Atticus
Atticus's JournalWe need a new word. Calling the high-decibel pronouncements of the MAGAloons and Q-ANONics
merely "stupid" I like characterizing a root-canal without anesthesia "uncomfortable".
I propose "FUBARISHUS"; FUBAR, of course, being the WWII acronym for "Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition".
If that doesn't suit you, how about "Guanorific" or "facepalmative".
"Stupid" is just insufficient.
I don't care what color your skin is. I don't care what color or how long your hair is.
I don't care if you believe in a Supreme Power or what you call it.
I don't care if you are rich or poor.
I don't care who you love---so long as you love.
I care whether or not you are kind.
Do you allow others to live differently than you do?
Do you understand that in the grand scheme of things you are a piss-ant?
If so, have a seat, drink some wine with me and let's discuss our purpose.
Home made wine buzz: ( apologies to Dylan )---
How many times must we vote for a thug
Before we decide to get smart?
And how many monsters must we elect
Before our ignorance breaks our heart?
Yes, how many times will we let MAGA rise
Before we drive a stake through its heart?
The answer, my friend, which you must comprehend,
The answer is just refuse to bend.
It was a chilly day on the elementary school playground and as recess began, there was a long line
of kiddos waiting in line for the slide. Soon, though, the only lad without a jacket tried to butt into line and was met with a torrent of angry objections from his classmates.
"Wait your turn like everyone else!" he was told. "You're not special!"
"Oh, yes I am 'special' " he insisted. "I'm so special that if you don't let me on that slide right now, I'll---I'll---INVESTIGATE YOU! "
At that point, those in line stood in place and turned their backs on the little whiner and he stomped away muttering something about "subpoenas".
Just before starting his slide, Joe smiled and shook his head as he told those behind him "That Jimmy Jordan sure is a weird dude!"
Everyone chuckled and agreed that, like usual, Joe was right.
The two story brick-front house had once been considered "spectacular"---probably the
finest structure in the little village in which it stood. Now, however, vines climbed out of the weeds that surrounded it to cover half of its exterior and the broken windows admit wasps, raccoons and skunks to what had once been a family's sanctuary; their safe place; their home.
Love had been made here. Children were nursed here. Thanksgivings and Christmases and Easters and birthdays were celebrated within these walls and snapshots of the happiness had filled albums.
Big dreams were dreamed here.
But, then, the new interstate was built through the far side of the county and the cars that used to stop for gas at "Bud's Texaco" and lunch at "Louise's Lunch Box" no longer passed through the little community in which such a fine home had been built. While travelers gassed up at the mega-stations on the interstate and had their lunch at one of the burger chains next to them, the village quietly died.
Maybe the family that had lived and dreamed here simply moved away.
Maybe the marriage that had lived here survived; maybe it died with the village.
Maybe the family eventually prospered elsewhere and "lived happily ever after".
Maybe their fortunes fared no better than the house and they spent their remaining years mourning the death of the village---their home---their dreams.
Though I did not know these people, I slow as I pass their house today in sadness and hope my dreams will survive.
Somewhere, one Republican is turning to another and exulting---
"Don't you just love it when Democrats eat their own?"
pu·ru·lent /ˈpyo͝or(y)ələnt/ adjective, consisting of, containing, or discharging pus.
SEE: "Ted Cruz".
I'm the smartest man in any room
And I'm a gazillionaire.
Your rules just don't apply to me..
Don't like me? I don't care!
I don't have any moral core.
That concept is absurd!
Just pay me lots of money
And I'll give you the blue bird!
-----original verse by K. Sumnole
The somnolent ogre named Trump
Saw he needed to prime the grift pump
So he mumbled and slurred
Words that very few heard
Just the "same ol' same ol'" from the jump
As November settles in cold and gray, winter is no longer just a memory.
The north wind flings razorblades at any naked flesh and the sun plummets away too soon behind leafless trees.
Outside chores are now confined to trudging to and from the wood crib and shovelling now-and-then snow.
"Inside Time" has begun.
Inevitably, sitting inside our houses leads to looking inside ourselves and wondering if we'll again see the grass green and the goldfinches gold.
While holidays will brighten the dying year's remaining days, January and February loom dark and lonely just ahead.
Maybe having enough to eat, clean water, a warm dry bed---and our democracy---are blessings we will then have time to count and appreciate.
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