People have, uh, uh, uh, whores

The President enjoy his floozies. This is one of the most unexceptional things to discover in a president: Clinton, Poppy Bush, JFK (“up against the wall, signora, if you have five minutes”), and Harding, for starters, were all irrepressible adulterers. Trump, for his part, devoted the bulk of the social part of his public life to leering at women who dressed like tramps in the hope of winning his praise for their good looks. Who the fuck ever expected the beauty pageant vulgarian with the child out of wedlock not to enjoy a good promiscuous lay now and then with one of the performatively immodest women orbiting him for the attention?

This louche persona might not have turned into a scandal in the first place had the Donald not taken on as his running mate that kochsucking Hoosier church hug scold in exchange for the dark money. Sure, it was that good old team of rivals shit, and the thing about pretending to have money, which is definitely Trump’s scene, is that getting actual money requires groveling or submission or flattery behind the scenes in the presence of those who in fact have the actual money, with the thick, sticky web of strings attached to the sleazy enterprise.

Mike Pence was a disreputable character in his own right, although in a starkly different way from Donald Trump; Pence’s deal was to preach joylessly about an ad hoc mashup of religious right family values and right-libertarian talking points for whatever combined revenue stream it would yield. As the VP candidate, he was the channel of that heavy sour Koch Bro sugar sweet, a channel that Trump, as a chronically insolvent hustler who played a billionaire on TV, needed for the campaign cash flow.

The old cockhound didn’t have what it took to prime that presidential pump in his own reserves, but being such a vain bastard he had to pretend that onboarding Pence was all about building that winning Republican coalition. It was that, too, but only up to a point; the popular energy in the primaries was clearly behind Trump’s celebratory, unashamedly libertine brand of Republicanism, that synthesis of disinhibited communal grievance and enthusiastic barnstorming on the reinvigoration of American industrial policy, not with any of the uncomfortable, joyless twerps desperate not to get caught deriving fleeting, sublimated sexual gratification from a coed hug like a shitty prose-translation Robin Thicke.

In spite of this, and, again, on account of the cash flow considerations, Trump cast his lot with Pence. Both of these guys had appallingly trashy reasons for making common cause. They have crudely, crassly been using each other from the start, Pence tarnished by his public association with a sexually aggressive oaf whom he quietly abhors as a deviant, Trump humiliated by his half-assed subordination to the dour moralizing of a lieutenant whom he quietly despises for spending his entire adult life afraid that he’ll be damned for discreetly ogling a lady’s chest. These guys are both sexually dysfunctional, in ways too violently clashing to ever be complementary. *Alt-right Temple Clinger voice chiming in from the cheap seats* In words of rapper psy sexy ladies whoop whoop compliment.

As I mentioned above in passing, this dysfunctional, mutually contemptuous relationship was and is savvy politics in spite of the shitty interpersonal dynamics. These two ARE complementary in philosophical and political terms, and specifically in ones that activate separate but similarly important parts of the Republican base. This stuff is still real shit, though.

And so, here we are, with the revelations that Trump tried to pay off a porn star for an impulsive one-night stand surreally being a major political scandal. Would that horny bastard NOT try to get into the dirty movie lady’s small clothes? *Commanding Russell Williams Voice* Watch what you say, soldier; he isn’t the only one!

How the hell is this a scandal? What does this reveal that any reasonable and attentive observer couldn’t easily have inferred about Trump decades ago? Stormy Daniels is a public tramp, Donald Trump is a public womanizer, they socialized together: put two and two together and, God willing, we’ve got Tiffany Trump’s kid half-sister. Or, God more mercifully willing, not. Nah, the Maples kid turned out all right. In fact, she’s the only one to pull that off. Environmental factors DO matter.

The story about Trump having that sleazy fixer Cohen slush-fund Stormy a hundred thirty grand in hush money is hilarious, but not because it’s about sex per se. It’d be less funny if it weren’t so louche, mind you, but the sexual nature of this clusterfuck isn’t enough on its own. If Trump had agreed in advance on a fee and paid it as contracted, we probably wouldn’t be hearing anything about this horseshit. A working girl paid is a working girl demure. It’s a good rule of thumb, or of all fingers but ring, to wit, two in the pink, one in the stink. One of the ridiculous things about Trump, though, is that he’s such an impulsive and vain bastard: pretending to write The Art of the Deal made him feel like a real macho man, but actually practicing the art of the deal with women who forthrightly make such deals would make him feel like a beta loser, because real men seduce their women, and so here we fucking are.

$130,000 is a really steep fee for an overnight date. It’s conceivable that a high-profile public figure might agree in advance to pay so much in the interest of discretion, but it isn’t very likely. What Trump was paying, of course, wasn’t a standard call girl’s fee; it was preemptive blackmail money. That’s why it was so expensive. It’s like being gifted a box of Hardy Brothers shiraz by a mob creep in a back alley in Perth Amboy, then getting all worked up about how he’ll go around telling the neighborhood that you’re a drunk and then sending your buddy over to beg him to accept this $200 payoff and please just keep his mouth shut.

This isn’t even a shocking thing to hear about Donald Trump. It’s a bit worse than his established personal brand, but in no way is it discordant. Did we ever fucking expect high time-preference of that man? Lol. What a joke.

The big tall G-Men are our buddies now because everybody’s fantasizing about how they’re gonna jam that oaf up, a psychosexual political dynamic that is in no way problematic in light the FBI’s historical directors. No homo, they’ve just got a problem with officials who aren’t straight about their affairs. Hoover? Hoover who? Why, he agreed with our man Michael Richard that it’s impossible to integrate women into a men’s office culture; the guy sounds all right.

Dem campaign finance roolz, tho. Yeah, sure. No one ever even tried to impeach Clinton over the Lincoln Bedroom thing, and that was sleazy as hell. One of the best glosses that can be put on the impeachment was that the plump Jewess was just an excuse, a cover for much more reasonable and responsible concerns about the Big Dog being a damned crook. Perceiving such high civics in Bob Livingston, Newt Gingrich, J. Denny Dundiddly, and Gateside Downlow may not be the clearest thinking, but whatever.

Hardly anyone plays by the rules in Washington, and even fewer play by the rules out of sincere respect for the rules. It’s a gaping ethical void. It’s so bad that one of the best outcomes to hope for now is that impeachment over the pretext of the president’s high-roller tramp-fancying will strip him of the bully pulpit for his Radio Mille Collines agitation. That’ll still leave us with that fucking supply-side church hug busybody, this time as the chief executive, not the deputy. Will that be an improvement? If we’re trying to stop the abetting of genocide, yes. If we’re trying to nurture a culture in which the universal enforcement of a milquetoast’s timid squeamishness around women not his wife is all that stands between our women and our pawing hands, not so much.

These are definitely not normal dudes, either of them.


Who you know

We tell true stories around here. It might be better if we told fake ones. I used to know a girl who used to date one of the Plain White T’s. Yeah, the “Hey There, Delilah” troubadour twerps. The gentlemen were always so keen to remotely serenade M’Lady. She’s for real, by the way. That may be the worst part of it: there is a real, flesh-and-blood Delilah who couldn’t go out in public for months without hearing her fucking song. She’s a nationally-ranked competitive runner, and the only thing most Americans could recall about her, if they could conceive of her real-life existence at all, is that some mewling hipster fuckhead had a heavy-rotation sad about how far away she was in New York.

Rob Thomas sang it better, and there have of course been better musical acts to emerge from Chicago: some moved to big-band horn by romance, some to equally spirited vocals by Jim Sims. The City of Broad Shoulders contains multitudes. But New York isn’t right there, and you’ve got a thing for that Columbia chick? Hey there, you dipshit, shut your mouth while I call Amtrak. For God’s sake I even know the detours around Buffalo-Border Patrol Village. Never mind, though: you finally make it, and it turns out to be some real Hollywood Nights shit, but with the worst possible MTA.

