True Stories by Rack Jite
Going 30 miles out in the ocean with four people and a big dog in a 17 foot boat is always exciting. But the amount of good eating fish filling tummies and freezers makes it all worthwhile. The worst problem stems from there being only room for one large cooler on such a small boat, as such, the beer and the fish reside in the same bloody fish scum. Making matters worse, Red Snapper, the central point of the hunt, have some serious badass spines on their dorsal fins. It wasn’t long before we found we were losing about a third of our canned beer (we have subsequently moved to bottles) to these snapper-spines puncturing not only our hands, fingers and thumbs, but our beer as well.
A physics lesson well learned. As the ice in the cooler melts, it generates a slush which causes both fish and beer to slosh about more vigorously. With the boat pounding in the waves, the cans of beer gain internal pressures. At the same time the snapper-spines are hitting the aluminum cans. This causes the beer to briskly fizz out. Once the beer is out, the surrounding water pressure seeks to replenish the now empty beer can through the same tiny hole, filling it with about 12 ounces of bloody, slimy fish scum, all happening in the unknown darkness of the closed cooler. In went my hand, pop went the top, up went the beer and a long hard pull. THE WORST THING THAT CAN HAPPEN TO A GUY.
I am not always so Political, sometimes I am concerned about the beach! Grab my towel and off I go, but first, my wife must worry about:
· If she will get sunburn
· If she will get sand in her craw
· If the kids will get sunburn
· If it will rain
· If it will be too cold
· If the water will be too salty
· If it will be too hot
· If her suit looks OK
· If there will be girls prettier than her
· If we have enough soda
· If we have too much beer
· If a bug bites her
· If a bug bites the kids
· If sharks eats the kids
· If a crab bites the kids
· If a fish bites the kids
· If we have enough sun screen
· If the sun screen # is high enough
· If it gets too cloudy
· If I talk to goofy people
· If goofy people talk to her
· If the kids gets kidnapped
· If the kids gets molested
· If we run out of cheese singles
· If the dog gets sand in the car
· If we will run out of gas
· If we will get stuck
· If I drive too fast
· If a wave knocks her down
· If there is a tornado
· If she will get hit by a Frisbee
· If we will all drown
· If I go out to far
· If the kids gets sand in their eye
· If the kids gets salt in their eyes
· If the dog has a fight
· If the dog has sex
· If she has to take a poop
· If the kids have to take poops
· If the battery goes dead
· If there is thermonuclear war
· If there are ants
· If her thighs are too big
· And, of course, the worst thing that can possibly happen.... A bee in the car!
So, going to the beach is a very traumatic experience for her, I worry too, but only about the beer.
“I’m not wearing them.” Rack snapped.
“I bought those shorts and that matching shirt specifically for this brunch, it’s my friends from work and it’s my day, put them on.” Flower snapped back slamming the wad of clothes into his gut.
“My God, these are RAPFAT shorts! I mean look at these.” he held them to his waist, “The bottoms reach my ankles and I could put a refrigerator down each hole here. This is absurd, where did you buy these, the clown supply store?”
“Put them on Rack, or those five days a month you hide from me will turn into 30.” Flower stated going in the bathroom and slamming the door.
“Gee...” Rack mumbled putting them on. Looking at the matching shirt, he then walked over to the closed door and yelled.
“WHAT IN THE HELL IS THIS THING ON THE SHIRT HERE? ISN’T IT SUPPOSE TO BE AN ALLIGATOR OR AN AARDVARK OR SOMETHING?”
“It’s a red check mark, you want your friends to think I’m a bagger at the Safeway? Where’s my cutoffs and my STONES shirt?”
“Not only will you wear what I tell you to wear, you will also keep your damn mouth shut about anything regarding politics, religion, sex or any of those boring ‘when I was down in the jungle’ stories.”
“You really think having a third of my nose removed by a bear in a tutu is boring?”
“Gosh... Conservative Correctness strikes again. So what can I talk about?”
“The weather, sports statistics, cars and what’s new at the mall are what we talk about at work, try those.”
“Oh, I suppose I can say a bunch about da mall!”
“My mistake, do not mention the mall.”
“By the way, I called Flashdog to come baby-sit.” Rack stated knowing what was coming.
“Call him back. He’s not sitting my kids. I don’t even want him in the house. I called Harry.”
“Harry! What’s he bringing, the whole arsenal or just the assault rifles?”
“He likes guns. So what? Everyone has a hobby. Well, except you.”
“I have lots of hobbies!”
“Name one that lasted longer than two days.”
“Like I said, I have lots of hobbies. And revolving my world around guns is not one of them. Is he bringing guns here per usual?”
“Only a few revolvers.”
“What is going on? Pillow fights are now decadent un-American activities and gun play is the new high morality.”
“Harry doesn’t do drugs.”
“Besides a quart of gin a day. Flashdog doesn’t do drugs; he just gets high on the humidity or something. He’s just a happy guy rather than a delusional barrelhead.”
“The kids love it, they love him, leave me alone. I’m getting pissed at all your friends already and I haven’t even met them yet.” Rack responded looking at the image of RACK THE RAPPER in the mirror. He high kneed in step to some raucous arm movements and hummed...
“The gunman come to the Rackman hood to sit his kids when the Flashdog should...”
“Cool!” The big one said peeking around the corner.
“Which is cool, the song or the clothes?” Rack said shaking his head looking at the twelve year old in her FATRAP shorts, a T-shirt that went down even lower than the hem of those shorts, a pair of tennis shoes that were bigger than sub compact cars and almost as expensive, hair that was covered in some sort of goo to make the front part rise while the rest she somehow managed to swing all the way over to one side of her head.
“The outfit Dad. You look cool! Who’s coming over to watch us?”
“Uncle Harry I guess.”
“Cool! Is he bringing a bunch of guns like last time?”
Yeah, I guess so, don’t shoot anyone okay?”
Rack and Flower got in their first fight in the driveway when he got into his car. “We’re taking mine Rack. I will not be seen in a car with a OINK IF YOU LOVE RUSH sticker on it for this occasion.” Rack gave in and got in the GO ROCKETS covered machine and off they went. “This is the sub-division, turn.” Flower ordered.
Rack turned in, commenting on the big sign that said, BAYOU GARDENS - FROM THE LOW $400’S. “Look at this. Just like every new subdivision I’ve seen in the last ten years within ten miles of here, not a new house under $250,000. Is there even such a thing as a new house for under a grand a month anymore?”
Rack saw the house coming for the cars in front. Most with bumper stickers.
I DIDN’T VOTE FOR HILLARY
DONT BLAME ME I VOTED FOR BUSH
NRA LIFE MEMBER
STOP CLINTON-VOTE REPUBLICAN
RUSH IS RIGHT
Rack pointed to the most prolific bumper sticker in Houston, GOD LISTENS, and intoned, “Well at least they may have that one right, he may listen, trouble is he hasn’t done a damn thing in three billion years.”
“Gosh, hot day hey?” Rack began approaching the ten ton BBQ machine everyone in Texas seemed to have. His comment drew in a gaggle of them and they talked pleasantly about the “real” hot summer of ‘91 and of course, their hurricane experiences.
“It’s the humidity that makes it so awful.” Someone said.
“Speaking of humidity, I know this guy... URG!” Rack felt the solid kick to his ankle from behind.
“How about them Rockets hey? A clean sweep, I bet a lot of the mucky-mucks wanted them to lose last night to get the revenues three more games would have generated hey?”
“Houstonians aren’t like that, everyone wanted them to win I am sure.” The guy in cutoffs with the STONES shirt said.
“I like your outfit,” Rack stated cheerily, “Though I was told by someone with far more fashion acumen than I, not the proper attire for... URG.” Rack said as he got the kick to the back of his other ankle.
“Yeah, I can wear what I please, I own the company.” The guy smiled.
“Never would have guessed it. Are you an out of touch... URG!” A much harder
kick to the back of the knee.
“What are you wearing there, you in a RAP band or something?” The boss asked.
“So what are you driving now?” He listened as a few talked of the industries spurious gas mileage claims and the odious new emissions test in Texas.
“Hey, that emission test is only $22 for a two year sticker. Take a deep breath, what is that? Hmmm, Northwest wind today, Champion Paper Mill, must admit it’s better than the Southeast blow and that rotten egg smell of the Tetracycline plant.”
He wandered around with his mouth shut listening to the growing Bloody Mary and Champagne induced ever louder conservative rhetoric: Rush is so right and so bright, the stinking Clintons, the stinking taxes destroying the country, the stinking welfare queens, the stinking Blacks getting all the good jobs, the stinking UN, the stinking federal government, stinking liberals, stinking Democrats, damn unions, bootstraps, immigrants, lazy bums and of course the biggest topic of the day, getting their licenses to carry concealed weapons.
Rack went out to the car after a while and sat there wondering how many other people like him are coerced into silence in so many work and social gatherings around the nation. He smiled realizing what with this united mad rush to Right-wing shitism of late, that the answer to that was probably about seven. And why, after coining the phrase Conservative Correctness a dozen years ago (which most certainly has replaced political correctness with the power shift) has he yet to see the words used beyond his own hand?
Lt. Jite was so short, he was dating quarks. His head below his hat was peeling and he was sorry now he had it shaved so close to returning to the real world, but under fire is not the place for the brass to complain about hair length and he had wanted to make a statement to that effect. He had enough problems coping with the BS in the back, yet up front, so under orders to report to the General at Officer Club #4 with haircut and no mustache by 21:00 hours, he shaved and shined his head and painted the words “REAL SHORT, SIR” on top. He made the point to the General but certainly looked foolish to all the girls back home that coming wonderful summer of 1969.
Jite walked up the wide gravel driveway to the motor pool thinking about home only two days away. God, he hated that duty, Motor Stables, 14:00 to 16:00 everyday, busy work he thought as he tossed an aerosol white paint can to Corporal Tubbs.
At 16:30 he went to Capt. Corats office to get the coordinates for the evening cannon salute. Corats was regular army and a creep. Jite took the information Corats handed him and walked to the parade ground where the Fire Direction Center was located to find where the 8” shell would drop.
Jite’s wheels spun as he looked at the map. He found an open target area about three klicks directly below the town on the same azimuth. He was the Safety Officer and Ben had to do what he said. And anyway, Corats had screwed even gentle Ben on occasion. Jite went out to the guns, started up #4, turned it around, and re-laid it. It sure looked funny seeing that fat ole barrel pointing opposite the other three, so unparallel, so unmilitary. Sgt. Smith came by to help in loading and firing as usual.
Epilog: Corats? He is probably some big shot in the NSC, if not personally killing or funding the killing of poor brown women and children in faraway places, at least planning or hoping to. Jite? He went home a day early!
It was late on a Sunday night. Rack sat in his newly remodeled office/garage watching the Iraq War on TV as the media and the American people wallowed in ecstasy with every bomb released when he saw headlights flash against the house wall. Who it could be so late was soon answered as the patio door slid open and Bubba and friend entered.
“Yo Rack! What’s happening? This here is Randyman, you remember him don’t you?”
A somewhat toothless Randy offered his tattooed “H-A-T-E” fingered hand while Rack looked to see if “L-O-V-E” was there on the other. Rack did remember him, an almost always drunken sometime drug dealer who last he had heard, was in trouble for shooting up his trailer park with a flare gun. “Hey Randyman, I remember you, staying away from flare guns?” Rack joked.
“Gosh Randyman, what did you do?” Randy walked to the bar and tossed a case of beer up on the bar.
“Shit, assault with a deadly weapon. I shot a couple people, but I only shot them a little!” He guffawed.
