Hercules Out For Breakfast

I think of Hercules as a big klutz who can't control his power.

For example, if he shakes your hand, you've just lost a hand. He either squeezes it like a lemon or it's torn off completely. If he so much as feels the fabric of your shirt between his fingers, as daintily as he can, he's at least torn a big hole in it.

So the idea we're thinking of today is full of danger. And really not so far from the realm of possibility. Since Hercules is a big guy, of course he has to eat. We all have to eat, how much more such a big guy?

The way Hercules normally eats is to stand on the side of a mountain and pluck big birds out of the sky. His hand darts up like a reptile's tongue, the reptile having lain in wait for its prey. Hercules is just that quick, and equally voracious.

But in this scenario, Hercules finds himself in modern society, away from the mountain and present with the rest of us. Although you could easily imagine him on a mountain, then reaching up and, thinking it was a bird, plucking a jet plane out of the sky, thereby becoming Public Enemy No. 1.

But we're going to keep it on the up and up. Hercules is at a house and decides to go out to breakfast. He goes to the car and immediately rips off the door. He gets in and crushes the seat. Even the steering wheel is in pieces by the time he gets to IHOP.

He gets to IHOP and accidentally pulls the door off its hinges. They seat him at a table for one. He puts his arms on the table and crushes it. He goes to the bathroom, and his stream is so powerful the urinal is shattered, leaving a horrible mess.

It comes time to order. Of course the menu doesn't stand a chance. Just in normal handling he's ripped it to shreds. He tells the waitress what he wants and the power of his booming voice blows the windows out of the place. The waitress and all the people on that side of the room are deafened.

He needs a mountain of food for his enormous appetite. The cooks are overwhelmed, having to come up with 40,000 pancakes, 100,000 sunny side up eggs, and enough fried bacon to sink a battleship. They don't even have the supplies for such a meal, as good as IHOP is.

A thousand waiters bring his meal. He has torn off the roof so they'll have a place to stack it. But he's not satisfied, as I said, since they don't have the supplies, and he literally consumes 200 waiters to make up the difference. And in our modern world, you can't just kill 200 people and expect them to think nothing of it. Because not everyone belongs to the NRA. So it's a big problem.

Hearses are lined up outside IHOP, as coroners try to sort out which remaining legs belong to which missing waiter. Hercules is offended and comes running out. He rips off the tops of two hearses, put his feet in them, and roller skates away.

I'll Never Be Ignorant Again

It's been a while now, back in January, that I wrote what I thought was a scientific post on clouds, "The Mystery of Clouds." You'd really think that'd be so long ago no one would care. But I get more mail on that post than all the others combined. As it turns out, science people are very protective of their domain, and apparently I don't measure up to their lofty standards.

Frankly, I wasn't expecting any backlash whatsoever. Because I figured my opinions are as good as anyone else's. Which, OK, looking back on it, I can agree that there can be a stark difference between scientific fact and personal opinion. Just like there's a difference between intelligence and stupidity.

All that said, the backlash looks to be way out of proportion to the offense. Wasn't what I said half in jest anyway? I don't have a clear memory of it, but it seems like it. I said I wasn't sure what held clouds up or how they operated. So I gave my opinion that it had to do with being lighter than air. But heavier than the air above them. As they gain weight they become fog. As they lose weight they leave the atmosphere. I wrote something about wires holding them up too. Which isn't true, but that's the part I was joking about.

To those who wrote in and left comments: It might interest you to know that I deleted all your comments. If you can't keep it clean, then I'm sorry, you're outta here! It turns out those who believe in science are the world's biggest pottymouths. Probably because they believe in science, they're able to harness technology faster than everyone else, thereby allowing them to accomplish so much more, fitting in more activities, etc., like looking at porn, and so they pick up a more extensive vocabulary. Of the four-letter variety!

It was hurtful to be called ignorant, along with all the more colorful ways of saying it. But just to clarify one particular comment, assuming I'm supposed to take your insult literally, no, my head is not so far up my ass that I have to see the sun shine through my mouth. Would that even be scientifically possible? Come on, we must be scientifically reasonable and consistent, don't we, huh? Excuse me?

Still, my Grandma always told me I needed to pick my battles. She also gave me a bunch of good information on psychologically minimizing the various situations of life, such as looking for one fatuous argument against me, then being able to dismiss the whole thing, like the guy above saying my head was up my ass. It's impossible. Something I like to do, heh heh, giving away my most intimate secrets, is when I get in a fight I know I can't handle I just walk away. My way of picking battles is never to actually pick one! You see, Grandma lived in a world that didn't have the internet. She never knew an anonymous battle.Or the scurrilous creatures we now have to communicate with on a daily basis.

