The Community That Works Together
We always lived out in the country. The main road that runs on one side of the neighborhood was somewhat heavily trafficked- enough so that back in the days of letting your dogs roam freely, the gauge of how good your pet was depended on whether they got hit by a semi at night. But our streets were calm, except for when the latest wave of teenagers got drivers' licenses and would barrel down them at a neck-breaking forty miles per hour.
I remember the house getting built, and when I was 9 they finally paved the road- though, it's never had lines on it. We had fields behind our house, and beyond them the river. We'd fish and swim everyday during the summer, in what we later discovered to be the most agriculturally polluted river in the state.
Half the thick clumps of "virgin" forest we gallavanted through as youths have been destroyed. Modest suburban homes, with manicured lawns replaced the random, wild, leaf covered places of yesterday. That was called progress, or so they told me.
What I know is, everyone knew everyone when I was a kid. All day, during the summer, children on bikes would ride unmolested on the road ways; but they spent most of their time in the woods. We visited The River, or The Monkey Vine Jungle, or The Dam. We saw snakes, and fish, raccoons, opossums, deer, birds, and all manner of insects. We recognized a few dozen species of plants, malignant and benign.
And then the fields got sold, too.
All the other fields within a twenty miles had been sold and turned into housing divisions. People grew up and moved away, wistful for the past and resentful of the future. Nothing happened to the fields. New families moved in, with dogs in fences, and children who stayed inside- or no children at all. Dogs got shot if they roamed free- or put in the pound. The old families tried to contain their resentment; and fences blocked new explorers from Th Monkey Vine Jungle. Nothing happened to the fields.
At the same time the resentments were fading, and new friendships were in the wind, something else changed. The old mill, hidden in the woods beside The Dam, was torn down to the foundations. Marks were put on trees, and the shape of the land was changed. There were whispers of development. New friendships formed over resentment at the intrusion, and respect for natural beauty. We became a new community, forged from our mutual hate of future degradations. The fields were being replaced with a Water Treatment plant.
We wrote the newspaper; but there were more people nearby, but not in the neighborhood, who wanted it. People who didn't know, and therefor didn't care, about our hidden wonders wanted more more-ness. New families meant more infrastructure; and we were opposed to progress, or so they told me.
We railed and cried. We spoke out and spoke up. We protested, and sometimes- in the depth of night- we sabotaged. Little hindrances, nothing substantial, but it caused delays. Eventually, we were at our wits ends; and some hung their heads, steamrolled into the future. It was ironic, and the way of things; but it was also profoundly sad.
Until we found help. Not from those nearby, who could come down and see our hidden beauties, our River and our Dam. But from a group of people with money- a group not like us in their wealth- from across the world: California. They sent in scientists, and used the law against the lawmakers. The environmental impact study halted the earth movers, the concrete pourers, and progress.
We put on a bake sale. We held a golf tournament. We did odd jobs, and we started a foundation for the preservation of Rural Life and Natural Beauty. The environmental impact was significant enough to warrant a government funded study; and we had more time. We held a block party, and invited the entire county. We barbequed, we held fundraisers, we washed cars, and we developed plans. In three years we had made money, and we bought our fields back.
There was a three day celebration, with guided nature tours. The kids rode their four wheelers, and the grown-ups smiled constantly. We were victorious! The underdogs had won! The county built their plant somewhere else; none of us knew where. We were the modern progressives, turning our fields into a community owned garden, park, and nature preserve; or so they told me.
We couldn't grow that, because it negatively affected those others. The lack of rotation meant weaker yields over the years. Dogs had to be on leashes, and our insurance wouldn't let anyone too near The Dam, and certainly not in The River. Our property values soared. The neighborhood bought better, bigger cars, and put up fences. Horses were only allowed on the trails, specifically marked, made for them; and the same for the four wheelers. Hunting was prohibited, but we put in a shooting range where the mill once stood. A picnic area and campsite were installed soon after- no more primitive camping for us!
The new kids grew up, and went off to college. The single family suburban homes were too empty, and too much to take care of; but they sold for twice the price they had been built. The lure of money, and the lack of family, tore people away. They were too old to walk all the trails, to take advantage of the vast natural splendors. New families moved in, and the progress we had fought continued unabated in new forms.
There's a clubhouse where we once grew vegetables. The River was shored up, and the old flood plains are cabins. It's three thousand a year for a family to have full access to the grounds; and that's a deal compared to what families outside the neighborhood pay! My nephew's kids enjoy the pool.
I had to put an eight-foot privacy fence around my yard because I refused to follow the homeowners' associations lawn grooming bylaws. If you put your hand up- and no one has a fire going in any of the cabins, and the people at the shooting range aren't shooting too often- and you cover the land so you only see the tops of the hills in the distance, the autumn sunsets still look the same.
I watch those magnificent paintings in the sky. I tore down the old house years ago, and built one that would last more than a couple decades. My porch is perfect for such viewings, and my privacy fence means I don't have to hold up my hand. I think back to playing in the woods, climbing the trees where houses now stand. I remember my first kiss, playful and inquisitive in woods that were replaced by the Clubhouse parking lot. And I remember our battle against progress, when I was so worried about the contamination to our well- which I had to abandon when they shored up the river.