Delilah was never even his girlfriend. They were casual acquaintances. This is all really normal. If I found out that some whiny doofus had written such a song about me, none of you would ever hear the end of it. The unemployed overly-attached prospective boyfriend with the garage band fancies the lady, so it’s totally gonna work out just great in the end, just as I’m totally in line to be the next Governor General of Canada. It doesn’t work too well without the band, either; don’t ask how I know. Even so, you don’t have to worry about keeping your heart open if you take Greyhound on the night run to Portage La Prairie. Yeah, that was bad, but it can always be worse; the Dirty Dog could always pull out entirely AFTER the Pickton inquiry strongly recommends beefing up rural transit in the interest of public safety.

We’re still publishing nonfiction here. Refuge in escapist fantasy has its selling points. To return to our original true story, now that you know the REST of yet another awful STORY, I did in fact used to know a chick who used to date one of the Plain White T’s. Which one? Ask someone else; they all sound like douchetastic poseurs to me. Did their tour bus have Pablo cruise control? That question has no place here, but if I don’t ask now I’ll end up squeezing out another 2,000-word mind pie dedicated entirely to dropping that fucking line and seeing what happens.

That chick I knew who used to date that dude, though: first off, I’m not sitting at a restaurant counter carrying about how Jackson Browne’s brother used to be roommates with my brother, because I’ve been there for that, as the audience. More importantly, chica turned out to be a terrible, incorrigible social climber. I’ve probably met phonier, more disingenuous people, but I can’t recall when offhand. Our Facebook brands clashed. I learned of these irreconcilable differences somewhere along the way, years later, when I discovered that “we” were no longer “friends.” Thanks, Mark.

Having that one degree of separation from the guys responsible for the First Great Beta Male Anthem of the Second Great Depression was inevitably worth jack shit. I didn’t even learn about this connection from homeskillet herself, but from the Insurance Schmuck, or maybe from some other guy who was talking to him in front of me at a party. The juicy bit of insider gossip that I picked up from this chat was that the Plain White T’s never expected “Hey There Delilah” to be their big break. It was a throwaway song. I probably could have learned that online within two minutes, if I’d ever found it in me to care.

A clique of Downers Grove-ass hipster fuckheads are richer and more successful than their wildest dreams on account of a song that they phoned in as an afterthought, I used to know one of their ex-girlfriends, and it’s never done me John Dennis Diddly. That much is just as well, I suppose. Put someone else in, Coach; I ain’t playing. And my degree of separation from Laird Hamilton is even more pathetic: Island Boy has to be the ugliest, most obnoxious stoner I’ve ever known. I don’t recall offhand whether he personally knows Pierce Brosnan or just knows the dude with the CD cart in front of Foodland who knows Pierce Brosnan; I think I need the CD to get through to the PB, but it’s still useless if I don’t. If Laird knew me and knew that I was sleeping in an uninsulated winery building in the winter, on a farm where I still controlled a $15,000 stake, would he offer me more than a pair of thick socks? Beats me.

Aloha, you fucking bitch.

Can we possibly pass a kine that’s worth something? This is America, so probably not. We’ve now had a Hawaiian president. Just look at how that went. The hard right had such a racially inflamed mad at Mocha Haole for being a sharia Mau-Mau fifth-column socialist that there wasn’t any free airtime left to point out that he was actually a center-right authoritarian Chicago machine sleazeball.

It was inevitable that I came to know that East County loser who thought that Jamul was the apostle closest to Jesus. The fellow must have been coming from my tribe, to claim me. No thanks, buddy; afraid I’m aiming higher than that, for what nothing it’s worth. Sts. Dulzura and Tecate, pray for us, now and forever.

This is why I can’t help but admire and respect Kato Kaelin. He actually got OJ to deliver the fucking houseguest goods, and then he managed to have an intense summer bromance with Norm MacDonald. Juice had his issues, as they say, but he was impressively generous with the pool time for his former jailers. Sure, there’s no getting that prize without putting in the time at Men’s Central first, and your mileage may vary. Fair enough, but it’s an interesting, vibrant, up-and-coming neighborhood, and you never know who you’ll meet.

Nice facility you’re running here, Tanaka; shame if you had to retire to Colorado on account of it.

No, the Juice is not the worst to appear in this story. Fourth-best is more like it. I’ve kept worse company than him for sure, and stingier.

Insightful life skills with Randol White People

We’ve all had bad roommates, according to Mr. White People, but if that’s what’s going on, Devin, is there any way we can hear this deep thought from someone who doesn’t talk the story of the White Community at NPR, if I may repeat myself?

Randol filled in for Beth Ruyak on Pearl Harbor Day, and our boy wasn’t up to the job. The comment about bad roommates and how that makes him just like us (cracka dafuq?) was inspired by a chat with a lady who’s trying to give homeless teenagers a crash course in living with others, because Sacramento is expensive for anyone to live independently. Yeah, ditzforce, that’s why I sleep at Donner Pass instead. That, and the rest area by the Sacramento Airport hits overflow capacity before Hawaiian has brought that bitchin’ big metal in for the evening every fucking night.

We dasn’t deprive the professional gatekeepers their authority, dare we? No, but of course, that shan’t do. Forcing mentally ill, psychologically traumatized, behaviorally volatile late adolescents to live communally as a condition of receiving social services seems pretty dicey. We’re doing that because Sacramento is expensive, are we? Gee. Ain’t that fucking grand. From the description over the radio and general experiences with this kind, this is an expensive constituency to reach. We, or “we,” commonly force them to live communally in the jail and prison systems, too, which is as expensive as it is disastrous. $520 million or whatever for the Golden One baller cathedral was a prudent allocation of scarce resources, but individual studio apartments or cabins or something for street kids so that they aren’t getting psychotic and stabbing each other and having to take Lyle’s bunk at Mule Creek is frivolous and beyond our grasp? You shitting me, white girl. You gotta be shitting me.

I don’t know how to fix Sacramento’s housing problem, but I know where to start. Moving to the edge of skid row from El Dorado Hills to be closer to the grilled cheese festival and taking Uber everywhere has a way of keeping people who don’t have a place to stay in EDH from having a place to stay downtown. Will I see you tonight? Trickle-down isn’t working. The indigent, marginally employed poor are still being swept around town like dust bunnies. The private sector is objectively failing to do a damned thing about this, and charitable social services are doing precious little. Thousand points of light my fat white ass. Desperate people with nowhere else to go are on waiting lists for years for some half-assed voucher, if they make the list at all, but God forbid the market fail to promptly provide Chase and Madison the well-appointed Midtown loft that is their due.

This is why the unstable mentally ill need to share bathrooms at home. The sky will fall if we defy market forces on the basis that these are hard cases who need some help, or question why Kevin Johnson never told his boys to go play at some shitty high school gym in the Heights and hold a bake sale if they didn’t care for the austerity. The Kings already had a dedicated state-of-the-art arena in North Natomas, out in the middle of a huge weedpatch, but whatever. These details must not matter for a reason, something above my pay grade. (*Most Downton Dowager Voice* What is a “pay-grade?”)

This is why it is so important to teach troubled street kids the life skills of not having their own singlewides. According to Randol White People this also has something to do with living in a dorm at college, because that totally isn’t a badly fucked-up living arrangement inflicted upon a cowed, captive market by scumbag rentseeking institutional slumlords.

Right here we crash into one of the problems with bemoaning the degradation of college from a learning experience into a consumer experience. First off, if these fools were there to learn, they might instead go to the fucking library, and go there for free, but that little detail about motivations aside, rental housing IS a consumer good and service. Students (read: parents) (mostly) pay for it. In what other setting would they be expected to graciously accept shitty accommodations with shared bathrooms at above-market rents? Anyone with any fucking sense would complain about this. In what other setting would the landlord be given authorization as a third party to place tenants in the same room, sight unseen, based on some personality surveys, along with the latitude to blame the roommates’ immaturity for any domestic tensions arising as a result? I’m not talking about the military here; last I heard, and yeah, it’s been a while, buck privates drew base salaries of around $18k in exchange for their contractual submission to any housing arrangement offered by the goddamn Army.

