Ginger Finally Graduated

No. 20 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

In my opinion, the school treated this young lady miserably, and I'll be more specific, guidance counselors and wrestling coaches over the years. The details of the case are so hideous they cannot be lightly aired here. But they must see the light of day. So I'll preface this rather juicy and immensely interesting story in a serious way. Do I wish it'd never happened? Yes. Can I wish it away? I've tried to no avail. At least I personally had nothing to do with it, so I'm off the hook. But of course I'm still fascinated that things could go so awry at an institution as well respected as Dump Overlook High School.

I hesitate to share the details because even this blog has standards. Foremost among my standards are two competing interests: 1) The life of the innocent must never be disparaged; 2) The guilty must never be cleared. OK, in Ginger’s case, I don't disparage her in any way. I supported her graduation as much as anyone after 10 years of high school. And as for the guilty, I oppose them to this day, forever refusing to exonerate them and their filthy ways.

Indeed, the sad truth is Ginger was kept in high school for nearly a decade. And why someone didn’t raise holy hell before now — not “now” but now contemporary then, 40+ years ago — is anyone’s guess. And since I’m anyone, fornication was at the heart of it. Just old fashioned you know what.

So it’s too terrible to even write about. I'm flinching at the keyboard. But the facts came out and still need to be rehashed, over and over, so these things never occur again. She was purposely lost in the system as various guidance counselors and wrestling coaches made a play for her. I know it’s not funny. I’m well aware of what we’re dealing with here -- liquid dynamite -- and those guidance counselors and wrestling coaches must be excoriated without mercy. Which they were but now they’ve all passed on. Which doesn’t excuse them.

This is so difficult for me. Because I know there’s someone who’s never heard the story and is just waiting for me to say something untoward so they can nail my hide to the shit-house door. Please don't. I'm not the enemy. These unnamed perps, who are all dead, were to blame. In no way was it Ginger’s fault, and I believe she’s also passed. Free of this terrible injustice, which lives in infamy.

One guidance counselor considered her file and lack of interest, and no matter how much pleading was made, how much sending of flowers -- and he tried various bait and switch schemes -- she was unyielding. He tried candy for a month, which was controversial at the time; it isn't that good for you.

As he considered the investment, which was mounting, naturally he was more and more loath to throw in the towel. But at a certain point giving up is the better part of valor. The other determinate fact that should've never been overlooked is she plainly wasn’t interested. And eight years of high school is enough for anyone.

So finally the guidance counselor decided the course for her future. After a cursory sham review of her "failing grades" they were switched to D, giving her enough credits to graduate five times. And to soothe any potential ruffled feathers with her or her confused parents (not right in the head), she graduated with distinction, the only student to ever get five diplomas. And their best wishes.

Why, O why, did they persist in such a scheme! he questioned himself.  Guidance counselors are optimistic by nature, but at some point you have to worry about your reputation. And collateral damage. Another decade and people would've been talking. So he needed her to cross the stage sometime short of needing a walker to get it accomplished. Pass her on, let guidance counselors in college have their chance.

G [initials were used in the reports] was a good sport about it, thankfully. She came into high school a sprightly flower, a delicate posy, so cute, so pert. And being voted most likely to succeed seven years in a row kept her spirits high. Which never sagged in all those years... But such an injustice!

Newsletter -- Mother Whistled For Me

Friends, I'm sorry to report, this is going to be bad news. I've lost -- I'll repeat that -- I've lost all control of the newsletter. It is now in the hands of my former staff lady, Myra Kula Electra.

This is a disaster of the most gigantic proportions, not to be equaled (in my opinion) by anything in all of recorded history. I'm thinking of the time I fell through the ice when I was about 12 and almost froze to death. This is worse. Because I loved my newsletter, I gave birth to it, I expected to grow old with it. If you were lucky enough to get a subscription, I'm sorry, it's gone, finito.

I've been out of touch on the blog -- and I know you've been wondering what's going on -- but it was through no fault of my own. I was more or less unconscious (in a hypnotic stupor) for the last few days. Yes, I have had scattered moments of normal consciousness, which I have had to use wisely, leaving no extra time for blogging. In a stupor of this sort you lose control of certain bodily functions, which means extended periods of unpleasant clean-up. Made worse in this case by having to go out for baby wipes and not making it home till the next day.

