Fair is Fair

This bears repeating.

America’s greatest genius, the man who figured out that America loves to shop and loves convenience, and designed and built the vast empire that makes this American dream come true, makes almost $9,000,000,000 AN HOUR.

Per hour, Jeff Bezos makes $8,961,187  — roughly 315 times Amazon’s $28,466 median annual worker pay.  An Amazon worker earning the $15 minimum wage would need to work about 597,412 hours, or 24 hours a day for about 68 years, just to earn what Bezos makes in one hour.  


Working more than half a million hours to make what your boss makes in one HOUR?   Fair is fair, we live in the land of unlimited freedom, but… something about the grotesqueness of  this disparity seems… I don’t know…

Accumulating a billion non-hereditary dollars means the person is a very successful genius, smarter and harder working than the average bear.  Here we call such persons philanthropists, when they choose to give some of their money back in the form of charity.   We often call the billionaires in other countries by less flattering names, like oligarch and kleptocrat.   In America there is no connection between any sinister motive, or simple greed, and the accumulation of a few billion dollars.   That’s why we are the land of the free, baby.

But 597,412 hours to make what your visionary boss makes in ONE HOUR?   I don’t know, something seems rotten about that arrangement.  Doesn’t smell fair, somehow, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.

White People’s Problems, Whining Complaint Dept.

The shorthand of this title, which I already regret, typically renders a more complicated universal problem black and white, in that moronic (to the death) way that racist formulations always do.   This problem I am referring to is a consumer problem, affecting any customer who needs service from virtually any company, though in this particular case it only affects consumers with enough money, and options in life, to be messed with by it.  It applies to a large class of privileged consumers believed, rightly or wrongly in our racist nation, to be disproportionately white (which most likely they are).  

It is part of our generally downward plunging expectations for anything flowing down to us from our masters, the corporate psychopaths and their human avatars, by way of “service”.    The corporations are not in business to serve anyone but the shareholders, who regard the rest of us as ungrateful, eternally taking serf motherfuckers, useless for anything but generating revenues.  In their defense, corporations do care enough to create lovely ads telling you how much they care, and their recorded announcements are also eternally upbeat and grateful for our business, and our patience.

Admittedly, I am an almost broken man.   Friends have been urging me to take a restful mental health break from my unpaid toils here, leave New York City for a week or two, breathe some fresh air, hike in new hills, play music with strangers far away, walk the streets of a city I don’t know by heart, refresh and reset. It is good advice.   I had an invitation to visit friends on the other side of the country, by the Pacific.   I finally took them up on their offer.  All I needed to do was book a flight.  

Not as easy as it used to be, unless you’re prepared to pay at least twice the “economy” fare, of course, for a particular seat.   If you have arthritis in both knees, for example, and need to get up and move around frequently to avoid pain, you might want to be sure you have an easy access seat.  

The situation I’m describing is a purely middle class, middle-aged problem — a wealthy person will not be affected by it, nor will a healthy young person, a poor person can’t even consider it.   You need to have the free time to travel, some extra cash, the need for an airplane to take you three thousand miles and the need not to spend all your vacation dollars on air fare.   These are not things the average American needs to worry about.   They will only afflict you if you qualify for a vacation in the first place, have some extra money and you are a squirmy baby with a so-called medical need to stretch your legs when you need to during a long flight.

I have been on a short hold with the airline now, after twenty minutes on their website yielded no answer to my yes/no question– is my aisle seat guaranteed?   I have ten hours left to cancel the tickets if that’s not the case.  

The hold was predicted to be about eight minutes but is already twice that (thankfully without ads or muzak) waiting to cancel flight plans I made last night.  I assumed that the cancellation line would be shorter than the other lines, wrongly, it turns out.  I will have plenty of time to edit this piece, once it’s done, before my simple yes/no question is resolved by a simple yes or no.    The answer is nowhere on their snazzy website, where you are instantly afforded the chance to evaluate their services in a survey.

I think about the arthritis in both of my knees, my need to move them frequently to avoid pain.   The flight west is about six hours, strapped into a seat.   I was looking for an aisle seat.   A seat on the aisle is now, apparently, a premium seat, even in “economy”, the rearmost section of the airplane.   Airlines no longer guarantee that the seat you buy in economy class, which used to be called “coach”, one of two former “classes” on a plane, will be the seat you reserved when you bought your ticket.  You buy a cheap seat at your own risk, asshole.   Guaranteed sufficient legroom must now be purchased also, loser.

