Oops, I guess I’m a conspiracy theorist now

As the old proverbs and shit hold, don’t ask the question if you don’t want to hear the answer. Today’s question, from my dad, was why on earth Barack Obama allowed Congress to strip the DEA of the authority to seize suspect opioid shipments from pharmaceutical companies. My answer, to his chagrin and scandalization, was that Obama had probably been paid off, just as he’d certainly been paid off to lobby for the Trans-Pacific Partnership. I guess I was supposed to have a different answer, maybe one preserving Mocha Haole’s air of high principle under a veil of inscrutability. Instead I called him a crook at a time when all the social cues are to call him a man of impeccable principle and manners, no matter how corrupt and useless his legacy, in a grand effort to highlight the coarseness and crookedness of his successor.

Well fuck me. Donald Trump being a crook does not preclude Barack Obama being a crook. *Sticking our Tricky Dick into the thick of it* Christ, don’t look at ME! This is exactly how the Deep State, and the larger, more diffuse Blob slimily adhering to it, have been trying to rehabilitate George W. Bush as our dear leader. *Briefly recovering from a fatal Kim Jong-Illness* Who called for me? If they’re using the same language as the North Korean regime (specifically, great leader, but far be it from me to resist the opportunity to poke fun at Rocket Man’s dad for his Il health), they’re using the language of the North Korean regime. Full stop. They don’t get to subvert democratic norms by trying to dictate fealty to shitty rulers through their crude social controls and then turn around and call dissidents antidemocratic. That’s bullshit.

A key difference between North Korea and the United States is that we, unlike them, have a large class of yeomen, proles, and lumpenproles who rudely maintain our right to speak freely of officials who displease us. This liberty causes our social superiors in and orbiting various cryptoroyal courts to be butthurt longtime. They have to bite their lips for any hope of favor from the sovereigns they flatter, so what gives us the right to be so licentious as to freely speak ill of our superiors? Our dissent gets between their noses and our rulers’ assholes; how rude of us.

Of course, it isn’t really license; there are generally consequences to such candor, including unspoken but unmistakable limits on the advancement of dissidents in politicized workplaces. The problem for the rulers and their brownnosers is that many of us are already effectively paying these consequences for the most overdetermined reasons due to the regulatory capture and secular collapse of the international economy. It isn’t just some tyrannical authoritarian shithead inside the Beltway who won’t give us a job because we won’t get with the program. The economy still sucks nine years after the financial collapse, although we aren’t supposed to talk about that. Questioning the official numbers is conspiracy theorizing, too. On the other hand, some of us follow the Colby Cosh Rule and do things with our hands for a living (sic?). What are they gonna do, sing a crappy comedy-folk song about us? This pisses the courtiers off, too.

A whole lot of floridly crazy shit has been said about Barry O, unfortunately for those of us, some of us his former voters, who have bad things to say about him that aren’t insane. I don’t believe that Obama has ever taken delivery of a suitcase full of cash or made clumsy incriminating phone calls about things fucking golden. That’s why he gets to cavort with Richard Branson on yachts while the Rod Unspared gets the opportunity to join the Rocky Mountain Club for his efforts to sell Barry’s old seat in the United States Senate. Mocha Haole doesn’t do his banking with his home freezer like that dumbass Jefferson down in Louisiana. He’s too smooth for any of that. And as I like to point out around here, that makes him dangerous. In the hands of a discreet sleazeball like Obama, courtly norms of decorum and shit are numbing paralytic agents injected by the parasite into its host. Basically, we can’t criticize a guy as long as he’s nice to his fellow crooks. May I remind you, Mr. Goldman, that O. J. Simpson was a model prisoner, and even, like Dennis Hastert, a coach.

Obama’s actual legacy sucks ass. Thank Chuck and Nancy it isn’t his alone, but he showed shit for leadership and screwed millions of Americans over. If he’d had some real principle, we wouldn’t have the kludgy, Byzantine mess of Obamacare. Sure, it’s a lot better than nothing, and the Republicans are vile to try to destroy it out of spite with no replacement, but it still sucks. It’s still a scandal and a disgrace. If the Democrats had had any fucking principle or accountability over the past, hell, thirty or forty years, they’d have broken the insurance industry’s legs by the turn of the millennium, with the option to either act in their policyholders’ interests forevermore or be dissolved and have their business handed to government plans. Instead, the Dems agreed to be bought off by the insurance industry. They had no electoral mandate to do anything of the sort, but they’d been captured, and they’re nice captives. They’re good boys and girls, because they know that good boys and girls get more candy.

Public service my fat white ass. They don’t give a shit about us. There was never a popular mandate for the bullshit “marketplace” incrementalism and income-based siloing that they passed instead of straightforward universal coverage. If they’d felt answerable to us, we wouldn’t have heard about the “marketplace” because they would have been too ashamed to utter the word.

How the hell is it inconceivable that the guy who signed this expensive, burdensome, punitive, Kafkaesque patchwork nightmare into law, conveniently providing private insurance companies with a market coerced into buying coverage with threats of fines, got paid off in some fashion by major corporate interests? How is it inconceivable that he got some sort of quid pro quo for all the sweet-talking and arm-twisting he did, although ultimately to no avail, on behalf of TPP? Cyrus Vance was bought off for ten grand in indirect payment to his campaign fund. That was enough to get him to conclude that Harvey Weinstein had a legitimate business reason to grope a model’s breasts without prior warning or permission. The campaign contribution may not have been the entirety of the bribe, so maybe Cyrus isn’t quite that cheap a date, but it’s misguided to think that elected officials need to be set up like kings directly and straight away to consider selling their souls.

For that matter, it’s awfully harsh to construe a rental agreement as a sale.

We’re at least 55 years behind Canada in the implementation of single-payer medical insurance because our elected officials keep pretending that it’s unpopular and doesn’t work. Our last president bragged about assassinating dissidents on other nations’ sovereign territory and tried his best to sell our own national sovereignty to a cartel of secret corporate tribunals. Our current president blusters to no end about all the enemies he wants to blacklist or get blacklisted for crossing him and the worst of his voters. Congress is full of fucking ghouls who listen to their constituents only after having the Capitol Police bodily drag protesters out of their offices. How the hell is it problematic to assume that Barack Obama is a crook? I’m not even trying to argue that the Donald isn’t one himself. I’d certainly like to think that Bernie Sanders is an exception, but seeing how he got ratfucked out of the Democratic nomination by a political machine and crime family, I guess he’s the exception that proves the rule.

If the GOP self-destroys in an orgy of mutual recrimination between the biblethumpers, the objectivists, and whatever the incomprehensible fuck Trump and his crew are, we’ll be one for two. We’ll still have the Democratic Party to destroy until, if we can imagine the possibility, it ceases trying to destroy us. Saying that the Democratic Party is automatically better than the Republicans (especially Trump, who’s all over the damn place) is like saying that sexy male nurse Lynn Majors is better than Elizabeth Wettlaufer.

That was still less disgusting than Congress. They’re all just Cullen the herd, but I’m obviously the crazy one for assuming that they don’t have our best interests at heart and joining the part of the herd that keeps braying back, Neigh! Neigh!

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Putting the Weiner into Weinstein

Giggity, etc. The Weinstein thing didn’t shock or even particularly surprise me. I was vaguely aware of him as some sort of studio bigshot, i.e., a presumable sleaze. After the scandal broke, I learned that he’s behind a lot of execrably violent art (sic?), some of it frankly toxic, an oeuvre whose gratuitous coarseness is somehow consistent with his being a leading liberal woke bae. That Reservoir Dogs, the inspiration for Greg Lemhouse’s sworn night watch street gang in Medford, is considered compatible with bleeding-heart liberalism speaks volumes about the abdication of principle at play in our supposedly leftist show business. Fittingly enough, Lemhouse is reputed to have been axed a few years shy of a pension for an outburst of on-duty horn and not for bragging about commanding a Terry Stop crew. Our boy Harvey, for his part, got shitcanned by his family enterprise for failing to keep it in his pants, not for beating the shit out of a casual business acquaintance, and that happened years after a model had reported him to the NYPD for sexual assault.

