Spam is not a Dish That is Best Served Cold

Yesterday I wrote about a startling and disappointing spam text I received from Erika Kirk, and I was very critical. Some people have questioned the legitimacy of the text, suggesting I fell for a scam.

I didn’t. I will teach you a few things.

The text is from Turning Point, and it links to their official donation site. The language in the text is repeated on that site word for word.

Here is a link.

Anedot is TPUSA’s official donation processor. Go to TPUSA’s site, click a donation link, and see for yourself.

I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I don’t believe everything I see on the web or in texts or emails. I never click on links I can’t verify. I have never bought a timeshare. I don’t fall for organic food. I have never wired money to a Nigerian. I have never paid a gypsy to put “leftover” blacktop on my driveway. I don’t follow the Omaha Steaks people back to their trucks. I haven’t left a tooth under my pillow in around 60 years. I know the difference between “made with real cheese” and “uses only 100% real cheese.” I have never responded to an infomercial. I would never get a reverse mortgage. I have never even considered getting a Herbalife franchise. It doesn’t scare me at all when a guy with an Indian accent calls and claims he’s with the IRS. When I receive envelopes with warnings saying things like, “OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION! OPEN IMMEDIATELY!”, I throw them out without opening them. I have never put my Social Security number in an email or spoken it over the phone. I don’t buy anything endorsed by Oprah Winfrey or Shark Tank. I don’t answer misspelled emails thanking me for huge purchases I never made. I have never paid anyone money because they sent me an email claiming they turned my webcam on and filmed me watching porn. I will never pay anyone to clean my air conditioning ducts. I don’t take methylene blue. I don’t believe a mediocre old socialist in Rome, elected by homosexuals, is even dimly acquainted with Yeshua or can send anyone to hell. I don’t open mail from companies offering to buy my house for half the market price. I don’t buy extended warranties except in rare cases. I don’t tip on tax. I don’t believe racking a pump shotgun will scare a burglar off. I don’t trust AR-15’s. I don’t believe Brigitte Macron is a man. I am positive Barack Obama was born in Hawaii, and I know for a fact Charlie Kirk was not bumped off by Israel.

I have made some real sucker moves in my life. I gave money to Robert Tilton, and I also dated a Brazilian who told me she would never date a Brazilian and gave me solid reasons. But I have checked this spam text out, and it’s the real thing.

As long as I’m in a lecturing mood, I want to comment on something more personal. I had an epiphany this morning.

Once I got past a certain age, older women started paying attention to me. I was never attracted to them. No apology. You don’t apologize for things like that. It’s like apologizing for not liking yogurt. It’s not something that results from a choice.

Who insists women apologize for their preferences? No one. Feminists think Brigitte Macron is practically a deity.

She put an end to the Macron line. Emmanuel Macron will never reproduce unless his wife leaves the picture and he finds himself someone who can still have kids. She deprived him of a great deal.

She’s a bit of a husband-beater, so she and Macron may part ways. If that happens and he goes on to have kids with someone young, feminists will probably cruficy him.

I have also turned down women of childbearing age, not just in recent years, but when I was young. It would be crazy to apologize for that. You don’t marry people you don’t want. It’s wrong, and it leads to misery. I don’t owe marriage to anyone. I am under no obligation as a Christian to save women from their problems, even if they’re nice single women.

Marriage isn’t musical chairs. You don’t leap for the only remaining option just because there is no choice. There is always a choice. It’s called bachelorhood. It worked for Paul. It worked for Boaz until the time was right.

I never felt I should marry someone because I was old myself and should be grateful anyone would have me. That would have been pathetic. A Japanese robot would be an order of magnitude less pathetic. At least I wouldn’t be using another human being. I would be objectifying an object.

I was completely prepared to remain single until I died. That was better than burdening myself with the human equivalent of chopped liver and burdening a woman with a man who only stayed with her out of duty.

More than one older lady tried to turn other people against me. Women will do that. If you reject a woman, she may go to your common friends, and they may conspire and decide you’re a wicked person for not wanting ONE woman out of 4 billion. A cousin of mine broke up with a girl in high school, and other girls in his small town decided no one else should date him.

I’m sure some were willing to jump in and undermine her, though.

It’s gaslighting. The victim is the problem. If the victim agrees to be victimized, everything will be as it should be. Take one for the team. The other team.

