Archive for May, 2015

Memorial Day Melody; Soldiering On Without Christ

Monday, May 25th, 2015

So.  What, exactly, is Memorial Day?  I mean really, whatinthefuck is Memorial Day all about?  This question is asked because I had a bad night at the poker table Friday, and returned home to read an unread newspaper while sitting out to the back portal with the dogs, three bottles of Carta Blanca, and a fatty rolled with a new delivery of Cherry Bomb medicinal.  As the Squirt is learning to read, I attempted to use the paper for the night’s lessons.

Again, your New Mexico primer will tell you that a portal is a covered porch, whereat I took a deep drag from the joint and a deeper drain from the first beer.  After giving each dog a slip of beer from my finger, I invited the Squirt into my lap and asked, “OK, my little dumplin’, what you want to read about tonight?”

“Holiday festivities,” she replied without any hesitation.  “Let’s decide what we’re doing this weekend.”  She was now in my face, tail wagging.  “And poker is not on the list, asshole, you play too much poker and stay gone too long already.  The goat dog needs to be let outside more often or you’ll pay the price.”

The tiny brown bundle of excitement and dog dander poked her nose right to mine and fixed her best steely gaze on me.  When I didn’t say anything, she said to me, she said, “You know I can go hours without blinking, shithead, so tell me no poker for these next three days.  I’m staring you down!”

I was planning to spend all weekend with my two furry charges anyway, but I was just buzzed enough to play games with the Squirt.  I reached for my beer and slid the nose of the bottle sideways between her snout and mine, and tipped a slight dribble of beer down my chin.  Never one to let spilt Carta Blanca make it from chin to shirt, Squirt lapped and licked my chin, said actions removing her steely stare from mine.

“Gotcha!” I gleefully said, “who’s your stare daddy, huh?  Who is your fucking stare daddy?”

I usually lose these battles of will and laser looks, so a celebration was in order.  “Let’s fire up the grill and cook up a midnight snack.  Anybody want a pork chop?”

My favorite Santa Fe restaurant is Dr. Field Goods, and Josh, the owner, opened a charcuterie—that would be a deli not necessarily of kosher orientations—whereat he butchers his own P.I.G. hogs and beefs, makes sausages and pates and mortadella and sammies and shit.  A couple buddies and I had lunch there Wednesday at the deli counter and I had the BLT with chicken liver mousse.  I promise you here and now that I’d be a very gay man if peckers tasted as good as that sandwich.

OK, I’d be a bi-sexual person, as simply liking the taste of pecker wouldn’t quench my ravaging appetite for ravishing female body parts.  Maybe that explains bi-sexual orientations in a quite simple way.  If I, as a person, can like a head cheese, mortadella and sweet pickle sandwich just as much as I do a vegan salad, why can’t another person, such as Drew Barrymore, enjoy the close company of both men and women?  Really, somebody tell me the goddam difference.  Maybe pussy tastes like crème brulee to Drew.

Josh gets his whole piggies from a local farmer, and that brings up another fucking question.  Why are cow raisers called cattle “ranchers,” yet we call the herders of piggies hog “farmers”?  I get that we call cow milk facilities farms—so as to distinguish between simply consuming Elsie’s lactoids and actually eating the entire milk factory—but if it’s a cattle ranch when the bovines are raised to eat, why not pig ranches when the porcines are simply fatted to market?  We don’t drink pig milk, for shitsakes, so what’s up with that dealio?

OK, maybe there’s some loony old pig rancher over to Kentuckered-out wallowing in the mud to milk Daisy the sow, but there is no easily identifiable market for his product.  And don’t start that shit about size matters, or free range bullshit.  Won’t fly, just like the pigs.  I saw a hog raising facility up to Iowa this one time that was as big as any cattle ranch.  At least I think it was Iowa.  Might have been Nebraska.  Or maybe Alabama.  It was back in the day when you could drink and drive, and Streaker Jones and I had been road tripping for a couple weeks.  Gigantic, stinky fucking smell for miles as we drove past all the pigs.  Wouldn’t eat bacon for a week, a record for me, as I love me some bacon.  Didn’t like the taste of beer either and had to switch to Jack Daniels for my thirst quenchings.

