Wednesday, December 23, 2015

The Predatory Female

The lovestruck fool goes where Seduction calls –
Tasty game for The One who enthralls.
Easy prey for the necrotic heart,
Of a predatory female acting a part.

He's a squirrel lured to nest on the open sea,
Love is a sleek fin that encircles hungrily.
But the squirrel isn't made to endure the ocean's rhythm and roar,
He must be enticed to leave the safety of land and shore.

Pulled by the temptation of undulating tides,
His flesh prickles with wanting as Love collides.
The squirrel swoons at the glint of a sharp tooth,
Love continues her courtship lithe and couth.

He yields his mind to appease a primal urge;
Love sees her chance and closes in with rapturous surge.
She lunges and thrusts to capture her helpless feed –
Just another fool consumed by his own lovesick need.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Unfortunate 7-Eleven Encounter

It feels like I am faced with rude, not particularly observant, condescending zombie-people in all aspects of my trivial existence. No doubt some of this feeling can be attributed to my own hang-ups, but my insecurities do not account for EVERYTHING.

For example, I was recently asked to get a pack of matches from the local 7-Eleven.

I agreed to get these matches even though I am opposed to the reason these matches were needed in the first place, but whatever. I have my own vices to direct my judgment towards. I will try not to be a hypocrite.

On the other hand, hypocrisy is sometimes a necessary evil, like little white lies or the mildly despicable  things one resorts to when the circumstances of her life force her to live in survival mode. Live or die is also a choice.


“Don't call me crazy.I'm a survivor. I do what I have to do to survive.” 

― The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

Besides, the particular vice in question, smoking, is one I myself was able to overcome cold turkey over a decade ago through mindfulness (before it was a trendy catch phrase) and will power (probably a bit of divine intervention thrown in there too, but who knows).

It is therefore a challenge for my brain to be empathetic to the 12-step addiction dogma that says you are powerless – it’s a challenge because I know it’s not true. To be clear, this is not to suggest there is no such thing as transcendence or something bigger than us; only that it is false to believe we are utterly powerless. We aren't. We still have the choice to, for example, light a cigarette, put it to our lips and inhale. 

Granted, if you are addicted to cigarettes, it can be a very difficult "choice" to quit, especially with so many biological, psychological and cognitive factors involved, factors most are not aware of, which further complicates the issue. How does one fight an enemy he or she does not realize exists?

Even so, it is still amazing to me what you will believe is impossible if you let your mind be led solely by outside forces, such as pop psychology, cultural "norms" or my pet peeve, the "celebrity class" (why people would ever want to emulate these freak-show celebrities, who belong in a zoo and have the intellect of a finger-puppet is beyond me). Grant those outside sources your consideration, by all means. Contemplate them, think critically, but if they don’t align with your intuition and sense of humanity, REJECT them. For the love of GOD.

You can quit an addiction whether to a substance or behavior and you can manage your emotions, thoughts and beliefs without pharmaceutical drugs or “therapeutic” brainwashing. But obviously you have to want to and be willing to endure a little suffering, knowing “this too will pass”, in order to achieve inner mastery. Not easy but still possible.

Try and convey this message to the average conditioned drone around here, though, and you’re met with a blank stare.  Still, I do understand why this is – the crutches of addiction, carnal indulgence, egocentrism and faulty belief often provide a far better quality of delusion or I mean life than facing the panic of this bizarre reality stone cold sober.




If you do attempt to go it alone without all the worldly baggage and chemical smokescreens, you risk having an existential crisis, and possibly losing your mind trying to make sense of the absurdity – the big fucking mystery of it all.

So forget it. I’ll get your stupid matches for you – enjoy your denial-encapsulated black lung. Me? I’ll take my chances with the existential crisis, perhaps with the occasional crutch because I too am mortal like everyone else, prone to injury, disease and hypocrisy, and in need of assistance from time to time, but ultimately I’ll come to my own conclusions about the nature of my reality.

Thus, with the above dissonance resonating in my head, I asked the cashier behind the counter at 7-Eleven for fuel and some matches.

“Do you want a book of matches?” she drawled, utterly uninterested in the human being (me) standing in front of her.

“Um…whatever you have is fine,” I answered, a little unsure of myself, “how much is a book of matches?”

She handed me an unopened box of 50 packs of matches and said, “Five cents”.

I took the box from her in that slow, hesitant way one does when confused that she has misunderstood something, but also simultaneously suspects it is the OTHER person who has it wrong.

“Do you want ME to open the box?” I asked, double-checking that I wasn’t indeed the one labouring under a misapprehension.

Now for the first time since this unpleasant interaction began, the woman looked directly at me and rolled her eyes, “Ahh, nooooo…you can open it yourself.”

She made a kind of snorting sound like I was the idiot and not her.

“So it’s five cents for this WHOLE box of matches?” I checked again.

The middle-aged woman sighed heavily, like a frazzled single mother of twelve with few options left, forced to work at a convenience store for minimum wage and snapped, “That’s what I said isn’t it? Duh.”

Well, isn’t SHE a bundle of hostile joy. But life has clearly dealt her a shitty hand, so I’ll try to remain calm. It’s okay, World, you can continue to use me as a fucking punching bag. The lifetime beating has hardened me, I can handle it.

“Yeah, okay, just checking,” I answered, feeling inexplicably chastised (okay, maybe I can’t handle it) by this dopey woman who evidently did not know the difference between an individual “book” of matches and an entire box of them.

That’s when the customer behind me, who had been listening to everything, eagerly chimed in, “I’ll get a couple ‘books’ of those matches, too!”

In the end, four of us left there with multiple unopened boxes of matches for 5 cents.

Normally I would still be suffering with guilt over “benefitting” from this woman’s ignorance, even with the way she treated me, but the matches weren’t for me. I did not benefit in any way and thus am exonerated of all guilt. 

Okay, I still do feel guilty.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

The Human Pincushion

Through a series of unfortunate accidents I dropped a box of pins and needles in a dimly lit area of my carpeted living room. Lizzy witnessed the whole thing and without moving to help me pick any of the pins up, knowingly said, “Dad’s going to step on one of those pins”.

“No”, I corrected as I desperately crawled around on my hands and knees, “we’re going to pick them all up. No one is going to step on a pin! Now please help me!”

I think she reluctantly picked up ONE pin, but upon doing so, shrieked in pain as if she had been stabbed with a harpoon and gave up.  She told me she was just a kid and it was dangerous for kids to pick up pins. Besides, she pointed out, she wasn’t the one who dropped them.

Insolent child.

Still, even without her assistance I thought I had gathered up all the pins.

I was wrong…as tends to happen.

Sure enough, a few days after I drop the pins, I get a frantic, angry phone call from John. He is in agony. He has stepped on a needle and it’s inserted so far into his foot that only the eye of the needle is poking out.

I can hear Lizzy, the little traitor, in the background saying, “I told mom this would happen.”

