Glibertarians.com 2019 Archive

Author: Tonio

  • House Resolution 660: Congress Formalizes the Impeachment Inquiry

    H. Res 660 (complete text here) was approved 232-196, and lays out the rules of the investigation for two of those certain committees. At some point the investigations will conclude. The house can then choose to vote to impeach. Or not. Upon impeachment by the house, the Senate conducts a trial which ends with a vote on whether to remove the impeachee from office. So we are on step one of a three-step process. Let’s do a quick march through H. Res 660 and see what it actually says.

    “[It] bein’ the biggest crime of the last fifty Years and everybody wanted to get in the newspaper story about it,” as Arlo Guthrie once famously said. The ponderously-named House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence is Chaired by Adam Schiff; the ranking minority member is Devin Nunes.

    (1), the chair and ranking minority member of the Permanent Select Committee shall be permitted to question witnesses for equal specified periods of longer than five minutes, as determined by the chair.

    This seems hopeful. A congressman from each of the two political parties gets to question each witness – the chairman (a Democrat since that party currently is in the majority in the House), and the ranking minority member (the party not in the majority, ie currently Republican). The “ranking member” may also subpoena witnesses subject to the approval of the chairman, and should the chairman deny the subpoena request the ranking member may appeal that decision to the committee as a whole. Currently this committee consists of thirteen Democrats and nine Republicans. There is also a provision for questioning of witnesses by employees of the permanent select committee upon request from the chair or the ranking member, though apparently other members of the committee may not question witnesses. The chairman is authorized, though notably not required, to release to the public transcripts of depositions, properly redacted. Finally, the committee is directed to issue a report with its findings and recommendations.

    The Judiciary Committee is chaired by Jerrold Nadler, who the author would like to personally thank for making his research easier by listing his name at the top of the committee’s homepage in all caps, then repeating it liberally throughout the site; other chairs made me dig for that info. Somewhat harder to find was the name of ranking member Doug Collins. The primary duty of the committee is overseeing the administration of the federal courts and federal law enforcement agencies. This committee traditionally conducts impeachment investigations. H. Res 660 outlines an investigation protocol for the Judiciary Committee which is similar to that imposed on the Intelligence Committee.

    So what about those other committees? Is your author slacking? No, the “guidance” of H. Res 660, to use the bureaucratese term of art, stops with the standing committee on the Judiciary and the permanent select committee on Intelligence. That open and transparent thing is not defined for those other named committees, who we shall now briefly introduce.

    The Financial Services Committee is chaired by the charming and stateswomanly Maxine Waters, with Patrick McHenry of North Carolina as the ranking minority member. Foreign Affairs is chaired by the Eliot L. Engel of the Bronx with Michael McCaul as the ranking member; Ilhan Omar is also on the committee.

    The Oversight and Reform Committee webpage, at of the time this article was written, still lists the late Elijah Cummings of Maryland as its chairman with Jim Jordan of Ohio as ranking member. Resigned member Katie Hill of California is also still listed. The committee also includes such congressional luminaries as longtime nonvoting member Eleanor Norton from the District of Columbia, IT-savvy Debbie Wasserman Schultz of Florida, crusading freshman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York, Ayanna Pressley of Massachusetts, and Rashida Tlaib of Michigan.

    The Committee on Ways and Means is the oldest committee of the United States Congress, and is the chief tax-writing committee in the House of Representatives. The Committee derives a large share of its jurisdiction from Article I, Section VII of the U.S. Constitution which declares, “All Bills for raising Revenue shall originate in the House of Representatives.” -Committee Website

    While seemingly unimportant, the House Ways and Means Committee is the committee which writes tax legislation and claims jurisdiction over basically everything because of that. The committee is chaired by Richard Neal and the ranking member is Kevin Brady.

    So there you have it. The stage is set. The roles cast. The House Select Committee on Intelligence seems to be taking the lead on this, and is the seeming star of the show. The House Committee on the Judiciary, though the traditional lead is cast in a supporting role. But keep an eye on the Oversight and Reform Committee; the committee contains three-quarters of the squad, and it will be interesting to see who replaces Cummings and Hill. Enjoy the show.

  • The Moral Panic of Joanna Schroeder

    Joanna Schroeder as pictured in the CNN article.

    California mother and serious writer Joanna Schroeder recently got her fifteen minutes of fame courtesy of breathless CNN reporter Sara Sidner. Why, exactly? You see, Ms. Schroeder is very, very concerned about the well-being of her teenage sons, as a good mother should be, and wanted to raise the alarm for other mothers of teenage boys to be aware of the insidious reach of right-wing propaganda. She valiantly warned her fellow naive do-gooders about the sinister extremist messaging being used to target youth, lest they be “drawn in by snarky memes.”

    Words to watch for

    Snowflake: used to mock people deemed too sensitive, especially about issues impacting minorities

    SJW: stands for “social justice warrior,” a term used to mock civil rights activists

    Sidner does offer the rote, perfunctory disclaimer that Schroeder “does not shun mainstream conservative thought,” yet curiously fails to provide any evidence of that, or any example of what constitutes mainstream conservative thought. This claim is completely and laughably undermined by the inclusion of the terms “snowflake,” and “SJW” in the sidebar list of forbidden speech.

    Those terms have been part of conservative dialogue for years. National Review is the leading organ of that mainstream conservative thought which Schroeder claims to not shun, yet of which she is blissfully unaware. A quick web search of the National Review website yielded articles from early 2015 by James Lileks and Jennifer Kabbany with the contemporary usage of “snowflake” as a term for overly-sensitive, nominally adult humans. Rather prophetically, Kabbany’s piece is titled “The Death of College Humor.” The term “SJW” was first used by National Review in late 2015 in articles by George Leef and Katherine Timpf.

    Those who use the phrase sarcastically, as most do, imply that the snowflakes’ sensibilities are impossibly delicate, and shatter when confronted with the horrible realities of the world, such as capitalism or people who are insufficiently troubled by the link between climate change and industrial lettuce production. –James Lileks

    Four and a half years is forever ago in the age of internet and twenty-four hour news. Yet, somehow, concerned mother Schroeder and professional journalist Sidner both missed those and all the subsequent references in National Review and other conservative media. And all the serious, informed, and rational discussion about the chilling effect of speech codes, and the erosion of first amendment rights.

    Words to watch for
    Beta… Cuck…
    Femenoid/femoid…
    Redpilled…
    Blood and Soil…
    14 or 88…
    ((( )))…

    That’s quite an impressive list that they have assembled, and some of them are actual white supremacist dogwhistles: “Blood and Soil;” 14; 88; and the “echo,” those three nested parentheses denoting the thing contained within is (((Jewish))). But it should be noted that the echo has also been coopted by Jews and is often used ironically. Schroeder is right to be concerned about teenagers using those phrases. But including the phrases “SJW,” “snowflake,” and “triggered” in that laundry list only fans the flames of hysteria and undermines Schroeder’s already dubious credibility.

