Connexion
Cambodian dictator Hun Sen’s level of corruption and depravity is also instructive, since it’s mirrored by other leaders, including the world’s most visible.
with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.
Thy Sovantha — Aug 24, 2025.
Though Hun Sen’s official title is President of the Senate, every Cambodian knows he’s still their dictator, as he’s been for 38 years. On 8/3/25, Hun Sen announced 30-year-old Thy Sovantha had been kicked out of the Cambodian People’s Party and fired from her job as vice mayor of Arey Ksat, a city of just 76,000 people.
His explanation, “We don’t have time to educate undisciplined cadres when national matters demand attention. Time and again, Thy Sovantha has posted inappropriate messages on FaceBook. I’ve personally called her to request she delete two recent posts. Today, she again posted a message that’s harmful to our military even as our soldiers are defending our nation.”
A day or two later, Hun Sen also stripped Thy Sovantha of her citizenship, and booted her entire family out of the country. She’s lucky to not be murdered. What has this minor Cambodian politician done to incur such wrath, and why should you care?
Off the coast of Sihanoukville is Koh Tang, a paradisal island that houses thousands of forced laborers and sex slaves of many nationalities, according to Thy Sovantha. She has even compiled names of victims. Those no longer useful are killed for their organs. Since a heart is worth one million bucks and a liver $560,000, nobody should be wasted. Vietnamese already know Koh Tang as where 513 of their compatriots perished, after being kidnapped by the Khmer Rouge in 1975 from Thổ Chu, an island 65 miles away. After being worked to death, their corpses were used to fertilize jackfruit, coconut and mango trees. So quaint, such a primitive solution.
With the Kingdom of Cambodia technically a democracy with the king just a figurehead, such horrors are supposed to be passé, but slaves are still trapped across Cambodia. Mostly controlled by Chinese, they enrich the Hun Sen clan.
Before this episode, Thy Sovantha was already famous for her stunning looks. At age 18, she emerged as a supporter of Sam Rainsy, a flamboyant politician now living in exile. When Thy Sovantha switched her allegiance to Hun Sen, it’s assumed she had been bought off. No one really cared, since she was so soothing to stare at. Unlike Kristi Noem, she hasn’t been cut up every which way, then nervously reassembled like some thrift store jigsaw puzzle.
Hun Sen’s level of corruption and depravity is also instructive, since it’s mirrored by other leaders, including the world’s most visible. To these monsters, young women and girls are only useful for sex, young men are to be worked to death or sent to battles, with the rest just useless eaters to be murdered, with their organs harvested. Jewjab was a particularly cute solution, since people were charged to be injured or even killed. Those with “long Covid” can be fleeced for years until death.
With Thy Sovantha so visible, Hun Sen couldn’t just zap her. This decision may prove fatal. Humiliated by Thailand and abandoned by China, he’s already in deep shit. From overseas, Sovantha will speak out even more. Perhaps the old creep is also smitten by this beauty.
Whenever in Saigon, Hun Sen stays, for some reason, at the middle-brow Tân Lộc Hotel by Bến Thành Market. Frequenting nearby eateries, he’s well known for squeezing waitresses’ shoulders. Near corpses can’t help but grab.
In Jordan last month, I thought often about Ghassan Kanafani. Married to a Dane, this Palestinian could have fled to safety. Instead, he stayed most outspoken in the Middle East, so was murdered by Jews, along with his 17-year-old niece, in Beirut. Challenging Cambodia’s most powerful man, Thy Sovantha also flirted with death. There’s also the example of Albania’s Musine Kokalari. Educated in Italy, she could have just stayed there. Instead, Kokalari came home to write in her native language and become politically involved. Though this wrecked her life, her courage and integrity still inspire.
