For The Love Of A Good Sore

We all remember the story of poor Lazarus in the Bible -- poorer even than me -- dogs came and licked his sores. I heard the old preachers of old expound on this passage at some length. By the time they were done, he'd suffered long and they were terrible sores, with one brutal sore right at the nucleus. Of course it took three or four sore points to finish the soremon. Ah, for the love of a good sore!

One of my favorite jingles in advertising is, "Dog’s don’t know it’s not bacon!" Let's say we have a guy carrying bacon in his back pocket. The dog comes running up and bites his ass. Because, "Dog’s don’t know it’s backend!" Now I got another hole where the good Lord folded me, very holistic. My dog’s never been picky either when it comes to food. If it’s related to the meat family, it’s 10 times better than the world’s finest grain.

You get a sore, the sore has to heal. Dog’s also heel, eh? I have a few little sores. Who doesn't. You scratch too much, there's one, then another. And sometimes I get banged up. A cut. And I always hope the same thing, that the tetanus shot I got in 4th grade is still working its magic.

Other than that, there’s always dogs. Just take your mind off your problems. Watch TV, lay back, relax, and let the dog lick you, like Lazarus. It gets so comforting, you might set an alarm. I had a sore on my leg one time and the dog started licking me. Naturally I went to sleep. I woke up and there it was, all the color out of it, like a bit of ham fat from a can of soup after it’s processed in the soup factory. Hanging there, no substance, no strength, just dead tissue. Two minutes later the dog would’ve been bitten it off and I'd've never known.

Pa, is that dog still licking you? Cover that thing up or it’ll never heal! The dog hears heel and dives to the floor. Dives, of course, being the name of the rich master in the story of Lazarus. He had enough of life here — overdosed, I’d say — and had to go to hell, took a dive, dove right in, to a place where dog’s don’t heel, including Cerberus, the hound of hell. He’ll never heel in hell. I’d rather kneel in heaven than heel in hell, amen? For the love of a good sore.

A sore can be useful. It's nature’s bandage, an organic arrangement of blood and evaporation.

Dogs get so they understand the word sore, depending how accident-prone you are. Especially way back when, when they didn’t get treats like today. It's just like you say ‘You wanna go bye bye?’ They know bye bye means a car ride. You wanna go to the park? They know park. One of my dogs knew the word squirrel. I’d tell her “Squirrel!” Her ears perked up like satellite antennae. She’d look for my finger to point the way, even though if she wasn’t so dependent on me she could’ve just discerned it. Then she was off, blazing speed. Even caught one one time, but I didn’t want her tasting wild blood, so I called her off, letting the squirrel live. There was, however, a time when I came around the bandstand and there was a dead squirrel at her feet. It looked fresh with some fresh sores, and naturally I didn’t let her have it. A squirrel’s a rodent, and rodent’s carry disease. That’s why I don’t allow mice in my home, even if they are good for keeping roaches at a decent level.

Milton, he milt hell for all it was worth. Besides him, mythology has Long Schlong Silver (his distinguished appendage tastefully censored with a dime) with Cerberus appearing on the vast hellscape, that three-headed dog pissing on Satan to help relieve his pain. Or something. 

Sometimes, though, as Kenny Rogers said, the hurting won’t heal. You get a sore, it gets worse, other sores pop up, things run, things get pusy and drip, and the whole thing degenerates into a mass of coagulation, looking a sight. There's purpose in that, too. A good sore sets things right, if you tend to it right. Or not, either way a good sore does its thing. Finally in the end, we fall on our sore and die a noble death.

Does Coffee Feel Pain?

We're zeroing in today on the possible experiences of creatures other than humans and animals. Weird tales, huh? I saw it ages ago, somewhere, that seemingly inanimate pieces of metal have feelings. Which can be good news. Like with some of the old cars I used to own. They wouldn't start, causing me pain. But I'm glad they knew how I felt when I took a crowbar to their backside.

I've been thinking of this a lot, since I'm in the habit of getting up every morning and making coffee. Which involves a horrible grinding of the beans and pouring hot water on them. It's a devastating process. If coffee, like metal, is a living thing, wouldn't it have to be? It grew, matured and ripened. And now...

Coffee beans really were part of a living plant. Meant by nature to make the next generation of plants, not to be harvested for drinks. Whether they maintain life after being picked, I wouldn't swear to it, but I think it's likely. After being processed, most might be dead, but there's always the possibility that some were up against the side of the processing bin, missing the worst of it, and so are quite alive.

