So Daddy came home drunk and started smacking Wifey and the kids around.  As usual, Wifey smacked him back.  He grabs her by the hair and tries to ass rape her in front of the kids.  She turns around and kicks him in the groin, sending he reeling on the floor.  The next day, she drops divorce papers — after 25 years of tumultuous marriage following a 5 year courtship — on his sprawled form, letting him know that she plans to take the kids with her.

Shocked, he asks her to reconsider, but refuses to apologize for the incessant abuse he’s inflicted on her over the years.

She ignores his phone calls and goes into petty bitch mode, telling everyone that he has a small dick and has premature ejack issues.  The kids are traumatized, unsure what to do.  He continues to refuse to apologize, telling everyone she’s an abusive slut as he always has throughout their relationship.

She’s not hellbent on completely destroying his life — even though she could and should — because she’s farsighted enough to know that life would be easier for her and her kids if she can get child support from him.  So she tells him that they can still be friends for the sake of the kids and doesn’t say anything that could destroy his career, like mentioning his kiddie porn habit.

How will the tariffs affect you?  

Half of the containers we use for take-out are from China.  All the refrigeration units we use are made in China, costing 1/3 of the ones made in US and equivalent in quality.  The containers will be an issue since there aren’t US based replacements for them.  My juicer is made in China after replacing the South Korean one that costs six times more.

The umbrella 10% tariffs US has imposed on all nations means I either get rid of certain ingredients such as pineapple (our primary natural sweetener) or increase prices.  Banana prices have already gone up by 9%.  Ginger, essential to our business, might go up significantly more as Hawaii doesn’t produce enough to meet US demand.  Some of our veggies also come from Mexico.

On the other hand, apple prices may go down, as China stopped buying them.  But according to one of my suppliers who deals with Washington state farmers, these farmers import most of their fertilizers from Canada, and their increased cost of doing business will be passed onto customers.

We’ll do our best to control price volatility.  I don’t think the menu will change much, but prices will probably be 10-20% higher.  It’s the availability of cups and such that worries me the most, since we’re 90% take-out and delivery.  So we’ll continue to push customers to come in for dine-in, to try our 4 course tasting menu.  Which was our original plan anyway.

Will Mommy and Daddy ever get back together again? 

Nope, Mommy has a well paying job now.  So hang tight, let’s see where this takes out menu and prices.  There will be workarounds, as long as there isn’t hyperinflation.  As for you, be prepared.  This might be Covid + 2008  + hyperinflation.  I don’t think hyperinflation will happen — China and maybe Euro won’t let it happen — turning the US into Argentina, once one of the wealthiest nations in the world until they bloated their bureaucracy with stupid shit.

We’ll get a better idea of what’s about to happen by mid May.  In the meantime, be prepared. This is going to be a hell of a ride!

 

 

 

 

 

Grace — perfect grades, perfect scores, the perfect Asian.  She soon learns that none of that means jack shit.  Read to find out why and what she does about it.

That’s the first version of the book cover, it’ll change (the blonde will hold a lacrosse stick).  Let us know if you’re adept with Canva and want to improve it.

Anyhow, enjoy these excerpts!

Chapter 15, Show, don’t tell

A knock rang through the office door.

Dr. Nance looked up from his desk, setting aside the papers he’d been reviewing. Before he could respond, the door cracked open, and Sally stepped inside, her clipboard held against her chest.

“Dr. Nance, your 10 a.m. is here—Miss Nguyen,” she announced.

“Thank you, Sally. Show her in.”

Sally stepped aside, and Grace strode into the room, the brisk clickity clacks of her heels filling the room with her presence. Dr. Nance’s smile widened, his gaze lingering on her figure before it found her face.

“Miss Nguyen,” he said, rising from his chair and extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Grace smiled and shook his hand, her grip soft yet confident, like that of a dancer meeting her partner’s lead. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Nance.”

“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the chairs across his desk.

Grace smoothed her black pencil skirt as she lowered herself onto the leather chair, the hem riding up well past her knees. The sight drew Dr. Nance’s notice, remaining there as he settled into his seat. Opening the folder on his desk, his attention shifted to her face, finding soft features tinted with impenetrable determination.

“Miss Nguyen,” he began, watching her fingers tug at the hem of her skirt, “I’ve reviewed your application, and as far as grades and scores go, I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Nance,” said Grace, pressing her knees together, her stocking-clad legs rubbing faintly against one another. “I’m sure you’ll find my other qualities just as…” She paused, lifting a leg and crossing it over her thigh, the hem pulling back to reveal more. “…impressive.”

He pressed his lips together before continuing. “So, tell me—what unique qualities do you believe you’d bring to Harvard Medical School?”

She leaned back, placing her hands on her knee, her fingers tracing a message on it. “Last summer, I interned at Columbia Presbyterian,” she began. “I spent my days working in the ER, assisting with triage and patient stabilization, and my nights in the nanotechnology biotech lab. It was…” She paused, her fingers pressing into her knee, her eyes dropping to search for the right word before rising to meet his. “…intense.”

“So,” he began, pausing as her leg uncrossed, the sharp click of her heel striking the floor. “You’re familiar with the grind of residency work, it seems?”

“Yes, absolutely,” she replied, crossing her other leg. This time, the motion offered Dr. Nance a flash of white, leaving him visibly flustered. “In fact, I’ve always believed the longer shifts taught us how to push our limits. There’s something satisfying about working through exhaustion and still delivering results.”

She slipped off her glasses, her fingers brushing the frames. “It builds character, don’t you think?” she asked, tucking them into her purse. Her lashes dipped briefly before her eyes lifted to meet his.

“Yes… um…absolutely,” he said, the pen in his hand bending under the pressure of his grip.

“So anyway, there was this one day I showed up completely exhausted after working late into the night with the lab director on a technically challenging metabolic engineering procedure,” she said, her hands spreading wide, pressing into the air as though holding a giant beachball. “My hair was a mess,” she added, uncrossing her legs and ruffling her hair with mock frustration. “Like this—this is what it looked like,” she said, shooting him a pointed look. “See?”

“I see, and…”

She cut him off with a quick wave of her hand. “So I was, like, horrified when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like I’d just been through the roughest night of my life,” she said, giggling. “But in that reflection, despite—or maybe because of—the exhaustion, a thought popped into my head,” she continued, clapping her hands together. “It was, like, so fucking illuminating!”

Dr. Nance shifted in his seat, one hand slipping under the desk as he adjusted his posture. His jaw tightened as he kept his eyes locked on her, trying to focus.

“So I stood there, staring at my mess, and thought of something,” she said, gathering her hair into her hands. Her arms lifted, twisting her hair into a loose bun on top of her head. The motion pulled her chest up, the curve of her breasts now framed by her raised elbows. “Dr. Nance, tell me—what do you see?”

“I see… umm,” he said, his voice cracking as his eyes darted between her face and the taut fabric of her blouse.

“What you should see is a protein folding,” she said, gesturing with her bun. “Proteins start out messy—chaotic strings of amino acids. But when they fold, they become structured, purposeful, functional.” She paused, her head turning in slow circles as her fingers twisted her bun, as though folding the protein herself. “But if they fold wrong, it’s a disaster. Alzheimer’s. Parkinson’s. All because of a misfolded protein.”

She released her arms, letting her hair tumble back down over her shoulders. “That’s when it hit me,” she said, smacking her palm on her forehead. “The key isn’t perfect structure—it’s flexibility,” she continued, her voice softening as she arched her back, her hands pressing into her thighs. “Life is messy, Dr. Nance. And molecular engineering has to work with the mess… not against it.”

He cleared his throat, his grip on the pen loosening as he leaned forward. “You’re right,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Medicine, molecules… they are messy. Biology rarely gives us clean solutions.” He paused as she crossed her leg again, her shoe dangling from her toes. “So, Miss Nguyen,” he said, the thud and tap of her shoe dropping onto the floor breaking his focus. “How did you, er, resolve the messy protein problem?

Grace glanced down at the shoe lying on the floor as she shifted in her chair. “I’m afraid I can’t share the exact details of how we solved the problem,” she said, flexing her stocking-clad toes and brushing them slowly up her calf. “You know, confidentiality and all that,” she added with a shrug.

Her toes traced down her calf again. “But I can tell you this much—it wasn’t easy,” she said, her toe nudging the other shoe off her foot. Dr. Nance twitched at the soft taps of the shoe rolling on the floor.

“The real challenge,” she continued, folding both legs onto the chair into a cross-legged position, “was dealing with the instability. The protein kept shifting, refusing to hold its shape… almost like it needed reassurance before it could settle.” She bit her lower lip as she watched him nod, his eyes entranced by the view of her lap.

“And that’s the thing about messy problems, isn’t it, Dr. Nance? They don’t respond to brute force,” she said, pounding her fist into her palm, startling Dr. Nance out of his trance. “You have to understand the underlying dynamics, coax them into alignment, work with their tendencies instead of against them. It’s a delicate process.” She unfolded her legs, bending over to slip her shoes back on. Straightening, she met his glazed eyes with a faint smile. “Would you like me to walk you through the theory behind it?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I’d appreciate that. Walk me through the theory,” he managed to say.

Grace’s smile widened, her heels tapping excitedly on the floor. “Great, let’s dive in,” she said, rising from her chair. His eyes followed her crisp stride as she made her way to the whiteboard.

She picked up a marker and began writing with confident strokes, equations and chemical structures flowing from her hand. “You see, Dr. Nance, the key to stabilizing the protein is understanding its binding affinity,” she explained, her hand resting on her hip.

Her skirt rode up as she reached up to write on the higher part of the board. “The binding sites,” Grace continued, tapping the board with the marker, “are like the perfect dance partners. They need to fit just right, to hold on tight without being too clingy.” She glanced over her shoulder, catching his eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. “Are you following, Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, the binding sites,” he stammered, his hand reaching for something under the table. “They need to be… uh, compatible.”

“Exactly,” Grace said, turning back to the board. “It’s all about the right chemistry. You need to coax the molecules into the right position, much like seducing them into place.” She bent over to write another equation near the bottom of the board. “And this is what it looks like, algebraically.”

The hem of her skirt lifted high enough to reveal the lace tops of her stockings. “Seducing them into place,” he repeated, trying to focus on the equation instead of her butt. “That’s quite the… technique.”

She straightened up, turning to face him. “Oh, it’s all about finesse, Dr. Nance. You have to be gentle yet firm, guiding them with a steady hand.” She paused, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering for just a moment before adding, “Just like in any good relationship.”

He chuckled nervously. “I see. So, it’s about finding the right balance?” He had no idea what he was saying anymore.

“Absolutely,” Grace affirmed, putting down the marker. “It’s a delicate dance of attraction and repulsion, much like the forces at play in the lab… and elsewhere.”

He nodded as he had when he was about to lose his virginity at his aunt’s house. “A delicate dance,” he murmured, his eyes following her movements as she walked back to her seat. “I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.”

“Great, Dr. Nance,” she said, sitting down and crossing her legs. She folded her arms across her chest, her expression inscrutable. “Is there anything else you want me to show you?”

His eyes bulged as his mind raced with obscene thoughts. Unable to answer the question with any honesty or clarity, he said, “Well, I certainly know now what Dr. Johnstone meant by you being more of a… ‘show than tell’ type of person, Miss Nguyen.”

“Action over words, Dr. Nance.”

“Well, Miss Nguyen,” he said, straightening himself. “Is there anything else you’d like to show me?”

“Sure,” she replied, unbuttoning a button on her blouse, revealing the curve of her cleavage. “Let’s see, how about biomechanics and anatomy?”

He nodded, unsure whether to feel dread or anticipation—or both.

“Let’s get started, then.” Still seated, she reached under her skirt and slid her panties down her legs and over her heels, tossing them onto his desk. “Take a sniff, Dr. Nance,” she said as she unbuttoned another button on her blouse, revealing the edge of her bra. “Tell me what you smell.”

He stared at the lacy garment on his desk, his fingers twitching before he picked it up. His focus flicked back to Grace, who leaned back in the chair and spread her legs, draping them over the armrests. She unfastened another button on her blouse and flashed him an amused smile.

He hesitated, holding the panties in his hand. Finally, he raised them to his nose. “I… I don’t know,” he sputtered. “It’s… floral? A hint of… musk?”

“That’s correct,” she said, clapping as she swung her legs off the armrests and planted her feet on the ground, the crisp clack of her heels startling him. “And something else,” she added, rising from her chair.

She moved around his desk with measured steps, the rhythmic clicks of her heels making him squirm. When she reached him, she eased herself onto his lap. Her breath warmed his ear as her lips hovered close. “The scent of a woman’s arousal.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she silenced him with a kiss on his lips. “Do you recognize it, Doctor?” she asked.

“Yes,” he groaned, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers tracing the firm outline of his muscles before drifting lower, toward his crotch.

Her hand pressed down on his erection. “And what are the chemical compound of the scent of a woman?”

“Vaginal…” The word slipped out unevenly, his jaw tightening as he struggled to focus. “Vaginal lubrication during arousal… driven by blood flow and estrogen. It… it consists of water, mucins, lactic acid…” His voice wavered as her hand pressed harder. “Proteins, lipids, glycogen…” A low sound rumbled in his throat, the rest of his answer barely coherent. “These components reduce friction… support tissue health.”

“Tell me, Doctor,” she purred, her fingers toying with the button of his trousers. “How many times did you stroke yourself during our little interview?”

“I… I didn’t count,” he mumbled as she took his hand and placed it on her thigh.

“Did you hear anything I said about protein molecules?” she inquired, parting her legs as his hand slid higher.

“No… not really,” he admitted, his fingers brushing against her wetness.

Her breath stuttered as his finger entered her. She clenched her thighs around his hand, holding it in place.

“Tight, yes?”

“Yes, very.”

“Do you jerk off when you interview other women?” she asked, her voice tremoring as her hips rocked against his hand.

“No,” he said, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. “This is the first time I’ve done anything like this.”

She smiled, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Rising from his lap, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips, hiking her skirt up to her waist as she settled back onto him, straddling his thighs. Her lips found his again, deep and lingering, while her hands moved to the buttons of her blouse.

Breaking the kiss, she slipped her blouse off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Her eyes remained on his as her fingers moved behind her back, unclasping her bra and letting it slide away. “So, is this unique enough for you?” she asked.

“Yes, very unique,” he breathed, his eyes fixed on her modest breasts, their swollen nipples drawing his focus.

She tilted forward, her nipples brushing against his lips. “So I’m not a stereotypical Asian girl?”

“No, not at all.” His mouth found her nipples, tongue swirling around them as one hand fumbled to open his trousers. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said, the words muffled like a boy confessing with his mouth full of stolen cookies.

She slid off his lap just as his erection pressed against her entrance, nearly entering her. Dropping to her knees, she looked up and met his eyes. Her mouth opened, tongue sliding out to trace a slow path along his shaft. At the tip, she swirled her tongue around the head before pulling away.

Rising to her feet, she bent to kiss him, pulling back as he reached to deepen it. She removed his hands from her hips, bending to pick up her bra. Sliding the straps over her shoulders, she said, “Dr. Nance, we can finish this lesson after I get my acceptance notice.”

He froze. Violent thoughts raced through his mind as he watched her wiggle her arms through her blouse sleeves.

“Maybe you can show me around Boston when I visit to check out my housing options?” she said, fastening the buttons on her blouse. “Shoot me an email, okay?”

He sat in silence, watching her as she combed her fingers through her hair, pulling it into a ponytail before letting it fall loose over her shoulders.

She exhaled, shaking her head as her eyes flitted over his prostrate figure. Turning back, she picked up her panties and pressed them into his hands, her fingers tightening around his to hold them there. “Dr. Nance,” she said, staring into his glazed eyes. “This is my gift to you for taking the time to meet with me.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t move.

“And I like my follow-up meetings at the Ritz-Carlton,” she said, kissing him once more on the lips.

Grace straightened, gathered her belongings, and walked out the door without a backward glance.

 

And from:

Chapter 11
Taming Mr. Creeper

 

“I guess people really do wear bathrobes around hotels,” Bree said as the elevator carried the women to the pool and spa level.

“Doesn’t mean that guy isn’t a perv,” Hannah said, tightening her bathrobe.

The elevator doors opened to reveal the pool area, warm and humid with the faint scent of chlorine. The swimming pool sparkled under the domed glass ceiling, surrounded by faux palm trees and rows of white-cushioned lounge chairs.

Grace stepped out first, untying her bathrobe and letting it slide off her shoulders to reveal her one-piece swimsuit. She strode to the pool’s edge and dove in, her body cutting through the water with powerful and smooth strokes.

“Damn,” Bree said, pausing to watch as she took off her bathrobe, revealing a bright pink bikini that barely covered her tits and ass. “Show-off.”

“Right? She’s like part dolphin or something,” Hannah added as she removed her bathrobe, revealing a sleek black bikini that clung to her body like a second skin.

Grace reached the far end of the pool and pushed off the wall with a quick flip turn. Bree and Hannah jumped in with loud splashes, laughing as they swam toward her.