Maybe that means we were over to the back woods of Tennessee when encountering the dense, heavy odors of intensified hog husbandry.  Two stoners in a 1967 GTO can eat up some ground over fourteen days’ time.

Which reminds me.  This guy asked me the other day what it’s like to have ADD.  I’mma email this to him, tell him to read it three times.

I think what must have sparked today’s writings was rememberating this man who suggested that the official song for Memorial Day needs to be Onward Christian Soldiers.  The man was Pastor Browningwell back to Mother’s Baptist Church in Austin, Texas, and the occasion was one of the last days I spent in that Hellhole over which he presided some fifty years ago.  It was a special Memorial Day service, and that old gasbag—a young gasbag then, I guess—was extolling the virtue of all those Christian boys who died for our freedom, and likewise how there’s no atheists in a foxhole.  He preached that all good soldiers were, likewise, good Christian boys.  All the good soldiers had taken Jesus as their savior and lord.

I fidgeted and squirmed through most of the lecture without opening my mouth, but when the pastor mentioned that all the dead soldiers had gone on to meet Jesus in Heaven, my mouth overrode my controls and went all auto-pilot.

“That doesn’t make any kind a sense, Pastor Browningwell,” my mouth announced to the parts of the congregation who were still awake.  “Abe Bernstein’s daddy died in the war, and you said Jews don’t meet Jesus.  Abe’s daddy was over there to the Battle of the Bulge with Jimmy Simpson’s uncle Wheezy.  Wheezy said that Abe’s daddy was a good soldier, a hero, and…”

My ear still hurts from where Mother nearly twisted it out by its roots, and while the Christians have not yet officially stolen the meaning of Memorial Day, they have kidnapped its public persona.

Our multi-ethnic, multi-religious military inductees fought and died in service for all American freedoms—each and every fucking freedom—not those freedoms cherry-picked by right wing conservative Christian assholes.  Freedoms of speech and choice; freedoms from oligarchy and religious oppression—those freedoms our Founding Fathers actually founded America upon, and not the pretended right wing freedoms.  Our freedoms are now manipulated and narrowed to only include freedoms to screw with peoples’ lives when they disagree with perverted Christian beliefs.

And while I’m not any kind of Bible scholar, I have been forced to studiy enough of the New Testament to have a quite clear understanding that Jesus—as reported on the pages therein—was a total and complete pacifist.  Total, complete died-in-the-wool, get your 4-F deferment or head off to Canada kind of pacifist.  Jesus would be pissed if He knew somebody even wrote a war song in His name, much less led armies on a fucking Crusade while flying His banner.  Where in the Bible did Jesus say, “Go forth from England and France with arrows and shields and smite down the curved sword-carrying Barbarians in My name for committing the mortal sin of occupying my sacred birth land.  Fucking Turkish infidels!”

Stop beginning my Memorial Day ceremonies with a Christian prayer.  Pray to all the fucking Gods, or none at all.  Ugh.  Here I am on a holiday all pissed off again.

Anyway, I bought these pork chops from over to the charcuterie—fat, bone-in jobbies—and fired up the grill.  I hit them with salt and pepper and slapped them to the hot grill.  When they were almost ready, I shook half-a-bottle of woostieshire over them and let it caramelize.

“Holy shit!” the Squirt mumbled with a watery mouth.

“Holy shit, indeed,” I told her.  “Some of this is Holy shit, indeed.”

Fuck Walmart, y’all.

Mooner Johnson Is A Big Fat Liar; Self-Caught Fabricator Turns Self In

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

So.  After having confessed as to my falling victim to the absurd concept of Luck, I now must make a second confession.  My having connected the dots between viewing tire skid marks on an overpass with poor results at the poker table required me to have placed faith in some supernatural power.  Believing in luck, by its very definition, is to place faith in something unknown, and as an atheist, faith is something I profess to lack in any measurable quantities.  Having faith in a supernatural being is the very foundation of most religions, and we atheistic personages lack the Blind Faith Gene.

I say Blind Faith Gene (BFG) herein, when referring to your basic religious types, because as I see it, the hereditary propensity to exhibit blind faith has much to do with the perpetuation of religion.  A handed-down sort of dealio.  That, and the simple fact that my very own mother seems to feel that I have some sort of genetic defects for not blind faithing her precious Jesus, which, when coupled with the ADD and ADHD, allow me to be both a heretic and an ungrateful son to my now demented mother.

