Gender Equality: No More 출가외인, Married and Dumped

This is another appeal for the equality of the sexes, that is, the elevation of women to the same status as that of men.

Men, abandon your built-in arrogance, your unconscious male chauvinism. It’s time you owned up to the gross injustice your race has done to women.

Women, where is your pride and passion for feminism, for gender equality? Rise up in indignation and wrath and seize your dignity, immortal identity.

The single most formidable obstacle to gender equality is patronymics or naming children after the father’s family name, either by law or by custom, the mother’s identity thereby lost forever. This lack of lineage is the single most powerful reason why sons are preferred everywhere and daughters considered a burden soon to be ejected, most shamelessly and brutally expressed in the pitiless Korean phrase, 출가외인, married and dumped, as if the daughter had never been.

We of Neo-Feminism propose to correct this injustice, not by abolition of patronymics, though that seems fair enough in view of accumulated injustice over the millennia, but by implementation of matronymics, so men and women have an equal chance to pass on their family names. In a few generations equality of lineage will result globally and women, now capable of lineal descent, will no longer be the inferior sex.

Neo-Feminism: Movement for Women’s Right to Keep and Pass On Their Family Names

For the sake of brevity Neo-Feminism is the name by which is to be known henceforth our Movement for Women’s Right to Keep and Pass On Their Family Names, launched on 11-11-2017, typakmusings.com.

In a recent meeting of Neo-Feminists the following resolutions have been adopted.

1. Neo-Feminism

This shall be the official title of the movement, subject to reconsideration.

2. Prospective Implementation

The proposed measures, retention of the wife’s maiden name and equal proration of parental names for children, are prospective and not retroactive, as the latter may be unduly disruptive. Neo-Feminists are conservatives, not revolutionaries, and espouse the spirit of the U.S. Constitution prohibiting ex post facto legislation (Article 1, Section 9, Clause 3).

3. Paranoia about Different Clans in the Same Family

There is the fear voiced by some that different surnames in the family may be divisive. But it is paranoia, dispelled upon reflection.

We are dealing with two names, father’s and mother’s, not a multiple. If duality is acceptable for parents, so it is for their offspring. If nothing else, it will be a tribute to the awesome mystery and beauty of sexual reproduction.

The children, given their different surnames at birth, will grow up, thinking nothing of it. The concern for divisiveness is the relic of the pre-Movement era, destined to disappear in one generation upon demise of the parents.

4. Agenda

As the Movement attains critical mass, it will have an office and staff to maintain the Register, contact the media, and organize awareness events, conferences, rallies, etc. Also at this point the Movement will apply for donations from organizations and individuals such as the Clinton Foundation, whose founders have only a daughter and the Obamas who also have only daughters.

5. Registration as a Non-Profit and Trademark

The Movement will be registered in New Jersey as a nonprofit along with its trademark, Neo-Feminism, and articles of incorporation. However, other states may be considered as its national and global base.

6. Subscription to Neo-Feminism

To join the Movement send in your name for inclusion in the Neo-Feminist Register, along with your affirmation of support and any particulars about yourself you care to share with the membership, such as your profession, family history, phone number, mailing address, etc. to typakmusings.com@gmail.com or dr.youngicklee@gmail.com. No dues or donation is solicited.

Movement for Women’s Right to Keep and Pass On Their Family Names

We call on all good people of the world to rise up and give their women true equality by letting them keep and pass on their family names to their children.

It is downright unfair and mean to deny them this right to lineage, to immortality, that men take for granted as they marry. It is in fact no less a crime than matricide (No More Matricide, 1-17-2014, typakmusings.com).

America is very much behind the Europeans in this all important effort to right the wrong humanity has been guilty of for thousands of millennia.

In 1978 the Council of Europe declared equality of rights in the transmission of family names. Likewise, in 1979, the United Nations adopted a Convention calling for gender equal rights to choose a “family name”. Similar measures were anticipated by Germany (1976) and adopted by Sweden (1982), Denmark (1983), Spain (1999), France (2005), and Italy (2014).

Gender equality in surnaming children is a moral and practical imperative worldwide as we go forward with civilization in the 3rd millennium. (1) It will end global preference for male lineal heirs, (2) prevent female feticide and infanticide, practiced on a massive scale in China, for example, under its one-child policy, and (3) stop overpopulation, as couples with daughters won’t keep having more children just to get a son.

For immediate implementation we therefore propose the following procedure:

1. First Child to Take the Mother’s Surname

This is only fair to make amends for humanity’s accumulated wrongs, unless the mother agrees otherwise.

2. Alternation among Subsequent Children

In other words, the 2nd child after the father, 3rd the mother, 4th the father, and so on.

In case of an odd number, the last one will be given either parent’s by drawing lots or by consent of the resulting minority parent.

3. Maiden Name After Marriage

Upon marriage a woman shall retain her surname and not change to her husband’s.

In particular there shall no longer be the monstrosity, hyphenation of both spouses’ surnames.

3.1. First, it is unequal, because the husband gets to keep his family name, smugly looking on his inferior partner’s contortions. On the off chance he adopts the hyphenation, he would probably insist on having his surname as the first element of the compound.

3.2. Secondly, the hyphenated form cannot be bequeathed to the children. In the unlikely event it is, the hyphenated child may marry another hyphenated child, whereupon we end up with multiple hyphenations.

All who agree with this cause to realize gender equality are invited to send in their names and other identifying information to typakmusings.com@gmail.com for inclusion in the national, nay, global register of membership in the Movement for Women’s Right to Keep and Pass On Their Family Names.

Goodbye to God

Gathered at our house in Norwood, NJ, on Sunday, Sep 24, 2017, is the whole tribe to celebrate the end of summer, though conspicuously absent and sorely missed are our oldest granddaughter now up at Brandeis as freshman and our other son and his family in Korea.

First to arrive is our nephew, unattached and eager to revisit the place where he has stayed his first summer on the East Coast, followed by our daughter, her husband, and twin daughters, exactly on time, 4:30 p.m. Not too soon for our son-in-law in charge of the first barbecue outdoors on the deck breaking in the brand new propane gas grill. He checks out the equipment and starts working on pans of marinated chicken and spare ribs of beef, while my wife adds the last-minute touches to the all organic salad bar.

Our daughter and her twin girls return from their workout at the tennis court to find that our youngest son, his wife, 21-month old daughter, and grandma haven’t arrived yet, a full hour past the start time, egregious even by his standards though he is stopping at a gourmet restaurant in Piermont to pick up some pasta dishes. Disappointed, because the girls have hoped to have their uncle join them at the tennis court, and heading for different bathrooms to wash up, they swear us to a pact to tell him henceforth to come one hour ahead of the real time.

Finally all accounted for and the barbecue completed, they surround the table and ask me to bless the food, catching me by surprise. I have had plenty of notice but procrastinated, thinking I would need only one hour to compose and memorize, but got distracted by little errands and emergencies.

“You do it,” I order my daughter. As a corporate lawyer she has the poise and gravitas and has emceed and moderated numerous gatherings but, above all, she has the real faith under my wife’s influence. “Be the chaplain for the occasion.”

“No, you should be it, Dad,” she refuses out of filial piety, Korean style. Even if she were the Pope herself, she would defer to me, thinking this wretched business a privilege rather than a burden.

“Just get it over with, Dad,” barks her husband, an experienced moderator having been a managing director at Goldman Sachs and chaired charities and nonprofits. But I cannot bounce the ball back to him. A son-in-law is not like your own son, not that the latter are any more tractable. Look at my youngest, who chooses to be an hour late. But to them I can shout an order, not expecting to be obeyed, but not to my son-in-law, with whom I must be on my best behavior at all times. The Korean saying goes: “Son-in-laws are guests forever.”

I am under tremendous pressure. Here are my two teenage granddaughters and one 21-month-old just learning to say a few words. I have to mind my manners, none of the heathen stuff I pull with my wife. It’s not that I am an atheist. I am not that brave. When something close to my heart is at stake like health or work of myself or my children and grandchildren, I am begging abjectly on my knees for God to help. It’s just that I know too much, growing up in Korea going to the temple, burning incense and bowing down to the statue of a fat Oriental buddha sitting with his legs crossed and folded. Simultaneously and more persistently we went to our ancestral tombs on New Year’s, Jan 1, or on Autumn Eve, Aug 15, by the lunar calendar. Also I had Christianity from my father who went to an American missionary school in Japan and my mother, a born again Christian. Then I married a pastor’s daughter who married me to save my soul. Living in the States I have of course learned about Hinduism and Islam with its Jihadist agenda and many others throughout the globe, each sacred for the believer but inane or downright insane to the outsider.

I plunge in and zip through, “Thank you, Lord, for bringing us all together on this last Sunday of the summer. Bless the hands that have prepared the food. Also bless our work, our studies, our projects and plans. Let us all eat heartily and have fun. Goodbye!”

The gale of laughter subsides with my son-in-law’s authoritative comment, “You’ve been doing this for years and are getting worse.”

“Goodbye?” my wife shakes her head in disgust. “What happened to Amen, your usual hurried ending, if not the proper one, In the name of my savior Jesus Christ?”

“I don’t know,” I blush and stammer, genuinely befuddled, because Goodbye has never been part of the inventory before.

“Every night I have corrected him for the last 40 years,” she continues. “Even a dog at a temple learns to chant the sutras after three years but not your Dad.”

Yes, she makes me pray every night before going to bed, which is not hard, as I get to pray for my children and grandchildren, but my hasty Amen must be followed up each time with the correction, “In the name of my savior Jesus Christ.”

“Give him a break,” comes my daughter to my rescue. “He was having a tete-a-tete with God and bidding goodbye when done.”

“That’s it,” I grab at the lifeline. “I am so into it, because I am talking straight from the heart to God. That’s how prayer should end, with plain Goodbye and no denominational, sectarian, or other signature.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” my wife warns ominously, rushing off as the oven alarm goes off for the heated pasta.

The Axiom of Reciprocity

A 79-year-old Korean American resident of New Jersey writes to his 34-year-old nephew, his younger sister’s son, from California, who has stayed the whole summer of 2017 at his house, attending community college.

Aug 23, 2017

Dear Tom,

Congratulations on your excellent grades for all the intensive summer courses. Determined as you are to make up for the years lost you’ll keep up the momentum to complete BA and post-graduate degrees and pursue a professional career.

You are also to be commended for saving enough money in a few weeks, working part time, to finance a trip home over the Labor Day holiday, proof that you are a capable adult who need not depend on the charity of your relatives or friends. Dependence is despicable, because it violates the fundamental principle of life, reciprocity. That’s why I have told everybody that you were staying with us only for a short visit.

The time has come for us to end that visit as it has become untenable. We have been avoiding each other, a relatively easy proposition because your semi-basement suite is accessible through the garage without intruding on us. For meals, however, you have to come upstairs to the kitchen on the first level, making sure I am not there eating. But occasional brushes are inevitable and I beat a hasty retreat to my study grabbing whatever containers of food at hand to give you free rein. Obviously, we can’t go on like this.

In hindsight we shouldn’t have embarked on our communal experiment. Your Mom sounded upbeat, telling me that she and your father were finally closing on the sale of their Japanese restaurant in San Francisco, and I thought they must have cleared a million bucks at least. In the next breath, however, she said their net was zero after paying off accumulated debts, including the 10-year-old debt of some $50,000 to Brenda, my daughter. Penniless, they were moving in with your brother Frank and his wife Liz, both doctors in Los Angeles, to be their infant son’s full time babysitters. But when asked about you, she said matter-of-factly that you would be left where you were to fend for yourself, Frank’s two-bedroom apartment being overcrowded as it was. All I had heard about you was that you had dropped out of college after falling into bad company and got addicted to drugs but had miraculously kicked the habit and worked as sushi chef at your parents’ and other restaurants.

I don’t know whether it was your Mom misleading me, knowing how I always felt about her (I was 12 and she 1, when our father died in October 1950 during the Korean war) or me overreacting and misreading the signals. It just tore me up to hear her ending up with nothing after working her butt off for 20 years and going off to live in Los Angles leaving you behind, evocative of black family members being sold off to different owners in the olden days. Of course the analogy is all wrong because there was no such tragedy afoot. You had been on your own and not living with your parents for quite some time. Also your parents are parents, not live-in servants, to Frank and Liz, who were buying a multi-bedroom house to accommodate them. But the imagery of slavery stuck and compelled me to step in as the magnanimous uncle to keep the family together. I gave your Mom enough money for all three of you to come over for a visit to my house in New Jersey after the sale closed. In addition, I told her you could stay with us, if you so chose. Obsessed by the urgency to prevent the crisis of family breakup, I had given little or no thought to post-crisis management, except some vague notion that the arrangement might turn out mutually beneficial over the long haul. You could get a good job as a sushi chef and bring home left over sashimi, or help with house cleaning, maintenance, or remodeling. We might even go into business together, buying old houses and remodeling, then selling for profit. In other words, I hoped for some monetary or other return for your room and board, worth at least $3,000 a month, the sum offered by a Korean family wanting us to take in their high school child. Naturally I was miffed, when you came enrolled in community college, so you could go on to be a doctor like Frank this late in your life. Not only was there to be no big payoff from your live-in labor but, unbeknownst to me, I was inextricably committed to making huge scholarship payments, a suspicion confirmed soon enough.

Preoccupied with job hunting and school work you couldn’t spare any of yourself for us but even if you had all the time in the world you wouldn’t have bothered. A born slob you don’t even clean your suite, let alone the rest of the house. I hinted at thinking out of the box and going into construction, rather than following the academic routine, and you dismissed it out of hand. With a visceral aversion to manual labor in general you refused to continue as a chef and opted for salesmanship at a department store though I couldn’t see much difference.

Your careless wastefulness got on my nerves. There was plenty of natural light but you turned on all the lights and wouldn’t turn them off when leaving the house. Despite numerous reminders you flipped the wrong switch and turned on the outdoor lights. It’s a wonder our Samsung washer and dryer are still holding up after such abuse from all your laundry, not only your daily quota of sweat-drenched clothes explained below but what you had brought over from San Francisco, including blankets, mats, tennis shoes. Then there was your gargantuan appetite, about five times mine. We had no choice but to refuse supporting your no carb “royal diet,” a typical meal consisting of a couple of pounds of animal protein mixed in a 12-inch diameter metal bowl, for no ordinary plate would serve the purpose, with spinach, kimchee, dwenjang stew, red pepper sauce, etc. (but no rice or noodle we plebeians eat), and you started buying pork, steak, and chicken, but not the other Korean dishes, doubling, tripling Auntie’s visits to the Korean supermarket and delis with their toll on her colitis. Since you started cooking, the paper towel on the two holders had to be replaced in a matter of days, not weeks, and the dish washing liquid refilled three times quicker, not to mention the torrents of water, always hot, splashed and wasted, not metered to trickles, always cold, as before.

To seal the leak in your shower door I needed the stall to be dry and told you to shower upstairs or, better still, at the 24-hour fitness center where you went every day without fail, which would incidentally shrink our water and gas bill big time because you showered prodigiously. I was astounded by your flat refusal, though it made absolutely no sense not to wash off all the sweat worked up and let it soil the clothes. I saw it only as some kind of malice to go on wasting my gas and water but the reason given was inconvenience of carrying in all your stuff. What stuff other than a towel and soap, unless you were a woman? You were to shower at the gym but your shower was wet when checked a few days later. Your excuse this time was that one’s shower was private and not to be shared with others. But, then, what about dorms, military bases, YMCA’s, public baths, club houses? You countered that the gym showers were dirty. On the contrary, they were cleaned daily, unlike yours you never had cleaned, I pointed out. You then said you hated seeing naked men, their dongs swinging. But why should that bother you when you had one, too? Telling you how I had showered at a gym every day and enjoyed it enormously because I didn’t have to clean or maintain when I lived a whole year in an office as my family had moved to New York ahead of me, I repeated the decree to stop showering at home, only to be ignored.

