Pit Vipers are gay and stupid looking

but I bought a pair for $40 and they arrive tomorrow. 

Explanation

I have been well trained by the media to want more more more, so when I inevitably break/lose the cheap crap that I can afford it is a convenient excuse to obtain a cheap replacement, preferably by buying, which releases awesome endorphins. 

Historically, sunglasses are like lighters; I never have to buy them because whenever I need them I magically find them in a lost-n-found, an act that appeals to my naturally stingy proclivities.

But something strange has been happening to me over the past six months or so, when I began to notice, and then "hate" Pit Vipers enough to buy a pair. 

Explanation continued 

(Bear with me)

My growing interest with Pit Vipers resembles the exponential self-destruction of the west, albeit in one year (June 2020/21) vs the near millennium after Thomas Aquinas' death in 1274.

The story of my eventual purchase begins way back one year ago when Dr. Disrespect, a popular Twitch streamer, was mysteriously banned from a platform I don't watch.

This story was only of an anthropological interest before it faded from my memory hole minutes after I asked myself 'Who is Dr.Disrespect anyway?' 

It was only when I began writing this post, just now, that Dr. Disrespect and his facial accessories re-emerged into my memory hole, putting the near-acknowledgement of his sunglasses as my Pit Viper Ground Zero moment as June 2020. 

This speaks to the power of Pit Vipers on my sub-conscious; I hadn't thought about Dr. Disrespect in one year, and didn't even recall his name. But I did recall his outfit, including mullet and moustache (both of which I've rocked) and sunglasses....

The next watershed moment in this ensuing purchase was finally acknowledging that there is an irl streamer eponymously named Baked Alaska after hearing his name mentioned from the mouths of other internet personalities multiple times. (Once again, never watching his streams.) 

And when I saw a picture of him (visually acknowledging my auditory acknowledgment) I noticed his sunglasses this time (unlike Dr. Disrespect, Baked Alaska had a look, not a costume) and explicitly thought 'oh, sunglasses.' His sunglasses were an accessory to this look--bleached hair, brown beard, neon outfits--and his attitude. I don't have a streamer's personality and therefore felt that the sunglasses were For Streamers Only.

Then in early June 2021 Milo Yiannopolis made a remark about how Pit Vipers made a Pride themed Instagram post that got ratio'd because they 'don't understand their clientele.'

I thought, 'What are Pit Vipers?' and then, 'Ohhhh, the sunglasses that Baked Alaska wears!'

It was starting to make sense. 

My black sunglasses that I bought for $4 last Fall were still in my possession and still unbroken, and I did not feel a subconsciously coerced need for new sunglasses, especially Pit Vipers because they were too flashy and ugly. They were definitely not my style. (This coming from a fanboy of Osiris D3 2001.)

Irony is gay. But could these antiquated sunglasses from the last golden age actually be cool? In the same way fedoras are actually cool? In spite of the dweebs and atheists that currently ruin them? 

Over the next two weeks I'd see various e-celebrities wearing Pit Vipers "ironically," and think, 'Those are Pit Vipers.' Then: 'Pit Vipers are gay looking.' And then, to no one: 'Right?'

Then last week, after spending the evening eating gelato with the Dominicans, I lost my sunglasses--they just disappeared! I wasn't even drunk!--and I groaned because I really liked them, and felt as naked as I was blind without them in the morning sun. 

Then on telegram two days later I saw yet another pair of e-celebrities wearing Pit Vipers. I looked at them for a long time, then I zoomed in on their faces with my thumb and forefinger, and stared into my own reflection of their Pit Vipers and saw myself wearing Pit Vipers, and finally understood that owning Pit Vipers was written into my birth, as inevitable as the Second Coming. 

I felt an urgency for them to be on my face as quickly as a fire needed to be put out in the pants I'm wearing.

Conclusion

I am a dissident. 

I drink Monster Energy, wear Pit Vipers, and when a journalist asks me for my name I answer, "Fuck Off."

Living The Truth takes guts. And it takes guts to stand out. And that's what Pit Vipers are for. 

Excommunicate Biden!

This is uncontroversial:

The Catholic Church believes that life begins at conception, and terminating pregnancy at any point after conception is killing. 

(The fifth commandment is 'Thou Shall Not Kill.")

Faithful Catholics also believe that life begins at conception. 

Biden is a "faithful Catholic" insofar as he "attends Mass and has spent a lifetime steeped in Christian rituals and practices."

But this is not enough. Biden is not an ordinary Catholic, but the President, and therefore has the capability to limit abortion as well as set a good public example of devotion.