We were poor when we built the old house, and all the time I was growing up; or so they told me. I had a bicycle and a BB gun, and all the woods in the world to explore; I thought I was rich. If I wait three more years before I finally move away from this place where, they tell me, I grew up; I'll be rich. Whoever moves in after me can live their lives behind my privacy fence; and if they pay their dues, they can walk in wonder, staring at the manicured nature I helped protect from progress.
(c) 2009 Tom Hand
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Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story. Show all posts
Monday, May 04, 2009
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Story Time
"John Jacob Johnson, III was born on a farm in rural Alabama to Mitsy McCallister Johnson and John Jacob Johnson, Jr. He played football for Southern Redneck High School, and went to the University of Alabama on an athletics scholarship. Alas, he suffered a tragic, career ending, ankle sprain in his junior year.
"Forced to face the heartbreaking reality of working for a living, he switched his major from Athletics to Business. He threw himself into the books, trying desperately to earn himself a way off the farm in little Hickrape, Alabama. He got a part-time job, as an 'errand boy' for a local law firm. Undaunted by the proposition of blowing old conservative fruits for $3 a trick, he graduated Cum Laude and immediately applied to Law School. His impressive ability to suck a golf ball through a three foot section of garden hose impressed the registrars, and earned him one of the few coveted spots.
"It was there he met his wife Milley, whom he would marry and later kill- getting away with it because of his connections and experience as a trial judge. So thoroughly did he plan and perpetrate the murder, that he wasn't even a suspect. He used the 'grief' of the 'tragedy' as a springboard into a federal judiciary seat. Still willing to slurp down as many hot loads as it would take, 'Big Gay Jay'- as he was called behind his back- quickly climbed the federal ladder.
"None were surprised when the latest President gave Judge Johnson the nod for the Ultimate Bench. His confirmation hearings went through without a hitch- after all, Big Gay Jay personally knew the taste and proclivity of many a sitting Senator. So it was that three months ago, Judge Johnson, chin unusually dry, became Supreme Court Justice Johnson."
"Thank You for the history lesson, you plastic surgery enhanced sack of vacuousness, laugh vacantly while I glare at you in contempt."
Ah hahahahahah
"Good. We go now, to Justice Johnson's first news conference, a rarity for seated Supreme Court Justices."
"Yes, thank you all for coming- but, then, the huge erection erasing power of a name with a title as earth shatteringly huge as mine is hard to resist, isn't it? As you know, I'm Justice John Jacob Johnson, III; and I am the most junior member of the Supreme Court of the United States of America. I've called you all here today to lay out some basic facts, you sniveling retards. Pay attention, or I will use every ounce of my not-insignificant power to utterly fuck this Union, harder than any man since the current President's predecessor!
"You smug motherfuckers keep tossing around some drivel so often, I've found myself using it, and that is un-fucking-acceptable. The particular term I'm here to address is 'Activist Judges'. Since more than half of you are unable to find your assholes with both hands if you're given an eight finger head-start; I'm going to explain this to you again, in language a half retarded spider monkey could understand. Take notes.
"There are THREE branches to the Federal Government. The Executive, which executes the Laws; the Legislative, which makes the Laws; and the Judicial which ensures that the laws are- you know- legal. There are checks and balances placed between the branches, so that no one of them can become all-powerful and thereby negate either- or both- of the others.
"One of these checks and balances is the ability of the Executive to command the Armed Forces. One check is the requirements upon the Legislative should it seek to change the fundamental documents governing our federal government- like the Constitution of the United States of America. A different check is the Executives ability to appoint the members of the federal Judiciary. Another check is the ability for the Judiciary to deem a law unconstitutional, which would require the constitution be amended before such a law could be considered legal in the United States of America.
"This last, is pretty much what 99% of the time of the Supreme Court of the United States of America is consumed by: the legality of laws, their interpretations, and usage. In other words, activism. That's right, the Supreme Court (of the United States of America) is designed to be the Nine most activist judges in the land. In fact, almost all Federal Judges are, by design, ACTIVIST JUDGES, you brainless bags of syphilitic shit!
"Why? Because we make sure that the Executive- especially in its capacity as a police force- doesn't overstep the bounds, intents, or capabilities outlined in the laws the Legislature passes. That's why we're here. Guilt and Innocence are matters for juries to decide; judges make sure everything is legal.
"Thus endeth the lesson. But I will now answer one further question. A question that many of you have been wondering as you stare at me, red faced, ranting, with foamy spit spraying from my lips: Why are you doing this? I'll tell you why.
"Not only am I offended by how stupid and sheep like you idiot sons of bitches out there in the electorate are; but I am indescribably contemptuous of the manipulative fucks you domitable assholes allow to fill your heads with the rancid cow shit, you fucking douchebags are all too happy to spew at one another. I am a Supreme Court Justice. This post is for Life. That makes me gangsta. Know what a REAL gangsta does when he's given a podium, an audience, and the ability to speak? Rewind this tape.
