Angels I have heard while high

Alone on Christmas Morning in the Capital of the World. Families gather to eat whole hams and watch stupefying repeats of holiday classics. They exchange gifts and remember how to love. They also argue and endure soul flaying boredom.

There are two sides to the holiday season. One side is about love, family, closeness, kindness, and reunion. People coming back together to celebrate goodness and the positive potential of humanity. The other side is about crass consumerism, isolation, and hatred of blood bonds.

The tasteless, obvious critique of consumer culture and capitalism. Tone deaf denunciation of rural bigotry. Cheap, stunted, played out mockery of Christianity. Half wits straining themselves to say something naughty about jesus. We’re staging a nativity play about gay, black jesus coming into the world through the portal of Mother Mary’s anus. 

Scrolling through instagram while your sibling open their presents. Tweeting while your frail grandmother recounts an ancient episode of her life. Bringing the all encompassing distraction of your alienated, dispersed existence back home with you. I can’t wait to get back into the city where anonymous relations reign. Cash for time, an hour in a bar for sex. Everything is contractual. If you don’t like it you can renegotiate or leave.

You can quite your job. Break up with your girlfriend. Move from place to place. Try out different religions and pick up new hobbies. Change your entire cast of friends. Keep swimming in the current of the new.

But you can’t change your family. You can’t carve out a different genetic sequence that forever links you to them. The people who brought you into the world will always be those people. The place you were born will always be that place. Even though you’re meditating in a mountain hut in Bhutan, you’re still from Peoria, Illinois.

As you troll for casual sex on the streets of Tokyo, your mother worries about your safety and health. She wonders when you’re going to carry her genes on into the future. Sorry mom, I need to flood the back alleys with my wayward sperm. Having children and replicating the family structure that provided me with love and security would be oppressive.

This isolation and ennui is freedom. This angst and alienation is healthy. Loving your family, religion, and nationality is sick. If you love your parents and your homeland, it’s only a matter of time before you’re loading jews onto cattle cars. Barren buttfucking and vegan diets will bring about a communist utopia. Mixing genetic material with someone you love and trust to form new life will destroy the earth.

I have nothing to do for the next three days except think, read and write. Here’s to hoping that I make good use of my free time. Learning and reflecting rather than moping and masturbating.

Maybe it’s time to study a subject other than myself. Maybe it’s time to think of someone else’s needs rather than my own.

For now, it’s time to bake some chicken thighs in the sweet solitude of a sequestered Christmas.

An experimental work, modern, difficult

http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-frankfurt-school-knew-trump-was-coming

The Frankfurt School knew Trump was coming:

Of course they did. 

“Adorno believed that the greatest danger to American democracy lay in the mass-culture apparatus of film, radio, and television. Indeed, in his view, this apparatus operates in dictatorial fashion even when no dictatorship is in place: it enforces conformity, quiets dissent, mutes thought. Nazi Germany was merely the most extreme case of a late-capitalist condition in which people surrender real intellectual freedom in favor of a sham paradise of personal liberation and comfort.”

Adorno hated the mass culture apparatus because he was a snob. Why would he have given a genuine goddamn about American democracy? He wasn’t afraid of conformity and oppression, he was disturbed by large scale enjoyment. 

The Adorno’s of the world have a serious problem and preoccupation with dumb people having a good time. The ignorant masses  should be consuming art made by subversive jews that hate them. Anyone who doesn’t gravitate towards art that makes them feel bad is a dupe of the system. 

It was the malevolent culture industry that prevented people from listening to Arnold Schoenburg. It wasn’t that Schoenburg composed horrifically ugly, dispiriting music. Atonal music corresponds to nothing beautiful in the human soul. It necessarily appeals to a small group of arrogant critics and artists  who don’t listen to it for pleasure, but use it to increase their status. 

I love the phrase late-capitalist too. You know you’re dealing with a degenerate marxist hack when you start hearing that one. What the fuck does it mean? Late capitalism, as in you were once again dead wrong about the end of capitalism and now you have to act as though it’s really, this time, you mean it, almost over? 

