March 3, 2025

Here we go again, dear reader—California’s lawmakers have plunged headfirst into yet another abyss of absurdity, dragging the rest of us along for the ride. Assembly Bill 133, the so-called “Duty to Retreat” bill, is the latest steaming pile of horseshit to emerge from Sacramento’s ivory tower, and it’s a slap in the face to every law-abiding citizen who dares to believe they have the right to protect themselves. This isn’t just moronic policy—it’s a betrayal of common sense, a coward’s charter dressed up as compassion, and it’s going to get people killed.

Let’s break this down for anyone who hasn’t yet had their morning coffee ruined by the details. AB 133, spearheaded by Assemblymember Rick Chavez Zbur (because of course it’s a Democrat from Los Angeles), wants to obliterate California’s “no duty to retreat” stance. Instead of standing your ground when some shitbag threatens your life, this bill demands you turn tail and run—assuming, of course, you can magically teleport out of harm’s way. If you’re outside your home and some asshole comes at you with a knife, a gun, or even their fists, AB 133 says your first legal obligation is to flee. Forget defending yourself, forget protecting your family—your job is to scamper off like a scared rabbit, hoping the bad guy doesn’t catch you. And if you don’t? Well, good luck explaining that to a prosecutor who’d rather see you in cuffs than the criminal in a cell.

Are you kidding me? This is the kind of lunacy that only makes sense if you’ve spent your entire life in a cushy office, sipping lattes and pontificating about “de-escalation” while the rest of us live in the real world. Newsflash, Sacramento: as I would have thought you would have learned by now, violent criminals don’t send RSVP invitations to their attacks. They don’t give you a heads-up so you can plot your escape route. When danger strikes, it’s sudden, it’s chaotic, and for most people,  it’s terrifying. Expecting someone to calmly assess whether they can “retreat with complete safety” in the heat of the moment is so detached from reality it’s almost laughable—if it weren’t so infuriatingly dangerous.

And it gets worse. This bill doesn’t just stop at forcing you to run—it strips away your right to defend your property or stop a felony in progress. Imagine some lowlife breaking into your car, stealing your livelihood, or worse, assaulting someone you love. Under current law, you can intervene. Under AB 133? Nope. You’re supposed to stand there, twiddling your thumbs, while the criminal waltzes off with your stuff—or your life. The bill even muddies the waters inside your own home, tightening the screws on how you can respond to threats. This isn’t just a “duty to retreat”—it’s a duty to surrender.

Who does this protect? Certainly not the victims. Riverside County Sheriff Chad Bianco nailed it when he said this is yet another move by Sacramento Democrats to “coddle criminals” while tying the hands of law-abiding residents. Assemblyman David Tangipa put it even more bluntly: “Where do you retreat if you can’t defend yourself in your own home?” These aren’t fringe voices—they’re the voices of reason screaming into a void of progressive delusion. Meanwhile, the gun-control cheerleaders at Moms Demand Action and Everytown for Gun Safety are clapping like trained seals, claiming this will “reduce violence.” Reduce violence? Tell that to the single mom who can’t outrun a stalker, or the elderly shopkeeper who can’t dodge a robber’s bullet.

The supporters of AB 133 cloak their argument in sanctimonious drivel about preventing “escalation” and curbing “unwarranted violence.” Oh, please. Spare me the crocodile tears. Criminals don’t care about your bleeding-heart legislation—they’re not sitting around debating the finer points of self-defense law. They’re preying on the vulnerable, and this bill just handed them a free pass. By disarming victims—legally and morally—California is rolling out the red carpet for every thug, thief, and psychopath who knows you’re now a sitting duck.

And let’s not ignore the chilling effect this will have on anyone brave enough to fight back. Under AB 133, if you dare to stand your ground, you’re not just risking your life—you’re risking a courtroom nightmare. Prosecutors will have a field day second-guessing your every move: “Why didn’t you run faster? Why didn’t you hide? Why didn’t you let the guy stab you and hope for the best?” It’s a legal trap designed to punish the innocent and embolden the guilty. Self-defense isn’t a privilege—it’s a fundamental human right, and California’s lawmakers are stomping it into the dirt.

