The Confession of a Professional Writer


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I am a professional writer.  It’s my job.  I work hard, every single day.  Now some of you might write this off–see it as a pipe dream or some pompous laziness that allows me to sit around and do nothing every day of my life.  And I get it–you have difficult jobs.  You work yourselves to death.  Fun is fleeting and often all you can do is come home exhausted, complaining about the incompetence of those intolerable people you are forced to work alongside.  I get it–I really do!  After all, I was once a high school teacher.


Now some of you might even dismiss this, but I suggest that your arrogance is misspent.  My father is (was?) a very successful “businessman,” one of those sharks who dove into the pond to devour everything in the name of personal profit and wealth.  He was good at this.  He is charming.  My father is a very smart man, fully aware of what people want to hear and how to sell them the product they wish for.  And my father, when I was teaching, laughed at this presumption of ease, those nine weeks off in the summer when reality offered a brief moment of decompression (usually diminished by the need to get a summer job in order to kept my finances afloat).  My father believed (and still believes to this day), that his job of talking to people on the phone, schmoozing, often humiliating himself under the strain of arrogant VPs in charge of something, and taking clients out to expensive cocktail lunches is far more difficult than the numbing frustration of forcing yourself upon a classroom filled with indifferent teenage children, under the guidance of utterly incompetent administrators, and parents whose view of education was always “my child is the only one you should be paying attention to.”


Teaching is a terrible job.  You are underpaid, hardly respected, and blamed for everything that goes wrong in the future.  And of course there are terrible teachers, those selfish fuck-ups with no other options in life, who got a cheap certification degree and slime their way into a meaningless classroom, teaching students things they do not truly understand.  I was actually pretty good at my job, although I let the little bastards get away with everything.  I did not care about the swearing, about the disrespect they often showed me.  I did not care.  I laughed it off.  I made it valid as classroom discussion.  I was easily distracted.  I kept on thinking about my then future professional writing projects while giving tests on whatever subject we raced through, scribbling stories in a notebook, not even interested whether the children were cheating.


I had favorite students throughout my years (Anthony, whom I am vaguely friends with on Facebook–Anthony, no matter where your life is now, you were unquestionably one of them–the second best writer I ever had as a student in class.  The one I plant at number one–a kid from a brief AP class I was lucky enough to teach, was and probably is much smarter than I am, and every bit the arrogant asshole you imagine a sixteen year old like this to be.  He was a brilliant writer.  I do not even remember his name.)


I also had students I loathed.  Do not mistake teachers as fair-minded diplomats, enduring the wise and the sick with a mutual lack of prejudice.  Some of those kids I could not stand.  They were the assholes you and I experience far after they outgrow their protective childhood.  They were assholes then.  Why would you think they would grow to become anything otherwise?


Do you know what sort of cheap power a teacher has?  Regardless of your school district or the social atmosphere you are forced to endure (I was a big east coast city school teacher in a school filled with pretend gangsters and wannabe toughs, alongside the genuine people simply looking for a way to survive into the future), a teacher has a certain cruel power over their students.  For the ones that we like, regardless of their sometimes laziness or their rudeness in never doing homework, you can transform your usual ‘behavior’ grade, worth a minimum, into the second most important thing, rising your pet from an earned ‘C’ to a solid ‘B.’


In the same way you can take some intolerable motherfucker, some kid who manages somehow to scrape by, and change a grade on a test, diminish the value of their assignments, and fuck up that kid’s future by make an earned C+ into a D-.  I know I did this, on both ends, and I have no regrets.  I also know that I am far from the worst contributor to this corrupt practice of angry and helpless teachers, exerting whatever limited power they have over children, most of whom are only seeking a form of guidance and structure.


But teaching, for me, is in the past (my wife not only started teaching before me, but continues to do it.  She is a saint, an angel in her career.  She is the best teacher I have ever known, and I say this less out of the bias I feel for my one true love, but because I have watched her in action and have been wowed.  Fuck.  I wish so hard that I had had a teacher who cared as much as she does.)  Today . . . today, all I do is write.  Now you can easily dismiss me if all you have done is occasionally read these pieces, often indifferent to whatever stupid shit I have to say.  Sometimes I look back on my subjects and wonder what the fuck I was thinking (I was likely very drunk when I wrote those, a chatty, still modestly eloquent drunk, showing off my idea of rhythm and often making a fool of myself).


The truth is, I actually make a living writing  (not actually this–I make something like twenty dollars a week on this blog, and another fifty or so on another site.)  No.  No no no.  I have somehow managed to turn this play into a career, being fortunate enough to know a handful of famous, very successful people, one of whom has engaged me to tell their life story.  The story is a good one too, the type of narrative that allows a self-absorbed asshole like me to diminish my own obsessions and in whatever literary manner impose this upon their existence.  I promoted this to my subject with “I want to win a Pulitzer Prize.”  Now regardless of the fact that this is presently an implausible dream (and one that ultimately means very little outside of personal pride and a drastic increase in sales), it was the proper way to pitch the project.  And I believe in it.  My subject believes in it.  There is no actual reason that this might not be a reality.  The story is fascinating enough.  I tell myself I am a fine enough storyteller, and have convinced my subject to believe this too.


