I am a topical genius.
I am a word wizard.
I mount the stump of justice and spew forth mighty isms that profound the weak and uninitiated.
Come gasp at my sayings.
Become dumbfounded by my utterances.
You mule.
You lowbrow.
Do you not see the might of my brain pulsing behind my temples?
Only importance is drafted on my pages.
And if you do not find it thus, you are a simpleton.
I am the Prince of Phrases!
Read on in amazement and shudder in the cloud of my contempt.
For I am a topical genius.
Allow me to preface this story with the fact that it’s going to make me look like a complete imbecile, and I admit, I am rather ashamed of the events that follow… but it’s too funny to hide, even if the laughter is at my own expense. So laugh away. I’ll be laughing with you.
We are always a little behind when it comes to technological advances. While most people are texting, twittering, iPoding and whatever-the-helling, we are still over here playing with fire and saying things like, “Ow! Fire hot!”
Reese and I didn’t have a TV for years–like the first five years we were married we were totally TV free! We both had come out of heavily TVed homes and were just sick of TV, so we didn’t want one. Well five years later we decided it would be cool for playing movies on, which we did still like, and we thought maybe if we owned a TV we didn’t have to see everything in the theater or at someone else’s house. Went out and bought a tube TV, a brand we thought was reliable. It was a $300 TV, which at the time bought a modestly decent TV–nothing too fancy, but reliable and functional.
The plot thickens!
Walmart is a deceptive type of retail store. I think that I am getting a great deal… and I am… but at what cost? i saw a bumper sticker long ago before the curent “recession.” (HA) It said “NO JOB? EAT YOUR IMPORT.” Shall we call it what it is?
1. A wacko in a mobile home.
When I first met Mr. Zeller, I was in Reese’s basement. He was giving us premarital counseling. Telling us what behaviors were appropriate, what were morally questionable, giving his reason-to-believes. The guy kinda bugged me, but he seemed okay. And I was a good listener, which made him smile ’til he was squinting.
We decided to live in Oregon after the wedding, but I was a good listener. Mr. Zeller wanted to share his opinions, his reason-to-believes.
We settled on Idaho.
Idaho kinda bugged me, but it was okay. The only thing I disliked about it was the fact that the Zellers lived there. And my family didn’t—that part bugged me too. But I refused to be unhappy. That was one thing Mr. Zeller couldn’t talk me out of, as hard as he tried.
Things became strange.
Mr. Zeller didn’t like it that I wanted to study the Bible with Reese, and not with him or his wife. He didn’t like the way I spent time with Reese’s family. He didn’t like Reese’s long hair. He had reason-to-believes.
I misplaced my listening skills one day. Zeller bugged me. His reason-to-believes bugged me. His wife bugged me. I was bugged.
Walter came for a visit, and we were all so glad to see him. But not Zeller. He had a few reason-to-believes regarding Walter. His wife did too. The Zellers bugged me.
We rode in Walter’s motorhome anyway. Screw Zeller and his reason-to-believes.
Wasn't I intense?
A giant, open-ended balloon;
I flapped a futile course.
Now all the wind
has been sucked out of me,
with no force left in these
deflated bones
to shy away from
your fanatical notions.
Copyright (C) 2009 ThePontificators.com
In reading this rant, it helps to have
experienced Idaho's peak summer temperatures
with no AC... But I'm sure we can all use
our imaginations.
HOT
My husband was supposed
to fix the swamp cooler last weekend,
but he didn't get around to it.
It's so damn hot today;
my skin is glistening like precious.
I wonder if Cleopatra glistened,
her thick black eyeliner bleeding
into the crevices of her face,
sweat itching under that heavy gold collar...
Even with enough gold collars to buy
one hundred fifty-seven thousand flunkies
to fan ripples in your linen robe,
you'd still be glistening,
dripping from the creases of your royal bod,
wishing someone would hurry up
and invent an air conditioner.
Man, necessity is a mother.
Copyright (C) 2009 ThePontificators.com
It’s been said that St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland in the fifth century. To make up for it, the Irish have been drinking until they see snakes ever since.
It has also been said that an Irish man would step over the bodies of twelve naked women to get to a bottle of whisky; my personal limit is five.
The sun shows brightly outside the L.A. Convention Center, cooking the pavement so that one can feel the dry heat radiating off the concrete surfaces of downtown. The benches and steps are littered with loose papers; the waste left behind from convention attendees who are bustling to and fro, their ID badges hanging around their necks like cowbells. The crowd is an odd mix of cliché computer geeks with short sleeve button down shirts tucked into pants pulled up above their belly buttons, wire frame glasses, un-kept balding hair, and a penchant for sneezing. Amidst the army of geeks are the “new geeks”: Jeans, sneakers, piercings, tattoos, and black t-shirts that let you know in plain white letters how much smarter they are than you.
South across 9th St, a four lane road cluttered in heavy California traffic, a family of seven Mexican immigrants are working a hot grill; catering to an insanely long line. Curious, and more than a little hungry, I position myself at the crosswalk and wait for my light to turn.
(more…)
