You've heard the term "mansplaining," and I really like it. Whoever coined it was pretty smart. The definition is basically a man explaining to a woman something that the woman is either more knowledgeable about because it's her lived reality as a female, or something she has trained to do and knows how to do already.
For instance, my daughter The Fair was filming an event the other night with high-end equipment she is well trained to use, and some dude tried to tell her how to set up the tripod. Really?
I'm going to add a new term of my own: mandescending. This is where a man is condescending to a woman and dismisses her out of hand, even though her concerns are serious, maybe either health- or job-related.
Yesterday my school district had a professional development workshop, and part of it was yet another session on how to use the baffling new web site for which the district spent tons of money to purchase a full package. The web site does a gazillion tasks but is about as user-friendly as a potted cactus. Every time we get a demonstration, the same guy comes. He's yet another of those paid consultants who spent a few years in the classroom, couldn't wait to get out, and saw this web site as a ticket.
Honestly, I'll be the first to admit that if I had trained as a teacher I would have been looking to move into corporate somehow after five to ten years. The teaching profession is poorly-paid, overly scrutinized, underappreciated by the public, and physically and emotionally exhausting.
Part of what makes it exhausting is trying to learn the web site du jour.
To return to my narrative, I was attempting to keep up with the blistering pace of this man's presentation, and as usual I fell a step or two behind. When I asked why my page didn't look like his, he came to my station, flicked a few buttons, and said, "There you are." And sniffed with derision.
I went to the vending machine and bought a Snickers bar. First one I've eaten in two years.
The joy of the Snickers soon abated, but my fury has not.
This country treats its elders with condescension. Or mandescension, you decide.
In the summer of 1979, I was working in the Milton S. Eisenhower Library of the Johns Hopkins University. I had a job with a special archive of psychiatric documents that belonged to a prominent Hopkins physician named Adolf Meyer. In order to prepare a documentary list of the voluminous records this man kept (which included extensive correspondence with Freud, Jung, and other psychiatric luminaries), the university purchased a word processor. It was the first one any of us had seen.
A technician wheeled the word processor into our office space and showed the lead archivist how to use it. But then an interesting phenomenon occurred.
One by one, the oldest professors in the Hopkins community dropped by to see the word processor. These were men (of course, it was 1979) who had probably written multiple scholarly tomes, using Royal typewriters or even legal pads. They wanted to see the machine in action. And so did I.
A few years later, I found myself working for a publishing house, preparing copy for encyclopedias. The work was done with pencil and electric typewriters. Then the company bought two word processors, but no one was particularly interested in using them. Having had a little bit of exposure to one, I gladly accepted a spot at the word processor. I got a raise.
I know I should have kept up with computing. I know I should be more capable when it comes to new web sites. Perhaps it shouldn't count that I was the most proficient with technology when certain workshop presenters were probably learning to use the potty.
I know my mental capacity isn't what it once was. I don't even write for this site like I used to. But to be dismissed with such thinly-veiled disdain was a nasty jolt. I'm old. I'm obsolete. I'm female. Thanks for reminding me.
But wait, there's more.
After being humiliated in the web site training, I had to go back into a general faculty meeting for both of the Vo-Tech campuses. When both campuses get together, it's a lot of teachers. A good two hundred plus, I should think. We fill an auditorium.
The rest of the long day was spent in mindfulness training. We had to ground, center, follow our breath, feel our feet on the floor (mine were cold), yada yada yada. Be in the moment, and if your thoughts drift, pull back to breath.
First of all, when I do this practice, it is tied to my religion, which I firmly separate from my work responsibilities. So I deliberately let my thoughts go as haywire as they wanted to. Here's the short list:
1. Wow, that guy is such an asshole! Karma's gonna come for him when he's 60, for sure. I'd like to be there when he gets confused over the communication system between himself and teachers on Mars. He won't have tenure. Maybe he'll get fired! Maybe a woman supervisor will tell him, "You're all washed up. Hit the road!"
2. I wonder where that mindfulness facilitator got her dress. Is that drip-dye, tie-dye or some other process? I like the way it drapes too.
3. Damn, I wonder what's going on with this student teacher I got assigned all of a sudden! Did she flake out on her previous assignment? What's up with that? Why did I even agree to do it?
4. Getting old sucks. I'm so tired all the time. I'm sick of people. I don't want to go out for lunch. I don't want to go to the gym anymore. My body is so weary, and my feet are cold. Why don't they turn on some heat in here? Dammit, I thought about putting foot warmers in my shoes, and I didn't do it! Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
5. I wonder if I should pull back the ivy in the back yard just a foot or two. But grass doesn't grow well, and Mr. J never mows the lawn. Isn't the ivy better? But pulling the ivy would be good exercise. Yeah, but you know how annoying it is working with that English ivy. Yeah, maybe I'll just leave it. But if I had a nice straight line down the back, I could put up a stone border, like a rock wall ... what, am I supposed to be feeling my back against the chair? Fuck that. Fuck this whole thing.
6. I think I'll stop by Woodstock on the way home and see how they're doing. It's sort of on the way. Let's see, if I take Haterfield-Berlin Road to White Horse Road, and then ... that leads right to Springdale. Easy! Because it's such a long slog up Route 73. Oh! Why does everyone have their hand up in the air? Did I miss something? Who cares?
7. I can't believe I'm hungry after wolfing down that Snickers.
8. Donald Trump is an asshole. All powerful men are assholes. Geez, even Bernie Sanders couldn't run a tight ship. But this country will never elect a woman. Women won't vote for a woman. I wonder why that is? But I know it's true.
9. Camping or a hotel? I'm too old for camping! I'm not sleeping in a tent on the ground. But the hotel is so expensive. I could use that money to improve the front porch, so I don't have to look at the disgraceful, hideous house across the street ... Is it time to go yet? FUCK! Another two hours? I can't even. Like, camping isn't as bad as all that. You wake up in the cool morning air ... snap, I would have to buy so much equipment. But then I would have all the equipment, and I could use it again! Yeah, use it again to go camping. I'm done with camping! I spent my whole teenage decade in a tent! You know what else I'm done with? Mindfulness! Just another trendy stupid thing our school district is flirting with. You'd think they would train us on what to do when angry parents start shouting in our faces.
10. Whoa, look at the shop teachers! They are giggling like kids. Welding and mindfulness: perfect together.
If you've gotten this far, I know you get the drift.
Readers, my stats tell me that I have had over a million page views here at "The Gods Are Bored." I think a significant number of those are spammers of the pornographic variety. Still, someone has been reading my drivel. If that is you, do you want me to bake you a pie?
Showing posts with label Donald Trump is Old and Ugly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Donald Trump is Old and Ugly. Show all posts
Saturday, March 23, 2019
Monday, February 25, 2019
Because a Girl Can Dream
At 2:00 in the afternoon, Donald Trump -- dressed in white shirt, bright blue tie, and dark suit -- boarded Air Force One with all the pomp and splendor of the president of the United States. He blessed his weary nation with an imperial wave and set off to meet Korean dictator Kim Jung Un in Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam.
Air Force One took off without incident. Trump settled into his cushioned seat and stared out into the darkness across the wing of the plane.
Trump suddenly jumped like he'd been poked with a cattle prod. What was that out on the wing of the plane? It looked horrible, like a monster! Was he dreaming? Were his eyes fooling him? (He discounts that. Nothing fools him, nothing.) Vaguely, in the back of his little mind, he remembered an episode of The Twilight Zone from long ago, when a gremlin stalked a plane wing, or some such.
But the Thing, whatever it was, disappeared. Trump took two Maalox and reclined for a nap.
The plane touched down in Hanoi. Something was wrong.
The pilot and co-pilot looked at each other. This was not the Hanoi they had been told to expect. The runway was shoddy and pockmarked with craters. To make matters worse, armed soldiers were advancing on the plane from both sides. They didn't look friendly.
The pilot radioed for the Secret Service, but something was wrong. The Secret Service agents were all sleeping and could not be roused. It was as if they were in suspended animation.
Trump stirred, fixed his tie and his hair, and took a quick leak in the loo. "Let's go," he groused to the pilot.
"But sir ... Your Secret Service agents are all in comas ... and, look out the window!"
"That's just the welcoming committee!" Trump roared. "Open the door and let me out of here!"
The pilot couldn't refuse an order from his president. He opened the door.
Trump stared out across the runway. Gee, Hanoi sure looked dingy! He hadn't been briefed on this.
Because the Hanoi he landed in was not the Hanoi of 2019.
It was the Hanoi of 1970.
The plane had passed through a space/time continuum.
Before he could retreat to the safety of his plane, the plane dissolved into cotton candy! Donald Trump -- tie, suit, and bad haircut -- stared out at a platoon of gun-toting Viet Cong, who, although they didn't know the guy by name, recognized an American capitalist pig when they saw one.
"But ... my bone spurs!" Trump sputtered. "I'm not supposed to be here!"
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh ..............................
Here the story could take a turn. What completes this fantasy with the most satisfaction? Does he get blasted by a few hundred Soviet firearms, or do they haul him off to the Hanoi Hilton for a nice, long, comfortable (not) stay? How about a prisoner exchange with a brave young soldier named John McCain?
A girl can dream. Thanks be to Gritty!
Air Force One took off without incident. Trump settled into his cushioned seat and stared out into the darkness across the wing of the plane.
Trump suddenly jumped like he'd been poked with a cattle prod. What was that out on the wing of the plane? It looked horrible, like a monster! Was he dreaming? Were his eyes fooling him? (He discounts that. Nothing fools him, nothing.) Vaguely, in the back of his little mind, he remembered an episode of The Twilight Zone from long ago, when a gremlin stalked a plane wing, or some such.
But the Thing, whatever it was, disappeared. Trump took two Maalox and reclined for a nap.
The plane touched down in Hanoi. Something was wrong.
The pilot and co-pilot looked at each other. This was not the Hanoi they had been told to expect. The runway was shoddy and pockmarked with craters. To make matters worse, armed soldiers were advancing on the plane from both sides. They didn't look friendly.
The pilot radioed for the Secret Service, but something was wrong. The Secret Service agents were all sleeping and could not be roused. It was as if they were in suspended animation.
Trump stirred, fixed his tie and his hair, and took a quick leak in the loo. "Let's go," he groused to the pilot.
"But sir ... Your Secret Service agents are all in comas ... and, look out the window!"
"That's just the welcoming committee!" Trump roared. "Open the door and let me out of here!"
The pilot couldn't refuse an order from his president. He opened the door.
Trump stared out across the runway. Gee, Hanoi sure looked dingy! He hadn't been briefed on this.
