Ah, Mr. Acevedo, would you fancy some refined white crackers to accompany your beans?

NPR issued a stern “language warning” ahead of its most recent interview with Art Acevedo on All Things Considered, over “an ethnic slur.” I kept thinking he was going to say somebody had called him a beaner or something, but that didn’t make any sense.

The grievously offensive slur came in a short exerpt of Acevedo’s Congressional testimony about systemic police misconduct. “We call them ‘Gypsy cops.'” I could not fucking believe it. I spent fifteen minutes waiting for that segment and listening to it, all ears, and all he said was “Gypsy cops.”

The idiots who run NPR no longer do business in the real world. They can’t even see it from there. The shitcanning of Bob Edwards was an idiot wind. It blows over us to this day, more briskly by the month.

We find ourselves with ro mani problems. We try to fix them with moral window dressing. Gypsy is always a slur, never a descriptor. Language Warnings, tramps, and thieves. we’d hear it from the people of This Town, my God, Halperin; Language Warnings, tramps, and thieves, but every day they buried Tim Russert, we’d sit there in the pews, and fix to lay our money down.

Cher these findings widely; they are signs of our times. It fell on an old wifebeating Chippie to suggest that “Groundhog Day cops” might be a better descriptor, since they kept reappearing: a cheap dodge to a cheap question, but what else can we expect? None of this shit is relevant. It’s an absurd distraction.

It’s NPR.

It’s hard to know where to begin. Oftentimes I sit here, dumbfounded, trying to asbord it all and make faint sense of it. The pettiness, the moralizing, the sycophantic childishness, the sheer unreality: all of it unfolds on an unfathomable plane of thought and existence. Nothing about it intersects with my thinking, observations, or lived experiences. And I went to prep school and college. These are renowned, preeminent reporters. We entrust the news, the first draft of history, to them and their craft.

Maybe Art Acevedo was the Houston Police Chief when one of his riot cops rode his horse over a woman and trampled her, just because she had the uppity nerve to protest the brutality of her city’s police department, and just because he could. Never mind that; Acevedo spoke to Congress, shall we say, inartfully.

What the hell is wrong with them? Are they conniving? Are they just fucking stupid? I had classmates who graduated, apparently in fine academic standing, in a state of stupidity at least as profound as they enjoyed upon their matriculation. I mean, I sat through an admitted students’ roundatble with a girl who used “matrculate” in a manner proving that she believed it to be a synonym for “trickle.” Such are the characters who make the cut. Ponder who doesn’t, and shudder. Then again, I also knew classmates who were deeply amoral, or immoral or, I’m pretty sure, both at the same time.

Who the fuck even told them to warn their audience about a coming ethnic slur and pester the Chief of Police for the City of Houston for using it by way of quoting his own officers’s shorthand for the worst cops in their midst? The schoolmarmish freaks who run that joint always ask for the manager and the owner when they swoop into Fort Wayne or whatever postindusrial junkie dump most recently caught their intenton when their back-of-the-house nerds scanned a map of the Ohio Valley. There’s no way they’re liaising with the village elder of a trailer squat in the backwoods of a palisade peeking discreetly down on the flats of Secaucus for guidance on what to call his clan. Their term for these unwanted visitors would surely be rude; draw up another language warning and get it on air.

The thing about Gypsies is that they’re too busy with the usual Gypsy shit to give a rat’s ass about what a bunch of schoolmarms in Washington have to say about them on Scold Radio. Their interest in the imperial center is pragmatic: manhole covers, the superstitious and their bank accounts, public benefits, getting their fellow Bogles out of the Oregon State Penitentiary and back into the businesses that are worth a damn.

Predictably enough, these are not the sort of things one would worry about as the lavishly salaried host of a radio news show of no particular journalistic standards. So who are they trying to reach? As The Last Psychiatrist liked to say, if you’re watching it, it’s for you. Charles Osgood has yet to see me on the radio, but I’ve got enough trouble without that twee dork.

For better and worse, I’m a college boy. NPR is my cultural residue, an awful and yet irresistable pilgrim journey o fthe mind and the soul. Jesus harrowed hell for three days, which it seems we’re counting at about 25 hours from the Good Friday service to the Easter Vigil; I spend anywhere from two to six hours a day listening to that crap, because, look, I got a rechargeable pocket radio at Target and it’s useful company for laundry or guerrilla blackberry brush clearing or whatever.

Over time, the tics shine through. The cultural compulsions gaze back from the abyss. There is *NO EVIDENCE* that Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself/Seth Rich was killed in anything other than a weird unsolved robbery with no leads in a heavily surveilled and videotaped city/Comet Ping Pong is tied to the weirdly, inexplicably repetitious language in the leaked Clinton e-mails, none of whose context-free words are, say, code for child pornography according to internal FBI manuals.

They’re constantly reporting on their sponsors. Google is a sponsor. Facebook is a sponsor. Amazon is an NPR sponsor. There are hours when they can’t go fifteen minutes without another of these artless disclosures. Yeah, we get it: you’re corrupt. But who the hell is “us?” Just me, I guess, the king of understanding unfortunate things in the news. Wonderful.

KQED radio broadcasts the PBS NewsHour live from Washington at 3:00 pm. BNSF is a sponsor. That’s the amalgamation of, among others, the Burlington Road, the Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe, the Great Northern, and the Northern Pacific. and the Frisco. This behemoth is one of Warren Buffett’s Monopoly pieces. He moves properties around on a board in his parlor across town from the Union Pacific dispatch center. Nobody in the news business has a clue that there is one. We presumably prefer trains that don’t rear-end each other at 55 to 79 miles an hour to ones that do, and maybe there’s a skilled trade of people who monitor rail traffic and control signals and switches to help keep that from happening all the time. Maybe one of them is worth more than a bunker full of Tom Brokaw-ass blowhard jagoffs playing Monopoly with 32.500 miles of trust trackage as just one portfolio holding out of hundreds. To assess the relative vocational value of these activitites, it might help to be aware of railroad dispatching as something that a number of people do for a living in Omaha.

Naw, that’s too earnest. Reagan busted PATCO and fired its air traffic controllers en masse because they worked for a living. That was what the working class wanted: the inability to successfully demand better pay and working conditions from a showboating sellout from the Screen Actors Guild. That’s why they voted for Reagan in Chicago and Hibbing and Montesano when they voted for Carter in 1980 and Mondale in 1984.

That’s the kind of shit any of us might be able to make up for a living if we moved to DC. It’s what we call work.

I’m what we call General Stroganoff. Please, to the table. The people may have a little Beef, As A Treat.

Our rulers and courtiers aren’t just broadly ignorant and incurious. They’re ignorant and incurious about their own news and analysis beats. I know exactly why they didn’t see Trump’s election to the presidency coming: they never socialize with non-Brahmins. If they’re adventurous, they branch out to socialize with #NeverTrump Optimate movement conservative dorks in Loudoun County. They spend hours in Panera lobbies in Alpharetta and emerge with no clue that they were surrounded by Trump voters, convinced that the path to a Democratic South runs through a 60% Republican exurban district full of Yankee transplants who are obviously Democrats and mostly Republicans. Conversely, they dredge up the the most crotchety, vile diner geezers to explain why Erie voted for the Donald by way of voting for Hilldawg.

They don’t even look at the fucking county victory maps. These are the Politics Understanders. Forget the crisis of legitimacy for the moment; this is a blatant crisis of confidence. They’re all morons.

Hillary is liberal, they insist. Huh? She’s a spiteful, prudish old scold who’s permapissed at her notoriously horny husband for chasing strange. Her personal morals are pretty fucking asshole-conservative, by that reckoning, at least. Her libertine husband, however, was never measurably any more liberal than her as a working politician. He threw Joycelynn Elders under the bus because Larry Craig and the gang were sore about sex education (as in, hey now, that’s our job!). He triangulated “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” and signed the Defense of Marriage Act into law, as a notoriously heterosexual married man himself. He grandstanded in front of a military school yard assembly of prison inmates at Stone Mountain, blustering about law and order.

He fucking flew back to Arkansas from the campaign trail to sign a death warrant for the most retarded guy on death row. Does Ricky Ray Rector even register with these asshats? I was nine and a half when Bill had him killed. It shook me to the core. He got exactly the meal plan Randy Newman promised; it was just that he didn’t want to rush dessert.

I keep noticing that some of us live in a world that has consequences. These aren’t just Monopoly pieces being moved around on a board. These are livelihoods. These are qualities of life. This is people’s basic welfare. These are lives. Bill Clinton had a man with the intellectual capacity of a three-year-old killed because his strategists told him it would win him parts of the Upper South and the Midwest. That isn’t liberalism; it’s overpowering illiberalism, because it’s also chilling psychopathy.

If you’re starting from the premise that Slick Wilie was a leading liberal light and berating me for an hour straight about what an ignorant, reckless fool I am for not voting for his hideous, bigoted wife, whom I’m convinced hates me, yo dawg, it ain’t me, chief. If you’re proceeding to lecture me about my duty, to myself and to our country, to vote for the current mush-for-brains dotard, again because he’s the liberal, I will of course be perfectly fucking blunt: Joe Biden is a handsy pervert, an authoritarian bigot, a serial liar, a man who 32 years ago dropped out of a race for the same office he’s currently seeking after he was exposed plagiarizing a British prime minister’s speeches, and by now visibly a drugged-up mush-for-brains dotard. You may want him, but that doesn’t mean I do, asshole. As it is, I’m barely, possibly in his camp, and that’s only because Donald Trump has veered into armed factional sedition and late-stage Qaddafi-Borgia mashup oratory.

Our soi-disant liberal scolds moan that they want more educated, informed voters. They can sack up and come talk to me about what it’s like to actually be one. Alternately, they can shut the fuck up. I rather enjoy the latter option.

These motherfuckers have spent my entire adolescent and adult lifetime rubbing it in our faces that this whole political spectacle is a frivolous game to them. It is, by their own slobbering accounts, a horserace. They’re degenerate enough to play the ponies, for sure. The only reason they were angry at Brett Kavanaugh was that he didn’t clean up the way they preferred, choosing instead to daydrink and snort a big line on his way to his tantrum in front of some of their faves on the Hill. That, and he raped a high-caste white girl, which is the same thing.

Excuse me, but I am not here to take these pearlclutching, sanctimonious nerds seriously. I’ve been homeless. It’s amazing to get into spats online with #Resistance deadenders about our duty to vote for Joe Biden this time and watch them completely fail to register that I’ve been homeless when I explicitly say so. They aren’t even, like, whoa, shit, are you serious? It flies straight over their heads. I had a guy call me disturbed and a bot for pushing back on his horseshit narrative about the public’s scandalously insufficient deference to the Democratic Party’s eminences grises. For real, I’ll be over on alt, using the same writing and argumentation style I use here, minus most of the shitposting, and I’ll have overpaid idiots calling me a disturbed dipshit and a bot.

One of the lessons from these unfortunate interactions is that cryptoclinically disordered ideations are much more prevalent than advertised. We’re talking paranoid, schizoid, post-traumatic. One of Donald Trump’s strokes of genius is his knack for reaching the schizoid and the paranoid on their own channels. He isn’t exactly one of them, but he vibes with that. He channels the denpa, as the Japanese call it. Normie bipartisan ratfuck politicians never allow themselves to go with a flow so subversive.

Trump uses this gift for little but deep evil. Like any other spiritual gift, it is abused with terrible ease, and the Donald is rarely any better than amoral. Our shitlibs and mostly disingenuous #NeverTrump movement conservatives are still idiots to ignore his spiritual attunement to the ideation of so many of our disturbed shut-ins, given how often they vote.

These bipartisan shitbirds are exactly the scum that rises to the top in a society whose talented tenth bully the rest of us into a political economy devoted to pure, distilled amoral rationality and purged of all spirituality. They’re here to impose hard science and drive out all humanities–all humanity, really. They aren’t actually scientific or rational, but they insist they are, and they have the resources to pay intellectual mercenaries to say so 24/7.

As it always bears repeating, they do not live in any part of our real world. They hardly even visit. When they do, they squeamishly moan about how gross it is. Techbros are trying to gentrify the Tenderloin, for some mindbogglingly fucking bizarre reason. It’s probably just because they’re used to getting their way. It’s probably just because they can. If we’re paying attention to the details of life in San Francisco we might flounder for months scrutinizing the thinking of some asshole like Jack Dorsey and contemplating why he’s also the guy who flew to Burma to sit on the floor all day and injure his ass. This isn’t a particularly foolish pursuit, but it is for naught. That motherfucker pulls that shit, all of it, because he can.

They all do. Every time one of these pricks shows up for another round of gentrification, he’s just throwing his weight around, because he feels like it, and because he can. Occam’s Razor always puts a crude cut on that bitch. It goes full SEPTA 61-Ridge Badlands on a motherfucker, not Dennis Geyer knife time.

It’s so easy to overthink these ghouls. Here’s the dumb but powerful thing: Many members of the upper middle class, scions and arrivistes alike, are not members of the cognitive elite, but a great many of the cognitive elite are members of the upper middle class. It’s subtle but important.

This is a skeleton key to how and why Rex Tillerson very perceptively called Donald Trump a fucking moron. Rex is an engineer who spent a career spanning roughly two generations in the oil industry, delegating the vast majority of the operational work as he rose into the executive ranks but still keeping a keen eye on operations and providing extensive guidance to operational chiefs. The Donald inherited the proceeds of an outer-borough slumlord empire from his sleazy father and wormed his way over the bridge into Manhattan, and you can betcha that meant the part below 95th Street. He plastered his name on a series of showboat businesses that he promptly ran into the ground. Then he went on television and played a shitbag simulacrum of Lee Iacocca.

None of this military school bone spur malingerer’s shtick had anything to do with competence. He’s just an actor. As Doug Casey says, acting is like prostitution: an honorable profession, but one that shouldn’t be taken too seriously. Casey lures bitcoin dipshits to his bugout spread in Argentina, or maybe it’s his buddy’s spread, to violate Argentinian labor laws by working for free in the vineyard, but he’s right about both professions. Kim Kardashian and Lindsay Lohan are entertainers. A healthy, livable society always has its buskers, its orchestra musicians, its stage actors, its Wesley Willis multimedia visionaries, its muralists, its interior designers, and its whores. This is the good shit.

The problem is that we take the more prominent of these entertainers,, who are not coincidentally often some of the more mediocre, as real-life leaders. This is a key driver of our epistemic closure as a nation. As John Regan, my favorite monarchist blogger, says, societies always end up with a hereditary elite, so they might as well collect and curate one for official adoration. I don’t care for this idea, but I have a hard time refuting it. All I can do is enthuse about Nicola Sturgeon, England’s low-key smallholders and craftsmen, and the National Fruit Collection. No, I’m not talking about Elton John; if you look it up you’ll see.

It’s not like I’m necessarily against getting a piece of Caterbury tail. Regan has openly admired Kim’s more demure nudes: not my idea of taste, but if you look at the other stuff I’ve published here you’ll know that I have no business commenting on taste, which I never promise to have from minute to minute. The hilarious thing is that Regan and Kardashian are colleagues; I recall hearing that she’s in law school, and if anyone has ghostwritten law review articles, it’s Kim. A bitch has to balance her personal branding and her intellectual interests.

We do that out on the streets, too, for our own welfare and survival. The idea that Chuck and Nancy or any of the Trump family, maybe excepting Tiffany, have any capacity or interest to relate to ordinary Americans, let alone to the poor of them, is absurd. They live in a different, unreal, surreal world. The homeless psychotic guy at the Metro 40 bus stop at Inglewood and Century, catty corner from the Yoshinoya and the laundromat, who told me about how he was “pretty much traveling between universes right now,” happily and graciously conceded the validity of my only perceptible universe. Is that A340 actually on final approach to 24L, or is it on short final to a wormhole? We can’t see it, can we? Sure, you just landed on 25L without incident this afternoon, but what’s its turbulence?

I’m absolutely serious that Turbulence Dude was more attuned to the lives of the sane, functional people around him than Fancy Nancy and her crew have been in years, if ever. He probably had other bums telling him that he was batshit fucking nuts, and hey, we aren’t all traveling between the same universes at the same time. There’s all kinds of angles for astral projections, shit, a lot of universes, and maybe you’ll encounter a few more on the 40 by the time you hit Western, or maybe you won’t, yeah, that’s probably it.

Nobody tells Nancy that she’s totally full of shit and totally out of touch. She pays for layers of security and sycophancy to cosset herself against this insolence. That’s why I usually show her no manners whatsoever when I call her Washington office and demand the constituent services we’re all due as Americans. She’d catch worse in the Tenderloin. She is domiciled right about two miles from the SFPD Tenderloin Station, the official Heart of the Shitty. I’ve been looking for her home address, which has to be a matter of public record for her to represent the Twelfth District, but I guess they try to memory-hole that shit even though it’s a constitutional requirement to verify it for public office. It’s not like she stays there on any given night away from Washington, as opposed to any of her other opulent properties; I mean, we all know she lives on Zinfandel Lane; but she governs us, so it’s obviously relevant.

Our politicians are ever less our servants, ever more our masters. Lincoln rode around Washington alone on his horse. He walked across the street, alone if nobody wished to accompany him, to the same church whose perimeter Trump ordered goons from his palace guard to violently clear so he could pose with what he called “a Bible.” Harry and Bess Truman retired to their old unassuing house in the Independence town platt. Fancy Nancy would never settle for a single bungalow when she can own at least three castles for her personal use. The third is her pied-a-terre in Washington; that’s a ridiculous term of art for anywhere she lives or works, but the French, bruh.

We’ve had high elected officials, even presidents, who lived in the real world. The Roosevelts were ungodly rich but still had a keen finger on the ordinary American’s pulse. Trump does, too, after a weird fashion, but mainly by way of setting narrow factions against outgroups they already hate and activating segments of the mentally ill.

It’s a good bet that a sneering, mobbed-up centimillionaire Baltimore mayoral daughter who’s been in Washinton forever and represents the next thing to a rotten borough ain’t it, and in Pelosi’s case it’s the correct bet.

Prior to the techbro invasion, San Francisco was a socioeconomically diverse city where people of ordinary means could afford to live, not on Nob Hill but at least somewhere in the Richmond, the Sunset, the Excelsior, or whatever. Tech purged the city of the middle class: the old-timers cashed out and moved out, and the newcomers and local kids found themselves unable to get by anywhere closer than Hayward or Petaluma.

What this exodus left behind was the usual Tenderloin losers, with their 5-10% turnout or whatever the fuck they achieve at the polls (it’s a free country; take your own guess); thousands of non-Anglophone noncitizens cooped up in SRO’s in Chinatown, counted in the census but not on the voter rolls; and the rich. I’m only half eliding this shit. A whole lot of ordinary working people fled or got run out of town. San Francisco’s black population hasn’t been cratering by coincidence.

Members of my native upper middle class ask me, incredulously, how I can possibly believe that Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton hate the poor. Epistemic closure, like every other vice, causes less chaos and damage for the rich, so that’s nice, but let’s look at her with clear eyes and clear minds. Her net worth is mathematically impossible on a Congressional salary. She’s easily worth an order of magnitude more than a six-sigma miser would be able to amass on a Congressional salary. Yeah yeah, she’s got family money–as I note from time to time, her father was a huge mob crook–but she also owns a constellation of successful investment properties and an ample stock portfolio, blind trust my fat white ass, and Congress is crawling with habitual insider traders. Congresscritters don’t just kind of end up in positions to buy into the Napa Valley landed gentry. That takes some combination of marrying well and juice.

/Annoying little Mexican girl meme/ Why Not Both? How could the modal asshole in that joint not work every available angle? It was, what, six or eight percent of the Senate that got exposed insider-trading on information from the Covid-19 briefing over the winter? Plus they’re all positioned to place their kin and cronies in sinecures and get paid for it. There’s an old Anglo-Saxonism for a five- or six-figure speaking fee for spending half an hour at an all-expenses-paid junket regurgitating gobbledygook: we call that a bribe.

The last bus any of these assholes is riding is the Straight Talk Express. The Democrats among them are permanently furious with Bernie Sanders, a rare colleague who for the most part thinks and speaks like a normal adult of ordinary means. Obfuscation is the coin of their realm, and yet they wonder why some of us distrust them. Yeah, asshole, it doesn’t take a proctological exam to determine that a serial liar and fraud is full of shit.

The reason I don’t trust Fancy Nancy, Hillz, the Big Dog, or any of the rest of their ilk to do a damn thing for the poor is that I have every reason to distrust them. That’s a circular argument for my distrust of the circle jerkers, but I’ve been over the particulars more times than I can count. Homelessness, emotional abuse (in my case, consistently at the hands of overt or tacit socioeconomic superiors), and hard downward mobility have resulted, inter alia, in my acquiring a worldview divergent from that of the Brahmins I left behind up there. Their worldview and interests are not mine.

This is a suprisingly hard teaching for them. As I keep having to ask, who the hell are “we?” It ain’t me, governor.

There was, of course, a mass delusional break among establishment Democratic officials and their voters in 2016. A guy they really disliked caught them off guard and won the presidency. All of a sudden, everything was the Kremlin’s fault. This is an overt delusion of persecution. We often see such ideation in the clinically psychotic.

This is not, however, a case of denpa, but rather a flareup of mass hysteria with an indefinite half-life. This shit is extremely fashionable among the fashionable. It is not a low-class hobby for schizoid shut-ins; it’s much, much worse. Change any of the characters in this play and see how it sounds. “John Cox would have won the California gubernatorial election, but Angela Merkel had German junior intelligence analysts under her direct command catfish as American chat buddies and brainwash entire communities of conservative Chicanos.”

Out on the streets, that’s what we call nuts. We’re walking the 5150 block on that journey. Some of us have reasons for being sick of that shit. For one thing, it isn’t even fun. Most psychotics aren’t just trying to deflect blame for shitting the bed, the way the Democrats have been doing for the past four years. It’s always someone else’s fault. In my case alone, it’s my fault for taking negatively to Hillary, for having positive reactions AT ALL to Donny Fingers, for having an affirmative enthusiasm for Jill Stein. It’s a batshit insane binary: #WithHer or Against Her, and Against Her means with HIM. This is nonsense: one of the reasons I voted for Stein was that Trump put me off, too. I got sick of that fucker by the time I got my ballot.

These dipshits construe the entire 2016 election as a humiliating, scandalous breach of deference. Why America’s yacht dealers and dentists wanted to defer to the pussyhatters in the first place is beyond them, too, because Trump’s Optimate base does not exist to them. This is why I’m one of their scapegoats for not taking their orders in the completion of my legally secret ballot.

Fuck that, of course. What’s crazy is that these delusions of persecution are a high-class phenomenon. This is political astuteness, too Them. That guy from Inglewood needs to catch the bus and run some universe checks on these freaks. Listening to millionaires, some of them bigtime multmillionaires, whine about the breach of their aesthetics and their norms, and now pivot to the frantic assertion that the election of a different rapist and flagrant sex pest is feminism, doesn’t impress me in a good way.

Besides, if the plan is to convince me that Biden or the Clintons or some such trash love the poor like Jesus and Trump hates the poor, it might be a good idea to demonstrate either some personal familiarity with what it’s like to be poor or else some working observations. They never show up with this. It’s hopeless for me to explain how and why I have to observe and understand them more accurately than they have to observe and understand me. It’s the stuff of a basic human education, which they so proudly completed, In School.

Add this to the treasury of things not understood about Christian teaching and practice in this, Our Christian Country. The average Hindu seeker who’s looking in bashfully and wondering what possesses us to lay it all on a single god-guru and the two other gods who are part of him understands Christianity better than our biblethumping leaders ever do, just by not being hardhearted and idiotic.

Ever since Constantine we’ve been discovering anew how pigheaded and disastrous it is to try to mold Christianity into an official imperial religion. Christian discipleship, which, to lightly paraphrase Gandhi, sounds like a marvelous idea, is, leaving aside questions of strict divinity, a lifelong pilgrimage in the path of a humble mystic, healer, and almsgiver who was put to death for defying the Roman imperial authorities and one of their Levantine satrapies. Even if we’re convinced that he’s a god, not the God, or what have we, reading from Eccleasiastes to clap back at a political opponent for holding “a Bible” up as a crude talisman who’s power didn’t even interest him and then proceeding to do nothing for the poor and vulnerable among one’s legislative constituents plainly ain’t it. Remember, “as you do to the least of these, you do to me.” This sure seems like it applies to civil officials who wield great power to provide for the needs of the poor, or to refuse them all aid.

The confusion over this discord between word and deed starts to lift as we consider that American governments are formed mainly from incarnations of the Antichrist. Hypocrisy doesn’t always sound quite right as an explanation; it’s at least a significant component, but we’re talking about people with serious delusional disorders, the loudest of them having to do with Russian spook sabotage and chat bot mind control. They’re evil, but they aren’t JUST evil. There’s a whole lot going on here.

In any event, we do have a leadership class of Structural Antichrist. Casual but sincere students of Christian scripture and tradition know more than well enough what’s wrong with this shit and why it’s a huge fraud. Countless outsiders who have studied Christianity look at what passes for Christianity in the United States and think, correctly, what the fuck.

The synthesis here is gross but compelling. We’re all about epistemic closure, we’re all about in-your-face Christian piety, and so, QED, epistemic closure in the name of Christ Jesus is extremely our shit. Reading some decontextualized bollocks about seasons of life from Ecclesiastes for the sole purpose of one-upping a political opponent for being proudly ignorant of the whole book of books is what we call Christianity, instead of suspecting that the Tenderloin is exactly Jesus’s beat and he wants us to at least try to do something about it.

As I said, Fancy Nancy is in a position to really do something. I show up in the confessional guilty that I was curt with some bums and knew I could spare them a few bucks. Most of us fail here more than we succeed and fall down more readily than we get back up, and it’s a good reason to seek maybe not so much absolution as guidance, but I’d say we could use some fucking help from that bitch on this job. We could certainly do worse than to rebuke her and her kind as rudely as seems useful.

Our rulers need to be dragged, kicking and screaming if they insist on being so graceless, back into the real world, to do the jobs they owe us. All they’ve been doing lately is making messes and contemptuously leaving them for us to clean up. The quality of lawmaking and administration they offer us is abysmal.

This is why we had to have the police brutality protests. Our lawmakers would feel differently about cops kneeling on people’s necks if cops barged into their living rooms and knelt on their necks. These atrocities are always for the little people. The high theory holds that with great power comes great responsibility; the low practice ensures that with great power comes great power. Power asserts itself for its own sake. Our rulers have the same morals and appetites as a cancer.

One difference, of course, is that cancer doesn’t stage a Kente Cloth Kneeling Ceremony for the purpose of exorcising the centuries-old racial sins of a nation founded on chattel slavery. There’s no making this shit up. Nancy got down on her knee, like, a week and a half after reading from the Book of Ecclesiastes. It feels like it could have been months. It should have taken decades, because she should never, ever have been involved in anything of the sort. Still in Kente shawls, Chuck and Nancy glared down at the press pool from behind their masks like two exceedingly hostile and condescending birds of prey. In fairness, though, they look only marginally less contemptuous from the dais when they’re unmasked and not dressed like Kwanzaa show-and-tell fools.

