We’re all just people, man

Diversity is a vacuum of thought. It’s not an idea and it has no inherent worth. But we must praise it, celebrate it, and violently reorder our lives to serve it.

We might as well grunt and scratch ourselves instead of speaking because what we say about diversity is no more than apish flea picking and grooming. It’s animalistic signaling of tribal membership and submission. Whatever the context, when you praise diversity, what you’re saying is please don’t beat me. I’m a good monkey.

It’s a verbal tic, a form of Tourette’s, a spasm in speech. We don’t think, we protect ourselves from thinking. We punish honest inquiry as if a few questions about the value of population churn could cause race riots and mass hangings.

Diversity has no tradition or history. It fell out of the sky in the 90’s and became an ideological anchor. No one bothers to find out where it came from or why it’s so important, but that doesn’t stop anyone from cramming it into every single statement they make about who they are and what they believe.

Everyone must rabidly commit themselves to diversity, regardless of what makes them happy. Every institution must become more diverse, regardless of its history, function or design. Our recent preference for novelty seeking numbs us to our deeper need for similarity, stability and agreement. A healthy, integrated self is dependent on social continuity and cohesion, but we’ve not only lost sight of this, we actively campaign against it.

Diversity has become, in the span of about 25 years, an absolute value. It’s as if western civilization had achieved nothing until 1964. As if life in any era before 1995 was a suffocating nightmare of uniformity, a hopeless, homogenized grind without laughter, joy, beauty and brilliance. But everything is getting better now that we’re shoehorning ill fitting flotsam into every institutional nook and cranny.

Don’t mind the crime, terrorism and ethnic tension. Forget the withering of trust, the draining of social capital, decline of civic participation, the falling wages and the explosion of mental illness. The rise of addiction, passivity, sterility, the scamming, listless hedonism, the plague of cynicism, boredom and despair. The greed, consolidation of wealth, rapid degradation of the environment and cultural adulteration. These are mere externalities, paltry sacrifices in service to our new god.

I can’t stress enough that the way we talk about diversity is stupefying. Something about the word makes people prattle like Miss America contestants binging on valium. Grown men turn into into high school bimbos gabbing to their girlfriends on the phone after school. They say things like diversity is who we are.

It’s beneath refutation; it’s the drooling, incontinent admission of a glass- eyed, self-satisfied simpleton, but it passes for a philosophy, it counts as a contribution to our national discourse.

They’ll also mumble about how diversity gives us more ideas and then we can decide on the best ones, as if anything creative ever happened by throwing together a bunch of unintegrated, distrustful strangers and then letting them babble all over each other. A ditzy interest in colorful clothes and spicy food won’t bridge the cultural and historical gaps between people with vastly different experiences and traditions. Fetishes born of weak social attachments only intensify misunderstanding and alienation.

Then there’s the number crunching, emotionally mutilated approach. Socially desiccated nerds love to argue for the marginal economic benefits of diversity, immigration and bloating populations. A few piddling technological or scientific advances are all the compensation they need for their displacement and anomie. A fractional increase in the GDP and the funneling of a few extra pennies into the gullets of corporate billionaires more than make up for the loss of a shared way of life.

We’re all equal, but we must also be diverse. Because we’re all exactly the same inside, we need to include people with different perspectives. Division is bad but diversity is good. You must be diverse without being divisive. Separation is always wrong unless everyone agrees to it. If something wants to be a part of you then you have to accept it.

There will come a day when the borders of our bodies become obsolete. We’ll shame our fascist immune systems for rejecting undocumented pathogens. Every virus deserves a chance to thrive. Bacterial lives matter. And if our bigoted bodies happen to break down from an onslaught of illness, then it’s only because we weren’t loving and tolerant enough.

White Saturday

Post thanksgiving Saturday morning. For the first time in two years I’m not alone on a holiday. Last year I wandered the desolate streets of northeast dc and cataloged my regrets and misgivings. I took pictures of stray pigeons pecking at crumbs on street corners and had a meal at a Chinese restaurant. I could have reached out to people but I held back. Solitude was my default setting.

One of my strongest temptations is dwelling on sadness, isolation and emptiness. An awareness of transience and futility is always with me, a baseline of my consciousness. To live is to lose, no matter how powerful or fortunate you may be.

Sensitivity to the vanity of existence can lead upward or downward. It can take you down a dark path of denial or towards the truth. We are meant for more than mining the earth; our deep dissatisfaction with mortality is the seed of transcendence.

