Saturday, May 11, 2019

Mothers Day Special: The Worst Mothers in History Vol. 4


Hey, hey, hey. Another Mother’s Day has come around and another of our tributes to the worst Mothers in History. As we’ve gone again, and again, and again,  in order to combat the wave of diabetic inducing sweetness that will be pouring over us soon enough. As preventative medicine, I suggest you read this article and realize that not all mothers are filled with goodness and light, many are drunken chain-smoking cigarette hags too lazy to get abortions when the time was ripe.

Often some milksop politician will ask, “Where would we be without our mothers?” In the case of these examples the answer, “alive and probably happy.”

1.     Kenisha Enroda Berry: Dumpster Diving With Baby.

On November 29, 1998, in Jefferson County, Texas, 20-year-old Kenisha Berry placed duct tape across the body and mouth of her 4-day-old son, placed him in a black plastic trash bag and left his body in a trash dumpster, resulting in his death. The child was later found by a homeless couple dumpster diving for aluminum cans. An anonymous tip led the police to Kenisha’s door. DNA tests proved she was the mother and her fingerprints were found on the bag and duct tape, yet she still denied responsibility for the crime.
She explained that when she woke up on that day the baby was limp and not breathing. Realizing that he was dead, she said she was too scared to call for help. She duct taped his arms so that they would be in front of him and across his mouth because it bothered her that his mouth was opened. She then put him in a trash bag, borrowed her grandmother's car and placed the infant in the dumpster where his body was later discovered. Forensic reports that the baby died of asphyxiation due to the duct tape over his mouth. This is was not in fact the first baby she had dumped.
The same DNA evidence linked her to another newborn found tossed into a ditch filled with fire ants. Luckily this one survived, but it was a near miss. She was sentenced to death, but it was later reduced by a limp wristed review board to life in prison.

            2.     Deanna Laney: Bashing Their Heads Slowly
Here is another example of people with severe mental illnesses attempting to normalize themselves by become fanatically devoted to a political or religious cause. We’ve seen it with the anti-abortion movement, Antifa, PETA, and various religions. The result are that they take something to the extreme and put it all in doubt.
Deanna Laney was a devout member of the Pentecostal church Assemblies of God. She believe t so much that she had the delusion that God talked to her. One night, God apparently told her that the end of the world was coming and to get her house in order. To Deanna this meant she had to bash her children’s head in with rocks. First victim was 8-year-old Joshua, followed by six-year-old Luke, then 14-month old Aaron. The last one survived, but had his growth crippled by the severe head trauma he experienced.
She was diagnosed with suffering from psychotic delusions (big surprise there) and was later found by a jury to be not guilty by reason of insanity. She was committed to a mental institution in 2004 and released in 2012. Apparently 8 year in a summer camp facility is long enough for the death of two children and giving a third brain damage. She now freely walks the streets of Texas.
3.    Dora Luz Buenrostro: Hate is Thicker than Love
After a lengthy divorce Dora Luz Buenrostro was forced to share custody of her children with her ex-husband. Neighbors testified that they heard her screaming for hours at her children when they were with her. On October 27th, 1994 she went to the local police department and told officers that her ex-husband was inside her apartment and that she feared for her three children’s safety.
When they arrived at the apartment, they found two of the children stabbed to death and the third one missing. The husband was held for questioning. Later that day, the third child was found ten miles away. She was killed by having a ball point pen shoved in her neck and bled out. By this time the husband’s alibi had been checked out and it was proven he was nowhere near Dora’s apartment that day.
With the list of suspects narrowed down from two to one, Dora was quickly arrested. Evidence of murder was found in her car, which she claimed her ex had planted. Her inevitable insanity defense tanked and Dora was sentenced to death, after which she blamed everyone else, her lawyers, the police, the prosecutors, the judge, for her situation. Jurors said Buenrostro showed a lack of remorse when she testified during the penalty hearings. She planned the killings to hurt her husband, then tried to frame him.

       4. Susan Dianne Eubanks: Shooting for Love

Born of generations old California trailer trash, Susan Eubanks just couldn’t find love. Having four sons by four different men somehow just didn’t attract Mr. Right. Even with her added quirky traits of alcoholism and pill popping, the finer things seemed to pass her by. Susan’s life just couldn’t seem to get started.

