Every Picture Tells A Story

…or, in the case of the picture below, dozens of stories. I invite my Readers to tell me (via email and not in Comments) just what is happening here, in the form of a short story, description, treatment or even screenplay- or stage dialogue. Take as long as you need (limit, say, 2,000 words), and it can be as approving, censorious, prudish, salacious or humorous as you’d like. All submissions should reach me before midnight, Friday March 31 with the subject line: House Party. (All submissions not having this subject line will be ignored.) I’ll choose a winner, publish the story and give out a mystery prize soon thereafter. (“Mystery prize” because I haven’t thought of one yet.) Here it is:

It’s one of my favorite cartoon sketches of all time, and I could write an entire novella from it.

Regrettably, I don’t know the artist; but according to the hairstyles and clothes, I’ll hazard a guess and put its creation in the late 1950s to mid-1960s. If anyone can shed light on any of that, I’d appreciate it.

Breaking News From The Orgasm Front

So men use women’s orgasms to pump up [sic] their masculine ego. Oh for fuck’s sake [sic etiam]. Also from the article:

[These tools] also mention another sexist orgasm trope: women feeling pressured to fake orgasms in order to appease a male partner, or in their words, “to protect men’s feelings.” For women who have sex with male partners, the pressure to orgasm is a relatable feeling. Hence all the faking that we know is going down in hetero bedrooms all over the country.

Here’s the Big News Of The Day: Most men don’t care if women fake their orgasms. I think I gave up worrying about that when I turned 22. I’m not interested in trying to divine whether Milady is having a bona fide Big Moment, or whether she’s trying for the Orgasm Oscar — frankly, I’m probably having too good a time myself to worry about it. And if there’s, shall we say tertiary evidence, then so much the better:

And for the umpteenth time: can we not find something more interesting to talk about?

After The Pussification

For those who’ve been living on another planet for the past two decades, I once wrote a screed called The Pussification Of The Western Male, which took about an hour to write and was a stream-of-consciousness rant against the demeaning of men in Western society. The piece  garnered an immediate and voluminous online response (thank you, Insty), caused my host’s (website and email) servers to crash and necessitated finding a new host because they kicked me off. The responses I got in the mail — I didn’t allow comments at that stage — were interesting. A large number, of course, were vituperative squeals from feministicals and their girlymen cohorts, and included death threats and threats of violence against me and my family. (Most of those disappeared when I responded to them by email with my home address, and an invitation to take their best shot — and to bring a gun, because I surely would.) All sorts of liberal websites climbed on, garnering me awards such as “Worst Blogger On The Internet” (although, upon recollection, that award may have been for Let Africa Sink, another crowd-pleaser).

Almost all the hysteria was pure projection, for example: “He wants men to go back to being cavemen!” when even a cursory reading of the essay would have noted that I wanted precisely the opposite.

Another example: “OMG! He wants to take the vote away from womyns!” when all I actually wrote was that giving the vote to women may not necessarily have been a Good Idea because since that time, government has become increasingly nanny-ish and intrusive (which is true in almost every country in the world, and not just in the United States). I even offered a reward of $10,000 to anyone who could find — anywhere in my writings, not just in Pussification — an instance where I’d actually advocated disenfranchising women. Crickets.

What was also interesting was that I got several thousands of emails  from men who agreed with me — and well over five hundred from women who likewise felt the same and were either married to Real Men themselves, or who wanted real men to come back.

What I didn’t write in the essay, and should have, was to predict that if men continued to be marginalized, they would eventually quit the game altogether — because men, accustomed to playing competitively, have a keen sense when the rules of the game are tilted against them and just quit as a result. In modern-day parlance, this would be the Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW) movement. Here’s an old joke about just that:

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl “Will you marry me?” The girl said, “NO!” And the guy rode motorcycles and went fishing and hunting and played golf a lot and drank beer and Scotch and had tons of money in the bank and slept with lots of different women and left the toilet seat up and farted whenever he wanted and lived happily ever after.

