emneville

The world through my eyes relayed to you through my keyboard.

A Hard Time For Voters

Man, times are hard for American voters. The candidates are so close that deciding who would be best at destroying the country is much like deciding between shoving one’s head up an elephant’s ass while he’s shitting, licking the slime off the underside of a slug the size of an elephant, or shoving one’s head into a running wood chipper. Let’s list.

 

Donald J Trump: I understand that the “J” stands for blustering Carnival barking con man. Listen Trump supporters: I won’t call you stupid, ignorant or crazy. I will, however, say that if you want America to crash land into the sun, keep doing what you’re doing.

 

Bernie Sanders: He’s a lot of fun. He’s smart, as well. I’ve said many times to many people that American democracy is nothing more than socialism with a clause that allows crooks, thieves, visionaries, and innovators to get filthy rich. I’m sure the democracy idea didn’t seem so bad back when the nation building was on the backs of African slaves.

 

Hillary Clinton: I know. She’s kind of cold and political-like. Women – especially Black women – seem to hate her. I don’t get it. Not only did she stand by her man through tough circumstances, she got universal healthcare introduced into congress. At that time, she was First Lady, not even an elected political official. Think about it.

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Dry State Blues

We have serious problems in this country, the great USA. The National Rifle Association – along with politicians whose palms are leaf green with the ink from NRA money – insist that Americans are safe no matter how many assault weapons flood the country as long as we discriminate against Muslims. Nobody kills Americans more than other Americans.

 

The next problem in this country is even more horrifying than the first. There are people who refuse to use the term “Radical Islamist” to refer to lone wolf maniacs who massacre innocent people. People like Timothy McVeigh and Ted Kaczynski (The Unabomber) inundate my mind. I’m sure that somewhere in their respective murderous lily white DNA’s exists Islamic Terrorists who exists as ghosts of Adolf Hitler. Hitler has it like that in the ghost world.

 

There’s a much bigger problem here in the great State of Indiana, however. That problem is that our state goes bone dry of alcohol sales every Sunday. It’s stupid really. Will Jesus love me less if I drink on Saturday night? Will he smite me if I buy liquor on Sunday? The people who drink at restaurants before midnight on Sundays seems to be doing fine, and some of those places only serve hotdogs and popcorn.

 

Indy. Do you really want the Olympics to come to town? Get you Sunday sales shit together.

Guns are the Bomb

Well, here we are, America. Omar Mateen used an assault weapon to murder forty nine innocents and wound fifty three others. It’s hard to be funny here, but I’m intrepid. I’ll try.

Guns are the new bombs. I know. It doesn’t make a goddamned bit of since, since guns were created before bombs. Or were they? Hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that the greatest country on earth has gun policies that make Donald Trump look like Albert Einstein.

America has to embrace common sense. Only in America can a maniac pass a test of eating a gravy boat of chocolate flavored whipped cream in order to have access to a rifle that can kill six full-grown grizzly bears with one magazine. Thankfully, the bears don’t know how to shoot assault rifles. Let’s face it. Bears are Godless killing machines with only their respective wits, strength, and claws. They’re omnivores. They’ll eat anything. Imagine what they would do if they could kill everything with an AR-15.

One thing is for sure. Americans would be mad if bears could handle guns. Nobody likes killing Americans more than other Americans. Wake up America. The 2nd Amendment is archaic and stupid. Change is needed direly. Is that funny enough? I don’t think so.

Radicalization

Donald Trump claims that President Obama’s refusal to use the term “Radicalized Islam” renders the leader of the free world a terrorist. I don’t know which word to use, preposterous or ridiculous. So I’m going to use “prediculous”. The only thing more prediculous than purporting that President Obama is a terrorist, is the notion that any graduate from Trump University (other than Donald Trump) will ever make a dime from his teachings.

Let’s not stop there, though. There are far more dangerous radicalizations out in the world. I’ll name a few.

