Facebook Babylon: Essays From The Edge

March 19th, 2019

     Interesting read. This is something I worry about as social media becomes judge and jury on all issues ranging from trivial, pop culture minutia to complex geopolitical and philosophical questions. Mobs, posses, factions, and zealous sects bubble and foment on either side with ease. Emotional, knee-jerk reactions are taken as fact or gospel, and if you’re not on the loudest side, hell, any side, God help you.

     We can’t try to shame or browbeat defense lawyers into not accepting cases. The fact that we have a legal justice system in the country, as imperfect as it can be at times, that allows for due process is something that seems to be taken for granted. This is not a global right. The citizens of many other countries don’t have the privilege of a court system. You dissent, and you’re thrown in the gulag, never to be heard from again.

     And yet, we have people here bitching about feeling “unsafe” because a professor at their law school takes the case of a notorious villain. These are Harvard students, not some dum-dums living under a rock. You would think their critical thinking skills would be a bit sharper than this. What disappointing lawyers they’ll make, with that state of mind.

     Under our legal system, that notorious villain is allowed the same right to due process and a fair trial as any other citizen in this country. Why? Because our system presumes innocence until PROVEN guilty. That means in a court of law, with a judge presiding over the case, both sides present their evidence for review, and if the defendant so chooses a judge or jury of their peers weighs that evidence and renders a verdict. Not, ‘I heard a bunch of shit about someone on Twitter, and something similar happened to me, with someone else, so let’s give this person the chair.’
Trial by Twitter doesn’t sound like the road to an utopian future. It sounds like a sanctimonious , bumbling gouge in the side of Democracy.

     When I think of the brilliant minds that have pondered these concepts over the last 5,000 years, much more brilliant minds than me, I’m humbled, but also kind of awed. By the level of critical thinking it takes to philosophize these intricate concepts and systems, and build on them piece by piece, over the ages. But I guess back then, there was no social media to distract the shit out of everyone either. And these weren’t perfect humans, because perfect humans don’t exist. These were just humans that spent a lot of time thinking about things, instead of assuming they know everything there is to know already. Which I really can appreciate.

     The other thing is, our system is set up the way it is, so innocent people aren’t randomly thrown in jail. And again, yes the system is imperfect, because humans are imperfect, and shit isn’t always fair, so there are some innocent people that fall through the cracks, and some guilty people that beat the rap, but the basis of the system is solid. Both sides present their evidence and it is weighed, which is fair, though the result may not always be just.

     The court of public opinion holds no steadfast ideals about fairness or decorum, or the presentation of evidence from both sides. It’s fueled by emotion, personal past histories, biases, and so much yelling. And a lot of screen courage. It makes a big difference to read people’s facial expressions, look them in the eye, and articulate things to someone’s face. It’s very easy to judge and condemn from afar, with reports, and hearsay, and opinion. It’s much more difficult to judge in person, beyond a reasonable doubt, in front of all the evidence. As it should be. Trials are serious matters that deserves serious, scholarly attention, not some random Internet spouting off. (Irony duly noted.)

     The bottom line is: I think it’s pretty lousy that people are trying to petition and protest other citizens unalienable rights away, no matter how heinous the charge. And it’s morally reprehensible, and just plain egomaniacal to make everything about oneself. Jesus man. The Harvard dean isn’t taking the case because he believes in sexual predation, he’s taking it because he believes in the law, and in due process for ALL citizens. If all the defense attorneys were intimidated against taking certain types of cases, then there is no one left to represent the accused, and there is no due process. There is no recourse, accused equals guilt, and the already overcrowded prisons will brim with even more bodies. One never knows when they might just be in the shoes of the accused, either. ‘There but for the grace of God go I’ is a phrase that has seemingly fallen out of favor, replaced with “Ahh, that will never happen to me. Fuck that guy. Burn him at the stake!”

     “When the views of thinking people, whether lawyers, teachers, editors, or writers, are determined by our self-assessed risk of losing jobs or social standing, it doesn’t take a totalitarian government to repress our thoughts. We have done it to ourselves.” ~Quote from the article.

Unpopular Speech in a Cold Climate, from The New Yorker

March 4th, 2019

 It’s much more palatable to think that the a-holes that cross one’s path just had their heads torn off by a velociraptor and that’s the reason they’ve taken leave of their God damned senses, instead of them just inherently being garbage human beings. Thanks New Yorker.

March 1st, 2019


     I’d like to say I’m going to suspend judgement on this concept until it comes to fruition, but I just have this nagging feelings it’s going to be shit. Punk, cocktail, and lounge are already discordant words.

     What is a “punk cocktail”, even? Some $16 potion, with a vague band reference, in a martini glass? Just spitballing some more historically accurate ideas here, but how about:
‘The Johnny Rotten’- a PBR with a third of the beer poured out and replaced with piss.
‘The Dee Dee’- Heroine, whiskey, and whatever collective pills patrons come in with that night ground into a powder surprise.
‘The Lou Reed’- a shot of speed followed by forced electroshock therapy.

     There are a hundred ways to do something like this wrong, and maybe one way to do it right. Good luck with those odds. Because unless it has live punk bands, cheap drinks, and a sincere dive aura; this shit ain’t punk. It’s just going to be another contrived, dumbass hipster hangout for the yuppies around here to get rich off of. Pllllllllllltttttttttthhhhhhhh.

     And at least with the other disaffected hipster bullshit around here, they’re not trying to pose as punk anything. This has the potential to be a real dick slap in the face to those of us for whom punk is our solace. To those of us for whom punk is our life philosophy.

     In the words of Lux, “You ain’t no punk, you punk. You wanna talk about the real junk? If I ever said s@?! I’d be banned, ‘cause I’m your garbageman. Well, if you can’t dig me, you can’t dig nothin’. Do you want the real thing, or are you just talkin’? Do you understand?”

Metro Times: A 'Punk Rock Cocktail Lounge' is Headed to Southwest Detroit

February 18th, 2019

    So if people are going to stop buying and listening to Ryan Adams’ music in protest, does that mean they are also going to start buying and listening to Mandy Moore albums in solidarity? Ennnnnnjoy.