But I have my self respect to deal with. And if I made certain claims, ignorantly as it turns out, about clouds, then I want to do better next time. So that's my resolution! I'll never be ignorant again! From now on, before I ever say anything even remotely scientific, I will look it up online or in a book. You'll never catch me saying anything stupid ... ever again!

The Disabled Patriotic Veterans

Now that the local newspaper has exposed The Disabled Patriotic Veterans of Distinguished Foreign Service to America (DFVDFSA) as a scam, and Walmart forbade them ever to set up their table of suckers sold for their benefit, we can only look back and celebrate their presence for those brief months.

They're gone now but not forgotten. I can still see them in my mind's eye: The various articles of slouchy clothes, the ratty camouflage, faded Doors T-shirts, patriotic caps burdened by trinkets and buttons everywhere, and of course the handlebar moustaches. They'd show up, and if you were lucky enough to get there early, you'd see the heartrending ceremony of unpacking the six inch flag and its wooden base, and proudly saluting as they erected it on the table. Then it was on to the cash drawer and the all-necessary priming of the tip jar with about 20 bucks.

The Disabled Patriotic Veterans of Distinguished Foreign Service to America.  Every word is important. They're disabled, or presumably serve others somewhere who are. They're patriotic, as we've seen them show their little flag all due deference. They're veterans who've performed service in the foreign fields, which has been distinguished. These weren't just desk jobs, supply guys, logistical staff, officers, or base personnel. This was distinguished service, meaning it was extraordinary. And America, that's a word that packs a punch!

All that time, there in the stifling heat of a Walmart entrance, they kept a brave vigil, testifying to their great sacrifice and sacrificing still, that with each sucker sold perhaps they could make a few cents over cost, to support themselves, not to mention those, their brethren, somewhere, the ones who are actually disabled and in dire need.

And you have to hand it to them, they had a great sales pitch to go along with their physical presentation. "No one gave us a parade, at least buy a sucker." And ,"We gave our lives for your freedom, buy a sucker already." But even with that there were plenty of people who acted like they didn't see them and would press into Walmart without stopping. Which is both bad and good. Bad, because those people are miserable, sons-of-bitchin' ingrates. But good, because it feeds into the DFVDFSA's complex that nobody appreciates them, giving them the resolve to double down on the guilt-inducing slogans.

I asked this one guy -- who asked me if I'd ever served, to which I had to go into my normal spiel about being eligible yet drawing high lottery numbers in the draft -- what the average gift for a sucker is. He said it was a measly buck. A dollar?! Crap, the suckers are about a dime to buy, so that's not much of a profit when you factor in the table, the flag, the stickers, and the sheer amount of time it takes to set up out there -- not to mention the heat! -- and time is money.

But what about the upper stratosphere of donations? We've all heard of the stranger who shows up at the Salvation Army bucket every year and puts in a 1609 gold doubloon worth a million dollars. No, he hasn't been here, but of course we'd love to have him stop by. The upper stratosphere, as it turns out, isn't very high. A few people have put in $20, and a few of those make the added gesture of not even taking the sucker!

Then, what is the most memorable thing that's happened to you out here? I asked. He thought it over and was visibly moved. His voice starting to break -- which he brought back quickly to normal -- he told me about an old guy who lives at a nursing home. OK? This stuff really happens. The nursing home (assisted living facility, I should say) brings them out in vans.

One time the old guy saw the sucker stand and decided next time he'd do something special. So he put on his World War II uniform and came out. He stood about 20 feet away. The DPVDFSA rep stood near the table. The older gentleman walked straight toward him. People parted. The old man, his hand feeble beyond belief, and shaking like a leaf as a consequence, lifted his hand and saluted. The other returned the gesture. That was a beautiful moment. It was a meeting of generations, from one who probably did get a parade to one who didn't. As if to say, "You're all right, and your suckers ain't half bad either, and thank you for your service." He put in $10, took the sucker, and signed the rep's hat. I saw the faded signature, clearly the scrawl of an old-timer, someone very old.

Other than that, I have a clear memory of the naked girl tattoo on the guy's arm.

Now, though, it's all gone. The DPVDFSA appears to be no more, exposed by an ungrateful newspaper as a scam. And our opportunity to give them what they deserve as disabled patriotic veterans has now sadly passed.

Thorax -- The Space Visitor

Those who saw it say they will never forget it. And you know what? I'm forced to admit they're probably right! How could you ever forget a space ship -- a flying saucer -- pulled by a 20-mule team? And an all-but-incredible, a being just shy of incredible, a space alien named THORAX!