Because the Hanoi he landed in was not the Hanoi of 2019.
It was the Hanoi of 1970.
The plane had passed through a space/time continuum.
Before he could retreat to the safety of his plane, the plane dissolved into cotton candy! Donald Trump -- tie, suit, and bad haircut -- stared out at a platoon of gun-toting Viet Cong, who, although they didn't know the guy by name, recognized an American capitalist pig when they saw one.
"But ... my bone spurs!" Trump sputtered. "I'm not supposed to be here!"
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh ..............................
Here the story could take a turn. What completes this fantasy with the most satisfaction? Does he get blasted by a few hundred Soviet firearms, or do they haul him off to the Hanoi Hilton for a nice, long, comfortable (not) stay? How about a prisoner exchange with a brave young soldier named John McCain?
A girl can dream. Thanks be to Gritty!
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
Interview with a Bored Goddess: Holda
It's staying light a little longer. Have you noticed? This morning when I set off for work, the sky was pearly and a few birds were chirping lustfully. All is well with the world.
But make no mistake. Winter is still well under way. Ask anyone in Washington State. They'll tell you. What better time to tender an invitation to Holda, bored (and misunderstood) Goddess of the Germanic peoples? Spread a few flax seeds, brew up some good lager, and She'll be only too glad to stop by. Please give a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Holda, the Winter Goddess!
Anne: All hail, great Snowy Goddess, vilified and persecuted by the Christians ... portrayed as a hateful hag, when really you are beautiful, nurturing, and helpful to humankind!
Holda: Yes, yes. That's me. Marginalized and misunderstood, like so many of my Sisters. Your cat has some mats in his fur. Shall I groom him?
Anne: What a kind offer! Please do. Oh, would you look at that! He never holds that still for me! Holda, I invited you here because I'm quite braced. I think you have a new praise and worship team!
Holda: Who, me? Couldn't be.
Anne: Want to see?
Holda: Yes sirree!
Anne: Aren't they beautiful? A gathering of women who are determined to nurture this nation!
Holda: They certainly have good taste in attire.
Anne: I thought of You the moment I saw them. There, I said, are acolytes of Holda, channeling Her snowy gowns and Her generous spirit.
Holda: How did they come to assemble in that place?
Anne: They came to listen to a despot who they plan to oppose. They chose the snowy white garments in honor of women's rights (and also to honor You).
Holda: I'm so touched! It gets tedious, you know, when the only white you see is on a bride.
Anne: I couldn't agree more ... but You have to admit it's a hard color to keep clean. These ladies aren't Goddesses. They have to be mindful of pesky stains. And yet they chose Your luminous shade. You should be proud.
Holda: I am! This is quite encouraging! What can I do to assist them?
Anne: All glory, laud, and honor to You for wanting to be helpful! Go, Holda, and sit among them. Be by their sides as they seek to restore balance to our troubled land.
Holda: You mean it? An assignment with dignity? I'll hop right on it!
Anne: No one is asking me, but what I think this modern nation needs is way more attention paid to ancient Goddesses. Go therefore, Holda. You're no ugly old hag trying to eat children! Show them how a Goddess does it. You're perfect for the job!
Holda: I accept. And in gratitude for the job, I'll send you a nice, bracing snowstorm.
Anne: With no sleet mixed in.
Holda: Hold the sleet, hold the freezing rain.
Anne: And ditch the wintry mix. We get that here all the time.
Holda: Snow it is for you, dear Anne. Deep, white, pure, and powerful.
But make no mistake. Winter is still well under way. Ask anyone in Washington State. They'll tell you. What better time to tender an invitation to Holda, bored (and misunderstood) Goddess of the Germanic peoples? Spread a few flax seeds, brew up some good lager, and She'll be only too glad to stop by. Please give a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Holda, the Winter Goddess!
Anne: All hail, great Snowy Goddess, vilified and persecuted by the Christians ... portrayed as a hateful hag, when really you are beautiful, nurturing, and helpful to humankind!
Holda: Yes, yes. That's me. Marginalized and misunderstood, like so many of my Sisters. Your cat has some mats in his fur. Shall I groom him?
Anne: What a kind offer! Please do. Oh, would you look at that! He never holds that still for me! Holda, I invited you here because I'm quite braced. I think you have a new praise and worship team!
Holda: Who, me? Couldn't be.
Anne: Want to see?
Holda: Yes sirree!
Anne: Aren't they beautiful? A gathering of women who are determined to nurture this nation!
Holda: They certainly have good taste in attire.
Anne: I thought of You the moment I saw them. There, I said, are acolytes of Holda, channeling Her snowy gowns and Her generous spirit.
Holda: How did they come to assemble in that place?
Anne: They came to listen to a despot who they plan to oppose. They chose the snowy white garments in honor of women's rights (and also to honor You).
Holda: I'm so touched! It gets tedious, you know, when the only white you see is on a bride.
Anne: I couldn't agree more ... but You have to admit it's a hard color to keep clean. These ladies aren't Goddesses. They have to be mindful of pesky stains. And yet they chose Your luminous shade. You should be proud.
Holda: I am! This is quite encouraging! What can I do to assist them?
Anne: All glory, laud, and honor to You for wanting to be helpful! Go, Holda, and sit among them. Be by their sides as they seek to restore balance to our troubled land.
Holda: You mean it? An assignment with dignity? I'll hop right on it!
Anne: No one is asking me, but what I think this modern nation needs is way more attention paid to ancient Goddesses. Go therefore, Holda. You're no ugly old hag trying to eat children! Show them how a Goddess does it. You're perfect for the job!
Holda: I accept. And in gratitude for the job, I'll send you a nice, bracing snowstorm.
Anne: With no sleet mixed in.
Holda: Hold the sleet, hold the freezing rain.
Anne: And ditch the wintry mix. We get that here all the time.
Holda: Snow it is for you, dear Anne. Deep, white, pure, and powerful.
Sunday, December 02, 2018
Truth in Advertising
If you didn't know it before we got Donald Trump as president, you know it now. Real estate developers are the biggest fucking liars on the planet. They ooze charm, all the while looking at clients and staff as chumps of the first stripe. Some developers are just evil, knowing that they're peddling garbage and calling it gold. Others (like Bozo Trump) believe in their own hype and think they're actually doing the world a favor.
On Monday, December 3, the brand new home across the street from my 90-year-old house goes up for sale. I assume there will be some sort of open house. This "luxury home" by Mark Ryan -- constructed chiefly by Spanish-speaking laborers who seemed to melt away at the first sign of a police car -- is retailing for $975,000.
Soon I will have millionaires as neighbors.
Previously I wrote about how this stooge Mark Ryan got a free pass on an illegal act (shredding a 100-year-old tree on a Sunday morning) because the judiciary in Snobville admire the man so much.
What's a girl to do about this open house? Gosh, I won't even be here! I have to be on the job at precisely 7:04 every morning.
I'll tell you what I'm going to do: I'm going to serve up a little truth.
We own two cars in this household. One is a sensible Subaru sedan. The other belonged to my late mother-in-law. It's a 2001 Saturn, not particularly well cared for over the decades. I use the Saturn to get to and from work. (It's four miles one way, four miles the other.) And -- whew! -- the lil' bucket of bolts passed inspection! Eight miles a day for another two years!
The Saturn is my most recent car to sport bumper stickers. As the rear of my cars go, the Saturn is modest. There are only two regular-sized bumper stickers. One says BERNIE SANDERS and the other says JOIN THE RESISTANCE.
Monday morning I'm going to drive the sensible Subaru to work, leaving the evocative Saturn at the edge of the driveway. I know, I know, it's a stupid and petty act. But just like everyone all over the world, I have my prejudices. I hate developers. Hate 'em.
Whoever comes to gawk at the $975,000 "luxury home" will understand clearly the political philosophy of their closest neighbors.
Can't speak for anyone else, but if I was house-hunting and saw a MAGA sign on a neighboring abode, I would search elsewhere.
Petty, Anne. Very petty. But what are bumper stickers for? Truth in advertising.
On Monday, December 3, the brand new home across the street from my 90-year-old house goes up for sale. I assume there will be some sort of open house. This "luxury home" by Mark Ryan -- constructed chiefly by Spanish-speaking laborers who seemed to melt away at the first sign of a police car -- is retailing for $975,000.
Soon I will have millionaires as neighbors.
Previously I wrote about how this stooge Mark Ryan got a free pass on an illegal act (shredding a 100-year-old tree on a Sunday morning) because the judiciary in Snobville admire the man so much.
What's a girl to do about this open house? Gosh, I won't even be here! I have to be on the job at precisely 7:04 every morning.
I'll tell you what I'm going to do: I'm going to serve up a little truth.
We own two cars in this household. One is a sensible Subaru sedan. The other belonged to my late mother-in-law. It's a 2001 Saturn, not particularly well cared for over the decades. I use the Saturn to get to and from work. (It's four miles one way, four miles the other.) And -- whew! -- the lil' bucket of bolts passed inspection! Eight miles a day for another two years!
The Saturn is my most recent car to sport bumper stickers. As the rear of my cars go, the Saturn is modest. There are only two regular-sized bumper stickers. One says BERNIE SANDERS and the other says JOIN THE RESISTANCE.
Monday morning I'm going to drive the sensible Subaru to work, leaving the evocative Saturn at the edge of the driveway. I know, I know, it's a stupid and petty act. But just like everyone all over the world, I have my prejudices. I hate developers. Hate 'em.
Whoever comes to gawk at the $975,000 "luxury home" will understand clearly the political philosophy of their closest neighbors.
Can't speak for anyone else, but if I was house-hunting and saw a MAGA sign on a neighboring abode, I would search elsewhere.
Petty, Anne. Very petty. But what are bumper stickers for? Truth in advertising.
Thursday, January 04, 2018
President Johnson (Me) on the Thorny Problem of North Korea
My fellow Americans,
Things have gotten so bad in the US of A that I have been asked to take over the helm. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm no expert on anything, domestic or foreign. A good president solicits advice and takes it humbly.
As president I will take suggestions from all kinds of knowledgeable people. In the meantime I'm going to be dignified and thoughtful in all my public pronouncements. I represent the nation, after all, and we don't want the world to see America as a bunch of foul-mouthed, shallow, self-obsessed morons, do we? (even if it's partly true)
One of the pressing questions facing our country right now is, what do we do about North Korea? The government is led by a shallow, self-obsessed moron, and they're dumping stacks and stacks and stacks into nuclear weapons. Worse, they're threatening to drop those weapons on America.
