Newsletter -- Mr. Food Chain

Friends, do you ever get that feeling you're being eaten alive? I've had that feeling the last few days, especially this morning when I got up. First, there's always the damned bugs of summer. Do I like bugs? I guess I do, in that sense that I like all of creation, believing it fits together in some kind of vast wise oneness. I just don't like them practically, as in feasting on my flesh and blood. Which I know is shortsighted and selfish, because I also feast on the flesh and blood of creatures. But I spray a little OFF on myself and I don't have too much trouble.

The other thing that's eating me alive -- and I suppose I'm generating some by mentioning it -- is karma. Everyone knows karma by one name or another as that thing that supposedly gets you in the end. You do something wrong and it eventually recoils on you and you're paid back in kind. The thing to realize about karma is that it's in continual action. Meaning, you learn from it or you don't. And if you don't, it's in continual action even more. If you learn from it and manage to keep your behavior somewhat in check, there's less of it to suffer. I've had so much Facebook karma this past week -- big news week -- I can barely mention it or I'll generate more. It does eat you alive, from the core outward.

Then there's one of my male staff-members, working with me on my upcoming newsletter, who will eat you alive if you let him, the disgusting Cannibal. I should've shipped him back to the work release farm (he's a prisoner) as soon as I heard of him. Because he creeps me out and I'm very afraid of him. It's tough to sleep knowing he's around. I've had his mouth on my arm a few times -- always playfully, of course -- but he has to be shaken off because he never seems to know when enough's enough.

Still, I need to give him some kind of tribute. It's fair to do -- I did the others. And there has to be something genuinely good I can say about him. Which, one obvious thing would be, like I said above about the bugs, everything's gotta eat. Would I want Cannibal to shrivel up and die for lack of nutrition? It wouldn't bother me all that much. Yes, I allow mosquitoes to live, for the most part; I don't begrudge them that much, since there's nothing I can do about it anyway. I kill one here, one there.

But Cannibal's one normal sized guy -- one filthy, slobbering, rotten guy -- and if he dropped off from lack of nutrition, it'd be a positive. Remember, this guy literally bit my little finger off! And while it's been stitched back on and is more or less functional, I'm very worried about my blood flow. Stuff like this was meant to stay permanently attached, in my not so humble opinion. But I'm not a guy to lash out. But if the other prisoners -- Danny, Spud, and Tipsy -- lash out at him, that's their business, and more normal to their proclivities. I wouldn't mind.

My Tribute -- My staff member Cannibal is one of the truest lovers of humanity I know. Most of us appreciate man's output: art, history, relationships. But only the cannibal goes for the whole package. Which can be a beautiful thing, just so the ones he goes for aren't worth crap. Various enemies, criminals, high school bullies. But most of us prefer to continue our lives much more than being eaten.

Cannibal's nickname of Mr. Food Chain is quite a tribute in itself. To have that continual hunger and yet to never be hungering, because there's always someone to gnaw on, must be very satisfying. He has the freedom and power and drive of a shark, particularly when his prey is sleeping. You're dreaming you have pain somewhere, you figure it's karma you're working off, until the pain becomes a little too real, too immediate, then up you spring, only to see Mr. Food Chain in action. Terrible. It's tough enough to fall back to sleep under normal conditions...

I have one consolation. Cannibal knows, because I told him, he can't mess up too many times, or it's back to the work release farm for him! So as long as I hold to that threat, I believe I will be OK. What's that??? Thought I heard him behind me, false alarm.

POLICE -- When the police showed up, I had to tell them, "I'm not aiding and abetting. He's eating and a'biting!"

There But For The Grace Of God Go I

Stylized reflections on my good fortune as compared to others of the human type suffering from dramatic strangeness, all credit and glory being given to God alone:

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I saw a guy sitting there with a big bushy white beard, terribly scraggly, basically repulsive. How in the world he could ever find love (of a physical kind) is beyond me. To have that horrific display in your face, not only as a detestable appearance but as a nightmare to the touch, is beyond sickening. And yet, somehow, in his ignorance, he persists in life, appearing in public. Are we on the same page, folks?

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

This other lady -- fart, this is bad -- was a rolling gelatinous something. About as scraggly as the other guy, no doubt googling a future in the circus. "What are your qualifica--? Oh good God, sign her up!" Mop my brow, I'd never sweat like that in an air-conditioned room. This I saw with my own two eyes; what do you think?

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I had to leave. Such a display was damaging my faith in humanity. It's too much to behold. I had to retreat to the bathroom, and without touching anything, behold my own perfect form in the mirror. The nose is right, the forehead not prematurely sloping, the eyes even, looking straight ahead, the mouth a miracle of design, my ears not too protruding nor too small. Oh Lord, who's this coming through the door? What a vile specimen! Reminder to self: Bring toilet safety shield next time!

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Back on the mezzanine, I feel I'm again in the safety of normal company. I see one of my rare betters moving by with a briefcase. This guy's a success, such polished shoes, such a nice fitting pair of pants. The eye thrills to follow him as he approaches the light post and vanishes around the corner. When what do I see coming the opposite direction? Saints, save me! How hideous can someone be?! To think this was someone's baby, sucking one time at the breast, treasured and kept from harm! What horrible karma has played out its cruel hand since then? He's a walking zit, with what looks like an unintentional mohawk, and he's a bit old to be carrying a crumbed-out skateboard under his arm!

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I'm headed for the bookstore, where the beautiful people live, breathe, and browse. In the safety of those stacks, I can also breathe, breathe in the wisdom of the ages. I settle in the paperback section, browsing and perusing. This or that author, I've heard of them. They were despicable in their time. No one liked them, but I think, if I'd been there, back in their time, I would've treasured them. Edgar Allan Poe is the author of this particular collection. Talk about a guy with a dark side. I should've read Poe more when I was a kid. I got stuck on "Tell-tale Heart" and just read it a million times and everything else none. I look out the window and see a crumb slink by, nothing like Poe.

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Where can I go that I shall not be beset upon by life's dregs? Don't these losers, bozos, and turds ever stay home? They're out and about. For their great difficulties at life, they certainly appear to excel in the open air. There's this one guy I'm thinking of, he's like a Viking. He's not dressed in a coat of mail but he would be if someone gave him one. His hair hasn't been washed since he was three. He's got a crazed look, but it might be a put-on. No one disturbs him. You wouldn't dare. He looks dangerous. He's never once exchanged a glance with me. He's so antisocial it's painful...

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Another specimen I see ... and another ... there's one without a head, completely severed, and yet he wanders the street. There's another. He can't afford food. But every square inch has been tattooed. Born a rebel. Good grief. Spare me. No head, how can that be? Just a big eye in his navel, exposed to the world. With a very hairy belly.