Tod Goldberg Starts His Day

From the lonely dust and the deadbeat winds and the torrid torpor of an unremarkable home in an Indio gated community, Tod Goldberg — the least adept and most pathetic and most quietly scorned of all Southern California writers — sat at a forlorn chair in his home office and started his day off with rage. This wasn’t principled indignation. You never saw Tod Goldberg taking a real stand or attending a protest or servicing anything other than his own fragile ego. And he certainly never wrote anything important! No, this was garden-variety narcissism: the infantile umbrage that can’t even be mollified by buying a candy bar for a braying brat while you stand in the checkout line.

Tod Goldberg didn’t believe in himself. And because kindness, empathy, and decency are impossible qualities to find within such a self-serving snake, Tod Goldberg decided that he was going to destroy someone. Ideally someone who Tod Goldberg thought could not fight back. And even if Tod Goldberg didn’t have the smarts to figure out how to murder a rando’s rep, he could still send an email to some writer claiming that he would destroy them. These emails were forwarded to other writers — including one bald writer in Brooklyn who didn’t give two fucks about Tod Goldberg, except in correcting a recent injustice and condignly replying to such defamation from a toxic asshole whom a lot of people detest (and maybe, if the bald man happened to be in a wicked frame of mind years later, celebrating Tod Goldberg’s inevitable death with a joyful pop of a champagne bottle, although Tod Goldberg was doing a remarkable job of wasting his life and such a gesture, however justified it may be, would likely be supercilious and supererogatory by the time Tod Goldberg kicked the bucket, which would hopefully be sooner rather than later — if only to put Goldberg’s incurable enmity to a permanent end). Tod especially loathed this bald man and went well out of his way to lie about him any chance he landed. Tod Goldberg’s incessant browbeating was tolerated in the Los Angeles literary world (1) because the cartoonish nature of Hollywood makes boorish deportment somehow more acceptable and (2) because most writers are introverts who live with a trenchant fear of conflict. Tod Goldberg knew this on some primordial level. He had, after all, antagonized other kids in high school and smiled at the frisson he felt as they ran away, terrified. But he carried on with these baleful shenanigans anyway. Largely because he was one of those sad despairing bastards who lacked the imagination to pass his fleeting time in any meaningful way. Largely because he was the most pathetic type of all middle-aged men: a predictable bully. He bullied Starbucks baristas while risibly claiming to be “a good and decent man.” Although Bookworm host Michael Silverblatt (a national treasure) had never uttered an unkind word to anyone and had been nothing less than generous in sustaining a major forum for writers so that they could thoughtfully discuss their work, one of Goldberg’s big “comedic staples” involved a wretchedly untrained impression of Silverblatt at book parties. This is because Tod Goldberg walks this earth with the intent of tearing people down. It was truly a wonder that the illiterate MAGA crowd had not thought to scoop Tod Goldberg up.

Tod Goldberg had nothing to offer the world other than hate and social media defamation. And, of course, his fiction, which nobody read anymore. He had caviled with Oscar Wilde on the qualities of a great mind and proclaimed himself a great wit simply because he had often used the word “fucktard” (and he still used this even after the word “retard” was long considered a belittling and insensitive epithet). The stuff of genius! He delivered incessant fast-talking monologues to his remarkably patient wife Wendy, who, unbeknownst to Tod, alleviated the great mistake of shacking up with such an unaccomplished lowlife by spending her time flirting with other men on Tinder. Dammit, he would spread gossip and still believe that he was a towering giant! The people who knew Tod tolerated him, much as one tolerates a mousy Yorkipoo whose only aspiration is to lap from the toilet water. He still cleaved to the hopeless illusion that he actually possessed talent. That he was sui generis! An essential voice! But at 51, he had little more than the sad portentous paunch of a deep-seated loser gone to seed, a man who could never comprehend physical exercise, even if you educated him at gunpoint on how to perform a crunch. Not that he had the physical strength or the body type to do more than fifty crunches at a time.

