Open Letter to Shaun King and the NY Daily News

Hello,

This is directed toward Shaun King and his article regarding the recent appointment of Stephen Bannon. I get that there are pressures to get clicks, stay relevant, and give hot takes. And regardless of whether or not aforementioned stuff is the downfall of journalism or not, his piece was sloppy.
My points are few (because King’s are): Stephen Bannon is not Richard Spencer. This is classic diversionary tactics; let’s just list a bunch of shitty things Spencer has said and done, backed up with an abundance of links for legitimacy, and hope the average browserby won’t differentiate between who is who.
The whole argument is hinged weakly on the highly interpretable term, “alt-right”.
There were plenty of nuggets about Bannon that he could have used, instead he went with the lazy knee-jerk non-sequiter and threw out a bunch of leftist dog whistle buzz words — words which are killing the left — bigot, racist, KKK, alt-right, white-supremacy. Is there nothing left of substance to say? It didn’t work for Hillary.
King is acting like a one-trick pony. I can see him using the irrefutable closed-system logic, that if anyone disagrees with him, they are racist.
Let’s use King’s novice conspiracy theorist rhetoric.
NY Daily News – terrorists. It’s for real.
Done deal.
End of story, we are all going to burn in hell.
NYDaily hired Shaun King. Shaun King said he is a voice of the progressive left. The term progressive left was used by none other than… Donald DeFreeze.
Blah blah blah. Let me spend the rest of the article about DeFreeze and nothing else and then pat myself on the back. You can too if you feel better about yourself for being outraged!
That’s some shady shit right there.
So let me recap this,
King is reinforcing, normalizing, and invigorating radicalism on both ends. He is doing nothing to further benefit Americans knowledge or discourse. There was nothing productive about his piece. King’s tactics are insidious.
Peace out,
A. Sanguine

Chewie’s Last Mission

“Just use your intuition,” Han said to Chewy. “Take your time, buddy. Chart whatever course you want. No rush.”

 

Chewy dolefully grumbled in response and started plotting a course to Naboo.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

Chewy tugged a metallic shaft back and they shot into hyperspace. He started to growl more robustly.

 

“I love Leia, too. What are you talking about?” Chewie turned his head away as if disgusted by Han’s answer. “I’m not avoiding her. We’re just ahead of schedule. I figure you and me could take it easy before dropping the cargo.”

 

A gentle low bellow shook Han’s chest.

 

Han, sitting in the cockpit with Chewie continued to stare. He slid off the chair to the center aisle as if he had turned into shrimpi cup on a hot day. He continued to look up at Chewie with his beautifully twinkling scoundrel eyes. He slithered over and put his hand on his wooly thigh. Chewbacca put his paw on top to stop Han. He groaned. Chewie already knew there was no resisting that baby face.

 

“This is the last time, Chewie. I promise. We’re done after this.” Chewie still protested, keeping Han’s hand at bay. Han started to lose a bit of his playful smirk. “Why? Why do you do this to me?”

 

Chewie sighed.

 

“We made a deal.” Han’s face was bitter now. “You owe me.”

 

Chewie made a few loud croaks into the air and shoved Han’s hand off of his heaving thigh. Han stood up and stormed to the seat by the game table. He sat down and put his head to his knees.

 

Soon enough, Chewie was standing beside him. Han could feel the warmth next to him, emanating from Chewbacca’s loins. This was how it always happened.

 

Chewie put his hairy paw gently on Han’s neck. Han felt a tingle of ecstasy roll down his back. But he said, “You don’t love me anymore.”

 

Chewie protested and turned Han firmly about so he was facing him. Again Han looked up at him and fell to his knees, his smile reluctantly returning. When Chewie was standing he was so high up. Han began reaching up into Chewie’s crotch, at first finding the tiny testicles and then on to see if he could coax the wookiehood from the bush.

Chewie began to heavily purr and leaned against the wall. This made everything more accessible for Han. As soon as Chewie’s tip poked through the fur, Han grabbed handfuls of Chewie’s buttocks reaching through the inside of his legs and shoved his mouth over it. Chewie always took a little work to get him stiff, but when he did… Han knew the little tip that he was teasing with his tongue was soon to fill his mouth beyond capacity.

 

Chewie’s hairless schlong grew longer and wider with each slow pull back from Han Solo. He loved how Han looked up at him as he did so, knowing his heart. Chewie was starting lose it. He was groaning and growling and rolling his head back. Bigger. Bigger. Han was now taking him as far as he could but was only covering half of the shaft. Chewie was big, but not ridiculously so. Just a little bit larger than any man Han had seen.

