The West Valley Special, and I do mean “special”

Mormons have a reputation for wholesome, edifying living, and also for valuing education. Some of the least fucked up sexual fetishes in the Americas feature LDS MILF’s, and BYU is legit. So I don’t have a prayer of explaining the Salt Lake City light rail system. It isn’t that a retarded woman chatted me up on a platform; that happened, too, but as retards go, she was pretty well-adjusted (e.g., able to take nonverbal cues better than many normies and end our chat gracefully). Besides, Mormons are as good as anyone at taking care of their ‘tards. What blew me away was the succession of five other, much less functional, fellow passengers who blessed me with their company over the course of three hours earlier in the afternoon. As Fred Rogers always said, “Hello, neighbor!” Try to put yourself in at least two pairs of other men’s shoes and imagine a neighborhood trolley, or, worse, a neighborhood, populated by neighborly beauties like these:

1) A fat, slovenly woman of about forty with no volume control on her voice who asked a deadheading train operator, “How do yous steer these things?” The operator, who had just finished his shift and was catching his daily ride back to the yard, was patient enough to explain how the train runs on rails. Gee, you don’t fucking say. Hint 1: Rhymes with “might fail” conductor school. Hint 2: Rhymes with “Trax.”

2) A young man who sauntered onto the train wearing a hoodie and pajama bottoms—at a quarter to four on a Monday afternoon, with his slightly better dressed girlfriend in tow. Let’s call him the Marginally Attached Gentleman.

3) Another fat, slovenly lady who made a fist, punched a sheet of green paper, partially folded the sheet back up into its very neat two-inch squares, put the paper into her duffelbag, and then blew a series of extra-farty raspberries.

4) The latter thick bitch’s boyfriend, a fat, slovenly (duh) dude with a bushy beard and a receding-hairline instamullet, who was wearing an extremely shabby old red-and-black knockoff motorcycle jacket over a secondhand Batman T-shirt.

5) A she-tweaker from the intersectional tobacco/substance abuse/mental health community, dressed in Uggs and sagging sweatpants, her hair cohering into emergent whitey dreads, who convulsively took off her Uggs, carressed the long-dead butt of a Camel, moaned desperate nonsense at anyone who made fleeting eye contact (my mistake), and forlornly berated a bouquet of plastic flowers that she’d pulled from a Wendy’s takeout bag.

Salt Lake City proper, in spite of its being the site of the LDS Church’s headquarters and the focal point of its holy land, is Utah’s most notoriously gentile city. But this doesn’t explain any of my trolley losers except the She-Tweaker. She boarded downtown, Sally don’t you even think about it. The rest of them were from South of Eden. Number One, the fat lady with family in Lakewood (it figures), made her scene on the way to West Valley Central. The other three were aboard the inbound train from Draper by the time we left Murray, with the Marginally Attached Gentleman and his (marginally) better half on board by Sandy. There are Mormons who regard Salt Lake City beyond the Temple precincts as something akin to Sodom, but these fine Utards all have connections in more Napoleonic parts of the valley. Maybe it’s by strategic political design that the light rail stops short of American Fork. FrontRunner, the more expensive heavy rail line, runs all the way from Ogden to Provo on all days but the Sabbath, and at surprisingly good service levels for a new system in a middling metropolitan area, but its fare schedule may be steep enough to keep it from serving as a loser cruiser and bringing the undesirables into the proper breeder suburbs. If you’re still in your fucking PJ’s during evening rush hour, you’re probably interested in the cheap train.

But I’m spitballing, for the most part. Beyond the Salt Lake City limits, the entire state has a strongly Mormon ambient culture. That’s the default setting. Salt Lake City is an outpost of mainstream US urban culture, but its southern suburbs are not. They’re too locally rooted and idiosyncratic for that. Hell, even the nice parts of SLC are Sweet Jesus and the Golden Tablets Mormon by the gentile standards of, say, Denver.

If a Mormon sense of maybe don’t get totally fucked up on hard drugs and dress like an incorrigibly derelict ragamuffin in public doesn’t rub off on the poors, what the hell will? Utah has the lowest Gini Coefficient of any state in the Union, Salt Lake and Utah (?) Counties have one of the healthiest metropolitan job markets in the country, and still there’s all this crazy white trash on the train. I forgot to say so explicitly: this was a vibrant diveristy of white people and nothing but white people, none of them White. There was a variety of racial minorities on the light rail, too, but they weren’t nearly as nuts. It was exclusively the crackers that were cracking me up. The cracker traditionally cracks up intransitively as well—that’s how the name came about—but in our case the dysfunction may have nothing at all to do with Scotland. These losers could be 100% Dutch for all I know; there’s certainly a lot of high Anglo-Saxon blood floating around in the local gene pool.

They look unreachable. I don’t get the feeling that they’re reacting to or rebelling against Mormonism. They aren’t emos or goths. It isn’t a stance to get a rise out of the squares. They’re too disinhibited not to be earnest. Irony is beyond their capacity. And isn’t it ironic, like ra-a-a-a-a-ain/on your wedding day, that the fat lady who didn’t understand trains (which one steers) has so many relatives in the metro area that raises and harbors the most well-adjusted, physically fit, stylish, naturally confident fat women I’ve ever encountered. She declared her people in Woodinville and Auburn, too, not that anyone on the train asked. I must have been in the valley of the damned for my local connection to the Sound to be a postureless, graceless loudmouth with no sense of style and a slow toddler’s understanding of how trains work.

And she may have been the least deranged of the whole lot. The Marginally Attached Gentleman looked like bad news; a society whose men comport themselves in his fashion is surely on the skids. The She-Tweaker was terrible news. The two lovers were just fucking uncouth. Here I had five people on two trains, pushing rush hour, no less (meaning that the loser count should have been swamped by commuting normies), all of them living in strongly Napoleonic jurisdictions, only one of them with a visible drug problem, and yet none of them socialized by the Mormon hive mind. It was the kind of shit I’d expect of Reno.

On my way out of town, I took the light rail past the St. Vincent de Paul rescue mission. Holy shit, Brigham. Salt Lake City has the premier housing-first program in Anglo North America (not LDS feel-good bullshit, either; independent housing activists give it top marks), so I was shocked to see dozens of people sleeping on the sidewalk in front of St. Vinnie’s. I’d hardly have given it a moment’s notice in Sacramento or Reno, where that kind of wretchedness is ubiquitous, but everything else I’d seen around Salt Lake had been so clean and orderly, and everything I’d heard about the city’s homeless outreach services had indicated that they’re unwaveringly on point. The only hopeful possibility is that that crowd was entirely new kids on the block who had recently assembled in the social services district and were already on waiting lists for placements. The turnover could be a great deal higher than it looks, and frankly there’s nothing unethical about charity-shopping one’s way to the one city in the country that seems to take housing placement seriously. The worrisome possibility is that this isn’t the case.

By the way, nice job dumping all that dysfunction right on the way to the Greyhound and Amtrak stations when the eastbound Zephyr rolls through at three in the morning. Nice cab we got here; shame if you got mugged for not taking it.

Brahmin pornography

It’s another Pleasant Valley Sunday, another day for you and me in paradise. Oh, look twice at this sloppy outburst of literary feminist navelgazing commissioned across the street from the Port Authority. Or, better yet, don’t look even once; it’s pretty dreadful. TL;DR: A chronic international student asks why it’s okay for men to wander vagrantly around the great (read: not totally dangerous) cities of the world when women are sometimes treated like common whores for doing likewise, and why the feminine version of the French masculine word for parasitical walkabout traditionally connotes sitting on ass like a proper lady, discovering in the course of her research that certain literary women before her did, in fact, partake of the Hemingway-on-the-loose shit, and incidentally some stuff about the existence of local working classes hidden in plain sight in the Beautiful Cookbook tableau of city life.

Alternate working title: Everybody’s Gone Swerfin’, Swerfin’ USA. Working girls, construed to also include laundresses and produce hawkers, were supposedly accorded the liberty to go out on the streets with whatever they were selling, while women who were evidently useless, but not their male counterparts, were not given the same street passes. The NYT being the NYT, there’s no ready way to tease the sexy sexual politics apart from the unsexy class politics, but this is no social science, it’s just another sticky day of literary horseshit for you. Yes, that was bad, but have you read the link yet? I still haven’t read it through, mainly because it sucks. Think about better uses of $27.00 plus applicable tax for ownership of a copy of this:

Following Elkin as she explores the city, we inch into memoir territory. Although she is a native of New York, she makes her first acquaintance with aimless urban walking in France. To her, the streets of Paris “seemed saturated with presence, even if there was no one there but me. These were places where something could happen, or had happened, or both, a feeling I could never have had at home in New York, where life is inflected with the future tense.”

Jesus Christ, Caulfield. At least she isn’t spending so much on cabfare. It’s fascinating to learn that New York City, whose history I’ve studied, doesn’t have one. 27 divided by 140/200/350/600/20/whatever=do your own damn math and you, too, can figure out how close the money you didn’t spend on that stupid book could get you to being able to hire your next honey. I decided not to exclude blow-and-go from thick, and I do mean thick, bitches in Over-the-Rhine, as portrayed on Police Women of Cincinnati. Maybe I should have, and by “maybe,” I mean “absolutely.” You’re welcome. Cincinnati is a famous city, too. Jerry Springer was once its mayor. Some redneck dipshits hollered vaguely aggressive abuse at me from their truck while I was walking around Newport (maybe Covington?), every bit as much on my own as these lit chicks. When school was dismissed, I got to hear a dirty white boy telling his eight-year-oldish daughter, “Daddy thought he was gonna have to go to jail today, but I told the judge, fuck that shit!” This was his response to hearing from the crossing guard, a kindly redneck lady growing old before her time, that his daughter had done really well on her most recent test and that he’d be proud of her for that. Should I write a book about any of this? No, that’s the wrong question. I could bang out something presentable and more or less coherent in a matter of days, but if I did, would I have a snowball’s chance on Diamond Head of getting it plugged in the NYT Book Review?

