Thursday, February 13, 2020

Passing the Torch

It's not like I'll never write again. It's not like I'm going to stop entertaining you. But a certain apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, so now I have help!

Here's the thing to read today instead of Anne.

Young, hip, and a timely bit of self-help!

Saturday, February 01, 2020

Imbolc 2020

[Enter Queen Brighid the Bright]

Brighid: Anne? Anne! Are you home? My goodness, look at this place! Gamma! Where's Anne? Oh, look at Gamma's cat bowl! It's empty!

Anne: Oh, Goddess! Look at me. It's the first Imbolc on a Saturday that I can remember, and I'm just so low and listless.

Brighid: This is so unlike you, Anne.

Anne: I'm worn to a frazzle, Goddess. It's more than the day-to-day grind. I haven't had my usual vim and vigor since 2016. For all my talk of fighting the good fight, it just gets harder every day. My creativity is shot, my daughters are struggling, my husband is nocturnal. I've lost touch with some people I love. My farm is gone, my youth is gone, and there's nothing ahead but Republicans and corona virus.

Brighid: Dear child, have faith! The winter is turning.

Anne: What winter? We haven't had winter! It has snowed for one hour. It's been warm as March and April since December, which was warm as September. And September was a veritable July.

Brighid: I have noticed this curious change in temperature. It does confuse Me. But in the long, thousands-years history of humankind, the weather has ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it's colder. Sometimes it's warmer. But My light never changes. Always, always in this week the light seeps back into the land. Always, always in these weeks the blackness of the morning gives way to soft gray. Don't pay heed to the warmth, Anne, pay heed to the light.

Anne: A beautiful sentiment, Goddess! I wish I could feel the light. But the darkness seems to reign supreme. Our nation and Your beautiful green land are both under a blight. Here they say "Make America Great Again," and over there they say "Brexit." Both are a curse.

Brighid: And yet the light returns. As it did in the days of yore. You must keep the faith. Light will shine into this mess. Take My word for it.

Anne: Oh, Goddess. How could I not take your word? You're a Goddess. And a smart one. Beautiful, too. No wonder you've inspired so much poetry and art!

Brighid: Flattery is one thing. Tea and muffins are another. Look at this nice cream and butter I brought!

Anne: Well, I do have some muffins ... but they're low-calorie bran.

Brighid: We'll make do, Anne. Fresh butter makes the most ridiculous muffin taste good.

Anne: Hold that optimistic thought, Goddess. I'll warm up the muffins.

Brighid: And fill Gamma's bowl. He looks hungry!

Thursday, January 23, 2020

Something Really Important

Okay, so there's an impeachment trial. Trump is going to appear at the Right to Life march. Last year was the second hottest on record, the first being 2016. Billionaires are lining up to influence the presidential election. Important? Not as important as this:

Planters has killed off Mr. Peanut.

Apparently he dies selflessly, saving two actors I've never heard of, and bringing his 104-year-old iconic life to an end.

And of course the Twitter trolls and Facebook fools are all cheering, because with the monocle and top hat and spats, Mr. Peanut apparently is the epitome of the one percent.

Well, fuck Planters! And fuck the haters!

You know what's gonna die, Planters? Your lousy peanuts! There are many other brands of nuts that one can purchase easily. And I'm that one. DAMN! Who kills Mr. Peanut?

Mr. Peanut is particularly beloved in this household. We've always adored food product characters, and Mr. Peanut is one of the oldest. He paved the way for the whole concept of anthropomorphism of foods, cleansers, electricity, auto parts, you name it.

When I first heard about Mr. Peanut's death, I thought to myself, "Mr. Peanut can't be killed. He's an advertising character. Aren't they immortal?"

Nope. As a matter of fact, they aren't. Who remembers the name of this snazzy chap?

And get this. The way I understand it, they are going to have a "Mr. Peanut Funeral" commercial during the Super Bowl!

Fuck you, Planters.

My guess is that a "new" Mr. Peanut will be introduced. Maybe he'll even be Peanut Bro or Ms. Peanut. Why is this necessary? Are sales of peanuts down drastically? I kind of doubt it.

