The Deaf Jesuits - Revisited

The Deaf Jesuits - Revisited

For Turn Back The Clock Tuesdays

First posted - 11/25/05

I was involved in an interesting discussion the other day. Apparently I have been missing out on the evolution of Christian Music. No longer is it a musical backwater. Several billions of dollars are spent each year on every genre. There's everything from Bible thumping Metal to Country without the crying in my beer, my dog died and she's a two bit whore lyrics. Instead, the lyrics bring the Lord's message to us through music more hip to the times. The tunes that were sure to put us to sleep before we warmed the pews on Sunday are dead in the water. Never to be resurrected.

Anyway, some fellow who killed his girlfriend or wife recently had just finished listening to some Christian Metal band when he decided to do the deed. Now that's interesting. I would like to think this guy was too close to the edge to begin with. Primed and loaded. What he listened to was not relevant.

The person I was discussing this with had a different idea. He wondered if the recent religious pop was but a sign Satan had indeed breached the Christian wall. He wondered what the tunes sounded like played backwards. He was sure too much Christian indoctrination had made this guy go homicidal. He wondered if that much redemption, resurrection, we are all sinners destined for the pit and other holier than thou messaging is very healthy to the spiritual side of ourselves. He went on about how it seems the religiously endowed are precariously balanced on the tipping point between sanity and insanity and anything could push them over the edge.

I said, "Well Duh! The tipping point is there for all of us. Most of us are just lucky enough to miss finding it.  If it ain't music, it's a dog that talks to us, aliens in our head or the color green.  That guy was working hard to go crazy anyway.  His music just reinforced the urge. But he was crazy first and foremost."

We ended our conversation sure the other was clueless and went our way.

Later I checked into the Christian music phenomenon and noticed something odd. It appears the most growth in any religion has been in the Evangelical side of Christianity. Baptists ( the dancing kind), Fundamentalists, Methodists, and of course those wacky anti Catholics, the Episcopalians are all hip to the new wave Jesus save me Alternative music. Noticed by their absence was the lack of any attempt to brighten up the music of Catholics. Are Catholics just too stuffy and rigid to embrace the new rage? Or is it just that the Pope has not decreed a decree allowing all good Catholics the right to listen to previously sinful beats.

Let's face it, some music is hedonistic and evokes thoughts that run counter to keeping everything in it's place and safe from self gratification. All no-nos to the boys in Rome. But just think how much ground the Pope would re-gain if he dumped the stale and dusty hymnals of old for a newer and hipper set of tunes to draw em back into the Lord's fold.

I think Catholics need to jump on board with some new twists on admittedly some of the worst church music ever devised by Man. I even have some catchy band names to get em started.

~The Flagellating Monks - probably work best as a quartet. The lead singer can whip himself into a frenzy as he croons. A papal nod in the direction of the S & M crowd. After all, we's all God's chilluns.

~ Archie Bishop and the Pope Pushers - Focus on light pop with an emphasis on the show. Lyrics don't have to be audible, just sound inspiring and heartfelt. Typical audience - the Blue hair set.

~ Immaculate Conception - This trio will astound all who come to hear them. With no instruments or singing, music will just happen.

~ The Deaf Jesuits - The hook for this group is signing the lyrics. In order to appreciate them, you have to be able to sign along.

~ Hail Mary and the Mothers of God - Basic run of the mill light pop, pre-teen messaging. Emphasis on keeping your hands off yourself.

~ The Rhythm Methods - A capella group for the mature Catholic. This group proves you don't need instruments to make music.

~The Celibates - An edgier sound from this group proves a winner with the Pope and his crew. Probably won't catch on with the mainstream Catholic however. Rated PGB-15 ( Parental Guidance for Boys under 15)

~The Nattering Nun - Sister Delmonica wails her gold record hits, "Don't touch yourself there" and "Stick your hand out, I want to Smack it". She keeps the faith, keeps the message simple, but most of all she keeps it clean and entertaining.

~Father Blues and the Soul Redemption - Blues band doing Jelly Roll Morton covers with only most of the lyrics changed. Hard hittin guitar riffs with a brass section of Dominican monks second to none.

~Jesus, Mary and Joseph - A trio who owe much of their style and delivery to the folk group from the 50s and 60s with almost the same name. Real Hootenanny delivery.  Joseph played by transgender Sister Dan.

~Christ on a Crutch - A group whose goal is to reach the physically and mentally challenged. Their hit, "Your legs may be missing, but your heart belongs to God" will bring a tear to almost any eye.

~Confession - A techno remix group who will only admit who they ripped their latest tune off of from behind the closed curtain. Their niche tunes evoke deja vu all over again.

--------------------------------------------

I have just re-read this after some small tuck and stitch done on it.  I don't care if it is good or bad, funny or not funny.  I will say that if I had written this in some countries say like Iran for instance, I would probably be sitting in some jail cooling my heels because I had offended some asshole's notion of what Allah would be offended by.  And regardless of  the poor choice we put in charge here in the US, I can still write stuff like this and not fear any repercussions from the government.  Its called counting blessings and no matter what else, we still have more than most.

Keep it "tween the ditches ...............................................

Dominion of Vegetables

“They want to create a race of soulless creatures on this planet.”

“They” are the supporters of the Luciferian plot to change Human DNA by making us eat meatless hamburgers at our favorite fast food joint.  The man speaking in his radio voice from God is none other than the good Rightwinged Reverend Rick Wiles of the Armageddon Gonna Ged Us Church and owner of the End Times Bistro, where the meat is red and made by God’s own hand.

Rick, it appears, is convinced Satan has incorporated and assimilated cooperative minions within the food industries to move Humanity away from eating God’s creatures and toss them to the evil mercies of the Dominion of Vegetables, which we all know is owned and operated by Lucifer himself.

I say Rick might just have latched onto something big here.  Something trying to fly below our radar.  But now that Rick has pushed this devilish plan to destroy our souls out into the light of day, we have no excuse to ignore it any longer. The ramifications of its potential success are just too dire for the Human Race.

It’s about our survival people! 

Age of My First Clue

We can argue back and forth about whether calling Ivanka a "feckless cunt" was a step over the decency line.  It may have been during Pre-Trump days.  But now that Trump and his merry band of vaud-villains  have lowered the bar so low that fart jokes are now high humor, I find any argument nothing but a distraction. You want to blame someone, blame Trump and the class act he has following him everywhere.

But this post is not about Trump, Ivanka, or ....... anything important like saving the World from assholes and dimwits. 

Totally unconnected events in my life have conspired over time to make me relive moments from my past with a new clarity or just a different twist to add to the quiver of explanations I might have about that event or events.

