Game Day

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Yes, I am an Arizona Cardinals fan.  I have been rooting for the Cardinals since the days of Jim Hart, Mel Gray, Otis Anderson, Terry Metcalf, and Jackie Smith.  My team has ALWAYS been the underdog.  They won the NFL Championship as the Chicago Cardinals before I was born.  They never won it all in all the time they were in St. Louis.  In 2008 they played in the Superbowl and led late in the 4th quarter.  The Steelers beat them in last second heroic fashion.  I still hope for wins and glory.  Tonight they are actually favored to beat the Green Bay Packers.  That has always been the kiss of death for my team.  When they are favored, they lose.  But you never know.  This could be the year I’ve waited so long for.

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Filed under cardinals, football fan, sports

One For The Good Guys

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I spend most of my political ranting power on the Republicans in that elephant-driven eternal clown car they keep driving through the highways and byways of American politics.  That is because humor is basically a weapon for fighting the many metaphorical battles of modern life.  You’ve heard how it can be more cutting and sharp than any sword. And not having one of the Republican clowns as President is a very serious matter.  But one of the primary truths of Mickian life is this; the best humor is based in on love, not hatred.  It should be nourishing, not hateful.  That’s why electing politicians who can do the Frankenberry face is so important to me.  Better by far than those angry simian faces we saw in the Republican debates, calling each other names, insisting their parents were immigrant-ish enough to be unworthy, or insisting their politics aren’t hopelessly heartless enough to be elected as a conservative.

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So let me start by making fun with some of my favorite good guys.  If you want to put a clown in office to make the laws that will change your life, why not get a real clown?  Al Franken, Senator from Minnesota, is a professional clown.  He was one of the original writers on Saturday Night live, providing comedy material and acting in sketches from 1975 to 1980, then returning as a performer from 1985 to 1995.  He wrote six books, four of which are satires of conservative politics.  He became a political activist, and in 2008, he finally put his wit and wisdom to good political use by narrowly winning a Senate seat in Minnesota representing the Minnesota Democratic Farmer Labor Party, an affiliate of the Democratic party.  As a comedian he created the character Stuart Smalley, the slightly askew advice-giving self help guru.  As a senator he has continued to use his warm wit and wisdom to promote programs that actually help people and actually protect them a little bit from the toothy financial predators promoted by the money-hungry conservatives on the other side of the aisle.  It is as if Mark Twain or Will Rogers had lowered themselves to use their focused comedic insights to be a politician and make life less dreary  for the American people.

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Corey Booker, the junior senator from New Jersey, has a grin that reminds me of Magic Johnson, the basketball hero.   And like Johnson, he is capable of using his manic energy to get things done to help other people.

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Feb 16, 2014; New Orleans, LA, USA; NBA legend Magic Johnson laughs during the 2014 NBA All-Star Game Legends Brunch at Ernest N. Morial Convention Center. Mandatory Credit: Bob Donnan-USA TODAY Sports

Here’s an incident quoted from Wikipedia that shows how Cory Booker goes about wanting the ball to take the game-winning shot;

In December 2012, after discussions with a constituent about New Jersey’s Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), Booker began a week-long challenge attempting to live on a food budget of $30 per week—the amount SNAP recipients receive.  When critics noted that the very name of the SNAP program shows that it is intended to “supplement” an individual’s food budget, not be its sole source, Booker replied that his aim was to spark a discussion about the reality that many Americans rely solely on food stamps to survive.

You can’t go wrong with that Magic Johnson confidence, and that ten-thousand-watt smile.  No matter his human failings, Booker feels like the kind of politician who genuinely cares about people.

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Elizabeth Warren, Senator from Massachusetts, reminds me of my grade school teacher Mrs. Mennenga.  She has that same no-nonsense approach that brooks no foolishness in the classroom.  And I have seen Mrs. Warren lecture the senate chamber on their less-than-perfect behavior.  But she makes it clear that although she doesn’t love our stupidly selfish behavior at times, she loves us as her school children, and wants to prevent the sharks and the wolves of Wall Street from eating us whole.