This bill isn’t about safety; it’s about control. It’s about a state government so obsessed with its utopian fantasies that it’s willing to sacrifice real people on the altar of ideology. AB 133 doesn’t make California safer—it makes it a playground for predators and a prison for the rest of us. If this passes, mark my words: the blood of every victim who couldn’t retreat fast enough will be on the hands of every legislator who voted for it.

Wake up, California. Fight back. This isn’t just a bad law—it’s a declaration of war on your right to survive. Call your representatives, flood their inboxes, and make it clear: We won’t retreat, and we won’t surrender. AB 133 must die on the vine, or we’ll all pay the price.

N.P.: “Ring of Fire” – Frayle

March 2, 2025

Happy Sunday, dear reader.  Have you made it to church?  I have not.  It’s been quite some time, actually.  I’ve been thinking about going back lately, but I’ve had some policy issues with the Holy Catholic and Apostolic for a few decades now.  They’ve become spineless and toothless, and thus, pointless.  I’ve attempted to contact the nearest archbishop for a meeting concerning the Catholic Church sacking up and becoming relevant again, but no invitation has been extended.

But I digress.

Work on both books continues apace, whilst, of course, attempting to juggle a couple dozen other adult responsibilities and a chainsaw.  One of the books is becoming increasingly fun to work on, and the other, less so.  But work continues on both.

In badass literary history, on March 2, 1904, Theodor Seuss Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, entered the world in Springfield, Massachusetts.  Needless to say, The Doctor was a total game-changer—his wild imagination and playful rhymes in books like The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham revolutionized children’s literature. He took a sledgehammer to the dull, moralistic tales of the time, injecting absurdity and anarchic fun. With over 600 million copies sold, his work’s got a rebellious streak that still inspires readers to think outside the box.

On March 2, 1930, D.H. Lawrence kicked the bucket in Vence, France. Another literary renegade—his works like Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Sons and Lovers torched the boundaries.  Facing censorship and outrage for his raw take on sex, class, and human desire, Lawrence kept writing what he damn well pleased. His ashes later traveled to Taos, New Mexico, a fittingly wild resting place for a man who lived and wrote with unapologetic grit.

N.P.: “Fade Away” – Lemmo

March 1, 2025

Listen up, dear readers, patriots, and anyone who’s ever cracked the spine on a book worth a damn: as of yesterday, English is finally the official language of the United States. Cue the fireworks, crack a beer, pour the whiskey, and let’s raise a middle finger to the woke vultures who’ve been pecking at the neglected carcass of our beloved language for too long. This isn’t just a win—it’s a goddamn triumph. One Language, One Flag, One Nation. And now, it’s time to protect this victory with something big, something bold: a Department of English Grammar and Usage. And, as you may have guessed, I’m the guy to run it.

For decades, English has been under siege. The DEI cult and their word-twisting acolytes have tried to warp it into a limp, apologetic shadow of itself—stripping away precision, clarity, and balls in favor of their anti-American fever dreams. They’ve turned pronouns into weapons, grammar into a suggestion, and meaning into mush. Enough. English isn’t just a language; it’s the backbone of this nation’s soul—Shakespeare’s fire, Twain’s grit, Hemingway’s steel. It’s time to stop the bleeding and start swinging back.

Enter the Department of English Grammar and Usage. Picture it: a federal fortress of syntax and style, tasked with setting ironclad norms for how we speak, write, and think. No more “they” for singulars unless it’s earned. No more “latinx” abominations. Just pure, unadulterated English—rules that stick, enforced by people who know the difference between a comma splice and a knockout punch. This isn’t about snobbery; it’s about unity. One tongue to bind us, from sea to shining sea.