It’s all inconceivably absurd. They have a job to do, and that ain’t it. Even by P. J. O’Rourke’s reckoning, their branch of the government is money, not television. Nothing about kneeling on the floor for over eight minutes in a doofus waka waka hey hey vestment is a reasonable or bona fide way to respond to a police misconduct scandal in which a cop knelt on a man’s neck until he was dead. We’ve living in the twilight zone of elected assholes who will always resent us, their constituents, for demanding their representation. God help us if we deserve the grandparenting of Chuck and Nancy.

The Kente Cloth Kneeling Ceremony is an exceptionally flagrant example of our epistemic closure. In a single outrageously self-absorbed stunt the Congressional Democratic leadership provocatively recapitulated the murder of George Floyd in a gesture that was at the same time bathetically meaningless, elevated vacuous style over crucial substance, dicked around in ethnic garb like a Nigerian federal cabinet with Swiss bank accounts full of embezzled oil royalties and bribes, clumsily tried to stand back up, preened about their racial magnanimity at a time when blue-on-black killings had their nation at the flashpoint, and declined all around to do their fucking jobs. They’re shitheads, but they aren’t JUST shitheads. They expected this provocation to bear political benefits. They of course arrogantly assumed that the serfs they didn’t want reacting peevishly to their contempt would miss the show, or at least would hold their peace (fuck off lol), but they were pandering to a core constituency every bit as performatively vapid as themselves. Nancy know her neighbors. No, not the ones hard up in the Tenderloin, a mere two miles down the hill, but the ones who matter, the ones like herself. Duh.

This horseshit is never about Africa. An interest in West Africa might inspire astute observations of the culture that Congress shares with its counterparts in Nigeria, specifically, their common love of being huge crooks who live to take bribes. Instead, the usual suspects, Inner Party and Outer Party alike, are again walking around with their thumbs up their asses, proud that they are at last getting justice for Kunta Kinte. It’s an odd way to react to protests over a guy from Houston getting murdered by a cop in Minneapolis. That sounds pretty American and not very Ghanaian. It doesn’t seem like a national evil we can purge by holding a seance with Kwame Nkrumah.

Then again, Africa has had blameshifting no-account incompetents in high elected office, too, and Jerry Rawlings is white. Kente Cloth didn’t have anything to do with OJ, either, until the Dream Team decided it did and got Lance Ito to compliment them on their ties. Still, I’m down here, thinking that if I traded places with Fancy Nancy I’d be working on telling the police what to do, such as immediately arresting their colleagues upon establishing probable cause for murder if they want federal appropriations to continue, and not making a huge ass of myself by doing Motherland cosplay on the boob tube.

This cosplay was much more crudely and divisively racialized than anything about the Black Lives Matter movement. The point of BLM is to demand that the police stop murdering black people. The police have been murdering African-Americans ever since there have been Africans in the Americas. They aren’t reachable like black street gangs or lone hotheads, either. They go around murdering people at will.

Sometimes those people are white. The “All Lives Matter” countermovement doesn’t actually give a shit about life. Provocateurs like Matt Walsh pop up out of the woodwork to scold BLM protesters for not demanding justice for Daniel Shaver or whoever, reasonable points that might be well taken if they’d had anything to say about these cases in the years prior to the murder of George Floyd. The emblematic All Lives Matter demonstration was the attempted point-blank bow-and-arrow attack in Salt Lake City. Protesters nearby agreed with him sufficiently to bumrush him and stop him from fully acting on his violent disdain for life.

The “Black Lives Matter” framing is divisive, but only incidentally so. Exceedingly few people who are horrified by Floyd George’s murder would say that Daniel Shaver had it coming as a honky or that Brailsford is a good cop. There is no natural antagonism between those who want justice for Floyd and those who want justice for Shaver. Any distrust can be assuaged.

BLM is not a movement of racists who want Whitey to be murdered by cops. It’s an interracial movement of people demanding an end to police brutality. Its emphasis is on black lives, as opposed to all lives, because African-Americans bear the brunt of police violence. Cops preferentially harass, menace, assault, and murder black people. Where black targets are scarce, however, or for that matter whenver a non-black person pisses them off, they’ll gladly take it out on Caucasians, Asians, Hispanics, American Indians, or whoever else is in the vicinity, especially if they’re poor.

This is a profession whose members have been given carte blanche authority to batter, strangle, rape, and murder people under color of law and force of arms. Support for these thugs and their enablers correlates with affluence and wealth: the moneyed know that the police, the managers of Outside, are their de facto mercenaries; the poor know that cops are as shitty and abusive as they feel like being. The downwardly mobile feel the injustice acutely as a looming threat to their own welfare and survival.

We can guess, with perfect ease and accuracy, which side Fancy Nancy takes in this war. That’s right: not ours. She hates poor people and demands servants; cops are overpaid servants who hate the poor.

By NPR’s reckoning all of this has to do with Gypsies. “Gypsy cops” is a slur on the Romani, not on lemon dance thugs. The United States has very little communal tension between Gypsies and the rest of us, so NPR is there to inadvertently foment it through its sheer woke ineptitude. But Chief, why do your officers them “Gypsy cops?” Jesus tapdancing Christ, you fucking nerd, why the hell do you think? How much of an asskissing dork do you have to be to ask that in the first place?

Mary Louise Kelly is here to distract Art Acevedo from police reform. I need to take up drinking again.

Right on target

It’s beautiful. The week I start shopping at Target again, one goes up in flames smack dab in the Homeland, on the southside of Minneapolis, in the ghetto (in the ghetto).

We aren’t waiting to start Hot Summer this year like we did in Ferguson in 2014 and Baltimore in 2016. In those cases there were ambiguities, ones that did not favor the police but offered them weak reasonable doubt. There is absolutely no ambiguity whatsoever to what Derek Chauvin did to George Floyd. He murdered an innocent man in cold blood under color of police authority. Floyd’s first cries for help would have been justification for any bystander, police or civilian, to shoot Chauvin in the head at point blank range. Deadly force is legally and morally justifiable to stop a murder in progress. I understand that’s one of the things they teach at academy. Bumrushing Chauvin or forcefully beating him on the head would have been preferable, but only if practical. The other cops watching him calmly choke a man to death by kneeling on his neck apparently approved of his conduct and so would have rushed to his aid, not his victim’s. 

There are few worthier reasons to be judged by twelve than ensuring that such a thug be carried by eight. I feel degraded for writing these things, hardened, but I’m just conforming their own violent language to the heinous circumstances they caused. 

These circumstances arose in an ugly civic context. The Twin Cities were past the threshold to justify violent rebellion by the time Chauvin took the knee. The violent police repression of the protesters who took to the streets afterwards is all the proof we need that Chauvin’s cold-blooded homicidal violence and his squadmates’ calm approval are part of a dire systemic problem. MPD Homicide should have had him in custody within the hour. Detectives never have such compelling probable cause fall into their laps. If his own colleagues refused, the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprenehsion should have moved in and apprehended him on suspicion of, don’tcha know, being a criminal. He committed a murder in uniform and broad daylight a ten-minute drive from an FBI field office. 

Nobody from any of these agencies responded to arrest this thug. Other cops are reportedly standing guard in his yard out in the suburbs, where the rest of the department lives, too. This is why Homicide should have hauled his ass in without delay. The US Marshals could end up in a Ruby Ridge-style siege if it tries to serve his arrest warrant now. It’s just a possibility; the feds got the Danziger Bridge Boys to surrender peaceably, through a receiving line, in suits. It’s still dangerous to have armed cops guarding a murderous ex-colleague on 24-hour rotating like they’re in the fucking Secret Service. There are no guarantees that this part of the clusterfuck will end well, either. 

This whole disaster could pull a 180 while I’m writing about it. By the prevailing standards of our times, the mayor and the chief shitcanned Chauvin and his three accomplices at warp speed. The mayor, Jacob Frey, sounds genuinely saddened and outraged in his public comments about the murder, and he’s absolutely right that he or anyone else but a cop would already be in jail for doing that. For some reason, however, he’s stlll giving his press conferences in Coptic. He’s using the same passive voice about things that tragically happened they always use. 

The culture is sick. It’s deeply sick. 

The Third Precinct riots are just medicine. The dose isn’t always on time. Frey is asking for backup from the National Guard, for his seditious cops, instead of backup from MPD Homicide for his constituents. He seems like a geniunely decent and responsible person. Something is badly off about his failure to get any level of law enforcement to have Chauvin under arrest and indictment. There’s a good chance he’s being threatened. 

Minnesota Public Radio reports that the MBCA and the FBI are investigating the Floyd murder. Maybe they aren’t slow-walking the job. I’m not particularly prejudiced against them in these cases.

Press statements of this sort still do not explain why the hell Derek Chauvin is not already in custody. The case against him is overwhelming. One witness attesting to the authenticity of the video in front of a cop is enough to have his ass downtown. Chauvin and his squad effected Floyd’s arrest on probable cause consisting of a complaint from a lone witness that he had committed a forgery for $20 in a convenience store. This was how Chauvin came to murder Floyd.

It is taking every level of law enforcement an astoundingly long time to make an arrest in one of the strongest cases ever to come their way. This is why the Target had to burn. 

The Target in question is an eerie one. It’s located in a strip mall district, in the midst of a variety of fast food restaurants, grocery stores, and the Minneapolis Police Department Third Precinct stationhouse. It’s across the street from the cop shop. The Target is at the far end of a parking lot at the northwest corner of the intersection of 26th, Lake, and Minnehaha; the stationhouse is on the southwest corner. Entirely coincidentally, Target, headquartered in downtown Minneapolis, uses this store to field-test its new security procedures and technologies. 

The Third Precinct building got fucked up pretty badly in the Target Campaign. The police are outraged, in the same way that any ordinary private citizen would be outraged to find a brick through his living room window at the hands of a man whose son he had just murdered in broad daylight. Chill, bruh. Ya, don’tcha know, ya just gatta chill da fuck oat, cool da fuck doane, and stap bustin my balls oover dat. Da mayor, he wants us to make peace and go back to telling Norwegian jokes on da radio wit Garrison, too.  

Be well, citizen. 

That’s the store where HQ figures oat ho to stap–if you wish, out how to stop–criminal failure to scan Good & Gather Andouille four-packs at self-checkout. These are the neighborhood constituents the company uses as test subjects for the optimization of the military intelligence-grade surveillance loss prevention surveillance. Like any other normal department store in any other normal neighborhood, it’s located across the street from a major police patrol base for an extremely troubled department. 

Target sounds like a chain that would call the police on a customer over a $20 bad check, but hey, the Floyd murder was only, like, Chauvin’s twelfth incident of serious official misconduct and third or fourth on-duty homicide or whatever. Beside, the test store is only three miles from the mothership downtown. How could the imperial periphery be so close to the imperial center? 

This is a wholesome chain store for wholesome people. It’s deep suburban Hennepin County normcore. Who could object? That sourpuss Franzen? We aren’t racist, but–okay, ya gatt us, we’re sooper dooper racist. Combine the cruelest, most passive-aggressive Midwestern Nice with extreme white flight paranoia and compulsory corporate cheer and, well, you can see how maybe there was a reason why the officer had his knee on that fella’s neck for nine straight minute. Blue lives matter, too. All lives matter. Black-on-black crime is a real problem, but you wouldn’t know it from the liberal mainstream media. 

It’s all too easy to see how these communities could have orchestrated the Holocaust. Communal relations there are terrible. The suburbs project febrile racial paranoia and grievances onto the city. Michele Bachmann and Keith Ellison represented adjacent Congressional districts. Suburban normcore is heavily mediated by television. Television is run by suburbanites and suffused with their prejudices.

On Post-Soviet Prairie of Home Companion, epistemology closes YOU! 

In the midst of this horror show, I can’t get that embarrassing corporate word salad out of my mind. Good & Gather. That makes negative sense. Nobody comes up with a name like that without being brainwashed unto mental retardation. It feels cringe to write about this, to spearfish the barrel in circumstances as grievous as these, and yet I can’t shake the feeling that there’s an important connection hiding out behind the wholesome facade. We’ll cover up anything with a veneer of cheery, ditzy wholesomeness, here in America. Hennepin County isn’t as divergent from the Black Belt as we’d like to assume. 

These are inchoate thoughts in the aftermath of a police lynching and the riots it provoked. I guess the common thread is the unspoken rule that life is good and we are not to complain. Cynicism and critical thinking are party fouls. Good & Gather? Professional marketers came up with that moronic name, one assumes. Are we really, seriously expected to stipulate that this is an intelligent brand name and that the “professionals” behind it are fit for white-collar employment? Please. And that the corporation distributing its packaged foods is unobjectionably wholesome and All-American when it operates a private surveillance state and field-tests new tools in that state’s arsenal across the street from a police station? 

Thinking does not happen in a vacuum. That name is disembrained, but it didn’t just float into some dipshit’s mind out of nowhere, with no cultural context. There’s a reason; we just have to look. The dumbest motherfuckers on earth all draw their stupidity from one cultural context or another, and usually from one that’s ambient. The ambient culture bathing that branding decision has to be one holding that The Brands Are Good. They provide us with our health plans. 

Or, if we work down on East Lake, they probably don’t, but America is a land of opportunity, but we don’t want the wrong elements moving into our neighborhoods and doing damage to our good schools. The question is always who’s us. Statistically, most of us are not. The conditions the normies would rather not mention are available for those who push the subject; shit in the punchbowl and they’ll rattle off a bunch of brain-dead, prejudicial nonsense that, by the time it’s over, has excluded a majority of Americans from the protections of our governments. They’ll deny and elide the channels of earthly power that they use on a daily basis until there’s no way to restore a semblance of accuracy on any of the subjects they’re discussing without steamrolling them, fact by excruciating fact. I hate having to do this in real life, but I can’t stand to roll over and go along with such weak, misleading argumentation pertaining, say, to the American medical-industrial complex, or the basic moral rectitude of Uber. Like, since you brought it up, we have to look at possible means of coercion other than the government telling us to do something or Thomas Jefferson having us put to the lash. 

For crying out loud it is not too cynical to express reservations about ceding control over one’s health insurance to a police department that tolerated serial killers in its ranks until this week or a chain retailer that markets sausages under off-brand names that are absolute gibberish and also detects its customers’ pregnancies before they do. This company and Walmart sound like exactly the companies to leave as the only browable bookstores in counties of over half a million. There couldn’t be an equity problems with this plan. 

For some reason I didn’t remember the Target teen pregnancy test scandal until just now. It’s probably because it was so close to life and far from death. 

You ain’t black

The days last for months. It took something like 24 or 36 hours for Joe Biden to follow up Katha Pollitt’s boiled baby outburst with his own, in which he accused a black radio host to his face of being Rachel Dolezal. The conditional clauses don’t matter: “you ain’t black” is one of the most arrogant and inflammatory things a white person can say to a black person. The conditional clause in this case was a spicy purse hot sauce meataball, a testy proclamation that negritude is conditional on a vote for Joe Biden. Vote for me, Rachel, you phony bitch.

I’ve edited for clarity.

Biden and his campaign are preternaturally good at wresting defeat from the jaws of victory. They’re fucking idiot-savants. They’re challenging an incumbent who is wearing out his welcome with the American public by bullshitting us all about a global pandemic, so they mouth off about how it’s okay if their guy is a rapist or a baby eater and about how they decide who is and is not black on the criterion of submission to their political patronage. The Democratic Plantation memes rattling around in the Republican arsenal are all too apt.

Biden made sure to roll around in the bed he’d freshly shit by calling into a Black Chambers of Commerce conference to say that he did not take African-Americans’ votes for granted and had been misunderstood. He’d been understood perfectly. He had made himself perfectly clear. He expected every black voter to turn out for him in lockstep. He would not stoop so low as to defend or explain his own record or answer questions about it or listen to criticism, all of this during a campaign interview he had agreed to do.

His grievance was simple: an uppity black guy had disrespected him to his face.

He would not take it, after all he had done for Them. It was the same mix of useless paternalism, belittling, hostility, and menacing we’ve had since Jamestown and in earnest since Bacon’s Rebellion. The early planter class was terrible to white indentured servants, too, but it strategically hardened the racial lines to deter future Bacons and their foot soldiers from being uppity. It doesn’t take an intimate familiarity with the particulars to know that what Joe did was outrageous, and Joe knew it.

When Trump goes honey badger at press conferences or on Twitter, he has the maturity to stand his ground honorably. He does not grovel with insultingly fake apologies to those he has just gotten done deliberately attacking. The last thing Biden needs right now is a bad rap for being a sore loser, but that’s exactly what he is. He’s rude and callous like Trump, but in much less entertaining and more arrogant ways, and he has the dishonor to get up in other people’s faces with fighting words and then, the moment the heat hits him, scurry for cover behind the sacrosanct Beltway norm of the “apology” for “misunderstandings,” which ordinary Americans living in normal parts of the country despise. He plays dirty and then waxes eloquent about his respect for the rules.

Biden is an idiot, a thug, and a scoundrel. The only halfway credible argument in circulation for him is that he’s an Upper South ex-segregationist with a hearty dose of residual prejudices whose idea of a gentleman is Strom Thurmond, not Adolf Hitler. Strom was, of course, the John the Baptist to Joseph’s Jesus, making straight the path out to lunch. Joe is shockingly meanspirited and treacherous. He’s always been prone to uncouth, uncalled-for racial comments that an official of any class holding his offices would have the decorum not to utter in public. He was one of the most crooked members of Congress and one of the most reactionary members of his Democratic delegations. He oozes used car dealer energy.

This is not the guy to beat the Republican folk devil. His capacity to erode his own polling leads into lags is bottomless. He’s a shameless serial liar propped up by a flimsy latticework of bogus mythology: the ordinary guy who spent, like, four hours a day on the train, and not as a conductor; the workaday, down-to-earth fellow from the neighborhood; the public-spirited policy wonk; the consummate gentleman of intelligence and class, here to do battle with that fucking moron. None of this shit is true. To the extent he’s a wonk, it’s in service of the worst goals. He’s been great at throwing people into dungeons and slave labor camps for nonviolent drug offenses and trapping people in debt peonage. This is what he does for his constituents. Charlemagne tha God challenged him on these points and gave him the opportunity to defend himself, so he spat racist fighting words. People who’ve watched the entire interview say he was pulling that shit the whole time, although not as dramatically as he did at the end.

What a coda. He’s Anthony Weiner, but for personal outbursts, not dick pics.

Many observers, including some very astute ones, think he can recover from this crash and safeguard his nomination. My assumption when I went to bed with the news of it was that Biden was toast. Calling a popular syndicated black radio host a fake black had to be the only nail his coffin needed. The Democratic kingmakers had to take this as a breach of their firewall from within and a comment too egregious to let his campaign stand. I got to sleep a bit after nine in the morning, and I was wired and almost delirious by the time I learned of the scandal. I wasn’t thinking straight. The Democratic Party isn’t run by strategists; it’s run by out-of-touch idiots who take themselves for master strategists and tacticians because they surround themselves with courtiers who don’t talk back and are also out of touch. Of course they still think Biden is unbeatably strong. At least they’re still unified enough to keep up the appearance.

I was wired enough from this horseshit that I looked up the nigger wop incident. That’s the one where renowned Italian-American Andrew Cuomo told a radio interviewer that “they” “called us nigger wops.” Grease weasel that he is, he added a longwinded caveat that he was just quoting the New York Times.

When I heard about that particular spicy meataball at the time, I was confused as to who was calling whom a nigger wop. It sounded awfully ugly and archaic for the upbringing of young Christopher and Andrew. This was a second-generation New York State governor speaking, a guy born in 1957,  at the very peak of the Baby Boom. The Italians were already turning white. Were neighborhood bullies really walking around saying shit like that to a political bigshot’s kids in 1970?

They were not. The bedtime reading I did on the incident indicated that the language Cuomo had quoted on the air was nothing that he’d heard. It was more like what they called Sacco and Vanzetti.

He made the comment on an interview for Columbus Day, the day when we all agonize over the Solomonic choice between honoring wops and dishonoring redskins or honoring redskins and dishonoring wops. What the fuck else am I supposed to say about that? We reserve a high civic holiday in the mid-fall for an annual national bum fight between the Italians and the Indians.

The transfixingly hilarious thing about the interview, though, is that it was with Alan Chartock. Chartock emanates the most powerful high stoic New York Book Jew energy. I hear him on WAMC from time to time when I’m back east. He’s the mensch of a Jewish grandfather who will put the whole family to sleep just about as fast as the agriculture committee of the New Zealand Parliament. The greasy Italian sitting Governor of the State of New York went on his radio show and said “nigger wops.” It might as well have been a Terry Gross interview with Beavis and Butthead.

Where the hell do they find these putzes? This is a man whose father was one of the staunchest and most principled death penalty abolitionists of his time as governor, and there he is, following in dad’s footsteps by going into a public radio studio and stepping on his own dick. It was all to explain what it is to be Italian, eyyy, like, ya godda learn to cooka da mannicot and da spicy raviol and simma low widda glassa De Wine, Murray, and next thing you know, badabing, you’s bangin’ da wop broad and off da gefiltefish.

Fuck, never mind that. The Jewish side of that family is Chuck Schumer.

Idpol is trash. We’re cursed. It should come as no surprise that jobs chattering about ethnic identities and their meanings are attractive nuisances for the unemployable. Maybe we can get Joe Plagiarism and Brett Michael on the line to discuss what it means to be Irish. It would be fascinating to hear their comments about the names “they” “called us.”

Meanwhile I know how to do my own laundry and cooking and cleaning and grocery shopping and ride transit buses. I get the feeling, though, that the presidential politics in this country are not meant to speak to or serve losers like me. Fat Cracka ain’t black, neither. The Isaac Chotiner of the Top Forty Talk format, however, appears to be.

Conversations with Tara Reade’s managers

Luke O’Neil had a brief item in his most recent Welcome to Hellworld free subscriber e-mail about one of the old country’s posh and her reaction to these maidless times:

The other day I saw a British lady post that her kids don’t flush their turds and she has to do it now that the maid can’t come over and it was supposed to garner sympathy of some kind I think.

England, where I assume this lady lives, although I may be wrong, is governed again by people who have never done their own laundry or grocery shopping. This is apparently not the case in Ulster and definitively not the case in Scotland, where ye cannae get Sturgeon to suffer such a cunt, and I leave it to others to examine the Welsh, but this style of posh idiocy waxes and wanes in Westminster over the decades. Thatcher greased the skids for its reintroduction into mainstream British political life at the dusk of the trente glorieuses, which were not so glorious in parts of the North, in significant part due to Maggie herself.

Blithering public school twerps like BoJo have always been more popular in the Home Counties than in the North, let alone the fringe Celtogaelic holdings, and I again leave it to the peanut gallery to make sense of Wales. The North-South divide in England is stark. The heavy industry has always skewed north; the white-collar strivers cluster around London and the Greater Southeast, i.e., roughly the Home Counties. The dumbest cheerio bullshit seems to come out of the South, especially the provincial-suburban interface and the secondary cities. The South throws more block party picnics to celebrate coronations than the North. White Van Man, if I recall correctly, is a south-skewing suburban phenomenon.

There’s obscene, absurd wealth all over Great Britain (although not so much Northern Ireland, from what I can tell), but some parts are peopled by a public that doesn’t mind telling the toffs to bugger off if they won’t show some consideration. BoJo, like Trump, tacks populist, so he’s an exception from the stuff ye back into ye britches ye dense twat rule. He listens, the working class figures, and he tries. He’s an idiot, of course, about all sorts of things. It shows up in his government’s ridiculous public health directives pursuant to the Dread Ailment. It showed up in his whistling that rude sentimental ditty about the gook broad in the Shwedagon Pagoda, right beside an ashen-faced career diplomat who begged him to be silent.

Good stuff.

Regardless of their local estate ties, the British upper class aspires to a posh Home Counties accent and a bearing suitable to the smart parts of London. Hence our bitch above, the one too prissy to toilet-train her own children. Heavens, the governess is not here to clean up after Alastair; what ever shall we do! Hey, ya miserable cunt, heya’s an idear: flush the bloody doo and be done with it. When I find the shitter in the Sebastopol Safeway backed up with a stranger’s floaters, I track down the store manager; I grab the plunger, unblock the fucking drain, flush a couple of times, reload the bowl, and flush again. Yes, it’s gross, but grow up. But here we are, faced with the great scandal of this crisis of public health: that it renders absent and unavailable the servants required to flush downstairs that which the half-feral children of the country’s aristocrats and future prime ministers produced upstairs.

Good stuff.


America has always harbored versions of these useless crybaby wastrels. We got our first infusion straight from the most enclosed parts of England, or in some cases via the West Indies. They proliferated in earnest throughout the Gilded Age, then got the message from Roosevelt and his constituents to tone it the fuck down right now or be lynched. These elites have resented the restraint forced upon them, not only for the nation’s survival but for their own, ever since. Much of the evil and dysfunction we see today is their handiwork. They and their upper-middle-class subalterns, not the disaffected working classes, drove the Reagan-Thatcher revolution. Lasch was right that the elites were in revolt; what he got wrong was the thrust of their partisan affiliations, although he was partially vindicated by the late nineties, shortly after his death, by the consolidation of the affluent cosmopolitan vote under New Labour and Clintonworld.

Lasch focused on the American upper middle class, in particular those he took to be cosmopolitan bohemians. David Brooks eventually followed in his footsteps with his weakly entertaining “BoBo,” or “Bourgeois Bohemian” framing of a striver subculture that by the time of his writing already reviled the old Bohemian loaf ethic, would come to revile it ever more intensely from then until now, and did everything in its power to purge its children of any interest in taking the time to explore and observe the world, let alone enjoy it. After all, you gotta keep up the hustle to tap dat sweet intern ass and achieve the Second Mountin’. Much of our national literature, all too predictably for a society whose discretionary income lives with the Baby Boom, is recursive prose retellings of the midlife crisis archetype. But I really shouldn’t have picked on the nonfictional offerings before remembering that I’ve read Franzen. (“Ugh. He’s the person everybody wishes had died instead of David Foster Wallace.”)

The gist here is that the salaryman can have a little mistress, as a treat. Lounging around buck naked in hot tubs was never the worst thing the Boomers did. They had to dry off and get dressed to go do M&A work, and that isn’t really what happened, either; rock-ribbed Republican scumbags hustled in on the yuppie jobs as much as anybody, and plenty of bohemians, of various strengths of attachment to the work ethic and the job market, got ruined.

The thing about America’s Gatsby-adjacent wastrels is that they’ve always known they’re unusual. The only part of the country where a mainstream gentry culture really took hold was the Planter South. In the Northeast, the upcountry South, and across to the West Coast, the rich knew they were different in ways working to their disadvantage. There was too much self-consciously abstemious Puritanism in circulation for them to fully lose sight of it, even at the height of the Gilded Age. Elite Northerners were also likelier to live in large cities, not on plantations or in industrial company towns, exposing them to ordinary citizens who did not directly report to them or their deputies. What could a WASP do about Boss Tweed? Bitch about micks?

