No! No! No! Mad With Virus

 Virus

Part 15 of 30

Ha, ha, forgive me, I always chuckle when I see this picture. I had it for my screensaver for about a year and used to see it all the time. I’d go to the kitchen to make a cup of cocoa, then come back and the screensaver would be on, and I'd about spit my pants, dribbling cocoa on them when I sat down. Then I thought, you know what, I'm going to save this pic for the future, like if I ever do a series on something lighthearted, a virus or something. Well, today’s the day!

And we’ve all known someone like him. He has the world's greatest sense of entitlement, by cracky, and if anything or anyone thwarts his expectations, Katie bar the door! He’ll be on you in a flash, like stink on doo doo, barking out complaints, shaking his meaty fists in your direction, and apparently quite the fearsome complainer, with most people easily able to get his way. They see the derby and formal wear and assume he’s among the upper crust, better than you and me. But he knows how life goes; you complain with authority, that’s the biggest secret to getting your way. One day I did it and reduced the clueless clerk at the thrift store to jelly when she didn’t know about the 10% senior discount on dollar books. I was so upset, stomping like this guy, having the 90 cents cash in hand and this clueless clerk -- clueless! -- objected. Terrible stuff.

I also love the stars around him, clouds of dust, lightning, and the various symbols of his contortions, along with enough anger wrinkles to scare his own mother. He shrieks, “No! No! No!” Like “I’m here, I’m the Big Man on Campus, and I’m not taking any crap off anyone!” If I saw him coming -- say I was the thrift store clerk -- I’d pull the old “It’s time to take my break” ruse and put him in his place. Then he’d be like Rumpelstiltskin, so irate he might put his foot through the floor, perhaps breaking his foot, but for sure rolling up a huge bill on getting the floor fixed.

Anyway, picture him as you will. You might see him as the average guy who thinks he has the virus. He goes to the doctor, and they’re all standing back against the wall in full gowns and masks. And he, His Royal Highness, expects them to roll him in for an immediate test. The rest of the waiting room is cowering in the corner, not knowing if they’re more afraid of the virus or the simple fact that he actually could be Rumpelstiltskin. He continues complaining, on and on, and finally the orderlies come to lead him out. They’re immediately stricken by the virus and fall dead. So now it’s serious. They get him to a room and get him cured. But they get the final laugh, not billing his destruction of the floor to insurance but putting it on his tab, every last cent. And hospital floors, like everything else there, are over a thousand dollars!

One helpful note: If you’re going to the hospital with the virus, there’s no benefit in putting on a fancy suit. If fact, if you can find the old winding cloth like they used in the plague in the Middle Ages, they'll truly take your case seriously. First in line or in the back, they will get you in.

People in Chains

At the risk of inflaming an already troubled world, I have a few comments to make. Further, I know I am putting this blog and my reputation at risk as well. For I have very sensitive readers, most of whom have told me time and time again that anything that rocks the boat doesn't sit well with them. In other words, they've threatened to "hit the doors" if I ever say anything evenly the slightest bit controversial, in anger and rage abandoning me out of revenge.

But I shall be bold. I've weighed all the different factors -- and others I'm too afraid to list -- and have decided, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." If my readers, precious in my sight though they be, are so super sensitive, so supercilious, to anything that even might rock their world, and however slightly at that, are they really worth having? In that case I'm as much in chains as the poor folks seen in my illustration.

Anyway, being bold, here's my sincere contention, Everyone's got something going on, some problem, let's say, something that's holding them down. It may be a complex, a behavior, a predisposition, a habit, or longings, not yet acted on but enslaving them every bit as much. I will simply lay it on the line: I feel sympathy for them and want their lives to be better, to enhance them as much as I can, if I can.

I will make a few comments on each one, expressing myself in sympathy and grace, thankful that it's not me, for There but for the grace of God go I.

Let's go left to right. The older lady's chain is LUST. I've known several people on the chain of lust, true story. They're always on the make, sniffing the air for whatever opportunities there might be to get their jollies. As I'm given to understand, lust is a terrible taskmaster, capturing first your attention, then keeping you firmly on the hook until you've gone the full mile demanded. For the lady here, as sad as it is to say, there's no turning back. She will either grab the guy next to her, RUDE as he is, or the PRIGGISH guy. Who, being PRIGGISH, might put up quite a fight.

Then there is RUDE. I really hate it when people are RUDE. Their biggest thing is they've given up on human sympathy. See the connection? If you have sympathy for other folks, you will bend over backwards to understand them and to accommodate them. But being RUDE is to show a lack of sympathy, showing itself by acting mean. Have I ever been RUDE to someone? This is something that, yes, I have done. But my sympathy is such that it's never gone on for long. I get over it very fast.

