When I was young, my dreams were vivid. Maybe I remember those early dreams as being vivid because I actually remembered the dreams, some of them I still hold onto. During my productive professional life, whatever it was, the dreams became memories of having them, not the specifics.What I was usually left with, were feelings of a kind of pleasure or waking unsettled and ill at ease.
Once retirement came, I had less to worry about when I was sleeping. The many problems of my day to day existence cut to a minimum, left more room in my mind to wander wherever it might while I was asleep.
I began remembering dreams again. I am not sure if remembering dreams again comes with becoming an old fart or not. I only know that having them back is one of the few perks of me being old.
Last night, I woke up laughing, the words "Self Scratching Testicles", the first words I uttered. As I floundered around looking for my glasses, I could not stop chuckling. My funny bone was off and running. As I type this, an intermittent chuckle or snort will erupt, breaking a train of thought or snap me back to the task at hand.
Seriously though, While I am not a chronic nut scratcher, I do do it. Any guy who claims they don't well, they're lying. The sac needs attention from time to time. We guys are lucky we have hands, or the occasional serious case of Jock Itch might create a sharp uptick in men doing themselves in.
Before I started this post, I considered the crassness of discussing anything related to our naughty bits. Why is today the day I even considered the notion of crassness? I had very rarely ever considered it unless it was crudely pointed out. I decided it was more important to bring attention to a problem the Genetics and Cloning folk might be interested in. By highlighting this chronic Human problem that has been around since the beginning of Humanity, it might lead to a cure if the right people were made aware of the problem. Those science geeks just love solving the unsolvable.
It might take a few generations, but I bet some genes could be manipulated, some genetic code re-written, so that eventually, guys would never have to use their hands to tend to their balls. Little fibrous growths attached directly to the nerves controlling the itch impulse in the brain, would automaticallly engage and attack the offending area. Men would no longer need to worry about being caught scratching their crotch. The Ladies would be spared the embarrassment of being seen with the ball scratching idiots who asked them out, but did not indicate their fondness for scratching in their bios they posted online.
Just another idea to help the species progress; put further distance between us and the rest of the animal kingdom.. The only thing is, could this human created change in our DNA be subverted and manipulated to design longer fibrous tentacles so that sexu .......... Uh, Nevermind.
Keep it 'tween the Ditches ..........................................................
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What tune could possibly dovetail cleanly into a post about Itching Testicles? Hmm....... I will get back to you. ...........
Well, that was easy. Googling "Tune about nuts", I scrolled down maybe 5 or 6 suggestions, when an old Roger Miller tune caught my attention. I do not remember "I'm a Nut". My guess, it was a B-side offering on a single with the hit on the A-side. There is no doubting it's Roger; his voice and tendency to include silly vocal sounds made it obvious. Most people will remember him for, "King of the Road", which I will also include today.
And here is his most famous hit, "King of the Road". I loved this song as a kid. Still do. It reminded me of being on the move all the time, which was my existence from the day I was born until I finally settled here in Acton, 30 years later.
God had just returned to Heaven from his golfing sabbatical at "Holy Celestial Links", located at the outer edge of the Milky Way. He had been planning the trip for several epochs. He was sure everything at home would be covered. After all, he had left his only son, Jesus H Christ, in charge with his very capable lieutenant, St. Peter to keep JC on a straight track for the century God would be gone.
It was going to be a quick million rounds with Beezlebub, that satanic, experienced and talented dispatcher of top notch tom foolery of the hedonistic persuasion. God would hold his good frenemy close and under a watchful eye. What could go wrong in a century?
God's golf game had been terrible. Up until this trip, he had been a scratch golfer. Now he was leaning hard on a 7 stroke handicap just to stay competitive with "Bub", who still put a serious ass whoopin on the Big Guy. God only won a few hunded thousand rounds.
Things got pretty testy back at the Mulligan Bar in the clubhouse when the loser had to ante up for drinks. It didn't help that the losers on each day also had to sport a temporary tattoo of the letter L on their foreheads and leave it in place until they won again. Additionally, at the end of their series, that L had to be burned into the forehead of the overall loser.
God took the branding like a man and didn't flinch when that red hot brand touched his forehead. Bub stood nearby, but at a safe nearby with a self satisfied grin on his face. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He had taken Big Guy down a notch. There was some serious celebrations coming and even more tomfoolery that would rub in hard, this win over God.
God stopped looking in mirrors for weeks at a time. He did not enjoy being shown to be fallible, even here in Heaven among his friends and colleagues. Infallibility was one of his stocks in trade. He rationalized that competitions involving silly games did not matter. Accepting his losses and not using his over the top powers to influence the outcome, only reinforced his rep of being a just and fair God. There was certain to be much Hell and Damnation though, liberally spread among his flocks around the Universe before the Heavenly Father brought his golf temper back into check. His live minions would take the heat; they always did. A flood, a drought, an exploding planet or two just might bring down the temperature in God's angry index. It usually did.
What he found when he arrived back in Heaven though really set him off. St. Peter's assistant, Ralphael the Meek, met God when he landed.