Thus one day, after a long day at a bar of mixing vodka with valium she got into an explosive fight with her boyfriend (not the father of any of her children). She slashed 2 tires on his car and refused to let him in the home. He called the police and they then escorted him to the home, where he removed some belongings and left. Susan then decided to reset the clock. She took a .38 revolver and killed her four boys, aged 14, 7, 8, and 4. A fifth boy, her nephew was also shot, but he survived.

She then attempted suicide by shooting herself in the stomach. The defense tried to use this as part of her insanity plea, but the jury did not believe her. If you really want to kill yourself, why not the head? They then shifted to a blackout defense, she had imbibed so much that she didn’t remember doing anything- but that is not grounds for insanity.

In September 1999, a jury decided Susan Eubanks should be executed for murder. At her sentencing a month later, she said she loved her children but felt they would be better off dead. She said she killed her boys as a final act of love in what was an attempted murder-suicide.

5.  Michelle Lynn Kehoe: The Eternal Cut-Up

And rounding up this affair we have the wonderful Michelle Kehoe, a narcissistic chronically depressed loner, who turned every public occasion into a sob fest about herself. One night after everyone had gotten tired her complaining about how hard her life was, she decided enough was enough, put her two kids, 7 and 4, in a van and drove to a remote area. She then placed duct tape over her sons' eyes, mouths and hands and cut their throats with a hunting knife she had bought a month earlier. She then cut her own throat. Just before this she had written a note to make it appear as though they were abducted by a fictitious assailant, and she made similar claims to investigators before admitting to the crime. The note said a man broke into the car when the family stopped at a gas station and forced them to the area where the van was found. In the note, Kehoe said she tried to fight him off with pepper spray, but he knocked her unconscious.

All this made her insanity defense a pathetic joke. That and the fact her seven-year-old son survived the attack and testified against her in court. She was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

That's it for this year. Happy Mother's Day everyone.
  For more fun, try books by Rex Hurst. 

Monday, May 6, 2019

My Honeymoon: Sick in Honduras

Drifting on our booze cruise, we docked at Roatan, Honduras. Yes, the same Honduras that once got into a shooting war with neighboring El Salvador over a soccer match. Luckily this port is part of an archipelago of islands claimed by Honduras, so they can keep most of the degradation away from delicate eyes like mine.
But honestly, they didn’t do a very good job.
Now, mark that my recollections here are tinted by a sinus infection I had forming in my lungs. The constant shift back and forth from air conditioned dry coolness to water-pregnant 90 percent humid heat began to eat away at me. Eventually it formed a knot of filth that spread.
Still, I in my rugged masculinity was determined to push on. I had paid for this crap and we were going to do it! Well, most of it. Well, some of it. Frankly after a few hours, I didn’t have anything left in me. All I could manage was to sit in my room and suck down a hot toddy.
Basic Reflections
We had hired a tour guide for the day to take us around to the various local points of interest. His name was Guy, originally from Costa Rica. He told us that once he came to Honduras he fell in love, about how much more opportunity here than where he came from. Looking around at all the shacks, the tourist traps made from scrap lumber hammered clumsily together, I could only guess at what a shithole Costa Rica must be.
Unlike Belize, which had the veneer of once being prosperous, it was clear that this third world island had almost literally nothing going for it until the cruise lines stuck a port on its tail end. Any place not owned by a Westerner was a dirt poor shack, made from leftover garbage and dead dreams. It was impossible to keep the filth out of eyesight as, apart from the constantly encroaching foliage, that was all there really was. The only cars on the roads were tourist taxis, like the one we were in, zooming fat Americans about from dingy dive to overpriced tourist trap.

The entire economy of the island must have been based on tourism as they charged for everything. Apart from when we went to the highest point on Roatan, a greedy palm was stuck out before every event. I don’t mean just the things we did listed below. Those we expected to pay for. But things like going to the beach, using wi-fi (which I still had my phone turned off) cost twenty dollars per person- an absolute rip-off. 
The Sloth and Monkey Zoo
The highlight of the day for me was a private enclave where they breed white faced capuchin monkeys, sloths and various toucans.  This was better than any zoo, as you got to go into cages with them, and interact with the beasts. As I said, this was my favorite. The wife, on the other hand, had an adverse reaction to hairy, sweaty, apes crawling about her- Don’t know why she married me then.
We entered the cage and two monkeys immediately alighted onto my head. I’ve had a lot heavier cats jump up and down my torso, so I had no problem with it. My wife screamed and batted one to the ground. She did much better when the toucan landed on her hat, but was less than thrilled by the bird’s parting present.

