Category Archives: Gender

UPDATED (10/21/022): NEW COLUMN IS “Race And Sex Hegemons To Control The Skies

Affirmative Action, Argument, Feminism, Gender, Human Accomplishment, Pseudoscience, Reason, Regulation

NEW COLUMN IS “Race And Sex Hegemons To Control The Skies.” It is currently featured on WND.COM , The Unz Review, The New American, American Renaissance, and on Saturday, at Townhall.com.

Excerpt:

The topic was “the end of the all-male, all-white cockpit.”

The context: A June 3, 2022 TV episode, in which Fox News personality Tucker Carlson beseeched viewers to look beyond the race and gender of pilots, to his or her competence. “What’s color to do with competence?” he demanded to know.

Mr. Carlson was appealing to the wrong audience.

In America, where woke is ruthlessly propelled by the private-sector, the commercial aviation industry has been itching to replace humble men like Captain Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger, III, with black women (the looks of whom indicate that a good weave, tattooed eyebrows and eyelash extension are baseline requirements).

Using their employees’ opposition to forced vaccination as a proxy for backbone, moxie and rational thinking—the commercial aviation industry is increasingly shedding very many magnificent, military-trained pilots.

Just so there’s no confusion: Pilots with the right stuff are being selected out of their profession.

Granted, correlation is not causation, but if there is a statistically significant correlation between gender or race and the likelihood one survives a plane flight—well then, one might just want to consider these variables as proxies for safety and survival, however politically impolite it is.

Tucker might want to check the aggregate accident statistics to determine who are the best, safest pilots. By ScienceDirect’s telling, “… females employed by major airlines had significantly higher accident rates than their male counterparts overall.” [Emphasis added.]

To be expected, ScienceDirect then launches a fusillade of excuse-making weasel words to conceal with bafflegab that if you fly with a female, you’re a little less likely to reach your destination. It’s a ghost of a chance, but hey, life matters. Do you want to lose it?

Yes, female pilots have a higher error/accident rate, but never mind that say the Fake Science purveyors; this is only so because they are younger and less experienced. Airlines should make every effort to recruit and retain “experienced” females and manage diversity, they exhort.

Essentially—and while plummeting to his death—the passenger should search his bigoted soul. In addition to letting go of your life; you must release all bigotry. Those thoughts about how race and sex could well correlate with flight safety, and how you wish you had checked the pilot before you took the fatal flight: Let them go. Oh, and by the way, RIP, you sexist, you racist.

The desired outcome is that you fly with a less able pilot, ceteris paribus. …

… READ THE REST. NEW COLUMN, “Race And Sex Hegemons To Control The Skies,” is currently featured on WND.COM ,The Unz Review, The New American, American Renaissance, and on Saturday, at Townhall.com.

UPDATED (10/21/022): “Virginia plane crash kills flight instructor, injures student pilot.” Yes, and in addition to all else that was wrong with this fated flight—the flight instructor is a bubbly 23-year-old child/girl. Was.

*Screen pic credit

NEW COLUMN: Testosterone: Going… Going… Gone!

Feminism, Gender, Healthcare, Individualism Vs. Collectivism, Republicans, Science, Sex

“Nothing completes a man and makes a man as a woman”

NEW COLUMN IS “Testosterone: Going… Going… Gone!. It is currently up on WND.COM, The Unz Review, The New American and on Townhall.com tonight (Oct. 8), where it is “trending”; American Greatness on Thursday.

Excerpt:

The male hormonal horror show, as told on “Tucker Carlson Tonight,” is almost 2 decades old. It unfolded to very little fanfare in 2006. As this writer first divulged in her WND column “Manly No More,” the data came courtesy of Dr. Thomas Travison and colleagues at the New England Research Institutes in Watertown, Massachusetts.

American men are indeed losing the stuff that makes them macho.

Wrote Reuters in 2007:

“A new study has found a ‘substantial’ drop in U.S. men’s testosterone levels since the 1980s.” The average levels of the male hormone have been dropping by an astounding 1 percent a year. A 65-year-old in 1987 would have had testosterone levels 15 percent higher than those of a 65-year-old in 2002.

Although the New York Times’ science and medicine reporter now mocks these findings—she likely does so because masculinity has, in the intervening years, been declared toxic and because Tucker refuses to let men be defanged.

The reasons for the reduction in testosterone levels remain unclear. A rise in obesity and a decline in smoking have been suggested, since “testosterone levels are lower among overweight people and smoking increases testosterone levels.”

More reliably, other researchers have implicated estrogen-mimicking chemicals, which leach into the environment from plastics (BPA). I had covered the pioneering work of Dr. Devra Davis on these xenoestrogens in my Canadian column, in 1999. On this front—the pox of plastics—men and women can expect nothing from Republican representatives, who still consider it a conservative creed to fill-the-oceans-with-plastics, kill-everything-that-moves-for-profit, and call on the Third World to be fruitful and multiply, so as to perpetuate this cycle of pillage and pollution.

Conspicuously absent from these reports are the effects on serum testosterone of changes in life experiences over time. These trends are, however, routinely tracked when discussing incidence of this or the other disease or deficiency in distaff America.

