Neighbors Talking About Me

Paranoia

Part 19 of 30

If you’ve been with me so far -- and I don’t suppose you’d tune in midstream since it's seven years bad luck -- you’re probably afflicted with an above average case of paranoia. Which is another way of saying a below average disposition, because -- I discerned this by a show of hands at the last meeting -- none of us is particularly proud of it.

Just to show you that pride is a non-existent thing for the truly bereft in the attitude department, the day these people hushed themselves -- a congeries of whisperers -- I went home and hung my head in shame and cried till I was howling. Which got my dog in on the act so I softened. I thought, “Oh no, not the dog, too.” But she nodded her head, then let it hang low, the exact technique I’m known for. And immediately howled up at the basement ceiling and I joined in, saying affectionately, “From one old dog to another!” We high-fived and I poured her a little dish of beer, saying, “I know you’re only 3, but in dog years that's 21.”

But probably most of us hate being talked about like this, so it’s always better to avoid crowds and making a spectacle of yourself. But, again, thanks to the dog, I always have to be out and about. I try to hurry up the process but some things are hard to hurry, dogs and their cycles being one such thing. Then what? You haven’t got a crowd surrounding you, but there’s no question they’re out there in their houses, wherever. And with communications being what they are, free phone calls, unlimited messages, blogs like this, it’s indisputable that they’re talking about me wherever I am: “He’s out with the dog again! Yes, the same dog, he only has the one!” Or, “Look what he’s wearing, a sweatshirt and insulated jogging pants.

Here’s a little free advice, neighbor folk. You’re a bunch of brainless simpletons, locked away in your idiotic houses getting your jollies, getting your rocks off worrying about me and my dog. How about keeping your mouth shut? Such an easy question, how about an answer, as Elvis once sang. And hold down the Elvis jokes, because I’m sensitive in that area too. Although in this context, him singing “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” would be apropos, except you as neighbors don’t even reach to dog-level, mostly scoundrels. And I’ve helped most of you before, too, picking up litter. Speaking of dogs.

I don’t want my misery to become your misery, OK? Assuming you’re a friendly sort, and feeling naturally sorry for me and my dog, I thank you. Anyone who discounts this torment, though -- you, I can’t even say it -- Come on, buddy, walk a mile in my shoes, OK? Yes, they’ve been chewed by the dog, but try your best to walk in them. Betcha can't!

Dear Earth Souls Of The Past

 

Part 18 of 30

Paranoia

I had a great time finding and arranging faces of all these dear earth souls from the past. I went back far enough, I think, that no one today will be able to say, “Yeah, I knew him personally, quite the guy.” And certainly they were remarkable persons at some point, but they’ve made the passage -- the old ticker fizzled out -- and if they’re conscious at all, it’s merely the huge ultimate amalgam of confused, indistinct non-specific Consciousness with a big C. Happening automatically by eternal life abilities, flitting about in the afterlife.

The hopes and dreams they had -- and the fears and heart-crushing paranoia they experienced -- are all past. Of course there’s people in our world today, and this is true for many generations to come, who are related in some way to most of them. A little research and you’d find great connections and be able to say, “This guy on the left with the stereotypical Old West mustache, my own nephew takes after him.” Or the three-headed lady bottom left, “Spittin’ images of my three-headed cousin! Who always hated the jibe, “Hey, Six Eyes!” Wonder what she had “where it counts,” going at it in shifts or just one hodge-podge V-V-Vector of mutual pleasure, and perhaps inspiring the first utterance of the now common question, “Was it good for you?”

Then there’s the other end of the spectrum -- undefined -- “Death Grips Great Mind.” Looks more like the kind of personality who would be coexisting with Old Man Bitter Paranoia himself. And if there’s any death gripping, it’s his hands around someone’s neck, gripping the very life out of them. The kind of guy I like to avoid, although I might brag a little on myself and say I have a few psychological trips up my sleeve that have allowed me to withstand more than one mass murderer. My trick is based on the story “Three Billy Goats Gruff.” The perp gets his filthy hands around my scrawny, completely worthless neck and I open my eyes wide the other direction, exclaiming, “Look at guy over there so much plumper than I! I’ll bet he’d be funner to kill, you could pop him like a pimple...” And there he goes while I’m ducking out, exit stage left. I have a deal with paranoia that allows me to run really fast. I chop the air in front of me to cut down resistance, and going 30 mph, in an hour I’m 20 miles away, only seldom having stopped to catch my breath or pee.

