Sunday, November 30, 2014
I love visions, usually. You're sitting there in meditation and maybe you fall asleep, I really don't know. I only know it all seems so real. There's planets and stars in strange formations passing overhead. You see wild symbolic figures, circles and triangles and various objects brightly colored in continual morphing. And the great figures of spiritual history, Moses, Buddha, and my Mom. I'm like, "You bastards get out of the way, that's my Mom!"
Today was one of those days. I felt like I was completely awake, because, look above, I have a pretty good picture of it. The revelations -- alas, mostly criticism -- are also clear in my mind. A kind gentlemen, very inscrutable, appeared in my room and told me to follow him. A yellow door suddenly appeared. I looked, there was nothing on it, no "For Madmen Only" sign, so I went.
Damn, if this wasn't a judgment seat type of thing going on! Just what I need, right? You think you're doing OK, things are going along good. But even then, and maybe especially then, everything is karma. Which I tend to forget till it's too late. Remember, I had the great idea to post something on my stinking blog everyday in November. So I did, posting-posting-posting, then I get up on November 30, today, and they come along to tell me ... all I did was make myself more karma. In terms of spiritual truth, you see, every goal like this is actually an insidious thing -- really bad for sensitive types -- where you realize in a flash the things you do are mere maya, delusion.
I've been through this crap before. There's not much you can do about it. Take your medicine and try better next time. But this time I decided to advocate for myself, stand up for myself. The highest part of myself, however, split off from myself, and stood across from me, closer to the judgment seat. According to it, it tried to warn me -- quote a million times unquote. "Did it try to warn you a million times? Yes or no." I stammered, "Well, yes, probably, I don't know if it was literally a million times..." "Silence! Whippersnapper..."
The problem was, according to the highest powers, for the most part I wasted my essence, which, damn, how do you argue with that? It's really true. "But!" I interrupted, trying to save a tiny bit of face, "Didn't I do a good job?" They averred, that, yes, occasionally I did all right, but sometimes it was a terrible bomb.
I asked which posts they thought were completely "suckalicious," meaning bad. They listed off, Chasing the Thrill Divine; The League of Women Non-Voters; Little Old Fantastic Me Strikes Again; and gave a few black marks for My Better Angels, which toyed with the idea of getting rid of my better angels and seeing how well I could "do it myself." I thought back and remembered those relatively horrible posts. The Thrill Divine was an idea that never blossomed, Non-Voters was inconsistent and false, and I don't even remember Fantastic Me. The beings at the judgment seat led me into an antechamber with nothing but a hickory tree in the middle. They cut off a strong switch and beat me till I almost passed out.
Back out, they told me their favorite posts. Including, Sloshing Tankards of Grog, Phones Ruint; Get Your T-Day Turkey by Drone; A Willing Man for Dillingham; That's Sexy...We're Not Moving; and, of course, Cosmos: Elvis Presley. (They love Elvis there!) I tried to make a case for my Mental Parasitism series (7 parts!), but this was judged technically adequate but overall a waste of time. Too much Institute politics, not enough actual mental parasite activity!
For the good posts I was led back into the antechamber, and this time there were pleasurable things, which were so personal I feel I should forbear describing them, except to say it was like a dozen honeymoons in Sweden, if you catch my meaning. I almost turned it down, because it's all I can do to even attempt a kiss on the first date. The thought of going all the way, and so many times, was like way too much!
They told me, then, that had they started first with the good, I would've been spared the whipping. "So why didn't you start first with the good?" ... "Didn't think of it till it was too late. Bruno started whipping you and he hates being interrupted."
Saturday, November 29, 2014
It's my guess that most fans of the Transformers have never heard of Ma & Pa Kettle. Whereas it's just the opposite with fans of the Kettles; they've heard of the Transformers. Meaning, the fans of Ma & Pa Kettle appear to be smarter.
"But," Transformer fans say, "who needs to know about--- Who'd you say?" I politely, patiently repeat the name, "Ma & Pa Kettle," sounding it out as slowly as possible. The first two words rhyme; see if you can get that much first, Ma & Pa. Then think of the old phrase, "A fine kettle of fish," and that'll help you get the rest, Kettle. If we could now move on...
I might be among the last generation to love the Kettles, having grown up watching them on TV. And I attribute many of values I learned to the Kettles. Catch the difference? My values go back to the Kettles, not the Transformers.
But not everyone was as fortunate, as one generation gave way to another, raised instead on the Transformers. As I understand the Transformers, they're involved in all kinds of sci fi, live action fighting, weaponry, and destruction. Their world is filled with enemies to destroy. How things have changed!
In some of the Kettles' films there were folks of the community who didn't approve, or felt they couldn't countenance the Kettles' homespun ways. But no one destroyed them. Instead, the Kettles proved themselves truly wise even though they seemed to be know-nothing hillbillies. Ma was the wisest with lots of smarts, while Pa in his innocence, and more limits, showed a more naive wisdom. You really couldn't go wrong with the Kettles.
As for the Transformers, I only wish they'd held off on that brand of entertainment, to give that generation a surer foothold on the threshold of maturity. But the switch, if it had to come, had to come some time. Still, how unfortunate it was, coinciding with a serious psychological crisis among youth, who suddenly were given to spray painting things and gratuitous destruction. Today's rampant tattoo craze can be traced back to the rise of the Transformers; you're no longer happy with who you are.
The Kettles weren't perfect, though. Pa smoked quite a bit, as was common then. But he and Ma stayed home a lot and found happiness there; they had 15 kids. That's sweet. The Transformers, though, being machines, didn't know the same love of two human beings for each other. And that's communicated in the overall tone of their show. The Kettles had to know each other's feelings, and mature in their outlook, and watch for opportunities along the way to enhance their relationship. Then it was necessary to nurture their kids, and send them forth with the same values.
But the Transformers, what'd they even get out of bed for? You're a machine! If you get up, it's at someone else's instigation. And if you're able to get up "by yourself," you've been programmed to do so. You have no soul, you have no good in mind, no relationships to speak of, except what else you can destroy and lay waste to. It's ridiculous. No wonder society's been coming part at the seams since we went from the Kettles to the Transformers!
The way I recall, at first, the Transformers were supposed to be semi trucks or large motorcycles. Then they opened, or unfolded out to reveal giant robots. Which then took part in destructive behavior and mayhem. At that point I pulled back, never allowing myself to become immersed in it. I do know that over the years they did this, that, and the other thing, with multiple presentations of the overall concept described above. Big whoop!
The Kettles, though, as a family, in all kinds of social settings and through many dilemmas, present a human story, with good lessons to teach that kids could proudly emulate. I remember when they won the dream home of the future. It had lots of gadgets ("transforming" life as they knew it), but, unlike the Transformers proper, their transformation did not change them from the quality folks they had always been.
The Kettles are now part of a bygone era in entertainment. And how much worse the world is for it! The Transformers, on the other hand, have arisen, and dominated entertainment in the last few decades, contributing exactly nothing, to be exact, squat. A lot of malice and the spoiling of our youth.
Note: A couple of you wondered how I know so much about the Transformers if I'm so against them. I'm a social critic. It's my job to know things.
Friday, November 28, 2014
I suppose it's the world's oldest cliche, that a family like mine, cursed as it is to occasionally be together, would have troubles sharing a Thanksgiving meal. Truth is, we suffered through it, but survived.
It's actually been a while since we attempted it. Holidays have a way of going sour -- normal people know that -- but when there's a lifetime of grudges, deep jealousies, various resentments, and painful failures, plus this, that, and the other person simply doesn't get along, things get ugly, then uglier. The good news in the long run is I'll save money, since I've been paying the last couple times...
I'll just admit it, overall my family's been financially embarrassed. Various ones have been taken in by schemes over the years, risky ventures, and threw away their money. A lot of the resentments are rooted there. My Aunt Lois thought she had a big future in aquarium stores, for example, opened one and threatened to open another, and her money was lost forever. No doubt you've heard of the problem fish have with "ich," a disease. It was especially bad between 1970-1972, as I'll never forget. To this day Lois hates fish, the raw ones swimming or the dead ones cooked.
Like I said, I've been paying the bill. I've had two good steady sources of income. The disability I get from my game toe. And the money I make off this blog. I get a pretty good traffic stream. And a few of my posts have "Google Ads," which have been a real goldmine for me. I give 10% to this allegedly shady home for crippled children, whose only activity (6 days a week with a strict Sabbath) is clicking my ads. The kids are wasting away, they say, but their clicking hands are enormous, muscular. You wouldn't want them to get a hold of you. Just keep your distance.
Anyway, the family's behavior hasn't improved a bit since our last meal three years ago. We arrived and I went around and gave everyone a handshake or kiss on the cheek when we got there, ever the optimist. "Blessed are the peacemakers." But jealousy immediately raised its ugly head, since a few thought they saw favoritism in who I started with and how long I lingered. And it was more trouble when someone said I rolled my eyes as the accusations began. It's been this way as long as I can remember: Rolling your eyes is the Original Sin that even blood can't atone for.
