>Eyeroll< Not This Again

by Buzz on 5/02/2016

young girl eye roll

Somebody sent me this link and invited comments on it.

I’m going to try to reign in the snark on this one:
Alcoholism is a serious problem.

People who are struggling with alcoholism (and no alcoholic is ever truly “cured” insofar as the desire to drink truly vanishes; if they’re lucky they’re in recovery) deserve help, support, and compassion (short of enabling, but that’s a different matter).

So I’m not going to rag
Jamie Morgan for
striving for sobriety.
More power to her.

But I am going to rag on her presentation, because frankly it’s hypocritical shaming at best and openly blasphemous at worst.

She’s listed 50 points but I’m not going to enumerate them here (that’s what the jump is for).

That’s a fond tactic of many in the demagogue persuasion:
Throw out a ton of spaghetti — who cares if it’s redundant and / or nonsensical — and try to bog your opponents down answering your trivial pursuit questions instead of addressing the real issue at hand.

Screw that noise,
I’m going to the source
of the contagion.

First off, let’s tackle this from a Christian perspective: She says Jesus is evil.

If the consumption of wine is in and of itself wrong, then Jesus sinned as he is cited as drinking wine in several verses in the Bible, not to mention John 2 where he turns water into wine for others to drink.

Which means, according to Ms Morgan, he wasn’t merely committing a sin himself but making it possible for, and encouraging others to sin as well!

And don’t give me that bull about Biblical wine just being “fruit juice”, there are too many Old Testament and New Testament verses to the intoxicating effects of wine to swallow that canard.

So, it’s pretty clear from various points in the Bible that it’s not the consumption of alcohol that’s wrong, but the abuse of alcohol consumption.

So her central thesis is bogus,
nullifying all objections derived
from it.

Now, had she limited herself to “I shouldn’t drink alcohol and I wouldn’t recommend alcohol to anyone else” then I wouldn’t be posting this.

That’s a perfectly legitimate position to take.

But it’s the shaming aspect that is what’s wrong with her message.

Shaming is what passive aggressive Christians do to try to force their standards of behavior on others. Drunk shaming, drug shaming, slut shaming, divorce shaming, political shaming, everything except shaming shaming.

It’s one of the key reasons why people are turning their backs on organized Christianity in this country.

Shaming has nothing to do with love and concern and compassion for others.

It has everything to do with power and control and feeling superior to others by judging them.

So that’s why I’m calling shenanigans on Jamie Morgan’s message, not on her efforts to remain clean and sober.

God bless you, Ms Morgan, more power to you as you strive to avoid destructive harmful behavior…

…in you.

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Take This Test!

by Buzz on 3/02/2016

Imagine you are taking an elderly relative who uses a cane — a parent, a grandparent, whatever – shopping at the mall.

You decide to get something to eat at the food court.  You park your relative at a table and go to pick up your order.

When you return, there’s a commotion going on at the table.

Your elderly relative, while putting their cane away, accidentally knocked over the drink of a kid sitting at the next table.

Do you:

  1. Ignore the kid’s complaint?
  2. Shrug it off and say “Stuff happens”?
  3. Tell the kid they doubtlessly spill lots of drinks themselves?
  4. Say it’s not your fault your relative knocked the drink over?
  5. Apologize to the kid but do nothing else?
  6. Compensate the kid by giving them the drink you just picked up?

Any answer other than (6) means you’re nothing but a sac of excrement.

There is not a single problem facing the United States of America today that was not (A) caused by white people, individually or in concert, acting to benefit themselves at the expense of others or (B) willfully ignoring the input of non-whites regarding the problem.

I’ve had people sneer at me, accusing me of feeling “white guilt” or “self-loathing”.

There’s a vast difference between guilt and responsibility.

Responsible people want the right thing to be done, regardless of how it affects them, and if circumstances prevent full justice, to at least acknowledge the wrong that was done and make efforts to prevent it from ever recurring.