The nude woman next to the dartboard, I’ll just mention her in passing. Whatever you may have heard, she and I have never been anything more than friends. She showed up at my place once only, buck naked, doe naked, fawn naked, the works. I was overwhelmed with paranoia of a different brand from two voices, the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. Strangely, the angel said go for it. But the devil said, “Don’t you dare!” That’s a dilemma! But I’ve been paranoid so long I even have a paranoia diploma and knew in this case the devil was right. The angel has a quota, trying to off as many people as possible to fill heaven with cheat grunt labor, those too sick to resist. But the devil knows if you keep your health, he might end up with a healthy soul to torment, a worst fate.

In this case, I resisted her charms, which I always do. I already know I’m going to heaven, so I didn’t fall for the devil’s selfish schemes. I’ve always been a fast typist and my heavenly reward is to type and retype huge lists of the worthy and the trash among us. Get on my good side and you might be something. Paranoia of a very rewarding sort.

Electro Robot and Sparko His Dog

Paranoia

Part 17 of 30

I’m letting Electro stand not just for Electro and his faithful dog but the whole computerized world, which as we know has taken over and has us marching in lockstep to do its terrible bidding. We have developed a horrible dependence on all this stuff, which is so bad that I’ve already given in to temptation three or four times in the last 10 minutes to check my Facebook. Someone may have “liked” my latest post about upgrading to a better Electro; Model 3.2 is out in case you hadn’t heard!

There would be a definite improvement in my life -- as I perceive it -- to tell my dog her services are no longer necessary and replace her with Sparko. I could argue that Electro has a hole in his heart when Sparko’s not around. And with an actual dog, nature has given them a wacky software, meaning they need to poop and pee more often than my own software wants to handle. In that way Sparko would be an real improvement. But just to keep myself in the good graces of pet fans -- if there are any -- I'm not taking immediate action, as I continue (reluctantly) to take my old-school dog out, so far still under 50 times a day. I even bag most of my own groceries just so I'll have enough poop bags and so far the store hasn't imposed a limit on the bags I can use.

But Sparko and Electro so far are just a dream not come true for me. Plus, I’m actually reluctant because, Do I really need something else to consume my time? And none of my neighbors have one either, so there’s no pressure to keep up with them. Really, the world has settled down quite a bit from the excitement of getting computers, hard drives, etc. I was looking at some of my blogging from the mid-to-late ‘90s, and my graphics were about the size of a stamp. They had to be small enough to fit on a floppy disk. We're never quite there... So it probably pays to wait.

Now all my floppy disks are gone, I don’t know what happened to them. Must’ve been when they quit putting the drives on computers we just thought, “What’s the use? Just move on.” The key thing to note here is that whatever you have now, it’s crap compared to what is to come. The old Electros will be sitting in the dump, configuring themselves with satellites above to wreak vengeance on us, and we’ll deserve it.

This is where the sad side of Sparko enters the picture. Small enough and well-programmed enough to do Electro’s bidding, he’s also on important missions for outer space masters to destroy our infrastructure. One mechanical dog against the world! But they’re faithful, if not objectively good, so what Electro wants, Electro gets.

If this doesn’t make your head swell with paranoia, I guess that’s OK. Once they take you out, as in terminating you as their so-called master, that'll be that much more space for me to stretch my legs and relax, to the extent relaxation’s even possible these days.

George Washington's Poisoned Peas

Paranoia

Part 16 of 30

And speaking of assassination attempts, what about George Washington’s brush with the poisoning of his peas? I certainly didn't see that coming and I doubt if he did. But obviously a certain Thomas Hickey not only imagined it but carried through with his devious thoughts. I haven’t looked up the details, not because I’m frugal with my time, but to avoid knowing anything more about it. I get something like that in my head and my paranoia's worse. So many times I've thought of things just to see them happen! Now this I've thought of -- poison peas! -- but I just brushed with it, so hopefully I won't have any worries.

But on a deal like this -- ha ha -- knowledge might be power. And the last laugh should be mine, because I don’t eat peas in any real sense. I never buy peas, no one I’ve ever lived with except my Mom, who’s now passed, even liked peas. Just having them in the cupboard made them the most secure food in town. None of us except her had any desire whatsoever to eat them. If pea farmers were waiting for me to keep them in business, they would’ve been bankrupt a long time ago or would be selling carrots.