But Tod Goldberg, despite the rapidly drooping fat of his hideous double chin, was a published author! An incredibly awful writer of zero distinction, but a published writer nonetheless! Tod Goldberg had told his publicists to append the label “New York Times bestselling author” to all of his books, barking this like a boorish cantor to the few small presses who would still tolerate him. But his books weren’t selling. He was a grasping midlister and he hated anyone with talent and success. He hated anyone with a voice. Oh, how he longed to be original! He did have more than eight thousand followers on Twitter as well as a blue checkmark. And this helped, at times, to briefly placate this most implacable of parvenus. Tod Goldberg had such little confidence that he relied on Twitter for validation. His wife Wendy, a woman whom he knew deep down that he didn’t deserve, would no longer tolerate his sad male tears and his puerile bitching. So he needed an outlet. He did show up each year to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books to talk shit about other literary writers, particularly literary writers who were far more talented and peaceful in their lives than he was. But since Tod Goldberg was unable to distinguish between genuine and fake laughter, and because Tod Goldberg had such a pressing need to be liked (that is, when he wasn’t bullying people), he deluded himself into thinking that he was a much-needed jester. When, in fact, he was merely tolerated.

He had written a lackluster story called “The Low Desert” and had summoned the name of a man whose every orifice he wanted to violate for the deputy character. His small Johnson grew harder as he had assembled the tale with all the care of Yanni randomly banging discordant triads on a keyboard. They would accept this plodding and poorly written story. Because he was Tod Goldberg! Sure, this oafish ape had little more in his routine than sour milk and jokes that would be greeted with crickets at any open mic night. But he was a writer!

Tod Goldberg knocked on the bedroom door. His wife Wendy was there, unpacking her compact and applying shimmering butterfly eye to her face. She rolled her eyes.

“Hey, baby, let’s fuck,” said Tod with his soi-disant and not particularly inventive thuggery.

“No,” she said. She promptly left the room to go about her day, which was a better and far more productive day than Tod Goldberg’s.

Tod Goldberg wondered if he should copulate with his wife without her consent. Then he realized that this was probably not a very good idea in an age of #metoo! I mean, he had never once used the hashtag in his thousands of tweets. And there was, after all, his own reputation as a “Great Writer” to think about! And wasn’t he already raping people with his words? With his emails? With his tweets? His casual libel and spontaneous slander? Still, he had to deposit this unconsummated lust somewhere. He really wanted to fuck Matt Bell, but Bell (as much of a self-serving scumbag as Goldberg, but a far better networker) was too nimble with his gentle replies (and, Tod knew, far more of a writer than he ever could be). So he texted his equally mediocre colleague, David, at UC Riverside. Tod and David often met up for dalliances. David, who was every bit as commiserable and solipsistic and talentless as Tod, quickly drove over.

“I’d like to try something different,” said Tod.

“Oh?” replied David.

“Can you piss on me?”

“Tod, my man! I won’t just piss on you. I’ll shit on you!”

“Sounds great!”

And so Tod removed his gaudy suit — its liquid black pinstripes somehow failing to help Tod’s porcine frame in any way — and presented his ass upward for later violations. But penetration was not to occur. David had one, and only one, reason to be there. David drank two gallons of water and told Tod that he had enjoyed a very big breakfast that morning and that he was ready to drop a few deuces on his most sensitive regions.

“Open your mouth,” said David.

Tod did as he was told.

A stream of piss jetted into Tod’s mouth. A beatific parabolic arc! David’s marksmanship was excellent! He had, after all, practiced in fast food restaurant restrooms during the 1980s. Those urinals that used to exist with the green plastic dartboards planted beneath the cakes. (And, like Tod, David too had grown heavier and more dissolute and more rancid with age. Together, the two flunkees radiated the redolent aura of a small boutique with little more than long expired cheese to sell.)

“I thought you said you were going to shit on me,” said Tod.

“I lied,” said David, as he zipped up his fly. “Besides, I hate myself more than you do. I just wear it better than you.”

“I don’t think that you do,” said Tod, before further words became lumped in his throat.

David didn’t even say goodbye as he shut the door.

And so Tod remained on the floor, a naked and disgusting sight, his every pore reeking of David’s urine. But he would not shower that day. He would sit with his misery for several hours. And then he’d tear someone else a new one online. And he’d await the dreadful day when his wife would serve him with divorce papers after nobody in the literary world wanted to hear from him anymore. Tod Goldberg was incapable of changing. He was, however, quite capable of devolving. The only question was just how low he would fall.

[7/21/2022 UPDATE: Tod Goldberg is a worthless son of a bitch who now believes that he can drink his vile sociopathic qualities away. (Does he have any decent aspects to his personality? I think not.) There have been many backchannel emails tonight. Apparently I’m not the only one who Tod Goldberg has abused. Goldberg has harassed me, on and off, since 2009. Thirteen years. Tod Goldberg will soon discover that he made a huge mistake libeling and defaming the wrong man.]

