When the yuppie project plays brinksmanship on its host society

Think in terms of parasitism, not hospitality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Wet bulb temperature: an inevitable recurrence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe they really are dream hoarders

Yuck. It is my lot yet again to relitigate the 2016 election and its ramifications. My mom had to bring Trump, his unbelievable election, and the ignorance of his white trash voters up at the dinner table again, and this time I couldn’t let the belittlement slide. I flat-out told her and my dad that I had nearly voted for Trump and been relieved when he won the general election. I was explicit about why I like and trust Trump more than I do Hillary Clinton: that I was afraid Clinton would provoke a nuclear war with Russia; that, absolutely regardless of the very real US human rights violations that my mom sputteringly brought up as a red herring, Kim Jong-un and his regime deserve to be annihilated for what they did to Otto Warmbier, full stop, and that any government capable of whacking that thug, decapitating his regime, and putting an end to its menace to the international community should be encouraged to do so (I was too wigged out to say anything about the kill box in South Korea, which certainly disturbs me, but I believe fully in the assassination of that third-generation sovereign mob boss by any foreign power, regardless of its own imperfections); that Trump’s working-class supporters didn’t expect much of him but very reasonably put more stock in his public comments about doing right by them, as scatterbrained and dubious as they were, than they did in anything Hillary was offering.

The chronic problem here is that my parents have drunk the full serving of bourgeois liberal Kool-Aid and can’t or won’t admit that they’re proceeding from some really faulty premises, including ones about me and my circumstances specifically. Trump in no way has to be a mensch to get me in a way that Hillary does not, to respect me more than she does, or even to end up doing things that advance my welfare. Multiply my own circumstances by however many tens of millions of Americans are in similar ones, and you can get an idea of how the oaf was elected.

My parents have no reason whatsoever that I feel any common cause with Trump’s herrenvolk authoritarian extremism, or that anyone in particular from the white working class does. Aside from increased restrictions on immigration, which I would hope to see made more equitable and humane that the arbitrary patchwork of enforcement and non-enforcement that we have today, I abhor most of that shit, and Jeff Sessions genuinely scares me, as in not feeling like the kind of white boy he would refrain from having abducted, tortured, and extrajudicially executed. The temperamental and intellectual sympathies that I feel for Steve Bannon as a thinker who gets unjustly shit upon for expressing thoughts do not extend to a refusal to challenge him when he advocates nonsense or evil. His opposition can do better than the projectile vulgarity and feigned anti-intellectual retardation of that putz Scaramucci, the Harvard Law boy.

That I still feel more comfortable with the gist of the Trump Administration than with what I was expecting from a feminazi-themed Clinton redux is because I really, truly do perceive something uniquely dangerous about Billary and the sociopolitical context that they’ve done so much to create. In strictly logical terms, they’re crazier than Joe McCarthy on Russia. The Soviets in his day were Stalinist turned barely post-Stalinist hostile power; Russia under Vladimir Putin is nothing of the sort. The Kremlin has stocked its closet with some fresh skeletons, but it’s no Saudi Arabia, either as a threat to the human rights of its constituents or as a foreign power hostile to the United States. No reasonable and attentive American observer would consider Russia worse than a neutral power that gets caught up in unresolved disputes with its US-allied former imperial satellites. The FSB alerted the FBI to the brothers Tsarnaev; Saudi Arabia commissioned 9/11. What’s worse than just the burgeoning insanity of the educated liberal class on these matters, though, is that it’s being stoked out in the open by operatives of the failed presidential campaign of a notoriously sleazy yuppie power couple, fronted by a shrewishly feminist woman who rode her husband’s coattails to fame and the United States Senate. Your Fleek Abuela, the sworn detail-oriented wonk who wasn’t detail-oriented enough to stump in Wisconsin, lost because the Kremlin put a hundred grand worth of ads on Facebook and hired some third-rate internet trolls.

I dare say that my fears of nuclear aggression against Russia in the event of Hillary Clinton’s presidency have been borne out by the incredibly irresponsible bullshit about Kremlin interference that she has been orchestrating as a twice-defeated presidential candidate and former two-term first lady. This is a woman of insatiable ambition and wrath.

