Tagged: women
Point/Counterpoint: Will the Influx of Africans to the West Work? (2)
Counterpoint: Yes.
Recall that by work we mean “rule of law” is retained. And by fail we mean “might makes right” resumes.
In response to the naysayers who think that the cultures are just too different, that it’s a bridge too far, I say, “But I am part of the welcoming committee.”
The reason this fact (my participation) gives me hope is that my number one American quality (important as America is leader of the West) is laughing while calling out BS, no matter the consequences.
And the only way forward is within the realm of the “Truth”. And one key element of “truth” (I’m teaching here—pay attention Africans) is you gotta be able to laugh at your own mistakes.
At least all you Pente have heard that love does not brag?
Was that meant only for the White Devil?
No, the answer is, “No, it was not.”
So it’s time to get over yourselves.
Are you unsure how to admit weakness and save face at the same time?
The West knows the fix. Laugh about it. Then hit the books.
What I Would’ve Told Myself About Getting Married a Second Time Had I Known Then What I Know Now
Besides the Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar from Genesis story, during our last spat, my wife also asked if I knew what a “Phrase” was and recommended that I read about “the prostitute women bring her to Jesus.”
Again, you have to really want to understand the speaker—it’s my wife; I do—in order to figure out what the hell they are saying in moments like these, but if you work within the given context, “Phrase” can be a heavily accented “Pharisee”.
Unlike the account of VLH Tamar (which is on the whole depressing and kinda embarrassing to the patriarchs of our faith—let alone Scripture itself), I could imagine why my wife would think the LORD in heaven would use the infamous “cast the first stone” story to convict a wretched sinner like me (America’s Husband) and hope that, in so doing, she will create marital bliss in the form of an unquestioned matriarchy.
My wife states plainly that “I accuse her” all the time. (I would say that I speak with truth. Can I get a witness?!)
Naturally, then, she reads about the “Phrases’s” bringing a woman caught in adultery to Jesus (keep in mind, I am not 100% that this is the correct passage. But I think it is. Also informing my guess is the international megachurch’s absolute love and reliance and incessant preaching of this account) and sees the action of accusation and puts two and two together and here we are.
A careful, objective reading of the story, however, does not persuade me (and does not include) that it has anything to offer humanity as regards interpersonal communication or family dynamics or nation building.
After the accusation (apparently uncontested), the text has:
They were saying this, testing Him, so that they might have evidence to accuse Him.
If there is one aspect of the Gospel that preachers and teachers looking to cherry-pick “scriptural applications” from the text miss whole-heartedly all the day long, it is that the Pharisees wanted Jesus dead!
How these men (and now women, #metoo) always miss this, considering the Pharisees did get their way and have him killed, is incredible, but miss it they do! And when you don’t teach what the Bible says, when you don’t do your job and help people to focus on the text, you end up screwing up a whole lot more than just one little pericope (that’s “purr-i-co-pee”, long o). You end up messing with my marriage! Marriage supposedly based in the Judeo-Christian worldview, no less.
Yes, yes. I am currently accusing. I am doing the very thing I am defending myself against.
But I am right.
How can I be sure? Because I have some special power? Not special in extraterrestrial or mutation, but yes, I have a special as in precious or rare power. I can read!
And literacy leads to other things, like answering relevant questions like,
Does Jesus, Lord of Lords and King of Kings, want humans to stop “accusing” each other of mistakes and wrongdoings?
My answer is, “How would we determine such a thing? I mean, for example, I can imagine that we could read up and discover whether he ever forbids the making of accusations. (He does not.) Then we could, if we cared to, read with an eye out for whether biblical authors themselves accuse or offer stories where the protagonist accuses—and are lauded for it. (Text doesn’t have much to offer on either side of this perspective, but Titus 1:6 hardly makes sense if all accusing is to cease.)”
Over and above my literacy power, though, is something simpler. We could simply ask, “What are your intentions, my wife? Because mine are to be head of the best family I possibly can. And yours do not seem to align with mine.”
****
But this post is truly about warning myself regarding a second marriage and especially a second marriage that makes new babies.
The warning is this: Pete. You have had the worst divorce in human history—your ex steals your money daily and has kidnapped your daughter. I’m not telling you “don’t do it”. But please consider that this “felt experience” is going to feed into a heavy dread of the same thing happening again. And this means that there will be informed and resultant overreactions to the normal(?) downs of associating with the weaker sex. In short, you are entering into what may, at times, feel like a hostage situation, your kids as the leverage. A veritable, “Want to keep seeing your children? Then do as I say!” Only this time, you know all too well that everyone, including the guys (and gals, #metoo) with guns, will take her side against you.