    The first word I heard was “triggered,” and that’s a tough one. You may hear this from your conservative uncle, and you may also hear this from a kid who’s getting a lot of alt-right messaging online, and that’s everyone’s too sensitive today. -Schroeder, CNN interview

    About the term “triggering” – Schroeder seems unaware that the term was originally a legit feminist term, explained to us back in June, 2015, by Gillian Brown on that unimpeachably feminist website Everyday Feminism. That the term has been so thoroughly co-opted by relentless parody that she is only familiar with its ironic usage must be as disappointing to Schroeder as having her lack of familiarity with feminist rhetoric exposed.

    This guy understood the role of media in creating moral panics all the way back in 1964. He would have referred to Schroeder as a “moral entrepreneur.”

    Schroeder does grudgingly acknowledge during her CNN interview that not all those “words to watch for” are racist, but some are “gateways.” The slippery slope argument, hinted at. Just like Marijuana is a “gateway drug” and every person who takes a puff from a “reefer” will eventually end up a heroin addict. And then there is the slippery conflation of mere mockery with inevitable racism and homophobia, since according to the article the term Snowflake is used to mock people “especially [emphasis added] about issues impacting minorities.” SJW, we are informed, “is a term used to mock civil rights activists.”

    These terms are being used to mock and push back against the speech police, wannabe censors and their enablers such as Schroeder. The whole point of “triggering,” in the original usage anyway, is the conflation of speech with actual physical violence. This is unacceptable to those of use in the Liberty community, and moral scolds such as Schroeder must always be seen as enemies of free speech.

  • The Glibening, Part Eleven: Ramesh Gupta, Reanimator

     

    Previously…

    “As they walked down the corridor the peppy Latin music started up again, and grew louder as they walked. They passed a door labelled “Men” and from around the next corner Ramesh saw a man in a black dress and low-crowned, broad brimmed hat approaching, as he got closer Ramesh saw the simple wooden cross on the twine around his neck, and the notched collar on whatever the dress-type garment was called – some sort of clerical outfit.

    “Hello, Your Holiness,” giggled the Canadian.

    “Hello Rufus, Heathen. I’ll pray for you both. Better get to your boy, he’s crying like the sissy bitch he is.”

    Today’s story…

    (Music)

    “Thank God they’re not getting deployed together. But don’t say anything.”

    “Okay.”

    Ramesh followed Rufus down a series of turns, they passed a few more people.

    “Hey, Yufus.”

    A guy dressed like one of the “soldiers” at Jamestown, complete with helmet, sword and gun sauntered by in the opposite direction.

     

     

    “’Sup, Trey?”

    Finally, they reached the source of the peppy Latin music, a door standing slightly ajar from which the unmistakable aroma of marijuana smoke wafted. Rufus grabbed the edge of the door to steady it while he knocked.

    “Hey, Mario. It’s me and Doc B.” The music stopped.

    “Come in, guys.”

    Mario was completely not what Ramesh expected, a shortish anglo guy dressed like one of the stockroom guys from Mr. Selfridge. There was another guy in the room, too. A tall, thin guy dressed as a medieval european peasant.

     

     

    The room was very sparely furnished, like a dorm room at an agricultural college. There were two twin beds, each on its own side of the room, but deep wear marks in the linoleum told another story, one in which the beds were pushed together regularly. There was also a large wheeled plastic bin full of personal items, thrown in haphazardly; Pope Benedict glared out at Rami from behind the glass of a framed picture at the top of the heap. The only items remaining around the room were the furniture and two suitcases, one on each bed.

    “Scruffy here actually does get to be a herdsman. Somebody has a sense of humor. Look at you, Doc. Nice suit. Is that a badge?”

    “I,” said Rami proudly, “am going to be Preet Bharara’s chief henchman.” He didn’t know why he had used the word “henchman.” United States Attorneys didn’t have henchmen, comic book villains had henchmen. But it seemed to have done the trick.

    “Whoa, hologram theory confirmed,” snickered Mario. “Anyone want to toke up?”

    “No, but I have something for you from Godwin,” said Ramesh extending the bag.

    “Schweet,” said Mario, crossing himself as he took the weed from Ramesh.

    ““Good thing Axl isn’t here,” observed Scruffy, rolling his eyes at the suitcase on the other bed.

    “We ran into him down by the Men’s room, eh.”

    “Miss Thing has been in a mood all morning,” said Mario. “You’d think that she’d be happy getting to dress as a priest and mumble over wafers, but noooo. Socons, there is just no pleasing them.”

     

     

    Mario opened his suitcase and transferred the weed to a Prince Albert tobacco can which he then returned to the suitcase and passed the empty bag to Scruffy who chucked it into the bin.

    “But I’m glad you’re all here,” said Mario choking up. “We may never see each other again. You and Chip,” he said looking at Scruffy, “were the best pledges ever. Remember how you hurled when we told you two what your pledge prank was going to be? I knew right then that it was going to be a special, special night.”

    “‘Sneak into the offices of Daily Femsplaining and steal the tampon disposal box from the women’s restroom in your underwear,’” Scruffy recited blankly, then trembled and turned pale.

     

     

    “Nobody believed Rami when he told us what he needed them for, or that it would work, said Mario. “But the prank was epic, regardless. Speaking of the Paw, no hard feelings about the sack tap, yo.”

    The suit coat pocket into which Ramesh had dropped the purse twitched and a small furry hand emerged to flash a peace sign.

    “Christ, was Marcotte was pissed. She couldn’t prove it, but she knew,” said Rufus. “And damn did the Paw stink while you were marinating it.”

    Scruffy hucked and grabbed for the wastebasket.

    Mario took a small photo album from behind the suitcase. “This is the one contraband item I wish I could take with me.” The album flopped open. “Look, there’s the boys with me and Monégasque.”

    Mario showed a picture of Scruffy and a shorter guy kneeling in their underwear holding up a shiny metal box and pinching their noses, with Mario and a tall guy standing behind them grinning drunkenly at the camera and pointing at the box.

     

     

    “May I see it,” asked Ramesh.

    Mario passed over the album which flopped closed in transit. As Ramesh flipped through the album he saw a number of pictures of himself, but in places and with people he didn’t know. On the last page there was a photo from the production number with himelf in the Gujarati shaman’s outfit with all the swastikas; that costume had cheesed off his boss more than the taunting lyrics or the mooning. He examined the picture closely. It did not appear to have been doctored. He wished he could sneak the picture back to the courthouse to have the techs examine it for tells that it had been ‘shopped.

    But the the shaman in the video he saw had been someone else, the same person as the guy in the lobby pushing the cleaning cart, but it was as if that person never existed here. He looked up from the album to see Rufus smirking at him.

    “You’ve always been here, Rami.”

    “Okay, guys. Let’s do this.” Mario took the photo album from Rami and threw it in the bin. He then stood up, grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door.

  • A Noob Guide to Glibertarians.com

    “Fuck off, Tulpa” will probably be the first reply you receive when you start posting here. It’s an in-joke, a sign of acceptance, a minor form of hazing. So chill the fuck out and be cool, ok?

