this is the perfect place to get jumped

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The End For Good

I still believe in God.

I may not understand God, and I may not agree with God, but that doesn’t meant he doesn’t exist.

And God didn’t sentence me to ten years. The judge did.

And I don’t blame the judge for doing his job and following the law either.

I used to blame those immigrants for jaywalking because they did break a law.

Now I forgive them. They made a mistake, just like me.

Except they lost their lives for their mistake.

I still have my life. It’s just temporarily on hold.

I will miss my freedom, my family and some friends.

I had to leave the bad friends behind. Life is too short, and I’ll be meeting plenty of bad people in jail.

I’m not a bad guy. I’m not very good either. I’m regular and I’m here because I made some bad choices.

For my personality type ‘getting straightened out’ always meant either: enlisting in the army or temporary imprisonment. Still beats Dunning-Kruger and dying like a jackass.

When I get back I will have a plan for my life, and a couple of books ready for publishing.

Poems, Self Help, 2x Novella, and 1 mid size novel.

Sigh.

I report to jail soon, but I have God and God has a plan for me.

I’m not a ghost yet.

I have hope.

Thanks for reading.

The End For Now

I took a break from blogging here because I hit someone with my car a few weeks ago and have been dealing with the legal fallout.

This happens to all drivers at some point, doesn’t it?

I spend everyday driving around the big city for work. More than ever, this has also come to mean swerving around videochatting pedestrians, daydreaming with their mouths open, like zombies attached to earbuds. I’ll admit this with immunity, because I have nothing else to lose: I also daydream behind the wheel. About hitting these pedestrians.

At first, the prospect of hitting someone with my vehicle was a worst case scenario I kept in the back of my mind. If I backed up and hit a hydrant, or made a close turn out of a driveway and scratched another vehicle, my Pavlovian response would sound like a Howie Scream. My work vehicle was insured, but I screamed anyway because 1) invoking the insurance helps build the case to my employer that I am a reckless driver and 2) people are often hostile when their car gets damaged.

If anything terrible did happen while I was behind the wheel, I’d unlock the worst case scenario box and think, ‘At least I didn’t hit anybody’ thus putting any traffic violation, or bumped fender into perspective.

But then I began to test myself. I’d ease off the brake and edge towards the crosswalk while waiting at stoplights. I liked the looks I got from pedestrians as they walked in front of me. The ones that noticed my vehicle creeping in on them glared hatred, threw up their hands, yelled at me to watch it. Good on them. I looked asleep at the wheel with my eyes open.

In my dreams of running over pedestrians, especially the ones that are actively not paying attention to their surroundings, I laugh and smile because they definitely deserve it.

I don’t need to be God or a judge to know when someone deserves punishment for their stupidity. However, the type of punishment enacted is for God or a judge to decide. Most of the time, these little sins of the jaywalker do not break a law of enough importance for an officer. Similarly, vigilantes do not need to enact their personalized justice on jaywalkers because jaywalkers are not violent criminals (though they are still evil). And it is not my moral compulsion to carry out justice like a vigilante for a sort of ‘Trucker’s Justice.’ With confidence I can say that–while I am behind the wheel–my moral compass was stronger then those irresponsibly walking around on the street. (before my cynicism kicked in.) While I am on the street I am just another evil pedestrian.

What makes pedestrians so evil is that they have done nothing to earn this ‘Right of Way,’ besides being given the benefit of the doubt that they can walk responsibly after reaching the age of consent. They have all been given this right, even when they are wrong. On the streets of New York, their strategy is to be aggressively passive aggressive. Yet I am the one punished for following the rules of the road.

Pedestrians are conditioned to be the worst kind of person, believing that drivers are always at fault for killing them or hitting them. Fellow New Yorkers chant ‘Sue! Sue! Sue!’ when a cabby accidentally bumps an idiot pedestrian, attached to headphones, aggressively crosses the middle of a side street without looking.

The idiot family that I hit deserved to be killed. What do I have to lose by being honest? My defender can’t save me; they were immigrants! I sunk the eightball, there is absolutely no hope that I won’t do hard time, even given the circumstances.

Here’s the play: It’s a two way street. I am driving the speed limit, 35 mph, and there is no one in front of me or behind me. My lane is clear. The day is bright, the sun is warm, and I have my window rolled down. Both my hands are on the wheel. I’m listening to WFMU.

Traffic in the opposite direction is gridlocked, all 15 ft. box trucks. They are not budging. I am lucky to be driving this direction. At this rate, I will be done with work early.

Suddenly, from behind the box truck three generations emerge–granny, daughter, granddaughter in stroller–and step directly in front of my vehicle. Things could not have lined up more perfectly. I felt the stroller crunch beneath my wheels, and saw the bodies soar in the air.

I do not curse or scream because I can’t. It was not my fault, right? I was obeying every law, they were jaywalking. They were evil. I am the victim. I broke no laws. And now I am in the street and I won’t look at the carnage. I think I can look at the body in the street that is not moving, or the bodies under the truck that are also not moving, but I’ll never know if I can’t because I won’t. This is nothing that I did. This is what they deserved by crossing in the middle of the street from behind a wall of trucks, believing they had the right of way, when they didn’t. What was so important that they had to break the law? No one would catch them breaking the law. Or, if a law enforcer did catch them, they would never enforce it. But the law exists for other reasons, I think.

I take out my phone before someone screams at me to call 911. ‘If it’s so urgent then you call 911 asshole.’ I am dialing 911 now, or pretending to, and I look down the street at the crumpled body of granny but I don’t walk over immediately. I take a minute of squeezing my eyes shut tight. I give myself a headache. In solidarity with the dead immigrant pedestrians, the living pedestrians traumatized by the carnage begin chanting ‘Sue! Sue! Sue!’ But they are dead, they can’t sue. Their family can sue, the city can sue. I didn’t do anything wrong.

‘I’m a pedestrian too,’ I say to nobody in particular. My eyes are still shut tight. ‘I’m usually a pedestrian. I moved to New York just to be a pedestrian. I hate driving. I prefer to commute to work by subway, always have. I just took this job because I need the money,’ I explain to the 911 dispatcher.

So my life is going to be over for me…I won’t be able to blog here anymore, not for a while. I’ve started to keep my secrets somewhere else online, where they can’t find me. My defender thinks I have a case, so maybe I shouldn’t be publishing this? I don’t believe in my chances, this is a really hot case at the moment and the papers are so thankful for it that they sent my family a fruit basket.

I used to think that I’d lived with dread. But now that I will lose my freedom and my life on a date that is TBD, I actually know what dread feels like. The worst is coming. I am not at peace because I know my fate is losing my freedom.

Why did they have to be immigrants? If they were any other family I’d have a chance….I still don’t believe in karma. Irony on the other hand…

RIP Mark Baumer

Mark Baumer was walking across America barefoot when he was hit by car and killed in Florida on January 20th. This was not the death of a bipolar vagrant; instead, it was the death of an internet poet with a Master’s degree in fiction from Brown University.