Once again, it must be worth less if the tenant is being paid for it, and there’s no way landed institution in a position of power would charge excessive rent for shitty digs. Perhaps precious little Chase and Madison graduated from, uh, I guess not Madison embarrassingly sheltered, but why the hell does the lesson of college have to be that slumlords are respectable and deserve deference because it’s just a rite of passage? This is already an institutionalized population, by the way, in case we’re wondering why they keep graduating with piss-poor cooking skills after being fed in a cafeteria for three to six years. If Res Life seems to be under the command of people who should have difficulty landing jobs at Safeway, it’s probably because they’re marginally employable shitheads who’d be last in, first out on the night stocking crew. This doesn’t have to be any more complicated or inscrutable than it appears.

This is a scandalous way for a college boy to talk, but I’m not the one who’s insisting that these are trustworthy, reputable school officials who are charging $20 a day, contractually binding by the full semester and not refundable on prorate for early termination, to spoon out Hamburger Helper in a chow line under a rotting picnic shelter. It makes all too much sense that this is the same metainstitution, the university, that inspired the Bushes and company to whip it out and spank it into a fucking coffin. It’s nothing but cult programming; the details have to do with the extent of the predatory derangement of the particular cult. When I first read about Shoko Asahara getting followers to drink his bathwater, I could hardly believe it. In this context, unfortunately, it’s horrifically coherent and believable.

Sure enough, the homeless are another good captive market. Where else are they to go? They’ve usually got a good reason for staying the hell out of the shelters, but it doesn’t exactly have to be a form of refuge to exact a price, and this, cracker child, is no Don Henley living. It’s disastrous enough when young people from prosperous, stable families bring their modest substance abuse and mental health problems into group living arrangements with neighbors who are decidedly not into any of that. What we’re talking about with street kids is more like indigent homeless who were unemancipated minors when their violent parents kicked them out of the house. Yeah buddy, they’re gonna do just great living together because some bitch from the nonprofit tells them that that’s how things work around here now, in postmodern Sacramento.

It’s a sequel to I Am Charlotte Simmons in which all the dudes are methhead Mac Bolka. I am Fat Cracka, and no, I do not hold with any of that. We’ve already determined that these are charity cases; that’s why they’re receiving charity. Why the fuck is two years the cutoff, and that much economized in shared apartments? Chuck Manson got to spend just about half a century in the really expensive public housing, also in the Valley. How is it okay to have no discharge date when the CDCR payroll is due but all these time limits and conditions and neoliberal behavioral nudges for vulnerable clients who are saving the state tens of thousands of dollars a year by not being in the system? These are frequent-flyer outpatients at worst.

And yet here we are, all hot and bothered that they aren’t taking enough initiative to develop the interpersonal skills to interact effectively at home with paranoid schizophrenic alcoholic druggies who also just came in off the streets. Randol White would never tolerate any of these fucking unstable derelicts as roommates, nor would any of his fellow White People. This is all too simple and straightforward for the professional gatekeeping class: making the maximum effort to keep extremely troubled social services clients with terrible social skills from having adverse interactions with one another will nip countless sociological horror shows in the bud, incidentally having the effect of saving the state huge amounts of money every time one of these cases spontaneously deescalates and does not end up in prison or the emergency room.

This is a piss-ass campaign to level standards down for the vulnerable, run by condescending do-gooder shitheads who can’t imagine leveling standards up for everyone. Psychotics and tweakers who recently lived in violent tent cities are unlikely to adjust readily or well to living in close quarters with anyone else, and it’s smashed in his knees with a two-by-four insane to think otherwise. It doesn’t work in prison, either: there are reasons why prisons have some of the highest rates of violence on earth, and similar reasons why they have the highest rates, bar none, of closed-circuit scat play. Or, as block lieutenants have been known to tell their probies, “Oh, that’s normal.”

Market-supremacist nudge-theory operant conditioning is the last thing supportive housing needs. How fucking retarded are we? It’s already bad when tenants without acute mental health or substance abuse problems try to find and hold onto housing in tight markets. Private landlords and their sacrosanct markets in fact are not the solution here. This situation requires either charity or socialism. If “we” have all had bad roommates, that’s a clue that there isn’t enough fucking housing. 200 square feet of private space and a compact bathroom per adult resident is not too much to ask; get your head out of your ass. If dysregulated street people are the first in line to get it, that doesn’t stop gainfully employed normies who are capable of not strangling their roommates but would rather have some privacy from demanding their own. Something is seriously broken if housing the hard cases means having everyone else living indefinitely in a shitty group arrangement and being all resentful about it.

And trust me: we do NOT want Psychotarp or Mixups in my Mind being forcibly schooled in how to interact appropriately with roommates in a supportive housing setting; much better to have a tarp over every bum. This is a terrible idea, but once again, the goal here is to avoid questioning the supremacy of the free and in no way rigged housing market. “Everyone else” has to get roommates, so troubled street kids from the worst possible childhood home environments and teenage social backgrounds must bite the bullet and learn to cope, too.

Do you wonder now why I’d rather sleep in my car than seek social services from such idiotic, meddlesome scolds?

This story wouldn’t be complete without some overly verbose woke feel-good gobbledygook about who’s a crazy addict employed to counsel other crazy addicts. The preferred euphemism was something like, “Most of our staff identify as having had mental health or substance abuse challenges in the past.” Well fuck me. The language calls to mind Rachel Dolezal, who identifies as black. I’m bipolar, but I try not to be a public asshole about it. I had that thug-threshold punk on the light rail rapping about how I was too white to be so fat, or maybe too fat to be so white; the answer to that, in case we’re too hypersensitive to notice, is more speech: specifically, to point out that all I have to do to be disabused of the foolish notion that I am personally the Audacity of the Obesity of the Caucasity is to go to PDX, catch a glimpse of Body by Pastrami, and find myself brutally serpassed.

It’s fascinating that we’re worried about the feelings of the mentally ill staff here but not so much about the feelings of the mentally ill clients who are forced to submit to them and their performative empathy. This shit is supposed to sound really good and heartwarming, and I’m sure that for Cap Radio’s target audience it does, but it’s a con job. Few things are more belligerently meddlesome than a dry-drunk sober living counselor; hiring professional ex-schizoids or whatever to counsel clients who otherwise will end up back out on the streets sounds like nothing so much as Jimmy smacking the shit out of Timmy with his gimp sticks. This is explicit Jay Gould territory, hiring one half of the asylees to subjugate the other half on pain of death on the streets.

I just looked up the link to this bullshit story. There’s no transcript yet, but the summary mentions that Possibilities (of course it has such an insufferably twee name) had to secure six grants from six separate entities, the largest of these only $200,000 from Bank of America, to serve a clientele of no more than thirty. That’s chump change in Golden One Arenaland, fuckwit, but this is Cap Radio, so who’s counting? It isn’t a pledge drive. That’s a separate effort, one requiring Shankar Vedantam to deploy a neuroscientific guilt trip about how there’s less than a month left to make a year-end gift. That means there’s less than a month left to once again not give any of these assholes a fucking penny for all of 2018. I’d rather be psychotic about how maybe that A330 buzzing Century Boulevard isn’t on short final to LAX because “I’m pretty much traveling between universes right now” than fall for a scam-artist line like that. I certainly don’t doubt that some of my bus stop buddy’s universes were improvements on NPR.

Be ill, call out sick, and get in touch with someone else, you morbidly dense honky.

Beating around the bush again

Robin Young interviewed George H. W. Bush’s official photographer, David Valdez, today. It was a pretty good chat overall, so I’m not here to lower the boom on NPR in all violence again. What’s banally impressive about this orgy of hagiography, though, is that even its more thoughtful and nuanced expressions are marinated in a casual prejudice assuming that whatever global elite is being celebrated is somehow normal and down-to-earth after all, and that the rest of us are overly judgmental to assume that they’re privileged and imperious.

