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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Celebrity Deaths -- If Only I'd Been There!

Famous people with their huge problems have always been off limits to us common folks. So it seems that they develop huge problems and die, whether by their own hand or another. I always think the same thing: "If only I'd been there!"

Because my philosophy has always been, People are people. What's good for one's good for another. One size fits all. And I've always been good at this sort of thing -- not to toot my own horn but just to state the facts. If only I'd been there, frankly, it's bloody hell likely they would've made it through. Not to put too fine a point on it.

I remember thinking this when Elvis was in his downward spiral, expressed in one of his last songs, "Way Down," his last single before his death. My thought went something like this, "The guy's in the grips of Death ... sure wish I could be there!" But of course, you know how it goes, he had lots of hangers-on and it would've taken some doing for me to get in.

Too bad. Because with my natural talents of talking anyone down, if they're able to think at all -- I'm no good with human vegetables -- I'm sure he'd still be recording today. I'm able to do this because I'm super friendly, very competent and empathetic, and able to contextualize the truths of life for the individual. Pretty good, huh? In a way -- and this is my biggest secret -- I'm really only channeling the female forebears of my family, Mom and Grandma, who had social skills that didn't quit.

Going way back, back before I had any idea about any of this, I probably could've helped Judy Garland. She was still alive when I was a budding kid, but I didn't know much about my abilities. I was a little too young and stupid. But let's say they had explained the issue to me, and opened the door, and explained to me who she was, the kid from the Wizard of Oz, I probably could've helped.

Since then, many crises have come and gone, demanding but not receiving my counsel. I won't mention the lesser lights because of their families' continued grief. But I can think of writers, politicians, and movie stars that I could've helped. Of course there's a huge name, Michael Jackson, not a lesser light. He needed a lot of help, all along the way, which I would've been happy to provide. But in his case, it being a matter of years, I might've needed a job in the same town. Or, who knows, I might've cleared him up right away and gotten back home right away.

OK, I can't help Michael now, or Elvis, or Judy, but there's plenty of celebrities in trouble today. I read the Huffington Post, so I know. Whether they'll contact me or not, that I don't know. I only know that if they did, it would only benefit them.

It'd be nice to be known, not for my own benefit or ego, of course, but for of the positive good I could be doing. Some famous person – maybe an actor, singer, a writer, someone in despair – wouldn't have to linger but could simply say, "What about that guy with the blog? Get him!" Then I would take a few days off, go there and get everything worked out. Everyone would be happy. Everyone would win.

Possessing and Consuming Eagle Jerky

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is an imaginary post, located in a more perfect world, where we are free to feast on eagles. In our current non-imaginary world, of course, at least in countries where the eagle is the national bird, such freedom does not exist, although it should. It stands to reason. I've heard it said, "The freedom of your fist ends where my face begins." Meaning, if an eagle is clenched by the neck in my fist, I'm free to do what I will as long as neither my fingernails or its talons scratch your face.

I love eagle jerky. I just love it! Most people do, even if they're not good at making it. In fact, most of the eagle, like the hog, is good for something. Like with hogs, you use everything but the squeal, so with the eagle, you use everything but the squawk.

I watched my dear old Dad make eagle jerky many times. The whole process has a delicious fragrance, from the first gutting of the bird, to the delight of dogs eating the innards, right up to the cooking. I remember Dad carefully separating out the talons, the skin, the meat, the feathers, and even the beak. Then he went through all the steps and made the world's best jerky. Or, depending on how close it was to Thanksgiving, we'd roast a few birds for the meal.

Now Dad's gone ... and Mom ... both to the scourge of cancer, giving me something to think about as to my own physical disposition ... which is neither here nor there ... although I had the opportunity to buy cancer insurance when I was 30 and didn't. I could probably be cashing in in a few years.

Now Dad's gone ... and when I want an eagle I have to go over to the lake and get one myself. Sometimes with other guys, hunting by the old "storming the tree" method and filling them full of buckshot. We split up the haul and discard any eaglets that may have been hit. Even the dogs are repulsed at eating an eaglet.

