Dr. Kaczynski at his most Florentine never had such an obnoxious Ted Hour

Closed-circuit video kills the radio star all day every day on Bombers’ Row, harder than the BOP ever killed Lauryn Hill, the nonwhite who was the new black, and certainly harder than he did with his song. Paul Tanaka and Michael Slager are compulsory Coloradans now, too, so there’s no reason not to bring them into Michael Rudkin’s sallyport for a mass Colorado Rocky Mountain Hahaha, I’m allowed to leave whenever I want, bitch. I feel bad about associating Slager with these shitheads, but not too bad; he and the Rod Unspared are neighbors (beautiful day, Rogers!), and they’re both accomplishing more with their silver hair than I am with my brown hair. Never let anyone tell you that the systemwide ban on hair dye means that FCI Englewood isn’t just for men.

That was terrible. So are those three words (TM), which say too much (TM): Robert Philip Hanssen. *Defiant Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab voice* I don’t know what’s wrong with any of you infidel assholes, but I’m only here because I tried to blow up my shorts.

At least Mr. Explodeypants isn’t getting all up in your face to chronicle NPR. I am, though. You should have known by now that this thing wasn’t about to get any less fucked up. I don’t know whether Guy Raz has a great face for radio, and I don’t care to check, but he sure has an awful voice. Even as House Voice goes he’s a stinker. Maybe that’s why he now hosts a weekly show of neoliberal enrichment seminar excerpts. It’s a great way to get lectured by some bumptious dipshit who at least nominally has expertise in whatever field they’re examining and then get T-boned every ten minutes by the discovery that that useless simpering son of a bitch has his own urgent thoughts on the same subjects.

Today’s sic theme was “adaptation.” First they had some dude on to talk about lost Indians in deepest Mexico who were hella good ultramarathoners into their eighties because they never had running shoes, the point being that you, Bruce, Wendy, and I were all born to run. Baby. Then they brought in a blind guy with a story about how his parents let him learn to echolocate like a bat and find his own independent way in the world instead of sitting around and feeling sorry for himself. It sounded like wise parenting, but I got the feeling that the St. Elmo’s Fire shit was really aimed at people whose challenges were a lot more artificial and deliberate than being blind. It did not, for example, explain why Joe Dirtbag never pays anyone for heavy farm labor, which doesn’t exactly consist of lollygagging all day and having a sad. The episode ended with some artsy-fartsy bullshit about how metal can be hung from the ceiling in a sheet instead of like, sitting on the ground in a big solid block. That segment was so obviously fucking retarded that I needed only ten or fifteen seconds to turn the radio off and revert to my usual habitat, On Line.

The most ridiculous and offensive segment was about Rich Benjamin and Whitopia, his book about the American Whitey Rez. The problem wasn’t that they aired his talk; ever since I heard of Whitopia it’s been on my long-term reading list, and the material I’ve come across about it has always been interesting. What I did not care to hear was their sanctimonious, passive-aggressive framing of white people, many of them also White People, being unable and unwilling to adapt to life as minorities in an inexorably darkening land. Great job making me have common cause with every paranoid authoritarian asshole who cashed out the better part of a million dollars in Prop 13 home equity to buy an unduly large woodlot and a toy barn 45 minutes from Sandpoint.

It’s fucking majestic: here’s another starve-the-beast CalPERS shithead with an ax to grind about the Negroes while he watches Fox News all day in his compound, and I have to take his side 100% in this dispute because this time the liberals really are out to get him, not to mention rubbing me the wrong damn way. I’m a shitposter who drives a used Focus. I’m writing this from Sacramento, one of the most racially integrated cities in the United States. I know full well that the California diaspora loudmouths in rural Idaho are as viciously aggrieved as they are privileged. I’m not down here wistfully seeking an unattainable full communion with Whitey. A lack of white folk isn’t the problem on and around Joe Dirtbag’s farm. That property and that part of the country are plenty honkiful. It doesn’t matter, though, because as much as I enjoy the work I can’t stand the grab bag of dipshits who may or may not be risking their lives by living without heat on property that I’m funding, depending on the time of year and their personal interests. My interests don’t include Into the Wild stunts, but who am I to say that total strangers who don’t have any particular interest in or aptitude for farm work shouldn’t wander onto land that I’m funding, perhaps to live another day, perhaps to die?

There’s no shortage of grandstanding back-to-the-land assholes in the Pacific Northwest who are cordially invited to lose me with their insane bullshit. NPR has made me side with a prominent group of them in a stupid culture war because NPR has once again pulled defeat from the jaws of victory and made itself look absolutely disreputable and pathetic in its over-the-top opposition to a community that is pretty much morally bankrupt itself. When I was in Boise and Idaho City for the eclipse and saw “toy barn” crop up repeatedly in the real estate listings, I lost whatever vague, inchoate opposition I had possibly had to taxing the shit out of those motherfuckers. I’m already in California often enough to be paying significant amounts of sales tax towards their pensions, so I don’t fucking mind the idea that they might be hosed for their fair share of the upkeep for marginal, quasihoused people such as myself, take or take. Cry me the Payette over this tragedy. Hey, I just said “Pay!” That’s freshwater right there, but don’t let it stop a cracker from getting salty.

NPR never thinks in such terms. Doing so would mean questioning affluence and the behavior of the affluent, and we all know that NPR does nothing of the sort. It’s there to challenge explicit bigotry, as opposed to its politically correct implicit forms, and if possible to accuse bigots of being poor. It would be ridiculous to accuse golf-fancying property owners living in gated communities where they resettled for lifestyle reasons of being poor, and even NPR’s capacity for self-ownership has its limits, but it’s technically accurate to accuse them of moving to hella white counties where there aren’t any black and brown folk and waaah, that’s, like, all problematic-like. They’ve got sheer geography on their side: Washington County, Utah and Kootenai County, Idaho are–Wow Very Explain–counties. Adams-Morgan is a neighborhood. Does House Voice live in PG? Hell no. That would be too much Community in the community. This crew lives in Arlington and Wicked Northwest, but not being all pick a bale by sundown and mercy I do declare where’s the General Lee with the heavily black and brown help that runs the physical plant inside the Beltway allows them to play woke. That’s enough for them to pretend to socialize with the local color without giving the average casual listener a tangible reason to call bullshit. Realistically, these sermonizing assholes spend as much time on social calls in Anacostia as retirees in St. George spend at cookouts with Polynesian airport rampers in Salt Lake City, but from thirty thousand feet one sees a lower albedo, so they must be super evolved. #KeepClimbing.

This is how we find ourselves with the most annoying possible Angeleno, who moved to Washington as an adult for his own professional advancement in the imperial center, accusing everyone who moved from Simi Valley to Coeur d’Alene of being maladaptive. By the way, I just accidentally beheld that bastard’s cursed image. The morals of this story are to stay off the internet and, yes, that fucker is about as ugly a dork as you’d expect. Mark Fuhrman hasn’t aged too well himself, but he looked way better than Guy Raz ever has and ever will back in the glory days of the McGrilled Chicken Sandwich Deal. *Monty Robinson transmission incoming, on the radio* Sometimes on a Friday I’ll stop by and have a few drinks, then hit Tsawwassen in my Jeep.

Uh huh. This is a shitty Southland food fight that for some reason needs national airtime, a Jew indulging in a beef with a rough squad of retired Shabbos Goyim for not saying enough nice things about the duskies among whom none of them choose to live. Upon information and belief, Stephanie Lazarus is a Jewess, and a credit to Los Angeles Jewry. We know that Monica Lewinsky makes the tribe look solid in the same way that the Kardashians excuse the Armenians for being the Jews of Fresno. *Warren Zevon, coming back in on all three chords* Lawyers, guns, and my God, this fucker hasn’t even heard of me. Sometimes NPR tries to be subtle. This shit about demographic change and adaptation has all the tact of Detective Suchenfuch talking about the black invasion of Westwood with that amateur she-videographer dipshit. They say that everyone in LA wants to be famous. Furhman was a rare one who pulled it off, like, I totally don’t trust that cunt Captain York, but this broad who showed up in town to be a movie star seems all right.

Send me picture postcards, tough guy. Look, parts of my family are, (((YOU KNOW))), so I’m well within my rights to wonder what the hell anyone at NPR was thinking to have a passive-aggressive Jew go on the record to bitch about how career LAPD cops are maladaptive losers for retiring to Northern Idaho. For crying out loud, Furhman was raised in Washington State, and Raz is a shanda in the best of times. Someone thought it was a good idea not just to give that dorky Hebrew two successive national anchor positions and then use one of them to diss the gentiles at length for having the wrong reaction to their discomfort with nonwhites. Do they even teach logic at NPR? Lol no. It’s adaptive for a simpering dweeb to move across the country for career advancement but not for people who are sick of LA to move inland for lifestyle reasons intersecting with their openly retrograde thoughts on race.

This is the exact level of intellectual maturity and honesty that has our elected blowhards calling every inconvenient mass shooter and jihadist suicide bomber a coward. Anything that we disapprove of is weakness, while everything that we approve of is strength. We might as well give Pot-o-Shit Friend national Saturday evening airtime to denounce Kevin Vickers as a filthy weakling, because, yes, you fucking betcha I just said “turd.” I’m honestly baffled that Guy Raz was able to hack it as a war correspondent. In a way, it’s even worse that he’s merely playing an insufferable wuss, that it’s just an act. It’s like they’re calibrating the whole shtick for maximum alienation of the provincial gentiles. What better than to put a grating Semitic pussy on the air to narrate a story about how a community of street-hardened Heinz 57 honkies are a cultural and demographic cul-de-sac for being such losers that they moved somewhere else because they didn’t like the scene where they had been living?

It isn’t my fault that I’m siding with Daryl Gates and Chateau Heartiste here. NPR forced my hand. I can’t find a citation, but I recall hearing that whitopias are always near polo clubs. On the Millington-Robinson spectrum of horsemanship, polo is definitely closer to Sauce Boss falling head over heels into the creek, which is also the drink. If they aren’t careful, they’ll have me defending fancy shitheads who drink mint juleps at Churchill Downs. Northside Juice never did anything so stupid with a horse, and that storytelling buddy made it through Depot, so we know he wasn’t on track to do anything sensible with one. It isn’t my fault that I’m defending the very worst crackers that I haven’t seen with their pants on the ground on the light rail through Rancho Cordova. It’s the fault of NPR, an organization of blindingly White white people who are even worse.

