The conservatives over on my Facebook page are confused. They wanna hate the government because OBAMA is the government. OBAMAOBAMAOBAMA! But at the same time, these were militarized white cops beating up on a black community for being angry about and mourning the shooting of an unarmed person.
The poor things are truly torn. Whatever will they do?
At least that’s what I can make out from studying Protestant theology, or, rather, Protestant theologies (there’s one for everyone!). Granted, I’m being a bit facetious—not every Protestant is a denomination of one. They move in groups, like bikers or reindeer, each group adhering to what amounts to some dude and his particular interpretation of scripture. Many of them don’t even seem to have a clearly defined theology. It’s just PRAISE JESUS!, sing a hymn, and go home and watch Fox News.
I hate to be a party pooper, but that ain’t a religion, my friends.
For the record, I’m a Catholic (the best religion EVAR!), but a fallen-away one. I wasn’t reared Catholic, but secular. As a kid growing up, the only time I went to church was when someone died or got married. Over time, these two strange practices got connected in my mind and I entered adulthood terrified of commitment. Eventually, looking around at the Universe and realizing television and mindless consumerism wasn’t cutting it for me, I thought: Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of sudden, became a Catholic?
So that’s what I did.
I do a lot of things like that: Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of a sudden, started smoking a pipe? Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of sudden, shaved my head? Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of sudden, got rid of everything I owned and went and lived in a tent?
It’s as good a decision-making process as any other, as I’m sure anyone over 35 knows and you young folks will one day find out.
I’m not the type of guy who does something half-assed. I’m all in, no matter what I’m holding. I studied up on Catholicism big-time. I’m a compulsive autodidact and excellent student of anything when there are no teachers involved. I went into the little becoming-a-Catholic shindig as well-versed in the multitudinous nit-picking that is Catholic theology as the priest himself.
He was impressed, but not overly.
I knew the nuts and bolts but he opened up a can of insight on my ass that made my jaw slack. There is a difference between knowledge and faith, I learned. Even though I knew everything he knew, I still didn’t know jack shit.
So I did that for a while, the whole Catholic thing, then they started stashing all those pedophile priests in the nooks and crannies of their religion and I got all “Fuck this shit” and quit. Tore up my membership card, threw away my funny hat, and just stopping going.
A few months later, I was sitting around my tent, bald-headed and smoking my pipe, when a thought a occurred to me: Wouldn’t it be hysterical if I just, all of a sudden, become a Buddhist?
So I’m reading the paper, see, and it’s an article about all the great success we’ve been having overturning the stupid gay marriage bans. State by state they’re getting struck down, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Even my state’s ban (South Dakota) is working its way to inevitable and correct doom.
But the ban has been upheld twice in Nebraska. What the fuck? Upheld? And you wanna know something else? It’s one of the most far-reaching, draconian bans of them all. The article was telling the story of a couple who had married legally in Iowa, right next door to Nebraska. Two ladies, with a young son, who had been together for years and then finally got hitched when Iowa legalized gay marriage (one of the first states to do so, by the way). Like many, even most, married couples, they wanted the same last name and one of the ladies took her partner’s.
Anyway, fast forward a few years, and the family made a move, for career reasons, to Nebraska, which, as I pointed out in the title, is an asshole. They were there awhile and it came time for the lady who had taken her wife’s name to renew her driver’s license. Well, they wouldn’t let her. They insisted that she do it under her maiden name, which, legally, was no longer her name, so they wouldn’t let her even do that. In Nebraska, her VERY NAME was illegal because she was gay.
Think about that.
Then, to top it all off, she finds out that she has no legal rights to her own son, who is, biologically, her wife’s offspring. So, like, God forbid, if something happens to her wife, she very well could lose her son, simply because she’s gay—and, of course, the kid could lose both his parents, simply because of their gayness.
100 miles east of where she is living, none of this would be true. Isn’t that weird?
What part of love your neighbor as yourself do these fuckwads not get?
True Story: One time I was in Ismay, Montana visiting relatives,
and everyone had gone to bed. I was up late on the internet illegally downloading commercial-free episodes of Project Runway, when a pop-up appeared that said there were dozens of lonely women, right there in Ismay, waiting to connect with me.
Ismay has a population of 19, 5 of whom I am related to….
