January 22, 2021

A Nation Going Nowhere

Good Day, Waferinos-

We watch the progs jumping up and down with joy over Biden, while we know that none of the changes he is proposing are structural ones. And unlike the progs, we understand that only major structural changes can save us, and that these will not come to pass. Of course it is good that he is fighting covid (unlike Trump), and all of us want to see this scourge defeated (although I predict that viruses and lockdowns and masks will be with us for a long time to come, especially as mutant viruses emerge). But as I said at the end of the last thread, Biden is no FDR, and even Roosevelt's structural realignments were fairly mild, all things considered. I keep coming back to that line from W.H. Auden, "We would rather be ruined than changed." Well, amigos, we are going to be ruined; we will be the cause of our own destruction; and the possibility of reversing this downward trajectory is nonexistent.

Pain is a great teacher, said a Buddhist monk to me years ago. For a very few Americans, our disintegration will be a significant learning experience. For 99% or more of the population, it will be no learning experience at all, just rage and hurt and violence--the tantrum of a spoiled child, although so many are taking the route of drugs (coke, cell fones) and suicide. At every stage of our ongoing defeat--Vietnam, (the mess we made in) Iraq, 9/11, 2008--we could have learned something and failed to do so. There is no motivation for us to do anything different, and we lack the intelligence to do so in any case, so our national suicide will continue on its sad and perilous journey. I can only echo what I imagine Native Americans have said for so many years: "I told you so, but you just wouldn't listen." (Sitting Bull: "Possessions are a disease with them.")

"Have a nice decade"--mb

January 14, 2021

Banana Republic


As I write this, the inauguration of Senor Biden is only 6 days away. How things have changed! In order to insure the safety of the event, it will be guarded by police, the National Guard, and whatever other military forces are necessary. What must the other nations of the world think of us? This is standard procedure in a lot of so-called banana republics, but not in the holy, almighty, United States of America. And yet, here we are: a sad, dying empire, trying to preserve itself by force, which History tells us cannot be done. Despite all our bluster, we are not exceptional, and we shall not escape our fate.

One way to look at this event, as well as the riot of Jan. 6, is to see it as sad. Because this denoument of America is sad. We had so much potential as a country, and we pissed it away in fraud, greed, hustling, and corruption. In Ben Franklin's time, you could drink out of the Schuylkill River; now much of our formerly beautiful country resembles a cesspool. And it has also become a cesspool of the mind, in which extreme individualism is celebrated, and helping others is regarded as weak. Well, I could (and have) go on and on, but you all know the drill: Last Exit to Brooklyn, get out while you can.


January 07, 2021

Bad Joke


Very good discussion on previous thread. What I wish to add is this: in all of the predictions I've made about the coming collapse of America, starting with the Twilight book in 2000, the one scenario I never anticipated was that the country would disintegrate in a bad joke. Trump may be a horror, but he's also funny. The same may be said of the absurd 'insurrection' of Jan. 6. There is something hilarious about it all, imo. T.S. Eliot wrote that the world would end with a whimper, not with a bang. But neither he nor I ever said that it would end with a joke. Yet there it is, for all to see. And while I think our allies view the events of Jan. 6 as tragic and/or outrageous, I also think they, as well as our enemies, have come to an additional conclusion: the US is silly. It's a frivolous country, and is no longer to be taken seriously, except as a rogue state that has its head wedged in its rump. Which would, of course, be a correct assessment.


December 28, 2020


Well, Waferinos, let me wish you all a Happy New Year. We will flush out Trumpi, but don't despair: Trumpism lives on. Can 74 million voters be wrong? Grover Cleveland made a comeback after 4 yrs of being out of the presidency, and it's an even bet that Trumpalumpi will do the same. But with or without the World's Greatest Douche Bag (WGDB), a Jackass Like No Other (JLNO), America will continue its downward spiral. Years ago, I predicted that this wd be the crucial decade, and it is now upon us. Stupidity, of course, is a significant factor in all this; and when I see the progs in ecstasy over Biden's wonderful diverse appointments, unable to recognize that in substantive terms this changes nothing, I have a warm, fuzzy feeling. Maybe you do as well.

Meanwhile, this blog soldiers on. By now all of you are aware of the problems I'm having, accessing it from Internet cafes. I will do my best to figure out a solution, as being able to run it only 12 days a month wd be a terrible defeat. After all, where else, in the English language, at least, can one go to discuss what is really going on in America, as opposed to the Disney fantasies offered by other media and outlets?

So stay safe and healthy in 2021, and together we can watch the America follies play out.


December 12, 2020


Well, Wafers, I'm still working on Part II, but it's a struggle. E.g., I fall into Kim's anus like Alice down the rabbit hole; during my descent, I pass by Tulsi, Ging (Newtrich), Dan Quayle, and other illuminati, including a cluster of Karens; and at last have lunch with Meghan Markle, who is wearing a very chic hat, but who bores me to death. I dunno; I think I may be losing my creative edge.

Anyway, we've had some good discussion up to now, watching Trumpi embarrass himself, the bubbas strutting around (impotently), and the vaccine finally making an appearance as thousands of Americans continue to die. I think this virus is going to be a life-changer; it may never be over, and it could well mutate into more virulent forms. Everyone in a mask: it looks like a scene in a dystopian sci-fi movie. And then literally millions of Americans living in an alternative reality, guaranteeing that the country has no real future. Older Wafers scratch their heads, wondering what happened to the US of their childhood, while savvy younger Wafers are clued to staying outside of the Matrix. Fun times, eh?