They're all fortunate, most of them, that they lived to tell the incredible story ... of the day the sky lit up bright as can be. It was a night really, but it was as bright as day. Even the birds took to their nests. They were on the beach, in beach homes, and in homes farther inland, just as -- Good God, what was that? They heard the most horrendous whooshing noise, apparently coming from the sky, and apparently from the massive vehicle hovering overhead, along with the standard braying of a 20-mule team.

I had a friend there whose sworn testimony is what I base my own opinion on, feeling through his vivid description, related to me with words, sounds, gestures, and fearful looks, that I was actually there. It was one hell of a sight, with THORAX'S spaceship even monogrammed with an immense, ornate T. And the mules! My friend couldn't believe the mules, pullilng a spaceship and somehow defying the earth's gravity. It's almost too much...

And yet it is ... what it is ... a fact ... The Earth has been visited, according to the sworn testimony of my friend, by a being named THORAX, who came with a mission. And once his mission was accomplished, off he went, speeding back to the darkness and vastness of outer space. Leaving behind unforgettable memories ... and 20 spent mules, which scientists even now are examining for whatever evidence they can provide.

The biggest unforgettable memory, out of many, is when THORAX strode off the ship and, oblivious to the mere mortals forming a circle around him and his craft, unhitched the mules. Because what happened next, that's what my friend will never forget. THORAX himself walked over and extended the right hand of fellowship to him, and asked him a question.

THORAX inquired of my friend: "Tell me where your Grand Canyon is." Our Grand Canyon, my friend wondered, before replying, "You know about our Grand Canyon?" "Yes," said THORAX, "Every planet has a Grand Canyon." With the information gained, and a crowd of people standing around waiting for a sign of peace, THORAX reentered the ship and sped off toward Arizona.

There at the Grand Canyon, the reports go, THORAX procured fresh pack mules. To "train" them for flying in outer space, he hooked some kind of weird electrodes to their ears and gave them a jolt. Then it was simply a matter of fitting them in the exquisite other-worldly harness apparatus he had, also affixed to the craft.

THORAX turned and gave a gesture of peace and goodwill to the world, before lashing the mules, and taking off once again, headed for space -- the blackness of our star-studded sky. Space, more vast than any of us can imagine. Space, enough room for everyone. Space, room enough to grow.

Will THORAX ever return? This is an unanswerable question, unanswerable to me. THORAX himself probably knows.

I Write, Yep

I write, yep, darned tootin' I do. Here I go again! No one can stop me from writing, because there's nobody else here. And by the time they got here, I'd already be done...

Writing's no big accomplishment. You're just putting one word in front of another. Type type type. The main thing, apparently, is if you want to do it, do it. Don't put it off for an unreasonably long period of time, because then you might keep putting it off so long that you'll never get to it. Then you'll die with many regrets.

Do I have any recent regrets? Yes, I guess I do. I've had a number of killer ideas -- deadly stuff -- then I've let the moment pass. Or I have a few false starts with some of it, that by the time I get back to it, it's no longer killer stuff. You have to strike while the thing is hot, if you can manage it. Which is just the thing, because sometimes I can't manage it. Too busy with something else, in bed for the night, etc.

I've had a couple of run-ins with the subject of writing in the last few days. I can't remember the first one precisely, but it was some famous person saying words to the effect of, "Write, even if it's no good, just put it out there, who cares? Put it down on paper, whatever you're thinking." That's cool. Because, really, who does care? And what does it matter if they care or not? One of the biggest hangups when it comes to writing is picturing your audience, and what they might like or not like.

The other run-in I had was hearing someone saying, "I like to write" or "I write." And I'm thinking, 'Well, I don't want to tell what I do. It's something of a secret life. If I get too many readers, then I have to worry about them, and what they like,' as stated above. But I was thinking to myself, 'I write too!' Big hairy deal. Anyone who can think can write. And that's just about everyone, excluding only those who can't think.

Writing, writing, writing. I'm doing it right now. And now I'm getting ready to stop, because it's time for bed.

My Star Spangled Tribute To America

"This is MY country, land that I love. This is MY country, something-something above. I pledge thee my allegiance, America, my home sweet. Yes, this is MY country, to have and to hold." The patriotic blood boils just to hear the precious lines of our most cherished songs.

And on this 4th of July -- with global warming scalding us with 104 degree F temperatures -- boiling blood is just what I need. So it's a welcome thing. Crank up the heat, pretty soon when we sing, "From sea to shining sea," we'll be able to actually see both seas from the middle and appreciate our great songs more.

I've got a little tribute to America I want to lay on you. In some ways, it sounds bitter [It's already written]. But I prefer to look at it as constructive criticism, exercising my freedom of speech that my blessed uncles (on my mom's side) fought for and very well could've died for had push come to shove.

