Sunday, February 28, 2016

Don't Kiss My Baby: a Poem Dedicated to Donald Trump

Do you see him?

There he is,

Standing on the podium,

Like some sort of messiah

Sent to us from a dark God,

Who has finally tired

Of all of our bullshit.

Words come out of his mouth

And venture to regions unknown,

His every breath a blasphemy

Though they can't see it.

They want him,

And he wants them.

They wish to ascend together,

Righteous in their anger,

Frustrated with themselves

Though blaming others.


Let us bring out the scapegoats.

Place them on the altar,

And bathe the Donald in their blood.

He will give your children his blessing.

Give Trump your firstborn.

Let him place the cross on their forehead,

And then seal it with a kiss.

A woman is seized and brought forth.

The Donald looks at her as though she is raw hamburger.

"The child," he says, "I will taketh it."

"Give him the child," they say,

Chanting in unison,

American flag hats on their craniums,

Their hearts clutched in their swollen hands.

It would be so easy, she thinks,

To surrender her newborn

To this smug son of a bitch

Who says whatever they want to hear.

The Donald extends his hands,

His smile grows a thousand yards.

"What's the goddamn matter?" he asks.

Indeed, what is the matter?

Where does the source of this anger stem?

From what dark forest hath it originated,

And can we do anything but hurt with it?

The Donald says no, we cannot.

The Donald does not think much of us.

He knows that we don't listen,

That we care little about the substance of words,

That we eat what we are given,

As long as it is sticky-sweet.

And so she walks down from the stage,

Though they beat her and castigate her,

Insulting her sex and her tender child.

It doesn't matter: she knows.

She knows that no matter what he says,

She will not let him kiss her baby.

Demagogue, return to your prison,

Vanish from our screens,

Let us not destroy ourselves with our own fists.

You have promised us nothing,

But our own heads on stakes.

May you eat a stunner for all eternity,

And may that pelt on your head

Become festering and fetid.

You suck.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

In the Depths of the Valley Promotion

My horror novel is currently free on Amazon Kindle for a limited time! Get it here.

In small town Hillsdale, Indiana, high school English teacher William Jameson has a dark secret: he has made a graveyard deal with an eater of the living and the dead. The object of his affection, fellow teacher Loretta Mendez, is marrying loutish cop Doug Hepburn, and meek and mild Will has no other recourse but to appeal to an amorphous evil that he does not understand. When Patrolman Hepburn kills an innocent man and goes missing, no one suspects Will but his student Dwight Howard, who must deal with his own supernatural encounter as well as a budding romance between him and his best friend's girl. What follows is a chronicle of infatuation, teenage love, and weird horror.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

New Music: Lycanthropy

A Theme Park Mistress classic about change and stuff.

Weightlifting: The Value of Assistance Work

In the past, I had always been dismissive of assistance work. In lifting terms, assistance work is composed of minor exercises that help the power lifts, that is, the squat, deadlift, and bench press. There are many programs and training philosophies out there that recommend focusing on just a few compound lifts, such as the aforementioned, while shunning "bodybuilding" lifts like biceps curls, shoulder laterals, lunges, etc. These programs are always focused on powerlifting or strength training, and the term "bodybuilding" is used disparagingly, for it conjures up images of over-muscular men the color of over-baked chicken, wearing tiny speedos while admiring their biceps peak. However, the silliness of the sport of bodybuilding is not the subject of this post. Rather, I want to talk about how there is great value in performing so-called bodybuilding work, while letting the volume of your main lifts subside, at least for a while.

The powerlifts certainly have the most bang for their buck. Instead of messing around with a dozen different exercises, you can get a muscular and strong lower body by performing deadlifts and squats, while the bench press develops the pectorals, front deltoids, and triceps better than any other lift. Throw in some chin-ups for the biceps and lats, and maybe some direct shoulder work in the form of overhead pressing, and you have a solid routine guaranteed to make you stronger. However, at a certain point, if you decide to move beyond exercising and embrace training, you are going to need to get bigger. If you want to squat 600 lbs, you need bigger quads. The squat is not really a great quad exercise. The upper thighs and the gluts do most of the work, and although the quadriceps will certainly get bigger from squatting, you need assistance exercises if they are to reach their maximum development. Lunges and hack squats are great at targeting the quads. You can even do leg extensions if you want! By dialing back your squat volume, and incorporating a few sets of high rep assistance exercises, your legs will get bigger and stronger. The same philosophy can be applied to your other main lifts.