But if we don’t transform our disappointment with life into devotion to a higher power and service to others, we risk losing our souls to terrestrial trivialities and diabolical perversions. Life offers itself as both the cause and cure of our ills. It threatens and injures us, it tantalizes and torments. And when we’re on the brink of giving up, it provides our fearful, ignorant selves with enough delusions and distractions to prolong our suffering.

I know my heart is corrupt; I’m not a naturally good person. Our current society didn’t make me this way. Our culture didn’t twist my spirit into a selfish welter of destructive drives. No future state of engineered excellence will guarantee angelic conduct or heavenly harmony among the masses. Progress falls short of perfection. You can be a politically free man but a slave to your passions.

We want what we can’t have and it’s not capitalism’s fault. We want what’s bad for us regardless of who’s in power or what’s on the news. It’s not just the current hyper neoliberal mutation of a rapacious economic system turning us into amoral atoms of consumption. And kids today aren’t inarticulate, mumbling relativists because they read Derrida and Foucault when they turned 21.

Cultural Marxism and the Frankfurt school are corrupting influences. But they only work on the essentially corruptible. You can expel the parasitic, sophistical jew from your society but that still leaves the jew within. You have a supernatural, tireless ability to cheat god and deceive yourself. Keep this in mind as you war against the depraved cabal of murderers and child molesters at the helm of the world.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t follow current events or that we don’t need to know what’s happening or understand where we came from. But we should also be capable of stepping outside of time and finding our place in eternity. Not everything that happens now is worthy of our attention. Much of it is needlessly upsetting. A window into the world is also black tar on the soul.

A compulsive preoccupation with the present annihilates history and mutilates our reverence for the past. We should look back with love on the sacrifices of our ancestors and set our sights on a future far beyond our materialistic fantasies.

Let’s not pin all of our hopes on a collection of votes. There will never be a just society free from violence and hate. Politics is often the pursuit of revenge, and the humiliation of our enemies, while fun, can also turn into a stifling obsession.

People treat love like a worn out whore; ready and available for everyone, equally at all times and all places, always good to go. But it’s rather a precious resource, finite, easily lost, misdirected and changeable.

They lecture us on loving difference, celebrating diversity, opening our arms to the alien and the distant. We must embrace the unknown, drop our distinction between insider and outsider and override our core instincts. Disgust and hostility are to be reserved for the similar, the familiar, for the known and the traditional. They’re programming us to be feckless, self loathing and defenseless, confused about our priorities and deaf to our real calling.

Loving what’s close is a task, a project, while loving what’s far away is a pose, a fashionable article, an affectation with destructive potential. It demands no effort upfront but it will rob you of a recognizable future.

I love my family more than wild Africans, feral chechens, melon picking mexicans, scheming jews and inscrutable orientals. I love what my people have achieved, their perseverance, intelligence and strength, their health, humor, morals, beauty and religion.

Cultivating love for organic social bonds is more difficult and much more important than listlessly signaling your flaccid acceptance of drowning under a tidal wave of miscellaneous savages from every stinking pit on the desecrated earth.

It’s funny because it’s true


This story doesn’t matter. But I want to talk about it anyway.

Indians are the most ungrateful whiners in the world. Their standard of living in America is stratospherically higher than it is in the overpopulated, gang raping, septic tank of a country that spawned them. And they make more money on average than white Americans.

But the privilege of raiding the academic infrastructure of a functioning foreign country isn’t enough. Nor are the comforts, the human rights, the opportunity, or the streets that aren’t rivers of shit. They won’t be satisfied until they blast diarrhea all over our low culture and cartoon tv tradition. The fun of a caricature and the vitality of bawdy, offensive humor are lost on them. This is because Indians are barely human mutants.

The Simpsons has entertained America for decades. Only an Indian could fail to find it funny. Only a dour, unappreciative, autistic street shitter would bemoan a trivial aspect of life in a country that affords him unparalleled access to wealth and status.

Why are these charmless, alienating nerds so fixated on representations, cartoons and comic books ? When you make more money and are better educated than the average person in a country you’ll never fit into or be able to call home, why are you crying about two dimensional characters in tv shows?

Imagine being a white Christian in the dung hut of an indian in india. Your gracious hosts give you food and a seat on their comfiest couch, but your primary concern is the lack of positive white Christian symbols and characters in the house. What’s with all these elephants? Where are the crosses? Indian television doesn’t have many white people. Such an attitude would strike everyone as distasteful, self-centered and thankless.

The idea of a model minority is oppressive because it correctly assumes that Indians and Chinese are more successful than blacks and Mexicans. It’s a burden to consistently outperform other groups and also receive recognition for it. But it’s a myth that only accounts for Chinese and indian Asians. There are also lesser Asian boat people that wash up on America’s shores with lower IQ’s and weaker family structures. They work in nail salons and message parlors and make less than white Americans.

