TED

 BUNDY WAS PROBABL TRANS NOOBODY TALKS ABOUT THIS...THEY/THEM LEFT DETAILED NOTES ON THERE/THEM OBSESSESH WITH THE VAG

Will to Consent

She helms a boxy conveyance; within, the allure of vigor.
Operating with sleek command, and fluency,
Her craft accretes those of us who share her passion,
Young and old, we coalesce around her.

When I visited thus, it was brief and electrifying.
I was granted to dock, temporarily, my rig,
To her ship. My engines were not even to cool,
Lest I forfeit this privilege.

There are no written rules here, it's all implied,
To visit her station is to merely exchange
The coin of the realm for the desired balms,
Then one must be on their way.

To me, she is like a bird in a gilded cage,
And I am allowed to flit about inside, very briefly,
And listen to her song.  Perhaps even to cast,
With admiration, on her bright plumage.

Anything more than a brief glance would signal,
That more than admiration is happening inside me.
It would be a tell, that she is being coveted,
That I carry an urge to possess her.

And this is true.  My eyes point at what I desire,
She knows this, so, I look at her when I speak,
And when she is speaking to me.  But then, I must feign,
Interest in the aloes or the bottles of capsules.

To her, unless I speak my absolute truth, I will just be,
Another in a long line of clones.   I'm no longer an original,
I've replaced every cell countless times, willed myself to heal,
Yet my ardor to consume her never quits me.

It would be very easy for me to just ask her for coffee,
Then, I might receive a very clear, "no,"
And this would settle the issue forever.
But then, I would feel unwelcome, to ever again transact.

So, helpless in my masculine stupor, the notion arrives.
To be a man fully possessed of myself in her presence.
To utter my sole truth, with a light yet serious heart.
To remind her that only the fair would contemplate the fair.

Here.   "Do you know any great writers?"   Huh.   "Well, you do now."

It's just stupid enough to fail miserably.

Remote Hands

I used to be a telecommunications technician.   I had numerous responsibilities, such as, helping to build out massive networks.  They called them, "MANs," short for Metropolitan Area Networks.   I liked that term, because it was a decent representation of our company's footprint.

Our company, Yipes Telecommunications, started with this idea to replace existing SONET and ATM protocols, with this thing called Gigabit Ethernet.    They secured about a hundred million dollars in angel capital during the dot-com boom, around 1998.   They used the money to lease strands of existing fiber optic infrastructure in dozens of cities in the U.S.

In San Diego, for example, they leased 24 strands of fiber optic capacity, and the glass formed a gigantic ring in and around the whole city.  Then, Yipes would have a contractor intercept the fiber.   This meant pulling last-mile fiber from the utility location, into a building.

We would call this, "lighting up," a building.

That's a very expensive process, and requires expertise in Outside Plant, ie, construction, permitting, and working closely with existing utilities, such as legacy telco plant.

You have to first find a pathway from the closest manhole, into the building, and then you run a segment of fiber from the manhole into the building and terminate it in a secure cabinet.   The cabinet contained the hardware, like a Black Diamond or Juniper switch or router.   Then you just use a patch cord from the patch panel to the equipment.

After this preparation, the contractor is tasked with intercepting the metro fiber, usually down in a man-hole, and always in the middle of the night.

I was generally responsible for helping to choreograph this upgrade, and to communicate progress and any issues to our Network Operations Center.   We just called it the NOC, and it was staffed 24/7 by network engineers.   If there was an issue that a network engineer needed assistance with, it was quickly escalated up the chain of command until the issue was resolved.

I was a technician, but to the network engineers, I was known as, "remote hands."   This is because I would have to roll out with special equipment whenever there was an unexpected issue.

I had testing equipment of all sorts.   I could check continuity of a strand of fiber up to 70 kilometers, using an OTDR.   This device had an LED screen, and it showed you a visual representation of an entire strand of fiber.   It showed you every little nuance in the fiber.   I could see the reflectivity drop off at kilometer 30, and I knew that was where the fiber had been spliced.