Is it sad to kill an eaglet? Yeah, sure, a little, because that's one that won't grow up to be harvested later. Still, we rationalize it away like this, that the eagle is a big bird, a bully in the wild, so if we kill a few young it helps the other species. It's the same rationale for not allowing too many big people to live, giving the rest of us more wiggle room.

As for me, when I get my fill of eagle meat -- and mostly I dream about the jerky around a roaring fireplace in the winter, a big blanket on my legs -- I like to fool around with the rest of the bird. Especially the feathers. I arrange them in my own religious ceremonies and pray. I also make hand fans and dreamcatchers for craft sales. There's a lot of little old ladies who are unable to hunt eagles, but that doesn't mean they don't crave them as much as anyone.

I'd love to raise the little boogers, for fun and profit. I still have Grandpa's old chinchilla cages from the '60s. How hard could it be?

Our Peanut Shell Moment

I had a date today after church -- yes, a woman this time; I met her in church, so she's not your average pervert -- and we shared a special moment.

I asked her out, and we made our way in my car to a hamburger restaurant where they also give away free peanuts. I always like that. The burgers may be average to a little better, but the peanuts are always to die for. And free to boot.

We sat somewhere near the door, seemingly a meaningless detail, but it's not in this sense: That's right where purse snatchers like to see people, so they can grab your purse and have an unimpeded path to the door and beyond. I asked her if it'd be OK for me to watch her purse, since she seemed to be a little careless about it. She looked at me, I believe admiringly, as someone who only sought her well-being. She passed me the purse and we both felt better.

Then it was time to get down to some serious eating. She had the regular cheeseburger and me the hamburger, both pretty large, plus fries. She was drinking pink lemonade and I ginger ale. And of course I was eating the free peanuts. I had one container of peanuts and one for the shells, something new for me, since before I've always made do with the same container.

At some point, then, I came across what looked to me to be the perfect peanut shell, pictured above. It was broken perfectly, was incredibly flat, and seemed to have some use beyond its life as the shell of a peanut now eaten. I suggested to her that she could use it for a little cup, good for just a sip of water, were she to keep it. Frankly, it looked like a small trough, so if you had a small animal, a gerbil or even a bird, you could use it for water or grain. Or just enjoy it yourself, maybe as a nicknack for the mantle.

She was absolutely adorable in picking it up and putting it to her lips as a demonstration of how useful it might be. I looked at her and she looked at me. Our eyes met and it was tender. Then, as if having some slight embarrassment for revealing too much of her core being -- and I being intuitive enough to see it displayed in such a raw way -- she pulled it down and put it among the other shells. She was a little flushed. I did my best to dispel it by patting her hand and smiling, while reaching with the other hand, on the sly, to retrieve the shell and spirit it into my jacket pocket.

All the way home I did what anyone would do, prayed that nothing would crush the shell whose moment we had shared. And sure enough, it was fine, arriving with me moments ago here at home, for a quick photo shoot and this blog. Wish us well. We shared that beautiful time. There's so much more to come! I hope.

How Many Light Bulbs Will I Need to Hoard?

There's been big news about light bulbs. They're not going to make them anymore. They're being replaced by a more squiggly higher priced thing. I had some of the earlier models of these. You turned on the light and by the time you took a pee it was just getting close to being bright.

Obviously I prefer the classic bulb, that's ready when you are. You click it on and it beats you to the toilet. There's never any doubt where everything's going, since the vagaries of things pressed against underpants for eight hours never guarantees a straight stream.You have to eyeball the eye.

I wish I would've started hoarding bulbs a year ago, when they were still manufacturing them. Now, with 2014, everyone's snapping them up and it's illegal, I guess, to make more. But still, I suppose since drugs have been illegal forever and dopeheads still get them, it's not beyond all hope that classic bulbs will pop up somewhere.

I'm thinking -- unless I do have a shady rendezvous with some shady supplier under a dim streetlight -- I might really have to get on the stick and find some. I have a few bad sockets in which the bulbs don't last that long. The last thing I want is to buy $9.99 bulbs for a month and a half worth of good. I need a steady supply of the cheaper stuff.