The tensions mounting between us came to a head on June 19, 2017, my birthday as it happens, a couple of weeks after your parents’ return to California. No sooner had we all sat down to eat than I had to leave the table to service a business call in the study. When I returned about five minutes later, you were polishing off your royal diet in the metal bowl. Then I noticed the empty dish that had about 2 pounds of stir-fried beef with onion, mushroom, and Chinese cabbage, Auntie’s specialty, apparently all tossed into the gigantic bowl and dispatched. Auntie was back in the kitchen cleaning up and putting away. I said you could have saved some of the stir-fried out of common decency and you flew off the handle. Jumping up from the table, you swore you wouldn’t eat my food. We shouted at each other, calling names, and I was ordering you to get out instantly. Auntie intervened, pushed me upstairs, and, pointing out you didn’t have enough money to rent as you had just started working, told me to give you at least until the end of the summer session.

That was the deadline announced upon my smelling cigarette odor as you entered the house on the first day: either you had to quit smoking by the end of the summer session or had to find alternative housing, because I couldn’t abide smokers, period. You laughed and said you would try. I reiterated the seriousness of the deadline now and then but each time you waved it off as if it were a big joke. You were opening and closing your garage door several times at night, the grinding of the motor audible upstairs, so you could go out and smoke. You would have left it open all night, had I not objected lest rodents should stampede in from the surrounding woods. Instead I urged you to take the simple solution of quitting altogether. You laughed it off. Once I put on your hood a mug found outside the garage door with a cigarette butt stubbed out in dried coffee. No response. Next I resorted to a similar display of cigarette butts collected from the front yard. This time you reacted with denial: they were not even your brand, a lie because nobody came around to our gated community to litter like that. Later you told Auntie that you were smoking away from the house, as if that were a big concession.

Suppressing my chagrin, because I had not yelled so loud at another human being, I have waited until now when your summer classes ended. Look for a new place to move out to when you return from California. Search online. I told you about my year-long stay in an office for around $200, utilities included, where I could keep a refrigerator and cook, though I had to shower at a 24-hour fitness gym, a point of honor for which you see fit to defy me, but when push comes to shove I am sure you are flexible and resilient enough to adjust. Likewise with smoking. If necessary, when you find a good place to stay, except for the iron rule excluding smokers from the community, I am sure you’ll adjust and quit. Moreover, you may soon find all this talk about cheap rent irrelevant. I hear Frank has a business partner in Fort Lee who is going to hire you at a much better salary than at your present job.

Even living away from us, you will always be invited to our family gatherings, as you have been, but don’t think you are doing us a favor by coming and spreading your charm. They cost but we want to include you. Likewise your cousins go out of their way to help you, as Brenda did with your school work, though she is a full time executive. I am glad to see this affection among you but, bearing in mind that axiom, reciprocity, remember to do to those as you have been done to by them. Ingratitude is a vile thing and takers or users are beyond the pale.

Your Uncle

Blame for North Korean Nukes

For a perspective on which US President is most to blame for appeasement with North Korea bringing about its nuclear power status consider the following graffiti on the tombstone of President Daejung Kim (1998-2003) of South Korea:

시발 놈아 북핵 개발
네 놈이 책임 져라.
개 새끼 김 대중 대통령 묘소

Fucker, North Korea’s nuclear development
Is on your head.
Son of a bitch President Daejung Kim’s tomb.

The superscription completely buries the original 8-lettet inscription, “김 대중 대통령 묘소,” President Daejung Kim’s tomb

Amazingly many South Koreans are applauding this posthumous defacement, alleging that Kim, sometimes referred to as the Nelson Mandela of Asia, paid North Korea to arrange a summit meeting between its head and himself, for which he got the Nobel Peace Prize in 2000. The amount paid is variously estimated at half a billion to 4 billion dollars, equaling or exceeding what the US is said to have paid so far as bribes to that rogue regime.

So in the perception of these South Koreans their one president eclipses all his American counterparts put together in the blame game for enabling North Korea’s nuclear capability. It doesn’t seem to be nationalistic pride to be head of a pack, no matter what. Simply, they are focused only on Daejung and no outsiders, as if they haven’t heard of the controversy raging in the US. So he hogs the credit? But it would be such an anomaly because in other ways they are supersensitive to American goings on. The graffiti, perhaps a more effective means of destruction than excavation of the tombstone or exhumation, may well have been suggested by statue demolitions now in fashion here.

Immigrants as Storm Troopers for the American Cultural Revolution

Immigrants, foreign born but here to stay learning ESL (English as a Second Language) and putting down roots for their American dynasties, may be counted on as storm troopers for the Cultural Revolution unleashed by Donald’s campaign against political correctness regarding taboo words for sex and race (see Donald, Champion of Incorrectness, 9-11-2015, typakmusings.com).

With no gut-level sensitivity to these words, if at all, they have watched with disbelief the havoc a mere whisper of them can wreak on the destiny of this country, like when America went bonkers and fed Donald to the wolves for mentioning “pussy” with his male buddies. Few immigrants come across the word. Certainly not in their ESL primers. Nor in dealings with native speakers who suddenly become language conscious with foreign learners like an adult minding his manners with kids.

Then there are the blips “f…” or “f…ing,” which perplex them even more. What in the Sam Hill is that? The deprecatory, hesitant, ill-at-ease explanation makes matters worse. How can Americans be so irrational? No amount of blipping nor substitution with different nouns would alter what God has ordained between the sexes. A rose by any other name is still a rose.

They are equally astonished and put off by similar blipping, “N…,” “G…,” “C…,” “J…,” or use of euphemisms. A toilet will always be unpleasant unless properly maintained whether you call it lavatory, bathroom, restroom, or powder room. Likewise with other epithets reflecting cultural or religious prejudices.

That is why the narrator of Dear Daughter, Amazon.com, a Korean American professor turned pastor, names his church Gook Nigger Church to trivialize and implode the taboo words that cocoon entrenched racism in America. Similarly motivated is the launch of PCCNSC on Nov 8, 2016 (see Pussy-Cock Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, 11-9-2017, typakmusings.com) to eradicate latent racism and false modesty. The insensitivity of immigrants to the niceties of English may well provide the driving force for the Cultural Revolution and emancipate America from its hang-ups, politically correct chains and shackles.

President Trump’s Mental Competency

Grasping at straws after dead-ending with their Russian collusion delusion the destroy-Trump storm troopers are now talking about having Trump declared mentally incompetent by a court, perhaps thinking it’s easier than impeachment, daunting even in their own estimation with perhaps a snowball’s chance in hell.

When will they give up? When will the fake media stop encouraging the fishing expeditions of these fanatics, dividing the nation, tying up and wasting legislative and judicial resources which should be deployed elsewhere in the cause of making America great again?

They won’t quit. Incurably crippled by the Losing-It Syndrome that distorts their vision to see him as unfit, “un-presidential,” they’ll press on with their crusade to unseat him (see The Losing-It Syndrome, 8-18-2017, typakmusings.com).

So we’ll just have to meet them on their terms and tell them straight out that their motion for an incompetency hearing won’t get off the ground. Simply, they have doomed their own cause by alleging that he is unstable and erratic in his tweets, firing and hiring of personnel, executive orders about sexual orientation in the military, policy statements, rally speeches, everything he has done in office which unequivocally disqualifies him for the job. But by that very allegation, ipso facto, they have doomed their cause: these blemishes, all job related, make him immune to litigation or prosecution according to the 1997 Supreme Court ruling in Clinton vs. Jones.

So they’ll have to allege his incompetency with respect to his personal affairs but he has already insulated himself from all his property and business affairs. No court will entertain a motion for an incompetency hearing or any motion at all for no purpose, which is called frivolous, unless they suborn that court. But then they’ll hear no end of it from Donald’s lawyers, who’ll take them all the way to the Supreme Court.

Will they listen and quit? No, they’ll say the notoriety, the nuisance value, is worth it and will press on, come hell or high water. In the meantime the country goes down the tube, the ultimate loser.

An Apology to Paul Ryan from a Victim of CNN Fakery

My sincerest apologies to Speaker Paul Ryan for calling him literal-minded (see CNN Fakery, 8-25-2017, typakmusings.com) and misquoting him as having said that “The government cannot shut down” in refutation of President Trump’s emphasis on the importance of the southern US wall. Subsequently I happened to see a Fox News clip showing the press interview where he supposedly voiced this “opposition” to Donald, another sure sign of the Republican Party breaking apart, and realized that I had been screwed by CNN fakery I was warning others about.

The Fox video showed the CNN reporter asking Paul what he thought of Donald shutting down the government unless he had his way with the Trump Wall. Graciously Paul answered, humoring the reporter, that “the Government need not shut down.”

So it had been CNN all along that knowingly and deliberately twisted Donald’s figure of speech into a literal absurdity and baited Paul to say something that could be blown up into a mutiny in the Republican ranks, in the meantime poisoning the American public mind, and I had fallen for it. What choice did I have? I couldn’t be watching all the channels or survey the whole internet to check out everything. Beware, America, of CNN and other fake media. Just click YouTube and go to Fox.

CNN Fakery on the 8-22-2017 Trump Rally

Trashed by CNN, as if we needed any more proof of its fakery, is the Trump rally on Aug 22, 2017, an unremitting lovefest in which the 20,000+ crowd cheers and chants on and on fervently, deliriously:

“Trump ranted and rambled in Phoenix, as his crowd slowly thinned.”

The crowd never “thinned,” slowly or otherwise, even as his 77-minute speech ends, hating to leave, thirsting for more of the excitement, thrill and ecstasy only big mass events can deliver like rock concerts, Christian revivals, Bacchic revels.

Nor does he rant and ramble but stays on point throughout.

First and foremost, he shakes off the racist halo the fake media have been trying to force on him ever since the Aug 12 Charlottesville eruption. As President of the multiracial USA he can’t afford the least hint of racism, white bigotry in particular, because he is white. Correctly he points out how they decontextualize, twist, and deny outright to make him out to be other than what he really is according to the recipe (see Charlottesville and the Recipe for Fakery to Poison the Public Mind, 8-21-2017, typakmusings.com).

Amazingly Donald emerges from this exercise not only unfazed but, in fact, energized. Apparently one of the breed to which Gen George Patton allegedly belonged, fighting is in his genes: the more opposed, beaten up and mauled, the fresher and stronger he gets. In that sense, the fake media are doing him a favor, except we, ordinary Joe Blows, do not fare that well. For one thing, unlike domestic events we can readily verify through YouTube, blogs, and other internet sources, we have to depend on the so-called media for news from distant parts of the world. We can only hope that the internet will expand and mature quickly enough to wrest the monopoly from the media and give us reliable information, whose vital importance may be shown by the following example from Korean history.

Shortly before Japan’s invasion of Korea (1592-98) the Korean government sends representatives from the two opposing parties (equivalent to Reps and Dems) as emissaries to Japan to verify rumors of war preparations. Upon return Emissary Rep (for illustration’s sake) accurately reports imminent invasion and urges the king to prepare, but Emissary Dem contradicts him flat out and scorns the very idea of war for purely partisan reasons, though he has seen the same things as his colleague. Unfortunately, the king listens to the pacifist position, perhaps because he doesn’t have to do anything. In a matter of days the country is overrun from one end to another, Korean women raped left and right resulting in a hefty injection of the Japanese DNA into Korean (see The Polyglot, Amazon.com), and the king flees to China and begs for aid. We sincerely hope CNN and other fakers do not fake when it comes to ISIS, Russia, China, or Korea, though their recent Russian collusion delusion makes us wonder.

Back to the Phoenix rally – Donald goes into his agenda, jobs, military readiness, security, and the wall, a matter of particular interest to Arizona bordering Mexico 370 miles plus. To stress its urgency he says the government may as well shut down as fudge on the mandate, a figure of speech like over my dead body, clear to everybody except to our humorless, literal-minded Speaker of the House Paul Ryan who pompously puts it on the record: the government cannot shut down.

Donald has to move from one item to another in the to-do list but that’s no rambling. The audience is not there to have a 1,000-page project description read from cover to cover but to be reassured that their elected servant, their leader, if you will, is on the job, in the right frame of mind. Thank God there seems to be no doubt on that score, judging from the crowd’s repeated roars of approbation.

Charlottesville: Statues and The Losing-It Syndrome

Attention to Charlottesville seems to focus more on the melee that killed 3 and injured 10 times as many than on the root cause of it all, Robert E. Lee statue at Lee Park (renamed Emancipation Park), voted to be removed by the City Council of Charlottesville 6 months before on Feb 6, 2017, sparking numerous protests and counter-protests prior to their climax on Aug 12, a pattern replayed at many locations and likely to brew more trouble and strife nationwide.

Note that at all times counter-protesters outnumber protesters by a large margin, nearly 3 to 1 on that fateful day, Aug 12, in Charlottesville. They have to, because they propose to take down centuries old monuments generations have lived with, taking them for granted. Like all revolutionaries overturning the status quo, they have to be vocal and proactive, and they have been for months, years, decades, doing all kinds of publicity stunts to catch attention. But, for a change, on this day in Charlottesville, the revolutionaries don’t have to do a thing, neither shout Black Power nor wave the Black Nationalist Flag. The dumb protesters, their opponents, do it all for them by flaunting Nazi swastikas, KKK regalia and insignia and other toxins, abhorrent to the American psyche, dug out of their underground dumps.

Do we as Americans really have to take sides, obsessing over these statues one way or the other at such cost? The answer is a resounding no, the reasoning both ideological and practical.

The Robert E. Lee statue and others of that ilk, reminiscent of those ubiquitous in the olden days to deify their emperors and kings, have no place in our day and age, and may suggest immediate removal, lest they rekindle the Losing-It Syndrome (8-18-2017, typakmusings.com) and wreck our democracy, a government of, by, and for the people, as projected by the Declaration of Independence, embodied in the US Constitution, and reaffirmed by Lincoln (see Manifesto of Radical Democracy, 5-25-2014, typakmusings.com). The fact that Lee was not quite the head of the Confederacy is irrelevant, because the same logic of non-aggrandizement applies to all individuals in public service, military, political, or otherwise: what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

However, our indignation against these symbols of abject servility in the bygone days may well be directed forward, rather than backward, prospective, rather than retroactive. We might as well forgive and let be these creations of our ancestors who knew no better. Such magnanimity probably underlies the Constitution’s prohibition of ex post facto legislation (Article 1, Section 9, Clause 3) and we may as well fall in line.

Moreover, their tolerance may have a real practical value: let them serve as reverse models, like channel markers for shipping to steer clear of, and help us uphold and preserve our emancipation from the Losing-It syndrome. For example, we won’t erect a statue of Donald J. Trump, the 45th President, however great a president he turns out to be. In fact, there won’t be any more presidential monuments built in Washington, DC, on Mount Rushmore, or anywhere else.

Charlottesville and the Recipe for Fakery to Poison the Public Mind

Coming as it did on Aug 12, 2017 the Charlottesville tragedy has been a bonanza to the fake media running out of steam as the Russian collusion delusion is bottoming out. In their feeding frenzy, however, they have let their guards down, revealing their recipe for fakery, juxtaposition and negation, that threatens to derail Donald’s mission to rebuild America.