It’s pedestrian that Weinstein ran a casting couch for ambitious starlets; Gwyneth Paltrow sucking and fucking her way to the top (whaddup, Fuhrman) would be an exceptionally unsympathetic claim of quid pro quo victimization in a society that also includes sexually extortionate farm crew bosses and Cousin Gigolo. Homeskillet seriously cashed out, so cry me the fucking Owens, cowgirl. BFD if the cost of jumping the queue to the bigtime at some sleazy private studio is a load or two of the Harv’s Goop.

What’s impressive is that Weinstein was able to curbstomp a guy he barely knew in a fancy part of Manhattan without anyone calling 911. What’s impressive is that none of the women now publicly accusing him of sexual harassment or assault went public with their own claims, damn the NDA’s, full steam ahead, when the NYPD and Manhattan DA’s office were investigating him for forcible groping. Like, yeah, I believe her because he coerced me into sexual favors, too, that kind of thing. A handful of women could have had their lawyers dogpile Weinstein for petitions to invalidate their nondisclosure agreements as unconscionable, a class action, RICO claims, and of course a massive shitload of horribly bad press. The bad press alone would have shut the creep down then as much as it did just now.

Instead, everybody who was anybody was a fucking chicken. No principle, no courage, no backbone, hell, not even any overpowering disgust, just chickenshit all the way down. No one privately conspired with anyone else to band together and blow the putz clear out of the water: wherever two or more are gathered in my name, etc. Fat chance of that, apparently. No lawyers determined that they were unethically helping a predator maintain an ongoing campaign of extremely bad acts, probably in consideration of their own ongoing pattern of making big piles of money.

Everybody straight up to Cyrus Vance got paid to turn a blind eye. The fact that that alone isn’t an explicit professional conflict of interest is damning of the bar. Oh, no, you don’t understand, contributing to the reelection campaign of the guy who didn’t prosecute my criminal defense client was about civics!

Yeah, and I’m Perry Mason.

To recap, we’ve got nobody whatsoever who feels and acts on a moral duty to report Weinstein for serial abuse (not just sexual, either), and only one victim out of dozens with the nerve to publicly cry out at the time and seek adjudication. It was an open secret that this thug habitually made gross sexual overtures to strange women and explicitly threatened grievous violence against other men, sometimes actually committing felony assaults, but look, you can’t do anything about it, he’s just like that.

It was, however, kosher to occasionally rib the vile lech with plausibly deniable pop culture inside jokes: Family Guy gags, crappy celebrity roast rotines, and the like. *Very Jerry Seinfeld voice* And how about that Sandusky character? Heating oil must cost a fortune over there in State College if he’s doubling up in the showers. Man! *A REAL STAND-UP GUY*

Jer RY! Jer RY!

Meanwhile, the same crowd that spent my lifetime to date, until this month, covering for this exhibitionist who throws other men down the stairs in fits of animal rage will have us know that it’s our feminist duty to call out rape culture and our parallel environmental duty to live ascetically for the climate’s sake, but not theirs to stop jet-setting from mansion to mansion on two or three continents. No man is an island, but Brad Pitt probably owns one. Check for yourselves; I’m too jaded to care.

Nice fire complex they’ve got going in Napa-Sonoma; shame it didn’t jump the line up on Mulholland Drive instead. Focus, William Tecumseh! Focus!

More like the Hiscox Endowment

The Dickinson (giggity) College Endowment (giggity giggity!) publishes annual reports on its assets* and performance**. The 2016 report discloses total assets of $412.6m, including “non-pooled assets” of $74.7m. Non-pooled assets, according to the footnotes, include, inter alia, “deferred gifts” and “pledges receivable.”

Oh. I guess that means that when I apply for a loan I’m allowed to declare to the loan officer a net worth that I have calculated on the basis of what I expect to earn in my next pay period or two, the value of the deposit bottles that are probably in the neighborhood trash cans, and whatever I figure my parents will be transferring me in the next few months or whatever. Cool. If some guy from the corner swears to you that he’s gonna pay you for the crack rock, go ahead and add it to your net worth. It’s your bling, dawg; flash it.

Do we still wonder why the accounting industry has acquired a reputation for being shady? An undisclosed percentage of just over eighteen percent of the endowment is neither in hand nor in trust, and its eventual delivery is entirely contingent upon the honor and solvency of the “donors” who have pledged it. That’s like if I told the Dunkin’ Doorman to shut up about how I’m a cheap bastard because I told him that I’d buy him a coffee at some point but right now I’ma buy myself a damn coffee instead, the better to enjoy life while I’m here to enjoy it.

It’s doubtful that *MY OLD SCHOOL* has any realistic recourse to compel the payment of pledged donations from parties that, for whatever reason, refuse to follow through with them as promised. Depending on the circumstances there may be a binding contract that the bagmen can sue to enforce, but that would involve nicely dressed lawyers, and cracka that ain’t cheap.

Can I go to Bank of America with a story about how, okay, so this one guy says he’s gonna give me some money, and then this other guy promised me some other money, and my man D-Money promised me some money, Smoothie, ya feel me? Of course not. That wouldn’t do me jack shit. I’d still be on the hook for whatever I’d charged. That’s why I take my ass down to the nearest ATM when I’m within range and feed it some Jacksons. I don’t get a fucking eighteen percent discount on my statement balance because my old boys promised me some shit. God.

How can we take these jokers seriously when they conflate the receivable with the received? They’re marketing their institution based on an undisclosed percentage of their capital, possibly verging on a fifth, not actually being available for their use and not having a set, enforceable date of availability. That’s a level of trust that no normal private citizen is accorded by the financial industry.

And what the fuck are they gonna do if some flake or sleaze or secretly bankrupt-ass loser reneges on an endowment pledge? A small pledge wouldn’t be worth the costs of a small claim. Let’s say that I pledge the endowment twenty bucks and then decide not to pay up–or, in awah feyah city, Vishnu Payup. What’s the filing fee, bitch?

Hey, that model sounds scalable.

These fuckers are using money that they discreetly admit not having to goose their endowment bottom line in order to goose their US News & World Report ranking and suck in more application fees and tuition. How much of it don’t they have? Take a guess, lol. It’s rather like Donald Trump: the fat bastard may not exactly be rich, but he looks rich. No, it’s more like Joel Osteen: tithe to him in anticipation of future earnings to curry the favor of the money gods; bathe in the balm of his face and be blessed.

Out here in the streets, we call that fraud.

** ********* (!)

Footnotes:

*Giggity.

**GO HARD BIG DICK!

When the yuppie project plays brinksmanship on its host society

Think in terms of parasitism, not hospitality.

One of the (admittedly legion) unconscionable things about the Hillary 2016 run and its enduring aftermath has been the air of brinksmanship, coercion, and we-told-you-so Chicken Little catastrophizing surrounding the whole sordid thing. Since so many voters–quite a few of them, come November, disgusted nonvoters–couldn’t think of a positive reason to vote for Hillary Clinton, generally because they couldn’t fucking stand the bitch, the increasingly desperate Hillbot army deployed a ceaseless barrage of shrill, inconsistently credible threats about the alternative, our current Oaf of Office. To this day the barrage continues, rarely any gentler than it was during the campaign.

The gist is that King Bigly is literally the worst, most dangerous president ever. It’s a dubious, historically challenged proposition shot through with crude presumptions about Great Men (and Women!) directing History. Next thing you know, Sir Winston Churchill Himself (?) (it feels irreverent and profane, but it also feels accurate) will show up, cigar in mouth, blathering sonorously about the glory and honor and duty of war, or perhaps about the glory and honor and duty of his current thoughts on milk price supports. These screechers can’t imagine that, say, Andrew Jackson was enabled in the pursuit of Indian ethnic cleansing and genocide by prevailing public sentiment and the priorities of contemporary government and civil institutions, or that he, too, was one crude, crude bastard and also a president.