"Peace, bitches!"
It is many weeks later before the Governor Goat Fucking scandal of Delaware replaces Justice Johnson's exit from the stage on the Mainstream News Networks. He throws the microphone down, and turns to march off, confident in the knowledge that no more dicks shall intrude upon the sanctity of his oral cavity, unless he so wants it. Some terse words are exchanged with a cameraman blocking the way, as the judge tries to exit. The sixty-three year old man, dressed in the robes of his office, throws a beautiful front kick into the waiting nutsack of the cameraman. This causes the man to fall over, grab his bleeding sack, and drop his camera; allowing the judge the room he needs to clear the stage. As the judge walks away, the camera picks up two distinct sounds accompanied by two distinct images. The first, the plaintive moans of the cameraman, his face twisted in ball busted pain. The second, the judge saying, "This is MY house, motherfucker!" and whistling as he walks away, his robes parting just enough for the entire world to get a small glimpse of sixty-three-year-old-ass-cheek.
----
The Civics Lesson, for kids! (c) Thomas Hand 5 March 2009
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"Forced to face the heartbreaking reality of working for a living, he switched his major from Athletics to Business. He threw himself into the books, trying desperately to earn himself a way off the farm in little Hickrape, Alabama. He got a part-time job, as an 'errand boy' for a local law firm. Undaunted by the proposition of blowing old conservative fruits for $3 a trick, he graduated Cum Laude and immediately applied to Law School. His impressive ability to suck a golf ball through a three foot section of garden hose impressed the registrars, and earned him one of the few coveted spots.
"It was there he met his wife Milley, whom he would marry and later kill- getting away with it because of his connections and experience as a trial judge. So thoroughly did he plan and perpetrate the murder, that he wasn't even a suspect. He used the 'grief' of the 'tragedy' as a springboard into a federal judiciary seat. Still willing to slurp down as many hot loads as it would take, 'Big Gay Jay'- as he was called behind his back- quickly climbed the federal ladder.
"None were surprised when the latest President gave Judge Johnson the nod for the Ultimate Bench. His confirmation hearings went through without a hitch- after all, Big Gay Jay personally knew the taste and proclivity of many a sitting Senator. So it was that three months ago, Judge Johnson, chin unusually dry, became Supreme Court Justice Johnson."
"Thank You for the history lesson, you plastic surgery enhanced sack of vacuousness, laugh vacantly while I glare at you in contempt."
Ah hahahahahah
"Good. We go now, to Justice Johnson's first news conference, a rarity for seated Supreme Court Justices."
"Yes, thank you all for coming- but, then, the huge erection erasing power of a name with a title as earth shatteringly huge as mine is hard to resist, isn't it? As you know, I'm Justice John Jacob Johnson, III; and I am the most junior member of the Supreme Court of the United States of America. I've called you all here today to lay out some basic facts, you sniveling retards. Pay attention, or I will use every ounce of my not-insignificant power to utterly fuck this Union, harder than any man since the current President's predecessor!
"You smug motherfuckers keep tossing around some drivel so often, I've found myself using it, and that is un-fucking-acceptable. The particular term I'm here to address is 'Activist Judges'. Since more than half of you are unable to find your assholes with both hands if you're given an eight finger head-start; I'm going to explain this to you again, in language a half retarded spider monkey could understand. Take notes.
"There are THREE branches to the Federal Government. The Executive, which executes the Laws; the Legislative, which makes the Laws; and the Judicial which ensures that the laws are- you know- legal. There are checks and balances placed between the branches, so that no one of them can become all-powerful and thereby negate either- or both- of the others.
"One of these checks and balances is the ability of the Executive to command the Armed Forces. One check is the requirements upon the Legislative should it seek to change the fundamental documents governing our federal government- like the Constitution of the United States of America. A different check is the Executives ability to appoint the members of the federal Judiciary. Another check is the ability for the Judiciary to deem a law unconstitutional, which would require the constitution be amended before such a law could be considered legal in the United States of America.
"This last, is pretty much what 99% of the time of the Supreme Court of the United States of America is consumed by: the legality of laws, their interpretations, and usage. In other words, activism. That's right, the Supreme Court (of the United States of America) is designed to be the Nine most activist judges in the land. In fact, almost all Federal Judges are, by design, ACTIVIST JUDGES, you brainless bags of syphilitic shit!
"Why? Because we make sure that the Executive- especially in its capacity as a police force- doesn't overstep the bounds, intents, or capabilities outlined in the laws the Legislature passes. That's why we're here. Guilt and Innocence are matters for juries to decide; judges make sure everything is legal.
"Thus endeth the lesson. But I will now answer one further question. A question that many of you have been wondering as you stare at me, red faced, ranting, with foamy spit spraying from my lips: Why are you doing this? I'll tell you why.
