You Can't Tell Them Apart

You can't tell them (my sisters) apart, so don't even try!


In this photo, we're in birth-order, not the "proper order" as mentioned previously, left to right: Troy, Gary, Karen, Sharon. This is at our "Uncle B's" place, he being one of our father's older brothers. It's chilly and I am not smirking (as has been suggested), I'm squinting -- bright sunlight is painful! As you can see, Karen agrees.

I have no idea what our ages are, but I'd guess 8/9, 6/7, 4/5 (my sister thinks the lower number, or younger; she's probably right).

"Uncle B" is/was L B Miller -- those are not initials, that's his name. His kids (he and Aunt Lou (Benson) had 9 kids: 3 sons and 6 daughters) always thought it was funny that we called him "Uncle B." I suppose it sounds like "Uncle Bea." Blame our mother for that. Damn Yankees!

It's rather an accident that we four even exist! Dad had come North to visit "Uncle B" (who had come North for factory work) for two weeks. For whatever reason, he got himself a short-term job while visiting, and just never returned to his "hard-scrabble" land in Missouri -- 40 acres in the Ozarks that had never been logged, except for one tree, the "tree rustler" of which was caught in the act and sent to prison, before Dad bought the land when he was 16. Then he met and married our mother, and here we are.


This is at "Dice St," showing the house. We're older here -- this is clearly after I was well into my "growth spirt" and the different parts of my body were growing at different rates. I was in constant pain for a number of years (fortunately, it was a low-grade, rather than excruciating, pain).

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I can tell my sisters apart in this photo. And well, the quality of the photo isn't all that great. But, you can tell that Dad took it -- there is his ever-present shadow in the foreground. But, I *think* Karen is on the left and Sharon the right; meaning, they're not the in "correct" order. Those gunny-sack looking dresses they're wearing proabably are ;-). No, they're made of regular fabric. I think. Whichever, Grandma Brown (Dad's mother) made the dresses.

That is Grandma Brown (née Eunice Jay [or J. or J, I really don't know] Price) with us. She was 65 when I was born, so add maybe 10 years to that to get her age in this photo. She used to pat me on the shoulders, beaming, saying something like, "Oh, your hair is turning so dark! I hope it gets jet-black, like your Grandfather's." It never did get that dark ... and I suppose she was purposely ignoring (because my mother was one of those damned Yankees!) that my mother also had very dark hair (our mother's father was said to be 1/2 Indian, though that probably really meant that his mother was part Indian and part white by ancestry, but was born to one of the few registered "Indian" families left in Indiana).

I ask you, does she not look like a squaw? I asked her once, when I was young, whether she was part Indian; she strenuously denied it (when she was growing up, it wasn't "cool" to be Indian). Years later, at my mother's funeral, I asked my "Uncle B" whether she was part Indian and he said, "Yes, her people were Indian" (which, understanding what he said does not mean he was saying she was "full-blood" Indian). I don't know which nation her people were descended from, but I'll take a wild guess at Choctaw (based on nothing more than where in Tennessee her people lived). It's also through Grandma Brown that we have Jewish ancestry.

That grandfather with the jet-black hair was also part Indian (1/4 according to the family) ... which would be where the jet-black hair comes from. He was 50 when our father was born, and died when Dad was nine, that is, about 21 years before I was born. His name was was Joseph (1877-1936); his father (said to be 1/2 Cherokee) was James. I have no idea when or where James was born, just that he was "old" when he married my great-grandmother, Margaret Elizabeth James (I've also seen her name as "Margaret Isabella Elizabeth James"), and died either before or soon after Joseph was born. I've never seen this image before, but this photo is of great-grandmother "Maggie James" and our grandfather Joseph's youngest sister, "Aunt Zubie" (Zuba Sesile Ward). [ another photo edit: this is the only photo of her I'd seen before today]

Dad is/was Samuel Jefferson Richard Joseph. Technically, he was "Baby Boy," because our grandfather was angry that the clerk wouldn't put all that on the birth certificate, and so told the clerk to just leave it as it was. Fortunately for Dad, the county courthouse burned down and took the records with it.

Our father had an older full-brother named Jackson (I don't know the rest of it), who died as a young child; apparently killed by rats (one always thinks of rats as an urban, rather than rural, problem). As I recall it, Jackson was about two years older than Dad and died at age four.

[Sharon says Jackson lived from August 2, 1925 to September 1929. She thinks he got into some moonshine, which killed him; I don't recall anything like that. As I recall it, the family found him dead one morning; there were bite-marks on his face and it was "all black"]

Our grandparents divorced when Dad was very young (they were going to remarry, and Grandpa had the license, but then died of pheumonia contracted putting out a fire burning down his cabin; he was working as a logger at the time). Dad was aware of seeing hs father only once, when he was four, and Joseph took him to visit his grandmother, "Maggie James." Every time Dad talked about that, he'd mention how enchanted he had been by her "beautiful white hair." So, most of his life, he didn't even know what his father looked like. But, when he was in his sixties, someone who had known his father (I think it was the younger man who had shared the cabin with Joseph) sent Dad a photocopy of a photograph of him. Personally, I think my brother Gary looks a bit like him (I take more after Mom's people).

