Category Archives: humor

Terrible Trumpkin Trolls

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A new Sith Lord has arisen to take charge of the new GOP Totally Dominant Empire of Evil.  He has successfully usurped the throne of power even though the Democratic candidate actually got over a million more votes than he did.

And one of the most surprising things about it is how accidentally the pieces of the Republican Empire seem to have fallen into place.

Lord Trump has benefitted from several evil and self-serving plots that the Republicans have been advancing since the rule of Lord Darth Ronny.  Reagan appointed Scalia of the Many Scales to the Supreme Court.  Scalia and Roberts (a minion appointed by Darth George W. the Rodeo Clown) created the Citizen’s United plan to bathe evil candidates in blood money from billionaires.  They also conspired to loosen the grip of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 to allow voter suppression to run rampant in places like Florida, Texas, and North Carolina (two of which should’ve gone blue instead of red without the interference).  The FBI, led by Republican minion Comey, managed to keep the email scandal alive right up until the very week of the election even though they had to admit no evidence of wrong-doing was ever uncovered.  And it seems that the Russian hackery of emails and the publishing of them by Wikileaks might even be connected to statistical anomalies from districts where electronic voting machines were used.  Clinton may have lost 30,000 votes dropped by voting machines in Pennsylvania where she lost the State by 27,000.

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Of course, the victory conditions were not really set up to benefit Donald Trump.  The Republicans had intended all along to get a more competent Sith apprentice into the seat of ascendancy like Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, or even, if forced to, a (shudder) moderate like John Kasich.  But Trump used incendiary rhetoric to fill the downtrodden masses who are suffering from the demise of the middle class with hatred and blame-bombs, effectively turning them into a vast army of Trolls.  And, unfortunately for the rest of us, Trumpkin Trolls are much better shots than stormtroopers ever were.  All that time in the NRA paid off.

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So, simply by accidentally taking the power for himself, Lord Trump has killed us all.  Yes, I mean literally.  He will pull us out of climate-change agreements and revitalize the use of coal to turn this planet into Venus where it is more than 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit on the surface due to rampant greenhouse effects.

And he has plans to put racists, warhawks, misogynists, and criminals in the highest positions of power.  If you don’t believe me, investigate the background of Sith Apprentice Steve Bannon even just a little bit.   He claims darkness is a good thing.

“Dick Cheney. Darth Vader. Satan. That’s power. It only helps us when they (liberals) get it wrong. When they’re blind to who we are and what we’re doing,” Bannon said in an interview published Friday, his first outside of Breitbart since the election.

http://www.cnn.com/2016/11/18/politics/steve-bannon-donald-trump-hollywood-reporter-interview/

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One might imagine that Trump Ice Cream would be Nazi flavored.

I know people who voted for Trump.  They are not racists and do not share some of the hateful ideas these Trolls embrace as their own.  I imagine they feel betrayed already by Lord Trump.  If they don’t, they should.

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Trump celebrated his rise to the top of the Sith leadership with a scary Trump-head cake.  Presumably during the celebration, at some point, they ate his head.

 

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Stardusters… Canto 22

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Canto Twenty-Two – In Golden Wing One, Fighting for Life

It first appeared over the horizon and the orange-brown clouds of the atmosphere as a sort of bright star-thingy.  It was an enemy space ship.  Farbick couldn’t identify it any more than that.  It was shooting at him with very large slug-throwers, cannons as the Earthers called them.

“Why are they attacking?” asked Biznap of the fat Galtorrian.

“Since the last war started, every ship you meet is an enemy craft.  We won’t survive if we don’t shoot them first.”  Stabharh didn’t wait for the fat one to answer.  Farbick supposed it was because war was the little lizard’s area of expertise.

“Well, come on!” squealed the fat Galtorrian, “before they kill me!   Shoot them!  Shoot them now!”

“We’ll be all right,” said Farbick, rolling away from the cannon fire.