It's those few beans -- however many it'd be -- that I'm most concerned about. And take it from me, I'm a sensitive guy who loves coffee, so this is a real issue. Grinding it right out of the bag as I do could be the worst torture there is, the blades going a million miles an hour, ripping the soul out of the beans, who wonder with their last thought, "Is this what we were born for?" Then there's the metal blades, thinking, "Were we born to murder coffee?"

It was better off before I heard of any of this. You're always happier in ignorance. The best I can do, apart from giving up coffee, is this, to be quick with the hot water, hoping to mercifully drown whatever life might still be there, now mangled beyond recognition. I'm not cruel; a swift death is best.

However it's done, though, the whole thing has to be terrible, not just for their pain, but also for the confusion. We have our journey of life, and the thought of being picked, processed, bagged, then ground, and scalded to death is terrible to contemplate.

Coffee started out like us, with a life of fullness and promise, and had no idea what was to come. How joyous it would've been to suddenly bud out and realize, as a budding bean, that you're in the world! What will you be? A doctor, a nurse, a policeman, or even one who tends to plants similar to yourself? Moving and growing in the sun, part of life's harmony.

But life is also hard. Sometimes your choices aren't honored, sometimes your life is determined for you. You're treated like crap, you look up and wonder, "Aren't I as good a bean as any other? What's to become of me, my hopes?" etc., etc. These are the things we think...

Actual scientific studies on whether coffee feels pain are limited. Then even if we get them, I'm afraid I'll be cynical. In something as huge as coffee -- the economics of it -- I can only suspect the large conglomerates will have the scientists in their back pocket, with the research similarly hidden away, neat and tidy and unseen. In other words, the conglomerates will see to it that conclusive results never see the light of day. But until they take this site down, at least we have my rudimentary study, which, at least to my mind, tentatively shows the life of coffee is no cup of tea.

Bad Health -- Are These Visages Credible?

I've spent a lot of time lately looking at old newspapers online, most recently stuff from 1901. That's a long time ago. Sometimes I'm thinking, Every one of these people is dead, the guy who wrote the story, sold the ads, ran the Linotype, drew the artwork, and manned the press. Then all the people in the many stories throughout the pages, a'moldering in their graves.

In all this viewing, something that leaps out is that the papers were chock full of patent medicines, sexual debility doctors, electric belts, and promises of good health. No TV, radio, or internet, it was all happening in the paper. There's so many ads about "Weak Men" (in that way) that it's a wonder my grandpas were able to get the job done that led to me! The times were the golden age, I'm proclaiming, of this kind of stuff.

In this post I'm featuring some illustrations, the worst ones, that are alternately funny and sad. Sad because maybe they're more or less accurate. Funny because surely they're exaggerated in places. Leading me to this wonderful dynamic question: "ARE THESE VISAGES CREDIBLE?" I'll try to answer that question.

Look at Mr. Bile in the Blood. No doubt the wrong mixture of bile in the blood would be a disaster. Not being a doctor, I don't know if there's a healthy level, or if you need to keep all bile away. Certainly if you end up looking like this guy -- a melted mess with a mustache -- I'd prefer to buy whatever they were selling to combat it. Yikes! To me the visage doesn't look credible. The mustache is credible, everything else is haywire, especially the look of his eyes in full meltdown.

I feel I can speak authoritatively on the credibility of the visage. I've been blessed in many ways and don't feel I've had any real trouble with constipation. But I've known plenty of people who have. They're often busy with our modern day remedies, over the counter laxatives. It can go on quite a while. But generally, even though we don't talk about it much, they seem to be back to normal. I frankly have never seen anyone look as uncomfortable as this guy. Whether his visage is credible is going to come down to this, suggesting that he didn't look that spry to begin with. He already had the wrinkles, the extra heft in the chin and cheek area, and the deep set eyes. What constipation did was furrow it all (from worry) in the bridge of the nose and push his mouth slightly open (discomfort.) Conclusion, the visage is credible, but not attributed exclusively to constipation.