    Glibertarians.com, aka Glibs, is a private website owned and operated by The Powers That Be (TBTP) for the amusement of themselves and the greater Glib community. TPTB were kind enough to open this website for others to contribute material, and to participate in the comments. Just don’t be a dick, don’t throw around racist slurs, and don’t attack other people unless they are arguing in bad faith (rare here, but it happens). Attacking positions is always fair game. They will ban a troll faster than you can say “rumplestiltskin.”

    All the material published here is submitted by members of the community; nobody gets paid for writing, drawing, animating, doing website design and administration, or anything else associated with this website; it is all a labor of love. Glibs accepts monetary contributions to pay the server bills, but such contributions are entirely voluntary and don’t get you any special privileges, tote bags or invitations to cocktail parties.

    Glibs was born of a difference of opinion with the operators of Reason.com (TOS, formally “the other site”), the online presence of the Reason Foundation who also publish Reason magazine. Prior to the founding of Glibs, this community’s online home was the comments section of Reason where some of us had been since the very beginning of the Gillespie years, having followed him over from the seminal Suck.com website.

    Tensions elevated during the Woodchipper Incident in 2015 when Reason found itself subpoenaed by the federal government because of comments left on their website.

    During the 2016 presidential campaign, it was increasingly obvious that TOS was betraying core libertarian principles and blatantly succumbing to Trump Derangement Syndrome (TDS). Glibs is not a Pro-Trump site, but neither are we willing to buy into the hysteria and ally ourselves with progressives just because #orangemanbad. Most of us here do not like Trump, but we do realize that we would have been worse off with a Clinton presidency, if only for SCOTUS appointments.

    The decisive incident came when the mother of one of TPTB was the victim of police brutality during the course of her official duties as a school nurse tending to an injured athlete during the course of a school sporting event. This incident was documented by the local press. TPTB whose mother was assaulted reported this to TOS, along with a link to the news report, and asked for some coverage. By any objective standard, this incident would have at least deserved mention in the AM Links or PM Links, the two regular daily weekday features at TOS. “Too local,” was their response.

    Rather than continue to hang out at a place at which we, and more importantly our ideas, were increasingly unwelcome, TPTB decided to put up a website, and the rest is history. Here is the mission statement from our first day:

    As to the tone of the enterprise – I would not seek to impose any rules on anyone else, but here are the things I’m going to strive for: no backbiting of H&R, Reason or the Reason Staff in editorial content. I don’t want this to be a bitchfest. I don’t want this to turn into something that only exists to react against something else. That way lies the shrill pettiness of blogs like “A Smarter Andrew Sullivan,” “Sully Watch” and (gods help us) “Sully Watch Watch.” Reactions to the writings of others are always fair game.

    I believe that we have achieved that so far, and I am damn proud of us all for having done so. My initial fear was that we would have a good opening week or weeks, but then article submissions would drop off, then the morning and afternoon links would become intermittent and finally stop. But we persisted, and today, two and a half years after going live, we consistently have enough material to keep up a full publishing schedule with two links posts and at least two other posts every weekday. Yay, us.

    So here you are in the worst little political chatroom on the interwebs, with a bunch of yokels; deplorables, even. Prickly, antisocial contrarians, the lot of us. And all our guns, pot, ass-sex, and Mexicans. It’s a nice place, very clean and family friendly! People are courteous about things that really matter. But learning what is humor and what isn’t can often be tricky. And we sometimes have legitimate disagreements about what is and isn’t acceptable.

    Generally, if someone posts a comment with a position diametrically opposed to libertarian thought, i.e. advocating for higher taxes, more government, less freedom, less accountability, you can assume that person is being sarcastic or making a joke. Remember that a perfectly-executed parody is indistinguishable from the real thing. Don’t be that noob who doesn’t get the joke and tries to establish cred by flaming someone else. Because then you have to go and see Warty in his special basement “training” room.

    In-jokes–yes, there are a ton of them. Too many for me to catalog here, but I encourage others to do so in the comments below. Which leads to our image as a cliquish, insular place. Yes, we are; but not deliberately so. Many of us have known each other online for decades. It is hard to break into a community like that; not because we aren’t open to outsiders, but it does take a while to establish cred here. And there may be some people who just plain ignore you.

    What if you agree with libertarians on some things, but think we are whacked on other things? Debate us honestly, or decide to treasure those areas where your opinions align with ours. The greater liberty community is already too small and wracked by internal strife. For me, it was a long engagement with the Iron Laws which finally brought me around.

    Welcome to our house.

  • The Glibening, Part Ten: The Triumph of Preet Bharara

    This type of portrait is known as a head shot. The flag is obligatory for federal officials, but the pattern is a visual distraction and it divides the picture into two fields.

     

    Previously…

    Preet Bharara inserted the business end of the nose hair trimmer into his left nostril, held his breath and pressed the power button. The unit whirred and he worked it around then pulled it out and blew out that nostril onto the small towel hung round his neck by the chain and clamps rig a former lawclerk had left behind in her desk.

    He was still stinging from the Woodchipper Incident. He could have gotten away with that, too, for at least for long enough to have gotten their addresses, if it hadn’t been for the pesky internet. He had been publicly humiliated, even called a “muttonhead,” by a prominent First Amendment attorney. His attempt to use a court order to prevent them from even talking about it had backfired spectacularly. But he had taken the heat and managed to keep Judge Forrest’s profile as low as possible; something the bench was sure to notice.

    He trimmed inside his right nasal passage and blew out his right nostril productively. He removed the thin towel with the words “US GOVERNMENT” woven into one end and shook it out over the trashcan before dropping it in the official government hamper. He washed his face and took a fresh towel from the stack. He inspected himself again in the mirror.

    Fortune had smiled upon him unexpectedly. At that very moment his top man was strolling through the offices of Thought! magazine tagging along with NYPD on a crazy girl call that had come in that morning during the taskforce meeting. No warrant needed. Even if they were squeaky clean, and he knew they weren’t, NYPD would manage to find something.

    Having found no flaw, he opened the dry cleaning bag hanging from the back of the door and removed a black robe which he slipped over his head. Next, the wig, from its wooden stand next to the mirror. Once properly enrobed and bewigged he examined himself one final time. Perfect.

    Preet exited the bathroom into the robing room. He pressed the button that caused a light on the court clerk’s bench to flash, then slowly walked to the door to the courtoom. Sarah was right on time with the gavel; three perfectly timed raps. He was foregoing the “oyez” and formal opening of court for the occasion. Richard and Corey, the courthouse technicians, were crouched behind their video cameras, grinning. Court staff loved to torture interns and lawclerks whenever possible, and this was a welcome break from taping oral arguments and portrait ceremonies.

    Interns Dorian, Raymond and Ming stood awkwardly behind the lawclerk bench wearing robes and wigs shorter and less ornate than his own, making their tights and silver-buckled shoes more prominent. Mediocre legal scholars, but gifted singers, all. Last June he had had Ramesh assemble all of the serious resumes into a single pdf document so he could search that for “choir,” “chorus,” and so on. Once he had his backup singers chosen he read their resumes and created notes justifying his hiring decisions based on their legal merits – just like creating a parallel construction for a prosecution.