Good grief, Ghomeshi, there’s no reason to choke only Canadians.

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Adventures in bourgeois feminism

How do I put this delicately? You guys are gonna get Donald Trump reelected. Excuse me, you girls and/or gals and/or strong independent women and/or buddies and friends. I guess those last two are inclusive, but mainly of Canadians, not that I can ever resolve to avoid the near occasions of canucksploitation when Sweet Melissa of the Maritimes herself got a government grant to go on a speaking tour about how to be a battered wife, since the husband she’d run over with her car had a prior scheduling conflict. I’m not here to say that he definitely didn’t rape her, but she definitely did poison that other husband’s coffee on their honeymoon in Newfoundland, and I’m not the only one you’ll find Online.

If I weren’t recapitulating the usual story about how the Lady is my Shepard, I’d be going straight into repulsive commentary that one can’t avoid by refraining from dating online or joining the Halifax Police Service, specifically, NPR. From one perspective, I should have left the radio off when I turned it off on account of the hourly news segment about whiners who got butthurt over #GrammysSoMale. From another perspective, I would have missed a worthwhile roundtable of Ira Flato, Zeynep Tufekci, and some techie Mick Gavin something-or-other about proliferating surveillance technologies. I’d have equally missed it had I merely expected Ira Flato to neurotically chap my ass like usual, so there’s that, too. Look it up for yourselves if it sounds that interesting; I don’t mind readers thinking that I’m not a feminist, but I do mind y’all expecting me to be your ever-loyal link bitch.

Other perspectives include bright-and-early plural ones, with Lionel Osborne. Everybody’s welcome and his son is dead. That’s certainly better than the “female perspective” that a feminist friend insisted would make me feel less kindly about prostitution. This woman isn’t a dummy at all, but that comment was part of a massive, catastrophic failure of American thought. This failure affects a hell of a lot more than just high feminism. This is a society whose mainstream earnestly reads Tom Friedman without asking whether that fool is on speed, or on coke. There’s something pretty wrong when random women who wouldn’t personally feel comfortable engaging in sex work do feel comfortable unilaterally erasing the individual decisions of other women with, you know, other individual perspectives. The blatantly crazy thing to anyone who looks at this mess holistically is that prostitution is the most overwhelmingly female line of work this side of surrogate pregnancy and wet nursing. I’ve never gone around claiming that Cousin Gigolo is statistically representative of the business; I assume there are more women than men turning tricks with their landlords (and ladies!) for a rent discount or waiver, and that most of them aren’t exactly my cousins, either. It’s like Kato Kaelin but with sexual privileges, and also usually with lady parts instead of gentleman parts.

By the way, what’s really wrong with these arrangements is the slumlording, but we don’t do class consciousness around here. That’s how #GrammysSoMale even became, as they say, a thing. We’re all socialized to identify with the most unattainable heights of success and get sore because what theoretically stopped us from becoming movie stars is Harvey Weinstein, not the statistical fact that most SAG members don’t get enough work or earn enough royalties from prior work to make rent. There are, what, five billion people of working age on earth and a few thousand bigshot slots in entertainment, plus a few tens of thousands of less prominent but still comfortable positions? Do the math. #STEM: Making good minds GREAT!

We’re all temporarily embarrassed millionaires. We all just wanna be big rock stars. Thanks for erasing my recurring aspiration to get legal status to pick fruit in BC, eh. It wasn’t enough to leave me to my own devices to run into walls on the HRSDC website. Seriously, I’ve felt about harvest job listings in Abbotsford the way some Mexicans feel about jobs cutting lettuce in El Centro, except that, but for the grace of God and whatever other luck went into it, I’m not desperate enough to climb sacred perimeter fences. But there’s a broader point here. It’s nigh impossible to find Americans, or at least mainstream bourgeois Americans, who admit to aspiring to do an honorable job well and earn honest wages for honest labor. Everyone insists on being excellent, which in practice means going into management and degrading subordinates for profit. It’s easier to make a living under this model by unsheathing the long knives than by developing and applying productive skills. Betsy DeVos swears that she’s all about hard work, but if you’ll excuse my indulgence in radical labor theory, collecting commissions on one’s downline is not work.

Complaining that too few women were honored in the one of the most prestigious music awards shows on earth and that anyone who feels that the honorees were chosen for merit is a raging misogynist is batshit insane. The syntax of that sentence wasn’t much more lucid, but whatever; I’ve shaken off worse than complaints about that, including relationships with leading citizens of Wyomissing. For the vast majority of Americans, including ones from affluent families who are arrogant enough to presume themselves fully exempt from economic downturns, identifying with Taylor Swift is nuts. Using gender non-parity in an awards show to infer a misogynistic conspiracy to marginalize female vocal artists is flamingly fucking nuts. Like, do you cunts EVER listen to the radio? Don’t stop, ’till there’s nothing but the, but the, nah, that was kind of gross. The Krush: 92.5: Still not the Central Coast’s favorite listen-in-prison station. Or maybe, for all I know, it is. I do know that that bullshit station has never hooked my white ass up with a job in the wine industry that it so ostentatiously celebrates.

Our catastrophic failure of thought includes, not surprisingly, a catastrophic failure of empathy. In plain terms, why the fuck would I give a shit about gender parity in the Grammys when I’m regularly sleeping in my car? Normal people with normal concerns quite frankly do not give a shit, and anyone secure and privileged enough to spare the concern for successful female entertainers who got snubbed in an awards show should realize that this is a hobbyhorse with which people of more modest means and more pressing concerns will have limited patience.

Then again, it’s stunning how sheltered some people have been raised to be. They wallow indefinitely in their comfortable ignorance because no one around them has the nerve to tell them that they’re fucking idiots. If anyone stopped by to tell them off for erasing their social inferiors, they’d just angrily erase the bearer of rude news. On Facebook, this can be done in a single majestic click.

Some of them are barely more like Taylor Swift than some waitress; they’re just secure enough. The Insurance Schmuck’s ex-fiancée is one. Like Taylor Swift, she selectively uses feminism to assert herself as a strong independent woman, but she also has an uncanny ability to find affluent boyfriends, and she all but openly cares more about the welfare of dogs than the welfare of the poor. I was warned in the past not to share this story, but fuck off if it chaps your ass, because a few years ago this chick managed to get her father to drive drunk in the middle of the night from Erie to Rochester while the Rochester Police were doing a lengthy welfare check on her and the Insurance Schmuck at her mother’s request because she hadn’t responded to the most recent text messages that her mother had sent in the aftermath of a domestic dispute that these two fine young lovers had had in their hotel room. She was in her twenties by the time this shitshow went down. If I recall correctly, she had already graduated from college.

Here’s what bothers me about this. I’ve had my parents stage similar interventions later in my life, if nothing quite that ridiculous, but I’ve always recognized that these interventions indicated some inability on my part to function independently. This chick is duplicitous enough to want to have it both ways, and from what I can tell everyone around her has spent her entire life tacitly encouraging her to do exactly that. These dipshits think her shtick is cute. In reality, it is objectively antisocial and dyscivic. Scaled up, it destroys societies.

This woman never struck me as particularly talented. In a healthy society, that would be fine because she’d still be able to make a decent living doing something requiring mediocre talent. Unfortunately, she lives in a particularly licentious corner of an extremely unhealthy society. This is why I’m convinced that she specifically is a fount of fascism, under one partisan label or another. And I’m picking on her because she’s frighteningly representative of the failspawn of our generation, in particular the downwardly mobile young women. We have a huge number of children of affluence who are inevitably reverting to the mean in a period of extreme socioeconomic dysfunction and cutthroat immorality. They’ve been indoctrinated since early childhood with a toxic combination of self-esteem drivel, devious horseshit about their own meritocratic worth, and exhortations to greatness.

Do tell that this may not end well when it coincides with a Fourth-Turning secular collapse of the international economy. I’ve been in the schools. I’ve seen it. I’ve met the results of this campaign. Some of them have turned out better than could reasonably be expected of them. Others are fucking nightmarish.

This mishmash of braindead talking points is most effective on the least talented. These are the ones who need to get in on whatever identity politics scam they can to get ahead since whatever talents they do have will leave them in poverty under our current socioeconomic dispensation. Bourgeois feminism works for up to half of them, give or take. Mostly take, because lower-class women know damn well that this song and dance isn’t being performed for them. All this Lean In shit is part of the grand Dunning-Kruger operation to convince children of privilege that they’re as special as their own upbringings and to shield them from the disheartening evidence that their own desultory skills would wash them down into the beleaguered underclass without outside intervention.

Sheryl Sandberg is shrewd enough to tell that there’s a market for this garbage. Oprah is definitely more functional and thoughtful than the women she targets; Sandberg probably is. I mentioned Zeynep Tufekci above, and I don’t recall hearing her bitch about ridiculous petty grievances of the sisterhood. Nor do I often hear women who are competent and accomplished at much of anything, from running a farm to practicing nursing or medicine to just being really fucking well-read and well-spoken, gripe promiscuously about shit like how hurtful it is that so few women were honored at the Grammys and some male chauvinist pig had the balls to justify it on the basis that most of the worthy honorees the committee found were men. I do sometimes hear them complain about the sort of women who do complain about this shit, if you can stand the meta world discord (don’t say I didn’t, say I didn’t warn you about that sort of thing), and I do know that if I saw prominent, privileged men carrying on like on a regular basis and getting platformed by major news organizations I’d be furious.