 

Han’s heart started to flutter. He knew what was coming. But Chewie wasn’t done. He grabbed Han’s head with both hands and started to make him take it deeper. Han was never good at deepthroating and that always bothered Chewie. He also knew he didn’t like it back in his mouth after they fucked so he took full advantage of the situation. Now it was Han’s turn for his eyes to roll back into his head, but not out of pleasure as so much as he just needed to breath. Chewie kept jabbing and jabbing it back into his head and then forced it one last time as deep as he could and held it. Han grasped chunks of fur and then let go, silently pleading for mercy.

Chewie roared a triumphant roar and tossed Han over on his hands and knees.

 

Last time, Chewie thought. Han got that butterfly excitement in his heart. He knew all that was in his mouth was going to be deep inside of him. The anticipation was too much. Chewie delicately pulled Han Solo’s pants down. Leia was beginning to get suspicious about how many times Han’s pants had needed mending, so they had learned to be careful. Chewie bent down and gave a gentle kiss on Han’s exposed ass cheek. Chewie sniffed inquisitively and then growled playfully and bit Han’s ass.

 

“Awoooo!” Han shouted.

 

Chewie nastily spit directly into Han’s anus and then put his fleshy pulsating cock tip to Han’s crevice. He was too low. Chewie hastily picked Han up and tossed him over the game table like he was a rag doll. Again his dick approached.

 

“Careful, buddy.”

 

Chewie was always gentle… at the start. He started in smooth and slow. Han quivered.

 

“Oh Baby.”

 

I’ve got a good feeling about this, Chewie thought. He wasn’t even half in yet. He kept slowly entering in deeper with this first clean stroke. Slow and stable, Chewbacca got his dick all the way in on the first push. He left it there. Han was gurgling obscenities and gibberish.

 

Han could feel an odd tickle at the tips of his toes. Everything was different with Chewie inside of him. He could see the stars all around, like the hull of the ship had evaporated. His eyes were watering. There was a tightness in his chest, like Chewie had speared him alive and it was coming through his mouth. It felt so good but Han Solo was gasping. Chewie still hadn’t budged though his cock was still growing inside.

 

“Chewie… I…” And then Han puked all over the table.

 

Chewie growled and slammed Han’s face right into his vomit. He started to pound his ass. He pounded it hard. Han tried to squirm but Chewie held him in place. Han could taste his own bile breathing through his nose. Chewie kept hitting it harder and faster, screaming here and there. He reached around to touch Han’s recessed dick.

 

Han always appreciated the thought when Chewie reached around, though he never really enjoyed it. His dick was was never firm when he was getting fucked. When he was getting opened, his dick felt like it was crying. Chewie half-heartedly tried to stroke it between his hairy giant fingers, which made Han feel even smaller. He soon aborted the mission and focused back on that ass.

 

Chewie was so powerful in this moment. This is what Wookie were made to do, especially after battle. If his elders’ saw him now though, they would be disgraced. Chewbacca wiped those thoughts from his mind as he felt that harmonious place approach.

 

He grabbed Han’s skull with both hands again and turned his face directed into his sick. Chewie was losing his mind. Rapid fire dick deep into Han Solo. Blood started to roll down Han’s thighs. Chewie could have ripped Han’s head clean from his body as he came. And he came deep and full. Han’s high pitched screaming died down. Wookie jism oozed out like a torn bag of Bantha feed.

 

Chewie never lasted too long. Thank the Maker. Han was completely limp and satisfied. He could feel everything leaking out of him. He lazily tried to crawl to the bathroom before giving up, letting go, happily shitting diarrhea and cum right there.

 

Han began to smile and laugh. He rolled his head to his other shoulder and looked up at Chewie. He was crying.

 

For the Good of the Nation: Ted Cruz and Katrina Pierson

“I just would really appreciate the endorsement.” Katrina said.

“A lot of girls would.” Ted responded.

The smell of mahogany and tar quietly bit at Katrina’s nostrils. The odour was slightly repulsive but oddly alluring. Mr. Cruz’s office was large, but not that large. Maybe it was just right. She noticed Ted’s gaze falling on her own and felt a flush of red hit her cheeks and chest. His normally stern gaze seemed different now. There was sadness. Katrina felt for him. A man of such enormous responsibility would feel lonely. And his wife, someone like her would take a toll on any man.