---
Edit, and shocker (in that I never expected there to be *any* relationship, as 'Ward' is so common a name):

I was Googling, to try to verify that I had the birth-name of great-grandmother "Maggie James" correct -- and also so that I could link to an photo of her I once found on the internet. Anyway, I happened to come across this page, according to which we *are* related to Nancy Ward; though, in our case the relationship is by marriage rather than direct descent. Specifically, some of our cousins are descended from Nancy Ward's Scots-Irish husband, Bryant Ward. Our grandfather's step-father, Charles Rufus Ward, was a great-grandson of that man Bryant Ward.

---
Edit2:
Sharon just sent me this photo of Grandma Brown, at about age 88 or 89, to better show her Indian-like appearance; I think I may have been there (home from college) when that picture was snapped:


---
Edit 3:
Ah! These next two are more like what I had in mind for showing off "The Twins" (that's how my brother and I referred to our sisters, but there came a time when they *insisted* we use their names).

The date on this one is July 1963 -- that's when it was developed, not necessarily when it was taken. But, as the girls were born in January 1961, this date has to be fairly close to when it was taken. That may be the only time Dad got pictures developed in a timely manner. Still, are these not some cute, and happy, kids? Near to far: Gary, Karen, Sharon, Troy.


With this first/top one, as infants, I have to admit that to me they just look like babies (and almost all babies look identical to me); if I didn't already know they were my sisters, I'd not guess it. My sisters usually wore their hair long, but one year our aunt convinced them or Mom that a "Pixie cut" would be "so cute," so that's what's with the short hair in the outside photos. Sorry about my sister's rudeness in the center photo (girls!) -- you know, that is probably the *only* photo of Sharon in which her eyes both are open (instead, Karen's are closed)! Maybe this was one of those take-one-another's-place that twins like to do.

Speaking of twins trading places, they did that once in school, I think when they were in the second grade. As I recall the story, at the first break, the one dragged the other into the rest-room to insist they trade clothes and then go to their assigned classes, because the other's teacher was a right witch.

The World Was Younger Then -- Snowforts and Mortality

My brother and sisters and I made a number of snowforts over the years (we also once made a "rabbit warren" as our fort, and once an "ice cave"; and we also once set the back lot aflame to make a "prairie"); it think the fort in the accompanying photo, its remains, at any rate, may be the first. When I saw this photo the other day, the thought that came to me was, "The world was younger then;" and hence the title of this entry.


This photo was taken at "Dice Street," as we generally called the place to distinguish it from the other places we lived (if I recall correctly, the address was 20135 W Dice St). This was a one acre property out in the suburbs that our father had bought from the first friend he'd made after moving North, and for whom I am named. We lived there in two periods; the first from "whenever" until after the birth of my sisters (we moved back into the city before or around my fourth birthday in 1961), and again from when I was 6 until 11.

I think this photo may be from February or March of 1964; if so, I'd be 6 1/2 (that 1/2 is vitally important when you're that age!), my brother soon to turn 5, and my sisters recently turned 3. Yet, do those ages look right?

On the other hand, I don't think the photo can be from the winter of 64-65, when I'd have been 7 1/2. In my memory, that winter was snowier; more importantly, that's the winter I "discovered" my own mortality (and, thus, I'd not have been out in the cold air, unless this was taken just before that). And, were the photo from 65-66, I'd have been 8 1/2 and my sisters 5, which doesn't seem at all right.

So, the photo is probably from late winter/early spring of 1964, but may be from the next year; and we are seen sitting in the sad remains of our (very modest) snowfort, perhaps on the remains of our thrones. There didn't fall much snow that winter, so this fort never amounted to much. We had pretty much stripped the yard bare (as can be seen in the background) in rolling the snowballs of which we constructed it.

This picture is no exception to the general rule for pictures of us: there exist almost no photos of all four of us which do not reflect that Karen is "Gary's Twin" and Sharon is "Troy's Twin." That is, in all but the rarest of cases, Karen will be beside or in front of Gary, and Sharon will be beside or in front of me.

Ah, but those darling little girls were also very assertive of *their* ownership rights -- to Dad. In their minds, they jointly own him, and Gary and I had no rights to him without their express permission! And, budding little private property rights advocates they were, too: for, they discovered "the tragedy of the commons" all on their own. That is, they later realized that joint ownership of Dad caused for conflict when their interests diverged; so they "divided the assets" in a mutually agreeable manner: one claimed his head and the other his feet.

