Running for Governor -- Beggar Blowback

First, let me express my sincerest regrets for my blog post, "Beggars -- Don't Risk the Legal Liability." I agree it was insensitive and hurtful, and I apologize to anyone, especially beggars, who may have been offended. As it turns out, such unfeeling comments, particularly as regards begging veterans on every corner, are politically incorrect as well as detrimental to my future.

Of course you know I'm a candidate for governor of our great state, and you've probably seen in the paper my opponent capitalizing on my gaffe. The blowback was swift and certain, some of it sincere, with probably most of it being just another political knife to the back. The opposition was quick to pounce, as they no doubt would've been no matter what I'd said. I might be finished, although I can still hold out hope that the incumbent will say something worse.

I'm starting to hate politics. All the secrets you have to keep to be a credible candidate. Hey folks, I've lived life; I've been around the block; of course a few little peccadilloes are bound to accumulate. But I believe I can ride out the storm, just as long as all the messages and pictures are deleted as requested, and some of my aliases remain untraceable. Of course I'm kidding, just joking around a little before the election and the day I belly up to the public trough with the best of 'em.

Still, this beggar controversy beggars the imagination. Who knew these guys had their own agitating PAC? All this time I figured their money went into booze and ciggies, drugs and cheap hookers. It's a total surprise that they're actually political animals, pooling their resources and looking for an upper hand in society. They're more connected than you'd guess, probably because of their time on the street; they're nothing but social.

Now -- you know how it goes -- they're going to be on me about every little thing. You know the type; they'll take anything but a heartfelt apology. I could say "God bless you" and they'd crank up the slime machine: "Oh, so now you're blaspheming God! Who is this guy, thinking he has the right to order Almighty God around? Let alone insinuate himself between God and the average voter, seeking, no, demanding, God's favor! What is he implying, that decent Americans can't take care of their own religion?!"

These animals make my blood boil! Little did I know these skunks -- and I'm including my worthy opponent in that number -- would be the only thing standing between me and the governor's mansion. It's sad. It really is, that politics has descended literally to the gutter, where every cigarette butt is a prized possession.

Well, here is my solemn vow, yes, before God -- when elected, I likewise will use the levers of power, to do good for society in general, but to crush my opposition. The incumbent himself, all the way down to the gutter snipes he's using to undermine my character and candidacy. Assholes! I will grind them into the dust, and incarcerate any survivors.

The point is, I'm keeping my good spirits about me -- my optimism -- and I do stand behind my apology. If you've been offended, I'm truly sorry that you're so sensitive. I believe you should actually look at life through something other than rose-colored glasses. If you do, if you can manage that one simple little thing, I'm sure you will gladly cast your vote for me.

Beggars -- Don't Risk the Legal Liability

I used to be the world's most generous soul with drifters and beggars. I have a history of helping some of these lost souls, not so much with money, but with rides, etc.

Ho! Just saying that recalls some examples. When I was a teenager I picked up an old guy named Howard Johnson and was carting him around like a pet guy. Took him to my teenage friend's place and he was hanging out with us, 60-something with us 17-year-olds. I even had some hitchhikers over to my place one night and they shared my bed while I slept on the couch. Of course to do that now would be ... the chances are nonexistent.

I'm still an extremely nice guy, just not that nice. Or should I say, not that crazy, foolhardy, and stupid. Because you can get into some real legal trouble with beggars. That's my contention, anyway, even though I don't have any personal experience of legal troubles. But look at some of these guys. Who looks more devious than them? Who's had more free time to study law books (like prisoners do) to know all the legal loopholes? Back when I was a kid, when I picked up Howard Johnson, we didn't have the internet, let alone the internet in libraries.

Here's how stingy I am, not out of meanness but a fear of legal liability: I will not give a beggar food! No way! Once you've given food, you are open to all kinds of liability. That's why restaurants have food licenses, are subject to periodic inspections, and have insurance. Because people can get sick from food-borne bacteria, and sue the pants off you. We go out for pizza and sometimes have three or four pieces left over. It'd be the kindest thing in the world to give it to beggars. Unfortunately, it's also stupid. The last thing I need is some beggar fingering me to the police. "That guy made me puke!"

One time I saw some guys walking down the street with leftover spaghetti. Spaghetti! Someone thought to save their spaghetti leftovers. Like it's not 99 cents at the grocery store for enough spaghetti to choke a horse. They'd apparently come from an Italian restaurant, because they were drunk and I guess Italian themselves, probably. So what did they do -- in their drunken condition -- but give the leftovers to four beggars. Who when I passed by were simultaneously eating their fill and consulting law books. If I were the idiots that gave it to them, I'd be changing my clothes in a back alley and looking for a quick facelift.

Whether a masterful disguise would really help, though, is up in the air. Because it's just as likely the beggars had attached a sensor to their clothes, with the ability then to zero in on them via their iPhone, to be able to track them after their "sickness" came on. "Hey, my belly hurts!" Dirty bastards.

