“The writer who refuses to explore the darker regions of the heart will never be able to write convincingly about the wonder, the magic, and the joy of love, for just as goodness cannot be trusted, unless it has breathed the same air as Evil.”- Nick Cave
I am well and truly fried. Previous to the last fourteen thousand plus word blog I cranked out in a month, most of that work being done in my office-away-from-the-office, also known as The Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, I had also recently completed three on-contract articles for ZIA Magazine, published out of Silver City, New Mexico. I also shot principal photography for two of those articles as well, because if I’m going to use up all of my “spoons” in one shot, I might as well use the good silver.
The spoon theory, which I’ve called attention to before, is a visual metaphor for disability that uses spoons to represent how much energy a person with a chronic illness has throughout the day. For every task to be accomplished requires a certain number of spoons, which can only be replaced as one "recharges" after each task completion. If you run out of spoons, you’re pretty much done, if not outright screwed, because the theory has no options for salad forks, and cruelly ignores sporks altogether.
Fortunately, all three articles were well received, both by the public and the subjects themselves, so that’s not only a huge weight off my back, but it provides me a base for hanging out my shingle in my neck of the woods as well, since I’ll have some New Mexico-centric material to push. Baby steps and all that, you know. Speaking of which, my insulin pump was approved and has arrived at my abode, so that’s some additional and long overdue good news. But as I look at the large volume of somewhat intimidating gear that’s currently sitting in mt living room, it strikes that this will be quite the adjustment, even if it is for the better. I’ll essentially be wearing it almost 24/7, which is gloomily, yet another concession to my health I have but no choice to make.
Sleeping in comfort is also going to be a challenge, given the fact I’ll have both a length of tubing and a *CGM attached to my chest like a lamprey, or worse, an ex-fiancé, but if it keeps me alive, I guess any kvetching I might feel inclined to voice, should probably be filed in the “stop griping, you candy-ass” cabinet in my personal vault located within the serene walls of my hollow volcano lair. I am digging the fact I will have a watertight “port” which can be closed when I take a shower or bath, which leads me to wonder if I could set up an Egg Nog IV for when the holidays roll in, a question I should probably ask the team that the manufacturers are going to send to teach me how to use this sexy piece of tech. I’m pretty sure it’s not the first time somebody’s asked. *[Continuous Glucose Monitor]And while I’m hoping for an upswing in my day to day overall health, I’m also optimistic that it will give me back some semblance of a relatively normal life. By that, I mean I could do without the random dizzy spells, crushing fatigue, nausea, nerve pain, and general feeling of being unwell that I deal with most of the time. More good days than bad would be a delightful thing to experience for once, and I’m hoping this is the start of a forward-moving and long-term cycle of wellbeing. Along those lines, I’m also dealing with the ongoing aggravation of filling an appeal in regards to my workman’s comp, and the two highly unethical companies that have blocked me for almost two years in getting this issue resolved. What’s puzzling is how bitterly hard both companies are fighting my attempt to settle a bill that wasn’t wholly covered by my then insurance company.
I’ve written more than once about the degradation and illegal firing I suffered at the metaphorical hands of my former employer, along with the curiously condescending attitude of their insurance carrier, so I won’t (mercifully) rehash it here, but I will add a small detail I did not include in any of those narratives. The amount of the bill that my Michigan based former employer and their legal Ponzi Scheme indemnification company who last year, posted revenues of 1.8 Billion, are fighting me over as if it were a box of Limited-Edition Star Wars figures, is $3,316.84.
Yes, you read that right, I’m having to battle for an amount that’s less than what it takes to have Nickelback play at the announcement and celebration of your *Shahada. Ok, I’m not actually sure if that’s entirely true, but there’s no way those musical masters of melodic mediocrity are getting that sweet Saudi Arabian money at the same level that U2 could easily ask for. And this opinion has nothing to do with the fact that lead singer Chad Kroeger reminds me of the barista at Starbucks that you buy low-grade weed from when they close up for the night. *[The Shahada, AKA: "the testimony", is an Islamic creed, one of the Five Pillars of Islam, declaring belief in the oneness of God (tawhid) and the acceptance of Muhammad as God's prophet.]