===
Even though we were born and raised in South Bend (Indiana), as was our mother, we apparently had a recognizably Southern accent in those days. Courtesy of Dad. One of my sisters has told me that when they were hospitalized for a tonsillectomy (need I mention that when we visited them, my brother and I were focused on the fact that they getting as much ice cream as they wanted!; I'd don't think I'd have been up for it, but I'd not be surprised if he had been willing to get in on such a sweet deal), a nurse asked them, “So, how long have you been up North?” and she, being a child, had no idea what she was being asked.

===
When I "discovered" my own mortality --

One winter afternoon when I was 7, I saw that Dad was pulling into the drive, and so I ran out to greet him (that is, jump all over him), as little kids do. After all, I hadn't seen him *all* day! But, the thing is, I ran out in jeans and tee shirt -- I mean, not only without putting on a coat, but also without putting on shoes.

I awoke in the middle of the night -- and woke the whole family -- unable to breathe. And I *knew* that I was dying. Now, I known about death for forever, and I understood that I, too, would die. But that knowledge had been conceptual, now it became visceral. I wasn't terrified, really; I just didn't want to leave right then.

In thrashing around in my discomfort, I managed to find a position in which I could finally get some oxygen -- with my head and upper body hanging over the side of the bed. So, that's how I was taken to the hospital; half lying on the car's back seat, half lying on the car's floor.

At the hospital, I was put in an oxygen tent (for the next three or four days), and was again able to breathe without standing on my head. The hospital's patient capacity was apparently on full, at least in the "children's ward;" I was initially placed in an alcove off a main corridor devoted either to adults in general or to just women (I don't recall seeing any men as patients).

The next day, I was better and rested, and able to pay some attention to the goings-on around me. Though, when you're only 7, there is only so much entertainment value to be extracted from watching old(er) women in hospital-gowns walk back and forth past the alcove in which one has been stowed. This day was the first time I heard someone (one of the patients to another) refer to me as "pretty" -- and I was outraged: "I'm not 'pretty!' I'm a boy!" And, as Gentle Reader can see from the photo, I'm not, and wasn't, pretty (yet I have been accused of it more than once; one of those mysteries of life, I guess).

I was later moved for a couple of days to the "children's ward." That was really boring, making me long for the alcove; for, the other kids were either too sick to care about anything outside their own discomfort, or they were "babies." That ward is where I *really* learned that friendly behavior does not indicate friend; I mean, I was also learning that from neighborhood kids, but here I learned it from an adult and the lesson really sunk in.

===
Speaking of snowforts and mortality, that "ice cave" I mentioned could have been the death of any number of us! Our *dogs* were smart enough to not want to go into it. The younger, larger one really put up a fight when we dragged her in with us. This was several years after the one in the photo, after we'd moved back into town; it was one of those winters with particularly heavy snow fall. After the snowplaws had been through, there was this too, too tempting pile of snow and ice ... and we burrowed tunnels into it. And, if it had collapsed, it surely would have killed someone.

But then, we used to jump off the roof! We were some wild kids! We weren't bratty, we were generally well-behaved and polite, we were just really serious out our playing.

'Bulverism' On Steroids

Determinism is 'Bulverism' Through A Looking Glass (and also on steriods). I say "through a looking glass" because it applies to all the determinist sees, himself included.

The "regular" 'Bulverist' asserts that "you're only saying that because you're [X]" (where '[X]' is some incidental fact, irrelevant to an argument, such as the sex or nationalist of the opponent). That is, the 'Bulverist' denies that his opponent has rational reasons for saying or believing the claim the 'Bulverist' denies, but rather that there exist merely causes which cause the opponent to say or believe what the 'Bulverist' denies. To put it another way, the 'Bulverist' is asserting that his opponent is unable to rationally comprehend truth, and thus to possess knowledge -- and he thereby dismisses the view he wishes to deny.

Nevertheless, the "regular" 'Bulverist' continues to hold that *he* is able (as are those who agree with him) to believe and say what he believes and says for reasons rather than merely due to causes. The "regular" 'Bulverist' continues to hold that *he* is able to rationally comprehend truth; he continues to hold that *he* is able to to possess knowledge.

Or, to put it another way, determinism is 'Bulverism' with that glaring logical inconsistency worked out. Determinism dismisses *all* possibility of anyone rationally comprehending truth and possessing knowledge.

Ilion's Minions

'BigFurHat,' the fluffy-headed Big Cheese at the 'iOwnTheWorld' blog, says (in the comments) that 'Ilioncentrism' is "a blog that gets 43 hits a day."

This, O My Minions, is great news, is it not? And, yet, I must confess to you, with heavy heart, that the news contains for me a dram of sadness. For, you are not commenting (if I may coin the word) 'miniously.'

As I told my esteemed college, the Big Fluffy-Headed Cheese, "without some feedback, there is only so much I can do to offer [My Minions] interesting essays and links to others’ thoughts."