“Yeah,” Bubba followed up, “it was only a couple niggers and they’re okay now. Hey Randy, show Rack the gun.”
“Oh gosh.” Rack sighed as Randy reached behind him and pulled some sort of automatic pistol from his back pocket. Rack moved his attention back to the carnage on TV while Bubba and Randy fawned over the gun.
Rack thought how hypocritical it was that Americans wet their pants with flag waving glory jolts of glee when guns and bombs kill thousands of people in some far off land, but are horrified when some miserable screwed up American shoots another here at home.
“Woo-E!” Cried Randyman turning his attention from the gun on the bar to the carnage on the screen, “Look at that one go! Must a blown a hundred of dem sand-niggers all to Hell!”
“So how was it in Huntsville?” Rack asked wanting to get away from nigger-kill talk.”
“Oh,” Rack said reaching behind him on his reference shelf grabbing a Bible and tossing it to the Randyman. “Show me where in here it talks about blowing sand-niggers away, shooting niggers or calling them monkeys?”
“Hey Rack, I’m not a racist, I just don’t like niggers.”
“Gosh... Just out of curiosity, how far you get in school?”
“Screw you Rack,” Bubba butted in, “Big college man hey, so Randy and I didn’t get out of High school, that has nothing to do with anything, we aren’t ignorant or racists, we just don’t like niggers. What’s the big deal?”
“Okay Bubba, hating niggers got Randyman two years in prison, what does it get you? Don’t you see?”
“Sure we see Rack, you’re a stuck up Yankee college boy calling us racists.” “Gosh Bubba, tell you what, why not pack up your beer, your guns and your pal and leave me alone then.”
“We gotta go anyway, keep the beer for that crew tomorrow.”
The crew arrived with the equipment to begin the process of house leveling so many Houston home owners living on the gumbo usually put off until windows began shattering. Rack was surprised that the 12 man crew was Black rather than the usual Mexicans who did all the roofing-digging labor White Texans seldom did. He welcomed Eugene, the Black foreman, at the door only to hear the phone ring.
“Yeah.” He answered. “Yeah, the crew is here Bubba. I understand. No problem, they have the hydraulic coring equipment all over the yard and the foreman seems friendly enough. I am sure you can scarf all the information you need about the whole process and get out on your own in no time! Yeah, I’ll give them the beer.”
The crew worked fast, boring 25, 15’ deep three foot in diameter holes around the house with the wheel barrow men hoppin’ it out to the dump truck in no time.
Eugene came in to say it would be about an hour wait for the cement truck and asked if it would be okay if his crew sat around the yard and ate their lunch.
“We’ll take you up on that friend, thank you.”
Rack went back to work on his computer. Eugene came in after only a few minutes with a long level to note the tilt before the house was jacked which would come in a few days after the cement hardened. He was crawling around on the kitchen floor, unseen behind the dinning bar that opened into the living room when Bubba burst in through the front door.
“Damn Rack, there must be a dozen damn niggers in your garage! You can’t let niggers run wild on your property, they’ll steal you blind” Bubba stated.
“You know Bubba, we were just talking about this last night weren’t we? I tried my best to explain to you that racism and your dislike for people of color doesn’t get you anything. I have a suspicion that lesson is about to hit you square between the eyes. To no avail.”
As if taking a rehearsed cue, Eugene rose from behind the counter. “You listen to your friend here Bubba, he be telling you true.” He said nothing more and once again disappeared behind the counter.
Bubba stood embarrassed in the hallway, stammering for a way out. Realizing there was none, he left, $10 in the hole for the beer, and without the information he so wanted to get his business started.
“I was astounded to read these courageous remarks by Charlton Heston. I am thankful to hear a man with such high esteem say essentially the same things for which I have been reviled by the liberal media. His words should be reproduced and put into the hands of every American.” David Duke, former neo-Nazi Klansman and present bigot, sexist, racist, homophobe, anti-Semite and Republican.
Rack turned into the parking lot, pulled down the rear view mirror, checked for boogers, stuck out his tongue to make sure it was the right color, yanked up his tie, grabbed his briefcase, and proceeded into Bullshitburg. This particular customer had been one of his best for a decade, but with the high turnover rate endemic to the industry, he only had one real friend left there, and sadly not in purchasing. It was Jeb, their top salesman, who Rack had been out making calls with since the beginning, his only inside help any longer.
Good waiting room. Plants, phone, nice dark decor, three receptionists behind glass with little slots on the counter to pass your card through.
“Joe please.” Rack said leaning down shouting through the little hole.
“Is he expecting you [you lowlife peddler]?”
“Sure is, ma’m.”
“Have a seat Rack.”
If you have an appointment, always be late, they always are. Rack picked up the new issue of Industrial Distributor paging through it reading about the new and better priced competition that would kill him, wondering if they needed anyone and if their advertisements were as filled with gross exaggeration and lies as his company’s.
He played with the phone and called his answering machine to see if the kids had got to it again. No messages, so he left a funny one for the kids who would be at it before he would. He stretched and crossed his legs, but noticing one of the ladies looking at him about to speak, he quickly stomped both feet back on the floor hoping she hadn’t seen the big hole on the bottom of his Tony Lamas.
“Let me see Bill then please.”
“Have a seat [no one wants to see you].”
Back to his main business, waiting room fun, he picked up Business Week and read that everything in Texas sucked. It said it about a thousand times. Rack threw it down on the end table and walked over to the shoe polisher with the whirling black and red fluffy things. Straddling the machine, he put one boot under each fluffer at the same time, pushed the button on the waist high handle and awkwardly bent over with his butt in the air to see if the red one did anything different than the black one.
The door to the back opened and Bill caught him being stupid. “Hi Rack, I only got a minute. What’s up?” Bill did not invite him back to his office as in the good old days. It was much the same everywhere, the distributors didn’t want their suppliers not hearing the phones ringing.
“Sit down Bill.”
“Only for a second.”
Rack reached in his briefcase, yanked out the number one selling tool in America, The Full Color Brochure and, what every buyer thirsted for, the new price sheet with terms and discounts included!
“Here Bill,” Rack said handing over the stack, “Notice the prices went up a bit but the net discount went from 2% net 30 days to 10% net 10!”
We want your money and we want it NOW Rack joked to himself.
Bill made quick small talk about how bad things were which Rack understood to mean, no order today. It also meant that his sales manger would be again threatening him come Friday.
Realizing that it was only 10AM and he had to go do this another eight times today and then go home and write it all down so not to forget how stupid it all was, he surmised that if corporate America took all the time and money spent in this country on getting people to buy one identical thing over another identical thing, we could buy the rest of the world and turn it into a giant theme park.
“Whoa... What’s going on?” Bill asked, grabbing Joe and swinging him around before he made it out the door. “Yokum’s wife was found shot dead about an hour ago, the cops are looking for him!”
“Jeb Yokum?” Rack asked, now even more depressed, “Gosh, I was just out with him yesterday on a sales call.”
Soon a score of people were running through the waiting room to the parking lot as the rest hummed with the sordid news. They were soon rushing back in with handguns tucked in belts, hanging out of pockets or in hand, one even carrying a shotgun as they filtered back to their desks and counters to hopefully fill yesterday’s pal with lots of big holes today. As a few stood in the lobby shoving in clips and comparing weapons, one of the receptionists shouted over the clicking din to announce the police had called to say they just found Jeb dead in his truck from a self inflicted gun wound.
The room held an air of intense electric silence, when Rack suddenly came to the realization that it was not over the death of a friend, but the disappointment of not having the chance to shoot him. Rack ran out the door, just barely making it before throwing up.
The climb up the Temple of the Sun was wearying, and hot. The Chiapas sun had finally burned through the hanging mist on the East side of the mountain leaving the Runias de Palenque speckled with the bright clothing of visitors from the world over. They dotted the stairways and promenades contrasting pleasingly with the dull gray walls of a millennium past.
The Gringos worked themselves around the back of the temple and descended through the thick jungle, taking the shade by following a stream a few hundred meters through the deep green foliage. They soon arrived at a small pallapa and sat at one of the standard metal card tables emblazoned with “Superior” and the inevitable red and white checker board. They savored their Fantas beneath the thatched roof, watching the staked out alligators in the clear stream below.
They noticed a pair of middle-aged Touristas winding down the seemingly endless waterfalls to the small soda stand. At their approach Rack reverted to Spanish while Butch put an “O” on the end of everything. They wanted to sound foreign so as not to have to guide more of the endless stream of nitwits to all the right places. But soon the rain forest ambiance was shattered by the pair of angry, shouting Americans.
The couple waddled back up the path toward their air-conditioned Winnebago and ultimately back to Ohio to tell their friends how they had seen Mexico. Quaint, but too dirty, no one spoke English, and filled with American undesirables. As the Buckeyes entered the large van with the sodas the undesirables had bought them and the returnable bottles they had stolen from the Spic, Mrs. Buckeye asked Herb, “Have you ever met such rude people in your life?”
I was way down in the jungles of Mexico traveling with a magician and his wife. He spoke five languages, wore a turban and was from Des Moines. We put on shows at night in small towns as we traveled. He would do the standard stuff; walk on glass, eat fire, swallow swords, stick big needles through his tongue (yick) and pass the hat when it was all over. We would put the show on in pleasant clearings in the jungle just outside of town. We would use diesel filled beer cans stuffed with rags as a circle of light. Usually about a hundred or so peasants and a few dozen gringos from around the world would attend. He always ended the show with a sort a spiritual con, blind folded while describing things his wife held up from the audience.
One night cloud cover caused a deep darkness conflicting eerily with flashes of lightning from an impending storm. It made for an exceptionally spooky setting as the turbaned magician tried a bit of mass hypnotism, complete with chanting and pleas to the spirit world for recognition.
Suddenly a form appeared at the edge of the jungle. It was white and the entire audience fixated upon it as it slowly became larger and larger with the lightning finally verifying a women in white. Wearing a long flowing dress, she seemed to float toward us without moving her legs. Everyone gasped, mesmerized by the apparition. Silence reigned as she approached with something under her arm.
As she entered the circle of light, the audience realized she was not the Virgin after all, nor the spirit of Quetzequoactal. She was just another damn Jehovah’s Witness come to pass out Watchtowers. Everyone went ‘OH NO’ simultaneously and laughed and laughed. I learned something that night. Jehovah’s Witnesses coupled with an ‘OH NO’ are universal to all languages and cultures.
Later that evening in a restaurant we went through the articles in the big hat I had passed around. The standard stuff was there; coins and bills from all over the world, joints, mushrooms, crafted jewelry, African beads, dried fruit, wet fruit, tamales… But the real gem was the bright red package of rubbers with the blaring brand name written in white across the package; GOOD LUCK!
"It’s a fringe element of gun owners.” General Norman Schwarzkopf in a statement resigning his NRA membership
Rack packed up the old van and headed North on his yearly Fall trek to his Wisconsin roots. For most of thirty hours he listened to one AM HATE RADIO broadcast after another realizing that Marlin Maddox, who he had not heard in years, made the rest of the Right-wing lunatics seem moderate. Maddox was not one for inference. Hillary is a Marxist. Hillary is a lesbian. The only proclaimed Liberal he heard was late one night out of Atlanta, and all that guy did was scream about the fascist AFT and crying for more executions.
The radio depression wore off as Rack pulled into the old compound of whitewashed rental shacks near Horicon Marsh. His day was brightened with nostalgic memories of the good times spent there with friends and family, fouling the water with lead shot, beer cans and duck parts. Duck hunting had become the only real bond left he had with his father, brother and old pals, and he was happy to be back if only for a few days.
