Nuremberg Trials 2.0


When the Tyrannical Imbecile is deposed in January 2021, when he is frog-marched from the columnar entrance of the Whitehouse, his failure to subvert the U.S. Constitution won’t go as a sole infraction by a singular idiot.

Let’s face it, the Moron In Chief can’t even dress himself, feed himself or figure out how to to change the channel on the vast Whitehouse television network. How the hell could such a freakishly dimwitted miscreant contrive to wound the U.S. Postal Service, collude with and commandeer the Justice Department, appropriate ICE, and pollute and corrupt the State Department (among a host of other national institutions)?

He couldn’t. The man’s a total third-class fuck up. Not even a first-class fuck up.

Which means that there are dozens if not hundreds of sycophants seething like lice in the rotten woodwork of his administration. Sinister insectoids creeping around doing his bidding, hatching ingenious plans on his behalf, defecating in the cupboards and pissing in the broom closets of the Whitehouse.

Guess who’s gonna pay the price during 2021?

A-yup! We’re going to have a jubilant reckoning. A gottdamn Come-to-Jesus moment for a shit-ton of folks who will be running from the fumigators come next spring.

Who wants to bring back medieval stocks for public shaming? At least for a little while…

Did they think they were gonna get away with it? Really? Dumbasses.


Dear Mole: The Anxiety of Introspection


When we see a dog engaged in the obviously futile effort of chasing down its own coccyx or treating the toilet bowl like a desert oasis, our most common reaction is to shrug this behavior off as just “a dog being a dog”.


So when will we, the blabbing hairless apes of the Animal Kingdom, make peace with the fact that every single frightening and atrocious thing we view on the nightly news is just another example of “a human being a human”?

I can’t really claim that this pandemic hasn’t affected me, though I undoubtedly have made such a public claim more than once. I don’t talk about this very often because many people would find it cold and callous, but I honestly think that the effect this whole situation is having on those who aren’t tangibly fighting for their lives is downright hysterical. The fact that most people are absolutely terrified of themselves and the workings of their undistracted minds has never been brought into starker focus. There was a touch of Buddhist influence in that statement, of course, but far from causing me to meditate on “the suffering of all beings” and pray for the alleviation of their collective ignorance, all I can feel in the presence of people struggling to retain some small grip on their “sanity” in the face of such an “unfair” turn of events is smug amusement. That’s right, Morons – the problem all along has been Y-O-U!

There were an awful lot of personal questions in your latest letter, most of which I’m going to ignore. Not because the answers would be uncomfortably private or confidential, but because even I don’t care about the answers to the things you asked, even though they were the types of questions most people would love to publicly field. So I’ll answer all of ‘em in one big catch-all reply: Don’t know. Don’t care.

Right now, I am telling myself and anyone within earshot that I am in a holding pattern until Election Day. It seems to make sense to those who hear me explain it and it serves to kick the can of figuring out what to do with myself down the road for at least a few more months. But what if November 3 does mark the beginning of the end of this retarded chapter in American history, as the pundits predict?

Don’t know. Don’t care.

You see, the current state of the world has nothing to do with my lack of passion for…well, for pretty much everything, really. My lack of passion is caused, quite simply, by a lack of passion. A realization of the intrinsic banality behind the illusory excitement of the news cycle and the social media trends. Nothing’s shocking. Very little is even worthy of analysis. But I still enjoy ice cream and bong hits and bad TV and playing with Jesse – and that’s a lot of priceless stuff in one deceptively short sentence. Those things, along with a detached curiosity about my species and its self-defeating tendencies, are what keep me motoring along, such as I do.

But I try not to think about the “I” or the motoring. And that, right there, is the only spiritual advice I have left to dispense. The blandest subject matter upon which one can ruminate is “me”, however each of us may define that. Though I doubt any significant lessons will be learned by humanity at large when we finally come out the other end of this pandemic, it would still be a very pleasant surprise to see people come to the collective realization — however slowly — that in order to be happy, all they need to do is get the fuck out of their own way.

The dumbest thing anyone can do, of course, is sit around waiting to be pleasantly surprised.

