Nothing

Matters

Any

Longer.

While we were busy committing virtual seppuku Wednesday, Kim Jong Un made a statement on the terrible failure of the most recent North Korean Five Year Plan, yet another failure that can be attributed to Marxist economic theory.

Still, the American Left continues to romance Marxism. It isn’t all Che Guevara tee shirts and clinched fist salutes. Most people like to eat, own the roof that shelters them, and possess more than two changes of underwear.

Lawyers like to work. We all know that. They can make a pretty good living interpreting, implementing, or litigating against the laws, rules, and directives of the administrative state. But, on the other hand, people who know how to manufacture and market things,tend to make economies and the nations they support, prosperous.

Prosperity is not a dirty word. Put another way, poverty sucks. Think about that.

Before COVID, people were working, making money. The number of illegal immigrants undercutting the wages of blue collar workers had plummeted. And then COVID hit the United States and the rest of the world. To America, COVID has been an attack deadlier and more danaging than Pearl Harbour.

Somebody is going to have to advocate for small business and the American worker. Wall Street spent the last thirty years financing the export of American jobs, robbing Americans of their jobs and dignity. And Wall Street bankrolled Biden, just as the financiers bankroll most of the Never Trump Republican Establishment, e.g. the Bush family and Mitt Romney. There is a wave of unjustified nostalgia for the status quo ante Trump.

It would be nice for American high tech workers to have jobs, jobs to pay off student debt, and get these workers on the road to owning houses, starting their own families and businesses. And cheap immigrant high tech labour is a priority for Silicone Valley, another source of Democratic support.

It is very difficult to savour a pyrrhic victory, yet another irony for your consideration, Democrats.

After today’s Dung Deluge in D.C. , I decided I needed a Christmas Do-Over. You remember Christmas, don’t you? It was two weeks ago. Even with the pandemic protocols, it seems more like ages ago.

Fortunately, our brothers and sisters in the Russian Orthodox Church still use the Julian Calendar and the Julian Calendar’s December 25 is the Gregorian Calendar’s January 7. So we get another crack at Giving Glory to God in The Highest, and Peace to Men (People) of Good Will.

Russia is a great place to live if one is a basso profundo. The basso registers feature prominently in the liturgical chants.

Metropolitan Hilarion is presiding at this liturgy. He’s is only 54, a spring chicken by Orthodox Bishop standards. He does not look like Santa Claus yet. And he still trims his beard. If you’ve ever wondered why a group of (Russian) Orthodox Bishops gathered in one room looks like a Santa Claus convention, it’s because St Nicholas ( the original Santa) was an Orthodox Bishop.

The choir, mostly soprano, sounds magnificent. I need a heavenly choir right now. They have the incense being passed over the altar. The choir has been singing nonstop for almost two hours.

Serenity returns.

19. Jul. 1957- 05. Jan. 2021

I lost a friend today. I was exchanging emails in the morning. He died of cardiac arrest, waiting for a bus, in the afternoon. He was 63.

I’m a little numb.

That’s it. For now.

ADULTS ONLY 18+ NSFW

This is my first foray into homoerotic kink. It is NSFW, sexually explicit with flagellation. It is purely a work of fiction. I do not endorse this type of activity. ADULTS ONLY

“Dignity is a luxury of the well-fed and the free.”

The words struck at my core. I had not eaten in a week. What water I had came from the spring in the park. I trusted it. The City, when it last provided public health services, certified that it was safe to drink. That was when, 2—-? 2—? Not too long ago.

How Marco and his bounty hunters found me, I still wonder about. I guess I really had been nanochipped after all. Bruno lied about the vaccines then. The Bastard.

Bruno fed me all right. The crickets that were just then becoming available were the protein. After they molt, take the heads off, fry them in cottonseed oil, dump some cumin and paprika on them and maybe you really are eating the newly “discovered” land shrimp, that The Party’s Gourmet Page touts every other post.

You could close your eyes, dream you were eating something else, as long as their chirping stopped long enough before you ate them. You take what they give you here. Ginger Rogers had a steer tattooed on her arse, as if to say she was the only meat they could get right now. The joke worked well at the brothel, especially when the soldiers came. We were kindred spirits, after all. Our bodies and those of the soldiers were both State Property.