Trump is stylistically rather different, but I don’t see how his public comments are any less responsible or sane. Beefing with Piggy Gangnam Style is rash, and I do not want to see those two bring their nations to nuclear war over their mutually wounded honor, but expressing anger and condemnation at such a vile and dangerous character is perfectly sane. The international community has been struggling almost helplessly to contain that porky thug and his ancestors for practically a full human lifetime while they’ve starved their own subjects at will and arrayed enough medium-range artillery along the DMZ to turn Seoul into an ashtray. That’s without Nork nukes.

As rash as Trump’s public beef with Piggy Gangnam Style is, his rude comments are a potential threat solely because the Nork Dork has carried on and beefed up his family’s tradition of threatening to militarily annihilate its neighbors. That son of a bitch should be disposed of as quickly and cleanly as possible, if that’s possible. It would be fair enough to do to him what he had done to his brother in Kuala Lumpur, sauce for the fat gander being sauce for the other fat gander. That won’t be accomplished by Trump returning fire in an international war of trash talk, but the finest diplomacy the international community has brought to the table has done precious little to make that family behave itself.

At least we have independent civil institutions in the United States. Imagine what the Clintons would do in their absence. Or the Trumps. But the Trumps can’t hold a candle to the Clintons’ established insider political and news connections. They’re decades behind on parlaying the Donald’s specific celebrity as an entertainer into backstage political capital. Surely this helps explain why Trump keeps getting savaged in the mainstream media every time he says something coarse while Hillary is basically given a pass for comments that are equally coarse and sometimes even more disturbing, including her joking about Muammar Qaddafi’s gruesome death. Her thoughtless lack of compassion for a man who was pulled out of a sewer where he had been hiding and beaten and raped to death by a mob was cruel and abnormal. If there is a moral qualification for the presidency that’s worth observing, she didn’t do a thing to live up to it.

Meanwhile we keep hearing all this moral outrage about the rude things that Donald Trump has had to say about various domestic political opponents. Very often the same people fume that it’s outrageous for him to abet the police in roughing up suspects, that it’s outrageous for him to encourage NFL owners to fire players for taking a knee during the national anthem, and that it’s outrageous for him to make fun of Mika and Joe. Shit, guys, we’re gonna have to conserve some outrage here. Mika and Joe aren’t fucking vulnerable. Hillary Clinton sure as hell isn’t vulnerable. If they want to stop being savaged by an oaf of office who can’t help but trash-talk other celebrities, they’re free to retire from public life. In fact, it’s past goddamn time for Hillary and her entire family to retire from public life. Bill has been squandering his fading charm on stunts like cornering Loretta Lynch on the tarmac and beseeching her to think of Charlotte.

We have no duty as a citizenry to cater to the easily bruised feelings of the publicly privileged. As a raging Fox and Friends television grandpa, Trump is hit-or-miss, but when he goes after self-important blowhards who have never put a blessed thing on the line for their principles in their lives, he hits, hard and square. The Clintons, whose permanent triangulation in the twentieth century yielded to crude, haphazard stunts  in desperate pursuit of a dwindling viable base in the twenty-first, are perfect candidates for Trump’s attacks. Hillary is a walking treasury of all the bad things about feminism and none of the good ones. It’s little wonder that Hugo Schwyzer was able to successfully hack his way into overlapping activist circles as a male ally who was in it for the pussy. He’d do well in an environment driven by a logic that the only way to check one’s misogyny is to vote for the centimillionaire wife from the Lincoln Bedroom couple who is also, like, the craziest bitch in the country.

I’ll be damned if I’ll be cornered into voting for a woman who obviously looks down on me and wishes me ill for who I am when I’ve already had so much trouble functioning in the nightmare society that she, her husband, and their coterie have done everything in their power to create. One of the cool things about voting for Jill Stein was that doing so was almost as effective as going straight MAGA in driving disingenuous Uber liberals and parallel affluenza cases into a state of utter apoplexy. After all the difficulties I’ve had, I have no problem making them feel uncomfortable and upset. I don’t mind seeing the shoe on the other foot from time to time. Bill claimed to feel our pain; there’s no reason not to make his current political operation and target base actually, personally feel the pain that they’ve caused in the narrow pursuit of their self-interest.

