Tag: humor

The Tears Of An Onion

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bd onion

No matter how you slice it the onion will never escape its association with crying. They are the butt of many a culinary joke being the runt of the produce litter bringing even the most well seasoned chef to tears. It’s simply a misunderstood edible member of the gastronomic universe with a bi-polar multiple personality disorder. It suffers from identity crisis whether yellow, red, or white, Spanish, jumbo, pearl, or cocktail, shallot, leek, or scallion. One minute its an essential flavor enhancer and the next a breath altering kiss killer. Is the onion is a taste bud joy bringer or is it a tear jerker? Both. This mood changing bulbous veggie staple is a well known in kitchens throughout the world being embraced by virtually every culture. People are often compared to these versatile ever popular alliums. “He is a complicated Person, with as many layers as an onion.” Indeed concentric in nature the royal onion is as complicated as a vegetable can be. “An onion a day keeps everyone away” That man was so ugly he could make an onion cry.” “ A cat has nine lives but an onion has seven skins.“ “An onion by any other name will never be a rose.” Okay, I made that last one up but you dig what I‘m saying.
Ranging in size from tiny pearls to giant softballs the onion can in fact be peeled one layer after another. A staple in nearly every culture despite having an essence so peculiarly strong and venomous it rivals the skunks ability to cause others to pinch their noses shut tight in an effort to avoid its foul odor. It can turn ones breath into a date breaking whiff “It’s not you baby, its your breath.” Point in fact in many an episode of The Little Rascals Alfalfa was turned away by Darla because he had recently indulged in extra curricular scallion chewing. But to infer that it is somehow evil is a disservice. The onion has a unique ability to coax salty droplets of liquid from our tear ducts which are normally saved for emotional outbursts. Only the slightest provocation of cutlery piercing its flesh brings teardrops scampering down our cheeks in a sometimes uncontrollable frenzy. This audacious vegetable permeates our olfactory senses across the entire kitchen in an all out assault that challenges the garlic’s long standing reign as king of tasty but offensive vegetables.
What’s the reason these bulbous alliums make tears come to our eyes? The official culprit is the result of a chemical reaction that is much too scientific to cover in brief format but suffice to say the onion contains amino acids in the sulfur family that get released into the air. These guilty gasses travel up into the air and rub their irritants into our eyeballs prompting the tear ducts to come to our aid and flush out the acrid acid with a tear or two. I have heard of many sure fire methods to work on these all important taste supplements without caving to the olfactory shock and awe campaign the acids wage. A gas mask will work but its rather uncomfortable and hard to find since the decline of the home bomb shelter. Besides it may frighten the children believing an alien to be cooking dinner. There are more prudent methods which involve keeping your mouth open while cutting into the alliums. In fact that will work for a while because you will inhale the noxious fumes into your lungs via your oral cavity increasing that kiss kill impulse much earlier, but eventually so much gas will enter the atmosphere you will still tear up regardless and have onion breath on top of it. Other methods such as running water, cutting near a flame or on the back burner of a stove produce even less successful results. Keeping something in your mouth is the same principle of an open mouth but for the less disciplined of us. The only real advice I have on this is to keep the onion as cold as possible or keep a small fan blowing away the fumes as you slice, dice, mince, or chop.
Once past the tear inducing cut up stage the onion performs its intended task, the enhancement of flavor to almost any dish. In Cajun cuisine they call the onion and its often present partners peppers and celery the Holy Trinity of cooking. It is the basis of nearly every soup an stew in the world, it adds umpf to pilaf, zing to zucchini and pop to popcorn shrimp. Its in sauces, dressings, dinner entrees, salads, appetizers, starches, sides, veggies and all type of combos. Fried in rings or just bloomin it makes solo appearances and it even has a starring role in cocktails. Yes the onion has a many faceted personality and it brings tremendous flavor enhancement to just about any dish. With a presence so pronounced in the culinary world you would think it deserves a huge birthday celebration, happy onion day, a day all its own. Only problem is, we have no idea exactly when the multi-faceted vegetable icon was born.
Along with its bi-polar identity crisis its origins are nearly impossible to trace, even with vegetable/ancestory.com confusion reigns. Some botanists say it was born in Iran and some say Pakistan. Still others argue it’s originally from Central America but the omnipotent onion seems to have been around forever. Many anthropologists believe it was used by our cave dwelling ancestors which could potentially have acted as a form birth control, or perhaps they used the huge onion as a weapon of ass destruction, but either way it makes determining the birthday impossible. There is evidence in ancient Egypt the onion with its potent aroma was use in an effort to revive the dead. At least until the first unfortunate soul tried shredding the much more aggressive horseradish which may very well have the ability to awaken the non living. The royal onion even found its way into Bible passages. The book of Numbers has the Israelite children lamenting of a diet filled with leeks and onions as they traveled the desert. The Romans, Greeks, and Indians all recognized the healing power of the vitamin rich veggie. The Olympians of ancient Greece fortified themselves with onions before their grueling events. Even the Middle Ages showered glory on these globes of culinary prominence. The three main foodstuffs of that era were cabbage, beans, and onions. The magnificent onion was believed to have incredible medicinal properties curing everything from mouth sores to insomnia. These ever popular kitchen necessities were even taken on board the Mayflower thereby sneaking into our history by adding their special flavor enhancement to the first Thanksgiving feast. It was one of the very first botanical treasures planted by the pilgrims on American soil. Yet still no birthday celebration even after all they’ve done for us. No wonder it seems sad.
Despite all its rich history and near mystical appearances still no mention of a birthday celebration for the used and abused reigning king of culinary staple foods. Perhaps that’s the reason noxious sulphuric vapors seep into our atmosphere. Maybe, just maybe the tears we shed are the tears of the onion itself, living in constant pain of the neglect it experiences because we never gave it a birthday to celebrate like we do. The least we can do for this loyal bulb is grant it one. No reason we can’t heap salutations on this fabulous culinary workhorse, this noxious yet tasty bulbous veggie, this fortune bringing, tear coaxing stench causing staple of the vegetable kingdom. So from this day forward, lets make today, April 4th the official birthday of Allium Cepa, the illustrious and attention deserving onion. Don’t cry for me Argentina, just slice me a few of those birthday onions to have with my champagne. Happy Birthday you many layered edible gem you……PEACE

Born To Cook (Culinary Nirvana Begins At The Pot Sink)