His father met him at the screen porch door of the Duck Inn, one of the dozen cabins astride the marsh. With a happy handshake, Phil shooed Rack to the table in the center of the room to the smell of paraffin boiling in water. They sat together as they had for so many years, grabbing shoddily plucked headless ducks by their feet and dunking them into the hot wax to stack on newspapers to cool.
“Well Rack, I have to get back to your Mother in Milwaukee this weekend so we only have an hour or so, I’ll be back to hunt with you on Monday.” Phil said getting to all the catch-up family talk he enjoyed so much. Together they peeled the now cold wax and feathers from the round little bodies when the door opened and Smit, Rack’s old college roommate from down at the Stagger Inn, powered his tall thin presence through it.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the King-shit Communist from Texas! I expected to see you wearing a big red cowboy hat with a hammer and sickle on it” he playfully shouted coming over to shake hands. As he crossed the small room Rack quickly slit the belly of one of the now baby bottom smooth fowl, pulled out the gunk and plopped it down on the papers before he stuck out his hand. Smit taking the bloody handshake surprised Rack until the reek of bourbon whiffed by. This was a bad omen for the coming days as Smit had enrolled in AA two years before and had been off the sauce since. Rack was now faced with three problems; why the fall, should he address the fall, and more importantly, what to do about the insane Right-wing racist rhetoric the fall would surely produce.
Rack recalled their big confrontation three years ago. His friend Roger and Roger’s then 10-year old boy and he were having a nice cabin dinner when the door burst open and in stormed Smit in a blizzard of snow.
“Gosh Smit, both Phil and my brother had guests this morning and used both our boats. Roger and the kid came last night making for a problem in logistics, so I rented a boat and motor and borrowed some decoys from your boat knowing you wouldn’t be here till now. We were so cold when we came in we decided to warm up and eat before we went down to move the decoys and get our guns...”
“Yeah, when we’re done eating here Smit, ten minutes.”
“Are you drunk?” The kid asked.
“Sure you’re going to side with him, you sit in a duck blind all day while he feeds you all his communist propaganda! Big King-shit from Texas who thinks he has a right to everyone else’s stuff! Rack, go do it, now!”
“I will. When I’m done eating. By the way Smit, who brought you here so many years ago, who loaned you a gun, who taught you how to hunt, who helped you get in on all this? And look at yourself, I borrowed eight decoys worth $3 a piece for one day and you storm in here drunk having a fit, so fuck you.”
Back in the present, before Rack had a chance to think over his plan in dealing with the now again drunk Smit, it had already begun.
“Bush! I love him! Smartest man in America! Next President of the United States!” It began, releasing the firm friendly handshake and wiping the blood gunk on his Rubbermaid and Gortex covered body.
Phil at the other end of the table had not whiffed the proof of the statement, and annoyed that Smit had regressed into right-wing lunacy even while sober, snapped back. “Smart? Have you completely lost control of your senses? What in the Hell is the matter with you! The man’s all hat an no head!”
Ten years ago, Phil too had allowed a bottle of gin a day to often push him into conservative rants each evening much like Smit, but as soon as he put the bottle down for good, he miraculously became a reasonable human being.
Rack was in a quandary, Smit was the perfect example of the basic conservative mentality, but he was also an old friend from childhood. Was it his business to address the wagon-fall? He had heard that since the drinking had stopped so did the Nigger-Kike rants he was most known for. He decided against it, too much like tattling with Phil there who was not yet privy to the proof.
“Those are expensive quality books! I love them! It’s not what the Nazis did, it’s how they looked and carried themselves. Nazis didn’t take any shit from anyone!”
“I’m not saying what the NAZIS did was right, I just respect them for their values. Far more honest than you! What a hypocrite you are, a liberal with a gun murdering little ducks each year, what a joke you liberals are!” Smit snickered.
“If that’s how you feel,” Phil interrupted, “Why not peruse it with a camera instead?” As the years had passed they had all sensed the second thoughts Phil had about the killing, who was often caught watching rather than shooting.
“Hah! What’s the matter with you, every liberal is perfect they all say they’re perfect! Perfect, perfect, perfect!”
“Name me a liberal who has claimed to be perfect? Well besides Jesus Christ.”
Soon Rack’s friend Roger and his 13-year old son arrived plopping a half gallon of rum on the table. Rack’s brother and his roommate, known as the NRA boys from up at the Stumble Inn arrived with a bottle of Beam. So too the Butchers from over at the Fall In, who as usual were covered with blood from some form of illegal poaching or other, entered and tossed a case of beer on the table. Smit had not arrived as yet, so there was a quick discussion about his wagon fall. His mother was in the last throws of cancer and was not expected to make it through the week, so the attitude was to leave it alone, pretending they didn’t know he was drunk as a skunk.
Rack kicked the broiler up to 550 for the last blast on the ducks to crunchy them up a bit. The sizzling smoke from the dirty old oven made for an open door to the screened porch. So they all watched Smit’s red-hot Mazda jerk to a stop close into the door. The muffled sound of The Doors upped to extreme decibel as the car doors opened. “Dinner music!” He shouted as he entered with his cabin mate Norts.
Too many people around the small table made for a messy but interesting surface. Greasy ducks, piles of bones, glasses, plastic cups filled with forgotten drinks in lieu of fresher ones, cigarette and cigar ashes on the tops of most of the thousand beer cans, and of course Roger’s crumbled lime slices everywhere. Drunken shouting laughing discussions of good shots, bad shoots, big kills and outboard motor failures enhanced the mess, and as the level of the liquor bottles went down the guns began coming out to enthusiastic ohs and ahs.
“Ah, art! Perhaps an Italian baroque master?” Rack quipped, his sarcasm low to keep from being decimated in a political argument against so many drunken armed conservatives. The winner of the gun show was Racks brother’s partner, the psychiatrist, who pulled from his belt the biggest handgun Rack had ever seen, in fact he could stick a finger in the hole at the end. It turned out to be a .410 shotgun barrel which also fired .44 Magnum shells.
“Gosh, what do you use that for?” Rack asked.
“Finches! Out in the blind those little fucking birds drive me crazy with their chirping and hopping around on the trees. BOOM! Chirping and hopping stops.”
He and the gun gained a standing ovation and after they all sang along with Jim for a few lines of “woke up this morning and got myself a beer”, they all stumbled, staggered and fell to their various inns to await the predawn hunt.
On the afternoon of his last day, Rack laid in one of the curtained off rooms reading while Phil napped in the next. The quiet time was interrupted when Smit came in to say his good-byes. Standing in the main room he looked in on Rack.
“Okay!” Rack said.
Smit halted at the cabin door, and leaning on the knob added.
“Niggers aren’t politics, they’re cockroaches.”
“Phil! I want to apologize for falling off the wagon this week, but my mother is not expected to live out the week and it just got to me. I am going to put the nigger-Nazi talk behind me now, okay?” Smit said changing the subject. “So, it’s bad with my mother dying, my father died two years ago, that was hard too. Did you know that no one came to the funeral? Sure he was kind of an asshole but I expected to see some of my friends there at least, hardly anyone there.” He looked over at Rack for his excuse for not traveling 2000 miles to a funeral of an asshole he had only met once. He didn’t get one.
Phil understood and the discussion progressed to the hunting season again. “Tell me if I’m out of line Phil, but I want to get rid of Norts, after all,” he said glancing over at Rack again, “he’s not my friend but your son’s friend. Look, I work hard all year and this is what for. I have top-of-the-line equipment and I don’t want a roommate fucking with it. I can afford to rent the cabin alone if I want.”
“He was messing around in my boat. The decoys are in a mess and the push pole is not how I left it. Not how I always leave things. I am very careful with my equipment.”
Rack glared up over his book. Smit had come back from hunting the evening before so drunk Rack had had to go down to the pier to get him, “Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Was the laughing cry alerting Rack. He soon found him laying half submerged in the water between the boat and the pier. Fifty gallons of water in his waders made for a degree of logistical expertise in drunk removal up an icey grass bank. Rack unhooked Smit’s wader straps and yanked him up the steep incline. Then he got in Smit’s boat and used the push-pole to retrieve the sunken waders probably kicking a few decoys out of the way in the process.
Rather than hit on Smit with his dying mother and all, Rack responded, “My hat fell off the pier last night, I used your push pole to reach for it and probably kicked around some of your decoys. It wasn’t Norts.”
“Well, I don’t care, I don’t like him! He’s a Federal employee, a mailman for Christsake, and, IN A UNION! He is everything I despise, I don’t want him around me. And he ate one of my apples!”
“Gosh, how awful for you!”
“Is that all you have to say? I paid for that apple, it was mine. You just don’t get it do you Rack?”
“I get it all right, and I do suppose one more thing needs saying. Unless you wake up, when you pass from this world there may indeed be a ton of top-of-the-line stuff piled on your coffin, but just like there was with your old man, there will be an empty funeral parlor.” A sad vacant silence ended the trip.
“Our fourth grade class is voting for President tomorrow, what am I Daddy, a Republican or Democrat?” The big one asked.
“Well, how did the vote come out today at school?”
“Mommy must have just got back from voting Dad. I wonder who she voted for?”
Flower threw her purse on the table, checked the hallway floor, stooped and crawled into the den gathering laits. “Who did you vote for Mom?” The big one inquired.
“Ask yourself how you would feel if the President has his penis down the throat of your daughter!” Rush Limbaugh.
Summer had changed forever this year for Rack. Now with school out and the older one capable of a marginal degree of responsibility, she could watch the little one without leaving marks. This meant they were both home all day while Rack tried to run his various pro bono businesses. Not only did he now spend most of his day as arbitrator, cook and recipient of seven godzillion stupid questions, but as they both got to stay up a few hours later each night (no school) his rug-ratobia was heightening. In fact it was so bad; he had just got off the phone to a friend over at NASA to see if there was any call for doing tests on children in orbit.
Not even a month into it and he was barking more than the dog. He was also in trouble with Flower over that old beast. The dog was overdue for put down. For the past 14 years it had done nothing but bestow a slobbering degree of enthusiastic love, smiles and optimism upon the family without a bitch or an unkind word (to anyone, ever), Rack had begun tossing it a chuck roast every night rather than the usual bowl of brown rocks.
Rack was pounding on the keyboard so hard his fingers bled. “How long can I use these same words” he mumbled to himself as intolerant, callous, selfish, Right-wing, bigot, gunloons flowed across the screen for the twentieth time that day. “Over used clichés,” he admitted to the monitor, “but so utterly true, it’s gotta be said. Perhaps in some future millennium it may get through.”
“Hehehe, cool Beavis. Hey Butthead, this sucks. Hehe”. Not one embarrassing or stupid question in half an hour and everyone was smiling along with the dog.
There are only two kinds of people floating up their eyebrows in religion, those that gain wealth or power from it, and the nitwits who give it to them.
It was February 1981 and the cold Connecticut evening bit at Rack’s thinned Texas blood as he skittered over the ice from the sales meeting to his bosses’ car. He horsed the bosses’ twelve year old twin boys into the back with him asking again where they were going.
“Madison Square Garden! To see the greatest show on Earth, you’ll love it!” His boss shouted from the front where he sat with another salesman.
The car lurched forward while Rack imagined front row seats to a Led Zeppelin reunion concert. “Yeah, that’s what y’all been saying, it’s not the where but the who I’m concerned with.” The twins wanted to tell, but there had been some earlier command from the boss, though wet-their-pants excited, they were tight as clams.
Nothing for Rack to do but wait it out.