Below are the assistance lifts that I've found useful, along with the rep ranges I use. Maxing out on these exercises is not the purpose. You should be trying to make the muscle work rather than just moving weight through space.

For the upper body: Barbell curls-sets of 10, hammer curls-sets of 10, lying triceps extensions-sets of 10, inverted rows-sets of 15, dumbbell rows-sets of 12 to 15 reps, behind the neck press-pyramid up to a set of 4 or 5 (use a partial range of motion on this lift to avoid shoulder pain), front, side, rear laterals-sets of 12 reps.

For the lower body: Lunges-sets of 10 to 12, hack squats-sets of 10, calf raises-sets of 15, weighted hamstring stretches-sets of 10.

The main lifts are still performed every workout, yet I often just pyramid up to a top set. Try this approach for a while and see if you don't get bigger and stronger.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

How to Know if You Suffer from Donkey Brains

You likely suffer from a debilitating condition known as "Donkey Brains" if you experience any of the following:

1. You find yourself thinking about cheese, and how good it feels on your feet.

2. You drink a case of Pepsi-Cola an hour "for your health."

3. You greet each dog and cat you meet with either "Sir," or "Madame."

4. You believe calculators to be a form of witch-magic.

5. When you feel a shadow pass overhead, you run cowering, screaming about "the eagles."

6. You were known in High School as "Donkey Brains," or "That guy who eats glue."

7. Your best friend is a frog-mutant who never acknowledges your presence directly.

8. Most of your income comes from various low-paying side-jobs, mostly involving trash collection or fetish fulfillment.

9. Your only real goal in life is to see how much you can drink everyday.

10. You're more worried about the sudden appearance of clowns than credit card debit.

11. Everything you've ever owned has been either leased or stolen.

12. When you pass a computer, you feel compelled to press the buttons of its keyboard by smashing your knuckles against the keys.

13. Besides "Donkey Brains," people often call you "Garbage Breath," or "Ape Boy."

14. You agree with anything Donald Trump has ever said.

15. Your fingernails smell like fish dicks.

16. Most of your biomass is composed of adipose tissue due to your daily consumption of Papa John's pizza.

17. You often wonder outloud if God is just a scheme invented by the Pope just so he can wear all of those funny hats.

18. You think money actually grows on trees.

19. You believe in leprechauns.

20. You have been clinically diagnosed with "Donkey Brains."

Thursday, February 18, 2016

When Someone Gets Eaten by a Bear, You Take Care of Their Family

Man this country is really messed up. Back in my day, when a person was disemboweled by a ferocious member of the ursine family, you did all you could to mitigate their loss to their close kin. If they needed someone to take the trash out, you came over and did it. If the gutters needed unclogged, you had no problem doing it for them. If their spouse needed some servicing, you did it, regardless of sex. But now the government is all involved. Now the community can't care of families that have lost someone due to the insatiable appetite of carnivorous predators. And that's something we just can't have.

In my day (which was hundreds of years ago, to be honest) when an apple farmer fell out of a tree and broke his leg, the whole community rallied together to pick the harvest. Everyone put on their best pair of overalls and picked up their bushel baskets and got together and did some hard work. Old Johnny Appleseed would look the other way, of course, while the community drank all of his cider and hauled most of his crop back to their homes for fermenting. Everyone was a drunk back then. But the harvest got picked. A man's livelihood was saved. And the government didn't have one thing to do with it.

We need to go back to those times, hundreds of years ago in the past. Never mind that close-knit, self-dependent rural communities do not exist in the same way as they did in my idealized past. Life isn't a Wendall Berry novel, unfortunately. I still think we should rely on the charity of others, like those nice young methheads that live down the street from me. I like to think that, god forbid, I was eaten by bears, they would come by and make sure the kids got to school on time. We can't count on the government to send our children to school. Come to think of it, we can't count on it to educate our children, either. The community should perform that task as well. Really, there's nothing the community can't do for you. I guess that's communism, though, ain't it? Christ, where am I going with this?

I just want everybody to know that if you get eaten by a ferocious, rabid bear, I will do my best to raise your family. I'll take them to ball games and give them scraps under the table. The government will have nothing to do with it, as you would have wished. I hope you will do the same for me.

