Diversity And The White House Staff - 'Gotta Have Me A Black Man', Said The President-Elect

Reggie Jones grew up in rural North Carolina across the swamp from Nags Head and the tony beach towns along the coast.  It was a straight shot to Pickens, especially if you had a 489, one of those big Chevys the crackers drove on the straightaway, which the road mostly was, nothing but burly pine trees and marshy bogs on either side; and the two worlds couldn't have been more different.  On the beaches lily white lobbyists and thoracic surgeons, but out past the swamps as black as can be, not much different from the Jim Crow days of the South, poor, uninspired, and doggedly living out a corn pone and fatback existence as hired hands at the mill.  

Reggie Jones had gumption and get up and go, and made his way across the swamp to look for summer work, maybe find him a gentleman who would take him north and make him somebody; but of course that was nothing but a pipe dream, a fairy tale read to him by his grandmother.  No one even knew he was there in the kitchen, a dishwasher and scullery boy.  'Gotta get me out front', he said to himself, 'meet me some people'. 

Thanks to his ambition and good manners, he convinced the restaurant manager to let him fill in for a white boy who had gone down with the flu - under supervision of course, and under the manager's watchful eye, but still the opportunity he had waited for.

He did not disappoint, and although he caught himself with a 'Yes, Massa, and No, Massa', legacies of his grandfather Olatunji a proud black man who had kept his Nigerian name but who learned that servility, as insulting as that was, was ingratiating.  Olatunji in his later, civil rights years became a preacher and could turn out a full house every Sunday.  His fiery sermons were the talk of the town, and not a few women were saved thanks to his intercession with the Lord.  The Lord was his shepherd, and the days of segregation and Jim Crow were left far behind. 

 

Olatunji was Reginald's inspiration and his hope; and it was he that sent the young man across the swamp to white folks' beaches.  'You may be haulin' slop, Reggie, but it may be some Congressman's'.

It was the waitering job that first put him in touch with The Congressman, a well-known Democrat who spent a few days every summer on the beach with his family before headed to his constituency. The Congressman was quite taken with young Reggie - now a very handsome, high-toned, almond-eyed beauty - and he always chose a table where Reggie would be serving, and before the end of the summer, they were more than staff-client, and growing friends.  

At least that was what the Congressman thought, so enamored was he; but Reggie knew a pederast when he saw one - his grandfather had been pawed over by white officers in Italy during the war and Reggie intended to stay clear of any untoward entanglements but the very idea of a Congressman and one with money and influence was too good to be true. 'Do whatever it takes', said Grandpappy, 'and don't look back'. This too from the old man's experience.  It wasn't just bending over to pick up the trash that got you places if you were a black man. 

One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Reggie was on an Amtrak Metroliner to the Nation's Capital, all expenses paid by the Congressman although he flew home in a private jet offered by one of his wealthy backers, an industrialist with pockets full of rare earths and industrial diamonds from Angola. It would be years before the Congressman was ever called out for these favors, and in the meantime they enabled him to live high off the hog; which is why he never thought twice about bringing this beautiful black concubine with him to Washington. 

Of course the sexual favors didn't last.  The Congressman quickly tired of just one paramour and turned his attention to what had become a pasha's harem of sloe-eyed Arab boys, lovely Tamils, and a Palestinian charmer.  Reggie was left on the curb, but now knew something about the ways and wiles of Washington and cajoled and wheedled the Congressman for a glowing recommendation, and was hired by a a succession of aides, lobbyists, managers, and media - all in rather menial positions for he had no professional skills to speak of - but again in tribute and respect for Olatunji, he bided his time and waited for the right opportunity. 

Reggie happened to be in Washington at the time of Donald Trump's surprisingly convincing victory in the election, and was caught up in the Washington whirlwind recruitment frenzy.  Everybody was angling for some kind of job in the new Administration, and Reggie - true to his romantic, fairy tale, self - was no different.  Why not him?  The White House was big enough to accommodate a simple soul like him even if it was in the kitchen; and through his now fine-tuned connections, he was interviewed for a job, not much more than a downstairs gofer, but nevertheless close to the Holy Grail. 

