Pussy Stroking Uncle Sam?

[Bangkok, 12/30/22]

Southeast Asians start their day very early. Walking down Phra Sumen around 5:40AM, I saw businesses setting up, with a handful already open. On Soi Kraisi, all the vegetable stalls were on full display. A monk was doing his round swapping blessings for food. A white man bought roasted bananas on sticks. A noodle vendor stirred her broth.

Back on Phra Sumen, I ducked into an alley to get my 86-cent cappuccino from a familiar stand. Pulling a plastic stool from a stack, I sat at a large ice cooler, my table. Though my coffee wasn’t quite hot enough this time, it was still strong and sweet, nearly the strength of Vietnamese coffee, but with more volume. I was happy.

There wasn’t a lot to look at, but alleys everywhere appeal to me because they are intimate spaces, yet still outdoor, thus exposed to much that’s unexpected. An alley business is not boxed in by walls and plate glass windows, with very specific rules, where only the chosen, if only by size of wallets, are admitted. The most exclusive non-alley businesses are entirely sealed, so you have no idea if they’re just eating gold encrusted steaks or raping children.

When I paid, the lady gave me a wai and the brightest smile. She remembered me. When I walked by Mitramit Tea House yesterday, the owner came out to shake my hand. During our one long talk a month ago, he said his two favorite countries to visit were India and China. This very cultured man is involved with a children’s theater troupe. At the back of his shop is a century-old banister.

To be civilized is to be immersed in history. Savages are ignorant or contemptuous of it.

That said, my retention of personal history has always been seriously flawed. I forget way too much. My mind is the cheapest inbox with a limited capacity. To make room for fresh impressions, it automatically deletes a bunch. At the literary festival in Bengaluru, I was greeted by a smiling woman who gave me a hug. When it was clear I had no idea who she was, she said, “We walked around Macao together.” Still, this rang no bell, and though I truly felt like shit, what could I do?

To varying degrees, this must be the psychology of serial killers, American politicians and, frankly, all Americans, for how many Yankers give a shit about what has been done in their name, and with their tax dollars, in Iraq, Libya, Syria, Afghanistan and, now, Ukraine? Routinely stoking and funding genocides, most often for enemies of Jews, they’re now bankrolling national suicide.

I’ve been shown poems I had no idea were mine. Soon enough, I won’t remember a word of this article. No one will either, you’re saying. Fair enough. Still, we babble.

It’s 7:50AM, so a nearby barbershop is open. When my friend Giang told me I looked just like my dad (on his death bed), I knew it was time to get a haircut and a shave. Looking a month or two younger, I’ll be right back.

Since I gained two months just sitting on that chair for 15 minutes, I should visit Pralong Barber six times a day for the rest of my life. Hell, I should have asked the old man to scalp or even decapitate me to gain years.

When I left Namibia on 4/5/21, most people assumed the war in Ukraine would soon be over, with Russia losing, actually, and Putin deposed. In Kiev with his young wife and small children, American Graham Siebert suggested Vladimir should learn Chinese quickly, to prepare for his bitter exile.

“Better to die on your feet than live on your knees,” Siebert has said, but like all Americans except a handful of nutcases, Siebert is not doing the fighting and dying. He’s not getting trench foot from lying in some frozen ditch with his own feces. He’s not shitting in his pants when some poor soul next to him is shredded. Siebert is not being cynically sacrificed by Jewish Zelensky and Victoria Nudelman, with the entire Jewjewed press cheering this on.

Again, I’m not talking about anyone born Jewish, but those infected with Jewish thinking. There are millions of Arabs and Orientals more Jewish than my Jewish born friends.

Visiting Kiev in 2016, I saw a society already on its knees, for that’s what happens when you’re embraced by an eternally priapic Uncle Sam. He has to stick his missiles here, there and everywhere. Begging, young and old women knelt behind cardboard signs soggy from wet snow. Many of the more enterprising were already whoring in Holland, Germany and Spain.

[Kiev, 2/11/16]

Some stay behind to marry opportunistic sexpatriates. Near corpses still have to stick their members or just fingers somewhere. Since there’s commerce, or a tradeoff, if you will, in all human interactions, why not shop for the best bargain, they reason? Shoving it in, they should thank Uncle Sam for granting them these last bouts of relaxation. The exes back in Missoula or Walla Walla can eat shit.

Photos of young dead soldiers all over downtown turned Kiev’s historical center into a sick shrine to the needlessly butchered. Remembering her Odessa-born granddad, Victoria is getting her payback, plus endlessly compounding interest.