The most insightful take I’ve ever heard on The Catcher in the Rye was from some high school students in the South Bronx, who were floored that Holden Caulfield was so discontented when he had the privilege of being able to fuck around the nice parts of Manhattan in a taxi all day. Like, doesn’t that fool have to work? If he’s so privileged, why is he so unhappy? Aside from the litany of ways that the privileged sabotage their own psychic wellbeing and that of their dependents (let’s turn Big Ears Teddy around; he shouldn’t have to see that, either), these kids were right. If an overrated novel was going to inspire Mark David Chapman to off John Lennon, that was at least a fitting enough one. Mr. Lennon, most recently of New York, is certainly no longer inflected with the future tense.

I’ve bought day passes and gone joyriding on RTC to see if anything interesting was happening at the Reno Airport, largely because I couldn’t figure out what the hell else I was in a position to do with my week. Where’s my New York Times book review? More to the point, what’s the buy-in price on that scene? I have a bachelor’s degree in the liberal arts from a regionally prestigious private college in the Northeast, and my network is fucking useless. What’s the source of the money that keeps these bitches wandering around Paris with no visible means of support? Don’t tell me I’m the only one who’s on an allowance. If I’m not mistaken, Reno is cheaper than Paris. I submit that these broads have access to capital. I personally know a woman who, for reasons not fully explained to me, has the means to frequently travel between the West Coast, expensive expat parts of Mexico, and Morocco, and, as far as I can tell, to do so without sleeping in doorways. She’s on the lit scene, too. I’m pretty sure JetBlue isn’t offering $84 specials to Casablanca.

According to the Emily Bailout story, the buy-in for a graduate sinecure at Alma Mater, Tried and True was Noble $50,000, payable upfront. My understanding is that Emily Bailout doesn’t even have a talent for writing overwrought Paris, Je T’aime bullshit. Whom am I failing to pay off for a damn job?

The most disgusting thing about this is the expectation that everyone agree with the proposition that the Times is a left-wing paper. It’s actually a mishmash of cultural limousine liberalism and reaction in crypsis that makes John Lindsay at his worst look like Richard Nixon at his best. There are reasons why Jacobin doesn’t have its own office tower on Eighth Avenue. Or, for that matter, its own postmodernist recreation of a Soviet secret police headquarters within walking distance of the White House. Democracy Dies in Darkness, after all, and the NYT and the WaPo, full as they are with spooks, know a thing or two about the dark side.

A nation of bedwetters

The Trump golden showers story got sprayed all over my transom as my reward for sporadically checking in on the news, so I might as well put in a quick word about it.

First, we have public business to do (uh, maybe yuck, given the circumstances), and the internet blew up with piss jokes. Is Bernie Sanders the only federal official trying to attend to this business while the rest of the Democratic Party titters about Russian escorts peeing on a hotel bed? “The Federal Government: I lost the presidential primary, but I’m not going to let you lose Social Security and Medicare” vs. “The Federal Government: Soon to be led by the oaf who went to Moscow to watch FSB assets do pee-pee voodoo on his predecessor’s mattress.” We have ongoing maturity and focus from the old socialist who got ratfucked out of the presidency by misandrist, racebaiting bourgeois supremacists and is now out barnstorming to save the safety net while the yuppie swarm that ratfucked him goes on the internet to traffic jokes about how Trump is a Goldwater Republican.

This is like watching FDR get kicked back to Albany while the US government falls into the hands of William Randolph Hearst, Warren Harding, the Duke of Windsor, and a bunch of thoroughly sauced flappers. It’s just fucking surreal. Do we have even two dozen members of Congress who are trying to hold the line against this Imperial Roman decadence? There’s no indication of that in all the chatter about the president-elect having had FSB call girls do a Pussy Riot-style piss job on a bed that the incumbent president and first lady had used on a state visit. Instead we’re hearing about Pissing Monkey Syndrome by Foreign Proxy.

There’s been a lot of chatter from limousine liberals (NB: not the Berned-over left) about how Trump’s behavior in Russia was blackmail material, treasonous subversion on behalf of a hostile power, etc. Having hookers pee on a hotel bed just to spite one’s political enemy is off-brand even for Trump, but not as much as it would be for most politicians. Trump is notoriously petty, rude, and grandiose, so it doesn’t sound all too far out of character, even if it’s crazier and seedier than his usual lechery. He had already been smeared endlessly as a horrible oaf with horrible sexual morals before this Bedtime with R. Kelly story came out, so it didn’t come as an exceptional scandal. Hearing about watersports in the political news is shocking; hearing about Trump being sexually dissolute is not.

Some accounts of this incident intone that Trump and his rent girls “defiled” the president’s marriage bed. No, they didn’t. They vandalized a piece of hotel furniture. The Obamas expected nothing more than a very comfortable, very clean bed. As VIP guests at a luxury hotel, they surely got exactly that. They didn’t demand a fucking bedigree. They didn’t need to know who had done what in the sheets because they were given fresh ones. I’ve slept in nastier beds than any the Trumps, the Obamas, or anyone else in their class has used in decades, if ever. Some of the motels where I stay would horrify the elites. A few of them disgusted me. Presidents and puffed-up real estate magnates with network television gigs don’t sleep in joints that chintzy.

There’s no fucking way to know that the bed that Trump and his piss bitches “defiled” was the same one that the Obamas had used on a prior visit to Russia. This assumes that Trump actually did anything of the sort, which is dubious, but let’s assume that the FSB videotaped the deed and showed it to a snickering Putin. Did they also videotape the same bed without interruption from the time the Obamas left the room until the time Trump and his hoes arrived? Who the fuck would watch that? A tweaker wouldn’t be able to keep up interest in that shit if it were put on fast-forward. The most they have on him cold is that he behaved dissolutely in a room where a sitting US president had previously stayed.

It’s doubtful that Russian intelligence would have leaked information on an incident of this sort when its obvious institutional interest is to keep it quiet and use it for ongoing blackmail against a sitting president. Russian intelligence is disciplined as all hell, so it would have to take either a powerfully disillusioned defector/mole/double agent or a very well-paid crook to let the cat out of the bag. To one-up themselves now, the Russki spooks would have to release video of Trump doing something truly extreme to shock anyone with his sexual behavior: blatant pedophilia, necrophilia, bestiality, extreme Jian Ghomeshi game, murdering a sex partner, that kind of thing. Or maybe catch him snuggling with a babushka. THAT would be off-brand. I can’t believe that this, of all times, might be the one time that the Russian security services got sloppy with their classification protocols.

Were the whores who wetted the bed, if they actually did it, state-patriotic intelligence assets of Mother Russia and Father Vladimir, the ruler of the world? Maybe. Or they may have been independent working girls who were taped by third parties from the spook shop. Actually, he’s more like Vladikrym Vladikavkazovich once we’ve accounted for his limited interest in regional revanchism in the historically Russian and quasi-Russian periphery. This doesn’t really matter, though. What the mainstream media keep missing is that even if Trump owes the Kremlin favors, the Clintons owe the Saudi regime and others, some of them also quite odious, favors for advance payments to the Clinton Foundation. If we’re worried about compromising relationships with hostile powers, we should be worried about Saudi Arabia, not Russia. The Saudi government sponsored and coordinated 9/11; the Russian government warned the FBI about Tamerlan Tsarnaev’s summit with the Caucasian beards, and the FBI dindu nuffin. Call me crazy, but don’t we want to seek better relations with the government that tried to prevent several deaths and hundreds of maimings on US soil before we try to kiss up to the one whose high-level agents orchestrated the deadliest peacetime attack in US history? God. How the hell was Tsarnaev the one guy they couldn’t get under an active wiretap in a perpetual surveillance state after one of the soberest security services on earth alerted them to his specific contacts with known jihadi radicals?

Nah, babe, this beam’s still hard as steel.

I always feel better about myself when I hear about politicians doing things like this, or that our government and its favored press outlets are run by the kinds of people who think pre-presidential watersports germane to the public discourse and/or have minds capable of thinking up such a ridiculous story and writing it. I don’t have whores piss on my enemies’ beds in front of me. That ain’t my scene. It probably should be more disturbing than it is to consider that the entire establishment may be projecting its own fetishes onto Trump (kind of like I’m less bothered than Larry Craig traditionally was by other men’s manful buttsex), but mainly it makes me feel healthy and well-adjusted by comparison.

What’s that? There’s probably something to this story but definitely nothing to Pizzagate? Sure. James Alefantis isn’t quite an anagram for j’aime les enfants, but Podesta is definitely an anagram for tsaPedo. Also, that’s some creepy, creepy shit. It already involves an ammosexual citizen-investigator patsy figure and a Zapruder scion who just happens to live in the neighborhood.

