An Opening Jab

So, just to get the inevitable out of the way: Yes, “Cockpunch.” To disabuse any fetishists or foodies arriving by way of some ill-fated Googling, this is not, in point of fact, a blog about delicious fruity party beverages in which roosters have been steeped.  It refers, rather, to a clenched fist being flung at male genitalia.  To a cock, in short, being punched.

Some elaboration may be in order.

When you spend most of your waking hours trying to make measured and reasonable public policy arguments in a town nominally overseen by senile sociopaths—but, in reality, run by a tasteful potpourri of interns and paid shills—you quickly develop two overriding life goals that animate all you do in at least some subtle background way.  The first is to inflict severe and indiscriminate pain. The second is to ensure that none of the fine people you encounter in your daily affairs ever reproduce, ever. Ever.  The Cockpunch, happily, unites these two aspirations in a single joyous moment of affirmation.

To translate for the Internets: Remember that old Star Trek TNG where Spock’s dad Sarek has some kind of Vulcan dementia, but he needs to be calm and rational for important Federation diplomatic purposes?  So he mind melds with Picard, and then gives a graceful public performance while Patrick Stewart rages and chews the scenery in some back room? (Yes, I’m a dork.  And fuck you, you know exactly the one I mean.) That’s what this blog is, which means each of my variegated personalities now has its very own URL. With luck, allowing myself to be pissed off and slightly crazy here will permit me to be sane and genteel everywhere else.

Let’s not get cozy here though, gentle reader.  We are not allies poking fun or casting stones at the jackals who run this awful town. There are, self evidently, people shameless enough to spend their lives here while playing outsider populist for the rubes, but I’m not yet one of them.  The jackals at least earn a kind of grudging respect for their amoral guile. The rest of you—and cruel statistics, dear modal reader, insist that you are in all probability some species or another of incorrigible halfwit—barely rate contempt. American politics may be an unseemly freakshow, but the rest of you are the gawking yokels for whose benefit it’s all staged. By my reckoning that means you’re all fucking guilty.  As am I, but get your own damn blog if you want to point that out.

Are we friends yet?  Splendid! We shall have ever so much fun.