Rodeo Done To Death? No!

 

Part 22 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

“O the ungrateful merchants of this town, disparaging the great rodeo coming to town, bringing in lots of consumers, shoppers, people who will be dropping quite a bit of money while there to enjoy the show!” Done to death?! That's just one of the righteous slings and arrows that goes with the territory when you’re in the rodeo business, doing your level best to put forth the best talent, the best show, all priced at family-affordable prices, basically a drop in the bucket.

The Mam & Pap Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo never showed up to no acclaim, since the fans were many. That’s why the rodeo carted bleachers everywhere they went, because all those devoted guests needed a place to sit. And when they were away from the grounds, maybe staying with friends in the area, it’s more than likely they would need services in town, a bite of food for the road before they headed back home, and some gas.

I’m probably too quick to jump on this guy for his disparagement of the rodeo, but it was drilled into me from childhood to stick up for the little guy. And I see a traveling rodeo as strong in one sense — a great tradition, talented people, and family values — but I see them at the same time as vulnerable. Because an evil word spoken against them by an unthinking "critic" carries a lot of weight. Just a casual comment like this guy makes, grousing, ungrateful, really works against his own town's interests… You just want to say, “It’s your funeral, pal.” And then watch him in a fit of guilt, grasping at his heart, the veins popping out on his face and neck ... you get the idea. But that's probably not nice to say, forgive me. But what's left? Take the time to reason with him, I guess that's always best. Except I've known plenty of losers that looked and sounded exactly like him, and their whole excuse for living is to bring everyone down.

Anyway, this is years later, let bygones go the way of all flesh. At this point I don’t see many traveling rodeos, not like in the heyday. No sir, they weren’t done to death. If you think of it, those were the liveliest days. It was often losers like this guy, "O! It's been done to death" that did them to death. I take exception to that. There's limited ways the horse can jump and cowboys can fly in the air, so in a surface sense maybe it does seem like it’s “been done to death.” But that’s in the nature of movement. Yes, once you’ve seen it a hundred times you wonder, Are there any more tricks? Well, these aren’t tricks but natural moves. Just like we wave at our friends on the street, we use the basic gesture of waving. We aren’t looking for a new variety on an old custom.

Can I make that any clearer? Animals move in particular ways. Up and down, side to side. Bucking has a particular look and leaping a particular look. These moves have been developed in two stages: 1) The Good Lord created him with legs and certain muscles; 2) Through evolution legs and certain muscles formed in particular ways, in an environment and for purposes useful as determined in the evolutionary scheme of things. At this point that’s how they work. A horse can twist in turn in a variety of ways, but the basic jumps, etc., are going to look similar.

The guy on the street is very shortsighted, and it's no secret I don’t like him. And my other gripe about him is, Don’t discourage that kid. I hate it when anyone discourages a kid like that. Put your best smile on your face, be nice to the kid, affirm his or her love of the rodeo, etc. Always be an affirming person if you have the opportunity. Dude got me riled up something fierce!

Ma & Pa's Gettin' Down

Part 20 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

A hundred and some years ago society was a lot different. The roles of women and men were different, but the basic nature of what they did, functioning for reproduction as the obvious example being pretty much the same. The stork had been replaced and that was final. I'll try not to be sociological because it'd bore us all. Suffice to say, they were "getting it on" in ways that would still be a turn-on to us, depending which parts of the act they minimized (billing and cooing) and which parts they went fuller force on (getting down).

You probably know that birth control was more rudimentary, consisting of prophylactics and willpower. If you’ve ever checked out your family tree and find that it had many more limbs -- households with 12-15 kids ranging from newborn to college-aged -- that’s why. The old man, if they were in a town to small or uptight to stock proper protection in the general store, was left with his willpower. Which may have been enhanced, to give credit where credit is due, by five or six kids under seven bawling their heads off while he tried to concentrate.

Without getting too graphic about the other solutions, let’s just throw this out there in the nicest way I can. Say it was mid-afternoon and the old man and the old lady were preparing a nice time later that night -- once most of the kids were asleep and only the newest newborns were squalling -- he might choose to take the edge off, blow a little premature steam, allowing him to embark upon a later excursion in which they could patiently enjoy the extent of it, being longer. He wouldn’t be as red in the face, his eyes would not be rolled as far back in his head, he’d be present in the moment for the moment itself. And she with corollary feelings, coordinated in such a way to meet him halfway, wherever it led.

Naturally the buddy system would be a thing in this, maybe a little assistance, clearing some of the crying newborns out of the master bedroom, taking them down the hall with the older newborns, giving him time and psycho-physical space to stretch forth and allow the plumbing -- the system of pipes and tubes and sac containers -- a wider berth for its natural exertions. It’s a good lady -- dear Mama -- who can understand and perhaps pitch in when the going gets tough. Little Petey down the hall bawling his eyes red, a fever pitch, would be such a situation.

“Your love buddy’s on her way,” Mama might call out to Dad, “Keep up that head of steam, dearest, and know I’m near!” Then she gives the baby a little more care.

[This post is not meant to give the readers any ideas that sexual things are normal or allowed today, especially if you aren’t married with those years of experience in how a relationship should function. Any encroachment prematurely on these sacred implements and sanctuaries -- and that includes even thinking of it -- is liable to raise up nature’s own judgment, death and/or deformity and/or disease, for, yes, there’s death in them thar drawers!]

Not Afraid Of Grizzly Bears

 

No. 25 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I haven’t figured out yet what happened, the system of “more-enlightened” times. With hunting completely out. And gigantic elephants, tiger, lions, all the way down to the smallest things, rabbits, squirrels, and even rodents completely running amok. I remember, not very long ago, when a man could “put food on the table” by his own stealth. Sitting in a tree waiting for a deer. Seeing a rabbit in the ditch and hoping it didn't move till you got your .410 shotgun assembled.

But life is full of contradictions, so in the abundance of animals going to waste we continue raising and slaughtering others. Even though scientific people who don’t weigh as much as the rest of us — when they pick their teeth it’s always bio-engineered scraps— tell us meat is not only unnecessary but actually harmful. Say what you want about animals, as mean as they are, they make up for it by being delicious.

Anyway, it’s obvious true to a point that there’s danger in everything. And yes, we’re all going to bite the dust someday. If it comes from a lifetime of eating, what’s the beef? We’re hungry, of course we’re going to eat. Death is a fact of life period. Nothing to be denied, of course, but nothing to be so afraid of. I get lessons from friends passing. Whatever they died of, I avoid that for a week or so. If they had an unpleasant pallor, I use rouge. (I’m not a female impersonator all the time, I just like to look alive.) And if it’s someone close, I cry like a banshee. Until the pastor steps in, touches my wrist and says, “He’s in a better place.”