I have written in nearly every genre style you can think of.  I have been a poet (I’ve even won prizes for this, regardless of my gutter contempt for the specific form.)  I write history (a book in the works.)  I have written lots of fiction, short and long.  I write essays almost every  day.  I’ve written and sold screenplays and teleplays.  I write crime.  I write horror.  I have even considered working on a satire of high romance.  I can write pornography.  Tragic drama.  Supernatural thrillers.  Spy shit.  Everything.  Anything.  I have never suffered writer’s block, something which means nothing to me with so many different angles to explore.


This is only a brief confessional, something of an update on my personal life and my dedicated work ethic.  My father and plenty of others think that this is somehow joy, an easy career.  Being a writer, most people believe, is a dream job.  For me (and I can never speak for another pursuing the same career), it is an exhausting form of psychological torture, venting every harsh and tragic thought that comes into my head, and coming to learn some bleak truths about myself.  Why don’t you try this sometimes, looking past your hopes and dreams. and the definitions you use to explain yourself to others and to yourself.  Probe deep, consider your failings, and then explore them deeper and deeper until it has been manifested into a sort of temporal demon.  Because this is what I do.  I raise my own hell.  There is never a break, never time to sit quietly and live a peaceful life.  I have been with my family on Christmas morning, and a dark idea entered my head and I’ve had to excuse myself to sit here in front of the computer for hours and hours on end.  There is no break to this life.  I am always working.  Always.


No matter how hard your life might be, how difficult your job and how frustrating your home, please do not dismiss those of us who have forced ourselves, rather desperately and pathetically, to pursue our dreams.  It is hard work.  It can be overwhelming.  If you think back on how many artists have destroyed themselves, either professionally or through the extreme end of suicide, perhaps this will make a little more sense.  We can blame mental illness, define it in the vaguely meaningful terms of depression, but all it is is being overwhelmed.  There are visions.  There are definitely voices.  There is every term of so-called insanity.  And the moment that we stop listening to those images, those ideas, those cracked open eggs splattered all over our view of life, that is when there is no more left for us–for any of us.  I offer this commentary to those outside of the pretentious spectrum I and we and everybody else imagine themselves within.  I offer this suggestion to life as we know it.  I know that hardly anyone will hear me and that just about nobody will listen.  But the only thing I can do is offer my confession and then move on.  After all, I have much more important work to do.


Awoken: An American Fairy Tale


Once upon a time people knew what was best for everybody else.  Now we can argue when exactly this date was, and likely make a valid point supporting our view.  Yes, this is every era within the evolution of organized civilization and anyone claiming otherwise is a fool.  Anyone who believes that it is their generation who has finally solved all social problems will also be proven fools.  Many point to the worst experiences (or sometimes the best) of earlier times and marvel over how people used to be so small and so narrow.  So intolerant.  And then they shake their heads, smiling smugly about just how far they’ve come.  Often they dream of locking those bigots away, stripping them of their rights.  Of giving them a taste of their own medicine.


Rogue Maxwell and Calliope Troydon-Maxwell had been married just over three months by the time she had her third abortion.  The two of them had been together for almost seven years.  Neither of them believed in the concept of ‘marriage.’  Theirs had been an open relationship since before they had even been a couple (Rogue had been formerly one of Calliope’s other sexual partners.)  The only reason they’d gotten married at all was because the tattoo studio Rogue was partial owner of closed, and they desperately needed money.  Calliope’s income at the local head shop Premium Euphoric simply was not enough to pay the rent.  It was fortunate for both of them that they each had wealthy parents.


The two of them at first did not want children.  They spoke to their friends (rarely with one another) about just how much a screaming brat would fuck up their lives.  “Kids are assholes!” Rogue had repeatedly boasted to laughter, himself still in his 20s and having made no personal gains since high school.


Calliope was more thoughtful and far harsher in her assessments on motherhood.  She ranged from humanitarian (“I couldn’t bring a child into this fucked up world,”) to environmentalist (“Overpopulation is the leading cause of global warming!”), to the adamantly selfish (“If I have this fucking parasite,” she told her friends over a variety of vodka cocktails numerous times, “I won’t be able to party with you bitches as much!”  This was received with a like-minded chorus, usually of “fuck that(s)!” and “Woo-hoo(s)” and other noises and squawks from the days and years before when the girls had cut classes at community college to get good and day drunk.)


Up until their friends began to drift and, hypocritically, and began to “settle down,” both Calliope and Rogue were steady in their thinking, getting high every night, going to concerts when the rare group they hadn’t written off as sell-outs came to town, hanging out at the bars with their increasingly younger friends, and then going to after parties in warehouses, usually thrown by older burnouts with drugs to sell.  These were the sort of people Calliope started fearing she might someday become if nothing continued to happen.


