Cranking out election time theories like the Christmas fairy tales social science thrives on

My misanthropic theory, for this December asphalt arteriole arcing toward Christmas, is the Stinking Hypocrite Theory.   It states that social progress is a doomed proposition because liberals, progressives and socialists are as greedy, bigoted and criminal as anyone else.  If they have an agenda to advance status of minority groups, they at the same time despise and fear the minority.  And are aware that the minority poses danger to them.  For added complexity, people are diversely hypocrites.  Some are acting out of fear that the minority will whoop their ass worse if they don't advocate for them.  Other socialists have the foresight to see that their high salary can best be attained by forming a charitable institution, and bilking it.

In the film Wallstreet, capitalist pig archetype Gordon Gecco says,"Greed is good."  It isn't good, but socialists are as greedy as capitalists.  With social methods so often publicly funded, the leftist model of greed means paying social execs  a premium while withholding cash from the poor.  Too sad that equality is such a bore.  Even socialists know that if you give enough money to poor people, they morph into the middle class and upward.  Then they develop the same political influence as the majority's.   On a time line, eventually peoples' lawn and garden parties get combative.  Lawn jockeys are over-turned.  Swimming pools get peed in.   Membership in country clubs gets unruly.  People's kids get knocked up.

Then comes the bad news.   The newly minted middle class, from out of Motel Six and into the gated communities, is as flawed as the old middle class that invented the new one.  A vortex action flushes everyone downward.  Happy Holidays.  The old guard of conservative thinkers believe that free market methods better enable the advancement of women and minorities than do social methods, for reasons I'm trying to explain.  The Stinking Hypocrite Theory is my own special little crock.  Thanks for reading.

Hope you enjoy this and benefit, in some way, from, it......

...But I'm posting my old theory here, so there's a record of it, with a date when first yelped out from the airborne dust specks of Whoville.  I want credit for a butt-kicking cool 'origin of the behavior' theory.  I want the Prize, damn it, the fucking Prize.  It always goes to some jerk.  Okay, Bob Dylan deserved one.  Obama didn't.  Paul Krugman didn't.  Never mind.  ADHD.  I jump topics.  My theory i-i-i-i-is:

Some people, not all, a relative few, have a hereditary tendency to pontificate.  I'm like that my self.  Once I get on a subject, I have to talk about it.   I want to expand on the subject, and relate the subject to other subjects, for comparative analysis.   It could be any subject at all, once I'm on the SOB, I am compelled to talk about, and to convince people of it's validity.  For now, let's talk about how an organic tendency effects the practice of religion.

The biggest chunk of my theory is that the practice of religion has been formed by individuals born with the gene for pontification.  An individual with said genetic tendency might find an outlet for the tendency by preaching religion.  I believe it is a hereditary trait that makes Southern Baptists boogie to gospel rock and roll, and makes Jews sit painfully bored listening to their Rabbi.  Rabbis, some of them, have the gene.  I'm not saying religion itself originates from the gene, it is the way it is practiced.  Religion is directed by people holding the gene delivering long, passionate sermons.  If it wasn't  about religion, it would be science that someone won't shut up about, and who demands everyone capitulate.  I'm suggesting that academic science is directed by people most inclined to argue the subject.  The way shit is taught in college may be a product of a gene to pontificate about the subject.

There.  Now fuck me pink.  When you are not working for a college or a church, people have to dump their goofy cognition here, on a blog.  The slums of the human intellect.  I thought of this shit all by my fucking self.  And don't give shit about the 'God gene,'  I didn't think of it, and it isn't relevant here.  The God gene renders people amenable to the existence of the supernatural.   Big fucking deal.  It's the fuckers who convince people of its validity.  They have the gene I'm cherry picking here.  I have the gene, too.  I'ts why I get to be such a fucking bore.

Wahoo, My Search For Inner Peace Landed Carp

No where to fish but  the aquarium.    Whirly with fly reel across the rugs.  A dainty plunk.  Bubbles.   The burbling of the electric water airation assembly.   Your catch is small and not well regarded by commercial fisherman.  You, sir, are not a champ.  You are a small fry.  I have been told this so often I came to believe it.  I keep it to myself.  I hide my emotions under a size four and half Stetson.

Perplexed.   I had ordered from ebay.com a stainless steel biker ring that was supposed to look like the Hindu god Ganesh, and I received what looked like scrap metal from a terror incident.  It was miscast.  Or so it looked.  It was ugly.   No further comment.  No, I mean no detail could be seen.  It was not Ganesh, the elephant headed, person bodied, lotus poised Hindu honcho.  But there occurred to me a precept:  What if I had gone short term vision impaired, the day the ring came in the mail?  That idea came just now.  Until that doubt cropped up:

Suppose there was a mass of soot from having cast a highly detailed image of Ganesh still clinging to the stainless steel likeness?   And over a three day period a non-Hindu man wears the ugly formless-looking ring?  And over that time, the soot wears off of the ring?  It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone.  First, I wrote back to ebay, complaining that I received a shitty ring.