“You’re insane,” Bree said, approaching Grace. “I forgot how fast you are.”

Grace ducked her head with a modest smile. “I haven’t been swimming as much lately,” she said. “It feels good to be back in the water.”

Hannah splashed her. “Well, you could have fooled me. You’re still a total fish.”

Grace laughed, splashing back at her. For a moment, the weight of the previous day’s events seemed to lift from her shoulders as she lost herself in the simple joy of being with her friends doing something she loved.

After a few more laps, Bree hoisted herself out of the pool and headed for the hot tub. She dipped her toe in and groaned with satisfaction. “Oh, yes. This is happening.”

Hannah followed with the same routine. “You weren’t kidding—this is perfect.”

Grace joined them a moment later, sliding into the bubbling water with a sigh. The women leaned back, letting the heat soak in.

“Oh god, look who just came out of the sauna,” said Hannah, her nose wrinkling.

Bree turned to see. “Ugh, it’s that creep again.”

Hannah started to rise from the water. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

But Grace reached out and caught her wrist, stopping her. “No, wait,” she said. “Let’s stay. We were here first. He can’t make us leave.”

Hannah and Bree exchanged a puzzled glance but sank back into the waving water, watching as the man approached.

He stepped into the hot tub, letting out a grunt as he lowered himself into the steaming water across from the girls. His eyes swept over each of them before settling on Grace. Leaning back, he spread his arms along the edge of the tub. “So, what are three beautiful young ladies doing here?”

“Just a girls’ night out,” Bree replied, sinking deeper into the water.

“Where are you ladies from?”

“We’re local, the suburbs,” said Hannah, giving him a tight smile.

“What about you, sir?” Grace asked. “What are you in town for?”

The man’s face brightened. “I’m from D.C., in town to meet with a local biotech company.”

“Really? What do you do?” Grace inquired, tilting her head.

“I’m with the NIH. Just here to discuss some funding options for this new biotech company.”

“What kind of biotech is it?” asked Grace, her voice lifting. “Does it have anything to do with nanotechnology?”

As the conversation continued, Hannah and Bree exchanged a look—a mix of amusement and disbelief. Grace, who had been uncomfortable in the man’s presence earlier, was now chatting with him like he was an old acquaintance.

The creepy man stood, water cascading down his plump tummy. “Give me five minutes,” he said. “I’ll bring my business card for you.”

Once he was gone, Hannah turned to Grace. “What the hell just happened? Since when do you chat up creepy old men?”

Grace tilted her head back against the edge of the tub, a faint smile playing on her face. “I don’t want to miss any networking opportunities, that’s all.”

Bree let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Networking? Grace, an hour ago you were ready to sprint out of the Ritz fucking Carlton to get away from Mr. Creepy!”

“Who, by the way, definitely has an Asian fetish,” Hannah added, her fingers cutting lazy arcs through the water. “I was sure he was going to whip his schlong out and jerk off in front of us.”

Grace flinched at the mental image. “Look, I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s smarter to work with who men are instead of avoiding them. It’s easier to engage on my terms than let them control the situation.”

“So, what? We just give them what they want?” Bree asked, turning to glare at the pool-boy, who quickly resumed sweeping the floor.

“You already do, Bree,” Hannah teased, sending a splash of water in her direction.

“I do not!” Bree laughed, ducking under the water. She popped back up, wiping her face. “Okay, fine. I’ll give them a glimpse here, a touch there. Nothing more—unless he’s buying me a Maserati,” she said, sending the girls into a fit of laughter.

“But seriously,” Grace continued, “it makes sense, doesn’t it? Letting them be who they are…”

“Instead of telling them to fuck off?” Hannah interjected.

“Yeah, or avoiding them altogether,” Grace said. “Antagonizing guys or pretending they don’t exist just escalates things. It’s a waste of energy.”

Hannah and Bree exchanged a glance as Grace continued. “Like, remember that time at the coffee shop where they had that sign? ‘It’s okay to stare at an employee’s ass, just be discreet about it.’”

“Yeah, I remember,” Bree said, winking at a twelve-year-old boy who proceeded to fall out of his float.

“And when you asked the barista how she felt about it,” Grace added, turning to Hannah. “She told us she liked working there because she never got harassed, unlike other places she’s worked at.“

“Alright, but where’s the line?” Hannah asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “How far do you let it go before it’s just… gross and degrading?”

Grace tilted her head. “It depends on the situation. If it’s harmless, why not let them think they’re in control when they’re not? It’s like playing a card game. Keep your cards close.”

Bree rolled her eyes, pulling the straps of her bikini snug against her shoulders. “Most of these guys don’t even know how to play Uno,” she said, eliciting another round of laughter.

“Okay, but what if it isn’t harmless?” Hannah asked, her tone sharpening. “What if Mr. Creeper started jerking off or reaching over to touch us? Do you just smile and nod then too?”

“No, we leave, Grace replied. “But most of the time, it doesn’t have to get there. You can steer things before they go too far.”

“And if they still go too far?” Hannah pressed.

Grace hesitated, her legs floating up to the bubbling surface. “Then… then it would’ve happened anyway. But I think this strategy works in most cases.”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Hannah said, “it still sounds like a pain in the ass. I’d rather tell them to fuck off and move on.”

“And if they don’t let you move on?” Bree asked, raising an eyebrow at a man staring at her from across the pool while his kids splashed around him.

“Then you teach these fuckers a lesson they’ll never forget,” Hannah said with a bright, unapologetic smile, finishing Bree’s thought.

“Or will never get up to remember,” Bree added, arching her back and lifting her chest out of the water before settling back in with a smirk.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder and froze. “Well, look who’s back—Creeper McCreeperson, in the flesh.”

The man approached the tub, holding a business card between two fingers. “Here you go, young lady,” he said, extending the card toward Grace.

The man approached the tub, holding a business card between two fingers. “Here you go, young lady,” he said, extending the card toward Grace.

Grace climbed out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around herself as she stepped forward to take the card. “Thank you,” she said, glancing at the name. “Dr. Pritzker.” She extended her hand. “I’m Grace Nguyen. Pleased to meet you.”

“And it’s been a pleasure to meet you, Grace,” he said, shaking her hand. “Don’t hesitate to send me an email if you’re ever looking for an internship—I’ve got biotech connections all over the country.”

“I will,” Grace said, watching his eyes drift over her chest. “I’ll send a resume to you by Sunday evening.”

“Looking forward to reading it, Grace.”

Finished with his assessment, the man turned to the others. “You lovely ladies enjoy the rest of your getaway—and stay out of trouble,” he said with a wink.

“Thanks,” said Bree with a tight smile, stepping out of the tub.

“Oh, we’ll try,” said Hannah, following Bree.

Bree gave Grace a playful nudge on the shoulder as she dried herself. “Well, Grace, I guess we’re calling you the schmoozing networking queen from now on.”

Hannah smirked as she wrung out her hair. “Honestly, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you to handle a guy like that so smoothly.”

Grace smiled as she studied the card in her hand. “Sometimes, you just have to take the opportunity when it comes.”

“Speaking of opportunities,” Bree said, tossing her towel into a bin, “let’s not miss the chance to do some shopping in Buckhead.”

“And get Grace all dolled up for her first prom dance!” Hannah said, putting her arms around Grace, pulling her close.

“Hey, let’s all get dolled up for tonight, yeah?,” Bree said, jumping up and down. “Like our pre-prom night out!”

“Sure, I’m up for it,” Grace said, securing the bathrobe around her body. “I really want to try out The Ambassador’s Lounge. We can show off there.”

Check out samples for free on Amazon.  It’s also free for next 89 days on Kindle Unlimited (and I get paid if you look at it through that channel).

Forthcoming:

How to Suck Your Own Dick: An Alive Juice Bar Guide to Men’s Health.

Grace, a smut novel about a stereotypical perfect Asian who will do anything to get into her dream school (Vanderbilt).

A collection of short stories, tentatively titled The Transformation of Ana Kasparian, also smutty.

And the third and final book of our “Good Fucking Manners” series, The Customer is Wrong.  It’s a guide to good service, and further explains why most Americans prefer bad service (polite bullshit to honest and efficient communication).

Here’s an excerpt from the cookbook:

Marie-Claude’s nose twitched as Pierre stumbled through the door, his gardener’s apron bulging suspiciously. “The comte’s chef was in one of his moods again,” he grinned, pulling out chunks of beef the noble household had deemed too tough for their delicate palates. “Threw out half the cow because it wasn’t tender enough for his precious bourguignon.”

“Idiots,” she snorted, already reaching for her biggest pot. “They don’t know that the tougher the meat, the better the flavor – if you know how to treat it right.” Like men, she thought, tough cuts just needed time and proper handling to become something magnificent.

The onions were already browning – she’d started them at dawn, knowing they’d need hours to transform from sharp and aggressive to sweet and sultry. French onion soup was poor people’s food, sure, but Marie-Claude had seen the comte himself ordering it at the tavern, probably thinking it was some exotic delicacy. If he knew it was just onions, stale bread, and time… but that was the peasant’s secret weapon: patience.

As she worked on the bourguignon, her eyes drifted to the chicken livers cooling on the windowsill – payment from the butcher’s wife for keeping quiet about certain indiscretions. Tomorrow they’d become pâté so smooth it could make a priest forget his vows. “The trick,” she muttered to her daughter Jeanne, who was watching intently, “is to soak them in milk first. Takes out the bitterness. Like marriage,” she winked.

The kitchen filled with the smell of wine and beef as she browned the meat her husband had rescued. Up at the manor, they’d have ruined this cut by trying to cook it quickly. But Marie-Claude knew better. By tomorrow, after hours of gentle simmering with wine, herbs from her garden, and those sweet, sweet onions, this “inferior” meat would be tender enough to cut with a spoon.

“Maman,” Jeanne piped up, “why do the rich people throw away the best parts?”

Marie-Claude laughed, deep and rich as the soup bubbling on her stove. “Because they never learned that the best things in life take time, ma petite. They want everything now, now, now. They’ve never had to seduce flavor out of unwilling ingredients…”

Marie-Claude tossed a splash of brandy into the liver pâté – her secret ingredient, stolen sip by precious sip from the comte’s cellars by Pierre during his pruning rounds. “The rich think flavor comes from expensive ingredients,” she told Jeanne, who was now up to her elbows in onions. “But flavor comes from love and time and knowing how to coax the best out of what you have.”

The bourguignon simmered slowly in the corner, already turning those tough chunks of meat into something magical. Every now and then she’d fish out a piece of bacon – another gift from the butcher’s wife, who was getting quite generous lately – and pop it into Jeanne’s waiting mouth.

“Watch the onions carefully,” she instructed, stirring the golden mass. “They’re like lovers – ignore them and they burn, hover too close and they never develop their character. Just check on them every now and then, give them a stir, add a splash of wine when they look thirsty.” She wiped her brow with her apron. “Your father tried to rush them once. Once! Now he knows better than to interfere with my onions.”

Speaking of Pierre, he’d fallen asleep in the corner, exhausted from his day of strategic theft and actual gardening. The comte’s rose gardens might be the talk of the province, but it was Pierre’s clever fingers that kept their family fed. Amazing what a gardener could squirrel away in his pockets – herbs, vegetables that were “too small” for the manor’s kitchen, even the occasional chicken that had “accidentally” wandered into his path.

“The revolution’s coming,” their neighbor had whispered at the market yesterday. Marie-Claude didn’t care much for politics, but she knew about hunger. And the hungry mob that passed through town last week had looked ready to eat more than just cake.

“That’s why we learn to cook like this,” she told Jeanne, pulling the perfectly browned liver from the pan. “Because when times get hard – and they always get hard, ma petite – knowing how to make something from nothing isn’t just clever, it’s survival.”

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows through their small kitchen. Soon the neighbors would start drifting in, drawn by the smell of Marie-Claude’s cooking. They always did. They’d bring what they could – a handful of mushrooms, some elderly carrots, a few eggs – and somehow, like Jesus with his loaves and fishes, Marie-Claude would make it stretch to feed them all.

“This is real magic,” she whispered to Jeanne, spooning a taste of the nearly-finished pâté onto a crust of bread. “Not the kind they teach at church, but the kind that keeps people alive. Now, taste this and tell me if it needs more thyme…”

Marie-Claude tossed a splash of brandy into the liver pâté – her secret ingredient, stolen sip by precious sip from the comte’s cellars by Pierre during his pruning rounds. “The rich think flavor comes from expensive ingredients,” she told Jeanne, who was now up to her elbows in onions. “But flavor comes from love and time and knowing how to coax the best out of what you have.”

The bourguignon simmered slowly in the corner, already turning those tough chunks of meat into something magical. Every now and then she’d fish out a piece of bacon – another gift from the butcher’s wife, who was getting quite generous lately – and pop it into Jeanne’s waiting mouth.

“Watch the onions carefully,” she instructed, stirring the golden mass. “They’re like lovers – ignore them and they burn, hover too close and they never develop their character. Just check on them every now and then, give them a stir, add a splash of wine when they look thirsty.” She wiped her brow with her apron. “Your father tried to rush them once. Once! Now he knows better than to interfere with my onions.”

Speaking of Pierre, he’d fallen asleep in the corner, exhausted from his day of strategic theft and actual gardening. The comte’s rose gardens might be the talk of the province, but it was Pierre’s clever fingers that kept their family fed. Amazing what a gardener could squirrel away in his pockets – herbs, vegetables that were “too small” for the manor’s kitchen, even the occasional chicken that had “accidentally” wandered into his path.

“The revolution’s coming,” their neighbor had whispered at the market yesterday. Marie-Claude didn’t care much for politics, but she knew about hunger. And the hungry mob that passed through town last week had looked ready to eat more than just cake.

“That’s why we learn to cook like this,” she told Jeanne, pulling the perfectly browned liver from the pan. “Because when times get hard – and they always get hard, ma petite – knowing how to make something from nothing isn’t just clever, it’s survival.”

The sun was setting now, casting long shadows through their small kitchen. Soon the neighbors would start drifting in, drawn by the smell of Marie-Claude’s cooking. They always did. They’d bring what they could – a handful of mushrooms, some elderly carrots, a few eggs – and somehow, like Jesus with his loaves and fishes, Marie-Claude would make it stretch to feed them all.

“This is real magic,” she whispered to Jeanne, spooning a taste of the nearly-finished pâté onto a crust of bread. “Not the kind they teach at church, but the kind that keeps people alive. Now, taste this and tell me if it needs more thyme…”

Jeanne’s face scrunched in concentration as she chewed, trying to mimic her mother’s discerning palate. “It needs… something,” she said finally, proud to be trusted with such an important judgment.

“Ha! Your daughter has the taste buds of a duchess,” Marie-Claude declared. “Pierre! PIERRE!” She kicked her snoring husband’s foot. “Wake up and get me more thyme from the garden before we lose the light.”

Pierre stumbled to his feet, still groggy. “The comte’s thyme or our thyme?”

“Ours, you fool. His has less flavor anyway – too pampered, like everything else up there. Get the wild thyme growing by the chicken coop. The ones that have to fight to survive always taste better.”

As Pierre shuffled out, cursing as he tripped over Josephine the pig who’d been napping in the doorway, Marie-Claude turned back to the stove. The kitchen had reached that perfect moment when everything was coming together – the bourguignon bubbling thickly, the onion soup turning deep golden, and now, with a bit more thyme, the pâté would be perfect.

When Pierre returned, leaves in his hair from wrestling with the herb patch, the sun was just setting. Marie-Claude worked the fresh thyme into the pâté with practiced hands, humming off-key as neighbors began drifting in, drawn by the smells wafting from their cottage.

The wooden table groaned under the weight of Marie-Claude’s alchemy as the family crowded around – Pierre, Jeanne, little Jean-Paul, Marie-Sophie, and Grand-mère in her usual corner spot. Their ancient cat Maurice wound between legs, while the chickens – who were supposed to be outside but always found their way in – pecked hopefully at fallen crumbs. Even the goat, Colette, had stuck her head through the window, her beard quivering at the smells.

“Get your filthy hands out of the pâté, Jean-Paul!” Marie-Claude swatted her youngest’s fingers with a wooden spoon, then immediately softened and cut him a thick slice of bread. “Here, spread it properly. Though God knows you’ll end up wearing half of it anyway.”

The bourguignon had transformed into a dark, rich stew that made them forget their manners as soon as they tasted it. Pierre demonstrated by tearing off a hunk of bread and sopping up the gravy, juice running down his chin. “To hell with the comte’s fancy sauce reductions,” he declared, belching contentedly. “My wife makes better food from their scraps than their chef does from prime cuts.”

“That thyme was worth waking up for,” he added, winking at his wife. “Though next time send someone younger to battle those chicken-guarded herbs. That old rooster of ours thinks he’s the king of France.”

“And he’s just as stupid,” Grand-mère cackled from her corner, reaching for more onion soup. She’d lost most of her teeth years ago, but Marie-Claude’s cooking was soft enough even for her gums. “Though I’d rather have our rooster in charge than those powder-wigged fools up at Versailles.”

