A Bull of Attainder

Part 17 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

The first case I know of a guy being chased downhill by a bull was with a guy we called Judge. Judge was a judge, which you can probably tell by his stupid dumpy look. And, speaking of bulls, he might pass on a bull of attainder — sounds highly technical — which was a summons from the judge one step up, as much as saying, “I’m the judge one step up and you will do as I say, and if you don’t, we’ll get the judge one step up from me and he'll make you.” It’s like kids double-dog daring, triple-dog daring, and if that doesn’t work, just going full bull, at which point the opponent is gored and leaks when he's out swimming, blood out, stagnant water infecting the wound in.

Essentially this is the stuff they teach you the first day of law school, right after clearing up the point about No. 2 pencils being preferred to other numbers. The computer needs it that way when it reads your essays and reports. It’s been a while since I applied for law school and was rejected because of outstanding parking fines. Memo to any kids out there, make sure you’re up to date on licensing your cars, dogs, and if you’re married to a beautician, her certification. Or they’ll issue a bull of attainder and you’ll be working that punch press at the factory for life. Until you lose a hand and your reason for living.

Anyway, back then the Judge naturally had to hand-deliver the various bulls he was in charge of. And that meant going there fully looking the part, keeping his Judge costume on everywhere he went. He'd be at your door, your barn, your garage, the other out-buildings, the fishing hole if you were down there. And up and down every field between there and the county line if that’s what it took! These rural areas, don’t look on your phone to find your way around; you're either born there or you're lost. If you were born there there’s no mystery at all — or if you’ve been out there hunting over the years. Then you just look at the back of your hand and you're there.

So there goes the Judge, proud of his get-up and the respect he instantly commands by his great role in society. He inspires fear, trepidation, and envy. Personally I wouldn’t want a son or daughter who was a judge. It's like this, I’m such an egalitarian guy I wouldn’t want any favors from my kin, because others would then be jealous and hold a grudge. But with my perpetual good cheer, they’d still think I was getting favors and hold it against me. They’d be right in my face, barking, “Why don’t you ever get any bulls of attainder?” And the true answer would be, “I take care of my affairs as I go, so I’m never in arrears.” They’d be nodding their head, their eyes rolled back and their mouth indicating they still think I’m getting favors from my kid.

And when you call a man a liar in those areas of the country, that’s as good as wishing for your own death sentence. I might issue a bull of my own, a bull to chase you downhill, kind of like the one that got free and chased the Judge downhill. Something Judge never did much of was exercise. So it was his own fault that the bull easily caught up with him and … That was a bull of attainder, easily attaining enough speed to gore the Judge straight through. A fitting sentence.

An Official Tax Write-off Post

We're almost at the end of the year. And for the most part my blog has been inactive for a number of months. Which, according to sources, puts me in a rather precarious tax situation that, frankly, I would rather avoid.

My tax guy, Jeremy, the same guy who gives me most of my life counsel, including quite a bit of bad stuff, but mixed with much good, looked into blog law going back roughly to the 1600s. To be more accurate, blog law at that time was mixed in with newspaper law -- I'm trying not to be too arcane. Columnists at that time, then through the centuries since, were the same as bloggers, and newspapers came into full compliance with tax restrictions by writing "An Official Tax Write-off Post." That's what this is.

Jeremy counseled me to be more diligent in 2016 with my posts. If you post the bare minimum, the exact figure of which he doesn't know, presumably something between 1 and 31, you can get away with more. The officials will overlook a lot if they see some actual effort's being made. That effort, and keeping your nose clean in general, turns them away, smooths official ruffled feathers, and your tax bill is usually nullified. Think of it as Passover, he said. Objectively there's nothing sacred about animal blood, but if that's what they ask for, that's what you give.

Times being what they are, of course, and blogs having nothing to do with religion, once the force behind the most typical tax poobahs discerns an effort, that's when they lower their metaphorical guns of attention. I'm not saying anything that most people driven by instinct don't know. You might sweat out getting any particular task done if you aren't compelled, but once that compulsion is there, it's an imperative. Look at me right now! I'm fluent! And, honestly, I haven't been able even to whisper for the last month. I'm desperate to set the record straight.