As pimps go, Bruno sufficed. He preferred to think of himself as a full spectrum recreational facilitator. I suppose he was what they once termed a bull shitter. Was that what they called them, back before the Protein Sequestration? We took a chance on being discovered and looked up the term bull on the Fact Portal. Myrna Loy knew the override code to reach the unexpurgated words. And there it was, a cow with a dick and balls instead of teats.

“In the old days, the bulls fucked the cows, and that’s how it all started. Pretty soon there would be a calf, the cow would give milk. And not long after that somebody figured out how to make ice cream, the real kind.

I stopped my daydreaming when Marco scanned the code on my chest. The screen that I could not see gave out the information the Data Reserve shared about me. Height, last calculated BMI (for Caloric Monitoring). Another would be performed to gauge how well I had been eating during the Free Range Interval. That would show how long I had been a fugitive. If the BMI was within acceptable range or higher, that usually meant a fugitive had not been free all that long.

“Did you flee of your own volition, or were you released for Training and Recreation?”

” Fled, Sir.” There was no use in lying. Released For Training Quarry were always thusly noted on their files.

” How long before you were bagged?

“Three weeks, Sir.”

“Quite a bit of sport, you turned out to be, Mr Cary Grant .”.

” Angelo, take Cary Grant, give him a scrub and brush down, use the #2 strap on him. Stop before you draw blood. Then let those interested, bugger him while he’s eating his oatmeal. If he gets high marks, feed him seconds, with extra sugar”.

So that’s how it would turn out.

The bath and the scrubbing felt good. Getting my pubes, my armpits, my head shaved, my arse crack and anus waxed was customary after any Free Range Interval. Keeps the lice in check, so they said. Actually I think it was the power trip that comes with a Fugitive Capture. Makes The Capture that much more ostentatious.

Bathed, shaved and waxed, a collar came back on, the GPS tracker double-checked, I was taken to the St. Andrew’s Cross, and beaten with the narrow #2 strap, that left lovely cross-hatched welts on my back. The sting was barely tolerable. I would NOT cry out. No blood was drawn.

Angelo had me kneel before him. He motioned for me to take his now blood engorged penis in my mouth and fellate him. I did as I was directed. It took little effort to bring Angelo off, taking him deep a few times, until I “polished” him off with my tongue. He was easy to please after he used the strap. Truth be told , I just wanted to get this cock sucked and squirted, the balls emptied, so I could eat food. Food for godsakes. Jizz is for the amateurs.

The bowl placed before me, I knelt down, mouth in the bowl , arse in the air ready to accept however many pricks and dildoes were pressed against my anus. I stretched easily, more interested in food than buggery.

Typical, in so many ways, of a capture in the Game World. Maybe one day I will make it to The Border. Yet I still loved The Sport.

I’m watching old commercials from the 1970’s. The men have haircuts that look just awful. Think John Kerry, who hasn’t changed his style since he testified before Congress in 1971. Why, John, why?

Then there are commercials for Kodak cameras, pantyhose, Sears. This was even before VCRs caught on, or compact discs. You could go buy a TRS-80 computer at Radio Shack.

You could buy McDonald’s gift certificates. Burger King had this annoying “King” character, who, by comparison, imparted to Ronald McDonald the dignity of the Pope.

There were no ATM machines to speak of. Nor internet, cell phones. The technology is one thing that is different, but using media to promote consumerism is the same. We just think different stuff will give us fulfillment now. Why just change your hair colour, when you can change your whole damn gender?

But everything was presented in a familiar context, or maybe not. I just remember this stuff.

There was Farrah Fawcett, Ricardo Montalban, Hervé Villechaize, Gavin MacLeod, James Garner, Marriette Hartley. I was busy getting divorced during a lot of this, pursuing jobs in work I hated, trying to deal with the conflict between the values I was raised with, while I lived in a culture that was rejecting them, like a baboon heart, transplanted into a human.

The women’s hairstyles were as dated as the men’s. The styles all looked like hair helmets you could pull over a bald head. Nobody had tattoos. I never thought I would view that as odd. Today I can see a woman cutting hair, waiting tables, fixing lattes, sporting a full sleeve and not even look twice. The world, superficially, is very different.

It was a nightmare relived, like instant breakfast, instant coffee, instant oatmeal, instant grits, instant pudding.