The children giggled and played with their soup, turning it into a game of who could create the longest cheese string. Little Marie-Sophie won, naturally – she’d inherited her mother’s kitchen intuition and already knew the precise moment when cheese was at its most stretchy.

“Maman!” Jeanne suddenly shrieked. “The pig is trying to steal the pâté again!” Indeed, their sow Josephine had waddled in through the back door and was making a determined advance on the table. Pierre scooped her up like a baby, despite her being nearly full grown, and she squealed in indignant protest.

“Put that pig down before you drop her in the soup,” Marie-Claude laughed, watching Pierre struggle with the wriggling Josephine. “Though with these new taxes, we might have to eat her sooner than planned.”

“Mmmphf,” Pierre agreed through a mouthful of beef, juice dripping onto his shirt. He tore another chunk of bread and dragged it through the gravy, then licked each finger clean with loud, appreciative smacks. “The comte raised the rates again. Says the king needs more for his fountains or some such nonsense.”

Grand-mère let out a impressive belch, followed by an even more impressive fart. Nobody flinched – it was a sign of a good meal in their household. “Fountains!” she spat. “While we’re paying half our eggs in taxes. In my day…” She paused to slurp her soup directly from the bowl, cheese stretching from her chin to the table.

Jean-Paul, not to be outdone by his grandmother, attempted an even louder belch, earning a half-hearted “Mind your manners” from Marie-Claude, who was herself busy mopping up pâté with a heel of bread. The children had given up any pretense of civilization, faces and hands shiny with grease, competing to see who could fit the biggest chunk of beef in their mouth.

“At least we eat better than they do,” Marie-Sophie declared, gravy running down her chin. “Maman makes their throwaway meat taste better than their fancy cuts.” She demonstrated by stuffing an enormous piece of bourguignon in her mouth, cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s.

“That’s because your mother knows food needs love, not just money,” Pierre said, reaching across the table to steal a piece of meat from Jeanne’s bowl. She squealed and stabbed his hand with her spoon, but he was too quick. “Up at the manor, they don’t even know what to do with half the things they buy. Yesterday the chef threw out perfectly good beef bones because they weren’t ‘elegant’ enough for stock.”

“Their loss,” Marie-Claude snorted, watching with satisfaction as her family devoured every last morsel. Jean-Paul was now picking up the remaining gravy with his finger, while Marie-Sophie had resorted to licking her bowl.

A knock at the door interrupted Grand-mère’s tirade about taxes. The family froze, sharing worried glances – unexpected visitors at dinner could mean anything from desperate relatives to tax collectors. Josephine the pig took advantage of the distraction to make another grab for the pâté.

Marie-Claude wiped her greasy hands on her apron and opened the door cautiously. There stood a bewildered-looking foreigner in travel-stained clothes, gesturing apologetically at a broken carriage wheel visible in the darkening road beyond.

You find yourself stammering in awkward French, trying to explain your predicament, but the smell coming from inside the cottage makes you lose your train of thought completely. Something rich and wine-dark, something oniony and cheese-laden, something that makes your mouth flood instantly with want.

The woman in the doorway takes one look at your face and breaks into a knowing smile. “Américain?” she asks, recognizing your accent. Before you can finish explaining, you’re being pulled inside into a scene that feels like stepping into a Dutch master’s painting: golden lamplight, earthenware bowls steaming on a rough wooden table, and a family eating with unrestrained joy.

They shift to make room, shooing a startled chicken off a stool. A bowl appears in front of you, deep brown stew and crusty bread and something that smells like liver but more heavenly than any liver has a right to be. The man of the house – his shirt front stained with gravy – pushes more bread your way.

“Tell us about your revolution!” he demands eagerly. “We heard you threw all the tea in the ocean. Is it true you have no king?”

But you can barely answer – you’re too busy having a religious experience with the most transcendent beef stew you’ve ever tasted. Your carefully cultivated American manners dissolve as you tear into the bread, sopping up gravy with abandon. The old woman in the corner nods approvingly as you let out your first unconscious belch.

“The American knows how to eat!” she cackles, sliding something called pâté closer to you. “Maybe there’s hope for France yet!”

As you scoop up another spoonful of the onion soup, strings of cheese stretching to your lips, you realize you’re experiencing something more than just a meal. This is history – both your young country’s and France’s yet-to-come – shared over humble food made extraordinary by skill and necessity. In this moment, in this warm kitchen with these laughing peasants and their wandering livestock, you understand something profound about revolution, about survival, about the power of transforming scraps into feasts.

You reach for more bread, and the woman – Marie-Claude, you learn – smiles knowingly. She doesn’t need to speak English to recognize the universal language of someone discovering real food for the first time. Welcome, her eyes seem to say, to the peasant’s table.

Roxanne G., author of “I’m Just Not That Kind of a Girl: a sadistic basic bitch story,” and “I Drank Vodka While Pregnant: confessions of a nice girl” is back and more depraved than ever.  Her latest novel — a modern retelling of “Snow White” — is almost ready for publication, here are a few excerpts to whet your appetite for smut.

****************************

Reality snapped back when the women arrived to ask for their car.

“Excuse me, could you bring our car around?” Solana asked, handing the valet her ticket.

“Certainly, ma’am,” the valet replied, taking the ticket. He turned to retrieve their keys but hesitated, fumbling through the set as his eyes kept drifting back to the two women. “So, um, how was the performance?” he asked, his voice unsteady as he continued searching for the key.

“It was fantastic,” Solana replied, glancing at Tierra. “My daughter was the star of the show.”

Tierra dipped her head, her dimples deepening as a blush spread across her cheeks.

“I’m sure you were amazing,” said the valet, finally finding the key. “I wish I could have seen it.”

Tierra giggled at his compliment, her eyes brightening as they met his. “Thanks,” she said.

He looked away, but not before she caught his nervous, lingering glance. Oh, this is going to be fun… she thought, biting her lip just enough to draw his attention back. Watching his fingers tug at the edge of his jacket, she felt a wicked thrill. Poor guy doesn’t stand a chance. She let the silence stretch, enjoying every moment of his discomfort as she played with the tension between them.

“Maybe you’ll be in the audience next time?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, maybe next time.” Did I just say that? he thought, cringing at how awkward he sounded. He forced a smile, avoiding her eyes as he stepped back, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. She’s totally out of my league…

Solana caught the exchange and gave the valet a look of cold amusement. When she turned to Tierra, her daughter flashed her a quick What, Mom? smile. Solana shook her head. Like mother, like daughter, she mused.

The valet hurried to retrieve their car, a sleek black sedan. As he slid into the driver’s seat, the women’s scent enveloped him—a blend of floral perfume and warm, feminine musk that made him imagine what they might smell like up close.

He inhaled, savoring the aroma. The scent was making his brain short-circuit, filling his head with all sorts of salacious thoughts. He imagined burying his face between Tierra’s breasts, breathing in her essence as he tasted her flesh…

The blare of a horn snapped him back to reality. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog as he drove out of the lot and parked their car by the curb.

He exited and nearly tripped getting around to the passenger side, his eyes glued to the sight of Solana and Tierra locked in a tender embrace.

He continued to stare as the two women approached, still holding each other close. The way their bodies moved together was mesmerizing – Solana’s curves pressed against Tierra’s slender frame, their hips swaying in tandem with each step.

He opened the passenger side door, his hand quivering as he gripped the handle. “Here you are, miss,” he said in a tone that sounded like a high-pitched Muppet.

Tierra returned the favor with a coy smile. “Thank you,” she said as she moved to enter the vehicle.

The valet nearly choked on his own breath. As she lowered herself into the car, his vantage point gave him a bird’s eye view of her bouncing cleavage, and the slit in her gown parted further, revealing her shapely leg all the way up to her stocking top.

Noticing just how much leg she was showing, Tierra’s slender fingers closed around the silky fabric, tugging it over her exposed thigh. She looked up at the valet through her lashes, who stood rooted to the spot, her eyes sending a clear message: Show’s over. Are you going to shut the door? The silent command sent him into a tizzy.

Solana cleared her throat, startling the valet from his tawdry thoughts. He glanced up to find her watching him with a knowing smirk, one arched brow raised.

“Careful not to drool.” Solana’s eyes sparkled with mischief, letting him know she was quite aware of the effect she and her daughter had on men like him.

The valet felt his face flush hot with embarrassment at being caught ogling Tierra’s boobs and leg like a lecherous schoolboy. He shut the door and quickly moved around to the driver’s side, scrambling to open the door for Solana.

Solana paused as she reached the door, turning to face the valet. With a playful smile, she retrieved a crisp $10 bill from a side pocket in her purse and pressed it into his hand, her fingers lingering against his skin before slipping away. “Thank you for your service tonight.”

The valet’s fingers went limp, barely able to hold onto the tip. “It was my pleasure.”

As Solana eased into the car, her shirtdress slid up over her knees. The front slit parted like curtains on a stage, inch by inch, as she turned to hand Tierra her purse. The valet’s eyes widened as more of her legs came into view.

“Damn it,” Solana snapped as the phone slipped from her hands and tumbled under the seat. She tried to reach for it but couldn’t bend far enough. So with the casual grace of a 1940s pinup, she swung one leg into the car while straightening the other for leverage, the spread of her legs hiking her skirt up to her stocking tops. She held the pose with the poise of a gymnast as she bobbed her head up and down in search of the phone.

The valet was awestruck by every shift and contortion of her legs as she adjusted her balance to find her phone. Reaching further under her seat, her legs parted a bit more. His crotch tightened as he caught a glimpse of something silver peeking out from the shadowy recess between her thighs. The lacy fabric of her panties seemed to wink at him, beckoning him to explore what lay beneath. Come home, Jason, come home to mommy… he thought he heard.

“You okay, Mom?” Tierra asked.

“Yeah, stupid thing is just stuck,” she replied as she dipped her head lower. “Got it,” she said as she emerged with a victorious smile.

Glancing down, Solana was surprised by how much of her legs were on display. With a faint smile, she shifted her weight and slid fully into the car, bringing her left leg in to join the right. She began to pull her dress down, like a burlesque dancer drawing the curtains on a risqué performance.

The valet watched with rapt attention as the hem of her dress inched lower. It was exquisite torture, to have such intimate beauty revealed and then hidden away again. Tierra’s lips parted as she noticed the valet’s bulge twitching like a starving rabid animal trying to escape confinement.

Solana paused when the dress reached her knees, letting the moment stretch out. Then, with a coquettish tilt of her head, she tugged and smoothed out the fabric over her knees, restoring her modesty.

Settled into the driver’s seat, she turned to the valet, who still stood holding the car door, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. She smiled indulgently, enjoying the dazed, worshipful expression on his face. It was a look she knew well—the look of a man so intoxicated by desire he struggled to string two thoughts together.

“Are you planning to shut that door anytime soon, sweetheart?”

“Uh, yes—sorry about that.”

After the door clicked shut, Solana caught his eye and winked. They both knew what kind of thoughts would be running through his head later, and that knowledge sent a wave of satisfaction through her. She knew she’d be on his mind long after she drove away, and she liked that just fine.

As Solana pulled the car away from the curb, she glanced over at Tierra with a naughty grin. Tierra returned it, her eyes animated with suppressed laughter.

“And that, my dear, is how it’s done,” Solana said, giving Tierra a playful nudge, triggering their burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Did you see his face?” Tierra giggled, clutching her stomach. “I thought he was going to faint!”

“He certainly got an eyeful, didn’t he? I don’t think he’ll be forgetting that little show anytime soon.”

Tierra shook her head. “You’re terrible, Mom. That poor guy probably had to go take a cold shower after that.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be thinking about it for quite a while,” Solana said with a wicked smirk. “We definitely gave him plenty of material to work with tonight.”

Tierra blushed at the implication, but a thrill raced through her at the thought. There was something so exhilarating about wielding that kind of sexual power, about reducing a man to a mess of an idiot with just a flash of skin and a sultry look. It made her feel invigorated, alive in a way few other things did.

Reading her daughter’s thoughts, Solana reached over and gave Tierra’s thigh a squeeze. “Feels good, doesn’t it, knowing you can drive a man wild with wanting you?”

Tierra fell silent.  It does feel good.  The idea of having such sexual power over men was at once thrilling and a little frightening. She thought back to the hungry stares that had followed her and her mother as they left the opera house, the way the valet’s eyes had devoured her.  What do they want from me, what do they want to do to me? 

Sensing Tierra’s hesitation, Solana turned toward her with a gentle smile. “Hey, how about we grab some ice cream to celebrate your big moment?”

Tierra’s nodded, her eyes brightening. “Yes, please!”

*******

Solana sighed, glancing at the clock. Shit, she thought, realizing she’d been so busy with work that she forgot to pick out an outfit for the special evening. She gave Tierra a kiss on the cheek. “Give me a moment to change, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Tierra nodded, her eyes following her mother as she scurried to her bedroom. Solana’s mind buzzed as she stepped into her changing area, fingers brushing past her usual work attire and casual wear. She needed something special for the evening, an outfit that would make her feel confident and proud standing beside her daughter.

She pulled out a sleek black shirtdress, the silk material cool and smooth under her fingers. A bit on the casual side for what the evening calls for, she thought, but she didn’t have the time or energy for a more formal outfit. I can make this work, she told herself as she draped it over the chaise and kicked off her heels, sighing in relief as her tired feet sank into the plush rug.

Reaching behind her waist, she unhooked the clasp and unzipped her skirt. With a wiggle and a tug, it dropped to the floor. She stepped out of it and moved toward the mirror.

Standing before her reflection, she began unbuttoning her blouse, working from top to bottom. As the center parted, her silver lace-trimmed bra came into view, followed by the gentle curve of her ribcage and the flat expanse of her stomach. With a shrug, the blouse slipped from her shoulders, down her arms, and into her waiting hand, which then tossed it onto the chaise.

Solana paused, scrutinizing her reflection for signs of age. She studied her breasts, cupping their weight from below and giving each a gentle lift and tap. Shifting her hands over the mounds, she felt the way they filled her palms and held their shape. Still perky. Tracing the lines of her cleavage, she wondered how long this defiance of gravity would last.

Where the lace ended, smooth, creamy skin began, interrupted only by the slender straps that curved over her shoulders. Solana’s eyes traced the line of her shoulders, still proud of the youthful posture she maintained. Her back was straight, her shoulders pulled back, accentuating the curve of her collarbone and the hollow where her neck met her chest. The thought of standing any other way—less poised, less graceful—made her shudder with disgust.

Her eyes drifted to her stomach as she tightened her abdominal muscles, revealing subtle lines and ridges. Feeling playful, she pushed her belly out as far as she could, rounding it into a small bump. A girlish giggle escaped her lips as she poked at the slight swell, amused by the jiggle of flesh. She pinched the protrusion, shaping the skin into a crooked mouth.

Better watch out, Solana, or you’ll end up just like this, she imagined it saying.

Letting her stomach return to its natural state, her hands glided to her hips. She tugged at the waistband of her panties, pulling it up just enough to make the contours of her intimate folds more pronounced, then shifted her hips to adjust the fit for comfort as the material settled against her skin. She smiled, pleased that the same fit was just as perfect today as it had been when she was her daughter’s age—still snug, still flattering.

She turned to check her butt in the mirror, admiring how the panties framed her curves, emphasizing their pertness. Her hands glided over the rounded flesh, giving it a squeeze and enjoying the bouncy feel of the supple skin. “You’re such a tease,” she murmured as she delivered a playful slap. The unexpected sting made her hips jolt as she let out a yelp and giggled with delight.

Solana returned to face the mirror, her hands drifting down until her fingertips grazed the bands of her stockings. She traced the edges, taking pleasure in the sensory contrast between the smooth nylon and her supple skin. With the poise of a ballerina, she lifted her right heel and pointed her toes into the floor. In one fluid motion, she eased the stocking down her leg before gliding it back up, the band settling on her upper thigh with a soft snap. Stretching her leg, she ran her palms over the fabric, checking for snags. The seamless whisper of her caress confirmed there were none.

Finished with the other leg, Solana straightened her posture and reached for the black dress draped over the bed. She slipped it on, threading her lean arms through the sleeves that ended just above her biceps.  The dress settled on her body, the open front framing a narrow strip of skin from collar to just below her knees.

She fastened the first button just above her chest, pulling the fabric together to leave only a hint of cleavage. The silk stretched over the curve of her breasts as she secured the second button, the material molding to their pert shape. The third button drew the panels of the skirt across her hips, leaving the fabric parted below, framing the tapered lines of her legs.

Her hands moved lower, cinching the dress around her waist, the cloth highlighting the curve of her butt as the hem settled just below her knees. With the final button secured, she straightened and stepped back to review her reflection, turning in front of the mirror as her heels lifted with each shift.

Solana scanned her wall of shoes. The black stilettos will complete the look. Lowering herself onto the edge of the chaise, she slipped her right foot into the shoe, pressing down gently to feel the snug fit around her arch and heel. Her toes wiggled, adjusting as the soft leather conformed to them. She repeated the motion with her left foot, her arches settling into the curve of the stilettos. With both shoes on, she flexed her toes once more, settling into the fit before rising to her feet.

