Time has truly spun out of control for me, dear reader. Okay, maybe not “spun out of control” exactly…more like sped up dramatically. I’m not exaggerating when I say that weeks now seem to be the length of days, and pass with the same rapidity as days used to pass. Months seem like weeks used to, and entire years seem to pass as quickly as months used to.
I find this temporal trend quite alarming.
N.P.: “Millennium” – Killing Joke
Presage (verb): To predict or foretell a future event. Presage (noun): An omen, portent, or indication of a future event.
The term “presage” originates from the Latin word “praesagium,” combining “prae-” meaning “before” and “sagire” meaning “to perceive keenly.” It entered the English language in the late 14th century, retaining its meaning related to foretelling events.
Fuck, he thought for the seventh time in the last minute. He had never been this blocked. He’d had days, even the occasional week that he couldn’t write. But never like this…never months. It wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say…quite the opposite, actually. He had so much to say he didn’t know where even to begin. For months now, significant events had unfolded far more rapidly that society could process them, and far too fast for him to keep up with, commentary-wise. And thus, things had spun out of control months ago.
The previous year, in a series of meticulously crafted blog entries, he began to presage the downfall of the American Republic. His warnings were not borne out of paranoia but from a deep analysis of the incumbent president’s actions. The president’s clear contempt for democratic norms, relentless assaults on the free press, and almost comically divisive rhetoric had people concerned, especially in light of the alarming increase in public pants-shitting episodes. Each post was a call to arms, urging his fellow citizens to recognize the signs before it was too late.
One entry, titled “The Twilight of Democracy,” stood out. “We stand on the precipice of a new era,” he wrote. “An era where the very foundations of our Republic are under siege. The signs are clear—our freedom teeters on the edge as authoritarian shadows loom large.”
Despite his compelling arguments and data-backed insights, he faced a barrage of skepticism, vitriol, and bullshit. Many dismissed his predictions as alarmist or paranoid, while others accused him of partisan bias. Undeterred, he continued his crusade, hoping that his words would reach those who could still make a difference.
Months turned into years, and the political landscape grew increasingly volatile. Scandals erupted, institutions crumbled, and civil liberties were eroded. As the country’s stability waned, his presages seemed to transform from speculation into grim reality. Those who once jeered at his predictions now revisited his blog with a newfound respect.
In the end, his voice echoed through the annals of history as a presage unheeded. His story serves as a poignant reminder: sometimes, the most critical warnings come not from official channels, but from the perceptive minds that dare to foresee the future.
N.P.: “Cast No Shadow” – Tales of Sound and Silence
N.P.: “Get Loud” – Damned Anthem, Southside Dren
In honor of Memorial Day, our Word of the Day is “remembrance.” Judging by the number of people I’ve heard who’ve very inappropriately wish me or anyone else, “Happy Memorial Day,” a reminder is necessary. This word encapsulates the essence of this important holiday, which serves as a time to honor and remember those who have sacrificed their lives in military service.
Remembrance (noun): The action of remembering something or someone, often a person who has died; a memory or commemoration.
The word “remembrance” originates from the Middle English “remembraunce,” which in turn comes from the Old French “remembrance.” Its roots lie in the Latin verb “rememorari,” meaning “to remember,” composed of “re-” (again) and “memor” (mindful).
On this Memorial Day, let us all take a moment of remembrance for the brave souls who have served and sacrificed. Their legacy lives on through our memories and our commitment to never forget.
Either I’m going mad or there is a definite conspiracy afoot in the world, a conspiracy of fatness and blindness, backed up by a sinister mindless kind of reasoning …. ~ HST
I am legitimately confused by a whole helluva lot when it comes to American society today. Most of it, really. Then there are certain things I am completely disgusted by when it comes to American Society today. I am unfortunately both confused and disgusted by the cowardliness and pusillanimity that has spread across this once badass land.
I could here list some of the things I’ve seen this week and go off on some screed about all the different ways the behavior of my fellow Americans has become unacceptably vaginal, but I won’t let myself. Instead I’ll just focus on one particularly pathetic topic: the alleged squatting crisis.
First of all, fuck you: what crisis? There is no crisis. Why would there be a crisis of squatting? The only way that would be possible is if more than one American came home to find someone else in their house and didn’t know what to do. And if this is actually the case, it is a massive and absolutely shameful problem.