Other than fear of legal troubles, which is 99% of it, I hesitate to give to all the "veterans" on the street. I know there has to be an actual veteran here or there down in the mouth, but are they really on every corner, every single day of the year! I don't think so, but maybe they are, since veterans have been used to many privations, maybe even being promoted all the way to generalizations. Forgive me. Even if they are veterans, there's no less a chance they might sue the pants off you. "He gave me a quarter coated with the polio bacilli! That's why I'm sick, that bastard!"

Wise Man Kliptoph of Another Planet

You realize mankind is in big dutch, huge dog doo, right? Disasters, global warming, high gas prices, kids rotten to the core. How long I've thought the basic problem is an abundance of ignorance and a lack of wisdom! "What we need," I've said, "is wisdom from above ... either God or some Wise Man from Another Planet." But after all these years, from my first striving for wisdom at the age of four till now, I never expected anything to come of it.

Till the other night. I was messing with my Roku. You know the channels on Roku? There's the biggies, Netflix, Amazon, Hulu Plus... Then there's thousands of unknown, obscure crazy channels, popping on and disappearing. Mega churches, fly-by-night movie channels, foreign barbarians, etc. I was watching this activity, the flashing and disappearing, when one flashed on and kept flashing. All it said was "Wise Man Kliptoph of Another Planet." I thought, Hmm, then I came under such a compulsion to click it that even Norton Internet Security couldn't have stopped me ... I thought they might have the great film Mutant Girl Scouts from Mars, so I clicked it.

But instead of movies the screen filled up with the image of a Wise Man from Another Planet. Obviously Kliptoph, and the broadcast was live! Not just an old VHS creature-feather bootlegged from YouTube. I watched the swirling black and white image on my color TV and was transfixed. All the apocalyptic problems of the ages registered as one solid image in my Ajna chakra: Man is in a sorry state. Multiple disasters. Death. Ignorance. No wisdom. Sloppy seconds.

At first I thought Kliptoph was just a dream, but he wasn't. I said, "Pinch me if I'm dreaming," and no one did. I asked why he'd appeared to me. He explained I was "The Chosen One," which was exactly what I've always wanted to hear, despite my years of ignorance, failure, and psychological instability. As "The Chosen One," I would deliver Kliptoph's words of wisdom to a world down in the mouth, on the edge, in the ditch, hopelessly mired, at its wits end.

I wondered how to inquire of him. "O mighty Kliptoph?" "Dearest Kliptoph?" "Heavenly Kliptoph?" "Kliptoph the All-Merciful?" "Kliptoph the Exalted?" "Above Average Kliptoph?" "Dreaded Kliptoph?" He said just "Kliptoph" would do, and since it would be just him and me he would assume I was talking to him, so even saying "Kliptoph" wouldn't be all that necessary. OK.

"What planet are you from, O mighty Kliptoph?" He looked at me with great beneficence, then answered, "Hagsmile." I had to laugh, having never seen a hag's smile I liked.

"Heavenly Kliptoph, what wisdom would you seek to impart to a world lost in foolishness and ignorance?" His eyes crossed in a transcendental way and veered upward, obviously into the vast library of his knowledge and understanding. I could see him mentally pulling from the stacks, assembling the materials together, and turning enormous mental pages while seeking up and down, looking for marginal notes. At that point it became an hour of non-stop teaching, most of which, because of my horrendous attention span, went in one ear and out the other.

So I'm sorry, it ain't much, but here's what I remember: 

A robofeath in the metulgrip is worth two in the bush ... An ootz of prevention is worth a pitz of cure ... Only you can prevent methane conflags ... You can't put a square plemp in a round plump ... Take all you can gusta, but gusta all you take ... She's too pultrix to be a minute over sovontwin ... Whatever doesn't termtomb me makes me girthulker ... The pombal doesn't fall far from the barkstilt ... You catch more flits with polsticky than with sarfunk ... Change your unhides everyday. You never know when you might have a failadunt and need to go to the medspital ... Always have kumpash. Remember, "There but for the divinsmil of Inscrut go I" ... Ask not what your patrum can do for you --- [transmission garbled] --- your patrum.

I feel wiser already, from just having been in Lord Kliptoph's lustrous presence. It's a lot more than I ever got from mere earthly sources. All praise to the extraterrestrial wisdom of Kliptoph the Exalted. Amen.

Krishna to the Rescue!

I had a terrible hard day's night last night at a church meeting. This one lady -- generally a real peach -- must've been having a tough time of it. Because she severely offended me. I was running through the list of things that I could do to retaliate: Smart off, walk out, scream, or throw something. But over the years I've mellowed, now knowing that to do any (or all) of these things is not wise; whereas I might feel great in the heat of the battle, it's tough to go back next time.

To me, that's one of the greatest lessons to learn. Life isn't a movie with a neat ending. In real life, there's always tomorrow, with your reputation on the line. And unless you're prepared to disappear to another city, state, or country, you're going to run into people at the grocery store, post office, or health club. "Hi, how ya doin', heh heh."

OK, I came home and did all the things you do in a situation like this. It preoccupied me. I thought of the Seinfeld episode where George thinks of what he should have said in an argument with a guy at work ("jerk store.") But I didn't just come up with one comeback but 40 or 50, none of which I could say in real life. As above, the problem is showing up next time.

