Democratic Puritans hold us hostage…to the distant past.

Thanks to the histrionics of the prissy Left and its convenient sense of “nouveau puritanism,” I detect that a pall of absurdity has begun to settle over our modern culture like sulfuric silt. All progress and potential achievement has ground to a sluggish creep because our Western culture has become stagnant. So unrealistic and perplexing are the opportunistic political expediencies of today’s Liberalentsia, so mired in templating our dystopic 21st Century Puritanism against the frolicking antics of the free-wheeling 1970’s and 1980’s and the ensuing collective hangover, that I feel as if culturally, we have reached an agonizing state of stasis in which we are resolutely spinning our wheels for the sake of a nebulous sense of social justice, a hollow concept and even hollower aspiration.



The wheels are ferociously spinning but we are mired in stagnant remembrance, and servitude, of eras past.


“This is another serious, credible, and disturbing allegation against Brett Kavanaugh. It should be fully investigated,” Senator Mazie Hirono, of Hawaii, said. An aide in one of the other Senate offices added, “These allegations seem credible, and we’re taking them very seriously. If established, they’re clearly disqualifying.”

The woman at the center of the story, Deborah Ramirez, who is fifty-three, attended Yale with Kavanaugh, where she studied sociology and psychology. Later, she spent years working for an organization that supports victims of domestic violence. The New Yorker contacted Ramirez after learning of her possible involvement in an incident involving Kavanaugh. The allegation was conveyed to Democratic senators by a civil-rights lawyer.

Ramirez said that, when both she and Kavanaugh were freshmen at Yale, she was invited by a friend on the women’s soccer team to a dorm-room party. She recalled that the party took place in a suite at Lawrance Hall, in the part of Yale known as Old Campus, and that a small group of students decided to play a drinking game together. “We were sitting in a circle,” she said. “People would pick who drank.” Ramirez was chosen repeatedly, she said, and quickly became inebriated. At one point, she said, a male student pointed a gag plastic penis in her direction. Later, she said, she was on the floor, foggy and slurring her words, as that male student and another stood nearby. (Ramirez identified the two male onlookers, but, at her request, The New Yorker is not naming them.)

A third male student then exposed himself to her. “I remember a penis being in front of my face,” she said. “I knew that’s not what I wanted, even in that state of mind.” She recalled remarking, “That’s not a real penis,” and the other students laughing at her confusion and taunting her, one encouraging her to “kiss it.” She said that she pushed the person away, touching it in the process. Ramirez, who was raised a devout Catholic, in Connecticut, said that she was shaken. “I wasn’t going to touch a penis until I was married,” she said. “I was embarrassed and ashamed and humiliated.” She remembers Kavanaugh standing to her right and laughing, pulling up his pants. “Brett was laughing,” she said. “I can still see his face, and his hips coming forward, like when you pull up your pants.” She recalled another male student shouting about the incident. “Somebody yelled down the hall, ‘Brett Kavanaugh just put his penis in Debbie’s face,’ ” she said. “It was his full name. I don’t think it was just ‘Brett.’ And I remember hearing and being mortified that this was out there.”

Ramirez acknowledged that there are significant gaps in her memories of the evening, and that, if she ever presents her story to the F.B.I. or members of the Senate, she will inevitably be pressed on her motivation for coming forward after so many years, and questioned about her memory, given her drinking at the party.


Yeah, no one was a saint in 1982…were we?

As they say, it takes two to tango, and my God, tango we did back in the pre-Wall Street decade of excess and avarice. To judge our behavior then within the modern context of today’s shame culture of social self-righteousness is to effectively bring the civilized world to a standstill.

We cannot move forward; we are held hostage by our past for the sake of wrongs that we all left behind.

In resurrecting history to account, evolution and progress must perish.




Ice Cream is socialist

Ben and Jerry’s factory tour, Waterbury, VT, 10/5/2016

Oh Ben & Jerry’s never fails us.

The BMI-enhancing American leftist scourge does it again.


The duo behind Ben & Jerry’s ice cream is hoping to “take back Congress” by creating Democrat-inspired flavors.

Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield are teaming up with social justice organization MoveOn to create a contest to support seven progressive candidates ahead of the midterm elections.

In a press release posted to MoveOn’s website, the pair said, “We need a Democratic majority to check President Trump’s unrestrained power.”

