I Likey, You More Better, Capisce?

Tags

Catholic Church, faith my style, Humor

When all else fails, I can always talk about myself. It’s my favorite subject after all. Okay, like three dozen people just ran off to call in this story to their editors. . . .hot off the presses, Sherry is gonna talk about herself. Cheeky? Arrogant? Full of self? Oh yeah, all that.

Who does she think she is?

I said it before. Like her, or not, there are few other alternatives. She ain’t tepid oolong or Earl Grey.

She is me, and I’m gonna go out on a limb and suggest that you probably got that.

I’m like a cat on a hot tin roof.

Or not. Mostly not.

If I were an animal which one would I be?

Polar bear mama?

Ponder that with your swayt tea. Yeah, we get that down here in New Mexico. I frankly hate that stuff. Sugar in tea? Are you mad?

People make me wonder. I mean take Bobby Jiggles Jindal. That man has no more chance of winning the GOP nomination than I do of winning a best in show at Madison Square Garden. Yet he twattles on.

Twattle, is a word conceived in sexual confusion. A cross between cunt and flapping lips of the face. See? Now you get it.

It’s a hell of a thing when your spiritual guru is a gang banger.

Well, not really, but sorta.

Yesterday I was a sittin’ in the pew when I noticed a young man with the usual accoutrements of style. . .ear-ring, sleeves cut out of the t-shirt. jeans, sneakers. He was sittin’ a few pews to the front of me.

Which made it convenient to watch.

So instead of concentrating on my own sinful self, I was bemused by this young man’s spiritual methodology. A very long time on the kneeler. No singing of entrance hymns. No murmuring of the “profession of faith” which is such a convoluted rattling of various Council pronunciations as to be indecipherable to all but the most religiously stringent of the faithful.

When that Gloria came along, oh good grief. It’s so badly written as to leave a normal believer astounded that given the whole of the Roman Catholic Church, no better rendition can be rendered but this? A squawky, akin to the Star Spangled Banner inability to keep the tune, sort of music that is painful to the ears and the senses.

My gangbanger, stands stoicly.

Mostly he sits with his head down, as if he’s there to beg atonement for a laundry list of crimes too numerous to mention. “Sorry God, but I shot somebody in a drive-by, and then celebrated with some blow, while threatening the mama of my baby for not having my dinner ready.” In the next breath, more sinful conduct is extruded.

Is any of this real? Oh probably not at all. The dude is probably a pediatrician, just out in his hoodie regalia which helps him calm down from the high intensity life of savior of children.

I jest?

Mostly.

It provided a handy excuse for not paying attention as Father explained all about the Holy Spirit and how we neglect it in our prayers.

Is that true for you too?

Do you pray to Jesus or the Father or the Holy Spirit? All the same yet different as they say.

Is it reasonable that Christian theology must be so convoluted? I suspect it works for theologians who like to think of themselves as pretty smart folks. And they are for the most part. Least they sound that way.

So, I’m sittin’ in the pew, figurin’ this guy is really doin’ it right. Most people don’t if you noticed. They are rushin’ around front to back, always with the obligatory bow to acknowledge that Jesus is layin’ on the altar, while we are talkin’ to our neighbor in the pew about a meat sale at the Carniceria.

So, I’m not talkin’, just praying me some Rosary until the bells ring and they remind everyone to shut the phones off. And I’m watching my mentor. I watch him with his own style of reverence, again on that kneeler when most everybody else is standing, because  the whole consecration thing is something to be knelt about.

And I wonder what the hell am I doing here?

Trying to recapture what once I had, yet which has so thoroughly departed. The devotion, the intensity, the It fuckin’ matters syndrome, it seems ephemeral after all this. Yet, I turn attention back. Jesus, I am not worthy to have you “under my roof” which is another of those John Paul/Benedict changes that is just change for change’s sake.

And he goes up for communion, but he is ahead of me, and I don’t realize until I get back to my seat, conveniently marked by my purse (what do men do to find their seat again?), that he has gone.

Guru man, you are of that ilk, (which I have never been) of those who in the confusion of people traipsing from pew to communion and back again, against the backdrop of a couple of hundred faces, working out their salvation with a wafer and sip, chooses to keep walking to the back and out the doors. Done! Got what I came for. Jesus is digesting in my belly and I’m roaring off in my Mazda to new Saturday night adventures.