Go figure that Backpage’s escort sections were taken offline this very week. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking about something wholesome, like Sound and Pound with a thicky trick. Remember, if you go fuck a fat whore in Tacoma, Donald Trump and the liberal establishment will agree that you’re gross, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

I have no idea where the labor theory of value fits into any of this

As I begin this screed, I’m freshly failed out of a three-day training and evaluation course on PCI-compliant corporate data entry. In layman’s terms, this means playing office until someone in management decides that you’re too much of a walking SNAFU to play office on the company dime anymore. Since I was put through this purgatorial mind-wringer by a reputable company, I’ll be getting paid for my trouble, and as always, I welcome the money and the cash. How much I’ve earned per hour I should be able to calculate from my pay stub in a week and a half. No one’s told me yet, and one of my buddies from the class, who failed out several hours before I did, told me that payroll threw shade on him when he walked over on one of his breaks to ask when the next payday was.

The wage I was offered for production work was $10.60 per hour, including a $.50 swing shift differential. This differential is less than *CHAKA CAN CHAKA CAN*, and the total hourly wage is a bit less than a dollar an hour over the minimum wage. My recruiters didn’t tell me whether these bonuses apply to training as well as production, and I didn’t think to ask. My trainers probably didn’t know what the hell their bosses were paying me, so I didn’t feel like bothering them with more questions that they couldn’t answer.

From what I could tell, management was desperate to fill these data entry positions. My buddy above was shooed over to data entry when he asked for a call center position, and he has recent call center experience from an AT&T contractor boiler room in Eugene. The training material we completed centered around intricate data entry assignments using a complicated, unintuitive database system with a tendency to disappear completed orders beyond our reach. On the floor, we were told, the company could be fined ten grand every time one of us failed to black out a bank card number with special eight-dollar Japanese blackout markers that have to be checked out from keyholders at the start of shift and checked back in at the end.

The positions we were training for are seasonal and benefit-ineligible, and the company is trying to staff up for a rush of holiday orders, which regularly more than quadruples the size of its workforce. How the work I’ve mercifully been denied the opportunity to do is worth more or less a dollar over minimum wage is, as they say, above my pay grade. I heard that they’re trying to put recruits with no Excel experience at all into the follow-up Excel training class that I would have taken had I passed the initial training. That class involves assembling order sheets with several hundred items apiece. This is work that a diligent person can fuck up. Depending on how parsimonious Freddy is, it may or may not pay better than being a pump jockey at Fred Meyer. There are definitely better paid cashier positions around here. I’ll have to keep an eye on the recycling bins, too; I don’t want to write them off as always paying less than the brain-scrambling shit that I’ve been doing for the last three days.

I had faint regrets about signing up for that shit within an hour or two on day one, but I didn’t want to bitch about it to anyone outside the class. This was partly in the interest of avoiding situations in which *VERY ROBERT WAPLE HATE-FUCKING THE HELP VOICE* yeah, about that FA job, enjoy your no-job no-money life. That was a minor consideration, though; I wasn’t working for fuck-asses. I was really just trying to keep up the motivation not to flame out right away. On the second and third days, I had more and more fears that I’d end up swamped to hell by my workload on the floor and then fired for producing too little and tying up the floor managers too much. It was seriously fucking difficult work that we were assigned in training. We got half an hour or an hour of company origin myth videography on the first day, featuring bullshit about some dude flying a lapful of fresh fruit to New York on a Ford Trimotor and hitting the pavement to pitch his shiznit to the foo-foo restaurants of the Great Depression. After that, we, too, hit the pavement. I did so mainly with my head.

Bank tellers earn similarly shitty pay for work that’s roughly as sensitive, and somehow they’re always dolled up. I’ve been told that they obviously ruin their own finances with this vanity. I’ve also been told that they do it to impress financially eligible customers whom they hope to marry, since they have access to all that customer financial data. Who the hell was I gonna marry from that class? There’s no way some dead-sexy heiress was about to show up looking for cute, downwardly mobile fat guys. I’ve had better prospects in the berry fields.

By the way, picking blueberries piece-rate is, dollar for dollar, much easier than this training class that I just failed. Yes, I’m fully accounting for both pay scales. The popular mythology about office jobs is that they’re safe harbors for jerkoffs. We have unctuous TV shows and movies about that. I guess I was being trained for one of the productive positions financially enabling putz retention at higher levels of the economy.

It’s fixing to really suck for those who made the cut in training. These sound like nothing better than shitty, underpaid jobs. Shit’s flying every which way on the floor, and it will be for the rest of the season. No level of professionalism and decency in management can compensate for the workloads that are apparently being dumped on my quasi-colleagues. I’m not even sure that I want to go back to the employment office and ask for an internal transfer for the season. All I know is that I want my bosses to immediately recruit Robert Waple for data entry and, when he fails out of training with a violent gracelessness that I came nowhere close to achieving, congratulate him for no longer having that fuck-ass job. My bosses don’t need a thing like that, but Waple could fucking use it.

Banish the Democratic Party to the wilderness. Let it weep and wail and gnash its teeth. Let it subsist on tree bark and insects for forty fortnights.

Yes, that’s some crude language. I do declare it is, as one does in Savannah, usually in the course of declaring one’s endorsement of Kwesi Millington for Sheriff.

Oh. That again. I hope it won’t come as too much of a shock, though, that Northside Juice and the Shady Blues memes are less depressing than the current state of Democratic Party politics. Also, Trudeau isn’t quite what some of yinz thought he was. Canada has finally been exposed for harboring a serially murderous nurse, too, a day I was awaiting in sick expectation for some time on the assumptions that 1) the home and native* land of Sick Willie, Sweet Melissa of the Maritimes, Vince “No, I’ll eat YOUR heart out” Li, and Colonel Underpants probably contained at least one, and 2) the exposure of this nurse would finally enable the intersection of killer Canuck and sexy male nurse Lynn Majors memes. I don’t always abandon all decorum and peddle these memes, but when I do, I prefer Molson. Speaking of deadly Hoosiers who hooked their fellows up with all the wrong needles: Mike Pence. It can’t be that purdy down there in Scottsburg if you got HIV because the governor just had to make a point about moral hazard. I encourage recourse to low-functioning psychopaths instead for a reason.

*Okay, in some cases not native. Russell Williams, Jian Ghomeshi, and Mark Saunders share their native land with Harold Shipman. Yes, the Chief deserves his place in this list, because #Topoli.

If I may be so hipster, I was looking into the process of immigrating to Canada years ago, in between America’s adverse elections, back when it wasn’t even popular. You, too, will return to the refuge of these tasteless memes if you sincerely and earnestly try to grok the HRSDC website and what it means for your long-term admissibility to Canada. Muh Labour Market Opinion. One of the Canuck immigration sites (I honestly don’t care enough to look up which one) was crashed the other night by Americans who were hysterical with acute butthurt over the election of a dipshit to the presidency. Counterpoint: the guy isn’t Hitler; he’s Harper with an attitude. Second counterpoint: my comment above on the Mentionable Canadian Justin. Baby baby baby no, you probably will not be expatriating to Chad Kroeger’s homeland. If today was your last day, you’d spend it right here, bitching about that billionaire loudmouth and his white trash voters. #CanadianContent. BTW, why doesn’t anyone bitch about BTO? God do they suck ass.

The alt-right has gotten really snarky about how these armchair emigrants never propose fleeing to Mexico. Roissy is insinuating that their threats are probative of shitlibs’ forbidden desire to commune in all fullness with Whitey. I can’t speak on behalf of virtue-signaling SWPL who never manage to walk their own talk about race. I can say that I’ve made a cursory look into the possibility of living part-time in Tijuana, mainly as a way of reducing my cost of living. Everything I’ve heard about legal long-term immigration to Mexico indicates that it’s more trouble than it’s worth for anyone who doesn’t have an offer of employment in a profession or a highly skilled trade or else an admission offer to a university. Also, the cops’-heads-in-a-bag problem tends to deter immigration to Mexico from countries that aren’t even more violent at the moment. Canada has never had cartel violence verging on a civil war. Nor has it had cops as crooked and brutal as Mexico’s worst. There is no Canadian Chapo. A Mexican Colonel Underpants, on the other hand, would not have difficulty getting job offers from the cartels, as long as he does his modeling work strictly after hours.

A wall: that which traditionally confines Joaquin Guzman. #TheMoreYouKnow.

*****

This liberal panic over the state of the Union came about because the Democratic Party fucked up. It’s that simple. The Democratic Party fucked up colossally. It has run weak candidates who performed much worse than Hillary Clinton, but these candidates were honorable. McGovern was thrashed by Nixon, and Mondale by Reagan. What happened in these cases was that the Democratic Party ran uninspiring challengers against very popular and strong Republican incumbents. The Democrats ran failed strategies in challenging zeitgeists for two or three cycles. They came away from these drubbings looking like self-destructive idealists, out-of-touch fools, or quixotic losers, but they came away with their honor and legitimacy intact.