Hoarding forever injuries real or imagined, Jews hate all those they’ve had long associations with, so they seek revenge against Arabs, Persians, Slavs and, now, simply whites, but of course, Angry White Pussies are too emasculated and cowed to do anything about this.

To feel empowered, these soft-and-furries shriek, “Ragheads! Niggers! Gooks!’ Disgusted, everyone else laughs, with Jews laughing the hardest. Exhausted, they collapse onto a Holocaustic heap to wait for a Jewjab pushing casino conman to save them.

You can’t beat this joke, the overworked, unemployed and about to be laid off worshipping a billionaire whose most famous line is, “You’re fired!”

An aspiring Angry White Pussy writer is afraid to say “Jews” or even to publish under his own name, because, “I’m not going to dox myself.” When your “men” won’t sacrifice the least bit, your nation is finished.

If there’s a Malcolm X or Pat Tillman among you, stand up! When they realized Tillman had figured it out, they had to shoot him.

With 2023 just two days away, the Ukraine War still rages, for these obvious reasons. 1) Sparing Ukrainian civilians, Russia didn’t unleash any “Shock and Awe” tactic to cripple Ukraine’s infrastructure, until very recently. Even its missile attacks of the last two months fall far short of typical American brutality 2) Its stated goal of getting rid of Ukrainian neo-Nazis was no guarantee to Russians in liberated areas they would be protected, once Russia withdraws 3) Its hope for a negotiated settlement at some point, now finally dispelled.

With winter here, Ukrainian mud, already kneaded with blood, hardens, so soon enough, Russia will begin its final push.

Half of the US has just been blasted by an unprecedented storm, with some suspecting climate engineering to be the culprit, if only inadvertently. Without power, millions of Americans shiver in the dark. Gas pipelines leaked. Water mains burst. Millions of wild and farm animals went into shock, then coma. On countless sidewalks and already well-wrapped in whitened shrouds, the homeless stiffened. Saplings, too, died, worsening our food crisis.

Already without much of an industrial base, Uncle Sam is in no shape to fight a banana republic, much less Russia or China. Consider how many wars he has lost, but winning has most often not been a main purpose. American mercenaries lose nuts, limbs and lives to make tons for the American military banking complex, and to cripple nations Jews despise, which are many. True to Yahweh, Jewish thinking thrives on genocidal righteousness.

If your television is still on, though, you can pretend everything is still normal.

On January 3rd, the game between the 12-3 Buffalo Bills and 11-4 Cincinnati Bengals is one terrific matchup. Cushy on their brand new, just-looted couches, many Buffalonians can enjoy this spectacle on their 75-inch, state-of-the-art, just-looted televisions.

Here in Bangkok, everything is actually 99% normal. Since the last paragraph, I slept, so it is the next morning. Again on Phra Sumen before dawn, I saw two cats, one black, the other a calico. Sleeping outside on a metal shelf, their heads nearly touched.

As I stroked one after another, they seemed pleased, so I said to them in Vietnamese, “I’m also a cat.”

I was born in 1963, you see, a year of the cat.

When I brought my face closer to them, they both bolted, however, and nothing I could do or say afterwards could reassure them.

Staring at me from a safe distance, the calico seemed to say, “We know your kind. A bit of jivey stroking to soften us up, then you show your fangs, just like fuckin’ Uncle Sam!”

Not done, he articulated even more clearly, “That bit of Thai you spoke just now sounded worse than dogshit. Now scram, so we can go back to sleep!”

Leaving these disturbed pussies, I had my morning cappuccino, then stopped to admire, again, the charming eye on Saeng Swang Optical’s sign. Calligraphic black on a white oval, it’s gorgeous in its simplicity.

[Bangkok, 12/30/22]

Wandering around in the half dark, I kept hearing these Akhmatova lines, as translated by my old professor, Stephen Berg:

There seemed to be so many steps then
but I knew there were only three.
Autumn whispered through the maples
“Die, like me:

Weird, what lingers. So there, Steve, a tiny bit of you is haunting me in Bangkok!

It’s from “Song of the Final Meeting.”

Just now, the Saker wrote, “Looks like we will make it to Dec 31, 2022. Will we make it to December 31, 2023?”

So ominous, but many of the Jewjabbed already had their final meetings, as have at least a hundred thousand Slavs in Uncle Sam’s latest proxy adventure.

Tireless, that prick.

[Bangkok, 12/29/22]

[Bangkok, 12/30/22]