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I think by now you probably see where I am going with this.  Democrats are far from perfect.  It is probably better for me to think of myself politically as an Independent.  But they are generally the progressive party.  They want to change things for the better for the majority of the people.  Conservative Republicans want to regressively change things back to the days of the robber barons when men like John D. Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, and J.P. Morgan could buy a president like William McKinley to make sure that most of the money in the world stayed in the pockets of the rich while the rest of us worked in sweat-shop slavery and poverty.  We are almost back to that, with no more middle class, and almost all aspects of the economy around us benefiting primarily the Walmart heirs.

So, if I am able to defy my church and my religious affiliation and actually vote in the next election, I will vote for Bernie Sanders.  Socialist though he is, he is promoting ideas that will help all of us.  And, besides, he has the hair thing going for him.  It’s Mickey hair all over again.  No matter how you comb it and brush it and shellac it with goo… well, you know… What?  Me, worry?

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Werewolf Inspirations

Having lived through a horror story recently, I now must work more on mine.  I have a werewolf story that I have been writing since the 1970’s.  I have been calling it The Baby Werewolf for forty-two years.  And that may have to change.  It is a story of a boy with hypertrichosis (werewolf excessive hair disease, a genetic disorder) and the family that is ashamed of him and tries to hide him forever in the attic.  Of course, if you know anything about me, you probably realize I am going to clown it up one side and down the other, because writing serious stuff is not my style… at least not without a “hefty helping of our hospitality”.  I am doing serious research now, which translated from ManicMickian means, “I am watching old werewolf movies on YouTube.”

 

I know you don’t believe I can pull off a YA novel that is a comedy about murder, wolves, and lycanthropes, with naked girls thrown in for good measure.  But watch me.  I am nothing if not willing to do practically anything to be creative.

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The Baby Werewolf

A Gothic Novel by Michael Beyer

 

 

 

Opus One – Of Wolves and Men

Canto One : “Homo Homini Lupus”

 

      Dad doesn’t like it when I watch horror movies.  He says they will give me nightmares.  They will keep me from getting a good night’s sleep.  And a farm kid needs his sleep because he has to get up early in the morning to check on the pigs, give them feed, and milk the cows.  We only have five cows.  Just enough to give the Niland family the milk it needs.  We can process it ourselves because we once had a lot of milk cows.  Not so much anymore.  Things are changing in the 1970’s.  But there I was that night watching The Wolfman on Grave’s End Manor the horror movie show that comes on CBS every week on Saturday… midnight.

I don’t always do exactly what Dad says.  Fathers don’t really know everything.  Well, not… everything, everything.  So, I have this story now to tell you, and it’s a… well, horror story.  It’s about werewolves.  Little ones.  And naked girls.  And me being almost fourteen already, I have to get this story told while I can still remember every little detail.  I just won’t show it to Dad.  And if they make it into a movie, I will tell him not to go.

I was all by myself that night.  The farmhouse was dark.  Mom and Dad had taken my little brother Nathaniel to Grandma’s house and they were in Rochester, Minnesota for some medical thing.  I was supposed to look after the farm and the pigs and the cows.  Our big thirty-six-inch TV was capable of doing full color, but the horror movie on Saturday nights was almost always a black and white movie anyway.  I was almost naked while watching it.  I only had on my Fruit of the Looms and an old silver crucifix on a chain around my neck.  It was something Great Aunt Hannah Foxworth had given Mom when she died.  Hey, it was a werewolf movie after all.

Lon Chaney Jr. was the star of the movie, and he looked more like old Elmer Dawes from Norwall, Iowa than your usual movie star.  But he was great in monster movies.

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Filed under horror writing, humor, NOVEL WRITING, Paffooney, Uncategorized

Parking Lot Nightmares

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Sometimes life is more like a car accident than a well-planned story.  You have to scrabble for themes and meaning as you undo your seatbelt to get out of the burning car before it explodes.  It was like that last night in the high school parking lot.

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You see, the Princess had a U.I.L. academic competition last night.  In Texas we compete in nerd olympics so we can pretend that our kids actually learn things in school.  The Princess was a part of the science team, taking a test in competition with the nerds from the other district middle schools.  Well, she lost.  Personally, team-wise, and school-wise, the Long Middle School Falcons were shut out of the top three places.  Yes, that sucks, but she did get to compete, an honor already.  As much as this society pooh-poohs participation ribbons and feeling good about less-than-winning, sometimes they do represent real effort and real value.  It is the kind of gut-twist you put up with every year, with every competition.  Not everybody can win, and non-winners don’t deserve punishment.