The End.

I also didn’t predict — because, as I said, I wrote the piece in an hour and didn’t think through the process — that men would start using the outcome of feminism to their own advantage: that if women were entitled to be like men and have casual sex like men, then men could take advantage of that mindset and design a process to make the whole thing a lot easier (because men build systems; it’s what we do). Thus the Pick-Up Artist (PUA) movement, which basically teaches Beta men how to simulate being Alpha and score with women. (Alpha men already know how to seduce women, and don’t need to have it systemized and codified.) Here’s an example of how a PUA turns a situation around:

She: “You’re not my type.”
He: “You’re not my type either. But you’ll have to do until someone thinner comes along.”

It’s a masterpiece: using a prime part of female negative self-image (all women think they’re overweight, regardless of actual tonnage) to throw her off-balance and make her vulnerable to his next approach. Another classic, this time in a debate or argument:

She: A man shouldn’t date a woman for over a year without making some kind of commitment.
He: I guess I missed the memo that gave you the power to decide how I should act.

At some point, of course, men were bound to rebel against this crappy status quo; my little rant was just a precursor to the reaction. (Note that I’m not claiming any kind of authorship of, or responsibility for that rebellion — I’m not that big-headed. But I think that my rage was indicative of what was to follow.) And if those feminists and liberal girlymen had listened to what I was actually saying and not projected all their silliness onto my words, they would not have been at all surprised by situations like GamerGate, Sad Puppies, the alt-Right (an interesting take on the last can be found here), and the like. 

There was also bound to be a reaction against political correctness as well as to the pussification of men — the two are linked, albeit tenuously at times. It seems clear, however, that the liberal establishment (which included feminists and academia) were blinded by their own arrogance and feelings of moral superiority. Well, guess what? Not everyone was going to submit to their little control-freak games, and now we have an interesting cultural polarization which rivals the political polarization. It’s the same phenomenon: don’t minimize me and set me apart, then complain when I create my own rules for my own game. When the rules are tilted and people feel slighted, they are inevitably going to withdraw from the process, whether it’s Brexit, MGTOW or electing Donald Trump as President.


(For those who are curious to see what all the fuss was about, I’ve re-published Pussification under the fold. Bear in mind that this was published in 2003 so many of the references are pretty dated by now, but the main thrust of the argument is still relevant today. And by the way: I’d also like to thank all those assholes out there who published the piece in its entirety without my consent and despite my complaints / requests to desist, and who even bowdlerized the fucking thing so as not to offend the tender sensibilities of their few readers. Did I already mention they were assholes?)

 

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Clouds Lifting

I never thought I’d be saying this, and especially so soon after Connie’s death, but I’m starting to deal with the world again and I don’t feel like I’m just going through the motions. Of course, I’m suspicious of this new feeling, but a couple of things make me think I’m starting to turn the corner.

Firstly, I was finally able to walk away from the old house in Plano — if I don’t want to, I don’t ever have to see it again. (Here’s an example of my disconnect: the painter asked me what color I wanted the outside gutters and drainpipes painted. I waved my hand around to encompass the whole street and said, “Use whatever color fits the neighborhood. I don’t care, it’s not my house anymore.”) I will go back, of course, just to make sure the reno went as planned, but I don’t have to — all the work is nearly done, next week the “stagers” come in to make the place look decent, and then the agent will list it. Basically, what happens next will happen, and there’s not much I can do to affect the outcome. After the burden of emptying the place out and the scourging of my soul that went with that activity, the house is no longer Connie’s and mine: it is somebody else’s house now, the market just hasn’t decided whose, yet.

Secondly, I’m dealing with being alone again better than I thought I would. Doc’s been on an extended shift at the ER, which left me pretty much by myself for the past two days. I have to admit that the first few hours were a little nerve-wracking; but amazingly, I settled into the routine of solo living without too much anguish. Mostly, I napped — good grief, I had no idea I could sleep so much, my body must have decided that it was time to make up for all those sleepless nights over the past two or three years — and I even started making plans for the near future.