So why me? Let’s cut the crap and lay out the receipts. I’ve got a Master’s Degree in English—earned, not handed out like participation trophies. Thirty-plus years tutoring every level from snot-nosed 2nd graders to PhD candidates, beating the rules of the language into their skulls until they could write a sentence that didn’t suck. Years teaching at the collegiate level, where I turned classrooms into battlegrounds for ideas, not safe spaces for whining. I’m an internationally published author—words of mine have crossed oceans, not just keyboards. And for the last two decades, I’ve been a pitbull for this language, snarling at every woke attempt to dilute it, every DEI edict to deform it. I’ve got the scars, the ink, and the fire to prove it.

To President Trump: You’ve made America great again—now let’s make its language unbreakable. To Elon Musk: You’re a man of vision—back this and watch it soar. To Speaker Johnson and the rest of the suits in DC: Get this on the floor and make it law. I’m ready to lead this charge, to build a department that’s half library, half war room—a beacon for every American who still believes words matter.

The woke crowd will scream. Let ‘em. They’ve had their turn, and they blew it—turning English into a punching bag for their identity obsession. Now it’s our move. We’re not just reclaiming a language; we’re reclaiming a culture. #OneLanguage,OneFlag,OneNation.

N.P.: “Body Burn” – Cubanate

February 23, 2025

Today, dear reader, we pour some out for John Keats, one of the greats of the Romantic movement.  Keats kicked the bucket on February 23, 1821 – 204 years ago today.  He was 25, a punk kid by today’s standards, but he’d already scribbled some of the most gut-punching lines in English lit. The cause?  Tuberculosis, that slow, coughing bastard of a disease that chewed through the 19th century like a plague with a personal grudge.  Back then, they called it “consumption.”  Which sounds poetic as hell – fitting for a guy like Keats – but it was anything but.  He’d been coughing up blood for over a year, a dire sign that his lungs were shredding themselves.  His doctors, in true old-school fashion, tried giving him a good bleeding – because why not drain a dying man’s strength? – and stuck him on a starvation diet.  By the time he got to Rome, hoping the warm air might save him, he was a ghost already.  He died in a cramped room overlooking the Spanish Steps, with his buddy Joseph Severn holding his hand, listening to him rasp, “I am dying – I shall die easy; don’t be frightened.”  Balls of steel, even at the end.  The details are grim but magnetic.  Keats didn’t just fade; he fought The Reaper tooth and nail.  He’d been sick since at least 1820, probably caught it nursing his brother Tom through the same damn disease in 1818.  Karma’s a bitch – Tom died, and John got tagged next.  In Rome, his final days were a fevered haze: he couldn’t stomach food, his voice was shot, and he was pissed – told Severn to ditch the sappy letters from his fiancée, Fanny Brawne, because they tore him up too much.  His tombstone doesn’t even bear his name, just “Here lies one whose name was writ in water,” a line he picked himself.  He figured the world wouldn’t remember him.  He was wrong.

So where does Keats stack up among the Romantic Poets?  He’s the dark horse, the scrappy underdog who punches way above his weight.  You’ve got Wordsworth and Coleridge, the old guard, pontificating about nature and dope-addled visions; Shelley, the rebel atheist spitting fire at the gods; and Byron, the rockstar aristocrat boning his way across Europe.  Then there’s Keats: poor, orphaned, trained as a surgeon, no fancy pedigree – writing odes that hit you like a blade to the chest.  He wasn’t about grand manifestos or epic quests; he zeroed in on beauty, mortality, and the pain of being alive.  “Ode to a Nightingale,” “To Autumn,” “Bright Star” – sure, they look like poems, but they’re really existential Molotov cocktails.  He’s the Romantic who makes you feel the weight of your own heartbeat, while the others are busy shouting from mountaintops.
Keats didn’t get the rockstar treatment in his lifetime – critics called his stuff “cockney” and sneered at his low-rent roots – but he rewrote the game after he was gone.  Tennyson, Yeats, even the modernists like Eliot owe him a nod.  His idea of “negative capability” – embracing doubt and mystery without chasing answers – still rattles cages in lit theory.