The restaurant, I should say, was a fancy one. A nice big round table, the classiest folks, a buffet with heated silver food servers, deserts made by professional chefs in the finest tall hats, parsley and other greens scattered aesthetically between the entrees, and flowers. The gravy was delicious, pineapple was spread out in big chunks, and there was literally a mountain of cold shrimp. At $25 a pop and an automatic $45 tip for the table, you know it had to be good.
Some of the talk went back to the aquarium store days. Which is a coincidence, because just the other day I was in the pet store -- true story -- and I had that temptation a guy always gets to buy an aquarium. Then you start thinking of all the bad things that'll happen. Ich, cleaning the damned thing, fish dying, and all the money -- tons of money -- you'll waste on it. And how you eventually end up with a dry, dirty aquarium with dirty fluorescent blue rock piled up in one of the corners. Someone from the family comes over, goes to the garage to get a box for something, sees the aquarium and kicks a hole in it. Now there's glass everywhere and the carcass form of the rotten thing sets there forever.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
1814At the Boar's Head Public House, Andermatt, Switzerland, peasants from the countryside and the people of the village are joyously sloshing tankards of grog in great celebration. The grog makers are bringing it in as fast as they can put it out. The tankards are being filled and downed, filled and sloshed boisterously.
Certainly everybody there is merrily sloshed, whether out of their own drinking or their being sloshed by a neighbor. What a happy time, "Here's mud in your eyes!"
The keeper of the Boar's Head -- old Jeremias Boarshead -- later cleaning up the dam place, thinks back on the festivities. He pauses with his brooms and mops and recalls even his own brother in the mix there, sloshing with the worst of them, calling out in celebration, "You dirty bastard!" to the merriment of all.
There were no enemies, only the best of friends in those days -- a neutral place -- when the grog was flowing. Even if sober and dry they would've been enemies. But a tankard of grog in your mouth or coming through the air is the great leveler of a people.
2014The same damned place is going strong, with some updates, some improvements, maybe. The sink's got a new layer of porcelain. The big difference is the drinkers, coming in as they so often do with phones, computers, and all these dam devices. It's technology on them, the delicate, dainty widdle technology, that nobody can get grog in or its delicate mechanism is spoilt, ruint.
So when the spirit gets lively, from whence it comes, and the grog is flowing, and the shouts of "bastard" are at their most fevered pitch, you hear the saddest words known to man, "Oh, dam, you bastard, you only now just ruint my phone!" The man runs quickly to the back room to grab paper towels, getting it out of the plastic case as hurried as possible and getting it dried off. It spritzes and flashes before blinking off black. "Out the door with me!" he declares, going out the back door.
But the spirit's still lively, though, in the main hall. I'm right under the massive head of some massive animal attached to the wall. A boar, its head. There's drippings from its hair, trickling down its forehead, on to the glass eyes and running much quicker, skipping the nose and making it straight to the lips and chin, and running quickly and dripping endlessly, depending on how much grog there was we got flying.
Bastard me! I turn to check my messages just as a tankard crisscrossed the room, unbeknownst to me. Thankfully, mercy heavens, I heard the whiz and was able to get my phone under my pocket liner just in time to celebrate the tankard's explosive arrival at the big boar's head. More spray going everywhere! I give a hardy and hale shout, "Yea!" Doubling down, I crash a tankard into another bastard's tankard and it sloshes us good. A little gal with a tray's down below, beaming up at us. Cute little thing.
But nothing would be the same, would it, for a studious fellow opening his iPad in this frenzy, only to have it doused with the sloshing by six good mates crashing tankards all at once, going in toward one the others in a conjunction that could easily only possibly end in one big mess. He looks down at his iPad on the spritz, splashed now beyond recognition as a working and vital device. The bastard's gone, it's dead, ruint...
High Tor, the cash register guy, moves through the crowd with his raincoat. We all have to laugh, as we look over and see such a massed assembly of raincoats, plastic wraps, umbrellas, and various diversionary heavy tarps looming over the delicate integrated mechanisms of the register. The son of a bitch was made to communicate with the outside world, it was. Foolishly! They could've done better with a wooden drawer. This thing beams its workings to the office, where the accountant, Old Max, dwells, and from there it's a pushed button's job to relay the accounted sum to the local banking establishment. And in a crowd like this, O!, it was so constantly busy!
Yeah, well ... I poke this one crazy bastard in the ribs, who looks at me with stupid happiness all over his face till he sees my grand plan at once. We will soak the cash register with grog, and let it spritz its way across the floor, if its source of energy will allow it! And so we do. And so it's ruint! The old boy knows the other guys more than me, and we assembled all ourselves around the thing -- we're truly too wasted to be held culpable for our actions -- and it was round robin, one by one, dousing it in grog. A roar of celebration went up as it fell to the floor and spritzed and jumped like it was limping for dear life, any possible shelter, the shadow of a table. There it died and a host of connections were utterly lost forever.
No sir, 'twouldn't've been this way back in 1814, the longtime bartender of the Boar's Head, laments. Back then they could've made the cash drawer swim to the ceiling and we'd still have been able to pull out the pieces of silver and make it a decent payday. Now we just have to hope the soaking of the wet hasn't extended as far as the bank. And that all our dealings hitherto have beamed their way all the way there. Do you think that they did? I'm putting you all on the honor system. The place now is closing, check back tomorrow. We'll settle all debts.
Ruint phones, computers, pads. Tomorrow. Time is no healer.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Uncle Cleaver finally died -- Yea! -- and left me the old family place in the country, a scary looking old place -- Crummy Manor. I was there for the reading of the will, seated at the head of the table, around which was a fearsome assortment of angry looking retainers. Uncle's cook, butler, gardener, handyman, and maid. They'd been with him for ages and there I sat, more or less a stranger but the last possible guy in the family who could inherit the place. I felt quite out of place and unwelcome. They shot me daggers.
The lawyer read off each of their names, with each in turn looking downcast upon inheriting nothing. That said, I was a little leery when the will specified that they could still share the manor jointly, if the rightful heir was unable to stay one night. I thought, "What? One night? How hard could it be?" I looked around and imagined their devious thoughts, seeing the grinning, rubbing of hands, and furtive glances at one another.
I felt a tremendous fear well up in me. Then I thought, "Hey, I've seen this movie before!" I called bullshit on the whole thing. I just laid it on the line: "I know you're going to do your damnedest to chase me out, but the truth is I'm not gonna let you. I've got your number, each one of you." I set in listing their schemes. The gardener would have a metal garden claw, the cook poisoned food, the butler knows every secret passageway, the handyman's good with traps, and the maid would get me in bed, the bed would fold up in the wall and I'd be impaled.
If none of that worked, the same cast of characters, no doubt, had costumes hanging inside the walls, a ghost, a werewolf, a skeleton, a leopard, and a French maid dress. In addition to the impaling bed, there'd be poison darts, a noose, a trapdoor, a flaming boulder at the end of a catapult, and a tray of ice cubes for the maid, if things got too hot. I came right out with it, "Each of you scalawags is prepared to do anything you have to to inherit Crummy Manor."
The telling glances continued as I spoke. I looked at the handyman, twiddling his thumbs. And the butler, nervously tugging at his cummerbund. And the maid, hitching up her bra and fanning herself. I knew they were all dangerous in their own way, but I kept my eye on the maid the most, never knowing if I might catch a free shot. She shot me a private glance that I read as a request for a private meeting.
I stood to my feet and slammed my fist on the table, "Gentlemen, I've seen it all before. Let's just cut the crap, OK? If anything happens, if anyone jumps out at me through the night, I know it's gonna be you guys. I don't believe in ghosts, werewolves, walking skeletons, or any of it." Then Greta and I stepped out and I shared with her some of my private fantasies.
She and I passed into a secluded hallway, where we kissed longingly. She saw I was an extremely affectionate soul and broke down in tears, confessing the whole scheme to cheat me out of my inheritance. I swore that if she were true to me, good things would come her way. She looked in my eyes and saw the sincerity. I thought to myself, "I may just give the entire estate to Greta, for her honesty." I turned the thought over in my mind.
She pulled out a detailed list of the evening's schemes, with all the stuff I expected, darts on wires, a skeleton suit, and most intriguing of all, a stunning seduction scene, in which she and I would be sharing a bottle of wine. Then when I set my glass on the table and we commenced a full love scene, a hand would reach out of the drawer and switch it with poison. "How tedious," I said, "I've seen it all before!"
By now, though, I figured the rest of the staff knew I knew, so Greta and I would be safe. But just to be extra sure of not being observed in flagrante delicto, I put masking tape over the eyes of the paintings on the walls. Then it was time to bear down and get this show on the road. I was kissing and stroking Greta, who indeed did come prepared with a French maid outfit, which she was very proficient at wriggling in and out of. Ooo la la, I purred, the only French I know.
I hate to spell everything out -- it's possible someone under 18 might read this, under 16 in Arkansas -- but we were building toward the decisive moment. Our breathing was heavy, our eyes were rolled back, we were panting, there were bold declarations of love, and I for one was all hands. It wouldn't be--- too long--- now------- when, The doors of the wardrobe burst open, and out stepped Uncle Cleaver, very much alive, not a corpse, not a ghost. Himself, in the flesh!