I. Juxtaposition

They make David Duke, former KKK Grand Wizard, which makes him their national honcho or something, speak his piece right before Donald: white Americans have voted for Donald because he promised to take “their” country back, as if America had ever belonged to them alone. Hogtied to that rack is Donald so that anything he says is a confirmation and embellishment of that KKK theme. A trick well known to photographers, juxtaposition is a powerful tool. For example, by cleverly putting your photo at a murder scene, however unrelated to you in time or space, they can make you out to be a murderer or at least a suspect.

This is Donald’s initial response at 3 p.m., Aug 12, after a fatality:

“We condemn in the strongest possible terms this egregious display of hatred, bigotry, and violence on many sides, many sides. This has been going on for a long time in our country…”

The fake media jumps on it, trashing it as tepid, general whitewash. By reiterating “on many sides” and not pinning down KKK he is absolving and encouraging KKK, proof positive of his sympathy, they clamor. Just imagine Jesus so juxtaposed and saying: Love your neighbors on all sides. Branded a card carrying KKK, neo-Nazi, White Supremacist, all those hateful un-American things, he would be nailed to the cross on the spot.

Drowned out by the uproar is the truth of Donald’s observation, the multi-polarity of hatred which “has been going on for a long time in our country.” It’s just human and we have to acknowledge it and work on it, not sweep it under the rug, refusing outright to take at face value, as these self-appointed judges of character do, Donald’s pained commentary on human nature: existence of as much hate, actually much more intensified by envy, by the so-called coloreds against whites, or among the coloreds themselves, as shown in the LA Riots of 1992 in which blacks killed dozens and bankrupted hundreds of Koreans. But because the whites are dominant and powerful, it is politically incorrect and un-American to acknowledge any but white bigotry, not realizing that this makes them consummate hypocrites or ignoramuses, who ultimately avoid the real work, reaching out across race boundaries “on many sides,” as Donald urges.

Predictably, opportunistic politicians jump on the bandwagon. Hatch, Rubio, Gardner, all Republican senators, scramble to steal the thunder from the Democrats, coming out with strong statements urging Donald to specifically call out the white supremacist groups who started the whole thing by protesting the takedown of the Robert E. Lee statue, an issue to be dealt with in the next post. 

II. Denial, Instant and Flat Out

Two days later, on Aug 14, Donald essentially reiterates his initial response, filling in the details, naming the hate groups among the alt right protesters (alt, or alternative, meaning “ultra” or “far out”) but also taking to task the alt left counter-protesters for resorting to violence by coming to the scene combat ready with shields, clubs, sticks, stones to dole out as well as take violence.

Repeatedly Donald focuses on the element of violence, which he should as protector of public safety, the law being clear about this: “Sticks and stones may break my bones (but words will never hurt me).” Let’s face it. As President, intent on his agenda to make America great again, so he can go down in history as the greatest, he would be out of his mind to side with KKK even if they have voted for him, as Duke claims, at the risk of alienating millions more who have voted for him, white, black, Asian. Besides, once President, his position secured, he doesn’t have to pander to any particular side because his score card now depends on working for all Americans, even those who have not voted for him regardless of their color or creed.

How do the media report to complete their recipe for fakery? Dismiss him for speaking too late or copycatting to be in fashion, then parade, after showing snippets of his speech, decontextualized, a column or panel of prim know-all media hacks, who put on their spin to make sure that he has said the exact opposite, causing all the unrest and violence in the country by inciting hatred and violence. They bet on none of their viewers hearing him from beginning to end, uncut and unpasted, un-juxtaposed, un-decontextualized, because they are the media, the purveyor, and the public gets to see only what they choose to show. Well, there is YouTube livestreaming, darn, but they bet on few Americans watching or those who have not comprehending. So brainwashed are they that they can’t see or hear anything presented raw, unless media cooked and dressed.

III. Spread of the Poison

Alas, the hacks bet right. They are the sashimi chefs and the American public the connoisseur who just eats, swooning, what’s placed in front of them on a well-garnished plate, never mind where the Oh-toro comes from. Americans hang on every word these so-called experts or pundits utter publicly on TV with such well-practiced glibness and aplomb, strictly according to the recipe of fakery. Hmmm, Donald Trump, that racist villain….

Yes, Donald, you have work cut out for you pushing upstream with your agenda but never mind. You will do it, because more of us are wising up to the media tricks, getting a glimpse of the underbelly of Maguro, the Bluefin tuna, before the chef artfully puts his spin on it.

The “Losing-It” Syndrome: Not on Donald’s Watch

It has become fashionable among many who consider themselves competent judges of manners and morals to scorn Donald for not being “presidential,” that is, “royal,” “imperial,” even “divine.” But don’t these images hark back to the days when cowering, quaking subjects bowed and scraped to an enthroned monarch, an abomination dumped by the Declaration of Independence (1776) that articulates the vision of Locke and other Enlightenment thinkers and inspires the US Constitution to provide a government of, by, and for the people, as reaffirmed by Lincoln? These savants of good taste, deluded by antiquity, can’t see Donald, a plain-spoken citizen, even coarse, picked by his masters, the people, as Champion Defender of Enlightenment.

Unfortunately, the delusion is not limited to America. A few years back, while I was still in Honolulu, I took L, a high school alum of mine (Class of 1956) visiting from Korea, to the Syngman Rhee Church where they have a life-size statue of the first President of South Korea (1948-60). Promptly bowing before it he fell into a profound trance of worship that lasted a full minute, as I beheld the spectacle in utter amazement and disgust. Owner of a major concrete company with a fleet of 200 ready-mix trucks in Seoul he would have, I thought, better sense than deify Rhee, to oust whom some 500 protesters had to die in 1960. As we resumed our tour of the island I couldn’t help expounding Radical Democracy that calls for emancipation from the slave mentality of ruler worship, a.k.a. the “Losing-It” Syndrome (see Manifesto of Radical Democracy, 5-25-2014, typakmusings.com). I must have been persuasive, because he said he wished he had lived in America, emancipated.
 
“Old habits die hard and shackle the masses with the Syndrome everywhere,” I had to disabuse him, quoting from the Manifesto. “During the 1980 visit to Hawaii of Doohwan Jun, President of South Korea (1980-88), later a convicted felon for stealing billions while in office, so overcome was a Korean American woman with emotion upon shaking hands with him in a receiving line that she lost it and pissed right in front of him.”

God rest his soul, for L is now with his maker, a victim of leukemia so prevalent among my classmates because of exposure to plastic cinder at our temporary post-war campus. Had he been alive, he would have found more telling proof of my point in the current spate of strident Donald mockers, cutting across racial boundaries, white, black, Asian. Apparently a winning strategy for the species the Syndrome commands: magnify the king to a god and reduce his subjects to robots, programed to go to war and die in defense of him and his kingdom. We see something similar at work in a colony of ants or bees. Reversed is the polarity in the Enlightenment ideology of social contract: the people are masters and the ruler their servant. However, because the great number of the former, hundreds of millions, complicates the logistics and leaves room for the servant to finagle and usurp, exploiting the “Losing-It” Syndrome, the surest wrecker of Enlightenment, its eradication is a global top priority.

America is therefore lucky to have Donald in the White House, for he will remain anathema incarnate to the Syndrome on account of the very character flaws decried by his scoffers: pugnacity, quick temper, no sense of gravitas, intemperate, politically incorrect speech, calling a spade a spade, often too much, seemingly putting his foot in his mouth (see Lighten up, America, and Follow The Donald, George Washington of New America! 9-27-2015).

Donald, never mind those shaking their heads in contempt, solemnly intoning, “Silence is golden.” Silence is trash, contributing zilch to our knowledge. Have no truck with the myth about a wise recluse or a man of few words. We should all talk freely, continually, excessively to touch each other’s souls and transform us into enlightened, civilized human beings.

At your service, seemingly custom made, is the tweet. A minute or two of pounding on the keyboard and, voila, a terse beauty in 25 words or less, about the attention span for 90% of Americans, revealing your spontaneous, transparent, even vulnerable self. Click and off it goes instantly, before tackle and distortion by the fake media, to tens, hundreds of millions of your masters. Of course you haven’t had time to blow it by anyone, including your staff and cabinet who will be chagrined in the morning to have slept through it, but that’s okay. Hearing a few hours after their real masters, they can adjust and fall into step. You are the boss and your brain storms should reach us first. In particular, when harassed by the fake media goons about her ignorance as her boss’s mouthpiece, the litany of the White House in chaos, Sarah can straighten them out: her job is to read out well-rehearsed official statements, her hours 9 to 5, not 3 a.m. So tweet on and speed up the demise of the media in the Information Age where every laptop owner is a media mogul and consolidate America’s emancipation from the Losing-It Syndrome.

But beware of resistance even from your closest associates. I have urged you to insist on being addressed as Donald after election (Donald, Champion of Political Incorrectness, Mandate the First Name Basis Across the Board by Executive Order One!  9-11-2015) but I doubt that John Kelly, used to being “sirred” and saluted all his life, would let any of his White House staffers or visitors like me, if allowed in at all, call you Donald. Yes, eradication of the Syndrome has a ways to go.

Urgency to Expose Youth to Politics

The know-all pundits of the media, roundly criticizing President Trump for injecting political rhetoric into his speech to the Boy Scout Jamboree in W. VA on Jul 24, 2017, have again succeeded in proving the opposite: urgency to fully expose America’s youth, certainly those 18 or older and eligible to vote, but also those under 18, to politics in both their school curriculum and extracurricular activities.

The voting rate for the 18-24 group is dismal, in the 30% range, about half of the more mature groups. They are simply not interested, deprived as they are of initiation into politics, unlike rock climbing, by dimwits like Michael Surbaugh, American Boy Scout Chief, who sends out apologies everywhere for Donald’s corruption of the tender with toxic political fare (see Retract and Resign, typakmusings.com, 8-6-2017).

Why, then, have we made them vote at all? To allay the nation’s guilt for killing so many of them in WW II, Korean War, and especially Vietnam War. In the 1970’s the motto, “old enough to fight, old enough to vote,” becomes strident enough to make it the law of the land, though this motivation, felt somewhat crude, is often covered up by more highfalutin ideological drapery such as the argument that American youth at 18, more educated and mature in judgment than their forebears at 21, 25, or even 30 a scant generation or two ago, thanks to TV, deserve the franchise to be full-fledged participating, decision-making citizens. Curiously, their financial dependency is never an issue, because many geezers are on public dole, too, and yet are allowed to vote. Plutocracy is a definite no-no in America.

But by the same token the voting age should be lowered even further to 13 or less in the Information Age, the internet incomparably more powerful as a teaching tool than anything known before. Most people, however, will draw the line at 18, the draft age, demonstrating the fatuity of the ideology. A bunch of ignoramuses when it comes to politics, our minors can’t care less about the responsibilities of citizenship.

In contrast the voting rate for the 35-65 is 60% and that for those 65 and older over 70%, especially post-graduates pushing 90%, bearing out the Aristotelian dictum that politics is the supreme art, its material unruly humans, by nature greedy, envious, and treacherous, to master and savor which takes a whole life time and advanced studies.

We have therefore no time to lose to educate our young politically, maybe as early as kindergarten as they start speaking and reading. Instead of sweeping it under the rug and bringing on only music or sports politics should take center stage.

Schools should have teachers talk about politics in class, taking care to expose their students to the whole spectrum, so they gain perspective. Also politicians and political party representatives should be invited over as much as policemen, pastors, orphanage directors, prison wardens.

Outside school the current policy to insulate churches from politics seems wrong as far as the young members are concerned. Youth leaders of the church should devise programs to instill political awareness into their charges.

Likewise the Boy Scout Jamboree should have Donald over as often as possible and also, in fairness, Hillary and other adversaries, screening based entirely on their effectiveness in getting their point across.

Retract and Resign, Boy Scout Chief Michael Surbaugh!

On Jul 27, 2017 Michael Surbaugh, Chief Executive of the Boy Scouts of America, sent his “sincere apologies to those in our Scouting family who were offended by the political rhetoric that was inserted” by President Trump speaking to the Boy Scout Jamboree in West Virginia 3 days before.

This disqualifies him as Scout leader and he should retract and resign immediately.

Apologize for an “unbelievable” speech that so moved Governor Justice of the State that on Aug 4 he switched from Democrat to Republican? I bet Surbaugh and others in the leadership had joined the 40,000+ participants, half boy scouts, half their parents and chaperones, in cheering and chanting at every sentence of the incredible speech, easily the most inspirational and motivational in a decade, maybe a century. Then, after listening to the spin doctors of the fake media trash Donald’s speech by taking it out of context, like the blind men feeling only the elephant’s anus (see my 7/31/2017 post on typakmusings.com) and detecting an opportunity to make a name for himself as a nonpartisan arbiter of wisdom and protector of the nation’s youth, he circulates the nauseating apologies claiming that the Jamboree had been:

“overshadowed by the president’s speech, which was filled with attacks on the press, polls and his predecessor, Barack Obama.”

“Filled”? Nothing could be farther from the truth. Just watch the whole video or read the entire text. Those so-called attacks or political references were made now and then to stress Donald’s theme, “Never lose momentum in pursuit of your calling,” in his case draining the swamp, building infrastructure, bringing jobs back home, building the wall, making America great again. By de-contextualization and misrepresentation Surbaugh unmistakably joins the ranks of the anally-obsessed blind with the elephant and stamps himself as a confirmed partisan Donald detractor.

Reasoning warped by sensory deprivation he views his charges as tender and fragile who need to be coddled and cosseted:

“the jamboree had been filled with character-building experiences, such as trading patches, climbing rock walls and sharing stories.”

Apparently forgetting his own puberty and adolescence, he doesn’t seem to know that, gonads bursting with testosterone, uppermost in their minds is sex and they would talk more about masturbation, the birds and the bees, sharing best websites for more enlightenment and exchange photos of their girlfriends rather than patches. They are also capable of violence and passion, even as heinous as parricide (see Dear Daughter, Amazon.com).

Deluded, Surbaugh wants to block a gross and unholy thing like politics from getting anywhere near his precious Scouts, apparently unaware that Aristotle ranks it as the supreme art challenging the keenest and toughest minds to mold and master its unruly material, human beings with their greed, envy, and treachery. Politics is a fact of life that affects every one of us and the sooner we got acquainted and learned to cope with it, the better off would we be.

Nor is it that hard. If a boy climbs a rock or reads a comic strip with an element of contest or the Bible for that matter with its abundance of conflict and drama, he can handle politics, actually much simpler than the plots in the cited or other sanctioned reading material for children. Besides early introduction to politics is a must, given the teen voting age. Most eligible teenagers simply don’t vote for lack of interest, because bozos like Surbaugh in charge have denied them the necessary preparation. It’s a crying shame. Surbaugh’s continued tenure as Chief Executive defeats the purpose of the teen voting age and sets American democracy back by decades, if not centuries.

Control, Not Chaos, at the White House

It’s sickening to hear the media gloating over the rapid change of personnel in the White House, calling it chaos. But they are wrong, again. Having been so wrong about the Presidential Election they would have learned, you’d think, not to put their foot in their mouth again. But they just never learn.

The rapidity of turnover in domestic help only attests to the householder’s power and control, especially during transition, when no turnover means the inertia of the status quo overwhelming the new owner, especially when the service structure is huge as at the White House, enough to paralyze a low-energy owner. The servants smell blood and step all over him. But a new high energy master would straighten them out in no time, hiring and firing at will as suits his purpose, not agonizing over who he may offend, a neighbor, friend, or family member with connections to a particular lackey. Too bad Donald can’t do the same thing with the Congress or Courts but he knows his limits and works with them.