The Introverts

I mean to write more about shyness or introversion, including drawing on my own experience and perspective, but for now I wish to draw Gentle Reader's attention to this article by John Rosemond: 'Fixing' Son's Shyness. I used to read Mr Rosemond's articles religiously when the local paper carried them (and I still bothered with the local paper); I'm delighted to have noticed recently that Jewish World Review has added him to their roster.

I want to strongly endorse Mr Rosemond's point: if your child is 'shy' or 'introverted' (or as I prefer to call it, 'reserved'), don't work yourself into a tizzy over it. If that is all that is "wrong" with him, then he'll be fine -- and, in fact, your attempts to "cure" him are more likely to turn it into a real problem than to ever "cure" it. In this regard, it's similar to stuttering: most stuttering is caused by self-conscious awareness of the fact that one *did* stutter. Well-meaning drawing of attention to the child's stuttering by his adults -- and that's exactly what "working with him" to "cure" the stuttering does -- serves only to make him even more self-conscious of his stuttering.

The proper response to these "problems" is almost always: "let it be, don't draw attention to it, it will cure itself."

===
When I was a kid, starting at perhaps ten, my father was convinced that he needed to help (make!) me get over my "shyness." One of his methods was to take me with him when he went downtown to pay the bills -- when we'd get to the places we were going, he'd give me the billing statement and the money and make me go in alone to do the transaction.

I gotta tell ya', this was most annoying!

Sure, having some one-on-one time with Dad (without "the kids" to hog him) is cool, but being made to do some silly task to "cure" you of something you know isn't a problem ("Da-ad! When I grow up and wanna pay bills, I'll pay bills!") is just annoying.

My "shyness" is/was made of multiple factors, including:
1) my basic personality;
2) I enjoyed the company of adults;
3) I enjoy the company of those I already know (why add more people to the mix when there is still so much more to be discovered about these?);
4) learned response; with a major lesson delivered when I "discovered" death (a story for another time).

===
In all those "personality profile tests" that educationists and some employers have required me to take over the years, I always "test out" as 'introverted.' I could have told them that the very first time had 'introverted' and 'extroverted' been explained to me.

As I mentioned above, I prefer the term 'reserved' to either 'shy' or 'introverted' (while 'introverted' is a technical and non-judgmental term, most people misunderstand the term as indicating "socially flawed"). Part of the reason I prefer 'reserved' is that I am reserving judgment as to how far to extend myself in this social setting until I studied it more, and understand it.

Tangentially, the educationist 'gospel' that children need to be imprisoned in public indoctrination centers, lest they miss out on "socialization," is such an utterly false (yet, oddly, self-serving) concept; this "socialization," as it is practiced today, actively harms your child. But, even if it were neutral, the concept is utterly flawed. FOR, children are truly socialized only in relation to adults -- and, after all, the goal of childhood is adulthood -- not in relation to other children. Everyone spends the majority of his life as a chronological adult; he needs, as a child, to learn adulthood, not childhood. He's already a child, and he has childhood down pat; he's a natural at it.

An interesting observation I have long noted is that in many social situations, it is actually we 'introverts' (who are in the minority) who "carry the ball" and keep the thing working. For instance, I can't tell you how many times in class-room or seminar situations, I -- the "introvert" -- have asked the question that helped make clear the point the instructor wished to make, or induced the instructor to better (or correctly!) explain a point, or got the instructor to slow down on some complicated or difficult matter, and so on.

When He's Good ...

When he's good, he's very good ... and when he's bad, he's an asshole.

Being Lydia McGrew

In the comments section -- I trust Gentle Reader to be able to see my point, within reading just a few comments, without me explicitly spelling it out.

It's too bad, really.

--
Incidentally, Mrs McGrew's point in the article ('Making a virtue out of necessity') is much the same as mine in objecting this.

Typing on Autopilot

I'm not a typist; I couldn't legibly type even a short sentence were I not constantly glancing at the keyboard. I spend more time looking at the keys (and at my moving fingers) than not.

And yet (for I do not quite type by the "hunt and peck" method, either), interesting results do constantly come from my fingers-on-autopilot, mostly having to do with substitution of similar morphemes or with the phonetic (in contrast to correct) spelling of a word.

For instance, regarding substitution of similar morphemes, I frequently type (and even more frequently when writing script, write) the letter ‘b’ when I intend ‘p’ and vice-verse. But I never “mix my p’s and q’s”, for ‘p’ and ‘q’ do not represent similar sounds.

An example of phonetic spelling on autopilot, and what prompted this post, is that I just a few minutes ago, once again, caught myself typing ‘ai’ for the word ‘I.’ You see, the written-word ‘I’ represents a diphthong, and the *proper* phonetic spelling for that sound is ‘ai’ -- all that business about long-i and short-i we were taught in grade school is a serious misrepresentation of English-language orthography. Sure, it’s the traditional way of teaching it, but it’s based on ignorance.

