I’m just so very much not hysterical about Notre-Dame de Paris

let’s burn the rest of them down, too.

an image of Notre Dame on fire, with the rose window superimposed and the words "ora pro nobis', "pray for us."
Please don’t pray for us.

Yes, gentle readers, today’s theme is “disasters, real or imagined” and to kick off, I must apologize for my absence from these bloggy parts during the last few weeks. You know how much I crave your attention, and the very quickest among you will therefore deduce that only the very choicest disasters Contents: One Acme Premium Fuck-Up (keep refrigerated until use) would prevent me from lying naked on my front lawn, under the ever-judgmental eye of Joyleen, Timbercreek’s Tenant Total-Compliance Manager and unofficial red-hot mama, and wallowing in it.

Well, right you be, and this particular chunk of premium personal disaster, which thudded into my life like a chocolate-covered cluster of Santa’s leftover coals, managed to glom together:

The calculator-wielding gremlins of the Canada Revenue Agency, who for some reason has wanted my response concerning six years of unfiled taxes, and for which I have apparently discarded all of my receipts and records, and resorted to the sleazy low-ball strategy of assessing me at over forty-thousand owing, garnisheeing my pension then freezing my bank account;

And the task of placating and managing two pissed off potential roommates, pissed off because I promised the room to a new one, then got cold feet and backtracked, promising to continue renting my room to the current one, then changed my mind again and promised it for real to the second one, then backtracked again and sort of, kind of, promised both of them that they’d probably overlap and it would work out OK for a month, though secretly wishing the first one would storm off in a huff and solve my problem for me.

So you see how all this could sideswipe one’s delicate creative process.

I will not spare you the update, which goes:

I am finally preparing my delinquent tax returns, aided by my long-suffering buddy, a former corporate tax lawyer, who has taken his duties so much to heart that he is literally gasping for breath during our phone meetings and bombarding me every minute with over-determined, lengthy text messages about the exact percentage of my bedroom that can be used as a business expense but only during neap tide and in years that are divisible by three, and saying huggy stuff like, “You might be in serious trouble!” so that my brains plop out of my ears in chunks, like boiled cauliflower, with the stress. Check!

And what was the other one again?

Of course, the roommates: I figure I’ll just let them both believe they’re exclusive occupants of the room, set up a webcam on June first and sell tickets to my new reality show on YouTube. Because they can’t hate me any more than I already do. Can they?

Oh, yeah—I think someone, I have no idea who, has the keys to my apartment. It’s always good to keep a potential disaster in your back pocket, just in case life starts jumping in the puddles and singin’ in the rain.

Nip that in the bud!


I am constantly reminded that there are some goals I won’t achieve, qualities that will elude me no matter who I pay or what I practice; and though it makes no difference what the cause might be, you can blame it, if you like, on brain cells now walking with canes or too many distracting, shiny objects in my field of vision.

One of these elusive qualities is relevance.

In case you haven’t been paying attention, or have just wandered in by mistake while searching online for a homemade poultice that will improve your bad temper, know this: I will never be relevant.

Waiting for timely commentary from me is like being bathed in the attenuated light of a supernova that exploded two billion years ago, around the time that we were single-celled plankton just beginning to figure out how to torture each other and smirking behind the reinforced windows of our gated plankton communities at the plankton wannabes, the plankton rapists and murderers, the hungry and undeserving plankton, and above all the loser plankton who didn’t realize they were supposed to be born rich plankton and thought they’d just rely on the kindness of algae.

Didn’t work then. Doesn’t work now.

So it happens that I am the last lonely voice in the blogosphere responding to the supposed catastrophe that is the loss of the roof—the roof, mind you— of Notre Dame de Paris, that saucy little French tramp of medieval cathedrals. This disaster, I will add, resulted in the loss of not one single life, which, let’s be honest, is kind of major underachieving for the Catholic church. You’re not going to win hearts and minds with that kind of complacency, Holy Fathers! Take those choirboy dicks out of your mouths and focus!

For if this, the loss of just a centuries-old roof and some resulting bruised French egos, is a disaster, what should we call the religion that caused Notre Dame to be built?