Nations that lack Kanafanis, Sovanthas, Kokalaries or Nam Caos don’t survive. A life’s worth shouldn’t be measured in years, but in meaningful, decisive acts, whether honorable, cowardly or merely misguided. These considerations are moot, however, if men are on auto pilot. With ChatGPT, Chatsonic and whatever else, half dead brains can just drift. In self driving cars, they can just text or ogle at porn.
For a week, I had this stubborn cough, runny nose and slight headache. Only yesterday did I get some pills from Pharmacity. Done with this article by 7:33AM, I will trek a few miles, just to wade into tactile life again. Unmediated experience is never a waste of time. I’m lucky to be in a society with streets still alive.
Couch or cubicle bound serfs can keep mooning at Thy Sovantha, but remember, she’s not just a pretty face!
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 7/22/25
Ah, Life! — Aug 25, 2025.
Doing nothing, 29-year-old Vinh gets 200K [$7.60] a day from his parents. After high school, he did enter college to study tourism management. He lasted just one year. Like millions of similar youths across this globe, Vinh’s defeated lifestyle is enabled by the internet. Its free music, porn, video games and TikTok skits give his life meaning. He’s entertained.
Walking to Coffee Seven this pre dawn, I paused to chat with BlueTooth. As always, he was listening to Eminem. That sonic monotony defines and anchors him.
“I don’t know any Vietnamese who can rap that rapidly,” I said. “Do you?”
“I met this kid who claimed his crew could do it.”
“Could he?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“What does it mean, to rap so rapidly?”
“It means you can sing without thinking!” He sounded awed. “We can’t do it yet.”
When BlueTooth said that rap must be authentic, I pointed out the obvious. Most rappers are broke assed pussies who pose as loaded gangstas. Like Trump or Uncle Sam, they’re fakes. Since I must think before singing, I couldn’t be so elaborate or exact. Still, I got my point across.
Arriving at Coffee Seven, I noticed a Chevrolet Orlando parked outside. Though an American brand, it’s made in South Korea and never sold in the USA, so a fake, basically. It belongs to Mrs. Seven’s niece. As the Assistant Post Master General of Ho Chi Minh City, she can afford these nice wheels. Nearing 50, she’s never married. Her two sisters are also unmarried career women. This global progression towards isolation is accelerating, and mostly welcomed.
Tribes in the Vietnamese Highlands used to live in multi-family long houses. The Hakka of southern China dwelled in enormous circular fortresses, so a vast home, basically, for each clan. Now, there are charmingly named cage apartments and coffin homes in Hong Kong. Five years ago in Seoul, I stayed for nearly a week in a tiny room that cost just $24 a night. It was fun as a novelty. Many South Koreans, though, must live that way. Four decades ago, I had friends who rented NYC closets they converted into bedrooms. Any space wide enough for a single mattress can be leased, obviously, with a first month, last month and security deposit, plus a background check. Your live in landlord wouldn’t want you to slide open that closet door at 3AM, so you can, you know, snuggle a bit. Tennessee Williams has fond memories of such encounters in New Orleans rooming houses. His best account of aroused strangers clawing for love is “Night of the Iguana,” of course.
Despite herself and almost unconsciously, a spinster manages to seduce a queer, but not to consummation. Just before coitus, she flees back to her room, so is, again, alone. Still, she has glimpsed a novel universe.
Consider this masterful passage, “Now she was sleepy. But just before falling asleep she remembered and felt again the spot of dampness, now turning cool but still adhering to the flesh of her belly as a light but persistent kiss. Her fingers approached it timidly. They expected to draw back with revulsion but were not so affected. They touched it curiously and even pityingly and did not draw back for a while. Ah, Life, she thought to herself and was about to smile at the originality of this thought when darkness lapped over the outward gaze of her mind.”
There’s nothing original about seeing semen as life, but it certainly feels that way to each virgin. There’s no mockery in Williams’ acknowledgement, only tremendous empathy. By adding pity to her wonderment, he’s also showing pity for all lonely bodies, including his, of course, for how many times did Tennessee touch that damp spot on his own belly?
