Category: Congress

  • Chapter 1 – A Brief History, or “I’m from the government and I’m here to experiment on you.”

    I think it speaks to the undercurrent of distrust of the government and the military,” said Lt. Gen. Ronald R. Blanck, the Surgeon General of the Army, the service that oversees the [anthrax] vaccination program.  “Agent Orange. Nuclear tests in the ’50s. People say, ‘How can you say this is safe?’  Clearly, we have a credibility problem.”

    ~ Steven Lee Myers, Armed Services Opt to Discharge Those Who Refuse Vaccine, N.Y. Times, March 11, 1999.

    The United States Armed Forces has a long and not-so illustrious history of testing nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons… on its own citizens. From at least the 1940’s on (and if you want to include Native Americans, we can go back a lot further!), the Department of Defense has conducted experiments on U.S. servicemembers using ‘unconventional’ weapons. A report prepared by the staff of the Senate Committee on Veteran’s Affairs in 1994 concluded that “[f]or at least 50 years, [the] DOD has intentionally exposed military personnel to potentially dangerous substances, often in secret[.]”[i] That report followed a Government Accounting Office inquiry into experiments conducted on servicemembers by the Department of Defense.[ii] The GAO report detailed many different programs, some of which the DoD still lists as classified, in which servicemembers were given experimental drugs and other treatments without their knowledge or consent. A few of the more stunning examples of experimentation are worth discussing in detail, not simply to attack the Department of Defense or the military establishment, but rather as context because it is against this history that the DoD’s anthrax program was launched. And it is against this background of secret experimentation and tests conducted on coerced subjects that the DoD asks members of the Armed Services to “trust us” with regards to vaccines and inoculations claimed to be safe and effective.

                                                                                                                                                                                                   

    [i] An Institute of Medicine report looking at the history of mustard and lewisite gas found the Armed Forces researching chemical warfare after World War I and up through World War II.  The report even traces some research back before the Civil War.  See Senate Report No. 103-97, at 15 (1994).

    [ii] The Government Accounting Office (GAO) is the watchdog arm of Congress that investigates government agencies.  See “Human Experimentation, An Overview on Cold War Era Programs,” U.S. General Accounting Office, September 28, 1994, GAO/T-NSIAD-94-266.

                                                                                                                                                                                                               

    In the 1940’s, the Department of the Navy began soliciting volunteers to participate in a program to test protective clothing. In reality, the program was designed to test mustard and lewisite gases, chemical agents that the United States thought might be used by the desperate Axis powers at the end of World War II. There are some who claim that the tests were done simply to see what effect mustard gas had on soldiers in order to determine the offensive potential of chemical weapons. The truth is likely that these are not exclusive propositions. Either way, the program solicited potential ‘volunteers’ with the promise of two weeks of extra leave or some other similar incentive. “Due to the strategic importance of these experiments [however], the Navy deemed it inappropriate to inform potential volunteers as to the precise nature of the tests.  Instead . . . the . . . volunteers were led to believe that they would be testing uniforms for use in tropical climates.”[iii]  These ‘volunteers’ were sworn to secrecy and threatened with court-martial if they told anyone about the program for which they had just ‘volunteered.’  Of course, at this point, because no one had told them exactly what they volunteered for, it was relatively easy to extract such a promise. It is rather doubtful that most members would have agreed had they known that they were about to be experimented upon with chemical weapons.

    Nathan Schnurman was a young sailor who figured he could use the extra few days off. He had just finished boot camp and was stationed at Bainbridge, Maryland, awaiting further orders when he volunteered for the program. He was put on a bus for Anacostia, Maryland, where the experiments actually took place. Young Nathan Schnurman, along with the other volunteers, was given a bunk in a Quonset hut and some blankets for that evening. All of the volunteers were issued protective clothing, including a gas mask, given a physical, and the next morning the experiments began. The protective clothing and masks were fitted and checked and then the ten volunteers were led to the testing building. At this point, the volunteers had still only been told that they were testing clothing for tropical weather.

    The building itself was a simple structure with an entrance platform and test chamber. A single door separated the platform from the chamber and an intercom allowed for communication between the subjects inside the chamber and the corpsmen on the platform. The subjects were told that, once inside, a vapor was to be introduced into the chamber and that they were to remain in the chamber for one hour. The subjects were not told what the vapor was, but were told that it might produce a slight irritation on the subjects’ skin, similar to a sunburn. The subjects were admonished not to discuss the experiment with anyone.[iv]

    The volunteers were exposed to the vapor for the one hour, as advertised. After that, they were instructed to continue to wear the protective clothing for another four hours, to eat meals and pass the time in their Quonset hut. They later disrobed and were given physical exams to check primarily for burns on the skin. This routine repeated itself the next day. The second day’s physical was the last one that any volunteer ever received as a part of the experiment.

    The hour-long gas exposures continued on a daily basis for the next four days without incident, save the departure of a few of the subjects due to painful burns. On one of those days, just prior to the morning’s exposure, plaintiff [Schnurman] was informed by a corpsman that they would be testing mustard and lewisite gas that day.

    On the sixth test day, while inside the chambers, plaintiff’s gas mask malfunctioned and plaintiff breathed the noxious vapor being tested. The inhalation of the gas produced extreme nausea and a burning in his eyes, nose and throat. Before being helped out of the chamber, plaintiff regurgitated in his mask. Once outside the chambers and free of his mask, plaintiff continued to experience nausea and dizziness, plus an intense pain in his chest. After further vomiting, plaintiff lost consciousness. No record was made of this incident.

    Upon regaining consciousness, plaintiff was informed that he would no longer be needed for the experiment and that he could return to Bainbridge. He was not given any physical examination or treatment with the exception of local treatment for the minor burns on his skin. Plaintiff left the site of the experiment and traveled to his home in Roanoke, Virginia for a ten-day leave.[v]

    Mr. Schnurman went on with his life, experiencing long-term health problems. Sworn to secrecy, Schnurman felt that he could not tell his personal physician about the source of his ailments because of his oath and the threat of punishment. Thus, he did not provide essential information to his doctors about his health because of his fears of what would happen to him if he told. This scenario was not uncommon.

    A Mr. John T. Harrison described to a senate committee how he was sworn to secrecy in 1943 when mustard gas tests were conducted on him.[vi] Because of these vows to which the man had been sworn, it was not until much later in life that plaintiffs, such as Mr. Schnurman, (1) learned of what had been used on them, and (b) then filed lawsuits against the government.

    A very similar incident happened to a John William Allen in 1945, according to a statement before the Senate Committee on Veterans’ Affairs. Mr. Allen testified that the real purpose of the testing was to determine how much sulfur mustard a man could take before being overcome: these were known as ‘man-break tests.’  “He was exposed several times to sulfur mustard and was removed from further exposure on May 5, 1945, when he passed out in the gas chamber. A physical examination on May 14, 1945, revealed many wounds as the result of exposure to mustard gas.”[vii]

    It is important to understand that these are not isolated incidents.  An Institute of Medicine report in 1993 estimated that some 60,000 military members were used as human subjects in the 1940’s to test just for two particular chemical agents, mustard gas and lewisite, and the majority of these people were not informed about the nature of the experiments, nor were they given proper medical care or follow up after the research.[viii]

                                                                                                                                                                                                               

    [iii] Few things have amazed me more in my time in service than what members of the Armed Forces – even moreso Marines – will do for just a few extra days of leave or liberty. I am still not sure what that says about the military, but leave and liberty are the promise land to most servicemembers.