Then it hit me, one of the oldest damned truths there is: If you're steaming mad, the only one you're hurting is yourself. So I did what I needed to do, reached for one of my many spiritual books, in this case the Bhagavad Gita. (A guy I used to know in Sunday School as kids, later when we were in college, "turned me on to" the Gita, as he called it, with Bhagavad apparently being something of an optional word.)

Really, Krishna is definitely one of the most understanding representations of God around. Am I right? He always seems to make just the right connection you need, whatever it is, since -- and most people don't know this -- he stands for your soul; there's no actual division. Hope I'm right about that. I probably am.

So thinking of this donnybrook last night, it was KRISHNA TO THE RESCUE! with this great verse:

One who works in devotion, who is a pure soul, and who controls his mind and senses, is dear to everyone, and everyone is dear to him. Though always working, such a man is never entangled. 5:7

That put it in immediate context for me. I'm dear to the lady, she's dear to me. It's just a matter of controlling our mind and senses.

There's been lots of times I've gotten help like that. Just to mention a few -- not to brag, but maybe they'll be useful to you, too, in similar circumstances. How many times have I been denied some transient pleasure? I'm not usually, but it's been known to happen. Once I was mowing the half acre -- with the old push mower, no motor, 100 degrees -- and I was daydreaming about the last piece of DQ birthday ice cream cake. I kept going. But my Cousin Roto was in the house taking a nap. I got done, and of course the cake was gone! KRISHNA TO THE RESCUE!

The thoughts of my pure devotees dwell in me, their lives are surrendered to me, and they derive great satisfaction and bliss enlightening one another and conversing about me. 10:9

Roto and I conversed about the cake and the Gita. He's kind of dumb, but I eventually convinced him we were deriving great satisfaction and sharing bliss. And because of the cake, that he'd shared more than I.

Another big problem I tend to have has to do with getting old. Sometimes I envy the animals; they either don't know they're going to die or they simply don't care. I had this dog "Fritz" (Link 1; Link 2) years ago who knew he was going to die; he dragged himself under the stairs, like he wanted to die where I wouldn't find him so I wouldn't be sad. Of course I found him right away and cried like a baby. KRISHNA TO THE RESCUE!

For the soul there is never birth nor death nor, having once been, does he ever cease to be. He is unborn, eternal, ever-existing, undying and primeval. He is not slain when the body is slain. 2:20

There's a million problems in the naked city. These are only a few. But for every problem you or I may have, don't forget, Krishna's always there for you in the Bhagavad Gita, ready to RESCUE you.

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Excerpts from Bhagavad-Gita As It Is by His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, copyright 1972 by Bhaktivedanta Book Trust.

Minimizing Things Through Expertise

Which came first, familiarity or contempt? We know familiarity breeds contempt, but what bred familiarity? It's the age-old question that I'm an expert in avoiding. Hence, if you want more questions than answers, look to me, who admittedly doesn't know much. And since I don't know much, to me everything looks huge. It's only the real experts who can take huge things and effectively minimize them.

You see, for the experts, big challenges are little. They have gained this perspective through study and experience, consolidating their gains until they're able to stride, Godlike, over their particular field of expertise. With the eventual payoff for them being a fresh pot of coffee.

I too have known things -- in the distant past -- in jobs I've had. I started out in the printing business, which since, now that I'm out of it, has made enormous progress in technology and techniques. I could never find a place in the industry now. But I always had the consolation that, lacking any other opportunity, I could go to Mexico and work, Mexico always being 20 years behind the United States in technology. But because it's been over 20 years since my departure, even Mexico has left me in the dust.

OK, let's turn to the experts and their minimizing. When I see a jet airliner I think, "What an enormous, awe-inspiring machine -- way beyond the Wright Brothers and their dinky plane. Now planes are vast in every way, with potential I can only wonder at." But to the expert pilot, it's just another day at the grind. He sees the airport looming, a mere 500 miles ahead, and says, "Let's set this bird down." Or, maybe there's a problem, they're approaching the wrong airport, and he casually says, "Let's turn this tin can around and get 'er to the right barn." And they make plans for a nice cup of coffee afterward.

Doctors are one of my favorite experts, since they're so obviously minimizing it, this time for the sake of ignorant patients and their ignorant loved ones. (I'd love to be a fly on the wall in hospitals, since this is a joy to watch.) Doctors see their relationship with them as familiar, while secretly knowing they know it all and we know nothing. So you have a consult where this kind of minimizing takes place: "This little rascal (the tumor) is about the size of my fingernail, nothing really. We'll get it out in two shakes of a lamb's tail -- lickety split -- and you can get on with your life."

But when he's with other doctors things aren't so rosy. "Even a single cell is of course enough to kill him a dozen times over, and it's already the size of a fingernail -- huge. I'm giving him only a .0038% chance of survival, and that's totally incapacitated. Now let's get coffee."

Even our men of the cloth -- our own minimizing term for the modern shaman, defanged in our estimation -- are holding back, having seen it all. "Your loved one has gone to a better place," they say, although they usually personalize it, increasing the minimizing: "Edgar's in a better place. You'll see him again." Were he to tell the truth, he'd have to bring in all kinds of competing theories of the afterlife, and even get into the whole thicket of theories on life itself. Everything from the universe being a vast living organism and all of us part of it down to our more typical view of the universe as dead matter with an omnipotent God, a larger version of ourselves, looking out for us. Take your pick, but remember, there's everything else in between.

