At the bus station…
There is a large crowd of Trump voters…
Who suddenly realized the mistake they made…
So, they are planning to leave the country…
Well, the female part of the family, anyway…
You know, the smarter half…
Although they don’t understand…
Why they can’t buy a bus ticket to Japan!
Filed under grumpiness, humor, poetry
The Pumpkinhead is now President again. He made all three of my children no longer citizens of the US via Executive Order even though their mother had a green card when she gave birth to all three. He pardoned violent insurrectionists and let them out of prison, even the most violent ones who maimed and killed police officers. 1,500 of them. He accused Biden of destroying the US economy as Biden politely sat there and watched. We now have a convicted felon as our new Pumpkinhead President, a more spoiled and rotten version of the one we barely survived four years ago.
My life will end before his life does, I have no doubt. And I don’t believe there is a Hell where Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon in their boiling stewpots watch the Pumpkinhead destroy the whole world, dreading the day when their lofty records of evil will be topped. Andrew Jackson anticipates endless duels to find out who is more violent. Warren Harding quakes in, knowing he will no longer be the first on the list of presidential criminal corruption.
Now that it is no longer in question that we are all going to be killed by rampant climate catastrophes unleashed by the Pumpkinhead, it will no longer be necessary to hold back. My conservative friends from high school who voted for the monkey-other firetrucker (minus certain key letters) can be however insulted by my invective and criticism as they like, They literally gave him back the power to hasten the end of life on Earth.
The worst I can do to the corrupted MAGA maggots is write a post like this. Limited compensation for all I will be losing at best. But there is no longer a reason to be polite. They did worse to me in comments on Facebook and to my face in person. So, the imbalance to the politeness scales is not my fault.
Filed under Uncategorized
Filed under artwork, drawing, humor, illustrations, imagination, Paffooney
It’s getting harder to draw anything without artificial help. I drew this from an Instagram post by putting the photo on my digital drawing pad, putting a layer on top, and then outlining everything. But turning it into a drawing done entirely without the help of AI Mirror left me with something that looked almost ugly due to the misses and tiny mistakes that my arthritic hands can’t help but make. As it is, the AI misinterpreted the intent enough to give her an extra hairy chest instead of putting the gray frills on the front of the blouse.. It gets to be too much work to redo large portions of the picture. As it is I have to be satisfied with unintentional Rapunzel. But, it also means that I can do decent pictures still even though I would’ve given up drawing at this point were it not for how AI Mirror fixes the picture for me.
The expenses of my life have all gone up. Some of it is due to the Pumpkinhead President who has already inspired China to punish American farmers by closing our best marketplace and opening it up to Brazil instead. China did this, of course, because of the stupid clown threats of more tariffs. My car insurance is going up to $300 a month because of last summer’s accident. My Medicare premium is going up to $185 a month. The dentist is extracting two broken molars from my mouth this month and extracting $149 a month from my bank account for the next eighteen months. Oy vay! And next month’s heating bill will be over $300 again. I will have to downsize many things on my budget to get by. Maybe even giving up food. That’s one way to lose weight fast.
But that means simplifying my life again. After all, I am getting too old and sick to deal with complications.
The heart of the matter is this… It really takes less and less to be satisfied with life. I have already started giving up some of my massive collection of toys, books, and various collectible nonsense. I hope to pare it down to a manageable amount to move back to Iowa to live on the farm with my sister. My wife will remain in the Dallas area, teaching and becoming wealthy in miraculous ways. There’s goodness in the future despite the Pumpkinhead, and all the badness of the end of the world he is hastening. The important things in life can’t actually be taken away from me, unless God turns me into a walking compost heap of forgetfulness.
Filed under Uncategorized
-a poem written by Mickey and pasted on a picture.
On a previous Saturday I admitted to the crime of using 12-inch action figures to play the Star Wars role-playing game. The Dungeons and Dragons RPG world was horrified. You are supposed to use scale-appropriate metal miniatures. How can you simulate combat without small figures on a grid? I have to confess. It was via x’s and dots on graph paper. But we didn’t use the action figures to represent ranges and lines of site in combat. And one of my players was my niece, an actual girl. So, I guess, to be honest, we were actually playing with dolls.
