Yes, The Plight of Men in this Holy Season of the Patron Saint of Whores! What better way to spend the nonfiction aspect of the final month of my slave master’s year.

Yes, Saint Nic is the patron saint of hookers, “Ho, ho, ho!” And I find no better time for us to wake up to the fact that we’ve sold off our humanity for a cut of a soon to be devalued economy than The Most Holy Month of The God of Things.

The night before last as I boarded the bus my regular driver Brant said, “It’s still bad out here. If you don’t need the money, why risk the trip?” Brant and other bus drivers have been seeing increased numbers of black youth attacks on whites at bus stops—all of which have gone unreported in the news—and is noticeably worried for his pale-skinned passengers.

Feeling tired I sat down behind him next to the latest ‘Hero’ poster. The possibility of being ‘heroized’ through deeds was once the province of men. But, like so much else, society has taken that away by reducing its meaning to a scurrying parody of servitude. The poster reads:

Substance User Problem?

TAKE ACTION!

BE A HERO!

Save a Life

Call 211

Once again I find myself in agreement with my hereditary enemies [young black men and youth] that the purest proof that the world is not worth respecting is that Society reserves its highest honors for those who grovel, snitch, rat, and otherwise inform on their fellows and kiss the well-heeled feet of our slave masters.

I slept most the way to Middle River. When I got off the bus at 11:14 I spied cop cars a half mile up the road at the liquor store. As I walked through the circle of six towering stands of pork, draped in the uniform of their slave masters and well-armed, I noticed that they had a young white man handcuffed on the curb, and, based on their discussion, he was being arrested for a personal quantity of a drug of some kind.

By 11:24, another half mile out the road, where a couple cops normally park and enjoy their free lunch, I spotted a twenty-something whigger in classic hood rat attire walking toward me with a girl his age, who he was encouraging, as she was obviously afraid to continue on their way. I swerved to avoid them, stepped out of the road to the left, and walked through the grass. As they hesitated a white van coming from the direction of the six Harm County cops making the arrest pulled up. Two black guys were seated up front. As the van slowed in the middle of the street the white boy shoved his lady friend—a mildly good looking brunette—toward the van. She jammed her hands in her tight-fitting jean pockets, looked over her shoulder at her clearly nervous boyfriend and walked toward the van.

Her man 15 paces behind, and idly swaying in his drooping drawers, she approached the passenger side as I passed the driver’s side. I heard the sliding door—unseen from my vantage—she gasped, said “No,” and hurried back away from the van, as the door slid shut. I don’t know what she had seen in that van to spook her, but she did not get in as directed by her boyfriend. The van pulled off with squealing tires and I headed through the park with these two behind me arguing, her whining, him surly and disappointed.

Later at work Anton showed me the video of the NYPD cop pressing the giant, and now deceased, bootleg video and black market cigarette vender’s face to the Gotham pavement. He looked at me, “So what you think a that choke hold and face plant?”

“Well, that was a shitty headlock, not a chokehold. And that was not a face-plant but a face press. The last time I grappled with my heavyweight Erique, I did that two-handed face press to him for over a minute, all of my weight pinning his head to the floor. When I tried to pin him to the floor he just got up. But even though his one leg might be as strong as my entire body, his neck is not. That’s how you keep a big man down without busting him up.”

“But Yo, the dude was like “I cain’t breathe?”

“Anton, I have been witness to over thirty shoplifter apprehensions. Every one of them said that, even when the security man was just holding their wrist. That guy died at the fried chicken stand. That pig just flicked the stress-induced heart attack switch when he touched him.”

Later on Bubba, our mild mannered giant cashier, after ringing out my ice tea, confided in me that he was afraid to take the bus, that he had only done it once and had been afraid. I looked at him and looked at Steevo, of Running from the Cops fame, who said, “Tell ‘im dude; tell him that there’s nothing to fear.”

I looked at Bubba and said, “You are fulfilling your ecological role. Whites are supposed to be terrified of blacks. Cops randomly beat the shit out of black dudes, who randomly beat the shit out of you; that is a top down psychological ecosystem, with you the grass-eating ungulate skittishly awaiting your doom.”