Still, friends don’t like friends to die. But we’re not beyond challenging each other. “If you’re a man, do such and such," take this challenge, live your life on the edge, and prove you’re tough enough to go the distance. When we were kids, though, that was the worst thing, being a wimp. It's illustrated there, the whole gamut of childish behavior. Feeling like you can do anything. You actually can, almost, if you get lucky. But when you grow up you realize, just because Superman jumps off buildings and is OK, there’s no guarantee you can. If there's doubt, the default assumption has to be, You can’t.

So they ask the kid, "You wouldn't be afraid to hunt grizzly bears with a club?" No. But if I kill one, that means I have to take on at least one more. Then the second grizzly swipes a big paw out and takes the kid's head off. That kid was stupid. Don't do it. And now that you've done it and died, don't do it again. There's nothing you can do about him. Dumb kid, real stupid. But pretty good skills, if you as a kid could actually kill the first grizzly. That's something to talk about, big praise.

As for the rest of the kids, his funeral meant a day off from school. So there was something worthwhile about it for everyone.

Bad Behavior: Devils & Warthogs

Part 12 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Raising well-behaved adorable kids is one of the hardest things you can do. Especially these days when every kid tries to consciously out-psycho the next. I’m glad I haven’t got legitimate prospects if for no other reason than that. It’s a thankless task; were I in the market I’d take myself out and join a monastery. Or convent, depending how I swung. Still, the temptation is a bad habit to break, although lots easier with age.

So, fortunately, it’s a one-sided love affair for me these days when it comes to mating. Because everyone's understandably scared by an old man approaching the age of death. Which helps save my underlying vigor; I’m not at loose ends, not wasting my substance, but using it for the inner vigor, killing people with kindness and the force of ideas, not just looks. Any residual frustration I have, I invest it into corralling psychos and getting them help. I get a lot of laughs with some of the nurses, handling my cases with exaggerated kids' gloves. Like bloody murder just waiting to happen.

But, really, the best advice you can give another guy is, "Look before you leap, brother." And spell it out as clearly as you can without being a bore. Because sometime before that point you've already said too much. You have to just release them and know they'll misbehave, they must learn. These days are a lot looser, of course, which clearly makes things worse for them. Because at some level love partners actually want romance and restraint, not your bare-ass business dangling and bobbing and straining in their face. 

I won’t bore you with the language of romance. But if you don't get it, you're doomed to a life of skags, runny-nose cross-eyed kids, fights, divorce, estrangement, a bad reputation, and of course a persistent itch. You'll be tossing in bed, trying to sleep, but knowing you're not the only life-form in your body, and that's a huge mental weight. Itch leads to inflammation, which leads to burning, which leads to various back alley doctors, which leads to payday loans, stolen cars, and sleeping in a dumpster. With one eye open and a gun. Friends, before any of that happens, grow up, find a sweet girl and give her candy, meet the parents, take an interest in civic affairs, and be responsible.

I don’t envy anyone these days, kids or parents. Sometimes the parents are only about half grown up themselves. And the kids aren’t thought charming unless they’re in juvenile hall. There’s a whole different vibe these days, behavior up the wazoo, out the you know what (ass). Not happy unless they're underfoot, smarting off, flipping off their betters, opposed to morality, slandering the spirits above, spouting lies, burning flags, doing drugs in church, taking knees at football games, sleeping around, having kids out of wedlock younger than themselves, and putting up absolutely no fight in the fierce war against good values and basic primate sense.

What would I do with kids and their terrible behavior these days? First, arrest the parents. And once the bad influence was subdued, they’d have a better chance in an orphanage of growing up normal. That is to say, as far as doing the right thing, I’m not sure they really stand a chance. It can be tough to get in an orphanage. But get them there! Surround them with devils to tempt them but enormous warthogs to hold them back! And when they turn 18, they're a better person!

Moms and dads, love your kids, if it’s not too inconvenient. Or I will be over with the Psycho Squad, billing you for an expensive ambulance ride, more money for me and a lot more grief for you.

To All The Children I Never Sired

Today's one of those bittersweet moments for me, not quite sweet, not quite bitter. Certainly sweeter when I’m not thinking about it, and a lot more bitter when I’m not not thinking about it, which I am now.

It could just be something that goes with the holiday season. All the little rugrats that would’ve gotten their little gifts from me over the years are once again not looking at anything under the tree. My shopping list remains unchecked, for there aren't any to list. Little Bertha, Edna, Tommy, Daniel, Wally, Florence, and Red, they’ve never seen the light of day, let alone worried about their gifts. Damn! That hits me hard, especially Red and Edna, two names I’ve always had a thing for.

I probably should leave this article for some other time, some better time. But when would that time come? That’d be just like me, shunting aside the pain and refusing to address it. But aren’t the holidays a time when you should be happy and raise hell, party, and blow party horns? That’s what I should be doing instead, not lamenting my lack of horny output, ruing my paucity of progeny. So there’s no hell-raising this year, no partying, with my party horn already blown, the opportunities all gone.

That’s something to think about. Are my opportunities really gone? This isn’t like women, you know, whose biological clock’s batttery’s shot by the time they’re 40. I’m a full fledged male person, and I’ve at least heard we’re capable of shootin’ the moon well into our 70s. But when it happens at 65-70 it’s a sad accident. Old man has sex, then a stroke, in that order, but with the last ounce of his life-force manages to squeeze out little Rodney. Who grows up always questioning ‘why Papa doesn’t live with us,’ then learns the bitter truth and ends up in a home for perplexed kids, eventually featured in TV ads for that home, begging for just 63 cents a day so other kids won’t lack a dad. What would they do with the money raised but fix old guys like me?

I’m glad I used the name Rodney. Since I hate that name and would never name a kid Rodney. That gives me some comfort, some shelter from this feeling of dread, the dread of lost opportunities. I hope it gives me not just that one step, but 10 steps toward leaving this terrible funk! Maybe I could think of what people who have kids go through. Childhood illnesses, injuries, mistakes, crimes, desires, various resentments, the whole slate of life’s misfortunes.