I ring off after 36 minutes on silent hold and again check my other customer service options.   I send the following email (not all that easy to find the option for email, I assure you).

I need to know that the additional $300 (tickets more than twice the price of “economy”) I spent last night on airfare ensures me an aisle seat. I could not confirm this on your website and it has proved impossible to reach a representative on the phone in well over an hour of trying. If my seat is not guaranteed, I have a few more hours to cancel my reservation. Please advise.

To which a robot promptly replies:

Thank you for your questions and comments. As a valued customer, your input is most appreciated and we will make every effort to ensure a quick response.

Note, I would not have spent the extra $300 for this “peace of mind”, I probably would have cancelled my trip.  Thankfully my mate, a wage-earning shopping machine, has racked up a large store of credit card points over the years she was generously willing to spend a portion of on this ticket.

Back to the answer to my simple yes or no question.   Delta airlines, on the case!    This arrived just a few minutes later:

Dear Eliot,

RE: Case Number 29940314

This is an automatically generated message to acknowledge the receipt of your email.  Please do not reply to this email.

Thank you for taking the time to write to us; what you have to say is important.  Emails and letters are answered in the order they are received. Usually you’ll hear from us long before 30 days have passed.  Sometimes though, it can take almost that long.  We appreciate your patience.

If you need assistance with a current reservation, please contact Reservations directly at 1-800-221-1212 or visit delta.com for our international reservations offices.  They will be happy to assist you.

Thank you!

Got to love the human emotion behind that exclamation point on the Thank you!

Nazi bastards.

As my father always said of me, whenever I belly ached about anything:  “you’d complain if you were hung with a new rope.”

This is customer service in 2019.  If you don’t like it, send us an email, we will try our best to reply within 30 days.  Don’t hold us to that, you cheeky rascal, it’s not a promise, only a promise to try to promise, a precatory promise, if you will.

Maybe I’m just extra touchy today because I never received the corrected blood pressure medication I requested ten days back, after hours and hours resolving that potential health fiasco.   The drug the kindly psychos sent me was four times the strength of my prescription.  Thankfully the snafu got resolved in only five business days!   Still haven’t received the meds, though I got the other prescription I ordered a few days later, a Vitamin D super-pill, in my mailbox within four or five days.   Oh well.  I know those hardworking Nazi bastards are working harder to serve me better!

Bill Maher did a piece a few weeks ago about the death of a thousand cuts that it is the nickel and diming of the airline industry.  This stands in for the ever-diminishing piss pot of what the masses of Americans are entitled to, by the reckoning of the corporations we do business with.  Maher conceded that he has flown only first class since becoming a rich, successful comedian many years ago.   Still, he did an excellent piece about how customer comfort and convenience has been whittled down, piece by chintzy piece, by the ever grasping, ever more ingenious, airline industry.   Their independent subcontractors are undoubtedly working on a way to monetize the amount of oxygen you get on the plane.   Those corporate airline persons are truly the psychopath’s psychopaths, though the healthcare industry is not far behind in its concern for the safety, comfort and convenience of its customers.

Just to be safe, I’m going to bring food for the flight crew and the captain, just in case the airline no longer provides them with a meal, or even a snack, on the long flight.   I figure it’s the least I should be expected to do, and I wouldn’t want any of them to be cranky or off their game.   It’s going to be a long flight.

Why I Hate the Rich

There is only one game in town for real success in America.   The game is won by the person who acquires the most money, and fame, along the way.   To finish respectably, you have to have, at minimum, by the time you’re old, more money than you will ever need.    Ensuring yourself of this uncertain amount is a tricky proposition in an eternally insecure culture that operates on the casino model — big rewards for big risk but you can lose everything on a bad turn of the wheel.   (That’s why you diversify, schmuck.)   It’s also why, all other things being equal, it is best to inherit a hundred million dollars or more from your parents, who inherited it from their parents and on back several generations.  Old money, there is nothing that smells quite like it.

I am a bitter man when it comes to the fucking rich and their endless privilege.  I am disgusted by how their distorted worldview and values play an overly large role in public discourse, the laws we live by and the brutalizing poverty many must live under while others enjoy unimaginable luxury.  Not content to enjoy their vast wealth and leave others alone, they frequently extend their slimy tentacles into the personal lives of millions upon millions of people who will never meet one of their filthy rich ilk.   What the fuck is up with that?   I’ll write more about my specific reasons for hating these supremely entitled fucks as soon as I set the stage a bit.

