Hubris Run Amok

 I know I'm a bad person. I know I have a wicked side. I know I have the capacity to take others' suffering lightly, if I feel the suffering to be a matter of hubris. I've got a cold streak. I don't suffer fools.

Years and years ago, when Mr. J and I first moved to Haterfield, one of his journalist colleagues dropped by to say hello. At that time dear Decibel the Parrot was just a young stripling, but he had already learned how to shred skin on fingers with his big ol' beak.

Mr. J's colleague asked me, "Does your bird bite?"

"Oh yes," I replied.

Not even lying, the dude walked over to the cage and stuck his finger in. Decibel lived up to his reputation and bit the guy to the quick.

I could not help but laugh at that fellow. Hubris! It's a bitch.

Well, readers, that bitch hubris is having a whopper of a romp these days, and the Internet is a perfect park for a romp.

Here for your perusal is a website, Sorry, Antivaxxer. On this site, an enterprising hubris hunter has compiled a list of names and photos of people who loudly spurned the COVID vaccine and then succumbed to the disease.

My friends, you are entitled to your bodily autonomy, and you have the right to refuse a vaccine. But if you openly ridicule the vaccine and the people who take it, and then you get the illness and die of it, you sadly deserve a heaping helping of derision.

I feel sorry for people who quietly decide not to take the COVID vaccine, and then get the illness. But I have no qualms about "Sorry, Antivaxxer." Some book I might have read somewhere says, "As you sow, so shall you reap." And if you sow disinformation, if you make light of a deadly illness, if you belittle people who don't think the way you do, well then. Your reap may be done by the Grim Reaper.

Again, just to be clear, I do have sympathy for people who contract severe COVID after avoiding the vaccine. But my sympathy ends abruptly for the vocal, sarcastic anti-vaxxers who loudly seek to convince people not to protect themselves.

You've got to wonder, too, about the people who ingest medication used to de-worm horses in an effort to prevent or treat COVID. What are people thinking? I don't use Gamma Cat's flea medicine to treat my earaches.

Okay, it's not very Christian of me to lack sympathy for certain people. But hey! I'm not a Christian! I don't have to feel sorry for those who wallow in hubris and then inherit the wind. What a relief!

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.

Free Advice on Getting Your Letter to the Editor Published in the (Not Fake) New York Times

Did you know that the New York Times was in publication during the Civil War? I did some research on the Battle of Antietam, and by golly, the good ol' New York Times had several correspondents right there in the thick of things.

It wasn't fake then, and it's not fake now.

That sound you hear is the buttons popping on my vest. Ten days ago I wrote my first-ever "Letter to the Editor" to the New York Times, and against all odds, they published it -- and first in line!

I'm an old-timer who likes to get her news in paper format. Imagine my conceit humble pride when I opened Monday's newspaper and saw my letter there, at the very top of the column!

(I had advance notice. The editors contacted me about word choice and length, of course. It's the New York Times, they don't mess.)

The letter is about the villainous Betsy Devo$ and her assault on sexual assault victims. It's in response to an editorial the so-called "fake" New York Times published that actually praised the menace Devo$ for her actions.

And here it is!

So, now you are asking ... Anne, what's your secret? Lots of people write to the New York Times every day!

Ahem ... well ... (twirls the casual coat button) ... my first guess is that, in these days of instant commenting, most people don't bother to write a formal letter to the editor, which first you have to look up the email address (kind of hard to find) and then you have to submit it.

Then, well, I sorta figured the best way to proceed was to lard the thing with every big word I ever knew from my days of bi-monthly vocabulary tests in Mr. Hershey's English class.

Finally, there was the passion. A good Letter to the Editor needs passion. Having had numerous friends, colleagues, and family members who have experienced simple and/or sexual assault, especially in college settings, I felt a pressing need to weigh in.

It's that pressing need that gets 'em every time.

If you ever feel a pressing need to write a letter to the editor of the New York Times, keep it short and fill it with big words. You know you can do it. Only smart people read this blog ... so you know you can. You know you can.

My Awesome Speech at the Girl Scout Jamboree

Lately I've been having fantasies about being president. Like, a black SUV stops in front of the house, picks me up, and drives me straight to the White House, where I take over immediately.
 I never had these fantasies before. As a woman of a certain age, I know that presidents have to be male. This is America.

Even though I can't really dream of becoming president, I can still be the featured speaker at the annual Girl Scout Jamboree! I've drafted my speech, and I'm waiting for them to call. You can read it below:

ANNE ADDRESSES THE GIRL SCOUTS OF AMERICA, 2017

Hello there, lil' ladies! My, look at you! All clean and well-groomed, shying away from those pesky bugs so your uniforms won't get dirty! Oh, that takes me back to my youth in the 1960s! I was a Girl Scout in good standing for years. I still have my sash, and it is covered with badges. Cooking, reading, health care, safety, dance, art, pet care, citizenship ... I've got tons of badges. I'm very proud of them.

