Sacred and profane

two sides on one country road

This morning I left the house, which I tell you because it is unusual. Most of the time I go at least a week without leaving the house because I do not like being in public anymore. At all. The rudeness, the visual blight of morbid obesity, “gender” insanity, vulgar and obscene body-baring clothing, dangerous driving, and watching these pod people visit their somatic and mental pathology onto their own innocent children is sick-making.

Welcome to Vermont. You think it’s a pretty, picturesque New England heartland, don’t you? You think it looks like the postcards.

Until 5-10 years ago, you were right. This used to be the most beautiful place I’d ever lived. Both the landscape and the Colonial/Victorian architecture does indeed like exactly like Norman Rockwell’s paintings (which are of this place, because he lived here). But it’s not like it was just a few years ago.

Formerly well-kept neighborhoods have houses falling in on themselves covered in graffiti, roads so broken they can’t be fixed, and human detritus lolling about in a drug-fueled daze on concrete parking lot barriers. The humans are insane, every single one of them, inside any town limits. Even the 80 year olds are screaming leftist freaks.

But I live on a dirt road in the country a couple miles from Montpelier, so at least I have a rural idyll to retreat to. Houses are hundreds of yards, or quarters of miles, away from each other. There’s a bank of mailboxes on a post across the road from my house that catches mail for five homes.

An old lady had pulled her car up as I was leaving, so I decided to introduce myself to my neighbor. Phyllis is in her 80s, and she’s lived here for decades. She told me about the people whose camp burned down a few weeks ago up the road (they’re fine), and we laughed about how we get each other’s mail because even the USPS is now hiring Millennial men with ear gauges who can’t be bothered to sort mail by recipient or house number.

We’re friends now, me and Phyllis, and I hope she takes me up on my offer to help out if she needs something or gets stuck in the driveway.

Affirmatively walking up to her and introducing myself took real effort. This is strange for me, as I’m naturally talkative and outgoing (though introverted overall). It’s never caused me anxiety to meet a new person. It does now, in our era. The calculus is: “What will I do if she starts in on Trump, or Republicans?” That’s more likely than not today, yes, on first meeting, with a stranger. They start right out.

But I’m glad I did, and I drove up the road with a smile.

Until I saw 60 stark-naked people on bicycles milling around the park-n-ride. You see, Vermont has a “beautiful tradition” called “naked bike ride day.” It’s a “tradition” only as old as the hippie scum that colonized this place decades ago, running off the old Republican Yankees.

Leftists love being disgusting. Fucking love it. They’ll take any chance offered to force you to look at their pubic hair, their anuses, and every other crevice. They’re all standing around with nothing on but sunglasses and sunhats (tee-hee—I don’t want to get sunburned except on my tits and cooch and nuts tee-hee I’m so cute!).

Now. It’s just true that it’s harder to look at disgusting bodies than it is to look at young, fit ones. It doesn’t matter that this reality strikes you as “not nice,” it is reality, and everyone knows it. No one wants to see my paunchy 50-year-old body, so I don’t walk around naked. But that means I also don’t want to see your sagging tits and knee-length scrotum.

I’ve been in Vermont for 23 years, and that means I’ve seen 23 “naked bike rides.” They’re all grotesque and always have been. But they are much worse now.

The majority of this crowd was obscenely fat, unkempt, old, and unappealing. You’ve got the old men in their 70s with their I-followed-Fish-and-The-Dead-On-Tour-My-Whole-Life stupid hippie grins on. These men are not the “gentle, masculine souls” they want you to perceive them as, they’re just dirty old perverts who will take any opportunity to wag their dick in front of people who can’t say no.

But the women. Great googly-moogly, the women. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s the female sex who’s been doing the most lately to be vulgar, obscene, and whorish out in public. They’re far dirtier and sluttier than the men. Guys aren’t walking around most days with testicle-featuring underwear, but the women are walking around with their ass cheeks and areolas slipping out of the dental floss they call clothing.

And on naked bike ride day, the most disgusting cows are strutting their stuff with pride. One woman who was standing and modeling to catch the eye of as many cars as possible weighed 300 pounds easily. So fat was she that she could have been anywhere from 20 to 40 years of age; no way to tell. I’m talking about the kind of obesity that gave her full-body, all-over ‘cellulite’. There wasn’t a single surface-her back, her ankles, her stomach, her shoulders—that was not a road map of crepe-over-fat. It was so jarring I involuntarily gasped the first minute I saw her.

People like this are, quite literally, the circus freaks of 100 years ago, but they believe they’re normal now. And while they claim that they’re just “enacting body positivity,” what they’re really doing-and they know they’re doing it-is forcing other people to look at their nakedness and not be able to complain. These are conscious acts of visual assault, intentionally violating boundaries and decency because they know that onlookers can’t object without being accused of being abusive bigots.

If you’re getting mad at me because you think I’m being “mean,” you’re missing the point. I wouldn’t be typing any of this if these digusting freaks weren’t forcing me to have to experience them this way. I don’t go out of my way to “shame” people for being fat, or unhealthy, or unfortunate looking. But when they force me to encounter it in every intimate detail, I’m going to narrate exactly how disgusting these aggressors are. I wouldn’t subject other people to my unsightly middle-aged spread, and I don’t want their business in my face either.

If you’re thinking of coming to New England to live, the only state worth it is New Hampshire. Do not come to Vermont. You will hate it, you will have no political voice, and you will watch your bank account dwindle from confiscatory taxes and Manhattan levels of rent prices while fat gorgons and bearded old perverts laugh about it.