    [iv] Schnurman v. United States, 490 F. Supp. 429, 430 (E. D. Va. 1980).

    [v] Schnurman, at 431.

    [vi] Is Military Research Hazardous to Veterans’ Health? Lessons from World War II, the Persian Gulf War, and Today, Senate Committee on Veterans’ Affairs, 103rd Cong. May 6, 1994.

    [vii] S. Rep. 103-97, at 18 (1994).

    [viii] Veterans at Risk: The Health Effects of Mustard Gas and Lewisite, Pechura, C.M. & Rall, D.P. (Eds.) Institute of Medicine, National Academy Press, Washington, DC, 1993, p. 3-4, 6-8, 50-52, 224-226.

                                                                                                                                                                                                               

    During the 1950’s and 60’s, the CIA and the Army engaged in experimentation on U.S. servicemembers, both with and without their knowledge. In several different experiments, the DoD caused servicemembers to unknowingly ingest hallucinogens. Most of the experiments centered around ‘mind control’ and interrogation of persons under the effects of hallucinogens. This was prompted by the perception in U.S. intelligence that China and the Soviet Union had used, and were using, hallucinogens for ‘brainwashing’ and interrogation of prisoners of war. This program was known by the code name MKULTRA. It involved giving LSD and another substance known as quinuclidinyl benzilate, a hallucinogen code-named BZ, to unsuspecting members of both the Armed Forces and civilian communities.

    In 1958, Master Sergeant James Stanley responded to a posting on Fort Knox, Kentucky, that solicited volunteers to help the Army develop methods for testing and defending against chemical weapons. Ironically, the volunteers were told they would be testing protective clothing (just as in World War II). MSgt Stanley was transferred to Aberdeen, Maryland, for the testing. He did not learn until seventeen years later that he had been unknowingly given LSD during the program. He found this out accidentally in 1975 when contacted by Walter Reed Army Medical Center, which was conducting follow-up on those who had participated in the 1958 test. Walter Reed wanted to know of any long-term health consequences to MSgt Stanley from his ingestion of the hallucinogen. MSgt Stanley in the intervening years had suffered health problems and hallucinations that he had no explanation for that eventually led to a divorce. See United States v. Stanley, 483 U.S. 669 (1987).

    In another instance, Lloyd Gamble, who enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in 1950, volunteered for a special program to (yet again!) test new military protective clothing in 1957.

    He was offered various incentives to participate in the program, including a liberal leave policy, family visitations, and superior living and recreational facilities. However, the greatest incentive to Mr. Gamble was the official recognition he would receive as a career-oriented noncommissioned officer, through letters of commendation and certification of participation in the program. During the 3 weeks of testing new clothing, he was given two or three water-size glasses of a liquid containing LSD to drink. Thereafter, Mr. Gamble developed erratic behavior and even attempted suicide. He did not learn that he had received LSD as a human subject until 18 years later, as a result of congressional hearings in 1975.  Even then, the Department of the Army initially denied that he had participated in the experiments, although an official DOD publicity photograph showed him as one of the valiant servicemen volunteering for “a program that was in the highest national security interest.”[ix]

    What is worth noting about these programs, beyond the experimentation on servicemembers without their informed consent, are the arguments offered by the proponents and defenders of these programs. According to Sidney Gottlieb, a doctor and former CIA officer, MKULTRA was established to investigate whether and how an individual’s behavior could be modified by covert means. Dr. Gottlieb testified before Congress that “it was felt to be mandatory and of the utmost urgency for our intelligence organization to establish what was possible in this field on a high priority basis.”[x] Although many human subjects were not informed or protected, Dr. Gottlieb’s defended these actions by stating, “. . . harsh as it may seem in retrospect, it was felt that in an issue where national survival might be concerned, such a procedure and such a risk was a reasonable one to take.”[xi]

    These attitudes persist even today. Dr. Gottleib’s responses in the 1970’s sound remarkably like the reasons offered to justify mandatory vaccination of troops today with unapproved, unlicensed, or investigational drugs. In a television appearance in 1997, Secretary of Defense Cohen held up a five-pound bag of sugar and stated that if the bag were filled with anthrax spores, it could wipe out half of the population of Washington, D.C.[xii] In a later opinion editorial appearing in Army Times, Secretary Cohen wrote that

    At least 25 countries, including Iraq and North Korea, now have – or are in the process of acquiring and developing – weapons of mass destruction . . . This is not hyperbole. It is reality . . . The race is on between our preparations and those of our adversaries. We are preparing for the possibility of a chemical or biological attack on American soil because we must. There is not a moment to lose.[xiii]

    The truth of these matters will be examined in greater detail later. The point to be made here is that Secretary Cohen’s defense of the anthrax program, and the justification for biological warfare programs generally, distilled to its essence, is nothing more than “the ends justifies the means.” Where matters of national security (Gottleib called it “national survival”) are at stake, it does not matter how we go about defending ourselves, even if it means experimenting on unsuspecting troops, because it involves ‘National Security’.

    This is a particularly dangerous path for a number of reasons, some obvious and others not as obvious. While there are any number of moral points of view about using troops in this way, one’s opinion about whether it is right or wrong to experiment on troops in this fashion depends largely on one’s view of individual liberty for the citizen-soldier and the limits of a nation state’s ability to protect ‘itself.’ These arguments inevitably devolve into philosophical debates, punctuated by twelve-letter words and citations to long-dead philosophers, spoken by people far removed from the gas chambers and vomiting victims on their hands and knees; much like Dr. Gottleib’s testimony in an air-conditioned chamber in front of politicians and cameras during the famous Church Committee hearings. More importantly, where ‘military’ or ‘national security’ matters are concerned, the academics inevitably defer to those wearing uniforms with stars on their collars.

    It would appear on the surface that this issue was decisively concluded at the end of World War II in favor of the rights of the individual. In August 1947, the Nuremberg Trials of the Nazi Doctors, including those such as Karl Brandt, came to a close, resulting in the death penalty for many of the doctors who conducted such experiments on unwilling prisoners in concentration camps across Hitler’s Reich. It is there that we must turn briefly in order to understand the law of informed consent and how it applies to the military, if at all. But if it seems that the present author is ‘laying it on a little thick,’ compare Secretary Cohen’s above remark about the necessity of the mandatory anthrax vaccine program to this one:

    We are not conducting these experiments, as a matter of fact, for the sake of some fixed scientific idea, but to be of practical help to the armed forces and beyond that to the . . . people in a possible emergency.

    This is from a letter written by Doctor Wolfram Sievers, Colonel in the German Army in November, 1942, to Dr. Karl Brandt, both convicted Nazi War Criminals, excerpted from Prosecution Exhibit No. 263 at their trial.

                                                                                                                                                                                                               

    [ix] Id., notes omitted.

    [x] Human Drug Testing by the CIA, 1977: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Health and Scientific Research, Committee on Human Resources, U.S. Senate, September 20-21, p. 169 (1977).

    [xi] Id., pp. 169-217.

    [xii] Paul Richter, Experts Assess Risk of ‘New Terrorism’ Threat, Los Angeles Times, Feb. 7, 2000.