Guess what? They fucking are. The Bushes’ family compound in Kennebunkport was shabby-chic, but what else did anyone expect? They were WASP’s, not Clintons. The family maintained enough of an oral tradition from the bad old days to know better than to go around flaunting easily robbed wealth in front of the envious, aggrieved poor. Shabby chic is a family self-preservation strategy first and foremost. This is why Warren Buffett maintains a normal neighborhood mansion in a down-to-earth rich part of Omaha for the cameras and a fancy, less down-to-earth, much less Midwestern mansion in Laguna Beach, where he also lives, much less for the cameras. This is why Mitt Romney tries to be quiet about his ownership of a personal car elevator in La Jolla. 

If Billary ever got this memo, they threw it straight into the trash. There are also occasional glaring exceptions to the standard of WASP discretion, the most infamous today being the current Oaf of Office. Fred Trump was a real trench scumbag all his life, a bit too personally involved in the not-quite-wet work for polite company, and there’s some painfully obvious family dysfunction driving the Kardashian (Kardashianian?) peacocking of his son and oldest three grandchildren in that lineage. Somehow Tiffany is basically all right; that’s why the family business shitheads in that clan so hate her and talk like missing Menendez brothers about how sore they are that she keeps getting a cut of the trusts.

The prevailing WASP community standard is to keep this kind of seedy scheming hidden away deep in the nest. As we’ve discussed before, the relationship of Jeb! to the rest of the clan is embarrassingly needy and dysfunctional; please, clap; but they all act like full-time confessors compared to the Trump organization. Outsider gossips have to dig for their dirty laundry. The enterprise involves some Kremlinology, not just reprinting whatever trash talk some family loudmouth just blurted out on the radio about how he’d fuck his own daughter or kill the other one for the trust residuals or whatever.

It happens that furnishing the Kennebunkport pad with some hopping seventies bedsheets and shit isn’t just a catfishing psy-op. It’s that, too, but it’s equally true that the Lawrence Welk home aesthetic is a great deal cheaper than Donald Trump’s blinged-out chopper game. It’s probably a staging thing, too, such as realtors like to do; it’s perfectly believable that the downeast lobster shack décor has a natural effect of muting the animalistic gold toilet antics that would otherwise make total, constant asses of the hereditary smart set. We’re here to tone down the Kardashian bullshit, son; bottle service is for suckers.

I’ve been in and around enough family money to have an idea of what’s going on here, and what’s going on, Randol White People, is that the millionaire next door thing doesn’t work if you go flat broke trying to keep up with the Kardashians. That’s the difference between Cousin Gigolo and my grandmother, the one who found his child support summons tacked to her front door. Looking out mah back door, we’ve got that Dann Florek-looking motherfucker common-law husband walking around with his overalls slung over his shoulder, since he’s forgotten how to put on his damn pants but he’ll go get Bin Laden himself. Did I ever mention that he was service-connected on account of his falling out of a troop truck in Italy and banging his head? #ThankYouForYourService Grandma kept stock certificates and the title to her condo and shit in the sauce drawer, which was definitely not good, but then again, we’ve had two sundowners in the White House in my lifetime.

The point of raising the Hall and Oates Effect kids right, I assume, is to prevent that intersectional CCR/Nickelback living. #TeshTips: If you’re eating out your landlady because that’s the only way to keep a roof over your head, you’re doing it wrong. If you come to enjoy it? Well, I guess we’ve moved from the prodigal son to the Wife of Bath’s Tale. Congratulations: we’re medieval now. So is Pot-o-Shit Friend. It isn’t just the future that’s in plastics.

Power and status are something other than shitting in a trash can in a pre-rural electrification one-room shack. I’m assuming here, of course, that this was a capitulation to expediency, not poo enthusiasm. The guy in Methland who shit in the bathtub (solids, not liquids) apparently had a working toilet in his apartment, so that much was recreational. How did he, of all people, end up with a girlfriend to hold his hands while he squatted over the rim and expelled the last three days’ production? #NotEvenOnce, baby.

From what I can tell, that dirty white boy was a station or two above Cousin Gigolo on the pilgrim journey that we call life. Was he privileged because he had an apartment? For that matter, was that eccentric country lawyer who went nowhere without his longbilled cap and exposed W’s downeast DUI in the same league as the Bushes because he also decorated his house ridiculously? Of course not. It was the seventies. Or the eighties, or the nineties. Whatever. These colors don’t bleed. They were washed fast decades ago.

Robin Young tried to make HW out to be a normal guy, just like you and me, because he was able to pull tamales out of a steamer. That’s better than Levi Johnston, who knew how to hunt the sheep but not cook the roast. *Befuddled Larry King voice* Sheep? Don’t you herd them? I thought you herded them. In Poppy Bush America had a leader who recognized a clam steamer but not a supermarket checkout scanner. Dammit, Robin, that man did not shop for his own groceries, and yes, that made him out-of-touch. Congress was upgrading Air Force One to a 747 by then; we weren’t all doing our weekly shopping at the fucking Pigknuckle Hollow General Store.

It’s a good idea for citizens to recognize and have an idea of how to operate the machines of modern life as we moderns live it. It’s just as well that the Bushes didn’t live in fucking Buckingham Palace (they’re out of their minds, Meghan; they’re all out of their damned minds), but how is that enough republican fellow-feeling in an elected leader? Tamales in the kitchen steamer or not, that man knew diddly squat about how the rest of us lived. I hear they have one in Cleveland, too, but I try to take the train.

What? It’s diesel, you freak.

We made fun of Poppy Bush for not being familiar with a checkout scanner because that was ridiculous, and the ridiculous is worth ridiculing. Wow Very Explain, I know, but sometimes we actually need the fucking explanation. The names, they don’t rectify themselves.

We ought to expand this funning down the totem pole a bit while we’re at it, because we’ve got hordes of equally ridiculous sheltered cases in the upper middle class. I’m sure I know more people than I’d care to imagine who would be completely flummoxed by a standard farebox on a city bus. Many of these are the same ones who have never set foot in a laundromat and flip their damn shit whenever anyone proposes regulating Uber.

If you saw the room I rented last night, you’d agree that I’m punching up, and hard. You don’t want to fucking know. It was disgraceful. Overpriced dumps like that stay in business because the nice things demanded by the upper crust as their birthright take precedence over the less nice things that the peon losers would like to someday enjoy. Celebrating the Bushes for not living in the Palace of Versailles, or, as the Texans call it on 60 Minutes, the Versailles House, and concluding that having loud midcentury bedsheets made them ordinary, just like the rest of us, is a scam. They are not, were not, and from here to the political horizon never will be ordinary Americans. They’re Yalies who raid Jeronimo’s grave for relics to use in their hazing rituals.

As voting citizens, we have the choice to refuse our consent to the rule of this sick overclass. Delaine Eastin, Jill Stein, Dwight Evans: dark horses, to be sure, but it’s hard to regret voting for them when they so plainly do not look like ones to ritually circle-jerk around a stolen Indian reliquary because some upperclassman so ordered them as a condition of initiation.

How’s that Jeep running, Monty? It’s never the ones who could use a one-way motorcycle ride through Tsawwassen who take that ride. It could be a Springsteen song. Better yet, Rodriguez; Croce; Joel; maybe even Lightfoot. Oh hell yes. Yeah buddy, yeah guy, it’s Christopher Cross time for the congenitally Superior. For all the time these creeps spend on the Vineyard, it’s a damned shame that they find some poor townie chick nobody’d ever heard of to ride the Ducks.

A people’s king is still a king. Liz owns all the swans in the land. Does that sound reasonable? The Brits have had Parliament for centuries and their royals are still a bunch of degenerates. Elizabeth is mostly all right herself, but that woman will never fucking account for her husband. I guess the Continental royals are okay; we never hear anything about them, and that’s probably a good sign. Nah, only some of them; I just remembered the fucking Spaniards. Is it any wonder that that sleazy inbred lot ended up with Mariano Rajoy in its midst? If you want to be garbage, surround yourself with garbage; if you want to surround yourself with garbage, be the garbage you so cherish.

