Blog Archive

May 16, 2020
Whatever You Do, Don’t Call Me a Jesus Freak

Because I don’t really believe in Jesus. Well maybe as a parable. But I’ve been campaigning hard for his supposed pappy, the Gee-Oh-Dee, almost like I want him to be the next President.

God 2020

I joke around like that I think to soften the blow. To make it seem like I believe, but not like one of those freaks who *believes believes. It’s almost like coming into the house at 3 o’clock in the morning and thinking that because you clench your teeth or turn the knob painstakingly slow, that the horrendous creaking sound won’t still be there.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in environments where God was like the elephant in the room. Environments that didn’t really read the Bible or go to church or talk about God but believed in God. No “Christian” or denominational labels, just God straight up, no ice.

You don’t wanna *talk about it *talk about it or make any grand gestures. You just pull it out of your back pocket like a handkerchief every once in awhile, wipe your mouth and dab at your eyes when the occasion calls for it. “Yes Lawd”, you say. “God is with you”, and you put the handkerchief back into your pocket. Finish your one … two … Thirty-five drinks and go to church tomorrow for the first time in 5 years for Easter.

Hungover like this all my life, nothing ever made sense. Why I was so immune to all the name calling and the ostracization but suddenly ashamed to admit that I believed in God.

Sincerely,

The Unwitting Memoirist


May 11, 2020
Verisimilitude and The Work Memoir

The work memoir is a different kind of beast. I wrote one; and, recently, I read one.

When I visited the Amazon page for 15 Years A Deplorable: A White House Memoir by Mike McCormick, I saw a review about how it had “more than a few ‘retaliatory’ comments about co-workers” (who, the author explains, tried to sabotage him), and it made me think about the double irony of the work memoir. (And high functioning retards)

The work memoir, like the workplace experience being described, will forever be relegated to some obscure eat-shit-look-happy definition of professionalism, because there is a very very very fine line sometimes between truth and slander, libel. Between the Truth and the satanic workplaces people create. Between truth and judgment.

The barometer for discerning, of course, is anger. I knew my time was up when my anger had taken precedence over everything, including the “rights” I cared about. Luckily, I was given a natural out by losing all interest in my job. McCormick went to HR despite knowing that the act in and of itself—by way of a Constitution-based White House rule—was grounds for immediate termination (whether the complaint was legitimate or not). It reflects poorly on the President, it turns out, even when you’re a Trump-supporter being harassed by Trump haters in a Trump White House. Irony abounds. Maybe McCormick could’ve used the union I was Steward of, and that helped me fight for a job I hated.

Most importantly though, get out before it reflects poorly on you. On your scruples. The truth is in the transcript, McCormick, the former White House stenographer writes. It requires no fighting. So start writing. Start recording. The memoir is the appeal, the still witness that there is another side to the story.

Sincerely,

The Unwitting Memoirist


May 7, 2020
COVID-19: The Breakfast of Champions

It has come to my attention that I have suddenly become a character in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Or, you know, in any horrifying apocalyptic dystopian book where scary mask people stock pile hoards of toilet paper in their homes and avoid each other in mathematical measurements outdoors, or drive around alone in their cars with masks and blue gloves on. A cashier at Whole Foods told me that my own bags weren’t allowed while wearing a mask on her chin.

Or what about the overstressed, pitiable, *medical staff toiling long and hard for the Corona patients you’ve never seen? You must’ve seen them, some of the nurses I mean, crying, on their knees in supplication, taking selfies in their masks and posting it to social media.

Honestly, it has taken all of my prayers to God to keep from flipping the f*k out. Sometimes I lose it halfway through the prayer cuz I gotta say out loud an invisible virus named after a f*king beer. I mean, is there a genre called Apocalyptic Humor? Made all the more horrifying because it’s so retarded it’s funny? Please help.

But I’m proud of myself. I’ve managed. Because I understand that the masks, mask laws, by and large, are just a physical manifestation of the moral sickness that is the fear, the panic, the emptiness, anger, and over emotion that is the devil.

So!

Things will be more than OK, even better than they were before, because within God, within the Truth, there is solace and victory.

*Qwik Statistics

As of 2019, there were ~ 300 million people in the U.S. (yet Congress stays stagnated at a measly 535 representatives and senators (tasked to represent the states and the people) – this is the real crisis imo)

In 2017, the average DAILY number of deaths was ~ 7700, with the months of December, January and February having the highest average daily amount of deaths (at ~ 8400)

The leading cause of death in the U.S. is cancer and (the slow burn of) heart disease (p.s. they telling you what medical conditions people had before “dying of Corona”?)

Out of 1 million cases of Corona, there have been more recoveries (~ 213,000) than deaths (~ 74,000)

~ 300 million people in the U.S. and it’s “natural” that ~ 924,000 people die in about 4 months. The first case of Corona was in January, and only 74,000 people have died since then? While millions of people lose their jobs, businesses and a functioning world because we have no economy?

Sincerely,

The Unwitting Memoirist

*No disrespect to the medical establishment, just to the frauds and the fraudulent publicized severity of this virus. Thanks. (No people died of Corona during the making of this post)

Average Daily Deaths in U.S.

Deaths and Mortality (U.S.)

U.S. Coronavirus Cases

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