Everybody needs to take care of themselves, and of course it would be far too easy for me to say they should tough it out.  Just remember that these assholes have a screw loose, and all they want is to dominate and humiliate and bully anyone they want to when they want to.  That is a large part of these culture wars we see.  And they're crazy because they're willing to play the long game even though everybody who lives in the real world don't think this is a game at all.  We just want to live, and yet we now have to live in fear because their personal information is being revealed by motherfuckers who want them to shut up.  And they do, and we do, and so they/we cede even more ground to these fascists.

It has to be stopped.  Utterly, and soon.

Another Busy Week Ahead, I'm Afraid

The State Fair will continue to be top of mind, but the thought that going four times might not be enough is abating.  And, come to think of it, my stripper girlfriends are the reason.  ****e says she's throwing a stripper party before Labor Weekend, and even though it's not set in stone, I want to see her.  And now ******a needs money, so she wants me to come earlier than I said I would.  The earliest I could see ******a is Saturday because ****e's party, if it happens, would be Wednesday.  My alma mater is playing Friday.  And there's a jazz concert I intend to go to Thursday.  I am still going to the Fair, but I want to go on a date where it might not be as crazy as it's been, so that will be tomorrow/Tuesday.  It'd be better to go then because I work early and, hopefully, I'll have enough energy to put in another several-hour day at the Fair.

With my week pretty much filled up, I have to stay in today/Monday.  I will go to the Fair one more time, probably Labor Day, so I will stay in again Saturday.  And now that I've mapped this all out, I'm exhausted, because that's a lot.  And I need to go to bed now because I went to a concert (well, a bar with a house band) tonight.

Bad Driver: TCS 729

Wow, I haven't had to deal with crazy motherfuckers like you on the road in a long time.  And unfortunately you wanted to let everyone know you could conquer the snow like a man when I was trying to get to work.  I don't remember anyone cutting in right around me that closely in a long time, if not ever.  And when you started tapping your brake and flipping me off (at least that's what I thought you were doing; I couldn't see your bitch ass finger all that clearly in the snow, boy), I began to realize that you might be on fucking drugs.  Who the fuck else does crazy shit like that on a county highway at 8 on a Friday morning while snow's falling?

Then, I rolled up behind you on the left turn lane.  I didn't think you were crazy enough to cut in front of someone on the right lane that was going straight through the intersection and then make a left turn before we had our green light or the traffic coming straight the other way had theirs, but maybe you're on some insane shit.  Or, you were afraid of me.  One of the two.

Bravo, though, you piece of shit.  I was calm enough to lift the license plate of your Honda sedan.  God, I hope I never, ever see you again, you dangerous fucking asshole.

Psycho At Work

For the first time, there is a crazy customer I and we have to deal with.  I had to take a call from a phone of someone who does not work Mondays, and this idiot was in orbit.

I checked her deal: We are looking for an account number from her, and it seems as if she and my co-worker have been going back-and-forth over it.  She has provided an account or two, but neither of them work, and yet, she doesn't seem to ... get it.  What makes me think she's kind of nuts is that I told her that I noticed she had been in touch with a couple of other people, and she said that she doesn't want to talk to them anymore because, according to her, she was treated rudely and would not speak to them.

She still could not give an account.  She really couldn't give a straight answer, insisting that "we have her information," even though we have been trying, several times, to get one from her.  That's when she went psychotic -- she asked for the manager, she asked for corporate headquarters, she even tsk-tsked when I asked for her number so "my manager" (who I realized won't be in for the next couple days, whoops!) could call her back.  She hung up on me, the brat.

I've dealt with rudeness before, but she is still trying to get something from us without giving us what we need.  That makes her dangerous because, in all likelihood, she's going to contact us again, and that is when we are going to have real problems.  Normally, I would defer to my manager, but like I said, he isn't going to be around.  My plan is to come in and, first thing, tell my co-worker about the call I took on her phone.  I then will suggest and ask for a plan of action, including if there's anyone we can defer to, someone who has the means to shield themselves, us, and the company from this insane person.

