Dear God, Zeus, Odin, Luna, Athena, Horus, Osiris, et All
Dear Big Guy(s) or Big Girl(s) or Big Guy(s) and Girl(s) in the sky,
This letter is to inform you that your services are no longer required or desired. Of course, it isn't easy to end this love-hate-wipe out entire populations because you get your celestial knickers tied in a knot relationship that has spanned millennia, but we both want different things and we've been going in different directions for quite a while now. WelI, can't say it's been fun, in fact, it's been downright dangerous to be involved in this relationship with you, but it's time for us to cut our losses and say, "Goodbye." For the record, it's not us, it's YOU that's the problem!
Now, before you start whining about what you'll do without us, let me just say that you haven't been truly invested in a healthy, loving relationship, in well...ever. You don't communicate, you're moody and prone to extreme violence, you're neglectful in your responsibilities, and you've allowed country music to exist. Don't believe me? Well here's some things that've led to this breakup.
1. You don't communicate clearly. How can we know what you want unless you take the time to tell us. Oh, and talking bushes, the Virgin Mary's image in a piece of toast, and the books that are supposedly your word don't count as effective communication! You haven't used the burning bush thing since the Bronze Age and even then, it was only seen by one guy! The image of the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast, stigmata, and crying statues aren't a big deal. I once had a fried potato skin that looked like Mount Rushmore. It doesn't mean that Abe Lincoln is trying to send me a message about how he doesn't like how his birthday is used an excuse to sell Toyotas at, "Prices that'll assassinate the factory MSRP." The holy books? Well, first they read like stereo instructions. Second, books can be manipulated and changed to coincide with the whims of those in power. So, it's only logical that the King James translation of the bible is very monarch/keeping the elite in power friendly. There's no way to insure that we're getting the real low down on God's will. Ya Dig?
2. Your moody and violent when angry. Floods that wipe out all creation, fire and brimstone that destroys cities, and back to back hurricanes show that you're not exactly even handed. I mean, what's up with Florida and the back to back hurricanes? Does the South owe you money or something? Look, I'm no fan of the states where it was once okay for people to own people, but picking on Florida? Florida is the state equivalent of that kid that got dropped on his head repeatedly as a newborn. Give our country's limp phallus a break. Picking on someone too intellectually impaired to fight back is just plain mean.
3. You're a deadbeat parent. Look, I get it that us mortal adults do bad stuff so we deserve what we get. The wage of sin is death and all that. BUT CHILDREN? It makes ZERO sense that a 2 year old has to fight cancer or dies needlessly in a war. What great sin can a 2 old commit that is deserving of death by cancer or a bomb? These deaths are pointless. If you are indeed omnipotent and omniscient, fix it! Oh, don't give me that, "We mortals suffer so that we can learn to be better people b.s." If you are creator of the universe then you created a faulty product. Punishing children so that their faulty parents learn a lesson is totally denying responsibility for the faulty product YOU created and needlessly making innocents suffer. Besides, if you know everything, why allow faulty mortals to leave the factory to begin with? I mean, Ford didn't intentionally design the Pinto to explode when rear ended. If they knew that would happen before the car hit the sales lot they would've changed the design so that the issue was fixed, right?
So, humanity is slowly breaking up with you, God(s). Churches are hemorrhaging members who figure out that their worth can only be found in the collection plate and that the lessons they're being taught from the pulpit run contrary to the values and actions of presidential candidate the pastor is demanding that they vote for. The Old Testament sadism that led to the wholesale slaughter of (if it to be believed) the entire human race minus an incestuous family on a boat is being seen for what it is. Finally, humanity has started to figure out that no amount of wisdom to be gained is worth the death of children who're too young to even say, "Sin" let alone commit such an act.
I'd like to say it's we're sorry to end this, but after enduring centuries of genocide, slavery, war, rapine, and cruelty, I can't. Your suitcase is packed and the Uber has been called. We wish you luck, but please stay out of the business of creating sentient beings because you're not very good at it.
This Stuff Can’t Be Sold at a Garage Sale, on eBay, or Craigslist
My mind is a lunatic's attic, filled with the rusty, dusty, moldy, moth-eaten, cracked, and bent brick-a-brac of foolishness, folly, and general fuckery. It needs to be cleaned out, but who knows, I might need that list of synonyms for, the word, "Penis" that I've carefully curated and committed to memory someday.
Death Takes 2 Minutes in the Microwave on High
My name is, Smith and I'm a homicide detective. I've seen all kinds of death, but what I witnessed today was a first. The call was a body found at the Single Arms Apartments. It's one of those 1-2-3 complexes that cater to twice divorced men. You know, the bastards that marry once for love, twice for lust, and thanks to divorce lawyers, work three jobs to pay for the consequences in alimony and child support.
I arrived at the scene to find our M.E scratching his head. The body hadn't been moved yet. The victim's feet hung just above the floor, his obviously new jeans still around his ankles. The rest of his body lay backwards on his bed. His rigor-mortised face was strangely red.
"Hey, Bob, whatcha got?" I asked.
"Hi Smith," He grumbled. "Third one this week."
"Really?" I asked. "This makes a third murder?"
"Not murders." Bob replied. "Three middle-aged bastards who gave themselves heart attacks trying to squeezing their fat asses into skinny jeans.
Suddenly, it made sense. When will poor middle-aged bastards realize that no amount of skinny jeans can retrieve their youth especially when you add loneliness and a diet of microwavable burritos.
A Case of Witchstaken Identity
Not sure if the challenge is supposed to be about the occult or a cult, so I'll mix it up.
