Good Idea: A Butcher Knife to the Gut

This is a thought piece on what a good idea is and whether you should act on it. Probably the key thing to most decisions is: Is it a good idea? Do I think it's a good idea? Is my thinking generally in line with what is socially accepted as yielding good ideas? (Not that I care all that much about social acceptance, but it's the same standard they use in deciding whether you go to prison or not.)

When we get done here, let me assure you, we will have a wonderful result, something vague enough that I can leave the decision up to you, thereby keeping me from complicity in any crimes you choose to commit based on what you read here about something being a good idea or not. To read further is to hold me free and harmless of complicity in any misuse of this teaching that you may be guilty of, now or in the future, world without end, Amen. Please keep reading, though, because maybe there'll be a mention of sex.

OK, there is an enemy you have. You've had it. You're fed up. You've reached your limit. You're at the breaking point. It's either him or me. Someone must die. What's this?! A butcher knife! An idea is born. I will take the butcher knife, you think, and (step-by-step thinking ensues) I will push the thing into his gut! No one will ever know! So the idea is hatched, the step-by-step thinking is through...

Here you are now with the butcher knife. Strop, strop, strop, sharpening it. There your enemy is! You creep up ... You see your opportunity ... You lift the knife ... There's a look of terror on his face ... When instead of going through with the stabbing, you drop the knife to the floor.

This is a critical juncture. Because it's still not too late. It was a good idea originally. Why not snatch up the knife and carry out the deed? You're thinking to yourself, It was a good idea to kill him 5 minutes ago, it's a good idea now.

You retrieve the dreadful butcher knife. There's no need to strop it; it's still sharp enough. Your enemy comes into view again, somehow oblivious to the noise and commotion and indecisiveness just displayed. His previous look of terror must have been gas. You can thank your lucky stars you have this opportunity to carry through with it. What a horrible enemy he's been. Anyway, you're doing him a favor, in a sense, dispatching him to his heavenly reward a little sooner than he's expecting.

Again, you creep up. You lift that terrible blade of judgment. You're strong. You're decisive. You've made your peace with the world; the enemy has to die! When -- and this is a key point -- you think back to the good idea of just 5 minutes ago, the second idea, that you would not carry through with it. Thinking to yourself, echoing the earlier decision, If not killing him was a good idea 5 minutes ago, it's still a good idea now. Good ideas are sometimes like that, what can you do?

You go home and have wild sex, the knife now at the bottom of the North Skunk River.

My First Full Day As A Billionaire

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Here I am, my first full day as a billionaire. How great it was, for a change, not waking up alone. Today was totally different: I had my beautiful checkbook on the pillow beside me all night, a little handkerchief covering it and a cotton ball for its pillow. I let it sleep till I was ready to get up and around for the day. I imagined it'd be a busy day for both of us.

I opened its beautiful pages to make sure it wasn't just a dream. And the numbers were still there, $2.1 billion! "Pucker up, you gorgeous checkbook, I'm kissing you! You're really quite the looker, stay as sweet as you are! Maybe I'll take you out for pizza tonight! Biggest pie in the place, my treat!" A guy could get used to this, I thought, gargling loudly, without shame, like rich guys do.

What a beautiful day it was, too. Nature's been inexplicably down in the mouth all these years, but today, finally, it was looking mighty fine. The trees seemed to know they were in the presence of economic royalty. I looked at the sandbox at the park and wondered about each grain of sand. "If each grain was a dollar, it wouldn't equal what I've got." Something like that.

Then it hit me, there's a lot of sand around the world, and there's no way I could keep up with sand. Grain for grain, dollar for dollar, I'll need to come up with a way to make more money. I could just ask the billionaire, but by now that'd look really awkward. I need to use my brain. That's when I hit on a great idea, a future project:

I went by this one car lot yesterday. If I mentioned it by name, you'd say, "Yeah, I know that idiot." Well, he's very down on me -- Cry me a river! -- because one time I asked him to hold a car for the weekend and said I'd buy it Monday. He said OK, then another guy comes by wanting it, but he said no. Then when Monday rolled around I didn't get the money I was expecting and had to renege on the deal. I see that guy once in a while and he's always fingering me. Like he never can forgive and forget. The guy needs to go to church and learn something of forgiveness.