Unlike the first time Baumer walked across America in 2010, this walk had a purpose: to “raise awareness for climate change.” But awareness for whom? American adults are aware of climate change. It is a highly politicized and contentious subject discussed in the classroom, in the media, in congress. The only people who need to be made aware about climate change are the world’s poor, and they couldn’t care less. Their environment is still trying to kill them while they struggle to feed their numerous children. Climate change is a privilege of the rich world. I digress. Baumer’s purpose only raises red flags. There are more efficient ways to educate people about climate change than daily vlogging and writing poems about Donald Trump’s bigotry.

Admittedly, Baumer had impressive energy. Walking 20+ miles a day simultaneously shooting and editing video, writing poetry and blogging is not easy. His body was athletic and his mind was restless—something I admire and envy.

And Baumer did posthumously raise money for the FANG collective, but given the amount of energy and time he expended to raise such a measly amount suggests that raising money wasn’t his primary goal. After all, this amount could have been donated by him directly in installments. But donating or volunteering just doesn’t have the potential to draw crowds in the same way that walking across America does.

Now this stunt becomes understandable! An internet poet, recognized and respected within his community, still trying to stand out in the crowd. Internet poet is still a poet. They never get the recognition they deserve. No matter what they do, they will always be  obscure unless they do something really, really big. So Baumer rescued the masses from environmental ignorance with his quirky videos and endurance protests.

Like his alt lit peers, Baumer was a lonely narcissist, and he hid behind a cause that anyone outside of the cult of environmentalism saw clearly as a harebrained protest/cry for recognition. And his alt lit community, with all of its introspective acumen, failed to identify Baumer’s deeper issues. But he was a grown man, and could make his own decisions, and his friends and family just echoed the same naive political sentiment without considering the practical consequences.

This type of diaristic documentation and obsession with the self is typical for alt lit writers promoting their introspective personality as a brand. Baumer was not a crass sensationalist. He was pensive and meek and shy. He wanted to believe that he was different, but he really wanted the same things that everyone wants—to be loved. He was a lonely man without lasting companionship. Baumer had plateaued. He had a cushy job with a pension that guaranteed him to work for life at his alma mater. He played baseball successfully and almost made the major leagues, but did not. He bought a house with his savings and lived in it all alone. He was athletic and restless and could not be confined to the library. Who can blame him? There was no rush to finish the walk, since there was nothing waiting for him back home besides an easy job and an empty house. So he meandered, dying in Florida having left from Massachusetts.

Baumer’s untimely death haunts me. I walked half the length of Long Island with my best friend when I was a senior in high school. Danger was the reason I ran off in the middle of the night because we “wanted adventure.” We filmed the journey until the reality of exhaustion caught up to us. Then we just wanted to finish and go back to our normal lives. Like Baumer, we did the walk again a few years later, this time with a mission. To paint a line down the side of the street as we walked.

But we were some dumb college idiots trying to be rebellious. We weren’t supposed to be mature 33 year old homeowners with pensions yet. Baumer didn’t know how lonely he was. His mission was lazy, and didn’t even try to conceal his real desires.The environment didn’t care about him. The environment doesn’t care about anyone. It has no feelings because it is not alive. It cannot defend itself from human exploiters, so it needs a champion…or so their line of reasoning goes. Regardless…

This is why the majority of performance is fucking idiotic. Its a boring shock show put on by people who don’t have hard earned talent. This was the reason I liked performance art, because “it was easy.”

“Anyone could do that!” But they didn’t! Because it was dangerous and retarded and accomplishes little.

Donald Trump is expanding two billion dollar pipelines. The $3000 Baumer raised is .003 cents for the oil industry. At least he got the fame he wanted.

For someone so smart he was very naive. Super intelligentsia types that cannot believe that the science is still out on climate change, and go out into the world to prove that they exist and have feelings about it. Baumer had nothing new or insightful to add beyond a surface level hatred of Trump and misunderstanding of politics. Maybe he felt like he was like the environment. Neglected. Exploited?

Nonetheless Baumer will get his wish, at the cost of his life. He will be remembered by his community as a fearless intellectual who stood up for his beliefs. The library will commemorate him with a placard and his picture. They will keep his poems, memoirs, short stories and videos in a special section, and some undergrad will read through his body of work and write a dissertation on him in 10 years. He will get the recognition that he wouldn’t have received had he lived and returned to his position at the library. He would have worked there till he retired with a nice pension, possibly becoming upper management. His life would have resembled Stoner’s. Just an ordinary life of an academic. Not bad at all.

Baumer is dead, and I am mad about it. I didn’t believe in his useless attempt to bring attention to climate change. But he was young and healthy and could have done more with his life had he not quested for recognition. Am I being a dick for criticizing how he wanted to live his life? It is tragic. He would be alive if he lived it better.

Cumming of Age

I’m rocking in mama’s old armchair, rememberin. My lower body is crippled, so I can’t move much. I face a beige wall and I keep the TV on for company….But when I look on back, on my life, I remember the day that I came of age. Woowee! I never laughed harder than I did in those golden days. All ten of us were bros, brahs, buds. Yup. That be us. And we were an active bunch of pre-teens too. I’d recognize any one of ‘em if their middle school ass, body and soul walked right through that door, right there, right now.

Cumming of age happened in the first summer we were on our own. It was bliss. It seemed natural. We’d fight, and we’d yell. We’d pretty much do everything to each other but fuck. None of us showered, and only half of us ever went home more than once a week. We’d ride bikes off cliffs and bloody our hands and faces and elbows and we’d never cry about it. It was the best when someone cried, but as we came to age we all cried way less.We’d make and smoke fake cigarettes from hay, and some of us would burn our noses and our lips on it and get laughed at. We’d all laugh at each other’s pain and humiliation.  Our best pranks involved blood on our ripped up dickies. Everyday I spent out there my body got harder in places and everyday we tested our strength on everything around us.

Naked boxing sessions in the meadows. Us were savages! Everything but fucking. What did the good kids do over the summer? Not having the same kind of fun as us! We smiled toothless during our first detentions of the school year. Our mouths were bloodied and emptied of teeth. “They were our baby teeth mom! Come on!” We were just a couple of kiddos!

We got the latest fads. I forget what they were called. But my papa slaved away so that my mama could buy us the fads that the TV told us to want. That’s my guess what my mind thought about most of the time. Toys and little bitty trinkets first. Then they became kid weapons when we got a little older: guns that shot rubber bullets, knives that stabbed but didn’t make us bleed. We bled enough doing our own stupid games. The fads didn’t need to tell us how to make each other bleed. But we played with them and loved them anyway. Them doodies and doohickies sure did mean life and death to us then. I cried when I relived my joy through my own children. They’ve left me now. Never thought I could cry after serving in the military. Boy was I naive!