Speaking of genocidal maniacs who didn’t much care for the Indians: Winston Churchill. Different tribes, different technologies and scales, same little embarrassing problem. Oops we did it again. Crackers gonna crack. The whip, specifically. The assumption that Trump will get away with all the same atrocities that we don’t discuss in our discussions of Churchill, that he’ll be no less destructive as a tactless shit-stirring political novice who can’t help himself when there’s an opportunity to alienate a key ally than Churchill was as an urbane déclassé aristocrat who shrewdly curried favor with all the no-homo public school hazing buggers at Whitehall, doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. And yeah, we’ve totally never before had anyone of excessive ambition and terrible moral character in the White House, and no one to points leftward ever said the same things about Ronald Reagan (who, although Trump’s fellow celebrity, honored citizen, and public sundowner, actually knew how to negotiate instead of just putting his name on a crappy ghostwritten book about negotiation). No history of constitutional crises over the rights of our military’s prisoners of war or the president whacking US citizens by remote-controlled missile in my lifetime, either. Glad that didn’t happen.

The alarm about Donald Trump’s blind ambition, narcissism, and rage inevitably gets mixed up with outrage over his blurting out goofy shit and dissing people who could do to be dissed. Between him and the den of barely veiled psychopaths in the Congressional Republican Caucus, there are some serious shortcomings in the US government’s official response to the severe hurricane damage in Puerto Rico, but Brock Long seems to have his head on straight, so the president thinking that the Caribbean Sea is yuge is not one of them. Donald Trump getting the idea in his head that Puerto Rico is St. Helena won’t divert any aid to St. Helena. His calling Hillary Clinton a crook and Rosie O’Donnell a fat pig aren’t attacks on our sacred but vulnerable institutions of self-government and civil society, and if they’re misogynistic, they’re only incidentally so. Even the rash verbal escalation that he has reciprocated with Kim Jong-Un highlights just how badly on edge everyone is about Rocket Man: if Piggy Gangnam Style can actually be provoked to first-strike nuclear war by another fat, loudmouthed sonofabitch talking smack about his fat, goofily coiffed ass, the international community has a dire, insoluble problem on its hands that presumably becomes soluble only upon the confirmed disincarnation of Piggy Gangnam Style.

Come to think of it, the Nork Dork shares an unsettling kinship of the palace with Hillz and her Hillbots. Bernie Sanders was the one who said point-blank during the debates that Kim’s regime is “very weird.” Trump is regularly out on Twitter bragging about how he’s gonna whip that insolent little rocket boy’s punk ass. The establishment consensus in Washington, by stark contrast, is that we must all watch our every word about that third-generation belligerent maniac lest he take offense and decide to annihilate several million innocent people in a fit of pique. Anwar al-Awlaki didn’t have shit on that thug. That’s why “we” whacked him, just as “we” “tortured some folks.” Here we have this spoiled rotten piece of boarding school shit who murders his blood relatives on a whim and has taxed even the Chinese politburo’s patience with his antics, so since “we” are already in the business of assassinating various enemies, this hereditary menace should be at the top of the list and remain there until he’s been permanently delisted from humanity’s earthly rolls.

Bill Clinton and a number of exceptionally good diplomats in his administration have managed to get several foreign prisoner hostages freed from this out-of-control dictatorship over the years, but only at a great effort and by practically debasing themselves before this family of violent, extortionate, insolent dickheads. I get that diplomacy requires more tact than I choose to show around here as a private citizen and that it’s especially tricky to get anything out of that lineage of crazy-like-a-fox autocrats. But that’s the thing: I’m a private citizen. I use these pages to meme Canada’s national embarrassments and still end up being known on the internet mainly for that phoned-in hot take on Gulf Arab sheikhs who shit on Western rent girls. I’m not paid to be all serious and solemn and discreet and act like I don’t totally support anyone who can smear a fatal nerve agent in Kim Jong-Un’s face in any convenient airport lobby.

Like hell am I paid to be all solemn and dutiful and magnanimous in my response to Hillary Clinton. That bitch can choke on it. I’m her two-time prospective constituent. She was answerable to me, and my answer to her when she asked of me, on three ballots in two election seasons, was absolutely fucking not. We have processes and institutions in the United States to prevent the Kims. The Hillbots frankly did everything they could to shame, threaten, and even disenfranchise tens of millions of us for daring to use these processes and institutions against Your Fleek Abuela. They were furious when many of us perceived exactly the same raging will to power in Hillary Clinton that they insisted consumed Donald Trump and made him unfit for the presidency. They remain furious at anyone who got in Hillary’s way, and they use language no more respectful than the Donald’s to lash out at us and at the candidates we supported. Bernie stumped for Hillary and encouraged his primary voters to vote for her in the general election; her camp repaid his work on their behalf with ad hominem smears about his disloyalty and divisiveness, and with ad hominem smears of his voters as died-in-the-wool bigots. That includes me, cracka.

Letting a viciously ambitious crime family back into the White House and hoping that the other branches of government will check them after their reelection seems much less prudent than barring the door to them from the start and forcing them, now as a humiliated faction of the opposition, to wander fruitlessly about outside, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, and where they so perfectly belong. They’ve fressed at the trough enough already. The feminist bitch with the vise grip on her husband’s coattails had already carpetbagged into one of New York State’s seats in the US Senate, like a seedy Bobby Kennedy, and then been taken on as the Secretary of State by a guy she’d spent the previous year attacking with ugly racial invective (as well as bog-standard faux-populist demagoguery) so that she’d be inside the tent pissing out, and her immediate family had already spent decades cashing in on Bill’s presidency and the wifely offices succeeding in amounts of many millions of dollars per year. They had their fortune and their celebrity power; they didn’t need another term of elected political power to further entrench themselves on top of that.

In the midst of Hillz’s coattail career in high federal office, Bill’s presidential legacy became more and more destructive and scandalous. As I’ve said before, I don’t give a shit that he stuck a cigar up his mistress’s cunt; that isn’t what I’d do with a mistress, but that woman, Miss Lewinsky, was not my mistress, and consequently I did not have sexual relations with her. Giggity. What does bother me is the narrowly averted catastrophe of Bill and that hypocritical slimeball Newt Gingrich conspiring to privatize Social Security until an unheard-of buxom Jewess showed up out of nowhere with a little white stain on her blue dress and got Gateside Downlow, Diddlin’ Dennis, and the whole gang into a royal snit about sexual morality. That is not how government is supposed to work. That is not how any one of those crooks is supposed to represent us. There’s something badly amiss when social welfare programs are saved by a bunch of adulterers, an airport closet case, and Coach getting into a lather over the President slipping a Cuban up his starfucking intern’s snatch.

In spite of this Khrushchev-and-Kennedy moment by way of the Hardly Boys, Bill Clinton managed to unleash a delayed-detonation Tsar Bomba on our national economy, and on a good chunk of the international economy, by repealing Glass-Steagall. There’s every reason to believe that he signed the repeal in exchange for bribes to him, his relatives, and the family businesses from FIRE sector criminals after his retirement from the presidency. That may well have been the single most destructive act of official corruption in my country in my lifetime, and it brought the economy down when I was in my mid-twenties, barely out of college. Countless millions of other graduates, generally in the classes behind mine, got it even worse than I did. 2006 turned out to be a much worse year to graduate from college than it looked at the time, but there were unfortunates who graduated in 2009.

The Big Dog marked his territory on us. We were his territory, and we remain his hideously shrewish wife’s territory. No thanks, assholes. You blew it the first time around, at our expense, and walked away rich and connected beyond our most feverish dreams. You don’t get a do-over, pal. Sometimes I’m offended that the Clintons disobeyed their cue to retire from public life in 2000, but when I think about Glass-Steagall, the clusterfuck unleashed after Billary had scurried mostly off the scene, and the Byzantine horseshit of Dodd-Frank, I’m convinced that the Clintons had a calling to refrain entirely from public life starting in Arkansas a decade before I was born. They have been an affliction upon the rest of us. We managed to haphazardly check-kite our way through the dot-com and parallel FIRE sector bubbles in the late nineties, following the repeal of NAFTA and in the midst of all the cruel disruption that it caused to honest labor, and over the next eight years the whole edifice weakened and then catastrophically imploded.