I’m a bit chagrined by this turn of events. I wanted him to remain pious to the last second. Maybe be one of those stalwart types who continues laboriously to sing the closing hymn while people jostle  to get by and into the aisle, seeking the fastest route of escape past the priest who is taking a stand outside hoping to catch every last hand as it passes.

Alas, he has escaped and I’m chagrined, yet I’ve spent exactly three minutes of the sixty actually contemplating my own salvation. I don’t account all that bunk for much actually. I am, as they say, more of a Matthew 25 person. Get on with feeding the hungry and tending to the sick.

My spiritual guru seems made of common clay after all.

I sigh.

Whatever I’m here for, I seem to find. Not sure what exactly that is. But I feel better about everything somehow.

I don’t find it makes me kinder to stupid drivers though. I still yell at them from the safety of my car seat, taking satisfaction in the fact that I’m not stellar driver, but I am damn well better than that!

And I put it all aside, as I do every Saturday evening. Done! Mass obligation met. No need to think about that until next Saturday.

Which reminds me of the old guy at the pool, who apologized so deeply and long for not being able to sign my petition to open the pool at 8 because as he said, he could never come early, since he’s at Mass every morning. Alex, who recites the Rosary while he walks the water channel, did sign. No morning mass for him.

Too much piety for me. Except when I was in formation to be a nun.

Oh that’s news to you?

Fancy that. I prolly should yak about that sometime.

But not today. I don’t like to brag, unless I have a captive audience. God I know, I’m such a bitch. Which makes you even madder doesn’t it?

Remember this: happiness is the best revenge.

We participate occasionally and poorly in SoCS.

 

 

Beating a Dead or Dying Horse

Tags

classmates, Humor, life in the foothills, lifestyle

I hear from people now and again that the time of individual blogging has peaked. I don’t know if that’s true, and have no particular desire to investigate it either. I know that people who have  blogged have come and gone but I don’t think that is meaningful. That’s a lot like saying that when the inline skating craze erupted, millions of people joined in only later to discard it when they didn’t find it so fun six months later.

People who might have something to say but don’t care much about being a writer will naturally not stick with blogging.

There may be other reasons. People are, I suspect, rather sure that what they have to say is meaningful to others. Bloggers find out just how fickle this is. I’ve been doing this since 2007 or so, and while I’m okay with those who seem to read me, I never “took off” and certainly only a few find anything to comment upon except in a rare instance. I don’t do it for the public applause surely since there often isn’t any.

People who are not really interested in writing per se find Facebook useful enough to get their point across. I use it quite a lot myself, but it cannot take the place of a substantial piece.

I keep changing the focus of my blog, and no doubt that is not helpful, but little do I care. While politics consumes me, I’m far from the best spokesman around. There are, honestly, hugely better sources than moi.

If I pride myself on anything when it comes to the pen it is my ability to blend in a certain snarkiness that some find amusing. I love to twist and turn a phrase and catch people off guard. I’m not nearly as good as say Driftglass or Uncle Charlie Pierce I must say, but I try. If you have no idea of whom I speak, well, so much the poorer are you.

It seems we are headed for another damn war, one that I seriously don’t support. There is entirely too much drumming going on on the far right and that suggests to me that more is being made of this ISIL danger than is real. Most people figure our men and women will be risking their lives once again, and apparently nearly half seem okay with that.

I find that odd given that our government (whether one includes down to local city councils or not) is chock full of seriously stupid and demented people. I’m not sure what it says that so many are so willing to put their lives in the hands of lunatics who believe the earth was created 6,562 years ago, that Jesus rode dinosaurs, that climate change is just a hoax as reported to them by big oil and gas, that giving more money to the rich will someone make middle class people rich, and that God created a whole segment of people gay just to make them live a life of celibacy as some kind of statement to the Catholic Church that they too can learn to keep it in their pants.

I mean if you are that crazy, well, swamp lands abound that are yours for a few grand. i have the deeds.

What this all suggests to me, wasn’t clear to me until a while back, when again, I wondered why I continue to find a whole lotta people continuously reliving their “high school” days as the “best” times of their lives.

I mean seriously? Those were the best years?

