Monday, May 28, 2012

THE BEATEN GENERATION: The Dick Principle (Chapter 15)

David de Gea, goalkeeper, Manchester United, Premier League; with girlfriend Edurne


by Dick & Poli Tico

NOTES:  Our two ex-gay heroes are now on the move. They clobbered their homosexuality, they will now deal with the villains. We'll start unmasking some more of them in this chapter. The villains are a shady clique of delusional segments of liberal America. Remember, our two ex-gay heroes themselves self-identified also as liberals so it will be a battle between the sane vs. the delusional liberals. Let's see how sane liberals, God-fearing conservatives and other intellectuals in the saner parts of the political spectrum will try to save Western civilization.
This is not an anti-intellectual novel. There are "intellectuals" and there are "intellectuals", we are only for the sane intellectuals.


Chapter 15:  Diversified

"You can either vote to stay in the euro, with all the commitments you've made, or you're effectively voting to leave."
David Cameron, Prime Minister, Britain, to the Greeks

"Je n'allais pas travailler sous les ordres de ce naze !" (referring to French Prime Minister Jean-Marc Ayrault)
Martine Aubry, French Socialist Party head, according to "le Canard enchaîné" (but which the former denied, whatever)

"L'Italia e un luogo sicuro"
Mario Monti, Italian Prime Minister

"A Merkel le dire que estoy haciendo lo que Espana necessita"
Mariano Rajoy, Spanish Prime Minister



January 22, Afternoon (GMT+8), Taipei, Taiwan

It quickly became the biggest mystery of the day. No trace was found of the crashed plane of Margarita Beaumont. Not even a tiny fiber of the shorts she was wearing in the plane, a replica of the shorts worn by Muhammad Ali in his fight against George Foreman (She had a video collection of all Ali's fights and she had all the shorts worn by the boxer copied, she used them underneath her dress instead of panties). Wide areas of the Pacific Ocean south of Hawaii down to a thousand miles north of the Easter Island were swept by rescue officers of the US Navy but not a single debris was sighted. As if Margarita Beaumont disappeared into thin air.

News about the disappearance of "the most beautiful actress in the world" immediately spread like wildfire around the world. The world shook its head in disbelief. Alas, the symbol of fragile femininity was lost forever. Masses were said for her in the Vatican, the Italian television station RAI showed old nuns crying for the loss of the "reincarnation of the Virgin Mary" (actually, nobody among them had seen any of her films, they just wanted the publicity because they wanted donations for the construction of new bidets... ups, lavatory in the monastery). The Nebraska evangelist did not fire screams of "Sodom and Gomorrha, Sodom and Gomorrha" this time. He prayed over her soul instead, spreading his arms as if he was being crucified, bending backwards acutely his spine while he looked up tearfully, supplicating that God take her soul to heaven: "Save your child, Lord, save... Aaargh! (violent gagging)". Alas, his loose false teeth was a problem even when he's not screaming, gravity pulled it straight down to his throat and paramedics had to bring him to the hospital for extraction.

Her closest friends, the muscled members of her childhood Neo-Nazi gang, went on a rampage in East LA, knocking down Latinos who had the temerity to cross their paths. She always attended their drinking sprees every weekend and the guys were mad they would have to pay their drinks now that generous "Marco" had gone.

There was joy behind the high walls of the studios. The biggest competitor was down and the other big leading ladies of Hollywood held raucous private parties to celebrate. No need to leak sex tapes anymore to get through the Margarita Beaumont preoccupation of the media.

In Asia, the Taiwanese media was too busy with a developing story in their midst to pay attention to the Margarita Beaumont brouhaha elsewhere. The small throng at the airport which stoned the pop star gathered forces as it snaked through the downtown area. By the time it passed below the shadows of Taipei 101, the throng had developed into the size and hysteria of a Mayday rally.

Don't let this foreign devil destroy our children!

Burn the Imperialist virus!

Crucify the abnormal monster!

Where is Superslut? Find the devil!

What happened next was a blur to Superslut. To her credit, the drunkard manager became immediately sober and when a rain of stones cracked the van's windows, she shouted to the driver to take them to the American Embassy instead. Superslut couldn't remember it but her manager will later tell her that she was shouting "Diversity! I am for diversity, I am diversified!" like crazy through the cracked car windows to the angry mob.