Soon they gained the vicinity of the Garden and from the tinted back windows Rack could see the crowds with the cars stopping and tickets scalped to flashes of $100 bills. The fans consisted of far too many parents with little kids in tow to be a Zeppelin Concert. Greatest show on Earth the boss had said, Rack now figured it was the circus, and he liked circuses! They rounded a corner and to Rack’s dismay the marquee blared:
SOLD OUT! ANDRE THE GIANT VS THE 7 DWARFS! SOLD OUT!
After parking the car, what was left of the sales meeting rattled through the excited throng with the boss leading, smiling and joking in a better mood than Rack had seen him in years. What with Reagan as the new President, he was no longer being visited regularly by the FBI for putting up all those Wanted Dead or Alive posters of Jimmy Carter. So too, company dinners out were now much less embarrassing for his staff as he no longer slammed his fist on a table making flatware and utensils crash to gain the attention of all eaters before he would stand, point to some structure on the ceiling and scream, “WE SHOULD HANG THAT SON OF A BITCH CARTER RIGHT NOW FROM THAT GODDAMN...”
Kids, parents, teenagers, many elderly, all with an aura of nitwit about them clamored down the isles with enthusiastic abandon. Rack couldn’t help but notice the lack of Blacks in the crowd who he figured had enough sense to not waste a hundred bucks on this poo-poo.
They worked their way through the excited fans to a third row seat. Rack decided to try and get into the show as well as he could by poking and hammer locking the twins during the Rock & Roll lead-ins which were far more lengthy than the actual fights. But try as he might, the fake at such close range was so much more obvious than on television, he decided to go on a lengthy beer run.
The line was surprisingly long for a family show, but it was closer to reality than what was going on down in the ring. Rack started talking to people fore and aft, building waste-your-time-in-line acquaintances as he always did. He noticed a banner above the refreshment stand stating professional wrestling was now the top spectator sport in America.
“Yeah, give me a Miller.” Rack stated when his turn came. A Miller Lite was slopped on the counter in front of him.
One little guy with a Miller hat applauded in the next line as Rack stormed down to the front, got the car keys from the boss, told them he would pick them up in front at 11pm and left them to find a real beer.
Driving Manhattan for the first time in a cowboy hat looking for a six pack was an overwhelming experience, by the time Rack had found some real beer, he guzzled it in mad vengeful gulps until it was no more. He then got in line with the cabs who all yelled at him calling him humiliating cowboy names. Soon he saw his specific morons among the thousands of morons, got out, waved their attention, walked around the car and got in the passenger seat with an attitude.
Reasoning with the boss did little good, but with a 6-pack of real beer in him, Rack felt the mood upon him to have his say.
“Look Lynn, here you have a growing company with 50 employees, manufacturing and selling hepa, electrostatic, mechanical filters and safety systems to the workplace that we both know is directly related to State and Federal OSHA standards. You campaign and donate God knows how much money to get Reagan elected, who a dollar to a doughnut is going to at the very least take the bite out of OSHA and may very well disband it, putting you out of business and the rest of us out of work. Is your hate of what you perceive as liberalism so strong that you will sacrifice your company and employees for it?”
Professional wrestling has effectively infused Hollywood and Rock & Roll making it the largest spectator sport in America besides car racing. An industry based on fraud, foolishness, finger pointing, screaming, name calling and premised upon already arrived at conclusions. Pandered with obscene profits to the ignorant and pathetic who will believe anything they wish to believe. What better comparison can there be than today’s evangelical Christianity? Why not put the two together and make a real killing? Think of the hit billings: Judas vs. The Apostles, Luther vs. the Pope, The Virgin Mary vs. Shiva, all building up to winner take all death match in an electrified cage between Jehovah, Jesus and the Holy Ghost!
“I have recently been examining all the known superstitions of the world, and do not find in our particular superstition (Christianity) one redeeming feature. They are all alike founded on fables and mythology.” Thomas Jefferson
Rack tried to squeeze in a couple minutes of news while the kids were fighting in the hall. Oral Robert’s earlobes dominated the screen. The commentator explains that the medical center which had never exceeded 20% bed occupancy was going under, then a background piece on the Reverend Roberts asking people to send him $8 million or “the Lord will take me home.” The hallway skirmish moved out to the den and got between Rack and the TV screen as the camera panned hundreds of Oral Roberts University students flowing out of a large building.
“Yea Daddy, I love the baby Jesus!”
The amount of tax dollars going to both PBS and NPR is 18% of the total cost, which is tantamount in keeping both viable in small markets.
Rack was standing in front of the television staring at the wall of shelf behind it which contained hundreds of videos. He was slapping a naughty videocassette against the side of his leg a friend had given him a few minutes earlier. He was wondering where to hide it. After a few minutes the idea bulb went off a foot over his head, singing his hair. He pasted a new label on all sides of it, penned them all with the big capital letters, P-B-S, and placed it front and center on the shelf. Realizing he had found the perfect hiding place, he smiling to himself when Flower in rushed the front door.
“Take that OINK IF YOU LOVE RUSH sticker off your car Rack!” Flower demanded putting down her mall bags and throwing his keys at him.
This flag amendment business burns me.” Rack declared without looking up from the paper.
90% of Federal judges and 75% of state judges want to end mandatory sentencing.
Every Tuesday at 9am Harris County invites inconsequential lawbreakers to come by the court house to plead their inconsequential cases. Rack happened to be one of those inconsequentia not long ago.
8:25am. Rack dressed to the hilt; his vintage corduroy O.P. shorts, a shirt with a collar and even tennis shoes and socks in lieu of flip-flops. He parked at the spacious courthouse lot, opened the trunk, hoisted out the unwieldy large garbage bag and sat it on the ground. He then closed the trunk, gathering the light but bulging sack to his chest to carry into the courtroom There were quite a few, how should one say, dirtballs milling all over the hot humid Texas landscape. It was a good mix though - even up, white, black and Hispanic. Rack, pushed through the crowd of smokers to the glass doors, and after finding the correct courtroom, sat himself in the center of the large empty room.
It filled quickly, and soon there was an overflow of people standing in the back. Though sitting or standing, none had big black garbage bags, which Rack found so unwieldy it would not sit on the floor without tipping its contents, which caused Rack to hold the bag in his lap. He was oblivious to the restless crowd who having become bored with staring at the judge’s door for twenty minutes, were now averting their attention upon something more substantive. What’s in that guy’s bag?
9:20am. Soon the crowd was told to all rise and the judge entered. It surprised Rack to see what looked to be the twin sister of blond Texas Senator, Kay Bailey Hutchinson. The judge addressed the room in teacher mode.
“This is Misdemeanor Court level 2. We of course do not hear felony cases but neither do we hear moving traffic violations. I am sorry it is so crowded today with so many of you having to stand, but as most of Texas goes, we have been downsized to a level where it’s amazing we get anything done at all. To compensate for this I have found the most efficient way to get us all through this process as quickly as possible. So with that said, I am going to ask the people along the walls there to squish on back... Thank you. First I want everyone who is here for driving without insurance to go line up behind the table over there. Good, and scrunch up against the wall there on the right.”
People shuffled. Soon half the contents of the room were lined up nicely against the right wall.
“Now”, the judge began anew, “Everyone who is here because of bad checks, line up on the left side of the wall in front of the table over there.” The remaining people shuffled to the left side of the courtroom as she went on to explain what they were to do at the table, how to contest their cases, and what to say to the judge.
9:25am. Rack sat by himself watching the long lines ever so slowly dissipate. He noticed how much darker the skin color was in the line on the rght, where the criminally uninsured went first. All had extremely boring stories about who actually owned the car and lent it to whom. One case, however, did get Rack’s attention.
10:45am. A 30 year old middle class black male whom Rack had befriended while initially waiting on the judge took to the table.
“Mr. District Attorney” the judge asked, “Those papers in your hand show that Mr. Jones here had a driving with no insurance conviction in 1986, again in 1993 and this one in April?” Both the judge and Mr. Jones seemed to sag when the DA firmly stated the papers showed just that.
“I have no choice in the matter Mr. Jones. The recent three strikes provision forces me to sentence you to one year in the Harris County Jail. You have to come back here through my door and put yourself in custody.” The judge listened politely to the hopeful cries of Mr. Jones about his job, wife and kids; in fact the Judge made somewhat of a liberal political speech concerning three strikes, but mercy was strained, it came down like hail from Hell.
11:15am. From that depressing moment things began picking up for Rack, not only was he noticing that the judge was giving curious looks to his garbage bag, but the cases moved from boring tales of no insurance to the fun of bad checks.
Though logical in retrospect, Rack was surprised to find that most bad checks were passed at video stores, most amounting to around $10 but sometimes as low as $3.67 or as high as $70. Suddenly the court became a place of immoral low class drama.
The judge having to run through these cases as fast as possible did not voice any legalese or lectures, rather, she would read off the titles to the movies they rented and didn’t pay for.
“Spank Me Lick Me, Snuff Me Now, Deep Throat Dollies, Faces of Death #4, 12 Inches of Hard...” The judge rambled on seemingly enjoying greatly the winces of embarrassment all the white guys were suffering.
1:15pm.Rack and his large garbage bag sat by themselves in the now empty courtroom as the Judge’s attention finally riveted upon him.
“Next cases will be those charged with domestic violence.” She announced, Rack sat.
“Next cases will be those charged with disorderly conduct.” The judge, obviously bored with her movie title game she had probably been playing every Tuesday for some years was now playing a new game, guess the offense of the guy with the garbage bag without asking him directly.
“Discharge of weapons within Harris County.”
“Poaching of protected animals.”
After about a dozen tries she finally got Rack to raise his hand when she said “Any non vehicular safety violations?”
Rack grabbed up his unwieldy garbage bag, hugged it to his chest and walked to the podium.
“What is your name?” The judge asked.
“Rack Jite Ma’am.”
“Well I want to apologize for you having to sit out there for so long, but as I am sure you understand, we are trying to dispose of these cases as quickly as possible. But perhaps you learned something today out there. Did you learn anything Mr. Jite?”
“Yes Ma’am, I learned that if I ever rent a dirty movie, pay cash.”
The judge had a good laugh. Rack had, by just saying what was on his mind rather than any try at being funny, unwittingly won the judge over, which in his present financial state, was important indeed.
“Bailiff, give me the sheet on Mr. Jite. Ah. Five counts of failure to abide by Harris County Boating Laws, One count expired fire extinguisher, one count no sound warning device present, and three counts of no life preservers.”
Rack put the large bag on the floor and pulled out a newly purchased redemption product to match each offense the judge mentioned, giving the loud can of air a toot in the process.
“Why didn’t you just pay the fine Mr. Jite.”
Well M’am, two reasons. First is that the three counts of no life preservers are a somewhat questionable offense. Though I understand ignorance of the law is no excuse, the law requiring Coast Guard certified life jackets in lieu of the seat cushion preservers I did have, changed only a few weeks before, which I and perhaps thousands of other Harris County boaters were not aware of. Secondly, as I missed my first court date, which I have no good excuse for other than age eating up my memory cells, I was required to bond double the five $100 maximum fines, so I have a thousand dollars in this which is more than the boat is worth. I would also like at this time to present to this court the receipt for the equipment here which is dated the day after the actual offense.”
“Well Mr. Jite, boat safety is no joke, but as your patience has been exemplary and your intent well taken, this court will fine you...Bailiff, what are the court costs regarding this case... This court fines you $47, have a good day Mr. Jite.” Rack was directed to the table, paid the $47, and about a year later got a check for $953 he had spent on bond.