When a Cambodian makes a meager living, it’s because America is a racist country. When an Indian becomes a doctor and a millionaire, it’s also because of racism. A group sinking beneath the white average is a problem that whites should fix, but a group rising higher than whites is also a problem.

Or rather, it’s okay for a group to do better than whites, but it’s not okay for whites to notice. Or it’s okay for whites to notice, but not if it prevents them from condemning themselves. It’s wrong for whites to notice the superior educational attainments and wealth of an imported minority if it makes  whites feel good about themselves for building a society that shelters and empowers the grubby ingrates of the world.

The high achievements of some are meaningless as long as a single Laotian has to scrape by cleaning cuticles in a poorly ventilated salon. To suggest that there are certain behaviors and beliefs conducive to success in a complex, technologically advanced society is racist. Chinese and Indian families that raise their children in stable, rule governed homes aren’t models. There’s no lesson in their rise to the top, nothing to praise or copy that wouldn’t also affirm white supremacy.

Why are the Chinese and Indians successful and why are the Vietnamese struggling? The answer is the same in both cases: racism. Intelligence, aptitude, upbringing, culture, history and tradition are mystifying excuses for white domination. There’s no organic, non racist reason why some Asians are doing better than others. All we can say for sure is that the higher and lower order Asians should all band together to more efficiently pillage the remaining wealth and knowledge of the western world.

High achieving minorities are of questionable value to their host societies. They tend to repay the kindness of the majority with impertinence, suspicion and contempt, and they degrade a native environment with ugliness, overcrowding and pollution. They drain trust, sap social capital and shred cultural cohesion. Chinese and Indians have a narrow, ant-like industriousness and an inhuman, calculating intellect; they’re cold, ruthless manipulators, cheaters, scammers and swindlers.

These people make a mockery of a meritocracy. We don’t need more soulless, disloyal strivers in this country;  we’ve reached max capacity on materialistic foreigners who cheat on tests, huddle in reeking, ethnic enclaves and sneer at the majority population. We have enough greasy shysters, shifty middlemen, neurotic, masturbating comedians and goony computer janitors to drag our dying economy into the next century.

Every single character on the Simpsons is a cruelly insensitive but hilarious stereotype. Groundskeeper Willie is an angry, inept scottsman who wears kilts and plays bagpipes. Homer is an oafish white man who gorges on donuts and neglects his children. Marge is a bland, nagging housewife.

Lisa is a priggish feminist. Professor Frink is an impractical egghead, Cletus is a slack jawed yokel. Barney is a blundering drunk, Moe is an ugly, seedy tavern owner, and Chief Wiggum is a dim-witted policeman who looks and sounds like a pig.

Mr. Burns is a heartless corporate overlord. Smithers is a sycophantic, closeted assistant. Krusty is a sleazy, shekel clutching clown. Crowds turn into rioting mobs at the slightest provocation. People steal, cheat, taunt and mistreat each other with idiotic abandon in almost every scene. No one looks good on this show. Fat white men, scots, housewives, white trash, police, gilded era tycoons and closeted gays have so far got the joke or had the good grace to ignore how a ridiculous caricature made them feel.

But an elite college educated indian comes to American, watches an iconic cartoon and then nurses a girlish grudge for his entire adult life. No one seethes with petty, twig dicked resentment like a physically weak, unattractive, sexually unsuccessful Asian man.

All the education and money they leech from America won’t make them normal or attractive. Rather than accept their condition as unintentionally amusing and annoying bug people on the outside of a majority society looking in, they rage against the titanic injustice of having to repeat a catchphrase of a cartoon character every now and then.

Enduring such relentless, spirit breaking abuse, how did they manage to cut corners and finagle their way through hostile institutions in an inhospitable country to earn degrees and then get jobs or become acclaimed comedians? Let’s get a few scholars of racism to find out for us.

I’m going to go to India, get into their best high school, go to one of their top universities and then become a comedian who tells jokes about how the people there are close minded rubes for not liking me. The central theme of my act would be that a people with deeply entrenched customs living in the same place for hundreds or thousands of years should all go on soul searing, deconstructive quests to rid themselves of their aversion to me. Doesn’t that sound funny?

For our transnational corporations, an excluded minority is an untapped market. The drive to diversify a population coincides with a sleepless pursuit of profits. So we find ourselves in the current year with an economy working for the common good of capitalist barons, delocalized managers and tribal malcontents.