Standing tall, she felt the subtle shift in her posture, the stilettos lifting her chest and tilting her hips into a sinuous line. Lifting the hem of her skirt to mid-thigh, she admired her legs, lengthened by the heels, muscles tightening with each slight turn. Her cheeks lifted as she returned to the mirror, a cold glint in her eyes as she took in her reflection.

Reaching for a brush, she began smoothing her dark hair, her wrist moving in slow, rhythmic strokes. With each pass, her head tilted gently to one side, her hair falling in soft waves just below her shoulders.

She paused, fingers combing through the strands as her eyes searched for any trace of gray. A soft sigh slipped past her lips when she found one, her brow furrowing before she plucked it out. Her focus returned to the way her hair framed her face, as if the momentary flaw had never existed. But no brush could erase the deeper truths etched into her features.

Her face, arresting in its haunting beauty, still compelled second glances—drawing people in while leaving them unsettled. Where youthful exuberance once animated her features, her high cheekbones now exuded a calm, regal grace. Her large almond-shaped eyes, formerly doe-like, now held an elusive coldness—the legacy of trust betrayed and illusions shattered. The mouth that had once curved effortlessly into smiles now rested in a straighter line, a silent testament to disappointments weathered and expectations unmet.

With a final glance of the mirror, Solana smoothed the dress over her hips. She exhaled, centering herself. I still have it, ladies and gentlemen, bitches and perverts. She stepped out of the room, her heels striking a confident rhythm on the hardwood floor.

Where have you been, it’s been so long since the last post?
Busy, partially from being short-staffed.

Also been learning about how to use Artificial Intelligence (AI) to improve efficiency, especially in regards to content creation.  Expect a lot more content soon, we have a backlog of stuff we’re about to publish.

Oh, and have been working on new menu items, some of which as on our new dine-in tasting menu.

Are you hiring?
Not really.  Shifted from trying to build the restaurants to keeping traffic low so it can be handled with minimal staff.  The unofficial minimum wage now is $20/hour (plus tips).  The time it takes to hire and train someone to produce enough value to justify the wage isn’t worth it anymore unless we immediately do the sort of volume that McDonald’s gets.  So we only hire migrant workers to help with cleanup and maybe some prep work.  It’s easier this way.

The other issue is that we can’t hire who we want due to the number of homeless/drug addicts in our neighborhood.  I wanted to hire a couple of Japanese international students, but I can’t imagine them knowing how to handle a drug addict entering the store.

What are you doing with AI?
It’s made content creation faster, better, and thus, more profitable.  For instance, we can now produce a mostly AI generated ad using a platform like flicki.ai to create Instagram ads and YouTube videos.  Check out our Instagram ads and follow us.

We’re also developing AI bots on Poe.com, a platform that allows users to sample a range of AI systems, such as ChapGPT and Claude.  We’re working on Vampire Chef bot that flirts with users interested in cooking delectable meals for vampires (e.g. beef tartare), and The Peasant Chef who’ll help users with meals related to upcoming book, How to Cook Like a Peasant.

We’ve also generated content and AI bots to help users learn French, and in the future, Spanish.  We’re working on having AI read our books to publish on YouTube and Rumble.

AI can do all that for you?
It used to cost $800 to hire someone to read 5000 words (a chapter).  Now it costs $20/month.  So expect audio version of our books soon.  it’s also reduced creating video content that used to take 10 hours to an hour.

Has it helped with writing?
It has, mostly with grunt work like footnote references.  It now takes less than a minute to generate a footnote, whereas it used to take up to 10 minutes to do so.

Ai still — and perhaps because I don’t know how to tame it to my liking — writes like a Woke basic bitch.  I’ll ask it to rewrite a sentence and it’ll change its meaning.  But it’s useful as a junior writer.  There’s still a lot of editing involved when using AI for writing.

Which AI writing tool do you use?
I use Sudowrite for fiction.  I recommend it for those who want to get into fiction writing.  Keep in mind that it still requires a lot of good writing from users to generate decent content, and good editing skills to produce good material.  Still, it can be a useful heuristic tool for those wanting to learn how to write fiction if used properly.  Don’t hesitate to ask about it if you’ve ever wanted to write fiction, which I’m still a novice at.

For essays, I use Claude and ChatGPT, primarily for footnotes and research.  They’re my junior writers and research assistants, saving me a lot of time.  Expect five books a year from me hereinafter.

What’s the new dine-in tasting menu? 
It’s three courses for lunch, $15, tax included, four courses for dinner, $20.  Courses have included: beef tartare (better than any I’ve had in Quebec or France); mussels marinara; fish eggs tacos; fish eggs and peppercorn whipped cream; honey mustard baby back ribs; short-rib ramen; paratha (Indian flatbread) pizza; steak and eggs.  It takes us back to our original plan, which was a sit-down bistro instead of the take-out menu we pivoted to in response to the pandemic.

 

 

Almost done, coming soon.

 

 

Book Description

Want to eat like royalty on a peasant’s budget? Looking to shed pounds while saving money? Dream of cooking confidently without being tied to recipes? Then this is the cookbook for you! How to Cook Like a Peasant isn’t just another cookbook—it’s your ticket to culinary freedom, financial savvy, and intuitive cooking mastery.

Imagine transforming humble ingredients into meals fit for royalty, all while spending less than you do on takeout, cutting your grocery bills in half even. This cookbook will reshape your relationship with food, teaching you to cook with the resourcefulness of a peasant and the flair of a master chef—all without relying on strict recipes.

Whether you’re a busy parent, a student on a tight budget, or simply someone looking to reconnect with real food, you’ll gain a new appreciation for the ingenuity of peasant cooking traditions worldwide and learn to apply their wisdom in your modern kitchen. By developing your culinary intuition, you’ll free yourself from the constraints of recipe books, allowing you to create delicious meals based on what you have on hand and what feels right.  With practical meal plans, creative cooking games, and recipes woven throughout, you’ll quickly move from novice to a confident, creative cook.  Read this cookbook to save money, eat healthier, and impress your friends and family with your newfound culinary skills.

 

Introduction

 

Dipshits and bad cooks insist that eating well – consuming tasty, nutritious meals that don’t make people fat, torpid, and batshit crazy – requires wealth. Their arguments claim:

• Processed foods are cheaper than fresh ingredients
• The poor lack access to healthy food (“food deserts”)
• The poor work too much to cook
• Poverty-induced stress prevents rational food choices
• The poor lack nutrition education

This book disproves all these claims. In fact, scarcity, not abundance, breeds culinary skill – specifically, how one approaches limitation. This connection between constraint and innovation drives our culinary journey.

Many think wealth is needed for healthy eating and living well. History proves otherwise. Some of the best dishes emerged from necessity and limited resources. Embracing constraints forces creativity and deeper understanding of ingredients, transforming basic cooking into culinary artistry.

Indeed, scarcity has driven culinary innovation throughout history. Pizza began with Naples’ poor workers using available toppings on flatbread. French peasants created cassoulet from beans and preserved meats. Vietnamese vendors transformed French colonists’ leftover bones into pho. Spanish laborers combined local ingredients into paella. Kimchi preserved vegetables through Korean winters.  Even sausages began as a way to use entire animals efficiently. These and many other beloved dishes emerged from necessity, not luxury.

Modern cooks can learn from this peasant ingenuity. Limited resources spark creativity – turning onions into French onion soup or stale bread into bread pudding. These techniques, refined over generations, show that culinary excellence comes from resourcefulness, not abundance. This approach makes us better cooks and more conscious consumers.

The ‘peasant mindset’ transforms limitations into opportunities. It’s what turns stale bread and tomatoes into Panzanella, or tough meat into barbacoa. This perspective helps you cook intuitively, substitute confidently, and see your pantry as a canvas of possibilities. Cooking becomes an adventure rather than a chore.

This cookbook proves culinary excellence is possible on a food stamp budget ($8.35 per person daily in Washington state). In fact, most of the recipes cost $3-$5 per serving. We’re challenging the myth that poverty forces poor nutrition. The obesity epidemic stems from lack of skills and knowledge, not money. These recipes demonstrate how basic ingredients, properly handled, create nourishing, flavorful meals that anyone can afford.

In the following chapters, we’ll explore how to cultivate this peasant mindset in your own cooking, unlocking flavors and techniques that will revolutionize your approach to food. We begin with Part I – Prep Work – to introduce you to the foundational skills and knowledge that will set the stage for your culinary transformation. This section will equip you with the essential tools, both mental and physical, to approach cooking with the resourcefulness and creativity of our ancestors. From understanding the importance of seasonal ingredients to mastering basic preservation techniques, you’ll build a solid foundation that will inform every aspect of your cooking journey. By the time you finish Part I, you’ll be primed to see your kitchen not just as a place to prepare meals, but as a workshop for culinary innovation and self-sufficiency.

Chapter one is about Transforming Your Kitchen into a lean and efficient workspace inspired by restaurant kitchens. You’ll be amazed at how a well-organized space can elevate your cooking game, allowing you to create impressive meals with ease and confidence. Get ready to declutter, reorganize, and rethink your kitchen setup. By the time we’re done, you’ll have a kitchen that’s primed for creativity and ready for any culinary challenge.

Decluttering means getting rid of shiny shit you don’t need and probably don’t use often so you’ll have room for Recommended Accessories and Equipment listed in Chapter two. We’re not talking about filling your kitchen with expensive gadgets or unnecessary tools like Dutch ovens and spiralizers.  Instead, we’ll focus on the essentials that professional chefs rely on daily. You’ll learn which tools are worth investing in and which ones are just taking up valuable counter space.  We’ll also talk about clever hacks and substitutions that can save you money and storage space. You’ll be surprised at how many kitchen tasks you can accomplish with just a few well-chosen tools.

Now that you have a kickass kitchen that looks and works like one instead of the shiny, happy, creepy ones featured in “Better Homes and Gardens” from 2005, you’re ready to go Grocery Shopping, the subject of Part II.  The first rule to follow is to Shop Without a List, the title of Chapter three.  That goes against common wisdom on how to keep your grocery bills down because people think that not having a list encourages impulse buys.  True enough, but the alternative we propose is to Shop with a Budget Instead, the title of chapter four.  Now it gets interesting, right?  This chapter will teach you how to turn budget shopping into a fun game that’ll save you money and make you a better cook in doing so.

Chapter five, “Stop Buying This Shit,” cuts through the marketing hype and trendy food fads. We’ll expose the overpriced, overhyped items that do nothing for your health or your taste buds. You’ll learn which “superfoods” and fancy ingredients are just draining your wallet, and what to buy instead for truly nutritious, delicious meals. By the end of this chapter, you’ll be shopping smarter, eating better, and keeping more cash in your pocket. It’s time to ditch the food industry’s BS and get back to real, satisfying eating.

Chapter six unveils the secret weapons of savvy cooks: the Essential Ingredients that form the backbone of global cuisine. We’re talking about the handful of powerhouse items that peasant cooks have relied on for centuries to whip up 80% of the world’s sauces, dressings, and marinades. With just these few key players in your pantry, you’ll be able to hop from Italian pestos to Thai curries, from French vinaigrettes to Mexican moles. You’ll learn how to stock your kitchen like a culinary globetrotter while keeping your budget firmly grounded. By the end of this chapter, you’ll be eating like you’ve got a world-class chef in your kitchen, all while spending like a thrifty peasant. Get ready to turn your humble pantry into a launchpad for international flavor adventures.

Chapter seven, ‘Where to Shop’, reveals the secrets to minimizing your grocery bills. You’ll discover a world beyond typical supermarkets, exploring stores favored by budget-conscious shoppers and immigrants alike. Discount chains like Winco and Aldi are just the beginning. We’ll guide you through the ins and outs of salvage grocers, ethnic markets, and under-the-radar local shops where prices are low and selection is surprisingly varied. Learn to spot the best deals, navigate unfamiliar aisles, and walk away with a cart full of affordable groceries. By the end of this chapter, you’ll have the skills to transform your shopping routine, saving money without sacrificing quality. Get ready to see your neighborhood’s food landscape in a whole new light.

Chapter eight introduces the concept of *Mise en Place*, or “everything in its place,” as a fundamental kitchen technique. This approach transforms cooking into an efficient, organized process, enabling readers to prepare meals for large groups quickly and easily. By mastering these techniques, readers can expect to dramatically reduce cooking time, potentially preparing feasts for ten people in just 30 minutes. The chapter promises to turn the reader’s kitchen into a highly efficient operation, capable of producing delicious and nutritious meals with ease. As a result, readers may find their homes becoming popular gathering spots for impromptu dinner parties and family events, with their newfound culinary skills potentially inspiring admiration and requests for cooking lessons from friends and family.

Chapter nine focuses on batch cooking and meal planning, teaching readers how to efficiently prepare multiple meals at once. It covers strategies for cooking in bulk, repurposing leftovers, and stocking the freezer with ready-to-go meals. The chapter aims to help readers cook with professional-level efficiency, maximizing time and ingredients while keeping families well-fed. Part IV, “Seasonings,” then delves into the world of dressings, marinades, and sauces. This section encourages hands-on learning and experimentation, preparing readers for both kitchen disasters and triumphs. The goal is to build confidence and creativity in seasoning, potentially leading to innovative culinary creations.

In chapter ten, you’ll learn how to transform your Salads from boring sides to star status. You’ll craft dressings that make your greens irresistible and master techniques to create visually stunning salads with perfect texture. By the end of this chapter, you’ll be turning out salads so delicious and appealing, they’ll rival your main courses for attention. Your guests won’t just eat their vegetables – they’ll crave them.  Included are two easy to make salad recipes.

Chapter eleven unlocks the secrets of Marinades, turning you into a protein-whispering wizard. You’ll learn to craft flavor-packed marinades that don’t just season, but transform tough, budget-friendly cuts into mouthwatering delicacies. Discover how to take a humble chuck steak and elevate it to steakhouse status, all while keeping your wallet happy. By the end of this chapter, you’ll be serving up posh-tasting meals on a peasant’s budget, proving that great flavor doesn’t have to come with a hefty price tag.  There’ll be lots of recipes in this chapter for you to try out.

Chapter twelve delves into the art of Sauces, teaching you how to create rich, flavorful concoctions that can transform any dish from ordinary to extraordinary. You’ll learn to craft versatile sauces that add depth and complexity to your meals, turning even the simplest ingredients into gourmet experiences. By mastering these techniques, you’ll elevate your cooking to new heights, impressing both yourself and your guests with restaurant-quality flavors right from your own kitchen.  Lots of recipes to play with to your liking in this chapter.

Chapter 13, Pickling, explores how basic preservation techniques evolved into trendy “artisanal” foods. Through simple recipes for sauerkraut, beets, and cucumbers, we learn how peasants worldwide turned necessity into culinary gold. The chapter demystifies fermentation and pickling, showing these ancient methods need only salt, vinegar, and patience a fancy flair without fancy prices.

Part V, Aesthetics, provides the finishing touches to make your meals visually and aurally pleasing to you and your guests.  Here you’ll learn psychological manipulation tactics to seduce those who experience your meals sensually, so they fantasize about coming back for more to satisfy their darkest pathological needs.  You’ll learn how a good meal can be used as mind control so you can live out your kinkiest tyrannical fantasies, or perhaps trap the man or woman of your dreams.

Chapter 14 dives into the secret ingredient no recipe can teach: Empathy. Here, we explore how to read your diners’ minds. You’ll learn to anticipate the psychological and physical journey your guests embark on with every bite. We’ll unravel the mysteries of texture, teaching you to wield your knife like a wizard’s wand, transforming ingredients into perfectly sized morsels that dance on the tongue. By the end of this chapter, you’ll be crafting meals so in tune with your diners’ desires, they’ll wonder if you’ve installed a direct line to their taste buds. Prepare to become the Sherlock Holmes of the kitchen, deducing preferences and delighting palates with every carefully considered dish. You’ll become a culinary diplomat, gently coaxing even the pickiest eaters to embark on gastronomic adventures. Master the art of presenting new dishes so enticingly that your guests willingly step out of their comfort zones. By the end of this chapter, you’ll have the skills to turn ‘I don’t eat that’ into ‘I can’t believe I love this!’ Without resorting to arm-twisting or trickery, you’ll expand palates and open minds, one delicious bite at a time.

Chapter 15 highlights the importance of Plating when serving a meal.  Proper plating isn’t just a mindless art project, it’s an indicator to you and your guests of how nutritionally potent your meals are.  You’ll explore the link between the beauty of color schemes of your meals and how tasty and nutritious they are.

Part VI, The Palate, guides you through expanding your culinary horizons and those of your guests. Many Americans have developed limited palates, but this section will show you how to broaden your taste preferences. This expansion isn’t just about enjoying a wider variety of flavors – it’s a pathway to improved health and increased financial flexibility. As your palate grows, you’ll gain the ability to shop more strategically, focusing on seasonal produce and taking advantage of sales. This approach allows you to significantly reduce meal costs while maintaining nutritional quality.

