Geezer Libertarians: White Heterosexual Males Fighting for their Survival in a Hostile World.

sorry, couldn’t keep a straight face for that!

February, 1981: The Toronto Bathhouse Raids Protest, which provided the impetus for the first “Gay Pride” March

There is a certain type of online commentator who rears his head (and they are overwhelmingly male) on issues typically described as liberal concerns: Queer equality, Feminism, social welfare and so on.

I call them Geezer Libertarians. White, male, heterosexual; minimally educated, middle-aged, sub-clinically depressed – their characteristics can easily be read through their statements and their writing styles.

In Britain, these men are caricatured with a supposedly typical signature that might appear on a letter to the editor in The Times or The Telegraph: “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells”; that city’s name being a byword for everything white, middle-class and complacent.

Wherever they exist, their default posture is outrage, in varying degrees; their emotional stance, scorn for anything that benefits or even pays attention to another demographic; their identifying sound, the splutter.

Their grumbling, carping responses, their symbolic pats on the back and “here here!”s, are the male bonding exercises, the tire-kicking, of men stuck at the emotional and intellectual level of alienated teenagers; the surreptitious glance at the next guy in the shower has been replaced online with a quick glance at his neighbour’s irrelevant opinions; the hope in both cases being that he will measure up, by which he really means, “belong”. At the root is self-imposed male isolation and fear.

If you read the comments to this article, you will see that heterosexual males went approximately crazy with the idea that the police should issue a formal apology for harmful actions in the past. The fact that it concerned (mostly) gay men was the cherry on the red flag – if I may mix my metaphors…

(Backgrounder:  On February 5th, 1981, Toronto Police raided three bathhouses, causing substantial property damage and arresting 300 men on “bawdy house” charges.  These shocking events galvanized the gay community, who staged a protest to voice their outrage.  The events led to Toronto’s first Gay Pride, in June the same year.  Fast-forward to June 2016, 35 years later, on the eve of Toronto Pride – now a massive and world-famous event taking place over a month, and drawing over a million people to the city – when Toronto Police Chief Mark Saunders announced that he would formally apologize to the gay community for the raids.)

My favorite comment: “How about everybody apologize for everything!” – a comment so devoid of meaning or substance, of anything except a pathetic cry of “Me too!!”, that I marveled that anyone would actually think they had contributed to an intelligent discussion by posting it. The option of saying nothing when one has nothing to say had apparently not occurred to him.

An apology? Of course. The original actions sent the message to society that gay men were not worthy of respect or dignity; that it was OK to mistreat them. The apology sends the message that it’s not OK, and that we are worthy.

Equal, in fact.

Bucket of Fresh Cow Offal : A Primer

Never forget how good I am to you.  For although not a single soul has written to request further wet- and/or hard-making stories of my shameless, controlled-substance-derived debauchery, I naturally take it for granted that you were simply too shy, or still too busy wanking to the last lot to shoot off – if you’ll pardon the expression  – an email.

But I know you all too well, mes adultes terribles!  So without further ado I make with the vicarious thrills:  Forefingers on lips!  Shhhhh!  Secret!

First of all, I would like to squelch, and here you may imagine if you will the sound made by a baby cockroach yielding up its tender carapace to the pressure of my thumb, the rumors that I am a bossy person.  Bossy!  As if!

This shows you how fucking judgmental people are.  Yeah, like YOU, Hildebrand!  So listen up, and I suggest you might want to take notes on this in Google Keep, seeing as you’re so Of. The. Moment!

I am not Bossy.  I am Goal-Oriented.  Like, MY goals for YOU.  OK?  You getting this down?

Despair temporarily palliated. (Professional re-enactment.)
Despair temporarily palliated. (Professional re-enactment.)

