Sunday, October 15, 2017


     Well my fellow Chickweedians it's time for another tale about events hidden behind the wainscoating of our favorite comic.  It is an exploration of aspects of the very controversial did-they-or didn't-they tryst of Seth and Edda in July 2017.  I'm convinced their tryst was, er, successful.  What follows here is hint and inference run wild.  Be advised that this short story is extremely X-rated.  You have been warned.  If Brooke can push the envelope then so can I.

Addendum.  Events subsequent to these musings in this piece have been, unsurprisingly, quite different in the strip.

Addendum.  06/03/21.  Recent events in the strip indicate that Seth has not managed to quench his love and desire for Edda.




     Will somebody please tell me what on Earth has happened to Seth?  Why is he suddenly leaving the door ajar to something more between us than roommate?  Why after all this time is he seemingly responding to what he has always laughingly referred to as my "feminine wiles"?
     We have just had the most bizarre encounter.  He's gone on about how a "part" of him has always wanted me, but an even bigger part is resolutely protective of me.  He's let me kiss him and fondle his magnificent body in ways I've never dreamed would happen.  And I've dreamed about it hundreds of times.  I simply can not resist him, and he knows it, but for the very first time I see him struggling to resist meWhy?
     He knows full well I'll leap at any opportunity to make love to him with no heed of consequence.  Tonight he nattered on about thirteen percent of this and eighty-seven percent of that.  Obfuscatory nonsense and nothing but.  Why tell me about his supposed partial desire for me now?
Could it possibly be Xiulan's "luscious" kiss?   Sorry, not buying it.  If her kiss was so stupendously luscious and involving, then when she kissed Amos four months ago her professed virginity might not have lasted out the hour.  Despite appearances, my Amos is a major stud with the skills and equipment to prove it.
     I suppose it's possible that the kiss of the cute little dragon lady, coupled with the environment of the wedding, caused some switch in Seth's noggin to flip from off to on, or the reverse.  Perhaps a tipping point was reached as he observed Ginger and Gerald's lusty connection.   Perhaps perhaps blah blah.  Any real explanation may remain elusive.  Bye the bye, good on G & G.  I hope they are cheerfully diddling each other as we speak.
     Another perhaps.  Did he suddenly realize that, however much he professed to adore Fernanda's talent, he enjoyed fucking her even more?  Because by golly he fucked her at least a half dozen times in two weeks, maybe more, consequently erasing her virginity in spectacular fashion.  He had to have enjoyed it immensely or there wouldn't have been so many repeat performances. 
     Did he actually fall in love with her, and did he respond to her powerful femininity far more than he admitted?  My guess is yes.  And I sensed it at the time because during those two weeks steam routinely issued from my ears in jealousy, and frustration.  He professed to be relieved when she shunned his proposal of marriage, but if she had assented I think he might have been quite pleased.  From then on I pretty much assumed he was bi-sexual whatever his protestations to the contrary were.  He simply enjoyed screwing Fernanda too much for me to draw any other conclusion.  Unfortunately, it only made me want him to ravish me even more intensely.
     It could be that since he and Mark have been on the outs for so long that his appreciation of the feminine has crept to the fore.  It's been a year now since they kinda sorta maybe temporarily "broke up", and to my knowledge Seth hasn't had sex in all that time.  For that matter Mark didn't service Seth's dipstick all that often, so far as I was able to tell anyway.  Seth is surrounded at work by women and surrounded at home by me, poor guy.  He doesn't cruise gay bars and he's affected very few, if any, of the outward trappings of the "gay lifestyle", whatever the hell that means exactly.  Outside of the fact that he's a ballet dancer there are few people who meet him and immediately come to the conclusion he's gay.  He despises the term "gaydar", but he would not strongly register on the scopes of those who fancy they possess an accurate example of it.