    [xiii] William S. Cohen, Preparing for a Grave New World, Washington Post, Jul. 26, 1999.

     

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  • Let’s Get Pessimistic About 2020

    Previously, we examined whether the culture war has been lost.  Yes, yes it has, as the commanding heights of our culture have been captured by collectivist/tribalist crypto-Marxists of the Left, who have expanded their reach into the administrative state and into the business world.

    As an aside, I think we can safely count the major Christian denominations (with the possible exception of the Baptists) as having also having been captured by the Left. With the election of the Commie Pope,  even the Catholic Church has fallen.  The Long March through the Catholic Church would be an interesting article in and of itself, if anyone wants to volunteer.

    Leftism requires coercion, which is generally the province of the government.  They cannot complete the desired destruction of  America as we know it without capturing the dominant American institution, the government, by taking the elected branches of government.

    Trump was elected as a backlash candidate against the Left, and there are a number of Republicans (and possibly even a few Democrats) who are still opposed to the Leftists to some degree .  Could Congress and the Presidency keep Leftism in at least some semblance of control?

    First, you could hardly find a weaker reed than elected politicians for, well, just about anything other than the preservation of the perks and opportunities for enrichment of elected politicians.  That aside, elected officialdom as a bulwark against Leftism only works if Leftists don’t win.   So its really a question of when, not if, the Left recaptures Congress and the Presidency.  Which will happen the next time the Democrats win the Presidency and control of both houses of Congress.  Such as, next year.

    At the moment, there is a fair amount of optimism that Trump will win re-election, that the Repubs will hold onto the Senate, and even rumblings that they have a fair chance of winning the House, on the belief that the Democrats, currently fronted by their nutbar Presidential candidates and the odious “Squad”, have gone too far to the Left, too fast.  I’m thinking that optimism is unwarranted.

    The Presidency.  Don’t discount the importance the Leftist major media.  Trump, despite presiding over no new wars and a healthy economy, has yet to break 50% in his approval ratings.  I think you can credit the relentless spew of Trump hatred for that.  And a drag on approval is a drag on votes.

    But, you protest, the last time the Dems ran lefty candidates (McGovern, maybe Mondale), they lost in historic landslides.  That was a generation or more ago, before the Left captured the cultural institutions, many businesses, and had the opportunity to indoctrinate a generation.  I see little reason to believe that past performance in 1972 and 1984 will predict future results in 2020.

    Trump won by swinging a largely uncontested Rust Belt by a narrow margin.  I cannot believe the Dems will make that mistake twice, so in 2020 the Rust Belt will be fought over like the swing states they are.  The voters that will ultimately matter are in the suburban “purple” districts.  You know, the ones that gave Congress back to the Dems last year.

    Congress.  The Repubs lost the House in 2018, and while the Democrats’ ardent embrace of Leftism may be the underlying change in the political dynamic that needed for the Repubs to win it back, the events preceding their loss of the House (the Kavanaugh hearings, the weaponization of the FBI and DOJ) had the ugly side of the Left on full display.  Maybe the optics have gotten somewhat worse, so there may be some chance that the Repubs win the House despite what will certainly be a full court press by the Leftist media and Big Tech.

    The Repubs hold the Senate by a mere two seats, and have nine more seats on the table than the Dems do in 2020.  I have not bothered to prognosticate how many Repub Senators are “at risk”, but on the most basic calculation, the odds don’t seem to favor the Repubs.

    The real danger, though, comes from two places:  the assault by the Left on the machinery of voting, and the determination of the Leftist Big Tech monopolies to push the Left over the finish line.

    The Machinery of Voting.   While this is probably a topic for a post of its own, I suggest you consider the following:

    The Dems absolutely believe its not the votes that count, its who counts the votes.  In most states, elections are run by the Secretary of State, and the Dems have set their sights on capturing this seemingly nondescript office.  And, of course, there is the astonishing win/loss record of the Dems in recounts, often accompanied by the discovery of previously unknown ballots.  You can count on any sufficiently close contest being “won” by the Dems.

    There are over a million more registered voters in California than there are actual eligible voters.  While California is likely the worst on this front, the voter rolls nationwide are notoriously, well, garbage.  There’s a reason why Democrat states are refusing to go along with any attempt to clean up the voter rolls.  I’m not saying its because every “excess” registered voter is an opportunity for fraud . . . well, actually, yes I am saying that.

    Wherever they can, the Dems run “ballot harvesting” operations (for which those excess registered voters come in very handy).  I seriously doubt they have declined to take advantage of the open door these create for fraud.  While Martha McSally ran a pretty nondescript campaign in 2018 for Jeff Flake’s Senate seat, I believe her loss in what had been a pretty safe Red state to the explicitly pro-Left and anti-Arizona Krysten Sinema is due at least in part to the Dems’ ballot harvesting machine in Phoenix.  Mind you, that’s in a state nominally controlled by the Repubs, so its not just Dem-controlled states that are vulnerable to election fraud.

    In short, there is less reason all the time to believe that the preferences of voters for candidates who are not anti-American Leftists will necessarily determine who actually wins elections.  The margin of fraud has been getting wider and wider over time, and Trump’s margins in key Rust Belt swing states are well within that margin.

    Big Tech.  The power of Big Tech to control the information that is readily available to the voting public is immense, and these quasi-monopolies are overtly Leftist.  Beyond the various deplatforming pogroms of Twitter and Facebook, and Google’s manipulation of search results, there should be no doubt they are planning to put their thumb on the scales as hard as they can.  The information most Americans get is heavily mediated by the Big Tech monopolies via search results, ad placements, and simple visibility and ranking.  As they de-platform, de-monetize, de-rank, and even refuse ads from, anyone not a Leftist, their impact on the election will likely outstrip even the DemOp Media.

    I don’t think any political movement in American history has ever had that kind of backing, and I can’t believe it won’t affect the outcome.

    The Courts.  Ah, you say, but Trump and the Republican Senate are stuffing the federal judiciary full of non-Leftist judges.  Can the courts, which have certainly been expanding their ambit so that any federal district judge can set national policy, stand as some kind of limitation on the Leftist program?

    One reason not to pin too much hope on the federal judiciary is that its jurisdiction is almost completely up to Congress.  While Article III of the Constitution has a seemingly healthy list of cases to which the “judicial power shall extend”, it also states that:

    “In all cases affecting ambassadors, other public ministers and consuls, and those in which a state shall be party, the Supreme Court shall have original jurisdiction. In all the other cases before mentioned, the Supreme Court shall have appellate jurisdiction, both as to law and fact, with such exceptions, and under such regulations as the Congress shall make.”

    The lower federal courts, I should point out, are creations of statute, and thus their jurisdiction is also subject to Congressional . . . revision.  If the newly Trumpist courts have the temerity to mount any kind of effective resistance to Leftism, a Leftist Congress and President can simply strip them of their power to interfere with the fundamental transformation of the country.  Recall, as well, that judicial review of the Constitutionality of statutes and government action is a creation of the courts and not the Constitution, and if push came to shove I see no reason why Congress could not strip this power from both the Supreme Court and the inferior courts.

    Next Up:  Apres les Deluge, or, what happens when the TWANLOC Left succeeds in their mission of destroying, err, fundamentally transforming, America.

  • Q’s Brain Toilet: Cinco de Q

    Come one, come all! Q’s traveling circus of insanity has returned to town!  See the Bearded Lady, the Human Pretzel and the world famous Flying Shitlords on the trapeze!  And now, in the center ring, the show is about to begin!