    Ramesh. His favorite. His protege. A brilliant legal mind, but the boy couldn’t carry a tune in a sack. He so wanted to text Rami to ask for a progress report, but he had resolved to let Rami conduct this all by himself. He trusted Rami, despite the boy’s penchant for independent, sometimes unorthodox, thought. He was glad Ramesh was soon to be married, a good, practical Indian wife would whip him into shape.

    The robing room door opened behind the judge’s bench, the judge’s chair had been removed for the taping. He strode measuredly towards the bench to give the door a chance to close; Richard flashed him the thumbs up to cue him that the door had shut. The guys were really good at what they did; he’d have never thought about the open door and robing room lights being a distracting background.

    He daintily grasped the slender shaft of the judge’s gavel, raising it theatrically and miming a rap in the air. Sarah hit the play button on the Karaoke machine and everyone started to sway to the doo-wop beat. The interns had been rehearsing for months. This was their big moment, the culmination of their internships. The next few minutes would determine their careers, if not the future course of American jurisprudence.

    Lyrics appeared on the screen in the back of the courtoom behind the cameras. He waited for the ball to touch the first letter, and began singing.

     

     

    Oh, yes, I’m the Great Preetinder,

    He remembered hearing the song on the radio as a young boy in Eatontown, New Jersey. He had always thought the song was about someone named Preetinder, someone like him. Until the day in sixth grade when Angus Cohen had slammed him up against a locker. “That song isn’t about you, fag, it’s about pretending to be something you’re not.”

    He had abandoned the song until one day it occurred to him that it didn’t matter what the actual lyrics said; what mattered was the interpretation which sounded right to a contemporary audience. The song should be interpreted in manner that made the most sense the context of today, author’s original intentions be damned. By the time he was in high school it had become his personal fight song which he hummed to psych up for tests and debate matches.

    Do, Re, and Mi, as they were known throughout the courthouse, harmonized “woo, woo,” sweat running down their faces under the hot television lighting.

    Preetinding that I’m doing well,

    Doing very well indeed, thank you. And not pretending, in either sense of the word, but Preetinding. A special sort of thing that only someone named Preetinder could do. Preetidude. The Preetness.

    He was getting interviewed on Thursday by Judy Woodruff about his take-down of Silk Road. Normally he wouldn’t grant an interview, but PBS was respectable television. And it didn’t hurt that Ms. Woodruff was still quite attractive. Washington had not only approved of the Woodruff interview, but had broadly hinted that it would be a very good thing for him. That could only mean he was being groomed for something higher.

    He’d instantiate the humble civil servant saving the internet from organized crime. Unfortunately, a website which just moved money around didn’t sound very sinister. But DOJ had prepared a slideshow explaining why untraceable financial transactions were a Very Bad Thing. And illegal. And drugs.

    Woodruff’s people had asked if they could redo the slideshow with “higher production values,” to which DOJ headquarters had also, surprisingly, agreed provided that DOJ got to review the final for accuracy. Media people were notorious for wanting to “simplify” things which meant sexing them up at the expense of accuracy.

    My need is such I Preetind to much,

    It had been a long, hard climb to get to where he was today. Chess club. Forensic speaking. Debate club. Law review. Internships.

    He had worked not only for himself, but for all Indians. The Indian-American community was strongly self-policing. They were determined to prove themselves as a hard-working, modern people. Doctors, lawyers, small merchants. Indians left all that village shaman bullshit back in India. And the swastikas. The woodchipper people had trolled him hard on that. They had no sense of restraint; there was nothing funny about Nazism or even the snarky implication thereof, and there was particularly nothing funny about debating which way to feed a federal judge into a woodchipper.

     

    A headshot with a uniform background. This is a female US Supreme Court justice from the early Twenty-First century wearing much simpler court dress.

     

    I’m lonely but no one can tell,

    Someone who was lonely because he spent too much time on work to have real friends. But loneliness and hard work were the price for becoming the man of the hour. He’d show Jindal and Haley who was the chief Indian; national office beckoned him like a Seventh Avenue whore.

    Laughing and gay like the clown.

    He’d have the last laugh over the Woodchipper people, and clowns were sinister after all. They’d never see this, but in his heart he’d know that he could put on a better production number than them. Rip off Bollywood, would they? He’d reach deep into American culture and show them he could best them at their own game. Bum-flashing antics, bad lyrics and muddy single-camera recording were no match for what the mighty powers of the federal government could bring to bear.

     

    Another dreadful example of official portraiture. Bookshelves of law books are an almost obligatory background for judicial portraits. The shelves create lines going through the subject’s body, making the whole thing look choppy.

     

    Word of it would eventually get back to them, though. He was planning to show the finished product at Bar Talent Night at the Second Circuit Judicial Conference this Summer. The Woodchipper people had friends in surprising places; he could think of at least two law professors who would be there who he knew participated anonymously in Thought! Magazine’s online fora.

    The interns harmonized the final line perfectly.

    All the performers froze.

    “Cut,” yelled Corey.

    It’s just like a real one, only smaller.

     

  • Portrait of a Grifter

     

    This marvelous human being, who I’ll call Erin Skakel, is potentially teaching the children of at least one Glib, but more on that later. In addition to redacting her name, and the names of the neighborhood groups to which she posted (the ones of which I am aware, anyway), I have also redacted her image, replacing it with what I believe to be the original Rosie the Riveter poster art from WW2. I deliberately chose that image because her profile pic is one of her cosplaying Rosie. I find it ironic that the accompanying slogan on the original was “we can do it,” when Skakel’s modus vivendi is anything but self-reliance. Rather the Blanche DuBois sort, our girl, always relying on the kindness of strangers.

    That FaceBook post is one of the best examples of writing you will ever see. Seriously. What appears on first glance to be a disjointed stream of conscious rant is revealed upon further examination as a masterpiece of compact, effective prose. Skakel recently posted that paragraph accompanied by a picture (not included, you perverts) of human shins sorely afflicted with a large and severe patch of irritation. Her targets were at least two FaceBook groups for a formerly dowdy Richmond area which recently became trendy and saw its property values skyrocket. Neighborhoods whose lawns are dotted with signs for progressive causes and candidates.

    “anyone know the most inexpensive ways to see a doc”

    Such an innocent and straightforward request. How could you be suspicious of that, Tonio? How? Brain overheating from too many layers of tinfoil? THC-induced psychosis, perhaps? The poor woman is just trying to see a doctor, for goodness sake.

    It fails the reasonable person test that she can’t call around, or surf around on the internet and find that shiznat out. She’s an adult with a college degree and holds down a nominally professional job. Her stated request is for a referral to the cheapest treatment alternative.