Today I was lying in bed, and I looked at my son. His crib is between our bed and a sliding glass door. He was standing in the sunshine, in his romper, eagerly awaiting his day with us. He seemed to glow with innocence and love. My own love poured out toward him, as always.

Suddenly I had a realization: this is what irrational, selfish older women wanted to keep me from having. Maybe they never articulated it to themselves, but this is what they offered me: life without my beautiful son and whatever siblings God might provide later. Life without any hope of a grandchild.

In exchange for that, I would get to pay someone’s bills and maybe the bills of their kids and relations, and I would get to lie next to someone who was as attractive and who brought me as much pleasure as another old man.

No; I won’t say that. Women are difficult; they even find each other difficult. Men are easy to get along with, and we share interests. It would be much better to share a house with another man than a woman I didn’t want. We could shoot together. We could do metalworking. We could smoke ribs and make beer. We would be happy with crummy furniture and doing small engine repairs on the kitchen table.

Two Oscars and no Felix.

No woman ever thought, “I want to make sure he never has kids.” Surely. But every woman who can’t or won’t have babies knows this is the sentence she imposes on potential husbands. A considerate person would have thought about that, and she would have backed off and encouraged me to find someone suitable. I was willing to die a bachelor, but if married, I wanted to have children.

If I had given in to the pressure, which was never even a remote possibility, I wouldn’t be waking up every day bathed in the presence and love of my very own family. I wouldn’t get to hold my baby son and kiss him. I wouldn’t get to pray for him and speak blessings over him.

My phone wouldn’t be jammed with pictures of my wife and son. My boy fresh from delivery. My boy swaddled in the bassinet. Taking his first trip to Home Depot. Being bathed by my wife in the utility sink. Going to his first restaurant. Sitting up by himself. Crawling. Standing up while holding a chair leg. Sitting in a grocery cart outside Costco while my wife beams with joy.

I’m sorry life doesn’t work out for everyone. My own life was a disappointing mess until I was well into middle age, so I know how it feels. Doesn’t mean I’m the catcher in the rye for every woman who is in the same boat. I can’t do it, and it would be wrong to do it. Your problems are not my fault. They’re your fault.

Choosing the wife I did doesn’t make me immature, insecure, a fetishist, selfish, gullible, domineering, or unwilling to face reality. I chose a magnificent helper, and we could not love our baby more. You know all those miserable couples on Facebook who post glowing entries about their wonderful lives together? That’s not us. Our lives really are wonderful, thanks to our patient, forgiving, generous, reliable father.

There are a lot of women out there who don’t think at all about the welfare of their potential husbands. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Save me. Save my kids. Serve a man’s proper purpose. You should love me because I want you, or, worse, because I need you.

Actual love is not selfish.

I used to pray for God to give me someone to pour myself out for. Like most husbands and fathers, I take pleasure in sacrificing for my wife and child. I didn’t say, “Please make her rich. Give her a nice car. Give me a warm body so I don’t feel lonely at night. Make her good at fixing our house and vehicles. Send me someone to solve the problems I caused.”

I’m not a good person, but I genuinely wanted to give of myself. I didn’t pray for God to send me someone who would make sacrifices for me. I wasn’t like a Titanic survivor pleading for God to send me a piece of floating wreckage I could cling to until a ship came along.

A man should sacrifice for his family, but a woman shouldn’t pray for God to send her someone to sacrifice for her. She should pray for someone to whom she can be a good helper. A woman should be a good helper, but a man should pray for God to send him someone to make sacrifices for.

And she should be someone he actually wants.

I apologize for nothing except dating people who could never have been good Christian wives. That was unfair to them. I don’t apologize for rejecting anyone, and I don’t feel even the tiniest trace of resentment toward women who rejected me. They were right. The ones who rejected me when I was young dodged a bullet.

If you’re a female troll, and you think I’m still a bullet, all I can say is, my wife sees me very, very differently.

My son is on the floor at my feet, moving the end table around and grabbing my leg while I type. He coos and grunts with pleasure. He explains what he’s doing with incomprehensible babble. What did I ever do to deserve to be so blessed? Nothing.

This is what some women thought I should give up on and do without, forever, so I could give them everything and get precious little back. If anyone should be ashamed, it’s not me.

Don’t marry the wrong person. It is literally worse than cancer. Get to know the Holy Spirit. Pray in tongues. Beg God to clean you up for marriage, and ask him to send you the right person.

On your own, you have no chance.