"Not only am I offended by how stupid and sheep like you idiot sons of bitches out there in the electorate are; but I am indescribably contemptuous of the manipulative fucks you domitable assholes allow to fill your heads with the rancid cow shit, you fucking douchebags are all too happy to spew at one another. I am a Supreme Court Justice. This post is for Life. That makes me gangsta. Know what a REAL gangsta does when he's given a podium, an audience, and the ability to speak? Rewind this tape.
"Peace, bitches!"
It is many weeks later before the Governor Goat Fucking scandal of Delaware replaces Justice Johnson's exit from the stage on the Mainstream News Networks. He throws the microphone down, and turns to march off, confident in the knowledge that no more dicks shall intrude upon the sanctity of his oral cavity, unless he so wants it. Some terse words are exchanged with a cameraman blocking the way, as the judge tries to exit. The sixty-three year old man, dressed in the robes of his office, throws a beautiful front kick into the waiting nutsack of the cameraman. This causes the man to fall over, grab his bleeding sack, and drop his camera; allowing the judge the room he needs to clear the stage. As the judge walks away, the camera picks up two distinct sounds accompanied by two distinct images. The first, the plaintive moans of the cameraman, his face twisted in ball busted pain. The second, the judge saying, "This is MY house, motherfucker!" and whistling as he walks away, his robes parting just enough for the entire world to get a small glimpse of sixty-three-year-old-ass-cheek.
----
The Civics Lesson, for kids! (c) Thomas Hand 5 March 2009
Read More...
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Crazy, The Story
Drunk. Definitely drunk. Take a breathe, swallow that thick wet feeling, and focus. I see.. a table, some light, a ceiling fan. It's dark, there're stars. A patio? I'm sure of it (there's a pool). He's glaring at me, arranging his thoughts. Damn I'm drunk. Table is like a vast gulf between us; but smell that! Dark, warm, humid, sweet; smells like.. like.. memories, and love, and paradise...
He's mumbling, my nephew. "I remember when," I start; but it's not working. A swig of beer, the most exquisite taste of alcohol filtered smoke. "I remember..." Uhm... Damn he's grown! "I remember when I lost my mind." He wasn't expecting that, HA! Got your attention now, don't I, boy! Was that a thought, or did I speak? No matter. Man, but this is a great night, all things considered. Who needs heaven with nights like this? Oh, I was saying something. Focus.
"There was something so.. pleasant, about that place." And, for a second, I'm there again. Melancholy, peace, happiness. Sailing through time at a million emotions a second! Well, maybe not. Melancholy. Contentment. Profound, sad, happiness. "Even your emotions have an echo in so much space." Hmmm... "And when you're out there," I shake my head. Still too drunk. Focus. Beer. Smoke. "Well, out there," nope. Beer. Straighten out the thoughts. Focus.
He looks even more angry, and I remember. Ashamed. "Yeah, I was out of touch." Oh, that's not what he wanted to hear. One part of me laughs, another cries. "But it wasn't because I didn't know enough," I sigh, remembering. "I knew too much." Why did I whisper that?
He's confused. This isn't what he expected, and he's been drinking too. "Does that make me crazy?" He won't meet my eye. "Does that make me crazy?" Softer that time. Why am I doing that? Beer. Smoke. Oh! Maybe that's why. "Does that make me crazy?" I'm not sure if I actually spoke that time.
I'm not sure who I was asking, anyway.
"Possibly," I concede. Where was I? He still looks confused, lost. I understand that. Back when I was his age... "And..." all the things I did. There's shame and sadness, there; but also, intense pride, redemption, love, glory, happiness, and struggle. I smile, his anger starts to grow again. "I hope that you're having the time of your life." That cuts him short. I can see his thoughts rumbling across his face. Such a good kid. Not like me when I was that age.
All those times I got mad, screwed up, wasn't grateful, didn't appreciate... Smoke. Beer. Smoke. Just the old familiar depression, down that road. Fuck. But my boy there, my nephew- can't help but smile at that- he's... Well, he's gonna be alright, I guess. "But think twice." Solemn. Let him see the earnestness of one who learned that the worst way: the hard one.
He sees, I think. I think he'll get it. Maybe not; but maybe he'll learn faster than I did. Maybe he'll remember it and only have to learn once. "That's my only advice."
"Come on now!" Wow, he's shouting! "Who do you..!" I watch, interested. He seems to have realized something. "Who do you..." Was that softer? Haha! He's drunk, too! Welcome to the family addiction. My smile brings him up short. "Who do you think you are?' He finishes, not yelling, but still mad.
"Ha ha ha!" Who indeed? But, I'll take my forced internal reflection self-served only, if you don't mind
He's confused. Did I say all that? Maybe. Who does he think I think I am? God? Everyone thinks that. News flash, dateline goddamn forever ago: No God.
But he's still searching, isn't he. I remember that. Even when I thought I'd got it figured. "Bless your soul..." Which doesn't exist. I pray you realize that.
Hahaha! More beer! More smokes! Ah! What a glorious night! A nice breeze! Good beer. A belly full of great food! Who needs more? Who needs it? 'If there is no God, nothing has changed!'
