Donald Trump: Baby Christian

Honestly. You can't make this shit up.

My dear sister lives out in the country, and inevitably she has friends who are evangelical Christians. When she posted something against The Orange Menace on her Facebook page, one of these cockeyed morons replied:

"Yes! Donald Trump is a Christian! He's a baby Christian, but he's on his way."

EXHIBIT A: BABY CHRISTIAN

Don't know about you, but when the term "baby Christian" gets thrown around, this is the first thing I think of! Who hasn't been to one of these little ceremonies?

I suppose this is what the evangelicals are calling newly-minted charlatans converts. But when it comes to the Orange Menace, "baby" fits way better than "Christian."

An overwhelming majority of grown-up evangelical Christians supported the Orange Menace. This should forever put to rest the idea that such people are anything more than rank hypocrites. They actually flicked the "yes" switch for a womanizing, twice-divorced huckster who takes glee in stiffing his employees, plastering the world with dreary golf courses, and firing up factories in foreign lands.

EXHIBIT B: THE BUSY GOD RESPONDS

Now, this right here is the facepalm you make when everything you ever worked for, believed in, and died for is thrown overboard by people who pretend to believe in you. Poor Jesus! Even if you're a Pagan (like me), you can't help but feel a little bit sad for Him. Turns out His followers will overlook a whole lot of really bad behavior just for the vacuous promise of trying to overturn settled Supreme Court decisions.

Does any of this surprise you?

Well, this message has a (somewhat) happy ending. Upon hearing about this, quite a number of bored Goddesses spent the entire afternoon making macaroons from scratch for poor, sad Jesus. When it comes to understanding the perfidies of one's followers, no one can sympathize more than another deity.

I'm sure glad I lent my kitchen to the Goddesses for their baking. It smells heavenly -- and I can lick the bowls!

It's My Country, and I'll Cry If I Want To

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we prize sanity, not vanity. I'm Anne Johnson, and sometimes things make me cry.

On the morning after Election Day, my school district had a teachers' meeting scheduled. It's a good thing, because so many of us were in tears that I can't imagine how we could have taught anything in the classroom. The most grief-stricken of my colleagues? The history teachers.

You can therefore imagine my dismay and disappointment when one of my friends -- and a good one, a true one, someone I considered "bosom" -- posted on Facebook that all the crying people "ought to go live in China, or Cuba, or Iran, if you really want to cry about something." This post came from an intelligent man.

I've seen quite a few less intelligent individuals expressing the same sentiments. Don't like the fact that an incompetent, fractious, conceited blowhard has been elected to head the Ship of State? Move to China!

There is so much I could say about this, but I'll try to be brief.

First of all, if your candidate won, and you are happy about it, why does it bother you that people -- particularly women -- are crying? Oh! I can answer that! You are just a little bit uncomfortable about this election yourself. You feel in your bones that this won't turn out well. But hey, you are celebrating anyway! And how dare anyone fling a little reality at your glee?

Secondly, do you mind if I ask how you would be responding right now if the polls had been correct, and Mrs. Clinton won? Don't answer that. I know. You'd be out on the range, shooting your AK at human-shaped targets. You'd be standing by your man, who would be DEMANDING a RECOUNT and CRYING FRAUD. Don't tell me you would have bowed to the will of the people, stone-faced and stoic. I'm not buying it.

Thirdly (please give me extra credit for these thoughtful transition words), why move to China, Cuba, or Iran when it's going to be just like China, Cuba, and Iran right here? I don't have the money for a plane ticket. And let's see: Where would I be going if I did have that ticket? To a country ruled by a handful of above-the-law elites who oppress their citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law. Why fly, when I can get all those perks right here? It's only a matter of time.

And now, to all of you "Stop Crying and Move to China" white males, I will say this:

Okay, I'll go. Now, here's where you need to go.

You need to hop inside the covers of a Charles Dickens novel. Yes, propel yourself back to Victorian England, where a handful of above-the-law elites oppressed citizens with low wages, curbs on free speech, and narrow, abusive religious practices codified into law! I understand there's a partnership opening at Scrooge and Marley. You're perfect for the job.

Cyber Monday Offer from The Gods Are Bored

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Cyber Monday: Buy it here, buy it now!