It won’t be enough to let the eastern bug people become our friendly neighborhood programmers and physicians. Allowing an Asian swarm to sweep through our universities like locusts ravaging a field of crops is insufficiently self effacing to meet the demands of our modern suicidal ethic. If the price of indian esteem is a handicapped sense of humor, then we should be willing to never laugh again.

This is what happens when nothing happens

Gray, rainy days comfort me. Their sadness mirrors mine.

A beautiful day forces you to live up to its beauty. To be worthy of its happiness.

Rainy days ask nothing of you. They let you fall into yourself and forget. Like a drawn out shower on a winter evening. Time doesn’t pass.

4 in the afternoon is the same as 10 in the morning. All the hours of the day are draped in the same grey veil.

You want to get away from the world and sleep. Not because you want to die but because you want to live your life unconsciously. Part of you is always dark. And that part wants to swallow everything else.

Went to work today. It rained. I was inside and watched people come in with wet coats and pants. We talked about how they were wet and those of us who’d been working in the cafe were dry. I made lattes.

Some guy  was setting up a video shoot and I don’t know why. He’s a regular who’d been talking about it for weeks but I never pay attention to things like that. He pointed blazing lights at us. As if we needed more attention and exposure. Everyone already  watches you. Normally, we work in soft lighting that doesn’t draw attention to minor physical flaws, small stains or bits of coffee grounds.

But today all the things you don’t see were highlighted. Grime, dirt, discoloration, herky-jerky movements. I saw myself in one of the cameras and I looked like a corpse who’d been living in a sewer.

It was busy, the lights made me anxious and I worried about serving people poorly made drinks and ruining their day. But no one else thought about it. Later tonight I’ll think about it again.

It rained all day and I thought about writing after work. About Louis ck asking women to watch him masturbate. I was going to write about how he’d confused his private life with his role as a performer. Because his act is an hour of people watching him masturbate. When louis is on stage, people want to see that. When he’s back stage, not so much…

Louis can pack Madison square garden with tens of thousands of people who want to watch him masturbate. They relate and laugh. Not to the man who haltingly asks women if they’d like him to pull on his penis in the green room.

They relate to the act of masturbating on stage for an hour to an admiring audience. The contemporary narcissist isn’t just a sculpted Instagram model,  he’s also a chronically masturbating slob in sweatpants.

All these powerful men making women watch them masturbate, abusing their power, taking advantage, groping, pinching, suggesting, winking and nudging from the crack in the slightly open door of their hotel room where they stand wearing only a loosely tied towel over their penises.

Power is another worn out word that airheads repeat to give weight to their statements. They think of power as the product of a system. An invisible machines gives it out in unequal portions. People are powerful because of their positions in society.

The sacred cause of progressives is correcting this imbalance of power through radical reform of the system. But to reform the system they need to take the power positions for themselves. Progressives are so devoted to this cause that they haven’t noticed it makes no sense and will never work.

Power isn’t just what’s given to you by someone or something else. It’s also who you are, it’s what you give to the world. It’s what you express as yourself, positively, in deciding, in willing and acting.

There’s the power that comes from how other people see you. But there’s a greater power that comes from deciding who you are and then acting in harmony with your chosen character.

Men like Harvey Weinstein and Louis Ck have a power that’s weakly rooted, unstable and dependent on the whims of others.They have a circumstantial power over others. They can make women watch them masturbate. But they can’t make themselves not make women watch them masturbate.

Other people pay for your lack of self control. Always remember this. The system is less important than what you do. Louis still could have been a famous comedian, but he also could have not made those women watch him masturbate. He lacked power when he needed it. So did Weinstein and many others.

You can’t blame louis for wanting to do stupid, harmful things. But you can blame him for doing stupid, harmful things. Actions are more reliable guides to character than the dim dreams rumbling in the basement of a man’s mind. What we do means more than what we want.

Men take power in society. They climb to the top of the hierarchy where they can satisfy their desires. They live where they want and buy anything. Nothing is out of reach.

But they still don’t have power over themselves. Nothing in our culture can give them that. When it comes to making themselves work for money rather than sift through sacks of chicken guts in a dumpster behind a restaurant, some men exercise tremendous power. They can will themselves to write comedy specials and make blockbuster movies but they can’t stop themselves from pulling their dicks out at the wrong time in front of the wrong people.

All the power in the world and their dicks still dominate them.  They have adoring fans, a fawning media, more money than they’ll ever need but they’re still internally weak and defeated.

There are many manifestations of power that we don’t see. It’s not just wealth, fame, talent, charisma, good looks or an interesting personality. It’s not just physical strength or the ability to inflict pain, the intelligence to manipulate or what you can get away with because of your place in a social structure. There are other forms.

