Felina and I grew old and settled. Our days of wild oats are rose-tinted memories. I’m semi-retired, working part-time at Advance Auto. Felina went home in 2017 to help her Mom & Dad rebuild their office supply store. Wild SHYT gets home and all that young angst and existential dread gets swept away by the wreck left by Hurricane Maria. Her reputation death match(es) with her enemies are distant memories. She started with a broom and a shovel moving debris from their home and the store. Today she owns the store and the house. Her Mom & Dad never really recovered from the hurricane.
Everything normal? Actually, yes. But not worth 1500 words of your time. I make fun of a particular group of zealots with an outsized sense of their place in society. This is their moment–when decades of rioting and protest brought to power a Dear Leader who will make things equal for everyone. Long Live Kumlala! Bite Me? Who is that? These elites are very quick to tell us the orthodox liturgy of thoughts, words, and deeds expected of us. Deviance will be punished until compliance improves.
Their weapons are words and reputation. Reputation Death Matches are the way enemies get destroyed. There is no repentance or forgiveness. Any sin ever committed is a potential artillery shot to your reputation. Your only protection is party membership. None of this means a damn thing to Felina and I. We are too busy living our lives. Felina’s past isn’t a thing today. Or is it?
Nekkid Dung
It is a thing to Emperor Dung. A reporter did some digging and found old videos of HRH Dung in the audience when Felina was dancing at Pure Pleasure. Pasties and a G-String, but still . . . Further digging found receipts for a private session at Pure Pleasure and Paper Moon. HRH Dung protested that it wasn’t him, that he only paid for the private sessions for his friends, and the security video of the dancer grinding on his crotch was a deep fake. Gotcha.
Other girls at the clubs did private sessions. Not Felina. And not for a long time. Puerto Rico, her fam, and the store fill her life now. But Dung . . . who I’ll get back to, needed cover for his recent loss of face demanding free hotel rooms, free meals, and free casino chips from Saito-san’s Paradise Valley Casino. It didn’t go well.
So Dung’s brilliance was a viral rant online blaming his taste for strippers on Felina. It was her fault that he couldn’t shake the obsession he had with happy ending lap dances. She was trash and a siren no man could resist. Also all the ists and isms for good measure. Loyal members of the press dutifully took press junkets to San Juan, staying at the Condado Vanderbilt Hotel on their expense accounts. All necessary to confirm or deny that their Dear Leader was not at fault for his lust for naked bird women (γυμνές γυναίκες πουλί). It must be Felina’s fault.
Blame Her
It is still Felina’s fault that HRH Dung was filmed at San Juan’s Toxic Night Club fondling a drag queen’s chest. The next day’s headline, “Toxic Woman Poisons the Reputation of Our Dear Leader Dung.” I’ll buy that for a dollar, not. Why is the young and foolish past of a married Felina fodder for a press desperate to save the reputation of a politician? I’ll tell you. Felina is expendable for the elites. Sacrifices must be made to preserve progress toward the eschaton. Nobody cares about Felina’s reputation, right?
Wrong. HRH Dung lives too high in the clouds to see that he is too close to the sun and his wings are melting. Felina and I built back better from our younger, wilder days. Dung? Not so much. He started a reputation death match with a Mom and a small business owner to protect his own.
Mistake. How the mighty fall. That’s a trope. A great and powerful villain is opposed by a serf. Goliath could not imagine David winning against him. Where was his sword and armor? David was a shepherd boy armed with a sling and a rock. Foolishness. Felina had nothing against Dung’s belief in his invincibility. She didn’t need it. David won.
Nothing to Lose
So defenders of the Dear Leader scraped up Felina’s pay stubs from Paper Moon and Pure Pleasure. Dutiful Simps whined that she was a bitch, that she walked out on the tab on dates, that she slept around and had kids CPS had taken from her. She was racist, hated women, and wanted her parents to starve on cat kibble. All very emo and for a moment, very viral.
