In awe at the size of this lad. Absolute secure housing unit.

It’s the fifth anniversary of some Facebook shitposting that I did about Robert Rizzo working the parking lot at the Surf Museum in Huntington Beach (“I used to direct traffic at Hershheypark, so Bob’s a colleague”), including some kind words about Chris Christie’s superior character that didn’t age well after the George Washington Bridge thing, so I looked up Rizzo to see what has happened to him in the meantime. He’s presumably done with the lot gig, since they don’t have those at Lompoc, but a bit like Najibullah Zazi on quadruple rations, I can’t find where the hell the feds and/or CDCR have stashed him: the feds say he and five or six other guys named Robert Rizzo have been released, news reports at the time of his sentencing said that he’d be staying in the federal system to serve his state sentence, and CDCR shows no record of him in its inmate lookup portal. Given that he was facing well over a tenner less than five years ago, someone isn’t sharing pertinent information with the class.

When I compared Robert Rizzo to Chris Christie, I meant it. That boy is what we call thicc. Or was, depending on what he thinks of prison food. There are prisoners who lose weight because the food is shit, but it doesn’t take much slush off the top of ten mil or whatever the hell in illegal government kickbacks and looting to fund a commissary account for the long haul. Fat Sammy and the Unified Command memes are and shall remain an important part of the memetic treasury in these pages, but Sam Dotson has shit on Rizzo for being a stout shorty. It’s historically been debatable whether Italians can be white, but if they can, my good trolley bitch, that’s one fat cracka.

That said, whether it ought to be said or not, what inspires me to prose today isn’t Robert Rizzo but Chuck Rizzo, whose name came up when I was trying to locate Bob the Big Boy in the American Gulag. Chuck Rizzo is, for starters, an unremarkably normal-looking guy, both handsomer and more height/weight-proportional than Robert but nondescript by normal standards. He’s facing but not yet serving a federal nickel bid for a mob trash racket in Metro Detroit. Daddy was a trash crook, too, and a Charles. God bless our American family-own small business job creators, then.

The stunning thing about the Chuck Rizzo case was the objection that the prosecution raised to his being released on bond after sentencing to get his affairs in order and allowed to report to prison at a later date: specifically, that he was a suicide risk, and that a planned family reunion prior to his surrender date was likely to push him over the edge. The judge ruled in Rizzo’s favor, saying that the prosecution’s objections were serious but not convincing. But on the subject of elephants and the rooms they might trash, do we maybe think that if this guy is suicidal, it’s because he’s facing years in prison?

*Permanently contemplative Dennis Lynn Rader Voice* I spend quite a bit of time in my room myself. But seriously. Incarceration is not a routine setback or challenge in life. Suicide is hell on those left behind, but it takes a hard damn heart not to admit that prison can be a hell of its own, or that five to five and a half years in prison is nothing because the system passes down sentences centuries long. These are not things to minimize. They’re horrifically serious.

Any prosecutor who stands up in a courtroom and asks a judge to remand a convict to prison so that he can’t commit suicide while out on pre-surrender bond is a sociopathic sadist. That’s some powerfully depraved thinking. Yeah, dipshit, you know why he might be suicidal? Because of you. You’re the one doing everything you can to ruin his life out of spite. Even if a convict isn’t suicidal, as Rizzo’s defense convinced the judge, he has alarmingly good reasons to be suicidal, and every fucking one of these reasons could be neutralized singlehandedly by the prosecution not seeking prison time. That’s what prosecutors would do if their main concern were about the mental health and survival of their defendants and convicts. This is separate from the public safety arguments against releasing dangerous criminals into the community without supervision, but the prosecution here wasn’t arguing anything of the sort; it was disingenuously asserting itself as a defender of its adversary against himself.

Really, judges should give prosecutors one warning to shut the fuck up about their concern for defendants’ wellbeing before holding them in contempt of court. It’s a fundamentally perjurious mindset, not a series of lies in a strict technical sense but a line of argument driven by such utterly bad faith that it’s tantamount to lying, and it is without a doubt a form of deliberate false witness. Prosecutors in these situations patently do not give a rat’s ass about the welfare of those they’re prosecuting. More often than not, they seem to be driven by a pathological, personal, visceral hatred, including a desire to see evil visited upon their adversaries. They don’t get upset because someone will make a tragic, impulsive, heartbreaking, irreversible mistake; they get upset and scandalized that they’ll be denied the opportunity to punish those who have desperately sought a higher mercy.

That’s who deserves the Flint water supply. Lock their asses in cells plumbed into the river until they publicly disavow the evil they’ve promoted. If some crew of crooks gets caught running a trash racket, their contracts can be canceled and their ill-gotten gains clawed back. Allowing manifestly vicious, hateful, vicariously violent lunatics and sadists to draw public salaries as criminal prosecutors is a much deeper and more serious problem. That’s much harder to fix by enforcing the law. If no one will watch the watchdogs, maybe we’d be better off putting them all down.

The notion that prison is a place where the suicidal can be protected from themselves is as laughable as it is grotesquely evil and false. What’s next? Insisting that EMT-firefighters have the lowest possible occupational exposure to smoke and contaminated sharps? That the way not to be called a snitch-ass pig is to become a cop? To paraphrase Daniel Holtzclaw, suck white dick. Chuck Rizzo’s prosecutors asked a judge to immediately remove him from a reasonably stable environment where he had adequate psychiatric care to an unstable, chaotic, vicious environment where any psychiatric care he had been receiving would be interrupted and replaced, almost certainly, with a lower standard of care. Not many years ago a federal court found psychiatric care in the California prison system so pervasively bad that it placed the entire CDCR mental health system under the supervision of a special master, eventually ordering inmate releases to reduce the population to a manageable level. California may have been an extreme case, but there’s no fucking way it had the only prison system in the country that was failing to provide adequate psychiatric care to its inmates.

Yeah, let’s add another nonviolent convict with a history of suicidal ideation to our already crowded and dysfunctional federal prison system so that he doesn’t kill himself. That’ll go just great.