Dear God, why?

I always have to remember that Christmas isn’t just a day but a whole season. You never know where you will find your Christ Child in His manger or when the Magi will show up. If one is truly devout, Christmas can end on Candlemas, February 2nd, the Feast of The Presentation of the Christ Child in The Temple. And, if one is eager to get the ball rolling again, The Annuciation is March 25th. On that day, the Angel Gabriel announces to The Blessed Virgin Mary that she will bear The Messiah.

Santa Claus and the whole manic secular holiday is fairly short. No sooner does the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade end at Herald Square, than we’re looking at After-Christmas sales, or so it seems. Fun, for sure, just like a roller coaster. You never know when the real joyful day will come.

This Christmas, the magic day was today, when my son told me, “Dad I have responsibilities.” In his case, it’s a dog to care for. And a job to be at. But he acknowledged he has adult responsibilities. He knows he’s an adult. He also played the piano over the phone for me. 32 years old. I am so proud.

That’s Christmas. No tree needed. Nor even a Midnight Mass,

My son is a man. And I helped in his becoming that person. I did my job.

I awoke about an hour ago, around 0230. J is at work, moving stock from the delivery truck and the stock room to the shelves. The holiday overnights should end soon, maybe another two weeks.

I am watching a freight train go through Ashland. Spotting a train is like catching a fish. I sit and wait and see what happens.

I made the mistake of reading a Reddit thread from someone who possessed more opinions than facts. There are a lot of people like this person, myself included. Like Montaigne, I will now write about the one person I do know. Me. Gets a little tedious, reading opinions from gas bags who castigate people they don’t like as “bloviators”. Jesus spoke about people who call out others for having specks in their eyes, while they possess logs in theirs. Yeah, some things never change.

I guess the internet serves as a huge safety valve. It allows people to fulminate about some public figure or another, without resorting to messy assassinations. Maybe Oswald would have remained a harmless loser, had he possessed a Facebook© page rather than a Mannlicher Carcano rifle with a telescopic sight.

Most of us, though, go through life with a large assemblage of hunches or intuitive feelings that the whole story on any subject, issue , or person is never fully revealed or disclosed. It’s similar to that subliminal sense of danger that keeps a good soldier alive. We know things are incompletely revealed. We know we are being told stories. We sense when we are getting “spin” around a person or situation or legislative proposal. That’s why politics reads like a melodrama most of the time.

Powerful people want to hold on to the power that they have, whether that power is money, political influence or marketable charisma. Getting the news that the days of power are over is most unwelcome. Like the alcoholic, who is the last person to comprehend his alcoholism, the “has- been” is always the last person to know the glory days are gone. It’s what makes those commercials Joe Namath does for Medicare Advantage plans so agonizingly cringe-worthy.

(Joe, the game is over! Half the people watching you don’t know or remember who you were.)

Sic transit gloria mundi.

I have this thing that rents space in my cranium. It may or may not support me in what I want to do, choose to do, need to do.

I am NOT the Master of my thoughts. I am more like a spectator to the cerebral sumo wrestling between the part of my brain interested in my welfare and its mirror image committed to my unhappiness and discontent.

If you think this is overblown, consider that taking care of me often sounds like selfishness on my part. Sleep, exercise, regular meals, prayer, positive self-talk all sound like self-indulgent luxuries rather than the fundamentals of positive self-care.

So here we are, ready to finish another orbit around our home star and I’m back in the Remedial Human Being Section.

Oh well. Be kind to me. Because I probably won’t be.

I have our dinner cooking for J and me. That’s all. It’s another Christmas of no decorating, except for my Russian Orthodox tryptich of The Nativity.I wrote about it a couple of weeks ago. See Confession.

Christmas with no little children around is not the same. With the pandemic, the Churches are empty. I’m waiting for Russian Orthodox Christmas on 7 January. People should be there. The way the Russians figure it, as long as the Germans (Nazis) aren’t around, no reason not to celebrate. It’s a point well taken.

I’m fixing a roast chicken. Easier for two people to consume than a turkey.

Later..

Chicken was good.

Today sucked. Not going to sugar-coat it. J spent the day in bed. Just because there was no reason to get out.

Don’t want to hear any Magic of Christmas crap.

Over it.