    “I’m used to just making an appt”

    I kept skimming over this clause, filtering it out as “random, self-absorbed, chick blather,” but something about it made me keep coming back to it until it struck me that this was a tell; that she had inadvertently dropped a piece of information which caused everything else to drop into place.

    Used to just making an appointment, like she has done some research and found out that the cheapest way to get medical treatment involves getting to a clinic at opening hour (or earlier, because there is always a line), getting on the list and waiting around until your name is called. In the case of the private charity clinic there is paperwork and means-testing and a sliding fee scale for general medical services; I’m unsure about the fee structure of the government health clinic.

    So, you see, Skakel doesn’t just want to receive medical treatment, but to do so in a doctor’s office with an appointment like she’s used to instead of waiting around with sick, poor people for what will probably be a long time.

    Anyone taking an interest in Skakel’s plight and having internet access could quickly discover that the walk-in clinic at the chain pharmacy will cost you $59.00. Again, she’s a college graduate; she has the internet. She presumably has friends. She could figure that out if she wanted to, and if that was her actual intention. She’s signalling that she doesn’t have the money she needs to go to the doctor. But there’s that looming vacay which she drops to give a sense of urgency to her plight. It doesn’t matter how off-putting it is to certain members of her target audience to be asked to subsidize her vacay, money being fungible and all.

    So… I’m a teacher.

    Teachers are sacrosanct. Skakel knows that. She leads with that. It’s the first sentence of her post, which is supposed to be the most important part of your message in any sort of pitch. It’s also a warning to not judge her; she knows that would be enforced by the countless right-thinkful people in the neighborhood and that any pushback would only make her seem more sympathetic to the credulous people who are likely to be moved by her tale of woe.

    I […] have gotten what I thought was poison ivy but… I’m not sure is getting better or that’s what it is.

    Normal people who are looking to earn money quickly often turn to informal unskilled labor such as cleaning and yardwork. But Skakel obviously fails at yard work, and due to the placement of the injuries, is currently unsuited for on-your-knees labor such as scrubbing or weeding. Plus she may not be getting better so it would be cruel to even suggest she perform manual labor while sick. Also, bonus points to her for making that sentence do double-duty both as an expanation of the root cause of her current crisis, and as a gym pass for why she can’t be expected to do, you know, actual physical labor with those gross oozy patches on her shins.

    It’s the pervasive sense of entitlement I find most offensive about Skakel and those like her. This attitude is becoming increasingly prevalant in society. On a larger scale this becomes something like the chimeral “living wage.” In both cases there is the pervasive sense that if a person works they should be able to afford a certain standard of living, certain amenities, regardless of other decisions they have made.

    I won’t delve deeply into the argle-bargle about Skakel accidentally opting out of her health insurance. It’s just not believable on so many levels. My hypothesis is that she thought her medical expenses would be flat and predictable, opted out of her insurance, and had just enough deducted to cover her monthly meds. But, whatever. Here’s what she didn’t do once she figured out that she’d fucked up – act responsibly.

    A responsible person would have set aside money each month to cover out-of-pocket office visits. A responsible person would have gotten a part-time job at the beginning of summer break to earn money to cover unforeseen medical expenses, and perhaps been able to use that money to pay for a vacay once she had health insurance again, but not before. A responsible person would have… I’m preaching to the choir here, people.

    I grew up in an apartment complex heavily populated by teachers. Everyone knew that the unmarried women teachers who wanted to get ahead would share an apartment with another girl, hold down a summer job as a waitress, or with parks and rec, etc. If you lived simply you could afford to live alone and hang out by the pool instead of going on a nice vacation. Your choice. The assumption that she is entitled to a vacay, come hell or high water, is baked into everything she writes.

    Even though this is an opinion piece, as an author primarily of fiction I cannot help but resolve conflict once it has been established. Be brave, dear readers, as the plight of our damsel in distress is about to be revealed.

    Caloo, callay! It appears that our plucky heroine did indeed get her vacation. And how nice of her to check in on us all after the big thunderstorm that rolled through and downed a bunch of trees.

    I’m one of those barely make it month to month “ers”

    Come again? Doesn’t sound like it to me, hon. Sounds like you are living a quite nice lifestyle since you have the money for vacay and gym classes. Skakel lives in the city of Richmond but teaches in one of the nearby counties. The location of the class she wants to take is in the opposite direction from the county in which she teaches. Suspect that “accountability partner” will end up doing most of the driving.

    Thanks to everyone for slogging through a long rant with no laugh lines, tentacles or sex. So here’s a little something that will appeal to most of you.

  • The Making of a Glibs Author

    [Music]

    The scarab-colored Corniche purred North along FDR drive with the top down on a beautiful Manhattan Fall day. Tonio chatted away with his agent in the back seat and they took turns exchanging her flask of VSOP with his joint of some really good weed the bellhop had sold him. Yusef, Riven’s driver, exited at Ninety-Sixth Street. As the car passed the Marx Brothers Playground, they both giggled.

    “Marxists.”

    “Inorite?”

    Finally they arrived at Elaine’s and Yusef double parked outside. Elaine herself greeted them and led them to a choice table where they could talk privately, yet see and be seen. There was an old man dozing at the table. Elaine flicked his ear and he woke up, startled.

    “Time to go, old man,” said Elaine, tipping his chair forward slightly to encourage him to stand up, “the future is here and needs its table.”

    Elaine snapped her fingers and a busboy appeared and quickly cleaned the table. The old man shuffled off desultorily.

    Tonio looked at Riven quizzically.

    She leaned in and made as if to fix some imperfection in his collar. “Salinger,” she whispered, discretely. Shortly, they were seated.

    “Cocktails,” asked Elaine, brusquely.

    “Pink Gin with a twist, please.”

    “Dry Martini with olive, please.”

    “Coming right up,” said Elaine, turning and trundling towards the bar.

    “No shit? I thought Salinger was a recluse.”

    “Hiding in plain sight.”

    “Ah…”

    “So, you’ve arrived,” said Riven with a twinkle in her eye.

    “It’s still sinking in. When I got the check I thought it was a joke.”

    “Hi, I’m Holly. I’ll be your waiter today. Pink Gin for the lady?”

    Holly delivered their drinks, then pulled lunch menus out her apron and handed them each one, opening them beforehand. They sipped their drinks and perused the menu.

    “May I interrupt?”

    “Joe,” said Riven, “this is my new author, Tonio. Tonio, this is Joe Stefko, founder of Charnel House publishers.”

    “Don’t get up,” said Stefko. “So, this is the Tonio of whom I’ve heard so much about?”

    “Yes. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

    “Call me ‘Joe,’ Tonio. Why don’t you come by tomorrow afternoon for our quarterly authors’ cocktail party. Dean will be there. And Harlan, supposedly, but you never know with him; odd bird, and all. Okay, kids, gotta run.”

    “Oh, Tonio, you are still innocent aren’t you?”

    For some reason it was raining in Elaine’s. And getting darker.

    Tonio awoke in the alley behind Acropolis Pizza. Stavros Gallasaris, beloved local restaurateur and inseminator of countless MWC women, was pissing on the cinderblock wall next to him. Gallasaris finished then shook out his fat cock, splattering Tonio with more droplets.