 

Here's one for the ladies. We have five examples of women suffering menstrual pain. In my opinion, four look pained but normal. Their visages are, yes, very credible. That leaves us the sweet young thing in the middle, who, frankly, doesn't show feminine features. I keep looking but all I can see is a very stern, evil man. And yet, what? If he's anything like me, menstrual pain is the least of his worries. What is he, in a polygamous relationship with the other four and just pissed that that time of month is simultaneous for the wives? Surely not! The only conclusion we can reach is that this is meant to be a woman, whose sufferings are many times worse than average. Her visage is so contorted from the pain that there is absolutely no hope, except for whatever the ad was selling. My conclusion, four of the visages are credible, one isn't.

This guy I'm putting generally in the same boat with Constipation Man above. Although with constipation you're usually fixed up within a week. When you have liver problems, that's a whole different thing, going on and on. Even though I don't know anyone who's had liver problems ever looking like this, I know they don't look great. He's in the same boat with Constipation in this regard, that he probably didn't look fantastic to begin with, with his appearance then merely aggravated, how ever dramatically, by his liver. When I first saw this one I thought of Frankenstein or Lon Chaney, the man of a thousand faces. He probably did this one in one of his movies. So I'm saying the visage is credible, but a little deceptive, since he surely had preexisting conditions.

The top two, all of us have had experience with pimples and probably blackheads. It's the scourge of our teenage years, right when we want to look our best. You suddenly break out, and at terrible times, right before the prom, with pimples. Blackheads are more controllable because it's basically dirt in the pores, but pimples have a mind of their own. They come from God knows where and look bad. The credibility of the visages, judging it, has to take into account that these are black and white pictures from the paper, and that they have to be pronounced to really show what you're illustrating. I'm giving them credibility, then, based on the printing technology of the day.

The same allowance will be made for the woman with impure blood. Although just diagnosing it myself, with my only information coming from these illustrations, it looks a lot like an outbreak of pimples. But no, according to the caption, she's got impure blood, coming from bad digestion, headaches, dullness of brain, and weakening nerves. I'm going to negate the credibility of this visage on this basis, that she ought to look a whole lot worse. She at least has it over Constipation and Liver in that her visage looked pretty good to begin with, but surely all those ailments, the full list, would make her look worse than spots on her face. Look how pure her hand is! Come on!

The Guy Made That Piano Sing!

It was a wild time in church today. All kinds of wildness. Thanks to the substitute piano player. Where we got him, I don't know, maybe Borneo. He had me rockin' out. It was a great time!

The thing about this Borneo guy was this: He was bouncing on the seat and playing the piano so hard, so feverishly hard, that it was literally moving around the room, even with such force as to push chairs and the people on them out of the way. He blazed a path right through the midsection, turned and bowled over the first couple rows, and toppled the pulpit. The pastor in a robe of black was white as a sheet.

It's hard to believe, I know, but every word of this is true. If you can picture in your mind's eye a guy, the combination of Jo Ann Castle, Big Tiny Little, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Fats Waller, with the hair of Doc Brown, and completely full of the Holy Ghost, you'll have a great idea of what this guy was like. He took off on his instrument, and I gotta tell you, I was wide awake! He made it sing!

And this was from the very first song, an instrumental for gathering, "Jesus, Love of My Soul / Like a River Glorious." We needed a mosh pit! I caught it out of the corner of my eye, the piano in quick motion; that's when I looked up and paid attention. He was making definite, ever greater, movement from the piano's usual spot! The first thing that popped in my mind -- the very first thing -- was Putin gobbling up territory. You don't expect it, then wham, you've lost Alaska.

He ran over a couple older ladies' feet, who simply out of an old sense of propriety stifled a cry of bloody murder. The fierce look of great pain on their faces was a genuine expression of something primal, great pain. I had to wince, then quickly turned my attention back to Borneo's thrilling performance. The pounding of his hands was crazy, his fingers a blur, with even some blood. As the instrument came closer, I was shocked to see keys from the edges coming loose and flying through the air.

Much later, at the close of the service, I heard that one guy's hearing aid had blown up, apparently doing him a lot of harm when it comes to ears. He was staggering around, clutching the air. More evident in real time were the organ pipes on the wall toppling over from the pounding vibrations. I recalled Jericho, whose walls were breached by a series of trumpets, when all they needed was a rampaging pianist.

One totally strange moment came when the floor opened up and swallowed three or four of the church's worst heretics, proponents of the so-called New Thought. Since there's no basement, it's anyone's guess where they ended up. Wherever, no doubt it's giving them something new to think about. I was happy to escape, having been to only one of their New Thought meetings. Looked like I shunned them in the nick of time.

