Scruffy’s..Blurgh!

~c. –c. 1984 B.C., Before Christ

what is a poetry contest? (Depends how you define IS) And how do you decide who won it (between the finalists being considered for the ‘big hair’-like crown); and what immediately comes to mind as being the correct answer for that is: 0ne sucks..and the other sucks a little bit less harder, ha-ha. Poets! wake up!! These people have it figured out..like the Clinton’s and their foundation. If there was a Jeopardy answer to that it would be this: WHAT IS A ‘SUCKER’ ALEX? and the question (or whatever) would have been P.T. BARNUM SAID, “THERE IS ONE OF THESE BORN EVERY MINUTE.”

~c.

PS: Keep writing, genius, –one day it’ll pay off.

and then there was nothing I can think of, for a very long time..Oh yes! and after that there was the ripe old age of 40, hit; and, of a sudden! the alarms went off, all the bells and whistles and we heard the order to..DIVE! Doctor opened the door to our exam-room, came in, looked around, stared blankly, and left. In a couple minutes he came back and asked if it was me (Chris Robertson). I said, “Yeah, that’s me.” and he had all these folders with the reports and evaluations of my blood tests. And so we studied him; and he studied us back, and so I said, “What.” And he shook one of the folders at me and said, “Based on these numbers I expected to find a 400-lb. man hibernating in a wheelchair.” (Mm-mm!) And I kept looking at him, and said, like, “Okay..what’s next?” And he said, “You’re going to die.” And he stared, deadpan, quizzically, letting the words hang there; then he cracked a slight grin, so I knew everything was basically okay; except I had a joker for a doctor..Doctor Jokester and Mr. Snyde, it was a snide remark, see? in the sense we shall all die, in God’s good time (except the Rapture). So, as it turned out I didn’t have A) narcolepsy, I had a thyroid with ZER0 function that made me sleepy all the time (from the nuclear radiation therapy I got when I was two after they cut out the tumor up in Burney from my shoulder, south of Mt. Shasta..and north, a little, of Weed; and a little while later, all the Strontium-90 dust blowing over from the A-bomb tests in Las Vegas when we were living in Newhall, California back of the San Fernando Valley); and then next on the list i didn’t have B) a hernia, I had what he termed a severe groin pull, and I remembered what gave me that; and whatever the third complaint was about, C) I didn’t have that either..yet! And, well, you promised..you promised to cherish me in sickness and in health. So here’s to that health! So then it went along fine with the new thyroid med’s for some years following, and laying off the lifting of heavy items, a little, like submarines, and, and tanks..You’re welcome! And so here at the Seashell Bar&Grill this morning, having an espresso and a soggy bagel with you with lots of cream cheese, looking back to the start of the new age, and our new millennium together up to now, my heart health-book grew fat, its pages un-slenderized with the dodgy details of 1) my hernia surgeries; and lots of NORCOs with that, –To the pain! while I line-danced, with a cane, at The Convention Center..following my discharge from hospital (so I could say I did); and 2) the amnesia’s, Spellbound! from the Hungarian Tokaji plus Hitchcock on our anniversary (lying on a bed, again, under casual observation after being ambulanced-down for the rarely diagnosed Transient Global Amnesia’s, or TGAs, as they say, with the vital functions monitors going BEEP! occasionally, watching the Ferguson deal unfolding being hosted by Megyn Kelly and her black leather skirt on FOX, –thanks Obamma! (if you had a daughter I don’t think she’d look like Megyn); and 3) the roto-rootering of my heart’s artery when it came to that and i was lying on my back on the cold concrete looking at marmalade skies waiting for the answering-quite-slowly ambulance to arrive and take me to all the newspaper heli-copter’s (waiting at the FAKE NEWS heliport) when I had my first coronary event..and long overdue; and then 4) peeing blood and visceral blobs with it from the cancer that was up there in my bladder, in your airbnb you were cleaning for Gary over there in Big Bear Lake, –in Gary’s toilet, Oy! And lately the surgeries and treatments for it numbering about a dozen, give or take, and interrupted only by 5) the life-saving four-way heart by-pass, with Dr’s Hilliard and Chung looking in on me through that, Hilliard making all the arrangements for it on quite short notice; and first night out after they chain-saw open my chest, fighting with Ci-Ci my night nurse from New York who was trying to kill me, I swear! dying of thirst, right after the surgery; and then, after noodling on the sax a couple of months to re-build my strength, back to the new #6, –the tubercular instill/feeds in ward in series in my bladder, and all of that; and still you hung in there with me in my sicknesses and my health’s. And so that’s why I got fluttery-feet’s syndrome..or FFS – not yet officially diagnosed – from all the love you give me without reserve and for that – plus the helium I suspect they inflate in the balloons on the end of the Foley catheter’s they shove up there Friday’s – I cannot stay earthbound; and for that, and all of the rest of it..and so much more, I love you! Now please help, won’t you? with getting this submarine cut loose from my leg (or my ankle, actually), here’s these torches, here, please cut it..it’s becoming a bother; and tanks!