Monday, February 15, 2016

Why Can't Randy Orton Be My Best Friend?

"Why can't Randy Orton be my best friend?" I ask Jared at work. He looks at me stupidly, his round little eyes showing no comprehension.

"Who?" he asks.

"The Viper. The WWE's Apex Predator. The Legend Killer..."

"Is that some gay wrestler?" interrupts Jared. I've never hated him as much as I hate him this moment.

"Why are you the way that you are?" I ask.

"You know that shit is fake, right?" says Jared.

"Goddamnit, Jared." I walk away from him, desperately wishing that Randy Orton was here, at this moment, to deliver an RKO out of nowhere.

I'm at a sandwich shop, some ripoff place where they charge you ten bucks for six inches of mouth-gagging staleness. As I'm checking out, I lock eyes with the cashier. She's young, blonde, and full of teenage dispassion.

"Why can't Randy Orton be my best friend?" I ask her.

"That'll be sixteen seventy-five," she replies.

"That's really all I want in life," I say.

"There's a line," she says, indicating several people behind me.

"Do you watch wrestling?" I ask.

"That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard," she replies. "No one's ever asked me that."

Where is Randy Orton when you need him? This chick deserves a swinging neck breaker like no other.

I'm sitting in the park, eating my sandwich while drinking malt liquor out of a paper bag when I'm approached by a homeless man. He shows me his hands, which are covered in blood and bear signs of stigmata, possibly self-inflicted. Despite my offer of a piece of sandwich, he shakes his head and won't leave.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Have you seen the yellow sign?" he asks back.

"Have you ever experienced an elevated DDT? That's vintage Orton, you know," I say. He looks confused, his eyes swimming in blue fluid. I try to pantomime a DDT, though I don't think I get through to him.

Randy would know what to do. Why won't you answer my letters, Randy?

Saturday, February 13, 2016

The Heart of the Thief, Continued

Below is more from my fantasy work in progress, currently called "The Heart of the Thief." I'm starting to enjoy writing this, though it is a challenge to move beyond fantasy cliches, which I'm not sure I have as of yet. Here's part one and part two.