"Geez Big Guy, I had no clue JC would pull such a stupid trick...... But you know kids, they are all touchy feely and want everyone to love them....... I did not know he was gone for a few years. That's all, just a few years. It was said and done then. I never thought he could stir up the heathens so quickly, so completely ......... By the way, what's up with the new brand on your forehead. Does the "L" stand for leader or maybe lover; something along those lines. If so, maybe add a "U" in front to make sure everyone knows you are the "Ultimate Leader or even cooler, "Ultimate Lover."
Raphael, the Meek was never seen again. When St. Peter asked God where he was, God only said, "He's on assignment."
God's sad golf vacation stuck in his craw. He was in no mood for childish shenanigans. There would be Heck to pay for someone.
"Where is the little bastard? ......... I will crucify him if I get my hands on him, I will nail his sorry ass up on a cross and let him rot until he stinks. In the meantime, he can think about what he did. After all the work I put into instilling awe and fear of me into the hearts and minds of those poor slobs on Earth, he undermines it all by preaching love dove, let's hold hands and sing about peace and loving our neighbor. ........ What kind of message does that send? .... Love thy neighbor? I want them afraid and angry at their neighbors. Loving thy neighbor does nothing to support my hard line policies. ........ If Eve had not talked Adam into eating that apple, well, things might have panned out better for them. Disobey me, you're gonna pay."
God sat down on his throne hard. The boom cracked across the Universe causing stars to implode and galaxies to crumble. St. Peter groveled at his feet begging him not to turn him over to Beezlebub. They had hated each other ever since Pete tied Bub's shoes together when they went on that six month drunk out in the Magellinic Cloud. Yeah, there was no saving the friendship after that little stunt. Beezlebub still wears the scar from falling and cracking his noggin an very large and nasty asteroid that was whizzing by outside the bar.
God brooded for awhile. He tried to contact his son but his aides said JC was too busy, he was walking on water and then turning it into wine. The aides all agreed, JC had what it takes to take the reins if and when God decided to step down. Behind closed doors though, with the stereos jacked up, their back stabbing tongues wagged on about how working for the Old Man was Hell in Heaven. He is such a sourpuss they claimed, especially now with that L brand burned into his forehead.
<~>
If God does indeed exist. And if God is really an Old Testament kinda guy who knows all and is desperately interested in what I am up to, then I am screwed I guess. But with a long history of disrespectful behavior and commentary about the idea of God, I figure God has some thick skin or his shit list of enemies is so long, he has yet to get to my name on that list. My only hope now is to dodge his wrath while still alive and hope the boat used to cross the River Styx has sunk and I will find refuge on some far distant archipalego that provides comfortablee deck chairs and serves drinks with umbrellas in them.
Hopefully, this wee tale of God behind all the glamor and demon smiting made some of you crack a smile. I know I truly enjoyed writing these sin filled words.
I am nothing, if not the best Heathen I can be............. Later Gators.
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I was messin about the interwebs, lookin for a tune that might dovetail nicely with my post. I started the search after finishing the rough draft and was into the details I hate; polishing and gussseying up a post for public consumption. ........... So, there I was, stuck in my musical comfort zone, which, BTW, is rather broad and eclectic now; especially for a doddering old fart who looks like a steadfast, true blue AC/DC or Charlie Daniels fan.
I was stuck rifling through music I had already rifled through many times before. Frustrated, I stepped outside that comfort jail I had locked myself in and let my freak flag fly. I punched up covers of Depche Mode's hit, "Personal Jesus". I noticed that there were too many covers to choose from; some great ones, some good ones, and some where one review was more than enough.
I wonder what covers of hits from back in the days tells us about the original hit. The oldies that are played by the garage bands or the Homecoming Dance kings or who support the lounge lizard entertainers in bars and clubs worldwide are an expected phenomenon. Drunks want to hear what made them happy and hard back in the day. But when the big boy and big girl bands with real cred pick songs to cover, that is a sign of respect from the tribe for that tune and the people who played it first. There are timeless hits that beg to be covered and have been and still will be in the future.
So I headed into the endless jungle that comprises the musical offerings of Youtube. After some minutes of floundering, I settled on a tune onTV's, "Spain's got Talent", a spin off of "America's Got Talent". This nice looking, no make that, a knock out babe, who looks like she just stepped off her home beach near Rio De Janeiro, Brazil walked onto the stage. Her name is Indiara Sfair, and she took over the moment.
I was blown away. The judges were too. This lady might just be the finest harmonica player I have ever heard. Apparently, she is righteously famous among the harmonica playing population. Because the snippet she played for the show wasn't enough, I found her version of "Amazing Grace". It caused the hairs on my neck stand up hard. So it's a two-fer today ........... Enjoy!
An Afterword. I was puzzled what tune Idiara played on the TV show. Apparently it was an original tune, not a cover. That just raised the WOW factor for me.
When the Orange Cockwomble sees a problem, he searches for a way to make it go away. His first inclination is to do what he wants. Whether the action is right or legal does not matter. The World is his oyster and the Universe that holds that World revolves around the Donald, the bestest buffoon to ever have waddled the planet.. In a word, he is worse than a spoiled child. He certainly governs like a spoiled child.
In his effort to establish a capitol city worthy of his royal presence, I have heard he has a methodically well thought out plan to create the capitol city he envisions; ....... well, he has a bucket list anyway.
