The trait that has surged out of control in recent years, the one, above the rest, that makes people angry enough to punch each other now in the land of the free and the home of the brave, is brazenness. You say I’m disrespectful? How about I stare you down and punch you in the fucking face, is that disrespectful enough for you, ass wipe?
You see it on TV all the time in our violent, brazen culture. Years ago a football player who did an in-your-fucking-face victory dance in the end zone would be carried out on a stretcher the next time he came on to the field. The players would all be stone-faced about the accident that dislocated his leg, but the message would be delivered. Don’t be a fucking hotdog.
Now we are Hotdog Nation. If you don’t boast, brag, celebrate every small triumph, it is taken as a sign of weakness. Humility is now widely regarded as a vice of the timid and a badge of inferiority here in Hotdog Nation. If there are two widely hated political rivals vying for an important post, the one who rubs the other one’s nose in their excrement, not the one who takes what used to be called the moral high road, will most often be elected. Brazenness pays. Ask President Brazen.
And so it is with all of the unfairly maligned men in the president’s orbit. If some bitch accuses you of doing, whatever, say it’s only something as innocent as good-naturedly lying on top of somebody, while both of you are drunk, and trying to cop a few innocent feels, you do what needs to be done. You attack. Go for the fucking face, punch, kick– if you can get your foot up in their face, that’s the best. Why dirty your hands on a lying bitch if you can Bruce Lee her in the face a few times? She won’t be talking shit so easily after a few good socks in the face, will she? Death threats are good, if you’re really out there, there are risks, you know, but the threat of a lawsuit is often just as good as a death threat. Most people will fold like a flimsy origami bird when the process server hands them the legal papers.
Of course, a long time rabid Republican operative, active during the Newt Gingrich revolution against that liar about a blow-job Bill Clinton, who ran into battle screaming, writing furious, secret memos to his boss Kenneth Starr, and later for Bush and Cheney, after being at the legal front of the mob of right wing lawyers who ensured that Mr. Bush’s chance to be president would not be harmed by a full recount of contested votes, well, a man with those credentials needs no lessons in brazenness. Still, Mr. Kavanaugh is an impressive specimen of brazenness, as he must be to do what he does.
What he does is stand there and stink.
We don’t know if the now two women who have reluctantly come forward with allegations of long ago sexual assault, amid death threats for the first and blanket denials from most people contacted in the case of the second, are 100% credible. That is why the accusers themselves are calling for an FBI investigation, since otherwise partisan witnesses tend not to lie to the FBI the way they might when asked to sign a letter, or are questioned by a journalist who irrationally hates the president. We do know that, while impressively brazen, the barrage of denials from the White House and the nominee are mostly a fine spray of aerosolized pig feces, mixed with urine and blood. There is a reason for this.
When we create bacon, ham, pork chops and all those delicious things made from pigs, it takes a certain amount of time to get the little suckers good and fat. Nothing hard to understand about that, right? While we are growing them big and delicious, they have to make. They make every day, a few times a day. There might be a hundred thousand pigs, or more, at any given time, in a decent sized pork facility. What do you do with all that disgusting stuff they make when they’re alive– and with the inedible bi-products they leave behind when they are turned into delicious cuts of meat? You make a lake, and dig it deep, if you have any plans to be in business for a while. No matter how deep you dig it, if you are successful, you will need to start getting rid of some of that mixture of urine, excrement, blood and pus from infections. Otherwise, it will overflow, obviously, and cause disgusting problems. A problem: an opportunity to be creative.
So here’s what you do: you stick a pump into the bottom of this stinking muck, connected to a hose with a spray nozzle. I don’t know the science, exactly, but you get the pump going, raise the hose high into the air and turn the nozzle of that hose on. A very fine spray, the finest spray, of whatever you want to call that stuff, can be sprayed high into the air, lowering the level in the lake. That’s what we do anywhere there is a lake of pig waste.
The mist falls on the poor, the only people who would be stupid enough to live near an industrial pig farm. The stink of those farms is unforgettable, if you’ve ever driven past them with the windows up, trying to hold your breath, you will never forget the stench. Poor people have to get used to it. As soon as they see that plume of spray going up into the air over their homes, the smart ones stay inside and make sure all the windows are shut tight. There are always some, of course, who walk outside and get soaked with the stuff. That’s because there are winners and losers.
Winners gloat, and losers suck it. Call it brazen if you like, the attitude of entitlement on the faces of those of us who will never be stupid enough to walk in a misty rain of pig waste, but would you rather be blinking away a mist of pig waste, or doing a victory dance, in a beautiful, tastefully furnished bathroom, every time you succeed in moving your bowels? Doesn’t sound like much of a choice, does it?