When we’d finally break our toys it wasn’t cause we were malicious. We were just some crazy kids that couldn’t be controlled by the toys. We moved too fast. Kids can never get enough.

Breakfast was a treat. And we had options. As I came I preferred to exercise my options when I pleased. But for back then, I welcomed whatever greeted me as soon as I awoke. An orange vitamin that I took every morning with my frosted milk cereal. A jar of sticky juice. My ancestors needed a fight to survive. An instinct. Where was mine when I was guaranteed survival? Ah, what your mind thinks up when you have the time. We were probably the first generation in history to take safety and love for granted. I was born to feed. Our survival instinct unheeded, it was replaced by our sex drives.

Before our first summer on our own, all of our moms would share us children with each other in one big supervised play date. These were the Boy Clubs. No girls allowed. Boys could be for each other, just like girls. My mother really gave me the confidence to be whatever I was destined to be and she never prodded. Some of the other boys were pushed closer and closer together and became best friends because their moms were friends. It made me wonder if I needed to find a best guy friend too. My mom reassured me. If I stayed myself I would find someone. The feelings are natural.

Once we were on our own, away from the moms finally for that first summer, we all agreed that the best friend idea was dumb. We were all the best friends. The best friends that moms set up became best friends with everyone else. The moms used their kids like dolls. They knew we’d ditch em soon. That didn’t matter anymore. We had what we wanted, each other. We were getting to know more of us, one another. We were trusted with more intimacy. Just friends guys. We like the same things. Our moms are friends. It’s cool, we should do it, we thought.

As we became guys we were more upfront. Some of us thought we all wanted it, when they didn’t actually want it themselves, or know what it was. Nobody really knew what it was.  But some of us thought it must be urgent? Who knows what we were thinking! Our brains and bodies were busy changing, and we were just trying to keep up. Young hormone driven minds, didn’t know anything but the next pleasure. Growing up to adulthood and shipping to war sure does spoil a stress free lifestyle, huh.
My mama basically just let me be. We spoke about my friends from Boy Club so she knew all of their names. She was so encouraging. She never prodded, just made sure I was in bed by a certain time in the winter. But the sun never set in the summer and midnight felt like 8pm. Mama didn’t mind not knowing my whereabouts when it was light outside. But she did make me do some stuff once in a while. Right at the beginning of the first summer without supervision. Gotta say, if she didn’t send me to Religion Camp, I never woulda met Joey.

I met Joey at Religion camp. It was a week long summer camp and we read from the Bible and did arts and crafts. He was a super cool third grader, so cool that they put him in the 5th grader group–that’s where I first noticed him. He was a rowdy kid. The adults at camp didn’t let us be us. They were nothing like mom. She knew this. I had to sneak away and be myself in the woods. I wandered the woods alone with my ding-a-ling just a danglin’. I liked to feel the crisp forest air on my pre-teen nutsack. I tugged it like dough but it never got hard. My body wasn’t ready for me to be a man yet, as much as I tried. But I didn’t know what I was doing. Walking and pulling on my sack. I walked for miles and miles, yanking myself around till I bumped into Joey doing the same thang. We didn’t run away from one another. We were mad chill about it. We’d got to talking about how much we hated camp, and what we’d do once we got our summer back from our moms. We walked and walked and talked and talked and tugged on our own nut sacks. We couldn’t keep our hands off of our own bodies. Joey wanted to fight me, with one hand on his nutsack. We argued about our trinkets. Joseph had a ring and he said it reflected onto the moon when he tilted it at a certain angle.

One day I caught Joey scribbling graffiti in the bathroom. Pussy is good, it said. He drew a hairy pussy next to it. Joey talked about eating pussy a lot. Hairy pussy. I didn’t believe him. He still had his baby teeth. You only eat your mom’s pussy. You’re just a kid. You don’t even talk to girls, you faggot. I was stroking my dick the whole time I called him a faggot. I thought hypocrite was a sex position.

When we got back to town Joey joined our group and immediately became the dirtiest of all of us. He couldn’t keep the dirty words squirting from his mouth. We’d never heard half of the words he spit up before. I didn’t know what a bastard did. Where did he learn them? He must have had a dad in jail. Joey was a genius. We all looked up to him. Joey started to prank on us. I’d only ever seen my dick and Joey’s dick, and I’d never seen a cock. We’d hang out in the woods fighting and cursing and Joey would sneak up behind one of us bros and yank the pants down. It was a prank! We’d all laugh at their humiliation. They also had small dicks. I wanted to get a cock though. I didn’t know what it was for, but I wanted one.

Joey said he knew how sex worked. I’m talking about fucking. Fucking needs a cock.  I’m the youngest guy of us, and I don’t have any pubes but I can still fuck harder than all of you. Nothing comes out but its ok. None of you have a cock. I’ve seen ’em all, I’ve yanked all of your panties down. According to Joey, ya didn’t need pubes to have a cock. He said he had sex with his sixth grade girlfriend. A middle school girl. Yo, we were terrified. That made him cooler than any of us combined. And we were supposed to be the cool kids! We were probably going to start a ska band next year. To get a proper lead against Joey for coolness, to make it plain, as a 5th grader, I’d have to be going steady with an eighth grader. Reguarly meeting up and going to movies and talking on the cell phone. He was so cool. We were lucky to have him pranking us.

When I showered, I tried giving myself a cock. Heh. I was a curious kid. The shower. That’s where I discovered my sticky butthole. The sphincter was stretchy like gum. It was provoking me. This wasn’t crazy…didn’t put any more than a fist up there. It wasn’t a prank. I liked it. But I wouldn’t tell the guys. This was my little secret. I liked buttholes more than cocks I decided. I still wanted a cock though.

The other guys still wanted to tease Joey and take him down a notch so they called him Baby Joseph. He laughed but he was angry, I could see it. His pranks turned violent. He started to kick our balls during our naked fights. That was genius. He was a genius. He was a haymaker. I didn’t like living with fear, but I respected it.

During my one of my fights with Joey I used my butthole to get a cock. His mouth was bigger than his body and I still had strength on him. I flexed and gulped my butthole and tossed him so he landed on his head in the prickly part of the meadow. When he came back over I had my cock. You got a cock dude. Time to use it. Use it to fuck. I didn’t know that my butthole exercises could give me such a cock. Im not gonna fuck you Joey. But my cock gave everyone else a cock. Joey got one too. Just to prove that he wasn’t lying. I can take you all there. I can show you a whole new world. You guys are gonna be in middle school. And you’re still going to be a couple of pussies. We used the language that our moms taught us. We didn’t want to be pussies anymore. I’m not my mama’s boy anymore. I want to be a faggot. I can fuck. Let’s fuck. We can do it.