There’s a broader point to be made here, too: our prosecutors are batshit fucking insane. Do you really want to tell me that that Anne Marie Schubert is not clinically paranoid? Mama Grizzly cowering behind the chain link fence with delusions of persecution at the hands of angry community activists whose meetings she refuses to attend in the interest of her physical safety is certainly a good approximation of paranoid psychosis and projectile PTSD. The bum who ran into the governor’s mansion trying to flag down the Highway Patrol to shoot the mountain lion that was growling at him from inside the dumpster wasn’t that crazy. He’d just wanted the good guys with guns to shoot down the bad guy with fangs, but after his arrest, he told KCRA that he’d had mental health problems in the past and on second thought there probably hadn’t been any lion. It took a guy who had been acutely psychotic two or three days to say, shit, I guess I hallucinated that cat, but damned if we can ever get a hypervigilant district attorney to admit that, no, as a matter of fact no one was trying to assault or murder me, because yelling at a public official to do her job is not a form of assault, homicide, or violent threat.

Again, we may be better off without this apparatus of hell than we are with it. We really don’t understand peace or mercy as a nation, not even when it’s staring us square in the face. We hardly even have the gumption to tell flagrantly paranoid security officials to take their CalPERS and fuck off back to Citrus Heights. I don’t give a shit if Schubert wants to self-medicate with chardonnay; the problem is that she’s being paranoid and lashing out on the public dime at a time when she has executive prosecutorial discretion. If she wants to be batshit crazy on her own time, that’s her business; this current shit is our business.

The Chippies should give that poor bum a Starbucks gift card for what they and the Sheriff’s Department did to him, since they’re already quite familiar with Starbucks. They owe him a Dunkin’ Doorman offering for his trouble. I’m not lion, and neither is that dumpster.

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Midnight in the Garden of Food and Devil

Americans are being killed and sickened by contaminated lettuce again. Take a moment to think this over and consider what it means, not only to have this happening anywhere for any reason but to have it happening in what is widely regarded as the wealthiest and certainly the most powerful country on earth. Again, we aren’t hearing about hospitalizations and deaths from fecal coliform bacteria on meat, which has the guts near the good stuff and also a lot of stuff that oughtn’t be eaten but is; this is romaine. Field greens are supposed to be entirely segregated from the nasty.

We should be asking pointed questions about this scandal. For one, who shit on the lettuce? This last contaminated crop, like prior bad batches, was grown domestically, around Yuma. There was no foreign chain of custody for US food safety officials to have any difficulty tracing to the port of entry; this is on us. In another public safety win for the Department of Homeland Security, the shitleaf went through Border Patrol interior checkpoints on its way to market, but those jackbooted thugs are looking for a different leafy green, the maddening reefer, which, come to think of it, is now objectively safer to consume than lettuce. Hell, for that matter, cocaine is probably the most antiseptic substance on the money supply. #TheMoreYouKnow, baby.

Again, someone got shit on the lettuce, and no one in government stopped it at any point until unwitting customers had already started getting dangerously sick. By the time that happened, the potentially contaminated lot under recall advisory was huge. Officials were basically out shrugging and telling the public, eh, don’t eat romaine, then, I guess. It turned out that pretty much the entire romaine crop on the US market at the time had been grown around Yuma and that there weren’t many growers in the business. This was an industrial-scale agricultural concern that had befouled the fresh food supply. If your filthy uncle cooks dinner without washing his hands, your family might get sick. This was one of those deals where Uncle Shit works somewhere upstream in the cutting or boxing of fresh lettuce for the national market, but no one can tell where until there’s an outbreak to trace.

Romaine can be grown in a greenhouse or high tunnel anywhere in the country year round, but for some reason the entire winter crop is grown in one of the driest, most Aral Sea-ass agribusiness shitholes in the land. That reason is Mexicans. We divert their treaty water for our own uses, but then we’re all like, don’t mope around, now, amigo, we’ve got work here. I’m not kidding when I say that the location of these plantations is determined by the wetback supply, not the water supply. Sure, Yuma has deep dirt and a lot of sun, too, but it’s the last goddamn thing upstream of Mexico on a river that Las Vegas, Phoenix, Wickenburg, and Southern California are all jockeying to suck so dry that it never reaches the sea.

This is why we ask why the fuck anyone is growing lettuce there, when it’s a bullshit crop that can be grown on the kitchen windowsill at home if it’s that important. If the Mexicans stopped showing up to cut it, we’d get to hear the latest White Whine from farm country about how food is rotting in the fields again and also we’re being racist, but let’s be real here: there’s nothing racist about granting low-class Mexicans the same license as low-class Americans to go on welfare, and if romaine rots in the field, that means it can’t travel thousands of miles to rot in your fridge. How sad.

The American Gothic waste-not-want-not ethic is a myth. I actually believe in it, but no one in agribusiness or food processing does; everyone in the industry who whines about how the racist government-provoked wetback shortage is causing food to rot in the fields would gladly open a tank valve and pour milk into the river to goose disappointing commodity prices. These are not honorable people, as proven by their custom of importing crews of foreign field hands with no civic stake in the country to spend fifty to sixty hours a week stooped over making the same three or four cuts again and again and again. Gee, could that be why the work is so awful? Could it possibly be that a few thousand people are worked like donkeys in a salt mine for minimum wage to cut a crop that any fool could grow on a shelf in her apartment, without all the stooping?

Before you assume that there’s an applicable minimum wage just because the owners say there’s one, remember that these companies are using international labor arbitrage to hire desperate foreigners with limited English skills, including many who are present in the United States without work authorization. It would take a fucking ethnographic field study to ascertain the actual prevailing wages because the entire business is run by politically manipulative liars. It’s insane to believe a word out of anyone’s mouth from the crew bosses on up, unless it’s about how they knowingly hire illegals, because that’s something they definitely do all the time.

Nor will I bury the hatchet about how offensive, scandalous, and plainly evil it is for planters and their PR flacks to brag about how having destitute fifty-year-old diabetics with 40% of normal hand and wrist function bend down and whack the base of a lettuce stalk with a machete ten thousand times a week is a humanitarian and cultural exchange program. If the Mexicans all decide they wanna go play video games instead, I won’t blame them; that isn’t a life well examined or well spent, but it’ll be good for us, the assholes who expect them to keep showing up and wrecking their bodies cutting our lettuce for a pittance.

And if they keep having fewer and fewer babies to replace the aging farm workforce, again, we deserve it. It’s really interesting how this celebrated Mexican devotion to hard work and family which we celebrate at management’s encouragement is exactly what management wants to keep payroll expenses down. They obviously don’t want childless thicky tricks on birth control, already an East LA thing, to start being a Mexican thing in Mexico, too. It’s none of their damn business, of course, but that never stopped them.