This is the family that is so obviously more fit for office than Donald Trump. This is the family whose duty to reelect to the presidency was ours, including those of us who could explain exactly how the legacy of the first Clinton presidency had done us extreme personal harm. We had this guy who was mostly kind of a motormouth dickhead, who was saying inconsistent but coherent things indicating that he understood our plight and intended to address our grievances, and we were being ordered by people who obviously looked down on us to vote for a feminazi whose sleazy husband had recklessly caused our socioeconomic ruination. We were berated with assertions that Donald Trump was uniquely coarse and vicious, assertions that were made by and on behalf of a woman who laughed about Muammar Qaddafi’s gruesome death and whose husband had flown back to Arkansas to sign the death warrant for a guy too retarded to understand that he wouldn’t be able to have dessert after his execution. One of the most calamitous power couples of our time was insulting our intelligence and our worthiness as voters for daring to consider the possibility that her opponent, an exceptionally disorganized man with little political capital in Washington headlining a party that he had apparently divided against itself, might usher in lesser calamities upon his election.

As I’ve said before, these threats that the Clinton machine made about Trump were, and still are, on par with Muammar Qaddafi’s threat to unleash a flood of refugees from Subsaharan Africa into Europe to punish its governments for disrespecting him. We were repeatedly told that if we didn’t vote for Clinton, we would inevitably unleash unfathomable chaos and crisis upon ourselves. We were threatened with the endangerment of our liberty and our lives at a maniac’s hands in the event that we dared to withhold our votes from a known crook who had interfered in her own party’s primary process to sink a much stronger, less divisive, and less compromised candidate, one voters actually admired in large numbers.

I’m far from the only person who has taken offense over the past couple of years at Clintonworld’s Talented Tenth Avenue Freakout. It’s a bad look. Anyone whose reaction to a political opponent is so excruciatingly limbic has to perceive an existential material threat. That kind of reaction isn’t about values; it’s about interests and only interests. In Trump’s case, it’s a swarm of yuppies shitting bricks with fear that they’ll lose their elite status and be reduced to roughly the level of the modest workaday people they’ve spent the last quarter century or more smugly dispossessing. Do recall that I commonly sleep in my car as I reiterate that I have no reason to feel great sympathy for their salty, salty waterworks. This is a class that cannot bear the thought of relinquishing the whip hand. These are meritocrats who must, at all costs, remain on top.

Bizarrely, even as they fume that Trump duped a bunch of uneducated ignoramuses in flyover country with his bogus populism, they grossly overestimate his interest in reform because they’re on edge waiting for the day when he’ll do something adverse to them, like stop handing out government contracts to bomb the Middle East into ever earlier parts of the Stone Age. They have revealed that they would rather side with the most reprehensible chickenhawk war criminals than with laid-off mill hands who don’t want their children being shipped off to the desert to be turned into hamburger meat with Swiss cheese for brains. With all the cruel reversals of fortune that they’ve used their power to impose on their vulnerable countrymen, they fully deserve some modest reversals of fortune themselves, like having to work for a living or claim public assistance. Trump’s working-class voters tended to vote for him as a Hail Mary pass, figuring that he might do something for them; it’s affluent liberals who swear to God (weak oaths, etc.) that he’s going to destroy everything he touches.

Incidentally, but relevantly, the affluent have been using the same brinksmanship tactics to bully the reluctant young into college, or even graduate and professional schools. Stay in school or else. Submit to this arbitrary regime with no particular relationship to the real world and succeed in it or you will forever live in poverty and vulnerability. It’s an extortion racket. When moral panics about adolescent behavior this side of Brock Turner rear up, it’s also a blackmail racket.

It’s very simple: free citizens do not tolerate such treatment and are not treated in this fashion. Period. Great Books for Men, the intersectionally autistic/psychotic mainstay who used to hang out in Chateau Heartiste’s comment threads, made a comment about not being able to get a job as a Starbucks barista because his GPA was too low. It was presumably fiction, and most of it was barely intelligible gobbledygook, but it was true. That is exactly what has been happening to countless millions of people in the corporatized neoliberal West. Starbucks is a relatively minor offender, but the point stands.

This is not a reputable or moral regime. The people who have been running it are neurotic cutthroat bullshitters pretending to be high technocrats. There was a very real rationality, wisdom, and even prudence last year in voting for the unabashedly shambling novice who kept promising to shake shit up and give normal people a fair shake for once. There were no guarantees of reform, but large parts of Trump’s platform actually made sense, and I absolutely would not have been embarrassed if I had voted for him. I still would rather have voted for him than for Clinton, and the rage that Jill Stein has attracted as an alleged spoiler (LOL) confirms that I made a good choice in helping her clear five percent of the vote in Humboldt County.

Threats of doom aren’t so credible when they come from officials who have already doomed millions of decent people to penury just to grease their own baksheesh scams. Thundering about racism isn’t so compelling when it comes from a woman who doesn’t seem to feel uncomfortable about having accepted the services of frank house slaves on loan to her and her husband from the Arkansas Department of Corrections. That was just some kind of misunderstood regional cultural quirk, which being a union coal miner is not.

It’s still refreshing to have a president who shows the same degree of respect for the institutions he has been elected to lead that these institutions have been showing his constituents for decades. Josiah Bartlett was never my president; the Lincoln Bedroom pay-to-stay sleazeball was. Fuck decorum. If we’re going to have some again, it’s time we had some damn civic morals to go with it. We deserve honesty from our leaders, and Donald Trump is too impulsive not to show us some. It was our right to vote for that yutz every bit as much as it was our right to vote for the shrew who did the nae-nae on Ellen and was prevented by the combined psychological warfare of Jill Stein, Bernie Sanders, their dumbass voters, and the Kremlin from stumping in Wisconsin.

How gracious of the lady to publicly withhold her absolution of America’s noncompliant women for failing to vote for her. I can’t imagine how she failed to transcend all misogyny.

Wet bulb temperature: an inevitable recurrence

My parents’ idiotic failure to install air conditioning in their retirement house is biting us all in the ass yet again. I got into town over the weekend, just in time for record heat, calm winds, and dew points pushing seventy. It’s fucking disgusting, and for early fall in the Adirondacks it’s extreme. I’m back east this week because my parents encouraged me to be here for a visit by a German kid we hosted years ago as part of a YMCA exchange program; he and his girlfriend are currently traveling around New England in a week of half-assed fall colors and weather that, by the end of the year, would be shitty for Florida.

What infuriates me about this is that my parents spent $420,000 on this dumbass retirement house, where I realistically have to spend significant amounts of time every year as a matter of financial prudence, if not sheer personal solvency, and setting foot in it has again become an outright physical hardship because they didn’t and still won’t install a thousand or two dollars’ worth of off-the-shelf air conditioning equipment. The cheapest portable units I’ve been able to find online cost less than $400, and I’d easily enough be able to vent a portable unit through the French doors that they just had to install instead of windows that will fucking open and close, i.e., accommodate window units for the benefit of those who aren’t absolute retards about the functions of architecture.

This situation has gotten to the point at which they’re making all of us physically suffer through artificially stifling conditions so that their precious house doesn’t look low-class. The temperature in the living room and kitchen got up to eighty degrees this afternoon because the room is lit with fixed floor-to-ceiling windows on a southwestern exposure and my dad had been cooking for several hours, inevitably venting heat and moisture into the house. Several hours after sunset, it’s still around 75.