“We will not!  That’s a top of the line space ship from the Overlord’s private fleet.  They will kill us just because we’re here!”  The fat fool Bahbahr was so frightened he squeaked when he talked… like a frightened child who was about to soil his pants.

“Don’t worry,” soothed Starbright with her calming female voice, “Farbick knows how to do this better than any Telleron pilot I know.”

Suddenly the cannon shot that Farbick couldn’t dodge came directly at the view screen.

“Aagh!  We are dead!” screeched Bahbahr.

The shot, however, exploded a fair distance away against the ship’s energy field.

“How did you do that?” asked Stabharh in amazement, and possibly enviously.

“Higher tech level than our enemy,” said Biznap smugly.  “Your people don’t even know how to generate a force field, let alone breach one with projectiles.”

“All right!” cried the fat Galtorrian.  “Now shoot him down.”

“Can’t do that.  We don’t carry ship to ship weaponry,” said Farbick.  “Defense only… the explorer’s code.”

“What?” growled Stabharh, “he’ll go back to Senator Tedhkruhz and relay our location.”

“He most certainly will not!” cried Biznap.  The Commander reached over to the proper switch on his control panel and flipped the cloaking mechanism on.

They heard the electric buzz of the device and saw the tell-tale shimmer across the viewing screen.  Moments later the enemy space craft began to drift away in a confused spiral search pattern.

“Why did they leave like that?” asked the fat Galtorrian.

“They lost visual contact and had to give up,” said Farbick.  “They can’t track what they don’t see.”

“You can be invisible?” crooned Stabharh.

“Of course we can,” crowed Biznap proudly.

“You must teach us this!” said the little lizard warrior.

“Now, hold on, junior,” said Biznap, “We still have an agreement to work out.  Are we still prisoners?”

“Well,” said the fat one, stalling, “we must still decide that matter.”

“Open to negotiation?” asked Biznap.

“Yes,” said Bahbahr in an oily voice.  “Definitely looking forward to bargaining.”

“We need coordinates to land,” said Starbright.  “You still haven’t explained where we are going.”

“I wanted to go to my secret base on Gundahl, the second moon of Galtorr Prime,” said the fat one.  “The bad guys will not find us there.  And very few of our enemies still have any kind of flight or space travel capability.”

“Which is the second moon?” asked Farbick with the navigation program pulled up on his pilot’s main computer.

“Gundahl is the big irregular one.  Rekhpahree had a base there too before the war.  The chunk missing from the moon is the result of Senator Tedhkruhz blasting it from orbit.  Melted moon-bits rained down on Galtorr Prime for a ten-cycle after that.”

“Okay,” said Farbick, “I have the moon locked in to the computer, but where on the moon?”

“The entrance to my base,” said Bahbahr, “is under the Silica Falls near the Sea of Black Bones on that big hunk of stone.”

“I see it,” said Farbick.  “We will go there directly.  But tell me, why do the names on your home-world all sound like a horror movie set?”

“You might as well ask, why do Galtorrians hate each other with such passion?” said Stabharh.

“Or why do Galtorrians eat each other after they have slain Galtorrians in battle?” said Bahbahr.

“Yes,” said Farbick.  “I want to know that too.  Why do you people eat each other?”

“We wish to absorb the fighting spirit of the defeated warrior,” said Stabharh.

“Personally,” said Bahbahr, somewhat cattily, “I just like the taste.”

“Yes,” agreed Stabharh, “I do also.  Especially in savory blood sauce.”

“Savory blood sauce?” asked Starbright as if she were about to be ill.

“Yeah, you know,” said Bahbahr, “What the Earthers call ketchup in those Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello movies.”

*****

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Thank God for Joe Biden

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I am still reeling from the election result and suffering a bad, bad, super-icky, down-on-my-luck, and in-poor-health sort of holiday week.  I will try to make humor out of all things going wrong in a later post… once I am finished surviving it.