He boasted of staging this entire spectacle, having suspected Greta of being unfaithful to him, etc., etc., and knowing that the arrival of his nephew would only constitute "fresh meat" in her eyes, with which to fulfill her lustful ways. She pulled the sheets up almost to her eyes and was shivering in fear, white as a sheet. Cleaver came at her, very sharp in his tone, and very strong, having lost his grip. He shouted insults at her. She pleaded, "You were dead, Cleve, I thought you were dead!"
"So this is how you console yourself, in the arms of my fool nephew!" The rest of the story doesn't matter much. I got the hell out of there. Greta's now cooking at the diner downtown. I see her once in a while. I don't say much. But it's on always my mind, how close we were to the very top, then Cleaver had to jump out. I'd like to ask her out and pick up where we left off .... or start over ... probably about have to start over.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
"This is that once in a lifetime,
this is the thrill divine."
this is the thrill divine."
"Again" by Lionel Newman and Dorcas Cochran
The great song, "Again," tells in lovely lyrics that the thrill divine is a once in a lifetime experience. At first look, we might say once in a lifetime isn't very many. But upon reflection, we can say, at least we had that one chance!
Assuming you realize the thrill when it's there. Presumably you would, since it is "the thrill divine." What kind of divine thrill would it be if you totally missed it? Although it's easy to imagine cases in which the person, be he drunk or something, might miss it. If it's indeed "once in a lifetime," you should've been ready...
On the other hand, the song doesn't say everyone's entitled to the "once in a lifetime" experience. It strikes me, rather, as a serendipitous thing, like the coming together of two lovers who suddenly experience the thrill divine. No fumbling with straps, no bushwhackers, just greatness and intensity they'll treasure forever.
I don't hold to the notion that it has to be only once in a lifetime. I think the thrill divine can happen often, and in experiences broader than love and sex. I'm saying your life can become completely immersed, drenched, enfolded, and wrapped in the thrill divine.
Yogis, gurus, holy men of old, and even today -- a man I know locally, Pastor Wadd -- have been touched by the thrill divine. My guess is this, that they're actually all over town, the countryside, and around the world. But probably not all of them want to be known.
I can see myself very secretive of the thrill divine. I wouldn't want anyone to dissect me and look for things wrong with me to explain it, blood vessel strictures, high sodium, low sodium, or brain tumors. As long as it's truly the thrill divine, I don't care what causes it.
I can envision a time -- maybe closer than you think -- when the thrill divine springs up everywhere. Little children with more visions than usual, old men dreaming dreams, etc., the thrill divine constantly hitting us. It might even be on the news! "Ten more great outbreaks of the thrill divine in the metro, details at 6." Then you catch a glimpse of the anchor as they're going to commercial. His eyes roll back in his head, the thrill divine hits, and when they come back he's gone.
Say, though, the thrill divine is happening all over the countryside, like tornadoes. We have tornado chasers, bringing us videos of tornadoes. They're just chasing wind, twirling, swirling wind, which we've seen a million times.
But if we had the thrill divine chasers, we could see euphoria on earth. So many people knowing the thrill divine -- and in the strangest ways -- others would want it too. You see this guy's cabin, and he's at the window, a big beatific look on his face, eyes rolled back, hair in an aura of non-consuming fire, etc., and people are amazed. How did that happen? It was the thrill divine!
Let's picture me as a thrill divine chaser. I'm like the storm chasers, with all the usual excitement. The thrill divine's at the Jenkins' place! His chimney's glowing, supernal photons are streaming out, old man Jenkins himself is on top of the barn, one with the clouds. Someone get over there! Assure him it's the thrill divine, and he'll have it on the ground too.
I have to tell someone! "Friends," I'm talking on a special radio broadcast, "We've had 44 known thrills divine just today in the central region. The key thing is no one's being left out. It's spread over the entire spectrum of traditions, and even those with none. If you're listening to this broadcast and the thrill divine hits you, do not be overly concerned. Enjoy it."
Monday, November 24, 2014
My basic point today is that the past is not set in stone. It can be changed, if there's a very good reason and if you don't know what you're doing. Naturally, I don't know what all the good reasons would be, but I feel a dire emergency might qualify. Similar to adrenalin, where a 99-pound weakling is able to lift a Mac truck to save a kitten. Plus, I think swearing-to-something is important enough in the cosmic economy that you could just change history.
Here's how I see it working. Say you're with people and everyone's shopping and wants something. There's a buddy system, and you're buddies with a girl who's wasting her money. She wants a new pair of shoes, but you're afraid she won't stop there. So you get her to swear. "Do you swear on your dog's grandfather that you won't buy anything but shoes?" She thinks, "My dog never even met his grandfather. Do dogs even have grandfathers? I've never met him either," so she swears. But you go to the bathroom and come back and she's bought extra shoe strings. The phone rings and her dad tells her her dog's gone. "He was just here!" the dad says. She gets home later and there's no sign of the dog. She swore on "The Pages of History!" A bad thing. But she reasons, "The dog ran away, I'll get a new dog."
The second episode also drives the point home, but perhaps there's wiggle room here too. Two buddies at the state fair. The undisciplined one is eating everything in sight, much to the other's consternation. "Someone's gonna get sick!" he thinks. Now, the undisciplined one wants a corn dog. The disciplined one remembers his buddy's dad has a bunch of Boy Scout memorabilia on the mantle, souvenirs of when he went to National Jamboree. "Do you swear on your dad's Jamboree stuff that this corn dog will be the last of your prodigality?" He swears. But next thing he's got a snow cone! They get home and the Jamboree collection's gone. His dad's on the couch, crying, thinking thieves broke in. But his son knows, or believes, he screwed with "The Pages of History." On the other hand, maybe they were stolen. Father knows best!
The last incident is similar, with one gigantic difference. Two friends walk by DQ. One friend hasn't had a snack all day and the other's gorged himself on snacks. Clearly, he doesn't need anything. The first one says he wants a snack, but only if the other swears on the existence of DQ itself that he won't have anything. He thinks, "The existence of DQ itself?! What kind of idiot are you? DQ has a worldwide outreach and has been in business 60 or 70 years." In this case, however, he doesn't order a thing. He's true to his word. But going to the table, he sees an extraneous chocolate chip and eats it. Immediately they find themselves empty-handed, standing on a vacant lot, no whoosh of the store disappearing or anything!
They call the police and report the disappearance of DQ, but because no one's ever heard of DQ, they think it's a crank call! The police get there and the two guys are standing there. But there's no way they can convince anyone who's never heard of DQ that an ice cream shop was ever there. Their sincerity keeps them from going to jail. The friends leave and research it. Indeed, there's not a DQ anywhere in the world! The whole enterprise is simply gone ... vanished from memory ... all because the guy violated his oath with a chocolate chip!
In this case I see a whole different ending. Showing that you could mess with "The Pages of History" and come out on top. They know the concept of DQ is a winner, so they immediately get loans and investors and build 12,500 DQs throughout the world, and they're filthy rich within weeks. They try then with all their might to swear to things and renege, hoping they can duplicate their success with McDonald's and all the others. But as it turns out, you can't do it on purpose .... it had to be true swearing. They sell DQ back to Warren Buffett, who doesn't remember he already owned it, and retire at 14.
So here's the problem. You (my reader) can't do it now either, no matter how hard you try, because I tainted your mind with the idea. And if you tell anyone else to do it, having impure motives, no matter what they do, they won't be able to screw with "The Pages of History" either.
My advice is forget the whole thing. Then maybe someday, innocently, you'll forget and swear to something worthwhile and accidentally get rich. But don't count on it.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Before the election, I had to have it out with the League of Women Voters, with their meddling ways. They were trying to register people to vote, kind of bizarre these days. The trend's going the other way!
But you know me, I'm willing to live and let live as long as they leave me out of it. I was brought up to mind my own business and look the other way, whatever offensive thing I might see, but once they involve me, then of course it's my business.
They wanted to know if I was registered to vote! Me, who used to vote all the time ... back in the dark days when such a thing was considered cool. Now, as everyone knows, it's out; how much nicer it is to let others worry about all that.
Three of them took me on. I felt that red hot surge of rage take hold of me, kind of like the unpleasantness a kid feels when he tastes vegetables for the first time. I looked them up and down, appraising them with meanness in my expression, and took their full measure. "What is this?" I asked myself, looking at a table stacked with forms and three women meddling in people's civic affairs.
Naturally I wanted to tell them off, even to the point of dressing them down like wild game, but I held back. Instead, I thought, I must educate them and perhaps save three souls from the fires of civic judgment. "You're bucking the trend on voting," I said. Wow, speaking of rage! They took it out on me! They shot back at me the same mean glare, like they wanted to fight it out, but I stood my ground. I told them their old quaint ways are dying.
Again, I saw their anger intensifying. Had we put it to a vote, I would've lost 3 to 1. But they couldn't gainsay my basic point about voting. Not voting frees us up for the more important, funner things in life, like ... whatever you want. Is there really any value in one vote? Probably, if you had a million votes for a certain candidate, it'd make a difference. But how do you get a million? It's tough.