But where to go? Walmart might be out. Everyone's going to think of going there. Instead, what I'm thinking, there's all those cheapo closeout places, where they get unsold freight from who-knows-where. I know a place. It's junky as hell, but if you dig you can find some unusual things. Christmas trees all year long. Candy 10 years old, the kind where the ingredients are so mottled you have hallucinations, the good stuff. I used to know a guy who knew a guy who found things you can't find, like Walkman cassette players. Which I also should've hoarded.

Next, how many will I need? I probably go through 20 bulbs in a year, mostly 60s but a few 40s. I'd seriously love to have some 75s for my garage, since it's hard to find anything in there with a 60. But I could use a 60 if I had to, then I'd want to accentuate it with a flashlight, or two 60s in side-by-side lamps. Now, if I need 20 bulbs a year, and I'm virtually 61, if I live till 80, that's 19 years, 19 x 20 = quite a few ... I might need to space them out. Use a few, then not replace them for a year. That'd cut back on, let's say, 10 a year. Tough but doable!

The good news is I might not even live till 80. My dad didn't make 70. I mom just barely missed 80. That would be 12 years between the two. Split the difference. I could easily die anywhere between 73 and 76, meaning I've just saved four years worth of bulbs at the least, which is a savings of 80. Getting easier all the time! If I could just die at 73, or maybe 72 with a little willpower, that'd be 160 bulbs. So it's suddenly very manageable. And, if I stepped it up and quit exercising all together, and ate a few more full slabs of fatty ribs, breakfast, lunch, dinner, I might not even have to worry about it.

This is serious business. I can't believe the government screwed us over on this deal. And gave Thomas Alva Edison the finger. Who was considered the smartest guy who ever lived when I was a kid. With Einstein coming in a close second. After them, no one else even came close. Not a living soul came in third.

I've Always Been Impotent

The older you get, the more you reflect on your life. What has it all been worth? What have I really accomplished? Is there anything left to be done? Or, like the wise men of old, like Socrates, should I simply be content to live out my years with whatever happiness life affords?

I can certainly tell you -- after bitter years of endless striving, most of it apparently pointless -- that the world as a whole doesn't think much of me. Just the other day there was an article in the paper, full page, about all the impotent men of history who've visited or lived in our town. The only ones I can remember now were Jesse James and Jack Benny. But they're great examples. Jack Benny was a funny guy back in his day. And Jesse James was one hell of a criminal. Of the two, obviously both were impotent, but I think it's a shame that we pay homage to a skunk like Jesse James. While I'm sitting here ... overlooked.

I don't mean I'm angry about being overlooked. Really, who cares? The glory of the world is so fleeting that it's meaningless. "What have you done for me lately? More, more, more! You must be this high to be ride the roller coaster, with all its ups and downs!" The world's glory is not worth having. And that gives me a great deal of peace of mind. Because I can do exactly what I want without striving. Like everyone else -- everyone with wisdom -- I can hide in my home, hoping that modern day skunks of the Jesse James stripe don't get me. Or identity thieves at Target.

Don't get me wrong. There's plenty of good impotent people out there still. Forgive me if I don't give examples. Our society is so polarized that no one can agree on anything. Like global warming. Yes, it might kill us but we're going to be obstinate. We can only be thankful that hurricanes, tornadoes, mudslides, and house fires have a long established legacy, lest our stupider fellow citizens deny their existence and we all die tomorrow.

I spoke of my age. I have a birthday coming up in the next few months, at which point I'll be over 60. Pretty old, huh? It is, but with years comes wisdom. Especially with someone of my intelligence (I have called myself "The Brain" on more than one occasion). A big part of that wisdom is simply the intelligence to be content with myself. To tune out the rest of the world, as much as possible. And accept it -- even insist on it -- that to me I am the most impotent man in the world! There, I've said it.