I may as well say it, I've been down. I even qualified for a home health nurse to visit my house a couple times a week. I ate most of the sandwiches they gave me if I took it slow, but would only blow bubbles in the soup. Again, on the advice of Jeremy, to keep them coming. To put it bluntly, I've been virtually comatose, a few times to the point of twitching and babbling and messing. Not pretty. Cindy my Nurse tried to keep Jeremy out, but he came in through the bathroom window when she was out for a smoke.  And told me, It's the end of the year! The taxman draweth nigh! I roused, "How nigh?" He blurted out, "Like a wolf at the door!"

That was this morning. Since then I've been fighting with my occupational therapist, "I've got to get to the damned computer!" She protested, leading me to cry and kick and bluster, and mess myself again. Here it is now, early to mid afternoon, and I'm stuck! If the taxman was drawing nigh this morning, like a wolf at the door, what's he doing now? He might be out of control, looking for someone to destroy. And if I lose everything, I'll never make it. I need this house. It's winter. I can't be out in the cold, I'll die.

So there you have it. I don't want to be here, that's for sure. I don't want to spill my guts like this, for the gawking eyes of an ungrateful public. Hell with it, I say! What business is it of anyone, my travails? It's no one's business...

Thus I hath begun, and thus hath been published, and thus hath ended My Official Tax Write-off Post.

A Willing Man for Dillingham

I generally don't like the political season, with all the false accusations and negative spin the candidates lambast their opponents with. I hit the mute button I'll bet 200 times, since TV becomes even more a cesspool than it usually is. But once the election's over peace and harmony return, and the bastards are gone for another couple years.

The only candidate I really like -- an institution since my 30s -- is Sheriff True Dillingham. He was up for reelection this year, and of course it was a foregone conclusion that he'd win. With the same great campaign he's run since his first try, the "Willing Man" theme. It's his brand, as beloved in these parts as Smith Bros. cough drops or Elsie the Cow. Obviously, I'm a willing man for Dillingham! I hope you are too!

The usual assortment of buttons, posters, and stickers were all over the county, asking the question that really only has one answer, "Are you a willing man for Dillingham?" Most guys who know their stuff -- and zip it up everyday -- proclaim a hearty and hale "Yes!" I suppose there has to be a few guys against him, like the sacrificial lamb the other party runs and his few supporters, stragglers from the truth, head-butters against the inevitable.

I regret to say Grandpa never lived in the Dillingham years. He would've loved him. Being a manly kind of guy. Grandpa was always tickled by macho stuff, often times striking out in a colorful string of obscenities and profane put-downs against anyone who saw it differently. I guess I got a lot of that from him. Dillingham's a man from the same mold as Grandpa, although he obviously keeps it cleaner, having more supporters looking up to him, including women.

We've had such good sheriffing from Dillingham that the women generally look up to him even more than the men! But their devotion is kept very demure -- and much of their guidance comes from the campaign -- as they declare their allegiance. For the men it's, "I'm a willing man for Dillingham," but for the women it's, "I'm a willing woman for Mrs. Dillingham." I like that, I really do, everything in its appropriate place.

Women aren't left out of declaring for Dillingham himself, if they choose, but most see no reason to cross boundaries unnecessarily or call into question the nature of their support. They're quite happy to say, "My husband's a willing man for Dillingham." And lest anyone think unmarried women are simply out, they're not, as they have the button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham." It's these women buttons, especially from the earliest campaigns, that are much sought-after by collectors. Another good one is the check box button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham: My ___ Boyfriend, ____ Uncle, ____ Father, ____Other."

As I said, everyone likes Dillingham except criminals and their families. And even some of them like him, because at some level they know they needed help and/or tough love. Normal families adore him, which goes without saying. It's something every generation can share. Really, just to live in the Dillingham years is an honor, memories of which we will surely pass on. Fathers hope they can live up to the Dillingham ideal, Moms hope their daughters find a Dillingham-type guy to marry, and naturally devotion to Mrs. Dillingham is also an inspiration for girls, young or old.

But it's men most of all who are truly in the most literal sense of the word "Willing Men for Dillingham." Whether you're a boy learning of him, a younger man, a middle-aged man, or an older man voting, you are able to see his unreflected glory, while the women, with all their devotion to Mrs. Dillingham, see Dillingham's glory in a more reflected way. This helps keep them true.

