Two Lovers Tonight

Part 12 of 30

Self-Abuse September

The story of this meat monster lady was covered locally but as far as I know was not picked up by news sources outside the county. Why that is, I can only guess. I suspect it has to do with the meatpacking industry and their “in” with journalists, always giving them meat to kill negative stories. And it's true, if you’ve ever visited journalists at home, the first thing you notice is the stand-alone freezer and plenty of meat. Which doesn’t just happen.

So I’ll sketch it out and hope you believe it, because every word is true and easily found in reputable dictionaries. OK, the meat monster was a mentally disturbed lady -- as generally understood --  with a side issue of being overly abusive to innocent ham loaves. With a prejudice. And say what you will about these conditions not being her fault, something she would've never brought on herself, that tired excuse only goes so far. She knows the value of a decent ham loaf, so she's fully capable of discerning right from wrong when it comes to killing lovers. The only mental issue I see definitely is the incongruity of thinking a lover's performance can be judged by the same standards we use to evaluate ham loaves. On that point I won't budge.

Our first victim (the other guy tomorrow) is this guy Glen with the penis nose, who actually should be head over heels the front runner in love-a-thons. If his downstairs is anything like upstairs, he's got an immediate advantage in any romantic standoff. Yes, he's of small build, but if he plays his body right, he could take care of her from both ends, depending on how her midsection fits on the mattress when spread-eagle. And were he to throw his voice, and with a nose like that he probably could, she’d think it was a menage a trois, which, if my French holds, means he’d be nailing her once but equivalent to the skills of three men.

Obviously, though, he had concerns, a downer most guys get, whether or not their nose is hung, when confronted with a woman as tough as Barbarossa and built like the proverbial shithouse. Part of her menace is the hat, with the word MEAT stitched in gold, again similar to Barbarossa, his crown.

Glen started back with a fear so real that had he fled in terror no one would’ve blamed him. But as she set out the terms, he froze. Whichever lover of the two -- Glen vs. Ham Loaf -- prevailed would see tomorrow! Glen went first, which wasn't too great but, frankly, a normal person would’ve given him a passing grade while not desiring sloppy seconds. The ham loaf went next -- it’s always best to go second in these kind of standoffs -- and it took full advantage of Glen’s blood, sweat, and tears in paving the way. With the ham loaf winning. Fully nude except for the hat, the monster woman strode over to Glen, and ... I'll just say his outfit's at the thrift store if anyone wants it.

We mourn Glen, of course, but sincere congratulations to the ham loaf.

Self-Abuse Challenge: Mentally put yourself in Glen's place.

Yes, Master, I've Been Bad

Part 6 of 30

Self-Abuse September

This one is mostly for other people into this kind of thing. I don’t have much experience with being mistreated physically (or during play). I’ve suffered mentally more than anything, which I covered a few months ago in my guidance counselor series. Of course it's all ancient history and he’s dead. My only recourse against him now, and associated therapy, are monthly road trips to the cemetery. It’s about a five hour drive one way for a good long piss. Which seems like a long way to go -- and on top of that it’s only his cremains! -- but it keeps me sane.

On the bright side, the farther the trip the more coffee I can drink, so it’s more worthwhile than might appear on the surface. My real hope is that Medicare will start covering private plane flights, since I haven’t found a direct commercial flight to that particular cemetery. They wouldn’t even have to turn it off. I’d run in, tinkle, and be back home in no time.

The graphic of the guy kicking the crap out of his partner has some interesting sexual aspects. The more interesting aspects of any graphic are psychological and you have to feel for the guy. Having to tell the supposed dom that he’s in charge and what to do. “I deserve worse, Sir,” that sort of thing. The Pink Vested One putting his foot to the unruly bottom under his command stands for the underling hinting around, “Uh, you’re not doing it right, I deserve worse, sir.” Yes, he probably does deserve worse, but if it takes telling him, maybe the other shoe should be on the other bottom. Putting pink wuss in his place!

Then comes another hint, hoping not to disturb whatever understanding they may have had before -- and to me it looks tentative and more wished for than a reality -- “But of course you know better.” Does he know better? Maybe, but our kicked friend’s calling the shots, not the other way around. You can objectively tell how lenient he is, it rates only 2 stars on a 5/6 star scale. Which, I don’t know, I’m not that into pain, doesn’t sound terrifically brutal. Worthy, I guess, of hinting around. “Do you mean business with my business or are you just pussyfooting around? Do I need to send you out to pasture, blacklist your name in the community? Exactly what do I have to do for you to take damned control here and give me the kicking of my life like I deserve?" The guy, not me.

But who knows? Maybe violence is out these days in sex play. I can see how it’d just be a relationship thing, a few slight taps and that’ll hold you. But there’s plenty of people -- I believe -- who want a lot better, meaning a lot worse. If that’s your fantasy today, picture me, a stern look on my face, mopping my brow as if to say this is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me -- the things I have to put up with, you very bad boys, very bad girls. Despicable. I’m so disappointed in all of you. If I want something done, I have to do it my damned self! You're worthless! And I don’t wanna hear a peep out of you, got that? Shut up!

Self-abusing yet?

Down In Front, Idiot!

 Part 9 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I won't give precise details about the neighborhood I grew up in. Except there were certain female creatures of approximately my age and species known for beating up boys. Not often, you couldn’t find a schedule for their attacks, and there was very little evidence left when the job was done. But it did happen. I was this close to the clubhouse one particular day and came this close myself to dying.

I believe the basic problem then came from the unfortunate fad of giving your kids a clubhouse. If I had kids, knowing what I knew then, they'd never get a clubhouse. And if I heard of clubhouses in the neighborhood, that'd be places my kids wouldn’t be playing. Because I wouldn’t want to see anyone beaten beyond recognition. That’s a good reason! Or for that matter, beatings less severe. One, it can do something to their self image (minor); 2) It can mean certain death, since bruises are nothing other than coagulated blood, that, if it reaches whatever brain they might have could be an aneurysm!

But I do remember a group of boys lead like prisoners to the worst switching of their lives in a clubhouse. The girls had knives and not only had cut switches off trees but had them honed. And no doubt they learned from one another the worst switching techniques before luring them to their near-death experience. I went out of my way to avoid everything about it. I once was in one of the clubhouses and heard girls coming, and but for a fire diversion — tossing a match into a pile of leaves and burning down half the town — I’d be dead today.

Now, let's take a look at our fiddler friend. He looks a lot like our Fiddler on the Roof friend from the movies, if memory serves. He's got a sort of an ethnic headpiece, not an attractive adornment in my opinion, feet like a platypus, a devil-may-care grin, and excellent fiddling technique. But something must be wrong with his hearing. Because those blocked from seeing the dancing girls were catcalling him — nicely at first — to be more considerate of their view.

Then going by the caption, it sounds like someone even called out, asking nicely but with a little more oomph, “Down in front, Idiot!” I don’t like that kind of talk, really, since you can get more honey — how’s that go? The sweeter you are the more people will like you? No, you can catch more bees with honey than with a net? The point is, If you deal with people gently you’re more able to manipulate their behavior, bend it to your will, than if you’re too direct and mean, coming on too strong. Plus bees.

Well, I think they had the right idea. Because the dancing girls, like dancing girls everywhere, also want to be seen. Their legs start just above the toes and go all the way to the promised land, next is the hips and everything above that. Dancing girls, professional women, never know if there’s a great agent in the audience with the keys to the kingdom of show biz looking to feature them in a Las Vegas revue or maybe even a feature film, a Hollywood tycoon.

Whatever they were thinking, things got hairy fast when the fiddler was accidentally kicked, fell and hurt his leg and had to be removed stage left. There’s no telling what all happened then. No one could match one foot with any particular bruise. Then the coagulation. And the problem really might have included sandbags as the dancers averred. You can trip over a few sandbags and buy the farm. Which still doesn't explain the fists. And possibly switches, clubs, and at the farthest extremity (only rumored) a battering ram, now missing.