     That gayness, whatever the heck percentage it might be, only reveals itself when one spends a lot of time around him.  He's a general fussbudget and a clean freak, but that's hardly a slam dunk since Amos has some aspects of both those characteristics, and believe you me he is so not gay.  Amos presents as a somewhat weedy nerd, and he's obviously not the physical specimen that Seth is.  But he more than makes up for it by sweetly and expertly fucking my brains out on a routine basis, which always elicits multiple hand-grenade class orgasms from me during each and every delicious session.  Plus he's ready and raring to go again a half hour after squirting, and has stamina enough to screw me a dozen times in a twenty-four hour period, which he has, twice.  More importantly, he loves me unreservedly and patiently tolerates my countless foibles and neuroses.  As Thorax's Pap might say, "That boy ain't right".  I daily thank the very Heavens for that un-rightness.
     Amos and I should have been screwing each other since we were sixteen, maybe even fifteen.  There was not the slightest doubt by then that we loved and desired each other, but little prissy-pants me didn't want to take a chance on "ruining our special friendship."  Ridiculous.  I'd be willing to bet that even the most special friendships are not ruined by deep affection and transcendently satisfying sex.  Some idiot, that would be me, decided to wait, and wait I did until my virginity finally gave up the ghost in Brussels.   Stupid stupid stupid, although that denouement was glorious in the extreme.
     In my defense I didn't know how wonderful sex would be with Amos.  I didn't know if I'd like sex at all.  I did go so far as to practice putting condoms on vegetables in case Amos should ever rise to the occasion.  The occasion never came until Brussels, but only because I refused to let it.  After assisting his rise to prominence with my hands and mouth, I rolled a condom down around his lovely hard member for the first of hundreds of times. It's an event that's burned into my brain, in the very nicest way, as was the feel of him inside me.  And there was only the tiniest bit of pain, quickly forgotten, when he slid into me the first time.  And yes Mr. Snoopy Pants I orgasmed that first time, powerfully, but I think it was due more to the incredible heat of the moment than any direct stimulation.
     Other than daydreaming and reading about sex the only example I had at home was of course mom and Elliot.  She was delighted that Elliot so sweetly fucked her on weekend nights, their busy schedules did not encourage weeknight boinking, but I also thought they were more into teasingly romantic playfulness than dirty dancing.  I could have been wrong, but even if meine mutter's pounding orgasms, genuine according to her, were noisily apparent in the wee hours, I don't know that Elliot transported her to quivering orgasmic heights in the way that Amos can with me.  I very much hope he did, and I hope still does.  Many people cringe from acknowledging their parent's sexuality, but the apparent continuing health of mom's and Elliot's sex life fills me with nothing but joy.  And regardless of what form of physical intimacy Gran and Peter enjoy it delights me no end.  Two people have never deserved happiness more.
     Some people, my friends and relatives for instance, probably think I suffer from pathological nymphomania, but they are wrong.  It's not pathological, but it may well be psychological.  There is a very good reason for this condition and its name is Amos Lucian Van Hoesen.  As luck would have it he suffers from a variety of satyriasis wherein his lust is focused on only one woman.  Oh lucky nympho am I.  Ain't symmetry grand?
     Let us refocus on one Mr. Seth Michael Appleby, who has this night intimated that he has wanted to insert tab S into slut E for a long time.  For her part slut E has wanted tab S inside her since about five seconds after they were introduced.   Herr S been aware of the situation for about that long as well, but has never succumbed.  Not even this night when at long last it seemed imminent.  He stayed his hand from the plow, or more accurately stayed his cock from my mouth.  Just as I was about to yank down his sleep shorts and stuff said cock down my gullet he pulled me up and held me while I struggled not to cry in bitter disappointment.  Then he bid me goodnight and went to his room muttering about how we should forget what just happened.
     God I feel awful, and like a perfect fool.  A despairing pathetic fool.  I should be mad at him for letting things go so far, but I'm not since it's obvious he is undergoing some sort of existential crisis.  He has admitted that he suffers from the delusion that I'm drop dead gorgeous and has inferred, not for the first time, that he would fuck me instanter if his honor permitted.  Well maybe so, but Gran has recently had a few things to say about such honor, mostly ugly things.  She claims an honorable promise essentially ruined most of her life, and I have no reason to doubt her.
