Left and Right  as ideological perspectives were coined during the French Revolution, referring to the seating arrangement of the French Estates General. Those seated on the left generally opposed the Ancien Régime and the Bourbon monarchy and supported the Revolution, the creation of a democratic republic and the secularisation of society[7] while those on the right were supportive of the traditional institutions of the Ancien Régime, Monarchy, and the King.  One may choose to sit with like minded peers, just as you did in the classroom, or the lunchroom. If this choice sounds familiar, then you likely live in the United States.  If not -- Then you are likley b.b...b.b...British, or of an era sympathetic to monarchy...  Meaning that you can really relate to being told what to do, by far more affluent, better fed, and likely better clothed role models. Today 'Left', 'Leftist', 'Left-wing' all have their own deeply sordid pejorative fantasies, Or in the very least bad press from the "Right". Six Hundred and sixty six shades of gray matter make up the medulla of the so-called liberal mind. Left has come to represent a crap-ton more deeply confusing dilutions, which confound any Poli-sci, PHD. Whereas, "Right" may simply mean you are a narrow-minded D-Bag.  BUT, This "Right-Wing" curse could also mean (as Ted Cruz would say) -- That you are "Un-Woke"  which is to say... that,  (depending upon your age), you are sleep-walking, fast asleep, sound asleep.., or simply so effen tired of having to "use your words" any longer that you just mutter and eat Fried Chicken.  [See also Right-Wing Senator "#Asleep@thawheel"].
​​

 Sinistrality (left-handedness) affects only seven to ten percent of the human population.  But most Marsupials such as the red kangaroo are left handed, and they amazingly use their left for fine motor skills, but their right for heavy tasks, like shoving and  punching out Right-leaning politicians. The Lefties, have been battling for equal rights such as  proper desks and pens, zippers, buttons, happy meal toys, and such for literally forever.., And yet the "Lefties" are of course in the minority, and so... We can (of course) ignore the claims that they deserve better, or special treatment of any kind because they are few and far between.  Some clearly biased research, written by right-handed scientists AKA "The Right", show Lefties more likely to suffer from certain diseases, or possess inherit traits which make them less amorous, or less desirable -- unless they happen to be in a fight, or pitching in the World- Series.  Herein they have the so called "Upper Hand".
Left-handed people are somehow inconveniently more likely to sit on the right side of The Estates General, Aisle, Parliament, Congress, or the classroom, because that's where they (The [Christian] Right) have placed the only two minority "left-handed" desks.  We used to call these the "Mental Desks", but that was back when "Mental (obviously) meant Smart". Anyway this form of forced recruitment of the Left-handers (Those with a sinistral propensity) is totally bullshit; but it goes a long way to explaining the slight majority, and perhaps Senator Manchin. In the Darkest Times, which are actually today, when we are so plainly close to a civil war, The Orange Criminal actually said in his Veteran's Day speech that: "He [we] will root out the Communists, Marxists, fascists, and the radical-Left (handed) thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country -- That lie and steal and cheat on elections" So that means that 7-10 percent of the population who cannot find a proper desk, nor zipper, nor keyboard for that matter, are totally fucked come the revolution.
​The Lefties belong to the Proverbial "Left" whatever your oppressive ideology may hold. It should be said that the Left leaning, and the Lefties, can no simpler become an "Un-Woke Conscript" than a Right-Winger can consume their own left-overs. 
That shit is going into the trash simply to prove the elitist rule of Abundant Ascendancy of the Deserving Class, over Prosperity For All by Social Reform.

Afterall... What are you a Commie?
​

"Left-Overs", now known simply as leftovers were once also in the minority, and perhaps also occupied the marginalized periphery of anyone's fridge, table, or recliner, and these "left-overs" were also likely chewed-on the 'left' side of the mouth, but in classical political sociology, there is no empirical evidence that Right-wing, Right-Leaning, The Christian Right, and the Un-Woke do not eat Leftovers... Excepting the fact that the "Right-Leaning" population generally disdains public and social assistance programs -- They would prefer to toss their "Left-Overs" in their own trash simply to keep "The Needy" or "The Disadvantaged" or even the "Woke" from eating them.  As far back as college, one could predict the future tense of their Right-Leaning roommates by watching the fate of their tiny paper to-go containers.  Quantization of this tell-tale indicator of one's political bent, is a rather accurate means to predict whether a friendship could endure.  As a Left-leaning roommate would most likely observe, them with malicious intent trying to destroy said "charity doggie bag" rather than share the bounty of a second meal. The Left self-righteously felt that They should be the one to consume said origami paper take-out carton before suffering the indignity of both parties watching these rot merely to prove an elitist rule of the so called Ancien Régime ​  ...See also 'Monarchy'. This Thanksgiving, I will be spending family time in the "Deep South" where they celebrate  being "Right" nearly all of the time, and never lost the civil war. I will be grateful to recall what all of that being right means. It generally means the civil war is still being fought, and perhaps the proverbial leftovers are collateral damage.
Anyway.  What happens when the Woke, the Left-handers, and the leftovers all get eaten by the so called "Right"?
Right?
This is a quixotic perhaps socio-political thing which evades the "Left" and the "woke", and belies the name "Right", but also defies semantic explanation.  It is like calling oneself super-man,  uber-mensch, or Steve...  You have, (perhaps) the dumb luck (exclusively by virtue of your 'cool-ass' name, like Stephan, or Lars, or Maximillian) to not be called a pussy, simply because you have a cool name. An Emerald Club status you don't have when you represent the "Left". You Sleepy Un-woke muther-fukers smugly feel that your self assured fat ass is always and forever "Right".  Which I suppose is "right", because you never can  leave the Cult, can you?
So, I will again be taking both yours, and my Thanksgiving leftovers home, and I will be eating both of them at my (mental as fuck) rare left-handed desk -- And I will #NOTBEFUCKING (W)RIGHTINGANOTHERFUCKINGWORDABOUTTHATSHITWHILEYOUGLOATABOUTYOURRIGHT (white)PRIVILEDGE on this Thanksgiving Day. Here we celebrate the oppressed (ordinarily the left) saving your fucking fat orange ass from Winter's Peril.!
I'm also Grateful for your leftovers by the way.
Thank You.

What an irony that Two Bicycle Makers, (brothers actually), became America's first gasoline-powered car makers. Charles and Frank Duryea were keenly interested in the compelling new gasoline engines and in imported automobiles., and so they set about to build themselves some cars. It should be noted that these two were certainly curious tinkerers, and continued to pursue challenges of both engineering, and to score them some wins in their need for speed. Somewhat laughable today, These were not the speediest machines, in fact some contemporaries on bikes rode beside them in their inaugural road race. The Duryea Bros. participated in races, nearly as soon as they had a working prototype; Of course they did.
Frank & Charles Duryea became the first Americans to launch a successful commercial automobile company, and they were thrilled to participate in any challenge which would get them needed market exposure. The brothers Duryea were also the first to incorporate their American business to build automobiles for sale to the public. They studied the internal combustion engine at their public library, and after begging, everyone for start-up capital, they set about to make something so pedestrians and cyclists would forever live in fear of crazy drivers.