All right, here it is:

AMERICA:
Your sons are all cross-eyed.
Your daughters are all bowlegged.
Your mothers wear army boots.
Your fathers dress in drag.
Your grandmothers are loose women.
Your grandfathers can't get it up.
Your great writers are all hacks.
Your statesmen are very perplexed.
Your churches are your last hope.
Your grocery stores sell junk food.
Your flag has more stars than stripes.
Your roads are falling apart.
Your last victory was conquering polio.
Your old westerns have bad, fading soundtracks.
Your bald eagle could use a toup.

OK, that's it. It's a beautiful tribute, if I do say so myself, something I hope will make your Fourth of July holiday even more special.

The Very First Guy To Eat A Banana

Full Disclosure: I'm working off an outline here, so I can get every detail just right.

We love bananas. They're good, and, they say, they're good for you. I saw a story one day that said we might be close to the precipice when it comes to bananas. We might be almost at the very point where we no longer have bananas. Because of some weird scientific fact which I don't remember.

But we're thinking today not of a dismal future but of a bright past. Way back when, when the first guy to ever eat a banana ate one. He didn't actually just grab one and eat it. He too was something of a scientist, thinking it might be poisonous. So he studied it out and scratched his head as he pondered.

The animals, of course the animals didn't care. They ate them like crazy. So the days passed, the animals eating bananas, and our guy watching. Being a scientist, though, he didn't make the rather abrupt jump in logic to say, "If they're good for animals, they're good for me." Because maybe the animals had a different digestive system, or maybe they'd drop dead as soon as they were out of sight.

The man followed them. First, the monkey. Then the chimpanzee. Then the gorilla. Then the baboon. And when he'd exhausted the simian family, he followed the snuffleupagus. None of them died. A week later, they were still alive. Two weeks later. Three weeks later. And so forth, they kept right on living. Making the guy think maybe he'd found the secret of eternal life. But he put that thought out of his mind, because it wasn't a concept he worried about.

He was meticulous, charting it all out on the walls of a cave. He charted out months, then years, of animal/banana observations. Five years later they were still alive, although some of them were up against their normal lifespan. One thing was for sure, bananas didn't harm them.

Finally, he went over and got a banana and ate it. It was delicious. But he just happened to have a son, who ate a banana and just happened to die of something else. Maybe a heart attack. He ate the banana and dropped dead. The man had no idea what happened, but clearly bananas, despite his own success with the first banana, were dangerous. And that was it.

It literally took another century -- 100 years -- till another guy came across the research notes in the cave, and, with the same experiments, concluded that bananas were safe, or reasonably safe. He fed them to 100 kids and none of them died, convincing him that the first kid's death was likely a fluke.

He ate all the bananas he wanted, grew more, fed them to the poor, and everyone was happy. Later, someone discovered the secret recipe for banana bread and that made them happier yet. They went bananas, so to speak, on bananas!

(Let laughter subside.)

Without The Fear Of Contradiction

It's been a while since I've had a contentious comment or an email from a reader objecting to something.

That could be bad. It might mean that, despite the 14 hits I got from Croatia the other day, they've moved on to other blogs. It's something I've feared, really, but didn't know how to adjust to counter it. I always figured, you know, that since my readership skewed younger, mentally at least, that with maturity they would migrate on. But then that others would find their way in.

Or it could be good. It's long been proverbial that if you can keep the Croatians contented, anyone will be pleased. So I'm banking partly on that. Or it could be good because the readers feel they're getting exactly what they need, their daily recommended serving of rhetorical goodness, with a flourish or a flair here and there.

Believe me, these questions keep me up at night. Just last night, I woke up in a cold sweat, thinking, "Whoa Nelly, what should I do next?" It wasn't till an hour or two of that that I finally came up with my answer, that I shouldn't worry about it. But then, in addition, that I should maybe double down on spouting off my opinions, conjectures, and claims.

To do that, then, let me start by saying: I have no fear of contradiction, no matter what I may say. There, the ball's in your court. If you want me to fear contradiction -- which I don't -- then you need to call me on it. Until then, buzz off! Down with fact-checkers, those who would question my logic, or the disputers of theories. You don't know everything anyway. And since you don't know everything, how can you realistically question me on anything?

OK, I'll pull a few so-called facts out of my ass, and so be it!

Without the fear of contradiction, I claim that Smokey the Bear himself sets fires to forests. Can you prove he doesn't? Isn't it a little suspicious that he hangs out in forests all the time and yet fails to stop fires? If we can't depend on Smokey, going by that, who can we depend on? But going by my contention, that would explain a lot of things. And -- and here we're getting to the nub of the issue -- who would have a greater motive to torch a forest every now and then than the very guy who profits from preventing fires? If there's never a fire, he's out of a job. We would do very well to keep an eye on him. I'm proposing an ankle bracelet monitored by GPS.