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born

“I got a job!” I was so excited, no more paper routes, no more Deli boy, now I have a real job, one that pays decent money. Mom was excited too, “A job where?” Beaming with a sense of pride I uttered, “At Cumberland’s Restaurant on 25A.” Mom looked a bit disappointed, “ A restaurant? So We’re going to have a chef in the family? I was really hoping you would be our doctor JT.” I wasn’t letting her deflate my enthusiasm, “Mom, I’ve told you, I’m not smart enough to be a doctor, and besides its just a job, not a life. I’m only sixteen I have no idea what I wanna to be yet.” That was true, all I wanted was to make some money so I could party and buy stuff for my girlfriend. I had no plans of staying in a kitchen for the rest of my life, its just a job. Fates plans however differed from mine which was clear on my first day.
“Hey chef! Da new boy is here, you want I should show him around?” The chef came walking over holding a huge knife in his hand an a scowl on his face, “So youda new kid eh?” He lifted the knife up so I could see the shine of the blade, “Jus don pissa me off boy and you be okay. Grab a apron and shirt and get washing. Take himma downstair Ernie.” Ernie was an old dude, real skinny and wrinkly. He made me nervous at first, the stereotype image of a pedophile or serial killer with a slight emotional handicap. “Foller me son, whatsa you name?” He had a slight limp as he led me down the steps to the basement. I followed hoping this wasn’t where they stored the dead bodies or something, “I’m Justin, my friends call me JT.” We stopped at the bottom and Ernie pointed to the left, “That’s a walk in over there, dry food there, and this is the lockers. The shirts and aprons are over there JD, take any locker you want.” I walked in grabbed a shirt and apron and changed while Ernie stood and watched. A tad creepy. “It’s JT, not JD.” Ernie looked confused, “Wha? JC? Likea Jesus Christ?” He laughed, I wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, “No, it’s JT, not JC or JD.” We went back an forth a few times before I just said, JD is fine.” I didn’t care man, I had a j-o-b, I was a pot washer.
Despite all the bad karma that seeped out of the sink drain I knew instantly that nothing would drag me away from this. Maybe one day I’ll be the Chef, I’ll be the raving lunatic who screams at anyone unfortunate enough to be within range of my booming voice. The insane culinary Guru who proudly sports a tall white hat like my chef Jimmy. Like him I’ll probably have a huge vein popping out from my forehead that can intimidate people all on its own. Mentally deranged king of the kitchen who is permitted by law to carve up carcasses with an array of razor sharp knives of all sizes. I can’t help thinking how proud that would make Mom and Dad. Oh the hell with being a surgeon Mom, I wanna slice up dead animal carcasses and cut the muscles into edible portions of food. I want to carry big ass knives around and scare the shit out of the dishwashers. My gastronomic voyage would be completed once I became the all powerful illustrious kitchen Buddha, The Chef.
I was born for this industry, lured by some mystical force. I wanted to be one of the “restaurant people!” A cosmic group of mix-matched misfits. I was spellbound by this diverse group of dedicated individuals, who work together in a form of impromptu performance art centering around biodegradable remnants of the tastiest and most orgasmic morsels of nutrition I had ever indulged in. Each one plays an integral role in this daily drama. Like an experienced stage hand I would set up the props over and over, so the chef could turn organic ingredients into edible works of art, perfectly arranged on the plates I keep clean. Our lead waitress, Laura would put these recently cleaned now presently food adorned plates on a large oval tray (also cleaned by yours truly) and with swanlike grace effortlessly carry it off to be placed in front of some alcohol saturated patrons. The patrons would then eat the wonderful dish of blissful organic delight, inadvertently leaving something on the plate that would eventually become my responsibility. The waitress would entertain them with a variety of skits, ranging from cute and flirtatious to downright suggestive. The performance continues. Meanwhile, backstage, the chef, Jimmy ( his given name was too hard to pronounce) is performing voice exercises and using my deer in headlight eyes as his focal point. Rapidly building to a spit filled ear shattering crescendo. I listen intently to the chefs advice, disregarding the part where he assures me I should leave this God forsaken establishment or die. He further suggested I engage in a sexual act with myself I felt to be physically impossible. (Not that I wouldn’t try) That too I chose to disregard. Once sufficiently emasculated, red-faced, and disenchanted, I returned to my post, my pot sink, in a highly evolved state. Taking a “the show must go on” attitude, I needed to ready myself for the onslaught of table remnants that our patrons found objectionable. In walked the lovely leading lady, flashing me that piercing knee buckling waitress smile. I began to daydream, or maybe fantasize until Laura began emulating the chefs thunderous performance. Thankfully, it was not directed at me, but rather on the only person here that was as lowly as me, Rod the busboy. Now I got an opportunity to view my peer’s reaction to a brutal lexiconic work over so I might gain some insight on how to deal with it or hone my anti-beration skills for the next portioning of verbal abuse. No doubt it wouldn’t take long before I resort to my improvisational skills of defense. The burning narrowed eyes of the seductive angry waitress met mine and for just two seconds held me in a frozen state. Her face made a remarkable quick change while flashing her signature come hither smile her eyes softened and in that songbird voice, asked, “JT, sweetie will you set up my next tray?” With a wink, she was gone, the busboy was fighting back tears, the chef was deciding my fate, and I of course, was setting up Laura’s tray, like it had never been set before all the time thinking, “she called me sweetie.” As the chef pondered the proper English translation of various swear words and insults to more effectively crush my spirit, I arranged Laura’s tray oblivious to my surroundings. The chef began to explain to me who I was working for, but fortunately for me his lung pounding performance was interrupted by the appearance of an enigmatic presence. The next character to enter, stage left, was a tall, tuxedoed, and very suave Frenchman, bearing the title restaurant manager, Didier. Didier’s job, as I understood it, was to make the entire cast miserable, so we would reach deep down to our inner selves to come up with the performance of a lifetime. I wanted to reach deep down and pull out a Smith and Wesson.
I did however find myself motivated by the threat of that French penguin. That, and a paycheck, and another opportunity to allow Laura to know what an awesome dude I really was. Didier began to roar at all of us, and yet then again, to no-one in particular. It was delivered in a language foreign to me that sounded oddly complementary. Rod the busboy assured me that those seemingly sweet words that came thundering out towards the entire cast were in fact foul French slang that could make the50 pound sack of onions break down and cry. Didier loudly explained to us how important it was that we comprehend the significance of his tirade as a team while we all just looked down at the floor. Even Jimmy looked worried when Didier was in the kitchen. Oddly, the only one that was not intimidated was Laura, the vivacious waitress, who seemed to render our fearful leader speechless using only her eyes. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, Didier disappeared in a puff of smoke. Or maybe Jimmy was burning something, I really don’t remember. But he was gone, Laura’s tray was set to absolute perfection, Rod the busboy had regained his composure, and Jimmy was ready with the next round of tantalizing treats arranged in artwork on my clean plates. All had performed admirably in Act 1.
Anyway, you get the picture; This performance goes on all night, every night over and over. Some of the actors change, but the results remain the same. I can’t explain why but the seething emotional combat combined with the intense pressure of service time was intoxicating. Curiously at dinner time Jimmy took on more an air of compassion that made me think of my own father on some of his better days. He would speak ever so softly and hold out a bowl of beef stew which because it had some wine in it, was referred to as Beef Bourgogne. But delicious it was. No Dinty Moore for this restaurant worker. As quickly as everything had gone to hell in a mixing bowl, the calm and serene peace of family meal changed the entire setting. I sat at a small table with Ernie, the old man who was in charge of maintenance. Funny, because he could barely maintain himself, and as I later found out, he was the 65 year old uncle of the manager. I cleverly positioned myself so I could catch a glimpse of Laura each time she entered the kitchen. It was these Zen saturated moments that made us all forget how loud and harsh the decibel level could get at service time.
My gastronomic voyage had officially begun. I dove in with a work ethic beyond reproach. I have arrived,
an almost spiritual transcendence, having a job and being part of something that lifted me to a higher plane. I was fortunate enough to find myself in the employ of Cumberlands’s restaurant, in the socially envious position of pot washer. Four nights after school, and Saturday nights, I was the lead pot washer. But, being the envy of my high school buddies was short lived when I discovered that the “lead pot washer” wasn’t really in charge of anything other than some sudsy water, and that it involved way more than merely washing pots. I was also permitted, implored even, to use my hands to scrape and clean the organic food remnants, and other indefinable residues left on the plates by our satisfied customers as well as floors, utensils, machines, and anything that neeed cleaning including the managers and the chefs cars. So it was that this head pot washer was cleaning everything in sight, in the restaurant or the employee parking lot. Poised at the suds busting helm I decided that I was going to be the best washer they ever had until that day I rise up the culinary ladder to take off to enlightenment.
On one particular night I felt compelled to let everyone in the kitchen know my lofty intentions of becoming a black belt in the art of pot and pan scrubbery. When I told the chef, the absolute ruler of the kitchen of my plan I was certain he would beam with pride. I really looked up to the chef even though he was so old. Man that dude must have been in his 60’s. I believe he always worked hard and the years had been kind to him, although not without consequence. Deep furrows stretched into spaghetti lines across his face, and he always seemed to be deep in thought. Quite fit for an older guy, and he was deceptively strong. Crazy coot could throw 50 pound bags of potatoes halfway across the kitchen with ease. He always wore a dirty and tattered black bandana under his chef hat which concealed the badly receding hairline and his eyebrows sported the thickest hair he had. Like caterpillars on steroids those eerie brows housed some very dark and serious eyes. Eyes that narrowed instantly at the first sign of anger. Like holy shit man it wasn’t only the eyes, but that bulging vein that stood out and threatened you personally. I prayed it wasn’t the angry face that was building up inside his maniacal mind. Not siree it was not the anger I was about to get a full emasculating dose of. He looked me directly in the eyes, and with his most compassionate paternal demeanor, his eyes teared up, and he laughed uncontrollably. A laugh that came all the way from the balls of his feet. In between his deafening guffaws the chef attempted to tell his sous chef Andre what my intentions were, and that was met with a roar of laughter that could cause a soufflé to fall. Regardless of their snickering daggers of contemptuous chuckling I maintained a stiff upper lip, and decided I would take charge of my own soapy destiny.
As empowering as it may seem, it wasn’t the joy of busting suds for a living that kept me coming back. It wasn’t the dream of one day being admired, no revered as the Chef, the absolute ruler of the kitchen. It wasn’t that soul warming food, it wasn’t even the lure of the attractive and flirtatious waitresses that continually tempted my teenage libido with a false sense of possibilities beyond imagination. No, there was something else about this experience that tugged at my inner Cheshire cat causing me to smile from ear to ear. They paid me.

Sodomy and Go More-ahhhh (A Sick Bastard Bible Story)

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SG

It’s a tale of two cities so revered yet mysterious it gets mentioned many times in the Bible, the Torah, and the Quran. The events go so deep it even makes a few appearances in the new testament. What is it that makes these two cities so popular in religious documents? SEX. Sex sells, and the added stories of Sodomy an Gomorrahhh sold the hell, pardon the irony, out of the bible. It’s a mystery where exactly are these cities were located. Much like the infamous G spot men have been unable to locate the exact area that filled its occupants with so much passionate and decadent joy. But the where isn’t important we can be guided to the spot with a skillful partner so today I focus on the what. How does The Sick Bastards interpret the sexually charged scriptures of orgies and try-sexuality of the legendary iconic bible selling segment of the scriptures? Twisted of course, like this:

God was uncharacteristically sitting on his laurels after his highly successful pairing of Adam and Eve thanks to Christian mingle.com. The whole Cain and Abel thing while troubling worked itself out in the end and he assumed that his flood had eradicated sinning altogether. But you know what happens when you assume, even if the me part of the equation is god himself. Stories were circulating about two cities plagued with sin. To the North in Go More-ahhh, Mayor Ford ran his city allowing copious amounts of drugs and alcohol to flow freely in the streets. Why the mayor himself was constantly drunk and messed up on whatever drug he could get his hands on. He flew into drunken rages lashing out at anyone and everyone but people were so messed up and horny it had zero effect. The streets of this maple tree lined city were filled with stoned out naked couples pawing at each others sex organs right out in the open. A little birdie told God that it was like one giant orgy so the big guy sent Abraham out to investigate. Abe, being the almighty’s chief of staff and right hand man did a hands on investigation. Well actually pretty much every body part on investigation.

He stopped first in Sodomy where instead of finding the dudes ravaging young maidens he was molested by a bunch of horny and well hung gay men that really stuck it to him. At first he was repulsed but the moment he turned the other cheek he was converted. And inverted! He turned to the church for help but ended up shagging the entire priesthood. The whole lot of them ass well as Lott himself. In sodomy the sex was all mano a mano or bumper to bumper, which is to say they all donned their gay apparel if you catch my drift. After waking up after an all nighter with a pounding headache and a throbless knob Abraham had enough. Time to report back to the big guy, but first a parting blow from his favorite dude, Vegas. Abraham was not worried about the need for discretion because what happened in Vegas…. well you get it.

Ever aware of his responsibility Abe told the lustless lord all about the sinning ways of Sodomy and Go More- ahhh, leaving out the part about his parts. The G-man knew what had to be done. Destroy the getting some tail of two cities. Of course, being a drama queen, Mrs. God wanted him to come up with a devious plan, so he scheduled a new show, The Real Housewives of the Fertile Crescent. He sent an angel disguised as a man to punk Lot and expose the homo erectus of Sodomy. When the angel came Lot was required by law to protect his guest who was such a hunk even straight dudes took notice. Hungry homo’s surrounded the house which scared the crap out of Lot. Not literally, just really scared him. He offered his two virgin daughters instead which only pissed everyone off, especially Lot’s wife and kids. Jut like in a future fairy tale the crowd of multi-sexual revelers huffed and puffed and blew the house down. The angel flipped out and struck all the rioters blind telling Lot and his family to leave town pronto and never look back because it was being destroyed.