Here's what happened. One, Myra Kula Electra is one duplicitous so-and-so. I suppose I should've seen it coming when she was willing to have sex in public with four prisoners on July 4. I don't know what I chalked that up to entirely, although I saw the prisoners as the aggressors. It looks now like she wanted me to get mad at them, as I did, and send them back to the work release farm, as I did, leaving the field to steal the newsletter wide open for her.

With the prisoners gone, she and I had a good couple of days, growing in a tender friendship, I thought. Once I have a relationship like that, I'm very open; it's a family weakness. I want to make a good impression and I see total honesty as the way. So I went on and on, sharing the stories of my life. Not even once thinking she might ever use it against me.

What an idiot I am! This was Myra Kula Electra I was dealing with! THE Myra Kula Electra! Who writes the famous scandal stories in the Daily News, front page stuff. Teachers seducing students, treasurers embezzling millions, deals made through bribery, penis pictures in the legislature, children cheating in the spelling bee, sordid, lascivious, disgusting, terrible stuff, you name it. Why would a guy in his right mind -- me -- feel comfortable telling someone like her his weaknesses? He'd have to be an idiot!

I told her how easy it is to hypnotize me, which was my biggest mistake. Because who better to misuse that information than a strong scandal-mongering woman like her. We're not talking about a fainting violet in Myra Kula Electra! No, she's as tough as they come and she knows it -- compared to her nails are spaghetti. So I'm easy to hypnotize. And then I gave away the whole store, revealing that "Whistler's Mother" is my Kryptonite. If I just glance at "Whistler's Mother" I feel faint, but I still have the power to turn away. But if it's right in my face, let's say, I'm a goner, open to anything that ... say ... someone with an evil agenda might suggest.

Thank goodness I didn't tell her the one thing that brings me out of it! Because that's what saved me. And I'm only glad I even got hungry, because the short periods of consciousness were getting fewer and farther between. Mostly taken up, as I said, by personal hygiene. But after a few days of it I was mostly cleaned out, and feeling hungry again. When I instinctively opened the freezer and caught a glimpse of freezer-burnt round steak, and that was it -- I completely snapped out of it! That's the only antidote I know of.

The whole thing was now instantly clear to me. Like the guy on Queensrÿche's Operation: Mindcrime album, "I remember now..."

Myra had gone out on errands, I was in the house. I saw her pull in later and go into the garage. She messaged me to come out. And when I did there were large copies of "Whistler's Mother" hung everywhere, with Myra blocking the door. Then when I was in a stupor, she directed me, "Sign here," etc. Which were legally binding contracts, signed unwillingly, yes, but I can't prove it! I'm stymied! I'm looking at my copy right now. Fortunately she stopped at just the newsletter or I wouldn't have a place to sit my butt, as I am now doing, to cry.

I know I let everyone down. You were expecting a newsletter, and now what? It's gone! She even thought of a non-competition clause, that I can't start a new newsletter or serve on the staff of one till my death, at which time, face it, it'll be moot.

I hate, despise, loathe, and curse the name of Myra Kula Electra. She disgusts me like few things do. But I won't allow her to get the last word. I'm cancelling my subscription to the Daily News. Putting a dagger in that puppy right now...

THE END.

Newsletter -- We Inked a Pact

I love it so far. Myra Kula Electra and I are a Mutual Admiration Society, fully in love with one another, in the professional sense. We really had it out last night, with a very pleasant talk after I revealed that I knew who she was. Until recently I only knew her as The Lady. But an astute neighbor filled me in on the lowdown, the real story, the whole truth enchilada, the real weed, that she was THE Myra Kula Electra, as though there could be two!

I'm still saying her name, repeating it to myself, as I eat, nap, shower, take the dog out, and in all sorts of life situations, "Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra..." She said she doesn't care to hear it, so when she's not around I'm complying, reluctantly, with her wishes. Is she the world's only Myra Kula Electra? Apparently so! I googled her and the first 1,000 hits I got were all her, no other. Which is kind of amazing, because when you google me there's about a dozen different DBKundalinis, and 99% of them aren't me.

Myra's a hotshot writer, of course, so the world been beating a path to her door forever. She's worked for the Daily News for years and she's received a bunch of awards. It's all wonderful stuff, the scandals she's well-known for. When a paper has a good scandal story, they feature it on Page 1, they put the writer's name in big print, they specially copyright it, and they're the envy of the other papers.

Personally, I love reading scandal stories, thinking of how delicious it is to know the subject of the story's writhing in horrible agony, "What a fool I was! Why'd I think I'd never get caught? With Myra Kula Electra around?!" No matter what it is it's very salacious: teachers in relationships with students, or the more modern scandal, average people leaving dogs in hot cars. The big difference today -- and Myra's straddled both worlds on this, having been a writer since well before the Internet -- is it all goes "viral" -- a good sickness -- meaning she's been sought out by the best papers in quite a few of the more well-known states.