Most people find the teen years tolerable at best, painful at worst. We were unsure of ourselves, unsure of the future, and subject to the incessant drum of peer pressure. I figure perhaps the truth of the matter is, is that those were the kings and queens, the quarterbacks and class presidents, are pretty much the Bricks of the day, relegated to drunken evenings reliving the glory days because life just has turned out as full of mendacity as Big Daddy suggested.

There is both irony in that and poetic justice, for to not live in that world of favored click drove us who lived on the outside to fear that our lives would never amount to anything, and that these pretty faces with their athletic prowess and perky breasts were destined to continue being “better” all our lives.

Perhaps that is why we rejects of the acceptable struck out to far-flung campuses and escaped the confines of the “scene of the crime” of our youth.

And when we returned figuratively or otherwise to “home” we were amazed at how small and provincial it all was, and how small and silly most of those lives lived then were.

While we found some of our old friends had weathered the years well, and were thinking and compassionate, all too many were shriveled and cold-hearted, predictably shallow in their thinking and unable to care about anyone but their own clan. Karma is a bitch as they say.

While all that “talking about the old days” was fun for the moment, soon we find ourselves with little else to say, and we stand around much as we did at those awful sock hops, starring at the floor, wishing we could disappear. When we turn and walk away, and survey the world we now inhabit, we take a deep breath, smile, and chuckle at our good fortune at having escaped. Forever after we watch from the sidelines, bemused as we watch the chitchat continue of “remember when. . . .”

Who says the zoo has to have visible bars? We know who is free and who is not don’t we? The exhibits of “how it could have turned out” are both object lessons and light amusement.

Yes, karma indeed is a bitch.

I ponder when I hit my peak. Mostly I conclude that I haven’t yet, and probably will still be reaching it when I breathe my last. But damn, it does seem to get better and better, and that’s a hell of a lot to be grateful for.

Links, Blades, and Scooters

Tags

Humor, life in New Mexico, life in the foothills, short stories, the Contrariran

I’ve tried to explain that living with the Contrarian is an experience hard to describe.

It’s not for the feint of heart.

It’s not for the seriously humorless.

It’s not for your average joe-ess.

Plainly, you must be slightly off your rocker.

Since I am, it all works fine.

When I say I am off my rocker, I mean in that way that to the outside world doesn’t show, but  is only known to myself and my inner workings which are one hellofva weird chaotic mishmash of circuitry with a whole lotta cables hooked up to nothing and just there “in case”. If you get my drift that is. If not, I suggest you skip reading further and return to old issues of Cosmopolitan which are probably more your speed. (Make that Sports Illustrated if male) I was going to say Popular Mechanics, but I have no idea whether that is still published or what made some mechanics popular while others were apparently not. Could be the chest hair.

In any event, which means nothing but takes up ten letters and about an inch of space, I am married to The Contrarian, which is the prototype for all contrarians, though I don’t think anyone has ever asked for the plans.

I just thought I’d catch you up on some of his escapades, or adventures in our fair state of New Mexico, which is as they say, neither “New” nor “Mexico”, which makes it a great place to hide out as both Billy the Kid and Walter White would tell you if they were (a) still alive or (b) real.

As pointed out on previous occasions, my dearly beloved has some sort of “balance” issue, which causes him to walk while weaving like a drunken sailor, which is half right since once upon a time he was most assuredly drunk but not a sailor, wearing the insignia of the army instead of a rubber ducky. Now, he has been probed, examined, MRI’d, ear-peered at, and all the rest numerous times, only to discover that by golly-g, he has a brain and there is some sort of lesion there, which is as they say “organic” which basically means that “we have no clue and try the auto lube joint down the road”.

So to avoid having to go around the block, always leaning to the left, to get across the street, he sometimes uses a walker, which doesn’t walk at all, but rather rolls (comes with hand-brakes!). He doesn’t use it all the time, but only when the “wobblies” (as we call them) are bad. On his steady days, he runs marathons. (just kidding).

So one of his true delights has been discovering the motorized shopping cart. He loves those buggers. Not all said ve-hick-als are made the same. The K-Mart one’s are too speedy and have you racing down narrow aisles at Indy speeds, without a small enough turning circumference to make the intersection turn (think riding lawn mowers). The one’s at Lowe’s tend to run out of juice too soon, which is a real pain since that store holds about 14 football fields within it’s confines. The Walmart (we make our customers comfy so they spend more) is of course, “just right”, having  speed, dexterity, and staying power to make your shopping experience a deep pleasure.

