How Degeneracy Happens

 Biblical parable reveals how Republicans degenerated into trumpism.

The words of Jotham, as presented in the book of Judges, chapter 9:

 

Once the trees went forth to anoint a king over them, and they said to the olive tree, “Reign over us!”

But the olive tree said to them “Shall I leave my oil, by which both gods and men are honored, to hold sway over the trees?”

Next, the trees said to the fig tree, “Come and be our king!”

But the fig tree replied, “Should I give up my wine, which cheers both god and men, to hold sway over the trees?”

Finally, all the trees said to the thrornbush, “Come and be our king!”

The thornbush said to the trees, “If you really want to anoint me king over you, come and take refuge in my shade; but if not, then let fire come out of the thornbush and consume. . .”

Glass half-Full   

The Dingl-dangles

 The dingle-dangle was was grafted, in utero, into  boys’ before they were born. It hangs between their legs. 

Later on, it stands up and tries to make its way in the world. Some guys like to let their dingle-dangle just go wild, do whatever it wants to do and eventually get them into trouble, or it may divert them into transy territory, also known as no-man’s land.

Some guys train their dingle to live according to traditional standards of propriety, valuing standards that are promulgated in religious or cultural traditions. Oftentimes, these disciplined dingle-danglers find their way to a productive fertility in the Utruss region of counter-party anatomical productivity. Hence, new dingle-dangle-bearing guys—or their cupcake counterparties—  are brought forth into the world community. 

The other phenom that happens is that a dingle-dangle will team up with the Utruss and and a cupcake-cutie will come along instead of another dingle-dangle.

In recent times, we have seen much confusion about these potentialities and there fruit-bearing actualities.

Nowadays, for instance, some folks say its okay for a high-and-mighty guy to mingle with a pornystar cupcake and then pay her vast sums of money to keep her cupcake mouth shut. The strange thing is even the religious people are going along with this. Weird, if you ask me.

But I digress.

Other folks want to fundamentally transform their wandering dingle-dangles into cupcake receptivity so they can enjoy the fruits of transitivity instead of the fruits of fertility.

Lately, it seems these potentialities have rendered themselves unto legal (or illegal) lethialities.

A lot of folks are bent out of shape about these developments, these days.

It seems to be a bigger issue than the earlier controversies about the colors of the dingle-dangles and the cupcake-cuties.

But the even worse disaster is what happened when so many confused folks got so fed up with the overload of confusion in this here modern life that they started randomly pointing their weapons of misdirected direction into locations where folks were congregated for one reason or another. . . and then imposing—without the authority of Rule of Law— death sentences on their fellow-citizens.

Thus we have total confusion across the land and all dingle-dangles and all cupcake-cuties and all in-betweens and and dragging-fiends are dangling in danger as they drag us into disaster faster and faster. Mass confusion reigns where, a long time ago, the Mass reigned.

And folks, we need to do something about this. Some citizens may need to woke up and some may need to settle down.

As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord, God willing.

God bless America, land that I love.

Glass half-Full

Wherefore Art Thou Romerica?

 What’s in a Story? 

A .doc, by any other name would read as well. So would a Story, were it not a “Story” called, retain that profound narrative which it presents without that title?

But wait!

Perchance, what light through yonder screen doth break? It is the new day, and our kindle is the sun. But wait! Hark! Our young protagonist breaks the stillness of our musing:

For my mind misgives some consequence yet hanging in cyberspace . . . shall literarily begin with our .docs’ revels.

Hark! again I say. What light through yonder screen doth break? It is the .doc, and our story is the sun, uprising in fair America, where we lay our scene:

Oh, it doth light our devices to burn so bright! It seems our words do hang upon that sight, as a narrative in a tablet’s gear— with drama too dark to be so lit, with plot too profound to be disclosed, methinks, without the turning of a yellowed, textured page.   Oh, Lamentable day! Literature, wherefore is thy thing?

And yet, and yet! the show must go on!

And so it does, once. . .

 upon a midnight dreary, while we yet  linger, weak and weary, o’er many a bright and lit-up tablet of begotten lore. . .

While we ponder, nearly napping, comprehending what will be the ending, in this quaint and curious story that this errant writer hath put forth. . . But wait! 

Who goes there?!

Suddenly here comes a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, ringing at my cellphone door.

“Oh shut that door!”

 Hie, hence, be gone away! thou intrusive denizen of postmodern life!

 Thou art but a distraction to be cast aside.  T’is a call of no consequence, I daresay; they’ll ring me back on the morrow. Let ‘em call me while the sun doth shine, not while in my dark reading I yearn to resign! To mine own tablet will I be glue’d, not to yon beastly cell-phone zoo!

Methinks this AI'd session may yet prove profound, if I  but persevere, not yielding to this phoney bird that squawks within my writer’s ear. I’ll not be distracted, nay, not by any phonish intrusion. Such urgency is but an (aside) to confusion.