As for me, now that I have money, I've got an idea that might just sink him once and for all, and make more money for me at the same time. If you can think of any downside to this plan, let me know, and I'll revise it. Here it is:

I go to a competing car lot and buy all their cars, 200 cars. I then drop by other car lots and see people browsing and invite them over for a free car. Pretty soon, 200 people have cars for nothing. It'd be sure to depress the market for all car dealers, including this guy who hates me. He won't be able to pay his bills. He'll be pulling out his hair, wondering what he can do. More the pity, then, if an anonymous rich benefactor swoops in to buy all the car lots, including his, for pennies on the dollar. Making me now the sole car mogul for the entire city!

It's funny how being a billionaire only brings out the best in me. I haven't done anything like that in my life, but believe me, it's only a matter of time now. Cars or something else. I could get in the semi-truck business with the same scheme, but there's no one in the semi-truck business who's ever done me wrong. They've all been very nice. Maybe a little too nice. Wonder what their angle is...

We're getting close to evening now of, again, my first full day as a billionaire. I guess that's enough scheming. I'll just enjoy this gorgeous evening and relax a while. Has it always been this pretty out? I never noticed. There's a bright light in the sky illuminating things. In the west. Other billionaires have probably noticed it, but I just now saw it. Is that the sun? And these things called birds are also singing. It's very pretty out.

February -- Scared Straight

This is an adventure where I am threatened with bodily harm or death, certainly spitting. But my life is enhanced, evildoers are vanquished, and it's a new day of victory and bragging rights. I've been taking on the month of February, trying to get the calendar changed. We would keep the days, just allocate them in the year differently. I never imagined, though, how many people have a vested interest in keeping it as it is, something so ridiculous, a stubby little month that'd frankly be better off put out of its misery. One man's opinion.

As it turns out, I was reminded of a major "vested interest" locally. It's weird I forgot this, since my own father worked there 40 years,  a plant on the north side that makes calendars as one of its biggest products. He used to come home and tell me how many they made, millions, and how far in advance they made them, 10 years in advance. That's a lot of faith that the calendar's going to stay the same and no one will agitate for taking out a particular month!

The adventure started when the newspaper mentioned my blog because of the local tie-in with the company and calendars. The vice president called and invited me down. They'd already pulled the file on my dad, who's now dead. And saw from the records that he had a son, and they also looked at their insurance records -- kind of weird -- showing that I'd received medical care over the years on their dime, paid for, the VP said nicely, with the very calendar I was against! I got the message. Because I got my tonsils out, and a thorn out of my foot, and once rode an ambulance, among other childhood illnesses, I am beholden to them and can't criticize the calendar...

But I wasn't afraid. They wanted me to come and look things over, and try to sway my opinion, so I said I would. I got there and saw they had a nice memorial to my dad in the hallway. As if! I had to assume they'd just put it out. No one would have a memorial to a dead employee in the hall 15 years later, would they? But it was a nice touch, an eternal flame, the standard photo of him, and a quote, maybe a little too convenient: "I've always considered our calendar mankind's greatest achievement, B.C. or A.D." I don't know when he said that.

On the tour, the plant was impressive. It was a lot bigger than I thought, vast, numerous football-fields big, with many dark corners, made even darker by the stacks and stacks of pallets of enormous calendar sheets still waiting to be cut and assembled. Just like Dad said, a lot of these calendars were for years way off, 2023-2027, etc. I examined some more closely, just to satisfy my own curiosity, to see if they had February included, and, yes, they did. Such faith! Although in their defense, most were printed well before this became a global issue on my blog.

I kept walking, looking around, straining my neck to see more, and after a time I noticed my own footsteps were getting louder, until, pausing, I was stunned to realize--- I'm alone! Everything was dead silent. In the dead silence your breathing's very loud. And the pulse at your temples. My eye caught a camera rotating off at an angle. A voice over the speaker crackled: "Each of those pallets has calendars that include February for all the years. Think of it as time frozen in time, ready to be thawed when the time is right. But if something were to happen to February, say, by your interference, all our work would have been in vain. And people would be out of jobs. Your dad never wanted that."