Without the fear of contradiction, I submit to you that bugs are invisible. No one can dispute what they can't see. And with this claim, I don't mean they're microscopic, hence visible under a microscope. I claim that they are literally invisible. A visit to the kitchen in the middle of the night proves the point. You walk in, you have a creepy feeling there are bugs, yet you don't see anything. Of course you don't, they're invisible. I've had a problem now for two summers, being bit by invisible bugs. When I was a kid I saw bugs. A mosquito or some other apparently visible bug would land on me. And I'd get bit. But when I grew up, my childhood second sight went away. I'm still getting the same bites, but nothing's there. Freaky.

Without the fear of contradiction, I declare that topical humor sucks. I'd rather have something that's perpetually funny, like a guy with an odd walk or a bicyclist crashing into the back of a garbage truck and being sucked into the gears than a topical joke. I was listening to a Lenny Bruce album -- Live at the Curran Theater -- and he was riffing on a judge who didn't want him saying naughty words. I think Lenny was going to jail for it. This goes way back, when the words were first invented, so they were crazy. But it's topical, meaning we aren't that amused now. Without the fear of contradiction, he would've been a better comedian if he would've simply stuck to regular jokes. Which he could've done.

Without the fear of contradiction, I am never wrong...

There But For The Grace Of God Go I

Stylized reflections on my good fortune as compared to others of the human type suffering from dramatic strangeness, all credit and glory being given to God alone:

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I saw a guy sitting there with a big bushy white beard, terribly scraggly, basically repulsive. How in the world he could ever find love (of a physical kind) is beyond me. To have that horrific display in your face, not only as a detestable appearance but as a nightmare to the touch, is beyond sickening. And yet, somehow, in his ignorance, he persists in life, appearing in public. Are we on the same page, folks?

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

This other lady -- fart, this is bad -- was a rolling gelatinous something. About as scraggly as the other guy, no doubt googling a future in the circus. "What are your qualifica--? Oh good God, sign her up!" Mop my brow, I'd never sweat like that in an air-conditioned room. This I saw with my own two eyes; what do you think?

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I had to leave. Such a display was damaging my faith in humanity. It's too much to behold. I had to retreat to the bathroom, and without touching anything, behold my own perfect form in the mirror. The nose is right, the forehead not prematurely sloping, the eyes even, looking straight ahead, the mouth a miracle of design, my ears not too protruding nor too small. Oh Lord, who's this coming through the door? What a vile specimen! Reminder to self: Bring toilet safety shield next time!

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Back on the mezzanine, I feel I'm again in the safety of normal company. I see one of my rare betters moving by with a briefcase. This guy's a success, such polished shoes, such a nice fitting pair of pants. The eye thrills to follow him as he approaches the light post and vanishes around the corner. When what do I see coming the opposite direction? Saints, save me! How hideous can someone be?! To think this was someone's baby, sucking one time at the breast, treasured and kept from harm! What horrible karma has played out its cruel hand since then? He's a walking zit, with what looks like an unintentional mohawk, and he's a bit old to be carrying a crumbed-out skateboard under his arm!

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

I'm headed for the bookstore, where the beautiful people live, breathe, and browse. In the safety of those stacks, I can also breathe, breathe in the wisdom of the ages. I settle in the paperback section, browsing and perusing. This or that author, I've heard of them. They were despicable in their time. No one liked them, but I think, if I'd been there, back in their time, I would've treasured them. Edgar Allan Poe is the author of this particular collection. Talk about a guy with a dark side. I should've read Poe more when I was a kid. I got stuck on "Tell-tale Heart" and just read it a million times and everything else none. I look out the window and see a crumb slink by, nothing like Poe.

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Where can I go that I shall not be beset upon by life's dregs? Don't these losers, bozos, and turds ever stay home? They're out and about. For their great difficulties at life, they certainly appear to excel in the open air. There's this one guy I'm thinking of, he's like a Viking. He's not dressed in a coat of mail but he would be if someone gave him one. His hair hasn't been washed since he was three. He's got a crazed look, but it might be a put-on. No one disturbs him. You wouldn't dare. He looks dangerous. He's never once exchanged a glance with me. He's so antisocial it's painful...

There but for the grace of God go I ... there but for the grace go I:

Another specimen I see ... and another ... there's one without a head, completely severed, and yet he wanders the street. There's another. He can't afford food. But every square inch has been tattooed. Born a rebel. Good grief. Spare me. No head, how can that be? Just a big eye in his navel, exposed to the world. With a very hairy belly.