I hear part of the plan is to bit by bit, eliminate those pesky tourists by closing down the Smithsonian, the Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and all memorials to the Vets who fought and died in past wars. After all, he knows as all of us should know, dead soldiers are Losers, or they wouldn't be dead. Right? And so the tourists need to go; always scurrying around like insects and spoiling his view from the Oval Office.
He was going to close the Library of Congress (who needs to read anymore anyway?), but someone told him they also stored movies and videos there. Instead of closing it, he wants to tear out some of those useless books to make space for a 500 seat movie theater with surround sound and the best Popcorn machine money could buy. Nobody knows popcorn machines like the Stable Genius.
Then there is another self tribute to himself, the "Arc de Buffoon". When someone is positive they are the greatest gift to mankind like he is, there can never be enough tributes in his honor put in place where he can ogle them out of any window in his White Palace. Statues, his name on every building, and who is going to have the honor of creating the ultimate Trump candy bar? The man's focus on self aggrandizement has no limit. I think he would love to force all citizens to be forced to have branded on their foreheads, "I belong to Trump". Sadly, there is a sizable contingent of the citizenry who would fight to be first in line. I call them "Trump's Buffoonettes"; the folks who are too stupid to understand they mean nothing to him if they are not bowing before him.
Now what does Trump do about the Washington Monument? He has never been a fan. Every time he looks at it, it reminds him of the biological deficiencies he was hatched with. His plan is to demolish the top 75 feet and replace it with a 100 foot replica of a Big Mac. The architects he hired are busy designing the renovation as I write this.
In secret offices and labs underground, they are designing this awesome tribute to Mickey Dee's and at the same time, tryomg figure out who will tell the Don, the existing monument as it stands now, will not be able to support a 100 foot tall, 100 ton Big Mac burger made of bronze, copper, or gold. They know from previous carpet calls, Don does not react well to the word, "Can't".
We should be grateful King Donald is so concerned about the sad deterioration of the Capitol of the United States. Trump may not be able to completely eradicate the undesrables. You know who I mean (wink wink), the brown people, the black people, the Homersexuls, the Libtards, .... all the losers who want to replace God's chosen race, us Peckerwoods. Trumpo has vowed to fight back. He will plant his name on everything he can, informing the folks of color and different sexual identity, they are not welcome in any of HIS establishments. The card carrying haters of America may not appreciate his efforts. You can bet though, us Real 'Muricans do.
Little post note here - Before anyone points out that the burger I placed in my hamfisted collage is not a Big Mac, well, I picked this real statue of a Quarter Pounder because it is a real monument. Fuckin Americans; a very large sculpture of a Quarter Pounder? ...........Really?
If possible, remain calm and stay sane .............................
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So I broke tradition , uh, oh yeah, I already broke that tradition, which I quickly corrected by vowing to never play A-I music. Some traditions just don't last I guess. That one lasted at least a month or two.
So the tune I have today is an upfront A-I effort from the computer magic of "Mr. Newberger's AI Funnies". I respect that he is up front about the lack of any actual humans creating and performing this tune. The song is catchy though. It has a beat, some good riffs and most of all, a clear message. Also, the visuals are what I have come to expect from the A-I world.
Here is "Straight to Hell". Play it loud, or don't. Make up your own mind.
Christians often take themselves and their religious beliefs too seriously. My first clue came in Sunday School at a young age after I was dressed down by the teacher for laughing about some religious parable, statement, or a comment made by the kid next to me. I was never exactly sure why the teacher went on a brief tirade aimed at me. I do know after my mom picked me up, I told her I never wanted to go back to Sunday School.
I found church services to be more reliable and less volatile than Sunday School because of the same every Sunday rituals. There were no tirades, or off the cuff comments made from the pulpits, at least not in the more than a few Episcopal churches I attended when I was young. Episcopalians liked their religion predictably bland with no fire, no brimstone.
I left Christianity in disgust at age 13 or 14 because of the insidious and rampant hypocrisy hidden inside the cloaks of righteousness Christians wore. They often exuded an attitude they considered themselves of a higher moral and ethical fiber than the slobs down the street who did not attend their church or maybe worse, any church at all.
Many years have passed and now I don't tread as carefully or make room in my mind for organized religion of any kind. Even the "harmless" and supposedly inoffensive churches, like Methodist, Lutheran, Episcopalian, and unaffiliated Protestants create a wall between themselves and the unwashed masses of the Heathen world. As soon as a church looks to spread the Gospel by opening more churches, they become dangerous in my opinion. Faith becomes a commodity and less a belief.
I did not want to delve this deep into my hate index for organized religion. My initial prompt for this post came to me by the meme to the right that I shared in "Opposing Views", a group page on Facebook. I have attempted to improve the fun with a re-write of my comment.
"How did
Jesus find the apostles?"
Well, back in the day, some White dudes from New England thought it would be cool to go on an ocean cruise together. They climbed on board a Carnival Cruise Ark, sailed to Europe and then onto the Mid East, where they disembarked in Tarshish. They missed their Ark for the return voyage and ended up stinking drunk at the Dead Sea Scroll Tavern in what would later become modern day Jerusalem.