I’m physically suffering due to this bizarre conceit that has come over my parents about not needing air conditioning, and so, I have to figure, are they. The difference is that they’re entirely financially capable of paying for a hotel room every fucking night of the year to shelter themselves from the conditions they’ve allowed to take hold in their house, and I am not. I already spend so much on lodging that I need to cut my lodging expenses when I can so that I don’t go broke when I’m thousands of miles away. For them, this is some kind of unfathomably weird lifestyle game. For me, it’s relatives who are thousands of times more financially secure than I am refusing to provide for our basic physical comfort, and even our welfare, by installing ubiquitous off-the-shelf technology in their house that they already have in all three of their cars. Thirteen grand upfront and another thousand or two a year on that fucking pontoon boat is cool, but cooling equipment that could be fitted into the window jambs of any rundown walk-up apartment building in Port Henry is something we should maybe think about, but not right now, and it doesn’t actually get all that hot here.

Yes it fucking does. The Family Shrew is still impressed by how hot and humid it was here when she and Joe Dirtbag visited in 1973. And though time goes by, I will always be, etc. And you thought Bryan Adams was a precocious GTA tweenybopper. As the one guy in the band from Kelowna or some shit told Shad, slug it oot, gays. Or maybe he told Tom Power. I don’t particularly fucking care to look it up.

Oppressive summer heat didn’t first come to the Adirondacks after my parents moved into their custom modernist greenhouse. So why, exactly, should I slug it out through artificially exacerbated indoor weather conditions that are solely the result of my parents having been disembrained about everything having to do with the Adirondacks and the lifestyle famously accreted to them by the summer people? We’ve been going over this shit for five years now. It was a dire problem in the summer of 2012,  and I have no doubt that it exacerbated the emotional instability into which I’d fallen on account of the huge mess that Joe Dirtbag had recently made of my life on the West Coast. Financial millionaires not having air conditioning in their house is a completely artificial problem.

Now that my parents are keeping a third car at their place expressly for my use when I’m visiting, as a practical matter I could resolve this bullshit by driving to one of the nearby rest areas on the Northway and turning on the air conditioning overnight whenever I start feeling uncomfortable. I know the drill by now. As an interpersonal matter, it would be a clusterfuck. They keep taking this shit about the air conditioning personally and getting upset, and they’re still apparently pretending that I don’t regularly sleep in my own car on the West Coast. They’ve again put me in the position of either having to silently suffer the most pointless physical hardship or provoke a family fight by pleading in vain for them to put an end to this hardship for once and for all by getting some damn AC.

That they chose to bring this nonsense on themselves by building a badly ventilated house to spec without air conditioning is distressing enough. It’s worse that they seem to find it perfectly reasonable to host me in such conditions at a time when they know full well that I’m indigent or close to it and to repeatedly discount my complaints about the physical discomfort I’m feeling in their house on direct account of their inadequate HVAC system.

No one is being morally formed into something better by suffering through this horseshit. My parents’ self-denial is not making anyone else’s life better. Their asking me to visit them at a time when they cannot provide any of us with comfortable living conditions serves to tax my own patience to the breaking point, and I doubt it’s doing anything great for theirs. This isn’t some movable Lenten sacrifice that somehow facilitates charity benefiting the welfare and dignity of others. We’re holed up in a fucking family compound on the Canadian Shield. Nothing good whatsoever is springing forth from this bullshit. It’s just a goddamn waste.

My parents could have prevented our recurrent physical discomfort by buying a perfectly serviceable turnkey property with air conditioning for probably half or less of what they paid to have this gussied-up piece of shit house built from scratch to their specifications. That still would have forced me to devote an inordinate amount of time, energy, and money to extra travel to visit my friends, but at least the physical plant would have worked adequately. They couldn’t do that because the available turnkey properties were mostly away from the lake (because driving five minutes to a public marina is horrible, but driving 160 miles round-trip for medical appointments is, like, totally normal and doable), and few had the fine-ass modernist style that my parents expected to contrast them from my maternal grandmother and her dimwitted Dann Florek-looking white trash boyfriend. Besides, they had this parcel that my mom had bought decades earlier an eighth of a mile down the road from her parents’ trashy camp. My grandmother didn’t have air conditioning in her lake cabin, either, but I don’t recall hers heating up like a greenhouse, and she hardly put a dime into maintenance, let alone construction. Tree cover, small windows that opened, and some fans were usually enough to keep the temperature bearable, if not the family dynamics.

Since I already have business to do in Queensbury tomorrow (thank God), I’m seriously thinking about bringing either some fans or a small portable air conditioner back with me. I can’t afford to buy my way out of this mess, but that much I can afford. What I fear is that my parents will get all bent out of shape, take it personally, and worry that I’m turning into a home improvement spendthrift. What, me spend $420k on a lake house? LOL. I’m not about to turn into some kind of Imelda Marcos of window units, either; me and AC isn’t about to turn into the new Tom Bradley and socks.

Good God is this shit bizarre. My dad is vocally more amenable to buying me a house than to installing AC is the house he and my mom already have. That’s in addition to the rental house they own in Palo Alto. These are Palo Alto property owners who are inflicting their excruciating but ultimately bogus asceticism on me. I have more than enough asceticism in my own solo lifestyle, thank you very much. That I regularly sleep in my car should be a pretty strong clue to this. I’m foreclosed out of my childhood hometown until the chinks all go broke. That’s crude, but them’s the breaks, cracka. Not that the $80k-plus that my parents gross annually on my childhood home necessarily protects me from the elements and/or several hours’ worth of waste heat radiating from the kitchen, mind you.

One of the latest things that my dad is trying to convince me to do is to sign on with one of the understaffed dock servicing companies for fall removal and storage gigs. Some of the local businessmen he knows are having trouble retaining dock hands because they don’t want to work themselves to exhaustion and risk wrecking their backs manhandling 200-pound platforms for summer people, even with generous hazard pay. I know I’d rather scavenge deposit bottles, especially if I could get some inside info on the serious bottles. I’m not thrilled by the idea of risking my back so that some dipshit can dock his pontoon boat next summer. Or for some fuckhead with a hundred thousand-dollar woody. I couldn’t tell whether these jobs are on payroll or under the table, either, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do that under the table.

The moment my dad started talking these dock removal jobs up, jobs that I might like better and that I might want to apply for right now started gushing into my mind. One of these was the New York State Correctional Academy. I wouldn’t expect air conditioning from block to block, but at least I can rest assured that the kids on the block, old, new, or whatever, aren’t summer people. If no one gets the dock out by first freeze, the ice might crush the scaffolding. Well cry me the mouth of the fucking Ausable. That’s not an infrastructure that I would mourn.

Maybe my problem is that I keep living too low on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, at the physiological level, not the recreational or the high cultural. Gee, that sounds like it’s because, well, my mom flips her shit if I even imply that I’m poor, because her parents were poor at times when they always owned a duplex in a middle-class neighborhood on Staten Island, but all the same, this does often feel like the opposite of rich. White Whines about the shortage of dockboys are cute, but complaints about a fundamental physiological inability to cool one’s body and constant immersion in a festering film of sweat are deeply, provocatively offensive. Asking why a $420,000 retirement house containing over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of antiques doesn’t have ceiling fans is super problematic. So, presumably, is going to Home Depot or wherever and dropping a few hundred bucks on a Haier wheelie.

Nah, this can’t be the Twilight Zone. I’m sure I’m bitching about this shit only because Kenneth Fitzhugh gave us all participation trophies. He also gave us navel orange wedges just for showing up and murdered his wife for cuckolding him, resulting in his starring role in Palo Alto true crime potboiler Blood Will Tell. Go figure that a Dann Florek lookalike who never went to prison for murder was a much worse threat to my child welfare than the Charles Cullen-looking misfit from AYSO who, not entirely to my surprise, did.

Yes, we Millennials really are that entitled, expecting that the quarters provided us by millionaire Baby Boomers either be equipped or compatible with HVAC equipment that has been industry-standard since before we were born and that the Boomers not get upset when we ask for such equipment or sneak down to Lowe’s and buy it out of pocket. We really are that insolent towards our betters when we could instead go out and buy grotesquely inflated real estate with cash and credit that we don’t have.

Relatively speaking, I don’t have it that bad, but I’m still pretty vulnerable and powerless, and it’s a bad, bad place to be. Beyond a certain point, one starts to understand thoughts of ice floes.