The Chicana lady I have in mind washes her hands because she’s clean and wholesome. I’m not saying we need whores to start cutting our lettuce, but, geez, I’d say we need better handwashing protocols one way or another. Not getting one’s unwashed wiping hand all over the lettuce is kind of like not rawdogging a bunch of different strangers of visibly dubious health and hygiene: it’s basic, commonsense sanitation, but sometimes it’s too much to ask. Hookers are usually really fastidious about condom use, but we’re getting our field greens from crews that include the equivalent of crazy amateur bar skanks, in addition to ones whose instinctive standards of cleanliness are higher than the dangerously excessive demands of their jobs permit them to maintain. This is how we end up with people popping a squat and leaving gifts for their fellow laborers in the vineyard to unexpectedly encounter, or alternately skipping meals until after quitting time to suppress the urge to shit.

No sane and ethical society would tolerate any of this whatsoever. It’s entirely unacceptable and unnecessary. Absolutely nothing about it is inherent to farm work; it’s exclusively the result of hiring a few thousand unenfranchised foreign peasants to spend sixty hours a week doing work that a few hundred thousand or million Americans should be doing for an hour or two a week. The field greens industry invests jack shit in research and development for employee ergonomics for the same reason that it doesn’t provide portapotties within a manageable walk of the field: because it has this disposable foreign peasant workforce at its command.

That’s a workforce that can’t disappear from the United States fast enough. No, I’m not demanding another Operation Wetback. As I said above, video games are a reasonable alternative, at least for those not personally wasting their lives playing them. Besides, importing the Frenchies to do grunt work in New England and Upstate New York was a crackerized clusterfuck in its own right, and not just on account of Paul LePage. The point is that the class clashes between the poor and the higher classes are bad enough when everyone speaks the same language, so anyone trying to dual-track a foreign proletarian vulgate in alongside what everyone with a lick of honesty recognizes as the Lingua Franca has bad motives and is setting the entire society up for trouble. The whole Franco-Anglo thing in Canada seems to have gotten a lot less stupid and vicious as Canada has gotten its shit together and started solving its social problems. This societal advancement is much less forthcoming in Mexico; hence, among other phenomena, Central American refugees who don’t seek resettlement in a country better-governed than their own where they already speak the language, instead risking their lives crossing it to get to a much more alien land where they can more reasonably expect to survive.

Let’s get real: would anyone expect an acculturated, enfranchised, lower-middle-class American workforce operating in a well-regulated industrial regime to have the same difficulty abiding by professional standards of cleanliness? Americans are getting sick and literally dying (*Robert Dziekanski, overhearing the talk of Kwesi Millington’s home and native land* #MeToo, Biggie; you’re literally killing me) because what turn out to be critical food safety protocols are being left to harried foreign peasants working in ragingly lawless environments. These are not environments in which employees feel comfortable taking the time to properly wash their hands. Followup news items on the shitleaf have mentioned that it isn’t a problem anymore because the entire romaine industry has relocated to the Salinas Valley for the summer. Great, the place where they put an unimaginably shoddy-looking portable shitter on a trailer behind a school bus; I can’t imagine what would go wrong with a food safety regime being run in that physical context.

These are not the inscrutable mysteries of the salad field. This shit is Upton Sinclair for vegetarians. It’s the equivalent of a peddler’s cart full of unrefrigerated chicken meat that was dressed with a rusty steak knife. Businesses are allowed to sell this shit, which includes actual shit, because we don’t have laws around here. It’s a miracle that these outbreaks of foodborne illness don’t happen more often.

Please, to the fucking table.

Jimmy quit, Jody got married, shoulda known we’d someday get Gross

It could be worse. We could talk about the other Terry and relapse into acute Kathoholicism. We’ve done that before.

Nah, only on NPR could it be worse. So guess what? It’s on fucking NPR. I’m trying to boycott this interview with a navelgazing Limey songstress I could have sworn I’d never heard of in my life, and since I haven’t opened any of the overly copious NPR livestreaming services on my laptop, I’m currently succeeding. *Terminal Robert Dziekanski voice* And I guess you could say I’m “current” ly dying over here.

God, what a shock that always is. If you go to the trouble of listening to that interview or reading the highlights, neither being anything that I’d recommend, you’ll discover that it’s worse than anything I have to say about the RCMP. I.e., mostly about how they killed that one Pole, but there’s no reason it can’t be about how they sexually harass their own. For the same reason, the linked interview is worse than anything NPR will ever have to say about maladjusted Mounties, artistically or otherwise. If we’re going to carry on about dipshits with residual feudal duties to the Queen and chronic sociosexual dysfunction, we ought to carry on about the ones with the clipped cadences and the equally fine-ass two-tone field blues, not some borderline-Eurotrash emo civvy in a poorly fit Marimekko-style top and her excessive discography. We might as well at least find a crew that dresses well for its sexual harassment and its command mismanagement, not the lady who looks like she’s wearing long sleeves to hide the cutting scars on her forearms. Let’s call it “Of Corporals, Cocksuckers, and Cowardice.” Let us all, in one spirit, lift up our voices from the fish pond to the sky and rundel in that jungle.

NPR can’t even put the fun into the dysfunction. It’s not as if they’re spending the hour interviewing someone who’s mature, organized, and focused on the important things. This is someone who released an antinatalist retrospective on the virtues of hormonal birth control, in song. Contraceptive music exists, and it’s every bit as bad as pro-life music. One didn’t want a baby, but then one wanted a baby, and by then it was hard to have a baby. Additionally, Tracey Thorn has records about how much it sucks for a girl to not really be one of the guys even though she’s in their band, to be denied the traditional male license to be a derelict permaflaneur (because this is totally about sex and has never been about class), and to date a romantic derelict with a guitar who turns out to be emotionally hostile or distant or flaky or unstable or some shit. A woman, she tells us, can have a guitar, too.

Don’t look at me all weird for publishing Gerry and the Heartstoppers “tunes.” I’m not involved in any of the above horseshit. True story: I once got halfway involved in a love triangle with a bipolar chick whose main boyfriend, the one she wouldn’t disclose to her parents because they were Catholic and he was a Jewish atheist, met her because he was working on a documentary about Charlie “Murder is the Charge!” Robertson and she was babysitting for the district attorney. That whole thing was a dumpster fire by week four or five. I turned into a horrible emotional mess when it undeniably failed. I didn’t publish a fucking sob song about it and then go on NPR. Neither did I ever, nor do I plan to ever, pollute the Anglophone songbook with emo shit about how the thicc Jewess with the dead sexy Chicagoland accent who probably wanted to fuck me but I couldn’t tell because she turned me off with what seemed to be her idea of foreplay, specifically, pushing all five fingernails against my kneecap, hard, and spreading them out in unison.