We may never learn what the range of murder weapons included. We do know Moshe is no longer with us. And until Central Casting comes up with another Fiddler on the Roof guy, one with some good judgment, at least an iota of sense, they're using a CD of fiddling music -- an improvement in my opinion since everyone can now see the girls. And with the improved view, a few of the ladies have indeed been cast in Hollywood, some old time crime films, murder, mayhem, the whole shebang. More power to them!

They Blew Up Outer Space

No. 14 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

At this point it’s only science fiction. And if I and the Psycho Squad have anything to say about it, that’s the way it’ll stay. They don't call me Kibosh for nothing. But, friends, even I might need your help. There have been few other catastrophes affect me this deeply, the terrible feeling that all things could be wiped out in my lifetime. I used to play at the city dump, bashing in the screens of old TVs and shooting rats with a bow and arrow. The town shut the whole thing down and told us to get the hell out. This is like that, traumatic.

So here it is, this dreaded limbo of threats and negotiations with every eye on space. Just thank your lucky stars nothing's happened yet. And I hope to hang an alien that’s how it stays. But the threat is real, and actually has every indication of not being aliens but our own species. It's ridiculous, Earthlings that far off the beam?! Haven’t they learned at some point in their pathetic lives “Live and let live”? Anyone that far off the beam, where are their values?

Certainly we must not put anything past them. One, a destructive urge like that is pathological. With my training, I should know; I aced the Destructive Urges test, not because I’m destructive — I’m not — I’m so anti-destructive I could spit. Complete destruction is never called for, with perhaps the sole exception of destroying anyone who would dare attempt it. Only then are destructive urges warranted. Because there can be no tolerance. We must declare it the highest priority and seal the deal for our existence, the planets, the stars, etc., with no mercy for those who'd threaten the system, our system, solar, stellar, or whatever.

Just thinking of someone like that, so far gone... I'll expound on it. What a craven urge! These are psychos that should not be helped, only destroyed. And no one will hold me back! Unless — and this is theoretical — they could be somehow captured and brought to justice, the sternest judgment, perhaps the death penalty or dealt with therapeutically. But let's say the situation is literally as portrayed above, where they’ve already destroyed the stars and half the sun. They themselves would need to be blown out of space. We would have to act preemptively, long before they unleashed more chaos than we could sweep up.

The Psycho Squad will never advocate for anyone that far gone. Maybe, yes, theoretically we’re sworn to help. But that far gone? No! That's beyond the pale, no hope. Just write them off. If they'd cause that much misery, that much destruction, they’re gone, history, out of here. I don’t shock easily — I like easy days, and fatalities per se don't bother me — but this level of wickedness, these depths of depravity sap the last of my tolerance. It's gone in a heartbeat.

First, though, and I hope this puts things in a more optimistic light, there seems to be some bluster at hand. We don't know how many stars there are precisely, but it's in the billions. And they’re pretty far scattered. No one could destroy all the stars except Nature itself if they all just collapsed on each other. And whether it’d be possible to destroy half the sun, I also don't know that for sure. It sounds far fetched. It'd have to be a perfect hit to destroy half, a payload right down the shute, boom! Instant half of a black hole. 

So there's some hope. But any psychos that attempt such a thing — whether humans in space or some other scurrilous alien breed — need to be dispatched. The local chapter of the Psycho Squad, for which I speak authoritatively, decries all such threats, plans, and deeds. We offer only censure and condemnation to the perpetrators.

Disembowel Him Once For Us

No. 7 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

Real life happens without a chorus. You get choruses in plays, Greek plays. They’re a technique to show public opinion and the sentiments of the times and circumstances without having a guy stand there and tell you. More choruses would be great now, but we do have pundits on TV to explain every nuance of public affairs. And choruses might be unreliable, since they’d be giving us everything on their fool minds, not the salient points of an established playwright.

I wouldn’t mind being a member of the chorus, alternately booing whoever it is who’s the villain of the day or cheering the heroes. But doing it without booing and cheering, but by super targeted comments, encapsulating public sentiment and immediately convicting or encouraging those in the light. Like Twitter.

In school, I kept most of my affairs to myself. I don’t even think I told my mom of my travails with the guidance counselor. That would’ve been interesting, wish I would have planted a bug in her ear. She was the one who got me the wrestling deferment, and it’s only right she should’ve been the one to stand up to the guidance counselor and pull his evil fangs out of my back. Always making me feel badly about myself — or trying his devilish best to do so. She could’ve gone in there and rained hail-knots on his garbage scalp. As it was, he saw his chance to make me an example — to no one in particular except for his own satisfaction — and took it. My big regret.

One thing about it is clearly wrong, his delight at reducing me in his and my own estimation by my compliance, 1) by even going to his office; and 2) sitting there and taking it. Wow, looking back on it in hindsight, I had great options, but maybe greater consequences if they'd gone sour. I could've been instrumental in getting him removed as guidance counselor! That would’ve been awesome. But then I would’ve had to face the next loser they dragged in, and he or she (it would’ve been a he then) might’ve been worse. ‘So you’re the little punk who offs guidance counselor, huh? Well, off THIS!” he demands, and suddenly I’m deflowered.

Or I wouldn't have had to have the original guidance counselor barred; I could’ve petitioned for some relief from his scornful behavior. Which everyone would’ve understood and applauded if they were true to their values. It was these very souls — the few good and the many evil — who taught me about the American colonists petitioning the King of England for America. I can’t remember all their demands. I think they sought lemonade every other weekend and three square meals on Wednesdays.

How bad the crowd must’ve been in England and America. Because crowds are out for blood, mobs. Mob action, death! Hang him! Disembowel him! Even as the guy is whetting his most ferocious blade, a big machete, big enough to lop someone’s head off, or otherwise trim him, making him worthless for women or men of the same mind.

Well, anyway, here we are decades later. I still have all my bowels. However many you’re born with, they’re all still there. And exercised on a daily basis, as nature calls.

My Violent Fantasies

No. 5 of 30 - Guidance Counselor series

Of course in terms of actual history I never hit the guidance counselor. I sat there like a good boy. And we weren’t opposed to violence in those days. But I had some pragmatism, a self-interest to protect. And if he showed up today, I'd give him a friendly embrace. Even though he deserved a good whacking, a thrashing like he wouldn’t believe. But I had to worry about staying in school. Because to drop out would’ve meant a life of low paying jobs. Instead of the wealth I'm surrounded with now. Just bought a microwave three weeks ago.

But those days are gone, and we’re geared for fantasies, you know I’m right. I bet most of you have serious fantasies. I’m not going to sketch out any of mine, except to state what’s obvious in everyone’s experience: I’m the center of it and it involves lots of different characters all with very perverse intentions and playful schemes of behavior. Which is enough about that.

Most of my fantasies do not — let me repeat, do not — involve guidance counselors. But now that I’m old, maybe I missed out on something. It really took a lot of thinking in these latter days of my life, leading to this blog series, for me to flesh out what are likely the patterns of guidance counselors. Most of you probably had good guidance counselors, at least seemingly good. They were good enough not to jump your bones on the first session, and if you only had one session with them, you got off scot-free.

To be fair to my guidance counselor — a guy I did not like and would have no reason to say good things about if they weren’t true — he never once jumped my bones or attempted to. He was passive/aggressive, yes, but only in ways either to help me or injure me psychically, not sexually. I would never accuse anyone falsely of such a thing. As it turns out, with adults (and me as a kid) there was never ever the slightest untoward thing that anyone did to me. Which these days is no laughing matter, of course.

I didn't care for his words and attitude, though, and his behavior was not exemplary in the fullest psychological sense. But there was lots of room for deniability for him. Which my Mom could've discerned and figured it out. She got me in with the guidance counselor in the first place, so I wouldn’t have to take part in a semester of wrestling. But even she did not know the problem.