This is no exaggeration when I say that I trudged through icy cold slush to sell Girl Scout cookies. I know, I know, it's something that could be an urban (actually rural) legend ... but in this case it is absolutely true! I trudged through icy cold slush to sell Girl Scout cookies!

How do you know it's true? Because I got my feet icy cold and soaking wet, and I didn't sell any cookies! You see, Girl Scouts, every girl in my neighborhood was also a Scout, which meant that she was also selling cookies. The competition was fierce. The winners, of course, were the girls with powerful daddies who could take the cookie order sheet to their offices and factories and get orders by the dozen. Here's your first lesson! Life is all about wealth and power, and if you don't have it ... I mean, if your daddy isn't rich, you might as well give up on those cookies and any other big dream you have. You'll be able to supply your immediate family with nice, fresh cookies, and they will love you for it. But those big orders? Forget it. The deck is stacked, my dear little tots.

Speaking of stacked decks, you know all those uplifting speeches you get from your Girl Scout leaders about how you can be anything you want to be? I really hope you don't believe that. Start with your Scout leaders themselves. Who are they? Mommies who cram Scouting into their already over-busy days in some tedious, middle management position where they report to male supervisors. There's nothing fake about the New York Times, and they are here to tell you that the top is not within your reach. Seriously, you should do what I did. Toil anonymously for years, lose your position to a man, and become a school teacher! Better yet, save yourself the frustration of losing your job to a man and go straight into school teaching! At least then, at age 58, you won't be painting cinderblock all summer in the heat like I'm doing. You'll be ready to retire, possibly with a pension!

Dear Scouts, the list of things you can't do is long and wide. Pretty much choose a profession that doesn't require you to care for other people tenderly at a low wage, and you won't be able to rise far in it. But don't be sad! Think of all the good things you can have as a woman in our society! You can drink wine, and sell Mary Kay cosmetics, and wear fast fashion, and own lots of cats. Who doesn't love cats? Adopt a cat, revolve your life around it, and give up those silly plans to pursue a STEM career!

Remember when everyone told you a woman would be president of the USA some day? Me too, and look how that turned out.

I'm just trying to protect you from the crushed and broken dreams I see when I look in the rearview mirror at my own pathetic but predictable life. From age nine, when I couldn't try out for Little League, right up to the present, I've played second fiddle to men who -- if they were better at all -- weren't that much better than me. At the risk of being repetitive, let me say again: Save yourself the bother. Set your lil' eyes on a service profession. Only do it in a hurry, because society is encouraging unemployed men to seek those jobs too. I know of at least one mediocre male nurse who got a job in a jiffy! Look smart, or you might not even be able to snag one of those coveted, low-paying, high-stress service jobs!

I know what you're thinking: What's good about being a woman? Ha ha! At least you'll know for sure that you are the parent of your child! What dad can truly say that? *fist pump*

Oh no! Don't cry! Whoa ... I'm making you cry! No no, there is a silver lining, my children.

Long ago, when life was tough and short, women got all the props for keeping the Tribe alive. It was an honorable thing to be a mother, and an honorable thing to keep the peace and solve disputes and issue wise directives. Women were so respected then! So, you ask, how can we restore that essential balance between the genders, short of a massive population crash? Well, I'll tell you. Pray to a bored Goddess. There are so many wonderful, powerful Goddesses out there who've been marginalized by the Big Daddy God. If enough of you Girl Scouts turn your back on the Great I Am and start putting your faith in a better basket, you could indeed change the trajectory of this sagging nation.

So I want all of you out there today to contact your legislators and demand comprehensive health care. It's a right, not a perk. Then I want you to drop those patriarchal Bibles in the recycle bucket and start dealing out the love to the Goddess of your choice! Don't waste time on Christianity the way I did. The captains of that ship will always be men. Find yourself a better boat.

If enough of you Scouts ditch the busy God, you could be part of a Great Awakening in America. Perhaps it would at least give you positions of religious leadership, which are, after all, the jobs your foremothers held in the Days before Time.

One last thing. The only insect you really need fear is the common mosquito. Everything else that crawls should be quietly respected. How would you like it if some bug looked at you and said, "EWWWWW!!!!! Get it AWAY!!!!!" Damn, that shit's gotta end.

Thanks for listening, and enjoy your Jamboree! And may the Goddess be with you.