     Perhaps Seth thinks that if we ended up in the sack he would be obliged to propose marriage as he did to Fernanda.  I got news for him.  He could fuck me deaf dumb and blind for a month (yes please) and I'm sure I'd enjoy the hell out of it, but I'd still marry Amos.  Whatever might happen that is non-negotiable.  Amos is my soulmate, the being with which I have a connection that cannot be sundered.  I love Seth fiercely, and he is one of the two sweetest men I've ever met, and would very much like to have him in my bed, but our connection is just not, quite, as transcendent as the one I have with Amos.  For his part Amos is (all too) aware of how strongly I feel about Seth, and would not likely judge me too harshly if a consummation were to take place.  Put as plainly as possible I burn to have Seth fuck me, but not marry me.  However, if we lived in a universe where morality and honor held less sway then...
     As I dictate this into my own head I note that I have flung the f-bomb about with abandon.  I'm not shy about many things, but uttering common vulgarisms is something my brain will simply not tolerate.  In the privacy of my own noggin the word evokes the raw animalistic aspects of the sex act far better than any timid euphemism can manage.  That it is used so heedlessly as a one-size-fits-all adjective, adverb, and insult irks my linguistic stiff neck no end.  Diane and I are in accord on this issue, but she is unlikely to use the word even the privacy of her own mind.  I may think it, but I never utter it.
     "Making love" evokes tenderness, caring, comfort, ease.  Fucking evokes hard cocks stuffed into wet waiting cunts, glorying in the feel of semen squirting into wombs or mouths, moaning in a red haze of heedless lust, and screeching like a banshee in body wrenching orgasm.  Most of the time people combine these two aspects to some degree or other, but there are times when I just want to be royally fucked, to screw like a mindless mink in heat, to delight utterly in watching a nice fat hard cock spray musky redolent gluey semen into me and all over me.  
     I once found out that I seemed such a verbal shrinking violet when it came to profanity or scatology that people were uncomfortable using salty terms in my presence.  I'm far from a goody two-shoes, but unlike some people whatever strong language is rattling round my febrile noggin does not automatically make a break for it through my pie-hole.  As far as the impression that I am allergic to rough talk I blame Gran, whose overwhelming and bitter rectitude played havoc with my formative years.  As a child I was vaguely aware that Gran's married life had been distinctly unpleasant and loveless.  I was later to find out just how direly unpleasant it had been, but that still leaves me wondering whence came that exaggerated sense of morality and proper behavior.  Is this a common overreaction to her sort of bitterness?  Passing odd it is.
     It seemed even odder after we found out what a lusty wench she once was.  She heedlessly and aggressively insisted the love of her life fuck her half to death in the mid-fifties when she joyfully and intentionally conceived my mother.  In a truly sane world she would have been on that plane to Vienna with Peter to live a life of genuine love and fulfillment.  She didn't do that because of a fleeting wartime promise to another.
     I have read some of the drafts of mom's book in progress about Gran's, Bill's, and Martine's lives during and after the war.  Despite the working title of The Wolverine of Normandy, all three people's stories are interwound through it.  In it she judges that her mother's decision to not marry Peter was a horrible mistake, and Gran readily admits to the truth of that proposition.  Sometimes our cortices should not be heeded when they attempt to override our gushing hormones.  The trick of the thing is knowing when.  Of course if she had married him I wouldn't have been born.  Details details.  For her part Gran is philosophical about the mistake which is made possible by the extreme contentment of finally being in Peter's loving presence.  I tend to tear up when I think of Peter.  He is just the sweetest Gro├čvater ever.
     Gran had thought back in the day that she was in love with two men.  She's now convinced she was flat wrong.  By contrast I know with profound certainty I am in love with two men.  My heart and hormones gush for Amos and for Seth, but my cortex has been unsuccessful in its efforts to moderate my lust for Seth like a "good girl" should.  Polyandry would be a perfect solution, but an impossibly tough sell for both men, and just about everyone I know with the possible exception of Isabel.  Without doubt Diane would be utterly aghast at the idea.  Sister Steven would require EMS stat.  A few years ago Gran would have been horrified at the prospect, but I wonder if she would be so dismissive of it now.