So what's the problem? The parishioners would look at him with disgust, and he's expert enough to know it. Why bother, especially with a hot, steaming hot, piping hot, delicious pot of coffee waiting him back home.

Me Suffering Like Job

I'm going to tell you my true experiences in church today. The preacher talked about Job, the character in the Bible whose life went completely to hell. In a hand-basket, as Grandpa always said. Thanks to ha-Satan, the Hebrew word for adversary.

First, let me brag about it right up front, I used to be a go-getter. Hitchhiking across the country, roughing it, eating very skinny meadowlarks, sleeping under bridges, in culverts, and even in the men's room of a very busy truck stop, the whole bit. I rode trains, I was down and dirty, with enough dirt on me that anyone seeing me had to think I was a desperado. I wasn't, but they would've thought so.

Now, though, in recent years, as an aging man -- over 60 -- I'm not so rough. Part of me looks back on all of it like it was some other guy's life. I don't know, I could probably make it if I had to. I've always been resourceful. But with my aches and pains, and apparent need for sleep and regularity, give me the predictable life. A good deadbolt. Meals I can count on. And a lack of suffering.

I know someday they'll find me, dead, of old age and/or iron poor blood and lethargy. But at least I'll be under a decent number of blankets, in long johns, with socks, and securely locked in in comfort. It could happen a different way, but I'll try to not let it.

The preacher's message on Job, though, gave me momentarily the sensation that anything was possible. Job suffered all the stuff he suffered and didn't curse God. An alternate way of looking at that phrase, in my opinion, would be: He didn't doubt his own place in life, in the scheme of things. Complete despair wasn't an option.

OK, I started thinking of myself. Say my little bit of savings was taken away, the place I live crashed in, everything in my freezer thawed out, the city took my half acre, and I was suddenly drifting about, maybe despised and shunned, would I keep a good attitude? I was thinking, Yes, I would. But that was this morning, when I was still wide awake. I even saw it as something like a liberating idea. When you have a ton of fear, if everything's snatched away, there'd be less to fear. You'd be free!

But now, as it becomes evening, the day has dragged by. And I'm tired. Hanging out in my easy chair, trying to read, but getting very sleepy. Now I'm not so sure I'd like to be scraping my boils with a potsherd, whatever good that'd do. Do boils itch? Or is scraping just a good way to drain them? I'd have to figure that out. Now I'm not so sure there'd be a lot of positives to being on the road, at the edges, the extremes.

I want to keep the meaning of life, of course, come what may. Only, please, let the meaning of life have something to do with my own comfortable bed, a working furnace, and a well-stocked refrigerator.

I Am Diametrically Opposed

When you care enough to be really opposed to something, always hold out for being diametrically opposed. Even if you're stupid about words, diametrically obviously carries an extra level of disdain -- purple passion -- to show you're not just dinking around. The very word declares itself the Diamond Standard of Opposition, unmistakable in whatever its implications may be.

I've actually been a very nice guy, for many years. And I will continue that practice, no matter who I have to walk over to do it. But I must be smart -- and this I recommend for others, too, because we've all had trouble with the bastards. Those we've tried to please. Who are then more than happy to run roughshod over us, overwhelm us, and leave us in the dust, themselves never looking back, unless by some special dispensation, like the need to get a picture for the party. I am diametrically opposed to the whole thing!

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend," I used to hear my mom say, with my dad then putting off the subject for more prosperous times which, unfortunately, never came. But she always had that dream. There's a reason diamonds are the gift for the 75th anniversary, because basically no one makes it. And the ones who do are always the frugal souls who have no use for them.

Diamonds are extremely valuable, we see, and for good reason. I saw a good science show that said diamonds are from stars, actually like everything except hydrogen. Only stars (and Superman) can crush carbon sufficiently to make a diamond! Think about that! Only stars and Superman! Meaning, for our purposes today, that if you're diametrically opposed to something, you're really special. But what happens is, Most of us limit our opposition, making us weaklings for the slightest persuasion (or trickery, rhetorical or otherwise). But no more! 

You can tell I'm serious, OK? Stepping out of character here. Enough is enough. I've finally decided this is how it's going to be. It's literally now or never; if I'm going to prevail, I have to change things now. Enough being everyone's dishrag, snot-rag, doormat, and the last bendable obstacle in their way. And I ask you to join me. From now on -- even with our basically good attitudes still intact -- we shall be against it! Diametrically opposed!

I'm putting Republicans on notice ... as of ... now.

Proving Someone Is a Duck

I'm always thinking things are not what they seem. Such as the feeling I sometimes have that we're actually ducks. Some of us.

You can always say "Quack quack" and see how they respond. You might be surprised. If they respond accurately to your quacks, then it definitely looks like, at some level, they're at least showing duck consciousness.