As they left they could hear the acid rain coming down and knew the city was getting sulphurized. They could hear the cries of agony as the community of sexual sinners burned alive. Lots wife couldn’t help herself, she needed to take a quick photo for instagram, but as she turned around the high and mighty converted her into salt which he later used to season the lip of his margarita glass. Lot and his still virgin girls continued on never looked back. After the brimstoning of Sodomy and Go More-ahhh, no one ever doubted the man upstairs again. Repent or burn was his new catchphrase.

That’s all The Sick Bastard was able to glean from the confusing passages about the story of the twin sin cities but if you have more info that has not yet been released please contact me so I can update the Sick Bastards Bible. Thank you, and please, repent before its to late. You never know when an all loving and caring god can have a bad hair day and turn on us with vengeance. An if you are a sinner, next time it rains run and don’t look back… Peace

Over/Under…Over Whelmed And Under The Influence

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drunk

As a Sous Chef in Soho, after being a line cook at Windows On The World, my career was on track. The Smoking Moon Café was a quaint little 45 seat restaurant in a very hip part of the city. The chef trusted me to run the dinner shift which in truth wasn’t all that hard. A limited restaurant with a lot of specials, the sous chef is a one man show behind the range. Our staff was one dishwasher, one waitress, one bartender, and me. But we all had the right attitude and abilities to make it a fully functional team.
Our clientele were mostly young hip professionals with an edgy style. Very often a diner would enjoy the meal I prepared so much he would send me a drink or a joint, or a piece of hash (quality stuff). Every once in a while a regular would come in an cut up a few lines after dinner then invite us all over for a snort. What can I say it was the eighties, the age of excess and everyone in New York City played a role in the Bright Lights Big City clubbing and drugging culture. The really hip clubs had no signs, one had to be “In The Know” to have the address. That was our clients, we catered to the in the know clientele, many of which came to us for dinner before bouncing around the various clubs.
It was a great place to work, the owner treated us like family, even when he wasn’t there when our shift was over he allowed us to lock up and have a few drinks at the bar before heading out. I was the back of the house and back of the house restaurant people complain about business a lot. Whenever its really busy I bitch wishing for down time, and whenever there’s too much down time I bitch wishing for customers. But on July 4th, 1986 I experienced the most excruciating downtime in existence followed by a near impossible power service. The city was alive with celebration, the streets packed with people in anticipation of the annual fireworks display. This year we celebrated the centennial of The Statue Of Liberty so the fireworks were on the West side that year. Being near the West Side ourselves lunch was crazy busy, I had to come in early to assist the chef, but by dinner just about everyone was out jockeying for a good spot to view the works. By seven o’clock we had had one single customer who only ordered a burger. The area was like a ghost town with everybody and their brother on West Side Highway. It was so slow Moss, the waitress, Eddie the dishwasher an I sat at the bar chatting with Stolie, our favorite bartender.
I mentioned that a customer who had requested a very hot meal had given me a bottle of Mt. Gay rum. I made some my patented dragon juice, assorted hot peppers stepped in sherry vinegar to an order of lamb couscous which I topped off with some harisa. When I came out to chat with him his face was covered in sweat but he loved the meal. He asked me if I like rum. Of course, who doesn’t so the next day he bought me a bottle of Mount Gay, his favorite, to say thanks. Before I knew it Stolie, Moss, and I were in a rum drink competition making each other rum drinks. Eddie didn’t compete but happily accepted the privilege of judging. My concoction was a combo of 151, Meyers, and Bacardi with a drop of every juice I could find then a splash of coke. Delicious and deadly. By 10:15 the four of us were toasted and still not a soul to serve, not even anyone passing by. Closing up in 45 minutes. We were laughing loudly when the door opened and a couple walked in. Shit! Now I am really buzzing and have to cook some dinners. When I started heading to the kitchen I hear Moss say, “Holy fuck!”
From the kitchen door I could hear the decibel level increase rapidly. It was like the floodgates opened allowing customers to come charging through the door. The fireworks were over and we were right smack dab in the middle of the path of hordes of happy hungry people leaving the highway extravaganza in search of a place to eat. Within ten minutes every table was full, a line of revelers out the door. Half hour to closing time, but now closing time no longer existed.
Most restaurant people stay in the field working because we thrive on the pressure. All four of us were thriving our asses off. Moss handled the tables expertly, Stolie made the customers drinks and helped Moss by bussing. I really would need a new ass, thriving or otherwise if I didn’t cook it off I was certain to sweat it off. Eddie was promoted to assistant sous chef and he did a fantastic job. For the next two hours the four of us worked together half drunk on pressure, half drunk on rum. For me the best part of the crazy scene was after the last two tables had been seated, while things were semi calm, Moss came back to the range with her cocktail tray holding one large drink. “The happy customer on table seven wants to send a drink back for the chef so Stolie made you a JT Rum Special.”
I was literally drenched in sweat, rivulets of saline trailing from my temples. I was breathing hard because I had been cooking non stop even slapped myself hard and shook my head many times to try instant sober up, and Moss was standing there, also exhausted, but still smiling handing me a drink. “Are you fucking kidding me? A drink now?” Moss tilted her head, lifted her eyebrows, smiled at me shaking her head yes. All I could do was smile back, “That sounds about right.” I accepted the drink with a laugh, giving half to my newly promoted assistant. We didn’t have our usual close up drink that night, all of us wiped out, but we talked about our fourth of July experience for months after. Those were the days….PEACE