I'm not worried ... yet.  But if anything happens, I already let you all know here.

Well, My Fucking Father changed my bedspread.  He put in a powerstrip at the outlet where I plug in the fan; don't know why he thinks I need that.  And, of course, he rearranged my three pairs of slippers.

Fuck it.  I am going to order the slippers in a neat row, but upside-down.  Let's see if he turns them right-side up.  Let's see if he's OCD enough to invade my bedroom again.  Let's see if he really, really doesn't have a goddamn hobby.

My Fucking Father Has No Other Hobbies

When I come home, usually something that I put somewhere in my bedroom has been moved, meaning My Fucking Father has been in there.  That's annoying enough, but it didn't happen every goddamn day like it's happening now.  In the past when that happened I figured he was just bored.  Now, I think it's a measure of control over me.

Last/Monday night, after seeing The Great Dictator (excellent; the blurb of the theater I saw it in called it, "The most important comedy film ever," and even though that sounds ironic, I think it's true) I came home.  My Fucking Father didn't touch anything except for the three pairs of slippers I use.  I strewed them around the floor; he fuckin' stacked them up, all neat and shit.  Besides hating this invasion of privacy, I want y'all to know that I did not pay for these slippers.  My Fucking Parents bought them and gave them to me.  Not all at once, but several years apart.  I don't know really know why.  One pair I use, and then out of the blue they just give me another pair.  The newest pair, which they got me a couple months ago, they said they wanted me to use because, "They were quiet."  Like I stomp around in the old slippers to the point where they get woken up.  They have bought so many slippers for me thinking they know what's best for me; wouldn't they have found the perfect, most quietest slippers for me by now?

The more I think of this, the more I fucking hate him.  Get a fucking hobby, you creepy goddamn dolt.

And what the fuck is My Fucking Father doing with the shower curtains???  I have opened the shower curtains all the way.  It's what you're supposed to do to air it out and let it dry after showers.  But for some goddamn reason, for the past week or so I see the curtain tied up, or touched in a way that is obvious that My Fucking Father came into the bathroom.  Why?  I think that's his way of telling me to make sure I shower every day, like that's any of his fucking business.  If that's why he's doing that, well, I just faked taking a shower just now.  I know it's petty, and you could say I might as well shower for real if I'm going to do that, but seriously, fuck him, it ain't any of his goddamn business why I don't shower every goddamn day.  How fucking creepy is that bullshit?

Oh, every day he straightens out the bath towel I use, too.  That asshole doesn't have anything else to do in his doddering old age, does he?

I Compromised. I Am Complicit

I have been taking a shower daily nowadays.  This is in reaction to My Fucking Father, and I can't believe he had the nerve to do this to me as I'm approaching 50, ordering me a few weeks ago to shower every day.  I don't want to shower every day.  In fact, they say it's not a good idea to shower daily.  You go every other day.  Hell, you can even get away with showering only twice a week!

But I haven't done that because, at some fucking point, I have to make my peace with these two jerks who aren't leaving anytime soon.  If My Fucking Father knows that I'm showering, maybe he'll back off from lecturing me about it, and maybe then he'll stop snooping around my room, or throwing my shit away.  At the same time, I have no clue whether he will stop at all.  And beyond that, this is me doing something (namely showering) that I don't want to do.  To me, this isn't just compromising.  I am bending the knee.  And a large part of me is ashamed of myself for knuckling under his stupid damn orders.  But hey, if I do knuckle under, I am part of the problem, goddammit.

Maybe Fuck Dinner

I am doing my level best to convey how upset I am that they have gone through and literally thrown away most of my stuff, but doing so in a passive-aggressive way so that I don't get thrown out of the house.  That's tough to do, considering that they still don't seem to give a shit.  But I might have been pushed to do something that could get their attention, if only because I am now tired of it myself.