I was testing my theory with a friend of mine, whom I will call Subject A. I said, "Quack quack quack," with various inflections in the words, and he responded like this: fingering me and sticking out his tongue. Exactly as I believe a duck would do hearing those same words and intonation.

It doesn't take many experiments like this to get the sense that you're on to something. Subject A didn't think I was serious, and that it was all a joke. But I counseled patience, that we were on the verge of something big. "Surely a few more experiments wouldn't overly quacks your patience."

Then as Subject A relaxed, I said, "Quack quack qu--quack." He looked at me, then reached for a tissue and wiped his bill. My theory is the quick hesitation (nasal stutter) in the "qu--quack" told my young duck friend he was about to sneeze if he didn't wipe. I pronounced it a success, the result being exactly what I've seen in other ducks.

As we continued, I noted another finding consistent with mainstream findings on ducks, that they simply won't sit still very long. Subject A was fidgety, wanting to move, wanting to get away from me, maybe even fly south. I gave a stern "Quack!," in no uncertain terms, and pointed with my finger for him to stay seated. And he did, letting me know that ducks understand the imperative tense.

I thought this would be a good time for the "Rapid Fire" round, which normally spooks ducks, coming as it so often does on the first day of hunting season:

--"OK, let's get down to quack." "Business," he said.
--"Six of quack, half-dozen of quack." "Six of one, half-dozen of another."
--"Fourquacks and quack years quack." Strangely he didn't consciously know this, but waddled to the closet and adorned his little head with a tiny stovepipe hat anyway.
--"A quack in the hand equals two quacks in the bush." "One duck masturbating is similar to two ducks mating," he said. That was a true Quack! moment for me. "Eureka!" I ejaculated.

Later, making things more official and controlled, I affixed sensors to his scalp. Then came right out and asked him, "Are you a duck?" "No," he insisted. This was consistent with my prior finding that most ducks live in denial. The sensors agreed with me, singeing the feathers on his head and changing his answer to "Yes."

On the Bright Side, My Color's Still Good

The great blogging battle against my brother is over. He won. I lost.

So here I sit. It's all I can do to get up and take a small bit of liquid, then jot down these last few lines ... before ... I don't know what ... hope the lightning hits me and puts me out of my misery, perhaps...

I feel like cussing a blue streak. If only it'd do any good. Instead, I guess I'll just channel my disappointment, and this dreadful feeling of rage into a silence deeper than anything I've managed in a while. Seriously, this might just be a new low. "Christ!" I'm able to barely manage a curse, shaking my fist at the stormy sky before letting it fall aimlessly back to the bed. I look at my hand. On the bright side, my color's still good.

Some people go, "I wish I was in bed ... I'd be happy." Right, because you've never seen those commercials for bedbug exterminators or the ones for mattress stores. Did you know if you don't change your mattress every seven years you get a seven-year-itch of an entirely different kind? From bugs spontaneously generated from your own dead skin cells. Every bolt of lightning, like we're getting today, it's another million. Then there's bedbugs, in battle with these spontaneous bugs, trying to eat the skin cells before they spawn. All the while, as they bite one another, they periodically get you.

I'm resigned to it. I'm not stirring. I deserve it. I couldn't hold my brother off ... for three damned days. I thought I was the blogging champion of the family. Then I heard from my nephew that his dad was "catching up," and I didn't even know he had a blog. I thought yesterday, maybe -- a long shot -- those who like my blog, and the various readers I get everyday, might be able to put me over the finish line, to vanquish my brother once and for all. But it wasn't to be. They deserted me. Or whatever help they provided was far from enough.

The truth of the matter is likely this: They've all abandoned me. Leaving me alone, alone and blue, alone and bitter ... Well, to you, to any stragglers stopping by to see my reaction to this terrible defeat -- actually a rout -- take a good long look at what you've done. You ruined me. Me, the last guy I'd ever imagine to be in this position. I've always been an overcomer. But I couldn't overcome this. Thanks for nothing. Thanks for kicking a guy when he was down. Don't think I won't remember it. I vow, if it's the last thing I do, I'll ruin each and every one of you. You know who you are ... and if I can get my second wind ... and get these creaky legs to work ... and a few other things ... bug bites ... and get your address ... and drag myself across country ... well, I won't tell you what I'll do. It'll be my little secret.

Oh, man, I'm such a mess. I've already expended more energy typing this than I had. And I used the rest shaking my fist. In my brother's direction. Enjoy the fruit of your victory, brother! Maybe I can't take out my frustrations on my readers -- most of them live in places like Russia, China, Ukraine, Bulgaria, and Canada. (I'm probably close enough to crawl to Canada, being only three or four states up) -- but I know where you live!

My Brother's Blog's Getting Great Word of Mouth

It was just yesterday I asked all of you to help me get more blog traffic than my brother. Just yesterday. But the internet travels at the speed of light, or faster, so since then everything's changed. Instead of his traffic going down and mine going up, I'm looking at a disaster: Everything's just the opposite.

I'm kicking myself, really, for calling attention to him. Although I'm finding some relief in the realization that it was going to happen with or without me. I mentioned that he blogs about some of his business trips overseas, which, amazingly, is exactly what a lot of people want. Which makes sense in some weird, twisted way. Because they're also planning trips abroad and want to know the latest scuttlebutt on travel conditions, personal safety, and who's sleeping with which dictator.