"What was that for?" her manager was curious.

Superslut was snivelling like a little girl, with mucus running through her nose, and pouting exaggeratedly as if she was in a major tantrum."I was teaching them Diversity. I accepted to take their money and perform for them but they don't accept me for being me. They did not respect my diversity, they were not diversified."

The manager actually softened at Superslut, as if the latter was suddenly her  little girl who became disappointed when the lessons ingrained to her by her mother did not tally with reality. Of course, she knew the dangers of simplistically encapsulating humanity into neat political sound bites. Reality had a mind of its own and it was getting more and more impossible to contain all the variables operative within. You can tinker it a bit but you're bound to discover there is a limit.

She thought that limit comes earlier the weaker one's leverage becomes.

Suddenly, word reached the throng that Superslut took refuge at the American Embassy. Superslut was in the bathroom when she first noted the low hubbub which steadily grew until it became a thunderous cacophony of murderous screams. She ran stricken to her manager who instantly developed protective  maternal instincts for her suddenly "fragile" ward. She embraced her and caressed softly the pink wig of Superslut as if the latter was her 3-year old girl. She actually nearly hummed a lullaby.

"I just hope we won't meet the fate of Margarita Beaumont," she sighed. She was frightened too.

"Why? What happened to her?" The inquiring eyes of Superslut were big, like that of a frightened little girl (Her manager replied when once she was asked how old Superslut was: "She is 30 years old but if you deducted the days she was stoned, she could still be pubescent").

"Margarita Beaumont is no more. She died from a plane crash."

Superslut screamed. A scream which would not stop. She was hysterical. She bolted from her manager and ran screaming like a headless chicken around the room.

Everybody in the Ambassador's office screamed in unison as if they were a chorus hitting the highest notes in an operatic aria when she ran straight through the open window while screaming "Marco! Marco!".

At that same instant, in a secret installation in Beijing, Commander Albert "Margaret" Hageman was just informed that his favorite actress had died in a plane crash. He too screamed and screamed while running around the room like a headless chicken. But he did not run towards the open window. He became exhausted and stopped. Then he smiled almost shyly to his Russian escort and fluttered his false eyelashes at the young man who was already weak from fighting nausea.

Commander Albert "Margaret" Hageman purred in his baritone,"Sorry. Just menopause, I guess!"



January 22, 8 AM (GMT-8), Palo Alto

There was a vague geographical delineation of homosexual love around San Francisco. In the city peninsula, it was the male homosexual enclave, the so-called Gay Mecca. In the South Bay and across to Oakland and Berkeley in the east, the lesbians ruled. The city of San Francisco was not the only one contracting in population since  the fags moved in with the Hippies in the 1960's. So was Oakland. In fact, with the last one, there was no let-up. Hemorrhage all the way down since the 1960's after a slight bump around 1990-2000.

Malcolm Frederick laughed at the thought. Gays were not the only ones rebuffing, so were the lesbians despite what the porn sales seemed to indicate!

In the Berkeley area, Rebekah Sommheiler was an icon. The septuagenarian hipster had a reputation of being a "woman's woman". It surprised Malcolm when he first saw her fondling the newspaper publisher the other night during the orgy. As he rummaged inside her hard drive, it surprised him even more.

He did not see a single picture of a naked woman. Nor of a naked man for that matter. But he saw a gigabyte worth of naked pictures of young boys. The "woman's woman" was a pedophile. And heterosexual?

He copied the whole hard drive. He had lots of reading to do. Other people's secrets were his ebooks. The only reason he circulated among the ultra-liberal crowd was because they tended to have more secrets. And what outlandish secrets!

He was an outlandish character himself. So was his business partner Adrian Lao. They grew up together in Sunnyvale, becoming two of the most notorious hackers in the Bay Area by the time they reached high school. At 30, they were both billionaires. The Palo Alto campus of their software company stood proudly rivalling that of  Google in nearby Mountain View.

