US Military Social Engineering Experiment Part Deux: Gay Lamb Cannons are here!–UPDATED 21 FEB 18

So now The Kenyan has finally got around to signing a law repealing ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’, which had barred gays from serving openly in the military.  At least it was done sans the activist asshole judge.

I opposed the repeal of the ban based on what I think is a semi-original idea.  I had some trouble explaining it in person, but here goes again.

Forget for a moment that we’re talking about gays in the military.  Instead, let’s say the military wanted a new type of rifle.  With barely any testing of this new rifle’s performance, it is immediately adopted and replaces the M-16.  That alone is madness; in order to placate those opposed to the new barely-tested rifle design, the military leaders promise if the new rifle fails in the field, it will be replaced with the M-16 again.

Well, my fellow Americans, we’re not even promised that much.  What we’ve been told is the new rifle is going to replace the M-16 whether it works or not.

I suspect The Gay will negatively affect military performance, but I have enough wisdom to know that I don’t know for certain.  What I do know is the obamateurs—the marxist radicals Slobmerica elected—who are currently responsible for keeping our Armed Forces strong, ALSO have no idea how The Gay will affect military performance, nor do they care if the results are negative.

If women in the Armed Forces is any indicator, The Gay is going to be a lot of trouble, and like all politically-correct social experiments, a lot of trouble that will be hidden from the public eye.

21 FEB 18 UPDATE 

WELL ME BOYOS, rather than start a whole new post I’m going to add this here, since it’s a variation on the original theme. 

Regarding gays serving openly in the military, my concern was increased obstacles to troop readiness in the name of social justice would get our troops killed.  Now that I think about it, while I haven’t gone looking for one, I’ve never seen a headline anywhere explaining the results of this social experiment, but I gather if it’d been a roaring success, fake news would have (for once) trumpeted an honest report on the front page.     

Sometime between 2010 and 2018, I remember the military opened up every job to women.  (To me the craziest wasn’t allowing women to attempt joining the SEALS, it was women being allowed to serve on submarines.  What a great deal even for plain janes!—who could charge $500-an-hour to screw.)

So the latest affront to common sense is what every soldier and sailor knew would happen:  the presence of women lowered standards.   

Marine Corps Quietly Drops Major Obstacle to Female Infantry Officers

Read the comments section:  I don’t need to add my voice to the chorus of Marines saying BAD IDEA.

But that’s the Age of Insanity we live in.  We just try everything because we can, no matter how retarded, never caring about real-world results except to hide failure. 

Sex and fucking and never again

It occurred to me as I left the gym at 10PM with Metallica’s Dyer’s Eve shredding the eye-Pod that I might never get laid again.

My only real deliverance this past decade has been annual sojourns to Tijuana brothels, and Califonia’s taint is far, far, away from Old Folks, Florida.

There was some minor excitement 2 years ago when I’d been given a call girl’s number and tax money would soon arrive to pay for her. To prepare I went out and bought “oils” and a massage table and was even doing shit around the house men never do, like cleaning the bathroom. For a week I had a spring in my step and a shine on my balls in delighted anticipation! I was a fine member in good standing of the human race, and then just like a rotten sitcom twist, as I was going on and on to the middleman friend about how excited I was, he explained our pal who gave me her number told me NOT to call her, she wasn’t accepting new clients. My heart broke like the damn in New Orleans, putting out all Cajun fires of catfish hope. I was so destroyed I’ve never cleaned the bathroom since. But for one blissful the week just the promise of pussy made me want to be a better john.

I have no plans to visit out West, and good thing. The gods of chastity ironically enjoy FUCKING with poor bastards like me. The first obstacle was created by a team-up of islamofascist turbaned dickheads and the US govt: a mandatory ‘passport card’ costing around $100 is now required for foot travel between Future Mexico and Regular Mexico. You’re also probably aware by now about the skyrocketing price of fuel which (again, ironically) has grounded a shitload of planes and made ticket prices sky-high. Rounding out the chaos and hopelessness, my last and only friend in Cali has no place for me to stay and—one more gag—narco-terrorist gun battles have made it unsafe for Americans to even visit TJ. If all of this vanished I’d still be out of luck: a quarter of each month’s pay goes to student loans paying down a worthless, rip-off education, so saving up would take well over a year anyway.

It’s a shame, really. The whores I’ve been with (always in countries where hooking is legal) have all been 9s and 10s, quality over quantity. Usually it’s a good time, if not mechanical and predictable, but sexual fucking is the only thing in life where just going through the motions still yields a quality outcome.

