Michael Flynn’s tell-all testimony….about the Obama crew.


Michael Flynn might squawk under his so-called “immunity” deal, but if he does, it will be about the Barack Obama banana regime (whom he served under for 8 years in one national defense capacity or another).



Note, we’re not talking about unverified reports based on accounts from unnamed sources: Flynn’s own lawyer released a statement that said the former National Security Advisor is seeking immunity from prosecution from Congress. “General Flynn certainly has a story to tell, and he very much wants to tell it,” attorney Robert Kelner wrote.



The try-hard desperation lefty crew at MSNBC should take note that Flynn’s capitulation to speak is not necessarily contingent upon any nefarious motives other than the lucid choice to cover his ass in the face of a steamrolling witch hunt he will surely endure during his testimony. It’s called insurance against unforeseen anti-Trump distortions by the elites.






Maybe he even has something to say about John Podesta’s adult dealings.


John Podesta slapped the Daily Caller with a cease-and-desist letter on Wednesday after the conservative news outlet published a story about the former Clinton campaign chairman and Obama counselor.


The letter sent to publisher Neil Patel by Podesta’s counsel, Marc Elias, singles out a March 26 article titled, “EXCLUSIVE: John Podesta May Have Violated Federal Law By Not Disclosing 75,000 Stock Shares.” In it, reporter Richard Pollock wrote that Podesta “may have violated federal law by failing to disclose the receipt of 75,000 shares of stock from a Kremlin-financed company when he joined the Obama White House in 2014.”


Elias said the article is “as you know, entirely false.” He said that Podesta did nothing wrong, despite numerous assertions in the article indicating otherwise.









Masculinity is sin but you may now “confess” your primal transgression away…


Being a man is an evil, noxious thing in today’s world.


How dare you allow testosterone to drive your instincts and to shape your emotive reactions! You are a sinner by being male.


Absolve yourself of this putrid masculinity, now. Renounce that which evolution took millions of years to shape and mold. Eschew your innate maleness. Be a hollowed out shell of a person (gender neutral, of course) so as not to cast any preordained gender expectations and thus, escape the damning plague of masculinity which reigns ruthlessly over humanity.


Feel the male guilt, be one with women.


Repent, Man!



A Canadian university is hosting a four-day event where students may enter a “confessional booth” to reconcile the “sin” of “hypermasculinity.”


The University of Regina in Canada and the “Man Up Against Violence” initiative organized a series of breakfasts, workshops, and other social gatherings this week at its Saskatchewan campus. The project, which runs Monday through Thursday, seeks to “redefine what it means to be a man.”


“Meet up with [University of Regina Students’ Union] members and make a confession,” the group’s website reads. “We have all reinforced hypermasculinity one way or another regardless of our gender! … Come and share your sins so we can begin to discuss how to identify and change our ways!”



“Redefine” your self-concept of masculinity and fall in line with the charade of gender egalitarianism. Masculinity is sin!  The confession booth awaits to cleanse your shamelessly male soul.





The embittered soliloquy.


During some perambulations across the cyberscape earlier, I came across this vehement, embittered soliloquy in a certainly underbelly neighborhood many of you probably know well.


Astounding for its simplicity and astute directness, I was spellbound.


Reading it imparts a sense of external catharsis. You can’t release the misery, the despair, the anger. It becomes you.


I wish I had penned it. Alas, I can only read and marvel in jealous awe.



