| SPINBUSTERS |
| Flowers for Robert |
| There is a country cornfield full of Robert Flores� running around America these dark days. Millions of �em, believe it or not. Many of them are the direct products of American matriarchy, of a country that increasingly treats its women like princesses, and its men like swine. They are mainstream, normal folks, who have been trod on, unrighteously, mucho mucho times, and I am here to inform you � officially � that they are dangerously short on patience and leash, and long on ammo. Think you could never reach ole Roberto�s first-launch stage? Maybe you�re just more submissive than a dead man. Like Flores, I sent letters to the media, warning of the inevitable consequences of maintaining an ongoing cultural policy of male-hating. Like Flores, and Mark Lepine before him, I have experienced the second-class citizenship that accompanies masculinity in the new, improved West. Ten years ago, I wrote at length to the Regents of the University of California, advising them that their system had degenerated into �identity spoils� fiefdoms -- ideological concentration camps where masculinity itself was reviled and crushed. Never heard a word back, didn�t expect one. Therefore heed again the rude word of Robert Flores: �The University is filled with too many people who are filled with hubris. They feel untouchable. . . the only force that seems to get any attention from the University is economic force.� As you read Flores� words, ask yourself this question: Why would the dead lie? �What I discovered was that being a male and a nontraditional student and (shudder!), assertive was not compatible with the instructors at the College of Nursing. While the college does maintain a small minority student body it is primarily white women from upper middle class backgrounds between the ages of 20 and 25. The college promotes and desires diversity but they only want their approved diversity and no other. In many way male nursing students are �tokens�. Hey, you wanna try and convince me that Flores was crazy? Convince yourself. I�ve worked with people so psychotic that the very smell of them raises the hair on your arms. Nupe. This guy was lucid. Weak, but lucid, and too sane for his own good. For example, he was sharp enough to intuit, and record, which demographic group bloated itself for three decades on the blood of men: spoiled, white, middle-class girls . . . uh, �women,� who upon abandoning merit, snatched millions of jobs and education slots away from males. Our Bob, for all his �psychopathology,� saw right through the �Animal Farm� version of �diversity� which has ruled American campuses and culture for four decades. Real psychotics, me droogies, aren�t typically insightful, especially concerning conditioned cultural norms. They steer toward the harbors of ritual. Flores was aware enough of his circumstances to comprehend that his nation had betrayed him, pumped him full of toxic chemicals, then cut him loose in the gyneocracy with the mark of the goat on his forehead. After each schoolyard slaying, I tend to blather repeatedly that the common theme in �rampage-killings� is the disaffection of �males� with a thoroughly feminized American society. Unlike Flores, my letters are almost never published. If he�d written his while alive, his wouldn�t have been, either. Uh oh. Wotan�s coming, friends and neighbors. Lid's boilin offa the pot. Be you prepared. Wild-eyed guy, long hair. White pony. Nasty sword. Thas him. �Do not Poke or Pester,� reads his sign. Now, Woto ain't a bad guy, under normal circumstances. But he�s a shade touchy of late, not fancying the boot upon his brother�s throat. |
| Part two of three |