I am just so tired of the stereotyping! Look folks. Wiccans aren't wicked, evil, spawns of Satan! We don't fly around on broomsticks wearing ruby slippers harassing members of the Lullaby League and Lollipop Guild! We're being religiously profiled!
So, to all those members of the Manson Family, STOP leaving your kids on our doorsteps to be raised as spawns of the devil! If you want your kids to be raised to be evil, drop them at the Scientology headquarters, the RNC offices, DMV, or an NRA convention!
Oh, and to whatever motherfucker keeps trying to drop a Kansas farmhouse on my head and hitting me with buckets of water...Try it again and you'll be hearing from my lawyer!
There Isn’t Aspercreme or Bengay in the Afterlife
"Stuck in limbo, are ya? Maybe next time you'll stretch before attempting to go under that damn stick. Dead or not, if you're not careful you're bound to throw your back out. Too bad you won't find a chiropractor around here, what with the shady way they do billing and all. I'm sure they've earned a place in Hell and will be forced to spend eternity adjusting Lucifer's lumbar region."
Born on Welfare Day: The Shallowgenepool Story
I loved the big money challenge prompt, but have no chance of winning, so why not post for fun.
Prologue
Why do people write autobiographies? I mean, our lives begin and end pretty much the same way with just some minor variations. It all starts when the tub we’ve been soaking in (complete with room service) for 9 months suddenly starts to drain. As the last drop of amniotic fluid in the womb tub disappears, it signals the end of our tenure as mommy’s favorite parasite. Suddenly, we find our bodies being uncomfortably squeezed downwards and experience the feeling of our still soft skulls being compressed to just short of their maximum structural tolerances. Next, infant us find ourselves being evicted from the only world we’ve ever known kicking and screaming through an orifice that seems to be 3 sizes too small. Finally, we are forced into this harshly bright new world, weak, helpless and covered in blood, fluid, and our own waste. In death, we experience the universe’s sick sense of irony because in the process of dying we once again find ourselves weak, helpless, often toothless, and in an embarrassing case of deja-poo, our own waste.
So, if the beginning and the end of life are nearly identical in their messiness and excretions, maybe the universe is more interested in what lies between her banally similar mortal book ends. After all, that seems to be where the real action happens. It’s where we get free reign to for better or worse. become who we are. It is here where:
· We’re educated first by our parents and family, television, then by school, graffiti written on the inside doors of bathroom stalls, and finally by experience.
· We learn to love in all its depth and technicolor joy. We learn to hate too, but thankfully like cursive hand writing or a gag gift dildo, we don’t have to use it if we don’t want to.
· During the extended menage a trois featuring Nature, Nurture, and Human Folly we develop our own personality. It is here where our talents bloom and preferences develop.
· We gain independence and begin to provide for ourselves.
· We make money or if you go into social work, you witness people making money. Social workers have to treat their bank’s ATM machine like a slot machine. Hitting the jackpot means there’s enough in your account to put gas in the car.
· We might develop a sense of altruism and dedicate some time to helping others
· We fuck (hopefully well, often, and sans disease) and potentially reproduce.
· We get sick (hopefully not due to engaging in the immediately preceding activity) and we get better.
· We generally screw things up, act the fool, and hopefully when the dust settles and/or one gets released from parole, we learn our lessons and become better people because of our fuck ups.
Of course, one’s autobiography should encapsulate these and many other life defining events. However, who we become is largely influenced by our parents including the good, the bad, the criminal, and the totally fucking insane. Likewise, mommy and daddy were influenced by the life experiences and character of their parents, and so on for generations. So, as much as we want to be pure and unique individuals, we are in fact, just the latest genetic model in a series of heroes, villains, geniuses, idiots, and general fuck ups.
Writing my biography is problematic because the typical sources of family history are absent in my family. Most of my family members who’re still amongst the living either wouldn’t talk to me about the past or they’ve chemically lobotomized themselves with elicit substances to the point that their memories are completely unreliable. Besides, if I started asking questions they’d freak out because most of my relations have been subjected to the phrase, “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law” on frequent occasions, so they ain’t gonna say nothin. Sadly, written records providing accurate information on my family history would mostly consist of criminal court records and therefore offer little of value in terms of my wee life story. So, much of what I present is based on my best guess, stories I’ve been told, conversations (both sober and other), and what little detective work I’ve done over the years.
Please be advised. I will be using false names because those relatives I have that are still alive would consider my depictions of them as incriminating (criminal statutes of limitations not withstanding) and/or potential parole violations. So, in the words of the immortal Bon Scott, “The following is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.”
In order to fully understand the disaster that is Shallowgenepool it is necessary to go back far enough in the past to understand the circumstances and events that led up to this human catastrophy. For example, when investigating a trainwreck, the Department of Transportation will start at the train’s point of origin because the cause of the wreck might’ve taken place before the train left the station. So, if I am going to provide the reader with a good picture of the cluster fuck that would be my life, it is necessary to provide information about those who’re responsible for my existence. Of course, how they came to be who they were is also important in understanding what led two stupid, mentally ill, totally irresponsible, and selfish 19-year-old apprentice drug addicts to even contemplate being parents. Ultimately if the reader is to fully understand Shallowgenepool, it is important to understand a bit about his parents, “Dick” and “Laura.” Let’s start with, Laura, because well, it is. “Ladies first,” after all.