Now, the recruitment staff knew that the President, true to his talent-first recruitment policy, had not looked for racial diversity.  Besides he had already hired a number of Asians and one Trobriand Islander, so there was at least some color in the Cabinet.  'You need a black man', said the chief of his transition team. 'They don't have to be visible, but just in case the press goes looking, you'd better have one someplace'.  So true to form, among the Irish, Polish, Hungarian, and Slovakian applicants for jobs in the White House kitchen was Reginald Jones.  

Take him', the kitchen recruiter was told. 'Give him fuck-all to do, but take him'; and so it was that Reggie found himself in a European smorgasbord of chefs, sous-chefs, pastry chefs, plongeurs, and sauciers, all regularized and visaed - the best of the applicants and determined to make White House cuisine something to be remembered. 

Now, ever since the movie The Butler Americans have always assumed that a White House butler would be a black man - not just any black man but one in the old antebellum Southern tradition - dutiful, respectful, humble, impeccably mannered and quite professional - and that preconception was not far from the truth; so it was not long after the new President was elected the White House major domo saw an opportunity to both raise the visibility of the black man and to assure an orderly transition.  The current butler, and old black man like Reggie from rural North Carolina, was about to retire, and his replacement had to be trained and ready.  Reggie had acquitted himself well in the kitchen, was presentable and clean, and would do the trick.  

'See how diverse I am?', the President remarked to his staff with a smile. 'Put that in your pipe and smoke it', and of course that remark went viral and the Left once again howled 'racist!', but now in his second and last term in the White House, Donald Trump wasn't fazed in the least. 

Olatunji couldn't have been more pleased when he heard the news, and felt that his grandson was going places; but as far as Reggie was concerned, he was still shufflin', shuckin' and jivin'; so with The Congressman's suck money, and the little widow's mite he was able to save, he went back to Pickens, put a down payment on the saw mill, and within years was a corporate investor in Piggly Wiggly and Dollar General.  OK not Whole Foods and Saks, but still. 

Transgenderism - Political Absurdity, And The Grand Chutzpah Of A Sexual Imposter

President-Elect Donald Trump has vowed that on Day One, transgenderism would be a thing of the past, given no more attention than a dust devil under the bed, swept up, tossed in the trash, and forgotten.  No more trannie storytellers, no more sexual quacks in the Cabinet, and no more boys in girls bathrooms. 

How on earth did this absurd notion ever get traction?  How is it possible that the most impossibly distorted vision of human sexuality became a cause celebre? To hear the Left talk about it, one would think that the whole country was awash in a heady, fascinatingly complex sexuality - millions of women wanting to be men, loving tuxedos, butch haircuts, and swagger; and tens of millions of men locked in these same sexual algorithm waiting for an opportunity to wear dresses and perfume.  Being gay wasn't enough, although God know the Bernal Heights tough girls were about as close to teamsters and pipe-fitters as the real thing. 

Hermaphrodites are an uncommon but recorded natural phenomenon - half-women, half-men existing comfortably in one skin, who if well-tempered could get along quite well in Athens, Rome, or Alexandria; but transgenderism is a weird twist of this already unusual permutation. Transgenders are women who feel they are men and vice-versa.  A lot of subjectivity, no vagina+penis, labia+glans. just a general dissatisfaction with how a person was born, nothing to point to, just a notion. 

Progressives came by all this quite naturally.  Once you have subscribed to a particular ethos - in this case diversity, equity, and inclusivity and the oppressive nature of American society which has always denied alternative identity, minorities, or the marginalized - then you start looking under rocks.  The more queer, unlikely, unusual expressions of humankind, the better.  The big tent is spacious and needs to be filled.

 

When these same progressives found only newts and salamanders under the rocks, and found only a few sexually ambivalent studs and mares, they decided to promote the whole idea of transgenderism.  It would be just the thing, the calling card of the socially reforming Left, the one issue that would not only highlight heterosexual obsession, patriarchy, and male privilege; but call out American society in general for being a culture of low-brow, bass-boat, gunrack ignoramuses. 