Now that I think of it, though, sometimes there’s occasions where a few peas will be in something. You go out to eat, get a salad, and there’s a pea or two in it, since they’re supposed to be good for you. And -- I’m raising my hand -- I am guilty of eating the occasional pea in a salad if it happens to be there. Just so they’re not together by themselves in a huge quantity. Then it’s out of the question.

And now that I’ve heard this story about George Washington, it only demonstrates a hidden layer of wisdom to my life. I was already anti-pea. I never heard of his trouble with peas before. But somehow I knew to avoid them. I had to have been thinking there’s something about these that could be poisoned. Even though we honor Washington for whatever it is he might’ve done -- crossed the river once -- we’ve never been that excited about him surviving poison peas. Now, though, that’ll be the first thing I think about him in my remaining years.

It would’ve been great to have known that in school. The teacher calls on the class to enunciate a few syllables about George Washington beyond cherry trees and a desire to always be first at everything, even the presidency. I shoot my hand up, the other kids are about to laugh because I’m about to say something completely stupid, and out pops from my mouth this most important thing there is to know about the Great Man, “He was almost killed by poisoned peas, and I’ve got my eye on the lunch lady!” The lunch lady’s called forth and hanged by the neck from the gymnasium rafters until she’s dead. Then we cleanse the land.

Looking closely, they even have the perp’s name, Thomas Hickey, a Tory agent, But that’s a Tory for a different day. Next we consider that George Washington had a death mask, put it on and faked his own death, then got the hell out of there on his Early Limousine. And the Secret Service still hasn’t lived it down!

A Target For Assassins

Paranoia

Part 15 of 30

It'd be a terrible, strange, not-very-nice feeling to be marked for assassination. I can see it from every angle, me in my innocence walking along minding my own business, then from the shooter's scope with the hairline bullseye, the gun barrel letting him discern the precise bearings. What a dirty skunk he is to want to shoot me, the most innocent do-gooder and go-getter in the world! Before me the world was basically lost in a jungle of misery and confusion, then with a few run-of-the mill blog posts enlightenment came to the masses. It only happened relatively recently that I went to a hypnotist who helped me give up all reticence when it came to writing and just puke it out. Since then the world's been a better place. I hardly recognize it.

But there are cases where even if you're a great guy you're still an assassination risk, and I suppose they could mistake me for someone else. Some people say I look like Einstein, some say I remind them of Martin Luther King, and others say I resemble Butch Smith, a childhood friend. So if I thought long enough about it -- that's long enough -- I could get really paranoid. To think, a mob boss is out there somewhere hiding in my humble neighborhood. There’d be no better cover. Then he goes out seven or eight times to walk his dog -- like me -- and the sight of me humbly picking up dog poop is so offensive that he wants to make me a victim. He radios to the gang: “I'm going for a head shot." That's terrible!

So without professional security, I have a lot of bases to cover. My next defense might be plastic surgery. They operate on me with plastic knives and forks, no clinking of metal to alert the assassins at their rendezvous nest, full of vipers. An eye-tuck here, a nose-tuck there, next thing I’m barely recognizable to myself in the mirror. Even my mother wouldn’t recognize me, although she's passed on.

Even if there aren’t any actual assassins gunning for me -- and this is where the real value to my schemes reside -- there are lots of attacks on other people, guns blazing, knives coming down at a 45 degree angle, people poisoned, you name it. The other day there was someone shot out of a cannon and he landed on the interstate and 12 cars ran over him trying to avoid him. That's another cause I promote: "Avoid Distracted Driving." They’re screwing with their radio, reaching to the glove compartment for make-up to apply on the trip, lipstick, or trying to hit the kids in the backseat, or just putting it on cruise control and drifting off for a catnap. It’s far too easy to imagine 12 cars running over an assassination victim if he's crossing the road.

Despite the risks, I still need to go out today, pick up a friend from a medical appointment, and of course tend to the dog, her business. If you should comment on this and I fail to answer you, assuming you deserve an answer, please call the police and let them know: "A guy from your area has just been assassinated. Please send help and a body bag. What's he look like? Sort of like his old friend Butch Smith. Or try Einstein or Martin Luther King, Jr."

They'd Peck Your Eyes Out

 

Paranoia

Part 14 of 30

I think this one might be a little sensitive for a few of you. Because you value your sight and the thought that it could suddenly be gone, it’s right up there with the most frightful traumas. As for me, I typically shun anything that seems to be that traumatic. I mean, I’m as paranoid as anyone, but some things are so bad I totally exclude them from my thoughts, really not even allowing a consideration of them as a possibility. Out of sight, up shit creek.

