Category Archives: Stray Thoughts

Guest Post: Jessica Elise – Blessings and Challenges/Hope and Regret 

I’m going to share something with you, my dear readers, that I don’t normally share. Obviously, those close to me know, but generally, I haven’t spoken about this publicly. The reason I’m doing so today is because many times, when you experience an indescribable tragedy, you feel alone. So alone!

Logically you know you aren’t the only one. Your rational mind tells you there are others, but your heart isolates you inside this cocoon of tragedy, agony, and loss. So you internalize and try to forget…

… Until you run across something so heartwrenching, so unreal through which one of your friends has suffered, that your own pain pales in comparison.

It happened yesterday, when my friend Chris posted something that made my breath catch. He graciously wrote this post that explores his unspeakable agony for me to publish, because I asked him to. Maybe I’m posting this as catharsis. Maybe it’s catharsis for both me and him.

In 2002, my daughter Jordan Nickole died at 32 weeks of gestation. It was a difficult pregnancy. We did amniocentesis because the OB found a large cyst or bubble that covered the entire back of her neck in an ultrasound, which denotes Turner Syndrome and can cause a panoply of medical and developmental problems, including short height, failure to start puberty, infertility, heart defects, certain learning disabilities and social adjustment problems. It means that the X chromosome is either completely or partially missing.

I was told I had the option of aborting if the test came back abnormal. We thought long and hard about it, but decided not to. The amnio came back negative, and as relieved as we were (I remember getting the call at work and getting dizzy and falling down on the floor weak with relief), the doctor watched me and Jordan closely from then on.

At 32 weeks, she couldn’t find a heartbeat. She tried several times, stayed late until after 1900 hrs., and finally sent me to the hospital.

Long story short, I was forced to give birth to a stillborn. I refused all night. I told them I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t do it. But in the end I had to.

For years, I pushed Jordan’s death to the back of my mind. And then Chris wrote this. Maybe it sounds monstrous, but I feel a little less alone.

I hope Chris does too.


This is a hard post to write. I’m not even sure of the reasons for writing it. I’ve had 14 years to process. Maybe I want to help someone else with my struggle. Maybe I want to just get it out. Maybe I just want someone to relate. I don’t know.

Interpret as you will. I’m not sure I care.

Usually when a person starts talking about regret, it’s in reference to some boneheaded mistake they’ve made in their lifetime, or the trip to Disney World they didn’t take.

For me, it was about looking for a piece of machinery.

Jessica Elise was born January 17th, 1994. Most people who take the time, either remember it as the California Earthquake or Ice-Storm#1 (There would be another icestorm in a few weeks that made this one look like a piker) Babs Streisand’s house got damaged. I remember that one acutely because I sincerely dislike Babs. Love her singing voice… don’t like her.
We knew things weren’t going to be “normal” with this one. Our son, bless his soul, had been a rough delivery and Jessica had been rough pregnancy. We’d seen doctors, and more doctors, and genetic experts and more tests and all we got were more questions.

We got answers that afternoon. The best answer is that we had a beautiful baby girl. Jessica Elise (“I will see the promise of God” loosely translated. I actually didn’t know that when we picked the name, but it actually makes a little sense now.) The not so good answer was that she was going to be a challenge, medically.

Jess was going to be a both a blessing and challenge. Micropthalmia meant she was never going to be able to see without some sort of “eyeball transplant” or Star Trek level technology. Esophageal Atresia meant surgery to connect stomach and esophagus so she could at least keep from drowning in her own saliva. So… challenges.

For eight and a half years, my wife, my son, our extended family and friends and I, and the people we came to know because of Jess faced the challenge of raising and helping that little girl live. That little girl who one OB/GYN told us would be a “monster,” and we ought to consider aborting her. The little girl who we were assured would never laugh, never talk, never walk, never love us back, and so we ought to allow “nature” to run its course and let her choke on her own spit and snot…which “might not be a bad thing.”

Sixty plus surgeries. Countless days and hours spent in hospital rooms and hallways. Hours hoping and praying for another breath on her own. Watching a pediatric nephrologist jumping for joy because she peed on her own because that meant her kidneys hadn’t failed.

Challenges and blessings.