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 7/24/25 ; (R): 8/24/25
Two weeks ago, Gina Schrank commented, “I loved hearing about your coffee lady caring for someone or other constantly.” After her mother’s stroke, Mrs. Seven had to wipe and wash her daily for 12 years. For a much shorter time, she had to do the same for her dad. “He used to clutch at his pants like this!” she told me. “But I had to do it. I couldn’t let him be so dirty.”
This morning, I found out Mrs. Seven also took care of her mother-in-law whenever she popped in for coffee, which was often. After escaping Vietnam by boat, this lady settled in California, but came home after two decades without her husband.
“She lived with her son, you know, so she wasn’t properly washed. A woman had to do it. I took her to the back. Her pussy was all slimy,” she chuckled at this memory. “I washed it.”
Her term for pussy is chim, by the way. It literally means “bird.” Makes no sense. Vietnamese also call cows “crawling animal,” con bò. They’re beyond goofy, man.
Though subjected to each deranged trend emanating from that Flaming Babylon on that distant, unreachable hill, almost no Vietnamese is tatted up, pierced and strutting down the street, acting tough. Even those in “cool looking” hoodies flaunt cutesy slogans and cartoon characters in pastel colors. The most clueless wear pyjamas all day long. The more image conscious, the more narcissistic thus insane you are.
Once upon a time Gore Vidal, Truman Capote or Tennessee Williams could be spotted on American television. That civilization is hardly remembered, much less missed. Now, there are only waves of cool zombies brushing against confused troops, freshly deployed. Their endless war has come home.
China’s Tang ping, South Korea’s N-po generation, UK’s NEET and Japan’s freeters are all descendants of Herman Meville’s Bartleby, that pathetic yet sublime Wall Street quitter. Steered towards a soulless, machinelike existence, they’ve all decided to mumble, “I’d prefer not to.” It would only be a passive suicide, though, if you’re not saying yes to anything.
For several years, I’ve photographed people staring at phones. Uploading my latest, I was struck by how insane they’ve become. It’s useless to say this can’t go on.
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/26/25
Stragglers in the Night — Aug 27, 2025.
Passing BlueTooth in the dark, I said, “We’re like ghosts. While other people sleep, we just…” I checked myself from saying “function.” Half an hour later, I still don’t know what verb would have been better, but perhaps “straggle”? You, me, him, we barely straggle, for we’re the luckiest.
Hearing me sneeze, Mrs. Seven’s bitch barked from behind her rusting steel door. Only today did I learn she’s called Nọng, a hideous name, and unique, too. Nasty Flannery O’Connor has a character named Hulga Hopewell. Mrs. Seven’s other dog, a male, is called Milk Cow, Bò Sữa. She also refers to him as “missus,” as in, “Missus always hides when it’s time to take a bath.” With our quirks, secrets, shameful solutions or perversions we get by, hopefully without being humiliated or jailed.
Before leaving my high ceilinged, French built room, I listened to a monologue by The Functional Melancholic. Witty, thought provoking, well read and with a good delivery, he’d have drawn live audiences 30 years ago, like Spalding Gray, but today, he must earn his keeps on YouTube. “Civilization’s Inevitable Collapse” has provoked 1,500 comments after just a week, so he’s raising urgent yet all-too-familiar issues. From Thoreau to John Zerzan, many have articulated the despair and horrors of being trapped in conformist America.
The Functional Melancholic, “While most of us are staggering under debt and spiritual emptiness that’s become so routine and ubiquitous, it might as well be direct deposited with our paychecks at this point. The question, ‘Do you like civilization?’ is about as absurd as asking, ‘Do you like your nervous system?’”
A typical response, “I was sitting in my cube today, trying to be grateful for still having a decent job, when a realization hit me. The world just feels.. wrong. Everything about it is wrong. Nothing is the way it should be. It’s all backwards and upside down. It’s like Morpheus said: it’s like a splinter in the mind. It’s suffocating.”