As for me, now I'm older. 30 years ago I was a younger willing man for Dillingham. As years passed I matured into a middle-aged willing man for Dillingham. And now I'm proud to say I'm a much older willing man for Dillingham, not always as mentally sharp as I used to be, but I hope when my last memories perish from the face of the earth, at least I'll be able to maintain some vestige of this deep-seated knowledge, and will remain a willing man for Dillingham, world without end.

In Spiritual Ecstasy Johnny Law Bites It

"The Law is the Law," Johnny Law said, citing my family for illegal squatting on a reserved picnic site. "You are in violation of Section So and So," he told my mother, before giving her a ticket and forcibly moving us on. We packed our basket and departed, heads hung low in shame.

This all goes way back, being, as I look back, the beginning of my radical spiritual life. Because at that time something new came to the fore, and I knew -- can you ask a five year old how? -- I'd never be the same. All because my mother was the kind of lady who wanted something different for her family, experiences of pleasant outings.

It's hard to believe, but Johnny Law really patrols the parks of the city. I think it's all underground knowledge. The average guy sitting home on his easy chair hears a siren and assumes he's off dealing with serious crime, a bank robber or burglar. When the odds are, he's merely harassing park visitors and moving them on, albeit usually with a warning. Bullies.

Mom got a warning the first couple of times. We were at the picnic site, but not having a picnic. My brother and I sat on the grass, our legs out, rolling a ball back and forth. Mom had a book. It was a pleasant day, the birds singing. The big thing I remember about nature that day was seeing those butterflies, the ones that are little chunks of ripped cloth, flying haphazardly everywhere. When here comes Johnny Law, full siren blaring, flashing the artillery.

Things like this stick with a kid. It haunts your thoughts. I bet for a week there wasn't a night that I didn't dream of it. I'd awake crying hysterically from dark nightmares. I didn't ask Mom if her idea was to help me psychologically, or what, but she kept at it, taking us to the park. Indeed, we returned! Over and over. Sometimes with food, sometimes not, once with wax fruit! And Johnny Law was never far away.

My first magical experience came when I least expected it. I felt it welling up in me, some force going beyond my personal self. I was able to see through to the other side, and yet in some unexplainable way I wasn't me, in the egoic sense. I became alive with sensations of otherness, of rising above the entire world. I discerned things right at the heart of truth. No longer did I see bowls of wax fruit, but everything was fully alive with energy, pulsing with freshness and taste. My heart was afire that day, when who shows up but Johnny Law!

There I was -- in complete prophetic fervor and fire -- when Johnny Law was reduced to crisp. A bolt of lightning flashed from the heavens, weirdly channeling itself through the top of my head and out my eyes. I had no conscious purpose, no conscious desire ever to hurt a living soul. Butterflies flew by without harm. All I know is, where Johnny Law stood was suddenly nothing but a pile of simmering ashes. And his ticket book, which my mother picked up and put in her dress. We packed up, went home, and to my knowledge she never mentioned it to anyone.

About the illustration -- Notice the trees, like the towers or gateways on Tarot cards, meaning entrance to a new future. Then there's mom and brother, almost like Mary and Joseph in the nativity set, with me in the middle. Gifts are before me as I hover between earth and heaven. Mom pours from a pitcher, suggesting new, living wisdom. Brother reaches his hands in the pose of beholding something wonderful. The true Law, the book of grace, is above my head, radiant. The superseded Law -- Johnny -- didn't stand a chance.

Beggars -- Don't Risk the Legal Liability

I used to be the world's most generous soul with drifters and beggars. I have a history of helping some of these lost souls, not so much with money, but with rides, etc.

Ho! Just saying that recalls some examples. When I was a teenager I picked up an old guy named Howard Johnson and was carting him around like a pet guy. Took him to my teenage friend's place and he was hanging out with us, 60-something with us 17-year-olds. I even had some hitchhikers over to my place one night and they shared my bed while I slept on the couch. Of course to do that now would be ... the chances are nonexistent.

I'm still an extremely nice guy, just not that nice. Or should I say, not that crazy, foolhardy, and stupid. Because you can get into some real legal trouble with beggars. That's my contention, anyway, even though I don't have any personal experience of legal troubles. But look at some of these guys. Who looks more devious than them? Who's had more free time to study law books (like prisoners do) to know all the legal loopholes? Back when I was a kid, when I picked up Howard Johnson, we didn't have the internet, let alone the internet in libraries.