Judging the Clintons

We might wonder what history will say about the Clintons, what our grandchildren will be able to discern of them from a distance that we are unable to discern from up close. Or we might wonder what current events today have to say about the Clintons, and figure that the first draft is a pretty damn good working copy of what that sanctimonious White House Fibbie Gary Aldrich spent the nineties calling the moosehead truth. I studied history in college, under one professor who forbade passive verbs to be used by us and another who accused me of arguing like a political scientist, so engage the world, bitch. Any of us might devote ourselves to the perfection of some high craft in the humanities or the sciences or the trades, or we might spend our middle and early old age making a living by talking the story about that one drunk back in Los Angeles whose crook buddy kept the theoretically omniscient stuffed moose head on the wall of his office to bear theoretical witness to his crimes.

If that fucking moosehead could talk and you or I repeated what it said, we’d be presumed furlough cases from the state hospital. It’s all outpatient nontreatment these days, so counting Psychotarp and Mixups in my Mind, there are many such cases. If, however, we fit the story of the talking moosehead into a right-wing talk radio context, we, too, might get book deals. If that fucking dog could talk, it would tell us how it fucking got the fucking rotisserie chicken, but I’m sure there’s nothing about its language that this Los Angeles jury hasn’t heard before. I’m reminded of a borderline morbidly obese lady I watched get cited for nonpayment of fare on the Blue Line a few hours before she was booked into jail for not a hell of a lot more than that (I checked booking records weeks later, and sure enough, there she was). After showing me the citation and yelling about what bullshit it was (I think she tore it up, too, but I can’t remember for sure), she complained, “Sheriffs think they the motherfucking po’ lease!” If you think about it, that wasn’t exactly less coherent than Gary Aldrich’s homilies on the fucking moosehead, and homegirl lived in shelters on Skid Row.

My bad: Central City East. Now THAT’s some language that this Los Angeles jury has never heard.

Gary Aldrich is an interesting case of Clintonworld profiteering because his relationship to the Clintons is entirely negative. He exists in unwaveringly, excruciatingly square opposition to them and their dissolute, immoral, parasitic lifestyle. He overplays his hand, but there’s no point to going on the talk radio circuit and not overplaying one’s hand. He’s part of the grievance machine, Hillary’s beloved vast right-wing conspiracy, and airing grievances all year long is how the conspiracy rolls. The Cassandra Class that has accreted itself to the Clintons in permanent opposition to them isn’t entirely wrong or deranged, though: Aldrich and his fellow travelers are right that the Clintons live in a special world of antisocial sleaze, one that they have done much to cultivate for their own enrichment and aggrandizement. That he’s offended by junior Clinton White House staffers for not being distraught with regret for having smoked marijuana exactly once, in the Poppy Bush tradition, is an unfortunate distraction.

So was the sexually repressed frustration of Kenneth Starr, Denny Dundiddly, Gateside Downlow, and that whole pathetic but dangerous crowd on the Big Dog’s occasionally tawdry but frankly consensual affair with his bottom bitch in the blue dress. The Lewinsky thing was just about the most harmless bit of fun in Bill Clinton’s sex life that they could have scrutinized, an infatuated mistress to a man other women had accused of unwanted groping and forcible rape. Worse, Starr and his staff managed to botch their investigations into the Whitewater real estate racket and the Clintons’ other shady side businesses. If there are to be moral disqualifications from the presidency, Whitewater is one, an abuse of licentious federalism facilitated by the most scandalously lax state law on repossession of real estate in the Union and orchestrated by a carpetbagging yuppie couple with no loyalty to place whatsoever. It’s damning of the special prosecutor’s office and Congress both that the Clintons got into less trouble for deliberately robbing workaday people of their vacation and retirement properties over single missed or late payments than Bill got into for sticking a cigar up his mistress’s cunt.

So far we’ve recapitulated the careers of a handful of freaks and scolds in the Cassandra Class who set themselves up to make a living by warning or whining about the Clintons. There’s an unfortunate boy who cried wolf air about many of them, but the financial incentives at play don’t favor modesty and truthfulness. The scrupulous fare poorly in that business. To hazard a guess, there may be a few hundred people nationwide who make a real living pulling this bullshit. The direct Clinton grifters, by contrast, the ones whose relationship to Clintonworld is positive, not negative, are said to number in the thousands. The Clintons maintain an infamously teeming court made up of concentric circles of aides, sycophants, hangers-on, and Anthony Weiner. Sure, they’ve probably cut him out like a tumor for practicing such publicly atrocious tradecraft as a perv, but Bill is still involved with the Lolita Express dude, so moral standards don’t get in the way of their relationships. On the other hand, they utterly hate anyone who challenges them from what they consider their own proper territory, the Democratic Party, especially Bernie Sanders and everyone with the nerve to support him.

Even if they’ve never had any of their enemies whacked, the Clintons operate in the fashion of a crime family. They have no principles, only an obsession with loyalty to themselves and their organization. They consider Sanders, who kept his word and stumped for Hillary after losing to her in the 2016 primary, disloyal for having challenged her in an effort to advance his own principles. They can’t fucking stand him for having the gall to consider the Democratic Party (with which he has caucused for years in the US Senate) an appropriate venue for the advancement of leftist policy goals that have had the support of large parts of the Democratic coalition going back at least to FDR. They can’t stand him for not wanting to do business with them and become a totally amoral sellout. They can’t stand Bernie for scrupulously playing by the rules, even to the extent of keeping his own promise to cease his political challenge to Hillary at the conclusion of the primary season and to fully endorse her. They don’t take kindly to being challenged by someone so upstanding for the control of the party apparatus that they’ve been milking so abundantly. Bernie Sanders isn’t even trying to set himself and his cronies up as a separate profit center in the Democratic Party. If he were leading an upstart rival gang, Clintonworld would long ago have bought him off or shooed him off to some regional territory or political niche that they had no interest in directly milking. If he’d launched a Martin O’Malley-style half-assed technocratic corporatist challenge to Your Fleek Abuela, he would have ended up like O’Malley: forgotten by election day.

The Bern doesn’t fit anywhere into the Clintons’ nine circles of deluxe hell and he doesn’t play by their arbitrary rule of men, so he’s a threat, a prime deplorable who must be insulted and humiliated and rebuked.

Clintonworld is on course to tear the Democratic Party asunder with this hostile refusal to repay a shred of the goodwill and support they’ve been granted, but none of them give a shit. They’ve gotten what they came for, and they’ll scheme to get more of it from whatever tattered rump of the party is left with the most corporate money and extreme personal wealth. Billary and company will inevitably blame any disintegration of their party on Bernie, the Berniebros, the entire basket of deplorables, and other resentful losers. If the left successfully retakes the Democratic Party and restores its political viability, the Clintons will fume about the majesty that has been stolen from them and move on to some other den of crooks for future cash infusions. If the left sets up a credible third party that marginalizes the Democrats, the Clintons will keep drilling the remnants for whatever cash and influence they will still yield.

It’s not at all farfetched that they might formally defect to the GOP if a solid leftist majority in the Democratic Party tells them to get fucked. The Bushes were already on their side against Trump during the general election last year, after the entire slate of movement conservative candidates got beaten back by Donald Trump’s insurgency and Please Clap got his ass handed to him on a golden platter. It’s hard to imagine there being enough political space and campaign money to fund two major parties catering to affluent, college-educated voters with extreme technocratic, corporatist, and bourgeois supremacist sympathies if a third party successfully establishes itself as the representatives of normal people who have been the victims of bogus meritocracy, so the consolidation of corporatist grifters like the Clintons into a single party that, say, pays homage to Hillary’s old homeboy Barry Goldwater is perfectly plausible. I, for one, relish the prospect of Main Liners being instructed to either shut up and listen to the union shop stewards and community organizers or fuck off back to the GOP, where they belong.

The Clinton machine famously choked like the willing victim of a summertime Cabbagetown dalliance with Sweet Baby J last fall, but it still has all these assholes running loudmouthed interference on its behalf. It still has Joy Reid spouting condescending nonsense onto every medium she can find a moment to hog. It still has Neera Tanden blathering abuse at Woke Slay Queen’s critics and reporting them to Twitter for terms of service violations. More than ever it has Peter Daou, the Verrit shithead who was part of a Lebanese death squad.