The monkey spent its time wrapping its tail around my face, and rubbing up against my head. The guide explained that the creature was absorbing moisture from my face of which there was plenty. After he had wiped my brow for me, the animal became more intrusive in his examination. Little fingers dug into my ears and pulled out the wax, which he promptly ate. I honestly didn’t know how to feel about this. On one hand it was gross. on the other it did me a service, like pilot fish that cleaned shark’s teeth
The oddest experience was holding the three toed sloth. With a well-deserved reputation for sluggishness, the animal didn’t struggle in our arms. In fact, if I was reading its facial expressions correctly, it seemed to enjoy it. It was like holding a plump one year old with four inch fingernails. The animal shifted about, looked at me, looked around, but basically clamped onto us as if we were tree branches.
I had become somewhat pale by this time and my wife was whispering profanities at me about how my illness was ruining the whole trip for her. So I bucked it up and we went on the smallest chocolate factory I’ve ever seen. Basically it was a set up in someone’s attic. After a ten minute demonstration they tried force chocolate on us. We declined and thing went south from there. For that reason, we skipped the rum factory and went straight to what my wife was waiting for, the snorkeling.
A rusty skip pulled up at the dock and we got on with another family. We had come prepared with our gear, but I hadn’t tried it on yet. The last time I had gone snorkeling was in Lake Ontario before I had hit double digits, and I hated it. I couldn’t get the damn pipe to stay up to keep drinking me air and it seemed useless to stay flat looking down, when it was more fun to go down and zip about. 
By this time, the sinus infection had hit my lungs, breathing became more intense. What’s worse was that the damn mask sealed itself hard around my nose and I sure felt like I was suffocating. It was god awful and once again I had trouble getting air down the tube, but plenty of water came.
My wife kept bobbing up jabbering about all the wonderful fish I was missing out on. But it was so uncomfortable that I chucked the gear and figured if I wanted to see the damn fish, I’d fucking google them. I spent next hour enjoying myself by swimming the depths and banging my legs against the reefs. It was very relaxing. Didn’t need a suffocation mask to do that!
The Pharmacy
Well the day ended a little early, I was wiped out by all that swimming and monkeying around, plus the first stages of the infection was all over me. I suggested going to the ship’s doctor and wondered about getting some antibiotics on board, when my wife yelled that I could go to one of the pharmacies at the port.
“Will they have them?”
“Oh hell yeah. No prescription needed. Pus they carry all sorts of other things that’ll fuck your shit right up.”
With that sort of recommendation, I hopped right over. It was an open at one end with no front door. Typical of a shop at a cruise port. At first it looked like it was just full of all of the banal goods of a standard pharmacy: bandages, rubbing alcohol, cough syrup. Then I gazed upwards and read a sign listing all of the goodness behind the counter: steroids, muscle relaxers, pain pills. All the pharmaceutical colors of the rainbow.
I asked the woman behind the counter about my needs and she handed over a box of 100 amoxicillan tablets. My eyes widen, to even get this far in the states would’ve cost way too much, and eaten up several hours waiting for the doctor to saunter in.
“How much?” I asked, fearing for my wallet.
“Thirty five dollars for the entire box.” she replied, stifling a smirk.
I got the impression, she thought she was ripping me off, but I didn’t care. I was happy as hell. I downed two and headed for my cabin.
Rest of the Trip
So there I was, stuck in bed, watching the most random shows and films pop up on the ship’s television channels. My wife, the human gadfly, was out and about on the trip. Making friends, running up debts at the casino, drinking and gorging. She’d occasionally show up to toss me a banana or a partially eaten sausage- whatever was left on her tray when she was done.
There was one further stop, Cozumel, Mexico, but I couldn’t get out of the bed to enjoy it. My wife went and later reported that it was the best port on the trip, but she may have thought that because I wasn’t there. 
Three days later we pulled into Tampa and, sore and sick, we disembarked for another 9 hour journey back up the highways to our beloved Columbia, South Carolina. There we lived happily ever after, until she burnt her first pot roast and then there was HELL to pay.