This still doesn’t answer why I keep listening to NPR. I can’t account for myself, except to say that it’s pretty impossible to catch any of the good stuff without at least risking exposure to something absolutely fucking retarded and disgraceful. #SPORTS are mixed up with shameful talking points about Russian meddling that Scott Simon has been instructed to disseminate, but I end up sleeping straight through #SPORTS, half-waking for five seconds of commentary about the President’s foul mouth, and remembering nothing at all after I’ve finally awoken for good for the afternoon but Chicago Senpai saying “shithole” on air. I’m actually doing all right today, since I caught most of a mostly good episode of Science Friday, which I always expect to suck ass. I don’t suppose I have a good voice for radio, but with talent like that, and the Radio Lab and TED Radio Hour assholes, I can’t say that I’m uncompetitive. As they say about sex in Maine, it’s all relative.

My problem is that I keep listening to a network that revolves around people who at least pretend to be doing something with their college degrees. Before I came in to write this I was scavenging deposit bottles from parking lots in Reno. Grievances about butthurt divas getting other women butthurt because they think they’ll be Taylor Swift someday if only men stopped being so mean obviously resonate with me. I’m in a nice part of Reno, as Reno goes; I’m not a fucking mascochist, now; but I’m not out here pretending that a fancy college education in the liberal arts and also some sciences enable me to function in American office cultures that are Dilbert hell minefields, is why I recognize which cans the State of *OPSEC* Whore Gone will pay me to turn in when I’m next in *THIS PLACE DOESN’T EXIST, EITHER* Slammeth Balls, or produced the literary skill to traffic “lyrics” of “Benny and the Jolts” and “Gerry and the Hearstoppers” “tunes.” Did I mention that modern American society devalues the shit out of independent and informal education, along with independent thought? I don’t expect all of my own material to be original when I’m shitposting about Mounties again, nor do I expect payment for recycling my shiznit. What, me Durden?

As Lenin said, the intellectuals are not society’s brains, but its shit. He wasn’t entirely wrong, and Soviet state radio wasn’t entirely worse than NPR. I’m just some asshole with a blog. They’re just some assholes with a federally funded, Congressionally chartered national radio network. Mark my words: any fund drive that I undertake won’t be THAT bad.

A standing offer to Dickinson College: cash me ousside, how bow dah

Bhad Bhabie is inevitably a civic improvement over *MY OLD SCHOOL.* How could she not be? The young lady cherishes her freedom. She knows that Dr. Phil and his audience are officious authoritarian creeps who resent her for her refusal to submit to their authority, and she knows that, unlike, say, juvenile probation and the police, their authority ends cold at the studio door, the Threshold of Ousside. Beyond that point, out in the streets, they’re just creeps chasing a vicarious thrill by pestering a minor they’ve never met. What are they gonna do? Street-fight her and risk criminal charges? She’s the juvenile, after all.

Yes, she’s a Florida Woman. What the fuck else would Bhad Bhabie be? Compared to anybody reputable she’s a disgrace. But we aren’t talking about the reputable here. We’re talking about Dickinson Fucking College, and Dr. Phil, which is only marginally worse. Her deal is to challenge repressed wine moms to meet her out front and put their money where their loud mouths are if they’re so upset about her not particularly impressive juvenile delinquency. Sure, you’re amped up to talk shit about me in here, but any of you cunts wanna go out and rumble with my jailbait ass in front of the Hollywood Division? Ousside Melrose, and Olympic Division can get in on the action, too. How bow dah. I didn’t know that myself until just now, when I actually did the requisite Google-fu, because there’s something wrong with me that isn’t wrong with the Bregoli girl. She gets the gist of it, though. She can tell that witch hunt fantasy land is an indoor space, and that if any of them follow her outside they’ll be on much less favorable turf, where even a reviled juvenile delinquent has rights.

*Anthony Rollins rolling through the yard, in a Different Sunburned Country* Stop talking about “Outside,” you condescending asshole. Don’t know the reason, he stays there all seasons. Actually, I do: serial rape. The Bulger fellow retired to Tucson, too. I wouldn’t want to bunk with him, but like Muhammad Ali and the VC, no skull-cracking Boston shanty mick with rat statuary in his apartment ever tried to brainwash me with yuppie talking points about the incalculable value of a fancy college education and then badgered me for money. Forcible Northern Exposure never did a thing like that to me, either.

By now, something’s gotta go wrong with this story, ’cause I’m feeling just too damn good about how little #CanadianContent there is in this All-American clusterfuck, but one does not rundel in every jungle. Surely that came as quite a shock. What else will I fish out by the time we’re done here? Honestly, it’s harder to write these things without Fish Friend and the Fibbing Foursome memes. That requires editing and shit.

It’s 3:00 am, I must be living in an unfathomable underworld of the mind, but look, if the sergeant on public information duty at your local detachment has a side gig selling freebase to the interior BC home bake crowd, that’s because there’s a market for that shit that goes far beyond Rob Ford and isn’t all like, okay, buddy, I only did that because I was blind drunk. One of the nice things about drug dealers is that they go hustle someone else once they realize that they’re dealing with someone who isn’t looking for any damn drugs. This is absolutely not the case for cult bagmen whose targets are not interested in giving tithes and offerings to a fucking cult. There’s no sense that, you know, this guy thinks were a bunch of assholes for bothering him, so maybe we should stop calling after the third or fourth time he tells one of our phone bank cold callers to stuff it and hangs up. There’s no discernment that it might be a good idea to stop sending junk mail to someone who hasn’t given a dime in over a decade and has nothing but hatefully bad things to say about the development office.

These are nice ideas, but we’re dealing with a cult. These people do not give a goddamn. Any alum who has a problem with them is the unreasonable one. If their incessant whines for alms offend anyone, it isn’t on them. It’s obviously the audience’s fault for being bitter and, say, warm homeless. Hey there. This is another thing that’s worth an explicit recapitulation: the Distinctively Dickinson Education or whatever the hell the marketeers are calling it these days is inherently so goddamned enriching and enlightening and edifying that no one receiving it can possibly fail to graduate with a skill set enabling the singlehanded conquest of the whole wide world, but if, say, no fewer than two 2006 graduates have ended up homeless in the subsequent decade, and I’m apparently the more fortunate of us, or if we have some kind of problem finding work, that’s because we, as individual graduates, have been doing it all wrong. No way did a school that chronically and obnoxiously oversells itself for fundraising purposes do anything not fully deserving of our annual first fruits. No one in charge of that joint thinks, gee, if we promised them the world and they’ve degenerated into hobos with sporadic employment prospects, maybe we failed them.

This isn’t just a judgment-free zone (TM); it’s an accountability-free zone. Dickinson operates in the fashion of Tammany Hall, usually implicitly, although sometimes implicitly, as in the case of a young lady nicknamed Emily Bailout, whose parents were said by senior student government officials (sorry for not providing a barf warning; okay, not sorry at all) to have purchased her an entry-level administrative sinecure for an even fifty grand. Imagine how admirable these sleazy crooks would make Whitey Bulger look if he’d just bribed his way through life instead of doing business by having everyone whacked. The thing about traditional mob and machine politics is that the organizations rewarded their supporters by directly delivering the fucking goods. They knew that no one with the patience to put up with their corruption had the time to wait for some bullshit neoliberal self-actualization scheme that they were peddling to bear fruit in their lives. They needed the damn street repaved, and, plus or minus some delays to accommodate ethnically or clan-tinged factional juju, they dispatched a crew to repave the damn street.

Imagine Old Man Daley condescendingly charging three or four years’ median household income for some seminars on how to shovel hot patch into a pothole and then blaming the deplorable fuck-ups who took the classes for not adequately applying themselves. That’s the first time the thought ever crossed your mind because that never fucking happened. Sure, Boss Tweed’s got a suitcase full of cash here and a suitcase there, the Who-Dat Jefferson fellow keeps his in the freezer so he won’t forget where it is, and the Daley boy does his old man proud by secretly having his dozer goons wreck Meigs Field at a quarter to daybreak, but at least when they’re going into their secret places to collect their graft and/or have a mad about the city council not taking theoretical waterfront aviation terrorism seriously enough, they lose the bootstrap horseshit.

Fuck, I just started remembering the rough contours of Wee Dicky D’s neoliberal redevelopment scamming, so it wasn’t all broad shoulders and plain dealers when the constituents came knocking. Still, old-school ward bosses don’t have that college boy attitude problem. They get that the regular folk won’t want a thing to do with them if they’re always looking down their noses at them with a haughty sneer. More than a few of them, I imagine, take pride in delivering the goods for constituents who would otherwise be languishing, and feel vicariously happy for those they’ve helped. They have enough respect for their constituents not to openly make fun of them, at least, and certainly to refrain from blaming them for being dissatisfied with city services that they keep failing to provide. Some of the time, anyway, they recognize that they have a duty to their constituents to actually get shit done. Maybe I’m romanticizing a bunch of unwashed thugs, but it sure seems that they don’t go around blaming their less successful constituents for being unemployable in one breath and haranguing them for joyful love offerings in the next.

As we’ve discussed before, the Dunkin’ Doorman doesn’t care about my feelings for him as long as I give him some coffee money. He’ll probably spend the money on coffee, or maybe on hashbrowns or donuts: to wit, Friends of Coffee. Dickinson has millions of dollars’ worth of annual administrative salaries and frivolous fringe expenses to fund before it gets around to forthrightly feeding anyone, and keep in mind that it hoses its parents for a dedicated stream of food service gibs to cover its regular cafeteria expenses. For stewardship, there’s no contest: it’s the Dunkin’ Doorman all the way. The nice thing about Atlantic City, but not Carlisle, is that once I get sick of giving his whiny ass money or, to be more accurate, listening to him whine at me for not giving him money, NJ Transit offers an excellent style of ride straight back to Philadelphia for, like, eight or ten bucks, although not as fine a style of ride as Amtrak does by converting the same cars into California Clippers. These outfits provide me with passenger rail service in exchange for my fare money, and they don’t bitch at me about how I haven’t been spending enough time on the train.

There’s a reason why I gratuitously admire refurbished commuter rail rolling stock in these pages. If I didn’t, I’d have to focus unwaveringly on unspeakably disgusting subjects, like American higher education. If we’re talking about how much money Dickinson needs per enrolled student in order to facilitate whatever the fuck it’s supposedly doing on the student body’s behalf, it has something like $164,000 per capita currently available JUST IN ENDOWMENT PRINCIPAL. I doubt the Dunkin’ Doorman has a $164,000 interest-bearing savings account that needs to be supplemented with petty cash requests all morning to fund his cuppa. Go figure that he has the much less offensive attitude. I still do quite fine without him, but as robber barons and moral busybodies go, he’s a petty robber baron. He isn’t the one sending me mail every month or two on the assumption that I admire his fine fundraising institution and that there’s something wrong with me if I don’t. He isn’t the one trying to run a decades-long brainwashing operation on me.

