On the Importance of Being an Asshole

After deciding one day not to be such an asshole I found myself with a lot more time on my hands. I had spent all my life being told, “If you weren’t such an asshole things would be a lot better around here.” It was something I’d heard over and over again.

In the end, I was surprised how untrue that really was. In fact, it turned out to be the opposite altogether. Read more On the Importance of Being an Asshole

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The End of the End of Love, is the Beginning of Love

Having bad experiences with love (or at least towards the end of love) can lead to a certain ‘defensive’ tendency. Whether your love ended through your own shortcomings, or through the failings of another, there is no need to put up this ‘wall.’

The point is not to be for or against it. Read more The End of the End of Love, is the Beginning of Love

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Pillory and Paddle

There is a politician who is universally disliked except by the people who keep sending her back to the House of Representatives. Please don’t do that anymore. If you feel that strongly about the woman keep her at home.

She is the only person who ever made me truly regret having given up on the notion of purgatory. I now wish there was cause and effect between her earthly conduct and the fate of her miserable soul. She has never revealed her actual age but I am usually a good guesser and would put her at about 95 or 100. Her husband is a criminal. Well, so is she but somehow no one has gotten around to plopping the pair of them in the hoosegow. But, they are far too wealthy to ever find a bunk there. I can’t reveal her name because the state she represents has a special set of liable laws making it an expensive felony to say anything truthful about her.

Her biography is a tricky thing, changing without consequence to fit any notion that will bring her the most sympathy and votes. Once she was descended from Native American tribes. Then from slave stock, then from harried immigrant blood. Whatever cause is at the forefront she is in the thick of it always claiming to be the most oppressed victim of all.

Finding her real beginnings proved difficult. I wanted to find out whose privates had been sorely used by Beelzebub and forced into the despicable do-si-do that spawned her. Any reliable documents have been long purged. A study of her face brings to mind Sauron and his possible use of it as the prototype for his orcs. But even that necromancer could never conjure up such a face of evil. She has to have a past beyond the deception and thievery that plagues us now. She had to come from somewhere.

It took months of hard work to track down one bitter old man who years before claimed to know the identity of this woman’s real mother. Foul things had come to him after his disclosure. His temerity had nearly cost him his life. But he never backed away from his claim and when I went to visit him he produced a yellowed news clipping. One he keep safe in a small plastic sandwich bag. It was an article from Starlet Magazine, a Hollywood publication that dealt with the scandals and hijinks of silent screen sirens. This one featured Normani O’Rourke. He swore she was her real mother.

I left and began researching Normani O’Rourke. To find out all I could about her. She had been a silent film star cast as a sultry wench who seduced the best known actors of her time. Both on and off the set. She’d been in a well-publicized fight with Mae Busch. A starlet from Australia. They had argued over who was going to play Cleopatra in an upcoming blockbuster directed by D.W. Griffith. A titan of his time. They both wanted the role but Mae took ol’ D.W. behind the backdrop and won the job. Normani fumed.

Turning her back on legitimate films, Normani started to do illegitimate ones. She changed her name to Ma Bush to get back at her old rival. She had her hair dyed and styled to match Mae Busch and even had a birthmark tattooed on her cheek to match the distinctive feature her nemesis used as her trademark. In the graininess of the medium of the day they looked nearly identical.

Her first film was entitled, Ma Bush Goes to the Meat Market. Thin on plot, except for Ma Bush taking on all the meat cutters for a free lamb chop, it was action packed. And thoroughly embarrassing for Mae Busch who repeatedly denied it was her.

Her second film was Ma Bush Comes Home, a film about the prodigal daughter returning home for the holidays. No one was safe. Uncles, cousins and even a few aunts were part of the shenanigans. For the final scene the table was cleared and Ma Bush lay naked upon it, taking on all comers while her father pounded out a lively ragtime piece on the family piano.

Mae Busch was ruined and turned to drink. She named Normani O’Rourke as the real Ma Bush but no one believed her. She could no longer find work on the big screen and all of her friends deserted her in disgust. Excoriating sermons were composed and delivered expounding the evils of her debauchery, promiscuity and incest. Mae Busch died an ignominious and lonely death.

As an aside, Mae Busch wasn’t the only victim. I too lost a person close to me because of this. In Ma Bush’s old black and white films everyone always went really fast. I was intrigued by this style of lovemaking. I didn’t find out until later that old film makes just makes it look that way. They really didn’t go that fast. I tried it on my girlfriend. She packed up and left even after I promised never to go that fast again.

In celebration of her enemy’s demise, Ma Bush starred in the extravaganza Ma Bush Joins the Logging Camp. Posing as the camp’s shy and virtuous laundry maid, Ma Bush went through every lumberjack, cook and log splitter. Moving from one five man tent to the next she took them all on.

In the daylight hours Ma Bush would take picnic lunches out to the men laboring in the woods. She flitted around like a forest sprite taking on one clump of long bearded wood choppers after another. She was an avalanche of shamefulness, fun and abandon. Portraying on film what only the worst of reprobates would attempt behind a closed door.

