The Gormogons

The House today passed a bill to allow interstate reciprocity of concealed carry. As you expect, social media is having a freak out over this, since of course a peaceful gun owner carrying his legal weapon into another peaceful state automatically means he becomes a raving lunatic.

As you know, the folks opposed to firearms are the real gun fanatics, because they’re completely unhinged on the subject and refuse to consider any facts on the issue. Most states already allow reciprocity. Like drivers licenses and gay marriage, states would be compelled to honor another’s sovereignty. The Czar need not point out that the news media and its social media stooges are crazy-nuts over this, proving they understand neither how Congress works (the House advanced a bill to the Senate; it has not declared anything law because Congress cannot do that), how concealed carry works (the only states that don’t allow it have even fewer requirements), and certainly don’t get what reciprocity means (“So this means some nut from a red state can totally trample on my blue state rights????”).

The bill, incidentally, received a lot of support from Democrats and a fair amount of opposition from Republicans. It increases—some say enhances—background checks to prevent some of the missteps that allowed recent mass murderers access to firearms they should not have had, and does not allow for Constitutional (“anything goes”) carry.

The intent of the bill is to prevent people legally licensed to carry a weapon in a concealed form from being arrested simply because they pass through another state. This is already the law in most states—although Illinois is perceived as one of the unfriendliest gun states, your Utah or Florida permit is acknowledged here. Not a big deal, right?

Well, that’s great if you’re a Utah resident and pass through Illinois. But if your drive takes you into New York, good luck—your concealed carry permit does not protect you very much, as you have to go through a lengthy and intentionally difficult process before local law enforcement—not elected and not challengeable—decides whether you can carry. That’s not reasonable law—for either the Utah visitor or a New York resident—and that’s what the bill attempts to correct.

Now, as everyone outside of the liberal world understands, the bill moves to the Senate. Its fate there is unknown—the party lines are tighter, but because some Republicans and Democrats are switching sides on this issue, one can’t say for sure whether it goes to the President (who has previously said he would sign it into law). It may actually garner enough support to be filibuster-proof, but whether that means it makes it into law will be anyone’s guess. The Czar expects it will pass, but barely.

And even if it does pass and President Trump signs it, what then? There is no guarantee the law can be easily applied. If you have a license to drive in North Carolina, you can drive in North Dakota, say bill supporters. This is true, but you are expected to obey North Dakota laws while there. The “drivers license” analogy falls flat—in fact, that’s pretty much what the law allows right now.

Further, federal law doesn’t require any state to honor any other’s drivers licenses: this form of reciprocity is a voluntary compact. Okay, but then consider this—driving isn’t a fundamental right. Indeed, it’s not even a broad right—it’s a privilege, as those of us old enough to remember grade school classes on the Constitution. Access to a weapon is a fundamental right, and driving isn’t. States are not allowed different laws for what’s allowed under freedom of speech, or your right to an attorney, and all 50 states agree on what “double jeopardy” means. Shouldn’t they all agree on what “concealed carry” allows?

Not helping any of this is that the House bill is cloaked in terms of the U.S. Commerce Clause, meaning that the Federal government has an overwhelming interest in ensuring national reciprocity for reasons only the bill writers truly understand (“necessary and proper”). Of course, conservatives should bristle at this, because so much of Obamacare, New Deal legislation, and welfare programs were jammed down our throats under that guise. While you may support the use of the Commerce Clause because it at least advances the bill into law, remember that the U.S. Commerce Clause almost invariably results in expanded government.

But maybe that’s not the point. Maybe the whole point is, indeed, getting the bill into law. Because then, once passed, it’s immediately appealed. As it moves back and forth through challenges and stays and upholdings, it works its way to the U.S. Supreme Court, who could agree in a split-decision that the law is unconstitutional under the Commerce Clause, but is unnecessary because Americans have a fundamental right to carry a weapon across state lines.

That then advances the next step—constitutional carry. If the Czar can carry a weapon openly or concealed in Arkansas, with no concern, why can’t he do so in California?

One thing is clear about firearms—legal challenges are the only way to get the Second Amendment recognized.

Every day, every doofus you hate in politics, media, and entertainment seems to be lining up for the fire exits. In fact, we’re seeing anywhere from three-to-five sex creeps being shown the door. At this rate, there will be no one left in the Washington, New York, or Hollywood spotlights by 2019, and the Czar, for one, cannot wait for this glorious golden age.