There’s the power of decency. The power of restraint, of modesty, deference and respect. Of faith, fidelity, dignity and sacrifice. What about the power of a man who stays true to his wife. What about the man who puts his family before his raging lusts, who does his job without demanding special treatment or preying on people beneath him. Or the man who gives his life in service to something greater than himself.

Are men like this not powerful? Or are we trying to paint an ugly picture of power and masculinity, to define masculine power narrowly and negatively so as to discredit it? If male power were nothing more than a swollen, sweaty executive tugging on his flagging penis in front of interns, then we’d be justified in denouncing and combating it. Better give that power to samoan paraplegics and transgender Mongolians, who we can be sure wouldn’t abuse it.

You don’t want what you want. You jerk off all day to the arousing images swirling around you like a vortex. So many women. You’re so close to having it you can feel it. There are endless ads and shows, programs, friends and strangers on the street telling you to do it, to give in and get it. You want it and so does everyone else.

At 55 you’re no different from who you were when you were 20. You’re cracked and chafed from years of rubbing yourself raw. You made money and a name for yourself but you’re still a compulsive  masturbator, limping towards old age, pleading with women to watch you wring a few drops of stale jizz from your weathered nutsack.

Your desires are working against you. They’ve been against you your entire life. Give them up. You’ll never be satisfied and you’ll make other people miserable as well. You may be irreparably damaged, internally damned; the least you can do is not ruin other people’s lives. If your non-abjectly masturbating self is a lie, it’s better to live the lie.

The beauty of a young woman should inspire you to have children with her. That’s the meaning of feminine beauty. It’s powerful but also fleeting. It doesn’t last forever in a particular woman but it’s also not that rare. Many women are attractive when they’re young.

You don’t evolve or transcend by trying to have sex with hundreds or thousands of women. You piss your time away, risk your physical and emotional health and make people around you sad. It’s broken behavior, not a display of power. When you see women solely as sex objects, they’re all the same. What makes a woman special is the life she shares with you, her history entwined with yours. Not her tits or ass. A woman is special because she sacrifices for you and you do the same for her.

Women are not sex toys or independent, strong individuals. They are parts of a larger social fabric. Sexual waywardness and crass objectification tear this fabric apart. Women are mothers, daughters and sisters, they’re members of families. The disintegration of social ties leaves behind a wasteland of predation.

Nothing is more spiritually corrosive and socially retarding than sexual obsession. It’s the downfall of supposedly powerful men. Let them be a lesson. No success or wealth is worth losing your soul to lust.

Unneeded things

There’s a gift shop downtown. They put out a sign on the sidewalk that says end white heteropatriarchy. 

Yes, let’s end it. I want to watch the blubbering owners of a trinket shop build a better society. A more supportive social order that encourages its cripples, freaks, parasites, layabouts and mental patients.

This shop is the vanity project of a rich, listless housewife. No one needs feminist keychains and broad city pins and yoga themed coffee mugs. The only people who can afford this gaudy garbage are other rich, listless housewives.

Upper class women in America are so oppressed they have to open bauble huts on fashionable downtown streets in major cities. They scrawl in chalk their desperate cry for justice: end white heteropatriarchy. 

When a glorified mall kiosk mouths revolutionary slogans, the revolution is over. Mainstream society has adopted the language of angry, academic afro american lesbians and bitter, Marxist german jews. It was always self soothing gibberish but now it’s widespread and adulterated. Commonplace and acceptable. Decorum.

It’s toothless and gummy babbling from the comfortably aggrieved. The arthritic grasping of a senile movement. There was a time when talking about the heteropatriarchy meant you were part of an elite group of radicals. You were on the vanguard of a critical, progressive wave of dangerous thinkers and activists.

Now the arcane analysis of the white power structure is embroidered on a 50 dollar throw pillow. The empowerment of women and minorities is a glittering chunk of cheap metal hanging from a stretched out earlobe. Buy and resist. Look good and revolt. Add to the bloat of critical thinking conformists. The bravest progressives resist domination when there are no negative consequences.

White, heterosexual society has so successfully integrated progressive ideology that a niche craft store can scrawl a scornful message on its A-frame in the middle of a busy street and no one cares. It’s business as usual. There’s no retaliation, no outcry. No protests or boycotts. Instead we have stories on the suffocating racism of a black in the air force writing the word nigger on a chalkboard.

When a black hurls watermelons at his own house in a hate crime hoax we still lash whites for their latent racism. When a jew threatens to bomb a synagogue it’s another opportunity to gravely condemn anti-Semitism. But when a knick knack shack calls for the overthrow of a white social order, it’s routine self expression, it’s another day on main street in anytown, usa.