At 8:55 am on November 28, 1895, six motor cars set off from Chicago's Jackson Park for a 54-mile (slow car) race to Evanston, Illinois -- and back through the snow to the park. Incidentally this is a route that I do in my bicycle in about half the time, but one could argue the roads are a bit nicer today... I'm not so certain.
Car Number 5 driven by inventor Frank Duryea, won the race in just over 10 hours at an average speed between 5.4 & 7.3 mph. This "Thanksgiving day Race" pitted him against three imported Benzes and two electric cars. Charles helped, his brother Frank cracking a crop to speed his horse-drawn sleigh through a snow-storm supporting his brother with parts and repairs for the car. Bad weather forced these cars to slip & slide into each other and snowbanks. Frank Duryea was the only one to actually finish the race.

The winner of the annual Thanksgiving race scored $2,000. (more than $50,000. In today’s money).
An automobile enthusiast from the crowd notable for giving these new horseless vehicles the name "motorcycles" won $500. The race was sponsored by the Chicago Times-Herald Newspaper and after the thrilling race they published, "Persons who are inclined to decry the development of the horseless carriage will be forced to recognize it as an admitted mechanical achievement, highly adapted to some of the most urgent needs of our civilization." Wow!!
As far as staying power is concerned, most early inventions explode, deteriorate, completely flop before getting legs, or immediately become eclipsed by a new fashion, or a far better contraption. The namesake Duryea automobile, and later sold only 13 units, before the brothers arguments split them up. Frank continued to tinker and became quite successful with his new "Steven's Duryea" automobile which was sold in a more-or-less similar and expensive limousine version from 1896 into the 1920's. The initial hand-built buggy was little more than a carriage, tiller for steering and a motor., It was a handsome, and efficient machine for its time. Fully Formed in Springfield, Massachusetts -- within one year of their Chicago Publicity race, the Duryea Motor Wagon Company soon disbanded, with Charles pursuing different trades, and Frank following his dreams to build a better machine than Benz. Before the two split and Frank formed his second company, the two made many new ideas work — But Frank would later invest considerable time in a 6 cylinder engine. Frank Partnered with the Steven's Firearm Manufacturing Company to build his new engines and 3 models, and so Steven’s investment in both the company and manufacturing brought Stevens primary naming rights. The second phaeton was an expensive limousine, which remained in production in some form for 20 plus years, making Frank and Steven’s quite wealthy.

What about the whole Burning Thing?..
While not being intrinsically cool or crispy, we often struggle with 'rational' v. 'make-believe'. We may fancy ourselves as fictional characters, projecting false competencies which today we don't really possess, while dwelling in a fictive construct we call "our reality",  [See also:  Social Media].
I, for instance, do not resemble that one Linked-in cover photo any longer, but I don't update it.  Our new  american pageant floats its figurative, fictive idols above everyone like obese Parade Balloons. Tethered to tiny human hands marching slowly below the protective dome or my WAN I.P. (See also MAC Address)... Normies (marginalized minions who blindly follow, see also: 'canon-fodder')  struggle against gusty winds -- Bumping, and lolling, like drunks in sumo fat-suits... A tiny broken slave class which keeps wandering, holding up ludicrous swollen cartoon babies. [See also Zombies]... In this life -- Who wouldn't want to burn some shit to the ground? "I suppose the pay is good", one guy mutters as his shoulder yanks leftward, and another replies with a labored "Whew, fuck it's hot!", then a nod and a tired grunt. Occasionally the people required to suspend cartoon icons above the parade route, have an itch to scratch -- But they humbly hold on tight, squirming whilst idiots wave and jockey for a better view. Sickly sunburnt supporters who sucked at gym-class, safely dodge & bob their celebrity dirigible. All dressed up in slogan-wear to shame even Lollapalooza. All longing for an elusive signal. A sign... praise perhaps from their air-filled god. A nearby clown twists phallic balloons into elaborate shapes, and it would seem to the passer-by that everyone along the parade route is buying cheap glowing logo'd jetsam with government money. Asking the clown for a straight balloon was a non-starter. 
All of this is figurative, I suppose you could say.
Insurrection, or Parade? -- Heathen Idolatry, or Ecumenical bake-sale?
Completely devoid of authenticity, they wear the same tired uniform -- A six-year wash-worn C.M.A. awards outfit, complete with cut-offs, or plain Carhartt's and a cap.
The occasional Outlier yells, "This fucking revolution is coming for you! -- (and) YOU MOTHERFUCKERS will be the first against the Wall!" ...
Nobody hears another zealot over the squelch of cultists hoisting their puffy baby aloft. 
Occasionally the pageant slows, while support staff ask themselves "What the fuck am I doing here?" Short-lived self correction is quelled by the smell of Corn-Dogs, Port-o-Lets, and Diabetes, right before tossing a trash-can through a window. 
Aligned with the desire to restore narrow-minded 50's 'Archie Bunker' doctrine. Racism, and fundamental fascism override any fleeting notion toward self-correction. Everyone just does this same bumbling zombie-wander forward, whether it be On-line, or In-line... They hold meaningless slogans, and a balloon on a leash as clever retort for misplaced rage. Most are wearing red hats, ordered from Alibaba -- Furiously flinging mildewed junk from Chinese cardboard into the crowd. Make America Magic Again, and again... MAMA. Same logo emblazoned upon their giant rusty orange balloon head, donning, a plume of yellow.  A pasted swoop covering two thirds of its plastic hair plugs. Role Models..., sigh.
"My Life was real before the internet. My rage, my fears, my ambitions, and my desires came in knowable packages, which only needed to be opened". When the deliveries stopped, I filled my life with trash, and lost my grasp.  
"Anger is an Energy"  we suppose... But what is the motivation of the misinformed undereducated, (Normies)  skipping work for unpaid racist cheerleading? Interviews reveal that most hold themselves culpable in sedition sentencing. -They still believe their last stab at the totem pole was stolen by a fiction called ANTIFA. When the carnival comes to town every fucking day, through a gap in the tent so small It takes a few fingers to zoom in, one is bound to forget which was their favorite attraction.
Under the Big Top, we fall in love amidst a cartoon of bizarre faded fantasies. We prize "reality TV", and Coke IS the real thing. Its a filthy orgy and nobody checked for surveillance. When you imagine back to when you were 7, and how you saw your life play out, or end... Few could say they saw this coming. Cultists, affixed to a fictive icon so surreal, so pornographic, so unaligned with its crowd, as to be alien, and forgiven for getting them convicted. Fewer can say that they'd imagined themselves striving for "likes" or praise in a subreddit about nonsensical venom, because few imagined themselves ever striving (To be a  "Supporter"). Far fewer "supporters", imagined themselves in an actual cult -- But well... the same cadre of normies stormed the capitol, and the rest is history. Nobody brought their own agenda, Most were there for the ultimate seditious selfie...  ''Supporters' (See also: Minion, Normie, Super-Fan, Lacky), conflated algorithmic agendas spun by social media with bored contempt bled into their dialyses. All the while their fictional super-hero sugar-daddy didn't have his own plan.
​The end game was never an accomplishment -- Only to be popular!