Bubba looked at me with tears in his eyes and Steevo was all heart, “Yep, you’re skull-fucked now Bubba.”

Later in the morning Larry, the older white supervisor, came up to me and inquired, “Okay, you are the ghetto guy. Why don’t these black kids just submit and accept arrest?”

My answer to Larry forms the basis for the upcoming chapter Tao of A Black Cracker. What I saw at the bus stop an hour later, in the form of a dying old man maintaining his manhood in the face of a debouched material order is one of the sparks that lit the fire that has driven me to write this book.

Last night, as I was getting off the phone with Brooklyn Shane, who was kind enough to call and recite Jack Donovan’s props, and also mention our salient difference, that being our view of the relationship of masculinity to hierarchy, my date drove up to the plantation gate in her hard-driven vehicle.

Ajay is a young black babe from the suburbs who drives down into the city to pick me up for our weekly date. She likes to stroke my beard, which she insists I grow longer—which I think is a racial memory of one of her ancestors combing the beard of Jeb Stuart—and looked at my freshly shaven head with dismay. “Chrise you look like a skinhead when you do that.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s hot actually—makes you look even more badass. Which I suppose you need living in this creepy neighborhood! Let’s get the hell out of here—and away from black people. If I have to see one more trifling ghetto bitch interviewed over that dumbass knucklehead in Fergusson I think I’ll scream.”

We turn the corner and make another turn, passing two sketchy looking white dudes in hoodies and she cuts loose, “Fucking gay serial killers! Would you look at that faɡɡot! Trifling blacks, creepy whites—what the fuck?”

I steered the conversation onto more important things, “So do you think the Mulattress Mayor really has a crush on me?”

“You know you’re crazy right? One look at you she’s be like “Scurity, scurity!”

“She’s a babe. I can’t believe you’re making fun of her diction.”

“She’s not ugly. But that mandible is too masculine. She has a man’s jaw line. You know if you were gay you’d be like the manly ancient Greek faɡɡots, ‘Errggh! I fight wars and fuck men!’”

Laughter fills the inside of the Ajay mobile as she cuts a liberal driver off and snarls obscenities at the conservative driver ahead who had the gall to drive below the speed limit. She then says, “Don’t worry, I can be black when its convenient, but not tonight. These dumb fuckers are getting on my nerves—misspelling the name of their slain son on the memorial—What-the-Fuck—the white lawyer can’t stick around long enough to spell that shit for their dumbasses? Who the hell is Maureen—did you fuck her?”

“Not unless she was the drunk Jewish chick that sat on my lap at Mothers down in South Baltimore and had me carry her home.”

I directed Ajay to the only eating establishment we frequent where we do not get stared at for being a white man and a black woman, for only black men with white women are acceptable mixed-race couples under the current dining room ethos.

On the way there she spotted two different cop cars staking out the highway with radar guns from positions behind jersey walls and said with a bitter tone, “Slimy little fuckers! Out grubbing for government money in time for Christmas—slimy cowards, mammas boys with badges! I guess they have to do something since they aren’t allowed to arrest thugs and protestors anymore.”

Soon we were seated at a chain bar food joint and she was complaining about her boss, a witless bimbo with an hour glass figure. After every indictment of her professional qualities I came to the lady’s defense—having met her once at a cocktail party—with a statement as to her overall qualifications as a salaried manager, “But she has a nice ass.”

She’d fire back, “I know what kind of work you’d have her dumbass doing!”

Which brought us full circle to the stupid black person/creepy white person discussion we began our evening with, which dovetailed into a discussion of the Fergusson affair, the chokehold that was not, and the punch that was a slap, and exactly why the media sounds more scripted than ever, with neither left or right diverted from the false terms of debate foisted upon the media consumers. Ajay specifically wanted my opinion on why black men were brainless, white men were spineless, and why this is exactly the social landscape that the liberal white feminist and ‘dumb black bitches’ of America seem to prefer and cultivate at every turn.

She knows from experience that most black men are idiots and that most white men are pathetic weaklings, one group easily led, the other easily cowed. She wanted my opinion as to why the only guy she has been able to find with brains and balls is some nut-job stick-fighter who lives “in a serial killer house” and seems bent on self-destruction.