But, then, he's not one of them, is he? Nope. He's past that, and before it. Digging deep to find himself in the oldest new ways. He's still young. Still hopeful. Still thinks he can make it work. "You really think you're in control." He nods, but it wasn't a question. Ah, hell! Fuck it. He'll learn. He'll see.
There's too many variables. Too much we don't control. And way too much blame to go around. "I think you're crazy." If a bear shits, is it my fault? Is it yours? The bear's? His food's? Nature's? "I think you're crazy." Nature is like gravity. No consciousness, no will, no mind. That... that bit that seems thought out.. premeditated... that's an artifact. Only there because of us. We see our selves in everything; especially when there's nothing there, or when we don't understand it. "But... I think you're crazy." Beer. Smoke. "..just like me." Did I just wink?
Anyway, fuck all that. Time for a new beer, another smoke, and a different tack. Smell that? Nature. And not designed! Ahem. Anyway. Goddamn I love it here, like this. Utter fucking perfection. My grandfather built this house. He was a hell of a man, my grandpa. A million feet tall, with a voice like God gargling gravel, and a will so stubborn it could bend reality! The type of force- it'd be hard to call him only a man- that could move mountains with a glare! He was my hero.
Like John Wayne. Same first name, actually. And Bruce Lee. 'Cause you have to admire men with such raw determination. I mean, fuck. Their will musta dripped off 'em, if they were anything like my grandpa. World could use a few billion more like that, I think. But they're all dead now.
Beer. Smoke. "My heroes have all gone..." Too much pain there. Too close to the old depression. But too true, too... HA! Smoke.
"To the life I want to live!" Cheers! Slainte! Beer. Beer. Beer. He can identify with that, I'm sure, my nephew. Good times.
"And..." What youth! I remember it. So much ahead. No wasted time, yet. No time to waste. Eager. Ready. Yeah, I remember that, too; and so much more. And how I felt. It's like yesterday. So young. "All..." Not long ago, either; but long enough. Beer. Smoke. "I remember... is..." Hmm, that's not right. Fuck it! Determination! Push on through! "Thinking I wanna be just like them." And the pain of knowing I wasn't. I'm not. And those little tiny times, the joy of knowing I was. "Ever since I was little." Beer. Smoke. Beer. Blessed by the presence of greatness. And cursed not to be so. But. "It looked like fun!" "And..." twice blessed/cursed to be great in my own way.
Beer. Where'd my cigarette go? Oh. Fuck it; one more again, maestro! Voice never was worth using for song, anyway. Hell, I suppose I couldn't help but be determined, looking up to men like those. And Joe. And Bobby. Charles. Gertrude... All the others. "There's no coincidence I've come." All gone. All dead. All my heroes are dead.
Such a long life, this. And still so much more to come. "And I'll die when I'm done." And hurt you, nephew, when I do. "'Cause, maybe, I'm crazy." Yeah. "Maybe I'm crazy." I wouldn't doubt it. Part and parcel of this family. "Maybe we're crazy." Yeah, definitely winked that time. Wonder what he's thinking, now...
"Probably." Read More...
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Story Time
"The mercury destroys their brainy stuffs, and makes them drool more! There is no cure for it, and these, so-called, "Doctors"- who actually went to school for 12 years past the 12 years I had to suck and fuck my way through- FORCE our children to ingest MERCURY!" Sloth's face was red from exertion and she stood, panting, surveying her audience. Heads were nodding accent.
"Autism is a plague, brought on by 'science', 'reason', and a general inability to accept a death rate of greater than 50% for anyone over thirty! These vaccines have got to go! I have lived with autism for six years, and as a mother," she adopted the teary-eyed look that had always worked on daddy, "it was the most horrible thing ever! To know my son was a squishy headed half-tard with no prospects for ever not mooching off what I've sucked and fucked my way to- I picked my nose on TV, for Zombie Jebus's sake- was unbearable! But.. But, I am one of the lucky ones." The tears dried up, she smiled awkwardly. "My son was a slightly-sickly-blueish-green Child. He, as a member of the next evolution of mankind, has healed himself of- what modern medical practitioners might misdiagnose as- 'autism'." There are cheers, and Sloth's heart swells. No one ever cheered that hard when for her when she wasn't showing boobies, she thought. This is way better than double penetration, she added.
"Even though my child is not autistic, and I'm not a doctor, or a scientist, and I obviously don't understand simple aspects of evolutionary biologists... Even though more than 15 major studies, throughout the world, run under verifiably reasonable, sound, and trusted experimental modalities totally discount what I say... I know what caused the not-autism my not-human son once sorta had: VACCINES!" There are angry cheers and jeers from the crowd.
"She's right, she's right, she's right," adds Sloth's boyfriend Monkey, as he stares contemplatively into his hand full of feces. "Sex now?" Monkey stage whispers, and the crowd cheers even louder; his gaze barely drifts from the odiferous contents of his hands to the pronounced swell of Sloth's bussom.
