InstaPunk Rules

An extraordinary late act of a disciple who has earned a place in history.

WWJD? WWYD? Me, I’d have been terrified. Bet you would have been too. Then what? He did something noble and good. We can only hope we would have too.

At some point, you got to stand up and be a man. Or something.

These greyhounds that need their Winnie the Pooh. I don’t know who Winnie the Pooh is. Is he anything like Shnockle here? Well, tough luck. I’ve got Shnockle and I’m not giving him up.

What do they call you? Skippy? I knew a Skippy once. Except her name was Molly. She stole things. Like Shnockle. It was okay though. She didn’t go anywhere. I always got Shnockle back.

Molly’s gone now. I’m keeping Shnockle for her. She’ll want to steal him again. Why Shnockle can’t go anywhere.

What were we talking about. Pooh? Never heard of him. I’m sleepy now. Okay?

Damn. Shnockle’s going after Mommy’s chocolates again. Molly will be so pissed.

Damn, damn, damn.

Sometimes they come back…

That Mosby woman. I’m impressed so far.

The 43rd Battalion, Virginia Cavalry, also known as Mosby’s Rangers, Mosby’s Raiders, or Mosby’s Men, was a battalion of partisan cavalry in the Confederate army during the American Civil War. Noted for their lightning strikes on Union targets and their ability to consistently elude pursuit, the Rangers disrupted Union communications and supply lines.

I don’t know if she’s right or wrong. What I do know is that she’s a fighter, an eloquent speaker, swift and keen as a hussar in full gallop, and the one person who has stepped up in this whole mess. Did she overcharge the accused? Maybe. But the way that young man died is not right.

We’ll see what happens from here. But the raiders have arrived and may yet head off the rabble in arms. Like every good commander, she had her battalion right behind her when she stated her mission. Police apologists had better be ready to stick their heads out of the trench. And ready to get those heads sliced off. Fair warning.

P.S. Am I the only conservative who’s been treated badly by cops? If so, I congratulate all of you whose innocence convinces you they can do no wrong even if they wash up at the end of the day with a dead man in tow. “Yeah, we found him like that.”

My dad’s WWII “Flying Skull Squadron” flight jacket. He painted his P-47 on the back. Then after the war he painted the house in it, thereby proving how little he cared about his experience of the war. I once wore it to a Stones concert. Everybody tried to buy acid from me.

My wife has been after me to get a new suit and a pair of grey flannel trousers for some upcoming social occasions, including a wedding, a college graduation party, and a first communion. I’ve been balking. I have a closet full of clothes I rarely look at, since after my retirement from management consulting years ago, I get to work at home in tee shirts and jeans or, more casually, tee shirts and sweats. The fashion free-ness of a freelance writer.

So after the latest hint that it was time to go clothes shopping, I broke into the long shuttered closet and showed her what was in there, which — surprisingly — fits like the proverbial glove. Gave her a damned fashion show. She’d seen the stuff, but never on my body. I think flabbergasted would be the right word. Me as well as her.

There was a time, when I was hopping on planes and pretending to senior executives that I knew what I was talking about, when I cared about this stuff. Custom fitted suits and sport coats. Tailored shirts. Ties that cost more than my usual outfit plus shoes and Eagles Dawkins jersey. It was embarrassing. A blur of cashmere, silk, the finest worsted wools, tweeds, twills, and even some astrakhan. I have a Burberry raincoat from the era before everybody had Burberry scarves and ties. Shoes that cost more than it would take to put my motorcycle back on the road (which is a lot.) More vests than most guys have underwear. Overcoats galore? And we didn’t even get to the leather jackets, except for the one shown above.

So. My question for all of you. What’s the over and under on all these categories of clothing excess? I mean, how many of each of these is enough to own, even if you’re a fairly vain and ambitious consultant in corporate America — and a sometime cowboy motorhead in your leisure hours?