“A truncheon works best for ending unpleasant conversations,” replies the Thief. “Though I tend to avoid people and their conversations as much as possible. Violence is always the result of a failure of preparation. You can't hurt what you cannot see.”
            “Are you a magician? A lesser apprentice of Dazbog?” asks Cassilda with a smile.
            “I know how to blend in with the darkness, how to find an alcove in an instant, how to walk down a street as just another person. There's a certain amount of magic about it, yes, though I doubt that wizard knows anything about it. It's not about casting spells or performing arcane rituals. If I do not wish to be seen, then no one will see me. There's no method to be taught. There was only the dank darkness of a dungeon and the bequest of a dying man. The mark...” He stops himself, realizing that he has just spoken of more than he intended. The courtesan doesn't need to know of his secrets, yet here he is, speaking like Dazbog, revealing things that should not be discussed. 
            “I lied earlier, Thief. Your reputation preceeds you. It seems you have great powers. Don't worry. I won't reveal your secret.” Cassilda turns and touches his shoulder, flashing her eyes, lips set in a pout. He has noticed her beauty, of course; even if his feet were not compelled by magic, he knows he would have followed her. Having neither money nor status, there have been no courtesans in his life. I never waste an opportunity he thinks.
            “You are very easy to read for a master of disguise,” says Cassilda, removing her hand. “Here we are. Beyond this door is a hallway that leads to the bailey, which we will cross to get to the atrium, where we will find the gentry of court retiring. Please leave everything to me, Mr. Thief, for your services are not yet required. Play that lute, I guess. What will we call you? I know you thieving folk like to use aliases, but Mr. Thief is a little too crass, don't you think?”
            “Smith,” says the Thief, shrugging his shoulders.
            “Blacksmith? Silversmith? Arrowsmith? What kind of smith? You're supposed to be a troubadour, not a beater of metal. There was a poet by the name of Robert Zimmers who played the lute at a tavern in my youth. You look like him somewhat. Zimmers it is. Onward, sir,” says Cassilda.
            They quickly cross the small courtyard and enter the atrium, a large rectangular room with an open ceiling to reveal the stars and a pool in the center to collect rainwater. On long, low benches the gentry and minor nobles recline, with courtesans and other service people standing around them, some offering bottles of wine, others whispering in ears. Incense burns in an urn; the air is filled with a saccharine smell, thick and sickly-sweet. Brightly-dressed people flitter about, exchanging hands, moving ruffled sleeves into pockets, removing hats and plucking peacock feathers from the glittering gowns of the courtesans, who smile and hold out their hands. The Thief passes a mummer wearing a beaked mask, his arms moving in wide circles, crow feathers flying from his black coat. Across the pool a lady lets a fat man in an ill-fitting tunic drool over her neckline like a ravenous beast, his greedy lips making porcine sounds. An ape with a chain around its neck leans in a corner, oblivous to the crowd, slowly pawing at the floor with feeble gestures. Cassilda weaves through it all and steers the Thief toward a gentleman sitting by the edge of the pool, his swollen feet submerged in the water, his face lined with pox marks and a drooping mustache. She curtseys, extending a gloved hand, her smile ingratiating, a wide, inviting line of whiteness and courtesy.
            “My lord Dempsey, it is a pleasure to see you again,” says Cassilda. “How are you feeling this evening?”
            “Absolutely terrible, just terrible. This damnable inflammation is unbearable. Praise Rankar that they heat these pools. Otherwise, I don't think I'd be able to move.” Lord Dempsey adjusts his feet, both of which are fat and deformed at the joint of the big toe. “Worst of all, no one is paying any attention to me. The ladies flock to younger, more agile men. I am not that old, you know, it is only the gout which robs me of my strength. Furthermore, I am richer than any man in this room. I feel insulted.” Lord Dempsey sighs, his red striped tunic deflating.
            “I'm afraid that is all my fault,” explains Cassilda. “They know that you are my favorite.”
            “Indeed,” says Dempsey, examining Cassilda. “Though I have not seen you much of late.”
            “Forgive me, my lord, I have been rather busy with trifling matters. I have something planned for us tonight. This gentleman here is Robert Zimmers, the famous singing poet of Zerrica whose songs are sung in taverns across the world. He is an excellent storyteller, having captivated audiences with his tales of romance and history. His lute playing is simply divine. I thought he could accompany us on a tour, after which, of course, you and I will retire to private quarters for an intimate discussion between friends.
            “Zimmers, I believe I have heard of you,” says Dempsey. “Wrote some song about the times and how they are changing. The men of Zerrica are usually more ivory-skinned than copper-colored, though. What is this about a tour? Cassilda, you know I cannot stand on my feet for long in my condition.”
             “ The poet was wondering if he could perhaps see the temple...”
            “The temple? Why does he wish to see it?” asks Dempsey, suspicious.
            “He has traveled far and wide, and seen many great wonders, from the living mountains of Stephanopolis to the burning chaos of Evenmort. Yet the temple of Rankar and its precious relict, the last piece of the elder god, why, what could compare to the pride of the Capetian dynasty? They say it holds the universe together, gives light to our ancient world. When it fails, we will be shrouded in darkness. Who would not wish to see such a holy thing?” asks Cassilda. The Thief has watched her eyes as she spoke. They glittered with green flame.
            “You know no one is allow to see the Heart,” whispers Dempsey. “Frankly, you should not be speaking so freely of such matters. These are troubling times, Cassilda. They say tensions with Galvania are increasing. There may be spies about.”
            “Things are always tense with Galvania. They have been for ages. Have you ever met a Galvanian, my lord? They are a most carefree and amiable people. Why, one of the couriers, a most respected man, has a Galvanian wife. Sometimes I wonder if it is all a ruse by the nobility to keep us commoners civil.” Cassilda sits down next to Dempsey, crossing her legs. “My lord, there is no danger in showing us the temple. I would most appreciate it, and would reciprocate the favor in a way of your choosing.”
            “You are being crass, Cassilda,” says Dempsey, though he displays a pained smile. “I'm not sure my brother would tolerate it.”
            “Your brother, the high priest? Why, you are family. And besides, you are a very important man at court. Do you think the guards would deny the Duke's Standard Bearer from seeing the temple?”
            “My military days are over, though I still hold the title,” says Dempsey with obvious pride. “Fine. You have convinced me, my dear. Please fetch me my cane. I will take you and your foreign friend to see the temple, though the Heart is out of the question. I've only seen it once myself, you understand.”
            “Splendid!” says Cassilda, handing Dempsey his cane. The Thief says nothing, but follows.
            She watches out the carriage window as they climb, seeing the gilded towers, the throngs of gilded people as they march upward on the neverending steps, on pilgramage for themselves, noblemen, merchants, priests, thieves. The fortifications give way to the splendor of the palace, which spreads itself up the mountainside, the power and wealth of the Capetians on full display. Only they could build their house on the great Mons Ascraeus with their plundered fortune, stolen from nations at sea, built with the bones and blood of a thousand kings. She swam in their seas long ago; she knows the calls of ocean birds; she always has the smell of salt in her lungs. She watched as the man she loved as a father was torn from her grasp and thrown overboard while the waters churned and the sky flashed bruised colors, aubergine and crimson. There seems to be a storm brewing on the horizon, back towards the ocean, a mighty tempest that she can feel, even up here, thousands of feet above the waves. Some things you can never forget. The fat lord prattles on, speaking to the supposed master thief about dockside whores. The reason none of the girls will go near him is because he has syphilis. Only the rich, nobels, and priests get ahead she thinks, looking at the climbers. Yet things are changing. The wizard had laughed and said that war was the least of their worries. Plague. The coming of the death-sleep. The final darkness. Coldness...and nothing. She doesn't know how much of it she believes. The Thief has said nothing of the spell; he listens patiently, absorbing Dempsey's foolish words. He hasn't given any sign that he suspects anything; frankly, she thinks him something of a dullard, a petty thug rather than the romantic swashbuckler Dazbog described. All things have their use. What was it he used to say? Whales have their oil, fish give their flesh, and man takes it all. A great mollossus pulls their carriage, using its stunted wings to ascend the steep path, its shaggy head lolling from side to side, seeing the world through compound eyes. Not a day goes by that she doesn't think of the ship. Do I live only for my vengeance? Maybe she will ask a priest at the temple to tell her. But it is forbidden to speak to the holy ones. She has no respect for them, shaved, starving, walking skeletons wearing elaborate robes of red-dyed silk, suffering for their god, giving themselves in the fervent belief that their hunger will feed his quivering heart and prolong existence.     