I want to see the society that women, gays and blacks build. They can work with vagrants, southeast asians, pygmies and headhunters. I want a worldwide coalition of African blacks, native americans, criminals, offenders, anarchists, muslims, eskimos, druids, lepers and outcasts. Every marginal, injured group on the planet cooperating to create a superior society free from the oppressive powers that hobble and harangue them.

This exulted order will work perfectly without the efforts of law abiding, productive and creative whites with healthy reproductive instincts. There will be paved roads, clean sewer systems, heat and electricity. Law, medicine and advanced technology. Efficient transportation and communication networks. Spiritual and moral progress. A written history, monumental works of art, tradition, academic institutions and scholarly standards.

The bongo players, pansexuals and non identifying, genderless slabs of soy will come together to build shipyards and airports. Conceive an experimental method of investigation. Achieve lasting influence in architecture and political science. Draft constitutions. Create instruments that measure and record a subatomic reality. They will do all of this without hatred or greed, without lust or envy. Without oppressing anyone. As soon as we end the white heteropatriarchy.

As soon as we stop preferring to procreate with attractive members of the opposite sex, a better world will emerge. When we forget about focusing our talents on securing resources for our offspring, we will be free and happy. If we follow the commands of our twitching groins, look for psychic stability in momentary pleasures and worship our chaotic impulses, then we’ll win lasting peace.

There will be civic minded corporations and fair business practices. Ethical treatment of animals. An exacting but fair moral standard of judging people by their behavior and not their identity or background. Robust institutions and safe, enduring communities. Trade and diplomacy. A universal code of conduct, a universal language.

Beethoven was black. So were Jesus and Shakespeare. You didn’t know that. All the great inventors and creators and builders were queer black muslims. Your white supremacist education has convinced you that the fathers of our modern world were white. They weren’t. Straight whites are responsible for domination and hatred but they take credit for all the civilizational contributions of desert nomads, mud-men and river-people.

Learn more about the other side of history from our accredited, radical gift shop scholars. And buy a ring or two while you’re here.

It’s paining men

Saturday morning. I have to be up early for work but I’m up even earlier. I wake up to write because I turn into a barnacle clinging to my couch after work, waiting for the sun to sink beneath the horizon so I can slip back to sleep.

My job saps me. The blur of transactions, the whir of thank you’s and what can we get for yous. People say they’re introverts or extroverts. Or introverted extroverts. Meaningless classifications for our rattling shells formerly known as personalities. Whatever you  call yourself, there are only so many pleasantries you can exchange in a day.

When I leave work I go home and sit in a musty recliner in a darkened room with my pants unbuttoned. My cat has been doing god knows what all day and wants affection. She sits on my lap and I shove her off. Domestic violence makes sense. You work all day, grinding your patience to the bone and then you come home and dependent  animals needle your eardrums with their plaintive whines.

No wonder men beat their wives, children and pets. Men with hard lots, grimy and dangerous jobs, working long, irregular hours in ice and fire. They come home and there’s more service, more requests and demands, toddlers tugging at your shit specked overalls. A house full of cats meowing, children crying and women nagging.

No wonder men slink off into dank bars and drink until their faces are fuzzy and the cold kernels in their chests warm up. We ask why people drink, why they smoke or inject or snort and swallow mood altering substances. Because our nerves are shattered. We need to sand and smooth the jagged edges of our awareness. If it’s not heroin then it’s 4 hours of the gauzy glow of tv.

The jutting pain of knowing you’ll work and die without understanding why. An unconscious rumbling, an abyss yawning beneath you. And yet our mundane suffering prepares us for salvation. Work drains us but without it we’d have no excuse for our misery.

A selfish life without obligations is its own hell. I’d rather work for others than obsess over my fantasies. I’ll try not to beat anyone.

A nation of licensed rental truck drivers

A drifting, disconnected white boomer sprayed bullets into a crowd in vegas. It was a post-ideological, absurdist massacre without pamphlets, manifestos or scriptural support. No one told him to kill. No one “radicalized” him. His life was radically individualistic and itinerant. But he used guns. So we need to pass laws against guns. And blame white men and their unhinged gun culture. Nothing could be more clear. It’s common sense and only a bible reading, gun toting bigot thinks otherwise.

We’re all sensibly living in quaking fear of white men and their twitchy trigger fingers and massive arsenals. We don’t go to movies or concerts. Or visit friends and relatives. We lock ourselves inside bullet proof bunkers and eat cans of beans in a state of terminal anxiety. Jimmy Kimmel cries and soaks his pants with piss thinking about the grim certainty of another shooting unless we do something right now, something sensible that we all agree on except for the NRA and its murder machine attendants. We just want to live a normal, fear free life again.

