Trash-Talking The Sun

I got on this kick against the sun a few years ago, after a friend and I were airing our grievances about life. He thought he was big and tough because he personally hated nearly everything, asparagus, broccoli, elephants, and pinochle. At that time I had a few of the ordinary grievances to match him -- decks of cards missing the jokers, squash, reruns, and anyone named Lipfshitz. There's something wrong there.

In terms of who hated stuff the most, it was fairly even. Till I pulled out the wildcard, which was, "Despite our many years of deep, warm friendship -- we've been there for each other through thick and thin, good times and bad, trouble and blessing -- I've come to a conclusion that I feel it's safe to announce -- to confess, if you will -- that I think YOU suck, and probably always have. We became 'friends,' of a sort. But there was always something about you that stuck in my craw. Now I've dislodged it and can tell you without further explanation or equivocation, that, as of this moment (and probably at some level for the whole time I've known you), I hate you." He took back his little stack of DVDs, he dropped off my pup tent, and that's been it. Giving me another reason to despise squash, because it's his favorite food -- his mom still makes her old recipe on his birthday, I've heard.

After I lost his friendship, you could say I spiraled out of control. Like a pinball in a pinball machine -- that's an accurate image -- I bounced from one thing to another, never able to settle on any one thing. With a hatred of life in general so vast, so profound, so definitely spelled out that even the sight-deprived could read it clearly. There were interventions, attempted, all of which I rejected, by then acting in complete spite, but digging my own ditch deeper and deeper yet, till I was so deep and alone all I could glimpse was sunlight itself. Showing nothing, illuminating nothing, except the walls of that trench, or ditch, if you will.

There in the ditch, trench, or pit -- it was sort of like the pictures you see from World War I, men in a ditch, trench, pit, or hole. Doing whatever. Well, guess what. Looking at the sunlight, I came to hate it too. It'd pass overhead quickly, but slowly enough that I could shake my fist and essentially tell it it had low marks in my book. I'd see it in the summer months more, in the winter months not as much. It started my thought processes to make sense of it. What's supposedly 'bigger and badder' than the sun?; we've all heard that. But it couldn't hold its own against winter?

Now I had something bigger to hate, the stinking sun. And I let it know. In no uncertain terms. Don't get on my bad side or you'll live to regret it. Everyday I had another complaint. "You're the almighty sun, but you can't dispel a few clouds on earth?" "You're the sun, but what? You feel like burning us to a crisp? Well, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And you've got a day of judgment a'coming, and we'll deal with you!"

Just think it over. You could probably add your own jibes against the sun. Did it burn you when you were a kid, when you didn't know any better? I remember one of my cousins getting such a sunburn, it was terrible. Then he told his parents that he'd had his shirt on all day. They couldn't figure out what happened, since he never lied, they thought. But his butt wasn't burnt at all. So they thought the cloth on his shirts must have been at fault. So they made all of his clothes out of underpants and threw away the others. He never burnt again. They hated the sun because of all the trouble it put them through. And my cousin was no fan of underpants, so he also hated the sun.

Anyway, back to me in my trench or gutter, whetting my appetite for insults when I perceived the sun was nearly overhead: "Somehow you also give night and day on Pluto, a totally worthless task since scientists tell us the chances of life on Pluto are less than one in a million!" I gave it a left jab, a right hook, insults literally to beat the band, and I kept right on punching -- usually connecting, sometimes flailing and missing -- until the sun got the message: "You no good, buster," and after that it quit coming around (Good!), and I've found I still have all the light I need with light bulbs, candles, and my phone.

Joining Westboro for the Traveling

I got this idea as soon as I heard the Westboro Baptist Church was picketing the funeral of former Speaker of the House Tom Foley.

(My first thought was Tom Who?, since my brain doesn't work with the same efficiency that it did years ago. Then I scoured my memory banks and finally came up with a hint of recognition at the name.)

It was that -- exactly that -- the obscurity of Tom Foley, that made me think, Maybe I should join them and get in on all the traveling. I never do anything but stay home, while these people are all over the country and maybe abroad.

Plus, it'd be kind of fun, a growth experience. I normally treasure it when people like me. But everyone's become so selfish these days they don't really like anyone, just themselves. That leaves an insecure guy like me wondering What's wrong with me? Till I think a little more and come up with the answer: People hating you is really the same as people liking you; it's attention; they LIKE you while hating you because they're getting a kick out of your existence. Follow that? It's basic Psychology Today 101. Not only will people love me if I'm carrying a picket sign proclaiming God's hatred for them, but I'll be able to travel ... and love myself more!

So you can picture me at Westboro Central. We're scanning the papers, looking to see if any two-bit historical figures have died. Or someone's shot up a school. Or a hurricane's happened. Or the price of rice has gone up in Japan. Something! Anything! It's been two long weeks since I was a thousand miles from home! Ahh, here it is: TOM FOLEY IS DEAD! The less-intelligent members of WBC go, "Who?" But pretty soon we're all on the same page, with me casting the deciding vote: "Yes! We go to Washington, D.C.!" (We honestly ought to be protesting Lou Reed's funeral. He's a rock God, which the actual God has to hate.)

