Inverting #MeToo: Kamala Harris & The Unspeakable
Veep Kneepads & The Weaponized Women Who Blow Their Way To The Top

“There’s safety in numbers, I guess / But I’m going rogue in the Wild, Wild West…” — Lissie
“You never saw so many phonies in all your life.” — J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
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[Portions of this Substack were originally published on the failing Medium platform on September 24, 2019. It was self-censored and removed from the Internet by me on September 26th, 2019.]
Nothing stays dead and “Time Is a Flat Circle.”
With those two considerations in mind, even though I strongly doubt Veep Kneepads will ultimately be the un-democratically selected standard bearer of the not-really-“Democratic” Party for puppet President, today at least gives me a chance to re-purpose the only thing I’ve ever written that I removed willingly from public consumption, as opposed to the anti-American censors nuking your ability to see my stuff (like Medium and Yahoo! and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the Baltimore Sun and Rolling Stone and so on and so on).
It happened nearly five years ago, during the last year of even mild relevancy for the worthless, boring and predictable pay-to-play narcissism extravaganza Advertising Week in New York City, which maybe a decade or so ago had delusions of grandeur but now is basically a laughingstock nothing-burger perceived by ad industry bigwigs as the retard’s version of the equally meaningless-but-still-running-on-fumes annual Cannes Advertising Festival in the South of France, the one that every June forces Madison Avenue dads to choose between spending the patriarchal tribute holiday with their loving family or flying to the Mediterranean to hang out with a bunch of soulless wine guzzling losers, coke snorters, circle-jerk awards cliques, sexual predators and willing whores, people with too much money and too little sense and absolutely zero empathy for their fellow human beings. I know, because I was that guy.
Anyway, I spent that 2019 September week on Medium knocking around Advertising Week daily. The event helped me out immensely by proving itself to be run by hypocrites and frauds, because, after a week pushing the at-the-time trendy “The Future is Female!” Narrative, it ended Friday night with a live concert from the Cuban rapper Pit Bull, featuring scantily-clad female dancers twerking and performing other highly sexualized dances with him.
I’ll always love you for that, Pit Bull. I’ll always laugh at you, Advertising Week.
Anyway, I deleted one Medium post that week, Tuesday’s, because I was effectively shamed by the now Editor-In-Chief of fringe ad trade rag Digiday, Jim Cooper, who was back then Editor-at-Large for the trade rag MediaWeek (R.I.P.), and basically Twitter-smeared me as a misogynist pig who hated all women without actually addressing the point I was trying to make about how the flip side of #MeToo is women of varying levels of talent who get ahead by blowing their way to the top.
Back then, personal attacks from dummies — and Jim Cooper’s a dummy, make no mistake, I know the guy, he’s as predictable on any issue as a broken clock, unable to think critically, maybe bought’n’paid for or blackmailed but more likely just a barely triple-digit I.Q. useful idiot like most so-called MadAve “journalists” who don’t have the talent to get their ass outta covering the duds in the mostly meaningless marketing industry (like, uh, the way I did) — yeah, 2019 personal attacks still had the ability to make me second guess myself. This was pre-Covid, pre-Election Theft, pre-Vaxx attack, and before I realized I was almost always dealing with second-or-third tier intellects not deserving of my respect or consideration of their blinkered worldview. So Fuck You, Jim Cooper; here we go.
Hard Unspeakable Truth: The first advertising agency pretty PR gal who offered to blow me to get an exec’s mug on the cover of Adweek was the most attractive and aggressive.
It was 25 years ago. I'd recently taken over running Adweek's late, lamented Southeast edition in Atlanta, following the departure of my boss who'd hired me, Jim Osterman. Jim was a good man, a good father and a good mentor, honest and fair.
So honest and fair that the ethical peculiarities of covering the advertising business were wearing him down. During our time working together, I observed Jim O. becoming more and more burned out and cynical until he finally hit the "eject" button.
It had been a two-man show at Adweek Atlanta (R.I.P.), and now I was flying solo. Thus, I seized the day and ascended to the small loft area that hovered over the big open Adweek studio in the King Plow Arts Center, near downtown ATL.

