Semi-cultic subcultures wanna love you, baby.
They wanna show you the way and draw you to their great God, Jesus,
showcasing his masterpiece affliction, the covid19 pestilence,
an example of his latest work to call people to him.

Ain’t nuthin’ better than a viral attraction to the best God. Ever.
He must love us, see, ‘cause if we don’t do right,
he gonna kill us all.

See, now you know it’s love, when it’s open wide or die.
Yeah, man, they got the viral meme for sure.

See they hug rapists and invite them to dinner.
Say one thing won’t happen and do it anyway.
Invite you to forgive them for violating you for decades.
And they just don’t understand how they got to where they are today
where you won’t hug them or come out to play.

They don’t know when you push that gas pedal,
and steer in that direction you will most definitely arrive
at that exact location,

‘Cause they got it all upside down and inside out
with shame for the one who made an appearance after being invited by a court to do so
and nothing but cutesy terms of endearment for the man who raped their daughter.
Over and over again.

Wear the badge of honor, Ruth.
Wear it proudly and loudly.
They are ashamed of you.
These who see love thus.
These who can do no wrong.
These who lie, claim Christ falsely and have mutilated their own souls.
They find you an embarrassment.

Glory to Goddess, you are finally saved.


Love Thy Neighbor…

Even if they trap cats for the pound to take and “euthanize” if unclaimed…

Even if they have made sure two of your cats get trapped…

this one would chase cars...
this one would chase cars…

Even if you go with your daughter the first time and she bawls in the middle of a holding room with cages labeled “M” and “T” and “W” and “TH” and so forth since they murder these cats after 72 hours, the cages full of cats looking confused and scared…

Even if thy said neighbors go to church every Sunday AND trap cats

AND have access to one of the best commandments ever…

Love. Thy. Neighbor. (as thyself)

I suppose they don’t love themselves too darn much. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy… wait. Love thyself first, ok? Give us ALL a break.

Pardon my King James dumbness. I was raised on it and I can’t manage to quote scripture without thees and thous and thys and oh my…

2013 has begun with some wonderful holiday memories carrying me into the challenge of loving my neighbor. I have to say, I’m not feelin’ the love. Not one “thy” has therefore ousted my angst. But underneath that angst is this awareness of their right to their um, desire, to um, facilitate the killing of cats.

I’ve felt angry enough to qualify as murderously enraged. I guess this makes me no better than my neighbors.

I’ve had fantasies of creating a catapult for hurling the cat litter (for my one terminally stupid housebound adorable black cat) scoopings across the street and into their yard, onto their roof, slamming against their windows, landing on their cars.

I’ve conjured scenarios of sending anonymous postcards with the words “Bite Me” on the front and a black frazzled looking cat glaring at them with the one message on the back: “Meow.”

I’ve imagined painting cat paw prints down their driveway.

And so many other scenarios silly. The one that I may actually act on is one of buying them a huge gift bag full of cat repellent and old pots and pans (with instructions on how to bang together to scare cats out of their yard) as well as a whistle (for the purpose of scaring cats away). I’ll probably include a book on the symbolism of cats. What else? How cats represent the feminine and how those who hate cats. Ok, maybe not that one.  Any ideas on what else to put in the bag? Let me know in comments!

Did I mention I’m not feeling the love?

Bite me.

brilliant but still a sucker for baited cat traps...
brilliant but still a sucker for baited cat traps…

(I don’t know why the image above is sideways. It didn’t show as such in my picture manager, but a lopsided perspective is fitting.)


Wednesday’s Wake Up Call…

Following are the words of Gordon Duff, controversial journalist/senior editor of Veterans Today.

Question of the day: If we establish a vision of our lives based on a reliance on corrupt information or information we have not challenged and have not established ourselves in the soil of true personal growth apart from an addiction/reliance on the status quo, what are we? We live in a world that often identifies “dysfunction” and “disorder” as that which pushes against the “norm,” questions established mores and exhibits natural human reactions to destructive or disruptive forces (e.g. Catherine Zeta-Jones is “bi-polar” because she had panic attacks and withdrew from her normal routine after a series of personal traumas. Really? She was human in the face of loss. But it was categorized as disorder and then medicated “away.” Media helps us “understand” what is “normal” as the life of soul bleeds out. It is apparently NOT normal to experience episodes of panic after being stalked. Or to withdraw from normal routines when the way of life you’ve always known is shaken.) Save us from the world that categorizes the soul of humanity as disordered when it is anything less than smiling, “productive,” or predictable.

Vital (?!) Visual (!) . . .

No Drive-By Tossers Allowed
No Drive-By Tossers Allowed
I dunno. It’s just darkly hilarious. I like dark humor. Then you imagine someone actually tossing an animal over the fence and it’s not as funny! But here it is. I’m posting it because I’m amazed that such a sign is actually necessary. This is the world we live in!!!! WOW. Toss me over the fence and drive away!!! Heartless….
Dave Grant sent me this a while back. I don’t know if he took it or if it’s someone else’s. Oh and yeah, last time I checked it’s the OTHER left…

On Falling Down Stairs . . .

. . . I much recommend walking.

The reason for this logic rests in the body’s overall well-being when walking as opposed to falling. Generally, you are not as obviously at the mercy of gravity’s sadistic side. You put one foot, then the other. You get no bruises. There’s not a moment of airborne contortion, feet scrambling for that step, arms grasping at the rail. You don’t hurt all over. Your ribs, toes, ankles, hips, knees, rib cage, elbows, shoulders, neck, back, butt and thighs do not all cry at once. You don’t break anything. Or cut yourself.

Hey, I didn’t break anything!

9 years in this home. No falls. Last night, at 1am, I’m creeping down the steep steps plenty to tell the two sweetie girls they can NOW go to bed. Two hours previous? Mango butter on the feet. They were smooth. They were happy. Now they are sore. All I can say? Don’t try walking down steep steps in the night when that particular brand of mango butter has left a slick dry veneer on your feet. It’s probably not even good for you anyway. That’s what I get for venturing away from my organic stuff.

I ventured pretty damn far. And this photo shows half the stairway.

Halfway Down, She Falls
Halfway Down, She Falls


I needed a sign, anything, something:

Beware Foot Cream
Beware Foot Cream

So much for psychic skill, precognition and even the forecast for the next 8 months telling me that I’m more likely to get significantly ill and/or have a serious accident. Brezsny doesn’t give this type of information. He wants us to wait for the conspiracy of good things. But I was warned. I read the forecast. It influenced me. I decided NOT to ride the waves at the beach when those fierce forces create the cross currents that sweep giants away. The toughest out there had decided to lay low. And I’ve been less redheadish with my driving. But mango butter and carpeted stairs?!

I fell years and years ago on steep steps with an infant in my arms. My daughter. I learned that the instinct to protect contorts the body into totally different reactions. I didn’t handle the fall the way I did last night. I went inward. Making gravity land me, bang me around and bringing my daughter into me like some falling engulfing blanket. She barely noticed.

This was a more violent fall. I confess to calling on Jesus rather profanely. So, perhaps I wasn’t calling. I was protesting. It turns out you can talk and hold ice packs on your numerous wounds while two animated and briefly horrified girls chatter away, getting you to reminisce about high school and even younger days when the steep hills were an invitation to risk wound for thrill on a bike accustomed to my reckless ventures. That’s it. I needed a bike for those stairs. That blue bike. My transport to heights and blurring curves soaring me painlessly through time.

Anything but mango butter. At least my feet are STILL smooth…