Secondly, at issue is the celebrated bucket of fresh cow offal.  This has been greatly misunderstood.   The bucket of fresh cow offal is not, I repeat NOT a reaction to five years of veganhood – five years which are now irrevocably lost to me;  five long years of hearing people who’ve never even met a Jew screaming “Hitler was a vegan!”; five miserable years of explaining why you are wearing jute shoes and cloth belts and using paper towels in lieu of the mink bath sheets you so richly deserve ;  five fucking years of Friday nights spent washing  the starch and bran from crude balls of whole-wheat dough in order to create seitan, an aptly-named vegan junk food that chews and tastes like – MEAT!   Holy cock-sucking mother of Christ, just eat some MEAT, DUDE !!

See?  Your first goal.

But enough about you.  The bucket of fresh cow offal is a palliative.  There is nothing, I tell you, nothing quite so soothing as sticking your head into a nice, sloshy bucket of fresh – FRESH, mind you – cow offal as a response to despair.

You may be wondering.

Yes, mes petits, for despite the untold evenings of your worthless lives spent running warm baths, lining up fresh razor blades and counting out the Oxycontins as you contemplate my charmed existence,  I confess that bouts of despair are likewise not totally unknown to me.  The most irritating cause,  naturally, is when people willfully refuse to achieve my goals for them, which we’ve already covered.

These people are not coachable and of course it’s just them them them morning, noon and night, so tant pis.  But a self-starter such as myself knows that to feed the teeming Petri dish of despair is so simple it is not even necessary to venture outside, bathe or get dressed, or even physically encounter someone.

If you’re a beginner, try:
Receiving a text from someone at 3 AM, then waiting until you get the “Five question marks of death”.  This looks like:

[them:] “Sup dude?”
[you] <not responding within their 30-second timeframe, usually because you’re asleep>
[them]: “?????

You see?  That sinking feeling, as though god-the-invisible-dentist has draped the phantom lead apron on your chest, is – yes – despair,  Level 1.  Gold star, sweetie!

For advanced despair, try:
Explaining “evolution” to a Christian.     I give you  Exhibits A and B:

Exhibit A:  A poster seen on Facebook.                                                                                            evolutionExhibit B:  A “dialog”. 2015-10-17 01-12-12And what do we have here?   Why, The Fucking  Lead Apron of Despair, that’s what!  <drape>  Thanks, god-the-invisible-dentist!

There is very little left in my bucket of fresh cow offal these days, so very frequently have I dipped this sorry, aging head into it.  Just a few rubbery bits of grey intestine and, coating the interior of the bucket ,a thin ox-blood-colored  crust of, well, oxblood.   So accustomed have my friends become to my despair-palliated upper regions, they now simply greet me, in tones of arch good humor, with:

“Hey, nice ox-blood-colored head, CASSIE!”

At which point my eyes bulge and I make an ashtray jump off the corner of their desk with my newly-awakened telekinetic powers.

Well.  It passes the time.

Yes I will call you …

Social Awareness: The Day, The Ribbon, The Sorrow

You may be wondering.

I know you may be wondering because you’ve been texting me  “???'” repeatedly since two this morning when I didn’t respond in under a nanosecond to your message consisting of “Sup?”

Well, “sup” is, to my chagrin, National “Walk-In-Front-of-David-Reeeaaal-Slowly-with-a-Cane-While-Being-Elderly” Day.  Which will explain why I didn’t make our afternoon hook-up where you wanted both of us to wear condoms. Both of us!  Freekin’ jeezus, dude, it’s only a hand-job!

(And as for discretion: You really believe your wife hasn’t discovered your “Color Me Barbra” LP under that “secret” porn stash of Chi-chi LaRue tapes? Dream on, girlfriend!)

 Don't forget the Peek Freans.
Don’t forget the Peek Freans.

Your Ribbon: To show your support for National “Walk-In-Front-of-David-Reeeaaal-Slowly-with-a-Cane-While-Being-Elderly” Day, wear a white ribbon that has been smeared with the red, gelatinous substance found in the centre of a Peek Freans™ Fruit Creme Biscuit™.

Insider Tip:  Actual crumbs are an optional, but supportive, gesture.