    “Hey…”

    “Nothing you no take before, malakos. Wakey, wakey.”

    Gallasaris was right. Tonio had sucked his boss’ cock on a regular basis since starting work at Acropolis. There was just something irresistible about goaty little men. Especially uncircumcised ones.

    “Another rejection?”

    Tonio nodded.

    The form letter from Virginia Journal of Speculative Fiction lay on the ground next to him, along with the SASE. Tonio had waited to open the letter until his break just before closing. It had been a long, hot shift; he must have dozed off in the relative cool of the alley.

    Dear Author, Thank you for your submission, but it does not meet our needs at this time. Best Wishes, Mimsey Borogrove, editor.

    “I tell you, Maria’s cousin Spheniscidos he print your stuff. You get free magazines. Might help you.”

    Tonio shook his head. He had seen the girly magazines that Gallasaris’ in-law published. Stavros kept a big stack in his desk drawer, and always had one open while Tonio was blowing him. The magazines did contain stories, but they were obviously pasted in as filler – barely titled, uncredited, no “continued on page 69.” Some of the stories appeared to have been cut off randomly in the middle, presumably when the typesetter had finished filling any space not taken-up by boobs or advertising.

    “Let me know you change your mind, he say lotsa good writers get started in Playboy.”

    Tonio knew that. Playboy had just published an excerpt from Roald Dahl’s forthcoming adult novel My Uncle Oswald. But there was a big difference between Playboy and Titties. Hefner had his pick of established authors, and your manuscript wouldn’t get read unless it was submitted by an agent.

    The hippies at the Green Dragon Bookstore had a purple ink fanzine; it was something. But they kept trying to get him to play this weird make-believe game stuff that sounded interesting but ridiculously complicated.

    “Go ahead, clean up. Drunk girls at table three stiff you, smells like they puke all over ladies toilet.”

    “Who the fuck does that? Seriously?”

    “Your people. Rednecks.”

  • How I Spent My Summer Vacation

     

    Soundtrack.

    “You know this won’t help him,” said Nurse Vinson.

    “I’m following the wishes of my client, as expressed while he was still compos mentis,” replied Mr. Izzard the lawyer who looked at her unblinkingly. “You will remember that we have a court order.” The corners of the lawyer’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.

    She felt a chill run up her spine. “Like a rabbit ran over your grave,” was what her grandmother called it. There was something just wrong about the lawyer. No, she shouldn’t even think that because thinking would lead to saying, and that led to trouble.

    “Proceed,” said the lawyer.

    “Go ahead, Brian.”

    “Okay, Mr. Hammond, open up,” smirked the beefy orderly putting on a pair of blue rubber gloves.

    Hammond was strapped to a gurney by wide leather belts at the chest, wrists, waist and ankles. Brian opened an envelope containing a thick rubber “hockey puck” bite guard which he slipped into the patient’s open and eager mouth, then made sure it was fitted in securely. He was the only orderly who would work this duty; the others were either scared off by Vinson’s rantings about deviltry, or terrified of the old bat herself. Whatever. The whole thing was amusing and gave him a break from some of his more sad and grim duties in the Profoundly Retarded Bedridden Unit.

    “Very well,” said the lawyer as he sat down on the chair the hospital administration had told her she had to give him. He placed his metal briefcase on his lap and opened its clicky latches to reveal a thick leatherbound book nestled in its snug bed of black padding.

    The book gave Nurse Vinson the creeps. The first time she saw it she hadn’t noticed the five-pointed star tooled into the wrinkly black leather cover; she had thought that it was an old family Bible and that the lawyer was a nice man about to read her patient a comforting lesson from the scriptures, something she was forbidden from doing herself.

    She wanted not to look at the book but couldn’t help herself; she knew it was looking at her. In the center of the star an eye opened and winked at her all red and glowing before closing again. Must be one of those modern electrical gizmos – like those greeting cards that started singing when you opened them. That had to be it, right? The lawyer was trying to drive her crazy, doubtlessly in cahoots with the new Director.

    Izzard carefully removed the book and used his elbows to close the case, then rested the book on top of the case.

    “You remember his sinuses drain copiously, and you have to constantly aspirate his nasal passages.”

    “Yes sir,” she replied, painfully aware that the lawyer was deliberately working her in front of the orderly. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough. She’d put in twenty-seven years at Eastern State Hospital caring for the lunatics and imbeciles of Virginia. She only had three more years before she could retire. It would be a long three years. Somehow, Izzard’s visits always occured when she was on shift. Administration said they didn’t know anything about it and wouldn’t lift a finger to help her. She suspected that Brian was tipping the lawyer off whenever the shift schedule came out. Nobody would switch shifts with her anymore; they were all out to get her.

    She put the stethoscope into her ears and listened to the patient’s pulse so she wouldn’t have to hear the words. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the lawyer wet his lips with his tongue, preparatory to reading. The tongue was abnormally thin and quick. She closed her eyes and in her mind sang “Yes, We Shall Gather at the River.”

    The first time she had heard the filthy words that lawyer read from the book she had to put a stop to things. Those were not the type of stories which would help her patient get better; if anything they would make him worse. Pornographic occult filth didn’t belong in mental hospitals; didn’t belong anyplace, really, but she knew that she was fighting a losing battle against a society which had abandoned all reason and decency.

    She’d sent him packing, then he came back with a piece of paper which she tore up and she sent him packing again, and then the Sheriff’s Deputies showed up and took the Director in front of the judge to get talked to. Then she had to sit in an all-day meeting with people from DMHS headquarters in Richmond who yelled at her about legal stuff, and then she had to sign papers saying that she understood what they’d said and a whole bunch of other crap that sounded like they could fire her if she interfered again, or even looked at the lawyer cross. Apparently crazy people had a right to have pornography read to them. She knew she couldn’t preach or testify to patients, but why did she have to help them damn their poor souls to even deeper pits in hell? But she did get a week of “administrative leave” which was basically a paid vacation.

    “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn” said the lawyer.

    Brian stifled a giggle. Whatever that was always sounded like the lawyer was trying to talk while eating pussy.

    Hammond made a series of eager whimpering noises in response. The lawyer nodded solemnly at Hammond and began reading.

    “‘The Haunting of Hillary House,’ by SugarFree.”

  • A GlibFit Special: Tonio’s Rough Guide to Kayaking

    Kayaking is a fun and safe recreational activity enjoyed by people at all levels of fitness and mobility. Kayaking can be done on almost any body of liquid water, but I’m going to focus on flatwater and stillwater paddling since that is the entry point and maximum level of attainment for most people. Kayaking is a good low-impact exercise and enables fishing, nature photography, and camping. Nothing beats the relaxation of a day on the water.

