Author: Mark Alexander

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He cheated. Somehow.

His crowd sizes were too small to support this type of victory. He did nothing to appeal to voters in the middle. He doubled down on his base.

He did not work with Haley or her voters. These elections are supposedly won by the voters in the middle.

His entire life has been a game of manipulation, cheating, gaming the system, and conning. It would be in alignment with his lifetime structure to have figured out how to rig the system.

In fact, he stated before this election that it was rigged. Which clearly is his proiection and confession. Projection is part of his flawed narcissistic personality disorder.

He cheated. Somehow. Musk is involved. The voting tabulating machines must have been manipulated…

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This Is How I Know…

This is how I absolutely KNOW there is no omnipotent invisible sky daddy.

If there was that orange syphilitic septuagenarian who is the poster boy for SIN would have been struck down the minute he entered the church.

Failing that if there’s was an actual devil he would have appeared the minute that bloated drug addled fuck sidled up to Zelensky to demand he sign the rare earth minerals “agreement” at a Fucking funeral and he would have dragged him straight the fuck to hell for being more of an evil fuck than Beelzebub himself.

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Okay, How Many Get This?

And once again they came to Phoenix and I didn’t know about it until it was too late to buy tickets. (Also, I’m not paying $190/seat plus fees to see anyone.)

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Ah, Youth

This photo brings back memories. Summer, 1984. I was living in Mesa (a suburb east of Phoenix) with an absolute lunatic. (Another story for another time.)

I took a chance one weekend—knowing full well I might return home to find his dead body—and drove down to Tucson to spend time with friends, away from the madness.

It was a typical Saturday night at The Fineline. My friend Lee and I closed the bar as we often did, and while I lingered in the parking lot (a common activity at this particular club) hoping that even though the cruising had been dismal there might be some cute boy hanging out desperate enough to get laid that he’d hook up with me. (Hey, it happened before.)

This particular evening there was one guy with whom I’d been playing cat-and-mouse all evening. I don’t remember who struck up the conversation, but we connected and soon realized we were both interested (in fact, had been interested all evening) but he lived at home, and I was staying in a spare bedroom at Lee’s place. I knew he had asked some mutual friends back to his place (actually his mom’s place—she was out of town and he lived in a casita in back of the main house) to talk, dance, listen to music and generally hang out because no one really wanted to call an end to the evening. As Lee was leaving I told him I’d be, um…delayed…and he just told me to be safe.

Bobby and I had no idea where we’d consummate things, but for some strange reason I suggested we take a drive up the Catalina Highway to Windy Point. It was a nice overlook and I figured at that hour (now almost 2 am) it would be deserted.

It was. And it was then and there that I discovered my brand new Toyota Corolla SR-5 was not designed for…well, you know.

I learned sometime later that Bobby had a very apropos nickname: “Beer Can.”

By the time we got back to town, dropped him off, and headed to Lee’s place, the neighborhood was clogged with cars. Lee’s place was full of people.

Apparently, someone had passed around the bar that there was an after hours party at Lee’s. At one point the police were called. Lee was in tears as he was pushing people out the front door.

Good times.