Shoulda Been Done Long Ago

Today it was 95 degrees (35 C) outside. Which meant it was 95 degrees (35 C) in my classroom. The fans just move the air around, like a convection oven.

One of my best and sweetest little girls found a bed bug crawling along the edge of the cabinet, right where she was sitting. This occasioned a lot of angst on the part of my students and myself.

My co-teacher positively identified the vermin by Googling a photograph of one. Neither of us had ever seen one before.

As a class we are about to begin A Raisin in the Sun. Half of my students said they already read it in middle school (!) and had seen the movie. They pronounced it stupid and boring and darkly hinted that they wouldn't do it.

At the last faculty meeting, the principal said we would have a "dress and grooming code" in the fall for all teachers. We will be expected to attire ourselves in "industry standard" clothing.

The refrigerator in the faculty dining room broke. My salad dressing got thrown out.

The water fountain across from my classroom is broken. It has been broken all year. School rules prohibit bottled water in classrooms.

Some classrooms are air conditioned. Some aren't. This means that we never get early dismissal on hot days, because all of the students have at least one class in air conditioning. The exercise room and the locker rooms are air conditioned. All administrative offices are air conditioned.

All this is my way of saying that school should be out for the summer. Last Friday should have been our last day. But we soldier on, right to Solstice. This is public school, and this is what we do.

If you have any idea what "industry standard" attire is for a public school teacher, please post your findings.

Wiccans 4 Gettysburg

Greetings from "The Gods Are Bored!" My, it's hot out. Hope you and yours are staying cool.

I had a wonderful bored deity all lined up for an interview yesterday, but it turns out He got an assignment and had to postpone. We'll see if we can't get Him in here soon, because He does some really interesting things.

In the meantime, I grabbed this email from a Red Oak Grove member, to whom it was sent:

Greetings from Four Points by Sheraton Chambersburg in ******Chambersburg**,
**PA****! I hope that you are having a wonderful summer and had a blessed
Summer Solstice a few weeks ago!

 
It is my understanding that many followers of the Wiccan Tradition enjoy
making pilgrimages to places where there are a great number of reported
instances of supernatural activity—such as ****Gettysburg****. It is with
great respect and this understanding that I write to you today. As we are
only 30 minutes from **Gettysburg**, I would like to invite you and your
fellow followers to stay at our hotel should you ever decide to make a trip
to ****Gettysburg****!

 
Should you ever choose to bring a group to our hotel, we would like to
offer you a discounted rate on sleeping rooms. This rate would be valid
for rooms with either one king or two double beds, a full bathroom, free
wireless internet, a television equipped with in-room movies and games, a
telephone, a state-of-the-art one cup coffee maker, an ironing board and
iron, and so much more, including unbeatable comfort! Included in the
price of the room is also our hot and cold buffet style breakfast served
every morning. We have the largest indoor pool in town, a garden
overlooking Falling Spring Creek with a grilling area and picnic gazebo, a
workout room, a coin-operated laundry facility, and Premium Sustainable
Coffee available in our lobby 24/7! It just doesn’t get any better than
this!

 
We also have four different meeting rooms, should your group ever desire to
have a place to meet, talk, form a circle, or simply mingle while in our
area. If you decide to book a group with us, I am more than willing to
work out a great rate for you on the meeting rooms—if you book enough
sleeping rooms, you could even get the meeting room for free!

 
I hope that you will take advantage of this offer and bring a group to ****
Gettysburg****. I myself really enjoy learning about the supernatural
activity in ****Gettysburg****—it is simply fascinating! If you would like
to discuss booking a group with us, or would like more information, please
do not hesitate to contact me. I look forward to any opportunities to work
with you in the future! Blessed be!******


Well! I don't know where to start laughing about this one! A tremendous amount of research went into this email, don't you think? I, for one, did not know that people who follow the Wiccan Tradition make pilgrimages to places of mass slaughter in order to talk to ghosts. I thought that was what Psychics do. If you are a non-psychic Wiccan, and you would be interested in going to ****Gettysburg**** to enjoy the high quality supernatural activity there, would you please comment below? I just want to see if there's anyone who identifies as Wiccan who would want to book such a trip (and book it at a Sheraton hotel. And book it at a Sheraton in ***Chambersburg, PA***, which is 30 minutes from ****Gettysburg****, which has its own Sheraton).

Let's briefly and off the top of my head recount the facts of ****Gettysburg****.

The battle lasted three days and produced 44,000 casualties. It occurred during the July 4 week. The weather was hot as hell, so the wounded quickly got gangrene or died of dehydration. Think of this: Not one single battle in either WWI or WWII produced as many American deaths as ****Gettysburg****. In three days it produced more casualties than the whole Iraq War (not counting Iraqis).