Yesterday/Thursday was a no-spend day.  I was going to go in to work, leave work, and go home.  (I have my trepidations about doing that, but I will blog post about that at a later time.)  Work actually was light, light enough for me to come home at a decent hour, early enough to eat dinner with my folks.  But that didn't happen.  My Fucking Mother recently alluded to the fact that, because I had worked so late so often, My Fucking Parents don't eat dinner much, either.  So, regardless of when I come home, eating together has gotten quite rare in the last, oh, couple months, and we really haven't eaten together all that much since they came home.

What they do is leave food for me, and usually it's too much, way more than I would get for myself if we were eating together.  My Fucking Parents continue to say that I don't have to eat all the food they leave for me, but I know that's a goddamn lie.  I mean, they used the impetus of me spearheading donating my old car as an excuse to clean everything else I hold near and dear out.  (Don't care if that sounds like a conspiracy; I believe it.)  So I am under the gun to eat everything they laid out for me.  And for dinner last night, they laid out two pork chops, three pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a bowl of spicy vegetables, tofu soup, and about a cup of rice.

That was so goddamn much it took me two hours to eat it all.  And I feel fat because I am fat after consuming that all.  And they're not even there.  So now, after they've taken everything important from me and done so under false pretenses, why in the fuck am I eating all this shit by myself?  If dinner is something we don't do anymore, why should I even eat at home anymore?  I mean, sometimes I will eat out.  But I am thinking that even on these no-spend days, I just go home and ... not eat.  And it doesn't matter if I get home late or early.  I just won't eat.  You know, I keep complaining about all this food and how it's fattening my belly and making me gain weight.  Why not ... just not eat?

And hey, it might send a message that I don't think we're a family anymore.  Because after the bullshit they just pulled, we're not.

And Now The Storage Unit Is Going To Be Under New Ownership

I dropped by my storage unit after My Fucking Parents went fuckin' crazy on me.  I wanted to rent a second storage unit long-term because My Fucking Parents are forcing me to take my shit out of the house.  And that's when I got hit with another haymaker: The guy who I was speaking with, who was caretaking the site along with his wife and dog, are being moved out.  The owners of the place have sold it to a local company.  And because of that, any new rentals are for this month only; the changeover occurs next month.

Goddammit.  This feels like one fucking thing on top of another, but even if My Fucking Parents hadn't gone crazy on me, this has become a huge fucking issue.  That's because the guy I spoke to on Tuesday believes this new company is going to jack up prices.  They might not allow me to buy a year in advance in order to get a brake on rates; they might go month-to-month, which apparently is the trend with storage unit companies these days.  Finally, I don't think these guys have a good reputation.  In fact, there is no reason these guys can't break the contract I have right now, which is that I have my unit paid through March.  They might blow it up, jack up my rate, and make me pay by month.

Since I got hit by this bad news, I have been scrambling, fucking scrambling, to find a new spot.  I realize that I had it really good with the place I'm at now.  I was able to lock in long-term rates, the money I spent on average is way less than quotes I'm seeing now, and the people who mind the area are nice and cool and easy to deal with.  There is no guarantee I can find anything similar.  And if these guys muscle me out of the unit I've had there for years and I don't have a backup lined up, I am so, so fucked.

First My Fucking Parents take everything I hold dear from me, and now I get kicked out of my storage unit?  Can't lie; this is really, really hard for me to deal with.

Addendum To: My Fucking Parents Are Fucking Psychos

What I truly hate about my parents, especially right now, is that they do things, and make me do things, with no advanced warning.  Yesterday, I was woken up by both My Fucking Mother and My Fucking Father to help them clean up my former bedroom, which, for some goddamn reason, is going to be the bedroom My Fucking Mother recuperates in when she gets knee surgery.  She says she can only go up the stairs after surgery and not down.  That's bullshit.