Consider yourself warned.
****
And had I known this, I would’ve proceeded as I have, optimistically, perhaps blindly, because, as the story goes, Jesus did not come to condemn people. If my wife has the Holy Spirit inside her, as she professes and I believe to be the case, then Jesus isn’t coming for me.
Want to take my kids (#metoo)? Good luck! You won’t find any fight from me. Instead, you’ll find yourself fighting the living god.
Wait, what? It’s not about the kids? What’s this? You merely want me to change my thinking? Good luck! All you have to do is remove my ability to read (or burn all Bibles—better make it all books), wipe my memory of scripture, and drop me off anytime after, say, 1900 AD when women have decided they are head of the family. I think if you pray real hard for that, the LORD will give you that good gift. (And you’ll also get that book deal and your “healing” and “blessing” along with the thousand other attendees at your “church”.)
Lord, if you’re listening (I know, I know), do not tarry.
Some Thoughts On Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar in Genesis, the One that Played the Harlot (Not Absalom’s Sister Who Was Raped).
My wife uses the Bible to argue with me. Anyone else have a woman like this at home? It’s wonderful.
Just this morning she brought up “Judas son of Jacob”, from which I can only assume she meant (talk to text doesn’t work well for those with heavy accents) Judah. We’re already in funny-land with this, as it clearly demonstrates why surnames ever came to be. Who? Judas? Which Judas? NT Judas? Iscariot? Oh, Jacob’s son? Oh, Judah. You mean Judah? Judah, son of Jacob? Judah Jacobson. Judah Ben Jacob. Ha.
Anyhow. So the story has it that Judah’s first son, Er Judah-son, is killed by Yahweh for being evil. Par for the course. And his second son, Onan, is unwilling that his biological son become his older brother’s heir and so he will not consummate the deed. Yahweh kills him, too.
Only then do we learn the full nature of the issue. It seems Judah has this idea, perhaps divinely inspired, perhaps not, and holds to it like his last breath, that Tamar (Er’s wife) is owed a son by one of his (Judah’s) sons. So he promises Tamar that when Shelah Judah-son grows big, he can donate his seed to the common cause.
Here’s where the story gets interesting, and not just in Azeem’s, “How did your uneducated kind ever take Jerusalem?” sense.
Er’s widow Tamar (Tamar has no surname, so “Er’s widow Tamar” will have to suffice…for now) hears that Judah Jacob-son is going on a trip. It is this moment of the story that deserves grave attention. Here is the focus of this exegesis.
So she removed her widow’s garments from herself and covered herself with a veil and wrapped herself. And she sat at the entrance of Enaim, which is on the road to Timnah; for she saw that Shelah had grown up, and she had not been given to him as a wife.
“For she saw that Shelah [Judah-son] had grown up, AND she had not been given to him as a wife.”
“Vindictive little hussy” Tamar sounds more appropriate than “Er’s widow Tamar” at this point. But let’s read on.
Judah, now a widower and past the time of mourning, apparently still gets the itch. So when he sees a harlot on his trip, he begins to negotiate. Unlike, or perhaps exactly like, men from every corner and age of the planet, he didn’t think ahead and so now he is stuck. “1. Get laid but have to give her my ID to hold until I can find my darn credit card.” Or “B. Don’t get laid.”
He gives her his ID.
She takes it, gives herself to him, and then runs, never to be seen again—even after he finds his credit card.
But this, to most illiterate preachers, is still merely the setup for the punchline of the story.
(Let’s pause here for an apropos Uncle Remus saying: “You can hide the fire, but wha choo gunna do bout da smoke?!”)
Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar is soon “showing” and the affronted Judah Jacob-son wants her burned.
She wants to live and so offers Judah Jacob-son his ID back.
The next killer-line is:
And Judah recognized them and said, “She is more righteous than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah.”
Oh, the qualifier.
We almost had a perplexing, a-historical, fantasy account on our hands. Without the qualifier, we might have real evidence that scripture is flawed, uninspired, and not the Word of God that we all believe it to be.
So thank the LORD and his precious son, Jesus, for the qualifier.
Judah Jacob-son does not elevate Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar unreservedly, no. That would be the work of the uninspired Woke mob, post-#metoo and George Floyd and all.