Somewhere, in an upscale conference room overlooking a Manhattan panorama, some advertising executives (no doubt male and white) decided that they needed to update Mr. Peanut ... and then they came up with the brainstorm of killing him and holding a funeral for him! FOR FUCK'S SAKE DON'T BUY PLANTERS, THEY FUNDED THIS TRAVESTY!

All of us reading this blog have grown up with Mr. Peanut. He's been on wrappers and on t.v., on holiday tins and key chains. He's been a kindly part of our landscape. Isn't it bad enough that organic creatures die? Do food product characters have to die too?

I mourned the loss of Lil Bub, but her passing seemed normal and was certainly expected. This destruction of Mr. Peanut was unnecessary and cruel to those of us who loved the debonair legume.

Even if Planters miraculously resuscitates Mr. Peanut and puts him back to work, they have lost my custom. Killing off a well-liked product mascot ... how will children react?

For the love of all that is lovable, may Gritty destroy Planters and scatter its seeds far and wide on the land! This company can go to Hell on a highway of hazel nuts and rot like a skunk in the noonday sun.

I will never stop loving Mr. Peanut.

Monday, January 20, 2020

Raining on My Parade

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wishing we could sneak into Davos and eat the rich! Or at least eat what the rich are eating, which I bet are some exceptionally fine vittles.

Mr. J and I are just emerging from an epic grippe. He was hospitalized with it, and I coughed for three weeks straight. Today was the first time since the Mummers Parade that I was able to get out and even exercise a little bit.

And with everything else going on in the world, today's post is yet again about the Mummers Parade.

The city of Philadelphia is quite clearly sick of this parade. They have shortened the route and put a third of the performances indoors. But the worst enemy of the Mummers Parade are some of the participants themselves.

The use of blackface in the parade has been banned since the 1960s, and even entries with "tanned" or red skin have been called into question. All Mummers know that appearing in blackface gives the press and the city ammunition in denouncing the spectacle. It also provides reason for the city's majority population groups to hate the parade.

And yet there are always two or three pinhead cracker morons who insist on blacking their faces.

The difficulty arises in the size of some of the wench clubs. (If you think of the parade as a hierarchy, even the wenches will tell you that they are the bottom feeders.) When you have a club marching a thousand people, your leadership can't police everyone. Sadly, it appears that self-policing or group admonition is beyond these fools.

The largest and rowdiest wench brigade was disqualified this year from their division for having members in blackface. The leadership of the brigade said those offenders will not march with the group again. But the damage is done. The appearance of those two or three wannabe Nazi creepers was the only thing the various news outlets wanted to talk about in the wake of the parade. And of course this malfeasance has been seized upon by everyone who wants the parade to be seen as racist, lawless, and a blot on the spotless reputation of the City of Brotherly Love.

I know there are racist and homophobic people who march in the Mummers Parade. Those people are not in my comic club. Do I stand down and denounce the event, or do I participate?

Well, I look at it like this. You go to a party, and over in the corner there's a pinhead cracker moron with a t-shirt that shows Trump dressed like Rambo, holding a semi-automatic weapon. (No lie, I have seen such shirts. Not at the Mummers Parade.) Do I get a plate of food and sit as far away as I can from the offender, or do I leave? Do I offer myself and my friends as better examples of the average party-goer, or do I just decamp in a huff?

I have no plans to decamp from the Mummers Parade. It hurts my heart to see it showered with disrespect by groups that I like (aka Antifa), but the experience does remind me that the biggest story is always the ugliest story. "Nice Mummer Lady Poses with Crowds on Her Way Back to the El Train" would hardly be something that anyone would want to read.

For the record, my club (Comic, not Wench Division) finished third. We had over 200 members in our group. None in blackface. That. Would. Not. Fly.

Thursday, January 09, 2020

The Heir Makes a Special Delivery

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fearfully dodging World War III since 2016! I'm the hostess with the most-est, Anne Johnson. Ask me anything! I won't know the answer, but I'll nod thoughtfully.

