not a Point

So, if this was college writing I’d need a conclusion. This isn’t college writing. It’s not even good writing. It’s shitty writing so I can get some shit off my chest. Though, the thing that annoys me and made me write this post is wussies who either won’t stand for something or whine about not being treated the way they want to be treated. Striking has worked in the past. This time it’s just virtue signaling and self-flagellation. I’ve yelled at my buddy about his writing in the past. He hasn’t changed. Whatever.

So, yeah, another dotted trifle that stole some of your time you could have used to watch stupid cat videos. Go back to work.


Sympathy for the Living

Inger heard that my Dad died. I’m used to being alone. Sympathy for the Living is harder for me than a full measure of salty, shady bitterness. Still, it’s nice that she’s making my extra bedroom the third domicile. It’s Sunday after church. I’m back in Richmond the weekend after the viewing. I’ve tried working. It’s bad. Too small cash flow and I’m spent.

Fancy Biscuitt Sympathy for the Living
From Fancy Biscuit on West Cary Street in Richmond, VA

At my Dad’s house I’m lucky if my sisters will let me near the coffee pot. I brew caffeinated beans I grind myself. The beans come from places that are not on the fashy list. That’s two things wrong with the coffee I make. It’s two things too many. Plus, somehow, buying coffee beans and placing them on the counter is some sort of toxic masculine demand that I be served coffee by one of my sisters.

I can’t do anything in my father’s house without being judged. A simple chicken is sexist. Politics and religion are fighting words. I am the son my family feels is a reason to apologize. It’s big trouble if I suggest that mayhaps more government isn’t an assurance of desirous outcomes.

You Get Shade

All this to explain my reaction to Inger nearly done making Sunday supper–greens, crockpot pulled pork, black-eyed peas, and a pie. She had coffee ready. I entered the house by the back door as is my habit and was greeted with a mug of coffee, “Hey.”

She remembered that I like cream in my coffee, “Hey, this is kind of awesome. What’s the occasion?

No occasion. I was hungry and I can’t do this meal for my parents. My Mom is doing a vegan paleo thing and my Dad is fighting back by declaring he can do Atkins with fast food.

Looks awesome. Any news on the investigation?”

Well . . . they won’t tell me who owns the finger. Only that they ran the DNA and got a hit on NCIC. Hungry?”

It’s been a shitty four months since my Dad went into the hospital last October and we worried that he might not make it. He rallied and was able to go home. I spent three weeks taking care of him because my sister had to go back to work. There is more to life than my continuing saga of struggling to make ends meet. I’m making it but it’s been a bitch, “Yeah, give me a minute.”

Clean Sheets and Hospital Corners

I picked up the coffee mug and continued through the kitchen to my bedroom. Ok, kinda not cool. I have new bedding. Less man cave vibe and more shared bed vibe. Right, I needed new bedding. Just . . . not sure an SHYT is the right person to make that choice for me. And my room is clean and organized.

I maintain piles of papers on any horizontal surface in my house. The piles are a filing system of sorts. I own a seldom-used filing cabinet. Anything I want to preserve is usually scanned and stored on Google Drive. The piles of papers are gone. Food first.

The coffee is good. I don’t know how to deal with a woman who is nice to me in traditionally domestic ways–cooking, cleaning and so on. It’s weird, “Hey, how deep does this domestic diva thing go?”


I mean, I have new bedding, you cooked Sunday Supper and made coffee. My house is cleaner than it has ever been. I’m not used to this.

Your Dad died. I thought you would like some Southern comfort.”

Love Hurts

My eyes welled up. I’ve dealt with so much bitterness through my life that sweetness messes me up. I can do an angry drunk wanting to go home from the bar. A born-here Richmond girl in her twenties showing me a little southern love is a lot to accept. She saw my tears and started to hug me, “Been a bitch of a life lately, huh?”

Goddamnit. Yeah. Thanks,” I also am one of those old school stoics who has a hard time showing emotion. “Can you fix me a plate?

Shut Up Beer Sympathy for the Living

Inger released the hug and set about fixing a plate. Supper was uneventful and good. Two cans of “Shut Up” have me gabby and silly. I’m so badly behind on revenue targets that what I should do is get out there and find some money. Two beers, so . . . nope.