Chapter 16 – The Life of a Peasant – takes you on an anthropological journey to a farm in late 18^th century France so you can peek at how peasants lived their everyday lives. By immersing yourself in their world, you’ll unlock a wealth of inspiration that transforms your approach to cooking. Learn how these resourceful cooks crafted satisfying meals from simple ingredients and discover how their spirit of innovation can elevate your own culinary creations. By the chapter’s end, you’ll view your kitchen with fresh eyes, ready to infuse your cooking with the ingenuity and resourcefulness that defined centuries of home cooks before us.

Chapter 17 unravels How We Lost Our Peasant Palates, drifting from our ancestors’ diverse, resourceful tastes. We’ll explore the historical and cultural shifts that divorced us from the peasant mindset, replacing it with a narrower, less nutritious range of flavors.

This chapter offers a roadmap for reclaiming your taste buds, from simple taste-testing exercises to adventurous culinary challenges. By understanding how our palates became ‘messed up,’ you’ll learn to introduce new foods, overcome aversions, and expand your culinary comfort zone. The goal isn’t to abandon modern tastes, but to strike a balance between innovation and tradition. You’ll gain tools for a personal taste revolution that aligns with our culinary heritage.

Chapter s18, Kiddie Food is Bullshit Food, Makes People Fat and Ugly, exposes the modern myth that children need a separate, dumbed-down cuisine. We’ll explore how ‘kiddie food’ is a recent invention, emerging in the mid-20th century and gaining momentum with processed food industry growth. This chapter reveals how this artificial category of food not only limits children’s palates but also skews their understanding of what constitutes a proper meal. We’ll discuss how, historically, children ate what adults ate, adjusting portion sizes but not fundamentally altering the cuisine. By catering to supposedly ‘kid-friendly’ tastes, we’re inadvertently raising a generation of picky eaters with restricted palates and potential health issues, including open mouth syndrome.

Part VII, Lies They Sold You, examines how the corporate food industry, marketing strategies, and misinterpreted nutritional science have shaped modern diets, often negatively. It explores how food corporations have prioritized convenience and engineered flavors over traditional, whole food-based diets, leading to misconceptions about low-fat foods, sugar content, and “fortified” products. The section also discusses the erosion of trust in time-honored food traditions and connects these industry practices to rising obesity and chronic health issues. By exposing these influences, the book aims to empower readers to make informed dietary decisions, see through marketing hype, and rediscover simple, nourishing foods that have sustained humans for generations, all while maintaining a balanced view of modern food science and industry.

Chapter 19, “Debunking Dietary Dogma,” challenges widely accepted nutritional beliefs that often lack scientific support. It examines the origins and validity of concepts like eating three meals a day and the food pyramid, exploring how these ideas were shaped by cultural and industrial factors rather than nutritional science. The chapter also scrutinizes other nutritional myths, from the vilification of dietary fat to the exaltation of ‘superfoods’. By questioning these nutritional orthodoxies, the chapter aims to equip readers with the tools to make more informed dietary decisions. Rather than replacing old rules with new ones, it encourages a nuanced, flexible approach to eating that considers individual needs, cultural backgrounds, and traditional wisdom alongside scientific evidence.

Chapter 20, Why We Eat What We Eat, takes you on a journey through the annals of American culinary history. This chapter isn’t just a dry recitation of dates and dishes; it’s an exploration of how politics, immigration, technology, and cultural shifts have shaped the American palate.  By the end of this chapter, you’ll have a rich understanding of the complex tapestry that is American cuisine. This knowledge will not only satisfy your curiosity but also empower you to make more informed choices about your own eating habits, understanding them as part of a larger cultural and historical context.

Chapter 21, How to Cook Like a Dipshit, serves as our closing manifesto, examining the self-defeating mindset that keeps people trapped in poor eating habits. Through the story of Doug Evans – chronic complainer, excuse collector, and takeout addict – we explore how the scarcity mindset becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. While Doug blames external factors for his inability to cook, his neighbor creates daily meals with the same resources he deems insufficient. The chapter breaks down common dipshit behaviors: the all-or-nothing approach to cooking, equipment obsession without basic skills, recipe rigidity, and the complexity trap. It concludes with practical steps for breaking free from this mindset, emphasizing that the difference between good cooks and dipshits isn’t resources or talent – it’s their approach to limitations. This final chapter ties together the book’s core message: cooking well isn’t about what you lack, but how you use what you have.

Appendix A — Culinary Time Travel and Imagination Games — transforms your kitchen into a time machine and creativity lab. Through carefully crafted scenarios, from historical challenges to futuristic dilemmas, you’ll stretch your culinary skills while sparking fascinating conversations and discoveries for the entire family.

These exercises transform your kitchen into a time machine and creativity lab. Through carefully crafted scenarios – from historical challenges to futuristic dilemmas – you’ll stretch your culinary problem-solving skills while having fun. Each game provides specific constraints that force you to think differently about ingredients, techniques, and meal planning. Whether you’re cooking your way through history or imagining dinner in the year 2300, these exercises will enhance your real-world cooking abilities in surprising ways.

Appendix B — Peasant Feasts: Dinner Party Inspirations, offers a range of coursed dinner party meal ideas that will astonish your guests with their flavors, creativity, and presentation, all while staying true to our core principles of simplicity, seasonality, and resourcefulness.

Appendix C shows you How to Go to a Restaurant so you get the most out of the experience.  This section reframes dining out as an educational experience, teaching you how to maximize every restaurant visit as an opportunity for culinary education and growth.  By the end of this section, you’ll be equipped to extract maximum value from every dining experience, enriching your own culinary journey in the process.

Throughout the chapters, you’ll find a carefully curated selection of recipes that serve as practical applications of the concepts we discuss. These aren’t just random dishes thrown in for good measure – they’re steppingstones on your journey to culinary mastery in the peasant tradition.

By the time you reach the end of the book, you’ll have a diverse collection of recipes under your belt, ranging from rustic stews and hearty breads to ingenious ways of transforming leftovers. More importantly, you’ll have developed the skills and mindset to approach any ingredient or meal with the resourcefulness and creativity of a true peasant cook.

Don’t hesitate to comment and ask questions.  The author can be reached at foodyap@gmail.com.  Happy reading and cooking!

 

 

Update: Sorry, still working on this book.  Aiming for February 2024 release.

Book Description

You crave or have a dick.  Would you prefer to do the sex with and/or as someone who can suck his own dick, or not?  (I didn’t say “does,” I said “can”).  You want that dick to be healthy and hard, or feeble and flaccid?

Alive Juice Bar’s Guide to Men’s Health: How to Suck Your Own Dick will show you how to keep yourself and/or your man limber, robust, and hard into old age.  This book advises men on nutrition and the mental and physical exercises they need to do to be youthful and in sharp mental and physical shape at any age.  Included are simple recipes and meal prep strategies, suggested weekly exercise routines, and neuroplasticity drills.  There’s also a bonus chapter on Oriental sex tricks that double as penis and fascia workouts so you and/or your man can achieve autofellatio (if you want) and shoot jizz farther than ever.

Working toward sucking your own dick will improve your health, regardless of age, guaranteed.

Introduction

Nostalgia is a sign of bad health.  “I grew up in the 80s, and that was the best decade,” people write in the comments section for a popular 80s music video on YouTube.  Was it really?  Would any of these people trade their smart phone for a rotary phone, Internet access for a CB radio and a Walkman, and a 2020 Hyundai Elantra for a 1985 Cadillac Seville as their commuter car?  Of course not, they wouldn’t be commenting on YouTube if they’d made the trade, one that’s available to Americans who don’t live in poverty, every day.

So why are many people sentimental about their youth?  Was the music really that much better or is it better because of the memories it evokes?  Why are memories of angst filled youth and dumb decisions comforting?  Not saying each decade doesn’t have its own unique high points – people looked better and were healthier before the obesity epidemic, for instance.  But the 80s was also the decade of AIDS epidemic and the highest crime rates ever recorded.  In 1989, there were 1905 people murdered in New York City.  In 2022, there were 433 murders.

This isn’t just about the 80s, it’s about people’s propensity to romanticize their youth, no matter how wretched it was compared to their present.  I remember working on a documentary about the New York City’s Lower East Side, which was a slummy neighborhood until around year 2000.  Everyone who grew up there in the 1950s told me about the “good old times,” like the entire family sleeping on the iconic metal fire escapes during the miserably hot and humid summers.  These same people moved from 600 sf tenements for a family of six to spacious, air-conditioned homes in the suburbs during the 1960s.  If their youth was so wonderful, why would they deprive their own children of the same experience?  How can so many people romanticize what most people today consider poverty?

My theory is that those reminisce about their youth do to avoid the pain of being unhealthy in the present.  The 50-year-old who is in better shape than he was when he was 20 isn’t going to be pining about his 20^th year of life.  Ask former fat-fuck turned Navy Seal and ultra marathoner, David Goggins.  He went from being 6’1” and nearly 300 lbs. of flab (he wasn’t a football lineman) in his early 20s to a 175 lbs. 50-year-old fitness magazine model and motivational speaker today.  You think he’s reminiscing about the days when he couldn’t see his dick from a standing position?  Goggins never speaks wistfully about his youth, watch his interviews on YouTube if you don’t believe me.

If my theory is right, that being healthy – limber, robust, and free of pain – is such a wonderful state of being that it’s better to be so than to have all the trappings of a luxurious life while being feeble, then why do so many in the modern world choose to be frail than fit as they age?  I say “modern” because there’s anthropological evidence that those who live in a pre-modern world – no chairs, elevators, anything that reduces physical labor for survival – don’t suffer from the same physical ailments as many of those who live in industrialized societies.  Like the elderly who don’t suffer from back pain despite working their entire lives to gather food, for instance.  From NPR’s segment on Lost Posture: Why Some Indigenous Cultures May Not Have Back Pain[1]:

Believe it or not, there are a few cultures in the world where back pain hardly exists. One indigenous tribe in central India reported essentially none. And the discs in their backs showed little signs of degeneration as people aged.

Westerners tend to believe that the body necessarily degenerates with age and use.  That’s not true, according to the “posture guru” and acupuncturist Esther Gokhale, interviewed in the above mentioned NPR segment:

“I have a picture in my book of these two women who spend seven to nine hours everyday, bent over, gathering water chestnuts,” Gokhale says. “They’re quite old. But the truth is they don’t have a back pain.”

If routine physical labor and age don’t cause back pain, then what does?  What about other physical and mental ailments, such as erectile dysfunction and Alzheimer’s, are they due to labor and age, or not?

The science regarding the link between age and ailments isn’t conclusive and either way, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that you have to believe that age isn’t an excuse for having lower back pain or brain fog; or tight hips that restrict your movement; or the beer belly that likely causes lower back pain, bad posture, and makes your cock look small; or your inability to learn a new language.  If you don’t believe that age isn’t an excuse, then this book is of no use to you.

The point of this health book isn’t to teach you how to suck your own dick.  It’s cool if you want to, and I have a feeling that most women and gay men would like to see their man – or any man — pull it off.  (It’s mostly straight men who don’t want to suck their own dick, I suspect).  The purpose of this book is to help men become healthier, and the ability to suck one’s own dick is just a symbolic and probably abstract goal for them in their pursuit of a more vigorous life.  You can succeed in improving your life without sucking your own dick, okay?  But working to suck your own duck will make you healthier, guaranteed.  Like, what does it take to suck one’s own dick?  One has to be:

• Limber
• Slender
• Decently endowed

This book will help you become more limber, slender, and better endowed, and it won’t be as difficult as you think.  It won’t be easy, but you can still eat tasty food, drink alcohol, and not spend more than 10 hours a week on physical exercise.  And it’ll probably save you money, short and long term, because eating well costs less than eating shit that makes you inflamed, bloated, and torpid.  So let’s do it!

To do it, you need to have the Right Mindset, the topic of Part I of this book.  Chapter 1, Age is a Lame Excuse, berates those for blaming age, instead of their chronic bad habits, for their health problems.  It reviews some anthropological and medical literature about health and aging in modern and pre-modern societies to convince you that there shouldn’t be a significant decline in physical and cognitive performance as you age.  Chapter 2 shows you how to Think Like a Three-Year-Old.  You can train yourself to become more curious and regain much of the neuroplasticity that your brain once had.  To do so, you might need to assess your attitude about Mental Health, the title of Chapter 3, because many physical ailments are manifestations of mental ones.  And you need to have the right mindset to work through the Physical Exercises – Part II of this book – to help you suck your own dick.

We kick off Part II with Suck Your Dick Workouts, the title of chapter 4.  Most physical ailments begin with a weak core, your abs and hips.  Here you’ll be shown to how strengthen your core so you can move correctly without fucking up the rest of your body in your own fucked up way.  It’ll hurt, but it won’t be as painful as you think and soon, you’ll be fucking like a porn star on Viagra.  In chapter 5, you’ll be shown exercises – resistance training — to boost testosterone so you can fuck with more frequency and your jizz will shoot farther.  Chapter 6, Exercises for Hair Growth, you’ll be introduced to the head stand.  My hair was thinning and greying until I started to do a head stand every day, and now it’s as thick and dark as ever.  The headstand sounds intimidating to some, but it’s not that hard and private inversion lessons costs a lot less than those stupid creams, hair transplants, and hair pieces.  Inversions are also face lifts so your facial skin looks less droopy.

Part III is a primer on the Diet and Nutrition you need to suck your own dick.  We get to the heart of the matter in Chapter 7, How to Train Your Palate to Eat Less. Most diets don’t work because they’re asking people to eat what they don’t like to eat.  This chapter explains how to get around this dilemma by training your palate to crave less sugar to be satisfied.  Chapter 8, What to Eat, suggests what you should eat to be lean, limber, and free of inflammation.  This chapter will probably save you money, because eating well is cheaper than you think once you stop eating the bullshit health foods you don’t like.  Chapter 9 considers When to Eat.  Should you eat three meals a day?  Should you eat within an hour after waking up?  Can intermittent fasting reverse aging?

Part IV is about some of the Mental Exercises you can practice to improve brain neuroplasticity so you don’t become a dumb fuck as you age.  These exercises work in conjunction with the physical exercises outlined in this book because mental health = physical health.  Chapter 10 – Mental Drills — suggests fun ways to keep your mind sharp, and warns about seemingly harmless activities that’ll make you dull minded.  Chapter 11 shows you how to Learn a New Language to improve brain neuroplasticity so you can think and act like a three-year-old again.  Full circle.

Being able to suck your own dick doesn’t mean you don’t need Medical Care, Part V of this book.  Chapter 12 — What We Can Learn About Vaccines from the Japanese – begins with a history of how medical science works and what we can learn from its of successes and failures.  Pre-Modern Medicine, the title of chapter 13, reviews alternatives to modern medicine to fix your health problems.  It doesn’t discount evidence based medicine, it points out that medicine is an art and a science, and recognizing it as such will help you make better decisions about how to reach your goal of sucking your own dick.  We end with Chapter 14 – Recommended Readings —  reviews of books written by Western trained medical doctors critical of Western medicine who suggest alternative strategies to live a robust life till you die.

This book should be read – in the first reading – in chronological order, from Introduction to the end.  To read otherwise might be confusing.  Send questions and comments to foodyap@gmail.com, put “I want to suck my own dick” in the subject line if you want a reply.  Enjoy, and good health.

[1] June 8, 2015, by Michaeleen Doucleff.  https://www.npr.org/sections/goatsandsoda/2015/06/08/412314701/lost-posture-why-indigenous-cultures-dont-have-back-pain

Thorstein Veblen publishes Theory of the Leisure Class: an Economic Study of Institutions in 1899. He’s trying to figure out what makes people act like douchebags by studying their consumption habits. Like why Sara buys clothes at this store; Marty drives that car; Vivian drinks obscure coffee. Pre-test:

1. Who owns a Corvette?
a) Vascular Surgeon
b) The commercial plumber
c) The tenured college professor

2. Who owns most amount of clothes?
a) White trash girl living in trailer park
b) Old money girl attending exclusive boarding school
c) Middle-class girl living in middle-class cul-de-sac

3. What does middle-class woman eat on her birthday?
a) Surf and turf
b) Sushi and tempura
c) Raw oysters and beef tongue

4. What is upper-class woman eating Friday evening?
a) Cocktail shrimp and beef tenderloin steak
b) Acai bowl with quinoa, kale chips on side
c) Grilled beef tongue and fried shrimp heads

5. Who is most likely to have read a violent pornographic novel (eg. Georges Bataille, Pauline Reage, Marquis de Sade)
a) Upper-class woman, undergrad from Wellesley and PhD in Comparative Literature
b) Middle-class home economics teacher with enormous porn collection.
c) White trash who beats the shit out of his girlfriend.

Answers:
1. b
2. c
3. a
4. c
5. a

Surprised? Oblique explanations in main text.