     It's a crazy idea I suppose, but I know I'm definitely capable of properly servicing both my notional husbands emotional and sexual needs, and alternating baby making with them would be a wondrous thing indeed.  I would love to keep both of them in my life as sexual personae (who wouldn't) but I doubt that is in the cards.  Honor and morality forbid it, dammit.  Perhaps if I stamp my feet hard enough the universe will rearrange itself for me.
     Among my jostling crowd of neuroses is the fact that I don't take rejection well (oh shut up), and this night has proven it.  Clearly my "wiles" were ultimately not up to the task of penetrating Seth's armored honor.  Maybe I will acknowledge that it might not be such a good idea to have Seth in my bed once I get past this sick feeling in my stomach, and the ache in my heart.  I can't even flee to Amos for comfort since he's out of town and won't be back until Monday.  I don't even have the urge to pleasure myself as I often do when bereft of Amos.  I just feel numb.
     I shuck my undies which for some  entirely known reason are thoroughly drenched, wearily climb into bed, and pull up the covers.  My nightie stays on.  Despite my libertine leanings I usually sleep in something other than skin.  I leave my little bedside lamps on.  The dark would just make me feel even lonelier.  I doze, very lightly apparently because I'm instantly awakened by a small noise.  I pop up and see the door handle turning.  The door swings open and Seth steps through.
     The breath catches in my throat.  The light is weak, but Seth is revealed in his glory, naked as a babe and resplendently erect.  That resplendency is enormous, but then so is he, so I suppose it's only proportional, but I wonder where he's been hiding that monster all these years.  Amos is wonderfully long and thick, he fits me perfectly, but Seth is significantly larger in both dimensions.  I never would have guessed.  He must have a very high, er, rate of inflation.  He's gripping a bath towel by his side.   My stomach lurches, my vision narrows, and someone has opened the throttle on my heart rate.
     I'll be damned.  My wiles may have worked after all.  Or maybe his lust has bum-rushed his honor out of the building.  His whole body seems as rigid as his huge member, but his face softens as he kneels by my bed.  In a near whisper he says,  "I love you Edda.  God forgive me but I do."
Predictably it's a line from a musical, but I'll take it.  He bends to kiss me and I smash my mouth to his and bring our tongues to battle.  I wrap a hand around his engorged member which considering its size must have sequestered a quart of his blood to achieve its iron stiffness.  One hand won't go nearly around it but I stroke it as we frantically osculate, feel its heavily veined texture.  I wrench my mouth away from his long enough to snarl,  "Fuck meNow!"
     He climbs gingerly onto the bed and and I quickly shuck my nightie then my legs spread wide for him.  I am far beyond ready and I'm lubricating like a broken faucet.  I guide him into position, he gently parts the ways, slides slowly and carefully in.  Feeling no obstruction, or hearing any complaint, he keeps sliding until I have enveloped his enormity.  There is no pain.  He is immense, but I am no tight blushing virgin.  I will later wonder how Fernanda accommodated him without tremendous discomfort.
     Dear sweet God he feels good.  The pressure is intense but I feel nothing but a glowing diffuse pleasure.  He slides back out and begins to slowly thrust.  My eyes roll back in my head and I hear whimpering mewling coming from my mouth.  My legs rotate back and spread as wide as they can and my toes reach for the sky  My hips roll up to better aim his thrusting.  Thrust he does, and I feel my cusp approaching quickly.  Suddenly I clamp around him and my hand muffles the screaming proof of my orgasm.  Fifteen seconds later I orgasm even harder, still he thrusts, more steadily and rapidly now.  I orgasm a third body convulsing time.  It can't have been much more than a minute since he entered me.
     Six years of want was exploding through me.  I was orgasming uncontrollably as his great member filled me.  I normally orgasm during intercourse, but this eruption of incendiary pleasure simply had to be psychological.  The mere idea that my own personal god of ballet's vast member was penetrating me was enough to send me over Niagara, without a barrel.  Whether it's directly stimulating or not I adore penetration.   I adore it, but I don't know if I would if I did not love and want the person penetrating me.  I orgasmed mere seconds after Amos first penetrated me in that Brussels hotel room nearly four years ago.  I have to admit I'd wanted him inside me since I was fourteen.  It's a good thing I had no idea how much I'd enjoy sex with him or we would almost certainly have been screwing since then.  In any case my supposed nymphomania was well and truly kick-started that glorious Brussels night and has scarcely abated since. 