Once the house is sold, I’ll probably be able to start working again — “working” being whatever I can find that will pay me enough to keep me afloat. (There’s a book to finish — one scene yet to write — and there might be a YouTube Kim channel in the future, but I can’t work out those details just yet.) I wish I could start doing that now, but I need the sale of the house to close that particular chapter of my life so I have to be available in case there’s an emergency. (One story to share: the flooring people are using the leftover tiles from our big flooring project from back in 2004 to fix up the master bathroom. I measured, re-measured and made the flooring contractor measure the space as well, just to ensure that we could agree that there was enough stock on hand. When we’d finished I said to him, “Just know this: if I get a call right after Lowe’s closes, telling me there isn’t enough tile to finish the job, there will be gunfire. Use the stock frugally.” There were wide-open, fearful eyes looking back at me. I think he got the message.)

Finally, and I hate to do this more than anything I can think of: I need a little more money to get this job done — new turf in the front, fixing the sprinkler system up and so on — so if you all can go to the well for me just one more time and drop whatever you can spare into my GoFundMe appeal, I will be grateful beyond words. The minute the house is sold, whatever it’s sold for and even if it sells for a loss, I plan to close the appeal for good because I can’t stand begging for money anymore.

Enough, already. Once this is done, it will be time to get on with my life, on my own terms and on my own two feet. I know exactly how Scarlett O’Hara felt, because AGIMW, I am never going to beg for money again.

And one more time: thank you all from the bottom of my heart for making this possible. I would not have survived this catastrophe, this loss, this upending of my life, without the financial generosity and just as importantly, the moral support I’ve received from all of you. My gratitude is profound, and eternal because at long last, I feel that I’m going to make it.

I can even listen to that beautiful song now without dissolving into a pool of tears.

Life Among The Gun Nuts

So the other day I was parked in my chair writing this here blog, when I became aware of a fly buzzing around. I ignored it for a while, but when Doc came home from work, I asked him where he kept the fly spray.

“Fly spray? Fly spray? I don’ need no steenkin’ fly spray,” he exclaimed, went away and came back with this thing, the “Bug-A-Salt(TM) The Original Salt Gun”:

For those of you unaware of this Implement of Death, it’s essentially a low-powered pump-action pneumatic shotgun which shoots table salt at insects.

So I popped the fly with the Bug-A-Salt at close range. It buzzed around a bit, somewhat erratically, so thinking I hadn’t hit it squarely, I moved the gun closer and popped the fly again. No effect. So I said a Bad Word, and gave it yet another load of salt. This time it fell to the windowsill, but it was still kicking. So I gave it one last shot, and finally the little bastard snuffed it — at least, he was still lying there a couple hours later. Four shots of salt to kill a single fly — I should have just butt-stroked the damn thing.

This alleged insect-killing device was made in China, and perhaps their flies are not as tough as our Texas flying assholes, which make a noise like a buzz-saw and can crack a window-pane with a single headbutt.

Needless to say, this caused some discussion between Doc and myself, and we came to the conclusion that we either need to drill out a larger bore on the gun barrel to increase the gross projectile weight, or use a larger shot size (i.e. coarse kosher salt), or both.

I’ll keep you posted.

Like We Didn’t Know

From some news organization:

A knifeman was shot by armed police in the grounds of Parliament today after pedestrians were mowed down in a terror attack on Westminster Bridge. More than 10 people are said to have been hit by a car on the central London bridge after a vehicle described as a ‘4×4’ drove into pedestrians and cyclists.

If this nonsense keeps up, I’m gonna need to wear suspenders to keep my pants up — all those extra 1911 mags are heavy, let me tell you.

“But Kim… what good are bullets against a runaway SUV?”

Against the SUV, not much. Against the driver, a little more. Carry a gun, folks. It may just save your life. And for you Brits: you need to start voting for politicians who will let you do the same.

Oh, who am I kidding? That’ll never happen. But it should.