As it so happens, I have never personally been anywhere except the United States. And I don't really even travel here. I'm always trying to save money, or I'm too busy, or the weather's bad, or something. It's always something. I did write the other day about walking to Edwinton and being bitten by a dog, but no one wants to know about that. It's no Gibraltar!

I've got something bitter to say to my "faithful" readers: Thanks for nothing. Although I'm sure there's a few of you who're trying your best. Please forgive me if you weren't here yesterday, if you have a good excuse for your absence. To the rest of you, I can only wish you'd taken my plea a little more seriously. Oh, if only it hadn't been such a huge imposition to help a brother, your fellow man in his time of need. So here I am now, dying. Where's the milk of human kindness? Was it a problem that I called you riffraff?

A helpful family member's been keeping me up to date on my brother's exploits, filling my ear with all kinds of things. For example, the Gibraltar stuff is lighting up the internet. Travelogue bullshit, in my opinion. Not worth the monitor it's printed on. Meaning, for me, that I better come up with something or all is lost.

We used to write "themes" in school on places we'd never been. Africa comes to mind, a land of savages, darkness, dense forests, and an occasional river, mostly well known for its animals, including the giraffe. I'm smarter now, I could probably fill a page like that on any country. They always say to writers -- one of which is me, if you write a thousand words a day, any old crap -- that you'll eventually come up with something worthwhile.

I could call attention to the fact that Gibraltar is very near Africa. Somewhere near the top there, and you can see it from Gibraltar. Likewise, you can see Gibraltar from Africa. Africa is an enormous place, though, and Gibraltar's a fairly tiny island -- except for its rock, the immensest thing for miles. Meaning, you can see a lot more of Gibraltar from Africa than vice versa. What you can see of Gibraltar is something, but what you can see of Africa is not worth seeing. A few more words and I've got a thousand...

In addition to travel, if I want to beat my brother, I could write about people. People like that. But that's tough for a loner. Although I know about people. I've been ducking them for years, which makes me a real expert. Streisand sings, "People who need people are the luckiest people." I've often disagreed with that in practice, but now that I need people (to help me beat my brother), I need to start mingling.

So, people, permit me to reach out to you. I'm making a gracious exception for this cause. I'm venturing forth. Please don't shame me. I need you! Help me keep up with his hits. Help me keep my brother from winning the blog war. Don't click on his links. Only click on mine, and as often as possible. He will never let me live it down if he wins. Just as I will stick it to him if I win.

Many thoughts are racing in my head on this battle. Most of them are indecipherable. The others are harder to explain.

Help Me Beat My Brother Blogging

I recently heard about one of my brothers, that he too has a blog. And it seems that he's been in a "friendly competition" with me without telling me. Meaning, of course, that I've been taking it easy while he's been going great guns. It all comes down to hits and popularity.

Well, I just happened to catch wind of this when one of my nephews messaged me on Facebook, and in the course of everything else he had to say, mentioned the existence of his dad's blog. And that he was "catching up" with me. You can imagine how I felt. Of course I was floored. First, I had no idea that he was blogging; that much in itself was a total shock. But worse was the strange, weird news that he had made the decision, secretly, to surpass me in hits. Talk about devious!

Shouldn't it go without saying that he should've told me he had this in mind? I mean, I'm all for competition, really as much as anyone, but I want to know there's a competition going on before I end up being surpassed. Once I'm surpassed it's a little late then to tell me. How nice is that? Leaving me in the dust before I even know he's there!

It goes against our history, as is typical with brothers. Even though we don't see each other much, we're still tight. At least I thought we were. The history was like this: We were competitive growing up, and he was quite capable. I am the oldest, so I had to trail blaze where there was no path. Once I had the path well blazed, of course it was a lot easier for him coming up. So, I'll concede, he had some abilities beyond me, having had the easier path. But when we competed the other person knew it.  None of this sneaking around.

So that's where we are. I don't know what else to say except I'm speechless. And getting a late start toward the overall goal of holding my lead and hopefully increasing it. I've seen his stats and they're pretty good. I'm tracing all this back to the time I was mysteriously unfriended on Facebook. It went like this. We were friends on Facebook and he was posting regularly. Then suddenly his posts became fewer. I thought nothing of it. Then they were nothing. But he'd simply unfriended me, leading me to think nothing was going on! I never dreamed he'd lure me into complacency, then unfriend me, all the while going for the upper hand!

Now, today, what I'm asking from you -- and I know I have 8-10 true readers on this blog, in addition to the thousands of casual riffraff -- is to read my posts. Even if it doesn't look that great, click on it and do your best. I believe you'll be pleasantly surprised, as I don't have a reputation for writing crap. Unlike ... someone I know. (I'm not actually reading his blog. But I've heard from various family members that a lot of what he's doing is writing about some of his trips abroad on business. For example, he was in Gibraltar, an island in the Mediterranean, for a couple days, but writes about it all the time ... the monkeys they have over there, the beautiful gardens, and of course their language, Gibrish. More power to him ... that'll only take him so far!)