It does me some devious mental good to take him on in memory. It's funny. Like this sitting on a bench and faking a yawn and, oops, a black eye. And, yes, I know gratuitous violence is also out today -- we're so righteous -- but this is purposeful violence, indicating my desire to strike back, to smite righteously a hostile adult figure. Which is still allowed. "Oh, did my fist accidentally smite your eye?"

Mute Invisible Guard Dogs

I’ve been living in “The Big City” while they work on Grandma’s house — fumigation is the least of its problems — so I’ve been out cattin' around everyday. Checking out things. Plus, I’m actually a minor player in the recycling industry, in that I pick up and cash in aluminum cans. I’ll make a post about it some time.

I see myself also as patrolling the ‘hood. But most of the vandalism I see appears to have happened years ago. With the bad guys long gone. Windows are out, broken glass is everywhere, and some of the buildings are on their last legs. Makes me rethink Grandma’s house; it's not too far gone.

In all this patrolling and can rummaging, I’ve been interested in the obligatory signs warning thieves, burglars, vandals, and squatters. There’s a small tree-covered area nearby, and I discerned right away some homeless folks were living there. Which was cool with me, so I didn’t do anything to disturb them, just kept my distance. After a while, though — and obviously it would’ve been better if they’d stayed there only briefly — their presence was discovered by the authorities or owners. Who went in, piled up all their stuff on the curb, then hauled most of it away. Now there's blinking light posts at the various entrances to the wooded area.

The other thing they have, to keep folks out, are warning signs. Yes, yes, in “The Big City” warning signs are very common. At the wooded area, the warning signs tell of “Video Surveillance,” which would seem to be false; wouldn’t you see an occasional camera somewhere? Or are they spending big bucks on a satellite system, a joint effort with NASA? Still, I don’t go in there, mostly because I already have a place to flop, and also I’m careful about crossing boundaries. There used to be an old guy in my neighborhood rumored to shoot kids with rock salt.

OK, the signs. That’s what I’m on about today. While searching for beer cans (and other aluminum goodies), I’m always seeing warning signs. A bunch of them are posted on buildings that have been ransacked so many times, it’s obvious no one takes them seriously. Actually, my biggest fear would be to have other ransackers there when I went in, then they’d ransack me... Anyway, the chances of these old buildings having anything of huge value in them now are pretty low.

Thinking it over, though, I had a great idea, which would be to make signs saying, “THIS BUILDING IS PROTECTED BY MUTE INVISIBLE GUARD DOGS.” Is it true? I mean, really, someone could diligently search and find actual non-vocal dogs who’ve also had the added misfortune of being born invisible. When it rains, it pours, right? So there they are, a big bowl of food and water keeping body and soul together, the whole works. They're healthy, they usually get decent sleep ... until the big night comes.

Finally someone's stupid enough to enter. Some guys, looking for metal bathtub fixtures and wanting to strip the precious wiring out of the walls, show up one night. They’re drinking up a storm just before this, getting up their nerve. Because a sign about mute invisible guard dogs truly is intimidating. But they convince themselves, "This sign’s just like that one at the wooded area, a big fat fake!” Then they go in, and these dogs — vicious bastards when provoked — get hold of their legs; one nearly escapes but the dog takes a chunk out of his ass. Exciting stuff.

Pretty soon the dogs have the bastards cornered — who by now have dropped the bathtub pipes — and they make their final merciless lunge, right for the jugular! Blood’s spurting out everywhere, it’s a mess for the ages. Enough blood to make you sick. The perps go on to meet their reward in hell. The next day the dogs aren’t all that hungry. I come along on my bike, find the cans outside that the guys drank from (who were also litterbugs), catch a glimpse of the sign about the invisible dogs, shiver to myself in fear, grab the cans, and get the hell out of there.

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.

Newsletter -- Cannibal's Consumed

With Cannibal back in town -- he'd been away on assignment for the newsletter -- I called for an all-staff dinner, part of a secret plan to feel him out, to decide whether to forgive him or bounce him from the staff. I wanted to see how he related to The Lady. Was the sickening sexual display we'd endured on the Fourth of July still on his mind or had he merely followed the others in ignorance?

To this point Cannibal didn't know a thing about Danny, Spud, and Tipsy being gone. His assignment had taken him up just northeast of Silage City, where people don't ordinarily go, to get a feature on a cannibalistic cult in the backwoods. He was so far out there, and in such a dangerous place, I was a little afraid I'd never hear from him again, but not only did he come back, he seemed healthier than when he left.

I had a place at the table set for everyone, including the missing three. As we gathered I said, "I wonder what happened to Spud, Danny, and Tipsy, where they are." Cannibal goes, "Don't look at me, I'm still hungry." Seeing that he had no idea of any problems here, everything was just right for the test. Our time together was actually lovely, with nothing untoward in regard to The Lady. As we ate we shared in pleasant chit-chat about the cult and some of their practices, such as abducting people from nursing homes and giving them a fit send-off in their ritual. Cannibal said he made some important contacts for future articles.
 
Naturally I'm thinking, I believe I could forgive Cannibal for July 4. It was mindless sex, he didn't mean anything by it; he was simply weak and so easily swayed by the others in their lust. But then, after we'd eaten and The Lady was working on the dishes, I came back from the office and overheard him with his shrill grating voice coming on to her. "It's just you and me, baby. And this time I'll have you all to myself!" I sprang into view and declared that he was as guilty as the others, who had all bit the dust. "So you're not the completely withdrawn clueless cannibal you pretend to be!"

It quickly became very unpleasant, of course, as in the heat of encounters like this the bile flows so freely and has to have its way. Now fully exposed, Cannibal revealed himself as a thinking creature indeed, and a nasty one at that. "No, Kundalini, and you're not the mastermind Super Brain you pretend to be!" He revealed himself as fully conscious, amazing for one always hiding behind a clueless facade. He belittled the newsletter as "blurbs and trivial anecdotes of your pointless life!" The topper came when he declared of himself, "I'm the one with the true life! A life The Lady will share!"

That was it! In my opinion, a cannibal isn't that far removed from a vampire. And just like Dracula, this little bastard -- who literally feasts on human flesh -- absolutely intended to replenish his centers of power by one or more love noshes -- which could of course prove fatal to The Lady. She was already in his thrall, staring blankly ahead, like a shopper so fascinated by the bargains at a department store that she can't move and so is trampled from behind.

This was when it got scary. I started to move, but Cannibal twisted his hand in my direction and I was frozen in my tracks. I stood like a statue, motionless. But I still had my Super Brain and years of meditation to draw on. It came to me, that a little movement of energies would help loosen his hold. I used a technique called Diverting Thoughts; at a time like this it's concentration that means certain death. So step by step I set aside Cannibal's power by refocusing my thoughts. My thoughts weren't even of him. I quietly reaffirmed my resolve to put out the best little newsletter possible, and also, to be very personal, I thought of my mother in heaven showing me a power fist of solidarity.
 
I was of course gaining all the time and began mentally toying with Cannibal. Sweat broke out on his furrowed brow and his twisted hand pulled in on itself and he was gripped in pain. I saw in his evil cannibalistic eyes at that moment something I'll never forget, the look of absolute fear. The tables had turned! I returned to diverting my thoughts, thinking now of how much rain we've gotten and mentally complaining how high the grass is. Am I right? While extending my powerful hands and shooting rays and holding him transfixed in my grasp. "Take this, you cannibalistic bastard!" He sought in vain to shield my fantastic power. But in my mental grasp I was able to move his head close to the table, then up and down -- thump thump thump. That'd be painful for anyone, like the pain I feel mowing the yard twice as much as normal.

I stepped forward boldly and pulled the Lady to safety. She was free to return to the dishes. Then I bore down like I've never bored down before. Cannibal's narrow beady eyes bugged out of his head in fear. To be released, he would've sworn to anything I demanded: absolute fealty, worship and obeisance, free articles for life, no coffee breaks, vegetarianism. But I broke my grasp and left him panting and writhing on the floor.
 