I was finally old enough to be drawn into conversations about sex with buddies and their older brothers. It was an awakening of sorts, even if I came out of it still more than a tad unclear about how the docking of man and woman really worked.  Call it the age of my first clue.  Regardless, I learned some important words, "Fuck" being the most important and influential one. I would carry and use it with pride forever.  Some situations just cry out for its use.  Best adjective, verb, oh Hell, best word for almost every situation ..... Uh, sorry, gettin off track here.

Remember, I was maybe seven or eight when this life changing word entered my world. At the time though, "Fuck" was a word I was, serious look me in the eye warned to never use in front of an adult.  Even if they used it before I had.  Adults and their lookalikes, parents, might pull out the belt, the soap, or point you to a corner if they caught you using that word.

So forewarned being forearmed and all that, I went home and kept my secret new words secret.  I would whisper them occasionally and giggle, but never out loud in front of strangers.  These words were to be shared with the guys and no one else.

My fascination with the new secret words was just the point of the spear representing my growing interests in words generally. My parents had begun directing me to the nearest dictionary ( always at least one in every room ) when I asked them the meaning of a word they said or I had read.  They were not going to carry me anymore.

I remember frustration and anger.  But I also remember that along with this torrent of new words, a period of enlightenment began.  Life was not just Mom, Dad, and the backyard anymore.  New words pointed me in new directions.  I began to fall in love with words.

One morning I walked into the kitchen.  My dad was talking to my mom. In the course of the conversation, I heard him say "Fuckless".  I was shocked speechless.  Mom looks at me and asks me what my problem was.  I guess my face was also shocked, not just my brain.

"Uh, well Dad just said the "F" word.  My mom looked at me with deadpan eyes for a moment.  She turned back to my dad .  They stared at each other for an eternity and then burst out laughing.   So much laughing, it led to eye wiping and my mom leaving the kitchen.

Dad calmed down and considered me with a happy face.  "The word was not "Fuckless", it was "Feckless".  .......FECK-  less."

Of course my next question resulted in me going to the dictionary.

So, when I read what Samantha Bee said of Ivanka, I immediately changed her words in my mind to "Fuckless cunt" and then considered how that might also be appropriate in a Trumpian sort of way.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................

Not Just Another True Story

So I'm cruising around Facebook this AM, not paying attention to what roads I am on.  Come across a post with the image at the right.  Something about Trump being not only the first hybrid of a Pig and a Human, but the first blend of an animal with a human ever.

I don't know about the first one, but I know Trump is not a hybrid of a pig and a human.

........ The true story ........

70 plus years ago in the Bronx, a real estate broker and his wife wanted a child.  Sadly, he and his darling wife could not have children.  He was shooting blanks or she was barren.  Not sure, cuz back then, well, nobody checked, it just depended on who was talking.

Well, this real estate guy knew a guy who knew a guy who was a janitor at the biology building at NYU.  He told them he could fix them right up.  He had been paying attention while sweeping up around the egg heads gazing into microscopes and such.  He just needed a quiet place to get it done.

The real estate broker fixed him up with a locked room in the basement of one of the tenements he owned in Queens.  Bought the supplies and equipment the janitor wanted and the janitor performed his magic.  Before the year was out, the Donald crawled out of that dark tenement basement room.

Real estate dad was at first concerned.  Donald didn't look normal.

The janitor calmed real estate guy down, " Yeah, the hybrids always look a tad odd when they're young.  He'll grow out of it."

Not quite sure about his young son turning out fine, real estate asked why did his son look the way he did.

"You know I couldn't trust yours or your wife's DNA.  And since you were in such a damn hurry, I used what was handy."

"Oh", Real Estate Guy's concern grew.  "And what was handy?"

"Well, I used some DNA of mine and some from a nag's ass I moonlight with on weekends in Central Park ."

"So you're telling me my son is part shit room cleaner and a horse's ass?"

"That about sum's it up.  But fear not, one or the other will become dominant by puberty."

And that is the first and only, though undisclosed until today, successful Human/Horse's Ass to date.

True story.  Add it to your quiver of alternate facts.

Later ......................................................

Beauty is Only Skin Deep

I was watching TV awhile back. Or rather I had it on. More for the noise than anything else while I attended to minor chores.  One of those tabloid shows was on.  The hostess with the perfect coiffure and the perfect teeth behind the perfect smile introduced a woman who was addicted to cosmetic surgery.  The lead in and my first and only look let me know all I wanted to hear and see.  I went back to whatever chore I was dealing with, hoping to work the horrific image out of my mind.

But I could not get the picture of her out of my mind. She had had so much skin pulled, tucked, inflated and re-arranged, she looked like a claymation figure.  The more I considered her image, the more absurd and further from reality it became.  I could not imagine what waking up next to her would be like.

I finished my chores and immediately fired up the computer.  Apparently there is a medical definition for addiction to cosmetic surgery.  It is known as "body dysmorphic disorder".  What is it with the medical folk that they insist on labeling every problem with a name that normal folk cannot understand?  Couldn't they just label it "addiction to cosmetic surgery" and be done with it?  Whatever.  I guess somebody has to keep a breath of life in a dead language.  Might as well be doctors.

With the unfortunate woman's face still fresh in my mind, I stopped in front of the bathroom mirror and considered what might be needed to give me twenty years back.

Hmm ......... No double chin yet. That's good I guess. My face is slightly larger now, but there's still almost a full head of hair on top.   My nose is still small and inconspicuous. Again, a good thing I guess.   But I'll tell you what.  A small nose brings with it some real disadvantages.  Because of it, I was never able to learn how to properly pick it.  Even as a wee one, hangin with my buds at the playground slide, I could never plunge even a knuckle deep to get at the good stuff like my peers.  At the time I was sure they thought less of me because of my lack of talent at nose mining.  But we all have to live with physical challenges and I have learned to deal with mine.

Once I had recognized the unfairness of a small nose, my eyes moved to my eyes obscured by glasses looking back at me in the mirror.  I removed my glasses and leaned in hard to bring my face back into focus.  What's this under my eyes? Are those water balloons? I am packing some serious eye baggage.  Looks like someone stuffed a tennis ball under each eye. And the crow's feet at the corners of my eyes look like Big Foot stomped on my face.  Add in the scars I had accumulated from years of launching myself head first into almost everything I did, well, I have to say maybe that woman didn't look so bad after all.

I considered my previous horror upon viewing her for the first time while checking out my 63 year old mug.  The face that stared back at me with just a little make up, maybe a highlight here or some shadow over there, could land me an extra spot on "Walking Dead".   At least I did not have to pay one red cent to grow this ugly.  No sense paying for something you can do yourself.

Later ..................................................

An addendum to this post - For some reason the comments were turned off for this post.  Not sure what I did, but I must have pissed off the Internet gods or something.

Odd.  Very Odd.