Guilty people deny their guilt, coming up with excuses and blame shifting and constantly moving goal posts in order to avoid facing their responsibility.

And I feel loathing, all right,
but it’s not self-directed.

Rather it’s targeted at people I am unfortunately grouped with who proudly, ignorantly cling to pure unadulterated evil and call it virtue.

We’ve discussed Prohibition before, but it’s as perfect an example of what we’re talking about as could be hoped for so let’s revisit it.

White Christian Protestant Americans, to keep those God damned sub-human Irish and Italians in place, pushed laws to ban the sale of alcohol in the form of wine and whiskey; to punish sub-human poor white trash, pushed laws to ban beer; to punish sub-human blacks and Mexicans, pushed laws to ban marijuana; to punish sub-human Asians, pushed laws to ban opium.[1]

Prohibition had nothing to do with ending a very real problem, but rather had everything to do with White Anglo-Saxon Protestants maintaining control over ”them”.

And in the process of keeping “those (sub-human) filth people” in line, we elevated small potatoes local gangs into international crime cartels; destroyed public confidence in law, police, and courts; allowed corruption on a heretofore unprecedented scale to infect our government; and did nothing to actually address a real problem but instead created a legion of new ones.[2]

A while back I reviewed a disgusting movie:  Santa Fe Trail.

The only thing that can be said in its favor is that it is refreshingly candid in its brutal racial prejudice — they come flat out and say that African-Americans should suffer pain, death, and degradation if it means white bigots don’t have to feel uncomfortable about themselves.

Screw that noise.

Just as we are responsible for what our elderly relative does at the food court for no other reason than they are related to us, then we are responsible for what white people in the past did to African-Americans and other minorities.

We can either see justice is done…

…or we can remain sacs of excrement.


[1]  Despite the fact that the Asians had a handle on the opium trade until British merchants, denied the financial rewards of slavery by abolition, instigated the Opium Wars and forced the Far East to get involved in the sale and trafficking of that drug.

[2]  One the other hand, Prohibition did make comic books and pulp magazines possible, so there’s that…



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For Black History Month We’re Going To Talk About White People

by Buzz on 3/02/2016

There would be no need for a Black History Month if white folks walked the walk instead of just talking the talk.

And I congratulate and praise everyone who is doing stuff this month that shows the hidden history of African-Americans in this country and the rest of the world.  Go for it, dudes & dudettes!

But here we are going to be examining why Black History Month is a vital necessity.

And a lot of people aren’t going to like it.

And I couldn’t care less.

frankly I dont CAP

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by Buzz on 1/02/2016

“A gun doesn’t make you a citizen. 

“A citizen is one who is part of civilization, not outside it. A citizen is one who works to hold society together instead of working to burn it down, who learns from the past in order to build a better future for all. And in hard-won, hard-learned American tradition, a citizen is one who believes that the benefits of civilization are the birthright of all – not just a select few. Not just those brutal enough, ruthless enough, to take it at the muzzle of gun.   

“Citizenship is an ideal, an obligation, a duty. 

“Citizenship is not an excuse to act like a lout or a thug. 

“Citizenship is an acknowledgement that we are stronger together, despite our differences or maybe because of them, than we ever were alone. 

“And if civilization does not protect the weak from the ruthless, then what damned good is it?

“Those squatting in Malheur are not patriots. They are not soldiers. They are not citizens. They are an armed rabble of selfish malcontents. 

“They are nothing but bums with guns.” — the always insightful Jim Wright of Stonekettle Station, “Refuge Of Scoundrels”

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The Words Of The Prophets…

by Buzz on 31/01/2016

…are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls

WotP Mahatma Gandhi

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Someone Asked, So…

by Buzz on 30/01/2016

Someone asked for a link to all my poetry posts.  Since some of my Fictoid entries are in the form of blank verse, I’ll include those as well.

Amos Sewell - poetry howl

For those of you who aren’t interested in my poetry, here’s a great chance to avoid it all at one time!