He owed a lot from Herbert Campbell II. Herbert suddenly arrived one day in their house. He never asked how Herbert did it but when he was almost certain of being jailed after being caught entering the CIA's top secret memory banks, he was released. From the age of fifteen, he felt himself closer to Herbert than to his own father. The old man made sure he got all the education he needed without ever asking for anything. Malcolm built his company with Adrian, however, without asking a single penny from Herbert. It was a perfect mentor-protege relationship. He respected Herbert more than anybody else.

He did not know what to make of Rebekah Sommheiler. Respect was too grand a word for her. Rebekah was his professor in Humanities at UCLA. Rebekah only had her attention to the ladies. It was okay with the boys, they were left alone playing Counterstrike at the back of the classroom.

Rebekah Sommheiler, of all people, just phoned him.

As if anticipating his questions, she immediately said,"Frank Schonberg gave me your phone number. He is indisposed."

"Is he sick?"

"He had to go to New York. Important business. He asked me to tell you you've won. Mr. Frederick, you won five hundred million dollars."

"What for?"

Rebekah laughed."The bet, remember? All the newspapers have dead Hollywood stars on their headlines. No trace of the fag destroyer commander."

Malcolm remembered the orgy. A silly game really. He liked it better when they bet on events which were hard to control. One of the participants in the orgy was a publisher who controlled all the newspapers in the Western US. Anybody could have easily approached him.

Questions raced across Malcolm's mind. So why did he win? Why did Frank have to delegate a phone call which he could have done from New York himself? What was in New York? And why Rebekah?

Something flashed in his mind. He was curious."Who lost?"

"Do you know Mike Rogers?"

The billionaire from Denver. He felt the plot just got thicker.

"Of course."



January 22, 9 AM (GMT-8), Cedars-Sinai, Los Angeles

Tina was still sleeping when Tony went out. He just left a note before going to the airport. Malcolm Frederick's Lear jet was already there waiting.

Tina,

I would have liked nothing but to see you smile this morning. But I have to do something in the Bay Area, it's too important...


It's been two days and they hadn't had a private moment together. Tina felt the rush of emotions. She did not let herself dwell on the incident. How she got that far. It was so unlike but so like her at the same time to take to extremes. Perhaps this meant she had stopped being a pendulum. She must have found her final refuge with Tony?

She laughed at herself weakly.

 One thing she was sure of, she was only too happy he was safe. But what's this building in her chest? Fear? What's so important in the Bay Area?

Why did they have to shoot him? Tony was so gentle she was suprised to know he angered somebody enough to kill him.
And the killer shot from the entrance of the house. A bodyguard of Helmut Schiller. What did Tony do to provoke the old man to such extreme outrage? In the presence of former Hippies who are now VIP's of California within the immediate vicinity. Was it part of some act to spice up the orgy?

Was it?

Did it have anything to do with Tony's trip up North?

She finished reading the note:

... Stella called. She told me to tell you to get well fast because a house in Bel-Air is waiting for you, for us...



January 22, 2012, 10 AM (GMT-8), High above California somewhere between Los Angeles and San Jose

It was Phillip who called up Malcolm Frederick to ask for some background information for the ideas swirling in his mind. They became close since he did an article on the latter for the newsmagazine. He was amazed at the sudden great interest showed by the billionaire hacker and was nearly floored when Malcolm said:"You know, I think you are onto something there. Perhaps I could help."

He thought he did not ask any leading question but a sharp mind like Malcolm's could make sense out of the most sterile pretexts. Might as well. Just the right kind of ally that they needed. He knew Malcolm, the epitome of the apolitical anarchist, was safe.

He did not have to ask for anything. Malcolm anticipated their needs. He volunteered his plane which just delivered back to Los Angeles his weekend guests in his Napa Valley vineyards.

They will meet at his Palo Alto house this morning.

Tony looked at Phillip. He only noticed then the dark countenance of the latter. "Are you worried?"

"I have other things in my mind."

"Ah, a private matter!" Tony was ready to drop his curiosity.

Phillip was not, he needed the outlet."The editor called me just as I arrived in the airport a while ago. He rejected my article on sexual conversion because something came up."

"What?"

"The author of one of the studies which supported sexual conversion just denounced his conclusions a decade after the fact."