This year, the Democratic Party came away from a narrower loss in the Electoral College and a preliminary lead in the nationwide popular vote (likely to increase in coming weeks when California tabulates and certifies its late returns) under a taint of extreme dishonor and illegitimacy. As an institution, it’s disgraced. It spent the entire 2016 election season doing its level best to rival the Republican Party’s disgraces in Watergate and the Florida 2000 monkey business, and it succeeded. In a single candidate it combined the burgeoning back-of-the-house executive criminality of Richard Nixon with the vile electioneering sleaze of Lee Atwater and the vote-rigging crookedness of the George W. Bush machine. Late in the game, it managed to incorporate the unimaginably skin-crawling creepiness of the leaked Podesta e-mails, which contain bizarre language that appears to be a crude code facilitating the pimping of prepubescent children. During Bill Clinton’s administration, the ultimate moral fury involved Bill’s briefly keeping a sort of royal mistress in the White House. Election Day 2016, when his First Lady was supposed to finally trade places with him, opened a week or so into a fresh scandal, beyond the capacity of the mainstream media to suppress, suggesting that these already notorious crooks were at the very least closely advised by active child rapists. Elements dwelling more deeply in the fever swamp confidently accused both Bill and Hillary of personally committing child sex abuse at elite occult parties. By this time, Bill had spent months under scrutiny in alternative outlets for joining billionaire registered sex offender Jeffrey Epstein on his “Lolita Express” for flights to Epstein’s private island in the Caribbean, without his Secret Service detail.

The wife of a man who had been accused on the record of forcible rape throughout his own presidency tried to smear her opponent for bragging to a shock jock (correction: Bush family television producer; he was even worse with Howard Stern) about how he was rich and famous enough to play stinky finger on first acquaintance with strange women. Donald Trump is still facing an unresolved civil suit for raping a Jane Doe when she was thirteen–not an auspicious look for a president-elect–but the credibility of that accusation has nothing on the consistent public accusation that Juanita Broaddrick has made against Bill Clinton for forcible rape. Otherwise, the Clinton machine had nothing on Trump’s sex life except claims that he, a known serial adulterer and admitted lech, is sexually promiscuous with grown women. It was easy to see through this hysteria: the complicit wife of a man who had spent most of his public life accused of rape was accusing a public braggart famous for staging beauty pageants of being a manwhore. She tried with all her might to keep up a moral panic over this playboy bragging about how he’d get frisky with his tacitly whorish groupies. It didn’t work. For all anyone knows, Trump could have been making shit up to impress Billy Bush. In any event, what he described didn’t even rise to the level of sexual harassment. “They let you grab them by the pussy” indicates that these dalliances were with willing starfuckers. Not Christian marriage, certainly, and maybe not a well-examined life, but it ain’t rape. It doesn’t even sound like the soap opera that the VA commissioned to train its employees in sexual harassment. I mean, uh. I watched that when I was ten years old, and I still remember how sleazy and poorly produced it was. And again, we don’t know how much of Trump’s purported sex life is his actual sex life. He may well get more of a rise (heh) out of bragging about his conquests than from actually having sex.

We’re getting lectured by the sex scolds again. When Congressional Republicans did that to Bill Clinton in the nineties, they made colossal asses of themselves. They got Kenneth Starr, an incel-looking dork, to prosecute the lovably dreamy class playboy for getting laid too much and making him jealous. As the months of the Blue Dress turned to years, we learned that the Big Dog’s grandstanding, moralistic accusers included not only hypocritical adulterers but also an airport downlow cruiser and a molester high school wrestling coach. As Larry Craig so beautifully put it, with a barrenly pregnant pause exactly where it belonged, “I’d like to thank you all for coming out today.” More recently, we got to watch J. Denny Dundiddly bump his wheelchair into a curb on his way into federal prison for crimes other than child molestation but really for child molestation.

It’s going even worse for our new Democratic sex scolds. It appears, in real time, that the Democratic elite is being blackmailed by God knows who for crimes much worse than any Dennis Hastert ever committed. Americans got sick of being lectured by frigid schoolmarms with skeletons in their closets. With Donald Trump, there’s a sense of relief that finally we don’t have to live in Winesburg, Ohio anymore. It may be subconscious for many people, but it’s there. It may still be too much of a mindfuck for the average American to consciously recognize that the Republican Party under Trump is becoming the liberal party on sex, but there’s an increasingly widespread gut feeling that the sermons from repressed freaks who keep sordid company ought to stop and that Trump is clean of all that shit.

The 2016 general election didn’t have to be a referendum on Brock Turner. If Bernie Sanders had won the primary, it wouldn’t have been. Sanders, like Trump, spent his campaign focusing on public business, especially socioeconomic reform. He didn’t frantically try to lure voters into the psychosexual pit. Clinton and her surrogates did. They smeared me and my kind (including a great many women) as sexist BernieBros. We were not #WithHer because we were sexists who didn’t want to elect the first woman president. We were also racists, somehow. The Clinton machine infuriated black and Latino Sanders voters by alternately pretending that they didn’t exist and insinuating that they were Uncle Toms. We were the Whitopia constituency, while she was the kindly chef tending the melting pot. Alt-right elements including Mike Cernovich piled on, effectively in her defense, by accusing Bernie of being uncomfortable around black people after he got flummoxed by a couple of black activists who stormed his stage, grabbed his microphone, and hollered their word right in front of him very early in his campaign during a visit to Seattle. This looked bad for Sanders at the time, but in retrospect it was a momentary annoyance, a politician who had spent decades doing his groundwork at New England town meetings stumbling into a graceless provocation by asshole professional activists in Greater Portlandia and choosing not to publicly reciprocate their ill will.

Sanders settled and built his career in Vermont, which is Wow Much Whitey. The Clintons retired to Chappaqua, which is approximately a quarter the Community stronghold that Burlington is. Either of these characters might have lost to Woke Ron Johnson if the election were a reward for residency in an integrated municipality. (I keep fantasizing about Ron Johnson running for the Missouri governorship as a Republican against Democrat Sam Dotson because I keep forgetting how hideously reactionary a Missouri politician has to be to be shunned by the local Democratic Party. Johnson is noticeably to the left of Todd Akin, so he’s golden. This is a state where hippie-punching Claire McCaskill isn’t enough to get shooed off to the GOP by the kingmakers.) Unluckily for Clinton, this election was not a referendum on woke racial theory. That’s what she wanted it to be, but the pack didn’t eat that helping of dog food. From the center and the right, the objection was that she was cynically dredging up a stupid wedge issue again. From the real left (as opposed to the Officially Woke Ferguson Unified Command pseudo-left), the objection was that it was time for her to answer and atone for her prior dogwhistling about “superpredators.”

As with their feminist posturing, the Clintonistas were staking a claim to some of their most indefensible territory. They hoped against hope that their identity politics would work. They deserved to fail in this scam, and in the end they failed. Trump appealed to Americans as Americans, more or less. His beardbaiting over an exaggerated threat of Islamic radicalism was an unfortunate exception from this unifying rhetoric. Clinton appealed to what she hoped would be a small majority of the fractious tribes she had set against one another. She wanted women, racial and religious minorities, LGBT, SWPL, and woke oligarchs to beat back the intransigent white trash on her behalf. That this didn’t work is a testament to the good moral sense of the American electorate. A community should be wary of efforts to goad it into rewarding a leader who stirs up internal bigotries. In Clinton’s case, this campaign was related to a parallel campaign to exploit the Latin American peasantry as a scab labor reserve. Voters were wise to distrust the white girl when she expressed solidarity with Latino foreigners she would not want living in her neighborhood as her equals. Clinton deserved to be punished for this divisive sleaze.

Trump’s victory has revived calls to abolish the Electoral College. The argument here is that a handful of unrepresentative wingnuts voting in arbitrarily influential states with small populations shouldn’t be able to obstruct the consensus of a more representative majority living in more populous states that are arbitrarily weak and noncompetitive in national elections. Notwithstanding that the Electoral College is a weird institution offered to extremist states as a condition of their admission to the Union generations ago, these calls from the left to abolish it are being made this year only because the nominal leftist party got hijacked by a dogshit candidate with a pathological will to power who alienated an exceptionally broad swathe of the electorate, especially in the minor states that are served best by the Electoral College. As a check against the majoritarian oppression of dissenting regions, then, the Electoral College worked exactly as it was designed this year. Maybe it’s a shitty check, but to paraphrase Winston Churchill, the alternatives are even shittier.

In a race as close as this year’s, neither major party candidate will emerge with a strong mandate. Muammar Qaddafi made roughly the same critique of 50%+1 rule in the Little Green Book, along with the observations that black Africans are lazy due to the heat and that the female camel, not the male, gets pregnant. While we’re on the subject, I might as well issue an occasional reminder that Hillary Clinton found it amusing that Qaddafi was sodomized in extremis by his summary executioners. It shouldn’t be too surprising, then, that she and her partisans have little compunction about using the federal government as a vehicle to shit on whole regions under its jurisdiction for its amusement and aggrandizement, just as the Electoral College is meant to discourage. If the Electoral College protects rural and inland interests at the expense of urban and coastal ones, it’s worth remembering that federalism is a hot mess harboring much worse than that.

None of this would have been at issue if Bernie Sanders had won the Democratic nomination. Clinton needed to cobble together a ramshackle collection of swing states with barely enough of her mutually distrustful minority constituencies to win the electoral vote. Campaigning in Appalachian states after preening about how coal has to go was a fool’s errand. Don’tcha fuckin’ know, she lost Pennsylvania and Ohio after doing that. Trump showed up and announced that he’d bring back the coal. How? That didn’t matter. Voters were thrilled that he seemed to give a damn. Maybe he was a Don Quixote leading a cargo cult, but at least his heart was in the right place. They had no such feeling about Clinton.