Full disclosure, though: We are in the middle of the Sturgis Rally.
Our homeland has been invaded by hundreds of thousands of middle-aged leather-clad bikers. They are all rebels. You can tell by how they all dress exactly alike and have, gasp, tattoos.
I think tattoos stopped being cool when the pope got one: “Powered by the Son”. Shit, even my grandma has a tattoo: “Born to Quilt”.
They ride around on these comically loud Harley-Davidsons, slowing me down on the way to the liquor store. They stand in all the lines, adding precious minutes to the beer wait. Every single restaurant is packed and all the store shelves are empty.
There’s stars out but no moon the sky seems empty or lonely like a clown funeral attended only by mimes or cowboys and indians getting along
It sparkles but is blank like the eyes of a politician when promising a lie during a debate discussion that rattles and hums in the ovoid of understanding in the lacking of angular momentum. Or like false positive truth serum soda sliding down your throat, the cold jizz of a deadened demented lover
It’s a curved vault of black high above me freezing and weighing down inaccessible and far close oppressive as every stupid rule (and every smart one too) heavy, haunted following me with cackling implications of Nothing
So yesterday my cat had a seizure and it totally scared the shit out of me. She had been very affectionate with me while I was laying on the bed. This is not unusual for her. When she wants love, she takes it. She will actually get under my hand and move back and forth, petting herself. She will climb up on my chest and ram her head into my face and also try to kiss me on the lips, which I won’t let her do because her tongue is like sandpaper and who knows what she’s been eating. For example, a few days ago, I saw her walking proudly around the yard with a bunny head in her mouth. So her behavior before the seizure was not at all out of the ordinary.
After I gave her a bunch of love and she was sated, she curled up in a ball on the bed with me and dozed off. I was laying on the bed, too. I put earbuds in and was listening to music on a low level and practically dozing myself when I heard this horrible howling. It was my cat, writhing around on the bed. I had never heard such a sound come out of a cat before, even cats who were fighting and screaming at each other. It was almost mechanical sounding, like honking. I just froze and watched her. She was craning her neck. It looked like she was trying to turn her head all the way around, ala The Exorcist. She writhed and honked and finally fell off the bed, which got me moving. I tried to touch her but her body movements were so weird I was scared to. Her eyes were open and darting around, but I could totally tell she was not “there”, that she wasn’t conscious.
I got my phone and tried to call the vet, but I was having trouble because I was shaking so hard. I thought she was gonna die right there before my eyes.
Gradually, she came out of it. I put her back on the bed. Her respiration was a hundred miles an hour. Her tongue was out and she was panting like a dog. Over the next half hour, her breathing slowed and she became conscious again, though she was exhausted.
I made an appointment with the vet, then looked up cat seizures on the internet. Did you know there’s a whole bunch of videos on Youtube of cats having seizures? Weird. I watched several of them, but none looked like what happened to my cat. They didn’t really look like each other either, though. Apparently, cat seizures are as unique as fur markings. Not one of them were howling, though. Just mine.
Needless to say, watching cats have seizures on Youtube is not a fun activity. Very difficult to watch, in fact, but not as difficult as watching my cat have a seizure IRL. Of all the cats in the world, mine is my favorite.
The vet tests turned out fine. She was also behaving normally, though totally exhausted. She ate, then slept the rest of the day. This morning she’s moving around and no longer so tired. There was one test I didn’t get her because it was thousands of dollars: a cat CAT scan. All it would do is tell me if she had a brain tumor, which there’s nothing you can do about anyway.
The vet gave me a rectal syringe of valium in case it happens again. I simply stick it in her butt and depress the plunger. I have to keep it out of the light, so it’s under my bathroon sink as I type this.
I hope she sticks around. I’ve had her since 2006 and totally love her. She was a stray who adopted me. She’s about 9 or 10 years old and in excellent physical health, according to the vet. Well, except for the whole having a seizure out of the blue and practically giving her owner a heart attack thing.
Here’s a picture of her in a box:
Everybody go love on your cats. We are very privileged they have stooped to live with us.
sparkgrrl658 said: drinking most booze with a mixer (other than water/ice, or a few olives) these days is largely unappealing to me, but this sounds rather good.