Here’s a “religion of love” whose First Crusade alone was responsible for over a million “infidels” slaughtered—who knows what the numbers might be when we reckon with the extirpation of pagans and “heretics” (by the Inquisition, who put Galileo under permanent house arrest and executed Giordano Bruno); those slain during four crusades, the “witches” burned at the stake, the toll from religious wars, the forced conversion and genocide of native peoples and Jews?

The Holocaust alone, at six million victims, is beyond comprehension, and that is only a drop in the bucket of the atrocities committed in the name of Christianity and its hippy-haired, anemic Prince of Peace.

Think of those souls lost to us: the artists, writers, scientists and philosophers who never walked the earth and whose genius might have transformed our destiny beyond recognition. Think of the brilliant ideas snuffed out, the awful silence which sublime music might have electrified. Think of the great loves, the life-changing friendships, the Alexanders and Hephaestions, the John Cages and Merce Cunninghams, that never happened.

So, I ask you, why? Why the great affection for and allegiance to this Shriners’ convention of maniacs? Why the weeping and wailing from Parisians who cannot all of them, I reckon, have attended Mass that regularly, practiced what was preached, or successfully avoided coveting their neighbour’s wife, ox, Renault or Le Creuset enameled bakeware?

Yes, Notre Dame is an iconic landmark, but so is the Chernobyl exclusion zone. And at least land denuded and rendered sterile by a nuclear meltdown doesn’t peel your skin off in shreds while telling you it’s for the sake of your everlasting soul.

Denuded land wouldn’t delude itself like that.

Some argue that, despite its little failings like mass murder, the Church was at least a repository of “knowledge” during the Dark Ages. True enough, if you don’t care whether your knowledge contains any facts, and if you put high store on the ability to illuminate manuscripts or to determine the number of angels on the heads of pins. But in that case priests were nothing more than a class of scribes, which would have existed in some form or another; and besides, the Renaissance replaced the weird fairy tales of Scholasticism with its revival of Classicism and its change of direction towards the observable, the logical and the open-ended.

The truly useful and advanced knowledge that had existed in the classical world—that the Earth was round and even the measurement of its circumference; the engineering marvels of aqueducts; knowledge of crop rotation and irrigation—had already been swallowed up by Europe’s collective amnesia. All the Church provided was more classy busy work, the single approved pastime of the era that didn’t involve creative use of cow dung or lancing boils.


The French must be forgiven for their utter lack of dignity around the Notre Dame fire. They spend so much time worrying about the purity of their culture and not bathing that they end up a little low on genetic variety and a little high on insecurity and neediness.

They over-react a tad.

They suspect, rightly, that they are mostly crashing bores who distract us with eye-popping fashion, caloric desserts and post-structuralism. These are all fairly useless finials on the curtain rod of culture, but hey. One secret of success is to get there first and write all the rules, taking care to ensure that the rules highlight your strengths.

The primary French strength is writing, then following, the rules.

Not for the French that messy, roll-up-your-sleeves, in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound British amateurism, that let’s have a go, make do or mend, it’ll all come out in the wash attitude with the lashings of ginger beer and the hearty slaps on the back.

No way. The French are not on board with a bit of cello tape and a bobby pin and who cares as long as it works; the French would not conceive of baking croissants at home, or attempting a five-star Michelin dinner. Too much is at stake, and if the result cannot match the original, why make the attempt? Muddling through just for the fun of it is simply not a thing.

Take the French Revolution, for example. They can’t just have a nice unruly protest, get some concessions, hire back the useless aristocracy to run their former stately homes as care-taking staff and costumed tour guides and then be done with it. Oh, no.

The French are either/or thinkers, rigorous intellectuals, and once the aristocracy are brought low and thoroughly humiliated, the revolutionaries must rewrite the rules. They will wipe the slate clean, and in its place substitute a new and perfect society, which just happens to be more rigid and intolerant than the one it replaced.

Rules, in other words, rules and perfection, enforced by the new tyrant who used to wash your underwear or resole your clogs, will replace the concept of justice.