Hard-working friends with solid middle class lifestyles (a vanishing breed here in the land of the free) remind me from time to time that I made a conscious choice not to compete for wealth, not to dedicate myself to doing the hard work to advance a career, not to endure even a small amount of abuse in the interest of making good money, not to put in the long years to get a pension, a decent Social Security payment and all the rest.   They suggest that I’ve made a choice they can respect, abstractly, but one that, sadly, identifies me as a cipher, an individual whose life, fundamentally, makes little objective sense in the larger ocean we are all splashing in.  Condensed to a simple question:  if I am so smart, and so talented, why choose to be poor?

It is not easy to explain, even to myself.   Whatever I write here, for example, so much belly aching, no matter how well-written some of it may be.   If someone paid me for it, as happened a couple of times when a guy bought short pieces for publication and swapped in a bunch of random cliches for phrases I’d carefully chosen, well, that’s a different story.   The congratulations emails come flying in when the compromised prose was published.   But this endless stream I produce in my daily writing?   Well, it kind of speaks for itself, duddn’t it?

People literally don’t know what to make of anything we might think of as “artistic”, or even just expressive, unless it is monetized.   If you see it in a museum, it makes you think, provokes a certain awe, you can read learned glosses on the work of art you are experiencing, the depthless insights of the artist, his influences, his place in art history.   If you see something very much like that art work in your friend’s sketchbook, truthfully, what can you say?   “I like the colors,” or “is that supposed to be anything?”  or “is that me?”.   If it arrives in the mail, you can just look at it and shrug it off with a quick shudder.  What the hell is it supposed to mean?

Look, I say god bless you to anyone who doesn’t have artistic pretensions.   My grandmother fucked me up good with that fevered dream of a genius so prolific and undeniable I’d be able to draw on a table cloth at the most expensive restaurant in Paris to pay my bill in full, with a thousand dollar tip.  She didn’t factor in the magnificent ambition and entrepreneurial genius necessary to achieve a fame as vast as Picasso’s, the fame that enables a few brushstrokes on a linen table cloth to create an objet d’art worth the price of a hundred gourmet meals.

To my grandmother’s great chagrin, I was never ambitious or entrepreneurial, I just loved to draw.    At the same time, ever since I was a kid, I realized, on some level, that time is the only real wealth we have.   If you have the treasure of time you can invest some of it in learning to express yourself.   This expression, it always seemed to me, was as crucial to develop as the ability to really listen to other people.   Just to say, I suppose, that I have always had some kind of artistic pretensions about the meaning of my life and my abilities.

Which brings us to the arbiters of who is an artist and who is merely a pretentious person who wants to be one.    Let me say, first, that I have no problem with these arbiters, no burning desire to see my casually scrawled signature painted, 100 times its normal size, on a tastefully lit white museum wall at the threshold of a lifelong retrospective of my work (unless, of course, I had to exert myself in no way and there was a huge cash payment to me when the museum mounted the show).  Years ago it bothered me beyond describing that the “art world” was the province of a cliquish group of born-wealthy connoisseurs who were the gatekeepers of what is High Art and what is, well, simply neuroses made visible.   Let them keep the gates, the palaces of art, the incomprehensibly priceless objets d’art and all the rest.   I can’t use it.

Please believe, it is truly not bitterness about art.  I have as little use for high art as I do for the catalogue of a show I saw as a teenager.   Or my vast collection of Mad Magazines, long ago shipped to the son of an old friend who was also a great lover of the “usual gang of idiots” over at Mad.   Or anything else, really.   Being blessed is its own reward and I consider it a blessing to have these things I love to do, things that enrich my life, that make spending time doing them a blessing to me.  I’m not grasping for any additional blessings, I’m just trying to explain myself.

 Writing, it seems to me, is the most accessible form of expression.   Everybody I know reads, many actually love to read.   A well-written paragraph can break the heart or give a surge of hope.  A handful of times over a long life someone will tell you “that was beautiful,” or “you made me cry”.    Bingo, like a kamakaze finding the smoke stack to fly down, the explosion, the ship sinking, everybody on board killed.

I didn’t start writing this to talk about self-expression, though it is sometimes hard not to.   We have time and we have the expression of our thoughts and feelings.   Picture your life without either one.   How was your day, dear?   I had no time and nothing to say about it.

Onward, then, why I hate the fucking rich.