Trump keeps getting flak for disrespecting hallowed institutions. Well fuck me. These are the same institutions that have double-crossed me and countless people like me and made it nigh impossible for us to stay afloat under our own power. The Congressional Republican Caucus would sooner put me in chains and heave me into the Potomac than serve me as a constituent. So would much of the Congressional Democratic Caucus. So, certainly, would Billary. None of these creeps gives a damn about normal people. Their constituents have to gang up on them to get them to provide basic constituent services, like not further fucking up Obamacare and leaving Americans to die by the tens of thousands. The presidency featured unionbusting under former SAG President Ronald Reagan, IRS audits targeting the poor under Bush I, constant sleaze under Clinton, and overt, uncontrolled constitutional crises under Bush II and Obama. Now some loudmouth from television goes off-script and THAT’S the most unprecedented threat to our government institutions? Like hell it is.

Of course I’m sick of the trite, worn-out, Aaron Sorkin-ass presumption of goodwill on behalf of offices and institutions that have clearly been taken over by looters. I went to school with people who now man this machinery, and I have no doubt that as a group they’re in it for nothing but their own power and wealth. In their professional lives, these are anything but admirable people. It’s a fucking tragedy; some of them could have done something worthwhile instead, but they aren’t about to bite the hand that feeds them so lavishly and risk ending up like me.

If Trump makes them feel threatened, good. They’ve turned into a territorial nightmare, and it’s about time that someone else came around and marked their territory. I routinely see people that Trump has not even started to dispossess freaking out more overtly at the prospect of his upsetting their apple cart than I freak out about sleeping in my fucking car. He swings his dick around like LBJ and smacks random ass-kissing celebrities with it, and these lunatics take it personally. We’ve got sworn liberals out rehabilitating Paul Ryan, the entire Bush clan, the FBI, and the CIA just because some quasi-old money yutz with golden toilets makes fun of yuppies. They’ve gone completely out of their minds because he occasionally humiliates their kind the way they habitually humiliate my kind, and they’re too dense to realize that his insults have not made them any less propertied.

It’s disturbing to watch people who allegedly have the finest liberal arts educations on earth get thrown by such crude stylistic attacks. Only a dimwit should be so easily rolled. That’s because they’re functionally dimwitted. They can’t, or won’t, muster actual counterarguments to Trump’s repetitive assertions that the industrial and mining jobs are coming back. They can’t imagine how this plays better in the rust belt than defending NAFTA as an across-the-board good. Both parties have spent decades by now catering to their interests as educated yuppies, at great expense to the uneducated and the poor, but they can’t imagine why the latter respond positively to a guy who promises to flip the rules back in their favor and fight for their interests.

Trump is all over the place, but some of his assertions are more right than even he may realize. Paying honest wages for honest work is a more equitable and stable economic model than flipping houses, and coal mining is honest work. It’s simplistic, but he’s on to some big things there. If everyone tries to keep collecting rents, before long there will be no one productive enough to make rent. Bill Clinton deliberately set the United States on a course towards everyone scamming everyone else, and W and Obama kept it up to varying but consistently significant degrees. Trump is right that the knowledge economy has dispossessed a whole lot of workaday Americans, not all of them unknowledgeable.

Damn straight I’d rather have a shyster from the real estate business ramble on about these themes incoherently than have the latest political front from a crime family known for its own exceptionally sleazy real estate dealings insist in somewhat more syntactically normal sentences that an economy amounting to serial Ponzi and MLM schemes is obviously sustainable. That shit barely held steady through the nineties, and it crashed into a smoldering pile of rubble just in time for Hillary to lose her first campaign for the presidency. Trump has yet to do anything to cure me of my relief that she ultimately lost her second campaign. It’s refreshing to have, for the first time in my life, a president who overtly shows us how much respect he has for his office and for his constituency. It’s no less refreshing to have the same gaudy oaf of office putting the yuppie swarm on the defensive. Decorum wasn’t taking us anywhere good.

A literal soap opera

Since I was up all night, as in upright, locked, and shoehorned three deep into a window seat in cattle class, I got to spend part of my not quite cold, not quite Chicago morning doing laundry in the sink while Matt Lauer interviewed Bill O’Reilly. It was only a pair of socks, a pair of underwear, and two ball caps, but still, the productive watching the tragic feebly interrogate the pathetic: God bless America.