Monday, April 29, 2019

My Honeymoon: Second Stop- Belize

Part three of my honeymoon cruise around the Caribbean. Previously I described the murdership we sailed out on, and our first port of call - Costa Maya. The next day we descended on the small third world country of Belize. Unlike Costa Maya, they did not attempt to cover up the poverty.
Belize City, Belize
          For those who are unaware, the country of Belize used to be called British Honduras. It’s roughly about the size of Massachusetts with less than half a million people living in it. Belize was officially given independence in 1981 due to the place being a money pit. But despite the poverty, the place has two things which the standard American tourist will appreciate:
1) Plenty of cheap booze.
2) Everyone speaks English.
          There wasn’t much going on at the port, so we had booked a tour of the city, culminating in a trip to a Mayan ruin. My newly minted wife wasn’t too interested, this was the part I had insisted upon. The pyramids in Egypt have become too commercialized for my tastes and this was the next best thing.
Beautiful Belize City
We began by leaving our beloved murder ship with its constant air conditioning, and settled on a rattling ex-school bus where the air cut off after every jolt over a pot hole. The tour brought us through what I initially took to the ruins of a town, only to discover the place was one of their major cities. Apart from some standout government and business buildings, the place looked like Sarajevo after six months of siege. To be fair, some of it was due to a typhoon hitting the city two years earlier.  
Most of the buildings were left over from British rule, having been constructed in the 1940s and 50s, then patched up with various floating debris in further decades. There were a large number of unfinished cement foundations, where story or two had been laid out, then abandoned. Rusty cables stuck out of tops of pillars where the next floor was intended to go. It was as if they started construction then suddenly ran out of money.
All the while, my wife noticed one particular detail. A lack of businesses, or at least chain businesses, in the city. While an occasional market or small taxi ring popped up, there didn’t seem to be a lot of jobs flourishing. Which may have been why our tour guide was so upbeat and happy. They actually had employment.
Due to a snafu with misplacing the tickets (not my fault), we were placed in one group and then transferred to another upon reaching our destination. So we had two tour guides, but they were speaking off of the same script and made the same corny jokes.
“You better Belize it!” was repeated over and over again.
Eventually we hit the highlight of the trip (for me, someone else wasn’t too impressed), the Mayan ruins of Lamanai. After a nice rum coconut- they cut a hole in the top and filled it up with rum for $5- we took a mud skip over to the island were the Mayan’s once held dominion. Our new guide, a former member of the Belize Defense Force, explained to us that while the once Mayan Empire had collapsed, the culture had never really gone away. It had simply been suppressed and ignored by first the Aztecs and then the Spanish. The theoretical reasons for the collapse vary from climate change, to civil war, to disease, to famine. We will probably never know.
Mask Temple of Lamanai
I know my demeanor in these blogs tends to of a disinterested sarcasm, but I have to admit getting all giddy on witnessing these structures built over three thousand years ago. Ancient houses, temples, courtyards, game courts. Several million feet must’ve trampled across that ground over the millennia. High priests, princes, slaves, and laborers. Lost, gone, and forgotten in time’s void. God damn, I’m depressing myself.
It was damn hot in that jungle, surprise, surprise, and I was blinded by constant sweat that dripped off my forehead. Yet I heroically pushed on to the climax of the trip, The High Temple of Lamanai. We’d already gone past the Jaguar and Mask Temples, but this one was special because we got to climb it.
One hundred and eight feet tall. Those steps you see in the picture are incredibly steep and large. Considering the average Mayan back in the day measured about 5’4”, it would’ve been an ordeal for most people. The last set of stairs to the top were so steep that we can to crawl up them. Our guide said that this was deliberate, so everyone was forced to prostrate themselves in the presence of the Gods.
High Temple of Lamanai
             As you may not know, I have a problem with heights. Specifically looking down from them. So the moment I reacted the top, where no safety railings dwelled, vertigo hit. My wife was fine, dancing about, taking in the view. But I stood up, grew dizzy, and nearly fell off the top. I crawled down to the bottom. But for those few seconds I had done it.
Mission accomplished, we went back to the ship to indulge our drinks package and playing bar trivia with questions asked by someone who could barely speak English.
 For more readings, try books by Rex Hurst. 