What in all hell motivates these freaks to publicly debase themselves? Money and influence. Duh. As the thief asked Jesus on the cross, remember me, Lord, when you enter into your Kingdom. By his own private testimony, Jian Ghotmesi doesn’t forget, and neither does Billary. The Clintons already rule over an earthly kingdom parallel to whatever duly constituted civil governments and illegitimate absolute monarchies and juntas they happen to be milking, so no one need peer beyond the veil to imagine his due reward. Peter Daou, Joy Reid, and their ilk constantly beclown themselves because that’s what it takes to keep mainlining that Clinton machine sugar sweet. That must be just like living in paradise, and one wouldn’t want to go home from such a lifestyle.

These people don’t give a shit how many normal people they beggar to keep their sinecures going. They’re running the Saudi royal family, but for yuppie cronies. It should come as no surprise that a fair amount of the money needed to fund their shitty operation comes from the actual House of Saud. Of course this operation magnetically attracts shysters who have no desire whatsoever to do anything reputable or productive for a living. It’s a new money royal court, and royal courts always attract embarrassing sycophantic shitheads. Just look at the damn Windsors and the national fruit collection that goes on television to gush about their glamour.

Had they come of age during the Great Depression or the Second World War, the Clintons probably would have either plugged into some healthy, well-governed professional matrix and done modestly well for themselves or gone into an equally modest life of crime ending on short order in incarceration and disgrace. It’s also possible that they would have worked their way into an existing organized crime family and kept their heads down enough to avoid screwing the pooch. Instead, they came of age in time to get in on the yuppie project at its very start when they were barely thirty and then take a lead in dismantling the New Deal and the Great Society. They did very well for themselves indeed by collecting Bill’s hit man’s fee on Glass-Steagall in installments after his retirement. Their daughter shows no aptitude or interest in anything, a classic regression to and then beyond the mean, but the family organization collected hundreds of thousands of dollars by renting her out to NBC (Donald Trump’s buddies, and also Jenna Bush’s) for a bullshit make-work job lasting a few months. Of course they cleared out space for that mediocrity; they’re NBC.

Meanwhile, they want the rest of us to compete against each other under baroque regimes from which they’ve conveniently exempted themselves. If we want Bernie Sanders to relevel the playing field for us and reestablish a safety net, it’s only because we’re bitter, hopeless, useless losers and also misogynists and racists. Chelsea is out collecting graduate degrees like David Clarke collects uniform jacket medallions at a time when her public utterances are consistently some of the most fucking retarded shit ever, and meanwhile I’m a family embarrassment for having a work history that, spotty though it is, is objectively better than her dabbling in obscenely overpaid “work” at NBC for an hour here and there and doing God knows what at the family foundations, other than just hoovering up money for nothing. I’ve picked several thousand pounds of fruit as an adult, including over three quarters of a ton this calendar year, and that useless bitch has her parents and their cronies making her out to look employed by getting NBC Universal to slushfund her as much gross income in half a year as a full-time farm worker might make, depending on the crop and the terms of employment, in two or three decades.

If our family friend who has worked at the same flower shop for over a decade straight because she isn’t focused or driven or hopeful enough to finish the bachelor’s curriculum that she started at a poorly ranked commuter school can be a family embarrassment and a failure to launch, and if I can be one, Chelsea Clinton can damn well be one, too. So can the older Trumpspawn. These dipshits have never shown any fucking merit. There’s no motherfucking way a thoughtless repeater of brain-dead talking points like Chelsea Clinton was academically competitive at Stanford, Columbia, and Oxford. That is impossible. They’re all shitting us, pure and simple. Is it really possible that this woman who happens to be the daughter of a US president and Rhodes Scholar is a genius in her own right even though she can’t articulate a single independent thought? Yeah, these institutions totally never approve legacy admissions for the children of centimillionaires with gigantic international political machines.

If we’re up against corruption that entrenched, why, as a moral and civic consideration, should we NOT go on welfare? Going on public assistance precisely because Bill Clinton gutted it and preened about what a benevolence he was for doing so would serve him right. On the other hand, if we want legitimate moral leadership, why the hell wouldn’t we vote to marginalize this crime family every time it shows up to sup anew at the public trough? It these fuckers can’t steward eighty or a hundred million dollars well enough to get by for generations to come, they’re hapless, but under a Sanders regime, there’d be space for them on the relief rolls, too.

Do the Clintons see it that way? Hell no. Something very weird happens beyond a wealth threshold that no one that I’m aware of in my extended family has ever reached. Marketplace Morning Report, I think it was, had some ex-NFL guy on the other day to talk about how he needed to open a small chain of restaurant franchises because he’d grossed ONLY $28 million in pro football, and there’s just no way a person could retire on that. I don’t blame him at all for wanting to stay busy and keep some structure in his life, but I have to wonder how the hell he had been spending his money or feared he would waste it. He sounded too prudent to get into the serious Allen Iverson bullshit. AI blew every cent he could get his hands on and now calls the managers of his trust fund to pester them for advances, pleading broke (the Insurance Schmuck has these shit-upon retainers as colleagues), but that’s because he’s AI.

Not everyone who comes into money is such an idiot. I’m not, for example. I’ve done the math, and absent a medical crisis, I doubt I’d be able to exhaust principal of less than seven million dollars in my lifetime, and probably a lot less. That’s assuming maximum interest of 0.75%, equal to what I currently earn on my savings account at Capital One 360, and no earned income, i.e., no deposit bottles, no farm work, no data entry work, and no Social Security if I survive to retirement age. I can’t imagine not having a nest egg in effective perpetuity if I somehow grossed $28m by the age of forty.

How do I do it? By having mostly middle-class tastes. That’s where the Clintons and their kind would run smack into a big buzzkill. I travel almost exclusively by coach, drive a Focus, routinely sleep in it, hesitate to buy new off-brand slacks, dine for miles, generally order some of the cheapest items on the menu, rarely buy alcohol, etc. ad nauseam. It adds up. Heh, I initially wrote that as “ads up,” but I’m self-deprogrammed, unless the ad is for bonus gas points at Safeway. Then it might become worthwhile to spend an extra nineteen cents on brand-name peanut butter.

It’s not hypocritical of me, then, to strive to do business with organizations that are funneling little or no money into shitty outfits like the Clinton and Trump organizations. Or with ISB and ISBF, who, respectively, spend more than my total annual cash flow on the summer rental of a shore house and carry more credit card debt than my net worth, including the resale value of my car. From this perspective, their being cokeheads stops looking so objectionable. I could be balls-deep in whores every week for a year or two straight for the $14k that that ditz spent on her wristwatch.

Bill Clinton catches a regular ride on Jeffrey Epstein’s Gulfstream to Lolita Island. I’ve never been to the Caribbean at all, even in the extreme ass end of an A321 out of Miami. It’s not that I’ve sworn to God never to go there; it’s just that it’s out of the way and expensive, or in the case of Puerto Rico, out of the way, chronically dysfunctional, and not necessarily on the schedule for grid repairs until sometime next year. Glen Campbell, pray for us. Robert Dziekanski and Frank Sinatra, too, come to think of it.

Smear me for writing such things when I’ve replaced Dodd-Frank with absolutely nothing. Take it any way you fancy, but the Rat Pack had some bitchin’ horn sections, and Bill Clinton would have failed their sax auditions. Giggity.

At least I did part of my part by voting for Bernie Sanders and Jill Stein. She may be an incorrigible dork who curries favor with antivaxxers and healing crystals freaks, but at least they’re marginal. We’ve seen what the Trumps and the Clintons have done with their power.