Matt Lauer, as we’ve discussed before, is a tragic figure, but Bill O’Reilly is not. To be tragic one has to have some sort of wasted potential or failed aspiration or, shit, something. O’Reilly is just an unbelievably spiteful son of a bitch. He’s miserable not just for the rest of us but for himself, too. No joy or serenity or hope or even smugness shines through his miserable bastardy; it’s just the featureless, inchoate resentment of a man who can’t point to anything that has been foreclosed from him personally and can hardly point to a thing that has been foreclosed from those he claims to give voice, other than pervasive assertions of their own superiority and opportunities for tax evasion.

The problem with him isn’t that he’s conservative: Victor Davis Hanson and Rod Dreher believe in things and take hope, if faintly so, in the incremental achievement of those things; Thomas Sowell clearly finds meaning and satisfaction in researching and writing about the hidden histories of Germans, middleman minorities, and the like. Part of O’Reilly’s problem is that he’s a reactionary nutjob, but in his case it goes beyond the ideological and into the deep psychological. If Hillary Clinton and Ann Coulter are creatures of hell, Bill O’Reilly lives in hell here on earth; the sorry fucker isn’t even on furlough. All his money can’t buy him a visible measure of the peace that might cause him to be intermittently gracious.

The recurrent sexual harassment allegations against O’Reilly reared their head, of course, and, good self-serious objective piece of shit that he is, reputed role-playing furry Matt Lauer dutifully asked Loofah Boy to confirm or deny. O’Reilly denied the allegations both unequivocally, as a man of wounded honor, and equivocally, as the client of defense attorneys. Even if the guy is a randy schmuck, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was an even sorrier figure, in retrospect, than Paula Deen, who was merely having an unstable televised sad during her Matt Moment four years ago. What was wrong with her was fixable with some sleep, some time, some distance, and maybe some substances. What’s wrong with O’Reilly looks like it’s been wrong for a long damn time and is going to stay wrong.

It isn’t just that he got into trouble for his indulging himself before the casting couch at the expense, if any, of women subordinate to him. That sort of thing is ubiquitous in the industry, and anyone who wasn’t born yesterday knows it. Fox News is particularly open about it, in a half-assedly coy way, in the exceptionally lurid and chauvinistic manner in which it objectifies women on air. A notorious blowhard at the Leg Chair channel is accused of getting lecherous with the ladies under his authority? Color me fucking shocked. The guy was bound to do or say something coarse enough to annoy even a woman who came to him from the whorehouse via a psychiatric nursing assignment focusing on the care of the shit-flinging incontinent. He isn’t just a threat to the hothouse flowers around him. Cracka don’t do subtlety and tact.

Some guys get into trouble for sexual harassment by burning ex-lovers or being socially hapless before treacherous women who would tolerate much more aggressive sexual advances in the workplace from men they find attractive. These guys are sympathetic  because they get tripped up by arbitrary, often ex post facto rules that are routinely violated all around them. O’Reilly looks like he was and remains bound to go totally over the top in his time of horn.

Whatever he gets out of it can’t be healthy. Like so many men, he probably chases after the validation of seducing amateur women that he wouldn’t be able to claim by bedding a prostitute. Seduction makes men feel relevant, virile, and worthy. It also gets them into a hell of a lot of trouble. What O’Reilly is said to have committed isn’t seduction, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t pretend. Why shouldn’t an alpha lion like him enjoy the services of the entire pride? He’s just the victor enjoying the sexual spoils. The guy’s loaded, so there are any number of ladies of negotiable affection who are well with his budget to entertain him on a daily basis and put up graciously with what sounds like his rather vanilla, if still crude, sex drive, but a man of his stature shouldn’t debase himself to negotiating with women who expect frank compensation for their services to him.