Secretary of the Future

Mornings in the garage, I punch up the small radio I used to include with my tools when banging nails for money.  It is covered with paint spots, one corner is crunched after a fall from 40 feet, and the back is taped on as a result of that fall.  I have it perched precariously on the edge of the one window in the garage.  Where else would I park it?  A radio like that that laughed in Death's face all the way down, deserves to live out its life as it lived it, outside the safe environs of a deep solid shelf.  Besides, it only pulls in stations when it is that close to the window.

So this morning I punched it up, and NPR had a short , very short, interview with Kurt Vonnegut.  It figures he would ask the question, "Why don't we have a Secretary of the Future in the President's cabinet?"  He went on to point out that there was a secretary for almost everything else, but no one looking out for what is coming down the pike.

"Hmm."  I think I actually said this to myself. "Hmm, A Secretary of the Future."

Of all the wacky things I have thought of, an official somebody looking forward instead of behind never occurred to me.  Immediately I began to consider just how this new bureaucratic agency would work.  So I phoned them.  Phoned then in my mind of course.  Their existence or non existence will be determined at some future date.  This future conversation ran something like.............

"Good Morning, you have reached the Department of the Future.  Your call is important to us here in the future.  All of our agents are currently busy dealing with the future.  Please leave your name and number and your reason for calling.  An agent will be contacting you at some future date and time to address your question and concerns regarding the future.  As we here at the Department of the Future cannot actually predict the future and can only offer possible scenarios, the status of your call will be determined by which number you dial now."

"If you think we will never call, dial 1."

"If you think we might call, but it will be after you have forgotten why you called in the first place, dial 2."

"If you think we will call right back, dial 3 and hold your breath until that happens."

"For all other possibilities, please stay on the line.  An agent will be with you shortly in your dreams after you have passed out with the receiver in hand."

That was my first go at imagining what a Department of the Future phone call might be like.

Number two went like  .............

"You have reached the Department of the Future.  Your call is totally meaningless in the future, as it will already be in the Past once we listen to your message.  Only future contacts are handled here at the DOF.  Thank you for calling."

Anyway, that is what was on mind in my recent past.  Who knows what will be slinking around in my upcoming future.  Maybe I should call the Department of the Future.

Later ...........................................

  

The Lying Car Salesman

Because I am a glutton for punishment, I screened a bunch of Romney ads.  Something was bothering me about him.  I knew I had seen him somewhere in my past before he conveniently turned up as the supposed progeny of a much classier man than he is.  It all became clear when I found this:



The man used to be a car salesman.  No wonder I don't like him.

Later.............................

A Great Man's Downfall

I think I have finally figured it out.  It had been bothering me for quite awhile.  But after stumbling upon the photo to the Right, the pieces began to fall into place.

First some background.............

He was raised to be a good Conservative in a family whose Conservative values stretched back through the years more than a few generations.  His family affluence provided him with the nurturing atmosphere of privilege and he wanted for nothing.  All that was expected of him was to go forth into the World and do his best to, as historian Gregory Schneider put it, "Defend Western civilization from the challenges of modernist culture and totalitarian governments".

He went to all the right schools, met all the right people (Conservatives of course), married, had children, and proceeded to find his place in the World.  It was determined fairly early on he had no nose for business.  What else was there for a good Conservative to put his mind to but politics.  After all, the way had been paved by his family and their years long involvement in National politics.

He started out small in a big state.  His success there impressed the movers and shakers entrusted with bringing America back to its roots of God fearing Conservatism.  They saw in him a chance to turn around 8 years of Liberal sabotage at the hands of a semi pink philanderer.  They pushed him, prodded him and through creative vote counting courtesy of his brother,  managed to place him at the helm of the USS America.  May God shed his light on thee.

So what happened?  Why, with all the pedigree, all the support, all the connections, did this once fine Conservative become a pariah in his own movement?   Instead of decreasing the size of government, he allowed it to grow.  Instead of pinching pennies and keeping the deficit under control, he invaded other countries and spent money like a good Democrat.  Oh he tried to keep up appearances by appearing somewhat dim and disconnected like many of his peers seem to love.  But something had happened behind the scenes.  Some insidious moment, some Left Wing influence, some evil from the progressive side had infiltrated his soul.

When I came upon the above photo, I figured it out.  He was seduced by one of the darker evils from the Left.   He became an avid cyclist.   He didn't just ride a bike for the positive polling a kodak moment on a bike might bring.  The man fell in love with riding a bike.  And to make matters worse, he did not stop at the almost okay anal retentive roadie stage, like so many of his peers seemed to think was acceptable.  He became a mountain biker.  A type of cycling whose roots go directly to the hippie dippy pot smoking whackoes of Marin County in California.  It is a known fact that all mountain bikers either smoke pot and think war is stupid, or they have smoked pot in the past and don't mind if others do.  Even if they support war now, at one time, they did not.  In other words, mountain bikers embody the worse kind of Liberalism - Live and let live.  They have been known to get drunk or stoned and ride naked.  They will often pull off the trail to share a doob and a clif bar.  They use terms right out of the 1960s and 70s - Dude, Stoked, Gnarly - all words of subversion, every one.

So folks and whoever else might catch this,  please find in your hearts some compassion for this man.  What he thought was but an innocent diversion and healthy activity was actually a commie conspiracy to undermine his efforts to turn back the clock to when America was greater than even it thought it was.  Forgive him his fall from grace and understand now how sneaky those Liberals really are.

Johnson Closure

By the time you read this or at the least when this post self publishes thanks to the black magic that makes computers and the Internet work, by that time I will be somewhere between here and there on the superslab, trying to fit in with other southbound buggies as they head for home, the beach, their parents house or in my case some wedding 500 miles from my home.

I managed to not leave New England these last few years. Massachusetts was about about far as I ventured. This trip to Maryland will be my 3rd visit in the last 4 months. Beginning to feel like a recurring nightmare. Like the road will always be part of my life. I just can't escape its clutches.

Spent my first 28 years on this planet on the road. First as a little tacker tagging along behind my military ole man. Because I had been born to it, I knew no better. Hit the road behind the wheel of the big rigs and pounded a million or so miles out before I smartened up, came to Maine, parked my ass in the woods and settled down. The World did fine without me. Well, maybe not fine, but it certainly didn't miss me.

I was hoping to spend my last decades off the road and parked on my bike or comfortably reclined in my local barco-lounger with a cold beverage instead of cussing and fussing while other road warriors did their best to run me into the ditch. Just not in the cards I guess. Huffing exhaust fumes and dodging blown up truck retreads seems to be my destiny.

But what am I doing here? This was supposed to be the upbeat post that countered the previous angry man posts. I was aiming higher than I could punch I guess.......which reminds me of the best toilet graffiti I ever read.

Some years ago I walked into some public toilet in some unremembered truck stop in the outer reaches of America and scratched into the graffiti proof paint at face level:

"Your hose is too short

Your pump, it's too weak

Stand closer to the seat dude

Or you'll piss on your feet."