So that's their game? Perpetuating full employment based on protecting one worthless little month. And taking away my freedom of speech. The voice droned on and on, about the little children who would suffer, the families, the grocery stores, real estate, insurance parlors, etc., right on down the line. It all connects together, they said. "If even one of those pallets goes to waste ... you will be personally responsible for the death of many." Very menacing stuff. I was expecting a sniper, and there were random noises, as though I wasn't alone.

But being apparently alone, with my own breath, pulse, and the whole shebang, and the excruciating tension -- as well as the voice, I thought, trying to take over my conscience, to short-circuit me, I guess I freaked out. "These sons of bitches are trying to scare me straight!" I thought. I couldn't think beyond that, except, feeling threatened, to freak out so completely that it's hard to describe what came next. Apparently I commandeered a forklift, and stacked ton after ton of pallets to the ceiling, then moved the fork in such a way that it toppled the whole stack like Jenga. Right there -- assuming it was between four and eighty pallets -- that'd be many millions of dollars worth of calendars!

Obviously I continued this righteous work until all the lights came on. Sirens and big horns were blaring, and people were running everywhere, waving their fool hands and all yelling at once. They finally took me into custody, marching me back through the vastness of the plant, then back to the main hallway. A lady was taking down Dad's memorial and putting it in a garbage bag. While I'm crying out anti-February slogans, belittling Leap Year; in my opinion, Leap Year's a great indictment of February, a month that changes its number of days every whip-stitch. Sheesh!

We got closer to the main offices, where I was exposed to the view of a mob of workers, all of them spitting on me, or trying their best. Last was the old janitor, who did spit on me and immediately mopped up his own mess. That's the kind of responsibility I like to see in a worker. For his sake, not for any of the other bastards, I would forbear and cease the frantic sloganeering, at least till I considered all my options.

Looking back on it, the key thing is they tried to scare me straight, but with my heroic actions, and their mad dash to stop me -- the cowards -- I obviously scared them straight. They'll know better than to ever have me in their fool factory again and to trap me alone, or think they can sway me from my tightly held convictions just because they trot out a picture of Dad, light a candle, and have one of his well-known quotes in gold lettering, even raised printing. I don't remember him ever saying that, but it sounds like something he would've said.

I'm Taking It To The Institute of Mental Parasitism

My admission of guilt, my mea culpa, when I was called on the carpet for supposedly disclosing "dangerous secrets" of the craft, was met with a huge thud at the Institute and rejected -- not enough, they said! After I humbled myself in abject servility, putting everything on the line, my pride, my self worth, my dignity, just so I might be in the good graces of the Great Ones, the Lordly Poobahs, (wastrels, no doubt), self-appointed as the high and mighty, acting as gatekeepers, protectors of the sacred flame, as it were, of mental parasitism!

That's the way it usually is -- Am I right? -- with those who cannot be questioned, those who dwell in ivory towers, so far above the rest of us mere mortals. They always want you to jump just a little bit higher, or grovel just a little bit lower. They can't be bothered to specify precisely what they want. Then you try to contact them, and naturally they're out of the office, busy with some other important task, no doubt, perhaps roaming the world hobnobbing with their fellow grandees and looking for others to censure. That very well could be true, because there's hundreds of MP practitioners, and most of them, like me, are independent types.

When I first heard of this matter, I immediately figured they were out to get me, and that their means would in all likelihood be devious. Because I'm a plum, you see. I'm a ripe plum out there for the picking. With a popular blog and influence that stretches around the world. Who would be a juicier plum for them, with all that plus my personal mojo and verve! They're always on the lookout for guys like me, the gifted and skilled. They're insecure! They want the mental parasitism powers I have, to absorb them and pluck me off the vine, thereby keeping themselves stronger. And this goes for others like me. They have us belonging to their rather unholy club -- that's our validation, in a sense, because there's always the enhancement of one's practice through being part of a dedicated group. Why else would we submit to these scurvy monkeys?

So it's times like these, frankly, that I'd like to scream. When the Institute's receptionist says, "Dr. X can't come to the phone right now; he's in conference." I bet he is! Rubbing his grubby hands together in jealousy and lust along with the rest of the criminal element of the Institute, authority run amok. Willing to take our dues -- of course! -- sucking up to us when it's renewal time, then despicably dumping on us (plenty of dissing) the rest of the year!