But the excitement last night was not about that.  What was it about?  I don’t still completely know.

I went at 9:00 p.m. to pick her up from the Newman Smith High School competition site after her team was thoroughly beaten.  I hate high school parking lots.  You have to put up with other parents and their Texas driving skills.  We call it “driving friendly” in Texas.  It means pushing to the front of the line, cutting people off, bluffing your way through with the threat of violent collision.  In truth, if most of those parents in the parking lot had to take the driving test today, they not only wouldn’t have a license, they would be in jail to prevent vehicular manslaughter.  So, when I saw the multiple police cars at the high school, I merely assumed that some of the parents of UIL contestants had been “driving friendly” a little too hard.

Well, I pulled up behind the buses and got an ominous text.

“We are in lock-down.  Something happened.  Are you in the parking lot?”

“Yes.”

“My teacher says to stay in your car and keep the doors locked.  Wait until I tell you that we have been cleared.  The police are here.”

Well, that was tense.  Twenty minutes of sitting in the car not knowing what was going on… not knowing how to find out.  Finally I get another text.

“You have to pick me up back at Long.  They are taking us out to the bus at the back of the school.”

So, I drove the ten blocks to Long Middle School and waited in the parking lot there.  Far fewer parents in cars to run into, so it had its plusses.

Finally the bus arrived.  My daughter had to sign the teacher’s roll call of students before she would be released for me to take her home.  It was already 10:30.

“We’re sorry for this,” one of the teachers told me.

“The principal will probably call you tomorrow and explain what happened,” said another teacher.  Personally, I didn’t really care what happened.  She was safe, and that was what mattered.

“I don’t know what happened, Dad,” the Princess said, “but the police were looking for a man with an AK47.  At least, I think that’s what they told me.”

Ah, Texas.  The right to bear arms truly makes us rest at ease.  Except, I do not want to have the arms of a bear.

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Filed under gun control, horror writing, humor, Paffooney

Soliloquy

In college I took classes in oral reading and acting because I was nutty about drama and play-writing, even though I was much too terrified of being put on a public stage to ever try out for a part.  But in Oral Reading 101 I was given the gift of a professor who actually was the head of the ISU Drama Department.  One of the things he made us do was a soliloquy from a Shakespeare play.  I was assigned the opening soliloquy from Richard the Third.

Good God!  Is that man ever a villain and a monster!  He’s more sinister and evil than Snidely Whiplash or Dick Dastardly… and certainly no less cartoonish.  Here is the best I can still do to recreate my old college performance of “The Winter of Our Discontent” soliloquy.

To pull off this assignment (On which I received an A grade from a professor known for imperious F-giving) I had to do a lot of research on King Richard III to be able to walk around in his skin for three whole minutes.  I had to learn about him from books and articles and drama critiques.  I spent a couple of weeks in the library (There was no internet or Google in 1978).  I learned that he was a complex man involved in the deeply troubled time of the War of the Roses.  He was from the house of York, the House of the White Rose.  His elder brother, Edward, had been  victorious in both battle and royal intrigue, and, with Richard’s help had secured the throne of England that had been wrested from the hands of Richard II to begin the struggle between House Lancaster (the Red Rose) and House York… both of which had blood-relationship claims to the throne.  Once in the hands of Richard’s brother Edward IV, the crown did not really rest peacefully on Yorkish heads.  Edward became ill and died in 1483.  The crown was to then go to twelve-year-old Edward V who was placed under the care of Uncle Richard’s regency.  At the time of his coronation, the legitimacy of Edward IV’s marriage was declared null and void, making the boy no longer eligible to be king.  Richard seized the title.  Young Edward and his younger brother were taken to the Tower of London and they were never seen publicly again.  According to Shakespeare, Richard did, in fact, have them killed.  But, the crown did not stay on Richard’s head for longer than two years.  In 1485 Henry Tudor came back to England from France.  Richard was defeated at the Battle of Bosworth Field and died in battle there.