It’s not bad, I tell ya. Can’t directly pick up the vanilla but it’s better than whiskey and coke alone. Hmmm. It ain’t my choice, but my son’s. He has a bottle of of Ancient Age and the only pop I got in the house is vanilla coke. Thus, a drink was born. Me, I think I’ll run get a 6 pack. It’s the last night he’s in town, the last night of my vacation. I HAVE to drink, right? It’s, like, the rules.
The soul is the only object in the Cosmos capable of denying its own existence, and why did Britney Spears get a new nose? Her old one was fine.
It’s a standard celebrity nose now, all angular and thin, like something you find on a mannequin, which, I guess, is somehow appropriate. A popup on Bing told me to go and look at some new photos of her, using the words “sexy” and “cleavage”, so I did. These days I wouldn’t classify half naked women as sexy in and of themselves. They have to be at least dancing or eating a banana or something. Britney’s cleavage was perfectly fine. it was airbrushed to perfection and the right and left matched up in a stellar feat of symmetry. But I couldn’t get passed her new nose. Are her boobs plastic, too? it made me wonder.
Now I question everything about Britney. Is she all plastic? Is she even real? Seriously, has anybody ever seen her up close in real life? I bet she’s just an animated image, totally CGI—Britney the hologram!
The Guy Who Wouldn't Flush the Toilet (a reek tragedy)
Ha ha. Get it?
But seriously, there was a guy leaving a horrifying mess in the toilet at work, one and sometimes even two times a day. On Employee Appreciation Day awhile ago when corporate provided everybody with free food, he did it three times!
I worked produce, man’s work, unpacking pallets of bananas and yams and potatoes and whatever. The employee johns were right there next to us. We weren’t allowed to use the customer johns, though the baggers had to clean them. Another guy in produce, Tanner, brought it up first.
"Who the hell is always leaving shit in the toilet?"
"Yeah, really. I’ve been noticing it for, damn, weeks now."
Heath, a guy who worked meat and who was standing just outside our door, overheard us. “Are you guys talking about the Mad Shitter?” he asked, coming in.
Me and Tanner laughed.
"Yeah, that’s what we’ve been calling him over in meat—the Mad Shitter."
"The Mad Shitter," I said. "That’s a good one."
"It’s been going on for months," Heath said.
"Really?" I said. "Months?"
Heath shrugged his shoulders. “Well, whoever comes across it flushes it down. You guys do, right?”
Me and Tanner nodded.
"That’s why you sometimes miss it."
"I wouldn’t say I miss it, Heath," I said.
"We’ve been keeping track in meat. It’s an everyday occurrence."
Obviously, the guys in meat were weirdos. We in produce always suspected and now here was undeniable proof.
"Who the hell drops the kids off at the pool, wipes, and doesn’t flush?" Tanner wondered. "That’s fucking sick."
"We think it’s Carl in dairy," Heath said.
"He’s the the squirrelly-lookin’ guy," I said. "Right? That guy who can only look at you with one eye at a time?"
"I didn’t know he was in dairy. I thought he was a bagger."
"He’s not mentally challenged, though," Heath explained. "Just looks it."
All the baggers in the store were mentally challenged. Company policy. One time, we were really slammed and the Big Boss asked me to work up front for a few hours, bagging and wrangling carts. Man, I felt smart that day, let me tell you. It was like I was Einstein or something.
"But you don’t know for sure it’s Carl, though, do you?" Tanner asked.
"No, it’s just a theory."
"Based on what?"
"The fact that he’s squirrelly-lookin’," I said and laughed.
"Pretty much," said Heath. He got an intercom for customer assistance in the meat department and scurried away.
"We need to find out who it is," Tanner said, "then kick some ass."
I shrugged. “Can’t. I’m a pacifist.”
"You know what I mean. It’s fucking gross walking in there. The fan’s never worked in the men’s john and it reeks. Sometimes, I can even smell it before I open the door."
"Yeah, me too."
"What if that smell wafts out onto the floor?" Tanner said. "Who wants to be squeezing an avocado while the faint smell of shit floats past their nose?"
"Well," I said indignantly, "certainly not me!"
"There’s gotta be something wrong with a person who leaves a big pile of shit for everyone to see, over and over again. Something wrong, like, psychologically."
