Incredibly Edible

Brazen, liberating, cathartic for the torturous glee that immolation foments, then polarizes toward a devastating regret, this image from Maj Toure, in its unbridled enthusiasm for ammunition stockpiles hurts Libertarian attempts to free those of African descent from the interlocking mesh of collective responsibility, a responsibly which nevertheless has mixed results in reigning the parasitic disease of inner city violence.

And now ALL of our @blkgunsmattr range classes have an ammo sponsor.
How are we gona support the folks that support our work?
BY SUPPORTING THEM.
Handgun? @FenixAmmunition
Rifle? @FenixAmmunition
Any kinda ammo? @FenixAmmunition
Follow em and show LOVE! #BlackGunsMatter pic.twitter.com/CW9CzOTSyB

— Maj Toure (@MAJTOURE) July 8, 2019

Toure's candidacy won't change the endemic manufacture of a permanent American underclass through title deed grants issued to realtors who contract with housing authorities to subsidize their building ownership to warehouse people who've become useless through affect, the onset of dementia, and disease.

Jeffrey Tucker asserts with nearly pristine admiration that property ownership was the great capitalist innovation, but this innovation is increasingly bundled into tranches which few of us, even if educated, can penetrate with any degree of contemporary literacy. Philadelphia Corporation For The Aging is not, in fact, incorporated like the Home Depot founded by Bernie Marcus. PCA actually evaluates the extermination value of a designated class, humans over 50 who aren't legitimized members of the establishment hierarchy. Do you think Paul Ryan, or VP Biden, are constantly getting assessed for needs determination, as I've been subjected to since my resignation from my grant funded advocacy? My eighty year old aunt, a third of her gut missing in her triage field battle against cancer, defies PCA's asset forfeiture processes through the tyranny of running a wrecking ball through her sons' lives, both of them over 50, to keep her younger brother free of medical incarceration, beyond being anchored by a penile catheter pissing his own blood, a hernia tube in his stomach. Does my uncle enjoy his constant emergency transports in and out of hospital? Is it any wonder virile niggers jack on projectile power?

Follow The Zig

What elevates The Singing Detective is the way in which these threads gradually intersect: individuals from Marlow's childhood memories appear in his pulp detective fantasy; characters from the detective fantasy emerge in the 'real' hospital ward.-- John Cook

Without being able to fathom how digitizing a video feed works, I realize shooting video through a cell phone is incredibly easy, so just as ATT's proprietary secrets from the eighties spawned the troubled tech giants we have today, once the Defense Department relinquished Internet technology for civilian use, images vanished from three dimensional space, even vanishing on the two dimensional surfaces on which they were printed, though I imagine digital films can be converted to celluloid reels suitable to run on older projection technology, and I may look into it for a future feature, because the fact that things have gotten too easy may be contributing to the violence inflicting itself on the collective crowd. YouTube and other systems like it offer the lowliest voices a place at the table. By the same token, we are all lost in the sheer volume. During the #deleteFacebook trend, I responded to a nice twitter user by tweeting the now 18 accounts linked to my FB stream do not read my posts tagged to a specific relative. I take it in good humor, but lone wolves seem to increasingly find it desirable to take it out in ways that have never been done before. However we classify it, the end result is the same, with varying ripple effects. Sandy Hook shook me terribly, but it wasn't Columbine. Orlando left me ambivalent, and had me reported to the authorities in a ridiculous case of grandstanding that unraveled into the physical anguish I currently endure daily. Paddock's goldfish bowl tactics sickened me, and with the Florida high school shooter, I rather gave the viewers who find their way here the finger-- granted this was a dubious rhetorical strategism, but going postal in the corporate headquarters of a video uploading service  constantly at war with itself over what is and isn't accessible seems a quintessentially American act, whether over a rationalization particular to the aggrieved, or a domestic violence end game, as authorities now speculate that it was.

If you are on the left, and want to rewrite the Second Amendment, then you wind up with innocent citizens like Andrew Finch being killed by military police, or, even in my case, if you want Google's Alphabet services to suspend this account because layers of injustice fuel an impotent anger, would I be determined enough to teach myself code and defend a domain like a hacker? Is it worth it because I allow myself to engage in shock jock syndrome? Do I deserve to be tortured with the best of intentions in a state run nursing home because my definitions are so bold, so formerly defiant? If I published franchised pamphlets instead of posts in the immediate aftermath, would that be different, or just another variation of Richard Spencer's fraudulent mystique, the "crazy racist" in the Daily Beast catalog? He can engage social media civilly when he wishes, but twitter's de-verification of his account illustrates the symptomatic stomach virus of liberalism. Verification is merely supposed to indicate to the follower that personality x is personality x. It isn't going to change Richard's thought crimes gymnastics. He doesn't impress me, but neither does Twitter's sanction. Either ban the man or let him retain the cult following. I can do a scatological and daring musical from a hospital bed gasping for breath on incidental orgasms too, shedding snake skins. That is what we're processing in the not but almost post-conglomerate Facebook era. My public television affiliate took its dose of mock courage to air Dennis Potter's daring foray into how creative non-linear thinkers process coping mechanisms. The regional backlash was so fierce that WHYY never aired a seminal work of such melodramatic English playfulness again, in a decade where both Potter and the dowager were relevant concerns.

Tall Pyramids

Joseph Hayes The Desperate Hours is like a harpoon piercing the heart of the Eisenhower era, but what caused it to tap into the anxiety of its audience? Post-war GI PTSD? I grew up with Bogart as the desperado with a conscience as a kid, and the lines of the threat in the film were not yet ready to lift the sheath behind the real psychic wounds of violation. Escaped convicts made headlines sixty years ago, then were carefully stage managed. In contemporary mindsets, escaped convicts are almost the charming amicable anti-heroes while we chew the fat over spree shootings and family annihilators, with American gun ownership out of control.