I don’t usually bother with the spam queue on my blog. 99.999% of the time it’s some iteration of “come look at porn” or “take this supplement and grow a horse dick” or “Lose the weight and feel forty years younger.” Then there are the machine generated compliments on my writing. All very forgettable.

Bitter Normie

So . . . some Bill Cohen commenting on my recent “Off the Estate” post is usually just dumped. Mr. Bill was trashing a fellow blogger with comments that should just get tossed. Maybe I am a fool, but I copied the text of it before dumping it, “Fucking hell. I just got out of jail on a bullshit case. I have to use the goddamned library to get online because they took my shit. Now, tell that asshole Antidem that he’s not worthy to breathe my air. White privileged, Nazi son of a bitch. Get a little education already. It’s you bougie people that are the problem. All we need to do is wipe the earth clean of scourge like you. Take your wealth and privilege and distribute it to the 99% who need it. Oh my God, you are evil. Do us all a favor and eat worms and die! “

Inger saw it then dived into her phone. Dunno what she was typing or doing but whatever, “That’s hate speech, Alan. That guy deserves to be doxed.”

k. I’m drunk and tired. I have a SHYT talking about doxing. None of the Sunday shows on over-the-air TV interest me. My old duvet and something mindless from Netflix sounds awesome. Don’t care, “Inger, I’m going to take a nap.”

Case Update

Inger has other ideas. Not those, you little shit, “Hey, like, can we talk?” Ruh-roh. Her timing is not awesome. Still drunk and tired, “Can it wait until I’ve had my nap?
Uhm, kinda no. It’s important.” Ruh-roh, “Ok, what’s up?
The case.
The missing finger?
Kind of. The comment from Bill Cohen.
The one in my SPAM queue?
Yeah. I saw it before you dumped it. Bill Cohen is IRL. He’s scary.
He used to be Antifa until he got too violent.
That’s saying something. What’s his connection to you?
We hooked up a couple of times.
And this relates to the finger how?
It doesn’t. But he’s scary and I might need to hide here for a bit.
Whatever. You already have a toothbrush here.
I need it.
I need that nap.
Give me the TV remote.” Done. The Bachelor is on. Bleh.


Northam the Pious

I got asked what I think of the stink raised over a photo in a yearbook some claim is our Guvnut Ralphie Northam the Pious (Peeus?). I think many things, too many to fit into a blog post. So I’ll focus on a few.

First, let me repeat this question: are we only our worst moments? Our lives are a mixed bag of praiseworthy and regrettable behavior. How many of us could survive the sort of scrutiny given to Brett Kavanaugh and lately, Guvnut Ralphie Northam the Pious?

Can we stop micro-analyzing the lives of our leaders to find any tiny mote on their character? I and my friends would not survive such a close examination of our worst moments. Instead of a deep dive into youthful stupid behavior can we stipulate that all of us fall short and move on?

It’s a trope. A political leader is pure as the driven snow, more pious than St. Paul, unblemished as Mother Mary, and more wise than Confucius. That’s the standard some wish to apply to our leaders. They want a god-king better than a thousand years of Caesar.

So mythology is built around a potentate. Today’s blessed mother is Alexandria Occasio-Cortez (AOC). We are to believe she was conceived of a poor mother and father in the Bronx, raised up eating the tossed out scraps of beans and rice from a Cuban restaurant’s dumpster and automagically, graduated from BU. She is the next savior to triumph over the evil white dictator Cheeto Satan.


You get to keep your high accolades until you become a threat to one of the political machines. Then you are worse than worm food. The machines must live so you must die. The machines fired a shot at Guvnut Northam the Peeus.

Northam the Peeus was elected with a similar bit of propaganda. We were told he isn’t extreme. He is a reasonable demi-god king free of any blemish. Desert Storm veteran, Pediatric Neurologist, and State Senator. He was our Lieutenant Governor before being anointed by McAuliffe the Wise. We voted for him because we were told that he’d be more reasonable than that evil, extremist and wicked demon Ed Gillespie (racist, homophobe, privileged, chauvinist, and asshat pig).

