Fucking Sage Bullshit

Branding and the American Identity Crisis


Fuck, fuck, fuck, you've heard of it in one dialect or other.  The Identity Movement. 

I'm not one of those stupid fascist pricks who demand recognition as Ubermensch.  I'm humble and generic.  Unlike me:  There are white supremicist groups like the KKK, Nazis of all genre, Daughters of the American Revolution, and white trash everywhere, and all may agree they are entitled to and have been fucked out of an identity.  I'm not into that shit, and I'm not pro-Trump, so don't bust a zit over party affiliation. I am sharing an idea.  Maria Fucking Montessori her fucking self would have smiled at this  wee act of self expression.  I have a motherfucking little thought.

I'm in pale-faced, anemic sympathy with a view that affirmative action has marginalized low earning non minority men.   Political agendas such as feminism has come at the cost of men who didn't beat their wife.   Agendas favoring minority groups has had a toxic effect on people who are excluded from them. Again, Trump and his pals can go play in the traffic, but Trump's concept of branding may provide individuals a substitute for the sense of self that social politics has destroyed.  Don't be a white supremecist.  Be a name brand on the goods and services you provide in a free market economy.

  Sure, it's like saying, "I'm not a man, I'm an Amana freezer."  But it's more like saying, "I'm Bruce Fucking Reisner and my identity is in the brand of shit I produce.  I'm cool, my widgets and services are cool.   When you buy a Reisner widget, you help cement my identity.  All five foot ten, one hundred forty pounds of it.   An American is their brand of stuff.  We are what we do.  How we became Americans, is, at this point, not worth sweating.

Modern Mythologies

Fuck Odysseus.   Fuck the rest of Greek and Roman mythology, too.   Old.   Trite.  How the fuck are people supposed to relate to ancient garbage, when shit none of it currently resides with us in our condos and homeless shelters?   I'm a modernizing ass motherfucker, and I aims to update myth.

 Like the myth of the horse whisperer.  It was the title of a popular book, but, worse, it's  become a meme for people who are more sensitive and intuitive than ordinary boors and slaves.  As the name implies, horses feel better about themselves and are more cooperative when the limpid, pulchritudinous  horse whisperer whispers to it his/her intuitive genius for making horses feel good inside.  Exactly what the bastards say to the horses is private, hence whispering, but it must be something fucking prophetic on the part of that horse-whispering POS.  Great for horses, I suppose, not calculating any hardship this poses for people who don't have extra-normal  relationships with animals.   It makes it seem like the general run of cowboys are a bunch of stupid, rotten pricks.

I don't hate horse whisperers, I am dismayed that people are responsive to this stupidity.   There is always demand, in society, for people with special talents, like sword swallowing or yodeling.  Please, though, don't bother convincing me it makes greater sense to swallow swords or yodel than it does to get drunk and then laid. 

 So far, I never met a horse whisperer I would care to keep as a friend.  You can't walk into a bar with one without some asshole reminding you that your friend talks to horses, and you don't.  I don't even have a fucking horse!

Micro teensy manifesto

People keep giving me the razz.    Supposedly, I didn't do anything to help during a fracas.  Not the first time I've been maligned for doing nothing.  Recall the words of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke.  "Sometimes nothing's a real cool hand."  So true, and true again I did nothing to prevent a non-fatal violent incident from going on longer than it did.  A ninety pound little gridder attacked his mother (or legal guardian, auntie, what the fuck ever) and they locked in one of the meaner strangle holds I've had the case load of observing, like six feet away.  There was a three person struggle to get the screaming brat under control.   The reason I stayed still and minded my own business is because if I punched the old broad in the face, she'd counter punch, and I might be injured.

Fuck people who think I should have done something about it. The bus stop is like the hair trap below your bathroom sink.  We can discuss ways to remove obstructive masses of hair, so the sink drains, but we can't stop shedding hair from forming an obstructive mass within the plumbing.  You can't pour Drano down the sink every time the water foams and gurgles  sluggishly.  I've attended classes at a liberal arts college.

