JK

The untoward consequences of my intemperate lifestyle have overtaken me, and Monday night I had a sore throat, and yesterday I was a bit shaky and fevered, and today I'm a tad drippy. What ever shall tomorrow bring? Yep, I stay up all night partying with my chicks. Sunday morning around 7 AM I snorted a punchbowl of cocaine and threw a credenza out a tenth story window. Then I went to Burger King and ordered 11 raw paddies brought to my table by a Brazilian hooker. I screamed at the guy, "That's right sucka, I WANT IT MY WAY!" Then I pulled out my wang and peed into the potted plant ... well, mostly down my leg. So? I do what I want.

Usually, about once a year, I feel it coming, and just get more sleep and tighten up my diet. This year it came too fast. Raspy voice Monday, sore throat Monday night, and there it was. Gotta get more sleep.

It's coming toward the end of the year now, and I was giving some thought to a charity, International Children's Fund. Very efficient, doing what needs to be done. Then I thought it might be nice to sponsor a child, and went looking for an organization. Save the Children is highly ranked, but I looked them up on Wikipedia and guess what? Closely associated with Planned Parenthood, the world's largest provider of abortion services.

Also closely tied to Population Action International, mission statement, to "ensure that every person has the right and access to sexual and reproductive health, so that humanity and the natural environment can exist in balance with fewer people living in poverty." You know, poverty, cured by fewer people.

Also closely tied to The Center for Reproductive Rights, "a global human rights organization that uses constitutional and international law to secure women's right to an abortion in over 45 countries." Why, not long ago the Center "expanded human rights to its work in the United States. It is now documenting U.S. rights violations through fact-finding reports and holding the U.S. accountable before U.N. bodies that monitor compliance with international treaty obligations."

You might very well call it toxic. I couldn't possibly comment. But. Save Only the Born Children. No thanks. I prefer that humans be killed for capital crimes, rather than for being inconvenient.

Then I looked up World Vision. Again, high ranking, but a bit shady in their advertising, as I see it. No actual sponsorship of a child -- they do communities. That's great, but don't manipulate.

Then I looked at Compassion International. Slightly less efficient, in their higher advertising budget and administrative costs. But I couldn't find any ethical issue, and I figure that's, like, the cost of doing business -- burn 3% extra of a donation, to buy something that gets the job done.

I don't care much about humanity in general. Individuals matter. So they've got a bunch of pages of kids waiting for sponsors. All over the world, all ages. Well it's a big world. Who to choose? It could break your heart. My people, the Scandinavians, they're doing fine. Then I thought, I've got a buddy, let's look at his people. His wife is Laotian: a country not listed. Okay, Thailand then, right next door. Boy, cuz he has boys. Ages 6 to 9, cuz his boys are 6 and 9. And they're all so cute and sweet. Some waiting for over six months. Break your heart. And I figured, the ones with AIDS, or who are crippled, well, they'll get sponsors. After all, we're Americans. So I picked a healthy little six year old. Oh, here:

Well. What a horrible place the world is. I mean, there are actually highly ranked charitable organizations that promise to save children, but support abortion. All you can do is shake your head. What is there to be done? Yet as long as we have the means, something must be done. A small thing, but necessary. So what is it, a 12 year commitment? All of my neckties are more than 12 years old.

When we have the means, generosity is not a virtue, but a duty. Thus, it's not even generosity. As I say, I have a buddy, and for that I count myself blessed. How do I merit kindness? Well, we don't deserve kindness. We deserve justice. But how is the world to be saved? Call it compassion, international. The world is redeemed through kindness.

No.

I am redeemed through kindness.

J

Today

Got my massage today. As I say, I'm like a thoroughbred. Sort of jumpy. They wanted me to get naked. Nice sweet little voice, "Take off your clothes and she'll be along in a few minutes." I said, "What, all of them?" I'm really not a prude, and not incredibly modest, but that wasn't going to happen. "I'll keep my shorts on." Deep tissue massage. Felt nice. They went easy on me, because I was clear that I'd never had a massage before. "Never?" "Well, not professional." I was after all once married, and while it was not a good marriage, it was a sort of marriage.

