A Genealogy of Morals[A Short Story]

New Flowers of Evil; or

An Ornery Man Speaks

of Fleas, Rats, Misogyny and Garbage in the Lawn,

as Well as New Home Owners who Destroy Beautiful Gardens

and Cut Down Fruit Trees

Turning their Fronts into Deserts


Newly Laid Concrete Patches

Much, Much Hotter in the Summer Sun




Venting my spleen of bile.

Living in this city, this sewer, this pit . . .

This is especially for you my hypocrite brothers; everyone of you another mirror for me to see.

What do I have to offer you, to say for us, to say as I see, what I see when I do—who am I? I ask. You ask, I know. You want to know who I think I am to say as I do what he says has said will say? Who do I have to be? Who is he? You must also wonder. I also say, Who does he have to be? Does anyone have to be anybody to say what anybody should be able to say without fear of reprisals, only responses, rebuttals, refutations.

All ideas, all eruptions of bile—no filter? Censorship is only a filter some of you say. Some of you want all ideas expressed to conform to one and only one consensus. How is that possible, in any way you examine it? Consensus, consensus, non-sensus.


Idiots, pigs, simpletons, peasants and infantilized women who smile like the stereotypical morons I am imagining he thinks they are ” . . . and thus it is simpler and easier for anyone systematically under-educated to imagine a fascist response is quicker to remedy the situations that arise politically and socially from such people proliferating among,” he says. he wonders how contemporary liberals ever got semi-literate enough to mismanage freedom and democracy as badly as they have these last twenty-five years or more? 

“Do you think you will reform any of the pigs I see every day in my neighborhood stinking as they do bodily, tossing shitty pampers in lawns, turning over their rice and pita bread on the sidewalk or in the lawns around my building for birds and rats to eat?” He asked without any attempt to instruct or reform. Satire has been lost in his attempts to say what he sees; after all, if you see something, say something, right?

Words have become stones for him, has never had an aversion to throwing one or two or more, who do I have to be, he has said, I think I can recall hearing him having said this, who do I have to be to say what I do, there is no Truth, there are not truths, we worship and raise to the level of messianic or angelic messenger any one of a number of actors, celebrities, politicians, criminals, pimps or prostitutes (but then all married women are prostitutes under traditional marriage, which is why I am confused as to why gay men and gay women want to be married . . .).

Without Truth or truths; without universals or any absolutes—fuck you, I can say what I want when I want to whomever I want about whomever I want wherever I want I know I remember having heard him say, this way or similarly, these words or others.

He does not pause to imagine himself without sin; he does not believe that that has any relevance in today’s world where there is no Truth and there are no truths. Doubt, oh my hypocrite brothers, has become the highest wisdom; and you should understand that hat has passed for literacy and education these thirty or more years is comical enough, but in how criminally stupid it has left most men and women charged with managing our day to day lives is . . . you know exactly what it is, how it is, where it has left us, and to where it is bringing us, no? You prefer to pretend; irresponsibility has masqueraded as freedom for so long . . . oh! my brothers, my hypocrite brothers, pretend some more, pretend again you do not know, what has been, what is, or what is going to be because of what is and has been for too long.

The Will to Power, you fucking idiots; the Will to Power is all you have left us with, so  now that the ducks have come home to roost . . . too bad, is it not, what you imagined was going to liberate us.



He says with vehemence and an emotion that scares his girlfriend, “Six or seven centuries ago bodies were burning bright. Ashes were in the air as all fell down. The symmetry of the Black Death was as fearful as anything Europe had experienced or would later experience. The Holocaust paled in comparison to the numbers and percentages of people who died in the plague,” he said. The plague was a purge, he said, in words now formed by me from what I have heard him say. And I know you want me to judge him for you; that would make you more comfortable. I know that you want me to explain to you why you need to say later what you really would prefer me to say for you now. Parrots! (Have you ever noticed how the word ‘parrot’ and the word ‘parasite’ share alliteration and internal consonance? Not interesting to you? Who are you, anyway?)

Now, if you do not like hearing this, then it is too bad for you because I am not going to alter my diction. What I tell and how I tell it is of no never mind to you. You have the choice of not reading what I write. He is who he is, what he is, when and where he is, however he is to whomever he has been and will be . . . a racist, to some, their opinions, that is. Most of what he says he says in his home or in his blog or in his longhand journals. He rarely interacts this way with those he criticizes–is it critique? To critique or not to critique, that might be a question for someone who had the ability to critique, which would require the ability to think and the ability to write at a level of complexity lost on both most people who do write and many who imagine it is reading they are performing when they superficially skim the pages or screens of their laptops.