Instead, since we’re reading the Word of God—which was written by men who lived thousands of years ago at a time before Jesus fulfilled Yahweh’s plan—there is a qualifier.
Nowhere does the story suggest that Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar was righteous full-stop, but it does convey that Judah Jacob-son now recognized that he hadn’t fulfilled his vow. Or as Apollo Creed says, “Some people gotta learn the hard way!”
Granted, I still have no idea why my boo brought this up in the argument over the kids’ clothes today. And granted I honestly am not 100% certain I analyzed the right story, since “Judas son of Jacob” is not certainly “Judah Jacob-son.” But these are some thoughts on Tamar, the eency-weency-bit-more-righteous woman than the John, Judah Jacob-son, little horn-dog that he was.
America’s Husband
My wife doesn’t listen to me, so I think it’s time to offer my services more generally.
First, because it happened merely moments ago, wives and mothers of our great nation: you do not get to leave for your shitty job (whose money we don’t need) and have some soft “miss you” moment with the kids. That’s for the actually poor (not just the envious) and/or the single mothers who have a job or three because they don’t want their precious little babies pregnant at 16 too.
Next, we need to talk about envy. Yeah, yeah. The Ten Commandments forbid envy. But it was uninspired men who clarified the problem with envy. The problem is not what happens on the inside of the envious. Envy is a problem because of what the envious do as their life’s main work: sabotage.
Case in point: a wife/mother who works a shitty, low-paying job when she doesn’t have to and uses the money to keep up with the Kardashians and mega church wives. This isn’t about money. It isn’t about control. It is envy. She suffers from envy and is sabotaging the entire family—her own children most importantly.
There’s something else, you terrible wives and mothers of America. Take a first aid course. Or join Scouts. But you need to do something to stop the incessant and melodramatic overreacting to childhood.
Proceed at your own risk, reader. What you are about to read is true and terrifying.
****
So I hear J- screaming. Ag- and An- are both upstairs with him. I had just told An- to shut the bathroom door and it soon became clear that she didn’t watch out for J-’s fingers.
Next thing I know, my wife is running up the stairs as if it’s D-Day and someone just called “Corman!!”
I sat at the table, shaking my head and dreading this totally unnecessary scene.
A moment later and J- is still crying. My wife is now frantic.
I can’t completely suppress my humanity, and I am curious if there is about to be some blood or a clearly distorted digit.
I finally see the boy’s hand as my wife carries him down the stairs and into view and it is…completely normal looking.
He is still crying.
My wife has now grabbed some ice from the freezer and is trying to apply it to his hand.
J- is not having it. He is constantly ripping himself from her grip and every time the slower-moving particles approach his hand, he shrieks louder as only toddlers are wont to do.
Next, (when will it end, I wonder?) my wife grabs a towel and tries again with the ice, this time, though, insulated by a grimy kitchen towel.
From upstairs, to the kitchen table, and now the stairs, J- is holding his ground. Rather, he is running the show and displaying a sinewy—if still covered in baby fat—wile that impresses even me. Given the situation, I am compelled to believe it comes from his man-mind.
“Where is your instinct, woman?!” I finally erupt. “He doesn’t want the ice. He isn’t hurt. Why would you keep fighting against him?”
Catechizing rabbits.
“How about this? I’ll stop if you can answer a question. What does ice do?”
Crickets.
“J-.”
The boy stops crying (face is still a slobbery mix of tears and snot and spit) at the sound of reason and calm.
“J- just go downstairs and play.”
He turns.
“Or if you want to go upstairs and play with your trains, that’s fine too.”
He chooses trains and heads up the stairs, hands and feet in action.
Pause the story here and ask yourself, “Why would the mother not worship her husband and the father at this point?”
Back to the story.
“Nag nag nag.” (I honestly don’t remember what she said.)
“What does the ice do?”
And now, as typical, she believes I am belittling her in front of the kids and fires off on that accord.
I turn to A- (who had apparently taken a seat beside me at the table to enjoy the show) and say, “Ice reduces swelling.”
A- turns to her mom and begins, “Momma, ic-.”
I stop her. “No, A-. I am teaching you.”
****
What, wives, in the hell are you thinking ice does? You saw some doctor use it once? Does it cure COVID?
In short, my beloveds, I will not feel bad for being aware that you can somehow look past a screaming child in order to apply, what to you, is merely an old wives’ tale remedy to a non-injury.