~c.

“PS:I Love You..You-oo, you-oo Yu-u-u-u! I love You!” (Thanks,Paul.) And I think also if they..if they were between us, betwixt you and me..you and I, –I! I would fight the whole Russian Military Machine, with only my pocket switch-blade pen-knife in my hand, just to go get re-marry’d with you in Vegas; and an Elvis or two on the side to sing us that song, a song we love so much, –“Fly me to the moon! let me play amongst the star-r-r–rz, –in other words, hold..” (segue) “..and I-I-I (Clap-clap!), say that something..I wanna hold your ha-a-a-nd, –Komm, gib mir deine hand!” ~Tolstoy, Dostoevski, and Poe, Esq’s..the BEATLES! (“And Evgeny’s grandmother over there on drums.”)

I’ll just say this about that..the last time we had an administration that was bucking for creating a giant power vacuum in distant lands, we wound up with Arab Spring and a blonde lady reporter getting gang raped over there as an example of what to look forward to with our new migrant neighbors when they get here with their gold standard for personal behaviour. Was that a good thing? (Oh, and then a string of events that quickly lead to Benghazi..then OCCUPY WALL STREET, –and “HANDS UP, DON’T SHOOT!” etc., etc.) Now, some of our politicians are crying out for assassinations of Russia’s president. Their names are Lindsay Graham (or kracker Graham, as I like to call him) and some total weird-o goes by ‘Kinzinger’ (is he related to Henry, Henry Kinzinger? the dog wants to go out, she’s been out two times..I guess she thinks I can’t count, well! I can..can-can!! anyway..and I can out art Art Buchwald any day of the week, by the way). So where was I? Oh yeah, we have to assassinate Vladimir Putin! Why?? because two of our cracked’est crack-pot politicians said so, WHAT?? Where is The Squad in all of this? Don’t they love communists???? Why are they so strangely silent? (This is turning into a rant by the way, I forgot to mention it.) Where were all these harpy’s when the sanbernardinocountycodeenforcement’s were shutting down our small Mom&Pop business back in the Gay (nineteen) 90’s?? Nobody wanted to save the trees then!!!!!! I lost probably over a million dollars’ value when that happened, one way or another. So Putin’s just another little Mom&Pop power player in a weird, weird world of increasingly strange bedfellows for an analogy with that, our situation with the bureaucrats..minus the Mom; and don’t you think he’s being disproportionately blamed for all the troubles on the planet right about now? It’s something to look at. I’m not saying Vladimir Putin is George Bailey righteously saving all the huddled masses from Old Man Potter and his wicked schemes to steal their humble hovels and turn them all into airbee-n-bee’s for his profit and pleasure, but! how about some comp’s in all of this? Let’s be fair and pull up Nancy Pelosi and all the evil sidekicks and look at that. How is Russia’s duly elected president – same fair elections as we got – worse than any one of our nincompoop career politicians who have stolen reins of power to create a permanent rental agreement for themselves in old d.c. and reign over us and line their pockets by taxing our taxes for being taxable because of all the forms we are compelled to fill out that makes us liable for all the taxes, –sign on the line! what about that? And then on top of all of it, we have to see their stupid ugly faces on the internet all day because we are creatures of habit; and we are certainly habituated to computers and tele-phones..and all of the rest of it. What now, what’s next?? So when biden got s’elected everybody instantly lost 50% of his&hers net worth, conservatively speaking, and now they’re fixing to un-value all of the rest. Q:What’s a mother to do??