I heard Spalding Gray around 1985. Going to the Painted Bride, I passed through Washington Square. Thousands of Revolutionary War soldiers, plus a few Brits, are buried there in unmarked graves. Seeing me with a white girl, some dude, perhaps homeless, started chasing us with a fallen tree branch. I’m betting he’s a Vietnam Vet who suddenly spotted a Viet Cong. Brushing off this goofy episode, we enjoyed Gray’s performance. In 2004, this Manhattanite jumped off the Staten Island Ferry into the East River, so that’s that.
During my 35 years in the USA, I never got a credit card, so never spent cash I didn’t have. I bought two used cars, which I drove for less than two years altogether. I never got a mortgage. There were times I counted pennies at checkout counters. With such a minimal lifestyle, of course I was a loser to most eyes, but so what. Once I was paid to talk to a class at the Philadelphia Community College. The very next day, I was washing windows at Rittenhouse Square. The term gig economy hadn’t been invented. With buckets of hot water, squeegees and scrunched up newspapers, I roamed through Center City with Lee Goldston. Despite his name, Lee was just this black dude from North Carolina. Lee’s business card said, “Associated Philadelphia International Company,” but my own father, with a single restaurant in Santa Clara, CA, called his backwoods operation “Kobe International.”
“How is it international?” I asked him.
“That’s for the future. Kobe will be international!”
That’s Trumpian or Muskian logics. Since you can’t absolutely rule out any possibility, you can just say anything, but only to morons, of course.
With Klarma, afterpay and affirm, Americans are postponing paying in full even their fastfood burger, burrito or reconstituted chicken. They’re also skipping payments on their houses and cars. Even if your blood pressure is spiking and your nuts are freezing, everything is cool, sort of, as long as there are deep fried calories in your belly.
By early 2018, Tony and his sister no longer had electricity or heat, but they were still eating and, most importantly, drinking. With Latinos taking over his kitchen, Tony became just a parking lot attendant, but his furtive stealing finally got Tony fired. His aging sister was only given the worst tables at her waitressing job. All Friendly Lounge’s regulars gave Tony money so he wouldn’t starve. His last words to us before disappearing for good, “This is your last chance to lend me money!” That wouldn’t be a bad line in any monologue.
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/26/25
Since it’s 6AM, I will wrap up today’s monologue. Straggling home, I will cook up some spaghetti, to eat with a beef burger patty. A recent indulgence are cubes of sugar free dark chocolate, bought at Lotte Supermarket.
One last detail before I forget or get struck by lightning. During the Vietnam War, Mrs. Seven’s dad made good money selling pot to American soldiers. Getting to know them, he even converted this very house into a mini bar. That’s why there’s a Minnie Mouse, playing the harp, on Mrs. Seven’s bedroom wall. When she was distracted chatting to a neighbor yesterday, I sneaked into her room to photograph it.
To survive, you must be resourceful, sneaky or freakish, whatever it takes, man, as long as you’re not hurting nobody.
With her tail chopped off, Nọng only has a comic stub to wiggle, but she’s never felt one second of self-pity, I don’t think. As she came by to check on me just seconds ago, I felt so much admiration, from me to her, of course. You’re a pitiful shit, she’s probably thinking.
About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):
‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.
Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’
AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks
What crime did I commit in a past life to end up like this? To feel anything, numb sacks of meat must go online to cultivate their sadism.
with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/18/25
Bird Wings Under Sunshine — Aug 19, 2025.
Noticing her frog so immobile, Mrs. Seven thought maybe it was pregnant. Now, she thinks it’s just starving. “Look at its flanks,” she frets as I peer at the darkened lump, parked in a puddle, with its rump against the splotchy wall. What crime did I commit in a past life to end up like this? it must be thinking.