Instead of limiting abortion, as a Catholic president should--or in the very least do nothing--Biden is expanding abortion "rights," dropping the Hyde Amendment out of his recent budget. 

Though he may be personally opposed to the legal dismemberment of unwanted children, he values his party's politics by acting in direct contradiction to the faith he claims to have.

The Church must clarify this confusing example set by Biden. (The USCCB will write a lengthy treatise on what the Eucharist actually is, and what it actually means.) And after they clarify, they should excommunicate!

Biden is committing a mortal sin by publicly receiving the Eucharist and expanding abortion "rights," and is damning his soul to Hell if  he does not ask for forgiveness. Excommunication is a sign from the Church to Biden to seek forgiveness and amend his life--in the very least do nothing to current abortion law. Excommunication is merciful! (And he can be un-excommunicated.) 

This is a no brainer. But the Church moves slowly. Hopefully they act before he dies, or becomes senile. 

EBT in Harlem

Some people just do not want help of any kind. Especially from white people.

Having read a few horror stories of helpful white people mercilessly killed by the black people they were helping, I thought dying in a similar way would be an easy risk to avoid for the simple fact that I do not like to help anyone.

But I am a slow learner.

Last week I was in Harlem at the infamous 125th Street and Lexington Ave 456 stop (the original K2 corner).

I stood at the counter patiently waiting my turn as the cashier rang up another customer’s order total of $36.

“What are you doing?!” screamed the shocked customer. “Why are you charging me $36?! It’s *just* two sandwiches!”

(Nevermind that the cashier was doing this customer a favor by ringing up his hot food with EBT.)

For the sake of transparency, the cashier took out the additional items that the customer bought (a can of pringles, a large green organic juice, an orange soda and a bag of Cheetos) and announced the price of each one.

The customer was outraged. “It shouldn’t cost that much!” He held up the organic juice: “This shouldn’t be $4!!”

I rolled my eyes. Of course, this is a bullshit price for a bullshit juice, we agree; but that outrage wears off after you get the taxes taken out of your first paycheck and realize that ‘overpriced juice’ is only the first identifiable injustice of capitalism.

This clueless moron was in another league however, as an example of a spoiled homeless New Yorker given $900/month in free cash. He wasn’t grateful for this money, he was unchanged and was throwing an embarrassing tantrum like a 5-year-old. (He probably grew up without a father.)

Once more the cashier announced the price of each item again, including the two sandwiches and the two orders of fries that the customer ordered in addition.

“I don’t want this stuff!” The grown man whined.

The cashier replied with frustration: “The money is off the card! It can’t go back!”

The customer’s tantrum intensified, and he reiterated: “I don’t want it!”

The cashier rolled his eyes, opened the register, and threw two five-dollar bills at the customer. “Take your food and get out!”

Perplexed, the customer stared at the two bills and started counting on his fingers. “He only gave me ten! The sandwiches are $12!”

“He did you a favor,” I said stupidly, thinking I was doing a favor by being an impartial interpreter. “He gave you the money back. He didn’t have to do that.” The cashier’s face displayed complete indifference at my interjection on his behalf.

The customer looked at me, his face curled in anger. “What’s $24 plus $10?” he asked earnestly.

I stammered because I can do simple arithmetic and knew where this short conversation was headed. “It’s…uh….it’s $34….”

“He charged me $36! You stupid fucking cracker,” he screamed. In that moment, my life was reduced to the 21st paragraph of a lengthy article about “white supremacy.” I realized that no one would save me in that deli, not the other bored looking patrons or the indifferent cashier.

The customer continued his retarded abuse shouting, “I should crack you in the motherfucking face! Remember where you are! You are in our neighborhood!”

The casher shouted, “Take your food and get the fuck out! You can’t come back here again! Get the fuck out nigger!” (He was Arabic, so the other patrons didn’t even look up from their phones with this slur.)

Lesson Learned

The Arabic cashier could not be “racist” because he was non-white, a fellow minority with no history of oppression against people of color (on this continent).

If he had been white, not only would he be a racist, but the entire place would get justly trashed and ransacked by the clientele because of “white people’s historic injustices against people of color.”

As the only white person in the store just trying to calm tension using reason, I received the hatred that “historic injustices” allow.

I didn’t even really want to help that retard, I just wanted him to shut up. Now, I’ll just bear the annoyance. My life is worth bearing that annoyance.

At least it is to me.