At the time, Jesus was the wine bitch for the Tavern. His job was to turn water into wine. He really didn't like turning water into wine. The gig had gone stale for him. He couldn't help but notice the gang of White dudes who everyday, showed up and drank gallons and gallons of his wine. One day he said to himself:
"This Gig sucks...I wonder if these guys would want to come in with me on a great con?"
They looked different, dressed different and best of all, some of them had blonde hair and blue eyes to match his own chiseled Aryan look.
It took Jesus awhile to catch one of them sober. When he did, he pitched his proposal to John, who then agreed he'd run it by the group. He thought it was good timing because they were finding the Dead Sea Scroll Tavern a bit of a downer now and were contemplating renting some camels and moving on. John asked for a few days to give their answer.
It was a Tuesday I think when John and the boys gathered for their last bar dive and turned it into their First Supper as sacred Apostles of Jesus.
The World has never recovered.
Okay, I more than just cleaned the comment up. I rewrote it, expanded it, and had even more fun with it this second time around than I did with the comment posted on FB. The less acerbic and shorter comment managed to bunch the panties of some folks who hang out in that group. Mike B commented:
Like I indicated earlier, Christians can be thin skinned when it comes to their religion.
Hope this picks up your Sunday, or at the least, doesn't ruin it. Remember it's a joke.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ............................
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I picked a tune before I even began writing. And then when I checked the version I wanted, a second thought, then a third ....... suddenly I was an hour into picking a damn tune for this post. I have decided for another Two Fer:
Here is Beth Hart and Joe Bonomassa Live in Amsterdam with a cover of "Chocolate Jesus", originally written and recorded by the late great Tom Waits.
I know the members of the original Dixie Chicks have always been up to date and hip Liberals just like me. It saddened me though when they caved to the whiny Libs who criticized them for using "Dixie" in their band name; so they changed their name to "The Chicks". So uncalled for in my opinion.
Here are The Chicks performing "Mattress Dancin" off I think their first album.
The TV ad assured me they were going fast. They insisted these "Donald the Perp" $2 bills are so popular they will only allow me to buy five as there will be a very limited printing.
At the same time they are offering a deep discount. Why? Hell, I don't know. But I tell you what, they will only gain in value. They could become that MAGA hedge against future inflation those Satan worshipping Libtards will surely create in our futures.
The TV ad ended with another reminder that there will be few bills printed and if I wanted to "avoid disappointment & future regret", I had better order today.
Don't forget, your purchase of these once in a lifetime historic two dollar bills will go toward defending our Heaven sent savior from earthly persecution by Satan's henchmen.
Praise the Lord and Amen brother!
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And the clown show not only continues unabated, it gathers more steam as it rolls over any Republican who has ever hinted a bad word about the orange fruitcake. The MAGA movement owns the GOP now and unless all of us who oppose Trump and the lazy, useless, apathetic citizens who can't be bothered to vote..... unless everyone gets off their couches, puts down the gaming consoles, and turns the Kardashians the fuck off on November 5th and vote, well, their complacent lifestyles will not be so complacent in their future.
So what music would go with this post? Let's try googling "music about being conned". More than a few songs popped up. "Con Man", by Dispatch fits the bill.
The 1980's was the first decade I experienced as a nose to the grindstone un-hip white dude. My slip from hip-ness was due to several factors I guess. I got married, stopped hammering the drugs and alcohol, and started a family. Life was suddenly serious now. I couldn't laugh it off anymore.
I was too busy to try to understand the social and cultural fads of the 1980's and 1990's. By the time I did notice many of them, they had been well entrenched for awhile and were way beyond my control. I honestly feel that if I had been paying attention, we would never had to deal with the mullet as a hairstyle for longer than a year or two. But because I was too busy with a family, a job, blah, blah, blah, my inattention allowed the scourge of the mullet to take hold in America's heartland. And then it was but a hop, skip and a jump until the hairdo pestilence of all time spread coast to coast.
Suddenly it looked like all of us lived next door to Meth cooks, wannabe Glam Rockers, aged out hockey players with bad knees, or recent emigres from Australia. Someone told me it was not my fault. They might be right. But then, they might be wrong. so just in case and in an effort to keep my healthy sense of self loathing alive and well, I will take the blame.
I won't take the blame however for is its recent resurgence as an acceptable coiffure. That blame definitely lies squarely on someone else; somewhere south and west of here where it used to be known as the "Kentucky Waterfall".
Apparently it's popularity never completely faded in the sports world like WWE wrestling and Double A baseball. We are destined to be punished with the mullet topped Kiss Army reenactors, Hulk Hogan impersonators and aging Billy Ray Cyrus fans crooning offkey versions of "Achy Breaky Heart" at the local watering holes on Karaoke night.
I am sure the only reason someone somewhere insisted on resurrecting the mullet was to piss me off. If I was a hardcore law and order guy, I'd lobby Augusta to make them illegal in the the state of Maine. But I am too lazy. All I can do now is shake my head and try not to look at them.
............ Yeah right. It's like trying to not look at an accident as I pass by.
Please join the MFA( Mullet Free America) and stop this bad idea from raising its ugly head again.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................
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Billy Ray Cyrus, and his undeserved hit, "Achy Breaky Heart", was to be my pick to go with this post today. There were two insurmountable problems though. One is the tune did not come out during the 1980s. It hit the charts in 1992. Second and probably the real reason the song won't work is, I cannot stand it. It is a deeply rooted visceral hate I have for the song. I might go insane if I have to listen to it all the way through ever again.