There is a loud, momentary, squeal across the speaker system, then the tried and true swooshing of someone blowing into a microphone. "Test, Check. Oh, okay! Uhm. Hello." says Owl. Owl has been told that putting the crowd at ease, making them comfortable, will win them over to his side. 'Hello' was his ace in the hole, and as the crowd hasn't started rioting, or shouting at him to do anatomically impossible things, it seems to have worked. Check and mate, he tells himself, I got this. "I am Doctor Owl, a neuro-surgeon at Princeton Plainsburrow Teaching Hospital." Owl's chest swells with pride, and he sees heads nodding in approval. "What Sloth said is false for any number of reasons, one:" and as that's where the majority of the audience stopped listening, I won't bother you with repeating Owl's diatribe of facts, reality, and- that stubbornly repeatable, verifiable, and objective- truth. Instead, this being an accurate recitation of events, we'll pick back up where most of the audience did. "Therefore, Sloth has no proof of what she's saying because there is no proof. She's wrong, anyone who does the research knows she's wrong, and she's endangering the lives of everyone by perpetrating these lies onto the unsuspecting masses! Autism is not linked, and has never been reliably linked, to vaccines. Thank you." Some jeered, some cheered, most were still transfixed by Sloth and Monkey's obvious sluttiness.
Many in the audience, for whatever reason, believed if they were pushed far enough, either one or both of Sloth and Monkey would gladly flop onto their back and encourage a type of train that only much older, scarier, and often Japanese, boys think about as fun. Some in the audience secretly hoped Owl was of a similar bent. Of course, there were about six or seven- of the hundreds in attendance- who actually cared what was being said, too.
"You're a shill for Big Pharma," accused Monkey, the words mimicing the metabolic process he was simultaneously using to refill his hand. "We're actors, and we've talked to psychics, and our Chiropractic friends agree." The crowd cheered. Owl responded with a list of highly regarded, peer reviewed, scientific medical journals that published equally reliable studies discounting any claims that autism was linked with, as Owl put it, "chemicals that haven't even been in US vaccines for years!"
"Shill!" Sloth chanted, and Monkey echoed. "Shill!" The crowd chanted, too.
Owl shook his head, and waited. He flashed a shiny mirror at the crowd. The short attention spans of the chanters were instantly focused on the mirror, and on Owl. The chant was forgotten. "There is no link. There is no evidence that even suggests a link, other than those people who say there is such evidence. Everytime they're asked to produce evidence they cannot. Anytime they've suggested some 'likely candidate' as the culprit, it's been thuroughly tested and shown to be harmless- as far as autism is concerned. Each time their favored vaccination component is debunked, they invent a new one out of whole cloth! That is not science, that's, at best, guessing; and more akin to witch hunting."
"He supports witchcraft! You heard him, he's a satanist!"
"Actually, though my personal beliefs shouldn't matter, I don't believe in any gods, devils, demons, or ghosts."
"EVEN WORSE! He's an ATHEIST!" The crowd gasps. "Let's hit him until he believes in our professed mythologies!" The crowd cheers. Owl swallows, and eyes the exit. The crowd, still jeering and cheering stand up. Owl knows his time is short.
"Do the research for yourself, don't trust what others tell you, look it up. Go to.." but someone cuts the microphone before he can finish. The crowd is starting toward the stage. It's now or never, Owl thinks, and tosses the mirror. As it flies, the various lights cause the mirror to glint and shine, casting brilliant rays at random. The distraction is complete. As one the crowd, Sloth, and Monkey, stare transfixed as the mirror arcs up and crashes down, shattering. When it breaks, they immediately return to Owl; but he is gone, disappeared.
"See," says Sloth. "He's a sorcerer. Who would you rather believe? A devil worshipping atheist sorcerer doctor, or these?" She flashes two of her teats at the admiring crowd. The crowd cheers. Read More...
"Autism is a plague, brought on by 'science', 'reason', and a general inability to accept a death rate of greater than 50% for anyone over thirty! These vaccines have got to go! I have lived with autism for six years, and as a mother," she adopted the teary-eyed look that had always worked on daddy, "it was the most horrible thing ever! To know my son was a squishy headed half-tard with no prospects for ever not mooching off what I've sucked and fucked my way to- I picked my nose on TV, for Zombie Jebus's sake- was unbearable! But.. But, I am one of the lucky ones." The tears dried up, she smiled awkwardly. "My son was a slightly-sickly-blueish-green Child. He, as a member of the next evolution of mankind, has healed himself of- what modern medical practitioners might misdiagnose as- 'autism'." There are cheers, and Sloth's heart swells. No one ever cheered that hard when for her when she wasn't showing boobies, she thought. This is way better than double penetration, she added.
"Even though my child is not autistic, and I'm not a doctor, or a scientist, and I obviously don't understand simple aspects of evolutionary biologists... Even though more than 15 major studies, throughout the world, run under verifiably reasonable, sound, and trusted experimental modalities totally discount what I say... I know what caused the not-autism my not-human son once sorta had: VACCINES!" There are angry cheers and jeers from the crowd.
"She's right, she's right, she's right," adds Sloth's boyfriend Monkey, as he stares contemplatively into his hand full of feces. "Sex now?" Monkey stage whispers, and the crowd cheers even louder; his gaze barely drifts from the odiferous contents of his hands to the pronounced swell of Sloth's bussom.