I would also roll out with a tester for just about any communications protocol on our network.   I spent a lot of time doing head-to-head testing with some other technician for PacBell or whatever, and together, we could determine exactly whose piece of equipment was malfunctioning.

I got calls at all hours.   I had to stop drinking, because I was the only technician serving Los Angeles and San Diego, for like six years.   But it was great, because there were many times when I became the hero.   One time we had a driving rainstorm, and I was dispatched to check on our MPOP in Riverside, because it was located inside a power substation.   When I arrived, our MPOP was high and dry, but, to me, it still felt like hero time.

A lot of my routine was just turning up a new customer, usually using a last-mile solution that didn't involve fiber, but a traditional copper router that we VPN'd into our network.   A lot of times, it's just too expensive to run fiber to a new office building.

I had a lot of respect for the network engineers.   I remember one guy who used to be a maitre'd at a high end Bay Area restaurant.   He just wanted to be a network engineer, and he was damn good.   These guys depended on me to get on-site quickly in case of an outage.   Hero time.

I was dispatched from San Diego to Los Angeles, in the middle of the night, several times.   It got to be so routine, that I had dreams of servicing telecommunications equipment in deep space.

That's no joke, and they weren't nightmares, they were awesome dreams.   Imagine being strapped to a rocket and dropped off hundreds of millions of miles away, to work on some satellite transceiver.   That was me.   Remote hands.

And all of this was just to service a customer who could not afford even one millisecond of down-time.

So, this has made me think about something.   I'm not a telecom technician anymore, but I am still a remote hands tech.   I sort of answer to a much higher network operations center now, the Highest.   And the big guy depends on me, just like the Yipes NOC once used to.

The end-user is out there.   The person who needs to know that his connection to our Source is going to stay secure, and I'm going to go wherever, whenever, and make sure that the signal strength is ok, and that the end-user's gear is receiving properly.

Hero Time.

"The Four of Us"

     My calling card freaked a lot of people out. It was supposed to. It was symbolic.

     When you have to go out and hit, it's reasons.   It's a duty, it's an obligation.   This is probably going to sound weird, to you.

     Nobody wants to be the guy, that retires a good fella.  It's true, the old saying:   "It's just business."   To tell you the truth, it works both ways.

     My calling card.   Sometimes it's just a joke.   Sometimes, it's a prank.   Sometimes, it's a warning.   And sometimes, people used my calling card, to warn me.   So, it's complicated.  It's reasons.

     My name is Michael, and I have a story to tell.   It's about the four of us.   I'm going to watch what I say, because, reasons.  You protect your family, you protect your loved ones, you take care of business when you have to.

     Essentially, you have to think of yourself as a soldier.   You have to be a soldier, until it's not time to be a soldier, anymore.   Until retirement, or until you move up.

     Yeah, but you never get out, though, right?   What's the saying?   Everytime I tried to get out, they pulled me back in?   Something like that.

1

     I was so long out, yet, the intensity of the action, all came right back.  J.D. called, and well, usually, that's enough.   "They was asking about you, Mike." was his way of saying, we need you to come back in the game, Mikey.

     Tonight we met at the diner.   We sat at our usual table, and he spilled the whole plan.

     "Listen, Michael, this is the one that you owe me.   You gotta do this for me, then we're square."

     He was right.   I had to do something for him.   It was hard to swallow the actual deed.

     "Two in the head.   Execution-style.   That's how I want it.   Outside his car.   Feel free to extemporize, but no frills, got it?"

     The waitress came by to check our status.  "How's everything taste, boys?"

     J.D. cut the brief silence by adjusting his leg and farting, loud.  I gave him the smallest laugh possible, just a tight, "huh."  Then I said, "Beg your pardon, miss, may I get the check?"

     Johnny snapped to, and interjected, "Mike, Miiiike, I got the check, okay boy?"