The weapon of choice is familiar. An accusation is published in a respected, reasonable news outlet. Rape for Kavanaugh, racism for Guvnut the Pious. The statement is made, “these are very serious accusations.” Every loyalist so accused is expected to accept his tub of worms and shovel with gratitude. Guvnut won his election by using the weapon of choice. Yet when it’s fired at him he isn’t sticking to the script.

Sullied Saint

And . . . guess what. Northam isn’t a saint. In typical fashion, the sins he accuses his opponents of are those that sully his dashiki. He never decried an ad that circulated during his campaign accusing evil Gillespie of the most vile of adjectives. Then we learn that there is a photo in a yearbook that might be Northam the Peeus. Ruh Roh.

Yes, ruh roh. Northam can’t be the Pious with a single mote on his reputation. It would mean he is mortal. Democratic leaders must be god-kings, not mortals. We could solve a lot of problems with our society if we would begin building temples to our gods, great and small. This mote can’t be.

It is. This week Ralphie the Mortal has gone dark. We haven’t heard from him since that disastrous press conference where he almost moon-walked until his wife told him it would be inappropriate. The rumor is that he isn’t leaving office and is looking for some land on which to build a temple to himself.

A New Deplorable

All the mortal sinners are either in the closet or sharing a bar stool with that KKK leader. So the battle over character has moved to increasingly minor, venial sins. The same level of moral outrage is given to a yearbook picture as an actual lynching.

Which is stupid. It makes the accusers sound like toddlers throwing a tantrum. Rather than inspire desired outcomes the accusations tend to fizzle. “These are very serious accusations,” goes the outcry. And the expected response is “ok, sorry, where are my worms and shovel?

Northam the Mortal isn’t sticking to the trope. He’s decided to stay and fight. Good for him. It’s gotten stupid. The bullies have been in charge. They shout, “BOO!” and we are supposed to cower and eat our worms peacefully. Then Trump won. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Her Royal Highness Billary Roddamned Clitoran was supposed to be coronated and preserve the empire. She lost.

Then, to make things worse, Pimp Daddy Baroque Obummer let Cheeto Satan have the Oval Orifice. Obummer left to play golf in Palm Springs. The horror of it all. How dare Pimp Daddy do that? Does he even care about us? Doesn’t he understand what he did?

Pimp Daddy understands, more than you know. He left to play golf because it was the right thing to do. We needed Trump. As time goes on it becomes more clear that we were in trouble. We’d fucked the wrong john for too long.

So the old tropes are failing. It used to be that you could order the blood worms and the shovel ahead of time because the outcome was a lock. Now people are taking encouragement from Trump and starting to fight. Northam the Mortal is just one of many.

Fam Status Questionable

Last, I grew up around organized crime leaders. They worked in Philly and commuted home to my neighborhood. Palace intrigue is some of the air I breathe. This hit on Northam the Mortal feels like a fight between crime gangs. Northam is a pawn in a turf war between the Clintons and the San Francisco political machine. It was supposed to be a mortal blow for Northam the Mortal. Ralphy’s worms were specially raised in Mendocino in soil owned by cannabis sativa growers. He did a bad thing deciding to fight. We don’t know yet whether SFO will hit him again.

Trump isn’t the problem. The problem is a civil war started by SFO’s political machine to take over the country. Before the rise of the Pelosi gang we were controlled by dixiecrats and the Chicago machine. Dixiecago has been losing elections for a little over forty years. In its place has been the Pelosi gang.

The Pelosi gang are true believers in a mashup of Mao, Islam, and Judiasm. Their answers to the world’s ills deepen their roots in power and disparity. The goal is visible in the state of Golden Mountain where it is ever more expensive to live there and the proletariat’s desperation is carefully managed so as to ensure it’s continued oppression.

Dirty Pious Barons

Baron Ralphie Northam Guvnut the Peeus isn’t guilty of racism. He’s guilty of assuming that the Clinton machine would protect him from his past. His crimes were safe until he became a threat to the machine. Then everything he ever did that is even remotely outrageous became cannon fodder. His attempts at repentance were ignored.