Although I intend to have high-level meetings with some of the finest minds in the country concerning this issue, my gut feeling as an ordinary semi-educated mortal is that the horror of nuclear weapons makes every thoughtful person unwilling to use them.
I will say this right now, pending further input from the experts: As president, I will not use nuclear weapons on North Korea.
The loss of life and devastation of landscape associated with nuclear weapons is unacceptable to me. Not only would we kill thousands of innocent citizens in North Korea, we would send plumes of radiation into neighboring nations. These nations are our trading partners and allies. They don't deserve plumes of radiation.
So my message to the dictator in North Korea is pretty simple. Kim, you will be responsible if you detonate a nuclear weapon over America or some other country. The world will see you as an aggressor and will probably help the US of A to retaliate. Because that's what we will do -- retaliate. We're not going to fire the first shot. So think long and hard about that button on your desk. If you push it, we will come. But we won't come until you push first, because as for me, I don't want that on my conscience.
As to the continued development of your program, even the possibility that you have germ warfare? As president I will push for harsh sanctions against your regime. I know that this is causing terrible hardship in your country -- hardship that is being felt by the innocent citizens there. It is my hope that the range of suffering among the citizenry will eventually lead to your ouster. But that suffering is on your plate, Kim, not mine. Feed your people, not your power.
My fellow Americans, please note that this presidential proclamation is subject to change pending long and thoughtful discussions with experts on international relations. No foolish and impulsive popping off on Twitter! We're going to do this sensibly.
Things have gotten so bad in the US of A that I have been asked to take over the helm. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm no expert on anything, domestic or foreign. A good president solicits advice and takes it humbly.
As president I will take suggestions from all kinds of knowledgeable people. In the meantime I'm going to be dignified and thoughtful in all my public pronouncements. I represent the nation, after all, and we don't want the world to see America as a bunch of foul-mouthed, shallow, self-obsessed morons, do we? (even if it's partly true)
One of the pressing questions facing our country right now is, what do we do about North Korea? The government is led by a shallow, self-obsessed moron, and they're dumping stacks and stacks and stacks into nuclear weapons. Worse, they're threatening to drop those weapons on America.
Although I intend to have high-level meetings with some of the finest minds in the country concerning this issue, my gut feeling as an ordinary semi-educated mortal is that the horror of nuclear weapons makes every thoughtful person unwilling to use them.
I will say this right now, pending further input from the experts: As president, I will not use nuclear weapons on North Korea.
The loss of life and devastation of landscape associated with nuclear weapons is unacceptable to me. Not only would we kill thousands of innocent citizens in North Korea, we would send plumes of radiation into neighboring nations. These nations are our trading partners and allies. They don't deserve plumes of radiation.
So my message to the dictator in North Korea is pretty simple. Kim, you will be responsible if you detonate a nuclear weapon over America or some other country. The world will see you as an aggressor and will probably help the US of A to retaliate. Because that's what we will do -- retaliate. We're not going to fire the first shot. So think long and hard about that button on your desk. If you push it, we will come. But we won't come until you push first, because as for me, I don't want that on my conscience.
As to the continued development of your program, even the possibility that you have germ warfare? As president I will push for harsh sanctions against your regime. I know that this is causing terrible hardship in your country -- hardship that is being felt by the innocent citizens there. It is my hope that the range of suffering among the citizenry will eventually lead to your ouster. But that suffering is on your plate, Kim, not mine. Feed your people, not your power.
My fellow Americans, please note that this presidential proclamation is subject to change pending long and thoughtful discussions with experts on international relations. No foolish and impulsive popping off on Twitter! We're going to do this sensibly.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Interview with a Bored Goddess: Cloacina
All Hail, and welcome to The Gods Are Bored! We're now in our 12th year, and up to 202 followers! In a nation of 325 million people, we're standing tall at the rock bottom of the heap.
But la di dah, we believe in the Divine and all goodness! And just between us ... have you seen the headlines on the busy God's followers these days? How low can they go? Disgraceful. No better time than the present to bliss out with a loving Goddess who wants you to have a healthy lifestyle and plenty of clean, clear water! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Cloacina, Goddess of Sanitation Management!
Anne: Look, Cloacina, I painted the powder room! I know it's your favorite room in the whole house. What do you think of it now?
Cloacina: It's beautiful! I do wish you would put a mosaic tile on the floor, though.
Anne: Can't live like a Caesar on the salary of a peasant, dear Goddess.
Cloacina: What was that object you pulled out of the water throne while the top was off?
Anne: (aside) Isn't it cute? She calls the toilet a "water throne!" (to Cloacina) Funny you should ask. It was a paperweight from the Ronald Reagan Library, sent to Mr. J more than a decade ago by a clueless friend in California. I put it in the water throne, feeling it deserved to be there.
Cloacina: Who was this "Ronald Reagan?"
Anne: A Caesar. I thought he was the worst. Little did I know.
Cloacina: If this was a bad Caesar, why take out the paperweight?
Anne: Well, it had gotten a bit calcified after all that time. Besides, I need to make room in the water throne for something that deserves to be in there even more.
Cloacina: What could that possibly be?
Anne:
I found it in a strip club parking lot last week!
Cloacina: Anne, you might want to think twice about this. An item like this might clog the water throne, and then the dear thing won't work.
Anne: No worries, Goddess. This hat is cheaply manufactured by over-extended, poverty-stricken workers. It will fade on the first flush and dissolve within a week. Which hopefully will become a metaphor for the Caesar who is selling it.
Cloacina: Oh well, you needn't worry! I have learned all about your water thrones and the piping in your house, and I will keep everything flowing brilliantly!
Anne: Thus saving me plumbing bills ... O Great and Mighty Goddess!!!
Cloacina: I hope you don't mind if I'm late for dinner. All that wind yesterday brought down a lot of leaves. There are storm drains to be seen to.
Anne: And you are just the Goddess for the task! Work Your magic, Cloacina! It is an honor beyond measure, having You in my household. Blessed be.
But la di dah, we believe in the Divine and all goodness! And just between us ... have you seen the headlines on the busy God's followers these days? How low can they go? Disgraceful. No better time than the present to bliss out with a loving Goddess who wants you to have a healthy lifestyle and plenty of clean, clear water! Please give a warm, wonderful, Gods Are Bored welcome to Cloacina, Goddess of Sanitation Management!
Anne: Look, Cloacina, I painted the powder room! I know it's your favorite room in the whole house. What do you think of it now?
Cloacina: It's beautiful! I do wish you would put a mosaic tile on the floor, though.
Anne: Can't live like a Caesar on the salary of a peasant, dear Goddess.
Cloacina: What was that object you pulled out of the water throne while the top was off?
Anne: (aside) Isn't it cute? She calls the toilet a "water throne!" (to Cloacina) Funny you should ask. It was a paperweight from the Ronald Reagan Library, sent to Mr. J more than a decade ago by a clueless friend in California. I put it in the water throne, feeling it deserved to be there.
Cloacina: Who was this "Ronald Reagan?"
Anne: A Caesar. I thought he was the worst. Little did I know.
Cloacina: If this was a bad Caesar, why take out the paperweight?
Anne: Well, it had gotten a bit calcified after all that time. Besides, I need to make room in the water throne for something that deserves to be in there even more.
Cloacina: What could that possibly be?
Anne:
I found it in a strip club parking lot last week!
Cloacina: Anne, you might want to think twice about this. An item like this might clog the water throne, and then the dear thing won't work.
Anne: No worries, Goddess. This hat is cheaply manufactured by over-extended, poverty-stricken workers. It will fade on the first flush and dissolve within a week. Which hopefully will become a metaphor for the Caesar who is selling it.
Cloacina: Oh well, you needn't worry! I have learned all about your water thrones and the piping in your house, and I will keep everything flowing brilliantly!
Anne: Thus saving me plumbing bills ... O Great and Mighty Goddess!!!
Cloacina: I hope you don't mind if I'm late for dinner. All that wind yesterday brought down a lot of leaves. There are storm drains to be seen to.
Anne: And you are just the Goddess for the task! Work Your magic, Cloacina! It is an honor beyond measure, having You in my household. Blessed be.
Wednesday, November 08, 2017
My (Not So) Helpless Scream at the Sky
Did you hear that we Resisters had a planned event tonight, on the anniversary of the election? We were supposed to go outside and scream helplessly at the sky.
I was all ready to do this. In fact, I had -- very reluctantly -- issued an invitation to the Bean Sidhe, so as to make a really impressive scream fest.
In the end, though, I canceled the howling, or rather I relegated it to this single miffed boat-tailed grackle:
Screaming all done now. There's too much to celebrate!
I don't care if our New Jersey governor-elect is some pond scum bloodsucker who slunk out of Goldman Sachs to plunder the Garden State. I don't care if the guy keeps three mistresses on his payroll (heck, that's a New Jersey staple!) I don't care if he has bad breath or foot odor. For all I care, he can fart with great regularity in closed elevators.
He is not Chris Christie. We are done with Chris Christie! We are bidding farewell to the Teacher-Hater!
EXHIBIT A: THE CURRENT GOVERNOR OF NEW JERSEY
EXHIBIT B: THE GOVERNOR-ELECT OF NEW JERSEY, A PROUD DEMOCRAT
New Jersey, the state I used to hate, is now firmly in Democratic hands. Oh sure, we have a fistful of Republicans -- and the gods know we have high taxes -- but we don't suffer fools. Or rather, after eight long years of suffering a fool, we're ready to TURN. THE. PAGE.
And so the anniversary of the presidential election finds me cautiously optimistic. I'm not giving up the Magical Battle for America, but let's say that we've won our first skirmish. In New Jersey. Heck, it sorta feels like Washington just crossed the Delaware!
I was all ready to do this. In fact, I had -- very reluctantly -- issued an invitation to the Bean Sidhe, so as to make a really impressive scream fest.
In the end, though, I canceled the howling, or rather I relegated it to this single miffed boat-tailed grackle:
Screaming all done now. There's too much to celebrate!
I don't care if our New Jersey governor-elect is some pond scum bloodsucker who slunk out of Goldman Sachs to plunder the Garden State. I don't care if the guy keeps three mistresses on his payroll (heck, that's a New Jersey staple!) I don't care if he has bad breath or foot odor. For all I care, he can fart with great regularity in closed elevators.
He is not Chris Christie. We are done with Chris Christie! We are bidding farewell to the Teacher-Hater!
EXHIBIT A: THE CURRENT GOVERNOR OF NEW JERSEY
EXHIBIT B: THE GOVERNOR-ELECT OF NEW JERSEY, A PROUD DEMOCRAT
New Jersey, the state I used to hate, is now firmly in Democratic hands. Oh sure, we have a fistful of Republicans -- and the gods know we have high taxes -- but we don't suffer fools. Or rather, after eight long years of suffering a fool, we're ready to TURN. THE. PAGE.