Calliope had been a brilliant yet angry child.  Spectacularly imaginative, she had once considered herself an artist whose vision would change the future.  Now she designed the smeary psychedelic walls at Premium Euphoric to the high-winded praise of her co-workers and the few regulars always in the market seeking a new bong.


Rogue, for his part, had dreamed himself as the tattoo artist to his favorite punk rock and thrash metal stars.  He had once actually met Bones from the Lower Class Brats.  The man had admired one of Rogue’s tattoos, the one of the horned warlord slaughtering the masses with fire and brimstone.  Bones had asked him who designed it and Rogue humbly admitted that it was himself.  “Cool,” Bones had said, flexing his arm to display the symbolic violence of one of his own.  They shook hands.  Rogue expected Bones to enter his shop just around the corner after the show.


The two of them were unhappy together, both of them arguing politics all the time.  Neither of them knew much of anything about whom or what ran the world outside of the punk rock conspiracy theories they are their friends debated in hipster bars until well past closing time.  They hated every president of the US and could find nothing positive to say about any of them.  Even Abraham Lincoln fell under their scorn, allegations that he never really ended slavery but merely made it so Southerners could profit legally in the changing society.  He imposed “contracts,” one of them (anonymously) stated, citing no facts other than a drunken opinion, followed by group laughter and toasts.


They were both unconquerably liberal, but not in the traditional sense of seeking a better world for everyone.  No, they were profoundly negative about everything, watching for the swirling mists of oppression that still existed, but had dissipated into the air, brainwashing everyone with its stink.


Calliope liked to attend protests; carrying signs reading what she figured were profound statements that could change the course of the world.  They read, “FUCK TRUMP” and “BITCHES MATTER.”  She was a straight white girl (although see had dabbled unsatisfactorily with lesbianism from time to time, each episode increasingly tense because she could not understand why the bitch couldn’t make her cum).  She shouted that “BLACK LIVES MATTER” and “ALL WHITE MEN ARE TERRORISTS.”  She was arrested at three times at Trans and LGBTQ+ marches, all of them making proud declarations about the seventy-two, or so, different genders the leaders had devised.  Calliope had spit on a cop twice, calling him a “fucking fascist pig,” while the third time, which saw her in jail for almost a week, was the result of her throwing a rock at a counter protester who had called her a “stupid dyke.”


During these events Rogue was usually at home, getting high or sleeping, playing video games, watching movies, or masturbating.  He usually did nothing during the daytime, angry if woken before noon.  Sometimes he would head out to one of his regular bars and hang in the mostly empty chamber with one of his bartender friends, talking to and occasionally even fucking some drunken slag that had lost something important in her life, or had maybe just been diagnosed with cancer.  But it was an “honest life,” he told himself.  “I am true to myself.  I would never willingly hurt anyone.”


Calliope was twenty-eight when she got pregnant for the fourth time.  The child was probably not Rogue’s, but neither of them thought too much about this.  Unexpectedly Calliope said, “If it’s a girl, I think we should keep it.”  Rogue barely heard her, taking another pull from the new hookah-styled vaporizer she had brought home from work.  “Okay,” he finally said, blowing out the smoke and coughing.  “This shit is really strong.”


Eventually Calliope decided she should probably see an OB-GYN to make sure that all the drinking and drugs hadn’t fucked up her daughter.  When the doctor–a woman, of course; she wouldn’t stand for some creepy old man peering into her pussy!–spread the gel on her stomach and roved the scanners around it was discovered, to Calliope’s horror, that it was a boy after all.  Again!  She had aborted three of those little assholes and now she was faced with the dilemma of ending a fourth!  Fuck!  She was too tired for this!  The last time, last year, the procedure had made her sick for a month.  Those fuckers were tearing up her insides–probably on purpose!–because they didn’t think some hard rocking, tattooed, super cool chick like her could be a good mother.  She just needed to wait; she had told the people at Planned Parenthood, embarrassed and even a little ashamed.  She needed to get her life in order to offer a good time for a child.


Fuck it, she told herself finally.  I’ll have the kid.  I’ll deal with it.  She asked, “Are you sure it’s a boy?  Can’t I have a second opinion?”


Rogue was given the task of researching “gender reversal” procedures that might exist somewhere in the world.  There was a brief mention of something called the SRY gene, and without reading any more about it he excitedly told Calliope that he had found the solution.  Much to Calliope’s rage it turned out that the process had not even yet been perfected in the date palm plants that were the subject of the study.  She punched Rogue in the face for this and called him a “stupid pussy-assed fucking asshole.”  He laughed.  They both got high and had sex.


After long procrastination and hope, Calliope finally decided she would get another abortion.  She was eight months pregnant at the time.  On her way into the clinic she encountered a protest outside.  The aggressively tame people shouted bible verses and prayers.  Some of them were pleaded while a handful of others were viciously condemnatory.  They held bloody pictures that looked like graphic designs and special effects.  One or two of them might have been real, but they were clearly an anomaly even within the standard practice.  The crowd was a group of hypocritical lairs, Calliope thought.  They were every bit as insincere as their perpetually outraged opposition on college campuses.