"Maybe he should be a bagger after all," I offered.
"I don’t think it’s Carl, though," Tanner said. "I’ve gotten high with him before out by the dumpsters. He’s a pretty cool guy."
"I don’t really know him."
"He’s pretty cool."
"Maybe it’s you, Tanner," I said, nudging him. "Maybe you’re the one leaving all the shit."
"Fuck that! You’ve seen how often I wash my hands!"
"You do wash your hands a lot. Almost like there’s something wrong with you, like, psychologically."
"I gotta wash my hands a lot. It’s all those chemicals they spray on the fruits and vegetables. I don’t wanna get cancer."
Just then Tanner began washing his hands. We were standing in “the back”, the non-public area of the produce department. Stacked around us were boxes of bananas, squash, and potatoes. We were by the sink, obviously, which was right by the door. Past the bananas, squash, and potatoes was another door that led to the large produce cooler. There was a plastic window in the door by which we were standing. Through it we could see the entire produce area of the store—our jurisdiction, so to speak. Also, whoever had to use the employee bathrooms had to walk right by this window. We were in a prime position to conduct an investigation.
"You know," I said to Tanner looking out the window, "we’re in a prime position to conduct an investigation."
"Into the identity of the Mad Shitter? I say we totally do it."
"We have to be diligent. We may even have to take notes."
"So? I’ve written before."
We went to the paper goods aisle and got pocket notebooks and Bic pens. These we marked off as “store use” and from that point on we wrote down the name of every male employee who went to the bathroom. Not only that but after they were done one of us checked to see if there was unflushed shit in the toilet. it was a strange investigation, but still kind of fun. It took our minds off the monotony of our job anyway.
"I feel just like James Bond," Tanner said three days into the investigation.
It wasn’t until about a week and a half in that we cracked the case, and it wasn’t squirelly-looking Carl. Nor was it Heath, who had become me and Tanner’s main suspect simply because he knew so much about the Mad Shitter.
"I bet it’s that fucking Heath," Tanner had said one day, and it made total sense to me. "You know, one time I even saw him eat garbage?"
"Yeah, in the breakroom somebody had thrown away, like, half a burrito and he fucking picked it up and ate it, right there in front of God and everybody."
"Wow," I said. "Nothing says ‘I like to shit in the toilet and not flush it’ quite like eating garbage."
But it wasn’t Heath. It was James, who worked in pricing. We knew little of him, or anybody in pricing, for that matter. They sat in front of computers, usually, preparing the ads for the papers and making signs for the store. We only saw them periodically, when they emerged to adjust the prices throughout the store. Oh, and when they had to go to the bathroom.
James had entered the bathroom around 3 pm on a Tuesday and had stayed in it for what seemed like a really long time. When Tanner went to see if he flushed (it was his turn to check), he hadn’t.
Tanner walked up to me where I was putting the apples into neat alternating rows and said “Code blue.”
"It’s still smoking, my friend. We have a winner."
"That James guy from pricing?"
"It’s a game."
Now that we knew who the Mad Shitter was, we didn’t know what to do about it. Tanner had talked about confronting him, but Tanner often talked. And what do you say to a guy like this?
"Um, excuse me, sir, but can you stop shitting in the toilet and then, you know, not flushing it?"
Or maybe: “If it’s yellow, let it mellow! If it’s brown flush it down!”
All we knew about James was that he was of medium build, had brown hair, and ate a high fiber diet. Neither Tanner or I could ever recall speaking to him, so we decided to try Heath.
"Yo, Heath," we whispered to him conspiratorially, "ever talk to James?"
"He’s the Mad Shitter!"
"Yep. And we don’t know what to do about it."
"How do you know it’s him?"
Tanner unleashed the notebook from his pocket. “3:03 pm,” he read, “James from pricing enters john. Stays long time. 3:41 pm, James from pricing leaves john. 3:42 pm, I enter john only to discover horrible mess of shit festering in what can only described as an abused and degraded toilet. 3:42.5 pm, I flee bathroom, gasping for air.”
"What the fuck?" Heath said and cracked up. After five or so minutes of laughter, he said, "I don’t know what you should do about it. Man, you guys in produce need a fucking hobby."
"What the hell do you think this is?" I protested.
