“‘No, I am not weak on transgender,’ Milley replied. ‘I just don’t care who sleeps with who.’”
General Mark Milley, quoted in Susan B. Glasser and Peter Baker, “Inside the War Between Trump and His Generals,” The New Yorker (Aug. 15, 2022)
Professing not to care who sleeps with whom is a shibboleth of today’s enlightened thought. Professing indifference to what consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedroom is another way to perform this obeisance to the priapic god of erotic liberation. But the sentiment behind these shibboleth is, like that behind so many modern shibboleths, profoundly retarded because the future health and happiness of our race depends on nothing so much as who is today sleeping with whom, and what those adults do when their bedroom doors are closed.
Demography is destiny in this sublunar world, and all demography is, in the last analysis, a question of who sleeps with whom and what they do when they are “sleeping.” As an old eugenicist might have said, it would be a very queer horse farm where no one cared which stallion mounted which mare, or whether that stallion discharged its semen within swimming distance of the mare’s uterus. Likewise queer is a society in which no one professes to care that
“Brainless numbskulls cross with opium victims; misshapen dwarves marry measly maids; insane idiots beget babies by besotted bums . . .”
And yet General Milley shows us that we are that queer society. In the spirited words of the shameless author just quoted,
“Americans . . . of all the earth, have been the most disregardful of proper race-breeding. In fact, since the old colonial days, we have actually imported all sorts of stuff from all parts of the planet, and taken blood of all shades up into our veins by converting the United States into a kind of procreation-pen, in which experimentation is going on, apparently with the view of observing how many different kinds of crazy creature we can turn out!”*
America has more recently effectively gelded many of its males by suggesting that they might prefer to ejaculate into a mouth, an anus, an armpit, or even, fourth-of-July-fireworks-like, into the free American air. I yesterday quoted an old English ballad that mocked the Puritans as sexual libertines, but that did not dream that they might go so far into sexual depravity as to one day forget that Puritan rutting was essential to Puritan reproduction.
Lo in this Church all shall be free
To enjoy their Christian liberty;
All things made common, t’avoid strife,
Each man may take another’s wife,
And keep a handmaid too, if need,
To multiply, increase, and breed.
If this stanza were rewritten to describe the present inhabitants of this Sweet Land of Erotic Liberty, it would perhaps go something like this:
Lo in this Land all shall be free
To claim erotic liberty;
All poking equal, t’avoid strife,
Here man may take a man for wife,
And those who still for handmaids lust,
Plant seed where it shall dry to dust.
* * * * *
It is fitting that this Sweet Land of Erotic Liberty is defended by a man like General Milley, who is absolutely sound on an American’s Constitutional right to poke whatever, wherever, and whenever he pleases, but who is also wary of endorsing any unpopular applications of this libertine principle. In the quote at the head of this post, Milley was assuring then President Trump that he would not put a uniform on an American who was born equipped to poke, but who had for some reason decided he was not a poker. We may suppose that this Napoleon of our Nookie Nation was likewise, at least officially, opposed to the enlistment or commissioning of an American who was born pokable, and pokable in a place where poking can be prolific, but who had for some reason decided that she was, in truth, a poker.
It was in this principled ditch that that General Milley was for the moment prepared to die. But the moment naturally passed, and the ditch was naturally abandoned, because a man who does not care who sleeps with whom cannot honestly care what hangs, or what formerly hung, or even what might in future hang or fail to hang, between a pair of legs. A man who is indifferent to what consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedroom, and who smiles on the sodomite and wanker just as warmly as he smiles on a father of five, must be likewise indifferent to what surgeons and patients do in the privacy of their consulting rooms and surgeries. If one cannot judge a man because he regularly indulges a taste for buggery, one certainly cannot judge a man because he has chosen, with a surgeon’s assistance, to remove the instrument with which he might indulge that taste.
So here is an old song re-sung in the spirit of this Sweet Land of Erotic Liberty
My country did decree,
Of these I sing;
Though spermatozoon died,
Blushes here sterile bride,
Yet from every mountainside
Cries of climax ring!
My native country, thee,
From procreation free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy titty bars,
Bill Clinton’s dank cigars;
Gender reassignment scars,
Let sex talk swell the breeze,
Make leaves fall from the trees—
Parades of pride;
Let lusty tongues awake;
Let all whoopee partake;
Spouse and priest their vows break,
No itch denied.
Our fathers’ god to thee,
Author of lechery,
To thee we sing.
Long may our land delight,
Birth control our birthright,
No proscribed appetite,
Eros our King!