Mom-The Agates
My mom, Laura was born April, 26, 1955. She was the second child and second daughter of Amy Crooks and John Agate. The Agates and Crooks hailed from the cold, hard soil farm country of South Dakota and Minnesota. By all accounts, Grandma, Amy was a spunky, auburn-haired girl who enjoyed school. Unfortunately, her schooling stopped after the eighth grade because the Great Depression demanded that she helped raise her seven younger siblings while her parents fought to grow enough food to keep them all fed on their small farm. Otherwise, young Amy probably would have gone on to be the first in her family to get enough education to realize that pickled pig’s feet are as disgusting (she was a big fan) as they sound and bib overalls were fine for work, but a bit too tacky to wear all the time.
Grandpa John was described to me as being moody, showed little interest in oral hygiene (he needed dentures before he turned 30 years old) and possessed the paternal instincts of a brick. By all reports, John was a pampered mama’s boy who as far as his mommy was concerned, pissed silver and shit gold. John also wasn’t afraid to play favorites with his children and made it clear that his first child, Mona was the prized child. All children after Mona were seen as an inconvenience to be tolerated and not nurtured. So, to rate John’s personality and decency on a 5 star scale, he’d score ½ star, shouldn’t have been allowed procreate.
Now, I’m not really sure what drew my grandparents away from the frigid Mid-West and all the way to Santa Clara County, California in the days before it became the Silicon Valley. My theory is that it was because there’s only so much polka music a person can take before you completely lose it, and that South Dakota and Minnesota are, freeze your wedding tackle off and lose your nipples to frostbite FUCKING COLD during the winter! In addition to much better weather and the blessed lack of polka music, the job prospects in California at the time were also decent and it was an affordable place to raise a family. Of course, this was decades before the Bay Area became the only place on Earth where it costs a million dollars to purchase an outhouse that’s been converted into a 1-bedroom condo. So within a couple of years of becoming Californians, a son Shepherd was added and a third daughter was on the way.
Now, from what snippets I’ve been able to glean through the years about Grandpa John, it seems that he was a man who’d developed a close friendship with Gambling. Though Gramps loved Gambling and spent every second he could with his expensive friend, he rarely crossed paths with Gambling’s beautiful, but fickle sister, Winning. Now, as much as John loved Gambling and tried to get into Winning’s knickers, he spent most of time (and paycheck) with Gambling’s ugly twin brother, Losing. Predictably, grandpa’s relationship with Gambling and Losing led him to seek out and find shady characters who were willing to let him lose his money and then loan him even more money to lose at a very high interest rate. Now, if the interest rates for these loans weren’t bad enough, the late fees were killer. Of course, it didn’t take long before grandpa was facing his creditor’s rather aggressive form of debt collection. Sadly, as is the case with so many of my family members, grandpa’s priorities were ass backwards. Consequentially, his wife and 3 children, (with another wee bairn on the way) simply couldn’t compete with his passion for pissing away what little money he had at a poker table.
In addition to being a very enthusiastic, but equally bad gambler, grandpa was a bit of a coward. This yellow streak made him a bit squeamish about the way his creditor’s obtained their late fees. So, instead of settling his tab or accepting his late fees like a man, grandpa parked under an overpass, ran a hose from the tailpipe of his car to the driver’s seat, rolled up the window, turned on the ignition, and let carbon-monoxide take him to the place where the loan sharks and thugs wouldn’t be able to find him. I’m sure to his selfish and terrified way of thinking, leaving a widow to raise 3 of his kiddos with one on the way seemed a small price to pay to avoid having his legs broken or being filled with .38 caliber holes by aggressive debt collectors.
So, Amy was left alone to raise her 4 children the best she could. Now, job prospects for single moms with only an eighth-grade education in the 1950s weren’t good, but she managed to keep herself, Mona, Laura, Shepherd, and Carol housed and fed. Unfortunately, this meant that Amy couldn’t be home to nurture her children’s moral development, self-worth, and growing sense of abandonment.
So according to all who knew her as a child, Laura, (mom) was so shy that she’d successfully managed to develop a phantom’s ability to be rarely seen and never heard. I’m told that her shyness and the resulting bullying that went with it would develop into a state of being almost agoraphobic by the time she was in middle school. I’m sure that the physical dumpiness that is a byproduct of prepubescence probably didn’t help. Unfortunately, few pictures of my mom from her childhood survive, but I’ve always kind of pictured her looking like Ichabod Crane in drag. Mom was described as being taller than many of her male classmates, thin, and had a hawkish nose that dominated her pale face.
As with all things, change came about and my mom and her sisters would shake off prepubescence and develop into shapely young ladies. Now, with a dead daddy and a mom who worked from dawn to dusk, the reader can probably guess that my mom, Mona, and Carol would develop a malignant case of daddy issues. How did the daddy issues manifest themselves? Well, male attention be it positive or negative of any kind became an all-encompassing need.
By the time my mom and her sisters reached their teens it was the 1970s, a time of change, war, and free love. Happy to represent the time, the Agate girls gave their love, freely, often, and largely indiscriminately. Of course, this was most advantageous to any male that so much as glanced in their direction. As a result of the Agate girl’s eagerness to please, they would become VERY popular with the male student body of their high school. I’ve often wondered if at some point, they didn’t have their phone number written on each and every door of the boy’s room stalls at Wilcox High School with the polite suggestion, “For a good time call Mona, Laura, and Carol at 408-248-3079.”