=== addendum:
On a note related to the ignorance-based nature of the common teaching of English orthography, many of the "rules" of English grammar we are taught are even more egregiously false, for they do not, in truth, apply to the English language.

For instance, the "rule" against the split infinitive doesn't actually apply to the English language. It's based on ignorance and on trying to force the English language into the grammar rules of the Latin language (damn those French since 1066!).

Lawrence Auster has (yet again) a recent post to express his loathing of the split infinitive: Against the split infinitive: the battle continues -- Mr Auster, you may lay down your arms! The war is over, and it was all a big misunderstanding! I know for a fact that either Auster himself or one of his minions reads my blog (would that make that person our dual minion?), and so I expect him, soon or late, to become or to be made aware of this little post.

English is not a Romance language, it is a Germanic language; as such, its rules are Germanic-based, not Latin-based. Thus the split infinitive is perfectly acceptable in English. It matters not a whit that the majority of our vocabulary is Romance-based; our grammar is Germanic.

Now, for sure, many people split the infinitive in an infelicitous manner; but that’s due to a general carelessness about how they speak (and think!), not about any violation of a non-existing rule of the language.

Another Day, Another ...

Another day, Another Man Put In His Place in the feminist dystopia of present-day America.

What do you think are the odds, Gentle Reader, that the shrews and harridans over there will gloat and shriek with glee that they can, with confidence, "bet his ex got the house and the kids too."

Strong Conservative Women

Strong Conservative Women ... and the weak man-things who enable them -- that's a joke, by the way: [WARNING! (especially for Gentlest Reader) This is one of those posts in which I'm pretty much compelled to use crude language.] as the women commenting in that thread are neither strong nor conservative. Rather, they're feminists, which is to say they're "liberals," who simply don't like to call themselves feminists and don't want to recognize and eliminate from their minds the control that "liberalism" has over them. They conflate their willfulness for having strong wills, and on the strength of their willfulness imagine themselves to be strong women -- small children are willful, but no one in his right mind imagines that to be a virtue, either of children or of supposed adults.

Most of the women in my family are, or were when they were alive, strong women (in my family, it's some of the younger ones, the ones marinated in feminism and "liberalism" all during their “education” who are weaklings, for all their willfulness). I *know* a strong woman when I see one, and these are not.

Gack! Pity the weak, PWed schlubbs who may have chosen to put up with such harridans and shrews.

===
First, consider the song itself: consider its sappy sentimentality; and especially, consider its horrendous message, which amounts to: "Oh! These things just chance to happen (to poor little angels who "don't deserve this," because of those "plans," you know?) ... and, oh, by the way, you all need to celebrate as Heroines Of The Ages all the vapid and selfish dips who manage to choose to not murder the poor little bastards they have chosen to cause to exist."

Again, I say: bullshit! On multiple levels: bullshit!

Gentle Reader may (or may not) have seen Chris Rock's act in which he mocks the mindset of persons who want to claim moral credit for doing what one is *supposed* to do (as see here, warning: language). Essentially the same mindset or attitude is at play in this song, as with those "baby daddies" Mr Rock is mocking, who want credit because "I take care of my kids." In this case, it's "Celebrate me: I don't murder my babies." To paraphrase Mr Rock: "You self-centered twit! You're supposed to not murder your babies!"

But, there is another, and more insidious, level of total wrongness about this song: it glamorizes getting yourself knocked up. If the reader is offended by the "ugly language" I am using to discuss the second-ugliest thing people commonly do to other people, than the reader can push off: I just don't give a damn about your tender sensibilities. Forcing a defenseless human being to enter this world as a bastard is an ugly and hateful thing to do, made worse only by murdering the child before its birth.

For a number of years now it has increasingly bothered me that seemingly every "Contemporary Christian" act has a number in its repertoire whinging about how "judgmental" Christians are toward the "fallen women" in our midst. I think there is a federal law requiring these numbers!

Would to God in Heaven that we -- the church and society as a whole -- were "judgmental" about this! The reason that so many of today's young (so-called) women, a majority of them in fact, are, to put not too fine a point on it, skanks is precisely because no one is willing to be "judgmental" about what used to be called "easy virtue;" no one is willing to state the blunt truth of the matter.