Sure, Macron is a disgrace himself, but there’s something healthy about vesting supreme executive power in a disposable weasel who officially has the option to scurry back into private life should he get sick of being egged in restaurants for cruelly soaking the poor. We like to talk shit about the Frenchies, but in point of fact they’re one of the least servile peoples on God’s green earth. One of them just used a forklift to drop a burning car into an autoroute toll plaza, and allons enfants, that is le fucking bad-ass. We get fires in the States, too, but it’s usually some shit like a hopeless dump in Camden burning down half a block from the Speed Line, or Paradise being wiped off the map because PG&E is into dividends more than it’s into maintenance of way on its electrical lines.

I was planespotting at National like a fucking loser when that old folks’ home in Southeast went up in flames. We’re great on infrastructure in this country. The limeys, too; I can’t think of the modern French holding a candle to the Grenfell Tower disaster. Their metros are gay as hell, but that’s okay; the Cuomo kid won’t stop the MTA from flooding when it rains.

Are we really going to worship one of our most degenerate families because its dear departed knew how to use a crock pot? We keep watching Downton Abbey, so, yeah, I guess we fucking will. A “week-end”: What is it all about? And getting a job that isn’t absolute rubbish: What is THAT all about? Is it good, or will there ever be enough mental hospitals for cunts who won’t admit that they’re wack?

Lol jk, that’s more infrastructure that we’re in no danger of funding. We need that cash money for Presidential Eulogy Week. Accounts Receivable at your NPR affiliate will be in touch about that all too fucking soon.

God help you, Ricky; that number ain’t gonna do you any good

We really do have an amnesiac political culture. We’re ostentatiously, compulsively celebrating the Willie Horton president for his steadfast devotion to civility, decorum, and probity in public life, and that isn’t even close to the worst of it. “Decency” is the word we keep hearing, over and fucking over again. George H. W. Bush was so decent. What in hell is this supposed to mean? He cleaned up well and minded his language in public, but what else did we expect? The guy was a dyed-in-the-wool New England blueblood. Are we that fucking gullible?

He had the blood of AIDS patients on his hands, not just for failing to assert the federal government’s full paternalistic might on behalf of populations who were engaged in high-risk behaviors but for obstructing needle exchange programs for drug users who were willing to personally take precautions to keep themselves as safe as possible, all so that he could make a big moral point for the values voters biblethumpers. For the same scandalously calculating reason, judging from the timing, he got that righteous pro-life religion late in his career, roughly in tandem with his boss, astrology fiend’s husband, and erstwhile California pro-choice trailblazer Ronald Reagan, a timing that conveniently coincided with the rise of the religious right as a kingmaking force in American politics. For all the tittering about Bill Clinton being an incorrigible weathervane, the Big Dog was mainly sloppy and arriviste enough to get caught focus-grouping his family vacations and shit. Let’s be real: a carpetbagging family compound downeaster who moves to Texas to get into the oil business and the country club doesn’t find himself with a deep, true, publicly consummated love of pork rinds. That ain’t how the cracker crumbles.

This man was such a pillar of decency that he got the DEA to lure a 19-year-old neighborhood crack dealer from Anacostia to Lafayette Park for an undercover buy-and-bust, for the sole purpose of enabling him to hold a press conference about how the crack epidemic was so out of control that it was possible to buy crack in front of the White House. The dealer, Keith Jackson, was so politically ignorant at the time his undercover handlers set him up that he had no idea where the White House was, couldn’t immediately recall what it was, and assumed that Reagan was still president. Jackson was convicted after two deadlocked trials and sentenced to a mandatory minimum of ten years in federal prison. The trial judge, Stanley Sporkin, encouraged him to seek clemency from President Bush, on the reasoning that even though he had used Jackson as a sacrificial prop in a political stunt, he was fundamentally a man of great compassion.

Sporkin turned out to be wrong in the end. Poppy Bush was every bit as cruel in the use of his clemency powers as he had been in his initial sacrifice of the first gullible neighborhood kid from the ghetto his goons could find to bring some product into the imperial center for use on a primetime show-and-tell. Jackson served out his sentence, uncommuted.

As David Cameron ruefully says, you can reach the pinnacle of government power and spend your whole career toiling without thanks, but fuck one dead pig…. This calculating sacrifice of a random corner dealer for the moral high and the TV ratings should have been a horrific, national, career-ending scandal. Instead it got brushed under the rug, along with all the questions about why Reagan and Bush were both so generous in their pardoning of their crooked cronies but so cruelly stingy with the same power when the little people, Leona Helmsley’s celebrated taxpayers, begged them for executive mercy.

This was Ariel Castro-level shit. Message I Care and Slick Willie didn’t get along so famously as presidents emeriti because they were magnanimous men keen to transcend their political differences. They got along so well because they were both Type A psychopaths. The Ricky Ray Rector scandal showed Bill Clinton’s true colors. That man was so hellbent on becoming president that he ordered a literal, bodily human sacrifice. By all accounts, Rector was truly too profoundly retarded to understand that he was about to be killed and that there would be no opportunity to have dessert afterwards. That’s why it’s called a last meal.

Thing is, understanding that requires understanding the concept of “last.” Ricky Ray wasn’t playing. His brain damage really was that severe. He was way too far gone for gallows humor. No “Bu chance bu?” from him at the eleventh hour, the Darshan Dark preceding the dawn. No Rodrigo in extremis, “Oh, Father, are they going to execute me?” Mercy, Gularte, didn’t we go over that? Uh, maybe. What’s “execution?” This was no last, “Critter, you want some?” Touching gesture, Harris, but Vernell Crittendon doesn’t bring his appetite to the Green Mile.

It can’t be Fr. Burrows who needs convincing that there’s no counting on Ricky Ray to be the advance party who plants that little garden on the far side of the veil. What’s “garden?” We’re familiar with dessert, and we’re familiar with later. It’s pretty straightforward. There’s no telling where one might run into that classic bourgeois virtue of delayed gratification.

*Uncomfortably in-charge Vernell Crittendon voice* I’m good.

Do I sound like I’d be late for dessert? Please. Fat Cracka can stomach another slice of pecan pie. Usually. Critter was right: there were things even Robert Alton Harris didn’t want to know. Kamala? Now, there’s one who’s game for the grisliest parts.

The only way to leave San Quentin with a pension is to admit, hey, this place is messed up and I guess I am, too. That’s too much accountability for politics. That’s too much decency. No, I mean actual fucking decency, the kind that causes a painful emotional reaction as a consequence of killing someone, the kind recognizing that taking a life does not and should not feel good and that the machinery of death is an abyss that stares back.

Bill Clinton had, and to this day surely has, all the moral character of a needy dipshit kid from the neighborhood who tortures a widow’s cat to death because a clique of bullies tells him that it’ll make him cool if he does that. This is without qualification the character and the work of a depraved soul. It’s questionable whether the ritual blood sacrifice of Ricky Ray Rector was even necessary to Clinton’s electoral victory. He was a charming, confident, exceptionally well-spoken young man who had to outtalk a foot-in-mouth semigeriatric fuddy-duddy who had recently presided over a recession and an unabashed lunatic with no political experience. Bush and Perot had their political strengths, but neither of them was in any way unbeatable, especially if they ended up splitting the right-wing vote.

There are leaders who seek positions of power because they sincerely believe themselves called to public service. They are all too rare, and it’s a hell of a stretch to include Poppy Bush and the Big Dog among them. Giant Sucking Sound was the closest we got to that in 1992, and we saw how that went. Beyond a certain threshold of depravity, it becomes hard to reach any charitable conclusion about the motives of visibly depraved leaders. It becomes impossible to imagine that they don’t sadistically offer human sacrifices to the dungeons and the killing floors for the same reasons that dogs lick their own balls: because it feels good, and because they can. It sounds Aztec because it fucking IS Aztec. This isn’t rocket surgery. We do not give ordinary private citizens mulligans for kidnapping random strangers into torture dens for shits and giggles. We do not give workaday people passes for premeditated murder. Go back to your “room,” Rader.

