In reply to Yolanda Cortez.
Speculatively speaking, Yolanda P. Untoyou, when your urine has become too acidic, it is wise to cease drinking it.
Let’s go ahead and mix metaphors while I say that Yolandwho might as well relax and drop the horseshit, too.
For a long time, she has made it clear through her comments at the Frank Report that she is addicted to a human stain, Keith Raniere, as one of her bare necessities of life. Alas. This is no way to treat one’s organs, by continuing to sputter, drinking old waste from the demolished, polluted fountain of the baldly-sheared yet hairy and cowardly criminal who lives in a Brooklyn detention center. Popular only with his own ringworm and maybe Clare the dog-ass Bronfman.
Hey yeo, Yolo-duh. Stop being a stick lodged into the mud of Raniere’s underwater manure and get hopping aboard one of the rowboats headed ashore, to the land of Wake the *F* Up. Why be so damned uncool!?
Especially when you are getting too long in tooth to pass much longer for just being cute, it is time to look for a new act. Forty year-old groupies are never glamorous and no one loves mothballs as a fragrance. Seriously. I just asked my cat, Frankie, a well-known and inveterate bisexual. Even he says that mothballs are dreadful, l’odeur est trop and he endorses population control.
That sci-fi show was called Battlestar, not Battlescars, or is it too late for that? Try some epiphany sandwiches, and here’s another tissue waiting to be drenched with honest revelation and holy water tears. Shut up for awhile, rest on the rowboat, elude your entrancement and thank the people who are capable of wielding the oars. People like Frank Parlato. ‘Cause Yolo-girl, you still get lost sitting in a tiny bathtub while wearing floaties. Frankie the cat says “hi” anyway, and he says if Yo’ needs to gain some pounds, he’s fat and can Fed-Ex you several stone. Will you at least have a laugh together?
Come on in and eat humble pie with everybody else and then get back to work. Raniere is just an overly-handled bookmark with a brief inscription about how not to be. A pair of shoelaces and a few toothpicks have been more useful for self-help than poor Yolanda’s favorite sexual predator can ever dream to be. See it now. It won’t hurt as much as the anticipation hurts beforehand.
A spiritual teacher has many names. One ancient title is Teerthanker, translated from its Sanskrit origin simply as one who rows the boat, the boatfuls of those who ask for help to make their ways to the further shore…of awareness. Raniere’s little toy boat was sunken by his own predatoriness. You cannot get anywhere with him, and you never could.
For heaven’s sake, Yolanda. Rejoice and be free. Why keep regurgitating old garbage? Who wants to drink from a tankard of rotten swill? This entire self-help trip with Raniere is obsolescent, so why cling to it any longer? Its moment has passed already. It’s time to drop the fucking Glad Wrap, but maybe y’all can still catch up with the jury of Keith Raniere’s peers. Remember the 12 who made quick work of him, with no qualms about it? Do you really think that you still know better? You really cannot want to stunt your own growth. Nope. Not buying that at all. So let us ask.
Why come to the Frank Report to slobber like a sitting duck tossed into hot water, when Parlato has been so invincible? How about writing to Dear Abby or to the Playboy Advisor or maybe even to the Vatican? Hello muddah, hello fadduh, and forgive me for refusing to pay 15% commission to any extraneous confessional agents. I don’t need another hero. Talk to the hand. Kiss the tush. Pull the middle finger. Gas up someplace else. You are here because you still have a dream and are still attracted to reality. Tee-hee. Come on, child. You are not alone.
There is no need to be so stinky anymore. Come out, come out, wherever you are. Remember to remember that Keith Raniere has lost all of his trendiness. The only impact he has left is as a cautionary tale. Otherwise he is fast becoming an empty, sooty coal bin. Just because he still feels soggy to those whom he pissed all over for years, that doesn’t mean that he is not already dead meat.
Raniere went the deadmeat path before he even hit adolescence. Then he glommed on to many, many sapsuckers, his very own HELLelujah chorus. The Contagion of Misery has to be one of his favorite dirges.
Whatever it was about him that a possibly altruistic You-landa fell for is just an old, wadded-up, soiled diaperful of sogginess now. In fact, at this very moment, the specially-housed and appropriately isolated Keithy-Weethie is a banality, buried and overruled within an avalanche of more expensive and extensive sexual scandals, with a much bigger cast of players.
Raniere can’t even win first prize as a frigging perv anymore. Y’all backed a losing loser of a horse, now not even making win, place or show amongst the cavalcade of more important losing loser horses. What to do?