What I really want -- what I need -- is to win this competition, and maybe if I do he'll become so dispirited that he'll simply give up, leaving the field open for me to represent the family in blogging, as I believe I was meant to do. He can carve out some other specialty, such as collecting postcards or whatever. Surely he picked up a few postcards in farking Gibraltar, he loved it so much. We can oooo and awww over his dime store treasures and he'll feel just fine.

Get Your Own Grandma Slump Blog

This is something I never foresaw. That my blog, that started out so little and unknown, would one day become so popular. But, for better or worse, it's true. I have it from a reliable source -- a dream I had last night -- that I'm somewhere in the Top 100 of visited sites. About ready to pass even Wikipedia! Which I've done without a single fund-drive.

I have to be honest about it. I never asked for this kind of scrutiny, and, in fact, it's not really welcome. I've always been a private individual, content to hide in closets, picking my nose and wiping it on the sleeves of suits I'll never wear, mostly Grandpa's old ones. The idea that now, suddenly, everyone wants a piece of me can only have a bad ending.

How all this anxiety came about is when I chose to Google myself one day. I wish I hadn't. Because I came across the above graphics, apparently websites based on grandmaslump.com that are now available for copycats, read likely scam artists.

One way I thought to address this was to buy up all the domains myself. But how am I to know they won't think of others? Frankly, though, I don't have the kind of money we're talking. The $10.99 ones would be easy enough, maybe, at least for a while. But if I suddenly needed to get my car fixed next year when they come due again, then what? I will have staved off the copycats for only a year, making it all in vain.

Obviously I'm not going to be able to snap up the higher end domains, however much I'd love to. The highest one, at $2,695, grandmalinda.com, would be damned nice to have. Not that I know any Grandma Lindas, but I'd like to have any possible buffer against the outside world. If the money's right. Which I'm not so sure it is.

I added up the premium domains alone, and it comes to $13,444. Sounds pretty bad, I know, till you factor in they wouldn't be that much next year. At that point they'd be mine and it'd only be the normal yearly rate of around $10.95, unless it goes up a dollar. But then my car breaks down, as I said, and I can't afford to fix it, especially with the front end expense of $13,444 that I'd be down at the outset.

The more I think about it the less I think I can do. Except to just throw my hands up and say, "Breathe in, breathe out, don't worry, somehow the Lord will see me through." He was there that time I got full disability for my game toe, and that time I learned to make apple pie from scratch, He'll be with me now. Just embrace the competition, maybe that's the answer; there's room in this big fish pond we call the internet for a big fish like me as well as all the little fish.

But I see a couple domains that'd be great, GrandmaSlouch and OldSlouch. You'd think those would already be taken. With the popularity of going ultra-casual that began subtly encroaching on propriety a few years ago -- when teachers quit making boys tuck their shirts in -- and quickly took over the world. Even me. I'm sitting here in blue jeans I've been wearing three weeks, socks that don't match, and a shirt with a big stain from food that fell on it last week when I was watching TV, eating but not at the table. My mom's ashes are spinning in her unburied urn even now that I'm in the same undies two days in a row. God forbid I might need an ambulance.

GrandmaSink sounds like an interesting domain. This brings up a funny point about my grandma. She could never say the word "sink," for reasons I don't know. Both she and Grandpa pronounced it with a Z, "zinc." That's not funny, perhaps, but it's true.

As far as "GrandmaGoes," now there's a cheaper one on the premium list, only $577. I could probably talk them down to $576; anything's possible. They'd be like, "What the hell, what's a dollar between friends?" The idea of Grandma "going" is likely a knock against anyone wanting this one. Because you should see some of the referring searches I get, every filthy thing that perverts can think of when it comes to Grandmas. Basically, every Google search that has "Grandma" -- sexual, scatological, or pertaining to animals -- I get.

Protecting My Girlfriend

It's been a great time in my life. The dates with my girlfriend are piling up. I think I've had two, three, or four. Depending how you define it. If it means the sun's down and we're out to eat, that's one thing. If it's simply going to the grocery store and picking up a few things -- bread, baloney, oysters -- that doesn't count.

But the exact count isn't important. What's important is that whatever we do, it's quality time. And whether I'm invested in the relationship. And I believe I have been, maybe even more so than anyone could've expected. With my previous history, completely undefinable.

At the store, I suddenly got the creeps -- I'm creeped out! -- that something might happen to her. And since I played hell finding a girlfriend, obviously I don't want to lose her easily, not after having played hell finding her. So I've been looking out for her safety. Nothing wrong with that, right?

She had a couple hours to kill this morning, so, hey, we got together. We were going to go out for lunch, when I mentioned we could go to the grocery store and buy food and have more meals for the money. It could've been a couple burgers at a burger joint for $18.00 (with fries), or $70-80 worth of stuff at the grocery store to make eight or ten meals.

It's when we got there that I started thinking of all the stuff that could go wrong and harm our relationship. The place hasn't got their parking lot entirely scooped out after the last snow, which is a danger. I dropped her off at the curb, the cleanest spot in the place, and she was able to walk in safely. I parked a little farther, trying to avoid one of the places next to the cart storage, to avoid getting my car nicked by someone. So she was left alone a little longer than is wise.