Your adolescent Hollywood Crush was exaggerated, (of course it was). You know it is fact, that if you'd ever met your pin-up crush, (Eric Estrada perhaps) He'd soon tire of, and come to loath you too. Or soon enough you'd explore his/her dark side -- perhaps within a month?.. Short-lived idolatry doesn't retain the friendship you thought you'd forged. And so the poster comes down leaving tape and tack holes. This is why posters are cheap, and possibly why expedited Vegas Weddings are a real cash  business, but also reasonably priced. 
One does have to ink the deal before the fantasy fades in a wink.  But, most crazy Cults are forever.  Perhaps, this is why winning someone back, never fucking works. No real emotional or tangible capital is spent to recover the wayward ("day jus gone!")-- unless you are Patty Hearst.  What is it with Cult leaders, that sticks so tenaciously to the tongue of the meek? Why do we recite, and  buoy up belligerent balloons (fuckers), at the expense of our true tribe?, Our true selves? -- Escapism?
The chemistry of White frailty crystallizes in the void of positive role models.
Watching cartoons as a kid, was rather straightforward, advancing a classic Good v. Evil architecture. Today, evolutive Heroes and Villains are built more exaggerated & more grotesque, by the year.  Fantastic and fleeting icons with sweet skills, seemed far better than the real people you'd bunk with. But isn't this the current landscape?, Awash with so called savants, super-heroes, charlatans, billionaires, and mega-villains? From the hijacked amygdala of video game and Marvel franchises, flows an Indulgent golden stream of lunatics who teach resentment via idolatry. ...And being a minion is so fuuucking easy, right? Our Current world is populated with similar exaggerated frenemies? All of them boasting enviable lecherous features which defy gravity  & nature. Once meek super-heroes, with some sweet, if altruistic skills, became biopics of complicated inner turmoil; The mental and moral dilemmas deep within the psyche of homicidal Homelander. Our Idols are a smooth and sexy, nee pornographic version of the plain ordinary beige people we'd actually enjoy drinking light beer with.  But, glossy Fakers, and retouched Fucktards  get all the hits, make the clicks -- whilst we ordinary humans wish it so? I don't know any big celebrities personally, but I do know fake, and lame when I see it. 
​
The Internet is an epic exercise in chaos -- A free-market enclosure chaperoned by spoiled children -- It's all a fucking cartoon.
My young hero worship may have been Bukowski, and Miller -- Yeats, and Bowie, but I always knew that they did not give a fuck about me, and these giants came from humble roots. The catalytic effect of positive role models works when we see ourselves within their own analog timelines, and when we see our upbringing as ordinary.  There is no "Kool Lottery"!
Studying Graphic Novels in College (rounding out a liberal arts baccalaureate), informs  the majority that what we imagine is Fiction, is exactly that... Didactic maybe, but false.  What we pretend and what we believe share that gray space, just below the bleachers where bright paths may change, but never seem to. For effect, (perhaps) the internet has made a Porno out of nearly everything pure, wholesome, or altruistic. The Internet, lacks compassion, a compass, and a timeline. When you imagine the calendar, most people see an elongated flat disc, not unlike a clock face, and the months coordinate to ordinal compass headings.  Oh, Hey shit! that's simple human shit! The Internet is an epic exercise in Chaos Theory -- A free market chaperoned by a few coddled kids tugging the strings of every balloon animal floating below its ozone. No clock, No Compass, No mooring Ball... It's all a fucking cartoon now, Everything -- And nobody is sitting far enough back from the TV to tell their fantasy from a polished turd. Stepping outside of their bubble to Storm the Capital was the first real thing anybody involved had done in years, or in decades, so it's no wonder they were excited! 
(They even got permission slips from the President!)
Breathing only the base liquid of the World Wide Web, & of course Fox -- Can the truly idiotic be themselves? Be accountable? Can the misguided know choice?  If Their fate is a vile silo,  should people be forgiven for being stupid?
Today, within the bubble, Kids can't love anyone, because everyone is reprehensible as compared with their avatar.  Youth cannot be intimate, because intimacy requires vulnerability. Nobody is ever wrong, because wrong requires googling alternative facts to right, and fiction is spun to counter bad reviews. Inside the Bubble, good cannot thrive. Each and every conceited twat float their own balloon up a rope in defiance of the real gravity beneath their gaming chair, which takes up a fuck-ton of space in here --  where a drought from anything clever...  will strand most boats.

Our Idolatry in neutral, whilst picking off people in First-Person shooter burns the clock waiting for our chance to sit on the Orange Santa's Lap. Filled with rage, envy, and adavan, we worship the wrong cause. Truthfully nobody's had an original thought since that "one thing" which got them arrested in High School, and any cause, however horrible seems to be better than just sitting around.
Heroic, fat, and filled with warm air, our iconic giant balloon-headed cartoon god shines cynically down from the parade upon its sheepish supporters. New Boosters arrive by the minute, some marveling in a colored smoke-filled pageant Some skeptical that it's handlers may drift and bump a street-lamp or pop their prophylactic Messiah.  Some just hoping an  loathsome shooter in the crowd won't take aim at its worshippers. Most not speaking their dark desire; wishing, "...A bullet will pop that fat-fuck balloon", so we can all let go of these cursed ropes, and...." "BLAM!!"
​The 80's Mosh Pit served the lost, the angry, and the disenfranchised with a vent. A small valve in the angry balloon which will soon explode, or lay flaccid on a beautiful beach someplace. Perhaps the gulf coast.

The path your one friend took a few years back which entreated a vote for a lunatic, fractured more than just your friendship.  Draconian pathways to stem "the Numbers" made them invest in white sanctuary cities, and so now as "Supporters", or "Normies" they too are fully vested in the Red Pill Club. On the Rupert side of the iron curtain it is in fact so dark that one cannot see their hands upon holsters. You can forget about pretending that they are OK, or that a relo to a temporary condo in FL is well ...temporary.  They are no longer your friend. It may be safe to say that anybody who moved off the cuff to FLA (even the elderly) between 2018 and 2022 may have lost their marbles. 
What this magnificent parade needs today is to unplug, to cross the streams, and perhaps a trunk-full of marbles, and some good old fashioned 80's punk. Could a mosh pit, vent sufficient steam?  Deer Hunting, in lieu of a school?  Could Burning an effigy  of ones enemies, or several for that matter, provide sufficient surrogacy for vengeance?
Happiness, Is most likely a decision we can make.
This Halloween, if you have nothing nice to say, and are considering a violent coup, perhaps tap into your pagan past. As daylight dwindles, put on a punk playlist, stuff some old pants, and a hoodie with recycled Amazon trash, pin a name on it and fire it up.