Of course, many called, and as promised, a good time was provided to almost all (weed, alcohol, and/or amphetamines and an appropriate back seat being the only requirements). I’ve also wondered if the good time directions inside those boy’s room stalls at Wilcox were ever framed for posterity. After all, such consistent and dedicated service deserves recognition of some sort. McDonalds has the, “Billions and Billions Served” statement beneath their restaurant signs, certainly my mom and aunts deserve to be honored for their attempt at competing with the huge number of customers the golden arches has served. Now don’t worry, I don’t think of my mom and aunts as sluts. I think of them as legends.
Somehow, my Mom, managed to graduate from high school in 1973 both child and sexually transmitted disease free. Mona and Carol, didn’t get past sophomore year without becoming a teen pregnancy statistic? Mona would drop out of high school when she became pregnant (arguably the ultimate sexually transmitted disease) at 15 years old and eventually pursue a full-time career as a heroin addict. Carol, not one to be outdone, would also drop out of high school, with bun baking in her 15-year-old Easy Bake (with emphasis on the “Easy”) oven. A late bloomer, Carol would some 12 years later pursue a degree at the school of hard knocks in being bat guano fucking crazy.
Dad-The Urbans
My Dad, let’s call him Dick because it’s close to his real name and even closer to his true nature, was a military brat who was born in South Carolina, but moved to his parent’s home state of Michigan at an early age. At first glance, there were a few glaring differences between my parent's background. Where the Agate’s were largely uneducated farmers of Irish-German ancestry, the Urbans were more worldly with a smattering of college educated types. In addition, the Urbans had more recently immigrated to the New World from Ireland and England. Sadly, relocating to the New World at the beginning of the twentieth century didn’t allow the Urban family to escape the age-old bane of Irish Catholics everywhere, alcohol. In fact, any Urban who didn’t have at least a training wheel case of cirrhosis of the liver by the time they were in their late 20s often had their status as a legitimate Urban questioned.
Now, by all accounts, my paternal grandfather, “Ron” was a man who honored family tradition and as such, became a professional drummer like his father, and also like his father was well on his way to drinking himself into the grave by his early 30s.To hear it tell, Gramps was also a mean drunk and unfortunately for Dick, he made beating his oldest child a favorite pastime.
Ron’s wife, “Dora,” being of the more independent breed of woman wasn’t going to tolerate a drunken and abusive husband. So, Gram divorced Gramps (I’m sure her Catholic parents were just thrilled) and set about raising Dick, his brother and two sisters alone.
Dora, by nature was a bit of a rebel and it only increased as she found her freedom. If divorcing wasn’t a snub to her Irish Catholic upbringing and time in Catholic school, her embracing of militant atheism was an all-out banishment of her parent’s faith. Not done yet, Gram’s rebellion against all her parents held dear continued when she dropped her married name like someone would drop a used tissue found on the floor of a porn theater, went to college, and ensconced herself in the design department of Ford’s light truck division.
It all seems on track for a decent ending, right? This might’ve been the case if Dick wasn’t a violent, budding narcissist, with a deep appreciation for anything that’d get him hammered or stoned out of his gord. It was the late 1960’s so right in the sweet spot of, the “Make Love Not War” movement. Well, Dick proved to share his mom’s rebelliousness and went against the groovy grain. Oh, Dick was totally onboard for the “Make love,” directive and enthusiastically sought to keep little dick wet. He was equally happy to participate in the consumption of any and every illicit substance he could get ahold of. However, the “Not war” part didn’t sit too well, so he improvised and changed the peaceful portion to, “Beat the fuck out of anyone who doesn’t do what I want them to do.”
Well, as it turns out, Dick’s enthusiasm for drugs didn’t go unnoticed by the Ann Arbor authorities and eventually he was caught and charged with possession with intent to distribute. Apparently, the judge trying my dad’s case realized that dad would make for good cannon fodder in Viet Nam, so he was given an ultimatum, join the military of learn about the realities of prison romance. Of course, my dad enlisted. Unfortunately, the judge didn’t direct my dad towards a specific branch of the military, so my dad picked the Navy. The Vietnamese Army, being light on warships posed a minimal threat to our Navy, so my dad would be pretty much out of harm’s way on an aircraft carrier. As strange as it sounds, a judge can be thanked for my parent’s meeting. No wonder why I hate the criminal justice system.
For the record, I honestly don’t know exactly where or even how my parents met. They were divorced by the time I was 2 years old and by the time I was old enough to ask they pretty much had no desire to relive the days immediately prior to my genesis. From what I gather, it was a bar (both blissfully engaging in underage drinking I’m sure) during the winter of 1973. The only reason my Detroit raised dad was in California (a state he hates with a passion) at the time was the Navy had sent him to aircraft technical training school located at NAS Moffett Field in Sunnyvale.
Oh well, I guess the exact where and how doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the fact that the was a disaster of a magnitude comparable to the meeting of the Titanic and iceberg, Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii, or Godzilla and downtown Tokyo.
The long and short of it (in terms of dad’s manhood mom would argue the extremely short of it), my parents’ relationship was a one a 1-night stand that went a couple of months too long. Now, the details here get fuzzy because I was a fetus at the time and my mom wouldn’t remember, but apparently when she found out she was carrying the wee bairn, Shallowgenepool, she decided she wasn’t going to tell Dick. She’d just let him go off to Viet Nam and raise lil’ bastard me by herself. I guess she figured a guy that was going off to war and who wanted to be stoned all the time probably had a short life expectancy. She was probably right. I’m guessing that my dad’s homeostatic state of being perma-baked plus proximity to live munitions equaled Dick coming home in tiny little pieces.