Feminists -- that is, the "liberal" identity-group grievance-mongers who target (initially) the female sex for subversion -- like to assert that in the bad old days before “liberalism” gave us all the freedom to do whatever we wish without consequence, it was the men who ostracized and shunned the "fallen women" in the community. In fact, it was not the men, but the women who dealt harshly with such a woman; rather, the men dealt with the boy or man who was the cause of her "fallen" state, and gave him to understand that he could either take up his responsibility to the bastard-child he'd caused or he could find himself another place in which to live. But, for about the past three generations, women in general have declined to negatively sanction the women and girls who opt for "easy virtue" -- for, women, in general, have fallen in a big way for "liberalism" and its grievance-mongering of totally invented grievances, and men, in general, have declined to insist that women return to the sanity of the real world. [In fact, rather than insist upon sanity, most men in America have followed the women into that insanity and have in the process feminized themselves -- most men these days aren't men: not only do they not understand the masculine virtues, but they fear and loathe such virtues.]

The "liberals" managed this moral subversion of most of the women in the nation by appealing initially to their vanity: "Oooo! You're so nurturing and compassionate (for, you are a woman! so much better than men), and wouldn't it be such an even more nurturing and compassionate thing (and so, an even more greater demonstration of your moral superiority!) to make those mean, old, nasty, judgmental men stop picking on these poor, poor, little angels who "turn up" pregnant. My God! It's bad enough that they use these poor dears to satisfy their beastly urges, but they to paint them as tramps, too! It's unspeakable!"

But, of course, it wasn't the men, but rather the women, who made the "poor dears" social outcasts and gossiped unmercifully about them. And, harsh as it was, it served a socially necessary purpose: it kept bastardy numbers low. For, very few women have the personal courage to act in ways they know will make them unwelcome in the society of other women.


In my initial comment in that thread, I'd indicated that I'd stopped listening to the song at the 24 second mark -- I've heard that song a hundred times, since everyone and her sister has a variation on the same theme. As soon as I heard "Poor little girl, scared half to death" I knew where that song was going. And it does.

Does Gentle Reader *really* not understand that when the typical self-centered dip-shit drama-queen with her mind permanently stuck on the "Junior High" setting ingests songs like this, which glamorize what we now call "teen pregnancy," she's going to think to herself, "Ooo! I can do that!"

===
And, because no post of this sort could possibly be complete without some well-deserved mockery of the willful refusal to reason, I'll now analyze, with a view toward placing them in the context of our disintegrating culture, some of the more amusing of the vituperation directed my way in that thread.

Do keep in mind, Gentle Reader, that in my comments above (which I hope they were both scathing and informative) and those which shall follow, the scorn I express is not directed at real women, not at intellectually and emotionally and spiritually mature women, but rather at girls-in-old-bodies whatever their precise calendar-ages: at the sort of flakey, selfish, self-centered, princess-complexed, "snowflake" drama-queens with their minds permanently stuck on the "Junior High" setting, and who just happen to comprise a majority of the female sex presently dwelling in the US of A.

First, of course, it wouldn't be fair to not quote what I'd written that became the excuse to demonstrate their Grrrl-Powrr:

Ilíon: Maybe it is a beautiful song [as the commenter previous had said], after all, but at the :24 mark I decided it’s not worth my time.

“Poor little girl scared half to death” - bullshit! more like “scheming little vamp who deliberately got herself knocked-up and now - after the deed is done - is finally thinking about the repercussions.”

Now, admittedly, this comment is blunt and is not at all "nice," in that pseudo-non-judgmental manner in which the "liberals" have trained most American women to think.

But then, I'm not at all "nice." I don't intend to be.

Tammy Cracker: Like I said, you’re a creep.
Anyone who says things like, “bullshit! more like “scheming little vamp who deliberately got herself knocked up” is a creep.

Your level of hatred for women is palpable.
I’m guessing you bully your wife or girlfriend the same way.
Creep.

Tammy (I'm not sure whether this is the same Tammy): Never mind.
I can spot a bitter divorcee a mile away.
I’m sure your ex’s parting words were, “Good riddance to bad rubbish, you creep!”.

Tammy Cracker: I bet his ex got the house and the kids too.
And he has to pay child support. LOL!
I can smell a bitter creep a mile away.

jclady: I would like to know why you have such a low opinion of women. Why do strong women pose a threat to you?

I quoted these (which aren't that amusing, I admit) for two main reasons:
1) they lead into some of the following sets, which are very amusing;
2) they demonstrate a stereotypically feminine vice with respect to reasoning; specifically, the *refusal* to reason, but rather to emote. And, also, "projection;" in this case, projecting their own freely-chosen irrationality onto me -- it *can't* be that I have reasons for what I said, it can only be that I speak out of anger or rage or fear (and from especially fear of "strong, independent women").
3) they evince the standard feminist hatred of men and utter disregard for the welfare of children -- gather in what these shrews are crowing about! It doesn't matter that they only imagine my "ex got the house and the kids too. And [that I have] to pay child support." What matters is the unadulterated bile -- these women despise men.

Tammy Cracker: HA! I knew it. Mr. creep got burned.
But of course, it’s ALL HER FAULT.

His wife(property) wouldn’t put up with his hate-filled bullshit, so she left. Probably for the safety of the kids too. ...