I was downtown the other day and saw some random beady-eyed shrimpy kid tramp looking at me, like “I’m gonna steal your wallet, mister.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I got the hell out of there, and reported him as a malevolent street urchin. He should be in jail now, and it’s a pity if he isn’t. He’s definitely some stupid dad’s kid! At least I haven’t given life to such a creature! I’m a good person...

That’s a good way to get rid of the pain, Eureka! Balance it out, the pain of nothing, no wild honyocks to worry about, and by none I mean nil ... against the pain of actual flesh and blood duplicates, who’d likely as not have deep-seated resentments of their own, and be just the kind of willful little morons who'd take it out on me mentally and physically for giving them life, and I would’ve been done in by now. The way kids are, I'd be a goner. Why would they allow me to live to a ripe old age? I’d be dead. A corpse rotting away...

Happy holidays, everyone!

Impregnate Enough Women, You'll Pay

A guy told me the other day I was old, true story. It hit me hard, since I can’t see it in a mirror. And the guy’s a friend, whom I’ve backed up a bunch of times in the past, so I don’t think he’s lying. But he’s old, too.

His history’s an interesting one, which is coming out increasingly now that we have genetic testing and Facebook. A bunch of people looking for their roots with DNA have zeroed in on him as their actual father, and now they're trying to connect with him on Facebook. All this was a big surprise to his wife of 40+ years!

As for me, I’ve essentially been chaste over the years, so there’s zero kids showing up, and any that ever would would have to be frauds. In his case — I don’t know if his basic problem is the roving eye or simply the way his conscience shuts off after a couple beers — his claimants are not frauds. DNA’s a calling card you can’t deny.

So far he knows he has 56 secret kids. Several of these he’s known of for years, since a bunch of the women were from this area. Others aren’t known at all. But he's had hookups at Silage City for years. He and I used to camp at Silage Lake, and he was always going out for "midnight walks," leaving me alone in the tent with room to spread out.

“Why don't you use a rubber?” I'd ask when he confessed his walk had an amorous end. “It cramps my style,” he’d say, along with a bunch of other excuses about passion at its highest can’t be ruined. I have to say — brag a little about myself — my Sunday School upbringing saved me a lot, both on rubbers at the time and on newfound relatives of the engendered sort showing up unexpectedly. There aren’t any!

OK, as for his wife, naturally she’s pissed. If this doesn’t kill her, nothing will. So far she’s still alive, so now he’s stuck with her and her fabled bad temper forever. She might take the house if they split. But I don’t see an old guy and an old woman splitting up. They have too many accounts, Social Security, various insurance payments coming in in common to screw with it.

If she asks my opinion, I’m not going to back off my condemnation of Ralph for living a completely profligate way. Is he a nice guy? Yes. Is he a bastard? He can be, and more so than most. But should the wife be surprised? I don’t think so. She knows how horny he is and how he’d come home from a camping trip totally sated. Can’t tell me she wasn’t putting 2 + 2 together. Not suspecting me, of course; my morals are widely known throughout the Midwest. You see my license plate CHASTE and you know I'm much better than most.

I might have a talk with her. The best way to put big numbers in context and minimize them is to use bigger numbers. Yes, he fathered 56 children, but it wasn’t 156 or 256 or even 356. If he had 356 kids with other women, imagine how so completely horrendous that’d be compared to a minuscule 56. You have 356 kids, you may as well just go for 400. Or a complete ream, 500. That’d be sinful in anyone’s opinion. But impressive in terms of world records.

I’m glad his problems aren’t mine. The wife's always on his case, and all these kids are reaching out to him, even making a Facebook group, "The Known Children of Ralph B—". Chastity’s the best policy, if you can manage it.

Easter Bunnies -- Get Free Sugar

Money’s been tight chez Slump. But the Good Lord above keeps me in His thoughts. Right in the nick of time He scheduled Easter to occur. You never know when it's going to be, but it's always about the same time as the Easter craft sale at the shopping center. As if by design.

Tossing and turning one night, I had an idea to increase sales of my bunnies, based on something my grandma used to say, “Give Grandma a little sugar.” Kiss her cheek and everything was right with the world. Then there was Grandpa, who always told us sugar was the key to good commerce: “You can sell anything with sugar on it!”

But since they died, the world’s been wracked with diabetic fits; everyone I know except me gets them. The neighbor guy, he has diabetic fits so bad there's a special fence around his yard to set off an alarm if sugar is near. If he even hears of sugar in the neighborhood — picture a kid a mile away with a Kool-Aid stand — he goes to his 1950s fallout shelter. Authentically stocked in every way, old vaccines, canned meat, and pith helmets for his family, who by now are grown and moved away or dead.

Anyway, putting all the pieces together, and not sounding any alarms in the neighborhood, I did what would’ve been unthinkable in the old days — when craft sales were the universal craze and you had to beat the crowds back with threats of arrest and deportation — I sweetened the deal for customers. I bought several five-pound bags of sugar and was prepared to give away a spoonful of sugar with every bunny purchased.

I had to do something, because, face it, craft sales aren't what they used to be. They've more or less fallen into abject desuetude, am I right? While there’s still a few old dinosaurs like me trying to keep them going, basically it's no use. Why? Most of us blame the internet. Look at the evidence: You’d have to be pretty dumb not to realize you can make all the crafts you want right at home for a fraction of the price. The instructions for everything are right there. The only thing they can't fake is the deep love we dedicated crafters put into our product. Not one of my bunnies leaves me without knowing I'd never part with it for anything but money.

So I had the idea early yesterday: I would give away free sugar, a teaspoon of sugar with every sale. I tell you, it went great guns. I’d barely set up and a woman came over and was going nuts over the bunnies: “How cute! Have you named them? Where’d you ever get the idea?!” I figured she was toying with me, rubbing it in just before she set them down and vacated the premises. But, no, she was sincere and bought one! But it turned out she didn’t want the sugar. “Give mine to someone else.” She held her belly as if to say, either, “I’m still full from breakfast” or “This is where my diabetic demon dwells.”

To summarize the course of events. Right away, I sold around 15 bunnies and none of the ladies wanted the sugar! I thought it over: 1) More profits for me; 2) I can use the sugar myself; it’s found money; or, 3) I can use it as a promotion to get more people to my table. How best to do that? KIDS! I usually shoo kids away, since there’s no more natural thief or merchandise-breaker than a crummy kid. “Oh, we’re so innocent, we didn’t know the bunnies were for sale!” Or “They must be very poorly made to break so easily, I’m sure Johnny or Sally didn’t mean it! What have you got in them anyway, a quarter apiece?” Dadcrumb, sonofa buck'n, God! ... bless you...