Well, somehow ol’ Dick figured out mom was in the family way and lacking any common sense went and said something, to THE WRONG PEOPLE! Now, by the wrong people, I mean his very Irish-Catholic maternal grandparents. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about my Great-Móraí and Great-Granda, but what I do know is that my 4-foot 9 inch Great-Móraí wasn’t a force of nature, nature was a force of her and a person crossed her at their own peril. When she wasn’t being a baker of scones and committed member of her neighborhood, my Great-Móraí could be found walking to and from mass every day as would be her habit well into her 80s. Now, if Great-Móraí had one flaw, it was that she had a very established Napoleon complex. However, unlike Napoléon, she would’ve succeeded in the invasion of Russia because from what I have come to understand, compared to Great-Móraí, Napoleon was a wuss. So, upon hearing the news that her first great-grandchild was on the way my Great-Grandma did what any Irish-Catholic grandma would do. She told my dad to marry my mom because no wee grandchild of hers was gun’ be born out’n the holy sacrament of wedlock!
Of course, my mom and dad could’ve resisted Great-Móraí’s Irish-Catholic version of a shotgun wedding. In fact, most who knew my parents probably expected rebellion because, it was widely known that my dad had a reputation for being resistant to any form of authority. However, my dad was justifiably TERRIFIED of my Great-Morai, so a ring was bought, a wedding dress was let out to accommodate the little bump that was becoming wee little fetus me, and two people who would eventually come to hate each other so much they had to live on opposite sides of the continent from each other got hitched.
So, Uncle Sam didn’t allow for much of a honeymoon and not too long after the nuptials, my dad was headed to the South China Sea to be a part of the Viet Nam war’s last few months. This was probably for the best because not only does absence make the heart grow fonder, but it also prevents two people who’re about as compatible as battery acid and a rectal exam from getting to know each other better, thus preventing an even earlier marriage implosion.
ShallowGenepool’s Comes Into the World
Apparently, my mom’s pregnancy was a rough one. She struggled with high blood pressure which didn’t respond to the medication the doctor prescribed. Then again, mom was also advised to stop smoking too, but her relationship with Benson & Hedges and its smooth nicotine flavor was an old one and my mom was loathe to see any relationship end. This inability to end any relationship, no matter how unhealthy, would eventually become a source of great suffering for yours truly, but I digress. Anyway, if smoking harmed lil’ old me in-utero, my mom figured that she was young, and she could always have another kid, right? So, she went against doctor’s orders a bit. Besides, at least she’d quit doing drugs as soon as she found out she was pregnant (except weed, weed doesn’t count). Unfortunately for fetal me, the pregnancy discovery occurred just a few days after my mom dropped acid at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer concert with my dad. Side note: I think the LSD exposure when I was just a wee blob of cells explains why I occasionally hear colors, taste sounds, and see smells.
Despite the difficulties, including a couple of trips to the hospital because her persistent high blood pressure caused her to pass out, my mom carried me to term. So, at 4:15 am on Thursday, August 1, 1974 within the OB/GYN wing of a military hospital in Mountain View (the hospital no longer exists) Shallowgenepool entered the world kicking and screaming. I’m told that the delivery was rough and the doctors were afraid they’d lose one or both of us. I’m really not sure if it was a good or a bad thing, but my dad couldn’t be present. At that time of my birth he was in South East Asia because there were peasants to bomb and bills to pay. I was named after him while he was away. Everybody sing!
….AND THE CATS AND THE CRADDLE AND THE SILVER SPOON……
Now, to most people being born on the first day of a month just meant that it’d be an easier birthday for others to remember. However, to a poor kid in the 1980’s the first day of the month was the one day where you might get a Happy Meal for dinner instead of grilled government cheese sandwiches and store brand tomato soup. This momentary access to fast food happened because the first day of the month was the day where welfare benefits and food stamps were distributed to the poor who relied on welfare for survival (the 15th was another day but for food stamps only if I remember right). It was the one day where the chance of eating was better than any other time and if the electricity had been turned off before the first of the month, it could be turned back on.
So, I’ve always looked at the day of my birth as a portent of things to come. It was as if the universe said:
“Unto the world is delivered a child who’ll travail on the dole all his young days. His raiment shalt be the best Goodwill renders unto them on their, 'Dollar a Bag Days.' He will partake of government cheese and 5 the gallon paint can of peanut butter that Ceasar giveth unto the poor. His sicknesses will go without care for Nyquil doth cost much and woe unto him who taketh cigarette money to use it for cold medicine. Let his father depart from him and duck court ordered child support to take up the mantle of Dead Beat Dad.”
·
l
The Hills Are Alive With the Bitching of Shallowgenepool
I must admit that there is a mountain range worth of hills that I am willing to die on. I’m not too sure that there is just one time when a guy/girl/and every variation in between must make a stand. It may seem to be a nonsensical thing to most people, but to me the hills I am willing to spill my blood on, to have my exposed oily entrails leave their stain on, and give my last shuddering breath on are worthy of the sacrifice. You may call me an idiot and you’d be right, but let it not be said that Shallowgenepool didn’t fight for what he believed in (no matter how ridiculous or pointless it may seem to others)! So, what are these hills that I’m willing to die on, you may or may not ask? (either way I’m going to tell you so you should stop reading here if you don’t want to know) Well, here are just a few ideological summits I am willing to sacrifice myself on:
1. Scrappy Doo ruined the Scooby Doo Mysteries. I’m guessing that the addition of Scrappy was supposed to add a level of cuteness to the show. It was enough to make me spew my store brand cocoa puffs! Instead, it annoyed even a 7-year-old Me’s sensibilities thus FUCKING UP MY SATURDAY MORNINGS!