I’d guess that back in the day blackface wasn’t the mortal sin its being depicted as today. Today it’s the same as lynching. So anyone who put on blackface as a joke is no different from a murderous Imperial Wizard of the KKK. He or she must be ruined.

Here is the thing. When every menial sin is treated like a mortal sin based on the propaganda of the day it becomes stupid. It’s like my ex-wife accusing me of horrible crimes even after I have not been in touch with her for a decade. It’s redunkulousness. She lost credibility and her accusations became words on wind and water. Ditto what the Pelosi machine is doing with Guvnut the Pious.

No Longer News

Last . . . I hate writing about the news. It’s a moving target. It takes me a few weeks to write something about a news story. In that time its fallen off the news cycle and we have moved on.

Barron Guvnut the Peeus isn’t helping. He did an interview with Gale King that was awkward. Really awkward. During the interview he announced an apology tour. I’m not feeling this apology tour.

Nawthum the Peeus presumes he can heal us from our white privilege and evil, racist ways. Uhm . . . Ralph? Hello!? We didn’t do what you did. Why are you deflecting your own bad behavior by roping in the Commonwealth and blaming us for your shit?

I’m OK with a repentant sinner. I’m not OK with a sinner who apologizes then tries to take it back only to apologize for using !shoe polish! as part of a Michael Jackson costume. Or a politician who wants to change the subject to the big issue of institutional and cultural racism so he can say he has apologized for a huge, stupid misdeed.


Off the Estate

I had a visit from PUDFARB ICE (People’s United Democratic Free Anarchist Republik of Berkeley Immigration and Customs Enforcement). My Dad passed so the fact that I am off the estate living in the capital of racism is a renewed outrage. If I knew what was good for me I’d sign off on my inheritance and agree to live in Amistad House.

It is likely that I’ll inherit some money. It’s fast money, though. Fast money tends to go as quickly as it came. As you hold the check in your hand the legion of ways to spend it rave in your head. As an example, all those lottery winners who are broke within a few years of cashing the check. PUDFARB ICE had an answer they thought was awesome: give it to them.

A pretty girl was running point. She had a sheaf of papers I was supposed to sign. Somehow a rumor surfaced that I would take my windfall and start a business. Incredibly, PUDFARB ICE claimed that I was not free to do as I pleased with my own money. No, I had to sign it over to them.

✠ ✠ ✠

The potential crime was owning a business that PUDFARB ICE could not control. It was fine as long as their union goons could dictate how it would be run. In the small print was language that said my business would be taxed at 90% of the gross revenue. But that tax would pay for a free Cadillac and a new iPhone plus art classes and getting fast-tracked for Medicaid and Section 8.

What’s wrong with socialism?” My son asked this. Many things are wrong with socialism. Signing over my inheritance to PUDFARB ICE in exchange for being fast-tracked into Amistad ought to be a reasonable choice. It isn’t. Nor is spending the imagined amount on “reasonable” purchases that leave me destitute and unable to refuse commitment to Amistad House.

Pretty girl said I was getting old and I’d need someone to help me run the business. She offered to be office manager. There was an employment offer in my name for cab driver. PUDFARB ICE would own the business and Pretty girl wanted to run it. How about . . . no.

Not Silent Now

Because, tbh, it’s not about being down for the struggle.

I don’t like answering the phone because of PUDFARB ICE. They are like a corrupt collection agency. Except that the thing in collections is me. They call, e-mail, post to my FB wall, and generally try to intrude. I left in 1992 for Cal State EBay (Hayward). 25 years ago and they persist.

After 25 years they’d gone silent. Then my Dad passes and they found a way to interrogate me while I was working in Philly. Same thing as always, I need to understand that I didn’t belong out of PUDFARB. I had to come home. The room in Amistad was nice, they said. I could devote myself to writing propaganda and be taken care of.

Taken care of” to a guy who grew up with Greek Mafia neighbors has a bad ring to it. I don’t trust it. Nor do I trust the pretty girl from PUDFARB ICE who just wants me to sign my life away. First class flight to SFO if I would just sign my name to multiple forms. I’m not signing.