Girls were kissing each other. The popular girls already kissed in middle school. Joey was kissing girls. Joey had the big idea. We would start by kissing each other. Sometimes I felt a thousands of strings inside of me, all tied to the inside of my butt. When I confronted with a choice that would potentially embarrass me by forcing me to do something that I wasn’t comfy with, it felt like those strings were snagged on a pole as I was being pushed from a skyscraper. It was one way my body made me know that I was feeling anxious.

I didn’t think it would work. We could fuck, but nothing could come out, right? Joey ran his hand down Johnny’s leg. Johnny leaped up and quickly lost his cock. We tried to fuck, but only Joey kept his cock. All of our dicks were cocked out. I turned Robert around but I was still floppy. Robert didn’t want to turn around, and turning him around didn’t make me get hard. Robert wasn’t hard because he was standing his ground. His eyes were defiant. I am not going down. We almost got into a fistfight. Some of us tried to fuck each other, putting their dicks against some butts. I liked being naked with my friends and fighting them, but hurting them with my dick seemed wrong and nothing came out.

I knew that I wasn’t gay because I didn’t fuck my friends when I had the chance. I just couldn’t get hard. All those times I walked in the woods with Joseph and we never got hard. Tugging and massaging ourselves, I really didn’t even know that I could get a cock at the beginning of summer, and now I was thinking about fucking. In class that fall they showed us diagrams of dicks with pubes. I didn’t really have those just yet, but I could get a cock. Science confused me.

They tried to get hard, but couldn’t. It wasn’t gonna work. I tried to get  my cock to stay a cock, but it wouldn’t. Mom, I’m not a faggot. I’m not a pussy. What am I? What else can I be?

My mom and Joey’s mom, they were really nice together and they let us play and talk about things while they were in the other room. I told my mom about Joey but made it known we weren’t best friend. We will always care about what you do, and celebrate it. Be open with us please? We would welcome you. The moms told us. They were bein’ coy and shit. It gave us time to plan a big one. And it was perfect because our moms were fooled by the best friend premise. They’d become inseperable. By the end of July, Joey had hatched a plan. We’d all been getting cocked up at the naked wrestling matches. You pussies are finally ready for that real shit.

Joey fucked, it was true. But his cock was still too young. He couldn’t pee at the end. We thought it was pee. What else comes out? The smart kids waited to find out in AP Biology. But us were savages. We were impatient.

Joey’s girlfriend Marissa came thru to one of our naked wrestling matches. She was already in middle school. Us guys hadn’t seen her in a year, which was like almost never seeing her again. We all knew her from gym class. Her face was the same too, except for her braces. Girls bodies were like boys bodies in gym class. Hard and straight. But in middle school girls got softer and boys got harder. Marissa stayed the same. We cared that she was there, and Joey knew it. With our new dicks were becoming cocks quicker now. When Marissa came up, all of our dicks immediately became cocks. It was anxious. Not Joey’s though. He could control his better. Girls were the affliction and fucking was the antidote. The only problem was the vagina.
Marissa’s body was similar in every way but the vagina. And it made us become bervous. I knew my butthole real well. I’d studied it and experimented with it. A dick could fit inside it, easy. A cock might hurt, but it could fit. But a vagina? A vagina was too mysterious, they weren’t dark and mysterious like buttholes. They were sinister underneath that fleshy hood. I didn’t trust it not to have teeth. I remember  thinkin’ that fucking her butt would be much safer. I needed to save the cock. We would be in middle school next year! A vagina was a threat. We were all gonna get our hands on her. But I was gonna show everyone what I could do first.

We stripped and did our tournament. Marissa stripped too, but she had complicated straps and strings. Only eighth graders in Biology knew how to unbuckle all of them to get her ready. We got sweaty and got cocks. Only Joey wreslted Marissa. She destroyed him. Her vagina stayed the same. Joey kissed her. So it was true, she was his girlfriend. But Marissa was a beastess.
In the meadow, Marissa punched Joey in the eye. He cursed. Joey would never scream. Then she kicked him in the balls. He went down hard. I yelled out for joy. We all did. Joey was a dick. We were glad to see him go down in embarassment. Maybe Marissa actually fucked Joey. Fucking always hurt one person. Marissa played with Joseph’s balls and laughed the whole time. She was flat and hard all the way around. She was going to try out for the girls soccer team. My butt was bigger than hers, and it would stay big. Hers would stay small. Her vagina would also stay small. They didn’t get big like dicks did. They were different.

Awww! Baby Joseph turned red and blushed. I’m sorry for hurting your balls. I’ll make them better. She made them wet with her mouth, but Baby Joseph didn’t get hard. He layed on the ground and all of his pieces hurt. He was trying to cross his legs and protect his balls and his dick from her mouth, but Marissa pried them open with a smile on her face. Joey’s balls got wet. She flicked his dick like a cat plays with a mouse. This was called emasculation. Was he crying? We’d forgetten that with all his talk, Baby Joseph was still just a witty bitty baby! I jerked my cock. It was all his idea! I couldn’t give him a break though. This is what he derserved, and he was getting more touching from a girl than any of us did. Even though he was just a dumby with a crackhead mom and a dad in jail that loved him very much, it was good  that this was happening.

I looked around. We were all jerking our dicks, and we’d formed a circle around Marissa and Joey. Marissa’s mouth was covered in spit and saliva and we were all like, mad scared now. She was more of a beast than we were. Someone needed to be brave and interrupt Marissa, hungrily eyeing the rest of us. She wanted a man who could pee from his cock. Because I could see it, I took it. I walked into the center. I sat on Joey’s face and kissed Marissa on the lips. There were tingles that I’d never felt before. I felt nervous for putting on a show and being loud and taking charge, but there was a vacuum and someone needed to fill it up.

Our kisses were very innocent. Then I felt Joey licking my butthole and leaped up! I’d never felt like that before! I was not used to it. I turned and faced Joey and my big butt was in Marissa’s face. Joey kissed me, and I felt a drop inside of my stomach. Kissing, I realized was tender, and I actually didn’t want to be tender with Joey. At first, when I met him, I felt something special. Like respect. I didn’t believe it to be physical though. But seeing him brutalized by Marissa, made me respect Marissa now. She made me feel weirdly and goodly. I went ahead and tried anyway, cause that is what I thought I had to be doing. That’s when I knew there was a difference. I returned Joey’s kisses because I felt bad for him, and when my cock shriveled into a dick, I thought about Marissa’s butthole, and wanted to have the pleasure of a cock again.