Suddenly some people seem significantly more worried about “squatters’ rights” than their own rights. Holy shit. What’s going on with these people? These so-called Americans? What happened to balls, and hubris? What happened to just doing what needs to be done without having to first consider the legal ramifications like some old lady?
I do have some sympathy…after all we’re living in a reality where the federal government has intentionally flooded the country with criminals and then began prosecuting citizens for defending themselves.
But whatever sympathy I may have quickly dissipates because fuck this government. And that’s kind of the point. The American public, at least half of them, have been educated right out of the ability to question and even resent the government, and instead they revere the government and its officials almost as parents, upon which they are dependents. “Can’t make my own decisions anymore…gotta wait to hear what the government says.” Well, fuck that. Absolutely fuck that, sans lube or any pretense of foreplay. Do my fellow Americans not remember that “when government fear the people, there is freedom. When people fear the government, there is tyranny”? When I was working in the state prison, there was a saying that was very popular with the corrections officers: “I’d rather be judged by 12 than carried by six.” I shouldn’t have to explicate this, but apparently to the present crappy crop of Americans, it’s necessary: if you feel like your life, family, well-being, or way of life is being threatened, immediately eliminate the threat by any and all means necessary, and legal consequences be damned: better to spend the next year in court testifying to a jury that they would have done the exact same thing you did than to not have the opportunity to defend yourself in court because you are dead due to failure to shoot back, you didn’t know what to do, et cetera. In other words, I’m going to do whatever I think I need to do to protect myself and my family, and the law can go fuck itself.
I guess the real issue undergirding all of this ridiculousness for me is the absolutely pitiful learned helplessness and dependence on the fucking government for basic decision making. People seemed to lose all balls at some point during the bullshit COVID lockdowns. Which is a huge, nightmarish topic to get in to. So we’re going to have to shortcut for the sake of time. Brace yourself:
The current US government does NOT have your best interests in mind. In fact, I believe the present administration and its woke supporters are decidedly anti-American. They are certainly anti-white and anti-male. And I suspect (and sincerely hope) they will hang for their crimes. I’m thinking something like Mr. and Mrs. Mussolini, being machine-gunned and then hanged upside down would be appropriate for the entirety of the current administration.
Look…this isn’t complicated. If someone comes into your home uninvited while you are home, shoot them. If someone comes into your home uninvited while you are out, come home and shoot them. And if someone comes into your home uninvited while you and your family are away on vacation, shoot them as soon as you get home. If you are silly enough not to own multiple firearms, then use whatever is on-hand to destroy the unwanted presence. That these simple rules are no longer innate and instinctual in much of the current U.S. populace is both disheartening and alarming.
And I’m not talking out of turn…in 2006, I came home to my shitty apartment to find three dudes inside my home, with a chair under the front door knob to block my entrance. I was completely alone and unarmed. The second I saw the chair under the door, I started kicking my way in, which probably took three seconds. Within five seconds of kicking in the door, the threat had been eliminated, never to return.
If you are away and come home to discover some shitbag pretending they live there, your first reaction should not be to consult a lawyer – you’re first reaction should be to click the safety off on your AR. They can sue you all you want after they’re dead. And they can deliver your summons or arrest you in your own house, not out in some shitty rented RV parked in front of what was apparently legally formally your house.
Post Script: There was recently a bullshitty meme question that popped up in my feed, which asked, “If someone broke into your house and took whatever was on top of your fridge, what would they get?”
My answer: “Shot.”
And I got a bunch of shit about it, exclusively from liberal white women whining and lecturing about the value of property versus the value of human life. One even sent a follow up meme which basically asked what I’d do if someone messed with my dog. My response was the same: lethal gunfire. I was then hit with outrage and indignation: “You are literally saying a dog’s life is more valuable than a human life.” Of course, I corrected her: “That is not at all what I’m saying. I’m saying my dog’s life is more valuable than some shitbag’s life…no question, no hesitation.”
The truth is I would open up the guns on somebody who tried to take the ashes from the bottom of my bar-b-que. And I find it strange and pathetic that not everybody thinks this way.
Sack up, America.
