I opened up my e-mail from my children's dentist and found what was presumably some back-slappin' humor.
This one was different from most others received from same source. (I have asked several similar e-mail spammers to take me off their mail-lists. But I never opted out of this mailing, even though I have endured lots of disgusting whacko hate humor from the same source.) This one was finally tolerable, and in fact had me laughing at myself, and at both sides of the deeply divided political spectrum.
The intent of the joke was to dishonor all but Dirty and Dirtier Harry, but ...
I just can't seem to arrange the food of thought in small enough bites for others to swallow reality as I seeze. It is jussa conundrum of collage anyway, all them molecules and atoms runnin' circles round theyselves. And life? That stuff getsum ku-Razie. And politics? Right now, it's a drug making everything appear as Good or Evil.
Sorry Bob (my fictionalized demonic mentor, the mean father I never had). Sorry if "the Sublime" gives you a headache. I love you anyway. After all half the world lives in fear their take on reality ain't quite right, so they hold on ...
The rationalist, in seeking clarity, employs the services of an oculist.
The ideologue seeks clarity also, but prefers the services of an occultist.
Recently, a friend asked me, "where does all this Southern Pride come from? I have grown up here and lived here all my life, and I just don't get it! What do Southerners think they have to be proud of?" Well I think some of it comes from being poor, still making do and still dancing a jig occasionally, as we champion ourselves for surviving.
Now I hear ya saying, "that ain't only the South you're describing," whichiz true, nevertheless ...
Why do so many members of a community swallow irrational beliefs?
How does dogma prevail so often untested?
Corruption, perhaps? Paid for and promulgated by special interests?
Are the intermediaries to blame?
What is meant by intermediaries?
Are intermediaries always unpaid blatherers- ecstatic fetishists sated only by auditory self-titillation; or are they paid indirectly?
Can we really surmise that fear draws disciples of the blatherers into auditory addiction?
What if humorists could gather and medicalize the behavior of blatherers?
Isn't medicalization a process where behavior is described as being part of a pattern of behavior, and tautologically described as caused due to being part of the pattern described?
Why ...
Ahh, he thought, not a lot accomplished today. But Jake Gardenia's late night talk show was over so his restive spirit could ebb, and sweet awaked-ness would soon subside into the sand where periwinkles, the pastel and the garish living porcelain tentacles of ongoing unconscious wisdom would burrow into the beach leaving the glazed surface freshly wet from the last wave to dry off during low tide.
Even the unfixed drippy faucet of unfinished business was almost inaudible. The chiropractic pillow wedged comfort to his creaking neck down his spine promising supine solace that comes after a mile or two that ...
I miss my Mom. She is gone. She was like many I have met, a reasonable fair-minded Republican. She once said of George W. Bush while shaking her head, "Bless his heart, he's just way over his head!" Recently I imagined what she might say about the political state of the Union and decided to write it down.
I am not an atheist, but I should be.
I am not a liberal, but the folks who call themselves conservatives and continue to be the vociferous minority of my party disguise their corruption by wrapping it in a banner they call neo-conservative.
The reason I am ...
I come from the land down under. But it ain't Austraya. It's South Carolina. And that song with the lyrics, "I come from the land down under," sticks in my mind over and over. And over. If stuck songs in the past are any example, I know it will go away.
I did have one stick for more than a week, but at least it was continual, not continuous. So, "I come from the land down under" fleets around from hollow corner to vapid alcove of my brain, as I reflect upon my plight as a Sandlapper.
Maybe it's because I've gotten ...
Well it ain't like i don't know the English language. Nor how to slither and conjure. Words edgewise, that is, and images from out of the blue. It's basic organization i really stumble on, occasionally.
Sose i says, quite often to my own self; "Why don't you get yer act together and write?"
Now that i have logged more than fifty revolutions around the sun it's about time to share the adventure through more than sporadic storytelling. I tell this to myself now, quite often. Earlier, when gleaning seventy eight records from antique shops all over the Skyline Drive while delivering oysters ...
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