     I slowed my respiration, aware of what was coming next.   He waited until she was out of earshot.

     "Michael, you piece of shit.   You check off until this job is done, got it."

     "You bet, J.D."

     "Okay, now, two in the head.   It has to be next to that fucking car of his.   Make it look like a robbery.   Ransack the house, and rifle through the car.   Make sure you grab his wife's jewelry.   Don't fuck up again, like before.   And make sure you get that fucking laptop."

     "I don't understand why I can't just cap him inside.   What, you want two crime scenes?"

     "Like I said, improvise if you need to, but the body needs to found next to the car, with two in the head."

     "Jesus Christ, Johnny.    Why couldn't you get Pobrecito to do it?   He likes that kind of stuff.   I don't even know the guy."

      "I tell you everything you need to go on.   You have your marching orders, so, get on with it."

     I was badly shaken, leaving the diner.   Somehow, the diner itself was now ruined for me.

2

     I wanted to arrest myself, somehow.   Make myself slow down, just a bit more. Only problem, is, that I feel my progress is already as slow as forward can get. Maybe what I really need to do is stop altogether. Maybe what I need to do, is start moving in reverse.

     It was so easy to see how stuck I was. A blood oath, sworn to a blood brother, is a bond stronger than steel. In many cases, the contract is forged in steel, and executed in blood, later.

     That was the long and short of my situation. Davey had to be killed, and our crew had to be responsible.

     What Juanito was telling me, though, was too incredible to understand.

     As the diner got small in my rear-view mirror, I eschewed my normal route home, and instead went to the beach. At the foot of Beach Avenue, I pull into the lot, and glide in.  The car's transmission alone, tools me into a quiet, meditative corner.

     How do sensitive, reflective men, become killers. It's just business. It's always, "just business," and no made man ever impinges the natural right of another, their daily bread.

     The sun was setting, and I appreciated the touching contrasts. Here, at water's edge, I toe the ocean, and connect with something far greater than myself. Here, at point break, there is a brief, shared moment of joy, where people celebrate the routine division of day into night.

     I want to swim out to sea, and lose all the urgency of the world, but cannot will it.

     I take some footsteps along the shoreline. Very slowly, I move, listening for my resonance. A child shrieks in delight at their game. Far off, a dog barks an excited staccato. All the while, the underlying soundtrack of breaking surf, broken only by the contrasting peals of the gulls.

     As I walk, I notice that my footprints are slowly being carried out with the tide. The first wave erases most of the print. Each successive wave, shapes the sand behind me, as if I were never there. But there is a difference that I am aware of. There has been a subtle shift in the arrangement of the sand. The pattern of my footprints has been 'erased,' however, the impression of my feet upon the sand, can never be erased.

     If only because this brief moment existed, in absolute joy, in my mind.

3

     My reality was stark and terrifying.   Yeah.   I didn't want to go back to prison.   I done my time.  And when Juanito gives an order, it gets carried out.   And no promises, either, other than, "we're square after this."

     That sort of got my mind excited about doing this job.   It feels like fear, and it is that, but it's also what makes me run, in a way.   Settling a score?   I'm in.   Nobody can give me back my kid's childhood, and I accept that.  

     When you go away, nobody is your friend anymore.   "We'll visit you, and write often," they say, but they never do.   Day after day.   Minutes become weeks, hours feel like seconds.   What do you do when every liberty, every creature comfort is denied to you?

     If you know me, you already know the answer to that.   I wrote that story with every righteous hit.

     I called Ellen, and asked if I could come over.   She knew this Davey situation.   I felt a little kept in the dark, and hating the mark really helps.

     "You can come over now, but Johnny can't know.    He's out, talking to you about something.   Just come over."

     So I drive over.   My kid is in the next room, sleeping.   Her kid.   He understands that I am his biological father, but since I been gone, Johnny raised him as his own.   I am Uncle Mike, now.   Whatever.   Literally, whatever.