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Football is Over

All the festive tacos have been consumed. The lights are off; the house is deserted. Outside, the wind howls and snow falls softly, blanketing your barren yard in an ocean of whiteness. The details have been blotted out with a big blob of plaster patch. In the darkness you stare up at the ceiling, wondering what you will do with your life. It's gone, you know. Your purpose for existence. There will be no more football for months.

No more concussions. No more domestic violence disputes. No more spaghetti-armed heroes making their last hurrahs. What will you do without seeing your favorite representative of American values? Peyton stands for pizza; he stands for insurance; he stands for privilege and athletic ability trumping anything else. All of it is wrapped up in a goofy hillbilly accent that disarms you and lulls you to sleep. "Nationwide is on your side." Yes, Peyton. And so are you.

The whole house comes together beneath the wide umbrella of football. Your wife has a reason to clean the house and bake a dozen cookies. Your children sit on the couch and lazily watch the game in-between texting their friends. Your buddies come over with a case of beer and everyone has a grand ol' drunken time. The NBA, MLB, college basketball--nobody cares like they care about football. The power of the NFL is on display every time it draws your fractured world together like a black hole sucking in stray rays of light.

What will you talk about with the boys now? There is nothing to talk about. The weight of existence sits on your shoulders like a million tons. You feel driven into the earth like a railway spike. It's cold outside--it's always cold outside, you realize, even in the summer. Some part of you desires the warmth and comfort of the womb and wishes that you had never left that state of semi-consciousness. You can't crawl back, though. The pathway of your life materializes in front of you like a roadmap through a desert. It doesn't really matter that you can see where you are going. You don't want to get there.

So come back to us, Peyton. Let us hear your funeral song once more. In your thin geriatric arms we will find release from our burdens. We want to watch you win one for the team. We want to watch you win one for ourselves. If your head falls from your shoulders after a three-hundred pound lineman sacks you, well, you will have suffered a martyr's death. We would trade places with you in an instant.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Pointless Podcast Episode 5

The boys talk about vehicular deerslaughter, Donald Trump, the classiness of Peyton Manning, social media, Cincinnati street-fighting, and onanism technique (thanks, JBall). Obligatory wrestling discussion included free of charge! Starring the Goon, TP, and JBall the wrecking ball.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

A Poem Dedicated to That Promising Young Talent, Triple H

We are all just pieces of stars

Billowing about the universe,

With no direction home.

