Mantrax

[GeorgeMoresby@themoresbyreport]

themoresbyreport.com/mantrax.htm

[Foamy Dog]

Interesting article George but how 'bout next time giving us at least a short summary of the article rather than a lonely link?

Great points on the liberal morning talkshows. They make me sick  

We hope to be hearing more from you soon!
--FD

[George Moresby]

Anyone who’s been in any American city during the last ten years or so may have started to believe the Homosexual Battle Bravado, or maybe mere esprit de corps, that some enormous percentage of the male population is congenitally disposed towards their Levantine – what else can I say? – predisposition. Or maybe it’s not congenital, maybe it’s some sort of Lifestyle Choice, a sort of postdisposition. The Former? The Latter? Who knows? The Sexually Preoccupied are a capricious tribe and I’m told they’ve recently changed their Platform of Provenance; but whence? whither? I don’t know. I’m not big on Feeding the Dog at the Table, so I don’t make much effort to satisfy this or that Fraternal Order’s conceits and fripperies. For example, I have no idea how the Great Manitou of a Rotary Lodge expects to be addressed. What is the truly latest required Title of Pandery for Negroes? Who knows? Not me. I figure, however, that you don’t get to name yourself. I fully expect that the Moldavian word for “Moldavians” is translated “people” and their word for “Not A Moldavian” is very likely “Shithead.” The point is pretty obvious: you may want to say you have descended from the Gods, but I’m not likely to nod along; you may want to be called a “server,” but I’m likely to call you a “waitress” all the same. Just imagine what Idi Amin’s whole title was – not likely something you or I would call him.

Pardon the digression, it’s mainly for the Faint of Heart; for people who set to spluttering over a mere choice of words. You can call yourself “Captain” but if you’re a Rogue, and if there are enough of you, very soon the word “Captain” will mean “Rogue.”

Back to my point: from the looks of things, from the number of art galleries, tennis aficionados, weight-lifters, and Mr. Clean earrings around, you’d be excused if you thought that every second passer-by wasn’t satisfied with biology, went pro-active, and had eschewed the simple Diversity of Man-And-Woman sex. And maybe you’d think this was a scourge, a national embarrassment. It doesn’t really matter, I wouldn’t give 1025 Free Hours of AOL for what you think, and besides, evolution will correct it anyway. What I’m getting at is something else, something that really will be a problem for those of us still young enough to be around when these Social Experiments mature: the Calamity of the Sons Of Single Mothers.

Now, I don’t even like the phrase “Single Mother.” It smacks of self-justifying euphemism. I don’t like the word “Mother” being used for women who whelp without a husband. I’m not talking about widowed women. Nor am I talking about those poor women who get abandoned by their deadbeat, Dodge-Ram-and-Baseball-Cap husbands. Assuming the imprudent frau didn’t harp, howl, and sneer her beloved benedict into taking ground to the rear, I have nothing but sympathy for these lawfully married women. If she’s widowed or unjustly abandoned, I’m on her side – and that’s saying a lot; I rarely defect to the distaff.

No, what I’m talking about are those retarded women who have children without being married first. This is pretty much like taking out a car loan for a Cadillac Escalade when you don’t have a job, an apartment, or a suit of clothes. These women are about the dumbest thing going in the world of bipeds – and I’m including the monkey-world here. As I’ve said, these women are retarded, and I don’t mean this in the nice sense of the word.

I am not a sympathetic, empathetic, or even tolerant sort of fellow – I’m just not wired that way – so you may wonder why I care. You may think that I have serious “concerns” about the offspring of these women, that their children may not live the best of lives. You may think that the many disadvantages the daughter of a Single Mother would face may worry me gravely. Nope, I don’t even give them a thought. I think the femme solitaire could raise a daughter perfectly well – no problem. These Little Princesses of Specialness can fill the eternal shortage for Strippers, Lap Dancers, Jello Wrestlers, Actresses, Singers, Artists, Waitresses, and Prostitutes. They have a future, and for those of us who don’t like surprises? Well, this is surely No Surprise! What the Lone Wolf Woman simply cannot do is raise a boy. And, again, if you think My Heart Goes Out To These Little Fellows you’re wrong again. As usual, as evolutionarily defensible, my heart goes out to me. I certainly don’t like surprises, and these “Boys,” these future and putative Men, will be something we’ve never seen before. And from the looks of things at your average Computer Singles Club there will be zillions of them. We need a word for them, I can’t keep saying “Boys of Single Mothers.” It wastes too much precious paper, let’s just call them “Singularly Ostensible Boys,” or “SOBs.”<br>
These wretched SOBs will constitute a whole new subspecies, phylum, genera – whatever it’s called. Call it a Whole New Fraternal Order, but it won’t be a Service Club, and it won’t be delivering Meals on Wheels. There’ll be a lot of them and they’ll be WEIRD. Not good weird, bad weird. I’ve seen a couple of these mutants in the making. I’ve even seen the Director’s Cut in one sorry, sorry case. It was like watching evolution. No, like watching devolution. No! No! It was much more like watching that bad guy in “Silence of the Lambs” while he was getting himself up like a “woman.” It was frightening. It was shocking, it was gross, it was yeccch.