Let’s be honest here. These three epicenters of distaste have needed cleaning out since they were begun in 1776, 1880, and 1910, respectively. They were started as boys clubs, and they continued to be so. None of this is news: sex scandals go back to the earliest days of these institutions, with confirmed rumors of wild parties, perversity, and virtual or literal sex slavery. Do we really think the addition of women, people of color, and opposite orientation would magically eliminate the Delta Houses that run our culture? Actually, the 21st Century is showing that maybe, yeah, it can.

When the stories started to break about Harvey Weinstein a couple months ago, thousands of people correctly prognosticated that we have just lit the first match in this bonfire. And almost immediately, people waited for the political and media titans to follow. If you yourself did not make such a prediction, let the Czar explain to you why this was such an easy call for them to make. It requires no special genius or gift of foresight.

When child predators want to get closer to their victims, they pursue certain lines of work. (Ah! The Czar sees about two-thirds of you already figured out the trick.) For a long time, these monsters went into the priesthood, education, scouting, or park districts…because it was an easy way to be left alone with a group of potential victims. Starting in the 1970s, the first accusations began to be taken seriously, and by the 1990s, the floodgates were open. Today, a huge population of people on social media still believe that 99% of priests, scout leaders, and social workers are all unbridled child molesters and rapists…although they tend to be pretty blind to the abuse going on in teachers’ unions.

The reality is that most of these organizations began to clean house twenty years ago…maybe not as fast as they could have, and indeed many monsters still lurk in daylight. But the big broom cleaned out most of them, and the same thing is just beginning to happen in politics, media, and entertainment.

And that brings us to the easy prediction: there’s a certain personality defect that thinks it’s perfectly okay to grab women like a hungry person grabs melons* or thinks it’s fine to treat women like toys or personal property. And where do they go? Into places where they can be left alone with a group of potential victims. Look, there are a lot of women desperate to make it in politics, in the news media, or in acting. And while few of them are very dumb, just enough of them can be bullied into silence by threats of lawsuits and financial or career reprisals to make depredation as easy as grenade-fishing.**

So if you’re one of these sleazy guys, what do you do? Do you go into the real world where some woman will spray oleo resin capsicum into your face, or she or a significant other will put a fist into your throat? No—you go into the world of politics, mass media, or entertainment where pickings are easier. Heck, if you’re Senator Al Franken, maybe you do all three.

When you spot a politician who tries to break into the mainstream media, maybe you should be a little suspicious. When you see a news reader become more of a movie or television celebrity, you should suspect maybe he’s a little dirty, too. When you see an actor spout off about politics, be sure to wash your hands after shaking his. The more of these three circles a guy moves around in, you should expect he’s got a story or twenty that he wants kept really, really quiet.

*See what the Czar did there? He’s so much more classy than ‘Puter.
** Something else ‘Puter does with reckless abandon. The grenade-fishing part; not so much the depredation. He saves that for Twitter.

If you’ve been anywhere near Pinterest for the last 50 years, you know that Disney characters are even more interesting than smoking meats, building your own water filtration system, or ripping down Confederate statues. And the ability to draw a Disney character (really, any Disney character) elevates you to the level of godhood. In fact, no matter how new you are at art or how little experience you have, it’s essential to upload everything you have ever drawn to the internet so that the entire world can scoff at your incompetence.

So with that in mind, the Czar decided to run an experiment to see how each of the major Castle dwellers could draw a Disney character. We shan’t spoil the results, but we will say efforts were somewhat mixed, like that’s some surprise to you. The Czar didn’t require much effort to find a suitable subject: he simply did what he always does, and looked through an 11-year-old girl’s bedroom window to see what artwork she had on her wall. And there among all the pictures of someone named “Aiden,” he found a Disney character. This was easy to find on the internet, and the Czar could have simply done that, except that’s not nearly as fun. The picture you see here is a fish named Dory, from a movie the Czar recollects is named Finding Minnow. It seems she is a forgetful fish, and her character is hilarious because she suffers from obvious trauma to her hippocampus, which is always funny.

Dr. J.’s effort is pretty darn solid, even if he did apparently manage to set fire to the paper. We’re not quite sure he’s got the eyes right, but when you’re possessed by the Dark Side of the Force, or whatever, you probably assume everybody has crossed over. We asked him how he felt about his attempt, and he said it was “Good,” even “Gooood!” This is probably worth printing out and hanging up on the refrigerator. So go ahead, and we’ll wait while you do that.