The contest will consist of coming up with flavors and flavor names inspired by Democratic House challengers Jess King, Lauren Underwood, Aftab Pureval, J.D Scholten, Ammar Campa Najjar, Stephany Rose Spaulding and James Thompson.

The seven flavors will not be for sale. Instead, limited batches of each candidate’s flavor will be created, then raffled off to supporters, Politico reported. MoveOn will also reportedly contribute fundraising pitches for each of the candidates.

In 2016, Cohen created “Bernie’s Yearning” in honor of the then-presidential candidate from his home state of Vermont, Sen. Bernie Sanders (I). The flavor was limited to only 40 pints, and more than half were donated to Sanders’ campaign that year.


I would be a big fat liar if I claimed to resist all Ben & Jerry’s shelf items.  During a trip to New England in 2016, we discovered a new flavor, “Phish Food,” an orgasmic cold-creamy blend of chocolate, caramel and marshmallows.   It was fantastic in Vermont’s real-time live B&J’s stores and it’s pretty damned fantastic out of the store cartons here in SoCal.  Since I consciously resist recreational added-sugar ingestion in my daily, non-traveling life, I can count the number of spoons of this stuff I’ve had since, but I will admit:  it’s good shit.




It’s a shame that such gluttonous goodness should be marred by an ideological cloud on the part of the two founders, Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield, but I’m generally fine with accommodating repugnant political views with commerce, ie, I’ll watch Meryl Streep movies because I think she’s a great actress,  but don’t believe for a moment that I have forgotten what I’ve contributed to, indirectly, or quasi-directly, in some cases.  This is modern, corporate living in Western Civilization.  Short of living in a shack in the middle of the forest and eating scrapings from the ground, it is virtually impossible to eschew all commercial products and consumption that will ultimately benefit sporadic leftist scum who are “greedy” enough to dip their hands in the capitalist machine.  It happens…I’m not going to stop living my life.   Conversely, I don’t go out of my way to support leftist brands.  I never bought Nike crap for various reasons, and you can count on it:  I surely won’t begin now.

This video clip from Fox & Friends introduces a little twist on the Ben & Jerry’s game of naming flavors with a political slant.  I had thought of this a while back as well.


On this note, a quick trip to the ice cream duo’s collaboration with the ever-progressive outfit, MoveOn, informs us that there is open solicitation for “suggestions” from the public on suitable names for the Fantastic Socialist 7’s potential ice cream flavors.

Hey, why not?





The master program falters and my watch documents it.

One thing I’ve learned form this blogging shtick:  I can write a lot, but not every day.

Sometimes I simply don’t feel like writing, so I don’t.  I don’t agonize or freak out or guilt-trip over it.  If  I don’t feel like writing, I don’t.   I don’t enjoy complicating matters and sometimes life is more simple if we would just let it be.

Bottom line is, I haven’t felt like writing since Wednesday, hence the dearth of posts.  Who knows.  This weekend I may suddenly feel compelled to bang out a massive post flood…but not now.

However, I feel enough motivation to write about an odd synchronous glitchy thing that happened to me on Wednesday.   I call it “odd” but many might just think of it as an amusing, mostly insignificant coincidence of sorts.  Whatever, I think it’s worth noting here.  Besides, I’ve written more about less on these pages, as we can all attest.

Let me preface:  back in June, while on Holiday (love saying that…”vacation” is so drably American) in Hawaii, I bought a watch during one of our mall jaunts.  I had been in need of a watch for a while since my last overpriced, 10-year-old G-shock’s battery died earlier this year and I found it difficult to justify spending a fortune on a stupid battery for a watch I didn’t like anymore.  So all this time I  defaulted to my cellphone as my primary timepiece, but I’m an old-fashioned guy.  I like wristwatches.  I like traditionally-faced, analog sweeping hand watches.  In Hawaii, I found a sleek, gunmetal name-brand watch and fell in love with it.  A hundred and some dollars later, I walked out of the mall with a brand new watch and I felt temporally complete, once again.



So fast forward, to Wednesday.

I’ve been wearing this new watch for about 3 months.  Every day on my public transportation commute, to the grocery store, coffee shops, malls, the movies, etc (that’s my life, fyi).  I’ve worn the watch, daily, for a full financial quarter, and it wasn’t until Wednesday morning, on my way to work, that this happened as the train pulled up to the downtown platform:


Older Black guy, sitting in the sideways seat in front of me, noting that I had glanced at my watch, asks me, “What time is it?”