That episode is affectionately known as “The Terror.”

For perfection is all very well and commendable when it’s Fauchon: Rows of exquisite concoctions in a bakery window with every dollop of ganache glossy as lacquer, icing sugar stenciled just so and a platoon of strawberries standing identically at attention.

Not so great when your tendency to perfectionism leaves the pâtisserie and runs amok in the real world, building instruments of torture and preparing concentration camps. Society’s perfection is a fascist fantasy, populated with happy workers and rosy-cheeked peasants whose memories have been wiped clean and replaced with the party line; perfection must cram many-faceted, multifarious human beings into an assembly line of identical, dutiful square pegs, and truth reverts to the medieval format, “because I say so.”

Fascism can be understood as turbocharged bureaucracy, with electrodes as back-up when computer says no fails. And the French are the ultimate bureaucrats. They’ll guillotine a cartload of nuns as soon as look at ya if the civil code says atheism’s the flavor of the month (renamed and shoehorned into the calendar like an ugly sister’s foot into a Louboutin pump), for they apply the same exacting standards to their citizens as they do to their pastries.

Then, like, just throw it all out and another king.


Muddling through or perfection? The English, muddlers from way back, developed a free-wheeling, uncodified system of common law, law created on the fly by judges, and by which future judges would be bound—so long as the facts of the case were similar.

This puts great store on the judiciary as the source of law and justice, and the idea that we would limit the discretion of judges is one we find suspect (think of how offended we are at the rigid “three strikes” laws and minimum sentencing guidelines of the United States).

We even developed a second discretionary system, the law of Equity, to rectify the inevitable injustices that might occur by applying precedent.

To keep everything ship shape we enshrine top-level concepts—inalienable rights and freedoms— in a constitution or charter, and trust judges to interpret the law according to these principles. Constitution above statute, above equity, above common law. Two systems of discretion, but ultimately trumped by codes and charters.

Quel horreur! Discretion! Interpretation! Where are the rules?

The French opted for a civil code, a nailing down of law, much like the Constitutional originalists in the States would like to nail down its meaning strictly according to “original intent” of the Founding Fathers—slave owners and misogynists and “well-meaning” perpetrators of native genocide in a pre-technological society.

Similarly, Republicans would like effectively to do away with judicial discretion simply by stacking the Supreme Court with right-thinking, pun intended, judges. This ensures that any possible discretion will be the correct, pre-determined flavor.

And this brings us to Québec’s Bill 21, “An Act respecting the laicity of the State.”


Bill 21 could be considered the province of Québec’s version of the medieval sumptuary laws, which set out what colors and textiles might be worn only by the aristocracy, and what was permitted to the peasants.

Bill 21 hides its true intent behind a veil of equality and religious freedom, while banning any form of religious expression by anyone in a public service job, and especially anything that covers the face. This applies equally should you present yourself to receive a service and need to be identified.

In effect, it bans clothing. Clothing. A law that dictates what you can and cannot wear.

By a neat coincidence, these face-covering religious symbols just happen to be worn only by Muslim women, which leaves them with a distinctly oppressive choice: Follow their religion by quitting their jobs and staying at home, or venture out in public and break the law, subjecting themselves to the disapproving glances of the “pure laine” (“pure wool”, meaning direct descendants of the original French settlers in the province).

Forgive me if I recoil ever so slightly at the concept of “purity” raised in tandem with race or heritage, and if the means to achieve “freedom of conscience and freedom of religion” is applied selectively.

(In theory, the ban also extends to turbans worn by Sikhs, but by a twisted, obscure logic these particular non-whites, being males, are spared the spotlight: Partly because they’re non-white and therefore don’t really merit the attention, partly because turbans don’t cover the face to render the wearer anonymous, and partly because—well, they’re men, and we don’t want to push our luck, you know?)

It is the business of the state, the Act declares, to maintain a secular society, and this means that certain public expressions of religion are banned. These are, apparently an intolerable intrusion on the sensibilities of the non-religious.