I set the lousy, formless, ugly ring by the computer, found the 'return policy,'  went through it, took and sent pictures of the ugly ring, with part of my mug behind it cause I used a web cam, and two days later I got my money back, easy, breezy, cheesy.   The seller said I didn't have to return the ring, and was gracious about the refund.  I had been gracious in my return procedure communications.  I feel almost honorable for being so post-free-trade-agreement hip. ' Look at me negotiate on the Internet.'  So there's that asshole ego, that stupid media saturated mentality that I would honestly like to overcome, fucking with my pale, over-stimulated little mind.  Boo hiss, you soon will agree is in order.  Here is why:

As soon as I determined, in the My Ebay section of the web site, that I got my money back and still owned the ring, and I wasn't going out any place nice, I had no reason not to wear the ugly, shitty ring.  There is no one here to dislike the appearance, or to like a pretty one, for that matter.  I'm a free agent, on the dim side of the moon.  Folks don't all beam from the same power grid.  So as I wore the ring, and figited about as I normally do, neurotic, OCD, I'm always fishing in my pockets, like a dork, the soot on the Elephant deity came off, atom by atom, so it took most of week for the detail in the ring to emerge.  But as it emerged, I took notice, in short snips, like an ADHD case.  On the final day of transformation, I had placed my right mitt on a door frame and leaned forward to look at something that had fallen on the floor.  Doesn't matter what.  An old gas bill.  Could mean something.  From the spirit world.  Just before picking up the bill, I noticed the ring in front of my puss.  All the detail in the ring had emerged, the rest of the dirt had fallen off, and Ganesh was looking right at me, giving me the message of inner peace.  "Took you long enough," Ganesh told me.  "You're not wrapped too tight, are you, junior?" he said.

Perplexed again, I asked, "But Ganesh, you are all about peace, it seems that you are P.O.ed at me."

Ganesh smiled, bowed his great head from the lotus position and said, "Back home we eat shit like you for lunch."

There's a moral to the story, if you don't mind wiping off the soot.  A belated message of inner peace doesn't sound as good as when you land one more promptly.   One should be quick about shit.

A Word Crawled Up My Butt, And It Really Wants Out

The word is 'narrative.'   It came into popular use in the media a few years ago.  Can't recall what term was used before that for the crap that comes out of the snoot.   The term is used for the public statements politicians make.   Other professionals, academics among them, are using the term for a person's bag of words spilled in print and television media.  I have a few ideas on why the new use of an old word.

Politicians have always been known to lie.  So do a lot of other people.  Business people lie.  Information gets bolixed.  I think the term 'narrative' is used because people have become so pervasively dishonest that what is said can no longer regarded as statements of fact.  It's about the difference between what dishonest people say, and what they or their people do.  Their narrative may have little, or nothing, to do with what is really on the slate.  Our government is known to perpetrate deception.  Businesses perpetrate deception.   It is  no longer sensible to believe what is said.  People listen or read, and wait to see if what was said jibes with what happens as a result.  When a public figures speak, we are not hearing the truth, we are hearing their story.

An example:  In Hillary Clinton's narratives, the Clinton Foundation raises money on behalf of social agendas.  In most working models, the money is distributed to nonprofit agencies, which pay themselves to act as a surrogate God.  They will provide for the poor and rescue the oppressed.  If that doesn't work out, and it rarely does, a sector of the middle class gets a nice salary while pretending to help the poor and oppressed.  In all narratives, the organizations claim to be great humanitarians and philanthropists, intellectuals, scientists and freedom fighters.  In my crabbed, miserable experience with nonprofit agencies people were jerk offs, professional or otherwise.  Most were there for the money, few had much regard for the poor and oppressed.  Embitterment can be degrading.  I'm down there.

Another example is very recent, just came up, fresh as a turkey egg, on Facebook.  People have been talking about Ben Carson's narrative.  I don't recall him saying he grew up in public housing, but it seems from the banter that at some point he did, and now the word is that he didn't grow up in public housing.  If he lied in the course of a statement of fact, this would illustrate my point that what he says is more fiction than fact. Hence the term 'narrative.'