Excuse me sir, I couldn’t help but notice that you are living in a home you have purchased with the wages you earn in exchange for your labor. This home is heated and air conditioned and has a refrigerator, stove, dishwasher and a washing machine. You can have light whenever you want it thanks to the electricity. There’s plumbing and hot water. With your free time you listen to popular records and go to the movies to relax and enjoy major studio backed feature films. Were you aware, good sir, that what no doubt appears to you as comfort and personal liberation is in fact a sham paradise?

Wouldn’t you be far happier with real intellectual freedom? No, you wouldn’t be able to talk about race. Also you would have to be careful with what you say about gender. And class. And a bunch of other categories we’re going to invent. No, you will not be able to question equality or emancipation. Yes, your standard of living will go right down the toilet you won’t have, you’ll be shitting in a hole at the edge of the woods. 

We’ve prepared the script of real intellectual freedom for you, so you’ll just read from that. And we’ve gone ahead and decided how much money and food you need. We get human need, unlike you yokels and yuppies who get caught up in greed and false desires. We know what you and everyone else needs. You have too much and it’s time to give back. 

Read this petrified turd of Adorno’s:

“Lies have long legs: they are ahead of their time. The conversion of all questions of truth into questions of power, a process that truth itself cannot escape if it is not to be annihilated by power, not only suppresses truth as in earlier despotic orders, but has attacked the very heart of the distinction between true and false, which the hirelings of logic were in any case diligently working to abolish. So Hitler, of whom no one can say whether he died or escaped, survives.

How can anyone take that seriously? It’s like a shit log that coils around itself. When people write like this, it’s because they either don’t have a point at all, or their point is so shamefully weak that they have to hide it. 

That paragraph is the literary, intellectual equivalent of a penis rapidly going limp. It’s a pinched, helium fueled fart with one cheek lifted off the seat. In the thicket of gnarly verbiage the only thing I can make out is that nowadays, we don’t even care about the difference between true and false because….Hitler. 

The article has one point to make. You know the drill. Popular culture set the stage for the Trump presidency. The masses were conditioned to choose a charming demagogue as their leader. If only more people had listened to Schoenburg and gazed at toilets as if they were works of genius, we’d have elected Hillary and the progressive future would have marched on. 

 

I think, therefore I’m annoying

I can’t write about ideas anymore. My voice becomes stiff and artificial. All the jargon, the complicated syntax, the dense references. Sentences stretching on and on. I wanted to write about living in a simulated reality, because I think it’s a stale bong rip of an idea promoted by detached fart huffing nerds, but after one paragraph I started to hate myself. I’m going for it anyway.

Simulation presupposes reality. A simulation is built into a prepositional structure. By this I mean that a simulation is always of something and for someone. You take away the reality of what is simulated and the reality of the act of simulating for someone or something and you lose simulation itself. I hope that makes sense. I despise not being clear and the frustration of trying to do this right now makes me want to punch a migrant.

It’s the same with consciousness. Sometimes people crawl so far up their own assholes that they think that consciousness is an illusion. What if maaaan….

But illusions presuppose consciousness. There can only be an illusion for a conscious agent in an act of perception. It make no sense to say that not only is a perceived object or experience an illusion, but the awareness of the experience is also an illusion. How can my consciousness of an illusion also be an illusion? To whom or to what is this illusion appearing? Another illusion? Not only am I not seeing things as they are, I’m not even seeing?

Consciousness can’t be an illusion. If I’m thinking that there is no such thing as thought, I’m still thinking. The very act of negating thought affirms its reality. This is basic Descartes, people.

After all, it must be true that my experience isn’t real and that my consciousness is an illusion. But that truth is only given to me through my consciousness. How could something false and unreal access the truth? An illusion recognizing itself as an illusion is also an illusion? I can imagine something that isn’t the case but I can’t imagine the very fact of my imagining.

I don’t think this has been helpful or enjoyable. My stomach is churning and I’ve had too much coffee. I’m irritable and don’t think I made whatever point I set out to make. How do people write about these things for a living? They must be smarter and have more patience.