    The most frequent question I get from people who have never kayaked is: “Do I have to learn how to flip the boat back up?” No. Ideally you won’t turn over, but if you do you swim free. Which inevitably leads to domanda numero due: “Do I have to be strapped in?” Again, the answer is “no.” Recreational kayaks are designed for easy exit – they have large cockpit openings and ample, unobstructed under-deck space. Plus, there is a new class of sit-on-top, self-draining kayak where no part of you is enclosed at all. To complete the trifecta of answers to questions I am frequently asked by non-boaters – no, they are not as tippy as you probably think; kayaks are designed to keep your center of gravity low which stabilizes things nicely.

    “The kayak was first used by the indigenous Aleut, Inuit, Yupik and possibly Ainu hunters in subarctic regions of the world.” And those dudes were totally badass hunting seals and contending with orcas in frigid waters in boats made of hide and bones. Modern kayaks are almost exclusively made of rotomolded polyethylene plastic, with a small number of specialty boats made of fiberglass or wood.

    Kayakers sit with their legs stretched out ahead of them and use a two-bladed paddle; as opposed to canoeists who kneel, or sit with legs tucked under, and use a one-bladed paddle.

    Equipment, gear and outfit all tastefully coordinated.
    The author in a sit-on-top boat designed for whitewater use, hence the straps and helmet.

    Ideally your first kayak experience should be in the company of two or more experienced paddlers. Kayak enthusiasts often have extra boats and gear and will outfit you for your first trip. Etiquette tip – spring for beers afterwards for your guides and outfitters. Offer to serve as a shuttle monkey or lunch bunny if you want a second invite.

    There are kayak rental concessions at/near various lakes and rivers, some of which offer guided trips. These people are very conscious of their liability and will not put their customers in harm’s way. If your first kayaking experience is with other inexperienced paddlers, start with a one or two hour rental on a quiet lake in a party of three or more people all of whom should know how to swim even though you will use the PFD (life vest) you are issued.

    So, you do a trip and you have fun and decide to buy your own kayak. The type of kayak you should purchase depends on the type of kayaking you’ll be doing. If you’re going to be paddling on ponds and smaller lakes (collectively, stillwater) then you can get by with a cheap department store boat for around two hundred dollars. Inexpensive recreational kayaks can also be safely used on rivers with no rapids (flatwater), or on Class I-II whitewater – caution or instruction recommended for the latter.

    At the absolute minimum you will also need: a PFD (aka life vest, and yes you really, really need one), paddle (you notice I put this behind PFD on the list, right?), whistle or air horn, and a broad-brimmed hat. Appropriate footwear is sandals with ankle straps (no flip-flops), water shoes such as Nike Aquasock, or wetsuit booties. Always have with you water, sunscreen and a snack. Usual outdoor safety and first aid equipment, but Glibs know this already.

    Please don’t buy a cheap polyvinyl inflatable kayak, aka pool toy. These things are truly POS, puncture easily and are not durable. There is a better class of inflatable made of rubberized fabric, but those cost as much as a rigid boat; they do have the advantage of portability and compact storage.

    If you want to do bigger water, want to take long trips, or haul lots of gear then you’re going to need a bigger, more durable boat than they sell at department stores.

    Great for kids, but you'll fight with your spouse or sweetie.
    A Tarpon model 130T (thirteen-foot, tandem) sit-on-top recreational boat. Two drain pipes in the rear cargo compartment, four in the front of the cockpit. The ridges are molded-in footbraces to accommodate various leg lengths.

    If you want to do long downriver trips, or haul lots of gear then I recommend a sit-on-top, self-draining recreational kayak such as Wilderness Systems’ Tarpon line of boats. These boats are sturdy, stable and durable. Recently Wilderness replaced the rubber cargo hatches with hard plastic hinged hatches – much more durable and reliable. The drain pipes go all the way through from the top deck to the bottom deck without letting water into the space between decks. Perhaps counterintuitively, the drain pipes add a huge amount of structural integrity to the hull. These boats can do up to Class III whitewater, and can even surf a bit, but they are not nimble.

    Obligatory Stirring Kayak Anecdote: During rescue operations in chilly whitewater I had two men in a one-person, sit-on-top boat, exceeding the rated cargo capacity by over one hundred pounds. Although the boat sat low in the water and the cockpit was partially flooded, the kayak remained floatworthy and maneuverable; when the extra man got out of the boat the water drained out within ten seconds and full floatworthiness was regained.

    The only disadvantage to self-draining kayaks is that they are slower than traditional kayaks – the drain holes add drag. And while you sit higher in the water in a sit-on-top than in a conventional kayak, the designers compensate for that by making these boats extra-wide for added stability. The drain pipes also provide an easy way to secure the kayak against casual theft using a chain or cable lock.

    Another Anecdote: One of the recreational boaters I’m trying to get to level-up has long been wary of trying my sit-on-top. Once she finally tried it she was impressed by the stability generally solid character of the craft to the point of jealousy.

    If you want to do Class III+ whitewater and be able to surf (including ocean waves) and do tricks then you will need a whitewater kayak – these are made of thicker plastic than cheap recreational boats and have internal supports to keep them from being crushed like a soda can in rough water. You will need to learn to roll – contact your local paddling club, Parks and Rec (SLD), or YMCA about rolling classes which are often conducted in pools. Expect to spend $1,200-$1,600 for all new whitewater kayak, PFD, paddle, skirt and helmet. Whitewater boats are short, and by design easily tip and spin.

    If you are going to do long treks on open water (ocean, sea, bay, sound, great lakes, etc) you will probably want a sea kayak. These boats are long and narrow, relatively stable, but don’t turn well. Many deepwater paddlers learn to roll in case they are swamped by waves or wakes. Some sea kayaks are equipped with sailing rigs, retractable keels for speed and tracking, and outriggers for stability.

    There are also a few pedal-powered kayaks on the market where the pedal rotation powers underwater flaps which help propel the boat; paddles are used for turning and maneuvering, and for additional propulsion. Pedal drive boats are not recommended for water with lots of vegetation, underwater obstructions, etc. Some of those pedal units are removable.

    Fiberglass boats are great if you are a competitive whitewater kayaker, competitive flatwater racer, squirt boater, or want to make your own boat. They are certainly light, but break in situations where a polyethylene boat would bend or dent.

    Wooden boats are so very pretty, but they are heavy and expensive. You don’t see many of them in river kayaking as the owners tend to avoid anything that might scrape them up, like rocks.

    Buying a used boat is often a good way to break into the sport on the cheap without sacrificing equipment quality. Scrapes and scratches consistent with normal use are fine. Beware of dents, folds, creases, cracks, brittle plastic, dry rotted rubber, etc. Generic replacement nylon carry handles are readily available, but rotted handles are indicative of poor kayak storage. Best time to find a used boat is December through March as people get new boats for Christmas or for Spring.

    A single short boat will fit inside a hatchback vehicle with the front seat folded forward. For longer or multiple boats you will need a roof rack, or a pickup truck. A Subaru Outback wagon can easily haul four kayakers with boats and gear for a day trip.