Had a nervous stomach all morning though. I don't like new things. But I follow through on my commitments. I don't break appointments. There's a sort of dread resolve about me. Face the music. I know, it's ridiculous, in this instance. But it's an attitude that's borne me through some hellish situations. I have faced ruin, and been overtaken by it, and survived, with rage and bitterness, but with dignity and integrity as well. The wounds bled over into the rest of my soul, and I am damaged, I think, beyond repair, but I am not broken. Who would have thought that getting a massage could be so unsettling to the spirit.

It was nice though. I don't know the etiquette of such a situation, but I try to cooperate. Calm, and as relaxed as I could be. I've had my little jokes, in these pages, sometimes just to be, well, me, and sometimes as a protective device. But a moment of honesty here, uncomfortable for me to speak of, regarding, well, you know, being touched rather intimately by a female. A bit of, um, bumping contact with my junk. Glad I kept on the shorts. To view it as sexual would be ungentlemanly. I did kind of have to think about baseball though, if you get my meaning, a lot. I am happy and relieved to say that I created no cause for embarrassment. With me it is as it were touch and go. I remain disconcertingly hormonal. Unseemly in a man of my years, but I have good genes. Nevertheless, I was technically unresponsive. I am pleased with myself.

But I was utterly wrapped up in my very tightest defenses. Calm, polite, pleasant I think but unengaging. Aloof yet personable, if such a pairing is possible. Entirely professional. Would I recommend it? It seemed like an extravagance. It was a luxury. I am pretty much of a spartan, with a very low need for pleasure. For someone who is more open to life and the world, it's very nice. I have nothing to compare it to, specifically, but I'm sure it's everything it should be.

Later I grew a bit depressed, mourning my lack of normality. I wish I could be normal. I fake it pretty well, I think, but it boils down to a pathology of trust. How often do blessings fall upon us, that we find peace and friendship and love? There is a temperament, such as mine, that I affirm aspires to a sort of nobility, guarded, honed, but at a cost, and out of balance. I mourned my inability to find peace.

But I'm fine now.

Also today I got my bjj brown belt. It is an obligation. Unexpected, surely, since I am not very skilled technically. But I've loosened up a lot, playing a more open game, less cautious. Took long enough. Rolling with white belts once in a while helps quite a bit. Got the purple belt May 14 of '09, so almost two and a half years. If I'd been training all this while it would certainly be time. But I'm so rusty. Ah well. Secret learning must be happening. I'll take it. Gonna start looking through my bjj books though. Gotta represent.

Coming into the dark months now. I get up well before sunrise, drive through the blue-gray streets, having slept generally perhaps four hours, maybe three, maybe five. Can't nap in the day, hardly ever. Just can't sleep, and if I do, I'll be awake all night. Get to sleep in on Fridays though. My favorite day, then.

So. Now I will go buy some brown dye, and bring my old white belt, then blue, now purple, up to date. Only one more transfiguration to go, and I'll be done.

J

Awkward Photos

They blocked my craigslist account on account of it was so many inappropriate and all the ads were constantly being flagged, so I had to set up a whole new account, and so I was on yahoo and so I saw this picture

of some sports guy, Brad Marchand, and his tattoo that he got when he won some sports event. It was about how the tattoo was misspelled. "Champions" had been spelled "ChampiAns." Actually, it was, and remains, "Starley Aip Chanpiars". Here he is prior to getting his tattoo. Alcohol may have been involved in the decision. And just who are the Bruzns? I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

This got me to thinking about macho dudes and shaved hairy bellies and so on, which brought me right to a sibling:

Very attractive.

But not as hot as me

here with one of my babies' mammas.

Here's me before my latest girlfriend:

Sorry, just can't reveal my face to the world. Modesty, of course.

Here's the president of a charitable association my across-the-street neighbor belongs to:

Their mission statement: "We like to take kids to parks and stuff."

Ah well. Some selections from my album:

Sometimes we let the dog babysit.

My nephew took his mom to the Prom.

My brother went alone.

We're the freakin' Jetsons, baby. Now let's go "chat" on Myspace with all these phat nobs.

It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again.

