Archive for the ‘Racism’ Category

Rememberies Of Future Present; Racism’s Caustic Spittle

Friday, July 8th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here to my desk at 5:15 in the AM wondering what went wrong. I watched the live news coverage of the black man shooting Dallas police—apparently an insane reaction to recent police shootings of black men—and this morning I’ve been at this mental endeavor since I got out of bed at 2:17—three hours and two minutes ago—when the Squirt had finally had enough of my fidgeting and nudged me out of the bed.

“Jesus Christ, Mooner, get up and go do something productive,” the small, brown-furred bundle of piss and vinegar almost growled in my face. “Get up and leave us to sleep or I’m telling the goat dog to start licking your face.”

While I do sincerely love both of the little Chihuahua-mixed puppies that are my companions, the Squirt is a pain in my ass, and Yoda’s spit is so corrosive it can dissolve the silver coating off a plated serving spoon, and smells bad enough to drive a pig off a bucket of swill. These things I know as facts.

“Well now, Mr. Johnson, just how might you know those tasty morsels of information to be, as you say, ‘facts’?”

“Well, Missy Tamara (Tamara is who the name tag claims her to be), the spit part was learned when I used this old serving spoon—a silver-plated jobbie whose matching knife and fork had long ago disappeared—to slop a blob of peanut butter onto a toasted English muffin. The peanut butter was organic from the bulk aisle over to Sprouts, and the muffin from this nifty bakery down to Austin, Texas. As the Squirt was in the other room watching Oprah with Gram and Streaker Jones, Yoda got both first and second dibbies to lick the remaining thin smear of goober spread off said spoon.”

Missy Tamara looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said to me, she says, “And?”

“And nothing. I put the spoon over to the counter next to the sink with intentions to hand wash it, hand washing a needed action after the goat dog’s tongue touches anything you wish to reuse, like dishes, flatware or faces. Little shit licked my underarm to get me to roll over in bed this one time and I got a dreadful rash right there where the bottom part of every shirt sleeve rubs. It was very uncomfortable.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“The spoon, Sir. Did you have a point?”

“Oh, that. Forgot to wash it until the next day. I remember my Gram getting all up in my ass about it. ‘What in all God’s green pastures is this here?’ she asked me. The spoon looked like I’d dipped it in a vat of acid. It was all green and florescent and shit, and you could see the cheap pot metal showing through the silver coating.”

I love Trader Joes, I truly do. Their staff is always so friendly and interested in you. I’ve had several of these pleasant conversations with Tamara as she checked me out. And she always makes naughty innuendos when it’s time to insert my chipped credit card into the slot of the reader.

“It’s time, Mr. Johnson. Steady, straight and gently. Push it all the way in and then don’t touch it until it tells you what to do next. If you move it too soon you’ll have to pull it out and do it all again.”

Tamara has short, curly hair, light brown doe eyes, and a fearsome grin. And a girlfriend. Why is it that I’m so attracted to lesbian women? Put me in a dating mixer with a hundred interested straight women and one lesbian who doesn’t actually like men, and I’m making time with the lesbian in six minutes flat. What’s up with that shit? I love lesbians so much I forgot to tell you the pig part of my puppy’s spit stuff. And what’s up with my focus?

Did I tell you I have the dreaded ADD? I mean recently? I sat down now three hours and forty-five minutes ago to tell you that I think my country has gone all to Hell, and back, and I still haven’t told you about the time Yoda licked all over the galvanized tub used to feed Rush Limbaugh the pig. First and only time I saw that hog turn his nose up at food.

OK, and way back up there when talking about the spit and the spoon, I used the personal “whose” when referring to the spoon’s former mates. I really wanted to use “which’s”, as I feel with absolute certainty that it is Spoon’s mates which whom are missing. Then, again, maybe there are times when inanimate objects can take on human qualities. Like this one time when my Gram’s mushroom juice caused my Boy Scout pocket knife to carve the miniature Jesus off the faceplate on Mrs. Browningwell’s Sunday school lectern.