Over the next few weeks, we did nothing—well, except double-check our findings. Every time James from pricing went to the bathroom, we checked to see if he flushed and, sure enough, never ever did. It was becoming a traumatic experience for us, racing into the the bathroom only to find horrors unimaginable waiting for us, horrors were knew were there waiting for us.
"We must be fucking masochists," I said to Tanner one day as we left the bathroom.
"Of course we’re masochists," he said. "We work in a grocery store."
Finally, the annual outdoor kegger thrown by assistant store manager Jim rolled around. Everybody was there except the Big Boss and the Mormon guy in floral. Even James was there—with a girl, no less. A hot girl.
"You see that girl with James?" I asked Tanner.
"Hell, yeah," he said. "I got wood."
"Don’t stand so close to me then."
"Don’t stand," Tanner sang, dancing away, "don’t stand so close to me…"
After I got 8 or 9 beers in me, I resolved to talk to James’s girl. Maybe I would tell her he constantly shat in the toilet at work and didn’t flush. Maybe she would leave him, all grossed out, and fall in love with me, a guy who always flushed. We would live happily ever after, perhaps, with a clean and frequently flushed toilet.
Keep in mind I was pretty drunk.
I kept my eyes on them, waiting for James to get lost, but he was always hovering around. Finally, FINALLY, he left her alone. Probably went to the bathroom to take a dump and not flush it.
I decided to try humor. I am, after all, totally fucking hilarious. I walked up to her and said, “Got a joke for ya.”
"Oh, yeah?" she said, her voice like liquid honey. "Tell me."
"A rich guy and a poor guy were talking and discovered that their wedding anniversaries were on the same day. ‘What did you get your wife this year?’ asked the poor guy. ‘A brand new Mercedes and a diamond ring,’ said the rich guy. ‘Wow!’ said the poor guy. ‘Yeah,’ said the rich guy proudly. ‘That way if she didn’t like the diamond ring, she could take it back in style. What about you, what did you get your wife?’ ‘A pair of slippers and a dildo,’ said the poor guy. ‘That’s odd. Why those presents?’ asked the rich guy. ‘That way if she didn’t like the slippers she could go fuck herself.’"
"Heh," James’s girl said, and rolled her eyes.
Just then James the Mad Shitter came up. “What’s going on?” he said. “You busting a move on my woman?”
"Busting a move? What time is it, 1994?"
"I was just talking."
"He told me a really stupid joke," she verified.
"This is my woman," James said. "Mine."
"Hey, I was just talking."
"A really stupid joke," she said.
James sat his beer down, unzipped his pants, and began urinating a circle around where she stood.
"Dammit, James, not again!" she said.
"You’re mine," James said, as he peed, "all mine!" He cackled maniacally.
"Well, be careful," she told him. "Last time you got some on my ankle."
At that I turned and ran. “Tanner!” I cried. “Jesus Christ, Tanner, you won’t fucking believe this!”
Just sitting around having some drinks. Whiskey sours were invented for summer evenings like this, I believe. There’s a storm over there in the left of the sky and it makes my dog Duke nervous. He can smell it coming, so he’s trying to sit on my lap, but I have relegated him to my ankles because I can’t write with a dog in my lap. The poor thing is scared to death of thunder. By cooing to him and loving on him when he’s scared like this, I only reinforce things, or so I have read in a dog book. I act nonchalant instead. I AM nonchalant. It’s no act. This is the Upper Midwest and this is the summer. Thunderstorms happen nearly every evening. Big whoop.
Tonight is a full moon—a super moon, in fact. Here’s a post I wrote about a previous super moon.
No word on my truck. Everyone’s telling me it’s probably out on the rez by now. Oh well. I guess someone needed it more than I. Dammit, though, my thermos was on the seat! I fucking loved that thermos. Bring it back, whoever you are, and you can just have the damn truck!
which is kinda funny cuz it is practically outta gas and the power steering is broken. you need muscles to drive it. additionally, the ignition is fucked up and it’s tricky even turning the key, which is why i never bothered takin’ it out.
i only ever used it to haul things to the dump: yard waste, broken furniture, dismembered corpses.
i can’t believe someone actually stole it. weird. next thing you know, i’ll come home and all the trash in my dumpster will be missing.