Dismayed, the media and their supporters, Dems & Libs, are doing their damnedest to drive him out of the White House by the only available means: impeachment by incriminating evidence. Grasping at straws they have suborned a mole to allege that Donald had dictated an email text to Donald Jr. declaring that Junior had met a Russian operative only to talk about Russian adoption. Is Junior too dumb to compose such basic English by himself?

Suppose Donald Sr. had indeed dictated or taken over the laptop and typed out the whole text. It’s merely confirming what Junior had already told the whole world: he was following through on a tip-off by a friend about a Russian female being a source of dirt on Hillary. This was on July 8, 2016, 3 weeks after Donald’s announcement of his presidential bid on June 16, when nobody gave it a snowball’s chance in hell, a joke or a reality show stunt. The campaign staff meet her. Getting dirt on your opponent from a foreign or whatever source is no collusion or treason, but the touted merchandise has nothing of value to offer, except some interest in Russian adoption. So Junior and Jared, his brother-in-law, depart, leaving their deputies to humor her along, not to be rude.

If the media somehow succeed in criminalizing this and impeach Donald, they’ll have a violent reaction from his hard-core support base, the “largely uneducated working class” that had put him in the White House. Outraged, they may storm and pulverize all the fake news headquarters and lay violent hands on their minions.

Similarly with another ploy of theirs: Donald’s entire fortune built on Russian money. True he has sold a few units in the Trump Tower to Russians. But he has sold to the Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, and even Arabs. Real estate purchases by foreigners are to be welcomed, as they bid up our property values and also bring back the money that had fled overseas. Moreover whenever we sell to a foreigner, especially from a hostile country, we have disarmed that buyer: one’s heart is where their property is. Had North Korea’s Jongun Kim bought a condo in the Trump Tower, he’d think twice before nuking New York. It may be noted that despite the brouhaha over foreign ownership, it is minuscule compared to American ownership.

Donald’s Boy Scout Speech 7/24/17 Causes “Blind Men” to Grope the Elephant and Rant

On July 24, 2017, at the Boy Scout Jamboree in West Virginia, Donald announces the key to success: find something you love to do and keep doing it. Certainly this is not the first time we hear the call to one’s calling but there is injection of a novel element, momentum: from the get-go you have to build momentum and never let it slump.

He illustrates it with the real-life story of William Levitt, the legendary post-WW II builder of the American suburbia, who so loves his work that after the construction crew quits for the day he goes to the job site to pick up nails and lumber lying around and tidy up the place for the crew next morning. Then, at the peak of his success, he sells his business for a great sum of money, buys a yacht to have fun for a few years, gets bored, and buys back his failing company, but never makes it. A young man just starting out, Donald meets him in the late ’80’s at a party, a broken old man. When asked what had happened, William answers, “I lost momentum.”

Taking that old man’s story to heart Donald never lets his momentum slack off as a builder and now as President of the USA, cleaning up the swamp in Washington and making America great again with resurgent infrastructure, energy and health care, epitomized by his Secretaries of the Interior, Energy, and Health standing right behind him.

The crowd of 40,000+ scouts and their parents and volunteers go wild, cheering and chanting “Trump, Trump,…”, “USA, USA,…”, at his every sentence, loving it, lapping it up, a phenomenon of the decade, if not of the century, aptly described by Governor Jim Justice of West Virginia as “unbelievable.”

Unbelievably, however, this oratorical milestone, perfectly choreographed and powerfully delivered, sets off a frenzy of enactments of the ancient Indian parable, Blind Men and an Elephant. But unlike their Hindu predecessors, who at least spread out all over the behemoth, the modern-day American pundits and pseudointellectuals fixate on one anatomical feature, the anus, which makes them declare the mammoth a sewer pipe that brings the stinking Washington politics to West Virginia, turning a boy scout meeting into a political rally. All that excoriation for mentioning the swamp or cesspool of Washington he is draining with accelerating momentum!

The chorus of indignation and contempt crescendos for Trump’s opportunism, pettiness, and bad taste, unworthy of the august office of President. The West Virginia Public Broadcasting, funded by American tax dollars, haughtily scolds Donald for cheap shots, “jabs aimed at everyone from Sen. Shelley Moore Capito to the national media” in the presence of tender scouts. Then the spineless toady Chief Scout Executive Michael Surbaugh apologizes to members of the scouting community for Donald’s aggressive political rhetoric. Apologize for a speech that may well go down in history and certainly in the minds of the enthusiastic audience as a masterpiece of motivational, inspirational exhortation?

What is amazing is that, again unlike their Hindu predecessors, probably blind at birth, the medical records of these American cripples indicate no visual impairment at birth or otherwise. Moreover, accessible to them at the push of a button is the entire jamboree speech preserved in video and in print from beginning to end to shatter their anal obsession and disabuse themselves of the myopia any time. But, hopelessly addicted to the narcotic of blind Trump hatred, they choose not to and go on being the utter idiots they are that time will soon consign to the trash heap of the deplorable and irredeemable.

Demise of Peeping and the New Old Testament

When did you last read or hear about peeping toms in the news or as the topic of conversation? Not lately. Not since the dawning of the 3rd millennium, when the Information Age began in earnest, the internet taking over as the chief (95% or more), if not the only, source of information, accessible and ready to satisfy all manner of curiosity, cultural, political, scientific, artistic, pornographic, or prurient as the learned may say.

Why would anybody bother to peep in somebody’s bedroom window, taking the risk of being bitten by guard dogs or caught on surveillance camera and hauled to jail, when all they have to do is open a laptop and zoom in on all imaginable close-up videos of sex scenes ad nauseam? No longer do we need to close the windows, pull down the blinds or curtains compulsively, lest somebody should watch us sexually engaged or otherwise indoors. This is emancipation from anxiety and paranoia indeed, a milestone in our march to civilization, which in turn makes us greedy for even greater wonders to come from candid video websites like an end to sex crimes or a solution to all the problems of the world, whether overtly sex-related or not. Doesn’t Fraud ID sex as the ultimate wellspring of all human motivation and endeavor?

To this end we need to pool the cutting edge knowledge and talent to produce what may be called the Bible on Sex or, for those who find the word “sex” offensive, the New Old Testament, a meticulous depiction of sexual intercourse between Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, something the Old Testament skimps, beginning with the anatomy of their genitals and proceeding to their arousal, penile erection, clitoral and labial engorgement, wet and open vulva, penetration, thrusting, orgasm, lethargy and disinterest accompanied by penile shrinkage and vulvar closure, the presentation, 2 hours or so, constituting the principal text or Gospel.

But there is an obvious need for supplementation by Epistles for targeted audiences with special issues like rape which, attributed to fantasy from ignorance, will cease, as likely rapists are made to watch the Gospel, whenever they feel horny, to masturbate and dissipate the urge. But in case it persists with some, an Epistle to the Rapists may be added calculated to impress them with the suffering they inflict on the victim as well as their own trial, conviction, imprisonment, and lifelong stigma and ostracism, enough to cool the most rampant ardor for rape.

Turning to another group, those who seek separation from their current spouse deluded by the certainty of finding a better mate, we need an Epistle on Divorce to show that even the most attractive male or female of one’s dreams is just another vapid version of Adam or Eve with a penis and vulva in the Gospel. To be persuasive the actors here should naturally be the top female and male celebrities at the time.

In the ’50’s Elizabeth Taylor kept many teenage boys with bursting gonads awake at night. I recall a high school classmate vehemently denying that she pooped, because that simply didn’t jibe with his image of her. Nevertheless, put to a national vote, Mamie Eisenhower and Dwight would have won the contest handily. That’s why they are the First Couple. Had they foreseen the Information Age and the high purpose of the New Old Testament, they would not have hesitated to perform the roles expected of them to save America from the havoc of divorce. Nor would Melania Trump and Donald J. now, nor their successors in 2014 and afterwards. This particular Epistle therefore has a succession of chapters, which is exactly what we want: the more, the better, the cumulative repellent effect on divorce amplifying to make America more stable and greater than ever. The participants need not agonize over leaving an indelible personal mark on the Epistle, either. Whatever they do will be found so uniformly dull as to snuff out all hankering after divorce.

Exercise at Home! Get Off the Road, Especially Bikers!

Peter Bach, the hero of The Polyglot, Amazon.com, emerges lean and fit after 7 years of solitary confinement in Korean prison, thanks to his strict adherence to a two-hour daily regime of free hand exercises, pushups, squats, punches, kicks, arm swings, twists and turns, runs in place, his 9-foot square cell providing him with infinite possibilities to work his every muscle and bone.
Later, as a free man, rich and famous with spacious properties and mansions at his disposal, he maintains the same routine, exercising in a 9×9 square mentally circumscribed somewhere in his house and least likely to intrude on anyone’s notice or comfort. A modest man despite his genius with native fluency in 16 languages, a phenomenon of the century, he is guided by an instinct or moral certainty to minimize his imprint on the outside world.
Peter may well give pause to many of us who automatically link fitness with treadmills, bikes, weights, bench presses, and other equipment, gyms, and outdoors. Everything can be done with nothing in the privacy of your home.
(1) Solitude
Your fitness is your business, just like sickness or death you suffer by yourself. Get over the childish desire to announce to the world that you are on a fitness program, your superiority as a member of the aware, enlightened elite.
(2) Nudity
There is simply no need for any aids, our body supplying all the equipment, limbs, torso, neck. Naturally, the preferred attire is nudity, unless you are kinky about underwear or clothing soaked in sweat or other secretion.
(3) Bicycle
In particular, get off the bicycle and dump it, a throwback to childhood. For fitness purposes free hand exercises will trump off-ground bipedal pumping any time.
(4) Public Safety
Moreover, bikers have long been a serious safety hazard on the nation’s highways.
The other day I was driving down County Road 501 or Piermont Road that winds through majestic woods with splendid trees towering skyward in northeastern New Jersey bordering New York. Drawing a deep breath of contentment at peace and harmony with the world and nature, I rounded a bend only to stand on the brake to a screeching, bucking stop and avoid by a hair a head-on collision with a car that yanked back to its lane, passing a column of a dozen or so bikers who, in the certainty of their ownership of the road, merrily pedaled down the driving lane.
No dictator gives up his power voluntarily: they must be forced out. Keep the bikers off the county roads! Along with pedestrians they are already off interstate and state freeways or toll roads. Just extend the prohibition to county roads, because safety on them is a greater priority than indulging these overgrown children to show off their toys and regalia, orange, red, purple, blue, psychedelic. If they are training for the Tour de France, send them off to private roads, least likely to endanger the driving public.

Cigarette Smoking Litterbugs

Many municipalities are reporting littering as an endangered misdemeanor. Fewer and fewer Americans litter, as more parents teach their children how uncool it is to leave one’s mess around, not unlike animals walking off their droppings, instead of picking up and dumping in the ubiquitous trash cans installed with the property tax they fork out.

Except for one segment of the population: cigarette smokers. Thumbing their noses at the litter ordinances or everything else civilized society expects of its members – consideration for others, common courtesy, decency, good manners – these sociopaths flick the cigarette ash into the air and toss the butts everywhere.

What accounts for this widespread in your face defiance and depravity? It may well be some concerted activism organized and directed by a national union of theirs. After all they have been under attack from the nonsmoking public enough to bond with a strong victim mentality. Unfortunately, we’ll never know the details of its bylaws and agenda because of their illegal and secret nature, unless FBI, CIA, NSA got into the act, except they may all be bought off already by the well-heeled cigarette lobby.

But no such coordination may be necessary because each individual smoker is unalterably programed to behave exactly as they do by a quirk in their genetic makeup, a defect, something vital missing in the DNA, resulting in insensitivity, lack of imagination, low IQ, which predisposes them to tobacco addiction to begin with and compels them to rebel and deviate. In other words, they are too dumb to perceive a life-threatening danger because it is not present and visible but around the corner a few blocks off. They’ll up and shoot you dead if you cut them with a knife but smile and snuggle when offered a puff.

Insensitivity blinds them to the harm they do to others and would have gone on compromising as many as possible, had it not been for the recent laws against secondary smoking. The same insensitivity may also distort their view of themselves into that of benefactors to the economy, paying the high tax on tobacco, which entitles them to some special privileges like littering.

Or could it be their corporate sense of fatality, the sentence of death hanging over their heads, reliable science predicting their life span to be at least a quarter shorter than the average? In other words, they may be desperados, prepared to die for their creed or need like the suicide bombers. But that calls for escalation of our defenses accordingly, to the highest level.

Russians Having a Belly Laugh

Putin and his cronies, nay, the whole of Russia, must be having a belly laugh over America embroiled in paroxysms of accusations and denials over a home-made phantom, Russian influence in Donald Trump’s election, tying up its legislative and judicial resources, hobbling governmental functions, sapping and enfeebling America, the best scenario they could have wished for their arch rival. But the wonder of it all is that this boon they couldn’t have hoped for in their wildest dreams has fallen into their lap without spending a dime or lifting a finger. Nobody, not even a dummy, unless a US liberal, would think of messing with a US presidential election: simply it won’t work.
Physical tampering with the vote count may be ruled out right off the bat. A typical American polling place is not only staffed by local government officials or volunteers like judges or military officers well known and respected in the community but is also under constant surveillance by scrutineers or poll watchers, political party representatives and independents to ensure the integrity of the process. This is particularly so with modern electronic voting machines which are getting tamper proof.
Any attempt to influence elections must therefore be made in the electioneering phase, but picking the right candidate to support is dicey, because a candidate is apt to promise the world to get elected and forget all about it the next day. Suppose a candidate has been picked. The only legal way to show support is contribution to the candidate’s election chest. But the contribution does not obligate the candidate to the donor’s agenda. Anything like an explicit contract is illegal and cannot be enforced and the more so with implicit understandings. Moreover, these contributions are made public records and any significant amount from Russia would cause an uproar.
The only way to secure a candidate’s commitment to a foreign power’s cause would be buying him or her outright, an expensive proposition, especially with an American presidential candidate with any chance of winning. There are just too many eyes and leaks. In this particular case, the candidate is Donald Trump, a billionaire, who probably wouldn’t be interested in a bribe less than, say, 20 trillion dollars to pay off the national debt, and Russia does not have that kind of money. Besides even if bought, the successful candidate can renege.
That’s why, instead of monkeying around with elections, a foreign country employs lobbyists to work on incumbents already elected, mostly Congressmen, to influence US policy regarding a specific issue that concerns that nation. At the height of the Koreagate in mid-1970s South Korea had 100 or more Congressmen on its payroll, $100,000 to $200,000 per head, to persuade the US to maintain its military presence in South Korea and turn a blind eye to the dictatorship of Junghee Park. Neophytes in the game Koreans had good role models to copy from, Israel and Taiwan, who had lobbied for decades with elected officials and never meddled with the election process. We don’t hear of a lobby aimed at the President, perhaps because of the considerable White House staff blocking access but of course the staff, especially those who have the President’s ear, would be lobbied. Unfortunately, this is unavoidable as the President must rely on help for information and we have to pray for his good judgment to listen to the right advice. But that is not the issue in the current clamor over Russia.
Where there’s smoke, there is fire. So who set the fire if not Russia? American liberals and Democrats who still cannot believe Donald Trump has won the election fair and square. Russia loves them, bear hugging them as blood brothers. Unfortunately, the Russian euphoria may soon come to an end as their allies can’t produce any proof after 8 months of yelling and swearing and America finally gets a grip and sees how ludicrous it is even to think that any nation would be so dumb as to go about rigging a US presidential election.

Well Done, DHS! Go On and Scan Our Faces All You Want!