I generally try to keep my circles among the provident, prudent, and civilized, so it humbles me to confess that I once had an acquaintance and nominal friend who was herself a Single Mother. She voluntarily and far-from-innocently encouraged some species of Ukrainian Head Waiter to impregnate her – hoping against hope that he may, might, could-be, or maybe-possibly would marry her. And Bounders being forever Bounders, he playfully refused. He had his low sights set on other Bush Birds. Is it necessary for me to say that she was an astonishingly stupid woman? Is it difficult to say which of her prospects were worse: a mirthless and penniless life with this Eastern Popinjay or a hopeless and penniless life without him? Yes, it’s impossible to say. But don’t pity her, she mined this Rock and she forged this Hard Place all by herself. So there she was, a little boy in tow, no job, no prospects for a job, and a passport not even valid in the purportedly more civilized principalities of Ye Jolly Old Warsaw Pact.

continued at

www.themoresbyreport.com/singlemothersday.

[George Moresby]

I’ve been searching for a New Wife through one of these Computer Dating services and so far it’s been fruitless but edifying. It has amusement value, since, as you can imagine, the way these pitiful women advertise themselves gives one a case of Les Yeaux des Grandes Rolleurs. If they had the brain-power to associate meaning to words, they’d be liars, but they don’t, so they aren’t – not really. Women! Can’t live with ‘em, can’t “Go Fishing.”

And I’m not a little apologetic myself, because I don’t like walking on the beach at sunset and candlelit dinners, and I most decidedly do not feel equally at home in blue jeans or an evening gown. Neither do I put in 80-hour weeks at my high-powered female career while raising three wonderful children and two exquisite dogs and yet still find time for horseback riding, tennis, aerobics, hiking, cycling, and log-rolling. And even if I were to do all this and work up a horse-devouring appetite, I wouldn’t bother with the gourmet cooking – the kids seldom appreciate it and all they ever do is play with the candles and start fires. Being a rational being, even if I had kids I wouldn’t give minors a veto over my girlfriends – to decide if they “pass muster.” But frankly, I think these PMSers really mean “pass mustard” which is likely some new phrase for “cut the cheese.”<br>
No, I like mid-morning walks to my car and bulb-lit snacks. I feel equally at home in my bathroom or my living room. I put in 10-hour weeks at my energy-efficient sinecure and am a single father raising two wonderful fungi and molds in my fridge. Yet I still find time to gas-up the car, brush my teeth, and watch a lot of TV.

I don’t understand at all why these, these, ... these Independent Women (it was the nastiest epithet I could come up with) even want a man around. What for? To give him tennis lessons? To lighten the brat-spanking burden? Is it just plain unsatisfying to blow your spark-and-fire-belching stack at children when you could be doing it at a grown man? Is it because, when you lose your grip, it’s so unseemly to call the cops on an 8-year-old? Or is it because it would be hard to convince the cops that the 8-year-old came home drunk and you “feel” that he might want to hit you, possibly, maybe, perhaps? Is it because kids actually like the Silent Treatment? Or is it because rejecting sexual advances from your own whelps and pets actually feels too cruel?

Damned if I know. It’s got to be that the 80-hours-a-week are being put in at Taco Bell. But it’s a Taco Bell very near Wall Street they’d have you believe.

www.themoresbyreport.com

[George Moresby]

Yes, yes, yes. Now it’s Laci Peterson. You’d have to have a heart of stone and a brain of wool to hear the story of Laci Peterson and not groan – groan with self-pity. The war’s barely over and we’re back to the Missing Kids crap. And it’s all because a good fifty percent of our populace likes to cry. The Eighth Deadly Sin: Tears.