So then I thought that since Billy Ray rocked one of the great mullets of his time, I figured his 2017 tune "I want my mullet back" would be an acceptable replacement. Sadly or maybe it's a relief to say, "I want my mullet back" is even worse than "Achy Breaky Heart".
And since there is not a tune by Kiss I feel should be played in public or private, I will have to expand my search beyond the original and logical choices.
So I found a suitable tune. Here is "Better than KISS", by Teenage Bottlerocket , skatepunk rockers from I assume the West Coast.
Democrat operatives inside the Biden inner circle are spinning it as a planned PR stunt to rib the GOP over their irrational beliefs that somehow the Left was smart enough to rig the Super Bowl.
Many MAGA warriors are positive this is a designed travesty and betrayal of all that is sacred in our God Blessed country. Many contend it is just more groundwork for the evil Left's clandestine alien invasion planned for later this decade.
Democrats claim the image of Biden is nothing but a Super Bowl spoof that hopefully caused Republican sphincters to open and close repeatedly until they froze shut. ..... That is the unofficial official story line anyway.
Because I have close ties to secretive groups inside the DC Beltway, I found out the so called "PR stunt" was actually a mistake while setting up cameras for a broadcast of the President offering faux congratulations to his half man / half alien allies who fraudulently won the Super Bowl. The fact is, Biden simply forgot to put in his contacts. There was no walking it back, so they decided to claim the image was part of the joke.
Exposing their long term plans of World Domination this far ahead of the November election may be premature. But it is expected. After all, Democrats are at least half human. The Dajk convertoscope cannot completely excise all of Humanity's failings during the conversion process. With beings this stupid, some residual shortcomings always seep through into the final drone.
But it is done now. The cat is out of the bag. This unplanned exposure is proof that Democrats and other Libtards are indeed an evil incarnate from Outer Space. Will the GOP be able to muster up enough support among their drooling minions to defeat these alien controlled Devil worshipers?
Hmm .............
Personally, I am puzzled why the Right is so fired up, what with their "Rapture" showing up any day now. I mean, why would they want to waste time, money and materiel fighting for control of the planet, when they will be leaving soon anyway? If it was me, I'd be in a Barco Lounger with plenty of doob and likker on the TV tray next to me. What's the point of fixin the planet when you're leavin soon anyway.
Just another one of the unfathomable questions we Libtards cannot understand. But then of course, how could we truly know the minds of Mankind when we are only half Human to begin with.
Chew on that ..............................
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With the "Rapture" still on my mind, the only song I could think of quickly was Bob Dylan's, "Knockin' on Heaven's Door". The problem now; do I use the original or one of the ga-jillion covers?
I listened to many covers of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door". Several were excellent. One, Gun's n Roses' version, was not one of them. Can't stand that version. I finally settled on this acoustic version by Jay Howie, an Australian artist I had not heard of yet, although some months ago I did listen to his excellent acoustic version of "All along the Watch Tower".
Then I thought of one last place to check for a cover; "Playing for Change", an international collection of musicians who collaborate on songs, using any profits to help improve sad situations around the globe. Here is their version of "Heaven's door" .
Recently, the term "God Works in Mysterious Ways" caught my eye. That term has always bothered me. It is the final, end of the conversation rationale used to excuse God from any blame. Along with the idea of "Free Will", both conveniently wash away any sins God may have had a hand in during his day to day interactions with Humanity.
It's like saying:
"Yeah well, this might be some bad shit, some ugly and brutal shit that I am sending your way; ....but you gotta go with it because it's all part of my plan, the workings of which you will never understand because you are mere mortals and I am Omnipotent. .........
Besides, I gave you free will. You have to shoulder at least part of the blame. Right? ....... No? Well Nyah, nyah, nyah. I make the rules. Suck on it. ...... I cannot be blamed for what I do in your name."
Hmm .........................
Well now;... That was some odd Bullshit to spill out of my brain this morning. Seems I have not had enough coffee yet. Or is it that I have had too much?
Back to Mysterious Ways and the original point I wanted to make. Seems my original point has gone AWOL. I am sure it was about God and the tendency of the righteously faithful to fall back on God to cover and excuse the assholery they might inflict on their fellow Man. ....... That moment has passed. The point was driven home somewhat; but without the necessary inflections, invictions, and potential resurrections to comprise a well rounded post.
No, I fuckin dropped the ball this AM, which only points up another kind of mysterious ways. On a post I should have squelched, choked out, or set fire to before I ever wrote a word, I still insisted on wasting your valuable time and my less valuable time with inconsequential dribble than I ruthlessly unleashed on the innocent and unsuspecting Public. Why I insisted is one of my mysterious ways I will wonder about but never take the time to understand.
Some people and some shit were never meant to make sense. Today's post is a perfect example.
At least I had some fun.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..........................................
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Back in the days when I could be silly without embarrassment, my brothers turned me onto the Doo Wah Ditty, Purple People Eater pop tunes that saturated AM radio. I loved them. But then what 7 year old wouldn't?
