Friday, October 21, 2011

Bow Your Head and Letters Pay


A five-letter word that elicits a four-letter word that has led many to believe in a three-letter word that is two letters away from a one-letter word that we all can grasp as our own...

Yeah, it's a confusing sentiment.... right? Right? It's a five letter word that can change a mind or change a world. Right? Right?

Let's skip the four-letter word that has seemingly misled history and go to the three-letter word that has wrapped it's sloth-like fingers around every generation of bicuspid bi-peds since the last one of our ancestors creeped upon the shores of Miami eons ago...

G. o. d.

G. o. d. has usurped the letter 'I' for generations. Why? because 'I' is a singular letter based upon a singular organism without need of help of additional vowels and consonants. Without another vowel, an "I" is weak. For example, there is no "I" in 'team.' Therefore, no individual can stand before us as an 'I' and win. So, Fuck you, Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson and Michael Phelps. Unless of course you look at your names collectively and notice that that there is a 'g' and 'o' and a 'd' hidden within your names. Then, of course, you are the godly trifecta.

Switching gears, nowhere in the Bible does it command one to be a friend, a buddy or a confidant. Go ahead, look it up. Sure, the big 'ol book of rules says to 'love one another', 'accept one another' and not steal another's sheep, but nowehere does it say that one has to endure the shit that anyone throws at you.

Except if you're a bartender.

Welcome to my world.

I'm the ears to the G.o.D in your L.i.f.e. That brings us waaaay back to the beginning... the one-letter word that started it all, 'I'.

I hear it all the time.... "I left my wife..." "I was cheated on..." "I'm away from home and need to let loose..."... I, I, I......

"I'm wondering if  I should..........."

"I've heard it all before........."

"I need to know if he/she is sincere...."

"I remember how it used to be....  "

The eyes tell me a story, the words tell me an opinion, the combination on both tell me the truth.

Yet, I'm the last one to be asked for advice. I'm a picture of misguidance. I pour advice in one-ounce increments and take my pay in tips.

G.o.D. comes after the hangover and before the questions. I'm simply a vessel.
Rocks or neat?

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

A Columbus Day Tribute

Dear Chris,

Your navigation system malfunctioned. Please lower your sails and reverse course. Oh, and by the way, you are a bit late in your claim to fame. The large land mass that you claim in the name of Spain has   already been deeded to Italy. Ooops.

In other news, I hate big-assed bees.

Not those plump, striped bumblebees that resemble John Belushi, land on flowers and suck nectar from stamens before heading home to pollinate their bitchy queens... no. I'm referring to those big-, hulking, steroid-laden thoraxed fuckers that sound like Vietnam-era choppers in an 80's Rambo movie as they stare you in the eye as you're trying to enjoy a moment in the sun. Imagine a family of east German powerlifters with fluttering arms the size of snowshoes and javelins protruding from  their asses chasing you from your front porch. Those are the bees to which I refer.

I don't even know what species of bee this is. I'm not even sure 'bee' is a big enough word. I'm fairly certain a sting from a killer bee would result in a visit to the hospital ER and a sting from the Steroid bee would result in amputation and a future resemblance to Marty Feldman.

In any case, I hate bees. Almost as much as I hate spiders. You put wings on a spider and you have the ultimate weapon. I sure hope al Queda isn't listening. Or Bank of America. Can you imagine the forclosure rate that Bank of Ammerica would ennjoy if their mortgaged homes were populated by winged, huge-thoraxed spider-bees?

No longer would BofA refer to only their call center employees as eight-legged freaks.

Then again, back to the original sentiment... Mr. Columbus. Enjoy your holiday. Like most noteworthy conquerors, you sailed in, you landed,, you instilled fear and you left a stinging impression that we celebrate to this day.

You big fucking spider-bee.

Tomorrow the liquor stores re-open.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Gimme Back My Bullets, Dumb Ash

Religion has been the catalyst for many of mankind’s largest, and smallest, innovations, both for the better and for the worst. Out of man’s zeal for divine preference the world has experienced the horrors of the Inquisition, Crusades, Witch Trials, the Westboro Baptist Church and the 700 Club. On the flip side, religious dogma has also given people Hope, Faith, Charity and the other four dwarves at Six Flags.
 Fittingly, today we celebrate the day that a man from a foreign country landed on the shores of a foreign land, claimed that land in the name of his homeland, his God and summarily slaughtered the natives that wouldn’t convert to his brand of religion. A better snapshot of today’s America couldn’t have been taken by Columbus himself had he had a Polaroid.

 In a nation supposedly founded on the separation of church and state it sure as Hell seems as if every GOP candidate has his or her god’s backing. The G.O.D. of the G.O.P. is one judgemental S.O.B., apparently. Gotta love religion, eh?

 Now, to further complicate matters, a group of yahoos in Ally Bamma is challenging the traditional Christian belief in putting a lifeless body six-feet-under after the soul has departed. Thank god for yahoos. Although cremation has been around since, oh, the invention of fire, traditional Christian thought is that when Jesus returns to claim his flock one day the bodies of believers that once housed the soul are going to rise out of the ground and repopulate the earth. A scene surely reminiscent of the classic ‘Thriller’ music video.

 However, Clem Parnell and his partner down in Ally Bamma have spit on the grave idea and started a business stuffing loved ones burnt remains into shotgun shells. That’s right, there’s nothing as Christian as stuffing grandpa into a double-barrelled shotgun and blowing the head off of a darned whippersnappin’ trespasser.

 Of course, traditionalists are bristling at the ‘bodies in bullets’ idea. Why wouldn’t they? Imagine that, someone being killed by a bullet containing the cremains of a peace-loving follower of Christ. Plant tongue firmly in cheek as you re-read that. Even in death, the bodies of Christians will be responsible for violence and death in the name of their religious beliefs. Go figure.

So, on this hallowed Columbus Day holiday let us remember who discovered America (Amerigo Vespucci, by the way) and live by the mantra that has brought us so far so fast in a world of religious division: If you can’t beat ‘em, convert ‘em. And, if you can’t convert ‘em, kill ‘em.

God bless America and pass the ammunition.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Been A. While ... My new name.

Funny how absentitia changes one's perspective. I'm not even sure 'absentitia' is a word, that's how long it's been since I've written. My fingers feel like pyrite laden with graphite. Yeah, you read that right.

Gone is all the fucking anger and hostility. No, really. Really... seriously.

In place of all the snarkiness and sarcasm that has plagued my mind and writing is a new-found love of acceptance and patience that only the Dali Lama and Charlie Sheen can appreciate.

My daughter turned twenty-one years old this week. A milestone for any parent. Yet, I had no way of contacting her to wish her a 'Happy Birthday' or to tell her that I love her or to give her advice as she surely headed off to indulge in the gaiety of the night that all twenty-on-year-old birthday children experience. I'm yet again a smudge on the family name that no 'Wite Out' can cover.

That's ok, though. I'm okay with that. She is in a good place, surrounded by people who care for her and love her and accept her despite her faults and past indiscretions. After all, isn't that all that we need? A place to feel accepted despite who we are and what we have done? Thank god for her new in-laws.

So here I am. Some may view me as an outcast, or a separatist, or as simply detatched. That's not a problem. I may likewise view them in the same light. Com si com sa. I'm in a good place. I have a dog who loves me, a woman who accepts me and a mind that continues to grow despite my best efforts.

I'm back. I'm strong. I'm willing and my fingers are itching to peck. By god, I have nine good peckers and one bent pecker that is the leader on the keyboard.

It's been awhile ... i'm ready to unplug the thoughts like a toilet stopped up by a dixie cup after a beer pong contest ...