As I said, the obliviousness and in-your-face arrogance waxes and wanes. It took the Depression, which started years after the Army Air Corps bombed striking miners in Colorado and decades after the mass deployment of Pinkerton strikebreakers, to bring the elites partially to heel: that is, to get them to make do for a spell with what they’d already strongarmed out of the productive members of society and stop flaunting their prosperity in the rough parts of town, formerly limited to neighborhoods like the Bowery but now encompassing the entire country. This came as a shock to the summering classes and those perceiving themselves within reach of their wealth, It pissed off industrialists and small businessmen alike. It provoked shrill whining about Bolshevism. It didn’t matter to them that FDR was no Lenin or Stalin, but an American Bismarck.

The Great Depression bore many lessons. We have since forgotten many of them, as witnessed by our still struggling to emerge from our Second Great Depression. Forget the horseshit they tell you on TV; I’ve got enough numbers on my side, including official ones, to make the case. Among the lessons forgotten: the poor we will always have with us; they are our fellow citizens; their grievances are valid; if they are ignored or told to hold their peace, the shit may well hit the fan.


Tara Reade was late on rent. One has to shudder at the thought of what this nation would do without the free press to watch over its welfare and safeguard it against the chance that moneys owed by a struggling woman bouncing around the residential gray market in Monterey and San Luis Obispo Counties, and incidentally accusing the presumptive Democratic nominee for the presidency of forcible rape, not being in hand on the first of the month, right on time. How would we, as Californians, now I used to sleep at rest areas several times a week, but how would we, as Californians, enforce our birthright to temper our real estate equity with rent payments?

These were the goods that Politico and the NewsHour had on Tara Reade. They had a story about some aliases, possibly shady but also possibly indispensable to get a fresh start after evictions and negative landlord references, and they had a claim that she inepty handled consituent mail, and they had a story about how she enthused about working for Joe Biden, contradicted by roughly contemporaneous testimony from other landlords that she had told them about sexual assault at Biden’s hands, and there is of course the divorce affidavit in which her ex-husband swore that she had privately accused Biden of sexual assault, but mainly they had a handful of bad references from her former landlords. She was a deadbeat. She missed rent. She contested extrajudicial eviction efforts.

The other claims they had were from former colleagues, most of them now career staffers on Capitol Hill or otherwise professionally and very gainfully employed. She loved the job. She loved Joe. She mishandled the mail.

The personal is the political, as these assholes all show. They resent and hate Tara Reade for standing up to, rather than by, their man Joe Plagiarism. They’ll have us know that they succeeded in their careers where she failed. They’ll have us know, tacitly but resoundingly, that they make rent. Does Lisa DesJardins sound like she’s domiciled down the row from Mark Judge in that UPS Store?

The Democrats have cast their lot with the professional-managerial class. They’re the part of the cosmpolitan, the jetsetting, the professionally successful, or at least the professionally aspirational. This constituency, they assume, is one of lovely, unobjectionable, universally beloved role models, disliked only by fuming Republican bigots. They get steamed up like a tower of shumai baskets whenever they discover anew that this is in fact a widely reviled constituency, one hated no more by permanent Republicans than by Democratic voters who can’t stand the GOP.

Their attitude towards disaffected downwardly mobile scions of educated Democratic families is one of horror and outrage at the apostasy. We have the temerity to leave the reservation. This is why they dig Pete Buttigieg. The Booty Judge is a hopeful, positive, optimistic kid who recognizes the good things his parents’ generation has given him and is grateful for them. He gives thanks. He doesn’t pout about how it isn’t enough. He gets career-track jobs. A lot of us are over here whining about our bad lot, falling in with a blustery shanty Jewish Brooklyn socialist agitator who bummed around Vermont straight through his late twenties and thirties and didn’t get a real job until he was elected Mayor of Burlington. Don’t we see what they’ve done for us? They’ve given us every advantage in life! They’ve given us everything!

Everything, that is, and oddly, except jobs. That’s the thing about well-to-do Republican parents. They take their driveling idiot spawn and place them directly in positions at the family company. They directly hire their families’ sex pests, degenerate gamblers, druggies, hopeless spendthrifts, thugs, losers who can’t do a thing for themselves but get toileted and dressed, and then only when they’re vaguely sober, and other undesirables. Does Eric Trump look like he’s ever had to interview for a job?

The thing about rich losers like the Trump kids, Jared, the fucked-up dude Giuliani sired, and so forth is that their sinecures are not exclusive to the children of celebrities or the very rich. This isn’t something that starts at the Bush Tier. I used to drink with a guy in Manayunk who was grossing $110k a year for an executive job, or “job,” at the family tool company. This guy sustained $3k in dental trauma when he got trashed and tripped on the R6 tracks (but he emerged weeks later with nice new front teeth!). He wandered around the yuppie bro/sis crash pad where his crew lived, barely ambulatory and nonverbal. He dropped absurd amounts in tips, like $40 or $100 or something a night, for bartenders he was trying to pick up. He played six online poker screens at a time and lost up to $7k in a week: several times his gross salary, down the fucking shitter for nothing. His father, also a raging drunk, filled whole refrigerator compartments at their shore house with metastable piles of Yuengling bottles. He had, I don’t really fucking know, five or six cases of glass beer bottles shoved into a half-assed honeycomb stack in the bottom half of a full-sized fridge with two or three shelves removed, right above a bare concrete floor. This wasn’t beer that he was keeping indefinitely in the garage after a big run to the package store; it was the short-term stash he was KEEPING COLD.

This joint was never a meritocracy. There were better people than either of those two to run a manufactrer and its sales and distribution arms for six-figure salaries. There are plenty of quick studies who know manufacturing inside and out and do not have compulsions making it impossible to make ends meet on $110k when they’re living without dependents in a midmarket shared rental house. My point isn’t that I need somebody to give me a job already, although I would not object from the outset, but that we need to recognize how this fucking place is actually run. Showing up to this race with “skills” rather than a direct job placement is a fool’s errand. Peter the Booty Judge is well into the top decile of scummy PMC bullshit artists. The average faculty brat has nothing on that oily shyster.

That dude who was making $110k at the family business was about my age. I met him by the age of 25.

Affluent normie Democrats put their children at a significant disadvantage by refusing to recognize the prevalence and efficacy of this style of flagrant favoritism in hiring. It’s sleazy, and it’s bad for society, but with these stipulations, the question is what we’re going to do about it. Do we set up LLC’s to ape them? Do we push through tax policies to disadvantage and deter that kind of shit? Do we arm both sides of the conflict and do a little of each? If we figure that blood is a bit thicker than water, can’t we conclude that it’s probably harder to get fired by a parent or another close relative than by some career politician or nonprofit executive who is not kin?

This is the same shit Democratic officials do before Republicans: fold like cheap beachware. They play to win, but we can’t; it would be unbecoming. They give their loser children jobs, but that would be unbecoming. Oh no, Speaker Pelosi is becoming; she’s just a savvy investor.

How DARE you not vote for these dedicated public servants just because you think they want to kill you. You only think they’re psychopaths because you’re a paranoiac who reads too much samizdat.


The official bill of particulars against Tara Reade has three main components:

–First, that she crashed off the career track and into a spotty, chaotic job history;

–Second, that she crashed out of the prime rental market and into subprime markets, including marginal work-trade and informal rooming arrangements of variable legal enforceability, putting herself in a position to be criticized by former landlords; and,

–Third, that she broke rank with an officially favored presidential candidate in the thick of the coronation process, committing apostasy against him and his party.

Nobody fucking cares that she lied or if she lied. If she were hounding George Nori on the Wildcard Line with stories about how Justin Trudeau and Barack Obama ran train on her in a flying saucer while Rob Ford and the aliens watched, they wouldn’t give a shit. Best I can tell, Coast to Coast is a community that respects a trope-honoring whopper well told, although that might be taken as too political, and low-class campfire stories are a great way to discomfit and annoy PMC liberals.

More relevantly, they would not object to a scurrilous rape smear on Bernie Sanders or Donald Trump. They constantly lie and bullshit and tell delusional stories about both men themselves.

They’re angry specifically that Reade came at their king, and they’re really angry with her for coming at him with an accusation that rings true. The guy LOOKS and ACTS like a rapist. Have they watched any of the footage of him rubbing and fondling and nosing people in full public view? This is not fucking normal behavior. He yells at people in public, invades their personal space, and utters fighting words. Bernie gets endless flak for pointing his index finger and raising his voice at other presidential candidates from his own podium on the debate stage.

Biden is a rude, vulgar man with poor impulse control. This has long been the case. It predates his mental decline. The Democrats’ furious complaints about Trump feature his rudeness, vulgarity, diminished mental state, and poor impulse control. They insist that they can beat the Oaf of Office with a version of his worst vices reworked as an endlessly longwinded car dealer turned city councilor who talks over colleagues and constituents with stream-of-consciousness rambling about process. They insist that they can beat a publicly accused rapist who bragged about crude foreplay with starlets on a hot mic, with a publicly accused rapist who habitually caresses colleagues and total strangers and sniffs their hair.

They think they can beat the guy who installed Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh with the guy who installed Clarence Thomas. Biden less infamously but even more hilariously spent so much time gushing about Samuel Alito’s fine character that the nominee himself could barely get a word in edgewise to make his own case for confirmation.

This is a fucking clown show. Their idea of electability is an abrasive asshole who apes Trump as a boor and a pervert, but as a self-aggrandizing Model UN gasbag, not as a fun standup comic, roast artist, and god-tier shitposter. Again, this is because the Democrats are a party of, by, and for joyless nerds. Their Dudley Do Right Robert’s Rules of Order act predictably falls flat and puts ordinary Americans off, and they just as predictably whine about how unimaginable and unfair this is. Well, shit, maybe try something else that people who get out into the real world think might work.


Democratic strategists are eager to win the youth vote. We’re defining youth broadly here, up to at least 35, probably 40 or 45, maybe even 50. They often say that demography is destiny. They look at demographic trends in Texas, for example, which show a swelling electorate of young Latinos in urban areas and reliably Democratic border counties, and forecast an imminent breach of the Solid South. Like cold fusion and perpetual motion, it’s always just a few years farther off than forecast, a horizon that stays tantalizingly close and yet so unreachably distant. The wonks are sandbagged by their own habit, all the more unfortunate for self-professed data nerds, of making extrapolations measurable in the decades from bulk aggregate data that are credibly valid for the current electoral cycle in the US House.

Let’s be honest here: I know more about this shit than they do. Losers like Nate Silver sat in TV studios all night in 2016, more stunned and dumbfounded by the half hour, mumbling about how, uh, huh, duhhh, huh, huh, how did Trump win, nobody saw this coming. Who the fuck is “nobody?” You and your equally idiotic associates who never speak to anybody between Leesburg and Midtown Sacramento didn’t see it coming, but I fucking did. These shitwits preen about (extremely nerds voice) My Data, but they don’t konw what to do with it. They’re clueless. Scanning the Great Lakes, I immediately saw thousands of county-level wildcards throwing every state in the watershed except New York and Illinois into clear contention. (St. Lawrence, pray for us, that we might have geographical discernment with respect to Vermont.) It was possible to eke out a victory with none of the Great Lakes swing states, but that meant sweeping the Southern swing states of Florida, Virginia, and North Carolina, holding Nevada and Colorado, and probably winning some combination of Iowa, Arizona, and Missouri, I was convinced that these were far from the only credible swing states: I was fully prepared for any combination of Colorado, New Jersey, California, and Oregon to break for Trump, and possibly Washington State.

They’re here to do it again, this time with a widely hated reactionary mush-for-brains gasbag sex pest instead of a widely hated reactionary harridan scorned.

Trump is obviously crooked as all hell. Billary had but one Lincoln Bedroom to let. This fucker rents out his own overpriced branded hotel rooms and golf carts at his lame, overrated resorts to the Secret Service and suitors looking to do business with his administration when he has Camp David at his disposal on next to no notice. The accounts of Mike Pompeo debasing his already dorky tryhard ass with Traficant-tier demands for butler work on the federal dime are gross; Jim at least dressed well, gave some good-ass speeches from beneath that rich layer of layers of hair, and leveled with us about how we all want wider bottoms.

So why do they keep running these reviled crooks against a reviled crook? They’re either hopelessly arrogant or looking to lose and blame their social inferiors for not voting blue no matter who. Last time it was the commodities insider trader and Whitewater racketeer with the private e-mail account full of official correspondence of thoroughly questionable morals. This time it’s the Senior Senator from the State of Freddie Mac-Visa, long known to be a grabby piece of shit, lately accused on the record of forcible rape, brains dribbling out of his ears while he barks at factory workers like Grampa Bregoli to meet him outside. I voted for Bernie Sanders, a guy who was ready to go the distance and win that thing; don’t fucking blame me for barring this stinking dog pie from the White House.

Crunching the numbers on the matchup of old voters versus young, white versus brown versus black, college- versus high school-educated, and so on and so forth until the returns pour in doesn’t explain what the hell Biden is supposed to do to assuage younger voters that he’s turned the page on the bankruptcy “reform” bill that he shepherded into law, making their student debt nondischargeable. Gee, you’d think maybe he’s not the guy to rock the youth vote when he did that. It isn’t some ancient shit from back when James Blunt was in a club with you, singing here we go again, like the brouhaha over school bussing. That bill was enacted in 2005. That’s roughly half the duration of a full term in the United States Senate before he was sworn in as Vice President.

The same assholes who command us to forget about Biden’s starring role in the Clarence Thomas fiasco, when he was middle-aged, and his starring role in the bankruptcy ratfuck, when he was getting into old age and on the cusp of the vice presidency, constantly bitch about low-information voters. Cut a punk some slack. What the hell is it about familiarity with these episodes that is low-information? They’re just fucking making shit up as they go. Low-information means ignoring or forgetting the most famous, or infamous, highlights of Biden’s career, such as the bankruptcy bill, the Thomas/Hill clusterfuck, the cultural appropriation of the Honorable Neil Kinnock, and the touchy-feely shit. Fuck outta here for insinuating that I’m ignorant.


This is the point where the Democratic Party has to choose a horse and ride. They’re indulging in their quadrennial snit that they built a house divided against itself and it’s now threatening to collapse. There are consequences to fielding a senile, disinibited, vicious gerontocrat who consigned damn near an entire generation to debt servitude so extreme that they’re afraid to start families.

And for what? Our degrees are more worthless than ever on the job market. More and more of them are in bullshit fields for drooling retards, like marketing and communications. I’m not speaking for myself here, but for my age cohort. I have a degree in the liberals arts which, as a standalone intellectual background, is worthwhile, and I have, thank God and my parents, never taken on student debt. My degree, too, however, is worth jack fucking shit on the job market, based on everything I’ve been able to discern. The job market has been strategically trashed, and I’ve seen things that I will never unsee precisely for remaining enrolled in a fancy undergraduate college whose prevailing culture I was pretty sure, and correctly so, was toxic.

Besides, that is not the point of the liberal arts, and anyone who isn’t lying or uneducated knows it. Dickinson College couldn’t even give me a liberal humane education without exposing me to entire communities of vicious, antisocial armchair thugs, bullies who had no business interacting with their peers without direct chaperone supervision. They goddamn well knew they were admitting trash on a pay-for-play basis. That school is the academic equivalent of the backwards counties in Alabama whose tax base is dump fees assessed on New York City garbage barges.

The entire premise is thoroughly fraudulent and inconsistent (something we see so abundantly and wretchedly with the Democratic Party that I can’t be bothered to scrutinize Trump too closely on the same points): oh, we’re giving you a liberal arts education, and we’re also teaching you critical thinking and writing skills (lolwut), and we’re also teaching you the soft skills that will give you the confidence to find your way in the job market and the world, but oh, no, we don’t just set you up with jobs or anything like that. What we have are career fairs (the ones Rutgers hosts are on a fucking train line) and virtual career portals (What, Monster? Craigslist?) and networking events and etiquette luncheons (Ah, like the shit my mom threatened to enroll me in for socialites’ wayward children at Neiman Marcus, back when I was, like, seven).

There’s nothing where they actually deliver the goods, like Harold Washington or some shit. That’s on the individual alumnus. They will, however, gladly blackmail disaffected students with bad references on their permanent records should they drop out and tar alumni who didn’t have their shit entirely together for bullshit distribution requirements in late adolescence with poor GPA’s.

It’s the same shit bad landlords pull. Our institutions conspire to materially disparage the noncompliant as a means of retaliation and to threaten the currently compliant with material disparagement should they slip. Universities do this with no distinction between gross anatomy in medical school and 100-level undergraduate survey courses in world religions. Landlords do this with no distinction between late rent and whole-ass Steve Bannon hydrochloric acid in the bathtub.

This is a thoroughly, deeply immoral regime. It is blatantly prone to corruption. I don’t know quantitatively how much financial bribery, sexual quid pro quo, blackmail, and similar perversion there is in these businesses, but I do know that this sort of corruption is much more pervasive than is publicly discussed. There’s no way around it. The embarrassing seediness of Rick Singer’s discount window admissions scam offers an idea of what parents will do, and pay, just to get their kids in the door.

I ended up accidentally turning to Tom fucking Wolfe for the warranty details years after I graduated, when I read Hoyt Thorpe’s dimwitted absorption of the medieval warrior/priest/slave caste system and his construal that he absolutely would have been a Roger Young-grade hero back in the War, as opposed to a sporadically violent drunkard too pampered to ever consider ROTC and a trip or two to the desert. The liberal arts, Wolfe helpfully taught, are studies for those who are liberated from slavery, via a selective form of liberalism. Good to know, cracka. Fucking proto-alt-right gonzo novelist writing about two or three characters who are not morally repulsive and hanging out at UVA house parties in a cream zoot suit had the decency to lay it out straight, probably because his publisher collected only one fee at the point of service.

Truly this is a world in which even the men can be harlot womens.

Joe Biden clearly has the worst possible motives for pushing college education. He’s manifestly using it as a conduit for the enrichment of his banking cronies, and that is not a thing people do without taking a cut in one fashion or another. He’s exactly the kind of morally and intellectually vacuous weathervane who will push bachelor’s-level STEM vo-tech one year and old-timey Great Books humanities the next, depending entirely on the prevailing marketing. He’s exactly the slimy con artist who will conflate the liberal arts and vocational training, for utterly fraudulent reasons, until it’s impossible to disentangle the two.

At some point we have to take this shit back to the drawing board. What in all hell is wrong with a co-op arrangement? What in the everloving fuck is wrong with admitting applicants to specific departments or courses in bachelor’s programs, with transfer approval available for those who aren’t jagoffs? What’s the problem with part-time enrollment?

If we’re going for the Bright College Days of Wine and Roses Mr. Chips socialization bollocks as our reason for charging all-inclusive per diem term fees working out to some shit like $280, can we at least have the decency to shoot for a Grove City-style reckon you’ll be marryin’ one a these here broads deal? They at least admit that they’re crass like that. Whatever the equivalent of the MRS degree is in the men’s division, they’re offering it. There are worse things than turning thirty with an amicable divorce and an excuse to visit Fort Wayne sometime. I’ve written in the past about my Charlie Robertson-adjacent excuse for a dating life, back when we were merely freshmen but the Brooklyn Jew from Cleveland Heights was somewhere around forty. I nearly wrote that as Charlie Rose fml: not worse, just different.

Do, however, watch out if you go to Boston, lest you be forced to get Charlie off. #CHAHLEE!


Joe Biden has a knack for positioning himself squarely at the intersection of some of the worst trends in postmodern American life: metastatic incarceration, institutional financial corruption, crooked shenanigans involving inscrutable foreign businesses and his own unemployable crackhead son, student debt, rigged Democratic presidential primaries, undisclosed personal assets and conflicts of interest, gerontocracy, sexual dissolution under color of authority, tenant-shaming, generalized poor-shaming, electoral brinksmanship. This is a bad dude. It’s bizarre to argue that the incumbent a man of this atrocious character is challenging is the sine qua non international standard for mental and moral dissolution in public office. Like, get real, you’re all caping for a man who leaves a LOT more room above him than below.

I consider it a personal affront and offense to be told to vote for this thug. That PBS/Politico hatchet job on Tara Reade alone burned me by smearing her for having shitty job and rental histories and not handling incidents of workplace mistreatment perfectly. The personal is the political, and I take these political outbursts personally. They found people working in a city and a business with some of the most manifestly bad mental health I’ve ever witnessed to smear a former colleague as a maladjusted fuckup. They found former landlords to publicly accuse her of being a liar and a deadbeat.

As one shitposter beautifully put it, “‘She was rude to Californians.’ First of all, good.” Reade is a Californian herself, but most of us get the point: she rented on the gray market from exactly the types who cash out and flood Oregon, Idaho, Austin, and Middle Tennessee with their disruptive home equity, distorting the housing markets wherever they swarm. We’re way past the point of having to tell her haters, look, if you have a problem with her for being your socioeconomic inferior, that’s on you, not her. What percentage of Americans could possibly stand the combination of procedural bullshit and social toxicity that prevails in Washington? Even the ones already there hardly can. It’s all mentally ill alcoholics who do business in the pews at Tim Russert’s funeral mass, and to be clear, what we mean by business is standing up for the welfare of people who rent out spare rooms in exchange for chores on their horse properties in Atascadero.

Everything about Joe Biden disgusts me. He encapsulates every major aspect of what’s diseased about American politics. He’s a grandiose, arrogant prick who brags with no self-awareness about being humble. He’s a rich man who feigns modest means. He’s a dissembler who pretends to be a plain speaker and a crook who catfishes as a plain dealer. He’s a known groper and very likely rapist who brags about his concern for women’s welfare and safety. He’s a bizarrely, disgracefully prejudiced man with more than his share of outright racial bigotry who brags about how he served under a black man, the latter being the half-white son of a Kenyan father he never knew and both of them having presided over the wholesale incarceration, immiseration, and bodily poisoning of black neighborhoods. He’s an advocate for the disinfecting power of sunshine who keeps records likely illuminating his history of sexual depravity under seal. He’s a loudmouthed meritocrat who got his unemployable son a lavishly compensated corporate board position for which he was blatantly unqualified and almost certainly incompetent. He’s a foreign policy scold who screwed around, via the same crooked, coked-up son, in the same restive part of the world where he insists that his opponent has no right to pursue his own objectives as the sitting president. He’s an exceptionally senile septuagenarian who is being promoted as the indispensable alternative to an age peer who can talk circles around him, an elder so far gone that any private citizen in his state would have relatives clamoring to have him placed under guardianship or conservatorship in a home, who we’re told to flee to for judicious command of the world’s largest nuclear arsenal.

Every one of these moral failures is fundamentally disqualifying. He’s a liar, a phony, a fraud, a cheat, and a thug. It’s wryly desultory that he got run out of the 1988 primary on a rail for plagiarism, of all sins. The same party that told him to fall on his sword for jacking Neil Kinnock’s speechwriter’s shit now insists that he is compos mentis when he can’t consistently string a coherent sentence together, can’t control his temper in the face of scrupulously civil questions from the public, went incommunicado for weeks to recuperate from a debate, and couldn’t enunciate “legislature” in a prerecorded video address cobbled together from dozens of cuts.

The nominally left-wing major party ratfucked its most viable candidate, not coincidentally one of its leftmost, and then paid off the remaining centrist challengers to drop out, all to abruptly clear the field for this predatory, hopelessly brain-damaged son of a bitch. They’re already orchestrating the apparatus to blame ordinary voters with weak and weakening Democratic affiliation for Biden’s upcoming loss, along with voters who will eagerly support downballot Democratic candidates who do not stand for Biden’s evil. The Democratic Party, as an institution, is little more than a cult dedicated to the abuse of people it mistakes for its members. It’s whole shtick is, “I beat you less than your husband, sweetheart,” punctuated with explosive outrage every time a voter insists that her husband doesn’t beat her at all.

The husband in this case is, for better and mostly worse, Donald Trump. It’s not his fault that he’s more gracious to many of the Democrats’ target voters than the Democrats are themselves. It’s not his fault that an opposition party heavy on Watergate babies has entirely forgotten Muhammad Ali’s line about the Viet Cong. Paraphrase it thus: no thicc moist boi ever called me a loser. Multiply it by twenty or a hundred million or whatever. Bone spurs! Many such cases!

A wide swath of the upper middle class–roughly the Brahmins, under Mencius Moldbug’s caste framework–are codependent with the Democratic Party. They refuse to consider or examine its proliferating depravity, unmovably convinced that it is the last defense against an evil madman. They refuse to look at its collaboration with the same madman on matters including mass surveillance and omnibus budgets that lavish largesse on the most wastefully reactionary projects Trump and his aides hold dear.

The conspiratorial thinking is spreading, not just through Hillbot deadenders and other crypto-Republican trash, but through genuinely center-left voters who cannot be convinced to soberly examine their party. They dismiss Tara Reade as a lunatic and a fabricator. They point to the floorplan of the Senate hallways and well as proof that Tara Reade could not have been assaulted in public view. They dismiss outrage over his aggressive bad touch as overreaction, newly insisting that his unwanted shoulder-rubbing and hairsniffing and other habitual acts of extremely forward physical contact are within prevailing social norms and would not get a private citizen battered on sight.

Biden’s promiscuous physicality is grossly, flagrantly aberrant. There are avoidant and repressed people who get weird around physical touch that is socially appropriate. I’ve had a number of interactions in which I tensed up while other people were touching me in basically appropriate and reasonable ways that I found deeply moving and welcome but had no courage at all to express, even physically. The point still stands that these most of these interactions were not weird. I’ve had at least one with a homeless guy who was totally harmless but off-the-wall psychotic, but that obviously falls into an entirely different category because he was insane. Joe Biden is demented but sane. He’s familiar with social and moral norms governing physical touch. He’s a scumbag, not an idiot.

Ashton Carter did not want Joe Biden all but making love to his wife during that press conference. Joe knew it. He cut it out and stepped away when Carter turned from the podium and looked at him. Here was a quiet, conscientious career public servant of exceptionally low bluster and bullshit for the Beltway speaking at a press conference, and the fucking Vice President was off to the side, distracting him by rubbing up on /Borat Voice/ my neighbor’s wife.

Joe was fully aware of two circumstances: first, that he was a top-level Secret Service protectee, and second, that Ash was not the kind of man who would step up and full Jonathan Josey flat floorplank him in front of the television press pool. The Secret Service is enough to deter most men from avenging their wives. The 77th Street Division night watch might be, but your mileage may vary.

This fuckhead gets away with it because he’s under the 24/7 eagle-eyed watch of the one federal law enforcement agency that everybody knows will rumble, tumble, and bodily take a bullet at the drop of a hat. It’s absolutely preposterous to argue that this is not a bubble of extreme privilege. It’s hiding in plain sight, or else just behind the scenes with its own direct lines of sight, every minute of the day.