Unconsciously I edged closer to the ole American Standard urinal and laughed out loud. All the gnarly trucker dudes lined up next to me silently taking care of their own business looked at me at the same time. In my hurry to leave and take my red face out of there, what should have been a routine johnson closure turned into a very painful johnson snagged three or four links into the zipper. 

Well, you just don't follow up a belly laugh with a scream and leave with your dignity intact.

Not my best moment. But most definitely one of my most painful.

Later........................

Is That A Cruller in Your Pocket.........

......Or are you just happy to see me.

I had to laugh this morning when I came upon this headline "N.J. Dunkin Donuts worker caught in 'extra sugar' sex sting". Of course I had to open it and read it.

Seems for a nominal fee over and above the price of a cup of coffee and a donut, one enterprising young woman augmented her income by offering personal services to the patrons of the drive through. Because these "services" were deemed illegal by local and state statutes, naturally the local police became interested in her "off the clock" and "on the c(l)ock" activities. Determined to muzzle this budding entrepreneur and restore civility and morality to the Dunkin Donut parking lot, they set up an undercover sting operation. Of course they caught her.

All I can think of is this really puts a new spin on the term "Dunkin Donut".

Later...............................

A Little of This and Some of That

I feel obligated to post something today.  But what?

There's the gubernatorial race here in Maine.  That is certainly worth mentioning.  After all our Republican candidate managed to get himself some national exposure by promising to tell Obama to go to Hell.  But I did not want to waste time or words on buffoons.  While the man is not an idiot, he surely played one on TV the other day.  Just the sort of class act I would love to see in Augusta. ........Riiiiight.

Maybe everyone would be interested in the excitement that visited my humble abode yesterday morning.  But no, I think not.  There are no words worthy enough to describe the edge of the seat suspense of watching Jeremy clean out our furnace.  Words would just fail me. 

I might mention the fellow in downtown Portland who doused himself with gasoline, walked out into the busy day and flicked his Bic.  Seems no one knows why. 

Then there's the ongoing trial of one Jason Twardus.  He is accused of strangling his ex-fiance in Alfred and burying her on land his father owns in northern New Hampshire.  He claims he was framed.  The State of Maine feels otherwise.  An interesting case if for no other reason than the defendant's name - Twardus.   I have had several fun filled moments considering the possible variations of that name he has had to deal with as he grew up.

A customer dropped off a bike a couple of days ago to be fixed.  This fellow is a respected doctor here in our area.  He is also one of the few I feel comfortable talking politics with.  So naturally when I saw him coming and noticed there was no one else in the shop, I pulled out my soapbox and was ready before he even made it in the door.  What should have been a two minute "Here's my bike, it needs fixing" exchange between customer and repair guy turned into a half hour sermon to the choir.  We covered healthcare, the election, with both of us mutually disgusted with the current political climate.  He was more forgiving of the Left than I was, but for the most part we came away from the conversation feeling good about ourselves.  At least I did.

One of the spontaneous thoughts I came up with as I spewed my outrage over the stupidity I was witnessing coast to coast stuck with me.  It was somewhere between where I was sharing my disdain for the cowardly leadership of the Left and my total contempt for the lying and shameless Right when I mentioned I thought someone from the Left should start spreading untrue rumors about the exalted leadership of the Right.  After all, spreading outrageous lies seemed to be doing the trick for the Right.  Fighting fire with fire sort of thing.

So even though I am but a token member of the Left..........Or should I say a very unreliable follower of the Left, I will now make up some rumor that will hopefully spread like a disease through out this land to help offset the blatant lies coming from the folks on the Right who will believe anything as long as it comes from Rush, Hannity, Greta, or Beck.

Maybe Obama was born in Kenya, maybe he wasn't.  At least he was born on this planet.  I have it on good authority that  Glenn Beck is really the offspring of a coupling between a waitress in Utah and an alien from a whirlpool galaxy far beyond the borders of our own Milky Way.  

Xriden had stopped off at a rundown greasy spoon and two pump fuel stop in the middle of the Salt Flats for some chaw and a donut.  He just could not take his eyes off Wanda, the 300 pound waitress with the big hair.   Apparently aliens of Xriden's race like their females large and with hair on their upper lip.  So he took her with him.

Wanda did not mind.  It was not as if she had many men courting her anyway.  Besides, when Xriden picked up that donut with his tongue and twirled it in circles, she just melted.  Her one good eye twinkled.

So off into Space they went.   As this is almost a PG rated blog, I will spare you the sordid details of what went on inside the capsule as they plummeted from asteroid to asteroid.  Use your sick imaginations if you must.

At some point in this heated romance, the spark died.  Neither Xriden nor Wanda were to blame.  They just grew tired of each other.  Once the excitement of physical contact waned, they were left with what?  Conversation?  Yeah, you can only imagine what an alien from beyond the Milky Way and a waitress from Utah might have in common to talk about.  

Xriden decided that it was time to dump this broad.  Being from a race that prided itself on being forthright ( it was actually one of their commandments), he told Wanda he was tired of her and would be dropping her off as fast as he could boost his ship back to Earth.

"Yeah well that's fine with me jerk wad.  I was getting bored with the tongue twirling anyway. "

The now unhappy couple headed back to Earth.   It was to be a long silent ride for both of them.  During that 6 month return trip not ten words passed between them.  Wanda, already a rather large full sized woman, did not notice what was growing inside her.  She thought the discomfort in her gut was from eating that god awful crap Xriden called food.  In reality she was with child.    About a week before touch down, she felt immense pain in her stomach.  Assuming it was something she ate, she excused herslf and headed to the ship's privy.  Before she had taken three steps, Glenn Beck dropped into existence.

Xriden looked at what had plopped flopping on the deck of the ship.  "Oh great, I did it again."

Wanda was in shock.  She stepped back and looked on in horror as Xriden calmly pulled a mason jar half filled with pickles off a shelf and stuffed Glenn into it.  Screwing on the lid, Xriden turned to Wanda.  " He'll keep just fine until we touch down in Utah."  Xriden handed the mason jar to Wanda.

"But Xriden, what am I supposed to do with that?"  Wanda scrutinized the being wiggling inside the jar amongst the homemade pickles Xriden had brought from his home planet.

"Darling, I don't care what you do with it.  But it came out of you.  You own it now.  Consider it a gift."

A week later Xriden dropped off Wanda and the pickle jar with Glenn inside at the Grey Hound bus station in Salt Lake City.  Handed her a twenty dollar bill.  "It's been real darling.  Have a good life."  And then he was gone.

Wanda had some tough times for a few years.  But eventually she let Glenn out of the jar and they both settled down in some backwater burg in Utah.  Wanda hooked up with a guy named Jack who changed tires at a local truck stop.  Wanda went back to waitressing and Glenn grew up to become the towering intellect we have all learned to appreciate.  Wanda never ate another pickle the rest of her life.