✠ ✠ ✠

I own a house on Lost Souls Road far, far off the estate. Sometimes when I go to the curb to get my mail I find bodies in the gutter. Some of the bodies are people who got disappeared by PUDFARB ICE. Others are SJW’s who knew what we ought to be doing instead of being a hot mess and didn’t get the hint. You can live a quiet life on Lost Souls Road if you make the right friends.

I mention my address because the pretty girl from PUDFARB ICE triggers memories of those bodies I sometimes find. This pisses ICE off. If I was a good man I’d just sign and make things easy for everybody. Come home and stop posting to the blog. Stop spewing hate. Pretty tells me that they have a special meal plan I’d really enjoy. Uh Huh.

Idea #2 is that they’d take the money coming to me and buy an annuity which would fund my retirement living in Amistad. Pretty girl could be my home care aid. Good idea but not happening.

On Bottom Everything Points Up

Then the threats come. They’ll ruin me financially. I’ll be eating dog food and living on the street. My adjudicated criminal cases will be re-opened and I’ll have to serve all the time. My reputation will be destroyed.

These are threats that would intimidate someone who believes they have something to lose. PUDFARB ICE pretty girl is a fool. I am one of Billary’s deplorables. I’ve been down, been homeless, convicted of crimes, broke and lost my reputation, thrown off the estate for being a WASP. Every threat they have is something I survived. I’d rather not start from the bottom at my age. But if I must I will.

Socialism asks us to surrender everything to the government and trust that they will be less corrupt than the rest of society. I should trust the pretty girl from PUDFARB ICE with the social work degree. Everything is taken care of, she says.

✠ ✠ ✠

Don’t care. I decided last summer that I wasn’t going back to work as a cube rat. It was cab driving even if that job ruined me. If I’m headed to bottom I’m going down fighting, king of my own sandbox.

And with that, they showed me a video of my sister reading a prepared statement. I was a disappointment to my father. I’d failed him. And now I’d broken my trust with her. All I had to do is sign the papers and come back to PUDFARB. Everything would be fine.

I don’t know what’s coming in the next year. 2019 is only a day old as I started this post. One thing it won’t bring is a docile me who behaves as my kin wishes. My sister wants me to conform to her norms. Be a good brother and live as she believes I should. The nice people at PUDFARB ICE told her that things would be good if only I would sign the papers.

Lipstick Isn’t Enough

She signed. They gave her a house in the Berkeley hills. Her daughter is in a private school for the deaf. Her husband works at an NGO. She got a job teaching school for PUDFARB. It’s lovely. I should visit some time.

Then I noticed something. She was quietly signing just with her hands over and over. bs, bs, bs, bs. Thought so.

The problem with socialism is us. Socialism needs perfect compliance. It tends to get into a destructive spiral where control is resisted so control is increased, rinse repeat. Ergo Nazi Germany. The other destructive spiral comes from the idea that those with ability will feed those with need. Very quickly those with ability figure out that survival means becoming one with need. In short order, there are no resources nor people with ability to feed on.

Sign the Contract

The pretty girl put the package of papers in front of me. I looked them over. and told her I could do better with the principle if I invested it and lived off the capital gains. I think it was the word capital. Anyhoo, she lost her shit. A stream of cuss words and crimes of old, fat WASP men spewed out of her mouth. I was every sin ever committed by ever man throughout time. It was an impressive tantrum. Capital is an evil word, it seems.

My Dad was given an offer he couldn’t refused. Take a pension buyout or get fired. He took the buyout. It was about two years worth of salary. He was a little younger than I am now. His two years of salary had to take care of him and my Mom until they died. It wasn’t enough.

It could be enough if he did what my family has done since we were landed gentry in England–invest and live off the profits of said investments. Pretty girl slapped me for saying that. Fuck her . . . no, asshole, not sex, shit. Right, so my Dad used his initial amount in the buyout to grow it into income that supported him for nearly thirty years and paid for my Mom’s care as she declined from dementia.

✠ ✠ ✠

Capital gains or passive income is the answer to the wish to drink Mai Tai’s under an umbrella on a tropical island beach. Somehow, “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” is racist. Whatever. Read it if you want to escape a cube rat life.

His hard work and wise investments mean we are left with an inheritance that PUDFARB ICE wants. Sucks to be them. Free will is a problem for socialists. People might not fully comply. They might take a small pension buyout and get rich with it. I might do that.