And so the anniversary of the presidential election finds me cautiously optimistic. I'm not giving up the Magical Battle for America, but let's say that we've won our first skirmish. In New Jersey. Heck, it sorta feels like Washington just crossed the Delaware!
Friday, September 08, 2017
Do the Gods Hate Donald Trump?
For at least 20 years, climate scientists have been predicting that, with a warming planet, hurricanes would become larger and more frequent. This is not information that was passed to them via a burning bush that didn't get consumed. These are predictions based upon the behavior of wind and water, air currents and storm surges.
Please don't tell the bored deities who visit me for tea and Tastykakes, but I've always been quietly skeptical about Higher Powers. There has never seemed to me to be anything predictable about the behavior of Gods and Goddesses, including the busy God.
Still, you have to wonder.
Never, in my impressive lifetime, has there been two massive hurricanes in a space of two weeks. If you count Jose, that's three, and if you count Katia, that's four. In two weeks.
Keep in mind, this is September. Hurricane season lasts until November.
EXHIBIT A: DO THE GODS HATE DONALD TRUMP?
Is there possibly some agency in this? Chills me to the bone to think so, because a deity who would want to make a point about climate change at this particular juncture would be putting a lot of innocent plant life, creatures, and people in danger. And I'm not just talking about the USA. I'm talking about all over the world. South Asia is being inundated as well. Let's not even address the wildfires out West, or the uninhabitable Caribbean islands.
But if you want to make a point ... if you want to make a point to leadership that denies climate change science and is actively seeking to squelch it ... what could you do that would attract more attention than to fling hurricanes and monsoons around with reckless abandon?
It has been a mere three months and a week since Donald Trump announced that he was pulling America out of the Paris Climate Accord. Is it possible, possible, that a bored deity or two (or 200,000) could be so infuriated as to visit the good ol' Wrath of God(s) on this nation?
Okay, it's most likely a coincidence. A predicted eventuality that just happened to follow close in the wake of a boneheaded and despicable pro-polluter decision.
What a coincidence, huh? Wow.
Please don't tell the bored deities who visit me for tea and Tastykakes, but I've always been quietly skeptical about Higher Powers. There has never seemed to me to be anything predictable about the behavior of Gods and Goddesses, including the busy God.
Still, you have to wonder.
Never, in my impressive lifetime, has there been two massive hurricanes in a space of two weeks. If you count Jose, that's three, and if you count Katia, that's four. In two weeks.
Keep in mind, this is September. Hurricane season lasts until November.
EXHIBIT A: DO THE GODS HATE DONALD TRUMP?
Is there possibly some agency in this? Chills me to the bone to think so, because a deity who would want to make a point about climate change at this particular juncture would be putting a lot of innocent plant life, creatures, and people in danger. And I'm not just talking about the USA. I'm talking about all over the world. South Asia is being inundated as well. Let's not even address the wildfires out West, or the uninhabitable Caribbean islands.
But if you want to make a point ... if you want to make a point to leadership that denies climate change science and is actively seeking to squelch it ... what could you do that would attract more attention than to fling hurricanes and monsoons around with reckless abandon?
It has been a mere three months and a week since Donald Trump announced that he was pulling America out of the Paris Climate Accord. Is it possible, possible, that a bored deity or two (or 200,000) could be so infuriated as to visit the good ol' Wrath of God(s) on this nation?
Okay, it's most likely a coincidence. A predicted eventuality that just happened to follow close in the wake of a boneheaded and despicable pro-polluter decision.
What a coincidence, huh? Wow.
Thursday, August 03, 2017
Don't Believe Them: Resist
When it comes to the American experiment, we definitely lag behind some other civilized nations in the matter of health care and public transportation. But in one arena of public life, we are doing just fine, thank you.
That arena is public schools.
It's all well and good to say that Finland has better public schools than America. I'm sure it's true. But whoever got the big, fat idea to compare a gigantic country like the US of A with a charming little nation like Finland? I'll tell you who: people who want to trash public education.
Don't believe the haters who disrespect America's public schools!
EXHIBIT A: A MENACE WHO NEEDS TO BE RESISTED
This time we're not even talking about the Orange Menace. We're talking about his Girl Friday, Betsy Devo$.
Betsy Devo$ was not educated in a public school. Nor were her children. She has tumbled millions of her own ducats into charter schools, which are nothing more than private, for-profit schools foisted on our nation's most vulnerable learners. After tanking a bunch of charter schools in Michigan, she is now the Secretary of Education.
This creepy billionairess has an agenda that she calls "school choice." While we are fighting for our health care, she's selling out our students to the highest bidder. She also thinks it's a fine, fine idea to let people get tax breaks for sending their kids to religious schools.
Clap if you think American tax dollars should support religious schools.
That's funny. I don't hear anything.
News flash: Did you know that parochial schools don't have to accept disabled students? They also don't have to administer the draconian standardized tests that our public school kids face all through their school careers. Private and charter school teachers do not need to have formal teacher training. They are not protected by collective bargaining. And it is this latter item -- collective bargaining -- that has led to all these "charter" schools and "voucher" bullshit.
Plain and simple, a group of wealthy Americans wants to undermine the hard-working public school teachers and turn a profit on the taxpayer dime. Billionaires like Devo$ want to pay teachers less and give them no protection from unreasonable dismissal. The money saved on salaries won't go to the kids, though. It will go into the pockets of educational corporations.
Imagine if we already had a single-payer, not-for-profit system of health care, and somebody got the bright idea to improve health care by creating private, for-profit insurance companies! This is pretty much what creatures like Betsy Devo$ want to do with our country's kids.
Resisting this agenda is demanding. You see, the whole charter school dodge is popular with both Republicans and Democrats. Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama were in favor of charter schools, though not to the degree that the Orange Menace and his Girl Friday are. (The only unabashed supporter of public education in the last election cycle was Bernie Sanders.)
To resist Betsy Devo$ and her sinister agenda, you first need to see how your representatives stand on the whole charter school issue. This is one place where you can't assume that just because your congressman is a Democrat, he or she doesn't like charter schools. Here in my state, good ol' Cory Booker has given his seal of approval to charter schools in the poorest neighborhoods. So, do your research and then send your public officials a strongly worded letter that might go something like this:
Hey dummy,
Public schooling is a right, not a privilege! Say no to Betsy Devo$ and her sleazy attempts to privatize education!
Or some such.
Respect our schools. Keep church and state separate! Selling out an educated workforce will not improve educational outcomes for American students.
That arena is public schools.
It's all well and good to say that Finland has better public schools than America. I'm sure it's true. But whoever got the big, fat idea to compare a gigantic country like the US of A with a charming little nation like Finland? I'll tell you who: people who want to trash public education.
Don't believe the haters who disrespect America's public schools!
EXHIBIT A: A MENACE WHO NEEDS TO BE RESISTED
This time we're not even talking about the Orange Menace. We're talking about his Girl Friday, Betsy Devo$.
Betsy Devo$ was not educated in a public school. Nor were her children. She has tumbled millions of her own ducats into charter schools, which are nothing more than private, for-profit schools foisted on our nation's most vulnerable learners. After tanking a bunch of charter schools in Michigan, she is now the Secretary of Education.
This creepy billionairess has an agenda that she calls "school choice." While we are fighting for our health care, she's selling out our students to the highest bidder. She also thinks it's a fine, fine idea to let people get tax breaks for sending their kids to religious schools.
Clap if you think American tax dollars should support religious schools.
That's funny. I don't hear anything.
News flash: Did you know that parochial schools don't have to accept disabled students? They also don't have to administer the draconian standardized tests that our public school kids face all through their school careers. Private and charter school teachers do not need to have formal teacher training. They are not protected by collective bargaining. And it is this latter item -- collective bargaining -- that has led to all these "charter" schools and "voucher" bullshit.
Plain and simple, a group of wealthy Americans wants to undermine the hard-working public school teachers and turn a profit on the taxpayer dime. Billionaires like Devo$ want to pay teachers less and give them no protection from unreasonable dismissal. The money saved on salaries won't go to the kids, though. It will go into the pockets of educational corporations.
Imagine if we already had a single-payer, not-for-profit system of health care, and somebody got the bright idea to improve health care by creating private, for-profit insurance companies! This is pretty much what creatures like Betsy Devo$ want to do with our country's kids.
Resisting this agenda is demanding. You see, the whole charter school dodge is popular with both Republicans and Democrats. Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama were in favor of charter schools, though not to the degree that the Orange Menace and his Girl Friday are. (The only unabashed supporter of public education in the last election cycle was Bernie Sanders.)
To resist Betsy Devo$ and her sinister agenda, you first need to see how your representatives stand on the whole charter school issue. This is one place where you can't assume that just because your congressman is a Democrat, he or she doesn't like charter schools. Here in my state, good ol' Cory Booker has given his seal of approval to charter schools in the poorest neighborhoods. So, do your research and then send your public officials a strongly worded letter that might go something like this:
Hey dummy,
Public schooling is a right, not a privilege! Say no to Betsy Devo$ and her sleazy attempts to privatize education!
Or some such.
Respect our schools. Keep church and state separate! Selling out an educated workforce will not improve educational outcomes for American students.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Revisions Are Always Necessary
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" If you wonder what I'm eating here today, here's a hint:
Yes indeed, a big ol' plate of crow for Annie the Pessimist!
I'm not literally eating crow. This is just the crow that The Morrigan sent to tell me off for being so snide to the Girl Scouts. If you didn't read my self-pitying diatribe (below), don't bother. It's not a good demonstration of the big, broad, flexible outlook.
My faith in the power of womanhood is restored, or at least greatly improved!
We Americans just witnessed the most despicable and sniveling performance by half of our nation's senators, and we were saved from the worst by two women.
EXHIBIT A: ANGEL TO THE LEFT, ANGEL TO THE RIGHT
The "repeal and replace Obamacare" bill was so bad that the only people made happy by it were ultra-wealthy donors to the Republican party and media outlets run by the same. By all accounts it would have raised premiums and tossed folks off the rolls. It also would have ditched the supremely sensible mandate that everyone, no matter how healthy, have health insurance.
Never mind how ridiculous this legislation was. The old, ugly beast in the photo wanted it done, and so did the many Republicans who have loudly promised to repeal and replace for years while it was super safe for them to do so. Now, with their feet to the fire, they needed to make good on their spurious promises. They needed a WIN!