2. Some see the movie, “Titanic” as a tragic romance. They’d be wrong. Titanic is a multi-faceted allegory demonstrating that:
Giving the ship building contract to the lowest bidder might seem like a cost saving measure, but you get what you pay for. After all, what good is cost cutting when what you pay for ends up at the bottom of the Atlantic!
The rich will always victimize the poor. The poor go down with the ship while the rich get to cling to floating doors.
Rich people are stupid and wasteful. The sapphire that is a major plot point in the movie…What happens to it? The old crone tosses it in the ocean. That blue rock could’ve been sold and the proceeds used to feed countless starving children, but no, the uppity bint tosses it into the brink for closure! What a waste!
3. So long as it’s between consenting adults, love is love. However, I must draw the line at the unholy union that occurred between Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. It is an afront to puppet Mother Nature! What the fuck was Jim Henson thinking?
4. Call me a music snob if you will, but country music sucks. The era of country doesn’t matter either. It can be the old Hank Williams/Johnny Cash era, the new era where some inbred, slack-jawed yokel came up with, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” exists, or everything in between. At the end of the day, I will always feel that country music is the musical equivalent of the bloody, acidic, explosive diarrhea that exits one’s hemorrhoid-lined sphincter after eating at that taco truck that received a half star rating on Yelp and CDC designation of 100% fatal to all organic life.
5. Women are better than men. My evidence is legion. Neurological research has determined that a woman is neurologically capable of simultaneously gathering and examining information, identifying potential problems, and finding new and adaptive solutions to those problems utilizing multiple areas of her brain. Men? Our brains are a bit more simplistic, and by simplistic, I mean archaically limited in ability and adaptability. If it’s a problem not solvable by fucking it, killing it, suppressing its rights, putting bigger tires on it, or eating it, our brains kind of seize up and overheat with the results being like what one would expect to observe after shoving a vibrator set on high into newly poured quick-dry cement. The fact is, men’s brains while functional, lack the same level of neuroplasticity that allows a woman’s brain to multitask at a high level while maintaining an adaptability that a man’s brain just can’t come close to competing with.
6. Mary Ann was waaay hotter than Ginger on Gilligan’s Island. Sure, Ginger was a sultry bargain-basement Marilyn Monroe, but I bet Mary Ann was all sweet girl on the streets, naughty farmer’s daughter in the sheets!
7. Elvis sucked. King of Rock and Roll? He doesn’t even rank high enough to be considered the court jester of rock and roll. Never wrote a song, stole music, and was guilty of statutory rape. Okay, I guess he has some qualities similar to that of the British Royal family, so maybe he is royalty of a sort. Like the British royals, he had a thing for underage girls (see Prince Andrew) and was a talentless hack (exactly what do the royals do for a living exactly other than make money off of tourism and the land they stole from their subjects).
8. John Lennon of Beatles fame was hardly a good poster child for the peace and love movement. He was an abusive, money-grubbing jerk who neglected his first child. Plus, he inflicted Yoko Ono on the world.
9. All this blatherskite about illegal immigration in the U.S is hypocrisy at its most despicable. Unless you can legitimately claim indigenous heritage, you can’t claim to be here legally. Why? No one asked the indigenous people permission to live here. There was no naturalization process or Visa program put in place to manage the influx of pasty white moronic Europeans. The government made and then broke countless treaties with the indigenous peoples that were meant to protect the indigenous peoples right to the land they had lived on for millennia.
If any of these atrocities happened today, the U.S government’s policy of breaking treaties with the indigenous people, placing them on reservations, and intentionally infecting them with smallpox would’ve been condemned by the UN and the U.S would be placed on the same level as North Korea and Iran in terms of human rights. Even worse, the U.S would replace Nazi Germany as being seen as the evilest perpetrator of genocide in human history. As to the spoils of war argument used by some to say that the indigenous people lost a war to the United States and as such lost their land fair and square…Fine. The next time someone breaks into your home points a gun at you and tells you to leave for good. Remember, your property wasn’t stolen, you lost a very brief, geographically small in scope war. Those that broke into your home won it from you fair and square. Legal recourse? The indigenous people signed legal treaties which protected their land which wasn’t honored, so why do you think you deserve to have your property rights protected by the law exactly? Note to those pasty white FOX news watching types who have their Trump brand classy gold knickers all tied in knots about illegal immigration…Please note that many people entering the U.S from south of the border have legitimate claims to indigenous ancestry and therefore can’t truly be called illegal when their people have been here since before you were. So, maybe they should put all those who never went through a naturalization or Visa process implemented by the original inhabitants of the Americas on a ship and send them back to where they belong.
10. Anyone who takes the opinion of someone who calls themselves, Shallowgenepool too seriously needs to seek out professional help.
The Diaper Change That Defines
Setting: Hospital Nursery:
When: Birthday 3 Hours Post Mommy Part Egress
Newborn on My Left (removes fist from mouth to address neighbors): Whew! This being born stuff is traumatic!
Baby on My Right (stops newborn wailing): No kidding! I've been screaming for the last hour try to get someone to let me speak to the manager, but I'm being totally ignored. The accommodations here suck! I mean, why were we forced out of our previous suites? I was thoroughly enjoying myself!