Anyway, even though this surgery hasn't even been scheduled yet, they both decided, out of the blue, that they're going to redesign it.  And that meant both shitty parental units woke me up to move heavy, heavy things around.  That was bad enough because I had a long day working a Gopher football Game.  But when My Fucking Father decided to bang his hammer to get the bedframe aligned, I sighed loud enough for My Fucking Mother to lose her goddamn mind.  "I do everything for you!  I cook and clean and give you beds!  And I ask you to do this one thing, and you get so mad!"  And I realized yesterday that she is a fucking toxic narcissist.  It has always been about her, her, her.  And after years of insulting me, acting hurt over shoving gifts in my face for which I didn't ask is the ultimate sign of mental manipulation.  And she and My Fucking Father tore my bags into shreds because they wanted to get into a locked part of my desk.  They call me unreasonable???

I don't bother arguing with either of them anymore because they can't speak English well enough to understand my nuanced emotional points.  Now, I don't bother arguing with them because they are too goddamn narcissistic to see how hypocritical dicks they are.  Fuck them both.  If they want to throw me out of the house for throwing my stuff on the floor, they have to kill me.  What assholes.

My Fucking Parents Are Fucking Psychos

My fucking parents made me clean my room, then they cleaned it themselves.  Their excuse was to give me a new bed.  I think they wanted me to remove all my stuff instead.

I would kill them if I knew how I would get away with it.

I got home and saw much of my shit thrown in the trash and the recycling bin.  Had to retrieve some of it, but goddammit, those retired motherfuckers cleaned me out so much I have to let things go.

But I had no idea how fucking crazy they are to clean everything.  They didn't tell me they wanted to move the desk around until yesterday morning.  That desk has a locked compartment.  I replaced the porn that was in there (thank Buddha) with the booze I kept around that I couldn't get around to finishing.  I was deathly scared that they would find a key and open it up.  And when I came home and Father asked for the key to that compartment (I lied to him and said I didn't have it), I was relieved they didn't get in but was scared that at some point they would be fucking crazy enough to try and find a key to get in.

So for the rest of the night I was trying to figure out a way to open the compartment without them knowing, then figuring out a way to get the booze into a bag, then sneak the booze out of the bag into my car and into storage.  I concluded that there was no way because they both have ears like the Bionic Woman and they would know that I do in fact have a key.

I had to go through my things because My Fucking Mother ordered me to, that bitch.  While I was going through them, I saw two torn-up bags.  These are the kind you get at the Fair, the light kind, made out of polyester or something, and they looked like a rabid got chewed through them.

I had to ask my fucking parents what happened.  They pulled the bags through that locked compartment in my desk.  They were so fucking determined to get into that compartment that they decided to fucking tear up bags.

That's not all.  They left for me several bags for me to go through.  I was going through two of them when I saw the bags.  Another one, that was out in the living room, was filled with the booze I put in that compartment.  I put those bottles in those bags, and these vicious motherfuckers were able to tear through the bags and pull out the bottles, and then put the bottles in the living room.

It goes without saying that this is a goddamn massive invasion of privacy.  They wanted to see what was inside my compartment that fucking badly?!  This reminds me of the time they came home from Vegas and didn't tell me.  Huh, I'm still fucking scarred after that.

I guess I can look on the bright side and note that they don't seem to care that I drink.  Whatever, man, these people are fucking psychotic, and they have respect no boundaries from me.

Not like I have before, but I can't trust these fucking people.  No goddamn way.

Felt Sick, But Now Feeling Fine

So I started off yesterday/Saturday having an American brunch with my parents, and I felt fine.  Then I went to this big event and, even though my stomach felt a bit oogy, I nibbled on a few things and felt fine enough.  I then treated myself to a big post-event dinner in St. Paul, and I had the same thing (food and drink) I had when I went there last year, and I didn't think it was too much or bad for my gastrointestinal system, but that's when I felt the urge to, you know, relieve myself.  But I thought I could tough it out to the bank and the gas station before heading home.