For All Mankind is the Best Show on Television — Why Aren’t You Watching It?

Every now and then, television demonstrates that it is capable of rising to the level of great art. Think of the excellent BBC miniseries Our Friends to the North and its sweeping storytelling ambition, which involved following a group of people from Newcastle over the course of thirty-one years. Or the amazing Albuquerque worldbuilding depicted in Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul. (The latter series, now about to air its final episodes, is so great that it is presently on track to outdoing the predecessor! No small feat, given that Breaking Bad was a masterpiece.) Or pretty much anything that David Simon has written.

But now — with its latest episode “Seven Seconds of Terror” (it dropped today) — I can state with absolute confidence that For All Mankind is the best fucking show on television. Hands down. And I say this as a huge fan of Better Call Saul. Nothing on television matches For All Mankind‘s acting, its narrative reach, and its ballsy and spellbinding storytelling. This is a show that has not only dared to present an alternative universe as a vast and bustling panorama. (In For All Mankind‘s timeline, the Soviets landed on the Moon first.) It has followed a series of utterly fascinating characters over the course of nearly three decades. People we come to care for and are mesmerized by. Earlier this season, the show presented us with a years-long montage of Margo and Sergei getting into an elevator while attending an annual conference. And the “Will they or won’t they?” question that undergirded this dynamic created exquisite and deeply felt sexual tension — one later played out in a hotel room in one of the hottest television scenes I’ve seen in years with the simple question “I would like you to kiss me.” (And this in a show that is primarily about a space race!) For All Mankind introduced a fascinating pre-Elon Musk entrepreneur named Dev Ayesa: a man who wants to use his private money to land the first person on Mars. Where other shows would have presented him as a sinister capitalist, For All Mankind was simply too nimble and fastidious to take such an easy way out. Instead, we see Dev as a man who is inclusive of his employees’ thoughts and opinions. There’s a part of him that actually cares about furthering humanity. But, of course, he’s also a businessman. We see geeks being unapologetically awkward and geeky. We see flawed heroes. Awesome women! Tons of women astronauts! And it’s multicultural! We get Aleida Rosales — a brilliant woman from Mexico who is the daughter of a janitor — and Danielle Poole — who has survived racism and tokenism to become a badass space jockey! But perhaps most important, we see what happens when perceived failures or marginalized types are given another chance. Indeed, the gentle (but by no means hokey) optimism of this show can be compared favorably to Star Trek at its best. And at a time in which the world seems to have become largely hopeless, For All Mankind reminds us of the greatness that humanity is capable of. And it does so without being saccharine about it.

The space travel in this show is not only tremendously exciting, but it’s rightly portrayed as deeply dangerous. And, as such, I have found myself hollering and shouting at the screen every week. I have felt a large and genuine thrill each week that I feel in every bone. During one particularly exciting and jaw-dropping moment a few weeks ago (I dare not spoil it), I gripped the arm of my chair so hard that the side knob on the undercarriage broke and I fell on my ass. But dammit if I didn’t smile and cheer my way through the episode with my newly accrued bruises, thinking absolutely nothing of them!

So, yeah, For All Mankind succeeds at being super-smart and terrifically emotional!

The writers are so consummate and attentive to detail that just about every single historical event has been factored into their plan. When the show jumps forward a decade, we get a zippy montage at the start of what has transpired in the intervening years, one that invites the kind of heavy scrutiny that has been applied to the Zapruder film. (To cite just a few of the historical switcheroos, Ted Kennedy and Gary Hart have been President. John Lennon was never assassinated in this universe. So we see the Beatles getting together for a reunion tour.) The show’s third season even had one of its characters run against Bill Clinton for President and win and it somehow managed to pull this amazing story move with confidence and believability!

Yet this television masterpiece is criminally overlooked by the critics who put together their year-end lists. They have completely ignored this tremendous creative achievement. While everyone has rightly raved over another Apple TV offering (Ted Lasso, which somehow managed to win over a skeptical realist like me), where are the For All Mankind stans? And why aren’t they more ubiquitous? We For All Mankind fans — those of us who have been watching from the very beginning — have to knock on secret doors and knock the rap on speakeasies just to find each other! But why? It is a goddamned crime that For All Mankind is not being talked about everywhere with the same rapturous glee that once accompanied every fresh episode of Mad Men.

The only bad move that this series has made is the clunky Danny/Karen subplot. But even with this fumble, For All Mankind‘s most recent episode indicates that it is about to rectify this mistake.