Some say that the existential crisis humanity will all face from the inevitable maturation of A.I. will be unsubtle, swift, and surprising --And, um-like... well, existential? So what exactly does that mean?
​Well... I'm at this one party, amongst brighter, better looking, more affluent, and far more well-heeled people, who would dare to even speak with a nearly untouchable scum-bag like me, I often exchange blasé' volleys such as answering, "What do you do for a living?", or "What kind of car do you drive?", or some such about the weather, A tragic event, Political faux pas, or even (gasp) a question about a sporting outcome. And I often wonder like you do -- Why is it that nobody knows how to chat anymore?
When I go out to dinner, and pat my hip where my phone should be, like a smoker taps her toast, or an alcoholic washes down osso bucco with vodka... I don't despair, because as each and every other person in the restaurant is up-lit and aglow with their blue screen, scanning QR codes, to order and pay, and texting their friend directly in front of them, before Insta-gramming, the plate they will never really see, food they never tasted, or live streaming their vacuous visit to the bathroom... I continue to talk with my few remaining analog-world friends using an unplugged a cappella voice. I smear some bread in olive oil, and I chew the old school way, assured that my phone is safely on my kitchen counter, where it will sleep all alone well beyond my return home; Perhaps until the next morning when I will likely catch back up with it, and all that miraculous robot inspired shit which I may have missed. I figure 12 hours is just enough time to neglect the angry fuck-tard robots.

When I travel, I often wander unaware, in awe of the vistas, and compelling people, without reference to "recommended" spots, "Google Maps", or an online "hit-list" of "Must See Spots" written by a stranger (or robot) someplace on the innerwebs. I may also get a bit lost, using that paper map from the front desk of my hotel, or the grimy info booth at the train station. It may take me a while to realize that I'm truly lost, and without much ado, I'll likely sit down some place to have a bite, thumbing grease through a paper menu, and orienteering with a mis-folded paper map which will likely get a bit of food and a smeer of some such mess upon it, before I will re-fold the whole mess back into my pants pocket. Actually my pocket isn't a cool-ass slit on the side of my lycra leggings, because I just have the regular pants kind of pockets, and they may not be quite as sexy or slimming as a sheer body-suit with a lump-like bulge for my gadgets, but they do work to keep keys coins, and the poorly folded filthy maps  and money and  such handy.


When I go to a rock show, I actually watch the band, en-vivo (GASP!), regardless of how small they may appear from my cheap seats, and I'll rail against the temptation to watch the whole show from the far tinier 2 x 4 inch glow of that one dick-face directly in front of Row 234, seat 7A, holding his screen up in everyone's way. Somehow I get the feeling that nobody (even that Dick-Head holding his device in the air right in front of my face for each and every fucking song for two tedious hours) [Nobody] will ever see that low-light, shit-tastic video of this entire show buried in his phone. I'm also pretty sure even the fuck-wit in front of me, and the one five seats to his left, and the girl two down... have yet to see any of the performance themselves. When the clapping comes -- Because they both have a piss warm IPA in their left hand and a phone in their right... None of the thirty-eight-hundred of those other D-bag zombies in the same venue holding both beer and phone, could clap. But what cool person would do that anyway?

When I walked along the ocean, listening to the sea, and skipping stones, I often brush past and perhaps even photo-bomb a really fucking hot young couple who know exactly how to hold their phone just perfectly -- Because the app tells them how -- And the GPS point which  is most meaningful, give or take a few Millimeters. The Robot even tells them from what angle to snap the perfect post-able image. I realize they are really in love with themselves or each other, or whatever -- But I also wonder if they've left their shoes on simply because they forgot they were actually at the beach; Or if the app told them that the outfit wouldn't show up as well if they were a few centimeters shorter. Anyway, the sunset which they never saw was lovely, that night, and they giggle and pout their lips and angle the camera from above to shadow their weak chins and improve their hunched drop-neck postures, to remarkable fanfare from "friends" afar. I continue with my feet in the water until I'm completely immersed to cover my undies, and I realize that being in my underpants may not be what they wanted as their back-drop, but they can just use a filter to soften my form into fuzz for their dissolving bokeh horizon, and a shit-ton of digital applause.
Do you think the A.I. is also this conceited, or have they not fed that data into it's way smart mechanical mouth yet.

Saturation by A.I. Driven Dark Thoughts, and Horror, will certainly come to this new world when A.I. finally matures, right?
Somebody said the other day something about some such political event, and I remember that they were all up in arms, and later they were losing sleep because they heard such and such about this one really horrific event "that really fucking happened!", and how barbaric the slaughter was, and the sheer inhumanity of it was of a scale which would surely give rise to more violence, and more blood-shed, and they just had to tell me all about what I should definitely also be losing sleep about, ...and that these "Um like, one terrorist dudes were so fucking bad...", as they showed me some grotesque, but blurry images of some such atrosity some place. And so I took a sleep aid to fall asleep that evening and was restless all fucking night and my dreams were fitful and startling, and I could not focus for days at work, until I read in a real live newspaper that all of those images which were fucking aweful, "could not be corroberated by fact checkers in both the government nor in the media and soldiers may have exaggerated, etc..." and that perhaps they were actually even, "um-like faked". The next night I finally slept rather well. Until someone else reminded me about the hurricane, and the wild fire, and the Tsunami, and the bomb blast, which I was supposed to definitely follow on this one guys blog, and this one news feed, because I should stay up on current events of gastly proportions, and... "um-like  I should also be losing sleep as well, dude", said the robot.

And Last night right before bed I'd set the thermostat lower because it was a cool autumn night, and I knew this for a fact because my phone said so, and Also I had just come back from a long walk with the dog, and so I could corroborate with my (smart)-Phone that it was in fact a cool breezy autumn evening, and later when I woke up to grab another blanket, (because I was chilly) I glanced over at my Dumb-Fuck "Smart" thermostat, and it was set to 64 and was running for a while now rotating that tiny wheel on my electric meter so fast that I'm pretty sure I should be getting an SMS from the electrical utility to let me know I would be punished, and... Well I had to actually remove the piece of shit Nest Thermostat from the wall to get back to my icy sheets to try to catch up on sleep with all of these climate tragedies, and terrorists, humming this one live version of this one live track that I think I recall seeing on this one guy's tiny glowing device right in front of my face, and I think I remember him and his girlfriend checking this one blog with some other fucking tragedy, and some really fucking beautiful people on the beach at sunset, and I fell a sleep and I think that I'd dreamt about living in the woods, in a sod home, with an elevator, and wickedly fast satellite internet that I wasn't paying a dime for, but I didn't sleep well, so I cannot be certain.
Later just before dawn, I woke up cuddled my dog, and checked my phone for air-fares to anywhere but here. And... I recall that post by that one blogger who seemed to agree with that one billionaire who was also definitely wearing the same fucking cool ass shoes and the same T-shirt as that one dude in front of me at the concert who ruined the show. Seems the Robot already got to them, by making everyone dress alike. Both of whom seemed to keep popping up in my side-bar on the airfare web-page... and they both were discussing the "Existential threat" and the future of A.I., and they both had the same phone in the same silver phone case in their right hand, and a glass of tepid water in the other, and they were gesturing animatedly about how amazing A.I. would be, in the future...
The Future. (laugh)
The next night was Saturday, and after the play, We were out with some analog friends at a bar chatting with some newer A.I. people lit from below by the blue glow of someone's phone, and The good looking one said, "Um-like, what do you think about this new A.I. thing?" Existentially? I took a slow sip of my stale Red Bordeaux, and I told him, "The Fucking Internet already Fucked up the whole Mother-Fucking planet, and I blame Google and The fuck-tard Robots for your total lack of understanding of the word Existential"!