After working more than a dozen years on biometric identification, the only fool-proof technology to track foreigners and keep America safe, as mandated by legislation in 2004, the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) has finally come up with face scanning or face printing, a quantum leap from finger printing, and started enforcing it on all outbound air travelers. Does it therefore get kudos and bravos? Yes, from most of us. Unbelievably, however, there are those who, in the name of privacy, trash this breakthrough, the first in the world, as a step toward turning America into Big Brother, the all-knowing and all-controlling.

How on earth will photos of our faces on file do that? Face prints are not all that different from finger prints and we know that the government has all our finger prints without turning into Big Brother. In fact, we insist that it catalogue and maintain them well to help law enforcement. Moreover, advertised online are numerous websites boasting possession of our photos as well as police records, credit scores, and other information but we don’t care. In fact, most of us want our photos to be seen by millions out there, as shown by the photo galleries on Facebook and other social media. Don’t we all crave to be on TV?

Yielding to the necessity of face scanning the privacy advocates are settling for the next level: immediate destruction of the photos of Americans so collected. In a conciliatory gesture DHS is agreeing to deletion after 14 days. That is absurd. We don’t want our finger prints at law enforcement offices to disappear in 14 days. We may as well kiss goodbye to law and order. Our face prints should be kept on as long as there are bad foreigners around intent on harming us.

To put the privacy advocates in their place, to wake America up to the inanity of its fixation on privacy, as if it were some divine commandment to spurn all other imperatives like public safety, and in the hope that Americans respond with more indulgence and civility to friendly inquiries by people from less uptight cultures about their age, occupation, net worth, etc. I am reprinting my 12-27-2013 post on typakmusings.com.

Snowden: Privacy or Safety
Ty Pak | December 27, 2013 | Culture, Korea, Politics, Society
       I heard on NPR a Honolulu-based nutcase, dignified as a commentator, piously pour unctuous praises on the traitor Snowden as a hero in the cause of privacy who has “courageously” exposed NSA telephone surveillance. The mantra of privacy, growing louder and ever more strident, threatens to emasculate the NSA to the point of incapacity to protect America from another 9-11.
            This is madness. No matter how emotionally charged and sacrosanct privacy may be in the American psyche, when it comes to choice between safety and privacy, it is a no-brainer what we must choose: safety, because, dead, you have no use for privacy.
            Am I pathetically or grotesquely simplistic, betraying my country of origin where its language doesn’t even have the word privacy? Google the premier bilingual dictionary, Korean-English-Korean, for the equivalents valiantly put forward: reclusion, retirement, private life, pu-ra-i-beo-si [transliteration of privacy], secrets, secrecy, in that order. This is also the case in Japanese, the language most closely related to Korean, and many others as it turns out: Chinese, Indonesian, Russian, and even West European languages like French and Italian. For example, Russian translates privacy as a compound of words meaning solitude, secrecy, and private life. Privacy with all its sanctity and aura is a uniquely Anglo-American obsession.
            Not that we from deprived backgrounds can’t guess what it is all about: absence of a discrete unit word or lexeme does not mean absence of the substance it stands for, the desire of individuals to guard and hide from public curiosity personal information about themselves. Adam and Eve covered with fig leaves their nudity, that is, genitalia. Shyness about the pudenda seems pretty much universal, though there are notable exceptions, nudist colonies and aborigines, to prove the rule. Naturally shyness extends to activities entailed by the utilization of said genitalia, which includes not only the intercourse itself but also various auxiliary operations such as acquisition of an enclosed dwelling with a bed and bedding, linen, clothes, and other support facilities like the bathroom to wash up in, the kitchen to get fortified, etc.
            As society becomes more organized and complex, an individual’s reputation in the community is as vital as material equipment for one’s sexual fulfillment, which therefore falls squarely under protective shyness, privacy. One shouldn’t be perceived as cheating on a mate or unreliable in business dealings, the auxiliaries. Created, perversely, to stray from the straight and narrow, humans must maintain a façade, if not reality, of respectability with privacy to the rescue, as the fig leaf, the Holy Grail. This reputation, the all-important maker or breaker of sex gratification in modern America, is at the heart of the outcry for privacy, rage and indignation at NSA phone surveillance, not physical invasion of anybody’s person, home, office, or other properties and effects.
            According to a survey three quarters of the tapped conversations are totally innocuous, commercial solicitations, friends calling to say hello, a neighbor calling about a stray dog, a child calling home to be picked up from school, and so forth, and the parties wouldn’t care if the whole world listened in. But in the remaining quarter of the batch the communicators definitely care: they want nobody snooping in. Breaking down the content by subject matter, 85% deals with the main course, sex trysts, extramarital or otherwise unauthorized, and the rest with the auxiliaries or derivatives, 14% get-rich-quick schemes, unethical or criminal, 0.99% drug deals, and 0.01% terrorist plots, the target of NSA interest.
            Not surprisingly we have a vocal minority, the culpable 25% drowning out the silent 75% majority. But even this group should come to their senses, stop yelling for privacy, and instead hurrah for the NSA to go on with its work and root out that 0.00025% terroristic vermin. Otherwise, those folk in the 85% of the 25% dashing out the door after hanging up may get blown up on the way and never make it to their place of assignation. Typically for them there is no criminal or civil penalty involved and the NSA is unlikely to leak to the press to cause embarrassment. Even the 14% economic offenders, their mind set to achieve wealth and sleep with 72 virgins while still on this side of heaven, should endorse the NSA cause because they need to live to enjoy the fruits of their ill-gotten money, with which they can also hire lawyers to get them off the hook by making the phone evidence inadmissible for lack of a warrant or other technicality. Similarly with drug dealers, who must live first to enjoy the high and then hire a lawyer.
            So rise up, America, the silent majority, shout down and straighten out those misguided disciples of privacy, and make this country safe from sea to shining sea!

America Owes to Veterans But So Do They to America!

As much as I am with Donald Trump in affirming the debt the nation owes to its veterans, in all fairness they owe to America, too.

First off, they must thank those fallen comrades of theirs who never made it back, taking the bullet so they could get away. They should always remember their debt to the absent and express their sincere gratitude to the surviving families with whom I empathize totally. 7 years my junior and freshly commissioned platoon commander upon graduation from the South Korean Military Academy, my brother was killed in Vietnam during the Tet Offensive of 1968. I can’t help feeling resentful, when I see his classmates take all the military and other honors, which would have been his, had he lived by the merest chance.

Then there are all the veterans’ benefits, medical, financial, and social, the envy of most ordinary Americans but theirs for the asking. With zero down payment they can buy a home or go into business, hitting the ground running. With frugality and wise management they can build a fortune or run for congress.

More importantly, they have come through war, which, like a mega earthquake, reconfigures and redirects history, as warriors, active agents licensed to commit murder, abhorred and condemned formerly, now commanded and lauded, the more ardently, the greater the headcount, and rewarded with promotion, media notice, fame and homage back home, which, however, is trivial and secondary to the adrenaline rush, the thrill of omnipotence, almost godly, for killing fellow humans, especially en masse.

But there is another important dimension seldom mentioned, nay, always censored and suppressed: sexual emancipation. Just as the taboo against homicide is shattered, blown apart are prohibitions against sex. GI’s with the aura of liberators from America as well as their deep pocket can live out their fantasies, having all the sex they want with any number of local women. The intimacy of sex pops open a young man’s eyes as nothing else can to the complex universe that his sex partner is, her body, culture, language, hang-ups, aspirations, however lowly she may be. His perceptions and sensibilities raised higher to something akin to enlightenment, he returns home mature and sophisticated, adaptable and flexible, a man for all seasons.

In my early teens during the three years of the Korean War (1950-53) I saw this transformation with my own eyes. GI’s could have all the Korean women they wanted. It was simple economics, each side having what the other needed, GI’s the dough and Korean women the pussy.

Even the lowliest private made more money than the Korean President because of the skewed foreign exchange rate. A Private First Class could easily feed 10 Korean families. Naturally the Korean community and government encouraged the profitable relationship and GI servicing became a national industry. Though called 양갈보, Yankee whores, the women in the sex trade were secretly respected for bringing the bacon to the family, feeding and clothing their siblings, sending them to school. The money they earned was practically the only meaningful source of foreign exchange for the whole country.

기지촌 or base towns sprang up like bamboo shoots after a rain, as the Korean saying goes, wherever there were American bases, dozens of them, large or small, all over the country, the base commands condoning or encouraging them, reasoning sex to be a basic human necessity, like peeing or pooping, or considering it a matter of military morale. An enlisted man or officer could drop everything in the middle of whatever they were doing, get a sex pass, and step out for relief. Everybody did it. No exceptions unless you were a weirdo. So whenever I come to a gathering of American veterans, I can’t help visualizing the legions of Afghan, Iraq, Vietnamese, Korean, Japanese, French, Italian, German women, their illuminators.

A Modest Proposal: Repeal or Redact the Inscription on the Statue of Liberty

It simply defies reason how America tolerates, let alone swoons over “The New Colossus,” the sonnet inscribed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, often thought to be its mouthpiece. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The mighty woman unequivocally stands for freedom, epitomized by the tablet in her left hand with the writing, July 4, 1776, the date of the US declaration of independence, and the broken chain lying at her feet. The flaming torch held aloft in her right hand proclaims a purview beyond America: to serve as an enlightening pathfinder for the whole world. Hence her French name, La Liberté éclairant le monde, that is, Liberty Enlightening the World. She is to inspire America, the land of liberty, to reach for the sky and shine as the beacon on the hill for the rest of the world to follow.

Losing sight of this far-reaching global symbolism, the poem is focused on demeaning and trashing all Americans:

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

In fact, at no time in her whole life (1849-87) was Emma Lazarus made aware that her poem had to match the Statue’s symbolism, its elevation to the pedestal occurring posthumously in 1903, 16 years after her death. She wrote the poem in 1883 to aid fund-raising for the pedestal, the American part of the deal, the statue itself made in France for shipment and installation in the US. To motivate contributions, barely trickling in then, she finds the young country’s insatiable appetite for cheap imported labor the best attention getter and proceeds to exalt immigration as the Holy Grail of all good people.

In the 114 years since the poem’s canonization a lot has changed. Numerous American dynasties have sprung up, their grandeur eclipsing royalties in the old world. Americans in general feel the chosen of the world and certainly not the wretched refuse dumped from the other continents. Heartily endorsing the Trump Wall we want to keep out mobsters, terrorists, and other toxic trash from whatever country or creed, letting in by extreme vetting only the best, like ourselves, guaranteed to contribute to the greatness and prosperity of America.

We therefore propose two options to eliminate the discordant inscription.

(1) Removal

The simplest solution is removal of the plaque, a hasty afterthought and addendum which has outlived its purpose.

(2) Redaction

Instead we may edit the inscription so it correctly speaks for the Statue’s symbolism. The octave may be left alone with just one change, Mother of Exiles to Mother of Pioneers, but the sestet requires an extensive makeover. Here goes a tentative proposal, inviting others, until a consensus is reached:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Pioneers. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she.
“Give me your unsung elite heavenward poised to soar,
Blocked innovators, trailblazers yearning to break free,
To think outside the box and push the envelope ever more.
Send your daring and brave, restless and searching to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

My Entry to the US: on the 52nd Anniversary

To mark the 52nd anniversary of my entry to the US on June 25, 1965, which also coincides with that of the Korean War on the same date in 1950, I am excerpting the following from my forthcoming book, Dear Daughter: On the Eve of Her Wedding.

* * * * * * * * *

With the letter of admission [to Bowling Green State University, Ohio] I could initiate the exit procedure but immediately ran into problems, the major hurdle being my lack of military service. I had been given Classification B, eligible for indefinite postponement, instead of Classification A, subject to immediate draft. Since military service was loathed and basic training a torture, every young man tried to avoid it and faked illness or disability to flunk the physical. Many fasted for days and created or exacerbated pathological conditions, such as asthma, rash, hemorrhoids. Of course the Army doctors were not fooled and classified them A anyway, with warnings that they should be grateful for not going to prison for such trickery. I was quite healthy and shouldn’t have gotten B. I know for a fact that my mother had not intervened. We had
discussed bribing the examiners through some relative working at the County Office, but I had vetoed it. After I got the classification, most thought we had used bribery. What happened was just dumb luck. A mentally retarded boy was behind me and I got mixed up with him, me getting his classification and him mine. But luck proved a curse now and had to be fixed by greasing every palm along the way. Remember the Old Man with the Horse at the Fort? [referring to the Korean adage, condensed in the seven syllables, in-gan-man-sa-say-ong-ma, All human affairs are like the fortunes of the old man at the fort with his horse, literally translated! As a young man he falls off his horse and becomes lame, which is bad, at the time, but later turns out a blessing because it exempts him from enlistment in an ill-fated expedition from which he would not have returned alive, had he gone, which however turns out bad a little later and so on it goes, until we find him old and bent but resigned and wise astride his horse, probably not the first one we had started out with, reflecting on the vicissitude of human events and affairs.]
Finally, with passport in hand two days before scheduled departure, I ran to the Bank of Korea, the only agency authorized to handle foreign exchange, to get the $50 allowed for students going abroad, only to learn that I had to have a dozen papers stamped off, essentially retracing the passport process. Not only was there no time for it but this might subject the passport itself to renewed official scrutiny. No, I would rather forgo the $50 than jeopardize the hard-won document, my lifeline to the US. With or without the official allowance, woefully inadequate even by the standards of the time, many travelers resorted to the black market, buying hundreds, even thousands of dollars and stashing the greenbacks between pages of books, in the linings of clothes, in their shoes, though these were the first places that got searched. The penalty on discovery of possession was imprisonment or heavy fines, unless you had connections or bought the inspectors off. I couldn’t take such chances.
Besides I figured I didn’t really need any money. My transportation had all been arranged. I had won an English essay contest with the American Korean Foundation, which was giving me free passage aboard a US troop ship from Inchun to Oakland, California. There was still a large contingent of US troops stationed in Korea, who rotated home by the thousands on a regular basis. The prize also came with a bus ticket, meals included, from San Francisco, cheek by jowl to Oakland on the map, within walking distance for sure, I thought.
The cross-Pacific voyage took three weeks, with stops at Yokohama, Okinawa, and Honolulu. Little did I know that exactly five years later I would be back in Honolulu to teach English at the University of Hawaii. On the troop ship the US government had a policy of fattening up its returning soldiers and we, the half dozen Korean student passengers, became its beneficiaries. Rather victims, as it turned out. They let us stand in the chow line along with the GI’s and heaped our trays with food, rich American food we had only dreamed of in Korea. We gorged away and got sick. I developed a profound contempt for food, forming the image of America as a land running over with milk and honey everywhere, and laughed at my compatriots aboard hoarding scraps of food for a rainy day, a Korean habit so out of place in the land of plenty where we were headed.
Disembarked at Oakland, I quickly discovered that walking to San Francisco was out of the question, especially with luggage. One of the Korean students, a professor at a seminary in Seoul who was coming to the States for his second doctorate, had a pastor friend of his pick him up from San Francisco. Reluctantly the pastor agreed to take me along. At his house we were served lunch, which I consumed voraciously. It had been a few hours since the last meal aboard ship, already a distant memory. As I ate, the pastor’s wife kept up a running commentary, hinting, not subtly, at my imposition. She was upset at the prospect of having to put me up for the night, because my bus ticket called for an early a.m. departure, which was the next morning. In no position to display sensitivity or to act on it, I endured her sarcasm and soon fell asleep, overcome by after-lunch lethargy, when violently shaken awake.
“The bus is leaving now,” shouted the pastor. “Pick up your bags and let’s go.”
He dropped me off at the depot where indeed the bus was waiting with its engine running and took off the moment I hopped on. The sun was setting and the bus pulled up before a restaurant in some city for supper. Everybody filed out and I followed suit. In the restaurant the waitress handed out the menus and, without asking for the tickets, took orders, which varied from person to person, not just some regulation sandwich I had expected. Suspicious, I asked the waitress, showing my ticket, whether I could order anything with it. She didn’t know what I was talking about. I dashed out of the restaurant and caught the bus driver just in time, as he was leaving for his own dinner. I demanded an explanation and he drawled, “Oh, the meal bus, which leaves in the morning. This ain’t it, Bud.”
For nearly three days and nights, I sat glued to my seat in the bus, without even bathroom visits because there was nothing to give, floating in and out of consciousness, unable to appreciate the glorious scenery of America gliding by the window.
If the fast hadn’t done me in, the two summer sessions immediately following almost did. Aware of my late start as a grad student, I had signed up for a full load each session. Every class had a required reading list, say, 30 books, each of which assumed the reader’s complete familiarity with 50 others. My lack of an undergraduate English degree began to show. I simply did not have the kind of background that a standard English Ph.D. candidate in America would have, my previous readings in English and American literature being rather spotty. I felt crushed under the combined weight of hundreds of books piled on top of me that kept multiplying with every other page I read. Night after night I stayed up, writing papers, then ran to class, gulping down gobs of bread on the run, along with chunks of cheese, canned meat, and green onions, bunches of them because they were handy and came a distant second to satisfaction of my craving for kimchee, little suspecting that I might stink up the whole classroom. There was no time to cook anything, let alone making kimchee, a long pickling process. Nor was there a Korean store that sold kimchee in or near Bowling Green. Otherwise, I would have stunk up the whole campus.