Sanctimony never sounded so saccharinely insipid.

Pitchfork: Ryan Adams Album Pulled From Release After Abuse Allegations

February 11th, 2019

     You know those times when you wanna hump, but talking is too much of a hassle? Then this is the product for you. Millennials and Baby Boomers alike can rejoice in never having to speak to another human being again, not even for sex, with LoveSync!

     I think I’m just going to invent a t-shirt that says ‘Bang Me!’ on one side, and ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ on the other, and you can just flip it inside out at your leisure. A four dollar solution to a non-problem.

     Um if this is the future of sex, sign me up for a Real Doll...

     Dirty talk; both the preamble foreplay, and during is one of the best parts of sex. Sex without mental stimulation is not worth the time it takes to undress and redress.
Plllllltttttthhhhhh. Nine thumbs down!

Kickstarter: Love Sync

December 29th, 2018

     I voted to legalize weed in the recent election, because I don’t think citizens should be criminalized for just having it or smoking it, even for recreational use. I think often times it is used as a cheap excuse to thrust people of color or lower socioeconomic status into the revolving door system of incarceration. Which is bullshit.

    And economically, I think any sort of voluntary tax revenue is a good thing, in theory anyway. I’d like to think the increased revenue will go to things like schools, public health projects, and various other enriching programs, but people are greedy, lousy fucks, so who knows how that money will be earmarked. It also opens up a legitimate market for ordinary citizens with an entrepreneurial spirit.

    I also think there are some legitimate medical uses for marijuana, that can actually help people. And anything that eases people suffering in this world, I’m all for. Also, I think with less of a stigma surrounding the drug, more research can be done on its benefits and effects. And more knowledge is an inherently a good thing.

    Full disclosure; I personally do not partake in marijuana; it’s simply not my cup of tea. It just doesn’t do anything for me. It’s a “meh.” In many ways, I’m probably the poster child for the D.A.R.E program. But really, I have an hyper-sensitive system, and drugs either do absolutely nothing or I have extreme fucking reactions. This includes prescription medications. So my highs, and my lows, come from myriad other sources.

    But none of this means I can’t take into account what other people find helpful or pleasing about cannabis, or what some of the secondary, social benefits of legalization are. It’s simple empathy and logic.

    So long-winded preface aside, I don’t think there is anything on this big, blue marble that doesn’t have pitfalls; marijuana included. Things as pure, but as complicated as love or altruism have pitfalls. Morality, beauty, honor, loyalty, bravery, all these Platonic ideals, are certainly not without their dark sides or sacrifices. But yet, according to every pot-smoker I’ve ever talked to, hell, even overheard, (and the comment section of this article is congruent with those claims), somehow, the cannabis plant is the only thing on Earth that is 100% without downfall.

Uh, yeah right.

     Pot: a virginal substance of unadulterated ambrosial magic, reigned down from the Heavens by the Gods of relaxation and glaucoma-relief. And anyone who dares speak otherwise is just an unhip, stuffy teetotaler that just needs to get with the times, man. Also, bullshit.
Humans can get addicted to just about anything. Anything that triggers those pleasure receptors in our brain. It doesn’t have to be a drug, it could be sex, gambling, food, exercise, another person, whatever. Ever watch that My Strange Addiction show? That’s an eye-opener. So of course, some people are addicted to, and others can get addicted to marijuana. Just like any other thing on Earth we as humans can get addicted to. It’s absurd to think otherwise.

     And no, that doesn’t mean EVERY person who smokes is addicted. Also absurd. Lots of people engage in regular, zesty enterprises like sex, eating food, or exercising, and they don’t become addicted. In fact, they are much healthier because of it. But not everyone is the same. People are wired differently and have different experiences than you. Some things, even traditionally heathy activities, can spiral out of control. Does that mean we ban sex or food or exercising? Of course not. We don’t even ban cigarettes or alcohol, though I’m sure we’ve all known someone who got lung cancer, or was an alcoholic. So why isn’t the same understanding the risks, but allowing it with some regulation given to weed?

     Medical-marijuana smokers’ health benefits wanted to be taken seriously, as they should, so why discount those who struggle with the drug, or who are deleteriously effected by it? That’s not balanced. That’s not empathetic. That’s not right. We have to listen to those who are negatively effected too. They are human beings that matter just as much as anyone else. And there is almost a reverse-stigma now on those who speak about the possible risks of usage.

     I’ve known someone close to me that did very much struggle with it, couldn’t get out from under it, and it was slowly and surely ruining their life. To the point where I had to start researching information about it, and talking to different professional drug counselors on the topic to learn more, to figure out how to help them. And the drug counselor I talked to, said they saw more marijuana-using patients than any other kind of drug-user. And it was absolutely addictive to some and could be very detrimental to those user’s lives. And this information was presented to me, like, “Of course, it is addictive. No shit.” And this was not some out-of-touch dinosaur either, it was a young, very tuned-in woman whose career was a therapist specializing in drug counseling.

     So I guess I find the topic very personal to me. To have a mob of people conveying this message that, “Your experience doesn’t matter. It’s not relevant, because it goes against my personal narrative and recreational lifestyle,” is infuriating to me. Where is the empathy and understanding they clamored for when trying to legalize it? And geez, it sounds a lot like what the old-fashioned pearl-clutchers cited as the reasons to keep it illegal. It’s more than a bit hypocritical. Sorry that some people’s real struggle with the drug is harshing your mellow but...

     Everyone’s mental heath struggle is equally relevant. And deserves equal consideration not only under the law, but in the court of public opinion also. You don’t get to spout off to strangers that their problems aren’t real, unless you want to perpetuate the cycle of someone doing that back to you.

The Atlantic: America's Invisible Pot Addicts 

Erotic Nightmares and Sensual Daydreams: The Raw Power of Rocky Horror

"Give yourself over to absolute pleasure/Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh
Erotic nightmares beyond any measure/And sensual daydreams to treasure forever
Can't you just see it. Whoa ho ho!/Don't dream it, be it."