Eight and a half years. How in the world do you try and recount all the amazing things you learn taking care of a baby like that? How do you recount all of the times when medical science was either flat out wrong in its predictions or flummoxed by a little girl with a snaggletoothed grin? (She lost two of her teeth during a surgery when the OR tech accidentally knocked them out during intubation.) How do you talk about the tears that roll down your face when your daughter, grabs your hand and desperately, frantically wants you to tell her that she’s “pretty girl” (using tactile sign) because her face was massively bruised from having eye socket expanders placed that day, and she had apparently heard her parents talking about how bad she looked (remember she wasn’t even going to be able to know we loved her)?

Having that little girl was the biggest challenge and one of the three greatest blessings I’ve ever known. My son and my wife are the other two.

Eight and a half years. That level of care will take it out of you. Even with help, it will drain you and exhaust you, mind, body and spirit. It drained all of us. We were happy to do it, glad to do it. You don’t do any less for someone you love, but there comes a time where there is nothing left to give.

There also comes a time where the body just will not work anymore. For most of us, that doesn’t happen until we reach a good ole age. But not for Jessica. For months, she had been having problems digesting food, getting weaker, getting sick easier. Looking back it’s easy to see the problems, but inside the storm it’s harder to make out, you just brace and wait for the next blast.

We’d all had it. We’d taken so many hits. We were tired. And when you’ve gotten that tired, you rely on, depend on, some sort of routine to maintain your sanity in an insane situation. That routine, almost a complacency, is dangerous. They say the most dangerous place to drive is right near your home. The reason is that you relax from the routine… you’ve driven this stretch so many times, you could do it in your sleep… right? Up until the deer jumps out from nowhere.

I was out of work but starting school for my degree. I was homeschooling Christopher and taking him with me on school days (we lived right down the street from the Christian College I was attending, and a classmate’s wife was more than happy to kind of ride herd on him with her own kids until I got out of class). Christine was working on the other side of Baltimore and thus had the only real working vehicle capable of hauling all of us. She hadn’t wanted to go, things weren’t “right,” but I made her go, so that she’d have some sort of “normal.”

The weekend had been abysmal. Jess was getting sick and was miserable. We almost couldn’t console her; we’d go into her room, quiet her down, put on her favorite music album and make sure everything was OK; then back out into the living room. Then an hour later do it again. And again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

She had gotten skeletally thin, like a prisoner of war or a famine victim. There was no muscle tone anymore. The peritoneal feeding went through her, literally. It was almost undigested.

She was breathing heavyly that day. She was probably getting an infection, I thought, as I changed her and her bedding that morning. I’ll keep an eye on her and maybe start getting things ready for a trip to the hospital.

By afternoon, I’d already contacted Christine and let her know that we were definitely gonna be doing an all-nighter at the hospital. “But don’t worry,” I said. “Don’t kill yourself getting home.”

“What are her SATs doing?” my wife asked.

“Not sure; I’ll dig the Pulse Oximeter out and run a check. (For those who don’t know, it’s that thing in the hospital you wear on your finger or two with the red light. It measures the amount of oxygen in the blood.) At least that way, we’ll have number to throw at the ER docs.”

Christopher was watching Buffy on TV as I started looking for Jess’s Pulse Ox. I had made sure the O2 cannula was in her nose earlier and had been running O2 during the day to see if her breathing would calm down. No dice.

Also, no Pulse OX. We had recently moved and were living out of boxes, but I could have sworn we’d used that Pulse OX since we moved in. I looked everywhere for that thing. I tore closets apart. I tore boxes apart. I re-tore boxes apart.

I looked in on Jess. She was breathing more labored now. She was nearly thrashing, she was in so much pain, from exactly what I don’t know, but it was breaking my heart to watch.

I had to take a break. I sat down and watched TV with Christopher for a little bit, trying to rack my brain where the machine was. I called her nurse that cared for her on weekends. Nope. Didn’t know. Hadn’t needed to use it.

I went back around the house, now frantically trying to find a piece of equipment that did not want to be found.

Christine called and had left work. Traffic around Baltimore being what it was, it was going to be an hour or more before she got home. I had to find that machine before she got home. I had to get the baby ready to go.

I went in and started stripping her down to give her a cleanup and new change of clothes. There was something really wrong. She was gasping for breath, even with O2. I had to find that damn machine.

I don’t know exactly how many minutes later it was. It couldn’t have been very long. Ten? Fifteen? I gave up on looking for the bloody thing and was just going to get her packed up.

The first thing I noticed is that she’d messed her bed. Well, that was “normal” for the day. I think I’d changed her bed at least four or five times. I also noticed that she was quiet. I went over to the crib and realized that she also wasn’t breathing. She was a very odd pale shade of… when they say blue, it’s not. It’s a weird pale.