I’m Coming Home I’ve Done My Time

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free

“Yo turnkey! Hey oh, today is day 30, I’m supposed to be getting out of here!” My words echoed off the jail cell bars so I tried again. “Hey! I did my time I want to get out of here!” Maybe yelling louder will help. “HELLO!! I WANT TO GO HOME!” But no guards came by and even if they did they would probably just stare at me with utter disgust and distain, the one thing they’re real good at. It was beginning to feel hopeless, like I was destined to be Lifetime TV movie about a young dude who gets locked up in a South Carolina prison for thirty days then ends up doing a life sentence in a prison run inbred cops. The other prisoners, most of which have never even seen me but traded insults with me all the time, had a sudden change of heart and supported my cause. When the cops fuck with one of us they fuck with all of us. Nothing like a little injustice from authorities to break down barriers creating a bond between the oppressed. Someone else started yelling on my behalf, “Yo, let Yankee boy out.” Another voice repeated the phrase and then another. Before long it was an out and out chant of a brotherhood of wrongly ain’t gonna incarcerated inmates enjoying any opportunity to piss of the guards. An ear shattering chorus of “Let the Yankee go!! Let the Yankee go!!” now shook the iron bars.
A loud clanging of a billyclub on prison bars brought a momentary silence, long enough for a guard to raise his voice. “HEY! Alla y’all better shut the hell up right now! I ain’t hearin no shit from y’all today the Braves is playin’. Y’all bess shut up right here and right now! Whicha Y’all started this mess and done ruined my game?” Just my luck, my old pal Billy boy, always ready to rumble with a man in handcuffs and a big fan of kicking Yankee ass. Fuck it come hell or high water I’m getin outta this shithole, “Me, I started it officer Billy. Your favorite long hair Yankee. I done finished my time and I want outta here now!” Billy walked up to do what he does best. He stared me down for a few seconds then spoke in his own special bran of condescend, “Now listen here Yankee boy, if’n its time to kick yaw stinkin’ long haired ass out this jail I be happier an a pig in a New Yoke City shit puddle but I ain’t no judge or no record keeper boy. So you bess shut your mouth now an let me get back at mah game. I’ll check with the warden bout your claim. Tell ya what though, if’n you done ruin my baseball game fir no reason I’m likely ta kick yaw ass sideways to hell boy! So yawl bettern be right son.” His dissertation contained the usual amount of greasy spit that accompanies his attempts at using the English language. I wiped my face, “Listen here turnkey, I beena counting every day here and the judge done give me thirty day and its been thirty day. Great day in the morning how much longer I needa stay here? I wanna git outta here.” Jesus shit, I’m starting to talk like them now!
I stood at the bars waiting patiently for Billy boy to return but he didn’t come back for over an hour. He walked up to me smiling, “Seems ain’t no one here today can look up to check yer story son. Now lookie here boy, heres what we gonna do, yew done gun shut yer trap an get on back to yer little home there and we’ll check it out first thing come morning.” To make sure I understood he put one end of the billy club between the bars pointed at my chest and slammed it right into my diaphragm causing me to gasp. The pain was a not so gentle reminder of how mean an sadistic he could be, especially with people in no position to fight back. He smiled triumphantly, gave me a sarcastic “Y’all have a nice day” and walked away loudly lecturing the lot of us on keeping quiet so he could enjoy the game. The rest of the inmates now stared calling the guards names and offering words of comfort to me. I’d gone from dumb shit dirty Yankee asshole to a prison guard whipping boy martyr and it wasn‘t comforting.
I paced my cell as the time passed slower than any of the past horrible thirty had. Dinner came and then lights out all my protesting in vain. I was here until tomorrow. Our living quarters were six tiny cells with a hallway so we could talk but not see each other. We amused ourselves many a time by “fishing” which was throwing cigarettes, or matches, or a candy bar in the hall and everyone else whipping their bed sheet from the little food hole at the bottom of the cell. The first to snare or fish the prize wins. Most nights I would sing a song by Taj Mahal, and old bluesy number about “I’m going fishin‘, yes I’m going fishin’ and my baby go in fishin’ too” It was stupid but our entertainment was kinda limited and my cell mates thought the song funny. I didn’t fish or sing that night as my mates tried unsuccessfully to cheer me up. They finally tired, offered words of support but I was already falling asleep.
First thing that wakes you up in prison is a breakfast, or a reasonable facsimile of a breakfast passed under the door. I wasted no time in letting the breakfast deliverer know I wanted out but he explained he was just a “trustee” a prisoner who kissed enough guard ass to get special privileges and easy work details. He had a rolled up magazine in one hand and he passed it under with my cold eggs, cold grits, and embarrassed toast “Here Yankee, its an EZ Rider magazine. Its contraband so if you get caught you on your own. Cain’t get ya outta here but leastwise y’all have something to pass the time. Errybody here is pullin fer ya boy, ain’t no one wanna spend no more time here’n they should.” It was small consolation.
When the cells opened into the common area my hopes were renewed. I called to every guard within earshot that I was supposed to get out but they absolutely did not care. This went on for two more days until I finally got a guard to listen in the afternoon. A young Christian man came to my aid in a twist of irony. “Jesus loves you boy. Whats yer name, I’ll check it out fer ya?” I gave him my info and as he walked away I wondered why he took this job. Maybe it was a family thing because he sure didn’t fit the mold of the rest of the turnkeys in jail. No matter, at least someone was listening, maybe my nightmare will end.
About an hour and a half later Jimbo, another law approved sadist came to our block. “Hilltop, Justin! Step forward.” It was here, it was over, I was getting out. Time to pretend to be a rehabilitated member of society. “That’s me officer.” He shot me an angry glare, “I know who you is Yankee boy! Get yer stuff, we gowin see da warden.” What? Warden? Did he say warden? I swallowed hard hoping this was only a formality, it’s not like I have a lot of experience being freed from a jail. I went to my cell, rolled up my excuse for a mattress, and said my good byes to my mates. Oddly bittersweet.
I sat in the wardens office with his secretary, or maybe grandmother, but Warden never showe up. After another 2 hours of processing the old woman finished my paperwork then handed me a big manila envelope. “There y’all go Mr. Hilltop, this is everything you done come in with.“ Inside they had stuffed all my worldly possessions, my wallet, an Oakland Raiders cap, and …..an that’s it? “UM, excuse me maam, where’s the rest of my stuff?” I was missing my sneakers plus about thirty dollars and change. Aunt Bea stared with deadpan eyes, “Cordin tar records Mr. Hilltop, this is allya come in with. Course if y’all like ta stay awhile an tawk at the warden bout it yer more’n welcome.” Sarcasm from Hooterville, the last thing I need. “yea, ah, I get it. How do I get the hell outta here?” Aunt Bea pointed to a hallway, “Ain’t no need fer cussin son, jess foller that hallway to the exit.”
It was seven PM, sun was going down, I was in the middle of Mayberry with no clue which way to go. Where the Hell is the scarecrow when you need to decide this way or that way in a strange world? I opted to go right, figuring it wouldn’t matter because either way there’s nothing but one long ass road anyway. Not even a street sign. Well, hope New York is this way, its away from here anyway. Even with the sun down it was hot. I crossed a small bridge and heard running water. I stopped to collect myself. Its getting dark, I have no idea where I am or which direction I’m heading. I have nowhere to sleep or eat. I am lost in Deliverance, South Carolina looking out over a stream and watching…OMFG.. Alligators! Can it get any worse? On cue, a cop car pulled up.
My mind was racing. Alligators below me, cops coming up to me, and jail not more than an hours walk behind me. Oh well, maybe They’ll put me up another night, better than being eaten by a gator. To my surprise it wasn’t cops, but cop, singular. The bigger surprise is it was the one who helped me get out. “You look lost son, whatch dewin here fer?” Not sure what he wanted, I answered politely, “Truth is officer, I had difficulty getting out and I have no money, no shoes, and I’m not sure if I’m heading in the right direction to get back home to New York. The cop chuckled, but not a mean chuckle, a friendly chuckle. “Well on if ya keep onna headed this away Y’all be in Georgia in bout an hour. But I tell ya what son, you want to git outta Carolina, we sure don’t need no New Yokers here, so Ima give Y’all a ride to the border, to Augusta Georgia an I’ll drop you off at the Salvation Army there. They likely to put y’all up fur the night an you can head on back to New Yoke tomorrow from Georgia, not South Carolina.” I stared at him contemplating the fact I had no other option. “Look son, y’all don’t look like a bad guy, and I’m a man of Jesus. I heard they let ya go late an it ain’t right, so the Christian thing to do is to hep my fellow man. Git on in the car and take my offer.” What could I say. A long way to home, starving and tired, much like the gators, and clean out of options “Yessir.” What new adventures am in store for now? I guess hitch hiking back to the city it is.
TBC

Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

On By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

enlightenment

TM VII

Previously on Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

A bright flash followed by an excruciating loud crack bristled across the lake. As I turned toward the sound and flash standing on the water was the shape of a human but it was aflame like a flickering candle wick

“I am here to talk to you about free will. You’ve already seen God, later we will help you to remember her.”