Neither is College of the Redwoods. CR isn’t run by grandiosities who assume that the education their school provides is fucking magical and that anyone who disagrees is scandalously uncouth. No one who isn’t self-marginalizing gets upset if an alumnus complains that CR turned out to be worth jack shit. On top of that, CR seeks its funding from the State of California, which hasn’t been scavenging deposit bottles for pocket change and something to do, and not from me, its alumnus, who has. That’s an institutional affiliation that I’m proud to have. It doesn’t provoke me to repeatedly assert that I never wanted a thing to do with pushy yuppie cult shitheads and their nonexistent boundaries and can only revile the institution that has formed them into such noxious trash because they donate to fundraising drives more readily that way.

It doesn’t inspire half-serious thoughts of reaching back out to that socially climbing fuckjob from the alumni council to tell him that it took me all of ten seconds’ research to discover that he graduated from Parkway South High School. Nobody at College of the Redwoods ever catfished me as some kind of J. D. Vance of Outer Branson and then turned out to be from St. Louis. This fucker’s attitude wouldn’t bother me if it made him stick out like a sore thumb in a community that was otherwise grounded and reputable. Instead, it’s just a particularly galling and provably misleading version of the same goddamn song and dance everyone who shows up for alumni events keeps performing. These people can’t or won’t stop lying, dissembling, and saying unscrupulous things that the faintest, most optional relationship to the observable truth, all in service to a pat, ragingly bogus narrative of excellence and prestige. Just realizing that it takes extra mental energy to process and discard their torrent of happy horseshit is an exhausting mindfuck. Not wanting to slide into a state that even feels like psychosis, I insist on keeping myself oriented in the real world whenever they construct for themselves a more self-aggrandizing parallel alternate reality and try to force me to inhabit it with them. They can go to hell if they think this makes ME the abnormal one.

Besides, it’s rare that any of these in-your-face assholes could provide for themselves or anyone else in the real world. I’m the one who’s taken up agricultural trades while a bunch of mostly useless eaters who studied borderline liberal arts quasihumanities like international relations and economics (without learning anything about the actual economy, inevitably) badger me for not being more enthusiastic about our alma mater and all the excellence it shits out upon the near and far corners of the earth, when they aren’t making fun of me for being a marginally employable fuckup.

This is why, like Bhad Bhabie, I relish the thought of luring these little snots out for a reeducation with people who don’t give a shit about their precious degrees and expect them to demonstrate that they’re worth having around based on some kind of actual merit: productive skills, sound judgment, intellectual capacity that doesn’t reflexively refer back to their pedigrees for an instant assertion of superiority, not being preppy assholes who must have stood Chappaquiddick Cool Change up on a seaside date. The mash, that’s pat of the sea, too, you bastid.

These pricks could use a trip beyond, far beyond, the limestone walls, to engage a world that is definitively not theirs. Ousside, bish. Cash midriff?

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That looks pretty Outside to me, AM I RIGHT, ROLLINS? The owner of this humble abode has been exposed to a lot more than just the Anchorage Police Department. So, to a lesser extent, have I. This is how Megan McArdle would be living in a genuine neoliberal meritocracy, although a University of Chicago umbrella would work, too. At long last we have someone who recognizes what college is worth. GO DIPLOMATS!

The steam grate, though, that’s socialism. As they say up north, but not all that far up north, look at this photograph. Every time I do, I realize that Amtrak is one of our better shelter providers, and that Dickinson College never gave me any damn reward points.

 

Of Spartans and Trojans

My cousin’s husband is a Michigan State alumnus, and even though he admires some players that my cousin openly ridicules, including one who I recall being famous for swinging his junk around, I can’t envy him these days for his affiliation with the school that’s best known for employing Pedo Doc. That’s a hell of an institutional reputation to live down. I know quite a few people who are affiliated with Penn State, and the Jerry Sandusky scandal had an ugly effect of splitting them between those who were honest enough to admit that the whole thing was deeply shameful and a seething horde of deranged amoral apologists. WE ARE!

And don’tcha fucking know, Michigan State turns out to have a cover-up to go with its sex abuse scandal, just like the Shittany Lyins. It’s majestic. The school spent the length of the scandal implying that, oh, gee, we had no idea about the creep, we must have been running our HR department out of Oopsilanti. In the midst of Larry Nassar’s state sentencing hearing, though, it emerged that sixteen-year-old girls had complained internally about Nassar abusing them to a woman named Kathie Klages, the director of a youth gymnastics program and future MSU women’s gymnastics coach, and Klages “cautioned them from reporting.” This Spanieresque profile in cowardice appears to have done jack shit about Doc Diddles for the rest of her career, which she finally weaseled away from in a disgraceful abrupt retirement the day after she was suspended for offending her athletes by covering for Nassar after he was finally exposed in 2016. This can be inferred not only from Nassar’s continued employment in general but his return to work after a third sexual assault complaint, filed by a recent graduate and investigated by the university under Title IX and by the local police as a criminal matter, in 2014. The Title IX investigation determined that the young woman “did not understand the nuanced difference between sexual assault and an osteopathic medical procedure” to treat her hip and back pain.

For some time I wondered why none of Nassar’s victims were alarmed enough by his sexually invasive “examinations” at the time to immediately complain, but it turns out that at least three of them did complain. It’s an unfortunately low percentage of his victims, who one would hope would have recognized with full clarity that exams for most non-OB/GYN complaints should have little to nothing to do with their genitals, but it still proves that the school was aware that patients believed he had sexually assaulted them and retained him on its medical staff anyway. The rationale for keeping him on staff after he was investigated by the police and barely not prosecuted was that the offensive exam had only felt like a sexual assault to the patient. The administration didn’t even make him do the dance of the lemons. It let him stay on through at least three patient complaints of sexual assault, two by minors, and continue treating adolescent girls and young women under the auspices of a competitive athletic program.

Kathie Klages is a fucking monster, much worse than Mike McQueary. McQueary is a partially sympathetic character, a guy who found himself in an awful situation and became paralyzed: not admirable, to be sure, but also not execrable. His witnessing Jerry Sandusky raping a child put him in a terrible spot vis-à-vis the Penn State football juggernaut, and most of us really have no idea of what we’d do if we found ourselves in such a nightmare at work. What Klages did was to affirmatively interfere with two minor sexual assault victims reporting a predatory physician to police and university administrators.

This is why we can’t trust authority figures unless they give us unambiguous reasons to trust them. These seedy institutional cover-ups are legion. Kathie Klages didn’t want the girls under her authority rocking the boat. This was in consideration of her own interests, not theirs. Reporting a sexual assault to the police is no walk in the park, and there are agencies that deliberately mishandle sexual assault complaints by siding with suspects or retaliating against complainants (a huge, basically ubiquitous problem for sex workers, who are one of the most exceptionally vulnerable populations to sexual assault), but it is not a fucking coach’s place to determine whether a victim cries out or holds her peace.

Given the evidence of institutional negligence and accessory to sexual assault, the earlier victims should have sued the bloody shit out of Nassar, Klages, and Michigan State. It’s just more evidence of our national deference to institutions, including atrocious ones, that they did not. This is a blatantly corrupt organization that allowed all these patients to be molested by a team physician. It’s exactly the sort of institution that should immediately be cornered by anyone it has exposed to a staff predator.

For one thing, cult shitheads might be less obnoxiously enthusiastic about a school that is a defendant of record in civil suits over sex crimes committed under its auspices. That kind of thing tends to tarnish the good old athletic glory. It might inspire a measure of contemplative silence in pieces of shit like Joel Ferguson, the Michigan State trustee who wants to keep the school’s embattled president in office because, hey, MSU is about a lot more than just the team doc diddling gymnasts. “I mean, when you go to the basketball game, you walk into the new Breslin [Center], and the person who hustled and got all those major donors to give money was Lou Anna Simon.” Also, “This is not Penn State. They were dealing with their football program.”

Gee, that’s fascinating. I understand that Yorkville High was dealing with its wrestling program. I mean, when you go to a wrestling match and walk into Hastert Hall. The Penn State Board of Trustees also included a faction that felt duty-bound to represent alumni, students, and fans in general (do think about the etymology, specifically, “fanatic”) who considered it appropriate to be complicit in child rape because, come on, the Sandusky stuff was a distraction from the glory of #FOOTBALL. Are you ready for some, bitch? It’s a religion for these assholes, in the worst possible way.

Speaking of Oopsilanti, Dr. Nassar surely rues the fact that he didn’t have the opportunity to “examine” the Arbor girl. Oh dear, I have family in Ann Arbor. That was terrible.  So is this Eastern Michigan football standout:

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Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day! Say, that isn’t a good feeling at all, you fucking creep. Sometimes, it has every bit as much to do with good-faith policing as it does with good-faith osteopathic medicine, which is about as much as wrestling has to do with heterosexuality. Not that J. Denny Dundiddly necessarily minded an opportunity to suck white dick. OJ is a gentleman of restraint and good manners compared to any of these, and Carmen Puliafito, wrapped or not, doesn’t have a damned thing on any of them.

Love too manfully instill Virtue in the Nation’s Youth through Sport.

Deplorable Third World shithole discourse

It’s curious that what really set off the mainstream news media about Donald Trump, what caused them to grow a backbone, stand the hell up, and utter the unutterable on air, was a contemptuous, modestly foulmouthed tirade about a number of dysfunctional foreign countries and the denigration of their citizens by association with them. I don’t know what all to read into this fight. It’s certainly being fought by people who are neither principled nor thoughtful, on both sides (many sides!), but it’s in the nature of chronic exposure to offensive, oppressive, or just unpleasant behavior that the last straw isn’t necessarily the most egregious incident in the pattern. This thing is a standoff, and standoffs do not unfold rationally or predictably. They’re dynamic. They hit unexpected flashpoints out of the blue.