Monday, April 22, 2019

My Honeymoon: First Stop - Costa Maya

With the preliminaries all covered in the previous blog, the wedding and the murder ship - The Rhapsody of the Seas, let’s move onto all of the exotic sights my child bride and I saw. But let’s remember, every night was a party aboard with unlimited drinks, so we tended to be somewhat groggy during the day, often not stirring until 10 am before embarking on our adventure.  
First Stop: Costa Maya, Mexico
The actual original name of this fishing village is Mahahual, but once cruise ships staring going there it was redubbed to make the place sound more exotic. This was my first taste of Mexico, apart from certain disastrous parts of my childhood, so I was a little curious. Everyone flips back and forth on Mexico. Either the place is run by drug cartels and corrupt cops and who will kidnap you and rape your children, or it was a wonderful place where everyone was happy, happy, happy. I didn’t see either of these.
As we got off the ship, we had to show, not our passport, but our cruise card to the waiting officials. While also being our room key, this little beauty acted as our personal magic wand all over the ship, every time we wanted something we had to display the card to charge us later on or determine if we were part of a pre-paid package. Here it was more important than our US government documentation. It allowed entrance and, more importantly, exit from the country. Drug dogs sniffed our bags going into the port, but not going back on.
We walked down a long pier and into one of the greatest man made tourist traps ever devised. It was a three block long, twisty-turny collection of open air bistros, souvenir shops, and bars. As a visiting gringo, everything you could want was in this maze: tchotchkes, knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, t-shirts, mugs, souvenir spoons, magnets imprinted with the Mexican flag, Cuban cigars, leather wallets, sombreros, maracas, and so on. This was topped off by a large artificial pool right in the center of the complex, where one could soak in the sun’s rays or, for a modest fee, play around with inflatable animals. The one thing you couldn’t do was swim in the ocean, which is one of the main reasons for going to the Caribbean.
Knowing this ahead of time, my wife, master of discovering new things, had arraigned for us to travel to a little spot away from the main drag. A wonderful joint called the Krazy Lobster. But first we had to get out of this maze. My wife had actually watched a video about a person navigating this area, but the officials must’ve added onto it since then, as she became confused after a certain spot.
As she tried to figure out the correct path to the cab lot, the heat began getting to me. Normally there’s a nice ocean breeze to offset the high temperature, but the ring of stalls blocked this. A powerful thirst descended on me, but my natural frugalness (called “cheapness” by some) stopped me. I had a full drinks package on ship. Why would I pay for some overpriced Mexican Pepsi, when I could get it for free not very far away?
My wife was starting to become very upset, this forced us to cut behind some stalls and walk through some forbidden paths until we emerged on the outside of the boardwalk. Here is where the reality of this fishing village began to take shape. The tourist boardwalk was nice and happily framed, everything was freshly painted and presented with a positive image. The actual village was much more depressed (not as much as what we saw in Honduras and Belize, as you will read), but the contrast caused me to start. Let’s say it’s the difference between being in Disney World and a regular American neighborhood.
View of the Krazy Lobster
            We took a short cab ride to The Krazy Lobster. I had thought it was just a little restaurant by the beach, but it turned out to be much more. The whole of the beach was roped off, with tables and parasols provided right up to the shoreline. Wi-fi was offered, a rarity. The cruise line demanded we give them $10 day to use there’s. I used it as an excuse to turn my cell phone off for the week, which was a rare treat for me.
Buckets of Mexican beer (there are other brands beyond Corona) were brought out. I justified the purchase by saying these were brands not available on the ship. Then we dug into what I was really waiting for: The Lobster. As you can tell from the photo below this is not a Maine Lobster, but one indigenous to the Caribbean. The main difference being a lack of front claws. These were cooked in a savory cheese sauce, with chunks of papaya and mango. We ate four between us. Rarely have I ever been so fat and happy. Fat, yes. Happy, no. We’d eat a lobster, have a beer, run the five steps into the ocean, flounder around for an hour, get out, and repeat the process. Loads of fun.
Caribbean Lobster
The original plan was to go elsewhere and soak in more culture, but it was so nice that we ended staying the whole day. During that time I saw a lot of other tourists come and go and I noticed one bizarre fact. None of them ordered the lobster. It was all, “Can I get a plate of nachos?” or “I’ll have the hamburger and fries”. Who the hell goes to Mexico to order a hamburger? Granted, their main dish was pricey, but don’t you want to try something different when in a foreign country? Not sit around and compare this fast food to that in the USA.
The only other annoyance was that the place was deluged with people hawking their wares. While this was a step up from the normal beggars I was used to, it was still a never ending stream. Every five minutes someone came by to ask us if we were interested in their crappy merchandise. After we said no they moved on without a hassle, but having to say no over and over was a bit of a grind. I did relent and pick up a few Cuban cigars and a leather wallet. The guy claimed it was handmade by his family, who had personally shot and skinned the cow it came from, but I was skeptical. It sure looked like a lot of the wallets I saw in the tourist trap. Little tip, it’s expected to haggle with these beach vendors. Never pay the first asking price.
My new wallet
After such a relaxing day, we wandered back to the ship to soak in more on-board atmosphere and speculate on our next stop: Belize. More on that in the next post.
  For more readings, try books by Rex Hurst. 