I was able to do all that and get home -- barely.  I had to go so bad that I immediately went to the bathroom, whereby I tried to poop, then did, but felt that I had shit some more, but couldn't.  And my body got real hot, a level of uncomfortable warmth I don't ever remember feeling.  It was not hot or humid outside, but I was burning up.  I began to sweat profusely.  And I started to panic; I noticed that there was no way for me to open the window in the bathroom (it's a long story, and maybe I'll blog post about it) and I felt like I wanted to scream.  My gut and GI tract were killing me.  And still I wasn't excreting as much as I thought it would.  You ever have that feeling of relief, if not euphoria, after a huge bowel movement?  I was banking on that, but it didn't happen for me.

I thought I was done, wasn't, went back into the bathroom, and didn't shit at all.  When I felt like my insides were no longer going to imminently cave in on me, I went back into my bedroom, turned on the fan, crept underneath my blanket, and passed out.

I woke up about three hours later (and totally missed Liga MX, which I had on the TV this whole time) ... and I feel fine.  Well, I still feel fat and as if I am still carrying a lot of human waste inside of me that I shouldn't.  But the sweats are gone, as is the intestinal distress and the feeling that I am about to go crazy.  I don't think I'm out of the woods quite yet, but I can now think about just what the hell happened to me.  It couldn't have been the brunch, could it?  Or was it the cheese during the party?  Or was it all the pork bellies I had for dinner?  Or was it a combination of those three occasions, or food poisoning, or something else?

Oh, The Things I Can Talk About From Yesterday/Friday. Let's Start With The Phone

Oddly dynamic day, but rife with stuff to blog post about, and that's great since I've been kind of hurting for stuff to talk about.

I'll go in chronological order.  I forgot to bring my phone to work yesterday/Friday.  I had such anxiety not having it with me.  Honestly, not being able to scroll through things is something I did miss, even though I wasn't thinking about it every minute.  Hopefully that means I'm not totally addicted and gone.  No, I was more worried that I would need it and not have it, specifically that I would get into an accident or the car would break down on the way home and I would need to make an emergency call and of course I would not be able to, and I felt as though yesterday would be the day that would happen.  No, it did not happen, but that paranoia was with me.  It'll always be with me.

The other thing with the phone is that I assumed my boss texted me on it permitting me to come in to work today/Saturday.  There is a hell of a lot still left to do, and considering what usually happens when there's a backload of work (and considering that were allowed to work about to four hours yesterday), I would be allowed to come and work today.  However, I need to wait till he gives me the specific go-ahead.  I am surprised by this, but I still haven't gotten a text from him saying basically, "Yeah, if you want to come in and work today, come on in."  But I assumed that he had already done it by the time he left yesterday.  And that's why I told everybody before I left yesterday that I might be coming in to work today.  (And by the way, I didn't tell anybody that I left my cellphone at home.)  So I'm scared that my co-workers thought I would be coming in and changed my mind, when the whole truth is that I was willing and able to come in today, but didn't because I wasn't given explicit permission.

For all I know, my boss wouldn't mind if I come in today.  But I'm not going to get all dressed and come in, only to be told that I can't because I wasn't told I could.  So instead I'm blog posting this, and thinking about what other stuff I think is crazy happened yesterday/Friday.

Uh-Oh. MAGAt Frenemy About To Go Psycho Again

So someone tried to assassinate Trump again -- allegedly.  For all I know, he just made this shit up.  I am hearing that these shots fired were on his golf course, but that doesn't necessarily mean he was near the shots or was even on the course.  (By the way, not to be a conspiracy theorist, but we still haven't had a full account of the first assassination attempt.  If it were real, we'd hear the whole truth.  Right?)

But I will wait until journalists figure out what happened.  In the meantime, I am afraid that this will gin up the fever brain of my, uh, acquaintance who I will see in about three weeks.  I know that if I were still friends with him on Facebook, I would see his post about how big a victim Trump is, and that will bait me into responding to him about how karma is a bitch, and he would go psycho on me again.  Glad I stopped being his Facebook friend.  And maybe he'll forget to bring it up when we see each other a few weeks from now.