I don’t know why I’m the first person John calls in such situations. First remove the needle and if you need medical assistance, go to an Emergency Room. Do not call me. I cannot help you.

But of course he is not phoning for help or advice. He, with his little sidekick, Lizzy, is phoning to place blame.

In a barely controlled voice he asks me if I know why he stepped on a pin.

“Because you don’t look where you’re going?” I answer helpfully.

“NO!” he screams abandoning all pretence of self-control. “YOU dropped pins on the carpet and didn’t pick them up!”

My cell vibrates at the intensity of his rage.

“Where are you getting your information?” I ask, as if I don’t know.

“LIZZY told me!!!”

“Lizzy is 6,” I say, “who are you going to believe, a 6 year old or a grown adult?”

John cannot believe my lack of contrition and yells, “The 6-year-old!”

“Does it really matter why at this point?” I ask. “Don’t you think you should remove the foreign object from your foot before worrying about who is responsible? Also, you have to be responsible for your own feet. Surely, you can’t blame me for where YOU decide to tread!”

In frustration he hangs up.

A few days later he has stepped on another one of these pins and I receive another one of his phone calls.

It occurs three more times in the proceeding weeks. Each time I am not home and each time he phones me to vent his frustration and demand that something be done. Short of ripping up the carpet, I don’t know what more can be done.

He doesn’t know either, but he does know that with every pin that punctures his foot, his resentment for me builds, as does his fear of entering the living room. His god, the TV, is in there, though, so I’m not too worried about it. It isn’t like he can avoid his place of worship.

A few more weeks of this and he tells me he can’t take it anymore. He does not think he can survive another pinning. And even though I have not admitted (and never will) to any culpability in the matter, he is still suspicious that the scatterbrained clumsiness I am notorious for is responsible for the pins. Because of this, he thinks it’s only fair I offer up some sort of restitution. Failing that, it would give him great satisfaction to see ME step on one of these pins and collapse to the ground writhing in pain, develop an infection and possibly die.

I tell him that is a terrible thing to wish on anyone, and as punishment, he's left me with no choice but to put The Curse of the Pin on him.

“You already DID!!!” he sputters.

I suggest to him that if it was me who kept stepping on pins, I’d start wearing slippers. Or I'd avoid the area where I suspected the pins were embedded.

For some weird reason, even though it fills him with dread, he cannot keep himself away from the vicinity of the pin carnage. This perverse fascination is in fact why he keeps stepping on the pins in the first place. Look and ye shall find.

In a shocking departure from his usual behavior, eventually he does listen to me and takes to wearing slippers. He also makes an effort to stay away from the area in question, but he simply cannot do it for long. Even so, for another week he is fine. No more pinnings. It seems he has managed to retrieve all the wayward pins with his foot.

“See?” I brighten, “something positive has come out of this. Now no one else will step on a pin because you’ve retrieved them all with your foot! You’re a super great humanitarian”.

He does not think I'm funny, and my words of praise do nothing to dissolve his simmering rage, which he’s been trying to contain since I put the Curse of the Pin on him. Although he openly scoffs at such things, he isn’t fooling me – not with his “controlled” rage or his disbelief in my abilities. Secretly, he isn’t so sure my curses aren’t real. 

And sure enough, a few mornings later he wakes up with a stabbing ache in his back. This is nothing new, mind you, and as a rule I more or less ignore his physical complaints. He worries and complains about back pain incessantly because when he was 19 he got into a bad car accident and fractured his spine. His doctors at the time warned that as he got older he may start to experience chronic lumbar pain and other associated symptoms.

As a result, John is constantly on high alert to ANY discomfort in his back no matter how minor or imagined. This time, however, he says it is “different” and excruciating enough that he can’t go to work.

For the rest of the day he lay on the couch moaning about how he needs to go to the doctor and get some painkillers, but he never makes a move to actually do this.

It is not until later in the night at maybe 9 or 10 o’clock that I get another one of John’s by now customary phone calls while I’m at work. From his pressured tone and rapid breathing I know immediately this has something to do with pins.

I am correct.

It seems John had reached around to scratch where his back hurt and in doing so pricked his finger on something sharp. There was blood. He nearly fainted when he realized what it was.

It was the tip of a pin.

You have no idea how disappointed I am that he never went to see that doctor about his “ailment”.


Every time I think of this whole pin situation I am thrown into a new fit of hysterics. As a consequence, John has stopped speaking to me.  He is beside himself with  anger that I’m not taking it more seriously. He says with utter conviction that if he hadn’t felt the pin when he did, he probably would be dead right now.




Ignoring the fact he had wished figurative death on me only a few days ago, I laugh and say, “Don’t be absurd. You can’t die from being stabbed in the back with a pin. A knife, sure, but a pin? I don’t think so, there Pincushion”.

I’ve now taken to calling him Pincushion.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

The Doctor at my Window

I stand at the window and watch three overly confident male physicians strutting below. They walk like the Sultan of Brunei, ridiculous, repulsive men with big egos and an infinite capacity for self-gratification, lechery and entitlement. 

Their confidence is derived from a boys club of debauchery, deception, privilege, an engorged sense of superiority, astounding hypocrisy and the celebrity-like worship of a misguided, misinformed populace, not to mention a seemingly endless supply of female gullibility that fuels their rutting preoccupations. Swine.



The differences between Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah and the semen-driven doctors are ones of mere degree. The Sultan is at the extreme end of wealth, hedonism, greed, cruelty, misused intelligence and spiritual emptiness. He is a purely mechanical animal who will return to dust and disappear into nothingness once he dies, which hopefully is as pleasant an affair as the deaths of those who will no doubt go in slow and painful ways under the Sharia law Bolkiah plans to introduce into Brunei society, laws which he and his equally repugnant, pedo-looking, herpetic brother are themselves guilty of breaking on a regular basis. Sadistic pigs.

As for the doctors, perhaps "sadistic pig" is a bit harsh, but "rutting swine" seems accurate enough. All three of the doctors I am currently surveying from my window are married, but none are particularly discreet about their frequent romps with infidelity and abuses of power, or in any way ashamed of the lives their more or less open cheating has negatively impacted.

If you're going to indiscriminately fornicate with as many women as you possibly can, like an unclean animal that scurries along the ground and gorges itself to death if given free access to a food source, you at least shouldn't be married with a quiverful of kids when you do it. Don't do it when you've taken marriage vows, and don't do it when you've taken a Hippocratic oath not to take advantage of your position of trust in order to prey upon vulnerable young women with your perversions. And if you can't manage any of that, at minimum be upfront with the young ladies you're using as receptacles for your seminal trash, so they know exactly what they are getting into and don't harbor any illusions of happily-ever-after with you.