Give this animal a sprig or two of raw watercress, I suggest. With all that’s wrong with the world, why am I concerning you with this inconsequential being? I’m not, really. Like y’all, I don’t care about anyone, ultimately, but as a SubStack hack, I must come up with amusing tales, and pretend I give a shit about anything. It’s grueling and dangerous work. Why didn’t I choose a much softer career in some coalmine or sewer, or on a tsunami battered offshore rig?
Mrs. Seven’s husband’s death anniversary is coming up. Her two daughters and two grandchildren will be here. Her two pregnancies were separated by 15 years. In between, she had three abortions, of the kind performed very early. She explained it as having a blood clot conveniently sucked out, more or less. As a dancer, she couldn’t prance around on stage with a bulging belly.
By the late 80’s, Mrs. Seven was performing at the Palace Hotel. It’s only half a mile from Cóc Cóc, where I’m sitting. On 4/30/75, Palace was the site of the very last Vietnam War battle in Vung Tau. Surrounded and vastly outnumbered, more than 400 ARVN soldiers had to surrender after several hours.
Mrs. Seven’s recollection of Palace is mostly pleasant. When food was still scarce, her troupe could occasionally enjoy all-you-can-eat buffets, with even leftovers to take home. Twelve members were northerners, with several from Nghệ An, Ho Chi Minh’s home province. It’s long famous for its poverty.
“They wouldn’t just take food home, but steal plates and glasses,” she remembers. “When I visited their homes, I’d see all these Palace Hotel plates.” She laughs. Their homecooked meals were pitiful, but that’s just Nghệ An. “They don’t eat like us.”
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/16/25 ; (R): 8/15/25
Foreign companies would have catered parties at the Palace. Not until these Westerners or Taiwanese finished feasting could her troupe begin its dubious folkloric performance. Mrs. Seven’s star turn was impressively labeled “Bird Wings Under Sunshine.” As her agent, I’m ready to book this slightly stooped and creaking old broad for Trump’s new ballroom at the Whitey House.
Most annoying were the French, for they sure took their time eating. They’d leisurely suck every sliver of meat from the thinnest crab leg and lick the last drop of whatever soup from a spoon. When they’re done, there wasn’t a speck of gravy left for a baby gnat. Forget frogs.
For a single performance on a cruise ship on Phú Quốc Island, Mrs. Seven made enough for a used washing machine. “The toilets on that ship were better than what we had on land!” A booking for three months in Japan fell through, however. This was when Vietnamese needed exit visas. With that secured, Mrs. Seven already bought, in her mind, a sound system for her husband’s band. He’s an organist.
My Scranton buddy, Chuck Orloski, won a Fulbright Fellowship to Bulgaria in the mid 80’s. Before Chuck could board a plane for Sofia, the US imposed sanctions on that nation, so that’s that. He’ll also die without ever seeing his ancestral Poland.
Sơn the security guard reflects often on his brushes with death in Pol Pot’s Cambodia. In her dim café, Mrs. Seven remembers arching her back and holding her pretty hands, just so, under stage lighting.
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/8/25 ; (R): 8/18/25
Walking home decades ago, she was hit by some asshole who didn’t turn his light on. Was he saving some gasoline, he thought, or extending the lifespan of his headlight? For over a month, she couldn’t even kneel properly, much less dance. In hellish pain, she had to force her buttocks to touch her heels. “It hurt so bad! I was sweating!” Alone in her room, she had no choice but to keep trying.
When Sơn showed up late, again, this pre dawn, we asked why his wife didn’t wake him up on time? They don’t even sleep in the same room, he explained. She was still sleeping.
Again, I quote Stanley Kunnitz, “Those who were strange born, those who’ll die tomorrow, dance here today,” and alone, too, of course.
With this piece at only 725 words, I must scrape harder for very last bit of coal, crabmeat or soup. Looking up, I see yet another itinerant seller of lottery tickets. She’s short with sticklike legs. Also more numerous are old women from the provinces. Selling not much, they must wander around stoically all day long.