“Fleas,” he would say, “on rats overrunning Europe . . . and trying to tell the peasants in my building compound,” he would add, “that when they think they are feeding the birds they are also feeding the rats, falls on deaf ears. And what they throw in the grass for the birds is what you should throw in the garbage–the only thing I think I want to do, or is it that I want to imagine doing, is beat with a stick these horribly infantilized women standing open-mouthed with their simpleton faces as a recommendation for their beating,” he says knowing he would never do so, or, as he likes to add, “because I would never get away with it. But their men are the one’s who should be beaten for their endemic misogyny–and do not tell me that that’s not what it is because that is exactly what it is,” he has said and said in these and other words similar to them and not so similar to them. “It’s like trying to harness an ornery mule talking to them even when they understand English, or perhaps that fucked up English they call English in their country,” he has said, “which is English straight out of the ass.” He pauses. He continues. He speaks. He thinks. He says again; he writes in his journal, one or another of what he has said herein through quotes by me.



You may or may not want to hear more, but there is more, and not just in the linear sense of continuation, extension, with or without reason, justification, sound rationalization. Yes, he says what he says has said will say, as Isay others do the say, always saying what they say, have said, will say . . . what am I going to be saying next about what he says herein?

“Good people are those who are content to dream what the wicked actually practice, no? And do not ask me if there are wicked people, or if the term wicked is appropriate.  But what am I talking about here? Certainly not goodness or mercy, which should follow everyone his or her entire life? Yeah though I walk down the streets with horribly fucked up people—it is mind-boggling how stupid too many Pakistani families keep their women . . . some mountain village narrow-minded version of Sharia Law which is fucked up in the most enlightened Muslim,” he says, has said in these and other words; there are always other words from him about how endemically “misogynist most cultures under the umbrella of Islam are–themselves having been improved by Islam,” he reminds us as we listen, “which is why you cannot get many Muslims to understand how misogynist they are,” he repeats in these and other words; words, words and more words about how “anyone is welcome but how that does mean I must endure their impossibly degenerate way of treating where they live,” he says, “as if the trash and litter that seemed to proliferate as Bensonhurst turned from Italian to Cantonese was normal,” he said.

He said, “filth and more litter and garbage than you could imagine,” he said. “And they turn every property they buy into shit, cutting down apple trees, peach trees, pear trees and fig trees that were planted, cultivated and grown by the Italian owners they bought the houses from,” he said, “turning every beautiful garden into a desert or some concrete patch definitely ten to fifteen degrees hotter in the summer sun, the fucking idiots,” he says with racist contempt.

Do not look to me for any criticism of him. I will not offer critique of him or anything he says has said is likely again to say, saying some of these things to them themselves, like the Chinese man he asked “Why are you cutting down a beautiful peach tree?”  He had seen for years walking past the once Italian family’s property, and had to say “Idiot, even if you do not like peaches, you should like shade since your window faces the setting sun. Jack ass!” when the Chinese man turned and nervously smiled  “that imbecile’s smile you see on every human face everywhere anywhere people are nervous—I saw it on American faces in Paris,” he said.

I will not critique what he says in any extended form. That is for you. I’m not going to ask if he’s racist because I already know you are, whether you are white or black, Protestant or Catholic, Jewish or Asian or whatever have you. I know how bigoted you are against Russians or against Italian-Americans; it’s really not funny anymore, and you know how the media and those who run it would be if how they portray Russians or Italians were used to portray Jewish people or African-American people . . . And do not try to tell me that you are not racist because there is no more room in anybody for how full of shit each of us is in this America weaned on greed, corruption and fraud.

This here is what it is and how it is in a circumscribed way. No moralizing from me, my hypocrite reader. And you have to know that you are hypocrites—and it does not matter if I am too; that fact or not fact would not subtract from the truth value of your hypocrisy.  “And yeah,” he says with vehemence, “like Pakistan is not shit hole which is what allows too many decent people from Pakistan to inadvertently turn our building and building complex into a shit hole of garbage and litter. I have seen Pakistani women on more than one occasion take their babies’s pampers full of shit and put them unwrapped in the public trash, or, as one I saw, in a neighbor’s lawn, just over the fence, as she stood with her baby’s carriage waiting to cross the street in Brooklyn. You do know that the only thing they who do this will ever understand is a stick across the back because they have no respect for themselves let alone any one else,” he said as if anyone who disagreed were a barbarian or an idiot. “Mill stones on the head, remember Nietzsche?”



Beating dead cows and throwing out too many puppies with flea bath waters has been a practice observed.



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