Calliope was filled with rage.  She started yelling at one of them, screaming “There is no God!” and the standard chimes of “My body, my choice . . . asshole!”  She was consumed with righteousness going in and was even more incensed on her way out when they told her she was much too far along to end her pregnancy.  She had a tantrum in the room, throwing things around.  She tore the box of used syringes and other hazardous waste off the wall, telling the nurse that she hoped she got AIDS from one of them.  When she finally stomped outside, her face full of tears, an an old woman told her that she would pray for her.  Calliope exploded.  “Fuck your prayers you stupid fucking cunt!  Fuck you!  Fuck you!”  One of the security guards at the clinic raced over and pulled the girl away, whispering to her to calm down.  She was quiet then, mostly, except when several of the smug bible thumpers shouted lines like “You’re going to burn in Hell, sinner,” and “God is vengeful!  If you turn from the lord your child will be antichrist!”  The last one truly stopped her.  “Good!” she yelled, finding herself suddenly funny.  “Good!  I hope it is!  I fucked Satan after all, anyway!”  And she howled with laughter as the guard escorted her back to the car where Rogue was sleeping behind the wheel.


“They wouldn’t fuck do it!” Calliope shouted, jarring Rogue awake.


“The fuck?” he said, rattled, not having heard what she’d said.  He was angry.  It was still only ten AM.  “Why’d you fucking wake me?”


They were silent and simmering all the way home.



After the child was born–healthy, although only five pounds and two ounces–Calliope decided she knew what she was going to do with it.  Rogue had no say anyway–her body, her child–and it’s not like he actually cared.  He had recently gotten involved with a few especially radical Antifa members, and Calliope’s physical state at the time kept her from following him.  All of the sudden he was a serious person, enraged by the widespread corruption in America, attacking the obvious fascism of big business and whoever else ran the government with similar tactics to their own.  They were going to stop everything they wanted to do.  They were going to overthrow the government.  It was now Rogue’s plan to impose a new law book on the nation, outlawing hate speech, outlawing actual hatred under the penalty of death.  He saw homophobes being re-educated and forced into gay sex, saw religious people forced to renounce their God in public ceremonies, and wished that every right-wing asshole would just be shot on site so the world could be a better place.  “This is progress, motherfuckers!” Rogue would shout in the streets through a bullhorn, barely muffled by the mask he wore to cover his face.


Most of these ideas came from Calliope, and she resented Rogue for stealing them from her.  But at least it was something.  At least it was a step toward social justice.


She decided to raise the child–Tracy–as a girl.  She painted a room in pink with swirling flowers.  There were rainbows and sunshine everywhere, and the fluffy animals and lovely African-American dollies were all they had to play with.  And they loved it, Tracy loved it!  They wore frilly, pretty onesies, had flowers and bows in their hair, and eventually graduated into cute little dresses.  Their ears were pieced twice before their first birthday.  They had their nails painted black.  Their penis was mostly taped up near their butt crack, only the hole to the urethra free so urine could dribble out.  Calliope had fallen in love with Tracy–they became her entire world.  She knew how she was going to raise them.  She knew the values that her angel needed to learn.  She was going to be a good mother–the best mother!–and help raise a new generation of completely ‘woke’ children.


Five years later Tracy was becoming a problem.  They kept uptaping the penis and fiddling with it.  They began getting rough, finding balls around the house and throwing them.  They had temper tantrums and screamed for ice cream.  This was a vegan household.  Even vegan ice cream Calliope suspected had traces of animal byproducts mixed in.


Rogue had disappeared two years prior, but had come back about six months earlier.  He had a new pregnant girlfriend.  Calliope had sworn off men entirely.  When he showed up with his whore she would not let him in to see Tracy.  She told him the child had died and slammed the door in his face.


Tracy was almost instantly bullied on their first day at school.  One rough kid even called him “a faggot.”  The kindergarten teacher was torn.  She was very liberal herself, very much in support of broader civil rights for everyone, but there was no question that this was a little boy in a dress.  Everyone could see it, through the long hair and painted nails.  The face was entirely masculine.  His–no, their eyes and eyelashes bled boyhood.  The other children certainly saw this.  And while Ms. Garbon tried to protect Tracy, singling them out as one of her favorites, the obviousness of the deception–and of the possibly abusive perversion of the mother–was creating more and more problems.  Other parents were complaining, and although they were morally bankrupt arguments, filled with their own prejudice and hatred, if the entire class refused to accept Tracy, what was she supposed to do?


Calliope went on a warpath.  She went to community and school council meetings and called everyone–even Ms. Garbon–bigots, and threatened lawsuits.  They were trying to ban Tracy from going to the girl’s bathroom!  “What?” Calliope shouted in one pompous man’s face, “Are you afraid my five year old is going to rape that little whore of yours?”  Everything was chaos and everyone seemed to despise Calliope, which was fine with her.  She was ‘woke,’ and they were all fucking imbeciles!  She discussed this with the few friends she had remaining, women almost entirely like her in looks, in values, in beliefs and perceptions.  They all nodded their heads in agreement.  People were assholes.  People would never learn.