But on either side of the beast, there are two women who just said no. They were under crushing pressure to adhere to the party line, and they said no. They were warned. They were given an explanation. Nevertheless, they persisted.
It's all well and good to give props to John McCain, who is actually dying, to come in and vote his conscience at the last minute, basically side-stepping that pressure. The ladies, Senators Murkowski and Collins, withstood the pressure. Thereby giving our nation's Girl Scouts a little whiff of what a powerful, brave, and principled woman can do.
The Morrigan approves of these women. No more nonsense, America! We need strong women in positions of power! And, ironically, we are at a place in history where two Republican women stood up for what was right. The Morrigan likes women who don't cave under pressure. She doesn't care what color they wear, or whether they have pins shaped like donkeys or elephants.
This week is Lughnasadh. On Sunday I travel to the Sacred Grove to celebrate first harvest. I will petition the bored gods to reward and lift up two Republican senators who showed that they cared about their people. Our tribe is not a complete mess. Hope still resides in the compassionate heart.
Yes indeed, a big ol' plate of crow for Annie the Pessimist!
I'm not literally eating crow. This is just the crow that The Morrigan sent to tell me off for being so snide to the Girl Scouts. If you didn't read my self-pitying diatribe (below), don't bother. It's not a good demonstration of the big, broad, flexible outlook.
My faith in the power of womanhood is restored, or at least greatly improved!
We Americans just witnessed the most despicable and sniveling performance by half of our nation's senators, and we were saved from the worst by two women.
EXHIBIT A: ANGEL TO THE LEFT, ANGEL TO THE RIGHT
The "repeal and replace Obamacare" bill was so bad that the only people made happy by it were ultra-wealthy donors to the Republican party and media outlets run by the same. By all accounts it would have raised premiums and tossed folks off the rolls. It also would have ditched the supremely sensible mandate that everyone, no matter how healthy, have health insurance.
Never mind how ridiculous this legislation was. The old, ugly beast in the photo wanted it done, and so did the many Republicans who have loudly promised to repeal and replace for years while it was super safe for them to do so. Now, with their feet to the fire, they needed to make good on their spurious promises. They needed a WIN!
But on either side of the beast, there are two women who just said no. They were under crushing pressure to adhere to the party line, and they said no. They were warned. They were given an explanation. Nevertheless, they persisted.
It's all well and good to give props to John McCain, who is actually dying, to come in and vote his conscience at the last minute, basically side-stepping that pressure. The ladies, Senators Murkowski and Collins, withstood the pressure. Thereby giving our nation's Girl Scouts a little whiff of what a powerful, brave, and principled woman can do.
The Morrigan approves of these women. No more nonsense, America! We need strong women in positions of power! And, ironically, we are at a place in history where two Republican women stood up for what was right. The Morrigan likes women who don't cave under pressure. She doesn't care what color they wear, or whether they have pins shaped like donkeys or elephants.
This week is Lughnasadh. On Sunday I travel to the Sacred Grove to celebrate first harvest. I will petition the bored gods to reward and lift up two Republican senators who showed that they cared about their people. Our tribe is not a complete mess. Hope still resides in the compassionate heart.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
He Haunts Our Dreams
You would never know it, but this used to be a humor blog.
I poked fun at the Christian Right for their politics and prayers, calling them "chippies." Now look around. They're in charge. First thing they did, they sat one on the Supreme Court. Our vice president is a chippie and a scary one.
Scary. The operative word is scary.
I made brutal fun of W and Cheney and all their chicanery. Now, when I see W on t.v., my eyes tear up with nostalgia. I miss that daft little bugger.
It's nearly impossible to poke fun at our current sitting president. I know, I know, the late-night hosts do it, and memes do it ... but for me, this is too scary to be funny. No one sat in a lifeboat and laughed while the Titanic was sinking.
This morning I was at a teacher meeting, and two of my colleagues reported having dreams about Mr. Old and Ugly. So did I, which makes it three.
My dream is the closest I can get to being funny about the sitting president.
I dreamed that he was flirting to me and trying to grab my ... do I even have to elaborate?
So I said to him, "Okay, I'll have sex with you if you give up tweeting."
How's that for a soothing night's sleep? I woke up in dire need of Pepto-Bismol and a long, scalding shower.
The man haunts my dreams. He is a menace to society and a menace to my personal sobriety.
Maybe Cloacina will avert her gaze and allow the plumbing in the White House to back up, overflow, and soak the carpeting.
I poked fun at the Christian Right for their politics and prayers, calling them "chippies." Now look around. They're in charge. First thing they did, they sat one on the Supreme Court. Our vice president is a chippie and a scary one.
Scary. The operative word is scary.
I made brutal fun of W and Cheney and all their chicanery. Now, when I see W on t.v., my eyes tear up with nostalgia. I miss that daft little bugger.
It's nearly impossible to poke fun at our current sitting president. I know, I know, the late-night hosts do it, and memes do it ... but for me, this is too scary to be funny. No one sat in a lifeboat and laughed while the Titanic was sinking.
This morning I was at a teacher meeting, and two of my colleagues reported having dreams about Mr. Old and Ugly. So did I, which makes it three.
My dream is the closest I can get to being funny about the sitting president.
I dreamed that he was flirting to me and trying to grab my ... do I even have to elaborate?
So I said to him, "Okay, I'll have sex with you if you give up tweeting."
How's that for a soothing night's sleep? I woke up in dire need of Pepto-Bismol and a long, scalding shower.
The man haunts my dreams. He is a menace to society and a menace to my personal sobriety.
Maybe Cloacina will avert her gaze and allow the plumbing in the White House to back up, overflow, and soak the carpeting.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Interview with a Bored God: Anansi
My goodness, as I live and breathe, one of my favorite bored gods of all time is Anansi! He's all puffed up with pride these days, because through one medium or another, Neil Gaiman has made Him a star again.
Anansi is a flirt and a trickster, the kind of critter that with a mere wink can persuade you to part with your last piece of pecan pie. He pilfers the pretzels and leaves the lettuce. He snickers when you stub your toe, principally because He's the one who pushed the ottoman just so and made you do it.
Anansi preys upon people's weaknesses and leads them to downfall. He enjoys doing it ... sort of a matter of just desserts.
And speaking of desserts, that must be why He's here. I'm going to make a strawberry pie. How did He know?
Anne: Anansi, my friend, while I'm making this pie, will You tell me a story?
Anansi: With pleasure, Anne. Better make two pies. You might get company...
Anansi and the Jackal
by Anansi
Once upon a time, there was a jackal who was dissatisfied with his life. He had plenty to eat, and he was popular and well-liked in his circle, but he craved more attention and admiration.
Jackal went to Anansi and asked the Spider to make him more famous ... all-powerful over the rest of the animals on the savanna, in fact.
"I will do this,"Anansi said, "If you first give up one of your possessions. Think about it and get back to me."
Jackal thought about it. He was pretty good-looking, in a paunchy, overripe way. He didn't want to give that up. It was already getting harder to attract lady jackals! He was really good at manipulating other animals (particularly those who weren't as smart as they ought to be). Jackal couldn't imagine being powerful without being able to manipulate, so he didn't want to give that up, either. That left him with two possessions: the ability to lie, and a perfect memory. It seemed pretty clear that a good memory wasn't really important if you had lots of power, so Jackal returned to Anansi.
"You can have my memory," he said.
"Done!" Anansi said.
And Jackal was happy, because he felt just the same.
And the animals heaped him with praise and set him in the best seat and gave him the ability to make decisions that would affect the whole savanna.
In his most manipulative and lying way, Jackal promised all the animals that he would make everything great for them. He promised every kind of animal exactly what they wanted. The lions would get more meat. The wildebeests would get more forage and eat it in perfect safety. The zebras would get to cross the rivers safely. And since nobody liked the hyenas, they would be rounded up and sent away.
Needless to say, the hyenas weren't happy. They went to Anansi and complained.
"Wait it out," Anansi said. So they did.
Not long after Jackal assumed power, the lions got hungry. The wildebeests were fat from eating so much forage, so the lions hunted and killed a few.
The other wildebeests went to find Jackal. "The lions hunted us! You said we would be safe!"
"Did I say that?" Jackal replied. "I don't remember."
"You said it," Elephant answered. "I remember everything."
Next thing you know, the zebras went to cross the river. The lions were waiting.
It wasn't pretty.
The other zebras went to Jackal and complained. Jackal said he couldn't recall the exact details of his deal with the zebras.
But once again, Elephant chimed in: "You promised the zebras they would be safe crossing the river."
Jackal was furious. "I'm tired of these elephants!" he shouted. "As of this minute, all elephants are fired!" He sent the elephants away, one and all.
As time passed, Jackal continued to rule, but all of the animals were sullen, if not outright contemptuous. This didn't sit well with Jackal, since he'd gone into the scheme for approval. So after a few months, he went back to Anansi.
"You didn't tell me the job of ruling the savanna would be so hard!" he told Anansi.
"You didn't ask me," the wily Spider replied.
"I didn't know I couldn't make both the lions and the wildebeest happy," Jackal whined.
"Jackal," Anansi said, "you have lived on the savanna all your life. Have you ever seen a time when lions and wildebeest got along, or when zebras could always cross the river safely?"
"I can't remember," Jackal said, feeling exceedingly sorry for himself.
"It's too bad your memory is so poor," Anansi said, clicking His legs together. "The elephants could have helped you with that, but you sent them away."
"All I wanted was universal admiration!" Jackal wailed. Then he got an idea. "Say, Anansi, could you just put things back the way they were ... as I recall, if I'm right ... so I at least have a little band of followers? The rest of them, lions, zebras, one and all, can go rot."
"I can do that for you," Anansi said. "But you'll have to give me another possession."
Jackal couldn't remember his possessions at all. So he said, "Go ahead and just take one. Whichever one you want."
Next thing he knew, Jackal found himself on the savanna with the other jackals he used to hang out with. They all burst into gales of laughter. "Look at you!" they howled. "You are one old, butt-ugly Jackal!"
Jackal ran to the watering hole and looked into the water. At that moment, Anansi gave him his memory back.
It wasn't pretty.
In the end, the elephants and the hyenas returned to the savanna, and everything fell into its old, natural routine. Except for poor old, ugly, Jackal, who could not buy a best friend no matter how much he lied, manipulated, or remembered the past.
Anne: Wow, Anansi, you are amazing! Here, have both pies! And that dusty corner of my attic? It's all yours, whenever you want a bunk.
Anansi: Thanks, Anne, but I'm due back on set in a week. I'm a big star now.
Anne: Justly deserved, Anansi. Justly deserved.