I ought to--- I really ought to -- Don't get me started, OK? But a guy thinks, "I could do this better with one hand." I could run the organization better. I'd treat the membership with respect. No more censures, no more increased dues when there's the slightest controversy, trying to keep people in your thrall, keep them over a barrel, always demanding they measure up, make them meet your stinking standards. Because mental parasitism isn't a matter of standards, it's a way of life, in my opinion, best determined by the practitioner himself.

I'm this close (inches) from starting my own Institute! I know there's surely hundreds of guys (and gals, in the Auxiliary) disgruntled like me. It's just a matter of making contact with them, getting the word out. Say I went on Twitter, which has its downside because it's so public. Or we could get together on one of those sharing sites for documents. "Here's my idea." "That's a great idea, here's mine." "We've got two pretty good ideas, let's see if someone else wants to join us." Bam, you've got a brand new Institute!

If that's what I'm going to do, I'll probably have to be like the Declaration of Independence guys, and come up with a page of grievances. That we cannot work through this, that, and the other thing, no matter what we do. Then mail letters to some of the other disgruntleds, saying, "Let's get it on!" And have our own Mental Parasitism Institute, where there's absolutely no rules, or fewer rules. Such as the "Do as little harm as you can" rule. If I want to reduce a dozen or even a hundred mentally alert victims to a writhing, unconscious, naked mass, like hideous snakes in a pit, that's my business! No ethics, no nothing. Do it yourself. Come up with it on the fly.

Of course we'll want to stay out of each other's way as much as possible. And hold to a few common sense standards of conducting business. Like watching out for each other's well being. Good stuff. Then, say, someone does go off the beam and threatens the common well-being, I can see how that would be a definite negative. Do we stand together or do we fall? Do we hang together or separately?

In short, we need a few helpful bylaws for our common congregate discipline, so everyone stays on the same page as much as possible, for everyone's mutual good. And I see it, if someone goes way too far, such as literally sharing the deepest secrets over the express objections of the group, he should be called on it, brought to heel. I feel that we will flourish the most when we remain together, sharing the teachings and maintaining a sweet spirit of camaraderie. If only the current Institute felt the same way.

A Death in the Family -- Scarecrow

We just had another death in my family. They seem to be piling up, which I hate. I let the last few go, but finally I've had enough, OK? I don't precisely know any other way to stop it, so I'll just tell you what I'm going to do. Starting with this last one -- then in the future if there's any others -- I will be offing someone from popular culture. Kill my family, will you? Then suffer the consequences.

This time, I'm sorry to say but it's Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Old Scarecrow's going away for a long long time -- forever -- like my loved ones, never to return. Again, sorry about this, and sorry if it makes you angry. If it does, at least you'll have some idea how I feel. And if you want to know the honest to God truth, I like Scarecrow. He was Dorothy's first partner on her way to Oz, and for a guy without a brain he did a pretty good job talking, singing, dancing, and fighting wicked witches.

But now it's been years since any of that. The gang's been split up and scattered for years. Dorothy's an old old woman in Topeka, barely making ends meet waiting tables at a diner. And the rest of the group has been out of touch with the others for years. I've had friends like that, then suddenly they're gone, no doubt forever pining to see me again, I'm imagining, if only they could.

Scarecrow, the same way Tiny Tim ended up, is in an old hotel in Des Moines. He stays inside a lot, so much that when people hear he died, they'll say they thought he was already dead. But he can barely move, being broken down, with no one to restuff him. Even that's the least of his worries; he's got total rot in his flimsy supports, brain damage, etc. His spark of life has a faint but persistent short circuit.

If anyone could help, it'd have to be Dorothy, who only answers if she happens to be next to the diner's public phone. Lion and Tin Man are probably in a home somewhere, Lion dribbling in his bib, and Tin Man rusted in the nodding position, more grey than silver.

All the hopes Scarecrow had, dreaming of everyone getting out on the road and doing their songs again, of course that's been out the window for ages. He used to have terrific regret about it, now it's just wistfulness and a dull pain; he wouldn't remember how it went anyway. Age can do that to a guy. I knew an old guy who used to tell me he forgot more than I ever knew, but in the end, as he declined, regrettably I overtook him in the knowing-forgetting differential.