When they were eight Tracy insisted they wanted to play little league baseball.  They were given an angry “No!”


“Sports are for morons!  Are you a moron?”


“But I want to plaaaaaay.  David is on the team and he invited me.”


This was new.  David?  Who the fuck was David?  “Who’s this ‘David?’”  She made the air quotes visual.


“He’s my friend.”


“And he plays sports?”




“Will they even let you on the team?”


“David’s dad is the coach.”


She thought for a moment and then shook her head.  “No.  No no, sweetie,” she said, taking the condescending parental tone she had always hated prior to Tracy’s birth.  “No, I’m sure it’s a trick.  They’re playing a trick on you.  They don’t really want you on their team.  They want to laugh at you.”


Tracy glared at his mother.  They blazed a look of complete hatred.  “No, mommy.  I want to play.”


“Excuse me?” Calliope responded as though she had overheard a sexist comment in a conversation she had nothing to do with.


“I want to play baseball.”  There was a pause.  Tracy then did something unforgivable.  They began to take their clothes off.  They ripped the dress and tossed it on the floor.  “I don’t want to wear dresses anymore!”  They removed their panties and training bra and threw them at Calliope.  Then they untaped their penis and stood there naked.  “I want to be a boy!” they shouted.  “I want to be a boy!”  Then Tracy broke down in tears.  Calliope had no idea what to do.


Calliope grabbed Tracy, hugged them tight.  She said “Shhhhh,” and tried to comfort him.  An idea came into her head.  “Shhhhh,” she whispered again.  “Tracy . . . Tracy.  It’s okay.  Everything will be okay.”


Tracy withdrew and pulled back, their tears stopping, only their eye liner staining their face.  “You don’t have to be anything, boy or girl.  You can be gender-neutral.  You can just be yourself.”


Sniffling Tracy looked his mother in the eye.  “Really?”


“Of course!  It’s pretty common now.  It’s even popular!  You wait and see!  Once you get into middle school you’ll find that a lot of children are gender-neutral!”


“But what about the bathroom?”


“You can go wherever you want!”


Tracy thought for a moment.  “I want to go in the boy’s room.”


Calliope frowned, and then shook it away.  “I’m sure me and some of the other parents can get a safe space third bathroom for all of the special kids like you.”


“Do I have to wear a dress?”


“Only if you want to.”  Calliope glanced down at herself, at her black band t-shirt, her black jeans and the studded belt and bracelets and bangles.  “When have you ever seen me in a dress?”


Tracy smiled.  “Well there was that one time . . .”


Calliope laughed.  “Don’t remind me!  You father’s wedding!  You looked way prettier than me!”


“I can wear a dress sometimes,” Tracy said, reconciled with their mother.


“I love you, baby,” Calliope said, once more embracing them.


“I love you too, mommy.”


Eventually, in their far more rebellious high school years, Tracy once more decided they were a boy.  They demanded hormone therapy to make them into a him.  They even decided that the gender pronouns were going to be set.  He was male.  He was a him.  And the older he got the more he rejected his mother’s ideas, her values, her beliefs and her perceptions.  He would vote Republican.  He would declare himself against LGBTT2/TQQIAA rights.  He would marry a Republican girl and raise Republican children.  He would not visit his mother, and would rush her off the phone those increasingly rare and pathetic times she called.  He was much closer to his in-laws, who loved his righteousness.


One of the last times Tracy spoke with his mother she told him that she was dying.  She wasn’t, or at least not really, no more than anyone else is slowly dissolving back into the earth.  But she said this, trying to get his sympathy.  Tracy merely grunted.


“I’m sorry to hear that.”


Hysterical, Calliope shouted, “Don’t you even care?  Don’t you care about anything I ever tried to teach you?  How did you become this . . . this thing?”


“It’s your fault,” was all he said before he hung up.


Calliope stared at the phone, baffled.  She could not understand where she went wrong.  She sat there, looked around her apartment.  She stood and looked out the one window into the alleyway.  She was getting ready to head out to one of the bars, where she was slowly becoming aware that she was the sad old slag on a stool, waiting for someone to ask to fuck her.  She glared at the youngsters she saw, bouncing around on their skateboards and blasting endlessly repetitious whatever-kind-of-music it was.  They were calling one another names, probably slurs, but she did not understand them.  Calliope shook her head, her vision slumped down to the floor.  Maybe someone will wake them all up someday, she told herself.  “What is wrong with kids these days?”  She ambled out the door and into the street.






Let’s Invent A Conspiracy Theory


Let’s invent a conspiracy theory, shall we?  It’s really easy to do.  All you need is some questionable fact, or a doubtful reality, and the self-confidence to believe that only you are capable of seeing through to the actual truth.  In fact, there are so many of these widespread and often conflicting ideas at play at any point in human history that even those without much imagination are capable of forming alternate realities.  Take a look at this:

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I have no idea who devised this chart or what the information is based upon (I don’t know how many people in a survey would refer to themselves as “downtrodden.”)  Perhaps it is all just another misinformation campaign.  Perhaps we need real truth tellers to slice through all the lies and give us a road map to discovering the what’s real.