Sanders did well in Appalachia. He crushed the hell out of Clinton there. Sanders received more support than either Clinton or Trump in the Kansas caucuses. The only candidate who won more Kansas caucus votes than Sanders was Ted Cruz. Seriously, Sanders might have won Kansas in the general election. It would have been a huge upset, but for a Democrat, a Borscht Belt populist with a strong track record on industrial policy would have a damn good change of winning over the grange crowd if his opponent were a showboating billionaire who puts his name in all caps on his private 757 and is famous for insulting his subordinates on television. Sanders might have finally reinvigorated grange politics in the Lower Midwest. Just as he appealed to voters in failing coal and steel towns in Appalachia, he might well have gotten a groundswell of support in Kansas farm country. Hillary Clinton doesn’t have a clue about how to relate to farmers or grain elevator operators or the children of slaughterhouse workers. All she knows how to do is say, “Thomas Frank told me to ask you all a question: What the hell is the matter with you?”

Sanders was the first Democratic presidential candidate since Jimmy Carter, or maybe Bill Clinton, to have a good chance of convincing voters in traditionally Republican parts of Appalachia and the rural Midwest that he isn’t just an insufferable limousine liberal snob. With Clinton, there was a widespread sense that even if he was a bastard, he was a charming bastard. Trump has a similar persona that inspires similar feelings. With Sanders, who doesn’t try to be everyone’s buddy (and certainly isn’t a painful try-hard like Hillary), there’s more a sense that he’s honest, if brusque, sincere, and sober. Voters were ready for that this year. They weren’t amused by the mudslinging on both sides in the general election and the crude abject pandering with which Clinton desperately tried to rock the youth vote. Turnout is down.

Going on my gut sense of the states (and I really don’t give a shit if the quants and wannabes think I’m pulling it out of my ass; they fucked up this year), I’d say that Sanders would have won West Virginia and Montana hands down, had a strong chance in Florida, Kentucky, and North Carolina,  and had a tenuous but strong chance for a Democrat of winning Tennessee and one or both Dakotas. Some of these states, of course, were written off as inevitable Republican wins this year. This is the case because the Democrats have gotten into the self-destructive habit of fielding candidates who don’t have a clue about how to relate to workaday people in flyover country. They’re accustomed to failing among normal people who keep their country running.

Bernie Sanders isn’t a unicorn. He would have lost the most polarized parts of the Deep South, the Ozarks, and the Mountain West. But it wouldn’t have mattered. In addition to the tossup and traditionally Republican states that I just listed, he would have swept the Upper Midwest. It’s conceivable enough that Mike Pence might have used his home-state advantage to keep Indiana Republican, but not that Trump would have beaten Sanders in every Midwestern state but Minnesota (which Clinton narrowly won) and Illinois. More likely, Sanders would have achieved a sweep extending from Pennsylvania into parts of the High Plains and the Rockies.

There’s less need to nitpick and agonize over the horse race math when the head of the ticket isn’t a polarizing crook who openly looks down on the poor and struggling. Clinton had absolutely no regional strengths over Sanders in the general election. Acelaland is too emotionally invested in the Democratic Party to flip for a Republican out of self-interest to protect itself against a socialist, and even if the BoBos had bolted towards, say, a socially moderate Republican like John Kasich (who carried Manhattan in the primary!), their defection would have been tempered by a surge in turnout for Bernie from the lesser orders of mankind. The Republican field this year didn’t include anyone with a chance of winning back the West Coast. Hillary maintained the Democratic stronghold in the urban non-Napoleonic Mountain West; Bernie would have done the same or better. He would have had no difficulty winning New Hampshire and the Second Congressional District in Maine, but these would have been moot points anyway on account of his lock on the rest of the Northeast and the Midwest. The only state where I can imagine him being a double-edged sword for the Democratic Party is Florida, whose politics are just fucking bizarre. The Brooklyn Jewish thing probably would have helped him modestly with the New York Jews around Miami and Palm Beach, while it might have hurt him among conservatives and reactionaries in the rest of the state. That said, Hillary Clinton was repulsive to the same center-right and right-wing constituencies. Another way to look at it is that if Bernie had lost Florida, as Hillary did, he would have done so without abjectly pandering to either the God-blesses-those-who-bless-Israel crowd or the God-damn-the-Castros crowd.

The country would finally have had a unifying candidate capable of winning the presidency without trying to navigate the treacherously idiosyncratic local politics of our most culturally pathological states. It’s only marginal candidates who feel forced to pander to aging Cubans in Miami and offer them assistance in their weirdly touchy beef with the Castro regime in a degrading effort to dredge up their votes. It’s the same marginal candidates who feel compelled to run interference on behalf of Israel in a gabmit for the Jewish vote on the Atlantic Coast, or for noisy godbothering 144,000 Club evangelicals in the rural South and Midwest. A party that stops running shitty candidates can stop deploying such shitty, degrading strategies.

Hillary could have limited the damage by offering Bernie a formal position of real influence in her campaign. She might have done better than she did had she promised him a position as, say, Labor or HUD Secretary in her administration. She definitely would have done better had she taken him on as her running mate. Instead she took on that oily, swish neoliberal dipshit Tim Kaine, whose fluency in Spanish did not compensate for Bernie’s not being a crooked unctuousness with some of the weirdest facial mannerisms in politics today. The alt-right pronounced Kaine a sexual deviant, usually a pedophile. Clinton did not need that persona on her campaign. She did not need his crappy, untrustworthy track record on her campaign, either. She balanced her own Northeastern neoliberalism with more Northeastern neoliberalism. She took on a weird-acting dude who represents the geographically and culturally Northeastern parts of Virginia at a time when she did not need help winning NoVa.

This was ridiculously arrogant. Sanders stuck with her throughout it, though. She ratfucked him and his voters. He conceded, moved to nominate her by acclamation at the Convention, and went to work on the Team of Rivals shit while his supporters called him a sellout. He campaigned for her. Her machine kept ratfucking his constituency. More and more evidence of the ratfuck was released by Wikileaks. The Clinton machine demanded the general election support of constituencies that it had spent the entire campaign smearing as bigots and losers. Sanders pleaded with these shit-upon, disgruntled supporters of his movement to be gracious with the Clinton machine, as a personal courtesy, if nothing else. He was more gracious in defeat than they were. He was the sitting United States Senator, though; he had voters who were homeless, foreclosed upon, chronically unemployed, drowning in student debt. He was in a position where he could afford to be gracious. His personal livelihood didn’t depend on his fighting back as hard as he could. For some of us, this meekness feels awfully like slavery.

Now that Trump has won, Sanders has released a statement offering to make common cause with the president-elect on reform efforts. I’m pleasantly surprised, but not too surprised. It should come as no surprise that a politician who did everything he could to work with a rival who had just ratfucked him out of a very likely election to the presidency would offer to work with a president-elect who has not ratfucked him and whose platform has much in common with his own.

The Democratic Party will become nothing but an atrophying regional curiosity if it keeps fielding these shitheads and torpedoing its most electable candidates with dirty tricks. Threatening Literal Hitler as the alternative to Teapot Dome Marie Antoinette won’t fix a party that keeps being so recalcitrantly self-dealing. Too many of us are wise to that shit by now, and not enough of us have the stable white-collar employment that might facilitate our voting for dyscivic new money crooks. Some of us, we ain’t hardly touched dem shine ricebowl.

A literal exile to the literal wilderness, Jesus-and-Satan-style, isn’t realistically in the cards for the assholes who ratfucked the Democratic Party into a coma this year. These aren’t ones to honorably abase themselves when they’ve done wrong. These aren’t ones to personally take losses that they can socialize onto the lower orders, the ones whose loyalty they demand in exchange for absolutely nothing. It’s only a country of three hundred-some million that has just been exposed to the dangers of bad policy because these asswads failed to propel a notorious crook and hated yuppie shrew, already a first lady, into the presidency, so that she and her circles of sleaze might further engorge themselves at the expense of the public in every misgoverned country on earth. Not that there aren’t proposals in circulation to properly humiliate them:

I can’t say whether taking over the Democratic Party will be morally better, but it WILL satisfy my schadenfreude.

Nothing warms the cockles of my heart like watching those useless, simpering fucks like Krugman and Klein and Yglesias and Stewart and Colbert and Maddow and Brazille cry and stamp their feet as their audience dwindles to nothing. Nothing, perhaps, except for the thought of watching those politico subalterns who hitched themselves to Clinton’s bandwagon watch those donations and speaking fees and consulting jobs draw up and they’re forced to fetch coffee for 56-year old mustachioed bikers and 26-year old techdicks to survive.

I want them to weep uselessly at their failed and unpromising futures, knowing that the salary of a Senator is the best that they can hope for. I want them to fear getting spat in the eye and laughed at by cute millenials when they reveal their affiliations and beliefs. I want the meritocracy to chew them up and spit them out. I want to watch them as their ridiculous world of civility and rationality crumbles. I want to hear the wheeze of contempt and horror as the working class rises up as one and casts these dorks to mediocrity.

Yes, that’s why I endorse taking over the Democratic Party.

Personally, I’m not at all opposed to putting these fuckheads on public assistance. Welfare is supposedly funded by our hard-earned tax dollars and shit, but marginalizing grandiose technocrats who might otherwise try to run policy fucks on the rest of us seems like a worthy and prudent use of public funds. For one thing, that actually results in their sucking less out of Mama Sugar’s tit. As things stand now, they’re positioned to legislate special rations of that sugar sweet for themselves, and we know by now that they’re awfully hesitant to offer extra rations to the deplorables. It isn’t our basket that they fill to the brim, now. Give them that welfare and that Section Eight. Even a thicky trick, thicky trick, she ain’t nothin’ but a–you know. Besides, as a homeless person who’s too competent to be kicked out of Starbucks, I don’t like the idea of forcing shift supervisors to train America’s most useless eaters as baristas. These assholes can make a few extra bucks–and depending on the pay period, a few is generous–by hustling deposit bottles. No, I’m not too smart to sleep in my car or go to BottleDrop for one-figure gibs every day that I’m within range. What I’m too smart for is the sleazy goddamned assholes who act like their own shit doesn’t stink and won’t stop alienating the lower classes from the closest thing the United States has to a viable labor party. DNC DELENDA EST.

