The human being, as disgusting as it is, is an amazing ape.

I regard the Old Testament as history rather than the word of God, primarily because God is said to have made man in his own image.

I desire a better God than that.

My God is the center of the Universe, not a hairy patriarch on a throne of pillared cloud.

I further see the Old Testament as the seat of emasculation, the seed of the downfall of us all, with its focus on domestication and the sacred obsession with denaturing mankind and despoiling his habitat. In my defiant brain, patriarchy of garden and house under a shepherd God is but a stepping stone out of—and necessarily back into—matriarchy.

Yesterday, in honor of Big Ron, I did a social experiment.

My estranged wife, with whom I remain on good terms and who reads this site just to see how much trouble I'm getting into, was visiting my mother while I was there. They are nearly next door neighbors.

My darling mother inquired as to why I would not be visiting next week and I told her I had a lot of proofing and editing to do. She waxed supportive, reminding me that she is a good proof reader, but that my content is so vile and my style so poor that she cannot bear to read my work.

She is in a painful position. Her son knows more about the world than any four people in her life and yet insists on criticizing it rather than making money off of it. She is worried about the blooming race war, about my dangerous living and is very concerned about the increasing hatred and intolerance in the media, but still wishes we could all just get along.

The woman next to her, who over a decade ago inexplicably kicked me out of the house I rented just because I was banging a few other chicks, mentioned that I am interviewing some interesting people and that she is a big Big Ron fan. I take the conversational ball and run with it, telling a few sexy pizza delivery and a few brutal fight tales from Big Ron's life. As I describe Big Ron biting the negro thumb on the trigger of the gun right around the corner from her Aunt Alice's old house in Hamilton, my mother rose, tiny and Elizabethean in her seat and said, "What kind of animal is this you are talking to?"

Faye broke in and said, "The kind of animal Mamma Faye would like to get to know—but your son won't let me meet him."

I retorted, "He's recovering from a bad back injury and you wrecked my spine in Ninety-Two. The last thing he needs is a romp with you."

My mother looked at her daughter-in-law aghast, as if to say, Didn't you learn anything about the pitfalls of associating with such men by being married to my son? [My mother, upon meeting one fine slave girl, was stricken with guilt and looked at me and pleaded, "Please don't hurt her—the poor thing is in love with you!"]

Faye shrugged her shoulder with a comic grin and I cut in, "Look, Ma, he's a real nice guy and if you didn't know his hobbies included beating up negroes and banging sluts, you'd find him quite personable. More importantly, if only a third of the men in Baltimore my age, had been like Big Ron, Baltimore would still be a place you could go play bingo and get a bite to eat."

She then raised her eyebrows and laughed, "That's certainly true. They never did touch your Uncle Bill."

In the end, the fact that not a soul in my fairly large family [except those like Uncle Bill who married in and have since passed away] believes that a man should stand and fight for his property, his space, his woman or his race, or anything else he might value, cherish or believe in, but tuck tail and run, while it remains the chasm that divides me from my entire biological line, provided the very spark for my rebellion against the sissy system that had weaned me to revel in victimhood and wallow in alienated despair. The very sheep-eyed bowing of the head to those above and the rabbit-footed flight from those below that characterized my parents, my peers and those who have spawned limp-wristed and cotton-tailed since is what awkwardly made me a man, someone worthy of being hated be those who the cowardly so fear.

In the end, as much as I disagree with there every morality and every sissy submission, I can thank my family for making me into a fighting man through their vapid resignation under the ominous weight of this evil nation.

That said, the poor old girl cried when I told her they ripped the Confederate monuments out in the night. She pined, "But we are supposed to have freedom of expression?"

I patted her on the hand and said, "It was a lie, Mom, a bright shining lie that I never believed for a minute."

She tried not to cry anymore as the monster she long ago brought into her neatly ordered world smiled and walked away.