As a novelist I am beholding to, and suspicious of, serendipity as an interest enabling narrative device. So, when it does occur in real life I make certain to note it. In my capacity as a non-fiction writer my serendipitous sense sometimes sends a chill up my spine. Last week three conversations and one produce delivery converged in my mind. A week later that squiggly thought claw will still not let go of my frontal lobe. So Mom, stop reading now, because those coincidences of mind on that auspicious single day and night have converged in your son’s mind as another crackpot literary moment. And I’m not getting a dime for this—the New York Times have yet to call.

Okay, now that Mom is gone, I suppose the rest of you can forgive me in advance. Its only March and I am on my third concussion of 2014—or was that fourth? Wait, if I thought it was four than that was before the last one—so that could be five? Not to worry, I have two entire sets of fingers with which to keep count!

At my place of worldly toil, Free Foods For Fat Foodstampers, we had a customer asking for small eggs. My boss called the wholesaler and found out that they could be had—but did he really want them? When he checked with his boss, the small egg idea was vetoed, even though they represent a good value for the customers who are eating eggs or using them for Rocky Balboa morning cocktails, rather than using them for recipes, with extra-large the standard for recipes now. You see everything has to get bigger, and nothing may appear to shrink.

I felt like we were treading on metaphorically pornographic ground and kept my thoughts about getting a fluffer for the egg case to myself. I was closer than I thought. It appears that having anything labeled ‘small’ in your sales lineup is just not image-enhancing. I must agree, unless of course we are recruiting tunnel rats for sewer combat in the Crimea, or camel jockeys for our Saudi friends…

Sorry Miss, no small eggs for your army of small kids. It would be unbecoming.

Not moments later I was sorting a U-boat of dairy freight and found that some fellow named Louis Tejada [who I thought was still playing for MLB] had tossed a case of produce on the yogurt pallet. This orphaned case was of ventilated waxed cardboard, bespeaking the same nation of origin as the order packer at the C & S warehouse [these order pickers each have a packer label, which states that so-and-so proudly packed this pallet, and if it falls on you, you clumsy schlep, you can bitch to your boss, who can contact his supervisor, so that we can give him shit rather than fire the twat in space allocation who slotted the 80 pound cases of pork to get picked after the 4 pound cases of yogurt, and heaved on top of the pallet, since Louis is not allowed to back up his tow-motor because there is a Salvadoran who does not give a shit riding his tail and trying to make his pick quota…]

Okay, where was I? Yes, the case of red peppers from, ‘the hot land’ that Louis so unceremoniously tossed atop my New Hampshire cultured yogurt, was, of course, of the ‘super-large' variety. The peppers were soft-ball size, which I suppose would have led some ancient Aztec to consider them veritable gods among peppers. The interesting thing was the sizes [as on a pizza box] that were available to be checked off: super-large, extra-large, large, and medium. Now, if you are casting hip-hop honey’s for a rap video and want to see a lot of giant jello gyrations, I can understand telling the gay dude down in casting that you want three versions of large, one built chick, and hold the anorexic fashion models.

But this is food!

It used to be that people understood ‘young’ or ‘new’ vegetables to be tastier than the bloated roid-banging versions of the thankfully non-sentient commodity. Christ, could you imagine if produce unionized? What would that look like? Each vegetable race has more clans of big shots than twerps…

Sorry, Friday is cheap wine and barbecued pork rind day, which begs for the art of digressssssssion. So even in some place as innocuous as a food market, where everything is actually going to be consumed by the customer, as opposed to something like politics or rap videos, where the female voters and male viewers are not actually going to get to taste the objects of their desire, it’s all about appearances. At least with politicians and hip-hop honeys’ the bigger butts cost more. But with produce the commodity is sold by weight.

Last week, for the second time in two months, I had a woman comment to me that what was wrong with European culture is that it is patriarchal. For an example of non-European matriarchal culture they both pointed to the black American community and the fact that the family structure is overwhelmingly matriarchal.

Ugh.