If you are born into great wealth, you will be given every chance in the world to grow up to be whatever you dream of being.   You can be a contemplative, reading widely and listening deeply and, instead of merely speaking, writing your thoughts on the most beautiful 100% cotton paper available, in fantastically rare ink drawn through an exquisitely perfect writing instrument.    You can go into business, whichever ones you like, with plenty of capital to support you in failure or success.  You can be a lout, a spoiled rich idiot who simply follows his every impulse, shoots endangered animals, fucks people over, has lawyers pay ’em off to shut the fuck up, etc.  If you are born rich, outside of murder with multiple eye witnesses (who are not members of your rarefied social class), there is little in your life that you will ever be held accountable for.

This kind of upbringing, in most cases, results in an individual who believes, as Ivanka Trump apparently does, as does her husband Jared, that anyone who works hard can become a success.   The corollary is that failure is a vice of the lazy, the weak, the unworthy.    If I managed, with a mere few million dollar loan from daddy, to launch a fabulous international brand, what is to stop these whining parasitic takers from doing the same, instead of bitching about how unfair life is?

Chris Hedges uses the phrase The Pathology of the Rich to describe the worldview of people born into vast inherited wealth.   “Pathology” might seem a little unfair, even though I can clearly see the thing he describes, the thing I hate, as a disease.   The simple cause of their rarified, if myopic, view of the world is not hard to see.   If you are born rich you do not have the same experience of life as 99% of the world does.   Hardly anybody can identify with frustrations they have never personally experienced.   If you are sheltered from the most common frustrations of poor people, how will you have any way to relate to them?   The result is a worldview that makes a certain twisted sense.  Hard work equals good fortune equals being rich.   Laziness equals poverty and self-pity, with all the other pathologies appurtenant thereto.

A rich fifteen year-old in an elite boarding school who happens to once make the childish mistake of using an eight year-old boy as an unwilling sexual partner?   No need to ruin the boy’s life, either one of them!  These things are worked out privately, discreetly, no call to get the police and the courts involved, destroying lives and reputations over a youthful mistake.   A few words among gentlemen, the families both need to be consulted, there is a win-win resolution to be negotiated here.   Otherwise the boys will both be shamed and the families’ good names dragged through the mud.   Unthinkable.   The young pederast will be forever tarred a pervert and sex offender simply for one youthful indiscretion.  A terrible outcome, we can all agree.  

If the young pederast had been a scholarship student, from a family of working class swine, well… we rest our case, that’s clearly a different story.  Expel him immediately, after a call to the local constable.  How dare he sodomize his social superior?!

Let the same outrage occur among the poor– these same enlightened philosophers on the board of the elite boarding school will set up a howl for the swiftest and most severe punishment of the savage young child-rapist.  Society must never tolerate such perversion, such predation! How dare they?!

So far it has all been the hereditarily wealthy I’m railing against, but what of the people who, through their own tireless and heroic efforts, acquire vast, self-made fortunes? Some become so wealthy, mind you, that their excrement ceases to emit a bad odor. Universally, it seems, this type is admired and shown as proof that anyone who is talented enough, and dedicated enough, who works hard and smartly enough, can acquire a fortune.  Anyone who makes a billion dollars is automatically considered a genius and a great authority on all matters, often the best possible expert on how to help the children of the poor and dispossessed.

It is no impediment, of course, that most of these self-made successes had many advantages growing up– the best schools, elite universities, crucial business connections, strokes of good luck including excellent timing.   But forget that, these supernovas soon become just like their fellow twits in the highest branches of that cuckoo tree that is super-wealth.  The best of the best.  The only thing they require is vast returns on their already vast fortunes and the lowest possible tax bills.

Rich people necessarily divide the world into people like themselves, the very best people, and that vast and hopeless hoard of mankind who does not share their work ethic, drive, values, faith, native optimism.   I can understand that.   The part I don’t get is why these fantastically fortunate fucks are not content to enjoy their wealth without exerting power over the rest of us.   What business is it of the super-rich if the children of the poor are able to attend excellent public schools?   How are they actually affected if poor people are allowed to have access to affordable health care?   If poor women are able to get an abortion if they find themselves in a difficult spot where they have to make that agonizing choice?

Why can’t these rich fucks just stay in their beautiful enclaves and be content to run the art world, the philanthropic world, corporate board rooms, high culture?   If they could simply do that, I’d have no beef with them.   But they can’t, can they? They need to make educational policies, and environmental laws, and human rights enforcement decisions for all of us.