Santorum flavored shake

Call me perverted, but when I think of homosexuality, I think of anal sex between two men.  If "Love is Love" and this is the only tangible difference between heteros and homos, then there is almost nothing obsessive about acknowledging the only difference.

However, anal sex between two men is viscerally disturbing to me, and therefore I never willingly think about homosexuality. 

But I suppose that's the point of Pride Month: for Big Corporations and Mainstream Media to remind me that some men have anal sex with other men, and that is OK, because only bigots are disturbed by the frothy substance of fecal matter and lube that is a byproduct of anal sex, not normal people. 

Pride Month infuses this reminder--and acceptance--of sodomy everywhere, for everything not related to anal sex: parades....NYPD patrol cars....milkshakes....

Probably my only wholesome attribute is my fondness for milkshakes. They were always a treat, and a symbol from my idyllic and innocent childhood before their enjoyment became corrupted by the reality of age and mortality, the counting of calories, and the battle of sugar addiction. Now, sacrifices must be made for any milkshake to be enjoyed. 

Shake Shack is a worthy contender for best burger joint, but they are tools for the Gay Pride agenda, and have created a fruit flavored milkshake to commemorate the normalizing of a sexually depraved and unnatural lifestyle. 

Fruit flavored shakes are not homosexual!! Only anal sex is homosexual!!

A true Gay Pride flavored shake is santorum ((n.) the frothy substance of fecal matter and lube that is a byproduct of anal sex) flavored. As a child of mainstream media perversion, this is what I taste when I drink a milkshake in June. Therefore everything I sacrifice for a milkshake is for naught. 

I don't drink milkshakes in June anymore.

Hot Takes

Since January I’ve always wanted to have That Big Idea. I wanted to be like Columbus, who thought the opposite of other explorers when he decided that the best way to The East was via that ocean to the west.

Or like the guy who invented the subways when he thought, ‘But, like, what if we put trains underground?” (It would be too easy to be a copycat by “inventing” underground airports.)

Alas, I can never be an inventor because experiments are tedious, and I hate tedium.

Sure, I can “invent” foods, like Sweet and Sour Chicken Ice Cream, with Real ™ Chunks of Chicken. Or a cereal, like Pepsi Blue Puffs. Or Blue Cheese nuggets covered in dark chocolate. (Think Raisinets.)

But as much as I want to eat these inventions I will never be as dedicated as Kellog to agonize over their creation and see them through; these are nothing more than very tasty jokes, the farthest of which they will traverse from my mind is my tongue, and not the other way around.

The thing about Columbus, and the Wright Bros, and other inventors and explorers is that they made their ideas happen. They were theorists and experimentalists. I am humble and therefore realistic about myself: I’m simply better at thinking of stuff and saying stuff than I am at building stuff. (Sorry Dad.)

But thinking of stuff is a skill too!

Hot Takes

So long as writers do not all become full blown propagandists and/or ideologues they will remain useful, even as our civilization becomes more illiterate and our youth spend their time watching TikToks and playing Fortnite.

How? Hot Takes!

But how???

Comfort inventions--like smart phones—are finite. (How much more ubiquitous anti-boredom comfort do we need? How much more can we handle!?) Some fat slobs will sacrifice themselves on the altar of convenience and comfort by numbing their heart’s desire for truth with gluttony, but God willing there will always be more people inclined to sacrifice their comforts to reach the truth. (Because observing physical degradation is depressing (and preventable)).

(Also because the Second Coming is inevitable, but the combined efforts of the faithful puts it off…for now.)

Apply the same logic to mental lethargy. Anti-boredom comfort leads to mental boredom from over comfort. A Hot Take stirs the soul because nothing stirs a soul more than an exposed lie.

That’s why edgy—not profane--comedy once made people lol before it was cancelled for being offensive. That’s why political dissent gets censored!

Evil knows that the hotter the take, the faster the spread, and comfort inventions are the flamethrowers. If a lie was to be exposed by a hot take, censoring a hot take is evil….and evil especially wins when we abandon our historical privilege of literacy.

Mission  

As a writer, I am constantly on a personal Columbus-type quest for a fresh, hot take. Unlike Columbus, I never have to do anything but talk about it as confrontationally and peacefully as possible, and I never have to risk anything but my livelihood and my reputation by being a voice of dissent. Hardly the same sacrifices as Columbus. Closer in similarity to Galileo.

I may not be the first person to say something like: “We never landed on the moon…the entire thing was shot in a secret studio at NASA,” or “Coronavirus was created in a lab in Wuhan, and the CDC helped fund it,” but I want to be.