Keats died young, broke, and lovesick, but he left a stash of words that still draw blood.  Cheers.

N.P.: “Lullaby” – Pure Obsessions & Red Nights

Word of the Day: sodden

Word of the Day: sodden

1a :  dull or expressionless especially from continued indulgence in alcoholic beverages <sodden features>

b :  torpid, sluggish <sodden minds>

2a :  heavy with or as if with moisture or water <the sodden ground>

b :  heavy or doughy because of imperfect cooking <sodden biscuits>

On Valentine’s Day, after downing his seventh beer at the annual singles’ mixer, Jim sat there, sodden, with the expression of a mannequin that had seen too much of the world – his face as blank as a freshly wiped whiteboard, staring into the void with the enthusiasm of a sloth on a lazy Sunday. Around him, couples danced like they were in a rom-com, while Jim, lost in his own soggy contemplation, was more like a forgotten extra in a B-movie about loneliness. His only companion was the empty bottle in his hand, which he treated like a date, even giving it a little Valentine’s Day kiss before realizing it wasn’t reciprocating.

N.P.: “Hurt” – Steve Welsh

February 10, 2025

Good morning, dear reader.  It’s presently 04:55 in Fecal Creek, which is where I’m sitting as I type this.  I woke up at 02:00…suddenly wide awake, eyes open…for no evident reason. This usually doesn’t happen.  Usually once I get to sleep, I stay that way until the alarm goes off or the sun comes up, whichever comes first.  It’s been that way for several years now.  The only exceptions have been when I’ve over-indulged in whiskey earlier the previous day…that causes weird things to happen with my blood sugar which causes me to suddenly be wide awake usually around 3 in that morning.  But I’ve been so busy with the book and other projects, I haven’t had the time to drink.  Not a drop in at least 2 weeks.  So that’s not it.

A couple of years ago I went through a period of extreme stress, and during that time, I was waking up at 3 or 4 in the morning.  That went on for weeks.  Until I figured out how to deal with it.

The sun won’t rise for another 2 hours, and since I have some “extra” time this morning, I thought I share my secret to dealing with insomnia: Don’t Fight It.  That’s it.  Embrace it as an opportunity.  If you wake up and know that you are not going to be able to get back to sleep, say Fuck It and get up.  Rather than staying in bed and either stressing yourself to go back to sleep for another few hours when it’s clear that’s not going to happen, or stressing about whatever stressful thing it was that woke you up in the first place, get up and get to work, whatever “work” means for you in that moment.  If you’re able to start your actual job a couple of hours early, do it.  Doubtful your boss will get upset with you for that.  I typically start writing.  You might work out.  I know a guy who started building these big-ass planter boxes in his backyard.  He had no idea what he was doing when he started…just did it…figured it out as he went along.  Watched YouTube videos.  Of course, dude lives out in the county, so there aren’t any neighbors around to bitch about hammering and sawing at dawn [author’s note: I am extremely jealous of his “county” life.  I live within city limits and am thus subject to the most ridiculous restrictions.  My next house will most definitely not be in any city limits.  I want to not have to see any neighbors, be able to wear a sidearm, and burn the trash in a huge oil barrel.  Anyway, I digress].  He’s been working on the planter project for a year now.  He built 5 huge planters and is now growing his own vegetables and potatoes. It’s pretty cool.

An hour left until the sun rises once again over Fecal Creek, but I’ve already been at it for two hours.  Of course, I’ll be dragging ass by lunch, and a lesser person my submit to a nap.  But not me.  I have access to caffeine, and cause is both just and righteous, and I am actually just able to will my way through it.  And then comes the best part: sleep tonight.  The sleep one gets the night after one gets three hours of sleep or less is glorious.

Alright…gotta get back to the book.