Marissa laughed and kissed my butt and I pushed Joey to the ground. I spun around and now my cock was in Marissa’s face.  was warm on my insides. Looking at Joseph never made me swell up. Kissing made me more anxious. It was sloppy. I didn’t want to kiss Joey, he was my friend. I wanted him to leave me alone. I wanted to fuck and become a faggot like Joey said. I wanted to fuck and pee inside Marissa’s butthole. Yup. That’s how I knew I wasn’t gay and didn’t like men. Marissa’s touch soothed me. I wanted to kiss her. But I was still scared of her vagina, and I didn’t want to fuck it. I hit her face with my cock. Her vagina had teeth in it probably, but her mouth had bigger teeth. It was not getting anywhere close to my new cock, which was still a babu in a lotta ways. So I ordered Marissa to show me to her butthole. She was rubbing her vagina and I was confused, but still let her do it.

Joey was mad at me, but my bros kept him from attacking on me. They beat him up hard, not like wrestling. They kicked his nuts and his balls and his face, and they spit on him and used their pee on him. What are brahs for? I stepped up to her and pulled her buttcheeks open. My bros walked around jerking off and peered inside. I pried it apart and Marissa kept playing with her pussy, she moaned a little bit. I did this once before I lied. To the butthole. My butthole. I didn’t need to be so nervous, the other kids were in awe of me. Joseph kneeled down face to face with Marissa’s butthole. It widened when she coughed and I curiously, slowly, gripped the cheek that I was spreadin’ and laid my thumb against her breathing sphincter, then kissed it. I was in love.

I yanked his head back, startled! Ah! Haha! I had gotten some of her wet vagina juices on my chin! And some went into my mouth! I was still a pussy after all.  I jerked myself more, then I fucked Marissa’s butthole with my cock. I gripped Marissa’s athlete’s hips and pushed it in. It was so slow that I gyrated my hips to try and work it in. I became hypnotized by the motions, and stared around the field which really psyched me out. The boys were all jerking their cocks at me. Joey was unconscious. I didn’t want to look at them in the eyes. To do so would reveal an intimate part of myself, a private, vulnerable self that I didn’t know that well yet. And to place my self and my cock alongside theirs, to see them as a body with the head of a friend on top, themselves a new and vulnerable blossom of their adult selves gave me the creeps. I didn’t want to feel like I was one of them. I wasn’t a pussy anymore. Now I was a fucking faggot. This was a moment when I became an angel.

Some of us guys got to fucking each other while they waited for me to finish up fucking Marissa. They kissed and they touched but it was fueled by a passion for Marissa’s touch. They thought that Marissa’s hard body would be replaceable, but it wasn’t. Their sexual urn was so full of hormones they had to release it. Some of them fought each other. I had Marissa all to myself. And the boyfriends, after kissing and touching lightly each other’s cocks, turned them to dicks. They needed to jerk it and some of them lost the desire. They liked girls, not guys. The closest they came to fucking was folding their dicks into little balls and  trying to smush them into the buttholes of each other. My boys could have used my example, of my butthole, if I wasn’t so busy fucking Marissa. Understanding the butthole and they wouldn’t be wasting their time doing things they’d bottle up and regret later on in middle school. Closing their eyes at night and being reminded of their friend’s pre-teen buttholes…that’s if they stayed friends, which they definitely did not.

As bros and Marissa, we didn’t tell anyone about what we did to each other. We didn’t want the superintendent banging on the door, asking to speak to our moms and dads. They might already know? We weren’t gonna tell anyone, and we weren’t gonna lie either. It was best to continue to live our lives like nothing bad would ever happen to us.

Marissa didn’t know she be butt fucked, but she was a good sport about it. My vagina is made for fucking! Not my butt. Fuck my vagina! But I couldn’t bring myself to fuck it. I had so much to learn, but I was just a kid who was never fucked in the butt himself. Joey would have fucked my butt if I let him. His small dick wouldn’t have hurt. I can’t live in regret all my life, but I do sometimes wonder…

I was firmly in first place as long as I could pee inside of Marissa’s butthole. But when I did it really hurt. I laid in the meadow and fell asleep. My dick was all that was left of my cock. It felt like someone had used it like a salt wheel. I was dazed and alone. Even Baby Joseph was gone. I limped home naked, I didn’t remember where I parked my bike. Every couple thousand steps I grabbed my dick, banging on its door, screaming at it for the location of my cock. I didn’t know how anything worked back then. I was insane.

Mom, I’m a faggot now. I’m not a pussy ever again. What are you doing home? It’s not even August yet! My mom was very encouraging. In my eyes, my mother saw a change. An icy hue of adulthood, my blue eyes fading grey. She didn’t understand at all what we I was talking about, but with her motherly senses knew that I was a new being. A teen? An angel? It was the last time that I would ever tell my mother anything, give her any hint of what I was thinking. She couldn’t forget those frosty eyes. Her baby emerged from his cocoon. A part of her life had ended that moment. I didn’t look into my moms eyes again until the end of high school.

My friends, ex-friends, could have rode it out back to their homes on their bikes, all naked and take a hot shower and finish themselves off in it. They’d get to middle school enough ahead of the rest of our class though. Baby Joseph was pulverized into oblivion. He was alive, but we took him less seriously after that. While I was passed out the boys left him in the meadow and stole his bike, joyrode it into the stinky bog so he would have to walk home. He wasn’t as scary anymore; his words weren’t hypnotizing us boys anymore. We’d forgotten about our brute strength over his. We could break him and we could fuck now. There is more to this story.

Joseph left town the next year. We’d forgotten him by the time he left. We were in middle school. I think his name was Kyle. Last I saw he was climbing on the jungle gym with his red sweatpants on. I was far away, walking back from school in the first weeks of school. Middle school started earlier in the morning, so I saw the kids on the playground playing. I saw him trying to reflect his ring onto the moon. It reflected off the surface of the moon and blinded some kid in China.

Favorite Books 2016

Economics is a tricky subject. First, it has an identity crisis. It uses methods of gathering hard data to reveal trends of unpredictable human behavior. Next, it comes under attack becasue, just like the weather, an economist’s predictions, though based on hard data, can’t always be accurate. Third, not everyone can agree on the best ways to nurture an economy because everyone is affected differently. (Weather just happens.) Some of this is due to its unfair proximity to politics, which exacerbates everything.

But in the time before the economy was given her name, times of constant war, strong leaders were needed to defend their lands from attack. A civilization needed a leader to protect its economy so that their people could thrive. In modern times elected leaders focused less on defending their lands and more on protecting their economies from itself and others. They do this by regulation and treaties.

In the USA, traditionally, Democrats are the mommies and Republicans are the daddies. The Dems wants to ensure the economy plays nice with everyone by checking in on its growth and giving it strict guidelines to follow. They can’t trust the economy not to be a mischievous liar when they turn their back. Republicans treat the economy like a pretty teenage daughter. She is so talented that they trust her to learn from her mistakes. It’s the other international economies they don’t trust.
Elected leaders know that they can get a powerful job influencing the economy by appealing to their constituents. They promise to change the economy to benefit their targeted group more, because everyone knows that the economy cannot help everybody equally.