Nearly every single vegetable despised as a child is now a fucking "small plate" served at the bar down the street.
"Elevated" "Pub Fare". "Gastro". "Food-Centric". "Craft-Made". "Mom Inspired". "Farm-to-Table", "Saw-Dust" "Seasoned-Cardboard", "Genuinely-Bullshit", "Lunatic-Leaning", "Rather-Crappy", 'Way-Too-Salty', 'Freaky-Fried', High-Margin, ..Just-Plain-Shitty!

My first premeditated civil disobedience epiphany  materialized when I was 4 years old, at the dinner table.  My defiant guerilla mission was to conceal my undesirable sodden vegetables carefully upon the filthy pull-out ledge just below our retracted dining table. I'm not sure how my siblings did it, but I simply could not eat the Brussel Sprouts we were served.  My perfect crime of concealment came to me (like all bad ideas) as an infallible plan. Out of sight, out of mind -- Up from my fork to to rest just below the table --  and I'd immediately  be back to playing with toys.
I was soon found out, however,  because I didn't calculate vegetable concealment a few feet leftward where my Brothers would be implicated.  As it went, The Maître d' re-seated me as penance for my hunger strike,  sitting for hours to smell and contemplate my crime at the table alone until well after the ten-o-clock news had ended . I did not win.  What IS worse than a warm vegetable which you do not prefer -- Is the same vegetable four to five hours later covered with lint, wood-dust, and teak oil.   
"Don't do the crime if you cant spare the time"   Don't do it.
Today any astute adult-ish human may notice that all the crap-tastic vegetables which were reviled in ones youth are Couture Gastro-Pub fare today.
If you visit your local bar today,  you have many food options of course, but the pretense that the double fried Brussel Sprouts, or the singular "Vegetarian Option" of Beet Carpaccio, are actually the very same Vegetables you would have gladly sat out your parent's detention to avoid.  The humble fried Potato now taking a back seat to an entire head of Fried Cauliflower, served with a ranch dip.  As for the fool, and their money -- Parting company comes when a person briefly seeks a so called healthy post work-out alternative to nachos, only to find that the "Vegetarian" option is now 4X removed from the vegetable it had grown into.  Vegetables are now brined and double deep fried in beef fat. The New Apps are a suitable alternative to the passe' offence of a Burger and Fries, but these are not the "Healthier Option".

The reason for the move by Food service un-towards the ghost of  their vegetable past, was (is) simple -- Your rejected childhood culinary health-plan, boiled and blanched Margarine slathered Marginalized garden glory turned to gore, was on the outs circa the bicentennial. All of those peripheral vegetables, would be siloed for the new kids on the block, who would soon be eating Hot Dogs, Hot Pockets, and Canned Soup casseroles .  When America fell in love with TV Dinners, the writing was on the wall that what once resembled food would take a hiatus, or even go deep-six undercover on a Nepalese sabbatical for the foreseeable few decades. In 1978, "Food Service Distribution" was not yet a global empire thing. I'm rather sure The butcher and the Milk-man were still banging the "Maid".  When I was a kid,  the Food Paradigm began the seismic  shift, at a time when Pub fare was still a Mixed-Nut machine with a 4o watt bulb, a bowling alley pizza drawer, and the occasional Friday night fish fry at the VFW.  A generation would pass recipe cards for clever casseroles blended with Canned soups, shredded cheddar, and Boxed Mixes such as Hamburger Helper.  Frozen Entrees would replace baked Chicken, and potatoes. Cordon Bleu would soon come home in cardboard.

The Future needs you to understand a few things
The Future will be challenging
The Future will have no pretty people in it
The Future will not have chicken on the menu
The Future will acquit, and bring new charges
The Future will have exactly two safe spaces
The Future will not support carplay
Some
The Future avatars have legs
The Future may contain tree nuts
The Future will learn to wash its hands
The Future prefers to walk
The Future will smell like Fabuloso
The Future will not feature the F150
Day
The Future will learn to fill the dishwasher correctly
The Future will ban many books
The Future will respect women
The Future is known in the state of CA to cause cancer
The Future will not charge extra for hot sauce
The Future will impose a watering ban
Trump
The Future may cause nausea diarrhea & vomiting
The Future will resent its parents
The Future will outlaw crime
The Future is not a vegan
The Future will open photos on both  Android and Apple
The Future will only serve coffee black
The Future will take public transit
Will
The Future rewards dissent
The Future will have pollution
The Future will floss regularly
The Future will not serve Hazy IPA's
The Future will reward the wrong ideas
The Future will create opportunities for a select few
The Future will not give a trophy for attending
The Future asks that you silence your phone
Be
The Future was held-up in a ransomware attack
The Future will shop for its own fucking groceries
The Future will eat shellfish
The Future will quash dissent
The Future would prefer that you grow-the-fuck-up
The Future is selfish
The Future comes flat-packed
The Future seems to repeat itself
Indicted
The Future does not add any gratuity
The Future bags its own groceries
The Future will make you understand
The Future cares a lot about your feelings
The Future is BYOB
​The Future owes you nothing
The Future does not give a fuck about your feelings
The Future carries narcan
And
The Future swings both ways
The Future jails wishy washy people
The Future is Coed
The Future outlawed Catsup
The Future watches futbol
The Future serves ketchup
The Future has no fraternities
The Future outlawed plastic bottles
The Future comes pre-chopped
The Future will put the seat down
A Few
The Future provides mandatory swim lessons
The Future makes its own fun
The Future tires of your racism
The Future plays games together
The Future comes with significant risk of falling
The Future does not want to see your pre-wedding photos
The Future fears the past
The Future will not work from home
Years
The Future will serve peanuts on airlines
The Future will charge for sex
The Future has no line at the DMV
The Future requires assembly
The Future is a perfect roommate
The Future bears a ton of the responsibility
The Future will not stand so close to me
The Future rhymes with orange
The Future carries liability insurance
Later
The Future is disappointed in you
The Future rolls their own
The Future contains saccharine
The Future is served neat
The Future knows what 'Small-Plates' means, thank you!
The Future wants you to stop doing everything for your kids
The Future saw what you did
The Future believes in Santa, but not the Easter Bunny
He'll
The Future is full of opportunities
The Future promotes from within
The Future is dual voltage
The Future is still stuck in traffic
The Future outlawed decaf
The Future is safe to walk in public
The Future will wait its own fucking turn
The Future  is not unprecedented
The Future is self-cleaning
Be
The Future wears stretch-pants
The Future carries a few extra pounds
The Future does not give a fuck
The Future wants you to be happy
The Future has room for improvement
The Future celebrates honesty
The Future is permanent press
The Future censors idiots and fuck-tards
The Future is much quieter
Dead.