Some people get hysterical when crap really goes wrong. I get very calm. It’s weird in its own way, I suppose. You can tell just how far it’s dropped in the pot, by how calm I am. I get bent out of shape by some of the most mundane things, but…

I told Christopher to call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance. I started doing CPR and begging her to cry or move or do something.

The EMTs didn’t take long to get there. I told them what the situation was, and they set to work. The police arrived at the same time… of course they did. I’ve been around enough LEOs and EMTs over the years to know the drill.

I calmly told them the event of the last however long it was and the name of Jessica’s doctor at Johns Hopkins where she was a patient.

I knew I was going to jail. The house was a wreck. I mean seriously a wreck. The baby’s room was a mess. She was nearly naked, covered in crap, pill bottles, medical supplies, boxes, clothes, everything was strewn everywhere during my search for the O2 monitor.

I was calm. Too calm. I was going to jail.

Didn’t really care.

No punishment could ever come close to what I was feeling. What I AM feeling even today.

My little girl died, and I wasn’t there.

I’ve said that before, and people invariably explain it away. But the bottom line is I WASN’T THERE. I will go to my grave and I will not ever feel good about that.

We spent eight and a half years preparing for the day she left us. Knowing it as a fact of life every day for eight and half years. And when the time came, was she surrounded by people who love her? Was her daddy there holding her hand and giving her to the angels. NO. She died alone in puddle of crap fighting for her next breath. How do you tell yourself that’s OK?

Intellectually, even in my faith I know that it worked out as it needed to. I want to believe, I DO believe that in her final moments God was with her. But it really doesn’t make a difference. Even if God WAS there, I wasn’t, and that’s what I regret. I probably always will.

You can say what you want. At this point I really don’t care.

I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m writing this, intending for someone to read. Some will probably say I’m looking for attention… maybe I am. Maybe I need someone to tell me one more time that it’s OK. Maybe I’ll believe it this time. Maybe I just want someone else to know that if they’ve gone through this, they’re not alone. A new set of friends lost their baby to miscarriage yesterday. I can’t say I know how they feel, but I know grief and regret, and the endless what-if’s.

I don’t know. Take from this what you will. Do with it what you will. I don’t give pat answers anymore. All I have is a hope. That I’ll see her again someday.

I miss my girl.

One more year, Jess. Miss you, pretty girl. Hopefully, I’ll be there sooner or later.

P.S. I found the Pulse Ox the day after the funeral when we returned to the house. It was sitting right on top of a box that I had torn apart several times looking for it.

Who are these puppy kickers?

In the past I’ve written about the SJW Howler Monkeys, individuals with Special Snowflake Syndrome, and extreme SJW sweathogs like TrigglyPuff – people so attached to their victimhood and entitlement, that they insist on safe spaces, demand special accommodations, such as imaginary pronouns, and work to end to speech they don’t like and destroy those who engage in such speech. In other words, they stomp through the developed world, leaving piles of ostracized and unemployed victims,  and decimated logic in their wake.

chunk-chorfIt is these creatures that are closely tied with individuals we call CHORFs (Cliquish, Holier-than-thou, Obnoxious, Reactionary, Fanatics) or puppy kickers – those sniffy, snotty, arrogant, easily-offended, intolerant (although, if you ask them, they’re the tolerant ones – of everything except the cisheteropatriarchywhatever), condescending  rodents.

As I wrote about the Dragon Awards this weekend, I predicted that the CHORFs – mostly excluded from the fun and honors – would “clutch their pearls, gnash their teeth, and snottily declare that the Dragon Awards don’t matter, because they’re not part of that elite clique of haughty Hugo recipients and nominees.” I projected they would immediately condemn the Dragon Awards as irrelevant and Puppy-driven, even though the awards were open to everyone, no one had to buy a membership to vote, and the process was completely transparent.

And I was right.

Remember PedoPhil?

Remember PedoPhil?

The shit-fest on CHORF sites and on Twitter is hilarious! Some bitterly and dismissively waved their little hands and claimed they’re glad the Puppies now have their own award, so they should leave their revered Hugos alone! Others – the usual suspects, of course – sniffed that the Dragon Awards were hijacked by neo-fascists, thereby relegating thousands of fans who voted for works they enjoyed to the bin of racism, hatred, misogyny, and any other prejudice they could think of.