He signed it, too, which is surprising. He sent us a very nice thank you note the other day, and it took like 6 attempts to read it because his handwriting is so terrible. Volgi has good handwriting, by the way. It’s very cool; it looks like he wrote the Voynich manuscript…which, as you know….

Speaking of obvious head trauma, Ghettoputer did a very nice job and managed to keep his paper clean of fecal smears. That’s definitely a fish, although it’s orange and not blue, and is facing the wrong way entirely. Also, the Czar is pretty clear that this fish has boobs. We have to give ‘Puter some credit for understanding Dory is a female character.

The Czar asked ‘Puter if those are bubbles around her head, since fish live in the water. He didn’t seem to get that, despite several attempts to explain, and finally confessed that, as he interprets the character, the fish is drunk because she’s a girl. We had GorT find the movie in his thumb drive (it’s literally his thumb), and ‘Puter has been watching it constantly for the last few days. His goal is to memorize and sing all the songs in the film for our annual talent show, and he continues to watch hoping a song appears in it at some point.

And that mention of GorT brings us to his attempt. Here it is. Basically, it’s a four-bit scan of the image that he wirelessly sent to a printer located somewhere in his lower back. Yes, he still uses thermal paper, but it’s what you would expect.

“You know, I could have done better,” GorT said to us, “but I just didn’t have the time.” This cracks us up: for a time traveling robot, who can go back in time repeatedly as often as he pleases, he never seems to have much time for anything. You’d think a time traveler would have better time management. As you frequently hear us mutter, if you don’t have time to do it right, you don’t have time to do it over. GorT chose to do neither, and, well, there we are. Fish have gray scales, apparently. And like ‘Puter’s fish, this one is pretty pixelated, too.

The Volgi, who apologizes for being so busy but he requires an entire week to get the stuff done that you typically do in a single afternoon, looked at the picture, nodded, and turned to head up to his room. “Are you doing one?” we asked. “Verily, I shall,” he replied. “Um, don’t you want to take the picture with you?” we suggested. “The master needs no model for his efforts; he merely looks within.”

He says crap like this all the time, and calls them analects. Anyway, he came downstairs about three weeks later and handed us this. It’s very nice, but it’s a carp. Personally, we think he really should have taken the fricking Dory picture upstairs with him, maybe looked at for more than ten seconds, but whatever: this picture is for sale in our gift shop and it’s worth probably $200 at a minimum. So we all win.

Hey, here’s the Czar‘s attempt. The Czar does like to draw, and he spent a fair amount of his younger years sketching and doodling stuff. Unfortunately, most of our efforts wind up looking like this. Not sure what we were so upset about that caused us to ruin another sheet of paper like this, but it was almost certainly related to that idiot cousin of ours who stole the true throne of Muscovy from us back in 1283. We know this looks bad, but don’t be grossed out: that isn’t fish blood.

Of course, we know you think we just grabbed something off the large pile of blood-soaked papers in our chambers, but if you look carefully, you will see that we took the time to write «Доры эта рыба», which helpfully informs the casual viewer that “Dory, that is a fish.” We must have been pretty pissed at somebody that afternoon.

“What the fresh hell is this?” you’re probably asking, and you’d be right. The Mandarin doesn’t exactly see the universe the way we do since he spends so little time in it. We keep looking at this, and from certain angles it kind of gets interesting, but it’s really not any type of fish we’ve ever seen. “Look closer,” the Mandarin said. “Maybe it’s one of those stupid magic eye things where a three-dimensional fish appears,” we said, and like a dumbass we walked around the Castle with this inches from our nose, bashing into things. “Well, sorta,” the Mandarin admitted. “But if don’t limit yourself to three dimensions,” which is the sort of crap he says all the time.

Great, so here are stumbling into furniture and guests and whatnot, and the Czar not only fails to see Dory in n-dimensional space, but he sees almost no blue at all in the picture. We showed it to some passing guest in the lobby, and we asked her “Does this look like a damned royal blue tang?” and all she did was say “I obey him in all things.”

So there’s that. Anyway, we have all but Volgi’s laying around the lobby of the Castle, so swing by and take a look. It does appear that GorT’s is being used as a coaster, at the moment, but maybe he could have spend more than 4 milliseconds on his. And maybe his would be in the gift shop, too.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Call me Ishmael. Hop on Pop. Dear Penthouse Forum. All great stories start with a memorable opening line. Not this one.