How can Bunnies be Evil?

Oh yeah? Well we're happy with them, and that's all that really matters.

This is the story / of a man named Boody...

A picture of my soul.

Election Day, 2008.

J

Chazztitty

This post was held as a draft for almost 12 years.  I finally published it in 2023 as a companion piece, as it were, to Vicious, Cruel and Clueless, re Caitlyn Jenner.  There, I apologize for this post here.  This post, 'Chazztitty', is in very poor taste.  Maybe that's why I called it that -- as a tipoff about what follows.

You don't know who Caitlyn Jenner is.  It's Bruce Jenner, of the Kardashians (I still haven't seen there show, or maybe there's more than one, if they're still on), but I know him as the '76 Olympic Decathlon Gold Medalist.  He was breathtaking.  In the mid Twenty-teens he declared himself to be a tranz woman ('tranz' means the sex they are NOT -- took me a while to figure that out.  It's aspirational.  Tranz is how I spell trans in the future, as in transsexual.  Nowadays I believe the politically preferred term is transgender, but that no doubt will shortly change, the way 'gender' changes, in the future, moment by moment.  They say gender is 'fluid'.  By the way, there's a guy, penis and all, who's competing in women's swimming, and of course dominating), and he actually had himself castrated, etc.  Talk about yer "tipoff", heh heh.

In your future, in 2023, things are very different.  After BO, Donald Trump became president, very much hated by the left, but actually quite good, given that he is Donald Trump.  Then in 2020 BO's VP, biden, got himself elected, and he is hands down the very very worst president in american history.  That includes Buchanan and Andrew Johnson.  And by the way, BO gets reelected -- "gay marriage" is the Supreme law now, and obamacare is a thing, I guess.  But Roe v Wade has been overturned.

To the point, in the future we have this term, trigger.  Triggerable, trigger warning.  The next generation after yours is called gen z, for no good reason.  But they do have identifiable characteristics.  The term 'snowflake' is apt.  

There's this thing called 'cancelling', which is just a blacklist, for if you use a slur.  There's a new political cult, called 'Woke', which is anti-men, anti-white stalinism -- so a sort of feminized Nazism.  Woke is one of the things that makes biden as bad as he is (he seems to be senile).  "Climate" is an even bigger thing now, but there's no "Change" -- it's just that this is the religion the kids were raised in.

I don't suppose it's permissible to reveal too much.  Chalk this up to my usual headgames and flights of fancy. Point is, I'm giving you a 

"TRIGGER WARNING"

here.  This post cannot be anything other than offensive, unless you are like me, and that is unlikely.  It has very graphic and closeup images of neopenises and actual vaginas.  Be triggerwarned.

So, it's really only 2011, and I'm just playun, and I just wrote this:

 

====

It's creepy and a little nauseating, and strangely fascinating, like a snake. The mental contortions, the self-loathing, the profound embracing of delusion, that Chaz Bono and her enablers are engaging in.

I would generally just ignore it -- it's so obvious, and cheap. But as I say ... snake.

Chaz of course has the right to change her name. I can go along with that. Everyone gets one, maybe two name changes. PuffDiddyCombesDaddy. PrincetheArtistSymbolRogersNelson. Well, maybe they've exceeded the limit, but cut a brother some slack, homes. So that Chastity, the cute shy sad little girl I remember clinging to her daddy on his Comedy Hour back in the day --

and I do remember these images, prime time -- that she should be reduced to the masquerade she currently enjoys ... dressup, elective mastectomy, imminent viganil mutilation, hormonal interference, casual neglect of an injection-induced need to shave, is, frankly, surreal. 

Let's be clear. She is choosing this:

over this:

Her dysmorphia is lamentable. We may have compassion for it. I am ignorant of her specifics, to know if willful perversion led her to her plight, or if it was some unbending fate, the dire Moirae aligned against her before she was knit together in the womb. How are we to know? Not our business anyway. 

I could be glib and sarcastic about it:

--but it's unfair, and for all the bitterness on my tongue, when it comes to parental follies I feel the need to mourn rather than scorn.