This shit doesn’t need to be on NPR. It’s why we have YouTube and blogs. If you’re feeling (Mos)sad about these things, sing a song, and you’ll feel better, and I’ll feel better if you keep it to your damn self. It makes all too much sense that Fleetwood Mac’s “Sara” is a wistful pro-life ballad. Are we all supposed to be sad that what’s-her-name aborted the Henley brat? It was, like, forty years ago, and it wasn’t our fucking kid. Do we really have to keep hearing about that? Some family friends, also Baby Boomers, who were dating back then eventually had a child because they got queasy about the repeated abortions that resulted from their unplanned pregnancies, and now they have grandkids, but again, they didn’t commemorate it in a fucking acoustic storm.

Speaking of desperadoes, etc., it seems that the Henley fellow was inspired to vomit out his own god-awful bit of musical moralizing about the wrongfulness of gossip because he was starting to be accused of being a mob-adjacent Roy Moore-grade Quaalude teenybopper. Or, as Rex Tillerson might say, moron this shortly.

We’d all do better if the entirety of our public discourse about family values or the lack thereof were a Socratic monologue with Ali G.: “Sex: what is it all about? And babies: what is THAT all about? Is it good, or is it wack?” The moment people with opinions on this shit try to express them in cultural media, we end up with mewling assholes getting airtime in Redding to sing about letting all the babies be born. That shit won’t stop abortion. It will, however, degrade music.

None of these fuckheads, on either side of our wedge issues, is making society better through artistic advocacy. It isn’t a Satanic red herring to point out that allowing elevated levels of lead to persist in public drinking water supplies, and not just in Flint, either, has horrible effects on prenatal, neonatal, and childhood health and development. Hardcore pro-lifers put me off with their shrillness and enemy-of-the-good idealistic extremism, but I am not concern-trolling the movement by pointing out that their failure to raise hell over the contamination of water supplies right here in the United States demonstrates their insincerity and incoherence. Lead contamination is causing women to miscarry when they want to carry their babies to term. Ritually yelling at the Congress and the Supreme Court every spring doesn’t do a damned thing to remedy this ongoing disaster. You might as well take the youth ministry group down to the Tidal Basin to contemplate life and death, time and eternity, and the gratuitous sexuality of fruitless flowering ornamental plants under the cherry trees. I might as well go down to the Capitol Mall in Sacramento to contemplate how bitchin’ Senegal date palms are under the Senegal date palms. The rains can bless that, too, right here, right now. Alternately, we can bless the sprinkler system, only to have the state turn parts of it off for months on end to show Californians what a dry lawn looks like. #TheMoreYouKnow.

The Boomers are great for anyone who wants to listen to complaints about how having children is terrible and also not having children is terrible, and the only possible way to resolve this existential crisis is public art therapy. The pro-life vs. pro-choice standoff is not all that much more than two dueling lobbies of bougies with too much time and disposable income on their hands defaming one another for the feels. If they wrote “Anything Helps, God Bless” on their signs instead, they might get a positive return on their investments, but hooray for our signs, amirite. On our leading public radio afternoon arts show, the antinatalist-turned-natalist of these complaints get mixed up with grievances about how, aw oyt, mate, back when I was twenty Oy had some mates who were in me band and they didn’t act like Oy was to’ally one of them because me was a chick, not a bloke. Yeah, not having a perfect clique of friends in one’s teens and twenties is possible only for chicks, not for dudes.

Terry Gross could have asked, so, like, do you have cousins or siblings who have kids, so you could maybe, like, be involved in their lives instead, you know, but that would have been off-topic in a discussion about how the coordination of one’s own family planning, feminism, and possible woke polyamorous lesbianism is le hard and merits the more than occasional song. Plus, it would upset the neoliberal apple cart to question the breaking up and dispersion of what would otherwise be intact extended families. If we discover that this is deleterious for Limey cunts with disposable income, we might discover that it’s really bad for indigent New Orleanians, and if that happened we might start voting for elected officials who scandalize NPR’s sponsors.

There are from time to time artists who can cover these themes appropriately: Croce, Joel, Rodriguez, Winehouse. None of them are this emo Limey cunt who just spent most of an hour on the radio, more like Whinehouse, I have to say. It isn’t due to the Jews; look at the Jews we embargo in this discourse. Sure, half-Jews, mostly, but that never stopped Jeff Bezos from being absoslute piece of shit. If I’m off dicking some hooker who already has kids, at least I’m not singing piss-ass songs about the piddling deficiencies of my family life when I could be devoting my energy to expressing more serious grievances that might be resolvable instead, and neither is the hooker. The only song we need about that is the one about how they tried to make me go to Rahab.

I’m probably pissing into the wind by mouthing off about NPR again when I know where to find wild bay laurel three miles from here, but at least I just missed half of Fresh Air, all of that fucking Boston international relations dorkfest with the Werman twerp, and the first broadcast of Marketplace. I also missed a rare opportunity to meet Donna Apidone, Devin Yamanaka, and Randall White People in person at New Helvetia. Now, how DO I keep misspelling that man’s name? I have no idea what’s happening, Randall; I’m just a fat cracka who spends too much time on the light rail. I could have actually fucking met these fools today; not sure I’d have had to pay for the honor, in which case no way in hell was I meeting any of them. Say what you will about my knowing who they are and how to spell their names; that can’t say anything good about me. Just remember this: what bougies who maybe didn’t have kids when they should have need is friends or therapists; they don’t need platforms or audiences, and you don’t need that set of fucking Cap Radio pint glasses.

What’s going on, Ed, back home in SoCal is better than any of this shit up here. I really have to go, though, both because I’ve had enough internet for the afternoon and because it’s that time of day again when there are updates at least every half hour regarding legal developments involving the President’s outside counsel, the dirty movie lady, and maybe even that prune-ass sticky-fingered roller shithead from the Auburn Police Department. No time for a roast, Joey; this is civics.

TIAA-GRIFT

Some people just need to be humiliated and torn down. Even if they’re surrounded by phalanxes of sycophants and hooked up to permanent funding streams, we can at least nip at their heels and impose some social costs on them in exchange for their undue economic and professional success.