Something Put Him In An Early Grave

This is about a friend of mine, the late Q------ Wiswell, who was never married yet somehow found himself put in an early grave. He was 42, a young age to die at.

I've given it a lot of thought, and I'm wondering what it might have been that was responsible for his premature demise. It's a sad thing when people die, especially people with any degree of closeness to me.

I met Quentin in church. Of course church is where a lot of healthy people go. They're known for keeping their lives square not only with the Lord but with man. So they're not given to various excesses that so often spell tragedy for those outside the fold. And yet he died ... and I never heard an actual reason why ... Just a bunch of whispers. 

What might it have been? Why would "Q" have died so early? Maybe he was living a secret life. That happens, you know. Folks aren't always what they seem to be; sometimes they're quite a bit different.

Could it have been a secret life of gambling and debt? There's lots of people who play the ponies or bet on sports or are addicted to card games and one-armed bandits who die early. Because they're not frugal with their money. They get in deep with the wrong crowd. And before you know it, their money's gone, and so are they! But I never knew "Q" to gamble, and he always seemed to have enough money. He gave me a nickel for a parking meter one time.

Could it have been a secret life of drugs and alcohol? I despise it when people get hooked on all this crap. They think they're having a good time, which probably they are, until it's too late. You start taking that shit and you'll always be chasing the first high. Unless you only drink wine for your heart. But I never once smelled anything on "Q" or noticed any odd staggering.

Could it have been a secret life of treachery and espionage against his country? It's doubtful. You hear of double agents and spies who turn on their country for money or ideological reasons. But I was at his place several times and never saw any weird insignias, flags, microfilm, carved pumpkins, etc. Plus, I was at his funeral and saw his body. He wasn't beheaded, so he was clean in this area.

Could it have been a secret life of womanizing? It might have been! I probably shouldn't tell tales, but I did actually see him once going into a club well known as a hangout for women taking their clothes off, called strippers. The imagination runs wild. I can well imagine these cute girls taking off their clothes a bit at a time, say a piece and a half for every song on the jukebox. Or, to be more exotic, a classier lady with props -- boas, scarves, a shag rug, or a playful dog puppet, sniffing around -- taking it all off in a classier way. The first girl, she's just stripping for a quick carnal excitement. The exotic lady actually puts the tease in striptease! That's what leaves you wanting more, not someone just moving mechanically (and sometimes lethargically) toward stark nudity.

It is very well likely that "Q" died from watching too many bad strippers. That would put me in an early grave, too.

Feeding Our Feathered Friends

Guess what! I'm on my second bag of feed, and I've been filling the feeder every morning, much to the delight of our feathered friends! True story.

I started thinking, What would be a great way to spice up the back yard? Then I went to the garden center and checked out some of their wares. I could get some cool lawn angels, a trellis, a little marble-like bench, a small wrought iron table, a rototiller, or some garden gnomes.

But I thought, No, I'd rather have something that adds a little life to the place, so I plunked down my debit card for a feeder, a bag of feed, a post for the feeder, and that's it. I would simply let nature do the rest. But could I trust nature? I was about to find out.

I stuck the post in the ground -- stay with me here. Then I hung up the feeder -- you see where I'm going? Then I filled it with feed, carefully so as not to spill too much. Now all I could do was sit back and let nature take its course.

And then it happened... A couple of our feathered friends flew in and pecked at it, looking skittish that someone might sneak up on them. They flew away and next a few more showed up. Within an hour -- and it didn't take any longer than an hour -- so many of our feathered friends were there they had to take a number and wait. Wow!

It was fun to watch, and it's continued on like that in the days since. The line is 40 deep. Others are circling the lot as they wait. I'm already on my second bag of feed, and it's about gone, too! I go out, like I said, the first thing in the morning. The feeder is nearly empty. And I fill it. Then I get back far enough so they know it's safe, and, sure enough, our feathered friends fly in for their morning feed.

It's been really cool with all the feathered friends I'm seeing. I even jotted down a few notes to help me keep them in mind. So far I've noted a number of different types. I've seen "red, blue, yellow, and brown" ones, so all colors, oh yeah, I need to add black. They're bigger and have a harder time landing on the little feeder.

One funny thing I learned is this: I didn't need to be so finicky about spilling seed, because our feathered friends are busy scattering it everywhere anyway as they eat! You ought to try this, if you think it'd be fun. Just go to a garden store and they will get you all set up! And if you say no, our feathered friends will go hungry.

The Gods Of Interchanges And Junctions

To me, there's plenty of incentives for being a safe driver. The biggest is survival, living to drive another day. Others down the list are, avoiding the intrinsic inconvenience of wrecking, paying big fines, and having to revise your day's schedule at the last minute.