Anansi is a flirt and a trickster, the kind of critter that with a mere wink can persuade you to part with your last piece of pecan pie. He pilfers the pretzels and leaves the lettuce. He snickers when you stub your toe, principally because He's the one who pushed the ottoman just so and made you do it.
Anansi preys upon people's weaknesses and leads them to downfall. He enjoys doing it ... sort of a matter of just desserts.
And speaking of desserts, that must be why He's here. I'm going to make a strawberry pie. How did He know?
Anne: Anansi, my friend, while I'm making this pie, will You tell me a story?
Anansi: With pleasure, Anne. Better make two pies. You might get company...
Anansi and the Jackal
by Anansi
Once upon a time, there was a jackal who was dissatisfied with his life. He had plenty to eat, and he was popular and well-liked in his circle, but he craved more attention and admiration.
Jackal went to Anansi and asked the Spider to make him more famous ... all-powerful over the rest of the animals on the savanna, in fact.
"I will do this,"Anansi said, "If you first give up one of your possessions. Think about it and get back to me."
Jackal thought about it. He was pretty good-looking, in a paunchy, overripe way. He didn't want to give that up. It was already getting harder to attract lady jackals! He was really good at manipulating other animals (particularly those who weren't as smart as they ought to be). Jackal couldn't imagine being powerful without being able to manipulate, so he didn't want to give that up, either. That left him with two possessions: the ability to lie, and a perfect memory. It seemed pretty clear that a good memory wasn't really important if you had lots of power, so Jackal returned to Anansi.
"You can have my memory," he said.
"Done!" Anansi said.
And Jackal was happy, because he felt just the same.
And the animals heaped him with praise and set him in the best seat and gave him the ability to make decisions that would affect the whole savanna.
In his most manipulative and lying way, Jackal promised all the animals that he would make everything great for them. He promised every kind of animal exactly what they wanted. The lions would get more meat. The wildebeests would get more forage and eat it in perfect safety. The zebras would get to cross the rivers safely. And since nobody liked the hyenas, they would be rounded up and sent away.
Needless to say, the hyenas weren't happy. They went to Anansi and complained.
"Wait it out," Anansi said. So they did.
Not long after Jackal assumed power, the lions got hungry. The wildebeests were fat from eating so much forage, so the lions hunted and killed a few.
The other wildebeests went to find Jackal. "The lions hunted us! You said we would be safe!"
"Did I say that?" Jackal replied. "I don't remember."
"You said it," Elephant answered. "I remember everything."
Next thing you know, the zebras went to cross the river. The lions were waiting.
It wasn't pretty.
The other zebras went to Jackal and complained. Jackal said he couldn't recall the exact details of his deal with the zebras.
But once again, Elephant chimed in: "You promised the zebras they would be safe crossing the river."
Jackal was furious. "I'm tired of these elephants!" he shouted. "As of this minute, all elephants are fired!" He sent the elephants away, one and all.
As time passed, Jackal continued to rule, but all of the animals were sullen, if not outright contemptuous. This didn't sit well with Jackal, since he'd gone into the scheme for approval. So after a few months, he went back to Anansi.
"You didn't tell me the job of ruling the savanna would be so hard!" he told Anansi.
"You didn't ask me," the wily Spider replied.
"I didn't know I couldn't make both the lions and the wildebeest happy," Jackal whined.
"Jackal," Anansi said, "you have lived on the savanna all your life. Have you ever seen a time when lions and wildebeest got along, or when zebras could always cross the river safely?"
"I can't remember," Jackal said, feeling exceedingly sorry for himself.
"It's too bad your memory is so poor," Anansi said, clicking His legs together. "The elephants could have helped you with that, but you sent them away."
"All I wanted was universal admiration!" Jackal wailed. Then he got an idea. "Say, Anansi, could you just put things back the way they were ... as I recall, if I'm right ... so I at least have a little band of followers? The rest of them, lions, zebras, one and all, can go rot."
"I can do that for you," Anansi said. "But you'll have to give me another possession."
Jackal couldn't remember his possessions at all. So he said, "Go ahead and just take one. Whichever one you want."
Next thing he knew, Jackal found himself on the savanna with the other jackals he used to hang out with. They all burst into gales of laughter. "Look at you!" they howled. "You are one old, butt-ugly Jackal!"
Jackal ran to the watering hole and looked into the water. At that moment, Anansi gave him his memory back.
It wasn't pretty.
In the end, the elephants and the hyenas returned to the savanna, and everything fell into its old, natural routine. Except for poor old, ugly, Jackal, who could not buy a best friend no matter how much he lied, manipulated, or remembered the past.
Anne: Wow, Anansi, you are amazing! Here, have both pies! And that dusty corner of my attic? It's all yours, whenever you want a bunk.
Anansi: Thanks, Anne, but I'm due back on set in a week. I'm a big star now.
Anne: Justly deserved, Anansi. Justly deserved.
Monday, May 15, 2017
#We
Did you hear that Donald Trump posted a tweet that said nothing more than "We?"
As in:
We
This would have remained very mysterious had he not deleted it a few minutes later. But you know the Internet. Lots of people saw it.
I sat down with my dear friend, the faerie Puck, to try to decode this tweet, as it seemed to be an intelligent attempt to get people to finish his thought for him. What could be behind the impulsive We?
Puck betrays my age as he helps me to translate.
are the champions.
Easy and obvious.
will, we will rock you.
No fair, Puck, that's the same song.
all went down to Montreaux, on the Lake Geneva shoreline.
Whoa, Puck! You heavy metal faerie, you! You might be on to something there. Here's what I think:
are stardust, we are golden.
Puck says that's absolutely the last possible one that Donald Trump would choose. He thumbs his nose at me and says Betsy DeVo$$ was using Trump's device, and she meant to tweet
don't need no education.
Thanks, Puck. I love you too. Well, it was Mother's Day ... perhaps he meant
are family. I've got all my sisters with me.
Does he have sisters? I'm not gonna look it up. Instead I'll pump my fist, resistance-style, and say
are strong. No one can tell us we're wrong.
Puck says it could be an early Christmas tweet. Maybe he meant
three kings of Orient are,
or
wish you a merry Christmas.
Wrong time of year, Puck! Nor is it Thanksgiving, so ditch
gather together to ask the Lord's blessing.
I guess we could go on and on like this, especially if you start adding apostrophes:
're off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz.
've only just begun ... to live ... white lace and promises ... a kiss for luck and we're on our waaaaayyyy.....
Okay, okay, Puck! I'll stop singing! I know that last one hopelessly anchors me in Geezer Bay!
There is only one ending to that elusive We that I can completely rule out, because the tweeter in question is a hard case, seriously interested only in his map of his electoral college victory and his ratings on the nightly news shows. There is no way, sadly, that Donald Trump would have followed that We with
shall overcome.
What do you think? Help Puck and me out here!
As in:
We
This would have remained very mysterious had he not deleted it a few minutes later. But you know the Internet. Lots of people saw it.
I sat down with my dear friend, the faerie Puck, to try to decode this tweet, as it seemed to be an intelligent attempt to get people to finish his thought for him. What could be behind the impulsive We?
Puck betrays my age as he helps me to translate.
are the champions.
Easy and obvious.
will, we will rock you.
No fair, Puck, that's the same song.
all went down to Montreaux, on the Lake Geneva shoreline.
Whoa, Puck! You heavy metal faerie, you! You might be on to something there. Here's what I think:
are stardust, we are golden.
Puck says that's absolutely the last possible one that Donald Trump would choose. He thumbs his nose at me and says Betsy DeVo$$ was using Trump's device, and she meant to tweet
don't need no education.
Thanks, Puck. I love you too. Well, it was Mother's Day ... perhaps he meant
are family. I've got all my sisters with me.
Does he have sisters? I'm not gonna look it up. Instead I'll pump my fist, resistance-style, and say
are strong. No one can tell us we're wrong.
Puck says it could be an early Christmas tweet. Maybe he meant
three kings of Orient are,
or
wish you a merry Christmas.
Wrong time of year, Puck! Nor is it Thanksgiving, so ditch
gather together to ask the Lord's blessing.
I guess we could go on and on like this, especially if you start adding apostrophes:
're off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz.
've only just begun ... to live ... white lace and promises ... a kiss for luck and we're on our waaaaayyyy.....
Okay, okay, Puck! I'll stop singing! I know that last one hopelessly anchors me in Geezer Bay!
There is only one ending to that elusive We that I can completely rule out, because the tweeter in question is a hard case, seriously interested only in his map of his electoral college victory and his ratings on the nightly news shows. There is no way, sadly, that Donald Trump would have followed that We with
shall overcome.
What do you think? Help Puck and me out here!
Saturday, May 13, 2017
I Scream, You Scream
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," vulture worship and ice cream for everyone! Tonight's flavor is Dead Skunk, which sounds like it will please the deity a lot more than the congregation.
I don't know about you, but I am crazy about ice cream. Any flavor will do. I don't go much for all the extra stuff they fling on the top, but a big, solid ice cream cone? Yasssss.
EXHIBIT A: HUMBLE ABODE
This unassuming little shack is the home of the Scottish Highland Creamery. You don't have to take my word for it. This place has the best ice cream in America. It's small batch, made by a nice gent and his wife, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that Mr. J and I plan our summer vacations so we can go and shovel in fistfuls of the stuff.
EXHIBIT B: SINFUL WARES
Well, you can't get sex in plastic containers, so this is the best product ever packaged. Mr. J and I always get some dry ice and haul home a cooler full, since we don't live anywhere near Oxford, Maryland.
My Scottish Highland Creamery stash is sacred to me. I don't share it blithely. There's still a little bit in the freezer from a run back in April, and as soon as I'm through with this sermon, I'm going to partake.
If I were to have a dinner party at which I served Scottish Highland Creamery ice cream, I would not have two scoops while my guests had one. I might want it to be that way, but I'm not insane. You don't serve everyone else less ice cream than you're having yourself, unless you are the only adult and you're scooping for three-year-olds.
Can we believe that our commander in chief serves his dinner guests one scoop of ice cream when he has two? Oh, yes, sadly we can. And I'll bet it's not from his personal stock of Scottish Highland Creamery, either. He's probably got tubs and tubs of artisan confections in the White House fridge.
The moral of this sermon is this: If you can mandate one size dessert for yourself and another size for your guests, without asking how much they want, you're a despicable reprobate who ought to be packed in dry ice and shipped to Bora Bora on a slow boat.
Chocolate, or butter pecan? One scoop or two? Or shall we just scream?
I don't know about you, but I am crazy about ice cream. Any flavor will do. I don't go much for all the extra stuff they fling on the top, but a big, solid ice cream cone? Yasssss.