What the Contrarian has discovered is that with the cart, and the proper expression of sadness, mixed with frustration, and a sip of melancholia, presents the perfect picture for lots of ladies to offer their assistance in getting things off the shelves. No matter than he can stand and walk almost normal, why do that when a bevy of women are there to fetch for ya. (It helps to extend the arm to it’s natural length and wiggle the fingers just a bit, and sigh of course while doing so).

Shopping has become a joy and one that he relishes each week now.

To that can be added of course the “accident” which makes him all the more helpless and pathetic.

The accident was the culmination of a lifetime spent using power tools with blades all without incident. Years of chains saws and tree toppling, slicing and dicing, and splitting all without injury. Until the “sled”. Now, I don’t know exactly what a sled is, except that it “slides”, somehow managing your piece of wood to it’s destination with the “blade”. He somehow designed it in such a way that a blind spot occurred wherein his finger resided (thumb actually), and before you know it blood was flying and he realized it was best to shut that sucker down.

Now, no animals were hurt in the making of this tale, other than the cat gut used to sew up said digit (and I think all that stuff is synthetic these days). Cats are grateful. He cut no bone, and no tendon either, just the big fat part of his thumb wherein his identity lies. Doc says that part of his thumb shall be forever no more, once the healing has finished and the dead skin is flushed. So I figure a life of crime is a good second career, since he can’t leave a print with his left thumb any more. Which makes working in a super accelerator requiring thumbprint identification impractical, or in the heart of the mountain where the big button is located that will end the world. I figure it too requires a thumbprint to make sure you have the au-thor-ity to doom the world.

Which all leads to the exceedingly boring story of what a baby men are when they have a little boo-boo. I mean seriously, the moaning never stops.

He had it checked at the hospital on Monday, and there was no infection, but he was thoroughly upset because the doctor made him “look at it”, which is akin, in his mind to making him look at two-headed snakes and other such unnatural and “icky” things.

So, I took out the trash for him, and made his breakfast (once), and open his candy bars at night. I told him he need not cook on Friday, but he said as long as I made the batter, he could probably flip a pancake. He can’t break an egg, because he can’t without both thumbs, so he says.

He pouts a lot.

He’s says it itches.

He complains that the lady nurse rewrapped it much more stupidly that the guy who did it the first time.

Diego sniffs it every day and will alert us if he finds anything worth eating in there. So far, no, and given Diego eats EVERYTHING, that’s sayin’ something.

So, I asked him, do you want bacon or sausage with his pancakes on Friday? and he said patties, which I took to mean sausage, which he meant to mean sausage but not links but patties, which makes no freakin’ sense since they both TASTE THE SAME.

And he thinks he should have a body cam so that he can play back our conversations because he is sure I asked him links or patties instead of sausage or bacon. And I’m really sure I didn’t, because I never think of patties versus links and only decided to do the links because I like Johnsonville and they don’t make patties at least as far as I saw, so that’s why I got the links in the first place.

And he just purses his lips in that way that men do when they are thinking, “I’m right, but what’s the use?”.

And I’m thinking, “You’re right, there is no use, since I’m right.”

And he’s off to get my oil changed which came out all wrong, since I don’t get oil changes but my PT Cruiser does, and he has my girl in his custody.

He wants a new bandage put on his thumb, but decided to wait until he got back, because he’s going to the “filthiest place on the planet” after all, so there is no use getting his thumb all spiffed up before THAT. And, no he was not referring to the Jiffy Lube, but rather to WalMart.

My eyes, were examined by an expert the other day, and they came off with an A+.

No wonder, all the eye-rolling I get to do living with this man. Exercise is very good for your eyes they tell me.

If you can beat any of these stories (which are true I swear with just the slightest hyperbole to make it interesting), I’ll roll my eyes for you too!

 

 

 

 

Wish I’d Said That Thursday

Tags

Humor

Got this idea sorta from Joey over at Joey’s house and because I’m generally lazy and this seems like a lazy way to blog, and because, I’m feelin’ pretty good cuz it’s Thursday and no longer that hellishly busy Wednesday, we are startin’ this “wish I’d said that Thursdays”.

