Golden Children Everywhere

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #17 (END)

Oh yeah, you had to know there'd be a happy ending. That's the way my life goes, many happy returns. Myra Kula Electra and I are still on good terms. We've seen each other only a couple times, though, so there hasn't been many opportunities for fireworks. I assume she's out there somewhere still, happy and bringing joy to the world around her.

The Tractor Promenade, now a national sensation, is turning away offers for appearances, since they're only able to be so many places. The guys who "dance" in it have other jobs. Office jobs, a couple of them work at the feed store, one's a fireman, etc. And no doubt they're afraid to just up and quit for the riches of continual performances, having taken into account the fickleness of the American public -- you quit your job at the store and next thing you know America's moved on to the next flash in the pan.

The black prison bus came -- thankfully -- and took the four prisoners back to the work release farm. Which isn't entirely good news for me, although I've put up with it all this time, since, of course, the farm's only about 8 miles directly southwest of my place. Those dudes are devious. They could steal dark clothes, charcoal their faces, and crawl that far in about an hour and kill me in my sleep, if they wanted to. And I can't see why they wouldn't want to, knowing as I do the extent of their evil; after all, they did have public sex with Myra Kula Electra at the July 4 celebration a few years ago. A blight on their memory I will never forget!

The town still sees me as more or less a hero, having freed the area of demons, sealed a major portal to hell, and brought excitement to this sleepy burg like they haven't had in a long time. Still, it hurts to see downtown ripped to shreds, fixtures on the courthouse dangling, etc.; it all looks like a war zone. But let's say we get a major employer back in town, it won't take forever to come up with the money to fix it. Hell, we could get a benefit performance with the Tractor Promenade; that'd bring in a few bucks. The bright side is, let's say we're all around 50 years from now -- there'll be memorial markers to me, etc., and kids will be playing me in school plays.

Speaking of kids! Some of those kids 50 years from now will be the grandchildren of all the kids who've come into the world since the battle ended. Naturally they had to be in utero before the whole thing happened -- I guess; it's not like I was there for every conception; conceivably (no pun intended) Heaven could be so happy they speeded up things. Anyway, be all that as it may, there's been independent verification from some radio ministers that the world has been blessed with many, many golden children -- all basically born the same week. No one's ever seen anything like it! It was in the news for the joy of it itself, plus the strain it's putting on businesses who provide lenient leave for parents after blessed events.

These kids, if the reports are true, all have a cheerful look. I'm not going to lie. Somehow they look like me when I was born. I'm not going to put up a baby picture -- although if I did, you'd fall over in love with me. Even I can't believe it, when I look in the mirror now I look like an average dumb old man. Except for the sardonic grin every time someone says something overly conventional, I'm as UN-golden looking as anyone ... now. But back then it was different. That's what these kids look like! Although they're various genders, with various orientations, various races, various everything. Two eyes like me, etc.

Welcome, Golden Children! Please raise your right hand. (Children everywhere are raising their hands, hearing/reading these words despite distance, through walls, in other countries, whatever). Repeat after me, mentally: "I am a Golden Child. I promise to do my best to live up to that great role. I will stand for goodness, justice, and see the beauty in everyone. I will live my life creatively, with good humor, with affection, in love with life and others. I promise to do the rest of the things written on the paper that the author of this blog -- dbkundalini -- is holding up for me to read," etc., etc., "which lists many life-affirming things, all of which I heartily agree to."

Having sworn in all the Golden Children, I now evaporate back into spirit (as the Golden Child) and pass my reign herewith unto this new multitude, wishing them all the best, now and forever.

THE END  

An Act or Two Short of The Final Act

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #12

All the stuff I had to do in this Supreme Battle -- it was like fighting World War II single-handedly -- was so unbelievably hard, even I, The Golden Child, am not sure how it was physically done. Except to say, You get organized, you make a checklist, and you check it off as you go, step by step, till everything's done.

This isn't the final denouement to this sad (yet ultimately happy) situation with Myra Kula Electra, but it's darned close. The tide turned when the Tractor Promenade performed on the square, such beautiful stuff, a beautiful, intricate act. Tractors square-dancing tugs at your heart, letting you know that mankind truly has it goin' on.

The courthouse was lit and beautiful. I had a front row seat from my place in the alley across the street by the theater, in the upper chamber of the Robby the Red-Nosed Robot suit. Myra was torn between good and evil, with the tugging of her heartstrings drawing her toward "good," due to the charms of the square-dancing tractors. (As an aside, a few years ago I too felt the lure to a life as a professional criminal, but having seen the Tractor Promenade, I renewed my vows as a law-abiding citizen.)

Meanwhile, in the country, at my aunt's old place, Cousin Roto had loaded the old coal mound with enough explosives -- purchased on the black market from a guy who should know better -- to blow every demon there skyward, and propel them several counties away, depending on the breeze. As it was, he arranged the explosives at a slant, to give them more of a town-ward direction once they hit the prevailing winds. Roto followed my cue made by shining Robby's red nose directly toward his position.