     Abruptly Seth buries himself in me, stills, emits a deep growl, then gushes.  And when I say gush I mean that he floods my insides with more man stuff than I could ever imagine issuing from a male human type person.  I writhe, quiver, and yelp in continuous orgasm beneath him.  Presently the tsunami recedes, our breathing eases, the red haze dissipates.  I now know what it's like to be on the receiving end of a year's built up lust for a man built and hung like a bull.
     He stays planted within me until he softens completely, withdraws gently, cups my bottom, lifts it to slide the doubled towel under it.  He lays his bulk beside me on the narrow bed.  I rotate myself to face him and we begin to kiss.  We kiss, almost frantically, for what seems an age and his issue messily drains from me for what seems an equal age.  I begin to cry though our kisses.  "What's wrong honey?"
      I sniffle.  "Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Oh god Seth it''s far more wonderful than I ever dreamed."
     "Same for me my love.  You are an erotic treasure beyond price."
     "Was Fernanda such a treasure?"
     "Yes.  I admit it now.  I admit I loved her femininity, and I adored having sex with her, but not half so much as what has just happened."
     "No need to salve my jealousies darling man.  Comparisons are odious anyway.  I am not her and she is not me.  I'm just glad you're here my darling."
      He smiled.  "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?"
      "Since Fernanda went back to Brazil?"
      "Jealous minx.  No it was long before Fernanda.  Remember what I said about Xiulan's kiss?  Well it was very nice, but more importantly it set a train of thought into motion that resulted in a real, and long delayed, epiphany.  I finally realized that although I have long said that I considered you off limits because you were promised to another, there was no real point to my self imposed nobility.  There is literally nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do, to move your heart from sweet Amos to someone else.  Even this.  If we made love a hundred times it wouldn't matter to either of you because there is only one key to your heart and it is permanently in his pocket."
     I felt more tears come.  "Seth do you have any idea how much I love you?"
     "I do honey, I do, and I love you just as much, but you are Amos's mate, the real, honest, and true love of his life.  And he is yours.  There's nothing I can do about that.  There's nothing I want to do about that except to make sure you wear my ding dang dress when you tie the knot."
     "Remember the last wedding dress fitting we had a few weeks ago?  When I brought the dress in you blithely stripped naked in front of the supposedly oblivious gay guy to try it on.  I was absolutely thunderstruck.  I thought, 'Oh my God oh my God.  She is so pretty and sleek and sexy and perfectly shaped.  Heaven help me I want her.  I don't care about anything anymore. I-just-want-her.  I don't care if she's promised to another because that another is Amos who will forgive her anything.'"
     "So earlier when you showed up in my room in misplaced despair about your attractiveness to me, I found myself at last revealing how I felt about you.  I ranged it about with some silly humming and hawing about percentages, but that was just a sham.  But when I realized we were probably going to end up in bed, I chickened out.  I halted things out in indecision about how wrong it might be.  So I sent you off to bed and went to my room cursing myself.  Then the vision of your sweet naked body came to me again and I immediately got so hard it was painful.  It was just too much, far too much, so here I am and here we are.  I hope I didn't hurt you."
      "Oh no not at all.  I've always wondered.  Did you hurt Fernanda?"
     "I don't think so.  She never evidenced any sign of pain.  To be honest she was no tighter than you are.  Which makes me rather skeptical of her claim of virginity, but that is of no importance."
     "Well I'm glad for that.  So now what?"  
     His what was more kissing.  A lot more kissing.  Kissing until we were miles past numb.  Kissing until he hardened and was again exploring the depths of my nether regions.  He explored them four times before the dawn, and several towels gave their all to prevent my bed from becoming a semen soaked mess.  He explored them twice between breakfast and lunch and a very grand total of ten more times by Sunday evening when we finally staggered to our separate beds thoroughly fucked and talked out, our reservoirs exhausted and stamina at low ebb.