So a kid gets within 10 feet of my table -- are you with me? -- and I'd call them over and get them admiring the bunnies. “Would you care for a free tablespoon of sugar?” This was like 20-25 kids, amazing since kids are more generally dumped by their parents at the arcade. And every kid wanted sugar! Which got me thinking back to my childhood ... If there was a scuzzy old man in the neighborhood giving away free sugar, we'd be there. We didn't care what he was up to.

The great thing about this is, It was a total success! Not only did moms come over and completely thank me for being such a generous goodhearted person for giving their kids free treats, they were buying bunnies to compensate me. More, more, more! Plus, it seemed that just having sugar at my table gave me a better reputation. You seem sweeter if you're seen with sugar! But what about giving sugar to kids without their mother’s permission? I believe it made them happier, since I assumed it'd be OK. And because I wasn’t putting pressure on them, trying to get them to buy a bunny in return. (I know my own parents would've appreciated all the free food anyone might randomly give us.) Which meant they bought bunnies out of their own free will, not as an expectation.

OK, let’s assume most of the kids will survive the sugar. I'm hoping for at least a 90% survival rate. Next year I’ll be giving away other loss leaders. Not just sugar, but sugary drinks, sugary candies, sugary cereal, whatever I can get my sweet little hands on! With a dish of prunes, let's say, just to be on the safe side, if diabetes rears its ugly head.

------------------------------------------

Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?
The Easter Craft Sale -- Post-Mortem

2014:
Shell-Shocked -- The Easter Craft Sale

When They Ring the Golden Bells

I'm getting very old, friends. I'm coming up on 65 as soon as my birthday rolls around, which in 2018 will be January 17. The older you get, if you're me, the more sentimental you get, and even weepy. I've heard of old guys going sentimentally crazy, and maybe I've thought that over so much I'm bringing it on subconsciously.

It doesn't help when people you know die. Just lost a cousin in the last week or so. And of course Mom and Dad, my grandparents, various friends, classmates, and pets have died over the years. It could be that I will live till 90. But will that be good? My life insurance guy called a couple months ago and assured me that he has my finances planned so I will have income till I'm 90. How about that? But since that's only 25 years from January, I have all new worries! Since the older you get, the faster time goes, 25 years in those terms is about a week and half. So in two measly weeks I'll be broke!

I've heard a lot of people on the internet say they don't appreciate hearing about religion. Frankly, I'm one of them, most of the time. The whole overly-sentimental approach to religion strikes me as bad. I'm not really leaning that way in my own practice. But I'm getting more sentimental. But here's how it works, I take a mystical approach to faith and have some gains in that pursuit. So every little thing -- a phrase, an old memory -- can trigger emotions or appreciation in that context, and, frankly, I about bust out bawling.

If you think back to your religious foundations, which for me was childhood, all those lessons are things I took to heart, and still have, filtering them through all my religious pursuits since. One of the songs that gets me is "When They Ring the Golden Bells." Savor verse 1:

There's a land beyond the river,
That we call the sweet forever,
And we only reach that shore by faith's decree;
One by one we'll gain the portals,
There to dwell with the immortals,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Then there's another whole dimension to it that I haven't even mentioned, involving a guy's untimely death!

Yes, I used to go to a lot of revival services. My parents thought it was good for me. Maybe you heard the story of Brother Tolbert Victory. Well, I was there. I saw him die, and was with him when he heard the golden bells. The service ended. I had gone forward for prayer. Tolbert's hair was like a wet mop. He was delirious with the spirit, OK? Delirious. He told me, his lips touching my ear, that I'd do great things for the Lord. I didn't ask what. He seemed to shudder, like a man in vision. Like he looked ahead and saw me doing great things, but he also saw things out ahead that weren't so good.

He told me -- he was looking around, like he didn't want anyone to hear the inside scoop -- that these great old songs that we loved, including "Brighten the Corner Where You Are," "The Hallelujah Side," "The Old-Fashioned Meeting," and "When They Ring the Golden Bells," were being forgotten, or even attacked. Even though we'd just sung them! He said he wanted me to keep 'em going as long as I could, insofar as I had it in me, and if I had the sense of commitment to the task and the unction straight from the Lord to get it done. (I didn't have it entirely; I felt like, you know, Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be. I was a realistic kid, but Victory was in such a fever I didn't poo-poo his spiritual burden.)

Then he said something I never thought I'd hear any man say. "If anything happens to me, this is all up to you!" Again, I was cool to the idea, not het up; I was a kid. A kid, I'm telling you. No man should lay that kind of grief on a kid. What was he talking about? I wasn't sure. But he sung for me the lyrics to the glorious last verse of "Golden Bells" and chorus:

When our days shall know their number,
When in death we sweetly slumber,
When the King commands the spirit to be free;
Nevermore with anguish laden,
We shall reach that lovely Aiden,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Don't you hear the bells now ringing?
Don't you hear the angels singing?
'Tis the glory hallelujah Jubilee.
In that far-off sweet forever,
Just beyond the shining river,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Brother Tolbert Victory exacted a solemn pledge from me, that I would be wary of the future and our rich spiritual heritage of the great songs. And if anything ever happened to him, that I would step forward in stolid vigilance in this regard. Which was extraordinarily hard in those pre-Spotify days.

OK, OK, I said, "If anything ever happens to you, fine, so let it be written, so let it be done. Six of one, half dozen of another. Lady Luck, don't fail me now. Hot-cha-cha-cha. Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

So I went to the basement for the post-revival refreshments, when literally five minutes later some kid comes running into the church, shrieking, screaming, that Brother Victory was hanging from one of the trees next to the driveway! We all rushed out -- my own orange soft drink being half spilled in the commotion -- to behold the lifeless body of that great man of God, unmistakably him, extra large brown baggy suit on a medium body, sweaty mop of hair and all.

They cut the man of God down and had everyone stand back. Maybe he could be revived. But it was no use. Brother Victory had reached that lovely Aiden. Unbelievable, I know, but every word is as good as gold. No one knew what to make of my own personal crazy response. I was beating on him -- this was before CPR -- and screaming, "I didn't think you would die in 5 minutes!" Now that I had taken an oath, etc.

