Not long ago, I set my copy of The New Yorker out on the curb with the recyclables. I thought, no, it goes with the regular trash. Because trash is something you don’t want to see again – resurface. So to The New Yorker goes the The New Yorker and others of the same ilk who believe that to express oneself differently, to take an alternate, unpopular position is akin to treason against the established order and the very nation itself. Well this headset is intricately woven and taken as gospel by a wide grouping of intellectuals who unfortunately hold the key to what is and what isn’t: the Professors who desperately pound out scholarly papers to retain tenure and little else, philosophers that stick to a dogma of theory to the death, novelists that indulge in a prescribed school of expression even be it lacking originality, literary critics who in their whimsical, utterly subjective way are bought and sold according to the politics of reviewing, lexicologists who spout words and definitions and are confined in their self-made rigid jail cells. All of the above hang their hats on The Elements of Style and it is a crowded, rickety hat rack. The denigration, devaluation and defamation afforded those writers that use free-thought, free association and others of like expression are whom I advocate for. I take pride as I rail against the writing organizations, professors who are literary magazine editors, and professional literary editors. Every and all who cloak themselves in the established order. A place for everything and everything out of place. That said, I take all that are named in this narrative down, down to Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell. Here stands Satan, hip-deep in a frozen lake, himself frozen, much like the group that accompanies me, their minds atrophied imagination subjugated to Satan’s realm. Here is their eternity. And me? Free as ever and ever free, I am free, free to leave.