Answer: Go to church. Go to church and pray..P-R-A-Y, pray! Pray for Ukrainians, pray for Russians..even pray for Nancy Peloski, I am not her judge, but I would certainly be relieved if she retired and took up knitting or something. Yeah, knitting! That would be something..Dear Lord, give her the needles.

~c.

ps: I am just suggesting that things are not always like the Mass Snooze Media seems to think they are..Chow

here thinking of coffee?” I petted Steve’s cat, then lightly turned the page from wakeful, early morning consciousness back onto a serene landscape of peaceful slumbers..and seen a vision. They aks’d me to join the team and play ball with them (baseball, they needed a pitcher), and I absolutely do not play baseball; or any kind of team sport for that matter to be sure, but it was kind of a MINOR,minor leagues division thing anyway&quite out-of-the-blue and they seemed to think I’d do okay and gave me the feeling I was needed, and there was a confidence in my natural abilities to lead so Isaid,” What the hell! if they’re askin’ I’m goin’!” So next I’m on the train heading for Game One with the guy who drafted me, and a couple, I don’t know who they were but we’re all on the same train (maybe they were the team’s owners). There was a TV showing some thing about a ranch way out there and it was a large, pleasant place with trees and old, empty horse corrals under high mountains (I think this guy and his wife or girlfriend owned it). There was a radio or stereo or something up on a shelf with a bunch of clutter around and it was playing music and nobody could make it turn off and somebody needed it silenced because he was taking a phone call, –maybe about the game? and it seemed like there was unwound tape inside gumming it up..8-Track? (We watched Episode 3 of The Prisoner before we nodded last night, maybe that explains all this..Number 6). But, so, we’re on this train; and then we stopped, I don’t recall why, and I noticed it was an elevated train we were on, running above another track on a trestle for support..it looked okay. And we were paused in front of someone’s dwelling and there was some dry cat-food on the track I guessed they put out to feed strays in the area (which was hilly; we were probably stopped to dump water from a tower for the steam locomotion). Then this guy gave me something like a baseball to practice with and that seemed like an idea! because the last time I played the game I was in the tee-ball leagues around 1962, and our coach was a Mr. Patton and his son Randy was on the team, too..Randy Patton, and of course there’s no pitcher in that game, that position is eliminated..except we did have somebody out on the mound (in case of a bunt??); and even with the ball set stationary on one of those so-called tees at the desired height, kids were striking out in front of an actual umpire (shame!); but I never did. Because Dad practiced with me after school and often on Saturday’s, getting my throwing-arm and catching skills up in the front of the house, which had kind of a yard with grass and some ivy – climbing up the stone foundations of the house and poured cement steps rising to the porch, shaded by the overhanging roof above the attic – ivy! crawling with snails..and I practiced hitting off a few of Dad’s pitches and I was a credible enough player, I suppose; though I lacked the competitive spirit and motivation and drive that spur one to continue along those lines into adolescence, when bodies of young boys who are disciplined enough with diet and exercise and all of those things begin to resemble those of athletes of another epoch, competing in ancient rituals near shores under a brilliant Aegean sun, –when all non-essential activity, including warfare, ceased! for those Olympian competitions, to the honor of a pantheon of Greek mythological figures, –which would have looked quite real to gaze at, seated upon their original perches flanked by these Ionian columns, and sculpted, with the artist’s eye unerringly conscious of seasonally shifting light-rays, affecting human perception in their varying illuminosity’s, –Greek artists..masters of make-believe making friezes about heroes, poised in battle, with Amazons! unlocking the vault containing nature’s deepest secrets; of similarities and differences between men and woman, of the eye and its relationship to the physical universe; and works, lately viewable exclusively in state museums (or, more likely for you, in a book), –of males, wrestling nude, locked in mortal combat in a moment in time, frozen in stone, or fired in kilns (on a vase, say), a discus’ throw from temples to gods of the locals, and their very involved religious systems of many immortal personalities, families of them, including Apollo, Adonis, Heracles..&Artemis, etc., etc; and in these games, c. 4th century B.C., there were other tests of useful skills, like shot-put, and spear throwing, requiring a beyond casual dedication to training, lifting weights, running, etc., for no other purpose than attaining top physical conditioning, and quick reflexes, in order to prevail, and in the end, receive that perishable crown, –which, some of the other guys I saw did that and got in the regular leagues where they had the opportunity to miss actual curve-balls, sliders and others, pitched! from the pitchers’ tool-box of pitches, eyes riveted on the prize, a baseball, while hearing, “Hey! batter-batter..SWING!” chanting from the dugout, and other taunts, spoken in lowered, lisping tones by catchers more learned in sports related oratorical skills than their young age would suggest, and of a far more personal character and a design to flummox..the man at bat; but I never got that advanced with it, preferring individual sports; if at all..anyway, I had a fiercely loyal dog named ‘Rex’ who adopted me and he more than made up for most of life’s shortfalls. So the train begins rolling again and I’m playing with the ‘baseball’ just feeling the weight of it in my hand and acclimating to its shape and scale, there; and suddenly it changes consistency, metamorphosing into a shriveled, spongey orange, quite useless for practice. So I show it to the guy, and I’m like, What’s up with that! so he gets me another one in better shape, and I then realize I have no mitt, too..no mittromney! and neither is that a problem. “Which hand, left or right?” he aks me. And I regard my (2) hands, imagining one of them catching a hot grounder and returning it with a lightning under-hand toss to the 2nd baseman, who relays it to first for an instant double-play! and have a sure feeling that I throw right-handed (though my batting stance was ‘lefty’ back in the second grade when I played..tee-ball! and I never progressed beyond that form because I seen too many kids eat a wild pitch or two; and that was not for me).

