Saturday, July 7, 2018

Encounter with Liberal Insanity


Well, Hopper has had his first one-on-one encounter with the mental disorder known as Progressivism. Or liberal insanity. It’s the same thing.

I’ve been fighting this bronchitis for two weeks now. Fed up with the “stay the course” advice of my first doctor, I saw another one yesterday. He was concerned and ordered me an on-the-spot nebulizer treatment as well as some chest x-rays. While I was breathing in the albuterol in an effort to clear my lungs, the nurse came in with a form for me.

This nurse is actually an older Hispanic male. He’s assisted me before and he’s a great guy, though I still prefer dealing with the female nurses there. Anyway, he apologetically told me he had to ask me some questions.

“Do you adhere to the gender of your birth, on your birth certificate, or are you gender fluid?”

“Of course I do,” I said, indicating the first.

After marking my response on the form he followed up with, “and what is your birth gender?”

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. In my sickness, with untrimmed beard and mustache, with great bags under my eyes from a dearth of sleep, I look somewhat like Jerry Garcia. But he had helped me and I didn’t want to give him a hard time, seeing he was embarrassed.

“Male, of course.”

A nervous chuckle and he made his notations.

“And what pronouns should I use when addressing you?”

Oh Lord. I thought instantly about saying “His Majesty.” A year or two back some young Republican in college tweaked his college professor by filling that answer out on one of those pronoun forms the idiots teaching our college kids these days seem enamored with. But I didn’t want to give him a hard time. “The normal ones,” I replied, and said no more.

So now I have had my first encounter with the Philosophy of the Denial of Reality that is swiftly overtaking academia and now the health care industry. How soon before I am required to take loyalty oaths to this viewpoint to maintain a job? I already have to take annual training where I affirm women make 77 cents on the dollar (debunked just about everywhere) and that LGBTQWXYZ is the summit of all that is good and wholesome (contrary to natural law and my deeply-held religious belief).

God help us.


And for those wondering, the new doctor prescribed me some antibiotics and steroids, which I took last night at 5 pm. I slept through the night (with only two small interruptions) for the first time since June 20 and feel a hundred percent better already.

Saturday, June 30, 2018

Left and Right



Earlier today during a sleepless bronchial flare-up session, I read an article breaking down what the surprising primary victory of the newest darling of the left, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, means. It can be found here. She’s called, and it seems apt enough to me, as the Left’s new Evita Peron.

Since I oppose unfettered abortion for all, open borders, high confiscatory tax rates, and the intrusion of federal government into every aspect of our lives, all stupid and evil policies to varying degrees, I will not be voting for her when she runs for president in 2032 (she’s only 28 years old now). 

But what interested me more was the author mentioning the main thesis of a book he read at age 16 which formed his ideological thinking. It describes the spectrum between Left and Right as:


Left: conformism, tribalism, ultra-nationalism, racism, class-consciousness

Right: individualism, eccentricity, natural inequality, meritocracy


This interests me greatly. I would love – absolutely love – to hear it refuted by a liberal, to hear his reasons why such a spectrum is inaccurate.

The only thing I can see is a liberal saying, “Well, there’s tribalism on the right, too.” The whole basket of deplorables thing. America between the coasts. Rednecks and southerners. This may be true, though he’d be deliberately leaving out the millions of us conservatives trapped in northern and coastal blue states and living incognito in major cities. But it is not a condition of belonging. The simple fact that the Right has nothing remotely resembling the whole Liberal Pyramid of Victimhood, a keystone of the Leftist dogma, proves this.

I do not wish to conform to this society. I do not worship white skin because I have white skin, or maleness because I am a male. I do not see everything through the lens of race. I care little about class save for how to rise upwards to provide something better for my family now and in the future.

This whole “ultra-nationalism” theme of the Left does not seem self-evident to me. I am not sure what to make of it, since the contemporary Left in America seems to despise this country so much it is forever trying to remake it to atone for its past sins. Maybe that is what the ultra part means.

But the values of individualism, eccentricity natural inequality, and meritocracy appeal greatly to me, no matter how much I may manifest one (natural inequality and eccentricity) or fail in another (meritocracy).

The article ends with an appeal for Ms. Ocasio-Cortez to visit Venezuela on a three-month fact-finding mission. I say go for it, and throw in a high school level non-politicized basic Intro to Economics course for free. Maybe then we can save this young lady’s soul.


Thursday, June 28, 2018

Codeine Dreams



So the docs don’t want to give me antibiotics to fight my bronchitis. Apparently bronchitis is by and large a viral condition, though sometimes bacteria can cause inflammation of the bronchial tubes. The last six times I’ve had it a z-pack has cured me in 24 hours.

I called the doctor’s office yesterday pleading for a z-pack, having slept a mere 12 hours over a three-day period, no more than ninety minutes at any one time. Turns out I should’ve pled for a return phone call. What is it with doctors? I left messages at 8 am, 11 am, 3 pm, each time the receptionist promising me I’d get a call back. At 5 pm, worried the doctor would leave for the day without helping me, I showed up at the office.

It did not go well. She dug her heels in and refused me the antibiotics. Which I can understand, and probably would have accepted it more magnanimously if I learned the news six hours early. “Stay the course,” she said. Since you’re home from work, you can have the codeine cough syrup during the day. But it’s a narcotic; I can’t give you anything else. I don’t have anything to knock you out cold.”

“I don’t want to be knocked out cold, I just want to stop coughing for longer than two minutes.”

No dice. I went back home and dosed up on the codeine. I watched a lot of miscellaneous tv and a lot of bad youtube videos and watched the Mets snatch defeat from the jaws of victory against the Pirates in the ninth. Along the way I dozed on the couch for an hour, and had my first codeine dream.

I then slept from 11:30 to 3 am, and 5 to 6:30. I had my second codeine dream sometime in the misty murky metalight of the early morning.

The first dream I’ve titled “Dog Iliad.” I’m halfway through a re-reading of Homer’s work, and I dreamed I was teaching it to my daytime companion, Charlie:



Platonic Form of Dog...


In order to do this, in order to help him understand epic ancient Greek poetry, I switched all the characters to canines. There was Dog Odysseus and Dog Achilles, Dog Diomedes, Dog Agamemnon, even Dog Helen. Dog-god Zeus, Dog-god Athena, Dog-god Apollo. Dog-god Mars, the original Dog of War. Dogs decked out in armor, with golden plumed helmets, carrying spears and swords in the paws, range over the landscape in brutal battle. “Dog Iliad.”

The second codeine-fueled dream I walked through an expansive mansion under construction. In fact, it’s slightly more than framed out, a humongous skeleton of giant 2x4s, with some sections of sheet rock hammered up to kinda show the future layout of the place. The mansion was mine, and I was touring it with a special guest star.

Who was the special guest star?

None other than Joe Gatto, from tv’s Impractical Jokers.

(In my delirium last night I watched a marathon of Jokers, still the funniest show on the air.)

So I take Joe to my favorite future room in the mansion: it’s going to be my weight room. I’m going to install a full-length mirror, add benches, barbells, dumbbells, and about two thousand pounds of metal weight. It’s going to be my Gold’s Gym. I intend to bulk out and get shredded, like a 1970s Arnold Schwarzenegger preparing for a Mr Olympia competition. My Dungeon, my House of Pain. Yes, this is what I was expounding to Joe Gatto of tv’s Impractical Jokers.

Then dawn caressed my face with her long rosy fingers and I hacked up a pint of yellow mucus.