Radicalized Spiders: It rained almost all day today. I opened the back door for no other reason than I was bored. The spider scrambled to get in. I scrambled to stop it. The spider won. Not because it was faster, but because I was holding a cold beer. Put the beer down, President Obama. Donald Trump might get into the White House.

Radicalized Clouds: That’s right. I see them pointing their gun barrels at me from the sky. Why wouldn’t they? They can get cloud assault weapons even easier than a psychopathic mercenary can get an assault weapon from Wal-Mart.

Radicalized Girl Scouts: Don’t act like you haven’t seen them perched outside of supermarkets wielding the best tasting cookies on earth, and daring you to make eye contact with them. Once you make eye contact, you’re doomed.

I guess, when you think about it, we’re all Radical Islamists.

Trumpology

I have a simple philosophy. At any given time in America, 25% – 40% of the population is stupid. At times, I’m among them. At other times, I’m really smart. I think most of the time most of us live somewhere in the middle.

 

I attributed the legion of Trump followers to the random 25% – 40% until I had an epiphany. Trump supporters aren’t as much stupid as they are angry. They’re angry with politicians and politics, and they’ve decided to beat the rest of America with those cat o nine tails that is Trump’s hair.

 

I liken it to a parent looking out of the window, watching his young son throw a brick through the next door neighbor’s window, and then walking to the neighbor’s house and beating the neighbor’s son. Then, after being released from jail, the parent storms over to the neighbor’s house, screams to his son that he’s a looser, and then claims his own son is a winner for not getting caught.

 

Please don’t do it, my Trump-Americans. Please don’t make the rest of us suffer because you’re angry. Call Dr. Phil.

Understanding

People need to understand that the mass murders that took place at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida had nothing to do with ISIS. It had everything to do with an insane, evil man named Omar Mateen who hated himself so much that he decided to take his rage out on innocent people from the LGBT community. It’s sort of like the followers of Donald Trump.

That being said, people need to understand that Donald Trump’s use of this tragedy to proclaim that he was right regarding banning Muslims from entering the USA is like a passenger jet claiming that it’s safer to travel by walking down the center of a major interstate. We sane people clearly understand that the biggest threat to American lives is other Americans. Has anybody heard of Sandy Hook, or the church in Charleston, South Carolina?

Do you know what I don’t understand? I don’t know why Americans are so fierce about having the freedom to buy guns that can blow up a satellite in outer space, even though deer can’t travel nor breathe there. How about former Vice President Dick Cheney shooting a supporter in the face because the quail decided that they would rather die than fly? I’m all for owning a gun to protect my life, my family’s lives, and my home, but do I really need an AR 15? If I needed to use it in my home, wouldn’t my family be in just as much danger as the intruders?

Understand this. LGBT community, stay strong. You’ve fought too hard and persevered too strongly to let these Trump-like attacks stop you from living your lives.

Castleton Square Riot

Well, we recently had another free-for-all at Castleton Square here in Indy that caused the mall to shut down. I know what you’re thinking. I’m here to talk about how Black adults with poor parenting skills have moved to Northeastern Indy, and their progeny will eventually do to Castleton Square what they did to Lafayette Square. You’re wrong. I’m here to talk about something far more important.

It’s been reported that a number of participants were as young as fourteen-years-old. Fourteen. If any of you have seen the videos, you can see many of them, who, like most of the boys, were holding their respective trousers up with one hand while punching with the other hand. I guess it’s still a fair fight when both combatants are punching with only one hand. But that’s not even what’s important.

I can say it on one word. Curfew. Are you kidding me? My curfew in high school started out at 11pm. I bitched it up to midnight in my sophomore year of high school. My friends were going to parties and dances that lasted until 3am. I was frustrated because I had to go home so early. They were frustrated because they often had to drop me off home between parties.