It doesn’t matter that battery is illegal. Nightclubs and bars do not overflow with horny-for-rules dorks. They’re full of possessive, animalistic, drama-fueled drunks and cokeheads. The cult nerds who cover the White House live in a bizarre parallel universe. It isn’t just that they don’t get out of the imperial center and into, say, Winchester; they don’t even get out into, or really even around, the District’s seedier nightlife. If they do, they’re absurdly oblivious. Roosh and Roissy/Heartiste channel raw, ugly animal energy straight out of the DMV. It’s some real Jekyll-and-Hyde Amendment–feel free to strike from the record to taste, if you have any–some real Jekyll-and-Hyde shit.

The abundant evidence that Washington swarms with sex pests who rapidly cycle from angel to ape and back works wonders to corroborate Tara Reade’s testimony. It paints the cultural context of Biden’s career. He’s spent almost his entire adult life in an incestuous professional community peopled by characters including Brett Michael Kavanaugh, Dick Pic Tony, J. Denny Dundiddly, and Gateside Downlow. What leavening, these ones.

Washington’s horny-for-rules nerds HATE the unabashed naturals in their midst. Their resentment and embarrassment and humiliation are primal. Even Anthony Weiner was too real for them. His whole deal was, Jesus Christ I’m a freak, okay, I’ll keep it in my slacks and off the screen, oops, Jesus fucking Christ I did it again. It was like Martin Luther’s old gig as a monastic confessional pest, but in semipublic and full public, and about flashing his junk. It might fly in parts of Europe, or at least be something that the locals would approach therapeutically, but we’re way too prudish and salacious a country for any of that. Then we have less surreal swamp critters, guys like Slick Willie, who barely stayed on the good side of the more liberal and less repressed parts of the horny-for-rules squad by tempering his horn for that sweet poon-flavored tang with longwinded wonk-ass horseshit. They still cherished Josiah Bartlet as their boring alternate-timeline president, Nothing But Respect, but they found him tolerable.

Donald Trump they find utterly intolerable. Washington teams with powerful men who grab women (or men!) by the privates, but goodness, one does not speak of these embarrassments. Trump accidentally got Billy Bush to apologize for being a horndog who enjoyed locker room talk, but he never so humiliated himself. Guys like the Donald and the Big Dog stoically stand their ground. It’s easy to see how Clinton unnerved, say, Larry Craig.

None of the scolds will admit that they’re so much as human. That’s why they get so upset with Trump for being hot-tempered, impulsive, and openly shameless and are so much cooler with Jared Kushner for looking like he just cleared immigration at Roswell. Bill Clinton pretended to give a shit, and he enjoyed the act with an exuberance that endeared him to people possessed of unabashed human feeling. Donald Trump infuriates and horrifies them because he entirely does not care. He does business proudly beyond the pale of their prissy respectability politics.

They admire Biden for squirming around in the uncomfortable middle, between ape and angel, and having teams of retainers frantically clean up after him as he shits the floor. This is the Washington Way. It’s deeply scandalous to be a messy, unabashed slut like the Washingtonienne, walking around the Hill with a reporter in tow on a return visit for her book tour, pointing and snickering at the idle staffers who used to work with her, calling them, on the record, losers who don’t even have workloads and just hang around gossiping and gawking at the disgraced lol, like, I got some dick and hoes mad. Meanwhile Mr. McFeely is up there humiliating himself with mealymouthed quasicounterfactual nonsense about how if he believed he’d done what she said he’d done he wouldn’t vote for himself. At last, a vote of no confidence from the government of the Independent Republic of Himself. Gee, gramps, maybe that’s the cue to bow out.

Do these wretches have a humiliation fetish? Dick Pic Tony knows he suffers from something along those lines, always putting it out there, knowing that women will take one look and say ew. He sounds like a guy who couldn’t get it up for his wife because she wanted some. A psychosexually disordered  political party can always use some psychosexual analysis (ooh, I just said “anal!”). There we fucking have it.


Affiliation with either of the major parties in the United States is a path to madness. Both of them are deeply, violently diseased. The main difference is that the GOP is a death cult of, by, and for psychopaths who play to win, while the Democratic Party is a dysfunctional cult of perennial losers organized roughly along the lines of Aum Shinrikyo by junta.

The Democratic Nomenklatura live large on the avails of every illegitimate revenue stream they can commandeer. From their perch on high they enforce Stockholm Syndrome on the ambivalent portions of their bougie base and just outright bribe the crass, ruthless portions with liberal cuts of the loot. These two portions overlap in complicated, bizarre ways, but they’re together or apart, they’re key to the whole operation.

Think of these two strata, the Nomenklatura and the lesser but still successful PMC front-row kids, as Orwell’s Inner Party and Outer Party. To properly understand the towering shit-lubricated Napoelon that is the Democratic Party, however, we must integrate its broad underclass. These are the strata that are barked at about how they’re Democrats, too, even though they get next to nothing good from the Party and huge amounts of material and psychic mistreatment. The Inner and Outer Parties share the sniveling, impossible ideal of consolidating the educated and the affluent into a permanent electoral juggernaut. The math will never support this nonsense. Somebody needs to stay behind and run the joint: keep the lights on, serve and bus the tables, clean up, make sure there’s food, and so forth. That is, we still need losers to feed, house, clothe, and obsequiously serve the winners. The winners have extensive, elaborate wants, so the servant class must proliferate to meet its demands.

This goal of building a permanent Democratic majority by poaching Republican voters from fucked-up exurban SuperZIPs–CB East, Loudoun and Prince William, the Research Triangle, the soul-deadening expanses of Greater Dennydundiddlyland, the Paneras of Alpharetta–is embarrassingly infeasible. It’s also embarrassingly unwoke, this audacity of the caucasity, to exclude America’s people of color. They’re losers for not staying in school, but we can’t say that, and besides, it’s easier for the Party to harvest Mexicans by the precinct in El Centro than it is for the Mexicans to harvest the lettuce. If you have a problem with my phrasing, be advised that I have done commercial farm work and you have yet to shut the fuck up. I am qualified to discuss relations with (extremely growers voice) Our Wetbacks.

Imperial County and the Rio Grande Valley are easy pickings for the Democratic Party because the GOP is still fielding a provocative Yanqui bigot. Joe Biden’s Latino outreach is said to be shambolic, but the Democrats would have to make a dedicated effort to plunge below 55% of the vote in the colonia counties or the barrios, from their current 60-95% range. Whether they admire these voters or look down on them (it’s totally the latter), they’ve got them in the bag.

Working-class Mexican/Chicano neighborhoods have some of the highest fertility rates and numbers of youth per capita. This excites the Democratic Nomenklatura for two overlapping reasons, both quite crass. First, it’s a way to have a poor minority client pool outbreed the middle-class Mormons, evangelicals, TradCaths, and other problematic (read: noncompliant) whites. They already do the gardening and the nannying, so it’s only unfair that they raise a voter crop for the Party to harvest, too. Second, success stories of the first birthright generation staying in school, studying hard (unlike disobedient PMC brats from old white families and, let’s face it since the Dems won’t, plenty of Chicanos), and growing up to do something upwardly mobile and professional for a living, as opposed to cutting lettuce in Cesar Chavez-standard English. We can’t have them learning the high-caste language if we don’t segregate them from the underclass at the first opportunity. Good God.

We’ve now done some light dabbling in Millennial Success Stories pursuant to the American Dream. That’s one of the things we don’t mention about the immigrant scab labor model: the whole point of it is to keep acculturated, socially engaged Americans from crying foul on bad job sites and alerting the press or the authorities. Putting the campesinos’ kids on the escalator to success is a way to pretend that we’re just warming the cold in the melting pot for centuries on end and in no way exploiting the vulnerable. It’s a dig at native-stock slackers who, correctly, take the academic and professional rat race for a shakedown and a scam, an artificial operant conditioning apparatus designed to proletarianize all who march into its maw, not a necessary component of a productive society. The celebration of immigrant honor students dovetails beautifully with Amy Chua’s Think Like A Chink, Bank Like A Chink self-help series. Mama Tiger is a robber baron AND a moral busybody, you see. Having read the language above, you’ll surely be forgiven for assuming that I pimp out young women under my academic authority to a leering, foultempered Irish pervert with a cocaine problem and a federal judgeship.

Do we seriously imagine that Chuck and Nancy care one whit about the children of immigrant domestics and strawberry pickers? About the maids and pickers themselves? Of course they don’t. They use these people as cudgels with which to threaten and abuse the native stock. They gush about these ingredients in the national salad bowl with the same energy Muammar Qaddafi used when he threatened to flood a freshly agitated European Union with negroes. It’s the same energy Hillary used to threaten us all with Donald Trump. The whole gang is now threatening us with Trump. Go ahead; tolerate this madman.

Come to think of it, I may take them up on the offer. If nothing else, he upsets shitheads in “public service” whom I despise more and more by the week. Many of my age peers would never go so far, and they have good reasons, but if the Democrats are going to run on the basis that they’re standing up to the worst man ever to hold the presidency, they might want to convince voters they’ve alienated that he is, in fact, the worst man ever to have held the presidency since Barack Obama.

Oh. Huh. How bow dah. Rehabilitating W, too. We tolerated some folks. We still tolerate some folks.

The other key downmarket Democratic constituency, the one they revile the most for its apostasy and threats of apostasy, but whose electoral loyalty they still demand, is the downwardly mobile. Speaking just for myself, if we’re choosing between a rich scumbag who disses Nancy Pelosi and a rich scumbag who praises her, I’m going for the guy who aggravates her and her dumbass epic clapback fans. Yes, there are other factors; I’m aware of them, as I’ve enumerated at such length above and will continue enumerating for God only knows how long below. It’s not like they’re trying to contrast Trump with anyone decent or normal. Anthony Fauci is probably the closest, but he’s at least nominally apolitical.

They’ve run the litany. Oh, for Chrisssake, Trump is ABSOLUTELY worse than Klobuchar, Buttigieg, Harris, Biden, Pelosi, Schumer, Cuomo. Oh? Are you sure about that? Are you sure WE’RE sure about that? I exclude Warren from this list of dishonor without hesitation, but many do not.

In their estimation, Trump is the only crooked, coarse thug of questionable mentation in the running for anything. He’s the only con artist. He’s the only bad person. Everyone opposite him is not him and is by definition better than him.

I seem to have a much more positive, or perhaps less negative, opinion of Trump than most of my age peers. I don’t mind it. I’d be happy enough to vote for Elizabeth Warren just to be done with him for a while, and especially with the twerps and lunatics and grifters he collects along the way. She’s normal and responsible enough for me to move past the Cherokee fib. What I cannot move past is the atrocious character of so much of the field, including the new heir apparent. A few were great (Bernie, Marianne), a few were good (Yang, Steyer, Warren, Castro), a few were mediocre (Booker, Beto), and an unforgettable medley of them were atrocious. It’s impossible for me not to wonder what the hell is wrong with the party and its core base that it coughs up these collections of slimy goody-two-shoes sellouts, dungeon mistresses, meanspirited sexual deviants, hall monitors, RA’s, all-around crooks, out-of-touch toffs, and mush-for-brains scolds.

I don’t see how anyone who isn’t nuts can look at them, look at me, and conclude that I’m with them. Questions about this line of reasoning cascade into mind. What the fuck have they done for me? At least Liz tore Bloomers a new one the week after she ratfucked Bernie. The rest of the late-cycle mainstage centrists? Jack shit. What have they done for my peers? No, let’s flip it: what have they done TO me and my peers? That’s easy: they’ve violently shit our bed. The bar they’ve set is low enough for Trump to clear on a regular basis, even when he’s broadcasting to his Highlanders on Radio Mille Collines.

For months, probably years (why even track time?), the #Resistance zealots were fuming about Trump being a rapist. Predictably as the moonrise, they got most bent out of shape over his pussy comment, which was a stretch to construe as a declaration of serial sexual assault, a stretch to construe as a true story about anything at all, and at the very worst a private comment about something he said he’d done. This is a man who used to walk into locker rooms while sweet sixteens were getting dressed for his beauty pageants. This is a man who bragged on the radio about how he had the hots for his own daughter, who is now in working in his administration and said to be blackmailing him for leverage. The endless carrying-on about the pee tape, the holy grail of Russian kompromat, distracted from the fully established fact that he is already the subject of American kompromat over his public declarations of incestuous lust.

E. Jean Carroll’s accusation of forcible rape feels oddly desultory. In any normal political context it would be a bombshell. The problem is that she’s too calm and focused about the incident. She isn’t flipping her shit about how Trump bragged that he clumsily gropes starlets’ vulvas.

We’ve gone into the funhouse for real now that Biden is officially an accused rapist. Rape is okay now. He did nothing of the sort. I’d let him rape me. Tara Reade is a scurrilous loser.

This is all psychotic. In the midst of this I’m hearing conspiracy theories about Biden being smeared with deepfakes to make him look senile. It could explain some of the dirt the Republicans release, but it can’t explain the lezheshuhshuh video’s ongoing publication on the Biden campaign’s official Twitter account. The flood of simultaneous, contradictory excuses and justifications and rule changes is exactly the fascist argumentation that Trump and his team are so widely accused of deploying. A bunch of 2020 primary candidates and their campaigns did NOT pull this shit: the Yang Gang, the Orb Gang, Booker, Warren, Castro, Steyer, the Bernard Brotherhood. I can’t even recall Klobuchar or Buttigieg running the fog machine like that. Harris came close, and of course the K-Hive is out of its fucking mind.

The pussy hats are the equivalent of walking around the city hall grounds with a magenta dildo in hand and a placard saying that Roseanne Barr told me she’d twist my nuts. That’s too generous, on second thot: Trump said nothing in that comment about who he grabbed, just groupies who kinda liked it because he was rich. I somehow forgot until just now that Ivana Trump, his first wife, accused him of spousal rape in an affidavit during their divorce proceedings. This is why we’re upset that he made locker room talk with Billy Bush. He bragged about goosing groupies with the sticky finger to a guy who sounds like a wall-mounted talking blueberry bush for sale on late-night TV.

This shit is too wacky for Milton Street. He’d change the subject to how he got arrested at the 7-Eleven in Moorestown.


The falsely accused elder statesman of utmost chastity whose aggressive sexual ministrations would be an honor and a privilege to receive is now, we are instructed, to be rewarded with the presidency. The very framing highlights the difference between Biden’s stage-managed gaslighting and Trump’s stream-of-consciousness ADHD bullshit artistry. If they’re both gaslighting us, which one is worse? Biden can’t remember what he said one sentence ago, but his handlers and fans follow the script. Trump doesn’t care what he said last paragraph–is this even a style of speech that can be broken into paragraphs?–and his fans don’t, either, but he’s the one who can draw a clock.

I keep saying: he’s the more lucid one and the more entertaining one. Romance us on our way to the electric chair, Mr. Thurmond! Okay, that’s an old Democrat they had to wheel around in an adult diaper that he could no longer change for himself at a time when he had no idea where or who he was. That’s what it takes to be a Senator. There might be exhumable bits available to replace Joey Lobotomy when the time comes.

We’re told that Biden was not on the list of the worst Capitol Hill sex pests. Great. That’s like those inflight magazine ads for double eagle steakhouses, but for guys who will push you up against the wall and shove a hand up your skirt. I knew Jack Kennedy, and Senator, you’re one hell of a Jack Kennedy.

This is what passes for tangential exculpatory evidence. A legislature with no more than 535 voting members has dozens of these members specifically blacklisted by staffers as known sexual predators. Don’t worry: Joe Biden wasn’t one of them; he just worked with them. This is the institution Tara Reade defamed as a toxic workplace. These are the halls where she could not have been assaulted in public view by a powerful man whose colleagues routinely sexually harass subordinate women and even colleagues in front of others.

These stories demand answers. American high society loves hazing, but what is the point? Spell out exactly what we get and exactly when we get it for putting up with that shit.

Of course they won’t answer. We’re the impertinent ones for questioning them. They’re all working through the process at the dick sucking factory, and we’re getting in the way by demanding that they represent us as our elected officials. It’s the same thing with college: there aren’t any warranties, just cherrypicked anecdotes and falsified statistics about thriving alumni. A bright-eyed young woman might go far on the Hill, or she might crash and burn, and if she burns out or drops out or gets kicked out, those she leaves behind will smear her as a loser and a hater and a liar.

This whole society is a blackmail shakedown. Some creep is always waiting in the wings with disparaging information. She was incompetent. She was lazy. She missed rent. She talked back to landlords. She got evicted. She got fired. Claims of this nature raise questions. For example, so fucking what? Reade fell somewhere below maybe the 75th percentile of residents on the Central Coast for cash and credit on hand when rent came due.

This is scandalous in workplaces and social circles drawn overwhelmingly from the top decile, such as Capitol Hill. Washington is a big clique of rich kids who are furious with the poor kid for calling foul on their sacred blackmail and gatekeeping operation. These are amoral schemers who know how to work the system to their advantage. They look down on those who can’t and resent those who refuse. They believe, wholeheartedly, that citizens should have demerits hanging over their heads: bad grades, bad test scores, negative performance reviews, bad credit scores, bad employer references, eviction records, criminal records. These demerits are fit for subjects, not for monarchs or lords or privy councilors.

They hate Tara for flipping the script back on them and their king. She weakened the leverage that dutiful scumbags who stayed on the career track have on perverts like Joe Biden. She exposed the whole outfit as a hall of degenerates. She exposed everybody who’s passionately invested in the sacred Beltway norms of discretion and dues-paying as self-interested moral degenerates. These weren’t even things that hadn’t previously been disclosed, other than the details of her rape accusation, but they hate her nonetheless for calling attention to the notoriously scandalous community standards of a promising but ruinous career track she couldn’t endure in an institution many Americans despise.

They hate and resent and fear those they can’t blackmail or silence, and who denounce them for ruling through blackmail and admonitions to silence. They hate a turncoat. Theirs is not a place to break the omerta.

That’s precisely the PMC’s objection to Tara Reade, Donald Trump, Bernie Sanders, and a resounding majority of the eligible electorate. They talk back. They cry foul. They blow the whistle. They’re dissidents.

They’re rude to Californians. Boy howdy do I know some spots in the neighborhood where I can do that.

Yeah, da Red Lawbsta! Da one off Ass NL!

Back in the old neighborhood, where all shall in due course of time be eatin’ good, there was a shouting match turned fistfight over slow service and a refund demand at the Red Lobster in York. One of my best friends lives in York, but not exactly, and in the course of my semiannual to quarterly visits I often stop by the Panera just up East Market–Downeast Mackit–from the Red Lobster, both of which are also in York, but not exactly.

This may sound pedantic or nitpicky, but it is entirely germane. “York” is an exceptionally sloppy synecdoche. York City is a tightly ringfenced inner city, with tiny pockets of affluence (deep downtown; the last few blocks of East Market before the Interstate 83 bypass and the Springettsbury Township line), but otherwise a racially diversified but powerfully class-stratified ghetto/barrio/all-purpose slumscape with terrible housing stock  and one of the perennially lowest-testing public school districts in the Pennsylvania we never should even have tried to find. Commonwealth or our own personal wealth, standardized test scores say jack fucking shit about what the students taking them are actually learning, but they’re a serviceable proxy for test prep resources, which are again the most retarded thing ever–you really might as well grab a hot dog at the Special Olympics concessions or Bear River Pump-n-Play–but are the kind of US News & World Report-ass horseshit that the normies believe, and the normies vote.

The credible external proxies of student performance in York City are predictably horrible for a district that doesn’t even cheat its way into excellence under the Atlanta Standard. An east-west transect on Market and Philadelphia or north-south transect on George yields a few reasonably prosperous blocks and dozens of blocks that scream food desert and lead poisoning.

In shorthand, it’s a sacrifice zone. The semispeakable stipulation of the fixation on test scores in a ringfenced district like the YCSD is that staying in school will help graduates move up and out. I don’t plan to check whether the Red Lobster offers its employees free Rabbit Transit passes or expects them to have diplomas if they’re of age. The only reason I ever looked up the location of the “York” Red Lobster (moron this shortly) was for excellence in shitposting. I must have seen it dozens of times, but I never took note. #NoRegrets.

It’s absolutely mad to cling to the debased Clintonian version of the GI Bill education ethic in a purposely hollowed-out postindustrial shithole surrounding a Gentry Village amusement park downtown four decades after the big late-postwar push to bust the unions and a quarter century into the NAFTA era. We used eminent domain to clear the last of the Mohicans out of one of the inner-city slums for an urban renewal minor league ballpark across a set of disused railroad tracks from the Greyhound depot, and the Doghouse is diagonally across downtown from the transit center, but at least we’ve got an economy again.

Yeah, sure. Hate to break it to yous, but the suburban kids who grew up without the nutritional deficiencies and chronic domestic chaos and lead poisoning have a leg up on the neighborhood homies for the server jobs on near North George. Is that a problem? Nonrhetorical question; answers optional. Remember, Fat Cracka is allergic to tests. (Mostly.) It’s the same deal as Inner Harbor, only more so: the most diligent westside normies can get jobs serving crab meals to racist assholes from Bel Air, so Baltimore must be doing all right. Freddy Gray, please report to a White People Courtesy Telephone.

If we try to collate a granular, accurate survey of who exactly is involved in the restaurant business as lenders, beneficial owners, managers, and line employees, plus who’s theoretically involved but oddly unemployed with no real prospect of getting hired, we start to see an image very different from the official story we hear on WGAL. /Sturdily local on-air voice/ Reporting from York, same putz my ex-wife always said I was, I’m Ed Whinestock. Back to you, Kim.

That’s a Township grad right there. Kim, that is; I know enough about Ed already.  I have it on solid authority that Jack Hubley is a class act but Kim Lemon is a sneering piece of shit. Pennsylvania has, as a thick moist New Yorker might say, many such townships, but Manheim Township is generally reputed to be one of Lancaster County’s better public school districts. Again, this is meaningless, and if you can’t afford K-12 tuition you need to immediately check with Rod Dreher for Benedict Option homeschooling curricula; just because Rod’s a bit of a poseur about his own shtick doesn’t mean you have to be one, too. Since we’re off and on the subject, I should probably mention that I’ve helped out with plaguetime homeschooling activities on visits to /Borat Voice/ my part-time wife, allowing me to say from personal experience that even if the curriculum is retarded, there’s no need to involve a teacher who may also be.

Kim, tho. I was enrolled at schools within forty miles of Harrisburg from fourth grade through fancy boy college. Ever since my parents and I left Palo Alto in 1992, and no, not the dump up by Pottsville, I’ve had an ear to the ground, sometimes consistently, sometimes intermittently, with locals ranging from piss-poor ghettoside juvenile delinquents with homemade Mercedes hood ornament necklaces to rednecks who knew to look for turkey under white oaks to farmers and factory workers to restaurateurs to doctors and nurses to C-List and A-List regional industrialists. It didn’t particularly surprise me to learn that Kim Lemon is a bitch, or that Jack Hubley is a mensch, although when I heard the latter it was the first time I’d thought of him in years and it took me a second to place him. Lemon is somebody I don’t usually feel compelled to contemplate. At least Weinstock is fun, a fellow we can all laugh at for never laughing at or with a thing. Lemon is roughly as self-serious, but even when she puts on a sunny, lighthearted act, she doesn’t quite have what it takes.

There seems to be some, shall we say, sociology explaining why Kim Lemon hasn’t left town. Local distances in the area between the Blue Ridge, the Delaware, and the Mason-Dixon Line have become deceptively short for me since I’ve moved back west, so I looked up directions from Manheim Township High School to the WGAL studio, and if we cut the crap about Blue Detours, Red Detours, and other, more colorless detours, she works seven miles from her high school alma mater. So if it isn’t just a set of one-off interpersonal reactions that has the same person who loved chatting with Saturday Morning Critter Friend convinced that Kim’s trash, and I doubt it is, she’s alienated plenty of her neighbors. Lancaster has a metropolitan population of over a hundred thousand and a densely populated quasirural agricultural hinterland with hundreds of thousands more, but Kim Lemon is one of its most prominent public citizens. She’s been on air on WGAL forever. It should be a liability for her to be known around town as an incorrigible fucking bitch.

It should have been a liability for Diddlin’ Dennis to’ve done what J. Denny Dundiddly done. It took a while for the old boy’s wrestling days to catch up with him and pin him down for a spell in Minnesota, in a home full of companions on the prairie. On the plus side, at least they’re men, same thing Larry Craig might want to point out about David Karsnia. It’s called a MEN’S ROOM. Kim Lemon, by contrast, is apparently just a huge asshole, and America has basically no idea of how to police verbal antisocial aggression if it isn’t Clarence Thomas smutty. Plus she’s on the tube. The average on-air television and radio personality is manifestly batshit insane, and not all Wesley Willis-like Jim Sim told me to stop yelling again, either. They don’t allow themselves that much insight into their own condition. The prevalence of visible, audible, severe substance abuse, personality, and mood disorders among broadcast hosts and reporters is stratospheric. The business mostly just accepts their maladjustment and bad behavior. There’s a mythology around the old-school newspapermen (and women!), that they were all abrasive, moody drunks; the current crop of sellouts at Sinclair, who have the same personal problems but suck all ass at their jobs, inevitably seize on the old guard’s mythology and steal their repute for themselves.

There’s a broader point that I was starting to make about small towns and the reputational risks of being antisocial within them, as their community members. These risks are pretty negligible. The privileges that attached to Harvey Weinstein easily attached to Dennis Hastert. No homo, he was just the wrestling coach. He just took an interest in the development of boys who took an interest in grabass rolling around on the floor with other boys. Good God, at least Gateside Downlow is some kind of rancher. Like, Coach is having his usual straight one, but look, I’m not gay, but Coach is always trying to get it from me for free, like he doesn’t have $20. Adolescent and, God help us, children’s athletic programs are replete with perverts who use them as grooming grounds, as Lawrence of the Labia showed through his career of all-ages medical interest in young women, a constituency also cherished by one Brett Michael Kavanaugh.

Kim doesn’t even have to specifically intimidate or mutually blackmail anyone in Lancaster County to keep getting her way. She’s set. But what’s the point to staying in school, then? Why study so hard and chase grades? Is it to grow up to be like her, with money and fame but no class?

Duh. Of course it is! This is the point of school rankings and district rankings and “good neighborhoods” with “good schools” and the SAT and the ACT and all the new state- and federally-mandated standardized assessments of proficiency in the core curriculum and whatever the fuck else we’re calling education. The normies can’t imagine another way to claim a survivable place in the pecking order. It’s certainly also a convenient way for suburbanites to blame the local poor, rundown urban core for its socioeconomic problems. We’re ranking every school district in the state in a way that will inevitably leave one of them at the hard bottom, probably one that’s poorly funded and has a hollowed-out tax base, but gosh, they must just not study hard enough or know how to teach. We put everybody in the schools and most of the workforce under an additional cognitive load for trying to comply with the dead weight of the assessments, but we scheme to have better guidance counselors at our own kids’ schools and less lead in the water.

Maybe our national cognitive load can help explain why so many voters and officials drive through sacrifice zones like York City and conclude that the point of failure was the schools.

