Thomas Wictor

The downside of figuring things out

The downside of figuring things out

All my life, I wanted to know “Why?” It’s the reason I was never able to be religious or to join any group. Usually I was told, “Because I say so,” or “Because that’s the way it is,” or “You ask too many questions.” I could never give up my hard-earned understanding of how things really are, but there’s a definite downside. I’m finding it much more difficult to tolerate stupidity and ugliness.

Today a fat failure shot to death TV reporter Alison Parker and her cameraman Adam Ward in Roanoke, Virginia. The murderer killed them during a live, on-air broadcast. He was a typical spree killer in that he was a loser who decided that taking others’ lives would show that he was a person of consequence. The day before he committed his double murder, the killer was involved in a road-rage incident with the luckiest man in Virginia.

This is why you must never get into altercations with strangers. Far too many of us are rage-filled, inadequate swine who blame everyone else for our own failings.

I watched the video of the crime that the murderer posted. He missed Alison Parker five times even though he shot at her from point-blank range. My guess is that he chased her down and cornered her. The press is reporting that the killer blamed the June 17, 2015, mass shooting at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina, for tipping him over the edge.

Well, that spree killer blamed crimes committed by blacks for tipping him over the edge. An obscene double standard is being applied to these atrocities. Not one person on the face of the earth gave credence to the Charleston murderer’s stated motivations, but every news report about Roanoke begins like this.


That’s a lie. The killer admired both the Virginia Tech and Columbine spree killers. He’d planned to commit his own rampage murders because he felt it was the only way to prove that he wasn’t the flop he knew himself to be. The Charleston spree killer is exactly the same type of rinky-dink, a washout who ended others’ lives because of the momentary sense of power it gave him.

After Charleston the United States lost its mind and banned the Confederate battle flag. White people all across the nation rubbed sung and ashes on their faces in atonement for a crime they didn’t commit but for which they were nevertheless guilty, as were all Caucasians.

Today, the people who tell us that Black Lives Matter are writing things like this.




It’s tempting to be infuriated by the inhuman callousness and narcissism on display, but keep in mind that the people snickering at the on-screen murders of Alison Parker and Adam Ward are doomed. They elected a president who eradicated the black middle class, and the candidate they’ll vote for in the next election will do everything to keep blacks disadvantaged. Poor, angry, sick, uneducated people are a reliable voting block.

The Black Lives Matters movement is helping sentence millions to life on the plantation. But that’s their problem, not mine. They can’t be reached, so to hell with them.

Did you know that in the entire history of the United States, not a single neighborhood that blacks burned down was ever rebuilt? It’s not a state secret. The empty lots are there for everyone to see. Twenty-one years later, people in South Central Los Angeles still have to drive miles and miles just to buy groceries. Their politicians fight for the status quo, exactly the way Hamas refuses to rebuild Gaza. They point to it and say, “Give me more power so that I can fix this!”

And the dumb, tribal bastards that make up the constituency buy it.

Again, that’s not my problem. Maybe I’m lucky, but there’s no racial or ethnic tension where I live. A few days ago my brother Tim and I went to the supermarket. A stunning young woman in her early twenties walked by and said, “Gentlemen, I just have to tell you that I LOVE your beards.”

This is what she looked like.


Tim said, “Well, we love YOU.”

She laughed and then said, “Oops. I walked right by the bottled water.”

“We distracted you,” I said. “Keep your mind on your shopping, young lady.”

She laughed again and went to get her bottled water.

I’m not interested in race. It means nothing to me. There’s no content to it. Those of you who think that race is the most important thing about a person, don’t ever speak to me. You make me sick.

When I lived in Tyler, Texas, from 1972 to 1975, black kids tortured me like never before or since. They punched me the hardest I’ve ever been hit, breaking my nose and chipping my teeth. In between beatings, they brutalized me psychologically by doing countdowns to when school would be out and they could attack.

“Fiddy mo’ minutes, bwah. Gonna whup yo ass today, honkie. Little white queerbait. You gonna die today. Gonna wish you nevuh came outta yo’ momma’s p*ssy. Foady mo’ minutes. Gonna knock the sh*t outta you today! See this foot? Gonna break it off in yo’ ass!”

They spoke to each other in code: “Kyadrrook!” I still don’t know what it means.

After six months of this, I was ready to kill myself.


I was going to use the lawn mower. My father has rigged it with a flexible metal tube to pump the carbon monoxide into the ground to get rid of gophers. My plan was to tape a rubber glove around my mouth and nose and hook it up to the tube attached to the lawn-mower exhaust pipe.

Then a kid named Thurman Biscoe suddenly began smashing my nemeses into the ground. Thurman was massive and as strong as a grown man. He never told me why he became my protector.

Bubba 2

I’ve asked this before: What does it say that black kids made me almost kill myself and a black kid saved my life?

The answer is “Nothing.”

The torture I endured and the heroism of Thurman Biscoe say nothing about black people. They say everything about the character of the individual humans involved. Likewise, spree killings say nothing about the race of the murderers.

I’ve always been colorblind, and I’ll continue to be so, no matter how devolved, retrograde, and moronic our society becomes. One of the reasons I don’t participate in all this idiocy is that I’m watching other things. Today a Boeing 777 flew over my house along the JANET route, toward the Nevada National Security Site. More troops are on their way to be trained for the war on Iran.

It’s frustrating that my fellow citizens are so hung up on trivial junk and are so easily manipulated. But it isn’t my problem. Here’s one of my favorite quotes, from Joe Versus the Volcano.

My father says that almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. He says that only a few people are awake, and they live in a state of constant, total amazement.

I am in a state of constant, total amazement. If you could see what I see, you’d be in a state of constant, total amazement too.

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