So I don’t know if I can even consider these things. This one's approaching prime nightmare country for me. If I go on -- and boldness seems to be getting the better of me; I guess I live to impress with my boldness -- it could be such a stimulus to karma and you-know-what might happen. I’m not even going to say it! Obliteration.

But it’s happened to others, I don’t know why it couldn’t happen to me. Which I didn’t say, my only surmise hitherto being that it could happen to me, and I want to exclude that as a thing, whether a likely thing or a long shot. But long shots are real. Someone just out of the blue -- and I’m going to be looking at assassins tomorrow -- could pick me off. Fade to black? No! Don’t let it happen...

I may as well say it, I completely know that I’m going to die someday. And someday’s getting closer all the time. I may be feeling pretty well today, and I’m more or less on top of my game, but there'll come a day when I’ll wake up screaming: “My legs, they don’t work!” (I hope it’s not my legs.) Or, “My eyes, they don’t work!” Or, “My entire body (excluding my mouth), it’s gone completely haywire, totally whack, it’s defunct, I need a total being-makeover, I can barely breathe, my lungs are dripping into my legs, my butt’s cracked, there’s toe-jam from the soles of my feet to the nape of my knees. Get a doctor STAT and send for the undertaker, one who’s willing not to charge me if I accidentally live!”

This is a paranoiac’s feast, the full spread, an endless panoply of every terrible dish, and this time we didn’t forget the gravy! My leg as a stew-bone, it could happen! Right down the line from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet, someone could do anything with it. Get enough of us together, worthless bodies, and we could end global hunger. Cannibalism, why waste a crummy body like mine? At this point it’s more than paranoia, it’s acceptance.

You’ve all been trailing me these many years. Even when I was 22 or something, they were saying, “This guy can’t hang on much longer. But look how young and supple he is! We’ll harvest his organs for transplants and end hunger with the rest. Blah blah blah blah, see that my tongue’s already ceased functioning, and my fingers have forgotten the feeling of the keyboard... Asdfghjkkl, send help!

(Doesn’t it look like Asdfghjkkl sounded out would be “As a dignified jackal”? Do jackals even have dignity? I think not.)

Piano-Players' Paranoia

Paranoia

Part 13 of 30

One of the things I never learned was to play the piano, and really all it is is a typewriter that sings. I had a guitar I kept on my back. I got so used to wearing it I'd forget it before sitting down. Then one day I decided I had no talent. But of course I found myself able to hammer out a few chords and ended up playing three or four songs for some folks in the nursing home one time. None of them shrieked bloody murder and ran out the door, but they would’ve if they could’ve. Even today the survivors are still talking about it. I'm just guessing.

We actually had a piano where I grew up, along with a chord organ. But no one in my family ever learned to do anything with either one. I remember trying to figure out the chord organ and having my finger on the button a little too long and my Dad shrieked bloody murder and hollering up the stairs, “Play a different note!” That was a setback for me. But he didn’t run out the door, so I kept trying to up my game. It turned out I was never good at it, a disaster. I’m not sure if Einstein was ever a great piano player either. But we both probably could've been.

So it wasn’t my fate to be a musical genius, which I wanted to be. I heard a line about a particular guy though, who ate beans and was considered a musical genius. Something like that is true of most of us.

I’m going to propose something for myself, and see how well I stick to it. Every time I’m at a place and someone starts playing the piano or organ, I'll just throw up my hands and mutter, “It’s all been done to death,” and walk out. It really is true. I may not know how to play, but I know how to hear, and it’s the same old boring grind time after time. They start somewhere in the middle, they toss in a bunch of lower notes, then a bunch of higher notes -- the area of the keyboard supposedly meant for flair and flourishes -- and you’re supposed to sit there and take it. So you lightly applaud, then grasp your stomach, “I think I’m having an aneurysm,” and run for the door, “Get me the hell out of here!”

Things that have literally been done to death are my kryptonite, the source of a lot of my paranoia. If you’re going to play the damned piano -- how boring -- at least acknowledge that you're not the first and probably not the best. Otherwise they'll just think you're showing off.

Therapy For Paranoia (Dangerous)

Paranoia

Part 12 of 30

Of course there’s therapy for paranoia. Although I’ve forgotten the details from the many times I've looked into it. The idea of showing up for therapy in anything -- while I guess it’s a good concept -- is something I’ve never actually done. Why? I'm afraid it’d incriminate me if I said why, so I won’t go into too much detail. But just leave it with a vague, “To each his own.” I don't want to be incriminated, having something like that on my personal record.