“I must have done something terrible as a child,” Mother told me when Sister and I were kids this one time.  “You can’t sit still for one minute and your sister won’t wear a dress.  It had to be a sin of the heart for God to punish me so with the two of you.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I told her.  “I’ll try to do better.”

If I had a nickel for every time I said, “I’m sorry, Mother, I’ll try to do better,” as a kid, we’d have had us a nickel shortage back to the fifties and sixties.  In truth, it typically took less than a minute before some shiny object or meandering thought inside my skull would distract me from a stern motherly lecture and get me into my next scrape with Mother’s martyrdom.   Mother was a teacher at my school—a professional teacher well-respected among her peers—and she was required to routinely deal with my transgressions in the classrooms of her coworkers.  This one time, I lost my mind and was blowing spit wads through a long plastic pea shooter straw in Mr. Arnold’s history class.

The pea shooter was a gift from Daddy—one of the many secret gifts my father gave when Mother wasn’t looking—and “Swats” Arnold was one of those teachers who both believed in, and joyfully administered, the corporal punishments back to when I was in Junior High.  Swats, for those younger readers, were the individual whacks on your ass with a paddle administered in the Principal’s office by the particular teacher offended by your behavior at the given time.  The typical punishment at my school was between three and ten individual swats, said specificities determined by the severity of your offense, your propensities to earn swats, and the designated teacher’s level of fed-upness with your rangy, inappropriate ass.

Why I say I’d lost my mind and blew spit wads is because old Swats Arnold had already reached his max fed-upness with me, and I’d had so many swats from different teachers that year that I’d attained new heights in the Swats Match Play program installed by Mother.  Swats Match Play, SMP for shorties, was the secondary punishment stage administered by Mother upon returning home after my having been swatted at school.  My personal SMP plan included a baseline of a doubled number of motherly whacks, plus what I always thought of as a totally arbitrary number of add-ons.

This particular school year—I’m remembering it as the seventh grade—I had reached the level of requiring a minimum of seven swats for any swattable offense.  However, using the above mentioned school swat determinations, old Swats Arnold decided to mete out the maximum, and did so with glee.  Mother’s SMP program was to have us pull our pants down and lean over the kitchen table, and offer all in attendance the chance at the tender flesh.  The offender would first get double the number of swats applied with one of Daddy’s dress belts, and then Mother would carefully explain what you did to her to deserve the add-ons.  Any of you who have received swats at school can verify that ten consecutive swats were a painful bitch, and, likewise, anyone having been whipped with their father’s thin leather dress belt to their bare ass can testify to the uniqueness of that form of punishment.

This time, my butt was already so sore from the swats that I asked (read begged) my mother to give me a day or so to recover before administering SMT.  Politely said, Mother yelled at me to assume the position, which I did.  I already had welts and bruises from the swats and was cowering, and I never cowered.

“Who wants to go first?” Mother asked.

No one made a move to take the belt , they just sat and looked at their place sittings.

“Will none of you support me?  Don’t you understand what this little heathen did to me at school today?  The humiliation.  The embarrassment.”

Mother waited for a response but no response came.  This heated the anger already there.  “OK, looks like I have to fend for myself, as always.”

And she flay me four times with the anger of the offended before Daddy could stop her.  He grabbed the belt from her grip and chest bumped her all the way to the sink.  I stood bent to my perch, hands squeezing dents in the oak table, legs frozen in place, and tears streaming down my face.  Mother had hit me so hard that the leather had ripped my skin, made me bleed.

But I didn’t cry.  I teared-up like a mother fucker, but I did not cry.  I would…not…cry.

Gram came to my aid and washed me with a wet, cold dish towel, cooing to me as she worked.  I can’t remember the actual pain because I was now so mad, mad enough to look hard at the serrated bread knife sitting within my reach and thinking of my mother’s icy cold heart.  Sister saw my interactions with the knife and moved it out of reach.