Injustice Gamer documents some of the hilarious reactions here. Oh, the schadenfreude! It’s making my naughty bits tingle!

And then there were others, who implied on this very site that because many of the winners were recommended by the evil overlord of racism, homophobia, and misogyny Vox Day, they obviously didn’t count. These CHORFs see Vox Day as the boogieman under every bed. Anything that doesn’t conform to their idea of quality work, necessarily must be discounted, bad, and ultimately the work of the dastardly Vox.

I started thinking today about the types of people these CHORFs really are, and it occurred that they fit a particular type.

Insecure. They pathologically work to exclude anyone who doesn’t engage in their groupthink by disparaging and marginalizing those they claim are less refined and profound. Books shouldn’t just be fun, they claim. Low-class, boorish, simple entertainment shouldn’t win awards, they assert. All this to advance the perception that they are somehow more sophisticated and urbane. Many of them can’t sell books that entertain for the mere enjoyment of reading, so they create these lofty plateaus for the purpose of showing just how worldly and cultivated they are.

If you don’t enjoy their brand of pretentious word vomit, you simply are not suave enough.

Miserable, apprehensive, and mediocre, the only way they have to build themselves up is by tearing down others.

This contrived arrogance allows them to erect an image of themselves – if only in their own minds – of quality and virtue.

Frightened. The CHORFs are pathologically intimidated by criticism. They’re terrified. They huddle together in a tight group of mediocrities in order to protect themselves from any appraisal that’s less than complimentary to either their pet causes. Whether it’s “tolerance” for the victim class, whatever they may be that day, or promotion of works, artists, and authors whose only virtue is being as far away from the mainstream as possible. Anyone who challenges the heterodoxy frightens them so badly, they must be destroyed.

Unhappy. The toxicity surrounding the CHORFs is palpable. Misery is their natural state. Joy is dull to them. They aren’t interested in laughter and optimism. Those are too light. Ennui is more profound and cultured. Simple fun and entertainment is… well… simple. Melancholy is deep and complex. This reinforces their superiority armor – the shield they use to cover up their miserable inadequacies. After all, if you’re happy, you must be too shallow to be as enlightened as they are. Therefore, they’re just too good for you.

Compassionate. At least that’s how they want to appear. They want to be the defenders of the oppressed, the protectors of the meek, the white knights for anyone who is not straight, white, male, successful, or strong. Because after all, those people don’t need the CHORFs’ contrived sympathy.

white knightBut it’s not enough to shield the exploited from the torment by the strong. The strong must be destroyed. The successful must be suppressed. The rich must be stripped of their wealth. The hetero male has had his day, and must now be pulled out of the spotlight, because no one should hear what he has to say any longer. The hetero male is not important. It’s the turn of those whom he has oppressed for so long to have a voice. And if that voice has nothing of quality to say, that’s fine. They will make it quality.

They will push it in the faces of the rest of the world and loudly trumpet how important and interesting that oppressed voice is, while proclaiming anyone who disagrees with the assessment of the quality of said voice as ignorant, hateful, bigoted, and narrow-minded. They have compassion for anyone who is not successful. They show sympathy, kindness, and grace to anyone who proclaims to be miserable, abused, exploited, and mistreated. It doesn’t have to be true. It just needs to be perceived and claimed to be true.

Elitist. This really goes along with the CHORFs’ insecurity. Being exclusive makes them feel superior. It provides value, even when there is none. Because when just anyone is allowed into a club, it’s no longer special. And when just anyone is allowed to vote on an award without being forced to purchase a membership, it’s an award for the plebes.

Deluded. Everything they accuse the Puppies of, they’re guilty of themselves. Elitism and exclusion. Who “No Awarded” entire categories of Hugo awards just to keep the “undesirables” from winning? Cheating. Who changed the rules for Hugo nominations this year to counter block voting, because dog forbid the “undesirables” capture the majority of categories? Fascism,elitism, and a loathing for equality. Who held an exclusive, private party last year for those whom the CHORFs “No Awarded” last year, because the Puppies’ choices got more votes? Who threatened careers and engaged in character assassinations? It certainly wasn’t the Sad Puppies.

But hey, don’t let the facts get in your way.

Sad PuppiesI’ll be honest. I’m tired of these people. I’ve taken a lot of time and effort to try and understand them, but frankly, what I discovered is that they’re a sad, miserable lot, who I wish would keep their own promises and relegate themselves to their froth-flecked circle jerk and leave the Puppies alone.