     When I lost all parental custody over my kid, I was in prison, and utterly powerless to do a damn thing about it.   I cried.   Yep.   I moaned.   I grieved so hard.   You will never understand, and you will never know, what this feels like. 

     "Mike, I know Davey, and you have to do this.   I can't tell you why, or you might not want to do it, or you might get caught, or killed, or something.   I just really want to stay out of it.   But I can tell you he lives in Coronado, like Johnny said.   I also know he goes out on Thursdays, and where.   He'll be gone for hours."

     That nailed it down for me.   This was happening, tonight.   I know all eyes are on me now, and I'm scared shitless, and sort of happy.   This will settle an old score.    Maybe after I finish, these good people might tell me what the fuck is so important about this one.

     These guys are hard to read.    It's a survival skill.   It's an adaptation.    True psychopaths are few and far between.   The dirty work gets done by guys like me, guys without choices.

     He did say, feel free to improvise.   I know how to do that.   My court-appointed psychiatrist thought I was all kinds of mad and bonkers, because that's why they referred me.

     So, when she came to see me, she had certain pre-conceptions.    They look for things like, does this person lack empathy.   Stuff like that.    This tart thought she knew every rhetorical trick, begging the question, like, "why did you feel it was necessary to sever that person's index finger," what.

     This dame has a lot of book smarts, and probably gets a thrill up her skirt, by being a prison shrink.   I pretended to be sexually interested in her, because this works.   It works.   Act like a dumb guy struck by her unique beauty.    Never fails.

     4

     So, I know all eyes are on me.   Johnny is probably got a pair of binoculars trained on me right now, or a sniper scope.   "Ellen, can you tell me why getting the laptop is so important?   What's on there?"

     "Trust me."

      

     And I do, trust her, and my guys.   I missed this, because it's like being in a pack of dogs, you know?   I miss my dogs.    I loved the way we ran together, when we were young, happy men.

     You learn how to feel people, and disregard their statements.    From the point I walked out of Ellen's door, perhaps for the last time, I ditched my thoughts.   I listened to the night, and tried to put all distractions out of my mind.   I was entering the "feel," world, where instincts take over.   Not primal instincts.    My honed instincts, from studying psychology.    I knew what everyone was afraid of.  

     Everyone is afraid and angry all the time, they just mask it.   That's all bullshit, and a man with his finger on the trigger cuts through all the bullshit.

     There was a rusty nail, lying on the ground near the driveway.   Probably fell out of a work truck.   That will work.   I like to collect nails.    When I see a nail in a road bed, I pick it up.   I would want someone to notice a nail destined for my wheels, and pick it up and chuck it away, out where it won't puncture someone's aspirations.

     I drove to Davey's empty house.   This was probably going to be in and out, and it was.   I grabbed the laptop, and some of the jewelry, and pulled some dresser drawers out.   Five minutes in.   

    I'm driving.   I know where Davey goes whoring, it's downtown.   I parked on the street and eyeballed his car.   Nice Mercedes.   Hours seem like days.    It was about one a.m. when he staggered out to his car.    This was setting up to be super easy.

     I followed him down to the island.   There's a self-serve car wash on the way to his house, so I cut in front of his Mercedes, and he just went with it, and drove into the pad in front of the self-service bays.   I pull up alongside, and wave him over to the empty bay.

     There wasn't any fight in him.   He knew who I was, and why I was there.   My reputation preceded me.   "Gonna nail another one down, Michael?"   He knew that it was over, and I was going to do him a favor and make it quick.

     He drove into one of the service bays, and turned around to see what I was doing.   I waved at him to get out, as if I wanted to talk the situation over.   He got out, and stood up, and I just went bang bang, and it was over.   He went down next to his car, and he was gone.   

     There was still leftover foam and suds and dirty water, left over from the last customer at the wash, probably hours ago.   His blood spilled out of his body, and started swirling and joining the suds, draining all the shame away, all the pain.   I chucked the rusty nail in the bushes.   Fuck this.   I'm free now.