Matt Lauer knows a thing or two about degrading himself for money. A comparison with Ron Jeremy came to mind, but Jeremy is a man of unabashed sexual vulgarity, not of lofty journalistic principles to abandon on national television by 7:30 every weekday morning. His better angels must have been whispering to him: why the fuck are you interviewing this bumptious loser? Why the fuck are you going to such lengths to stipulate this blowhard’s newsworthiness in the midst of several catastrophic hurricanes and a renewed GOP push to repeal the Affordable Care Act? Of course, Matt donned the golden handcuffs decades ago and never tried to shake them off. Did he, Miss Swift? No, he most assuredly did not. Matt’s a compliant circus act, you see. He’s a good boy.

In his business, being a good boy means dignifying some of the worst people on earth. Jerry Springer doesn’t pretend that his guests are functional and healthy. He doesn’t pretend to be objective and solemn when some chair-wielding meathead bellows at his baby-mamma that she’s a no-good lying cheating whore. Cincinnati is not a city of solemnity. Neither is it a city of Matt Lauer or the classes of people interviewed by Matt Lauer. From this perspective, what comes through about The First 48 and Police Women of Cincinnati is the sheer modesty: twenty-dollar Over-the-Rhine blowjobs, murders over promises of crack rock not kept, James “Mack the Pipe” Mack walking around the East End carrying a different length of pipe. It’s pathological, but it’s contained, and although it is salaciously watched, ultimately it is not normalized or celebrated. It’s understood that these are marginal, ridiculous characters and that aping them is for blame fools.

Aping Bill O’Reilly would presumably result in riches and glory. Likewise aping Hillary Clinton. Charlie Sheen is rolling in coke and hookers. Ann Coulter gets book deals and airtime. There are a lot of terrible role models in show business, and they’re held up as role models. (On Hillary Clinton, refer to the “Television” section of P. J. O’Rourke’s chapter about the coequal branches of “Money, Television, and Bullshit.”) If power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, we’ve got a lot of deranged, depraved freaks using their power to pursue absolute wrath. Where Bill O’Reilly wants to watch his enemies be left to their own devices to suffer indefinitely in punishment for t heir own lack of initiative, Hillary acts like she wants to strangle them with her bare hands for disloyalty and Coulter looks of a mind to watch hers be executed and then ceremonially urinate on their corpses.

These are not normal, healthy people. We came, we saw, he died. O’Reilly seems positively restrained in comparison for merely wanting all the losers around him to be beggared so that he might become richer yet. We narrowly avoided the presidency of a woman who publicly gloated about a foreign leader being sodomized and shot by a rival warband, and we avoided it by electing a guy who encourages cops to bang arrestees’ heads on the cruiser door jam. Love too be represented by leaders who refuse to transcend the morals of Muammar Qaddafi.

It’s official: I miss Matt on Paula on reheated racism interview now. Why, I do declare that I do. That was a dumbass fucking donnybrook, but it brought Mrs. Butter and a guy who’d robbed her at gunpoint out to confess that they’d done wrong and needed to get their heads straightened out. Think about those two haphazardly leading their nation towards truth and reconciliation while Loofah Boy, supposedly a great political activist, painfully huffs his way through unapologetic quasi-denials of office lechery and Midtown Furry keeps up the pretense that it’s all news.

“How could ‘Bernie would have won’?”

Those who assume that the Hillbot Army and Your Fleek Abuela Herself have transcendent principles or coherent strategy or tactics and not just the demented, inchoate rage of the least sympathetic of cornered animals ignore the ever more abundant evidence that they’re crooked, reflexively evasive, and quite often absolutely motherfucking retarded.

To wit, our title. Or, in the long form, “How could ‘Bernie would have won’ when Bernie lost?” Let’s leave aside the notion, surreally childish for a professional political operative, that an exceptionally popular candidate with exceptionally strong crossover appeal, naturally high energy on the trail, and a robust grassroots campaign apparatus who narrowly lost a dark horse primary race against an entrenched patronage machine co-headed by a former two-term president, a machine that tipped the scales against him both overtly and covertly, inevitably would have lost the general election after doing better in swing states than the machine that sank him. Leave the syphilitic nonsense of Adam Parkhomenko’s shitty argument aside and reread his syntax: “How could ‘Bernie would have won’ when Bernie lost?”