Suits

Sport coats

Ties

White shirts

Slacks

Vests

Overcoats

Leather jackets

Shoes

Boots

(Watches, cuff links, and boot chains are an extra credit category.)

Never thought I was one of the 1 percent. If I ever was, however briefly, I am no more. Hence this mea culpa.

Should I need more than this? No, dad.

No doubt that it’s big with many shades of gray.

But is there at least a hint of a head that’s thinking of something more than chocolate?

Or is it just the world’s biggest ass, blocking our view of everything important?

Maybe a face would be important in here somewhere.

He sees the mouse, he wants the mouse, he doesn’t have the energy for mouse play. He doesn’t even know what his ass looks like. What he does know is that he belongs in the grand scheme of things. As the mouse does, and he does, and we all do.

Queen Hillary

The flip side of the title is that Hillary is inevitable, surrounded by inhuman automatons who operate inside a hive mind. There’s much evidence to support this theory of her ineluctable conquest.

The ancient army of Clintonistas is still unwaveringly on duty.

Paul Begala, Lannie Davis, Sidney Blumenthal, and James Carville still obey their orders to attack, attack, and then attack again.

The media army is still repeating the mantra Resistance Is Futile.

Fear the combat divisions of the NYT, WAPO, CBS, ABC, NBC, NPR, CNN, MSNBC, and dozens of smaller tactical groups.

Besides which there are newer energetic minions working behind the scenes.

The mysterious sidekick Numa.

The Next Generation Queen Chelsea.

Plus, a completely inhuman phalanx of braindead feministas.

They are wymyn. Hear them shriek.

And the vast Clinton Foundation is still roaming the heavens.

Heavily armed and nearly impossible to stop.

But there are also a few areas of vulnerability.

The dreaded email server that ran command and control has been destroyed.

Oddly, too, there are signs (see pic up top) that there’s really nothing underneath that Hillary pantsuit.

What’s more, there’s Bill. Who was never entirely assimilated into the Hillary Borg. Because Bill is still partly human.

Not completely under control or even controllable.

He could still blow up the entire Borg universe with a single underage girl.

You know it’s the truth.

Some of them actually look like football players. Only with bras and panties.

We’re watching the Legends Football League (Check out the right cross in the first ten seconds). Judge us? The alternative is news. Baltimore burning down Baltimore. Give me bras and panties every time.

Oh. My. God.

Well. Obviously he has no woman in his life. No female would let him out of her house wearing such a ridiculous outfit. Stupid tartan jacket. Striped shirt. Hideous tie. All of it at once? Monumentally dumber than even his usual tirades.

Talk to us, people. Don’t hold back.

It was always the eyes.

There was this tag-along link on some site about women who have aged gracefully. I linked it. Mostly because I love Sophia Loren and Raquel Welch. My wife was scornful. Not gracefully but surgically, she said. And Zincavage highlighted a woman I’ve always been in love with. Charlotte Rampling. Except I always thought of her as a younger Lauren Bacall. How old I am. But not dead. Not quite. She had a body but you’d have a conversation…

She didn’t care, but should you? Yes. Her carelessness is your embarrassment.

But Zincavage was right. She’s old and beautiful and someone you’d absolutely have to have a perfect dinner with.

I just want to have dinner with her. Keep thinking of Opie’s stricture
about “skinny eyes.” I’ll go for hers any day, every day.

My friend asked me to. So I did:

Let there be light.
Let there be lights.

How long ago
Is too long ago
For us to remember
And understand light?

God wields no hammer
Left it in Canaan
Replaced by a cantor
God shining through man.

Eight nights of light
That shouldn’t have been
Eight nights of light
Let the Temple begin.

Light, lights, light, lights,
God is light
And the right of our sight.

Eight nights of light
Or dark would take us
Eight nights of light
So God would make us.

Lights, light, lights, light,
God is light
And the might of our fight.

CODA

We pray to thee
Almighty.
We light the lights
For thee.

We pray to thee
Almighty.
Eight nights of light
Eternity.