Thus, breast cancer is said to be associated with the modern woman’s propensity to delay or forfeit childbearing. Osteoporosis is exacerbated by women’s sedentary routines—they do less weight-bearing work than they used to. And so on.

FEMINIZATION

It is very possible, even likely, that the feminization of society over the past 20 to 30 years is changing males, body and mind. It is very possible that the subliminal stress involved in sublimating one’s essential nature is producing less manly men. …

…READ ON. NEW COLUMN IS “Testosterone: Going… Going… Gone!, currently up on WND.COM, The Unz Review, The New American and scheduled to appear on Townhall.com tonight (Oct. 8); American Greatness on Thursday.

FRED REED: Manners. Aplomb. Deboneurtude.

America, Culture, FRED REED, Gender, Journalism, Music

FRED REED on journalism when it was a trade dominated by tough, rough men, who hung out with bikers and bar-fighting Brunhildes

Let me tell you about aplomb. I don’t mean watery New-Age aplomb, suitable for a fern bar. I mean the real article, forty-weight, that you could lube a diesel with.

This was in the early eighties. I was still a staff writer on Soldier of Fortune magazine. This was years before Craig, the staff artist, killed himself riding drunk on his motorcycle somewhere outside Boulder. (He died, everyone said, as he would have wanted. Horribly.)

In those days Craig and I hung out for a while in the Berkeley Bar in a bad section of Denver. Craig was a big, baby-faced street fighter out of Chicago with a Special Forces past and a mean streak. He mostly drew skulls. He also like the Brandenburg concertos, and used to listen to them at his easel with headphones built into a World War II leather flying helmet.

The Berk was the home pit for the Sons of Silence, a bad biker club. If you haven’t been in dives like this, don’t start now. They swarm with huge bearded bozos with tattooed eyeballs and missing teeth and slow ominous grins and the IQ of a camshaft. You get the impression that they are evolving, but just not as fast as the rest of us. They’ll hurt you. Either they like you or you’re jelly. They don’t worry about consequences. They can’t remember them.

The Berk had Formica wood tables and smelled like a weight room. Rows of bottles waited patiently, but not for long, behind the counter and corpulent biker babes lolled about like stranded elephant seals. No one else did. When you have a biker clientele, you don’t have any other kind of clientele. Craig and I were guests. I had sold Bob Brown, the editor of Soldier of Fortune, on a story about the warm patriotic urges of the Sons, who didn’t have any. The Sons were charmed. They might get on the cover. They knew they would never get closer to significance.

It was cold enough to freeze the personals off an iron dog and dirty snow gleamed yellow under the streetlights. We showed up in Craig’s pickup truck, wearing our credentials: cammies, antisocial T-shirts (“Happiness Is A Confirmed Kill”) and jump boots. A Tribal Meeting followed, heap big pow wow, talk’em. Craig and I sat in a booth with Torque, the honcho, and a brain-fried guy called Lurch, and Mountain Jerry, who was a pretty Tarzan replica with long golden hair like Rapunzel and gold-flecked eyes that spoke of psychopathy and bone fractures. He sort of looked through you.

“We don’t like the press,” Torque said. So what? Nobody did. I didn’t. Torque had a face like a gorilla’s armpit. “You can do your story. SOF’s a righteous mag. Righteous.” I guess it was a recommendation. Like having Carlo Gambino say that you were a Really Good Person.
“We do what we can,” Craig said.

Lurch just stared at his beer with his mouth hanging open. He didn’t actually drool, probably because he couldn’t remember how. I figured he had smoked too much brass polish or sniffed some bad glue.

During this prayer meeting, Lurch had An Idea. You could tell it was bubbling up inside him. His jaw closed slightly and a crazed focus came into his eyes. He was going to say something, as soon as he figured out what. His head came up. Yes, an idea. He almost had it.  And then it left him. He collapsed with a soughing sound, like a punctured tire. Gone. A Real Idea, probably the unified field theory. And it got away. He stared sorrowfully at his beer. Eeyore of the Bikers.

We went back to the tribal thing.

Manners, though. This is about grace, elegance, and aplomb. Yeah.

Later we were boozing at the bar, doing what women call male bonding. It means talking to each other. I was chatting with Mountain Jerry. Craig was talking to some guy farther down the bar and drinking peppermint schnapps. Which was amazing on two counts. First, that the Berk had such an effeminate candy-ass yuppie-swine liqueur. Second, that Craig would drink it in a biker bar. It was grounds for execution.

Thing was, Craig was scary. He’d cripple you. You sensed he was ready to rock-and-roll, and you really didn’t want to rumble with him. Some guys you leave alone. The Sons could smell it. About then one of the biker babes got into it with the barmaid. I don’t know what the raison de guerre was. The challenger was a gas-station Brunhilde like a sack of potatoes, except potatoes have better skin. Shrieking ensued. Barmaids in motorcycle hangouts do not back down. You could tell this one wasn’t a Latin professor at Bryn Mawr. She screamed obscenities in a florid cloacal gush. The potato sack gave as good as she got.