Hotness
I mentioned that I have a little thing I say to the toddlers every night before bed. I want to use that fact to expand on a larger concept—perhaps the largest concept of them all—understanding.
My estranged daughter, H- (now 14), from the old days of mostly happy-go-lucky blogging, asked if I could have her half-siblings say something different before bed than the routine we had. I agreed—you know, ‘cuz children are so gentle. After all, as a divorced dad with limited parenting time because I have a job unlike her worthless mother, I wouldn’t want to do anything would’ve caused H- to stop talking to me.
Anyhow, here’s what I came up with instead of the Boy Scout Law and Apostle’s Creed. It’s far simpler and more focused. I simply started saying, “Everyone goes to sleep the same way. Big people and little people. Tall people and short people. Fat people and skinny people. Old people and young people. Beautiful people and ugly people. They all go to sleep the same way. They lay down and close their eyes.”
Pretty great, eh?
Of course I have developed little flourishes here and there—because I can’t help but want the kids to laugh.
Here’s the kicker. At some point I started asking, “Do you wanna know something?” And then A- would excitedly answer in kind. And soon she knew it wasn’t some new fact or whatever she had imagined the first few times, but just the intro to the thing.
Well, that got old quickly, so recently, and because I judged she could handle it after seeing how she seems to understand certain types of humor, I started connecting the litany to some earlier part of the concluding day. Maybe, “Did I tell you want I saw on a sign today?” Or, “Do you remember that funny looking man? Do you known what he told me today?”
And you know what? She understands. I know she understands because she no longer is parroting anything, but considers context and then chuckles—and get this—even though she knows the event mentioned never happened, she knows what is next.
In contradistinction to this (I’ve written about this before) I have witnessed—been horrified to learn—that it is possible to simply parrot. Folks acquire some sort of skill to get what they want, but they have no understanding. In a sense, they simply bully their way through life.
How does it work, Pete?
Good question.
Just like the bird. The person repeats whatever phrase they have noticed through trial and error achieves the goal. But try to talk to the person or ask them a question, and, as I think Thoreau or Emerson said of the Injuns, “It’s like catechizing rabbits.”
Where does “hotness” fit in? I am hot today. Every Sunday home I am hot.
Why Sundays? Because on Sundays, church day, the fullness of the lack of understanding comes to a point.
Blended families are terribly difficult—maybe completely impossible. But ones in which there are members who constantly illustrate their absolute lack of understanding may just be the dumbest idea mankind has ever allowed.
One family going to separate churches Sunday mornings not only breaks every understanding of “family” to pieces, but everything that family is responsible for—which is everything.
At Bedtime, You Gotta Be Smarter Than The Toddler!
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.
The trick is having them lay in bed as soon as possible in the bedtime routine. That’s the trick.
I had been reading to them (the best possible thing imaginable). But we had been sitting on the floor together. Or almost together. Usually Bee-bop and Rock-steady would find their way around every corner of the room as if led by a bewitched divining rod while I read and beckoned them back to the fold. But the reading was happening and they even were memorizing the words in turns. So I was fine with it.
But then we would excitedly pray (Aaronic blessing from frame on the wall—“Favor, A-, not favorite”) and sing and then I would put them to bed. Finally, I have a little thing I say to them every night.
But if I left at this point, someone would get out of bed and the light would be on and playing would ensue.
Any parent knows this is enough to drive you crazy. Just GET IN BED!!
No more. Tonight I had a moment of clarity and put them in bed before the book. They both tried to sit up to see the pictures until…they got tired of maintaining that position. Then they laid until the page turn and then sat up and then laid down again after examining the picture.
Finally it was pray, say the thing, and then I sung any remaining pressing ideas to sleep.
Boom!
Lights out.
What an amazing dad I am. And not a moment too soon.
Scan and Go is for Walmart+ Only!!
Who would’ve thunk it?
But I can unhappily report that when at Walmart, and the lines are long—except green lit “Scan and Go” registers which are shockingly unused—the nothing-special-plain-language Walmart+ member’s only line is simply named “Scan and Go”. There is no plus (+) sign, no indication at all (unless emptiness counts) that anything special is required to check out at that register.
So don’t fall for the trap. Just let the open register remain empty. And then sit back and enjoy the show as everyone else gets stopped and redirected because, unlike us, they didn’t read my blog.