There used to be the idea that we'd have election day be a national holiday, but it never gained much traction. Now, however, thanks to the trend away from voting, we may just get it. Yea! A national holiday on voting day! A great day to skip out, load up the station wagon and head for the beach! Or somewhere else more weather-appropriate.
When you think of the time it takes to get voter ID, finding hard to find polling places, then standing in a line of a hundred to get in, and every other inconvenience, we're saving a ton of time. We always get the best people in office anyway, meaning we're already set to live happily every after.
So the League of Women Voters needs to get with the program. And call themselves the League of Women Non-Voters, then put out literature on some good family fun destinations for the day off, and we'll support them in their efforts. They've got my vote!
Note: A few people asked how Truth Dillingham did this year in the sheriff race. What? You didn't get the news? Of course he won, 98.6%, about normal. In the key demographics -- Red and Yellow, Black and White -- Dillingham came in first. The only people nasty enough to vote for the other guy were criminals and the other guy's family.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
After all these years of lagging behind -- check any key index -- my town has something to finally be proud of, something to put us on the map. I'm hoping this will spur greater tourism, as folks will come from near and far to see where it happened. Certainly it'll be a boost to our reputation, as we'll be able to claim the title, "Home of the First Drone-Delivered Turkey."
Those are the larger issues, but the main thing is how attractive this is for the local consumer, not having to go to the grocery store and stand in long lines, your temperature rising, the feeling, cramped in as you are, that you're going to explode and massacre everyone. We're looking forward to getting rid of that. Because it's Thanksgiving, folks! A sacred holiday, a day for family, friends, and food, not erupting in bloodshed at the local supermarket.
And finally there's something to celebrate in the field of technology. This is technology that actually enhances life and doesn't detract from it. I used the think the computer and all our other gadgets would be a blessing. Instead, crime against children is up, brutality against women is ever-present, banks are being robbed faster than they can build them, there's shoplifting, arson, and bullying. What's the one thing all those have in common? The perps more often than not have used a computer at some time in the last 15 years.
Plus, this is something I can actually get excited about. I'm like everyone else, as above: I hate the inconvenience of grocery stores. You find a parking space (good luck), you go in, the antibacterial towels for wiping the cart are usually out, then you're jam-packed with other people with the same basic goal in life, hunting and gathering food. You get to the checkout and there's always someone ahead of you. Usually with a squalling kid, nose running. It's almost enough to make you go berserk. Thank God most stores are now open-carry.
Anyway, technology to the rescue! Little drone planes promising the fullest measure of convenience for getting your turkey, greater than anyone could've imagined. That's the way I like it. No fuss, no muss. Just go out, get in line, wait your turn, etc. Then some time, be it an hour, or maybe a few hours, the mighty drone plane will come in with Turkey on Board for you! They'll take your souvenir picture, you load it in the car, and you're off.
Being new, though, with everyone wanting one, there will be a little competition to get your turkey. But don't worry, it'll be fun! When you get to the airport, stop by the main booth and get your bidding number. Then make your way to the runway. No crowding please, there's room for everyone. Pretty soon, the store will have loaded the drone and sent it flying, and it will come into view with a beautiful frozen turkey. Hands will go up fast, of course, because everyone wants one. But wait! With supply and demand, the only fair way is to auction it off. No one should complain. Why do you think you needed the bidding number if you weren't expecting to bid? The auctioneer will start every sale at 49 cents a pound, and depending on how many haven't yet got theirs, it might go for 89 cents a pound, or you could wait till the crowd thins out and get it at the minimum. It's all good. The store will keep sending them while buyers are still present.
Once you've got your turkey -- and checked out the drone, very cool -- the only thing left is to buzz by the store and get everything else you're going to need, dressing, beets, yams, pies, and don't forget you'll probably need a big aluminum pan.
That's what happening this year, exciting enough. But for the future, the sky's the limit! I'm looking forward to the day when someone makes the attempt, the first transatlantic delivery of a turkey by drone to France, with throngs of excited Thanksgiving revelers waiting on the scene.
Friday, November 21, 2014
I sincerely believe my posts on Vigor Vivus, the active principle of life in a person at its utmost quality, are what I was born to write. I'm always touched, in return, by the many cards, letters, emails, comments, smoke signals, tweets, and proposals for marriage I get. Your kind remarks mean so much to me, more than you know, although, as you would guess, I cannot answer each one, as I hate wasting time and money. But be assured, I take them into account in later posts. Today, for example, is an answer to someone who suggested that the horse, foremost in the animal world, is the personification of Vigor Vivus. I completely agree!
It's been three months, meaning it's time to check my Vigor Vivus levels. That's a great discipline, by the way, in case you've let yours go. Seriously, I don't think there's anything better you can do for yourself, be it a yearly physical, flu shots, or monthly prostate exams. Or be it going to church, furthering your education, taking care of your family, being kind to neighbors, donating to charity, adopting orphans, buying winning lottery tickets, praying for China, or stopping after you've been in an accident and/or yielding for the ambulance. Vigor Vivus is Number 1. I for one have kept up on mine, and I have to say, I feel healthy as a horse.
I can't think of any horse I've ever known that's been sick. They gallop right along, right through life, living in the sunshine, in the hay, in the clover, feeling their oats, staying frisky, raring back with cussedness, with nary a saddle sore. It's their spirit that leads us to handle them right, keep them groomed, tend their stalls, and never leave them to suffer without provender. I've always believed, and I've reiterated it a thousand times: The horse, foremost in the animal world, is the exact personification of Vigor Vivus, its express image.
Part of my discipline with Vigor Vivus goes back to my own upbringing. Also recalling the horse, Mom would brush me down, and of course Dad kept me trotting to accomplish some little task or other, both teaching me good values for riding tall. They were great and didn't nag much, raising me from the small pony boy I was to the full grown man I am today. I also owe it to them, the desire and ability I have today, to teach others, you. You can thank my parents, regrettably now deceased.
Without Vigor Vivus, the great life principle, the source of psychological and physical health, I'd be nothing. Yes, without it, I might stumble along, probably, well enough for a while. Just like the horse might stumble along, were it a lesser animal, but not win the race. You know the drill; it'd be in last place, going downhill, then kaput, fizzzt, like a wire shorted out. Am I right?
We must never forget Vigor Vivus' dreadful yet very real opposite. There's a scale that goes from the life principle, devolving to its opposite, Rigor Mortis. And even in Vigor Vivus, Rigor Mortis is still there in some quantity, however minute. That why we can say so-and-so has greater Vigor Vivus and how we can say there is a scale. The life principle can be lose the lead and Rigor Mortis can gallop ahead. God forbid! But that explains how a Hercules, Samson, or Jack LaLanne can die at peak health.
Would you like pointers on checking your Vigor Vivus level? If you say no, you either know how, or your levels are so low you're hopelessly lost in Rigor Mortis. I have a good discipline on how to do it. Put on some soft music or something with a good message. This morning I went with the old song by Tony Bellus, "Robbin' the Cradle." With the great lyrics, "They say I'm robbin' the cradle, little darling. Is it strange for true love to be so young?" Very inspiring. As that played a few times I sat quietly, head above, body below. For a while I closed my eyes, then opened them. Then one eye closed and the other open. Then switched. Last of all, I scratched any itch. Which, my mom always reminded me, horses also do, making a big production out of it, rubbing it against trees.
A very important part is to move thoughts around in my head. Move them to the left, then to the right, then distribute them back to their place. These are mental movements, you understand. There's hundreds of them. Any image with motion, any real life correlate, is useful. You might think of reining in a wayward, excited horse, and keeping it in a small pen to let it cool down. Whatever you do to check Rigor Mortis, Vigor Vivus pays off greatly, sometimes 40 to 1.
Vigor Vivus! Win, place, or show, it's all good. That's all I got today, no mare, no less. All of it making great horse sense.
Other great Vigor Vivus teachings:
My Vigor Vivus Health Plan
The Dawn of Vigor Vivus
Teens Reject Rigor Mortis
Vigor Vivus -- I Command the World
Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Your Basic Problem is Rigor Mortis
Unveiling the March of Vigor Vivus
The Unremitting Shield of Vigor Vivus
Vigor Vivus at the Dentist
Teen Talk: Rigor Mortis vs. Vigor Vivus
Rigor Mortis Nix, Vigor Vivus Best Way
Bin Laden Mortis vs. Obama Vivus
"For Entertainment Purposes Only." Added at the recommendation of a doctor friend.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Today we're spewing venom in the general direction of chefs. For the most part, everyone's enemy. While not as bad as sex offenders, pit bulls, and jake brakes, depending on how the case is presented, still they're pretty bad. As in horrendous.
Chefs are well known as the prima donnas of the food industry. I haven't looked at the rankings in a while, but I'd say chefs still have to be Number 1, then butchers Number 2, deli guys Number 3, and bakers at number 4. I notice bakeries take a lot of vacations, which is probably why they rank lower than deli guys and butchers. Another thing that helps bakers is they often work behind the scenes and let high school kids man the store.