Why People Act Like Poseurs and Douchebags

For our purposes here, the only thing we need to take from Theory of Leisure Class is that imitation is the driving force of American capitalist consumerism. In Feudalism, social mobility is limited by birth and the serf works for subsistence, not social mobility. Capitalism, promising unprecedented (upward and downward) social mobility, makes imitation possible, accessible, and encouraged by the logic of economic growth.  “Keeping up,” as Americans put it.  The capitalist “Leisure Class” signifies not only Old and New Money, but anyone with discretionary income, or at least anyone with a credit card.

Whom do people imitate?  Those they *perceive* as just above them.  What do people imitate? The *imagined* sensibilities and habits of those they *perceive* as just above them. Pay attention to the choice of words: “perceive” and “imagined” because people from all social classes tend to have trouble at not only figuring out what those outside their social circles are thinking and doing, but also a person’s social status. That’s why the not-quite-middle-class teen thinks the woman with a deep tan and a tit job is high society. The Old Money woman thinks the young tow truck driver is being ironic when he’s not. The woman who reads The New Yorker has no idea who Jimmie Johnson is. The guy with collection of Jimmie Johnson autographs can’t imagine an Ivy League college professor who listens to Outkast and has tickets to Venus in Furs and The Vagina Monologues, both of which the Time and Oprah magazine reading home economics teacher with tickets to The Nutcracker Suite finds dirty and offensive.  Which is why all this imitation looks more like self-parody than “faking it till you make it.”

History of American Cuisine: Colonial Era

Pick:

6. What’s most likely on the menu at a two year old casual fine dining restaurant in New York City that just won its first Micheline star?
a) Lobster alfredo with chantrelle mushrooms
b) Bone marrow with jerk spiced duck hearts
c) Wagyu tenderloin served with roasted rosemary potatoes

7. Who sucked the most dick by age 18?
a) Working middle-class Tina who attended Catholic school
b) Upper-middle class Siobhan who attended exclusive boarding school
c) Working middle-class Anthony who attended public school

8. Which family is most likely to own Emily Post books on etiquette and send children to etiquette school?
a) Conservative middle-class family, mom is homemaker, dad is bank manager.
b) Old Money family, mom is art curator, dad is opera singer.
c) New Money Google millionaires, Mom and Dad are executives

9. Who sucked the most dick by age 28?
a) Working middle-class Tina who attended Catholic school
b) Upper-middle class Siobhan who attended exclusive boarding school
c) Old Money Sarah who attended public school

10. What vehicle does single Korean man who runs with his parents an established Teriyaki store drive?
a) Toyota Camry
b) Ford Mustang
c) Porsche Cayenne

Answers:
6. b
7. a
8. a
9. b
10. c

Seventeenth century, White Europeans from varied backgrounds started moving to The New World. The English soon became dominant, assimilating the Dutch and the Swedes after kicking their asses, but they couldn’t reach a deal with the French (Acadians in Nova Scotia) so the English told them to fuck off, relocating some of them to Louisiana where they begin Cajun culture. Point is, American cuisine began as variant of British cuisine, and in contrast to the French, who adopted Native American hunting and cooking methods and incorporated indigeneous ingredients into their diet, the Americans used Old World Methods to prepare New World ingredients and tried to grow Old World ingredients in New World climate, with mixed results.  Where reliable trade with British Empire was established, Old World ingredients were imported, making American (New England especially) cuisine intentionally British.

There were lots of regional variations that cut across socio-economic lines — American cuisine has never been monolithic —  with, for instance, upland Southern Rednecks eating possums and squirrels with cabbage and potatoes, and African and Caribbean ingredients and cooking methods influencing the pork based lowland Southern diet.  Pennsylvania Germans brought sausages, sauerkraut, and beer from the Old World. But colonial British mercantilist policies that limited American trade to within the Empire ensured that British traditions would dominate until the Brits began taxing alcohol starting with the Molasses Act of 1733 and the Sugar Act of 1760, and then luxury goods with the Quartering Act of 1763 and tea with the Tea Act of 1773.

The Brits soon learned that when you fuck with people’s alcohol and caffeine supply, there’s going to be a revolution. Americans began boycotting British goods and finally went native out of frustration with British laws. Whiskey had been looked down on by American high society types, who preferred Old World British goods and habits. Now Northern whiskey, made of rye (non-native European ingredient), was becoming fashionable, and Southern whiskey was considered patriotic due to its use of corn, an indigenous ingredient. Rum was out, as it was seen as a symbol of British power.

Another significant change was the shift from tea to coffee.  John Adams wrote to his wife in 1773: “Tea must be universally renounced and I must be weaned, and the sooner the better.” When word got out that a group of housewives in Massachusetts united to serve — as a fuck you to the Brits — only coffee, many were inspired to do the same.

It’s been said that you can tell a lot about a person by what he or she eats.  We can probably tell a lot about a nation by what its people eat.  Shifts in eating habits aren’t accidents and they’re an index of what’s to come politically. You can smell a revolution that’s waiting to happen.

Independence – Immigration Act of 1924

Independence achieved, Americans stopped shitting on French cuisine, which they had disdained during the seemingly never ending conflict between the British and the French. Before the War, cookbook writer Hannah Glasse, wrote in Art of Cookery: “the blind folly of this age that would rather be imposed on by a French booby, than give encouragement to a good English cook!” On French recipes: “an odd jumble of trash.” Those insults disappeared in the first *American* post-war edition of her cookbook, probably because the French had helped with American war effort. The French-American alliance also led to French chefs migrating to the States during the French Revolution, which would’ve been unthinkable under British rule.

Free from the constraints of British mercantilism, American cooks gained wider access to foreign goods.  As an expanding industrializing nation requiring more White people (1790 Act limited citizenship to White people) to populate conquered lands and to work in expanding factories, the US began to accept more and a wider range of White immigrants — now including many from Eastern and Southern Europe — who further diversified American culinary habits. By 1924, Americans are eating all kinds of peasant-redneck-soul food — pig’s ears, raw oysters, raw beef, possums, ram testicles, squirrels, chicken gizzards, cow brains, pig’s feet, and blood pudding.

I use year 1924 as a bookend because it marks the end of liberal immigration policies and the beginning of the modern kitchen.  Growing concern about the “Whiteness” of some European immigrants — Italians, Slavs, and Eastern European Jews — the Immigration Act of 1924 limited the annual number of immigrants who could be admitted from any country to 2% of the number of people from that country who were already living in the US. It was a way to ensure that the US remain a White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant (WASP) nation, not overrun by Irish and Italian Catholics, Jews, Slavs, and other undesirable not-quite-White European “races.”  And by severing the flow of people and cultural habits from undesirable parts of Europe to ethnic US neighborhoods, the not-quite-White people of the US would finally lose their immigrant heritage and assimilate to become fully White and American.

And it was around 1924 that modern refrigeration was becoming common in middle-class America, which led to the rise to mass produced industrialized foods such as frozen meals.  Refrigeration in rail cars meant farms no longer had to be located near population centers and more land could be farmed, resulting in lower prices of prestige items such as beef.

The Federal government and academia were also getting involved in what Americans ate.  Nutritionists and home economics professors introduced a scientific approach to nutrition and eating. They began telling Americans which meals and cooking methods are safe and proper.

Modern American Cuisine

Why did some American ethnic and regional foods become popular nationally, while others remained marginalized or disappeared?

Test break!

11. Who sucked the most dick by age 45?
a) Working middle-class Tina who attended Catholic school
b) Upper-middle class Siobhan who attended exclusive boarding school
c) Old Money Sarah who attended public school

12. It’s 1973, in some middle to upper middle class suburb. What do the Johnson’s have in their kitchen?
a) A dead body, cut up, probably neighbor’s daughter
b) White Wonder bread, margarine, and Tang.
c) Pickled beets, sauerkraut, and offals.

13. Where has Old Money Sarah never eaten?
a) McDonald’s
b) Harold’s Chicken Shack
c) Red Lobster

14. Who lost a toe while on vacation?
a) Upper middle-class Ginger
b) Lower-middle class Tiffany
c) Upper-class Wes

15. Who spends the most on nails and tan?
a) Old Money Sarah
b) Upper middle-class Jimmy
c) Lower-middle class Tiffany

Answers:
11. a
12. b
13. c
14. c
15. c

By 1965, the year immigration was liberalized, the US had finally developed a national cuisine and palate. Coca Cola, orange juice, hamburgers, fortune cookies, peanut butter, apple pie, fried chicken, hot dog, steak, pizza, french fries, spaghetti…these are some regional foods that went national (a few, like Coca Cola, went international).  Why not mutton, smoked salmon, collard greens, pig trotters, fried gizzards, baklava, gyros, Philly Cheesesteaks, and knishes?

Some food became less had because eating them was a sign of low status.  Offals (organs) and possum, for instance.  Perhaps fried chicken made the cut because it was special occasion food for the poor, and fried gizzards didn’t because that’s what the poor ate everyday.  Those who grew up poor traded liver, horse meat, and beef intestines for ground beef when they finally could.

Some food became more popular because they represented modernity and science. The middle-class household in 1970 drank space-age Tang to be modern, used margarine instead of butter to be health conscious, and ate canned soup to be family-on-the-move efficient. Now Tang is one step above kool-aid, margarine is for out-of-touch geriatrics relying on out-of-date info, and canned soup is for the lazy.

Other food and preparation methods became rare because of warnings from government agencies.  “You shouldn’t consume raw seafood or meat of any kind,” warns the FDA. So most stopped doing so, even as steak tartare was served throughout Europe, as it had for centuries, and sashimi throughout Japan, as it had for centuries.  You’re supposed to drink cow milk and eat cereal and bread and cheese…everyday “we’re told by USDA food pyramid. So we did, even though 70 percent of the people in the world are lactose intolerant.  “Cook poultry at 350 degrees,” taught the home economics teacher.  We did and learned to make overcooked and dry meat palatable by adding to it extra extra gravy.  “White meat is healthier than dark meat,” announced the nutritionist.  So we became one of the few nations in the world to prefer white over dark, even though dark is more flavorful and moister.  (And then we make white meat better tasting by frying it or drenching it in gravy, making it even more calorie dense than its dark counterpart). Americans were being taught to distrust their immigrant heritage, to become more modern (American) and less ethnic (backward). American cuisine was narrowing palates and limiting the range of cooking methods. American cuisine was becoming a disaster.

Thesis: government meddling and the loss of immigrant heritage fucked up American cuisine.

Postmodern American Cuisine

If Modernity is about living as one imagines one would in the future, Postmodernity is about living as one imagines someone had in the past.

—————————————————————————–

The Japanese, not Julia Child, saved American cuisine.

It’s the 1980s and the Japanese are on a roll. Americans are starting to think the Japanese are going to take over the world.  They show up in Manhattan to buy all sorts of vanity properties, their cars run better than American ones, and they make Americans feel lazy, and stupid. One could smell the power shift when business between Japanese and Americans was conducted not at Peter Lugar steakhouse, but in a basement level izakaya.

The growing popularity of Japanese cuisine in the US during the 80s and 90s gave Americans an opportunity to reconsider everything they’d been taught about proper cooking and proper meals.  Sure sure, there were American servicemen who loved Japanese cuisine before the preppy douchebags got to try it, but these were working class types everyone ignored, not the preppies middle-class kids emulated during the materialistic Eighties. The preppies made Japanese food cool and eating it became a sign of sophistication and high social status.

Soon Americans are watching Iron Chef Japan. Eating raw fish. Now they’re trying eel and loving it. A few even develop a taste for natto and live sea urchin.  Everything Americans were told not to do they were doing when they were eating Japanese food. For some, it was exhilarating.  Trying “weird” food became a legitimate hobby, and a new brand of foodie emerged.

By the start of the 21st century, Japanese cuisine had gone mainstream and Japanese cooking shows like Iron Chef inspired American versions of them, transforming chefs into rock stars, Ivy League graduates into line cooks working to become chefs, and cooking into a hobby instead of a chore. Sushi was no longer for Wall Street pricks and Californian champagne socialists, you were not middle-class if you didn’t eat and like sushi (even though sushi is a small portion of Japanese cuisine, and not had very often in Japan). Soon we had Japanese food for the masses: conveyer belt sushi, all you can eat sushi, even Chinese people serving (disgusting) sushi.  And as Japanese food ceased to be the new in thing, White Americans, now accustomed to trying “weird shit,” became interested in rediscovering their European roots because being White wasn’t cool anymore.  More restaurants started serving dishes that would’ve been unthinkable in the mainstream 70s, from raw oysters to bone marrow, duck hearts to steak tartare; using cooking methods, such as sous vide, that freaked out health inspectors. Underground dinner parties featured beef tongue and shrimp head. Eating such dishes became a sign of sophistication and American cuisine was becoming not just an archetype of postmodern nostalgia, but also vibrant and challenging. For the first time in a long time, American palates and culinary repertoire were expanding and a new generation of American chefs wanted to show the world that there’s more to American cuisine than McDonald’s.

Why We Eat What We Eat

Some think that the standard middle-class American cuisine is based primarily on proper nutrition (as determined by government agencies) and ethical behavior (as determined by soft science academics).  It is not.  If it were, we’d be eating crickets instead of beef for protein and we wouldn’t let ourselves get suckered by the latest health fad that confers an ingredient undeserved powers and fucks up another nation’s ecology.  Some of us would like to believe our cuisine is *proper* because it justifies our personal preferences (built on habit) and confirms our sense of self as belonging to a righteous nation. Those unhappy with status quo want to make American cuisine *proper* — nutritious and ethical (eg. localvore movement) — so we can feel like we belong to a righteous nation.

If American cuisine is, as argued earlier, built on political intrigue, social maneuvering, and economic brinksmanship, then there’s a good chance that its present is an expression of our competing political beliefs and anxiety about our socio-economic future.  Reading the food we eat as such makes it possible for us to see ourselves as tools when we drink orange juice every morning for its Vitamin C content, douchebags when we order kobe burgers for the prized fat that’s cooked off, cranks when we promote acai berries as ethical superfood, and human when we binge on McDonald’s fries.

Perhaps in the end — weary of reading all those conflicting articles about what’s healthiest and what’s more ethical and what’s better for the economy and environment — eating well has less to do with what we eat than how we explore what’s possible to eat. If only God can determine the righteousness of a nation and its citizens, the best we can do is build a spirited cuisine that challenges and expands, rather than accepts and limits, our palates and imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maido is, according to Restaurant Magazine, the 6th ranked restaurant in the world (2022).  It’s a destination restaurant that serves Nikkei cuisine, a blending of Japanese culinary traditions with Peruvian ingredients and flavors. The term “Nikkei” refers to the Japanese diaspora and their descendants, and Nikkei cuisine reflects the cultural exchange between Japanese immigrants and their Peruvian hosts.

This exchange began when the first wave of Japanese immigrants arrived in the early 20th century to work on the sugar plantations.  So Nikkei cuisine isn’t a recent import, as it is in, say, New York City (1980s), it’s had a century’s worth of time to develop techniques, textures, and flavors distinctively Peruvian.  Japanese cuisine is my favorite, so I was excited to try out the Peruvian version of it.

We picked the 11 course tasting menu, without alcohol.  Let’s see what they look like!

First course, a ceviche potato mix in a crispy cone.  Very  Peruvian,  didn’t notice Japanese  influence,  the  ceviche  marinade  is typical  in  Peruvian  cuisine.

Second course, tofu marinaded in some soy based sauce.  Side of yucca, an Amazonian plant and some beans.

Third course, tiradito, a Japanese Peruvian style ceviche in a beef tendon broth.  Don’t remember what type of fish it was, the orange stuff you see is some sort of tree tomato (sachatomate).

Tempura dish, very light batter like what they use in Japan.  (American tempura is heavier, crunchier).  Dip is a native potato sauce.

Looks like an intricate nigiri.  Don’t know what kind of fish.

 

Don’t remember what this was.  But looks cool.

Awww yeah, toro time (fatty tuna).

The toro is prepared tableside.

Crispy chicken skin, dashi made from Amazonian fish, and chicken meatballs.

Udon with sea urchin.

Pork jowl mixed with a bunch of Amazonian fruits and vegetables.

Macambo ice cream.  Before this dish was an oxtail dish, which I don’t have a photo of.  Sorry.

Final dessert dish, nut milk jelly with Amazonic fruits.  And a mini chocolate ice cream bar.  Those beans are for decoration.  Not sure if the plate its on is worth the fuss.  I tend minimalist when it comes to presentation.

It was the perfect amount of food, flavors, and textures.  (Those 16 plus tasting menus are too much).  Spacing between courses was on point, it gave us just enough time to think and talk about the course we had.  Good course to course contrasts, there wasn’t anything repetitive.  And the atmosphere and decor is fun instead of stuffy.  So yeah, go, if you’re ever in Lima.