I was surprisingly gracious at the end: "I'm not going to kill you, Cannibal, although I probably should. Instead, you shall live out your life with the terrible knowledge that, thanks to my newsletter, your name will forever be mud. Your shame shall endure as long as the newsletter and the world itself abide. As far as your personal fate, you shall be forever trapped in a purgatory of your own making, and no one will like you. You shall slog out your remaining days in the work release system, until eventually they march you to a small cell, then shoot the only key to its door into the farthest reaches of outer space, where only black holes abide. An existence I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, which by the way isn't you. You're not even worthy of that distinction. My worst enemy is forever the fear of missing the next deadline for my newsletter and blog."

The black prison bus arrived to take Cannibal back to the farm. From a mile away I could see him, looking out the windows at folks that, had he been free, he might've enjoyed.

Newsletter -- The 900-Foot Lush

My staff greatly reduced after Dashing Danny's demise and Spud's degradation, I considered forgiving Tipsy and Cannibal. As idiots, surely they only followed the others when they had sex with The Lady. If I forgave them I'd still have a newsletter staff worthy of the name. But two minutes later I walked into the office and saw Tipsy lightly chucking The Lady under the chin and giggling like a drunken schoolboy. That's it!

I thought Stanley "Tipsy" White was a docile soul who couldn't be bothered with the concerns of our sober world. But he was truly focused on the best of both worlds, a little hooch here, a little hots there. And as for the newsletter, what could he contribute? The time of loveable lushes is past. No one's charmed now or open to the fun and frivolity of the lives of drunks. This is a newsletter for today, not 40 years ago. Tipsy doesn't fit in, he's got to go.

He came out of the garage to relieve himself in the yard, when I confronted him. "Taking a leak, Stan?" I said angrily, causing him to stop immediately. He was clearly concerned, because till then I'd been very gentle. "Go away!" he slurred, waving me off. I went berserk -- it was rage -- and belittled him for his excessive drinking, his red nose, his staggering gate, and all the rest. I spat out, "Your place isn't here but the gutter!" I saw him as the last dregs of a bygone era, unworthy of even the succor of rotgut. Amazingly, he was OK with the stream of insults, but mentioning rotgut made it personal.

We confronted each other without coming to blows, just circling and snarling, glaring at each other. "I'm very disappointed in you," I spat. "I thought you believed in the newsletter." He was honest but full of bluster, "I never cared for your ... newsletter." He said it like it was a dirty word. "But one look at The Lady and I had to have her!" I responded through clenched teeth, "Tipsy, I hope you're clearheaded enough to understand what I'm about to tell you..." With that I charged in and let my fists do the talking. If his head was clouded by drink, it was double-clouded with the chaser.

Then, at once, inexplicably, as if by some kind of ancient warrior instinct, he ran to the far east end of my half acre and I ran to the west. We removed the shoes from our feet, knelt solemnly, and prayed to our ancestors. Then standing again, he pulled out the celestial conch Foster Brooks and blew it, its deafening call resounding as far as the east is from the west. I was shaken, but I also had a celestial conch, Lady Love, and sent its deafening call as far as the north is from the south. The din was so great, Tipsy dropped his conch and about a dozen small liquor bottles rattled in his vest, vibrating, and clattered to the ground. Then he sounded his conch even louder and I sounded mine louder yet, with both combatants in this battle so shaken -- it's embarrassing to say -- that we ejected urine and excreta*. Of course Tipsy ejected mostly urine, with me providing the other and even making up what he'd lacked.

We then charged one other and struck with pummeling blows. "You're a guy who wants his kicks!" I cried, and spun in mid-air, kicking my way to glory. His head now matched his red nose. I saw my advantage and took it, pouring it on, violence begetting violence. Tipsy was on his hands and knees and appeared to be spent and was finally helpless. When, and this was a major moment, like the mighty sailor man reaching for spinach, he pulled out instead an extra-small bottle of hooch from an inner pocket -- this wasn't one of the standard brands, but something concocted by a distiller mage.

This is completely unbelievable, I know, but I swear (or affirm) every word is true. Tipsy swigged that small bottle down, which seriously might've been only 10 or 12 drops, and he was transformed. Everything about him was enlarged. He was vast in size! I looked up and beheld a 900-foot Tipsy White! The local airport threw up their hands. The National Guard was powerless. Even the local cop shop, always so ready to rumble, shrunk back. IT was loose! I had to do the responsible thing. I ran into the garage and secured The Lady, then returned to tangle with ... IT ... a big tipsy IT!

The colossus was making his way downtown, about to destroy the city. I climbed his foot and clutched a pant leg for dear life. Then I remembered the oldest saying known of drunkenness, "Hair of the dog." When he was busy enlarging he had dropped the tiny bottle of power and I had picked it up. But there was only one drop left, one and a half drops at the most. I shimmied down his ankles and to the foot, working my way nearer, ever nearer his big toe. As he stomped along I sweated it out, working my pocket knife, hacking a tiny puncture in his gigantic toe. Looking up, the water tower came into view. If he stomped the water tower both I and the city itself would be goners. I wasn't yet ready but I had to take my only chance, dripping that tiny drop and a half of power into the miniscule hole.

If this didn't work, frankly, there would be no tomorrow. It'd be all over. The Lady would be gone, my vengeance against Cannibal, and perhaps the world itself. But after a few tense seconds I heard and felt an enormous rumbling and roar. The air was sucked dry and there was nothing, then air from 100 miles away came rushing in. Later, I heard that hundreds of pimples in middle schools had popped themselves from the pressure drop and powerful reversal, so this was huge.

I craned my head and looked up toward Tipsy's face, past the clouds. The best I could make it out, I saw the look of fear, then simultaneous transformation. He shrunk so quickly, everything snapping around me, I certainly would have been crushed had I taken even one second longer to leap. As it was I ended up under his normal-size foot, just where I didn't want to be. The optics were embarrassing. Because who should come to my aid but The Lady Herself, bringing down an empty wine bottle on Tipsy's head, and I was freed.

The black prison bus came and took Stan "Tipsy" White away, my gain, the work release farm's loss.

---------------------
*Mahabharata, Book 6.

Newsletter -- Spud's Eye for The Lady

My newsletter staff was in the mood for love that night, taking down The Lady on the Fourth of July, and I've been in the mood for revenge. Big, violent, terrible revenge, the kind you don't come back from. And I'm confident my grievances will be satisfied. If the righteousness of my cause counts for anything. These guys knew what they were getting into. They knew my rule, "Hands off The Lady!"

With Danny's demise yesterday and exit from the scene, I had to choose, Let us see ... who's next? Suddenly a thought flashed in my mind, How about Spud Tuber? They had The Lady on the ground and that's where potatoes come from. Spud was burrowed down with her and stripped to his skin that night in lovemaking. I've been practically consumed with rage ever since, and now as I replay my memories of her in the grasp of my least-favorite Tuber, that's the topper. It's time to uproot and ship him out.

I have to tell you, folks, rage is a killer. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept. All I can do is pace the floor and cuss the heavens. I'm usually a guy respectful enough not to take the Lord's name in vain, but in endless rerunning of this sickening memory I've spewed so many oaths and imprecations that it certainly would've brought down the storehouses of thunder and lightning on my head if I didn't know within myself such treasures of grace. It's good to be loved unconditionally.

Maybe that's why The Lady allowed these prisoners all over her, just too loving a nature. But that doesn't make sense. She can see, she has feelings, she can tell they're the scum of the earth. The other thing I can't see is how the Potato Man could have had any illusions about his chances with The Lady, due to his hideous form and equally clumsy personality. It's ridiculous. I can only conclude it must be the same for Spud as it is for many other losers, they never see how inexcusably horrible they actually are.