If You Choose To Snooze You Lose

The man stared as though I should fear him but having Ambrosina taken from me I was filled with rage, “Free will? Pardon my ignorance here but what the fuck does free will have to do with anything? Kha dangles Ambrosina in front of me like sexual carrot then pulls her away leaving me empty. He tells me he will explain the reason there is something instead of nothing, and how I’m gonna meet God. So far I haven’t learned shit except that I know what love is and that medicated acupuncture makes everything weird. And you come here babbling some shit about free will and how I’ve already met God and he‘s a, he’ a fucking SHE? This is pure bullshit man, bull shit!” I knew my rage was showing but I didn’t care. The strange figure looked concerned, “ Okay JT, I see you’re angry, let me start over. My name is Shea. I’ve been sent here by Kha to help enlighten you. I didn’t want to do it like this but I see now I must. Ambrosina has taught you more than you know and you’ll have one last meeting with her. You’ve learned so much more than you believe JT perhaps you just haven’t processed it all yet, but there is more to learn before your journey ends. You need to learn about free will and multiple dimensions and universes before you can have a full quantum understanding. Believe me it will all be very clear to you by the end of your journey. But you are impatient my friend and I understand that so I will introduce you to God again but you must not talk, only observe. Once you have acquired quantum completion we will return and you may converse with God. Come, lets have a smoke.” He walked past me and sat down where I had just recently made love to Ambrosina. I followed quietly my anger subsiding slightly. We sat across from each other as Shea lit a long pipe and inhaled. He passed it to me but I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I had been previous times. I inhaled the smoke which was sort of licorice flavor, “So Mr. Shea, what is this we’re smoking?” he accepted the pipe back an inhaled, “This is dried anise jimson, a rare herb. Take a long puff, hold it in and close your eyes JT, this is what you must do if you want to see God. Remember, not one word, only observe. A disruption can cause a tear in the time stream and we sure don’t want that! We’ll go back once you’re enlightened.” He blew the smoke out at my face in rings of blue and green, handing me back the pipe. I did as instructed, took a long hard pull on the pipe filling my lungs. I closed my eyes and held my breath.
I waited as long as I could then tried to make smoke rings like Shea. No smoke came out . I opened my eyes to a huge balloon like cloud, a kind of fuzzy out of focus cartoon balloon. A figure began coming into focus, an overbearing mean looking guy with greasy black hair and a gangly long beard. He looked strangely familiar though his image was still grainy. He was sitting on a bright red throne as he bellowed loudly, “Those shit Romans will pay dearly for this.” People scurried around and a soft voice slipped out from somewhere, a woman’s voice, “It’s okay Vasudeva, that’s exactly what we want, they‘re playing right into my hands. Everyone will believe this Yahweh they worship to be God so I can continue my work undetected. Have them scribe a codex and call it The Bible. My God swindle will be complete and we will rule from the shadows.” The haggard bearded man looked out of place sitting on a luxurious throne appearing more like a homeless man than an assistant for the voice of the woman. His voice was much calmer, “Of course your right my love. The pomposity of those humans anger me but in the end you are correct, that is what shall take them down. As always Matrona Ruga, I shall follow your instruction.” I blinked and the image was gone. I looked to Shea, “Did you see that or was it just for me?” Shea exhaled more smoke rings toward my face, “JT, that was the husband and God herself.” What? I never saw that dude in my life! “You’re telling me that Aqualung look alike is what? Mr. God? And that voice was Mrs. God, a woman I met before? You’re as fucked up as Kha is.” Shea chuckled, “Aqualung, that’s funny JT, never heard him called that before. Reality is not always clear my boy, that’s why it was important to develop quantum eyes. You must be patient, I told you that you had met God before and you have, you just don’t remember. That will come in time. What you witnessed was not from your timeline, it was from mine, a turning point in forgotten history when the Romans convinced people God was a man named Yahweh, or Jehovah.” My thoughts were spinning. “I see you are skeptical that God is really a woman. Think about it JT, what is the one thing we all have in common, aside from seahorses that’s is?” I now knew what he meant, “Okay, I see where you’re going with this, we all came from inside our mothers, no matter what animal, all of us from females. But fucking A Shea, that doesn’t mean God is a woman.” Shea smiled condescendingly, “That’s where you’re wrong JT, if we read any of the ancient scrolls they all agree that we are all the children of God yes? And who has the children? Hard though it may be to admit as a man its not a mans role that matters my son, its always the woman who nourishes, who gives birth. So who better to give birth to all of life than a mother? A slight of mind a very long time ago led humanity to believe it was a man who create all things, but a great leader lead form behind, not arrogantly in front and that’s exactly what Matrona Ruga did. Perhaps it would be less confusing if we call her The Creator instead of God. She didn‘t create only humans JT, in fact she created many life forms in all the different universes” I puffed on the pipe without even noticing, “That would be fine Shea, if I even believed. Wait… What? All the different universes? Shit Shea I’m not ready for that yet, lets just stick to this world where I don’t believe in God to begin with. Even if I did, every religion in the world believes god is a man.” Shea shook his head, “Yes JT that’s wise, you will learn of other universe when ready so let me stay in this one for now. Its true that most religions believe god to be a male, but there are many religions which assign no gender whatsoever. The truth is she prefers to be thought of as a male and that is part of her plan, to kind of masquerade as what men consider the weaker sex. It gives us all a false sense of just how powerful she really is.” Remember, when you view with quantum eyes you see reality. Do you think you can chose your reality or is your reality chosen for you?”
At first I hadn’t realize how cleverly he switched the conversation to free will but it wouldn’t have mattered because I was intrigued. I accepted it as a challenge, “Well I’ll tell you what, as long as I’m high from this anise weed and whatever Kha put on those needles I have no choice because I am not in control. There is no choice for me because I’m stuck here instead of where I choose to be.” Shea passed me the pipe and despite it’s effect, or maybe because of it’s effect I accepted as he spoke. “Where do you choose to be JT? With Ambrosina? Do you think that she is all that exists?” He looked at me slyly, I felt like we were playing mind chess so I planned my response two moves ahead. “No, but with her is where I choose to be this moment, we weren’t finished. Uniting with Ambrosina was like uniting with the wind itself.” I glanced at Shea, “Remember JT, the wind blows soft fog in the dark and it is that dark fog that rises when the sun shines down.” He’s fucking with me right? Okay, I’ll play, “Yes but the fog pleases the soil and allows the grass to reach up to its full potential.” Shea smiled wide, shook his head lightly, “ The fog may please the soil my son, but the rain will fall on your shoulders and that will displease your back.” I stared at him for three seconds before we both broke out laughing. Was it the smoke or did the clever Shea get me loosened up? I didn’t care, he came to tell me about free will so let him talk.
“I’m sorry to say my son that all that seems real may not be. Before you go back to Ambrosina hear me out for a short while, I promise you it will do you no harm. For years philosophers and scientists have grappled over whether or not we as humans enjoy choice, or free will. More often its an argument of semantics because of our perception of what free will means. You can choose Pepsi over Coke, but you can’t choose to whom or where you are born. Many life forms can exhibit apparent free will, a squirrel when chased by a fox chooses whether to flee and which way to flee. Is its fate pre-determined no matter which choice? If a tree senses the soil drying up it can’t very well pack up and leave yet an animal can. Does that mean animals have free will but vegetation does not? So free will you see can be fitted to the definition which fits your need. I want to talk to you on a more idealistic level.” I was starting to lose him a little, “You mean like is there Karma or something? Cause believe me I know of many people who Karma seems to overlook!” Shea paused to smoke from the pipe before sharing, “Ah yes, Karma. So many of you these days believe karma to be your personal avenger, but that is far from what Karma is. Karma is like the gravity of spirit, originally a religious concept of the Brahmans. It was the hand of their god that issued the punishments of poor behavior and often would not occur until future reincarnations, so if you truly believe in Karma those people you speak of may indeed face the consequence of their actions in another life. They in fact had no choice in who or when the sentence of repentance would be given. Tell me JT, what is freedom to you?” I took a long slow hit from the pipe and filled my lungs, this is one deep mother of a question.
As I let out the smoke it formed rings, first red smoke, then blue and orange. I heard a slight buzzing in my head actually sensing movement inside. My head began vibrating imperceptible to the eye but I felt it, as if my brain was shaking. The last smoke ring left my mouth in a rainbow of colors forcing my mouth into a huge grin. I felt great! “Freedom? Let me see Shea, freedom I think is the ability to make my own choices without interference. It’s not having anyone tell me what I must do, telling me who or what to be, how to act. I am free to think whatever I want. If I think you’re and asshole that’s my option. If I chose to believe you have something to tell me that’s important I’m free to listen. I’m also free to tune you out. Freedom is the power to make my own decisions. That’s what I want Shea, to be free, to do as I please when I please and with whom I please. That sound good to you?”
“I’m afraid you cannot be free in that way, you are bound by the decisions your brain makes for you, you do not control all of your choices.” I thought for a second, “Maybe so, but its my brain so I’m in control.” Shea smiled and stood up walking a few step away. He turned to me and without warning tossed a small red ball at me which I caught. “Why did you catch the ball JT? Did you think look, here comes a ball, I must raise my arm and place my hand where I believe the ball is going to be then clamp my hand on it when it arrives or did you simply catch it without thinking?” I shook my head, I got it, “okay, so my brain can act on its own sometimes but when I have time I think things through to make a choice.” Shea was smiling, the pompous ass, “Are you sure JT? Maybe you make the decision or maybe your brain has already chosen for you. So here is my question, are you programmed to follow a predetermined life or are you really making choices?” He’s good. “There’s no way to be certain.”
“Yes JT, that exactly right. Even with quantum eyes there lies uncertainty. The path you are on is a path of discovery, but is it you who chose to go down the path or was it chosen for you? The truth is you cannot chose, because you have already gone down the path, you have already been enlightened, and you have already moved on.” I was certain he was talking shit, “Shea, what the fuck are you saying, that I’m already dead?” Shea exhaled slowly, “Not in those terms JT, but you still look at time as beginning to end, a line from point A to point B, but time exists differently. Everything that has happened in what you call time has happened and is over, you are merely experiencing your role in it in your own concept of time. Your life has been lived completely but you haven’t caught up yet. People experience their own times in their own lives, believing it to unfold every second, but its a force that never stops. You can understand history because you can read about it, but someone has read the history of your lifetime, and the lifetimes ahead of yours. You have no choice because time has already come and gone for you, you are watching it in what you perceive as real time, almost as a play with you in the lead role in. In this sense JT, your life is pre determined, or actually, post determined”
I got up an walked away toward the wooded area of my paradise island, “I’ve gotta go chill and process this shit Shea, I need to be alone for a bit.” Shea merely smiled a grandfatherly smile, “Of course JT, take your time, I’ll be here when you need me.”
I walked and tried to clear my mind so I could process what Shea had told me. Is this Island my manifestation? I mean its all that I would love, my perfect escape. Utopia! I love being around nature, especially water, and this is just jam packed with beauty. I walked a path between huge green bushes with little red berries, butterflies and birds scattered across the plants and tree’s. I came upon an opening that actually made me stop breathing a second. “Whoa, check this out.” It was a large circular clearing with the most beautiful plants and flowers I ‘d ever seen. The colors, bright red, blue, yellows, pink, orange, purple all surrounded by ornate green leaves and shrubs. Flowers of every shape, funnels, trumpets, bells, tubes, tongues, some in clusters, some in bunches, and some just out on their own letting all their beauty hang out. It was amazing, colorful butterflies and birds singing and dancing among the flora, little animals bouncing about, like I was living in a botanical wonderland. Again I spoke out loud to no one, “This must have been what the Garden Of Eden would look like if there was one.” A familiar voice rose out over natures chatter, a voice I wanted to keep in my heart forever. “In a way it is JT, its our Garden Of Eden. Isn’t it breathtaking? Come over here and let me hold you.” A tear trickled down my cheek, a tear of pure joy. Ambrosina was here! I turned to absorb her soul swearing I would not let this be our last time. I don’t care what Kha, Shea, or anyone says, Ambrosina is not leaving me this time. There she stood, arms stretched out waiting for me.
TBC