Basically, when you run across something deliciously good and wish you had said it, remember it (or copy it down somewhere on your intertubes and come leave it as a comment here.

So here is kinda just like the wastepaper basket for collecting all the trash that swims around your head. So get rid of it HERE. <—–.

Got that?

So, to start you off, here’s one or two:

Yesterday, tea party darlin’ Chris McDann’l got his nuclear-bright future as the Very Most Reagany-Pure Senator from Jesusland slapped out of his Neoconfederate paws. ( Driftglass )

95% of all new created wealth now goes to the top 1% but Rand Paul, Ted Cruz & Jeb Bush all have plans to get it up to 96.
— @JohnFugelsang

“If Republicans are going to act like Democrats, what’s the use in getting all gung-ho about getting other Republicans in there?”
— Sarah Palin, in an interview on Fox News.

How long before this court decides the Twitter block button is unconstitutional because it prevents conservatives from yelling at women? (From LOLGOP on Twitter)

SCOTUS rules that anti-choice picketers must be allowed within spitting distance of people trying to enter a family planning clinic. Buffer zone cannot exceed average distance a non-professional watermelon spitter can spew.  (me)

Mensa just started a dating site because asking for IQ Scores on first dates wasn’t really working (Slate, Twitter)

The Real Paleo Diet: 50,000-Year-Old Feces Show What Neanderthals Ate http://slate.me/1nLcN2a (Slate, Twitter)

Gen JC Xtian patriot ‏@JC_Christian 1m

.@JosephFarah do you think you’ll ever break out the old leathers & nipple chains and do a reunion concert with the other Village People? (Joseph Farah is chief hater at World Net Daily Christianist hate rag) (Twitter)

K, that should be enough to get you started….

Come on now gang, I want some good ones or “no soup for you!”

 

It Doesn’t Make Sense

Tags

crap I learned. Crap I will never learn, Humor, satire, the far far Right.

I live in perpetual confusion.

I’m pretty certain that it’s the best place to be.

My mind is never at loose ends, with nothing to think about.

I have a long list of confusing things I can call upon at a moments notice to occupy the time.

I’m not sure I’d want to not be confused. It would mean I was a fundigelical (fundamentalist/evangelical). They are not confused about anything they tell me. They are quite sure all the answers are in one book, and they find it not the least confusing.

But it’s not because the book (the bible) is not confusing, for it is and has been for as long as it’s been deemed a “book” to all the people who actually are paid to figure it out and have prepared for years to be knowledgeable about all the stuff one needs to know to well, know.

No, it’s because they don’t have a confused gene in their brain. See, we regular folks have a confusion gene. It enables us to know that two things don’t add up and thus are C O N F U S I N G. See how that works? A gene in DNA enables you to discern that shit don’t go together. Like gasoline and a match or like a cliff and the continuation of a road. It’s an important gene, for it helps us survive.

I’m not sure how fundigelicals survive. That confuses me a lot.

Another thing that confuses me is that many of these fundigelicals think that poor people are lazy. Now, that is not true for the most part, as most of us know, but fundigelicals insist that it is, and they sure aren’t confused about that. I think they found it in that book some where, or they think they did. In any event, they want poor people to get jobs.

Well, that logically follows I guess.

Except that these same fundigelicals don’t want employers to have to pay a fair and living wage. They are, mostly at least, very much against raising the minimum wage to a “living wage”, meaning a wage that allows a person to pay their bills and ya know, eat, and take care of their families. The fundigelicals say that this impinges on a employers right to pay what they want. And they add that some jobs aren’t worth a “living wage”, they’re just starter jobs, ya know, to wet your toes on.

So the logic  goes at least.

Ya see, a job is a hard thing to learn. Any job it seems. And it seems that even though every job requires very different things such as placing a round thing in a round hole, or screwing something into something else, or making change, or painting between the lines,  reading and finding errors in a manuscript, or taking out a heart and putting in a new one (well not new actually, but newer at least). See? Lots of different things.

But somehow, there are “universal” things about jobs that need to be learned, and no employer, so the theory goes) should be asked to pay much for this learning curve. The first employer gets stuck with teaching these “things” and he should get a break for doing so.

I guess that’s what it means.

What are these “things”?

Let me see.

Get up on time?

Maybe, but getting to school/the bus stop/the car pool required that as children.