N.P.: “God’s Gonna Cut You Down” – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
I was reading a post from one of my hippie friends bitching about “fake, made-up holidays.” I’ve heard similarly dim people speak derisively about “Hallmark Holidays.” What twaddle.
Rather than spend the next half hour hurling invective at this stupidity like Zeus hurls lightning bolts at mortals, I will instead rhetorically ask the questions I would as this person if she was here.
First, define your terms: what is a fake or made-up holiday? I guess most importantly, what is your definition of “made up”? Can you give me an example of a fake holiday? Now give me an example of a real (non-fake) holiday. What exactly is the difference between the two?
This type of world view truly baffles me. What sort of myopic historical perspective must one have to think that…Jesus. Okay, look: all holidays are made up. How the fuck else do you think they came to be? Like certain holidays always existed in the Empyrion and when the guys sat down to create the first calendar, they said to themselves, “Okay…the only rules are 12 months, 52 weeks, and 12 months…seven days a week…other than that, go nuts. Oh wait…we can’t forget about the holidays…we have this list of holidays given to us from On High…so these holidays have to celebrated on these specific days. But other than that, go nuts.”
Listen, Sunshine: all the holidays, like all of the calendars, like time itself, are made-up.
N.P.: “Cinnamon Girl” – Jeff Russo, Noah Hawley
Hello there, you wild beasts of the night (and day) – apologies for the ghastly gap in our saga; the world’s been spinning on a dime, and I’ve been running along its edge, trying not to fall off into the abyss of the ridiculous. It’s been a mad dash, so much so that my liquor cabinet has started to gather dust, a cardinal sin in my universe. This is an intolerable state of affairs; as a scribe caught in the whirlwind of chaos, sobriety is akin to walking naked into a blizzard.
Once upon a time, under the cloak of night, I’d hammer away at the keys, unleashing torrents of words to drown out the cacophony of what we’ve affectionately termed Clown World. It was cathartic, a ritualistic cleansing from the filth and folly of daylight hours. Yet, here we stand, at the precipice where speaking truths, or what masquerades as truth, is a tightrope walk over a canyon filled with dynamite. The game has changed – it’s no longer just about splattering ink on paper but dodging bullets while you do it. Writing, for those of us deranged enough to stick with it, has morphed into a grotesque triathlon where one partakes in blood sports by day, indulges in avant-garde performance art by twilight, and executes counterterrorism operations under the cover of night.
But hell, retreat is for the feeble-hearted, and I’ve never been one to back down from a good fight or a bad decision. In the spirit of refusing to go gently into that good night, I’ve added a purple belt to my collection this week – a testament, perhaps, to my enduring penchant for masochism and my relentless pursuit of… whatever the hell it is we’re all pursuing.
Strap in, dear readers, as we plunge headfirst back into the fray, armed with nothing but a typewriter, a bottle, and a disdain for the insipid. The world may be a circus, but we’ve got front-row seats and an all-access pass to the madness. Here’s to the ride – may it be fraught with danger, drenched in absurdity, and, above all, never boring.
N.P.: “Check Yo Self (from The Predator)” – Ice Cube
This should come as no surprise to you, loyal and attentive reader: people annoy the shit out of me. And that’s never been more true than right now. This present batch of brats is the absolute worst. And, as usual, the problem stems from linguistics. Okay, maybe it doesn’t actually stem from linguistics, but people’s linguistics are alarmingly accurate barometers of the bullshit that ails them. Among Gen Z, there is a grotesque tendency, not necessarily toward simple hyperbole, but to a rather overdramatic framing of their completely ordinary and mundane existences to try to…I don’t know…make themselves sound significantly more interesting than the reality of their mundane existences warrants.
Perfect. The first thing that comes to mind is the one I most frequently have to endure, happening virtually anytime I leave the Safehouse and interact with someone (usually female), or when I pick up the phone. For the last several years, anytime I’ve been asked to something totally banal (like sign a form, press a button, or write my address), once I’ve done it, I’m told it was “perfect.” But they usually say it like, “Puuuur-fict!” But it wasn’t perfect. I simply signed something. And my signature (especially if it was on some sort of tablet or phone) was anything but “perfect.” It was likely a mess. They usually come out looking like a fucked cardiograph. Doesn’t matter: I’ll be told it was “perfect.” I was a doctor’s office recently, and I had to sign several forms, and then make a next appointment. After each signature (there were 4 or 5), the chick that was telling me to sign said, “perfect.” After the first couple, I start really fucking things up, I was drawing little middle fingers, and signing my name as Turd Ferguson and stuff. Didn’t matter: still “perfect.” Mindlessly attributing superlatives of perfection to imperfect things pissed me off. I blame the last two generations of Americans who grew up with participation awards and not keeping score in baseball games and all that horseshit. “Perfect” is not the worst offender, but certainly the most frequently deployed.