‘Puter really should start with some backstory. But, ‘Puter being ‘Puter, he won’t. The reader will just have to figure out Meaux and ‘Puter’s preexisting relationship for themselves.**

Our story begins in high school. ‘Puter and Meaux attended the same high school, which is odd because ‘Puter attended an all-male Jesuit school in DC and Meaux went to some Sconnie public school co-ed hellhole. But that’s not important right now.

Meaux was a vision of loveliness. She was a cheerleader, ran with the cool kids, and had the bitchin’-est beauty school perm of anyone in school.*** ‘Puter wasn’t any of that. ‘Puter was chubby, obnoxious, wore wide-wale corduroys, and had a bowl cut. ‘Puter and Meaux were anchoring two very distinct ends of the high school cool bell curve.

One day as classes were changing, Meaux stopped ‘Puter in the hall. ‘Puter remembers it as if it were yesterday. ‘Puter was in shock and, to be honest, a bit in awe. The early morning autumn sun glinted off Meaux’s dime-store permed hair as it does off a new Brillo pad. Meaux smiled her most fetching crooked smile, the drool pooling at the corner of her mouth only barely noticeable as it dripped in a near-constant stream to the linoleum below. Meaux clutched her Hello Kitty Trapper Keeper tight to her chest, popped her massive wad of Big League Chew gum, and asked ‘Puter to be her date at the movies that night, her treat. ‘Puter managed to control his bladder and squeaked out a barely audible, “Sure. Whatever.”

As Meaux languidly glided down the crowded hallway trailed by her phalanx of cheerleaders (tripping only twice and managing for once to avoid walking face first into the glass principal’s office door), ‘Puter nervously farted as he wondered what had just happened.

‘Puter arrived early for the 7:30 showing of “My Little Ponies” at Downtown Cineplex and Gun Shop and waited nervously outside for Meaux to arrive. Five minutes before the show was to begin, a small plane flew over trailing a banner reading, “’Puter, Meet Me Inside. Meaux.”**** Never one to disobey a plane-dragged sign, ‘Puter dutifully bought a ticket and went inside to find Meaux.

The previews had already started, and the theater was nearly dark. ‘Puter couldn’t find Meaux anywhere. Eventually, ‘Puter grabbed a seat and waited for Meaux to show up. Thirty minutes passed, and no Meaux. ‘Puter told himself he hadn’t been stood up, but he knew in his pudgy, cholesterol-clogged heart he had been. After softly weeping into the sleeve of his Members Only jacket for twenty more minutes, ‘Puter collected himself and left.*****

To this day ‘Puter blames himself for not seeing it coming.

As ‘Puter walked sullenly to his car, a 1972 puke-green Dodge Dart Swinger, his wide-wale corduroys softly voop-vooping as his fat thighs rubbed together, he saw them. Meaux and her cheerleading horde clad in matching uniform skirts, tops, and Tretorns in a perfect pyramid blocking ‘Puter from getting to his car. ‘Puter’s heart stopped. He knew at this moment he’d been set up, and there were only two outcomes for him: abject humiliation or super-uber abject humiliation. ‘Puter was betting on the latter, and he was not to be disappointed.

Meaux and the Golden Cheerleader Horde expertly disassembled the pyramid and assumed their (kind of) individual identities. Mocking me merciless, they encircled me while chanting savage cheers at me. ‘Puter vaguely remembers hearing “YOU’RE A LOSER! YES YOU ARE! YOU’RE A LOSER! SO’S YOUR CAR!” and “TWO FOUR SIX EIGHT! YOU SHOULD LOSE SOME F*CKING WEIGHT!”

Jennifer Schultz and Kimmy Santorini soaped peppy school slogans and profane words all over ‘Puter’s car windows. Patti Melrose, the hot but dumb as a sack of hammers girl who wanted Meaux’s job as head cheerleader, dumped the warm remainders of her second two-liter bottle of wine cooler on ‘Puter.

‘Puter cried and covered up as the bloodthirsty pack of cheerleader set upon him like fat college girls at all you can eat Ben and Jerry’s night at the dining hall. There were fists and kicky pleated skirts and matching Tretorns and color coordinated bows everywhere. ‘Puter couldn’t tell where one cheerleader’s fist or foot ended and the next one’s began. Blows rained down on ‘Puter like dollar bills on strippers named Chlamydia and Fondue at an NBA player frequented nudie bar.

Then it got dark. Really dark. Like approaching the event horizon dark. Time slowed, and ‘Puter’s senses heightened. ‘Puter could hear the steady drip, drip, drip of Meaux’s drool hitting the ground.