This is about our shitty friend Heywood Jablomie again, not surprisingly. I’ve spent several hours last night and today dragging his reputation through the mud on Facebook. It’s been tiring more than cathartic, but the disrepute is his, brought upon himself by his own shamelessly bad character; I occasionally stop by just to help him publicly bathe in it. The thing for counsel to realize in case he feels like suing me is that he has more attachable assets than I have and much more of a career to protect.

I feel scummy for having gone after him the way I did on Facebook, not to mention worn out, but there should be social consequences for the way he acted around me. This guy polluted the social scene at Homecoming at our alma mater, and aggressively so, for his own amusement and aggrandizement. He waged an utterly gratuitous campaign of verbal abuse on me, a campaign to which I responded with nearly complete magnanimity and counterarguments far more substantive and reasonable than anything he had been saying to or about me on the same subjects. He got off pretty close to Scot free for his vile behavior at the time. If he’s squirming now, it’s in the public interest.

The American academy brings itself into disrepute by employing this dipshit and paying him a salary. He’s bounced around between several schools across Pennsylvania, but now Villanova is paying him something like $78k a year to be a lead advisor on pre-law and “experiential learning.” Maybe he’ll learn from the experience of being insulted at length on Facebook for being an asshole in public, but I wouldn’t count on it. One of my hopes is that he and his cronies will remember the pain I brought upon them for their involvement in noxious antisocial behavior and notice that I don’t react similarly to anyone who adequately holds down an honest job. Touch the hot stove and it feels hot, that kind of thing. Who the fuck knows, though.

These guys are fascists who get upset if I don’t submit to them like a slave. This isn’t my first ride in this shitty rodeo. Some of them are worth having around in spite of their worst behavior. Heywood Jablomie increasingly is not. If anyone else encouraged him to shut up during these outbursts I’d be more or less okay with his behavior, since he’d just be that one asshole. The problem is that Dickinson College somehow trains its students and alumni not to police anyone who is uncouth or abusive from a position of socioeconomic superiority. It trains them to punch down. I have the nerve to complain about the school for disserving me, so I’m in the downline. As I’ve said before, it’s a cult. It wouldn’t be one if it regarded dissent as even a possible source of constructive criticism, but these are some of the most thin-skinned, hostile people I’ve ever gotten to know.

It took me months to consciously realize that HJ didn’t show any interest in ways that he could improve academia as an administrator. This should have been a red flag, but he’s such a bastard that I’m relieved if he isn’t verbally abusing me at the moment. He’s the one who asked me, twice, to rehash my grievances with Dickinson and my thoughts on what other schools were doing better. If there were anything meritocratic about his field, or if he gave a shit about the scope and purpose of his own job, he’d have been interested in what I had to say about what the University of Nebraska and the California State University systems were doing right. Instead, he was a horse’s ass who kept accusing ME of being the horse’s ass. I had no problem talking at length about exactly what I thought these schools were doing right; he baited me into talking about this stuff and then tried to change the subject the moment I started explaining myself.

No one who’s mentally and morally fit for his job acts like that, anywhere, period. This was explicitly a discussion about higher education, his professional field, not mine, and I was the one being professional about it. Even the alumni council twerp, the one with the chip on his shoulder about being “a hick from Missouri,” listened to me and had some pertinent, sensible things to say about UNL in response to what I said. The only one present with a university job was also the only incorrigibly flippant one. There’s no fucking way he’s the best person Villanova could have found for his job. He was an open intellectual sadomasochist in a formal professional setting where he was deliberately networking with people he regarded as important peers.

Villanova could bring in anyone from its own faculty who isn’t notorious for alienating students to do his job better. Instead it has this fey, contemptuous putz. I didn’t catch him on a bad day. He was deliberately lashing out at me for maximum humiliation. I can’t see how this attitude doesn’t degrade his mindset when he’s on duty advising students. It’s a deep, severe rot of the mind and the soul. It’s painfully clear that he has his job because he’s a well-bred man from a “good” (read: rich) family who goes along with whatever horseshit program the other social climbers around him are orchestrating. He isn’t stupid, but he sure acts it.

It’s bad enough that he acts like this, but someone interviewed him and thought he was fit to advise students on their academic progression and take part in curriculum development. I see no reason not to conclude that Villanova is run by a bunch of stone idiots. It’s got a metropolitan area of several million residents, many of them highly educated, to use as a local recruitment base, and it picked this dipshit. Fort Hays State could do better hiring laymen right off the street in an open call.

This dude’s qualifications are that he has a dual master’s degree and used to coach cheerleading. That’s it. HJ has never taught an academic course, and it doesn’t look like he ever will. What he will do is stay lodged in academia until he dislodges due to old age. The only way he’ll throw out his meal ticket is if he plays fast and loose with the coeds in pursuit of a harem, and I don’t take him for one to shit where he eats. (Where I eat, or recreate, is another matter.) He’ll remain attached to academia’s underbelly for another 25 or 30 years, like every other bloated leech draining and weighing down the entire enterprise through the administrative apparatus.

He won’t go down with that ship; that ship will go down with him. Like hell I’m about to stand by in silence while he acts like he’s got something to offer American higher education. With some basic ethics to complement his top-decile public speaking skills he’d make a great instructor, but he’d rather lodge his feeder teeth into a more abundant tit. Far be it from a man like him to suckle on the dry downstream parts of the milk line.

Cousin Gigolo is a crude materialist, too, but he does his thing privately. All I hope is that he squeezes his landlady for Dunkin’ money; he deserves the triple order of hash browns for his services, not just free rent. Before you go around accusing me of being willing to whore myself out for hash browns, be advised that I’d also insist on a refill of my coffee thermos and an everything bagel with full-strength cream cheese. Not that that would be my first underpaid job, of course. Do I sound like I’m in agriculture for the money? LOL.

Heywood Jablomie deserves whatever he can earn by flying a sign on Lancaster Avenue and scavenging deposit bottles. He could be his neighborhood’s Dunkin’ Doorman. That isn’t a particularly honest job, either, but at least the payers know where the money’s going. I don’t need to be the only one ridiculed as a ne’er-do-well around here.

“College boy” really needs to become an insult again.

The Picture of Dorian Bald

One of the most stunning things I’ve seen recently is a side-by-side set of pictures of Jeff Bezos, one taken in 1998 and the other in 2017. It took me several looks to convince myself that it was the same guy. In the latter picture, the one of showing Bezos strutting like a Blade Runner extra in an open vest, he looks like a real prick. In the former, he looks modest, down-to-earth, even apprehensive. This isn’t just a case of a bald guy getting older and losing more of his hair; I’ve watched far too many of Dick Wolf’s Cragen chronicles, and my reaction to seeing the throwback episodes is nothing crazier than, wow, he looks youthful and blessed with a fine-ass fringe. In these pictures, Bezos looks like a different person. That’s how dramatically his facial expressions changed over the years.