Why I’m associating this incident with telling a lie escapes me.  Maybe it’s the other time I was bloodied by my mother with a belt—the time I told a whopper of a lie and was punished—that spurred this bit of history.  And I think that is one of the reasons I don’t lie.  I have always thought that my integrity is integral to my personage, but maybe that terrible spanking has something with which to do on that subject.

Anyway, I lied to you about having but the one superstition re: poker.  I was dressing to head to the casino Monday and reached into my undies drawer for a pair.  On top was a white jockey style, so I moved it aside and grabbed a black boxer-brief.  I always do better in black undies.  I then pulled one of my lucky shirts from the closet and put it on.  I walked over to my jeans, started to put them on, pulled my left foot out and took off my shirt.  I do better at poker when I pull my shirt on over jeans already in place.

I placed exactly one Immodium caplet, one prostate relaxer pill, and my poker pack of Stimu Dents in the shirt pocket.  I always do better with a pack of toothpicks designated for poker only.

I am so sorry for lying to you.  I’m sorry for lying to me.  To think that all of these inanimate object have power over me is disconcerting.  Next thing you know I’ll be standing in front of Saint Joo-Joo’s Catholic Church waiting for it to open so’s I can give a confession, take wafer and wine.  I’ve always thought blind faith Life’s most slippery of slopes, and this luck shit is a banana peel.

I’m sorry once, and again, and I’ll try to not do it anymore.  I forgive my mother for all of it, so maybe I can forgive myself.  However, Fuck Walmart and unrepentant liars.

Burnt Tire Residue Blues; Soul Cleansing For Lunatics

Sunday, May 17th, 2015

So.  It’s Friday and on Fridays I play in what is a high stakes poker game when factoring into the equation that I am a retired person not yet collecting my government pension, and that I live in New Mexico.  When compared to poker games in Las Vegas, my Friday game is puny.  But by New Mexico standards, this afternoon’s start of a Pot Limit Omaha High-Low Eight or Better contest is considered a really big game—mayhaps the biggest casino poker game in our state.  I’ve heard rumors of private games that match Vegas pot sizes, but this game is legal New Mexico poker’s 800 pound gorilla.

We call it PLO Hi-Lo for short, and I’m new to the game.  I started a couple months ago when I first sat to the table with the same fascinations of a twelve-year-old boy hiding in the bathroom with his daddy’s playboy—excitements with something new, fears of getting caught, nerve tingling danger.  I had long watched this game played at my favorite casino, shaking my head at the numbers of chips and $100 bills in some pots and the seeming ease with which players would make, and call, “I bet the pot,” bets.  To bet the pot is to match any previous bets, then double that amount.  For two years I watched, at first just a voyeur and then as a student.

PLO Hi-Lo is a richly-textured, complex game and an absolute bitch for a man whose ADD-addled brain most resembles last Sunday’s leftover scrambled eggs, yet it is those complexities that can make it manageable having attention deficits.  To pay attention to PLO Hi-Lo is to have many of your swirling thoughts focused in one direction, a mental acuity that can well serve.  PLO is Hold ‘Em with four hole cards—double your pleasure, quadruple your confusions.

I watched for two years yearning to play, yet fearful of the risks to my poker bankroll.  I have a self-imposed limit to the funding of my hobby that one hand of PLO Hi-Lo could bankrupt.  Only the best players sit at this table, and these people can smell fear better than a shark can sense blood in the water.  Numerous times I would tell myself that I was going to hit the casino early on a Friday and play the game.  Couldn’t pull the trigger.

Then one day I was playing at my second favie casino down to the ABQ, and one of the dealers I like asked me if I’ve started playing in “The Big Game” up to Santa Fe.  Players and dealers at other casinos call it The Big Game.  I said I’d love to, but just couldn’t get myself seated.

She halted action in our Hold ‘Em game and asked me, she asked, “What the Hell are you afraid of?  You have cancer and gray hair.  Play that game before you start drooling on yourself.”

Except for the other man with gray hair, the entire table, me included, laughed.  One guy said, “Now I know how to bluff you, Mooner.  PLO, PLO, PLO!!!”

Again, they, and I, laughed.