Two Teachers, From Sir With Love

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two teach

How did I end up here? So many years spend meandering through paths ,so many detours, and now I sit with a handful of accomplishments that have long ago worn out there welcome and a plethora of stories to tell. Not much else. True every once in a while I get another flicker of brilliance, a new recipe here, a great idea for a short story there, but overall nothing lasting. Now instead of looking to see what’s up ahead in the path I find myself peeking backward noting where I may have chosen a path better to have avoided, or another better to have taken. That’s the lament of aging, reflecting on where we’ve been and where we may have gone, and how we ended up where we are now.
The times I do look in my rearview mirror the most inspiring image I see is two teachers who attempted to direct me along a path they believed not only was I suited for, but a path that was suited for me. During my hours of reflections of my life I often pause and take some time to consider these two women, two adults during my formative years, that were perhaps the only ones who truly believed in me back then. I don’t dwell on what may have been but I do often regret I hadn’t given them as much consideration as they gave me. I can’t go back, no redo, but what I can do is seize the opportunity to give props to two extraordinary teachers. Mrs. Kirshenbaum, and Ms. Kitty Lindsey, though I never showed it you were both a major inspiration to me. This then is for you, with much love from me.
While in the sixth grade my teacher, Mrs. K., told me I had a creative ability and I should consider pursuing a career in writing. But it was sixth grade, I had recently discovered that not only do girls not have cooties, but kissing them was pretty awesome. I had my first steady girlfriend and career was the farthest thing from my mind. Not to be stifled Mrs. K published an essay I wrote in the school paper, The School Bell. The Bell was a four to six sheet newspaper that went to every household. Mrs K. asked the class to write an essay on what we expect of the move from elementary school to junior high school. I titled my essay “Great Expectations”. I hadn’t read the book but saw it in the library and I dug the title. Although filled with misspellings and grammatical miscues it was an intense view of what I expected when we left the confines of elementary school and braved the new world of junior high (middle school to you younger readers) Nothing about Mrs. Habersham, no Pip, that would become required reading much later, but in my Great Expectations I explored the benefits and dangers of going from the comfort of a single classroom to the unknown experiences of numerous teachers in numerous rooms, in a huge school with way too many dark nooks and cranny’s. Not to mention big kids! Mrs. K was blown away, the principal agreed, even Mom liked it, but no one other than Mrs. K mentioned anything about a future associated with writing.
When seventh grade came it was even more of a challenge than I expected and I learned even more about girls which became an obsessive distraction. My writing career was quickly forgotten and remembering locker combinations and girls names became far more important. Halfway into the year I was introduced to another distraction, marijuana. I had been drinking the occasional beer, hanging outside a store until someone of age could be finagled into buying some for beer or Ripple wine for us, but weed opened up a whole new culture. New skills had to be acquired, cleaning the pot, rolling it into joints, getting the red out of our eyes, self control when something seemed so funny I wanted to burst, and maintaining in class. That meant putting my best face forward to look as straight as possible so nary a soul could tell I had smoked weed. Now I had two major forces in my life, girls and weed. Not to brag but I was getting pretty good at both. The school itself performed its expected task, to prepare me for the world I would be thrown into after school is over. They hired guidance counselors to talk to us in 9th grade that would help take our recently shaped minds and steer them towards the area that we were best suited for in “real life”. Good theory, but in practice they met with our parents to discuss where they wanted our fertile minds steered. “He seems to be pretty good in math, maybe a career in the stock market” “Maybe he should take business math, lots of work for accountants.” After tossing around a few ideas they finally asked me what I wanted. By this point I had been smoking weed and was no longer a virgin. I was obsessed with rock and roll, as well as its subculture of Hippiedom. At first I mistakenly believed my parents cared about what I wanted, “Well…..I think joining the Peace Corps would be cool”. The counselor stared blankly, Dad glared angrily, but dear ole Mom was in denial, “Oh he’s just kidding, aren’t you honey? Tell us which of the careers we chose you like the most.” The time had come, “What I want is to choose my own path, not have you guys tell me which way to go. I want to help people, I like being with people and the Peace Corps does great things and helps lots and lots of people. That’s what I want to do. I’ll keep a diary of my travels and maybe someday write a book about it.”
This was the first of a long string of awkward silences I would share with my parents. Finally my Mom laughed, “Oh JT, stop now! That’s not what you really want.” Dad weighed in quickly, “Don’t be a fool JT, there’s no money in the peace corps, just a bunch of dirty hippies, Mr. Gunther has given you some great ideas of what you can do and you’re going to listen to him and decide which one you want!” It was clear I wasn’t needed in the conversation anymore so I just sat there and listened. They proceeded to shape my life for me as I daydreamed, wishing I had a joint in my pocket. When the meeting was over they were all feeling very positive of my future and I had been instructed to read the stock market pages of the newspaper each day. I went back to class discouraged.
For me Senior High started in tenth grade. After three years of building schoolyard creds and being king shits, we were thrown back at the bottom to be tortured and humiliated by the juniors and seniors. Even the janitors picked on us. I learned quickly that my skill of acquiring weed was a fantastic equalizer, and within a month I was accepted into the fold of the older kids who bought weed from me. Also in tenth grade I met the one teacher who, had I allowed her, would have hand led me down a path of writing. In her English class she had us write a short story without boundaries, whatever turned us on. I had two idea’s I wanted to do so I handed both stories to her. The first was a kind of science fantasy, in which the biggest traffic jam in history caused a dome of carbon monoxide killing near everyone. A post apocalyptic before I had a clue what that meant. The second was a tragic love story, kind of my hip version of Bonnie and Clyde that starts out with a young couple in love waking up after a night of heavy LSD tripping outside a stolen cop car. They wake up confused and still stoned at a reservoir that supplies the town below with water and planned a scheme to fill it with liquid LSD. I then went into a few households and described the effects of tripping It was crudely written with not much finesse but jam packed full of twisted imagination. I had drawn on my recent experiments with LSD which at that time had amounted to a half dozen trips. I wrote it in a somewhat rebellious attitude. Mrs. Lindsey, or “Kitty” as she had her students call her asked me to stay behind after reading it.
My original fear was she would chastise me or turn me in for writing about drugs, but to my pleasant surprise she praised the concept and creative spirit and implored me to sign up for her creative writing course. The second influential person in my life assured me I had a talent. I was pretty blown away, I have a warped imagination, but that’s not a talent, that’s a personality trait. Regardless, Kitty felt if I was given instruction I could write, all I needed was to learn sentence structure and grammar, and for someone to unleash my creativity. I thought it was worth a shot so I promised to sign up. Writing was the one thing I had always enjoyed. I had a spiral notebook of poems, observations, and story concepts I titled “Ramblings.” I never let anyone read the notebook because I had the self esteem of an earthworm. Still, I couldn’t wait to get home and give Mom and Dad the good news.
One persons good news is another’s persons complete waste of time. “What the Hell do you mean become a writer? Writing isn’t a real job, you want a real job.” “Dad, you have no idea what I want because you never listen to me. I hate the godamn stock market, I hate business, and I am never going to be an accountant, that’s not what I want.” Mom just cried but Dad wasn’t finished, “I know exactly what you want JT, you want to sit around on your lazy ass all day and watch TV. You think anyone will pay you to do that? No! I’m telling you what you’re gonna be and you will listen young man. You WILL read the stock market everyday, and you Will take business math. I don’t care what this teacher of yours says you do not have any talent and even if you did you’ll never make a living from it. You can tell this Mrs. Lindsey of yours you won’t be in creative writing you’ll be in business math. Kitty! What the hell is this teacher doing having her student call her by a nickname anyway, what the hell are we paying taxes for, for your teacher to be your friend? You will take business math and get this writing crap out of your head now!” That discussion would define my relationship with my father for the next 30 years. After that day I didn’t miss any opportunity to piss him off. I grew my hair, I wore an American flag bandana, I bought red whit and blue sneakers, I spoke of protests and rallies, signed petitions, attended sit ins, and let him know where I was during those anti American moments. I read very profound books, Aldous Huxley, Herman Hesse, Ayn Raynd, Kurt Vonnegut. I read political and hip books by Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, Jack Kerouk, Tom Robbins. I defiantly took creative writing and went to class high.
A little too high, with an imagination that did not connect with any of my classmates. I was too “out there” for them, they wanted to be serious writers, Steinbecks or Dickens, and resented me an everything I stood for. I was in a class loaded with hitters, or straits, kids who followed every rule, seldom took a chance, and only saw the principals office on official business, never for disciplinary action which was what I went there for on a weekly basis. I was alienated and withdrawn in class, then started cutting. First a day here or there, then a few in a row, until I stopped attending altogether.
From there I took a myriad of path turns, none of which involved writing. I went from pot sink suds buster extraordinaire at a local restaurant, to line cook at Windows On The World, worked my way up to a B level chef in NYC, then ultimately a chef/owner. I left my dreams of writing packed away in an obscure box gathering dust in the attics of my youth. Until now! I have literally turned a page and gone head first into writing, a blog here, a published story there, an hopefully before my flame of creative energy gets to too dim will have a collection of short stories or perhaps that great American novel that has been hiding out for so long. Never give up on a dream, don’t let other people define your limits. Your imagination never rests and loves exercise, so exercise it daily. No matter what you enjoy pursue it before it passes by you. I work every day now on writing something, an I truly believe I have at least one good novel in me to finish. If I do, I know exactly who will be in the dedication, my two teachers.

Nuthin Could Be Finer Than A Beatdown In Carolina….

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car

Busted, Disgusted,and Can’t Be Trusted.

“ I am gonna sentence you thirty days for each infraction to be served concurrently, you unnerstand that boy?.” Wait! What? Did he just ay thirty days? “Um, I think so your honor, but I’ve already been here three days and I haven’t done anything wrong. I” Jimbo supercop who was standing alongside me squeezed my arm and whispered to me. “You bess shut up son, least you fine yersef here longer’n that.” The judge pouned his gavel, Look here boy, you gigttin one days credit for time served, so you bout to be our guest for the next twenty nine days and if y‘all know whats good fir ya y‘all just take it like a man. You lucky Ize inna generous mood, we on’t take kinly to y’all coming down to our fine State and causin’ uss all kins a trouble. And when you finish your time I suggest you high tail it out of South Carolina cuz if I ever see you agin I promose you I will not be so generous.” He banged his gavel on the desk again and with a dismal lack of enthusiasm, and yelled “Next case.” My two friends Jimbo and Billy-boy each grabbed an arm as the led me out of the courtroom. “Boy, youse one lucky mutha. Only thirty days!” Jimbo seemed almost sad. Maybe he was beginning to like me and wanted to hang out with me some more. It would only be a matter of minutes until I realized that my sarcastic thought, like apparently everything else in this shit state was so very far from any truth.
My jailor friends walked me down one corridor where I noticed a cigarette machine, with a paperback book on top of it. Thinking I may need some reading material over the next twenty nine days I grabbed the book as we went passed without the goon squad noticing. We had made a few turns just confuse about where I was until we stopped at a door that said “Interrogation Room” If I was confused before, I was completely perplexed now. Jimbo opened the door and they led me inside. It was a relatively empty room, they are big on minimalism in South Carolina prisons. Four chairs, three on one side of a table, and one lonely chair on the other. It was apparent which one was mine and Jimbo led me right over to it and signaled for me to sit down. Nervously, I sat. It was Billy who spoke. “Boy, we need to git an unnerstandin’ tween us here. Firstly, I don ever wanna here ya call any of us turn-key again. Got that?” I was in a very precarious position and was weighing my best options. I sheepishly let out a soft yessir. I was taken aback at how wimpy it sounded echoing around the room. Jimbo lifted up his foot and kicked me hard with his “County issue” hard leather boot. He had reached up higher than I would have thought he could manage with his roly poly body and landed the soul of that boot directly in the muscle portion of my left bicep. Both me and the chair caught off guard (pun intended) went sailing across the floor in search of the wall. My head hit it first so I knew I had found it.The chair followed behind me awkwardly. Jimbo walked over to my shaking body and got so close to me I could smell his stale coffee and tobacco stinkbreath. “He asked you if you got that boy?” He really didn’t need to say it so loud, what with me being a half inch away and all, but he felt a need to cover my ear in spit as he yelled. Now I was at a horrible disadvantage and needed to react quick to win these guys over and get out of here. I looked him in the eye and said clearly “Yes sir, I got it. I will not call you turn-key ever again.” Billy was picking me up and Jimbo got the chair. “Now that’s much better boy” Billy was now speaking with an air of superiority that he enjoyed immensely. “Sit back down now boy, we don’t want you falling off your chair agin.” Big bad Jimbo leaned down to my dry ear and began to talk in a half whisper. “Let me tell ya how this is gonna go here yankee boy. We dun like no strangers comin roun here causin no trouble. We don like you, but y’all gonna be here a while so you need to git the rules straight. Theys pretty simple. Rule one, we is your owners now and you nevah nevah talk back to yore owner. Hear?” I was nodding my head in agreement, but before I could get a word out, Billy Boy had whacked my right calf with his baton so hard it burnt like it was on fire before going numb. My calf was throbbing when Jimbo saw the book I had found. He picked it up and said “What the Hell is this? Looka here Billy, this long hair he girl stole him a book. Now ya see boy, this is the kind of thing we wants to avoid. He placed the book up to my temple, and used his baton to hit the book. A pain shot through my head like I had never experienced before. The chair and I both fell to the ground again this time much more uniformly. Billy walked over to where I had fallen, and stepped hard on my calf. “Is this the spot where you hurt yaseff boy?” Pain was throbbing all over, in my leg, my head, and now in my stomach. When I looked up Jimbo was standing over me with his baton by his side and a sadistic smile on his face. I was having trouble breathing which is when I realized I had just been whacked in the stomach with his baton. My head was spinning, my eyes teared up, and I everything looked violet and blurry from blood trickling from my head. Jimbo picked me up and locked my arms behind me. Billy took the book I had found, and placed on my temple again, and whacked the book harder than the last time. With sadistic grins they moved the book to various places on my face and continued the beatings. “Seenow boy, you done us a favor with this here book y’all stole. Ain’t gonna be no marks on yer face, but I bet its gonna hurt for a long time comin’.” Jimbo sat me down in the chair, or should I say threw me into the chair where I collapsed in pain and exhaustion. I could hardly breathe, and barely speak. I looked up through the tears in my eyes and watched them parading around with ugly satisfied looks on both of their faces. The beatings continued for what seemed like an hour, but was more likely only five or ten minutes. They applied the book and baton combination to various body parts, mostly concentrating on my arms. My entire body was throbbing and aching, and Billy got right in my face again. “So I think we have us an unnerstandin’ here, right boy?” He pointed the baton to my face and smacked it with his other hand. The hard wood made a direct hit to my nose and I could immediately feel blood flowing. It took every ounce of strength to just nod yes. Satisfied, Billy stood up and smiled at Jimbo. “I think he unnerstans Jimbo. Maybe we should get this nice young law breaker something to drink, he looks like he has a mighty thirst.” They both laughed. Billy left the room and Jimbo picked up the paperback and handed it to me. “Now don’t y’all go nowhere ya hear me son?” I looked up at him but everything was still blurry. I knew he was very close because I could smell his stale smoke breath. He grabbed my pony tail and lifted me off the chair, put a fore arm to my chest and flung me as hard as he could into the wall. I collapsed and just laid on the floor, not sure if I couldn’t move or just didn’t want to. He threw what I hope was a clean hankercheif at me and told me to clean myself up. I heard the door close and sensed I was alone. I cried as the blood from my nose thinned out the tears.
C’mon boy, it’s time to take you home.” Billy walked in with a bottle of water, handed it to me and they each got on one side of me and led me out of the interrogation room and back down some more corridors until we reached the general population of the jail. They walked me to my cell removed my unnecessary handcuffs and plopped me down on my paper thin mattress. I laid there and started to re-live the beating reflecting on the pain. My face was swollen and my spirit broken. I was barely conscience of my surroundings, but I heard noises all around me. After about a half hour, I fell asleep and dreamed. I had one of the most vivid dreams of my life. I dreamed I was going to a big mansion in the sky, and wondered if I was dying. The song “Spirit in the Sky” played over and over in my head. I was in and out of lucidity for the rest of the day and night. Tomorrow would be another day.