In addition to these breaches of trust and violations of oath, all this pathological infidelity and casually tossed aside, single-use female bodies has been responsible for several suicide attempts, as well as countless psychological problems and the occasional jealousy-induced criminal act. Although, I guess if you were the kind of man who stopped to consider how your actions might devastate another person's life, or unravel the very fabric of civilized society, you would not be indiscriminately fucking a bunch of people like an insentient Energizer Dildo on permanent recharge in the first place.

"It's amazing how these guys get away with what they get away with in this town," I turn to Belinda, thoroughly disgusted at the mere sight of these doctors everyone else is so smitten with (other than the people whose lives they've ruined, but even they seem remarkably forgiving).

Belinda happens to be one of the smitten ones, which I suppose is part of the reason I like to comment on them, just to needle her. It injects some adrenaline into an otherwise paperclip and blunt pencil kind of a day, where only casual business attire is allowed, not like a blue jeans Friday. 

It's the kind of day where the biggest catastrophe is that Lenore used water straight from the tap to fill the Keurig yet again, even though she's been told repeatedly to use the purified water from the cooler. This infuriates Belinda: "So help me, if that cute water-boy stops coming in here because of damn Lenore making management think we don't need weekly water deliveries anymore, I'll KILL HER MYSELF!"

Basically my contempt for a philandering penis with an equally untrustworthy medical degree is distracting Belinda from Lenore's meddling and therefore saving Lenore's life. You're welcome Lenore. 

"Look at them preening like ugly peacocks who have no idea how hideous they are," I continue with as much disdain as I can muster, "I hope one of these incessantly squawking crows dive-bombs the one in the middle, your friend, Dr. Suna". 

I don't look at Belinda but I sense I'm getting under her skin. This particular "specialist" is one of her favorites. They have a good, flirty working relationship that stays reasonably within the bounds of appropriateness (she's over 30 so too old for him anyway). It makes me want to stab my hand with one of the plastic forks I keep on my desk any time I'm in the same room as one of their giggly interactions. 

Belinda takes a deep, steadying inspiration before addressing me.

"That's because you're a man hater. I find him amusing. He's funny and smart and knows his stuff. He goes out of his way to answer questions and makes his patients feel at ease. Who cares what he does in his personal life."

This is a refrain I've heard many times and I don't agree with any of it, which Belinda knows. Also, these doctors ARE in fact mixing work with their "personal" life every time one of them takes a nursing student into the doctors' lounge and locks the door behind them, or conveniently "forgets" to bring a female assistant into the examining room when an attractive young woman is having a breast or pelvic exam.

I however decide to ignore Belinda's stance that "what a person does in his personal life has no bearing on his professional life". As I've said, she already knows my feelings surrounding that particular non-sequitur, anyway. No point in beating a dead horse. And I'm more or less desensitized to the bogus "man-hater" label, so I should ignore that, too. 

It's a bullshit label anyway, but as I've gotten older and wiser, I've decided that if my cautious nature, my "bitch face", keeps assholes away from me then I will no longer feel bad about such "rejection" and embrace it as serendipity. I've of course (because if you're born female you are guaranteed to be sexually assaulted, molested, harassed or demeaned at some point in your life) had my share of uncomfortable encounters with the male species, including intimidation, near rapes, sexual coercion, domestic violence, life-altering "sessions" with a pedophile when I was young, as well as being periodically subjected to degrading, threatening and condescending commentary, but comparatively speaking, in relation to either more outgoing women or more accommodating ones, men generally give me a wide berth.


With regards to the "hater" label, though, in truth, the only thing I really hate is an unconsidered opinion that ignores perspective, excuses bad behavior, spreads like a contagion, is picked up by group think, and then is mindlessly parroted by everyone like they're robotically delivering lines in a poorly rehearsed, ill-conceived episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. Adopting an opinion without critical contemplation, such as Dr. Suna being a "great guy", and then repeating that opinion as if it's a fact skews reality to the point it begins to feel like we're living in a contrived reality TV show, while pretending everything is normal.


The Lamar Odom sleazebags in this contrived reality, however, are named Bill, Joe or Bob, swap their pricey cocaine for crystal meth cut with rat poison, and get their illicit sex not from fancy legalized brothels in Nevada, but from strung-out single mothers with deadened souls, who have lost their kids and fill the void with IV drug use and degrading sex acts at $10 a pop, performed in darkened back alleys or bed-bug infested motels that rent by the minute

With the above bitter ruminations running through my mind, I finally correct Belinda, saying, "I'm not a man-hater, Belinda, only a hater of despicable behavior. It's not my fault most of that despicable behavior happens to come from men. Don't blame the observer."

Belinda gives me her signature look, which says she doesn't agree with a word I'm saying.

But this is how we do things so I solider on: "Also, why does Suna always have to come in here bragging about what a fabulous life he's having with fancy tales of his travels and conquests? Shut up. I'm already not enjoying my life over here, I don't need some pretentious douche-bag rubbing it in with one of his drive-by self-aggrandizing stories."



Then, as if by cosmic cue, Dr. Suna comes slithering into the room like the snake he is. Belinda glances at me in alarm, worried he might have heard us talking, not that she would have anything to worry about. I'm the ONLY one voicing discontent with the status quo.


Besides, he doesn't know he's Dr. Suna. Granted, my pet name for him is not very original, but it makes me laugh every time I use it. Sultan H-Ass-Anal, Lamar O-Dumb and Dr. Suna aren't the only ones who need their cheap thrills. My form of cheap thrill, however, doesn't cost anything and will not spread disease or further destroy civilization or common decency.  And anyway, the name Suna is fitting. He is a backwards, lax sphincter and portal for fecal matter.

In any event, he must sense I don't care for his stench and bypasses me completely as if I don't exist at all, and goes straight for Belinda. He is all ingratiating smiles, with a "favor" to ask, but first he wants to show off pictures from his latest trip: kite-boarding with his Stepford wife, Mrs. Doctor Suna, in Venezuela. You see? I am an equal opportunity "hater". I dislike shitty men AND their consenting victims (although I will always side with the latter if it comes down to it).

Unfortunately (for Belinda), the first picture that appears is a close-up of a Pap smear in progress. Dr. Suna laughs off the mistake and jokes, "Oops, gyne-porn". He then continues to swipe through the pics as if it's no big deal that he's just traumatized Belinda's eyes for the rest of her life, or that he's violated some unnamed woman's right to privacy. 

He keeps swiping until he comes to the images of his wife risking her life surfing rough tropical waters, apparently for his viewing pleasure. As Belinda struggles to restore her composure after being eye-raped with that unexpected Pap visual, she stammers, "That looks dangerous!"

Dr. Suna jokes again that this latest wife might be quiet but she's a daredevil; willing to try anything, that one. "She'd surprise you", he says with a lecherous grin. Anyway, if she did die in some freak kiting accident, not a problem, he goes on. He likes to "trade in for a new one every 7 or 8 years" anyhow, so bonus! Saves him messy divorce proceedings. Suna appears quite pleased with how funny he thinks he's being, oblivious to how fidgety he's making Belinda, who laughs politely but who I can see is mildly horrified by this entire situation. 

