With your Host Category5
(I noticed a bunch of views suddenly coming from the U.S. and thought to myself, ‘The nutty American survivalist have stumbled in. Wait till they get a load of me’. Then it kept climbing. About 500 views. I had to figure out what was happening. It turns out the semi legendary Survival Acres had made a comment about me writing on EROEI. This attracted Bison Prepper . He had mentioned me to his readers. I Quote.” note: thank you Survival Acres, for the link to a new and exciting doomer dude: Let’s hope he keeps posting, as he is a cynical pessimistic paranoid funny mother humper.” Hey…..Im not paranoid. seriously, a big thanks guys. While I am giving Shout Outs, a big thanks to Farmgal who reposted us at https://livingmydreamlifeonthefarm.com/ as well as Denob and the crew at the International Preppers Network where I cut my teeth, arguing out my positions and formulating my views. Now onto the show)
(Also, the disasters talked about in this 3 part series happened a couple months ago so dont be looking at me as a news source)
————————————————- ASS PAIN—————————————————
—————————————–EPISODE I- ASS WARS—————————————–
” # 7. Get out of the car, get onto the bike”. Max Brooks – The Zombie Survival Guide
Let me expound upon the multiple pains in my ass. My derriere (that’s French) has taken some voluntary and involuntary abuse lately. Oh not that type of abuse, perverts. This is not gay, survivalist, prison porn fantasies. Hey, there is nothing wrong with that if that’s what gets you there. Everyone needs someone to love.
First there is the metaphorical pains in my ass, like the wife occasionally and the heat which, conversely, turns me into one big gaping asshole. There is a particular point of heat and dehydration at which point I become irrationally frustrated without provocation. Like when I was trying to negotiate a price for a used bike while translating through MrsC5. Oy Vey. Then there is the actual physical ass pain. Excessive walking ass pain, fungal ass pain and the ass pain that can only come from exposure to some random bacteria in the water or food magnified by the hourly scraping of toilet paper across my bum hole. (Note to self. Store more toilet paper.) (not really a note to self).
This latest ass pain is voluntary and does involve jamming a foreign object where the sun doesn’t shine. I mean a bicycle seat, perverts. Get your minds out of the gutter.
I did get a cheap bike but not nearly as cheap as I had hoped.
In case you were wondering, this potty mouthed gonzo writing style is regular for me. I do not plan on changing this or fixing each of my spelling mistakes or totally unacceptable grammar for the possibility of a greater readership count. In fact, the flagrant use of the word FUCK in rather creative combinations does drive away the exact type of people I am comfortable not sharing my survival advice with. If they can’t take a cultural, self-defaciating joke, well, Fucking Fuck the Fucking Fuckers. If a person gets the vapours from hearing the word shit in shit hitting the fan, they are just too sensitive to handle actual shit backing up out of their sewers, let alone having to deal with body disposal and our last official act on the planet which is to take one last shit after we die leaving that problem for someone else to clean up. Life stinks. It’s not very hygienic. My new/used/cheap but not cheap enough/disposable chinese bicycle that is currently retraining my painful ass is allowing me to write this post from a horribly smelly public market. In the words of Henry Rollins, “It was dirty. It was dangerous. It was paradise”.
This is my temporary new favourite place. If the center cannot hold and this is what chaos looks like, I can live with it just fine. It’s about a mile square of market. Maybe more. There isn’t much room to move in places. My first impressions was that it was like a world built on the concepts of the midway in a traveling circus. Mix this with the back drop for blade runner and mix in a bit of barter town. This is a place where someone with ADHD can shine. Yes, there is blood and guts, rotting garbage, feral dogs and cats, people with prison tattoos, and the occasional homeless encampment but there is also micro sized family businesses, locally sourced, unacknowledged organic produce, children playing hide and seek unsupervised amongst the stalls within earshot of working parents and the type of deregulated free market capitalism that would make Ron Paul or Adam Smith, himself, blush in the face of their own moral inadequacies. In case it seems like I am giving the political right a promo, well, it’s common to hear Republican leaning Americans and occasionally their sincopatic Canadian barking poodle equivalents, saying something like “I choose a dangerous freedom over a safe slavery”. Every time I hear someone say that, one look at them usually points out that they are well dressed, upper income, post- English colonial and have never actually participated in a single act of freedom in their life. If I were to slightly correct their statement it would go something like this. “I would prefer a smelly, unhygienic and gang ridden freedom than a big business friendly slavery”. It seems the locals agree including the “tree of liberty watered with blood” part. The government tried to shut down this market a few years ago. The result was four dead, 84 injured police officers, a charging police horse brought down with a machete and eventually enough signatures for the recall and ousting of a mayor.