But I've also been thinking, it doesn't seem like a case of a loving nature. She could've flirted with them and left they high and dry. That would've been funny. Instead she willingly succumbed to Tuber that night, and I'm endlessly appalled.

Was there some underground chthonic allure simply too powerful for her? Was it Tuber's connection to nature, the call of the wild, the charm of the primal? Maybe a guy like him looks better to a lady in the dark; certainly in the light of day this potato's not blue ribbon stuff. Whatever it was, there they were, him with his big spudly hands, similar to The Thing of comic book lore, pawing the goods, every beautiful piece of her under the filmy fabric of her dress.

Now, about the newsletter... Danny managed to fill Spud's head with notions, as he was parroting the same line as Danny, "Ahm gonna take your newsletter and make it mine. Ahm gonna take The Lady and make her mine." I had to laugh to myself, thinking, I never thought Potato was that into writing a newsletter. I mostly wanted him for grunt labor, to carry boxes of newsletters to the post office. His talents are few. Yes, he may have the instinct to breed -- and that's where the Lady would come in -- but every three-legged idiot dog knows how to do that. But you have to admit, when it comes to newsletters neither three-legged dogs nor potatoes are any good.

When I confronted Spud about The Lady, I believed I had the upper hand. But as it turned out he wasn't about to go down easily. I vowed I would slice him into enough french fries for an army. He glared at me and I glared back. Then all hell exploded, and there we were, in fierce hand to hand combat. Spud had me in a bear hug and was about to squeeze the life out of me, when I pulled a knife from my pocket and plunged it in his back. He released me and staggered back.

Regaining his strength, Tuber lunged at me, got hold of me and lifted me, and was about to break me in half over his knobby knee, when I pulled out a second knife and plunged it in his mid-section. He staggered back again. And again -- potatoes never learn -- when he lifted me again above his head and was about to thrust me against the broad side of my garage and to a certain death, I pulled out my last knife -- and this is unpleasant, but it's what you sometimes have to do to a potato -- I plunged it in and cut his eyes out. If I'd been hungry he was ready for the microwave.

I fell to the ground and watched Spud Tuber fumbling about on the ground, like Samson, looking for his eyes, as if his Make-a-Wish was to take one last look at The Lady before complete blindness overtook him. But it wasn't to be. Even had he found his eyes, The Lady was inside retyping a new article, on my parents' teachings on pacifism. And I wasn't about to authorize a coffee break.

With Tuber down, I delivered probably the saddest words I've ever spoken to another living creature: "Spud, I once believed you would be my right-hand potato. It really bums me out to slice you up like that. But look on the bright side, you're not crinkle-cut." I put in a quick call to the work release farm and the black prison bus came and took him away. From three quarters of a mile away I could see him shedding a tear, his tear ducts now completely open air and probably running 24/7.

Newsletter -- Dashing Danny's Demise

July 4th marked the end of my newsletter staff as I knew it. Each member of my staff -- Dashing Danny, Spud Tuber, Tipsy White, Cannibal, and The Lady Herself -- betrayed me. So now it's time for paybacks. Which will be sweet, as I systematically destroy them.

I thought, Dashing Danny Whfrf's obviously the ringleader, he's the one I'll take out first. All I knew about was the sexual stuff Danny was involved in with the rest. But in confronting him I soon learned it went far deeper -- amazingly! -- that he planned to take over the newsletter, to steal it and issue it as his own and the Lady's!

In confronting him, I caught him, red-handed, with my notebook of newsletter ideas and The Lady. We stood on the lawn, glaring at each other, The Lady cowering behind the Dashing One. I chose to take a mournful tone, not a strident tone, which would've inflamed things and likely precluded answers. "Danny, I thought you were the one redeemable prisoner on my staff, the brains of the outfit, you alone ... but here we stand."

He seemed perplexed at my sorrowful words, but also knew any advantage he might have lay in a strident response. "What you think or don't think is of no concern to me. You have what I want, I'll take it!"

I kept up the mournful pose. "Of course you mean The Lady, that much is clear, but now the newsletter as well? It's not enough that you find a Lady of your own and start your own newsletter; oh no, that would be too much!" I had crossed into the no-man's land of sarcasm, a place you can never return from, where there's nothing left to hide behind.

"You're right about one thing, Kundalini," he said sharply, "I am the brains of the outfit. Whatever success the newsletter would've had had nothing to do with you. Your blurbs on the minutiae of your daily life hold no interest. I've got what today's reader wants, anecdotes of crime and punishment, doing time and escaping, and sex with The Lady!"

"So you're planning...?" I was tentative, I don't think I wanted to hear the answer.

"That's right, I'm escaping! No more work release, no more halfway house! Once my voice takes hold of society in the newsletter, they'll never be able to touch me! Especially with a Lady like this on my arm!"

I lamented, "You poor delusional fool. A newsletter needs a spirit to it, the spirit of good. Every newsletter I've ever seen inhabited by the spirit of evil has flamed out after the first couple issues. The public -- despite their many failures -- are essentially good. They're the kind of Everyman I represent, a pool in the yard, two kids, three dogs, a garage full of cars. They want pointers on how to step up their game of domesticity, not how to work a paperclip in a jail door!"

"So that's all you think I know, eh? The life of solitude and solitary confinement." I started to feel I wasn't getting through to him, and the ire rose up inside me, my ears glowing hot at the tips. He pulled the Lady to himself and bent her over for a long and involved and very wet kiss. I lost my mind and lunged at him. But he anticipated me and stabbed me right between the eyes. I would've been a goner, except for a yoga move I'd only just recently mastered, the Third Eye Displacement. It changed my focus in a startling new way, so that -- knife or no knife -- I could see my path to victory.

I grabbed the Lady's hand and pulled her behind me. Danny was aghast, suddenly seeing how things stood. What kind of newsletter could he make without the Lady's love? It's unfathomable, even ridiculous to imagine!

I didn't know what to make of it entirely, but self-preservation got the best of Danny and he dashed off, leaving me to phone it in to headquarters. There were sirens and gunshots about a quarter of a mile west of my place, and pretty soon I saw the prison bus -- a school bus painted black -- take the road east past my place.

It gave me the last glimpse I hope to ever have of Dashing Danny Whfrf. I watched closely as they passed and beheld a tear in his eye, which he then defiantly wiped away before assuming a stolid pose, looking straight ahead. Now he was a half mile away and his back to me, details were harder to make out. All I could tell was he had a sneer on his face and was resolved to greater and greater crime in the future.

I learned a couple of important lessons in this whole episode: There are men you simply can't redeem, no matter how good your newsletter is. And second, a knife between the eyes, while being entirely life-threatening, serves as a pretty good beacon to the higher consciousness, for a limited period of time. I pulled it out and got a bandage.

Newsletter -- Five-Way Fireworks

For most true Americans, the world begins anew every July 4. We're worn down by a demanding world and the evil machinations of the other party and we're about dead. It's only with the first firecracker that we're roused again to the barest signs of life. Then as the kids keep up the racket we gain renewed strength. When the fireworks become increasingly dangerous, with actual injuries in the neighborhood, we're nearly our old selves. Finally, when our leaders blow up $50,000 in tax dollars in a ten-minute orgasm of fire and noise, we're good for another year.

But this year, for me, instead of the usual inspiration, my world came to a sputtering end. For it was when the fireworks lit up the sky that I beheld sexual fireworks on the ground at my feet. Yes, it was a five-way orgy, my entire newsletter staff minus me, in full display, writhing on the ground, all hands and body parts, connecting and detaching, then reconnecting in greater and weirder configurations, as if to match the increasingly complicated bursts in mid-air.

To recap what's going on here. I've been working on a newsletter and took on a staff, made up of four prisoners from the work release program and a woman we call The Lady. I've had one rule since Day One, and that's "Hands off The Lady!" Anyone touches The Lady they answer to me. With my answer promised to be a most violent one, something no one in their right mind would even want to imagine, let alone face and tangle with.
 