I imagine she is reconsidering right about now that I may not be off the mark regarding Dr. Suna after all. Pustule.

As for me, in addition to being happy Suna himself continues to prove my low opinion of him is correct, I'm also happy my unfriendly "hater" persona pays off yet again. Of the two of us, Belinda is the only one with the closeup of some stranger's prolapsed cervix forever burned in her mind. Not a pleasant thing to be carrying around in your head. My own conscience is clear.

Finally Dr. Suna mercifully finishes up his slide show, asks for the favor he could have done himself, and  turns to leave when Lenore's best friend, Henrietta, comes bustling in.

She blocks the doorway so Suna can't easily leave and asks him if he is interested in sponsoring her for the women's shelter fundraiser she is helping organize. She understandably assumes he is a perfect fit for such a fundraiser since women's issues are his speciality, not to mention the thing that has provided him with wealth, prestige and privilege. Even more to the point, it's the thing that's given him a sultan-like status in this community, reminiscent of his anal-twin-flame there, Sultan H-Ass-Anal Bolkiah, and a free pass to fuck around without consequence as much as his Viagra-controlled erection allows. As such, you'd think he'd want to give back somehow.

You'd think that, but you'd be wrong. A man like this does not humble himself. It has to be done for him, either through divine intervention, personal tragedy or by another more advanced being on a stronger branch of the evolutionary tree. Now, if Henrietta, Belinda and everyone else around here looked beyond superficial nonsense, they would know intuitively that a man of Suna's narcissism does not examine his prejudices nor does he change them.

And sure enough, much to my smug satisfaction, he answers Henrietta with, "Women's shelter? What about men? Is there a shelter for men who get beat up by women?"

He makes this asshole statement in the context of a recent murder/suicide of a domestically abused mother at the end of her rope, who had just left her violent husband with their severely autistic son in tow. No support, no money, no job, and nowhere to go other than a shelter she couldn't get into because it was full. This woman may have even been his patient.

In light of the above, Henrietta is shocked into silence at Suna's response, an unusual situation for her, normally a total blabbermouth. 

With Henrietta's uncharacteristic silence, Suna realizes he might have taken what he later explains is another one of his hilarious "jokes" too far. He shrugs and throws a crumpled $20 bill at Henrietta, which as far as I'm concerned is no more charitable than had he flung a nail clipping at her head. His 20 bucks is that inconsequential to him. If anything, when this asshole "gives" any amount of money away he's doing something for HIMSELF, not any one else, certainly not any one in need. It causes him NO hardship whatsoever.

Suna trounces off without a care after this, shoving past Henrietta, who looks a little lost now. After he's gone, she sheepishly admits she had expected him to give her at least $100, was counting on it.

In renewed disgust, I dig through my Old Mother Hubbard purse, and to my surprise manage to scrape together $36.85 to give to Henrietta. At the same time, Belinda digs through her slightly fiscally healthier purse and between us, in addition to Suna's pathetic $20, Henrietta leaves with more than the $100 she had come for. 

I look at Belinda expectantly.

"Okay, okay," she says in partial surrender, "you win. He's an anus...but I still like him".

Without another word I return to my desk, to the fork, and stab myself. The fork bends against the back of my hand and a couple of the tines fling off, hitting me painlessly in the face before falling impotently to the floor.

Unmoved, Belinda watches my sorry display of political protest and dryly asks, "Feel better?"

I don't look at her as I reach down to pick up the broken-off fork bits and say, "I think I've made my point."

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Deafening Silence

There were 12 children in total, some step-siblings, some half and some full — all mashed together like misfit puzzle pieces forced into a distorted family portrait.

Papa Phil did not father all twelve, but they all had at some point been under his care. The women who gave birth to these children, two of whom were once Papa Phil's wives, had all been lost to one of booze, madness or death.

Papa Phil knew he could not raise a brood of motherless kids by himself, so he took yet another wife, Muriel, when the youngest of the dozen was still in diapers. Muriel herself could not get pregnant, but desperately yearned for a baby and was thus immediately smitten with the youngest of the children.

The older kids, none of them Papa Phil's biological offspring, were more or less ignored by Muriel and terrorized by Phil. But it was a silent terror. Silence like this is loud and oppressive — it defies logic and the laws of nature. The unsaid things are the scariest things — the things no one wants to acknowledge.

The silence was therefore free to slip in between the ketchup sandwiches made with stale bread, through the soiled sheets, and around the creaking floorboards late at night when children should be soundly sleeping. They should not be wide awake concentrating with every cell of their being on some bedroom wall shadow until the silent thing is done.

Silence becomes an odd comfort when it accompanies everything one does. It is like a prison guard the prisoner comes to rely on, even after the bars have been left unlocked and the guard eliminated.

Maryanne, a middle-aged adult now, resented the guarded silence. Her siblings, by comparison, went on seemingly unscathed with a regimented existence. Maryanne could not understand their refusal to talk about what had happened to them because it consumed her. She could barely handle it, the thought of Papa Phil having gotten away with his crimes, aided and abetted by muteness. 

There did, however, come a day when she could no longer tolerate the dead air and spoke up. The power of confession, what really should have only been the therapeutic passing of an honest moment, created a dystopia Maryanne could not have anticipated. Who would have thought that with the mere utterance of a few words that so much human misery would scream forth from the silence like a million unleashed demons.

There would be suicide, addiction and homicidal rage. There would be financial ruin, prison, insanity, agony and death. All their carefully patched together lies, their precariously assembled lives, decimated by truth.

Monday, October 12, 2015

Mormons are in the Building

Belinda calls me over to the window. She looks concerned as she watches a Mormon twosome approaching the building. They always march in pairs.

"Why would the Mormons be here?" she says in a near whisper.

She sounds scared.

"Well, there are numerous reasons why they could be here, Belinda. It's not like there's a law forbidding them from entering the building." I laugh. "Why? Do you think they're coming for you?"

It turns out the thought has crossed her mind. 

They seem to seek her out where ever she goes, especially at her home where they come knocking on a regular basis, which is partly her own fault. If you feed a stray it will invariably come back. Sometimes, if you don't set up firm boundaries from the outset, the stray will go further and muscle his way right into your house. Make himself at home. 

But make no mistake. 

He is not interested in having you domesticate him. He is using you and will come and go as he pleases. But you're an innocent and will think with self-satisfaction that he's grown to love and respect you. He has not. He mocks you when you aren't looking. 

The Mormons kind of work like that, although I imagine their devoted "foot soldiers" are for the most part unaware that they are mocking anyone. They believe they are the righteous ones and that it is the rest of us who are confused, not them. Also, they have a manual of strategy and are prepared with circular reasoning to confound you if necessary.