“He’s guilty as Hell. I’m going to murder O.J. and hire Johnnie Cochran as my lawyer.” Joan Rivers
Rack sighed and turned it off. He was uninterested in the coming days of endless whys and wherefores of the Simpson verdict. He sat down to write his spin before the media corrupted him and the pundits stole all his ideas before he thought of them himself.
He scribbled dollar signs on the pad. No matter race, he knew it was still the money which was the central factor in our criminal justice system. He scribbled down the side of the page the secondary issues: “White racism. Jury racism. Jury fatigue. Police foul ups. Police injustice. Police racism. Rodney King. The media circus...” And of course the overriding force in American these days; hating the government so much our gums bleed.
Satisfied he had the basics down right, Rack’s attention moved to his new (now one year old) replacement dog, who as usual, was rolling another paper clip into a tight little ball with its rapidly smacking mouth movements. As the foaming saliva from its mouth fell to the tile floor into an ever growing puddle, Rack yelled. “Out! OUT! Why can’t you be more like our original dog?”
He opened the door and horsed the foaming beast out into the front yard. It looked over its shoulder giving him that Golden Retriever sad, hurt, I love you anyway look, dropped the tiny ball of wire, picked up a piece of pea gravel from the endless supply around the garden and was soon laying down drooling onto the hot driveway.
The door flew open and in came the Big One from school, all smiles. “I TOLD YOU HE WASN’T GUILTY DAD! I’m so happy! I knew he didn’t do it. He is just too cool.”
“Gosh... It’s not that he didn’t do it, it’s that he got away with murder because he bought the best lawyers money could buy, because he’s a celebrity ball chaser, and the Black people on the jury are so mad at the Los Angeles Police Department they let him go.”
“Dad! He’s innocent, the law says so. Me and all my friends knew it all along!” She danced away to the phone to discuss it with all the other twelve year old law geniuses who had been right all along and knew so much more than their lamer parents.
The Little One stormed in trying to blurt it out too, but couldn’t come up with that big “innocent” word, so he just keep shouting “OJ DIDN’T DO IT” in classic nyah-nyah style, though he did stop long enough to ask if Rack would take them to Australia tomorrow to catch snakes. Rack turned on the TV (any station would do) and pointed at the screen, “Sure I’ll take ya’ll to Australia tomorrow, but in the mean time, look at that snake right there!”
“I thought it was thirteen when you pimple farms came to the realization that you knew more about everything than anyone. Well, at least you’re a year ahead in something. Hey, did you hear what he asked Judge Ito just a minute ago?”
“OJ asked if he could have his hat and gloves back.”
Rack missed the reaction as a double bark at the door caused him to open it to let the stupid replacement beast back in. It dropped the pea gravel on the floor in its main area - up against the air conditioning vent - and pushed his froth covered head under the desk to find another paper clip.
“Dad!” the Little One yelled, “The policeman are coming!”
Rack looked out the window to see a cruiser with lights flashing and siren sounding parked in front of his house and two officers coming up the walk. He opened the door while using his ankles to grasp the suds headed beast laying on the hallway floor, but it slipped on through and went bouncing, wagging and galumping its rear end off toward the cops in wild lovesick abandon.
“GET CONTROL OF YOUR ANIMAL!” One yelled while the other drew his weapon pointing it at the eighty pound overgrown puppy.
“HE’S JUST A PUPPY! OVER FRIENDLY! DON’T SHOOT! “ Rack cried.
The moron dog was now jumping up and trying to get its paws around the first officer to see if it could get its head inside the man’s mouth to lick his tonsils. The second officer, understanding it was indeed a friendly dog, didn’t shoot but kept the gun out anyway.
“Someone called saying there was a rabid dog in the area.” The officer said.
As luck would have it, this was the moment Flower chose to pull in the driveway. Rack grabbed the dog, sat on it with hands-up facing the gun wielding cop, and after briefly explaining the drooling dog’s pea gravel obsession, asked if perhaps they could at least turn off the siren.
The first cop, now busy trying to wipe great gobs of white doggie loogie from his starched dark uniform, was in no mood. Obviously the lights and noise added to the ambiance of police work, which seemed to Rack to have only one purpose, to get all his neighbors outside to gawk, giggle and argue among themselves whether the Jites were more like the Bundy’s or the Simpsons. Flower stepped from the car trying to out decibel the siren, which to the disbelief of all present, she managed quite well.
“Oh Yeah!” She addressed the cop with the gun who happened to be Black, “Shoot our dog, shoot my husband, shoot my kids, and if you have a knife in your pocket, SLIT MY THROAT. Then move the venue downtown and you’ll get away with murder!”
“Gosh.” Rack quietly sighed shaking his head and losing control of the dog who galloped toward the car jumping on Flower, knocking her back into the seat. Flower pushed off the animal and stood kicking at it while it circled at her feet, jumping up occasionally to slobber on her face no matter how far the reach. She addressed the Black officer who was now holstering his weapon.
“Okay, you can shoot the dog if you want, but you people are not going to get away with murder here! This isn’t LA!”
“Gee.” Rack sighed again apologizing to the police who did have a good excuse in drawing a weapon at a charging dog they believed rabid.
“I’ll tell you what.” The first officer said stooping down to look at the collar of the dog who Rack now had in a full Nelson on the ground. “As I see no rabies vaccination tag, get to your vet and then stop by the station tomorrow and show us the paperwork.”
“We’re not going to be here. We’re going to Australia tomorrow!” The Little One happily interjected.
“We’re not going to Australia. It’s just a joke.”
“You said!” The Little One whined.
“Yeah Dad, you said!” The Big One re-whined as Rack backed toward the house.
“Nap time. Bye everyone, it’s been nice.” Rack waved to the crowd in front of his house and off to the bedroom where he closed the door, locked it and hid under the covers.
The barking, screaming, knocking, howling and pushing at the bedroom door soon caused him to climb out the bedroom window to go around the house and hide under a beach towel in the laundry room. Within seconds he was found by the replacement dog who was getting real close to being re-replaced. Having been found, the wrath of the Simpson verdict was soon heaped upon Rack by Flower.
“Calm down?! That bastard got away with murder, with that smirk of a shit eating grin and you tell me to calm down? I am never going to vote for any candidate ever who pushes for affirmative action in any way, shape or form again in my life. I am changing parties and voting for Pat Buchanan.”
“What? You going to organize a Jews for Buchanan political action committee? Look, I agree to a degree. The guy bought his way out, and the Black jury let him go, but understand them. Today we had the standard White suburbia experience with police. They come on a valid complaint, were nice to us even though a crazy Jewish woman insulted them, and they left without even writing a ticket. The Black experience with police is not getting dogs on leashes or cats out of trees, but with them crashing into their homes with guns, pulling them over in cars, slamming them down on the ground, kicking them in the head, calling them niggers, sometimes shooting them in the back and most times throwing them in prison to ruin their lives and the lives of their families, forever. And it’s usually for nothing more than trying to make some extra money selling a bag of drugs. If I were Black and on that jury I would have done the same. A couple of dead rich white people are not much compared to all the bullet filled Blacks they find laying around their yellow taped, chalk outlined streets most everyday. Point of view Flower, come on.”
“I’m telling you Rack, those niggers all cheering in the streets have made the biggest mistake they could ever make. I am not alone in this. The voting booths of the future will reflect my views, not yours.”
“Gosh, I’ve known you more than twenty years and never heard you use that word. Coming from you, it leads me to say I’m afraid you may be right. All I can do is ask why you weren’t as riled about William Kennedy Smith, Klaus Von Whats-his-name, or a host of other rich White people who were guilty as Hell and bought themselves out of it. Can’t Blacks with enough bucks buy themselves out too?”
“Inferring I’m a racist in front of the children Rack? How cool. I’m not the racist, those people on the jury are the racists!”
“Hey, people get away with murder all the time, its part of that better to let the guilty go than the innocent be imprisoned or executed thing, which is a good idea. My biggest problem with all this is what a total wanker Simpson is. A conservative wife beating Uncle Tom, who when meeting Rush Limbaugh at the Superbowl in 1994, told him he was his biggest fan. An NRA spokesman giving high dollar speeches on their behalf. A Black man who took his money and celebrity and did a 9.6 sprint from the Black community without ever looking back. Sucking up to the White upper classes like no other Black man has done except perhaps, Uncle Clarence Thomas and Ward Connerly. And to top it off, he is a smug, conceited, egomaniacal shithead. And he had the balls to use racism as his defense? What a sorry excuse for a human being.
GO AWAY OJ - GO AWAY! Clap-clap. GO AWAY OJ - GO AWAY!”
Prison population doubled in the last 8 years and will double again in the next 6 years.
Ivan took his wife dancing for the first time in years. It was a dance hall just outside Kiev. It was just before Christmas and a cold ‘Norther’ blew through their coats as they entered the large smoke filled room.
It was a treat tonight, a Rock and Roll band that played all Ivan’s favorite American CCR songs. They sat at a table surrounded by fifty or so other couples, stomping their feet happily to the familiar beat. Ivan knew some of the band members and recognized a few friends from work whom he introduced to his wife. Everyone was happy to see Ivan and to meet his wife, they were also happy just to be out for a change.
Ivan went to the bar and ordered his third vodka, and another glass of wine for his wife. His friend in the band saw him cross the floor, and over the mike coerced him into dancing, trying to get the crowd to the dance floor. Ivan held the two drinks like a dance partner, and made small circles toward his table. He put down the drinks and lifted his wife out of her chair and danced. It worked, and other couples followed them to the dance floor.
Laughing on the dance floor about what the heck “poke sally” was, Ivan saw the double doors suddenly slam open. A rush of cold drew everyone’s instant attention to the six large men in black jackets following the dark cold wind. The SCF (Soviet Control Force) made for the stage and stopped the music. Using the PA the leader said.
“LISTEN! EVERYONE AGAINST THE OUTER WALLS! NOW!”
The people moaned, but did as they were told. The darkly dressed husky men asked each individual for their papers, searched some, and asked how many drinks they each had drank. Various impossible physical balancing tests were given and soon 26 of them (including two band members) were cordoned off, handcuffed and prodded out to the waiting bus.
Though she had lived in the Ukraine her entire life, Ivan’s wife had never experienced such a situation, and on the bus she cried her heart out. The bus stopped in front of the Peoples’ Jail spilling its contents into crowded cells, which were then locked and forgotten about until the next morning. At around noon they were brought in front of the local magistrate.
“You plead guilty to being drunk, you pay a cash fine of $62. You wish to contest; you must place a cash bond of $500. You may use the phones.”
Ivan was tempted to contest for the two of them, but it was going to be hard enough finding someone with $134 on Sunday morning, yet $1000. And besides, he had to get his wife out, and what about the sitter? He first called home, then a friend who had about $400, he told him to bring it all in case others needed some help. By evening they made it home to find the sitter’s parents in the living room in an uproar. They explained the situation to no avail and were soon left alone.
Ivan’s parents (the sitter had contacted them at dawn), who had traveled hundreds of miles in fear, soon arrived. They were relieved to see their children and grandchildren. They complained little of the return trip they soon embarked upon. Ivan was not so sedate. He was angry and disappointed in the system. But what could one man do?
“Stay home.” His wife intoned, “Just stay home.”
The above is a true story. One thing though, substitute TLC (Texas Liquor Commission) for SKF, League City, Texas for Kiev, and Galveston County Jail for People’s jail.
The big one had the little one trapped under a laundry basket, stabbing at it through the slits with a pencil. For the fourth time that morning Rack saved the little one from the big one as he changed the channel from a scene of someone running after someone else shooting at them, to talking heads.
“Daddy! I hate news!”