They want to rule the world.   They do rule the world.   I have always hated the heedless, entitled motherfuckers who dream of nothing but more wealth, more luxury and more power.  Yes, I know there are a some good ones, and just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you’re a grotesquely privileged, empathy-challenged piece of shit, though wealth beyond a certain point is strongly suggestive of it.  I hate the rich for their ability to fuck up without consequence while haughtily judging everybody else.   Fuck them and the whores they rode in on.

Healthcare update: no update

The quality of the healthcare you receive in the United States is determined by your income and the terms of your employment contract.   Why not?   It is delivered by for-profit corporations for the benefit of executives and shareholders.   Again, why not?   American healthcare outcomes are not among the best in the world, though they are pretty good for many Americans who have decent health insurance plans through work.  American healthcare is, far and away, the most expensive, and the most profitable in the world, so that’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?

I got the good news and the bad news yesterday about my kidney disease and the $88,000 treatment I might need in a few months.   The nephrologist’s receptionist called with good news that my recent tests came back rosy and that I don’t need another round of the fancy drug at this time.  The bad news is that the doctor won’t be picking up the phone, he told his receptionist to tell me he’ll give me all the details when I see him in a few weeks– three days after my deadline for purchasing health insurance for 2019 — and that we’ll test again in three months.  He emphasized to me at the beginning that this idiopathic disease is unpredictable and little understood, numbers can go up or down dramatically at any time and we cannot put much faith in patterns like the steady downward tic of the concerning numbers.

I called back today to ask to speak to the doctor for a minute.  Sadly, not possible.  I explained my insurance dilemma to the receptionist, that my deadline for choosing insurance for 2019 is three days before my appointment.   I told her I didn’t want to put her to any extra work but that I needed to know if they were likely to get pre-authorization for a drug that would cost me $88,000 “out of pocket” if it wasn’t pre-approved.    The alternative, the longtime standard protocol for my disease until this new wonder drug came along, is a much cheaper but more debilitating twelve month course of intravenous steroids and infusions of a more harmful immunosuppressive agent (as opposed to two infusions a month apart).     I’ll ask the doctor for you, she said.   I hope to hear back in the next few days, though, of course, one never knows.  Only the weak and fretful worry about these sorts of things…

I called the insurance company and punched in the option for pharmaceuticals.  Spoke to a very knowledgable rep there at the third party that pays drug claims for my insurance company (and many others), explained my dilemma.   She told me, after a long investigation, that since this drug is not sent directly to the patient but administered in a hospital, I had to go through the medical department of my insurance company, that this drug did not fall under “pharmaceuticals”.  

I explained to her that during my previous hour long call the medical department had referred me to her company, the third party that approves all pharmaceuticals, including hospital administered ones.   She told me this was not the case, that somebody at the insurance company had made a mistake.   I read her back the provider-side 800 number I was given by her company for pre-authorization.   She agreed it was the proper number, the number my doctor would have to call to get pre-authorization for this drug.  I told her it had taken me almost an hour to get that number but that it was not one I could call myself, being a patient, not a provider.   I was patient as hell itself.    She gave me an 800 number for patients to call for “Speciality Drugs” and then noted that I seem to have spoken to someone there last week.

I explained to her again that my worry and my question both appeared to be fairly straightforward.   In 2017 I had a QHP and Rituxan, the $88,000 drug, had been approved.  In 2018 I was on a lower tier plan, and it was uncertain whether Rituxan could be approved, particularly since it was on the “excluded list”.    “Unless the hospital gets pre-authorization,” pointed out the helpful rep.  She was unable to determine whether it was also on the excluded list for the QHP.

She simply could not tell me if in 2017 the drug was on the “excluded list” and had to be pre-authorized.   If that was the case, it would give me some comfort.  In other words, I was trying to determine whether the insurance  product I was about to be forced to buy for 2019 would cover the expensive drug I might well need in 2019.   Not a very tricky question, outside of an unregulated corporate environment where the primary concern is maximizing profits and the health and well-being of patients is on an as-needed basis.  

The confusing labyrinth of disconnected and walled off corporate sub-offices is perfectly allowable (and virtually unregulated)  under the terms of Obamacare and under the “Business Judgment Rule” (a given business is in the best position to make judgments about how it should be run).  These internal walls make it impossible for anyone within the corporation (or outside of it, for that matter) to have a global view that would allow them to answer a fairly straightforward question about what products and services are covered under a given plan.    The rep seemed a little offended, telling me she’d been working there for many years and had a pretty global view, but that I was asking a question that was just impossible to answer. 