Like I said, though, we've got a Mutual Admiration Society going here. I thoroughly complimented her for her talents all these years. And she's been thoroughly complimenting me, buttering me up one side and down the other. I haven't had this big a head since, crap, I can't remember when. Like her, I'm a writer. I always wanted to be a writer since I first learned to write. I took a creative writing class and got a C, so I was hooked. In 2008, then, I started this blog, and the rest is journalistic history. I've kept it all very humble, not seeing that many awards. It's like I always say, You can't lose if you don't enter. The big difference between a blogger like me and a newspaper gal like Myra, there's millions of blogs but the town has only one newspaper. And with a million guys out there making payoffs to the big judges, it's all very corrupt; it's hard to win prizes.

That said, I have received awards. I don't want to go through the whole list. It's off-putting to have a guy crow about himself too much. I'll just mention the one I'm most proud of, which was the prestigious Gorton Fisherman Award for Writing Excellence in 2010. Other than that, the "award" I get everyday is the satisfaction of 10,000+ regular readers, each one basically stepping over the next, trying to get to the blog first. And some of these folks I actually know! There's a couple of town criers right in my neighborhood who shout it over the fence. They're busy refreshing their screens, like 24 hours a day, and when there's a post they shout it out and the shouts go 'round town like a round robin little village kind of thing.

Myra told me her basic mission in getting a job on my newsletter was to be in position to do a scandal story on the work release farm. They're sending out sub-par prisoners, like the guys I had, and she's thinking there's some kind of crime syndicate action at play. But then she found out she likes working with me, so she's agreed to stay on and we'll be a team! We inked a pact on it just this morning, her name and mine, signed in blood on a blank paper, with me to fill in the details of the agreement as they come to me. Heh heh, I might throw in some real zingers. She don't know me too well, do she? Any little favors I might desire, heh heh, although I'm not really that lascivious, but I'm a nice guy, the guy my mom raised.

I seriously think there'll be no stopping us. With Myra Kula Electra's reputation and stunning looks, and my reputation -- my biggest priority since being caught with dirty pictures in 9th grade -- and superior brain power, we'll be an unstoppable team.

February -- The Mysteries of Weird

Don't you think it's amazing -- showing what a gracious guy I am -- that I celebrated Valentine's Day yesterday without once mentioning my grievances against the month of February? I think that's pretty good, and I'm assigning one gold star for myself. I told myself I'd let February pass for one day, then the next day lay into it again. (I'm trying to destroy February as a month.)

Speaking of Valentine's Day, and I'm going to add President's Day to the mix, it's hard for me to believe that a short, shrimpy, nothing-little-month like February somehow wrangled these two important franchises. I would seriously think these would be observed at a more distinguished time, like March. Except for Spring, March doesn't have many holidays.

But President's Day works like this: Abraham Lincoln was born on February 12. We used to celebrate his birth, a great president who worked like a dog to overcome the February curse. And George Washington was born twice in February! Seriously, check out his Wiki page. First, under the Old Style of the calendar he was born Feb. 11, 1731. Then over a year later he was born on Feb. 22, 1732! Unlike his fellow president, Lincoln, Washington had twice as much to overcome. But he made a vow -- deemed foolish at the time -- that he would be the first president of the United States, then he made it happen. Inspiring.

Or was it? Did either of these men actually become president in any honest way, or was it all someone behind the scenes, knowing how history would work out, pulling the strings to make it happen? I would suggest that the evidence is suggestive, suggesting some shenanigans. Really, what's the chances that Washington and Lincoln, two of our greatest presidents, should come along and actually be elected? What I'm really saying is that both men were probably involved with the Illuminati, who somehow have control of the strings of time and fate. The implication is they became involved with the Illuminati, but resisted and were briefly found to be unworthy. But when they ingratiated themselves again with the Illuminati, they had to settle for President's Day being in February. Making two strikes against Lincoln and three against Washington.

The two men then conferred, Washington saying, "The average people think of February as any other month." Lincoln agreed. And so, ever since, presidents have generally escaped the full berating for their many failings. This whole arrangement took the heat off future presidents, who could now say, "Yeah, but Washington and Lincoln were both born in February." Speaking of scandal. The truth is the Illuminati are always five moves ahead of the people, and the people are always ten moves behind them. There's no sanctity to anything, only evil scandal and no one with the cajones (or brains) to do anything about it.