The minister threw up his hands and made a throat-cutting gesture to the sound guy, who threw up his hands in despair. He cut the mics but the piano itself, with Borneo's jackhammer fingers, was its own source of power. I noticed terrific phenomena in the light fixtures above as they swayed back and forth. They alternated bright and dark, like angelic visitations, then demonic irruptions. Which once you've had troubles with, I can personally attest, everything in life's harder to deal with.

Anyway, so much of the stuff of the sanctuary was totally demolished, there's no telling what'll happen next week. Certainly the usual pianist will be there, but whether there's anything left for her to play, that's another matter. The church wasn't doing that great on money as it was; now what we'll do is hard to predict. I see a sausage and pancake supper in our future.

I'll tell you what I'd love to see, and we could make some money on the beer. I'd love to get Borneo back, and make him wear gloves, and everyone hook arms together while singing "Blessed Be the Name of the Lord," with everyone sloshing beer steins in time. We did that at youth camp once and it was a lot of fun.

Poor Spirits Aggrieved by Shady Podiatrists

Some time back, after hearing of so many terrible goings-on, I decided at long last to put my foot down and seek information on the shady trade known as podiatry and the heels that do it. I've taken certain steps in that direction and I'm prepared to give at least a preliminary report.

So far it's just me doing the work. But I'm hoping that by getting the word out I can put together a team. I'm thinking of calling it TAPS, like on the ghost hunting show, but this time with TAPS standing for Those Asshole PodatristS.

In the past I've written about one other very shady industry, the whole fly-by-night carpet biz. They sell you carpet, you walk on it, it comes apart at the seams, and then they're gone. Now I'm revealing the truth of podiatry. In short, podiatrists are the fly-by-night carpet biz of the whole stinking medical world.

I've discovered one very interesting detail of these guys. Podiatrists always marry their receptionist, with the receptionist being the only employee, since she can't be forced to testify against him. That would be a concern if anyone could ever catch these guys. But they tend to set up shop, then disappear in the night. Probably the ideal situation for them, from their point of view, would be to set up in the back of a carpet store! They could all vacate together...

My work so far has been to visit empty office space where podiatrists once were and have now left. I've gone to a few of these places. I've used my natural sensitivity and intuition to communicate with the spirits of departed patients. It's not the case, however, that every one of these patients actually died. But in the agony of their treatment, they all left something of their spirit energy within those unfortunate walls.

Now, being only one man, and without the government's surveillance expertise, I don't know any of the actual patients by name. So as a workaround I play the odds. "Is the aggrieved spirit of Ted here? Calling Ted." Nothing but silence. I went through a list of common names. "Al? Mary? Clyde?" But there was nothing. Silence. Finally I hit on one: "Phoebe?" At that, I suddenly heard rustling, right where the chair had been! Then the telltale fragrance of foot odor hit my nose, and I knew ... Phoebe's in the house!

"Phoebe, I know you suffered heinously here. Flick your big toenail if it was an ingrown toenail ... treated without anesthesia." I was spooked, really taken aback, when she not only flicked it but let out a bloodcurdling yell. "So the pain hasn't lessened at all? Flick it again if that's a yes." I heard the same flick, and an even more bloodcurdling yell. "OK," I said, trying to nail down certain conclusions, "Flick it once more if your podiatrist was a son of a bitch, then flick it a second time if you wish you would've simply suffered with it the rest of your life than to seek out his worthless treatment." I waited as she no doubt pondered whether she could endure the pain. Then, flick, [SCREAM], followed by flick, [SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER].

I poked around the office a bit more. Under some rubble I found a poster of a foot, a cutaway view, with the skin, muscle, and bones on display. You'd think this would've been nothing more than artwork from a supply house. But I'm thinking it might've been a view of an actual patient's foot, possibly operated on in this very office. I called out to Phoebe, who verified for me that it was indeed her foot, this time with three nail flicks and three more bloodcurdling screams, growing in intensity as her pain increased exponentially.

Finally, just to satisfy my curiosity as to how the podiatrist and his wife are able to disappear during raids, I tapped around for a hideout. It didn't take long to find a cut out section of the floor, covered with a removable door. Obviously there had been a switch and wires on the wife's desk to unlock it. Pulling away the boards, I found a room big enough for various provisions and space enough to sleep if need be. Very clever!