Some of it is for show; even today, Bezos often appears less devious, or at least less insufferable, than many of his billionaire peers. But it’s scary to think of the possibility that a man’s grasping pursuit of wealth and the power attending his success can be etched not only psychologically but physically into his character. It’s some Twilight Zone shit. This is the same guy who was photographed eating iguana meat straight off the roasted carcass like Dr. Evil. I’d have more self-respect than to do that, let alone agree to be photographed in such a creepy state, and I assume most more or less normal people would. Bezos is not normal. He’s abnormal. He runs in circles that consider supping by hand straight from the lizard at society events badass.

Power and wealth really do warp the soul. Muammar Qaddafi went through an eerily similar transition. Early in his political career, he carried himself like a normal person. For the last decade or two of his life and rule, he started donning more ridiculous outfits for whatever caricaturish political effect he fancied at the moment (military strongman, Pan-Arabist tribesman, Pan-African tribesman) and took on that classic Qaddafi expression, the cryptic, literally supercilious stare into the middle distance, with or without sunglasses for reasons not readily explained by the weather. Akinokure has a fun piece tangentially about Liberty Resistance, etc. here, also discussing some Imperial Roman degenerates and Ramzan Kadyrov, Chechnya’s scrappy rebel leader turned blinged-out aristocratic tiger fancier.

There’s no absolute guarantee that wealth or its pursuit will turn a person into a ghoul. Around the time of Cyril Ramaphosa’s presidential inauguration, I listened to a BBC biographical special that discussed the excoriation he provoked from South Africans for spending a fortune on a prize bull and an additional fortune breeding heirloom cattle, I understood the outrage but was touched by his devotion to cattle, probably because it reminded me of my own arguably excessive interest in plants. It seemed deeply and sincerely human.

It also stood out as a rarity among the rich. Much more often I hear about the rich and famous acting like intractably vulgar philistines. Even when the celebrity media paint these dipshits as glamorous for showing off their wealth they sound fucking pathetic. Everything they do is limbic and coarse. Donald Trump’s involvement in property development and commercial passenger aviation, theoretically interesting fields, amounted to him plastering his name on a bunch of shit, braying about his own excellence, getting sycophants to fawn over him in the press, and then going bankrupt on short order. Paris Hilton and the Kardashians have never been publicly involved with anything as interesting as an airline. It’s nothing but self-promoting puffery and overwrought drama with these assholes. If these vicious, disruptive, parasitic habits were scaled up wholesale, society would collapse in a matter of weeks or months. It’s frightening to consider how many people seem to regard this masturbatory and frankly deleterious horseshit as admirable. If the public boors acting in this fashion aren’t skilled actors with the ability to get out of character as needed, they have none of the useful skills or temperaments needed to keep a society running in any fashion. Given how many people today, in the audience and in the production process alike, can’t reliably distinguish between reality, fiction, and fantasy, this shit isn’t entertainment; it’s harrowing decadence.

These aren’t the only prominent rich people who frighten me or try my patience, either. I’m more and more fed up with Warren Buffett and every thoughtless, craven mercenary promoting him as some kind of business genius and reservoir of provincial wisdom. He’s an insufferable phony, and it’s disgusting that an avowedly independent and free press fails to do any independent thinking or research and call him out as one. One of his latest obnoxious, tone-deaf stunts was to intone that doubling your net worth won’t make you happy. He’s talking to you, too, I assume, and to me, because he’s that much of an out-of-touch droning putz. This is like coming out of a Chinese buffet and telling a starving guy on the sidewalk that he won’t feel any better if he gets something to eat. It’s like spending the afternoon in a three-way with thicky tricks every afternoon and telling a lonely incel that sex is overrated.

It’s okay if one of them is skinny.

Does this asshat have any blessed clue of how out of touch he is and what a terrible person he is to spread this twee, daft message? For someone who doesn’t cherish the everloving shit out of all the money he can hoard, he sure spends a lot of time and energy chasing more money. Spare us the fucking sob story about how it isn’t everything. For some people, it is, and Warren Buffett, of all people, is in no fucking position to say that it is not. Presumably he’s targeting upper-middle-class investors, not indigent street people, but let’s not pretend that that doesn’t take some fucking chutzpah just because lecturing some bum who’s fishing deposit bottles out of a dumpster would take an even bigger pair of shit-covered balls. It’s goddamn unbelievable that an endlessly ambitious billionaire investor has the nerve to publicly opine about the meaninglessness and futility of wealth.

Buffett is definitely disingenuous here, but I’m not convinced that he realizes it. I can’t tell if he’s a calculating scumbag or a sheltered dork who believes his own bullshit and can’t see why anyone else wouldn’t. He’s surrounded by servants and sycophants, and that can’t help. Get uppity with that Tom Brokaw-ass fuckhead about how you have your own valid thoughts contradicting his when you’re waiting tables at the country club and you’ll be getting shifts at Denny’s soon enough; America’s Diner Is Always Open.

This is one of the things that is infuriating about the uncritical coverage that this twerp keeps getting and the praise he keeps earning, if we’re debased enough to call it that, for being an Omaha homeboy. Plenty of shitty little towns on the prairie have their own cohesive upper crusts, so of course Omaha, the center of a sizable metropolitan area and the largest city in Nebraska, has one of its own. How fucking stupid do we have to be to assume that everyone there considers Sizzler fancy? A bunch of incorrigible dipshits from the coasts who got reporting jobs for reasons of indisputable merit and nothing possibly involving any sort of pay-to-play corruption such as unpaid internships are all like, OMG, Omaha must be authentic because it’s, like, really far away and I’ve never been there. Well, if it sounds that interesting, why don’t you fucking go? It has an airport, and it also has daily passenger rail service on the California Zephyr, which leaves Chicago at 2:00 pm sharp. That’s the way to really enjoy the journey (TM). True story, Eastern Nebraska is pretty and Iowa and Western Illinois are really pretty. Instead of any of these trite shitheads getting their asses into Union Station by a quarter to two for a trip through God’s country on America’s bitchinest ride, though, we have to listen to their ridiculous stories about how Warren Buffett has such a unique Nebraska perspective that he might as well be an emissary from the Yanomamo.