I do actually understand Richard in ways that are difficult to admit.  I know what it feels like to be convinced you are unworthy by factors beyond your control.  Richard was a hunchback, plagued with severe scoliosis of the spine.  He lived his life in pain and was ridiculed for his deformity in a time where it was believed such things were a punishment from God for sins of the parents, or even sins the child himself was born with.  I can relate.  I was always so far above the other kids in my class at school that I was treated like a Martian, unloved and unlovable because I could not speak a language they really understood.  And on top of that, I was secretly the victim of a sexual assault, a condition that I feared made me a monster.  I could so easily have become a monster.  I could’ve set my mind to it in the same way Richard did, because vengeance for his differences consumed him utterly.  Thankfully, I did not choose a path of evil.  Drawing and telling stories proved to be the pick and shovel I used to dig myself out of my own pit of despair.

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Richard III’s long-forgotten grave was rediscovered in 2013, and a DNA match with relatives proved the skeleton with scoliosis was him in 2014.

The real Richard III may not have been the monster Shakespeare portrayed him as, either.  He was demonized after his defeat and death by the Tudors to strengthen their shaky claim to the throne.  There exists some evidence that he was a progressive king and a friend to his people, but horribly betrayed by some of his own followers, and certainly made the scapegoat by succeeding generations.

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A recreation of what Richard III looked like based on the skull found and portraits from the time period.

There is also some evidence that Shakespeare wrote the play as a political diatribe against the hunchback in the royal court of his day.  Sir Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury was also a hunchback with scoliosis.   And by his sometimes sinister-seeming machinations, he rose to power as Secretary of State for both Elizabeth I, and after her, James I.  He had a part to play in making James the King after Elizabeth’s long reign, probably an instrumental part.  He also uncovered the Gunpowder Plot of Guy Fawkes and friends, and rumors persisted that he had more to do with it than merely revealing and foiling it.  Nothing was ever proven against him.  Though Elizabeth called him “my pygmy” and James referred to him as “my little beagle”, he held power throughout his lifetime and foiled the work of his many enemies against him.  In fact, it is the similarities between Shakespeare’s Richard III and Robert Cecil that first made me begin to believe that Shakespeare was actually someone other than the actor who owned the Globe Theater and never spelled his own name the same way twice.  Knowing about Cecil surely needed to be the act of an insider in the royal court.  I balked at first when it was suggested to me that Shakespeare’s plays were actually written by Francis Bacon… and I continued to doubt until I learned more about the Earl of Oxford, Edward deVere.

So what is the point of this soliloquy about the soliloquy of Richard III?  Well, the point is that at one time I had to be him for a short while.  I had to understand who he was (at least the character that Shakespeare created him to be) and think as he thought.  That is what a soliloquy truly is.  Sharing from the character’s mind to my mind… and back again if I am to perform him… or even write him in some future fiction.

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Filed under autobiography, soliloquy, William Shakespeare, writing

Morning Has Broken

Today is off to a miserable start.  I heard on the radio that David Bowie has died.  Ziggy Stardust… the Goblin King… The Man Who Fell to Earth… the Thin White Duke…is gone.  And even though since high school in the 1970’s I have never been quite sure how I felt about his music, I wept.  The man was a musical maker of lyrical poetry.  He could make you feel really really terrible… but he always made you feel.  And he made me depressed as he led me through the Labyrinth… but he also made me soar… on the wings of a barn owl.  It was about facing the darkness and finding your way.   Finding the way out.  Singing the Little Drummer Boy with Bing Crosby, but not actually singing it… making peace on Earth instead.  Sometimes things are just so weirdly beautiful it hurts.

I dropped my daughter off at her middle school, and then Jody Dean & the Morning Team played this on the radio.

I wept again.  Darkness is my old friend…  I have lived with and through depression after depression.  My own… my wife’s… my children’s…  And it is a miracle I have lived this long without succumbing to the Darkness.  It took Robin Williams.  It took Ernest Hemingway.  But somehow, the Goblin King always goaded me onward, to find the answer at the end of the Labyrinth.  “You… you have no power over me.”  And then I am okay once again.

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I captured the dawn once again this morning.  Once again I failed to truly ensnare the subtle reds and pinks and purples that were actually there.  But there it is, anyhow.  The morning has broken.  The blackbird has spoken.  The morning is new.

My heart is still sore this morning.  The dog didn’t help when she spilled the trash to get at the napkins with bacon grease on them.  We may have a dog-skin rug as a doormat later today.  But David Bowie left so many words and ideas behind to comfort me.  Is he one of those “neon gods we made”?  Of course he is.  But as the owl flutters off in the closing credits, we can take comfort in the knowledge that no one is ever really gone.  And we can always anticipate some… Serious Moonlight.