I don't read celebrity news, gossip columns, or watch red carpet bullshit like Joan Rivers and her daughter, Dick Clark (RIP), or Ryan Seacrest. To me, Rona Barrett and Kitty Carlisle are just has-been, dried up prunes and I don't care what they say. The world's A-list of VIPs, to me, are just a bunch of nothing. And the only autographs I want are on the signature line of a check. To me, none of them has any impotence beyond simply their impotence as a human being in their own right.

This mindset is of great help to me. I recommend it. The Very Impotent Person of the absolute greatest impotence is me -- me, myself, I. I will go where I want, I will do what I want, I will drink what I want, I will hoard incandescent light bulbs if I want, and I will take in stray animals and eat as I choose. In short, when I look for "What's impotent?" and "Who's impotent?" I will never look anywhere beyond myself.

Plus, now I can look back and declare, I've always been impotent ... I just never knew it!

Everyone Who Disagrees With Me Dies

Everyone who disagrees with me dies, eventually.

You might not be able to tell it from my blog day to day, but I'm a very opinionated person. Another way to say it, I'm a factually-oriented person, since my opinions demonstrate no variance from fact, at least none I can discern.

In addition to being opinionated, my other super power is rage. Manifest most often when anything -- animate or inanimate -- goes against me or disappoints me in any way. You will find me in those moments spinning powerfully in the center of existence, wreaking havoc on everyone, from out and out enemies to good friends who simply misunderstood the question.

I remember one debate, a terrible one, several years ago. I remember it clearly, the issue being on the nature of the Sabbath, whether we should keep it, and, if so, what the nature of keeping it should be. Important stuff. Looking back on it now, having mostly put it out of my mind and being calmed down, I probably could've been calmer at the time. But those were the days before all the "Be Calm" signs, when we had to do tough mental tricks to remember.

It was me and some other guy -- named Burns -- whom, in the muddled consciousness I have when rage hits, I cursed and he dropped dead. His funeral was a few days later and every eye was on me as I entered the church. No one wanted anything to do with me, until one kindly woman in the front row defied the whole lot of them by getting up and walking slowly toward me at the back. She welcomed me. Her example won no converts, but at least I had someone to talk to at the luncheon.

It was that incident that clarified for me the penalty to be exacted when anyone disagrees with me. And I've never forgotten it. It's the basis of my absolute certainty to this day that death is the consequence, and if anyone has a different opinion on it ... make sure your life insurance is paid up.

To a certain extent, though, this has posed a problem for me personally.

Bear with me. Because if I have an opinion, another word for fact, and read something in a book that contradicts it, giving better arguments than I have, does the author die? Or if somehow the new information changes my opinion, does that mean I will die? I've resolved the last question pretty well. My opinions never came to me out of whole cloth but evolved. Therefore, supplemental information only refines my thought. And in the case of it reversing my previous opinion, I look at it as two sides of the same coin.

OK, I know what your argument would be to that, if you were brave enough to argue. Why do I allow this evolution for myself with books -- even to the point of using the "two sides of the same coin" justification -- but don't allow it if living people tell me? I think it's a good question, which I can't answer fully. But naturally any answer I give, this last answer for example, has to satisfy you. Or you'd be contradicting me and would die.

In the case of the authors, there's so many of them that are already dead, I've just more or less given a pass to the others. I can't be running around Googling every author to find out which ones aren't dead. Which might be a lesson for them, that eventually they'll get theirs. It's dangerous to be an author, thinking again of all the dead ones. Who'd they mess with? An author spreads disagreement widely. It'd be best to lock himself in a room, type his opinions and throw them away. Maybe not fulfilling to the ego, but at least he could survive.

Of course I welcome comments to each of my blog posts. This one included. Please, though -- I'll repeat that, PLEASE -- be careful what you say. The slightest disagreement will be met with rage. That's one thing, and it's temporary. But death will follow, which is permanent. No, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, or next week, or even next year. You might live a good 70-80 years, I don't know. But eventually, whether a day, a week, or a century, mark my words, you'll get yours!

Happy Belated New Year

Sorry I'm a day late on my New Year's greetings to you. I was making rather merry yesterday, thrilled as I always am to see the calendar flip and the end of my life inch that much closer.