In Washington, since I'm at heart a very responsible person, I hold the protest sign, even if it's only for 30 seconds, then duck out to take in the historical sites, including the newest statue showing the Republicans not only shutting down the government but helping reopen the World War II memorial they closed for the PR. I check out all the great places, including Ford Theater, where God showed his hatred for the end of slavery by killing Abraham Lincoln.

Back in Topeka, a few weeks have gone by. A kid in Kansas City was expelled from school for a Jesus tattoo on his forehead. But I don't feel like traveling to Kansas City (big whoop!), so I vote no on that. And there's a few other close-by places. The governor's poll numbers are slightly down because God hates the price of tea in China, but if you live in Topeka obviously it's no fun to stay in Topeka, so we all vote no.

I suddenly come up with a good one. France! I've always wanted to go to Paris, so I photoshop a fake newspaper article, "Homosexual Man Discovered in Paris." Which is plausible; if they have them at the Vatican, you realistically could find one anywhere. Out with the signs! I've got a free trip to France! Where we search high and low and never find the guy. But to make it worthwhile, we march around the Eiffel Tower, hoping against hope that it might fall down, helping to make our case. Again, I only protest for about 30 seconds, then I'm off to eat at the French McDonald's and get coffee at the French Starbucks.

The Last Will And Testament Of Edgar D. Scuzworth

We're almost to Halloween once again, which always reminds me of the same thing, the kids of this one town getting their costumes and candy. Because they had a real champion in Edgar D. Scuzworth, of blessed memory.

But of course it would've never happened had his family treated him right. I feel like calling them a bunch of dirty names, and maybe you can guess what they'd be, but since there's a good chance the kids will be reading this, I'll just call them idiots, morons, and goofballs.

In my opinion, it'd completely idiotic if you're in for a big inheritance but then you're not patient with the person who is your benefactor, even to the point of wishing him dead, or worse, trying to hasten his death. Some of the idiots, morons, and goofballs thought they could speed it along, then get their grubby hands on his fortune, a considerable fortune ... of exactly $80,000,000.06. That's right, $80 million and change!

Of course it's always best to love our loved ones, money or not, but that very elementary, common sense concept had eluded Mr. Scuzworth's family. There was his crummy daughter, his terrible son, and his hateful wife. But it's not like he didn't see it coming. A guy with his brainpower -- he was very smart -- knows what's going on. He was smart enough himself when his father died to get the fortune, old money, from the famous Scuzworth Tire Company of the 1930s.

Mr. Scuzworth took care of the money over the years, he didn't waste it. He took out enough to live on and that was it. I think that's smart, except it created resentment in his family. His crummy daughter always thought she needed more, his terrible son was never content with his pittance of an allowance, and his hateful wife hated him for his frugality. She wanted to dress like the other society ladies. La-dee-dah! And that's the way it went all the way up to the time Mr. Scuzworth got sick and was about to die.

Well, to make a long story somewhat shorter, a necessity in this day of short attention spans, when people would rather have their stories short and pithy, even to the point of leaving out vital information, such as the various murderous intrigues and plots the family concocted to kill the old man off, interesting to me if not you, at some point he wrote out his "Last Will and Testament."

So there they were, Crummy, Terrible, and Hateful, gathered for the reading of the will. (His death was painful and tumultuous so I shudder to describe it.) The old family retainer, so old he had dust on his toupee, read it in his slow, halting voice.

To my loving daughter, who has wished me dead for years, I leave the grand total of two cents.

To my loving son, who has always been spiteful and had it in for me, I leave the grand total of two cents.

And to my loving wife, who stayed with me through thick and thin, always thinking I might die more quickly and leave her the family fortune, I leave the grand total of two cents.

So, you see, that takes care of the six cents. But the real shocker was what he bequeathed to the children of the town:

To the children of the town, I will that $80 million be kept in trust, so that to perpetuity they can have a great Halloween. The money will be paid out annually to Halloween stores to keep the children in good costumes and well-equipped in other ways to have a great holiday.

Pretty cool, huh? Apparently he had one joy in life, since his own kids were so bad, and that was the kids who came around at Halloween for Trick or Treat. They were scared to death of him, being a scary looking old guy, and he liked that. And so it is, to this day, the little town has about 40 Halloween stores that set up for two or three months a year. With around 200 kids in town, the stores, to get the money, really load them up with costumes.

They also have Scuzworth Days, including a big parade of the kids in their costumes, financed by the Halloween stores, who then write it off their taxes.

What happened to his hateful son, his crummy wife, and his terrible daughter? Suicide, boom, boom, boom!