( An occasional series of mind rumblings from a mind of rather small dimension. Don’t be afraid. You are safe inside. But, I am not responsible for what occurs otherwheres. )
It seems to need the hyphen, don’t you think?
I am in the shower this morning and this happens: I think of the two word phrase that is the title of this little piece. That is all. The water’s pouring down the way it does. I am buck nekkid. The razor is in my hand …I draw it slowly and carefully across my neck taking care to remember the jugular only inches away and waiting. And then, the phrase just occurred to my mind while washing the soap from my face after shaving, and checking for blood in the rinse water circling the drain the same way it did in the Bates Motel. Relieved and living I continued my shower the while thinking about that phrase. How did it come to be? I mean not just then in the shower, but what made the man or woman who devised such a thing devise it. I asked myself that very question which may have occurred to you, Dear Reader, at odd and quiet moments while reflecting on odd and quiet things. Huh???
I have seen them, bats, of course, in their early evening flights into the night and been at times a little nervous; and, more lately, when I had learned they are the scourge of mosquitoes, with an approving and hopeful glance I cheered them on, silently of course. Bats eat mosquitoes for a living, and that makes them okay in my book. We have a lot of mosquitoes, too many it seems. Pray for more bats for the harvest.
By now we all know how they get around, their echo location thing. Sending out hyper-sonic pings and listening for the echo with their radar antenna ears. Maybe that’s how they get mosquitoes, through sifting the airwaves for tasty little tidbits. Thinking about that, and their airwave sifting I thought about us. What have we got to sift from the airwaves? Dreck, and more dreck; a mountain of mud.
That should tell you how my mind works. I went from thinking about bats, radar and those miserable bugs to thinking about Wikileaks, and e-mails, and the miserable little bugs we have afflicting themselves on us through the medium and ministry of print and electronic media, and the associated positions and twistings thereof. I couldn’t tell if they were Bat-S**t Crazy, or we were, for entertaining the possibility that any one of them, and their Dirtbag associates was worthy of being in the driver’s seat for any period of time, let alone for four years. I was thinking then, of course, about the Presidential election this year, itself taking on the appearance of a criminal conspiracy involving almost everyone above the age of reason in the nation, which age, it seems, keeps creeping higher and higher, like monetary inflation, national debt and the temperature. Soon, I think, it will be so high only the dead will have reached it.
I mean, just look at the mess all this Hope and Change BS has put us in, not the least of which is nearly $20,ooo,ooo,ooo,ooo,ooo. of national debt. None of it is any of mine. I didn’t benefit from it and I cannot pay for it. I do have an idea that we, each one of us, should file in Bankruptcy Court under some chapter or other for relief from any requirement to pay back to the treasury whatever is determined to be our share of this debt we had no part in incurring; and neither want to assume nor assist in its payment. Let those who created it in the Agencies, Bureaus, Committees and Departments…the cancers in the Body Politic…responsible as they are for the burden, carry it and discharge it.
“Debt, Schmedt!” We’ve got more than that! Now, the latest of any number of scandals concerning skullduggery in high places continues…or low if the truth be told… I’ve been trying to ignore; this unending sorry storm of Blivets, all of this mishegas that passes for what once might have been conversations, intelligent ones by intelligent and capable people, about matters that should be on the minds of anyone not still playing with what they have scraped from their diapers is become first sad, then infuriating and now tragically, bizarrly comic. Matters, like, well that number above, the people who made it, what they did and what should be done to them and about it disappear. Or, for another instance or two, how to deal with raving Russians, murderous muslims, calculating Chinese; such problems are ignored. Instead we focus on a sick dope who takes pictures of himself in his underwear and sends them to teenagers; and how a zillion, perhaps, e-mails, some of them perhaps top secret, some of them reported to the FBI and Congress as having been deleted, and some of them maybe most of them merely shopping lists most of them from his wife to the Ice Queen. And said wife, a clever jinx, cannot for the life of her understand how a zillion or so of her emails got mixed in with all of those underwear photos. I vannot imagine the number of teenaged girls asking for a Top Secret clearance before reading the suggestive and steamy correspondences between the slim arab gbroad and the harpy.
But we drop everything and pick up this?
He and he alone, a deranged sex addict, a meshuganah if there ever was one, may be the undoing of a Presidential campaign (for which a statue in his honor..perhaps a modern David?..should be, erm..erected). But, for heaven’s sake, does it have to be this way we end what is the most serious threat to civic sanity we have yet faced as a nation.
Back in the 1950’s we all thought we were threatened by a nuclear war with the Russians, and then life changed. We reached detente, we trusted, but verified. A few decades after that the enemy collapsed. It never was much of an enemy, really. I was in DC for a while and became convinced the Russian bear was a skinny dope in a clown suit; and good thing, because it meant, to me at least, that they were sillier and more stupid than we were. (Never get too close to the workings of government. You will see the gears and workings are not working well at all. It’s a very foolish and hollow place; echoing nonsense)
Now? Now I think that what was our Bold Experiment has become a form of Improv Comedy, and a bad act at that, an act so bad that one needs to be sloppy drunk to laugh.
Gathered around the polling place, underneath annoying clouds of mosquitoes and reporters, we’ll gather to enjoy the final act.
This is the way the show will end. This is the way: not with a vote, but a fart!