Anon, back now to this quaint and curious doorway of our story, whereupon we do anticipate some serious creative glory! 

Perk ye now, while we contrive to kindle this contraption ,  arriving at some storied satisfaction, here in fair Romerica, where we lay our scene. Even now, as the noddy head of drama-driven plot doth compete

with a midnight dreary, for our weak and weary attention, so soon are we  moved to be moody and yet so soon moody to be moved!

Hereupon in our chosen setting, our pesky phone not abetting. . .  anon, in that embattled District of Columbia where we lay our scene, we find . . . ’t’is a national bad dream!  Yet here, here in our backlit drama, while litinating some terrible American trauma, we come upon our fair hero, Democreo, who, with our disintegrating writer’s dream, we endeavor to redeem. But wait! Cometh he here now . . . Democreo, He speaks:

“Gentlemen, what? what! Cease and desist from this destruction!

 Oh Republeo! . . . The Law expressly hath Forbid’n such obstruction! Insurrection in our fair Capitol, inside our very Dome, ye say?!

Hast thou lost thy mind today?!

Stand ye down now; cease this foul destruction! 

Rather, redeem this Congress from your obstruction.

 Furthermore, Republeo, cease and desist,

 Lest by your rebellion our Republic cease to exist!”

( Aside, in yon backlit background. . . a scuffle erupts.  After a moment of smoke and scuffle, a cry:)

Democreo: “What now? ‘Z’wounds! ’t’is a cut, I say, the unkindest cut of all!”

Romerica: “Oh, but Rally, all ye, now, who hear my cry! Fetch a Constitution surgeon, to suture us here, before our American union, now so untimely ripp’d, doth come undone!

Oh “Z’wounds! Now our Democreo here— still he doth stumble, while yet he doth begin to mumble. . .

Democreo: “’Tis nothing, man, nothing but a scratch. . . and yet . . . ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.”

Romerica: But hark! still yet doth not all Romerica decry!  unto our citizenry, with such urgency,  this dire emergency!  

 Democreo: “Z’ounds! ’tis not so deep as a deathblow, nor as wide as a Capitol door, but ’tis enough. Ask for us tomorrow, and you shall find us in an Arlington van.”

Now deep within our nation’s story dreary,

while we tremble , weak and weary. . .

Lady Liberty holds high her harboring pyre

until our online license doth expire . . .

“Oh, Romerica, RomericAI !, wherefore art thou, Romerica?” 

(Intermission) 🎹. . . 🎶

Glass Chimera

Tale of '08 to '23 from me to Thee

2008! Don’t be late!

Shake us up some funny money; outlook’s sunny, honey!

We Boardwalk hawk’n, Park Place talk’n 

Hawk us up some Wall street talk.

Wallow in some MBS’n holler, makin’ CDOs from debit dollars

I stream, you scream, everybody stream american dream

Find some money make us money yield us up some funny money

Cuz Fed obscurity profits Mortgage-backed securities. 

While words of the prophets get written on the subway walls

Words of the babyl get scriven in the wallstreet halls

Digitizing instruments yield convoluted increments. 

Yields percolate uptown while derivatives clowns make rounds.

Funny money fleecing free on quantitative easing tree

London bridges falling down yield margin calling here uptown.

Quantitative easing trees yield monetizing easy fees.

Flyover country buildings yield  adventure capital rising deals

 blinking thinking winking bringing flyover country sinking

Tea Party farty warty wielding starty farty beanie weenee

GDP Economy yielding GOP lobotomy

In flyover country’s Deep State suspicion

while Demmies  do their deepstate rendition.

As Coastal hosts toast wallstreet rally,

Fannie Freddie Teddy Sally,

King’s in check while Queen’s in debt

Day traders go for all they can get

Now here’s a Wall Street wreck!

Oh heck! Now Main Street’s in check.

But the Joker has his Park Place money;

Now he makes his move so phony

So Joker jolts his casino poker

pokin’ at Dem deepstate wokers 

jokin’ bout some  Demo woke.

But really now it ain’t no joke!

Next thing you know all hell’s broke loose

with our Capitol strung in riot noose.

So send the Joker back’t MarLago

cuz his Capitol pokers’ turned whacko

in a  Joker/ Towcker ’n Foxy show

as good ole Joe said  now we know

cuz good boy Mike said No! I won’t go,

while WaPoTimes yet come and go

sayin’ see! I told you so!

And that’s the way things be

here and now in ’23!

Glass half-Full 

Ole Noah

 Ole Noah. . .

He lead a quiet life,

always tried to be. . .

He heard about the ones who

rambled and strayed from the path;

. . .never thought he’d live to see the freedom

     . . . never thought he’d live to see. . . . .the day

            . . . ’til he turned around one day and had to say. . .          