I’m not stupid. Of course I broke curfew, but I was rarely more than an hour late. Sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn’t. I turned 18 on 12/05/1975. My curfew endured until I graduated high school in June of 1976 where it converted to a 3am curfew. For six months a grown-assed man with a job had to be home by midnight, or he’d get his car taken away – a car provided to him by the parents invoking the curfew. The only way I could get out of the curfew was to go off to college.

Okay, maybe having a curfew wasn’t so bad. It helped to provide a modicum of discipline to a largely undisciplined young man. I got enough discipline to know to not ruin a good time with a fight, or go home first. I learned, also, to wear a belt whenever needed.

New Year Lament

Happy New Year, everybody! I worked a normal 10-hour day picking cotton in Whitestown on New Years Eve, so I was too tired to consider doing anything for New Years Eve. Okay, that’s a lie. Yes, I was tired, but I did have considerations that I simply turned down cold.

Work friends were meeting up at Latitude 39 in Castleton. I like Latitude 39. There’s a lot going on even though the one time I’ve been there I only bowled. My bowling smelled like a dead elephant carcass, smothered in human baby shit, and sprayed by the urine of a cat with a urinary tract infection. The pizza was excellent. I had been drinking, and, like smoking weed, late night drinking makes duck billed platypus liver taste like medium rare filet mignon. Still, I like the place. I live in Eagle Creek, though. The drive to Castleton is as long as it takes Andrew Luck to throw the damned football.

That being said, I’ve driven long distances with the capability of blowing well over a 0.08 on the breathalyzer as many times as Steeler’s quarterback Ben Roelthisberger’s skin cells beg for him to stop tanning. I’ve been stopped only once. The cops let me go. I had enough outstanding citations to start a forest fire in a swamp, but I’d made it to within a thousand feet of my residence. I could hear grumblings among the three officers regarding the late hour, and the amount of paperwork.

I considered attending the New Years Eve festivities downtown on Georgia Street. Visions of the Super Bowl festivities – so crowded I was scared to move my arms for fear of being accused by somebody of inappropriately sexual touching danced in my head. Besides, it was cold out. That, however, wasn’t the true reason why I didn’t go. I didn’t go because, well, that seemed like a date destination – you know, a man and a woman, or same sex couples on a date. I thought it would be pathetic for me to show up alone. Pathetic. I know I’m pathetic, but that doesn’t mean have to demonstrate it to the entire world. I kept my yellow ass home.

Good things happened. I didn’t get killed. I didn’t kill anybody. I saved money, and I wrote this essay. I like to think that something good happened.

Christmas Lament?

Another holiday season has past. It was my 57th. I know this sounds cliché, but over at least the past decade, the holiday season has more and more become a string of simply regular days that do little more than remind me of how long I’ve been on this earth.

I haven’t gotten or given any gifts over the last few Christmases. The last Christmas gift I received was a few years ago. It was a pair of Perry Ellis pajama pants. They were navy blue, with green and white plaid. They had two hip pockets and a single button opening in front where a man needs it most – for at least two reasons. You know what I mean.

Those comfy-assed PJ pants lasted me for a few years, and then I discovered a nine-inch tear at the left buttock this past summer. I wore those suckers until the rip was so long you could see my pasty left leg from space. I gave gifts the year I received those pants, I just don’t remember what they were and to whom they went.

I decided that I’d give myself a gift – something useful. Gloves, maybe. I lost my left leather glove, and I refuse to discard the right one just in case his prodigal brother decides to return home. How about house shoes? The ones I’m wearing at this very moment leave crumb trails everywhere. If I had free-flying birds for pets, they would’ve choked to death by now.

Suddenly, on Christmas Day, it came to me. I knew exactly what I needed. I decided to buy myself some good old-fashioned pornography. I didn’t want the free, soft-core stuff. I wanted the porn where the participants painfully contort themselves to ensure that the viewer sees every second of penis, vagina contact.