    I drove over the bridge, slowed down, and when I got to the top, I just flung the laptop out my passenger side window.   I didn't want to know.   Why spoil it?    I'm free now.

enjkd

The Family Wellness Index

Once married persons accepted subsidies from unmarried persons, the intrusion of the state into the institution of marriage was irreversible and irrevocable.

Today's family is under assault from preference cascades being promoted by media, government, and academia. The collectivization is well underway.

This project will attempt to measure the integrity of the Western family. Anything that threatens or attenuates the Western family will cause the index to lose value. The index value as of this moment stands at par.

Michigan Schools To Let Students Choose Gender, Name And Bathroom.

FWI 99 7/8 -1/8

The Imposter Q1 1982

In the spring of 1982 I was a sophomore in college. It was the last time I lived on-campus. Third College, as it was called then, had clusters of two-story fourplexes. These had little courtyards, and each fourplex was connected to similar units to create a building of some thirty residents.

I had a private room that had a window looking out on a eucalyptus grove, with the library in the near distance.

I luxuriated in that tiny window of time between getting accustomed to the academic workload, and getting serious. I didn't even have to declare a major until the fall. I decided that I really wanted to spend as much time as I could, making friends.

I had a telephone conversation with my mother about my strategy. She was opposed to the idea, because she thought I should just concentrate on schoolwork.

I was not dissuaded. I set about being a part of as many social engagements as possible. I was on an intramural soccer team, and I had never played soccer before. I missed compulsory youth soccer leagues by perhaps months.

I practiced all the time. My position was fullback, the player closest to the goalkeeper. My responsibility was to prevent the other team from getting a clear shot at the goal. I learned how to strip the ball away from even the best dribblers. The secret, at least my secret, was to ignore what the other player was doing with their feet. They could cross-step and switch which foot they dribbled with, but they could only move in the direction their hips pointed.

I would backpedal defensively until I saw an opening, then strip the ball from them. Worked every time.

The team name was coined by the Resident Adviser. We were called "The Amoebas of Doom," and we had t-shirts made up. My number was sixty-nine, which at that time was considered quite clever.

Some of my more clever maneuvers came off the field, as well. I made a dummy out of my old clothes. I sewed a shirt and socks into an old pair of pants, and I forget what I used for the head, and then stuffed the whole thing with newspapers. This enterprise took about an hour to assemble.

The inspiration for the counterfeit was practical jokery. U.C. San Diego had acquired the mythical title of "suicide school." There were urban legends about first-year students who were overcome by pressure, jumped off buildings, and killed themselves.

My ringer was also suicidal. I would lug him up to the roof of some building and huck him over the side, always with a blood-curdling scream, to the effect of, "OhMYGODHEJUMped!"

I never did have the guts to chuck him off a balcony at Tioga Hall, which was probably fifteen stories. What a missed opportunity. When he had enough jumps under his belt, he became a spectator at Amoeba matches, sitting in a nylon beach chair.

One thing that college offers, is a lot of opportunities for courtship. I didn't lose my virginity until I was nineteen. Not because I'm ugly, I don't think. I always had a cute girlfriend. Each one had a different reason for not wanting to go all the way. And I think I was missing fundamental lessons about male -female relationships.

I suffered a freshman year in which it felt the only person not having sex was me. I had a roommate named Billy who was verbally abusive to his girlfriend, yet they had wild sex, night after night. That baffled me. The only courtship advice I ever got was my sisters' issues of Cosmopolitan, from which I somehow inferred that the most desirable man was really sensitive.

I dated the most beautiful girl in the Spring of freshman year. Michelle was mixed-race white and latina, and she was saving herself for marriage. I wanted to make love with her, but I did respect her boundaries. I didn't so much think we would get married as that I would eventually wear down her resistance.