I drove home that day and realized I already drool on my chin occasionally, so I decided I’d play.  I played that Friday in late January and won, and I’ve have played each Friday since, and that brings me to what it is that I want to tell you.  Poker players as a rule, have superstitions—personal idiosyncrasies believed to bring good, or bad, luck.  Me, I’ve never thought myself as superstitious in any way.  I do have consciously applied habits at the poker table that are designed to help me task focus my ADD, but I’ve never tied the habits to a particular outcome.

Until this one day in February.  I’m driving to The Big Game, and at the last overpass before my exit there are fresh tire skid marks that start in the right lane and go up the concrete under the underpass, spin sideways and then head back onto the road.  I was intrigued with the black marks and wondered if any damages was suffered to body or vehicle.  I lost that day.

The next Friday I’m driving to The Big Game, and I see the marks again, and suffer the largest loss I’ve ever had at a poker table.  I come back the following Monday to play Hold ‘Em, see the skidders, and lose again.  Not the same size loss, but now the third in a row after noticing the skid marks.  Like skid marks in my underwear, this underpass is driving me nuts.

I’ll not bore you with the details, but those black, ground-rubber residues have become a major influence in my poker life.  I try to not see them, look at them with all my focus—embrace is the word Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson uses in my therapy sessions—and I attempt to drive past them as if they don’t make any kind of shit to me.

The reason I’m writing about this silly shit is that I reached a decision this morning vis-à-vis the marks.  If I lose today, I’m going to spend Saturday scrubbing them away.  I’ve priced a rental power washer and investigated what cleanser will work best.  I can arrange for a lane closure with eight hours’ notice and can keep things safe for the day-and-a-half it should take to finish.

When I told Sammie my plan during this morning’s phone session, she told me, she said, “Jesus Christ, you truly are a sick man.  You’ll get run over.”

“You sound surprised, and so fucking what?” my response.

Maybe it is a little dangerous to work that close to traffic.  Maybe I’ll just get a spiritualist to cleanse the sight for me.

Fuck Walmart until they treat their employees as humans.  OK, fuck Walmart forever!

 

Maggots To Monarchs; A Macabre Look At Life

Wednesday, May 13th, 2015

So.  As a retired person, I’m finding my life so coagulated with personal efforts requiring allocations of time that I need a prescription for Coumadin of the Clock—a thinner for the pitiful remaining Life’s blood of an aging old geezer.  My retired guy’s time of relaxation and recreation has become a workaholic’s dream.  Confusing literary functionaries aside, I find myself too busy doing so much differing shit that I’m doing a shitty job with all of it.  As a younger man I’d have done a Ben Franklin Evaluation of all my involvements—that tried-and-true, methodical decision making tool—and pitched the lesser-valued involvements to the curb like so much leftover Brussel sprouts casserole.

Howsomever, being an aging old geezer prevents me from pitching out even my dirtiest, most tepid bathwater for fear that many of my babies might catch cold.  With but limited life remaining, I want to do every fucking thing I can do, yet all I want to do is take a nap.  I’ve so many things I want to do, my internal time conflicts resemble the political/religious interests of the Middle East.  My Sunnis are in constant battle with my Coptic Christians to gain control of my worktime, while my prostate is warring my ADD over control of my playtime.

Confused?  Me too.

Background.  Salvador Dali is my favorite artist, and Dali had a fascination with bottle flies as they relate to the birth-illness-death-decay-birth recycling dealio that is Mother Nature’s ashes-to-ashes population control plan.  The bottle fly is both the harbinger of a pending death and the first provider for Nature’s composting machine that turns our dead carcasses into rich, life generating earth.  The fly identifies a sick animal, tends it carefully, and then plants its eggies when the time is right.  Timing is the bottle fly’s strength, because timing is integral to the bottle fly larvae.  Too soon to hatch, there is no viable host to supply needed nutrition.  Too late, and the host is dried out and unfit for larvae food.

In Dali’s mind, the bottle fly’s part in life is mystical, a sentiment I too hold.  As a composter and non-believer, I see flies as tiny prophets—miniature beasts who buzz their excitement at finding a place to settle their manifest destinies.  Flies lives are fully dependent upon their hosts’ death—an irony that might be Life’s biggest irony of all.  Flies are symbolic of a certain stage of life—that point that marks whereat an animal has entered end-of-life stage. Illness, or the inability to move, are the symptoms flies seek in their animal charges.  I have often wondered if our infirm bodies send off a fly beacon, some sort of signal that attracts them.