Rescue. This one’s been bugging me for a couple of decades, now. When I first heard it, a friend told me he and his lady had rescued a dog. That’s fucking awesome, I thought to myself, having no one else to think to. It was so awesome, I decided to share the thought with my friend: “That’s fucking awesome,” I told him. “Tell me what happened.” Life, at the time, had become unsustainably mundane, and I remember a thought that kept picking at my mind during this period: “I am no longer impressed by anything.” So to hear a story of valor and courage in a first-hand account of how my friend had committed an act (or acts, perhaps) of heroism to rescue a puppy from certain death was potentially enough to jar me out of my malaise. I braced myself excitedly for the tale.
“Oh nothing…we saw him on the shelter’s website the night before, and went and picked him up the next morning.”
Um…what? You “went and picked him up?”
My disappointment grew so quickly it turned into disgust.
Kick in the front door of a burning building, a fully engulfed house, and selflessly run headlong into the flames while trying to listen to the dog’s cries for help, finding the dog, picking it up, and running back through the flames and outside to safety…that is a rescue.
Drive down to Mexico, fight the police, engage in a gun battle with cartel sicarios, grab the cartel’s pet chihuahua, escape back up to the States…that is a rescue.
Join a tactical team on a midnight raid on a supermax prison cellblock that’s been taken over by gangs to find and retrieve the golden retriever puppy that was taken from the prison’s Puppy Program by the most vicious gang that’s threatening to decapitate and eat the puppy if their demand for 147 pepperoni pizzas isn’t met…that is a rescue.
Even if you wanted to call adopting a dog from a shelter a “rescue,” it had damn well better involve rushing into the kill room and snatching away the dog in 5-point restraint, strapped to an execution table with some sadistic, dog-hating shelter worker hovering menacingly over the thing, ready to bring a raised death-hammer down on the shivering dog’s head. And if that wasn’t the case, you didn’t “rescue” shit! You ran a pleasant errand…that’s it.
I recently technically “rescued” a puppy. From a shelter. No gun battles, no burning buildings, no supermax prisons…there wasn’t a bit of rescue involved: I had to drive to a tacky strip-mall, meet up with the Croc™-wearing teenager who had been fostering this weird creature, pay the shelter a couple hundred bucks, and that was that.
Survivor. I might piss a few people off with this one, but I don’t care…I’m sure you’ll survive. The problem is then you won’t shut up about it. First, though, a caveat: this has absolutely nothing to do with people who have actually survived acutely life-threatening events, e.g., Hamas attack on a kibbutz, a plane crash, a night in December on Donner Pass without shelter, a pogrom, a deadly volcanic eruption on the Pacific island where you’re vacationing, your parachute failing to open, etc. A few years ago I would have included “Pandemic” in the list, but, like most of the English language, the meaning of that term has been changed and watered down for reasons too dark to contemplate while sober: while Covid may have been technically a pandemic, it was a big pink titty compared to actual species-threatening pandemics, like the Plague, the original strains of Ebola, etc. Call me old-fashioned, but you can’t say you “survived” a pandemic unless there are actual corpses in the street. But never mind all that. Here’s my point, if there is one: there are a hell of a lot of people running around these days claiming to be survivors of things that could never kill them, or claiming to have survived something catastrophe that 9 out of 10 people will experience during their lifetimes. The first level of this issue, to me, is simple: people claiming to have done something special by “surviving” something that, sure, could have killed you, but it could have killed everybody else just the same. And they’re not calling themselves survivors. Then you have this group of people who have all, say, had cancer and “survived,” but these people over here want credit and recognition, while the majority of people in the group don’t feel the need to talk about their cancer survival and would rather just get on with their lives. The second level of this issue is what happens to the credit seekers: they become completely identified as a victim. A victim who survived, sure, but a victim nonetheless. I’m thinking of a particular cancer survivor I know. She was diagnosed with cancer, got chemo, and survived. And how proud and happy we all were of her. But that was ten years ago, and not only has she not yet shut up about it, but she has done nothing else with her life. She still, after all this time, is running around “sharing her story” of cancer survival to anyone who will sit still long enough to listen. Though she didn’t have a hell of lot to talk about before the cancer, her entire identity has been completely wrapped up in talking about cancer. At this point, at least in my head, she has become cancer. She has become the walking, talking, pissing and moaning, annoying incarnation of cancer. There were a few years after she had survived the cancer that many of her family and friends took to referring to her with unkind nicknames, each of which seemed to utilize “cancer” as a first name, e.g., Cancer Squirrel (for her tendency to stash food throughout the house), Cancer Witch (because she did weird shit with altars and candles and shit throughout her treatment, et cetera, until the modifier became the name, and people just started referring to her as The Cancer, i.e., ‘Aw shit…here comes The Cancer.” Which, I believe, was the exact opposite of what her carcinogenic ass was shooting for.