Getting toward the end, Scarecrow heard a noise outside and his hopes rallied. A loud car coming by -- maybe it's them! He struggled to his one good elbow and looked outside, in time to see a young beauty queen in a convertible going by -- so young. She was on her way to be feted by the town, with her young male friends all looking up to her. He thought, That's how it was for us in the Emerald City ... losing his train of thought in a rasping coughing fit.

Memories are so much harder for Scarecrow to contemplate. They used to be like brain-food, who said or sang what, what all they had to do to attain the various boons from the Wizard. Those were the days. If only there were someone like that today, a Wizard, to renew this wasteland of post-modernity and his personal grief. He glances up at the calendar, unturned for decades, 1939, how long ago! No way to catch up now! He turns to the window and sees the grey sky. You'd think the old stuff would still be possible. Instead, everything is-- blank-- the possibilities fizzled.

And so now it's come to this. Pain everywhere, burdens beyond relief. A hardening of the straw tufts, complete calcification of the joints, brittle straw bugs, life ebbing away. He feels a strange mental spasm, some weird movement in his head. Did something erupt? An aneurysm? Wouldn't that be ironic, for a guy who wanted a brain? It hasn't been exactly smooth sailing for quite a while. Now and then consciousness emerges reliably, then veers off a dozen different directions. He senses things going to pot, a little here, a little there ... "That's me all over, and now, for me, it's all over."

As it turned out, no one checked on him. A couple weeks went by and the mailman noticed junk mail piling up in the box by his door. Then he thought he smelled the horrible odor of rotting straw from within. He called the Des Moines police, who carefully donned gas masks and bravely moved in to face the hideous scene.

As You Are Now, I Once Was

"As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you also shall be."

Forever, this is one of the greatest sentiments I've ever heard!

Back when old folks died in their late 40s, this great sentiment was reserved for gravestones. But now, when you can easily live into your 70s, or even exceed 80, we're hearing it a lot more. I hope you don't think it's too amazing, but even I've been known to mutter it, and I haven't yet turned 60!

Just the other day, I think it was, there was some young scamp giving me the eye as youth is prone to do in the dessicated face of age, as if to say, "I'm cool and you're an old codger. I'm still in the first flower of youth, able to frolic through the streets with long hair, hip clothes, and buff legs. And I've even got some of the cooler eyeglass frames that look like crap on anyone over 29. Look at me, I'm able to turn heads, make entire groups of girls giggle, and name my fee, were they to put me out to stud. I'm pretty! I'm poetic! I can dazzle with the best of 'em! If I'm sitting on a rock playing with a weed, I'm a god. If I'm lounging on a bench outside the bar reading a paperback, I'm a genius lost in thought. If I brush my hand against the ragged whiskers of my chin, I'm the image of beauty. I might just stay up all night! I certainly could! I could stay up all night and laugh about whatever, the universe! And I'm into vintage vinyl!"

Of course I'm looking at him somewhat askance. Vintage vinyl, huh? I bought those new. Honestly, I'm not begrudging him his imagined supremacy. If that's the way he wants to think, I know exactly how it goes. Because that's the first part of the epitaph, "As you are now, I once was." Other guys like me -- dumber guys -- probably are bitter. But what's there to be bitter about? We knew we were going to lose it. Your skin starts to sag and wrinkle up, but you're still obviously you. Your teeth fall out and you're depressed, but look on the bright side, you've still got a tongue that's pink. For every bad thing, there's something good. You sleep more, but what's there to stay awake for? Your hair looks like a mangy dog, but the bald spots aren't that bad, as long as you keep your cap on.

I might be quite a bit better at this than others of my years, to tell the truth. Because I was with my grandparents a long time, so I saw right up close what it means to deteriorate. I should say, however, that old folks were different back then. They actually were keeping the epitaph for their grave. And they had next to no bitterness, because there never were cool. This goes back before teenagers as a dominant market force and 20-somethings as the ideal person. In fact, back then, it was just the opposite. They respected folks older than themselves who'd somehow managed to survive, and as for kids, they thought they were morons. So the epitaph was more of a cautionary thing about life and death in general than the bitterness of age ranting against the blitheness of youth.