Fast Times At Mount Sanai High

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weed

The Ten Suggestions
Moses tied his long hair in a ponytail as he walked some of his father in laws sheep up the mountain to his “spot” where he often went to chiillax with some weed . On this particular day he had stopped off at his best friends hut for a joint. “Oy Sammy, its me Moses, you got a spare joint dude?” Samuel opened the door, “Aye Mo, wassup my main shepherd friend, come on in I got just the thing for you Bro.” Moses knew he could count on Samuel, he always seemed to have the best weed. Claims he gets it from some dude named “The Lion,” or the artist previously known as Snoop Canine. “Check this out Mo, its some killer chronic. I painted the Zig Zag paper with hash oil before rolling it up so its got some real ballz Buddy.” He handed Moses the doob, “Oh snap Sammy, this gonna be fine my man, just what I need today. Wife’s been on my case all day and I need to dee-stress pronto baby.” Moses headed out the door filled with an attitude of gratitude and a slamming joint in his robe pocket. “Catch ya on the morrow Bro, thanks so much.”
Moses wandered up a mountain path with his sheep until he came across his favorite get high rock where he stopped and lit the J. Toking, coughing, toking some more he could actually feel the stress leaving his head. About three quarters of the way down the blunt there was a big seed that Samuel must have missed when he cleaned the herb and it popped loudly. An ember jumped up from the doob and landed in a small bush by Moses feet. At first he didn’t think anything of it although after a while the bush began smoldering. Moses was way to high to do anything. “Hey Moses….Moses its me, The Man.” Moses looked around but not seeing anyone he anwered, “That you Sammy? Holy crap Sam you were right about the chronic man.” Moses took off his sandal and pounded it on his head, “Hear that man? That’s my skull…. I’m sooo wasted!!” Moses looked again, still no one around. “No Moses, its not Samuel, its me God. You know the father of everyone. Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, everyone. I’m the lord God, the supreme one.” Moses stared at the smoldering bush, “Come on Sammy cut the shit man, you’re scaring me Bro. How the fuck do you do that voice?” The bush burst into flame and began to crackle, “Its not Samuel and stop cursing. I hear you cursing all the time and it has to stop. I also know what you think when you look at Sarah. She’s not your wife, you shouldn’t think about her that way!” Moses was still leery thinking he was just too high, “What? Sarah’s friggen hot Man, I can’t help it. Have you seen those jugs? And she has hot legs too. Damn man, anyone that wouldn’t want to get between those…..Hey wait, you’re who? Did you say you’re my father? That ain’t funny Sammy, you know my old man died last year.” The bush began shaking, “Not your father, everyones father you jerk, the Lord God, creator of the world. The supreme being. And I told you to stop cursing. Matter of fact that’s one of the things I came here to talk to you about.” Moses walked closer to the bush, “So you saying I’m talking to God and you have some other shi….. Ah, stuff to talk to me about? Man this chronic is stronger than anything I ever had.” Moses took one more toke then tossed the roach aside, “So if you really god, the what’d you call it, supreme being, where’s your sour cream?” Although it was merely a bush Moses could sense its frustration as the flames flickered. The voice got really loud, “I’m not a friggen burrito supreme you idiot, I am the supreme ruler of all men, the lord god almighty himself and I’m here to give you instructions on what I expect from you. I hope to Jehovah I picked the right one. There aren’t any other Mosses’ in town are there?” The bush was shaking again, “Nah G, ain’t no Moses but me. But I could do it man, just tell me what you need.”
God went on to explain to Moses all the tasks that lay ahead. “Go to the elders of Israel and tell them that I have appeared to you and told you I have watched over them and know what went down in Egypt. Tell them I have promised to relieve their people of the misery by the Nile into the land of Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, and the Pez eating Pezanites. You will lead them into the promised land, the land of milk and honey.” Moses was a bit uncertain and felt that a deal of just milk and honey wasn’t enough so he negotiated to receive Manishcewitz wine, Knishes, and a Halvah candy bar along with the milk and honey. That would cure his munchies. Both sides walked away satisfied yet apprehensive, but the deal was done. Moses was to free the Jews from Egypt and bring them back here to Mount Sinus.
It was quite an undertaking because quite frankly the elders thought Moses was tripping, due to his reputation as a “prolific pot puffer” from his days as a bachelor. Moses complained to God who gave him a few tricks to perform. Hadeus, one of the meanest of the elders mocked Moses. “Check this out boys, young Moses over here claims that God has spoken to him. Hey Mo, what’d God have for breakfast this morning? Hahaha, you know what a man with a fourteen inch erection has for breakfast?” Hadeus dropped his drawers revealing a eleven inch erection laughed loud and said, “Well this morning I had four pancakes, two eggs over, and toast.” All the elders erupted in laughter so Moses seized the opportunity. “First of all Hadeus, its plain to see you are embellishing a bit about your endowment, that looks like ten inches at most, and behold, its not an erection, it’s a tiny garter snake.” With the power God bestowed him Moses turned Hadeus’s anaconda erection into a flaccid garter snake. The room fell silent as all stared in horror at the now even more impressive appendage hanging, or rather squirming between Hadeus’ legs. Hadeus screamed and as he ran away he cut his new one eyes snake on the door hinge and it began bleeding. Hadeus jumped into the lake which immediately morphed into blood. The elders no longer doubted and placed all their faith in Moses. No one wanted to suffer the E-reptile dysfunction of Hadeus.
Convincing the elders was one thing, but swaying the Pharaoh’s mind into freeing his people would prove much more difficult. The Pharaoh had a bevy of snake charmers leaving the snake trick to assume the position of a parlor trick. Moses spoke to God, “God, I told him to let my people go but the Pharaoh just laughed in my face. He was totally unimpressed with the snake trick. I told him you would do some really bad shit to Egypt if he doesn’t free them so….um, whatta ya got?” God raised his voice, “What did I tell you about cursing? What do you mean you told him I would do something? What do you expect me to do?” Moses put on his puppy dog eyes, “Well G, I was kinda hoping we could do something with some frogs, insects, and like some ice balls and shi…..stuff.” Gods voice chilled a few octaves, “Okay, okay, I’ll think of something, but why frogs?” Moses smiled, “My Mom used to tell me a story about an evil witch that turned a prince into a frog, and I just thought that would be fitting since the pharaoh was once a prince.” Moses couldn’t see God but he felt the wind suggesting God was shaking his head, “You are incorrigible young Moses. Okay, give me a week and then go back and get our people the heck out of Egypt!”
The very next day Egypt was inundated with frogs crawling and hopping out of every corner giving the Egyptian people warts and boils. The next day it was lice and gnats, the following day flies.Two days later and ice storm followed by a rash of locusts. Moses chuckled at the thought of the Pharaoh covered in warts, insect bites, and lumps from hail balls pleading for it to stop. He confronted him to find him near insane. “I’ll say it one more time, let my people go. God said he will kill the firstborn of every Egyptian family until my people are free.” The Pharaoh handed Moses the key ring with shaking hands, “Here, go. All of you get the fuck out of here, I never want to see any of you again!” Moses took the keyring to unlock the prisoners but gave the Pharaoh one last demand, “And stop the cursing!”
Well M-Dog was real proud of himelf, he was leading all the jews out of Egypt and had scored some killer black hash and a few grams of some whack Lebanese red cocaine in Cairo, so off they went into the desert. The trip was wracked with misfortune because Moses was stoned much of the time and kept making wrong turns. He put a young dude named Joshua in charge who fared a little better, but it was difficult traveling with armies chasing them all the time. Joshua made a huge misjudgment and suddenly Mosses and his people found themselves trapped at a river. Once surrounded Moses was prepared to give up when he heard God talk to him, “Moses, I saw you buying drugs in Cairo and you know how I feel about that, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Use those drugs to get across the sea.” Moses was perplexed, “How the fu…er how the fudge can I use drugs to save us?” But Gods voice didn’t answer so Moses set out a plan of his own. He asked for a private meeting with the soldiers in charge, “Well boys, you got us. Before you kill us its customary back in my hometown to smoke a few bowls with your captors.” He lit up the hash and passed the pipe getting the soldiers high as kites. He then went to his people and pulled out the Lebanese red cocaine, “Everybody take two quick hits up the nose then we swim like mother, er melon farmers across the river.” Joshua was a bit concerned, “What is that Moses?” Moses smiled, some red “C” I purchased at a caravan in Cairo. Quick, snort it up and lets get the heck out of here!”
After snorting the Lebanese Red “C” they all swam across the river like it was an Olympic event leaving the Egyptian soldiers too stoned to chase them. Now they would have safe passage to Mount Sinus. A bit late perhaps, but be there they will! His people laughed at the stunned soldiers who were wondering what just happened as the group safely headed towards the promised land of milk, honey, wine, knishes, and Halvah bars. Without GPS it took a while but they made it to the foot of Mount Sinus. It was time. Moses headed up the mountain telling his people he’s be back shortly with a message from God. “Listen up guys, this shouldn’t take too long, Ima bust up the mountain to see God, you guys just hang and wait. And please, stay out of trouble. Josh, your in charge dude.
Moses trekked up the familiar mountain looking for his get high rock. Still a huge smile on his face Moses checked every bush around but none were burning. Not even smoking! Suddenly a tall dude with long wavy silver hair and a smoking silver ZZ Top beard walked towards Moses, “Where the heck have you been Moses?” Moses looked up sheepishly, “Oh, um, we got lost God, sorry. Wasn’t my fault the friggen soldiers kept chasing us, I made a wrong turn, Joshua got confused and before we knew it we were running in circles. Anyway, I’m here, your people are at the bottom of the mountain waiting, and its time to lay it on us big guy.” God was holding two tablets in his hands, marked RORER 714. Moses eyes got bugged, “Man, I ain’t see Quaaludes like that in years God. Are they for me?” God passed the tablets to Moses warning him to jut take one at a time. ZZ Top chinhair strap then lit up an enormous rolled joint and the two got high. Moses took both tablets. The two smoked a bit too much and passed out for forty days. When they came to, God had his ten suggestion ready. “Bring this list of ten habits to our people an tell them they need to follow this like law if they want to enter heaven.” Moses looked over the list, “Whoa, God, you gotta go over this shi…..stuff for me first, let take them one at a time. I‘ll paraphrase and write them down so we get it right”
Suggestion 1.….Remember that God is the lord, who freed you from Egypt, and invented weed
Suggestion 2.….Don’t worship before any other gods, wait until after
Suggestion 3.….Don’t put anything in your veins then say “God damn that feels good”
Suggestion 4.….Remember that on Sunday you should play Black Sabbath (or any solo Ozzie efforts)
Suggestion 5.….Be with your Father and especially your mother. Be on her and off her all night
Suggestion 6.….Don’t kill anyone with kindness.
Suggestion 7.….Do not commit to being an adult
Suggestion 8.….Do not steal. Shoplifting is okay, but stealing is a no no.
Suggestion 9.….Do not witness bears doing it with your neighbors.
Suggestion 10.…Do not cover your neighbors wife. (you’ll wanna see everything)