I had maybe been up in the loft a month when she dropped by the office, unannounced.
We had spoken a couple times earlier that week and also that day, as I worked on a favorable story about a big new client win for her agency. The pretty PR professional — no damning details or description, that's not the point I'm trying to make — ascended like an angel with an angle, upstairs, to try to persuade me that her agency's story deserved that week's cover. She stood near and over me, making her case, while I sat in my cushy chair.
I heard her out, told her I hadn't decided, there were several good stories that week. Her agency was in the mix, but I would guarantee nothing.
That's when she got down on her knees, put her two hands on my knees, smiled radiantly and said mischievously, "Do I need to beg you in a special way to make it happen?”
Suddenly and involuntarily, I had a rush of blood to my head and I got woozy. I was married and had a young daughter. It was during a phase when I was attending church regularly. As much as this seemed like possibly the greatest power trip in the world, I sensed a dangerous dual betrayal of both my marriage vow and my integrity as a journalist.
Honestly, I don't remember what I said or how I responded, but I stood and stumbled my way out of it clumsily and sent her on her way. I recall her being totally unruffled. She thanked me for hearing her out, asked me to keep her agency in mind, and left.
Now I'd love to tell you that I went home that day, told the story to my wholesome, beautiful and intelligent (now ex-) wife, and that we had a good laugh about it before making sweet passionate love that forever more deeply unified our sacred marriage covenant and made me into the healthy, well-rounded man I am today.
Except that's not what happened at all. I didn't tell my (now ex-) wife what happened, carried my rejection of the pretty PR gal like a chip on my shoulder for days and treated my presumed life partner with thinly veiled passive-aggressive resentment for cramping my style. She was mystified and hurt while I swaggered around like a dumbed-down dope.
Even worse, after I put my unexpected visitor's agency on the cover — honestly, upon fair assessment, they deserved it — I then called the pretty PR professional the next week, basically insinuating I was the paragon of integrity for granting her the prestigious spot even without the blow job…and then suggested she drop by the Adweek office again in the near future.
She laughed at me. "I don't play that game," she said.
Which, of course, was the response I deserved. What a sniveling, luke-warm asshole, that guy.
The second advertising agency pretty PR gal who offered herself up as lustful leverage came on a trip to one of the cities in my Southeast remit for Adweek coverage a few months later. She wasn't quite as much a knockout but still visually appealing; smart, feisty, upbeat. She worked for an agency I could take or leave, but I liked and respected her okay.
She gave me a tour of the town, took me out to dinner, walked with me back to my hotel room and stood right on the threshold after I went in. "Is there anything else you want from me tonight?" she asked, with a spicy gleam in her eye.
"Yes, but no," I replied. "Okay!" she said brightly, spun on her heels, and left.
The third advertising agency pretty PR professional — Rule of Three! — was visiting Atlanta from out of town to see a client. We went out for dinner and drinks at the restaurant in her hotel. We both drank too much. At the end of the evening, all pretense and professionalism jettisoned after too many mixed libations, she said, "This was so much fun. Wanna fuck?”
"Yes, but no," I said again. "I figured, but it was worth asking," she said, no harm, no foul.
I worked at Adweek Atlanta for one year and eleven months before taking my first agency job flacking at an agency in Baltimore. So that was three come-ons (no pun intended) in less than two years. I find it hard to believe that I'm the only reporter ever who has heard such enticing invites from frisky and ambitious PR chicks looking to score and score points for their employers. Inside the ad biz and out.
My intent, both in 2019 and now, is not to vilify these three women, because the biggest villain of this story is me. In every one of these cases, after flirting with and subsequently rejecting these women, I straddled a narcissistic self-righteous middle-of-the-road worldview that egotistically and egregiously melded "Wow, I'm such a great husband for turning away from these tempting sirens" with a narcissistic passive-aggressive resentment of my (now ex-) wife as the ball-and-chain who was holding me back from experiencing a wide cornucopia of sexual variety with alluring women who wanted me intimately because I was such an amazing guy and not some schmo who could do something for them. Flip the Tarot card, you’ll see The Fool.
I don't mind talking about what an asshole I was ("YOU STILL ARE!" screams the ad biz), but it's a delicate maneuver to express and explore your flaws publicly without making it into a self-indulgent self-pity party that risks reveling nostalgically in bad behavior while giving lip service (oops, sorry!) to how horrible it was to gradually but inexorably move up the ad biz food chain while devolving into a drug-addicted, porn-addicted freak show loser who saw his (now ex-) wife and beautiful, amazing, glorious children as needless anchors holding me back from my true destiny as…as…Beats me. I don't even know how I saw myself anymore. I moved to a new room, I suppose, and thank you Jesus.
Still, the fact I'm maybe a past-tense hypocrite of sorts shouldn't neuter valid points that could and should be made about the #MeToo movement's enormously erect elephant in the room: There is almost surely a (in)decent number of women in advertising, Hollywood, journalism, pseudo-journalism, corporate America, politics, etc., who are blowing their way to the top.
Veep Kneepads — who got her start as the open-air mistress of notorious San Francisco philandering Mayor Willie Brown, and, if you can believe all the dank Hollywood and D.C. gossips sites, is totally controlled by a large collection of home-made sex videos featuring varying degrees of sexual degradation — is these jism-jonesing Jezebels’ patron slut.