So, PUDFARB ICE, do your worst. I’m not signing. I’m not agreeing to give you my inheritance for an annuity that you say will take care of me for the next forty years. Our family has survived retirement by remaining king of our own investment sandbox. Thanks for the offer but I’ll keep my faith in an absurd martyr from Nazareth who was crucified at the request of his church elders and the power of compound interest.


Hate Hen

So . . . the hate hen. It’s a bougie thing. Overthinking, obsessing, ruminating, then when it all gets to be too much, exploding in a tantrum that has the folk around you wonder what the f*ck. My family does this. A fryer from Safeway can’t be what it is. It must be a hate hen. It’s the water I breath when I visit my family.

Hate Hen

But of course, part of being bougie is being down for the struggle. We care about the proletariat–the prolies. We have our brand perfected. Tons of committee meetings planning, planning, planning. GoFundMe campaigns, endless campaigns for some doe-eyed kid who has to drink piss because there isn’t even water for s/him.

Prolies, though, don’t give a shit about the bougie. First, they are too busy living to bother with the bougie. Second, the further down Lost Souls Road they are the less connected to first world problems they are. They have 99 other problems and a fresh chicken isn’t one of them. Us prolies don’t obsess over the meaning of a chicken. We cook it and eat it.

Hate Hen

So you understand, I can’t bring a fresh chicken from Safeway into the house. That can’t be an innocent thing. No, no, because I am a long list of hated adjectives my simple act must mean more. It must be that I am oppressing my family with my privilege and patriarchy. The act of buying a fresh chicken is obviously a passive-aggressive demand that the women present prepare this hate hen for me. It’s male chauvinism of the highest order. It must be dispatched post-haste.

Last October, when the prompt for this post occurred, my Dad was in the hospital and it wasn’t looking good. I wanted something familiar and comforting while I processed the possible loss of my father. Which explains the fresh chicken from Safeway and what I do with it.

The chicken gets broken down into parts and frozen. The carcass goes in a pot with the veggies and simmered until you can squish the bones with your fingers. Many mothers for many generations have done this as a way to squeeze every bit of value out of a whole chicken. That isn’t the right narrative for my niece.

My niece is brim full of narratives about me that come from a lifetime of living rent-free in her head. I am a giant in her mind. A big, evil, farting, cinder breathing giant who wants to chain her to the stove and force her to machine gun out food and children. At the same time. While doing all the domestic goddess tasks she imagines I demand of her and roasting murdered hate hens. These are big shoes I am expected to fill. Fortunately, all I have to do to fill them is exist.

Baby It’s Cold Outside” became a symbol of rape culture recently.  Because . . . bougie and he’s white. No stone left unturned. La revolución es suprema sobre
todo lo demás, obviamente

I Reject Your Narrative and Insist on One of My Own

Among my evils is that I keep pointing out that “truth” is much more fungible than my pink diapered STEM kin is cool with. Things must be Pythagorean and fit a Marxist exegesis. Proofs must conclude neatly from the premises and conform to Orthodox Socialist Doctrine. My world, the bard’s world, is absurd. It cannot be so that the God we worship could say that we are to feed his sheep. God’s sheep? Where? In what stable? Who owns these sheep? Is it a fat white dude? Well, then, obvi, the sheep are a tool of oppression like that hate hen. Guys, don’t read Revelations. It will make your head explode. You will need duck tape.

What I find post-worthy is that my STEM kin are dead sure that their science and modernism is irrefutable fact. Their zeitgeist is normal. My zeitgeist of metaphor and simile is an absurd existential threat to their careful, Aristotlean and Pythagorean world of cement and glass they keep trying to perfect. Maybe so. I’ll stay here on Lost Souls Road where a cat’s smile persists after the cat has disappeared. Quantum Physics much?

Quantum Physics? Yeah . . . So . . . that chicken was, according to my niece, a full box of ammo aimed at accomplishing what she imagines I want from her. There was no way in heaven or hell that she would ever accede to my pimply white privileged, male chauvinist ass. A simple fresh chicken from Safeway was a symbol of all of the oppression of men like me since Eve tried to get Adam to come correct with that apple.