I can feel it when a story turns. Protip: if there are small and escalating negative consequences in your life then these are warnings. Big bad things are in your future. Dung is high on bitterness. This makes him blind to the small consequences warning him of worse things.
So, what happened? He got kicked out of Toxic. For drunk and disorderly. The story: I’ll give you the ending now–Dung’s brilliant scheme is to “occupy Toxic”. Remember Occupy Wall Street? Dung wanted to establish a sovereign territory in the club where he and his followers could get free food, drinks and lapdances. How did it go? Guess.
Eighty Sixed
Dung is back in his Oregon cabin surrounded by his most devoted followers. He’s broadcasting over low-wattage FM his radio station. It’s a mix of traditional blues, bluegrass and folk music. During drive time there is a “news” broadcast where he or his followers rant the real truth. What Truth? Think freakish left-wing/communist Alex Jones mixed with the weirder Art Bell stuff.
Puerto Rico jailed him for defrauding the innkeeper. It wasn’t Felina that ran out on a bar tab. It was him. You don’t want to be in a Puerto Rican jail. Dung, used to the finer things of bougie, WASP living, was motivated to get out by any means necessary. So publicists, lawyers and charitable contributions to the proper organizations enabled him to be sent packing.Back in Oregon he was warned that it wouldn’t be safe to pull a stunt like that again. So he did. At Saito-san’s Paradise Casino.
It began with Dung and his followers doing the usual protest schtick with signs, sitting in on public roads blocking traffic, throwing bottled water at the riot police, and chanting, “WHAT DO WE WANT!! LIBERATE PARADISE! WHEN DO WE WANT IT!! NOW!!” Whazzat mean? A free weekend at the casino courtesy of Saito-san. The whole thing lasted an hour. In more friendly locales an attempt to occupy a casino might get some traction. In the remote Nevada desert? Locals showed up with shotguns and started pushing Dung and his protestors onto the sidewalks.
Nobody Cared
With an “Occupy . . .” protest it only works if it draws attention. Saito-san’s Publicist made some calls to Winnemucca and Reno. Dung’s off & on girlfriend tried blowing up KTVN in Winnemucca. Crickets.
A dozen or so Gen Alphas who had been promised beautiful feels and virtue signals with unlimited access to the buffet and an open bar were now suffering from taser wounds and CS gas. The goth black block worn by the girls wasn’t so hot now. The dedicated dozen began to drift into the shadows leaving Emperor Dung a lonely old fool. Protip: do what you say and say what you do, HRH Dung.
As I finish off this post Dung is claiming from his Oregon property that the fizzled Occupy Paradise protest failed because Art Bell sent alien spies from outer space to sabotage his righteous takeover of Saito-san’s casino. The Gen Alphas are back in their respective homes iPhones firmly in hand. You can only fast from Pumpkin Spice Latte’s for so long.
Who Won?
Not Emperor Dung. One more Fanapt patient easily ignored. Felina’s reputation was never in jeopardy. Having a regrettable past isn’t the social death sentence HRH Dung and his peers want it to be. Few of us survive early adulthood without apology worthy stories. Felina is no different. Me? I still do regrettable things. But people know me and still keep me around. I make good copy.
Women fight with reputation and relationship. Our absentee Dear Leader and his SHY(O?)T VP fight the same way. They won in 2020 beating the drums and chanting of the great and powerful sins of Nacho Nazi. Since then the Dear Leader Bite Me has used his time in the Oval Office to pay political debts and launder tax money through foreign banks to enrich himself. This at the cost of mortal wounds to us. His SHYT is actually a NO-SHOT. NO-SHOT is the choice of the Forbidden City. They want her because she’s an empty pantsuit who will do what they tell her to do.
Who won? It’s been 103 years since Woodrow Wilson was president. The Forbidden City and its sycophants are desperate for a fix to just stave off the sickness. I’ll tell you what will give me hope. I hear through those still close to HRH Dung that he started recovery at Serenity Lane. We might elect Queen Harris. I’ll take HRH Dung in rehab as a win.