And flies are prolific, planting 150 eggs each day, each egg hatching a larvae within twenty-four hours.  According to my math, one fly couple can produce generations of offspring within two weeks totaling in the millions, if all eggies hatch and all larvae make it to adult flydom with fertile mates.  That’s quite a lot of fucking flies, and those millions of flies can be a major problem at a composting operation because they have so much fodder with which to work.  If it weren’t for state laws requiring an operator to mitigate fly populations, I’d have made fly infestations a routine part of my composting plans.

Hell, I’d have imported Spanish bottle flies and raised the little shits.

Now, some of you are already saying to yourselves and maybe out loud, you’re asking, “Jesus Christ, Mooner, what in the fuck are you going on about this time?  Your ADD is totally out of control!”

And I’d answer you, I’d say, “First, what I’m going on about IS time, and second, of course my ADD is out of control.  That’s what I’m telling you.”

I got all serious about my life when experiencing the newness of my prostate cancer and daily visits to The Great Radiator.  At the end of one particular week of treatments my side effects were severe, so I swallowed an entire bottle of Gram’s special prostrate mushroom tincture and sat with the dogs out back in the snow.  The dogs were bundled under the heavy blanket, each lying beside me with their heads in my lap, and I was fully-covered except for my face.

If it seems many of my recent stories include snuggles with the Squirt and Yoda, that would be because we snuggle often these days, a byproduct of the subject upon which I now ramble.  Sensing the love and warmth of my adorable puppies is a thing I desire to fully enjoy.

OK, I wasn’t fully-covered since my face was exposed to snow and cold, but who really gives a shit?  As I held my face to the drifting flakes, the mind-altering aspects of the mushroom juice eased my physical discomforts and opened my intellect to think upon Life.  My Life.  I realized that having cancer was my bottle fly moment.  It fully dawned on me that the last stage of my life is here, harbingered by the cancer, and what that means.  I didn’t freak out though, I instead felt the relief that comes from knowledge, acknowledgement and acceptance.  As most of us do, I think I had never really looked at the reality of my future death in its totality until that moment.  I was in denial and it seems have always been.  I’d never cogitated the completenesses encompassed therein, and I must say that I’d prior been uneasy with my death.

Now I’m not.  So let me chase to the cut.  Or, better said, let me chase to the prick.  As an acknowledgement that I have cancer, and as a reminder that I need to fully-enjoy my remaining life, I got a tattoo of a bottle fly.  I wanted to place it in a spot on my body that I would look at most often, and since I think that getting a pecker flesh tattoo installation would kill me, I put the half-dollar-sized fly on my left hand.  Dili Dali—I named her Dili Dali for Salvador—sits on that Vee of flesh between thumb and index finger.  In addition to all the times I see my hand in a typical day, since I use my left hand to peek at my poker cards, the inked fly gets extra exposures.  And since I’ve decided to play more poker as part of my “maximize the pleasure from remaining time,” Dili Dali and I are quite well acquainted for the two weeks we’ve been buddies.

This one Catholic guy that plays poker asked me, he said, “Is that a fly on your hand?  Why would anyone tattoo a fucking fly on their hand?”

I told the entire story to his disgusted countenance, he asked if I was a pagan, I said, “I’m worse than a pagan, I’m an atheist,” he snorted at me and called another player’s bet.  He won the hand and thanked his God and did that “cross-your-heart” Catholic dealio.  A few hands later, he called my all-in bet for about $140.00 and he lost.

He cursed, but not at his God, and I asked him, “What’s your God’s name?”

“Huh…What do you mean?” his response.  He seemed quite confused.

“I can’t thank your God for my win if I don’t know His name.  It’s obviously His cards skills that beat you, not mine.”

And unless they are using them to incarcerate Texans, fuck all Walmarts!

 

 

Class Confusions; What’s Your Strength?