I've been looking at this for a number of years. In those years I've said many times, more times than I can count in hindsight, "The Illuminati wouldn't be the Illuminati if they weren't doing Illuminati-type of things. This is just one more thing in their despicable in-your-face dealings. Their motto is, quite frankly, 'Take it or leave it.'" When you find you're over a barrel, that's the Illuminati. When you're painted in the corner, that the Illuminati. When you're all twisted up inside, with a fever and heartburn, that could be anything. But everything else is the Illuminati.

I need to study the Illuminati more, because they're tied in with February, as already illustrated. Still, I'd like to get to the bottom of their mumbo jumbo and find out what makes them tick. It's gotta be something, to keep them in business century after century, yanking everyone's chain, even power players like Washington and Lincoln. As I understand it, they're the ones we have to thank for eyeballs on pyramids (as seen on the dollar bill), the Washington Monument as a national phallic idol, and Betsy Ross' original circular arrangement of stars on the flag. They're big into circles, on the flag -- liking non-linearity -- and their work probably includes crop circles.

Time forbids me to list their many invasions into everyday life. I call it, however, "THE MYSTERIES OF WEIRD," taking the word "WEIRD" as a kind of proclamation that they are God. Such as "WE (that is to say I) R Deity. Toys R Us? No, We R God! Weird. Certainly they've been around long enough, we may as well call them eternal, so maybe they're right.

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"

Running for Governor -- Beggar Blowback

First, let me express my sincerest regrets for my blog post, "Beggars -- Don't Risk the Legal Liability." I agree it was insensitive and hurtful, and I apologize to anyone, especially beggars, who may have been offended. As it turns out, such unfeeling comments, particularly as regards begging veterans on every corner, are politically incorrect as well as detrimental to my future.

Of course you know I'm a candidate for governor of our great state, and you've probably seen in the paper my opponent capitalizing on my gaffe. The blowback was swift and certain, some of it sincere, with probably most of it being just another political knife to the back. The opposition was quick to pounce, as they no doubt would've been no matter what I'd said. I might be finished, although I can still hold out hope that the incumbent will say something worse.

I'm starting to hate politics. All the secrets you have to keep to be a credible candidate. Hey folks, I've lived life; I've been around the block; of course a few little peccadilloes are bound to accumulate. But I believe I can ride out the storm, just as long as all the messages and pictures are deleted as requested, and some of my aliases remain untraceable. Of course I'm kidding, just joking around a little before the election and the day I belly up to the public trough with the best of 'em.

Still, this beggar controversy beggars the imagination. Who knew these guys had their own agitating PAC? All this time I figured their money went into booze and ciggies, drugs and cheap hookers. It's a total surprise that they're actually political animals, pooling their resources and looking for an upper hand in society. They're more connected than you'd guess, probably because of their time on the street; they're nothing but social.

Now -- you know how it goes -- they're going to be on me about every little thing. You know the type; they'll take anything but a heartfelt apology. I could say "God bless you" and they'd crank up the slime machine: "Oh, so now you're blaspheming God! Who is this guy, thinking he has the right to order Almighty God around? Let alone insinuate himself between God and the average voter, seeking, no, demanding, God's favor! What is he implying, that decent Americans can't take care of their own religion?!"

These animals make my blood boil! Little did I know these skunks -- and I'm including my worthy opponent in that number -- would be the only thing standing between me and the governor's mansion. It's sad. It really is, that politics has descended literally to the gutter, where every cigarette butt is a prized possession.

Well, here is my solemn vow, yes, before God -- when elected, I likewise will use the levers of power, to do good for society in general, but to crush my opposition. The incumbent himself, all the way down to the gutter snipes he's using to undermine my character and candidacy. Assholes! I will grind them into the dust, and incarcerate any survivors.

The point is, I'm keeping my good spirits about me -- my optimism -- and I do stand behind my apology. If you've been offended, I'm truly sorry that you're so sensitive. I believe you should actually look at life through something other than rose-colored glasses. If you do, if you can manage that one simple little thing, I'm sure you will gladly cast your vote for me.

Women Cheer End Of Herman Cain Campaign

Three cheers for Herman Cain! He finally had the sense and grace to leave the presidential race, his reputation in tatters and his zipper worn out.

The good news is he finally got what was coming to him. The bad news, now he's got more free time on his hands. Women of the world, watch out!