Did the outraged journalists who are so upset by Trump’s crude language about foreigners get into their particular extreme outrage over his rude comments about foreigners and their home countries because they value foreign countries and the interests of their citizens above the United States and the interests of Americans? That’s probably part of it on some vague level, but they’ve also gotten worked into a special lather about Donald Trump’s nativist sentiments specifically. They were much more circumspect when Barack Obama mercilessly deported millions of illegal aliens and aerially immolated foreigners and Americans alike in gross military violations of other nations’ sovereignty, on the basis that the targets of these assassinations were outlaws. Explicit nativism has been coded as downmarket for decades, long before Trump became its poster boy, and now that he’s in high office, over the strenuous sworn wishes of a bipartisan incumbent political establishment, he makes an excellent scapegoat for anyone who wants to smear all nativism, nationalism, and parochial concern for the welfare of America or Americans as the most unspeakable vulgarity.

Trump’s shithole comments, although not really egregious by his own prevailing standards, were gross and vapid, evidence of a very real meanness of spirit and crudity of mind. The loudest parties calling him out for speaking so crudely have awfully little moral credibility themselves, but as I’ve discussed before, he ultimately serves at the pleasure of Congress, because Congress ultimately determines what is and is not impeachable. They may be shitty assholes in their own right, but if the sense of their meeting is that he is terminally out of line to speak in that fashion in his official capacity, they can put his impertinent ass out on the curb with last week’s trash. The Constitution does not dictate that the President has the inalienable right to offend and alarm members of Congress with absolute impunity by indulging in gratuitously vicious insults at will in a manner that calls into question his moral and mental fitness for office. The 25th Amendment is ultimately a redundancy. A critical mass of the legislature can decide that even if the president isn’t blatantly senile, his language sounds close enough to senile disinhibition and is enough of a national embarrassment and obstruction to good governance to justify his removal from office.

For similar reasons Congress has the prerogative to remove Trump from office for being a Nazi sympathizer. There is ample, although mostly circumstantial, evidence that he sides with Nazis and fellow-traveling white supremacist thugs when they engage in violent domestic insurrections resulting in injury and death. Congress does not have a duty to tolerate a president who sympathizes with perpetrators of organized communal violence. This is an example of the political and civic dysfunction that has enabled Donald Trump and his allies in their worst behavior and allowed them, surreally, to claim the moral high ground. There’s no credible principle under which it’s completely beyond the pale to denigrate other countries and encourage restrictions on the immigration of their citizens to the United States but basically acceptable, if one can withstand a weekend tongue-lashing, to use the bully pulpit to cover for violent domestic insurrectionists who are trying to start a race war. This kind of shit is hits the international wire services as a pretty big scandal when it happens in India because it is, in fact, a big deal. Our legislators have no duty to allow colleagues or executives whose removal they are constitutionally allowed to seek to flippantly court similar bloodshed in the United States. They don’t need to tolerate Klan revanchism.

They do tolerate it because they secretly, or not so secretly, sympathize with it. There are a whole lot of neo-eugenicist Randian creeps slithering around in Congress and our statehouses, mainly in the GOP, who support violent white supremacy and the top-down class warfare that traditionally goes with it. They dare not say so because it would be scandalous and they’d soon lose their offices one way or another, but implicit support for heinous, bigoted policies rarely costs them anything. On the bright side, it did help Gadsden Lovin’ barely lose his bid for the US Senate, but that was at a time when he’d just been exposed as a mall-cruising sex pest.

We could do to be hesitant in our campaigns to fix other countries when our own is such a fucking disaster. The rot goes much deeper and wider than projectile sexual repression, even if we have a special national tradition of sexual hypocrisy corrupting the law. It’s popular on the woke left to complain that the term “Third World” has a seedy history as a construct of the intelligence services and is an insult to beleaguered poor countries in the Global South. It’s certainly used as a slur in some quarters, but so are many other terms, many of them much nastier. “Third World” and “First World” are odd artifacts of the Cold War, especially in the absence of “Second World” from the popular lexicon. That was the classification of Commieworld: Red China, Red Russia, superficially red Poland, etc., but nobody today seems to have a clue what it means or that it even exists. In popular usage, First and Third World have been adopted as shorthand terms for socioeconomic and human development levels at the extremes.

This is awfully Wow Very Explain, but it’s pertinent. The idea is that we, the First World, have our shit together and they, the Third World, are the shitholes. It’s a crude classification that paints over a lot of nuances, but unlike so many political terms, the meanings are universally understood. These terms are not at all like “conservative” or “liberal,” whose meanings have been bastardized to impenetrable hell. Everyone knows what they mean.

The moral posturing over this shit is as inevitable as it is insufferable, but it’s worth climbing above the fray and thinking about what it takes for a society to move from the Third World into the First or, tragically, from the First into the Third. It’s perfectly manageable to recognize that Nigeria is a third-world country with serious enduring problems of governance and human development while also recognizing that it’s been the scene of chronic colonial pillaging followed by decades of post-colonial official corruption at the hands of its native elites. This is a shitty situation for any country to face and a tall order for civil society organizations and political newcomers to reform, and Nigerian reformers complain bitterly about it.

It’s sensible, then, to cut a society some extra slack on moral judgment if its recent history revolves around some combination of civil war, foreign military invasion, coups d’état, colonial expropriation, genocide, pervasive official corruption, and collapse of national sovereignty into a failed state. These are terrible conditions, and the responsible parties absolutely should be held to account for them, but they’re mostly beyond the capacity of private citizens to prevent, and the recovery afterwards can be slow and difficult. Ordinary Somali fishermen weren’t pleased with their government for deteriorating to the point that it stopped deploying a coast guard. They weren’t thinking, oh, cool, this means that we can go launch high-risk pirate raids on Western ships whose crews will try either to kill us or have us extradited for trial in countries we’ve never visited instead of fishing for a living. Sure, Somalia has become prime territory for gang thugs and religiously preoccupied tyrants, some real bad dudes, but it’s funny that the piracy got going in earnest after the government collapsed, sovereignty over Somalia fractured into an incoherent mess of warring military commands, and Western trawlers strip-mined the entire offshore water column in the midst of the chaos on shore.

It says something else entirely when a prosperous, well-governed beacon of the First World descends into gathering third-world squalor and misgovernment because its politics have fallen into the vise grip of decadent narcissists. That’s what we have in the United States. We haven’t failed to climb out of national poverty and dysfunction; we’ve deliberately squandered an inherited regime of exceptional prosperity, good government, and equity in pursuit of the most vicious, destructive forms of unfair personal and factional advantage over others. This is one of the most damning things any society has ever done to itself.

For two generations or so, we achieved a series of belated, incremental reforms: Social Security, Medicare, the Depression-era employment programs, Eisenhower’s genuinely conservative stewardship of what his predecessors had won at such great effort and under such harrowing circumstances, the Civil Rights Act, the Great Society, the Church Commission. Then, after the well-meaning ineptitude of the Carter Administration, greatly exaggerated by a shrill opposition, we elected a reactionary TV blowhard to spend eight years throwing it all into the dumpster while we pretended that he wasn’t sundowning on live TV. But Goodnight Simi Valley was just one of the more prominent public faces of the problem. Reaganism enjoyed significant popular support from what was increasingly turning into a nation of sellouts. Not seeing any threats from this irresponsibility on the horizon, we spent most of the subsequent three decades, up to the present day, slouching into a progressive dereliction of responsibility. At one point, Social Security was saved by Monica Lewinsky, the Forrest Gump of starfucking sluts. The angel with the blue dress, blue dress on did not, unfortunately, save Glass-Steagall, and we still haven’t entirely recovered from the delayed-action destruction that her boy Slick Willie’s deal with the banks caused not just the national but the international economy starting in 2007-08.

We now have, not for the first time, a comprehensively corrupt national leadership. Bernie Sanders, one of the few more or less clean politicians to run for the presidency, got ratfucked in his own party primary at the direction of the Clinton machine, which was as insatiable as ever at the prospect of foreign bribes to its “charitable” foundations. The Trump organization strives for even less plausible deniability about why federal agencies and various parties with business before the federal government pay so much rent to its chain of very expensive hotels, resorts, and apartment towers. Bizarrely, from some angles Trump seems to anger the incumbent government grafter set precisely because he is NOT as corruptible as themselves, i.e., by possibly following through on the blustery campaign promises he made to dispossessed blue-collar constituencies.

We got here because our national character went to hell. That much was our doing. We put crooks into Congress and the White House for decades. A critical mass of the public, including more than its share of reliable voters, sold out to be yuppies, social consequences be damned. Christopher Lasch sounded a bit shrill and catastrophic at the time, but he was right about the elites going into a state of revolt against their host society. It is absolutely true that they, as a group, moved to rob and dispossess everyone more vulnerable than themselves, and to justify these depredations.

One of the scary things I’ve noticed is that the upper middle class and above have been able to so shelter themselves that they are able to secede from the national reality that the rest of their society is forced to live on a daily basis. All they have to do is listen to mainstream, politically correct sources that happen to be crooked and full of shit and shut out any dissenting voices that show up in their social media feeds. This helps explain a number of people who have defriended me on Facebook. There are certain cases in which I know full well that I got shut out for being an ass for no good reason, but in a number of others it’s uncanny that I got blocked by people whose precious personal brands of earnest striving and self-censorship were inherently incompatible with my insistence on not polishing turds for free on a platform that is mine and mine alone to control.

The implications of this ability to selectively silence dissenting voices on a platform that is expressly designed to maintain indiscriminately broad social ties are fucking scary. I try not to dwell on this situation, but it’s potentially dire. It’s already drawing people with some of the highest formal educational attainment in the country into a state of mind that is functionally psychotic. I’m not kidding or being figurative. Hanging out at a bus stop in Inglewood all afternoon and speculating that the planes overhead may be headed for a different universe than LAX is much, much more deranged and dangerous than erroneously believing that one’s country does not have problems with unemployment or poverty. Nobody gets hurt when another A340 plunges into the wormhole of some al fresco nutjob’s febrile mind; that joystick-controlled Eurotrash ship still lands, and homeboy goes down separately, without it. If drug addiction is assumed to be the only reason why anyone in the United States has trouble finding housing or work, that’s a serious fucking failure of engagement with reality that will almost certainly have degrading social effects. When that sort of scurrilous horseshit is believed by voters who can’t imagine that anyone at their investment bank has a problem with alcohol or cocaine, the very worldview that drives these winners is a dangerous full frontal attack on equity and the rule of law.