     Seventeen times in forty-eight hours we have coupled (not counting oral exams), but luckily my lubricity has matched our lusts so neither of us is even sore.  Did I mention the four incredibly erotic showers. the three massages, the four bottles of wine, the thousand kisses, nibbles, tweaks, licks, laughs, and tears?  It was epic.  Epic cubed.  The dragon is slain.  The God Eros propitiated (more like thrashed into submission).  I think we may have just taken the cure for our erotic obsessions.  It's been exquisite beyond words, but we do not really need to repeat the experience.  That would only sully a perfect memory.  Funny, but in a few months I will have had my second honeymoon night.  And oh yes, eat your heart out Fernanda.
     I'm exhausted to my bones, in many ways and all my parts, but when my Amos shows up tomorrow  he is getting the ride of his life.  He may notice that my bedroom looks like an F-5 twister hit it.  In other words completely normal.
     Seth is an enormously generous and enthusiastic lover, not quite as inventive and talented in either regard as my Amos, but he'll do.  Oh my goodness he'll do.  Plus he's a world class romantic.  There are bereft women who should know all this, but he is much too shy and circumspect to play the role of Lothario in real life.  His soulmate is out there, and it's likely to be a woman.  He likes men of course but one of his stated goals is to have several children and few gay men would countenance a house full of rug rats.  Few men period these days.  Hmmm.  Maybe I will give Fernanda a call down where the reedy wail of the bandoneon is often heard.  It would make my heart sing to see her tango her way back into his heart and life.  And she would give him children.
     As for my sweet Amos he will be having children.  I have managed, mirabile dictu, to keep secret from both my loves that there's been an Amos bred bun in the oven for several weeks now, which certainly eliminated any worries about being impregnated by Seth.  No latex barriers have been between us the past two days and I am looking forward with keen anticipation to routinely enjoying that blessed bareback state with my Amos.  No panic this time.  I am utterly happy to be pregnant now.  I don't know where I slipped up but slip I apparently did.
     No method of birth control save complete abstinence is a hundred percent effective, even the Pill which I cannot tolerate, and if one makes love two hundred times in a year then inevitability makes a hash of what Amos so euphemistically calls "self regulation".  It's bizarre how much variability there is in this process.  Diane and Francis deliberately tried to get pregnant but it took over two months of continuous consortium to achieve it.  One little wiggler escapes a minute flaw in a condom and motherhood here I come.  Not that Diane complained about all the consortium.  Far from it.  That my beloved demure Sister Aramus is just as relentlessly shag happy as yours truly makes my head spin like a top.
     So yes I'm preggers.  Knocked up.  Up the duff.  Blued the stick, twice.  And I'm going to strongly suggest eloping to Amos.  There will be a lot of disappointed people but that's heat I can fade whereas showing up for my wedding, currently planned for five months from now, looking like a beachball in  white charmeuse is something up with which I am not prepared to put.  So let us marry in haste then when we are safely away from prying eyes and yapping gobs I'll tell him I'm pregnant.  Not only will he understand, he'll probably be overjoyed.
     Whether or not I tell him about what just happened I don't really know.  I famously can't keep a secret, but this might be the first one I'm forced to keep long term.  He loves me so much, and is such an incredibly understanding person, he probably would not be too saddened by my confession, but it's a risk.  Perhaps a few years of being a good wife and mother will lessen the sting if I wait to tell him, well, I don't know when.  Perhaps after I deliver our third child.  That many baby booties on the ground should convince him that my youthful indiscretions were of a nothingness in the greater schema.  I wonder if I will be able to convince myself.
     However I can not be ashamed of something I have enjoyed so incredibly much.  I'm sure I'll cry like a baby when I move out, for more reasons than will be privy to anyone but Seth.  Because although Seth and I have raunchily fucked ourselves into exhausted gasping heaps, there is no question we have very much made love to each other.  Oh my Seth.  I love you so much my dear sweet man, but soon I shall hear the pitter-patter and must attend my family.  The blazing torch of my desire for you is now a gently guttering candle, but extinguishing that flame will never be possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you, my other sweetest love, from the veriest bottom of my neurotic heart, thank you.