Just kidding. We aren't selling anything. But we are making you an offer.

Every year in December, The Heir and I attend the Phoenixville Firebird Festival. The citizens of Phoenixville work together to erect a giant bird made of plywood. At a designated time, they set it on fire.

This is quite an amazing event.

The best part of the Firebird Festival is that the organizers accept Intentions and put them into a box that is set inside the bird before it is lit.

Dear readers, those of you who checked back in after my long absence, I have an offer for you.

You can email me your Intention for the upcoming year -- anything you wish to affect for better or worse -- and I will write it on a card and place it in the box.

You have two options: If you are a Facebook friend, you can place your Intention in a private message. If you connect to me via this platform and don't want to put your Intention in a comment, you can email me.

My email is a gmail account and runs like this, you get the drift:

annejohnson17211 at gmail dot com

I feel that these are troubled times. Any time we can turn Intentions into energy, we should do it. The Firebird Festival offers one of these opportunities.

I would say meet me in Phoenixville, but look at the size of that crowd! Send me a message, and you'll be there in spirit.

Sidelined

I was going to write a blog post today, but I came home from work Wednesday with a cold. I couldn't taste the Thanksgiving dinner I put on the table (Spare helped -- we had seven dishes and two desserts). Today I am worse.

So here is a "lick and a promise," as my mama put it. I'll write when I feel better.

News flash: I now have four readers! Maybe five, if Spare checks in.

It's the anniversary of Decibel's passing, sort of. She flew for the Summer Lands on Black Friday.

Another Old Friend Drops By

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," now apparently broadcasting mostly from Facebook! Oh well, it beats Twitter. If you search me and get Facebook, I promise I'll have this content on there so you can click it. If you want to pick it. Such a sticky wicket.

Ah ... Anne has lost a stride or two, but she hasn't forgotten the whole dance.

All three of you readers are likely to recall my many adventures with the Monkey Man, a local figure who started as a mystery and became a lifelong friend. Well, Thanksgiving is here, and guess who's coming to dinner? THE MONKEY MAN!

The clear light of day reveals our Monkey Man to be Rocky Wilson, and this year in the spring he published his first collection of poetry! Let's hear some applause!

Here's the Man himself, with his book and his monkey.

(This photo first appeared in the Camden Courier Post, and I hope they don't sue me, because I don't have any money anyway.)

I just checked Amazon, and Rocky's book, The Last Bus to Camden, is not currently available there. Friends, it just about sold out its first print run. I am not exaggerating. You should have seen the reading Rocky gave in Snobville at the bookstore. People were spilling out onto the sidewalk. There was not even standing room!

Tomorrow when I see the Monkey Man, I'll ask him for permission to print a few of his verses here on "The Gods Are Bored" from time to time. It sure would lighten the mood.

Speaking of which, I haven't put my claw-sharpener away. In 2017 there will be more marching than just the Mummers Parade. Your reporter will be on the front lines in our nation's capital for the big protest on January 21.

But in the meantime, we are looking for the Light. Please give a warm, wonderful "Gods Are Bored" round of applause to Rocky Wilson, author, poet, and 100 percent fabulous guy! Best friends forever.

Baby, It's Cold Inside

Brrr! The wind is whipping out there! Finally, a cold day.

Time to put some resolve to the test.I have the thermostat in Chateau Johnson set at 60 degrees. It's going to stay there. I'm determined.

We have an oil-burning furnace. It was here when we moved in, back in 1987. The old thing can't have much longer to live. But I am crossing my fingers and trying not to work it too hard.

It was always my goal to nurse the old furnace along until the whole solar thing gets really cranked. Sadly, I feel like that goal will go unmet. All signs point to the ascendance of Big Oil to a position of even greater power.

I hate to see my hard-earned wages go to the oil company. The only thing I can do is minimize how much oil I use. Having a fireplace helps a little, I must admit.

Here's some free advice tips I'll give you (and pay you to take) if you want to use less oil or natural gas:

1. Do some home improvement project, preferably one that requires going up and down stairs/ladders many times. I did some interior painting today and then swept down the house with a good, old-fashioned broom. Sixty degrees in the house, and I worked up a sweat.