Delighted to answer (because I do have a watch again, you know).

“It’s 8am,”  I answered proudly, happy to help.  And it was 8, sharp.  Not 8:03 or 7:59.  Eight o’freaking’clock.

My foray into public timekeeping passed as quickly as it begun, I rushed out of the train and into the next leg of my commute which would lead me to work. The day flew by uneventfully and I fled work about 4:53 (I’m that dedicated) and headed to the train station which would kick off my commute home.


As I speed-walked along the street, fresh escape beaming from my eyes, a busy street, a middle-aged Asian man, walking the opposite direction, stopped in front of me and asked what time it was. He pointed at my watch.

“5 o’clock,” I answered.

He thanked me and continued on his way. I did too but I got to thinking. It was 5pm exactly. I had been asked the same question 9 hours earlier. After wearing this watch for 3 months without ever being asked the time by a stranger, I was suddenly hit up for the time twice in one day at the keynote opening and closing times of a typical work day: 8am and 5pm.

How strange, I thought.

Synchronous and uncanny.

The master script betrays itself sometimes and its encircled completion, its pat conclusions and eerily tidy summations in the absence of explanations owing nothing to coincidence lead me to wonder if the program has once again veered into exposure.




Democrats turn the Brett Kavanaugh spectacle into their version of a boring football game.

My image of football fans was once considerably different than it is now.

I used to think of them as virile, manly, militaristic right-wing types. Maybe this held true once upon a time. Not anymore, at least based on my observations. Today’s football fans are a bunch of lefty types: lesbo feminazis, coal-burning open border types and simpering normies who play quarterback for their wives behind bedroom doors. Football fans are a sorry lot in 2018.

So it should comes as no surprise that the Democratic delaying motif to run out the clock before Brett Kavanaugh’s Supreme Court hearings resounds of today’s football mentality.


Familiar, no?

As the play clock speeds toward zero, the game hits a wall.

Time outs ensue, agonizing formalities contrived as boring strategy overtake the “excitement” of the game. Tension is muffled, thwarted behind the guise of microscopic deconstruction of all elements of this overgrown baby’s game. Self-importance treads sleepily over the gridiron as the clock runs for 5 seconds, then stops for another few minutes of prolonged trivialities, then runs for another 3 seconds before the next time out and break in play torments.

Lefties love this shit in their sport, and now they are wallowing in a similar time-devouring strategy with their transparently obvious attempts to push Kavanaugh’s hearings back and back and back.

“Time out” they yell.

Kavanaugh acted like a horny college student 30 years ago! Let’s stop these hearings at the 40-yard-line so we can study the instant replay and relive all the lurid, embarrassing details, today.

After all, when it comes to football…the game doesn’t always go on.





The Anatomy of a Meme

I encountered a meme the other day that struck me as uniquely hilarious. I suspect many people might not share the same intensity of amusement that it evoked in me, but I think it is genius. It is an extraordinary meme. I long to strike the ironic goldmine like this one day with my own. One day.



I consider this a “template” meme that is expandable in the respect its interchangeable text can be overlaid over any photograph. When such a meme presents itself, the outrageous possibilities are simply endless and I can’t stop ruminating over them all as they present themselves during my daily existence.

In this case, the meme as applied to Chihuahuas is uncannily accurate.   The subtle description of the little shit dog’s simmering, tyrannical eyes, betrayed by the trembling nervousness of its runt body is magnificently described by this meme.  A living, fuming canine dichotomy, beautifully presented with the utmost minimalism.

So how could I ruin this meme with my own take?

At first I thought of something like this.


Actually, I think this is somewhat clever.  Up to a point.

It’s a bit cluttered, complicated, overextended.  While amusing, it neglects the gist of the original meme.  The power of the meme is not percentages or the arbitrary pie chart motif.

The power is the encapsulation of dualism laid out in a simplistic but searing 50% measure of two competing ironies.

Alas, the meme does not draw its strength from detailed description or allocation.  That becomes a boring game of absurd statistics.

This meme’s power is its ability to showcase the antagonistic schism present in the subject.

Not to over-think (under-think?), but this Homeless Black Dude on the Train meme is better portrayed as such:



Better.  Not perfect, or even excellent. My irony isn’t as sharp or searing as I’d like, But one day, while I’m walking along the street, the perfect vision of the Anatomy meme may dawn on me.

And you’ll see it here, first.