     When I was young; only a precocious first grader, I was snooping around, as children tend to do, and I found this small vinyl-lined Playboy calendar in my father's old metal desk, in the back office of his restaurant.  Most likely some promotional item that would come free with a subscription to the magazine.  I somehow inherently knew it was wrong to look at it; like it just wasn't something good little girls do and that I would get in trouble for snooping around, but I also couldn't resist turning to every page and studying each one of those glamorous women.  They captivated me with their beauty and this look of innocence and purity on each of their faces, that somehow didn't seem to quite fit with their sensually naked forms.  I didn't even quite know what it was I was seeing, but it drew me in, yet not without an overwhelming sense of impurity.  But it didn't stop me from peeking at that calendar and those beguiling women every chance I could.  That is the first step I can vividly remember into my rabbit hole of sexual discovery.

 "Now all I want to know/Is how to go/I've tasted blood and I want more."

    I had terrible nightmares as a kid, still do truth be told, but as a child they were harrowing to experience.  I would run into my parent's room each night after a nightmare, and sleep on the floor in front of their TV.  So, I think in an effort to help me, and regain their privacy, the same year I discovered that Playboy calendar, they bought me a small TV for my bedroom that Christmas.  Every night, I would watch TV until I fell asleep, and when I had a nightmare, I could just turn on my own TV to soothe my mind back into some semblance of reality.  That also meant, I could watch whatever I wanted, unsupervised and unencumbered.

 "The darkness must go/Down the river of night's dreaming/Flow morphia slow
Let the sun and light come streaming/Into my life, into my life."

    It was the following Halloween night, I was in second grade by then, and I was hopped up on candy and the excitement of the high holiday.  I wasn't close to tired, but I could stay up all night and watch TV if I wanted.  So, it had to have been after midnight, and I was flipping through the limited channels, and I came upon the strangest sight.  It was this movie, clearly some kind of horror flick in honor of Halloween, but it was different somehow.  There were all these strange people and strange costumes, put together in a way I had never seen before in other movies.  And there was music, loud, fast, rock 'n roll tinged music; I was rapt.  But there was something else even, some inexplicable sensation, that at the time I didn't know had a name, but I could feel it in every bantam corner of my body.  I could feel it vibrate these electrical impulses as they danced down my back, and coursed straight through to between my skinny thighs.  Later, I would deduce that the feeling that rocked my little 8 year old mind and body to the core was sexiness. That's what this movie dripped; oozed, was sexiness.  And again, it felt innately wrong, somehow.  Which made me desire it all the more.

“It’s beyond me/Help me, Mommy/I’ll be good, you’ll see/Take this dream away
What’s this, let’s see/I feel sexy/What’s come over me?/Woo! Here it comes again.”

And in addition to the sexiness that I saw onscreen, and the sexiness that I felt, there was more still.  There was this bizarreness to it, this level of depravity and acceptance of that depravity, that differed wildly from that Playboy calendar that allured me so, the previous year.  There wasn't this posed innocence.  Hell, there wasn't any posing at all; it was nothing but the loss of innocence.  These grotesque, lust-fueled, outre freaks writhing around the screen, recklessly indulging in their perversion to create this otherworldly cocktail of pleasure laced with defiance.  It was like a Universal gift, wrapped up and broadcast just for me.  I could barely comprehend what it was I was seeing, but I just knew it was me. "It's so dreamy/Oh, fantasy free me/So you can't see me/No, not at all  In another dimension/With voyeuristic intention/Well secluded, I see all With a bit of a mind flip/You're into the time slip/And nothing can ever be the same."      It also introduced me to a concept I was wholly unfamiliar with, the idea of androgyny, and not juts as a device or an affectation, but androgyny as desirable; androgyny as highly sexual.  Something I would later go on to explore, not only through glam and punk rock, but in my own sexual experiences, within in my lovers, and of course, within myself; the philosophical nature of what it is to be male or female, and how those lines are made to be blurred.  To say that late-night movie, which I would only come to find out later was The Rocky Horror Picture Show, changed me wouldn't be quite accurate.  It was like it unlocked, or rather, unleashed something in me, something that had already been bubbling up since conception; this nascent sexuality and burgeoning lust for sex tinged with the peculiar.  I didn't realize then of course, but I was a born fetishist.  It would take me years to fully embrace my own perversions; the sadomasochism, the domination and submission; the idea of sex as fuel, as food, and sex as power, but this was one hell of a fucking start. "Oh, we're trapped!/It's something you'll get used to/A mental mind-fuck can be nice."     Rocky Horror would foment my love affair with the bizarre, the carnal, the obscene; the forbidden.   From that time on, any nightmare I had, I could then sexualize, in this lascivious lucid dreaming technique my young brain concocted, to not only diminish its power, but give me a modicum of control and even a jolt of pleasure.  And the movie was at least partially responsible for forever entangling sex, rock 'n roll and kink in my impressionable mind.  I've never really stopped delighting and indulging in the filthiness and power of sex from that time on.  In myriad ways, sex has not only pushed me to the brink, but saved me from going over the edge.  For this little Creature of the Night, Rocky Horror allowed me to slip several rungs deeper into the seedy underbelly of the prurient and the arcane; the salacious depths.  It was a thrilling leap into my subconscious hedonistic desires and into the pure decadence of orgiastic smut.
"Now the only thing I've come to trust/Is an orgasmic rush of lust                           Rose tints my world/And keeps me safe from my trouble and pain."

In Time and Blood: The Endless Variations of A Thousand Kisses Deep & Deciphering the Mystery of the Mystery Man

A Thousand Kisses Deep by the legendary Leonard Cohen: the gut-wrenching verses.

You came to me this morning
And you handled me like meat
You’d have to be a man to know
How good that feels, how sweet
My mirrored twin, my next of kin
I’d know you in my sleep
And who but you would take me in
A thousand kisses deep

I loved you when you opened
Like a lily to the heat
You see I'm just another snowman
Standing in the rain and sleet
But you don’t need to hear me now
And every word I speak
It counts against me anyhow
A thousand kisses deep

I know you had to lie to me
I know you had to cheat
To pose all hot and hide behind
The veils of sheer deceit
Our perfect porn aristocrat
So elegant and cheap
I’m old but I’m still into that
A thousand kisses deep

I know you had to lie to me,
I know you had to cheat.
But the Means no longer guarantee
The Virtue in Deceit.
That truth is bent, that beauty spent,
That style is obsolete -
Ever since the Holy Spirit went
A thousand kisses deep.