I believe in this show so enormously that I am not only telling you to watch it. I am ordering you to watch it. Art this great does not happen all that often. If we know each other, I will personally watch the whole damned run from the beginning with you. (Tonight, I made a pledge to do this with one dear friend.)

And to all you dopey television critics who think you’re so fucking intellectual, where the hell are you on this? Why have you stayed silent about For All Mankind? Yeah, I know who you are. I read you. And I’m going to make you a deal right now. If you talk up For All Mankind and you’re a member of the New York media who is on my shit list, I will completely forgive you and sing your praises. I’ll never write a hit piece on you. Because, goddamit, this show is too fucking important and too fucking great for you to sit this one out.

So watch For All Mankind. Start from the beginning and get together with friends. And tell them all that the wacky books guy from Brooklyn sent you.

And if you’re too lazy to read this longass rave, here’s my enthusiasm captured on video:

Peter Alexander: An Unethical Mediore Gossipmonger Following in the Chuck Todd Tradition

Every time Chuck Todd says something particularly idiotic (which is about 74% of the time that he’s on camera), my 2019 Todd takedown, in which I outlined Todd’s considerable mediocrities and his wholesale lack of qualifications in lively vitriolic style, goes viral on Twitter. But now that I’ve seen how Peter Alexander — another dim bulb at NBC News who inexplicably hasn’t been replaced by the janitor — has used his Twitter audience of more than half a million followers to whip up conjecture and unsubstantiated rumors as a vital investigation into an attempt to overthrow the government is underway, I’m wondering if the problem isn’t so much Chuck Todd, as it is the way that NBC newsroom culture continues to tolerate piss-poor “hot take” “reporting.” I mean, just look at the man’s eyes. It’s clear that he was manufactured in a hatchery. Has this dullard ever had an original thought or a big scoop? One rarely encounters this level of innate dudebro vacuity outside of aspiring Wall Street sociopaths meeting for an early lunch at some otherwise charming Water Street bistro. But it does tempt me to posit a thesis. NBC News is apparently the ideal place for any mediocre man to rise up the journalistic ladder with the speed of the Parker Space Probe. Not only can you get away with mediocrity. You don’t even have to practice journalism at all!

Here was the “big scoop” from Alexander the Far From Great:

If I told you that “a source close to a prominent DC sex club has told me that Peter Alexander is a bottom who enjoys being flogged every Friday night by tall men who weigh over 300 pounds to the point of profuse bleeding and to the point where Mr. Alexander yells, ‘Keep going, big boy! I want to be Phyllis Schlafly’s he-bitch!'” you would rightly ask, “Well, wait a minute there, Ed. Why didn’t you confirm this with Alexander or the club owner?” Or you would ask me what that source is. Or you would ask me what my journalistic motivations are. But because Alexander works for NBC News, his journalistic malpractice — fueled by the type of Bob Woodward “on background” sourcing that he wishes he were capable of — is completely sanctioned by institutional incompetence. Never mind that Secret Service agent Bobby Engel has already testified before the Select Committee behind closed doors and that a professor of law at NYU has already stated that Cassidy Hutchinson is consistent with what Engel has already said. For a low-class Trump rentboy like Alexander, the truth doesn’t matter.

That Alexander is both arrogant and stupid enough to believe that a Select Committee assembled to expose Trump’s wrongdoing would not go out of their way to get it right after two unsuccessful impeachments says everything about Peter Alexander’s pathetic and desperate lunges towards relevance. It’s the kind of bullshit that would be roundly denounced by other journalists (and where is that aging and fatuous gasbag Jack Shafer on Alexander?) only five years ago. But I’ve been waiting for other journalists to call this self-serving turkey out. And they haven’t. So I guess it has to be me. Again.

In the eyes of a grasping and hopelessly corrupt opportunist like Alexander, any form of hearsay is fair game. And sure enough, the right-wingers have scooped up Alexander’s “alternative facts” with all the hunger of a starved beaten-down puppy who just wants to be loved but who will likely die in a ditch because it can’t meet the adorable criteria.

This isn’t the first time that Alexander has tilted at windmills (though without quixotic flair). Just two months ago, as White House Correspondent, Alexander inserted a desperate hoot into a garden-variety dismissal of Republicans by President Biden. Knowing that he didn’t have a story, Alexander tried to manufacture a story through a belabored hem that wouldn’t pass muster at community theater.