If You Understood

It’s so lovely and evergreen. Whenever an actual bit of oppression is defeated those who believe in social justice invent one more reason why the bougie must be persecuted. My very existence is proof that there cannot be mercy and grace for those who stand in the way of social justice for the oppressed. I am an existential threat simply by breathing and buying fresh chickens.

Hateful Hen Czar Nicholas
Czar Nicholas

The Revolution must be achieved. This damned chicken is an insult to the revolution. Yet, Yankees that we are, it would be wrong to waste food. This is a problem. Plus, it’s not vegan so . . .

I Understand

My niece has planted her soul in Eris’ temple. She is a true believer in Orthodox Socialism. Her degree is in environmental geology. STEM to the core. Yet, as regards me, nothing is at it seems. Most especially a mere supermarket purchased whole chicken. No, that hate hen is an act of abuse by me, her Uncle. I should be arrested for domestic violence (again).

That chicken, for me, was a couple hours work by me to give me something in my Dad’s house of my own that would give me comfort. It had nothing to do with my niece. Saying this means I don’t understand. Rather, for these words I am a hateful liar.

Jordon Peterson on White Privilege

You Lie

But I lie, it seems. I am not admitting to the ways in which that damned chicken was a hateful symbol of my oppression of my niece and by extension, all women going back to Eve. If I understood I’d offer my chicken as a sacrifice before an altar to Marx. Further, I’d wear sackcloth and coat myself in ashes from the burnt offerings for seven days. Fifty years living uncleanly so . . .

That day, after being promised a roast chicken by my niece, I went to work. The cray-crays of my cab customers are familiar and for that, more comforting that my shrieking niece. A rude drunk who the cops are sending home instead of citing for “drunk in public”? Cake. A niece who believes that I am a token for all the world’s evils perpetrated by white men is too much for me.

I Substitute Your Chicken for This One from Wegmans

When I got back my niece had gone shopping. Wegmans has an awesome prepared food department. They sell roast chickens that are ok. I happen to like Richmond’s Chicken Fiesta better. My baby-sister made me a plate from the leftovers. Put me in my place by giving me table scraps. Serves me right.

My chicken was gone and in its place was a roast chicken from Wegmans. That Hate Hen screamed in my niece’s nightmares. She had to win this one in the battle against my white privileged, pimply ass. So she shopped at Wegmans and made the Hate Hen disappear.

My comfort is an affront to Eris and the revolution. I eat meat in addition to being all the things my niece hates. I ate what was served to me with gratitude. Oh, right, I should not be gracious. I am unclean and therefore owe my niece restitution for committing such a mortal sin. My bad.

Norma Rae


An aside: I live on the Lost Souls Road in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Occasionally when I go outside to check my mail I see the body of a well-meaning social justice warrior in the gutter. Some of us that live here have some major malfunction that got us a bus ticket out of the First World to here, where it says in Psalm 23 that the writer will fear no evil. My evils have been told elsewhere on this blog.

I’ll grant you that others on my road were born here and through no fault of their own have been dealt a raw deal. There is a difference, though, between those that end up in my gutter and those that change their address. It is that the ones that move used the deal they were dealt to thrive. My gutter zombies took the first free meal from the SJW’s and that has made all the difference.

I’m annoying for this reason: I didn’t start out on Lost Souls Road. I began bougie and through my own bad choices ended up here. This is an absurdity for my STEM kin. It is one of the things my niece can’t accept. I have a nice house on Lost Souls Road.

Now, protip: we are fine, most of the time. Too, since we have been shunned it’s no never mind if we do the right thing. So, mostly, we do. Even when we are judged as not fine.

It’s fine for my niece to buy a fresh chicken and do what many of us do. That’s being down for the struggle. I, however, cannot do the same. Because of who I am and what I signal.

A couple weeks after Thanksgiving I found the hate hen. My niece had broken it down into pieces and put it into the freezer. There were cubes of frozen broth in a tray.

Which . . . is fine. I’m not the one sleepless with nightmares of a 59-year-old white privileged uncle. Kroger has more chickens I can buy. I slept well last night after a meal of Chicken Penne with peas in red gravy.