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Book Magic, the Empathy Spell

Fools

I have long known that reading good books is the primary path to being a wizard.  There are many, many things you can learn from the magic contained in fiction books, but now there is also research that proves books can improve your empathetic skills.  Here is the article I found to suggest it is so;

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If you don’t feel energetic enough to actually go there and read that, let me summarize a bit.  When you read a good fiction story, you get to live for a while in another person’s skin… see the world through someone else’s eyes… and if it is intelligent, realistic, and complex enough, it rewires a bit of the part of your brain that tries to understand and make sense of perspectives that are new to you, not merely habits that you follow down muddy, well-worn paths on auto-pilot.  You get to practice understanding other people.  And the more you practice this with well-written, insightful material, the more empathetic you will become.  The article notes significantly that children reading J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series develop skill at compassion.  I can personally testify that as a middle school teacher, I saw that very thing happening as students in my nerd classes not only became more sensitive towards the gifted weirdos in their class because of Harry, but also became more understanding of the special education students, and other often-bullied minorities.  Harry Potter books are literally magic books.

Here are some other notable books and their magical powers;

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To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee is taught in numerous middle schools and high schools across the country because teachers have instinctively realized how much it does to solve problems of racial and cultural tension in the school environment.  It tackles the unfairness of racism, the effects of extreme poverty, the possible side effects of too much religion, and it illustrates everything through the voice of a very intelligent young girl.  Learning hard lessons becomes practically painless.

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The Book Thief by Markus Zusak is narrated by the angel of death.  It is set in Nazi Germany in the war years.  The central character is the daughter of a man arrested and executed as a communist.  She is forced to live with German foster parents who turn out to be very loving individuals, though they are enduring difficulties of their own.  They not only love and nurture her, they take in a young Jewish man who is fleeing the Gestapo and the work camps.  In the face of the constant threat of death, the main character learns to read both books and people, to care about others, and face the deaths of those she loves without fear.  This book makes beauty out of human ugliness and war, and love out of fear and death.  Very powerful magic, in my humble opinion.

So what am I saying in this Paffoonied post of books and magic?  Only this.  There is magic power to be gained from reading fiction books, especially well-written fiction books.  Try it for yourself.  You may accidentally turn yourself into a frog… or a little girl from Maycomb, Georgia in the 1930’s… but it will turn out to be very good magic.  Go ahead, try it.  I dare you.

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Disney Princesses

You know that I am bad about collecting things.  And on a cold, cold day, what better way to warm the cockles of my cold, old heart than to look at some of the pictures I have in my computer of Disney Princesses?  Don’t inform the local loony bin about this obsession of mine… they are looking for me for enough reasons already.

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Oopsie!  No tangents, please!  Back to Princesses!

 

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Those are Princes!  You big goof!  In fact, some of them are not even royalty.  Come on, Mickey!  This is too simple to screw up!  Just a collage of Disney Princesses!

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It’s getting a bit silly now, but at least silly is better than wrong.

Umm… stick with silly, please…

Ooh, much better!

Sailor Moon?  Are you kidding me?

Why do you think Tinkerbell is a PRINCESS?!!!

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No, I think not!  Don’t even try to go there!

Let me end this nonsense here by apologizing to all the many wonderful artists whose work I stole for this post.  I appreciate your wonderful talents.  But I think in pulling this whole thing together I should acknowledge that it would not have been possible without obsessive-compulsive behavior on my part, and mindlessly posting other people’s pictures on the part of everyone on the internet.  It makes it seem that artwork belongs to all of us, and not just the artists who create it and the people who have all the money.

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Squint Beastwood and his Action Heroes of the 70’s Face the Here and Now

Yesterday I happened upon Squint Beastwood sitting in a park in the North Dallas area.  He had an empty lawn chair next to him, and he appeared to be deeply into a conversation with it.