Melissa got the twins napping at the same time, a victory seldom accomplished. She turned everything off and snatched up the new Vogue and plopped down on the couch. The poodle in the adjoining apartment began its endless yapping at the stream of Orkin people who wandered through the complex. She hated dogs, it was the one bad thing about living there. The complex was well cordoned off though, the oldest residents to the front, the single people over by the volleyball pool, and families in the back. It all worked pretty well Melissa thought as neither group had much contact with the other. Though Melissa was very proud of her sociability, she just liked people kept socially separate. She would inquire about people with pets being put somewhere other than next door to her in the morning.
Melissa considered herself lucky, a dental hygienist who married the dentist, and he was cute and interested in fashion, she smiled. She paged through the magazine learning another eleven new ways to make herself more beautiful. The two year olds began to futz. She moaned and went in the bedroom to put on her bikini. She tried on three, ultimately wearing the one that allowed the most tanning area. Putting up her hair, she frowned at herself in the three/way mirror. Melissa knew how well she looked in the suit, but she hated those few areas of dappled shadows. She would have to call that President’s and First Lady spa she and Dennis had seen on TV the other night. She diapered the boys, got the Walkman, snapped in an ABBA tape and putting her sunglasses on her head, shoved the kids forward making for the pool.
“Hi Melissa,” Cindy said.
She looked around for the Doctor’s wife but did not see her. She had been stroking the woman for a few months now, and she and Dennis were about to become friends to a real doctor. She dreamed of introducing them to her friends, especially her Mom. Her plan was to invite the Doctor and his wife to ride with her and Dennis in the Volvo to the day care barbecue next Sunday. Melissa set up her stuff far enough away from Cindy as not to have to participate in casual conversation. A few more mothers came by and listened pleasantly to Dennis’s good fortune. Melissa noticed that if she stood up and tanned, and spoke loudly, she increased her audience.
The Mexican was now talking to Cindy, probably about ‘dradles’, she laughed to herself, “what an airhead!” Cindy had made a big thing about that damn ‘Dradle Song’ at the day care Christmas show last year. Cindy backed up all the kids with a guitar, and at rehearsal taught them some Jewish song about a toy. Melissa didn’t like it, and expressed her doubts about it being a proper song for a children’s Christmas show. Not because of any bigoted reason of course, but because she just had never heard it and it had nothing to do with Christmas. That had been when the Doctor’s wife had taken her aside to explain that some of the children in the school were Jewish and it made them feel accepted. Melissa really didn’t listen to the long explanation, she was too happy to be finally making friends with the Doctor’s wife.
Melissa wandered over to where Cindy sat talking with the man who was playing with his child at the edge of the pool. She squeezed some lotion into her hand and did her tippy-toe application routine. It worked as well as always, though the man talked with Cindy, he was looking at Melissa. She moved to shadow his face to get his attention.
“Hi, you the one with the twins?” he said looking up, “That must be rough! I have my hands full with just one!”
Back at pool side she found the damn Mexican(or whatever) talking with Mrs. Doctor. She kept cool, she didn’t have to do anything further, but she could not refrain from telling those around her of the awful abuse being perpetrated upon their pool. She spoke loudly, making sure he heard. Her small audience listened politely as the man returned to the water and swam gentle laps with the little girl hugging from his neck.
Melissa stood among the empty lounge chairs on her side of the pool thinking that she would talk to Dennis tonight about joining President’s and First Lady fitness spa and wondering where everyone had gone. Melissa hadn’t a clue.
It was one of those classic Fall days, crisp and breezy. Warm enough for Rack to have worked up such a thirsty sweat pushing the lawn mower, he had to stop the engine and go inside for a soda. There as usual, sat his family glued to the tube.
He went back outside, started up the mower and pushed, thinking about the mindless repetition video machines spit out. Movie after movie they watch over and over again. On their 85th viewing of TERMINATOR, times two hours, times three people is 514 hours wasted; 32 waking days subtracted from their lives watching a thousand bloody murders.
Lost in math, Rack didn’t notice the approach of The Wiener from across the street. But suddenly there he was standing in the path of the mower. Rack decided to stop his forward movement rather than chopping the guy up into bloody little cocktail wienies as he deserved. For in the ten years they had been neighbors, the nasty little man had not said one thing Rack had wanted to hear.
“IDNTLIKYRBUMSTKR.” Came the shout.
Rack knew it was useless to remind Stan about the three times he had called the police on Rack for loud stereo at 5pm, or the score of times he called the police because the dog walked by his house. Or keeping the kid’s balls when they landed on his property, or throwing stones at the dog whenever it came within range. But the ultimate had been the day Rack had moved in and was standing at the back of the MAYFLOWER truck when suddenly appeared perhaps the ugliest human being on Earth.
An intense, unpleasant little man, pock complexion, small narrow set eyes behind horned rimmed glasses with a spotty goatee that grew more on one side than the other. Even the clothes were ugly, shiny black low-quarters, black pants, fully buttoned white shirt with overflowing pen holder. Stan had come to greet Rack with a property complaint he had recently gotten down at City Hall. It seemed the beautiful live oak with the big meandering limb rising and falling over the front yard only cleared the sidewalk by seven feet when the law read it had to be eight feet. Rack read the complaint, and looking at the little man wanted to ask why someone who lived on the other side of the street and would have to grow four feet to ka-knock himself in the head with the offending branch, would give a rat’s ass. But the man was getting agitated by Rack’s silence, so instead he asked, being new to the neighborhood and all, if a lot of basketball players walked by this way.
From then on the relationship deteriorated into Stanley calling the police on Rack at a monthly pace with many hilarious court appearances. Stanley accomplished little other than making a complete boob of himself. Not a few of the various judges telling him pretty much the same thing: That Stan was a high strung nitwit with such neurotic fears of shubbery, dogs and Rack that the case was closed. Rack and his family didn’t really mind much, it soon became known as “Wieniefun”.
“TAKE THE OINK IF YOU LOVE RUSH BUMBER STICKER OFF YOUR CAR OR PARK IT BACKWARDS SO I DON’T HAVE TO SEE IT, OR I WILL SEE YOU IN COURT!”
Rack pushed the mower forward forcing Stanley to jump out of the way, thinking tomorrow afternoon would be a good time to get the louder, even more intimidating chain saw out for some tree work.
The Little One finished the letter, popped the few remaining poppers and out the door the boys went.
Rack sat at the computer staring out the window when he saw next door neighbor of twenty years, Betty Lou, come up the walk. Rack got up and opened the door.
Rack cowered back into the house dreading the next few minutes when Flower would be home to hear about this one.
“You said what!!? How stupid are you!!? Damn you! Right now you call over there and apologize to Sidney. DO IT NOW! Sometimes you are just the dumbest man in the world.” Flower was pissed.
The Little One soon returned saying he could go over there, but they couldn’t come over here. After all, the Little One was the only friend Sidney had at all. The whole family, including the Big One, sat in the den with the TV and phones off and communicated, the first time in Rack’s memory. With the Christian neighbors Hellbent on making the Jite’s feel awful, the natural reaction was for the family to rally ‘round each other.
“Yuck, you’d wear panty hose Betty Lou had on?” Rack questioned.
They all sat around and talked the evening away, what had began as a foot in the mouth comment from Rack had brought the family back together. It was a win-win.
“Boot Da-dee, BOOT!” The two year old hollered.
A gaggle of mammals chased after him racing for the door. He came in second, after the cat, but parts of dog and kids where wedged in the doorjamb keeping him from closing it. He pushed limbs and paws through the crack, slammed and locked it. “Made it!” he cheered. The two year old screamed “da-dee” and pounded on the door for 15 minutes. The older one knocked 70 times asking when he would be done. The dog cried scratching at the door and the cat rubbed against his ankles, meowing through the entire boot process. Rack used to have nightmares about booting in gas stations and bars, but lately he found himself longing for a quiet dirty men's room somewhere.
"They do not bear arms, and do not know of them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance, They would make fine servants. With 50 men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want. Let us in the name of the Holy Trinity go on sending all the slaves that can be sold." Christopher Columbus.
" Aborigines - Persons of little worth found cumbering the soil of a newly discovered country. They soon cease to cumber: they fertilize." Ambrose Bierce
It was 1492 when the lamentable plight of the Whiteman began in the New World. Whitemen had to work very hard destroying the indigenous cultures and eliminate the native populations. Not only was it a big job taking many years, but it was often dangerous precariously sitting atop war horses running down stone-age men, women and children; lopping off their body parts. Animals were known to rear and old fashion muskets and cannon would often backfire causing serious injuries to the Whitemen. Neither was it an easy chore whipping and overseeing the human caravans of thump-lined natives hauling all that gold the long distances back to the ships under the hot topical sun.
The story was repeated a few centuries later in the Northern climes. Soon Whitemen had killed or caused the death by disease of 90% of the indigenous population there too, and they didn' t even have any gold. This was not always as much fun as it sounds, for sometimes Whitemen got hurt and a few even got killed when some natives had the audacity to fight back. It was an awful time for Whitemen.
Soon the Whitemen had to import slaves to do the work that they themselves didn' t like doing, but soon found being a slave owner was not all it was cracked up to be. Some Africans resented being slaves, which is hard to imagine as the Whitemen shelled out a lot of time and money feeding them and building hovels for them to live in. Believe it or not, many of the slaves actually complained about free room and board! Sometimes, when the Whitemen needed cash, they would have to suffer the loss of some of their laborers by breaking up slave families and selling them off. On occasion, having one' s children or spouse sold away would upset some of these three-quarter humans to the extent that they had the impudence to run away! The Whitemen would then have to take time off to chase them down with dogs, capture them, shackle them (shackles were not free) and punish them by beatings or sometimes having to crush their feet so they could not run away again. This physical punishment was dirty sweaty menial work for the Whitemen and as it was usually quite hot and muggy where the slave owners lived, they often got dirty, winded and dizzy doing God' s work.
Though hanging disobedient slaves was not a common occurrence, it was used on occasion to instill fear of the serious retribution involved in becoming a runaway, but when dictated it was very hard on the Whitemen' s pocketbook. So here again, Whitemen suffered the mental pain and anguish of deciding whether to whip, cripple or kill their slaves, not always an easy decision.
Another unattractive business for the Whitemen was having to force the female slaves to have sex with them. They would have to go down to the dirty slave quarters to have their fun so their wives, children and neighbors wouldn' t know. Remember, these were the days before air conditioning so Whitemen often perspired profusely under the physical stain.
Speaking of wives, the Whitemen also had to make their women understand that they too were slaves, and having no rights, must submit to sex on demand. It just added insult to injury for a Whiteman to have to come home from a long day of slapping slaves around to have to do the same to his womenfolk.
Soon a great civil war forced the Whitemen to disband slavery and start paying for labor or doing it themselves. So they kept these newly declared now-five-fifths-human African-Americans in poverty and squalor to make sure they understood who was boss no matter what the government or anyone else had to say about it. Whether urban or rural, it was hard work keeping such hopeless people in line, but with persistence and good planning the Whitemen accomplished it for a hundred more years.
Toward the end of the 20th Century it got real scary for Whitemen as the now humans sometimes burned things down. They did it where they lived rather than where the Whitemen lived, but it was still painful to the Whitemen' s sense of security. To make matters worse, sometimes a few of the now humans would sneak out of their ghettos and actually steal and rob from the Whitemen themselves!
There is no doubt the Whitemen suffered great harm for centuries nor that things have gotten worse for them in recent times. A small percentage of now humans and even some women were getting a small degree of special treatment in education and job opportunities; entering Whitemen' s schools, police forces, fire departments and bureaucracies to make up for past and present discrimination. This unfairness has so upset Whitemen they often do the only thing they can do to alleviate the pressure. They buy a bunch of big guns and go to workplaces, restaurants, and post offices to shoot down whoever happens to be around. It' s a terrible burden to be Whitemen in this society, and don' t kid yourself, you have to be White to understand the pain.
