Trash-Talking The Sun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trash-Talking a Cinnamon Roll

The spirit has hit me once again -- OH YEAH! -- to lay into something, to filet and gut it, to trash-talk it till it can't go on. I love the feeling, the surge of power, in taking a domineering stance and daring the damned thing to get up and fight.

This time I'm lording it over a cinnamon roll, that, frankly, struck me the wrong way. You don't want to get on my bad side, believe me. Maybe I don't like your attitude, maybe I don't like your look -- whatever it is -- you're goin' down, sucka!

Let's take a look at the cinnamon roll in question. A particularly disgusting looking sample. If the average cinnamon roll looked as pathetic as this one, there never would've been a demand for the thing. In the annals of desserts, there would've been a rather gaping hole, made better by no one ever knowing what was meant to go there.

My basic argument with this guy is its drizzle. Let's look at photo A14. Seriously, was this your plan? You had a little bit of drizzle and you decided to strike on your own, and show everybody how bad you were? Ha! But then when you got your motor running you couldn't even make it to the plate? Look at you, you're a waste of space. You got that far and ran out of juice, dog. You thought you could do it, I guess. I don't know why you thought that, since the juice wasn't even there to start with. It's stupid to think what you did. Maybe a little kick in the pants would've done you good ... before you even started!

Photo F361 takes us leftward. Here the apparent ambition of the roll was to fill up the plate with drizzle. But again ... Was that your big ambition? You thought you were going to impress the world, huh? You were gonna show everybody how amazing you were! And, yes, that would've been very amazing ... that is, if you had what it took to get the job done. Which obviously you didn't! You sicken me. Let's take a look at why you thought that. I don't why you thought that. It doesn't look like you have any brains at all. Is that what it is? Sure, yes, anyone can make a mad dash for the plate, but if they haven't got what it takes to get the job done, they probably should've just stayed home.

In T899 we shift rightward again, right between the two despicable drizzle failures, and here we see a section of the roll that somehow simply failed. Look at you! I may owe an apology to the others, for their failure to execute a proper cinnamon roll drizzle maneuver. Because you have a rather embarrassing bald spot -- extremely dry -- right where your drizzle should've been! And that's much worse. No one wants a bare naked cinnamon roll. Why'd you even bother to come along for the ride? You didn't think we were gonna notice this shameful display? How could we miss it? It's gaping, disgusting to see, and I'm sure, if I wasn't smart enough to pinch you off and throw you away, I'm sure I would've spat you out with revulsion and prejudice.

Z7 shows how the two drizzle points I lambasted are the only drizzle points. Z7, as a picture of the whole cinnamon roll in one view, shows how the damned thing had a lack of organization and presentation from the get-go. How much better, roll, if you didn't have the drizzle to coat your top if you'd had the intelligence not to waste it at the points of A14 and F361! Where was your head at when this was going on? Did you not spend even one moment considering how terrible you were going to look? What is this, the giving-up spirit of a runt, knowing it's a runt, and not worth its place in the litter? I don't know, you tell me! You're the one that stepped out and said you were a cinnamon roll worth eating! I didn't say that! But a cinnamon roll worth eating also has to be a cinnamon roll worth looking at. And on those points, my friend, you failed miserably.

OK, NSA, Bite on This, You Screwed Up Idiots!

When I write, I like to send a message. I want people to hear me -- loud and proud. I guess I'm like all great writers in that respect. Being ignored isn't my thing. As for regular everyday readers, maybe I don't have as many as I'd like, but it's like I always say, I prefer quality to quantity. If I wanted nothing but quantity I could do like they do on Facebook, cutesy crap on cats and solemnities on veterans everyday of the week! I know one guy who posts every picture he takes of food on the BBQ, and he has readers up the butt. The pork butt.

But I have one regular reader -- I should say a host of readers, no doubt -- at NSA headquarters. Which I just looked up. It stands for National Security Agency. Who like to think they're the biggest baddest playahs on the block. When you see them comin' you better run! They're gonna getcha! You don't want to meet them in a dark alley! They'll scan the contents of your wallet, give you a full rectal exam looking for the missing documents, and send you to Gitmo!

That's what they want you to think. Heh heh, but I'm too smart to fall for that. I've always been able to see through propaganda. They can't be everywhere at once. And even if they are, they can't pin anything on me. All I have to do is say I was "just kidding" when I wrote this stuff belittling them. Sure, I believe they have some power. But this is America, right? We the People are the boss and we can't be pushed around by government flunkies and nitwits. I hope you agree, and of course I hope you've got my back.

Apparently they're able to some amazing things. Like read every blog, every website, watch every YouTube video, all trying to pin something on someone. They're able to download a record of every phone call, every piece of mail, track you with your smart phone, and know what you're thinking even if you're in bed asleep in the dead of night.