(So what about this Inner Light
That's boundless and unique?
I'm slouching through another night
A thousand kisses deep.)

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it's done -
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it's real
A thousand kisses deep.

(And sometimes when the night is slow

The wretched and the meek
We gather up our hearts and go
A thousand kisses deep)

I'm turning tricks; I'm getting fixed,
I'm back on Boogie Street.
I tried to quit the business -
Hey, I'm lazy and I'm weak.
But sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go
A thousand kisses deep.

(And fragrant is the thought of you,
The file on you complete -
Except what we forgot to do
A thousand kisses deep.)

I'm turning tricks, I'm getting fixed

I'm back on boogie street
You lose your grip and then you slip
Into the masterpiece
And maybe I had miles to drive
And promises to keep
You ditch it all to stay alive
A thousand kisses deep

All soaked in sex, and pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
We made it to the forward deck
I blessed our remnant fleet -
And then consented to be wrecked
A thousand kisses deep.

I’m good at love, I’m good at hate
It's in between I freeze
Been working out, but its too late
It’s been too late for years
But you look good, you really do
They love you on the street,
Somebody must have died for you
A thousand kisses deep

And I'm still working with the wine
Still dancing cheek to cheek
The band is playing Auld Lang Syne
But the heart will not retreat
I ran with Diz and Dante
I never had their sweep
But once or twice they let me play
A thousand kisses deep

The autumn moved across your skin
Got something in my eye
A light that doesn’t need to live
And doesn’t need to die
A riddle in the book of love
Obscure and obsolete
Until witnessed here in time and blood
A thousand kisses deep

(Well that's my story and I admit,
It's broken and it's bleak
But all the twisted pieces fit
A thousand kisses deep)


Deciphering the Mystery of the Mystery Man 

     So often my gnarled, tarred soul longs for the romance and desire to revive it back to its white hot lightening state of being.  So often, disappointment reigns as it distills into bitter jade.  So many attempts, so many hopes, so much failure and ruination.  How does one cull the courage to get back astride the horse, after it's thrown you off so many times before?  After madness, and near madness, anger, pain, and bloodlust.  What could possibly be left for the sad-sack losers and lonely hearts, laying broken in the street?  Kicked and knocked around, all sense curb-stomped and drained long ago.

     So what does it take for the heart to rise, the hope and colour to return?  The sex to come flooding back as the blood runs south? Some magician's elixir; a bourbon-scented alchemy to storm the gates of regret and fear.  What or who does it take to let go, one more time; to take one last swing? A magnetic hypnotist, an enigmatic conjurer, that can simultaneously secure and disarm, ignite and comfort; love and lust. A rakish and refined closet pervert, yet tender and sweet, to unite the severed halves and disparate compartments galvanized by time and betrayal.  An arcane man, who always was, lurking in the shadows, just out of reach.  A marquis from another time, dominant, but unassuming; who would know?  The Holy Grail, there all while, left unclaimed, waiting there for me to find.  To entrance me with his gilded blaze, to make me talk, to make me kiss, to make me want, once more.

The empathy he exhales, dissolves the old sentries; the carnality he dances around, floods my senses. I expose my delicate, alabaster neck, "Go ahead Daddy, clamp the choke-collar around me, once more."  And I can't get enough.

The First Temptation of Vance

"Come on! Three games!" exclaimed Vance.  "That's not fair!"

"That's not up to you to decide, Mr. Myers," Coach Donnegan coolly replied.  "You're lucky I'm just suspending you for three games, instead of calling your parents.  And further, you should be thanking me for not reporting this to Father O' Leary.  I'm sure he'd be a lot less forgiving than I, if he found you smoking a marijuana cigarette under the bleachers."

"It was one stupid puff and it wasn't even mine! I got roped into taking a hit by Ricky and his dumb-ass friends. They kept taunting me, so I just did it to shut them up. And then they ran.  I can't miss the match against Western Prep," he lamented.

"Listen Vance, I know you are a good kid, and that's why I'm giving you a break on this.  But I can't just overlook it either.  Sister Therese has informed me that your grades have been slipping the last couple months as well. Now you were her best student. I think you need to seriously consider your future here, son.  You could be heading down a path where it isn't so easy to return to the straight and narrow.  Has something happened recently, at home maybe?" his coach inquired, in an almost fatherly manner.

"No, no.  Everything at home is fine.  Just forget it, okay? I'll just take the three game suspension," his face reddening.

"Alright, good lad.  Take your punishment like a man.  The soccer team will be right here waiting for you next week."

With that Vance threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and huffed out of the coach's office.  The truth was things were far from fine.  Everything about Vance's life was in flux.  It was his senior year at St. Francis Preparatory Academy for Boys, and soccer was his ticket out of the affluent, but lame suburb of Indianapolis.  His parents had divorced a few years back, his father moving back to Michigan, and his mother, Jeannie had just remarried.  His step-dad Richard was kind of an asshole, one that Vance now had to deal with every day.  Richard had twins from a previous marriage, that had also moved in.  Mitchell and Maryanne were fraternal twins, the same age as Vance, but they both attended the local public high school.  The only time Vance really interacted with them was at home, every other week, when they weren't at their mother's house.

Mitchell and Maryanne couldn't have been more different.  The only thing they shared was the same tall frame and sandy blonde hair.  While Mitchell was a rather bookish introvert, contented to study alone in his half of the room Vance and he now shared, his sister Maryanne, lean and athletic, was the star of the school's basketball team.  She was very popular and could have her pick of boyfriends.

Her long hair, the color of golden wheat, had this way of bouncing when she walked, as if to punctuate her every step.  Her oceanic blue eyes could crystallize even the most jaded of teenage hearts.  She smelled of strawberries and freesia.  Her slim, tan legs seemed limitless under her blue satin, basketball shorts.  Her soft and flaxen bush he could just glimpse the outline of against the thin, indulgent fabric.  If he could just feel that pure, wet plunder, maybe just taste her intoxication...