In the meantime, I realize I am not the only one having a bad week in a bad month in a bad year.  And I really appreciated the wealth of internet memes that use Joe Biden’s unique persona and sense of humor to make me smile in the middle of the darkness.

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Me and a number of my like-minded Facebook friends (many of whom I have never met outside of the internet) have been passing these things back and forth to help ease some of the pain and make life a bit less grim.  I confess to laughing really hard at a couple of these.

I really hope the badger and duct tape thing is an actual plan being carried out.  Although, I know life doesn’t actually work that way outside of the funny papers.

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Writing Every Day

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These are volumes 3&4 of my daily journal that I have kept since the 1980’s.

Writing every single day is something I have been doing since 1975, my senior year in high school.  It is why I claim to be a writer, even though I have never made enough money at it to even begin to think of myself as a professional writer.  I kept a journal/diary/series of notebooks that I filled with junk I wrote and doodles in the margins up until the middle 90’s when I began to put all my noodling into computer files instead of notebooks.  I have literally millions of words piled in piles of notebooks and filling my hard drive to the point of “insufficient memory” errors on my laptop.  I am now 60 years old and have been writing every day for 42 years.

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There are days in the past where I only wrote a word, or a sentence or two.  But there were a lot of words besides the words in my journal.  I started my first novel in college.  I completed it the summer before my first teaching job in 1981.  I put it the closet, never to be thought of again, except when I needed a good cringe and cry at how terrible a writer I once was.  I have been starting, stopping, percolating, piecing together, and eventually completing novel projects ever since… each one goofier and more wit-wacky than the last.  So I have a closet full of those too.

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It would be wrong of me to suggest that my journals are only for words.  As a cartoon-boy-wannabee I doodle everywhere in margins and corners and parts of pages.  Sometimes the doodle is an afterthought.  Sometimes it precedes the paragraph.  Sometimes it is directly connected to the words and their meaning.

Sometimes the work of art is the main thing itself.

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But always, the habit of writing down words and ideas every single day takes precedence over every other part of my day.  That’s the main reason I am stupid enough to think of myself as a writer even though I don’t make a living by writing.

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But I did put my words into my profession too.  As a teacher of writing, I wrote with and to my students.  I did that for 31 years as a classroom teacher, and two years as a substitute.  I required them each to keep a daily journal (though they only got graded for the ones they wrote in class, and then only for reaching the amount of words assigned).  We shared the writing aloud in class, making only positive comments.  I wrote every assignment I gave them, including the journal entries.  They got to see and hear what I could write, and it often inspired them or gave them a structure to hang their own ideas upon.  And often they liked what I wrote and were surprised by it almost as much as I liked and was surprised by theirs.   Being a writer was never a total waste of time and effort.

So am I telling you that if you want to be writer you have to write every day too?  If I have to tell you that… you have totally missed the point.

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Scary Driving Stuff

Yesterday evening we didn’t pass a milestone… we kinda ran into it.

Number Two Son Henry is about to become a licensed driver in December.  Thursday night he finished his last drive time with driving school instructors.  We have to wait for the road test, but nothing really stands in his way.  He has been repeatedly practicing driving in Carrollton and Lewisville city traffic.  Over the summer and into the fall he has compiled hours worth of driving experience.   But, no matter how experienced, nearly everyone has at least one accident during their driving life.

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We had stopped at Wendy’s to get dinner after school, the three of us, the Princess, Henry, and I.  My diabetes was on the warpath yesterday, and I made the mistake of eating too much of a baked potato.  So, I asked him to drive even though it was Friday evening rush hour traffic.  He assured me he could handle it.

Well, we made the first turn onto the street on a yellow light and he accidentally caught the median curb with the driver’s side wheel.  Then, as we bounced into the traffic stopped at the next red light, we crunched into the backside of a lady’s car as it innocently waited for the light to turn green.