OK, let's test it out: I heard of a guy who was possibly killed by some mean hombres and fed to the hogs. Just kidding or am I? OK, I don't remember his name, exactly where he lived, exactly what year it was, and I don't have one single clue about the people who allegedly did it, or any way of communicating with the hogs who ate him. It's a total cold case, probably all of the principles being dead. Now, if the NSA is as bad as they think they are, they'll either be here in 20 minutes to question me or they'll have to settle for just kidding. Anyway, even if the hogs were still alive, they'd have a good defense: People have been eating them for years...

My sense of how it really is with the NSA is, yes, they're able to download a bunch of stuff. But actually getting to you and doing anything about it, I don't think they can. Safety in numbers. They're surely overwhelmed. So it's all completely worthless. You heard me, completely worthless!

UPDATE: Obviously I said too much. As it turned out, they were at my front door within 10 minutes of posting the above tirade. There were four of them. Three took turns tying me in a chair and slapping the snot out of me. The other one was outside shooting flaming arrows over my house, which is very dangerous with the tufts of dry hay that Grandpa used for roofing the house in the mid '70s. It turned out they were interested in the hogs eating the dead man. They said I gave too many details for it to be just kidding. Which I admitted, yes, you're right. Then I quickly backtracked and said I wanted a lawyer, which they denied me, knowing I wouldn't be able to afford one. I raised my right hand and said I was just kidding.

Now they're gone, and I'm still tied to the chair, unable to move even a muscle. The NSA did this to me. Send help! I'm typing this at 6 words a minute with my nose. On an iPhone keyboard, no less. NSA, I hate you! But I understand you're just trying to protect my freedoms, so, OK, you can't be all bad. 

A Huge Snowfail Last Night

I was out trash-talking the weather today after the big snowstorm. First, you know me, I wasn't impressed. I used to hear the old timers talk about snow so deep they had to cancel school for a month. That was back before the government realized you could build trucks to get rid of it. And, second, I'm just not that easy to impress. Even if nature eventually destroys us completely, my last words will be, "With any competence it wouldn't have taken so long."

Of course I don't have to worry about nature destroying us. Mankind is king of the universe, OK?, the judge and jury over these pipsqueak storms. We have brains, but nature has no real organization. If I were pissed off nature (nature with brains) I'd concentrate my whole force in one area and make an example of someone. Like Afghanistan. American man has been screwing around in the war over there for close to 15 years and doesn't seem to be any closer to beating whoever it is we're fighting. But if I'm pissed off nature, I whirl and blow till they beg for mercy and choose to have a righteous democracy, giving rights to their girls to go to school.

That's all taking me pretty far afield, since I didn't mean to get mixed up in Afghanistan. If any terrorists are reading this, please don't hurt me. I wouldn't normally be afraid, but, seriously, if American man has been screwing around trying to beat you for close to 15 years, you must be doing something right.

My actual topic is the failure of our snowfall last night. I've never thought of snow as a true success till it's hit the ground. That has to be the purpose. It's up there in the tallest part of the sky and has the ground as its destination. But -- this is Nature vs. Nature -- it gets caught in trees, on cars, and even on my head. That's a weird thing I think of every snowstorm: "This snow fell from the tallest part of the sky and just happened to land on my head. Imagine that, if only snow came with winning lottery numbers!" And you can even localize it more, if it lands on an even smaller target, your tongue...

I was driving past this local wall, seen in the photo, and saw the tragedy of snow failing. Such as getting all the way from the tallest part of the sky and screwing it up with a mere 8 inches to go! Instead of falling on the ground, it got trapped in the crevices of the bricks. Then 8 inches up from that, and on and on. Isn't that a drag if you're snow? You're looking at the ground and knowing it's a sure thing ... just to have the wind swirl at the last possible second and put you on a ledge 8 inches up.

Talking Trash To Melting Snow

I have so many problems with snow when it's at the height of its power, when it's melting I like to ridicule it. Taunting has always been my thing:

How the mighty have fallen! Thou shalt die the deaths of the uncircumcised by the hand of strangers: for I have spoken it. Good riddance! Don't write, don't call, don't drop by!

It's nothing but the wasted away reminder of its former self. You're not so tough now, are you? I could kill you with a teaspoon of ice melt. I'm going to be out here again in five minutes to beat you to death with a shovel. And the way you're stuck to the ground, it doesn't look like you'll get away. Look at me when I'm talking to you! How do you feel, seeing I'm walking quite unimpeded.

And it's true; I'm able to run circles around it. There's more grass and, unfortunately, more unraked autumn leaves, than snow. There's no slipping, no falling, no care, no concern for the diminishing white stuff. It's completely lost whatever it had that brought us terror. More talking trash: I've heard of being up to your hips in snow, but you're not so tough, my little toe's not even slightly cool. Is this snow or dandruff? Nice sunny day, huh? I can't hear you! If I threw you in the road, no one would notice! They wouldn't send a truck out to scoop you!

I'm getting in some good licks. Although part of me knows I'll eventually have to pay for it, since snow will again one day have its strength. So we shall tussle, but today, right now, I'm the one with strength. And when I have the upper hand, when I'm able to dominate, that's exactly what I'm going to do, without hesitation, without mercy.