That summer, I went to Alaska to work in a salmon cannery. I shared a barracks with other young college men, and they all had amazing tales of sexual conquests. There was this guy named Raffi, who was olive-skinned and latinate, with a trimmed beard. He told me how a girl came to his dorm room and they had rough sex together.

"I flipped her over on her stomach and just fucked her like an animal, like I was full of rage, you know?" he said.

"And you know the funny thing?" he asked. "She asked if she could come over the next day!"

That was when I learned that a woman expects and wants to be taken.

So when I returned to school that fall, Michelle was out of the picture. Before classes even started, there was a dance in the library pavilion. I could hear the music from my student residence. I started a pot of macaroni boiling, then turned off the heat and left the noodles on the stove without eating them.

My eyes set upon a girl I thought I could get. Every movement, every word and gesture, carried the intent of getting her into bed with me. After some perfunctory dances, we went down to the beach together in the darkness.

Aloe Vera

If you have esophageal or acid reflux, then you know it is not just uncomfortable, it is dangerous. If left untreated, it can cause cancers of the esophagus.

I used to self-treat with calcium carbonate (Tums). I was buying Tums at Costco to get the volume pricing. That was just masking the symptoms. Stomach lesions, the underlying issue of gastroesophageal reflux, are not treated just by using Tums.

I have used Prilosec in two treatment iterations. Prilosec does work. You have to use it every day for three weeks for the symptoms to disappear. The symptoms came back eventually, though, all too soon.

I have also used every OTC remedy on the market. The last one I used was Tagamet. That's a histamine H2-receptor antagonist that inhibits stomach acid production. Tagamet always works. But Tagamet is a powerful drug, interacts with other medications, and you're only supposed to take it for two weeks.

I just didn't want to give up my coffee.

A few years ago, I started collecting aloe vera cuttings, and cultivating the plant. There are dozens of varieties.

To treat, I break off a leaf and stick in whatever drink I am carrying around. Aloe is somewhat bitter, so I take it with iced tea with lemon, and the sour of the lemon counteracts the bitter of the aloe.

It took several months, but it did happen. The aloe vera cured my stomach lesions, and my acid reflux. And what's most amazing to me, is that I don't seem to overproduce stomach acid anymore.

I have seen aloe vera in bottles at the market. I've never tried them, and can't vouch for their efficacy. The whole reason I cultivate, it's about something that gets lost in the whole "buy local" fervor. The reason you buy local is because every plant and animal has its own immune system, and a plant that has been cultivated nearby has proven that it can tolerate environmental stresses very similar to the ones you encounter. Air pollution, noise, temperature, all these affect the viability of every living thing. When you ingest a plant that has developed immunity to the same environmental stresses that you face, it helps you.

I wouldn't even recommend trying aloe vera without talking to your doctor. All I know is that it works for me. I trust pharmaceuticals only for treating very specific disorders, and then, only for a limited time.
Originally posted 6/15/15

UPDATE: 1-27-16
At the time of this writing, aloe vera surreptitiously treated another stomach affliction and I just noticed. For years, I would experience cramps in the area between my stomach and duodenum. Even hours after eating, it felt like the food hadn't left my stomach. I would describe it as incomplete emptying. And I couldn't trace it to any one food. It happened one time right after eating a few macadamia nuts. I realized several months ago that I haven't had symptoms of this for at least six months. Whether it's correlation or causation, all I know is I believe this condition has also been cured.

Eight Twelve Twenty

If you believe you may have an anxiety disorder or just don't know, contact a mental health professional; many services including in the San Diego area are covered by Medi-Cal. Consult your doctor before following any health advice.

It can happen while you are driving around and feel your heart palpitating a little. Could that be serious? It used to happen to me all the time, and I was afraid to even go to sleep sometimes.

I didn't know that I was experiencing anxiety attacks. I was gulping air, faster and faster, and still thinking that I wasn't getting enough oxygen or something.

