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.


Heroic Misery

We exhault the ending. We don’t like the heroic misery that led to the ending. It would be awesome if we could just have the penultimate moment at the peak of victory all the time. One decapitated dragon bleeding out behind one handsome, sword wielding guy. On the guy’s other arm is a damsel no longer in distress. It’s time for the hero to return home and the dragon’s family to start plotting revenge.

Foolish Imaginings Sans Heroic Misery

We want foolish fantasies as our utopia. To be forever no older than 25, virule, surrounded by docile, willing women who fulfill our every desire, women who are Mary Magdalene in the bedroom and Mother Mary everywhere else. There will be only ecstasy, forever in the exultant moment of victory as the dragon’s head fell to the ground and his blood began searing the grassland. Never mind about the dragon. He needed killing.

We want a complete end to death and disease. No one would ever die, get sick or injured. We would all always be twenty-something invincible. All the foolish things we attempt at that age would never fail. The Earth would be Eden and free of all the signals of first world manufacturing. Our land unsullied by large scale farming that uses chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Everyone would have their forty acres and an ox. Ox? Yes. An Ox will plough a field. A mule? Not like an ox. Think I am kidding? Ask any Amish farmer whether he’d rather pull a plough with an ox or a mule. Thought so.

No hangovers, no escalating negative consequences from our success at achieving all seven deadly sins. No responsibility for our depravity and all the benefits. It is a toddler’s perfect world.

A Toddler’s Pastoral Paradise

One world government, dedicated to the pleasure of the peeeepul, fighting the rich and protecting us from the insults of the world. No one would hear anything that might be perceived as even slightly aggressive or a potential cause for a trigger. We could pee on the coloring books and eat the crayons and suffer no ill-effects. Our innovative way of expressing our opposition to the oppression perpetrated against us by those who would have us color inside the lines engenders praise.

Akim got into a 100 comment long thread with a few women. At the root of it was Akim’s assertion that pussy should be available on-demand. If a guy wants it women should provide. No, women would not have a say. Guy wants ass, guy gets ass. He built up an elaborate fictional world in which gestation had been offloaded to robots and women were sterilized at birth. Akim framed this as a wise goal of a future Socialist Party government. Free pussy would be a right. Free will for women would be at the whim of men.

Which is . . . stupid. Women shut down insanity like this since forever. Guys don’t have a growing child in their belly and all the resulting misery. Guys initiate gestation with sex. We get a taste of ecstasy and the woman gets a lifelong commitment to a child. Abortion? The memory of that unborn fetus never leaves the woman. Women care about sex because of the consequences to them when it works as intended and pregnancy results.

Teen Male Fantasy and Porn Trope

Akim hungered for his “should be” and refused to acknowledge some inconvenient facts. He sought solace in long-winded fantasies of a better world run by local, communal governing boards. It was a rather Maoist ideology mixed with fantasy about San Francisco’s Summer of Love.

The signals of hope & change? perf. Actual change? Can’t even. There is a political point to this. Trump voters want change. We want the chaos unleashed by attacking the career civil service, sacred cows like Medicaid, Obamacare, TANF and Social Security. A century of bigger federal budgets, greater corruption and increasingly, a government that exists only for itself is enough. We know that every coup d’é·tat means chaos and sometimes, civil war. The struggle is real, tbh.


Now, I need to interrupt myself. I started this full of vim & verve sure that I had an epiphany worth 1500 words. I thought my political point would make it to the end of this piece. It won’t. Why? A word from God.

It was around 3am. I did my nightly wake, pee, flush, back to bed. And . . . God picks this moment to remind me that I still carry resentment from a single kickball game when I was eight. I’ve not been to the gym in three weeks. I have tons of good reasons why. They are all bullshit. This, a bitter root from my youth, this is what God showed me. Shit. Busted.

Epic Fail Heroic Misery

Old Wounds

So, a confession. I am averse to misery of any sort. Yeah, big woop. Not exactly news, that. I have used my heritage and position to belly up to the buffet of pleasures possible in my place and day. Asceticism? Oh the horror. Never.

One more thing to confess: I was teased just enough in grade school when trying to play kickball that I made an oath that I would *never* be caught playing sports. There is a medical reason for this. I have a hand eye coordination problem. Or . . . I did. Sometimes my brain tries to get my body to do something and it doesn’t go as intended. There were enough embarrassing fails as a kid that I’d rather dissolve into shapeless meat inseparable from an easy chair than do anything that requires hand-eye coordination and sweat.