She follows my blog and is particularly upset that I write critically of cops, feds, black criminals and white radicals. This is a balanced conversation. I can talk with Ajay. Most women just shut me off when they discover that—with every one of their conversations being a materialistic crusade—that I refuse to convert to the worship of their consumerist comfort-seeking deity. Ajay may look at me and say, ‘you’re crazy’ or ‘you’re weird’ but that remains part of the appeal. She does not want to break me, and if she thought she could, would not want to spend time with me. She has confided in me that she can be cruel without a strong man [like her father] around to ground her. It is her opinion that her government workplace is such a disaster because of an absence—indeed a banning of—strong men. As she says, “Us crazy bitches need a strong man to keep us in line, especially when there is a whole office of us—then you know you have a couple of cat women who haven’t had an orgasm in a decade and you can’t reason with.”

At this point, about 15 hours ago, I finally decided that my article on social emasculation, had to be a book, had to be written now, and had to take into account the separate emasculation tracks for white and black men. It also needed to be written with the occasional remarkable lady in mind; that woman who actually wants to understand men as men are or should be; who does not seek to use or change them, but just wishes she lived in a world ‘where men were still men’ so she wouldn’t have to settle for some ‘beatup’ ‘broke-ass’ boxing writer, and might live as a woman content to be a woman in a world where good men and hard men might be one in the same.

As readers on masculinity sometimes forget, this is a two gender species, and what undercuts men overloads women. Without a symbiosis, a balance, there is no winning gender and losing gender. A world where women are pushed into uncomfortable male roles is just as miserable for them as one in which men are denied what is natural for them.

As an example of how our dualistic [good/evil right/wrong God/Devil] Judaic view on life in the Western World makes social balance impossible, I would like to recall a recent post on the Goodbye America word press site, one of those sites were men whine like women about women acting like men.

A picture of an ‘equal work unequal pay’ bake sale run in an office building lobby by an attractive young lady that had items priced at $1 for women and $1.50 for men was a beacon of outrage for the manginas that commented on the post. A close look showed a small inventory which my ‘broke-ass’ could have bought out, baked and displayed by a babe who actually dressed in such a way as to hide her curves, as her and her hipster kind have been indoctrinated to equate an attractive female body image with the figure of an emaciated 14 year old boy with B-Cup implants desired by Manhattan fashion moguls.

This lady is as denatured as the white men who flee in terror from minority youths and beg for police protection for their woman because they are too busy playing video games to drive her to work. Her very fertile figure that would have made her the coveted property of any ancient war lord is an object of shame to her, even as my hairy chest is supposed to be shameful to me, with every male model made to shave his body to appear more denatured.

I have never picked up women. But, having achieved old age, I sometimes delight in humiliating young men by showing them how to pick up the young female they covet in their alternately girly and canine manner. One night a stripper came into work to spend her bag of $1 bills on groceries and three young men followed her around like dogs after—that’s another story for another book.

But where this cookie selling babe is concerned, she is looking for attention from a man, dreams of the man who will not be insulted by her jealousy of his higher pay, or whine about her just wanting an alpha male, or think ‘bitch’ as he walks buy with hands in his pockets, unwilling to part with 50 cents more than a woman who would buy the same muffin. You see, even though she doesn’t understand it, she does not want a materialistic mangina, she wants a man, that will walk up to her table, buy all her stock, give her a tip [still under $100 dude] fold up her table, and carry it down to her car, where he will ask for her phone number in privacy. Even though it is taboo for the postmodern woman to admit it in the world that has become Eve’s sexless after party she still wants the same thing that women have always wanted: a hard man that is only soft on her.

When I was young we had gender tension in the form of women’s shrill protest. Now that I am old we have additional shrill protests by men who have been unable to connect with women in this twisted matrix. These women are protesting as shrilly as ever, both genders duped by their slave master, who has now been socially altered to be the tranny slave mistress of us all. The only living things that have gained from this gender duality are the cats and dogs that women have adopted to replace their children and men, and the legion of whores and porn stars that men now look to in numbers more vast than General Hooker’s infamously inept and famously horny Union soldiers.