I’m too dumb for this kind of talk nowadays.

The work is never done

Back in DC, and the home is a dumpster. My room is in disarray. The kitchen is a cock roach free for all. Goddamn dirty dishes piled up in the sink, encrusted with lentil paste and cheese.  Bowls of beans and pots with rubbery noodle remains stuck to the bottom. Two people in the house baking on a daily basis. Trays, pans, mixing bowls caked with vegan pastry sludge; batter everywhere. If you do the dishes when you make the food, you never reach this stage of decay.

But that would be too simple. It would require too much consistency. I avoid small task until they become daunting trials. No showers unless I smell like a damp orangutan. Rather than buy healthful food and consistently cook it, I eat burgers and pizza until my insides are lined with grease and tar. Then I go to the supermarket and buy 10,000 dollars worth of perishable, organic food.

The food rots. The leftovers sit in the fridge and mutate. I have nightmares about what’s happening in those tupperware bins. Still I put off the day of reckoning. When I finally pull that lid off the container, astral demons will rush out and drag my soul into a sadomasochistic netherworld.

Someone turned off the slow cooker with my bone broth. I was cooking it for days to extract the sweet nutritious nectar from the chicken bones.

But all I have now is a tepid pool of orgiastic bacteria. First order of business is getting rid of my failed, mistreated broth and cleaning the rest of the kitchen. Then I need to clean my room and do laundry. These are all easy things to do if you have the habit of doing them regularly. I don’t.

Part 2

Quarter of a hash muffin. Chewed it up and swallowed it without much thought. Right after breakfast, eggs, bacon tips, and a salad. Looking forward to massive cleaning project and possible work meeting. Walking to get cleaning supplies and the hash muffin kicks in like a gorilla roundhouse to the temple.

It’s that kind of high that compresses your skull and lays anchors on your eyelids.

I had to sit down and stare at the white wall in front of me. I had to lay down under the covers and watch the dusty afternoon light pool into my room.

Still I washed the dishes and threw away my spoiled soups and bacteria broths. I skipped out on the work meeting, but it’s for a supplemental job I’m not keeping anyway. That hash muffin hit me like a sucker punch from sasquatch, but it failed to knock me out.

At least you have options in this world

Imagine that you’re anything other than a straight white man. Then imagine yourself as lacking talent, intelligence, a sense of humor, and basic civility. Go a bit farther and suppose that your desire for attention is insatiable even though you’re witless and slothful. Your brain stews in a broth of resentment and inadequacy.

Genuine achievement is off the table. You’re not contributing to a scientific or artistic field. You don’t charm or intrigue people because you’re devoid of charisma. But there’s still that gnawing need for recognition and approval, that subterranean lust for love and acceptance. Years of incompetence and self hatred have led you to seek pity from others. If I can’t win their respect,  at least I can force their pity. 

What is such a miserable creature to do? Grow up and accept that the world owes you nothing? Get to work and develop a craft or skill? Do you study persuasion and learn how to be more charismatic?

Well, that takes effort and time. The outcome is uncertain. Maybe in the deepest recess of your corroded heart you know you don’t have what it takes.

Like water running downhill, you take the path of least resistance. You weave a delicate tapestry of identity around the empty core of your character. As a queer, gender fluid muslim non binary practicing antifascist antiracist, I think that…..

Since you won’t be winning anyone’s genuine affection or admiration, you need contrived controversy. The heteronormative hate machine steamrolls your dreams and desires. Bigots gather outside your humble hovel and blast your front door with diarrhea medleys.

You went to the local bakery and they made you a hate cake. Upon opening the box you discover a giant frosted dick and the message, “Take that faggot” written in the icing below.

Your eyes see swastikas everywhere. White supremacists call you a nigger while you walk down the street. Things are going to change, boy. We’re in charge now and we’re bringing back the rope and the whip. 