So that's it, count me out. As long as it’s a matter of your own choice, I’m good. Although if this is truly a picture of it, it might be tempting. Just looking around the room, everyone seems to be definitely zoned out in a positive way. There’s old Madame Grimaldi at the switch. Then young Flora, Fauna, Frizzy, and Weedette zoned out. With -- what have we here? -- his sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind him and zoned out in his own way, Danny.

Leading to a question I’ve asked myself many times, When you’re trapped and strapped down in a paranoid fit, is it better to take proactive measures against it or is it an important part of your life that you shouldn’t miss for anything? I know I’m in the minority here, but I think it’s important not to miss too much. There are exceptions, which, if I can keep it together in this moment I might sketch out. Eh, what the hell, let’s get to that first: The exceptions would be if you pose a threat to others.

In this case, if I’m reading Danny right -- and as dull as he looks his condition’s still clear as a bell -- if he scooched one inch closer to Grimaldi, or moved in any direction toward one of the sleeping belles, I’d be on him with the burliest attendants I could rouse. Safety is first and foremost, saving the victims and going as easily on the perpetrator as we can. But as we all know -- any newbies, please step out, this is an advanced course -- sometimes we have to reinforce a perp’s paranoia with a strong response. Taking him out … of the room with all due prejudice, then freeing the victims and getting them safely back to their rooms.

And I don’t like the arrangement one bit. Look at the short straight line between Danny’s dull eyes and Madame Grimaldi’s soft exposed neck. I see a serious threat of displaced identity in his eyes, which can only manifest itself in agitation and a quick lunge. He looks calm. But most wolves look equally calm just before they spring and tear the throat out of their prey. Which is nature’s way, no doubt, with no possibility of institute-threatening lawsuits. If there’s no chance of lawsuits, or inconvenient damage to property, I suppose, let him go. But a real threat, you simply have to take the perp out.

My Dog Safe With Buddha

(Not part of the Paranoia series)

When they came out with the latest virus, naturally I was concerned. What am I going to do, drop dead with all the other losers? I always heard it growing up, “Get your exercise. If you don’t, you’ll deserve what you get.” By which they didn’t mean all the boys, but a short life, a sudden death, maybe dangling from a rope, depending on the crime.

My concerns are like everyone’s. I came into the world a few years back, relatively speaking. My memory’s hazy on the subject, but there were apparently 15 billion years when I wasn’t here. Then at the end of that vast span, I popped into the world like clockwork and since then have hung on for dear life. Saying, “I will not willingly go back into the void. I’m here, deal with it.” I said this through times of war and peace, although I didn't serve in either. With some regret, though, because I think it would've been great to serve in the war. Maybe you remember my pitiful longing for the service in my post, “Sarge: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

My big problem with the Corona virus these days is, "What’s going to happen to my dog if it happens to me?” My dog I got on a fluke. Her mother was in the yard minding her business when a smaller dog got through a crawlspace in the fence and consummated a brief relationship. Yielding five puppies, one of which became mine. So it was someone else’s problem and we’ve been joined at the hip now all these years. Had I been a block away, had I not answered the phone that day, we would’ve never met.

But we did meet, and we’ve had a special bond ever since. I’ve seen her through many things, learning to love dog food, etc., and I get her only the best. We have to keep going. I’m all she’s got, but with my advanced years naturally I worry what could happen. Now, all of a sudden, there’s a virus going around that threatens people of my demographic, older gentlemen who breathe and touch their faces. The store’s even out of paper towels, that’s how hard up we are. Because I use paper towels to clean up my dog’s poop. And suddenly they’re more precious than gold...

Anyway, have I mentioned, I can’t die! Because what would become of her? She’d wake up and not get her expensive food, not go out to poop, etc., She’s already kind of upset about the paper towel shortage. This other thing, my demise, I don’t want to have to lay that on her too. She might stroke out and I’d be left alone, with my last roll of paper towels that I was holding on to for special times, her birthday, the day she was spayed, etc.