Suck my balls, Tate

Today’s report from the what What Fresh Hell Hath Afflicted NPR Desk comes from America’s most representative city, Muncie, Indiana. According to NPR, “Downtown Muncie, Ind., has seen revitalization over the past several years.” Since we’re on the subject of Hoosiers and their vitality, we might also note that a number of sexy male nurse Lynn Majors’s patients have seen devitalization over the past several decades, although they weren’t exactly there to see it, but that would be too tasteful and upstanding. You may not be interested in another merciless haidt-fucking, but today’s haidt-fucking is very much interested in you, Mr. Ben Dover.

Sexy male nurse Lynn Majors memes are fun. Contemplating the possibility of an openly gay mayor of South Bend (hey, I just said “bend!”) named Pete Buttigieg is fun, with an emphasis on “possibility;” I’m still not entirely convinced that the dude isn’t made up. (Joey Buttafuoco is bizarre but believable, because that kind of thing really does happen on Long Island.) Listening to managerial-class shitbirds bitch on a taxpayer-funded public radio program about how their neighbors are nothing but useless druggies who are exacerbating a tight labor market with their absenteeism and their failed drug tests is just disgusting.

We can start to understand the profound sickness of NPR by considering that the people who run it today find nothing inappropriate or offensive about clearing out space on their platform for affluent, powerful local elites to whine about the scandalous and hurtful noncompliance of the labor pool in their communities with their intrusive, humiliating, hostile employment drug testing regime. They can’t imagine that there’s anything off about this situation. They can’t imagine that the local elites they encounter are anything but perfectly upstanding, aboveboard, and inherently incapable of abusing their authority. They can’t imagine class power dynamics that are abusive or tyrannical.

They’re clueless, but what else would they be? NPR is operated by life’s winners. Third-generation meritocratic victors aren’t raised to look critically at the system. It lavishly benefits them and theirs, and those it deprives surely must have done something wrong: dropped out of school, gotten into drugs, gotten into trouble (criminal or gestational, whatever). The incentives not to examine their beloved meritocracy are overwhelming.

What’s actually happening on the ground in Muncie, and for that matter inside the Beltway, too, isn’t actually meritocracy. The local elites in most small cities gladly lord it over their poorer American neighbors, whom they accuse of comprehensive vice. The national Beltway elites prefer to lord it over their hired foreigners, whom they condescendingly accuse of great virtue that the restive natives cannot hope to equal. Both of these stances are rotten to the core. Neither one is informed by a sense of equality. The local details vary, but the elites in both cases dare not imagine a regime in which they are not in charge. One expects the continued latitude to hire Guatemalan nannies and Mexican gardeners of irregular status with impunity; the other is upset that its effective ability to fire its American help in a spirit of hearty, self-righteous moral censure has been curtailed by a labor market that has finally swung back in labor’s favor after decades of increasing managerial aggression.

NPR doesn’t find anything seedy about a factory owner who happily agrees to be photographed standing on the edge of the floor wearing pearls and bangles and condescendingly complains that she doesn’t want to say that she’s relaxing her company’s standards by hiring and retaining employees whose drug use scandalizes foreign clients. This is both a weird situation (who the fuck wears easily snagged jewelry down to the factory floor, especially someone who runs a factory day to day?) and an extremely unseemly one, but NPR, almost as a unanimous entity, assumes that the poor will and should have to dance before the international ownership class to earn their supper, so of course the crews it sends to Indiana side with the may I speak to your manager chick when she goes on the record to trash her own employees. This is normal, especially for someone who is forced to hire deplorables because her town isn’t larded with nice meek immigrant help. It’s just as normal and worthy in these princesses’ eyes to present the owner of a successful, well-established furniture company as the George Bailey of his generation for having the sheer generosity not to demand drug tests of the young guys with strong backs he’d rather hire to hump couches around his shop than exhausted old guys whose backs are already wrecked. After all, if the furniture roustabouts didn’t want to piss in a cup as a condition of employment, they should have stayed in school and learned the mad skills of the knowledge economy, like being Yuki Noguchi, so a bit more gratitude for the second chances Furniture Forklift Hero is offering them would be a good luck.

I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to do contingent menial labor for such walking generosities. The clerks at the welfare office don’t need to do much to end up providing better customer service than that. Funny thing, those who talk loudest about the dignity of work never seem to be the ones who bring the damn dignity. Paul Ryan doesn’t have a problem with bosses who constantly belittle employees they’ve made piss in a cup. The Democrats are more hesitant to mount that high horse, but they’re in strong bipartisan agreement that the native poor, especially the rural white native poor, ought to cut out the damn drugs and jump through more hoops for their betters. The Republicans are steaming mad at the poor for no longer going to church and the altar and work, while the Dems are butthurt with them for not being joyously #WithHer, but they share office space on Capitol Hill and hang out at the same hip restaurants and clubs and coffeehouses (Muh Fuckin Panera), so the common cause is rarely as distant as it looks.

Don’t assume that you aren’t their common enemy. I have no such illusions about myself. I don’t personally sneak into diner bathrooms to warm up a dope snack with a cigarette lighter and a teaspoon, because that sounds fucking dreadful, but I don’t believe for a hot second that I’ll ever do anything Stakhanovite enough to get safely into the good graces of the ruling class as it is so scandalously constituted today. If they valued productive manual labor, they’d do something to restore lost dignity and compensation to it. Their insistence on keeping it degrading shows that they don’t value it. They’d all rather import Mexicans or Somali refugees or your guess is as good as mine who next to do the grunt work than start engaging as civic equals with the native working class that they already have right here and right now. The more forward-thinking among them are surely already drafting an official sob story about how Muncie needs a dedicated foreign guest worker or immigrant settler quota to fill all the great service industry jobs downtown that the local druggies are too busy shooting dope to take, even though the consensus of the local employers is that they’re disgusting, contagious, and unreliable for having drug problems and that it is a great mercy on their part to consider relaxing drug test and background investigation standards on behalf of such shifty losers.

Going on welfare is not only a rational response to such a bigoted power structure, but an appropriate one. But that’s only part of the solution. The other part is to insist on aggressive I-9 enforcement, with stiff penalties, and restrictions on the granting of further work visas for menial positions, so that the capitalist class is unable to sneak around and hire foreign scab labor to clean the bed it’s so abundantly shit. As I keep saying, voting for Trump was a savvy and rational for those who wanted the federal government to finally start cracking down on the lawlessness of capital and management, a Hail Mary pass maybe, but more sensible than sitting the election out (many such cases in the underclasses, even in 2016) or, for those who could barely stand it, voting for the full restoration of the House of Clinton.

The employment situation in Muncie can’t be as good as NPR makes it out to be. For one thing, they’re all bitching about how U3 of under 4% is a shorthanded catastrophe for employers. That’s suspicious. The moment the job market becomes favorable even just for the more enterprising applicants, they throw a fit about how employers don’t have a prayer of being able to staff up in a market so tight. That ignores, of course, the true size and nature of the pool of the truly discouraged, but NPR isn’t a place to go looking for U6 figures and honest commentary on them.

NPR signal-boosts entrepreneurial whiners because it’s run by teachers’ pets who socialize exclusively with other teachers’ pets. This is a serious long-term problem with no obvious solution. The prestigious parts of the educational and corporate systems in the United States today select aggressively for teachers’ pets, and it’s been getting worse for thirty years. I’m thankful to have found a handful of employers, even for temp work, who don’t have their heads up their asses with that poisonous nonsense, but for similar reasons, I’m very much on the side of anyone who reacts to this brownnosing fascist bullshit by dropping out onto the welfare rolls, System D, and whatever casual work they can pick up from employers who aren’t condescending, invasive, moralistic pieces of shit. Employers who disrespect their employees do not deserve attendance, punctuality, or retention. My idea of a nudge theory is the help nudging employers to drop their damn superiority complexes by not showing up if they don’t.

Should it involve hard drugs? I’d rather it didn’t, but that isn’t my scene. That said, even though gaudeamus igitur can be a reason to use drugs, something tells me that Hoosiers aren’t sneaking into restaurant bathrooms to cook dope on spoons that they lifted from the dining room because times are good. That something hasn’t been in touch with anyone at State Radio of Venezuela–I mean, NPR–for years.