“I’ve been showing promise. You’ve said so yourself.”

Ted lifted himself from his chair and walked to the front of his desk.

“You have Kat, and you’ve been a good friend too.”

“Thank you Mr. Cruz.”

“Are you sure this leadership role in the Tea Party is right for you?”

“I do. I’m ready.”

“Are you ready to give yourself for the good of nation?”

Ted began to unbuckle his belt.

“Mr. Cruz, what are you doing?”

“It’s now or never, baby.”

He dropped trou and revealed a bent and thick cock. It had a life of its own. Kat couldn’t help but stare, repulsed and attracted. In the darkest parts of her heart, this was want she wanted. But not like this, there was no foreplay, no game, no agency.

“Ted…” She gasped. She collapsed to her knees and grabbed his cock with her hand, almost involuntarily. “Not like this.” She began stroking his crooked beast, from tip to base, firmly. His uncircumcised penis grew stronger with each push in. With each stroke, the foreskin would pull back and reveal that tar smell again. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Katrina Pierson put her mouth on Ted Cruz’s dick and started sucking.

She looked up to see Ted’s eyes. He was weeping. She sucked harder, she was surprised how much he had grown in her mouth. His weeps turned into silent sobs. Snot started to run from his nose. He tilted his head back and started to openly cry.

“Are you watching me, Lord? Are you enjoying your creation?” Then he looked back at Kat. The sadness was gone. His droopy eyes now had a cold rage in them. Ted wiped the dribble from the corner of his lipless mouth and then brought a finger to it. “Shhhh.”

He grabbed Kat’s dark silken hair deep on the crown of both sides and slammed her face as hard as he could into his groin. Kat took it like a champ. Her eyes started to water and she could barely breath. The more she pushed back, the harder Ted squeezed.

Finally he let go. He spun her around and bent her over the desk. Kat grabbed on and smelled the mahogany. It put her at ease and she could feel her vagina get wet. She was anticipating that freakish cock. Ted’s hands slid up her skirt on the sides of her thighs and expertly slipped her panties down. How many other faces had been pressed against this desk?

“I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

Katrina braced herself for impact. She got a surprise: Ted’s face. He shoved his beak nose deep into her ass, breathing in deeply. Kat felt a little embarrassed as she had just taken a nervous shit thirty minutes prior, but she couldn’t help but let go. She moaned.

“Quiet.” Ted slurped through her pussy. It felt so good. His tongue was so long. He kept eating and eating until she was a gushing mess. He licked one long lick from her clit all the way up to her ass, where he tickled at it with his tongue.

Next thing Kat knew, Ted had his arm around her neck and his tongue deep in her ear, wriggling around. And then there it was, inside of her. It felt so good. He went hard and fast, like a bunny rabbit, in quick sharp motions. A minute passed and Kat started to get bored. It seemed like he was forgetting about her.

Another three minutes passed. It sounded like he was crying again. Suddenly it stopped.

“Stay there.” Ted walked around to the other side of the desk. “Roll over.”

Kat rolled on her back and dangled her head over the desk. Ted Cruz started to face fuck Katrina Pierson. The fantasy was better and worse than she could have imagined. The power and the abuse had commingled into her psyche so deep that she couldn’t tell what she liked and what she feared. She was just a hole that Ted Cruz was pounding. But he was also giving.

To Kat’s surprise, Ted crawled over with his dick still lodged in her mouth. He started fingering her and licking her. It hurt her neck but she kept at it, bobbing back and forth, sucking as best she could. Ted’s asshole puckered and shut as he sucked at her pussy. His fingers rubbing rhythmically along her g-spot. Was he trying to make her cum?

She tensed at the thought. She hadn’t come in nearly two years, ever since she made politics her priority, there just wasn’t the time. But there was something about Ted’s ass and wispy wiry hairs along his white crack that made her mind a jumble until she lost herself.

Ted worked patiently until she started to oooh. Kat gave up sucking, it was so satisfying. She let her head fall back. Oh my, was this really happening? Was she really about to come? He grew more vigorous, pressing hard with his tongue down on her clitoris and powerfully with his fingers inside her. The pace quickened and she could feel herself losing it. And then, just as she was going wild, Ted slowed his pace. And. Oh my God. Yes. Yes. Kat Pierson started to gush on Ted Cruz’s face.

 

The awkward clean-up soon followed. Katrina was too embarrassed to look at Mr. Cruz. She eventually asked, “Did you not come?”