Those years are way behind us now. It's been decades. I don't put much stock in the oaths we take when we're kids, or anytime really. "I'll be your best friend till the rivers all run dry," etc. Circumstances change. But I've done my best, nonetheless, which really isn't much. The songs haven't exactly been besieged by enemies. Occasionally there's a bad arrangement I haven't liked. But more or less, Brother Victory's fears about the songs was just paranoia. Religion's not under siege. When they tell you that, it's crazy talk. The churches are in large part spiritually bereft, yes, but there's more sociology involved there than willful sieges. It's laughable and something to cry for. Whited sepulchers aren't what they used to be, they're worse!

I started off above saying I get weepy, and that's all true. I was singing these songs today, driving along, trying not to bawl since I wasn't alone. And it took me back, way back, to that old church, and that night, and that great evangelist hanging in the tree. I can still see his body in my mind's eye. Dead as a door nail, yes, but his spirit already in that haven of tomorrow. What kind of joke was he playing, to get a promise from an impressionable kid like that, then to commit suicide without even going down for refreshments? The ladies made those things for our enjoyment. They weren't expecting the evangelist, of all people, to kill the revival.

The second verse is very good, refreshingly tear-jerking for me:

We shall know no sin nor sorrow,
In that haven of tomorrow,
When our barque shall sail beyond the silver sea;
We shall only know the blessing
Of our Father's sweet caressing,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

You mess with that song, brother, you're messing with me.

I Could've Been A Gynecologist

Sometimes I really rue the choices I made in life. No one was especially gung ho and on me about making career choices. Grandpa would see me doing some stupid thing, like letting crawdads clamp on to a leaf, then pick them up in midair and watch them dangle, and basically laugh himself sick. Then we'd go to bed and the day was shot. No one was in my face, going, "Whatcha gonna be? Gotta make a choice real soon. Or you'll be standing on street corners, a public disgrace."

After I grew up and now that I'm old, it seems I have all kinds of ability to look back and say, "What if?" What if I'd just applied myself toward one damned thing, then launched out on a career specializing in that thing, my name on the side of the building, the building getting progressively bigger as I added on offices and waiting rooms and lounges, with assistants and cohorts running around, ducking in and out, barely seen by patients, but working feverishly behind the scenes with excellent ethics?

The thing that popped into my head today, accompanied by the usual regrets, was I could've been a gynecologist. That would've been darned interesting. And a great conversation starter as I grew up, if only I had known about them back then, the need for them, the terminology to discuss it with, and so on. As it was, I barely knew there was a difference between boys and girls till I was about 7-8. Of course I knew there were moms and dads, I'm not going to say I was completely oblivious. But that's about it.

Then I grew up and saw an occasional something here and there, whatever. But I don't know if you know about girlie magazines in the '60s. They didn't show anything very much, not like they do now. You can search at archive.org for Adam magazines* and see what they were like. Breasts and bottoms, that's it. I remember conversations with other boys (cousins) to the effect of "Why don't they ever show [boy's terminology omitted]?" And the answer was always some variation of this: "I don't know, must be something wrong with them."

But what if, in spite of all that, I had had parents and grandparents who ran by me all kinds of interesting career choices that didn't involve gas stations and motel laundry? Such as, "How about this, Denny, a gynecologist!" Then they'd explain to me what a gynecologist is, etc., and I'm enthralled by the service I could perform, fully professional, fully educated, fully honorable and ethical, knowledgeable, personable, just an unbelievable kid with real ideals about gynecology.

Teachers would be all like, "What have we here? A future gynecologist?" The newspapers would come around to run an article about "Local Kid Excels At National Gynecological Fair." My parents would be passing out cigars, knowing Grandma and Mom and my Aunts and their Friends are going to have lifetime discounts, with a family member serving them, completely taking away all the embarrassment they might otherwise have experienced. But as it was, if they ever went to a gyno they never said anything about it to me.

But how cool would it have been? Very cool. I buzz through school. I get scholarships. I go through college, pre-med, intermediate med, the study of the human body, the reproductive system, the difference between boys and girls, the whole ball of wax. Then I hang my shingle out, Denny the Gynecologist. I get a reputation as stated above, ending up like redeemed Scrooge, the best gynecologist that old town had ever seen, or any old town had ever seen, in any old country that there ever was or could ever be.

I take on a staff, a receptionist (offering her discounts, him discounts if he's conventionally married, or discounts for their mothers if it's two men, etc.), associates, gofers. Then like the SimDoctor game, the patients start flowing in, getting their yearly checkups, monthlies as needed, and what-all I don't even know. I've never been to a gynecologist's office. Remember, this is all a fantasy of what could've been.

-------
*One of my cousins died approximately a week ago, in real life. He was five years older than I. Somehow his parents allowed him to have a stash of girlie magazines in his room. I guess they allowed him. They didn't seem to be hidden under the mattress. One of the main titles he had was Adam, which you indeed can find at archive.org. I always wished I had a stash of these myself. But when you look at them at archive.org, though, you'll notice, What piss-poor girlie magazines they had back then! Anyway, RIP to my cousin. We weren't extremely close, but got together once in a while as kids. I saw him at my mom's funeral a few years ago and he was very personable to me. 

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  

Lucent In The Sky With Demons

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #5

One man immediately believed my word that I was the Golden Child, my cousin Roto. I figured he would. We've been together over the years, especially as kids. "Yes," he said to me before the Coffee Club, "You are The Golden Child." As he declared this, others more readily fell in line, celebratory of the mission before us. So Roto tilled the soil for me, and now what a fantastic crop I hope shall come of this moment!

How well I remember the magical world Roto and I lived in as kids. Probably like all kids at play, when left to ourselves, we saw angels, devils, and various animal prodigies. I'll never forget one great Thanksgiving when we were about 10. Mom roasted us this gigantic firefly we'd caught, about the size of a 20-pound turkey. The thing was delicious, and the extra glow from his backside as the centerpiece made the holiday even more special.

Some of the coolest things we saw -- excluding fairies, gnomes, and trolls, everyday stuff -- was at this old mound of coal at his parents' place, my aunt and uncle. I'm still not sure why there was a mound of coal, but there always was, with soil that had blown in and green growth over it. My hand to heaven, we saw that mound become like a glistening mound of gold many times. Occasionally we beheld lights circling around the gold, with new age music emitted from somewhere, well before it was an official genre. We met with beings of lights so often we must've each worn out a dozen pair of sunglasses! Good times...

But the times weren't all good... Occasionally there was an enemy who'd rise up -- one with female qualities -- and terrify us. In psychoanalysis, I suppose she would be akin to an anima heart attack or a devouring mother figure. Like in Indian mythology, a mother who consumes her children. We usually ran away, but finally, having just smoked a homemade corn silk cigarette, I stood up to her with these words, "Whoa, back, Immortal Menace, thus far and no farther! Sheath thy fangs! And withdraw, for you have already eaten your children!"

