My Winning Communism Speech

No. 28 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

I know I wrung the guidance counselor many times through the wringer. And I’ll wring him out a little more today, with suspicions of ulterior motives, but for the most part this is positive about how he helped me accomplish my persuasive speech.

Have you ever given a persuasive speech? It’s very artificial in a class, since everyone knows it’s a persuasive speech. Of course they’re looking more for technique and less to be persuaded. Whereas, say I were to give my persuasive speech to a more typical crowd of indoctrinated Americans, it's likely they would’ve been repelled instead of persuaded. Almost persuaded, but lost, running dog lackies.

And who knows? I didn’t think it at the time, but maybe the guidance counselor only helped me because he thought it’d bomb and I’d look bad. As it turned out, no one was persuaded but I did OK for content and presentation. I even studied enough on Communism that for that week I was really into it.

We heard a lot about communism then, supposedly bad, blah blah blah. I thought, Give me a break. How can most of the world be Communist and Communism be bad? I was mostly thinking about China, which had people by the ton and manufactured most of the cheap things I bought. Seemed pretty capitalist to me...

OK, the guidance counselor was suddenly alive with helpfulness. I had no idea that he might be setting me up for a public hanging. But if indeed those were his evil motives, the kids in class were mostly bored and nothing I could’ve said would've yielded anything like a public hanging. Only one kid there was a radical — this was before Fox News — and I thought he had to be faking it. His hair he kept purposely short, his shirt was tucked in his pants by choice, his belt nipple-high, he carried a briefcase and identified with the word 'warmonger.' Even he didn't mind the speech.

I no longer have my notes and supporting documents except for what I have above. But you can tell what the tact was. To expose American propaganda about communism and show the actual truth that it's a good path for society. American propaganda tended to put a negative spin on communism, showing the people sad and in chains. Whereas the true teaching, communism’s testimony of itself, showed it as entirely good, the people happy, dogs breeding with each other like normal, etc. All hunky dory, the dog population proceeding apace, the people happy, dancing on the publicly held lawns, more or less a field day for everyone everyday!

I was immediately repulsed at American propaganda for not even admitting that the Communists saw things in color like us. But everything was a dingy scratchy black and white. Was that reasonable? I actually asked my dad, who was strictly anti-Communist, and he vouched for the black and white scratchy theory. I asked a guy at the Chinese restaurant, since I didn’t know any Russians not in hiding, and he said, “No talk 'bout, order pwease.” I had a crab rangoon and left, disappointed at not knowing more about worldwide governance.

One of the things that really rang true for me was some good information I got on American capitalists being pigs. That definitely rang true in my experience, letting me know I was on the right track. That went over very well in the speech. No one rebutted the point, nor did anyone produce compelling proof that we weren’t pigs. The graphic I had on American children being pigs was pleasantly received, many laughs.

The guidance counselor gave me a thumbs up on the thing and sent me forth. When I figured out his angle, that I might’ve been publicly strung up for my foreign viewpoints, I was of course disappointed. But it was par for the course for the guy, a capitalist bastard with a stupid wrestling coach mentality in a stereotypical guidance counselor’s body.

In the grand world of communism — and someday we'll see it at long last — we’ll string up guidance counselors like him. Or reeducate them, which no doubt will be a waste of time, meaning his hanging will be an hour or so later.

The Valor In Excelsis Club

No. 27 of 31 - Thermometer series

This week has found me offline quite a bit, as I was pressed with a public speaking tour throughout the Big City on behalf of the blog. Our drive for new readers has taken on a life of its own, with a bunch of folks receiving me graciously, asking me to address their organizations, and even presenting me flowers.

And of course I never play favorites, never have, never will. But the red roses from the Valor in Excelsis Club — a solid dozen of the prettiest red roses — touched my heart most of all. Which is not to say the others were bad, not by any means, but the pretty red roses were miles away my favorite and no doubt the ones I will remember the longest and with the most fondness. They're in a quart of water by my bed.

The Valor in Excelsis Club also gave me the biggest reception, shaking hands with me, seriously shaking and introducing me around, and in such a way that I truly knew I was among friends. I don’t know exactly what it is about the Valor in Excelsis Club that makes them unique in the club-speaking business, but they truly go all out to make a guy know he’s the center of their meeting. I haven’t got a big head by any means, but the way the Valor in Excelsis folks made me feel so special, it started to make me think, I must be better than I knew!