I Just ... Did Nothing

I went to have lunch at a place close to the U.  Just as I was getting done, a crazy woman asked for cigarettes, lipped off to the only server who was at the place, and then spat on her.  My God, I have never seen that shit before.

And as much as I shouldn't make this about me, I need to check what I did in response to that -- which was nothing.  I ignored this crazy lady, but I was shocked that she would do such a thing, and that's why I didn't do anything, I guess.

But that's no excuse.  And that sure as shit doesn't make me feel good.  There were two other guys there, both of them alone and, along with me, sitting at the bar.  None of us could come to her rescue and ... well, I was going to say kill her, or maybe beat her up.  But that would be illegal, wouldn't it?  What she did was misdemeanor assault, but we can't do anything because we would be arrested for, you know, actual battery.  So we just ... let that bitch just get away with it.  That's not right.  Frankly, I'd prefer if we, or maybe just I, jumped this woman for what she did.  I'd run from the scene, and I'd hope those three others would let me get away with it.

I replay in my head what I should have done.  If I were security, I think I would do something because that would be my job.  If I were a regular at this place to the point I knew this server, I think I would do something because this cunt hurt my friend.  But I am neither and, well, that would be two other reasons I froze.  And it still doesn't make me feel any better.

One other complication: I know I am going back to this place in a couple months.  My alma mater's football team is playing up here, and this place will host the pre-game.  I doubt anyone crazy will walk around a college neighborhood a few hours before a Game, but I know see proof about the area not being quite quiet.  Besides, there's a chance this server will be there again, and my presence there will trigger bad memories for her, and I don't want to do that to her.

The server cried, man.  The server cried.  And I didn't do a goddamn thing?

Detente ... Or De-Taunt?

OK, so that guy I know who went psycho on me when I said that the violence Trump incites came back to bite him in that shooting Saturday?  Well, out of an abundance of caution, I went beyond muting to defriending him.  Couldn't take the risk.  However, we are members of a Facebook page, and I haven't and probably won't throw him out of there, even though I can since I'm an administrator.  It's my concession.

I had posted something on that page, something about tickets to a Game.  Yesterday/Tuesday, he posted on it.  Tagged me, too.  And I thanked him, and I tagged him.

Look, I don't want to go around making enemies.  But I said what I said, and I stand by what I said.  I do not condone political violence on anyone.  But someone who spews violence as an answer cannot be surprised when it's done to them.

With that said, I didn't like how I acted when we got into this argument.  However, I didn't like how he was acting, either.  And once he got accusatory -- and he did -- he got real threatening, and real crazy.  That's why I closed myself off to him.  If we ever, ever have a relationship of any kind, we cannot talk about politics, at all.  And I think he needs counseling.  Hey, it's working for me.

So I ... want to welcome his comment as an olive branch.  Does he mean it that way, though?  I can't think how it would be, like, some twisted way of letting my guard down so that, uh, we meet in real life to bury the hatchet and instead he tricks me and beats the shit out of me.  Don't want to think that, but I'm paranoid.  It's possible.  And hey, I'm running into this guy at some point this year, either at the Game, or at a concert, or hell, at a fast food restaurant tonight.  Yeah, I'm kind of scared of this guy.  But I don't want to live my life being scared of this guy, either, especially if he's willing to put what happened on social media behind us.  So, who knows?

With Friends Like These, Who Needs Friends?

So I know a guy.  He's not a friend, but we talk.  I know he's on the other side when it comes to politics.  The scary thing is that he's fanatical, even rabid, about being a Republican.  So when he was demanding Biden denounce Trump getting fired upon, I knew, given his rabidity, that if I comment on it, he will comment back, and probably harshly.