Getting dressed properly?

Yep, but mostly we learned that stuff in school too. Wearing the wrong things got ya sent home, or mom scurried to school with the “right” clothes.

Doing your own work?

Ummm, teachers usually took care of that with various forms of discipline.

Not talking about non-business related subjects during work time?

Kinda like not talking in class when the teacher is talking.

Oh I got one. Learning to punch the clock!

Yep, that takes wow, better than 30 seconds if you go through it twice.

What to do with a paycheck?

Well, if you’re not sure, pin it to your pocket and give it to mom like at school.

See? I’m out of “things” to learn on the job, other than the SPECIFICS OF THE ACTUAL JOB WHICH HAS TO BE TAUGHT AT ALL OF THEM.

So I’m confused, by why you don’t want people to get a living wage.

Since you want them to work to avoid being on the dole, so doesn’t it MAKE SENSE that it actually be ENOUGH TO NOT BE ON THE DOLE TOO?

Which is what Wal-Mart does, not pay a living wage so better than one half of their employees work there and STILL have to use government assistance.

So, you don’t want to give people food stamps, and you do want them to get a job, but you don’t want to pay them enough not to need food stamps?

You see my confusion?

I’m told there is this thing called a “smart gun”. Through some magic, it won’t work except for the person who bought it and owns it legally.

It would seem that if all the guns were eventually of this type that trafficking in illegal guns wouldn’t work. You couldn’t buy a working gun “off the street”. You couldn’t break into somebody’s house and steal their gun cuz it wouldn’t work. If you disarmed a homeowner defending his home against your intrusion, you couldn’t use it against them, except to hit them with it. If your kid found your gun, he couldn’t shoot himself or his best friend by mistake.

It seems like a good thing.

The NRA is having babies of hysteria over this thing.

They are the people who claim that the only way to deal with bad guys with guns is for good guys get guns. So they want to sell all the “good guys” guns.

Except they don’t want any checks of any sort to determine that good guys are actually good. Wouldn’t it make some sense to know that first?

And they don’t want smart guns that only fire for the good guys.

I’m really confused about this one.

I guess Wayne La Pee Pee LaPierre doesn’t have the confusion gene either.

So, anyway, I could go on. Reams later, I would only have scratched the surface of stuff that is confusing. Time dilation could take days all by itself. So, I’ll just stop here.

For today.

I hope you are confused now.

Really, it’s the only sane place to live.

 

 

Oh the Hypocrisy of It All

Tags

Humor, hypocrisy, racism, right wing nuts, satire

H Y P O C R I S Y !

A sweet sounding word. Like a crispy hippo maybe?

Oh, sorry, words do that to me sometimes. Just love the little buggers.

Back to hypocrisy, which as you know is not a good thing to be. Hypocritical that is. Or to be: a hypocrite.

Defined as:  a person who claims to have certain beliefs and/or values, but does not actually live by them.

Street definition: asshole.

The world is full of ’em. And to go by what I see, most of ’em don’t seem to know that they are such. Which leads me to the conclusion that people who are hypocrites are not very good at thinking.

See, the reason most of us aren’t hypocrites is that we rather immediately see that our beliefs and actions aren’t lining up, and we work pretty fast to correct that, lest we be called a . . . .wait for it . . . . H Y P O C R I T E !

We have talked many a time about the religious right, the fundamentalist, who proclaims Jesus as their savior in a very earnest voice (God bless!), shaking a tattered bible in one hand while doing so. One would wonder if the tattering came not from reading but from all that shaking of it, given that said fundamentalists mostly do not practice what they preach.

You see, it flies in the face of their emotional attachment to themselves and their desires. So the Good Book is twisted and mangled until to them at least it says that the poor should get off their lazy butts and get a job, that gays should give up sex because it’s nasty “their” way as God sees it, that the rich are people whom God obviously loves since a free market is right in Luke, if you just read that parable about the landowner paying different wages to his workers. God loves him some weaponry too, as Jesus said, assault rifles with big clips are part of everyone’s attire to go shopping at the Wal-Mart. And let’s not forget dear Sarah the Bible hugger herself, who just a few days ago reminded us that to a “real” Christian like herself, why waterboarding was just baptism for Muslims! Can I hear an Amen?  The list goes on, but you get the picture.