In keeping with the silliness of the above post, here is "Purple People Eater", by Sheb Wooley. I was six years old when this song came out. It instantly hit #1 with a bullet. It was everywhere. You can imagine my six year old response. That might have been the first time I remember my mom insisting that, "I take it outside, ferchrisakes."
And because it is October after all; the month when monsters crawl out of every crib all around town. Creatures will stir and set up in front yards under lights. They might even wave their hands.
Here is another a silly song from the same period that pays homage to Halloween and all that it stands for, please enjoy "Monster Mash", recorded by Bobby Picket & the Crypt Kickers in 1962. My favorite stanza:
I first wrote this fictional piece in 2010. I stumbled across it the other day when 99 comments Google had determined were SPAM showed up in the Spam file, but were not really. Some dated back as far as 2008. It made me chuckle.
It was a first sentence prompt flash piece.
Anyway, here it is again.
The Muppet Caper
As soon as he heard the cell phone notify receipt of the text message, he knew there was no going back. Manta glanced at his Glock; Safety was off, silencer wound on tight. He didn’t want the damn thing falling off like it did that time he was just drawing a bead on Curious George. This time Manta was ready. Without another thought, the murderous manta ray kicked in the door of Apartment 5G.
When the door exploded, Fozzy Bear dove for his weapon. Too late. Manta did a perfect tuck n roll, coming out of it with his laser sight centered on Fozzy’s face. The bear stopped and put out his paws.
“Dude, whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it. The Muppets gig has treated me …………”
Fozzy’s head exploded into a cloud of cotton stuffing.
~<>~
“Ray, Why do they call you Manta?”
Manta looked up from the beer sitting in front of him.
“Gee dumass, maybe it’s my head. I mean come on. It’s flat and my eyes are on top…………Oh, I see. You think it’s because of my first name. Well Mom and Dad might have been nothing but a couple of hammered sharks, but they did have a sense of humor."
Manta returned to staring his beer down.
“Well Ray, uh, I mean Manta, you followed through wonderfully. Taking Fozzy out is one more Muppet down. The folks over to Sesame Street will be thrilled."
Manta wasn't interested in having his butt kissed.
“Just pay me and I will be on my way. ...... While your stupid internal feud with The Muppets has been a real hoot and great for my bank account, I think I am done now. Blowing away puppets just doesn’t seem right. I think it takes a harder man than I am to execute children’s toys. Or maybe I’m finally locating some moral high ground. ....... Imagine that?”
“Manta, You can’t mean that? Come on Ray.”
Manta turned and stared hard at the puppet speaking to him. He said nothing, he just stared.
“ Oh sorry Manta. I keep forgetting. its Manta instead of Ray. There’s a reason they call me Forgetful Jones you know. ……"
Forgetful took off his starw hat and scratched his head. His eyes hardened.
"Manta, I don’t think you understand. You are done when I say so. Maybe you ought to take a peek at the photo again.”
Forgetful Jones tossed a tired and frayed Polaroid picture on the bar.
Manta did not move. The one eye on the right twitched, turned and gave Forgetful Jones one of his infamous and disconcerting one eyed side long glances.
“Yeah I know. You have Cabbage Patch. So what? She’s old news and a ho’ anyhow. I have a new squeeze now. One you assholes will never be able to hold over me.”
Forgetful wasn’t that easily putoff.
“Oh yeah? Suppose I give Oscar the Grouch a call. He’d like nothing more than for me to flip the green light de-stuffing the bitch. That sick puppet just loves eating button eyes and nibbling on dainty doll shoes……with the feet still attached. Christ, he lives in a garbage can.”
Forgetful Jones paused. Looking up to the end of the bar, he raised his puppet hand in that universal gesture, “Hey barkeep, need some beer here.”
Leaning in close, Forgetful Jones whispered into what passed for one of Manta’s ears. “Bub, you can be the tough guy out here in the real world, but we both know you have a weak spot for Cabbage Patch.”
In his stubby four fingered hand, Forgetful clenched a plain pink envelope. He slid it across the bar in front of Manta.
“Your money is inside. So’s your next hit. Same money. Get it done or Cabbage Patch gets slawed. Beer’s on me.”
Forgetful Jones tossed money on the bar, stood up and left.
~<>~
“So it is you they sent. I knew it was coming. But why you? We have history Manta. Must be a big paycheck waiting for this hit.”
“No Clarissa, this job pays the same. I hope you know it’s just business. Nothing personal………Aht aht aht…….please don’t move.”
Clarissa stopped as if frozen. She smiled. “You know Manta, you are the only one of my many lovers I allowed to call me by my given name.” Clarissa straightened up and turned to face Manta. Still smiling she continued, “I hate to tell you this, but..........I really will miss you.”
A trap door under Manta opened. On his way down he pondered just how he hadn’t seen the ole hole in the floor trick coming. Damn that Miss Piggy. She was one smart pig.
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Hmm ........ Music for this one. Let's see .............. Easy Peasey. Here is The Muppets and their famous cover of "Jungle Boogie"
I have been a card carrying member of Facebook for well over a decade. As loose as I have gotten on FB, I have never been tossed in FB jail. Yet after only 5 months on Twitter, I am incarcerated in their lock up for the next 12 hours.
What a bunch of nancies. Twitter is not only not worth the trouble, they seem to be populated and run by a snobbish group think mentality that quashes the free exchange of ideas and insults. I'll take Facebook over Twitter any day.