"Fuck!" Vance blew his sticky load all over his stomach.  He reclined back on his bed, as he had tensed and arched while sputtering to the thought of his new step-sister.  He let the cum dry a bit on his freshly grown hair, before he cleaned himself off with a t-shirt Mitchell had left on the floor near his bed.  He thought briefly about his only and ex-girlfriend Vanessa, who decided to dump Vance after he told her he loved her, after she took his virginity.  He tried to drown out the thought of telling her he loved her after he came, that afternoon in her room, while her parents were at work, and her little brother running around downstairs banging on some pot he pulled out of a kitchen drawer.  "What an idiot," he thought.  "I'm such a fucking idiot."  Vanessa had left him for Ricky, his rival on the soccer team, without a second thought.  Each day seemed more depressing than the last.

                                               *****

The next day, school was trudging by like sludge, as the clock itched torturously to 2:30.  It was Friday, and since Vance was suspended from soccer until the next week, he had nothing to do but pray for the bell.  Finally, it rung out like an act of mercy.  He gathered his books and raced to his locker.  He wanted to get out of there before he ran into Ricky.  He threw his books in, and grabbed his letterman jacket with one fluid motion; slamming the metal into its tinny frame.  As he descended the steps that led to the parking lot, there was Ricky and his Cro-mag friends leaning against the brick railing. And there was Vanessa hanging on Ricky's arm.

"Shit," muttered Vance.

"Hey Mama's boy! Heard you got suspended for that reefer!  That's too bad! Hahaha!" Rickey taunted as he high-fived his buddies.  "Guess you won't get to start in the big game after all!"

"Why don't you fuck off, Rick." Vance galled.

"Ooohhh, goody two-shoes grew some balls over night, huh?" Ricky cracked.

"Rick, come on, just leave him alone, you know.  He's just like, sensitive, you know?" pleaded Vanessa.

Vance could feel the hot tears and humiliation cocktail welling up inside of him.  As if he needed Vanessa, of all people to come to his defense. Jesus.

"Liddle Vancey needs his girlfwiend to fight his battles for him, huh?  Look, I think he's going to cry! Holy shit." Ricky laughed and pointed.

Vance snapped.  As simple and quick as that.  All of a sudden he didn't feel like crying anymore.  He really didn't feel like anything.  He just felt like acting.  Before he could second-guess himself, Vance swung on Ricky with all the power his broad frame could muster.  He connected with the sunken left-eye of his arch enemy, sending him toppling over the the brick ledge onto the grass three feet below.

As Ricky's friends stood stunned, peering over at him writhing around on the grass, Vanessa shouted, "Vance, what the hell is wrong with you? You didn't have to punch him like that.  He was only kidding," as tears now welled up in her eyes.

"Why don't you shut up for once, you stupid twat!" Vance snapped back, as he pushed through the gathering crowd and strode to his car; the Mustang his mother had bought him two years prior for his sixteenth birthday, and tore the fuck out of the parking lot of the St. Francis Preparatory Academy for Boys.

                                          *****

As Vance sped toward his house, the adrenaline began to drain away and regret crept in over what he had just done.  "What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck, fuck, fuck?!?!" he yelled as he pounded his hands on the steering wheel.  "Jesus, what did I get myself into?  Now it's going to be ten times worse with that Neanderthal Rick," Vance bemoaned.

He pulled his would-be pussy wagon into the driveway, and killed the engine.  He hastily pulled the keys from the ignition and got out.  He wearily opened the front door with his house key and closed and locked it behind him.  He needed to think.  He was almost never home right after school.  He usually came late in the evening after practice or a match, to a bustling household, filled at the very least with Jeannie and Richard cooing like newlyweds.  But it was eerily still in the house this afternoon.  His mother and step-father still at work, and the twins still at their mom's.  Vance sunk back against the front door and breathed in deeply.  "God, what the fuck was that about?" he sighed, almost exultant again.  A wry smile curling across his full lips, as he relived clocking Rick in his arrogant face.

  Then, as if a breeze of awareness had rolled through the door, he realized that he was drenched in sweat; the ripe, pheromonal sweat of a man at war. But at war with whom? he wondered.  Ricky and his asshole friends? Vanessa? His parents? His Catholic school? Or maybe with a God he didn't know if he believed in anymore.

 "Shit, I gotta take a shower.  This is pungent," he laughed to himself.  As he made his way up the adjacent stairs, he thought he heard a faint sound.  As he approached the bathroom he shared with his new step-siblings, he saw the door was slightly ajar.  It was the water running that he heard coming up the stairs.  Who was home, he wondered.  As the twins car wasn't in the driveway.

He peeked in the bathroom, instinctively, but the shower curtain was pulled closed.  But he spotted a pair of Virginal white, cotton panties on the bathroom rug.  It was Maryanne.  He knew those panties.  Those delicate, cotton bikini panties, in an almost unbelievably white hue.  He had seen them in the laundry before, where he was so tempted to grab a pair for himself to sniff, to rub against his face, to jerk off into, but he didn't have the balls to go through with it.  And now here he was, with Maryanne happily humming in the shower, he could grab the panties, freshly peeled from her nubile body, and cart them off to his bedroom.

He could feel the adrenaline surging through his body once more.  "Fuck it," he thought, and ripped the panties from off the floor before could change his mind.  He hauled ass to his room, closed the door, and leaned against it.  He couldn't wait, he had to sniff his step-sister's panties.  He held up the clean, cool cotton to his face and inhaled intensely, as he ran his nose along the gusset.  "Jesus, even her pussy smells like ripe peaches," he whispered to himself.  It was the most intoxicating scent, better than he had even dreamed.

He immediately got hard, and his fat cock began to rub against his stiff, black uniform pants.  He unbuckled his belt, undid the button and tore the zipper down to slide the pants off his powerful thighs and onto the floor.  He yanked his boxers down to expose his fully erect member.  He wrapped the stone-fruit scented panties around his meaty shaft and began to stroke as he began to moan low.  He made his way over to his bed, disrobing more articles along the way, and laid atop the comforter, never ceasing to jerk his dick with Maryanne's perfect panties.  He was totally enthralled by this point, and was moaning louder, tilting his head back, while he closed his eyes and fantasized about his step-sister riding his engorged cock; the adrenaline coursing through his virile, newly minted body.