So yes, there is so much smelly freedom here, that small government, constitution waving Republicans would be saying “there ought to be a law against that” as they always do when faced with actual freedom. Where other people talk about freedom, I have always had a tendency to go out and live it, often facing the dire consequences of it. What I have learned is that freedom and criminality are very often the same thing. It means sometimes saying “No. I will not submit” or in the words of Rage Against the Machine “Fuck you. I won’t do what you told me”.
It’s not lost on me that I am the only white person I see here. Last time I was here I saw one other white person. That’s because I brought her. She didn’t handle it so well. In fact, she was so overwhelmed at one point, that she had a panic attack and ran from the area holding her nose, trying to find a place to breathe. I have been to this point of mortal panic before but it usually involved swarms of mosquitoes. I eventually calmed here with “Look honey. Thirty different types of potatoes, all locally sourced. Some are ancient species that were the evolutionary forefathers of our northern potatoes. The dirt still on them shows they just came out of the ground on a family farm. Here is an entire warehouse filled with garlic. Over here is the charcoal district where a dozen people compete to sell real charcoal. The real homemade stuff. Not those chemical filled mystery croquettes they sell us at home. There is almost no wood here so it makes economic sense to process it into charcoal before shipping it.Over here is a district with twenty competing egg sellers. What’s that dear? Those ones say free range? I didn’t notice. I’ll take you over to the fabric district now… “
I think her visceral reaction to the place forced her to examine why. She went online to study the market’s history. She talked about it to her coworker. Their responses ranged from “You went where? That area is not safe for you”, to “You are so lucky that you have a tall boyfriend. This makes you safe”, to “Yeah. I really like that place myself and amongst the industrial farm food I can find organic food. It’s much cheaper to buy there than the bourgeois organic farmers markets because the people are uneducated to the benefits and value of organic food. If I had my way, that is where we would be focusing our development efforts instead of the organic markets that only the wealthy can afford”. Well, let’s score one point to the Marxist. Fear not. I’ll take a strip off that cult at a later date.
You might be thinking, all this storytelling is entertaining but please, C5, get back to sharing some survival advice.
I am on it, but before I do I should share a bit of my credentials. It’s quite different from the credentials other experts might give. There is no calling upon some random military unit veteranlyness as a sign of respectability. I usually role my eyes when credentials like that come up. Sure, world travel may teach you a few things about life and sure, we might both share the experience of people having tried to kill us a few times. The big difference is I didn’t have a platoon watching my back, a complex command structure at radio call providing rescue upon need, armour or air support, millions of dollars of training, housing and equipment, the support and financial backing of an entire nation and retirement or veterans’ benefits if I didn’t die. I had none of that. And I certainly could not shoot my problems to make them go away. That would have made things so much worse. Do you hear that sound. That is the sound of my view count dropping.
When I give my credentials, I usually start with that as a teen, I suddenly found myself homeless and alone in an unsympathetic big city that occasionally dipped down to -30C or more. No employment. No experience. No welfare. No legal personhood standing. No real legal protection of the state. That was only the beginning. Life would get far worse from that point on. I’ll give more detailed credentials at another time but I will share some small examples because I am making a point. I have known missionaries and mercenaries. I have been friends with both drug addicts and drug dealers. One of my prouder moments was being punched in the back of the head by a 300+ pound enforcer for a well known organized crime group that I will not name because using their name publicly would be grounds for execution. I happen to know these rules. I actually deserved it that day. I later saw the same person hauled off by the police charged with multiple accounts of murder and extortion. One time, the cut up body of a woman was found in a duffel bag in the dumpster two doors down from where I lived. This event didn’t even make it to the news because it wasn’t considered newsworthy enough.
I am going to take a brief break here because I have to quickly hop on my bike to get across the city before the noon day heat makes this task impossible.
timewarp- I have now taken a cool refreshing dip in the big waves of the pacific ocean, my oldest dearest friend. She has long been my refuge, buffeting me from harsh Canadian winters and many of my tears have mingled into her. I am now over four districts away from where I started writing this. This city has a fantastic bike path that got me across town quickly. Getting to that bike path is a bit challenging though, which gets to my point. I hadn’t meant to write this piece of advice in this order but the mischievous three fates and assorted ass gods of survivalism put me briefly in danger on the way over, I suspect to introduce this next lesson plan. Good times. Good times.