By the way, guys, Jill Stein and Ajamu Baraka are currently clearing five percent of the vote in Humboldt County, and the elections office indicates that my ballot hasn’t yet been counted. Oh hell yes. Go ahead and tell me that the only reason I don’t feel like vomiting on account of the presidential election is why your atrocious candidate just lost. Go ahead and tell me that I shamefully helped sink a candidate I couldn’t countenance by voting for one I could. Frankly, my dears, I sleep in my car far too often to care.

Earnings limits

Back when I read The Economist more regularly and thoroughly, it seemed that every month or two some disingenuous, condescending Fauntleroy would show up to lecture the Commonwealth about causes for diminished lifetime earning potential afflicting the poors and what could be done about it. The solution was never an outcome-oriented reckoning that since current outcomes were so shitty the state ought to intervene with robust social services and jobs guarantees for the unemployed. That would be too straightforward a way of leveling the playing fields of Eton. The poors might even forget that they’re on a playing field in the first place, tell Admiral Nelson and the Duke of Wellington to get fucked with their meddlesome military intervention on the Continent, that kind of thing.

They’d certainly be at risk of forgetting their humiliatingly subordinate relationship to their more successful betters. And what fun would the friendly competition that is British life be if the perennially losing team didn’t show up for the match so graciously rigged against them? In a robust, efficient welfare state, they might figure, aight, Mrs. Bucket, bugger off with your lectures about the work ethic, I’ma put in two days a week at Tesco and use Her Majesty’s Recourse to Public Funds to spend the other five watching telly in me council flat.

This narcotized dystopia isn’t as fun as it sounds. I’ve been closer to it than I like to contemplate. For many of its adherents, this lifestyle seems to thinly paper over a number of chronic spiritual and existential crises that are presumed less painful if left unexamined. But when pedigreed drunkards from the public schools complain about the chav horde and blame the unemployed for graduating into a wrecked labor market without the scrupulous sobriety of their ideal Pakistani teetotaler immigrant, they aren’t actually concerned about the failure of the poor to lead prosperous, satisfying, well-examined lives. They’re butthurt that their inferiors are shirking the workhouses, but they’re too cunning and also too chickenshit to go full Magdalene Laundry on a Cockney’s ass. They don’t want to blow their own shabby cover. Frankly admitting that they resent and despise those beneath their own station for resisting constant labor arbitrage from above would be discrediting and crass, so they concern-troll those beneath them instead. You know, nice STEM training program we have in the Midlands here; shame if you died poor and miserable as a consequence of not enrolling in it.

The Economist has a running beef with the Midlands and the North for needing ongoing subsidies from London, apparently on the premise that the Southeast is morally superior for being wealthier on paper in a country whose central government forces it to share a measly portion of its wealth with the otherwise forgotten provincial shitholes under its jurisdiction. This complaint is largely bogus: London’s productive economy is pathetic for a city of its size, and the bulk of its livelihood comes from parasitic rent extraction. The City exists by skimming a commission off every penny of wealth it can divert from the domestic and international periphery, and Greater London’s workaday residents have been priced into shabby little corners of their own metropolis so that the better parts might cater to a rogue’s gallery of international strongmen, robber barons, cronies, and dissipated, hotdogging Eurotrash wealthspawn with much respect for bitchin’ rides and none for traffic laws. In this respect, The Economist is basically complaining that Dan Bilzerian and Jamie Dimon are taxed to pay for food stamps in Altoona.

In clubbable newspaper circles, this is considered a coherent and respectable stance.

The way I ended up reading The Economist regularly was that my dad got me a subscription when I was in high school because it was generally agreed to be the Anglosphere’s premier glossy newspaper, since we don’t call The New Yorker such a thing. I’m now more woke to the anonymous house voice bullshit than my parents are, so they probably read more of me newspapah than I do. I don’t mind; they’re still the ones paying for it. When I’m picking berries for two or three dollars an hour or scavenging deposit bottles, it’s absurd to read some useless eater without a byline lecture me for somehow not having enough drive or grit or determination or work ethic or some shit.

That’s in addition to frequent instances in which the house voice is obviously taking direction from Anglo-American intelligence services. (At least it isn’t the NPR House Voice. Let us give thanks for small mercies.) An impartial, transparent international investigation has proven that MH-17 was shot down by a Russian surface-to-air missile? Oh, and Russian intelligence is responsible for the hacking of all computer servers associated with US government agencies and high officials, but not for the FSB advising the FBI that Tamerlan Tsarnaev was returning stateside from an in-service training conference with known beards in the Caucasus? Well, I’ll be General Stroganoff. Please, to the table, for beef.

This is a crowd that doesn’t care for uppity and recalcitrant servants. We,  the mere people, should take our instruction meekly from a proper newspaper run by proper old boys educated at proper public schools governed by the proper amount of intramural teen rape. #WEARE! Distaff elements have been admitted to this racket in recent decades, too, so #LeanIn for some MI-6 propaganda from the sort of women who, if they were Americans, would be walking arguments for the dissolution of Greek Life. The answer to why formerly productive parts of England are so troubled and adrift isn’t Oxbridge as a vector of English class tyranny. Remember, these are cultured assholes. They’re well-bred, like Labrador Retrievers with early-onset hip dysplasia. Okay, maybe not that well-bred, but they run with High Limeys who are. That huntin’ pooch on Downton Abbey can’t have had any more hybrid vigor than the Granthams back before m’lord started boning the American chick for her money and m’lady miscegenated with the Irishman. Suitably condescending relations with Mrs. Patmore from a position of suitable privilege and taste will stop being financially viable, as will stock in the East India Company and HM Best Exotic Marigold Donbass Raj, if the mob starts demanding living wages and respect as equals for doing low-class work like raking cobnuts and shirks its duty to be butchered in the latest bankers’ war. These fine flowers of the English need cut-rate STEM trainees for their factories and state patriotic cannon fodder on standby for whenever the shadow elements either finally goad the Russkies into war with smack talk or go full Napoleon in the Gulf of Tonkin. As a classmate’s family friend asked him, in late June, “Oh, you’re in Russia! How’s winter?” It might be a pertinent question even today. It’s less pertinent in Yemen, the republic whose joint US-Saudi pulverization is already being justified with a Tonkin-style false flag.

England and the Anglosphere would be much improved if the English more reliably had the ticker to tell their overlords to take their public assistance money and bugger back off to Balmoral, you miserable Hun. If the Germans Within actually found this suggestion agreeable and acted on it, of course, they might provoke the Scots to expedite their own threatened Meta Brexit, so maybe a prolonged royal retreat to Wales would be more advisable. God knows why the Welsh so graciously humor that shit. Maybe they don’t really care for it but air their grievances in their impenetrable local gibberish, like trees falling in a forest that eye has not seen. Regardless, they seem awfully patient with this horseshit, coming as it does from interloping, generationally parasitic second-order foreigners.

Going east from Greater Llanfairgofochmeinmearsscholoch, support for monarchical wankery tends to drop off as one goes north, sometimes hard. Midlanders, Northerners, and Scotsmen–the ultimate Northerners–are serious peoples who ask serious questions, including why the fuck they’re still forced to pay for that useless wankery on account of their default national allegiance to a government that can hardly be bothered to give them a hand. Heirs to the throne have to be suspected of active fifth-column sympathies with the enemy in wartime to be hounded into abdication, and even then they’re given government sinecures in the Caribbean. The citizens of prosperous parts of Great Britain may not mind this so much, since their government is delivering THEM the goods, but the citizens of the chronically neglected parts are forced to be grown-up enough to ask what the fuck they can expect to get out of this rubbish. The Scots, for example, who live in some of the more prosperous shit-upon counties, can hardly even get Westminster to give them the latitude to set up and fund their own regional social welfare state because there’s always some posh or socially climbing asshole from the South of England (another country, let’s remember) who just has to make a point about compulsory self-reliance at their expense.

That is, self-reliance for those who haven’t been given lifetime leave by the British government to be useless rich white trash. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the hooker I’ve been seeing hadn’t heard of Downton Abbey. Too many people in my life and my country have. I guess it’s a SWPL thing. Po’ Whitey would probably watch five minutes of it and wonder, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with these assholes. *Very George Orwell voice* Salvation, Winston thought, would come from the proles. *Resume regular programming* There are some perfectly serious and perfectly reasonable questions that might be asked of the High Limeys, such as, all right, we get it that your whole lot needs public assistance because you’re all useless, but explain again why in all hell we should honor any of you for your dependency. John “Bye Bye” McLaughlin mentioned five or six years ago that republican sentiment in Great Britain had been polled as high as 25% nationally, so they haven’t all been brainwashed to hell.

The point is that, as the citizens of sovereign governments, or as the subjects of sovereigns, we’re all forced to pay taxes to fund a variety of government expenditures, some of them objectionable, because we live under a social contract and shit, but this doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t ridicule those who have been given the hereditary privilege to lavishly waste public funds on their own opulent upkeep when they serially beclown themselves and are of no tangible talent or use to anyone. As a corollary, we absolutely should ridicule anyone who tries to shame a dole bugger for sitting around a council flat in Brixton all day with a thumb up his ass in a country that also disburses public funds for some old lady to pretend that she enjoys tikka masala and make awkward small talk with visiting German footballers, on the premise that this embarrassing bollocks is “majesty.” Like, you guys have a problem with entitled losers not working, and you still appropriate public funds to pay for THAT?