But they won’t, because they’re nothing without an enemy. They don’t have a purpose without their canine boogieman. They can’t be white knights riding in to rescue the vapid damsel in distress if there’s no evil (white, male) antagonist from whom to rescue her.

That’s the real reason they keep flogging the Puppies, even when the Puppies have nothing to do with a particular award, such as the Dragon.

Because without us, they’re nothing.

Classless Neanderthal Goons Show the World their Bald, Red Asses

(Note: Not every Trump supporter, and not every individual who has decided to vote for him can be described as a Trumpanzee. Some of my closest friends have decided to vote for him, based on a close examination of the evidence before them and a risk assessment of what is best for this country. When I say “Trumpanzee,” I refer to people who threaten and intimidate those with whom they disagree. They call even their close friends “idiots” and “morons” for not supporting Trump, even as they present some of the dumbest reasons, clickbait, and false reporting as “evidence” to support their case. They accuse people whom they ostensibly love of being tacit Hillary supporters, instead of realizing that these loved ones used their best judgment and made the best choice they could under the circumstances. These are Trumpanzees. All the others… vote your conscience.)baboon

You ever see a baboon ass? A baboon is a fluffy kind of monkey with huge maws and red, bald asses which they regularly show to the world. It apparently makes it more comfortable for the baboon to sit, but it’s wholly unattractive and somewhat disturbing to look at.

Welcome to the Trump Goon Squad at the Republican National Convention. That’s exactly what the Trumpanzees showed themselves to be last night after they tried to drown out a speech by Ted Cruz and descended upon Heidi Cruz like a band of knuckle dragging Neanderthals after her husband was done speaking. They showed the world their red asses. They showed the world what they were really about.

Let’s get a couple of things straight.

1) Trump’s campaign not only approved, but maintained the right to rewrite Ted Cruz’s speech. It did not.

I thought that was quite authoritarian, but declined to write about it at the time, because I had better things to do than repeat over and over again what kind of statist schmuck the Hairy Hemorrhoisd really is. I’ve explored that more than once, so I’m not doing it here. However, the salient point is that the campaign did, in fact, see the speech and approved it.

And then, he showed up at the end, watched the chaos his cro-Magnon supporters wreaked, and pretended to be outraged. At Cruz. Interesting.

2) Cruz graciously congratulated Trump on his primary victory. Why wouldn’t he? Trump won. There was nothing to be done about that, and Ted Cruz has generally focused on substance. What’s done is done.  Hell, he even gave a shout-out to Trump’s building a wall idea as something that’s needed!

3) The rest of the speech didn’t mention Trump at all. Cruz talked about freedom, the Constitution, American values, and abusive government power. He talked about the pure evil that is terrorism. He spoke of issues greater than one candidate, but that impact the very future of our country. He spoke of the differences he saw in the current administration and the Democrats’ platform and what he thought the Republican Party should stand for. Do Trump supporters see a problem with those values? Then what in evergliding fuck are they doing there?

4) And finally, Ted Cruz encouraged Republicans not to stay home this November and vote their conscience.

If you love our country, and love our children as much as you do, stand, and speak, and vote your conscience, vote for candidates up and down the ticket who you trust to defend our freedom, and to be faithful to the constitution.

If you see something wrong with this speech, perhaps you need to take a closer look at your own values.

Read it. Read it several times. I challenge anyone to find anything in this speech that’s objectionable to the values we purport to respect and strive to protect! Do it!

Did they believe that when voting their conscience disqualifies Trump as a viable candidate dedicated to Republican values?

For encouraging people to vote their conscience, the shit-flinging Trumpanzees from New York began booing Ted Cruz. They began trying to drown him out and screeching for Trump.


Cruz spoke passionately about the Republican Party’s ideals and historic dedication to freedom. Shouldn’t these traits be part of the GOP candidate’s portfolio? If Trumpanzees are offended by these values and see Cruz’s impassioned reference to them as an “insult” to the GOP candidate, wouldn’t it be wise to actually examine why? Could it be that the candidate doesn’t exhibit these traits that are so critical to what the Republican Party purportedly stands for?

Oh, they’re angry that Cruz didn’t endorse Trump?

By laying out the values on which the Republican Party was built – freedom, smaller government, self-determination, and justice – Ted Cruz endorsed the GOP candidate, didn’t he? Oh no? And whose fault is that?