You would've thought I'd touched her with an electric cattle prod, the way she reared back in terror and keen distress. She spun into the air like a souped-up comet; then in what can only be described as the overwhelming radiance of fire when it makes contact with piss and vinegar, she exploded across the night sky. If you look back in '60s history, that's the night many small planes went down across the country, obviously making it a sad time for their survivors.

We were kids. We didn't report our involvement. Anyway, who would've believed us? "Uhh, we were at the old coal mound, which belched forth hellish beings, including this one particularly menacing wraith. Piss and vinegar were involved, and that's all I know." On second thought, at least they would've had a lead. Instead, we were repeating to each other, in fear, "I didn't see anything, did you?" "No, I didn't see anything." We kept our silence until now, this very minute.

Now, back to today. With Roto's testimony backing me up as The Golden Child, I officially named him First Vice President in Charge of Disciple Affairs. Hopefully he'll be working up a sheet of membership benefits and donor classes, based on the different grades of light: Tea Candles for the Golden Child, Tapers for the Golden Child, Candelabras for the Golden Child, and so forth, all the way up to the more generous $10,000/month donors, Super Bowl Stadium Bank of Mega-Lights for the Golden Child.

Mama Don't Allow

Note: If you're concerned about the lyrics of modern songs, and the negative impact they can have on society and morals, this is the post for you. I also long for the good old days, long ago, when an occasional reference to "hoochie koo" was the worst you'd hear.  Even then, it went over most people's heads, thinking it had something to do with sneezing.

A song that really gets my goat is a country song called "Mama Don't Allow." The key thing in this song is that the instrumentalists in the band have a chance to show off their chops. Seems pleasant enough until you listen closely to the lyrics. In each case, it has to do with disobedience to Mama, as it is clearly stated that she doesn't allow whatever-it-is, the dobro, guitar, piano, etc.

Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
We're gonna pick our guitar anyhow.
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.

At which point the guitar picker joyously takes the instrumental break, and I turn it off. Because, in my opinion, that's shameful. If you're just wantonly going against your Mama's wishes, you're flirting with the destruction of society and life as we know it. In my opinion, Mama's will, her desires for us are only good. And whereas it might not be immediately clear to us why Mama would disallow guitar pickin', the piano, the dobro, fiddle, and all the rest, she must have a good reason; it's not necessarily for us to know.

For me, that's the policy that's going to get us furthest in life, accepting Mama's will whether we understand it or not. I firmly believe that. Was I ever disobedient to Mama? I actually was, and I lived to regret it! One day she caught me at the lake, playing with salamanders, when I was clearly told that I should never visit the lake by myself. She was angry, I'm sure, but since her whole concern was for my well-being, I know she was mostly relieved. I hadn't drowned nor suffered salamander poisoning, which was very bad that year.

From that moment on -- and I suffered terrible dreams of being dangled over the fires of hell -- I resolved to treat Mama's word like inviolate law. She said it, and whether her reasons were crystal clear to my feeble mind or entirely inscrutable, that's the way it was. Which policy, incidentally, led to me to be the clearheaded, mentally strong, entirely wise person you know so well today.

But too many people, I'm afraid to say, haven't had those experiences or dreams. And so they've never taken the vow. And these are some of the ones singing this vile song, "Mama Don't Allow." They think they're just having a "good time," laughing it up. Maybe their Mama was broken down in spirit, and kept to herself in the other room, and twiddled her thumbs. If she did, I'm sure she had her reason, worried that her children had somehow tragically slipped her grasp. The other Mamas held her up as an example of what not to do.

Of course I understand life, I understand how it goes. The very nature of music is it appears to grant greater freedom to the soul, which quickly veers off into some dangerous territories. Because if it's received by someone without sense and maturity, they can fall off the deep end just like that. Mama comes running in, her dress up around her face, crying her eyes red, but nothing can bring her children back. The transgression is accomplished, and the foundation of society, at least in miniature, has collapsed.

Somehow, tragically, to will the good is not just in us; it's tough to know the difference. Even Mama, I'm guessing, had to learn it somewhere, probably from her Mama. She knows boundaries are important, that you want to screen yourself off from what is negative. Just like she doesn't want you running in to expose yourself to dangerous viruses and bacteria, so she wants your mental condition to be kept safe.

So, next time you hear some jug band, or acoustic combo, going strong on "Mama Don't Allow," and they're giving you that big old stupid grin like they're enjoying themselves wantonly flaunting their disobedience -- going strong and confident on the dobro, piano, guitar, harmonica, bass, or even drums -- just withdraw from the scene and save yourself. If you can pull a person or two aside and tell them what's really going on, that would be good. But for Mama's sake, don't allow yourself to be pulled back in!

We want to get back to a righteous standard. And we need more Mamas speaking up to their children and loved ones before it's too late. That's my desire in life, now that my own Mama has passed on. I can still remember, of course, and, besides, I'm getting about old enough, music isn't much of a temptation at this point. I hear it from a distance and hobble the opposite direction just as fast as I can.

The Billionaire School Assembly

I'm pumping my fist, happy with my performance at the school's Billionaire Career Assembly. It was a panel of billionaires, me included, added to the panel at the last minute. I've only been rich a few days, so I wasn't even expecting to be invited. That said, I believe I scored the most points. I certainly landed more body blows. All in all, I did the best.

The first two old-timers were real snobs, refusing even to shake my hand. The third, a younger guy, was nice to me, shaking my hand, then using hand sanitizer. I asked to borrow it. He was gracious to lend it to me, but cleaned it on a handkerchief after I handed it back.

In the session, everyone was interested in how we became billionaires.

The first guy said he focused on getting a good education and kept very serious goals firmly in mind, working hard to be a success.

The second said he worked hard from the time of his first job out of school, saved his money, then invested with a partner and grew their business, hard but rewarding work all the way.

The third one's father died, leaving him as a 16-year-old boy to step in and guide the family company through tough times. He said it was extremely hard work, but he stuck to it and made it to the top.

That left me, without much of a back story: "Would you believe, I got lucky? I was selling Easter bunnies a couple of Saturdays ago, a billionaire happened to show up, and we hit it off as friends. He gave me a large sum of money. In addition to $2,000 for the bunnies, he gave me $2.1 billion just because he wanted to. My advice: Get lucky."