Here’s another way to look at it: a famished rough sleeper could get into legal trouble for butchering and eating a swan for sustenance, but if Prince Harry gets royally trashed and does the same thing at three in the morning just kind of because, that’s probably no worse than a family discipline problem. Grandmother might be displeased.

The Economist is staffed by assholes who not only humor this regime as bystanders but actively defend it, then turn around and complain about how the parasitic poor are being lavished with moral hazard by indulgent elements in their own governments. It’s problematic that they vote for such indulgence, even at the expense of upstanding Londoners with no skill set but white-collar crime and alcoholism. They might use their franchise to onerously tax the international failsons of Mayfair. Perhaps that is too much democracy. The wrong sorts abuse such processes. The internet runs over with the wisdom of Alexander Tytler (sic) warning that this rabble is shown inevitably to vote itself the treasury and thereby sell itself back into bondage, in a cycle of inexorable suck. Having to pay taxes to a functioning government in exchange for government services is, of course, a convenient form of bondage for those who would like to distract the public from the literal, and, under international law, illegal bondage of Global Southerners in service to the Gulf Arab royal families that send their legion failspawn to nice parts of London for extended dirtbag rumspringa. A rabble might vote to start taxing this scum, and that would be most unfortunate.

It gets even worse. The Economist has apparently been running articles and editorials (if I may repeat myself) excusing the poor banks and their poor white collar criminals for their systemic criminality, because they’re all victims of crooked corporate cultures. John Stumpf just got mixed up with the wrong crowd, that’s all. I have reasons for no longer joyously seeking out unread issues of me newspapah. It’s unfuckingbelievable. Up next: motion to acquit Celeste Guap’s rapists because they were employees of systemically dirty police departments that encouraged rape under color of authority and harbored cops they suspected of using their commissions to facilitate rape. Have her come back when she’s been raped by Anthony Rollins. Put her in a time warp to Anchorage and 2006, and then we’ll talk.

This is how venally retarded they are. We dasn’t prosecute these criminals because they were all hanging out with a bunch of criminals at work and everyone had just kind of fallen into a life of crime, but it is great righteousness to lecture the poor about how lazy they are for honestly receiving public assistance and badger their elected officials about the moral necessity of reforming policy to use a combination of Pavolvian incentives and threats of destitution to compel the poor to become hotep on demand. But lol no, we can’t provide jobs on demand for poors who are trying to be hotep, because that would be socialism. Also, never mind the goal of full employment that the Clinton machine purged from the Democratic Party platform in the course of thrusting Rahm Emanuel’s steak knife into the Great Compression.

*DIE!*

The BBC ran an item the other night about how highbrow Britons can’t function in diplomatic negotiations with Germans (EU stuff, so maybe important) because they’ve all been trained by their finishing schools and their governesses to demur when offered a biscuit and wait for the biscuit tray to come around again, and this is now problematic because German diplomats figure you didn’t want the biscuit. Funny thing: so would Onslow. You wanna biscuit, Dickie? What kind of biscuit is it, Onslow? Oy dunno, give it a try, Dickie. *NOW RICHAAHHHD!*

Is there anything that these fuckers won’t ruin with their mere touch? These assholes train their young to be Japanese in their inscrutability, and now their country’s entire diplomatic service can’t function in talks with counterparts from the Continental neighbor that calved off their own royal family in modern times. This is absolutely batshit fucking insane.

This is no natural aristocracy. It’s a bunch of stuck-up asswipes who condescend to honest, decent people for not having been drilled in their own class’s systematic training to code-switch when Maggie Smith walks into the parlor with a tray of ginger snaps and act like the fucking Sphinx, as one does. Any country that leaves its foreign policy in the hands of people who have been conditioned to act like this will be on the skids in short order. No, Britain already is, and it isn’t hard to see why. Put that deplorable into your hand basket and let it float down into hell, Lord Grantham.

I can’t speak on behalf of all poors, but I can speak behalf of many:

If you offer us jobs, we can get jobs.

I have a job offer, pending a background check, because I interviewed today with sane people who were actually looking to hire, not data-mining assholes looking for dog-and-pony tricks from the reserve army of the unemployed.

If you give us money, we’ll have more money. Let me know of any Ephesians 3:20 bottle deposits (heh) in places that haven’t occurred to me.

I, for one, welcome the money and the cash. So does the entire Economist staff and its entire target audience. It’s just that I’d rather not be a passive-aggressive, insincere piece of shit about it, because I have a sense of self-respect to dignify. Even at rock bottom, each one of us can cling bitterly to as much as that.

It depends on what kind of biscuit you’re offering me, Onslow, but I’m all ears.

Coffee: Gobias some already.

The moment Trump lost me

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As the nasty women say, #ImWithHer. Of course, it depends on what the meaning of “her” is. If you consider Jill Stein and Loretta Sanchez the wrong hers, feminism isn’t really your motivation. If you have a problem with my refusing to vote for the right her, fuck you. Remember, I lives here. Can I come in.

In the end, Trump didn’t lose my vote with his “nasty woman” and “bad hombres” comments, which were just more trash talk from a leading public vulgarian, or even with his petulant threat not to respect the outcome of an adverse electoral result, which, if he followed through with it, would provoke a powerful backlash from all the establishment constituencies he’s spent his campaign alienating to hell.

The moment he actually blew it with me was one that, to my knowledge, got absolutely no mainstream press coverage. In the course of carrying on about his yuge Great Wall and its prospective magnificence, he said that the wall needed to be built to stop the heroin from coming in and killing all the decent Americans’ troubled loved ones in forgotten parts of America. I, of course, paraphrased this more eloquently and credibly than Trump himself did. His own formulation was basically, and I paraphrase more closely this time, that we have deadly drugs in this country because we haven’t secured our entire land border with Mexico.

I found these comments especially worrisome and unacceptable in a candidate for high office precisely because Trump did not appear to be cynically pandering to hysterical nitwits. He apparently believed his own bullshit. These junkies’ survivors in deteriorating parts of New Hampshire are not actually his people–that much was pandering on his part–but Trump sounded like he actually believed it feasible to put an end to fatal opiate overdoses by securing the currently unsecured portions of a single land border.

This is total nonsense. The US-Mexico land border is not an indispensable smuggling route for the US drug market. It doesn’t even come close. Walling the border will do nothing to scale up inspections at ports of entry along its length, which are spotty. CBP officers are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of passenger and cargo traffic. The sensible ones among them give up on trying to hold back that river in the hope of being alert enough to interdict serious threats to the country. A few dangerous zealots try to take up their slack, trampling on due process and human decency in the course of their personal wars on drugs. Others are corrupt enough to take payoffs from smugglers to allow drug shipments through unmolested. These crooks stir up moral panics whenever they’re arrested for public corruption, but few of them are fundamentally dangerous to anyone: they’re glad to let mere drugs through for a toll, but it’s extremely unlikely that any of them are desperate or psychopathic enough to act positively on bribes to approve shipments of black-market anthrax, sarin, or plutonium. They know that the drugs are mainly sickening and killing Americans who have already made the personal decision, against their better judgment, to use hard drugs.

Securing the aboveground land border will do nothing to secure it underground. Whenever one private subway line into Otay Mesa is discovered and shut down, the cartels build another one. Militarizing a border zone some miles wide, on the assumption (probably far too optimistic) that the cartels would be unable to extend their tunnels an equal number of miles, would be politically impossible. The business lobbies would shit a brick if its members were forced to relocate all their warehouses from a new no-man’s-land worthy of North Korea. Congress, led by local representatives and senators, would nix any plan to relocate long-established residential neighborhoods including San Ysidro and downtown El Paso. Everyone with a stake in the matter would go up in arms, maybe just figuratively, at the prospect of moving suburban retail districts catering to middle-class Mexican shoppers out of a militarized border zone. The whole point of the outlets in San Ysidro is that they’re just an S-curve and a border checkpoint away from Tijuana. NAFTA or no NAFTA, there’s just too much trade to be conducted. No one’s going to stop trading American grain for Mexican citrus and avocados, for example. That shit is crossing the frontier one way or another.

The tunnels are a cat-and-mouse game, or more aptly a cat-and-rat game involving Joe Dirtbag’s not-so-work-ethical farm cats and the overfed, hella R-strategic rat colony they stalk only from time to time. CBP and the Border Patrol are basically forced to wait for the latest phone call from some annoyed property manager that the cartels just bored the third portal into his warehouse in as many quarters. That’s an unwinnable three-dimensional game when it’s being played by Vaisya border agents and Dalit warehouse workers against global elite international drug syndicates.