    The Deep State and Faux Accomplishment

    We often discuss the rampant and obsessive credentialism that flourishes in the permanent bureaucracy of the FedGov.  This seems to go incestuously hand-in-hand with a handful of expensive and prestigious (emphasis on expensive) educational institutions.  Entering “the civil service” has largely been considered by popular culture as a way for a skilled individual to work for the good of society rather than power and money.  As the FedGov has grown ever more bloated and infiltrated more and more of our lives, this theory has become laughable.

    The permanent bureaucracy cultivates and maintains a self-licking ice cream cone of masturbatory influence peddling amongst the chosen ones who inhabit it.  It is a pathway to great power and wealth to mediocre individuals that would otherwise be unavailable.  You see, what it takes to make it into the private club is a secret handshake consisting of the “right” credentials, the “right” connections, the “right” familial relations or some combination thereof.  To be a captain of industry, or a famous scientist or author, or a wealthy entrepreneur etc. requires real talent and tons of hard work.  Entering the permanent bureaucracy and getting gifted some minor Administration position or managerial post in an agency is a back door to the same type of “respectability” and “prestige” as any of the aforementioned accomplishments.  The fact that people with no other qualifications other than “former White House adviser” sit on boards of directors of large companies or gain endowed professorships at universities is evidence enough of that.

    I believe that a mildly competent mid-level professional is, on average, eminently more qualified for various leadership positions than even a high-level Swamp Creature; to say nothing about truly exceptional individuals occupying the heights of industry, business and applied research.  Looking from this angle, it’s evident why getting a cherry position in the Deep State is so appealing to those whose ambitions are several sizes larger than their talents.

    Male Sexual Ego, Uniqueness and the Will to Power

    The generative act is treated by many religions and philosophies as a divine act; in essence, this draws an analogue between reproduction and the act of capital-C Creation.  It’s really not all that far fetched considering that it is an ecstatic outpouring of energy resulting in a mysterious process that creates new and independent life.  A more cynical person might even say that creation myths were written ex post facto to align with human sexuality and orgasm.  However, I digress…

    Especially in Eastern religious tradition (but present in Western too) is the view that males and females channel inner god-like energy during sexual congress.  I don’t believe this is the full story, however.  Females may, in fact, channel the divine feminine during intercourse, but the true god-like aspect of the reproductive act comes later during gestation and parturition.  For the male, however, his only involvement and feeling of being akin to G-d is during the sex act itself.  This is partially why, contrary to pop culture belief, men care a great deal about getting a woman to orgasm; it’s proof of their divine abilities.

    To that end, I posit that there is nothing more horrifying to a man than the idea that he has a sexual doppelgänger.  A man can deal with the idea that the woman he’s having sex with may have had a man in past who is overall subjectively “better”.  This is almost always offset by the fact that in particular areas, he himself was deemed “better”; ie: even though man X had a smaller penis than man Y, man X was better at oral, etc.  And this is down to the judgement of the particular woman.  The principal thing here is that the man retains his uniqueness when it comes to his divine power.

    Imagine now a scenario in which man X and man Y are utterly indistinguishable.  There is no objective difference at all between how each of them have sex.  All of a sudden, they are no longer distinct beings at the most fundamental level.  Milan Kundera said (and I’m paraphrasing) that only through having sex with someone can we pierce the veil of the superficial and see their true nature.  Given that, regardless of their other qualities, man X and Y are identical, non-unique and, therefore, useless and soulless.  Looking at it this way, it makes sense why men are: 1) obsessed with sex, 2) obsessed with distinguishing themselves to their lovers and 3) very goal-oriented sexually.

    My Favorite Rare and Exotic Diseases (in no particular order)

    Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva“an extremely rare connective tissue disease. It is a severe, disabling disease with no cure or treatment and is the only known medical condition where one organ system changes into another[…]The disease is caused by a mutation of the body’s repair mechanism, which causes fibrous tissue (including muscle, tendon, and ligament) to be ossified spontaneously or when damaged. In many cases, otherwise minor injuries can cause joints to become permanently frozen in place, as new bone forms and replaces the damaged muscle tissue.”

    Fatal Familial Insomnia“It is a prion disease of the brain[…]Fatal insomnia has no known cure and involves progressively worsening insomnia, which leads to hallucinations, delirium, confusional states like that of dementia, and eventually death. The average survival time from onset of symptoms is 18 months.”

    Xeroderma pigmentosum“is a genetic disorder (autosomal recessive) in which there is a decreased ability to repair DNA damage such as that caused by ultraviolet (UV) light[…]There is no cure for XP.  Treatment involves completely avoiding the sun.”

    Primary Amoebic MeningoencephalitisN. fowleri invades the central nervous system via the nose, specifically through the olfactory mucosa of the nasal tissues. This usually occurs as the result of the introduction of water that has been contaminated with N. fowleri into the nose during activities such as swimming, bathing, or nasal irrigation[…]Although infection occurs very rarely, it nearly always results in death, with a case fatality rate greater than 95%.”

    Nodding Syndrome “Nodding disease is a disease which emerged in Sudan in the 1960s[…]Children affected by nodding disease experience a complete and permanent stunting of growth. The growth of the brain is also stunted, leading to mental handicap. The disease is named for the characteristic, pathological nodding seizure, which often begins when the children begin to eat, or sometimes when they feel cold. These seizures are brief and halt after the children stop eating or when they feel warm again. Seizures in nodding disease span a wide range of severity. Neurotoxicologist Peter Spencer, who has investigated the disease, has stated that upon presentation with food, ‘one or two [children] will start nodding very rapidly in a continuous, pendulous nod. A nearby child may suddenly go into a tonic–clonic seizure, while others will freeze.’”

    That wraps up yet another edition of Q’s Brain Toilet, while it may not be as horrific as SF’s posts, as interesting as Animal’s, as informative as MS’s, as whimsical as Banjo’s, as creative as CPRM’s, as useful as SP’s or as anti-Semitic as OMWC’s, it certainly exists!  G-d bless Glibertarians and G-d bless America!

    …and maybe Canada every once in a while too.

  • A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Four: Quid Pro Quo

     

    “This is Lisa Fletcher reporting from Capitol Hill where there have been reports of sewer explosions and of giant sewer rats emerging from toilets. DC Water and Sewer Authority is on the scene, and here we see a DC Fire and EMS ambulance leaving leaving the Dirksen Senate Office Building. We don’t know who or to where because of patient privacy laws, but we have reason to believe it isn’t life threatening.”

    “Thanks, Lisa, and now to a live press conference at City Hall with Mayor Bowser and DC Water and Sewer Authority director Gadis.”

    §

    The staff at Le Diplomate were shocked when their normally-punctual senator didn’t show for her standing Friday evening reservation. The hostess then somehow managed to mention that to Mr. and Mrs. EJ Dionne of The Washington Post as she was seating them. On Monday a messenger brought her two orchestra-level Orange Section seats to the matinee performance of “Avenue Q” at The Kennedy Center.

    §

    Imelda Ramos checked the calendar for the days appointments. “Senator K” was written in big letters for the 9:30 slot. She always took care of the senator herself, as much for the prestige as to avoid the complaints from the girls. She made sure Maria the cleanup girl parked in the spot just outside the front door so she could move when the senator arrived. Hopefully the senator was having a good day. If it were anyone else, Imelda would have fired her as a customer, but in DC a senator was a rare prize and having her as a regular drove up business.