As for Myra, she was atop the old hotel, just north of me, in a spiritual tug 'o war. When as the Promenade hit their climax -- the bearded "women" on their tractors facing the "men" on theirs, then flipping their tractors around as if to yield their backsides -- Myra made her choice. I don't know if it was her deeper romantic nature, or a sudden charge of hormones immediately stimulated, but she made a 65-yard leap from the hotel to the dome of the courthouse! (A decent enough jump, but I still gave it only a 7.5, because with that many demons flying in and serving as an undergirding cushion as well as offering lift, my grandma could have equaled or excelled it.

That left Robby to go marching across from the alley toward the courthouse. My aim was one of life or death. If Myra submitted, then life. If she did not, Robby's eyes were outfitted with nukes. Guaranteed to kill everyone in a 30-mile radius, and probably ruin some very nice tractors. To nudge her more certainly toward life, I had another surprise. The four prisoners Myra and I shared in common -- her more than I -- Tipsy White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, and Cannibal -- emerged from Robby's feet, which flip up from the toes like garages. (The remote at first triggered the groin area, where oil drains for oil changes, but with quick thinking, I stopped that and restarted it to trigger the feet.)

As the demons swirled, the fevered commandments of exorcists, multi-tracked earlier in the day (and adding 528 Hz Third Eye Opening music) to be an overwhelming force for good against them, cast them out. The sky opened, many were sucked up. The ground opened, many were sucked down. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth, enough for everyone remaining to take seconds.

My own teeth chattered, because I've got just enough evil in me, exorcists also give me the heebie-jeebies. Were it not for my countervailing good, my hands would've slipped from the joystick and Robby would've taken out the war memorial near the courthouse, a fatal faux pas in this day of superficial cliche patriotism, roused against those football players who refuse to stand, another subject for another day; our society being rife with stupidity, it's hard to cover everything in one swell foop.

Enter The Tractor Promenade

 

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #11

When the history of this battle is written, let the word go forth, to friend and foe alike, that like Frank Sinatra, win or lose, I did it my way!

A number of years ago I was in the company of some folks who were excited to go see the Tractor Promenade, square-dancing tractors. The guys who drove the tractors were all men, but because square-dancing is generally done by men and women, half of these guys were dressed as women. Not in a pretty way, lest anyone think they shouldn't be allowed to use the restroom, but in an exaggerated way. Big thick wigs, floppy dresses, and beards were part of it.

I wasn't excited about it right away. I mean, look at me, I'm a cool cat; I can't be impressed by the ways of country folk and their laughs, can I? Well, you know what? I'm not really as cool as everyone thinks. Most of my YouTube history reveals I watch a lot of "Hee Haw" clips. (For some reason there aren't full episodes of "Hee Haw" out there, that I've seen.) I like Grandpa Jones, Buck Owens, Roy Clark. Once I hitchhiked nearly 250 miles to see Roy Clark perform, then when I got there, I can't remember what happened, but I never saw Roy Clark. I'm full of stories like that, because I'm not cool.

The charms of square-dancing tractors got to me, to the point that I became a Tractor Head and followed them around. And when I'd see the guys, I'd often make eye contact with them as they performed, a tear in my eye and tapping my heart, as if to say, "You're in my heart, I'm misty, keep that dress and wig on, and shave that beard, and we might get it on." I've been very lucky in life, but, alas, it never happened. I had to turn and walk away, solitary, in tears, clutching my program, and hoping to escape the place without someone laughing at my failure.

Regardless of all personal heartbreak, and especially now that I'm older and losing a lot of my ambition to succeed -- because What's the Damned Use? -- like the Virgin Mary, I've treasured the things of the Promenade and kept them in my heart. I became friends with one of the guys, who now is my contact in this present distress. Putting a end to the terror wave of one Myra Kula Electra!

Friends, she's going down! When she catches sight of the Tractor Promenade, it is going to be so confusing to her. Tractors square-dancing! If what I'm thinking is right. That demons have the kind of mentality that expects a certain amount of order in the world. I believe their mentality is very orderly, despite their reputation for chaos, and very literal. Demons think A leads to B, in a direct line. A doesn't lead to C, you see, because demons are hung up on directness. Tractor square-dancing is antithetical to linear thinking; they'd freak out. Remember the multitude of demons Jesus sent into the herd of swine? They didn't say, "Let's bide our time on this hillside till Jesus is gone, then come out and go about our business." They freaked out directly, ran into the sea, and presumably got wet.

But enough about demons. Get me started like that and I'll talk your leg off. I'm not bragging, but I probably know more about demon psychology than most people my age and of average intelligence. Demons are basically stupid, they just have bullish dispositions, but in a few years they might be president. Say we had someone set the example for them, it could happen. I'd gladly vote Demons for President, because I could cast them out anytime I wanted!

Let me add one more important thing. Myra, I know you read this blog. In the name of everything holy, after you read this post, you must promptly forget it. Thank you.