But I got up today and knew I needed to get it done. By "it" I mean the graphic, which is a great one. There it is, then, your Happy New Year card from me. Assuming you're not one of the lucky readers who got a French Silk Pie from Perkins from me or a box of Omaha Steaks, I hope you'll be just as happy with this card.

I like it. This is actually a very old graphic, probably from the '20s, with the color added by me. That's pretty arch for the '20s, isn't it? With the baby kicking the old man's ass. I've never seen that before.

Speaking of the French Silk Pies, I got some really nice thank you notes on those. Really nice. One guy was especially touching, saying he was planning to end it all at Christmas. Thinking no one cared, etc. This is where it gets good: He's in another state and I had to have it shipped to him. A true friend of the blog, kind of clingy, yes. Seems that he has very few friends and so he follows me around the internet. Somehow he learned my real name, you know the story. He shows up at Facebook, Twitter, and was even going to drive to my place till I told him the roads were slick. Long story short: He was on a chair, rope around his neck, the whole thing, when UPS rang the bell. Somehow he came to his senses just enough to get off the chair and open the door. You probably guessed it, it was my French Silk Pie, and he didn't kill himself.

As for our "friendship," I know he's reading this, so I'm going to be diplomatic.

Some of the other thank you notes were from normal folks, a lot less desperate, but equally as thankful. I got a very conventional message from a guy who knows what boundaries mean and is by no means a borderline stalker or worse. He wrote: "Thank you, kind sir, for the lovely gift of the French Silk Pie. I and my family enjoyed it to a great extent during our tres jovial and conventional Christmas. We know at this time of year a great many people are suffering and in want. Fortunately, that is not our problem, being flush as we are. Your gift merely added to our wondrous bounty. C'est our sincere hope that you have all the best the season has to offer. Remembering you in our every prayer avec praise et thanksgiving. Mr. J____ DeV____, France." Isn't that fantastic? A friend in France was happy for a French Silk Pie from America! They probably grow on trees over there.

I wonder what they're all gonna do next year! Since I'm planning on giving the gallon jug of Tabasco next year! Which, you may not know, are $40 a gallon plus a fortune for shipping! Pass it 'round the table and everyone take a hit. That's how I drink mine.

Whatever happens, though, if you get gifts from me or not -- and most people don't -- it's my vow, my sincere hope, to keep coming up with things like this, the New Year's card and so forth, to brighten up your day throughout 2014.

Bye Bye to the Christmas Tree

Once Christmas is over -- this being December 26 -- one of the most unpleasant reminders of the holiday is the Christmas tree. There it still sets, suddenly unwelcome, like a hangover.

I look over and feel nothing but queasiness, whereas, somehow, before Christmas and on Christmas Day it was such a great thing to see. I really don't know what it is about a Christmas tree on Dec. 26. It's not like it has rabies or rickets or some other communicable disease. It's the same thing it was yesterday ... and isn't Christmas supposed to have 12 days and not just one?

The tree I have is one that comes in a box. Artificial. Unless you're a tree grower or the Optimist Club, the only kind to have. I had a real one for the last time in the '70s. Unfortunately I was slow about taking it down and it dried out and the needles fell into the carpet, keeping me up till 3 or 4 in the morning cleaning it up. Never again! And I've been good to that vow.

But still, it's work to take it down and get it in the box. There's ornaments and various knickknacks on it. Then there's another problem, unplugging it, knowing it's not going to work right when I plug it in next year. It didn't work when I plugged it in this year. I messed with it for an hour, changing a few bulbs and doing all kinds of things, to no avail. Then I left it half-on, as it was, and when I came back in the room a few hours later it had fixed itself! Can't depend on that every year!

I got the idea today that if the tree could talk, and if it knew my disgust with it on Dec. 26, it'd probably say, "I didn't ask to be set up. You brought me into this world. If there's something wrong, obviously it's something in your own psyche and nothing about me. I'm the exact same tree I was yesterday." Which, you know what? I agree with!