After only a few days with the bike again, my old bicycle courier instincts have returned. The bike conveniently came with the length of handle bars I prefer. Just under shoulder width. This length tells me that if I can picture getting my shoulders through a tight opening I can go through that space at speed. Between cars. Between people. Between trees and in this case through the door sized walkway of a gated community that is not always locked up. I was seeking a carless path to that forementioned central bike path. The moment I went through that gateway I heard a bad fake bird whistle but saw no security guards. I immediately thought please don’t be what I think that is. I quickly heard two more that confirmed I should not slow down for any reason, and I heard the final fake bird call at the end of that territory. Yes. I did say territory, as in there was something illegal going on in this quiet gated off neighbourhood that required full time spotters that identified to others by whistles exactly where I was. I didn’t see a single one of them.
Okay grasshoppers, here is my kung fu. I was out the other side of that territory in a little over a minute’s time. Time enough to be noticed. Time enough for communicators to let others know I was on the way but not nearly enough time for someone to decide what to do about it, let alone communicate that to someone who might actually do something about it. I was moving faster than running speed. Faster than decision making speed and if someone did jump out in front of me, that is 200 hundred pounds plus a hard metal bicycle moving at potentially bone breaking momentum. I wouldn’t want to jump in front of it. Goddess forbid, if someone was actually choosing to shoot at you while you were riding away, the vital organ target halves exponentially with each pedal you take. Remember those art lessons in perspective? Don’t quote me the halving number. I’m sure there is a complex mathematical formula of how fast a big centre of mass chest cavity turns into a postage stamp size person but I don’t happen to know what it is. You might still get shot but it’s less likely to hit a vital organ.
Plus, nobody really much cares or usually even notices the guy on a bike. Generally you are sort of invisible. You enter the scene as a silent ninja or a potential poor person. You leave the scene unmemorable. What do you think those gang spotters will remember about me? “Do you remember that stupid mountain biking gringo?” “Not really. I was thinking about your sister, hombre.”
I have been telling people for several years now that one of the most important disaster preparedness, high ticket items you should purchase before even thinking about any cool boy toys, is a quality cargo bike. You should spend no less than $500 and none of that cost should be wasted on shocks, hydraulic brakes, or those new big balloon tires. I’ll explain why some other post. Spending a $1000 is more realistic. A quality long tailed cargo bike can cost as high as $3000.
That is not what I am riding at the moment. I am riding one of those cheap Chinese Spam-Mart disposable kids toys. It only needs to last me for another 11 months. Already parts are breaking. I don’t really consider these bikes real bikes unless it is an emergency and that is all that is available. If I was desperate enough a little girl’s strawberry shortcake training bike could be modified into a Vietnam conflict era push bicycle or Peoples Truck by adding a few sticks and strapping on my packs. Push it up the hills but ride it down like a terrified bat out of hell. It’s not very glamorous but it sure beats walking with a backpack full of groceries, water or firewood.
Well this ocean dip has been refreshing. The midday heat is receding. I’ll take one last gaze at the big waves of my old watery friend and continue this lesson at home, many miles away.
timewarp- We are a few days past that post and each day that passes reduces my ass pain. My ass muscles are slowly reforming on my body to accept a foreign object. I have a confession to make. Though I have been blogging or youtubing on this same subject for a number of years and I have restored 6 bikes, I haven’t actually been on one except to move some tools from one end of our farm to the other. I think I took the bike 10 kms into town for beer once and another 10 back because I was way over the limit to drive. Our household is spoiled with a 750 cruiser, mine, a racing motorcycle, hers, a very fuel efficient disposal small car and a truck that could finally no longer pass inspection. It’s just too easy to push the gas pedal instead of the foot pedal.
But I have had times when all was lost.
A bike was the only way to keep going instead of giving up and choosing death. Supplies still needed to be gathered. Places still had to be gotten to. Just because it’s TEOTWAWKI doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.
When car insurance can no longer be afforded, when fuel costs can no longer be afforded, when repair costs can no longer be afforded, when civil infrastructure can no longer be afforded, when government debt and malfeasant banks can no longer be afforded, the immortal bicycle continues to roll.
Its value is once again being pointed out in my unusual life. I was only half joking about this whole south American experience as being refuge training but let’s look at the situation we find ourselves in. We are in a foreign country where we barely understand the rules. We have very limited funds. We don’t know where things are. The traffic is insane and often at a standstill. Vehicle ownership is not even worth contemplating. We don’t know which buses go where and though they are dirt cheap they are certainly not free. Yet food, beer and sand papery toilet paper for my rough polished anus still needs to make it to our foreign refuge on the 6th floor. Walking anywhere is going to take up a good chunk of your day and your world of possibilities will be very small.