In 2016, the economy was once again targeted by warring politicians, each promulgating fallacies that trade faster than stock.Venom thickened in the first world, muddling democratic conversation between individuals. Politics criticizes the struggling economy for getting dirty as it works hard to get back on its feet. So cruel. Without nosy government supervision the economy can probably function just fine.

The best books that I read gave me a greater understanding for economics, and the mindset of individuals.

1.    Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
2.    Economics in One Lesson by Henry Hazlitt
3.    Economic and Social History of Medieval Europe by Henri Pirenne

If any Bernie bros read Hazlitt’s Economics in One Lesson (or any issue of The Economist) they would stop screaming about inequality, cry in a cold shower then drop out of liberal arts school to make friends in high places. Politicians have proudly never read it and don’t need to. Politicians don’t really need to know anything.

The lesson is simple, and its not meant as an introduction; it is meant as a framework for understanding economics:

The art of economics consists in looking not merely at the immediate but at the longer effects of any act or policy; it consists in tracing the consequences of that policy not merely for one group, but for all groups.

Think of all economic policy like steroids. When used properly, steroids can give the user unholy gains in a short time. However, in the long term there is a cost to the overall health of the body, especially the genitals, which shrivel. Keep in mind that not everyone wants to shoot steroids in the first place. Some people prefer to stay fit with cardio, which makes the thighs stronger but decreases time that can be spent with friends. Every policy will effect the economy and the people who make it differently.

Some politicians believe that raising the minimum wage will improve the lives of unskilled workers and the economy. In reality it will do neither:

A wage is another way of saying that labor has a price. $15/hr is what the labor costs the business.

An industry can charge a higher price for the items they are selling to offset the increase in the price that they pay for their labor. But a higher price might cause consumers to buy less of the item. This may cause an industry to lose business and sac employees they deem not worth the price they are paying for their labor. This would keep the unemployed from working legally. They are not allowed to work for less than $15/hr, so they may be unable to find an employer that will pay them less. Competition for the job will increase, eventually driving down the wage.

Some politicians believe that protectionist policies like tariffs will keep an industry in business by protecting employment. If a consumer has a choice between two cars of the same quality, they will choose the car that is cheaper. If that car is foreign made, a tariff is applied to its cost so that it matches the price of the car made domestically. This decreases competition and protects the industry from tanking, saving domestic jobs.

If the tariff was removed, and the industry tanked, people would lose jobs. But what can’t be measured are the long term benefits. The money saved by buying cheaper goods would give people more money to spend on other industries. Additionally, it would give foreign products more ability to sell their goods, which gives them more money to buy goods. They are forced to buy if their dollar balances are surplus. By letting goods in we are selling more goods. Countries eventually benefit one another by doing what they do best.

These are only two of the partisan fallacies that Hazlitt beautifully dismantles.

Atlas Shrugged is about the struggle of the human spirit to overcome obstacles, using economics as its foundation. There are two mindsets in Atlas Shrugged. One mindset is creative. The other is not. Instead, it wants to police the creativity of the former. Which one is the victim? Typically, the group that is represented as the unfortunate victim of industry are the workers.

Revolutions have been waged in central Europe for the worker. In peaceful countries, workers are represented by unions to avoid bloody conflict and systematic overthrow (which Hazlitt proves does not spark economic growth).

Rand takes the premise of victim and reverses it. Instead of the working majority victimized, it is the business executive minority that is victimized by government regulation. The similarities to real life makes Rand sound like a mystic.

Take fracking, an alternative energy practice that has been used for 65 years. On the forefront of technology, its aim was to provide natural gas for customers at a cheaper price, and to reduce the US reliance on foreign oil. Some people are afraid of it, claiming that it contaminates drinking water. They protest its use with cheap signs on lawns. Fracking isn’t a conspiracy to destroy families or farmers. The men most at risk to the dangers of fracking are employed by the frackers! Just like oil drilling and construction are dangerous professions, these men understand the risks and are compensated.

The new technology in Atlas Shrugged is demonized by a government that did not invent it. Then when the government sees it succeed, they force the creator to use it on their terms. The government men collude with some corrupt business executives who have created cartels to ensure ‘fairness.’ Once these two groups join forces to equalize the economy they create a cabal of unelected decision makers. The results of their altruistic policy is disaster, and the onus to fix this disaster falls upon the most productive members of society, who must adhere to the counterintuitive rules enacted by the cabal. When they are pushed to their limits, the Atlas’s protagonists go on their own strike.

Rand is kind to her bumbling antagonists, but fair. They are delusional, not power hungry. They really just want to help the world, and think that wealth shouldn’t be concentrated in the hands of those who have earned it. However, this is an evil mindset. Wealth can only be created by individuals. Some will be more successful than others. But successful or not, what one makes is their property, and no matter the intentions, any measure to steal the property of another is wrong. Her antagonists, having essentially destroyed the world by meddling in the business of others, destroy themselves with their own mindset.
Atlas Shrugged’s antagonists are not held responsible for the destruction they wreaked. Unfortunately, reality is not. fair. In reality the men who come to power with altruistic intentions don’t give it up when they see the damage they have caused. They hold onto that power until they die or are killed.

The protagonists, however robbed, become stronger, even after leaving behind their possessions. It is their mindset that keeps them strong. In the beginning they don’t understand what Rand coins ‘Objectivism’. They are too busy running railroads and developing new technologies. Objectivism is first explained to them, then they accept it when they see what the opposite of Objectivism is: feeling entitled to the work of others.

Objectivism is often derided by critics who do not offer a compelling argument or alternative. Minds as great as Christopher Hitchens have nothing but surface level remarks to make about Rand’s character development in a book that is over 1,000 pages in length. My book club wanted to read it, but suggested putting a brown bag over the cover to avert snobs from snickering while reading it in public. We decided to choose something shorter.

Rand does not use coined economic terms to describe anything in the book. Her focus is the mindsets and the environment each one creates. The ideals discussed in her book will always be relevant, but the exclusion of fashionable terms makes it timeless.
Economies exist beyond definition. No economy has been strictly laissez-faire or communist. Similarly, the economy of the middle ages is not defined in Henri Pirenne’s Economic and Social History of Medieval Europe. This story begins with the disappearance of commerce after the fall of the Roman Empire in the West. The book covers the rise of commerce from the Middle Ages around 900AD until the 1500sAD.

Environment played a large part in the growth of commerce in the Middle Ages because Western Europe had slunk back into a rural state. Everyone lived off their own land, and consumed what goods they produced. Government was replaced by the Church, which did not believe in usury, or interest. The Church also believed that land was bestowed upon men so that they could live with a view of their eternal salvation. Labor was not intended for the creation of wealth, but to maintain oneself in the position that they were born. Seeking riches was a seen as greed, a sin. The Church, was the first to benefit from the fruits of labor, and was very well off financially. Land was bestowed to lords as sovereignty, not as property.