Everything about the Christmas tree, except for the physical thing, is in the psyche. I think it's something like this, recalling stuff I heard as a kid: The ancient whoever, our ancestors, thought when winter came everything was going to die. So to keep things alive, they brought a tree in the house. Then, I guess, if everything did die, all they had to do was take the tree out in the spring and everything would resurrect. How they kept the needles out of the carpet, that's what I don't know. Probably wooden floors.

I'm not especially a big believer in a magic tree keeping things alive in the spring, certainly not an artificial tree. But there's still something in my psyche, apparently, like everyone else, that says, "Must have tree in house ... just in case everything dies, or whatever." Even Republicans have Christmas trees. They might not accept global warming and the need to save the whole planet, but by golly, we're going to have plants in March!

Bye bye, tree. Back in the box you go. See ya around Thanksgiving!

Wishing You the Merriest of Christmases Ever

Christmas always comes this time of the year. And without dispute, it's the most wonderful day of the year. A time of good cheer, love for all, and universal peace. It arrives like magic, then 24 hours later, unfortunately, it's gone in a flash. But while it lasts, O what reverie, what a blessed time!

It is our wish, our hope for you, that this will be the absolute greatest Christmas ever, making past Christmases as well as future ones pale in comparison. Then we hope that in the sad Christmases to come you will be able to look back to this day in 2013 and remember it fondly with the complete gladness that it brought.

YULETIDE JOY

JOLLY OLD KRIS

--as his bells come tinkling across the sky bringing joy and gladness to so many disturbed homes -- we pause a moment to wish you, our beloved readers and friends, every happiness, and thank you for any service it has been our wonderful treasure and blessed privilege to render. Further, it is our fervent hope that the New Year, basically unforeseeable as to its trials and challenges, will be full of happiness with not an ounce of dread misery.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

ROBBER OR SAINT?

Some of we old ones call him a robber -- but the youngsters all call him a Saint -- But he casts his magic spell over all of us, so here's to the day when he holds sway, and here's to you whom we hail as friends and readers.

You have brought us such joy that we are constantly astounded that such a vast reservoir of joy can even exist. We think, "Surely by now some multinational company with a legal team and a huge host of marketing experts second to none would have snatched it up and started parcelling it out to the miserable at $25 a pop, speaking of robbers unambiguously not Saints."

IF WE COULD MEET YOU

IT COULD BE DICEY

Perhaps 'twould be nice if we could meet you all and tell you how much we appreciate the friendly cooperation which has characterized your dealings with us. Or perhaps not. We are not what you'd call the most social of beings, clamming up nearly instantly in the presence of strangers. And what would we have to talk about, really? How much you like the blog? That'd take about 10 seconds. Then what? You might want money or, worse, sex, which is not our desire.

GRANDMA SLUMP BLOG INDUSTRIES UNLIMITED

P.S. - Remember, I'm sending a special select group of friends -- my dear friends -- a French Silk Pie for Christmas. If you receive one, God bless you. If you do not receive one after waiting a sufficient period of time, how ever long that may be, then I can only hope it will become obvious to you that I didn't send you one.

May you receive everything you so richly deserve on this blessed Christmas Day!

A Huge Snowfail Last Night

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall

Probably the first thing you notice is that I'm advertising a pool hall, in fact wishing you Merry Christmas from White Pool Hall. I've only been hanging out here about a month and already Gus heard I had a blog and a good reputation for web design, so he spotted me a few drinks for coming up with this ad.

The extraordinary thing about all this is that I'm even in a pool hall. And that I'm actually getting over the guilt, since a bunch of the guys here have really befriended me. They're very friendly, and of course they get friendlier as the night goes on, not being afraid to put a few away.

But me ... in a pool hall! Which was a dirty word when I was growing up. Anyone -- you, your dad, anyone -- who went to a pool hall was scum of the earth. They were drinking away their paycheck, their kids were dirty and poor, and they didn't belong in polite company. But now here I am! And while all that is absolutely true -- I've never seen such dysfunctional families -- the guys are honestly very friendly ... and generous with their paychecks, buying drinks, treating me to pool games, etc.