2. Go to the thrift store and buy some warm, fuzzy clothes. When you get home from work, put on the warm, fuzzy clothes. So what if they aren't sexy? (Hope Mr. J doesn't read this.)

3. Those afghans that Grandma knitted for you 40 years ago? Get them out! Snuggle under them! They're bought and paid for.

EXHIBIT A: ANNE IS UNDER THERE SOMEWHERE

4. When you've finished baking something in the oven, leave it open for a few minutes after you've turned it off. This is a brief fix, but it does work.

5. This is an old one, and the hardest one for me to enact. Turn off the lights and all appliances you aren't using whenever you leave the room. Electricity isn't oil, but it's energy all the same.

6. Ask a bored deity for help. I guarantee you, if you complain that your house is cold to a Goddess like Sedna, She's going to laugh at you and call you a weakling.

7. Bonus: Being cold means you're burning more calories. Which means you can binge on the candy corn that's still here from Halloween!

It comes down to this. Every time that furnace comes on, Big Oil wins. Every hour you can go without it, you win. If you can't avoid doing business with these evil fucks, at least you can minimize what you put in their pockets.

Big Oil isn't going to get bigger on my account. Now I've got to say goodbye, because my fingers are too numb to type.

An Old Acquaintance Heads to Washington

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," emitting sardonic snorts since 2005! I'm Anne Johnson - it's my real name. Honest, I wouldn't make that up.

Wow, it's been a long time since I got bombarded with fire and brimstone and the sulfurous odor of foul Hell itself. But here it is, wafting in the wake of Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, The Beast, aka The Devil. Get this: He wants to be called "Mr. Applegate." He's a fan of old Broadway shows.

I guess I'd better intervene before he sits down. No getting that stink out of a well-upholstered sofa.

EXHIBIT A: MR. APPLEGATE, UNVARNISHED

Anne: What are you doing here? I thought I'd seen the last of you. You're so 2005.

Applegate: Ha ha! Joke's on you. I was down, but not out. I was wounded, but not killed. I was battered, but not broken. I was ...

Anne: Jesus! I get the picture! Enough with the tired cliches!

Applegate: I just stopped by on my way to Washington, DC.

Anne: Of course. Why did this not occur to me? I suppose you've found gainful employment.

Applegate: And how! It's like a candy store. Whatever I want, in whatever portion I choose, for however long I want it. Times have changed, thank goodness. I was really getting bored.

Anne: I don't even need to ask for whom you will be working in the nation's capital. In fact, don't even say his name. It's like Voldemort; I can't bring myself to utter it.

Applegate (rubbing his hands together): Just doesn't get better. You're in for a treat, Anne! Watch as I transform into my newest incarnation! I've been working hard on it.

EXHIBIT B: MR. APPLEGATE, BELTWAY BOUND

Anne: You'll fit right in.

Applegate: About time, too. I thought I'd get America back when they ditched the whole e pluribus unum thing back in the 1950s. Oh well, if you look at the course of history the way I can, a half century isn't any time at all.

Anne: I'm not even curious about what you're going to do in DC, so don't tell me.

Applegate: So glad you asked! So many tasks, where do I start? Do I ramp up the steam on climate change first and take charge of women's bodies second, or should it be the other way around? Build the Wall, or bomb Iran? Maybe I could multi-task and do it all at once! Why not? I'm a deity, after all.

Anne: You won't get away with it. Most Americans don't want your boss, and they sure don't want to lose their Medicare.

Applegate: Medicare is done! Hey, if you can't afford a hospital, don't get sick! It's a very simple game.

Anne: Applegate, I always figured you for an equal opportunity kind of guy. Like, I never thought you cared more about one race than another, or more about one religion than another. You just liked bad people of all stripes.

Applegate: And I still do! But I know some first-class haters when I see them, and the folks who voted in the regime change are going to be excellent ... brilliant ... at inflaming the masses. I haven't seen this quality since ...

Anne: Don't even say it. Just. Don't. In fact, get your Aryan ass out of my house! This property has been a No Republican Zone since 1987.

Applegate: What a pity, Anne! You could get a nice, plum assignment down there in DC right now. There are staffing opportunities aplenty. And look at you. Teaching inner city kids. You could do so much better.