Apparently I made two mistakes, bringing blankets to keep the bugs off us during the fireworks, and offering to get Sno-Cones for everyone. I came back from the glare of the Sno-Cone stand and didn't notice what was taking place in the immediate vicinity of the blankets until explosions lit the sky. At which point my full attention was arrested. Certainly each of the prisoners was at his fullest attention, as well as The Lady. That settled it, the Sno-Cones were now mine!

But what else could I do, with a huge crowd of people pressing in on us? I couldn't very well kill them with so many witnesses. So I kept it low-key, dealing out swift kicks when I could, when the explosions were the greatest. But each prisoner -- Dashing Danny Whfrf, Stan "Tipsy" White, Spud Tuber, and insatiable Cannibal -- was only spurred on by the punishment. Angry kicks excited them further, with The Lady looking up in delight, as if to encourage me to punish them even more.

The whole crew was in a kind of weird orgasmic nature arrangement, moving and trading places like a cloud of birds melting in formation across the sky. I hadn't seen so many moving parts in perfect harmonious motion since I couldn't remember when, probably the church camp I went to in 1966 and the wet T-shirts on the girls after that tremendous rain. Again, it was all on display, right in my face, but this time giving me absolutely no pleasure.

The explosions mounted, and I could tell, by body language and just the innate natural knowledge creatures have, that there was a definite synchronicity between the sky and the connections at my feet. Rockets shot up in splendor and BOOM -- Dashing Danny was out. A torrent of large shots made their ascent and BOOM -- Spud Tuber fell with a thud. Weaving, crazy fire made its zigzag way upward and SPUTTER -- Tipsy White collapsed. A giant Uncle Sam was lit on the levee and as the fire engulfed everything before fizzling down to the burning teeth -- Cannibal was consumed. Of course the blankets were ruined.

Each of the men stood then, as if proudly on display like fluttering Old Glory itself, and the five of us watched The Lady respond to the last crazy shooting-of-the-moon you always get with a big fireworks display. I can only say -- fully ashamed of myself -- that for a few moments I too was transported in my thoughts to realms of glory, as The Lady herself sought the heights. She convulsed with each unpredictable explosion, before collapsing in exhaustion just as the last display on the levee was ignited, Lady Liberty, which flamed forth before quickly flaming out.

We went home quietly and then our separate ways, the prisoners to their quarters in the garage, The Lady to her room in the house, and me to mine. This isn't over! There's more fireworks to come, big time punishment to mete out. Huge...

Money Mules, Come Home

That's it! It's the end of May and I'm fed up with my money mules. They ran off with my money and that's it. No more!

I'd heard the idea bandied around a few times: "You have money to invest, why settle for a minimal gain in the market or something as volatile as gold, vintage cars, or Pokemon cards? Put your trust in human ingenuity, the creative drive, in short, money mules. Trust them! What's the worst that could happen? They can't be all bad. Load up each mule with $100,000, send them forth, and see how much money they bring back. Give them a small percentage and keep the rest."

Yes, I fell for the free steak dinner and seminar. Which so far has cost me $20 million. That's one expensive cut of meat... Now, where the mules are, I don't know. There's a rumor going round the coffee shop that whoever handed out the steaks, or whoever's behind them, loaded the mules in the back of a covered truck and headed off for the Northwest Territories. Meaning we'll never see them again. And after I wasted a month looking out the window...

Still, if they would only come home. At least one, let's say, who could give me a line on the others. I'd love to get my hands on them, to ring their duplicitous little necks, then kick them to the curb, then tar and feather them, and -- you get the idea. Anything but welcome them back with a brotherly kiss. Although, I suppose, if they had a good excuse for their absence, I might listen. Especially if they had a sack of money.

It's possible it's all on the up and up. And that my money mules might still be coming home. Maybe they'll show up all innocent, telling me rightfully, "You didn't give us a deadline. We were making so much money we thought we might as well gather up as much as possible for you." I'd love to hear that, but, really, can life work out as fine as that? Surely not. They've surely seen their advantage; they have my money so they've run. But really, what if? It'd be great to think they were really that industrious, and on my behalf! Although it's much more likely they're just scoundrels, profligates.

I feel like taking a crowbar... Running it up my sleeve... Or maybe down the leg of my pants... A crowbar on each leg... And finding them. I suddenly find they're in a particular nightclub in Boise, let's say, and I show up, a crowbar down each leg. I'm listening to their conversation, their laughing, their boisterousness in buying each other drinks at my expense, and I make the sudden reveal: "It's me!" Suddenly with crowbars flying like nunchucks, heads colliding, screaming, the whole works. "Cheat me out of my money, will ya?!"

Until I get a line on them, frankly what choice do I have but to just forget it? Live and learn. Boise, Helena, Seattle, somewhere up there in that godforsaken country. Let me get my hands on them! Or let me forget the whole thing... It'd be great if just one of them came home, or two. I'd get them separated and grill them. Of course they'd be lying, but I might ferret out some truth by splitting the difference in their stories.

Until I get more answers, the whole money mules thing is done.

Oatmeal La La Land

You haven't seen me here a few days. I hate to say why, exactly, but I owe you something. I've just been so seriously strung out I haven't been myself. I couldn't think. I barely knew my own name. I forgot everything I care about, including this blog.

Even now it's coming and going -- I could black out at any moment -- but I'm fighting through the blank spots, and using what I have left of "my legendary discipline." That's right -- even if it seems an eternity ago -- I had legendary discipline. Now, I'm wasted. Nearly shot. Haven't even got the discipline to---- sorry, drawing a blank.

The sad truth is, I'm addicted to oatmeal. God, it feels good to admit it publicly! Of course the biggest problem with oatmeal is they came up with a way for a quick fix. Used to be it took 45 minutes or all the way up to 3 hours to cook a decent batch. I blame the microwave oven industry, because they made us impatient. In the old days, I'd cook a batch, eat it, and pass out before I could cook another. Now it's bang bang bang, three batches and one massive jag of craziness.

So I was almost out of oatmeal, OK? And I was already hopped up on two batches. It was 3 in the morning. I went out and couldn't tell, in my haze, if the grocery store was open or the lights were just in my head. I sat there hunched over the steering wheel, when ... Dammit! ... two or three guys identifying themselves as cops -- they had red lights -- pulled me out of my car.

And I lost my cool. I was all up in their face. "What gives, assholes?!" and it went downhill from there. They could tell I was out of it, but why? I told them the honest to God truth, "I'm an oatmeal addict and you got me ... looking for another fix."

"Oatmeal," the mean-looking one sneered. He and the other mean-looking one talked it over. "Obviously slang for some narcotic, but which one?" These geniuses were talking it over and I saw nothing but haze. Even their talk was haze. They radioed in, then a TV crew showed up and I stripped naked and was gang-tackled by all three mean-looking cops in the ditch. "Give me oatmeal!" I cried as they roughed me up.

Later, I woke up and saw the insides of a hospital, and these mean bastards were there to make sure I didn't snap the gurney straps. The doctor was running blood tests. He said my sorghum and honey counts were elevated out of this world, sweeteners of choice, and that, yes, I indeed had oatmeal in my system.

I couldn't control myself. I went from docile to manic to feverishly crazed in seconds -- the oatmeal high oscillated between utterly flabby weakness to concentrated super human powers. And I felt the powers kick in. Everyone backed up as I eviscerated that hospital room; thankfully, the cops didn't know if they should open fire in a hospital zone.

Going down the hall, my back flap open to the breeze, I made it most of the way to freedom, and was rounding the corner when the meanest-looking cop hit me with a poison dart, hit my butt, piercing one side then crossing over and piercing the other. A double whammy of poison! I woke up two days later, confined in a treatment center.

