He-Man Woman Hater’s University

I mowed the Wife’s yard yesterday and mine today after church let out.  She’s off to Raleigh with her mom in Fun Machine 2 for a baby shower.  I drove Fun Machine 1, even though it’s for sale on Craigslist.

We spent Friday afternoon driving around, happening on the sprawl abomination of Reedy Fork on the way to lunch in Gibsonville.  Traffic, even on the back roads, was bad, so we hit 70W and headed back.

The Wife is enormously fond of FM2 and drives it as much as possible.  I’m happy with FM1 and hope to drive it until relegated to the Kia Soul.  We’re apparently spending more time together and moving back in has been mentioned.

Currently, I carry a bag full of Teva sandals, a duffel with shorts, shirts and meds, in addition to my normal backpack.  So, moving back is rather a formality.  Normally, I’d retrieve the rest of my shit, but there’s really no place for it there and besides, I’d like to retain the place in Liberty for those occasions I may have need of it.

It turns out all my stuff in Liberty will fit in my bedroom, which I can secure with a lock.

I spent last August at Oscar’s home while the tenant vacated my place.  Around that time, Oscar hired a kid to work at the lab.  He’d been one of the irregulars and shown himself as bright and cheerful.  He’s been laughing at my dumb ass faithfully at least once a week since then.  I know his mom, his granddad and even his greats.  Even so, I’ve offered him a room at He-Man Woman Hater’s University.

I plan to retain the utilities in my name and use the enormous twenty-two year old to defray the cost while he works a bunch of jobs and goes to school to be a math teacher.   Since I might not be here much, he’ll have the run of the place and I’ll enjoy the security.

So far, he’s resisted the temptation to fall into the clutches of a fetching vixen and shows great promise keeping them at arm’s length.  Here perhaps I have found a member of the next generation capable of carrying on the fight against feminine fascism and oppression.

Speaking of jobs in Liberty, it recently occurred to me I haven’t seen any non-whites, save for the light-skinned lady at Food Lion, who looks like a movie star.  The American Left holds up the black civil rights movement as the most experienced and successful example of social activism.  Indeed, the dignity shown by Liberty’s blacks in the face of endemic racism has always impressed me.

They closed their school in 1965 for desegregation when I entered first grade.  It’s been all down hill for blacks, many of whom were highly respected, since then.  The KKK used to practically strut around here.  I’m sure if I protested Food Lion for not hiring minorities, I’d find out right quick they’re still here.  Hell, even if I don’t, they may run me off for wearing rugby shorts.

Experts talk about neoliberalism being a class war, but also a race war.  You can’t find a parking place at the despicable Dollar Tree, where there’s little racial distinction among the poor.

Coming down the road this morning, I stopped at McDonald’s and walked in to get a proper Diet Dr. Pepper with just enough ice.  There sat a young lady dressed for church and eating alone.  Blacks in Liberty know damn well whom their oppressors are, giving them comfort in the impossibility of change.  But to whom does this woman pray and why?

Men who aren’t pretty much door mats like me can’t submit to the constant wanting.  I’m lucky.  The Myers Briggs Type Indicator indicated the Wife would vocalize her ideas, and that has made all the difference.  After 21 years, I sometimes flinch at the things she wants, but don’t start getting nervous until she mentions them again.  I’d also like to say there isn’t anything wrong with the Wife that isn’t wrong with every woman and she possesses a very small subset of those qualities.

Among the Wife’s best qualities is not pushing her ideas about religion, which are mercenary, on me.  She doesn’t waste time reading my blog, so probably thinks I believe in chipmunks or something.  She dragged me to athletic Episcopal services until we got married, and never since.

The thing is attending services at a big church is a lifeline to survival for many people, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with that.  But it’s just like the reality that for every cheerful person you see at McDonalds, there’s a bunch of them sitting at home, too pissed off and proud to eat that shit for the pittance they call a minimum wage.  The dissidents, just like blacks in Liberty, are excluded from survival, other than by illicit or public means.

Which brings me to the cig butts out back at work.  The people working at the restaurant next door sit on our stoop and smoke on break.  Apparently, part of the gestalt includes stamping out the butt when finished.

First, let me say the Wife is not a Nazi, but what has made her successful all these years are a monstrous work ethic and attention to detail.  The parking, at the newly renovated shopping center, is brisk, in part due to restaurant.  We park on the perimeter, leaving more convenient spaces available, but the restaurant staff are oblivious to this notion.  I should say were, after the enormous hand of the Wife’s iron will came down.  She also used the occasion to address the cig butts.

I get to work each day before they come in, have gotten to know some of them, and can tell that they have it hard.  Mental health professionals who make a distinction between psychopaths like me and sociopaths consider the former born that way, even though I never wet the bed, and the latter are created.

I don’t mind that people embrace the destructive practice of smoking.  The problem is these people are preparing and serving food.  Which brings me to the customers.  When you get right down to it, they’re getting exactly what they deserve.

The national chains have weeded out these miscreants, leaving only locally-owned enterprises available for employment.   I don’t know how all this is gonna shake out, but I’m willing to sweep up the butts, if it’ll keep the peace.

Which gets me back to the Wife and women in general.  I don’t think they’re capable of empathy if a dollar is involved, or perhaps a child.  We can refer to these people, and I have, as subhuman, but the more important question is our responsibility for their condition, unless you like spit and boogers in your food.

One of the things I really like about the Wife is she is always straight on with no bullshit.  The greatest Marines are women.  Damn the consequences, and there are always hilarious consequences.  These people are straight out of Snowflake Fight Club, where you don’t so much fight as stomp around, screaming and crying until someone gets your passie.

Breaking news:  Most of these young guys aren’t gay, but they are certainly effeminate.  He-Man Woman Hater’s University stands as a bulwark against totalitarian momism and features lots of yard work, home maintenance and straight porn to re-masculinize those too inhibited to sport rugby shorts and sandals.

Warning:  Genius level approaching with 7th beer.

Despite all assurances by locals with dental deficiencies, I am not gay.

I’m obviously an exhibitionist, but I get no kick from that champagne.  In fact, I often have to screw myself up to going out looking like this.

I am fatally addicted to pissing off as many people as possible, at every opp.

I’ve been a megalomaniac all my life.  A psychopath seeks personal gain, whereas I’m only interested in appearing utterly unafraid.

I consume fear by staring unblinking into the abyss, every day, all day long.  And from it I derive nuclear amounts of joy.  I gravitate to the dark side of everything, and perceive gems where they genuinely exist.   I am totally cynical and immune to the hype.

I’ve been battling the Russian false narrative since the 2014 Ukrainian Maidan coup.  I’ll gladly stand, half naked so long as it’s hot, against everyone with my version of truth captured in the dark places, ignored by the lords of conventional wisdom.

You have a choice: be terrified or be terrifying.

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