Some of you who blog-hop will be tickled by what I am about to say.

As I write this, my daughter The Heir is having dinner in West (by Goddess) Texas with the fabulous Yellowdog Granny! I hope they love each other as much as I love both of them.

Yellowdog Granny and I go all the way back to the dawn of this blog. We found each other early and often. Two hearts that beat as one, you might say. If you have never visited her blog, you'll see why we mesh so well if you click on the link.

Of course, I have known my daughter The Heir even longer. She has flown from Philadelphia to Waco to help create a giant Snickers bar at a Mars candy factory there. Yes, you read that right. If you're willing to live in a drafty room and trash pick all your stuff, you get cool jobs like making giant candy sculptures. And puppets for Disney.


So on my behalf, Heir is having supper with Yellowdog Granny, and delivering to her some Philadelphia Tastykakes. Oh to be a fly on the wall!

Heir says it's not so hard to get to West, Texas. I'm listening.

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

Marching After All

Goodness, it was a close call, but at the 11th hour I did this ...

I will be able to march, if briefly, in the 2020 Mummers Parade!

Mr. J was in the hospital for two days, and I thought I might have to scratch the parade from my dance card. But they discharged him, so I'll be able to join the club in Philly and do the competition and the Broad Street portion of the event. All is well!

If you want to watch my portion of the parade, it will be on from 10:00 until 1:00 - ish, live streamed on PHL 17 dot com. I can't give more precise coordinates for when the Two Street Stompers will perform.

Apologies for not being a better correspondent this year. To be perfectly honest, I feel like my writing skills have eroded. It's a consequence of career change, the political climate, and possibly just age. Nothing seems to be a laughing matter anymore.

But pish tosh! A new decade dawns, the next Roaring Twenties, and it's time to dust off the flapper gowns and elect a boring president!

If there's any topic you'd like me to tackle in 2020, fling it in a comment. Maybe what I need is inspiration. Or to live a somewhat interesting life ... which I mostly don't.

Thank you again, sweet readers, for helping get books and supplies for my students. May all the Gods and Goddesses of multiple pantheons both known and unknown bless you and keep you, and make Their light shine upon you.

I got to meet this Thunderbird in 2019. That will be hard to top.

Sunday, December 08, 2019

Sweet, Sweet Lil BUB

I'm having trouble with this site being linked to some raunchy websites, but what can I do? I have no idea how the Internet works. Over the years I've written less about sex than any other topic, but I guess there are people out there who really do want to hook up with deities. More power to those people. They are not me.

I'm just going to put my two cents in about the death last week of Lil BUB. If you are a cat-lover like me, you no doubt wept, like me, when you saw on Facebook or Instagram that she passed in her sleep after a battle with bone infection. She was eight years old, which to me is phenomenal, considering how wacky she looked.

Maybe in ordinary circumstances I would have been mildly amused by BUB. But over the last three years I have sought her out often as an antidote to the times we live in. I know her owner made bank on her, and I don't fault him for a second. She raised lots of money for homeless pets. And she was so cute. You'll never see her in pessimistic memes like Grumpy Cat. She'll always be a special lil waif, destined for an early departure from this vale of tears until a kind man took her in.

I don't know about you, but I felt like lil BUB was my cat-away-from-home. I have followed her on every platform, although I never went out of my way to meet her. She seemed to have a cheerful personality ... and those videos of her slurping her food ... (her teeth never came in) ... well, has there ever been any feline content more adorable?

BUB got an obituary in the New York Times, that venerable publication that I read every Sunday. Glad to know that she was important enough that her passing was duly noted. I will miss the new photos of her but always look at the archives. As for purchasing BUB merchandise, I already have it. The Heir gave me a BUB calendar last year for Yule. I have literally looked at BUB every day this year.

So, lil BUB, what a cat you were! Trundle off now to the Summer Lands, and say hello to my Alpha. And my Beta. And Ozzie. And Dusty. And all my foster kittens who didn't make it. You made Trump World slightly more bearable. No mean feat.