Of course we all justify ourselves, so naturally chefs don't see it this way. Their contention is they're professional and you're not. But their professional status is generally unnoticed, since they're right there in the kitchen with the underlings. This is part of the chef's problem. A lot of underlings are just schmucks hired off the street this afternoon. They just got off a merchant marine ship and still stink of the sea. Other professions aren't like that. When you go to the dentist, you're not sitting there with merchant marines administering the Novocaine. Dentists know their stuff. Or you go to a mechanic for repairs. The guys working there know where the oil goes, the tires, the brakes, everything.
The chefs come up with their own food combinations and they know more about it than you. Which is true. If I came up with a more or less random slate of bad choices, naturally I'm going to know more about it than others. Just like I know more about lots of things that are personal to me, my bad teeth, weird hair, and the dizzy spells I get when I lie on my right side.
With chefs, I've been slightly guilty of interfering a time or two. Like the time a new chef came to town and wouldn't allow 1000 Island dressing in his kitchen. No sir! I told the waitress to tell him that it's a very popular flavor. But to no avail. But then, since a lot of people in town started griping -- including influential Chamber of Commerce members, even one from my own family, guess what ... Suddenly regular food started showing up on the menu, stuff common folk eat, including 1000 Island dressing. Before that, everything had some kind of weird horseradish sauce on it.
I would've loved to have been a fly on the wall during his consult with the boss. "I am the professional chef!" he shouts. "Yeah, well, I am the professional boss, and if you don't want to be doing your chefing in a hobo jungle somewhere, turning out mulligan stew even the hobos wouldn't eat -- with horseradish sauce -- keep it up, idiot! I say we're getting new food or we're getting a new chef! Capiche?" The chef is steaming, simmering, and boiling, and before long he's well done and about had it. He blows his stack, his hat is now 6 foot tall, and pieces of him are everywhere. And there I am, a fly on the wall, splattered, a real mess. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat -- what a show!
I never actually spoke with the chef in question. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever spoke to a chef anywhere. They're kind of standoffish. Maybe they don't want to come out and get their hands dirty so they won't contaminate the food, or they think they're just so much better than everyone else; maybe doctors feel that way. Doctors and chefs are the two careers whose practitioners appear and disappear, never to be seen outside in regular life. I remember having doubts about my own doctor even being a doctor, because I saw him once in a public park. Next time I was in he showed me his certificates and confessed he'd slipped up.
Would I want to be a chef? Not really. You make a masterpiece and it's literally crap in the morning. It's too fleeting. Then, I don't really like the stuff chefs always come up with, a million ways of glazing a dozen green beans. They have them on the plate, angled out like some kind of green Japanese porcupine, it's ridiculous. Or meat that's so small you couldn't bait a hook with it, and that's your entree. That and the green beans and a dessert to match, always small and in the center of a plate with lots of wasted space. "The presentation is the thing!" is their mantra, which doesn't mean that much to customers used to eating out of a paper sack behind a steering wheel.
I'm not sophisticated like that. I basically eat to give me enough oomph to make it to the next meal. Save the shenanigans and nervous breakdowns when I don't like it. Chefs might not be so miserable if they just made what we wanted, then received our worthless praise: "Really good, Pepe."
Just this past Sunday, to end today's entree, I was at a restaurant for the first time. I'm ensconced in my seat before I notice a giant white hat in the kitchen. At this point, with my tea already on the table, there's no proper escape.
I thought of going for the hamburger since it'd be crystal clear I was getting something else I wanted, french fries. But no, I went with the blackened catfish filet that came with a fancy salad. I asked the server if I could substitute fries. I told her I thought I saw a "No substitutes" sign on the door. She said, "Ooooooo," then indicated the chef wouldn't like it, but in the true spirit of a fighter said she'd run it by him and get it accomplished.
OK, then a guy brings out my fish and there was the salad! The chef was testing me, obviously! "Try to substitute in my kitchen, will you, you bastard!" I told the guy I had asked for fries. He went back into the trenches and somehow escaped with fries, telling me I wouldn't be charged for the salad.
I ate most of the salad -- meh -- then the fries weren't even that good. Gnarly. The blackened fish, maybe the chef learned about blackening fish in school, was also nothing I liked, and catfish is my fave fish. I have autographed pinups of catfish on my wall.
But this chef is the professional! That he can ruin even catfish proves he's good.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
I had escaped, clinging to the helicopter. But could I really leave my own forces -- all newbies -- to the treacherous ladies Auxiliary? The pilot insisted on this, convincing me after four hours of the most intense scolding I've ever received. So back up we went, me once again clinging to the skid, and he dropped me off on top of the building.
(I shall not belabor the heroics, since my desire today is to get to my trip to Phoenix and everything I can fit in about that.)
The forces of my now-defunct new Institute of Mental Parasitism were rallied in the break room, liberating the remaining donuts from the women. I was just about to lay out a plan of action when the door burst open, and there she was -- Mrs. X! -- every bit the villainess I despised. I hated her, knowing it would either be her or me leading this Institute.
Our eyes locked. I knew this would be mental parasitism to the death, or till I left for Phoenix. I gave it my all, bringing her to her knees. But with her husband's power adding to her own, she rallied and brought me to my knees. I thought I was a goner till I rallied, mentally pushing her back on her ass with a thud. I saw desperation in her eyes, quickly replaced by a new determination. She mentally pushed me to my ass, our eyes still locked. I felt myself being completely drained, but fought back, shooting daggers. Her own daggers, however, alas, were sharper and I was propelled back, crashing against the wall.
My brave forces dashed in and dragged me away. And so, all was lost. The pilot cradled me like Michelangelo's Pietà, then we got the hell out of there. Mrs. X shouted, "I'll get you if I have to search a million years!"
Since then I've managed to make it pretty far, hitchhiking to Phoenix. Right away I got a ride with an old farmer who said, "Ahm only goin' up the road a mile, but I can getcha that fur, n'yuk n'yuk." Desperate times and all, I put him in my mental grasp and he ended up driving me the whole way. My grasp was so great he offered not one word of complaint.
Along the way we saw all kinds of cool stuff, motels, people, restaurants, cacti, and even a goat chewing lazily in the ditch. It wasn't tied up or anything. I saw things I haven't seen in years. This one gas station had gas at 27.9 cents a gallon. It was so cheap we filled up twice.
Now, concerning Phoenix, that's a tough word to spell, believing as I do that the "oe" was probably originally a diphthong. I need to Google it. Or find a librarian to put under my mental parasitism spell, so I'd never have to Google anything ever again. Bleh...
Let me be brutally honest, enough pretending. Friends, I'm desperate. I'm so f'in' far from home I may never get back. Mrs. X said she'd hunt me a million years! The old Institute kept the women under their thumb for so long, and even I, the original feminist male, didn't promise or show any intentions of bettering their lot. I admit, I was content to be served, with the fantastic rolls and other goodies they were known to bring in. This one old gal -- probably fishing for a husband -- made those giant cinnamon rolls, enough gooey frosting and pecans to choke on, and all she ever got was an occasional thank you. I remember nodding her direction indifferently. If she gets her sticky hands on me, I'm done!
Gotta keep running... The old Institute has arisen from the ashes, like the Phoenix I'm in. But I'm getting so tired, exhausted, and mentally empty, that even were I to find a likely host in this library, I don't know if I could manage the feeblest eye lock. A mere child might turn it around on me and have me in his grasp! Then I'd be reduced to the babbling of an 8-year-old, goo-goo'ing to the librarian about, "Whe be the Mary Poppin book, eh?" 8-year-old dialect...
On the other hand, what a terrific subterfuge that would be. Find a kid, teach him a few quick pointers on mental parasitism -- Mr. X accomplished it with his shrew -- and have him put me in his mental grasp, then when the Auxiliary catches me, they'll see I've hopelessly devolved and leave me alone.
If I could break free of the kid, then, I could roam these Arizona streets, hoping for the return of my own superior mentality. Then I'd change my name, get all the usual fake ID, and start a new life. Till then, when and if I find him, I'll be living in his closet like ET.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Let's bring you up to speed. Yesterday seems forever ago, when I was in the university coffee shop, a mental parasite looking for hosts. After the past few days, I needed a pick-me-up; I was dead tired. Turns out, I didn't know how great I had it. My phone was ringing out of my pocket. Things at the new Institute of Mental Parasitism had gone to hell.
The bad news, barely decipherable from the screams and terrible cries in the background, came down to this: Mrs. X and the ladies' Auxiliary, those loyal to the old Institute, had invaded our headquarters, and were systematically taking control, and subjecting our people to mental parasitism of the worst kind, with a grudge. Their mission was simple, Sap and destroy!
When I arrived, they were lying in wait and subdued me without a struggle. I thought, The new Institute, in power for a single day, has been my life, my baby. I must yield, and if necessary, go down with the ship.
As our forces continued fighting, they dragged me to Mrs. X's office, just yesterday mine. She tested my resolve when she boasted, how Mr. X, evil to the bitter end, taught her enough techniques to subject him to mental parasitism. Mental transference! She'd taken to it like a kid to cake, completing consuming him, drawing into her mind and body his knowledge and potency. And now here she was, a Titan, something from the Furies, an unstoppable masculine Amazon -- yet in a flouncy purple pantaloons ensemble -- having all control. Hell is on the march and has executed a complete purge! The new Institute has fallen, has fallen!