If you're not careful, eventually, if the Mormons are successful with their door-to-door, boots on the ground strategies, they will lead you right from your home into theirs, which is more of a lair than a "home". You won't know what hit you and they will have another brick for their wall.




I don't know how effective their approach is, and I would be interested to know their success rate, but you see Mormon and not to mention Jehovah Witness pairs everywhere so they must be catching at least some of their prey. But they are nice enough people, so if you are going to be drawn into a cult-like scenario anyway, you could do worse.

Belinda, however, is too much of a contrarian to ever be lured into a cult or be persuaded by fundamentalism of any kind. She will never be one of their caught prey, but it doesn't stop them from trying. They mistake her natural curiosity, compassion and willingness to listen and engage with them for weakness they can exploit. But Belinda is no saint and as it turns out she's the one exploiting them, even though exploitation was never her intention and she feels bad about it. 

After Belinda's initial introduction to the Mormons, which amounted to several hours-long conversations standing in her doorway, she wanted them to leave her alone. She had no plan to use them for her own means. She isn't that kind of a girl. Belinda is a giver by nature, a leaver, not a taker.

Basically, the Mormons charitable ways were changing Belinda, corrupting her.

And it wasn't that she didn't enjoy those early marathon conversations with them, helped by the fact they were mostly young, attractive, affable males in handsome suits who darkened her doorway. But it was getting to be too much. There are some repetitions in life that are pleasurable every time you experience them like laughing at a repeat episode of The Office, but the same conversation with self-assured religious weirdos intent on converting you is not one of life's pleasures – at least not as far as Belinda is concerned. 

Personally, I enjoy the weirdos. 

But you have to have boundaries. Even patience has a right to die, especially after a long life of self-control. She gets tired. Give her a break. 

In other words, if you are going to have weirdos, especially religious ones, in your life, be kind, be amused, be willing to accept they might have some insight to share, but do not be a doormat. Or as I like to call a female trapped in the role of lipsticked-android, one programmed to obey and conditioned to accept abuse: a Dormata.

To avoid becoming a Dormata yourself, you unfortunately have to at some juncture allow your patience to run out, release your inner wolf to bare her teeth and override your programming. You must have it within you to slam a door in someone's smug face, hang up a phone mid-sentence when you realize the superiority of the prick on the other end is beyond reason, and scream at a person whose willful stupidity has reached a level of absurdity that no longer amuses you and now pisses you off. 

And if all that fails, you're sick of taking the highroad alone, and you don't have the brain or inclination to think up some Machiavellian scheme that will ruin the person's life, make him question his own sanity, and have him end up in a mental institution or destitute and living in a rodent-infested hovel, shove that asshole down a flight of stairs, along with all his belongings and a few of your own you no longer want. Kill two birds with one stone that way.

You will also help out the oxymoronic men's rights movement by justifying their insipid arguments and otherwise "hilarious" jabs that, for instance, there is a critical need for transition house funding to shelter an epidemic of raped and domestically abused men. Keep them safe from all those scary single mothers wielding a mop with one arm and doing biceps curls with the weight of a nursing baby in the other.

But don't actually kill a bird or a person and there is no epidemic problem of women raping and assaulting men. People are way too literal.

As for Belinda, she is too decent of a person to even be rude to a Mormon never mind physically hurt one. Her favorite tactic when dealing with potentially awkward social interactions is avoidance, which I support. Despite the bravado above, in reality, until I reach the point where my patience runs out, I'm more like an accommodating Dormata prone to avoidant behavior than a rabid wolf foaming at the mouth for a fight, although if I'm pushed hard enough things can get ugly. There is a lot of suppressed rage swept under my doormat patiently waiting for an opportunity to express itself.

With regards to Belinda, a woman who is neither abuser nor victim, when avoidance is impossible because the Mormons, for example, see her peeking through her curtains, she reluctantly answers her door. But she likes to steer their conversations away from dogmatic themes to secular ones. Up until recently, this worked well and the Mormons would follow her lead. 

They would spend most of their early conversations discussing topics such as the weather, geography, tourist attractions, local wildlife, the state of the public school system and "children these days".

At some level Belinda knew their willingness to skirt the real reason they were talking to her was because they were first establishing a good rapport ( an essential ingredient in any relationship where one side has an agenda that doesn't include brute force) before going in for the final kill. 

So she was not particularly surprised when they started slipping in their true agenda between commenting on the rain with interjections about "God's plan", suggestions that her "good feelings" were a direct result of the Holy Ghost working on her at that very moment, and testimony of the divine authority of one Joseph Smith. Most alarming to Belinda was their mention of the second coming, which they seemed to imply could happen at any moment. Did she have her spiritual house in order?

To help with that spiritual order, they invited her to pray with them and Belinda, feeling like a deer caught in headlights because she isn't the praying kind, apologized, saying she couldn't pray right now because she had groceries in the trunk of her car that she had to bring inside. Her ice cream was melting. 

They offered to bring the groceries inside for her and that was how it started. From then on, any time the topic got a little too "religiousy" Belinda would say she had to go. They would respond by offering to do something for her, she would reconsider that she really "had" to go just yet and would relent, allowing the Mormons to do chores for her, which they did with a smile. How could she resist such cheerful, free labour? She couldn't, especially since her house was looking pretty spiffy as a direct result of their volunteer work.

Nevertheless, there came a day when she had had enough of the Mormons. Belinda had no more errands for them and she was worried if she continued to let them come around she'd end up at their church because she had no more excuses left and didn't want to hurt their feelings. She felt she was at risk of becoming an accidental Mormon.

As a consequence, the last time they asked if there was anything they could do for her, which by this time she felt guilty if she didn't come up with some chore for them, instead of drumming up business in her own house, she blurted out that her brother, Jimmy, had recently bought a house across town and needed help with renovations.

Fast forward many hours later and Jimmy is furiously trying to get a hold of Belinda. It is an angry text, phone call, knock on the door and email Belinda has been expecting. She doesn't answer any of this and ever since has been in self-isolation-lock-down mode. Nothing will make her open her door again. Nothing. 

She knows she no longer has to feel guilty because the Mormons are occupied with Jimmy now – Jimmy, who like Belinda, having been raised in the same household by the same parents, finds it hard to be mean to nice people, no matter what their cult-agenda. At least she thought the Mormons were busy with Jimmy until seeing them outside our window.

"You really thought all their time and energy was being spent on one potential convert, Belinda?" I look at her doubtfully.

"Yes, I did. His house needs tons of work." 

She seems to be hyperventilating and goes mute, her mind slammed shut by sheer panic. 

I reassure her that we are behind three password-protected, security doors. The Mormons aren't getting in without permission and there is no conceivable reason to give them permission. She is safe.

Then the phone rings. Belinda screams.

Damn Mormons.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

The Frozen Watch

Theresa's watch is frozen at 6 o'clock. It has been stubbornly keeping the same hour for 40 years. When asked why she holds onto the timepiece, Theresa says, "Why, it's a good watch! It still keeps the time."