The problem isn’t that we have crazy people on the loose; it’s that we’re governed by people who are batshit insane and protected by overpowering social conventions under the auspices of powerful siloing technology from all criticism. The Insurance Schmuck’s ex-fiancée, for example, has clearly gone off the deep end in bougie crazytown since she moved to San Diego. I wasn’t nearly so naïve to fly out there in a madcap effort to join the police force. It’s inconceivable that this chick has any fucking idea how socioeconomically mainstream people five miles away from her neighborhood live, let alone the teeming horde of godforsaken homeless downtown. She’s too busy posting Instagram photos of her waterfront yoga routines in Pacific Beach (shit, Brando, you’re losing the girth war) and New Year’s Eve poolside with her current boyfriend in Cabo.

I’m braced for this chick to go full fash. That she hasn’t overtly done so is probably a function of cues she’s picked up that MAGA agitation is downscale. She obviously assumes that she’s safe from whatever horrors the bad parts of our government are scheming to inflict on their constituents because she’s a cute, peppy blonde from a nice family in CB East and Kwesi Millington for Sheriff. Put Robinson in a shabbier red top and a Jeep, and see if he survives a watch on beach patrol. Seriously, this chick is headed for overt hardcore reaction with a side of Paltrowan gobbledygook, but hey, Hitler, her fellow dog fancier, was into the health foods, too. #MeatlessMuscle.

Homeskillet could have been formed into a political worldview magnanimous enough not to make me wonder who will be up to launch the foreign military invasion once we go into irreversible authoritarian overdrive, but the Insurance Schmuck’s politics were only marginally less dangerous than her own, and even though he liked to be a domineering alpha asshole in his relationships, especially back then, this forcefulness rarely extended to checking a peppy rich girl’s privilege. He thought that kind of thing was cute and arousing. As I said, these people are goddamn dangerous.

Actually, on second thought, she probably didn’t vote for Trump because she has a Facebook cover photo of that fucking little girl statue in front of the Wall Street bull. She’s into feminist fascism, you see. I’m sure she could lead me into an unfathomable world of hypocritical incoherence, a new frontier of Lean In girl power, fainting submission to the nearest preppy hunk with enough cash or credit to wine and dine m’lady in proper Baja style, and structural Betty Shelby.

This chick’s worldview somehow bothers me more than Melissa Ann Shepard. Now that’s some toxic femininity. But Sweet Melissa of the Maritimes never killed a man without courting him first. All a fellow has to do to survive her is to dump out the fucking coffee and/or flag down a Halifax policewoman because she’s back on her internet bullshit again. Yeah, there’s the serial fraud thing, but there are insurance policies against some QEII-looking creepy bitch draining one’s bank account dry. Not the only thing she drained dry, AM I RIGHT, GENTLEMEN. There aren’t insurance policies against the engagement of Fifty Shades-vulnerable dipshit daddy’s girls showing up to vote their fellow citizens into abject penury or indulge in paranoid delusions about the local color on Nextdoor. That much takes a degree of civic vigilance whose energy requirements far exceed anything I’ve expended on canucksploitative shitposting. God help us, but Monty the Mountie’s Motorcar is the least of our worries. Saucin’ in Tsawwassen was never why I ended up sleeping in my car on a regular basis. I can’t say that about some of the people I knew in school.

A further inducement to perform sweet oral romance upon my balls, Tate

Good grief, this sounds like a lifestyle fit for Oral Roberts University, where one is sternly admonished in the name of the Lord to cease the oral, Roberts, and be chaste. So help me, that’s a real university. This stuff can be impossible to make up.

In the course of banging out (heh) my screed about NPR going to Muncie to yuk it up with the local business elite and make an ass of everyone involved, I forgot to mention my closest personal connection to Muncie, not a close or direct connection but still one seedy enough to merit a dedicated discussion of how academia can turn on a dime into a total shitshow and there’s no reason to move to Indiana just to act like that.

This fuckhead was a religion professor whose course I was taking exclusively to fill a ridiculous, intellectually meritless distribution requirement. He was on a two-year contract to cover for a tenured professor who had been sent overseas to run one of Dickinson’s study abroad programs. By every account I heard the tenured prof was either respected or beloved, but academic service (#ThankYouForYourService) had required him to fly thousands of miles away for some Year in Provence shit, and this guy they’d hired to replace him was a fucking lemon. There were all of nine or eleven of us enrolled in the class, and he had us sit in a fucking circle for excruciating roundtable discussions of reading assignments that all but one or, on a good day, three had completed (not me, because they sucked ass), getting increasingly impatient and hostile with us when he realized that we didn’t know what the fuck we were supposed to talk about because we hadn’t done the work.

In spite of our recalcitrance when ordered to read terribly written academic literature about obscure religious imagery and history when most of us didn’t know shit from Shinola about the general cultural context of what we were “studying,” this inept asshole was either unable or unwilling to change the class format to anything resembling an impromptu lecture whenever it became clear that we were hopeless to handle our end of an halfway informed discussion. Every time I stepped into that cursed classroom, I assumed that this asshole was going to get hostile with us again, and as a rule of thumb he did.

Most people would walk out of a free evening class at the public library if it were run anything like that. It was a clusterfuck. With its idyllic setting on the main quad, in the hallowed limestone halls under the mighty shade oaks, it inspired wishes for Sherman to come back to life and burn down New England. Sure, this was happening in the Pennsylvania we never found, but there was no reason not to start the festivities of warmth in the Heart of Whiteness. We’d gotten stuck in an art house film from hell week after week, and it was obvious that not only this emotionally volatile shithead of a professor but everyone involved in approving his course and suggesting it as a distribution requirement (somehow three-in-one for my purposes) was beyond redemption. The very existence of this godforsaken class was an indictment of the residential liberal arts model. We were not going to become educated by showing up like whipped little bitches two or three times a week to have this whiny, sanctimonious, hostile piece of shit insult our academic fitness until he felt the faint, transient calling to fucking teach us something. Neither were we going to walk away uneducated for not having put up with this shit.

Since this was college, and our parents were effectively paying several thousand dollars per capita for us to be verbally abused by this dipshit we would have abandoned like hot garbage if we’d come across him hosting a free walk-in Q&A at Barnes & Noble with that attitude, we had writing assignments, too. I barely gave a shit about the first one, so I half-assed it. This asshat told me to see him in his office after he’d graded our papers, and against my better judgment I complied. He pulled mine out, waved it at me almost violently, and barked, “What the fuck is this?” I mumbled some shit, barely trying to defend myself, and he barked some more insults at me to the effect that I was a fuckup and he didn’t want to see that again and that’s why he’d given me 7/20.

Again, I was not the one who complained to him about his giving me a poor grade; it was he who menacingly confronted me about the failing grade he’d issued. I was stunned, hurt, and, although I tried to conceal it, quite angry. That was a completely unacceptable way to treat a student. I would have cut him some slack if he’d gotten worked up and cursed out a student who had just barged into his office to demand a passing grade for failing work, and I would have been fine with him getting hostile with a parent for choppering in to demand a good grade for precious Taylor’s shitty work. That is not what fucking happened. I have never in my life even calmly asked a teacher to consider revising a grade upward. If I’d had reason to believe that I’d been given an unfairly low grade I might have considered protesting, but from ninth grade onward I never had any suspicions that an instructor was sabotaging me or anyone else. What happened was that this motherfucker summoned me into a small room away from witnesses and screamed bloody murder at me for fucking up a completely pointless undergraduate writing assignment. Did I care what devotion to the minor Hindu gods meant to some Swedish blowhard whose writing would have put you to sleep as well? Hell no. Did I give a shit that I’d scored 7/20 for not giving a shit, instead of 5 or 10 or 12? Again, not a fucking chance. It hurt a tiny bit for a few seconds, but I knew that I’d spent too much time on that dumbass paper, not too little.

What complicated things for me was that by the time this bumptious, out-of-control piece of shit called me into his office to bark his word at me, the withdrawal period had already passed. Dickinson’s academic rules dictated that I was stuck in that course, and I didn’t see how I’d be able to convince anyone in the administration to waive the rules. I’d considered withdrawing in the first two weeks, when it was already clear that the quality of instruction was abysmal and the professor’s tone towards us routinely unprofessional, but I was eager to get the three-in-one distribution requirement out of the way, I’d never withdrawn from a course, and the roundtables, as excruciating as they were, didn’t seem egregious enough to stop attending when the upside for completing the course was so big. I did not have the nerve to complain to anyone else in the department or the administration that this guy was a hopeless instructor with no ability to keep his course on track for ten minutes. They were going to be rid of him at the end of the academic year regardless.

A professor calling me into his office to start a shouting match with me because he was mortally insulted by my having half-assed a five-page research assignment was egregious enough to complain, but I let myself get intimidated. The provost’s office probably would have dismissed me as a snowflake if I’d merely told them that a professor had made me uncomfortable, but I would have had leverage over them if I’d filed a police report, filed suit against the professor, or had him and the school officials with supervisory authority over him served with a cease-and-desist letter from an attorney demanding that he never raise his voice at me or demand to speak to me in private again. I probably could have sued the school into allowing me to withdraw from the course, the rules be damned, not because this guy was kind of a jerk but because he had become out of control in a private meeting that he had called for the purpose of verbally abusing me. No college administration wants to get exposed in open court over something like that.