Then, after an unknown length of ecstasy, the door swung open and there was Maryanne, freshly showered and standing in a lavender-colored bath towel.  It took a few seconds for Vance to realize he was being watched by the very object of his obsession.  There was his step-sister, long blonde hair clung to her back and dripping wet, her azure eyes wide with shock.

"Shit," Vance sputtered as he came to.

"Vance, what are you doing with my panties?" questioned Maryanne, almost innocently.

And it was in this very moment, Vance was standing upon a precipice.  He could do what he had always done, which was to wither, shrink, and make excuses like the sniveling nebbish his mother, the church, and his lot in life demanded of him, or, he could leap from the precipice; freefall, taking whatever breaks befall him, whilst enjoying that untethered exultation all the way down. That perhaps he could have everything he'd ever dreamt of, if only he renounced his every indoctrinated moral inclination.  If only he finally gave up the Holy Ghost.

  Maybe it was the preceding events of the past few days, maybe it was the way she purred his name, or maybe he had just turned a corner from skittish boy to full-grown man, but instead of ducking under the covers and silently wishing it all away, he embraced his situation as one of opportunity, instead of peril.

"I'm jerking off my big cock into them, sis," he said slyly.  It was a gamble, but he just kept right on jacking off with Maryanne's Sunday panties.

This immediately disarmed the normally cool Maryanne.  She didn't balk, or recoil, she just stood there, transfixed.  It was in that moment that Vance knew he could have her.  It was like every previous inclination he had ever had was absolute and utter bullshit, and the second he gave up the choir boy routine, the world unfurled before his feet.  Sinners may not get to Heaven, but they sure have a lot of fun on the road to Hell.  Fuck.

"If you want your panties back Maryanne, then you"ll have to come get them..." he rasped, never letting his dark eyes fall from hers.

Slowly, as if by command, she ambled toward him, clutching the lavender bath towel closed with one hand, nervously drumming her fingers on the hem of the fabric with the other.  As soon as she reached the bed, his cock began to jump almost-imperceptibly with raw excitement.  He grabbed her nervous hand; it trembled slightly, and guided it onto his granite member.  She began to stroke his shaft with her long, delicate fingers.  He allowed the panties to fall away, a flash of bright white against the navy comforter.

 He felt beyond high; in a state of transformative ecstasy, but also this strange sensation of total control.  Like two different parts of his brain finally working in tandem.  He pulled her lithe waist toward him with a powerful hand.  She let her towel drop as she fell into him, exposing her pert, firm breasts, her soft pink nipples fully engaged with longing.  He arched up to meet her rose-hued lips, and kissed her deeply and passionately in the most perfect way, as he caressed her long golden tresses with his idle hand.  She was kneeling beside him now, her teenage siren ass in the air.  He slid his hand down her waist onto her tanned thigh, as he could barely wait to slip his fingers into her slick, utopian snatch.  It was drenched with her desire. She was unbelievably wet for him.

She moaned quietly, at first, as Vance rubbed his thumb lightly on her clit, but sensing her pleasure, he continued unrelentingly, until she was beside herself in orgasm.  He deftly lifted her atop his face as she began to tremble.  He had to taste her as she rode the final waves of her first climax.  Her pussy tasted pure, like soap and some inexplicable essence of innocent sexuality.  He knew somewhere in the recesses of his reptilian brain that he would be a junkie for this exotic liqueur ad aeternum.

He slid two fingers into her vice-like, dripping wet cunt as he tongued her clit, working his agile hand dynamically in and out of her perfect hole, while she screamed, "Jesus, Vance! I'm coming again!"  She bucked hard against his mouth as she squealed in rapture.  She shook several times before opening her cerulean eyes.  Vance was staring right up at her as she did, drunk with pleasure and power.

"God, Vance! You're incredible," Maryanne uttered, breathlessly, as she fell beside him on the bed.

"It's you my sexy step-sister.  You turn me the fuck on.  I think you should suck your brother's cock now, like a good little girl," Vance plied as he slid his hand up her back, onto her neck, and gently pushed her head toward his thick rod.

She obediently obliged, kissing down his muscular physique, to kneel at the alter of his mesmorizing staff. She kissed his stomach, then inner thighs, and drew her tongue across his skin as she made her way teasingly to his concrete horse-cock.  She started at the base, licking in between his balls, moving up his shaft with her outstretched tongue, until she finally reached the head.  She swirled her tongue, lovingly around the tip of his dick, concentrating on the underside, until taking him fully into her mouth, as she softly sucked him deeper and deeper into her wanton, slut throat.  She was all the way down to his balls as she choked herself greedily on his relentless monolith, letting his head hit the back of her throat several times before slowly releasing him.  She gagged and spit the saliva onto his cock as she jacked him expertly.

'She sure seemed like she had done this before,' thought Vance.  He knew he was going to blow his load if they didn't fuck soon.  "Get on top of me, you perfect little slut." Vance commanded.

Maryanne obeyed.  She feverishly climbed on top of Vance's impressive dick, and slipped it in with minimal resistance, as he had opened her up with the first wave of orgasms.  He watched as she bounced on top of his cock, her perfect tits followed in precise rhythm.  He pawed at her tits and squeezed both her nipples hard until she screamed, his fiendish fall from grace nearly complete.

"Stand up and bend over the bed, my sweet little pet.  I want to fuck you from behind." Vance commanded.

Maryanne excitedly acquiesced.  Vance swiftly moved behind her flawless ass, and rubbed his leaden cockhead along her soaking slit, before plunging it back into her tight hole.  He grabbed onto either of her hips as he drilled into his step-sister, mercilessly, as she screamed, "Fuck me, Vance.  Fuck me with that big cock, you mother fucker. I'm going to come again, you fucker..."

It's then, amid Maryanne's cries of ecstasy, when he thought he heard a noise come from downstairs, but then again, maybe it was nothing, he rationalized.

