Thomas Wictor

There. Glad THAT day is over

There. Glad THAT day is over

The day is over, and not a second too soon. It was a nonstop assault from beginning to end. I made a lot of decisions today, based on the behavior of my fellow humans. These changes won’t be made public. Call them new rules of engagement.

First, thanks are in order to Tim, Ashley, Tony, and Mat. Why? Because you’re NOT INSANE. Nor are you abusive or presumptuous. I recently lost a longtime friend over anthropogenic global warming, of all moronic things to fight about. I didn’t want to fight, but I’m also not ever going to let anybody steamroll me again. Those days are over. I put up with it from a deeply tragic, almost incomprehensibly problematic man for fifty-one years, and I did it to keep the peace.

I’ve paid my dues. So when people just kind of casually insist that I must do this or that to remain their friend, or—even more insultingly—I must think this or that to remain their friend, I say, “Goodbye.”

What my former friend did was argue the way my father did, which was to distort everything I said into complete unreasonableness, forcing me to repeat over and over, “No, I didn’t say that.” Building straw men is the tactic of those who know they’re in the wrong.

At one point I said, “My definition of a friend is someone whose company I enjoy and who enjoys my company. That’s all.”

And that made my former friend angry. He didn’t share my definition of friendship, he informed me, and it was offensive for me to have said that to him. The argument had reached the same level of stratospheric irrationality that arguments with my father attained, so I simply bade my former friend adieu.

Today began with a hideous nightmare, and it ended with the voice of my father sneering, “TOM!” as clear as a bell right beside me.


I’ve said before that I don’t think it’s actually him but rather the part of him that made terrible choices for eighty-four years straight.

In between my nightmare and a disembodied, hostile voice saying my name with utter contempt, I fended off an endless parade of uniformly unpleasant people. Very strange messages kept arriving in my e-mail inbox, I got hangup phone calls, and when I went out, I managed to offend an ancient gangster who raised his chin at me several times in challenge. What I’d done was glance in his direction before I pulled out into the street. He was on foot, so I just drove away. Apparently he expected me to get out and engage in fisticuffs with him.

Or maybe he wasn’t challenging me. Maybe he was actually an iguana that had evolved into a biped and had its dewlap, dorsal crest, and tail surgically removed so it could get a job and marry a nice homo sapiens sapiens.

Today a Canadian Wahabbist sent me this message.

lol…wow..u r a pathetic excuse..i pointed out as to how little u know..and u respond with stupidity…you silly Americans behave as if intelligence were some sort of hideous deformity…hmm..wonder who said that…i hope ur kids kill u in ur sleep for being could care less if an american terrorist died..less one scum to cock the hammer and point to temple..proceed

He was angry because I’d commented on a YouTube video. Here’s my response.

Actually, you pointed out nothing but terminal silliness. You’re a deeply unimportant person whose thoughts are entirely without value.

U ur u ur u ur. It’s like I’m conversing with a chimp. Oo-oo-oo-oo!

Your impotent hate means nothing to anybody on the entire planet, so feel free to hope whatever you want. Hope springs eternal!

Then I was told that Ghosts and Ballyhoo is racist because it disparages only people of color. At about the same time a Facebooker left a message on a photo of my mother.


Curious, I went and had a look at the author.


“Dats my shyt.”

Did I just disparage him, or did he disparage himself? He disparaged my mother, who was Mexican, so is he a racist? I’ve been told that only white people can be racist. But if my mother was Mexican, I’m not white, so I can’t be racist, and therefore Ghosts and Ballyhoo isn’t racist.

What a relief. I was terrified that someone might think I’m racist. After all, it’s the worst crime that human beings can commit.

Just kidding. I don’t give a shit if anyone thinks I’m racist. That accusation has lost all meaning. First an angry feminist said that Ghosts was sexist because I criticized a woman, and now someone thinks it’s racist because I described a woman who happened to be Asian as having a face like a monkey. She did have a face like a monkey, and she stole a $700 (I beg your pardon, class warriors) tree aloe from my garden. It didn’t occur to me to connect her ethnicity to her simian features.

Rory Reid looks like an emu.


Is that statement racist against white people? Or does Rory Reid—who happens to be white—just look like an emu?

I have yet to hear from what Alec Baldwin and Bill Maher term the “Gay Mafia.” Come on, men! What are you waiting for? I demand to be denounced in the harshest of terms! I’m sure the Canadian Wahabbist will back you up.

But all of that was yesterday, and now yesterday is dead and gone. Piss off, April 24, 2014. All you brought me was blithering derangement. Tomorrow will be much better.

But listen to the
Colour of your dreams
It is not living
It is not living
Or play the game
Of existence to the end
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning

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