But that wasn't all! I let out a scream of my own and nearly threw up when I saw a shelf with actual foot parts, severed toes, bone, curdled muscle, the whole bit! As I screamed, Phoebe's spirit was again with me, herself screaming. As I poked at some of the bits of a bloody toe on the shelf, her screams became deafening. This time I knew! She didn't need to flick her toenail for me to know ... some of this mess was hers!

From the Unexplained Files

Clara would've never done Ed like that. I suppose everyone knows in their heart of hearts that's true. And yet, you know how stories are ... they're "good" and they get around.

I don't remember who said it: Bad news travels 'round the world in a flash, but good news drops to the ground, or something. So true, certainly in a case like this. That's exactly what happened -- the truth was lost along the way -- and it wasn't right.

So now we have all the terrible wreckage, the debris of a broken relationship. And for what? I'm not going to say everything I think about it, because hearts have already been broken, lives are already damaged beyond repair. Apparently. But we have someone somewhere getting their little jollies. Reveling in it. Disgusting.

All of us know Ed. He's a proud man, but he can be stubborn. I'm not saying anything he wouldn't say about himself, at least when he's more with it. And it's only worse when everyone's feelings are raw, when the hurt is red hot. Most people are that way, at least to a degree, but for Ed multiply everything by 10.

Then there's Clara. Dear Clara, who wouldn't hurt a fly, as far as I'm concerned, let alone do something like that. I know I heard it going around and I immediately said, "No!" ... "Good grief," I said, "if you'd believe some crazy thing like that, there's nothing you wouldn't believe!"

And to that add in the fact that the kids are beside themselves with worry. Their family's shattered, there's no two ways about it. Yes, I know they're grown up, but they were tight, they still had it together. And I'm hoping they get it back, but if they do, it's not going to be easy.

How much simpler everything was -- the past is always like that. But it looks like we always have these things looming just ahead. Thankfully, we don't know about them. And yet, I'll check that, if we knew they were coming, perhaps we could head them off. It'd be worth a shot, see which way worked out best, to know or not to know. Certainly, it seems if I knew both paths, I believe I could make my decisions accordingly.

Now, however, it's all water under the bridge, done, finished. No warning, no nothing, just BAM, it all blows up in their face, just like that.

I'm going to say it just one last time: I will never believe it! Put the so-called proof in front of me, I won't believe it. I've known Clara most of my life. It's crazy, it's sickening. She would've never done Ed that way -- NEVER -- final word.

The Life of a Chigger

If you look up chiggers on Wikipedia, you find some great scientific information, which I always have a hard time processing the first three or four times through. But the basic thing about chiggers, according to the truth, is that they're only parasitical in the larvae state. The rest of the time they're content to leave you alone and simply eat normal food. So it's that larvae state you want to avoid.

What must it be like to be a larvae state chigger? I really think they have to be more or less unconscious of what's going on. Like us, when we were in the larvae state. I don't personally remember a thing about it. But we're a little different in that our mothers didn't lay us prematurely in the lawn. We had the peace and safety of an inner sanctum.

The nascent chigger, on the other hand, is simply in the grass. It has no plans, no outlook. All it has -- and this is major -- is the beneficence of existence, that takes care of every little thing. Which I'll take comfort in the next time I'm short on money and long on bills. The chigger larvae is simply there and needs a meal, which is going to be your dead skin cells.

It seems obvious to me that they're extremely small and could hardly foresee a person coming by, at least with enough clarity to make a conscious jump from the grass to the ankle. If they make a conscious jump, that's awesome. But more likely they're just swept up in someone passing. Although that brings up the interesting question of what good insect repellant does, since they'd already be along for the ride.

OK, they're on your ankle. No thoughts, no plans of being there, but now they must do what comes next. Which is to feed. Because they want to make it from the larvae state to the point where they can be full grown and a parent on their own. This seems like quite a journey, where a million things could and would go wrong. But there's safety in numbers and in incredibly small size, because enough of them are going to make it through to create a nuisance again next year.

Once on you, it's time to feast on dead skin. They make some sort of little suck hole, feed on you, then at some point fall off, where they develop further, become adults, etc., and the cycle picks up again next time. They're gone, let's say, and you continue to itch. All you can do is scratch, or get some of the itch stuff -- Chigger Rid, etc., -- which may or may not help. I've been getting them on my legs for a few years, and now my wrist. It's a bastard, but that's life. Fortunately, I'm learning all the time how to fight them.