    Nine twenty arrived and Imelda sent Maria out to wait in her car. The senator was usually punctual, and always had someone call if she were delayed or had to reschedule. Nine forty-five came and went. At eleven she waved Maria back inside. When Judy Woodruff came in, Imelda mentioned that the senator was no-show today and how unlike her that was.

    “Your daughter is in college, right? Have her call my office about an internship.

    §

    Jayne Sandman’s Saturday evening soiree was as full of awkward groping as a teen party with no parents. Those who had heard the rumor were trying to make sure everyone else knew that they were in the know. Yet, nobody wanted to be the first to just blurt it out like a yokel from Manassas or Frederick. Many hints were dropped about a probable forthcoming announcement from a Senator from flyover country.

    §

    On Sunday morning the Tim Russert Memorial TV Studio at the National Press Building was abuzz with rumors that Amy Klobuchar was missing. Tasha the makeup artist whispered that to Kamala Harris while she was getting her ready for her appearance on “Meet the Press.” Fortunately she had time to text her campaign manager. “AmyK disappeared from DC. Suspect she’s holed up with declaration imminent. Be ready.”

    “You know, I’ve always wanted to go on a campaign tour as like someone’s personal makeup and hair girl.”

     

    Awkwardly, sometimes painfully...
    Credit: Mythical Libertarian Woman

     

    He hadn’t heard her come in. It had been two nights and he’d been baching it. He’d assumed that she’d been holed up in her ratty little apartment on Capitol Hill; her own fortress of solitude. He rustled the law student’s paper ostentatiously. Nothing. One of The Iron Rules was: No papers, bills or briefs (ha, ha) in bed. She must want something very badly, and there were few things for which she needed his participation or assent. He decided to troll harder.

    “Jenkins in my Con Law class argues that the Second means an individual right to keep and bear arms.” That should get her going.

    “Oh,” she responded, shrugging off her satin peignoir to reveal a sheer babydoll nightie with nothing on underneath. “I’ll bare more than that…”

    She was going to run for president, he thought. Because it wasn’t his birthday where he got a “blowjob” which was really just her taking his cockhead into her mouth for five seconds of unconvincing moaning, then giving him a handy; their anniversary where they had perfunctory sex recreating their wedding night; or Valentine’s Day where they awkwardly and often painfully enacted the trendy eroticism of the moment, as defined by Cosmopolitan and Teen Vogue.

    She let the peignoir drop do the floor and simultaneously crouched down and hiked up the babydoll to place first her left knee on the bed, then her right. Her pendulous, teardrop shaped breasts swayed in rhythm with her movement as she crawled towards him on her hands and knees. She had a predatory look in her eyes which he had never seen before. Her eyes were fixed upon his crotch.

    By now she had reached him and stopped. She was on all fours with her shoulders lowered and her head tilted up to look him in the eye. She licked her lips awkwardly yet greedily.

    “Who are you,” he asked, reflexively drawing up his knees to protect his manhood.

    “I am your wife.”

    He woke up the next morning with her tightly snuggled in as the little spoon. Usually she was on her side of the bed like a sarcophagal statue of a Roman matron in repose.

    Her eyes opened and blinked and her tongue darted out. “Good morning, Dear. Shall I make breakfast?” Without waiting for an answer she slithered off the bed and put on the peignoir and headed downstairs.

    Breakfast was coffee, bagels and lox. She sipped at a single cup of black coffee, picked at a bagel, but devoured the fish. He decided to try his luck and groped her from behind when she was bent over the sink, something she hated. Surprisingly, nothing was thrown or stabbed.

    “You really should go to the cabin, you know…”

    “What? Are you displeased with me?”

    “No, but I know you’re planning to announce and you need to be ‘found’ back in Minnesota so you can credibly claim to have been on retreat. Doris will see you and then call Ollie who will call the press and get his fifteen minutes as ‘Rural Sheriff Finds Missing Senator.’ I’ll wrap up here and fly out to meet you.”

    “You are the best, hon.”

  • 1,703 Words

    1,703 words.

    Christ, what an asshole!
    Christ, what an asshole!

    That is the amount CNN columnist, John Blake used to express what could have been expressed in four: Lynn Patton is a coon.

    Progressives, typically academics, as well,  often labor under the delusion that they can mask their slimy, bile-coated race-hatred with verbosity. Indeed, the laconic honesty of a simple racial or ethnic slur hurled in impotent rage seems refreshing to utterly craven attempt at slur through obscurantism.

    What rankles the most, however, is that not only will Blake continue to build a career out of dehumanizing black and brown folk who don’t march in lockstep with his radical left-wing societal and political views, but he will continue to be well-compensated for serving as hatchet-man for the vastly majority-white CNN editorial board by running interference for one of their newest poster-children, Rashida Tlaib who, to the delight of progressive media,has helped to successfully bring Jeremy Corbyn ‘Wolf-Who-Cried-Boy’-style antisemitism to American politics. Blake represents just one member of a brigade of CNN’s house, ahem, ‘slaves’ that at the order of their paymasters rushed to spew racial grievance and divisiveness all over its Op-Ed page in a frantic attempt to steer their narrative out of its nosedive after Tlaib beclowned herself at Michael Cohen’s first appearance before the congressional committee by unwittingly insulting the (Democratic) chairman’s “best friend,” which prompted Elijah Cummings to speak eloquently against the identity politics trafficked by this newest crop of elected sea-monsters that make up the progressive wing of the Democratic Party.

    And this dusty ass lookin’ motherfucker has the balls to call Patton a ‘token Negro’? This is all I have to say about that, and notice I took only 290 words to say what I could have said in two.

  • The Art of Misdirection

    A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part 3:

    The Art of Misdirection

    by Tonio

     

    A big unit.

    “How long,” asked Bryan, her chief of staff.

    Phillips, the Capitol Police inspector, checked his watch. “Their average response time for us is around four minutes. They always have units staged nearby.”

    Tsimpris, the man from the Architect of the Capitol office, checked his phone. “Sunshine just turned onto Constitution. They have this really neat location track…”

    There was an awkward pause and the three men looked again toward the corpse seated on the toilet as if they expected some change. Nobody wanted to look, but it somehow seemed disrespectful to not look.

    The corpse that had until recently been US Senator Amy Klubuchar had settled backward with the spine against the seat lid. The head had rolled forward and the mouth was slightly agape with the lower jaw and lip sagging, the tongue poking out slightly. The eye sockets were empty and a yellowish pink fluid dripped from the nose. The personal bathroom, outfitted like that in a business hotel room, was dripping with the sewage that had erupted from many toilets in and around the US Capitol.

    “What about evidence collection? We have to find out who did this! What if other senators are in danger? Or members of the House? Or the staff and public?”

    Phillips checked his phone perfunctorily. “Everything is under control. We are doing a wellness check on every senator and member. The morgue people will collect everything they need from the body. We are taking measures, but quietly so as not to cause a panic.”

    “What am I going to tell her husband?”

    Phillips’ phone buzzed. “The ambulance is coming through the gate now.”