Anyway, the point is that I know at least half a dozen cancer survivors…only one of them is worried about getting credit for it. And she looks like an ass. I have “survived” similarly dire medical threats, and I didn’t say shit about it. And the people I see how have “survived” the same thing who won’t shut about it are not held in very good esteem in my head. In fact, I frequently mentally label them as “pussies.” You survived: congratulations. Now get busy living.
Journey and Brand. Life is not a journey. But even if you insist on considering it as such, you must accept, then, that everyone’s on a journey. Your journey, though I’m sure unique, is likely not any more special than anyone else’s. Sure, the variables and details will be very different, but overall, all journeys are quite similar…rather like the story arcs of screenplays: all different characters and plots, but all basically the same three-act story. Sure, your journey might be more difficult or interesting than some people’s, but chances are your “journey” is a big pink titty compared to what other people have gone/are going through. Your weight loss is not a journey. Incidentally, you probably don’t have a brand. If you’re Stephen King and you write best-selling horror books, you have a brand. If you’re Ronald McDonald and you sell billions and billions of delicious hamburgers to the entire planet, you have a brand. If you’re a barista or cosmetologist or working at the Vans Outlet, and you have an Insta, you probably don’t really have a brand. As with all of the terms mentioned supra, I submit they are all used purely for self-aggrandizement. To try to pretend one’s existence is far more important or significant than it really is.
I’m not bitching about this just to bitch, dear reader. Our generation was responsible for grotesque abuse of “awesome.” Which was all fine and fun until the day I saw something that was quite literally awesome and I had no words to describe it. I couldn’t use “awesome” because that word had been so inappropriately used to describe things as mundane as getting high score on a video game. Such exaggerations lead to a desensitization to truly significant events or conditions, ultimately devaluing the meaning and impact of our words.
N.P.: “Beautiful Dangerous” – Slash, Fergie
Word of the Day: pestiferous
adjective
literary
The janitor had clearly grown tired of the conversation and had begun thinking more about his lunch than the outcome of this colloquy: “No…what you’re going to do is take your pestiferous ass back to that rotting hovel and leave us alone to make babies and drink deeply of the green chartreuse.” It was, it occurred to him at that moment, one of the stranger Wednesdays he’d had in a while.
N.P.: “Scarface (Push It To The Limit)” – Paul Engemann
Yesterday started off well enough, but things devolved quickly in the afternoon when I tried to something that should not have been complicated yet seemed to be beyond my abilities. I started around noon, and by 1:30, I had made a hard turn toward whiskey for fortitude as my battle with tech quickly escalated into war. There was a lot of cussing, dear reader…a lot of fuck words…and in the end, I lost. At least I lost yesterday.
Today might be different. Presently ingesting prophylactic whiskey. We’ll see. Fingers crossed, etc.
Also, absolutely fuck technology that doesn’t work as it should.
Quote of the Week (by someone other than me): “I hope someone else shows up, otherwise one of us is going to have to cut up a kid.”
I find that recorded or form-lettered apologies for inconvenience do exactly nothing to change the fact that I have been, and even now, still, remain inconvenienced.
N.P.: “Hey There Cowgirl” – Palm Springsteen