Then she smiles and starts humming. No one is sure of the tune. Her eyes glaze over and just like that Theresa is gone, lost in the ancient maze of her disconnected memory.

The Meadows staff and occasional visitor do not pay Theresa much heed. She is a harmless, crazy old woman now, her mind scrambled after years of powerful psychotropic drugs coursing through her veins and electroshock therapy zip-zapping through her brain. Being tied to a bed against her will one too many times, and being forced into straight jackets when a kind but firm hand would have done, in addition to numerous stints in isolation, further contributed to the loss of her sanity.

"Be careful about spending too much time with those head doctors," she likes to whisper during rare lucid moments. "They're looking for crazy and they ALWAYS find crazy."  She sputters and laughs until the light of cognition goes out and drool escapes from the corner of her mouth.

Time froze for Theresa with the ring of a doorbell. It was her neighbor at the front entrance of her house. He was cradling in his arms what seemed to be a limp, bloody animal – road kill, maybe a dog. Theresa could not tell. There was so much blood.

She does not know what happened after that. It is as if someone came along and hit the eject button right before the climactic scene of a suspenseful movie. The psychiatrists call it "psychogenic amnesia", but Theresa doesn't understand their psychobabble. She pretends to listen intently, if her sedatives don't make it too difficult to concentrate, but in truth she is wondering about her son, Billy.

She sneaks a peek at her watch: Oh dear, it's dinnertime. Billy is officially late. He should have been home at least 15 minutes ago, so he'd have time to wash up before supper. Billy's father will not be pleased.

Theresa looks up at Dr. Smith, "I'm terribly sorry sir, but I must go. My son is waiting for me, and I still have to get the pot roast out of the oven.”

She attempts to get up to leave, but in her chemical restraints she finds her legs don't work like they once did . She doesn’t struggle or fight to stand. Her spirit was effectively dulled long ago. Instead, she relaxes back into her chair and calmly folds her hands into her lap, but not before checking her watch again. 

She sighs, "What could be keeping Billy?"

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

The Beautiful People

Brittany needed another $100 for the Louis Vuitton handbag she had to have. Every credit card was over its limit and she had exhausted her other usual avenues for borrowed money, except Lilith, her sister.

Lilith had a fat savings account, but despised what she referred to as "the beautiful people".  She wouldn't allow anyone to use a dime of her money, not even a dime that earned interest, towards beauty propaganda. And as far as Lilith was concerned, Louis Vuitton was propaganda.

The worms will live in every host. It's hard to pick which one they eat the most
The Beautiful People (source).
Brittany did not understand Lilith. Lilith was beautiful, despite the thick-rimmed glasses that overwhelmed her otherwise lovely features, or the matted hair she never brushed, or her refusal to wear deodorant, apply cosmetics, or wear figure-flatting clothing that emphasized her lithe frame rather than hide it under bulky cable knit.

Perhaps Brittany wasn’t as smart as her sister, but it seemed to her Lilith's contempt for beautiful people was like a wealthy person's contempt for wealth. Don't lecture the poor money can't buy you happiness if you've never been starving, and don't tell the ugly beauty can't bring you popularity if you've never been marginalized by ugliness.

What cruel twist of fate, thought Brittany, was this? She should have Lilith's beauty. She should be the one with all the buckets and barrels of disposable income. She should possess Lilith's ingenuity and shrewd business sense. It was all wasted on Lilith! Oh the things Brittany would do if she was Lilith!

"Of course you don't understand anything! And you could never be me," Lilith suddenly shot out, interrupting Brittany's bitter ruminations. It was as if Lilith could read her mind.

"You're nothing but a slave," Lilith continued, "who doesn't know the strength of her weakness. You support a master and don't realize you're doing it...with your expensive fashion you can’t afford."


Brittany felt mildly insulted even though she had no idea what Lilith was talking about or if she should be insulted. Lilith's insinuations and subtleties were always so confusing and exhausting to Brittany. Normally at times like this she would simply tune her sister out or walk away, but she really, really wanted that hand bag. Brittany would grovel, if necessary.

Lilith picked up on Brittany's desperation and in a rare act of seeming compromise offered, "I'll tell you what, if you pick all the blackberries in my yard and do the canning, I'll give you the money for your meaningless...trinket."

“That sounds like a lot of work," Brittany complained, "and I don't know how to make jam!"

"That’s fine," Lilith replied as she thrust a recycled ice-cream bucket towards Brittany. "I'll oversee everything you do. If you want the purse bad enough, you’ll do what I say — you’ll do the work."

Brittany hesitated — some part of her feeling like she was making a pact with the devil, but that was silly. 

Brittany took the bucket.

Friday, September 11, 2015

The Ashes of Alfred

Alfred was dead, but his ashes still carried the blame for present day miseries. There was much speculation regarding the madness of Alfred. Some said he was schizophrenic and manic-depressive, while others argued he was simply a fucked up alcoholic. Most everyone agreed, however, that at the root of Alfred's problem was an inheritable genetic code that could be passed along to those who came after him like a hot potato nobody wanted to be left holding when the music stopped.



Jean knew firsthand the far-reaching impact of Alfred's insanity. She, like all his descendants, was scrutinized for even the slightest hint of mental instability. Jean, who considered herself a time traveler of sorts -- an amateur family historian -- could not accept the gossip. She was obsessed with uncovering the truth about her great-great-grandfather.

It was impossible to reconcile the handsome man in the black and white photo with the madman Alfred was said to have been. He had a James Dean smile and a flirtatious tilt to his jaw that gave him an aura of charisma. Indeed, it was rumored he could exude such magnetism that people became light-headed just from being near him. This was the man with whom Jean's great-great-grandmother, Marla, had fallen blindly in love.

But Alfred had a dark side.

He was prone to severe melancholy, paranoid delusions and hallucinations. He used moonshine to silence the chatter inside his head, but it only made things worse, especially for his wife and children, who were terrorized by his psychotic rages.

The situation grew so desperate that one night Marla slit her wrists, attempting to divert Alfred's attention from their baby girl, as he tried to drown her in a barrel of rainwater. He was convinced the infant was demonically possessed. Both Marla and the baby died on that black, bloody night, and Alfred was locked away in an insane asylum until he took his own life. The remaining children were orphaned off to relatives and their lives forever tainted by their father's sins.

Jean had to discover for herself if Alfred's madness was truly inborn. She was thus compelled to travel back in time to the Saskatchewan farm where Alfred was raised. There, she found Ruby, 101 years old, who was in possession of a child-sized coffin meant for Alfred when he was eight. Jean looked at the coffin, as if it was a time machine, and listened to Ruby describe how Alfred was expected to die of rheumatic fever, but miraculously survived.

"But he turned strange after that," Ruby confided in a low, gravelly voice, "always talking to himself and banging his head."