" There are many humorous things in the world: among them the white man' s notion that he is less savage than the other savages." Mark Twain
" It's the most serious thing that can possibly happen to one in a battle, to get one' s head cut off." Lewis Carroll
Alice soon happened upon a very long table in the woods occupied by three very strange characters. A droopy faced Dormouse snoozed in a chair much larger than he seemed to belong in, while the oblivious leader, a cherub faced gray haired individual with a large top hat, madly ran up and down the long table kicking off whatever old things he found in his way while a March Hare followed behind replacing the empty spaces with what they decided were newer and much better things.
" Out with the old!" Cried the Hatter kicking away.
" In with the new!" Shouted the March Hare dropping newer and better objects in the empty areas.
" Hello." Interrupted Alice, " May I sit down?"
" No room. No room. Can' t you see we are busy making things new! We are the government and too busy for you."
" There is more than enough room. All I see is you breaking things while that strange rabbit runs behind you dropping old lumps of coal everywhere you' ve been. I' m sitting down anyway thank you kindly." Alice said placing herself in a chair next to the snoring Dormouse who after its snottering inhale, released a descending " barneyfag..."
" What is a barneyfag?" Alice inquired of the Hatter, who now with hammer in hand was smashing flower filled vases in the center of the table.
" I can' t really make much sense of that, but if it' s suppose to be a poem, its poorly done. Could I bother you for a small cup of tea please?"
" What are you doing to all those lovely pictures?" Alice asked.
" What we are doing is not looking at them but using them. We drink no tea, we read no poetry and we would rather look down on you than up at pictures. Have you not noticed how big we are up here on the table and how very small you are down there in the chair." The Dormouse woke, looked up, and hoisting his chair up on the table looked down on Alice dozing off once again, " barneyfag..." .
After the table had been cleared of all the bad old things and replaced with the newer and better things the Hatter trampled over the broken leftovers to where Alice sat to declare, " Our ungovernment won and the party' s begun!"
" Oh, I like parties," Alice said, " What is the party for?"
" You are not invited so it shouldn' t matter to you. This is a party you are not welcome to. You are neither a Dormouse, nor a Hare nor a Hatter, nor anyone else with enough value to matter."
" I am a little girl," Alice replied, " I can' t see why I can' t be included in the party."
" She has money! Well that changes everything. Welcome to our party. Have some tea!" The clinking of coins and offer of tea woke the fat little Dormouse while the March Hare reached under the table piling large birthday cakes upon it." Then the party normal joined hands and skipped around in circles while occasionally bending over and gobbling up hunks of cake with their faces
singing their party song.
" A very merry ungovernment to us, to us. A very merry ungovernment to you to you..."
" No. Absolutely not. The cake is ours. The coal is for you. Take all you want." Cried the Hatter as he and the Dormouse fought over more frosting.
Alice soon had about enough of their rudeness and asked, " How can you be the government and the ungovernment at the same time? It makes about as much sense as those Tweedle brothers did."
" Our ungovernment does not answer questions unless you pay for them in advance." The Hatter replied.
" In that case let me phrase it differently. I am absolutely famished, give me some cake." Alice didn' t ask.
" Our ungovernment hears no demands, but if you wish some cake then pay for it first. Do you have cake money?"
" You just took all my money."
" That was tea money not cake money. You have no money, you get no cake."
" And there' s a lot more that you won' t be getting. Our ungovernment does not give things away, especially to abnormal little girls who refuse to work. Our ungovernment has learned that giving hungry people food turns them into silly people who do nothing but sing and dance all day."
" I' ll work," Alice replied, " What would you like me to do?"
" There is no work. We the government of the ungovernment are not responsible for work that isn' t there, that is the beauty of an ungovernment."
" Well this isn' t a very nice party and I' ll just be on my way if it' s all right with you."
" Stop! Before you go you must be searched, that is the ungovernment rule." The Hatter then directed the Hare and the Dormouse to hold Alice down on the table.
" Strike one!" Screamed the Dormouse sucking his thumb.
" And what do we call it when someone demands cake without money to buy it?"
" And what do we call it when someone possesses 'eatmes' with intent to distribute?"
Over the past few years, Noot' s GOPAC has sent out planning kits to thousands of Republican candidates telling them that to get elected, they needed to " talk like Newt" . It specifically tells them to call Democrats and liberals; bizarre, thieves, un-American, unpatriotic, unchristian, atheistic, self-serving, socialist, Marxist, sleazy, corrupt and criminal.
The Great Council sat with legs crossed around the fire waiting for the boy to approach. It was the time of manhood for Sleezel. An unattractive young man, whose oversized head kept him apart from most of the physical games the other boys played, waddled up to the fire with head lolling from side to side to accept his task at finding a namesake token for his rise to manhood. The Council Leader explained to Sleezel that the other boys had recently hunted and killed wolf, bear, lion and mammoth to gain their tokens and that perhaps his best bet to overcome his poor reputation would be to bring down a giraffe. As usual, the boy talked rather than listened but finally took up his spear and went out to become a man.
Not far from the cave, near the garbage dump, Sleezel sat down to think. Though he could talk about giraffe hunting and admonish others for cowardly refusing to go on such hunts, for him, it was out of the question. His peers did not call him Full Moon Head for no reason, as running down any large animal would surely cause his head to fall backwards and bounce along behind him on the ground. As he sat pondering his dilemma, he noticed a small mammal rooting around in the trash heap. Its sleek slender quickness was attractive to the clumsy boy and he decided to follow the animal, learn it' s ways and take it as his token rather than a large giraffe which would probably cost him some grievously hurt.
He watched as the animal darted about. He tracked it fascinated by its control over whatever environment it found itself in. It commanded the ground where it ferociously killed small reptiles and mammals, it took to the shorelines where it attacked amphibians, crustaceans and unwary fish, it climbed trees stealing the eggs of birds, it went after the hatchlings and young of every species including its own. It was everything the slow, head encumbered Sleezel wished himself to be.
Hunting it down and killing it to get it' s hide and heart for the manhood ceremony was of course another matter. However after days of following it, the Great Spirit looked fondly upon Sleezel and he came across the animal dead from an altercation between others of its kind. Thereafter it was that the boy became the man known as Sleezel the Weasel.
The clan soon became embroiled in a war with a neighboring tribe. With so many young men dying some people began questioning the purpose of fighting over whose Spirit was the real Spirit. After Sleezel successfully petitioned the Great Council to defer him from the battle because his ungainly head - this was now supported with a hollowed mammoth vertebra buttressed from his shoulders - hindered effective combat. Once out of harms way Sleezel became the central advocate of keeping the war going. He benefited in many ways from his stand. Shunned by clan maidens, the war caused a rarity of men and Sleezel soon found an older widow to purchase.
With so many young men out of the picture fighting and dying, Sleezel, competent at nothing worthwhile at all, finally coerced himself a spot on the Great Council where he talked so much in so irritating a manner, council members began to accept his ideas just to get him to shut his yap.
Time passed and Sleezel increased his power over the tribe. His first step was to win over Grunge the Spirit Talker. Grunge was often in trouble with the people of the clan for rejecting any new idea that happened by, so Sleezel made a contract with him. If Grunge would give him the favor and backing of the Spirits, Sleezel would help him hold the status quo. Sleezel explained it was a simple two step process. First, a requirement that all clan members accept and worship the Spirits as Grunge and Sleezel saw fit, and if any individual or Council member did not adhere to that process, Sleezel would help Grunge ostracize them out of the tribe or off the Council by calling them names such as Spirit Haters, Dung Smellers, Tribe Traitors and Child Eaters. And secondly, playing upon the clan members poor long range memories by defining old ideas as new ideas, realizing the older the ideas, the newer they would seem.
Sleezel then went to old Booger of the Nose Bones who had the most wives for good reason. As sole producer of the currency for the clan, nose bones, Booger controlled the economy of the clan and was programmed by the Spirits to always want more. Sleezel cut a simple deal with him also. If Booger would give him ten nose bones each new Moon and send over an extra wife each night, Sleezel would ensure the rise in both the demand and the price of nose bones. This of course would benefit everyone.
It wasn' t long before Sleezel the Weasal took control of the Great Council. He drove his enemies out and began his plan of renewal. The new rules were simple:
· No man could have sex with other men' s wives, except for Sleezel.
· No one was to break any laws handed down by the Spirits, except for Sleezel.
· No one was to take nose bones for special favors, except for Sleezel.
· No man could run from war duty, except for Sleezel.
· No one would is allowed to lie, cheat or act in a corrupt manner, except for Sleezel.
· Everyone would be held accountable and responsible for their actions, except for Sleezel.
It soon became obvious to all what Sleezel was and what he was up to. He soon became the most disliked man in the clan. Even his patsies on the Great Council had trouble stomaching him as did both Grunge and Booger, but he had stumbled upon the formula of the future, control of the Spirits and wealth resulted in control of the people. Sleezel held on for a few more years until one day, while showing the clan his new idea of dealing with the old and infirm, he leaned too far forward pushing an old wife off on an ice flow. His head fell forward breaking his neck and he sank to the bottom of the icy sea where he was found and hired by Fox News.
A gun in the home is 22 times more likely to kill a family member or friend than it is to kill an intruder.
An old man sits on a bench in the Springfield Park. He is a happy gregarious man who feeds the pigeons in his retirement. As the day progresses he runs into the Andersons at different times. He promises to buy six dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies from Kathy. He promises to sponsor Bud' s bowling team. He promises to buy a big insurance package from Jim. He promises to get Betty the formal she needs for the dance. The scene moves to his apartment where his wife asks him if he has made any more promises he cannot keep that day. He gives her flowers and shows his love of her and all mankind but admits he was a failure and can' t help himself from compensating for it by big talk. Mrs. Simmons is saddened but understands and kisses him softly on the cheek.
" Bud! Bud! Telephone!" Margaret calls up the stairs. Bud crashes down the steps to tell Freddy that he will have the bowling shirts by Saturday. The scene is full of Andersons on the stairway near the phone, all beaming with hope. Kathy tells Betty of the nice man who gave her the big cookie order which will get her the cookie of the year award. Betty is beside herself in glee at the thought of that dress she wants so badly for the dance. Bud is hopping up and down over his bowling ball. But down the street at the General Insurance Company, Father, in trying to close the insurance sale with Mr. Simmons, learns he is a penniless fraud.
[Here the actual 1950s story line is swept out of time to the present]
Margaret sits in the kitchen sorting the Wanted Dead or Alive posters she has made for Kathy to distribute. On them are the pictures, names, phone numbers and addresses of all the Springfield gynecologists who have performed abortions.
Bud enters the kitchen slamming a .44 magnum down on the table. " Mom, I was shooting down in the basement at our Hillary and Chelsea targets and the thing is jammed or something. What if some fag or jigaboo tries coming in here and ripping us off and our .44 aint working?"
Margaret slides the pistol in front of her, takes it down and slaps it back together, firing a round out the back door. " Bud, its fine now but we do have the Uzi' s in the den, the .38' s in the living room and the Glocks and Mach-10' s in Kathy' s room, so why get upset about the .44?"
" Makes the biggest holes Mom. Why can' t a queer or jungle bunny come here and try stealing our TV? Just once I would like to shoot someone in the back as they' re running away with something I worked for."
" I know how you feel Bud, but if we live our life under the Lord' s guidance and pray, our prayers will come to pass."