I got there in time, though, and all was well. Now safely in the store, I started thinking, and dwelling on, all the things that could harm her. Being bumped by other carts, having her purse stolen, being hit on by some creep, or crazed gunmen jumping out of nowhere, etc. We walked around the store. Her purse was in the cart, and I kept a good hold on it the whole time. Any time another cart neared us, I had her behind me and to the right. If there were any creeps in the aisle, I spotted them in advance and we went a different way. It went like that, something she appreciated. As for gunmen, we were there on a good day, as there weren't any.

No. What actually did her in was the price of oysters. We've had a couple "stay home dates," eating oyster stew. This is all true. The oysters we got at a particular place were only $1.98 a can. But when we were shopping at this place, they were a whopping $2.49 a can, a precipitous leap in price. If you figure that in percentages, it's pretty steep. She collapsed.

By the time we got to the exit -- and this really tried my feeble muscles, especially with the extra weight of a can of oysters in my coat pocket -- I was carrying her, scouting both directions and calculating the odds that there'd be danger. The Secret Service has nothing on me.

The store has stop signs as you cross into the parking lot, but honestly I had no reason to trust people to stop. So we waited a little extra time before going on. Then I wasn't so sure her nightgown was protecting her from the cold, so I stuck my gloves down her back. I helped her through the snow, got the door open, helped her in so she wouldn't slip, and finished off by helping her with the seat belt. Anything mechanical has hidden dangers.

Boar Balls -- The New Family Fun Game

Here's a game I came up with because I had to come up with something! And you know what? It turned out to be a real hit! All the kids, my nieces and nephews, have been to the State Fair -- it's a family tradition -- so they know all about the horrendously large balls on the "Biggest Boar."

Every year farmers compete to bring in the biggest boar. They must feed them like crazy through the year, because they're the biggest things you've ever seen. They're so big, in fact, that you never see them stand up. Whether they could stand up, I suppose they could. But it's always so hot, it looks like they prefer to just lie there, their balls hanging out, exposed to a terrible swarm of flies. The two biggest boars are one of the main attractions at the fair.

Now, about the game. It came about because of a little serendipity. By that I mean, I have very sweaty feet, the weirdest, sweatiest feet you've ever seen. It happens like this: My feet feel like they're ice cold, while all this time they're sweating, making them even icier and colder. Consequently, if you see me walking around, I always have like three or four pair of fresh socks in my pockets. My pockets bulge out like a hamster's cheeks. It's quite a sight to see.

OK, next, it just so happened I was at the home of my nieces and nephews, and their kids, since some of them are getting older. This was at a birthday celebration for one of them. And some of them were looking curiously at my jacket, all bulging out, like maybe I was growing love handles. I was too embarrassed to tell them about my foot problems. So I thought quick and pulled out the socks so they could see it was all quite harmless. I said it was a game! But what?

Well, as these things go, one thing led to another. And next thing you knew, I had invented the game of Boar Balls. Which goes something like this: You have two teams. Each team has an IT. It is the teams' task, starting off about 12 feet away from the other team's IT, to ask questions of the other team. With a right answer, team 1 stays in place. With a wrong answer, team 1 advances one foot toward team 2's IT. Then, of course, the first team to get their IT smacked in the face with Boar Balls loses.

We've found you can make it a lot funner the grosser you are. Such as "Those are really sweaty ones coming!" Or "The flies are everywhere, swarming around!" And "How funky, very funky, those balls are!" You can picture how it goes: IT doesn't want to be smacked, because they're busy picturing in their mind an actual boar backing toward them. Which, if that really happened, it would be very gross and painful.

The day I made up the game I just happened to have 500 questions on small cards relating to true facts about hogs. Such as, "True or False, the boar is a male." I know, that sounds really easy, but some of these kids, with our educational system today, and their addiction to video games, don't really know what male and female even mean. Then there's questions that kids simply don't know because they're more agricultural whereas the kids are urban. Such as, "With the hog, it's a well-known expression that they're able to use everything but the __BLANK__." None of the kids knew this, again, probably a result of their addiction to video games and their lack of exposure to this fact. The answer is "The squeal." I also wrote in some gimmes, such as, "True or False, a groundhog is the same as a farm hog." That's false. The groundhog is different from a farm hog, the main difference its much smaller balls.

Since it's "The New Family Fun Game," naturally I'm sensitive that all families are not alike. There are some -- I'm thinking of our Jewish and Muslim friends -- who won't have anything to do with pork. For them, I recommend the same game, while calling it "Bull Balls." I've also written 500 questions on the big beefers.

My own family being at least nominally Christian, and not having any sensitivity about Boars vs. Beef -- frankly, we eat both, often together -- stick to the Boar version. Unless, and this is important, unless we've already memorized the Boar answers and need some variety, at which point we switch to the Bull questions.

No matter how you play it, it's both dreadful and yet kind of fun to picture that massive animal backing your direction, if you're IT, and having those huge balls smacking you solid in the face. As for me, even though I'm the guy that came up with the game, my imagination's working overtime and I don't want those huge balls in my face either! Crazy but true.