Our journalistic class is insane. There’s no other way to explain this shit. Omaha is obscure and foreign only because these assholes haven’t chosen to visit it or learn anything about it from credible sources. Buffett isn’t special because he lives in an old house there, drives a beater, and takes his grandkids out to Dairy Queen. Have any of these idiots ever heard of Omaha Steaks? #TeshTips: not sold at Dairy Queen. They’re getting catfished by a geezer who makes a show of not eating well, and they take him seriously because he lives in a backwater city in a state of deplorables that they wouldn’t deign to visit unless maybe Berkshire Hathaway were putting them up.

I might as well brush up on my aging middlebrow Midwestern diction and call into CNBC with a story about how I live in Council Bluffs and have a million-two in CD’s in the savings and loan and I live with a dozen cats, more when God blesses us with fertility and good health, in an old craftsman that admittedly could use some TLC and is piled to the rafters with old magazines and church bulletins and expired supermarket coupons and I dunno where the title to this house is but it must be in here somewhere and the toilet stopped working a few months ago but I make do and I really don’t know why the code enforcement and social services people keep asking after me and insisting on coming into my house. Would Iowa residency magically make this story not insane? Buffett owns entire railroads and claims to take his own kin out for fast food meals that might cost forty or fifty dollars for the entire party. Why doesn’t anyone have the courage or the sheer good sense to say, hey, this guy sounds kind of fucked up?

It’s either that or he’s a cosplaying liar. Michael Moore sometimes gets exposed in embarrassingly opulent situations involving Torch Lake, the Concorde, extensive stock ownership, or a nice hotel in London other than the one where he tells reporters he’s staying. Are we really to think that Warren Buffett doesn’t have access to private jets and out-of-town estates? How fucking credulous and gullible are we? Do we think he’s socializing with railroad engineers or farmers or factory hands? Like hell he is. As I said, Omaha is a sizable city with a sizable elite. If I wanted to socialize exclusively with rich people, I’d be able to find more charity ball stuffies than I’d be able to keep up with just at fundraisers at the prep school I left as part of a graduating class of 32, and if, as Coach said, everyone’s a wiener at the Day School, we know they’re all big swinging pricks at the Big Dick. Go Hard, and GO DIPLOMATS! I don’t know if you’re getting a clue, too, but I’m getting a clue (ew!) that Omaha is quite a bit larger than necessary for the maintenance of a sheltered upper crust that circles the wagons and does its members special favors.

You do realize what the idiots who cover Buffett believe, though, right? They’re too stupid to imagine that Omaha has a local elite. A famous investment dork whose daddy was in Congress acts like a retired high school teacher on a fixed income and these people assume on his account alone that everyone in his entire city is a down-to-earth Mayberry throwback. This is less Hardly Boys than #TIMMEH.

It’s unspeakably disgraceful that this shithead keeps getting platformed. He’s already rich, so what’s wrong with him that he needs all the attention, too? And what’s wrong with us that we give it to him? I personally know wealthy people, including ones I infer to be worth low eight figures, who have always treated me graciously and warmly and have never given any indication that they don’t consider me their full civic equal. There are plenty of rich people who are total shitheads, too, of course, but it isn’t all of them, so I don’t care to see a disingenuous Scrooge McDuck homilist chide people who will never be worth a hundredth what he’s worth for being overly materialistic while his near peers are quietly reputable and tactful about their own wealth. If Buffett cared about a thing other than making more money, I figure he’d be out doing something, anything, else: skiing, traveling, hiking, gardening, painting, boating. You name it, he’s got the money to fund it. Nobody has the common sense to ask why, since he’s got enough money to survive some free time, he doesn’t fucking take some. That’s as disordered as anything about him. Unless, of course, he’s bullshitting us about the virtues of his Dutch cheapness and Protestant work ethic a few hours a week and secretly luxuriating the rest of the week.

If this holier-than-thou phony doesn’t appreciate his money, I will. I don’t see why I wouldn’t be happier with and more grateful for any amount of money Buffett has than he claims to be, and up to at least a million dollars, maybe more, I don’t see how I wouldn’t steward it better. Tariff enthusiast Wilbur Ross is the only billionaire I can recall hearing say anything sensible (Donald Trump isn’t a billionaire), so I figure Buffett can stuff it. Oh, a rhyme. How bow dah. But God help us, he’ll continue to speak to us from the grave, like Steve Jobs.

This is why we need our memes to make it through the day. Sexy male nurse Lynn Majors was a Midwesterner, and sexy male code enforcement officer Lynn Rader unfortunately still is a Midwesterner, although as a Californian I got to help pay for Charles Manson instead. When I turn to these helpful heartlanders for inspiration, I try to sing a true song about them, not a bullshit tune. Maybe that’s why I don’t get paid.

Say, does anyone know where they put that rag that the bailiffs shoved in Charles Cullen’s loud mouth? Nah, I don’t need it. I’m asking for some friends in Nebraska.

Promised Land

A quarter mile away, the High Sierra juts out on the far end of a breathtaking foothill promontory, California’s radiant crown. Here, on the perimeter of this strip mall parking lot, a television plays in a diner, noon drawing near. Two vile women argue about Nick, one of them swearing that she will destroy the other but not him. Two even viler gentlemen standing in a living room glare menacingly at one another over the same lady, also present and hardly any more gracious herself. One of them excuses himself to go upstairs and change his clothes. The other tells him, “It better be quick.” This is a threat, somehow. No one explains why any of these wretched wastrels desires the company of any of the others for longer than it takes to get some quick action and leave immediately upon climax.

The “messages” mercifully interrupt our storyline. This bottle of dish detergent is powerful enough to clean all the dishes used at a block party by a thousand of the most goddamned fake and annoying background actors one could ever hope not to meet. Ask your doctor about Taltz. Ask your doctor about Cymbalta. Ask your doctor about Humira. Be thankful if you can’t correctly guess the spelling of methotrexate. It means that you don’t have cancer, and that’s just as well, because the telescreen is adamant that the stuff is useless anyway. If it did “work well,” we might not be hearing about this shit every fifteen minutes. Ask your doctor about all of these during the same appointment, and about any adverse interactions that they may have with Cialis; copays ain’t cheap, doggy. Ask your dealer about carfentanyl. The nice thing about it is that you won’t need another dose.