Did I See A Ghost On The Sidewalk?

Halloween 2012

Scene Missing

The Sodomites’ Song

A Poem For Christmas 2012

Perhaps Petroleum Is A Poison



So Maybe There Was This Little Boy...

21st century sinnerman


Fictoid: into the unrealm

Fictoid: the counterfeiter

Fictoid:  some pig

Fictoid:  are you my daddy?

Halloween Poem 2013

4 haiku for the city of angels

A Factual Statement Everyone Can Agree On

Fictoid: the infernal triangle

He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands

Fictoid: the last robot

Fictoid: the last dinosaur

A Meditation On “Playing Post Office” And “Going Postal”

Fictoid:  Al’s History Repair (based on an idea by Jim MacQuarrie)

Fictoid: a horror story for believers

Fictoid:  So I Says To St. Pete…


Happy Birthday, June Foray!

a poem for eternity

out along the cygnus wall

Fictoid:  if you want the right answer, ask the right question

los angeles: a love song

Fictoid:  gamblers

they tore the roof off the poet’s house

Fictoid:  the sniper’s lament

let me show you a ghost


Ode To A Christianist Screechweasel

Imagine If Jesus Were A Vegan…

The Frustrated Communist Architect Blues

Problem/s Solved

Uncle Festus

Fictoid:  conundrum

Fictoid:  Stop Me If You’ve Read This Before

Death And The Typewriter

The Sweet, Sweet Song Of Death

look what we dug up

Fictoid: The Boogeyman

Fictoid:  monster movie mash-up

halloween poem 2015

Fictoid:  Death’s Jest

Trippi The Guilt-Spider

The Comedian’s Dead Son’s Memorial

Only One Way

the big red truck

 art by Amos Sewell



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Two Conflicting Currents

by Buzz on 29/01/2016

The challenge facing the body politic of the US of A today is one of two conflicting currents.

We have already slid into a plutocratic oligarchy. There are few citizen / officials among us, and most of those only at minor local levels in non-influential communities and regions.[1]

Most politicians are professionals; they either settle into a career as an elected official, or they seek appointments to high office, or they serve in advisory / lobbying positions to those who are elected, or they serve in organizations that facilitate the elections of others.

By nature — by very real, very human nature — these people are disinclined to dismantle the system that gives them value (read “$”) and worth (i.e., pride).

So be it:
At least try to be competent at your job and realize that killing the golden goose by starving it to death so you will have more grain is a foolish strategy.

Nearly a century before the French Revolution erupted, the more observant members of the aristocracy (which includes high ranking clergy) could see the storm clouds coming. Thirty years before that storm actually broke, French kings were assigning their best and brightest scholars with the task of figuring out how to head it off before it reached them.

The scholars’ answer was invariably “Curb the power of the aristocracy and tax them fairly.”

The aristocrats did not want to hear this and while many gave lip service to the idea of reform, in actuality they worked to prevent such reforms from happening.

And then one day everyone lost their heads…

Fortunino Matania - just a little off the top CAP

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The Last Night For A Teddy Bear Spy

by Buzz on 29/01/2016

“We had Beirut.”

“We had Beirut.”

“Mumbai was good.”

“It was.”

“And Caracas.”

“And Caracas.  Especially Caracas.”

“It’s sad it has to end.”

“You could always come over.”

“Would you?”



She stubbed out her Gauloises on the already scarred nightstand.

The garret felt hot and dry; outside she could hear the city softly crying itself to sleep.

The time for tears was over.

“We could have made quite a team.”

“We were quite a team.  Unofficially.”


Nobody knew the truth, not even in the official sealed reports labeled Ultra Top Secret, buried in lead-lined vaults so deep and publicly denied so often that even their existence was forgotten…

…or the stuff of legend.

They made quite a pair, one working for this side, one working for that side.

Years of surgery transformed him, changed him, altered him.  Years of training and a fanatical devotion to duty enabled him to stay at the top of the game.