As we sat there, I was resigned, knowing my respite would be brief. Inside, my thoughts were going two directions: 1) Regret: Why couldn't I have left well enough alone? and, 2) Fear: My beautiful mind will soon be sucked dry and find its new home in one of these Auxiliary gals. Up till now they've been conducting bake sales. I feared my genius would be wasted if that's what they wanted ... I'm a terrible cook.
In a moment's reverie, I remembered my life before all this happened -- days ago -- when I was an anonymous mental parasite, practicing the craft in private shadows, far from the glaring searchlight of heartless Auxiliary barbarians, whose symbol is the broom, once pertaining to domesticity, now manifested in their rage as something else, their instinct for cussedness. Pity me! To leave obscurity only to find myself in the eye of the hurricane! Hardly an improvement. I could've taken up knitting, or stamp collecting, any fool pastime...
I don't know if anyone will ever read this. But on the off chance it makes it online, I'll say it anyway. If you are part of an organization, any organization, and you're tempted to establish a parallel Auxiliary group for the ladies, think again! If you've already allowed one, for the sake of your life and sanity, take moves now to disband it, however slowly you must go as to not raise suspicion. Bribe them with kitchen utensils and new gadgets if you must, anything!
At this point, looking up at the purple terror before me, I didn't need mental parasitism. I was simply angry, so in one bold herculean lunge I took Mrs. X into the corner. I didn't want to but I hoisted a planter, three foot in diameter, and heavily weighted with a tall tropical tree -- maybe banana -- and brought it down on her skull. It didn't kill her -- not with Mr. X's power within, and whatever power she had acquired on her own from years of tea and bridge. Then I got the hell out of there.
I turned back and saw a host of women hanging from the windows, demented, but apparently happy in their chthonic miasma; who wouldn't be? A helicopter descended, I made a jump of faith and grabbed the skids, and gave the thumbs up. We dashed into the sky.
You want the truth about women? They were the goddesses of this whole damned planet -- ruling a peaceable matriarchy for over 50,000 years. Read that again, 50,000 years! They dwelt in peace -- this was before Xena -- for the most part keeping the men in subjection. The planet was in harmony. Men sat docilely over washtubs peeling potatoes. Then a few wise inventors brought in metal weapons, the goddesses gave way to heroic warrior gods and things haven't been the same since. It was about this point that "God created the earth." And we've never had it so good. I never want to go back to those days and Grrrl Power. I say all that to say this: Women aren't your friend ... They're out to get you! Disband the Auxiliary immediately!
Monday, November 17, 2014
The following is a record of my inaugural communique with our membership upon the demise of the old Institute of Mental Parasitism and the immediate arising of the new:
Demonstrating the reach and power of my blog -- the rallying point of our revolution -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism has been destroyed. The word went forth and mental parasites the world around have responded. You canceled your membership, simultaneously receiving details on membership in the new Institute, under my aegis, and most who are qualified to join us have already done so.
The few stragglers who have not joined, who have not even submitted the first of their paperwork, we can only surmise, are lukewarm, or have waited to see which side would be victorious before committing themselves. Those people make me sick, and if they do not submit at least a note of inquiry, and I mean pronto, they will find themselves completely out, unacceptable to one and all.
The new Institute of Mental Parasitism, a dignified name that replaces what came before -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism -- I promise will be an organization of complete integrity. It will be an organization of compassion, forever untainted by ambition, corruption, greed, and malevolence. Our goal -- our only goal -- will be to provide everything that you, our honored members, need so you may be all you can be in our common cause.
Once again, after many tiresome years of constant shenanigans by the scurvy monkeys who ran the old Institute, then eventually ran it into the ground, you have an Institute to be proud of. As far as we of the new Institute are concerned, the scoundrels who mismanaged the old Institute will never again be a part of our community. They have already been left behind, left fend for themselves, if they're able, and we can only hope that they shall be consumed in some way, enveloped, engulfed, and destroyed.
Not to belabor to the point of tedium their despicable stewardship of the organization, we can only say their mismanagement and exploitation of us and our resources was completely intentional. I personally tied President X to a chair and mentally consumed him for the space of an hour, nearly wasting his mentality down to its bare nubbins, before taking even one mental breath. And I can report my findings, that Mr. X had -- and for this reason we might perhaps honor his memory in a small way -- some small degree of regret for his perfidy.
In working through the data gleaned, it shakes out like this: The more Mr. X exploited the organization, the more he regretted it. The nature of his regret, however, was not positive. It was a case of seeking to destroy, out of self-loathing, that which he at one time loved. So Mr. X did the sad work of exploitation and regretted it, but then only doubled down on his destructive impulses. Recall, I took in his mentality, and was able to discern this much and more, so of course I'm not feeling 100% at this time.
I have also given an executive order to remove Mrs. X from all Auxiliary work, effective immediately. It is good to note that she has been completely innocent in this whole matter. And yet we suspect were she left to continue, she would foolishly seek to advocate for her husband. And with no one to give credence to anything she says, we fear she might initiate other terrible works of sabotage against us. Therefore Mrs. X has been banned from all Institute facilities and meetings. If at any time you see Mrs. X where she should not be (let the reader understand), please notify security immediately and they will deal with her.
Please let me express my personal regret that any of this has occurred, that it came to this. You didn't ask for this fight nor did I. We were guilty of nothing, unless it be trusting people too much, too readily. Warning signs were there, of course, but most of us were not in a position to recognize them as anything other than static on the wire. The investigation continues, however, to ferret out anyone who did know, or were in a position to know and did nothing.
I cannot comment to any real extent on the investigation, except to say that I hear there are potential suspects who must be dealt with. I have directed our team in the computer side of records to correlate the data in such a way to determine if any of the "lukewarm" ones, noted above, who have not completed their paperwork for admission to the new Institute, may be among them. If so, we will have a better handle on their hesitancy. If found complicit, naturally they will be excluded. It is to be seriously regretted that we shall not have the benefit of their dues, but the cost of integrity at times is high.
Friends, all around me I can see and hear the hustle and bustle of the new Institute's staff, eager beavers each one, and I am pleased. But I now ask your leave to be excused for a time, to rest and recharge. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not by nature an Organization Man. Those of you who have tasted my mentality -- in private session -- will attest to that. Even without mental parasitic activity trained on me, but only from the day to day grind we're dealing with, I feel myself nearly drained. And so I must -- I'll repeat that, I must -- leave our world headquarters for a time. Perhaps to sleep, more likely to sequester myself away in the dark corner of a university town coffee shop, to train my attention, to direct my focus, on the eyes, face, lips, hands, feet -- the entire body -- of vital, vibrant subjects just waiting, desirous and even begging (however unconscious they are of it) for a mental parasite to completely sap them. I shall become stronger as their depletion proceeds.
One day -- I hope soon -- I shall regain my strength, thanks to those unwilling subjects and thousands of others. Then you and I shall together do the day to day work of running this great organization -- the best little Institute of Mental Parasitism in the world, the new one, run by men of integrity (along with some minor help from the ladies Auxiliary), world without end.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
My admission of guilt, my mea culpa, when I was called on the carpet for supposedly disclosing "dangerous secrets" of the craft, was met with a huge thud at the Institute and rejected -- not enough, they said! After I humbled myself in abject servility, putting everything on the line, my pride, my self worth, my dignity, just so I might be in the good graces of the Great Ones, the Lordly Poobahs, (wastrels, no doubt), self-appointed as the high and mighty, acting as gatekeepers, protectors of the sacred flame, as it were, of mental parasitism!
That's the way it usually is -- Am I right? -- with those who cannot be questioned, those who dwell in ivory towers, so far above the rest of us mere mortals. They always want you to jump just a little bit higher, or grovel just a little bit lower. They can't be bothered to specify precisely what they want. Then you try to contact them, and naturally they're out of the office, busy with some other important task, no doubt, perhaps roaming the world hobnobbing with their fellow grandees and looking for others to censure. That very well could be true, because there's hundreds of MP practitioners, and most of them, like me, are independent types.
When I first heard of this matter, I immediately figured they were out to get me, and that their means would in all likelihood be devious. Because I'm a plum, you see. I'm a ripe plum out there for the picking. With a popular blog and influence that stretches around the world. Who would be a juicier plum for them, with all that plus my personal mojo and verve! They're always on the lookout for guys like me, the gifted and skilled. They're insecure! They want the mental parasitism powers I have, to absorb them and pluck me off the vine, thereby keeping themselves stronger. And this goes for others like me. They have us belonging to their rather unholy club -- that's our validation, in a sense, because there's always the enhancement of one's practice through being part of a dedicated group. Why else would we submit to these scurvy monkeys?
So it's times like these, frankly, that I'd like to scream. When the Institute's receptionist says, "Dr. X can't come to the phone right now; he's in conference." I bet he is! Rubbing his grubby hands together in jealousy and lust along with the rest of the criminal element of the Institute, authority run amok. Willing to take our dues -- of course! -- sucking up to us when it's renewal time, then despicably dumping on us (plenty of dissing) the rest of the year!