The bottom line, it will take a lot longer than two hours, if ever, to get the answer to this simple enough question.   The helpful rep who tried to help was sorry she couldn’t give me the answer I was seeking, but it was simply impossible.  She could take a grievance from me, if I liked.  I declined her kind offer and thanked her for her time, somehow not giving vent to the bitter sarcasm that was flowing over my tongue like battery acid.

Dignity and Respect

“Dignity and respect,” said the outraged, unfairly attacked entitled man to the friendly interviewers on the president’s favorite fake news channel.  His good Christian wife sat dutifully next to him, one hundred percent on his side. “I have nothing but dignity and respect for women, never would even think about committing a sexual assault against one, never!  Even while stinking drunk, especially while stinking drunk.   How dare they?!!  I regard all women with dignity and respect, dignity and respect, always have, even for the drunken, horny, unattainable sluts I encountered as a hard-drinking prep school virgin and an equally soused freshman virgin at Yale.  All I want is a fair process, a fair chance to not be persecuted like our Lord and Savior was, a fair process to show that these bitches from hell are lying, partisan, fetus slaughtering whores.”

Thus the Supreme Court nominee made his case to American partisans, via Fox News.   The interview was set up by a disgraced former Fox executive, one Mr. Bill Shine [1], who made his bones defending a series of sexual predator Fox executives who all subsequently had to step down, as, in the end, did Shine.   Not that Shine didn’t do his best to protect his powerful white male friends, it’s just that these bitches are fucking determined and women now, suddenly, are the fucking victims of everything, don’t you know?   And their high priced lawyers were good, demonically so.   Now Shine works directly for Trump, in Scaramucci’s old job.   “Let’s put Brett on Fox, Bill, let him speak directly to the base,” the President must have said.   The president is a genius, he says so himself.  

All Kavanaugh is asking for is, as he stated over and over to the fawning interviewer at Fox, is  “a fair process”, a fair process, a fair process where no evidence against me is admissible if it is prejudicial in any way.   The same standard of evidence I require in my court, except nothing detrimental to the life-long dream of an entitled, powerful white man who loves his family and is poised to become among the nine most elite and powerful people in the nation, if not the world.  

Dignity and respect, he said again and again, suggesting that he too is entitled to those things.  You could see, behind his beady, lying eyes, the wheels turning in his brilliant, high-achieving, lawyerly brain, “…since birth, my mother, a late in life lawyer and then a judge, was an inspiration to me, and I also hated her, as you might expect, which is why I got so drunk so often and though I always, always behaved with absolute regard for their dignity and respect, even though no female ever reciprocated my sexual interest– what did I have to do, playfully brush my dick across their fucking faces?—  I was always respectful, even when my shows of affection did not result in my penis penetrating their vagina, which is the only true definition of sexual assault.  Never got so much as the goddamned tip in.   Case closed.  How many more questions?  Is it time to say it again?”

“All I am asking for is a fair process that allows an immediate up or down 51-49 vote to confirm me without undue delay for a gathering coven of lying, godless partisan women to prepare any sort of real case against me.  Fair process means no FBI, no witnesses called to assassinate my good name, no evidence produced to impeach my testimony, or me, or my high minded Jesus inspired family values purity.  Look, I produced a fucking 1982 calendar to prove I was never once at a party of any kind the year I am accused of the heinous things made up against me.  Proof that the whores are lying! All of them!

“Fair process means we fairly (51-49, bitches) violate the rules of the Senate and allow the optically unsympathetic white men on the Judiciary Committee who unconditionally support me to interrogate the witness against me using a powerful woman’s voice.  The voice of a single witness, the lying, or mistaken, or mixed up, or partisan academic bitch who claims that when she was fifteen I did the unthinkable to her against the voice of a strong woman.  I was a fucking virgin, OK– so, by definition I couldn’t have raped her.  And as any choir boy knows, if there is no penetration, no rape.  Case closed.  Shut your hole, lady.”  

So the old white Republican men on the Judiciary Committee, to avoid the sickening gang rape optics of the Anita Hill sessions (and the many lost confirmation votes that followed) lawyer up, find a suitable mouthpiece, a staunch Republican female pitbull from Maricopa County, Arizona, home of pardoned contemnor Joe Arpaio’s infamous desert concentration camp penal colonies,  to confront this lying professor Blasey Ford.  