Finally, they use force. You’re cornered by a mob of trumpen proletariates. They beat you with their white supremacist boners and no one comes to help. The secret, silent fascists emerged from their dank hideaways to kickstart their curb stomping campaign. They’ve been waiting for you to let your guard down. They’ve been waiting for a great white leader like Trump to empower them.

To make matters worse, the EMT’s that arrive on the scene are neo nazis. They refuse to treat you because you’re…not like them. They leave your broken, gender fluid body to decompose in a dumpster.

Never mind the fact that none of this happened. No one smeared your aluminum siding with nazi poop. And no one gay bashed you with a cock cake. Furthermore, you weren’t beaten in an alley and ignored by racist, sexist medical technicians. It was all fabricated while you sat alone in your room.

But for a brief, glimmering moment, you became the center of attention. Not because of what you’ve done, but rather because of what people think you’ve endured. Suffering, cruelty, oppression, a tidal wave of excrement. In the the tornado of your fevered lies, people see a figure deserving of compassion and pity. They post and repost your fake plight on their facebook feeds.

As a result of your creative storytelling, people come together to fight fascism. Now you’re an example, now you matter, and you didn’t even have to do anything. All those years of sloth and regret melt away in a radioactive surge of communal support.

What you feel crushes what is true. And who you are drowns out what you do. It’s a great time to speak without thinking, to take the road frequently travelled. You’ll be in the excellent company of rejects, liars and whiners.

There’s more to history than Hitler

We need to get creative with our slanderous comparisons. This guy’s Hitler, that guy’s Hitler, we’re all Hitler. Let’s branch out. We have a rich history of bloodthirsty, genocidal maniacs, and it would be a shame if we neglected it.

You never hear people comparing each other to Mao or Stalin. Why? They were communists. We are taught from an early age that hating someone because of their race or gender or sexual orientation is wrong, but class is a different story. Rich people are loathsome, and it’s righteous to hate them.

The rich should not only be hated, they should be liquidated. Purged from society. Ripped from their mansions in the dead hours of the night. Taken to desolate fields and shot, their ill gotten wealth redistributed to the people. Well, redistributed to the party that represents the people. There is always a party that organizes torture, murder, and theft with the best of intentions for the sake of society as a whole.

Hitler murdered people because of who they were, and that’s wrong. Leftists murder people because of what they have, and that’s justice. Denounce and destroy the racists, motivate and empower the envious. Put your foot on the gas of progress and crush anyone who appears to have a better life than you.

Mao was responsible for the deaths of somewhere around 60 million people. Joseph Stalin clocks in around 40 million. But when someone babbles about wealth disparity, no one says, “You’re starting to sound a lot like Mao over here.” No one says, “You’ve been on a real Stalin streak lately.”

And those are only the two most obvious examples of mass murdering evil. After Hitler you have King Leopold of Belgium and his rape of the Congo. You would think that people would love this one, as he’s a white European that enslaved Africans, but even he gets overlooked. No one thinks of Belgium as an epicenter of evil.

Up next is Tojo of imperial Japan with 5 million deaths to his credit. Not bad for a military officer.

Ismail Enver Pasha led the military dictatorship in Ottoman Turkey that murdered 2 million Armenians, Greeks, and Assyrians, and I’ve not once heard anyone say, “this guy reminds me of Pasha.”

Right on Pasha’s genocidal heels is Pol Pot. This stalwart champion of the people killed almost 2 million of his political opponents. Rounding out the starting lineup of maniacal murderers is Kim Ilsung, the zany leader of North Korea from 1948-94. I’ll give an honorable mention to Ethiopian dictator Mariam. From 1974-1978 he fronted a communist military dictatorship that snuffed out 1.5 million people.

Oh what the hell. How about Yakuba Gowon, the Nigerian Military Dictator that killed one million people? Many of them were soldiers killed in civil war, but a good portion were starved civilians. And don’t forget Jean Kambanda, the tribal dictator of Rawanda. He has 800,000 Tutsi deaths under his belt.