Anyway, it was a heart-touching time. Please join me in a big hand for the Valor in Excelsis Club for their superior reception and closeness of attention to detail — far surpassing all other clubs in that regard as well. I can say without the fear of contradiction, when they formed the Valor in Excelsis Club they broke the mold, because these guy are the absolute peak, the best of any club I’ve ever had an acquaintance with. And, yes, I’ve seen plenty of clubs -- from the Bee Club to the Spy Club we had as kids till today.

My sales job to them on getting people to read my blog was heartfelt. I’ve got a certain technique — OK, I’m going to give you the inside track on my speech technique — I picture myself climbing a mountain with the rhetoric. Then when I’m at the absolute peak, where it seems like I will soar into the stratosphere, I break down as though I can’t go on. The analogy here is a roller coaster that stops at the peak of its highest drop; it takes your breath away. People are popping oxygen pills. Then right at that moment I segued into a riff about the Valor in Excelsis Club, how well known they are for rescuing people. Then in hushed tones, I fought back tears. The place was incredibly still as I regained enough composure to thank them for “how you rescued me...” Significant trail-off, touching heart, we were all sobbing. Fifty dollar check.

I’ve used the same story with other clubs, and of course it’s always someone from their club (a different chapter out of town) that rescued me. But all the Valor in Excelsis Club does is rescue people so what can you say... They see someone in danger, they'll trample each other to death to be the guy who gets the credit. So that’s the way I told it:

“I was with my mother at the Ridiculous Day sales one year when a madman came careening down the alley, right toward me. With the weirdest part being he was found innocent that very day of an unrelated crime. I was frozen in my tracks. I didn’t know what to do. At 12 years old I was mentally a babe in arms, literally a basket case.

"But I knew the guy was crazed, and the shame of being accused of an unrelated crime was too much for him. He would go out every bit the criminal they said he was. Tragic. Anyway, here he comes, with enough hate to burn the village to the ground! But his hatred was for me alone, a random kid he'd never met. I personally saw him scouring the rest of the town for other victims. There was no stopping him, nothing anyone could do.

"When some quick thinking members of the Valor in Excelsis Club, the most alert people on earth, saw the hazard and swung into action. Each Valorian had a large hook and rope and flung them toward every fire escape in town, God is my witness. Then just as that hazardous motorist could run me over — and we later learned he had the worst of intentions, having put a cement brick on the gas to make his evil deeds even more irreversible — the Valor in Excelsis Club rescued me. Unfortunately they couldn’t rescue everyone, but I was spared, saints be praised.”

The other downer is that several Valor in Excelsis Club members themselves were impaled on the hooks and killed. And every year I recite their names and toll a memorial bell purchased for that purpose. That day and New Year's Eve.

I concluded with a personal request: "Thank you very much for this lovely plaque. I’d like to request as well, if you ever have any honorariums up for grabs, I’d be honored to get my mitts on as many of those as is humanly possible.”

February -- State of the Month

We're halfway through February, and the excoriation of this the worst of months has been merciless. I'm doing my best, laying into it with everything I've got. I feel like I can't rest, because in so many ways I'm carrying this whole cause singlehandedly. That's not to say there aren't supporters out there, both silent and vocal, but only that I'm not getting good reports from the field as to any activities.

So now, today, it's time to pause, being halfway through this short, shrimpy month, and take time to evaluate our progress, and see what more we can do. We'll redouble our efforts if that's what's necessary, to make the final push, to destroy February once and for all. Our vision is good, our vision is great, but it will remain but a vision unless each of us does our individual part.

First, the good news. Again, it's been my efforts that have carried us thus far. You can look back through my posts in late January and in recent weeks and see that I've taken the fight to the enemy. There's been resistance, of course. Even a pathetic 28-day month like February, inexplicably has its share of supporters. It doesn't matter what it is, somebody's a fan of everything, whether it's sadism, tofu, or tattoos. 

But one fight at a time, right? Right now I've got enough on my hands. Media coverage of our cause has been virtually nil. Many folks out there haven't even heard yet what we're doing. That's where you, my supporters, have to take up the slack. I'm not sure what you've been up to, but one thing I'm pretty sure of, you haven't been doing much to help. I'm going to ask you -- no, I shall demand -- that you get up off your flat ass and get busy. You supposedly want this thing as much as I do, only you have a funny way of showing it. I'm sorry if I'm coming across as harsh, but, friends, we have to strike now, and make a mockery of February now; because once it's over, the public will forget the little bit they have heard.