Monday, May 4th, 2015

So.  Today is an interesting day for me.  I’m caught cogitating between, or maybe I should better say debating between, two subjects about which to ramble.  As my skull is a-swill with myriad thoughts on each subject, to elucidate herewith without a deliberate debate as to which subject is most appropriate would send us all into word-and-sugar shock.  The conflict is that one subject is something I wish to speak about of my own devices, and the other is a subject upon which my God has asked me to expound.

My personal subject is one upon which I have been thinking long and hard to find a way to cogently state my ideas.  For several years now, I have thought that I have insights enough to formulate a theory, said theory having practical application and being worthy of publication herein.  As previously stated to the pages hereof, I see a marked likeness in 1968 and today.  The happenings in Baltimore relate directly to this theory and spurred additional thinkings on the subject last evening as the dogs and I sat out to our portal for our last beer and smoke of the day.

The weather was rainy and cold, so we were all sitting in the rocker covered with an old army style blanket.  The rocker is extra-wide so as to allow the three of us comfort, and the only part of the dogs that saw fresh air was their adorable, tiny snouts.  The only reason even their muzzles shown was to enable them to lick Carta Blanca beer from the pointy finger of my left hand.

Maybe that should have been “muzzles shown were” to enable beer slurps, but who really gives a shit?

I had fed my puppies several sloppy fingers of Mexico’s best cerveza from my left-hand digit before my right hand tired of holding the cold bottle.  Having switched hands with lit doobie and cold bottle, I fed the dogs another lick, then stuck the near roach to my lips for a pull.  The stench of acrid dog slobber stuck to my left finger overwhelmed the sweet fragrance of Raspberry Kush.

“That was pretty fucking stupid of me,” I told the three of us.  “Which of you has been eating cat shit?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m on a cat shit-free diet for now.  My butt still hurts from all those drizzle shits the last time I imbibed.  Yoda’s found a secret stash around the corner of the house—takes little snacks throughout the day.”  The Squirt added, she told me, “He says to feed him more and he won’t need the supplemental nutrition.”

“The two of you are already overweight, little lady, and I’ve been thinking of cutting back on your rations.”

The deep brown eyes gave me a hard stare, then smiled.  “You’ll need to hide all your shoes and put plastic on every surface of the house first.”

That was not a threat, it was a promise.  “Just tell him to stop eating cat shit, OK?”

I got no answer, but, rather, received insight.  “Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed and startled the dogs, who both jumped from beneath the blanket to bark maniacally.  “Son, of a, bitch!  I know how to say it.”

Squirt didn’t bother to ask me what it was that I knew how to say.  She looked at me disgustedly (not an actual Webster’s word, but the most precise way to describe her look) and slid back under the blanket.  That’s the backstory on what it is I want to say.  As for God’s issue, that will relate to later last night as I lay sleeping—deeply, I might add—when I felt the weight of another person sit beside me.  They sat near the goat dog, and because Yoda didn’t leap from under the covers to run, I knew it was God.  My God, not yours.

I didn’t bother to open my eyes when I said, I asked my God, “Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby?  Long time, no see.”

God lifted the covers aside and snuggled in beside me, facing to look into my eyes.  “It got cold here today, Mooner, cold enough to snow.  It’s almost May…  You humans need to do something about global climate change or your clock will stop ticking.”

With my eyes still closed, I said, “Since you said, ‘May,’ and not ‘Three in the fucking morning,’ maybe a better simile would be to say, ‘If you don’t stop global climate change that our calendar will stop flipping.’…Is that why you’re here, ma’am, to convince me to stop greenhouse gassing?  If so, I’m going back to sleep—you’re preaching to the choir.  Head on over to the Koch brothers’ houses and let me get some rest.”

“I used a proper figure of speech, silly boy, to emphasize that you people are fucking things all the way up, and back.”

God reached a slender hand to my face and gently flicked my nose with a manicured finger.  I smelled the scent of rosemary and fresh lemon zest and immediately knew what visage I would encounter when I opened my eyes.

“You’re here as Cat Cora, right?”

I opened my eyes and sure enough, the ever-so-attractive lesbian chef’s eyes stared deeply into mine.  “Don’t even think about it, Mooner.  I only look like this to fulfill part of that fantasy and to get your attention.  Focus on my words or I’ll change into Sarah Palin.”

“Uh, well, er…  I’d be OK with that as well.  You know I did have dream sex with the Alaskan Governor that one time.”

