So. It’s a wondrous and quite interesting weekend of reflections for me as my ADD is a-swirl with the multicolored whirls of the criminally insane. Like the twisted views from the small end of a kaleidoscope, my thoughts are the rainbow’s colors presented without filter or screen. And why, intherfuck, isn’t it spelled “wonderous”? It isn’t a “wondreful” day dammit, it’s wonderful, yet I’m required to see it as wondrous. I have enough trouble typing and editing my ADHD-addled thoughts without the need to spell correct every tenth word.
Like fourty. Who was the genius on that one? Ninety works, eighty, seventy as well. But does fourty work? Noooo, it’s “forty”. Like the origin of four tens comes from an early settlement in the American West that represents a person moving from Wyoming to a big city. Country boy goes to Saint Louis for fame and fortune and city folk find him “forty”.
“That Smithson fella is right forty. You can take the boy out of the Fort but not the fort out of the boy.”
Which reminds me. Asshole Michigan Governor seizes control of Flint, strips that once fine city of its culture and pride, poisons its citizens with toxic water, then begs Obama to pay the way out. This is so fucking ironic my skin is crawling.
For starters, where was Cloven Bundy when the Guvmint took over an entire town? Where were the armed “protectors of freedom” when actual peoples’ rights were consumed in a fit of right-wing power? Silly fucking separationists were likely sucking on cans of Red Bull, unfiltered ciggies and Uncle Sam’s tits.
For second helpings, what if the citizens of Flint had taken up arms and occupied their own town? Would the Governor have sat quietly on the sidelines?
For thirdies, thirdsies maybe, there was knowledge aforethought that the replacement water supply was poisoned. Who will be prosecuted, who will be held accountable for the gigantic costs in human suffering, long-term health care expenses, and cleaning up this mess? Does the simple goddamn fact that lead stays in the human system to do terrible damage not resonate with a man like Governor Ricky Snider? Somebody fill his kids with lead and see his reaction. And actions.
To fix this without prosecuting those responsible is just as reprehensible as bailing-out big banks and not sending those fucking Banksters to jail. Please Mr. President, don’t half-ass this dealio.
Which leads me to my fourthie, not herein called “forthie” whateverthefuck Spell Check says, and that after-the-third thing is the still continuing saga of my car bidness. I have reached an amicable agreement with the automaker and await final disposition. Should they fulfill this last promise I’ll allow them to make, I’m satisfied. More to follow.
And that but leaves the real reason I’m writing today. OK, maybe that should have been, “And that leaves but the real reason…” However, as I hate leaving butts hanging, and leaves are sometimes pretty, I find myself in the honored position as the responsible person for forcing a major social change to the good of common man.
I, with the help of all of you, have finally made an impact on one of the most insidious scourges to American society. My unflinching campaign to bring halt to the rampant growth of this menace has finally taken purchase. Your support for my cause has created a ground-swell of powerful messaging that has, at last, bore fruit. I can’t say it better than the headline I saw in the New York Times. It said:
“Walmart to close 269 stores worldwide.”
It came to me last night as I was going to sleep. I lay on my back—left hand scratching Yoda at my hip and right hand cupping (clutching maybe) my balls—and rethinking my day. As I finished ruminating I started thinking just how comforting it is to scratch my tiny white dog while holding my scrotum in preparation for sleep, and wondering was this another sign that I’m just not right. The Squirt was at my right side with her head resting on my chest, so I asked the brown puppy her opinion.
“Squirty girl, you awake?”
“What now, asshole. You still wanna debate whether Cruz or Trump is the bigger shithead?”
“No, I’m good on that one. I’m wondering if I’m crazy for holding my balls and scratching the goat dog to relax for sleep.”
“For shitsakes, Mooner. When a person is crazy, by definition all things they do are crazy. Shut up and go to sleep.”
Somehow Squirt’s logic is, like my balls, comforting. Acknowledging that I truly am crazy, I can stop worrying if I seem crazy for things. I can just accept lunacy for what it is and move on. Spend my time on more productive thinking.
Like new and more creative ways to: Fuck Walmart!