However, the ruthlessness of the environment forced men to rely on their neighbors to trade goods, or else perish. Trade was a result of the practicality of survival. The Church against this business ideal, could not prevent human nature as men sought to better their lives.

Merchants were not defined by the land of others. They traveled to towns from cities with goods for trade. These travelers gave opportunity to the many men who the manorial system could not support. Men who did not leave the manor because of war or famine, but instead left on their own initiative, to seek a livelihood elsewhere, were many.

The holders of lands outside the manors took advantage of these manorial defectors, settling them in exchange for a rent as they sought labor. Soon, peasants devoted labor to their own land, sometimes paying dues. This liberty of the peasants was still limited by the lords, but in the long run the land became the peasant’s as they paid rent to the lords. Labor was in demand, and wastelands became occupied. Markets grew. Only the Venetians ruled supreme in commerce, thanks to their lucky location on the Mediterranean Sea. In Venice the first banks were developed as commerce spread in every direction, creating a desire for new goods.

Pirenne goes on to describe the development of credit, loans, monopoly, protection, guilds etc. Amid unpredictable factors of the time (Black Plague, Holy Wars, Famines) the economy still grows and flourishes along the Mediterranean. Curiously, as it advances, we begin to see the trade policies of various protectionist quality that Hazlitt dissects in his book.
The problem will always be competing interests, domestic and foreign. No nation or politician can completely control their economy; it is much too complex. Secondly, the economy is shared between all of the people that contribute to it and benefit from it. It is not owned by anybody.

An economy is molded by a country’s government, culture, history and environment.  Diversity of individuals that make an economy add to their an economy’s overall strength. The more an economy grows the more it can buy/sell goods from/to other countries, and the wealthier the entire world becomes.

The economy is an ecosystem of imagination.  Judging from these books, human nature has stayed constant with two mindsets: a producer and a meddler. One will try to improve his situation, the other, in a position of power, will tax and hamper his methods. There are more contributors than meddlers, the government can only employ so many people. Every American citizen is privileged to be living in the world’s richest country surrounded by allies and oceans.

As a bonus, I recommend Working by Studs Terkel gives modern economy a human element. Oral interviews with ordinary and extraordinary people on what they do every day and how they feel about what they do. It is as much a time capsule of the social and political 60s as it is a therapy session for the overworked, the unseen, and the average man. Some of the jobs are dated, but the sentiment will remain forever.

This book is for anyone that has worked, is working, or will work someday.

Other  books I read:

books-2016_4 books-2016_3 books-2016_2 books-2016_1

venezuela v scandinavia

~or~

Socialism v Social Programs

2016 misconceptions do not end at ‘fascism.’ Socialism, and specifically “democratic” socialism are also tossed around by the left to mean things that they are not.

Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders (RIP) has brainwashed my generation into adopting the naive ideology of ‘democratic socialism’ for the noble and just cause of economic equality. This brand of socialism, coined for the sake of his campaign, is supported by the Scandinavian countries as a symbol of a beneficial government; one that provides services regardless of income.

Industries sell services and commodities to customers. Duh. But Bernie and his bros hold healthcare and education sacred because they represent our lives and our collective futures. Therefore, they should be considered ‘rights’ and provided by the government without the taint of an industrialist’s profit. But real rights are free and guaranteed, not forced upon the population by the taxation of a ‘social democracy’. Scandinavians may enjoy the hallmarks of Bernie’s campaign pleas, but they pay high taxes for it.

It could be argued that the USA is already a ‘social democracy’, with social programs like  Social Security, Obamacare, Affirmative Action and Medicare. But no system is perfect, so what do Democratic Socialists want? Why would higher taxes be a priority for this group? Have they ever received a paycheck? Darling Sweden has lived the problems of a government run healthcare system, so why does Bernie want to dismantle the entire system, only to rebuild it with the flaws we already know exist?

And if Scandinavia and her free market aren’t ‘democratic socialism’ what is?

  1. Socialism is a state run economy.No profit, No private property.
  2. Democracy is a state of government that is elected by the people.

Usually, political parties are created to represent people’s distinctive interests. In a theoretical socialist state ‘the people’ would be represented by ‘the party’ which would control the economy in their best interest. To elect a party that believes in a free market would not be socialist, so it would have to be run by a single party, and that party would  pose questions to the people for a democratic vote on how to run the state enterprises.

Socialism assumed that every worker would have the same viewpoint, or close to it. What happens when hardworking people disagree with the benevolence of socialism? Ask the single party states of China, Cuba, USSR and North Korea.

When the democracy of socialism demonstrates its inefficiency, the first thing the socialists take away is democracy, or natural rights.

Democracy assumes that there are more viewpoints than a government can predict. Greece, Britain, and France all have ‘socialist’ political parties. If that party is elected  (God forbid) they do not become a socialist government overnight; they still have a free market. Democracy is open to fresh ideas, and all voices can have a say. Socialism is not as open minded.

Look no further than the democratically elected socialism of Venezuela:

After leaving the military, Hugo Chavez attempted to overthrow the government in a coup. He failed to capture the president, and offered surrender in exchange for televised address to his co-conspirators. He was imprisoned, but the charges were dropped by the president due to his growing popularity, and Venezuelan’s dissatisfaction with the government. In 1998, Chavez won the presidency after capitalizing on that dissatisfaction, while uniting his socialist party.

A new constitution was drafted, oil wealth was redistributed, and social programs were expanded. Chavez’s new constitution called for a new election, and he was re-elected in 2000 to a 6 year term. An enabling law was passed that gave him the power to implement new laws by decree. As his agenda became more radically socialist, he was met with resistance.

Venezuela is an oil rich country, and a member of OPEC. 80% of its revenue is accounted from its state run oil company. As oil prices surged, so did Venezuela’s revenue (or Chavez’s). He spent more money on social programs, and his approval rating soared.

Chavez nationalized electricity and telecommunications and tried to change the constitution again in 2007: the popular 6 hour workday, the ability for the executive branch to control the central bank and seize property, and the indefinite election of the president. It did not pass.

Chavez died in 2013, and Venezuela has suffered from his policies and his corrupt government. After the price of oil dropped in 2014 and economies around the world tanked, the Venezuelan economy became an emergency. Today electricity is rationed, and people are starving. Government issued vouchers have replaced currency due to hyperinflation. Murder is on the rise, and there are shortages of the basics; grocery stores are empty, so people eat wild dogs.

Socialism becomes authoritarian even if it is democratically elected.

Much like North Korea acts as China’s younger brother, Venezuela acts as Cuba’s. Chavez, visiting Havana in 1999 said, “Venezuela is traveling towards the same sea as the Cuban people, a sea of happiness and of real social justice and peace.” After the failed coup of Chavez in 2002, Cuba exchanged their military presence for barrels of oil.