Beyond the frills of paper towels and things, there’s the sorrow she would feel if I were suddenly stricken by viruses and died. “Why'd he have to abandon me? Was he thinking of the time I accidentally peed on the kitchen floor?” That’s terrible, I don’t want this dog to have one ounce of troubles or sorrows. You might remember, that’s how Buddha started out. His dad kept him from troubles and sorrows. Then he discovered suffering and found out, “Shit happens.” He sat under the bodhi tree and was enlightened. If I die, my dog will have things to deal with, heavy stuff, and might even be peeing at the base of a similar tree and come to a place of inner knowledge. I hope to impart enlightenment to her, but so far my attempts have been met with resistance. She'd rather play with dog toys than meditate. So I just breathe and wait.

But so far I’m still alive, so Buddha can meditate and keep his gentle arms and hands folded until that day, if ever, when I'm not.

Day 940, No One In Sight

Paranoia

Part 11 of 30

I don’t actually have a gun -- no guns at all -- but I probably should have. Packing heat could very well come in handy. I can certainly imagine all the scenarios, like hiding away in a cave for 940 days and it'd be tough without a gun. If nothing else, you could shoot fruit from a tree and with it bring into your precious system the building blocks of nutrition. Anything that helps me stagger across the finish line of Day 941 would be good, probably, although at some point I could start wondering what the point is. Then it becomes dangerous.

But 941 days, that’s pretty long. 365 days in a year, and multiply it out, it’s something under 10 years. Definitely a long time to hold out, being as it is -- wow! --  something under 10 years. How time flies when you’re in the midst of a standoff whether with yourself or others, and whatever else may be out there.

I’ll tell you right now, I’ve thought of this before, because I’ve been in a cave: A cave is a great natural shelter, meaning, Other animals have noticed the same thing. And if I’m in a cave very long, it won’t be long till the animals and their families start showing up for the night. Meaning, a cave is a terrible place to live unless you have some way of securing it (1), and some way of (2) of stilling your conscience about the idea of displacing animals. I don’t think I could do it. I’ve camped before, then the paranoia of animals becomes too much.

I was talking with a guy a couple years ago -- homeless dude, but the county gave him a tent and let him stay at the state park without paying -- who totally turned me off to the idea of camping, roughing it in the wild. He told me about raccoons continually tearing through the sides of his tent, looking for food or whatever. He said they have razor-sharp teeth and claws like a bear. He was on his third free tent, which started to sound to me more like a way for the county to kill off the riff-raff and blame it on raccoons!

At that time I was living in a camper and I was paranoid enough about a camper. The wind rocks it. You hear rain like metal pellets. The furnace is hard to turn off. There’s no easy access points to it if you had to do emergency maintenance. Half your stuff’s outside, a easy mark for predators, including other people. But I considered myself lucky because another guy had an animal trailer he lived in. Which looked very cramped. He and I never spoke. I wasn't sure about him. Probably had seen a lot of stuff in his life.

Then there’s the mosquitoes, and ticks, and every godforsaken creature of the night, mostly raccoons clawing at that guy’s place. Which is actually only one step up from a cave -- because no creature of the wild has ever missed an entire cave. A cave wouldn't be good enough for me. They'd storm it and drive me out with fire.

Skeletons, Torment In Heaven

 

Paranoia

Part 10 of 30

It’s always -- every stinking day -- with the death paranoia! I truly think my mind senses it could be any minute now. But it can’t be now because I’m doing this now. And I don’t just want to drop dead minutes from now, having my neck snapped as in a lynching. That’s an interesting thing, though, the way they dangle the bad news in front of you: “I sentence you to death by hanging from the neck until you are dead,” something like that. You’re like, Thank you for clarifying that, the exact sentence, the technique, and the result...

It would be worse, but certainly just as authoritative, if hideous skeletons who’ve “been there, done that,” came back with their bones and a tormented grin -- insistent as only an enlivened skeleton can be -- cackling the same words and taking glee in your torment. From their point of view, the more the merrier. “As you are morose, so I have been. And as you have been gleeful and morbid at the passing of others, so we shall be for unending centuries to come!”

Half the fun for them is getting there. Not just putting you in your place but keeping you on full display with the most morbid context they can muster: “What you’ve done was terrible, and the penalty will match your deeds, tormenting your mind every moment between now and then. What you have done is so heinous you will never lose the freshness of your punishment!”

Heh, this kind of reminds me of my dreams as a kid, but back then it was more of a heavenly situation I beheld. The great throne-room and a hallway like in The Wizard of Oz, and the bitter realization that there could be no escape. Heaven is known for many things, but one thing it’s known for above all things, and according to every source, if you look hard enough and are diligent in your interpretation: There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no broom closet in heaven for a sanctuary. Meaning, whoever the heavenly janitors are, they don’t keep their equipment and rags in a typical broom closet. They’re either in the open in the hallway or they're materialized as necessary when a blot on Heaven’s purity demands cleansing.

