Substack

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Just So You Know…

/ Phil Strawn / 5 Comments

A Few Things I Did This Week That Make Sense To Me

The Texan before I gave up smoking

I deleted my Substack account. I found out that being contacted by people I don’t know with idiotic, maniacal rants from people on a keyboard that I would ever care to know outside of social media is not for me. It was supposed to be a site for serious writers to submit their short stories or articles, but it is really X, Bluesky, and Facebook hidden in a different format. Political hate, pure hate, impure hate, giddy hate, ignorant hate, and liberal white woman hate against us white guys who write are the worst kinds that I have found in my research. Socialism, communism, LGBTQ+ism, Muslimism, you name it, they are all there. So adios MF. Get a damn job and stop posting filtered or fake selfies of yourselves in fake places made with AI. No one under thirty years old has any real friends anymore; everyone they know is an AI-generated figure on their phone.

For now, I will keep my Notes From The Cactus Patch on Facebook because it publishes there automatically, and many of my old high school friends and the few family members who still speak to me follow it. I may or may not keep X; it does the same, but damn, people are flat-out Street Rat-crazy and evil on that platform. WordPress is where I will stay, even with all of its faults and liberal happiness engineers, who are a bunch of folks in India sitting at a keyboard figuring out a way to steal your identity and sell it to the Dark Web. I know, it happened to both Momo and me. We now have a service that watches and catches everything, and it is not Lifelock, but much better: meaner, with actual humans named Guido and Luiggi who will go to their home basement and break bones, or worse. The owner of the service is related to the lateTony Saprano.

Did anyone pay attention to the defeat of most of the Democratic Socialist Party candidates? Most of them got their pansy ignorant commie butts handed to them in a Red Mao grocery bag. And now, that smiling-Commie Rat Bastard Mayor in New York City wants his favorite goat, excuse me, I mean his wife, to have a security team the size of President Trumps when she visits her homeland of whatever the hell it is over there in Muslim land. They had better pack extra hay and oats for her meals. Within a few months, that demon has turned one of our great cities into a third-world shit-hole equal to Mexico or Somalia, and the entire state of Michigan is lost: might as well nuke the state and be done with it. There, now I feel better. Have a good day, and God Bless Texas and the Alamo. I wish Paul Harvey were still around.

The Texan

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From Skeptic to Writer: A Texan’s Dive into Substack

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments
The Texan

At the behest of my university-educated and business-savvy son, I took the plunge into the world of Substack, a venture that, mere days ago, felt as alien to me as a distant star or a life-ending asteroid. I had heard murmurs of its name in passing, as I walked by the youngsters at church, yet I had dismissed it as just another one of those social media realms teeming with the eccentric and the unhinged, the kind of characters who seem to have a direct plugged in line from their phones to some endless well of chaos in their minds; perhaps I shall be proven right, though time will tell. “They,” you know, the ones that seem to know everything, say this space is meant for writers and thinkers, for those of reason and reflection, free from the vitriol of bomb throwers and purveyors of discord. So, I remain cautious, waiting to see what unfolds. My heart is heavy with weariness of Twitter and X, a landscape that has become the breeding ground for hatred and the raving lunatics of our age, where the young teeter on the brink of madness, consumed by their own shadows cast by the glow of their phones and laptops in the dark of night as they sit drinking a Redbull Margarita while consuming a bag of gluten free Cheetos as they watch re-runs of Friends, the Best of CNN or the latest Ken Burns series. Further posts will confirm my suspicions or surprises.

We’re a suspicious, scurrilous, and at times uncouth crowd not fit for fine dining at a Waffle House, but right at home at a 24-hour Whataburger or consuming gas-station sushi after a night of drinking Jack Daniels, sitting in a bass boat telling lies and catching crappie. Stay tuned.