But it helps to have a lot of dolls.
Emperor Palpatine, Snow Trooper, Obi-Wan, Jar Jar, Quigon, Droid Soldier, and home-made Mace Windu
We started play after the first two movies in the Prequel Trilogy.
Wicket, Imperial Walker, Astroboy (What’s he doing there?) Darth Vader, Little Anakin, and Boba Fett.
We got creative with stories.
Jango Fett, General Grievous, and Admiral Akbar
Anakin Skywalker
Robot from Lost in Space, R2D2, Slave Girl Leia, and a Green Orion Slave Girl Dancer from Star Trek
So there is evidence available to my offspring to help them have me committed to an institution. The truth is, these are not even all of my Star Wars Dolls. So this morning’s confession session is now at an end, though all of the horrible truth is not yet revealed.
I know the last thing you would ever consider doing is to take up writing essays like these. What kind of a moronic bingo-boingo clown wants to take everything he or she knows, put it in a high-speed blender and turn it all into idea milkshakes?
But I was a writing teacher for many years. And now, being retired and having no students to yell at when my blood pressure gets high, the urge to teach it again is overwhelming.
So, here goes…
Once you have picked the silly, pointless, or semi-obnoxious idea you want to shape the essay around, you have to write a lead. A lead is the attention-grabbing device or booby-trap for readers that will draw them into your essay. In a Mickian essay, whose purpose is to entertain, or possibly bore you in a mildly amusing manner, or cause you enough brain damage to make you want to send me money (this last possibility never seems to work, but I thought I’d throw it in there just in case), the lead is usually a “surpriser”, something so amazingly dumb or off-the-wall crazy that you just have to read, at least a little bit, to find out if this writer is really that insane or what. The rest of the intro paragraph that is not part of the lead may be used to draw things together to suggest the essay is not simply a chaotic mass of silly words in random order. It can point the reader down the jungle path that he or she can take to come out of the other end of the essay alive.
Once started on this insane quest to build an essay that will strangle the senses and mix up the mind of the reader, you have to carry out the plan in three or four body paragraphs. This is where you have to use those bricks of brainiac bull-puckie that you have saved up to be the concrete details in the framework of the main rooms of the little idea-house you are constructing. If you were to number or label these main rooms, this one you are reading now would, for example, be Room #2, or B, or “the second body paragraph”. And as you read this paragraph, you should be thinking in the voice of your favorite English teacher of all time. The three main rooms in this example idea house are beginning, middle, and end. You could also call them introduction, body, and conclusion. These are the rooms of your idea house that the reader will live in during his or her brief stay (assuming they don’t run out of the house screaming after seeing the clutter in the entryway).
The last thing you have to do is the concluding paragraph. (Of course, you have to realize that we are not actually there yet in this essay. This is Room C in the smelly chickenhouse of this essay, the third body paragraph.) The escape hatch on the essay that may potentially explode into fireworks of thoughts, daydreams, or plans for something better to do with your life than a read an essay written by an insane former middle school English teacher at any moment, is a necessary part of the whole process. This is where you have to remind them of what the essay is basically about, and leave them with the thought that you want to haunt them in their nightmares later. The last thing that you say in the essay is the thing they are the most likely to remember. So you need to save the best for last.
So, here, finally, is the exit door to this masterfully mixed-up Mickian Essay. It is a simple, and straightforward structure. The introduction containing the lead is followed by three or four body paragraphs that develop the idea and end in a conclusion that summarizes or simply restates the overall main idea. And now you know why all of my former students either know how to construct an essay, or have several years left in therapy sessions with a psychiatrist.