Wow Much linguistix None conjugation Many counterfacsh Such subjunctive Very retard. How could I doesn’t speak English when I already speaks English? If Parkhomenko had said this after winning a Special Olympics T-ball game, I wouldn’t have anything to say about it (The Onion: “Special Olympics T-ball stand pitches perfect game”), but he worked for a fucking major-party presidential nominee, so, yes, as a voter I consider it reasonable to expect him not to descend into public retardation. That’s a bad sign.

It isn’t just dum-dum, though. There’s something specific about the idiocy of Parkhomenko’s language, like “What is ‘to be corn cobbed’?”, but more so, that’s even worse. That’s how cultists speak.

To anyone of normal intelligence and judgment, “Bernie would have won” is a full sentence made up of four separate words. To get sort of Wow Very Explain, it uses a noun, “Bernie,” referring to recently failed presidential candidate and sitting US Senator Bernie Sanders, the subjunctive “would have” to stipulate that Bernie wasn’t given the opportunity to show what he could do in the general election, and “won” to describe Bernie’s narrowly averted electoral whupping of Donald Trump’s soft, overhyped ass from West Virginia to Kansas to Montana. That was a lot of lecturing over four words, all but one of them monosyllabic, but anyone who isn’t innately retarded or brainwashed can tell that “Bernie would have won” is a full sentence composed from separate words to make an argument. Recognizing that, a non-freak can react by agreeing or disagreeing with the argument.

How did Adam Parkhomenko react to this statement? By treating it as a single word abrogating all rules of English grammar by its presence. It’s absolutely fucking absurd, but that’s exactly how the brainwashed dumbasses orbiting around Hillary approach their English with their fancy degrees. It’s our common language until it isn’t anymore. They notice a talking point, which could be one of their own or one of the opposition’s, and exempt it from all scrutiny. Every talking point is a Holy of Holies into which man dare not peer. Thinking about what the hell it might mean just isn’t the done thing.

This is surreal. It doesn’t get any more straightforward than “Bernie would have won.” There’s an agreed-upon context (Bernie Sanders winning the Democratic nomination and facing off against Donald Trump, the Republican nominee, in the general election) and an explicitly stated outcome to a specific binary decision (a sleazy oaf–incidentally the same one the Hillbots so deplore–getting his ass handed to him by–oops–someone they also deplore). (We’re ignoring What Is Aleppo, me and my fellow healing crystals freaks on the Stein Steamer, and the like, because, nah, shit, I don’t want to get bogged down in a discussion of two-party capture of an electoral system that is constitutionally open to all eligible comers.) There are reasons why Bernie might not have won the general election, not ones that I think are compelling, but not Special Olympics hot dog stand stupid, either. I think Bernie was on course to easily win well over 300 electoral votes, possibly closer to 350, giving him more than enough margin to not have to debase himself by pandering to the worst people in Florida, but arguing that he wouldn’t have had a lock on the Rust Belt and didn’t have a prayer in Appalachia doesn’t have to be a degrading, grammatically challenged self-own.

But that’s the difference between making a refutable argument and being a fucking brainwashed moron who doesn’t recognize nouns and verbs. I recognize that I’m even more confident than many Berniecrats about Sanders’s electoral viability in economically depressed parts of the highland South. I don’t expect anyone in particular to agree with me that he would have had a fighting chance to win Kentucky in the general election; all I have is a gut feeling that a groundswell in cracker country, physically and psychologically far from the posh horsey-horse shitheads around Lexington, might have been enough to put him over the top, and that the same demographic almost certainly would have been adequate in West Virginia. Counterarguments from pessimists or Republicans don’t bother me.

What does bother me, or more accurately stun me (*Terminal Robert Dziekanski Voice* You’re literally killing me, Biggie! I’m literally dying over here!), is grammatically brain-dead horseshit about how Bernie Sanders wouldn’t have won the general election because he lost a primary that was stacked against him by an army of Clinton enforcers and all the one-sided coverage they could order and buy. That’s just garbage. The BDSM dungeon morals of this ongoing campaign are reprehensible, and as a Sanders voter I have every right to take personal offense. Dat syntax, tho. How could Bernie would have won when Bernie lost? That makes Donald Trump sound like Abraham Lincoln. That is the syntax of the sworn presidential campaign of intelligence, thought, and policy heft. That’s the caliber that the Clinton machine deployed against Steve Bannon, who, nutty though he can be, may be the closest thing to a genius polymath to pass through the White House in my lifetime.