There’s a good chance I could have gotten this dipshit fired, too, not just on account of my own he-said-he-said allegations but by prompting an administrative review of the prof’s teaching history, which might have shown that his courses were train wrecks and he routinely failed to behave appropriately around students. His yelling might have been barely justifiable coming from a professor who had already been mentoring me in some fashion, but homeboy wasn’t doing that. I’d never taken a class with him before, was not majoring or minoring in his department, and did not have an established academic relationship with any other professors in his department. It was not his place to say, oh, come on, I’m only saying these things because I keah about you, because I’m yaw stehyaff seahgeant, Mahky Mahk! Feeling salty about a student one barely knows turning in a shitty paper for a class he’s taking for a distribution requirement does not excuse ordering the student to come into one’s office for a foulmouthed, hostile, menacing shouting fit. That’s all there is to it.

Just because parents and students complain about rigorous grading and other petty academic gripes too often doesn’t mean that they don’t complain about serious grievances often enough. There’s a lot of bad behavior lurking barely under the surface in academia. It doesn’t just involve professors or their academic departments, and it encompasses a hell of a lot more than just salacious sexual outbursts.

Dickinson College Residential Life was a slumlording clusterfuck in its own right when I was there. It’s become popular to complain about colleges spending too much money on luxury housing for their students, but Dickinson more often made incompatible roommates shack up in conditions verging on the squalid. Circa 2003, it tried to make light of something that it called the “Morgan Crunch,” when Admissions fucked up its guess of how many accepted students would matriculate and Res Life made a number of students triple up in double rooms in Morgan Hall. The reasonable response of both students and parents to a mess like that would have been to tell the school to go to hell for the rest of the academic year and get back in touch if it lined up adequate dormitory space. Instead, everything I heard from classmates sided with the school, like, oh, it was just a well-meaning goof and besides, it was a great bonding experience. “I Survived the Morgan Crunch!” Yeah, and I survived a night at the Motel Six over by the Turnpike and another night on a couch at the Delta Sig house because the creep I’d been assigned as a roommate was showing above-baseline violent ideation whenever we were both in the room.

Nobody had any reason to trust or count on the derelicts who ran that clown show. Ultimately, that was just more cult brainwashing. If a prestigious liberal arts college is too disorganized to provide minimally adequate dorm space, which would arguably be uninhabitable under any other auspices other than a prison, and also fails to line up enough off-campus housing to fill the shortage that it caused by its own ineptitude, that’s obviously just a lovable institutional foible, not cause to sue for the reimbursement of all rent payments made to date and release from all outstanding financial liability for the remainder of the academic year. After all, only a whipped little bitch would tolerate anything of the sort from any other landlord.

Hey there.

What I ultimately did in response to that hotheaded religion professor’s tirade was half-assed and mostly disreputable. I continued to go to class, entirely because one of the other students was one of the Insurance Schmuck’s abrasive lunch buddies and I didn’t want to explain the mess to him, but I resolved never to do another word of writing for that class, and that, at least, is one resolution that I fucking kept. That motherfucker hadn’t had the self-control to show me a lick of civility or orderliness for the five or ten minutes that my shitty work had possibly been on the agenda, almost all of that time his sole doing, so I damn well wasn’t about to give him another opportunity to disrespect my efforts to do the intellectually and emotionally deadening busywork that he kept assigning us. That is, I deliberately failed his course for the purpose of setting some minimal boundaries with him. I don’t think I ever told anyone about what I did or why.

To wax all terminally Paul Harvey on a cracker, this out-of-control fuckjob with the projectile midlife crisis left his temp job at Dickinson for a tenure-track position at Ball State. That’s what the mutual lunch buddy told me. He seemed to regard that as a good explanation for everything that was wrong with our professor and his wasted life. And now you know PART of the REST of the STORY.

I felt just a bit bad for this shithead because he was from Los Angeles, and I hated the idea of a fellow Californian being forced to bounce around from shithole to shithole back east in pursuit of a desultory, unrelentingly bleak academic career. Just a bit, though. I enjoy meeting the California diaspora when I’m out of state, but not if they’re just a bunch of frustrated assholes who take out their existential anger on whoever is within yelling distance. Besides, it was his own damn problem if he didn’t like chasing mediocre academic appointments around the country in a series of unsettling backwaters in Appalachia and the Midwest. Nurse Majors was born in a small town, I was raised in a different small town, and you never know when one of these stories will get suddenly sexy in a third small town, such as Red Bluff. That’s right: I slept in my car again last night, but I slept in my car in the fucking promised land. And my parents paid a lot more per diem for me to be verbally abused by a wandering Angeleno whose doppelganger and spirit animal patrols Manayunk for the Philadelphia Police Department (true story) than they’re paying for me to camp out in my Focus under the savanna oaks.

The REST of the REST of the STORY is that academia is a disgrace too deep and intractable to be believed if you haven’t laid eyes on it. GO DIPLOMATS!

 

Siraj and Me

When I saw lefty Twitter elements telling Siraj Hashmi to get fucked for dissing Chelsea Manning, I thought, gee, I think I may know that guy, and then, holy shit, I think I went to school with him. I didn’t recognize his picture, but the name is awfully unusual, and sure enough, it’s the same dude.

My first reaction upon confirming this was to hate Dickinson College even more than usual. Of course our dear Dickerson Collitch was sending meritocratic hotshots to the imperial center to enforce Democratic Party orthodoxy on Ben Cardin’s behalf for a living. *MY OLD SCHOOL* really is a hidden Ivy.

I didn’t exactly know Siraj, but I knew who he was, and by Facebook’s count alone, we have dozens of friends (“friends”) in common. But knowing most of these people is absolutely fucking useless. Learning that yet another social climber I often saw around campus gets a byline to drag primary challengers who threaten the incumbencies of elected officials who feel entitled to their jobs didn’t make me wonder why the hell I’m scavenging deposit bottles for the pocket change (duh: the money), but why in God’s name I can’t get payroll employment and decent housing on demand. No one pays tuition to a bumptious school like Dickinson on the suspicion that the completion of its coursework and receipt of its diploma won’t be a safeguard against unemployment and homelessness. It really is that simple; shove the talk of individual meritocratic pluck back up your ass if you disagree.

It isn’t just the amount of money that that school’s graceless, ungrateful administration hoovers up from all possible directions: I also knew far too many people with overt psychiatric or substance abuse problems that were serious enough to call into question their employability, and as far as I can tell the vast majority of them are gainfully employed, usually in prestigious positions. There’s something other than meritocracy at play when dozens of people who consistently acted like they were on course to end up drifting between rehab programs, psych wards, and SRO’s on the Bowery instead end up living in nice apartments in nice parts of our most expensive cities and holding down well-paid, stable, professional (sic, ish) jobs. So help me, I am not the only dysfunctional graduate among the people I knew there, or the most dysfunctional, and I’m sure in retrospect that there in fact was a great deal of coke drifting around campus, even though I only recall hearing about other drugs (mostly pot, hash, and shrooms). I say this because Dickinson enrolls and duly barfs back out exactly the class of entitled, belligerently grandiose prep-ass shitheads who drive cocaine demand worldwide.

Okay, not so much in interior BC; that disgraced Mountie sarge from the public information office at the Kamloops detachment wasn’t all about selling that base to investment bankers. That market figures, why buy crack already baked when you can bake your own at home, like Papa Murphy’s? *Sloppy second opinion from Rob Ford incoming* Because by the time you’re ready to smoke some crack, you’re too fucking blacked-out drunk to cook shit. I mean, I don’t see why else I’d smoke crack. Do you guys smoke that shit when you’re sober? Jesus Christ, Lillooet must be a shithole.

Cool, the one word that I was awake enough to hear Scott Simon utter on air over the weekend and still remember after I properly woke up. #StayWoke. Monty Robinson doesn’t need crack to commit perjury and DUI vehicular manslaughter. Here we go again; what a shock. I know most of you didn’t come here to rundel in the jungle; y’all are still here for that crap I wrote about Gulf Arab gents shitting on Western rent girls, and that’s gross. Not that I can dictate another man’s taste, of course. As my second-degree acquaintance Taylor Swift always says, haters gonna haidt; sheikh it off.

Surely you’ll be asking the Lord to have Mersey upon me if I force another Gerry and the Heartstoppers meme into this discourse. On this side of the 49th Parallel, it’s traditional for a man to take up fishing for his midlife crisis, so as much as I, SDPD reject and all, admire those who somehow get onto the force hella late in life (Chuck Quackenbush, too), I can’t help but question Fishy Horse’s judgment for going to Depot. No, that’s not true; it’s the recreational fishermen who are disturbed. None of this is to say that the RCMP isn’t a shitshow; it was having salacious sexual harassment scandals years ago, before that was cool, to the point of routinely sidelining disgruntled female constables on long-term disability at 100% pay because their corporals were assholes that the brass didn’t feel like disciplining. The RCM Buddy/Guy RC is a great agency for those who want to get paid to look dead sexy on a horse, then get paid to drink all day in their apartments and/or quietly wish that they were back on the island in chest waders, tugging on a big-ass net.

Dickinson graduates get paid for dumber, more useless shit than any of that. Hell, my parents live near Saratoga Springs, and Sauce Boss never did anything that ridiculous with a horse. That right there is the kind of thing that seems to happen to those who are blessed with discretionary income more than they are with sense. They dress up like Pride and Prejudice extras to go watch runts batter thoroughbreds with riding crops until they break their legs. It’s an elaborate mating ritual, and the eugenics aren’t just for the horses. It’s that feeling when one must court exclusively with those who are suitably white, or at least suitably White, so that those who marry into the family can afford their gambling problems. If you come across a bunch of inbred-looking mediocrities at the track, that’s probably why.

The asshats whose stranglehold on Maryland politics Chelsea Manning is trying to break have more of that hybrid vigor, but this doesn’t mean that they’re defensible. I’m guessing that the Pimlico crowd is Republican, which is just as well, since they’re just about the last constituency that the reputable parts of the Democratic base would want dictating the agenda.

The clarifying thing about shooing the Main Line trash off to the Republican Party was that it maintained a reasonably coherent adversarial relationship between a highbrow reactionary party and a lowbrow leftist party. It forced the affluent to admit that they were looking out for their own class interests, in case anyone was gullible enough to think that they were doing anything else. It limited the cognitive dissonance to have William F. Buckley squaring off against Cesar Chavez or what have you.

