The Cum Shots of a Conservative

New York writer J.R. Taylor serves liberal-loathing patron saint Russ Meyer and his like-minded B-movie-fan ilk at the one-of-a-kind Right Wing Trash.

Anyone reared in New York City (like me) who can claim any intellectual worth and/or a congenital anti-authoritarian streak (again like me, but maybe just the second part) can not help but come to hate and despise and abhor and be allergic to capital-L Liberals.

Yes, yes, there is much to the chestnut: “If you’re not a communist at 20 you have no heart, and if you’re still a communist at 40, you have no head.”

But given the slightest hint of horse(’s ass) sense, that process is sped up incalculably by the cramped confines of New York and from that bleeding-heart-ruled petrie-commode has been bred a unique cobbling together of libertarianism, fascism, and anarchism.

The essential philosophy goes: “I like cops.I like the armed forces. I like the death penalty. I like law and order. I don’t trust foreigners. I don’t trust anyone, in fact. I hate bankrolling politicians. I hate bankrolling the ghetto. I hate welfare (especially corporate). I hate religion, beginning with Islam and moving up toward human versions. I hate anybody who tells me how I must think. Let homos marry. And please just leave me all kinds of the fuck alone when it comes to drugs and hookers and guns and abortion and violent entertainment and obscenity.”

This school of thought is embodied by philosophers such as Howard Stern, Colin Quinn, Nick Dipaolo, and Jim Norton.

And me.

And in New York City, that means standing against an Establishment that is so to-the-marrow Liberal that the Honorable Michael Bloomberg, whom I generally like but who lawfully forced Roll-N-Roaster to inform me how many calories come in a Beef With Cheez, has to run as a Republican.

However, since relocating to the Midwest in 2003, my tune has changed a mite. I ain’t nearly the Pat-Buchanan-hugger I always was back in Gotham.

I used to wonder how people could leave such seemingly lovely locales like Iowa and Indiana and Missouri to stew among the five boroughs’ garbage heaps (human and otherwise).

But now, as Chris Rock once famously remarked of O.J., I understand.

Chicago, where I presently reside, is the third largest city in America and it’s a hick town.

These people are hayseeds. Lovely folk, but rubes. To the core.

And, in True Bigot fashion, let me state that this gross generalization does NOT apply to my friends or the people I like here, of course, the same way that my friends in New York are not any of the shitty kinds of New Yorky.

I’m just lucky that way.

That acknowledged, it turns out that “The Square,” that perpetually caricatured suburban, church-going, golf-loving, country club Republican Dad, is REAL! I always thought he was just an old National Lampoon article or Saturday Night Live sketch.

So I get why those who are inclined to be interesting/interested in life gets out of their parents’ home in Our Nation’s Heartland and immediately look to the left or look to the right and keep running until they hit an ocean.

And if they do stay put, they have to get as weird as Bloodyminded and Lil Princess, which is actually the epitome of awesome.

Regardless, my hostility toward our Enlightened Progressive Class burns with hot, but eminently rational, resentment.

All this is a long way of plugging for J.R. Taylor’s conservative take on B-movies, weird rock, and overall gutter-rung show business, Right Wing Trash.

Mr. Taylor himself fled some pig-sodomist locale like Alabama or Georgia decades ago for the (at least) entertaining insanity of my hometown Major Metropolitan Area. From there, he routinely ruffled ass-hairs as a columnist for The New York Press.

Tellingly, only the pink-leaning weenies among his NYP colleagues scored book deals and – egad – what looks to be the most appalling molestation of HBO airwaves since Sarah Jessica Parker hung up her make-believe vulva.

I don’t buy that J.R. is as actually right-wing as he feels obliged to claim – which, specifically, goes beyond Barry Goldwater/Clint Eastwood-style common reasoning and into Sean Hannity/“Praise Jesus!” nonsense.

If a man could swallow that feces, why leave the Dirty Dirty where rents are low and the skies remain blue and devoid of hobo phlegm year-round?

And could this man in particular actually, knowing that Hell comes as the price, write extensively on
The Top 5 Conservative Porno Movies?

What’s not debatable is the muscularity of Mr. Taylor’s writing.

His descriptive powers are evocative to the best extremes and I have bowed, countless times, to his might with a wisecrack.

Plus there’s the whole bizarro perspective on the world, the flesh, and the devil movies that is not, I am happy to report, uniquely J.R.’s, but which is laid out in a voice that is, most assuredly, all his.

No matter what your politics, the prickly wit and brawny language feats on display at Right Wing Trash make it a must among daily destinations.