"Get on your back, you little whore. I want you to watch me empty my hot load in your tight cunt, you sexy little bitch."

Maryanne climbed up on the bed, laid on her back, and spread her long, tan legs for Vance.  He lifted both her legs so they lay on each of his broad shoulders, her ass slightly off the bed.  His charcoal eyes locked into hers, as he drove his indurate monolith into her once more. She looked up at him; moaning with pleasure as he fucked her brains out.  He was so close to cumming.

He could feel his briny seed pulsating from his balls, when the door creaked, and slowly lurched open, to reveal a shocked, and very erect Mitchell.  The outline of his hard dick, clearly visible beneath the thin, khaki fabric, of his tightening pants. 

There was no way Vance was stopping now.  He was fully enraptured in this temptress' garden of earthly delight.  He had already come this far, but not quite far enough. There was only one thing to do, corrupt yet another.

"Don't just stand there with your dick in your pants, Mitchell.  Take it out and jack off, like a man," Vance dictated to his step-brother.

Vance began drilling Maryanne even more vigorously, as Mitchell unzipped his pants to reveal a sizeable cock.  Mitchell started jacking his cock as he watched the blasphemous scene unfolding before him.  He slowly moved closer and closer, until he was near the side of the bed.

"Do you like seeing your sister take this big dick? Huh, Mitchell?  Watch me blow this huge load in her nubile cunt." Vance taunted, as he thrust his engorged staff into Maryanne's rapidly contracting clam.  It was then Vance began to spill his diabolic seed into the sinful Maryanne.

As Vance shot ribbons of cum into his step-sister's soaked pussy, Mitchell couldn't help but blow his own load, erupting a splatter of cum across his sister's tits and stomach.  As Vance drained his balls into his new little pet, he leaned down and began to lick up the cum Mitchell had painted across his step-sister.  He cleaned every drop from her pert tits, and lapped up the remaining taste on her stomach.

And then the front door opened, yet again.  This time unmistakeably, as the bedroom door hung wide open.

"Hey, where is everybody?  Hello? Where are you guys?" Vance heard his mother call up from the bottom of the stairs.

He would have normally been terrified for his mother to find him even holding a girl's hand, but Vance felt nothing but the thrill of a sexual high and the intoxication that comes with absolute power. He didn't even bother to move out of Maryanne's swollen womb, as he heard the footsteps fall lightly on the carpet.  Nothing mattered any longer, save for the hedonistic beast that must be fed.  His long fall from grace was complete.  Another once-sweet boy, thrust into manhood; fully corrupted and Hell-bound.  Somewhere, Satan was smiling, as Vance's transmogrification was consummated.  Another humanist for the ages.  

Land of the Free (From Shame) and Home of the Vain

On Donald Trump signing an executive order to bar families from being separated at the border.

Oh, you mean The President of the United States, arguably the most powerful man in the world, could have fixed this all along?!?!?!  Or, even, ahem, prevented this from happening in the first place?  No shit. You don’t say.  In those first 100 days he was signing big, showy executive orders like his tiny hands were on fire.

So a few things: first, boy is this guy a slave to his image. Yikes. But I guess we should count our blessings with Trump. He can be swayed by appealing to his baser instincts, namely vanity. So at least that’s something.

But in a rather piquant irony, this certainly leaves those creeps who were justifying or defending the position of separating families at the border, flapping nakedly in the wind. Which if we can find any humor in this repugnant policy, it would most likely be found somewhere in there. When their head honcho of hate changes course to brush the crumbs off his sullied image, I wonder if they will double down on their antipathy or turn tail and dutifully follow their egomaniacal leader to save face.  Decisions, decisions.

Sorry folks but Trump cares more about his status than he cares about any of you. Which on a rare day, when all the cylinders align just right on this enigmatic lock, something decent can actually be opened.

Two friends posts on Facebook in response to some of their Facebook friends being for the policy of separating families at the border as a severe deterrent. 

Friend 1: All of you trying to justify this evil need to listen to these children crying. If you still feel the same,  you are truly horrid. PLEASE DEFRIEND ME. I've never felt so disgusted by you.

Author Response: Right on.  There is no justification for this level of cruelty and malice. Those kids and little babies didn’t do anything wrong. No innocent human being deserves that trauma. (And there are many developmental psychological studies on this very issue to prove it does cause severe trauma.) Anyone trying to justify this is a God damned animal.  

Just when I think this can’t sink any lower, some ghoul in the Trump administration says hold my beer...

Friend 2: I’ve seen so many people posting "serves them right" comments and ridiculous shit like that.  Makes me fucking sick!

Author Response: That is sick, really. I hadn’t seen that, but suspected it.  I had posed these questions with a handful of specific people in mind.  But to say children deserve that trauma because of their parents’ actions is unconscionable. 

At what point are petty differences put aside for the greater good? I mean this is grotesque. How could peoples’ values be so radically different? Is there no common decency that binds the human race?  At what juncture do we give in and declare we are a global society? Capitalism already preaches that sermon every minute and dollar spent.

And to the Banana Republic for Which it Stands...(With Liberty and Justice for Some)

     Is this what you Trump voters had in mind when you voted for this megalomaniacal moron? If so, congratulations, you’re getting just what you wanted, non-white humans being treated like animals; round up, sorted, and herded like cattle set for the slaughterhouse.  Not to worry, the unskilled Guatemalan laborer isn’t going to be moving into your corner office anytime soon, not even to empty your trash. 

      Little babies, and children being torn from their parents and put into cages. That’s fucking lovely. Older kids having to take care of younger kids, who are strangers to them.  They’re showing more humanity than this so-called first-world nation.

      When former First Lady and soft-spoken, conservative Texan, Laura Bush comes out of retirement to denounce this practice as “cruel and immoral” and liken it to Japanese Americans being kept in internment camps during WWII, you’ve got yourself a real moral conundrum.  Even Melania Trump has issued a statement deriding the practice.  Who knew she would be the modern-day Eleanor Roosevelt?

