Archive for October, 2017

Ramble On Ramblin’ Man; Major Dump Clogs Pipes

Sunday, October 22nd, 2017

So. It’s been so long since I’ve actually published anything I’ve been writing that the dogs and I have just finished a heated argument thereabout. The gist that was put through our argumentative grist mill is this: I, for my part, have taken the stance that anyone who might still be reading this shit in the first place has long since abandoned me in much the same way as I have abandoned the above-mentioned publishing, and the dogs’ position, as the Squirt so adoringly put it when she said to me, she almost yelled it, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, do it for us! When you cut yourself off from the outside world, you’re really insane.”
Simpler stated, the dogs want me to write and publish with more frequency, and I see it as a fruitless endeavor. Me, my idea was that much as when the tree falls in the vacant woods dealio. The small brown puppy took the position that by not writing and publishing, I’m harder to deal with and she and the goat dog must live with a harsher reality. Seems she thinks I’m grouchy-more having not posted to the pages herein.
Don’t you hate it when your kids have more insight than do you? While I have excuses for not publishing, those excuses do not include having not written. However, I haven’t published because the 40-50,000 words I’ve typed since my last publishment all sound boringly the same, and can be summed up in the following succinct statement:
“Trump is a dangerous asshole; Republicans are spineless, greedy bastards; and single-issue voters (here read Christians and fake patriots) are going to be the death of our democracy.”
If you can conjure to mind everything that has happened in the last six weeks related to those subjects, slather that heartily over a dry toasted bagel and then eat it without any follow-up liquid to rinse the bitter taste of a crumbling civilization out your mouth… That’s what I’ve had to say, and it’s difficult to swallow.
However, now that we’re started there is one thing I have to say. I was born and raised a Dallas Cowboys fan and remained so until Jerry Jones bought them. While I’ll not get into all the many reasons Mr. Jones has soured me on his team, please allow me to make this observation, an idea that isn’t just my own.
As you may know by now, Jura Jones has proclaimed that any Cowboys player who disrespects the flag in any way before a football game will not be allowed to play. Period. Any quantity of any disrespect and you don’t play! Peri-fucking-od!!!
Take a knee- take the bench. Raised fist- the bench. Pick your nose, pick your ass- it’s the bench for you! If you believe him, should his entire team take a knee, then Dallas will forfeit the game. As great as that would be, I doubt it will happen. I doubt that many NFL players, much less an entire team, think that a national anthem demonstration is worth losing paychecks. Plantation boss Massah Jones has fucking spoke.
But as big an asshole that makes Jerry Jones, that’s but half my point. The tip of my point lies in the choice of stands and standards Jones has chosen to take and what it says about him and his precious NFL. The Dallas Cowboys have signed or drafted a half-team of players who have been charged and/or convicted of criminal abuses against women—some terribly heinous crimes, say for instance like the defensive lineman, Greg Hardy. That almost 300-pound pussy-man punched, slammed and choked his 115 pound girlfriend before dragging her room-to-room and slamming her onto a pile of fucking guns. Not his only such offense, Hardy was convicted of two separate counts of domestic abuse of that defenseless woman.
Beat a woman senseless- take the bench? Nope. You, young man, will make a fine Dallas Cowboy. Suit up, big dog, we needs us a pass rush!
How ‘bout them Cowboys!!!
Like the simple fact that Trump, Jones and others of their greedy, bigoted ilk who think the Second Amendment is way more important than the First, the hypocrisy of this flag bullshit is nauseating to me. To put a legal civil protest action—an action sanctioned by the First and most important Amendment—a punishable offense that will cause Mr. Jerry Jones to take away your employment yet for him to recruit and first-round draft abusers of women, speaks more than anything else I can think of about character.
Choke a woman, slave master Jones says, “Hey, Cowboys will be boys.”
Stand up for black lives, it is, Jerry says, “Sit on the bench, boy. You gots ta know yo place, boy. You folks beat on ya women all ya wants, but don’t be disrespectin’ my stars n bars, er, I means stars an stripes.”
Would someone please remind me why I moved back to Texas? Fuck Walmart and the Dallas Cowboys!
OK, and now that I’m going, here’s one from the poker table. This way too fucking Christian guy was at my table wearing a shirt that said, “Pray for the Texas Hurricane victims.” This same guy had commented on the big earthquake that hit Mexico and the damaging Texas storm with, “These natural disasters are God’s will. He’s striking down the gays and atheists who are wrecking society. Decent people have no place to hide from that evil.”
As an aside to this shitball’s complaint, I wanted but did not tell him he could hide his head way on up deep in his own ass. But couldn’t hep mysef with the prayer shirt.
“So, uh, can I ask you a question, sir?” me to the pray for the victims guy. “I did hear you say that all these natural disasters—earthquakes and hurricanes and tsunamis and shit—are nothing more than your God striking down people who have offended Him? Right? I got that right, didn’t I?”
“Says so right in the good book, Hippy.”
As I’ve grown my hair long enough to keep it in a two-foot-long ponytail, some players call me Hippy, a moniker I’m quite proud to wear.
“Well, sir, if that’s your position, how dare you wear that blasphemous shirt?” two, three, four, five, and six.
“Hell, man, maybe you need to go stand in the parking lot before God decides to strike down your blasphemous ass. Your good book is just chock full of smited shitwads going against your God’s desires and I wish to not be your collateral damage.”
“Huh?” his second such response. I’m guessing “Huh?” was the best he could muster.
I told him, I said, “Seems you might need an Old Testament translator, sir. You claim that God smote down the people of south Texas as was His will against terrible sinners, pillars of stone and all that shit. Yet you pray for those same offenders? How dare you go against God’s will and wish them well when He obviously wants them to suffer. Shame on you, sir.”
It took him a couple hands for him to first, understand what I had said, and second, to formulate his response. “Well, Hippy, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I folded my hand and looked him in the eyes. “Exactly.”
Fuck Walmart once, and again. And that reminds me of this. Am I the only one who thinks the massive “hack” of personal information from one of the three credit companies was orchestrated by them, their veryownselves? I saw an estimate that more than 100 million individuals will go to each of the three credit bureaus to “freeze” their credit, an endeavor requiring patience and an average of $18 per individual.
I know the facts of this because I spent the requisite ninety minutes doing it for myself. I arrived at my conspiracy theory when listening to the listings of maximum allowable charges for freezes for each, individual state on one of the websites, because different states have different maximum charges for a freeze. If you take the population of each state times that state’s charge and then divide it by the number of total persons, you get an average charge of $9 per person per each company. Since Equifax allowed the “hack”, it has graciously allowed you to freeze their account for free. Until January first.
So, following my logic, the nine buckers for each of the remaining two will cost an average of $18 per person, at first blush a small cost to protect your credit against this “hack”. However, should 100 million of us effect these freezes before the end of the year, the three credit giants will gather a windfall of $1,800,000,000. Otherwise called one-point-eight-billion-dollars, this is a sum we are required to pay huge conglomerates to effectively protect ourselves from themselves.
Me, I see this as no different from when Guido muscles into the pizza parlor in Brooklyn, or Chin and Cho intimidate the Korean grocer in LA, demanding “protection” money. “Pay me to keep me from burning your store to the ground.”
Motherfuckers. Mother-fuck-ers. All right, now I need to wipe.