Something else worth mentioning about cross-border smuggling is that gun running is a huge problem, but one overwhelmingly affecting Mexico, not the United States. The US has a patchwork of generally lax gun control laws, with the federal government allowing state and local governments to permit the lawful sale and possession of everything up through light anti-aircraft artillery (e.g., 50 caliber “guns”) and no realistic way to stop the interstate smuggling of weapons. Mexico has a strict federal gun control regime featuring remand on arrival for practicing ammosexuals, regardless of their citizenship. When this gets covered in the US press, it’s usually by way of Fox and Friends having a mad that some US citizen gun nut got arrested and jailed in Tijuana just because he tried to enter Mexico with a loaded assault rifle. #SupportOurTroops #ThankYouForYourService The same talking heads show noticeably less concern about the denial of consular access for Mexican citizens facing death sentences in the United States, or about due process in general for foreigners whose home country long ago abolished the death penalty and whose supreme court recently ruled sentences of longer than forty years unconstitutional. The point is that there are conscientious Mexican officials who try to keep black-market arms out of their country, even though they have colleagues who are too corrupt to give a damn and not nearly enough natural law and sheer manpower on their side to back up Mexico’s positive law against the Sinaloa Cartel leaving a police squad’s heads in a burlap bag on the side of some highway into Juarez. The other point is that these guns are causing far more fatal collateral damage in Mexico than black-market drugs passing through Mexico are causing in the United States.

If the land border were secured in three dimensions to margins that the Los Angeles subway system would be unable to span and all ports of entry were manned 24/7 by A Teams with dozens of drug dogs, there would still be no way in hell to secure the maritime borders against drug-running speedboats. Smugglers have taken to using flat-bottomed powerboats capable of outrunning Coast Guard cutters to drop drug shipments on the San Luis Obispo County coast in the middle of the night. The US Coast Guard is not a boat-deprived agency. It knows how to do a hardcore cool change on zero notice on seas heavy enough to distress Panamax freighters. This doesn’t matter. The drug-runners just wait until the seas are calm and the coast is literally clear and they do their thing. Leon Bridges may be on 92.5: The Krush (still not the Central Coast’s favorite listen-in-prison station) within fifteen minutes of my driving within its broadcasting range, but he is not on the bridge. He’d probably figure that’s an awfully fast and choppy ride, but they don’t care whether he likes the way they sail their ship, now, or whether the Coast Guard does.

No one is securing the Pacific Coast against every panga whose crew has a plan to beach it for a minute or two, throw some bales overboard, and gun it the fuck back into international waters. No one, for that matter, will secure the Diplomatic Mail, which has been used in the past to ship drugs into the Homeland with full immunity. No one will secure gateside airport operations against crooks in ground support positions longer than it takes a drug syndicate to buy off a crook or place its operatives at SkyChef. Not all that much drug smuggling is done by C-Team semiprofessionals like the Bali Nine who tape product to their torsos or swallow a bunch of condoms like fucking idiots. The syndicates have brain trusts who know which airport employees are able to bypass customs because they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs efficiently if they weren’t trusted to come and go from secure areas.

There are always opportunities to corrupt military personnel, too. Fat Leonard pulled it off, after all. If a greasy Ronal Serpas body double running a regional defense contractor in Southeast Asia can buy off American admirals with escorts and nice dinners, there’s no way the drug syndicates can’t establish equally profitable back channels In the Navy (TM). CBP can’t realistically sweep an aircraft carrier for drugs. Hardly anyone there is zealous enough to try, and if they did, they might cross the threshold at which sailors remind them that they have some fucking guns on this ship, too.

Bottom line: we are not keeping drugs out of this country. It ain’t happening.

By the way, I doubt anyone knows yet the extent to which government agents or assets are deliberately adulterating black-market opiate supplies in the hope of scaring the public away from drugs and punishing those who aren’t duly intimidated by their scare tactics. It’s a matter of historical record that the US government deliberately poisoned liquor during Prohibition, causing thousands of deaths, and much of the current prescription opiate supply in the United States is deliberately adulterated with weak adjunct painkillers that are known to be more chronically toxic than opiates. Frankly, moral busybodies in the vice squads have a stronger motive to adulterate drug supplies than do dealers, who have reasons not to want to be connected to dead junkies, even if their market contains many addicts who have a weird, morbid fascination with bad dope sets. Many dealers prefer to do business with recreational users anyway, so that they don’t have jonesing addicts calling them at all hours and cursing them out in the hope of getting an emergency delivery.

If Trump were serious about reducing drug overdose deaths, he’d be talking about funding for treatment programs, not about standing athwart the border like William F. Buckley amped up on coke–a drug that the Donald himself is widely reputed to enjoy as a pre-debate pick-me-up.

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Speaking of drugs, the Secret Service just went bitching to the Brahmins about how they can’t staff up because their applicant pool used Adderall to get through college, among other moralizing complaints. LOL. Also illegal Napster downloads and embarrassing e-mails to friends.

Clancy. Damn, pops. Yes, law enforcement agencies end up with staffing and recruiting shortfalls when they reject otherwise highly qualified applicants in order to grandstand about the evils of drug use. I saw enough weird-ass shit in the two days and ninety pages I spent trying to become a San Diego police officer not to blame this on the applicant pool. We weren’t the main source of weirdness there, from what I could tell. And I missed the really creepy parts. I didn’t make it to the polygraph or the appointing authority interview.

If you make the cut for a Secret Service polygraph, you, too, can be escorted from the building by G-men for admitting to past off-label stimulant use while the colleagues whose ranks you were not allowed to join protect high officials in a state of near exhaustion and, if they’ve earned enough seniority, acute intoxication. This is the same agency whose senior agents, including the second-in-command of the presidential protective detail, got away with this, and it recruiters have zero tolerance for applicants who once used disfavored stimulants to stay awake. #StayWoke. Driving drunk across Washington and crashing a government car through police tape at the scene of an active bomb investigation means that your buddy the watch commander orders his junior subordinates to let you go home and sleep it off, but a history of using semilegal stimulants in an effort to stay focused and vigilant for long stretches of hard work is an automatic disqualifying factor for a job requiring its agents to stay focused and vigilant for long stretches.

I’m not all for Adderall. The time I took it, because an idiot psychologist who didn’t listen to my history of symptoms prescribed it to me for ADHD, I immediately came down with a ridiculous case of ADHD. I’d lie on my bed throwing a bouncy ball at the ceiling for half an hour straight, itching to start a five-mile hike through the State Game Lands at 10:30 pm, then go into the kitchen and break down in tears for no particular reason. On the other hand, if other users are able to calibrate their doses more effectively (probably because they’ve kept the damn outpatient mental health professionals out of the fray), they’re probably onto something.

Regardless, students go to such insane extremes to get schoolwork done because high school and college in Bougiekistan today are insane. I didn’t even try because I’d gotten so totally fucked up on Adderall the one time I tried it that I’d quit it mid-course against medical (sic) advice, and I suppose my grades suffered as a result. If my career also suffered, that’s a reason to reform the graduate recruitment process, not an argument for my retroactively using a crazy hard drug that had fucked me the hell up at the low end of its therapeutic range.

Even so, I am not on the Secret Service’s side when it tries to punish behavior that the home and school environments of its most sought-after applicants aggressively encouraged. I might be young (well, not that young), but I ain’t stupid. I doubt that barely over one percent of its applicant pool is qualified to start its academy. That pool is too hotep to include so many incorrigible fuckups who would gain nothing from even more hotep training and command regimes. The Secret Service and the substance-abusing moral parasites overseeing it in Congress are responsible for its staffing and recruitment shortfalls.

The Denver Police Department ran into a similar problem a few years ago when it discovered that thirty percent of its applicants had a history of recreational cocaine use, and not the worst thirty percent. The proposed solution, last I heard about it, was to stop being so fucking absolute about past coke use. The rationale behind this, which more police departments should consider, is that the DPD had other recruitment, training, and supervisory protocols in place to avoid deploying a bunch of raging acute cokeheads, and that there were worse red flags in other, less based parts of the applicant pool (including anabolic steroids, if the recruiters knew what they were doing).

Of course this sort of stance is controversial in law enforcement. Decades ago, NSA polygraphers got one of its future defectors to Soviet Russia to admit to bestiality with a chicken. This didn’t reflect badly just on the reformed chickenfucker; it also reflected badly on the animal vice squad for being sick enough to even discuss such a thing. Normal people don’t go there. Only trusted law enforcement insiders are that sick.

I don’t support the shortstaffing of the Secret Service’s Uniformed Division or protective details. I do support the shortstaffing of its polygraphy units. Everyone of those creeps should leave work every day thinking, why the fuck am I interrogating decent people about this shit; what the hell am I doing with my life. If the Secret Service can’t figure out how to select and train agents who are hotep enough to be, or else to get, mentally and physically fit for duty without interrogating them about illegal downloads of (((copyrighted media))) as teenagers (LOL!), painstakingly calibrated self-medication in college for peak curricular and extracurricular performance, unapproved internet fappy hour, and poor chat room etiquette, its recruitment, training, and command processes are useless. Of course, Washington is swarming with hypocritical, grandstanding assholes who just have to use their positions of official power to force federal law enforcement agencies to make statements about the wrongfulness of drug use in their recruitment processes. Federal law enforcement is one of the easiest targets for moral busybodies to use as a platform to publicly set their favored pecking order.

This shit will endure until the drugs community asserts itself to the same extent that the LGBT, etc. lobby has asserted itself in recent decades. This is why we have openly gay cops and police applicants today, while the Vermont State Police was the only agency I could find, back when I was seriously angling to become a cop, with a drug disqualification policy as sensible as no puff-snort-shoot in the past year, and it’s still considered unreasonably sexually deviant to look at naughty pictures of sexually mature teenagers who might well have been married with a child or two had they been that age in the midcentury, let alone to consort with prostitutes.

Remember, the prudent thing to do is to already be on the force before raping Celeste Guap. Blue privilege won’t wait for you if you don’t first wait for it.