A scraggly, uzbecki interloper squashed cyclists in Manhattan with a deadly, common sense defying rental truck. He got out of his automatic assault vehicle and shouted allah ackbar and fired pellets and paint balls before an officer shot him in the stomach. Then he was taken to the hospital for surgery.

(Waiting for the black lives matter morons to protest the humane treatment of terrorists by the police. Why da black man git shot in da hed fo selling cigarettes wen da terrorist get a complimentary live saving surgery after driving ova pipo? Even da muslim get betta treatment den da black man.)

He left a note saying he killed in the name of isis, an Islamic death cult and global murder network. But let’s not rush to judgement. Don’t profile, stereotype or blame a group, religion or immigration policy for this random, naturally occurring act of carnage.

Don’t feel anger or give in to fear. This is a time for tweets, status updates and candlelit vigils. We won’t let this everyday atrocity change our way of life. Our values. We won’t politicize. There’s an increasing possibility of your skull cracking under a truck tire. But that’s the big city. Just one infinitesimal part of life in a blood drenched, hostility saturated, suspicion soaked, alienated multiculturalist paradise.

In the aftermath of another Islamic terrorist attack, liberals will gird their barren loins and defend their suicidal immigration policies. They’ll ask, do we want to live in a country that closes its doors to people from other cultures?   As if they’ve just tunneled to the core of the deepest, most difficult quandary and unearthed the ultimate chin scratching brain buster.

And after painful deliberation we’re supposed to say no. We won’t close our doors. No price in human life is too high. We want more cultural adulteration, more ethnic dilution, more disaffection and distrust. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, but what kills us is our greatest strength of all.

Let’s join the multiculturalists and think it through. Do we want to live in a country that closes its doors to people from other cultures? The answer is yes. A country is for some and not others, like everything worth preserving. What makes your house yours and not a hobo waystation is your right to shut and lock your doors and only let in who you want: friends, people you’ve vetted, people who aren’t likely to ram a railroad spike into your chest.

Not ever letting anyone into your home is niggardly and inhibitive. Letting everyone in is foolish and self-destructive. Erring on the side of caution without barricading yourself in your bathtub 24 hours a day is my policy. I’d almost call it common sense.

Look at a picture of Sayfullo Saipov. Say his name. Regardless of his capacity for religiously motivated, bone crunching bike path terror, who wants that here? What American sees a picture of that man and thinks, I wish half my neighborhood looked like that. For the sake of aesthetic consistency alone there’s good reason to shut our doors to Islamic uzbeckis.

What are uzbecki’s known to do well and why do we need them in America? Those are the questions I’d rather ponder. Our current attitude towards institutions, clubs and countries is that if there’s not enough of one kind of person, then there should be more. And if there’s too much of one kind of person, then there should be less, especially when it comes to majority white America, the most despicable and desirable place to live on earth.

There’s no consideration of merit, excellence or need. Why do we need Uzbecki’s in America? Because we don’t have them. That’s the argument. Because there are none, there must be some. The logic of the diversity imperative is watertight.

So let’s move to manhattan, get back on our bikes and invite a few more sullen steppe people into our country. We fear our natives and love our foreigners here. It’s the freshly fashioned American way.

Something to chew on

Reading cnn.com is like watching a school bus full of men buttfucking each other drive off a cliff in slow motion. It’s a nauseating and horrifying spectacle. When I read cnn and encounter the specious reasoning, mincing manners, the dull, leaden language, flatulent rhetoric and spiritless sermonizing of the artificially aggrieved, lisping, meaninglessly credentialed pack of dildos and butt plugs masquerading as reporters and editors, I brim with hate and my sack swells with indignation.

Mainstream journalism is a bloated corpse. A grotesque parody, a soul stunting, reality wrenching mockery of a profession. There’s no such thing as news, only the shrieks and yelps of the self castrating choir boys of a post human, imperialistic multiculturalism determined to destroy everything good, beautiful and true. There’s no objective perspective, no moderation in thought or expression, only the incantations of a queer cabal of nation wreckers and their zealous minions.

Cnn is breathlessly covering the Mueller investigation as if the rest of reality has been sucked into the void. They’re squinting to see their precious damning evidence in the bureaucratic bog of an investigation into a non-crime. The whole affair is a managerial wet dream, the ultimate revenge fantasy of boring, vindictive, busy body government lackeys and their media lickspittles. It’s an interminable search for proof that the American people didn’t reject Hillary Clinton and the globalist agenda of their own free will. They’ll do anything but accept responsibility for driving people away with their condescending coverage and freakish causes. It’s been almost a year since the election and they still refuse to accept the obvious.