It’s unconscionable to earnestly praise anyone so calculatingly evil as a moral North Star. Bill Clinton retiring at long last into a cadaverous, syphilitic decline in private would be nothing so much as an answer to St. Michael’s Prayer. It’s rather like when Shoko Asahara was finally initiated into Aum Shin Rekyanek: it’s yet another awesome machinery of death that gives any decent person pause and that probably would make the world a better place by being mothballed, but at the same time, good riddance to a monster we didn’t need, and it’s entertaining to no end that after all that puffed-up talk it turned out that the creep couldn’t float. Opposing Viewpoints: “Obey me, idiot, for I am Gravity’s Master” vs. “Nice neck you got there, Matsumoto.”

We’ve drunk enough of our presidents’ bathwater, if you ask me. It’s always a bad sign when His Vigor’s Rub-a-Dub Ready Reserve is one of the least immoral and licentious privileges to disgrace the presidency. The moral outrage of the Clinton Administration was never that our nasty, naughty boy did whatever goofy second-base shit he did with the plump Jewess. By the way, it’s a matter of public record that Ken Starr is opposed to sexual dissolution only when it satisfies his enemies, not when it is in service to #FOOTBALL.

Bitch are you ready for some?

No shit we should speak ill of the dead when they devoted their lives to evil. What brain rot afflicts us that we ever had to ask? Fuck your manners. This isn’t about sparing some servile dipshit’s hothouse flower feelings. This has nothing to do with mercy or judgment in the world to come. The rest of us are left behind (TM) (?) to do what we can to clean up the messes that they left us. Their precious, sacred legacies are crushing burdens upon us because they were monsters when they had the opportunity to make something better of themselves in this world. It’s like Pot-o-Shit Friend filling his housewarming gift and, his cup running over, getting out of Dodge. Do they ever have, as they say, a change of heart? They could have one, but if they do, they never fucking tell us. We hear nothing of their repentance and everything of their boundless self-righteousness.

Maybe when Bill finally kicks the bucket I’ll celebrate with a baked good that both the old-school Slick Willie and the late Slow Ricky would enjoy: namely, a raisin cinnamon bun from Cousins’ Restaurant. That ain’t dessert for later; it’s dinner for right now. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift; that’s why we call it “the present.” Yesterday is history, and I don’t know about some of you bootlicking freaks, but by God I am here to bear true witness to it. For I know this, much is, true: that cinnamon bun is better than any pecan pie I’ve ever had.

David and Goliath

NBC fired Matt Lauer for turning his office into a sexual harassment dungeon with a remote-controlled door lock. NPR, for its part, just fired David Edelstein for shitposting on his personal Facebook page about a rough sex scene involving Marlon Brando and something dear to any contendah’s heart, namely, butter. One might figure that it’d be too irresistibly edible to waste on the butt stuff, but our boy had yet to fully serpas himself.

In the end, it took an NPR lifer only five ill-fated words to bring his career crashing down in his own terminal Matt Moment: “Even grief goes better with butter.” Even most of his supporters have prefaced their defenses of his right to a fair hearing with preemptive expressions of how scandalized they were by the insensitivity of his butter comment. I’ve read the comment, along with some other commentary about its context, and I’m honestly not convinced that it’s particularly objectionable. The more I think about it, the more I realize and accept that I fucking like it. It’s a bit coarse, but it’s witty and fun. I never really got into Edelstein’s reviews, but he seemed all right, certainly better than the modal House Voice drone on his cursed broadcaster.

Let’s get this much out of the way: David Edelstein did not rape anyone. He got fired for metaaccessory to metarape. An old-country Italian weirdo with some arthouse films to his name kicked the bucket, and the radio movie guy gave him a fitting sendoff, only to discover how readily Internet kills the Radio star. I’d heard of Maria Schneider prior to this donnybrook, but I doubt I could even have identified her as an actress. I may have heard of Bernardo Bertolucci, but again, I couldn’t have recited jack shit worth hearing about what the hell he’d ever done in his life. Brando I recognized, as the wattafront feedah, but that was it. Who’s the fat cracka now, big guy?

Edelstein made a tasteless comment about an unethical sex scene from an edgy old film, but tasteless commentary is an awfully venial sin. Keep in mind, for context, that there is no end to the excuses that Edelstein’s Brahmin target audience will make for Woody Allen, to separate the man from the art. My stepdaughter! My betrothed! I know these people, and none of them will concede that, yeah, you’re right, that’s some fucked up shit, way too close to the Daddy Menendez standards. On the other political extreme, we have another show business disgrace, in this case the sitting President of the United States of America, who went on the record with Howard Stern in salacious, navelgazing detail about how the problem with dating his then-thirteen-year-old daughter was the statutory rape thing. Gee, buddy, not the incest? Go figure that his Stepford Wife of a daughter, now all grown up and filled out, is reputed to use the Donald’s incestuous interest in her against him as leverage whenever she wants something. Word on the mean electronic streets is that Morgan Freeman has a Woody Allen thing going with his own stepgranddaughter, but he has the Voice of God, so it’s all cool.

The operant standard here seems to be that it’s okay to be an incestuously preoccupied creep or whatever as long as it isn’t off-brand, or else, if off-brand, expiated by its being washed in the blood money. Edelstein was a low critter on the totem pole, a sort of educated man’s Roger Ebert (who was quite an annoying dork himself), so he didn’t get this pass.

It wasn’t exactly NPR that fired him, but it wasn’t exactly not NPR, either. Edelstein worked for WHYY as a contributor to Fresh Air, which itself is a nationally syndicated program aired on most NPR stations. WBUR and WNYC, former sweet home of downlow horny on main roller John Hockenberry, have the same arrangement with NPR for their own locally produced, nationally oriented news shows; that’s why we’re afflicted with that fucking Werman dork. Then there are all the APM/APX/etc. shows. *Boldly buttery Kai Ryssdal voice* From American Public Media, this–is Mark Fuhrman’s 77th Street Lie Detector Hour. Correction: This–is Mark Kruger’s Ehrenbaum Expo. Whew, let’s redo that from the top. From American Public Media, this–is Marky Marketplace Fucking That Gook Up.

What, me apologize? No. I will go down on this ship. *Transmission incoming from the bridges of Leon, Gerry, and all surviving Pacemakers* And you will always sail alone! *Jetsam dispatched; resume regular programming* That was edgy, but I see no reason to apologize for a damned thing. I’ve never put out anyone’s eye in a fucking bar fight. It ain’t me. I’m the one sleeping in his car and bouncing between motels; meanwhile, that Wahlberg cat is up on the big screen, playing staties and shit. *Commanding Russell Williams voice* Why would I be interested in any of that? That’s MEN’S underwear, soldier!

Anyone who can’t tell that these are attempts at short fiction is hopeless. I didn’t say good ones; no point to coming around here for warranties, kid. But by God I am not here to bend the knee for any network that still employs Guy Raz and will never apologize for using that wretched shanda fur die goyim as a vessel for the weaponization of horseshit IFLS Darwinist talking points against obnoxious but ultimately innocuous white separatists who retire to Bonners Ferry for a lifestyle of polo on the Whitey Rez. Can you assholes come back to us when you’ve found the Fuhrman and Friends diaspora doing something that’s actually illegal and harmful, or do you have to jump in right now and rub in how woke you all are for the fucking Brownie Points?

There are the LAST fuckheads I’ll tolerate going around calling anyone else a bigot. Andrew O’Hehir has a point all too well taken about the pragmatic need to shut up and keep these impulsive brain farts off our permanent records, but no matter how perceptive and accurate he is about the workplace realpolitik that gets even lifers like David Edelstein canned over a single poorly received shitpost, it’s unconscionable to leave the entire public sphere uncolonized against the totalitarian diktats of grotesque corporate hypocrites who employ disgraceful thralls to traffic ethnically and racially inflammatory hate speech against their political enemies on nationally syndicated radio broadcasts. In my darker moments I earnestly fear that Guy Raz’s antics will provoke a pogrom. If that’s the case, I want to be on the record that I am not with Putzy; if we’re slouching towards Srebrenica, I’ll be damned to let anyone chill my making fun of that servile little prick by dangling counterfactual job offers in front of me, too far beyond my grasp to be worth chasing.