Let's see: this foolish shew "knows" that I've been romantically burned because ... well, because she and her sister shews have agreed to agree that I've been burned. I mean, really! Read the thread for yourself -- there is nothing there (or anywhere, for that matter) to rationally support the proposition that I have been romantically burned.

Shoot! Even the woman who *didn't* marry me didn't burn me. We were still pretty good friends in almost daily contact until she started getting serious about some other guy, and then again after one or the other "burned" the other until she started getting serious with yet another guy. Whom she married, and who (according to what she later told me, and I have no reason to doubt it) "burned" her. Now, if she had asked my opinion *before* she got involved with the second one, I'd have advised against, since while I didn't actually know the guy, I knew of him. But, sadly, women generally don't care about the opinions of men, and particularly about the opinions of the men who care most for their well-being, until it doesn't matter.

Snowball the Sourpuss: Maybe he moonlights as a pimp?

Tammy Cracker: Moonlights? That’s his full time job. heh heh.
He couldn’t get a woman unless he paid for her.

HCWAG: It’s interesting to me when I run into a guy who still believes in chattel. I makes you wonder all kinds of things. Mostly it makes you wonder what kind of woman it takes to burn a man this badly. ... You are probably the insecure lowly type of guy who has to console yourself by repeating “I’m a real man” to yourself at night. ...

Snowball the Sourpuss: Okay. Listen, dude, have a wonderfully cream filled life of donuts and porn. I’m outta here too.

BigFurHat (whom I presume to be biologically male): ... It’s almost as if you never got laid….. hehe

Tammy Cracker: Mr. Creep is a loser. And I’m guessing on his third or fourth wife, some burka-wearing type who bows to his glorious nothingness.
Either that, or he ordered a Russian bride. Pimps like to control their bitches.
Loser. Not a conservative.
Loser who has mommy issues.

Tammy Cracker: ... What do you get, like five or six hits a year from the former prostitutes that you hired? ...

This group of remarks is the most amusing ... I really could (and perhaps ought) write a whole post devoted to the attitude on display here.

The first, and most important, thing to notice is that while these people imagine that they're insulting me as being somehow worthless because they imagine I "can't get any," what they're really doing is showing that they think of themselves and/or one another as sluts. That's a pretty extreme claim, but bear with me.

Consider, first, what they imagine about me -- that I "can't get any," unless I pay for it. Therefore, they imagine, I have no worth. I, being male, can attain human worth only via the power of The Magical Pussy (I *told* you I need to use crude language) ... which *they* possess and withhold at will from me, even if only in their imaginations, because I'm so worthless anyway.

Now, consider this from the other direction -- they, being female, and in possession of The Magical Pussy, which alone bestows worth upon male persons, have great worth and power (this echoes another common theme of feminism) *precisely* because they possess The Magical Pussy. That is, they have willfully fallen for the feminist lie that the power -- and worth -- of womankind lies in, and only in, sexual activity and orgasm. They have willfully fallen for the feminist lie that women can, and naturally do, dominate and control men via sex (it's also true that a lot of men choose to fall for that lie).

They have denominated their worth in terms of "putting out" and in their (imagined) ability to control men either by actually "putting out" or by implying that they will "put out" if a man jumps through the right hoops. What I'm getting at is that even if such women are physically virgins, in their minds/spirits they are sluts, for they reject and devalue chastity. And love. For, how can a man love a woman whom he knows views "making love" as simply an efficient tool for ruling over him?

When the first Superman movie was in the theaters, we went to see it. Sitting behind us were three youngish black women (who were loud and obnoxious as black-women-in-groups in public frequently are). At the scene where Superman surrendered his superpowers so that he could "make love" with Lois Lane, one of these women said, "Imagine giving up all that for a piece of tail!" Now, it's sad that this woman apparently saw herself as only "a piece of tail," and yet, was not her attitude more healthy -- that is, less self-delusional -- than the attitudes of junior-high-girls-in-old-bodies who imagine that they possess The Magical Pussy? Think of how much good would be done in America were Oprah to announce that there is no such thing!

And, of course, even aside from the issue of chastity and love, one of the big problems with denominating one's worth in terms of "putting out" is that nookie is just nookie. Think of the problem as systematic inflation due to a continuous influx of new "money."


Another amusing thing about this is that sluts really have no business looking down their noses at whores. The individuals in both groups have set their own worth in terms of "putting out" ... but the sluts are too stupid to get paid for it.

jclady: ... And to take things a step deeper, your screen name of “ilion” screams to me I LION. Self-esteem issues?

Two things:
1) What an ignorant, as in dunceville uneducated, personage. I wonder, would it make her head explode to mention Homer?
2) That worship of "self-esteem." Women (not *real* women, of course, but this sort of willfully immature girl-in-an-old-body) are all about "self-esteem." But self-respect? If they've even heard of that, the most positive response you'll get is a "Whateeveerr!"