                  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4NwAfe_bCQ

                            ("Welcome to the Ark")

                                            

                                                                                                                        Glass half-Full

A Silk Purse!

 Down here in the South we have an old saying about any person who is trying to take something that is bad and make it look good:

Why, he’s tryin’ to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!

We’ve heard tell that some foxy news commentator was a-tryin’ to gather up a bunch of old movies a’showin’ that the Confederate rampage attack on our Congress weren’t really an attack, but 't'was just like some kinda walk in the park.

 Walk softly and carry a big stick, huh, Kevin?

A walk in the park, huh. . . like as if them proud boys from out in the sticks somewhere decided that their time of standin’ back was all stood out and that their standin’ by had to give way to a lolly’gaggin’ out to a the pig pen where they would just twist off an ear or two of corny ole’ hog footage and wrangle it into some kinda silky-smith video so folks watchin’ it on TV would think the maga mob was just having a stroll through the dome like the ole folks at home. . . meanwhile back at the ranch there's some fellers out there settiin' up a gallows for some fella named Joe. I don't reckon they found him though.

Well, Tuck, by an' by really what was happ’n, seemed to me--an' I just saw it on TV, y'know, was breakin’ and enterin’.  I mean, at the very least . . Last time we checked that was a crime.

I  mean, there was one person who died in that excursion but I hear’d tell that she was the one breakin’ and enterin’. Crime don't pay is what they taught us back in the day, back in the good ole days but I guess them good ole days are long gone by now.

Well, good luck, Tuck!  If you can make all that look like a walk in the park, my hat’s off to ya ‘cuz you shonuff are one foxy news manipulator!

 Glass half-full

Wo/ke is Broke

Our examination of human history reveals an ancient understanding that any baby born out of a woman’s womb comes equipped with sexual organs that "assign" either male or female identity to that newborn child.

In recent years, some people have re-defined sexual identity by other criteria. In their belief, sexual identity is determined as a matter of choice by each individual. 

Our collective, contemporary attitudes about this sexual identity revision reveals a difference of opinion among various groups in society.

This development in our society is relatively new, controversial, and furthermore, it is divisive. There have been many contentious incidents surrounding these re-definitions, and how the differences are manifested in our institutions, especially the schools.   

But we can, as Americans, resolve these differences peacefully—and we can negotiate and litigate peacefully through the many institutional disputes that surround redefining sexual identity. 

I submit to you that this gender identity issue is so fundamental to human experience, and yet presently disruptive, that the two diverging definitive positions constitute two different—for lack of a better word— religions. 

For the sake of simplicity, let’s just say that those citizens who believe in individualized sexual identity are progressives.

And those citizens who retain the orthodox definitions we call traditionalists.

Any institutional disputes that arise are—and ought to be—  resolved by referring to our Constitution’s First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the exercise thereof. . .

 

Rights of gender non-conformity, trans, drag, LGBTQ, et al are as fundamental for their proponents as religious issues are for traditionalists. 

The differences are so deep that they amount to two different religions, and therefore are both defensible in the context of the 1st Amendment. 

They are not, however, standards of behavior to be universally imposed on school children.

While tolerance ought to be encouraged in every area of life, in recent years, any possible resolution of these disputes has been confounded by lumping the issues of sexual identity with issues surrounding racial equality, under a  uselessly vague term, “woke.”  

These two areas of  "identity" are fundamentally different. One originates in nature; the other in human belief.

We have a long, very complicated, violent working out of the racial equality issues. Education about these historically divisive contentions— the historic struggle, the civil war, the societal and legal establishment of civil rights— is the key to establishing societal correction and tolerance. It is not a dispute about Religion, but about equality before the Law. 

The relevant Constitutional Right is stated in our 13th Amendment:

“Neither slavery, nor involuntary servitude. . . shall exist within the United States. . .”

. . . and our 14th Amendment: . . .No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. 

Glass Chimera 

We Baby Boomers

 After the world war

American men came home in droves.

The VA built  little houses for them

with refrigerators and stoves

and a Chevrolet in the driveway

or a Ford for the highway

Plymouths and Dodge here and there

and Ramblers, Studebakers somewhere

on the road, maybe on the new Interstate

highways . . . all that after

 a world war came undone.

I arrived in ’51, son of a gun

with Davy Crockett on the run,

Howdy Doody a lotta fun.

We had a ’55 station wagon, 

little cookie-cutter GI-bill house 

on a quiet street, not much going on

except for all those little boomer feet

trompin’ from yard to yard.

Life was never hard

compared to what our soldiers went through, 

starting in 1942. 

We got through it without having to

duck into the bomb shelter.

You never knew what Khruschev might do

banging his shoe, “We’ll bury you!

Now its Putin who 

might be launching up a few

nukes.

makes me puke

to think about it.

But I digress.

You know the rest,

if you’re a boomer too.

There are still a few of us.

Glass half-Full