But there's another great incentive: You don't want to piss off the gods of interchanges and junctions. Why, you ask, would there be gods of interchanges and junctions? Well, set aside your evil doubts and I will explain. Where do we all meet, and where then would there be the greatest concentration of human energy in the world? It'd have to be interchanges and junctions. You literally can't approach a junction without there being three other cars at the other three corners.

Now, since all gods are human projections that somehow became living spirits, where else would you expect to find them in the modern world? It started -- I'm estimating -- probably in the 1920s when everyone started driving more than before. These powerful projections felt a terrible recurring blockage, having to stop at every interchange and junction. Then some of them got out of the car, and pretty soon they took up residence there. Then, as would be their natural wont, they assumed lordship.

It blew my mind when I first realized this. Because, remember, a month ago I had the brief post on "The Traffic Light Lord"? The city and county has been installing a bunch of cameras at stoplights. Then, mysteriously, city and county employees were sensing a great force, causing many of them to literally explode, or worse, turn to stone. In either event, they're dead. No one knows (or knew why), but this has to be it, what I then discerned, the terrible wrath of the gods of interchanges and junctions!

As the discernment process unfolded, I've been bringing together certain facts, that it's our behavior on the road that's being rewarded or punished by them. With good driving being rewarded, and the driving of the other 90% being punished. How worthy are you? is the main point. This is what we're dealing with!  

So, it turns out, the better you drive, the better your trip will be. They're doing all this very actively, even reading our thoughts, watching our progress, and matching it up with others on the road. Sometimes our road karma is tied in with other people's. The worst jams, clogs, bottlenecks, and wrecks are reserved for the worst sinners. So when a guy gets drunk and goes off the steep embankment and his car bursts into flames and he dies a horrendous death, don't feel so bad; he deserved it. But don't feel good about it either, or you could be next. They're always watching. Even when you're at home and not even near a road, they're saving it up to get you later, or to let you pass unscathed.

Traffic police are their pawns. You know how you've been passed by a thousand drivers going 90 mph? And you yourself are only going 61 in a 60 mph zone but get stopped? It's because the gods of interchanges and junctions are doing you a favor, in their own way. They want you to slow down so you don't accumulate bad road karma. As to the others, they have a bitter end in sight, usually a massive pileup, a fiery crash, a bridge-out situation where vandals stole the warning sign, etc. I heard of one guy, his body was blown to bits. There wasn't anything left. His funeral was closed-casket because there wasn't anything in it.

After I figured all this out, about the gods, for a while I was afraid to drive. Then I ran out of toilet paper, and once the leaves of my trees were gone, I had no choice, I had to go to the store. While there, I also got food, which I also needed. And I didn't have a bit of trouble. Every stoplight was green, and there was no competition at the stop lights. I kept in my own lane, kept it below the speed limit, and thought happy thoughts, and I was able to pass through without incident. That night in a dream I saw their smiling faces, meaning they think I'm a good driver!

But what do I see just yesterday? Two semis collided south of town. One was carrying old battery acid for recycling and the other live skunks for delivery to zoos around the country. What a mess! The skunks were mad anyway, but once the acid reached them, they became irate. They let out a stink, and of course a skunk in acid is an environmental nightmare, the farthest thing imaginable from what is pleasant. The whole thing was due to the gods of interchanges and junctions! I guess one of the drivers had a terrible driving record, and the other was going just a titch over the speed limit. What else could they (the gods) do but make them collide? It's kind of funny when you think of it...

Drive safely! But know this, even if you're a completely safe driver, you're not really safe. Because they need a perfect sacrifice now and then.

The Very Insulated Hospital Employee

Have you ever gotten a huge hospital bill? If you've ever been in for anything worse than visiting a sick friend, the answer has to be YES. Although, what about the weird irony that eating at a hospital cafeteria is usually cheaper than going anywhere else? It's 80 bucks for a tray of food when you're a patient, but 8 bucks when you're not!

But let's say you're in the hospital for a week. That's when you see the big charges pile up. (I'm not writing out of personal bitterness, but I have a friend who got some big time charges. Like $7,000 or $8,000 a day. Enough to take the vacation of a lifetime and happily drop dead at the end of it!)

Let's just guess at the charges, since I didn't see his itemized bill. What would the toothbrush have to be? Maybe 40 bucks. Then we have the bedpan rental fee, $50 a pop. He needed another blanket, so that'd easily be $100. Then an air conditioner fee so he'd eventually need the blanket, $500 a day. We already know the tray of food is $80, maybe more if you throw in a $10 fee for the lid, $5 for the napkin, and another $5 for tomorrow's menu.

It's great how they're able to make him well. But when he gets the bill, of course he's sick again!