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Squint (speaking as his character the Man with No Name);  You see, chair, I have a gun.  It’s a really, really big gun.  And I know how to use it.  I can shoot the eyes out of a peckerwood at 100 yards.  (I was confused about whether he actually meant to say “woodpecker”, but his gun was so big I was afraid to ask.)

chair (speaking as itself);  …

Squint (still as the Man with No Name);  I just don’t get this whole second amendment thing.  I mean, do I really have to have somebody’s permission to have a gun?  I don’t think so.  Lots of dudes have come up to me and said, “give me your gun, Josey Whales.”  And I don’t have to even shoot them to keep my gun.  I just squint my eyes real hard at them and chomp down on the toothpick in my mouth and say, “Are you sure you want to be asking me that?  I can draw my gun and shoot so fast that you can’t blink before you’d be deader than a cold stone that died from stone cancer.”  And they would just get this confused look on their faces and drop their own guns.  Of course, then I would shoot them stone cold deader than a cold stone that died from stone cancer.  You know what I mean?”

chair (still speaking as itself); …

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Squint (suddenly speaking as the rogue cop anti-hero Hurty Barry);  Now they are pestering me about the rights of the perpetrator.  They say things to me like, “Barry, you can’t just go around shooting somebody just because they were jaywalking or playing with  a toy gun while making the mistake of being black.”  But I don’t get that.  There are no crimes committed around me because I just look at the perpetrator and say, “I know you are thinking about committing a crime, criminal.  But you gotta ask yourself, can he really shoot me before I can dial 911 on a  cell phone?  You’ve been texting a lot, and have lots of practice, and probably think you can snap a picture of me and text Hurty Barry just violated my civil rights before I can shoot you in the head and make you stone cold deader than a cold stone that died of stone cancer.  So, do ya feel lucky, punk?”

And then I shoot them in the head.  The world is suddenly a safer place.  Why would anybody assume that somebody who is thinking of committing a crime has a right to a fair trial to determine if they actually committed a crime or not?  You just don’t know people the way I know people.  They are all criminals, rapists, murderers… and some, I assume are good people, but I think we should just shoot them stone cold deader than a cold stone that died of stone cancer and let God sort them out on judgement day.

chair (still speaking as itself)…

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Buck Cheston, former leader of the NPA (National Pistol Association) and star of movies like Planet of the Grapes wanders up and speaks as himself instead of one of his numerous movie characters;  Squint, old man, I see you have been talking to chairs again.  And you are afraid that Obama and his jack-booted government thugs are going to take away your guns.

Squint (still speaking as Hurty Barry); No, Buck.  Nobody takes away my guns.  I am just upset that society seems to think we should talk about our problems and find peaceful solutions, instead of solving problems with violence.

Buck (still speaking as leader of the NPA… even though he is actually dead now);  I agree with you that we can never solve this country’s problems as long as liberals and government types want to take away our guns.  Whether it is a matter of going to war with Iran, or keeping peace on the streets of Baltimore, the solution is not to take guns out of the hands of good guys with a gun.  We have to be able to shoot bad guys with a gun, and shoot to kill.  They will never get my guns until they pry them from my cold dead hands.

Squint (suddenly shifting back to being the Man With No Name); But, Buck, aren’t you dead of old age already?

Buck (speaking now as a dead man who is deader than a cold stone that died of stone cancer); Yes, I am afraid that is so.

Squint (still speaking as the Man with No Name); Well, don’t worry, Buck.  I’m still alive and I still have my gun, and if I can’t kill the bad guy, then he must be immortal.

Buck (still speaking as a dead man); You know, Squint, you haven’t been talking to anyone who is actually alive for this entire conversation.

Squint (finally speaking as himself); I will definitely have to kill somebody for that.  Somebody needs to die.

The chair began shivering uncontrollably.

 

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New Toys in 2016

Being a doll collector with an advanced case of hoarding disorder, I am always finding new stuff to buy.    And my mother made the mistake of giving me a gift card for Christmas.    Well, after-Christmas sales are started.  Toys that were mauled by Christmas shoppers are set out for clearance prices in slightly damaged boxes.  The opportunities are endless.

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I had thought my MLP collection was complete when I bought Fluttershy (on the left).  But I found Lemon Zest (the pink horse-girl with lemon-yellow eyes) for less than ten dollars.  Walmart is apparently trying to clear the shelves of the scourge of My Little Pony dolls that has infested them for about four years now.

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Kristoff from Frozen and Deerla from the Netflix thing called Happily Ever-After High School were both clearance items for slightly more than five dollars.

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Kristoff completes a Frozen set.  I can die happy now.

But maybe not just yet…

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I also found a twelve-inch PVC figure of Finn from the new Star Wars movie.  Is that the beginning of a new collection?  I guess I can’t die just yet.  And I am still happy.

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