Now, BAM! The entire city has opened up to me.
BAM! I’m back writing this at the beach now.
BAM! I’m back home again.
Wanna see that again? And not so bam, I can theoretically leave this city if things dramatically change and I see no future here.
Here’ a bit more of my credentials. At age 18, seeing no future in the big city I was in, I packed up what I owned on a 1st generation KMART mountain bike that weighed a ton, packed about twice as much on it as any experienced bike tourer would consider rational and without any pretraining decided to cross the Rocky Mountains from Jasper, AB, to Vancouver, BC. I had $700, 1985 adjusted. This was my savings after a summer of working as a chamber maid and bus boy. This money would give me one month of rent when I got there. I lived on peanut butter and honey sandwiches. I had a bit of trail mix but I considered that an expensive luxury. I illegally stealth camped because I couldn’t afford campgrounds. While properly trained, properly equipped bike tourers on properly sized, weighted and priced bikes would pass me I generally pushed the bike up mountains then rode it down the other side. It would take as long as it took.
So I don’t want to hear some so called prepper expert with respectable veteranlyness credentials and the rightness of ideology and god blessed white middle classedness whining about that you would only be able to get 20 miles and then be too tired at the end and that this is a bad idea. Oh, whine! I’ve heard a well known “expert” give that exact advice on using bikes in emergencies. If you can only make 20 miles perhaps there is some other health related issues you will want to deal with before putting another 4×4 truck or AR15 on the credit card. If you are too unhealthy for a bike, you are too unhealthy to till a garden by hand or haul firewood from the bush. I am not picking on people that have health issues. We are all complex bundles of problems. Me, probably the most. The real untalked about issue here is the general level of spoiledness that are industrial society has created.
This logger is set up for zombies. Notice the chainsaw, machete and climbing ropeAss gas. No one rides for free.Have shovel. Will travel.
Newsflash. We interrupt this rant about the indebted servitude of vehicles dependence for a breaking news story. I am lying. This isn’t really news.
Remember when I said last post when people en mass are starting to agree with me and already know the statistics that I use, the apocalypse is not jut nigh. It’s already being observed in the rear view mirror. I just chatted with one more random person that agrees with me and this guy takes the cake.
Since I got here, I’ve had 7 people within the very small NGO organization I find myself attached to agree with me. They are here in South America doing development work. These are people with degrees in their fields. Most are young. The one that affects me most was a young woman ½ my age that was just listening into a conversation I was having with someone else, in the background. She spoke up shyly. Her eyes looked down in introspection and quietly said, “for the last two months I have been realizing that I agree with your conclusions”, and after a 2 beat pause, “I’ve been thinking I have to make some preparations”. She didn’t add anything else after that. I think she was embarrassed about what she had just said. We will talk about psychological barriers to preparedness the next chapter. But this new guy takes the cake. I’ll just call him RAS for short. Random affiliated stranger.
Now please understand I am only the accompanying spouse on this trip. She is the one with the Ph.D.. People commonly ask me what my position is and I have to mumble a fake answer. In making not so small small talk I decided to share with RAS what I had been doing here to fill my time and I realized my humorous new position title is “independent photo journalist”.
Me – “I have been photo documenting motorized bicycles and the pedal trucks people use here as a way to help North Americans adapt to resource decline”. I was soft selling it because I had just met him.
RAS – “Yes. We used one of those bike trucks to deliver mattresses to our apartment. I’ve had my eye on peak oil for years now”.
Me – “The peak oil narrative has recently taken a radical new shift into the story of EROEI. Energy return on energy investment. Peak conventional oil seems to have happened somewhere around 2005 as predicted and was probably the precursor to the 2008 crash which was the precursor to the 2014/15 commodities crash which is the precursor to the next crash. The world is still full of oil. There is no shortage of it. It’s just that the type of oil with a high enough EROEI to run the society we are used to is no more, thus North America has economically plateaud and is on the descent.”
RAS – “Yes this all started for me when my grandfather gave me a book by Richard Heinberg”.
Me, with a raised eyebrow, “Richard Heinberg. The respectable professor and kindly old gentleman of the doomer world”.
RAS – “You know Michael Ruppert?”
Me – “He committed suicide last year”
RAS – “And Dimitry Orlov”, (another raised eyebrow from me), “And Howard Kunstler and … wait… where exactly are you on the Kubler Ross scale? You know, denial, bargaining, depression, anger and acceptance”.