Prove to me you are a human, and then we'll talk.
Most People won't try stuff that they know they will totally suck at.
For me it's dancing. Dance like so many other human endeavors seem to be well simulated by A.I. now, (on-screen at least) but dance used to be considered an exclusively human sport.  It's fair to say that A.I. likely danced better than me well before A.I. was even a thing; But if you live in the simulation, do we need real dancers anymore?
Pleading with the A.I. right before it replaces you on the dancefloor seems a tad bit foolish. We should feel a touch ashamed when we can no longer generate an original thought, or pop a move glued to our screens. The new robot beats us to the Discotheque to spin off some sweet moves.  Today, writing a Dear John Letter to a GPT may be the wrong way reconcile your right to dance. (See also Kevin Bacon). 
Shouldn't we just let the machines decide?
It turns out human proof is getting tougher to find. Petitions, are generally penned to convince people of something which one could not be taken for at their word. Whether you consider yourself well informed, or are a generic sceptic, There is a maddening emergence of gullible fucks in this world. They run parallel to smarter and smarter artificial intelligence, so it's no wonder we were duped by tech to stay home and stare at screens, buy stuff, and forfeit our fancy moves for an occasional twerk.
Most people will buy any story and buy any product if influenced to do so (on-line). This is largely owed to aspiring to be something which we are not -- While The same baseline humans may require convincing to just try a new food. Meanwhile the flotsam and jetsam of mediocrity merely clutter our path to extinction? It would seem the game has already been lost, before we woke to protest.
Should we develop nonhuman minds that might eventually outnumber, outsmart, obsolete and replace us?
One rung up the listless ladder, clings the self-described sentient humans, who may have tired of fast-fashion, botox, Ozempic., and the corollary Social Media pressure to "be like" someone else. In the 0.0 cult, we won't despair our dashed aspirations, because they were simply unrealistic., e.g. 0.0.
This second tier species still subscribe to Magazines, and (gasp) Newspapers, They may have season tickets to theater, opera, and may even read hard-cover books before bed.  The latter complain about the same shit as the former, but believe that their complaints are well reasoned and self evident.  The tide of blasé beige who we swim against daily, are standard issue skeptics. Whereas both groups seem to await an extinction event, which nobody wants to discuss; The third group thinks they can outsmart the monster -- Don't they always (See also Jeff Goldblum)
Mid course Refresher of irrationally simplified even nasty General Categories:
A. The zombie army cleaning their AR's awaiting instructions from their Orange-In-Chief.
B. The other half  is reading the paper, and Considering  their environmental harm.
C. A splinter tech faction writes a rhetorical letter to their own Computer for mercy.
Pop Quiz: Are we prepared to fail magnificently?
Most of us seem unfazed by the hot topic of Advanced A.I.'s new world order, except of course for those who wrote the code.  So is this like Oppenheimer and the "A" Bomb? one of history's holy shit moments.  Meanwhile, Today's Most over-worked media catch-word is: "Unprecedented".  (See also Trumps first indictment, tra-la-la!)
Should we risk loss of control of our civilization?
Me, I'm ready, (I think) for cleverly written A.I. Dramas, and Books, and Jokes, and Blogs, and News.  No screenwriter will ever get bored, or get writer's block; so episodes will go on forever, and ever. Fade to  "White Lotus" 2035 in Space.
A.I. driven wall street bets, and A.I. fueled political fires have been burning for a long time. Sure, nobody loves when A.I. hacks their Email, their identity, nor their bank account, but nobody will need email if friendly A.I. fields every question, and replies to every text. 
​Self assured dictators will soon consult A.I., to make their next strategic move, as the ancient Oracle of Delphi once used Facebook to plan your weekend?
 "Should we let machines flood our information channels with propaganda and untruth? "
Ok Wait! Stop! What?... This was actually written in the "Open Letter" signed by Elon Musk.
You can conserve water while our common ground smolders, but shouldering the blame to date for a divisive split falls largely upon a Gen-1 A.I. called Social media. Sorting people into silos is what social media billionaires got rich from. Perhaps we will all be played against each other by our smarter A.I., as we have since the ancient times when Google and Facebook ran amok with our shopping lists, venomous Twitter rants, and tasteless Take-out food. But there is also a chance that better A.I. would consider a broader swath of data, than the captive format it uses now which keeps America blindfolded & bickering. 
There is a human element missing from our Selfish-America-Game which makes people seem so despicable, yet is it really Group A's fault that they lack free will? 
From the first flick of a pinball, sinking past both flippers without a bounce -- You know.
By the third swallowed ball, holding your quarter you think, 'Bad luck', 'The table isn't level'?..
'Both'? Dastardly! -- The dark art of predictable placement is the handmaid of Social Media.  Hell, choice left the building circa 2002. What makes a country of has-been celebrity-crazed narcissists so un-appealing, and un-inspired? It's not our collective inability to enjoy ourselves as built,  -- But not knowing why we are miserable that is concerning. (coveting what we don't have is A.I. v.1).
...And perhaps it's our reticence to change our minds which keeps us hovering over the abyss of human entropy.  For our acute void of free thought, we can blame our laziness and the "information age".  Today, some of  the same people who have testified to Congress that their Platforms are "safe", and "fair", are warning us against a smarter version of the game they built... the one unshaped by them.
"Should we automate away all the jobs, including the fulfilling ones?"
Today the Musk-siah, and The Venerable Woz, wrote a petition asking if we would  all mind just pumping the brakes on this treacherous new road to A.I.  Their "Open Letter" (a petition) claims that the world is just not quite ready for full frontal robot, at least without some curbs built-in to stay the course, and to keep us out of the gutter. Psssshh! Paaleeeze!
"Implement a set of "shared safety protocols for AI development", which would be overseen by "independent experts".
Me, I was an average bowler, I drive like a teenager, I'm likely a bad kisser, and a far worse dancer, and yet I have no interest in dating an A.I. (as yet), so I think I'm safe.
A few months ago, I got a Roomba mis-delivered to my house, and I promptly sold it unopened on Ebay.  I'm not ready for robots in my home, and I think I'm also not ready to be pen-pals with the GPT thingy, let alone tantric machine-language android love. (see also Cobol aka (/ˈkoʊbɒl, -bɔːl/; an acronym for "common business-oriented language")) My utter lack of technical expertise further underscores why I'm not yet a signatory of the "Open Letter" to the great and Powerful A.I.  
Failure has always been one of your options, perhaps not your Plan B, but always lurking.
I really don't know, but it is a real lark to hear pundits preach around the A.I. crisis, at schools and universities.  Last week a  dumb-shit cosigner said that advanced A.I. is nothing more than "Word Processing Program", or "... um-like Spell Check", or perhaps like that One HP12c Calculator you used in Trig, and Calculus in the 90's
The funny thing that Androids, Advanced A.I., and Narcissists all have in common is a complete lack of shame. This is why one should peek under the hood of lord Tesla, to find what Musk's ulterior motive may be to petition all of Humanity against advancing A.I. right at this moment.  I am of course a bad judge of people, and I don't know much about anything else... But as sure as squirrels enjoy pizza, I know that Musk could give two shits about your particular robot love affair with Chat GPTxxx, or about Google doing your Math Homework.  There is something deeper in his code, which should be sniffed out. Like Pizza?  
Is it that his Car's Autopilot,  Dogecoin Farm, and several of his startups are about to be hacked by a nearly sentient server with evil urges somewhere in New Zealand?

