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Number of posts: 16
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By Austin McMurria:
- 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 tautollogically described as caused due to being part of the pattern described?
- Why humorists?
parody on the stump
One says it can clean your face, your body, and prevent microbe borne disease.
The other focuses on sewage and promises to clean up all clogged systems, sewage related or not.
A contest was held to see which product was more popular.
When it was apparent that people would choose a clean face and body and disease prevention, the Drano producers decided to tout their product as a suppository laxative.
Dylan mocked, “. . . with God on our side.”
The Boy Scouts award a “God and Country” merit badge.
Nick Searcy sloganed, “God bless America – and no place else !”
And those longing for the “good old days” tend to lean to the right side of the political spectrum embracing “Guns and God.”
But who is this God?
And does he belong to the Republican Party?
I say there is proof in Genesis, that He does.
a book review of sorts
Rather than tell you a story leading up to and offering rationale, let me just say Ottessa Moshfegh is the new Dostoyevsky.
Ottessa Moshfegh’s second novel Eileen is the darkest coming of age tale I have ever read. Excuse me, it’s hardly that, but you try to tie a ribbon around a burp, or wrap copper wire around a springtail (collembola – distant cousin of a gnat). Eileen follows the life of a painfully plain 24-year-old girl working in a prison and serving as nursemaid for an alcoholic father…
about five in the morning
the fire in the wood stove
settles down to its last embers
my friend who loves rib eyes
told me a good eye of chuck
is now his favorite
meanwhile out of the blue a new trend
popped up raising chickens
for their eggs
By the time kids announce their first runaway from home at age five or six, most already have backpacks. A generation or two ago we made “hobo poles” by wrapping up belongings in a towel or handkerchief and tying it onto the end of a stick to be slung over the shoulder.
Most parents will delight in recalling their son or daughter’s early childhood brush with independence. Most parents assist with bagged sandwiches, flashlights, and fruit snacks – some include a favorite toy or storybook. One jokester friend of mine told me how he included a whistle in his sons luggage. It was for protection. Against ghosts, monsters, and the occasional wolf.
Patent Office, may we help you?
Yes, I’d like to register a meme, but perhaps I am in the wrong place.
Well, I might think I need to be at the Copyright Office.
Wait a minute, you might think or you think you might?
Does it matter?
No, I don’t think.
I was afraid of that.
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 the 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,
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 so tight that they squeeze all the humanity out of truth. Or grab someone else’s truth. Or just get fascinated with typing or grammar or if gifted and properly trained sign up as soldier for some industry. Pablo Picasso revealed to an interviewer once that part of his method […]
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.
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 afternoon of trodding through the woods near the river.
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.
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 hooked on readin’ Jeff Cochran articles, but here comes another song bustin’ in – “It ain’t Easy” in Ringo Star’s voice.
Soothe Carolina (as Fritz Hollings calls it) is perpetually Down, Out, Under (the literacy curve), Shootin’ Off (remember Ft. Sumter) and Seized Up, seizing some sleazy moral high ground.
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?”
It must be Southern, since I found these words inside an old timey amber bleach bottle on the periphery of a rest area (where dogs were assigned to relieve themselves) on the way to Charleston, SC, protruding from the mud where the land turned to swamp. The bottled was labeled X X X on folded notebook paper smudged and drooling under some scotch tape. I transcribed the note inside and am posting it below. My guess is it was written by a student. If anyone can identify it’s author (I’ve googgled and come up empty) let me know. I can’t decide whether to put it back or keep it, believing kismet sent it to me. Owing to its origin it must be Southern, so i felt compelled to share it here. Also the notes amorphous subject reminds me of the indescribable reverie when doting upon a Southern Springtime. The title […]
The hidden victims of the Reagan revolution have long been aspirants to the upper middle class, not the actual top few percentile in terms of earnings. This pitiable/laughable farce was self-perpetrated as those who aspired to elitism socially were long stripped of much of their not yet prime time wealth by tax laws much more favorable to those truly belonging to the upper class, not the wannabes. Semantics become problematic since the upper class here in America claims to be the “upper middle class.” Shall we call those whose incomes fall short of the top few percent “lower upper middle class”? Beyond semantics is sociology. Working class families in non- or anti-union states have long chosen personal financial security over idealism. That is, it is better to keep a job by agreeing politically with the boss than voting self-interest. So inside the demise of Republican popularity are some fairly heftily […]
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