Yet among us there is one,

Who may tear us from the tyranny

Of an ancient authority figure,

A villain clad in a gangster suit,

Wearing the skins of the vanquished beneath

And possessing an Irish surname.

Thank you, Based Haitch.

You somehow lead the revolution

While being part of the problem.

Everyone fears you,

For they know you will trade your sledgehammer

For a shovel

So that the fresh earth can be thrown upon their graves.

Let it be known that roses bloom

From the funeral dirt,

And from every end

Comes a different beginning.

Yet you marshal your forces

While serving the lich king,

Having taken his daughter to be your wife.

Little does he know

That his time will come.

And like the others, he will be buried

To never rise again.

There will be a new demon king,

There will be huggers and Realest Guys,

There will be ginger Canadians,

And apollonian heroes.

So I will stomach a Triple H Championship run

In the late year 2016,

If it means that the NXT revolution cometh.

Praise ye, Based Haitch

We are waiting for your new era.

Monday, February 1, 2016

How to Make America Great Again

Trump isn't going away, people. The scourge of American politics continues to defy the odds and propel himself to the top of the Iowa polls. And that's just great, really. Our political systems has devolved to the point where a demagogue with a toupee can stand at a podium and spew an incoherent message of hate and double-speak while a significant section of the American electorate gobbles it up. It's almost as if the average voter doesn't have the slightest idea what qualities to look for in a Presidential candidate. But democracy (or whatever it is we actually have) is a beautiful system, integral to the American way of life, no matter its faults. I for one am looking forward to helping future President Trump make America great again. Let's look at what the Donald will do as Commander in Chief.

1. Fire the mass media. You're fired! That's the Donald's catchphrase. With his newfound presidential powers (the extent of which the American people seem to be in ignorance of), Mr. Trump should do whatever it takes to make America great again, and that includes getting rid of CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News. The first two are too liberal, and the latter is biased against Trump, and the Donald will not tolerate dissension in his new world order. Rupert Murdoch has had his time in the sun; it's time for a hostile takeover, baby. All media outlets will be replaced by Trump News, Inc. Thanks to a deal with fellow billionaire Vince McMahon, Trump News will merge with the WWE network. Now you can watch Stone Cold Steve Austin use the stunner on the CEO in chief 24/7 without any of that biased news coverage getting in the way. Say thanks, America.

2. Get rid of 'em (the illegals). America must be kept safe from its underpaid slave-labor force. Like the Spartans declaring war on the Helots, Trump says that it's open season on Pedro and Sanchez. Unfortunately, this will be one of the Donald's biggest mistakes. A construction crisis will unfold all over the country, as a vast majority of the roofing industry is rounded up into camps. Farmers in California will also report food shortages, because picking peaches in the hot sun sucks, and Americans are too fat and lazy to perform such work for five dollars an hour. Still, greatness level rising.

3. Put China in its place! Now that the Donald has the nuclear codes, China better shape up! There's a new CEO in town and it's not Mr. Pajama Pants! Bluster and personal attacks are great when you're running for the Republican nomination in front of a bunch of barely-sentient geriatrics. Politicking on the world stage, however, is a little different. Hopefully our new president will keep his ego in check long enough to not start World War 3. I wouldn't count on it, though. Greatness level nearly through the roof.

4. Get rid of 'em (Muslims). Religious freedom is one of the core values of our Republic. Not under Trump's reign! Ship 'em out or put them in camps. Might as well throw any dissidents with them; political freedom is outdated as well. The Donald feels your hate and anger, and like the Emperor, he wants you to embrace the power of the dark side. Greatness level incalculable.

5. Invent time-travel. President Trump will take us back to the 1950's, when America was producing half of what the world was, and people didn't get divorced (Presidential privilege only), and minorities knew their place, and women stayed at home and labored in the kitchen, and (white) men could be men and do what whatever the fuck they wanted. We have to get rid of the internet, though, in order to travel back in time. This will spark the Great Revolt. You can take everything away from us, Donald, but we'll be damned if you take away our cat memes and our free pornography. Get the message? You're fired.