Rather than close my Twitter account in a huff, I will sit out my punishment and get along with my day best as I can. The emotional damage caused by their insensitivity will eventually heal I am told. But come on, 12 hours? That is inhuman.
"@TheGoodLiars @joncoopertweets That's hilarious. Ruining the sanctity of the golf course. He should be drawn and quartered and his head put on a spike. Good thing they were not in Saudi Arabia, they might have done just that."
I thought the offending tweet was the one I indicated I would like to live long enough to piss on Trump's grave. But no, it was a tweet that was in response to a video about heckling Phil Mickelson at the recent Saudi owned golf tournament at Trump's course in New Jersey.
My sarcastic remark was aimed at the commentator on the video. But the bots Twitter use picked it out as a personal attack using violent language. Actually I thought and still do think it was funny and fuck Twitter for allowing this kind of over sensitivity wash out any substance from the platform.
So, anyway, I sit here licking my wounds early Sunday morning and wonder who else can I piss off today. That would really make my day.
Wish me luck ..................................
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I have been waiting to include one of my favorite Blues tunes. David Bromberg's version of "Send me to the Electric Chair" is a classic.
It appears our illustrious President has a more serious and reflective side. He has decided to start a book club. I have not seen what fine titles he would be advising us to check out. I only have my imagination and his actions so far to predict what kind of books he would like us to delve into.
Being a busy President, who has little time to enjoy the finer things like Russian Literature, I am sure he would be pushing titles light on words and loaded with nice images for his faithful followers out there in Single Wide Land.
"The Little Engine That Could" would most assuredly enjoy a top billing as it reminds Donald of his own upbringing.. It tells the story of a little train engine that overcame insurmountable odds to become just like the big engines he envied as a child.
"Where the Wild Things Are" would certainly be included as it mirrors our President's struggles to tame the wild media animals that keep biting at his heels.
"The Phantom Tollbooth" would have to be included of course. As the teaser states, "Complaining of boredom, Milo travels through a tollbooth to
a ridiculous land where Rhyme and Reason are lost."
"Green Eggs and Ham" would finish off the first offerings as nothing tickles Trump's fancy more than something that reminds him of an Egg McMuffin.
Regardless, as I have not yet seen what books the Donald has on his list, I would hope that if these fine titles are not included, they should be. Of course they might be a tad beyond Trump's intellectual ability. We might have to wait for him to grow up some more before he can get his mind around the intricate plots and character studies included in these fine books.
Later ..................................................
It appears what I thought I knew about Father's Day was well, absolutely nothing. Yes, it is sad but true that I haven't a clue why, where, or when Dad's Day came into existence. Being that I wanted to refrain from political commentary, yet still keep up with a daily post of some kind, I was going to have to find something else to satisfy my most recent writing jones.
After at least thirty seconds of intense consideration, I zeroed in on Father's Day. I dutifully followed up this serious inquiry with 5 tortuous minutes rifling through Google choices before settling on a website devoted to Father's Day. If anyone would have the skinny about why Dad has his own day, I was sure it would be them. After all the site is called "Father's Day.com".
What I found out was eye opening. It appears Father's Day is much older than anyone thought. Experts have found in the ruins of a Babylon town, a clay tablet upon which one young man named Elmesu, carved out loving sentiments to his father, owner of a nearby sheep operation.
Sadly though, Elmesu's fondness faded when he found out Dad was going to give the sheep farm to Alrus, second son in the line. Elmesu was beside himself because of his father's betrayal. So he took the clay Father's Day tablet he had labored over for three days and three nights, and he bludgeoned his father to death with it in front of the cook fire in the kitchen.
Life was tough back in the day. Ascension within many family lines depended on bloody takeovers carried out by one generation over the next. Transition was not always pretty.
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Post Script and BTW - Now that it is currently acceptable to use lies instead of facts to support one's take, I have some questions about lines and when they are crossed. If using Fake News as support, does the Fake News have to be completely fake? Or is it still Fake News if only part of it is? I mean, is a half truth, or say a quarter truth any better than a flat out lie? If so, where is the line? I am only asking this because it may have some relevance to the above post.
Happy Father's Day - Keep an eye on the sheep.
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..... I am not paranoid, delusional, a few bricks shy of a load. No, I am as normal as any life long stoner can be after 50 years of finding the Man right behind him whenever he turned around. They are always there lurking in the shadows, taking notes and reporting back to their bosses who sport big scars on their cheeks and pencil thin mustaches. You know, John Waters type mustaches.
Okay, okay, I may be light a few bricks and on occasion I have been known to fraternize with special friends no one else can see. But I am not paranoid.
As proof, I offer up the Internet. No better spy exists than the ga-jillion electronic devices hooked into a huge network of wires and computers, many of which are housed deep inside outward appearing non threatening locations like the local laundromat. Just why have those washers along the back wall been "out of order" for the last 5 years. Yeah, out of order my ass.
I usually keep my paranoid concerns to myself. Those of us who know do not feel the need to share our paranoia because that is what leads to real time delusion of the type currently out of control on the Right side of the aisle. No, the day opened up in predictable ways. Constitutionals, pet feeding, coffee making.