And now he’s done it again. Except that the deplorables who wrap their fat idiotic asses in the Confederate flag are lapping this Alexander tweet up as the smoking gun — despite the fact that Alexander’s “scoop” is the epitome of laziness. But Alexander is doing this not only because he knows it gets him inflated attention and artificial “hits” that are the new standard of “success,” but because he knows that NBC News will do nothing whatsoever to reprimand him. The only way that Alexander would suffer serious repercussions for his malfeasance (and even do some serious soul-searching) is if we lived in the Time of Icarus.

[6/30/2022 UPDATE: Snopes has now weighed in on L’Affaire Alexander and debunked his story as “False.”]

[7/1/2022 UPDATE: While Peter the Scumbag was busy coasting on his illusory “source close to the Secret Service” rumor to gain traction, CNN was doing actual reporting and talking directly with multiple sources at the Secret Service, who confirm and corroborate Cassidy Hutchinson’s testimony. It’s mind-boggling that a tenth-rate amateur like Alexander still has a job.]

Alison Steinberg: All-American Homophobic Mouth-Breather

I really do try to see the best in people, but there is literally no reason I can summon to justify why the vile and pestiferous propagandist Alison Steinberg should be granted the privilege of breathing oxygen. There is nothing but evil in her heart. She is a hate-fueled, homophobic, truth-denying jackal who, like many alt-right opportunists, traded in her dubious cerebral powers to propagandize against human rights and inclusive dignity for a job at the One American News Network — which is swiftly dethroning FOX News as the venue to transform a horde of thoughtless and aging cabbages into budding fascists. Steinberg’s latest tirade, which went viral on Twitter on Sunday morning, is truly the mark of an irredeemable monster. For what Steinberg did was completely unacceptable — particularly since her bilious biogtry, directed at a harmless rainbow flag, was aired during Pride Month.

Here is a full transcript of her unhinged diatribe:

…in San Diego. And guess what I came home to be greeted with? This fucking bullshit. [points to Rainbow Pride flag] What the hell is that? Huntington Beach is the town of good old-fashioned hard-working American people, much less human. People who worked all through the COVID lockdown. Yes, that’s right. Huntington Beach never shut down through any of the COVID nonsense fuckery. And now we’re peddling this garbage? What the hell is this? The only flag that should be up there is that American flag. This is a disgrace to our city and it should be taken down immediately. Whoever the hell is running this town needs to be fired. Make America great again. Make Huntington Beach great.

This is unequivocal and unmitigated hate speech. And the timing here, hot on the heels of Justice Clarence Thomas suggesting within the hideous Dobbs opinion that an overturn of Griswold v. Connecticut (the precedent that established a constitutional right to same-sex marriage) could very well happen, is no accident.

What’s disturbing and unforgivable about Steinberg’s psychotic rant is the way that she declares any LGBTQ+ person to not be American. She is so blinded by her venomous enmity that she cannot even consider that those who aren’t straight and hetero and cis may very well be just as “hard-working” (and indeed “old-fashioned”) as she professes to be.

This is the textbook definition of bigotry. Steinberg is so hopped up on her rage that she not only wants to dehumanize LGBTQ people, but her “rhetoric” involves discluding them from the American nation. Making them invisible. Much in the way that Pastor Dillan Awes declared only weeks ago that gay people should be executed.

For all of its problems, Huntington Beach ranked highest in Orange County for LGBTQ rights in a 2013 Municipal Equity Index study. Largely because Joe Shaw, an openly gay Councilman, worked tirelessly to create greater acceptance for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. Because of Shaw, the city of Huntington Beach became, for a time, a safer place. That is, before the atavistic CHUDs of Huntington Beach voted him out of office, forcing Shaw to flee back to the Midwest.

But for every noble Jon Shaw, there is a bona-fide mouth-breathing motherfucker like Alison Steinberg. If we lived in a condign world, she would be out of a job. Banned from all newsrooms.

Unfortunately, we live in the worst timeline. All the progress we have made is in serious jeopardy of being evaporated if we do not push back hard against true evil. We must not stay silent. Alison Steinberg is pure evil. And there is no universe in which her hatred is acceptable.

A Federal Erection Ban

On Friday morning, the Supreme Court issued an opinion in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization — effectively overturning the constitutional right that has allowed women to have reproductive rights and bodily autonomy for nearly fifty years. The message from the high court could not be any plainer: women have no agency over their bodies. Even though this decision openly contradicts any number of civil rights laws that have been designed — in theory, at least — to protect women from discrimination, the Supreme Court Justices have decided that past precedents were not settled, despite claiming so during their confirmation hearings.