Later, in the Q & A session, one kid took me to task: "My dad says the billionaire's your boyfriend, and it's not just from luck that he gave you so much money. My dad says you 'work hard for your money.' Is that true?" I recognized the kid and I know his dad. I've seen the weasel at the park, "walking the path" as the denizens there call it. I answered him, "If your dad's who I think he is [and he had the same beady eyes and recessed chin], I'd say he's generally in a position to know about that. He speaks as a guy who himself 'works hard for what he gets'--"

Several teachers stepped in to prevent this line of questioning, chanting, "USA! USA! USA!" I raised my arms and called for silence, and promised I could handle the boy's question in a discrete way, while answering it completely. I added, "While it seems to me that teachers are so much younger than when I was a kid, it's interesting to see they haven't loosened up any more."

I then addressed the youngster's point: "But to your question, no, at this time I cannot say the billionaire is my boyfriend. He is a boy and he is my friend, which all of you can relate to, but he's not my boyfriend. That's as far as it goes! As far as me 'working hard for my money,' let me just say that's a filthy rumor and not even close to true. At the present time I sleep strictly alone. Or I should say, I sleep alone except for my checkbook, which is on the pillow next to me.

"Let the record show, the three other billionaires on this panel openly and brazenly confessed to 'working hard for their money,' so compared to them, I would say I'm quite the moral person. Whoever they may have had relations with, and how often, and whatever else may or may not have gone down in the privacy of their bedroom, motel room, or, yes, even the park, this is decidedly not the time or place to discuss it."

Of course each man had his own secrets and was quick to exit the stage as soon as the principal thanked the group. Off to more "hard work," presumably. I didn't follow them, so we'll never know the full disgusting story. It is, however, shameful that any of them were even considered for an event of this nature, exposing themselves and their tawdry pasts to our youngest and most vulnerable citizens. The innocence those kids have, that is something we must and we will maintain.

From this day forth, and forever, let those who would take advantage of their innocence know -- and in no uncertain terms -- the rest of us will not stand for it. Instead, together we will rise up, protecting one another, as well as our most cherished and honored traditions.

Several kids came down, asking for autographs on one dollar bills, fives, and anything else they had. A couple of the little bozos wanted autographs on college textbooks on Advanced Economics and the like.

Go Whole Hog!

My family's philosophy when I grew up was, Anything worth doing is worth doing whole hog. Go long, go deep, or go home. Lukewarm doesn't cut it, we'll spew you out of our mouth.

Now I'm old, and kids come to me for advice. (It's true, here and there you find stragglers.) And I tell them, much like Joseph Campbell's "Follow your bliss," whatever it is, go whole hog! They look at me, with doubt in their big innocent Walter Keane eyes. But I get a stern look on my face, and in my agitation point toward the door, snarling, "Now!"

I've been going whole hog all my life, and except for the dangers of always being ALL IN, it's been a fairly good ride.

But, let me say, I used to have a secret grudge against some in my family. Even though we believed in going whole hog -- and this is literal -- I'd still catch them buying half an animal. Know what I mean? That's one of three things: Shortsightedness, absentmindedness, or hypocrisy. I don't think it was hypocrisy, because they still went whole hog in everything else.

I'd think, "What's the use of buying half a hog or beef? Especially if it means letting the other half go to waste. Buy the whole thing!" And lockers back then were meant to handle the whole thing. These were people who went through the Depression. When times were good they built meat lockers like you wouldn't believe, the size of football fields.

In more recent years, though, as you'd probably guess, some of our sicklier friends stopped eating vast quantities of meat, and that didn't help. Guys at the locker threw up their hands and went out of business. The enormous freezer units were pulled out -- electricity also went up, taxes went up on the larger buildings, etc. Leading me to one conclusion: Life is nothing but a big conspiracy to screw us out of decent sized meat lockers.

There were still folks who needed lockers -- thank God -- but they had to do with smaller ones. My family, I regret to repeat, had a part in this devolution, buying half an animal when a full animal would've been better.

You never know what your actions might be if you don't go whole hog. But I've seen it happen. That's one of the benefits of old age. The wisdom of going whole hog. The chief detriment is they think you're crazy, depriving themselves.

A long-haired (bald on top) guy marches around the square with a protest sign, "Buy the whole animal." But across the lawn, a bunch of PETA women are stripped naked and painted like tigers. You tell me, who draws the crowd? The old man can do nothing but go home in tears. That, and prepare himself for even smaller lockers. Tell you what I'll do, I'll double down on buying personal freezers, energy crisis be damned!

Sorry I went on and on about it. There's very few things I care passionately about; meat lockers just happens to be one of them.

Anyway, people come to me. And that's what I say, Go whole hog. The ironic thing is, I myself have never ventured very far from my old comfort zone. But when I chose this path, I went whole hog. And so here I've been, in my comfort zone, at my grandparents' old place, vegetating and chilling, chilling and vegetating, but always doing it, strictly, whole hog.

The Slovenly Family

There was a slovenly woman who had a slovenly husband, and they lived in a house that was also slovenly. They had a slovenly dog, upset that there was very little to mess up.

They had three slovenly friends who often dropped by. One spat, one drooled, and one regurgitated.

The family's slovenly dog would carry out his food and drop it in the mess. The slovenly wife saw it all and burped, worth her weight in garbage. The slovenly husband listened to her burp and also managed an emission.

The slovenly husband often thought, "Why are we living like this, so slovenly?" He said to his slovenly wife, "We could do better. We're careful enough to keep our popsicles cold in the fridge, the wrappers could go in the can, not on the floor." But that passed.

The three slovenly friends came over, one spitting and one drooling. All eyes were on the third, who had a sudden look of queasiness. It couldn't be long now, and ... there it is, a recent bite regurgitated. The slovenly dog was happy.

The slovenly wife felt the need to burp and scratch. Being so slovenly, she scratched so much that when she wasn't scratching, she was burping. She dismissed her slovenly husband's question with a shrug, tossing a popsicle wrapper to the floor, burping and scratching as well. Bugs were afraid to land on her.

Their TV was always on, also a slovenly mess. The slovenly dog chewed the remote, so it was stuck on one channel. All its colors were drained, so the flickering picture was forever green. Once a green cartoon was clear, causing one friend to spit with happiness, the second to drool with joy, and the third to lose his lunch.

One day, the slovenly house, having lost its will to remain, collapsed around them. The slovenly family and friends sat in the open air, burping, scratching, spitting, drooling, and regurgitating. The dog ran to the bush and peed. A powerful wind stirred and blew the house clean of popsicle wrappers.