" The only time I' m not too busy to pray is in school and they won' t let us pray Mom!"
Betty enters the kitchen all dreamy over her expected dress. " Bud, did you know that Sylvia in your class is a lesbian? She told me today all crying at the malt shop!"
" Well done Betty!" Margaret gleefully cheered, " By this evening everyone in town will know, including those nice bald boys down the street."
Father enters through the back door laughing. " Who' s the ace shot in my family? Someone here got the Bigley' s Cocker Spaniel right between the eyes!"
" MOM!" The children shouted in unison to Margaret' s smiling pride.
" That' s my girl!" Jim said, but as he laid his briefcase on the table his mood changed from one of family pride to one of family business. " I hate to tell you all this, but today I found that our friend Mr. Simmons from the park is a fraud and a liar. He has no money, no connections and cannot make good on any of the promises he made to any of you. I also heard from some reliable sources that he is liberal Democrat!" The kitchen quieted in thought for a moment before exploding into seething raucous hatred.
" Princess," Father asked, " Did Mr. Simmons touch you when he ordered the cookies?"
" HE TOUCHED ME!" Bud fired. " He' s a damn faggot, I knew it all along!"
" And he was just trying to get in my pants too!" Betty screeched.
" He touched me! He touched me! He even kissed my hand!" Kathy added.
" Did he kiss your hand or lick it?" Margaret questioned.
" I guess he did lick it Mommy!" Father calmed them all down and got them once again moving as a military unit.
" Noooot.... Noooot..." Came the moan under the din of clacking chains. The Ghost Who Walks the Rotunda was paying The Speaker a call. At first Noot thought it was just another congressional freshman under some furniture having yet one more orgiastic seizure from being in his presence, but soon the apparition couldn' t be missed for what it was.
" Oh, it' s you Pat, for a minute I assumed I was so smart and powerful I had spontaneously created life. What' s with the chains?" Obviously, Noot thought it was presidential candidate Pat Buchanan coming by to crack some more Christian fag jokes they both enjoyed so well.
" Repent.... Repent...." The ghost chanted as it came closer. Though it did at first look like Buchanan it was the ghost of the most reviled man to ever walk the halls of the Capital.
" Senator McCarthy! I am honored by your presence!" Noot beamed. " I have taken up the mantle. Where' s Roy? He' s my favorite Jew."
" Noooot... Repent! Or you too will wear these chains of misery. Mr. Cohn is presently at such a deep level in Hell - The Hypocritical Evil Weasel Pit - he will never see a painless morrow. It is where you are headed too if you do not stop playing the game I played so well. It will only result in a life of regrets, a lonely death, and an afterlife in chains. Hear me Noot. Change your ways."
The apparition drifted away as Noot called after it, " I must do what I do! This is a revolution and I am a revolutionary. Hey! Do you think I' d look good in fatigues?" Noot dozed off wondering what medals he could coerce and where they would look best on his newly imagined uniform.
" Noot! Wake up. Come with me. We will take a peek at what has been. Come." The stern image took control dragging the reluctant fat assed slug of a Speaker behind him by his red Rush Limbaugh tie.
" There you are Noot, protesting the war protesters. What' s that sticking out of your pocket? Let' s zoom in and see. Ah, a letter from your college you were taking to the draft board to insure your deferment from a war you were pleased to have lesser men fight for you." Noot sighed boredom, his conservative colleagues understood, in fact, most of them did the same, God and Country needed them for more important matters than giraffe hunts.
" Let' s move on Noot. Here you are right after your move from Pennsylvania to Georgia so you could run for office in an easier congressional seat. Love those horned rimmed glasses and muttonchops! But let' s keep moving. Ah, here you are at your wife' s bedside in the hospital. As she recovers from an ovarian cancer operation, you toss her divorce papers. Then off you go by yourself to Washington. Look here! This is your church handing out food and clothes to your x-wife and your children because you wouldn' t pay child support. Didn' t you win your seat on a family values personal responsibility platform? Move over Roy! One more coming down!" The ghost mirthfully hollered.
Once again Noot was bored. His conservative constituents understood. He married that old bag to stay out of Vietnam. It wasn' t his fault she got so fat and ugly she would only be a cancer on his move to the top. Anyway, he was getting good sex from not only his wife to be, but not a few perky little campaign volunteers.
" Yes Noot, you are right in that. I can read your thoughts, everyone can. Let' s take a look at a moment of this sex life of yours. Do you see that car parked in front of your little girl' s elementary school? Looks like you are sitting alone waiting for your daughter. Wait! The car seems to be bouncing a bit. Oh, I see, you' re getting a BJ. Kind of hypocritical for someone who made most of his political hay feigning such high moral Christian values wouldn' t you say? And a leader in impeaching a President for the same thing. Perhaps we will have to begin construction of a Hell level lower than Mr. Cohn' s."
Noot was no longer paying attention to this moron who hadn' t a clue to politics. Noot was a conservative, and other conservatives either didn' t believe what the liberal press said about him, or they didn' t care, after all, he was giving them what they wanted, a hate extensive propaganda war against Liberals and Democrats and the glitter of money plums dancing in their heads. Noot understood Americans.
Once more Noot found himself in his office thinking about what crimes and sedition he could blame on Liberals the following day - could he manage putting the Holocaust on bureaucratic leftists? His reverie was interrupted by another liberal demon appearing before him.
" Come with me Noot. Let' s see what your Christmas government shutdown did to millions of American' s this day." Off the pair went from one home to the next, the checks not coming only slowed down the joy of the children a bit, but the real hurt came down on those already hurting. Checks not arriving for disabled veterans, for poor single women on welfare, to sick children on social security, a kick in the head to not one, but millions of Tiny Tims.
The apparition shook his head and returned Noot to his office. " You will be happy to know Noot, there is no welfare, liberal or otherwise, in Hell. Be certain, you will be completely on your own, no GOPAC, no PACs, no book royalties."
Noot was about to leave the office when it came one more time. The darkness was upon him and a voice began. " You have perfected nootspeak, which in earlier times Orwell named newspeak. With your talent you have managed to increase the income of the wealthy at the expense of the poor, to gain more control for the powerful over the powerless, and have the audacity to call this war of masters over slaves of yours a revolution. This has been catalogued as the most obnoxious hypocrisy in human history. As such, I have been called forward to give you a taste of not the possible future but the unchangeable one."
The dark shape enveloped him. Suddenly they were looking down on a mall parking lot in Atlanta. Dangling from a rope attached to a high light post, a rotund gray haired body in fatigues and meaningless medals pinned all over it, swung by its toe. A mass of humanity cheered as the body turned; North, Northeast, East, Southeast, South, Southwest...
Converting to Conservatism
Millions of liberals and moderates have become conservatives over the past generation. An ever increasing process which I have come to believe is both irreversible and inevitable until some great cataclysm sets things right. (Recession 2008)
So the question arises. What do we gain by pounding our different drum? Beyond a modicum of emotional and intellectual satisfaction, not much. The media is owned by large corporations; the Presidency, the House, the Senate and the Supreme Court are controlled by conservatives. Most states are run by conservative governors and legislatures, and what little liberal control there is in urban mayoral offices, city councils and school boards are moving to the dark side. The suburbs, where most of our population now resides, are where the votes are, and are overwhelmingly conservative. Blue collar Americans have moved into the bowels of the GOP for the racism and religious dogmatism inherent to their nature.
Being a liberal has become much like being a Cubs fan. Perhaps it is time to quit Wrigley Field and start going to Comiskey Park. Here are some good reasons to move over to the Dark Side:
It is no exaggeration that the single most dominate political factor of our time is the present day raw bitter hatred of liberals and the federal government. Having an advantage over many of you by having seen conservatives so eagerly bare their black little hearts all over the net for twenty years, I probably sense more danger than you, for if I were asked to describe the largest block of people tapping keyboards out there, I would say it’s the gun-gun-shoot-shoot crowd. Their technique of using lies, libel, harassment, invasion of privacy and threats to intimidate liberals out of the public forum is a standard daily occurrence. Just the law of inertia causes it to slosh out into the real world on occasion. To make the transition from liberal to conservative you must first come to terms with the two Immutable Laws of Conservatism:
As most of us liberals lack these two genetic deficiencies, we not only have to play loose with the logic, we also need large amounts of whisky, tequila, Prozac and perhaps even a partial lobotomy to deal with it. I can help you reason out each issue, but your ability to adjust to this new way of thinking is dependent upon how well you can stifle your point of view ability and muddle your mind with drugs and alcohol.
Abortion - As a male, I will never need an abortion. I am well off enough that if any woman in my circle does need an abortion they can be shipped off somewhere or other as has been the case for thousands of years prior to 1973. So, denying women abortions only adversely affects the poor and I am not poor. Though some may fall to suicide and butchery, that is not my problem.
Affirmative Action - I have seen the conservative and libertarian argument on it tens of thousands of times. Racism is defined as favoring one race over another, thus Affirmative Action is racism, making anyone advocating it, a racist. Simple as that, just a matter of hiding one’s bigotry behind stone cold logic while at the same time ignoring who suffers it and who dispenses it.
Capital Punishment - Live by the sword, die by the sword. An eye for eye. The families of victims need vengeance for their spiritual well being. There is no recidivism. It’s a position I will never find myself in, so why should I care?
Crime - Let’s be honest about this. Drive-by murders, pimping, street drugs, riots, armed robbery, burglary are disproportionately committed by young black and Hispanic men (well those who are caught and convicted anyway). The courts and prisons are full up with them for good cause. Remove Black and Hispanic crime from our national statistics and we have one of the safest nations on earth. In fact why spend money on prisons at all. Ship them back to Africa or pay Mexico to take them and watch our national statistics climb to the top of the heap on every front.
Economy - This nation was built on greed. I want all I can get as fast as I can get it. And there is nothing wrong with that.
Education - There are only two factors of import here, my education and my children’s education. Somebody else’s education is not my problem, responsibility or concern. Why would it be? It takes an individual.
Environment - Not my problem. It’s long term and I won’t be around long enough to suffer any impact. I am only concerned with the next quarter.
Gays - This one’s easy. You need the tequila to get past the Special Rights crap, but if you just spend all your time concentrating on what they actually do when naked, you are home free. Also bringing Roy Cohn to mind helps.
Guns - This one is the hardest for me. My best advice is to drink a quart of tequila and shoot up a couple grams of crank and you too can conclude that the more guns there are in bedrooms, pockets and cars - the bigger they are, the faster the fire, and the more bullets they can hold - the safer we will all be.
Racism - Blacks care less about whites than whites care about blacks. Same can be said of Jews, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, and what have you. Why on earth would anyone want to stick their neck out, or possibly give up something for the well being of those who don’t like you? Got me by the short and curlies.
Religion - That ignorance is bliss business is nothing to sneeze at. Those seeped in religious dogma do seem to be more content, have better disciplined children, and make fewer waves than most people. As such, why not force it on every child? A few tabs of otherworldly LSD should help with this one.
Taxes - Do enough Prozac to accept the fallacy that our overall tax rate is 50% rather than 30%. Then from that false premise you can arrive at the false conclusion that we are the most over taxed industrialist nation in the world rather than the most under taxed. From there its an easy road to whine and bitch about taxes being theft and that we live in a Marxist, socialist society.
Welfare - Why should I have to support the failure of others? Again, disproportionately it is minorities bleeding the entitlement programs. Send these dead enders to the dead end, a one way bus ticket to Terra Del Fuego would cut my taxes in half.
a liberal dose of liberal political humor, satire, opinion and puerile namecalling
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