What we need now is vocals and instrumentation. Billions of Christmas songs. Only one Hannukah song, courtesy of Adam Sandler. Who means well. But there really should be a good song. Don’t you think?

Is one good song too much to ask, here and now?

The book that got me blackballed.

I have to address this because even my wife is not happy about this chapter of my writing life. Which makes it serious. So I need to explain.

Back in 1993 I was in the process of getting divorced. I experienced an unexpected loss of interest in the sexual attractiveness of women. It was so extreme that I suspected its cause to be physical, hormonal. Which, since I was a writer, gave me an idea for a book.

The idea for The Naked Woman manuscript grew instantly, like wildfire. I worked on it full time for weeks, almost 24 hours a day. The animating spirit was the realization that sociology is conducted by people who have already arrived at their conclusions and are looking to ratify them by the appearance of scientific disinterest.

Normally, sociologists are able to conceal the hidden agendas that drive their “research,” but in the case of men who have just lost their women, the agenda cannot remain hidden. It’s comedy writ large.

I ventured onto a dual track. I was pissed off about women and I recognized exactly how this would affect me if I were doing sex difference research. I invented an underground academic movement that took place in sites called The Dog Pound, The Lodge, and The Locker Room. Lots of drinking involved. Named characters who careened through the pages espousing their wild theories on virtually no evidence.

The result of their research was an a priori condemnation of female intelligence, talent, and consciousness clothed in sociology jargon such as we see from feminists regarding men.

Heard of the new term micro-aggression? I invented micro-hormones. Lephtallalone, Pistopherone, Nestostosterone, etc. I invented a pseudo-physiological syndrome I called the Insect Brain. I made chocolate a key component of female consciousness or the lack of it.

The narrative was evidently idiotic. Men carousing and conducting “anti-experiments” to confirm their most outrageous biases about the opposite sex. Along the way the work spun out truly interesting ideas about the definition of IQ, consciousness, and the basis of sexual attraction. I was having fun with my own obviously skewed state of mind and the “Big Lie” that women are somehow entitled to share equal status with men in perpetuity given that there has never been a female Shakespeare, Einstein, Socrates, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Jesus Christ, Newton, Poe, or even Swinburne.

Where I went so disastrously wrong. I thought feminism had reached a point of success that would allow them to take ordinary Locker Room chaff without getting upset. I thought they might take it as a sign they had arrived in the old boy network. Nudge nudge. you know? Laugh, laugh, dig in ribs.

I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong. As door after door slammed in my face, fatally and forever, I learned that feminism had not arrived. More than we men take into account — with all our connivance in the fallacy that women exceed us in verbal ability, for example — women know damn well they have never produced a Shakespeare, Einstein, Socrates, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Jesus Christ, Newton, Poe, or even Swinburne.

That’s the real source of their hostility, defensiveness, and rage. The Mets can never forgive the Yankees.

And to a greater degree than even most men would believe possible, women lack a sense of humor. Not all women. Just the ones who have wriggled themselves into a place of power. There are women who know the score and are very much like us. My wife admitted, under duress, that in general, with multiple exceptions, her best friends are men. Because we’re so much more fun and don’t talk quite so much, and (gasp) when we do, we have more to say that’s worth listening to. We’re more interesting despite our easy submission to the cliche that we never think about anything.

I thought I’d written a hilarious joke. The verdict of woman dominated publishing companies was that I had written an outrageously offensive act of male chauvinist piggery.

They won.

Apparently.

It’s our wedding anniversary today. Nine years. I’m still in love. The book was just a book. Life is way more important. And more fun to boot.

The one guy was so clear you had to be on a commercial airliner to get the truth of it 30,000 feet up. The other was so opaque you had to get a PhD in his life in Ireland to begin to understand him.

Neither one was interested in meaning. Hemingway discarded meaning in World War I. After that it was the cool fresh taste of middling Spanish-accented wines. Joyce never cared about meaning at all. He just wanted to be a poetic conundrum. Named Stephen Dedalus. Follow the spider thread to the elastic end of nothing.