Here's my thought: Folks who work at the hospital have to know what's going on. They know you can get a decent meal in the real world for less than 100 bucks. And go to McDonald's; you can take all the napkins you want for free. I know a guy who hasn't bought toilet paper for 10 years! Hospital employees have to know what expenses are like inside and outside. I bet they are! They think about it all the time, and the ones I see hang their heads in shame. To them I say, "I know it's not your fault personally. Of course you profit off the corruption, but most people, to survive, have to look the other way at their job." So I'm not condemning them. Even so, if there's a literal hell as the afterlife, I wouldn't want to be a deceased hospital employee for anything!

My thought here is, what if we had a hospital employee who was very insulated? He's been in the hospital forever. He works all three shifts. He never leaves. He's picking scraps off used trays and laughing to himself, "I just ate $400 worth of food for nothing!" He steals a hospital bandage and knows he just committed a felony, since they have to be over $20. He looks both ways to avoid getting caught and sticks a $500 gown down his pants. He knows a guy who sells stuff on eBay. That's my thought.

OK, one day a supervisor notices, "Joe's been here a long time, a loooooonnnnnng time. What the hell?" They check the video and there he is, eating scraps, stealing bandages, and smuggling out gowns. He's fired and banished from the premises. He wonders, "How am I going to eat? I don't have $300 for the day. And if I do eat, where am I going to get a toothbrush for under $40?" And so forth. Then he finds, much to his amazement, that things aren't really that expensive!

Hospitals have it made. But we're on to the bastards! After you read this, please pass the link on to all your friends. Talk them out of getting sick, whatever it takes! If they have to drop dead, so be it! Let's starve the beast, these corrupt money-grubbing hospitals!

The Tertius Conundrum

I Tertius, who wrote this epistle, salute you in the Lord. (Romans 16:22)

While mowing the yard, I was thinking on the plenary theory of divine inspiration -- God inspiring the Bible so every word is precisely His own -- as it relates to what we might call the very incidental, even trivial, verses of Scripture. Doing yard work, there's no better time to work on these issues, along with trying not to run over too many sticks. My blade needs sharpened as it is.

Anyway, one of the weirdest verses I can think of is Romans 16:22, where, getting to the conclusion of Paul's great epistle, a guy named Tertius, who was the guy manning the quill, tosses in his own hello. I'm not what you would call a big plenary kind of guy, by a long shot. But I've known a few. At first glance, you might think this would call it into question. But maybe not.

It seems obvious it wouldn't have occurred to Tertius that what he was taking down was anything but another letter. How would he know that the thing was divinely inspired, word for word? Most of us don't think that. Yes, maybe I do, occasionally, regarding my blog, but not always.

It's pretty easy to see Tertius was just saying "Hi," saluting the recipients in the Lord. Nothing more. Is that divinely inspired? Maybe so. He wasn't long-winded, and for some people that takes a miracle.

There would be some plenary folks, maybe most, like one of my old friends, who insist that plenary inspiration is only for "the original autographs," which are either lost or no longer exist. But it would seem that this verse would have to be original. He's the guy who wrote it.

So would it take divine inspiration to say "Hi."? Gomer and Goober said "Hey" all the time. Apparently they did it without divine guidance, and they weren't even that smart. What then would Tertius' problem be? Did he need the guidance to put it toward the end and not at the beginning? Did he feel like writing more but was somehow mysterious held back? Short of me taking another mystical journey to the Akashic Records, we're not likely to know.

It seems clear to me that the Bible writers were not consciously writing Scripture, but used occasional letters to make relevant points to their congregations. It was not till the writings were used in the congregations for teaching, then with their collection, and later their canonization, that we have the rise in theories of divine inspiration. Clearly, all Tertius was doing was saying "Hi." It took a century or two for it to become a big deal. And it would only become a big deal because of the surrounding writings. If we had only this one verse in isolation, and were completely unaware of the surrounding writings' existence, we wouldn't come to the immediate conclusion that he was divinely inspired.

I think there's a larger issue, and that's our ability to discern what is divinely inspired and what is not period. Have we somehow an innate ability to make that determination, and against what are we comparing? When I was mowing the yard earlier, I nodded and waved at a lady going by, the equivalent of saying "Hi." I want my own page in the Bible!

But I can really see some ecclesiastical use for Tertius saying "Hi", say for a lesson on being bold and greeting one another. You see the pope or the super vicar of the Protestant faith saying "Hi" to folks, and it's a big deal. Then we say, "I'm just as much a worthy person as those yahoos; I say "Hi" all the time." Tertius was just a schlub like me, and when we say "Hi" sometimes it's a big deal to people.

Six of one, half a dozen of the other. I vote Tertius stays in the canon. He was smart enough to stick it in there, out of his own will, or something higher.