There it is.  The true story of how Glenn Beck came into being.   Don't believe the hype he was born in Everett, Washington.  Has he ever shown us his birth certificate?  I don't think so.

I Hate Grocery Stores

Five minutes before I close my shop, the phone rings. I dread these last minute phone calls for advice or worse, last minute favors. I am tempted to let the machine pick up. But I am still open for 5 more minutes.

"Good evening, CRUM Cycles."

Most of the time these calls are last minute requests for a tube, information on a ride, etc. But tonight it is the dreaded "wife wants something from the grocery store" call. As soon as I hear her voice, I know my simple commute home to a warm hearth and fuzzy slippers has now become another foraging mission. Sometimes it's but a simple trip to 7/11 for a quart of milk. But tonight's mission is a dangerous excursion to the grocery store. That 40,000 sq foot battleground surrounded by a 10 acre minefield they call a parking lot.

She never asks me to pick up something easy either. It's always something obscure that we do not have at home in the standard bulk containers she favors. A specific type of baking powder, a certain yeast, or odd healthy tidbit bound to taste as bad as it sounds.

Resigned to a dangerous mission, I pump myself up on the way. " I am the hunter in this clan. It is my duty to drop the carcass at her feet. I will not fail." These words still echoing in my mind, I plan my approach. Having done battle here before, the lay of the land is all too familar. A full on frontal assault is out of the question. In order to accomplish my mission and still be home for Jeopardy, I must be elusive and fluid. I plan a flanking maneuver that will safely land me in the side lot where the loading dock is. If there is a spot within 100 yards of the front door, it will be here. Securing my assault vehicle, I reveiw the mission's objectives and realize I have forgotten the list. That itemized set of objectives I will now have to hope I remember. This throws my plan out of whack and with a sinking feeling in my gut I deploy anyway.

Dodging carts and harried women with kids in tow, I weave my way through the entrance and into the too bright foyer. Stopping a second to collect myself, I begin to run the layout through my mind. A cart hits me from behind, knocking me to the side. "Please do not block the entrance", a friendly voice reminds me. I turn and realize that I was lucky. A train of 30 or so empty carts is being rammed into this throng by some kid barely able to peek over the top of the carts. I wonder at how someone so small can be so nonchclant in an enviroment so dangerous. But then I realize they are part of the danger. One of the many traps and hazards known to exist in this no man's land.

I look around for one of the Hubby buckets. Those little baskets with 2 flip metal handles all the husbands use for these last minute supply runs. Big enough to hold a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs and maybe some cold cuts. I grab one and enter the traffic flow into the depths of this beast.

Knowing I only have to actually hit the baking section, I head right to it. Going against the flow of right to left, I encounter and disrupt several cart folks. One wheels around the end of an aisle on 2 wheels and I have to jump out of the way as the little woman glares at me for obviously being a bonehead with no sense of direction. Whew! That was close. I peek around the end of the aisle and take a quick look and then duck back. No, not that one. Again, a quick look to see if it's clear and I jump to the end of the next aisle. A peek assures me this is my aisle. I make sure no carts or bands of lady thugs engrossed in coupon swapping are hanging out or on the move. It is clear, so I head down the aisle looking for something baking related to key in on. So many things to look at, my eyes do not see any of it. Like the picture of a mob scene, picking out one face you recognize is near impossible.

It is on my second pass, that I find the baking section. Now I have to rely on my memory of the quickly written list to pick the right product. Uh, she wanted baking something. Baking powder? Baking Soda? And which type? I can't remember which, but I know there is a big difference. One is for smells in the fridge and the other is for baking. I grab one of each. She had also mentioned yeast. Damn! Must be 10 different kinds. My body language must be broadcasting my distress. I hear a voice behind me say, "What kind of baking are you doing dear?" I turn around to a kindly wrinkled face wrapped in tight blue hair.

"I dunno. I wrote down what she wanted and,"

"Forgot the list," she finished for me with a twinkle in her eye. She continues, " Do you know what she is baking?"

Instead of putting on the gruff exterior, I immediately cave to her obvious superior knowledge regarding things baked. She has the uniform, the years of wrinkles acquired in a lifetime of bake sales, church socials, and keeping many rugrats happy with baked goodies from her oven. And from the look on her face, I am sure she has had a dummy or two like me in her life before.

"I forgot. But I assume it is something sweet. My kid is coming home from college this weekend and my wife always does some baking when that happens."

She gently grabs the box of baking soda out of my basket and puts it back. "You won't need this".

Then she reaches for some yeast and says this is her favorite. Always a dependable rise when she uses it. I throw it in the basket. "To be safe, since you say it is something sweet, pick up some of this." She grabs some baking sugar and gently places it in my basket.

I am trying to form words of gratitude, but she just smiles, turns back to her cart and throws her shoulder into it to continue on her own mission. "Thanks", I manage. She gives me a smile over her shoulder and continues on her way.

Standing there, relieved this part of the trip seems successful, I try to visualize that damn list I left on the counter next to the register at the shop. Hmm. Was there anything else on it? I figure a quick run through most of the aisles might be wise. Some can good or bright package could jog my memory. As I carefully peak out of the end of an aisle to see if the coast is clear, my eyes settle on this humoungous bag of Beef Jerky. Not the puny sized tease you see at 7-11, but a bag that would surely hurt you if you attempted to consume it in one sitting. My mouth waters and I am under it's spell. I grab it and run.

I hurry through several more aisles and then decide that, since I cannot remember anything else, there must not be anything else. I head to the front of the store to check out. As I approach the cashiers, I count the items in the basket. Way under 11 items. I confidently stroll towards the express check out. Just before I get there, I am rudely brushed aside by that crazed woman who almost took me out earlier. Busting in front of me, she starts unloading a cart of 1000 items on the express belt. I stand there amazed and awestruck. First of all, her attack was flawless, she swooped in like a running back finding the crease. Second, the cashier doesn't even blink an eye. She just starts scanning everything like nothing unusual is happening.

"Uh, Maam", I begin, "shouldn't you be using another cashier?"

Both the evil woman and the cashier look up and 4 eyes bore into me. I refrain from further comment and quietly wait for my chance to pay for my paltry 3 or 4 items. As the woman stuggles to get her overloaded cart moving, the cashier says, "See ya at home 'bout 9:30, okay Mom?"

I smile at the unfairness of Life as the woman rings me up. She asks me what's so funny, I just keep smiling.  As I leave the safety of the check out aisle, I am leveled by a fully loaded cart hurrying to the parking lot. Not just a brush by or a riccochet, but a full tilt, high impact knockdown. The affair with the cashier had caused me to let my guard down. And now I was down, crushed beneath the wirecaged monster and in severe pain. " You oughta look where you're going, son." I look up. Smiling down is that kind ole lady who helped me in aisle 8 with my baking problem. Through the pain all I could do was smile too.