York City is ringfenced even harder than I realized until I looked closely at a map of the city limits for this poast. I’d mistakenly assumed that the fancy swath of the south side from Reservoir Park to the Country Club was within the city limits. It is not. The hospital campus is mostly but not entirely within the city limits.

So of course the Red Lobster isn’t actually in York. It’s in Springettsbury Township. Yes, I’m fully aware that York is a county, too. It doesn’t matter. As I wrote near the start, “York” is a terrible synecdoche. It’s almost inevitably misleading. So much of the urban squalor, poverty, and dysfunction have been redlined in, and so much of the prosperity and stability redlined out, that the city-township distinctions are crucial. The York Fair isn’t even in York, and it’s right across Carlisle Avenue from a really shitty part of town that is. The municipal redlining is extreme. The shape of York City is gerrymandered in ways that have no real relationship to the lay of the land or the extent of the cityscape. Nobody in Springettsbury was ever about to let the city annex Memory Lane; plenty for it to chew on on its side of 83.

Yes, “York” does have a Memory Lane. This might explain some things. Do you remember those days hangin’ out in our engineer boots at the Panera, Sarah? We couldn’t wait for graduation day, whoa-oh-oh/ we took the car and went to Endless Shrimp. Red Lobster is just east of Memory Lane. This has to be an exceptionally bad Hemingway novel. Look, we’ve got values out here. Mostly property values. We aren’t letting the city get ahold of that joint for its tax base.

This is something the driveling press corps idiots who enthuse about “Panera Democrats” will never tell you, so I will: When we hear about yokels in Erie or Youngstown or Cincinnati or Pittsburgh them some Trump and some Applebee’s, the reporters don’t know that what they really mean are residents of white flight suburbs unheard of three or four counties away. They dredge up miserable geezers from diner booths in Erie City to piss and moan about the Mexicans and whatever, omitting that Erie County, not just the city, voted for Hillary Clinton.

That’s most of who needs to eat at Red Lobster right now: low-key affluent suburbanites. The famous schlocky chain restaurants aren’t all that cheap. I had a plate of Boston Garden takeout once, and it was terrible. Olive Garden looks shitty, so I have no intention of making that pilgrimage. I’m not sure that I haven’t even been to Red Lobster, but I can’t recall going to one, and that shit is definitively not on the agenda. Even Panera, which is fast-casual and openly tip-optional–many of its stores didn’t have tip jars at all until a few years ago–is pretty expensive. The path to a Democratic House majority doesn’t run through the Panera lobbies of the country’s swing-seat suburbs, but the path to the $4.99 full-sandwich steak and white cheddar meal deal does. My bad: it absolutely does not, because I just made that up. They’re never giving that shit away so cheap lol fml.

If we expand York to include its tax base, there’s no way Red Lobster is the best restaurant in York. It’s subjective, but it’s not that subjective. I’ve eaten at restaurants in the area that have to be better. There’s no need to do an in-depth survey of the Darden properties to know that a lot of these chains suck. I eat at Applebee’s from time to time: all right, but definitely overpriced. Any chain airing nationally syndicated ads that show breadsticks or battered shrimp cascading out of one basket into another is not the best in class for what it serves. When you’re here, you’re family, and what we do with family is tell them to meet us in the walk-in freezer for a talking-to and a little something-something if they’ve filled out nicely. Huh. Do the Italians do that, or is it just the Scots? Perhaps I’m mistaken and Red Lobster is not in fact based in Maine.

There’s a lot of idiotic, culturally dysfunctional liberal guilt around pointing out that flyover country has its abusive elites even if it doesn’t have Chez Panisse. The entire dynamic is much too consider, but the great normcore chain sitdown restaurants aren’t workingmen’s pubs just because they’re less expensive than Ruth’s Chris, and they aren’t necessarily any good just because they’re more expensive than a decent Greek diner run by passably normal people. It’s possible for a restaurant to be pricey AND shitty. There are millionaires who eat at fucking Boston Market. I’m absolutely serious. I personally know at least two.

Lambert Strether commented that the York (“York”) Red Lobster incident showed that the customers at the schlocky theme chains visit not to eat, but to be served. It’s heartbreaking if you think about it too deeply. Is this what we’re doing in lieu of therapy? Is this what we’re doing IN ADDITION TO therapy? It’s pretty accurate to say that Trump’s base is provincial exurbanites who are self-actualized by yelling at waitresses in chain restaurants and docking their tips. I wish that were a gross simplification. Dad’s out running the family dealership, mom’s out getting Jeanine Pirro trashed at Applebee’s and screaming at the waitress that she’s a stupid tramp: ain’t that America.

The grotesque media models guiding and explaining these wretches have been on the scene for decades. Rush Limbaugh never seems to find his anger assuaged. Fox News is larded with angry drunkards and pill-poppers. Enough is never enough. They are never materially satisfied, and they are never socially satisfied. The positional authority that they so abusively wield over others as customers or bosses never makes them whole. They are, however, angrier than usual to be denied their birthright to verbally abuse waitstaff for $2.13 an hour, tips optional. This is why we must reopen “the economy.”

It’s hard to see what can be done for them. What can be done to them is to raise their marginal rates to level the field so that the poor aren’t forced to degrade themselves for abusive managers and abusive customers at restaurants that might well make this country better–perhaps even great again–by ceasing to operate. Red Lobster is not an essential sector of the economy. It won’t kill the miserable assholes who start shit at crappy chain restaurants because the service is too slow to go be miserable at home with some lobster from Giant. Or maybe it will, although they’ll probably just Boomerpost their way to sleep about it on Facebook. Some of them are pretty far gone psychically. We can’t just sit around waiting for the day to come when God will dry every eye. That won’t fix them on a timescale that spares their waitresses their corrosive abuse.

The dim sum place by the freeway is open for takeout again. Maybe I’ll walk over and get some hom su gok.

Summering with Nancy in the Heart of the Shitty

We are not, as a polity, going to have a coherent one this summer. It ain’t on the agenda, fam. Our once-in-a-century plague, all too likely a preview of more frequent coming attractions, will not take the summer off here any more than it has taken the permanent Philadelphia summer of Southeast Asia off in Singapore. The sun comes out. The barbecues and beer coolers follow. The sap rises. Melanomagenic public nudity beckons. School’s out.

Is any of this a thing that can be cancelled?

Or, government depending, school’s back in session. The only student I know of who applied himself for summer school was a kid back east who told his teachers that he would be damned if he was gonna land on the crew at his father’s paving company again. Kid had to work to maintain his grades. Universal homeschooling has not gone too swimmingly this spring, and congregate schooling in July and August will be controversial, to say the least. The months of May and June are straight down the shitter in an ordinary school year anyhow. The old sap is up too high to focus. Of course a vigorous young thing can get worn out pulling titty at four in the morning in Ferndale any time of the year, but shit, Bessy, who am I kidding? I’m entirely too agrarian-minded for this country.

We’ve lost instructional hours, they say. We’ve lost learning. The bottomless spring break (giggity?) will disrupt the instructional flow for our hardworking young people, in contrast to the annual summer break, which never does that. What percentage of Americans have any idea of how we ended up with a summer break from schooling? 8% of students? Two fifths of teachers? Supposedly less than one percent of Americans live on working agricultural or pastoral properties. I think I’ve heard figures of two million in total.

It’s wryly entertaining that these earnest doofuses construe instruction as the purpose of the American K-12 schooling apparatus in the first place. What planet do they inhabit? At least the commute to ours gives them scientifically relevant experience in space travel. Gotta take what we can in this business.

It seems the modal American is thoroughly ignorant of the contours of the postmodern superstructure holding our country together in a state of haphazard civilization, let alone of how this superstructure interlocks with the past, or as some of the sober among us think of it, real life. Food comes from Whole Foods. It contains the whole store of the foods, right? Sure. There’s no point to explaining these things willy-nilly; we choose our battles to fight. To the fish, before its conversion into sticks, what is “wet?” Wha, whaddaya mean, what’s “wet?” Ah, you aren’t from around here, either! The music immersion program in these parts is phenomenal, Mr. Ross. Say, why don’t you play some? Goodness, it’s the summer. What else would we do? Toil on farms all day, like a bunch of wetbacks?

Wha, whaddaya mean, “wetback?” They’re all dying in the desert. That’s how badly they desire to come here, as aliens.

Brenda Jorett herself posted photos of her own decadent ass lying in the Jersey sand when she wasn’t scolding the kids these days for having no work ethic. We’re all just working for the weekend, cranking it out for the opportunity to lay out. Why, yes, I did personally know some wretchedly self-satisfied jagoffs back east. You may have read about them.

Much of this is arrant bullshit. It’s beside the point. This is the culture we inherit and now steward. As the dumbest, most brainwashed motherfuckers on the face of the earth like to say, it is what it is. It’s our programming. The point is a more intelligently and reputably stoical one: we’re in no position to expeditiously roll back several generations’ worth of hardening cultural idiocy that’s been woven straight into the drapes of the dysfunctional funhouse in which we live out our very weird communal hangups over sex and work (separately or in tandem) just because we’re getting our sick on.

Well over a tenth of the US population lives in California, and most of that lives on the maritime side of the crest. With spring mostly behind us, the only thing we can do now is to pray for a wet summer that is not on deck. We’ll be lucky if we get some good and heavy coastal fog. We’ll be lucky if the June Gloom has any soporific effect at all this year. The cabin fever is only getting worse. The beaches down south were a mob scene over the weekend. Contrary to popular belief out of state, it usually cools down and clouds up noticeably along the Pacific seaboard going into summer, and the summer fog is in no way exclusively a San Francisco thing, but the forecast so far looks good, and that means it looks nothing but bad.

Nob Hill Dreamboat is uneasy, and he has every reason to be. He’s in charge of a hive with no queen bee. Getaway traffic surges unstoppably out of the metropoles when the sun comes out. The only things the authorities can do, realistically, are to close parking lots and deploy spotty park patrols. Spring erupts and a hundred thousand motorists all descend on the same hot spots with adequate parking for a quarter of them. This is what happens with or without a pandemic, and as they say in the dumber parts of Pennsylvania, this year we’re going with.

Look at it this way: Gavin Newsom is the governor of California, not of Instagram. The problem isn’t comfortably or safely housing 8,000 or 16,000 residents per square mile in a city, as the horny-for-sprawl urbanist squad is now concern-trolling in the name of public health, not just in the name of Joel Kotkin’s grandmother who always hated Brooklyn. That’s bollocks, and Kotkin is, as always on urban density, full of shit. Another outer-borough Jew with a chip on his shoulder needs to work out his insipid personal problems: who cares?

The actual problem with California’s urban planning is a thornier one, because it’s cultural in nature, not infrastructural. Eight million private cars are garaged in the same metroplex on direct lines inland from the same stretch of beach running from Pacific Palisades to Santa Monica, and it’s a pain in the ass to drive to Point Mugu. No, that does not mean that Point Mugu will have parking. Are you out of your mind?

Not everybody makes a break for the coast all at once; it just feels like they do, because it takes nothing but a sunny day to send the traffic spiraling out of all control. There’s any number of things that people could do on their days off that don’t involve all going to the same overcrowded patch of sand, but the crowd surges at play are inevitably irrational. Some vapid fuckhead logs onto Instagram to post dogshit-retarded influencer pictures from some place she first heard about last week, and the next week it’s so popular nobody goes there anymore. Plus people who work or do marketing for a living don’t have the gumption to research every getaway spot that might possibly be within a safe round-trip driving distance and also worth visiting. Inclement weather or remoteness could make a place unsafe (Salton Sea much?), which would tend to make it not worthwhile, and there’s some empty-ass wild shit not very far from city hall in Los Angeles or San Francisco.

It’s the same spat the Malthusians always have with the anticolonialists they always accuse of being pie-in-the-sky morons, who always accuse them of being eugenicist bigots. What, exactly, do we mean by enough space? Potter Stewart himself would never have the clarity of sight to know it. It looks a lot more spacious if there are free seats on the Expo Line than it does if there isn’t free pavement on the 10. We have, in all but the most extreme times, such as this spring, the civil liberty to go to the beach. Does that mean that we have the birthright to drive there right this minute and find parking?

Of course it does. We’re Californians! Gavin said it himself: California is all about living in a dream house in the hills. He’s pretty astute as politicians go, but that’s every bit as ridiculous, irrational, and provably false as insisting that everybody in LA has a car. This shit is so pervasive that we don’t even have to make it up. I had to look up census data and transit ridership statistics to learn that any of this is happy horseshit. Am I supposed to take the rest of the state for such losers?

The urgency of the present is going to last all summer. It’s gonna look great. Take your ass down to Men’s Warehouse and get fitted. Millennia of weather and a century of proliferating automobility are crashing into what is so far a brief season of compromised public health. There’s no way Memorial Day this year doesn’t make things snap. Memorial Day is one of the smattering of extant quasiracinated American holidays marking the seasons. It’s the one that inaugurates hot summer. My God, Caray, you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful day for a health scare and a ballgame.

This thing is operating on a timeline that the wisdom of the crowd finds alien and intolerable. All is not well on the homefront. Families are at the breaking point, which is exactly what every sober observer of Alaska expects all winter. (Nah, all year.) We’ve got millions of people who literally, direly need some time outside. The public health orders are exacerbating every local inequity and disparity in access to open spaces, parks, pedestrian-safe streets, and other places to not just sit around inside all day like prisoners.

This is a good example of how they’ll shit the bed by reopening the schools before Labor Day. Zoom conferences, online curriculum portals, and other horseshit forms of distance “learning” have exhausted the patience of the parents trying to coordinate their new unsupported mandates and the “students” who in a great many cases frankly wouldn’t be learning jack shit worth knowing in the best of times. I learned how to read in school. Does anyone glancing at this blog possibly fucking think I learned how to write there?

Like any other metastable social stress, there’s no identifying the point or time of failure in advance. Things hold, and then suddenly they snap. The reason to expect governments to face a crisis of legitimacy by Memorial Day this year is just that the statistics of our national holiday culture are decidedly not on the other side of that bet. Regional American governments are unwilling to hold the line for the duration of the popularly observed spring. California is a different beast from Georgia, Florida, or the line between them: it’ll be a cold day in hell when we elect a pulsating sleazeball like Brian Kemp or a hapless, ideologically addled dipshit like Ron DeSantis. We do, however, absolutely have roughly our fair national share of loudmouthed death-drive zealots who love shitheads of their caliber for being shitheads. John Cox got over forty percent of the vote against Gavin Newsom in the last general election, and some of the stuff he was pushing was crazy.

The plane of cleavage that busts this whole thing open may not end up being exclusively political in nature, but I fully expect politics to play a prominent, ugly role. It’s a Democrat virus. Hydroxychloroquine is the Republican drug. John Cox loves cars and the car lovers who drive them, so Gavin Newsom is a limousine liberal who hates cars and farmers and everything else that keeps America great. It’s pretty inaccurate, but we curate our own truths. This is America. Leaving enough surface water in the rivers to forestall saltwater intrusion all the way back to Stockton and Clarksburg and the ruination of every riparian, estuarine, and near-estuarine marine ecosystem from San Ysidro to Smith River is a liberal plot against growth.

Yes, this stuff is insane. Yes, people believe it. Remember, the notionally left wing of our political class consumes Harry Potter and Josiah Bartlet wholly in earnest. It’s #content, bitch. The political spectrum in the nation maintaining the global Allied nuclear umbrella spans a riotous diversity of ideology from nerds who believe in castles full of wizards and elves to the guy who looked at the sun with unprotected eyes because he’d been told it would be covered and now wants to develop orthoscopic ultraviolet irradiation of the blood stream as an antiviral treatment.

It’s shockingly politicized. Why would any of it not be? We believe in science and rationality; that’s why we strive for a crypto-English aristocratic utopia based on a series of trashy fantasy novels featuring a species of elf serving as domestics for dilettantes who fly around at will on broom adventures, and it’s also why our ideal government is a version of Bill Clinton who has no personality and never fucks. We believe in the economy and the prosperity springing up from it, and we believe in Jesus Christ; that’s why we insist that there’s nothing potentially troublesome about spewing waste products of proven toxicity into the atmosphere with total abandon, and it’s why we believe in cheating the workers we hire, stopping the courts from judicially legislating bans on the use of lethal injection chemicals that will torture the condemned to death from within, putting tenants out on the streets on three-day unlawful detainer actions, barring church groups from hosting free meals for the poor in city parks, and denying school lunches to chronically malnourished children on account of two-bit billing disputes with their deadbeat parents.

The conservative thing to do is to dump trash into the commons, and high Christian praxis is to torture a convict to death in the state’s name, not to be executed like a loser. Duh. The liberal enlightenment is about–what else?–wizard lords, elf servants, and triangulating realpolitik reactionaries who won’t even permit themselves a half-consummated affair with a plump Jewess.

This is why Gavin Newsom is headlong on his way into a genuinely inevitable political crisis. It doesn’t pay to be the grown-up in that room. We’re jumping off from a baseline political discourse that’s stone fucking nuts: sworn liberals who carry on like timid little authoritarians constantly on the verge of shitting their pants and scold everyone over sex, most drugs, posting cringe, sleeping in, junk food, and pretty much anything else that might be fun, squared off against sworn conservatives forever up in arms about liberals taking away their liberties. You read that right, because it’s all wrong. Let not your heart be troubled, though; a public health crisis with no clear end in sight will be just the thing to inject sobriety into our debates and bleach into our veins.

This much truly is not his fault. Nob Hill Dreamboat is doing a damn good job given the alternatives (Cuomo? Dear God), and he’s up against some nasty obstacles in the way of his effort to maintain the semblance of the State of California in this space. There’s no better example of how the Democrats will be sure to tear defeat from the jaws of victory and screw the pooch raw than Nancy Pelosi. Newsom is more helpless than ever to scare some goddamn sense into that bitch, and she absolutely could not care less about what he’s trying with such great effort to do for their neighbors. He’s preppy as fuck, but he’s serious and on point in crises. Then Fancy Nancy shows up and reminds everybody that the two of them share a city and a political party. It’s absolutely vile that a man of such impressively resolute character is forced to navigate the same political waters as that malignant grand narcissist. We’re facing a global public health crisis, and that fucking cunt is up there foodie-vlogging in her mansion with a pastel sweater tied around her shoulders, showing off her freezer drawer full of high-end ice cream.

It is supremely arrogant to expect ordinary Americans not to be incandescent with rage before that spectacle. THEY are calling US deplorable? Come again? We have to wonder when they’ll get the message, or if they even care. They basically don’t.

Cool. That was easy.

They had Trump dead to rights for stirring up deadly communal tensions, all-around crookedness, and apparent gross mental unfitness for office (which he did and said practically nothing to dispel until after his acquittal), so they mounted a Q Anon string flow chart-ass prosecution over incomprehensibly complicated breaches of lawful foreign policy, violations which looked quite defensible on their strict policy merits, all the while insisting that there was nothing at all unseemly about Joe Biden’s crackhead failson holding a flagrant sinecure at a major oil company in one of the two countries where they claimed to have incontrovertible proof that Trump’s activities were illegal. They have the nerve to brag about Biden’s low net worth, crudely attempting to distract the public from his decades of extreme malevolence and public corruption and also from the suspiciously high net worth of so many of his colleagues whose main disclosed source of support was a flat Congressional salary.

It doesn’t work. It just doesn’t. The Blue No Matter Who crew bray about how Trump is so openly reactionary in so many ways, so he cannot possibly outflank a single Democrat on the left. This is pathetic. What the fuck is so outlandish about the possibility that there are two virulently reactionary parties, not just one? What’s so outlandish about the Donald tacking to the opposition’s left 5% or 10% of the time? The same scolds are constantly in a state of high dudgeon that the president is so erratic. #TeshTips, asshole: that means there’s no predicting the guy. He’s facially obsessed with owning the libs, and he starts shit with other Republicans just for kicks, too. He was on the hard left flank of the Republican primary field in 2016 on, at the very least, the permanent imperial war state and labor and industrial policy.

This isn’t to say that he will push left; it’s to say that he may, because he at times already has. Meanwhile we’re told to take Nancy Pelosi and Joe Biden seriously when they assert themselves as the saviors to deliver the nation from this reactionary authoritarian madman. How dare we disbelieve them!

Shush, hun. Ask a rude question, get a rude answer, and maybe think about inspiring more positivity in the body politic by showing some fucking manners next time. Some of us actually read about voting records. Some of us pay attention to our officials’ coarse social cues and take them seriously for their policy ramifications.

As with politics, so with wealth: just because Donald Trump is a rich vulgarian doesn’t mean that his opponents aren’t as bad or worse. It’s that renowned liberal rationality again. How could Ben Shapiro not market himself as one of America’s keenest political minds? It’s never prudent for only one party to show up to a battle convinced that it is the only rational and sober one present. That’s how we swooped into Afghanistan and got our asses whipped by Toyota cavalry squads with firepower no heavier than our own gifted surface-to-air missiles, from back when the same militias were smacking the poopoo out of the Red Army, with our help. (Why not?) It doesn’t matter that the Republicans are insane. That never stopped the Taliban when they were forbidding women to leave the house with more than their eyes showing and stoning citizens to death for adultery. The gross truth of it is that the Republicans know their enemy in this fight and they fight to win, and the Democrats don’t. Blackhawk Down may take some light rocket science, but this story doesn’t.

There they go again, wearing their beanbag slippers to an East End pipe fight with James Mack. Gee, why does Mack the Pipe keep braining us all the way to Newport? How? Ow! This is so unfair.

This is the minefield Nob Hill Dreamboat must navigate. He has his wits about him, and he’s wise enough make common cause with the death drive wackjobs across the aisle, but once again, that in no way means that he doesn’t share a caucus with partisans every bit as evil and deranged. As I keep saying, Kamala Harris is the Uncanny Valley Girl of present-day Deukmejian-Wilson reaction. She’s our junior Senator. Saying that Harris and Newsom are Democrats is like saying that Rob Ford and Mark Saunders are both from Toronto. It’s fascinating, but they aren’t both falling-down drunk somnambulant crackheads. Yeah, yeah, I know, the Mayor is dead. Long live the Mayor, etc.

The popular grievances coming to a statehouse near you this summer (or spring!) may veer into the petulant, the overwrought, or the flagrantly bogus. It doesn’t matter. What always matters about these dustups is that people believe in their causes and show up itching for a fight. They don’t pull their crew cabs over on the way down from the fancy-pants foothills and ask themselves, huh, we gross $225k and live in a mansion in Granite Bay with a powerboat in the garage, does this make sense, huh. Of course not. Do any of them look like they do? The point is that they’ve got the damn fire in the belly and know what limbic strings to pull. Nancy’s mansions are fancies. They’re plural. She wants nothing more than to take away our freedoms. Gavin is a Democrat.

It’s irrational, but the mistake the usual shitlib suspects keep making is to assume that the loudmouths at these protests care about rationality or fair play or any of that liberal shit and can be shamed into having some. The lie the same illiberal liberals tell is that they care about the plights of ordinary constituents. This is bollocks. Nancy cares about her ice cream collection. You do gotta hand it to her, if you’ve got a spare carton.

Voters notice. There’s no way around this. Gavin Newsom is as capable as any politician of confronting the crazies and holding the line on public health, but he won’t be able to control the firestorm on the hard fringes if the yahoos get up a full head of steam about how Nancy Pelosi isn’t denying herself the creature comforts due to a woman of her stature, is denying her constituents the right to go to the beach, and is the same nanny state liberal swamp creature as Newsom.

If the most extreme five percent on the hard right get riled up about this stuff it’ll be a huge mess. Different strains of woowoo about the virus being a hoax have already been in circulation on Fox News and the low-class samizdat channels on YouTube and Facebook.  For the more downmarket of these audiences, credence before this crackpot nonsense tracks uncannily with poor clinical treatment, bad bedside manner, abusive and fraudulent billing practices, and poor outcomes in allopathic medical care. Add Rush Limbaugh’s florid, ill-tempered conspiracy theories about environmentalism being nothing but a pretext to strip hardworking Americans of their hard-won possessions and we’ll be having us a grand old partisan time. Dumping sewage into the fishing hole and wondering why it smells or not doing that are just some of the Opposing Viewpoints (TM) that leaven our discourse. What the hell do you mean, it smells? Are you a liberal?

Some of this noise is the seething of angry people who operate in bad faith or the outbursts of the chronically paranoid. Demagogues and grifters are always on duty to activate the angry and the paranoid. It’s one way to look at Trump, but scapegoating him for decades of ugly American politics, or really centuries, is disgracefully reductive and pat. None of this started with him, and frankly in many ways he has toned the ugliness down from prior presidential administrations.

Since his candidacy center-left lcircles have been overrun with hysterical assertions that Trump is the worst, most narcissistic, most dangerous, most evil, coarsest, most sadistic, most out-of-control, most demented, most malicious, most all-around atrocious president in the history of the United States. Few ask, compared to whom? The historical memory to make these extreme claims can’t date back past about 2004, which was roughly when the most acute and dynamic threats to civil liberties and the rule of law under the Bush Administration, Cheney Regency, or what have we finally started to attenuate as the memory of 9/11 at last dulled enough for Americans to think clearly. It takes evidence to demonstrate that the Trump Administration is significantly worse than that, in any specific or broad way, and nobody who carries on about it offers evidence.

By contrast, it’s almost hilariously easy to find #Resistance histrionics who suggest that Trump is the ONLY bad president ever. By their reckoning we have never before been governed by a sadist, a crook, a scoundrel, a narcissist, a liar, a bully, or a manipulator. Instead we were led by men who were, like, a little bit problematic or imperfect or eccentric or whatever. This is full-blown delusional. These wackjobs are aware of past presidents and the rough contours of their administrations. The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind shit starts only when the Donald lurches into view. At that point, everything before 2016 vanishes into thin air: Flint, the foreclosure crisis, Abu Ghraib, whatever the hell really happened on September, the Lincoln Bedroom, Ricky Ray Rector, Iran-Contra, Watergate and the Evenings with Dick Tapes, Japanese internment, slavery.

These things flash straight out of their minds because an oaf is mouthing off at the national dinner party. Trump’s deeds and worst words are of secondary consideration; the triggers is that he yells, rambles, and talks trash. It’s reasonable not to want this horseshit in a president or his White House. It’s even more reasonable not to want the misdeeds enumerated in the preceding paragraph as functions of government.

Many of the histrionics have a big problem with his trashing other prominent politicians: Jeb, Joe, Hillary, Chuck-n-Nancy. Point of order, if I may: what in the hell is wrong with that? They’re all scoundrels, too. Besides, Lee Atwater was never as much fun. Our dude has done a lot of bad things, but one of these was not the invention or reification of racism in politics. Good God, y’all. It’s fucking nuts; might as well stick your schlong in the almond butter jar and go at it.