If you’re a woman (still) reading this, well, that’s not possible. If you’re a dude, let me say I appreciate in advance any “suggestions” you may have brainstormed about “what I should do,” but none of it’s going to work. I don’t dance, i don’t sing, I don’t buy drinks and I don’t make small talk. Fuck the cover charge and slit the throat of the bouncer that will be talking home the hot chick anyway. I’ve given up. Even though I hate clowns, the gods have made me one; I’ll never get on with this fucked-up, retarded society that will always be uglier and more rotten than me. I’m too clever, dumb, arrogant, shy, proud, angry, vicious, and goddamn it sensitive to properly cope with the many lightning bolts of pure shit striking at every corner and turn. All I have left is a sense of humor, and that’s about as much an aid to getting laid as shitting your pants.

The blonde at work has big tits but a weak chin. I hate women, I hate men, I hate myself 23-hours-a-night but I’m too lazy to die so I’ll further hate voices, pictures, faces, eyes, words, every last fart of the illusion.

Someone must die and it won’t always be me.

Love poetry, or Trying to Turn Shit into Chocolate Cake

You can write love poems—even good ones—for specific women as long as you don’t expect the words to work. Because they don’t.

I have a friend who already has self-published one small book of love poems. The cover looks cool, it looks like a real book, but the poems within are the opposite of good: riddled with clichés and trite expressions like dead bats hung on a clothesline of pretension.

Worst of all, they beg.

A wise woman already knows a man who confesses to love her is completely vulnerable, no matter how tough he acts. Supplicating makes a man seem weak. Really, if you want to do well with women, remember they are Klingons at heart. The few that have hearts, ha ha.

Sad to say the woman my poor friend Can’t Live Without™ whom he’s known for years, is an Asshole, a sanctimonious, “spiritual” cruella who hates him for some reason he’s never quite explained. Judging from the fury of her words, you’d think he raped her and left her for dead; I think he deceived her about something, but nothing close to cheating on her.

I’d offered to edit his first manu, but halfway through he up and self-published it, full of spelling errors and all.

I suicidally offered to edit the 2nd one and heard nothing more about it. Then out of nowhere, last week he asked if I’d looked at it. When I told him I never got the file he flipped, then sent it.

Now I’ve flipped.

Love Manuscript #2, aka More of the Same, almost 140 pages of short-yet-hard-to-stomach poems. I don’t even envy the prodigious output, it’s all terrible.  I’m trying like hell to make his stuff work, but secretly I hope he ignores my editing. I love my friend and hate his needless suffering, and not because I have to suffer his poopoetry. If I could magically erase the cruella’s horrible personality and reprogram her or create a magical fuckbot in her image, I would. I’ve already dared tell him in a 500-words-or-less essay why I think this woman is a disaster, that even if she saned-up he still has no future with her and should be glad for it. But he can’t listen to reason any more than his poems can un-suck: the poor SOB is in love.

Some people are just fucking machochists, I guess. Like me, trying to turn shit into chocolate cake.

(If you ever find this blog, my friend, you’ll have to forgive me. You’ve suffered enough).

Determining vaginal value

Re: Spitzer/Gollum’s call girl.

No pussy is worth 5 grand an hour; this broad sure as hell isn’t worth US $1000/hr.

Mariah Carey or Vida Guerra might be worth 5 grand a night. My once-favorite porn star might be worth double that for a night’s work.

In the end, what’s money got to do with it? What is money, anyway?

Sooner or later every man pays the ultimate price,

while women do their nails.

Women are like chimps who trade sex for bananas

There’s a part-timer at work I’ll call “Roids” who gets all the girls wet.  I’m older and wiser than him but those things don’t matter with the ladies, only money, looks and “attitude”.

Even if I were Roids’ physical clone the ladies would still treat me with indifferent indifference, just like they do now.   I can be just as risqué as Roids and a hell of a lot funnier, but my weirder thoughts can and do ruin the moment.  Because I don’t use my brain to make money it brings only pain and isolation, so I hate people and that’s what shines through.  “Life is a tragedy for those who feel”.

Observing Roids has taught me that women are just as sluttish and shallow as any man, drunk or sober.  It’s not a female weakness but a human one.

Do you think I take delight in pointing out that at heart, women are all a bunch of filthy whores?

Do you? 

If you answered “Yes” then you are wrong.  It rips apart my heart like those fish hooks on chains in the Hellraiser movies. 
“There’s no such thing as a good woman.  Not in France.  Not in Philippines. Not in America.  Not anywhere.”

–Pinoy who’s doing his sister-in-law; from a short story by John Fante

Plato and Women

Plato was the only man in history who wanted to keep things “strictly Platonic” with the ladies.

One of his favorite pick-up lines was, “Hey baby, you can make it with Plato!”   It never worked.

Women back then had better excuses for missing a date.  Ancient Greece only had dial-up:  if it was cloudy they’d blame the sun-dial.

This concludes our lesson.