Look at our hero. There’s two things hovering. A bare light bulb, known of course for the torment it causes when swinging to and fro and stirring up eerie shadows. A skeleton gets its bony fingers close enough, and the thing’s swinging, downright terrifying. And there’s a horn or megaphone, a primitive speaker, perhaps, announcing the verdict, the disappointment, and finally the sentence of your hanging. O! I hope that doesn't loom out there for me! But if it does, my last act in this mortal existence will be peeing my pants and leaving the mess for others.

Nature's Buddy Rubbers

 

Paranoia

Part 9 of 30

This is one of those especially bad days. I hate to admit it gets this way once in a while, but, hey, life obviously runs the gamut in its greater and more despicable extremes. You want to be happy all the time, then the slightest thing -- the winds of change blow in -- and you’re at your wit's end.

Being oppressed like this is an occasional thing, so I'm not trying to drive anyone away as though I’m an escapee from a clinic. Good news for the system, I haven’t escaped yet, but if I could just clasp the key in my hot little hand really hard for three or four hours, I’d have a good enough impression for Dirk -- one of the more resourceful inmates -- to make a working key. Then with enough of a diversion on the south side of the clinic, we’d be out again. Now, if we could only coordinate the escape with the time the train goes by, it’d be a piece of cake. Speaking of which, we might just hide the key in the cake.

Anyway, who among us doesn’t have bad days, whether you’re free to come and go (which must be nice) or you find your permanent residence a little more permanent than living creatures typically relish? And how about this for a sign of the institution’s failure: They know we’re all down and they still make us paint the walls gray! You probably know my theory on this stuff; it’s purely job security for them. So the crazier we are, the less we can see straight -- and with the paranoia and shaking I invented four new dances in the last week alone -- the better off they are.

Actually, I have so many problems that I don’t mind the institution as much as you’d think. Because if I weren’t here, I’d still be bothered with the same problems, only more on my own without the free medicine. On the other hand -- and I won’t get too graphic and thereby reduce my readership beyond the last three or four of you -- the sex is terrible. Although hope springs eternal -- Amen? -- so I’m still packing this condom. Because that’s the kind of guy I am, always wanting the best for all parties, happiness for me, yet being able to deprive the world of my offspring. Who’d be such mental giants, supermen, superwomen, my bloodline no doubt would take over the world! We’d pick up where my Dad left off, and big respect for Dad in Heaven. Hope he’s proud of his old sonny boy.

But maybe he's not that proud. Realizing this is the Creme de la Crap for me. Why do I exist, only to suffer this paranoia, the whole bitter landscape, one problem after another? Because of one stinking guy, my aforementioned Dad in heaven! He should not have gone all the way back when he had a chance, so here I am. Or if he planned to go all the way, he could’ve planned on protection. How hard is it to put a Nature's Buddy on? Then everyone's happy. Next time, step up your game, Dude! Give me a damned break!

Daughter of The Gods

 Paranoia

Part 8 of 30

Hmm, I want to be therapeutic about paranoia. I've had problems with it for centuries and I don’t want the so-called relief to be more of the same, driving me and everyone down into deeper and even more treacherous depths. I'm like anyone, I see a naked lady tied and surrounded by crocodiles or alligators -- aren’t they like one chromosome off? -- and I’m thinking, Pessimistic! She's a goner...

But then I realize, Damn it, you fool, you're giving up on the gods a little too soon! Where's your faith? Where's your patience? Haven’t you learned by now that the gods tend to be on the surprising side? Inscrutable, in the end aroused, certainly not incapable, not quick to yield or cede territory, especially among their own. Is there a pantywaist god among them who'd send his or her only begotten daughter into a world of sickness and sin only to be had, to be a mark, to be defeated? I think to myself, How many questions was that? Then repeat the whole spiel back in my head, counting fingers. Five questions. I quickly answer, “No, no, no, no, hell no...”

Among the gods everything (potentially) has a quick reversal, the rug pulled out from under the enemy’s feet, the establishment of justice, a claiming of glory that was never really lost, and a surprise ending that should be no surprise. They like to get the enemy right where they want him. In the sweet zone for leveling them, flattening them, going nuclear, boom! Of course there’s no real blame for the alligators, so their death is incidental. They’re only doing what’s in their nature, and if their nature says the chick's indeed fit for eatin’ on, that can’t be wrong. But they still must be defeated, because ... this is the daughter of the gods.