      No cameras allowed when journalists toured the facility in Texas, government issued video of the place, and Jeff Sessions citing the Bible for reasons why these atrocities can be committed with clean consciences. For fucks sake! This has devolved into a banana republic faster than I cynically thought. Oh, and who pushed for this ridiculous zero-tolerance policy? None other than Stephen “prematurely balding and everyone is going to pay for it” Miller. He’s the Josef Goebbels of the Trump administration, only without the sense of humor and good looks.

      But what is the loftier moral question here, all derision aside? Should children be made to pay for the so-called crimes of their parents?  These are innocent kids who are being irreparably scarred by this heinous process. What kind of monstrous existence must these refugees be fleeing if these inhumane “detention centers” (more like human puppy mills), are the lesser of two evils? How fucked up is that? Because according to the statistics, the number of immigrants trying to cross the border is not slowing, so they are coming knowing this is what waits for them.

      Further, how would any of us feel if we had to have our children pay for our high crimes and misdemeanors? Every time we drove having too much to drink, took an illicit drug; hell, every time we jaywalked they were met with another lash.  What about our sins? How about every time we told a lie, took a little extra for ourselves, or strayed from our marital vows, they got a little electrical shock or were berated until they cried.  Would we stop the vices and habits that make us human? 

Probably not.

      These are people running from terrible situations of violence, poverty, and famine. They can’t all be criminals, you know, just by law of averages. But it seems rather piquantly ironic that this administration has no trouble abusing children to the point of irreparable harm, where they are more likely to turn crime or vice, in this creepy self-fulfilling prophecy/human experiment.  It seems to me, that the Trump administration is setting out to create the situations they are supposedly purporting to prevent by sowing these seeds of discontent.

     I have to wonder if Trump voters feel at all responsible for his policies?  Ones he proudly touted from the podium during the campaign. I wonder if they have fitful sleep, or think about their children being ripped away from them for crossing imaginary lines?  Were the tax breaks for the rich worth all this? Do they just not care? Or can’t they see it? Do they truly believe that every uncomfortable, disconcerting, or terrible thing said about Trump and his administration is just “fake news”? In an extreme and twisted group cognitive dissonance, manifesting itself to save face?  Or that he is somehow beyond reproach, like the fat, toupeed second-coming of Christ?

     Human rights abuses are the worst crime a country, government, or regime can commit.  This is far beyond bilking money from naive rubes enrolled in Trump University, or selling cheap ties made in “Gina” while decrying the loss of manufacturing jobs here in the U.S.  This is even several rungs below waging trade wars, propping up white supremacy, sexually assaulting women, or palling around with ruthless dictators to feel like a big man. This is really a bloodstain on our history. And real human beings, many of them children, are literally suffering at the hands of these heartless victors. Is this what you truly desired when you chanted “Make America Great Again!”?

Humor: The Badge of Shame

Is 'Ladies Lingerie' a Harmless Joke or Harassment?

     Yeesh.  I really can't rail against the idea that women are supposed to infantilized and/or treated as precious, overly sensitive, shrinking violets enough. If I was in an elevator and an old man said "Women's lingerie," when asked what floor, I would have found it funny, and laughed. And if some kind of off-color, but innocuous joke was told, and I didn't think it was funny, I would just roll my eyes and groan; possibly make a smart-ass retort. That's about it. I wouldn't seek a higher-up to immediately report it to. This isn't sexual harassment, or assault, or even offensive. It's just silly. It's a throwaway joke, something to lighten an awkward situation, of humans crammed in confined space, hurling up and down on some machine. Shit like this makes my defenses go up. Like I feel like *I* should apologize, like I'm some sort of spokesperson for my gender, "Oh no, we're not all humorless, hysterical crybabies! Really, I promise!"

And coming to some kinds of absurd decision (by academic committee, no less!) that the guy has to apologize or else, is about the dumbest thing I've ever heard a group of scholars come up with. Yeah, forced apologies are sooooo meaningful...For fuck's sake. Why does this woman want or need a phony apology? And why would a committee of supposed academics ask for a gesture so hollow? Everything about this case is ridiculous and annoying. This woman offends me with her offense at trivial bullshit. Does she now owe me an apology? Apologize or face sanctions, lady!

And since when, is every human being responsible for the emotional welfare of every other human being? What a ludicrous and impossible notion. There isn't an ounce of realism in that idea. This type of trite outrage not only distracts for much greater problems, but it seeks to gag free speech, creativity, or anything that runs afoul of the status quo. Which are the first few steps toward fascism. On it's face, it seems a lot like prior restraint by way of thought policing; preemptive censorship.
Michelle Wolf totally nails the White House Correspondents Dinner jokes; people are outraged and offended. This male professor repeats some time-worn joke about department store floors; people are outraged and offended. I guess humor is a no-win situation. Unless the sarcastics, dry wits, and smart-asses of the world rebel against this type of censorship, people like me, who get their outlet and therapy through laughter and humor, and who like to ruffle a few feathers, are pretty much fucked. Get in the rank and file, or else.

Further, I'm doubly tired of women having to pretend not to be sexual. To defend some imaginary honor or long-gone chastity. That shit is oppressive. Ooh, the joke had a mild, and vague "sexual innuendo." As if women have never heard of lingerie, worn it, nor ever heard of the vile act of sexual intercourse before that eye-popping elevator ride. Fucking eyeroll, man. As Dave Chappelle, comedy genius, points out in the Me Too era, "That's a brittle-ass spirit." If all these folks have to worry about is litigating an off-hand joke, what a luxurious existence they must lead! Or alternately, how fragile these delicate orchids must be to wilt under the slightest perceived provocation.

I think about sex, oh I don't know, like 75% of the time. Should I be made to feel bad for that, or should I say worse than I have already been made to feel for that? By certain individuals and an overriding sense of collective societal mores. And why does everything that even approaches sex or sexuality have to be dirty or conjure negative connotations? Can't it be romantic, or loving, or sweet?
Or just fucking indifferent?

I hate to burst the pearl-clutching puritans bubble, but sex makes this world go round. We all got here the same way: our parents fucking. Sex is precisely how this planet became populated by the very people that want to pretend it doesn't exist. The only word for that is absurd.