Reaching farther back into history, we have murderous luminaries like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun. You don’t hear much about them these days. I suspect it’s because there is no relevant ideological background to their savagery. No one knows much about the policy positions of Mongolian warlords. No one knows how to tie their modern enemies to nomadic warriors that drank goat milk out of human skulls.

We usually associate genocide and ethnic cleansing with the modern world. But ancient history is full of warring empires and ethnicities that brutally tried to wipe each other out. Completely. It wasn’t just professional standing armies stabbing each other in open fields. Cities burned and women and children were killed.

Think about the conflict between Rome and Carthage. During the third Punic War, the Roman army, headed by Scipio, sacked the city of Carthage. Roman soldiers went from house to house murdering everyone. They torched the city and let it burn for ten days. After barbecuing an entire city for over a week, the soldiers dismantled every building brick by brick. That’s fucking serious.

We associate Romans with decadence and indulgence, but we shouldn’t forget that Romans were savage. They didn’t fuck around with murdering and enslaving people. They went in hard.

It’s time to broaden our horizons. Let’s not forget all the black, brown, and yellow mass murderers and madmen of history. Let’s reach farther back than 1942 for our career ending comparisons.

In the spirit of diversity and pluralism, of course.

The crying game

Life is complicated. I like to be friendly and peaceable, and I shrink from doing harm to others. I don’t go out of my way to make people feel bad. If most of the people that know me ever read what I write, they’d be shocked and horrified. I’m soft spoken and congenial. Every now and then I let a cutting remark slip, but I’ll be careful not to say anything too offensive or controversial. The most insulting comments I make tend to be about myself.

I often disagree with other people’s opinions, but I don’t think it’s worthwhile to voice that disagreement. People don’t react well to being contradicted or challenged. It’s just easier to keep the conversation moving towards a more agreeable topic than stand your ground and make people uncomfortable for no constructive purpose.

But the way people are reacting to the election is pushing me in a different direction. I can only take so much of adults acting like children. Shamelessly announcing how much they’ve cried, displaying their weakness and cowardice to the world like it’s broad chested virtue.

I have friends I’ve known for years, old friends, guys who used to be hilarious sons of bitches, talk about how scared they are, how they’ve cried, how they’re angry and offended and shocked and disgusted and appalled. Over and over again with the fear. They’re making such an elaborate, contrived show of their goddamn fear. It’s so fucking scary, it’s a horror show, a fucking election with voting and a peaceful transfer of power.

Grown ass men are bawling and blubbering like babies with shit in their diapers and neglected ass rashes. Like their pacifiers have been ripped from their teething gums. Like their mothers didn’t put a cookie in their sack lunches.

What’s even more amusing is how they pivot from being dickless, sobbing bitch boys to acting hard. With snot still streaming down their faces they offer their limp wristed support to everyone who isn’t a straight white man. You know, those swaths of the population headed directly for gas chambers, ovens, and firing squads. The straight white men are going to barbecue minorities. Only a coalition of micro penises, paraplegics and trannies can stop them.

There are segments of the left that careen wildly from complete pussy to trash talking tough guy. “I’ll stand up to the fascists, I’m so afraid but I’ll fight the sexists, racists, homophobes, transphobes, islamophobes, I’ll crack their skulls.” Sure you will.

I still don’t want to go out of my way to provoke or upset people. But I’m finding it increasingly difficult to pretend that I’m here to comfort the afflicted. I don’t know how much longer I can act like all the public wailing, the morose, dramatic and histrionic behavior isn’t embarrassing and unfit for mature adults.

Something has happened to the general level of maturity in the world. This is partially coming out of my ass because I’ve lived in no other time, but jesus christ we have to be on a steep decline here. This isn’t even about politics. It’s not about what you believe or what you want for this country. It’s about not acting like a fucking six year old and composing yourself with dignity in public.

I’m working the register at a coffee shop and I’m giving people the usual pleasantries: “How’s it going?” And they respond like you just shot their dog. They shit all over our interaction for no real reason. You’re at a boutique, specialty third wave coffee shop, you’re getting a tasty cup of energy juice and a dense, sugary pastry that we will heat up for you on request.