There are many good things about War. War spends money, creates Marine Corps jobs, blows up obsolete gas pumps, exerts our will, and, better, relegates the Weeping-Victim-Mother TV character to some Marine Corps reverse orphan. Being a crybaby on TV is unseemly for any reason, but if limited to only one Got-My-Taryton-Lites-At-The-PX-Cheap-But-Don’t-Want-The-Downside Mother per day, I can manage it. Besides, there’s always the mute button. The Jessica Lynch story was really the Elizabeth Smart story gone Hoo-rah. And war monger though I be, I just don’t have the stomach for Feel-Sorry-For-Somebody news, even if it’s for the dignified excuse of being buggered by Fedayeen Puritans. But I try always to look at the Small Picture, the nineteen-inch picture, so I was pretty content; War-CNN is vastly preferable to Milk-Carton-CNN.

Alas! I was counting my turds before they were shat. The war’s almost over and we’re back to Milk Carton news. Laci Yawn Peterson.

Who the hell is Laci Peterson? And other than his or her – I really don’t know and don’t want to know – mom, dad, relatives, and friends, who the hell cares what happens to a perfect and unremarkable stranger? Do you people really like to cry? Is it decades of Soap Operas that have done it to you? The Stars are always crying, so you’re going to cry too? Or do you really have nothing better to think about and do? Are women in charge of all news stations? Is the Maternal Instinct the only acceptable instinct anymore? Or is it what I really suspect – you’re invulnerable when you’re crying? It’s the Kevlar of the Distaff.

The boss wants to fire you, you’ve been a bum, taking days off for SARS counseling, not doing your job, and today’s the day – the boss has put it on his calendar, he’s going to axe you today. But he comes to your office and there you are – Kleenex to contacts, teary, “Poor, poor, Jessica Lynch.” So the boss is thinking, “I’ll have to wait till tomorrow, I can’t fire her today.” But tomorrow, well, tomorrow, it’s Laci Peterson and there you are again: boo-hoo. So it’s the day after, right? Nope. Somebody’s kid will always fall off a bike, get colic, or be shanghaied by some priest, so there’ll always be something to cry about. And you, you Career Woman, are Invulnerable! There are countless legal reasons why we have to tolerate your potpurri and impressionist art exhibitions at the office, but now you’ve got us by our basic human pity too.

There was a time when I was a Birchman; when I would get weeping girls coming to my office, saddened by their grades, and, unlike men, who will Claw Their Way to The Top, they would essay to Cry Their Way To The Top. And, being somewhat human, I usually long-poured for them, and just hated myself for it later. No problem, I’d think. I’d take it out on the wife and kids at home.

Glass Ceiling? Hell, we need a Glass Booth. I want my desk to be in a Glass Booth, a water-proof Glass Booth, so your Condensation doesn’t get on my roll of stamps and envelope flaps.

All this reminds me of a memorable and on-the-money line I heard Jack Palance use in a movie years ago: “There’s a funny thing about women in business. They want you to treat them like a regular guy, but when you do, they cry on you.”

And “men” who cry? Men who cry! Ye are the future! Ye are the Whelps of Single Mothers and the future is yours! Thank God life does not last forever.

www.themoresbyreport.com

[George Moresby]

The Problem

We Americans have a serious problem. We have a problem that affects our nation’s beauty and pride. Our problem is that our women are ugly and our men are girly.

How many of you guys out there Work Out? How many of you ever look in a mirror for any reason other than to shave or tie your tie? How many of you have fifty-dollar haircuts? How many of you wear fifty-dollar aftershaves? How many of you wear contact lenses? How many of you go to tanning salons? And how many of you have fat wives with Bowery Boy haircuts, work with computers, wear flat shoes, pants, and cotton shirts? Does that seem right to you? Are we a land where men are vain and women indifferent? Is every day Opposite Day in our modern Gynecocracy?

... too long ... continued at

www.themoresbyreport.com/dames.html

[George Moresby]

Do you suffer from any of these symptoms?