It’s on Guy Raz that he’s such a sniveling, passive-aggressive permathrall. It’s on NPR that it keeps airing the garbage that he and his studio paymasters put together. That right there is a kept man, and I, Charlotte Simmons Gellin and shit, don’t hold with any of that. Seriously, NPR has no moral credibility whatsoever to accuse David Edelstein of polluting the discourse with a tasteless (and frankly entertaining) pop culture joke at a time when it retains insufferable, otherwise useless courtiers like Guy Raz to wage ethnically inflammatory class warfare on the American public.

In this vein, why, yes, I will look closely at the affiliations and motives of anyone showing up in my mentions to call me unprofessional for writing any of this shit. The First Amendment applies to shitposting, bitch. I’m very serious about the threat of corporate tyranny here, by the way. This regime is in many ways a privatized Stasi, so every one of us who can muster the courage, or the sheer disgust, to call out the creeps running this apparatus and retake the ground they so arrogantly enclose for their own use should do so whenever and however possible. Any scheme to grant or deny jobs based on after-hours compliance with HR personal branding standards is tyrannical.

In Edelstein’s particular case, it’s really hard (giggity) to see how his single throwaway line about butter in our time of grief violates any reasonable morals clause applicable to an entertainment contract. At a distance, it certainly looks like a bad precedent. One of my fears is that they’ll jam Scott Simon up with something similar and equally harmless; he’s said plenty of edgy shit over the years, so it’s easy to imagine them seizing on their pretext.

Getting tastelessly meta about a long-ago gray rape is frankly well within the prevailing community standards as practiced by ordinary Americans. This is the frank truth. If the problem with Edelstein’s comment is that he made light of someone else’s pain, we’ve got some fucking ‘splainin’ to do about 48 Hours and Dateline. These used to be reputable longform investigative news programs, by the way, but it’s been three decades by now since Cops began its run as filler during a writer’s strike. Some of the most popular programming on American television wallows in the details of rapes and murders, some fictional, some nonfictional, some semifictional. Will we all don sackcloth and be marked with ashes, or will we scapegoat some NPR lifer for being rude to no one in particular here,,, On Line?

For that matter, will NPR ever disavow its voluminous archives of critical acclaim for Woody Allen on account of that marrying the stepdaughter thing? It’s awfully suspicious that sexual ethics suddenly became a pressing concern, enough so that a longtime film critic got shitcanned in a matter of days for publishing some stray thoughts about a gross sex scene and then apologizing profusely for it, after decades of everyone either pretending that Woody Allen wasn’t sexually disordered or saying, well, now, sometimes it do be like that, tho. Last Tango in Paris sounds pretty gross itself, but what did anyone expect Edelstein to do instead? Review only fastidiously wholesome films? That’s how we get brainrotting genres such as Christian romance, the Ditzney Princess’s cherished form of literature. I had to hear about that, and so do you.

After decades of indulging the sexual disorders and perversions of a rogues’ gallery of seedy characters in a spirit of hushed reverence for their art, we’re suddenly high Zhdanovites now, are we? I don’t fucking think so. Brando took some roles that weren’t edifying, but what the hell did we expect of Hollywood? Everyone with a lick of sense has always known that it was a cesspool. Is the problem here that David Edelstein was insufficiently denunciatory and self-serious in his commentary on sexual license in the film industry? A normal, self-respecting person would be embarrassed to indulge in such wanton pearl-clutching in public over some movie critic’s one-off Facebook joke about the banal, universally recognized truth that show business can be sexually debauched.

None of these assholes gets so upset by the likelihood that the NYPD has a rubber room desk duty weirdo moonlighting out on Long Island as the Craigslist Killer. That’s just proles getting killed for doing high-risk work. Wages of sin and all, right? It doesn’t affect anyone’s precious feelings in Culver City. Five-Oh isn’t shanking the beautiful people on Independence Mall. No, the real threat, the real wellspring of rape culture, is some dead leering Italian and his shitty sex scene: no, not even that, but an American critic’s flippant commentary about this problematic deep cut. Have any of these assholes thought about the possibility of normal people taking their cues on sexual boundaries and consent from their real-life sex partners instead of Brando, Schneider, and the Italian pest?

This isn’t even pornography in the original sense of writings about whores. Working girls don’t put up with that kind of aggressive shit if they can help it. They were raising the alarm about Robert Pickton for years, with Sgt. Save-a-Ho damaging his own professional reputation to try to get them a hearing, for the duration of the Port Coquitlam code enforcement showdown and right up until that Mountie newjack swore out the search warrant for the illegal gun and, sweet merciful Jesus, a lot more than just that gun.

Once again, maybe, someday, we’ll live our live’s; ; ; On Line,,,,, Some of us are forced to live parts of our lives in the real world for our own survival and welfare, but who cares about us, lol. In a healthy society, those who didn’t cotton to Edelstein’s butter comment might have said, ew, that’s gross! And he could have said, fair point, but it’s a far cry from Fresh Air! I dare posit that something has gone haywire for the first response to a sexually edgy Facebook post to be the summary termination of the poster’s longstanding entertainment contract. This doesn’t seem to bode well for anyone who isn’t a psychopath currently in a position of great power.

It’s all embarrassingly petty to have this completely normal one over some light shitposting about an arthouse movie from 1972, on the assumption that this reifies rape culture but Woody Allen is a harmless, enjoyable Faulknerian exploration of our well-examined lives. Do we have to live in this fucking James Blunt record? Simona? Si-moan-a?

That’s emotionally sloppy art, too, so yes, we do.


Rape Club

As they say in certain seaboard Italianate circles, eh!, dis is gonna be BAD! Understanding the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation clusterfuck requires more than the usual allowances for the sinful nature. There’s plenty of room to agree with the framers of the US Constitution, themselves a hideously sinful bunch, that human nature is prone to evil more readily than good and still be floored by the shambolic, raging iniquity of Kavanaugh’s behavior before Congress and the sniveling, willful impotence of US Senators constitutionally responsible for the integrity of the federal courts before this utterly disgraceful performance. The framers, who, in spite of Jefferson’s side lover and Washington’s teeth (why in all hell don’t we hear more about THAT?), thought deeply about the corruptibility of public servants and instituted vigorous, explicit checks and balances in their new government for that very reason. And now we have gutless wonders like Lord Anguish, Jeffry Agonistes, Grand Inheritor of the Kingdom of Straight Talk, wringing his hands about how tricky it would be to deny a man the levers of high judicial power just because he seems to be of awfully questionable character.

Democracy dies in dorkness indeed. We can’t even muster adversarial vigor between two competing, equally corrupt branches of government. Nah, it’s rather more that “we” won’t. The police is the public, the public is the police, and Amber Guyger is a committed Millington for Sheriff committeewoman. God help us if such cases are representative of the community will. Comparisons to the summary execution privileges of the samurai are all too apt.

Why the hell does a soft, doughy little gutter drunk like our shouty boi Brett Michael get to take a mulligan every time he commits a forcible rape? Why does he get a seat on the Supreme Court after verbally abusing the Judiciary Committee for hours in an open, nationally televised hearing? He’s only faintly sallow in spite of his chronic heavy drinking and cocaine abuse, but that’s because he’s always been rich and connected to the hilt. How the fuck is the problem with this embarrassing episode that citizens and their elected officials humiliated this emotionally volatile judicial nominee by demanding a fair hearing for the women who accused him of sexual assault? I was disappointed in Christine Blasey-Ford’s indelible upon the hippocampus IFLS neuroscience lecture, but as unfortunate as that was, it didn’t really hurt her credibility, as she demonstrated with her eagerness to amend for the record minor inaccuracies that she had found in her testimony, and it sure as hell didn’t bury the existence of the Swetnick and Ramirez allegations. That cat wiggled out of the bag, and there wasn’t a damn thing a Southern gentleman of wounded honor like Lindsey Graham or the Latter-Day John Kenned could do about it. Everyone knew. Julie Swetnick had a federal security clearance at stake. Deborah Ramirez was by all accounts a humble, decent woman visibly shaken by what Brett Kavanaugh had done to her. Pretending that these two didn’t exist was a half-assed, unconvincing act. There was also civilian eyewitness testimony and a New Haven Police Department incident report from that fucking UB40 bar fight. This dude was an incredible mess.