“No, I would never do that. That would be cheating and I would never cheat on my wife.”

Ted Cruz Black eye

An Admission

I’ll keep it brief.

I know it’s a cliche that gets tossed around now and again, but I am gaining a deeper peace with letting yourself fail. Or to lay heavy on the cheese: it is only failure if you let it be one. Failure? Some opposite of success, a lingering malaise of what should have been done instead, these conceptual happiness usurpers, I can’t say I have conquered.

I make many attempts at many preposterous ideas. So often I consider these attempts failures because I didn’t achieve a demented grandiose goal. In my corner I am amassing a sexy portfolio of these failures — and they don’t seem so bad as they used to. I didn’t win that poetry competition. That kickstarter didn’t get me on a billboard. So I still have thirty unfinished Diamond Willow staves sitting in a basement, prospectively betrothed to thirty aspiring modern wizards. For every ten schemes, plans or projects that I start, maybe one do I finish, and still I am not famous!

Attempts. Attempts. Attempts. My perception is changing. It’s easy to say money can’t buy you happiness (it’s much easier to realize without can make you miserable) yet living that mantra is another beast. I am having this creeping catharsis that is lifting a weight from my chest: I am a creative person. I daren’t say artist without blushing. All these tries, they mean something more to me, money isn’t why I do. I am learning financial gain isn’t my litmus of success, nor is an audience, though I do like to be heard (red cheeks and all).

Do not take this as an apologia for lackadaisical half-heartedness. Nay. NAY! I am not done. My cup spilleth over. I am emboldened. My project is my life — to say I have achieved success is frightfully fatalistic and final. And I am afraid to die. There are such glorious riches abound.

Charleston Massacre and the Word “Terrorism”

Everyone keeps pushing for the use of the word “terrorism” for this latest case in Charleston, just so things can be more fair. I understand the sentiment, but it’s short sighted, backwards and damaging, we should be fighting to use the word less on all accounts, black, white, Christian, Muslim, no matter what ethnicity. When I hear “homegrown terrorism” I hear “loss of liberties coming soon” or “police state, coming soon”. ‪#‎Charleston‬

Leave IGGY ALONE! “Pretty Girls” lyrics analysis

 

Iggy Azalea’s fall from grace is nearing complete with her recent collab with good ol’ one-foot-in-the-grave Britney Spears. Iggy, the once hot underground diva has since been vilified and called out for not, in fact, actually being the realest, with Azealia Banks leading the charge against her and the legion of SJWs that is tumblr quickly following suit. Turns out a white girl from Australia can’t get away sounding like a black rapper from the South without repercussions. Ahhh, the joys of cultural appropriation.

 

Side note on cultural appropriation, which I look forward to elaborating on someday: the assumptive and selfish collectivism claiming a certain style belongs to a specific race. Shouldn’t culture and style transcend that?

 

I can’t say “pu$$y” was much of a song, but some how it made Iggy a rising star back in 2011. It was three relatively quiet years from when her Pussy first made a blip on the scenesters’ radar, until her album was released. So long so that some bloggers thought she had missed her chance to ever really become the programmed beta sex kitten she was destined to be. But then again, the powers that be didn’t have as much time at their disposal, nor the influential years of a tween (as they did with some other Mouseketeers lured into the industry), to sink in their mind control… great job under the circumstances, Illuminati!

 

In classic pop form, you got your hook and your other stuff and your one or two verses of rapping. In this case, the rapping is done by Iggy. In the video, Iggy is introduced as an empty-eyed sexy Alien (every man’s dream), the Australian Other. Man’s shallow desire for a brainless pretty female, will always be a constant, regardless of where she comes from.

 

The song encourages bratty behavior, such as the entitled skipping to the front of the line, or the base assumption that pretty girls do what they want and get what they like. Well, “YOU DON’T BUTT IN LINE, YOU DON’T SELL DRUGS, YOU DON’T MOLEST LITTLE CHILDREN, YOU DON’T PROFIT ON THE MISERY OF OTHERS.” Yet, this is the encouraged behaviors of the upper-upper crust. It’s all connected.

iggy_britney.jpg

KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!

 

As beautifully put by Sinead O’Connor (to Miley Cyrus, but apropo to most), “They will prostitute you for all you are worth, and cleverly make you think it’s what YOU wanted.”

