Mein Plan

 Prepping for the Biden administration...

Bei mir bist du schoen.

We all have to have a survival plan. I’m a smart guy. I have one. Designed to help my wife and dogs survive and me not die on a grate in Philadelphia.

After Biden gets elected, our fixed retirement income will be devastated by what happens to our tax deductions, 401Ks, property taxes, Social Security benefits, healthcare and pharmaceutical costs, as the socialists steal from Peter to pay Pablo and Pelosi’s plastic surgeon.

Less importantly, I will get rounded up as a fascist and arrested as an enemy of the new People’s State of America. My crimes are legion. I wrote a book describing Obama as a Marxist Manchurian Candidate even before he got elected. I wrote another book celebrating the candidacy and election of Trump. In the dim dark past I wrote a post using the N-word in response to President Obama’s request for “honest discussions” about race. I said that if black people used the word so freely, maybe we all should. Take the sting out of it and reduce its specific volatility. Or maybe if black people didn’t use it so much, white people wouldn’t either. I got death threats. Even conservatives stopped talking to me. I have also said bad things about Hillary, suggested women should never have gotten the vote, and blamed feminism for supplanting the one chance for black men to break through the Black Ceiling before Seven Sisters grads banged through the mirrored Glass Ceilings in Fortune 500 boardrooms. I compared the abortion rate for black women in New York City to Mengele-style eugenics. On other occasions, in other posts dating back a decade, I have said I don’t care who’s gay, I just don’t want to have others insist I watch, hear about, or enjoy the physical acts involved in male-male love. (Always thought the girl-girl thing was overrated though; not that hard to fit a round hole into a round hole.) Haven’t offended TGs that I know of. Couldn’t ever conceive of anything that boring to be so irrelevant to my own life. I don’t even care about the bathroom controversy. Unless little girls and full grown men are involved, in transition or not. Then I kick some Big Guy ass.

What else? I wrote a book called White Privilege. At a time just before everyone else discovered the term. I was being sardonic. A word nobody who got “learned” English by today’s population of illiterate leftist teachers will know the meaning of. Hey. Don’t aks me why nobody can read. Aks their damn NEA reps.

Yes. They will be coming for me. No question. And I’m here right now to see that they do. 

I’m going to make a living, even in the internment camp, by suing their asses off for persecution of my gender choices based on fraudulent political correctness standards. I’ll make millions. Or at least enough to enable my wife to sell and move out of a house current environmental regulations won’t allow us ever to throw anything away from. She’s not young anymore. She can’t drag the expired computer and air-conditioner to the curb for paid haul-away on even-numbered Thursdays every other month. 

My gender? I identify as an Extreme Reactionary Non-Fornicative Pornographer. It’s a new category. All of my prejudices in every sociopolitical arena are derived from my temporal displacement into an era (60s and 70s) when sexuality was 100 percent about the objectification of women and when there was no such thing as a written-about sexual act, no matter how deliciously obscene and titillating, that could ever actually happen to a Non-Fornicative White Male. Which made it all innocent somehow.

I fully intend to be charged with anti-socialist, anti-female, anti-Antifa violations of political correctness penned in Standard English and published in both print and e-book formats. Such violations will include fictitious dildoes, speculums, flashlights, nude pantyhose, upskirt voyeurism, soaking wet panties, older men seducing incredibly eager large-breasted young women, brides sleeping with all the groomsmen, stewardesses staging contests for most mile-high conquests on a red eye flight, aunts offering gynecological education to teenage nephews, watersports, gymnastics involving handcuffs and Perrier bottles, more speculums, anal inspections and fingercises, experimental stretching regimens, panty liners and tampons, naughty wives who like large audiences, mothers who never gave up lactating, nurses who leave the stall door open in the ladies room, loud screaming G-Spot moments on subway platforms and city buses, secretaries who never ever wear underwear, and, of course, OB/GYN stirrups, double-this/double-that, enemas, and real (i.e., literal not figurative) douchebags.

AND, most importantly, private detectives who obtain clues and information the way so many young ladies in college and law schools obtain funds for tuition and educational loans these days. By doing all of the above to get ahead in their pursuit of professional success s.

The first book of Mein Plan has already been published. It’s called Z is for Zelda. The second is three chapters from completion. Thoroughly, utterly obscene. Although that word has long since ceased to have any meaning in U.S. courts. No, I will have to be punished in the modern way, by being hounded into court by outraged females who think nothing of protesting naked or menstruating publicly in their jeans but know precisely when their dignity has been deflowered by a jeering pornographer. The feminized press will heed their cry and I will be charged with multiple felony civil rights violations having to do with hurt feelings and justifiable man hatred.

In the end I may lose the case and get a second life sentence tacked onto my first one for fascism, but I can sell my story to the mass media (who will just eat it up for its filthy novelty) and then I will start to rake in the cash. You see, all the young men out there who don’t know the delights of dirty forbidden sex will suddenly discover that you don’t need a signed consent form from an ill-smelling, humorless drab to get off in a big way. They’ll learn that dirty books are far more stimulating and fun than production-line porn videos and that the real key to sexual excitement is imagination.

They’ll buy every one of my books and beg for more. Better yet, they’ll actually acquire a talent for sexual fantasy and learn how to recognize the girl who also has one, even if she needs a bath. You can bathe her, inch by inch. (Hint: Books are better conjugation starters than professional sex workers on videotape.)

Thinking this is the way to jump start the New Revolution that will be needed as soon as Marx and Lenin (i.e., Bernie and child-fondling Joe) are back in the saddle a century too late for anyone’s good. Today’s increasingly celibate nancy boys need to get laid. And that goes double for their unshaven female friends. Did I forget to mention shaving as a sport up above. Well, it is. A sport. And it’s in the books.