So, under the banner of rainbow inclusivity, the Left sold the country a bill of goods.  There were sexually confined, oppressed, sexually despondent Americans in every neighborhood and in every family.  More importantly - and this was the marketing, promotional genius of sexual sponsorship - transgenderism is the brightest color in the rainbow, the one distinctive quality that makes you heart and soul progressive,  All the rest - environmentalism, Black Lives Matter, MeToo, and capitalism - are nothing compared to coming out as trans.  They are temporary, fungible, insignificant as signifiers.  Only coming out as a transgender provides the imprimatur, the union card, the certificate of progressive thinking that gives indelible identity and belonging. 

Yet Americans are not the fools that progressives think.  Bass boats, gunracks, and tobacco chaws aside, they cannot be quite so easily snookered; and while the harpies of Washington were pushing their wares, millions of people who had their own version of ethos - heterosexuality, normal procreation, historical example, and Biblical certitude - said 'Basta!' and the weird sisters of the capital were thrown out of office.

The supposed millions of transgenders or transgender wannabes will disappear on Day One of the Trump presidency.  The emperor's new clothes - the naked arrogance of the socially mesmerized Left will be visible.  The entire fiction, the tall tale, the fable of transgenderism will be gone with the flourish of a pen.  What never was in the first place will never be again.  The charade, the bullying, the hollers of 'Come out, come out wherever you are' will end. 

 

Bertine Hubert, aka Herbert Hubert, was one of the many caught up in the new President's clean sweep, but in her case, she was just as glad to get back to screwdrivers and bolt-cutters and her old self - a hairy thug of a man who was bored enough to put on a dress and apply for a job at the Department of Labor.  No one on the vetting team questioned the 'Other' gender tick mark on the application form, nor had any intention of checking below the waist, so her union card, factory credentials, and solidly Democratic voting record were quite enough.  The Department had plenty of black people and women, but no transgenders who could give labor and management a taste of the new America. 

Now that Donald Trump had been elected, and the joyride was over, it was time to let the hair grow back on her legs, lose the falsies and makeup, and return to hawking and spitting.  Herbert back in the day was a man's man - a beery, profane son of a bitch - and his buddies knew exactly what he was up to when he went trans, a fabulous caper that took balls and a nose for opportunity. He would be pulling down high six figures if he played the sex card right.  These liberals were fools' fools and would swallow any story, and confabulated sensitive telling.  America is loaded with stories of successful imposters, marvelous imitators and conmen, so why shouldn't a steelworker in the Chillicothe plant be one of them?

And so it was that Herb didn't simply resign his post, but bared all to the sycophants in HR, hairy chest and big dick, said thank you for your service, and walked out on all-embracing, cockamamie sexual fantasy. 

A returning hero he was, treated to boilermakers and chili at Domino's, the man who did the impossible, walked into official Washington, did nothing but show up, cashed his check, ditched his pearls and high heels, and came back smelling of real sweat.  An in-your-face coup, a bald-faced outrageous vaudevillian act, a brilliant disrupting of the queer cabals of the capital.  

'Now what?', asked his shift mate. 

'Barcalounger, mate', replied, 'and another round for everybody'. 

The Circus Of American Health Care - Saint Fauci, RFK Jr, And Conspiracy Theories Galore

Who can forget the penitential days of COVID? The shutdowns, the lockdowns, the masks, social distancing, and the rise of community vigilantism?

In a tony, upper-middle class professional neighborhood of Washington, DC, within a stone's throw from the Capitol and solidly progressive, phalanxes of mothers were deployed in the streets, parks, and alleys calling out naysayers - residents who defied science and walked around maskless.

 'J'accuse!, the title of an open letter that Émile Zola wrote to Félix Faure, President of the French Republic, condemning the imprisonment of Alfred Dreyfus, was the meme of Friendship Village. Children became Stasi-like informants, signs demanding adherence to the warnings of Dr. Fauci, COVID czar, were posted next to 'Hate Has No Home Here' and 'Black Lives Matter' placards.

It was the worst of times, the most accusatory, defamatory of times.  Every day Fauci urged compliance according to 'the science' but was a Stalin in disguise, an autocrat sending traitors to Siberian gulags for re-education.  There was no settled science he said because science is a moving, morphing organism; so 'Just In Case' replaced 'Wait and See'.  

Children were branded nasty little vectors, virulent little pods of virus spreading it like the plague, so for their sake and ours, we must close all school doors.  Small businesses were breeding grounds for disease, stinking vessels of viral smut, so they were shuttered. 