Sitting Around Waiting To Be Pleasantly Surprised,


Dear Mudge: A Narrow Scope

Dear ‘Mudge,

How have you been? I hear you’ve got new digital digs. How’s Jessie? You still holding out for November to apply for a Vet-Tech job?

Covid, for me, has changed nothing. I used to work from home (for more than a decade) and then did the office thing for like, 18 months before, back at home again, doing my coding thing.

Our conversations here have been on my mind, of late. Namely the one where we discussed the Existential Crisis that is living at the outermost shell of a philosophical understanding of this Absurd Universe. Namely, you can’t. You can’t live in that nearly Nihilistic shadowland. Either you pull back or you pull the trigger.

What got me thinking about this (am I ever not thinking about this?) is this concept of context.

One of the critical thinking skills I’m pretty good at is analyzing and solving problems. This is pretty much my job, as jobs go. I happen to use computer code, (or no code, sometimes no action is the right action), to get things done. This, I realize, represents a narrowly defined scope of human understanding. Within such a narrow context, I can define and enact purpose.

That’s the crux of this post.

You and I had examined diversions (TomBeingTom’s recent post got me thinking of this) and diversions are one of the useful means to avoid dwelling in that outermost Absurd U abstraction layer. But diversions result in a shallow, unfulfilling gut-feel, one that invites wandering back into that N’th shell.

Contextual scoping, however, once formalized, may provide for the needed gap-fill. Work is one context. Writing is another (itself its own snarly wad of problems). There must be others I can create, contexts that are not quite diversionary, not quite problem spaces, but areas in need of a little of both.

Your recent Vet-Tech training must have been just such a constrained context that forced you to limit your wayward existential tendencies, no?

Perhaps life, “a” life at least, could be lived bouncing from context to context, never letting the Demonic N’th Level of Hell catch you unawares.

Your thoughts?


[Forgot the customary image…


An artichoke gone to flower.]

NRA: Nefarious Ravagers Anonymous

As a writer I tend to stand slack-jawed when I witness unexpected, fiction-worthy stories in the news. I think, how can reality create something so fantastical, so eyebrow twistingly warped, when fiction itself fails to compete?

It’s not that a not-for-profit entity collected sewer level executives to lead them.

It’s not that an ancient, heralded establishment became contaminated by vicious, greedy henchmen beholden only to their equally contemptuous brethren.

It’s not that a revered institution, once noble and forthright, succumbed to corruption, an internal rot the likes of which only a napalm enema could be rid of.

It’s that such a story line feels so utterly obvious that it should have been exposed through countless spy or intrigue novels over the last forty years.

The NRA is headed by crooks who used their power to buy candidates and boats and planes and take vacations to the islands? Duh! Quick, somebody write a novel.

(I sure hope the lead NY attorney knows how to protect herself…)

This era in politics will go down as one of obviousness. No shit the people we hire to run the country are nothing but scoundrels and self-serving egotists. That the so called President of the country has fewer scruples than a snapping turtle? That every fucking thing he’s done since being in office was to further his personal aggrandizement or his brainless agendas? That everyone he’s hired has been a stoolie, a lackey, or a cad for him and his promises of wealth — on the other side — if they don’t go turncoat and write a book about his idiocy?

No shit. None of this should be surprising. So, why is it we’re dumbfounded when things like this actually happen? That is, why hasn’t fiction done its job and warned us?


In my teens, I was a member of the NRA. Hell, I was on the high school rifle team; went to college on a scholarship for marksmanship. So, go NRA!

But not now. Back then? Sure. Now? Well, look at what it stands for these days, archaic, out-of-touch nonsense and who runs that fucked-up bass-ackwards perversion of an institution. Dissolve the NRA?

About goddamn time!


Beachcams I’m addicted to

The television cable system here where I live allows for most services to connect through. Services like Youtube. So, Saturday and Sunday mornings, I turn on the boobtoob and select one of these two live feeds. I had been watching other “beach loops” but they’re not as entertaining as the live feeds. In the winter, I favor the fireplace loops with their crackling and popping.

These feeds are the perfect accompaniment to my writing environment.

Fred Hotel, St. Croix:

Pacific Sands Beach Resort, Tofino, British Columbia, Canada: