The Outlaw Josey Wales promo from Storylabs on Vimeo.

Have to admit, I’m looking a lot like Josey Wales at the moment. Beard and hair, for sure, and I have the hat, except it’s black. Feeling a lot like him, too. Pissed off.

Sometimes it’s time to get mean.

Why would a rebel keep running, keep fighting? No, I’m not a confederate. No stars and bars on my flagpole. I’m just tired of the Gatling guns of the federal government.

Actually, I’m not talking guns in particular. Not all that interested in the Bundy Ranch standoff. Been there, done that with Waco and Ruby Ridge. Militias against trained federal troops, SWAT teams and the like? That’s a game for people who are just tired of living.

I’m talking about the real Gatling guns. The ones aimed at our minds.

Not that I expect you to see it or react beyond a tut tut. I’m in a Josey Wales frame of mind, which is outside yours, way outside, not judging because you’re trying to hold it all together while the center is dissolving. The Josey thing is knowing and seeing how it all works. Bad men on the loose.

Can I take on four or five at a time? Yes. But that still won’t turn the tide. Here’s what they’ve done and are doing to you: lying so constantly you’re inured to it; accusing you of racism, sexism, etc, so constantly you half believe it’s you not them at fault; acting so superior, so dismissive of your right to disagree about nonsense like global warming that you grow too tired to say, “Oh fuck off;” driving so hard to make your religion seem a perverted, genocidal offense against native human rights and dignity that you just turn away; declaring, declaiming that your opposition to abortion is not only evil but also possibly a fatal embarrassment to the cause of Conservatives everywhere; hectoring and hammering you about life and marriage and day after pills to the point that you feel you’re in the minority, and a shrinking minority at that, when the opposite is true; insisting, strenuously, against all the evidence, that Islam is a religion of peace that poses no threat to you, when you know deep down that Islam is a sickness, all of it and all of them, a machine for creating automatons and murderous states that slaughter their own women as well as any who believe differently. Are you too busy to get as mad as Josey?

All you really have to do is say, “No!” And mean it. Everything they believe is wrong. Every ideal they hold is corrupt.

Time for a metaphor switch. Josey was never in the kind of danger you are. He’d already lost everything. He could afford to walk into ridiculous odds. You need to be finding your inner Neo. The one who can perceive the Matrix and say, “No.”

btw, for all of you tempted to jeer at Keanu Reeves, match this for incentive in a role.

Yes, I’m Josey. Know how to shoot. Far more more important to know how to stop the bullets. Doesn’t matter if they kill me. Much more vital that they lose the power to kill all of you.

Time to explain my title. It’s a joke within a joke. Yes, ‘Da Nile’ is a river. It’s a river they have worshipped, devoted themselves to, promised every necessary sacrifice to. But they, like the ancient Egyptians they so resemble in their rigidity and lack of individuality and perspicacity, got the geography wrong. Completely. Didn’t you know? The Egyptians called the Upper Nile the Lower Nile and vice versa. They had the whole world upside down. Didn’t see it. What we call denial.

I have a dozen or more articles I’ll provide links to and quotes from, tomorrow. You’ll see. Sanctimonious priests of themselves as they are, they have everything upside down, in the face of proof to the contrary. That’s me, Josey, shooting. But you’ve got to become Neo, making their bullets drop helplessly to the floor.

Now to bed. That old Indian is trying to sneak up on me again. And you, look out for Agent Smith.

(If you click on the text, it will get bigger.)

Told you I just got my Hal 9000 iPad. One more today. I’ve written about Robert Benchley before, perhaps too dismissively. He had a self deprecating style of humor that seems oddly piercing today, when everyone pretends to know everything and nobody knows much of anything.

He belonged to the famous Algonquin Round Table, a 1920s cabal of New York writers, critics, and performers who were as talented as, and definitely more witty and scandalous than, the Rat Pack of the Sinatra generation. Names still remembered include New Yorker editor Harold Ross, Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woolcott, playwrights George Kauffman, Robert Sherwood, Donald Ogden Stewart, and Marc Connolly, notorious actress Tallulah Bankhead, Harpo Marx, novelist Edna Ferber, et cetera. The first time I went to New York as an adult I walked to the Algonquin and had a drink in the bar. I wanted to feel them sparking. But it was a small sad place after all. All I could feel was them drinking. So I remembered the first one I knew of. Him I could feel. Of them all, Robert Benchley was the good guy.

The Algonquin crowd would have chewed up and spit out the pretenders who publish the New York Times today, as well as what’s left of the New Yorker and other Big Apple publications. They could outdrink everybody, outcurse everybody, outshock, outtalk, and outwrite everybody on the scene today. Mostly, now, I wouldn’t want to meet them. But I would love to see the takedowns. They would be stupendous, memorable, brutal, like Hemingway’s killing of the bull. And then I’d like to sit in the corner and talk about piffle with the nice one.

It’s said the funniest moment ever on Johnny Carson’s 1960s Tonight Show (look it up) was when diminutive comedian George Gobel appeared late, preceded by multiple superstars, and said, “Did you ever feel like everybody else was a tuxedo and you were a brown shoe?” That was Benchley.

Why I thought of the piece above. Sometimes there are simple truths that put us all in our place. Or should. Benchley’s essay “Mind’s Eye Trouble,” excerpted above, is one of those. He admits that his own imagination of great dramas, great things in general, is hostage to a handful of reliable images from his youth.

He speaks of Worcester, Massachusetts. I can speak of Greenwich, New Jersey, in whose backwoods I fought the battles of the Revolution and the Civil War, and much of the secret agent Cold War, with an air-pump popgun and later with a .38 caliber snub nose in a Mattel shoulder holster. The caps sounded convincing in the echo of a viney and tree-laden creek valley that could have been Saratoga, the Wilderness, or the Black Forest. Still, despite my subsequent travels, what I think of first.

Then there was Mercersburg. Brutus and Marc Antony spoke over the dead body of Julius Caesar on the white steps of Main Hall, just three blocks from Jack’s drugstore and the best hot ham hoagies you’ve ever had. Yes, I’ve been to Italy since and the memories overlap, but one place they never will is in the realm of distance measurement.

When I think of a hundred yards, or even a mile, to this day, as old as I am, I am immediately returned to the varsity football field of Mercersburg. I am standing in front of the home scoreboard staring at the opposite goalposts. I can see exactly what a hundred yards looks like. And because what lies beyond that goalpost is rolling open country, I can also see and feel what a mile is.

Benchley was right. We are all imaginationally catalyzed and limited in this way to some degree. Experience is supposed to break us free of what are clearly childish inventions of times and events we did not, could not have witnessed.

I think I can prove we never transcend these elementary touchstones, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves we have. I won’t take a lot of time doing this. In the past year I have had three apocalyptic dreams. One about the arrival of a gigantic spaceship, sinister and overwhelming. One about the detonation of a thermonuclear device. And one about the disintegration of the back half of a town to flakes of rust. In each of these dreams, the apocalypse occurred in the same place — the intersection of Grant and Market Streets in my home town. In each case I was stopped for the light. On the left was Jang’s Dry Cleaners. On the right was St. John’s Parish House. Then it happened.

This picture is the best I can do. It’s from the Internet and not the complete vista. I’d wanted to do a pic myself but I’m just back from a bad couple days and the Hal 9000 is insisting I go with what I have.

Twin it. Looks this way on both sides. Alley of bricks and trees and endless sky beyond.

Hal is insisting because this post is a foundation for a much more difficult and demanding one I’ll have to do tomorrow. It’s about how we have to start understanding the brilliant nitwits who want to put us in a gulag.

Maybe Robert Benchley wasn’t quite the lightweight he always pretended to be. Amazingly, the whole text of his “best” as collected by his son Nathaniel (not to be confused with his grandson Peter Benchley of Jaws fame) can be found here. He died at 56. He was a lot nicer than me. Hemingway was 62. I guess nice has nothing to do with it.

See you tomorrow.

Tried to register a HELPFUL complaint at Hotair.

Couldn’t be done:

The topic choice buttons did not work, including the missing ones that should have said I have an idea you should pursue (uh, like a TIP) OR I have a problem with things you do, and the final submit button… Nada. Thank you, Ed Morrissey, who has lately taken to offering us scriptural homilies on Sundays(?!).

My question to the readers of Hotair and Breitbart and other conservative so-called New Media sites. Have you ever had any luck getting an answer to a sincere, honestly asked question?

Let me know. Maybe InstaPunk so poisoned the waters for me that I am on a universal blacklist. But I don’t believe that. What I believe is that all the pundits and neopundits and quasi-celebrities and would-be media celebrities don’t want to hear from the rest of us at all.

Two items of data. Hotair opens its comment registration once or twice a year for about ten minutes, then announces with startling finality that it’s closed. Like a big fisherman’s net designed to capture the best. But if you read their comments, the Hotair principals never participate, and when you look at the content there’s no reason they should. Cheap shots, inventive ways of smuggling in obscenities, and a penchant for getting caught up in idiotic irrelevant side arguments that has to be seen to be believed. They don’t want us because they agree with the liberals; we are dumbasses with nothing to say.

Second datum. Erick Erickson substituted for Limbaugh today. In the first half hour he told us TWICE how much he liked James Carville personally. Because he hobnobbed with him at CNN. He used the same punchline twice in the half hour. “The only things I agree with him about are Mary Matalin, LSU, and (I forget) crawfish.” He wants us to know he knows what’s going on and how things really work among the smart and connected people.

More prosaically — not a datum but an old annoying triviatum — I have not been able to figure out in well over two years how to get through to anybody at Breitbart my willingness to volunteer copy editing services. The whole enterprise is riddled with incoherent (WTF) headlines, broken sentences, embarrassing misspellings, and five kinds of other proof that liberal journalism has every right to look down on New Media. But try to find a personal email address that works or earns a response.

Try. I’d like to hear a success story. Even this new medium is being gradually stolen from us.

If you get through to them, please ask what differentiates their idea of transparency from Obama’s. And if they care.

Lady Laird likes him. I’ve been struggling for a correlative…

Sorry if I was late approving comments over the Easter weekend. It was good and bad for us. Lady Laird was ill on Saturday and come Sunday I had what she had. Put me right out of the picture. A great time was had by all but me, though I did get to hear the kids laughing in the yard.

Good news is this. I am now in possession of my iPad model Hal 9000, which is guaranteed to make me smartester, insightier, and more intellectuallyier (came across that word for the first time at Hotair yesterday.)

So I have a pent up bunch of posts. But I’m posting this one first. Because we’re watching another episode of Inspector Morse.

Know him? He has mysteries as long as the Midsomer Murders, with nearly as many casualties, as British justice works its way relentlessly to the truth. The hook is that it takes place at Oxford, the town containing the famous university Inspector Morse got “sent down” (i.e., expelled) from before he got so old and, uh, sad looking.

The Brits loved it for years. Lady Laird loves it. What’s wrong with me?

I dunno. He’s such a hangdog. Hornier than he ought to be for a guy who’s never been loved, meaner than he ought to be to his faithful working dog sergeant, who looks exactly like this:

Sergeant Lewis

What annoys me most, I guess, is that he’s a domineering failed toff, a cop who sees himself as an Oxford Don and is therefore neither aristocratic wolfhound nor tail-wagging English Sheepdog but a grumpy, unkempt mongrel.

The corners of his mouth are always turned down. He’s too good for his inferiors — and his betters.

He’s as good a detective as it’s possible to be when you start panting for every bitch in the case and never land one. He never discovers they’re guilty, till the last moment or later, when one or two extra people have been killed. But he gruffs and growls and curls up in his bed with opera recordings and ale that’s hardly ever good enough for his palate.

I think Lady Laird likes him because he loves Wagner. I consent to watch because he has this car, wildly out of date even in this somewhat older TV series.

So. He can’t be all bad.

Also gives me my only non-canine correlative; he’s Jeremy Clarkson without the sense of humor.

By all means, watch. We still have some too many episodes to go ourselves.

Not interested in English crap. My royal coat is matted and untended. While they watch this daft bilge on Netflix. They wonder why I groan at night and shriek in the morning.

Who has more of a story to tell about Jesse Jaxon than Jesse Jaxon? We hear that more words are planned and will be imminently forthcoming, with lots of “warning drumming” in advance. Enjoy what we have thus far.

My Life of Strife

By Jesse Jaxon

I view the writing of this book with anticipation, because I know I’ll get good participation, from all the people who read, from all the people who bleed, and all the people who need, what I’m about to say.

I was born, near the corn, because my daddy was a farmer, and my Mama was a charmer, and my birthday was a three-alarmer, because everyone who saw me, thought I was so precocious, it made them all ferocious, and they accidently made me nauseated, so I vomited. That’s when my Mama called the fire truck, cause we were so down on our luck, that the only way to get me to a doctor, was on a tractor, or somehow get a favor, from the driver of the local hook-and-ladder. What it is, Mama! But many as deir falsehoods wuz, dere wuz one omdem which quite amazed me; Ah mean when dey told ya t’be upon yo guard, and not t’let youselves be deceived by de force o mah eloquence. Sheeeiit. Dey ought t’gots been ashamed o sayin dis, a’cuz dey wuz shont’be detected as soon as Ah jimmy’d mah lips and displayed mah deciency.

