“Never trust a Woman if you’re down and out.“, the mental signpost blurted out. “A wise saying?“, he thought. “Maybe a load of self-sanctimonious sour grapes!“, he replied without another thought automatically knee-jerking again. “God!“, he continued in his silent mental amphitheater. “What sort of species is this that constantly reviles it’s better half!“, he unconsciously spat forth without mental counsel yet once again. The aging forty plus ingenue impersonator pushing through the revolving doors of the apartment’s lobby. She sauntering across the stretch of tiles easing to a stop just beyond the building business directory the phone in her palm posing as a compass. “Can you tell me if there is a methadone clinic in the building?“, she casually asked. “Methadone?“, he silently restated to himself while flash images of drug addicts and penny whores Rolodexed beneath his skull’s cap. Red warning lights were going off echoing silently back and forth between his ears. “What was this?“, that invisible little man charged eternally with nagging out unwanted advise snarled within, “A Starbuck’s washroom?” “You must be mistaken, Maam.”, his public voice replied, “There is no clinic of that sort in this building to my knowledge?” To look at her was to see a well-supported suburban housewife with two children currently enrolled in middle school in a nice neighborhood somewhere. One might have wondered at the incongruity of such a quest had the clock been rolled back some three decades. But things were different now. Totally different to the point that he wondered if he were not still living here would he recognize it. The mind playing funny tricks in trying to persist in maintaining past impressions as present tense realities. She seemed attractive and despite the fact that he could have been the age of her father, had he married a child bride, he felt kindly toward her. “Another alarm bell!”, the minder within pointed out. He couldn’t grasp the idea of ‘femme fatale‘ as a concept of inherent unrepentant malice. Well he could intellectually commiserate with the moth when it spotted a flame. And he of course with an emotionally broken toy. A combination that had more than a baker’s dozen times had broken his heart.
“Men are so stupid!“, his own voice chimed in on behalf of her expression. Easy marks when a lady flutters her handkerchief or eyes closed proceeds to hold her own brow. A lady in distress. Instead of course a distressing lady. This was an era whose time had come. That is if you were a rotten to the soul self-serving Third Wave Feminist bitch. Someone that when it came to men saw only a meal ticket in the form of a pack. And that was at the very best of her estimation. It was in vogue to hate all men after first taking everything of worth that they possessed. And that was not even with a hi howdy! A weak knee approach of a wolf in victim’s clothing to life in the land of the privileged lane without ever having to admit that one was privileged. “Hey that same sentiment was on TV last night and Huff Post this morning.“, a mental chorus scat singing tired rationalizations in his brain. “So then it must be true!?!“, he responded. So maybe it was time to stop picking up his noble share of the institutionalized guilt that society passed out to his demographic. “Christ!”, he thought, “Before they killed religion in this country at least with the Catholic’s you could financially bargain your way out of hearing about what a sinner you were!” He couldn’t every imagine buying a drink for a woman much less going anywhere in the company of the same to fork over for a dinner. Somebody was getting a raw deal alright! A MGTOW #METOO foggy mountain breakdown. Soy boy’s and Metrosexuals. Fifty-seven plus that one officially conjured in today’s broadcast varieties of gender non-specific coding devised by the politically insane. Scapalomine MK-Ultra’d explanations for AFC behavior considered erratic until it hits the ASSPOWALT airwaves and develops into its own over-Liberalized LGBT splinter cult. Prides of land whales swimming over weekends in ensemble searching out NT response by monkey branching as MRA’s to any and all available Mangina’s promoting Gynocentrism blasting virtual holes in that ever-reliable non-existent shooting gallery of the illusion of a patriarchy. Ulysses sirens replaced by Spermjackers entrapping the unwary Captain-Sav-A-Hos’s back to the plantation while the ever solitary Tradcon’s wait by the wayside under scorn of the Misandrists. All are being slowly bred out of the existence by a rising tide of a Third World influx of towel-headed camel jockeys and Voodoo Mambo welfare Obeah’s. Could there be anything found to be sane in this hapless era that he had fallen into?
But then, he had really loved his mother, and father while they had existed. Simple folk from a simple generation of right and wrong and ‘The Depression.’ And he spoiled and over-attended to like any good son that had failed in the nuclear families expectations of his having his own and children plus grandchildren. The big dream of the nineteen-fifties that didn’t even rate mothballs today. Certainly not by the parasitic standards of all the online Tinderella’s. It was a wonder that he hadn’t ended up as just another courtroom supervised vassal under the liege of perpetual child support plus alimony. For then, he had never been a team player! Having never cheated on a spouse or roommate one time. Or caught a SIDS, wore a gray haired ponytail, or even condoned any notion of going to bed with his own sow’s prettier sister. A real drop out from the progressive world of the perpetually ever hip and cool. The terms Red pill and Blue pill just didn’t apply to his era. He was brought up on the conservative dregs of Mickey Spillane and John Wayne. And therein lay the fatal flaw. This white privileged male monster in plain view feeling superior enough to forever step in and play that ole’ lovable Ubermensch alias known as Clark Kent. He was part and parcel of the mainstream of SJW lamented blight casting a shadow upon the land known as a one in a million ‘regular guy’. ‘Oy g’ John Galt! Something to whom a ‘Cis’ or Mansplainer was naught but concoction by a weak sister Misandrist’s pathetic idea of a bad joke. A face int he crowd someone who didn’t just could not comprehend the true revised meaning behind the term ‘RELATIONSHIP’. A bozo bouncing through life hoping for one like a boy in a bubble sealed off from taking it all in so seriously as to let it directly affect him. No wonder he no longer had any friends! They had all been worn down and blown away like Lot’s wife. Each at some point having been unable to resist that temptation to turn back around in the other direction for one last go at it. The difference with him being that for all his failures that he had held up his end within, he had always quit the game before it got too real.
The woman in a quandary still stood there still looking at her phone repeating the building’s address as if by sheer repetition she might magically transcend the fact that she in fact had been asking the wrong address. A mental Mynah bird? Or the perspective of a true junkie! A trait that demonstrated an admirable persistence in forever denying reality in favor of one’s own habitual illusion of, “I’ll quit tomorrow.” Once again demonstrably pointing in its direction of the building’s directory he explained again that no such organization had, or ever had its roots there. Her chance vocalization coughed up in happenstance of the name of the local neighborhood liquor store on the next block as being the motivating landmark. This fulcrum put forth hard against this recycling conversation finally dislodging her from these halls and back out into the pale dry coolness of the morning in lapse of another heat wave. How similar in their own fashions the two of them really were!