And then I opened my phone. And right there in the string of teasers on the outside screen, "Google Photos. Here's what you missed." The bastards had invaded my phone and hijacked a personal Kodak Moment.
Since this particular Lady's Slipper had "disappeared" the day after I snapped its picture, my first rational thought was, "I get it. This is proof of life and there will be a ransom demand written in those irritating random Google letters that will tell me what bridge to drop the money off of." I quickly tamped down the irrational thoughts that were beginning to boil over by refusing to run around the house closing blinds and locking doors.
I am sure Google will inform me, should I bother to ask them, that I am hallucinating and it is just a grand coincidence the plant disappeared just as its image appeared in one of their emails.
I wish I was hallucinating. That would make all this "Deep State" bullshit easier to deal with.
Don't turn around ..................................................
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 ......................................................
I have known for quite awhile that everything wrong with this country for the last 100 years is the fault of our foreign born Islamic President. What I did not know was just how much evil the O Man had in his heart, his mind and apparently at his disposal. The depths he will dive into to retain his evil grip on our pitiful souls is amazing.
There is a secret, okay not so secret facility in Alaska that is supposedly run by the US Air Force and the US Navy. From this not so secret base stuck out there somewhere in the tundra of Alaska they manipulate the ionosphere in ways one could only consider magic....Black Magic I am sure. They claim it is "scientific research", but we all know "science" is just a code word for Satan's Handiwork. And the fact that Obama is currently Satan's man on the ground here in the US, he took full advantage of the "science" of that Alaskan base and used it to help him in his bid to win reelection.
He had the machines of the "High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program" (HAARP) turned up to wow and focused on the ionosphere above the East Coast of the US. Apparently hurricanes cannot resist the come hither call of those evil machines. And having already manipulated the Jet Stream into it's unusual new path, the stage was set for what happened these past few days along the East Coast. Obama gets to look presidential and cool under fire. And millions of people change their vote next Tuesday.
What a diabolical man. Or is he even a man? Hmm...........At the least he is an evil wizard bent on controlling our minds by turning us gay. Thank God for watch dogs like InfoWars and HaarpStatus, or this plan to dominate our minds and souls would go unnoticed.
After I found this nugget of Truth on the Internet, I dug deeper. Where I dug is up to your imagination as I cannot reveal my sources because well, would you believe they do not exist? Of course you would, yeah right. Let's just say I know a guy who knows a guy who used fly a black helicopter. His claim is that Katrina was a similar despicable misuse of presidential power. Seems Bush the Lessor set Katrina in motion to pay back New Orleans for the trauma his father suffered in 1964 when he had his pocket picked on Bourbon Street. Wow. These Demigods can be a petty bunch.
I have become used to the government and their tendency to fool around with the money I send them every year. They often pretend to give it back, calling it a tax cut. That never lasts because while they are thinking of ways to give it back, they are always considering more ways to take it away. It is as if they had this big balloon filled with air. Someone ensconced well within the gulliwots of the government belly decides the citizenry could use some of that air. They tap the balloon and let some of it out, which in theory should give all us a little more room to breathe. But we all know the government does not enjoy working with an under inflated balloon, so on the other side of the balloon, they plug in a pump to suck most, if not more of that previously released air back into the balloon.
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.
Then I read that viewing the US flag can cause one to vote Republican. I have been wondering what the cause was. I knew it had to be something simple and direct. So I stared at one for an hour. Seems a change has come over me............................
I punched up a profile of Canada put together by the BBC. Maybe it was my computer, but all I got was a blank page. I don't think it was my computer. BBC obviously has nothing to say about Canada. Even after reinstalling the Queen as the head of their country, Canada still can't get any respect from the Brits. It's understandable they get no respect from the US. They're our next door neighbors. At least they ain't rowdy and out of control like our neighbors to south are. But man are they boring. Booooooooring. No riots. No drug killings. Just a bunch of ice drivin, tree choppin oil drillin hockey watchin fools who like better beer than we do.
I did not punch up the BBC profile of the US. Now that I have stared the flag down and become a good American and all, I knew anything some wannabe Euro trash media outfit might come up with would be a pack of lies and innuendos. After all, their own history books tell the story of the revolution all wrong. We kicked their wanker butts and some clown with a Sir in front of his name tries to tell me King George lll had other fish to fry and finally just got tired of us "Colonists". Yeah right. Then he goes on to compare England's handling of "the Colonies" to our commie ass kickin crusade in Viet Nam. Shoot. Where does he come up with this crap? We kicked butt in 1776 and again in 1966. As long as more of them die than us, then we win. Right?
I noticed the last Munchkin died. Though I finally grew up to be a burly bad ass American male who had to fight the chicks off with a stick, when I was wee small the Munchkins gave me nightmares. Maybe it was their outfits, their smaller than normal stature, but I think it was their swarming ways and funny voices. Like some surrealistic minature lynch mob all dressed the same, they would surround me and ..........anyway, I figured out why they made me nervous. I think they were all actually commie plants. As evidence, the last Munchkin was not born here. He was from Ucrania, Slavickastan, one of those hammer and sickle countries over there on one side of Europe or the other. Pink as the day he was born.
Maybe now I can sleep at night.
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Not sure where this came from. But stare at the Stars & Stripes for an hour without blinking and see what it does to you.
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