Here, at the corner of happy and healthy, the storyline resumes. A white lady and a black lady are glaring and hissing at one another. Lord help us all; they must fancy the same fellow, too. The colored folk are equals in this world so long as they maintain neutral accents, middle-class mannerisms to distract from the belligerently low-class prevailing community standards, and hair as natural and authentic as the social relations they’re enjoying. There’s more dignity in being the Sam Dotson-ass token white dork on a blaxploitation sitcom.

We’re exhorted to seek equality, but not told equality in what. Oxygen runs Chicago PD reruns all night. The remote in the motel room is janky enough that it’s pointless to even try to change the channel, and besides, USA is airing the Olympics, an orgy of twee earnestness and try-harding (Kerrigan, your thoughts?) that doesn’t resonate with those of us who turn to the telescreen to keep us company while we do laundry in the sink. Our Lord’s Joseph’s Servant Gerald, Kenneth “Blood Will Tell” Fitzhugh, and J. Denny Dundiddly were all coaches. Put me in! Lawrence of the Labia “worked” with competitive gymnasts. Meanwhile the mainstream public discourse assumes that Bobby Knight and the Karolyis aren’t fit to be defenestrated into the Gowanus Canal. No need to do it from a high window, but it really is too bad that it’s always a different Robert who gets into trouble with–how is this even possible?–a different commanding Montgomery for throwing furniture. These thugs are okay because they instill character.

Hence another night of Second City/first responder stories, a night shift that would make even the Commodores blanch. It’s garbage, but at least it doesn’t try to be inspirational garbage. We can’t all be winners, and we get entire societies into trouble when we try too hard. Since it’s airing on the women’s channel, it’s sponsored by a line of vaginal suppositories for the emergency postmenstrual readjustment of one’s intimate flora, in pursuit of a flavor worth savoring. In case there’s any confusion, these are “probiotics for your vagina, not your digestive tract.” Glad we cleared that up. I was just about to eat a condom and slather Activia on my balls, for my health. Don’t hate, now. It’s called self-care. I understand Justin Bieber has a song about it.

Perspective is a funny thing. There’s a world of wonder just outside our front door, and we’re watching execrable crap about adults whose sexual maturity grossly outstrips their sexual ethics. They aren’t acting like whores. If they were, they’d know how to harmoniously share a man and be shared. While other couples make those around them believe ever more fervently in the institution of divorce, one can discreetly and graciously fuck one’s landlady in lieu of rent. This doesn’t do anything about one’s residency in a dilapidated third-floor walkup in Port Henry, but we weren’t planning to do a blessed thing about that anyway; this is America. Ain’t that, Cougar.

Just around the corner there’s a gorgeous expanse of oak savannah and bay laurel forest culminating in an unobstructed view of the snowcaps. How bow dah. Meanwhile we’re inside, watching rich fucks behave atrociously for the lulz, because it just wouldn’t be as much fun if they treated each other decently and maturely instead of devoting their waking hours to the pursuit of insipid romantic feuds. People immigrate here from impoverished war zones and hole up in their diners, barely out of sight of the Pacific Crest, to watch this absolute shit all day every time they can take a break. What’s going on, Randall? Is it impossible to get a good roll in the sack with anyone who isn’t an absolute asshole with significant mental and behavioral problems and no boundaries whatsoever? Are we all fated to date Taylor Swift? On the positive side, Colby Cosh is probably right: any, shall we again say, breathtaking song that Sweet Baby J might sing about us afterwards would be even worse.

Big Ears Teddy shouldn’t have to see this trouble, trouble, trouble. Neither should the decent among the rest of us. Some of us are actually sexually well-adjusted, in spite of the internet. Some of us just want the occasional round of mutually respectful and affectionate rumpy-pumpy with a thicky trick. Is this too much to ask? On television, yes. One has to be up by barely a quarter past ten on Sunday morning for the week’s three minutes of wholesome broadcast recreation in nature. We Catholics have some solid evening mass schedules, so good fucking luck with that. The rest of the week, Mr. Osgood will see you on the radio. Snork snork. Until then, enjoy Nick’s Bitches and the rest of CBS’s edifying daytime lineup. As that other Nick, white savior Jesus Kristof, helpfully points out, it means “fuck you” in Arabic. #TeshTips, white boy.

What’s even the point of Ousside if one can’t be cashed there? Children play in the park. What they don’t know, of course, is that I’m alone in the dark. Say, Walt, I know you’d rather spend another five minutes showboating on that flute, but do you suppose this chamber is loaded? Tell me, Joseph Lyle, how IS the view from Ione?

That’s right, Rollins: I’ve been spending time Outside, too. I get holing up and watching romantic garbage on daytime television as a coping mechanism for a life of unemployment in Chehalis or Wichita. That makes sense. I can see why, say, Sexy Male Code Enforcement Officer Lynn Rader might be interested. Watching that shit barely a five-minute walk from a fifty-mile mountain view is something else entirely. That’s fucking sad.

Then again, the local rednecks are thoughtless enough to throw their used beer cans onto the surprisingly ample highway margins to help an Eagle Scout defray hiking costs. Chaka Can, baby. Chaka Can. It could be worse. On NPR, which ran a review today of a movie about the most unbelievably navelgazing Brooklyners having a combined sadmad about work (sic) and the Aussie chick that the one he-hipster actually wasn’t fucking, it is.

The good old Gowanus ain’t full yet; get thee the fuck into it. The Terry Kath meme above was bad, but it wasn’t Gross. I get out more than you might think, so I can say that if you can’t imagine fresh air that is literally so and not available as a podcast, there is something wrong with you. The least awful thing about Radio Lab today was that the episode was devoted to grotesque stories of senescence and death, but why wouldn’t that be the case? It’s fucking–give me a second while I splice in two-second clips from ten other shut-in spergs in the audience who are tickled pink that senpai finally noticed them through the credits they recorded–it’s fucking Radio Lab. I’m not usually on the prowl for stories of an ancient, bedsore-ridden old man bleeding from his anus on his deathbed, but it’s more painful to listen to the damn hosts. Since you ask, no, I don’t care to look at this photograph of the old guy, but once again, Kroeger isn’t the worst thing going around here. Hell, Nickelback frankly discusses human mortality in its discography, and it doesn’t pipe up two or three times a year whining for listener alms. At long last, an example of capitalism definitively beating socialism.

Edmund Fitzgerald, pray for us here on the American side, who assert such superiority with so little cause for pride. Sure, it’s Lent, but that’s awfully wet to be dust.

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.