I made this big switch in my personal life when my Mom died in August. It's been a hell of a year. The thing is, you see, she was the one who came up with the rule against pool halls. It was "God's will," and all the rest... That would be the same God who took my Mom. Kind of a downer, first giving her cancer, then making it so she was the wrong blood type to get the best radiation, then complicating things with her diet so she'd waste away, and finally ... the bitter end. Right then I vowed what anyone in my skin would say: That's the way you wanna play it, I'm going to pool halls!

The weird thing about my childhood was: We always had a pool table! I think Mom and Dad were trying to convey to us that good families could still play pool, just not at pool halls. We played Rotation, 8-Ball, and a game I made up called Jackoslovitch, which was kind of like hockey, played with pool cues broadly swiping the table. Now, of course, those days are long gone. Everyone's dying off. We're all getting old.

I think about Mom all the time, too, at the pool hall. Hoping that maybe she's not that ticked off in Heaven, since, after all, I am 60, old enough to veer off the straight and narrow path from time to time, depending on how I choose to live.

Hey, hey! A truck driver kind of guy, a big burly Dutchman -- Jake -- just came in the door. They act like I'm "the Professor," since I know big words and still act a little uptight. I'm also the kindest guy here, but I'm hoping to get coarser as time goes on. But, really, doesn't the world need sweet guys too?

About the advertisement -- Hope you like it. We really do wish that Happy Thoughts Caress You at Christmas. And that Good Old Santa doesn't forget you and yours. Christmas is for the whole family, but I always say it's really all about the kids. And I'm thinking I'll probably try a few interventions with some of the guys here, to get them to not waste their whole paycheck on drinks. A few's nice, yes, but I don't like the idea of kids suffering. Definitely not at Christmas. I'm going to call that my strictest rule.

That's it! Happy Holidays! All the best of the season! And stop in for a game!

Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no pool hall goin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
Rack them balls up anyhow!

When Bikes, Buggies, and Books Collide

I'll try to be brief, although I could actually go on at length about this incident. I'm still a little shook up, trying to make sense of it. It's hard to believe it all fits together, even if the tie-in with books is admittedly a matter of my own theory. The rest is 100% certain.

I was leaving a parking lot today in my buggy. I had to cross a sidewalk to leave. I pulled out in the middle of the sidewalk and stopped to watch for traffic. A guy on a bike happened to be coming from the south on the sidewalk. He had to stop because I was blocking the way. But instead of stopping he only slowed down, then came toward my buggy and intentionally smacked into it! He did it on purpose, you see, a total a**hole!

I didn't do anything in response except look his direction. I didn't cuss, I didn't finger him, I didn't make any gestures at all. He crossed the road and I crossed the road and parked. He could see me get out to check for damage, because I was going to call the cops. Fortunately, there wasn't any damage. It appeared that he had merely bumped into my tire with his. Still, what an *sshole!

Naturally, I went over the facts in my mind, over and over, justifying myself completely. Yes, my car was on the sidewalk, and, yes, he was probably ticked off. But that doesn't give him the right to smack something on the sidewalk. Obviously I was already there, like anything. If someone else is there, you can't run into them without being at fault. Unless you're an assh*le, like the guy totally was.

OK, I left and reentered the parking lot, intending to shop for books. At the bookstore I found three books that I wanted. Then I talked myself out of them, knowing that I already have hundreds of books and need to save money. So I put them back and left.

Then, later in the evening, I thought I would go back and get them. How many books did I say I wanted? Three. But when I got to the bookstore, two of the three were missing! How likely is it -- I'd like to know -- that in a bookstore with literally 30,000 books, give or take, that any two of three random books are going to be sold in the space of six hours? My suspicion: The guy had followed me, saw my interest in those books and figured I'd be back, and screwed me over by getting two of them.

What I would have hoped for is this: That the guy would've taken them to the counter and told the checkout guy the whole story, how he had a grudge against me, therefore he'd take the books. With the checkout guy then saying, "Yes, we sell books ... but we're not selling them to you under those circumstances." Since it's out of an irrational grudge, merely meaning to screw me over, and he was at fault.