Yes, I'm definitely convinced. Everyone else is bitterer than me. I'm barely bitter at all. Really, I mean if these guys I see, like the young scamp above, thinks he's hot stuff and in his eyes I'm an animated corpse, that's his trip. I wouldn't expect him to understand fully the sentiment -- given his lack of years and sense -- "As you are, I once was."

My picture, though, has the young woman, her back cut down to there, being observed by the older gal, whose bun might be too tight. "Look at her, lost in his arms, probably doesn't even know what an emergency dime is! Her precious back is cut so low! Honey, just drop the skintight rag and be done with it! Of course she'll be nude soon enough, and keeping Lothario entertained all night long! With no one to answer to!" So much for women.

OK, then the other side of the coin is, "As I am now, you also shall be." Ah, yes, our revenge! We shall have our revenge, if only we're able to live long enough to see it. And leaving out that we'll be even more wasted, while the once young scamp will still be relatively young. Be that as it may, if he's out with his long hair, etc., and it all looks like crap, that's good revenge. Or she with her low-cut back, "Cover it up, Grandma, your skin's leather!" She's been surpassed by the next generation and is now the butt of bitter remarks. Teaching her a lesson or two: 1) She should've avoided tanning booths; and, 2) Hold on to 16 as long as you can.

Remember, you young rascals, the Grim Reaper is coming for you, too. And I'm loving it! So enjoy it while you can, because before long you too will be a miserable shell of your former self. Before you know it! LOL, I offer you knowing laughter, because I know exactly how you're going to feel, like crap. LOL!

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Related post: "Enjoy Your Youth -- It's About Over"

The Backwoods Men Are Coming!

This is going to be great for business! The Backwoods Men are coming! Every forward-looking, red blooded American male worth his salt will be up and ready for anything, making my life easier and more prosperous. Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here, crime boss in charge of the Organization's prostitution operations.

It's always been my theory that the best vice thrives best when under the grip of the vise, some seemingly insurmountable challenge to its existence. When a man thinks he might take a knife in the back for his instinctual prerogatives, that's when he goes at it at peak performance. It's an instinct going back to the ancients, with a battleaxe tearing down a man's tent. He felt compelled to leave something behind before death.

But let's look forward, not backwoods. The backwoods view is the view of the instinct-slayers, a furry, boneheaded, religious tribe from the country, dumb as a post, but very self-righteous. A few of their womenfolk came to town and found good careers, and now they want them back. Back to the woods they must go, according to these chuckle heads. It's always that way with these guys, always backwoods, never forward!

And it's not like their women are even suffering that much. It's not backbreaking work. There's many different positions and preferences. And there's good pay and good tips, three square meals a day, their own room, and counseling if they need it. I don't know, they get to read in their off hours, and they can watch all the TV they want. The only thing they might ever complain about is having to stay up late.

But like I said, I'm all for the Backwoods Men! Let 'em come! Bring 'em on! Make my day! We'll do our best to fend them off, most of them. Realizing, as I do, that if a few of them get through and make something of a mess, a limited mess to our place, it'll be great for business. I mean, who wouldn't want to see one of these guys running through the hall? It'd be something to talk about for a month, the extreme danger you felt. Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest! And if some guy gets killed -- wow, that's wild! They'll all say, "At least it wasn't me!"

My advice would be, The Backwoods Men are coming? Run forward, men! Don't look backwoods at all, look ahead! Remember Lot's wife. As the Good Book teacheth, "He who stumbleth backwoods in the dark walketh not forward in the light."

However, as much as I know the Backwoods Men will be good for business, let me stress, I do not support them in any way. They're ridiculous. What kind of man would be against other guys having a good time? They'd have to be backwoods. There's definitely something backwoods about that kind of thinking. They'd gladly take society backwoods, with all the progress we've made. I might be mean about it and say, maybe they don't know how to be forward with a woman. Forward just ain't their direction! They're just big wooly-looking backwoods bullies!

Anyway, when they get here, we'll see what we're dealing with. And if one of these backwoods, self-righteous wrath-makers could be trusted with a key to the backdoor, at least temporarily. I wouldn't mind seeing him do his thing a little bit, then changing the lock when he goes back to the woods.

Right now, every forward-looking man's nerves are on edge -- the threat is real, and I'm loving it! For our traffic, we're going boldly, ever confidently into the future. In no way will we allow ourselves to go backwoods, never, not at all!