The air bags did not deploy.  There was no blood and death and fire.  My biggest worry was the fact that we were all shaken by the incident.  My hands were shaking anyway from blood sugar problems.  So, we put the emergency lights on.  I stupidly turned them off again.  Then the lady appeared at the driver’s side window with a look of utter horror on her face, her hands shaking worse than mine.  We exchanged insurance information.  She called the police to get an accident report, but they were busy and told us that if we could drive away from it, we should, and they would look into it later.  So, Henry realized the emergency lights were off and turned them back on.  We took pictures of the accident (see above).  Then we drove both cars into the Spring Creek Barbecue parking lot.  The damage turned out to be minimal, consisting of scratched paint on both cars.  There didn’t even appear to be dents.  Henry then drove us homeward, and we got him to work on time.  So it was basically a real-life jump scare that proved our hearts could still beat way faster than normal.  And Henry got the first-accident milestone done with, before he even got his license.  How fun!  But let’s not do it again soon.

 

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Upon Further Reflection…

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My 60th Birthday Self Portrait

Time dictates lots of things.  I am not now even the ghost of what I was back then.  I look more like Santa Claus than my father or my grandfathers ever did.  You may notice that, even with glasses on, I have to squint in order to see who I really am.

It is normal to do a bit of self-examination after a milestone birthday.  But I never claimed to be normal.  In fact, I doubt after the results of the recent election that you could say I was anything like the common man at all.

I was raised a Christian in a Midwest Methodist Church from a small Iowa farm town.  But I have since become something of an agnostic or atheist… not because I don’t believe in God, but because I don’t believe anyone can tell me who God is or how he wants me to be other than me.  But I am also not at the center of the universe the way most religious people believe.  I believe that all people are born good and have to work at being bad by making self-centered choices and making excuses to themselves for behaving in ways that they know are wrong.  God doesn’t forgive my sins because he doesn’t have to.  I am tolerant of all people and most things about them.  To sum up this paragraph, I am nothing like the dedicated Christians I know and grew up among.  The actions of the new, in-coming government and dominant political party convince me that intolerance, self-interest, and rationalizations are the norm.

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Sometimes my nose gets really red and my hair bozos out for no particular reason.

I deal with the problems of life by making jokes and forging ahead with carefully considered plans in spite of the doubts others express about my abilities, my choices, and my sanity.  I prefer to do something rather than to sit idly by and do nothing.  Yet, I never do anything without agonizing over the plan before I take that step.  And like the recent election, things usually go wrong.  I have failed at far more things in my life than I have succeeded at.

I am told I think too much.  I hear constantly that I make things too complicated.  People say I should do practically everything in a different way… usually their way.  But I inherited a bit of stubbornness from my square-headed German ancestors.  In fact, I inherited Beyer-stubborn from my Grandma Beyer.  In all the time I knew her, I never saw her change her mind about anything… ever.  She was a Republican who thought all Republicans were like President Eisenhower, even Ronald Reagan…  but not Barry Goldwater.  Someone convinced her that Goldwater was a radical.  That was almost as bad as being a Democrat.  I, however, have strayed from the Beyer-stubborn tradition enough to change my mind once in a while, though only after carefully considering the facts on both sides of the question.  Nixon changed me from a Republican like Grandma into a Democrat.  Fortunately, Grandma Beyer loved me too much to disown me.

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In my retirement, I have gotten even more artistical than I was before.  This is a picture of me with my fictional child Valerie.

So how do I summarize this mirror-staring exercise now that I have passed the 500-word goal?  Probably by stating that I do have a vague idea of who I am.  But I promise to keep looking in the mirror anyway.  One never knows what he will see in the map of his soul that he wears on his face.

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Stardusters… Canto 21

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Canto Twenty-One – In the Wreckage

The repaired anti-gravity coils were not one hundred per cent successful.  The station whirled to the surface of the planet in a flaming spiral that scattered red-hot sparks throughout the dirty brown clouds that made Galtorr’s atmosphere nearly solid.  The impact cracked the seal between the station and the space ship that had impaled it.  Smoke and toxic atmosphere rushed in.