Anne: Get the FUCK off my LAND you VILLAIN!

Applegate: Tsk tsk. Such rudeness! Just for that, my first priority as part of the new regime will be to end all free and reduced lunches for those loser poor kids that you teach. Yes, that will be a brilliant beginning. Brilliant! Are those tears I see in your eyes, Anne?

Anne: Go away.

Applegate: Oh, yes. Absolutely. Bon voyage! My years of self-pity are behind me! It's time to get to work.


And there he goes, off toward the Amtrak with his suit and his briefcase. You know what the worst part is? Everything he'll be doing down there, he'll give all the credit to Jesus. What a fucking world.

Crossing the Delaware

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, and this is my safe space. Come on in. Weep with me, or have a cup of tea. Extra credit if you admire the upholstery on my settee.

My three readers know that I grew up in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania, out where you can throw a stone right across Maryland and into West Virginia. I spent a lot of time along the Potomac, and what a beautiful river it is. At this very moment it is much cleaner than it was when I was a kid, and much wildlife has returned to its shores.

Rivers are funny things. They can sometimes be forded on foot (I'm thinking of the upper Potomac) and yet they so often serve as boundaries. They separate states and nations. In our culture, they also separate mindsets.

In September I went home to Appalachia and took a long walk along the Potomac. I was on the Maryland side, which is a national park. But I couldn't help looking across to West Virginia, literally a stone's throw. I could see little vacation cottages and even hear snippets of conversation over the still water. I thought, for the 10,000th time, how wonderful it would be to retire to West Virginia and buy a little cottage along the Potomac.

Then I got in my car, and I was almost forced off the road, quite intentionally, by a monster truck carrying two males and flapping a Confederate flag. They flipped me the bird as they roared around me at a no-passing part of the road. My sin? Pretty sure it was the New Jersey tags on my car.

Look at this pretty stretch of river! It's not the Potomac. It's the Delaware. This is the Delaware Water Gap, and I beheld it for the first time last weekend. Yes, I live 100 miles from the Delaware Water Gap and have never been there. Boy, have I seen the error of my ways!

The Delaware River separates Pennsylvania from New Jersey. I've traversed it hundreds of times, riding the train between my home and Philadelphia. Never gave it a second thought, really.

It deserves a second thought.

Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, I am intensely glad to live on the eastern bank of the Delaware River.

Gone, with the swoosh of a rebel flag from an over-sized pickup truck, is any last vestige of nostalgia I might have had for the homeland I have cherished all these years. Gone, with this presidential election, is any expectation that I could live among the generations of mountain people who have succeeded my grandparents and parents. I'm not painting with a broad brush in any glib way. This is painful to me. How can you do anything but mourn when a state that was created because of its anti-slavery population turns blood-red?

Well, one way is to embrace a whole new river. Like George Washington, I have crossed the Delaware triumphantly, and it turns out to be a swell waterway.

More about water in future posts. There will be future posts. Lots of them. Written and published on the eastern bank of the wet and wonderful Delaware River.

Then and Now

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you are one of my three readers still looking in to see if I'm here, let it be known ... Anne is back! The stakes are high, and the steaks are dry. Or some such.

Wow. A lot has happened since almost a year ago, when the passing of Decibel the parrot was my last entry. So, what did I do between then and now?

One thing I did, happily and with an abundance of enthusiasm, was attend a Bernie Sanders rally at Temple University on April 6.

Look at Spare and me in this photo! It was freezing cold that day, not a speck of sun and a whipping wind. We got to the Liacouris Center at noon and stood outside until 5:30. Then we went inside. Spare went onto the floor to get as close to Bernie as she could, and I grabbed a seat. The arena slowly filled to capacity, which is 10,000 plus the standing room only on the floor. Bernie began his speech at about 8:30 or 9:00, and when it was over, he shook Spare's hand as he left the stage. When we caught up to each other, we wept tears of joy.

Senator Sanders' message resonated with both of us. We desperately wanted him to be the Democratic nominee for president.

We were deeply disappointed when he lost.