So now I got my mitt and we’re at the field where the game’s to be played, and it hasn’t started yet, so somehow I’m trying to imagine myself, intuitively pitching..like Koufax the celebrated left-hander did in the series to the MINNESOTA TWINS in a four game shut-out (or at least like Ernie Kovacs did it on the TV-show, wiggling his butt at the camera in a jocular fashion, and clenching that big black cigar in his teeth), –except I’m a right-hander; and I never pitched a game in my life; and I’m in kind of a tight little corner, here, trying to rise from a cot upon which I am bedded down way out past the edge of the diamond for some reason, in left-field, and I twist my ankle trying to get to the mound because of no useable space on the side I usually get out of the bed from..the right side of the bed; but I manage to get out and out to the diamond where everybody is expecting something and even though I haven’t been in the tee-ball leagues in well over fifty years I see no reason not to follow through with the arrangement of pitching this game. Why not?? and I’m saying to some of the dudes on the team I just joined, “Hey..wait till you see what I’m going to do to these your favorite pejorative for SLOW here!” (starts with ‘R’) “You guys won’t have much to do except hit home runs all day and a few grand slams.” Then I guess that was when I woke up. And was thinking back to some of the guys I knew who pitched hot fast-balls and curve’s (back in the 2nd through 7th grades; and it was real psychological for the sucker holding the bat trying to concentrate while the catcher’s telling him the next story) and one of them that had a red-hot throwing arm was my friend Chris J______, who got all the girls he was like a magnet with that and very mature (physically) with actual whiskers on his chin that his mom made him shave off if I happened to be around – maybe to spare my feelings – which, swinging a safety-razor a couple of licks, took about a minute with a sprinkle or two of water applied to the soap bar laying on the sink (Chris probably got all his testosterone by osmosis from having three older brothers); and he got the sister of a rival team’s pitcher for a girlfriend around that same time who lived out at the south edge of town at The Polynesian* (trailer-park) across the highway from the cemetery, and south of there, and she was very pretty and seemed to me very much a woman. (Wasn’t her name Chris, too?) But anyway Chris started going with her; and Gayle, also liked him and not me..Gayle W___, who I was fond of since the third grade when I changed schools and they shot Kennedy. (She made sure I saw her sitting with him at a football game, after we’d made it all the way to junior-high a few years later; probably so I’d stop bugging her, finally..but I digressed.) And I recall seeing this other girl’s brother, Merle, throwing some nice warm-up pitches before a game which had been part of an end-of-season serial elimination round, comprised of all the best players in the league from our town of Newhall to go to CIF and compete state-wide (all the redneck kids from Newhall enjoyed a kind of camaraderie on the road, and came home with lots of trophies from those things, since, to them, playing and fighting were not all that different from each other; and the referees somehow seemed to miss a lot of it). He had good form it seemed to me, the brother of Chris’s girlfriend – Chris, I’ll call her – and kind of a marine’s hair-cut, too (some kids were so serious); and then, in my freshly awakened state, live-streaming childhood memories on my pillow, I caught a glimmer of a girl that liked both of us Chris’s in our second-grade class which Mrs. Fox taught at Newhall Elementary named Natalie R____ and to me she was Aphrodite! and one day she got to come over and visit me at my house (??) and I was in heaven..we lived in the old manse by the Presbyterian Church (Dad preached there). We played house (we were married, of course). And I came out of my closet, or, in through the front door of our shanty, with my lunch-box in hand, home from a long, hard day at at work. And she was napping on the bed (according to script). And I went to her side and said, “I’m home, darling!” and she kissed me; and we were happy to be together again, at the end of another regular daily middle-class struggle with keeping lights turned on and a bit of bread on the table; and sweet seven-year-olds’ breath from daily brushings (as directed by the Department of Public Health, –?and who were we to defy their edict). And then we didn’t see each other much after that day except in class (where also we weren’t seated next to each other anymore, even though our last names had placed us initially at the same table together by alphabetical order; and random mathematical laws of chance..life is strange). But before there was Natalie in Mrs. Fox’s room, in the first grade there were two sisters, one very blonde and both had freckles..Nikki N_____, and her younger sister Teddy (I seem to recall their dad owned a construction company and I think he got bothered with me calling all the time that one Saturday while he was probably busy with something around the house on his day off). Nikki, who I liked best, had nice brown&white leather saddle-shoes and shock blonde braids and an overbite to die for; and the boys lined up on the playground at lunch-time by the monkey-bars, just to admire those shoes and get kicked in the shins with them..I, myself, preferring to enjoy their pain vicariously (maybe once I had that honor, but I don’t think her heart was in it, and I’m not really sure if that’s at all true..if it ever happened). Once, I got both of them – Teddy and Nikki – to come to a birthday party I was throwing that one year Dad got me a flying scale-model airplane with a liquid-fuel motor that was controlled by a lanyard connected at the plane’s wing-tip by two lead-wires maybe about twenty-five feet in length to a plastic handle-grip at the other end and it nose-dived in the pavement its first time up, UP!–then down. It was kind of through at that point; and I think I may have lost the photograph of me in red cowboy-boots parading it around in the presence of well-wishers, before the demise. I hadn’t been very good with kites, either, one of them still lodged – month after month, into fall and winter – in the crisp, dead branches of a mighty oak across the field next to horses behind barb’d-wire at the bottom of the hillside, –kite, and tree, no doubt! laughing heartily at me, my expense, and my airplane’s plight..I believe the mare neighed derisively, the stallion nodding approvingly at her assessment; and perched atop a neighboring power-pole catching that early December afternoon’s flower withering rays, a single, solitary raven had a word for me, he was chanting it..ever so slowly: “NE-VER-MORE!” I supposed I never would have made good with the Hitler Youth, either, had I been born in those halcyon days of sovereign adolescent knighthood’s, and glider clubs, wings of silver! on our chests, beating to a march on drums big as me..I, –no, not never! they would have, of a certainty! held me up to withering ridicule, joking in nazi-Deutsch to my disgraced countenence, “Sie wissen, dass die Trommel ihn noch kürser aussehen lässt!” (Trans: “You know that drum makes him look even shorter!”); kind of like how it was, presently it seemed to me (destiny of poets..like Icarus, crash and burn). Next, I got up out of bed left-handedly, and made coffee, looking out the window at morning’s first light..skies were grey. There was a nice octopus cloud stretching a bloated tentacle out from behind the hill, reaching casually after a lumbering fiddler crab cloud..they said we’ll get snow. Then the dog made me take her out to the backyard. It was cold. The END