“Ah!  The air stinks!” cried Menolly.

“The hostile environment suits!”  cried Tanith.  “Get them on!”

Everyone obeyed as quickly as they could peel themselves off the floor.  Alden and Gracie had trouble with the helmets since they were designed for beings with a head fin on their heads.  Brekka’s suit was almost too tight to put on.  She had to wriggle, pull, and squeal to get it on.  But when it was on and all she had to do was push a button to make it fit properly, she didn’t push it.  Davalon wasn’t exactly sure why, but he did notice her admiring the reflection of her shapely behind in a piece of interior chrome.

“What do we do now?” asked George Jetson.  He turned his helmeted eyes toward the intercom that had been their connection to Sizzahl.  “Sizzahl?  Are you still there?”

“Of course I am.  I’m not the one crashing through the atmosphere.  How many of you died?  Are the Earthers okay?”

“Is anybody dead?” George asked.  “Speak up if you’re dead!”

“We’re all okay,” said Tanith.  “I already counted all the survivors.  All seven of us made it into environment suits.”

“So, we’re all here.  What do we do next, Sizzahl?” Davalon asked the intercom.

“I need live plants.  Round up every live plant on the station and bring it to me.”

“Where do we find you?” asked George Jetson.

“Well, I need to have you tune your communicators into the intercom broadcast so I can talk to you and guide you.  This dome I am in is hidden well.  You will need to follow my directions very carefully to find me without guiding scabbies to my sanctuary.”

“Er…” said Menolly, “what are scabbies?  That doesn’t sound good.”

“There’s a movie called Night of the Living Dead, the Galtorrians’ favorite Earther movie, do you know it?”

“No.”  They were all quiet, but Davalon wondered what Alden was thinking.  He seemed to have heard of the movie.

“In the movie, dead people crawl out of their graves and eat the living people,” Sizzahl explained.  “That’s a little bit like the scabbies.  They are diseased, and they attack and eat anything they can get their rotten claws on.”

“Oh, no!”  Menolly fainted and her metallic helmet clunked against the floor of the station.

“Don’t worry.  If you can get here without being discovered by them, I am well protected here.  I am looking forward to having you here.  I’ve been alone for a very long time.”

“We are coming, Sizzahl,” said Tanith.  “Tell us how to tune our com units.”

As Sizzahl explained, Davalon looked at the plants the Galtorrian wanted.  They were rather browned and blighted.  He wasn’t sure they were really what Sizzahl wanted.  Still, gathering up the plants was not too much for her to ask.  After all, she had saved all of their lives.  By rights, Davalon and his crew of truants should all have died already for their mistakes.

*****

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Art Projects That Mickey Doo

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Mickey is suffering from too much politixity and angriefied argumentery to sleep well and eat well .   He has been eating , sleeping , and breathing polytix to the point that he can’t even spell properly any more .  Besides , pollertix doesn’t taste so good when you have to eat it after an election that went wrong . c360_2016-11-13-14-44-44-313

So Mickey started doing what Mickey always doo .   He started to draw.  First with pencil , then with black ink .   And then he started to color it in with colored pencil.  The spelling started to get better .  And not just because Mickey stopped having fist fights with the spell check . 20161113_202548

Other art projects helped too.  Like photographing Trolls in the Cardboard Castle . 20161113_202051

So, if the things that Mickey do help to save the brain , then he better doo before it all becomes doo doo.

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Concession Speeches

They keep saying, “Get over it, crybaby!” One suspects that there would’ve been far more angry lashing out on Facebook and elsewhere where the blue sphere and the red sphere intersect if the election had gone the other way.  But I get it.  They want to celebrate and glory in it.  The nyeah-nyeah-nyeahs are simply a bully’s way of expressing that.  The Trumpkins and the Trolls have their day in the sun.  Let’s hope the sunlight does for them the things it is purported to do for evil.