    There was another long, awkward silence, followed by a tap on the door. Phillips cracked the door open and looked out, then nodded to someone outside. A man and a woman in DC FEMS uniforms rolled in a stretcher.

    “Do you need to say goodbye,” asked Phillips.

    Bryan turned to look at the corpse. “You were cruel, but I’m sorry to see you like this. Goodbye.”

    At the word “goodbye” Phillips jammed an injector pen into the side of Bryan’s neck, then expertly broke his fall as he went slack. The DC FEMS crew sprung into action and quickly loaded the semi-conscious body onto the stretcher, strapping it down securely. Phillips patted Bryan’s cheek roughly. “Pleasant dreams, asshole. Enjoy your stay at Saint E’s.” He nodded at the ambulance crew who wheeled the body out.

     

    Old school all the way.

     

    “Christ, he was tiring,” said Tsimpris. “Your guys tipped off the press, right?”

    “Yeah. Let’s hope Chris scores with the WJLA chick, she’s pretty hot.”

    “Nobody sucks cock like the DC press.”

    Then another knock and the Sunshine Cleaning crew wheeled in a commercial dehumidifier unit. The first team positioned their unit up in far corner, powered it up and left.

    The second team didn’t even uncoil the power cable, but opened up their unit to reveal mostly empty space inside. As they unlimbered their equipment, Phillips struck up a conversation with them.

    “So, which of you people was this?”

     

    What's a fellow to do?

    The round-faced crewman with the name patch “Burke” answered. “It wasn’t off-worlders, like us. They are from a different measurement than us all,” he gestured to include everyone in the room.

    “Measurement?”

    You mean dimension,” asked Tsimpris.

    “Yes, that is the word. They are undercooked and dangerous.”

    “You mean ‘rare,’” asked Phillips.

    “Ah. Normally I’m not the talker. We’re busy today. Hare,” he gestured to the hatchet-faced crewman, “doesn’t speak English.” Hare’s mouth opened slightly and his tongue darted out.

     

    I've got an idea!

    The crew had got a C-shaped bar behind back of the corpse with the ends hooked  under the armpits. They stepped out of the bathroom and Hare pulled a remote out of his coveralls. The bar hummed and lifted the corpse off the toilet so it was standing astride the bowl. Then a spherical object about the size of a softball levitated out of the fake dehumidifier and floated into the bathroom and hid behind the door. Burke reached in and pulled the door closed and checked that it was latched. Hare pushed a button and there was a prolonged whoosh from inside the bathroom.

    “Fire in the hole,” said Phillips.

    “It is a cold mist cleaner,” said Burke. “Plasma-based disinfection makes a body un-re-hatchable, like when you humans ruin good meat.”

    “It’s an expression.”

    The remote emitted a tone and Burke opened the door. The bathroom was as clean and fresh as a Summer’s eve. Hare worked his remote and the corpse floated out of the room dangling from the gravity-defying device which then lowered the corpse into the interior of the fake dehumidifier unit so it folded into a reclining position with the knees up. The softball floated out of the bathroom and returned to its little hidey hole inside the cabinet. Snakelike things writhed out from within the unit. Some bared sharp metal fangs, others had obscene, pulsing slickery ends. Phillips and Tsimpris were thankful that Burke closed the device before they could see any further indignities inflicted upon the corpse.

    “So, when will she be ready,” asked Phillips.

    “Monday, maybe Tuesday.”

    “This is kind of a rush job.”

    “You all say that.”

     

    Dr Caligari would have approved.

     

    Burke and Hare rolled the unit out, Burke loudly complaining “fucking piece of shit unit, goddamn cheap company” and banging on the unit for good measure.

    Phillips and Tsimpris waited for the door to close. “Beautiful,” said Tsimpris, enacting a silent golf clap.

    “Haven’t seen acting that good since I took the Missus to Arena Stage for our anniversary. This calls for a toast.” Phillips approached the desk and stroked his chin. “Ima say she’s a back behind the files gal.” He opened the lower right drawer of the desk all the way and fished around the innermost part. “Bingo.”

    “Crown Royal. Classy.”

    “The deep state finally has a US Senator again,” said Phillips taking a taking a good pull from the bottle and passing it on to Tsimpris.

    “Senator Byrd brought a new meaning to the term ‘Grand Dragon.’ Shame we couldn’t keep up the masquerade longer.”

    A Note to My Loyal Readers: Do not despair my little zilthrakii, “The Glibening” will resume when least needed and most expected.

  • If You Can Beat Them, Join Them

    A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part Two:

    If You Can Beat Them, Join Them

    by Tonio

     

     

    “So, the second time I got pregnant I had gotten really drunk with this boy who seemed so nice and said he had a condom, but when I was cleaning up the room the next day I didn’t see a condom in the trash. I missed my next period and tested pregnant, then he was a total shitlord douchenugget when I asked for abortion money. I had just joined Campus Action Feminists and Professor Kudchuian told us about Rescue This! I told her I was pregnant and asked if she could put me in touch with them.

    A week later I took the train up to DC and met the RT! activists. They took me to this out-of-the-way toilet they had found at the Immaculate Conception Basilica and kept watch while I aborted. That time was pretty quick and easy. Then they stickered the inside of the stall with their ‘ABORTED FETUS IN TOILET’ bumper stickers and locked the door. Once we were back on the Metro they emailed the church and the media.”

    “And we all know the rest of the story,” said Angelica Cortasio-Ortez. She remembered the news footage of the clerical outrage, and the countless crying and praying nuns, and then the of the Knights of Columbus in their silly fucking patriarchal antique British Navy hats staging a full dress funeral for the news cameras.

    “So Moira,” asked Ella, “how many people know that you’re a fully fledged RT! activist?”

    “Outside of the RT! women, only Professor Kudchuian.”

    Ella ticked her pen against her teeth. “If this ever comes out the entire right will turn into poo-flinging monkeys, just like they did the first time. And then you will own the abortion debate from the left for a few news cycles. You can always distance yourself from her if she becomes too hot.” She looked at Moira. “Everyone is expendable except your officeholder, dear. That’s the first thing you learn in politics.”

    Angelica nodded at her chief of staff.

    “May I excuse myself, Congresswoman,” asked Ella, “I want to be there to greet the Superintendent of Buildings people for your next appointment. You know how they like to wander off.”

    “Of course, Ella. Thanks. ”

    Angelica waited for the door to close.

    “Do you still want the job?”

    “Oh, yes,” answered Moira, her voice squeaking.

    Angelica’s desk phone did the intercom buzz. As she picked up the phone she heard the receptionist scream “can’t go in there…” and then silence.

    A cold breeze blew in through the closed office door. Moira shivered and huddled, drawing her feet up into her chair. “It’s him,” she whispered hoarsely.

    Every woman’s worst nighmare, thought Angelica, your boyfriend going violent after he learns that you aborted your pregnancy. Earlier, Moira had said that her current boyfriend was some sort of church leader and that she had kept the pregnancy from him. It had to be one of the patriarchal religions since progressive boys understood it wasn’t their decision to make.

    She pressed the alarm button under her desk and hoped that the receptionist had already pushed hers. The wind intensified and her office door became somehow different, like there were extra angles in the doorframe. The wind blew colder and faster and was now accompanied by howling. The door now appeared to be made of dark roiling clouds. Suddenly there was a thing in the room, a vastly large and incomprehensible tentacled thing. The thing loomed over Moira and yelled at her in a loud booming voice.