Regardless of how Chad earns money on the side to support his penchant for writing vapid lyrics about wanting to get laid 24/7, it’s not as if I’m asking for anything past that. I’m not asking for an inflated resolution that some scumbag shyster concocted in order to pad his cut of an unethical payoff, I just want the damn bill settled, so I can get back to living my life and more importantly, concentrate on getting back to both a fighting weight, and a lifestyle where I don’t feel useless and decrepit a majority of the time. This is literally the last nail in the coffin that was Phoenix, and I want it not only sealed in the mausoleum, I want it nuked like Chernobyl afterwards.
It’s also probably a good time to note that due to my health, the concept of working a so-called normal job is probably out of the question for the rest of my severely shortened life, no matter how or if my fitness improves. After years of working for incompetent and arrogant fiefdoms, I believe I’m done, an opinion that only gets more reinforced every time I go out in public, and see the pointlessness of working not to thrive, but to barely survive. What’s the point of working like a dog for no end if it just enriches someone else, f**ks up your health, doesn’t really aid your finances, or improve your personal relationships?
Easy answer. There is none. None at all.
I’m not by any means, saying I’m never going to endeavor to have a job again, but if and when I do get back on that capitalistic whore-horse, it will be on my terms, and my terms alone. No more faux scraping and bowing. No more sucking down abuse. And definitely no more incurring injuries for companies that if I dropped dead on my lunch break, would have my position filled an hour later, for half the wage. If my past experience working for my last employer from *Hell has proved anything to me, it is quite possible to construct a conscience-free monarchy of sorts on the backs of the broken and bruised. *[Ok, technically they’re based out of a city in Michigan named Wixom, but if it produces business ethics like these, I can only assume it’s akin to the Wasteland in Mad Max, minus the assless chaps, which due to the impracticality of usefulness during the winter season, were quickly voted aside in favor of those PrimalLoft Packaway jackets from L.L. Bean. Also, I couldn’t think of any jokes about Wixom that people outside of Michigan would understand, so that’s on me… my bad.]
Speaking of a lack of principles, I endured the smugly supremacist attitude of a tele-conference with the law firm who’s representing my former employer, Engelsen Moulding, and its equally unethical insurance lapdog, the Hartford. As noted earlier, I’m not going to rehydrate what I’ve already scribed regarding this contemporary *Burke & Hare, but I will note how nice it is to see that their carrion feeding ambulance chase team of shysters has [in my opinion] the same lack of personal integrity that they do. Birds of corrupt feathers flock together, and all that. *[William Burke and William Hare were a murder for profit duo operating in late 1820’s Scotland, who after killing their victims, would sell their corpses to an anatomist for purposes of scientific dissection. Something not too dissimilar as to how modern insurance companies artificially boost their profits in these modern times by denying the one service customers have paid for.]
The call was for the purpose of giving a formal deposition, which I had no problem whatsoever cooperating with, but the person conducting it possessed all the charm of a sandpaper condom, and the conversational skills of a drunken urinal cake. To be fair, in the beginning, it was all standard civil boilerplate, as valid questions were asked, clear answers were given, and things were skimming along smoothly, as there was no reason for me to be truly ungracious to someone I’ve never met, but that plateau of good vibes was soon eroded when this *jackleg decided he needed to play “tough” with me. *[A jackleg is considered by definition as a person who is corrupt, dishonest, or lacks the any trace of professional standards. Not too shockingly, it’s usually applied as a descriptive slur towards the clergy and lawyers almost exclusively. Imagine that.]
Seriously. Does nobody still use Google to do the merest of research anymore?
I’m no badass by far, but even the simplest query into how I publicly handle my personal business would tell you that at best, I should be handled with oversized kid gloves and one of those silvery heat-suit outfits you see in all those sexy Volcano documentaries. Other than his incessant interrupting every time I tried to civilly respond to a complex question past a “yes” or “no” answer, he would also chide me as if I were a child when I did, an affront that is always appreciated when you’re old enough to remember when rotary phones were a thing, that six million dollars could get you a partially bionic body, and assurances given that we’d all have jetpacks and flying cars by now.
He also expected me to have a word for word account regarding two minor conversations I had TWO YEARS AGO, because apparently, those are the truly crucial details the three-pound sponge in my head is supposed to give priority to. Hey, legal dude? In an average day, I misplace my sunglasses at least ten times, and typically when I’m searching for them, they’re squarely sitting on my face, but you expect me to have an eidetic memory on loan from Sherlock Holmes? This, as well as the exceedingly date specific information he required, might have been able to be recalled more clearly, if they had previously informed me what they needed to know in the first place.