Of course. This is why the good, secular people of Québec make like so many Nosferatu’s and shield their tormented vampire eyes from the sight of church steeples; and should those church doors be open on a Good Friday, I plug my ears against the invasive assault of the St Matthew Passion of Bach, which must threaten my very sanity, not to mention I keep bumping into lamp posts and parked cars because of the sensory deprivation.

This is why I welcome the burning of Notre Dame de Paris, and my only regret is that some snowflake apparently called the fire brigade in an act of wishy-washy accommodation.

Is our inalienable freedom respected, by default, by non-intervention? Or is freedom state suppression to prevent offence? If so, whose offence will take precedence?

For your answer, I suggest you look to the graven image of a naked man nailed to a cross, an object which holds pride of place above the chair of the Speaker of the Québec National Assembly and has done so for nearly eighty-four years. This crucifix was affixed in its current position by Maurice Duplessis, the conservative premier of the time, in 1936, around the same time he first referred to the Assembly as “Le Salon de la race;” that is, the Assembly of the pure French.

But isn’t this a religious symbol intruding in an intolerable manner on the secularity, the “laicity” (a word straight from Revolutionary rhetoric) of the state?

Not at all, for Chapter 4, Section 16 of Bill 21 states:

This Act must not be interpreted as affecting the emblematic or toponymic elements of Québec’s cultural heritage, in particular of its religious cultural heritage, that testify to its history.

Assemblée nationale du Québec, Bill 21, “An Act respecting the laicity of the State,” 14.6

In other words, we are white and we are Catholic, we are descendants of white Catholics, we are pure laine, and the crucifix is part of our history, not a religious symbol.

Crisse de tabarnac, ça c’est fucké!

Look to another bill, Bill 62, the “religious neutrality” bill put forth by Québec Justice Minister Stéphanie Valée and passed in 2017. This provided that women wearing the niqab or burka would have to request and be granted official accommodations to access any of hundreds of public services, from bus rides to libraries to health care, or be forced to unveil. Vallée explained that such accommodations would have to be considered on a case-by-case basis, and precedent would not be created by any accommodations granted. The Québec Superior Court suspended this particular section of the bill twice, pending a legal challenge

This is neither neutrality nor justice. This is an aggressive act of racism and religious intolerance. This is not truth. This is the argument from authority, because I say so.

This is fascism.

If we want to perfect society, it is obvious that we will have to admit whose perfection we’re talking about; admit that these bills have nothing to do with religion, but with race: with protecting Québec’s pure, white wool.

Pure laine. In my mind, that phrase conjures up an inescapable and chilling vision of the pure white hoods that veil the faces of the Ku Klux Klan.


Le salon de la race ~


In which I make nice to evangelical Christians…

…to Louis C.K., not so much.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. Welcome to the dank, stinking, deep-webbed birth of two thousand nineteen C.E., the year born with a widow’s peak and with swastika-black cat-eyes wide open; the year that explodes from the belly already signed-up for Uber and deploying its influential personal brand. Two thousand nineteen is the malevolent offspring of The Storm who can read the runes, divine the sinister intent in the charred bones and slippery entrails of a former President’s funeral…

…Look! as the playback enters digital slo-mo and we zoom in on Laura’s face, hard and expressionless as stone. She turns with unnerving calm toward George, her downward glance at his right hand spun out to thousands of frames per second; he passes into her left hand an assassin’s final message… 

…White envelopes. In every shot, members of the congregation are handling large, sealed, white envelopes…

…A specialist commentator reads body language, like a sportscaster: Obama’s bored; Clinton’s agitated; Trump’s the only one engaged. She’s right, it seems, but Trump is simply projecting his fascination with his own inner dialog; he’s wondering who’s next he can sack or screw…

What is in the white envelopes? God, what is it?

What’s in the envelope? What is the most obvious supplement, at a state funeral, to the souvenir program and the hymnal? In the wacko world of The Storm, there’s a white envelope, but what is in it? What must it contain?

“Child pornography,” of course: Our sad, lonely epoch’s psychopathic fantasy, its omnipresent allegory of the unspeakable and the uncontrollable.