~c.

* ..where also, as it happened, lived another girl from my second-grade class born of Hungarian emigres for parents, who was very quiet but seemed American in most respects..her name was ‘Leslie’; who chased me on a few occasions after class let out, and I showed off by being fleeter of foot than she, losing her in my dust. Back home in my room that afternoon, I reflected on her loveliness..those long, flaxen tresses and dark, searching eyes; I was hearing passionate notes of gipsies’ violins coming from the next room on Mom’s record-player. In hindsight I reasoned, I could have just relaxed a little, –I mean it wasn’t like it was The Olympics or something.

For example, The Life of George Washington by George Washington Irving (in four volumes).

~c.

but now we, we don’t need to be getting into that long grocery-list of epithets and labels concerning Elton John, Sir Elton John! and his ilk; and all their pronouns, steaming down the yellow brick road, “Well I! quit those days and my, redneck ways..and Oh!” and please believe me, I mean nothing personal in all of that). So the Greeks I guess anyway were a white race. You can plainly see that when you look at there sculptures, them statutes of white marble, exquisitely chiseled, and they are white, and they are beautiful..fine and dandy, especially the chicks! Hey! it’s art, man. And the president and all his friends hate us because we are white racists (so they say), but it’s different with us than the Greek’s because we are white anglo-saxon caucasians of european descent not from Greece, we are anglo’s (so they say); and by virtue of our abominable caucasianness’s, we came over here to steal all the land from the other races, which were here at some point, and which – like the gay homosexuals – I will refrain myself from labeling (I only do that with my own people, because I am just exercising my white privilege to..heckle the honkies! of whatever persuasion, and of which I am one, –a kracker white and proud, blonde and Nordic blue eyes..lips).

So the Greeks bought and sold slaves (the ancient Greeks did that). So what? Doesn’t everybody?? Soros..and the chinese are buying us, all day and all night, as we speak – our FIRST AMENDMENT RIGHT! which is, btw, to “..speak!” WOOF – and trying to make slaves out of us; so does that mean we have to go around labeling all of them racists and sexists all day cause they’re doing that? And what about the feminists? isn’t genderism’s kissing cousins with racism’s? and how did genderism replace sexism?? as a term; and how can any sane individual person say someone is a genderist pig?! that doesn’t work, and also, and who wants to have gen-d’ru-ral innercourse with ?anybody???????????for that matter? I know I sure don’t!! (‘F’ that.) Which, getting to the issue of speech, and lan-n-n-n-n-guage, and all of that, what happened with four years of Trump? What was the big deal with that? (What happened.) I’ll tell you what it was exactly it was the breakthrough of the millennium!! that’s what! like somebody reinvented the wheel, with the feminists and their drive for equality of genderisms, when Miss Bee, Miss Sam-an-tha Bee liberal talking-head Samantha broke the glass ceiling – and the collective ear-drum – with busting in, bustily, on mens’ exclusively males only name-calling of vimmen and use of anti-female slurs that name-call a female using a pejorative label that is in reference to a very private part of the girlfriend anatomy – rhymes with sa-mantha-bee – YUGO,GIRLFREE-END,WHOO!AND-THEN-WE’RE-GOIN’TO-CALIFORNIA,YEAH! ~Dr. Dean,Dr. Howard Dean (and Doctor Oprah); and she used that kinda language about the ladies in the Trump household in the White House there in Dee Cee that hitherto had been restricted speech and proprietary for use only by male chauvinist pigs, or gen-ders, if you prefer (MCG’s), and so not only that, but it was a ripped-off quote that was attributed to Mick Jagger,#1NOW supporter/booster/philanthropist/donor,Mister Sympathy-for-the-devil-female’s-rights-activist&foundationCEO,Sir Michael Phillip Jagger, –or simply ‘Her Majesty’ as Keith the guitar-player used to refer to him/her/ze,whatever backstage with the whole entourage..”Black girls just like to ____ all night!” (SOME GIRLS) So that quote – referring to ‘Stevie’ in the third person – was in ROLLING STONE maggotzine in an article generated from the diary of a ‘journalist’ following a Stones tour that featured Stevie Wonder for the opening act (which they filmed but found was too embarrassing to release..to0 embarrassing? for The STONES??) And Mick used the original correct vernacular when he got pissed-off about “crowd-warmer” Wonder’s congenital tardiness getting to the gigs, so he sai-ed..what he said when he said, –those silly little words, to wit, “Where’s Stevie?? that effing C!”, similarly, as Keith would mention him in passing, referring to the front man in his band as “..whiny, needy Brenda” and, well, anyway, –and all of the rest of it, and of course we all remember how Miss Samantha helped out the womens’ movement immeasurably, by culturally appropriating the misogynist speech, made part and parcel of the rock’n’roll scene by Sir Mick-o..so women can now – N.O.W.,now they can – say it, too; but we needn’t go into all of that..Indeed we needn’t! But so anyway she changed the F-word to ‘feckless’ (or, more likely, one of her writers came up with that), but; so that, by design, made it okay to say the C-word in polite company..to denigrate the president’s daughter (using liberal logic); which does not match the description of Greek logic, –dialectics, rhetoric, and all of the rest. (See Protagorus and Parmenides for more on that..LET’S GO, BRANDON!)