From there you’re going to your make believe job as a consultant or art director or analyst, fueled by top of the line coffee and baked goods. But you need to stand in front of me and choke back tears to order your soy latte?

Trump and Pence aren’t coming to bulldoze your bathhouses or knock down your glory hole stalls. And I’m not here to assuage your fear, soothe your anxiety, or change your diaper.

Here’s how it’s going to go down

Straight, white men of America have been waiting for this moment. We’ve thought, we’ve planned, we’ve deliberated in the shadows, and now it’s time to speak out, to act. The days of remaining silent in the face of degeneration, diversity and perversity are over.

My heart is a cornucopia of phobia, hatred, and prejudice. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t make coffee, I don’t stretch, I don’t meditate. I think about the homos spreading disease one scabrous butthole at a time. I think about the trannies tricking honest men in bug infested motel rooms. Dumpsters brimming with murdered infants, waves of terrorists crashing upon the shores of a formerly glorious nation.

Black vagrants squirting their seed indiscriminately in the always open cunts of insatiable ghetto queens. Generations adrift, no fathers, no education, no guidance in life. Learning nothing but how to steal, how to shoot, how to sink deeper into squalor and ignorance.

Porous borders. Sacks of scum from Mexico staining the sandy expanse of the southwest. The poor and religious mud people living on streets lined with their own feces reproducing at an exponential rate. Beautiful white women with healthy genes hacking away at their own wombs, popping hormone pills, bloated, confused, fucking for sterility’s sake.

White birthrates plummeting. Brown birthrates skyrocketing. A shit tsunami gaining size and speed every day. Demographic disaster looming on the horizon.

Hatred and fear are my stimulants, my spurs to action. My fellow white men are the same. Hatred has always been our motivation. We love to control and kill. We understand our interest, and it’s crushing the weak, the infirm, the aids ridden other. Enslaving and degrading whole populations gets us rock hard and ready to sire the next generation of pristine white tyrants.

We let the blacks, the women, the gays, the muslims and the mexicans have their time. Hope you enjoyed it, because we’re bending that historical arc back towards true white supremacy.

Black men and women will be put back on plantations. The big strong black men will do all the backbreaking heavy toil, and the women will scrub toilets and make pancakes with delicious maple syrup. Gifted blacks will sing and dance for our entertainment.

Most of the gays will be fed into wood chippers, but a few will be allowed to design the interiors of our homes.

Every mexican will get a one way ticket to mexico. Muslims will be left to die in the desert. We will import tacos, burritos, and shawarma. White women will not commit the crime of miscegenation. They will bear beautiful, healthy white children by responsible, productive white men.

We will drop the cripples and ailing into the ocean. We will drop bombs on Saudia Arabia and Iraq. We’ll go hunting and drinking with Putin. There will be much laughter as everyone who isn’t a straight, white male lives a live of degradation.

All of this will come to pass because Donald Trump is now our president. He ran on a clear, obvious platform of White Power. Trump is merely the spearhead of a longstanding plot. He’s the crowning of a new era, a throwback to better days when blacks couldn’t eat at our restaurants or go to our schools. When women couldn’t vote, when the massacre of indians and mexicans was celebrated and encouraged.

It’s about goddamn time.

I’d wear a toga if I had one

Left another job in the dust. Going to be working at a new shop close to home. Walking every day, no bus, no metro, no uber, just my legs carrying me to toil away.

I’m trying to tighten up the radius of my life. Life in the city is complicated and stressful, and I want to simplify. Walk whenever possible. Cook chili’s, stews and soups. Keep workouts quick and efficient. Compound movements and bodyweight exercises. I might cancel my gym membership.

I love the idea of learning Muay Thai, but I need individual instruction. It’s a waste of time and money to take a class with 20 other variously experienced and skilled chubs and chumps. One instructor giving barely audible commands while you punch and kick an out of shape 22 year old doesn’t translate into solid martial arts skills.

So the Muay Thai has to go, at least for now. It’s also too far away, and puts me back on a bus during rush hour.