This bitchfest started in earnest when Trump squared off against the woman who is very arguably the most reviled machine operator in American politics today, a woman whose husband happens to be a rather corrupt and sleazy president emeritus himself. She shows up fresh off an internecine ratfucking, and we’re worried about the ethics and decorum of her opponent? Cool. That’s definitely lucid thought and not at all the psychological projection of an elaborate cult apparatus. It couldn’t possibly be that the Russia horseshit is a projectile outburst or a red herring having to do with our own three-letter agencies and their shady relationships to Clintonworld. Everybody’s panties are in a twist that he doesn’t trust G-men and spooks. You fucken for real, dawg? This dude is somehow a Mancurian Candidate for a latter-day Tsar who shows little but disinterest in him, but the Bushes are not suspect for their custom of holding hands with Saudi princes and kings? Bitch please.

There’s every reason to be distrustful of these scathing denunciations, even paranoid. It’s farfetched to fly to the other extreme and insist that, Nothing But Respect, My President is looking out for the little guy, when he can hardly be counted on to look out for, or at, the same thing for two straight minutes. He does, on the other hand, show that exuberant, irrepressible interest. Hillary? Nancy? GTFO. Neither has an empathetic bone in her body, although Hillz did–does?–from time to time have a bone that feels your pain in hers.

Returning to our springtime airing of grievances, the little guy in this scenario is whoever says he’s the little guy. Is he a dentist? A yacht dealer? It doesn’t matter. It matters that the yahoos show up and fuck shit up, or at least act like they might. Since the prevailing community standard is already to relate to our politicians in bizarre parasocial ways, let’s give some thot to who these characters are as parasocial friends. On the one hand, we’ve got the Chappaqua bitch–it took me a few seconds to place why Chappaquiddick seemed not quite right–with her hundred million-dollar family fortune, her hale philandering husband turned scarecrow, their worse-than-useless faildaughter, and their foundations and initiatives and shit; and on her team we also have the sneering Baltimore mayor’s daughter with the wine estate on Zinfandel Lane, the pied-a-terre at the top of Divisadero, and, but of course, the ice cream. On the other hand, we have the guy with the name-branded archipelago of usually faiiling privately-held businesses, the gilded penthouses, the golf courses, and the sporadic but boisterous interest in factories and mines and the hardhats who run them.

Some will object that Trump is just a better actor. It’s a fascinating critique. Does that sound like a liability in politics?

Now review which of these phonies is on which side of the partisan divide between the austere Puritanism of science and the Cavalier exuberance of opening back up for business. Gee, it’s Donny Fingers for the latter, and the rich girls for the former. We’ve been cooped up, or so we say. Can we have a little day out on the town, as a treat, or can we have a little lecture about social distancing, as a treat? Is it a trick? Look at Nancy. Just look at her. Would you take “candy” from a stranger who approached you like that? Those are Melissa Ann Shepard barista hours she’s living.

It’s exactly what rubs people the wrong way about Al Gore’s climate activism, but for having the government’s blessing just to go outside. Again, what matters here is the perception, not the facts. The amount of showing off that affluent liberals (sic) have been doing about their “quarantine” and “lockdown” routines can’t be doing anything but convincing conservatives (pretty sic themselves) that it’s all a big liberal hoax, just like the carbon thing. #NeverForget: It was a quaranpreening episode that inspired Fancy Nancy to beclown herself with the gelati showing in the first place. It’s plain as day who she has in mind as her audience for that shtick: her fellow virtue-signaling cosmopolitan jagoffs. There’s no better platform for that performance than one’s pied-a-terre in the City. This is, for a party striving to be relevant to a diverse coalition of Americans, the chef’s kiss of messaging.

No, my point isn’t that I care if she lives in Napa. All I’ll say about this for now is that when Milton Street lived in New Jersey, or didn’t, he didn’t care himself, and he was fun about it.

Some have more places to lay down their heads than others. To judge from Fancy Nancy, many homes make for hardened hearts. I personally know people who are hella rich and not the least bit like that–hysterical liberals who watch The West Wing for therapy, sure, but good people–but damned if that miserable hag doesn’t give them all a bad name by confirming the worst prejudices of the rest of us.

She has a base for her stunts: the talented tenth, the aspirational 14%, something in that ballpark. That’s the problem, though. Ordinary Americans despise them with just as much white hot rage. The Democrats can’t even keep the affluent and educated at large on their side because they keep preaching killjoy sermons from their palaces. The stench of the hypocrisy is overwhelming: we luxuriate at home, but you go to your shift at Whole Foods, because you didn’t earn what we did; Uber Eats and Grubhub and Instacart for me, but no Applebee’s for thee.

Many affluent reactionaries are parasites themselves. So what? Their ideology and rhetorical framing are too muscular for them to roll over for coddled, sneering Bay Area pissants. That’s the thing about politics: there’s no monopoly on bad faith. It’s a free market and a free-for-all, not an exclusive franchising opportunity.

Nob Hill Dreamboat’s latest public health order, for the targeted closure of the beaches in Orange County, looks petty and reckless as boss moves go, and yet somehow even that seems refreshingly aboveboard compared to the party standard. Of course, derelict local officials could explain more than a bit of it. What are we going to hear next? Posh cunts in Aliso Viejo refusing to vaccinate their children? In any event, this is not a needle a dipshit can thread. We’re talking about locals whose fathas fawt the Second Wooled Waw, and now we’re telling them that it’s no weekend for a Shaw trip? Eyy, that won’t do, Billy!

Drop the accent and see how it plays in RSM. It might not go over so great. At least Gavin carries himself like a big boy. He doesn’t show up on Instagram looking like, oh, shit, we’re late getting Granny her Xanny. The thing about some of these other coastal elites is that there’s so much ocean for them to enjoy and yet so much of them safely on land, failing to enjoy it. As Guy Hagi says, see you out in the Pacific!

Goodness, that was not an aloha thing to say about a national matron just because she wants us obsequiously serving her for a pittance or, better, dead. We really shouldn’t indulge our minds with such juicy disturbances, yeah? To be fair, Hawaii has a ridiculously passive-aggressive name for its local travelers’ aid outfit, the Visitor Aloha Society of Hawaii, whose latest deal is to ship your haole ass back to the mainland on the company dime if you show up without the money for a fortnight of lodging or the inclination to stay put in that which you’ve booked.

I hate to say it, but it makes more sense than some of the federalism we’ve got in the other 49.

Ah well, I reckon we have a fun summer coming. To paraphrase Louis Uccelini, you may not be ready to shred that shit, but that shit is always ready to shred you. It also applies to Yaakov Smirnoff and politics. The upshot of these nearly six thousand words, then, is that we’ll just have to wait and see what happens when it’s time to head to the beach, baby, beach, baby, there on the sand, from July to the end of September, when, God willing, the rains will at last return.

That cold detachment

Eyyy, Fancy Nancy, she like a de gelati, #EY! And Mamma Mia, it is a slimy Isa Cream!

We can hardly even score a fun Eye Tie for these gigs. We’ve got Schumer, and we’ve got Cuomo–two of them, Christ–and fucka me Chucka, dats all we gots. Lawdy Mista Rosavelta, dissa coulda beaner D’Abilli Joel, but day plane, Frankie, day plane.

Some accuse Bernard of the Brothers of carpetbagging. I figure that move to Vermont was just cultural assortation. It’s never the aggro Money Jews who move north from the city full-time; it’s the principled Book Jews, the ones who are from the Outer Boroughs and aren’t ashamed of it, and by Bob Moses that train was leaving the freshly remodeled Penn Station with or without him.

We might figure there’d be some old-line Genovese or Turiners in North Beach, maybe even some Arab Southerners in the Excelsior or what have we, who could have claimed that wop slot first. We’d figure wrong. A little upwardly mobile Irish something-something happened to Moscone and Milk back at the zenith of the Great Compression, and you can betcher racially ambiguous Wasilla ass we didn’t get one of the good Jews out of that deal, either.

Look, I’m not up on my high horse here grandstanding about how I’m a cracker crossbreed Catholic. That’s for the Baltimore mayor’s daughter to do, As An Italian. So was Gramsci, bitch.

The Pelosi Ice Cream Controversy is petty, but it’s revealing. The Marie Antoinette energy is strong in that one. The whole episode is emblematic of postmodern American politics as celebrity.  These aren’t public servants; they’re celebrity divas. The public service they do perform is incidental to their privilege. They have to perform some local constituent services to hold their seats, because at some point even their cult diehards will start to wonder what the hell they’re doing on Capitol Hill if they don’t, but in the grand scheme we’re all constituents of Congress, and as guardians of the national commonweal most of them, Nancy Pelosi included, are disastrous.

It stands out that these crooks never socialize with anybody who understands how ordinary Americans live or has the courage to tell them. It’s of a piece with the unmooring from reality of our elites across the board. The people behind our television entertainment have little ability to tell the stories of ordinary Americans and practically none to design a sitcom set resembling an average American house or neighborhood. Newspaper reporters and staffers in the seats of our governments come more and more from the upper middle and upper classes. Elected officials at the state level are consistently statistically or functionally multimillionaires; at the federal level they’re either multimillionaires who live and think like centimillionaires or centimillionaires who live and think like billionaires.

Christopher Lasch’s revolt of the elites framework was overwrought in its emphasis on the secular liberalism of the upstart elites rising in the late midcentury; loud religious piety and cultural conservatism have long been more of a middle- to upper-middle-class hobbyhorse than generally framed for normcore consumption, and less of a fundamental value set of the lower classes, although the regional and local nuances are worth keeping in mind. Lasch’s overarching model, however, wasn’t just perceptive. It was prescient. This was especially true of the socioeconomic aspects of his framework, which he sketched out ably, although lightly and as part of a distracting effort to integrate them into a grand model of decadence, alienation from workaday life, and hardening arrogance.

The guy had his odd fixations, but he was a fucking prophet. He still is, really. There is simply no way that a rich, pampered socialite like Nancy Pelosi will allow her descendants to plummet into the mere middle class in her lifetime, unless they seek out a middling station of life and refuse her help. A descent into the lower class is something that would take them a heroic effort. Even if they choose to live frugally and shabbily, their parents and grandparents will be there to bail them out of the legal consequences of any addictions they indulge, or at the very least to blunt the ill effects. They know how to find top-notch criminal defense attorneys and can easily afford legal fees. They’re able and generally willing to bribe police departments and prosecutors’ offices. They keep and curate their blackmail files. Maybe the Chief is a sexual deviant who studied for his psych exams; a fellow couldn’t brame him for that. Maybe the DA is a psychopath who abuses her help. To be clear, this is not the Bill Scott energy, but that is the Kamala Harris energy. Remember, Dick Pic Tony dindu nun wah Denny Dundiddly dun. As far as we know, in any event. No homo, we just like to roll around on the mat and grab our fellows’ asses, but Carolina Jailbait knew his deal when she reached out to him, here, , On Line. They say Diddlin’ Dennis did it to straight dudes, too, though. Put it in, Coach!

This is just a fun scenic detour, a Taconic State Parkway of perversion. Listen, young lady, you shouldn’t let just any old guy run his Taconic peak down your professionally mowed parkway. I don’t figure it was a good idea to publish that, but it was an idea. Most of y’all are still stopping by for Dubai Porta Potty and the Levinian dude looks like a lady of the uncanny valley shit, right? Just thot I’d check. The sex is always more fun than the budgeting, but that’s just for us little people, ain’t it, Leona. Fancy Nancy, that girl can budget. It’s easier with reserves and credit lines. $190k down the drain for poker, or maybe to pay to poke her, or for a gentleman to powder his nose, or for shit even I am of no mind to mention, or, goodness, it must have been for the National Pastime, was no problem for Brett Michael. They’ve got friends. They’ve got associates.

They get their parents or family cronies to set them up with patent sinecures on command. The sky’s the limit on the bullshit make-work. NBC paid Chelsea Clinton a “salary” on the order of half a million dollars to show up at the office if she felt like it and pretend that she was employable. She quit this job to do “charitable” and other foundation “work” and get brownnosed by family scholars on retainer to reassure her that she knows all about executive function and therefore isn’t a useless idiot.

There’s a litany of repulsively sleazy grifts the Trump family organization has run–for a general hint, consider that they’re openly described as a family organization–but reestablishing Florentine Renaissance family patronage in the arts for the degraded purpose of making the family regressions to the mean sound educated is not one of them. Eric Trump’s selling points do not include the transcendence of mental retardation.

A survey of twenty-first century academia and publishing indicates that it’s impossible to make a living as a reputable writer or academic in the humanities, the arts, or the soft sciences, but there are depressingly numerous openings in marketing, including those devoted to burnishing the reputations of politically connected dimwits as intellectual visionaries. Kissing Chelsea’s ass in the name of intellectual vigor is night-and-day worse, intellectually, than anything Steve Bannon has done as a public intellectual adjacent to political power. Bannon is a dissipated alcoholic polymath who took the Third Successive Mr. Jefferson Beauregard Secessions on as his political fighter, then the Oaf of Office, and before long got turfed out, on the path of so many colleagues, for crossing his messy bitch from Queens who lives for drama. Nothing But Respect For A Thick Moist One. These guys are wrecks, but against the odds they’re humble wrecks.

Joe Biden has a different but even worse liability. He has himself a Hunter problem. There’s old Joe, wouldja just look at him, doing the yeoman wonk’s work for his humble Senator’s salary, living in his corrupt yet inexpensive second First State, keeping his net worth down, and well shucks, don’tcha know, his boy got discharged from the service over drugs and picked up a job on the board of a foreign oil company. The whiff wafting off this scene sticks. The Democrats spent four decades cultivating Uncle Joe and his colleagues as serious, upstanding technocrats, and now, as it emerges by the week that their golden boy of the year is not only a handsy hair-sniffer and reactionary extremist but also apparently a rapist and progressively senile, they’re whining at the top of their lungs that it’s unfair. It’s unfair for Trump to get a pass for doing the same shit. It’s unfair for Trump to hypocritically accuse Biden of doing the same sleazy and predatory things he’s done himself.

Beanbag come to mind as a wholesome, fair game. Anybody who’s so much as observed Capitol Hill as a rank amateur should know better than to expect one of the most boisterously outrageous celebrities in the country to go easy on a scandal-plagued opponent who is actively angering a good half or more of his own party’s nominal coalition by being a reactionary ratfucker and is truly losing his damn mind in real time. Trump’s key tactical strength here isn’t that he’s shameless, but that he’s shrewd and astute. The shrill charges of hypocrisy ring hollow. The Trumps and their Business Success Associates relish their own corruption. Burisma? Of course I would have put Junior or my hot daughter or the blond retard on the board; we were just busy with a bunch of other scams. It isn’t the hustle the Donald disrespects; it’s the whiny hypocrisy, the nerve of the sleazeballs opposite him to cry out for the mods to stop him from doing the shit they’re doing, too.

Of course the Democrats aren’t actually interested in playing beanbag for a living. They’re dirty as hell, and they have the nerve to add insult to injury by bitching and moaning about how they keep getting done dirty. We hear endless scolding about how Trump is unqualified for his office. Everyone sniveling about that needs to shut up and read the Constitution. Donald John Trump was a natural-born citizen over the age of 35 at the time of his inauguration. He’s full-stop 100% qualified. What the Democrats actually mean is that they dislike him. They resent him for not paying his dues inside the Beltway. They resent him for not kissing the rings, i.e., for exactly the shit that ordinary voters in the provinces cannot fucking stand and exactly the shit the candidates pandering to them make a show of not doing.

As we’ve reviewed before, too extensively, the Democrats had copious grounds, as they say in Detroit, to impeach the motherfucker, but instead of making a strong case proving that he was heinous, they slow-walked the process, then got horny for rules and droned on about a mishmash of incomprehensible diplomatic points of order having to do with foreign lands where our government was unwisely entangled. James Madison isn’t here to chide them for reverting to a lower old-country parliamentary threshold for shitcanning the bastard, or to have his fellow human beings whipped to death for being too slow picking tobacco. They could have told him, all right, asshole, you’ve been inciting pogroms and sending people into our chambers to shit on us, and you’re leaving town. Go to your branded hotel down the street if you want, but you’re evicted. You’re #fired.

It would have been muscular, mature, and sensible. Of course they fucking didn’t do it.

Unless they change horses midcharge–another thing that might well make too much sense to consider–we’re only in the early stages of watching that hated oaf curbstomp their new mush-for-brains standardbearer. More assuredly than that we’ve got at least another seven months of sputtering grievances about how the Party is being unfairly denied the very things it has done everything in its power not to earn. The assholes can’t help themselves. They just have to shit on core constituencies for being uppity and scream at them, demanding their votes.

Fool I ain’t in dawg. The constant weaponization of privilege wore out its novelty years ago. There’s no shortage of us who are terminally sick of hearing from ungodly rich thieves and parasitic sinecure holders that we have to check our privilege while we live, out of sheer necessity, in some version or other of the real world. Is it possible to live at the top of Divisadero, own a large vineyard on prime Napa Valley bottomland, and not be a shithead?

Democratic Party politics are a scheme for posh miserable cunts to gaslight their socioeconomic inferiors into indulging in psychotic parasocial relationships with treacherous elected officials. That was the point of the ice cream horseshit. Fancy Nancy and Gropey Joe have known each other in real life for decades, and they still carry on a bizarre parasocial relationship over Twitter, pour l’encouragement des autres. They probably have their People do the grunt work (Trump does much of his own poasting), but that’s beside the point. Any reputable politician who saw that kind of belittling Marie Antoinette preening on an official campaign channel would fire the comms staffer who posted it.

The Democratic Party has pushed its way into a state of decadence and hubris so extreme that Bernie Sanders was its only viable candidate for the presidency who lived at all deeply in the real world. Warren came close, depending on what we’re calling close. The clown car hangers-on who managed to live likewise abroad from the Land of Make-Believe were a strange bunch: the steady-as-she-goes normcore Castro, the postmodern economics nerd Yang, the deceptively astute activist moneybags Steyer (who had actually put in serious ground work, in person, in South Carolina, for years), the unabashedly syncretistic spiritual guide Williamson, opening for us all the portal into an astral overworld we dared not imagine. She said it herself: we’re uncomfortable here because we’re not from here. It just goes to show, we never know who will crash in from the New Age book circuit out of the blue and effortlessly explain Washington.

The rest of them are cultists who project their rank cultism onto Bernie and his bros of all sexes. They expect us to relate to them because they keep expensive ice cream in extremely expensive freezers. Bitch who the hell is us? The fuck do these supercilious scumbags have in common with us, and what in God’s name do they have to offer us? Nancy’s record is really bad, and Joe’s is atrocious. Do they seriously think that posting that twee, preening, self-congratulatory shit about one another’s excellent domestic taste makes it a good time to have a neck?

Leaving that aside in the basket (how deplorable!), their domain is what might be called war by other means. What, pray tell, is it good for? Not a hell of a lot, it seems, the way they’re waging it. It is categorically, statistcally false that not voting is a privilege, or that voting third-party is a privilege. Fuck outta here. The median voter hardly ever votes. Maybe 1% of Americans could say who Jill Stein is. Once again, they mean something ridiculously different. They mean that it’s a privilege, but really an offense, not to vote as they dictate. How does that fucking work? It takes some combination of high ascribed class and high attained class to be exposed to their talking points in the first place; the poor figure they’re all bastards anyway, except for Bernie. We like Uncle Bernie. Is it a privilege not to drink Shoko Asahara’s bathwater? He surrounded himself with medical doctors and (why am I not surprised?) chemists and engineers, and he charged by the jar, so I don’t think so.

The freak with the rallies and the shouting fits and the inept spray-on tan and the empire of resort properties and wearable merch branded in his own family name is running the LESS cultlike presidential campaign. The loudmouthed conservative is tacking to the left of the loudmothed liberal, as he’s been doing on the spur of the moment for his entire career as a serious politician. What am I supposed to believe: the pronouncements of professional idiots who keep getting it totally wrong, or my own lying eyes? These are parochial concerns for the Parish of One, perhaps, but the average dipshit knows that the personal is the political. Bougie Democrats and the political types catering to them sure know how to make things that aren’t even about them personal, just as much as they know how to cause gratuitous personal offense to downwardly mobile losers like me. It’s that cult programming again. Scientology doesn’t appreciate it when members break out of the compound, either. Shoko doesn’t want the supplicants demanding better than boiled vegetables. Sarinday, in the park, I think it was the Cough of Oh My, here comes that gassy day feeling again.

You float?

By the way, and I am not imagining this or bluffing, I am on the moderate end of escapees from the Democratic Rez. I’ve been homeless, and I’ve nearly been the victim of domestic violence, but there’s a whole world of hurt out there that I haven’t suffered, and I’m grateful. To wax rhretorical and passive-aggressive, do yinz want me voting against your bullshit politicians, or should I not vote at all? I’m residually clubbable enough, and whatever else, to still believe in electoral politics, in fact, fiercely so. I’m not a Bernie-or-bust diehard, either: I’ve been listening to some of the daily broadcasts of the Gavin Gabbin’, the discourses about old African proverbs relevant to the State, not only of California, and as much as I love to fun the guy, if they swap Nob Hill Dreamboat in for First State Brain Pudding, I’ll be on board. Believe me, I am not siding with Trump because I don’t want to cut the bullshit, but because I do.

This is a specific preference. GTFO with the Blue No Matter Who extortion. Christ alive, can these asshats not recognize a cult tactic when they’re swinging it around like LBJ’s schlong? I suppose [Sean Connery voish] the firscht rule of Shite Club izh shy lensch, but some of these cases may actually be too stupid to see what they’re doing. The real world is not their scene. It may well be easier, for the dissociative, to disscociate from the moral horrors facilitating their own secure, luxurious lives.

It’s striking that so many of the Blue No Matter Who scolds, as well as so many of the upmarket core MAGA crowd, presume it right and just that a bottomless servant class exists to materialize at their command out of the ether to wait on them, then vanish back into thin air upon the completion of their appointed tasks, like so many ghosts. Like hell am I the privileged one in this scenario; I don’t use those platforms. I’ve never signed up. Then there’s the homelessness crisis, which intersects with the gig economy in a pretty big way, and which Bougiekistan refuses to confront. Gavin seems to care, but Nancy? Lol. Kamala? We’ve seen what she does to prisoners, another disproportionately homeless group. Think of it as a rapid rehousing program.

San Franciscans and Californians keep these creeps in power because they terrorize the poor. Even Newsom is too politic to rock the boat enough for them to notice without a compelling cause. This, I fear, is the horror show Democratic strategists are getting at when they insist on reaching out to disaffected suburban Republicans. Kamala Harris is a Deukmejian-Wilson Republican minus the charm, but the property owners around here have gotten all squeamish about out Republicans, so they flee for protection to the closet cases.

It’s even grosser. Deukmejian and Wilson were vicious, but they were grown-ups. They were honest about what they were selling. A lot of it was death and terror, but they weren’t squirrelly. The heavily Democratic extreme right in California today is too disingenuous, for the most part, to admit that it despises the poor, the incarcerated, and the otherwise marginalized. We’re good liberals, you see. That’s why we vote for the great incoherent liberalism of London Breed, the greater incoherence of Fancy Nancy and DiFi, whatever the hell other than criminal aggression explains Ernesto Olivares, and the incomprehensible incoherence of Kamala Harris. The last two are cops, and the former got a uniform for his trouble.

If Democratic electorates are voting for these creeps and sleazeballs, that says something about the Democratic Party and its voters. It fits together too snugly with the decadent, morally insenate antics of YouTubers in Venice Beach and the pathetic dipshit proposal to win back the US House by appealing to Panera Democrats. Straight from the mouth of National Oracle Crystal Harris: fun stuff for me, adult stuff for thee. Sitting around in Panera and posting about masturbatory West Wing fantasies on a laptop? Fun stuff. Grance halls? Union halls? Factory floors? Picket lines? Not fun stuff. Driving for Uber, as opposed to telling others to drive for Uber? Hell no.

Crystal barely knew who Barack Obama was when Hef took her along to chat with Larry King, and she’s one of the better Harrises.

I can’t imagine why they keep getting thumped at the polls. Shucks, they’re all just Mr. Smith going to Washington, to militate for the stupidest, blindest, prissiest, most disingenuous aristocratic wannabes on the planet. Let’s go scare up some amoral social climbers in Alpharetta and Granite Bay and wherever and see if they wouldn’t rather vote for a team of perennial losers instead. Once we’ve done that, let’s go scream bloody murder at college-educated dead-enders with six-figure debt loads and retail jobs about how they’re apostates.

Eyy, signora, maybe there’s a reason why we ain’t a so heppy widda Mista Giuseppe, #EY! My bad: we’re respectable, devout Italian Catholics. Kyrie eleison from the Geary Expressway to Highway 29 all the godforsaken live-long night.

All of a sudden all these things become unnecessary

Let’s name some of them, bearing in mind the local and factional caveats and other stipulations, but nevertheless, let us name a few, just from memory:



–Crosstown bus fare;

–Sitting in a tollbooth all the live-long day;

–Office jobs;

–3-1-1 quart Ziploc horseshit at TSA checkpoints;

–Business air travel;

–Winery tasting rooms;

–Tendentious objections to zero-barrier immediate rehousing of the homeless;


–Going to school;

–The sacrosanct quadrennial in-person voting pilgrimage;

–Constantly jumping through hoops for medical care;

–Moral hazard whining about UBI disbursements.

Yang Gang, you up?

It makes a constituent wonder whether any of these things were ever necessary, and of course they weren’t. We discover, to the surprise of our worst public intellectuals, that there are still a number of very necessary things: hospitals, groceries, auto supply stores, gas stations, farms. Our radio stations are still on the air; some of us still listen to them entirely too much, but Fat Cracka ain’t even tryna resist DJ Beth Holland Huizenga. The radio: why yes, Mr. Osgood, I will see you on it.

If you’re paying attention, you noticed that the examples just listed are not like those listed at the top. It hardly takes any attention to know, on some level or other, that the former list covers much of what is officially misconstrued as the American economy. Dear God, I fucking thought the last half of that sentence in the Kai Ryssdal voice. Remember what I said about too much radio, kids? That’s fine; I don’t exactly myself. All the same, NPR is like the Tenderloin: you can learn interesting things there. For one, this new dispensation has at once home-confined and spatially liberated Brian Wattttt. For another, it has freed up seats on BARTTTT.

Cut me a break; I’m not listening to Randol White People these days. Watt’s going on with that, Devin. We ought to wonder, though, what it means that traffic and ridership are down 80-90% through multiple notorious bottlenecks, with maybe a 10% drop in total capacity for immediate provisioning of necessities and a stark, sudden improvement in provisioning for certain chronically vulnerable demographics.

There’s an old unholy trinity to describe what went away, old in the same sense as prestressed jeans: waste, fraud, and inefficiency. This term of art is traditionally deployed, in the ancient and venerable connservative tradition of making shit up, as a slur against the government. Mainly it’s used against the parts that work well, such as Amtrak and the Post Office, and withheld to spare those that don’t, such as the armed forces and what we fancy the criminal justice system.