The bikers ignored them and kept drinking. Jerry and I were discussing social encounters in rural bars in West Virginia, where we both came from. The chief instrument of intercourse in those regions was the pool cue. It was simple and direct and provided the hospitals with a brisk business.

Over Mountain Jerry’s shoulder I saw the challenger’s arm flash forward. She was throwing a bottle at the barmaid. Either her aim was bad or the barmaid ducked. Bottles shattered behind the bar and the mirror pretty much exploded. Slivers rained down on me, but missed my drink.
Mountain Jerry never flickered. He grinned his slow mean golden grin and said, “Git it on.” And kept on talking. He was amused.

The bar top glittered with glass fragments. The barmaid was about to leap over the bar to do battle with Spud Sack. Screaming continued. Nobody paid the slightest attention. Down the bar I saw Craig absently, without looking, pull a sizable sliver of glass from his schnapps without interrupting his sentence. He dipped a finger to see whether more shards awaited. No. All was well. He lifted the glass and drank.

That’s aplomb.

Read Fred’s Books! Or else. We know where you sleep.

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

FRED REED describes himself as [previously] a “Washington police reporter, former Washington editor for Harper’s and staff writer for Soldier of Fortune magazine, Marine combat vet from Viet Nam, and former long-haul hitchhiker, part-time sociopath, who once lived in Arlington, Virginia, across the Potomac River from the Yankee Capital.”
His essays “on the collapse of America” Mr. Reed calls “wildly funny, sometimes wacky, always provocative.”
“Fred is the Hunter Thompson of the right,” seconds Thomas E. Ricks in Foreign Policy magazine. His  commentary is “well-written, pungent political incorrectness mixed with smart military commentary and libertarian impulses, topped off with a splash of Third World sunshine and tequila.”

FRED’S BOOKS ARE ON AMAZON, HERE

FRED’S ARTICLES ARCHIVE

Killer Kink

Hardboiled is back! (The exclamation point is to arouse wild enthusiasm int the reader, a boiling literary lust.) Gritty crime fiction by longtime police reporter for the Washington Times, who knows the police from nine years of riding with them. Guaranteed free of white wine and cheese, sensitivity, or social justice.

UPDATED II (7/11/022): NEW COLUMN: A Society Of Deviants Sanctions Onanism With An Infant

Culture, Ethics, Etiquette, Gender, Pop-Culture, Propaganda, Pseudoscience, Psychology & Pop-Psychology, Sex

bearded trans men chest-feeding: paternal or sexual?

NEW COLUMN is “A Society Of Deviants Sanctions Onanism With An Infant.”

An uncluttered mind is needed to see this issue clearly. Hence this short tract has so far appeared only on the inimitable Unz Review and The New American.  Read it now on ilanaMercer.com.

My analysis has come as a shock to our side. Let me put it to you thus: In the olden days, if a church elder had stumbled upon a flat-chested girlie-man fixing an infant to his man breasts; there would be a public flogging, if not excommunication. By which I mean not necessarily to condone these punishments in all instances (although I generally approve of public shaming)—but to point to the reaction of the unpropagandized mind to kinky perversion.

Excerpt:

… Is this man-woman, then, engaged in the “natural” act of breastfeeding, or is this something far more sinister like a sexual experience? Is this not tantamount to titillating oneself, using the baby to get-off?

Since the deviant described in the article and discussed in the podcast “Bearded Men Breast Feeding In Public: Paternal Or Kinky?” is not sustaining the infant – is not a successful breast-feeder, as the well is dry – and since, by self-admission, the person’s main project is his/her gender identity, I suggest this character is deriving unacknowledged sexual pleasure from fixing a child on to his secondary sexual organs.

The baby here is a prop. The breast feeding is near-sexual. And a society of deviants is sanctioning onanism with an infant: A grown man here is likely using an infant to pleasure himself. An infant has no agency, hence onanism. …

READ the rest on  The Unz Review and The New American. Read it now on ilanaMercer.com.

WATCH “Hard Truth,” “Bearded Men Breast Feeding In Public: Paternal Or Kinky?”

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UPDATED (7/9/022): A reader at the Unz Review asserts that women too get aroused during legitimate breast-feeding. Ridiculous. Sick. If so, disgusting distaff says I!

All I remember is a motherly-baby cocoon, where my child would occasionally quit nursing voraciously—these gender-identity perverts forget that a child nurses to survive, sate hunger and grow—to smile, play with my hair, burp. Magic bonding time.

UPDATED II (7/11/022): 

What I remember of the breastfeeding experience is a mother-baby cocoon, with baby occasionally taking a break (these gender-appropriators forget that a baby nurses to survive, sate hunger, grow) to smile, play with my hair, burp. This is a much better formula for mother-child bonding than baby formula.

That is one of the sweetest descriptions of the mother & child bonding experience I’ve ever read. Nothing prurient at all. Just love. The hair part got me,writes Musil Protege Some people have soul.

A Society Of Deviants Sanctions Onanism With An Infant” (Updated version)