Oh. Gertrude Stein and Picasso. A rock and a jock. She made a joke of static writing while he made a joke of accomplished three-year-old finger painting. Great? Sure. Headed somewhere, leading us to a new vision of possibility??! uh, No. Dead ends, both of them. Just like Hemingway and Joyce.

Want to bring anyone else up? Name someone who tried to stitch up the gaping holes in art created by Picasso and James Joyce and their other pals. No one will tell you who that might be. Who might have been. Matisse? All he cared about was sex. There was nobody, has been nobody.

I tried, but I’m mostly dead now too. Life is fleeting. Haven’t heard of me? William Blake sold 300 copies. I’m okay with everything.

You can imagine a Millennial by substituting the D battery for a AAA model.

The Marginal Utility Factor (MuF) IQ Scale. A radical new approach to intelligence measurement which recognizes that the existing IQ scale is fundamentally flawed in its dependence on outmoded machine theory. The traditional assumption that human intelligence cannot vary by more than 100 percent (hence the high-end peg of 200 for super-genius IQs) was an outgrowth of machine-based systems theory which has been shown to be invalid in the new technology of information systems.

The machine model has been rendered obsolete specifically by the concept of ‘sensitive dependence on initial conditions,’ which demonstrates that the output of a given system can be expanded almost infinitely by making minor changes in the system’s initial conditions.

Since the human mind is far closer to an information system than to a manufacturing assembly line, the ‘sensitive dependence’ concept has been used to build a new measurement system for human intelligence—one based on the measurement of the capacity required for ascending levels of intellectual feats rather than the measurement of small differentials in the brain’s ‘instruction set.’

Use of the intellectual feats scale also makes it logical to invoke the longstanding concept of marginal utility, which postulates that as any system approaches the limit of what is possible, the amount of resource required to achieve the next increment of performance increases exponentially.

This means that our intuitive conviction that Einstein must have been many times smarter than the average person in order to conceive of the Theory of Relativity is accurate.

An accidental by-product of the research which developed the new MuF IQ Scale was the discovery that average female intelligence, when measured in terms of intellectual feats, is only a little more than 10 percent of average male intelligence, although the male population has such an enormous standard deviation that a significant percentage of males score lower in intelligence than the whole population of females. See Appendix II.

You see her every day. Some of you are married to her.

Previous post was condensation of an article in the banned book Naked Woman. Anyone want to see The Glossary of all its awful conclusions about women? Better ask. I’m volunteering nothing. But I guarantee one thing. My conclusions may be satirical but they will make men AND women cringe in recognition.

Don’t ask at your own peril. I’m the only man who has ever deciphered the female brain.

Been watching everybody I knew get old and doughy.

In a couple months I’ll be 63. Guys my age I know have 40 inch belts, heavy jowls, big noses, bald heads, and tarnished athletic trophies. Whereas I still have cheekbones, hair, and a 5’10” body that weighs less than 150 pounds. Have I worked at it? No. It’s all genetic or supernatural or something. Sometimes I feel like Dorian Gray. Other times I feel like Dr. Faustus a tick away from contract’s end. Question is, is it worth it to sit here like this while everyone you ever knew is turning into Methuselah? Not claiming to be good looking. Just not as old looking as all the pictures I see on Facebook. Am I feeling good about that?

No. If I looked as old as my peers it wouldn’t matter as much that my knees barely work, I’ve been overcome in recent years by allergies, and I’m nothing near as priapic as I once was. I have no excuse. My infirmities all have to do with living the life of a writer. I console myself by constantly watching that movie about Jackson Pollock. You know. Ed Harris pretending to be an artist. Exactly like Jackson Pollock did.

But like all writers, I have creative ways of rescuing myself. I just bought this belt.

It’s supposed to go with this jacket in my closet. I know. Cognac and tan. My life so far.

And these boots.

Then I’ll get back on my bike and be 21 again.

Sort of.