Like I said, I went back to the bookstore to get them. I was hoping the relief checkout guy would see me looking for particular books, and without me saying anything, remember what the other checkout guy said, about the first guy (me) and the other guy (the ***hole), and would know where the books were that I wanted. I didn't ask, I was going by faith, but none of it worked out. The books were gone and that was it.

In conclusion, the final word on the subject, what probably happened was the bike guy saw where the first checkout guy put the books, then came back in later, stole the books, leaving one behind to be on the safe side. Then the relief checkout guy saw me come back, went to get the books, saw they'd been stolen, and chose not to say anything about it. He would've known I was going by faith and wouldn't want to shoot it all together.

I told a friend the whole story of what happened and to him it sounded reasonable. So I'm telling you.

French Silk Pie

I had a great idea this year for Christmas. I'm getting all my friends a French silk pie from Perkins! Seriously, each one is getting their very own pie! (To qualify, you needed to be one of my friends before now, like at least a year ago and thereafter showing the various signs of friendship. And if you become my friend now, I'm likely to suspect your motives, possibly having next Christmas in view. The bottom line: I alone am the judge on any and all terms, and my decisions are strictly final.)

How about that? My friends are going to be really happy, since I've never met anyone who doesn't like a French silk pie. They might get a hundred presents from a hundred different people, but this is the one that will stand out. They'll all be like, "I'm friends with this guy and look what he gave me! Isn't that something!? A French silk pie from Perkins!"

It's about time to get my order in, too. Because even Perkins needs a little notice, since I'm going to need probably 10-18 pies, maybe more depending on how the final criteria comes down. There's a few "shirttail" friends, acquaintances from church, etc. Depending, again, on the various signs of friendship, and possibly throwing in a few qualifiers for some "hard luck" that they've experienced, I might need more pies. There's this one guy. He's been on oxygen all year -- terrible case -- gasping all the time, and yet he'll shuffle across the sanctuary, a 20-minute shuffle at his pace, just to say hi and "God bless you." By the time he makes it back to his pew they're calling out Code Blue. I'll probably give him a pie. It's the least I can do.

I know, though, that when you start doing a thing like this, it can become a bastard. A few of them will feel guilty they didn't get me anything. Or I'll be on their list for next year; they'll be going into debt to pay me back, just what I don't want. Or they'll think there's something wrong next year if I don't give them a French silk pie. This is so true: If you give something unusual, like a French silk pie, they'll never forget it. But if I handed out a sack with an apple or box of chocolates, it'd be like nothing. That's something to think about.

No, I'm not backing off the idea ... not yet, at least. So if you're one of my friends -- and several of my actual friends do read this blog -- don't worry. I thoroughly believe the pie's on its way! Just be patient. I have to work with Perkins, blah blah blah. And I do have the money for it. I've been eating at home all year, not Perkins, saving up a ton of money. So it'll be like my whole Perkins budget in a normal year spent in one lump sum at Christmas. That works...

I wouldn't mind going there today to get a French silk pie, just so I can be eating on it while I'm making up my list and final preparations. You know how much fun that sounds? Very fun! They're so rich though, I'll probably have to eat it in thirds through the rest of the day. I'm very hungry for one, and I hope you are too, if you're one of my friends.

In conclusion, Christmas is also a great holiday for music. And I'm thinking of one of my all time favorite Christmas songs. You know the one by Brook Benton, "You're All I Want for Christmas"? That's the one I want to listen to. And here's an idea -- I just had this idea! -- I could splice in some spoken references to French silk pie in the original recording. I have the audio software! Making it sound like this:

I only want FRENCH SILK PIE for Christmas.
I need no other presents under my tree.
You're all I want -- FRENCH SILK PIE.
And that would be ... the world to me.

As far as I can tell, Santa doesn't have to load his sleigh,
He can mark all my gifts "Return", or give them all away.
I only want FRENCH SILK PIE for Christmas.
The rest is only tinsel and show.
You're all I want -- FRENCH SILK PIE.
And mistletoe ... at candle-glow.