Jean, who had been leaning in as she listened to Ruby talk, sat back in her chair now, thinking of Alfred and his fried brain. She thought of how his "recovery" from near death brought him out of one hell that included child labour on a struggling farm and physical abuse from a particularly sadistic father into a new kind of hell. This new hell consisted of long stints in various mental institutions starting from the age of 12 and continuing off and on for the remainder of his life. 

He was  subjected to every kind of "treatment" and shamed with every kind of stigma. He was plagued with all-consuming rage, crippled by overwhelming guilt, tormented with derogatory voices in his head, and debilitated by delusions that were impossible to differentiate from "reality". In the end, this cauldron of confusion was what ultimately killed not only him but his wife and infant daughter.

He was not born mad, after all, Jean thought with bittersweet realization. The world made him that way through virus, abuse and circumstance. His ashes were no more to blame than the dying embers of a previously out of control fire ignited by human folly and stoked by hatred and fear.



And it was then that Jean decided Alfred and his dubious legacy could finally be put to rest. 

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Syndrome of Excess: The Journey to Extinction has Begun

It seems everything else in nature other than the thing infecting her (mass scale human beings) is aware we are fucked if more people don't wake up. Even our biology suspects something cataclysmic is in the works and is panicking, as evidenced by the confused state of affairs our bodies have become. 

This is not a good situation at all, as barbaric, opportunistic behavior is born from confusion like a mutant parasitic monster not even a mother could love.

The parasite is turning on itself too like an army of cancer that's figured out its host's cellular creed and is hacking ceaselessly at the security switch. It won't stop until it figures out how to turn the switch off permanently, steal the genetic code and devour everything, laying the entire human race to waste. Extinction.

The seeds of this extinction have taken root and are many, from cancer agencies forecasting a dramatic 40% surge in carcinomas over the next 15 years, to all sorts of other diseases, including ones we were led to believe had been either eradicated or nearly so. We are entering an era of renewed epidemics, including an epidemic rise in a deadly cluster of conditions known collectively as Syndrome X.

The metabolic signs of Syndrome X include hypertension, excessive blood sugar, high triglyceride levels or otherwise abnormal cholesterol values, as well as an expanded midsection. A combination of at least 3 of these risk factors leads to serious illness and premature death.

It's a syndrome of excess, which interestingly is also the same syndrome that is ushering in our premature demise on a global scale. We take too much from each other, whether it's the individuals we interact with, the social groups we belong to, or the nations we spring from. Not only that, we take too much from the animal kingdom we rely on and the natural resources that sustain us. 

And we don't return the favor. 

We take and take and take, gobbling everything up like a mindless Pac-Man leaving nothing but sewage in its wake. And like our other insatiable appetites and expanding midsections, our greed is starting to extend beyond the limits of what is attractive. I imagine from the cosmos humankind is beginning to look pretty ugly right about now, like a former beauty queen who has fallen out of favor with good health in exchange for a lifestyle of vodka, cigarettes and Big Macs (Poem: I'm Lov'in it!).

We've gotten so greedy that we are no longer satisfied with just gorging on the earth until there is nothing left. We now have our hungry eyes set on colonization and exploitation of other planets. And we're not ready. We should fix our own home (here) before we go rocketing off to invade someone else's. 

Our technology is outpacing our humanity. 





That said, no one should be opposed to space exploration for the sake of science, discovery and opening the collective consciousness to new possibilities; however, when the desire to go into space is driven by the same greed that is weakening our planet to the point where we may cause our own extinction, the thought of space "recreation" becomes a tad alarming.



The natural world is also alarmed, as evidenced by some unusual phenomena we've been seeing, such as planes falling out of the sky for no clear-cut reason, as well as strange, unpleasant, ear-piercing sounds or "skyquakes" being recorded around the globe with no satisfactory explanation. And if you want a more extensive list of other recognized bizarre phenomena check this out: 25 Strange Phenomena within this Decade that have yet to be Explained.

With regards to our technology outpacing our humanity, as an illustration, take Sir Richard Branson and people of his ilk. Many admire the Uber rich, particularly someone like Branson, with his fancy, over-the-top island-lifestyle and "philanthropy" as he exploits Man and Nature (damn trees always getting in the way) for his own ends.

Some admire him almost to the point of worship, but his self-serving philanthropy doesn't negate his greed or narcissism, or that he is a spiritually empty man interested in satisfying his own hedonistic desires above all else, much like the rest of the one percent (source). These flawed mortals are not content with just raping, pillaging and subjugating this planet, either; now the animal has its insatiable desires directed towards space. 

Learn to control your sadistic gluttony for wealth, power and endless sexual gratification (a gluttony which is little more than an unregulated base evolutionary urge that more evolved members of humankind or not controlled by) before you attempt to advance up the evolution ladder and branch out into the matrix of existence

We don't want your megalomaniacal greed and perversions on the ladder. It doesn't propel us, it drags us ALL down and when you insist on attempting to move up the ladder before you've advanced past the lowly aspects of your nature, there are always consequences. Often, unfortunately, those consequences are felt most acutely, not by you, the indulgent  assholes responsible for so much planetary desolation, suffering and misery, but by innocent people merely struggling to survive, or by thoughtful, intelligent people inspired to move humanity's collective imagination away from its destructive, carnal desires and towards better, previously unimaginable heights of wonder and experience.

Other people having to suffer the consequences of a single entity's greed and fantasies of grandeur was precisely what happened when Virgin Galactic attempted its first test flight into space. Tragedy and death. But has that made Branson and company pause and reconsider what exactly is motivating them and why, as well as the ethical implications? No, it has not, other than perhaps a split-second of self-reflection Branson quickly shrugged off. He clearly does not care. Action speaks louder than words. If his venture fails and more people needlessly die, he can go back to his tropical privately owned tax haven with his ridiculous title and self-gratify with his equally ridiculous, equally entitled, equally irresponsible wealthy friends. 

Fuck you, "sir" Richard Branson. Go fly another kite with another clueless naked model, you wrinkly, self-indulgent asshole. It all boils down to that, too, doesn't it? At the dark heart of it all, that is really the only thing these animals care about: Power over naked, submissive females who have been tricked into believing they actually want to be reduced to empty-minded sexbots forced to perform "tricks" on a stage before a lust-salivating, sushi-gobbling audience, even when it comes to scientific discovery and space exploration!



Nothing like cashing in on the fruits of rape culture and sexualizing space tourism with a sexist logo to lure in the gross,  wrinkly old men who have the lion's share of the world's wealth and resources and the moral compass of a worm.  Men who could never attract the  kind of "prized" young female flesh they are so obsessed with if not for their disgusting wealth.

Case in point, one particular abomination of decency that goes by the name Pornhub (source) is currently crowdfunding a space mission to film a couple of lesser evolved miscreants sexually degrading each other for all the world to witness while in orbit. No shame.