‘Puter heard Meaux yell to one of the marauding cheerleaders to stop beating me for a moment and to bring her the antenna off “that crappy ride of his.” Snap! Meaux laughed menacingly, like Ursula the Sea Witch from “The Little Mermaid,” but hotter and droolier. ‘Puter heard a fast woosh. ‘Puter wasn’t sure if it was the biting early autumn winds off the Lake blowing through Meaux’s immovable perm or something else.

‘Puter soon got his answer. The crazed pack of cheerleaders parted as their alpha-Meaux approached wielding ‘Puter’s car’s antenna. A sharp crack followed, and searing pain drove ‘Puter to the edge of unconsciousness. Meaux continued beating ‘Puter with his own car’s antenna until sirens sounded in the distance. It took four cheerleaders to pull Meaux off ‘Puter.

“Meaux, if you don’t stop beating ‘Puter now, the cops will catch you, and your parents won’t let you go to the district competition where you can make out with that totally hot college guy with the Flock of Seagulls haircut who drives the team bus!”

That seemed to snap Meaux out of it. She dropped the antenna, hopped into a subordinate cheerleader’s brand new Volkswagen Golf drop-top, and slowly, lurchingly made her escape******

‘Puter regained consciousness in the hospital covered with stripes from the savage antenna beat down Meaux had put on him. The doctors say the only thing that saved ‘Puter was his Mexican tuxedo.******* Its thick denim dulled the blows enough so ‘Puter escaped with only a collapsed long, severe blood loss, and a lacerated kidney.

‘Puter returned to high school a broken man. He survived the remainder of his high school career by avoiding Meaux-positive situations like parties, the cafeteria, school hallways, the boys’ locker room, public transportation, grocery stores, Christian churches (all denominations), and the red light district.

‘Puter went on to junior college and an unaccredited law school in a vain search for respect and meaning in his pitiful life. To this day, ‘Puter has found neither.

‘Puter wonders the bleak, gray Upstate tundra, collar turned up against the frosty gales. People see ‘Puter coming from a distance. They hurry their children inside, pull their blinds, and double-check their doors are locked. I can feel their eyes upon me as I’m shaking off the cold. And I hear the hushed whispers of “Loser Matlock,” the name Meaux required the state bar association to put on my license.

I shall forever be Loser Matlock and live in shame. And it’s all because of one night in high school and a cruel, unforgiving cheerleader.

Oh, and “My Little Ponies.” Don’t forget that part.

 

* Sure, ‘Puter could’ve titled this “The Ballad of Meaux and ‘Puter,” but that’d just be dumb because this ballad’s all about ‘Puter. Plus, ‘Puter’s a sexist bastard who’s hell-bent on keeping women down. So there.

** ‘Puter doesn’t like boring his readers with superfluous factoids, like Meaux and ‘Puter are evil twinsies, born of the same mother. First Mom had to choose one kid for reasons that were never clear to ‘Puter, but it was probably Meaux’s doing. Meaux’s pretty damned evil. And it’s also not important to know that First Mom and Meaux set ‘Puter adrift on an ice floe in Lake Michigan in January to get rid of him. Or that ‘Puter’s Second Mom found him adrift in the reeds in Milwaukee, like a fat, white, goyim Moses. So forget all of that stuff.

*** Meaux had also learned through extensive operant conditioning to stop her involuntary and copious drooling. This small victory probably had something to do with the cool kids accepting her.

**** Remember, we 1980s kids didn’t have your fancy cell phones with your instant massaging and BDSM texting and whatnot. We had to rely on our wits and ancient technology.

***** ‘Puter’s still pissed at Meaux for making him miss the denouement of the Harvey Weinstein produced, Roman Polanski directed “My Little Ponies.” Marlon Brando won an Oscar that year for his gritty, gut-wrenching portrayal of the crack addicted Twilight Sparkle who turned to a life of prostitution and coding to support her unholy appetites. People say it’s the best performance by an actor ever, but ‘Puter just can’t bring himself to watch it. The crushing heartbreak is still too fresh.

****** The Volkswagen Golf was a standard transmission. Girls can’t drive stick. So to speak.

******* Yes, ‘Puter knows his clothing lacks continuity. STFU, already. How else was ‘Puter going to work the totally awesome wide-wale cords going “voop-voop” imagery in as well as the life-saving Mexican tuxedo, ‘Puter’s denim armor? DOO NAWT JUJ ME, PEEPUL!!