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But personally I am impressed with the grace and good will that Barack Obama and the Clintons have shown in their concession messages to the President-elect.  I am fairly sure that would’ve been different too if the election had gone the other way.  It seems, in fact, that Trump saying already he may preserve portions of the Affordable Care Act is a direct result of the professional approach used by the current President in talking to the President-elect about transition.  But there is much that remains on a newly defined battlefield that needs to be considered in the war to come.

Peaceful protests are going on everywhere, even in Texas.  (I know there has been some violence, but the intent is peaceful and protesting is our constitutional right.  Don’t even try to tell me the other side wouldn’t be doing worse.)  But we on the losing side accept that we lost.  Just as they now have the right to pursue their agenda, we have the right to defend ours.  And it is supposed to be the case that the argument results in a compromise for the benefit of all.  Let them consider our input.  If not, we still have those who defend us working on the case in Congress.

I am done with being fearful or sad.  I was already facing the darkness directly on a personal level.  I still intend to joke around a lot, and probably call Trump the Orangutan President, but humor is my weapon of choice against the darkness, the way I choose to shine my own small light.  I don’t believe in practically anything the new administration in this country stands for, but I didn’t during the Reagan and Bush eras either.  And there are always ways to find compromise and a solution to every problem.  I concede the election.  But I do NOT give up.  The fight itself may very well keep me alive a bit longer.  I am sure that makes old Cinnamon Hitler quake in his penny loafers.  (Yes, I know he has no idea I am even alive, but there are many things he has no idea about that he really should be worried about now.  Besides, exaggeration is a form of humor too, not just a tool for blow-hards to make themselves look bigger than they really are.)

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Healing From A Fatal Wound

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The Trumpkins and Trolls won the battle and are now busy eating their prisoners… along with the puppies and kittens for desert.  And as far as I can see, the war is over.  We had a chance with the Paris Climate Accords to repair the damage to the life of this planet, even though it was a very eleventh-hour plan to avert the end of life on Earth.  The Trolls and Trumpkins are peeing on that fence too, shorting it out and preventing it from saving us from being eaten by the heat-wolves of corporate polluters.

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I myself wasn’t expecting to live through another decade in any case, but now, I fear the lives of my children and grandchildren will be cut short as well.  You can’t poop where you eat on a regular basis and expect not to get sick and die.  I predicted that the Cubs would win the World Series because they stole key talent from the Cardinals and had a young, rising club to add them to.  I got that one right.  I predicted that Trump would win the presidency because I know a lot of the Trump-voter kind of former middle-class white people who are seriously in financial and existential pain, and I knew who they were going to blame it on.  If I am right about this last thing too, then we are all doomed.  3f96a6e4e030fa8fa38c97da9d206240

“Jeez, Mickey!  You don’t call that humor, do you?”

Well, I guess I do, because humor comes from being able to laugh at the darkness and make fun of the dumpy-lumpy lumbering bears of bad fortune that are about to eat you.  We are going to have a laugh or two before the end at the expense of Trumpkins and Trolls because they make world-shaking decisions based on faith in false facts.  The irony and stupidity of it all is a very laughable absurdity that will build BS mountains taller than Everest.  And those mountains will collapse upon them, burying them in poop.  Never mind that we will also be buried.  They brought it on themselves by the choices they made.  Seeing them get their comeuppance has to be worth a laugh or two.

I have pretty much let Will Rogers speak to this current election result through the memes I have chosen to accompany this gloomy-doomy essay.  I think it is significant that wisdom from a hundred years ago still applies so completely to the politics of today.  With democracy and elections we get what we deserve… not what we want.  We need to change to face the future, if we even get to have one.  But the past clearly shows that we haven’t learned our lessons very well.  I guess there’s nothing left to do but laugh about it… and try to love each other a little better before the bitter end.

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Thanks for sharing, Cousin Will.

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Filed under angry rant, commentary, feeling sorry for myself, humor, irony, Liberal ideas, politics, self pity