The doctor put me on a medication, and it stabilized me within a few weeks. He told me that I was breathing so hard that I was cyanotic. I stopped taking the medication abruptly as I didn't know about titrating or risking possible seizures.

By the time I stopped taking the meds, I had taught myself breathing exercises that work for me, in my particular situation, quite well. I tried yoga first but those people are all so uptight.

If you have ever participated in endurance training like running, then you already understand rhythmic breathing, for lack of a better phrase.

At the start of a run, it's optimal to get into a breathing rhythm right away. My way, was counting out numbers while I exhaled in tiny bursts. One-exhale, two-exhale, three-exhale, four-exhale, five-exhale, six-exhale seven-exhale, eight-exhale, until my lungs didn't have hardly any air left, then, a tiny inhale, and then a pause.

The first time I count to eight; the second time I count to twelve, and then keep repeating briefly until the rhythm sets in. You know you are in proper synchronization when you are striding with minimal effort and are repeating long beats like four-counts to sips of air.

Oxygen is an accelerant; hence you only need sips.

snip

When I got home, I jumped into the pool and floated on a huge innertube, staring at the bottom. The colliding surface waves refracted bright sunshine as intertwined strands and cords of pure light on the bottom of the pool. They crashed against each other violently and I closed my eyes. When I opened them a few moments later, the refracted rays were bouncing a bit more slowly against each other. I closed my eyes again and again, until the bottom was a diffuse pattern of calmly undulating rays. I could see a spider on the bottom of the pool. About two feet below the surface, a single particle of vegetation hung weightless in suspended motion.

Intersectionality Five Fast Facts

Sally Kohn excused the murders of Alison Parker and Adam Ward, because the murderer was a homosexual with a grievance. This is all you need to know about intersectionality.

Fewer Clantons

The Rolling Stone article on Eric Clanton is full of equivocation, but I liked the #helicoptertwitter reference.

So much passive language. Riots erupted, etc. How is Rolling Stone still a going concern?

Awful nice of Alan Feuer to mention Clanton's alleged victim, Sean Stiles. Alan Feuer wrote four thousand words on Eric Clanton and one paragraph went to Stiles. Alan Feuer. Probably pronounced "fewer." Alan Feuer. Journalism is such an honorable vocation.

Clanton may have at least seven victims, according to court records. Where was he radicalized?11!

Good job 4chan. If not for you, Eric Clanton would still be in a classroom, attempting to socially engineer the next generation. And Sean Stiles is only twenty years old. Stiles could have been one of his students!

Clanton took selfies at the event that matched the video evidence. Heh.

I don't know what brand of U-lock Clanton allegedly used in his attacks, but this critter weighs 2 lbs 5 oz so it's like getting hit with a hammer.

Clanton is represented by Oakland attorney D an Si egel, well-known in activist circles since NLG is like antifa's in-house counsel.

"Human rights over property interests," except situationally.

Republic of Kev

The ostensibly outraged feminist must say that, "Kevin Williamson wants to hang one-third of American women." Little do they know that this use of statistics points out that abortion has become so common as to be mundane.

Jessica, please. In the Republic of Kev, a woman who has already had an abortion would be grandmothered in, so to speak. The capital punishment regime would be a deterrent to new abortions, and the actual number of hanged women would be relatively low.

I'm not signatory to much of anything that Kev has to say, including this. It does say a lot about the protected status of women in the workplace that the female staff at the "Atlantic," would have had a good argument for a hostile work environment.

And it speaks volumes about the women involved, they just wanted to no-platform Kev. You'd think all these young firebrand female polemicists would enjoy having a Kev around to sharpen and temper their arguments.

Female columnists probably skew higher in neuroticism than average.

The Jessicas want a media representation of a young woman's abortion to be a moment of sisterhood with your friends Hannah and Marnie and Jessa being supportive.

Young women are conditioned to think of their first abortion as a rite of passage.

I wonder if Kevin regrets deactivating his Twitter account.