Rock Accountant

Category: Trump

Looming Whiteness

I like Mr.Trump for a variety of reasons, but the looming one for me is that he allows me to feel OK with my whiteness. We whites are not villains although we serve that purpose in the psyches of people working their way through lives which can start out unfairly. That’s fine as far as it goes; we can take it and we should. Eventually, another color will supersede us, and we will bemoan the unfairness of that, as Vonnegut says, “So it goes.”
People will always defend what they have worked to achieve or what they have inherited by chance. That is, at least in part, what makes us human. The dithering, time wasting hypotheses of socialism only works for insects. They are children’s fantasies. Just ask the 100 million dead Stalin communists or the millions of “Bernie millennials” that will be shoved aside by Hillary.
To be fair white people have ruled long, both with distinction and disgrace, but this will not last forever. America is spinning us inexorably towards new colors. Those races will fight it out for supremacy, as they should.
It is not so wise to continue spending so much time trying to get white people to accept the blame for everything. At a certain point, we will turn a deaf ear and go about our business of being “white.” Enter Mr. Trump.

Trump and Bernie

I don’t like any candidate except Trump. I can’t help but like Bernie too, but he represents silly ideas that have been proven disastrous for nearly a hundred and fifty years when applied. He continues to gain favor because of his implied goodness but Americans have very little patience for decency.

I like Trump because he and people like him have vigorously raped the entire world on my behalf since we formed ourselves into a loose confederation of arguing states.

Ultimately this led directly to my having a fancy car. I can forgive women for voting for Bernie, not because they are intrinsically nicer than men, but because they simply are not so preoccupied with automobiles.

The Light

I am beginning to see the light at the end of my tunnel. If Mr. Trump loses to the forces of Good, then the Media, whom I loathe with a rabid psychopathy, will have bankrupted itself. So I win.
They will be compelled to have sex with the only girl left in the bar when the lights come on at four in the morning. For eight years.

Who Would Have Guessed?

I would never have guessed that the slaughter of Muslims for the last fifteen years in the Middle East by the Western Democracies was nothing compared to identifying them before they enter our countries. It was Mr. Trump’s blunder to be against attacking Iraq. He should have realized, in a Democracy, you must always pretend murder is not prejudice.


The money that controls the Democrat party also controls the Republican party. People who bitch all day that they are victims of entrenched financial power and influence, which is most of us, need to realize that Donald Trump is our confederate. Certainly what he says has an exaggeration that is borderline dangerous, but remember, black people thought that Obama would change things for them. He did not. Hillary offers us nothing in return except making her happy. We have, at the very least, the right to elect someone who is free.

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.


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.


It is why my life is so funny.

I love everything about America.
I don’t believe that every veteran is a hero. I believe that some are.
I don’t believe black people are all good. But I know there are enough good ones to solve their problems.
I know that wearing pink at football games does not make me more aware of breast cancer. My mind rarely wanders far from breasts.
I don’t believe children, academics or pretty girls on TV should try to tell me how I can avoid insulting them.
People should understand that I want to offend them. It is the only way I have to find out if they are idiots.
That is how I pick my friends.
It is why my life is so funny.

thdog ears

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