The term “He Is Risen”, painted in gold leaf above the carving, sort of fell flat after I’d whittled a crater where that old bag’s precious cherry wood Savior had once rested. Speaking of that entire “He Is Risen” dealio, a person close to me recently told me that she has figured out the entire set of mysteries revolving around Jesus dying on the cross, getting buried and then coming back for a farewell dinner with his boys.

“He didn’t die,” she told me with a look of sheer delight plastered all over her face. “They didn’t have modern science to check if he was actually dead, did they? There were no stethoscopes back then, they didn’t know to put a mirror under his nose to see if it fogged.”

Maybe I haven’t yet gotten to my point because I’m so frightened of it. America is this close to electing a racist, bigoted, braindead and greedy misogynistic failed businessman as President. Racial tensions are as high as they’ve been in my lifetime. America has enough military-styled rifles on its streets to arm the French Army. And representing our fellow citizens in public service has become one of the ten highest-paying jobs you can land, and the highest-paying job with no requirements for intelligence, integrity or common decency.

We were headed in such a good direction coming out of the Sixties and into the Seventies. Now we’re at the “Last Days of Pompeii” stage, where our hate, greed and gluttony are consuming us.

It hurts to say this, but my best effort to fight back is to simply say:

FUCK WALMART!!!!

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Homegrown Tomato Maddness; Clarence Thomas- Old White Man

Friday, June 28th, 2013

 

So. Summer’s here and so are the big forest fires that burn and blacken our beautiful mountains. Just as the fire scorches the earth and consumes everything in sight, our US Supreme Court burns and blasphemes a hundred years of increasing civility with one sweeping act. Fires are blind and greedy; heartless and dumb. Fires are indiscriminate—fire consumes each and every thing without prejudice, without emotion, without thought.

Some of our Supreme Court Justices—the five assholes it took to strike down the most powerful tool we have to enforce nondiscrimination in our voting booths—have acted with extreme prejudice in turning a blind eye to the continued racial hatred and distrust that seems to have managed to refill the ranks of the new neo-conservative Republican and Libertarian Parties.

This Justice isn’t blind, it’s instead five old white men who have chosen to not see the truth. And don’t even start to tell me that Clarence “Marshmallow” Thomas isn’t an old white man. That brain-dead and gutless shithead is the worst of the five. Just as a former smoker is the worst of we anti-smokers, a former black man is the worst of all racists.

I can just hear the fuck head. “Why, nobody has ever discriminated against me. I kissed so much white ass that I actually turned white, like a chameleon. Those darkies need to get a grip.” Then that Long-dong Silver asshole would add, “What I meant to say is that all of me except my dick turned white. You know how the white women love black dick.”

How can Clarence Thomas deny that racism is alive and well in many, identifiable areas of the United States? How can five of those Justices live with themselves having made this decision?

Fuck the five of them!

Which reminds me. Did you know that dogs cannot tell a lie? They can fuck with you with evil intent and they can withhold pertinent facts, but they can’t lie. Don’t have whatever it is that allows you to lie. As the owner of two yakking dogs, I can attest to the this as fact. Many’s the time I’d take Dixie—my beloved Golden Retriever and first speeched puppy—out to help me troll for women, and many’s the time she’d say, “I’m not telling any unsuspecting woman’s dog that you’re a good catch, fuckhead. No way I’m lying for you.”

We’d watch cartoons together, and whenever a dog character was on the show Dixie would be a running narrative. “That is NOT what we say. I’d never say that, that Deputy Dog is a fake. That’s a human trying to talk like a dog”

And my sweet Dixie has a special place for Walt Disney characters. “And that Goofy. Someone needs to put that asshole to sleep.”

Dixie is old and has retired to live with my good buddy, Streaker Jones. Her replacement, the Squirt, came to me as Dixie’s protégées, and why, inthefuck, is a single follower and student a plural? Why isn’t Squirt a protege? Fucking French. I’m starting to think that most of the stupidity in the English language is all the French’s fault.

I do wish we’d inherited the way they flip their hands dismissively. I also like the way they say, “Oui-oui-oui-oui-oui…” softer and softer and really fast until they run out of breath. I’m always looking for apparently unoffensive ways to piss people off.