"Why, does it matter? Is there an intellectual dictator who holds the magic wand? There are other experts vouching for its validity. There are enough successful converts to testify for the programs' wisdom. There's you."

"I was not worried about the validity of my sexual conversion. I was intrigued by the sudden change of mind of one study's author. Especially if it was doubtful if he had the adequate capacity to do so."

"What do you mean?"

"It  appears that he changed his mind a decade after the study, now when he is 80 years old and highly likely didn't have the mental capacity to do so."

Tony remained quiet. He waited for Phillip to continue.

"The old man allegedly had Parkinson's which is due to degenerative changes in the so-called basal ganglia of the brain. Degenerative changes in the brain are not well-delineated processes. Fifty percent of patients with Parkinson's Disease have affected mental capacities."

"That rendered useless all that info. Did the news reports mentioned that?"

"No, a typical propaganda piece masquerading as scientific fact. It just stated he had Parkinson's but that was to pretend it's not biased. It never elaborated on the implications of that fact, which could have invalidated the very point of that article. It was written just to highlight that converts were engaged in self-deception but it provided no direct evidence that there was real self-deception among the original subjects. Low-brow journalism right there fed to a supposedly intellectual audience."

"I was striked by lightning but I shouldn't believe I was struck by lightning until some obscure old man who had a degerative brain disease said so. Though he said I was struck by lightning when he had clearer faculties to discern so."

"It had the typical footprint of a dishonest compensatory leftist propaganda: they know better so they have the last word. That's why they love to use the word "intellectual" to legitimize their pretensions. But in reality, the validity of the arguments are not important for their propaganda. They just aim to control the narrative."

"Except everybody has seen through them, nobody is really reading them, much less taking them seriously for the narrative to matter an iota. Those newspapers which carried it have financial problems and falling subscriptions. They point to the internet for their troubles though I thought they should point it to themselves because they simply have lost credibility. One couldn't rouse the leftist elements in its backyard to prop up the Occupy movement despite the presence of all the elements to stoke it. The other one championed the gay activist agenda but majority of the gays in its market returned to hiding instead. The latter never deduced that  most of those gays who returned to hiding are now sexual converts."

"A real journalistic crisis."

"I love that phrase, journalistic crisis. It sums up everything, not just their current financial troubles but what's  waiting ahead for the whole profession itself. I'm beginning to pity us writers. We could be extinct species soon if we let ourselves be used by even the most unrealistic political delusions. As the West declines, we might be treated as anachronisms in the new realities taking shape right ahead. Of course, a group will be more vulnerable than the others. Judging from the current developments, the new era appears to have lesser appetite in accommodating revolting political pretensions."

"I wonder why they let themselves be used when most of their readers are reading sports anyway. The few times I bother to read it, I read the one in New York only for its recipes."

"Those intellectual readers were just a myth because if they were any intelligent, they should have been insulted by such stupidly transparent propaganda."

"So your editor was stupid..."

"Or was merely fearful."

"Of what?"

Phillip remained silent for a while as if remembering something. Then he shook his head weakly and looked determinedly at Tony.

"An old man with a degerative brain disease overturning his conclusions when he was more lucid. A fearful editor. Well, things are really getting strange... and we're about to know why."


Jan 22, 2012, Noon (GMT-5), White House

He looked warily at the sullen face of his campaign manager.

"Well?"

"Empty coffers. We're practically at a standstill. We need money now."

"What do you suggest?"

The campaign manager grimaced as if he smelled stinking garbage. Then he shrugged his shoulders, the sign he had already run out of options. "We have no choice. We should bite the bullet and accept the offer of the fags."

Suddenly, the President felt the nausea rising up his throat. He immediately ran to his private toilet and gut-wrenching retches echoed through the Oval Office door and down the corridors, alerting the Secret Service agents stationed outside to rush in.

 Just in time when the campaign manager screamed as the President collapsed on the toilet floor.

 He was later diagnosed as having Severe Dehydration, with Electrolyte Imbalance, secondary to Severe Vomiting.

His personal physician shook his head. "No organic cause. Something just revolted him big-time."





Next: Chapter 16 

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Posted by Delilah
Gracias, Xavier de Barcelona!