Let me thank you for the many "Attaboys!" I've gotten. Many of you are very faithful, at least to the point of paying lip service to a good cause. It's just that, yes, you're a lot like the rest of the general public, lethargic if no one's physically lifting you off the couch, putting your hat on, and pushing you out the door. I knew a few deadbeat kids like that in school, and of course they've grown up and aren't much better as adults. I'm simply asking you to change your ways temporarily, until we win this fight.

There are others of you, I've heard, who are essentially laid up and think you can't do anything. I was inspired to get a note from a guy who was literally 950 pounds midway through January, but because he believed in this fight, in solidarity with me he refused to eat, and he shed 700 pounds. This is true. He went from 950 to 250, but unfortunately died. Let's win this thing for him!

I've also gotten notes from some of you who hate February but say you can't get out and do much. You're on disability or whatever. But I'm going to ask you to do something, to show that what you say is true, OK? I saw this on TV so I know it works. If you could send your best gift -- I don't care if it's $500 or $1000 -- whatever you can put together, perhaps by hitting up relatives or neighbors -- that would be great. It will pay rich dividends -- that's my guarantee -- when next year at this time we're enjoying a year without February.

Maybe there's even a few of you in a hospice bed, also at your life's end. You know you can't take it with you, but you'd still love to look down from heaven and see a world without February. If that's you, please call in your attorney, and leave your family in the hall (this is just between us), and sign the papers to get the money to me ASAP. When I hear that you've gone to your reward, I promise I'll tip my hat in your general direction.

We can do this, we really can! And I'm going to say something to demonstrate the utmost boldness: With God's help, February shall not stand, not today, not now, not ever! When we've wiped this scourge from the face of the earth, we shall all win!

Get up, then, and join me in this fight. Get up off your couch, turn your TV off, get out your checkbook, and let's have your best gift. February's going down!

Mt. Olympus and the Pits of El Cid

"If anything was ever said wrong in this lifetime, that was surely it. And now, with my boldness, with my mistake, I have been hurled from the heights of Mount Olympus, all the way to the gloomy depths of El Cid." -- From my morning meditation, thinking of a recent (massive) failure in speech.

Here's a teaching I've kept in reserve, hoping that one day my readers would show them worthy of receiving it. My hopes have long been disappointed, as I suspected would happen, but I have a terrific sense that the time has come anyway. It currently applies to me.

I want to teach a little bit about the difference between Mount Olympus (good) and El Cid (bad), as these opposite concepts/locales relate to the things we say, our speech. Olympus being good, of course that's what we strive for. El Cid being evil, that's what we so often settle for, a big mistake.

But, you say, historically El Cid is supposed to be a beautiful place, a place of goodness. Not the way I see it, Cid being related to sin or, more immediately, Tom Sawyer's brother Syd, a true snake in Eden.

Was it something I cid? Said or did? Certainly. I've cid plenty, and you can't take back what you cid. The tongue is a world of fire, of evil. Rooting itself as it does in the rottenest part of your soul. What makes a soul -- the highest expression of the person -- crash and burn faster and meaner than that? As long as I'm secure in one place, not stirring, uttering not a peep, I'm OK. But where there's movement there's trouble. And with movement comes expression, verbal blather, verbal garbage, the whole dump truck of written or spoken vileness.

The only antidote -- or solution -- is to remain in one place, be physically still, and keep your fool mouth shut. Am I right? That's what they say in meditation: You want to sit still and focus on one thing, that hopefully becomes no thing, so that you're again in the non-dual realm of Mount Olympus, i.e., the highest place, heaven.

For many of us this is hard to maintain. It's certainly been tough for me. Whereas I might sit there silently -- I'm thinking of myself in a group now -- at the last minute I open my mouth and all is lost. The Olympus investment I made is suddenly sunk by the junk bonds of El Cid. It's happened so many times it's not funny.