In our current state of emergency, this trinity transforms from scurrilous agitprop to helpful descriptor. Safeway is still operating, frantically. The dense archipelago of cube farms whose inmates were free to sit around repeating what she said as variable combinations of personal entertainment, foreplay, and sexual harassment mostly are not. I keep shouting it into the void: it speaks volumes that The Office is so prominent and popular as an eminently relatable satire of our lives (Who the hell is us? What is this? Bethel Park my fat white Lebanese ass) and not as a serialized work of transfixing Faulknerian estapism, a story in the same broad genre as novels about unemployable paranoiacs who hoard trash.

None of that is what a reasonable observer would call a workplace. I once chatted with a barely solvent flimflammer with a drinking problem who was theoretically selling insurance by day and less theoretically dating a dentist’s widow and the same dentist’s daughter by night. To his gushing amazement, he and I knew the same community-trust retard from Plymouth-Whitemarsh, a smelly fat fiftysomething who liked to go poolside and clumsily hit on thots. The guy was better at storytelling and getting that dentist’s sloppy seconds than he was at sales, but he was way too well-behaved and well-meaning to keep Jim, Pam, or for fuck’s sake Michael company. Meanwhile I hear nine-to-five normies saying shit like, oh my goodness, anyone who’s worked in an office can relate to that show. Huh? Good God, y’all, it’s no wonder we leave the getting shit done to China.

Git ‘er done. Say, I believe that’s what Mr. Jefferson barked at his fellow Virginians.

Emergency or not, we’re inevitably stuck on a timeline in which the toxic racialization of work and play pervades our lives. I get my fix through–what the hell else?–NPR. A fruit grower in Smithsburg, Maryland is the latest whiny landowner to go on the record with his grievances about how he had to charter a van to drive an eight-man beaner crew all the way up from Monterrey with the same focus a caravanner would need to get across the Nullarbor Plain and through the quarantine station at the state line on fumes by 1:30 pm sharp. Smithsburg is just across Camp David from Thurmont, where I insist on a drive-by pilgrimage to a community of some of my favorite peach trees whenever I’m solo and mobile in Maryland.

One ridge over from the Catoctin Furnaces and that son of a bitch was on the radio to piss and moan about how Yanqui never does him a damn thing. These sob stories always seem to feature enrolled members of the Wypipo Nation complaining about their fellow tribesmen. The lib owners of our great land love to titter about this hypocrisy and self-loathing, but it is categorically little to nothing of the sort. Lazy Americans, in these cases (Many Such!), are Americans who don’t own land. This landless refuse is commonly denigrated as white trash, explicitly or more often implicitly, or alternately as the coddled affluent, to distinguish this shitcannable mass from the farm owners defaming them, who are in no way proudly living off the avails of disposible Mexican reserve army labor.

This is at first blush a downhome pastime down at the corner of movement conservatism and liberal wokescolding, but it’s more than that. Complaining about lazy Americans under a whitening gloss, as opposed to the OJ-ready darkening gloss so cherished by Cliven Bundy on his trips to North Las Vegas, is a great way to ward off the idpol scolds on the cultural left, but it’s also a great way to avoid drawing unwanted direct attention from, say, Baltimore City’s unemployed. Too much frankness might cause them to notice that they’re in the same deplorable basket as the average Great Value Catoctin Cracker, and that would be way too reminiscent of an integrated Depression-era crab cannery union on the Eastern Shore. For God’s sake, boys, you don’t tell them that the steelworkers had an integrated local in Birmingham years before anyone out of state had heard of Edmund Pettis. We put the Ashokan Farewell fiddle track on the turntable and reenact Antietam, but we don’t do any of that nostalgic shit for Bacon’s Rebellion: insufficiently recent, perhaps, but certainly too unpleasant.

Speaking of the panda bear poor, guess who’s stuck manning the groceries this month. Asian-Americans are reported to have the highest rate of work-from-home capability, albeit still under 40%, much lower than the American press corps today assumes, and we aren’t talking about Camobians or Laotians here lol. The Onion ran an article years ago about how more and more Asians were defying stereotypes by being lazy and poor, just to show that outfits of its class don’t hire writers out of Fresno or Elk Grove. Any of these insipidly inspirational ethnic narratives is prone to run violently aground, and those who have the stomach to watch are in for some reliable entertainment, but the navelgazing, inflammatory multicultural horseshit is a red herring as much as it is a direct outburst of culture. The ethnic festival genre is a useful veal pen for the less competent and ruthless surplus elites our diseased apparatus of social reproduction keeps shitting out into the job market. The money and prestige aren’t what’s on offer in “consulting” or in i-banking, as a rule, but they’re adequate to forestall the working-class agitation that the wingnut welfare cases across the aisle conflate with Joseph Stalin and Ebonics, under the categorical umbrella of The Left.

It’s worth reiterating here, for the vast majority of pundits and think tank sinecurists who can’t fathom anything so self-evident, that American academia is NOT part of the left. Oberlin is a fucking sideshow. That shithead dean from Tisch who livestreamed herself dancing to REM in front of hundreds of highly educated, downwardly mobile witnesses studying under her authority, by way of refusing to refund their prorated tuition and fees for the cancelled balance of the semester, is the actual revealed moral center of the postmodern American academy. Larry, Jerry, Joe, and Jim worked at right-wing juggernauts. So many states, so few coaching methods! All we have to do is compare how many Americans watch NCAA football or–good riddance for once–March Madness to the audience for the published works of the academic divisions of the academy.

Think about that: we have to fucking specify that these academic institutions have academic operations somewhere in the back of the house. Our young people aren’t being brainwashed by this cabal of hopelessly tweedy dorks. Maybe it in fact exists as a movement. Who fucking cares? Nebraska Coeds exerts more cultural influence.

We may not have sports in our time, but, as always, it’s time for #SPORTS! Hollywood shysters like Harvey, Woody, and Roman notwithstanding, and assuming that the arts scene is credibly liberal (i.e., ignoring most of the blockbuster filth it releases), the lion’s share of institutionally facilitated abuse in the United States seems to arise on the right: churches, jails, Jungleland, organized athletics, Scouting. Chesterfield my leg, but usually not in the theater!

Or the theatre! Even assuming that repertory theat[e]r[e] is run exclusively by sex pests, there just aren’t that many theater kids. Nobody watches that stuff. A couple of years ago I dropped a ten spot, I think it was, on a repertory production of Oklahoma at Lebanon High School. A buddy from the berry patch was in the pit orchestra. It fucking whipped. This is the same institution of what we’re encouraged to call education where, if you go out back under the bleachers, they’re not gay, but $20 is $20. I could have brought a date, or I could have bought a date. As my late Kansas State alumni dependent grandmother always said, as a business school graduate herself, shucks.

It’s truly providential that the 2020 Summer Olympic Games have been cancelled. Postponed, delayed: I don’t give a shit; we’ve got a reprieve for a minute. As bullshit economic models go, wholesale intercontinental air travel for the aggrandizement of Bob Costas’s sense of purpose in our world is a whopper. Like every other skybox grandstander you or I could name from the boob tube, only more so, that pompous gasbag has netted more than enough ad revenue distributions to retire to a poolside bar or a squash court or whatever. These are the same games under whose auspices Matt Lauer committed a forcible rape while on assignment in Russia. NBC paid that guy meaninglessly huge amounts of money, he still worked himself like an Amish plowhorse, and he still raped subordinates instead of hiring his pick of working girls. This is of course the same international celebration of athletic greatness that hosted and served as the blessed channel of Bela, Marta, and Lawrence of the Labia. It’s the premier international excuse for eminent domain overreach, construction cost overruns, and white elephant featherbedding. Governments fight each other for this excuse to waste their constituents’ tax payments on lavish receptions for objectively useless foreign entertainers.

This is a beast I don’t mind seeing starved. Whatever national government is the most slickly, aggressively crooked and self-promoting wins the honor of dropping billions of dollars on theoretically reusable flagship venues built expressly to reconvene a quadrennial international exposition on the premise that any given sovereign nation is home to up to a hundred citizens whose accomplishments are remarkable enough to celebrate, but that certainly most of these elite athletes and their teams will fly home officially judged losers, duly humiliated before the world’s television spectators, in the short due course of time.

The cancellation of this spectacle is traditionally inspired by war, but pestilence will do. The Japanese Olympic Committee rode that wave all the way into the Fukushima seawall. I’m just saying, they know construction; they keep it safe. National pride was on the line. A couple thousand of the most pathologically competitive freaks on the face of the earth, earnest young things who had scheduled years of intensive training to optimize their competition performance down to the hour, stood to be heartbroken by, say, the organizers over in the sweet home of New Chernobyl noticing with rising alarm that their country was most prominently in the interational news for having a death ship quarantined in Yokohama Harbor. It took weeks of bitterly tenacious optimism in the face of a proliferating global health crisis for these fools to finally Christopher cross over from pigheaded boosterism to the minimal prudence of, you know, not going through with that.

The international camaraderie of sport can, in fact, wait until a safer time. How bow dah. This whole story is a sensible one to tell me, the slow-moving widebody from the no-cut high school cross-country team; surely these are all well-adjusted young women and men with good reasons for subordinating themselves to the likes of Nassar and the Karolyis. These are the role models we need for our impressionable children. These ceremonies and competitions are a prudent and compelling use of public funds.

I’m General Stroganoff, and you won’t believe what’s for dinner. Hint: it’s a lil sumpin I’ve got with the IOC. Honestly, there is no suitable time to get back up on that earnest bullshit, but as I said, we’ve currently got ourselves a breather, a grace for which we should all, in these contagious times, give thanks.

It gets even worse than the waste and public corruption of the Olympics. Qatar is Shanghaiing slaves to build its World Cup stadia. On the sunny side, though, and you’ll like this one, Chester, football is a sport whose players are constantly getting “injured.” That is precisely the respect international competitive sports deserve. Sepp Blatter is just what happens when the simulation overheats.

Different football, Hernandez.

Some of us are never ready for some. It’s past time, then, for there to be less of the worst of that crap. We are actually, if haltingly, getting back to basics. We’re honest to God cutting hunks of bullshit out of our lives and our societies. At long last we’re moving beyond the shady, questioable minimalist preening of Marie Kondo and all the #VanLife and tiny home influencer asshats. A drive-in storage unit around the bend from the clapboard church gun shop in Yelm stacked to the ceiling with old clothes and blankets was never our true clutter. That old soldier living in the woods out past Fort Wainwright with a barn whose second floor was on the verge of structural collapse from all the junk–the ornery shut-in sourdough who totally had a buddy lined up to buy this truck here, and another guy he knew lined up to buy that truck over there, just gimme another day or two–that gentleman, our broadcast entertainment, led a mentally clearer life than many Americans. Most of the people gawking at him from Outside (your facility carry that show, Rollins?) weren’t living any more purposefully than that. Why else were we watching Hoarders? That crusty geezer, at least his clutter had some resale value.

I said SOME, now.

New contagions emerge from Fort Detrick–goodness, I mean from the wet markets of Wuhan. New heroes rise up unexpectedly from the dust, flawed heroes and yet real ones. Nevada supported itself for decades through what came to be known, quite charitably, as gaming. The authorities did not a thing to regulate it, save some underage decoy stings and weights-and-measures checks. Then Steve Sisolak decreed the new economy. Like, hey, guys, we’re making some changes. You can move into the no economy, and many of you in Goldfield already have, but casinos? Game over, Lansky. We’re whole-ass Doctrines and Covenants quitting that shit, cold turkey, right here, right now.

That was it. Decades of cultural inertia and public corruption straight down the Thomas Crapper, in the name of public health. Tens of thousands of Nevadans woke up with the fresh opportunity to do something honest for a living, in many cases by honestly doing nothing. The hell else were they gonna do? This is the state where an active gold mine on the outskirts of town wasn’t enough to prevent Armpit Days. This isn’t a population chomping at the bit for an honest mode of living.

It’s the kind of bold move that gets the constituents antsy, and there’s bad karma to be had in gloating about thousands of line workers losing their means of support and the daily structure of their lives upon the sudden closure of the crooked business until this month employing them. The serendipity of Sisolak’s order, however, had nothing to do with trashing the keystone of Nevada’s formal economy and moving its workers’ cheese. The governor’s master stroke, rather, was to dramatically wash away all the cultural detritus surrounding Nevada’s storied place in American gaming, like so much winter trash at last floating inexorably down to the Indian fishing grounds with the alpine spring thaw, and humble the Chamber of Commerce boosters for the first time in their lives. These, you see, are the cheese movers, not the cheese chasers. Shoe don’t fit so great on the other foot.

It’s a new day in a brave new world indeed for this seedy cast of characters. Their firewall of horseshit about what makes Nevada Nevada is gone, and they aren’t the one with the authority to invite it back home. They aren’t used to not calling the shots. A teeming scrum of shysters is moping around the Chamber offices, impotently moaning, buh buh buh Governor, this is our folkway! We already have the Reed Rez out in Searchlight. We have our Napoleonclaves for the hardliners. Besides, we all know why we get visitors from Utah. If they wanted to enjoy a plate of jello salad and an invigorating glass of milk, they’d stay in American Fork. Oscar Goodman is our spirit animal! We’re, like, culturally Italian Catholic, like Mr. Martini from that retarded Frank Capra Christmas flick!

It’s a cool story. So is the one about what the working girl said to her client back in Ol’ Virginia City: “No, Father, you’re taking a bath first.”

Don’t look at me. Our popular fiction is about wizards and shit.

This new dispensation is, alas, only a partial cleasing, an incomplete Releasing of the Bullshit. Government, that name for the things we choose to do together, continues to do much to and awfully little for the homeless. Perhaps we aren’t together with them, however we choose to define any of that. There are now social distancing bums’ squares painted on a parking lot in Las Vegas, beneath empty hotel rooms with windows illuminated in a heart. #VegasStrong, you shitty loser. The poor in general, it seems, aren’t exactly part of us, either, especially for the Democrats. Chuck and Nancy are means-testing pissants, and Josh Hawley is a welfare liberal now: truly a horseshoe theory in which the horseshoe goes straight into the political observer’s head. Shh, don’t tell the Washington press corps; they’ll have strokes. As I keep saying, Trump hardly even has to try to be left-liberal; all he has to do is get bored and own the libs.

Mainstream American culture, politics, and policy are so hostile to the poor that these weak, partial, still slow reforms are watershed moments. Gavin Newsom and London Breed talking about not just talking about doing something for the homeless is, by the standards prevailing prior to this crisis, active. Decisive. Effective. I understand Nob Hill Dreamboat and Garcetti and the gang are actually kind of doing something here, fitfully and ever more belatedly. It might be, as ever, the hour to show another month of patience for the failure of one of the wealthiest societies in history to get one’s sorry ass into a decent budget apartment. Alternately, it might be an outrage that it took a discreetly homeless Panera employee five minutes to correct one’s modestly botched rush order.

We have things to do and places to be and grievances to air, unless, of course, we don’t. We see California’s officials, all in all a reputable and responsible lot compared to the domestic alternatives, only timidly dipping their toes into the water of eminent domain. Granted, we’re talking about basic constituent services here, and this is no time to build a ballpark, but, say, that’s the whole fucking point: we have a plague on, and this is no time to build a ballpark.

That’s the damn rub. Even in crisis old habits don’t die easy. Process-oriented stakeholder-responsive processes respond to the stakeholders. If that sounds solipsistic, it’s because it’s solipsistic. If you don’t like holding your own stake, ask Beavis if he’d mind. Hehheh hehheh. The process responds to those who force their way to the table and lay it right out there, just like LBJ.

That is, property owners. Garcetti, Breed, Nob Hill Dreamboat: these characters are too bashful not to ask the owners for permission and then wait for it, and wait, and wait. Asking permission of the tens of thousands of constituents they continue to abandon to chaos, squalor, and mortal danger would be a bridge too far.

It might, then, be time to rock straight over London’s head. Shit, I like her and mostly trust her, and it’s a surreal thing to say, but one of the few ways out of this mess is the Wesleyan tradition. Scream like a wild animal at Wynn and the Hiltons and the Marriotts and the ghouls at Blackstone and all the other cocksuckers until they hand over the keys, pending an official determination that the crisis has abated sufficiently to allow a return to normal business. Does this look like an art store?

Besides, eminent domain takings usually include fair market compensation. Again, this is no time to build a ballpark, and since that isn’t what we’re building, we can rest confident that the owners will tolerate nothing less than fair market. It’d be like Trump suddenly “having to” rent rooms to his Secret Service detail. (The Clintons must resent him, having inherited from Mr. Lincoln and the nation only one spare bedroom.) Hey, I don’t have a problem with this. Not at all. I’d like the government to get a bulk discount, but lawyers also clean up large details, and I haven’t been innocent in decades.

Refusing to be an elected accomplice to homicidally antisocial gangland rentier thugs is a process of its own. Cool. We’re definitely being mature and responsible and responsive in these not at all urgent matters. But it’s Saturday night. Let’s get this fucking party started.

Jim Sim on your ass, or not

That’s the thing about the Wesleyan Tradition. It inspires humility. It inspires introspection. It inspires a number of edifying realizations: that there are consequences for behaviors; that yelling like a wild animal is a behavior that might bring consequences; that the Genesis on Western, an art store, not a zoo, might be a bad place to go screaming; that there is, in fact, an outside place, one of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth and, as needed, animal noises, where one may be exiled for not using one’s indoor voice.

Gee. Nobody told Kavanaugh. How bow dah. It’s always some paranoid schizophrenic or shamelessly insolent juvenile delinquent who gets this shit. Brett Michael’s kin and cronies bought him his record. We’re the ones debased enough to call it clean, but they bought it in his youth, and in his maturity (sic) they are now selling it. Do these characters sound crass enough to rely on Reputation Builder? A website? Prole please. The basketball thing, with girls? The legal mentorship, again with girls? As Potter Stewart said, I can’t define barely legal, but I know it when I see it. Justice Kavanaugh certainly knows tit when he sees tit, and Tiger Mom refers young ladies who will ensure that he sees.

We’re operating on some curious premises here. A publicly accused serial sex pest coaching girls’ basketball is innocent behavior. $190,000 in personal debts suddenly and mysteriously repaid were incurred for the love of the National Pastime. An activity Pete Rose might enjoy? Don’t be so cynical; you just hate conservatives. Mark Judge is just a crank with literary pretensions who happens to publish a medley of sex pest appreciation, Houellebecquian dry drunk confessionals about his glory days in high school, and tradcon horseshit about ballroom dancing, and also to have been Brett Kavanaugh’s high school bff turned prospective libel defendant. Catholicism means knowing the names of some parochial girls’ schools nobody beyond MontCo has ever given a shit about and screaming that Protestant girls are treyf. Come out, Virginia, don’t make me wait; you Catholic girls are much too chaste, I might have to rape a prot broad–I mean, Christ, Amy, do I look to your blackout drunk ass like I’d stick it in that frigid WASP, and it’s BEER, you scurrilous piece of shit, and I’ve always enjoyed it legally and responsibly.

As I point out, if anything not often enough, any semiferal high school clique with a star alumnus on the rise and a closet full of skeletons would take one glance at the Mark Judge situation and think, shit, this guy domiciling himself at a UPS Store means we done goofed. Say, Thicke, what rhymes with “Bart, have you goofed yet?” Even after Kavanaugh was rising through the Special Counsel’s Office and the federal bench, neither he nor any of his old boys from Prep took the Mark Judge situation seriously enough to make sure that he they weren’t continuing to give him reasons to out Kavanaugh as a house party rapist with a severe drinking problem. Given that this dude’s high school buddies were so seedy, that he kept the same kind of shit up through college, that he scandalized Ken fucking Starr with the smutty questions he was itching to ask Monica Lewinsky, that he had unsatisfactorily explained debts that vanished all of a sudden, and that as a married man (with a hot wife, jussane) well into middle age he had an infamous Yale law professor pimping her coeds out to him as eye candy–this was Nadia giving Burgess an emergency on-the-job lesson in resting bitch face in the gangland whorehouse-level degraded, and again, the orchestrator was the most controversial law prof in the land after Dersh and maybe John Yoo–given this mesmerizing and yet probably not exhaustive bill of particulars, every one of them as easily exposed as a dong in a dorm room, it seems imprudent not to have set aside in trust, say, a gentleman’s baseball money to move Mark Judge’s downwardly mobile ass into a condo in Harrisburg or something.

I guess I notice this reckless, obnoxiously insouciant arrogance because I’m the Judge analog for a couple of midlevel PMC shitheads now terminally sore that I’m a class traitor, so hurt that I had the nerve to call them out for wanton abuse and ridicule them for being bumptious yuppies. I’m no great fan of Mark Judge (Ballroom dancing? Do you have to fucking WRITE about it?), but Kavanaugh did more than his share to make him relevant. This dude was floundering on the Washington think tank F List, publishing a mishmash of goody-two-shoes Book of Virtues bollocks for homeschooling parents in Loudoun County, rape fantasies, and roman-a-clef teen drinking memoirs, and his most prominent high school classmate threatened to sue him for libel.

We can tell that Kavanaugh, the lawyer of the two, wasn’t thinking straight. Like, okay, Sniffly, the punk maybe made you look kind of bad, but nobody gives a shit about him. Do you really want to draw attention to that loser? And whose ass is gonna catch the worse Irish tan from the sunshine: his, or yours? The other possibility was that Brett Michael was bluffing: sleazy but ethical (applications are down: interested in law school?), but also potentially high-risk: this dude writes for a living, rather like I fill out shit-for-brains fifteen-cent Amtrak Guest Rewards surveys for a living, and he might be interested in writing about how his best friend in high school is now a thin-skinned, litigious legal bigshot who used to join him for gang rapes.

We might expect him, as a lawyer, to heed Ken White’s advice and shut the fuck up. Or we might expect him, as the Honorable Brett Michael Kavanaugh, never to do a thing of the sort. This stupid son of a bitch thought it made sense to threaten to sue an indigent personal enemy of above-average writing skills for publishing harsh but truthful semifictional stories about him that nobody had the interest to read.

To their credit, none of my own Kavanaugh wannabes have threatened to sue me. They probably realize that I’d tell them to get fucked for trying, tell their shithead realtor fathers to go fuck themselves for bankrolling the effort, and sure as hell tell their lawyers to go fuck themselves for taking bogus action or daring to address me as anything but “sir” or “mister.” “Boss” and “dawg” don’t cut it here, cracka. I get wound up sometimes, but when push comes to shove I’m pretty good at flushing the chickens back into the bushes, where they belong.

Yeah, I’m talking about shysters who hold plurality voting shares in Altoona. I don’t feel like recapitulating my beef with these shitty cunts, but I will say that their recalcitrantly vile antics have done much to turn me against provincial elites. If they’re so bigoted against the vulnerable and the subjugated, there’s no damn reason why the rest of us shouldn’t be prejudiced against them.


This, archetypally, is Joe Biden. He’s a provincial elite. He’s a car dealer’s son who got hired by the banks to represent their rotten borough, the same one that celebrates Separation Day (dat one-party consent, tho), and additionally used this elected office to orchestrate militarized segregationist campaigns of repression against vulnerable black constituents. This, of course, is why Obama elevated him to the vice presidency. That man, as the Clintons call him, moved from Hawaii to Chicago to shimmy up the greasy pole, and he was only able to dream of his father. Does he sound like the kind of fool who doesn’t get what makes a honky-ass racist tick? Mocha Haole had his pick of enthusiastic running mates who didn’t mouth off about the “articulate” and have histories of staunch stands against school busing. Joe’s who he chose.

Close variants of Joe Biden’s brand of faux-folksy bullshit are a dime a dozen among America’s mayors, county commissioners, state assemblymen, congressmen, and governors. Their bogosity doesn’t get them ostracized at the Country Club. If it has an effect at all, it’s positive. We flounder under the misconception, strategically orchestrated by right-wing extremists in the rich conservative intellectual tradition of Making Shit Up, that our elites are all egghead blowhards with academic or journalistic sinecures. Why the hell would some contemptuous, unemployable simpleton with impossible forehead architecture concede that the humanities faculty at Oberlin is a veal pen for dissidents? These are shameless liars with a slow seventh-grader’s grasp of political thot. They can’t even tell when their own lying fades into bullshit artistry into delusion. They believe, and some of them truly believe, that the median housing stock in the United States has always been of excellent quality and that the Soviet economy was along the lines of Beria personally horsewhipping factory workers into gulag trains for being too slow riveting Il-62’s together with hand-me-down meat tenderizers.

Biden has always been a vicious scumbag and a grabass, but until a few years ago he had the wits to temper his nastiness with deceptively evil policy acumen. Now that he’s dementing in full public view, he’s reverting to the same old bag of worn-out tricks as any other elite mediocrity from the provinces: grossly disingenuous schmoozing, passive-aggressive sheepdogging, hail-fellow-well-met threats whose veils thin under pressure and then shred, folksy nonsequiturs that could be anything from criminal threats to utter gibberish. This is an exhausting list, but it is not exhaustive. Funny Uncle Joe has the additional grace of being under eighty and already visibly stumbling into Strom Thurmond permanent diaper days, paradoxically exacerbated by his still being ambulatory enough to leave the stove on and walk out into traffic.

They don’t normally try to crown such a shambolic nominee. Or maybe they didn’t. We’re exploring some very weird territory this year. The kingmakers (by some reckonings, Obama himself) wrangled a collection of adequately lucid candidates to drop out all at once and endorse that lead-poisoned jumble of brain worms. Joe wasn’t the only bogusly folksy piece of shit on the stage; he was just the only bogusly folksy piece of shit with aggressive all-day dementia, runaway disinhibition, and failing eyelid function. He’s the gerontocratic equivalent of Brezhnev, or a version of Brezhnev that never shut his damn mouth. Between Trump’s grandiosity, Biden’s extreme decline, and the Booty Judge’s unctuous appeals to what the Baby Boomers at their worst wish their disappointing spawn would be, we’re living in times of extreme gerontocracy. It’s a whole-ass mood.

These are disgusting, repulsive characters. Just because I find Trump the most tolerable of them (usually excluding Warren, just to be clear) is no reason to expect others to feel likewise. On the other hand, the way MSNBC and the rest of the grand hysterics giving the Democratic Party its Slow Ghomeshi categorize our politicians is batshit insane. They analyze our politics with all the nuance of Rob Ford discussing the Jamaicans when he’s out for jerk chicken past his bedtime.

One subtle but, I’m convinced, crucial nuance they’re nowhere near getting is the relative psychosocial overlap of Trump, Kavanaugh, and Biden. They’re all sex pests, but that’s the easy part. So is Bill Clinton. And sure, they all make Rod Blagojevich look like Frank Serpico. They’re bad men. What I can’t stand about the shitlib reaction to our recent political circumstances is the constant, top-of-the-lungs shrieking about how singularly evil the orange man is and, since these nightmares can always get worse, Joe Biden is our indispensable salvation. Who the fuck are we calling “us?” It ain’t me, pal. I get incandescently fucking sick of listening to hysterical rich wackos clearly safe from the ill material effects of the evil policies any of these scumbags has enacted throwing fits about how I owe society and myself a vote for some absolute shithead to defeat a guy they find too embarrassing to take to a dinner party, just because I’m intelligent and I went to college. So did our presidents. Two of the most recent three hold MBA’s. The third is (what else?) a lawyer.