Why we have the fine example of one Cliven Bundy who it seems figures that he should be able to graze his cattle free of charge on government land. Said hypocrite then went on to ‘splain to all of us stupid people about them “negroes”, and what ails them. It seems that those “negroes” sit around on cement porches all the while they wimmin’ are abortin’ them young chillen, and they be sending their young men to prison. All cuz, they have no DIE-RECTION in life, which is cuz the feds are givin’ them those SUB-SITIES.

See that’s how Cliven sees things, and Cliven sits atop a horse so he can see a far piece.

All the while, Cliven of course don’t think that he is getting any SUB-SITY all the while grazing his cattle on someone else’s land for FREE for TWENTY FREAKIN’ YEARS.

See that is whatcha call hypocrisy.

Now the Rightie-Tighties were all in favor of Cliven at first. It was just wrong for the Government to OVER -REACH as Sean Hannity told us. I mean forget that it was RONALD REAGAN who signed that EXECUTIVE ORDER way back that was the source of Cliven’s pain. (can I get two hypocrisies?). Forget that. It was wrong, Sean said for the big bad government shouldn’t show up with guns to take the cattle. I mean, it’s only grass for God’s sake, and who should care? I mean Cliven is just cheatin’ the gov’mint out of a little bit of taxes. Ya know.

But then Cliven opened his pie-hole and forgot to use those racial code words but just spoke out the truth as God made known to Cliven, and well, all those rightie-tighties started backin’ off.

Sorry Cliven, you aren’t a very good person, but the idea was still worth supporting, however you might be.

And some said it was REALLY about the dang government havin’ that land in the first place. All that eminent domain stuff. I mean seriously. Just another instance of the gov’mint having stuff it don’t need unless it wants to run your life.

Yeah.

Cliven could have that land iffin’ the gov’mint weren’t grabbing it all, to “protect” it and stuff, from lawful use by say, yer gas and oil interests. Yeah, just another example (eminent domain) of gov’mint messing with capitalism. Next step: socialism, which we are already nearly there so, safe bet you can say C O M M U N I S M !

Oh, nuts, did you hear any of them rightie-tighties talking about the evils of eminent domain when it came to the Keystone Pipeline? You don’t really think that thing is going only through land owned by the gov’mint did ya?

Guess they forgot.

Can I get a H Y P O C R I T E ?

There there is Donald Sterling, a man with a name that in no way describes his character I tell ya.

Donald is an old fart, I mean old. And like a lot of old farts, he has hisself a young mistress, cause he could afford to buy one. And she is exotic, meaning that she has a heritage that would be called “mixed”. She claims she is part African-American and part Hispanic. Donald don’t mind, cuz only the Hispanic part seems to show much, and that is still okay among his white old fart friends.

But this cute little thing is pissin’ Donald off, cuz she’s “hanging around with black people” in public, sorta like “pallin’ around with terrorists” I suppose. That makes Donald look bad with his white old fart friends.

So he told her to knock it off. She can bring ’em home, f**k ’em, feed ’em, and do anything else with THEM, but NOT IN PUBLIC. A bit of decorum you NOT WHITE TRAMP PLEASE!

All the while Donald owns the Clippers, which is coached by an African-American and whose players are mostly African-American, and their SUCCESS reaps him tons of money. Hard to figure how that can happen when Cliven ‘splained that they just sit on porches all day. Guess Donald was given them plenty of DIE-RECTION or somethin’.

Yes, it’s time to shout H Y P O C R I S Y ! again.

And I bet ya, I just bet ya, though I am just speculatin’ that if you check on his right ass cheek, you will find GOP emblazoned there.

I just betcha.

 

 

 

Get Ready to be Jealous

Tags

Humor, life in the foothills, The Contrarian

Hello.

The picture at left means nothing.

It just popped up when I put in “my sorta better half”.

I find Google weird like that. Or perhaps not Google, but the HUMANITY THAT WOULD MAKE THIS POP UP WITH THOSE WORDS.

It just goes to show you that when you take the entire human population (or most at least) some really weird shit comes out.

It’s really the down side of the Intertubes. The Contrarian puts it thusly: Every village has it’s idiot. The trouble with the Internet is that all the idiots can get together and form their own village.

Ya see they get to think they are normal.

But this is not about that.