Me – I figured I would razzle dazzle him a bit. “We have a 110 acre farm in a province that is basically already a failed state. We grow a large percentage of what we eat. Mrs. C5, besides the gardens, has been heavily doing canning. Both hot bath and pressure canning. We have been using the greenhouses I built from recycled materials for dehydrating. I am accumulating a group of people and am trying to start a resilience based intentional community on the property. We work diligently at hosting regular dinner parties to build a large social network. We’ve learned the most basics of raising, breeding, slaughtering and butchering our own animals. I try to teach some of what I have learned online and try to warn young preppers to some of the more useless and dangerous elements in the prepper world. We have encouraged several permaculture, self-reinforcing food systems on the property that will produce several tons of food even if we are not there. This is what we have done full-time for the last 5 years and the last year I realized we had finally reached achieving the absolute minimal level to eck out self-sufficiency though we wouldn’t enjoy it very much. We simply would not die. That’s all. A lot of people that think they could survive have deluded themselves. It’s sort of why we are here. We needed a break and this may be one of the last chances to travel. This NGO brought us here because of our experience in food security.”
RAS – “Oh… you get an A+. I know this stuff but haven’t instituted any of it. I see you are an A+ guy.
Me – Since he seemed more knowledgeable than even most prepper folks I have met, I thought I should push him over the edge into action, hopefully. “We have also stored (none of your business) and accumulated (none of your business) and try to keep on hand (none of your business).”
RAS – “Wow. So we will be coming to live with you”.
Me – “Do you know and fully understand the term indentured servant? We would love to have you come but you would have to invest substantially first and bring something to the table”. Oh, I would never really do that to a person, nor do I expect he is really interested but I thought he needed the take responsibility slap, in a kindly manner. Remember my previous rant on the need for roofing sheet metal and other prepositioned building supplies as we wouldn’t be able to house them.
RAS – “Howard Kunstler book…” I began to roll my eyes. I thought he was about to mention World Made by Hand or The Long Emergency. Don’t get me wrong. Both are fantastic but, “… Howard Kunstler’s book Too Much Magic.” He said it as if knowing I would have read it. Fuck ya, I have read it. It’s brilliant. It drips abusive sarcasm with every single line for over half the book before he finally tired himself out. It’s why I have never been deceived by fracking. I understand fracking is a ponzei scheme. It’s also real fucking obscure literature. This young punk has been given all he really needs to know to get to work preparing for an unavoidable future. “I am thinking the problem is not too much magic but not enough”. Finally I am allowed to roll my eyes without guilt. He is young. I know where he is going with this.
Me – “It doesn’t take any level of magic to make the decision to put a shovel in the ground and begin the very hard long work of turning ground, planting seed and growing your own survival. People think I am a pessimist but I am actually one of the ultimate optimists. You stare at just how bad it really is, straight in the face, take a deep breadth and say to yourself, it’s really bad but I can handle it. Now let’s get to work.”
RAS – “This will force rapid evolution”.
Me – “I see no evidence that rapid evolution will take place. Unfortunately we are what we are. We will always do what we have always done”.
RAS – “You are actually a pessimist afterall”.
Me – “No. The only natural selection that will take place will be based on whether you did what was necessary to survive or not while other people didn’t”.
RAS – “Yeah, I guess I haven’t seen evidence for rapid evolution either. So. Joe Rogan’s interview with Michael Ruppert….” He said it again as if I knew what interview he was talking about. Well, of course I did but that is besides the point. Why would he assume that I knew. That is a pretty damn obscure interview. It’s like as if a random stranger had come up and asked me what it thought of the 70s porn made by the real person that the character Roller Girl was roughly based on. Of course I have seen it but it is real obscure and I will never admit it publicly. Oh, wait. Never mind.
I often quote that particular interview. Not because Rogan was obviously stoned and Ruppert was a bit uncomfortable about it. Not because when Ruppert admitted that he didn’t have any plan in this interview and Rogan replied, “You are fucking Michael Ruppert. You could take a dump on the floor and we would be cool with that.” Oh no…
Me – “I often quote that interview because of Rogan saying that the survival of the entire human race rests entirely in the hands of perkie hippy chicks. Without them, it’s just a bunch of agro dudes hiding out in the woods together and that’s not a future worth surviving.”
Yup he called it and said the unsayable to people who would not want to hear it.
C5 rule of survival- “Perkie” hippies had all the right answers for all the wrong reasons. Groovy.