Child porn—which undeniably exists, but not, as hysteria would have it, around every corner or as a constant given in the lives of our enemies—like the “satanic ritual abuse” of the 80’s, is our generic catch-all for the worst and our ultimate smear tactic, our most indelible stain. It is Medea’s hideous gift of poison coat and coronet that adhere to the flesh and boil it off the bones.

Our desire to stain—someone, anyone, signals our outraged helplessness and our unbounded paranoia. Our innocence, which is to say our trust, has been violated; we have no one to turn to; we sense we can never be as before. Our acting-out is a cry for help not from, or even about, children, but from ordinary, once-sane adults, from you, your neighbours, relatives and friends.

We’re all reduced to faceless confused casualties, wandering in and out of shiny dioramas constructed for our distraction. We’re eaten alive: our most banal secrets pimped out for ready cash, our daily routines surveilled and mapped to the millimeter.

Our thoughts and even our dreams take only the tightly circumscribed, brightly lit paths offered to them, rat mazes continuously reconfigured by the insidious soul-snatchery of THE DEVICE.

And someone must pay.


WELCOME to another year in which Parkland’s traumatized students, their teen years abducted then wiped out by the goons of the NRA, continue their quixotic battle for gun-control and try to recall anything of life in the time before, the time when their lives were ordinary kids’ lives, with no dangers more serious than turf toe, a fight with your best friend, the awkwardness of a first kiss.

For their efforts they are mocked by sad-sack dirt-bag comedian Louis C.K., who asks rhetorically, in his new comedy routine, if they think having survived a mass shooting makes them “interesting.”

No, Louis, in fact they’re the only ones in the room who aren’t thinking of themselves or their image. They’re trying to extract what paltry healing or meaning they can from the spilt blood and torn bodies of their lost classmates.

They’ve put aside their private grief to work for the common good of all Americans—even you, Louis. The beauty of what they are doing breaks my heart. They are doing the work that adults have abandoned.

Unrepentant adults, derelict in their duty, were too busy concocting puerile, self-serving fantasies to safeguard their vulnerable children, and instead sent them to school, blind, deaf and dumb, innocent as snow, to be bloodied by bullets, sacrifices on the stone of their stupidity.

To honor the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America, to propitiate its gods, to affirm its overriding, universal importance, children had to die. They had to.

American life is a lottery: A madman gets a gun; Kids die. You win some, you lose some. This is— just the way it has to be.

The teens of Parkland are doing what no teen should ever have had to do.

They are making, Louis, the changes that you are too limp to effect, impotent as you are with the pathetic, needy impotence of the flasher. The extent of your comic genius is to diminish their hope, ridicule their bravery and discount their terrible rite of passage, to spit your contempt. You’re revealed not as a fiery preacher of intellectual freedom but as an angry, bitter flop. No, Louis, it’s you who wants to be “interesting.”

Instead, you’ve revealed yourself as a rapist: a rapist who uses words to violate his victims instead of his cowed flesh-puppet, but whose mind is every bit as guilty as if he’d pinned them down until he’d finished.


RECENTLY I STARTED a new daily regime that involves, as its core feature, acknowledgement of the existence of people other than myself.

You know, and can I just say, seriously: It’s been hell.

This all developed from my attempt to figure out, via highly structured, in-depth research, why more people weren’t paying attention to me. Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar if it doesn’t turn out that if you pay more attention to people, they pay more attention to you.

I was fortunate enough to quite randomly pay attention to Mark Landry, whose blog is at Peacehacks.com, and he in his turn, as God is my witness, paid attention to me—just as the Newtonian Law of Blog Attraction predicted.

Then I discovered—in-depth, remember—that he was, and that his blog was targeted to, evangelical Christians.

Ah, yes. Evangelicals. Nineteen sixty-nine marked the riotous start of gay rights at the Stonewall Tavern, and subsequently that new visibility of the gay sub-culture that was like having all our protective camouflage ripped off and being herded into a clearing, ready for the Evangelicals’ open season. And the buttoned-down but very burned-up Anita “Come to the Florida Sunshine Tree” Bryant, as fellow freshman fag-seniors will recall, was perfectly positioned to light the straw at the foot of the stake as Christ’s perky, big-haired Joan of Arc.