Analysis of the Golfer’s Parent’s Note
The note:
“We have so many questions that have no answers. But one. Was Grayson loved? The answer is yes. By us, his brother Cameron, his sister Erica, all of his extended family, by his friends, by his fellow players and – it seems – by many of you who are reading this. He was loved and he will be missed. Life wasn’t always easy for Grayson, and although he took his own life, we know he rests peacefully now.”
My analysis:
What’s the rush? I have been saying for years now that nearly all post-death comments are ridiculous and unsatisfactory and insufficient. And yet(!) everyone always feels the heat and thinks that they need to say something—and quick!
So he committed suicide. Share that, no problem. But share only that.
But if you are going to be poetic, then commit.
“…that have no answers.” Oooo. So well-written.
“…but one…” Oooo. So provocative.
Are you dying to know what that one question is? Isn’t their rhetorical tool-bag just brimming? And don’t you know that they could’ve used other devices here too? Eh, eh, eh?
Umm, no. Fail on both accounts.
I would’ve never thought, “Was Grayson loved?” was the one question that we can know the answer to. Never. His eternal resting place is more provable and tenable and defensible than whether he was loved.
The remaining words before the second thing they “know” (I forget; was it one or two answerable questions?) are so self-serving I will roll over in my grave when I get there, in support of poor Grayson.
Using the spotlight to rattle off the names of everyone who couldn’t possibly have had a hand in creating the darkness? It’s sickening.
Maybe I am wrong. Maybe that wasn’t their point. Maybe they just wanted to use the occasion to introduce themselves to the world. (Wwwwwhich would be worse, of course.)
Then the second (if unnumbered) known. “He rests peacefully.”
Hmm. Sure. Tell yourself that. And then repeat it to us. And then use our well-bred social tact, which prevents us from arguing the point, to confirm its truth. In fact, I think that is the exact recipe for knowing a lie about the afterlife from a truth about the afterlife. Or at least Paul of Tarsus indicates as much, doesn’t he?
Or not.
For me, I had a sociology class in high school which required us to write our own obituary. That was probably my first introduction to the concept. Second was flight training. Third was combat. Fourth was reading the Columbine things. Fifth and most impactful was when the University of Utah student was murdered during the #MeToo heyday and her professor parents described her in the most embarrassing manner available to people with such enormous vocabularies.
After that one I wrote what I wanted any note about me to say and sent it to my mom. (Probably should send to others as well. She’s no spring chicken these days.)
Do I expect her to actually use the words? Hell, yes! If she knows what is good for her she will.
But even if she doesn’t, it has led to some good conversations and I like conversations.
As someone who has worked around death for most of his adult life, I want to share a little secret with you, dear reader. Death is no accident. It is not a mistake. It is not correctable. It is not a glitch in the matrix. We die. All of us. One by one by one by one.
What is an accident, what is a mistake, what is correctable, and what is a glitch is lying. Furthermore, I would go so far as to say “not speaking from the heart” in the time of death counts as lying too.
Was Grayson loved? Hard to say. We seem to think love is stronger than everything, and is the very light that keeps the darkness away. But of course no one would admit they don’t participate in love. Why didn’t the light work, then?
Is Grayson at peace? Well, that depends on many variables—even if we have direct evidence of his belief in Jesus Christ as the Son of the Living God. While not en vogue, I still put my money on the idea that most people think the after-effects of suicide on the soul are not pleasant. But maybe that’s just me.
To be clear: if you’re a parent or spouse or child of someone who dies, and if you want to say something, take your time. There is no rush. But know that you can screw it up. And you should want to avoid screwing it up. You pretty much only get one chance at it.
For all you naysayers out there, after a mere three more days than his parents had, here is what I came up.
****
Grayson killed himself. No one knows what that feels like—don’t be fooled.
We are sad. And we are confused.
For Men Only: A Disturbing, But True, Analysis of White and Black Women’s Options for Kidnapping Children from Fathers
In college I was fascinated by the cafeteria scene with its Black lunch tables. There we were, 40+ years after the civil rights movement, and segregation still existed. Freely chosen, to boot.
Years later, I began attending Black Baptist churches (still do) because the music and reliance on the Bible (both of these centered exclusively on the Gospel) is second to none.
I share these details to highlight that the following was not something I was looking to learn. But learn it I have.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows that black women have neatly exchanged black men for Uncle Sam. Even-steven. The women have probably even come out ahead, by most measures, in the exchange. And Uncle Sam couldn’t be more flattered. The numbers, I won’t bore you with them here, are staggering. In a word, black children would likely report that they didn’t even know that their mom has touched the man that is their father, let alone wrapped her legs around him in the throes of passion.