Saturday, April 13, 2019

My Honeymoon

Well I did it. I tied the knot. Left the MGTOW world behind and settled down as a responsible man, full of determination and seriousness. And after a healthy dose of breaking my back as a good provider and new devotee to the Protestant Work Ethic, I will be able to retire in several decades and devote myself full time to my two new hobbies- drinking and being bitter. 
Well, maybe not. Still I did get married to a woman I could easily dominate with my masculinity. One whiff of my armpit and she swoons. I take off my socks and she rushes to wash them and clean my feet. I am master of my household and that’s the way I like it.
The ceremony? I barely remember it. The plan was to elope with a quickie wedding and spend our wad on a decent honeymoon. Then her family comes along and offers to pay for the whole thing: venue, open bar, ritzy meal. I wasn’t going to say no. So my and bride and I subjected ourselves to the tedious formalities and humiliation of the modern wedding:
 A lot of people I didn’t know and would never see again shaking my hand; me stumbling through the vows, saying 'I do' too early, and putting the ring on the wrong finger; people saying “I know you have a registry, but I wanted to get you something special.” And special always seems to translate to a picture frame for our wedding photos (received 10 of them) or a fucking candlestick (received 6 of them).  Lights work in my house, I don’t need any alternate illumination. The registry is there for a reason. It’s what a person actually needs in their household, and carefully balanced so the place isn’t littered with candlesticks.
With the formalities out of the way, my newly minted wife and I could concentrate on the part we were really interested in: The Honeymoon! The time when we could actually have fun. For our trip, we had decided to take a cruise around the Caribbean. Stopping in Costa Maya and Cozumel, Mexico; Belize City, Belize; and Roatan, Honduras. A seven day journey with all of the amenities paid for and a full drink package- meaning all the booze we could slurp.

The Ship

My virginal bride and I took off from Tampa on board the Rhapsody of the Seas, I name that I immediately remembered from an Unsolved Mystery episode back in the day. It was the same vessel where Amy Lynn Bradley went missing. If you remember, there was a scandal because Royal Caribbean (owners of the boat) did nothing to try and find her after she was reported missing, but claimed that they had searched the ship, effectively stalling any real investigation. Rumors as to what had happened to her ran the gamut of her being drunk and falling overboard, to being raped and murdered by crew members, to her being kidnapped and forced into the white slave trade.

Somehow this didn’t stop me from getting on the vessel. My wife had been several cruises without disappearing, while I had never stepped foot on a boat, but remembered that it was mostly females likely to go missing. That’s my “male privilege”. I would be the one forced to track down my wife’s kidnappers like Liam Neeson in Taken.
Once we ran around the various checkpoints and had our passports checked, we installed ourselves in an incredibly small cabin. One thing I learned quickly was that every time we emerged to take in the ship, our room was cleaned, sheets changed, and fresh towels provided. After I slipped the cabin caretaker (or whatever his title is) $5, the towels from then on were folded into elephant shapes. 

Luckily my wife knew just how to play things on board ship. We went around to every bar there was on the first day to find the best bartenders. After comparing notes, we singled out the ones we liked and tipped them. We got the best service ever after that and with our unlimited drinks package, we used their services a lot.
What took me the most to get used to, apart from hangovers from the unlimited booze, was the constant swaying of the boat. Rhapsody of the Seas being one of the smaller vessels in Royal Caribbean's fleet, you could definitely feel the movement of the boat through the water. I found this sensation incredibly soothing. Combine that with decent climate control and a bed (not so decent; one of the worst beds I ever slept in) and it was like being in a giant cradle. It successfully rocked me to sleep, over and over. So much that I was in danger of just sleeping the entire day away. Even when I walked about it was as if I was in a daze. Barely lucid, like a dream.