Josh Edelson//Getty Image


Donald Trump Is Going to Burn It All Down to Save Himself
Even an objective press should recognize that, objectively, he is a true threat who has flipped his lid.

By Charles P. Pierce

PUBLISHED: MAR 24, 2023 Esquire Magazine
SAVE ARTICLE
Not to put too fine a point on it, but the former president* of the United States is a dangerous fcking lunatic and he's decompensating quickly. Read this goddamn thing, it's the kind of stuff that makes people change subway cars.

It no longer matters whether or not he's playing a role or playing everyone for fools. He knows what his more dangerous devotees actually hear when he starts raving like this. It no longer matters whether or not he's doing all this out of abject terror of being hauled before the bar in two states and the District of Columbia. Even quaking on his golden throne, he can still bring the temple down on his own head. Especially since the entire Republican Party is lending him its support. And he knows it, too, because he won't shut his digital gob.
Trump post on Truth Social on March 23.
"What kind of person can charge another person, in this case a former President of the United States, who got more votes than any sitting President in history, and leading candidate (by far!) for the Republican Party nomination, with a Crime, when it is known by all that NO Crime has been committed, & also known that potential death & destruction in such a false charge could be catastrophic for our Country?...Why & who would do such a thing? Only a degenerate psychopath that truely hates the USA!"
​Not even the fundamental incoherence, the random capitalization, or the laughably bad spelling matter any more. An ungrammatical death threat is still a death threat. Not all dangerous lunatics can write like Ted Kaczynski.
If it wishes to save itself, the entire system must devote itself to the task of getting this guy out of public life forever. Every criminal prosecution should hit the afterburners. Every civil suit must proceed apace. The Democratic Party should dedicate itself, body and soul, to hanging this decrepit bag of poison around the neck of every Republican, local and national.
If you have Republicans on your town council, they must answer for him as surely as his congressional acolytes and enablers must. His name should be a political curse for generations to come. This is going to require people in my business to unshackle themselves from some of the more staid norms and customs of the tribe. This is a time for plain-speaking, with as much contempt and derision as we can muster. All the chips are falling, and we should take as a guide-star the principles articulated by William Lloyd Garrison when he launched The Liberator in 1831.
I am aware that many object to the severity of my language; but is there not cause for severity? I will be as harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice. On this subject, I do not wish to think, or to speak, or write, with moderation. No! no! Tell a man whose house is on fire to give a moderate alarm; tell him to moderately rescue his wife from the hands of the ravisher; tell the mother to gradually extricate her babe from the fire into which it has fallen; — but urge me not to use moderation in a cause like the present. I am in earnest — I will not equivocate — I will not excuse — I will not retreat a single inch — AND I WILL BE HEARD.The time for moderate alarms is long past.
related story

• Trump Can Always Get Darker

CHARLES P. PIERCECharles P Pierce is the author of four books, most recently Idiot America, and has been a working journalist since 1976. He lives near Boston and has three children. 

Today I got a note taped to my door.  It said simply, "No one will love you like Jesus".
And... of all of our friends, and strange neighbors -- I couldn't place who the sender may have been.  I pocketed the mystery, and told my wife later that evening that I thought I should begin to refer to myself in the third person like the great detective Hercule Poirot, who often describes overlooked facts at the Scene of the Crime with phrases like, "Poirot could plainly see that our killer would miss the detail of the letter in a dwindling fire".  Naturally my wife thought I was nuts, and begrudgingly but indulgently asked me hyperbolically, "(and),...Why will you be referring to yourself in the Third Person forthgoing?" So, I explained that, "With all the lunacy of pronouns these days, taking back sovereign command of language was tasked to every story teller, and that It may also make me seem more interesting.  (I also was thinking about the mystery of the "Jesus Note" And wondered if perhaps thinking like one of literature's best detectives, couldn't hurt to uncover the sender).  So from now on, I could use my own name instead of saying "I would like to order the Walleye", I would say, "Monsieur will have the Walleye"... Perhaps this snazzy literary convention would command authority, sharpen my language skills,  and even help to expose the mystery of the Person who'd taped the note to my door.

What is the Messiah's Favorite sport?           
In spite to the smoldering intellectual fire I've surely become -- From today forward I will identify as a compelling (smart)  Belgian Detective, and solve these mysteries.

There was of course the possibility that Jesus him<them>self  placed that note -- But to what end?  Was I to find this phrase inspirational?  I mean if Jesus wanted to reach out, could they not have texted, rang the bell, or just shown themself in?
I thought about the mystery phrase "No One will love you like Jesus", its holy type font,  plain paper, and even their choice of cellophane tape -- And I thought this was all standard issue Jesus-grade office supplies. (modest, efficient, effective).  Whereas in my heart, I thought the better of this note having been the hand of God -- I knew that deep fakes were everywhere, and that the Lord being quite clever, needn't troll "Truth Social" with A.I. generated deep fake clips to reach me.  Jesus does after all identify as the Messiah right?

As a kid I thought it odd each time someone at Church would mention "The Mystery of Life". I recall contemplating this strange "mystery" phrase repeated throughout a service as antithetical. What was "the mystery", when will it be solved.  We all seemed quite textural, and tangible.  Does this "mystery" make the Pastor, Priest, or Rabbi, a detective?
If everyone sees Life as a mystery, then aren't we all detectives like Scooby and Shaggy, or Fred and Daphne?  What about Velma?
What of the Mystery Machine? Was this slick Custom Van, the vessel of the big mystery of life? A Tardis?  I coveted a carpeted custom van when I was a kid, but we drove a rusty station wagon. Today I still covet a Chrysler Pacifica, but cant afford one.
Today I thought that while it may be true that Jesus could 'love me the best'..., I'm sure he says that to everyone, by way of encouragement -- but it's a nice thought.

Jesus.  #TheRealMessiah, has a shit-ton of Instagram followers.  