I've traced back some of my problems from three summers ago -- when this problem became so bad for me -- to wearing the same pants forever. I thought it was a cool thing, and I hear there's some young people who do the same thing. I thought, "Why do laundry?" But now, after long, terrible experience, I've learned it's better to go through the pain of frequent laundry than to lie awake at night with unrestrained itching up and down my legs! I recommend you do the same...

The doc said these chiggers -- she probably meant the larvae -- can keep living in your pants. So you're picking them up and putting them on daily. And how many dead skin cells would there have to be in a pair of pants that you've been wearing for three weeks? Enough for chigger Thanksgiving and every other feast. Then you put the pants on and they're on you again. You're helping grow the biggest larvae in the world. Terrible.

So, it's something to think about. Even though I hate chiggers with a purple passion -- and I actually might go out and burn the grass on my half acre, if the wind dies down and the county lifts the no-burn order -- I have to sort of begrudgingly admire their precarious life cycle. It's very dicey what we go through to exist. Chigger larvae have to be like meteors colliding in space all day, everyday. It's a battle.

For me, no doubt many chiggers have ended up drowned in the laundry. Or spun to death on the side of the washer. And that's how it's going to be from now on. Once I learn of something -- in this case the life of chiggers -- I'm not likely to go back to my old ways. The new ways are always best.

Watching The Mosquito Bite Me For Hours

Do you have the discipline to sit unperturbed by anything? A child throwing bricks at you? A nearby train jumps the tracks? A lightning strike so close it burns your shoes off? I suppose you do, although it's possible you don't, like one-in-a-million.

As I write this, the house next door is going down the hill in a mudslide. And yet here I sit, trying to think of the next sentence. There's a tiny bit of curiosity -- I won't deny it -- about what it might mean for my own house's foundation, but I'm not going to let it worry me. There! I've put it ...completely ... out of mind.

Let's think of it in the context of the long term: If it had happened 100 million years ago, I wouldn't have been concerned about it. Even though a lot of crazy stuff did happen 100 million years ago. The dinosaurs were wiped out by either an asteroid or overzealous NRA members, and I didn't bat an eye. Then, too, if it happens 100 million years from now, I don't see myself really caring. So why should I care today? Just because I'm here? I need a better reason.

No, just like you, I choose to focus my thoughts on essential Oneness, and the well being that comes from that. A dance of glad hearts, whether in obvious joy or in so-called suffering. Nothing can disturb us! Not even a mosquito!

I have a twinge of something rattling around my mind as I mention mosquitoes. Because usually I don't care for them. Them or any kind of bug. Especially the kind that crawl or land on us and start biting and/or sucking. Look at the picture. It's creepy. Like an alien spaceship. Then there's the reason for its visit, that little straw going from its mouth to its host. It's piercing the skin, going down into the muscle, into a vein, and drinking its fill of our precious lifeblood. It's hard to ignore!

But if you're going to rise above all distractions, ignore it you must! There it is, in my focus, not disturbing me all that much. I'll just watch as it bites. If it persists beyond what seems a normal length of time, I will glance down and see how long it can go. If it persists indefinitely, I will reward its persistence by allowing it to hang on. It's merely tending to its own needs, just like I'd do if I were in its shoes.

As time drags pleasantly on, the creature gets bigger. Then bigger yet. Then the biggest of all, completely plum full, like a tick but not quite that round. I don't see how it can suck any more! And finally, as if reading my thoughts, with my thinking a little unsteady from the loss of blood, it withdraws, wipes off its straw, and flies away.

How about this? After it leaves, I put a toothpick in the hole to keep its place for later. A little less wear and tear on its stinger that way. Very admirable of me.

It's so great not being disturbed by things. This is truly the path to complete bliss.

Roller Coasters And Syringes

I agree with the Reese's ad, chocolate and peanut butter are two great things that go great together. I can't even imagine one without the other. Although I do like them separately, too. A few other great things that go great together includes wood and toothpicks, stainless steel and table knives, and cotton candy and sugar. You have one, you're naturally going to seek out the other. It's a matter of satisfying a craving.

But there's two other things that definitely don't go great together, roller coasters and syringes. In my opinion, the two have no business being involved in the affairs of the other.