1. Persistent sad, anxious, or empty mood
2. Feelings of hopelessness, pessimism
3. Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, helplessness
4. Loss of interest in activities that were once sources of pleasure, including sex
5. Decreased energy, fatigue
6. Difficulty concentrating, remembering, making decisions
7. Insomnia, early-morning awakening, or oversleeping
8. Appetite and weight loss or overeating and weight gain
9. Thoughts of death, suicide; suicide attempts
10. Restlessness, irritability
11. Persistent physical symptoms that do not respond to treatment, such as headaches, digestive disorders and chronic pain

If so, then you are a woman, or at the very least, overly-womanly, or maybe just a puss. No, no, just kidding, you may be suffering from Depression. Yep, CNN, the Cult of Health’s Elite Republican Guard, has somehow found time to air a week-long “special” on Depression the Disease. CNN first alerted us to SARS, West Nile Virus, and Monkeypox – all Epidemics and all within a matter of weeks – and now they’re essaying to whoop up a Panic for Depression. So I’m whooping already.

But Depression isn’t just the wretched and likely accurate feeling that you are a piece of shit. It’s a disease! Just like High Blood Pressure, Cancer, and Nose-Picking, it’s a disease. Yes, the disease of Depression. And guess what? You should see your doctor. Your doctor. Your Doctor, Doctor, Shmockter.

CNN’s drummers for fillgraves solemnly warn that since you wouldn’t try to self-treat Osteoporosis, the Jim-Jams, or Bad Posture, you shouldn’t try to self-treat Depression: “You did what? Had a snort? Tsk, tsk, such a fool!” You bet, you’re supposed to go to the Professionals – the Doctors!

The Doctors! The Selfless and Stethoscoped Stars of Soap Operas and Female Fantasies! As it happens any one of them would be happy to selflessly help in the most selfless of fashion. If you feel Depression, you need only visit the Handsome One, he’ll know what’s best: the Latest Treatments are best. As CNN’s advance-woman, Elizabeth Cohen, has it, maybe you’ve been trying “Unproven Treatments” like the aforementioned Snort. Even though The Snort has been in service as an anti-melancholic for half-a-million years, it is an “Unproven Treatment” and benefits only Saloonkeepers. Historically, it has done nothing to make Mercedes payments for Medico Panic-Peddlers. Ladies, have you ever had a Wide-On for a Saloonkeeper? I didn’t think so.

Or maybe you’re not “taking high enough doses of medication.” Now who stands to gain from this Solid Advice? You Do! Yes, you, you moaning, desponding, bottom-feeder of morosity. If for one second you thought that Pfizer and Glaxo et al are only in it for the money then you’re not half the Christian I had thought you were. They aren’t Dope Peddlers! They are large buildings. Dope Peddlers are never large buildings. Slake your parched throat of contentment with the Glass Half Full – Xanox, Zanthrax, Zaxxon, Xanthippe, and Prozoft!

A Journal of the American Medical Association “Landmark Study” says that Women are at Greatest Risk of “contracting” The Invisible Illness. No shit Sherlock. It also says that People Who Hadn’t Finished High School are also at Greatest Risk. No shit Sherlock. And it says that “People Living In Poverty” are also at Greatest Risk.

In this last case perhaps I can presume to prescribe: I recommend that you “Poor People” sit back and enjoy your Celine Dion records on your large stereos, play with your dogs, wash, tune up, and rev your Dodge Ram Silverado, take your boat – christened “Stress Buster” – out for a Good Fish, rile up your “Hog” for a spin, have a bit of “blow,” spend a day at Disney World, or go to Outback. These are far from “Unproven Treatments” for People Living In Poverty and are guaranteed to take your mind off your Trailer Tragedies and that ol’ bugaboo Appalachian Gloom. And for you Minority Sufferers? Substitute an Escalade for the Ram and B. Blackamoor Balladeer for Celine Dion.

But before you oil your checkbook, before you gird your loins and set out in what will likely be the last new car you’ll ever be able to afford, before you limber up for your Death-match with a Great White-Coated JAMA-Jaws, before you’re completely routed, let’s look at the symptoms again:

1. Persistent Sad, Anxious, or Empty Mood: Maybe you’re a Sad Sack. Maybe you really are an empty vessel and for once you’re really on to something here. Your Persistent Sad and Empty Mood could be the first and only clear-headed epiphany you’ve ever had or ever will have. So wear layers and enjoy!

2. Feelings of Hopelessness, Pessimism: Maybe last year you finally bought that Tower Stereo, or took that Caribbean Cruise that has always been your “dream”. Maybe your credit cards are now hopelessly enfeebled and your neck gaudily be-jeweled. You should be pessimistic. You’re an improvident dope.

3. Feelings of Guilt, Worthlessness, Helplessness: Did you call the cops on your husband for no good reason? Guilt! Ever had a job with more magnificence than as a Secretary, Lap-Dancer, Waitress, or Jello-Wrestler? Get out the dictionary: Worthless. Can you balance a checkbook? Didn’t think so. Helpless as Jessica Lynch on sodium pentothal.