Which could be true of any of us. Explaining in terms anyone can understand why it is that bad things simply never come to fruition, but are thwarted just in the nick of time. And certainly any foe that felt it might have it over on the very daughter of the gods, eating her and justifying it lightly, would have to be deluded, or to put a positive spin on it, more optimistic than the situation warrants, given a considered examination of the circumstances. Enough for theodicy, albeit explained in simple terms. The gods wipe the shit off their shoes on the enemy.

How about me -- I'm no crocodile -- could I possibly have the hots for the daughter of the gods? I feel that is too personal a question and a question wrought with potential consequences via-a-vis my continued existence in the world and in the presence of the gods to answer truthfully. So let me answer it by really not answering it, while not quite not answering it: Given the right circumstances, anything is possible if the gods are not offended. If they're happy with a potential son-in-law like me, who first wants to sample the goods, that’s their business. I can only accede to their desires, although I would not be quick to give alligators the same rights. There would definitely not be a joining together of them in my thoughts as a party to any menage a trois, her, me, and them.

I guess what I should really say is, the gods are a psychological help to us, and the daughter of the gods would be a salvific figure, a metaphor, of the communications from that realm to this. As the alligators of sin threaten us -- even raising paranoia in me, and other unfortunate folks -- we desire the sweet and innocent nudity of this precious daughter, bestowing the goodness of heaven to take away our paranoia and allow us to swim free. Just to make everything crystal clear, so there’s nothing left to chance between the gods and us, I want to lose paranoia, not gain piranha.

King Paranoia In Heaven

Paranoia

Part 7 of 30

Here’s a truth you should know, definitely worth the price of admission, zero. It’s biggest value is there’s nothing in it that anyone should dispute. But I fear some of you will and so go on your merry way to a well-deserved destruction. Got your attention? The truth is, It’s not love that makes the world go ‘round, it’s paranoia. Which you come to love, since however things are is what we should love. If we don’t love reality -- as bleak and hopeless as it appears -- we’ve lost the way.

I’ve been seriously pondering -- occasionally splashing my drink from nervousness -- whether to unleash the hounds of this knowledge. Because the whole truth is usually kept from us, mercifully, mostly for our own good, and in large part because it’s frowned upon to watch helpless morons colliding into each other, messing up their hopes and existence and reaping folly. Is it the great tragedy that we think of when that happens? Probably at some level, yes, but the basic gist of it is, it doesn't matter; existence always resets and is back on track with us or without us.

Sometimes I walk through the cemetery up the hill and wonder about the lives at my feet. Were they really anything at all, like this guy over here -- sentimental picture of him encased on the stone? I'd guess like all of us. Paranoid cogs in the machine. Then there’s the others, the vast majority, where vandals have smashed their pictures to smithereens, a terrible thing to see. Or is it? Maybe in the vast hereafter, once they've received their wings they've flitted to their eternal reward and it doesn't matter. Or, it could be, they’re saying, “I totally missed the truth, went in for counseling for paranoia when I should’ve seen it as my inspiration. I became a boring simpleton when I could've gone hog-wild and at least had a story to tell.” So they make the sign of the cross from their perch in heaven, a blessing upon anyone who would so graciously -- but without apparent wisdom -- destroy their picture.

All right, paranoia makes the world go ‘round, we all agree. But who’s in charge of seeing to it that it gets done? That’s one of my biggest complaints about co-workers and slipshod supervision; let’s cut the crap and get things done! In these matters, it’s King Paranoia, and whomever the queen for the day is, because King Paranoia totally suspects her of cheating with other anthropomorphic concepts.

King Paranoia sees those with the promise to fill the many important sectors of existence. And before you know it, you -- all us lowly peons -- are in a slot of society: farming, manufacturing, science, holding down the fort, screwing up, and the list goes on. Maybe you’re a list-maker, no one could be more paranoid, being a completist, but always a hopeless failure. I'm giving it my all and usually see when paranoia is about to trap me into spending the whole day on something. The best weapon against paranoia, then, are ellipses, you’re just saying … “Let someone else do the grunt work. There’s a whole sector out there for me to worry and fret over.” King Paranoia sees our good deeds and says, “At last, someone I can use!”