They call themselves progressive but they’re stuck repeating the same senseless phrases and brazen lies as reality proves them wrong time and again. They glorify the individual and worship difference but they’re humorless, drab conformists in thought, speech and behavior. Their preferred lifestyle of atomized, rootless self creation, tech induced distraction and endless reinvention severs the social bonds that nurture and guide the development of personality. And their obsession with avoiding harm and enforcing fairness has a stultifying effect on expression and character.

The roots of their upstart tradition of subversion and disorder grew out of the enlightenment, which was at one point predicated on an appreciation of facts and scientific research. But the last thing a current year progressive wants to confront is a fact. They manipulate stats and surveys when it suits them, spew undigested chunks of reheated pseudo-science from their favorite children’s educational tv shows and dismiss genuine science and empirical inquiry as racist and sexist.

Cnn is mind numbingly biased against Trump, nationalism, populism and whites who don’t hate themselves. Their front page is stocked with flyweight articles written by middling scolds and pretentious airheads offering their deep thoughts on how white men are responsible for all the world’s suffering. When a cnn editor writes a cream puff article chastising Trump, he sounds like a scorned teenage girl talking about the ex boyfriend she loathes for leaving her. These are grown, adult men who use the sarcastic and snarky language of spoiled, petulant valley girls. It’s embarrassing.

We live in a time when institutions, professions and individuals lumber and lurch about, undead, rotting and unaware they’re no longer relevant or necessary. In my more optimistic moments I can see the withering of mainstream media organs, the collapse of degenerate, predatory, pedophilic Hollywood, the defunding of the radical academic asylum complex and the excising of the parasitic, malignant, tumorous bureaucracy in Washington. And I begin to believe in a better future for us all.

Until then the circus rolls on.

Lamentations of the biblical variety

I work in a nice coffee shop. Downtown in a Midwestern metropolis, in an historic, renovated building. People come here to buy six dollar lattes with house made syrups. Our milk comes from grass fed cows half an hour outside the city. We also have house made cashew milk for those who don’t want dairy.

I greet customers and guide them to a high quality drink and croissant. People are happy when they get here. They glow when they look at the pastry case. Their eyes sparkle when they watch me pour a rosetta on their lattes. They sit for hours on their laptops and schedule meetings to discuss numbers and charts or yoga and astrology.

The work is hard but it’s not spine snapping. I burn myself but the likelihood of being crushed, stabbed or shot is low. I’m on my feet all day but I’m not going to be buried in a mineshaft or get sucked into a giant fan or slide off an icy deck and fall into the frigid depths.

My job pays better than any other service industry job I’ve ever had. It pays better than my jobs in Washington DC, where you pay a thousand dollars a month to rent a crevice on the northeast side of the Potomac river. My job pays more than any other coffee shop job in the state. It’s still nothing.

I’m poor. My parents are middle class. Their parents were middle class. Their grandparents lived through the depression and clawed their way into the middle class. My genetic line in the 20th century was an upward arc of increasing wealth, comfort and security. And then I came along.

My parents can give me a hundred dollars every now and then. They can take me back into their home if I lose my job or get evicted. But they can’t help me buy a house or a car. They can’t get me out of debt. I owe thousands of dollars to doctors, hospitals and utility companies. I have multiple parking tickets and late fees haunting me like the ghost of a man I murdered in a distant past. I’m 31 and I drive a car I don’t own and live in a groaning nightmare of a house I rent from two people even less organized and competent than me.

My life isn’t mine. I’m a serf, a ragged peasant, an indentured servant. An irish immigrant. The rattling husk of my former self. A hunchback in a bell tower. I work in an upscale café where well-to-do types luxuriate in comfortable settings and enjoy fine coffee products. I’m pleasant and helpful, I make drinks and wash dishes. And then I return to my slave shack stained with cat piss and roach guts where I cook meatballs, pet my cat until I fall into a shallow sleep and wake up at ungodly hours and tremble in fear at my looming death.

My landlord and her revolving cast of ex husbands still haven’t fixed the furnace. It’s getting colder. I have a space heater raging at full power all day and night. The bedroom is warm, the living room is cool and the kitchen is frosty. The bathroom in the back of the house is uninhabitable. Only a navy seal could shit or shower in there. My ass aches from the blistering cold of the toilet seat.

I don’t ask for much. But for god’s sake give me a room temperature toilet, a place I can park my ass for a few minutes and forget my cares. A man wasn’t born to shiver while he shits.