Did I want to go back and forth with him about this?  Eventually, and maybe against my better judgement, I did.  And man, as off the rails as he has been about other political posts, he was acting ... well, crazy this time.  And he made it personal, which is the difference this time, and is what makes this argument scarier.  He was accusing me of not denouncing the shooting, which I did, even though I pointed out the fact that Trump and Republicans are the ones who glorified violence.  But he didn't like the way I denounced the shooting, and he kept demanding that I denounce it in a way that he liked.  I'm not going for that bullshit, so not only did I peace out on him, I had to mute him.

This is an escalation, no doubt.  I don't know if he comes back from this.  I think we have had heated discussions like this before, but not like this, and so I don't know if taking a weekend or a week or even longer is going to simmer things down.  The problem is that I am going to see this guy again.  There's that football Game our alma mater's playing up here in October.  Moreover, he's a big music fan, and there are a couple of concerts I have already bought tickets for.  I'm going to run into him.  Before, we've been civil.  Now, after what he said to me?  I don't know if he can control his temper, and I don't know if it's smart for me to give him the chance.

---

Social media is stupid.  After the incident, there were at least five posts from Facebook friends denouncing it.  None of them seem to be aware, or don't seem to care, that the guy who got shot was the one who spearheaded January 6.

Most if not all of them don't profess to be part of a party, but I have seen signs from all of them that they really are MAGAts.  They are all, also, hot as fuck, and I continue to wonder why so many gorgeous women are part of the Republican party.

Did I hold my tongue when I saw this virtue signals?  I couldn't for my acquaintance, so I didn't for these people I don't know in real life.  So for all the posts I came across demanding we all denounce the shooting, I reacted with a laugh emoji.  I don't think any of them have de-friended me, and I wonder why they haven't.  I mean, if someone did that to me, it's an immediate block.  I'm smart enough to know and to do that.

Politics, man.  It exposes people.

#1! Trusted News!

Those stupid billboards for The Epoch Times suddenly arose about a couple months ago (maybe?) and they're still around.  Wonder how many Minnesotans know that this is a Chinese-originated newspaper built by Falun Gong, that weirdo pro-tai chi Chinese cult that wants to overthrow the Chinese government?  I wouldn't mind a coup to take those Communists out as well, but I sure as shit won't vote to put the fucking Falun Gong in there.  Those people are fucking nuts!!!

And yet it's nutso groups like these that seem to have all the money these days.  Hence, the billboards.  But there are so many crude, if not primitive, elements to these billboards (which are basically all the same) that I have to point them out.  For one thing, their slogan, "#1 Trusted News," sounds like broken English ... as if a Chinese person was trying to speak English without understanding the language's syntax.  That bothers me to no end.  And second, there is a headshot of some White guy right next to "#1 Trusted News."  Doesn't seem like anyone famous, but this guy's fucking head is in every billboard I have seen in the Twin Cities.  Who the fuck is that guy?  Was he created from AI?

Can't wait to see this cult's advertising end.

She's Not Dead -- Is She?

So on Wednesday one of my stripper girlfriends, ********a, Messengered me asking if she heard whether a stripper from a long time ago, *e**, has died, 'cause that's what she heard.  I'm not in touch with her a lot these days; she gave up stripping a long time ago, and I was sad because she grabbed my cock once and she made me cum once when she was riding me hard.  We are friends on Facebook, however, and I think we replied to each other over a status update she wrote over New Year's.

Suffice it to say that I am skeptical that she has died.  Unfortunately I don't have too many ways to confirm that.  I don't know her family well enough to ask them directly ... well, I should say that *e**'s half-sister is ******a, and I haven't spoken to her in almost a year since she went bat-bleep crazy.  My only thought was to ask another of my stripper friends, ***e*, if she heard anything about this.  She said that she will talk to a stripmonger, who has hosted many house parties I've been to, and have him ask ******a (with whom I presume he still talks to) about *e**.

That was also on Wednesday.  Haven't heard anything yet.  (Complicating things is that ***e* went to the ER for stomach pains.)  I still don't believe *e** died.  If she did, I would have seen something on Facebook by now.  So she has to be alive.  Right?