Moses wrote all the stuff down and headed back down the mountain to share his newfound knowledge. As he got close he dropped the paper he has written out. Standing in shock Mosses became infuriated. All of the people he had saved were drunk and having sex, some with a blowup doll. The doll was oddly attractive with large breasts, full thighs, and amazingly realistic calf’s painted gold. The golden calves! He ran around like a madman because he was mad man. “You fools, worshiping a sex toy? Are you fucking kidding me?” Gods voice rang out, “Moses! What have I told you about cursing?” Moses acted as though he hadn’t heard as he ran up and pulled the plug on the sex doll, screaming at the revelers. As the air went out it made a loud sucking noise, and the one who had his rod inserted into the dolls staff let out an “Oh My God” as he reached a feverish orgasm. Mosses turned disappointed, “Of all, people Fellatio, I never expected this from you.” Moses was so crimson red and angry no one noticed that he grabbed at his chest. Moses suffered a heart attack leaving Joshua in charge of the rest of the journey. God had to rewrite the Ten Suggestions this time with corrections. The reworked list still stands today, as does fellatio’s rod.
The End

DUCK!!! The big buck dynasty has hit the fan

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duck

Duck Dynasty, big in the news lately sparking debates about tolerance, free speech, and an over sensitivity to political correctness. Duck Dynasty has over six, count them six million viewers. And without any embarrassment and with glowing pride I am proud to admit I am not amongst that number. Two weeks ago if you asked me if I watched duck dynasty I would have guessed it to be a NatGeo show on generations of mallard ducks, or some sort of prime time soap opera about a duck farmer that struck oil in Knots Landing. As it turns out even my wild imagination could not have guessed it to be a show about a family of living Chia pets in the swamplands of Louisiana who made their fortune from something that was once a toy prize in a Cracker Jacks box. But hell, who am I to begrudge anyone from making a ton of money for being themselves on a television show. A ton of money.
I would love to say this is a story of compassion and human integrity, a big company that took a stand against hatred because an employee spoke in “coarse” language defaming other human beings. But as always it about money. Of course what was spoken in the GQ interview was not really hatred, he was just quoting from the bible. For instance, in Leviticus 6:66, “Thou shalt find vagina’s much more desirable than a mans anus“ or Deuteronomy 7:14, He who layeth with another man shall surely have intercourse with animal next“. Seriously though, nothing for a slave to sing the blues about. But he did say some mean things and of course social media and public opinion wasted no time creating a shitstorm of a political debate about rights and the act of Christian bashing, which apparently is the new “black“.
Some context here. Free speech first. True, we do have the right to free speech but we are also responsible if our words cause us to lose our jobs. You have every right to call your bosses wife a creepy slut who has slept with just about every male employee, but don’t be outraged or perplexed when your boss fires you. The bottom line here is free speech is a right, but when misused there are potential consequences, and that’s on the speaker.
That said, A&E were also well within their right to suspend him because they have to answer to their sponsors. I don’t remember who said this but this quote is a quote that businesses should share with their employees, “We don’t pay you, our customers pay you. We just handle the money.” So Mr. Duck Dynasty i responsible to A&E, who in turn are responsible to their advertisers, who are then responsible to us, because after all we are the consumers, they all just handle our money. After they take out disproportionately huge cuts of course. So A&E had to act swiftly so the shit doesn’t pile up on them. Unfortunately they acted by playing middle management and imposed punishment immediately so their bosses would see that they are taking control. The problem for A&E is they acted before any duck dust settled. No hearing his side, no waiting to see how outraged the public would be, and most importantly, how much toleration their sponsors would have for a family that brings in crazy good ratings. A&E took a stand, The Ducksters got behind their favorite hirsute millionaire family, Christians screamed defamation of the Bible. Political correctness gone wild they whined, all he did was speak the lords truth about the despicable excuses for a children of god because of their sexual orientation. Its christian bashing plain and simple, part of a war on Christianity. Of course that doesn’t fall under the category of too sensitive because its only political correctness gone wild when someone else bashes you.. It became a FOX fake news vrs. Lamestream communist news event sparking enough hatred to breath flames into sagging ratings of hate fueled political pundit TV shows. Oh the postings an responses on social media were off the hook. Gay life style is destroying all that’s good in humanity, like allowing any asshole to have the ability to arrange for an arsenal of guns in their homes. Provided of course they aren’t gay, then it would require a new law. But I digress, I don’t want to fan the flames, there is plenty of hatred from this injustice. And this time its NOT IN FLORIDA!!!
This is how I would like the story to go, both sides squaring off, the entire duck dynasty threatening to leave A&E, a face book page threatening to boycott A&E, and A&E showing their backbone by insisting on an apology to all the offended people assuring us that they will always take a stand against hatred. I can‘t because their real response was how much viewer money do we stand to lose we lose? No, it was time for some damage control from both sides. So in the true American battlefield, the big business boardroom, a strategy was worked out. A&E would rescind the suspensions and the double D television show will offer an insincere apology for using coarse language. Not apologizing to African Americans for belittling slavery, or defaming the LGBT community for its role in bestiality, but for using coarse language that may have upset anyone. It may not have the integrity we hoped for, it may not discredit hate speak, and it may not taste like victory, but at least everyone is happy and came out smelling like swampy roses. And by everybody of course I mean the Duck Dynasty staff, A&E, and all the advertisers who didn’t even have to admit their role in allowing big bucks to once again rule the day. We are a society of ADHD celebrity gossip lovers who love it when the paparazzi uses them as toys to play with so until the duck shit hits the fan again somewhere, this one is ov….Oh wait, Brittany is shaving her head again. Gotta go this is gonna be huge!……PEACE