Yes, that 5 years when I did Aiki Jujitsu did happen. The things I learned in that 5 years still help me. Deep down there is still that little boy who is embarrassed and wounded because the kids laughed when I tried to kick the ball and whiffed it. The same little boy who got pranked and ran the football to the opposition’s goal line.

It Needs Killing

So, there it is, the dragon that must be slain. I have to heal that little boy within me that swore off recess and kick-ball because of a couple minutes in my youth. I can’t say I am not an athlete. My rank in Jujitsu belies that. But, as my sixth decade approaches a life-altering choice is before me. I can spend ever increasing amounts on medications and incantations and doctors in an effort to get this glutinous body healthy or I can get myself to the gym and recover my former athletic self.

The easy chair will remain. Every day the choice is there: endure some misery for an hour or so at the gym or let the easy chair eat a bit more of my health. On this last visit to the doctor my A1C score was down a full point and I had lost some weight. I’ve not been to the gym in the last two weeks. When I was going my weight was under 230. It’s over that now. You can’t ask for a more concrete proof of whether exercise works. Work out? Weight and blood sugar scores fall. Collapse in to the easy chair? Things move the other direction and I die a little bit more.

Six miserable, one joyous

None of this is news. There are 7 major phases to an archetypical hero’s tale. The sought after exultant victory is achieved only at the end, after the hero almost dies. For six out of the seven phases there is misery of one sort or another. The story is a tragedy until the very end. You can’t accomplish the penultimate victory over the dragon without going through phases 1 through 6. Training is tortuous. If it isn’t hard you are not putting in enough effort. But . . . enough platitudes. I can spit out tropes and slogans with the best of them. The measure of whether I will win the battle with diabetes is still to be told.


Licke Me

“Licke” is a deliberate misspelling. It is a mashup of “lick” and “like”. You will find several misspellings in this piece. I didn’t just suddenly forget my B.A. in English. I don’t have dementia (yet). Comments telling me I made mistakes in writing this will not get approved.

obama-pimp-daddySome talk radio bimbo was on CNN or MSNBC or whatever complaining that Ted Cruz wasn’t a very likeable (lickable?) ape. This was a comment on his debate performance. All of a sudden I had a twitch in my foot that would not stop. I had to suppress an urge to throw the TV remote at my TV, “likeable”!? Obama was likeable. His pimp hand was strong. We haven’t awakened from the morning after his disappearance from the national stage.

Bernie Sanders is a silverback, grumpy pimp-daddy who promises to make everything fair and buy me the cell phone & Cadillac I heard Obama promise and never delivered to me. Sanders tells us that the problem is that we didn’t turn enough tricks, that we haven’t tried hard enough. Billary is just degrees more deviously mamma-bear and otherwise just Sanders with ovaries.

Change isn’t likeable. Change sucks. Ask any newly recovering addict what it’s like to quit being an addict. Not fun. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Some lose people, places, things that supported their addiction. This is where we are as a country. We are addicted to a pimp-daddy government who keeps promising us more of what the wealthy have through his generosity and in actuality demands more of us, taking our liberty and abusing us when we don’t give him what he wants.

We’ve had a century of socialism. For a hundred years populist demagogues have promised us a chicken in every pot, 40 acres of land, a mule, taxing the rich to make things fair, jobs programs, free medical care, free education, free housing, that cell phone and the Cadillac. The only difference between the Democrats and the Republicans has been the pace at which the size of the government has increased and what percentage of our tax dollar goes to bullets or po’ folk. Jimmy Carter was a very likeable pimp-daddy. That went well. A likeable president makes me even more suspicious of the government than I already am.

We have crossed the pass. It will not get higher. All our roads lead into a valley. We can walk the ridge for a while but even that ridge will one day carry us into a valley. Our choice is which valley and how painful the descent will be. The Democrats want to offer us a phallacy. They claim  that we have not mounted the pass, that there is further to go up the mountainside. The road ahead offers more money to the middle class and less money to the rich. They are again cooing in our ear about all the nice things they will buy us if we just let them lead for four more years. They are lying.