 I personally went to a Bernie rally during the Democratic National Convention (it was 105 in the shade that day), but after marching down Broad Street I had an impromptu conversation with a Jamaican immigrant lady who was furious with the Bernie-or-Bust crowd. When she confronted me, the conversation went kind of like this:

Lady: How can you do this? Don't you see you make it possible for that man, Donald Trump, to win?

Anne: Oh, let me promise you! I will vote for Hillary. I know the stakes are high.

Lady: Because, seriously, I'm afraid I will be sent back to Jamaica if that man Donald Trump gets elected. And I am a citizen of the USA.

Anne: Oh, don't worry about a thing! The American people would never elect such an unprepared and temperamental man to such a serious and demanding position of power!

Lady: We'll see.


That was Then.


This is Now.

On Thursday, November 10, 2016 Spare and I (and our friend Nettle) took part in a hastily-organized protest against Donald Trump. It was a Women's March. Spare made her sign. Again we wept together, this time in the dark and the cold, this time in despair.

Presidential primaries exist for a reason. They serve as platforms for the exchange of ideas. They serve to put as many issues and positions on the table as possible. Bernie Sanders was quite clear and articulate about the issues he saw as important. Hillary Clinton skirted these issues mostly, setting herself up as (a) someone about to make history, and (b) not Donald Trump.

I voted for her. Spare voted for her. So did lots and lots of other people. But the cold, dark times are upon us. The worst possible set of faux Christians has grabbed power-- the very people I used to poke such fun at on this blog.

The bored Gods are appalled. For the love of fruit flies, even Jesus is appalled.

I'm not a terrorist, I'm not being paid by George Soros or anyone else. But I'm going to speak. I'm going to protest. I'm going to cover this apocalypse with my Swiftian blog. I feel that, as a Pagan, I am being called upon to support religious liberty ... not to mention trying to keep Social Security checks rolling in to my ailing mother-in-law. And so much else. I'll cover it all.

I wonder what happened to that Jamaican lady I met in Philly last summer. I guess she's blaming me for this. Well, there's blame aplenty to be assigned. If my support of Bernie Sanders brought Donald Trump to office, then burn me at the stake. You've got to stand for something in this world.

At Dusk We Ride

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are emerging from a long period of mental lassitude and thwarted ambitions. These are desperate times, and no one can afford to sit around in an easy chair mindlessly clicking Like on Facebook.

 To arms, Pagans! Time to kick some butt.

After no visits from bored deities for over a year, I've got a whole house full today. There's Bellona, Athena, Freya, and The Morrigan. Macha is scrubbing the sofa cushions furiously, and Sedna is shaking her fist at the sky. Spider Woman is making us war bonnets.

At dusk we ride.

The patriarchy has emerged from the presidential election in its most primitive and brutal form. Supported by no small number of American women, a powerful team of old, lecherous and repressive white men stand poised to determine our future. They will take control of our wallets and our wombs. They will smite the oppressed and reward the affluent.

At dusk we ride to stop them.

The victors in this election cycle are calling for unity and calm. This is not what they would have given us had they emerged the losers. Why should we lie down and take this? Would they? Why should we shrug and say, "What will be, will be?" We have to MAKE what will be. And so we say

NO to repealing a woman's right to choose
NO to the Christian hegemony
NO to the curbs on collective bargaining
NO to racism and discrimination
NO to the acceptance of an unprincipled, unprepared, and undignified man as America's leader, never mind the Free World.

No. We have to fight.

Find the protest in your neighborhood. Take your ID card, water, and fury. Do it now, do it often, and be sure to do it on January 20. Really do it then. The eyes of the world are upon us.

And look at all these bored Goddesses who are with us! They aren't two-faced deities who preach love and promote slavery. They are here to protect us, but we have to follow when They take the lead. Otherwise They will give us up as a lost cause.

As for Anne, aka moi, I'm back, and I'm bad, and I offer no apology. It's all well and good to hug trees and call peace from the Quarters, but the whole world is poised to fry -- and soon -- if we choose a leafy glen and hold hands and breathe deep.

Take a shallow breath for a change. Be anxious, be angry! It's time.

ALL WOMEN PROTEST IN PHILADELPHIA


City Hall
5:00 p.m.
November 10, 2016

At dusk we ride.