The entertainment was as good as you might expect on a cruise ship. Song and dance, one dirty comic, weird haphazard shows on the tv, pools, saunas, buffets, a casino, and booze. Most of it was perfect for sitting around and staring at through a drunken lens- which is what you do when you have UNLIMITED alcohol. I know I keep harping on this, but it made a real difference in the trip. We paid $400 each for it, and I’m not sure we got our full money’s worth in booze, but it was so satisfying to not worry about the cost of things. All we did was hand over our ship’s card and BOOM as much as we wanted. That’s what makes it Royal Caribbean better than Carnival. On Carnival they limit you to 15 drinks a day and make you wait five minutes before ordering a second drink. That will not do.
As such I didn’t do much on sea days, except eat and drink. I tried the spa but it was incredibly annoying. The treatments weren’t included in the regular ship price and then they kept trying to upsell me services. Hot rocks, seaweed wraps, and no matter what I got, there was always another higher service to pimp to me. I got so irritated that it ruined the treatment and got me even more stressed out than when I began.
The food? Good and bad. There were three specialty restaurants on the ship: A chop house, an Italian eatery, and a Japanese joint. The last two were fantastic. The chop house- I suppose it would be good, but I now live with a gourmet chef, who knows how to prepare the best tasting steaks I’ve ever had. There were also sit down dinners that were terrible- not enough cooks- all the food was lukewarm at best and hastily thrown together. We never went back after the first night, opting for the buffet every time.

But the ship was not the main point of the honeymoon. We were all about the destinations. And I will discuss them in the next blog.

 For more readings, try books by Rex Hurst. 

Thursday, March 21, 2019

The Rodiad pt. III: The Nature of BDSM

This is the third and last part of the Rodiad, a vaguely pornographic poem on about being whipped, penned sometime in the 19th Century. For some reason, this seems to be a stand out fixation of sexual deviancy in Victorian England. This was not just limited to men. Many women’s magazines and off-color books had spicy tales of women in bondage, whipped by men and women alike. The lesbian angle in Victorian literature was almost a universally presented in a master-slave context.

And, I believe there lies the crux in why flagellation was so popular in Victorian times. It’s the same reason why Fifty Shades of Grey is so popular today. It isn’t the whipping per se, it is the overall appeal of the bondage scene, the BDSM movement. Some love the feeling of power. Some love to be helpless, and have no responsibilities of their own.

The Rodiad pt. III

There, too, poor parents clear a little sum,


By letting out a child’s attractive bum

To any wealthy whipper who may come —

“Here, sir’s my Johnny — he’s the lad to squeak

He’s not had his allowance for a week.”


“Oh, sir, I ’m sure you ’ll like my William best —


I ’ve brought him here, sir, at the squire’s request ;

Who says he’s of a band of thieves the chief,


And must be flogged till his behind’s raw beef —

So work him well, and keep him in your power,


I ’m sure he ’s cheap at eighteenpence an hour ; ”

Their love in various stages intervenes,

And adds its raptures to these lively scenes ;

O’er bleeding bottoms hardest hearts relent,

And maiden arms impassioned youth content —

The Rod is cupid’s surest instrument.


Mid folks of high degree, the rod ’s astir —

At Eton, Harrow, Rugby, Westminster,

Six days in seven making due sensation

Among the best posteriors of the nation ;


At Winchester, aristocratic prigs

Are twigged without reserve by apple twigs.

But in the middle ranks, I ’m grieved to say,


The Rod scarce holds its honourable sway ; —

Tradesmen I know with many a blooming boy

Who scarce the privilege of the birch employ,


And for whole months, through innocence or pride,

Never discuss a prentice’s backside.

Saddlers and shoemakers have no excuse,


With tingling straps at hand for homely use,

If in their household reigns the least abuse,

In ropeyards arses pleasantly are flayed ;

But the whipmakeds is the lovely trade —


Each thong he fabricates he 's bound to see

That it performs its business properly ;

So its impression on the children tries,


Watching the weals how thick and red they rise

Till their exposed posteriors tell the tale,


Of every whip he keeps exposed for sale.