The Republicans are just socialist pimps of a lighter shade of pink. They also promise us gifts after we get out there and turn more tricks for them. They promise not to beat us as bad as those awful Democrats. Right. They are not promising to stop beating us. Just beat us less. That’s comforting, really.

Enter Trump, who is every bit the establishment but starts a shtick where he promises that he’s a really, really rich pimp who can make those mean Democrats and Republicans be nice to us. Trump, though, is a pussy of the first order. His pimp hand is rather weak. He never says pacifically what he’ll buy us. Just that he’ll make us great again. That said, after a century of badly behaved pimps, an old, toupee topped pimp in an expensive suit makes our crotch quiver with delight. We want him. Though, pimps be pimps. That this one is rich just means he’s not being honest about how much of a son-of-a-bitch he is.

Ted Cruz. He’s Cuban. He’s not a pimp. He’s a lawyer. He’s a former solicitor general for Texas. He’s the enemy. Now he wants to be president. We don’t like him. We want change but Cruz is a flavor of change that creeps us out.

Yet, our anus is sore from all the in & out by a century of politicians. We are tired of the broken promises and abuse. We are sick & tired of being sick and tired. We are at the pass and the valley below where our pimp-daddy has a house looks a lot like that one of the shadow of death talked about in Psalm 23. Cruz is Cuban and is of the man. He’s exactly the wrong guy but the right, likeable guy has been ass-fucking us for a century.

It’s still the second act. The story isn’t over. We have to pick a road down into a valley where we will find our leaders and the next act in this story. I’m tired of likeable pimp-daddies who keep promising me things and then asking me to fit an overly large dildo up my anus. Cruz may be a mistake but at least he isn’t like the other apes who have shiny teeth and suspiciously nice suits.


This is the End

First Posted 19-Sep-2015

Maybe you too have friends like this. They are in love with the apocalypse. Each time you meet then you have to grind through another rant about how we are all screwed, our tinfoil hats will just melt into our skulls making our scalps shiny and us easy targets. It is the end they say.

It is the end and it isn’t the end. Rome burned in 64AD. Rome was sacked several times before the collapse of the Empire in 1453. There are still people living in the capital of the Empire. Now, the nation is called Italy and the old capital is called Rome. Constantinople is now Istanbul, Turkey. It is a vibrant city with the ruins of the old empire still on display. There was/is a tomorrow for Rome.

Glen Beck and Donald Trump are in a dystopian mood. Kim Davis, the Rowan County Court Clerk in the news because she won’t issue marriage licenses in defiance of the Supreme Court, said that these are then end times. This is the end. These are the last days. The devil is in charge, God is somewhere off recovering from a hangover after an extended period of debauchery. Guys like me, WASP, middle aged, Christian, are prey. If you believe this, there is no tomorrow.

The death of the Roman Empire was brutal. A lot of people died in wars, from the usual depravities of urban life, as players in the games at the circus. For those folk, their day came and they met their maker. There are no more tomorrow’s for them. I’m not them.
There have been apocalyptic events through history. Each time there is tremendous destruction and death. You all can name the ones that come to mind. I’ve posted a video here of the Tsunami that hit Japan after their earthquake in 2011.

My point is this, each time something horrible happened there are survivors. People eventually moved back to the places that were destroyed and built lives. There was a tomorrow. The Chicken Little bunch like Glen Beck and others, wants you to believe that the moment has come to pucker up and kiss yourself goodbye. For some in 2011 it was. For many more it was time to grieve, clean up the mess, and figure out how to build a life in the aftermath. Humans are incredibly resilient.

For all my hardships, I’m still here. Lately, I am doing better. Every time I hear about another dystopian Christian, who is sure that we’d better pucker up, I remember that the city of Rome is still there and where there was once an Empire there are still people living lives under different rule. The common constants of most lives, the need to earn a living, maintain a household, maybe raise a family, these continue. The latest idiot to wear the crown changes, has changed, will change. Government’s fall to be replaced by yet another clown who wants to be in charge. The world can end. Some will survive and in the meantime, do what needs doing. My constants are the need to maintain that small town, do for each other care that is part of our culture. To maintain relationships with our neighbors so we can thrive in hard times. Alone we are weak. Together we may still be weak but our odds of thriving improve. I’ve quit worrying about what our politicians do or whether it’s the end times. I plan on being around through it all, thriving as I have in good times and in bad. In the meantime . . .