Filed under commentary, education, humor, Paffooney, teaching, writing, writing teacher
When conservative cultural warriors, Twitter Trolls, or dyspeptic gasbags like Rush Limbaugh call you a “Special Snowflake”, I have discovered, to my chagrin, that they don’t mean it as a compliment. In their self-centered, egotistical world you have to be as emotionally tough and able to “take it” as they believe (somewhat erroneously to my way of thinking) they themselves are. They have no time for political correctness, safe spaces, or, apparently, manners polite enough not to get you killed on the mean streets where they never go. Being a retired school teacher who was once in charge of fragile young psyches trying to negotiate a cruel Darwinian world, I think I disagree with them.
Have you ever tried to draw a snowflake? Believe me, it is difficult. Snowflakes are hexagonal star-shapes with enough lace and filigrees in them to make it a nightmare to draw it with painfully arthritic hands. The one above took me an hour with ruler and compass and colored pencils, and it still doesn’t look as good as a first grader can create with scissors and folded paper. Much better to use a computer program to spit them out with mathematical precision and fractal beauty. That’s how all the tiny ones in the background were created. But even a computer can’t recreate the fragile, complicated beauty of real snowflakes.
You see how the fragile crystalline structures will break in spots, melt in spots, attach to others, and get warped or misshapen? That is the reason no two snowflakes are alike, even though they all come from the same basic mathematically precise patterns generated by ice crystals. Life changes each one in a different way.
And that, of course, is the reason this essay is really about people rather than mere physical artifacts of cold weather. Our fragilities and frailties are earned, and they make us who we are. I have a squinky eye like Popeye from playing baseball and getting hit by a pitch. I have a big toe that won’t bend from playing football. They both represent mistakes that I learned from the hard way.
As a teacher, I learned that bipolar disorder and anxiety disorders are very real things. I lost a job once to one of those. And I spent a long night talking someone out of suicide one horrible December. Forgive me, I had to take fifteen minutes just there to cry again. I guess I am just a “special snowflake”. But the point is, those things are real. People really are destroyed by them sometimes. And they deserve any effort I can make to protect them or help them make it through the night.
But people are like snowflakes. They are all complex. They are all beautiful in some way. They are all different. No two are exactly the same.
And I really think boorish bastards have no right to insist that we need to take safe spaces and sanctuaries away from them. Every snowflake has worth. Winter snow leaves moisture for seedlings to get their start every spring. If you are a farmer, you should know this and appreciate snowflakes. And snowflakes can be fascinating. Even goofy ones like me.
“I wanna thank you for meeting with me in this super-secret high-level meeting in the White House, okay. I brought you here… I am really good at bringing people and stuff together, by the way… I brought you here so we could make the Marx Brothers great again, okay? We are going to make a new Marx Brothers’ movie. It’s going to be great… really tremendous.”
“Wotta you sayin’, boss? The Marx Brothers is dead. How you gonna make a movie with dead guys? You gonna dig ’em all up and do a Frankenstein number on ’em, or what?”
“No, no… We will play the roles ourselves. I’ll be Groucho, you know… the really smart one… the one with an amazing mind. I really am very smart you know. Everyone says so.”
“And who am I gonna play?”
“Elon, you get to be Chico. You know, the fast-talking Wop guy. You think of the greatest plans. They are really great, you know.”
“Okay, boss, I got one already.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I think we gotta do an executive order.”
“Executive order? What’s that?”
“It’s a order you give like Obama did, you know? You take a pen and phone and say something in writing that everybody’s gotta do, and then, because it’s an executive order and you signed your name to it, you gotta execute somebody.”
“Ooh! I like the sound of that. We’ll call the movie Horsefeather Soup. It’ll be tremendous. The most tremendous thing people have ever seen.”
“Yeah, and the executive order will say we are banning Mexicans that come from places like Panama, Honduras, and Guatemala. That kind of Mexican has to be sent back to where they came from. You know, just the ones where they might want to vote for Democrats. And we can say we are doing extreme vetting so we are keeping America safe from terrorists. And WOKE Mexicans.”
“Ooh! Yeah! Extreme vetting, rhymes with bed-wetting. Tremendous. But what if people say I’m being racist again?”
“We say we intend to protect Americans from those really bad people you keep talking about, you know? We’ll claim that nobody who’s innocent will get hurt. And the good thing is, the immigration people will just know that anybody who is a Mexican is a bad person. No matter where they’re from. We’ll get everybody that way.”