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Wait, no.  Does this make any sense?  I don’t get the connections, especially in light of Hannity’s defenses of the exact same theories regarding President Trump.  As one fine wit said regarding this chart, broadcast live in prime time, “if I am reading this correctly did Hillary Clinton just win the NCAA championship?”


Who else is there who might offer up solutions?

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See this . . . wait.  This is crazy.  None of this makes any sense.  They are blind assertions.  They are–

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What?  Is this . . . how are we supposed to follow . . . when have people ever been so organized and together on . . . Draco Reptilians?  What?  I . . . I-I-I–

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I don’t understand what this means at all.  I mean–

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Ahhhh . . . this one is a relief, the more familiar idea of the Illuminati, linking together rich people, international organizations, spy agencies, political ideologies, Jews, think tanks, and a handful of closely aligned conspiratorial agencies.  I mean after all of the other stuff this is something that at least we can compre–

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Wait, what?  Is this somehow related?  Is there a connection to–

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Wait are they trying to say that what I am hearing and seeing and believing isn’t actually true?  How can they get away–

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I . . . I-I-I don’t understand.  How is McDonald’s . . . what is SAIC?  Is that the olympic symbol, or some lost secret society’s sign?  Who is that cartoon head at the bottom?  “Axis of Good Treasure Map?”  The plot goes so deep that everyone is complicate in one way or another.


This is where this rabbit hole sinks, into some deep black hole filled with everyone and everything that ever happened, all of it somehow combining to lie to the specific individual believers.


But I wanted to invent my own theory:


You know that the earth itself is alive, right?  I mean, sure, it sustains life, but do you realize that it is a seperate living entity?  It actually breathes.  It thinks.  It is aware of everything that we do.  Some people–religions–mistake our mother for ‘God,’ but it has far less to do with the universe than this rock we call our home.


See, the earth knows about us.  It can read our thoughts.  It knows our intentions.  It can ultimately put a stop to our destruction.  Know how I know this?

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Science proved this.  The second picture is true–it really is!  As for the last one . . . who wrote this?  No one has ever taken credit for it.  No one even wrote it!  It is her!  It is mother earth!  She has a soul!


But mama is angry with us–we all know this.  Global Warming and such.  Climate change.  Hurricanes.  Tornados.  Fires.  Bugs.  Disease.  All of these natural calamities creeping upon us and making the struggle of life increasingly harder.  She is out to get us, mother earth.  She hates us.  I know . . . I know this because . . .

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Who can argue with nature?  This is what she is doing.  She is drying us out too.

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You know what it is?  Do you know what is really going to get us?  It’s sand,

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endless sand,

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the whole world dry, the bottom of lakes just another stretch of desert.

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But you realize, of course, that since the earth gives life to every single part of her, every particle has an independent intelligence.  Every grain of sand . . .

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And they are vengeful;

Image result for grains of sand coming out of skin

Image result for grains of sand coming out of skin

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They are coming to get us, mother earth’s soldiers.  It is the conspiracy of sand.  And do not think that this will in any way be the end of the earth herself.  She is strong.  She will continue to thrive.  She doesn’t need us.  She cannot be destroyed by our avarice and stupidity.  We can only kill ourselves, or perhaps she will simply do this for us.


I challenge you to dispute this theory, and you know that you can’t.  I have pictures.  I have proof.  And just because you’re being brainwashed by the “official” scientific community with their lies–

Image result for unreadable conspiracy chart

Image result for unreadable conspiracy chart

Just follow the map.  Follow it to the end of time and you’ll see who our real enemy is.


–end of session



The Unexpected Victories of Donald J. Trump


No, this is not going to be about the 2016 election.  This unnecessarily emotional issue–on every side, pro, con, and in between–has been done to death and hasn’t been relevant for years.  What I want to discuss is the present, and a dangerous suggestion resulting from his recent failure to collect data on so-called “illegals.”  I want you to now imagine the very possible reality of Donald Trump losing the 2020 Presidential election.  Who could he blame?  Who can he tell his cult is responsible for what they never believed possible?  What excuse could the still sitting president give for refusing to leave office?


I see this as a different sort of victory for the Trump faction.  Sure he must be angry, and even humiliated, his grandiose ideas dismissed as implausible and even unconstitutional.  But this is a man who knows how to take advantage of any situation.  Why would he not use this failure as an excuse for a subsequent victory?


Donald Trump’s greatest success as President has been the complete division of the nation–of the whole world.  He painted himself as a messianic figure, appealing to a vast minority desperate for an uncertain change.  At least half of these people, no doubt, would have aligned behind a similar left-wing messiah offering drastic change.  The remainder would have been happy to paint them as Satan taking over the earth.


Such divisions, such a profound love/hate relationship over perceived and promoted political ideologies allows conspiratorial thinking to overtake and define an illegitimacy of reality, offering parallel narratives on the lies partisans always tell themselves.  Why wouldn’t Trump tell his followers that whomever might defeat him cheated?  Why wouldn’t he cheat himself then offer a justification that he was merely defending Democracy?  I cannot say as much as reality about just how insincere and how fundamentally, morally corrupt this empty husk of a creature is.