The Polyglot, Amazon.com, Adds Another Dimension to the Korean Diaspora

Koreans are all over the world. Not too long ago I read a moving story about a dynasty of Koreans in Cuba whose progenitor had been an indentured farm laborer, a slave, that is, sold to a plantation in Cuba at the turn of the 19th century. Oppressed and shackled at home, he had to grab any opportunity to get out and away no matter where. It’s a story pattern replicated everywhere throughout history, like the Jewish exodus from Egypt or diaspora from Judea.

But the Korean exodus to Siberia is unique in its pathos: the Koreans get royally screwed. Though not officially sanctioned, their entry had been condoned, even tacitly encouraged under the Czars and through the Bolshevik revolution, civil war (1917-23), and Sovietization. Korean communities flourished, apparently with Soviet connivance, a typical case of fattening the cow for slaughter in light of the sequel. In 1937 Stalin rounded them all up for scatter in Central Asia. Hundreds of thousands, 4 out of 5, perished from disease, hunger, and exposure, verily a holocaust, though little known as such, all in pursuit of Stalin’s Slavic agenda to ethnically cleanse strategic Far Eastern Siberia.

Against this background enter Peter Bach, the protagonist of The Polyglot. Surviving the holocaust but seeing no future in racist Russia Peter, 25 and master of half a dozen European and ten Asian languages, heads out in 1945 on a Kazakh passport for Korea, his ancestral land, aboard Shanghai Express when the train comes under attack by Chinese bandits. Defeating and capturing them along with their cache of plunder over the years, he also saves the life of Yuri, Stalin’s Commissar, traveling incognito to North Korea. General Ming, Kaishek Chiang’s Chief of Staff and father of Sulan, wife of Peter’s Kazakh benefactor, invests his reward money in the real estate of Taiwan to which Chiang’s government soon moves. 

    In North Korea Yuri makes Peter the top man supervising Premier Ilsung Kim. Though hating to be Stalin’s puppet, Peter goes along with the planning and execution of the Korean War (1950), seeing it as an expedient to achieve independence and neutrality for united Korea, albeit with Soviet help. Belatedly realizing the fallacy of his reasoning, he defects with some 100,000 militia to the UN/US forces and works for US intelligence as a multilingual. However, his records misplaced in the confusion of the 1953 Armistice, he languishes in South Korean prison.

    During the turmoil of the 1960 presidential elections he breaks out and smuggles to Japan, then to Honolulu, where he translates for a US-Soviet aviation treaty. Married to Stella Sullivan, Oscar-winning documentarian and White House Film Historian, he narrates his life story on TV, rising to stardom overnight. A viewer, executor of the late Prime Minister Ming’s estate, informs him of his legacy worth billions of dollars. As White House Language Advisor Peter translates for Eisenhower at the Paris Summit, a fiasco in the aftermath of the U2 incident, which however connects him with Khrushchev, who lets him and Stella come to the USSR to film the Peter Bach story and take his surviving siblings in Uzbekistan to Honolulu to be at the bedside of their father Jongnay Bach, comatose on dialysis and in desperate need of kidney transplant. His successful surgery in Japan leads to discovery of Peter’s true parentage, Japanese father and Korean mother. 

Nominated Ambassador to South Korea after barely surviving an assassination attempt by his disinherited Japanese cousins, he calls on the three neighboring states, Japan and the two Koreas, to federate like the US for the balance of power in the Far East and reconciles Eisenhower and Khrushchev to resume detente for world peace, getting nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Peter’s US immigration does not fit the Korean American stereotype which, as in the Cuban saga, has someone coming over as a sugarcane or pineapple worker to slave away at the bottom rung of society his whole life. Only in the second or subsequent generations they go to school, become professionals or business owners, and realize the American dream. Peter’s success is instantaneous but is entirely credible given his talents and also fully deserving after a traumatic history of injuries, physical and psychic. But even at the peak of his good fortune he is not quite out of the woods yet and one crisis after another assails him relentlessly. Discovery of his Japanese paternity is one, destroying his sense of identity. Another is his inability to come clean with Stella about his sordid past. Then there is his brush with death by cyanide poisoning which leaves him bereft of speech, turning him into a mute, opposite to a polyglot. But with unwavering patience and determination he slays his demons one by one and expounds multilingual, multiracial global humanism to save the world.

The Polyglot, Raising the Meaning of the Korean Diaspora to a New Level

The Polyglot, available at Amazon.com – Kindle.

Surviving Stalin’s 1937 resettlement of Siberian Koreans in Central Asia but seeing no future in racist Russia Peter Bach, 25 and master of half a dozen European and ten Asian languages, heads out in 1945 on a Kazakh passport for Korea, his ancestral land, aboard Shanghai Express when the train comes under attack by Chinese bandits. Defeating and capturing them along with their cache of plunder over the years, he also saves the life of Yuri, Stalin’s Commissar, traveling incognito to North Korea. General Ming, Kaishek Chiang’s Chief of Staff and father of Sulan, wife of Peter’s Kazakh benefactor, invests his reward money in the real estate of Taiwan to which Chiang’s government soon moves.

In North Korea Yuri makes Peter the top man supervising Premier Ilsung Kim. Though hating to be Stalin’s puppet, Peter goes along with the planning and execution of the Korean War (1950), seeing it as an expedient to achieve independence and neutrality for united Korea, albeit with Soviet help. Belatedly realizing the fallacy of his reasoning, he defects with some 100,000 militia to the UN/US forces and works for US intelligence as a multilingual. However, his records misplaced in the confusion of the 1953 Armistice, he languishes in South Korean prison.

During the turmoil of the 1960 presidential elections he breaks out and smuggles to Japan, then to Honolulu, where he translates for a US-Soviet aviation treaty. Married to Stella Sullivan, Oscar-winning documentarian and White House Film Historian, he narrates his life story on TV, rising to stardom overnight. A viewer, executor of the late Prime Minister Ming’s estate, informs him of his legacy worth billions of dollars. As White House Language Advisor Peter translates for Eisenhower at the Paris Summit, a fiasco in the aftermath of the U2 incident, which however connects him with Khrushchev, who lets him and Stella come to the USSR to film the Peter Bach story and take his surviving siblings in Uzbekistan to Honolulu to be at the bedside of their father Jongnay Bach, comatose on dialysis and in desperate need of kidney transplant. His successful surgery in Japan leads to discovery of Peter’s true parentage, Japanese father and Korean mother.

Nominated Ambassador to South Korea after barely surviving an assassination attempt by his disinherited Japanese cousins, he calls on the three neighboring states, Japan and the two Koreas, to federate like the US for balance of power in the Far East and reconciles Eisenhower and Khrushchev to resume detente for world peace, getting nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Interracial Attraction

Here is an excerpt from The Polyglot, Amazon.com.

Before he could react, she darted off like a mountain goat and came to an abrupt halt inches away from the edge, beetling over a dizzying cove below. Wave after wave rolled in and crashed against the bluff, shaking the ground and setting off a deep mournful rumble in the gullies and caves nearby before the sea fell away, frustrated. Then, regrouping, it flung itself against the concavity with renewed fury, frothing. A faint outline of Molokai played hide and seek on the misty horizon.
“Let’s turn back,” Peter spoke softly, a step behind her to the side, ready to grab her, hiding his sense of crisis.
Unheeding, she pushed the tip of her foot further out and leaned over, when the whole ocean heaved and hurled itself over the rim, drenching everything on the ledge.
“Ach,” Stella yelled and, flailing, fell backward squarely into Peter’s arms. Electrified by the contact, he lifted her, one arm around her waist and the other under her neck, and carried her to a level spot a safe distance away. Putting her down gently, Peter brushed the strands of her golden hair off her face. Her eyes opened, blue turquoise burning into his. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. His arms flew around her waist and their mouths locked in a long searing kiss. His heart pounded so hard that his ear drums seemed to pop. The clean sweet smell of her mouth and the soft feel of her ivory skin and golden hair intoxicated him.
“You gave me such a scare,” Peter said, when he could breathe.
“Would you have jumped after me if I had fallen off?”
“Yes.”
“But I am no treasure chest worth leaping after.”
“You are a thousand times more valuable.”
“The crashing waves would have pounded us both to shreds.”
“Not you, because I would have shielded you and kept kicking away from the rock until you broke free and swam away.”
“But I would rather have died than survive without you. But we are both alive. It’s good to have your arms around me.”
“Sorry,” he said, quickly releasing. “I was reacting to an emergency.”
“Wasn’t the emergency over some time ago?”
“It was a mistake. Please forgive me. I got carried away.”
“Forgive you when I set you up? I had to find out that you want me as much as I want you.”
“What I want doesn’t matter. I am old enough to be your father and should not have led you on.”
“I don’t get led on, unless I choose. After puberty we are just men or women. Having crossed the line, you might as well make an honest woman out of me. Let us exchange marriage vows here and now and become man and wife.”
“Be sensible, Stella. You’ve just met me.”
“But I’ve known you for eons. How else can you explain my envisioning you accurately thousands of miles away the moment I heard you?”
“A coincidence.”
“You are just being contrary. We are connected somehow. Maybe we knew each other in our previous life. Don’t you believe in karma, the cycle of reincarnations?”
“I haven’t given it much thought, though it’s supposed to be innate to the Oriental psyche.”
“Innate to all of us. It is none other than our intuition of immortality, our soul or self continuing through the unending cycle of rebirths. So I say it is some karma or destiny that has brought us together and there is no escape from it.”
“It sounds grim.”
“Only if we fight it. Submit and fulfilled will we be. Weren’t you glad to hold me in your arms just now?”
“I thought I was in a dream, the more reason I should wake up to reality.”
“But this is reality, our love for each other and the great things we can accomplish together as man and wife. Tell me when you fell in love with me, Peter.”
“When I saw your life-size effigy. Actually before that, when I heard you described with such pride and affection by your father. No, even before that. On March 15, my last day in Korean prison. As topics for my translation routines for that day I had your biography in the morning and your reappraisal of Genghis Khan in the evening.”
“Can I have a reenactment of them?”
“Sure, I can do it now, if you want.”
“You still retain them?”
“Embedded in my brain.”
“Doesn’t that prove the fatal attraction I am talking about?”
“All inmates have fantasies looking at pictures of celebrities.”
“You are no longer in prison nor am I a pinup but in the flesh, yours to reach and snap up as your wife.”
“Your friends and fans will think you a victim of a cradle robber.”
“I am an adult and know what I am doing.”
“But they make fun of spring and winter marriages.”
“You are still in mid-summer. Your physical discipline has preserved your youthful appearance and nobody will even notice the age spread between us when they see us together.”
“But they’ll notice I am a few inches shorter than you.”
“It makes you cute and exciting.”
“Isn’t being tall the first article of American machismo? Don’t only tall men get elected President in America?”
“Because in many ways it is the most primitive of countries in the world. I am sick of their myth about the petite women and hulking men. Like their obsession with sports over academics, brawn over brain.”
“But there may be some evolutionary mandate about big, tall men: strength as provider and protector of the tribe.”
“Perhaps in the earlier stages of the species when men fought bare knuckle. But as soon as any weapon is used, not necessarily modern guns, the equation breaks down. David slays Goliath with a sling. As women become equally eligible for all types of employment, they will attain physical equality. Maybe even superiority, because of the greater physical demand made on their body for breeding and nurturing purposes. Though the genetics of millions of years may take a while to reverse, we may change our perception of physical superiority as an exclusively male thing. Unless you are trying to tell me that I am Amazonian and repulsive.”
“Don’t be absurd. You are beautiful and gorgeous and I am crazy about you. I don’t mind your being taller than me. In fact, it’s strangely exciting. But, honestly, don’t you fantasize about a big muscular man who can carry you in his arms like a feather over the threshold up the stairs into your bedroom? I doubt I can even lift you, let alone carry you.”
“What was the performance a moment ago wrenching me from the jaws of death?”
“Only in extreme crisis and for short distances.”
“I won’t put you through such exertions again, especially when we are heading to our bedroom. I would sooner run ahead and wait for you, snuggled under the covers.”
“That brings up the issue of children.”
“We’ll have a dozen.”
“Why so many?”
“Your father had a dozen.”
“He was of the generation that didn’t know about population explosion and birth control.”
“I am sure we’ll benefit the world with the gift of our children.”
“But they’ll be hybrids.”
“Cutest babies that grow up good lookers.”
“Ostracized as outcasts.”
“Not here in America, the melting pot.”
“Your parents will recoil from the very thought of mixed race grandchildren.”
Peter remembered Bill’s relief at not having fathered mixed breeds with his second wife, a Japanese.
“No, they’ll be thrilled. They’ll love them and be proud of them.”
“But in quiet moments they’ll miss the little golden haired, blue-eyed, milk-skinned angels they could have had as their grandchildren to continue their pure lineage only if you had married any of those many eligible men within your own race.”
“What is pure about their lineage anyway? Both my parents are products of mixture, perfect American genetic smorgasbords. I know my father is Irish only one hundredth of his makeup, if that. His mother was English. That already tells you a volume, because the English is the most thoroughly mixed of all races, Briton, Anglo-Saxon, Viking, Norman, and what not. Further up the family tree, he had gypsy, Jewish, and Moorish blood aplenty. Ditto with my mother, whose maiden name is Owens, but on her father’s side it is English, German, French, Italian, as well as Irish, and on her mother’s side Welsh, Scandinavian, Slavic. People are more likely to interbreed than inbreed. Opposites attract, as the saying goes.”
“But birds of the same feather flock together. You can’t trust these aphorisms of folk wisdom because for any one that says go left, we can always find another that tells us to go right.”
“In mating the exotic will win out over the garden variety hands down, barring crushing penalties. Look how Desdemona chooses Othello over Venetian aristocracy. Strangeness triggers something primal and libidinal and acts as a powerful aphrodisiac. So don’t blame me if I find my Genghis Khan irresistible.”
Peter nodded, remembering Sonia. So strong was his love for her that, he recalled guiltily, during the national ordeal of the Siberian Korean holocaust he was oblivious to what his family and people were going through, mooning over her, in vain waiting for a letter from her.
“But the penalties are indeed horrendous. In America black men used to be castrated routinely by white males, who suspected, nay knew, that their women found black men sexually more attractive than themselves, just as black women were to them. In Europe Jewish men were often credited with extraordinary sexual prowess which, along with other causes, may have contributed to their Holocaust. Ditto in Asia and elsewhere, wherever ethnic minorities exist. In 1923 a magnitude 8.3 earthquake struck Kanto Prefecture, destroying one third of Tokyo and most of Yokohama. More than one hundred and forty thousand people died, many of them male Korean immigrants who had come to Japan earlier in the century to find work, not by earthquake and fire but by mutilation. Japanese mobs, accusing them of raping Japanese women in the confusion, rounded them up, stripped them, tore out their balls and cut off their penises, then beat, trampled on, cut up or burned their lifeless bodies.”
“How horrible!” Stella blanched. “I hope post-War Japan has reformed. Lynching has certainly been outlawed here. As the melting pot of the races it will lead the world in the right direction.”
“As of now, even the most liberal and tolerant white parents hit the roof at the idea of their daughter marrying a colored boy. Equality of races is just too close for comfort that close.”
“I agree. One practices racial equality only if he or she has no hang-ups about their child marrying someone from another race, the ultimate measure of equality. I think my parents subscribe to this radical brand of equality. Many of their white friends are married to Asians and they don’t feel they have married down in any way. They have raised us to be completely open minded that way. By God we live in Hawaii, where the majority of the population is Asian and whites a minority.”
“Wouldn’t that make them even more defensive about racial purity?”
“Not if they keep surrounding themselves with Asians.”
“Employees and servants.”
“Dad made you boss or equal partner in PE&C.”
“That’s business, not kinship by marriage. I still fear their disappointment in me as their son-in-law.”
“On the contrary, they’ll be overjoyed. They adore you already.”
“As a friend and an honorable house guest, not as a thief of their greatest treasure.”
“You haven’t done any stealing. I have given myself to you, shamelessly, I might add. I don’t beat around the bush, once I make up my mind.”
“But I am not exactly a knight in shining armor on a white horse.”
“I like it bay.”
“A beggar at the gate aspiring to the princess of the castle. They’ll forever gossip that I am after your money and fame.”
“They’ll say that about me if I marry you after your Presidential Award and Honorary Citizenship. If you go on national TV as an unattached single, I’ll have to fight off a mob of women clamoring to get a piece of you. So we are marrying right now. Come and stand next to me.”
She pulled him to the edge of the ledge where they had been sprayed before.
“Why so close to the brink again?”
“To invoke the Cliffs of Koko Head and the Pacific Ocean as witnesses to our union.”
“Think again, Stella. Are you sure you want me as your husband?”
“I have never been this sure about anything in my whole life. As my father feared, I was a dilettante, unable to peg away at any one thing for true greatness. Take the bar license, for example. I got it in an unorthodox way, quicker than most people, but my chances of achieving the greatness of jurists like Clarence Darrow or Oliver Wendell Holmes are nil nor have I thought of trying. One has to have a passion for his or her profession to excel in it. I feel no such passion for the practice of law. I took the trouble to get the license just to disprove my Dad but he has won after all. The bar exam was perfect for me. I do well in exams, because I can skim and absorb the gist quickly, but I’ll never be able to write a definitive textbook on any field of law. Zipping across a continent like a tourist in a hurry I cover a lot of ground, not getting an insight into the geology or history of any part of it. But you are going to be my life’s study. I’ll never tire of you and make you my lifelong study. So here goes my affidavit and declaration:
“I give my solemn oath that I will have you as my wedded husband to hold and cherish for the rest of my life and you swear the same after me.”
Just as he finished his vow, the ocean leaped up over the rim of the ledge again, ready to swallow them up. Immediately pushing her down Peter wrapped his legs around her waist in a vise grip and jammed his hands into a crack in the rock and held tight against the pull of the backwash. As soon as the water receded, he stood up and pulled her to a safe distance far above the water line.
“You are amazing, my Genghis Khan,” she said, hugging him with all her might and kissing him fervently. “I am safe wherever I may be with you as my protector, husband.”
“Let’s not tempt the gods again. This was a no-nonsense warning.”
“On the contrary, my husband, they have expressed their pleasure and blessing in the only way they could, a caress with their baptismal embrace. We can now present ourselves as man and wife to the whole world. Off we go first homeward to my parents.”
“I bet they’ll be shocked.”
“No, they’ll be delighted. They are used to my surprises, though this is the biggest I ever pulled, our marriage as a fait accompli.”
“Don’t we need to fill out a marriage license?”
“It’s Saturday and the state offices are closed but it can be filled out any time later nor is it a prerequisite for marriage itself, which can be de facto like ours.”
“No wedding attended by relatives and friends?”
“Who needs it? We have had our ceremony in the sight of heaven and earth. However, I concede the necessity of formality and know where we can get the license: Pastor Bob Owens, who has the forms lying around at his home office. Let’s hurry before he leaves for One Round Top for his weekend stay.”