Newborn on My Left (briefly removes fist from mouth): Yeah, it was great, floating inside the mommy person, getting room service on demand, and that band the, Heartbeat, talk about relaxing! (fist is returned to mouth)
Newborn Me (drooling a habit that would continue into adulthood): It was definitely a rude awakening. There you are, sucking your thumb, minding your own business, then, BAM! Your living space starts to collapse, your head get's crushed until you think your brain's gonna pop outa your ears, then finally you get squeezed out of a hole that seems waaaay too small to be a fire marshal approved emergency exit.
Newborn on My Right (preparing to resume wailing): Exactly! And would it have killed them to turn up the heat in where ever it was we ended up? And don't EVEN get me started on that bright light! I'm still seeing double!
Newborn on My Left (coos contentedly): Well, at least they got us warmed up pretty quick and our first meal in our new accommodations wasn't half bad and the mommy person seems nice.
Newborn Me (a little jealous): I couldn't tell ya, mine didn't come straight from the tap. I got this stuff that left a horrible aftertaste in my mouth.
Newborn on My Right (gives a sympathetic grunt): I'll be sure to mention it to the manager (starts wailing again) IF SOMEONE EVER LETS ME SPEAK WITH THE FUCKING MANAGER OF THIS PLACE!
Newborn on My Left (startled from dozing off): Hey, here comes a staff member.
Newborn on My Right (quiets long enough to glare at the nurse): Yeah, she's been by once before. Didn't acknowledge my complaining AT ALL. She just checked me over and moved on. Customer service here is extremely lacking!
Newborn on My Left (sighs): Oh good! I think she's freshening me up. I was feeling a little wet down there. (glances down nurse as removes and changes diaper letting Newborn check the wedding tackle) Well look at that, I'm a boy! AND WHAT A BOY! (nurse moves on)
Newborn on My Right (huffs): Well, it's about time! I'm all gooey down there and it is definitely, NOT COMFORTABLE (nurse now changing Newborn allowing for self-discovery) Oh good! I'm a girl and thank goodness! I don't want to be like the daddy person because he always insisted on poking mommy with me in residence. Frankly, I think that's how I got this soft spot on the top of my head! It's simply barbaric! (nurse moves on)
Newborn Me (now curious): My turn! (nurse now changing Newborn Me's diaper letting me glance down) Well, Fuck!
Newborn on the Left and Newborn on the Right (together): What's wrong!
Newborn Me (now doing some wailing of my own): I'm IRISH!
Newborn on the Left and Newborn on the Right (together): OH WE ARE SO SORRY!
Newborn on the Left (sympathetically): Man, I knew life was gonna be hard, but Irish, man, that's just cruel!
Dancing to the Moon’s Song That Only We Hear
Some families are known for their artistic talent, all that they touch is graced with beauty. Some families are known for the music they make, no instrument goes unlearned and no melody is out of reach. A chosen few families are known for having the Midas touch as wealth seemingly falls in their laps with no more effort than taking a breath. My family? We're all bat fucking guano crazy.
A lot of people talk about that one crazy family member who everyone dreads inviting to family functions. In my family, you'd be hard pressed to figure out who that one crazy family member is because we're lunatics one and all. We all dance to the silent song of the moon, a tune that only the true lunatic can hear.
Suicide is an old friend. She's visited my maternal grandfather when she was a child, aunts, uncles, and most recently, a young cousin. The creative type, she used a hose and running car to end my grandfather and a revolver in the mouth to silence my cousin. Her sister, Addiction is more patient and a bit more social. She's always keen to invite her friends depression, anxiety, delusion, and personality disorder along for the ride. Never in a hurry, Addiction is willing to play the long game and has let countless members of my family kill themselves one drink, one white line, one needle, one pipe, and one pill at a time. My family's traditional poison of choice, Alcohol and centuries old Achille's Heal to Irish Catholics everywhere, has put countless generations of my family in the ground well before the age of 50.
For many of us, Depression has been our wetnurse. Held firmly against her breast, barely able to breathe, we have no choice but to suckle at her bitter teat, gulping down self-hatred, and an eternal abyss of gray melancholy hopelessness. Try as we might, we are often too weak to turn our heads to see that there is a world outside of Depression's, firm and cold embrace.
Emotions that spin chaotically like a compass that cannot find true north keeps many of us too dizzy to navigate the world. Lost in the chaotically changing magnetic field of mood that rapidly swings between mania and depression, some of us never feel the firm ground of of emotional and psychological stability under our feet. Instead, our lives are filled with long periods stale, unmoving numb feeling. Suddenly, without any warning of a coming storm such as a stiffening breeze of disorganized thoughts or the darkening of the sky above with clouds of thundering disordinate emotion, we're hit with the battering force of the psychological storm. The manic tempest upon us, we find ourselves in a maelstrom of psychological instability, battered by waves of chaotic, delusional, and self-destructive notions of invincibility. The storm can last moments or days, but when it's over and the stagnant and placid emotional state returns, we find ourselves surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of mania's storm. Relationships may have been torn apart by mania's beating winds and hasty words. It's massive waves of self-destruction undermined freedom as delusional acts of criminality have been placed in the spotlight of the criminal justice system. The calm may allow for some of the damage to be prepared, but it's never fully fixed, and eventually a manic storm will start to form on the horizon of consciousness promising more destruction to come.
Mental illness in my family is most dangerous to the individual. We are our own worst enemies and rarely does irreparable damage occur beyond the self. The trust of others may be bruised and battered, relationships may be torn, and good will may hemorrhage after being cut by addiction's sharp edge one too many times, but it's never fatal. All of this can be repaired with a little time and a lot of distance.