At Cóc Cóc, there’s a taped flyer telling thieves to stop stealing its plastic plant pot. Even brand new, it’s worth less than $3. Closing up each evening, Mrs. Seven must remove a junk electric fan from an outside wall.
We’re old enough to remember necklace snatchers swooping by on motorbikes. Those too clumsy or inexperienced risk smashing their victim’s face or skull on asphalt. Such two wheeled muggers have shown up in the West.
Listen, I’m not here to persuade anyone of anything. If you’re convinced you and yours are cruising through a Golden Age, then happy sailing! You deserve it.
No less deserving are MAGA farmers losing workers, markets and, now, even farms and family homes passed down through generations. American democracy can’t be more perfectly illustrated.
With my back against a wall, I sit in the shade of a midget palm. On the underside of one leaf is a dozen black and orange insects. Just born apparently, they’re clustered around their now empty eggs. Eight yards away, a red bus has just stopped to dislodge aging white tourists. One woman wore a skirt of a dozen colors. Her giddiness at being repackaged is fetching. In her youth, she may have danced nearly as well as Mrs. Seven.
Intertwining Satanists — Aug 20, 2025.
Clarity in thinking or writing is extremely rare. Nearly always, we get ducking, dodging or just plain lying, with the entire US political establishment especially adroit and shameless at these practices. American writers, even dissident ones, are also expert at dancing around obvious truths.
How bracing, then, to wake up this morning to these statements from Kevin Barrett, “Everyone agrees that God hates the wanton mass murder of tens or hundreds of thousands of innocent women and children. Those who stand with God, with their faith, with the values of the New Testament (or the Qur’an or Mahabharata or Analects or Lotus Sutra or Tao Te Ching for that matter) are bound to oppose genocide. Acquiescing in genocide, or even supporting it, amounts to opposing God.
“[…] Jews, by definition, are the people who rejected Christ. That means the self-proclaimed Jewish state is the ‘anti-Christ state’—the State of Antichrist. And the Jewish state of Israel is committing a genocide against the descendants of the family of Jesus, namely the Palestinians. The satanic Zionists, who spit on Christians and burn and bomb their holy places, are crucifying Gaza out of hatred for Jesus and his followers (Muslim as well as Christian).”
Bravo, my man!
As Satanists, these Jews don’t just lapse often into violence, but sexual violence, for the worst violation on any human, and by extension, God, is to inflict sadistic pain on his naked person. You enjoy reducing him or her to a screaming, sobbing animal. As Satanic Americans look the other way, Jews commit thousands of Satanic sexual crimes against Arabs. They’re doing it right now.
With their Satanic sadism so insatiable, powerful Jews also prey on Jews. Just two months ago, some Jewish victims were finally able to make public their unspeakable suffering.
Yael Ariel, “I experienced ritual abuse over many years until my late teens and was forced to harm other children. I chose to speak out and make my voice heard. I received threats after revealing my story. From age five to age 20, I was harmed in these ceremonies. I filed a complaint with the police that was closed after a few months, and I know of other cases that were closed.”
Yael Shitrit, “You have no idea what ritual abuse is. The human brain cannot comprehend it. You can’t imagine what it means to program a three-year-old girl through rape and sadism so they can do whatever they want without anyone knowing. Their trafficking of me happened all over the country. They moved me from ceremony to ceremony. Naked men stood in a circle. My therapist, her husband, and her son harmed me, and there were dozens of other girls and boys who harmed me.”
Unnamed victim, “At 14, he took me to sadistic clubs. I endured torture and starvation at the hands of well-known and prominent individuals. I suffered harm in endless ways. There were public events, and there were internal ceremonies where I was tied to a tall post with handcuffs. Around me, there were other handcuffed victims with rituals of drinking menstrual blood and the slaughter of cats and other animals. They told me no one would believe me if I spoke out.”