 

Because of Anthony Fauci and his cabal of loyalists, and with the complicity of the residents of Friendship Village and thousands of similar woke communities around the nation, the country went into a hysterical, panicked mode.  

Every time one of Fauci's febrile theories went by the wayside - handwashing and buckets of Purell made not one bit of difference to the spread of the disease; retrofits for industrial strength air filtration systems were billion dollar wastes, social distancing might be an unnecessary precaution - the liberal loyalists were undaunted.  The science was discovering new moons around Jupiter.

Worst of all, Fauci and his apocalyptic crowd were sure that COVID was the harbinger of Armageddon, the worst Biblical plague since Moses' day; and yet it was nothing of the sort, not much worse than the seasonal flu, a mortal disease only to the elderly and immune compromised, nothing to get too exercised about.  Medical historians of some circumspection reminded Fauci of the Hong Kong flu which was a pandemic and a serious one, but which America survived, sick as a dog but without lockdowns, shutdowns, and panic. 

 

Fauci was so irresponsible in his so-called leadership of the country during COVID that President Biden is considering giving him a pre-emptive, pre-crime pardon.  He knows, like everyone who was paying attention knows, Fauci was a politically-driven marionette. 

America is a land of conspiracy theories, and those that affect health are near the top of the list.  Fluoridation, said many, was the plot of Soviets who found mind-altering properties in the chemical, properties that could weaken will and resolve and make the Communist takeover of America an easy step.  The KGB and other Soviet operatives sandbagged 'the science', coopted technicians, and controlled national propaganda to assure that fluoride was introduced into every drinking water supply in the country.

 

It took longer than expected for the country to become concerned about the debilitating properties of fluoride, but better late than never, and Robert F Kennedy Jr. newly appointed as Secretary of Health and Human Services is on the case, vowing to dismantle the fluoridation industry and get rid of the threat to America.  

Of course he is politically attuned enough not to reveal his conspiratorial bent and argues all kinds of faux science as justification for his Fauci-like shutdowns; but he is set to take the helm of a major government department and God only knows what damage he will wreak. 

Fluoridation is only the tip of the iceberg.  Kennedy is a committed anti-vaxxer, not only the COVID jab but all jabs.  This is not that surprising because anti-vaxxers are some of the most wildly insurrectionist Americans in the land.  They are the ones who have chickenpox parties - better get the disease when you're little, itch, scratch, and pick sores when it's still fun, rather than come down with it later. No! to the vaccine. 

Vaccines say conspiracy theorists, are responsible for autism, dyslexia, attention deficit disorder, nerves, female hysteria, and much more, and it is time to disabuse the powers that be of their pure, unsullied, perfect chemistry. 

So where did this Kennedy guy come from and how did he get such visibility and traction? Trump haters claim that this was a deliberate pandering to his most addled followers.  Give them a good distraction along with red meat.  Let Kennedy do his thing in the name of the American people.  No harm will come of it.  We won't outlaw vaccines, just let the rumor mill churn out theories while we show our sensitivity to the concerns of ordinary Americans. 

There is no logic to American health care.  When Congress decades ago permitted pharmaceutical companies to advertise their products, it turned medicine into a free-for-all; and when the Internet became quick and easily accessible, patients went to doctors' appointments ready to tell the doctor what ailed them and how to cure it.  As a result, the entire country became a huge ignorant cadre of do-it-yourself healers, big pharma benefitted, and doctors demurred. Such and such drug might not be exactly right, but it will do no harm, so when the patient comes back, I'll prescribe the right one.

Insurance companies got in on the scam, and made billions from their collusion with big providers, but at the same time taking heat from consumers for delaying approval of drugs they saw on television - happy couples enjoying life with Zanarax. 

So in this Barnum & Bailey circus, this wild vaudevillian show, this twisted and turned health system, it is no surprise that America gets its Faucis and Kennedys. 

Each autocrat with arrogated authority and passionate commitment to one health cause or another will disagree with every other; so one good thing to come out of Kennedy's reign will be a no-shutdown response to the bird flu.  Let the chickens get sick and a few Americans but we will not, repeat not, put the country through another COVID nightmare.