What we do with our tragedies, however, or with the calamitous psychoses that torment us -- well, if there isn't free will, there should be. Even if we have no choice, we should act as if we do. 

Indeed, choices have been made.

Chaz Bono is a surgically mutilated woman. She entered into a collusion with malpracticing surgeons -- perhaps barbers is a more apt term -- and is attempting the Frankensteinian transgression of making a man. 

Well, it's a free country, and I'm not sure if suicide is legal or not, but we don't live in a theocracy, and self-desecration most assuredly is permissible. The crime is that it's encouraged.

A man who through some catastrophic accident looses his genitals ... does not become a woman. It is neither pines nor tisteclis that engender us. Just as humanity is not defined as having been born, justifying abortion, so gender is not determined by the presence or reconstructed shape of our organs, nor by self-declaration neither. Location does not define our nature, human when out of the womb.  Mutilation does not determine our sex.

We are what we are, regardless of feelings.  There are hard cases, ambiguities. Hermaphroditism. We do not determine general principles by hard cases. They are taken on their merits, and do not dictate the overwhelming norm.

But, he?  "He"?  Chaz is called "him"?  On TV, on radio, online, in articles, in conversation?  Really?  Is that what a man is?  Male by, of all things, feelings?  Nothing to do with Y chromosomes or an aimable free-wheeling birth-urethra? 

Back when there used to be lunatic asylums, populated by Napoleons, right-thinking doctors did not humor the madman, madwoman, madperson. Because reality has definitions, criteria, and these do not depend on opinion only, when there are objective references available. Science tests. Wisdom discerns. So we cannot be dealing with science, wisdom, reality, regarding this conspiracy against, say, the law of the excluded middle.

Ah well. Ah hell. This is what female to "male" surgical gender "reassignment" is:

In the above instance, skin from the relatively hairless forearm is lifted and wrapped around a tube inside the arm, to create a genuine skin-covered penis-like object. This would then be harvested and relocated above and perhaps upon the labia, the two sides of which I suppose are conjoined to simulate a scrotum.

I'll forgo the even bloodier and more viganil details. The immediate result looks like this:

Sorry. But you asked. That's what happens when you construct a fleshy phallus out of kneecaps and armpits and nose cartilage and earlobes and other offal.  

But that's unkind, and inaccurate.  This 

is probably arm skin and labia, and a clotiris maybe?

Less convincing:

No, not convincing.  But if you, like Chaz or her girlfriend, have never seen closeup an actual adult human pines, it may suffice. These constructs are pneumatically equipped to attain turgidity, and there's a matched pair of medical-grade rubber ovoids to simulate tisteclis, so, all in all, easy squeezy cheesy peezy.

To attain a tad more verisimilitude, some select females, possessed of an exceptionally large clotiris, have that appurtenance reconfigured into a sort of micro pines. I do apologize for the graphic nature of these following, since they represent actual genitalia, however mutilated -- and my tone may not so far have been entirely appropriate for the gravity of the topic, but honesty tells the truth, and sometimes shows it.

Thus, a vigani:

reconfigured:

A different individual:

Remember what I said? Nauseating? I'm not disgusted by the human body. I'm not authentically homophobic, not prurient, not sniggering or tittering. But what we're seeing is psychopathy, supported by political correctness. Psychotic correctness. It's a crime against nature.

But, not my problem.  Dance, Chaz, dance, and go in peace. May the harm you do accrue only to those who love you. May those who have abetted your mutilations, answer for it.  May the society that your example even further corrupts be chastened and corrected, as gently as possible, as thoroughly as needed.  

J

Step Back

My son came by and did a workout. Made me do it too. He beat me, 237 to 234. Not bad, eh? Three points. He said after that he hadn't thought I was in such good shape. Then he said I would have won the Masters Level at the competition he organizes. Well, that's nice to hear of course, but I'm not strong enough yet. Squats aren't where they need to be, nor deadlifts, and this particular workout was tough, but perhaps not representative. Even so, a little validation from someone you respect is nice.