The video opens with a not so subtle brand placement of MateFit, a tea which promotes weight loss, further pushing the idea of slim = pretty girl (as well as the all too common endorsement nausea of which we’ve become accustomed). In a very weak attempt to poise this video as a satirical take on shallow valley girls, it turns out to be nothing more than an homage to the gum smacking “oh my gawd” lifestyle.

Ultimately we are all the beta sex kittens, encouraged to spend our fliff to sate our sexual frustration, making the fatcat pimps ever richer.

It is rife with Monarch programming symbolism. Iggy, being brought into the fold by a veteran of displaced identity, appears blank eyed in the video (ie desireable). She begins to mimic Britney’s behavior with positive reinforcing results (money, material goods, fawning attention of rich and/or beta males). Being bland and pretty = $$$.

Empty eyes, ready to be controlled.

Empty, soulless eyes, ready to be controlled.

Iggy has magical alien powers, when she touches an ATM machine machine out pops money, which they dance under the commencing showers! Here they are nothing more than glorified strippers. In another scene, she turns Britney’s out-of-date 80’s cellphone to a SAMSUNG NOTE III, a commentary on Britney’s growing desperation to avoid irrelevance?

 

Eventually they make it to the club where Iggy gives her rap. Shockingly, it is actually on topic, which so often is not the case. Let’s take a look:

If you ask me, I’m killing them softly

I would spend time with you but that’d cost me

They pray that Iggy-Iggy give ’em one more chance

But busy Iggy wouldn’t even give ’em one more glance

See, enter in line between the beauty and a beast

Slim waist, thick cake, the whole world want a piece

Bad girl, good would make you lose your mind

All of the boys begging Britney, hit ’em one more time

Iggs

 

A common theme in pop music is to make the average rube listener feel inadequate, especially males in this case, by making the star god-like, out of reach. Iggy dismisses her fawning masses, stating, “I would spend time with you but that’d cost me.” Cost you? Why? Perhaps, because spending time with someone who can’t afford her would only lead to trouble with her handlers. Perhaps, her time is simply too valuable. Again, marginalizing the covetous masturbators within the capitalist plutocracy, the lyrics only aim to disempower. Rude.

 

One other curiosity is the the line, “Bad girl, good would make you lose your mind.” Notice the “good” snuck in there. Good would make us lose our minds, encouraging deviant behavior, mindlessness. After all that is said and done and Britney does her tired dance routine, a motherfucking spaceship beams them up. Or at least it was implied, but it looks like it wasn’t in the budget to dissolve them after the beams were flashed, Iggy ever looking like the deer-in-headlights. The rabbit-hole implications here are so rife that I’ll let you use your imagination.

 

Ultimately the message here is: we are all the beta sex kittens, encouraged to spend our fliff to sate our sexual frustration, making the fatcat pimps ever richer. And yes, the sado-masochist in me has enjoyed [over]analyzing this pop song, no need to report the futility of my endeavor. Godbless.

Britney Spears “Pretty Girls” lyrics

 

All around the world, pretty girls

Wipe the floor with all the boys

Pour the drinks, bring the noise

(It’s Iggy-Iggs!)

We’re just so pretty!

All around the world, pretty girls

Jump the line, to the front

Do what we like, get what we want

Where you at, Brit?

We’re just so pretty

 

Hey, don’t you know that it’s always the same

From Australia ’round to LA

You can betcha’, wherever the girls go, boys follow

We be keeping them up on their toes

They can laugh, but they don’t get the jokes

Just you watch, they’re so predictable

Some things don’t change

The girls roll up

Windows roll down

Eyes on us

Jaws on the ground

Watch them go

It’s just so funny

Like bees to the honey

 

All around the world, pretty girls

Wipe the floor with all the boys

Pour the drinks, bring the noise

We’re just so pretty

All around the world, pretty girls

Jump the line, to the front

Do what we like, get what we want

We’re just so pretty

 

Tell me, is it true that these men are from Mars

Is that why they be acting bizarre?

Every time I walk out of my house it’s like, Hey baby

They don’t see me rolling my eyes

They buzzing around me like flies

They got one thing on their minds

Some things don’t change

[Chorus]

[Iggy]

If you ask me, I’m killing them softly

I would spend time with you but that’d cost me

They pray that Iggy-Iggy give ’em one more chance

But busy Iggy wouldn’t even give ’em one more glance

See, enter in line between the beauty and a beast

Slim waist, thick cake, the whole world want a piece

Bad girl, good would make you lose your mind

All of the boys begging Britney, hit ’em one more time

Iggs