I went to my trusty AT&T U-verse Adults Only menu, and trolled for some serious visual sexual stimulation. Suddenly, however, I found myself blindsided by a stunning development that left my blood as cold as a snake, frozen in ice, at the North Pole.

I had, apparently, been away from cable porn longer than I’d thought because the fees had skyrocketed from $6.00 for a two-day rental, to $11.00 to $18.00 for a two to four hour rental. Two to four HOURS, it is! Isn’t that what crack whores charge? I trolled, and trolled, and trolled, until I found more suitably priced porn, at $7.00, with some two-day rentals.

I investigated. That menu offered what seemed to be mostly girl-on-girl action. I like it, but I’d never pay for it. I picked a movie. It was titled: “10 Dirty Students”. You know what I thought I’d see. What I got was 10 girls with hairless vaginas performing poses that wouldn’t stimulate an ex-con paroled after having served 50-years in Satan’s personal hell prison. Merry Christmas to me.

Having wasted seven bucks, I decided to do something I’d procrastinated against for many months for no good reason other than being selfish and stupid. I called a very good friend I’d made during my 12 years in LA. I won’t use his name, but I will say that he’s been heavily afflicted with various maladies, the main one being bone marrow cancer. He’s confined to a wheelchair, and takes chemotherapy almost daily. I hadn’t spoken with him in well over five years. He was so excited to hear from me, he forgot who I was halfway through our conversation. I’d forgotten how important of a friend he was to me. Merry Christmas to me. I had a great Christmas.

Amazon Peak 2014

I’m exhausted. I’m tired, anxious, and perturbed as I celebrate the close of “Peak Season” at Amazon.com, Whitestown.

I’m tired because 60-hour weeks at Amazon.com means ten hour days at six days per week for three weeks. That’s eighteen workdays out of twenty-one calendar days. That’s work that makes me loopy, and math that makes me stupid.

I’m anxious because the lack of rest has rendered me emotionally warped and in pain. I’m all but bereft of inhibition. I want to snap on somebody, but I know that would be wrong. Besides, it would probably be somebody at work. They’d be just as crazy as I am, and I’m fairly certain that everybody in the building can kick my ass.

There’s a three-way tie for what most perturbs me about “Peak 2014”. First, the number of men I’ve seen primping in the bathrooms is not only disturbing it’s nauseating. Dude, your braids are too frizzy, your facial hair will never grow in like a grown man’s, and do us all a favor and bathe every now and then.

Second, at least twice a day you virtually have to take a ticket to get into a bathroom commode. That’s right. I often crap twice a day at work. Fourteen miles of fast walking daily promotes a high metabolic rate. Shitting is what the commode is for, not napping.

Third, I’ve seen more ass-crack during “Peak 2014” than I’ve seen in the ten years preceding it. Anywhere. Wearing ill-fitting clothes is a personal choice. Work at Amazon.com, however, requires a great deal of squatting, stooping, and bending. Excuse me if I’m offended by constantly viewing the gateways to your respective shit factories.

Working at Amazon.com is an adventure, really. The money is decent, so a fiscally responsible person is inclined to stay. Learning how the facility works, however, is like watching a soap opera in a foreign language. You kind of get the gist of what’s going on, but, damn, you really would like to understand the words being spoken. It’s often like trying to figure out the freemasons or the illuminati.

I guess what I’m saying here is that eighteen ten hour work days out of twenty one days at Amazon.com is like eyelid piercings, lipsticked lip print tattoos on the neck, and reality shows featuring celebrities. It’s just too much. There was a temp guy working the shipping dock with a fully grilled mouth. It was all I could do to not throw a handful of magnates at his face.

“Peak of 2013”, I was still fresh at less than six months in the fields. I survived. “Peak of 2014”, I was angry almost every day. I laughed and joked, but prayed daily that nobody would see the pain behind my eyes. I survived again. For “Peak of 2015”, I’m wondering whether or not the first mention of the word “peak” would warrant a well-placed bullet in my own brain.