I definitely was not feeling it. Just finished rolling, all stiff and achy. I'm out of practice. No technique at all. Distressing. I'm very limited, and get by just by having long bones. Ah well. My nephew came by for a few BJJ lessons. He is very very skinny. Six two, maybe 145 pounds? He said that a few months ago he was 130. Emaciated. Boy needs to eat. Of course, he'll be 31 in a month. My family is full of very slow starters. Failure to launch. It's a parenting failure. The job of parents is to prepare children for successful adulthoods. This includes but is not limited to a capacity for happiness. Also important is character, and contributions to society, and stability ... being not worthless ... you know, being a full and rounded human being. Not my strong suit, but I'm pleased with my own son.

That's why I was glad he went into the Army. As soon as he graduated high school. I'd have liked to have talked a bit more with him about it -- he went with his mother to sign up ... that was odd, her an old lefty hippie and all -- but it certainly broke the dysfunctional H family pattern. Frankly, the Curse. My father actually talked about it, lectured us when we were kids, my brothers and I, all set down in the livingroom listening to his hellish sermons for hours and hours. How he had been cursed by his father, and we were cursed by him, and we would curse our children. You know, poisonous and stupid. Under the circumstances, I knew I was cursed. But I also knew I would not pass it on.

N came with a lovely young woman, who did the workout as well. Same woman he was with last week, at the competition. I was a judge there. I always have nowadays in the back of my mind the question of when N is going to get married. When I was his age, he was three. I loved being a father. I expect to love being a grandparent even more ... no, just as much. But it's not my style to push. Pushing doesn't work anyway.

My father is on my mind. I can't think of a way to visit him. He's old and pathetic and crippled and fading pretty fast, but I just can't be his savior. I'd visit him if someone came with me, or if it were not at that mausoleum of a house. Yes, I know, a lot of ifs. My love is conditional. I said to my nephew that I didn't really know him -- I'd probably spent 50 hours around him in his whole life. Then I launched into a philosophical disquisition about love. Hope I didn't curse him. But I was the sane one in his childhood, trying to council his moronic parents into responsible effective parenting. I mean, I'm an expert, for real. You recognized that of course. Everyone knows that Jack may be hard to hear, but he's right, and if he's not right, he's honest.

Ah well. Politics is in the air, but it hardly seems worth while. The Resident of the White House is proving to be corrupt as well as incompetent. Quelle grande surprise. Chicago rules: don't bring a Bible to a Koran reading.

And the rest is silence.

J

A Second Look

I realize you don't constantly flip through the pages of this work. It's your loss of course, since I have been known to go back and change a few things ... style is my style. Jack "Style" H, in fact. I did it just now, with Duh, and it's so fascinating to all right-thinking people that I feel the need to share the changes, re-edited here to stand alone. Because I know how you are.

Context: a comparison between human and ape skulls, from an Evolutionary perspective. Some sarcastic evidence adduced on my part, taken from a racist website:

Rodney Rhines, whose extreme racial characteristic, specifically of the prognathous jawline, is taken as a sign of primitiveness. And also, Russian boxer Nikolai Valuev:

whose forehead is something to behold.

One of the burdens of being incomparably brilliant is that I think beyond the mere surface at which people of your ilk are stuck. So I wondered what appearances would yield if I took up God's chisel and crafted a few sculptural changes.

Hmm. It seems there is room for a human brain in that skulls. It's not that he doesn't have cranial capacity. It's that he has extra bone. Like me! Well then. He must be a genius.

As for Rodney, La!

Oh my. My my my. Rodney is quite a handsome black man. If I, with my crude Paint skills, can so recraft Rodney's features, imagine what a slightly more benevolent Providence could have had in store for him. We might know him through his pictures in fashion mags, rather than municipal police department mug shots. Fellow looks like Mario Van Peebles. Beauty is a game of inches. He's a rock star if you shorten his profile by three inches. That's what she said.

As if we knew a man's character by the shape of his bones. I saw a man once in a Staples store, who had marble-sized lumps all over his visible skin, placed about two inches apart. Not warts, not pimples, just lumps, like a horned kiwano melon.

It must take incredible character to face the world with good cheer, when one is deformed in one's face. But let's Move On.

So here's a lament over the flood of Irish immigrants in the last quarter of a previous century, combined with the disaster of the emancipated slaves. Both groups could vote, you see, and that couldn't be a good thing, ruining the North now, and the South.