     

     

    “YOU ABORTED MY SPAWN, THEN BEAT IT WITH YOUR SHOE. FOOLISH HUMAN FEMALE.”

    Yoko Ono wasn’t right enough, thought Angelica, not just the world, but apparently the entire universe. “Now look here,” she said, then everything just stopped for her. She was paralyzed with her mouth open and her index finger extended. She could see and hear, but could not move; she couldn’t tell if she was breathing but did not feel out of breath. How patriarchal to police the speech of women.

    “Here we go again,” said Moira rolling her eyes, “‘I am an elder god.’”

    “I AM A GREAT OLD ONE.”

    “‘And I’ve destroyed races greater than yours.’”

    “STOP THAT, YOU IMPUDENT SLUT. YOU ARE THE ONLY BREEDING VESSEL IN ANY TIME, PLACE OR DIMENSION WHO HAS DARED TO TRY TO HARM MY SPAWN. I AM ANGRY. VERY ANGRY INDEED. BUT I AM ALSO IMPRESSED. NOT ONLY WILL I ALLOW YOU TO LIVE, BUT I WILL GIVE YOU A BIRTHING GIFT BEYOND ALL MEASURE.”

    Angelica just couldn’t even.

    “Birthing gift? You mean…”

    “OF COURSE YOU DIDN’T KILL HIM, BUT HE’S SCARED AND HUNGRY AND TRYING TO FIND YOU.”

    Moira didn’t like the sound of that. “Hey, I can’t…”

    “I KNOW YOU CAN’T TAKE CARE OF HIM.”

    How typical, thought Angelica, angry patriarchs telling women they were incapable of proper motherhood – like they’d know anything about that.

    From inside the bathroom came the sound of water, first a stream, then a gush. Just as the carpet outside the door started to darken with fluid there was a great whoosh and the door was sucked open from within. Then the pipe where the toilet had been erupted with a geyser of sewer gas and moisture and a parsnip came screaming out and made a bee-line towards Moira. At least it looked like a parsnip, only fatter; it was conical and wrinkly and had small rootlike tendrils. The parsnip was scooting along on its wide flat base, leaving a moist trail on the carpet.

    “SOMEONE HAS LEARNED HOW TO FEED ALL BY HIMSELF,” boomed the tentacled thing, proudly.

    The parsnip reached Moira’s chair and stopped. “Mama,” it cried in a voice that was at once both high and low, mewling and echoing. The parsnip then scrunched down and quivered its tip like a cat tensing for a vertical jump.

    “WE’LL HAVE NONE OF THAT, YOUNG MAN,” said the great being, quickly extruding a long tentacle and coiling it tightly around the parsnip pinning the base to the floor so that only the top third protruded. “YOUR MOTHER’S BIRTH CANAL IS OFF-LIMITS. YOU’RE A BIG BOY NOW THAT YOU CAN FEED YOURSELF.”

    Just like his father, going straight for the pussy, thought Moira. Ick-factor aside, she was glad that the baby, or whatever it was was being restrained. Her son had grown considerably in the half-hour or so since his birth. Her son. She’d have to get used to that.

    The parsnip opened a mouth and clamped a set of sharp teeth down on the tentacle encircling it.

    “WHY YOU LITTLE…” There was a flash and a pop and the parsnip emitted a small shriek. The sewer smell was punctuated by the smell one experiences after a thunderstorm.

    Using electroshock on a fussy newborn, thought Angelica. That’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard of.

    “Can I hold him,” asked Moira?

    “AFTER WHAT YOU TRIED TO DO,” asked the large tentacled being.

    Moira tilted her head down and stuck out her lower lip ever so slightly and looked up at the being.

    “YOU ARE TREACHEROUS AND YOU EXEMPLIFY THE BANALITY OF EVIL. I AM TOUCHED,” boomed the being and extended the tentacle containing the parsnip and placed it atop Moira’s ample bosom, then resting the tentacle on Moira’s shoulder. Moira encircled the smelly little monster with her arms. The parsnip snuggled in to her cleavage and made a happy sound.

     

     

    “So what comes next,” asked Moira.

    “I WILL TAKE HIM TO LIVE WITH MOTHER HYDRA; SHE HAS RAISED MY FAMILY’S SPAWN FOR EONS AND HAS THE POWER TO KEEP HIM UNDER CONTROL.”

    “WE’LL WORK OUT VISITATION, IF YOU LIKE.”

    Moira nodded, tears running down her cheeks. Her son’s eyes shut one by one and he started a low vibrating noise that she was felt as much as heard.

    “MAYBE WE COULD ALL DO THINGS TOGETHER…”

    “Oh Hastur, that is so sweet.”

    “HE IS ASLEEP. WE WILL GO BEFORE HE WAKES AND NEEDS TO FEED AGAIN.”

    Hastur copped a major feel as he retrieved his son, and they exited via the method by which he had arrived. Angelica found herself unparalyzed.

    Then the Capitol Police arrived, followed by fire and rescue people, then people in yellow plastic hooded suits with reflective letters that said HAZMAT. Angelica and Moira spent the next hour being alternately hosed off and scrubbed; the water was cold and the detergents harsh. And then they were given blister packs of antibiotics and told to be prepared to spend the next 48-72 hours shitting and to stock up on Pedialyte. “And you won’t be able to go back into your office for a few days, anyway, Congresswoman.” The little weasel from building management was enjoying kicking her out of her office.

    The evening news was full of stories of sewer eruptions on Capitol Hill with workers and residents terrified by what the DC Water and Sewer Authority claimed were sewer rats expelled by the pressure. Mayor Bowser demanded more money from Congress to update the sewer system.

    And it was the next day before anyone noticed that Amy Klobuchar was missing.

  • Are You for Eighty Six?

    A Chronicle of the Insurgency, Part One:

    Are You for Eighty Six?

    by Tonio

     

    The editors have prudently insisted that I warn my readers that they may find some material in the following story to be deeply disturbing and offensive. You, dear reader, should be both disturbed and offended that such stories have to exist, that the source material is all too real and not just the febrile rantings of a madman.

    Angelica Cortasio-Ortez heard the corridor door open and through the slit in the stall door she saw a fat chick in a pussy hat enter the restroom. Angelica was trying to pee, not because she had to but because it was an excuse to escape the office for a few minutes. She should be sulking in her own private bathroom but she was not allowed to actually use it – couldn’t use it at this point. She had assumed that the locked door in her office which none of her keys fit was a maintenance corridor or something; nobody had told her she even had a bathroom until the cleaning lady had opened it one evening when she was working late. She had called the after-hours maintenance number and when she finally reached a person he told her that he’d enter a “door needs re-key” ticket but that it wasn’t an emergency. The next morning she arrived to find the door unlocked, but blocked by construction tape. She had cut through the red “Caution / Cuidado” tape only to find that all the fixtures had been ripped out overnight.

    The fat chick entered the stall next to Angelica and locked the door. She then heard the seat go up and found that strange. But she shouldn’t judge; not all women peed sitting down, after all. Upon learning of the destruction of her private bathroom she had called the Superintendent of House Office Buildings and the smarmy little man she got on the phone told her that the bathroom had been condemned as unsafe after the office had been assigned to her.