What we have today is a clusterfuck. The Democrats still swear that they’re looking out for the workingman, but Katie bar the fucking door against anyone who gets in the way of total yuppie aggrandizement. Then they wonder why the poor vote “against their interests,” since the Democratic Party is obviously defending the interests of laid-off miners and assembly line workers by catering obsequiously to MBA’s, corporate lawyers, and fellow-traveling SuperZIP desk jockeys. The poors must just be a bunch of ignorant,  uneducated religious zealots, certainly not attentive observers fed up with a party that insists on brownnosing every asshole who has ever tried to lay them off and then condescendingly blame them for being out of work.

The Democratic Party’s base in Maryland is said to be even worse: specifically, dominated by government workers. If these were just schoolteachers, yeomen running the region’s public works, and the like, it’d be fine, but what it really means is that the Democratic Party sucks up to every self-serious piece of shit who works for the NSA, along with every equally mentally disordered social climber who is attached in some capacity to Capitol Hill or the White House.

These are the worst government employees in the country. Only Virginia rivals Maryland for the low moral character of the residents it has working in and around government. This is why the Old Dominion has gone light purplish-blue: enough hangers-on in the functionally reactionary arms of the federal government have been convinced that the Democratic Party is the protector of their livelihoods and that their own welfare rises and falls with that of the alphabet soup of three-letter national security agencies to swing NoVa 60-40 or better in favor of Democratic candidates. That, and the Republicans have their thumbs up their asses on the regional traffic problem. Their increasing cultural affinity for the Democratic Party, though, is premised on the party being tacitly but fundamentally reactionary. They’re the imperial enforcer class. They aren’t about to get stoked for anyone who explicitly condemns the imperial order and implies that their jobs make them personally complicit in war crimes.

Hence all the dipshits this region sends to high office: Tim Kaine, Steny Hoyer, Ben Cardin. This list alone includes the weirdo who did jack shit for Hillary Clinton’s campaign except make her look bad by association with him, the gutless wonder who (along with Nancy Pelosi, because of course) forced Barack Obama to scuttle his plan to tax 529 college savings plans, as one does when one represents Affluenza Acres in Congress, and the tyrannically censorious shit ticket who wants to criminalize the BDS movement. That alone is reason enough to run Cardin out of Congress. He’s so eager to curry favor with the worst Jews on earth that he’s proposing to abrogate the US Constitution in fealty to a regional imperial power that, incidentally, once bombed a US naval ship, causing multiple casualties. I’m not exactly Jewish, but I’m Jewish enough to assert that this whole sick spectacle makes American Jewry look bad and that I will blame Ben Cardin if I ever catch blowback for it.

The way everyone involved in this movement for compulsory Zionism and fealty to whatever governments besides Israel’s are sloshing around in the garbage bag of official US allies is batshit fucking insane. Releasing video evidence of war crimes by US military personnel is treasonous, but moving to subvert the US Constitution on behalf of a foreign power is not. In what parallel civic universe is it acceptable to shitcan the First Amendment because a foreign government is butthurt about activists calling it out for human rights abuses? It would really be worthwhile to reinvigorate a Yiddish tradition of shanda smackdowns in this country, just so that troublemakers from AIPAC think twice before starting shit that makes other Jews and Semi-Semites look bad. No joke, I’d rather be ethnically associated with Harvey Weinstein; at least that way, I could point to Our Lord’s Servant Gerald and J. Denny Dundiddly as gentile concelebrants in the fellowship of the grope and the perv.

Siraj Hashmi trots out barely sourced anecdotes about how “some think” that Manning is a traitor who belongs in prison for the rest of his original term and shouldn’t have gotten hormone treatments for the purpose of sex reassignment behind bars. It’s no great accomplishment to find Beltway loudmouths who indulge in such gross fantasies of uninterrupted revenge, but why should the Democratic base tolerate, let alone cater to, this trash sack of bullies and hired thugs? This is extremely illiberal argumentation. A reasonable political alignment might include one major party with a bloodlust for carceral overdrive, but we already have the GOP for that, and that’s as good a place as any to shoo off anyone who tries to corrupt the decency of the Democratic Party with shitty bureaucratic revenge fantasies. I’d be quite happy for the Democrats not to contest the Republicans’ claim on depraved authoritarians and their heinous fantasies of incarcerating political prisoners for decades on end and punitively denying them medical care. That’s hateful, toxic garbage that no decent party should welcome.

“Some” “think” all sorts of crazy shit. This doesn’t mean that they deserve a platform for the normalization of their vicious lunatic notions. The guy on the LA subway the other week whom I had the beat cop go check in on thought that his daughter might be on the train and looked like he might lunge at any of our throats in his quest to find her. I’ve encountered other disturbed people who were muttering stories of blunt-force trauma to the knees or thought we all might be surrounded by portals to other dimensions. There’s no reason to give them a platform just because they have a story to tell. If a nutjob shows up with violent hallucinations and delusions of persecution, there’s no reason not to let him find his own audience, or to have patrol turf him out to the Hollywood Division if he won’t maintain an indoor voice and gait on the train.

We all ought to be as sensible about no-platforming equally disturbed political movements. A college education might be worth something if it taught the discernment between the decent and the indecent, the sane and the insane, and instilled the moral courage to call out disordered argumentation without fear or favor, but it wasn’t in college that I learned how to call out authority figures. As the half-cocked excuse for political science in the link shows, college didn’t do that for Siraj Hashmi, either. That’s a great example of what’s wrong with the selective objectivity of American journalism. We end up with the equivalent of soundbites from Kevin Vickers and Melissa Ann Shepard about whether or not it’s wrong to kill people for money and amusement. There’s no discernment of the bad from the good, and, so long as there’s a faction advancing it, no refusal to give a position a platform because it’s blatantly heinous.

The horserace concern-trolling has Hashmi all worked up about how omg Manning primarying Cardin might make deep-blue Maryland elect, if you’ll get this, a Republican. What, like Larry Hogan? LOL. Love too learn that a novice primary challenger is the reason why the Democratic Party may not have a stranglehold on statewide elected office in Maryland, as opposed to Maryland’s sitting Republican governor.

And if Manning spoils the election for some theoretical Republican? Boo fucking hoo. Cardin hasn’t alienated me to the extent that Hillary Clinton has, probably because ignorance is bliss, but he’s one US Senator out of 100, representing a state that has been exceptionally corrupted by some of the worst possible federal largesse. If that AIPAC-rimming dipshit is indispensable to the Democratic Congressional Caucus, the Democratic Party is screwed.

Besides, Cardin and the voters whose support he most cherishes are exactly the constituency that needs to be humiliated for the national good. We aren’t talking about an incrementalist moderate like Doug Jones running against the execrable Gadsden Lovin’, or Claire McCaskill, a Blue Dog embarrassment under normal circumstances, holding the line against a sexually superstitious religious zealot like Rep. Legitimate Rape. Don’t tell my heart, my akin breakin’ heart. We’re talking about a constitutionally transgressive blowhard running interference on behalf of a foreign government and representing a state where, in spite of the commanding lead that his party usually holds in statewide elections, his partisans are up in arms about how the party will be wrecked by a primary challenge, and he therefore deserves to proceed into the general election unopposed.

Already I like the idea of a Republican junior senator more than that of another six years of Ben Cardin. As a rule of thumb I prefer Democrats to Republicans, but I won’t mind losing one seat out of a hundred to punish these assholes for their boundless sense of entitlement. This is for the same reason that I enjoyed Trump as punishment, and still sometimes do. The people who get saltiest about these upsets are exactly those I want to see humiliated with a dose of their own medicine. If they throw a shit fit over the loss of “their” Senate seat in Maryland, I’ll just point and laugh.

It’s the same thing I would have done had Trump won Oregon or Vermont. The 2016 election was so dynamic, and the underlying sociology so unspeakably weird and unstable, that I thought he had a perceptible chance of carrying California. I didn’t consider twenty- or thirty-point swings in his favor from the professional polls to the electoral returns to be out of the question. In both Oregon and Vermont, I thought that the proud independence of the electorates might sink Hillary’s chances, with traditionally Democratic voters bristling violently at the dictatorial campaign to compel them to be #WithHer. Losing either Oregon or Vermont would have made the Democratic establishment shit bricks. That’s their territory, after all, and they weren’t ones to consider the possibility that it’s bad political strategy to demand the unbroken loyalty of a state whose very popular US Senator they just ratfucked out of a presidential nomination that he would have taken straight to a general election victory. Hell, even a one-state Bernie win in the general or a victorious cruise of the Stein Steamer down Lake Champlain would have been glorious, not just as a positive win but also as a way to pump up the beautiful Hillbot salt works.

Say what you will about my political judgment, but I think we came pretty close to something of the sort. Bernie didn’t win office in Vermont by barking, okay, listen up, you hayseed ingrates, I’m from Brooklyn and this is how we’re gonna do things. He got there and stayed there by having the humility to listen to people. Donald Trump got into office by sounding like he halfway understood the concerns of workaday Americans and maybe gave a damn, while Hillz lost the Rust Belt, Appalachia, and the entire election with her air of superiority. I was intellectually prepared to see her lose a number of solidly blue states by provoking a stealth male backlash against her feminazi grandstanding, along with Oregon and Vermont for being a carpetbagging city slicker who won’t stop telling her inferiors what to do.

In the end, the Donald didn’t win any states that no one was expecting him to win. He did just well enough at the margins in a bunch of swing states to carry the election without stealing any of the hardcore Democratic strongholds for the majestic offering of salt. That is, Democratic voters who were disgruntled with Hillary and her campaign turned out for her anyway. I bloody well didn’t, but quite a few did. She won decisively in many of the counties where Jill Stein did well. Conversely, Trump overcame serious spoiler challenges from Gary Johnson and Evan McMullin, although to judge from DNC talking points they don’t count as spoilers because, hush, let’s not talk about that.

The shitty ingrates who run the Democratic Party have gotten more loyalty from their disaffected base than they’ll ever admit, so I don’t see why they shouldn’t continue to do without mine. Their conversion of an erstwhile labor party to a rallying cry for overeducated douchebags I used to see around campus doesn’t fucking help.