Let’s be sure we’re on the same page:  Some people are laboring under the misapprehension that National “Walk-In-Front-of-David-Reeeaaal-Slowly-with-a-Cane-While-Being-Elderly” Day is heralded by a yellow ribbon with dribbles of saliva and egg yolk.*

Now, I can totally understand how you could mix these two up, what with their very slight similarity, combined with your IQ of 80 and inability to converse meaningfully with anyone over the age of six.  But truth is, saliva and egg yolk, to those who’ve done their homework, could only limn the look and feel of  “Old-Geezer-Who-Will-Be-Spending-His-Remaining-Years-with-his-Ass-Adhering-to-the-Cushion-of-His-La-z-boy™-Recliner”  Month.  

At least try to make an effort, OK? Or pretend?

Next Monday (Spoiler Alert): Be up bright and early to celebrate the start of

“Get-Honked-at-From-Behind-By-a-Welfare-Case-Driving-Their-Motorized-Wheelchair-down-the-Pavement-With-One-Hand-While-Simultaneously-Drinking-a-Timmies-Coffee-Smoking-an-Export A-and Clutching-A-Small-Yet-Overfed-Yapping-Toy-Poodle-With-Rheumy-Pink-Eyes”  


(Mauve ribbon with taffeta overlay in nicotine brown.)

But I mean, honestly. People are SO self-centered.

* Since you asked.  Regarding the “some people” question, it is axiomatic that “some people can get a thrill knitting sweaters and sitting still.”  In fact, that’s peachy for some people who don’t know they’re alive. That’s OK for some people of one hundred and five!   But I at least gotta try.  

Gee, don’t come rushing at me all at once, like a Handel chorus

Veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor. Strawberry = you.

Well! (he spluttered).

This is a fine how-d’you do!

I work myself to the bone getting all sacrilegious, spend literally minutes in Photoshop desecrating the memory of possibly the 10th-greatest plummy English contralto who ever lived, blend it half-heartedly together into a veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor that would make a reader of Harvard Lampoon blush, and what thanks.

Not even a flicker of furious placard-writing activity from the Phelps family; No snooty, outraged editors at Gramophone magazine canceling my remaining issues; No high-minded “disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” complaints, not even a sad little WordPress unsubscribe¹.  Nada. Plenty o’ nuttin’.

A great big world so full of “NO” it could make Dame Janet herself take up a second career in lap dancing.  (Dame Janet Jackin’. Off her high horse and onto yours.  So to speak.)

A great big world so chock-full of “so-what, dude?” it could make a co-pilot take an Airbus filled with over-stimulated adorable teenage choristers on their first trip away and apple-cheeked adorable grannies clutching Tupperware containers of brownies in their lap lest the icing should get dislodged during turbulence, and face-plant it into the nearest Alp.  As if!

When it comes right down to it.  Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?  Like, Hello-o-o-o – ! Over here, darling, other person who exists!  Lips moving that aren’t your own!  I mean really.

But never you mind, Murgatroyd. Your pathetic attempts at making amends by text message come too little and – at 3.37 AM – way too late.  I’m resilient.  I’m a survivor. I’m filled with pluck, grit and spunk.  Or at least I was on Saturday night which I assure you is the last time I’ll try to get laid by a shift-worker in a chicken-processing facility. While on the job!

It’s all the more grist to my application-for-lifetime-and-beyond-PTSD-benefits mill, cause guess what?

You are just the strawberry on my smoothie, babe.  Naked.  Or even better, in your saggy, made-at-home-yet-still-just-as-crappy-as-if-made-by-Third-World-slave-labor American Apparel Y-fronts.

And one more thing since I finally have the floor and will miracles never cease you’ve paused for breath:  Jesus WAS white.

You know how I know?

The Bible tells me so.

¹ Update:  Between starting this post and finishing, someone DID 
unsubscribe.  Which would seem entirely to put the kibosh on the 
already pretty thin premise of the piece. This might flatten 
a lesser man.   But self-esteem, no matter how rooted 
in fantasy it may be, always 
wins the day.  So nice try.  Little Miss Unsubscribe.