“Good one, Elon, I mean… Chico.”
In the Homeland Security camps after the executive order. (Possibly people waiting to be executed.)
“Wait a minute, boss, who do I get to be in this movie?”
“Hogsweat, you get to be Harpo, okay?”
“My name is Hegseth, boss.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, Heegsop.”
“HEGSETH!”
“Okay, Harpo doesn’t talk, so shut up, Hogsbreath! Here, take this bicycle horn and, when you go on George Stefenopolis’s show and he doesn’t let you talk either, just honk it at him. It will be really great.”
“And me, boss?”
“Oh, Vivek. I almost forgot about you. What’s the name of that other brother? Dumbo? You get to be that one.”
“Hey boss, we gotta get goin’ on this executive order crap. Somebody needs to get executed in the worst way.”
“Oh, yeah! The worst way to execute is the best way. I feel the need to tweet a truth about it. This new Marx Brothers’ movie will be the best, just the best. It will be so bestest that America will get tired of bestiness.”
Trump, Hegseth, and Elon ready for Woke Mexicans, and protesters.
Filed under angry rant, humor, politics, satire
Catch a Falling Star 
Dancing With Alan Watts
It seems sometimes, in a Judaeo-Christian society, that we are a constantly being scrutinized by a rather harsh all-knowing God who rewards getting the faith-words accurately correct, to the letter, and the faith-based actions perfect, without a single mistake. And He punishes missteps of word or deed with pain and suffering and the potential of an eternity in Sheol or Hell. And that is a tough God to live with. He is like a teacher who uses his or her God-like powers to reward or punish to lead his students all down an exacting, narrow path to a destination that does not have room for everyone when they arrive.
It doesn’t take long in childhood for a highly intelligent person to realize before childhood is over that this cosmology is actually a load of horse pucky. It didn’t even take long for somebody as semi-stupid as me.
What I like about listening on YouTube to Alan Watts’s wisdom is that he gives us an alternative way of seeing the universe and ourselves. This he can offer through his studies of Eastern and Buddhist philosophies. Everything appealing in John Lennon’s signature song, “Imagine,” comes from Lennon’s love of listening to Alan Watts’ lectures. He is obviously a wise guy.
Alan Watts teaches us the pathways that lead to finding yourself, who you truly are, and how you fit into the universe as a whole. When Carl Sagan says that we are all made of star-stuff, he is not only telling us what is literally true, as the elements our bodies were formed from were literally made in the nuclear forges at the centers of stars that later exploded in nova bursts to scatter the elements across the skies of everywhere. He is also telling us that what Alan Watts says is metaphorically true, that everything in the universe is part of the same thing and we are all one in this way.
There is plenty to worry about in my little life. I could easily drop dead at any time from any one of my six incurable diseases or even the return of the skin cancer I beat in 1983. I suffer from the consequences of disease daily, as I have for many years now. My sins are many. I broke my promise the other day to never show you the horrors of my naked body on this blog. I constantly eat the wrong thing and continue to do things that I know are bad for the environment and the health of my body. I am prejudiced against racists, stupidity, and the actions of dedicated Trump-lovers. In many ways I deserve God’s wrath and brutal correction. I have come to truly believe that climate change is going to end life on Earth. I am horrible.
But I have learned from Alan Watts that all of those concerns mean nothing. I don’t believe in Heaven or an afterlife. But I do not fear death. I am one with the universe. And the universe goes on even if I do not. And I will always be a part of it, even after I am no longer alive. The universe has a mind and is intelligent And I take part in that because one small part of that intelligence is me, and lives in my head.
There is comfort to be found in the words of Alan Watts. And living in pain as I do, I really need that comfort most of the time. That is why I have attempted to share a bit of that comfort with you.
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Filed under artists I admire, commentary, feeling sorry for myself, finding love, foolishness, healing, health, humor, Paffooney, philosophy
Tagged as Alan Watts, meditation, mindfulness, philosophy, spirituality