Then I go around to the north side, where the snow has a few more reserves, shivering in the shadows. Oh, hiding over here, are you? Come on, be realistic. It's time to cash in your chips, snow, you have no hope, give up the ghost. If you had half the balls you think you have you'd come over to the south side and prove it. How about a bucket of hot water to toughen you up?

Yeah, snow, I hear you, you were a big man there for a while. People passed by and saw a revolting sight. We had old ladies backed up three blocks trying to see the snow man up the road. And I saw you, too, I saw your pride, your feeling you could do anything. At that time, you taunted us ... I'm the man, I'm the man, there's no man like me! Etc., disgusting stuff! Pull up your damned pants!

But you're not looking so hot now. Or perhaps you are looking hot, and that's the problem. This photo was taken on the exact spot where the snow showed off its enormous package. Admittedly, it was a giant that night. As disgusting at it was, it definitely put me to shame. But that was then, this is now. Now it's a few spots of white. Snow swimmers? I don't know.

It's about over. This is getting pathetic. Snow has had its day, and now its day is through, now it dies. You really had us going there for a while. Ha ha, but now, oh boy, you're finished! You sicken me.

The Rest Is Inconsequential History

ABSTRACT: I survey the history of the American presidency and a bunch of things I happen to do. The rest is inconsequential history.

George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, two of our greatest presidents, ones I have no problem remembering, indisputably made history. If they fell out of bed, it was a big deal. Especially because they spent so little time sleeping, having wars and the affairs of state to keep them awake. Their influence remains today, as they are the ones I think of first when I think of historical figures. They dwell in my consciousness, up there in my natural cloud (no Amazon or Apple needed!).

What could I say to summarize the influence of these great men? Really, time and full intelligence would fail me, were I to try. So let me just start by saying, "Two thumbs up!" on their presidencies, and, in fact, on their lives period.

Of course President Washington was our first president, which had to be a great honor. He must have been struttin' and trash talkin' all the time: "They can't compare me to nobody!" and "Suck on this, you muthas!" President Lincoln came later in the distinguished line of American chief executives, according to the encyclopedia being the 16th man to hold the highest office. No, it's not as good as Number One, naturally, but you could say "Sweet 16" ain't bad! Not bad indeed, and in some states, still legal.

So let's hear it for Washington and Lincoln! Two great guys, even though it's not February. A grateful nation doesn't forget. What they did, they did. Whether it was in battle. Washington took out the English. Lincoln took out half of America. Or in their personal lives. Washington cut down cherry trees. Lincoln split rails. Their portraits remain with us, which is how we picture them yet today: Washington standing up in a boat, Lincoln staring down the cameraman. I love it that we have actual photos of Lincoln. But back in Washington's time, no one was yet smart enough to invent the camera. Which to us today seems real duh. My brother can make a camera out of a box and a pin! True story!

OK, I'm mentioning these great men today -- Number 1 and Sweet 16 -- to put myself in their company, the company of those who make history. The biggest difference between them and me is they chose to make history hundreds of years ago, and I choose to make it now. Which I'll leave to you to judge: Their history is so long ago we're dealing in hearsay and cliches. My history is up to date, something any objective observer can currently evaluate. Personally, I think my choice is best; certainly it lends itself to greater transparency; I'm not hiding out somewhere in the obscure past, I take my stand today!

About my own history, given enough time and bandwidth, I could go on and on. Like my list of teachers. I could give you a list of most of my teachers. A list you're not likely to come up on your own, because how would you know? It's not in the encyclopedias! Or the way my preferences in life developed. It's funny, the way things go. We used to eat a bunch of wild game that Grandpa hunted. Squirrels, rabbits, coon, pheasants, turtle, possums, etc. And we didn't think anything about it. Then, sometime, suddenly, when I grew up, I decided I'd only eat store-bought food. I'm not even that much of a proponent of hunting these days. But against those who do hunt, I hold no grievance. Old fashioned people hunt, the rest of us buy. See all the history right there?

I'm making history everyday. Here's one big reason: I carry a camera, a built-in feature of my phone. Can you believe it? A camera right in my phone! I can order a pizza one minute and take a picture of it the next! Try that with an Instamatic! Here's the history: My pictures capture a moment in time, i.e., history. I like to take pictures of old windmills and the broad sides of barns. Someday when we get our wind from other sources and all the barns have been burnt down for firewood, my pictures will preserve a bygone era. Like Ansel Adams, they'll be on calendars and coffee cups.

I'm making history right now, just by passing on my memories and knowledge to the world. I can see this blog as a primary resource for researchers someday. They'll be like, "Whoa! This is some good shit!" The researchers will be in little cubicles reading it, one of them starting at the most recent stuff and the other starting at the oldest. Eventually, they'll meet in the middle, like the great Americans who drove the Golden Spike. And they'll shake hands and thank their lucky stars for me. Then they'll go out for drinks and laughs before getting up the next day and doing it all again.

History ... it's a gas. I'm signing off for today ... although history may reveal that I came back.