Rightwingfeather (sex unknown to me): I have been following this thread and I am not sure I understand where you, ilion get off on calling the women on this site, “weak, immature, or bitter.”

Your comments show a lack of respect for women in general, but I think that they are more revealing of your psychological makeup than any conservative ideals you seem to think you embrace.

Look beyond your reflection in the mirror, you may be surprised at how others see you. You have been had by a woman and now you are an angry bitter soul. It is not becoming of you, you opinions, or your “blog.”

This one is amusing because:
1) I'm quite sure I have at no point expressed an opinion on whether those harridans and shrews are "bitter." And the "weak, immature" statement has a context, specifically to assert that they are the exact opposite of what they've asserted of themselves; to wit: "you can call yourselves “strong conservative women” all you want, but you’re weak, immature, “liberal” girls";
1a) I made reference to their willful irrationality, which is actually far worse than being "weak, immature, or bitter";
2) Once again, because I am a American man who *dares* to say something that a group of American women don't want to hear, I *obviously* "show a lack of respect for women in general" and have other psychological problems;
3) And, again, I "have been had by a woman and now [I am] an angry bitter soul" ... because, well, because the girls have decided that that is so.

Tammy (apparently not Tammy Cracker): Oh, and Mark Spitz is gay.
That should send Mr. Creep into convulsions.
They are identical twins.
In fact, maybe Mr. Creep IS Mark Spitz!!!!

The only shocker here is that it took them so long to get around to this irrational accusation. This is generally the first thing out of the mouths of such junior-high-girls (whether in young or old bodies) when a mere man dares to express opinions of which he has not been given express permission to hold, much less voice.

Tammy Cracker: OMG. I went to the link of LOSER CENTRAL.
No comments. ...

Snowball the Sourpuss: What do you want to bet scored more hits on his counter today then he has in that last 2 years.

Combined.

Rightwingfeather: @Snowball
I was thinkin the same thing.
Now he is off patting himself on the back (or something).

Tammy (apparently not Tammy Cracker): Don’t comment on his site.
You’ll be harrassed by him. I know.
Jim(you know who)went immediately to my email when I posted on his site.

DON”T POST THERE. He’s obviously a loser who wants attention.

Apparently, it takes too much effort to notice that there is no hit-counter on my blog.

Also, I ask you, Gentle Reader (you've been reading and commenting on my blog for some time), do you have even the faintest idea what this 'Tammy' character is talking about? I don't mean the risible assertion about getting harrassed by me if one posts on my blog, I mean the claim to have posted on my blog. Do you think 'Tammy' is that troll (who uses various male names) who periodically tries to insult me or my guests?

Highest Praise

The highest praise and compliment I can imagine one might pay a "liberal" is to say, "He has such a compassionate heart for the welfare of others that he'd give you the shirt off my back!"

Snakes on a Mathematical Plane

Snakes on a Mathematical Plane

It's a conundrum

The recent news of the (Palin-hating) Columbia professor recently arrested for an incestuous sexual relationship with "a young relative" above the age of 18 -- which is to say, his daughter, whom he apparently began to schtup after her 18th birthday -- (discussed here, among other places) is surely a vexing conundrum for the "liberal" "mind" (as well as for consistent libertarians, though not for exactly the dilemma examined here).

On the one hand, "What's wrong with you bible-thumpers that you can't stand to see others (who are your moral and intellectual betters, in any event) express their 'love' as they see fit?" -- This horn of the dilemma applies to consistent libertarians, as well as to "liberals," for both groups operate with essentially the same intentionally-busted moral compass. The point here being that neither group can stand on any moral ground more firm than "Eeeew!" by which to condemn the incestuous relationship.

On the other hand, on the "liberal" view of reality, there is a very dangerous "slippery slope" involved here – that is, while it is surely as "unjust" to refuse to redefine marriage so as to include incestuous relationships as it is to refuse to redefine marriage so as to include “same-sex couples” or multiples (for, since when is “love” limited to two?), nevertheless it must be admitted that redefining marriage so as to include incestuous relationships would eviscerate the entire estate tax (death tax) regime. I mean, OMG! what if rich white conservative old people married one or more of their children just before they died?

Who (in his right mind) wants to live to be 150?

In response to Jordan's post about a recent 'Science!' item, I said:

I *refuse* to live to be 150 unless I can also have a younger, or at minimum, a healthy, body.

I'm now 53; still in fairly good shape, yet in bad enough shape that I'd not care to spend the next 100 years declining from this "high" point.

In my view, one of the consolations of age (I mean, aside from the fact that I'm wiser and more knowledgable than when I was younger) is the sure knowledge that it will be over soon enough.

When I was a little kid and heard the adults say things like that, I simply could not begin to understand their point of view. Now I do.