We might comprehend the libertarian argument for the individual right to bear arms, but with gun ownership comes a weighty responsibility. As a nation, we fail in this responsibility, and I'll shock my mythical homosexual adversaries with the assertion that weapons and their owners need regulation. When a driver can no longer operate a vehicle their license is revoked. Same principle should apply to police, soldiers, and every Okie spooner north of Ohio.

My rare lighter side procrastinates with Majong puzzles, and I'd like to cold cock Microsoft. On the verge of winning a format not the most complex, but rarely beaten, automatic updates slipped my mind and shut Toshi down, which, again, is the only reason this post is here. The save prompt did not take, and now I'm pouting, but should be working anyway. In Diamond Park, amid the vandalism, and domestic travail, gimp dealers stabbing their bitches who screamed and ran dripping blood down the hall, I worked. I did not win contests or get paid until I obtained online access, but I worked. It runs deeper than my resistance to the den mother mindset of the nanny state. I've stopped believing in myself. I knew my savings would disappear from my early days on LiveJournal, and my preposterous solution to that were penny articles for Examiner. Sigh. I believe I'm still employable, but I need the right habitat, unless I want to give myself a reason to go on parole.

I haven't engaged the police, just yet. It feels like a satire. Hannibal against the Roman Republic, post menopausal tits added, like Artemis and Sheeba. Bogart always has that underlying vulnerability to his machismo, the bobble head before the actual toy invaded pop culture.

Like An Eagle?

Transferred badly to shower like a large pudding plop, and transferred out, weary of my domestic struggles, ate lobster cakes, have to clean my dutiful Krups, but wanted to watch my news, and only now finding out about the LA rogue, but this is the American brand. As angry as I am about the illegal acts against me, and the ostracization, and my weakened fading from the scene, and the fact that these scars live in me, and Josie and Linda don't care and waltz on, no, the most either of these women would receive from me is scorn, perhaps a cat fight. Dorner is a danger that goes beyond the problem of why American gun ownership is a right, and if it should remain so. I shut off PBS, a rare action on my part, and lied to Marie earlier today about how I was doing. I tire of my father's sister, and wish she'd cut this shit out about my birthday, quite frankly. Yes, I need the damn monetary gifts, which is exactly why I curse them. Marie, my father, even Mary, they will be gone soon, and I prefer that they shove their Social Security up their asses, and no, I don't speak to them that way, except for my father, more in a shouting match with the matriarchal sentiment than not, that he is not responsible for my welfare. He stopped loving his children when my mother divorced him, and of course it is not that simple. He struggled against the death of his son, my brother, and it is through the eyes of my father that I live in how Nicholas wasted away from AIDS.

Would you like me to apologize for my revulsion toward homosexual equality despite the fact that I have been a voyeur since the days of childhood tantrums against my mother when I was offended by her Rod McKuen poetry, and watched more Japanese pornography than you care to know, and was curious but never cared to indulge? Do you want to know what I saw when I watched Miss Eddy watching Geri the building custodian, Miss Eddy being the attendant who molested me? I saw a woman who was nearly insensate with slovenly lack of control, and despite the fact that I have been a lifelong trollop for a great sex life with men that never was, Miss Eddy, her very expression, was like an animal with rabies, revolting-- my former disabled alliances not so far removed from that. Peel away the skin, get an ape that likes to play with itself. No wonder why Christianity involved so much repression of appetite. No apology forthcoming. I tried to be a good true blue liberal, really, embraced the science, and concede there is no legal reasoning you could not marry your pet macaw if that is your thing, but Nicholas Kristof curiously never breaks out his tabernacle for the blessings of inner city sexual behavior.

BSA is archaic, and that is its real problem. I quite frankly don't give a fig that its leadership has a convulsive response equivalent to strychnine poisoning, and congratulate the Marxists. Total global conquest. One day it will blow right back in your faces. Have a good morning.

Right To Bear

Nothing is as frightening as a disillusioned liberal.
--popular saying



I twirl her reputation like a baton in the hands of a cheerleader who possesses the dexterity to twirl, watching the shiny loose change tumble from her pockets, blood bouncing in her skull, dizzying, post-surgical nausea unpleasantly sloshing in a disturbed stomach, my once and never again editor from Lancaster, taking from me what can never be replaced, will this end of life investment in venom be worth it? My energy is too fagged on this warmer winter morning to refine the incision, lucky for my skimmers, so I speculate, pondering the gun control issue, and the unfortunate rise of the new witch hunt over those with mental defect, diseased brains, or mood disorders aggravated by poverty, and sometimes deliberate blindness of self-interest. Both sides have it wrong, the radical left and the anal retentive NRA.

Against the NRA is the fact that guns are designed to kill very efficiently. The right needs to admit this and stop beating about the bush. Guns are lethal weapons, and even in trained hands, lead to tragic and unintended consequences. They may give us nice fantasies, especially in the hands of a still vibrant, erotic, dangerous Christopher Walken in his early Reaganesque Forsyth vehicle of mercenary cynicism, but they erode moral empathy, and make our inner cities war zones of post traumatic stress inbreeding.

Against the left: Stop splitting hairs and stand for something. The second amendment needs to be revised, and that revised law needs to be ratified the way the founding fathers intended ratification to work, passed by a 2/3 state majority. Easy, no, but progressives damn themselves this way all the time. Sexual equality is cosmetic sissy whining and obscures real concrete and serious issues that ail the failed Enlightenment Ideal that was supposed to be the United States. Stop picking on what is primarily a problem of underclass poverty, mental illness, and start asking some serious questions about weaponry and capitalism, corporate profit. Toying with an article proposal here, the specifics of which shall not be for your consumption.