N.P.: “Love Will Tear Us Apart” – Apoptygma Berzerk, Emil Nikolaisen

Word of the Day: suppurate

suppurate
verb
1.  undergo the formation of pus; fester
Here’s why you should know and love this word: most obviously, it has to do with festering pus.  Which would be plenty enough reason to deploy the word liberally in your daily business communication.  But wait…there’s more.  Though officially the word is pronounced “supp-yer-ate,” people in the Midwest (and yrs. truly) pronounce it “super ate.”  Yes…just like the franchise of cheap and sleazy motels.  So the next time you’re driving along and hear a commercial inviting you to spend a night at the Super 8 Motel, you should, like me, cackle adolescently.
N.P.: “Peek-a-Boo” – Leæther Strip

Word of the Day: doxy

Word of the Day: doxy
noun
archaic
1. a lover or mistress
2. a prostitute
“He was pretty surprised when he thought her stage name was Doxy, but once he found out that that was her birth name, he knew her tornado-bait parents had doomed her to this life: she never had a chance.”

N.P.: “Holy Touch” – Foxy Shazam

January 25, 2025 – Burns Night

Hot diggity damn, dear reader…tonight is Burns Night!  Since you are not already drinking whisky and jumping off the furniture, I can only assume you are unfamiliar with Burns Night. Fair enough…it is my depressing belief that very few Americans read much anymore.  I’m not confident that many of them can read. But that’s another topic for another day.  Today is Burns Night, dammit.

Today we celebrate the birthday of the OG wordsmith of Scotland, Robert Burns!  Born January 25, 1759, this literary legend penned verses that Rolling Stone said, “flowed as smoothly as a fine Scotch whisky and as sharply as the Highland wind.”  Fact check: true.  This founding member of the D.P.S. was not only a rebel with a quill…he was the man who made haggis a legitimate subject of lyrical devotion.

Speaking of haggis, have you read his “Address to a Haggis?”  Only Burns could turn a sheep’s stomach stuffed with oats into an ode of unparalleled grandeur.  Any Burns Night celebration worth its salt (certainly any I’ve ever attended) features a massive haggis, held aloft by a group of dudes in kilts, making a lap around the entire room so all in attendance can get a close-up look at what they’re about to eat.  There are whoops and cheers (especially by those of us who’ve been drinking Snakebites for the previous few hours).  When the haggis has finished its tour around the room, it is eventually placed on a table in the center of the room, and someone then reads the “Address to a Haggis,” as significant amounts of whisky is poured over the haggis, and then it is cut with a sword and plates of the rotten stuff is passed around to whomever is daring enough to eat it.  At least that’s what how I remember it going down…I was always completely shit-housed by the time the haggis showed up.  As it should be.  As it must be.  Haggis is food for drunk people who are hungry, freezing, and out of options.  Sober people cannot eat haggis.  I mean it’s physically impossible.  The sober mind will not let its physical self willingly consume something so fetid and foul.  I have personally verified this theory many times: cold nights in San Francisco when the fridge was a little barren at home, a warm, whisky covered haggis is goddamn delicious.  Sober with a full stomach, and that same haggis is repugnant.

And let’s not forget Burns’ saucier side.  He also gifted us with “The Fornicator,” a tribute to all of us unapologetic fornicators, including himself.

And fornicate he did!  Burns fathered 12 children, nine of them out of wedlock.  He was prolific in many ways.  He worked as a farmer, a customs officer, and was allegedly the smoothest talker north of the border.  Burns was into the Enlightenment philosophers and could talk about Rousseau and Voltaire while slamming shots.

Like so many greats, Burns’ spark was snuffed out too soon.  He died on July 21, 1796, at the age of 37, likely due to rheumatic fever exacerbated by his hard-living ways.  Remarkably, the day he was laid to rest, his son Maxwell was born.

Today I recommend you crack your Burns anthology and check out “Tam o’ Shanter” or “A Red, Red Rose.”  Or, better yet, you could gut a pig, make some haggis, and recite the “Address” as you wash it down with whisky.

Slàinte, Robby!

N.P.: “Model Society” – Deaf Radio