4. Loss Of Interest In Activities That Were Once Sources Of Pleasure, Including Sex: So you no longer like cooking dinner, ironing shirts, washing dishes. Could’ve knocked me down with a feather! And sex? You’ve lost interest? Well, you’re no prize either.

5. Decreased Energy, Fatigue: Maybe you should give up your stupid aerobics. If you think you’re losing weight, well, hahahaha! You’re still an Oaf. Patient, visit thyself.

6. Difficulty Concentrating, Remembering, Making Decisions: You never really were Ms. Smarty-Pants, were you? Ms. Pants-suit, but not very Smarty. A bit short on the Standard Deviations this month? How much is in the checking account? Can’t remember? Do we turn left or right to get to the Pilates Studio? Gucci or Prada? Can’t decide? Does any of this actually sound new to you? So what’s the deal? How come you call it “Depression” now? We used to call it “Incompetence,” or just roll our eyes and say, “Dames!”

7. Insomnia, Early-Morning Awakening, Or Oversleeping: OK, which is it? Having a hard time Deciding again? Eat me!

8. Appetite And Weight Loss Or Overeating And Weight Gain: So it’s either Bulimia or Bulk; you’re either Anguinic or Porcinic. Again, Which Is It You Stupid Harpy? Barf or Get Off The Trough. Salad when your friends are looking and chocolate cake when you’re solo mio. We know, we know.

9. Thoughts Of Death, Suicide; Suicide Attempts: If I were you – and I really mean it, if I were you – I’d consider this seriously. It’s the only honorable thing to do. After all, what’s there to live for? You’ve seen all the episodes of Friends twice already. You’ve been to Disney World. You’ve shopped at Ann Taylor. All your life you’ve done nothing but mooch off of men in exchange for piss-poor porking. Your son will soon be a teenager, start looking for sex in his own age group, and hate your guts on principle. Your ankles are getting thick. I mean, really, why not commit sewer pipe? But mind your manners! No swerving into the oncoming northbound traffic (first wife), I may be blithely northbound on my way to a Gun Show. No “overdose” of pills and booze (second wife), you may in fact survive. And no flouting of capital Federal Laws (third wife), not until you go back to your maiden name anyway. So, as Wolf Blitzer would put it, “in a brief nutshell,” don’t have thoughts of suicide and don’t make suicide attempts. Get a double-barreled shotgun and … if you order now, Two Bottles of Ka-boom!

10. Restlessness, Irritability: Restless? Quit taking those naps when I’m at the office. Irritable? Well, let me explain: when you were young, you were pretty and got away with anything; guys let you do and say anything you wanted as long as you Porked the Piper. Not paying off so well nowadays, is it? Surprised? Disappointed? Take Zaxoft. For the first two years you’ll feel great, but then you’ll start losing your grip – that stuff doesn’t wear very well; not nearly as well as a quart of Manhattans. Then you’ll get irritable. Then you’ll try to quit the Zaxoft, and then you’ll get really irritable. The husband will justifiably stop bringing you little presents. So you’ll get really, really irritable. You’ll start throwing things, blowing your stack, becoming “allergic” to your poor husband’s cigarette smoke. Maybe a shopping trip will fix you up? Oh, you ran into your divorced friend there at the mall? She said what? That your husband doesn’t know how to “play the game,” doesn’t know how to provide that delicate blend of Cash and Being The Object Of Your Ire. No wonder you’re irritable. Didn’t anyone ever tell you you wouldn’t be 25 forever? Hahahaha. And men, it is said, improve with age! Hahahaha.

11. Persistent Physical Symptoms That Do Not Respond To Treatment, Such As Headaches, Digestive Disorders, And Chronic Pain: You’ve got Headaches? Flatulence? Backaches? Serves you right. Ever hear of Cause and Effect? Well, you’ve been a jerk, a spoiled jerk, and it you earned it.

continuted at

www.themoresbyreport.com/depression.html

[USA50]

You know, I picture you guys isolated in a logging camp in the Yukon in 1880, home-schooled by eunuch who saw a woman once and it scared him.

How did you guys time-warp into cyber space to have this discussion?

Real men don't just eat quiche, they're not afraid of real women. But when you git into town next winter, look up the stay-at-home daughter of the school marm, she'll probably honor and obey you silly.