I ought to--- I really ought to -- Don't get me started, OK? But a guy thinks, "I could do this better with one hand." I could run the organization better. I'd treat the membership with respect. No more censures, no more increased dues when there's the slightest controversy, trying to keep people in your thrall, keep them over a barrel, always demanding they measure up, make them meet your stinking standards. Because mental parasitism isn't a matter of standards, it's a way of life, in my opinion, best determined by the practitioner himself.
I'm this close (inches) from starting my own Institute! I know there's surely hundreds of guys (and gals, in the Auxiliary) disgruntled like me. It's just a matter of making contact with them, getting the word out. Say I went on Twitter, which has its downside because it's so public. Or we could get together on one of those sharing sites for documents. "Here's my idea." "That's a great idea, here's mine." "We've got two pretty good ideas, let's see if someone else wants to join us." Bam, you've got a brand new Institute!
If that's what I'm going to do, I'll probably have to be like the Declaration of Independence guys, and come up with a page of grievances. That we cannot work through this, that, and the other thing, no matter what we do. Then mail letters to some of the other disgruntleds, saying, "Let's get it on!" And have our own Mental Parasitism Institute, where there's absolutely no rules, or fewer rules. Such as the "Do as little harm as you can" rule. If I want to reduce a dozen or even a hundred mentally alert victims to a writhing, unconscious, naked mass, like hideous snakes in a pit, that's my business! No ethics, no nothing. Do it yourself. Come up with it on the fly.
Of course we'll want to stay out of each other's way as much as possible. And hold to a few common sense standards of conducting business. Like watching out for each other's well being. Good stuff. Then, say, someone does go off the beam and threatens the common well-being, I can see how that would be a definite negative. Do we stand together or do we fall? Do we hang together or separately?
In short, we need a few helpful bylaws for our common congregate discipline, so everyone stays on the same page as much as possible, for everyone's mutual good. And I see it, if someone goes way too far, such as literally sharing the deepest secrets over the express objections of the group, he should be called on it, brought to heel. I feel that we will flourish the most when we remain together, sharing the teachings and maintaining a sweet spirit of camaraderie. If only the current Institute felt the same way.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Friends, I am in some trouble. And I have to say something -- as part of my censure from the Institute of Mental Parasitism -- that I am very sorry for my previous posts on this subject. EXHIBIT A and EXHIBIT B.
The Institute, having met in emergency session, specifically demanded that I photograph myself dressed in my Sunday finest and attach a cloth leash to a pair of my blue jeans, then post it on my blog, to illustrate the warning against putting the cart before the horse. And so I have, highlighting it in yellow to call attention to it, another demand. They can be real mean dudes, threatening to strip me of certification in mental parasitism if I don't. Yes, it's a bitter pill to swallow, but with them being the only institute with the ability to certify, what am I to do?
Further, I am to "admit" that any previous teachings that I erroneously gave in public, the two posts referenced above, are in error, are fiction, and are meant "For Entertainment Purposes Only," offering no actual teachings on mental parasitism, being false in every way. So, yes, I "admit" that. If you think you read anything actual as pertaining to true mental parasitism, you are wrong. They are 100% false, nothing to worry about, nothing to be interested in, and definitely -- I repeat, definitely, for God's sakes -- nothing to try on your own.
Believe me, I see the wisdom in this censure. Of course I knew the power of mental parasitism is immense, but I thought with the few pointers I had given that I would only whet the appetite of people to enter the path in the legitimate way, and so they'd grow in maturity and discipline. But just the opposite has occurred, which leaves me in a terrible spot.
I hate to see the consequences of so many of you crossing the boundaries to your detriment. To think I had a role in that is a terrible blow. I don't know if I'll be able to continue in the same spirit which I had. In the more immediate future, having this shame and guilt, I imagine I will be the ultimate wet blanket at Christmas. My family will look over and see me in the large chair, my mind misfiring, my fingers barely able to find the tape on my gifts. But that's still a month away; please pray I recover.
It turns out people are smart, even if they're not wise. They were able to take the few pointers I gave -- who knew? -- and devise for themselves a workable plan of mental parasitism, even if it lacked in some of the specifics both of received tradition and the more potent riffing on the traditions of the masters. The consequences for themselves and others is something I will have to live with, despite my fervent wish that I could somehow turn back the hands of time and find myself simply blogging on the weather, politics, or the new puppy I'm getting.
Seriously, I'm getting a new puppy! How about that! With Underbrush's passing last December I thought, The pain is unbearable, I'll never be able to share my love again with a puppy. But time heals all wounds, apparently, although, naturally, I've literally never tested that theory, having to this point not experienced "all wounds."
Meanwhile, back at Guilt Ranch, my foolish disclosures, going against everything I intended, has left the sidewalks littered with the sucked out carcasses of people, now the unwitting victims of premature (foolish) mental parasitism. I hear there's been quite a few, since the techniques are very powerful, even when misused, and perhaps especially then. At the library, they've found men as big as mountains, McDonald's drinks spilled everywhere, draped over the banisters and even hidden under tables. Also women with tangerine scarves litter the vicinity.
The fever, as it were, has extended beyond my local town as well. With many 140-character briefs on Twitter, which I call "tweets," telling of great vibratory essence depletion from Spain to Timbuktu. The Russians are in turmoil -- that's kind of a positive -- as desperate Ukrainians have turned to mental parasitism, and now are despoiling the invading hosts. And with the reports of massive posters in the public square of a near-nude Vladimir Putin, I can only wish them godspeed.
Similarly, I have a terrible report, kind of a bummer, confirmed by numerous sources, that South America isn't even there anymore! That warrants an exclamation point, right?
So I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. At this point tripartite sorrow is all I can give. I can only hope now we don't lose any more of our precious brothers and sisters around the world, including, of course, all our remaining continents, populated as they are with thousands of innocents, unknown to me in name, but existing there. I believe they will be OK, just as long as the principles of mental parasitism are strictly held to, in accordance with responsible, guided practice.
Please, friends, get these teachings from the Institute only, and be as responsible as you can.
Friday, November 14, 2014
We were speaking yesterday of mental parasitism. Webster describes it like this: "A lesser known type of vampirism, mental parasitism appropriates the vibratory essence of a host for the perceived well-being of the parasite." I like that.
Yesterday, you recall, I carefully hedged my words. I was writing for a general audience, so I didn't feel I had the full dispensation to speak frankly. One hates to say too much. Today's post, however, I'm sending only to those more advanced in these things, engaged in minor borrowing all the way up to outright domination. Today on picking a host.
It should be abundantly clear that all hosts are not created equal. You have your big-boned gals and your delicate flowers. You have men strong as a horse and just as tough, then there's the general run of men, wilting wimps. They're not hard to recognize. As would be expected, delicate flowers and wilting wimps have decent enough vibratory essence, but the quantity isn't there. Gals with big bones and horse men have essence in great quantities, but so often it's tough as nails. The ideal is something in between.
There are, of course, many times when you'll have a "Beggars can't be choosers" choice to make. At those times, with your own essence failing, you can't be picky. As I write this, as luck would have it, a guy walked by, big as a mountain and yet still wimpish. What do you do with that? Being wimpish, the essence would obviously be supple enough, and being a mountain, the quantity would be there. But is he someone you should settle for? Also take into account that he was drinking something from McDonald's. I actually turned away in revulsion, but my personal levels today are all good. I can easily afford to wait.
Part of your consideration has to be, too, your self-respect. A McDonald's drink, please! What else has he had? And when I say big as a mountain, I don't mean in the football sense, but more oafish. Attaching to him, in my opinion, would be like trolling the beach for dead whales, distasteful to anyone but candle-makers in shipping ports. But take that slender gal with the tight blue jeans and neat tangerine scarf passing by; she takes care of herself. Two or three hosts like her would easily equal one mountain man, and be much more pleasing. That I could respect.
A key consideration in selecting a good host is also the setting. These things take time. My mountain McDonald's guy -- already with strikes against him -- was in motion, passing by. How terrible to try to latch on to his essence; there he goes! It couldn't be done to any satisfaction. What kind of lock would you get? You tell me! You wouldn't get any lock! It'd be like charging your phone three seconds at a time. In terms of your own essence, you'd waste as much as you gained, zero sum or worse.
Tangerine scarf was in motion as well, but she was headed for a chair or desk, making her a better possibility. But if you need two or three tangerines to equal one mountain, again, this is something to plan for. Say you've connected, gotten what there is, then spill some in disconnecting, only to end up vainly scouting for a new host, maybe you should've stayed home and chilled. It's important to have the vibratory essence, don't get me wrong, but no one wants to chase rainbows and only come up with rain.
That brings us to another key point, which we could easily move to the top. Goals. There's mixed feelings on this, with so many driven by selfishness or the thrill of the chase. I myself am not a fan of "topping off," which I think is undisciplined. Lack of discipline, nothing positive there! I've known some very undisciplined parasites. Generally young, they always think more is better. They think they can live like the devil and avoid questions forever as to what's going on. No! Loose lips sink ships, as we've all heard. Next thing, we're locked up in the state pen and a few of us with immunity are testifying before Congress. As an aside, I'd like to drain the essence of a few of those Republican bastards, honestly to the point that they're rolling helplessly on the floor, twitching and babbling. Or just twitching, since they've been babbling all along.