Chapter 2
Prudes, White Knights, and Freaks

Most of them aren’t Ivy League type students and social science/humanities professors, as I once thought and some conservative pundits contend, they’re predominantly White and lower middle-class.  Nearly all the hate mail I’ve received since I opened my first restaurant in 2010, and especially after opening the controversially named The Soup Nazi Kitchen in 2021, are from the White lower middle class.  Here are a few typical profiles of the haters, gathered from public records and their social media, such as Facebook and LinkedIn:

Race: White
Sex: Male
Employment: Field technician for Comcast Cable for 16 years
Education: A few courses – English Literature and Environmental Science, at a community college
Hobbies: Member of a music band that performs locally; art; martial arts. 

Race: White
Sex: Male
Employment: Short stints as barista, assembly technician, server, business outreach at a community college, and assistant property manager.
Education: High school
Hobbies: Member of a music band that performs locally. 

Race: White
Sex: Female
Employment: Photographer and life coach (I suspect she has other jobs to pay the bills)
Education: High school
Hobbies: Photography and therapy

Race: White
Sex: Female
Employment: Photographer (I suspect she has other jobs to pay the bills)
Education: Community college
Hobbies: Playing music

Race: White (He I interviewed face-to-face and over messaging)
Sex: Male
Employment: Random low skilled jobs, lives with parents as a 30 something.
Education: High school
Hobbies: Cosplay, Star Wars especially. 

Race: White
Sex: Female
Employment: Random low skilled jobs
Education: Low ranked state college.
Hobbies: ?

Race: White
Sex: Female
Employment: Scheduler and receptionist
Education: Community college
Hobbies: Rock climbing

I don’t think that most of the White lower-middle class are Woke — White, non-college-educated voters…favored the GOP by about 25 points in a 2019 Gallup survey,” according to the Washington Post[1] — but I suspect that most of the Woke are White and lower-middle class, the same demographic that made up most of the 1920s version of the KKK.  And this demographic is large and influential enough, as the KKK was in the 1920s, to influence national American politics and culture.  That’s why Woke priestess, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (AOC), the college educated bartender (the worst and most pissed off kind of lower middle-class because she graduated from a decent college with a degree in economics and expected a more prestigious job after graduation), can come out of nowhere to win a seat in the House of Representatives.  And as a graduate of Boston University, she’s the ideal intermediary between the lower-middles and the Woke Elite we’ll discuss in the next chapter.  She may have graduated from a decent college the lower middles yearn to attend, but she’s still one of us, a bartender, the thinking goes among the White, Whiny, and Woke.

The White, Whiny, and Woke aren’t a culturally monolithic group, as the Mormons and Amish are.  A few indulge in and advertise their self-identified freakiness, as Satanists with multiple facial piercings and pink hair, for instance.  A surprising many are church lady prudish – no blue hair and facial piercings for them and they squirm at the sight and sound of anything raunchy.  Most are somewhere in between freaky and prudish, there are especially lots of bearded and tattooed Bernie Bros who are in a band.  The photographers and so-called life coaches excepted, most work enough to live better than 95% of the world, some even take vacations outside of North America.  Their lives are more comfortable than they, and probably you, think.  Yet they’re pissed and scared.

Who could blame them?  They were lied to.  They were trained to follow the rules and not get in trouble, to say “please” and “thank you” and smile all the time to get ahead.  They were told to get a college degree and they’d move up and own a home, maybe even a vacation house.  They did some or all of that but didn’t get what they expected.  Their polite and rule following behavior primed them for careers as cashiers and baristas, not as executives.  Their bullshit degrees from bullshit colleges couldn’t be converted into higher paying jobs and put them in a decade worth of debt and just outside of middle-class life.  But it’s not the quality of life that matters, it’s the unmet expectations for life that determine one’s worldview and sense of self.

Types of White, Whiny, and Woke

While all Woke are neo-Marxists, Woke isn’t synonymous with Marxism.  Democratic Socialist Bernie Sanders isn’t Woke, even if he has White Knight tendencies.  He doesn’t have a victim complex, Bernie’s driven by a concern about corporate excesses.  I know of Marxists who are embarrassed by the Woke movement, they can’t stand all those temper tantrums.  Others are critical of Woke ideology, like Marxist literary critic Terry Eagleton, who rejects intersectionality as a distraction from class centered politics.  Communist and political science professor Normal Finkelstein calls Woke a “scam,” a “protective cover…because they get to say ‘look how radical we are, look how cutting edge we are’” without sacrificing anything.[2]  Sure, there’s Woke Capitalism, but that’s a corporate strategy to profit from a socio-cultural fad, as 2024 GOP candidate Vivek Ramaswamy points out in Woke Inc.: Inside Corporate America’s Social Justice Scam (2021).  It’ll pass away when it’s no longer profitable to *appear* Woke.  That’s why Budweiser and Miller pulled their Woke ads.

That said, there are three main types of Woke activists: the Prudes, the White Knights, and the Freaks.  They come from all generations; I’ve been surprised by how many of them are Baby Boomers.  It’s as if 60s activists are reliving their youth as their retirement hobby.  In any case, what they have in common is that they all 1) romanticize the past; 2) denigrate competition and the hierarchies it creates; 3) blame hardship for social and psychological ills.  These commonalities will be discussed after exploring the mindset of lifestyles of each Woke type.

The Prudes

The Prudes — also known as the language police, the dogmatists, the tattletales, the messianic mob — are the stiff backbone of the Woke movement.  They’re the advocates and guardians of Woke ideology and decorum:

you can’t say nigger,
you can’t call him a chink,
remember those pronouns,
or they’ll make a big stink.

Psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Jung said in a 1912 interview published in the New York Times that “Prudery is always the cover for brutality.” Take for instance Victorian morality, was it a cover for the brutalities of 19^th century British imperialism? Here are a few instances from the heydays of British expansionism:

• 1789 To annihilate Australian aboriginals, British military brought bottles of smallpox to infect them. Ninety percent of aboriginal population died within 15 months.[3]
• 1806 Abandonment of Spanish POWs on a barren island on the Rio de la Plata river during Napoleonic Wars to starve to death.
• 1842 To reverse its trade imbalance, Britain forces China to legalize and buy its opium, leading to an opioid epidemic that nearly destroys China.
• 1845-1849 British policies lead to Great Potato Famine in Ireland, resulting in one million dead and another million emigrating to escape starvation because throughout the famine, the British continued to export out of Ireland agricultural products, such as wheat and beef, the English wanted.
• 1857 The aftermath of the Indian Rebellion (1857–58), when convicted mutineers were tied in front of cannons and blasted, or sewn into pig or cow skins after death (for Muslims and Hindus respectively).
• 1899-1902 The roundup of Boer civilians (mostly women and children) into the world’s first modern “concentration camps” during the Second Boer War

Was the cover of messianic moral superiority used to justify the brutality and racism of British colonialism?

Victorian decorum also meant rampant censorship, with all literature—including classics like William Shakespeare’s works—cleansed of content considered to be inappropriate for children and women. In King Lear, for instance, the Fool’s song about the crotch area was eliminated, as was Goneril’s lament about the knights’ brothel activities. Same with folk stories and songs.  The mid-19^th century folk song, The Sea Crabb, was originally about a mischievous man who places a crab into a chamber pot to prank his wife.  His wife uses the pot and is attacked by the crab.  Victorian prudery sanitized this story so that the crab grabs the wife by the face instead of by her ass, as written in the original.

Children, children, bring the looking glass
Come and see the crayfish that bit your mother’s arse

The censored version replaced “arse” with “a-face.”  Another example of Victorian prudery are books that covered genitals of nudes in classical and Renaissance statues and paintings with fig leaves.

Same shit happening today, this time instigated by sanctimonious Woke Prudes who mistake refinement with prudery.  Recent versions of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn no longer contain the word “nigger,” which Twain perhaps used in natural speech to highlight what he saw as racism and prejudice endemic to the Antebellum South.  The cover of my book, How to Suck Your Own Dick: an Alive Juice Bar Guide to Men’s Health, was taken down on Instagram and Facebook by Woke trolls led by pathetic Dipshit Doug Evans Dickhead who has a micro-penis and smells like Satan’s Ass.  Even Microsoft Word’s grammar correction now alerts users to “offensive” words such as “shit,” and “fuck” and “pissed.”

The 1920s version of the KKK were prudes too, they were the ones behind the prohibition of alcohol and banning Catholic schools for corrupting the youth.  Keep in mind that the 1920s KKK was different from the Reconstruction Era KKK.  From The Bill of Rights Institute, on the 1920s KKK:

During the 1920s, cultural conflict and modernization helped resuscitate the Ku Klux Klan (KKK). Whereas the original KKK was a violent, racist organization born in the post-Civil War South, the modern Klan was driven by somewhat different concerns. Many white, lower middle-class, Protestant Americans in the North and Midwest were fearful that immigrants were changing traditional American culture, and they responded with anti-Catholicism and anti-Semitism.

Let’s focus on the “cultural conflict and modernization” that revived the KKK.  The societal and technological tumult of the 1920s parallels what’s going on in the 2020s.  The 1920s was when automobiles were becoming widespread, displacing horses as the primary mode of transportation; the modern kitchen – refrigeration and the gas stove – appeared in middle-class homes, changing how some people cooked and ate; commercial air travel became available to the wealthy; jobs were moved to the cities and professions were being displaced by the assembly line mass production.  More than 15 million immigrants arrived between 1900 and 1915, which was equal to the number who had arrived in the previous 40 years combined.  Many of these immigrants weren’t White Protestants, they were Jews, Catholics, and Slavs, regarded by some as unassimilable into mainstream America.  By 1920, 13.2% of those living in the US were foreign born.  There was also a shift in wealth distribution.  Between 1919 and 1929, the share of income received by the wealthiest one percent of Americans rose from 12 percent to 19 percent, while the share received by the richest five percent jumped from 24 percent to 34 percent.  Sure, the real earnings of wage earners rose by 22 percent during this time,[4] but the perception of falling behind and the widening wealth gap is what matters most – people like to compare themselves to others.  Feeling poor has less to do with actual conditions than unfavorable comparisons to others.  I imagine these were scary times for those struggling to keep up with the Jones’s and the rapid pace of technological and cultural changes.

Something similar is happening in the 2020s.  In 2021, 13.6% of those living in the US are foreign born – most not White — about the same percentage as in 1920.  People are concerned about the jobs and professions artificial intelligence will eliminate.  Space travel is now available to the super rich, highlighting their unique access to advanced technology.  More and more of those in the top 10% of wealth live in smart homes and drive driverless cars, increasing their productivity.  Income disparities have increased so that data for 2022 shows that the wealthiest 1% of Americans own 32% of American wealth.  From December of 2020 to December of 2021, nominal wages and salaries were up 4.5 percent, the fastest increase since 1983.  But prices of goods and services have risen even more so that inflation adjusted real wages were 1.2 percent lower in December 2021 than they were in December 2019.[5]  No wonder many Americans – the lower middle-class especially after their experiences with the Great Recession of 2008-2010 — are concerned about the ongoing and predicted lifestyle and market changes.

The 1920s KKK responded to the tumult of their time by becoming crusading Prudes, pairing their gripes about increasing economic equality with sermons about national moral decay – “cultural conflict” mentioned earlier — stemming from non-Protestant immigrants.  “I don’t like these foreigners because they work harder than us” isn’t an attractive way to gripe about your competition.  It sounds more pleasing and is more effective to label them as infidels with bad manners and worse habits.  “Wait wait,” some are thinking, “aren’t the alt-right like Proud Boys and Breitbart News the anti-immigrant build that wall the racists?  Sure about that?  The leader of the Proud Boys, Enrique Tarrio, is Afro-Cuban, born to two Cuban refugees.  From Breitbart’s primary writing staff of 13, I count – as of May 26, 2023 — two Blacks, two Hispanics, one Asian, and the late Breitbart himself was a real Jew unlike those fake Jews with Anglo names like Dipshit Doug Evans who pretend to be so for victim points.  The so called “alt-right” showed support of Andrew Yang’s 2020 candidacy for president because he was the best at articulating their concerns, they couldn’t care less about his race.  Meanwhile, it’s nearly all White, Whiny, and Woke kids who keep showing up to protest talks by Black speakers such as Amala Ekpunobi and Candace Owens, whom they wantonly label as “fascists.”  Calling a Black conservative an “Uncle Tom” or a “house nigger” is so passé in Woke circles.

My analysis of the White, Whiny, and Woke is, ironically, Marxist.  That is, racial and ethnic tensions are primarily due to economic competition and tensions rather than “cultural conflict.”  Moral grandstanding is just a cover for either people’s greed (colonialism) or their anxiety (Whiny Woke) about their economic well-being.  Not saying that culture clashes don’t exist, people tend to not like rapid change, whether it’s caused by an incoming ethnic group or a bunch of yuppies.  How would you like it if your favorite dive bar of 30 years is replaced by something shiny and out of your price range?  How does grandma feel about her favorite grocery store that sells Lunchables and quiche being replaced with one that sells fish heads and durian instead?

People usually don’t kill when their favorite take-out is replaced by something they’re unfamiliar with, they just move.  They might become zealots of some sort if it’s replaced with something they want but don’t feel they can ever have – envy is a powerful motivator.  People will, however, kill when they’re anxious about their sense of self and economic future.  Take lynchings (of all races, including of Whites) in pre-World War II US, the rate of them is strongly associated with economic strains.[6] Throughout the South, low cotton prices, inflation, and increased competition for jobs and land are associated with higher frequencies of lynching.[7] In fact, lynchings were seasonal, peaking in the early Winter when it was time for landowners to settle accounts with sharecroppers.[8] During the California Gold Rush, White resentment towards more successful Mexican miners resulted in the lynching of at least 160 Mexicans between 1848 and 1860.[9][10] In 1892, Black journalist Ida B. Wells-Barnett was shocked when three of her Black friends were lynched in Memphis, Tennessee. She learned it was because their grocery store had competed successfully against a White-owned one.

So while the rhetoric surrounding lynchings suggested that they usually were carried out in order to protect American civic order and the virtue and safety of White women, the actions often arose out of apprehensions about one’s economic well-being and the rapid rate of social change.  Moral grandstanding is generally a cover for economically driven feelings of envy, insecurity, and anxiety.  Dig deeper into the mind of the Prude and you’ll find avarice and hypocrisy, bitterness and cruelty.

The skyrocketing rise of the 1920s version of the KKK – it peaked at 4 million members in 1925, about 15 percent of the eligible population — didn’t last precisely because its leaders were revealed to be venal and greedy.  The organization claimed to stand for morality, but its leaders provided the worst possible examples. For example, Klansmen sometimes seized alcohol only to drink it themselves.  The two publicists who masterminded the Klan’s skyrocketing rise, Edward Y. Clarke and Mary Elizabeth Tyler, were revealed to have been arrested in 1919 for sexual impropriety and possession of illegal alcohol.  At a time when per capita income in the U.S. was under $700, the Indiana Klan leader, former Socialist David Stephenson, pulled in about $200,000 annually, the equivalent of more than $3 million in 2022.  He made that much because the KKK was a money-making machine monetizing popular sentiments of the time, a pyramid scheme that made money from selling shit like robes and trinkets to its members, according to Freakonomics author Steven Levitt.[11]  There’s more, in April 1925, Stephenson assaulted and raped his secretary. She died a few weeks later from wounds Stephenson had inflicted on her. A jury found Stephenson guilty of rape, kidnapping, and second-degree murder.  The Klan imploded after that scandal and its membership declined to 30,000 by 1930.  Indeed, “prudery is always a cover for brutality.”

Look to the past to understand the present, history always repeats itself no matter how much it’s studied.  The Woke prudes are no different from the prudes of the Victorian era or the KKK version 2.0.  They’re all following a political and cultural movement that sounds righteous but is actually deplorable.  From NPR, regarding Black Lives Matter (BLMGNF) leadership:

A group of Black Lives Matters leaders are facing questions about the purchase of a $6 million home in Southern California. It was bought with donations made to the Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation, also known as BLMGNF. This transaction is raising questions about how the social justice organization is using donations.[12]

No wonder BLMGNF saw contributions tank in the 2021 fiscal year, from $76,872,002 in the previous year to $9,268,283.  In May of 2023, several news outlets reported that BLMGNF is about to go bankrupt due to graft, mismanagement, and other improprieties.  From the New York Post, May 27, 2023, in an article titled “Only 33% of BLM’s $90M in donations helped charitable foundations”:

The group filed a complaint against BLMGNF with the IRS last year for allegedly violating IRS rules prohibiting the use of nonprofit assets for private benefit, self-dealing, conflicts of interest and unlawful political fundraising…

BLM leaders using the movement as their own personal piggy bank may be one reason it has been losing grassroots support across all demographics, including Black Americans.  According to a poll conducted by YouGov, Black approval of BLM’s tactics and strategies dropped from 65 percent in April of 2021 to 49 percent in May of 2022.  Unfortunately, similar polls haven’t been conducted in 2023, but my guess is that the decline has continued in a more pronounced manner.  Yet the White, Whiny, and Woke remain true believers as I write this in the summer of 2023.