If I had been given such parameters, I would have gone out to my garage, moved aside my collection of evil clown corpses, found the box with all my tax records and notes in it, and had them ready to go as a means to propel the narrative forward. Instead, the subtle implication that I was lying and/or unintelligent was accentuated by questions intended to trip me up, a tactic that failed not only spectacularly, but hilariously as well. It always strikes me as incredulous when someone who lies and misdirects for a living within the laws their kind crafted, is genuinely stunned by the fact that I, a worker and average citizen, are not intricately conversant with the nuts and bolts of filing civil claims, leaping over bureaucracy, and understanding Latin legalese, which is nothing more than a vile bulwark calculated to confuse the average layman to the benefit of only the valueless vulture they’re engaging with, but I digress.
Yep. He mockingly asked, without wanting the context or background story, why I “took so long” to file an appeal. Because as we know, a company posting assets more than the GDP of some small countries can have all of its plans derailed by a lone individual who after dealing with severe medical concerns that could have killed him, wants what’s due him. If I knew I possessed this much power, I wouldn’t be wasting it on these gargoyles of greed, I’d be using it to get Space 1999 back on the air, after resurrecting Martin Landau first. And considering they had my phone number and Email on file, I’m not going to believe any of their garbage that in this day and age that they couldn’t find or get a hold of me. Once again, how hard is it to use the Internet to track someone down? They never seem to have a problem finding someone when that person owes them money, I’ve noticed. When it’s in their interest to pin a person to the wall, you’d think that they had cloned an army of Pinkertons to get the job done.
So rather than finally being able to settle this obviously valid claim, I find myself armoring up for yet another battle royal of principle where the past sins of others are concerned. It reminds me of that scene in Marvel’s Endgame that has Lebowski Thor suiting up against Thanos- sure, he’s not in the best shape to go and kick the ass of someone who so desperately deserves it, but he’s not going to back off from his principles, either. If the Industrial Commission dismisses my case, I’ll just file a civil lawsuit against Engelsen, and take it from that point. This resolve has only gotten stronger after I received a letter from the law firm stating that they wanted the commission hearing only to deal with the issue of whether I filed my appeal in a “timely fashion”. In other less slimy words, they’re trying to dodge their obligated responsibilities by issuing the slur that I somehow, with my $3,316.84 claim, have singlehandedly and maliciously, delivered to the doorstep of this 1.8 Billion juggernaut, a truly major, if not insurmountable, inconvenience.
The horror. How could they ever possibly recover? Oh yeah… by using some of that 1.8 Billion most likely skimmed off the top, from the benefits they’ve withheld from their overpaying clients, that’s how.
Let’s review the timeline thus far: I was illegally filed for being Diabetic, filed a discrimination claim that was bobbled by bloviating bureaucrats at the AZ Attorney General’s Office, and eventually filed a workman’s comp claim with the Industrial Commission Office after being billed by my physical therapists clinic for costs not covered by my then insurance carrier. The claim was denied when the Hartford essentially went “okay, we won’t do any due diligence, like talking to the actual therapists who worked on this guy, because that’s way too ethical for us”, and sent me a form letter saying as much. I then filed an appeal, and heard nothing… for months. During this time period, my amazing GF Ashley got a job offer from a small Norman Rockwell type town in New Mexico where we currently live, and we spent a few weeks wholly concentrating on packing, boxing, taping, and cursing at the life we had to move one state over.
Roughly a week and a half after we arrived there, I noticed my left foot had puffed up to the size of a small football, and went to my local hospital, where it was determined that I had developed gangrenous gas in my leg, and was in need of immediate surgery in order to save not only my leg, but my life. The cause was a wound on my foot that I had suffered in Phoenix, which from the outside appeared to be healing, but was in fact, not. The end result was that I underwent four surgeries, the last of which removed my little toe and a sizeable chunk of my left foot. In retrospect, it could have been worse, for I could have died, so I’m oddly okay with the outcome, as much as it sucks. Not to mention, I’ve always hated running, and I never was a good dancer, so at least now I have a viable excuse for not coaching my local youth soccer league, or hitting the dance floor at weddings.
All Catholic black humor aside, I spent a week and a half in the hospital, and almost five months recovering at home, flat on my back, with my left leg elevated, either staring at the ceiling over my bed, or stuck on my couch, doing the same thing. Weirdly, I was more concerned with not losing my leg or my life, as my healing factor was impacted by the complication of having Diabetes, which was a major concern among my medical team whose loyalty I cannot express enough gratitude for. I dealt with the isolation and concurrent depression by writing about the experience, which I seriously believed kept me from falling into even deeper despair, or turning to more destructive outlets for easing the psychological effects of what I was suffering.