The Clergy, careless of the Word of God,

Too often “spoil the child and spare the rod;”

Unlike that old goat Solomon, who had

Pleasures enough to drive a fellow mad —

With scores of splendid wives before his eyes,

And all their offsprings’ bottoms to chastise ;


’Tis curious how he found the time to write,

Whipping and wenching all the day and night.

Time was — before the philanthropic trash —


When jails resounded with the hearty lash ;


When any morning some known rogue you ’d meet

At the cart’s-tail sent yelling through the street ;

While the delighted crowd with jovial cries,

Urged on the hangman’s boisterous exercise.

The West-end dainties paid a visit daily,


To see the strumpets whipped at the Old Bailey,

And made high bets which blubbering lass would bare

The finest bubbies to the public air;


But now to turn a crank or tread a wheel

Is all the pain our criminals must feel ;


And for all punishment each pilfering elf

Is shut up in a cell to have — himself;


In peace no drummer boy now fairly mangles

The ruffian rascals lashed to the triangles —


And only in the camp or bivouac

Is the black deed paid off by purple back.

Some merchant captain now and then at sea

Asserts the rope’s-end’s due authority,

And with tarred cat-o’-nine-tails strips the skin,


Sheer off the flesh — a famous discipline ;

While for his private and domestic fun,

He ties each youngster to his cabin gun,


And makes the “ sea-boy ” find a “ home more rude ’

Than even on the top-mast’s altitude.

Now for one instance, ere I close my song,

How this good habit helps a chap along :


A clerk, not twenty-eight, with charming wife,

And seven stout children to support in life,

Three boys besides whom, illegitimate,

A shipwrecked brother left to any fate —

Thus he sustains with unremitting toil,

And makes the pot in honest plenty boil;



Tells all his friends he is the happiest dog,

With such a wife to kiss — such lads to flog —

Saying he’d rather whip them at his ease,

Before his frugal meal of bread and cheese,

Than have the grandest supper in the land,

And be debarred from taking rod in hand.


The lady every day fresh birches prepares

To hand her husband as he runs upstairs,


And finds the children to their night clothes stripped,

All ready to be sent to bed or whipped ;


Then he looks o’er the offences of the day —

The unsaid lesson or the truant play ;


The sulky looks, the fight, the pert reply —

If he’s in luck — some fault of deeper die;

And as the informant each misdeed asserts,

He daintily pins up the culprits’ shirts,


And does the needful as their size may be —

Across the bed or clasped upon his knee —

So be it with each English Family.


O ye who still hold flagellation dear,

Maintain it bravely each in his own sphere ;

Parents, schoolmasters, guardians do your best

Never to let the Rod in torpor rest —


Extend the practice, propagate the zest;

Flog at all times, in every novel mode,

Instruct your teachers in the Bushby Code ;


Shew how when gratified this appetite

Conduces to the comforts of the night;

And the wife’s favours you will soon enlist,


Who finds the more he flogs, the more she’s kissed.

Let every nurse have licence free and large,

To scarify her juveniles in charge;


And make each nursery, in its form and rule,

A real Preparatory Flogging School.

Let children take it as the natural thing,

Early to taste the birch’s simple sting;


While canes and cats, and various whips impart

Their own experiences of all kinds of smart ;


Till they find out that their behinds are made

To be kept always scarred and sometimes flayed —

And that all education means — educe

This way or that — the bottom’s purple juice.


Delightful sport ! whose never failing charm

Makes young blood tingle and keeps old blood warm

From you I have no fancy to repair

To where unbottomed. cherubs haunt the air ;


Rather, methinks, I could with better grace

Present myself at some inferior place —

There offer, without salary, to pursue,


The business that on earth I best could do —

Propose to scourge the diabolic flesh,

For ever tortured and for ever fresh ;


Cut up with red-hot wire adulterous Queens,

Man-burning Bishops, Sodomizing Deans ;

Punish with endless pain a moment’s crime,

And whip the wicked out of space and time

Xor if the “Eternal Schoolmaster” is stern,

And dooms me to correction in my turn,

Shall I complain? When better hope is past,

Flog and be flogged— is no bad fate at last.



 For more readings, try books by Rex Hurst.