Anyway, I’m sitting on the portal with the dogs with a snoot full of beer and a head full of my favorite bud last night. I was looking at the little garden in the raised bed—the one I surrounded with rabbit wire to keep the dogs out of the tomato plants—and I noticed that the four heritage tomatoes that were days from picking were gone.

“Whuh?” I mumbled through the haze in my skull. “Where’s the tomatoes?”

Yoda sat up at my feet and looked at me like I needed a lobotomy, and the Squirt jumped from my lap and said to me, she said, “I’ve got to go take a crap,” and she trotted off across the little patch of grass and around to the side of the house where I couldn’t see her.

Like I said, I was, effectively, wasted, so it took me a minute to remember what it was that had me all consternated. I re-lit the doobie, dragged another thousand brain cells to the curb, and emptied the Carta Blanca bottle hanging in my hand between the index and middle fingers of my left hand. I’m a left-handed beer bottle holder when I’m smoking pot, and have you ever noticed how comfortable a long neck beer bottle is when fitted between index and middle fingers of a hand that dangles off the arm of a chair? The easy motion of bringing the bottle to your lips as you sit, slouched from brain fog, is something I need to remember to thank God for the next time They pay me a visit.

“Wait a fucking minute… Wait just a fucking minute!”

Now the goat dog looked like he was the one needing a lobotomization. He suddenly jumped up and ran around the house to join the Squirt. And don’t you grammar Nazis even start on me about my jumping tenses. I was, am, and always will be an ADHD-addled fuckbrain who did, does and will do multiple-track thinking, so you will, should and have to put up with the textural blending of my sequences.

If you can’t handle it, go the fuck on over to Glen Beck’s place and leave me alone.

Anyway, it finally dawned on me that the dogs had acted mightily funnily when I asked about my missing tomatoes, so I walked around and confronted the dogs. “I know how much you two like tomatoes. Did you two somehow find a way into the garden and eat my almost ripe tomatoes?”

They each looked away. “Well, did you? Answer me, Squirtie girl, are you the guilty party, little lady?”

“Na-na-na… Na-na-na-na…” Squirt stammered. She was sounding like a Frenchman with the Oui dealio except it was like she was trying to say “no-no-no”.

“Squir-rt?” I slowly queried, “you need to an-swer me.”

“God dammit, Mooner, you know I can’t tell a lie. Yes, we did it. We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to do it, but we love tomatoes,” she said with what was not a small trace of indignity.

“But why, little lady, you know you aren’t supposed to get in that garden area.”

“Humph,” she went, “we’re dogs, idiot, we can’t help ourselves.”

“But how’d you get in? I had rabbit fencing run both ways up and down. A snake would have trouble getting inside. There’s no way you could get in.”

Squirt stuck her chest out and said, “We’re smarter than you think.”

“Bullshit. I made that fencing dog proof. I’ve watched you for six weeks try to get inside of there. Somebody must have aided and abetted you. Did somebody fix you a way into my…”

Have I ever told you that my mother doesn’t really seem to like me. Did I tell you that she was here a week ago and how I was thinking that things have gotten better between us?

“Squirt, did Mother fix you a way to get into the tomato patch? Did she?”

She puffed her adorable little chest out even further. “We’re not squealers, asshole, we’ll never sing like canaries. Eat shit and die.”

Eat shit and die? When was the last time I said that wherein she picked it up to pitch back into my face?

It took a few minutes, but I found the place where someone had cut and bent the wire into a Squirt-sized opening and then pushed mulch over it. Seems the dogs uncovered and then recovered the opening as they came, and went. I repeated a conversation Mother and I had while she was here and I was showing her the back yard. “How are you going to keep the dogs out of your tomatoes, son?”

“Not a worry, Mother, I’ve dog-proofed it with two runs of rabbit wire. They’ll never get in.”

Once again I found myself forced to sing that Don Henley song. “Forgiveness, forgiveness, even if, even if, you don’t love me, anymore.”

I need to call my buddy BJ—talk to him about the great relationship he had with his momma. He just lost her and is going through those tough times, and I’m needing a support group.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

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