There is a loud, momentary, squeal across the speaker system, then the tried and true swooshing of someone blowing into a microphone. "Test, Check. Oh, okay! Uhm. Hello." says Owl. Owl has been told that putting the crowd at ease, making them comfortable, will win them over to his side. 'Hello' was his ace in the hole, and as the crowd hasn't started rioting, or shouting at him to do anatomically impossible things, it seems to have worked. Check and mate, he tells himself, I got this. "I am Doctor Owl, a neuro-surgeon at Princeton Plainsburrow Teaching Hospital." Owl's chest swells with pride, and he sees heads nodding in approval. "What Sloth said is false for any number of reasons, one:" and as that's where the majority of the audience stopped listening, I won't bother you with repeating Owl's diatribe of facts, reality, and- that stubbornly repeatable, verifiable, and objective- truth. Instead, this being an accurate recitation of events, we'll pick back up where most of the audience did. "Therefore, Sloth has no proof of what she's saying because there is no proof. She's wrong, anyone who does the research knows she's wrong, and she's endangering the lives of everyone by perpetrating these lies onto the unsuspecting masses! Autism is not linked, and has never been reliably linked, to vaccines. Thank you." Some jeered, some cheered, most were still transfixed by Sloth and Monkey's obvious sluttiness.
Many in the audience, for whatever reason, believed if they were pushed far enough, either one or both of Sloth and Monkey would gladly flop onto their back and encourage a type of train that only much older, scarier, and often Japanese, boys think about as fun. Some in the audience secretly hoped Owl was of a similar bent. Of course, there were about six or seven- of the hundreds in attendance- who actually cared what was being said, too.
"You're a shill for Big Pharma," accused Monkey, the words mimicing the metabolic process he was simultaneously using to refill his hand. "We're actors, and we've talked to psychics, and our Chiropractic friends agree." The crowd cheered. Owl responded with a list of highly regarded, peer reviewed, scientific medical journals that published equally reliable studies discounting any claims that autism was linked with, as Owl put it, "chemicals that haven't even been in US vaccines for years!"
"Shill!" Sloth chanted, and Monkey echoed. "Shill!" The crowd chanted, too.
Owl shook his head, and waited. He flashed a shiny mirror at the crowd. The short attention spans of the chanters were instantly focused on the mirror, and on Owl. The chant was forgotten. "There is no link. There is no evidence that even suggests a link, other than those people who say there is such evidence. Everytime they're asked to produce evidence they cannot. Anytime they've suggested some 'likely candidate' as the culprit, it's been thuroughly tested and shown to be harmless- as far as autism is concerned. Each time their favored vaccination component is debunked, they invent a new one out of whole cloth! That is not science, that's, at best, guessing; and more akin to witch hunting."
"He supports witchcraft! You heard him, he's a satanist!"
"Actually, though my personal beliefs shouldn't matter, I don't believe in any gods, devils, demons, or ghosts."
"EVEN WORSE! He's an ATHEIST!" The crowd gasps. "Let's hit him until he believes in our professed mythologies!" The crowd cheers. Owl swallows, and eyes the exit. The crowd, still jeering and cheering stand up. Owl knows his time is short.
"Do the research for yourself, don't trust what others tell you, look it up. Go to.." but someone cuts the microphone before he can finish. The crowd is starting toward the stage. It's now or never, Owl thinks, and tosses the mirror. As it flies, the various lights cause the mirror to glint and shine, casting brilliant rays at random. The distraction is complete. As one the crowd, Sloth, and Monkey, stare transfixed as the mirror arcs up and crashes down, shattering. When it breaks, they immediately return to Owl; but he is gone, disappeared.
"See," says Sloth. "He's a sorcerer. Who would you rather believe? A devil worshipping atheist sorcerer doctor, or these?" She flashes two of her teats at the admiring crowd. The crowd cheers. Read More...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Hate
They gather together, groups of like-minded individuals, huddling in their communal dens of anger, hate, and decisive ignorance. When they speak, the inability to empathize is not there, instead the vitriol covers the fear. The bluster works, and entices their audiences, their facade repeated at them ten, a hundred, a thousand,a million fold. They see their lies accepted and encouraged, and so, they lie more; convincing themselves as they convince each other.
The stink of fear covered by a sleazier smell of the excited, the poor, the con-men, and the rapture of absolute faith, permeates their gatherings- alerting their brethren to the places of succor. Their long mental bondage to the obviously untrue has bent their thoughts to credulity. The seeds of doubt, fear, and intolerance- bred into us during times of famine, to ensure the protection of the familiar over the foreign- have been given empty words, the most conducive fertilizer. Warned to be obedient, craving to be led, they have fallen for a lie foisted upon them from without, fed by the laziness and ignorance of their forebears, and reinforced by rational, cognitive, reasoning- up to a point.
