An odor worse than death.

I love the sense of smell.  But I don’t, for it is horrible.

There is nothing like the olfactory sensory human toolkit with which to test the ingenuity of descriptive prose. To describe odor and smell well means you must garner analogy and metaphor fully, and also manipulate it in order to plant a description in the head of the reader that would be lost if the description of smell was lacking or dully incapable of rousing familiarity with which they can fill in the blanks of an experience not participated in.

Smell is the ultimate test your authorial mettle.

And smells are plentiful when taking public transportation in Los Angeles, and I would presume, most other large cities in this country.

Smells come at you from all directions, and sometimes, when least expected.

Yesterday morning, climbing the next to the last flight of stairs before turning the final stretch before walking out the station, I ran into it. I collided with a wall, a smell so immensely revolting and putrid that it was as if a physical barrier had suddenly risen in front of me, one I could not help but to collide with so surprising was its erection.

This smell was mysterious due to its unknown origin.

There were no puddles or biological detritus that would explain it. I could not find a source, nor did I really want to find a source, but I was curious. What could emanate such a foul, deathly odor?

How do I describe it?

I’ve thought about what a nearly indescribable sensory monstrosity yesterday’s smell was.  It was inhuman beyond our reckoning.

Let’s say it was like


ebolaized, liquified intestinal run-off stewing in a simmering cauldron of black vomit and orphaned fetal limbs with a fine seasoning of blackened sole dust of barefoot homeless black man (topped with a liberal layer of shaved Muenster cheese)


That was it.

Future Dindus of America (or Future Rapper).

This fellow. Skinny, violent, hair-trigger demon…what’s in store for his future, you think? I see 3 paths, I see 2 not taken.



  1. He takes his show a little too far and is brought down in a hail of police gunfire. The predictable outcry follows in which he is deified as the most promising ghetto prospect since Michael Brown. Sanitized photographs of less volatile days (when he was about 7) are perpetuated by the virtue signaling MSM. At the end of the day, the police are the bad guys, the racists, and the killing of this young hothead is ascribed to institutional racism.
  2. He uses his innate vocal talents to become an erratic star of the lucrative rap underworld, popular in niche circles, unknown to most popular American culture. Blending his talent’s profitable nature with his own latent psychopathy, he is a TMZ train-wreck who always manages to grab headline before his ultimate demise at the hands of a vengeful fellow rapper.
  3. He fades away into anonymous ghetto insignificance, addled with drugs and needles. Sleeping in alleys and commuter trains, he dissolves into a sour pile of insignificant brittle bones and smoky dissolution of soft tissue. He dies, homeless, and no one knows, or cares.

Spin the wheel.

The Best Indian Boxers of all time get the girl.

This is not a laughing matter, I say!

I take my role as citizen’s journalist seriously and my journalistic pursuits are nothing, if not benevolent and charitable. I seek to bring knowledge to The People. I do the legwork that you, my loyal readers, don’t have the time nor sensible urge to do yourselves! I am your Knowledge Scout, the front line of learning.

And that is why I found myself troubling Google earlier with a ludicrous query. (I use Google for “mainstream” stuff, fyi).



Hmm. Nope, none of these are my concern for this post, or ever, for that matter.

There is another category of Indian representation I’m looking for but apparently it’s not quite the item I would like to think it is.




Color me surprised…

In a population so resolutely “ectomorphic,” pugilists would seem impossible to come by.  Boxing is best left to the swarthy, muscular, Alpha breed of man (and woman);  otherwise it becomes an inane and boring spectacle of flailing and frivolous attack.  Boxing by ectomorphs would be comedy.

Now the reason for all this is that I stumbled across a cringe-inducing video from the Indian subcontinent.


My high-level sources report that this visual cacophony of brown skin, sandals, bones and dust was owing to a love triangle.  Meaning that somewhere out there is an Indian girl who must be utterly flattered to have such brawny mannish energy erupting in a battle for her love.

(Just ignore the horrible slapping sounds).

I wonder who got the girl?


The Stooped Man of Los Angeles.

Let me tell you about the Stooped Man of Los Angeles.

He is an irregular fixture on a certain public transport vein here in our lovely city by the sea.  I would call his presence “rare,” but nevertheless, you can count on seeing him skittering along the rail car when you least desire it  (which, considering the deteriorated state of his humanity, is just about always).