And there the slovenly family sits, to this day, hoping against hope for whatever.

Louis Pasteur -- The Enemy of Kids

Today I am speaking up for all the kids in the world -- past and present -- who hate milk, and who are therefore sorry Louis Pasteur was ever born. I myself wouldn't go that far. I refuse to believe our lives are set in advance, and so I believe Pasteur could have actually done something useful with his life. The fact that he became the one to work out a way to "pasteurize" milk, thereby drastically reducing bacteria and making it safe to drink, is unfortunate, but still not enough for me to rue his existence.

I know how kids feel, though, and so I won't say much more, not wanting them to turn against me and feel sorry that I myself was ever born. As you know, kids have always been mean little bastards -- even fighting among themselves! -- and are not known to appreciate the nuance of any argument. Either you're for them or against them, and they easily see through any facade, any kind of kissing up or trying to pull the wool over their eyes. In this case, however, I said what I said, and I hope that they will somehow, by some miracle, be able to understand my benign intent. Pasteur was evil, yes, but his life had the potential for good.

The weird irony in this whole matter, as I understand it, is that Pasteur as a kid himself wasn't a milk-drinker. I'm more or less pulling this from thin air, but think about it... If the milk wasn't pasteurized and therefore rife with bacteria, it stands to reason that his parents wouldn't have wanted him drinking it. Of course they knew he was Louis Pasteur, but because he hadn't as yet made any stirrings toward discovering his process, they are forgiven for not knowing he ever would. We're very forgiving because they were blissfully ignorant the entire time.

And "pasteurization" might not even have applied to milk! When I was young I heard it bandied about that all Pasteur wanted was to become famous for something. He wanted the word "pasteurization" to mean something, to be descriptive of some process, any process that he might come up with. For that reason, he was often at his drawing board.

One of his interests was magic; he wanted to become a famous magician, doing all the usual feats: card tricks, levitation, escapes, and invisibility. He thought his invisibility process in particular might be called "pasteurization." He worked out a great process by which he could vanish. But since he could only get his body to disappear, his head remained and appeared to float around town for weeks after performances, an embarrassing failure.

Back to the drawing board, he developed a system for communicating with aliens in space. This is true. And this was also something he was going to call "pasteurization." But this was a terrible failure as well, because aliens love milk. See where this is going? Millions of aliens came to earth, drank our bacteria-ridden milk and died. Hence the world suffered Intergalactic War I, II, and III, and we almost strapped Pasteur to a rocket and shot him into space, á la Jonah. The upside of these disastrous wars, in addition to corporate profits, was Pasteur's pursuit of a way to purify milk ... and redeem himself.

This, then, is how he was finally able to use the word "pasteurization" in at least a semi-productive way. But everything comes with a downside -- milk wasn't restricted to aliens -- and so we're back where we began: Louis Pasteur became the sworn enemy of children everywhere, making their lives a miserable experience, a living hell, by having to drink milk.

It's still true: Milk is for aliens and babies, not big kids.

Take the Thanksgiving Pledge: I Shall Shop!

I'm up in arms this year, as I understand there are various ones agitating for businesses to be closed on Thanksgiving. Of course this is just more of the same, the undercutting that we've unfortunately come to expect of our valued American traditions. Apparently their philosophy goes something along these lines, Anything old and established needs to give way to something new, something modern. And so it is, they want something different simply for the sake of being different.

Like I said, I'm up in arms about it and I'm not going to take it lying down. I'm fighting back. By making a pledge, along with a warning to businesses, that I will be shopping on Thanksgiving, as always. With the warning that if any store is not open on Thanksgiving, I will never return there. And that's a biggie, because I'm totally hooked on shopping, and it might be tough for me to keep that particular codicil. Still, surely there will be thousands joining me whose discipline in that regard might be stronger. Plus, just issuing the warning, stated as strongly as it is, will give businesses pause about daring to close on Thanksgiving.

I don't know exactly where all this trouble started, but if I had the resources it'd be interesting to trace it and find out precisely who is to blame. It could be the employees of the big stores and shopping centers who are merely lazy and looking for a way to take the day off. Laziness is epidemic, as we all know. I know some kids, for example, who don't have a single muscle on their skinny little bodies. All they do is vegetate on couches, sometimes mustering up the strength to play video games for a few minutes before collapsing. You figure they have parents, and that some of those parents work at these stores. They're jealous of their kid's lethargy and dissipation, so they want a day off.

What I actually think, those I believe are probably responsible, are all the bleeding hearts on Facebook. You see their posts all the time. They're sentimental about every puppy, every kitten, every dying horse, every selfie their idiot kid comes up with, every Bible verse, every "witty" saying, along with cartoons of little old ladies saying ironic things that undercut their dignity, etc. Of course they've gone soft. Then there's grandchildren, and we all do love our families. But instead of taking the day off, that's a huge reason why I'm calling us back to our senses. Don't do away with Thanksgiving shopping! Your kids are depending on you!

I used to listen to my grandparents as they reminisced about the old days. Which would've been the 1920s and '30s. They got married in 1920. It's kind of funny, but the little old town Grandpa came from had only one general store. If they didn't have it at the general store they didn't need it! Anyway, that little store was run by some funny little man who spent a whole hour just lighting the stove. The rest of the time he was waiting on customers. As long as there was a dime to be made, he was there. And it's a good thing he stayed open on Thanksgiving, because that was the big shopping day back then. It took them a week to get there, and he'd better be open! And kids had muscles, too, not like today...

I venture to guess that today's kids have never heard a story like that. Everything today's so confused they don't know what to believe. So someone like me, who does know the traditions, and does value our past, has to spell it out, as I'm doing here. Whether they read my blog -- or even know how to read -- these are things I don't know. It could be I'm merely pissing into the wind with my words, but piss I will! As long as I have breath...

I hope everyone has Happy Holidays this year, and that you get your holiday shopping done, as it should be done, right away, bright and early Thanksgiving Day. Let me wish you all the best for a splendid and blessed Thanksgiving, as you accomplish your shopping, then gather to do ... whatever ... fatten up the little skeletons on your couch playing games ... introduce them to a turkey leg, and bring them back from vegetarianism and let them eat like healthy people. Meat, potatoes, and meat.

Happy Thanksgiving shopping!

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Lest any of this seems obscure, like you're reading this in the year 2034, when common sense has returned to mankind, the above graphic comments on the following graphic that's made its viral way around Facebook: