Rock Accountant

Category: Commentary

Without Racism White people would have No Friends

I can’t honestly see myself as a racist because most of my spare time is spent cheering for black athletes to succeed. Of course, I hope others fail miserably. I can just imagine the holes even intellectually flimsy liberals might find in this, but it remains the case for me.
I know black people like me when we encounter each other.
The only real fist fights I had as a kid were with blacks. My last one was in my thirties on a basketball court in the upper west side of Manhattan. I visited this court for so long that eventually I was playing with the children of my first teammates.
I have nothing important to say about race but I have always wished I was less of a Methodist and more like them, stupidly always defining them only as Baptists with rhythm. They seem to all be in a club into which I am not allowed. That’s OK because I would not trade places. Their lives are too hard. White is safer because we have advantages. I worry they will never get out of their mess.
Sex will most likely save us because we will mingle our genes eventually defeating our differences. It is comforting somehow that we find each other attractive enough to accomplish this. I figure love will conquer all as they say.
I miss the camaraderie most now. Men can only get so close. They have to have an excuse like sports or treating women whom they don’t know, like objects.
Maybe disliking other races is the only way we have to make friends.

Who Has The Best News?

It is hard to know from which good-looking woman to get my political news. I imagine women have the same problem with their newsmen. I’ll admit I have no idea what TV channels homosexuals favor, but I would suppose they observe the same psychoerotic seed trail as the rest of us. A beauty is a beauty after all. Transsexuals probably possess the widest range of information because they watch both sides.
I will ring them up when comes time to make my decision between Trump and Clinton.



Let our Children Vote

We allow our seniors in high school to drive cars indicating we are willing to arm them with a serious weapon that could, with misjudgment, kill someone. We forbid them nonetheless from voting in elections. We institute that the senile and stubbornly historically tainted voters are preferable to these children, all of whom, engage in the study of American civics daily.
Colleges are not interested in the pedagogy of the rights and duties of citizenship. They often indoctrinate according to their beliefs of right and wrong, left or right. Children might well be the only open minded voters we have left. Of course, parents influence them. Certainly the media harangues them but inside they are still absent of the lifetime grudges that cause our American embarrassment.

There shall be

There shall be no law that prevents any person from deliberately hurting themselves.All recreational drugs will be taxed and subject to prohibitions in the same manner as alcohol. 

All abortions should be legal, free and obtainable without interference. 

The sale of weapons should be unlawful. Guns can be owned only with licences and all weaponry must be available free of charge. 

Healthcare will be free, financed by a single payer US system, with children placed in the front of any and all lines to receive care. 

Every person living in America must possess a licence to do so. 

Citizens must be at least twelve years of age to vote 

and, at least, twenty-six to serve in the armed forces.

Wondering About Wisdom

I have come to wonder about wisdom. I doubt now that such a thing does or even could exist.
The philosophers think, and the novelists describe. But do they offer anything outside of their small moments of cleverness?
The short sayings, platitudes, and proverbs that commonly billboard FaceBook highways and our Bibles coax corrective behaviors that barely last a morning.
The priests offer certainty and hope in return for death. If that is wisdom, what is foolishness?
Is wisdom ever a tool?
Name me one knowing man who has ever served as a contagion for all of us to believe together. One who eventually would not divide us. All the famous ones are still killing us today.
It disappoints me that wisdom did not come to me with age. I was raised to think that it would. I was always searching and at times, I felt some mouths spoke truth into my ears. But it was never true.
Wealth and prestige come with age, and  those are the sexy petticoats of envy, and they confuse you, especially when you are young.
But the old are always too stubborn and ashamed come clean, so they whisper ” come hither for I am wise.”
And the young and foolish come.
At least for a while.

Perhaps this is what God would do if he really cared.

It is time for another Israel in the Middle East only much bigger. Perhaps in Mexico as well. Life in these two geographic regions has been a miserable proposition for a long time. The West did not cause it. The Kings, Mullahs, and oil-rich chieftains kept their people in poverty and allowed them only God as comfort for hundreds of years. In Mexico, the poor were supported only by our tourism, our insatiable need for drugs and the Catholic Church.
Bringing these people here is moronically ill-advised.
We should use our weapons and military to carve out new Edens for the suffering instead of destroying everything to catch a few.

Perhaps this is what God would do if he really cared.


Annex Mexico

We are entering a new century of wars conducted by swarming immigration. Water always flows downhill. Immigration will replace the nuclear weapon in the coming age.
People always move to where their life is better if they can. They will not neatly stay in a place where their children are in danger. I think human beings with stop short of treating each other like locusts, destroying intruders on mass. But one does have to recall Hitler.
The problem with our Southern border is manageable. Europe’s dilemma may not be so easy.
I think Trump is correct that we need to document people who come here, that’s only common sense. The Democrats don’t support this because they see human beings as voting blocks. The Republicans see immigrants from Mexico as vermin.
To me, our solution is simple and has been historically validated. We just annex Mexico and make it a nice place to live again. Tidy.


The Photographers

How can a photograph be copyrighted when it’s confined to the  public domain by definition? A song comes out of nothing.  A painting is as much the hand on the brush as it is anything inherent. Movies manipulate atmospheres and the medium simultaneously. A camera’s image becomes art only when interpreted in the aftermath. Could it be that photographers are more critics than artists? Could it be that there are no artists at all, only reviewers?

Photographers - page 158


I don’t get too tossed about this political correctness phenomenon. After all, when I was around twenty, I said “Groovy” and will still say “hey man” as a greeting, particularly to black people.
My father yelled at me when I was twelve when he overheard me on the phone with an adult speaking disrespectfully. He demanded that I say “Yes Sir or No Sir,” always. I still do this to this day, and I am older than everybody.meir
These rules can be learned.
I stumble clumsily over the speech regulations of today as though they are nuclear intrusions on my civil liberties. Hands always get a little burnt when passing torches. I know I am wrong, but I am stubborn so they can all go fuck themselves.
I have a theory about why these kids see slights that would have seemed not so grievous to my generation. Our millennials are the consummation of three generations of more and more targeted and cautious advertising. When the world does not behave the way it does in commercials, they are fearful and wary. They are suspicious of any gathering that does not accomplish fair representations of races, sexual identities or female /male neutrality. Words are paramount because they are accustomed to dialogue that has been worked and reworked by copywriters and advertising executives not to offend. One poorly placed word can result in the destruction of a Five-hour Energy drink or an Apple iPad. The stakes are huge.
I have two kids in this new generational cluster. I think they are better than me at that age. They, of course, roll their eyes when I behave deliberately in ways that will embarrass them. They forgive me for that, I know. They don’t know yet they will do exactly the same to their children. Nor should they.


Shakespeare’s Twat

When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, this very morning, stumbled into brevity, he recognized that all other English playwrights, if indeed this is not already a sterile reservoir, will soon be marinating in morbid dread. As change is the arrow that wounds all except the archer, the notion of debuting himself this day as the writer of fewest words flung him into unkind merriment.
“Let the world find its verbosity elsewhere than from me,” he says to himself, in his new and truncated style. His work will now and forever be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness. “Genius is the tabernacle of the boiled down,” he gloats, ” I will leave the breadth of things to the amateurs.
“Verily,” he decides, a tad too loudly, for his mother now overhears, “I will no longer desire a theater, for after all is said, of what point is an audience?’ They are simply witnesses; bystanders distinguished only by their asses finding a seat.
No, henceforth, they will hunt for my posts on trees buildings and bushes.
Hearing this vow from her roost just outside his doors, his mother, the severely talkative Mary Arden Shakespeare dismays. Mary, a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the paramount exercise of pointless human wordiness, The Doomsday Book, feels her lifetime toil of maneuvering her son, about to splash into a puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumps; legs splayed into a bunched nest of skirts, muttering miserably to herself, (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her, determined to conclude his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet,” was already redrafting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as the flavor in a piece sassafras chewing gum.
“Met Romeo today, parents way unimpressed, hook up, have a scheme, R. fucks everything up, big mess, the end.”
Shakespeare races to the Stratford’s Speaker’s corner to announce the new course of England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy and toothless, “ My tragedies and comedies will come to you as “Twats.”
Be it known, that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the penitentiary of twenty-eight letterings or less. I will nail my twats to this tree as I fashion them; I will stamp each with a dollop of gruel for authenticity. Henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.”
My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page.” Thank you.


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