Another Dumb & Dumber Moment

Your Hose is too short 

Your Pump is too weak 

Stand closer to the seat dude 

Or you'll Piss on Your Feet

The words scrawled on the wall above the stand up toilet caused me to laugh out loud. A generous and boisterous laugh. Immediately I tried to stop, but the damage was done. I could feel the eyes of others turning my way. One did not interrupt the solitude and false perception of being alone in a men's bathroom. These guys were concentrating and now I just broke the mood. Way to go. Laughing out loud in a public toilet can bring down the wrong kind of attention. 

Totally embarrassed now, I go to zip up. Shit! Seems I didn't pack it all in and now I have my business pinched hard in the zipper. I begin to double over like my butt is somehow trying to run away from the pain. I want to scream. It hurts oh so ........... If I scream now on the heels of the belly laugh, someones going to beat on me, I just know it. But damn it hurts. 

It will hurt more when I unzip that which I have stupidly zipped up. Holding back the tears and the screams of agony, I yank hard and yes,...............It hurts even worse this time. And still I dare not make a sound. These clowns already think I am odd. 

Trying to regain my composure, I think I am acting cool as I stiff leg it over to the sink to wash up. All I can think about is the pain while frantically waving my hand under the stupid sensor to get some flippin water going. Nothing. No water. 

I look up into the mirror over the sink. My face is all red and that vein on my forehead is pulsing hard enough I think it's gonna blow. Again I begin frantic hand waving trying to get some water to flow. A hand reaches over and hits the top of the faucet head. "Bub, you have to hit it. Waving ain't gonna cut it." 

I look over and this huge guy is standing there. The look on his face tells me I am not acting cool. He is doing his best to not laugh. "Uh, Thanks." I turn back, wash my hands and move on to the blow dryer. 

I find the door and leave. The sound of several male voices laughing follow me out into the daylight. I return to the car and the journey with wounded pride and wounded body. My darling wife asks me what's wrong. "Nothing", I say, preferring to not have more salt poured on my wounds.

 __________________________________ 

 This happened to me on one of my trips south some years ago. The tale speaks for itself.

The Men Who Stare at Sheep

sunshine does a weekly review of movies that have recently come out. This past Wednesday she did a review on the new movie "The Men who stare at Goats".

Ever since the trailers for this movie starring an ensemble cast of super stars began to ooze from my television set, I naturally utilized my sick sense of humor and considered a porn movie starring overall clad goobers with straws hangin out their mouths walking into the barn and well you can imagine where it went from there. All in the name of humor of course. Of course.

It would be filmed in grainy black and white with celluloid scratches coming and going across the screen like the porn movies I saw as a teen back in the 1960s. The lighting would be hit or miss. The sound poorly dubbed and the acting especially awful. But the sheep........well the sheep would be delightful. Done up with ribbons and deep red lipstick, these ewes would be to die for.

The typical plot would unfold. Your local feed delivery guy would walk into the barn with a 50 pound sack of Purina's finest feed. Ellen Ewe, played by Ellen herself, would bat her long lashes and find some way to lure this poor workman from his daily rounds. Naturally how could this simple man, this man who drives a feed truck resist such charms.

In keeping with the spirit of porn films from the 1950s and 60s, the scene would immediately change and we are now witnessing an inspired and enthusiastic rendition of ravaging and savaging. Suddenly Farmer John comes in and throws his hands up.

"Oh No Ellen, how could you? And with the feed truck driver delivery guy!"

Agitated and heartsick, Farmer John grabs a pitch fork and brandishes it in their general direction.

Staying true to the roots of the classics, an immediate doesn't tie into the plot scene change jerks us back to the real reason we came.

Farmer John is now having his way with Ellen, while Feed Truck Guy sits back groping her. Ellen is smiling. A sheepish grin of course.

The End...........

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I am a Lumberjack and I'm Okay

At first I thought this blogging medium was a great way for folks to come out of their individual shells and mind meld like Spock and all would become one huge intelligence that would transcend the need for bickering and flicking boogers at each other.

Of course that was just me having an Acid flashback.

Neighborhoods. Specifically Blogging neighborhoods. Clicks, political groups, genre groupies, Mommy bloggers, whatever. This blogging world may encompass the planet, but per human tendencies, it has broken itself down into insular little enclaves that often seem unfriendly to those strangers passing by. Jeez, imagine that. Just like the real world.

However, (I just love this word - easier to type than "on the other hand" and is even more confusing when one looks at it by itself. However? What the Hell is however?) Where was I?

Oh yeah - However and on the other hand, the Internet has made the World smaller and the neighborhoods bigger. I know what you are thinking. "Wow Mike, what an awesome observation." And now, breath held and on the edge of your seat, you can't wait for the follow up...................... Uh, I sat down this morning with every intention of writing a serious and well thought out post that would make up for the useless post of yesterday. Hmm. Seems I haven't shaken the useless thing yet. All I want to do is be silly and poke fun at us humans because really folks, come on now..... We are pretty silly most of the time. I'd say stupid, but well I am including more people than myself here.

As I usually do, I searched for the reason behind my recent fall from seriousness. Why all of a sudden has Life ceased being nothing to joke about? I mean Jeez, if you can't take Life seriously, how the Hell can you expect to take anything seriously? Seriously. No foolin around..........Okay, you in the back - stop that snickering.


After much introspection, exospection, misdirection and a couple of minor erections, I have concluded it is the fault of Monty Python. Yeah that's right. I found someone else to blame for my foibles. failings and deviant behaviors. I am sure my dearly departed parents are breathing a sigh of relief that they had no part in this. But if I had a therapist, and could afford one given that my insurance doesn't cover loony stuff - well my therapist would probably disagree and ask me how did I feel while still in the womb knowing I would probably not like the World I was being forced into and that's why I decided to come out ass first.

My favorite cable channel, IFC, has recently been airing all kinds of programming about Monty Python. Their movies, many of their skits, and even more interesting in some ways, the back stories behind their rise to fame. And of course I have been there face glued to the screen reliving those moments of gut splitting pleasure I had as a younger man when they first invaded our country via that commie lib medium, PBS. Odd though, it was my Goldwater Conservative mom who turned me onto them. I know this flies in the face of the rumor that Conservatives have no sense of humor, but there you have it. Anecdotal evidence. What more could you ask for?

I know I promised to do better next time, and I am trying. But I need to purge my undersized brain of all the sensory over load comprised of huge feet, big teeth and fish slapping. I'll be better once IFC goes back to showing films with subtitles.

Later......................

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Not Even Fly for a White Guy

As if I needed more complications for my already convoluted Life, now it seems I need to add Twitter to the equation. Everyone says it's the rage and if I go online and don't Twitter, I am a loser. Seems a few years ago, every hip person I spoke to told me Texting was the now thing and if I wasn't Texting, I was a loser. Before that it was Blogging. Before that it was Cell phones. Before that it was Newsgroups on modems that loaded up sites at the lightening speed of 56BPS and Internet time was charged by the minute.