Their bonds make them stronger. They fake it, and seeing it convincingly faked on the faces, in the words, and from the deeds of their ilk, they are convinced of their own sincerity. The cycle continues, and they force their spawn into it, as they were forced, a tradition of hate, a ritual of intolerance, and a wholesale denial of objective reality. Nevermind those who leave.
Nevermind those who falter. Nevermind those who repent. They were weak. They were not the truly righteous. Each tells a story, in the popular tradition, of how- once- they too did not understand. Once, they too did not believe. Yet, the universe reveals itself, and here they stand, telling the story of how they too saw the light. It is inevitable, undeniable, and conclusively right to believe the same. Anyone who does not is suspect.
Anyone who does not is untrustworthy. Anyone who does not should be shown the light! No righteous person can deny the truth, when confronted with it! No righteous person would dare give false credence to the popular lie, the obvious hidden reality behind reality. Simply look, and it is obvious that the secret lies just behind the surface. Simply look, and it is obvious all of society secretly feels the same.
The facts support their cause. There is no other way of reasonably interpreting the information. Nevermind that the information cannot speak for itself. Pay no attention to the interpretation behind the curtain. They remind themselves of their righteousness, of their infallibility (except when perfection would be an affront). Everything reinforces, everything backs them up, everything points to the inevitability, to the futility of rebellion.
It is easier to believe. It is easier to conform. It's lonely to be alone. It's lonely to buck the trend. Their friends, their families, everyone they know believes. It is easier to accept than think. The outside is scary, cold, and hostile; and when it's not is when it's the most insidiously evil and threatening.
They huddle together, in their dens of ignorance. Each alone in their doubts, most incapable of voicing what angers them about the opposition. The lies, the facades, the fakery, it all weaves together, forming a comforting blanket of assurance. There's time enough tomorrow to think, but today it's too disheartening. Belief feels good, feels comfortable, and the opposition- the presumed oppression of their side- gives them strength of conviction.
They gather together, groups of like-minded individuals, huddling in their communal dens of anger, hate, and decisive ignorance. When they speak, the inability to empathize is not there, instead the vitriol covers the fear. The bluster works, and entices their audiences, their facade repeated at them ten, a hundred, a thousand,a million fold. They see their lies accepted and encouraged, and so, they lie more; convincing themselves as they convince each other. Read More...
The stink of fear covered by a sleazier smell of the excited, the poor, the con-men, and the rapture of absolute faith, permeates their gatherings- alerting their brethren to the places of succor. Their long mental bondage to the obviously untrue has bent their thoughts to credulity. The seeds of doubt, fear, and intolerance- bred into us during times of famine, to ensure the protection of the familiar over the foreign- have been given empty words, the most conducive fertilizer. Warned to be obedient, craving to be led, they have fallen for a lie foisted upon them from without, fed by the laziness and ignorance of their forebears, and reinforced by rational, cognitive, reasoning- up to a point.
Their bonds make them stronger. They fake it, and seeing it convincingly faked on the faces, in the words, and from the deeds of their ilk, they are convinced of their own sincerity. The cycle continues, and they force their spawn into it, as they were forced, a tradition of hate, a ritual of intolerance, and a wholesale denial of objective reality. Nevermind those who leave.
Nevermind those who falter. Nevermind those who repent. They were weak. They were not the truly righteous. Each tells a story, in the popular tradition, of how- once- they too did not understand. Once, they too did not believe. Yet, the universe reveals itself, and here they stand, telling the story of how they too saw the light. It is inevitable, undeniable, and conclusively right to believe the same. Anyone who does not is suspect.
Anyone who does not is untrustworthy. Anyone who does not should be shown the light! No righteous person can deny the truth, when confronted with it! No righteous person would dare give false credence to the popular lie, the obvious hidden reality behind reality. Simply look, and it is obvious that the secret lies just behind the surface. Simply look, and it is obvious all of society secretly feels the same.
The facts support their cause. There is no other way of reasonably interpreting the information. Nevermind that the information cannot speak for itself. Pay no attention to the interpretation behind the curtain. They remind themselves of their righteousness, of their infallibility (except when perfection would be an affront). Everything reinforces, everything backs them up, everything points to the inevitability, to the futility of rebellion.
It is easier to believe. It is easier to conform. It's lonely to be alone. It's lonely to buck the trend. Their friends, their families, everyone they know believes. It is easier to accept than think. The outside is scary, cold, and hostile; and when it's not is when it's the most insidiously evil and threatening.
They huddle together, in their dens of ignorance. Each alone in their doubts, most incapable of voicing what angers them about the opposition. The lies, the facades, the fakery, it all weaves together, forming a comforting blanket of assurance. There's time enough tomorrow to think, but today it's too disheartening. Belief feels good, feels comfortable, and the opposition- the presumed oppression of their side- gives them strength of conviction.
They gather together, groups of like-minded individuals, huddling in their communal dens of anger, hate, and decisive ignorance. When they speak, the inability to empathize is not there, instead the vitriol covers the fear. The bluster works, and entices their audiences, their facade repeated at them ten, a hundred, a thousand,a million fold. They see their lies accepted and encouraged, and so, they lie more; convincing themselves as they convince each other. Read More...
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