And I know where it's rooted, those stinking college courses where part of your grade is dependent on participation. You sit there silently all semester, then realize you're going to flunk if you don't speak up by the last session. By now -- and this is straight out of our group dynamics experience -- the groove of the group is deeply chiseled, the pecking order of talkers being long established. The fact that you're suddenly blurting something out, and clearly to meet the participation requirement even if it's by the skin of your teeth, makes you a shame in their eyes. They are in Olympus, but you are hopelessly mired in El Cid. Same old story.

I hasten to clarify, however, that Mount Olympus, despite what I just said, is a thoroughly positive thing, the very opposite of El Cid. On Olympus the gods are assembled in one place, the correlate of being alone with your thoughts. In the wastleland known as El Cid, knowing that you've broken the silence, and the filth hole on your face has spewed forth its muck and mire, that which is most despicable in the depths, you're in the depths.

You can tell -- I hope you grasp this -- that to be an extrovert is to constantly fail, to sink as it were in the quicksand of El Cid. No one wants to be around you. Everyone wishes you'd shut up. But to be an introvert -- like cleanliness -- is next to godliness. Clearly the reason is that with silence you're on Olympus (or closer), although, as is well known, you can still spoil it and once again fall to El Cid.

With my mind, then, I honor Mount Olympus, but with my mouth El Cid. How may I be delivered from such a fate? Thanks to the gods of Mount Olympus, my natural homeland is not El Cid! My daily prayer -- join me in this prayer now -- is for Olympus to keep me far from El Cid, in my spirit and daily life. May it be true for all of us! Although I know it won't be.

I'm More Than My Squarish Body

Jane is often invited to visit groups and give talks at meetings. Most people are interested in her squarish body and features. That's all understandable enough, of course, since who isn't curious about anyone with something immediately different about them? But she also wants all of us to realize that she's more than her squarish body. She is not a zoological specimen, pinned to a black mat under glass, only to be labeled, "Squarish."

In regard to the differences people have -- when I heard her talk before a church group -- she said she'd recently had the opportunity to meet a guy with three ears. His two ears are naturally in the ordinary places, but, due to a developmental issue, he has a third ear in the middle of his forehead. Not as great as eyes on the back of your head, but still distinctive. She says he gave a talk on himself and took questions, and was able to hear even the most soft-spoken folks in the back of the room.

"He saw me sitting there," she said, "with my squarish body, and it seemed like he was wondering about me. But probably because of his third ear, his own difference, he wasn't fast to blurt it out. I would say I was probably the most accepting person there of him and his third ear."

In the course of her talk, Jane said that way back in the old days, kids in school were merciless. But now with everyone grown up, she gets a more sympathetic reception. I nodded, because I had issues as a kid, too, like lots of kids, but now I'm Sympathy Personified. I wanted to give her an "Attagirl," but those kinds of extraneous comments are frowned upon by the group, which has to hear my comments every week but only has this one shot to hear a woman with a squarish body.

Anyway, she said she's given this same talk numerous times, in schools, for civic organizations, and even for coffee clubs and in prisons. She varies it -- which is all very understandable -- for the group hosting her. "School children do a lot of staring, but of all the people, they're the closest to true understanding. One little roundish boy told me, 'You were born squarish, I was born roundish!' I needed kids like that when I was a kid!"

When it came time for questions, I thought, Should I ask her something about her experience with a squarish body, or something more process-oriented? I actually know better, I swear, but I went with the process question and amazingly got a squarish body answer: "Do you like giving these talks?" I believe she picked up on what I was getting at: Why subject yourself to this kind of carnival, the whole thing highlighting, really, what is extraneous to your basic humanity, your shape?

She gave me the usual rigamarole mumbo-jumbo answer you might expect. She knows people are curious, etc., and she has nothing to be ashamed of... I'm looking like, "Yeah, but..." Then she got down to brass tacks, and I believe I perceived an underlying hatred of the whole process, when she said, "My biggest problem with it is I think of myself as normal, just another person. And since I'm more than a person with a squarish body, sometimes I wonder why I'm dwelling on that one thing. Does that make sense?" I nodded, and she declared, "I'm much more than my squarish body. Just like the other guy is more than his third ear."

I felt pretty good with her answer. Although I got a dirty look from our group's leader. Since I'd very clearly subverted the whole session, bringing forth from her a proud proclamation that she's more than her squarish body, the very reason we were sitting there listening to her. We dismissed in shame and rolled our roundish bodies home.