I really fucking hate Jews.
I don’t care what colour you are. I don’t care where you’re from. I don’t care what you do for a living. I don’t care what class you are, how you dress, what you smoke or drink or who you know or whom you’ve fucked.
I hate you all. I hate every last living, breathing, snot and feces producing, promiscuously copulating, celebrity obsessed, opinionated one of you kikes. From right here right around the planet and back, coast to coast, nationwide and internationally. Every. Single. Last. One. Of. You.
Fuck jews. Fuck your insipid grasping at some abstract concept of chemical imbalances and reasonless actions, fumbling around in the crowd trying to find some cinematic supposition for real human interaction.
Fuck niggers, too. Fuck you all, from the lowlife dirtbags that think dropping trou and waving the little soldier in a sloppy arc is a pick-up line to the sniveling of the desperate ‘nice guys’ who never get the girl due to a total lack of testosterone grown stones.
Fuck you all, from the crazy, under dressed sluts that judge a persons character by the price of their shirt, right down to the fat chicks that think personality is enough.
Fuck your culture. Fuck your race. Fuck your sense of entitlement. Fuck your sense of uniqueness. Fuck you all for the belief that you have something unique and interesting to contribute. Fuck you for filling the internet with your useless garbage. Fuck your blogs, your wikis, your forums. Fuck your “roasting”. And most of all, fuck whatever you believe. It’s all shit. Fuck it.
Fuck your complaints. Fuck your addictions. Fuck your dependencies. Fuck your pain. Fuck your tears. Fuck selling whatever it is you sell. Fuck your manipulation of others. Fuck movies. Fuck fucking. Fuck everything you own. Fuck your allergies. Fuck your stupid commons sense. Fuck your spelling and fuck your lack of education, or your ignorance, whatever is applicable.
I don’t give a fuck. Shut the fuck up about it.

And I descended alone…


And such is the way it is.


Awkward, uncomfortable, ill-at-ease, terrible conversation, all the wonderful things that define me, encapsulate me.


Such as I am. I am a banter failure. I do not comprehend the nuance of small talk.  Or big talk.
Medium talk, medium-heavy, medium-small, I do it all equally badly. With some people I am worse than others, but ultimately, regardless of my non-audience, my skills of gab are downright tragic.


I can’t think of anything to say to people. Most people bore me and the tedium is so utterly asocially agonizing. I don’t like to waste my breath on words. Each word I say saps my soul of that much energy, of life. Too much talking leaves me spent and tattered and trying to formulate words in the absence of structure or cause is an absolutely horrid experienc.


Some people find amusement, commiseration, identity, in the act of talking. There is a sating of the soul that happens when they flap their gums and ping pong meaningless repetitions ad nauseam. It took me a long time to realize that most people talk not to convey meaning or experience or wisdom, but to fulfill an inner void that can only be soothed, or at least glossed over, with words, words, words, and lots of words.


I was built the opposite of this. My blueprint is a negative version of most normal people. Words deplete my force, they destroy my life, they gut my soul. Words exhaust me and most subjects are simply not interesting enough to hear.


The worst thing is that no matter how you try, talking never comes easy.   Never.  The worst situation for a person such as I is that where I am trapped in a situation with one other person while I try erratically to overcome the uneasy, uncomfortable and grueling silence that descends over us. I frequently say stupid, vapid shit which is my sad, vain attempt at small talk and everybody involved now feels direly uncomfortable after I opened my mouth. Soon your awkwardness tags along after you like a hungry, visible stench and affixed so, makes others uncomfortable merely by your mute presence.


People may avoid you or walk away as soon as you appear.


Your lack of social grace is as striking as if you hadn’t wiped your ass in a week. With the same ramifications.


And sometimes, when you are afflicted with my…affliction, you find yourself in a downward elevator.


The doors open and close so slowly here.
You are waiting for the elevator to descend and the doors begin to finally slide shut but they are so slow that one of the girls on the floor runs to the elevator because she can make it before the doors close.  Cause they close so slow-ly.
She is far away but she will have no trouble reaching the doors in time…
You are standing in the back of the elevator, out of the line of sight.  Shrinking away, like always.
As she makes her way toward the elevator’s opening, catching the next ride downbound, she captures sight of you.
And with normal people inhabiting the downward bound vehicle, she would continue running to the elevator and laughing and levity would ensue, jokes about elevator rides and racing the closing doors, yada yada, all the same tired bullshit platitudes that people can possibly stuff into one stinking elevator carriage.
A script, she would have entered a script like a superhero, the door open.  Comedy would ensue.

But  I was in the elevator and the comedy ceased.  For my life is not a scripted comedy, there is no laugh track and there is no live audience.  She spied me soon enough to make an abrupt halt and turn.
She put the brakes on and stopped and quickly diverted her approach toward the elevator in favor of the stairwell.

She saw me.

And realized an elevator ride with me was not worth the grueling uneasiness when the physically laborious stairs awaited.

And I descended alone, again.