The mental illness that is our birthright has committed the ultimate act of violence against another just once. A cousin, smart, talented and possessing a great talent with electronics entered the military during the Viet Nam war. His talents recognized, he was assigned to intelligence. It was only when the prerequisite psych evaluation was completed that this cousin was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Discharged honorably, the cousin was given a legion of pills and sent home. Now, at that time the treatment for serious psychological disorders with medication was still in its infancy. As a result, the side-effects of these meds were almost as brutal as the mental illness they were supposed to treat. So, as many people with serious mental illness do, this cousin being tortured by the medication's unwanted effects, stopped taking them. Staying with his mom at the time, she noticed that he wasn't taking the medication and confronted him about it. Tragically, in his precarious, delusional state, the cousin thought his mother was threatening his life, and in a paranoid act of self-defense, he beat her to death with a baseball bat. For once, the criminal justice system got it right and instead of prison, the cousin was hospitalized. Eventually, the medications would improve and the cousin would stabilize to the point that after 20 some years he was offered the chance to explore a return to the outside world. Terrified that he could do harm again, the cousin refused. I never met him, but I was told that he died in that hospital after more than 40 years, guilt kept him a prisoner longer than his crime ever could.
So, mental illness has written much of my family's story and the endings are usually clothed in the trappings of Greek tragedy. However, change has managed to sneak into the narrative. Addicts have found recovery, jobs, and purpose. Medications and commitment to therapy seems to have created a bit of a strain with our decades old friendship with Suicide and she hasn't sent a RSVP to anyone in over 6 years now. Many of us are still being weaned off of Depression's teat, but with a little help we've grown strong enough to turn our heads away from the poisonous nipple. Slowly, we've all come to realize that there is sweeter sustenance in the world to be had and hopefully we'll all walk away leaving Depression's poison filled, sagging, pasty, and chapped breasts behind.
To Err is Human. To Forgive Isn’t Always Necessary
There's a lot of baggage behind the idea of forgiveness. If you're to believe the many Oprahisms, forgiveness is universally healing. Well, that's a mile high pile of horse shit. Let the punishment fit the crime.
Granting forgiveness should only be done when the person in question is truly sorry, the wrong was done without malice, and lastly, when the offender is going to prove themselves worthy of forgiveness by striving to never commit the offense again. Truly evil acts don't deserve forgiveness. Instead of offering undeserved forgiveness, the wronged party should strive to understand what happened, mourn the loss, and commit themselves to making sure that others don't suffer from the same wrong inflicted on them.
I'm sure many of the Nazis at the Nuremberg Trials begged for forgiveness as they faced justice. Of course, many would argue that they were following orders. However, participating in the systematic murdering of 7 million plus innocent men, women, and children doesn't deserve forgiveness. It deserves a noose. Forgiveness is born of compassion. Where the FUCK was the Nazis compassion when they turned on the gas chambers, opened fire on unarmed people, and stacked the bodies of human beings like cord wood in the concentration camp ovens? True compassion is saying, "No" to the command to butcher human beings. I'd rather recognize the innocent humanity of others and take a bullet than turn the knob on the gas that killed innocent people who were promised a shower. This level of evil goes beyond any reasonable expectation for forgiveness. All any victim can do is honor their dead and fight to make sure that this never happens again. One can accept reality and heal without offering forgiveness to those who don't deserve it.
My wife would say that my views on forgiveness were born from my childhood. My parents asked for forgiveness for exposing me to drugs, poverty, physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. The problem is that there's always a, "But" thrown in providing them with a get out of the consequences of irresponsibility free card. Adults have a choice, children don't. My mom suffered as a child from abuse and mental illness. That didn't give her license to have children she would then neglect, fail to take care of, and expose to abuse. There is no excuse for an adult to inflict harm or allow harm to be inflicted on their children. None. So, both of my parents have been told that they're not forgiven. However, I have accepted their fatal flaws and refuse to let their failures as human beings to permanently color my life beyond my childhood. Sorry, not sorry they're not forgiven. You reap what you fucking sow. Needless to say, warm, fuzzy Hallmark moments don't happen for me and my parents.
As a substance abuse counselor I saw a lot of guys who were truly sorry and committed to leaving addiction and all the hurt that goes with it behind them. Many of these guys would achieve solid recovery. However, sometimes the damage done to their family relationships was irreparable. Changed or not, their family was done with them. Ultimately, the recovering addict's attempt to make amends didn't have to be accepted by those the addicts had wronged in their addiction. As hard as it is this was, it was a possibility they had to face. A big part of my job was helping them to see that their loved ones have the right to deal with the wounds the addict's addiction caused the best they can in the way that works for them. If that meant a forever closed door, so be it. The addict could quietly make amends by leading the best life they can in recovery while helping other addicts avoid the permanent loss of their families.
Forgiveness is a precious gift that not everyone deserves to receive. True evil is unforgivable and sometimes no amount of forgiveness can heal wounds. I would argue that we shouldn't strive to forgive everyone, just those whose actions are born of one human mistake. Even the drunk driver whose one mistake kills an innocent might be worthy of forgiveness, but it's not for them to ask for or assume that it'll be granted. All they can do is never repeat the wrong. The consequences of ignored human frailty and irresponsibility when visited on innocents who don't have a say in the matter are just as unforgivable as a cold blooded murder. In short, no one should weigh themselves down with the priestly obligation to blindly offer forgiveness for any and all sins that are confessed to them. In fact, many wrongs don't deserve forgiveness, they deserve Old Testament level wrath. Now, if I could just figure out the whole fire and brimstone thing before the next family reunion.