A Nazi psychiatrist -- this is how Hitler got his start -- swore his way up one list of deities and down another to compel me to talk. "Vhat ees dis 'ottmail' you be smoking!?" "Smoking Ottmail?" I asked, confused, the haze a constant. I passed out and dreamt a beautiful dream, of a Willie Wonka-like world, with rivers of oatmeal (beautiful), but also quicksand bogs (ugly). When Hitler himself appeared, his mustache disgustingly soaked in drippy cinnamon oatmeal-- I woke up.

I blinked a few times, very refreshed, my mind completely detoxed off oatmeal, and vowed to live a clean life. When they took me to breakfast and ignorantly served me oatmeal! Immediately hooking me again...

Using my powers, I killed everyone in my way, stole an armored car, and crashed the gate. Then at the grocery store, instead of parking, I crashed the car through the front windows, craving another box of oatmeal -- and this time -- Damn the World! --  I would eat it with whole milk!

Now I'm home and on my eighth bowl. I'm writing this -- maybe the final post ever on this blog -- with the bastards even now at the door. I fear I'll have to shed even more blood before I'm able to enjoy my oatmeal supper and retire for the night, perchance to dream.

Jor-el, Stun Gun Ablaze, Protects Billionaire

Tons of people have been milling around my half-acre. Proving billionaires also have groupies. Not so much for me, but the billionaire. Although when they learn the details of my own fortune -- $2.1 billion ain't chickenfeed -- I'll be in for it, too.

How well I remember how Elvis had these problems, so he had a big fence and gates around his place. And he, in all his awesomeness, was only a multimillionaire. I can see a huge expense in my future, not just for a fence, but dogs, a moat, flaming buckets of pitch, the works. Let every casualty be a warning to others!

So I was at home all day. I called the police to come clear the property. I could tell he was holding his hand over the phone and talking to someone. He came back on and said they were busy. I asked when would they be free? He said they're always busy. Lesson: Don't piss off the police, like I did when I said I could play them like a cheap fiddle.

I kept looking out because I was waiting for a friend, Garrett Al. The billionaire wanted a local assistant and asked if I knew anyone. I thought right away of Garrett Al, because we go way back. Not that we haven't had our moments. He was "all hands" and violent a few years ago, which freaked me out. But he got his head on straight, underwent a cosmic conversion, renamed himself, and has been a great guy.

I went to the door and motioned him to come in quickly, then I about shut the door on some other guy's hand. These people were out there with big handfuls of overdue bills, looking for help. Seeking an audience with the great ones. If someone doesn't talk me out of it, I will get a stun gun! Do not try me!

The billionaire took my word for Garrett Al, and was intrigued by the cosmic conversion stuff. We call him Garrett Al, of course; that's his name. My own playful name for him over the years has been Geritol, which sounds similar. Then, in 2010, Garrett Al was channeling Kryptonian energy (he's in a Superman reenactors club), and realized that "Garrett Al" sounds also like "Jor-el," Superman's father. He took on that persona and started having more of a mind for the stars, the energy of the heavens, and the movement of the planets. It was touch and go for a while, but we found if we could keep him away from Cape Canaveral he was OK.

I remember an amazing time when Jor-el took the robes of a prophet, and as a sign gargled for 30 minutes straight, a dramatic warning, one we could not ignore, of "rumblings of troubles" for the future. Later, he cooked a piece of toast to warn that our cause was "toast," followed by unzipping his pants under his prophetic robe to give this message, "We're screwed." So you can see, this is a serious guy, the perfect guy to have as your assistant.

We sat around the table -- Garrett Al, the billionaire, and me -- and were laughing about those days and Garrett Al's glory. I gave him some faux complaints, like, "Why didn't you just come right out and say there were 'rumblings of troubles'?" He laughed and joked, "Get me a glass of water and I'll tell you." Then he turned serious and said, "I had some weird interplay of the left and right brains. They were doing a dance and I was gripped by a force. I simply gave the message I got." I said, "Yeah, but prophets are supposed to have control over themselves." He pointed, "Touché, so true, but not newbies." The billionaire was lucky to get a guy with so much understanding.

The billionaire said, "For your first task, do you think you can clear the yard so we can get the hell out of here?" Instead of answering, Garrett Al went into a trance. We sat there for several moments that seemed like eons. Then I watched Geritol, a man transfixed by a force not of this world. And in a flash, Jor-el was to his feet and bolted for his car. Also in a flash, he brandished a stun gun, like a gunslinger from the old west. Hangers-on were falling everywhere, with others raising their hands, screaming and begging to be spared. Feverishly they motioned for him to let them remove the stunned victims, and, showing such extraordinary mercy, Garrett Al allowed it.

It might've been too much. I'm sure we'll face charges. But whatever, at least they won't be charges like Geritol pumped into that crowd! Whew! Finally, we were able to get out and go for dinner, the three of us sharing a lovely evening.

Beware the Ides of March

It's the Day of Days, folks, the Ides of March! I may sound happy about it, but really I'm not. Because if I learned anything in school, and I'm not saying I did, it was to be careful on March 15. Because if anyone's going to knife you, stab you in the back, it's gonna be today.

So I got up, kept my eye on the dog, watched out for neighbors when I had her out, and was even wary in church. The church has numerous hallways and hiding places. And a few of the folks aren't crazy about my completely dismissive attitude toward theology. A quick knife to the back would make short work of me, and even be divine justice of a sort.

Fortunately, though, I survived today -- I knew I'd survive through the offering at least -- and lived to tell about it. Not that there's that much to tell. Had I actually been stabbed, but not fatally, that would've been a hell of a story. Guess what, I was stabbed in church, right after the offering. This after an earlier argument on how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. This one guy comes at me, yelling, "Dance on this, heretic!" This isn't really beyond the realm of the possible, since the subject of angels and dancing on pins in fact came up within the last month.

But no, it didn't happen today, thankfully. Although back in literary times, of course it was common. Like in the days of Julius Caesar, when the other guy stabbed him, and Caesar said something in Latin, "Et tu, Brute?" In literary times they were always talking the Latin, you know, like when the guy shot Lincoln, "Sic semper tyrannus," literally translated, "I'm sick with distemper, like a dinosaur!"

Ever since that first tragic Ides of March we've been whooping it up when it comes along. Reminding me of the old story of "The Husband and the Wife":

One year the husband comes in and wishes his wife "Happy Ides of March," and immediately stabs her in the back. She falls to the ground. The next year it's the same thing, she immediately goes down. The third year rolls around and there he is again, "Happy Ides of March," she's stabbed and goes down. But the fourth year comes and she's smart enough to leave home and come back the next day. The husband shows up, says, "Happy belated Ides of March," stabs her, and she dies.

I hope that doesn't happen to you. And if it does, I hope you're smart enough to leave the guy after the first year. Call the police and send him to prison. You don't need a guy like that ruining your life. I should know, for I am the husband in the story. Maniacal laughter here ... and fade to black.

February -- Got the Moves Like Dagger

Note: This is largely a fictional account of what I'd love to see happen to February. Yes, I'm trying to destroy February as a month, but, no, I don't (necessarily) want to accomplish it by violent means. Still, how satisfying it'd be -- one of those wish fulfillment things -- if my peaceful values could be just slightly different, and I could see a palace assassin plunge the dagger in, and watch February writhe in pain on the floor and finally die. Am I right?

The council of months was underway at the palace, high in the atmosphere somewhere, the various lords and ladies of time in the large courtroom awaiting their annual decisions. Decisions pertaining to how the kingdom would measure time for the year. Would it be as it had been for the last 10,000 years, with no variation, or could this be the year there might be a change?

As a lowly guest, being an acquaintance of a friend of a day in January, I stood behind a curtain in the very back, straining to hear, wondering, Might February be out? I had no reason to hope, but, being a hopeful guy, I couldn't help whispering a slight prayer to that effect. The same prayer I'd prayed the last 4,000 years.