“I said focus, big boy.  You need to write about hunger, Mooner.  People are starving and near-starving right here in The Land of Plenty.  I know you plan to rant about your comparisons between today and 1968, but don’t forget to speak to the issue of hunger.”

God kissed me with Cat Cora’s lips and poof, She was gone.  The covers hung for a few seconds, molded into the shape of Cat Cora’s body.

“Was She nekid?  Did anybody see if She was nekid?”  I’ve long wondered what Cat Cora looks like under those dowdy chef togs.  She has great lips I now know, and I’m thinking a killer physique as well.  Maybe I can invent sexy chefs’ clothing.

Anyway, before my ADD burns our cookies and over-whips our cream, let me see if I can’t find a way to combine God’s plan with my own.  Here’s what I’ve been trying to say.  America is at a tipping point again, a point of great upheaval.  We have once more become a class society of distinct and quite obvious differences—a three-tiered near oligarchy now manipulated by the upper class of super wealthy and too large corporations.  There’s the middle class of professionals, union workers, small business owners and our like—those of us with plenty of money to live comfortably yet not enough to pay for political or social influence as individuals.  Then we have our last class—our working poor, disabled and homeless, our hungry, and those with murdered motivations, who combine to make the class of Americans living paycheck-to-paycheck, or worse.  A class in the wealthiest society ever known that has millions of under fed, malnourished members.

For the sake of my argument, please accept that I see the upper class as 5% of our human population, the last class as 35%, and we in the middle as the remaining 60%.  Disagree with these numbers if you wish, but even Foxy Newbs puts my estimate at +/-10%, a margin fully acceptable in my summaries.  If you can accept my percentages as at least in some ball park not Camden Yard, you’ll be able to understand my theory, which is this:

“Humans fight with their strengths—simple mathematics always wins.”

OK, that was pretty lame.  Accurate to my intent, but lame all the same.  Let me try to elucidate.  Assume an upper class person wants something.  How do they get it? They BUY it.  A rich person’s real strength is money—not their numbers nor their willingness to get dirty or fight with their own hands, it’s their wealth.  So, when the rich get tired of paying their fair share and want to control government and influence public policy to lessen their burden, they simply fucking BUY it.  Rich folks don’t do work to get rich, they have others make the actual effort for pay.  Or payola.

The rich in America control the vast majority of our wealth and a few of them are using that wealth to control the rest of us.  For my example, let’s look at those kooky Koch boys.  Their plans are to invest at least $250 million to buy a president and to influence their rich buddies to contribute the remaining dollars to reach the $2 Billion total required to complete the purchase.  Simple math for the strength of the rich, and hold that thought.

The class most opposite the rich have no money to pay for their families to eat healthy food much less enough loose change to fund a US Senator to deny global climate change.  When a poor man decides to influence something, he might have his words with which to fight, but in today’s American politics, words and facts are worth almost nothing because the rich have purchased our media and constantly lie to us.  So, when a poor man gets tired of repression at the hands of the rich or powerful, he reacts in anger and frustration—his class’ strengths—and starts putting matches to shit.  Matches are free at every liquor store on almost every corner in his neighborhood, and one man with one tiny paper match can bring down an entire CVS Pharmacy and turn a rich man’s $5 Million investment in building and inventory into ashes.

Now for a poor man’s simple math.  Of the thousands of protesters in Baltimore, what if only 400 had a pack of matches and struck flame for their cause?  If each torched facility equaled an average $5 Million in ashes, the overnight tally in Baltimore alone would equal the Koch-fueled President-purchasing funding of $2 Billion.

In the middle, we middletons have the numbers, we are the majority and we have the votes to decide any political issue.  Should we desire to influence public policy, our voices can be loud and clear, but only if we can agree on things and actually VOTE!  We can’t buy our way into power, but we can vote it.  Our votes are our strength.  Our strength and mathematical power are simple to evoke, take the least amount of effort, and in the final analysis, are the most powerful class strength.

We need to awaken to the dangers of today and use our strength.  Put some efforts into regaining balance and civility in our society.  We need to stop bitching and start doing something.  We need to get involved and get out the vote.  Now.

Did that make any sense?  Fuck Walmart!