So anyone that actually has the tendency to say “hippies stink” is probably going to have a rough time coping in the future. I mentioned at the beginning something about freedom stinking. Besides, anyone that would say that publicly probably has some serious daddy issues going on. Unfortunately Howard Kunstler has been presenting similar daddy issues lately. He has really been working my gnads. Sometimes your heroes just let you down. He has got this whole quizling thing going on recently.
RAS never mentioned Dr. Carolyn Baker by name but I am just going to give him that card for his doomer all star bubble gum collector card set since he brought up the Kubler Ross stages of grief. The only thing that makes Kunstler’s recent daddy issues make sense to me is that he is in the anger phase of mourning for the end of the British Empire in colonial drag. He is angry about the loss of a common culture. I’m not sure if he really gets that the common culture that he wants is British colonialism. That culture doesn’t seem to include people with tattoos, gays, baggy pants or any other part of Black underground culture nor any of the other assumed cultural invaders. Yeah, it’s weird to hear from such a really smart guy. Let’s not forget his ongoing rants about how young men are no longer wearing the uniform of manhood. His reasoning starts to fall apart there because I don’t figure he has the cajonies to say that women should be wearing the uniform of women. Barefoot in the kitchen in a pushup bra or perhaps maybe a corset. Perhaps a long dress that just shows off a hint of ankle depending on if his particular kink is Victorian anachronism.
I’d be forgiving him his post-colonial meltdown. Everyone should be able to say stupid stuff. I plan on saying lots of stupid stuff here while reserving the right to change my mind. It’s just that his assertion, besides being offensive is just plain wrong. The kulture is dead. Long live the kulture. All of these sub-cultures that he has a problem with are doing exactly what is necessary at this point of an empire’s failure. Neo-tribalism. People join tribes. Tribes that separate them from uniforms and the unspoken expectation to back the failed culture. I can say that because I am one of the underclasses and have absolute no motivation to support the master class, the master race or the master culture. None. I might even help push them out the door. So a lot of those subcultures he is on the rag about are my neighbours, my friends, my family members.
And I suppose I should mention that Mrs. C5 has a great set of tats.
So when you are insulting them… you are insulting me. What could possibly go wrong.
Tribal identify it’s sort of a precursor to building resilient communities. First you have to identify who your tribal community is. Your tribal displays communicates to others either warning or who you choose to do business with. It even communicates what you are looking for in a potential mating partner. I am not promoting tattoos here. Only pointing out that tattoos not only identify that you are part of a tattoo subculture but what that culture happens to be. Does your tat display identify you as a biker or do you rally around hip hop. Does it identify military standing or does it communicate you are with Che. It says whether you are a goddess worshipper, Russian Orthodox or prefer to take the magic carpet ride. It shows your creative IQ or lack thereof. And god forbid if you are flying a swastika, me and my shovel wanna know and I wanna know right fucking now.
As for the LGBT community that he seems on about for no reason I understand, from being around them plenty I can attest that they have a strong community or tribe. It is supporting and caring and provides backing for each other. The level of community resiliency they have achieved is admirable. Like the Jews after what many of them went through growing up they determined to make sure that it would never happen to them again. Also like the Jews, they once shared the same extermination camps. So, once again, I assure you that during the fall of Western industrialization the LGBT community has a better chance of making it than a solo balding white guy with a peak oil blog and a teary remembrance of the fallen British empire papered over with stars and stripes. Christ on a dildo. It’s how I imagined listening to one of those high ranking communist officials that had to be wheeled out with the office furniture many months after the Soviet Union collapsed.
So, in defiance of Kunstler’s Kubler Ross swing into social conservatism and in celebration of my 50th birthday which was highly unlikely that I would make it to, I have decided to get my very 1st tattoos. In tribal identify form it’s going to be my blood type on each arm in an unmistakable patch as well as identifying that I have no allergies and can receive penicillin. Very few tribes will identify with this tat. Besides, it’s a very conservative thing to do, getting a tattoo on a foreign continent. Sailors have been doing it forever.
Okay. Enough. I’m bringing this to a stop. I’ve already given you folks way more than you are paying me for. I’m going to divide this post into three parts on ass pain.
(Newsflash- More of those unprecedented rain micro bursts have smashed many parts of the country. Landslides. Washed out roadways. Towns filled with mud. The tiny horsemen around my head fly. I also observed an organized purse snatching in a part of town where I had gone beyond my boundary of safety, knew it and peddled hard to get out of. There was no way out but through.)