Thursday, September 14, 2017


     Read a wonderful George Will review of a new novel titled Class.  In the novel the protagonist, Karen, is an up to the second ultra-socially aware mom attempting to raise an equally up to the second ultra-socially aware daughter, Ruby, who unfortunately attends Betts, an ordinary moderately diverse middle school.  Karen becomes obsessed with getting Ruby into a better much more expensive school.

     "Karen, who favors single-origin organic coffee from Burundi, takes Ruby to the artisanal ice cream shop with flavors such as Maple Fennel, and with no corn syrup. When Ruby, pausing over her organic Applegate turkey sandwich on European rye, pronounces a classmate’s lunch—white-bread sandwich, Cheetos, grape soda—“disgusting,”.  Karen frets that in her effort to simultaneously save “both the health of her daughter and that of the planet” she has produced “a hideous food snob.”  Ruby became such at her mother’s knee. Karen has one of her tsunamis of disapproval when another mother brings to a playdate chocolate-chip cookies with embedded Reese’s Pieces. “Dark visions of polyunsaturated cooking oil” addled Karen’s head. Her adherence to the “urban-farming movement” — evidently there is one — is strained by a restaurant offering “pan-seared locally sourced pigeon.”

     "Reluctant to disadvantage her daughter because of her own progressivism, Karen lies about her residential address in order to sneak Ruby into a school that is less diverse than Betts but more financially flush, thanks to more affluent parents — the kind who arrange playdates by saying, “Have your nanny text our nanny.” Karen is, however, a virtuoso of guilt, and to assuage hers she embezzles money from the new school and mails it to Betts. By the time her lies and stealing are revealed, she realizes that her “negativity was like a wisteria vine that, if left to its own devices, would creep into every last crevice of her conscience.” So she returns Ruby to Betts, leaving behind the school where “the experimental puppeteering troupe Stringtheory is performing a kid-friendly version of ‘Schindler’s List.”

     Aside from being funny as hell, that last sentence made me flat out sick with envy.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Fake News Network

Dateline Washington D.C.  The Washington Post today quoted anonymous sources who claimed that contact was made between administration officials and two shadowy Russian operatives named Boris and Natasha.

Saturday, May 13, 2017


The odious trend of school districts and colleges removing the novel Huckleberry Finn from their library shelves has encountered a perhaps inevitable wrinkle.  Students at one high school want the book removed from circulation because they are not "comfortable" with the frank language and the depiction of the lives of black slaves in the antebellum south.

Setting aside the ludicrous notion that an education should be guaranteed to hurt no one's feelings, ever, it has not been at all clear to me why Huckleberry Finn has taken such flak since it is one of the most powerful anti-slavery novels ever written.  It may have been eclipsed by Uncle Tom's Cabin in terms of its power to affect society, published as it was long after the Civil War ended, but Clemens' masterpiece is a stunningly adept and exquisitely written piece of literature that holds a special place of pride in American letters.  Its literary worth and anti-slavery credentials are beyond reproach.

So what is going on here?  In the past few years there have been a goodly number of books and moving pictures that lay out the manifold cruelties of slavery in extreme and horrific detail.  With varying success they are meant to grab you by the throat and pound the evils of slavery into your punkin' haid until you are drunk and disoriented by what an overwhelming mega-crime slavery in the U.S. was.

Huckleberry Finn on the other hand strives to illustrate the details of ordinary day-to-day life in the antebellum south.  It powerfully illustrates, not the gut wrenching horror of slavery, but the complete ordinariness and casual acceptance of it by people in the slave states.  In Huck's and Jim's world slavery was as ordinary as rain and sunshine, and was considered by the non-black population as utterly normal and uncontroversial.  It was this insidiousness, this casual banality of evil, that was one of the things Clemens so adeptly demonstrated.   His genius was to make Huck think past this banality and come to appreciate how dehumanizing it was to someone who had become a friend.

The only reason I can think of why the book has been removed from shelves is that it is just not horrible enough.  It depicts no vicious beatings, no rape, no wanton killing, and no vile sneering overseers hovering over slaves with whip in hand, nothing to get one's blood up to a rolling boil.  Nothing but simple everyday endemic lack of justice and concern for fellow human beings.  This ordinariness, this unremarkability, was the real poison of the antebellum south, and it goes a long way toward explaining the powerful inertia of southern society in regard to any change in the status quo.

People who criticize Huckleberry Finn as racist are not only incredibly wrong they are entirely  missing the point of the novel.  They should be pitied.