Well. The first one you forgive is yourself. This really comes layer by layer, level by level, understanding by understanding, not all at once. You have to be not only willing but ready. It takes a mountain of patience with the self! You find that you need to wait and watch it rise like kneaded bread. The reemergence of strength, peace and self-respect comes of its own, and nature does part of this “recreation” for anyone who has the true grit to keep going. Keep steady and there is nothing to fear. Maybe some are still a little too young or inexperienced to understand how deep that has to go, deep to the last breath. It never ends; how much courage it keeps taking, never to give up on remaining true to yourself. Damn it Yolanda, find your spine.
Or perhaps Yolanda does not have the ears to hear herself yet. If she could hear her ignorance and superficiality, she would be able to face it. She would be here and now learning. If she had reclaimed her dignity or self-respect, perhaps she would be quiet, or at least able to appear as less desperate. Her voluntary conditioning has rendered her tone-deaf to herself. Evidently she still prefers the egotistical benefits to be found via subsuming herself within a circle of hackneyed and hapless peer pressurized dodos. She might think that she is being individualistic by sticking with Raniere and company, but she is just being a conformist, a cult conformist. Guaranteed for extinction. Life passes her right on by, the harder she tries to be a diehard. Coma-gratulations. Are u still saving the world?
It is so simple. Unless you learn how to prepare food, you can’t do much to feed anybody else. And any doctor without a heart is an automaton. Keith Raniere operated heartlessly. Maybe Yolanda doesn’t know she’s still a thirtyish baby, but if she lives a decade or two longer, she will be surprised how much she can and continue to grow, if she decides to do it. She comes to the Frank Report so dizzily, like a stuck phonograph needle trying to circuit a mangled record.
Essentially all that she says is that she worships Keith Raniere, whom she esteems as the misunderstood vanguard for humanity. Plus YodelHonda seems to agree rather vehemently with her leader that it is fine and dandy to screw kids who are under the age of consent. She has pointed out frequently that the United States is puritanical and that Mexico has a lower age for sexual consent, of which both she and Raniere approve. Raniere’s approval of underage sex (and Yolanda’s parroted approval) is like resurrecting Margaret Mead, if she were on some strong ‘sixties acid and had gone all foggy about any prevailing components of “acculturization.”
No thank you, Yolanda and Guru Flabturd of MDC. There are already enough perverts stuck on running the world.
Does the poor Yolanda, the pee-on-you gal, even talk to people who have come out of Nxivm/DOS, etc.? Hiding in the flotsam and jetsam of Raniere’s self-destruction and its concomitant undertow of wreckages is a lost cause. If you only talk to people still in the group, where is the courage in that deliberate isolation? It takes no effort to interrelate only with those who agree with you. Can’t find the guts to face things head-on? There is nothing left to wait around for anymore. It’s too late. One has to decide to stop stagnating.
Analyze this willful stagnation. How has ingesting Raniere’s concepts been working out for the individuals or for the group? Imbibing, drinking his waste has been nauseatingly foul and counterproductive in the first place. This is not at all difficult to comprehend. The only real thing which Raniere produced was and is waste. He is known by his actions. That is all.
Verily (i say unto thee!) lay off being repugnant in his name. Reclaim your individuality. Set yourself free. Raniere is poison. Taste breathing easy, whether again or for the very first time. Quit pulverizing your conscience. When death comes to visit, all you can muster is your conscience and its memories. Ask anyone who has had to make the dress rehearsals. How to walk without feet!
There is nothing harder to take with you when you go than that deadness, deafness to life, and it is in your hands now, just as it has been always. Really you cannot hand it off to anyone else without damaging the very spirit of your own awareness, your own sparking consciousness. No handicaps? No excuses. Break the ties that only seem to bind before you put them in the rearview mirror, and break falsity with all of your remaining might. Now or later, it will come to pass, so why wait and continue to compound the illusions?
Probably Raniere will never move again, except to be shuffled to a more permanent prison. A lot of former devotees have stopped drinking the cultie piss, more politely called Kool-Aid. However, Yosemite Sam just rang, and his prognosis so far is not good for poor Yodelanda, as Sam emphasized that lily-livered sapsuckers imbibe toxicity atmospherically, whether drinking it or not. There has to be an inner decision just like an eternal flame. It is harder than being stuck in a web, but that inner flame is worth every bit of blood, sweat and tears. Come on! Break out of the prison of associates. Life is vast beyond all measuring; there is no stopping, only rests.