We know they're bad, because they have big jaws. They're after our Lucky Charms, begorra, and our White Women.

Moving from the minefield of political opinion to the comfort of objective measurement, we have Camper's Facial Angles, scholarly monograph from 1821, offering empirical proof of Evolution:

A. B. C. D.

E. F. G. H.

A. tailed monkey 42º, B. orangutan 48º, C. Negro and D. Kalmuck 70º (Western Mongol tribe), E. European 80º, F. Grecian and G. Roman busts 95º, and a diseased H. hydrocephalic 100º. See? That proves it. The best thing to be is hydrocephalic. I think that's the point. Maybe European. Northern European. Scandinavian, specifically -- Danish and Norwegian. From Østre Toten on the maternal grandmother's side.

Well, Camper was not an Evolutionist, but we drink from many wells.

Yes, there's so much more to say, but you are insufficiently appreciative, and therefore unworthy of my further notice. I do however trust that you had a Merry Nine Eleven holiday, enjoying all the customary festivities. I got sunburned. First it hailed, I kid you not, then it made the side of my neck red.

I hate it when stereotypes are true.

J

9-11 + 10

What, is it ten years already, from Islam's greatest achievement since the sacking of Byzantium? I don't mean to be very insensitive -- just a little bit -- but come on, America. Move On. You know, like the Left has done. It may have been the worst single thing to happen to America for three generations, but as these things go, in much of the world having your village attacked and most of your acquaintances killed is a common thing. Pick almost any country in Africa, or many regions in the Middle East, Israel included -- China, or Soviet Russia, where the government itself is/was the terrorist -- and reconsider. Our 3000 dead, out of a population of 300 million, well I know I'm being Bill Maher stupid, but get some perspective, people.

Indeed. Perspective. It's not about post traumatic stress, or reverence for the fallen, or on-going health issues. It's the resolve to find and kill the enemy. Given that the media elite continue to protect us from the actual images so thoroughly preserved via countless cameras, it's hard to take this commiseration seriously. We don't need only the monuments and the flowers at memorials. We need the taste of asbestos dust and the stench of day-old blood. A present reminder. Lest our first passion grow cold.

It's like being invaded by Martians though, isn't it. An alien race that looks upon us with cold rage through a reptilian faith, feigning heat because it suits some habit of mind. Oh, we're so enraged by the idea of your decadence. They plot their assaults, laying in wait, women and children are the sweetest victims -- they have such soft bones.

Moslems aren't bad, mostly. They're just typical humans. Stupid, lazy, cowardly. Don't make waves. Better to let the haters have their way. Maybe they won't come for me. And if they do, maybe I can join them. Honestly, we have seen it before, this whole Punch and Judy shambles. Arabs are a bit more ramshackle than their orderly Aryan brethren, but we have so very much seen it before.

So today, when the car bomb does or does not go off, don't be angry with me, for knowing a future that is as predictable as a sunrise. What do vandals do? Rapists? Poisoners? We are all true to our natures -- the scorpion included.

Ten years, and what? Status quo, as I see it. New enemies for old. It's not an Arab spring, it's an Arab fall. It's what happens when you suppose a tribal people could understand the greater world. We're dealing with a child-sacrificing moon-cult, fer cripes sake ... of course they are eager to burn down the world to destroy us. Is al-Queda weaker? Broken? Irrelevant. Hey, Lefty -- it's your phrase, so obey it: follow the money. Iran? Saudi Arabia? Imagine a country named after its ruling dictators. Money can always buy chaos from crazy men. Stuck in their leather tents, they can bay at the moon. But somehow we import them past our borders. Let the wolf guard your babes -- it'll be find ... have faith.

Why? Because we're crazy too, and stupid. Like everyone. Adam had a paradise, and look what happened. Upshot? Who will save us? Obama? Politicians? No. Heroes will save us. Don't you know that? If you've forgotten, well, it's been ten years, and that's a long time. Look on YouTube. Maybe there's a video, somewhere, of a hero or two.

Happy Nine Eleven Day.

J

Always

J