Today, he was skittering.  Stooped Man.

Hadn’t seen this wretched fuck in quite a while.  I secretly rejoiced that he was still alive.  If there is anyone who is knocking on death’s doorstep, aka, circling the drain, it is this miscreant.  And despite the bluster at the root of my very deranged misanthropy, death is horrible and makes me wan.   It dooms my spirit, ya know.  If everyone could live forever, I would be happy for what it affords the state of Living as opposed to what it would do for me.

Stooped man bothers the living shit out of me.

He’s one of those people who is ruddy and dark but you don’t know if it’s his genetic heritage speaking, or street grime.  People like him live in alleys, in nooks and crannies, at the feet of garbage bins.  They are filth, personified.  So you cannot take their complexion at skin value.  Stooped man is dark, I think;  he might be ethnic.  Or maybe he’s a white dude who hasn’t taken a shower in 3 years.

Judging by his smell, this is not such a preposterous theory.   The stench melange of body odor, sour piss, sour shit, sour sweat, precede him every time he approaches your area;  precedes him by days.  He make my eyes water.  Not just the smell, but the image.    Something is beyond wrong with that spine.  It is bent at not a 45 degree angle, but maybe something approaching 30, 35, degrees?

It’s horrendous.  If he was normal height perhaps it would not be such an atrocity.  But in his prime, I suspect Stooped Man was a buckling lad who stood about 5-7, on a good day.  With his 32.5 degree Stoop, he rarely approaches anything remotely 5 feet, in real working conditions.  He is about as tall as the little ancient Central American and Asian geriatric women cluttering the aisles.

In fact, today, the train was having issues, what’s new, thank you LA Metro, so we were dealing with some serious and inconvenient crowdage.

Filthy fucking people squashed together.  It’s my ultimate fate that I, the greatest hater of all mankind, must spend a few hours each day immersed, impaled, upon masses of human layers, smelling, sniveling, coughing, hacking…my fate.  So I’m standing there, trying to avoid eyes as much as I can (I’ve written about that here, before), when out of the corner of my downturned eye, I see him.  Shuffling along like a despicable scourge.

It’s fucking Stooped Man, cutting his skeletaldebacle figure through the crowd like a hot knife in butter;  no one wants to be in his wretched vicinity.  He’s panhandling, as always, and his hat, or whatever the hell he uses to collect a so-called living, is empty, of course.  He does not arouse much sympathy from the finer class of Los Angeles commuters.  He is vile, smelly, and physically repulsive.  He’s dark/dirty, skeletally deformed as hell, and he has no regard for personal space.  The bastard comes at you and you can’t get away…he’s like a drunken bumblebee that’ll fly into your mouth if you’re not careful.

And there is short me, holding on to the pole with my vertically diminished clearance, the Stooped Man simply passes through my hurdle, swathing me in fumes.

I’ve wondered if Stooped Man is really an illustrious Master of the Universe who’s simply trolling the Los Angeles commuterati.

Just cause he can.

Introducing the luscious, sultry AND sexy, but very aptly named, Akroma Pettygrove…bringing the “horror” to THOT’s everywhere.

Brace yourself, gents.

Control your loins, you cads.  Buckle in your sausage cause dis shit is the ride of a lifetime.  In fact, it may very well be the final ride of your lifetime!

Here she is, the one, the only, the steaming (as in a pile of dogshit on an August day in New Orleans), Akroma Pettygrove!


Behold, and beware, that magnificent cleavage.

If cleavage could kill, this one would hack you up into a million pieces and blend a fine soup out of your tortured soul for all eternity.

Akroma…only something so revolting to the human and non-human eye, alike, could possibly subscribe to this litany of stereotypical leftist nonsense.


Tropes are us


And always proudly subversive, repulsive and pretentiously anti-human.  It’s as if these types revel in their distasteful abhorrence with the aim of making us turn away in disgust.



Oh, and of course.



Why does the left seek to disgust and revolt as if it’s a badge of honor, a mark of distinction?  Are their lives such shit that rather than rise against adversity, they plunge into the depths of self-debasement and do all they can to drag us down with them?