Here's how stingy I am, not out of meanness but a fear of legal liability: I will not give a beggar food! No way! Once you've given food, you are open to all kinds of liability. That's why restaurants have food licenses, are subject to periodic inspections, and have insurance. Because people can get sick from food-borne bacteria, and sue the pants off you. We go out for pizza and sometimes have three or four pieces left over. It'd be the kindest thing in the world to give it to beggars. Unfortunately, it's also stupid. The last thing I need is some beggar fingering me to the police. "That guy made me puke!"

One time I saw some guys walking down the street with leftover spaghetti. Spaghetti! Someone thought to save their spaghetti leftovers. Like it's not 99 cents at the grocery store for enough spaghetti to choke a horse. They'd apparently come from an Italian restaurant, because they were drunk and I guess Italian themselves, probably. So what did they do -- in their drunken condition -- but give the leftovers to four beggars. Who when I passed by were simultaneously eating their fill and consulting law books. If I were the idiots that gave it to them, I'd be changing my clothes in a back alley and looking for a quick facelift.

Whether a masterful disguise would really help, though, is up in the air. Because it's just as likely the beggars had attached a sensor to their clothes, with the ability then to zero in on them via their iPhone, to be able to track them after their "sickness" came on. "Hey, my belly hurts!" Dirty bastards.

Other than fear of legal troubles, which is 99% of it, I hesitate to give to all the "veterans" on the street. I know there has to be an actual veteran here or there down in the mouth, but are they really on every corner, every single day of the year! I don't think so, but maybe they are, since veterans have been used to many privations, maybe even being promoted all the way to generalizations. Forgive me. Even if they are veterans, there's no less a chance they might sue the pants off you. "He gave me a quarter coated with the polio bacilli! That's why I'm sick, that bastard!"

Murder? The "Good Timin'" Defense

I've always believed in coincidences. Even though I've had plenty of friends who've said there's no such thing. Which is a coincidence, because I knew they were going to say that.

Of course there's coincidences! If a man is riding a horse in California and another man is hiding a horse in Siberia, that's a coincidence. Only if it's the same horse is it not a coincidence.

Because coincidence is a real thing, right there's your defense against a murder charge. My topic for the day.

I was just reading the murder news in the paper, and realized these are the guys who get all the press, all the great attention. We pay more attention to the aftermath of an apparent murder than anything else. A guy supposedly kills his wife because she's in terrible health, a guy supposedly snaps and kills his four friends and an infant, or a guy supposedly commits mass murder in a bus station, airport, theater, mall, church, school, grocery store, parade, or anywhere else people gather in numbers above 10, and that's all we can think of.

With the supposed murder comes the long hard slog through the legal system, because, and I support this, even if a million people saw him do it, he only "allegedly" did it. I'm actually a stickler for this. Even as a kid I liked that sense of innocence before declaring him guilty. Even if he shot at me and I saw the bullet coming through the air straight between my eyes, my last thought would be, "He's only allegedly doing that to me. There could be all kinds of extenuating circumstances. Maybe he didn't mean to shoot. It could be a weird trigger. Maybe he was cleaning the gun. Maybe he saw Sasquatch behind me and missed. Or it's a simple case of temporary insanity." Then after death, if I had the power to think one more thought, it'd be, "Maybe I died just before the bullet hit me, therefore exonerating the guy from murder, with the charge being at most desecration of a corpse."

It could happen to one single "victim." You were going to die anyway just before the bullet reached you. And it could happen to 1,000. Right down the line the alleged murderer goes, with all 1,000 of his supposed victims dying by natural causes just before the bullet got there.

Therefore, that's a good defense. Which I'm calling the "Good Timin'" defense, after the old Jimmy Jones song (1960). The way I remember it is it asks the question, "What would've happened if you and I hadn't just happened to meet?" A great question. But as it turned out, "We had timin', a tick, a tick, a tick a, good timin', a tock, a tock, a tock, a tock a, timin' is a thing it's true, good timin' brought me to you!"

So there you are, the alleged murderer, with the only friend you have in the world, your public defender, suggesting that it was a matter of "Good Timin'" that your supposed victims all dropped dead. It was a coincidence, each person beating the bullet by a fraction of a second, thereby exonerating you completely ... or, again, reducing your charge to the desecration of one or many corpses.