When The Wheels Come Off The Bus, 'Who's Your Daddy?' - Nathan Has Two Mommies And Hates Both Of Them

Nathan had two mommies and it was only Uncle Phil who saved the day and rescued him from a lesbian hell.  Mommy Sarah bitching with Mommy Dana about hairs in the sink and dishes piling up, hearing the two of them in the bedroom down the hall - as if they thought he couldn't hear all that licking and sucking and moaning. 

Phil came in at just the right time, pulled his Peterbilt up to the curb, stormed through the door and demanded to know, 'What's going on here?' in response to the boy's call somewhere between Omaha and Kansas City. 

 

The fight between Mommy Dana, Nathan, and Uncle Phil, Mommy Sarah's brother was brutal, a real catfight with clawing and biting. 

‘How dare you?' Mommy Dana shouted at Nathan. 'You traitor!' and then went after Phil calling him all the names in the book.  Motherfucker this, motherfucker that, cock-sucking worthless piece of shit until Uncle Phil grabbed her by the wrists and slammed her down on the sofa, pinning her there while she blubbered and snorted and turned bright red. 

'The boy don't want neither of you, you dumb bitches', said Uncle Phil who waited until the women calmed down and agreed to a truce for the boy's sake. 

Both mommies hugged and kissed Nathan and told him they were sorry, promised never to fight again and to be perfect parents, but all of that was just vaudeville as far as Nathan was concerned.  He hated the idea of having two women, one of whom posed as his mother, the other who had him thanks to come jacked off in a jar by some guy in California.  Disgusting! and they thought he wouldn't notice how creepy the whole thing was, and that calling him their son would be enough. 

'Freak!' shouted LaFarge Jones who at least knew who his father was even if the dude showed up only on weird Thursdays munching a bagful of cracklings.  He even knew who his brothers were, babies by different mamas but his daddy's boys and therefore related to him; not like Nathan with a thousand brothers from Donor 657's load.  Sick fuck.

‘Freak!’LaFarge shouted again on the playground until Mr. Adams, the homeroom teacher broke up the fight.  

'Look what they did to me, Uncle Phil', said Nathan, bruised and cut from his fight with LaFarge.  'I don't want to do this anymore.  Take me with you'. 

The idea of living with Uncle Phil in his Peterbilt was the most attractive life Nathan could imagine.  The life of a long-haul trucker, as different as any life could be from his dykey home with two mommies. 

'We never thought that our son could become so vindictive and mean', Mommy Sarah said to the counselor at The Feminist Alliance Of Gay Women, a non-profit group organized to help newly out-of-the-closet women negotiate the heterosexual world in which they were forced to live. 

They told the counselor about their 'disagreements', Uncle Phil, the playground, and their son's increasingly abusive and hateful behavior.

‘How could he?', they said. 'He's our son'; but of course he was Donor 657's son as well, and some of those nasty male bits got sent their way, advised the counselor, so ‘we’ll just have to deal with it.’

'Who exactly is 'we'?', asked Mommy Sarah to which the counselor replied that it would take more than just the two mommies to sort this out, and 'I am here to help'. 

Of course what Nathan needed was a father, someone to give him a licking, set him straight, stand up and go jaw to jaw with him when he got too pissy.  A man of the house, just like it always has been when fathers whacked the living daylights out of boys like Nathan and they grew up just fine. 

Sarah and Dana joined a support group organized by the Alliance, mothers who had gone through the same ordeal and who had fought to restore some order and civility in a household which had become a fight ring.  One woman, a tightly-wound, tattooed and muscled butch said that in her house, she wore the pants, and went on to explain that she mimicked the likes of Uncle Phil, down to chugging Jack Blacks, smoking Camels, and swearing like a trucker. 

The facilitator interrupted and took exception to the 'male channeling'.  We may be gay, but we're still women, she said, and such male grotesquerie was frowned upon. 

She was right, because the son of this Bernal Heights pile driver saw right through the charade.  'You can't fool me', the boy said. 'You've still got tits and a cunt'.  

This didn't come up immediately in the session, but only after the Bernal Heights bull dagger was brought down to earth.  'It's a woman's issue', said the facilitator.  'What you do in bed with whom is another story all together'. 

So Mommy Sarah and Mommy Dana left the group no better off than before, but they knew they had to do something before Nathan ran off with Uncle Phil. 

'Why couldn't he have been a girl?', said Sarah one day over morning coffee. 'That would have been so much easier', and right then and there they admitted what they had denied all along - boys and girls are different.  As much as they tried to feminize little Nathan - doll houses, pretty dresses, ballet slippers - nothing took, and he rampaged around the house like a bull in a rodeo. 

The two women had asked the agent at the fertility center whether or not they could pick the sex of the donated child and were told that genetic research still had a long way to go.  Every ounce of the donor's contribution had trillions of sperm cells, male and female, and even within a controlled laboratory environment, the chances were still 50-50. 

The women accepted the news but assumed that since sex was fungible, nothing was hardwired, and that nurture trumped nature every day of the week, maleness was only a construct and that architecture could be rebuilt. 

'I'll take him', said Uncle Phil to his sister, Sarah; and so it was that Nathan finally found a home with a real mother and father.  Of course he eventually had to come to grips with Sarah and Daddy 657, but that genetic legacy was irrelevant as he grew to manhood in a normal home. He loved Uncle Phil, his wife, Dot, and their three children, and made something of himself.  

Donor 657 had done one good thing - given him far more brains than Mommy Sarah ever had - and so Nathan got scholarships everywhere and ended up making millions on Wall Street.  

Unholy Fear Of Data Centers - Environmentalism, Space X Reality, And The Horror Of An Alien Future

Beverly Adams was afraid, very afraid.  Just the thought of Optimus robots, AI, and the age of virtual reality sent her back under the covers until her shaking stopped. 

'I must get a hold of myself', she said, reaching for the bottle of Xanax and the glass of water on her nightstand.  She swallowed deeply and waited for it to kick in. 

Beverly had been a lifelong progressive on the front lines for the black man, abortion, gays, lesbians, and transgenders, open borders, and the redistribution of wealth.  Social reform and progress towards a more verdant, compassionate and peaceful world had been as much a part of her as, well, indigestion - the only simile that she could think for longevity.  

She had suffered from dyspepsia since cramming for her finals at Brandeis, the only Christian in a world of smart Jews, law school depending on top tier marks, and here she was decades later still suffering from unmeltung.  

Social activism was another story altogether.  During her long commitment to revolutionary change she had made good friends in a spirit of joyful camaraderie, felt good about herself doing the right thing while her classmates were all becoming investment bankers and land developers. 

To be honest, she was a bit queasy about gender issues, and just the thought of men doing, well, what gay men did to each other in bed - wretched, disgusting things -  made her doubt the canon. The principle that gay sex was protected behavior and should be accepted was for her no questions asked but her belief in diversity had its limits.  

Lesbian sex with all that licking and sucking was not the same thing, and she was even tempted by Esther Pilchman, a wiry-haired Jewess from Brooklyn who offered her services.  'Maybe', Beverly said, demurring but not refusing outright. 

In any case, she reupped her support for the gay community, marched with them, flew pride flags and kites with them, and never once let her disgust show. Personal feelings should never get in the way of political principle.  

Beverly was a committed environmentalist although she harbored some skepticism about the epiphanic nature of the woods.  A walk in the park could settle the mind, but briar paths up and down the Shenandoah were a nuisance.  Whenever she was invited for a day-long climb in the mountains, she reached for any excuse, but demurral was tantamount to heresy, so she went along, slogging through buggy copses, glades, and streams.  

Environmentalism which had started with the snail darter, had matured in the era of climate change. Unless toxic petroleum-based emissions were capped, the world would be wrapped in a deadly noxious cloud and would rapidly heat to extinction. Environmentalism was no longer about the protection of little creatures a la St. Francis, but about existential survival.  The end of the world was indeed nigh, the doomsday clock ticking closer to midnight, and soon the lights would be off for good. 

This scared Beverly and she forgot about her buggy climbs to Blackrock Summit or Brown's Gap.  She felt the imminence of disaster like never before.  Her other progressive concerns seemed child's play compared to the coming climate Armageddon.  Gay men could bugger themselves silly for all she cared.  

Nothing dissuaded or distracted her.  The increase in polar ice, the steady ocean temperatures, the lack of Atlantic hurricanes, and negligible rise in ocean levels was deliberate misinformation spread by climate deniers.  Climate change was settled science, now absolute, undeniable fact, so the rumor mongers could spread whatever mischief they pleased and would not stop the gradual incineration of the planet. 

Then out of the blue came AI, innocent enough the first time she used it as a Google enhancer; but once she grasped the enormity of the technological change - its ability to replace reality with virtuality, she panicked. The ground was no longer solid beneath her feet.  Things would be only what they seemed to be, not what they were.  Truth would become fungible and unknowable.  The world as we know it would disappear.  A post-human generation of artificial beings and genetically transformed alternate humans would populate the earth. 

If this nightmarish scenario were not enough, huge data centers were being built to fuel the rapidly growing demand for AI and to provide energy for its geometrically increasing computing power.  The natural landscape was being scoured, razed, emptied of living things to make room. 

Some political leaders were shouting 'Basta!' and were putting legal and legislative obstacles in the way of expanded data center construction.  The newly elected Democrat governor of Texas avowed not one square inch of Texas public land would be sold or leased to Elon Musk. 

Musk, of course, paid no attention.  He was already making plans to build data centers in space and on the moon, solving energy and cooling problems in one fell swoop.  Texas data centers?  Who needs them said Musk, as usual light years ahead of the vaporous politicians cashing in on progressive angst.  

The genie was out of the bottle, and there was no putting him back in.  The issue was only how to keep up with the demand.  The future was one of limitless possibilities. 

All of this frightened Beverly to death now afraid of her own shadow. Her environmentalist self felt calmed by the thought of space industrialization, leaving Planet Earth untouched, but the idea of an alien, genetically modified, semi-robotic race in an unknown, dimensionless universe panicked her; and it was at that moment that she went back under the covers. 

The Xanax helped and she managed to get out of bed knowing that something horrible was gnawing at her but drug-calmed she wasn't sure quite what.  Besides, today was the march on the National Mall for abortion rights, a massive demonstration for the right of women to control their own bodies.  

Yet, as the Xanax began to wear off, the panic seeped back in, and she wondered if it wouldn't be better to have babies, millions of them to populate the world with real, live, living creatures before robots took over.  Better a campaign to induce, motivate, encourage women to reproduce like rabbits than one determined to empty the planet of human beings. 

She shook her head, hoping to clear it.  As weird as the idea seemed, it made perfect sense.  A counter-offer to Silicon Valley and the tech giants Musk, Huang, Ellison, and Page.  Fertility would break up the genius cluster and scatter them to the winds. 

The Pope was in Uruguay preaching fertility, God's gift to Man, our right, duty, and divine responsibility; and despite all the Jews at Brandeis and everywhere else, her Catholic education rose to the fore.  Can you imagine, she thought, Miss Beverly Adams as a restored Catholic, conservative, climate change denier, Fifties house-and-home homemaker? Indeed. 

This of course was behavioral Skinner-esque psychology which took the place of pharmacology.  Once out of the scary world of AI, virtuality, space aliens, robots, and the unimaginable, she could wake calmly to a familiar, comforting world. 

For the time being at least, for the revolution has just begun. 

American Progressivism - Kristallnacht, The Gestapo, Torchlight Parades, And Hatred

There was jubilation at the Tenley Spa and Health Club after the recent American mid-term elections. Democrats had won handily, and the solidly progressive club membership was absolutely delighted.  They, to a man, were Trump haters and resolute liberals. Conservative corruption, greed, racism, misogyny, and hate was everywhere, they said, in every Republican alley, infectious, hateful, and vile.

Under Donald Trump the black man had been oppressed worse than under Jim Crow, George Wallace, or the grandees of the antebellum South.  Gay and lesbian Americans, finally out of the closet and breathing a sigh of relief that the days of homophobia were ending and an optimistic age of gender fluidity was finally at hand, found themselves rounded up and sent off to northern gulags. 

Needy, hopeful immigrants were penned and deported in cattle cars.  Trump's ICE gestapo troops were more vicious, brutal, and murderous than Genghis Khan's legions.  The environment was raped, pillaged, and left to burn by capitalist energy-mongers. 

Trump was evil, a Satanic visitation, a demon who must be eliminated.  This midterm electoral victory was just the first step. 

The insensate hatred that had built up during the short Republican reign since Trump's election in 2024, now poured forth. Any collegiality, community, or locker room neighborliness disappeared.  Allegations, conspiracy theories, vicious ad hominem attacks, and universal derision were loud, insistent, and angry. 

It was surprising, however, that club membership, drawn from Washington's elite cadre of lawyers, judges, retired senior government officials, chairmen of influential lobby groups and non-profit organizations could have elected such an intellectually vaporous Congress - candidates that ran only and uniquely on Trump hatred. 

Listening to progressive poster boys Talarico of Texas and El-Sayed of Michigan was like attending a Nazi torchlight parade. Both men charged Donald Trump with imperialism, militarism, brutality, thievery, anti-democratic autocracy, prurient gender deviance and much more.  The litany was long, the allegations were limitless, the fury unabated, the crowd delirious. 

It takes two to tango - or, complicity in politics is the rule.  Daniel Goldhagen wrote Hitler's Willing Executioners, a history of the Nazi complicity of 'ordinary' Germans who had to know about the deportations, the camps, the gas chambers, and the ovens.  

These 'ordinary' Germans were at first taken with Hitler's nationalism and National Socialism - he was the man to restore German sovereignty after the punitive post-war period.  He was the leader who would restore Germany to its rightful status as a world-dominant power. 

This interest turned to allegiance which turned to blind faith.  Whatever the Fuhrer was doing had to be in the nation's interest. If the Jews were suddenly absent from Warsaw, Krakow and Gdansk, the Fuhrer must have had a good reason - perhaps putting them to work in arms factories to support the war effort. If Hitler's cries became more fevered, hateful, and frightening, so much the better as Germany's enemies retreated. 

The situation in America now is no different.  Conservatives, an insidious, traitorous, anti-nationalist group bent on destroying the Republic, say progressives, must be defeated, stripped of their clothes, belongings, and gold teeth and sent to the ovens. 

These are not just the sentiments of politicians who are simply spokesmen for Trump hate.  It is the millions of Americans who have bought the progressive canon and its seditious, burying, hateful invective who are responsible for the political downfall to come. 

Ordinary Americans - and especially the Tenley Spa and Sport Club's well-educated, professional members - have been duped by the same rhetorical, unfounded hatred spewed by their Nazi forbears. 

It is particularly ironic that those who branded Trump a Hitler are in fact the National Socialists of the 21st century.  The similarities are unmistakable - branding a social group as vile, treacherous traitors who must be destroyed; the public invective, the torchlight rallies, the gestapo-like j'accuse calling out conservatives, shaming them, dismissing them, bullying them; and then touting their empty platform devoid of anything but hatred. 

The American Left must be given its due - its marketing and promotional campaigns have been brilliant. Progressive planners understand the credulous gullibility of the masses, and know how easily they can be swayed by lies, distortion, innuendo, and presumption.  They are the descendants of Alexander Hamilton who argued with Thomas Jefferson about the will of the majority.  

The people at large cannot be trusted, said Hamilton. They are too simple, too uneducated, too limited by parochial interests, and far too gullible to be given unlimited electoral power.  They will always be an easily manipulated, collectively weak, craven lot. 

Jefferson was willing to compromise and the Senate was created; but Hamilton must be turning over in his grave to see how this upper body has become as venal, self-interested, and intellectually crippled as those whom they represent. 

Be that as it may, today's progressives have mobilized exactly those whom Hamilton feared and turned them into 'ordinary Germans', howling and shouting and raising their fists at political rallies.  All the unwashed need is hate, Hitler knew, and so it is with the American Left. 

American progressives started off right a century ago, fighting for the working man, improved working conditions, increased pay and benefits.  The working man was the heart and soul of America, said Brandeis, Gompers, and Lafollette and without him capitalism would collapse.  Give him his due! they insisted and thanks to their advocacy and insistence factory conditions improved. Helped by Henry Ford who saw improved working conditions as the key to increased productivity and profit, the early progressives achieved their ends. 

There was a moral imperative as well as a solid intellectual and philosophical foundation to the movement.  Although the labor movement became corrupted and antiquated, moved aside by right-to-work conservatism and capitalist entrepreneurial policies, early progressives were serious men. 

The modern progressive has nothing in common with Brandeis.  He has no ethical, moral anchor.  No foundational ethos, no program or initiatives for social reform.  The Democrat party has run on slogans, airy propositions and political fantasy.  There is no such thing as a gender spectrum, the black man does not belong atop the human pyramid, socialism is a discredited, failed system, Diversity Equity Inclusion is no more than social myopia. 

And the Democratic calling card? Trump hatred. 

The health club members have quieted down, and chitchat has returned to football, construction tie-ups on Wisconsin Avenue, and upcoming trips to Greece; but the vileness is still there.  This National Socialist complicity, once ingrained, does not simply disappear.