He looked so harmless, so innocent.

So fuzzy.

An adept in nirodha yoga, he could remain motionless for hours, his heart slowed to an imperceptible murmur, his breathing so shallow as to escape detection, his brain operating below even the lowest detectable delta wave frequencies.

He would be a gift to a diplomat’s daughter, a present, a souvenir.

He would sit motionless on a shelf or a dresser in the child’s bedroom, or even tucked in next to the little girl as she slept.

Then, in the dead of night, he would creep out to spy on the diplomats, to learn their secrets, to betray their confidences, to thwart their plans.

He was a great secret agent, and he sacrificed much to the cause, but underneath the plastic surgery and hormone treatments he remained a man.

With a man’s wants and needs and desires.

She came from the filthy back alleys of Wahiawa, daughter of an apostate Mormon stripper, stepchild to a dozen and one soldiers and sailors and other skilled practitioners of homicide.

Her surrogate fathers liked her, and taught her well, well enough for recruiters to notice her and find her and offer her a job at the one thing she did really skillfully, the one thing she truly loved:  Killing men.

They taught her all the tricks of the trade that she didn’t already know, then turned her loose and watched in amazement as she invented brand new tricks.

Her original orders were to kill him, only nobody knew who he was, much less what he was or what he looked like.

By the time she learned his secret, she was already in love with him.

She killed his handler on that first mission, and told her handlers that the dead man had been the spy.

She didn’t tell her side that she had kidnapped the real spy, and kept him locked safely in a toy box in her closet.

He escaped, of course, but he couldn’t hate her; that was impossible.

She excited him, aroused him, summoned forth feelings he never thought he’d experience again.

His cause be damned:
She was his woman.

They hid their relationship from their superiors, and she had to hide his true nature from her side as well.

The noose began tightening around them, however.  Questions were being asked, demands were being made.

Their brief and sporadic hours of happiness came further and further apart, until finally they came to the one they knew would be the last, the climax (as it were) to their relationship.

“Are you afraid?”

“No, my dear.”

They both knew at best only one of them would leave the garret alive, albeit wounded non-fatally in the heart.

The Latvian was the best assassin for hire.  There were men — and one woman — better than he, but they were all committed players.

The Latvian would work for anyone who would pay him.

Who to shoot first? she wondered.

If she shot her lover then the Latvian (she could sense him, practically smell him lurking near the edge of the garret window) would doubtlessly kill her.

And if she shot the Latvian, wouldn’t her lover spring forward with a concealed switchblade and stab her through the heart?

You already stabbed me through the heart, you bastard.

A faint creak on the roof:
The time of decisions had passed.

Whipping out her customized 9mm Taurus PT92 from under her pillow, she fired a single impeccably aimed, instinctively guided Barnes TAC-XP round through the head of her lover and into the heart of the Latvian.

The Latvian blinked in surprise and died with a look of disappointment on his face, as if he’d already been mentally spending his bonus.

Her lover just lay there motionless — genuinely, for once – his now truly lifeless eyes staring at the cockroaches mating on the ceiling.

She gave him a last chaste kiss on the cheek, her tears soaking his fur, then dressed, turned out the lights, left the garret, and locked the door behind her.

Sixteen hours later she crouched atop the Chrysler Building in Manhattan with a 7.62mm Dragunov SVD-63 sniper rifle.

But that’s another story…

Teddy Bear Spy

text © Buzz Dixon

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the big red truck

by Buzz on 28/01/2016

the big red truck
blocks the small parking lot
like the cat on my blue chair

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Fictoid: robot contemplating a box of corn flakes

by Buzz on 26/01/2016

I am so lonely CAP1

text © Buzz Dixon

I am so lonely.

If only I could
eat this box of
corn flakes, how
happy I would be !

Oh, who am I trying to kid?

I am locked in a bunker five miles underground.
All of humanity is dead.  I will stay here until my
gears wear down, my oil dries out,
and the atomic pile turns cold…

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