Do any of you Wiccan readers want gory details on the weapons of mass destruction employed at ****Gettysburg****? I didn't think so.

Moving on. What's with the asterisks ringing poor ****Gettysburg**** in this missive? I guess it makes the name stand out better. Kind of like ****Mass Bloodletting**** or ****Bodies Strewn Everywhere over a Shell-Pocked Landscape****.

Do I think there are ghosts at ****Gettysburg?**** Yes indeed. Do I, as a Pagan, want to seek them out for a seance? Oh HELL no! I've been on that battlefield. It's hardly bearable in the bright daylight, with poorly-dressed tourists snapping pointless pictures at pathetic monuments to decimated regiments.

Now for you psychics out there who might want to help the remaining tortured soldiers to cross over. Let me ask you this: After a day (or night) of that kind of Work, would you want to retire to some sterile McMotel that looks like every other McMotel of its name brand, from Abilene to Yuma? Can you imagine having a circle meeting there to talk about the supernatural experience on that hollow ground? (It is hollow, there's limestone underneath with caves.)

I'm sure the Four Points Sheraton ****Chambersburg**** (not ****Gettysburg****) hires relatively intelligent people. I mean, the invitation above doesn't have any grammatical errors in it. But the assumption that Wiccans would want to go to Gettysburg and mess with its horrific karma is a bit of a stretch.

I saved the funniest part for last. The email was sent to a Druid grove. That's kind of like inviting a lot of  Methodists to ****Gettysburg**** because everyone knows that Baptists like to hunt for ghosts.

Geez, I was thinking of unsubscribing to that Druid message board! Changed my mind. Laughs are all what I'm about, even when the topic is more sad than funny.









 

The Odds Were One in Four

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Today I'm taking a little excursion to my family property on Polish Mountain, 312 Johnson Road to be exact. I dearly love that place and can't wait to get there.

I've been moaning and groaning here at this space for five years, so I guess one more piece of bitching won't send you packing.

Every year the Fairie Festival at Spoutwood has ceremonies at which are chosen the King and Queen of the May. This is a right and proper Celtic custom, like the Maypole.

This year's festival has a new Master of Ceremonies, and he has written an elaborate ceremony for the coronation. He attached the script to an email, in which he wrote: "We will be quoting from Taliesin, The Bible, Buddha, and (forget the other one)."

Before I even opened the attachment, I said to myself, "I just know I'm going to get the Bible."

Sure enough. Song of Solomon.

We at "The Gods Are Bored" praise and worship each and every bored deity who has ever had a population of faithful. The one deity we don't care to recognize is YHWH, because He's busy enough and never bored. It's a bitter pill I have to swallow to do this, but I'll do it. Not sure why the OT was tapped for this, I guess it's so that we are "inclusive."

But why me?

Excuse me while I wallow in self-pity (Not really, it's not that important and will be over in a second, like a flu shot ... oh, wait. Flu shots hurt for hours.)

Do you think they'll notice if I substitute "Song of Myself?" It's a song.

Contemplating a Career Change?

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," whipped about by the fickle winds of Fortune since 1959! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, proud owner of a chronic case of generalized anxiety disorder.

In these challenging times, the list of job openings in the Sunday newspaper is slender indeed. (The newspaper itself is slender to the point of anorexia.)

However, on a banner day, one can still find premium employment by reading the "Help Wanted" ads. Here's one from today's (bankrupt) Philadelphia Inquirer:

MUSHROOM LABORERS
West Chester, PA.

Prep mushroom growth-media; apply water & mix raw materials; monitor composting/degradation; insert & manage materials & horizontal silos; harvest crops & pack as req; load trucks. F/T; variable hrs/days, incl. wkends/holidays. Fax resumes to Fairchild Mushroom, XXX-XXX-XXXX.

I changed the name of the company so they won't Google this.

Okay, we at "The Gods Are Bored" appreciate thoughtful prose, but the above "Help Wanted" ad goes a bit too far with the politesse, don't you think?

Here's what it should say:

SLAVE LABOR
West Chester, PA

Shovel cow manure, mix it with more cow manure, water, and toxic chemicals, smell the stuff all day to make sure it stinks enough, add more crap as needed; spend your day prowling dark, reeking silos; be damn well prepared to work yourself to exhaustion harvesting mushrooms, especially on weekends and holidays. Now we want to see a faxed resume that proves you know how to shovel shit and take crap from nasty overseers. Minimum wage, and be happy to get it. No vacation or health insurance; that's for socialists. Fairchild Mushroom, XXX-XXX-XXXX.

I'll bet they get 1,000 resumes.

Where is Upton Sinclair when we need him so very badly?