So the very next day, I'd considered what Agatha Christie's  great detective Poirot  would  say on the matter, "The Little Grey Cells" ...and I began to think like I was a smart detective, while keeping a Shaggy self-image  affixed in my head.
"No one will love you like Jesus" ...At least those girls in college would leave me alone the next morning. 
As far as great minds go, I knew that mine had already fizzled, and could use a resurrection. But this is why I soon drifted off topic to thinking about God, The Lord's favorite food, (should he be dropping by again), The Messiah's favorite book, beverage, game -- And even contemplated  Jesus' favorite sport -- which segued me to an obvious, serene, and even sleepy sport one could command atop fluffy cloudscapes, and I arrived at Golf. 
I thought that If Jesus were hanging around just before the holiday, wouldn't he be out Golfing, rather than dropping hints at my door?
"The Messiah Prefers to golf".
And what about this sport, Golf? Would it be one of his proudest accomplishments, or recanted as a wasteful backdrop for non-church weddings, sipping bourbon, smoking cigars, and generally running out the clock on humanity at large? 
Popular as it may be, Golf is a rather elitist sport, meant to burn up time away from family, and so it follows that Jesus may have preferred a more condensed common-place sport such as Soccer or Surfing.  Which is why I then tried to think a bit harder like the Great Detective to reason what sport Jesus would be hungry for, when he rolled away the stone. 
Hunters: 96.4% white 55.7% male
PGA Golfers: 91% white 96% male
Popes: 99.99999% white 100% male

By the numbers More women Hunt, than men that Golf, but women don't factor much in the liturgy. In spite of our less advantaged population finding 140 acres per Golf course to be an abhorrent waste of land and resources... only 5,440,960 acres of nitrogen dumping algae blooming closely cropped grass is dedicated to Golf.
​Golfers do blow nearly 2.81 Billion on new clubs and shoes each year, when they all know in their heart that practice & fitness would shrink their strokes, literally, and caring for themselves would please Jesus. What will not save a mediocre golfer's soul is a fatter sweet-spot on a new driver the size of a cantaloupe. 
Americans alone spent $902,356,259. just for "legal" hunting tags in 2020. And although I doubt that Jesus would have completed the Colorado Hunter safety course, he is also not likely an avid hunter. One may assume shooting all the shit your Dad invented would be bad press.
Jesus, (the one who left me the nice note) shared lessons of love, and reconciliation, Jesus  invented so many modern conveniences like: "Reply All" "Gender Neutral Bathrooms" (Thanks Velma), and as many mysteries, like "Marshmallow Peeps" "NA Beer", and "Line Dancing".
So as amateur detective, in the "Mystery of Life" I feel it fair to assume that the Jesus wrote me that note,  ...likely not be a Gun Owner -- but would perhaps prefer a line caught trout with pasta when he next visits.

Myself, not being an avid Golfer, and being clumsy on the pitch, I'd prefer to imagine my own personal Jesus (who is prolly pretty good at every sport BTW), was reaching out just to let me know that with Easter break right around the corner... he'd make time for me, should I wish to hook up in Morocco, or Nicaragua for a long weekend with some tasty waves.
"The Mystery of Life"  and "The Good News" (strange concepts when I was young) -- Later  unsurprisingly I'd learned that  major mythology, fables, leaders, & religions regularly repurposed resurrections to re-kindle their base. History shows that just as modern churches are often built upon pagan temples, (good real-estate will always be changing hands in dispute driven by religion) -- Pagan-esque fables also proudly featured resurrections throughout history, but the award for  The Most Staying Power goes to Christians for using Resurrection as "good news" for millennia. I'd have to say that if you are ever really tanking on social media, you should be super careful how you and your friends arrange your resurrection stunt.
​The Easter Bunny seems to also come and go, and I'm sure Jesus Knows that I am not a practicing Catholic, and a shit detective... but because I do live beside a massive Basilica -- I've checked my door several times for notes. I've compulsively combed through the mail, and still... nothing more from Jesus.

I may never solve the "Mystery of Life", nor even this simple note; ...so I scrounged up some paper, a pen, and tape, and Today I left a note on the front door of the neighboring church, that said,
"J.C., Thanks for your note,    P.S.  Monsieur has Good Friday off, if you're free to surf."

Leave your 44 cm bar at home and No one gets hurt.

If I were to say that I am "All for Inclusion" -- That would be a lie.  I do (of course) always welcome a good argument on "diverse" topics, but I generally draw the line on Biology.
More specifically the Biodiversity of Bullshit.  In cycling events there are a few hard rules we agree to follow to keep things safe, and 'fair'.  When athletes sign up for amateur races, they have to sign a waiver, stating that they won't sue the sponsors if they crash.  They also generally tell the truth about their age, and gender so they can compete somewhat fairly against other people in far better physical condition, but with similar birthdates and chromosomes.

And May the Better Man Win

These are reasonable social constructs which make participation in an event exciting, and worth  the entry fee.
Wherever you reside on the totem pole of ability -- It is generally only your fault that you didn't medal, or (gasp) didn't finish (DNF).
What happens when you sign up for the men's elite category 46-55, and with a reasonable chance of success in your age range, you are beaten outright?  No trophy, No medal, No prize money... Just roll your bike off the course, and onto your hitch-rack -- Start your engine, and seek consolation in a cheeseburger.
"He's Going the distance... He's going for Speed"

It is fine to feel upset. It's understandable to feel disappointment..., but it's your own dumb-shit fault for thinking you could ever win against a woman, right?
You are 5-foot 2-inches, 101 lbs, of lean muscle, who worked the better of two years  training for this race.  Two weeks ago the race organizers mailed you your race number, and today it's pinned and ready to get filthy. You signed up for this Elite Women's race 6 months ago, having tracked great successes winning 4th, 3rd, 2nd, 3rd, and 1st in your last five races, and you know statistically that you stand a great chance of winning this one.  Before the gun goes off, you sweat the starters at the line whom you have raced against many times, but now (today) beside you is  a  219 lb, 6-foot 2-inch 40-something man in a pink bunny-skull body-suit smiling coyly at you like a gay bartender from the love-boat, and smelling quite ripe.
Your pulse quickens, and your ears get hot... Your initial thought is to second guess you are in the right race time.  It's 2:00.  This is the right slot. 
Then you blush, and your mouth goes dry.  You are surrounded by your people, true...  you know many of them, and you have raced against several you see now, and then there is this dude who's nut-sack is straddling a 58 centimeter bike beside you. He is sporting a Three-o'clock shadow, adjusting a barrette before adjusting his helmet. 
Cheater's Pre-Race Checklist:

• 44 cm handlebar
• Men's size 12 Shoes
• Men's 58cm Carbon frame
• Men's shorts
• Adam's Apple
• Nut-sack
• Scratchy face
• Pink Fucking Helmet
• Teal eye-shadow...

Later at the podium they'll kick out the middle block before assembling XX, XY, XX for the photo-op -- because it would further embarrass second & third-place to have this massive dude-lady tower yet another 6 inches above you and your  gender aligned challenger.  

"He won".

'He won', is all that repeats in your pounding head. Your eyes go to pin-holes, your heart throbs, and your face heats crimson.  A dark mute tunnel-vision besets as you stand beneath this fucker at the podium. Second Place. Your family and friends in front of you fractal into a kaleidoscope of broken shards. 

​Second Place.

"He Won the Women's race today"