Bryant was so effective in her noxious anti-gay crusade that—true story—every fag and every fag bar in North America boycotted Florida orange juice, thereby getting her fired from the Florida Citrus Commission’s ad campaign and utterly destroying any tiny remaining flicker of social cachet that still dangled from the tiara of the Screwdriver, nature’s own breakfast cocktail.

Save Our Children was the slogan of Bryant’s campaign, a once-whispered sentiment now finally heard loud and clear. She was adamant that gay men were out to recruit the young ‘uns and instruct them in our deplorable lifestyle, a toxic untruth that still, sixty years later, blazes barely contained under the surface of the discussion, like the Centralia mine fire of homophobia.

I don’t know if Bryant is dead, yet, but I’m definitely not. On peacehacks.com I gingerly offered my two nickels (inflation) on a post by Mark in which he had suggested his fellow Christians should get with the program and stop vilifying the caravan of Central American desperate and poor. (“Heaven is a gated community!” one gentleman offered; I didn’t check to see if he worked for ReMax or was offering time-share.)

Mark responded to my comment in a way that made me feel completely right and even appreciated for having participated. Later in the day I noticed that he had visited my blog and commented in his turn. Within minutes, I’d received his friendly invitation to write an article for his blog. You can see the results online.

So, pay attention to others and they’ll pay attention to you. I know it seems like desperately uncongenial work, filling in for people’s laziness in not completely re-ordering the universe to put you at the centre.

But it’s all we have.


» Read my essay on grace, compassion and the power of non-judgment, “Pivot Chords,” on peacehacks.com


Young Earth Creationists need to take Cher into account.

Just Occurred To Me #498:


cherondinosaurIt’s been common knowledge for years now that people in Kansas don’t believe in evolution and insist the earth is only 6,000 years old – (that’s younger than Cher, if you need a reference – please see conceptualization, above. I know, right??).

This raises serious scientific questions.

Thing is – doesn’t their non-belief in evolution PROVE that there’s no evolution?   Or is it just Kanzanians who did not evolve?

Is there such a thing as selective evolution, you know, evolution just for smart people?

Such a variant of evolution would obviously bypass Kansas completely, if not most of the mainland U.S.A.!  This could explain a lot!

There is, it seems, a huge gap in the fossil record, where – if evolution were true – there should be any number of prominent Kanzanians.  I’m thinking Amelia Earhart, Bob Dole, Arlen Specter, Marlin Fitzwater – of course, this being Kansas, some of their fossils are probably still walking around.  Except Amelia, who, along with fictional character and fellow Kanzanian Dorothy Gale¹, was just kind of embarrassed about the whole Kansas thing and “disappeared”.

Yeah, and her stupid little dog, too. Absolutely.

Anyhoo, all of this hard evidence leads experts in Kanzology to postulate that god, when he, like, created everything all at once, reserved a special lineage for Kansas apart from regular humans.

So god’s schedule was like, for example:  All the lakes, all the mountains, all the meadows, all the squirrels, all the cows, all the dogs, all the trees – then probably a coffee break!  Jeez!  and maybe a light snack like pizza poppers or even a Happy Meal –

THEN – back to work on day two:   All the flowers, all the oceans, all the giraffes, all the insects, all the spiders, all the mushrooms.  And so forth.

Then human beings.  Then Kanzanians.  You get the idea?  Separate.

So Kanzanians are like god’s chosen, unless god was having one of his “moods” or actually just forgot and stuck them in at the end.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  It’s a conundrum.

Re: The conceptualization, see above, which is just a fancy moniker for, like, a crude Photoshop composite.

As likely as the creationist thing sounds, I have some timing issues, and Cher, see above, is the spanner in the gears.

Honestly.  Take a look at the fake conceptualization.  Can you REALLY picture Cher riding a dinosaur, see above? I mean, I grant you, this is someone who wears her pubes as a red carpet ensemble with her armpit hair as a wrap, so sure, the fashion adds up – but basically the idea is ludicrous!