    “Of course we would not have assigned you an office with an unsafe bathroom, Congresswoman; the final inspection from when the last tenant vacated listed everything in good order. But mold grew in the room when the suite wasn’t occupied. We can’t expose you to unsafe conditions. We’ll get you a new bathroom as soon as possible once the shutdown is over… No, I’m afraid there are no more available executive grade offices available.”

    Angelica fumed to relive the moment, her hands involuntarily forming into fists and shaking up and down in unison. She bet her eyes had what the old white men called her “crazy look.”

    The fat chick was doing a lot of moving around in her stall, like she was changing clothes or something. All of a sudden the moving stopped and the stall walls shuddered. Angelica could no longer see the fat chick’s feet – she must be doing a toilet squat. Never a good sign.

    “Everything okay,” asked Angelica tentatively.

    “Yeah, sorry. I’m doing a medical abortion and the vaginal suppository has made me really crampy. Normally it’s a lot easier than this, but I should have known that this one would be difficult. I’ve got an interview in a couple of minutes and want to get this done beforehand.”

    And in that few seconds Angelica had learned more about the fat chick than she knew about people she had known her entire life. She felt an instant kinship with the fat chick and wondered whether she was the one interviewing for her personal assistant position. No, that would be too coincidental, like something in bad fiction.

    “So, this is going to get really nasty really soon and you should leave if you’re done.”

    “You’re sure…”

    “Totes.”

    “Where are you interviewing,” asked Angelica standing up and doing a show flush.

    “Congresswoman Angelica Cortasio-Ortez,” said the fat chick emitting a grunt and a long fart.

    “I work in that office, I can tell them I saw you here and that you’ll be a couple of minutes late. I’m sure she’ll understand” said Angelica.

    “Thanks,” said the fat chick. “Tell them Moira Flaherty will be just a few minutes late.”

    “Good luck Moira.” Angelica fled the bathroom with due haste as a cacaphony of sounds erupted. She made it into the corridor and as the door closed was sure she heard a cry and a splash, followed by the sound of something being beaten with a shoe.

    This was what the patriarchy made women endure – aborting in anonymous public toilets, little better than the back-alley abortions the crones had told her about. There should be numerous warm, safe public walk-in abortatoriums staffed by caring women. With onsite childcare, of course. Women should also have mandatory access to abortion doulas in times of need. Her breathing quickened as she imagined herself leading America down a shining path towards full health equity for women.

    She decided to take the steps down to her office. The elevators went to the basement, at least one of them anyway, but it was generally quicker to take the steps unless you had a cart or something. Hers was the only congressional office in the basement of the House Rayburn Office Building. They had moved senior staff out of their offices to make room for the freshman class of congresspersons, and the lottery had assigned her the office formerly occupied by the Head of Housekeeping.

    Angelica walked past her receptionist who waved her down and handed her a pink square of paper, a phone call memo. Incredibly old-fashioned, but her staff had quickly learned that their computers were unreliable. The receptionist was talking to someone through her headset, answering one of the many misdirected calls.

    “This really is Congresswoman Cortasio-Ortez’ office… We get a lot of calls for housekeeping… There is a problem with the House switchboard… Then I suggest you contact the Superintendent of House Office Buildings… You, too.”

    She walked into the private part of her office and found Ella, her chief of staff. “Moira Flaherty is going to be a few minutes late. I ran into her in the restroom, she’s aborting. Can you get someone to have a pot of tea ready in my office when she comes in?”

    “Poor thing. Of course, Congresswoman.”

  • Political Daydreams Part I: A more Perfect Union

    Someday, I will go about writing down my actual personal anti-philosophy, why I think that taking politics seriously and trying to live a non-contradictory life is not only futile, but foolish and anti-human.  But that will have to wait for when I’m in the mood to speak with sincerity.  For now, you get this.  This is a series of partially-baked ideas about how to make the United States a better country and to help it remain a single country.  Fantasies about how to split the country into decent humans and filthy statists will happen in part II.  Mainly though, this is here to give all of you Glibs that give me opinions a chance to share their half-baked opinions on how to improve the country (I know you all have them) without having go go through the arduous initiation ritual of becoming a Featured Contributor (seriously, get circumcised before you send your first article to submit@glibertarians.com. SP’s rusty can lids aren’t nearly as sharp as she claims.)  I suppose you foreigners can chime in too about how America sucks and your “all dressed” flavor totally isn’t just barbecue flavor.

    People are the problem.  As Douglas Adams wisely noted, anyone who wants power must be kept away from it.  While that’s not completely possible, it should be more possible to ensure that power blocs are broken up and different factions with competing interests could be set up to keep each other in check.  Basically, in order to keep the country from actually, legitimately going into civil war, we have to avoid a situation in which a significant chunk of the population becomes an unbreakably subservient caste to those in power.  This is already happening  e.g. NYC v. NYS but the right to move out of NY acts as a safety valve.

    Idea 0:  Federalism.  it’s a thing.  Do it.

    Idea 1:  End Sovereign Immunity.  ‘Nuff said.

    Idea 2:  Crimes shall be limited to only those actions which deprive someone of life liberty or property via force or fraud.

    Idea 3:  End federal funding of private organizations.  The major target here are the political parties. Political parties are not supposed to be parts of the U.S. government.

    Idea 4:  Keep the Electoral College.

    Idea 5:  While the 17th Amendment was a terrible idea, repealing it at this point would be even worse.  The most likely scenario upon repeal (IMO) would be that each state would continue to directly elect their senators in the name of democracy, but it is also possible that the states could do something awful like set up senatorial districts.

    Idea 6:  Voting changes, as follows (mix and match):

    Idea 6a – Instant runoff voting.  Not as good as being able to legally kick in the teeth of anyone who says “you’re wasting your vote!” but it’s probably as good as we can get for now.

    Idea 6b – Including a binding “none of the above” option.  When included with 6a, this could make for some hie-larious results.

    Idea 7:  Aleatocracy.  The Senate represents “The States,” the House represents “The People.”  But as anyone who is even vaguely educated about sampling knows, electing from a pool of self-selected candidates can not ever be representative of the population.   Therefore, members of the House of Representatives should be selected at random from the population*.  The brilliance of this is that the house can never be “too” white, straight, Christian, whatever, but will always be representative of the population that it is supposed to… represent.  We’d see the first ambidextrous Zoroastrian vegisexual furry in congress.  There would be some guy who would vote “yes” by crushing a beer can on his head and “no” by farting.  To make serving their term less onerous, we could give them a “secure” laptop (or maybe just a BlackBerry) so they could vote from home.  Those who want the pomp can take their salaries and fly to DC.

    Now, it’s great to not have an entrenched, self-perpetuated political caste, but how do you keep power from just shifting one step away?  That is, if the legislature is changing at random, how do we keep laws from being made purely by lobbyists, or the civil service caste from becoming the only thing that matters?  I don’t know, how does Texas do it?  I’m not too concerned about lobbyists.  Lobbying only works if the effort is worth the return.  And without any long-term relationships being formable, it becomes much more expensive to lobby Representatives (though I would expect all that money to just slide over to the Senate).  The permanent bureaucracy is more problematic, and I don’t really have an answer to that.  Maybe bring back the spoils system?  You guys can come up with one, I’m sure.

    *Technically, you could make the claim that the pool that representatives are drawn from should be the entire country, not state-by-state.  However, drawing by state will help break up power blocs and ensure that low-population states have any of their citizens represented at all