On and on back into the past, I seem to always be told I am a loser if I am not doing this or that because it was hip and would somehow make my life more magical and wonderful and fuller than it already was. Women would fall at my feet in adoration for how hip I had become. Platform shoes, polyester shirts unbuttoned past my manly nipples and ass tight bell bottoms would surely make the women faint. Yeah right. Disco lasted about five minutes for me and I was back wearing cutoffs and going barefoot.

In junior high it was the collegiate or Click look of northern Virginia I carried with me as my family moved to Oxen Hill, Maryland. What I ran headlong into in Oxen Hill was not the Click look. Blocks or Greasers as we Clicks called them ruled in Oxen Hill. Some ass kicking ensued but eventually they got tired of it and I saw the wisdom of wearing the occasional Ban Lon shirt to school just as a token nod of respect. I even got past the shock and awe of "Big Hair". But through it all, I always wore cutoffs and bare feet whenever I could.

As far back as I can remember, I was always just out of step with whatever current trend or fad was in play at the time. A day late and a dollar short as they say. Eventually I figured out that hanging with the cool kids was not worth the effort. I was never going to be a trend setter. And if I couldn't set a trend, I would be damned if I was going to follow one.

The nightmare I lived through when I tried out Pegged Pants one time was probably the first hint I would never fit in with the "In Crowd". Nor should I even try. Of all the fashion insanities I attempted as an awkward teen trying to find his path, Pegged Pants had to be the worse. Next to my brief encounter with Disco, it was definitely my most humorous. I was no seamstress or tailor. I was just a kid whose mom had a sewing machine. Got some vague instructions from some chick at school. Headed home and pegged my first and last pair of Levis. Apparently there are some skills needed to peg pants. Skills I had no clue of. Sewing in a straight line is key as I found out later. It is also a good idea to not sew up too much of each leg. Making sure the legs look the same helps also.

All of these things I found out about sitting in the Principal's office the next day waiting to be suspended for not only wearing pegged pants to school, but really badly sewn pegged pants. If it was not for the secretary in the office filling me in on just how bad they really were (after she was all done snickering and grinning), I would have thought I was a real bad ass for going against the rules and being sent home for a couple of days. When in reality, it was more likely a case of being sent home to save me any more embarrassment.

She suggested I look in a mirror when I got home to see what she meant. I did and immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Besides looking like I had poured myself into these pants, the uneven seams rippled and jumped in ways that made one leg look sort of harem pants like and the other like a Frankenstein stitch job up the inside of my leg. The crotch had blown out before I had even arrived at school and well, I realized as I gazed in that full length mirror in my parents bedroom, this had not been one of my better days at school.

That should have been the sign of things to come for me. But no. Every so often I continued the struggle to try and fit in. Never seemed to work until the Grunge look came in with Nirvana and the rest of that fashion challenged crew. Suddenly for a couple of years I looked cool. Well, maybe not cool, but at least I blended in just fine. Faded jeans with holes in the crotch or butt and threadbare plaid shirts were ready and waiting already in my closet. I did not even have to head to Marshall's or Target to refit my wardrobe. All this time I had been ahead of the curve. It was not me who was out of sync, it was the rest of the World.

Finally happy I had nailed at least one fashion trend before it went mainstream, I rested on my laurels. And here I sit still resting on them. And even though my shorts are not cutoffs, they do have a hole or two in them. I don't sport bare feet as often as I used to, but I wear flip flops enough to have a serious tan line on top. And I just noticed plaid shirts were on sale down to Marden's. Yeah I know what's hip alright.

See Ya...................

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Thank God for Glenn Beck

As I type this, I am listening to for the second time, the sound from a video taken during a recent Tea Bagger protest in Washington DC back on September 12th of this year. A pleasant young man walked among the angry and righteously indignant citizens. With Mic in hand , decked out in a nice shirt and tie, he asked a variety of questions. An interesting and very enlightening look at what some of the hardcore base of the Right fears and how they view their version of the Truth.

Glenn Beck has found his audience. Or his audience has finally found him. It seems his message, such as it is, has been successfully decoded and assimilated into the minds of folks who previously had some serious cubic feet of dead air to fill up. Vacuum like they have attached themselves to the teat of Glenn's awesome wisdom. You should take a few moments and catch this video. It is about nine minutes long and I will vouch there is a laugh every 15 seconds or so.

Some High Points
~Sign - "Bury ObamaCare with Kennedy" - and in the background, shouts of "Repent!" "Boycott!" And that all time favorite on both sides of the fence - "Freedom!".

~Some dude dragging a high tech cross complete with foam shoulder pad and a wheel on the back to cut down the co-efficient of friction. Who says these Tea Baggers are throwbacks? They've re-discovered the Wheel ferchrisakes.

~Older woman - "I'd like to see a Christian in the White House."
Interviewer - "You don't think Obama is a Christian."
Older woman - "No, he's a Muslim."

~One fellow was very specific about his sign claiming that the name "Barack Obama" broken down to it's roots, actually means Satan. A disjointed but made sense to him explanation of the real meaning of our President's name.

~And another sharp fellow compares Obama to Hitler because he's such a slick talker.

~It becomes about all the Czars Obama is going to unleash on us. When it was pointed out that the first Czar was appointed by Ronald Reagan, the dumb struck look on the four people in view was absolutely hilarious.

~And then a few moments of sharing their love for that logical thinker, Glenn Beck - "Thank God for Glenn Beck"!

Now that I have had my fun with the video of a mass protest of the bizarre, I will try to sit quietly and keep from chuckling every so often as I attempt to consider the serious side of what this video really says. Give me a few moments, I am still re-living some of the better moments in the clip............................................

............Okay, I think I am ready to be serious, uh..........no, not yet.

Whew! Some serious chuckle over load there I'll tell ya.

I know I should be concerned. Concerned on so many levels over this recent series of smear tactics and disinformation showing up on the Right. But it's hard to get too excited. After so many years of being bombarded from both sides by "the sky is falling" rhetoric, I have become somewhat immune to the excesses of either side. I have also stopped listening to either side with any serious attention. Now I tend to sit on the sidelines and laugh at the both of them as they try to scare me into some kind of submissive position.

Which brings me to idiots like Glenn Beck. It is not the fact that I think he is in need of serious therapy or at least an increase in any meds he may be on at the moment. It is not the fact that he pretends to be a journalist. What pisses me off is that a major company and network would allow him to even have a podium or a mic to spread his lies and hate. I have little regard for the other news networks. Fox News however is in a class of it's own. Or maybe better put a no class of it's own. What a terrible example of journalistic integrity. Absolutely the worst one in the mainstream media.