EXHIBIT A: HUMBLE ABODE
This unassuming little shack is the home of the Scottish Highland Creamery. You don't have to take my word for it. This place has the best ice cream in America. It's small batch, made by a nice gent and his wife, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that Mr. J and I plan our summer vacations so we can go and shovel in fistfuls of the stuff.
EXHIBIT B: SINFUL WARES
Well, you can't get sex in plastic containers, so this is the best product ever packaged. Mr. J and I always get some dry ice and haul home a cooler full, since we don't live anywhere near Oxford, Maryland.
My Scottish Highland Creamery stash is sacred to me. I don't share it blithely. There's still a little bit in the freezer from a run back in April, and as soon as I'm through with this sermon, I'm going to partake.
If I were to have a dinner party at which I served Scottish Highland Creamery ice cream, I would not have two scoops while my guests had one. I might want it to be that way, but I'm not insane. You don't serve everyone else less ice cream than you're having yourself, unless you are the only adult and you're scooping for three-year-olds.
Can we believe that our commander in chief serves his dinner guests one scoop of ice cream when he has two? Oh, yes, sadly we can. And I'll bet it's not from his personal stock of Scottish Highland Creamery, either. He's probably got tubs and tubs of artisan confections in the White House fridge.
The moral of this sermon is this: If you can mandate one size dessert for yourself and another size for your guests, without asking how much they want, you're a despicable reprobate who ought to be packed in dry ice and shipped to Bora Bora on a slow boat.
Chocolate, or butter pecan? One scoop or two? Or shall we just scream?
Saturday, April 22, 2017
"Science Is the Poetry of Reality"
It's a very odd feeling when you participate in a March for Science, out of concern for the anti-science sentiments in government, and you find yourself marching in the footsteps of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. This was the principal thing on my mind as I took to Market Street, with Spare and her friends, for the Earth Day Science March.
My simple sign was a photo of my dad, in his lab coat, with a beaker and an equation on the chalk board behind him. I also included his birth and death dates. In this way I felt that he was marching with me.
Spare, of course, is more flamBEEant.
This was the strangest crowd of marchers I've ever been in. I guess you could just say that these were all smart people. Call them geeks or nerds if you will, but you could almost feel the intelligence beaming off of everyone. Honestly, the signs weren't as creative as at the Women's March (Spare being the exception), but they were sincere. No one is taking this lightly, is I guess what I'm saying.
We barely got to Penn's Landing before it began to rain. It rained in earnest. Spare and her friends floated off, but I had a rain slicker, so I puffed out my chest and stayed for the speakers. I stayed and stayed. You remember how boring those chemistry lectures were in college? Well, those were the people who were speaking. It doesn't matter, though, because all the sentiments were the same. Science made this country great. Science has unending potential to benefit humankind. Science brings progress. Inventors should be respected. Energy should be renewable. We can all be scientists, even in small ways like monitoring our local creek. We should run for office, call our government officials, keep the pressure on. Vaccinations are a good thing, de-funding the EPA and Planned Parenthood isn't. Not all scientists are atheists. Geology is a helpful predictor of history. And I forget the rest, there were lots and lots of speakers.
Spare is in a dark place just now, so it was good to see her engaged in this worthy pursuit.
Benjamin Franklin was very much on my mind as I marched. Funny thing, as I was walking back up Market Street after the event was over, I passed a historic landmark that I'd never noticed before -- what's left of his house. So I walked back there to what might have been his front door. I thought about knocking, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. How could I look a Founding Father in the eye and say that the same great nation that put a man on the Moon is now dumping data and denying climate change? I let him rest.
The title of this sermon comes from a sign I saw but couldn't get a good picture of. It said "Science is the Poetry of Reality." Okay, well, poetry is the poetry of reality too, but I thought it was a good slogan anyway.
And of course we chanted as we marched:
What do we want?
SCIENCE!
When do we want it?
AFTER EVIDENCE-BASED PEER REVIEW
As I said, it was a rather strange march.
My simple sign was a photo of my dad, in his lab coat, with a beaker and an equation on the chalk board behind him. I also included his birth and death dates. In this way I felt that he was marching with me.
Spare, of course, is more flamBEEant.
This was the strangest crowd of marchers I've ever been in. I guess you could just say that these were all smart people. Call them geeks or nerds if you will, but you could almost feel the intelligence beaming off of everyone. Honestly, the signs weren't as creative as at the Women's March (Spare being the exception), but they were sincere. No one is taking this lightly, is I guess what I'm saying.
We barely got to Penn's Landing before it began to rain. It rained in earnest. Spare and her friends floated off, but I had a rain slicker, so I puffed out my chest and stayed for the speakers. I stayed and stayed. You remember how boring those chemistry lectures were in college? Well, those were the people who were speaking. It doesn't matter, though, because all the sentiments were the same. Science made this country great. Science has unending potential to benefit humankind. Science brings progress. Inventors should be respected. Energy should be renewable. We can all be scientists, even in small ways like monitoring our local creek. We should run for office, call our government officials, keep the pressure on. Vaccinations are a good thing, de-funding the EPA and Planned Parenthood isn't. Not all scientists are atheists. Geology is a helpful predictor of history. And I forget the rest, there were lots and lots of speakers.
Spare is in a dark place just now, so it was good to see her engaged in this worthy pursuit.
Benjamin Franklin was very much on my mind as I marched. Funny thing, as I was walking back up Market Street after the event was over, I passed a historic landmark that I'd never noticed before -- what's left of his house. So I walked back there to what might have been his front door. I thought about knocking, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. How could I look a Founding Father in the eye and say that the same great nation that put a man on the Moon is now dumping data and denying climate change? I let him rest.
The title of this sermon comes from a sign I saw but couldn't get a good picture of. It said "Science is the Poetry of Reality." Okay, well, poetry is the poetry of reality too, but I thought it was a good slogan anyway.
And of course we chanted as we marched:
What do we want?
SCIENCE!
When do we want it?
AFTER EVIDENCE-BASED PEER REVIEW
As I said, it was a rather strange march.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
More Marching Philosophy
The March for Science, being ... well ... scientific, asked everyone who has committed to march to explain why they are doing it. No doubt this is data gathering for further targeted political activity, so I was only too glad to do it. Besides, the George guy paid me $200, again. Talk about the gift that keeps giving!
I am participating in the March for Science because my grandfather and father were scientists. Two of my uncles were doctors. I have a cousin who is a doctor as well, and another who is a chemical engineer. (All male, which for me is another issue.)
Science runs deep in our family. My grandfather grew up in a tiny house on a farm in Appalachia. He was the first to attend college, and he was only there two years. All the same, he learned to use a microscope. He went on to design microscopic drill bits for a company called American Celanese. The synthetic fibers he helped to create went into gas masks that were used during World War II.
Dad taught high school chemistry. He loved teaching. I've posted his closed-circuit t.v. lessons on YouTube, and they are still being watched!
For me, going to this march is rather (believe it or not) a Pagan practice. My ancestors were scientists. If they were alive, they would be appalled by climate change and by efforts to squelch research and data. That would infuriate them. Ancestral work is part of the Pagan path. This fits the bill. Dad and Granddad aren't here to express themselves, so I'm going to do it. I'm going to take one of my photos of Dad in his classroom and tape it (gently ) to a sign. So he can be there.
Dad and Granddad both voted Republican their whole lives, because Lincoln won the war. I fervently believe that neither one of them could have pulled the lever for Donald Trump -- Granddad because of his deep and genuine Christian faith, and Dad because, well, science.
I'm going away for a few days but will return in time for the Science March in Philadelphia. You'll see the photos here.
Anyone who tries to undermine science is a villain. In the Shakespearean sense.
I am participating in the March for Science because my grandfather and father were scientists. Two of my uncles were doctors. I have a cousin who is a doctor as well, and another who is a chemical engineer. (All male, which for me is another issue.)
Science runs deep in our family. My grandfather grew up in a tiny house on a farm in Appalachia. He was the first to attend college, and he was only there two years. All the same, he learned to use a microscope. He went on to design microscopic drill bits for a company called American Celanese. The synthetic fibers he helped to create went into gas masks that were used during World War II.
Dad taught high school chemistry. He loved teaching. I've posted his closed-circuit t.v. lessons on YouTube, and they are still being watched!
For me, going to this march is rather (believe it or not) a Pagan practice. My ancestors were scientists. If they were alive, they would be appalled by climate change and by efforts to squelch research and data. That would infuriate them. Ancestral work is part of the Pagan path. This fits the bill. Dad and Granddad aren't here to express themselves, so I'm going to do it. I'm going to take one of my photos of Dad in his classroom and tape it (gently ) to a sign. So he can be there.
Dad and Granddad both voted Republican their whole lives, because Lincoln won the war. I fervently believe that neither one of them could have pulled the lever for Donald Trump -- Granddad because of his deep and genuine Christian faith, and Dad because, well, science.
I'm going away for a few days but will return in time for the Science March in Philadelphia. You'll see the photos here.
Anyone who tries to undermine science is a villain. In the Shakespearean sense.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Job Opportunity
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where our good fortune is your good fortune! Let's face it. None of us have all the money we'd really like to have, right? An extra Benjamin for a half-day's work always helps, huh?
I'm Anne Johnson, here to share with you a fool-proof money-making opportunity. For those of you nine-to-fivers, this still works because it is always on a Saturday!
About midway through last December, I got a phone call from a nice man who asked me just to call him "George." He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And now he's making it three more times this month. Whoever he is, this George has, as my students would put it, "stacks and stacks and stacks."
George offered to pay for me to go to the Women's March on Washington. He paid for my two-night stay in a Hampton Inn, two tickets on a Rally bus for myself and the Heir, and he paid us each $200 for the day to march. Pretty generous, huh? I think so too!
At first I didn't want to take George's money, but he assured me that he was paying everyone who marched the same amount. This means if I hadn't needed to stay in a hotel or take a bus, I would have earned $500 for the day! And actually, at the Women's March, I met dozens of ladies who were equally impressed by his generosity. Many of them got all cash, since they lived close enough to take the Metro.
I asked them, "Do you know who this George guy is?"
"Who cares!" they chortled. "He's got stacks and stacks and stacks. After the march, we're going on a spa vacation!"
Seemed like everywhere you looked at that march, you saw a woman happily clutching a few Benjamins in her fist. One told me, "This is great, because I really don't want to work. I can just do this and get some money the easy way. I intend to spend it on drugs."
Who am I to tell people what to do with their money?
Long story short, George called me in March and asked what I was doing on the weekends of April 15, 22, and 29. I said, "Well, sir, you tell me. What am I doing?"