So much of this petulant, petty whining is about pointless distractions like Trump not bowing his head for grace at the Al Smith Dinner. I’ve got a scandalously elegant solution: cancel the fucking dinner. If it’s good enough for public masses this spring, it’s good enough for that bullshit any year.

This is what sets these losers off, not the actual policies in question, as we can tell because they were satisfied with Obama and are now rehabilitating Strategery. Adam Crapser might beg to differ, from Korea, but he’s a low-class criminal undesirable from Tacoma, not an American.

The liberal hive mind is rightly appalled about Kavanaugh, but it’s appalled from a position of disabling illogic. One of the few things even more disgraceful than shitting on the office floor during an interview and angrily demanding a job is being the boss who rewards that performance with a job offer. He’s totally a sex pest; the Deborah Ramirez allegations are especially credible. But she’s from the wrong side of the tracks in Connecticut, so of course they got Christine Blasey-Ford alone onto the Hill, the better to celebrate her “indelible in the hippocampus” distraction. It’s a fitting addition to the RBG home bookshelf, yes? Good God, y’all. I’ve never seriously thought she wasn’t honest, but that was like if I said, “Yeah, Lieutenant Tittytorque grabbed, squeezed, and twisted. You know it was a dry job, though, right? The boy cow doesn’t produce milk. I mean, not from there. I watched a kid milk a she-goat at the Sonoma County Fair once. Mercy did that girl gush.” Why the fuck was she testifying as an expert witness to corroborate her own testimony? Who greenlit that?

It’s amazing she isn’t another lawyer, like Inweaved in the Extensive, the one whose “parents own a goddamn steel mill.”

If we’re desperately peddling Joe Biden as the last line of defense against projectile reactionary scum like Brett Kavanaugh, we might want to check first to see that he doesn’t speak and comport himself in an eerily similar manner, have highly overlapping ideology, or be notorious for shepherding another emotionally volatile sex pest onto the Supreme Court. Huh. Some men are bound as brother soldiers, or cowboys, or monks; other men are bound by their shared love of smacking the poo-poo out of Corn Pop with a length of chain and stealing his girl.

Anita Hill is an eminently forgettable accuser when these are the stakes. I mean, not for me, but I wasn’t asked. Joe Biden and Clarence Thomas are both funny uncles you don’t want over at Christmas but you tolerate because you don’t want your grandmother to threaten you with the wrath of God; it’s just that the one used his committee position in the Senate to get the other a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court.

Thomas is kind of a shithead (his jurisprudence isn’t as bad as advertised), and he was a pathetic high horseman to narcissistically inflame racial tensions at his confirmation hearings by arguing that he was being lynched, but at least he isn’t the same spoiling pile of slop as every other gladhanding reactionary creep in Washington. He’s a rare bird, a guy who could just as easily be appointed high school principal, charter a storefront church Friday afternoon and have two hundred congregants in the pews for his sermon Sunday morning, or walk into the woods and talk to bears.

This is in no way the case with Gropey Joe and Justice Blow. They’re the same utterly derivative catfishing elite son of a bitch. They have the same faux-humble entitlement and arrogance. They’re both scions of the same lace curtain Irish drunkard stock. Brett Michael, as we witnessed, is a whole lot more than a scion. They both grandstand about their own self-righteous Catholicism. Some of my Greater Bowie Marylanders from the Newman Club mount the high horse from time to time and get a bit wound up or abrasive in the saddle, but they aren’t assholes about it. (In Post-Soviet Pimlico, of course, saddle abrade YOU!) It’s a sign, and not a good one at all, that I cringe with embarrassment for some of the most zealous, politically activated, and LOUD pro-life friends I’ve ever had that a raging shithead like Kavanaugh has hitched his own wagon to the same horse. Since we’re waxing tendentious about horses and their riders again (and not even Mounties!), I might as well award a dishonorable mention to the 727 I watched back in September, and started to chronicle before executive function and focus got the best of me by going AWOL, land through a weakly sultry reverse-ops Indian Summer haze at BWI, inbound from Lexington with a full load of racehorses.

You’ll be shocked to guess who never did a thing so ridiculous with a horse, and with the Crown paying him to do it, no less.

Brett Michael, tho. Justice Blow and Gropey Joe fucking TALK alike. They were raised a couple of hours apart, roughly on the same Pennsy trunk line, but it’s more than that. My Anne Arundel-class pro-lifers (grab a pole and drop the A, eh; heehee!) have similar accents, but they don’t use theirs as a platform for avuncular sleaze. It’s because they’re good people, not incorrigible asshats. They aren’t used car salesmen turned A-List national political figures. (Yes, SCOTUS is a political institution. As I said, I’ve seen the RBG sections at fancy Bay Area bookstores, and just about barfed.) These friends of mine don’t even strive for political hair. Brett Michael’s hairline is solid, and the Junior Joseph Rubbinatte Bottom’s plugs are hair game that I, as a follicularly challenged American and sporadic Rogaine user, can’t help but respect, especially after a glance at the First State Solar-Powered Sex Machine. (I’ve also looked at I’m Not A Witch, and for more than a New York Minute, so we know that horny voting is not necessarily the path to the top).

The point is, Biden and Kavanaugh are both garbage. GTFO if you think I don’t notice. They’re the same fucking thing. They don’t even have an accent available as far afield as Perth Amboy, Purcellvile, or State College. We do not need these shysters. Say what you will about the Donald, and I’ve said a lot myself: at least his outer-borough diaspora Thirty Rock drama queen shtick is refreshing. Have you looked at the Senate lately? They’re fucking replicants.

Maybe that’s what the blob hates about Bernie. They hate a bunch of other things about him, too, but that fits the bill closely enough.

What the lanyard nerds and the self-serious ghouls doing business in the pews at Tim Russert’s funeral and every other piece of affiliated striver trash orbiting the Hill don’t get is that their darlings aren’t even FUN. If you’re gonna starve us to death, could you at least entertain us along the way? Shit, it isn’t even necessarily that fatalistic. Trump’s inability to last a week without reverting into a messy bitch from Queens who lives for drama gets the civility scolds, staffer nerds, hysterical affluent liberals, and Dudley Do Right conservative throwbacks into enough of a lather to actually push back from time to time. We saw for years how they reacted to the same policy pushes from smoothies like the Big Dog, Poppy and Sonny, and Mocha Haole: jack fucking shit.

It’s horrifying that they can’t be bothered to care about evil. At least they care about aesthetics.


The other weird virtue Trump somehow possesses is a recognition that it’s dishonorable to step into the ring and then whine about getting bruised. He has an odd way of showing it, incorrigible whiner and drama queen that he is. What does stand out about him, in this vein, is that he doesn’t constantly provoke enemies and then go whining to the mods about how they hurt him and violated the rules. He hits straight back. He does his own rough work.

He’s a rich, pampered piece of shit, but he’s an unusually honorable and self-reliant rich piece of shit. We’re so propagandized to assume that it’s normal and acceptable for our betters to play dirty, then turn right around and try to get their opponents into trouble for playing dirty, that we’ve lost the vocabulary to describe their treacherous sleaze.

He’s rich. If he isn’t, he plays it convincingly to string along the Business Success Guy bridge loans. If this means turning to Eurotrash banks or Russian oligarchs or American oligarchs (known domestically as NBC) because reputable US banks got terminally sick of his bullshit, he’ll gladly do that. So would every other rich prick who pissed off the banks at home and could line up backup financing.

But that’s just the Donald. Being rich, the Oaf of Office surrounds himself with–what else?–other rich people. He’s eclectic enough to accrete more idiosyncratic types as well: pushy ethnonationalists (Miller, Sessions), troubled autodidacts (Bannon), well-compensated professionals who can’t fucking stand him because they’re competent (Tillerson; moron this from time to time); but he’s rich. Those of us who pay attention know exactly who swarms the rich: peers, sycophants, and servants. This explains Spicer (pure sycophant) and Scaramucci (intersectional peer-sycophant).

It’s no coincidence that the Clintons have come to be orbited by a force field of the same three taxonomical wonders. James Carville, the Ragin’ Cajun, is a hardnosed throwback to the K/T Boundary, back when Mammalia evolved from him and Billary accepted that they had to fight to win. We see, all too much, who they keep around now. More and more it’s hubristic scum like Neera Tanden and hopeless fools like Adam “How Could Bernie Would Have Won” Parkhomenko, who somehow lives deeply enough in the real world to be a reserve police officer. Truly the Chief works in mysterious ways.

We know wifey loves her some servants: she says so herself in her memoirs, cooing about the inmate servants assigned to the Arkansas governor’s mansion as a charming regional curiosity, not Jim Crow indentured slavery.

Those who reach the Clintons’ station in life in these decadent postmodern days strut into the funhouse. Chelsea, having been born into it, is in weird, horrifying ways even worse than her parents. The three of them are an ouroboros of grotesquery, the first-generation new money parents defending their perch with frantic, hateful hostility, the second-generation wealth native daughter scandalized and befuddled that her inferiors would ever imagine her to be anything but an executive function and early childhood education genius. Think Megan McArdle, Meghan McCain (McMeghan, not McMegan), ad the eldest three Trump kids. Or, if you wish to remain continent of stomach, don’t. It’s your reading day; I’m just trying to spoil it, with facts.

No less beautifully are we graced with the leadership of plausible eunuch, cuckold, gentleman-fancier, and/or husband Jared Kushner, a young man who now has the Thicc Moist President’s ear about pharmacological research he’s been hearing about from his buddies in Silicon Valley. Absolutely nothing about this situation is possible without ostentatious privilege. The head of government and state listening to this reckless happy horseshit got the fawning coverage that he used to maintain and build the A-List celebrity launch pad for his presidential run because he lives in extreme privilege. The fey twerp whispering this horseshit into his ear behind closed doors became his son-in-law because he’s privileged. The coked-up Dunning-Kruger retards telling Kushner about this combination of corporate patent-squatting, affiliate-marketer grifting, and game-of-telephone horseshit about the new miracle drugs which happen to have side effects including premature death, oops lol, are buddies with him because they’re privileged and he’s privileged. The same Sand Hill Road shitheads come to believe in this horseshit in the first place because they’re privileged.

There are reasons why, like, 5% of medical doctors and nurses, less than 1% of pharmacological researchers, and 90% of public techbros fall for this lifethreatening woo. Our elites go to school to rise ABOVE education. They enroll to transcend the mind. Nobody who actually practices medicine in this country is a member of the elite above the county level. We compensate our physicians, surgeons, and psychiatrists rather lavishly, especially the more useless ones, and we have at least our fair share of medically degreed idiots, but let’s be clear. Tom Price stopped practicing medicine to go flying. Bill Frist examined Terry Schiavo same as I examined Dagmar Midcap’s tits on the eleven o’clock news. If Dr. Frist’s beloved medicine is so fulfilling, why doesn’t he just practice it? There are medical doctors who practice medicine instead of bragging about their periodic overseas mission trips as members of Congress who own gargantuan, incorrigibly predatory vulture capital hospital chains.

But why merely make good money doing more or less good work when you can sell the hell out for a windfall or five and not exactly have to work for it? Work ain’t how you strike it big, kid. Elon Musk doesn’t work; he posts. The SEC never told him to shut up for quietly discharging his fiduciary duties as a corporate officer. It’s no coincidence that he’s landed mining gentry. Even when these upper-crust shitheads work instead of tweaking out all the live-long day and starting flame wars on main, they revert to thuggery and live off the avails of the labor of tens of thousands. Bill Gates had his lawyer father menace his competitors with unethical letters threatening vexatious legal action. When Jeff Bezos assembled Amazon’s early executive and technical teams, he demanded their SAT scores.

These guys can’t even be nerds without throwing their weight around. A grown-ass college graduate asking about SAT scores? Fuck off you miserable cunt. Warren Buffett is a literary giant compared to his class peers, but he doesn’t do anything legitimately along the lines of work to support himself. Plenty of unemployed shut-ins and cafe wastrels over the years have written engaging correspondence. We don’t, as a society, give them a break by stipulating that this correspondence is a form of employment.

The reason we deem Warren Buffett employed is that he plays Monopoly with the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad. Realize that back in the Gilded Age, at the height of the Grange agitation on the prairie, at maximum-volume William Jennings Bryan Cross of Gold voice, before the old preacher man stalked off to Tennessee to yell at hillbillies about monkeys and God, the Midwestern public and for that matter a great portion of the American citizenry at large were up in arms against no fewer than three oligopolistic predecessor railroads, all of them now formally commemorated by name in the amalgamation: the Burlington, the Great Northern, and the Atchison Topeka & Santa Fe. Warren Buffett now owns all of these networks, and I couldn’t say offhand how many others, as a single consolidated holding. This Tom Brokaw-ass son of a bitch turns on a computer and trades Boardwalk for the Reading Railroad like he and the boys are playing a round of Bullshit around a campfire at Philmont.

All a billionaire has to do to win the most gushing praise for his intelligence and warmth is not carry on in public like a missing Kardashian. Shit, Musk doesn’t even try, and he still has a chorus of fanboys caterwauling about how he’s an absolute genius. This is a guy who got so salty at an expert cave explorer for saying that his armchair admiral’s rescue submarine proposal wouldn’t work that he called the spelunker a pedophile.

Let’s fucking level here: nobody who shows up with a modicum of technical expertise in the matter at hand lashes out like that. Of course the guy with the Popular Mechanics-ass proposal to send a prototype submarine into a cave that ended up drowning a crack Thai Navy diver is the same asshole who smoked a blunt on air during a videotaped radio interview about his visionary publicly traded companies, tried to float an IPO at $420 for the lulz, and bragged about fixing traffic from Marina del Rey to the Grapevine to Sand Hill by tunneling what amounts to a high-speed electrified replication of the US 6 expressway on Cape Cod.


This is what happens when we let people secede from the world and simultaneously consolidate their power over it. Christopher Lasch himself wouldn’t be able to imagine how revolting they have become. Alas, Wesley Willis was primarily an autobiographer, a man parochially chronicling only his own accountability, not the accountability of the masters we share.

Be the Jim Sim you wish to see in their lives.

How to be full of shit, as a horse’s ass: a constituent’s guide

Huh. It looks like Uncle Joe’s projecting. It takes one to know one, and No Malarkey knows it when his Swiss cheese brain sees it.

That vicious, phony son of a bitch, the same guy who confuses his wife for his sister, went gladhanding in Detroit on primary day and belligerently cursed out an ammosexual factory worker within strangling distance. The lion’s share of the press Joe’s getting for this foulmouthed, foultempered outburst focuses on his outrageous words: “You’re full of shit….Stop being such a horse’s ass.” On their own and on their face, these are vile things to say to a member of the public at a meet-and-greet event. It’s arguable that there were contextual mitigating factors. Biden lashed out after the factory worker, Jerry Wayne, read him a question he’d prepared accusing him of trying to gut the Second Amendment during what had been advertised as a meet-and-greet, not a town hall. He has at least a weak but plausible case that he got ambushed with a boorish gotcha question on a fringe wedge issue premised on a collection of deliberately misleading wingnut YouTube mashups.

What cannot be excused, and I mean this absolutely and unequivocally, is Joe Biden’s physical and verbal belligerence against Jerry Wayne during their exchange. The explicit vulgarity caught the press corps’s salacious attention, but it was the least objectionable part of the outburst. If he’d mouthed off about his questioner’s horse’s ass full of shit from the dais at a Q&A, it would have been obnoxious but within the bounds of civilized behavior: waste my time with that horseshit, get called the ass that produced it, etc. That’s gross but peaceable. Biden was NOT peaceable. He escalated from within easy handshaking distance, getting a feral look in his eyes when Wayne challenged him and repeatedly jabbing a pointed finger at Wayne’s chest.

Somehow this is a sexism and a Jewish when Bernie does it to his debate competitors from yards away when they’re already wound up. Hmm. Wonder the fuck why.

This was where it went from bad to egregious. Wayne waved his flat, outstretched palm between his face and Biden’s and told him, calmly, “This is not okay.” He saw the standoff getting ugly and moved to deescalate. Biden moved to escalate further: “Don’t tell me that’s not okay….I’ll go outside with you.” (NB: I can’t entirely make out Biden’s comments and have not found a reliable full transcript.)

Let it sink in, though. The frontrunner opposition party candidate for the presidency of the United States arguably assaulted a member of the public for asking him an annoying question on the campaign trail, yelled menacingly at him about how he did not have the right to demand that he respect his physical space, and tried to bait him into going outside–away from witnesses, among other things–for something like a man-to-man fistfight, all of this with a citizen who was at worst boorish but peaceable.

I don’t care for tendentious ammosexual wingnuts like Jerry Wayne, but nothing about what he said or how he said it would have been out of line at the nonagenda public comment period at the average city council meeting. There’s something I find at once embarrassing and highly admirable about city councilors who listen with straight faces and scruplous professionalism to the ten or fifty craziest assholes in the county scream at them about inconceivable nonsense. Having made my own timid, halting, disorganized public comments, I really do appreciate the respect so many elected officials show their constituents and the process. They’re more patient than I’d be. To be fair, they’re probably more aware of the kayfabe than they let on; it’s shocking to hear a gallery wackjob who religiously shows up every Tuesday afternoon to yell his shitty poems at a panel of elected officials and go over his time for a summation about how they do not have the authority to silence him turn away from the public lectern, quietly and in full lucidity, to ask the time. But as I said, they sign up for it.

Joe Biden should know this. Your guess is at least as good as mine as to whether he still knows but is too arrogant to give a damn or has lost all awareness of basic, effectively universal American civic norms for fielding constituent grievances. What I do know is that it’s care home time for our honored elder. The unfortunate corollary, of course, is that it’s time for a saintly patient Filipina to don a spill-resistant smock and mask and stand by for incoming imperial missiles. As in, you calling me a fat boy? I’ve got a fat boy right here in my diaper, you bitch.

The only reason our elites are pushing this belligerently reactive, dementing scumbag is to be abusive. As a private citizen, Gropey Joe would have a number of options for where he’d end up for the night as a consequence of his avuncular antics. None of them are good: county lockup, ER, Bellevue (goddammit, Carisi, you don’t have 5150 in New York!), dropped off at home by patrol for frantic younger relatives to sort out, blessedly away from family back at the home (I need you in my house cause you’re my….), or that other downhome Metro Wilmington classic, dead under a Mack truck after wandering out into traffic on the Boulevard. Remember, Delaware is a bogus state; the only things it’s good for are fraudulent incorporations, coddling the Duponts, and one-party consent.

No, not that kind of consent. Brett Michael whaddup dawg.

The problem is that this slimy piece of shit, who’d be in and out of some combination of the courts, adult guardianships, the inpatient mental health system, and the jails as a member of the lower middle class or underclass, is a vice president emeritus and presidential candidate. We do nothing to restrain him or hold him legally accountable because he’s a noble. As they say back home, Mr. Dupont would not fare well in prison. Pass the bar and you might get the chance to tell Mr. Dupont himself. How are we to imagine some poor traumatized kid from the rough part of Wilmington who lashed out in desperation or got hazed into a gang faring in prison? To lightly paraphrase our presumptive next president, nigga he’s just Corn Pop.

Joe Biden’s aggression isn’t the unacceptable but excusable ramification of a rough upbringing or prison trauma. For God’s sake he’s a car salesman’s son who spent most of his adult life in Congress. We’re expected to agree with our betters that he’s a working-class hero because he was chummy with some Amtrak conductors and talks like a gym teacher, not an English teacher. Goodness, Mr. Kavanaugh, what lawyer would ever do that?

Hoo boy, that’s giving me a minor astral projection into Coach Joe’s Afternoon Delight Girls’ Basketball Program. Just remember, however, that there’s a difference between humming the Bobby Sox Song on the way from the Court to the court and sniffing six-year-olds’s hair.

Truly these are some of the worst men on earth. If the crucial argument is that the coming election is a do-or-die decision to retain or reject a vulgar, impulsive serial sex pest and his reactionary authoritarian politics, we might want to, gee, I dunno, not field a challenger who’s all of that plus extra senile. At this point I’m sure that Trump is more lucid and self-controlled than Biden. I may be wrong; I overestimated the Oaf of Office’s senility for months, then listened in amazement to his post-acquittal soliloquy about bullshit and dirty, dirty cops.

That’s another thing, one of many. Yet again, I have reason to believe that Trump will be the more liberal major candidate. At least he’s amenable to moves like sparing the Rod and lending Kim Kardashian his ear when she’s making the case to release a drug convict. It’s been said in other quarters that we should strive towards a more joyous, emancipatory Blagojevism. I, for one, second that sleazy but righteous motion. Multiply it by fifty or a hundred thousand and we’ll be in business.

I’m not kidding. I shitpost, but I strive at all times and in all fora to shitpost with honor. I cannot exaggerate how disgusted I am with the solipsistic assertions, by now more and more constant, that Biden is more liberal and trustworthy and safe than Trump. Where the fuck do these nerds live? Okay, I can answer that: Georgetown, Cabin John, Zinfandel Lane, whatever. Nowhere I go for a booty call, and you can bet the summer place that they’re shielded from the criminal justice system, because people who have been in the system or had loved ones inside know that the stakes are too high to insist that Joe’s good because Joe’s blue.

The framers were right to abhor political parties. I know, I know, they fucked that one up in their own generation, and they didn’t even inherit it the way they did slavery. On this point, however, Washington was right. The Democratic primary this year was winnowed down basically into a contest between Fred Rogers and a panel of serial murderers, with a few prominent woo-woos and alt-economics promoters coating the inner fringes to protect the marginal status of the door prize contestants who always show up with enough signatures to get onto the California jungle primary ballot. Depending on one’s frame of mind, it’s either insulting, infuriating, or ridiculous to be lectured that Joe Biden is the obvious second choice if Bernie Sanders gets eliminated. Like hell is that casually bigoted shyster and career crook warming up to play wide receiver for Bernie’s agenda.

I’d seriously consider the argument if the right wing of the Democratic base had coalesced around Elizabeth Warren, but it didn’t. I’m far from crazy about her, and I was incensed from the end of the debate when she accused Bernie of lying until her first round of populist attack mode on Bloomberg, but she seems, in the relative way we must assess so many of our politicians, reasonable. I like some of the early dropouts and fringe candidates, too: Castro, Yang, Williamson, Gabbard. They’re problematic, but they’re encouraging.

Biden is beyond the fucking pale. I am not sorry for pointing this out again. He needs to be banished to the wilderness. If we’re doing lesser of evils, we need to weigh the two gerontocratic oafs against each other and determine who’s less evil. I love to break it to you on Silverado Trail, but that is not a determination I’m currently making in a way you’ll find agreeable, and I’ll be amazed if that changes.

The Democratic Party and its center-right base brought this mess upon itself. I never wanted a fucking thing to do with any of the moderate darlings of the week, and I had some hope in Warren only when she tacked left. They’re now elevating a vulgar, disinhibited bigot and barely emeritus architect of the carceral state who can’t go ten minutes in front of a rally audience or two minutes in a campaign mixer without shitting the bed. I didn’t fucking vote for that prick. Do I sound like I’m about to change my mind as he breaks even worse? Do I sound amenable to another hysterical, pearlclutching lecture from property owners who are upset with Trump for his rudeness and bad aesthetics? Go up Silverado Trail or Mark West if you’d like to discover that this is not entirely a rhetorical question.

Yeah, we totally need to get this guy into the White House to save the federal bench from, oh, who knows, maybe Clarence Thomas. We’ve got the historical memory of a colony of fruit flies in this country. Maybe it’s the rest of you, but it ain’t me, lawd, it ain’t fuckin’ me.

It gets lost in the noise and the fog that Donald Trump does NOT speak to voters like that. He stumbles all over himself to give his target voters positive reasons to vote for him. When he went to India and butchered the names of the beloved local cricketers from a Teleprompter, it was a sign that India, or at least Hindu nationalism, had arrived. I love the Hindu! The Hindu loved him back. Okay, Tulsi not so much, but we aren’t looking for someone who will seriously challenge Trump, just a ghoul who will pretend.

Let’s dril this into our skulls: We’ve got two ancient, sickly candidates with atrocious politics, but one of them is probably a bit healthier of mind and body, definitely less organized and more distractable with his agenda, and scrupulously flattering of his voters. One made a gross comment about John Dingell maybe being in hell; the other bodily and verbally threatened a factory worker in Detroit.

The Democratic establishment doesn’t get that Trump’s Don Rickles act is antifragile because it’s on-brand. He’s always repudiated the politics of civility. He’s much more honest about this than scumbags like Joe Biden. Biden has spent his career appealing to norms while strategically disregarding the most basic norms, such as not verbally abusing and physically molesting strangers.

This shit pisses a lot of people off. To be blunt and only a touch pat (Eww! Joe!), we’re pissed off because we’re pissed on. One of Trump’s sleeper strengths, in plain view for all to see but among our intelligentsia fastidiously unobserved, is his seat-of-the-pants knack for backing ordinary people up against superiors they can’t stand. He’s a skilled showman with a crudely manifested but competent grasp of social dynamics. He sees weaknesses and pounces on them. He can tell at a glance that management angers the rank and file by lording it over them. Even if he’s siding with management and winning 3/4 of its vote to 1/5 of labor’s, he waxes eloquent before labor audiences about the rotten deals they’ve gotten. He peels off margins with this tactic. In 2016, these margins were among the ones he needed to get over the top.

Trump knows better than to go down to the floor from the office and berate a working man about how he’s a horse’s ass full of shit. It’s basically the same thing Obama, Bill Clinton, both Bushes, and Reagan did, but not Hillary, to her political ruination. It’s kindergarten-level basic: don’t barge in and call people names if you want their help. Notwithstanding all the gross things Trump blurts out, he doesn’t go there. Even his very uncouth and impolitic comment about John Dingell’s spiritual disposition was a jab at a late adversary famous for being a veteran of a coequal branch of the federal government. It’s not like his audience was free of uppity Republican voters who had said bad things about Detroit Democrats.

Honestly, there are times when I can’t wait to punish the Democratic Party for elevating Joe Biden as the rockribbed resistance to this carny and preparing in advance its formal Maoist denunciations of noncompliant citizens. The nice thing is that if Jill Stein runs again and I’m again not livid enough with the Democrats to vote for Trump, I can get them almost as steamed by again being #WithHer, on the Stein Steamer. Funny who’s a woman and who isn’t. How bow dah, Bregoli. I’m ready to steam that shit full Randy Newman right back up the Cuyahoga. It’s a terrible thing to say about Cleveland, a city Barack Obama would never disrespect by quietly facilitating the wholesale foreclosure of Slavic Village, and a really terrible thing to say about one of our most treasured national troubadours.

Of course, that isn’t my only idea about ships. Say, any Detroit runs scheduled on the Edmund Fitzgerald? Grandfather may not care for factory workers, but he has always loved cruises.