But back to the protest. As I listened to it, my mind wandered. I found myself remembering the days when I mingled with thousands of smelly dope smoking Hippes in front of the Washington Monument back in the anti war days of the 1960s and 1970s. I will agree that there were many bizarre people and many unfounded claims being presented as facts. That kind of thing goes with any mass gathering of political intentions. The thing is, while I recall some over the top rhetoric and speechifying, it seems to me even baked out of their brains, the Hippies had way more of a clue than the people highlighted in the video.

I now pause to ask, "Was this video giving us an accurate protrayal of the general mindset and intelligence of the Tea Bagging crowd?"

Of course it wasn't. It was produced with an obvious Left bias to show the Baggers in as bad a light as possible. And it worked wonderfully. I have not laughed so hard in at least a few days. But on the other hand, I have not as of yet heard much resembling common sense from any Tea Bagger. Slogans based on the drop down lists found at every far Right website or show. Accusations without substance. Unproven predictions as facts. The whole movement is based on fear of what they "know" will happen now that Barack is in charge.

Many on the Left will contend this movement is based on Race. Many will contend this recent hilarity from the Right side is based on partisanship. But in reality it is just the puppet masters wiggling our strings and having us do the same dance with a new tune. Find the Truth for yourself and then make up your own mind. Allowing any one person, Party, or movement to own as much of your opinion as these folks seem to allow Glenn Beck to own of theirs is a sure fire way to not get the government you want. But it will surely get you the government you deserve.




Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ..............................

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Confusion Surfaces

Imagine my mind as it stumbled upon this mysterious reply to what I had considered a very witty and insightful comment of mine on some thread somewhere outside my normal stomping grounds. A member of this forum made up of many dubious intellects wrote -

"a clue to confusion surfaces"

I sat back and pondered this enigmatic reply. I sat with dull eyes and even duller mind and wondered just what the Hell were "confusion surfaces"? Nothing in my experiences to date had I ever run across "confusion surfaces". I was immediately interested. Instantly intrigued. I had to do some research and find what I could about "confusion surfaces".

Before I set my fingers to walking, I considered what just might make a surface confused. After all, the surface of a thing is but the ending of it's insides. Why and how could it be confused? Maybe it had trouble remembering to be inside out or outside in.

So I reversed my thinking, grinding gears as I searched for reverse. Turning it around in my mind, such as it is, I thought, "Does confusion have a surface?" And why would this other mind infer that it had more than one surface by making it plural? And if there was a clue, why then not include it?

Alas, I was at a loss to find any answers on my own.

Google did not help. Several books of science, philosophy and religion did not help. I was left in the wilderness without any of the support I have come to rely on. All I had were my own devices with nowhere to plug them in.

I have sat down now after much pacing and scratching my head. I have placed my problem on this blog for all to see. Call this a plea of sorts. A cry for help. Some kind soul must know what makes a confusion surface. Some mind less befuddled can certainly help a confused guy out.

Later.............

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Crum Answers The Question

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the Answer Bag data base and archives I stumbled upon the burning question of the day. A question that has needed an answer for a long time. Until now, a question that has stymied all who have puzzled over the why of it. For your benefit and to boost my ego and standing among the icons of intellectuality, I offer up for your praise and admiration this:

Why do old men wear their pants higher than young men do?

The final answer ~> I have pondered this before. I figure it must have something to do with the chemical changes in the brain as they age. Specific chemicals fail to mix as they used to or are mixing in different amounts. Anyway the result is that the old geezers have an uncontrollable urge to buy pants with longer legs than the last pair they bought. And thus have to hitch them up ever higher to avoid tripping on the cuffs.

I have, through exhaustive study, come up with a formula that by measuring the distance from the nipples to the belt, one can discern their age without asking. Anything closer than 2 inches indicates they are at least 70.

Of course the sample groups I take my measurements from often do not like my efforts in the name of science. They will often put up a struggle. But I find if you place both knees gently but firmly on their bellies, a quick and relatively painless measurement can be taken. In 15 seconds they are back on their feet, free to shuffle back into the wilds of the mall.

Later.......................

Abe & Sex

An odd combination of sensory inputs coalesced in my mind this morning as I did manly husband things my wife told me to do. Call this a pre-apology for the images you are about to see or already have seen. I guess I just figured this is Abe's day and well he should be my spokes model so to speak.

Abe

Today is Abe's birthday. 200 years ago the great man was born. Whether you like him or not, his greatness is beyond doubt. The celebrations are okay I guess. What I find annoying are the endless comparisons of him to Obama. Or is it the comparisons of Obama to him? Perspective people, perspective. I like Obama. I even voted for the man. But this constant adulation that borders on idolatry is beginning to wear thin with me. Tone it down. We are not doing him any favors by setting the pedestal so high. He will either begin to believe his own press or he will fail to deliver by proving he cannot part the seas or walk on water. He is but a man. He will not save us. Only we can do that.



The evils of Sexuality

I was in the garage beginning my 2009 offensive in the never ending sump wars. Thawing out frozen lines and cussing the rush of basement water. I had NPR on the little ghetto blaster. It was playing solid classical background music. Suddenly there was dead air. I hate dead air. So I switched it over to the one station that never fails. The God Station I call it. Christian values and opinion right from the playbook of the righteous and faithful. Today I tuned into the middle of one of their high horse panel discussions of the horror of sexuality in this country. The focus was on deviant and low moral behaviour, which I gather meant any sex at all.

The moments of religious discussion immediately following my changing of the dial centered on , yeah, homosexuality. How it really was a choice and God did not like it. They knew this because the Scriptures told them so. And we all know God dictated the Scriptures.

So they had a young Christian fellow on who had fallen into Satan's evil pit of homosexuality. He eventually saw the wickedness of his ways and has now renounced his gayness and generally condemned the whole lot of them. He even wrote a book.

This was all fine and ever so predictable. What I find interesting is that we know we are sexual animals. We know this certainly by our early teens. Our actions and interest driven by a huge influx of hormones telling us this without us having to think about it. And rather than just accepting this biological imperative that normal humans cannot ignore, many of us would choose to stifle it for all of us. Many would choose to highlight it by condemning it. I think if we just ignored it, there would be less attention paid by the morally corrupt folks who make up most of mankind. Because it is actively repressed through religious edicts and cultural stupidity, we only create a keener interest in it.

And you might ask why is it appropriate to sully the image of Lincoln with this garbage? Well, back in my college days when I occasionally paid attention, a history professor I liked immensely was on one his humorous anecdotes about Presidents. He indicated that while Lincoln was never caught to his knowledge actually fiddlin and diddlin around, there is much evidence he was keenly interested in sex. So much so, his unsatisfied urges helped to bring on his famous migraines. I always wondered why the Union troops wore blue and why Abe insisted on the big hat.

Oh, and he supposedly loved dirty jokes.

And BTW Abe - Happy Birthday. I hope where ever you are you are laughing. And not shaking your head in disbelief that this is what you worked so hard to save.

Later...........
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