Any Bets on the Outcome of the On-Going Feud between Donald and the Media?

Is it foolhardy of Donald to take on the mighty press, the 4th estate, hallowed by the First Amendment?

Brows knit, even his stalwarts urge him to lay off, citing Nixon and other casualties, while his detractors egg him on, salivating at the prospect of his imminent collapse.

They are both wrong: at the end of the day it will be the media, not Donald, slinking off into the sunset, tail between legs.

The media, printed or broadcast, is not the only game in town. In the Information Age of the third millennium many have ceased to watch TV, let alone listen to the radio or read newspapers. To be ignorant? On the contrary, they are better informed and educated than ever before, thanks to the internet.

Donald is right on the money when he calls the New York Times “failing,” a fate that stares other newspapers in the face, though not mentioned. Simply there is no readership and advertisers go elsewhere, online.

Of course the media can exploit the internet, too, but with one sobering difference: they are in a level playing field with millions, billions of equals, who are noticed or dismissed according to their reliability, instantly verifiable at the forum of the internet, truly open and wide, worldwide, where fake news or other stunts by the “press” won’t cut it.

It is high time America woke up to this reality and ratified an amendment to the First Amendment by deleting the phrase “or of the press,” in “Congress shall make no law … abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press.”

By their lights James Madison and other framers of the Amendment in the last years of the 18th century did nothing wrong when they singled out and paid homage to the press which, with Gutenberg’s printing press of 1439, had ushered in the Modern Age, spreading knowledge to the masses. The press’s well-deserved reputation remains rock solid, even through the 20th century when radio and TV gain dominance.

But its role as depository and distributor of information has been astronomically eclipsed by the internet, which, with its infinite storage and instant accessibility, can bring the cutting edge of science and flood of current events immediately to any number of people more cost effectively than ever before. Indeed the internet rings the death knell for the universities and libraries, as well as the media.

Removal of the obsolete word “press,” even in the expanded broadcast sense, will bring out the true value of the First Amendment as guardian of the freedom of speech, without which we won’t be human or have civilization. Retention of the antiquated outlet as the epitome of communication is not only absurd but baneful, as the elevation is apt to give those on its payroll a false sense of superiority and immunity.

Given Donald’s relentless energy and animus, we may see the media knocked off its pedestal upon ratification of the 28th Amendment during his 8-year term, deleting “the press” phrase from the freedom of speech clause in the First Amendment.

Fake News and Irrelevancy of the Media

“Trump Administration In Chaos” screams the media in glee upon resignation of Mike Flynn as Donald’s national security advisor. Three days later, on Feb 16, 2017, Donald summons the press to the White House to trash the fake news and assure the nation that his House, a “fine-tuned machine,” is getting things done at a record pace. That same day he flies to Melbourne, FL, to speak to a huge friendly crowd, taking the case directly to the people with no media distortion or perversion.

Does the media learn and show the least sign of remorse? No. A few hours later CNN features a blistering summary of the day’s events: Donald back on the stump, unable to put behind the glory days of his campaign. Not a word about its role in amplifying the fake news that forces him to take the corrective actions nor about his disarming, comradely openness even to his baiters.

So the fable is true. The blind pundit touches the elephant and promptly puts a spin on the trunk, paw, belly, or tail, whichever happens to have fallen into his tactile range, with all the arrogance of superior knowledge and insight.

Upon hire by the media the mighty pen, mightier than the sword, is placed in the hands of these kids with bloated egos for writing A papers in their journalism class to get addicted forever to the thrill of influencing people, the more sensational and outrageous the louder the applause, with total immunity under the First Amendment. Except the political agenda of their paymasters.

Power corrupts and absolute power absolutely. Nevertheless the media used to get away with the last word because they are privileged to report on a press conference or a speech. Simply not everybody can be there. Even the biggest audience at a Donald rally is but a sliver of the general public spread out across nearly 4 million square miles who has to rely on the media reports.

No more. YouTube livestreams on the internet the press conference or speech in their entirety. In other words, the people can now see the whole elephant, not its truncated body part. They can see the blindness, downright malice and perversity, of the fake media as in the 2016 presidential election, doing their damnedest to demonize Donald and hallow Hillary, a fight they still wage with bitter doggedness, now screaming dictatorship. CNN has pulled out all the stops to make Trump out to be a muzzler of the press, a Hitler. But the American people know better, as they see the country getting back on track to be great again under Donald’s firm leadership, politically incorrect but substantively correct.

Long live the internet, access to real news, dooming to irrelevancy and perdition the complacent media, doing business as usual!

Donald, Disciple of a Korean Maxim on Appreciation

“What do Gooks think of Donald chumming up to police chiefs and sheriffs at the White House and declaring war on crimes of violence against law enforcement officers?” N asks.

“That makes him a disciple of the Korean maxim, A general lays down his life for a king who really appreciates him,” T answers. “I can’t imagine cops putting their lives on the line when every time something goes awry in the line of duty and a Nigger suspect gets killed, he becomes an instant saint and celebrity, while the Honky cop is demonized by the media. I can’t imagine them showing up for work at all.”

“They get paid well and retire early.”

“Not enough to risk their lives 24/7. When appreciated, they will with more dedication. Just imagine there being no police. The streets will run with blood and every home turn into a fortress. I applaud Donald.”

“But some Niggers fear more of them will be shot and brutalized by the Honky police as a result?”

“I doubt there is unprovoked, purely race motivated police brutality in this day and age. It’s always some Nigger confronting and defying a Honky cop, asking for trouble.”

“Not always. In the same circumstances I bet Gooks will react like Niggers.”

“Unlikely. They are too cowardly for that. Maybe it’s their Asian knee-jerk submissiveness to authority. But more probably it’s their pitiful demographics, about one to 20 or 30 Niggers and Honkies, making them stick out like a sore thumb even after a few generations of native birth here. Docility is their survival strategy. Maybe Niggers can copy to spare the grief.”

***************************************
Editor’s Note:
The foregoing is Case 19 in the Trials and Tribulations Log of PCCNSC, the acronym for the sake of brevity, not, heaven forbid, out of political correctness, standing for Pussy-Cock-Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, inaugurated upon election of Donald Trump as 45th President of the USA on November 8, 2016, the watershed in American politics, economy, defense, diplomacy, law and order, and, above all, sensibilities and mores, directly inspiring the birth of the Club, dedicated to the demise of political correctness through trivialization of the captioned and like words tabooed, so as to eradicate racism and false modesty, to which end is published the serialized log of incidents pertaining to the PCCNSC creed and practice as reported by its members (typakmusings.com).

Cassius Clay, the Life Saver

“Our entire brotherhood, PCCNSC, is in dismay and disbelief that a lean and fit Jap like you, 5′-4″ and 116 pounds, is in prehypertension,” says N.

“Gook,” G corrects.

“Gook, Chink, whatever,” N continues, dismissively. “We thought you had it made with a healthy diet and a super-rigorous exercise regime, a thousand pushups and a thousand squat-jumps in 5 five-minute rounds of 200 each, which impresses the hell out of us. Wasn’t that enough?”

“Obviously not,” T answers. “It’s good only for maintenance, if that. Luckily, my blood pressure is getting under control.”

“A new drug?”

“No, it’s that Clay you guys have been talking about.”

“Ali!” C reminds him.

“No, I like him before his radicalization. Besides Clay evokes its literal meaning as in You are the potter, we the clay, mud, earth…”

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection into eternal life,” N intones the Common Prayer. “Poor Nigger, to die of septic shock!”

“We all die, however hard we push back, but push back we must,” T laments. “Studies show that high blood pressure, the silent reaper, can be fought with extreme all-out exercise. I tried imagining various situations to inject such intensity into my exercise, a pouncing lion, howling lynch mob on my heels, etc. but they didn’t work, perhaps because of their unlikelihood. Then, curiosity piqued by your discussion of Clay, I viewed his videos and had an epiphany: make him a mortal enemy to punch and kick, flee or pursue.”

“You hated him on sight?”

“No, the opposite. He was human and credible and therefore eminently eligible as sparring partner.”

“He would have joined our Club in a heartbeat, had he been around,” D reflects. “I move to give him a posthumous membership in PCCNSC.”

“Seconded,” K applauds. “He had been a practicing member years before the Club was even conceived.”

The proposal is adopted unanimously and T is deputized to inform Ali’s family of his induction.

“How do you hit him with pushups, though?” N returns to the subject.

“I do them as a warmup for each round. As soon as the 200 pushups are finished, I spring to my feet and punch him frontally, upward, outward to either side, downward using gravity, and finally swing the arms around the torso to throw roundhouse punches, as fast and furious as possible.”

“He is all over you?” G asks.

“He can skip and hop as quickly as I can blink.”

“How many punches do you deliver?”

“As many as I can throw in one breath for one type of punch. Then after a gasp or two I launch into the next barrage. For the roundhouse punches I count 20, that is, 20 breaths, each breath taking in 2 or 3 paired swings, left and right.”

“You also kick him, though he is a boxer, not a karate kid,” W quips.

“Why not? This is an all-out life or death contest, no holds barred. After punching I kick forward, again counting 20 breaths, each delivering 2 or 3 paired kicks, and to the side, also 20 breaths.”

“The squat jumps have been scrapped?”

“Metamorphosed. I hop with both feet or sprint forward, backward, or sideward, either in pursuit or in flight.”

“Sprint?”

“With minimal spatial displacement, enough to weave around furniture. Strictly for indoor execution in full armor, i.e. birthday suit, lest I drown in sweat.”

“You do those hops and sprints 200 times as before?”

“Maybe 400 or 500 because I count the breaths doing 2 or 3 hops or strides per breath. Otherwise counting gets messed up. That ends the round, generally lasting 10 minutes. I rest a couple of minutes between rounds, so the whole 5-round routine lasts about one hour.”

“But does it work?” N asks.

“Down from 140+/80+ to 130+/70+ in a couple of weeks, the systolic dipping into the 120’s a few times. Clay is my life saver.”

***************************************
Editor’s Note:
The foregoing is Case 18 in the Trials and Tribulations Log of PCCNSC, the acronym for the sake of brevity, not, heaven forbid, out of political correctness, standing for Pussy-Cock-Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, inaugurated upon election of Donald Trump as 45th President of the USA on November 8, 2016, the watershed in American politics, economy, defense, diplomacy, law and order, and, above all, sensibilities and mores, directly inspiring the birth of the Club, dedicated to the demise of political correctness through trivialization of the captioned and like words tabooed, so as to eradicate racism and false modesty, to which end is published the serialized log of incidents pertaining to the PCCNSC creed and practice as reported by its members (typakmusings.com).