My ex-publisher, Dan Simon, just released a French book on sexual crime, “Sad Tiger is built on the facts of a series of devastating events. Neige Sinno was 7 years old when her stepfather started sexually abusing her and at 14 or 15 the abuse stopped. At 19, she decided to break the silence that is so common in all cultures around sexual violence.” I should propose to Dan an encyclopedia of Jewish sexual violence. Just sitting here in Vung Tau, I can already name Jack the Ripper, Louis B. Mayer, Dan Schneider, Harvey Weinstein, Clive Davis and Jeffrey Epstein.
One recent entry is Tom Alexandrovich. A division head at the Israel National Cyber Directorate, Alexandrovich was in Las Vegas to meet NSA officials. Since spooks spy on each other, good old Tom should have known better than to use his cellphone to hook up with a 15-year-old. Armed with condoms, Tom headed to this date via Uber, which left another trail. Caught in a sting operation, he’s safely back in Israel. You think this 38-year-old will show up for his court date on 8/27/25?
In 2008, a principal at Adass Israel School in Elsternwick, Australia was investigated for sexual abuse against three girls. After fleeing to Israel, Malka Leifer was only returned 12 years later to face trial. It only took a decade for Gershon Kranczer to be extradited. Though sexual crimes are common to all nations, only one openly harbors such criminals. Times of Israel on 3/12/21, “Israel has become a haven for dozens of Jewish sexual abusers fleeing charges in recent years, particularly those in the ultra-Orthodox community who are aided by Israeli friends or relatives.”
What do you expect, though, from those whose God advises, “Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. But all the women children, that have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves.” It’s OK to commit genocide, but spare enemy virgins, so you can rape them. Though this is also the Christian God, I can’t imagine Jesus talking like that.
The Jewish state is intertwined with the leading white nation, so both are sinking into hell. It’s sickeningly poetic.
Trump the supposed savior of downtrodden whites spent years raping white children, along with other white leaders. Bill Clinton on their leading pimp, “Jeffrey is both a highly successful financier and a committed philanthropist with a keen sense of global markets and an in-depth knowledge of 21st-century science.”
Of course, you should trust the science. Supplying rape victims to top whites, Epstein also joined in the fun. Finally caught with so much dirt on everyone, Jeff had to be killed, or maybe he’s just lying low in Israel. In the Anti-Christ State, those with the sickest appetites are hardly rare. Just for laughs, they shoot teen boys in the testicles.
Vung Tau, 8/21/25
Walking Corpse Running Meat! — Aug 21, 2025.
There’s a useful and amusing Chinese phrase, 行尸走肉. Pronounced as shing shi zoo roo, it means, literally, walking corpse running meat. This can also be applied to nations. Rotting, it still struts.
With my flesh only slightly putrefied, I tickle my maggot burrowed and fly specked brain this morning since it’s the death anniversary of Mrs. Seven’s husband. Later, his musician friends will gather to sing and play his favorite songs. Saigon Beer will flow. Her younger daughter, Mi Mi, arrived last night from Bình Dương, 80 miles away, where she’s working at a beauty salon.
Just now, a neighborhood loser, Vinh, dropped by. A staggering corpse, he still thinks he has a chance with Mi Mi. Unemployed and untraveled, the 29-year-old still suckles his dying mama’s dry titties, so to speak. Mi Mi has worked all over Vietnam, as far north as Pleiku. She has had a steady boyfriend for seven years. Repeatedly, she has turned down his marriage proposal. Still pretty, she doesn’t lack suitors, and she’s making her own cash. She’s seen friends burdened with kids in marriages already sour.
“This boyfriend has relatives in Australia. They want to bring him over there.”
“So your daughter can go with him if they get married?”
“She says, ‘Why would I want to go to Australia when I can go to the USA?!’” Mi Mi has an aunt in Texas who can hook her up. This lady hasn’t been back in eight years, however.
Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/19/25 ; (R): 8/21/25
Near death, each trip across the globe becomes more untenable. Strapped to a narrow seat between rotting strangers, you’re hurled through cold space in an aluminum tube that may, and perhaps should, break up any second, to put all those over the hill stewardesses out of their earthly misery. No more squeezing those widest hips through the thinnest aisles to serve crappy food to sullen passengers who don’t even speak English. “I said chicken or pasta, you fuckin’ moron!”
Only the most attentive foreigners notice the proliferation of incense sticks all over Vietnam. They jut from bases of trees and fronts of buses. Spirits everywhere must be honored and appeased. Since the dead aren’t quite dead here, every Vietnamese living room is a shrine to the dead. Dead grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles and siblings often eat and watch television with their living relatives until they, too, drop dead.
Born in 952, Dương Vân Nga died in 1000. She’s the only queen in Vietnamese history to be married to kings from two dynasties. Soon after Đinh Tiên Hoàng was assassinated, she wedded Lê Đại Hành. Many people suspect she may have colluded with the second to kill the first. They were likely lovers.
The only statue of Dương Vân Nga is in a temple dedicated to her second husband. Each year, this effigy is taken to a temple honoring her first, on his death anniversary. Before being transferred, she’s whipped ten times. This corporeal punishment of a wooden statue is deadly serious. Even after a thousand years, the people of Hoa Lư cannot forgive at least her unfaithfulness.
To remember is to imagine that something of you, too, will linger. Of course, it’s nonsense. Alive, you’re already ignored and forgotten.
Vung Tau, 8/21/25
Sharper than me, Google AI Overview defines 行尸走肉 as a man living without a soul, goal, determination or creativity. That’s a bit harsh, wouldn’t you say? Defines just about everybody, especially today. Now at Cóc Cóc, I’m surrounded by zombies staring at phones. It wasn’t like this just three years ago.
To feel anything, numb sacks of meat must go online to cultivate their sadism. A 46-year-old French live streamer has just died after months of “physical and moral humiliation.” With half a million followers, Raphaël Graven had up to 15,000 dorks watch his degradation, as executed by two “friends,” at any moment. For a fee, anyone could suggest a specific torture. With no talents or looks, Graven couldn’t have asked for a better gig. With death, he’s achieved immortality.
After British Lily Phillips slept with 100 men in one day, she was topped by Australian Annie Knight, who bedded 583 within 24 hours. These blushing maidens were put to shame by another Brit, Bonnie Blue, who scored 1,057 retching blokes in 12 hours. Only a nuclear bomb can fumigate that bedroom. Rule, rule, Britannia! Britons never shall be slaves! All these lovelies rake in big bucks as stars at OnlyFans, a platform owned by American Leonid Radvinsky. Unlike Pornhub’s Solomon Friedman, Radvinsky is no rabbi, however, so don’t give me any of that anti-Semitic shit!
Man can’t live by porn alone, unfortunately. After the last paragraph, I walked home for lunch. Afterwards, I listened to A Homestead Journey video. Only through citizen journalists like this “Barbara” can you get a true picture of what’s happening. Black or white, Americans are incredulous at their jacked up bills. Just to eat, many have stopped paying their mortgage, utility, student loan or credit card debts. For at least a decade before I left the US for good in 2018, this reality was already too common. Just to drag their corpses through another day, all my stressed and exhausted friends relied on drugs and/or alcohol. Only Felix Giordano had it easy. He got a check each month for being mentally ill. Working for years in an insane asylum where patients smeared shit on walls or jerked off nonstop, Felix himself went mad. Most of us aren’t so lucky.
With the vaguest, dimmest and sketchiest approximations of a soul, goal, determination or creativity, they stagger from one porn site to another, for that’s the one resource this world has in luxurious abundance. Humanity has never been so blessed.
At age 26, Mi Mi still has a few years before realizing that she, too, is just another shing shi zoo roo. Suck it up, bitch! There’s no shame in belonging.
About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):
‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.
Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’
AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks
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