What it is, Mama! But many as deir falsehoods wuz, dere wuz one o’ dem which quite amazed me; Ah mean when dey told ya t’be upon yo guard, and not t’let youselves be deceived by de force o mah eloquence. Sheeeiit. Dey ought t’gots been ashamed o sayin dis, a’cuz dey wuz shont’be detected as soon as Ah jimmy’d mah lips and displayed mah deciency. What it is, Mama! But many as deir falsehoods wuz, dere wuz one o’ dem which quite amazed me; Ah mean when dey told ya t’be upon yo guard, and not t’let youselves be deceived by de force o mah eloquence. Sheeeiit. Dey ought t’gots been ashamed o sayin dis, a’cuz dey wuz shont’be detected as soon as Ah jimmy’d mah lips and displayed mah deciency…

That’s the only excerpt that was available at deadline.

[A special note of thanks to Stanford University for providing officially approved Ebonic-Greeked text from a Socratic source. More from those old white guys here: https://web.stanford.edu/~eckert/PDF/ronkin1999.pdf.]

Daffodils are good.

Life returning is the natural state of things. In case you forgot.

The guy I’ve been stalking all my life.

The most talented American writer. We’ve been talking about music because writing is dead. Fitzgerald predicted that Hollywood would kill the novel. He was right. Fiction was but a moment in the history of the written word. First, there was poetry, then philosophy and exposition, then briefly novels, and now blather.

I wanted to outdo him. I wanted to outwrite him. I was smarter and more original and more learned, but it wasn’t going to happen. He was more willing to destroy himself for his writing than I was. He died at 44. I celebrated outliving him. Seems funny now. I could out-Mailer Mailer, out-Faulkner Faulkner, out-Updike Updike, out-Cheever John Cheever, but I couldn’t do F. Scott Fitzgerald. Even though I basically lived his life.

Today is the day of death. He was an Irish Catholic. His best paragraphs are embedded in my brain. The last page of Tender Is the Night is the greatest music I’ve ever heard, bar none.

I come from a musical family, on both sides. Composers, singers, mandolin, guitar, and piano players, whatever. To me, words were always the music.

He died. He is dead today. So I am remembering him. Click on his pic and see how big he is.

P.S. I can do Hemingway too. Just never saw the need. I can do everyone, even myself. Why I say I don’t think you get it. I asked my wife if she understood the word ‘pellucid.’ Where I am now. Writing that doesn’t even seem like writing. Why you don’t notice. The ultimate compliment.

But I still can’t do Fitzgerald. That’s how good he was. I’m not complaining. You don’t get to choose your father. When it comes to writing, he’s mine. If you don’t understand him, you’ll never understand me.

P.P.S. Today is the 33rd anniversary of the dedication of The Boomer Bible: April 19, 1981. (Do the math, in Henry Elders style numerology: 4 + 1 + 9 + 1 + 9 + 8 + 1 = 33.) It falls, this year, on the one day of the year when Christ is dead. Who died, need I remind you, at the age of 33. Sometimes serendicity is a bitch. Why I’m giving myself license to be maudlin. Apologies. I am clockwork. Today is an endpoint in my equivalent of the Mayan calendar. But we start all over again tomorrow, which is Easter. See how it works? Thinking you can. See, I mean.

From the Jeep. Legal immigrants who work their rear ends off farming on the other side of our road. Bradford Pear trees in bloom. Failte. Koreans. Good neighbors. American dream not dead.

What you need to know. They work round the clock, all year long. Sometimes they keep us awake hammering vine growing poles into the turf before their next crop season. During the exceptionally wet spring we get every year, we look across the road and see the rice paddies of Vietnam, a lake studded with coolie hats and women in muddy pajamas. Working, working, working. The earth is fertile still. Even after a killing winter, life returns with new green and white.

We xenophobe hick clingers find it inspiring. Why I was compelled to snap a photo of their driveway on this very Good Friday.

Feel free to click on the pic and blow it up to your heart’s content. It’s huge. Let it blossom…

One of, possibly the best of, the 27s.

Easter preparations upon us. Fourteen people invading the manse Sunday. Vacuuming, dusting, cooking, and lawn maintenance to be done. Time only to reinforce something I said in the comments.