But let’s face it, I really should have ignored all that I was dealing with, and made the supreme effort to make the Hartford my topmost priority. Silly selfish me. So, when I got back on my feet literally and metaphorically, I sent a letter off to them for an update. No response. I then sent a direct message via my now defunct Twitter account. No response. I called them and through a series of escalating pass-the-buck phone calls, discovered they had denied my claim again, and NEVER NOTIFIED ME. Their bulls**t reason this time? My former employer based in Michigan said I wasn’t hurt working for them, because being several states over and all, they would have the insight to what was happening in Phoenix.
Not to mention, the Hartford’s cubicle monkey claimed that since my doctor never specifically said that the injury he identified and sent on to physical therapy was work-related, it wouldn’t be classified as such. Because as we all know, after doctors make a diagnosis, they also investigate the cause of it as if they were Scooby-Doo and the Gang. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times when it’s been established that I’m suffering from the flu, the doctor turns around and lets me know that I obviously contracted it from the sick third child of my co-worker Janice. I’m sure you can relate. Another line of asinine questioning that was set forth, is why I didn’t have multiple follow-ups with my doctor after my injury was diagnosed. This struck me as particularly stupid, since my non-sports-medicine GP wasn’t going to be treating me, or overseeing my physical therapy to begin with past the point of his referral, since I was already seeing the people I needed to see to get the dominant issue fixed.
Sigh… and people ask why I’m still lighting candles and sacrificing virgin ferrets hoping for *Apophis to follow through on the forecast that it will smash into the Earth, ASAP. Lawyers like this, and companies like that, are the reason why we still need to print usage instructions on shampoo, if not Preparation H. Say what you will, but as a writer and artist, I can assure you that jokes regarding my profession are almost non-existent, but you really can’t say the same about lawyers and corporations, now can you? Actually, I take that back, as there’s only two lawyer jokes. The rest are true stories. As one of those jokes goes: “What’s the difference between a vacuum cleaner and a lawyer on a Harley?” Simple. Only one of those things has the dirtbag on the outside. Bada-boom, Bada-bing. *[Apophis is a 370-meter-wide asteroid that at one point, was predicted to hit the Earth in April of 2029, and while its threat has been downgraded, it still is widely rumored by many that it could be considered as a viable candidate for the Democratic nominee for President in 2020.]
I cannot wait for the day that I wake up well-rested, hopefully pain-free, and the only pressing anxiety that I have to initially face is whether I have enough Captain Crunch or Lucky Charms in the pantry, versus wondering if this is the day I stroke out, go blind, are fated to face any more amputations, have my kidneys fail, or if I lose the rest of the dexterity in my nerve damaged wracked hands. In other words, I’d like to focus on me and my health exclusively, rather than shysters, unethical entities, and bills whose weight should be borne by others, much like I still carry the burden of the injury I sustained working for people who couldn’t care how, when, or where, unless they can manipulate those factors into shirking their responsibilities.
As the saying goes: People suck. Nice people swallow. And Lawyers? Well…
They remind the rest of us how vital a role that always knowing who your father is plays in truly good character development. As someone who’s traversed the Creative backchannels for decades, I’ve met my share of brigands, rogues, pirates, scoundrels, reprobates, snake-oil salesmen, and the like. But unlike their legal contemporaries, these people at least possessed the romanticized charm of a buccaneer as a saving grace. I’m not planning on having children, but if I ever did, I’d rather see them become adult film stars rather than lawyers, it would be for me at least, far less embarrassing to tell people what they actually do for a living overall. At least when they fu**ed people over, all parties concerned would be left satisfied.
I, on the other hand, will have to make a ten-hour round-trip drive with an injured shoulder, to a place I’d rather not spend any more of my valuable time in, just to have my character slurred, my injury discounted, and my request for fair play mocked. Its almost as if I’m back in the dating pond again, except this time there’s no chance for angry make-up sex. As I said earlier, if the Industrial Commission dismisses my case, I’ll just file a civil lawsuit against Engelsen, and take it from that point. Except this time, I’d be holding them responsible for my discriminatory illegal firing, and whatever other legally sound charges my lawyer would think are viable. One of the funny things that was relayed from the AZ AG’s Office was that Engelsen claimed I wasn’t actually fired in the first place, because that supervisor didn’t have, and I quote, “the authority to fire him”, which strikes strange, as my supervisor before the one who illegally fired me, apparently had the power to not only hire me, but conduct the job interview where I was hired, and fire one employee later on who didn’t work out, as well.