Oh, they wanted Cruz to mention Trump by name? Why?

They already knew Cruz wasn’t going to directly endorse Trump. He has said so numerous times publicly, and the Trump campaign agreed that a public, specific endorsement wasn’t necessary.

And why would he? Trump attacked his wife with ridiculous ad hominems. He accused his father of being part of a JFK assassination plot. He spread rumors that Cruz was a philanderer and ineligible for the Presidency by virtue of being born in Canada. Why in the world would Cruz ever endorse that?

Oh, he signed a pledge? Fatass Christie from New Jersey, who seemed to have forgotten what exactly an elected official’s “job” he whined“And quite frankly, I think it was something selfish. And he signed a pledge. And it’s his job to keep his word.”

No, you porcine jackass. His job is to “support and defend the Constitution” of the United States, not to publicly support a Cheeto-colored fuckbag who attacked his family, and whose familiarity and respect for the Constitution is maybe a smidgen greater than my dog’s. No go stick that donut back in your maw and handwash Trump’s underwear. Isn’t that your job?

And let’s not forget, boys and girls, who backed out of that pledge first, and who ultimately released Cruz from having to abide by it in the first place.

Now, with only three candidates remaining in the race, the loyalty pledge appears to be all but dead.

Tuesday night during a CNN town hall in Milwaukee, Wis., moderator Anderson Cooper asked Trump whether he is sticking with his pledge to support the nominee.

“No, I don’t anymore,” Trump said. “No, we’ll see who it is.”

And with respect to his contentious relationship with Texas Sen. Ted Cruz, Trump appeared to release Cruz from the pledge as well.

“Honestly, he doesn’t have to support me,” Trump said. “I’m not asking for his support.”

This face is filled with nothing but hatred and unmitigated frothing zeal for der Fuhrer!

This face is filled with nothing but hatred and unmitigated frothing zeal for der Fuhrer!

And yet, the cretins in that convention hall not only refused to allow Cruz to finish his speech, but also advanced on his wife so aggressively, she had to be escorted out by security!

Is this civilized? No. It’s unsportsmanlike, puerile, and ignorant.

This shouldn’t be part of American politics, but it’s something to which we’ve become accustomed and inured.

I’m not even surprised that these froth-flecked fuckwits didn’t listen or comprehend the words Ted Cruz eloquently strung together about American values, American security, freedom, and real diversity.

I am shocked at how vicious these putrid malcontents are, and how quickly they’ve traded in common sense for pure, unmitigated rage.

Rage feels good. It’s cathartic, and I’ll be the first one to admit it.

But last night showed me just how embarrassing the Republican Party has become. Its nominee embraced the very political machine he condemned as “rigged” throughout the primary cycle, and now is using it to threaten and intimidate those who haven’t fallen in line with his particular brand of populist statism.

By threatening Heidi Cruz, the Trumpanzees showed just how depraved and savage they are.

By trying to drown out a speech that ostensibly speaks to values with which they agree, merely because it comes out of the mouth of a man who has challenged their hairy, small-handed tyrant, they showed a distinct lack of class and a disrespect for the very principles they supposedly espouse.

By rejecting a call to “vote your conscience,” they embarrassingly acknowledge that their candidate doesn’t deserve said vote.

They’re an awkward reminder to the rest of the world just how far the United States has fallen.

In case y’all wondered what I look like…

It’s summer in DC. 

Note to Commenters

It appears, due to certain ignorant fucktards failing to read the rules, I need to post a reminder.

There will be no racist commentary tolerated on this site. None. Zip.

I am not in the habit of censoring my site. I like healthy and unhealthy debate. I love cursing. It’s fun. However, racism isn’t funny, nor is it acceptable here. That is non-negotiable.

If your ignorant ass wants to post racist invective it will either be deleted or edited, depending on my mood. If you continue to be a dick, you’ll be relegated to the spam pile.

No, you have no right to demand I allow you to post your shit. I pay for this site. It’s mine. You will follow the rules, or you will leave.

Also, a reminder about moderation. First-time commenters will automatically be tossed into moderation, as will any comment with more than one link. This is to protect the site from spam, not because I want to censor you in some way. I’m usually pretty good about checking the spam trap and releasing comments from moderation quickly, but if I don’t, it’s because I’m busy, and I’ll get to your comment shortly. So, if you’re planning on sending me nasty notes about censoring you, don’t bother.

I hope that’s clear.

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