For alternative theories, the word might sound more sophisticated, more literary, than what the previous term for bullshit was.  Lots of people like to sound more sophisticated than they are, and words like 'narrative' sound more intellectual than 'speech' or 'the hash that prick was slinging.'  It all means the same thing.  Another thought is that the word makes politics sound more humane and advanced, though people are still a load of vicious barbarians, with credentials.   The US has become a silk purse made from a sow's ears.  Only possible now with advanced technology.  We are too far removed  from the body politic to observe what is being done.  We rely upon narratives to understand what is being done, and the information is unreliable.

 We are told stories, on the news, before we go to sleep. Sleep well.  Dream in a beautiful, warmly illustrated narrative.  Your dream is probably nearer to fact than the bullshit we hear in the news.  The nearest substitute for the word 'narrative' is 'bullshit.'

Jeez, people are thinking like losers.

The Donald wins the election, and people are convulsing inward like a punctured jellyfish.  The win is an opportunity.  A basket of opportunity to flump your personal agendas inside out, shake out the bugs, and revitalize like a motherfucker.   Re-contextualize, fuck it.  Re-frame shit.   Ask what it will take to get heavies like Steve Bannon to support your agenda.  Hint:  Don't talk like a pussy.  Same agenda, no lisp.  Tell fucking old Steve to let gay men kiss in public all the fuck they want.

Which brings us all, you, me, and visitors from outer space, the supernatural, leprechauns, to my agenda.  Not that I'm one myself, but I'm putting a plug for the betterment of exhibitionism.  Lot's of people, all genders, all creeds, like to flash their private parts on subways and in alleys. People beat the living shit out of exhibitionists sometimes.  It's a rough and risky sexual orientation.  I think exhibitionists should be included in the LBGT umbrella grouping. Everyone should be getting equal protection from harsh treatment.  Especially geriatric age subway flashers.  They're a dying breed.  Like the Wahoe Indian.

Mr. Trump purports to care about American ideals, and I'm not about to prevent the incoming Prez from bowling all strikes in this ninth and tenth frame, in a bowling tournament with a long history of gutterballs.  I support everyone's right to jerk off in theaters.   A woman's right to flash twat will be respected.  Bring back streaking.   Nude protest rallies.   Bra burning.  I'm getting a chubby from just thinking about all the social progress.

Most important though, don't let the last election get you down.   Look at me.  I'm up. 

Sometimes, maybe often, when it is impossible to reason with people...

...who are sorely fucked in the head, people stop bothering to make sense, or to tell the truth as they see it, or to support social causes kept in the hands of irrational, angry alt left/alt right bigots, an individual on the fringe may resort to pure silliness.  No need for substance, no one is responding to it.  I'm just fine with this national social disaster.  Please enjoy the nonsense I composed the other day and pasted below.  Cheers.


Bongo Dooma, Dear Friends

A new sound has come into my days. The sound of something like a drum, you might envision bongos, and that's just fine, for now. Up the pike you will amend vision. It is not a bongo drum. It bongs, it is struck with the hand. If you didn't bring one, there are extra here, in the chapel.

Bongo Dooma is chanted while drinking orange juice sweetened with ripe figs. From a ceramic mug. From Dollar Tree. It is our shrine to the things we must buy, one item at a time, a dollar a pop. We get bread from the Goodwill Store, where it is left out front for the vagrants. I, my dear cousins, am a vagrant.

The Bongo Dooma only now can be revealed, for true. It is this noise, the noise of bubbling amniotic jizz, heard while in utero, and remembered, in spite of conventional forgetting. You always remember, but you fuzz the fuck out of it, for you have other shit to do. The Bongo Dooma returns, grateful to be accepted in your head dress. You are at peace. The fluids you pickled in during gestation evaporated long ago. But they are are still here. They are here. Condensing on a burned out light bulb. Dripping behind a loose sheet of wall board. Dampening the futon you sleep on. No fluids, no joy. You are happy, you see. I am certain. Thank you. You are standard. 

Straight Men Dig Good Interior Design, Too, You Crass, Insensitive Sissies!

Imagine a dystopian community, albeit a puny one, here, where reasonably healthy heterosexual men waste nights pining  to carry on just the wee-est business in the humanities.  Straight men write poems, too, bastards.  I'm really getting J.O.ed with the local gay no fraternizing policy Pittsburgh has, and has had, quietly, since Stonewall.  Sure, bastards, all artists, writers and musicians are LBGT.  Breeders claiming different are dim witted second class citizens.   From an ancient Meditaranian folk maxim, " for children a woman, for pleasure a six foot eight basketball hunk."   I know how you bastards are.   Imagine one lousy fucking little thing:  Straight men do good interior design, too, bastards.


I can mail order life size cardboard stand up figures of Liza Minelli and Jerry Lewis.   I'll let you borrow my Judy Garland records.   I Like New York In June, too, queers  Stop persecuting heterosexual men.