A partisan woman prosecutor attacking a woman testifying about an attempted rape– you have to admit, the optics are much, much better than stern, horsefaced Chuck Grassley, or the equally fair-minded feminist member Orrin Hatch, hoarsely insisting: “isn’t it true, missy, that you are a lying fucking whore?”  The optics of Anita Hill’s ordeal were horrible, and these two conservative pricks were part of it (Democratic Judiciary Committee member Patrick Leahy was also there during the Hill testimony– though he called for a postponement to have a full hearing– SAD!) , so better for everybody if we have an impartial yet aggressive female lawyer take this lying professor apart.

A fair process is all I ask for, insists the shameless Kavanaugh.   One day of hurried testimony to brazen my way through and a straight up or down 51-49 vote for confirmation the next morning.   Keep the pressure on those two Republican swing votes, those two female senators, at least one of whom has indicated if they are convinced a younger Kavanaugh attacked an even younger woman and is now lying about it– before he can do a more complete job attacking all young women as the fifth vote against the murder of innocent fetuses– they would vote against him.  

Got to have the vote now.  NOW!   A fair process demands no less!  A fair process!!! Quick, before Mueller can complete his anti-Christ witch hunt.  I am the only one who can protect our president against his legions of ruthless enemies.  Vote now, confirm me NOW!  A fair process, dignity and respect, dignity and respect, a fair process!!!  For the love of God and His Only Son, in the name of all that is good and holy.  I am the only one who is committed to fully protecting our leader!  Beside Stephen Miller, a great man who reminds me very much of my younger self.

As fifth generation American George Lopez might say;  “fuck those putos”.


[1] top Google blurb, from the Grey Skank:   

Bill Shine, the former Fox News executive who was pushed out over his handling of sexual harassment scandals at the network, was named …

Note:   Shine was named four or five days before well-bred shit-don’t-stink dignity respecter Brett Kavanaugh was nominated, as the Pussygrabber-in-chief’s guy to handle the spin for the confirmation, the Mueller probe/witch hunt and everything else.  

And God bless these United Shayssssh.

False Acquisitions.png

The United States of Brazenness

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?



One two punch for 9/11

JOHN BOLTON: Today on the eve of September the 11th, I want to deliver a clear and unambiguous message on behalf of the president of the United States. The United States will use any means necessary to protect our citizens and those of our allies from unjust prosecutions by this illegitimate court. We will not cooperate with the ICC [International Criminal Court], we will provide no assistance to the ICC and we certainly will not join the ICC.

AUDIENCE: [Applause]

JOHN BOLTON: We will let the ICC die on its own. After all, for all intents and purposes, the ICC is already dead to us.

AMY GOODMAN: John Bolton also threatened to directly target judges at the ICC.

JOHN BOLTON: We will respond against the ICC and its personnel to the extent permitted by U.S. law. We will ban its judges and prosecutors from entering the United States, we will sanction their funds in the U.S. financial system and we will prosecute them in the U.S. criminal system. We will do the same for any company or state that assists an ICC investigation of Americans.

AMY GOODMAN: During his speech, John Bolton also announced that the Trump administration would close the Palestine Liberation Organization’s office in Washington in response to a Palestinian effort to push the ICC to investigate Israel for war crimes.

JOHN BOLTON: The Trump administration will not keep the office open when the Palestinians refuse to take steps to start direct and meaningful negotiations with Israel. The United States supports a direct and robust peace process, and we will not allow the ICC or any other organization to constrain Israel’s right to self-defense.

AMY GOODMAN: Palestinian diplomat Saeb Erekat criticized the move.

SAEB EREKAT: We were notified unfortunately that they will close the office and lower the Palestinian flag. This is an affirmation of the U.S. administration’s determination to continue its process of blackmail and extortion and undermining the peace process and the two-state solution. They have cut all humanitarian aid.


When you have angry people who believe their imagined view of life is more compelling than what is actually happening in the world — you get this kind of madness.   The U.S. wants peace and prosperity for everyone, and we will kill you if you stand in our way.    The infuriated John Bolton, a rash man who loves war, ladies and gentlemen.  Working with fellow savage warrior (not that the younger version of himself or anyone he knows would ever die in the wars he supports) our current president.  

Peace be upon you, and may whatever you worship protect you from the merciless designs of such men.