Maigret buys a fecal transplant

I did not realize the attack I had this fine Saturday afternoon was a distressed stool in transit of its own accord. I thought it was gas. Sometimes an attack forces itself and there is little I can do but wait if I want to transfer. Indigestion had me fooled, and my constricted budget isn't going to help any. I don't even have wipes, which I use up in three month increments, and as used to it as I am, I'm set back. The cats are distressed, I'm distressed, and simply writing in carpe diem fashion, not that I didn't know my savings were in depletion. I worked so hard teaching myself Examiner's automated uploading, for what? Why am I such a doofus?

Now I'm doing the same with Medium, for absolutely nothing, my own agenda, not even bothering to query the publications I signed with on Ev's platform, though I've now mastered the editing props, I'm like a Russian, always in dissent between Western cultivation and Slavic stricture, going to lie down for an hour hope I can transfer smoothly later, no longer having the luxury of food when I want it. I could search for a cheaper ISP, cut myself off, partially at least, as digital life never really did much for me except make me feel badly, and the new platforms wouldn't even allow me to lash out and lose my temper, not in a combative duel (not that this is a legitimate exercise, as repetitive murder as a form of conversation was used by Stephen Dobyns. For me, it is a --not exactly psychosis-- a pathology perhaps, which no longer has any rationale. Nothing I can do will undo the harm that has been done to me. It may fall under the rubric of that's life, but my identity is on the verge of annihilation. If I attempted to become a domestic terrorist, I'd lose, not entirely sure how a quadriplegic would go about it, the only passion left in my life is vengeance. It means nothing. Women will always save cripples, as everyone has to be someone's patsy. 

Russian Sanctuary

If I seem to be coming perilously close to saying ugly people should refrain from engaging in sodomy, you'd be within your rights to object such contention is not much of an argument. People do what they wish, at least to the extent that Goozman has not quite replicated Zamyatin's mistrust of urbanism. I am, however, more or less against homosexuals themselves, which the majority of repressed Protestant liberals would now find untenable.

Leaving that issue aside, liberals find the issue of gay monogamy persuasive as an equal treatment argument. I do not. Families are small islets of self denial, regardless of cultural pressures or permissions, and Slate contributors are already pushing the envelope on bringing pedophiles into the tent, with the caveat that they be medically regulated and or castrated through the course of their lifespans until neurologists can repair their minds. If we keep heading in this direction, what is the point of being human? Or would geneticists say this is an evolutionary continuum?

Mrs. Iselin, Stockholm Perfectionist

Zamyatin's detractors in the Soviet Union might have been wicked men, but they were not stupid, and no one believed that a Russian We had been reconstituted out of a Czech translation..." Clarence Brown, translator, kindle location 120

Evan Perez, in the heat of the moment, does not care to reflect on when the Federal Bureau of Investigation cared to follow the letter of the law? Under the biracial nanny czar, if rumored revisionists are to be believed? Mueller made a few missteps with both anthrax suspects after 9/11, leading Hatfill to a nearly three million dollar settlement, and then miscalculating Dr. Ivins durability to the point that the public will never have criminal veracity tested through due process.

Granted, Hatfill and Ivin were both beneficiaries of western knowledge production, and had dangerous levels of expertise. Tamerlan was someone generated out of Stalinist oppression, whether or not he was aware of it before he struck out at an American liberalism that tried to give him a chance in a more free flowing society that is only free to those able to drive, those able to maintain geographical mobility, those able to generate income.

Whatever Hoover had buried in terms of personal secrets, he would not have allowed Tamarlan Tsarnaev back into the United States, and this is the level of difference we seemingly have forgotten how to determine. It may have been unkind to revoke his Visa, or pull his passport, but it would not have amounted to torture, not while we parried with Alexander's agents to get them to show their cards, and they had cards to play.

A waking nightmare about Obama being targeted by a black woman wearing a wig started me thinking about when a candidate is in charge and when they aren't. I do not take such dreams literally, but do not ignore them either, and Condon's late century thriller about stand ins and doubles was no doubt a slap in the face to Hoover's paranoia, but what was Mrs. Iselin's portraiture, really? Communist? Right wing?

What she is amounts to the certainty of conviction that runs so deep it frightens, and in the right hands, perhaps fascinates, and necessitated that the film adaptation was so rigidly schematic, because, much like other late Ike era narratives, the anxiety over the line between American muscle against Marxist radical leveling made people uneasy, and even Sinatra couldn't sanitize those who would be forever altered by Stockholm syndromes. Not quite brain washing, but certainly a psychological indoctrination of the kind that leaves deep scars.