This response also implies that this was information I should have also known, because the top brass in Michigan would have obviously wanted me, a low wage part-time slab worker in Arizona, who was responsible for packing and shipping boxes and basic data entry, to possess this hidden knowledge for no other reason than if Toni tried to fire me later, I could tell her I knew she didn’t have the authority to do so. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Quick show of hands- how many people reading this who are currently working blue-collar slave-wage jobs in the right-to-work state of Arizona think that their supervisor/s couldn’t fire them right now if they wanted to, no matter the reason? Yeah, that’s about what I thought.
But let’s play Devil’s Advocate for a moment, even if it’s just to amuse ourselves. If Toni had no authority to fire me, then why didn’t my former employer contact me regarding this fact or to get my side of the story, and if she really hadn’t done nothing wrong, why jump ship so quickly after being questioned only once by the AZ AG’s office? That’s a lot of cover your ass coincidences going on, no matter how you look at it. Unfortunately, I can’t include Toni’s [in my opinion] vile and wholly fabricated statement within this narrative, for as I noted in previous screeds, in order to acquire a copy, I would have to sign a non-disclosure-agreement first, and there is no way in Hell I will ever do that. I’ve got nothing to hide, but they obviously don’t want this issue discussed, and I plan on keeping it all in the public’s eye, warts and all, letting the Fates and court decide.
Gah. Done with this for now, although sadly, I’m sure I’ll be revisiting it at some point in the very near future. But let’s talk about something more upbeat for a minute, shall we? My GF Ashley and I just recently had our first get together at our abode, and it was a smashing success. Everybody liked the home-made food, the alcohol, our interior décor, and most importantly- everybody who was invited got along, which by itself, is worth its weight in Ding-Dongs. I can’t even begin to tell you how nice it was to be socially available, something we both haven’t really engaged in since moving here a over a year. But for whatever reason, I haven’t felt the need to be out and about past settling into a routine of writing for at least two to three hours a day, and that’s ok.
The eventual game plan is that as my health and stamina hopefully improve, I’ll be able to get up and airborne again, both career and life wise. And I for one, am openly wondering what my new challenges will be in the future. Hopefully, I can re-establish myself as a writer and arts advocate out here in the wild mild of New Mexico, and if so, beyond that as well. And if I can’t, well I guess I can always go back to pole-dancing… if they’ll have me, that is. All jokes aside, the depth of grist to write about in my corner of the world is inspiring, to say the very least, and the subtle shift away from what I was writing about previously has been both liberating and somewhat terrifying, if I were to offer any measure of a personal insight.
One of the definitive goals is to start writing about “heavier” topics, as I move through these, the newest chapters of my life. The only way I’m going to be able to fly higher than I ever have before, is if I take on some new perspectives, and rid myself of some long overdue to be removed dead weight. This outlook directly inspired the previous screed before this one, and I’m hoping to continue with a steadfast resolve in this vein. I’ll just have to see where this literary lycanthrope takes me, as the new lands to be conquered expand before me. I also have on my metaphorical stove, a simmering bouillabaisse of short stories I’d like to serve up and share, along with a smattering of small-town intrigues to explore, a Pandora’s box that before I open it up, will definitely be mapped to within an inch of its life first.
Speaking of boxes full of the world’s evils and ills, as well as writing about things that are heavy, it seems my previous blog buddy, and unintentional punchline to a joke that the historic city of Chicago never asked for, Frankie Coconuts, loved my piece where’s he mentioned near the end credits so much, he posted it on his Facebook page which serves both as a platform for him, and an early warning sign indicator of his mental illness for all of us, so that his exceedingly small fan base “comment” on it. Granted, as you can see from the screenshot below, Frankie has as much pull in that department as he had when he ran for the job of city clerk, way back in 2010, a position he did not get.
Only two negative comments? C’mon man, either bring your “A” game trolls and sycophants up to the plate, or just go home already. If I wanted to see you embarrass yourself this bad publicly, I’d just use facts and reality against you in a debate, and watch you run away as usual. In fact, considering how much and how fast this feeble firebrand retreats every time he’s cornered online, it’s amazing he hasn’t slammed into a past version of himself, ala’ Superman, while he does it.