But if women are not guaranteed a constitutional right to do what they want with their bodies, then the time has come to level the playing field and deny men any and all constitutional rights too. It seems only fair. And it neatly aligns with some recent personal developments that I feel an overwhelming need to shove down your unenlightened throats.

Before I introduce my ideas, I should note that, after many years of being an atheist, I have finally found religion. The Church of Gelding may be a little-practiced faith, but it is, as far as I’m concerned, the only one that matters. It is far more important than all strains of Christianity. Last week, I cut off my own penis with a hacksaw to find a new life of inner peace. There was a bloody mess in my apartment, but the holy ritual of severing my member has secured my position in the afterlife. In addition, my singing range on the high notes has dramatically improved. The Church of Gelding’s priests and archdioceses — operating out of a storage facility in Gatlinburg, Tennessee as we raise funds to build a proper church so that we may properly and hygienically castrate all members of our loyal congregation — have reviewed this essay. They have declared me a visionary for a faith that will soon be sweeping the nation. It’s all part of the new theocracy you haven’t yet heard about.

I propose a national ban on erections at the federal level. And if we’re fated to pull the RU-486 abortion poll from pharmacies, then there also needs to be an FDA ban on Viagra. After all, isn’t it unnatural for older men to have an artificially created erection? Since the pro-lifers insist that it’s “unnatural” for women to have abortions, then we need to ensure that all other unnatural male enhancements are also prohibited. Hair transplants, Botox, and, most importantly, septuagenarian men who foolishly believe that they are still twenty-five years old and who have cultivated the mistaken impression that they have the God-given right to fuck any twentysomething into the middle of next week. This rampant immorality must end today!

Let us establish a Federal Erection Bureau office in every city, giving every American male thirty days to undergo a surgical procedure that will block the corpora cavernosa — the twin chambers running along the length of the penis that are responsible for the bloodflow that causes the penis to grow. Those men who wish to have children with their partners can fill out a detailed 564 page questionnaire, submit this to the FEB (along with a credit report and a list of references), undergo a hearing supervised by a Propagation Consideration Panel, and, upon approval, have a temporary reversal of this surgical procedure. If they copulate with their partners without written consent, then let their treacherous corpses hang from the traffic lights as a warning for all men who do not abide by the new way.

If men were deprived of the testosterone that turns them into abusive and boneheaded idiots, then much of this behavior would stop. We would have fewer conflicts and wars. Women would not be bombarded with unsolicited dick pics. Because men would be too humiliated to photograph their shriveled and useless chorizos, thus finally understanding that the penis is a wildly overrated and fundamentally silly-looking anatomical appendage. I have learned this myself by finding God.

Men who insist on having erections — or who have erections in a speakeasy or through any underground network established to give men an illegal venue with which to have an erection — should be chemically castrated for the greater good. And the most egregious erection offenders should be castrated with a sharp axe. Imagine the diminished problems! Think of the great culture that America will create when more castratos enter opera halls and recording studios! You may not have been able to control yourself when you had a penis. But your new life (and your new voice) will set you on a new path!

If the five paleoconservatives on the Supreme Court seriously believe that women cannot be trusted to do what they deem right for their bodies, then it can be equally argued that men are just as incapable. Hitting any bar on a Saturday night will reveal quite swiftly that men are probably more incapable of not knowing how to control themselves in public. Men are especially clueless when it comes to reading a woman’s intentions, much less actually listening to what a woman has to say. Even when told “no” by a woman, this feeble and wildly overrated gender is hopped up on too much testosterone and has proven time and time again that it cannot comprehend a simple two-letter word.

Remove erections from the equation of life and we would see sexual harassment rates significantly drop. Unwanted advances and catcalls from men would disappear overnight. One source of an unwanted pregnancy would be nipped in the bud. And we would have far stabler families. Children who aren’t forced to live in poverty. And without their precious penises, men would at long last get in touch with their feelings and not be as afraid to cry.

So let the Republicans lead by example. Let Justices Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito, Neil Gorsuch, and Brett Kavanaugh drop their pants and proffer their schlongs for castration. Let Justice Amy Coney Barrett be the one holding the knife and carving away at her colleagues’s dicks with the same gusto that she uses to hack away at the Constitution. Let every Republican who truly believes in life step forward and proudly announce that they will no longer be erect. After all, only the permanently wilted can grow a true garden.