November 28, 2020

Crossing the Rectal Divide (Part I)

It's a recurring dream, and it refuses to go away. I have it every three or four weeks. In the dream, I'm dining alone in some fancy restaurant, and suddenly begin to beat on a plate with a soup spoon, while chanting, "Americans are degraded and debased!" As I get louder and louder, the waiter, who happens to be Indian, comes over to me.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you are disturbing the other customers. I actually agree with you: Americans are a sorry lot. But I have to ask you to keep it down, and not use a spoon." To which I reply: "The dregs of humanity!" This comes out as a shriek. "Can I offer you a bowl of cheddies?" he asks me.

"Why do you Indians always say 'cheddies'? It's cherries, for heaven's sake."

"Yes sir, I know," he replies. "We can't help it; it just comes out that way. Even Gandhi said 'cheddies'. 'Life is not a bowl of cheddies', he always used to say. Anyway, I think you'll find them veddy soothing."

Meanwhile, the owner of the place calls the local mental institution; the medics arrive in a white van, put me in a straight jacket, and cart me off to the Happy Valley Lunatic Asylum. I continue screaming; they put me in a rubber-lined room, so I can't hurt myself. The door opens, and the resident psychiatrist, Dr. Ludwig von Schmaltzkopf, comes in and sits down. I'm lying on the floor, exhausted.

"Mr. Lokshen Kugel," he says; "I agree with you: the country consists of 330 million putzes. 'Dolts' is too mild a word for them. But you cannot go around yelling this in upscale restaurants. The putzes will get annoyed. Do you understand me?"

"But who will tell them?" I counter.

"Not you, Mr. Kugel. Try writing a letter to the Times instead, OK?"

"But the Times consists of putzes," I reply. At this point I wake up, sweating and breathing heavily. My wife stirs in her sleep.

"Lokshen, honey," she says; "did you have your America dream again?" I nod.

"Lokshen, you can't go on being a one-man anti-asshole crusade. Time you went to see a shrink."

"They'll just give me pills," I tell her. "That won't solve anything."

"It might stop you from having this ridiculous dream," she suggests. "Why don't you just confine yourself to writing your study of Kim Kardashian's buttocks, Crossing the Rectal Divide?"

"I've hit a brick wall with that. I can't cross the divide, so to speak, until I actually examine Kim's anus, see what's going on in there. I wrote her, explaining the project, and asking if we could set up an appointment, but she never wrote back. Meanwhile, my dream is the only thing keeping me going, the only inspiration I have left."

"It's also making you ill," says Sophie. "Why not just fly to LA, and pay Kim a visit. Who knows? Maybe she'll drop her pants. Then you might solve the problem of Americans being assholes by examining an actual American asshole."

My eyebrows go up. "Who's crazy now?" I ask her.

"I'm just trying to get you to lighten up. It's either that or the loony bin, for real." She sighs. "You could also drop in on Meghan Markle, ask her why she thinks Americans are preoccupied with her and her stupid hats. I mean, beyond the fact that they are morons. Americans, I mean, not the hats," she adds.

"A hat can't be a moron," I tell her.

"No, but it can be moronic, which means that Meghan hat-worshippers are morons."

"Why would people worship a hat?" I ask.

"Oh, they think that if they wear a Meghan hat, the hat energy will rub off on them, and they'll be like British royalty. By the same token, if you publish your book and include photos of Kim's anus, you'll sell millions of copies. We'll be rich, and we can relocate to the French Riviera."

"But what if people start to fetishize me, chase me down the street hoping to tear off my T-shirt, or even my pants?"

"Lokshen, I think we may be getting a bit ahead of ourselves. For now, concentrate on your book, and have Dr. Flanksteak give you a pill." Always so helpful, my Sophie.

I booked a flight to LA, also bought a speculum, a flashlight, and a large tube of KY jelly. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, I told myself.

I knocked on the door of Kim's mansion. Kanye West opened it. "Hey dude, wassup?"

"I just want to say how sorry I am that you weren't elected president," I tell him, squelching the desire to add that he looked like a complete buffoon. This is an American idol? I thought to myself. No wonder the country is going down the drain.

"No sweat, amigo; el Señor Trump just made me his homie."

"Wow, that's great!" I reply. "Exactly what does that entail?"

"Oh, I just hafta tell everyone that Biden stole the election. No big deal. But why are you carrying a speculum, a flashlight, and a tube of KY?"

"I'm here to inspect your wife's anus," I tell him, smiling rather dementedly.

"Far out! Hey Kimmie, get that big booty of yours over here. There's some white boy here, wants to have a look at the Royal Asshole." She comes to the door.

"Kanye," she says, "once and for all: you're the Royal Asshole. Unless maybe it's Meghan Markle."

"Ms. Kardashian," I interject, "I'm honored. Could we repair to your bedroom?"

"'Repair'?" she exclaims. "Jesus, you white boys sure talk funny."

"True," I reply, "but then we voted for Trump, and Kanye is now his homie. So let me play that funky music."

"All right," she says; "let me drop my pants so we can get this over with. What are you looking for, anyway?"

"America," I tell her.

"Well, Kugel-face, you've definitely come to the right place. You won't hafta dig very deep, either."

(To be continued)