Okay, African cultures tend toward a stifling patriarchy [with some notable exceptions], as do Asian societies. European and Native American cultures have sometimes had a strong matriarchal element, with people like the Spartans, Vikings and Iroquois [watch Last of the Mohicans] having bossy women with property rights and sexual choices who tended to demand that their men go kick ass on their behalf.

The belief that African cultures [of which there are hundreds] are matriarchal has two roots in the retarded American imagination.

First was Sir Richard Burton’s [not the drunken actor that nailed Liz] comments on the ‘Amazons’ of Dahomey, which he limited pretty much to comments on their attractiveness, noting that they were equipped with a ‘stupendous buttocks’. In Dahomey the warriors sucked, for the same reason why warriors from extremely patriarchal societies tend to—because they don’t have some bloodthirsty witch at home screaming for the blood of their enemies in hopes that their man will bring home a young girl from some burned village that can do all of the housework. Indeed, the amazons of Dahomey defeated their male counterparts, and served as the king’s personal booty guard, essentially netting him 5,000 ass-kicking battle brides, as they were all his sexual property. Dude, when do you have time for a cabinet meeting! Really, it sounds like Snoop Dog’s idea of being Great Khan.

When the French Foreign Legion landed to take over the male troops fled, and the women fought so well that the legionnaires captured as many as they could to marry—because they were hot. These same guys slaughtered Berber women and made tobacco pouches out of their breast skin. So, apparently Burton’s recommendation of big Dahomey butts met with French approval. Maybe Snoop was king? Who the hell would give Snoop Dog a time machine? Okay. I’m tearing the manuscript up Charles…

The second and greatest reason for the mistaken America belief that females of African descent rule families, is that for most of their time in North America women of African origin were essentially married to the man that got them pregnant—the plantation master. For the most part black fatherhood was outlawed until the 1860’s. By the 1960s black America had shifted to a more patriarchal model. Then, with the Great Society programs, that permitted any woman who did not marry and had children to get all they needed from the government, black fatherhood was effectively banned by consent of women doing the math. Many black women [and even more white women, who receive more food stamps than blacks nationwide] are currently married to the U.S. and subordinate state governments.

Now, when you read accounts of middleclass black American families, such as Nine Years Under by Sheri Brooks, you will find a patriarchal or shared family structure. The interesting fact is that white women are increasingly looking to get married to the government. So this ‘women’s studies’ conclusion that European culture is uniquely patriarchal is false. Among poor whites the rate of single mother households is extremely high. This assumption also mistakes the mega-patriarchal welfare state for individual matriarchy. What you really have is bereaugomy, where the woman is married to a government and dallies with a man who has been marginalized by a provider that he cannot compete with.

Feminine futurists do have a point though. As women vote more reliably than men, outnumber them, and have stronger collectivist instincts, they now hold the political hammer and will be able to assure the accelerated feminization of America society barring some kind of hairy disaster, like a zombie apocalypse, that all of a sudden makes men physically and psychologically valuable again.

This is where the third conversation came into play last week. My roommate, a guy that believes in most of the Communist Manifesto [which sets him in line with most Americans] was telling me that he thought Hillary would make a good president. I disagreed, saying that she would make the perfect American president, as an accurate reflection of the American electorate, and as a deeply evil person, which is exactly what you need when you are taking over an entire planet with a dwindling economic base under you.

I don’t know what horrified him more, my contention that Hillary was evil [she must be, she’s a politician] or that America deserves an evil president. Hillary Clinton will be the next U.S. president. This does bring up some interesting points. First, as I viewed the picture on his desk of the assembled Clinton royalty: Slick Willy, the Wicked Witch of the West, and the not yet guilty one, it struck me that with two Clintons and two Shrubs we have clear evidence of America’s return to its European and African roots, lands where kings and queens have traditionally ruled due to heredity. This American thirst for royalty [as exemplified by our fascination with the British Inbreeding Club] signals a firm time frame for future historians to mark the end of the American political experiment.

For me, the more interesting point is, if our women are increasingly ‘married’ to The State, and we end up with a ‘sugar mommy’ instead of a ‘sugar daddy’ in the White House, does that usher in a metaphorically lesbian age?

Expiring minds want to know, yo.