What is wrong with these women? Why are they so “easy” in the “willing to sleep with anyone” sense? Is it that lonely at night? I just don’t see it.
And why would they want to raise children by themselves? Why? I have tried and tried, but I do not understand it.
I want to ask, shouting, “Ever hear of birth control?”
None of it makes any sense.
But that’s black women.
White women have a different tactic to get to the same result of kidnapping children from fathers.
They wait. They linger among the crowd for years, usually four more than any black woman, never doing anything too remarkable. They just sit back and watch.
Meanwhile, some of the white men are laboriously studying and working diligently towards their goal of becoming successful men. Respected men.
Eventually, the men begin their profession, one of the most respected available (still carrying a certain mystique), that of the aircraft pilot.
Mind you, the white men and women know that pilots travel for their job. The expression is “banker’s hours”, not “pilot’s hours.”
Only now do the white women (btw, by black women I mean skin color, but by white women I mean culturally white) see their chance and begin to woo whichever pilot they fancy. Some woo all the pilots and it is a poor soul indeed who ends up with her.
In the end, the white women use birth control (or perhaps they wait to consummate the marriage), but whatever the case, the pair, for their own unique, if coincident, reasons, formally bind themselves according the Law of the land before they mix the baby batter.
Shortly thereafter, sometimes only two years, other times ten or twelve years, these white women complain that their husband—the father—is gone all the time. And they feign misery and divorce follows.
Meaningfully no different than how Uncle Sam welcomes his many black step-children, Uncle Sam happily opens his arms to Billy and Susie, under the premise, “Sir, you’re gone all the time. How can you possibly have time to raise them?”
Kidnap complete and sanctioned.
Law or no law, both white and black dads are now outta the picture. Generally the black dads are viewed as shiftless and drug addicted men who would probably beat their women if the relationship continued, while the white dads are viewed with more attention to the specific caricatures available to each relationship. Regardless, the point here is not the dads—but the women, the moms.
What is wrong with these women? Why don’t they want fathers for their children? How can today’s boys and young men possibly hope to raise their own children when considering these facts?
It’s as if the Universe has said, “Congratulations, boys. You live in opulence and unlimited wealth compared to your ancestors. But there’s a catch! You don’t get to be fathers.”
Obviously, gentlemen of all colors and backgrounds, don’t make a baby before being married to the woman. That goes without saying. (Even as it ultimately doesn’t matter.)
But are we saying no pilots can be fathers? Are we saying no children should be raised by pilots? (Obviously “pilot” is merely a very concrete example to be used as an analogy to the many other hard-to-acquire jobs which make white men strive to obtain and which are appealing to white women.)
****
To any women or future women (God Bless You) that have made it this far, you now know your options. You can either have babies via one night stands (starting at pretty much any post-pubescent age) and then raise them by yourself, or you can wait a bit, get married, have babies, and then divorce the stud and raise them by yourself. I’m not sure which option is right for you. (And there are likely others.)
Just rest assured, ladies, whether you are A. lonely and start early, or B. scheming and wait, you can achieve your goal of raising kids without their father.
My Favorite Deduction from Temu Ads
Whether the orange square icon that contains what initially appears like Chinese writing is a legitimate business or not, we’ll probably never know. Kidding. It is not legitimate. So don’t buy stuff from there, folks.
But there is something else that we can know about Temu just by the ads with which it blankets our devices.
Temu is not from Christendom.
Put another way, the humans or robots behind the scam are in the goat pile. Truth is not in them.
How do I know?
90% off sales, that’s how I know.
In Christendom, that’s what we call a lie. Nothing is 90% off. If the price you pay for the product actually is 90% off, the initial price is a marked-up lie. Another option is that the product may appear 90% off, but when completing the purchase, through taxes and shipping and other oddities, the price you end up paying isn’t 90% off the original price. Either way, only an unredeemed sinner would come up with such a scheme.
Here in Christendom, on the other hand, we have subtle understandings about sales. For example, everyone knows that everything at Kohls is at least 30% off, and so we just assume that they use non-Euclidian geometry when they write the Indo-Arabic numerals or what is the same. But nothing at Kohls is 90% off, because that would be a lie. And citizens of Christendom do not tolerate lies.
In short, try as you might, Temu—and it seems you are desperate and gagging for it—you are not fooling anyone. You ain’t from ‘round here. And we don’t trust strangers.
Captain’s Log 