My life is boring on the surface right now, but I’m feeling okay. Trying to get back into the habit of writing every day. I’ll be funny and interesting again soon, I promise.

I don’t have thoughts right now that aren’t really strained and contrived, but I have been chewing on this little bit: I want to walk the middle path between constant striving and improvement and total sloth and despair. Sometimes it seems as though those are the only two options.

If you aren’t ceaselessly active and creative and competing, you are a sliding and sinking into a pit of larded sadness, a wastrel and wallower. More girls, more money, more muscles, more achievements, more hobbies and habits, right?

The only alternative to this rabid expansion is stupor and torpor, passive and listless drifting, masturbation marathons and Chinese food. Walking around in mustard stained wife beaters and pizza sauced sweat pants, smelling like a damp hamper and talking like a punch drunk boxer after 10 shots of barrel bottom whisky.

If you aren’t traveling the world, learning new languages, banging new girls, updating your style and upgrading your lifestyle, networking, working out, fighting feminists, fighting leftists, globalists, juicing, on the juice, reading six books at once, then what are you?

There has to be a way of life that is prudent, active but not restless and voracious, contemplative but not complacent. Old school stoicism or epicureanism is what I’m thinking here, with a modern, decadent twist of course. You tend to your garden, cultivate friendships, learning, and health without being compulsive.

More and more I love paring away, cutting out the excess and focusing on the core of what’s important. Not that I know exactly what that is, but I intend to get closer to it.

Not our president

10 years ago Donald Trump said he could grab women by the pussy. He said that when you’re rich and famous, women will let you walk right up and kiss them. America’s delicate sensibility was irreversibly traumatized.

America elected and then reelected a serial sexual predator, a man caught lying about getting his dick sucked by an intern while he was in office.

American movies and music are brimming with sexually explicit scenes, images, sounds and references. If you suggest that this is toxic and corrosive, you’re dismissed as a prude, if not a tyrant imposing his morality on others.

Comedians, male and female alike, rise to fame on the strength of jokes about masturbating. Every other ‘funny’ thing someone says on tv is about a dick, pussy, or fucking.

Pornography floods almost every home in America. People check out of their lives and jack off to degrading, contrived behavior filmed by opportunistic reprobates. Teenage girls shave their pussies and boys think that a fitting end to a selfish, one sided sex act is spewing semen on a girl’s face.

I’m not even trying to come up with examples. I’m not reading deeply into the fabric of the country’s moral fiber. This is all obvious, open, admitted, taken for granted.

It’s amusing how we immediately adopt a regressive, victorian attitude towards women, like they’re defenseless, innocent creatures. Like women don’t disgusting things about men when talking amongst themselves. I goddamn guarantee you plenty of women have said things like, “you can just grab them by the dick” in crass good humor.

It’s always about what men do to women. Men are always responsible. What’s glossed over is the role of female choice. No one talks about the fact that women like it when powerful men are sexually bold and aggressive. Trump can act on his impulses in the company of beautiful women because this is what beautiful women prefer.

Ugly, barren, portly, sexually confused women with various eating disorders and mental problems don’t like it when powerful, rich men give beautiful young women what they want. Weak, effeminate, struggling, socially inadequate men don’t like it either. It’s too natural and healthy for their perverse, botched constitutions.

I’m reaching my main point here. For women, words and actions are always secondary to identity. Who you are determines what you are allowed to do. If you’re on the right team, all is permitted, all can be justified.

Women don’t like sexually aggressive men, unless they’re handsome, rich, or famous. The public is morally outraged when a successful man talks about his sex life in private. The same public cheers and celebrates a dumpy, dour feminist when she talks about her exploits.

You give women the vote, you take them too seriously and everything turns into a matter of identity. It’s okay to be a racist, sexist piece of trash if you’re a member of the protected minority class.

Otherwise, nothing you do is acceptable. They will find some way to make what you do “problematic”. There is no morality or consistency, only the most convenient tool at the time for bashing the enemy.