PRIGGISH.  I've actually been accused before of being PRIGGISH ... because I believe in clean living and I don't allow blue material on my blog. Me PRIGGISH? Ha! Let me say I'm a little turned on by the lady in the pink dress. The little BORED kid looks like she could almost be my daughter -- if Pink and me got married, then did it, 40 years ago when I was young. I see she's MOODY, which can be good, if she's clawing cat MOODY.

HELLION - All boys are potentially little HELLIONS. I used to be a boy, and still use the HELLION attitude as a boy does. But it's never misbehavior, or used in being RUDE. I'm not a vandal or anything like that. I use the HELLION nature if I need the confidence to do something, like jump over a creek, climb over rocks and boulders, something hard. I think "I'm a boy!" and dive right in, fighting and going at it like a tornado.

MOODY - As said above, I like a certain amount of moodiness. It gets old, though, if it's constant. Variety is the spice of life. Mix your sullenness with good cheer, grumpiness with bubblyness. Keep me guessing, but not so much that I'm perplexed.

BORED - Little girl, why would you be bored? You have your whole life ahead of you. You know next to nothing about anything. Everyday should be a day of excited discovery for you. I want to see you bouncing around, going from one project to the next. Let's set you up with finger painting activities, kite flying, origami, reading cool books at the library, and going to various fun outings -- touring museums, theme parks, and going on trail rides. As for theme parks, though, I'm BORED by them, so I'd skip that. 

Vigor Vivus -- Up From the Bed I Arose

I'm a big believer in Vigor Vivus. That's well known from my many writings on the subject. But even I forget, occasionally. Then something happens -- it's hard to explain the workings of the mind -- and I suddenly remember. And when I do, the effect is amazing, like Popeye with spinach; there's an instantaneous change. Like all at once a sudden shifting of everything. Think of a Rubik's Cube, twisted and hopeless, but in an instant solving itself. That's amazing, and a great time saver.

Recently, I've been even more hopeless than that, although to be honest I have been keeping up with my morning spiritual ablutions and, to the extent I've been able, my reading. Such things are food to body and soul. But as everyone knows, the daily grind tends to wear us down, and that fairly quickly. I have a list of things that need to be done, I set myself toward accomplishing it, and forget there's a whole other aspect of life, my personal self-interest, well-being.

So it's just like someone sets a ton of bricks on my back. Let's say the bricks are first on one shoulder, so I'm weighed down on that side. Then another ton of bricks are put on the other shoulder, balanced, of course, but still very uncomfortable. That's only two tons. Then another ton on my neck, with additional tons speedily piling up on every other part of me. So I'm completely weighed down, seemingly nothing left free. But think about it, there's plenty of room inside. So more tons of bricks everywhere, and by now it's apparently quite hopeless.

This state of being, so put upon, so weighed down, so lethargic in every way is just the opposite of the spirit of Vigor Vivus. We call this state Rigor Mortis, like with death. Finding myself in Rigor Mortis like that, I'm good for nothing. Yes, I'm going through the motions, but without the joy of it, immensely, tediously, hideously, frighteningly joyless. You ask me something, I appear to give you a decent enough answer. But listen more closely: There's a subtle droopy tone, betraying the answer of Rigor Mortis. My smile's even semi-crooked, my eyes are lifeless, glazed over, my puffy eyelids almost blotting out the light. You might see a blackhead. There's nothing left. If only I could drag myself to bed! Perchance to sleep, perchance to await the guys from the crematorium.

Here, then, is how it might happen, changing everything. I might see something simple, like two pictures showing a great contrast, a person like me, down in the mouth, weighed down. But the other picture shows someone with the opposite spirit, getting on famously with life, full of joy, happiness, and, yes, vigor. It quickly registers. Like the Bat Signal in the sky, they've got my number. And I suddenly have -- right in the center of my forehead somewhere -- the flash of two bold capital Vs, standing for ... Vigor Vivus!

Then, just as fast as the tons of bricks were dropped and received, my mental gears are grinding full blast. I refuse to accept the current state of affairs. I turn away Rigor Mortis cold turkey, just like that. There's no patch for my arm, no gum to chew for six months, no E-vapor Vigor Vivus to puff at till I'm cured or hooked in some other way. I remember -- and I wish I never forgot, although real life can obviously be a grind. And when I remember, please, "Would everyone here kindly step to the rear!" Because I'm going to be stomping, and singing something like Brünnhilde's battle cry, "Ho-jo-to-ho"! It's Vigor Vivus to the rescue!

Friends, I'm the world's biggest big mouth evangelist when it comes to Vigor Vivus. I know you're out there, you... And the same thing besets you. I'm not so special, I'm not unique. You've got it too, Rigor Mortis, a real farking drag, a major drain. Just like me, then, you too can have something better, a sense of life in all its rich glory, Vigor Vivus! Your attitude shifts. You see the victory of a renewed attitude, a shift in your spirit. And you're up -- you, yourself, you -- stomping it out! Vigor Vivus is now in your spirit!