Donald Trump does not love his family.  He does not love the United States of America.  He doesn’t love anything.  In many ways he is similar to a serial killer staring at themselves in the mirror, putting on faces in order to pass for human.  This is the figure who has successfully manipulated angry, paranoid people who want to believe that nothing is truly as it seems.  People such as this can be convinced of anything–anything!


Who would believe, if the President told them, that the several million people he lost the election by were those same illegal ‘aliens’ he sought to identify?  Suddenly there is a mysterious cabal–a Deep State–no different than the Freemasons, the Illuminati, or one of the many other “secret societies” believed by those for whom this is advantageous are running the world.


Conspiracy beliefs are often the easy way out, a denial of an objectionable truth.  This is, of course, not to say that there are no actual conspiracies.  I am even willing to admit that, on a much smaller scale, there are professional politicians, jurists, and multi-millionaires seeking to undermine President Trump.  But there is every bit as much a conspiracy on the right to undermine the theory of Democracy.  Count the number of times those supporting Trump correct you by claiming that we are, in fact, a “Constitutional Republic” without enough knowledge to discern how this is any different (Congress would have a lot more power than they do under Donald Trump if this were the case.)


This is all, finally, the consequence of having a conspiracy theorist in the White House.  Conspiracy theorists are defined as those who reject “the official version,” something that is, far more often than not, the actual truth.  And so they invent solutions to justify their doubts, their frustrations, and their beliefs.  What conspiracy theorists also do, in those rare moments when they are capable of achieving some actual power, is devise their own conspiracies to win back whatever it is they claim they have lost to the shadow people.  No one knows conspiratorial thinking better than a conspiracy theorist.  Anyone who believes that the whole world is plotting against them will fight back in the best way they can, regardless of reality.


As for Trump, Donald J. Trump, he believes in nothing, absolutely nothing.  Such a void of conscience and basic human understanding can stand behind anything before abandoning it for the next personally advantageous moment or belief.  This is how he can so seriously promote anything, any triumph or disaster, as the sole property of either himself or his enemies.


Do not think that our president is a patriot.  Do not believe that he cares whatsoever about the concept that once was ‘America.’  Do not even believe that he wants any of you to succeed.  He simply does not care.  We are all beneath his consideration.  Donald Trump is not stupid.  He is not even incompetent.  He is simply a person who has never bothered to try and understand a dilemma, or the world surrounding him, preferring the momentary hedonism of conflict instead.  Critics cannot even legitimately call the man a coward because he truly isn’t afraid of anything.  He loves nothing, fears nothing, cares for nothing and is only motivated by a bestial instinct for survival.  By raw hunger.  He is capable of sacrificing anyone if it serves his circumstantial purpose.  This of course includes his family, more a group of carnies setting up a show than real living and breathing people.  Does anyone doubt that he has instructed his children to do or say something humiliating in order to avoid the blowback himself?  Do you really believe that if no one else were available he would not blame one of his children (even Ivanka!) for some crime to avoid whatever punishment he might deserve?  Of course you don’t.  Even you supporters of the man realize this.  Most of you know that he does not care about you, your life, or whether you are happy or successful..  Perhaps the reason so many people follow the man is because they too have become every bit as hollow, as soulless, every bit as indifferent to the fate of reality as the man they rallied around to crown king.


The Waning of Morality


Before we go off the ledge I’d like to point out that the term “morality” is imprecise, as our ideas on just what this means shift from culture to culture, and has had drastic changes throughout human history.  Ultimately it doesn’t mean anything, diving into the murky depths of conflicting decency.  Not everyone sees “morality” the same way, of course, and sometimes other people’s take on what it means to be good wind up being the exact definition of evil to another perspective.  And yet with all of this said, let’s attempt an analysis of our usually generalized meanings.


What do you consider “moral?”  Is it this?

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Or how about this?

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Some people still think that these actions define how to be a good person in the world:

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or even

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All religions tend to justify themselves as moral, regardless of the evils that men do.  Should we decide to tear such broad beliefs asunder we can point out their crimes: the brutality and the outright slaughter of every single one of these movements, from declarations about being the “chosen people,” to priests raping children, to apocaylptic terrorism (and this is of course not just a Muslim thing), up to whatever murderous orgies certain Satanists have both intentionally and inadvertantly been involved with.  No faith is pure because no people are pure.  But I don’t want to discuss religion (I could go on and on and on and find very little positive to say).  This is meant to be about civilization itself, and how we have changed over time.