Conservative isolationism.  Works great.

So what if life is getting really really dull?

I've been living just south of an adorable little flood plain for sixty years.  If Shirley Temple had been, during the Great Depression, a flood plain, she would look exactly like here right the fuck now.   I have a view of this trailer park from my living room window, and the floating aluminum siding, insulation materials and lulling dry wall slabs remind me poor planning nets bad results.   If it was possible to predict getting hit by a meteor, the one poor shit-head who got hit with one, in recorded history, might have stepped out of the way and not got hurt.  Yet I don't hold the poor prick responsible, because it's very freakish to be hit with a meteor, and fucking near a shoe-in that French Creek will flood.  It's been pulling the exact same shit for centuries.  

Stupid people are a danger to themselves.  And others.  The Keynesians might be right after all.  People are too fucking stupid to avoid catastrophe.  Like by keeping their trailers farther away from French Creek. 

 There needs to be more institutions.    Subsidized high rise apartments, placed brightly above sea level.  A shiny new state hospital some place dry and quiet.  I'm changing my mind about organized religion, anything that keeps people busy is better than watching the assholes wander around with their thumbs up their ass, unable to understand why they are morons.  We need to construct more YMCA-like oblong brick buildings .  To put people in.  The process of socializing a barbaric hoard is a highly material brick and mortar type of initiative.   Note popular trends in prison culture.  Note how it's made the world safer.

fiction: You Need Nocroaka

I had been doing this act where I walk on stilts and juggle chainsaws.    There was an accident.  Chronic pain.  I'm retired to a cabin near Pymatuming, the power chair, the fishing poles.  I like to joke that floods improve my chance of fishing.  Some people get pissed.  Some dear one's bungalow might have washed into French Creek.  By now, their floor boards are clogging up the Sesquahanna.

 Had they never thought of putting a trailer farther away?  One marvels at how mobile homes transform first to a house boat, and then a submarine.  At times I think the Law of Occum's Razor is an Avon Bottle.  

Either people set bad priorities, or they don't have need to establish any.  A fern is not able to ask the government for fertilizer.  I'll cut any soul a wee inch of slack if there's constitutional barrier to simple common sense, like choosing to get the fuck off sea level in Pymatuming.  Still, the simplicity I live by is not on the menu in some of dumps up the pike.  People insist on sustaining the standard of living that made them obese and diabetic.

That's really enough crying about man's inhumanity to his own dim-witted self.  I'll spare comment on the way they pump their own nervous  incapacity to comprehend into my carefully attained certainties, like I was being hard to get along with.    I became a hermit for this and too many other reasons.

I'm talking about chronic pain from a stilt juggling accident, and the pain doesn't go away, it hangs out and uses up your stash, leaves dirty dishes lying around, makes snide remarks.  The only thing that helps each and every time is a double shot of Nocroaka.  It has just the right shit in it.

fiction, continued: My Life On Hollywood Squares

I can still pole vault...

...at age 97 because I've been using Nocroaka Tonic for the last seventy years. A native American gave me the formula. Nice guy. I was puking my guts up on Rodeo Drive, bad acid trip. A wee slug of Nocroaka and I was back to normal as it gets. Exactly what the shit is is still a secret,mine, formerly the Native American gent's, too, but he got run over by a green Peterbuilt trailer truck. I'm sure he'd be here among the living at age 120 if he hadn't incurred misfortune.

Nocroaka prevents you from dropping dead. You still have to look both ways before crossing Rodeo Drive. A shit load of vital nutrients can't hold your hand and burp you. They go organ to organ working miracles. They start in the tum-tum, migrate to the liver, swing a louie to your heart, then all the vitamins and minerals take a jaunt to your brain, and do a nice old job of shoveling out the stables.

You take better craps on Nocroaka.