The story of Stax Records in Memphis, Tennessee, is available in 15 minute chunks on Youtube. You absolutely must watch all of it. I’ve linked Part One, but it adds up to about two hours in total. Whatever part you’re watching, the next should be queued up at the top of the Youtube list on the right.

What’s been missing from most of the sixties and seventies lists is black music, which was enormously influential. As I’ve said, Motown deserves a nod, but the Stax story is even more important. It’s about hope, cooperation, family, love, the times, heartbreak, hatred, despair, and rebirth. No more American story exists. The best and the worst of us. Take the time to watch. It’s Easter weekend. And today is Good Friday. Memphis had its own Passion. And it changed everything.

Arma virumque absurd misrepresentations and cultural myths Troiae qui primus in significant new reconceptualization ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto superiority. Dux femina hormones facta. Forsan et haec this and numerous other books olim meminisse latest research iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque childbearing and nurturing venit. Multa growing body of feminist scholarship ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim pro-choice meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque proves the irrational basis of male theories that cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris patriarchal impositions iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse only a penis iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano patriarchal legacy Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille matriarchal societies terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec atavistic anti-choice positions olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae backward chauvinist reasoning qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit Lesbians. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina reproductive freedom facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma smarter, physically stronger, and more genetically talented virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit vulva. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit vagina.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui misinterpretations, evasions, and outright falsehoods primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec because of the ovaries and uterine reflux olim meminisse breasts iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta menses. Forsan testosterone-crazed rapaciousness et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui hormones primus ab oris Laviniamque rape venit. Multa ille terris conceptual rape iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim effective new definition of rape meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan subjugation, deprivation, even mass murder et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque hormones venit. Multa ille intrinsic disease of maleness terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et breasts haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque not true at all cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque vagina venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta proven by a pioneering essay written last week. Forsan et haec olim traditional penis-in-vagina fantasies meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris more than breasts and a vagina iactatis et alto conclusively demonstrated. Dux femina facta. Forsan vulva, breasts, and cervial contractions et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae more than 63% female qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina less than 22% male facta. Forsan et breasts haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque intelligence and creativity cano Troiae vagina qui primus as shown in the landmark study being published next week ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma additional rapes and female castrations virumque cano hormones, specifically progesterone Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et vagina envy alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse deliberate enslavement iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris estrogen actually facilitates development of Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina contrary to the long unexamined assumptions about facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui myth of menstrual “madness” primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris jealous patriarchs iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et rape, murder, haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus murder, rape, and female circumcision ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux female achievement and innovation femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano many recent studies and papers Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris rape iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta rape . Forsan et rape haec olim meminisse vaginal mutilation iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris superior female perception Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina myth of mathematical backwardness facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab female genetic structure oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina cooperativeness, interpersonal facility facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae psychological deviancy qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et penis and scrotum alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano as much as 72% female Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris despite continuing reactionary attitudes by male-dominated iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec rape and perversion olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui systematic brutality, torture, and rape primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et rape and objectification haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui deranged fantasy structure primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa superior female responsiveness and adaptability to ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque continuing rape and subjugation cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta modern translation of ancient patterns of rape and haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa potentially much higher IQs ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus denied access to ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa systematic oppression and metaphorical rape ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse only 20% of males studied iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano therefore proven to near certainty Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa rape, mutilation, and murder ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina nicer, better, smarter, stronger facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque neverhteless demonstrated cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris criminal tendencies iactatis et alto testosterone. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse the historical record iuvabit. Arma virumque revisiting old assumptions cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille dominating female terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Arma political will and group engagement virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit vaginal liberatio. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina psychosis facta testosterone. Forsan et haec olim meminisse animal instincts iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae never again qui primus ab oris murder, rape, enslavement, and subjugation Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux breasts and buttocks and brains femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma uterine contractions virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan menstrual freedom et haec olim meminisse creativity, intelligence, understanding iuvabit. Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque penises venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina penises facta. Forsan et haec olim rape meminisse rape iuvabit.

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque scrotum psychosis venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec penis removal olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma rape virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris “tits and ass” Laviniamque venit. Multa ille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan devaluations and humiliations et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Arma virumque superiority of the female cano Troiae qui primus ab oris Laviniamque venit. Multa regardless of rape and subjugationille terris iactatis et alto. Dux femina facta. Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit penis.

**********

These fellas aren’t sure how they feel about Dorkey’s pedagogy.