It’s really about the Contrarian, “my sorta better half”. Sorta, cuz well, he’s mostly my better, but not always. I have enough self-esteem ya know, thank you very much.

Like most normal and successful marriages, we have a lot of “division of labor”. Mostly it is defined as “those things I don’t wanna do, you do.” It works pretty good, as long as the other person doesn’t have “removing snakes from the toilet” as his “things I don’t wanna do” too. Not that we have ever had a snake in the toilet. Had one in the living room once, but that’s another story and deals with a cat.

Anyway, the universe blessed us with mostly not having the same “I don’t wanna” things on our respective lists, so voilà, we have a happy married life. Ya didn’t know I bet that it was that simple did ya? See all you kiddies out there. Just make a list with the prospective spouse, and if they don’t have the same stuff on them, well, you are good to go. If they do, one of ya better be dominant and the other a sniveling worm if ya have any chance in hell of making a go of it.

Okay, that was all to lead up to this: The Contrarian’s first job of MY day, is to wake me up. This requires that he haul ass out of bed before me, and he does, often with a helpful poke nudge from me. At the appropriate TIME, he is to come in and say, precisely, “Babe. . .Babe” to which I reply, “UHHH. . . .” to which he replies, “time to get up”, after which he should move away from the door lest he be hit with a flying object.

I then send the dog out the door because he is all happy, and wiggly because he wants a walk and that utterly makes me wanna cry.

Now I have talked to the Contrarian about his TONE of voice. It should be flat and dull. It should not be “happy” because there is NOTHING to be happy about when getting up means I gotta make the bed and get dressed! I mean seriously are those two things the MOST boring things imaginable the first thing in the morning?

So don’t ask me why my morning wake up was punctuated by this: “babe. . .Babe. . . .wake up, if we had moved to Florida it would be 8 a.m.”

What the freakin’ F**K is that?

This man is always a surprise.

Speaking of which, it continues to surprise me that he thinks he has hair. He has hair, plenty of it all around the sides. But on top? Only if he stands with his back to the sun can you see a bunch of wispy stalks parading across his dome. He is convinced it would “all come in thick and luxurious” if only he could be allowed to grow it out again. Like when we met, like when he had his pony tail.

Yes he had a pony tail.  It was not especially long, and quite handsome in its own way, although there was even then a thinning at the top, fewer and fewer hairs from the front were being pulled to the back and more and more from the sides were. Actually from the sides, they remained the same, since one usually doesn’t add hair as one ages except through Rogaine-ing which said Contrarian has not done (having nothing called vanity in his word dictionary).

Any the how, the Contrarian has been cutting his hairs (with much moaning and groaning) for some years now, and it’s quite a task to get him to the barber, except through threats, promises, and serious begging.

So the other night we were watching Vikings, which if you weren’t aware is a television drama that the Contrarian favors. A bit much too much blood-letting for my taste, but alas this seems the framework of most everything considered “drama” these days. The main character is one dude called Ragnar, who has an interesting style of hair –shaved on the sides and back, tattooed, and with just a wide strip on the top that is gathered and braided quite elegantly down his back. The ladies seem impressed since he has had two lovely wives so far.

So, as I was saying, the Contrarian is watching away, when suddenly he muses, “I think I might let my hair grow and braid it like Ragnar.”

I sit stunned as I usually do when confronted with another bizarre remark from his lips.

“Um, did ya notice that Ragnar has a lot of hair on the top of his head? You braid would be a might thin with only nine hairs in it,” I queried.

“Oh, I will too, once I shave the sides,” he utters confidently.

“How so,” I giggle.

“Why similar to  thinning a grove of trees of saplings, babe, it allows the other trees to reach the sun and really grow.” This is said with, I swear, a straight face.

“So you think your head is like a grove of trees?” I sputter.

“Well, not exactly, but surely without all that stress of having to grow out the sides, the hair-growin’ can put all it’s efforts into the top. I’m sure it will be plenty,” as he draws his wiggling fingers across the top of his head in a pretense of sliding through silken locks of plenty.

I stare.

He smiles softly and returns his gaze to the latest Viking war going on over the screen.

Such is life in the foothills of New Mexico.

I gotta keep that man on a short rope I tell ya, or the wimmin will be beatin’ down the door to take him away for themselves.

Yes, I gotta get a shorter rope.