Are good looks worth it? No. They solve nothing. But they’re better than looking like hell. Except that I feel some of them feel better than I do. Only it is, as Fernando said before he died, better to look good than to feel good.

Couldn’t lay a hand on her for 10+ years. Now she knows
I’m not throttling her when I hold her this way.

A year ago she lived in the rafters of the garage. Now she lives in the whole downstairs. And on rare occasions she lets us bring her upstairs, where the deerhound lives. Is this not a miracle? She’s fourteen now. Survivor of five other cats and three other dogs. She wants to be loved. We do love her.

Here’s an interesting point. My most recent post was about places in the USA where it’s okay to go topless. It was tongue in cheek. I thought maybe at the end it would be okay to include a smallish picture of Scout Willis roaming topless through New York. I had my choice (I thought) of a real picture or one with pixilated nipples.

As I compared, I realized that the pixilated nipples made the pic look somehow dirty. But nipples aren’t dirty. They’re just not appropriate on display in all circumstances. But they are appropriate in a post about when breasts are okay to be shown in public. So I chose the real pic. Except someone has, literally, booby-trapped it. Allow me to demonstrate. This picture is okay.

Because nobody’s titillated, we can maintain paragraph format and stuff.

But if you try to use this fully nipples picture instead, the gods of Internet (or Willis family) modesty suddenly leap in and tell us we can’t write in orderly lines anymore.

Conservatives could live with this. As long as they can still remember how to behave like gentlemen.

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Red voters vs Blue voters nationwide.

Important Information for Hillary, isn’t it? She needs popular support. But how about this additional map of where women are legally permitted to be topless?

Green is yes, orange is ambiguous, and red is no. See any patterns

A lot of the ambiguous crowd is solid blue progressive territory, including New Jersey, Connecticut, Washington (the serial killer state), and the socialist-labor party upper Midwest, including leftist Michigan and Minnesota. They can’t stop themselves from wanting to rule your breasts anymore than they can stop themselves from wanting to rule every other part of your lives. Can’t wait to hear their newest regulations about underwires and cup shapes.

Quibbles? Utah, Tennessee, and Indiana, plus the oddly contrasting ambiguities of Nevada and Mississippi. Utah? Fugeddabout it. Indiana is, well, Indiana. Is, was, and will always be. There are no nipples in Indiana. Why the men all look so dry and pinched. The others? Of course, nobody’s ever seen a bare breast in the stage shows of Las Vegas or after-hours Nashville, right? And did anyone notice Mississippi? As ambiguous as Connecticut. That would be interesting for a state widely regarded as one of the USA’s representatives of the Third World.

On the whole, though, it looks like most of the country is both conservative and in favor of topless. The little blue bits are rock hard LGBTA parts. (Don’t ever let those evil men see the pink bits.) Should Hillary go topless or not? If the polls say she should, she will. Be warned. Be afraid. Very afraid.

Is there a new political coalition we can make of this? A lot of red-blooded American men are hoping so.

Amazingly, many of us still do remember.

Seen all 13 episodes now.

So many good things about this show. Fantastic fight scenes. A stellar acting performance by Vincent D’Onofrio. A deeply Catholic moral theme. Good writing. Good chemistry among major characters. An astonishingly good series.

It’s dark, beautiful, difficult, and complicated. The best of the Marvel universe. Watch it on Netflix.

You all know what to do.

They keep trying to make Hillary documentaries, forgetting that it’s already been done. Four times anyway. She’s a mob mama. Ruthless, sociopathic, and well equipped with minions through whom she can act without dirtying her own hands. So don’t wait for HBO or NBC to get one of their hagiographic Hillary projects off the ground. Everything you need to know is already in the can. Look up and find one of these to watch.

Back when Angie was still a babe of sorts. Herself has never been a babe. But thought you’d appreciate a change of pace.

It’s all there. The bullying, the manipulation, the flat out evil. How on earth is anyone anywhere contemplating putting this woman in the White House? Again.