Let me be clear: I'm not claiming these fetching female fellators outnumber the victims of sexual harassment by asshole male predators. Nor do I wish to diminish the perils facing any independent woman with a modicum of integrity in our over-sexualized still-patriarchal society. But I'm not going to claim that the kneepads gals don't outnumber them, either. I have no idea, because nobody really talks about it. It’s the unspeakable flip side of #MeToo that good men and women, if we’re going to take this country back for some semblance of moral authority, need to tackle head-on. So to speak.
I daresay I could easily rattle off at least a half-dozen ad agency PR women I've known in the past 20+ years who were fucking the CEO or executive creative director or some other top exec at their agency, often in a matter-of-fact way that looks and feels like part of their job remit. They usually think they're keeping it from everybody, but the only people they're fooling are themselves.
My personal fave was the spunky gal who was fucking the Creative Director (unbeknownst to her, he was gleefully chronicling their erotic exploits to other guys at the agency), until he fell from favor and her status in the agency became precarious. So she started fucking the CFO. As for that agency, roughly a decade later? R.I.P.
The #MeToo and #TimesUp (is that even a thing anymore?) movements blew it (ahem) because they turned a righteous cause into a half-dishonest political power play that elevated untalented but control-hungry parasites to positions they neither earned nor deserved — accompanied by “Chestless men” like the loathsome pussy-whipped Hollywood soul-zilch JarJar Abrams-McGrath, and ad rag trade zero Jim Cooper; two weak men among a Legion of losers — while for a couple years successfully imprinting a Narrative where modern professional women were all portrayed as victims of exploitive abusive Alpha-male wolves (we Sigmas don’t do that shit), without looking inward at the enemies inside the gate.
Stupid people, like your typical mainstream “journalists” and especially your typical ad rag trade presstitutes, think everybody's the same. But not all women are the same. As I’ve said before but people like Jim Cooper can’t seem to grok, what we are seeing is the timeless classic primal paradoxical "Eve vs. Lilith” light/darkness icons at war, the Mother/Lover Goddess vs. Sex/Death Witch paradigm, Madonna vs. Whore.
In the American Age of Apocalypse, of course you’d think the dark occultists would love to put the Whore of Babylon on the throne, or at least a Whore of Babylon. Veep Kneepads certainly fits that bill, but I suspect we are going to see a war among the three witches — Veep Kneepads, Killary, Big Michelle Obama — to grab that gold ring. “My precious!”

What a mess! As I’ve been saying for a while, the Democratic Convention in Chicago this year is going to make Chicago 1968 look like the GOP’s post-9/11 Kumbaya convention in New York City in 2004. Expect chaos like you wouldn’t believe, especially if Killary legit makes a play for the top spot, like my GOP consultant pal has been steadfastly insisting for more than a year now.
The whole horror show certainly feels gamed out, what with the first Trump-Xiden debate scheduled for June, nearly four months before any other Presidential debate historically. Plus (+?) of course the assassination attempt on President Orange orchestrated by Dr. Jill and her minions (IMHO!) in a desperate Hail Mary to save Joe’s hate-centric fakeministration, a “Kill the King” public sacrifice ritual like JFK’s which would’ve thrown last week’s GOP Convention into a heartbroken funeral procession elevating another uniparty war-mongering crazy chick Nimarata Randhawa Haley for the hellspawn PoC woman-on-woman race for President that the controlled corrupt collectivist corporate criminal clown media would’ve triumphantly proclaimed was the greatest thing ever to showcase the nation's “diversity” when it actually would be a blaring red siren signifier that democracy in America is very near The End.
But instead we’re where we are now, a witches and bitches brew of spin, hype, secrets and lies, literally a nation where much of the controlled corporate media minions are either straight-up ignoring or downplaying an obvious government conspiracy to kill Donald Trump in public, intended for a week/month/year of deeply demoralizing and culturally divisive replays of his feathered head going splat like Scanners while Hellfire Club scum Jake Tapper would bleat out tsk-tsks on CNN even as inside he was orgasmically reveling in the horror, because he is a horrible, horrible half-man.
But that’s a story for another day, along with a deeper dig into Veep Kneepads — if she lasts. Right now, we’ll end things the way I ended that censored Substack:
The Hard Truth is that sexual tension in the workplace is a double-edge sword, one that slides in nice and smooth and tight but ultimately cuts both ways. If women and men can't have a no-holds-barred conversation about this delicate subject, facing up to the realities of which sex holds different elements of power depending upon the dynamics and the players involved, nobody will be able to rise above the current communications dysfunction, which is driving top talent out of various key American industries and creating a fear-based caste system exploited by people whose behavioral displays have already proven they're not the types of folks who put others first or whose judgement can be trusted.
So Fuck You, Jim Cooper. You don’t have the moral authority to shut me up, and you never did. I gave it to you but you didn’t deserve it, and today I’m taking it back. We’re in The Process of taking everything back, or at least we’re going to give it our best shot, because you and your Nowhere Man ilk have proven without any doubt that you don’t deserve it. If you did, you wouldn’t still be writing about advertising. Sorry, not sorry.

Joe has entered in-home hospice, in my opinion. That footage of him getting off the plane and being helped into the car in Delaware last Wednesday clinches that for me.
One sided narratives which you can't morally question (believe all victims; trust the science; black lives matter) are at best an attempt to manipulate (and corral) fools and silence opposition and at worst... who knows? I have never been able to fathom the worst.
Of all three invitations, the third one is really my favourite. It's just so poetic.
Also, LMFAO! Not done reading yet, as usual, I can't contain my urge to comment before I lose my thought.
Pass the popcorn!