Now I tend to write about history, although here on this site I have been far more into the editorial side of late (summertime, the children out of school, my teacher wife at home, and the exhaustive heat destroying me moments after I wake).  Editorials are far easier to write, shouting out a sometimes unjustified opinion about something.  But I try to be meticulous, gathering up beliefs outside of my own to pose a debate about how different people see the world.  None of us really believe the same thing, or at least not for the same reasons.  Most people will consider heroic firefighters, for example, extremely moral in their efforts, although at the same time some firefighters might also be just about the worst people in the world when out of uniform, slapping their wives and kids around in a drunken rage at home.  A soldier fighting for freedom might also be a rapist and murderer.  Priests, as stated above, might be pedophiles.  We have divided natures, all of us, outside of these examples of extremes.


Most of us are not heroic, but we like to see ourselves as such anyway.  For example, I am fully aware that the best thing I have ever done in my life is to care for my children, love my wife, and try to protect them (and, oh yeah, rescuing my former fighting dog from a cruel pit in North Carolina– Image may contain: Lance Polin, living room and indoor

my bloated cat, Francis, is also a rescue) and attempted not to hurt anyone.  We can make a statement about this being “moral” behavior, sure, but that doesn’t have much meaning considering that all of this is what I’m supposed to do if I want to survive in the world.


Of course these ordinary experiences have little to do with my often skewed perspective of myself and my perceived importance.  I dream of that I am a first amendment crusader, some noble voice declaring that free speech is more valuable than anything else in society.  Often I rant about this notion, frequently even going out of my way to offend someone on a different side, just to try and prove my point.  There are times when I even believe that people are listening, that somehow my gruff and occasionally rhythmic words have had an impact, and might somehow realign the world slightly more towards my favor.  This is delusion, of course.  At my best I provide a passing interest, soon to be forgotten as your lives move on.  Some readers might even be momentarily enthused, offering me a ‘thumbs up’ or even a heart of praise, and, on special occasions, making a comment (thanks, Paul; thank you to the great nation of India, not my home, but home to my largest readership).  But, if I am honest with myself, I know that whatever I have to say has had no impact on anyone.  People either agree or disagree, and the gamesmanship of wording is not going to change any person’s mind.


But what does this have to do with “morality?”  How can we even define such a term in a world so far apart?  In some cultures (perhaps in every culture), the murder of certain individuals is seen as a moral act.

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The last two images offer justifications for killing guilty people.  In many cases it is difficult to disagree with these assertions, seeking, as most of us do, to live in a “moral” society.  But:

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And so the issue of morality gets even murkier, our need for revenge often outweighing our capacity for compassion.  Justice itself has wavering meaning, and the angrier we grow as a civilization, the less patient with other perspectives we become.  And as these issues grow, come to a head, the world grows increasingly more violent.  It is like the very idea of “morality” has split and gone to war against itself–a philosophical civil war that bleeds into every part of society.

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Image result for pro life pro death penalty

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On the other side:

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Image result for anti death penalty for terrorists

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The last one is actually from a manual for protestors, teaching them the topics to bring up when shouting and interrupting people.  A much better anti-death penalty argument is

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And then there are the more extreme perspectives, that vicious beyond eye-for-an-eye sense of justice:

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Sure, we might sympathize with the notion.  With rape people have to live with this for the rest of their lives.  But it isn’t eye-for-an-eye justice, is it?  No, that would be the hiring of professional state sponsored rapists to rape the rapists.  Would they be set free after this?  Is this a solution anyone is in favor of?  Doesn’t this completely invalidate the notion of eye-for-an-eye as a form of “morality?”


Look, I don’t want to get into a debate on the merits or lack thereof on the death penalty (I have written on this earlier).  I am still interested in our notions of right and wrong and how different our beliefs are.  Let’s take abortion.


We can certainly understand the outrage that pro-life people have for the practice.  We might even understand, on a personal, “moral” level why they wish to outlaw it.  Regardless of the pro-choice notions of freedom, one cannot get away from the fact that abortion is the ending of at the very least the potential for human life.  But it isn’t as simple as that, is it?  We can understand every bit as much the usually agonizing decision a woman must make to end her pregnancy.  In many ways we can make the argument that what she is doing is making the “moral” choice.  She might know the sort of suffering the child would be forced to endure, either through her unpreparedness or the conditions that form her life.  Most abortions are performed in a sense of desperation and very few of them are merely a slut’s selfish idea of birth control (every side has its villains).  And if what the woman is doing is setting up a world that will save the child from misery as well as saving herself, how can we argue that what she is doing is a sin?


People read their bibles and make of them what they choose.  These ancient texts have been so watered down, so translated and re-translated that the original meanings within their original historical contexts are completely lost in the modern world.  We might as well learn our lessons from The Illiad (https://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?isbn=&an=homer&tn=illiad&n=100121503&cm_sp=mbc-_-ats-_-used) or the story of the Golden Fleece (https://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?isbn=9780141397948&n=100121503&cm_sp=mbc-_-ISBN-_-used) for all the relevance biblical tales have to the world of today.  One cannot get their “morality” solely from the text of an ancient book.  One must experience the world if they choose to define it as just or unjust, as good or evil.  Nothing is so static or absolute, nothing remains the same, beliefs shift and transform, and if we try to reinvent the notions of the past to apply to the “morality” of today, well, then all of us truly are waning, awaiting that final knell that sees the whole world on fire.