Flightless Bird

OK, so just to clarify things, sometimes when I blog, I blog from where I am at that moment. Sometimes I write based on how I feel at that exact moment. And sometimes because of that, the shit hits the fan.

No shit has really hit my fan as yet, but it will. And in the meantime, I want to make clear that, first of all, I'm aware that there are women in this world who don't hate men and aren't jumping up and down in their seats, laughing hysterically whenever a man is crying or dying. And second of all, thank God for those women and that many of you are among them. Sometimes it just seems so hopeless, and if not for many of you, I might just give up.

Yesterday I was confronted with several women in a row, all of whom, it turns out, find a good sexual torture or castration scene to be hysterical. And these aren't women I only know on the internet. These are women I know here, face-to-face, in my daily life, some of whom join me on occasion for alcohol and laughing at stupid shit. But we never laughed at this kind of shit. Not while I was present, anyway.

And then there are the men. There are men who live their life by the motto, "it's funny as long as it never happens to me." And then they go gufawing through life praying to God that the things they find so funny when it happens to other men never, ever happens to them. And then it does and they lose a nut. So from then on we harass them for being such assholes by calling them "nuts" a lot.

There's a lot of bad shit happening here in the United States of Narcissism. You're probably expecting me to begin listing them all out in annoying detail and discussing each and every one. Well, not right now, but I probably will eventually. We've had a problem here that has been building and building ever since the Baby Boomers took over the world and now they seem determined to ... OK, what the fuck is this coming on the TV?

Apparently Sissy Spacek has a series on Showtime now? Maybe it's a movie. Whatever it is, I don't feel like it. Suppposedly Rebecca Romijn is in it. I like her. Maybe I'll give it a chance just to see what Rebecca does ... ooh, cool Ford Galaxy! OK, I'm giving this thing a chance, just to see if there's more cool old cars and a naked Rebecca Romijn.


Rebecca Romijn

Ooh, Rebecca's playing a cop. I hope that uniform comes off sometime soon. I like her. She's cool.

About 9 months ago, maybe more, I borrowed some DVDs from a friend, 2 full seasons of a popular American TV series. I've had one of those DVDs sitting in my DVD player for the past 2 months without once even turning the thing on. I don't know what's wrong with me. I haven't watched a DVD in months. I have the TV on, but I only barely watch it. I have a stack of books and magazines, all filled with information that I very much want to read. I always seem to end up at the computer, researching things that are on my mind, generally not liking what I'm finding out, and not really sure how to do anything about any of it. And the night slips away before I know it.

There are so many things that I want to say. And yet, I don't really want to talk about any of them. I'm sick of them. I'm sick of trying to face them and fight them and figure out a way to do something about them. I can't make a difference and yet I can't quit trying. I guess I figure I'm not defeated until I stop fighting and resign myself to things. I just can't do that. In the words of radical Leftist Saul Alinksy, "reconciliation means that when one side gets the power and the other side gets reconciled to to it, then we have reconciliation."

One of my U.S. Senators for the state of Tennessee just betrayed us all once again. He's a professional politician, a worthless sack, a sticky, dribbling twat. Mister Senator, dude, you suck.

OK, I'm beginning to think this movie I'm watching belongs on the Hallmark channel. Nothing against the Hallmark channel, but there's no way in hell I'm ever going to see Rebecca Romijn in the buff there, and I really, really want to.

Dude, you don't ever pick up another man's guitar and just start playing it without asking. Shit!

Anyway, what was I talking about? Nothing, right? I was going on and on about nothing. I've been searching for the right words for months. I research and I write and I include link after link to videos and newspaper articles and anything I can find that helps to make my point, but it's all for nothing. Nobody's listening up there. I'm not a lawyer or a lobbyist or a well-connected billionaire so nothing I say ever reaches anything but deaf ears.



It's almost midnight here. I don't know what time it was when I started writing, but it was hours ago. I've pissed away half the night here in this chair, running in circles never really saying what I want to say. I've said it already. I guess I'm sick of saying it.

I remember when I was a kid, my best friend's grandmother would drive everyone crazy. She'd be calling his name to try to manipulate him into doing something for her and he wasn't having any part of it, so he'd just ignore her. She'd never quit, though. It must have looked crazy to anyone witnessing it without knowing them. She'd go "Tony? Tony? Tony? Tony? Tony? TONY? TONY? TONY? Answer me, Tony! Tony? Tony? Tony? TONY! Tony, answer me! Tony? Tony? Tony? Tony? ...." on and on and on and on.

Should I become like her? Should I just keep on until something changes, until someone listens, until I find myself wondering if anyone can even hear me anymore?

OK, so apparently the car is a '68 Torino. I swear it looks like a Galaxy. It's the same tail lights and bumpers and everything. Anyway, guess I was wrong.

I was in Washington, DC, once. It was 10 years ago. I went there for what was supposed to be a meeting of a so-called men's organization. Only it turned out to be something else entirely. It was the most politically correct group of male feminists I had seen since Phil Donahue had his own show. Oh, I don't mean the men in the crowd of over 1 million desperate, angry, betrayed men were male feminists. No, it was the men up on the stage, the men who were supposed to be our leaders, our saviors, our guides to freedom. And across the street, with all the cameras on her, was the president of the National Organization for Women, shrilly lying about how the men "over there" were the biggest threat to womens' rights that there had ever been. I know this because once I realized what a bunch of cunts the men up on the stage were, I got up and walked off, over across the street, to the feminists who were spewing a raw hatred of every male in the world, but especially the males across the street. I looked at this woman speaking, Patricia Ireland, screaming about how much of a threat the men were, and then I looked back at the men I had walked away from. I could still hear them speaking, their voices echoing through amplifiers and loud speakers, telling the crowd of men that they should do whatever the feminists said, that the feminists are always right and the men should follow and surrender their manhood and their rights. It was almost as if someone had paid them to say those things. Or threatened them with blackmail. Or maybe they had just cut off their balls and lobotomized them like Vice President Joe Biden had done to him? I don't know, but someone had gotten to them. There was nothing the least bit manly about anything they had to say.

So I got back on the train and left.

Now I'm looking at my elected 'leaders' and I'm listening to what they're saying. I'm searching them, looking at each one of them, hoping that just one of them will stand up and speak the damn truth. I'm looking for just one person with some integrity and balls. I know how much harder it is now than it was just 10 years ago before our 'leaders' decided to give $10 billion of American men's tax dollars to a pink mafia that has openly declared its intention of killing every single one of us. So now the pink mafia has its own courts and its own secret police, complete with a military-sized budget, its own branch of the Department of Justice, and so much power that every man, woman, and tranny hooker in Washington is scared shitless of them.

But I'm not going to talk about that. I'm going to turn off this computer, read a book to relax myself, and then I'm going to bed. If I'm lucky I won't dream anything at all. Or maybe I'll dream of a beach somewhere far, far away. But more than likely, like it or not, I'm going to dream about this stupid movie I just watched all the way through which never showed Rebecca Romijn in the nude, never convinced me it wasn't made for the Hallmark channel, and just basically wasted 2 hours of my time. Dammit.