But Mae Busch was dead and it didn’t take long for everyone to catch on to the ruse. They all said, “That’s not Mae Busch, it’s really Normani O’Rourke!” That was what the old man’s article had said. It said that somewhere in those sinful acts biology won out and Ma Bush, now outed as Normani O’Rourke left the bacchanalian orgies with not only splinters but also pregnant with the politician who would end up doing so much damage to all of us.

In the end we all paid the price for Normani’s revenge on Mae Busch by being forced to fill the greedy, cold hearted pockets of Normani’s dark issue. And when we can pay no more all that’s left for us rabble is the pillory and paddle.

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My Open Letter to the Guy Crossing the Street Against Traffic Without Looking up

Dear person who never looks up while crossing the street, no matter how much traffic there is,

Hey, how’s it going? I hope I didn’t interrupt you from anything important. Please, by all means, go ahead and finish texting LOL to your friend Brad. Don’t forget the smiley face emoticon. Your text is far more important than anything I have to discuss with you. I’ll wait……… Done yet? Super.

Anyway, I just wanted to introduce myself. You see, I’m the guy whose car almost creamed you earlier today when you walked into traffic against the light and never once looked up. I doubt you remember me.

I can imagine it must have been hard to hear my horn blaring or my brakes screeching to avoid hitting you, what with that AC / DC song playing on your iPod at 175 decibels. I could hear them rocking away from inside my car with my windows up. I have to say, excellent choice in music, dude. Can’t go wrong with Highway to Hell – a classic.

You know, when I was young, I was taught that the center of the solar system was the sun. I now realize that my teacher lied to me – because clearly the solar system revolves around an eight-inch space between those earbuds of yours.

Okay, so technically I may have had the “legal” right of way over you, seeing as the light was green for me, and you had that annoying, flashing DON’T WALK sign that you probably missed since it didn’t flash on your cell phone. But hey, who has time to read street signs when they’re busy checking out their Facebook page, am I right?

Anyhoo, what I was trying to say is I apologize. I’m deeply sorry if my car’s front bumper photobombed the Selfie you were taking. Given that my windshield was merely four feet away from your rib cage when our paths crossed, I fear I may have ruined your Snapchat moment.

I must confess, I envy you just a little. You looked so at peace – so completely unbothered by the gridlock you created for all those cars behind me trying in vain to make it through the intersection. I am in awe of your composure in the face of a long line of irate drivers who would have happily made you into a hood ornament.

A lesser person would have been intimidated at the thought of 4,000 pounds of steel bearing down on them at the speed of a hungry cheetah. But not you. You were so courageous, completely undaunted. Even the screams of the maddening crowd didn’t shake your certitude that the urban seas would part to make way for your triumphant, regal crossing. Way to make an entrance, King Cell Phone Dude.

And I simply must applaud your amazing ability to keep your eyes focused downward during your entire crossing. As I was trying in vain to get your attention, your eyes never once wandered from your cell phone screen during your entire 36-foot journey from curb to curb. I doubt a nuclear explosion could have diverted your concentration away from whatever YouTube roomba cat video you were locked in on.

Ya’ know, sometimes I find myself having to stop what I’m doing and pay attention to other people around me who insist that I observe basic courtesies of a modern society. You don’t suffer from that affliction. Not one bit. It must be nice not to have to worry about anything outside of a two-foot radius of your thumbs. What’s important to me is that you were able to saunter across the street at your own leisurely pace, without having to worry about anyone else on this planet. I am in awe of you.

I hope our paths cross again sometime. Perhaps we’ll meet on an airplane. I’ll be the guy right behind you in line waiting for fifteen minutes while you attempt to squeeze a suitcase the size of a refrigerator into the overhead compartment.

But if I know you – and I’m pretty sure I do – you won’t notice me then either. And that’s okay. Because no matter how long you make me wait for you to place your special order at the drive thru or ask the bank teller to convert your collection of 2,578 pennies into dollar bills, it’s okay. Take your time. Please don’t hurry on my account. All that matters to me – and the other 25 people in line behind you – is that you focus on the needs of Numero Uno, buddy. Act like we’re not even here. That should be easy for you to do.

On behalf of all the people in this world who are forced to wait on the outside of whatever impenetrable magic bubble you live in, I just want to say, thank you for reminding all of us that your time is more valuable than ours.

Warmest regards,

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Who are the Real Individualists in UK Politics?

The ‘economic individualism/economic collectivism’ dichotomy is so idiotic, I wish it could be binned, preferably along with those who propagate it.

Welfare and the NHS, designed to relieve and alleviate the suffering of real people, rather than of meaningless abstractions, are much less ‘collectivist’ concerns than the Tory veneration of ‘the economy’ and ‘the national interest.’ Read more Who are the Real Individualists in UK Politics?

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