The Key to My Mouth

I'm able to go profound lengths of time profoundly silent. Witness what I've done here at my blog. I've resisted the temptation all month, until now, when I feel I have something to brag about, to write. I have literally let the pearls of wisdom that I normally transfer from my mouth to my hands lie dormant. They've been locked up.

Now, though, only when I have something to brag about, my profound silence, do I break my silence and proclaim it. Quite the deal.

I guess I've always been that way. Starting way back, when I first heard of the concept of zipping your lip, then, more impressive to me, of locking it all together. I was like the fainting goat of speech, everything I was meant to be by nature, but with the added discipline of just keeping to myself.

Someone would interrupt me, let's say, then ply me for my opinion. But by then, whether stealthily or in the open light of everyone's field of vision, I would have taken an invisible key from my pocket and locked my mouth. Then, no matter how they begged and wheedled about it, I would sit silent, stone-face, breathing only through my nose.

That's a dynamite feeling, too. If you've never tried it, try it. Let a roomful of people sit there and see you with the discipline it takes to not unlock your mouth. I'm getting a head rush just thinking back over my life, and hoping, as strange as it sounds, that someone offends me very soon so I can do it again!

So often, though, I've been very civilized. I might be sitting there in a group, trying to offer my two cents' worth, and all the others are filibustering. Then I try to pipe up with something and some blowhard across the room will talk over me. So often I've just let it go.

But it all depends on how I'm feeling, and you definitely feel more civilized as an adult than a kid. But say I'm feeling cantankerous, like a kid, I'll reach for the key and very publicly lock my mouth, and that's it! Now, all of a sudden, everyone wants to hear me! Funny how that works! So, again, depending on how I feel, I might unlock it quickly, or I might just sit there and not.

It'd be cool ... How about this? I'm offended right away, then I lock my mouth and throw away the key. It's over there somewhere, invisible. They're begging me, "Please tell us what it was!" and I just point to my locked lips. Then I sit there the entire hour or two, whatever it is, letting the lock do its thing! It'd really flummox them! Later, they see me on the street and I'm talking, because I always carry a spare key.

Anyway, you have two lessons today. Locking your mouth is something to do. And, don't interrupt me, or get on my nerves in any other way, or I'll lock my mouth and you'll never know what you missed.

I Believe In An America

I believe in an America where a man can start his underpants down around his ankles, and by pulling them up can get them around his waist and cover his ass.

I believe in an America where it's up to each man to tend to his own underpants. Who knows better than each man himself, in the privacy of his castle, where his underpants stand? He can look down without any help from anyone and see whether they're on. And if they're not, he can get them up over his feet, lift them up next to his ankles, then pull them up around his waist and cover his ass.

Be he rich or be he poor, if he has a place to stand, only momentarily, this is a task, a effort, an undertaking, he can accomplish.

The pilgrims and pioneers, we know, were the ones who started it all. They came over on ships, and according to the old world standards, a fact of history to be accepted and, with all due allowance made to varying cultural mores the world over, not to be deprecated, they were bare butt naked. Totally naked but for a kind of smock or tunic or robe, meant for the most part to keep them from being totally naked. It wasn't much, but they called it clothes. It helped keep them warm. But one thing it did not do -- it did not do this -- it did not cover their ass in that total way that underpants does. They could still feel the sway of their natural assets. They were uncomfortable with the chafing, but what were they to do, having grown up with different cultural mores, and totally idiotic ones at that.

Well, when they got to America, some Guiding Divine Providence, perhaps it was God, opened their eyes, that they might realize that except for those smocks or tunics, they were naked. So they sewed the first primitive underpants from leaves and weeds. And from there it was a hop, skip, and jump to the more comfortable cloth underpants we know today.

Boys and men came together around the sacred circle. The chieftain was in the middle with the communal supply. Then, and I know this sounds weird, all the participants ran around the perimeter of the circle, until they were nothing but a blur. One by one, and in some unconscious order, similar to the motions of birds, they spun inward, and accepted a pair of underpants from the chieftain. He made a silent sign to each, and each, individually, performed the ritual of getting his underpants around his ankles, then pulling them up to the waist secure, so they covered his ass.

And evermore may it be. We are not a naked race. We are proudly clothed. We wear underpants here in the America I believe in, in the America I know, and ever shall.