Beer can be red red, too. A fellow might like it in that case. I saw America and Chicago live in concert in Camden in 2007, but I didn’t get shitfaced and coldcock a total stranger at Walter Rand because I could have sworn he was Walt Parazaider. (Too much flute, my man. It’s all right in its place, but too much flute.) This idiotic caterwauling asshole didn’t get judged on his actual background, a violent drunk whose best friend from high school was also a violent drunk, not to mention a serial rapist and a compulsive gambler with six-figure irregularities in his personal finances when he was pushing fifty. He was judged instead based on his pledge of allegiance to the shitty, incoherent tribal identity claimed by a small majority of the legislators responsible for determining his fitness for high judicial office.

There is simply no decent, reputable way to explain the hostility shown by the hard right wing towards Christine Blasey-Ford. Every possible explanation is horrific. When I said at the start that this is gonna be bad, I fucking meant it.

The “conservative” stance here, inevitably a shameless mockery of every possible form of genuine, sincere conservatism, is that this is Rape Club, and the first rule of Rape Club is that no one talks about Rape Club. Fine, rapists have a self-interest in holding their peace, but what does this mean for their victims? Dammit, son, do I have to spell it out? The bitches are sworn to silence, too, Sherlock.

This is a horror show, but it’s the most likely explanation for what drives the reactionary right-wing hostility towards everyone who’s accused Kavanaugh of violence, in particular the women among them. These creeps assume that everyone who ever came into contact with this crowd was hazed into it and sworn to omertà. This has no legal or moral basis whatsoever, of course, but it helps these elites keep themselves unaccountable, in conjunction with phoning Prep’s in-house counsel at 0200 to meet the police at the scene of the latest drunken fistfight and vandalism spree.

These ghouls HATE insiders who break rank. Blasey-Ford had the nerve to be a liberal female insider talking back to a conservative (sic) male insider. We look forward around here, not back, you ungrateful bitch. There are organs on the alt-right accusing Blasey-Ford of smearing Special K because she has sour grapes about the best lay she ever had, or the best lay she ever wished she’d had. It’s some ugly, psychosexually deranged shit. *Artfully licentious Stephanie Lazarus voice* I don’t get it; I mean, you’re acting like she’s all jealous, but the Kavanaugh lady is still alive and well, working for the town government, and here I am sitting on my butt all day, collecting my pension. Bite the bitch like a competing tigress and take your backup service revolver to the pier for a cool change where Santa Monica Boulevard meets the big blue empty; all I wanna do, is, is, is ask you why you’re asking me all these questions about John and the girl he married, Dan, that nurse or whatever.

Mercy, Steph, couldn’t you have found a man to steal back from the Wettlaufer lady? Which is more believable, though: that three different obscure women opened themselves up to death threats by conspiring to take down a sitting federal judge and Supreme Court nominee with false sexual assault charges, or that the man they accused, already an obvious problem gambler, did the deeds?

Special K is a wifebeater, too. I guarantee it. AshKav is gonna get into another domestic argument with the staircase and like the way she looks. The stairs always have it in for women like her, for some reason much more than they do for frail old widows and spinsters. Women like her could leave, but they’re too craven. Look at Hillary. This stand by your man shit isn’t about honoring vows; it’s about keeping that no-show job with the village government and living in a nice house. Sure as the night follows the day and a looming pile of Safeway trash fills the passenger footwell in my Focus, these women dance with them who brought them.

What’s that, it’s about the wellbeing of the kids? Like hell it is. That coked-up drunk is coaching girls’ basketball again, and we just know that once they hit that Sweet Fourteen he’ll be humming the Bobby Sox Song and inviting the cute ones over for some one-on-one coaching. By Larry he will.

Hey Brett, is that your community pillar, or are you just happy to see me? This sniveling creep is a prominent member of a wealthy community whose parents pimp out their own minor daughters to his ilk. I mean this literally. Questions of consent get pretty muddled and gray when they involve older teenagers, but this assumes that Special K gets consent. As Grandpa Judge always said, if there’s grass on the field, play ball; you can always apologize to the cop if the owner calls the stationhouse to say she didn’t invite you onto the field in first place. This deal is way crazier than the tender medical ministries of Lawrence of the Labia. Everyone has heard about the sordid accusations against Kavanaugh, and yet these parents figure that he’s a great role model to teach their minor daughters character through sport.

Translation: it might get awkward around the country club to cross the man by denying him his droit du seigneur.

Or by calling bullshit on his ridiculous shouting fit about how he never socialized with Protestant girls. What is this? Only the bad die old? Is this lay Catholicism now? I know cradle Catholics from Northeast Philadelphia, upper shanty Irish and lower lace curtain, who do shit like hike up their skirts and put out for their boyfriends on the decks of the Staten Island Ferry, or go down to the beach in Atlantic City at daybreak and angrily kick the waves because their late ex-boyfriends are “in the sea, and I have NEVER heard anyone complain about having to hang out with some asshole because he’s Methodist or some shit. Two collateral points: Catholicism is a thing of syncretic majesty, and the ferry was asking for it. My Catholic youth minister friend, for his part, is forever taken with the saga of a cradle Lutheran buddy who was all up in his face for months about annoying Reformation bullshit before showing up at mass one evening in tears and then becoming Orthodox.

Nobody is refusing to get Prot chicks sauced and then bang them on high church sectarian principle. Give me a break, and then walk your lying ass over to Stossel’s place and give him a fucking break. This story is nothing but bullshit. These asshats do not fucking care. We had a Supreme Court nominee yelling about Catholic girls’ high schools because he was arrogant enough to think that this was dispositive of his never having taken liberties with a heretic girl against her will. Sheldon Whitehouse should have interrupted him and asked, “Excuse me, Judge, but do I look like I give a shit about Immaculata High School?”

These guys make shit up at will, and shamelessly so. They do it because it’s worked for them in the past. In Special K’s case, it worked for him as a middle-aged Supreme Court nominee. He carried on like Wesley Willis in the art store and got the job. Even Willis was like, fuck, I better stop yelling like a wild animal or Jim Sims will get on my ass again. Is it too much to ask of the Supreme Court that its members show more self-control and self-consciousness in public than a bum who cut some records because he’d been wandering around Chicago yelling semicoherently at everyone in his path in a state of agitated psychosis?

This is what we call manhood now. This asshole is actually being upheld as a role model of normative masculine strength, since surely any man would scream bloody murder at Congress about beer and the local Catholic girls’ schools and how much he respects women and shit if his honor were so questioned. Just think for a hot second about what, say, Dwight Eisenhower would have thought of a man like Kavanaugh, let alone of the idea that other men ought to admire anyone of his character and comportment as a masculine ideal. Anyone game to come around here and call Ike a nancyboy? Please.

Having won that crooked race, our boy Brett Michael is now permanently lodged in the Catholic branch of the federal government. This is another absurdity, another bobbing floater that no one who matters can muster the sheer disgust to grab and fling out of the way, into the margins where it belongs. Any bench meaningfully informed by Catholic teachings would show some fucking contrition for its own moral failings. Sotomayor is credible on this count, because she isn’t all up in anyone’s face about it, but Thomas? Long Dong Silver? Lol. When two out of six Catholics are either the shrieking he-banshee serial rapist alcoholic gambling fiend or the grab-ass office pornography weirdo, all that’s missing is Robert Philip Hanssen. They’re videotaping Bob more than Bob ever videotaped himself and his wife, though, and of course a return to the Beltway would conflict with the Agent’s schedule of Ted Talks.

And why wouldn’t we collect all the Opus Dei wackjobs and blackmail cases in key civil service roles, instead of Catholics who have unapproved sex drives and maybe messy personal lives but are more or less normal? J. Denny Dundiddly is Protestant, I’m pretty sure, but we got him under the same model, this same novus ordo seclorum.

Excuse me, Coach; put me in somewhere else.