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV, Ho-jo-to-ho!

Paranoia -- What Maniac Arranged All This?

This whole week is totally cheesing me off. Thanks to my old enemy, Paranoia, I can't seem to do anything with a clear conscience, or to put it another way, without forever looking over my shoulder, wondering who's looking back.

This is obviously true in the terrible psychic forays I've made into deep pits, forsaken landscapes, and hellish darkness. But it's also true for normal everyday stuff, like going to the grocery store. I'm sure I saw the powerful denizens of those horrid places at the store, too, keeping me in their sights and thwarting me. As an example, ever notice how the store never runs out of Lender's bagels? Somehow, yesterday, suspiciously, the bagels were out. Then there's bacon, all of a sudden about $6 a pound. My face dropped and I could hear maniacal laughter.

Then, driving there and back, the town took on a different cast. These devils -- the maniacs in charge of tormenting me -- were messing with my head, doing trivial stuff like changing the stop lights to red as soon as I got there. What could I do? I'd be a dead man if I ran the light out of spite. Some old granny, one of these guys in disguise, would "miraculously" appear in the middle of the road and get run over. Then what am I to do? Go to the police department and explain what happened, and be taken away as crazy? No, I had the presence of mind simply to stop. Yes, I shook my fist: "I'll wait you out, you bastards!"

I definitely got the message, though. Which is this: Someone's arranging everything, not leaving a single thing to chance. A puppet-master. (Ha! That's something I know about! I used to work the puppets at church. We did modern rock 'n' roll hits with religious lyrics substituted. Here's what I know about it: You have to practice like a dog to put on a good puppet show. I watch puppets on TV to this day and picture the work they're doing to make it happen. Making the machinations of this puppet-master all the more amazing.) As far as I know, the way I see it, no one's practiced my movements around town. So it's amazing how they know everything I'm going to do.

But why? I know the world has forces, but I always thought they concentrated more on the upper crust and powerful. Like moving the minds of great leaders, swinging the action on the battlefield, and guiding industrialists in how to run their companies. In addition, though, they like to toy with little guys like me, probably for kicks. What kind of kicks would that be? If you have that much power, couldn't you get a lot better kicks doing more high-powered stuff? Like burning down prisons and watching the rest of us run for our lives?

I'm thinking, I'm a very humble man. I've never hurt anyone. Sometimes I even pick up bugs with a paper towel and take them outside. I've done more than my share of good deeds in the past. I just mentioned puppets. We used to take them to nursing homes and entertain the residents. I can still picture the looks of great joy on their faces. We had this one routine where one puppet kept taking the other puppet's lines. He's an eager beaver. But the puppet whose lines he's stealing is looking more and more disgusted. And angry. You show disgust with a puppet by crunching the mouth as much as you can and tilting the head. The residents loved it!

I'm humble, so why bother me? On the other hand, why not me? I've also had some very high-minded thoughts. I haven't always felt humble. I'll confess, sometimes I think, There's no one like me! I'm the smartest, the shrewdest, the baddest (best) dude in town, maybe the world! I'm very proud to be an American, to be who I am, to have my terrific abilities, my looks, my demeanor, my personality, right on down the line. Pride. I'm very proud. And now, apparently, the powers-that-be think I'm in for a time of humbling. The old "humbling" cliche...

The more I think of it, though, the more I think it's undeserved. Realistically, there's lots of people smarter, shrewder, badder (better), and prouder than me. There's plenty of people with better abilities, looks, demeanors, and personalities, and, hence, with a lot more pride. And I don't see them suffering. I think I may be living in a Chinese finger trap; the more I struggle, the worse it gets.

Hey! Where did that thought come from? That's genius! I'm a genius! Or some genius put that thought in my head. Someone who's somehow found a way of thinking and way of living that flies under the radar of the guy pulling the strings. Which -- Wow! what a moment of clarity! -- would be someone who's tapped into what's truly important in life, someone who's faced suffering and dealt with it victoriously. Someone very very humble. I always seem to forget until it's almost too late, then I remember the truth, by some awesome grace.

The ones I'm thinking of now are two: For humility of spirit and outlook, there's the lowly creature who bears the Redeemer, Desi the Donkey. OK? I love him. Then there's one with all that and more, a dear one with a running sore on her forehead given to her from on high by her own request, one who for a time was despised by the world and belittled even by those who should've been her closest friends, one ridden hard and put away wet, spiritually speaking. She's one of my favorite saints in the whole wide world, St. Rita of Cascia. Good news!

There may be some stinking maniac in charge over all -- over this world -- seeking out people like me to trample into the dirt. But he's going down! Because there's also a good side, represented by many other good beings and saints, those like Desi and Rita. I shall be victorious! I shall prevail! There's no one badder (better) than me!