Robert Greene, New York Times bestselling author of Art of Seduction, profiles the psychology of  prudes, “The New Prude” to be exact.  His definition of a prude:

…someone who is excessively concerned with appearances, with what society considers appropriate and acceptable behavior.  Prudes rigorously stay within the boundaries of correctness because more than anything they fear society’s judgment.[13]

Which is fine as long as they keep their primness to themselves.  But that’s not possible for those who are prude and Woke, they’re the left-wing version of the sanctimonious church ladies of the 1980s, Jim Goad notes in his 2017 book The New Church Ladies: the Extremely Uptight World of Social Justice.  They’re not just concerned about their appearances, they want to make sure everyone else stays within the boundaries of their version of correctness.  “It’s for their own good and the good of society,” they tell themselves and others.  In truth, their stuffiness has nothing to do with benevolence, they simply like to get off on controlling others after a day at work as everyone’s bitch, just as those in power prefer to be treated like bitches by a dominatrix after their workday is over.  And deep down, they’re attracted to some raunchy shit. For instance, prude Woke feminist women love getting their ass slapped red while called a fuck toy.[14]  Greene, on what turns on prudes:

What marks the New Prude, though, as well as the old one, is that deep down they are actually excited and intrigued by guilty, transgressive pleasures. Frightened by this attraction, they run in the opposite direction and become the most correct of all.

Until they get drunk, then they show how freaky they really are.  Otherwise, they’re superstitious and have half-witted notions of what’s good and bad.  “Better safe than sorry,” is their motto.  They’re the ones who are convinced that every kid under age 13 shouldn’t be home alone because they read about a 10-year kid drowning in a bathtub.  Or that all dogs need to be leashed on hikes because one once fell off a ledge and had to be rescued.  They’re the ones who suck the fun out of life for everyone else.  The unintended consequence of their moralizing includes anxiety disorders and turning people into weak willed ninnies and tattletales, zombies really.  Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt calls this obsession with coddling everyone Safetyism, and its consequences have been disastrous.

In their book The Coddling of the American Mind, Haidt, along with Greg Lukianoff, the president of the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education (FIRE), propose that Safetism is based on “Three Great Untruths.” These untruths are:

1. The Untruth of Fragility: A bad experience that doesn’t kill you makes you weaker. This untruth suggests that individuals are fragile and need protection from potentially challenging and uncomfortable ideas, experiences, and speech to thrive personally and socially.
2. The Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Feelings matter more than facts, which hardly exist anyway according to post-modern Woke ideology. This untruth asserts that an individual’s emotions (not to be confused with instinct and intuition) are always reliable indicators of truth and should be given priority over logic and critical thinking. It implies that if something feels emotionally distressing or offensive, it must be inherently wrong or harmful, regardless of the actual facts or evidence.
3. The Untruth of Us Versus Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people. This untruth promotes a dichotomous worldview where individuals are divided into rigid categories of good and evil, with no room for nuance or complexity. It fosters a hostile and adversarial mindset, leading to polarization, intolerance, and a lack of empathy towards those who hold different opinions or belong to different groups.

Haidt and Lukianoff argue that these untruths are detrimental to individual well-being, intellectual growth, and the healthy functioning of society. They propose that embracing these untruths leads to a culture of Safetyism, where people prioritize emotional comfort over intellectual and physical challenges and open dialogue.

The authors define Safetyism as a culture or belief system in which safety (which includes “emotional safety”) has become a sacred value, which means that people become unwilling to make trade-offs demanded by other practical and moral concerns.  Like, does not allowing six-year-olds to walk to school on their own to protect them from abduction and dog attacks turn them into anxiety-ridden, pill-popping cowards who can’t face any difficulties for the rest of their lives?  Has the culture of Safetyism stunted young people’s social, emotional, and intellectual development?  Has it turned them into drug addicted and mentally ill Whiny Prudes?

The White Knights

Also known as Saviors, White Knights defend and rescue Prudes, the damsels (male and female) in distress.[15]  Every time a Prude cries, they’re there to wipe the tears away and to challenge the offender to a shrill discursive duel – “you’re sexist, you’re an asshole!” and so forth and so on.

What’s wrong with being a White Knight?  Shouldn’t we comfort those in distress and stand up for the oppressed?  Sounds good in principle, but have you or do you know of someone – the damsel — who has pretended to be sick to get out of doing something difficult or they don’t feel like doing?  I know and have, I wasted a good part of my freshman year in high school pretending to be sick because I wanted to get out of difficult activities that eventually – enough teachers called my bullshit — made me more resilient.  How many women, and increasingly men, have you seen play the damsel in distress for the sole purpose of eliciting enough sympathy to avoid culpability or to spite someone?  Do you think Amber Heard’s tears were sincere or an act to garner support?[16]  That said, is there something sinister about the White Knight, one of the most common stock literary figures in the Western canon?

For insight into the methods and mind of the White Knight Savior, let’s tap Miguel de Cervantes and his classic novel, Don Quixote.  It’s a story about a loser named Alonso Quixano — a hidalgo (nobleman with little or no land) — who, after becoming addicted to reading cheap chivalric romances, becomes fashions himself as a white night-errant named Don Quixote, determined to right wrongs and bring justice to the world.   embarks on a series of fantastical adventures.  In other words, he has read so many junk novels that he has lost his mind and embarks on a series of deplorable adventures that make him look like a pitiful fucktard.

For instance, he battles windmills that he believes to be evil giants and confronts shepherds he imagines as black knights.  He thinks the inn he stays at is a castle that will serve him – for free – a feast fit for a white knight.  Hilarity ensues in every one of his demented encounters.

Which sounds like the lives of the White, Whiny, and Woke: imagining just about everything and everyone as “racist,” or “sexist” or “transphobic,” and so on and so forth.  This and that person is a Nazi just because.  The chair you sit in is “fatphobic.”  That AI voice recognition system is “racist” because it doesn’t understand black slang or Asian accents.  This school is sexist for its “rigid gender segregation policies.”  Math, scientific naming conventions, Mr. Potato Head, the shape and size of your coffee cup, your kid’s stuffed animal, kale salads – all problematic, according to the White, Whiny, and Woke.  The White Knights believe it’s their job to battle these (imagined) gremlins of life – like airline seats too small for the obese — to save the world from injustice and suffering.

Back to Cervantes’s novel for insight into the mindset of Woke White Knights and how the public reacts to Don Quixote’s delusions.  Some play along with his fantasies, while others exploit his delusions for their own amusement.  Some of the ways Don Quixote is exploited:

1. Mockery and ridicule.  Some characters, upon encountering Don Quixote and realizing his delusions, openly mock and ridicule him. They play along with his fanciful notions, addressing him as “Don Quixote” and pretending to be knights, damsels in distress, or other figures from chivalric romances. They derive entertainment from his confusion and absurd behavior.
2. Practical jokes: Don Quixote’s enemies and detractors sometimes devise practical jokes to take advantage of his delusions. For example, they might stage fake battles or create elaborate deceptions to trick him into believing he’s embarking on a heroic quest. These pranks lead Don Quixote into bizarre and comical situations.
3. Feigned admiration: Some characters, while not openly ridiculing Don Quixote, feign admiration for his supposed chivalry and noble intentions. They flatter him and praise his courage while inwardly finding his behavior amusing or pitiable. Their insincerity highlights the gap between his ideals and the reality of his life.
4. Manipulation for personal gain: Occasionally, individuals exploit Don Quixote’s delusions to achieve their own objectives. They might persuade him to assist in their endeavors or serve their interests by appealing to his sense of honor and duty. In such cases, Don Quixote’s idealism is manipulated for the benefit of others.

Same shit happens today to Woke White Knights: they’re mocked and ridiculed on comedy sites such as Babylon Bee and on social media platforms such as Urban Dictionary; check out the Feminists for Trump prank on YouTube, it’s fucking hilarious for its display of “social justice” puerility; and then there are politicians and corporate leaders who feign admiration for Woke dipshits for votes and ESG (environmental, social, governance) driven sales, investment funds, and government subsidies.[17]

If there isn’t a damsel in distress around to give the White Knight a reason to be, then he’ll invent one, as Don Quixote often does.  For instance, Don Quixote encounters two monks and a carriage carrying a lady and her attendants. He thinks that the two monks are enchanters who have captured a princess, so he attacks them to save her.  This confrontation ends with Don Quixote getting the shit kicked out of him (by the lady’s attendants), which happens often throughout the novel.

Let’s put the novel aside and ask what happens to people when they’re treated as damsels in distresses?  Sure, some people prefer to be treated as such, but what about those who don’t?  White knights believe that they alone possess the ability to rescue others from difficult situations, disregarding the agency and autonomy of the individuals they are trying to help.  In other words, White Knights disempower others, and not everyone is okay with that.  By constantly swooping in to save the day, White Knights undermine the confidence and independence of those they aim to assist. Instead of empowering others to handle their own challenges, they perpetuate a dynamic where individuals become dependent on their intervention.  They become Woke Prudes, incapable to being responsible for their own feelings and circumstances.

White Knights also disregard consent by assuming they know what is best for someone else without seeking their consent or considering their preferences.  American romance novels written for women, for instance, usually contain mild rape scenes because that’s what readers fantasize about, to the offensive to Woke White Knights.  In any case, this overbearing attitude can result in disregarding boundaries and making decisions on behalf of others without their input or understanding of their unique circumstances.  Not everyone wants to be treated as children.

What drives Don Quixote to be a White Knight?  To begin with, he’s a hidalgo (poor noble), a loser and a lazy one at that.  More broadly, it’s the result of his delusional belief in the ideals and adventures of chivalric literature popular during the time Cervantes wrote the novel, and they were popular because people from all cultures and time are born as narcissists who believe that they themselves are good and deserve more from life while others are evil and should be vanquished.  Put simply, Cervantes uses the character of Don Quixote to satirize the literary and societal conventions of his time while exploring how the interplay of idealism and reality are tied to narcissism and mental illness.  Cervantes wrote this novel because he saw that too many people were turning into batshit crazy, self-indulgent assholes from reading popular stories of his time.  Similar vapid stories of good versus evil continue today, not just in novels, but in political discourses, especially those found on sites like Reddit, the quintessential beehive social media echo chamber.  The Woke White Knights of today are the same as Don Quixote: insipid and batshit crazy due to being easily influenced by sentimental stories of good versus evil because they’re narcissistic and intellectually lazy.

So what does the White Knight really want?  Are White Knights motivated by a genuine concern for justice and the issues at hand, or are they virtue signaling to bolster their self-worth vis-a-vis (imagined) increased social approval and attention?  The men, do they want some highbrow pussy at the end of the fairy tale, as Don Quixote expects from his infatuation with a rough woman who works at a slaughterhouse whom he imagines as a chaste and noble beauty he will eventually save and marry?

What if it’s only the damsel’s tears, not the whole story, is the only evidence that matters to the White Knight?  If that’s so, it would explain why they’re easily manipulated because they don’t pursue truth, they instead seek external validation anywhere and anyway they can find it to bolster their self-worth, especially if they’ve fucked up in their own personal lives.  That validation is most easily found among Woke Prudes who claim, as a diversion tactic, to be helpless and oppressed.  That’s why propagandists use sentimental stories sopping with dramatic music to manipulate White Knights into belief and action.  If the Prudes are the backbone of the Woke movement, White Knights are its clumsy hands and feet.

The Freaks

And the Freaks are the std ridden genitals of the Woke movement.  They’re the brashest and the most visibly noticeable of the Woke – they have the most piercings, tattoos, and colors on their heads.  They wear 70s punk fashion, something like that.  They showcase how morally transgressive they are.  For example, one such woman who labeled herself as a “satanist and antifa” on her Facebook page announced that she *always* has sex on the first date (which many other women do too but they don’t announce it publicly).  That said, tattoos, piercings and punk fashion don’t make someone Woke, just as not all Marxists are Woke.  In my experience, most men who have tattoos tend conservative, and I’ve met women who are the same.  The difference is that tattoos and such on conservatives is more about self-expression and sometimes sentimental and religious yearnings (for a lost dog, or faith in Jesus, for instances), rather than to showcase one’s breaking out of conventions, as I think it is for Woke Freaks.

In any case, Woke Freaks are the most harmless of the three groups mentioned in this chapter.  Their primary aim isn’t craven social acceptance from peers, as it is for the Prudes and White Knights, it’s social attention directed at what they perceive as their own transgressive uniqueness.  So they’re not as easily manipulated by Woke Elites, whom we’ll discuss later, and I suspect they’re more reactive than revolutionary.  Meaning, if everyone has their tattoos and piercings, they’ll rebel against that, by either getting even more of them or by going straight-edge (usually the former, unfortunately).  They aren’t trying to normalize or evangelize their look and behavior or even ideology because that would go against their life purpose, to appear unique.  Whereas Prudes and White Knights want their ideology and way of life to be normalized and codified legally and politically, they want to profit from their delusions (e.g. fat is healthy) and personalities (e.g. victimhood compensated with reparations).  They want official recognition of however many pronouns and genders they’ve come up with.  They want a 32-hour work week.  They want to ban whatever hurts their feelings.  Prudes and White Knights do on the ground work to get their wacky and tired agenda heard and accepted, that’s why they’re dangerous.  Freaks, they’re just acting out and trying to be as edgy as possible to get noticed and to maintain their identity as freaks.  They’re just annoying.

Do most of the Freaks come from uptight conservative communities, as some theorize?  I don’t know, and I don’t care.  I’m just pissed that they’ve turned punk culture from cool and thought provoking into something overwrought and silly.  Fuck ‘em.

[1] “Why the ‘poorly educated’ might not save Trump in 2024,” by Aaron Blake.

[2] See on YouTube: Why Wokeness Is a Scam | Glenn Loury & Norman Finkelstein | The Glenn Show

[3] See Smallpox at Sydney Cove – who, when, why? by Christopher Warren in Journal of Australian Studies Volume 38, 2014 – Issue 1.  Pages 68-86.  https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/14443058.2013.849750
Excerpt from Abstract: “I argue that by early 1789 the colony faced huge difficulties, from the number of indigenous people opposing the settlers, from problems with agriculture, and from the lack of marines’ capability to defend the settlement, that deploying smallpox became a viable option as a means of defense. This article concludes that, on balance, British officials probably spread smallpox as the only means left to defend the colony.”

[4] Pg. 67 from Prosperity and Thrift: The Coolidge Era and the Consumer Economy, 1921-1929, published by Library of Congress, 1999.  Unfortunately, the link to book is broken.

[5] See US wages grew at fastest pace in decades in 2021, but prices grew even more from Peterson Institute for International Economics, https://www.piie.com/blogs/realtime-economic-issues-watch/us-wages-grew-fastest-pace-decades-2021-prices-grew-even-more

[6] Beck, E. M.; Tolnay, Stewart E. (August 1990). “The Killing Fields of the Deep South: The Market for Cotton and the Lynching of Blacks, 1882–1930”. American Sociological Review. 55 (4): 526–539. doi:10.2307/2095805. JSTOR 2095805

[7] Hagen, Ryan; Makovi, Kinga; Bearman, Peter (December 2013). “The Influence of Political Dynamics on Southern Lynch Mob Formation and Lethality”. Social Forces. 92 (2): 757–787. doi:10.1093/sf/sot093. S2CID 55862695

[8] Willis, John C. (2000). Forgotten Time: The Yazoo-Mississippi Delta After the Civil War. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, pp. 154–155

[9] Richardson, Heather (2020). “Chapter 3: The West”. How The South Won The Civil War. Oxford University Press. Audio book: 26:38 minutes in. ISBN 978-0190900908. “At least 163 Mexicans were lynched in California between 1848 and 1860, a rate comparable to that of Black Americans in the American South in the early part of the 20th century.”

[10] Carrigan, William D.; Webb, Clive (2003). “The Lynching of Persons of Mexican Origin or Descent in the United States, 1848 to 1928”. Journal of Social History. 37 (2): 411–438. doi:10.1353/jsh.2003.0169. S2CID 143851795.

[11] The Quarterly Journal of Economics (2012) doi: 10.1093/qje/qjs028 First published online: August 30, 2012

[12] Secret $6 million home has allies and critics skeptical of BLM foundation’s finances

April 7, 20225:00 PM ET, All Things Considered, by Ailsa Chang, Jason Fuller, Kathryn Fox

[13] Greene, Robert. The Art of Seduction. New York, N.Y. :Viking, 2001, pp. 152.

[14] Based on my experiences, at least.

[15] The term “white knight” is commonly associated with men who exhibit certain behaviors, but it can also be used to describe women who engage in similar actions. The issues and potential problems associated with white knights can apply to individuals of any gender. The term itself does not specify a gender, and the underlying dynamics and concerns remain the same regardless of whether it’s a man or a woman acting as a white knight.

[16] See Amber Heard|Johnny Depp trial.  Johnny Depp Trial: Amber Heard breaks down crying while recounting 2015 altercation | FOX 5 DC.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88w0FJpKtZg

[17][17] See Vivek Ramaswamy’s Woke Inc. to understand the reasons behind woke corporate marketing campaigns.