He hired me to march all three weekends. Heir too. We get a little less since we're staying in Philly -- $200 each -- but the math is still compelling. Between us we will earn $1200, just for protesting Donald Trump. George, it seems, does not like the sitting president.
At the Women's March it didn't occur to me to crunch the numbers and see just how much George actually pays for these events. Doesn't matter. I suck at math. I can't count that high.
For these April marches, George even sweetened the pot. He gave me a clothing allowance! I bought a Union Thugs t-shirt and a baseball cap with the meanest-looking pussy you ever saw on it. Sent the bill to George.
Any of you who want to protest Donald Trump and earn some pocket change, give me a holler. I'll set you up with George. I think I even get a referral fee, so sign on and come aboard!
I'm Anne Johnson, here to share with you a fool-proof money-making opportunity. For those of you nine-to-fivers, this still works because it is always on a Saturday!
About midway through last December, I got a phone call from a nice man who asked me just to call him "George." He made me an offer I couldn't refuse. And now he's making it three more times this month. Whoever he is, this George has, as my students would put it, "stacks and stacks and stacks."
George offered to pay for me to go to the Women's March on Washington. He paid for my two-night stay in a Hampton Inn, two tickets on a Rally bus for myself and the Heir, and he paid us each $200 for the day to march. Pretty generous, huh? I think so too!
At first I didn't want to take George's money, but he assured me that he was paying everyone who marched the same amount. This means if I hadn't needed to stay in a hotel or take a bus, I would have earned $500 for the day! And actually, at the Women's March, I met dozens of ladies who were equally impressed by his generosity. Many of them got all cash, since they lived close enough to take the Metro.
I asked them, "Do you know who this George guy is?"
"Who cares!" they chortled. "He's got stacks and stacks and stacks. After the march, we're going on a spa vacation!"
Seemed like everywhere you looked at that march, you saw a woman happily clutching a few Benjamins in her fist. One told me, "This is great, because I really don't want to work. I can just do this and get some money the easy way. I intend to spend it on drugs."
Who am I to tell people what to do with their money?
Long story short, George called me in March and asked what I was doing on the weekends of April 15, 22, and 29. I said, "Well, sir, you tell me. What am I doing?"
He hired me to march all three weekends. Heir too. We get a little less since we're staying in Philly -- $200 each -- but the math is still compelling. Between us we will earn $1200, just for protesting Donald Trump. George, it seems, does not like the sitting president.
At the Women's March it didn't occur to me to crunch the numbers and see just how much George actually pays for these events. Doesn't matter. I suck at math. I can't count that high.
For these April marches, George even sweetened the pot. He gave me a clothing allowance! I bought a Union Thugs t-shirt and a baseball cap with the meanest-looking pussy you ever saw on it. Sent the bill to George.
Any of you who want to protest Donald Trump and earn some pocket change, give me a holler. I'll set you up with George. I think I even get a referral fee, so sign on and come aboard!
Monday, April 10, 2017
On the March Again
The rest of April will be a busy time for marchers. I guess I'll be flinging on my golden sneakers again ... not once, but three more times.
On Saturday, April 15, I will be in Philadelphia for the Tax March, sponsored by one of my all-time favorite nonprofits, Jobs with Justice. Look at this brilliant balloon we'll be floating over Market Street!
EXHIBIT A: TRUMP, RELEASE YOUR DAMN TAXES
I hope I can get my picture taken with this fine creation.
Having left my protest sign in Washington, DC during the Women's March, I need something new to carry. Okay, I suck at art. Luckily, my gig as a school teacher has provided me with inspiring signage.
Last fall I taught my students about symbolism. As most unimaginative teachers do, I Googled "how do I teach symbolism." I got a list of children's picture books that have symbolism in them. One of them was
EXHIBIT B: IT WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013 BUT IS OH SO RELEVANT
This is the cover! It's a picture book, so it's larger than a conventional book. How perfect is this to carry in a march that features a giant golden rooster?
The Snobville Public Library carries this riveting little volume. The story is so completely pertinent that when I used it to teach symbolism, my students were blown away. In this timely tale, a hedgehog wanders into the barnyard, slightly alarming the chickens because they've never seen one before. But the chickens are all ready to adapt until the rooster (who wants more attention) incites the chickens to be afraid -- very very afraid -- of the hedgehog.
EXHIBIT C: DID I SAY THIS WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013?
This is the rooster, exhorting his chickens to construct a huge, tall wall to keep out invaders. Does life imitate art, or what?
I won't give away the end of the story, because we are going to live through it. Suffice it to say that The Chickens Build a Wall will travel with me to the Philly Tax March. When we all get to the People's Plaza at Independence Mall, it may just be story time.
On Saturday, April 15, I will be in Philadelphia for the Tax March, sponsored by one of my all-time favorite nonprofits, Jobs with Justice. Look at this brilliant balloon we'll be floating over Market Street!
EXHIBIT A: TRUMP, RELEASE YOUR DAMN TAXES
I hope I can get my picture taken with this fine creation.
Having left my protest sign in Washington, DC during the Women's March, I need something new to carry. Okay, I suck at art. Luckily, my gig as a school teacher has provided me with inspiring signage.
Last fall I taught my students about symbolism. As most unimaginative teachers do, I Googled "how do I teach symbolism." I got a list of children's picture books that have symbolism in them. One of them was
EXHIBIT B: IT WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013 BUT IS OH SO RELEVANT
This is the cover! It's a picture book, so it's larger than a conventional book. How perfect is this to carry in a march that features a giant golden rooster?
The Snobville Public Library carries this riveting little volume. The story is so completely pertinent that when I used it to teach symbolism, my students were blown away. In this timely tale, a hedgehog wanders into the barnyard, slightly alarming the chickens because they've never seen one before. But the chickens are all ready to adapt until the rooster (who wants more attention) incites the chickens to be afraid -- very very afraid -- of the hedgehog.
EXHIBIT C: DID I SAY THIS WAS PUBLISHED IN 2013?
This is the rooster, exhorting his chickens to construct a huge, tall wall to keep out invaders. Does life imitate art, or what?
I won't give away the end of the story, because we are going to live through it. Suffice it to say that The Chickens Build a Wall will travel with me to the Philly Tax March. When we all get to the People's Plaza at Independence Mall, it may just be story time.
Friday, March 24, 2017
Vulture Psalm
A vulture psalm.
If you're feeling sick
It's really a bitch,
But you ought to have health care
Even if you're not rich.
If you're feeling sick
It's really a bitch,
But you ought to have health care
Even if you're not rich.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Vulture Doesn't Want To Eat Cold, Starved Senior Citizens
It's a little known fact that the construction of the Great Wall of China led to a severe famine in the country constructing the wall. All the able-bodied people in the nation were called upon to help with the wall. Between the cost of it and the lack of workers to do other things (like, for instance, plant and harvest crops), the country plunged into decline.
So now our government has money to build a wall, but not to finance Meals on Wheels?
Get ready for it. VULTURE IS PISSED.
Vulture does not want to dine on emaciated senior citizens! Vulture would vastly prefer a diet of ultra-wealthy fat cats who are harvesting ducats on the backs of the rest of us! Vulture likes his carcasses to be brimming with the finest caviar-crusted entrails!
The Great God Vulture would like me to add that He (just like a person) likes His food squishy and fleshy, not rock-solid frozen.
Before you get the misguided idea that you should point out to Vulture that Meals on Wheels is state-financed, let me tell you that I did some due diligence here. Some of the financing for Meals on Wheels comes from federal Community Block Grants, which have been around for decades and are used to prop up the poorest, neediest communities in all kinds of ways. You guessed it. The block grants will be gone. They are "failing."
Vulture. Is. Pissed.
So, how do the starving senior citizens also become frozen? Federal money also props up state grant money that helps the poorest among us to keep their furnaces lit all through the cold months. This I heard on the local news radio. Our local LIHEAP office is afraid that they won't be able to help poor folks next winter, due to the budget axe being wielded by our Carrion in Chief.
What kind of heartless scoundrels prey upon the weakest and most vulnerable citizens? Vulture cries foul! Vulture is not a predator -- He disposes. He does not kill. Governments that cut social services while increasing the budget for weapons of mass destruction ... those are the killers.
Thus sayeth Vulture: Oppose the draconian measures that are being contemplated with glee in the halls of power!
Anyone who begrudges poor people nutritious meals and warm homes deserves to die and go to
MISER HELL
Where they will be helplessly obese and overheated, trying in vain to avoid being pelted by those heavy-ass rolls of quarters you pick up on your way to the laundromat! All the while, perfectly polished mirrors will allow these miscreants to view themselves being taunted by Santa Claus and his righteously indignant elves!
The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
So now our government has money to build a wall, but not to finance Meals on Wheels?
Get ready for it. VULTURE IS PISSED.
Vulture does not want to dine on emaciated senior citizens! Vulture would vastly prefer a diet of ultra-wealthy fat cats who are harvesting ducats on the backs of the rest of us! Vulture likes his carcasses to be brimming with the finest caviar-crusted entrails!
The Great God Vulture would like me to add that He (just like a person) likes His food squishy and fleshy, not rock-solid frozen.
Before you get the misguided idea that you should point out to Vulture that Meals on Wheels is state-financed, let me tell you that I did some due diligence here. Some of the financing for Meals on Wheels comes from federal Community Block Grants, which have been around for decades and are used to prop up the poorest, neediest communities in all kinds of ways. You guessed it. The block grants will be gone. They are "failing."
Vulture. Is. Pissed.
So, how do the starving senior citizens also become frozen? Federal money also props up state grant money that helps the poorest among us to keep their furnaces lit all through the cold months. This I heard on the local news radio. Our local LIHEAP office is afraid that they won't be able to help poor folks next winter, due to the budget axe being wielded by our Carrion in Chief.
What kind of heartless scoundrels prey upon the weakest and most vulnerable citizens? Vulture cries foul! Vulture is not a predator -- He disposes. He does not kill. Governments that cut social services while increasing the budget for weapons of mass destruction ... those are the killers.
Thus sayeth Vulture: Oppose the draconian measures that are being contemplated with glee in the halls of power!
Anyone who begrudges poor people nutritious meals and warm homes deserves to die and go to
MISER HELL
Where they will be helplessly obese and overheated, trying in vain to avoid being pelted by those heavy-ass rolls of quarters you pick up on your way to the laundromat! All the while, perfectly polished mirrors will allow these miscreants to view themselves being taunted by Santa Claus and his righteously indignant elves!
The word of Vulture for the people of Vulture. Thanks be to Vulture.
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