And secondly, check out her face, once again see above.  Her fake birth certificate, see below, gives a date 8,000 years ago, so her face, see above, would be, like, MUCH more haggard and wrinkled by the time she’d lived those 2,000 years before the formation of the earth! Right?

Like, has this not OCCURRED to anyone before?

And yet another mystery, what did she eat, I ask you, in the frozen wastes of space and time before the almighty got his shit together? Not even a microwave to defrost a Bird’s Eye TV dinner!  Which were probably not even invented yet, so let’s say, Swanson.

OK, whichever TV dinner was around, she could toss it into a quasar, maybe, but the cooking time of one-trillionth of a trillionth of a nanosecond as compared to the conventional oven or microwave methods is tricky to manoeuvre at the best of times, without, you know, the floating-totally-weightless thing which puts the kibosh on getting your bearings with regular space-time coordinates.

And don’t even THINK about if she like, got impatient and leaned over the quasar surface to see if the Salisbury steak was done before the apple crisp.

Holy anomalous mother of christ!  A lifetime of hair abuse up the big ol’ dippity do!  FOOM!

I rest my case.  This is the kind of rigorously scientific fake conceptualization based entirely on made-up data and laughably preposterous biblical hogwash that gets young-earthers where they live.

Which is, like— in Kansas.

“If ah could turn back ti-i-i-i-me….”


¹   Dorothy Gale is such a fuckin faggot! – ed.

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”.

screenshot-www.facebook.com 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.

In which I admit that I’m kind of wrong about something, but only in a way that totally validates me. So don’t get too excited.

To kick off this exercise in self-flagellation, let me share a post I made online – or “on the computer” as my Luddite friends say – earlier this week.  Here it is, beginning under the image – which is just a screenshot, so don’t sit there clicking on it.  I mean, really.


“   … And one more thing, directed at the author of this piece. I’m not shy about stating that I’m a left-leaning liberal, and atheist/humanist. But putting a caption on the video that starts with “Insane woman” is childish and uncalled for, and sets a poor example of tolerance, to say the least. Although I disagree strongly with this woman’s views, I would never demean her by labelling her “insane”. You need to treat people with respect, even if you don’t respect their ideas. Otherwise 1. You’ve alienated her and lost a teaching opportunity, and 2. you are just exhibiting the same closed mind that you claim to abhor.”

With the wisdom of hindsight:
Reading through my post — which I like to do when I’m not staring into my 52″ gilt-framed mirror and making little smooching noises — I must admit I had a ROTFL moment at “teaching opportunity”. Whatever I was smoking that day, you sure can’t have any because it’s obviously way good.

This woman couldn’t be taught to find her ass outdoors at high noon, a happy outcome that is unfortunately not available to the rest of us, whose light she is blocking. (And is that a dead muskrat on the occasional table? Sounds like lunch!)

Point #2 should be more about courtesy than about closed minds.  And yes, it’s apparent that I, too, need a few more trips, backwards in high heels, around the dance floor of discretion before I master the “Rise-Above-It Beguine”.

So off to the thirty lashes with a wet noodle facility for me, the better to recalibrate my mind under the severe yet lovingly-administered tutelage of my personal trainer, Brick Rod (about whom I still occasionally wonder: Why on earth did his parents name him that? And what’s with all the Art Deco furniture?).

There is a Number 3 that I forgot to add.

OK, I didn’t think of it till now. But still. And though it’s a bit subtle, I’m going to take a chance that you can handle it.

#3. Taking refuge in insults is not just beneath us, it diverts our attention from a serious, even sinister, truth.

Calling this woman “insane” dismisses and marginalizes her; to believe her insane is to believe that she has no power, and also to deny the angry, insane whiner who lives in each of us (q.v. the “Hitler was a monster” trope).

We would like to think of her, and dear addled Adolf, as flukes, freaks of nature; to believe it can’t happen here.

But oh my pretties, how wrong we are.

As my final word on the matter, allow me to share with you a postcard that has pride of position on my fridge:


Hope this helps.

{Quick question:  Are my titles obfuscatingly verbose?   Please be honest.

Oh, really?}

©2015, David Roddis.