So Steve, who was a Greek, and a master channel-changer in all things tele-vision having all the raw news-feeds direct from Youngstown, Ohio by a dedicated dish in his front-yard; and three others, that got him any dam television-show he wanted for free! because Steve was The Satellite-guy (in Big Bear..he even used de-commissioned ten-foot satellite dishes for planting his vegetable-gardens). Anyway, I stopped by one sunny morning, stepping through the gate into ‘the garden’ and he was cracking up! coming out of his frontdoor because he was watching the live trial of the guy that killed the kid that looked just like Obamma’s kid, –if he had a kid, that’s what he would have looked like, the president saied; but, so the witness presently tessifying was this black lady (stretching the term a little..almost to the point of being abusive) and the judge had aksed her if the man who pulled the trigger on Trayvon M_____ was there in the courtroom and she was nodding in the affirmative; and could she please identify him, –? and she said (in a sort-of soft tone of voice), pointing a certifying finger at the defendant,

“Yeah..da’at kracker over d’ere.”

And this had just went down and was still in progress, the trial was LIVE, the audio was coming outside from inside the house, and my buddy Steve was telling me about because he couldn’t even believe what he was hearing with his own ears over LIVE tv, and as he was relating it to me as it happen and he almost couldn’t get the words out because he was choking so hard on sobs of laughter wit it, the racial epithet that the star witness for the prosecution had used to identify the..white-bread, honkie-cat, kracker-emminem’fer who was being charged for the self-defensive act of murder..of one who looked like Obamma’s only son; if he only had a only son (according to the president).

And so this has been the story of how Eli got all his nickname’s, —The END (and possibly how us caucasians came to be called krackers, ever since – because of that other trial back in the 90s somewhere and they lost that case because the prosecutor was a female white lady and because “ef they don’t fit, you mus’ acquit!” – and so now no one is allowed to say the n-word, –including Mark Twain. Call Lieutenant Tragg to the witness stand..I rest my case).

~c.

ps: No Greek alphabetical characters in the Greek alphabet were harmed, or effed-up in the telling of this brief, but purposeful anecdote about the language and its history and modern circumlocutions, and..”Can’t we all just get along?” (Okay, thanks)

*Such is life, you know and short..shut up and make me a dam sammich.

the End

~c.

ps: Uhn, –whatever.

A poem to win your heart, which – when read – does not resemble a fart; as a poet, I’ll do my part..till death do us part. Merry Christmas! well, it’s a start.

~c. (a poet)