On Asian Ethnic Epithets: Chink, Gook, and Jap

“How is the family, Jap?” N asks.

“Good,” G replies. “How is yours, Nigger?”

“Can’t complain, except Edith is her usual bitchy self.”

“To keep you in line but why do you keep calling me Jap?”

“Would you rather be called Chink all the time? The charter of PCCNSC (see Editor’s Note below) encourages us to work in variations on the same theme like Jap and Gook.”

“But they are not the same,” G snaps.

“How am I to know that?” N retorts. “You certainly look the same. Like us to you, I bet. A Nigger is a Nigger, not Shona or Zulu, Mongo or Kongo, Tutsi or Hutu. So is a Honk a Honk, not French or German, Italian or Spanish, Swede or Anglo.”

“A tribute to the centuries of hard work Europe and Africa have put in to build modern America, in the process dumping old-world ethnicities and loyalties,” T weighs in. “Not so with Asia, a late arrival on the scene, mostly in the last century, its ethnic sensitivities carrying over. For example, the Chinese and Koreans are still wary of the Japanese because of Japan’s imperialistic mayhem until 1945. But now they are all Americans and should dump their old baggage, as the Whites and Blacks have. Actually, the choice is no longer theirs.

“Remember the murder at a bar in Detroit some years back of a Korean youth, mistaken for a Japanese, by a White auto worker, laid off by a Chevy plant that had closed down because of Japanese cars? That lunatic had no business of killing Asian individuals, Japanese or not, because it wasn’t them but Barak, George, Bill, and other pre-Donald losers who didn’t know what they were doing and let go Detroit’s ownership of the American and global auto market. Koreans call it losing with all the aces in hand.

“The Detroit episode of mistaken identity, though tragic for the Korean victim, is an index of Asian integration into America: willy-nilly, Asians are lumped together as the Yellow race by America at large. Of course they are not yellow, nor brown, supposedly more politically correct. They’ll have to wear the Yellow tag just as American Indians do the Red, though I am yet to see one Indian with that pigmentation. Actually, I see ruddy faces among Whites.

“So call us Jap, Gook, Chink or anything at all. That will make us the third slice of the American pie, be it ever so small, 5.6%, until the races, White, Black, Yellow, Red, or Brown, go the way of ethnicities in the grand blender that is America.”

***************************************
Editor’s Note:
The foregoing is Case 17 in the Trials and Tribulations Log of PCCNSC, the acronym for the sake of brevity, not, heaven forbid, out of political correctness, standing for Pussy-Cock-Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, inaugurated upon election of Donald Trump as 45th President of the USA on November 8, 2016, the watershed in American politics, economy, defense, diplomacy, law and order, and, above all, sensibilities and mores, directly inspiring the birth of the Club, dedicated to the demise of political correctness through trivialization of the captioned and like words tabooed, so as to eradicate racism and false modesty, to which end is published the serialized log of incidents pertaining to the PCCNSC creed and practice as reported by its members (typakmusings.com).

Muhammad Ali Revisited: A Cult of the Petite

“I am in total agreement with G’s assessment of Ali’s greatness,” C says. “Human brawn is pitiful. That’s why we have weapons. Remember David and Goliath? With just a sling the little guy can bring down the big one. More recently, during the early decades of the 13th century, Genghis Khan’s small Asiatic men could easily subdue the larger-bodied Europeans using equestrian archery.”

“There is no proof that Europeans were larger than Asians that far back?” K notes. “Already with improved diet Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans are catching up fast.”

“But that’s exactly the opposite direction humanity should be headed,” T laments. “The greater the body mass, the more food it consumes, exhausting available resources.”

“But what about this American and therefore global preoccupation with the big and tall?” J asks.

“Definitely primitive, pre-weapon primitive,” T shakes his head in disgust. “Eugenics should aim for miniaturization, cultivating a cult of the petite.”

Muhammad Ali: A Sad Commentary on Human Greatness

“Are you a Nigger lover or something, Gook, to replay that Nigger Ali’s 40-, 50-year-old fight videos over and over?” N asks.

“No, Nigger,” G answers. “I have no love for any human, either your kind, my kind, or a Honk, because of their race or ethnicity alone.”

“So you think he is great, perhaps the greatest, as he boasts. To date no one has topped his TV viewership or viewer percentage. In his time almost 100% of TV viewers worldwide had their eyes glued to his fights, something Barak or any other celebrity at the peak of their fame couldn’t swing.”

“Actually, I like him as a sad commentary on human greatness. He takes a lot of hits, his brain turning into Parkinson’s mush that kills him. Instead of putting away his opponent with a quick decisive knockout his flicking, nicking punches lock him into a long war of attrition.”

“But that’s why we have 12- or 15-round matches, the one enduring to the end winning. He does endure and wins.”

“By the skin of his teeth, barely standing on rubbery legs. Compare that with the lightning-speed lethal blow a lion or tiger delivers. Human muscle just doesn’t have what it takes. Ali’s disappointing performances also expose the utter fakery of Bruce Lee movies and other fantasies. There is no way a human with a forward-looking visual field can waste multiple opponents attacking from all sides: any one of them can sneak up from behind and finish him off.”

Taxes as Offerings: Copy the Experts

“Won’t we only multiply the already enormous national debt, $20-trillion and counting, when tax revenues plummet with tax cuts across the board, half the population freeloading?” asks W, worried.

“No,” T reassures him. “The cuts will cause capital to pour in and jobs to abound, well-paying jobs that’ll catapult us all into high tax brackets.”

“But it may be a few years before the affluent tax base kicks in, drowning us in the meantime.”

“I know exactly what to do,” C interjects. “Copy Korean pastors, con artists extraordinaire, capable of wheedling recipients of SSI, Supplementary Security Income, into signing over their checks.”

“How do they pull it off?”

“By promising multiple returns, 10-fold, 30-fold, 60-fold, 100-fold for tithes, the minimum, and other special offerings. I’ve heard one guy raise the stakes to lottery proportions, million-fold, learning well from their American mentors, who in turn got it from their European tutors. Seeing where the Pope ended up for threatening hell fire to sell indulgences in 1517, the latter-day Pope wannabes have changed tack. Positive reinforcement, it is called. The gullible are presented with dazzling visions of splendid returns and blessings for tithes, the minimum, especially when topped off with offerings for success at work, family health and prosperity, and so forth and so on. They especially go for estate wills. No wonder churches are recession or depression-proof. So starting 2017 every IRS form should stress absence of an upper limit and promise the world to the payer, like America made great again, where one can dream big and reach for the stars, mentioning somewhere on the margin, in passing, dismissively, the calculated or assessed amount as a minimum. Like the tithe.”

Obama: A Monday-Morning Quarterback

“How do you like Barak boasting he could have beaten Donald?” N asks. “Is that presidential?”

“Not if a President is supposed to be a God, as PC, political correctness, would have it,” T discourses. “Instead of riding off majestically into the sunset he Monday-morning quarterbacks like any Joe Blow, unwittingly joining our ranks to obliterate PC, P&C, pomp and ceremony, B&S, bowing and scraping, A&R, awe and reverence, for government employees, our servants, hirelings, not lords and masters.”

“But he hasn’t quite earned his stripes, having stained no blue dress with his cum nor grabbed ’em by the pussy.”

“Actually he has done more, because Monday-morning quarterbacking shows mediocrity, a garden-variety hindsight mentality, whereas grabbing or spurting is basic physiology and no big deal, like crapping and pissing, though fussed over by PC worshippers.”

Trashing the Xmas tree

“Is this morbid or what, this weird vision I had of carrying my own corpse, as I took the Christmas tree out to the curb?” asks A, shivering.

“That gorgeous Norfolk?” T asks back. “Why did you throw it out so soon?”

“It’s been there a whole month, taking up too much space and shedding. But that’s not the issue. It’s that weird …”

“Forget it. You won’t be carted out of your house like trash, if that’s what’s bugging you. Everybody is ambulanced to a hospital to die. Then you will be given a nice funeral. After viewing by the last mourner the lid will close on your embalmed lifelike face and we, the brotherhood of PCCNSC, Semper Fi, will bear your coffin to the hearse which will lead a cortege to a cemetery with a great view.”

“You are no help, Chink,” N blazes. “It might be a premonition, a bad omen.”

“You may outlive all of us here yet, Nigger,” T assures him. “If every passing image or fancy came true, we’d all have been emperors, generals, billionaires many times over.”

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Editor’s Note:
The foregoing is Case 14 in the Trials and Tribulations Log of PCCNSC, the acronym for the sake of brevity, not, heaven forbid, out of political correctness, standing for Pussy-Cock-Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, inaugurated upon election of Donald Trump as 45th President of the USA on November 8, 2016, the watershed in American politics, economy, defense, diplomacy, law and order, and, above all, sensibilities and mores, directly inspiring the birth of the Club, dedicated to the demise of political correctness through trivialization of the captioned and like words tabooed, so as to eradicate racism and false modesty, to which end is published the serialized log of incidents pertaining to the PCCNSC creed and practice as reported by its members (typakmusings.com).

Happy New Year to My Enemies!

“Listen up, cock-suckers!” G announces. “How do you like Donald tweeting ‘Happy New Year to My Enemies!’

“Oh, no,” moans W. “Isn’t he giving them another opening to attack him as un-presidential, like vultures pecking and tearing at a wound? As President of the United States, they would say, he should unite the nation, not divide, by calling a chunk of the population his enemies.”

“If they do, they don’t understand a simple tongue-in-cheek goodwill gesture,” T reasons. “While dignifying his erstwhile opponents as ‘enemies’, he sues for peace, to bury the hatchet and start the new year afresh. To gloss over the bitterness of the past campaign, accusations and counteraccusations, no holds barred, and use mealy-mouthed platitudes like fellow Americans, patriots, etc., would be demeaning. Also by freely airing the most toxic word in the language he takes the sting out of it, defuses the tension and animosity, and neutralizes the acid that may corrode the fabric of America irretrievably.”

“Like what we are doing in PCCNSC: trivialization of politically incorrect words,” nods W in understanding. “Let’s make him a card-carrying member.”

“The vultures will be all over us, nipping the movement in the bud,” T warns. “For his sake as well as ours we had better dissociate ourselves from him, though he is our inspiration. We’ll consider a formal invitation in 2025, by which time hopefully PCCNSC will be a family byword.”

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Editor’s Note:
The foregoing is Case 13 in the Trials and Tribulations Log of PCCNSC, the acronym for the sake of brevity, not, heaven forbid, out of political correctness, standing for Pussy-Cock-Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, inaugurated upon election of Donald Trump as 45th President of the USA on November 8, 2016, the watershed in American politics, economy, defense, diplomacy, law and order, and, above all, sensibilities and mores, directly inspiring the birth of the Club, dedicated to the demise of political correctness through trivialization of the captioned and like words tabooed, so as to eradicate racism and false modesty, to which end is published the serialized log of incidents pertaining to the PCCNSC creed and practice as reported by its members (typakmusings.com).

The Lord’s Prayer Revisited

“I am afraid C’s idea of changing ‘daily bread’ to ‘daily fuck’ in the Lord’s Prayer is not going over well,” reports W, mournfully. “People think we are blasphemous, lewd, over the top, deplorable and irredeemable.”

“All in the cards,” T observes, unfazed. “After all we’ve touched the tenderest spot in the spectrum of human sensitivity, religion. Don’t get me wrong, C. I have no objection to the word ‘fuck’ itself and indeed applaud it, as it is right in line with our cause to defuse political correctness by desensitization to incorrect vocabulary. But one may wonder whether it is adequate as symbol of individual human survival. If food is ineligible because of its low ranking on the cost of living index, 10%, fucking may seem even more so. Surely no husband pays his wife for fucking her.”

“Yes, they do,” C nods gravely. “Through the nose, slaving away to pay for her mink, diamonds, parties, cruises, not to mention the whopping premarital investment, going to school, learning a trade or profession, buying a shiny car and a big house, not unlike male bowerbirds building colorful and elaborate nests to entice females.”

“But what about frequency? Daily seems a bit exaggerated, at least after the first honeymoon years, whereas eat you must three times a day.”

“To keep the gear in trim for instant deployment, maybe multiple times a day, depending, our females in constant heat, not like other species limited by estrus, though deprivation does not seem to pose much of an impediment. You’ve heard of the 10 starved male rats. When presented with two cages, one with a female in estrus and the other with food, Rats 1-9 go to food, but not Rat 10, an ill-favored runt whose normal chances of mating are nil, who makes a beeline for the female and, upon consummation, promptly expires, apparently content to have fulfilled his life’s purpose, procreation. The human DNA is a replica of Mr. Rat 10’s, 10 out of 10 males opting for the fuck. During the Korean War I remember guys going AWOL to get laid, getting shot for it or catching gonorrhea, urethritis, syphylis, often lethal with no antibiotics around then.”

“Thank God for erectile dysfunction,” S sighs.

“But inexorably in the grip of the same DNA,” C snaps, “chewing over the fucking exploits of bygone days, doting on the consequences, kids and grandkids.”

“What about them, the young ones?” N asks. “Surely you don’t mean to teach them the Pater Noster (Our Father) with ‘daily fuck’ in it.”

“Why not?” C fires back. “Teens will fuck away all day long given the chance. So will preteens, even those way down in the single digits. When I was 5 or 6, I had this girlfriend next door. With both our parents approving, because they thought we looked so cute together, little suspecting what we might be up to in our privacy, we played doctor. I regularly examined her pussy, poking my finger in, and she tweaked my penis. I tried a few times to mount her, as she lay supine, legs spread, expectant, but couldn’t pull it off. I just didn’t have a knack for it yet. So don’t be fooled by their innocence. The revised Pater Noster won’t teach them anything they don’t know already.”

“What about the social dimension of the prayer,” T queries, “where Jesus calls on God to ‘Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil’?”

“To be deleted in its entirety,” C is emphatic, “because its tenet of pacifism is implied by the terse, proactive invocation to ‘Give us our daily fuck’. Aware that humans, however well fed and maintained, are nothing unless they cooperate as a group, Jesus comes up with his Christian doctrine of non-confrontation: forgiveness of offenses and avoidance of trouble. Hence the lengthy bipartite structure of his prayer for humanity: (1) individual survival represented by the ‘daily bread’ and (2) group prosperity and civilization through zero conflict.

“The new prayer for ‘our daily fuck’ combines (1) and (2), because it has a uniquely social dimension that eating does not. One can gorge oneself but it takes two to tango or fuck, entailing the fundamental social building block, the fucking couple, whose attachment to each other – call it lust, love, empathy, soul mating – turns them into the tightly bonded atom that in turn triggers molecular compounding to form a functional society.”

“That sure makes the Prayer short and sweet,” claps Q. “I hate long-winded prayers or sermons.”

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Editor’s Note:
The foregoing is Case 12 in the Trials and Tribulations Log of PCCNSC, the acronym for the sake of brevity, not, heaven forbid, out of political correctness, standing for Pussy-Cock-Chink-Nigger Shouting Club, inaugurated upon election of Donald Trump as 45th President of the USA on November 8, 2016, the watershed in American politics, economy, defense, diplomacy, law and order, and, above all, sensibilities and mores, directly inspiring the birth of the Club, dedicated to the demise of political correctness through trivialization of the captioned and like words tabooed, so as to eradicate racism and false modesty, to which end is published the serialized log of incidents pertaining to the PCCNSC creed and practice as reported by its members (typakmusings.com).