Gee, who can ever imagine how that fine team lost to a veteran television star with keen seat-of-the-pants political instincts advised by a theology autodidact from the Biosphere One project? For that matter, love too see arguments that Steve Bannon is paranoid but Hillary Clinton is not. Every crazy bitch from the HOA versus the neighborhood drunk with the biggest, most interesting home library on the block: who the fuck actually thinks the HOA bitches will win that race? That’s how deranged and out of touch it was to be #WithHer.

An organization run by people who can’t mentally digest a four-word opposition talking point that means exactly what it appears to mean will have you all know that you’re a bunch of unemployable racists with substance abuse problems while Hillary Clinton, noted prison labor beneficiary from the Arkansas governor’s mansion, jokes about having another bottle of chardonnay. This, friends, is meritocracy. Donald Trump is literally the worst politician ever. Verrit authentication code 9111488.

It takes a special, credulous level of reflexive trust in institutions to fall for this shit. Hillary is a wonk because she says she’s a wonk and pays others to say so, but that doesn’t apply to Donald Trump promising to make America great again because America is already great. Sucks that your factory was offshored because you refused to be competitive, though. The pathology of the Clinton machine operates, fundamentally, on both a socioeconomic level and a psychological level. Clintonworld spends huge amounts of money paying its lackeys off, lackeys that it attracts largely from the pool of upper-middle-class organization men and women who have never been burned by a cult. Most of them wouldn’t be in it if it weren’t for the money, but it takes a certain very troubled psychological disposition to tolerate such a poisonous, deranged environment in the first place.

Take heart. Our finest colleges select for exactly such creeps. That’s how I was able to recognize the Hillbots: I know them from school. Regarding Bill Durden as anything but a misallocated circus sideshow act is consistent with an equal regard for We Came We Saw He Died. The one thing I can say on behalf of these freaks is that Chuck “Get Your Balls Clipped” Dederich’s followers had a less socioeconomic interest in taking up with him on the old radio plantation than our Young Scholars have in casting their lot with their own political and educational (sic) cult rackets. If you do something debasing for the money and end up with the money, at least you go away with some money. That’s why I scavenge deposit bottles. That, and it’s generally a less hostile environment.

Would it even be possible for Hillary Clinton not to get 1984 ass-backwards? The Wellesley-Yale bitch has a book out about how George Orwell warned against failure to trust institutions the year after she failed to get the American electorate to trust her very institutional campaign for the presidency. There’s no way to make this shit up. Meanwhile her faildaughter, a Stanford-Columbia-Oxford graduate, is on Twitter spouting total bullshit about Hannah Arendt. Why do I keep getting the feeling that we, as a haphazardly constituted federal electorate, made the right decision in denying this family the elected high office that it demanded anew from us?

To be blunt, I don’t cotton to cults. Dickinson College can get fucked with its needy, pushy requests for my money, and so can everyone from its alumni community who feels likewise. Give your own damn money to that fundraising scam if you feel so passionately about it, and do shut the fuck up. My first visit to a Catholic parish where the priest has a projectile authoritarian personality is consistently my last. (I suspected that the arc of Catholic history bent towards Pope Francis, but I was impressed by the sharpness of that fine, fine curve.) I nearly voted for Donald Trump as a rebuke to the cultism of the Hillary Democrats, and I would not have regretted it. If they didn’t want him to endanger the Republic, they shouldn’t have ratfucked the most popular politician in the United States during their primary and then spent the Trump presidency to date rehashing their smears for the book royalties. I can actually provide an accurate discussion of the lessons of 1984, one of which is that prostitution naturally neuters the Junior Anti-Sex League if it is not comprehensively suppressed. I wouldn’t count on Bill Durden, Hillary, Chelsea, or any of the other dipshits currently under discussion having a clue what the hell that means. Ooh, they’re too dense (giggity) to be getting a clue, too!

I didn’t go to school for the liberal arts; I went to the internet for the liberal arts, and for the code enforcement complaint form. That’s why I vote.

Judging the Clintons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suck my balls, Tate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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