Looking around the world today, in this so-called "Information Age" (which is misleading because "information" and "wisdom" are often mistaken as synonymous when they most definitely are NOT the same thing),  it seems the animal is hellbent on sexualizing (but in ONLY a male-centric way) with ever-increasing depravity, every single human concern. 

This is terrible, again for everyone, because there are humanity-altering consequences to all this sexual depravity, which a significant number are in denial about, even though the signs are EVERYWHERE. And the signs are multiplying, the latest "surprise" being a new viral adversary to the battle named Zika

If this is progress, we are screwed in more ways than one.

It's strange that the rest of the natural world seems to sense we may well be permanently screwed and are entering into a kind of "end of days" scenario and yet we, who are supposedly the "brains" of the operation, are refusing to see it.

The signs again are everywhere. What's with the denial? 

The clues could not be any more blatant than if an enormous hand reached down from the heavens and hit humanity upside the head with a big whack heard around the globe and an exasperated voice of thunder calling us all damn fools!! We've entered the Age of the Idiots

We are the idiots.

The animal kingdom sees it and is becoming desperate over what to do about us, the idiots, ruining it for EVERYTHING. They are at their wit's end regarding human entitlement and recklessness, and in a last ditch effort, they've resorted to simply attacking us (the sudden spike in shark attacks is one example). 

In addition to the sharks, there are deer charging pedestrians out walking their dogs, or in one case killing a farmer tending his herd. Another deer, so enraged at the mere sight of a dopey human, took a running leap at what was basically an otherwise innocent man, head-butting him to the ground (which is actually really funny and can be watched repeatedly: Infuriated Deer Jumps Man Outside Hotel). 

And beware of the Kamikaze squirrels! These mini-psychos are pissed off, have a wicked sense of humor, are brave and impulsive - a dangerous combo. They know who their enemies are too, and they seem to be taking names. How else do you explain this determined little guy (below) knowing exactly which politician was overtly anti-squirrel and getting too boisterously cocky about it for his Kamikaze liking? 


Squirrel carries out Kamikaze attack on anti-squirrel politician. Fuck you, Howard. Source.

But the animals can't do it all by themselves. We need MORE HUMAN BEINGS, regular schmucks and working stiffs, to join forces with the rest of the animal kingdom to get out the message that "The Boy Crying Wolf" is no longer just bored and trolling for kicks. The WOLF is actually here now and he's terrorizing more than just the sheep. He's about to eat the ENTIRE flock. He is intent on annihilating every blade of grass, every drop from the pond, every shrub, every flower and you know what else? He says, fuck it, I'll join forces with lunatic Kim Jong-un and the rest of our world's psychotic dictators and take the whole thing in one big mother of a BITE. The pasture (POOF) gone in a glory of mushroom cloud. Does anyone with actual power care?

For the LOVE OF ALL EXISTENCE, this message ESPECIALLY needs to penetrate the completely out-of-touch-with-reality political strongmen, wealth hoarders, celebrities and other big name social influencers who are ALL responsible for MUCH of the regressive ideological contagion and modeling of despicable, ecologically irresponsible behaviors spreading throughout this planet like, again, a MALIGNANT, INCURABLE CANCER that's killing EVERYTHING. 

Cancer is a useful analogy here because at the diseased root of our imminent destruction, human greed, a "love of self and fuck everyone else" attitude, ignorance, lazy and incompetent stewardship, as well as a lust for power are LITERALLY making the ENTIRE planet SICK.

If we don't get the people with SERIOUS power to wake up and do something swift and proactive in partnership with scientists not shackled by conflicts of interest or the ulterior motives of big business, as well as mass cooperation by the peoples of the world immediately, all we'll have to rely on is a battered middle-aged woman so fed up with being ignored (when she's not being abused and ridiculed) that  she takes matters into her own hands and trains the Kamikaze squirrels herself to attack with better precision all the dummies responsible for screwing up the planet so royally. 


Ms Smith arrested for capturing numerous squirrels and training them to attack men who have wronged here. 

She will be so out of her mind by the time she's finished her futile mission that she will be rendered a cross-eyed, babbling train-wreck of a woman, her life in shambles, her reputation destroyed, just like vigilante Ms Smith above.


Agent Smith: I'd like to share a Revelation that I've had during my time here. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment; but you humans do not. You move to an area and you multiply and multiply, until every natural resource is consumed and the only way you can survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern. A virus.

Nature too will end up in its own special insane asylum before the end arrives if humanity doesn't step up.  The animal kingdom realizes this and in addition to the deer and squirrels, other understandably, under the circumstances, crazed species are frantically trying to come up with a course of action as well. Some species even appear to be aware of the likes of Richard Branson and his kind. So appalled are they with this man's god complex, disgusting sexism and excessive lifestyle, as well as the blatant hypocrisy regarding wildlife conservation he represents, that they took it upon themselves to recruit a  troop of stingrays to attack him. They wanted to let him know exactly what they thought of him and his stupid, perpetual smile: Richard Branson left bloodied and cut after being ATTACKED by deadly stingrays.

In other instances, the animal kingdom attempts a more gentle approach by modelling the Golden Rule, such as the recent story of a rhino risking its own life to lift a baby zebra out of a pit of mud.

Even creatures that generally do not attack humans are joining the fight. Seagulls are dive-bombing pedestrians in the street in retaliation for their fallen comrades, the crows, who are now infected with West Nile virus and are dropping dead from their perches.

In addition to shark attacks, bizarre stories are springing up around the planet's waters of other sea-life, such as dolphins and sea lions, attacking human beings in retaliation of their fallen comrades, the whales whose corpses are inexplicably washing up on both the east and west coasts, transforming beaches on every side into mass graves.

There are numerous stories around the globe, too, of thousands of dead fish washing ashore; in some situations there are so many of these dead fish that at first glance it looks like an expansive pebbled beach, but on closer inspection the realization dawns those aren't rocks, those are dead bodies! It's a fish holocaust. 

A similar baffling situation is happening with enormous flocks of various bird species dropping dead from the sky. We have moved beyond simple canaries dead in the coal mine.

Mother Nature seems to be sending out a kind of "call of duty" to the spiders as well, much to the dismay of arachnophobics everywhere. The spiders have answered the call and are busily draping nature and her trees in huge protective webs. 

Then we have the wind: In addition to the other signs that something is amiss in the world, stories of massive windstorms, hurricanes and tornadoes wreaking havoc all over the place are impossible to ignore. And for the sake of time, let's not get started on the famines, wars, migrant crises, and massive fires and droughts happening throughout the world.




Thus, in summary, we now have all four elements of Air, Fire, Water and Earth locked in a cosmic war game with Cardinal Sin. Welcome to Babylon. We've been expecting you.

Let's pray that the Source of all the miracle and mystery that makes up existence is one interested in nurturing us out of this present Heart of Darkness and into an improved, kinder, more homeostatic way of living and NOT one of angry annihilation.