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Mrs. MacLovely’s Lone Scruple
On the Attitude of Submission and Sissy Metaphysics from a Cosmic Oatmeal Cookie
I have wondered often at the sudden and near total emasculation of American manhood and more importantly the precipitous collapse in all morality to the point of inversion, amongst both genders, and even including the creation of numerous false genders in an orgy of self-deification among meat-puppet kind. At this point it is difficult to accuse Americans of humanity without a smirk.
The rise of the smartphone is an obvious correlating factor. I have generally assumed that the abrupt plummet in modern morality, sanity and masculinity was associated with the fact that the smartphone acts as an Everyman Oracle, a provider of guidance in travel, lust, love, library curation and even as a moderator, being used to judge facts presented in arguments and words spelled in Scrabble. I thought there was some causation due to easy information imbibition.
Then, yesterday the Land Lady was listening to some cosmic oatmeal cookie self-improvement guru who described the posture of the smartphone use as mirroring supplication and genuflection, from chimps, to Persian satraps, to Turkish slave girls, beaten boxers, surrendering kings, the kissing of a pope’s ring…
Then it occurred to me, that hoodrats on busses, as soon as smartphones got into their unwashed paws, stopped messing with me. Their aggression almost ceased, with no spontaneous aggression coming from smartphone users. The aggressors were never wielding a smartphone, except in a support capacity calling in cops on successful defenders, videoing successful defenders to get them charged, or in service as a communications specialist for coordinating raiding parties, such as the smartphone scouts who followed me one night in two coordinating packs trying to encircle a victim in their hunt.
Then, today, as I walked down into Bantuistan, I found myself behind a young buck warrior who was waltzing along in the attitude of submission, eyes downcast into his open hand, mesmerized by his smartphone. I crossed the street so as not to startle him when I passed and saw him there from the side, oblivious as to my presence and looking passively into his hand like my Mother taking the Holy Communion wafer from the priest at church. The smartphone puts one in the attitude of simian submission, the act of contrition, communion, genuflection and righteous abasement. It is the social navel of a self-obsessed society, the Delphic oracle accessible to every fool, all day every day.
The cosmic oatmeal cookie guru is on to something.
When I think back to the numerous meltdowns into rage and or tears by recent companions, it does seem clear that the men like Miguel the Human Trafficker and Sensei Steve, who get their information mostly from upright confrontation with a computer screen, which they manipulate with a mouse, rather than using the infantile thumb or sitting passively back before a TV, that these two men have a winner versus looser view of the world. The more troubled men and all of the women, melting down in their rages and crying fits, seem to look up from their smartphone like a god who has just peered hopelessly into the well of his deepest fears and has emerged shattered by the realization that cruel Fate has stolen his immortal years.
Can there be something physiological and also metaphysical, about the adoption of the attitude of submission, with head and hand, as the normal human posture that has predisposed late-stage humanity to submission?
Have we permitted our churches to be closed and now look up from bended knee in hopes of approval from the New God Ebony, simply because most of us commit the act of contrition regularly?
Pondering this, I was reminded of my initiation into the arts of love at age 17, at the hands of my instructress, Mrs. MacLovely, a middle-aged cougar.
Our relationship began when she asked me how many pushups I could do. When I answered “fifty-six”, she wondered, “How many could you do if you had help?”
The answer proved uncountable, what with her coaching from the prone position with such approving candor.
The lady was missing a number of scruples to be sure and was willing to satisfy my every passionate curiosity.
There was nothing that Mrs. MacLovely would not do with me—at least not from the limited menu of options I could imagine. There was, however one thing that the insatiable matron would not grant me. She would not kneel, not for any man, not even for the one she erotically transformed.
So, that randy old slut, for all her faults, was stronger than this entire nation and it many cults, who closed their church doors according to secular, body-worshipping decree, whose once-proud bully boys submitted to a Degenerate Dusky God on bended knee.
A shotgun has been discharged 150 yards away, over my right shoulder, in an alley, as I finish this piece at 9:49 P.M. 6/9/20
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