What I want to say on this point, topping off, is to quote a sign at the restaurant: "Take all you can eat, but eat all you take." Get the parallel? Life is a system of give and take, but if you take more than you need, that's despoiling our shared resources. It's irresponsible, whether you're at the KFC buffet, gorging yourself on their halfwit food (physical), or at the Miss America pageant, gorging yourself on the swimsuit competition (vibratory). My advice: Pick the gal from your own state and leave the others. Of if there's more than one parasite from your state present, go halvsies and split a few judges.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Have you heard of ... the danger of mental parasitism? Well, I have. I know so much about it that, probably, the less said the better. I have a full page of notes on the subject, two pages, as I recall. And I'm not referring to it now ... I'm winging it.
The mental parasite is a creature -- a normal human being, depending on how you define normal -- who is generally older, and knows he's on the downhill path to dissolution. The concept reminds me of movies like Dracula or another Bela Lugosi movie where the woman is beautiful as long as she keeps getting shots of young woman essence. No doubt there's many variations to it. Freaky stuff. But in the case of the mental parasite, there's no injections, no surgery, and perhaps not even a perceptible depletion of vitality from the host. I'd call it imperceptible, but I don't entirely know all the instruments that are available.
I'm not going to admit very much here. With no admission there's frankly nothing anyone can hold me on. Any victims (and I'm not saying there are any) have long since passed from my terrifying, essence-zapping stare, and are surely by now fully recovered, being completely unaware that they served as a fantastic mental feast for me, speaking strictly as a matter of "What if?" conjecture.
Why would I want to admit anything? Wouldn't that just scare off all potential hosts, leaving me very much alone in society, to waste away? Perhaps not. Think about it. The mass of people aren't going to stay home simply on the off-chance that a mental parasite -- which isn't even a recognized parasite, scientifically speaking -- might be nearby. They reason, "What's the worse he could do to me, maybe pick up fashion tips and die of envy?" In response, I say, "[Wolf calls and maniacal laughter]," before grabbing a fly from the air and sucking it dry.
Of course people aren't going to believe in mental parasitism, so it doesn't matter how much I say. Just like I don't believe the "crackpot" things I see occasionally on TV. Like ghost shows. I see the most popular ghost show is zeroing in on their 200th episode. That's pretty good, 200 episodes and not one ghost! Proving you can do a show for years, failing at what you purport to be your mission, and no one seems to notice. It's the Fox News of the paranormal! Then I come along with a lowly blog post about mental parasitism, which no one has any reason to believe. Obviously I could shout it from the rooftops and continue to enjoy no lack of hosts. I love it! Honesty's the best policy, but no one realizes you're honest!
Anyway, anyway ... don't take any of this too seriously, OK? My phrasing there was all in fun. If you took it seriously, that would be bad for my image, and, again, potentially for the number of hosts, and my personal freedom. The last thing I want is to be brought before a judge on charges of mental parasitism. Let's say, though, that they've got me sitting there, waiting for the previous case to be finished, and I'm mentally sucking dry the judge, jury, bailiff, sketch artist, and recorder. I've got all that prime essence, they're slouched over the bannisters, and I'm breezing out, till my next arrest, which, being a hungry soul, I hope is very soon! Judges have a lot of great essence, they say.
If I can be serious for a moment, I honestly, actually never do mental parasitism activities. Not that often, barely any, you know, unless I see someone bubbling out the essence. Which happens only occasionally. The mass of men and women, living their lives of quiet desperation, have nothing I really want. It's that occasional person, though, just dripping charisma... You see them with your eyes almost closed, like looking through a feather, and you literally see all kinds of things: colors, excitement, multiple body sheaths, radiance streaming forth from the crown chakra ... Yes, it can be too much. Surely a little taste wouldn't hurt...
What a sad and lonely life it is, though, in the (hypothetical) aftermath, when you're alone with your thoughts. You're in bed, looking up at the ceiling, and you see the dancing of and hear the jibes of taunting spirits: "You swore off! You're weak! You're pathetic! You couldn't leave well enough alone!" Then I have to wonder, Where are you bastards from? It's either my continued, prolonged, satisfied existence, or going down the tubes! I can't help it that this is the way life is! Last time I checked, I wasn't the Creator. Take it up with the Creator if you've got a problem... Otherwise, kiss my ass! But they dare not get too close or I'll suck them in, fly away, and rain psychological terror on a world that would never know what hit it! If any of this were true, that really could happen.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
*About the graphic
I've never liked personality tests. Take me as I am. Or get to know me as we go along. But no, Hezekiahs aren't allowed to relax. You're at school and fill one out and they call you to the office and accuse you of being a Stub. Never a good feeling. Fortunately, in my case, I knew they were wrong. I'd never a Stub!
But I'm lazy, so I'd game the system. Because I'm so much a Hezekiah I don't think I have to prove it. So I'd look at the test pattern and note what they were looking for. You see the first and sixth and twelfth question are essentially the same, repeating the pattern till the end. I'd do all those at once, giving the same answer. Then I'd go back and do the same with the others. Sounds like a Stub, I know. And indeed, you tend to come out looking like a Stub. When in fact I've been a Hezekiah all along! Apparently a subversive Hezekiah...
They always think Hezekiahs should act strictly like Hezekiahs, which, ironically, would be Stub behavior. A true Hezekiah is going to veer into Stub territory now and then, and hurry back out. Because it's give and take. Strictness isn't key to the true Hezekiah. But the big problem was that those who make the tests are Stubs, and naturally they interpret the results in a Stubbish way.
Just in case you weren't around for Hezekiah and Stub, which we used to have in school, they're two dogs. Hezekiah likes to hunt, Stub to guard. But things happen to keep it amusing, like Stub might chase a squirrel off the property, unaware there's a burglar, too, who trips over Hezekiah sleeping, meaning Hezekiah saves the day!
There's so many of these old stories, it's probably only natural that they'd come up with offshoots, like personality tests. I often think of Hezekiah and Stub, and put my own spin on life through them. Like this: The theoretical pure Hezekiah has no resistance in life, going along with the flow, surviving. The theoretical pure Stub has complete resistance, is in control, and so dies. Of course there is no pure Hezekiah or Stub after those terms, at the extremes. It's all a matter of tendencies on a scale.
To me, the names themselves speak to how they're termed. Hezekiah is a lazy sounding hound, occasionally lifting an ear to note the passing of a train or send a fly on its way. Stub is a super-efficient sounding dog, lean and muscular, sleeping, perhaps, but fully alert to everything. And that's the way they looked. Hezekiah can be roused from his equanimity, but it takes a truly necessary reason. Stub is efficient, therefore more alert and controlled by events. Hezekiah tends to be self-reliant, flexible, and nice (or indifferent.) Stub is hard and can be mean, being the opposite in terms of flexibility. On and on.
Of course, the Hezekian philosophy of life is the one that sounds best to me, if I could live up to it. Good old Hezekiah has an innate knowledge that All is One; he is not in competition, opposing life, but seems himself integrally one with what is. Hezekiah might think, "Yes, if I reach up to steal food, I might get my paw caught in the band-saw, but I might not." (Frankly, I'm more cautious than that.) Stub knows all the angles and is never content with might/might not. That sounds the wisest for survival, and as I said I also can be quite cautious, because angles can change unexpectedly, meaning security can quickly become a false security. But Hezekiah also knows you're going to get it in the end, whatever cautions you take.
Our whole perspective on life and mortality are at issue here, as I was just getting at. And you know how it generally is with actual dogs, apart from being babied by modern owners taking them to the vet to put them down. They seem very stoic, crawling to isolation somewhere and simply dying. In the Hezekiah and Stub stories, though, Hezekiah has a looser grip on his personal existence. He seems more prepared to die ... "Just let me get through this one last meal, thank you kindly." Then he goes on to a ripe old age. I believe that's me.
But Stub is rigidly opposed to his own demise, while being unsympathetic to others. I've always seen a contradiction in that: Is Stub already dead in some sense, clinging to life as he is with a bad attitude? It's only a matter of time before Stub dies, standing up, and rots away. Then his skeleton will be found in place, appearing still to be on guard! Would serve him right.
* The "Hezekiah" and "Stub" characters -- ©1925, renewed 1943, Institute for Dog-People Research -- are now public domain. Stub was originally gray but re-imagined as brown in the 1940s, when the Nazis' dog mascot "Fuery" also appeared to be gray. We say "appeared to be gray" because his only appearances were in black and white illustrations, meaning he could very well have also been brown.
Hezekiah and Stub were very familiar friends to schoolchildren since their first appearance in the 1920s until they were phased out for use in public education in 1966. In the 1930s they were credited with the great accomplishment of ending the Great Depression. But by 1966, with the rise of secular humanism, situational ethics, the godless one world government, and color TV, they were gone.