    Tonio has been a canoeist since 1985, and a kayaker since 1990. Tonio’s maximum level of attainment was solid Class IV whitewater paddling skills, but he has dialed things back to Class III now that he is older. Tonio loves practicing kayak safety and rescue techniques. Tonio is not a real Italian.

  • A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Five: At Home with the Hasturs

    Anti-abortion activist waging war on vulnerable women. Stay classy, The Guardian.

    Previous Parts: One, Two, Three, Four, et cetera.

    Junior stood on the sidewalk back against the building wall with his “Abortion is Murder” sign. Most of the passing college students looked at him with disgust. A few were visibly angered and mouthed or muttered insults or flipped him off. He ignored them and kept scanning the crowd for possible threats. A fat dyke waddled by, the saggy jowls of her thighs flapping against her knees. She fixed him with a porcine look of hatred.

    “That one?”

    “No, Dad. Look down at her ankle.”

    “Phylactery? She’s one of them?”

    “No, monitoring bracelet; she’s Operation: Rescue This! She’s not going to risk a probation violation.”

    The dyke flipped them the bird with both hands, and stomped angrily down the sidewalk to the applause and cheers of a few onlookers.

    “There. The tall girl with the stringy hair. Wave your sign, Dad.”

    “Ohhhh…” Hastur pumped his “Satan Loves Abortions” sign up and down eagerly. Nothing.

    Junior expertly rotated and tilted his sign to flash the sunlight off it so as to attract the girl’s attention. Suddenly she noticed the protesters and began to run towards them, screeching. Junior planted his feet apart and crouched down, tightening his grip on the thick cardboard tubing supporting the sign.

    “Remember, you can only block them if they attack you or your sign. We can’t defend each other.”

    When the girl was three feet from them she reached up to grab at Junior’s sign. He quickly tilted the top of the tube backward. She sensed the trap that had been set for her, and turned to Hastur.

    Hastur waved his sign back and forth. “Jesus hates abortions, but Jesus loves you,” he called. That did the trick.

    Becky can’t believe that she’s under arrest for stealing something that made her angry.

    The girl crouched and jumped at Hastur’s sign, timing her jump so that she reached apogee when the sign waved closest to her. She grabbed the poster board and held on as she fell. Hastur wasn’t anticipating an attack that violent and precise from a Human female. The tubing slipped through his hands until the bottom hit the ground. He regained his grip, but that only caused the sign to tear in half as the girl fell. She stuck her landing and scarpered off with the posterboard, screaming “this is why Womyn can’t get abortions in this state.”

    Sad, eight-bit synthesized music played and the message “Player 2 replay level?” appeared in the air ahead of them. Everything else dimmed and stopped.

    “Volleyball lesbian, Dad. She’s the toughest one on this level. You want to try again?”

    “Let’s move on to the next level before your mother gets here.”

    “Wow, you mean she… Well, she didn’t abort me.”

    “So what’s the next level,” asked Hastur quickly. Junior was growing up too damned fast, and his first meal hadn’t helped things.

    Best timeline, ever. Amirite?

    “Rooftop Koreans. We’re on top of a dry cleaning business, but we’re controlling the looters at the electronics store across the street. The electronics guys are protecting our building. Don’t shoot anyone unless they are actively breaking in, or carrying loot out.”

    An array of weapons appeared in the space in front of them.

    “Which one do I want?”

    “Shotgun. Go easy on the ammo. It takes them a while to bleed out.”

    Hastur picked the pump action twelve gauge with buckshot, and Junior chose the Mini-14 Ranch Rifle, with the Super Deluxe Tacticool upgrade which he had unlocked through numerous in-game rewards.

    “Ready?”

    “Ready.”

    “This just in. The Simi Valley jury in the Rodney King police brutality case acquitted all four officers of assault and acquitted three of the four of using excessive force. The jury could not agree on a verdict for the fourth officer charged with using excessive force.”

    Suddenly the boom boxes on the street below shut off. There was a moment of eerie silence, and then a low roar punctuated by shouting, and the sounds of glass breaking and of solid things beating on clangy things. A police cruiser sped by the intersection with lights and a brief siren whoop – getting the hell out of Dodge.

    “Dad! There. Crowbar guy. Wait until I tell you.”

    “Clang, clang, clang!”

    “Stop or we’ll shoot,” yelled Junior. The skinny Korean in the blue polo repeated his words in slightly accented English.

    “One.. two.. three. Now, Dad!”

    The fat Korean in the yellow polo fired his shotgun.

    “Great nuclear Azathoth,” swore Hastur, his words immediately repeated by his avatar to the puzzlement of the blue-shirted Korean. “That thing kicks like a Shoggoth.”

    “Hold it tight to your shoulder. The button under your [untranslatable] sucker on your [untranslatable] tentacle controls what your character says.”

    A crowd of people swarmed the entrance to Park Electronics and sheltered in the terrazzo entranceway underneath the marquee. A few faces turned and pointed at the rooftop. Junior squatted down and motioned for Hastur to do the same.

    “Clang, Clang, Clang!”

    “Can I shoot again?”

    “We’d lose the level. There isn’t a clear shot at the door with all those bystanders, which is why they started up the crowbar again.”

    Their strategy session was interrupted by three loud and annoyingly perky tones. “Dum. Doop. Doo!”

    Junior twitched his tentacles and the word “pause” appeared; the scene darkened and the action stopped. The rooftop scene cut to a white background with a blue logo consisting of a “W” inside a circle.

    “Designated visitor Myra incoming,” said an ice princess voice.

    “Myra?”

    “That’s how the WartCo AI pronounces it. I haven’t figured out how to fix it.”

    “Dad…” Junior rolled his multiple eyes. Definitely his mother’s son in that regard.

    The WartCo logo contracted until it was a small blue dot in the center of the screen. The dot was replaced with a circular moving image which grew until it filled the screen. The image showed a buxom young woman tugging a rolling suitcase down an urban cobblestone alleyway. The woman walked out of the street scene and into Hastur’s rec room. The street scene cut to the WartCo logo on a white background.

    “Wartyvision,” whispered a chorus, followed by a muted “Doo. Doop. Dum.”

    “Mom!”

    “Honey!”

    “Hi, boys. Who wants pizza? Fresh from the oven at Armand’s?”

    “Best mom ever,” observed Hastur proudly.

    “And how,” replied Junior.

    “Junior, take the stasis box from your mother and go set the table.”

    Junior tentacle-hugged his mother and took the suitcase from her before exiting.

    Hastur also tentacle-hugged Moira, but in a distinctly different fashion than his son had done.

    “Somebody missed me.”

    Hastur made a surprisingly small and needy noise.

    “Me, too,” she whispered. “Just wait until Junior goes to bed.”

    “So how was your day,” boomed Hastur.

    “Good. You should have seen the face on the Armand’s guy when I put the pizza in the ‘suitcase’ and started rolling it. ‘Hey Lady, you wrecked your pizza.’ It’s Capitol Hill, they’ve seen weirder.”

    “Junior’s birthday, amirite?”

    “Yes,” she said, somewhat sheepishly.

    “Mom, Dad, everything’s ready.”