The whole thing came to my attention some years ago, and I've seen it several times since, when I was at an amusement park. I was in line to get on the roller coaster, and there was a lady next to me who wanted to do her insulin shot. It just so happened that at that very second we were at the front of the line. So there she was, fiddling with a syringe and a little vial of liquid, wondering what to do. We got on and she was still debating, wasting precious seconds when she could've been taking the shot. She was just about to do it, then, when the roller coaster lurched forward.

OK, so there we go, and she had the syringe out, and was very conflicted. She was raising her shirt, exposing her belly, then covering it again. Finally, she thought, she'd go for it. Which was a disaster. Just as she was about to give herself the shot, the roller coaster bumped violently side to side, going around a sharp corner, which turned out to indeed be a sharp corner for her. The syringe was jabbing every which way but loose, not being embedded in her flesh long enough to actually release the insulin, then it was back out. Had to hurt.

It went on like that for most of the ride. (These rides are always exactly 48 seconds long, but with an exposed weapon and no way to get off, it seemed longer.) There she was. The first corner wasn't the worst. A bunch of terrible corners were coming up. At one corner, not only did she jab her leg and pull the syringe out just as quickly, but the vial went flying.

I don't know why, but corners on roller coasters always get worse the farther you go. We went down a steep hill and then we started left but quickly turned right. This time the syringe went backwards against one of her legs, depressing the thruster, spraying insulin everywhere, then as we quickly turned right, it went into her other leg, with no juice left. It looked painful, and probably was!

By the time we got to the end, only a few seconds later, she was distressed, mentally and physically. The vial was gone, the syringe was empty; there was nothing but puddles of blood and freshly flayed, hanging skin. It was very unappealing to me.

America: Golden Age To The Rescue

One of my favorite patriotic songs is the old chestnut, virtually a standard by now, "America The Beautiful." I love it so much I'm actually standing as I write this.

It's the one that tells of "spacious skies," "amber waves of grain," "purple mountain majesties," and "the fruited plain." It gives me a real urge to go outside more, and I would if it weren't for mosquitoes.

You might remember all the verses, including this great one:

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears.

America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea.

Over the years, I've been repulsed as I've heard critics tear into that verse. "Oh!" said they, wringing their hands as they hyperventilated in an overly literal and earnest stew, "That can't be right! That's blind idealism! Because we all know that our cities are not undimmed by human tears!" They would make the case that the cities were a cesspool of suffering, with nothing to recommend them. Then they'd spell it out: Crime, murder, strangulation, pickpockets, muggings, and sweatshops. With lots of human tears.

So, assuming there was some truth to that, the song told of something that was false. And so it went. Until now ... when, with the coming of THE GOLDEN AGE we can at long last now gladly announce, The song is true! There are no more human tears! It is the Golden Age!

Something happened, something apparently happened at a very deep level, to suddenly change the heart of man from evil to good. It's been prophesied, that's for sure, so there must have always been the potentiality for perfection in us. I believe there was! But the fact that it happened just like that, and mankind as a whole turned on a dime, in an instant, is the amazing part. And yet we know it's true.

Criminals gave up crime. Murderers gave up murder. The rich were happy to share with the poor. The poor took the rich under their wing and taught them at long last how life works. In this vast switch, of course the Republican party had to go under. So one day the earth cracked open and sucked only them down, bringing stability and happiness even to the political process. All countries willingly gave up their weapons. Even now, they're still working out the logistics for distributing all the plowshares. It's a great problem to have. Everyone's smiling!

I've been very happy with the switch. No more do I have to see "Ghost Hunter" shows on TV. With the removal of evil from the world, all bullshit became extinct. And besides that blessing, it's great to know that everyone in the world has all he or she needs for the best life possible. There's always someone to share, as the bounty overflows.

Tears are no more, pain, suffering, it's all in the past! Creative minds are busy editing old movies and books to take out all conflict, since we're already starting to forget what it was like. Everyone in the movies and books will be happy the whole time. No one will be portrayed doing anything to another character that is negative even in the slightest. Finally, I can go back to the movies, since I hate anything but perfect happiness. I still remember conflict. It always gave me a headache.

Rejoice, America, that your song is finally true. "Thine alabaster cities gleam." There's no more shadow, it's all bleached white, great and beautiful!