To put it kindly, actual human rights, (freedom of press, religion and speech), are not strong points of Venezuela or Cuba. Yet Bernie Sanders, ideologically blind, commends dictator Fidel Castro for the healthcare and education he provided to Cubans. He ignores Cuba’s military presence in Africa to prop up dictators, or brainwashing young Cubans and using them as shock troops in Soviet military efforts. Bernie proves himself to be the socialist he claims he isn’t, while contradicting himself and living it up in a new mansion. Then again, Chavez’s daughter is worth $4 billion. Is this all just a ruse for your money? Nah…

Bernie’s followers pretend to be champions of democracy and this ‘democratic’ kind of socialism, all while silencing disagreeable speech and charging others as racist etc. The rhetoric of democratic socialism puts ‘people ahead of profits,’ simplifying and demonizing the role of bankers and businessmen in a free market economy. Hm. Scapegoating a class of people to revolutionize a just and fair government sounds eerily familiar…to something….

It is frightening to hear Bernie supporters admit that they wouldn’t mind a ‘benevolent dictator’ as he spearheads a misnomer movement. But one has to appreciate their honesty. It is seldom.

Fashionable Ism

Fascism is going to be the most looked up word in 2016!

When throwing the term around as a political slur, people were forced to look it up to see what it actually means! (Before writing think pieces to support their accusations with cherry picked historical evidence!)

It certainly has an ugly ring to it. Calling someone a communist is so 1955! Calling someone a Bolshevik sounds ridiculous. Calling someone a Nazi, with the weight of genocide behind it, must be taken with a bucket of salt.

And so in 2016 ’Fascist’ was a two-for-one: used as an insult by the left (and occasionally the right) and making its user sound credible.

But as with all political systems, context is key.

Economically, fascism has its roots in the left. Like socialism it was meant to combat the unpredictable nature of the free market by centrally planning the economy. It was not meant to be democratic; it was meant to use the people to strengthen the state. When he created it in 1919, Mussolini learned that people were more loyal to their country than their class. He could use this loyalty to mobilize nationalism, instead of stoking a class war from inside. In this way, fascism broke with traditional socialism.

What makes fascism slightly less extreme than socialism is its corporatism. Where socialism abolished all markets, fascism kept the appearence of markets by nationalizing industries that once belonged to property owners, requiring them to use their property in the national interest. Competition was eliminated, and prices were fixed. Revenue was used towards public projects like roads, buildings. Political representation was not based on geography or population, but trade and industry. Unlike the extremity of socialism, there was still a profit incentive for corporations, which aimed to be self-sufficent and not trade outside the country’s borders. When necessary resources were unavailable in the homeland, conquest was the line fascists took to secure them.

Due to the unparalled tension of the time, (there is a castrated European Union today) when combined, fascism and nationalism lead to war. Spain, Portugal and Greece were fascist dictatorships, but did not enagage in straightforward warfare like Germany and Italy.

It is argued that elements of fascism have been used in democracy. FDR’s New Deal had tendencies of a corporate state. Backed by taxpayer money, programs like the National Industrial Recovery Act and the National Labor Relations Act granted government control over all aspects of manufacturing, commerce and labor relations.

Interpretations for fascism can vary, because it has taken so many forms across so many countries during historically signifigant times. However, accusing modern politicians of fascism can only be done as a smear tactic. For America to turn fascist would require a revolution, not an election. Ironically, the fascist accusers might prefer fascism themselves, and not just for the bigotry definition, but because those that appeal to emotion by shouting names are usually the revolutionary types that prefer the collectivist economic planning in the trending, oxymoronic “Democratic Socialism.”

Calling someone a fascist because their rhetoric sounds hateful is a terrible argument to make against their economic policies, but I prefer it to the historical Fascism of the 20s & 30s.

Question?

I do not like *new* governments. period

I came to the ballot with the goal to become the next government. Since I was a big fat baby, the government had been my dream. The election to become a government, and to enter the poll zone and become the next big judge, what more can a kid ask for in life? Not just any kid.

Today, a week after the polling stations have closed, I am too late to run for office. I was wrong. We weren’t. It’s time I get ready for next Halloween, and prepare myself to run for Judge again. This time, I am going to need your protest.  And On Election Day.

And now?~

The ballot is unfair. 1 state, 1 vote. This is how the government becomes. I am so sick of the corporate lobbyists, the racism of the vote. and etc. 1 corporation=1 body. When we stand as together, we should all be casting the one big vote. NO MORE FUSION!

I am in an awe for words. On 11/9, nobody won. Just the law. Does the law breathe! Hell NO. Then it cannot vote!

How can an election? Where is the economics. And everyone else. Why come the loud and the sex too? Race and sexism, that’s how.

Be precise in your anger. Be the How? Not the why. Shout: ‘Anger! Anger! Anger! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ Get through to the economics of your poll arena. One week later, and we don’t have to be late next time because now is the time! The next sex one doesn’t either, so Block your Governor.

#BlockYourGovernor

Stay big and get angrier. We can elect anyone we want becasue WE are the state! Never Forget 11/9, so Scream it out.

#ScreamItOut

‘State! We are the state and we are here to stay.’

Cardboard bags to write it on. Its voice, not color.

Celebrites, do your part and We WILL LISTEN. Tell your friend at home to become the next corporate star and we can take back our ballot for a re-vote. Not a vote for racism this time, but against it.

We need you to vote. I need you to vote. I desperately need you to understand me. Desperately like sex. Why? Because of sex lives and implementation of discouraged, disseminated and disenfranchisement of every corporation, living or dead, freedom and the like. If the government passes a second law, and the people become violent. It’s not rocket science, and it’s not butt sex. It is called politics as usual and it is law.

Protest begins with the state as us, and it ends with bigotry of the highest magnitude. Worse comes to worse. NEVER AGAIN ;(

We haven’t lost. There is so much diplomacy. There is a bigot, but its not ok~we know that now–for now.

zine

A fun, digital zine I made after the second presidential debate. Everyone else saw Ken Bone, but I saw Starbaby.

its kinda obsolete now, but the message is everlastin

like, subscribe, share

 

 

crybabies

I can understand the shock, but this was an election, not a tragedy. People that are still crying ‘racist’ and throwing a tantrum because the opposition is in power deserve the misery they are inflicting upon themselves. This is a representative democracy. Political parties exchange control, and it’s better than the alternative, even when some people are really disappointed in the outcome.

(Trump could not have won without an electorate that previously voted for Obama.)

And freedom of thought is only made divisive by bigots. Educated liberals calling conservatives ‘sexists and racists’ are the real bigots. Make an argument, not an attack. Fear mongering by making weak comparisons to history is also not an argument. Understanding how actual history was made and learning from it is a good start.

Or lose friends and family due to differences and make yourselves miserable in the process.