Trumpets sounded, meaning the Council of Months' business session had ended, and they'd be returning to the court and to the great round table. The table itself was a matter of some controversy, true story. The vote had been 11 to 1, February outvoted again, who, inscrutably, always agitated for a rectangular table. My opinion, February would do anything to change the subject, to give us a reason to think of anything else but its shortcomings. And that's true, when you're misshapen in some way -- say you've got only 28 days to your name -- you tend toward strange eruptions around your betters.

So the months gathered before us and we listened for the announcement. There would be no change to the calendar. The vote was almost unanimous, 11 to 1, and the predictability of time had been maintained once again! February shifted uneasily in his chair, then in a pique slammed his fist to the table. Obviously he had lobbied for more days. I muttered to myself, "What a disgrace..." The other months were rolling their eyes and showing signs of irritation with yet another of February's many annoyances.

It had been widely hoped, not just by me -- like one of those impossible dreams -- that at some point the other months might just vote February out entirely, then divvy up its days between themselves. I'd long hoped they'd keep a kind of stump month, say with 10 days of the old February, and for those days to be a time of revelry and cussedness. I think it'd be good for society -- rife with criminality as it is -- to get it out of its system all at once.

Little did I know we were closer to that happening than I ever had reason to expect! For behind the scenes, behind the curtains, the plot was already in motion. An assassin from a violent group called the Coterie of Devils (represented in the picture as a literal coterie of devils) lurked. We didn't know a thing about it. But all of a sudden, in a flash, this big burly guy with no shirt and the hairiest back I ever saw sprang from a hiding place and plunged a dagger into February's back. There was an unbelievable gasp in the room, many exclaiming, "Conspiracy!", and I myself distinctly gasped the following words, "Well, hush my mouth!"

But what could anyone do? The guy was a stabbing machine, going like speed typing, and the other months, weighed down in their royal robes, and not being trained for defense, were motionless. February took at least two dozen lightning thrusts. Then the assassin, in one last act of boldness, mounted the table, dropped his pants, and mooned in the general direction of February's bloody dying form. This daring gesture accomplished, he leaped to the floor and ducked quickly behind the curtain and was gone.

I sensed the mood was a bit weird, like the usual miasma that goes with shock. Sure, no one liked February, but having him stabbed by an assassin? That's damned tough to endorse. But I decided to go for it, and stood strong on the table, waving a bloody napkin from February's place at the table, and shouted, "Let this be a day of independence for the progress of time and its descendants!" And what's this? The bastards booed me down, and I had to slink out of there in total disgrace, excoriating myself in no uncertain terms, "Too soon, stupid, what the hell were you expecting, you stupid idiot?" 

The 10 Days of Old February

I've mentioned it a few times that our plan for destroying February actually preserves 10 of its days together. It's really been quite a process hammering it out, as the team often couldn't see eye to eye. We blamed our disagreements on February itself, since, obviously, it always brings out the worst in people. As a great example, I happen to have a headache tonight, very uncharacteristic.

The other days will divided up among the other months. But 10 days, right in the heart of it, starting midway, will remain as a kind of stump. Like when you cut down a tree and leave a stump. Then everyone who passes by taunts that filthy stump, "You're not so tough now, are you, tall tree! You thought you were such a big tree, baddest tree in town, quick to lord it over the rest of us! Now look at you! You're hacked to the ground! Just a worthless stump, no glory, no grandeur, nothing to brag about now, is there? Ha! Of course not! Your day of pride is gone!"

Anyway, the team probably needs no introduction. I insisted on the best, men like myself of impeccable judgment. There's of course one holy man, Pastor Wadd, from my church, who counsels men daily on the folly of sexual addiction. The others -- maybe I could've gotten better, but it's only February we're working on -- are men I knew I could get on a minute's notice. They've never been chosen for anything so it's only right. Each one tends to shoot first and not ask questions. Men after my own heart. Only the best. You've never heard of them so I won't list their names.

I explained the parameters of the task to them. A 10-day stump of old February, with those 10 days being the foul haunt of every crazy thing. Pastor Wadd, naturally, wanted to get his specialty in, as you'll see in the list. I actually spoke against it, because I don't like blue material, but he insisted on the righteousness of his work. Also among the parameters was that each day should be thematic, lifting to the fore the foulness of the month we've destroyed.

First, the 10-day period will be known as "The Scourge of Time." The 10 days will be known as:

1) Trash Talkin' -- I personally like trash talkin'. Depending on your capacity for rage you can really work up a head of steam. As I've confessed before, I even trash talk melting snow: "You heaped yourself in enormous drifts and thought you were so tough! But look at you now, little more than a silly dusting! I need a spoon to scoop you, not a shovel!" The first day is for all of us to trash talk each other, giving them what for.

2) Dry Heaves -- I feel a sickness coming on. I'm queasy, a little lightheaded, down in the gut. But there's nothing there, I haven't eaten since the day before Trash Talkin'. No appetite, worrying about what they'll say about me. So I go around, just dry heaving, which is actually more painful than coming up with something. Because it just goes on and on. With everyone doing it. If you can't think of anything to heave about, I'll be writing some very gross things that day as a public service. Grapes that seem like they're eyeballs, etc.

3) Shivs a' Flashin' -- This is the day that we open every jail and prison and let the prisoners go free! Everyone from simple murderers all the way up to the tougher bastards, given to outright meanness. Of course they'll be up to some mischief. But since we want society to survive, they'll be on their honor to not commit any terrible crimes, and, this is something we'll insist on, they have to promise to return to prison the next day.

4) Piss 'n' Vinegar -- The term's fairly self-explanatory. Lots of piss 'n' vinegar. Whether you want it to be just sassiness, or actual piss and vinegar. There'll be lots of beer drinking and salad eating. Don't forget to watch your step, the gutters will certainly be running yellow that day.

5) Sexual Addiction Counseling Day -- Pastor Wadd's day. He has a curriculum called "Solomon's 1000 Wives." The gist of it's something like this, that all of us have appetites, some small, some medium, some huge. But one man can only handle so much. Wisdom is knowing your limits, then whittling it down, by personal discipline, to one man-one woman. Take me, I could probably handle a convertible full of girls, give or take, but I know better.

6) Mass Maypole -- I've always thought the maypoles of olden days were something on the very edge of impropriety. They have the ribbons, they're going back and forth, and it's all quite dainty. But speed it up, intensify it, and it'd be explosive. It'd be an insane sight. It might even erupt into something that'd make Solomon look like amateur hour, such a bacchanalia, maypolers falling into one another's embrace.

7) Gross Out! -- This is more a day for the kids, sticking their tongues out at each other, disrespecting adults with hand gestures, and making foul noises with their hand under their armpit. I tried that the other day, and something's wrong, I can't do it anymore. I guess my flesh up there's a little too saggy to get the good suction. And to think I used to do "I'm Popeye the Sailor Man" at school assemblies. I even shaved my armpits, hoping to get it back, but no.

8) Cocoon Nightmare -- Anyone originally born during any of these 10 days has been excluded and kept cooped up at home. As though they were in a cocoon the whole time, but storing up enough orneriness and cussedness that when they come out they make it memorable. The rest of us are laying low today, having survived so far and not wanting to tempt fate. It's not called Nightmare for nothing, because their pent-up energy is dangerous. This is actually the day when any dishonorable prisoners from Shivs a' Flashin' are scared straight and head back to the safety of the pen.

9) Mardi Gras -- The great day of celebration, for any devilry that no one's done thus far. Parades, flashing yourself, getting beads, the whole thing. I've never been to Mardi Gras so I'm not sure what goes on. But I'm sure this won't be the usual tame brand.

10) Lent -- The old five-week period of penance and spiritual disciplines is compressed into one day, everyone's faults by now being crystal clear. No measly daub of ashes on your forehead -- Oh no! -- this will be like the Desert Fathers, flagellation with whips and glass shards, nails, the whole works, gargling firecrackers. The life we've lived these 10 days is such that if Lent has any value whatsoever, this is when it'll be proved.