What’s even more fun for me, is that out of all the emails and messages I’ve received in regard to this particular blog, which also happens to be one of my longest stand-alone pieces, is that none criticized me at all, and I wound up picking up not only a few more fans across the breadth of my social networks, I managed to get an even better public sense of what more than a few people in Chicago think of this human pork sandwich analog as well. That new knowledge came courtesy and with thanks, from many of the jokes within those missives that described him as “the special needs Mr. Clean”, or “what it would like if Pixar made a “Racist Paranoid Penis” cartoon”, and my personal favorite: “the shit-stack from Chiraq.”
Yee-ouch. I may be from the concrete Thunderdome that is New York, but even we don’t pull the pin on that whole “Chiraq” slur unless we want to kill someone’s Chicago Grandmother from a distance. Hell, we don’t even make fun of the band Chicago, and that’s even after late singer Terry Kath accidentally shot himself and was then replaced by Donnie Dacus. Sure, they’ve never really been the same since, but there’s no need to kick them when they’re down. Besides, Peter Cetera did that already with his stunning imitation of a mannequin singing, so why add insult to grievous injury? While I’m not saying it isn’t deserved, given Frankie’s inability to compart himself as a functioning adult, I’m also pretty sure that his truly knowing deep down that everybody thinks he’s a walking after-school special for what happens when you drink all the Kool-Aid at once, must sting on some level, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
However, that’s ok. I don’t mind doing it for him. At heart, I’m really a giver, and I think it shows.
But then again, so are many of Frank’s so-called “fans”. See, after I posted the link for the blog on his page, my favorite sentient Coconut actually became a tad more civil for a fashion, right before he blocked me for posting facts about the history of his Cheeto Jesus in relation to defrauding charities. Frank along with not liking the basic tenets of reality, also gets a throbbing mad-on whenever you dare back up your claims with these things us mere mortals call facts. Now, being blocked by this vapid windbag isn’t really something I’d get normally annoyed over as a person, but as a writer? It’s rare when someone or something supplies you with non-stop unintended comedy and idea grist, so if you’re a saturnly venomous bearer of barbs, having your inspiration source cut off mid-stream can be quite vexing, to say the very least.
Nevertheless, the internet still carries onward as quite possibly the last true stronghold of free speech to be found on this planet, and just because I can’t access his page, doesn’t mean that my readers, fans, fellow libtards, cucks, soy-boys, snowflakes, and Demorats can’t, something I think Frank never honestly considered, More on that later. After all, he’s reactive, not proactive, which is why he fears and runs away from anyone who presents a measured argument against his general idiocy. One of the emails I received was from a person who claimed to not only know Frank on a personal day to day level, but who also noted his political reputation among those in the know as such: “When a large group of varied people refer to you as “colorful” that’s a socially diplomatic way of saying you’re either completely and insanely effed up, or are one of the biggest mother**king a**holes that walk the planet.” An opinion I don’t share, as I think Frank has the capability to be both.
This is America after all, and we dream big here, something I like to think Frank does too, even when he has no basis for it in the first place.
For instance, here’s how Frank presented the link to my blog piece:
I particularly like two things here, the first being his description of me as being “winded”, due to the fact that unlike Frank, I can communicate without the use of block text memes, and second, his description of me as a “Liberal Guilty White Boy” and “Hipster”. I wasn’t aware tham using facts, statistics, and archived research materials makes one feel guilty in the long run, but then again, I generally also don’t take the advice of people who pass out deluxe hand-bound copies of The Monkey Wrench Gang as standard Christmas gifts, either. If I had to hazard a guess, I don’t think Frank actually read it as much as looked at the pictures, something that I’m equally sure also applies to the two fem-bots who commented about it on his page as well.
And as for calling me a Hipster, here’s the definition of what that actually is: “A person who follows the latest trends and fashions, especially those regarded as being outside the cultural mainstream.” Frank by the way, is eleven years older than me, and if one matches him up against the criteria this definition sets forth, he fits the profile way better than I do among his chosen demographic. So, let’s review some facts here. I’m 50 years old, haven’t bought a new album in at least six years, have no idea what trends are currently dominating popular culture, fashion, or influence, still eat cow-based hamburgers, and if I became any more vanilla mainstream, my portrait would be on the side of jars of mayonnaise, loaves of Wonder Bread, and any advertising material loosely associated with AARP.
Frankie on the other hand, has tapped into the current psychosis that comprises the ignorant ilk of Trumps base, brags about strapping on his secondary dick to go face school teachers, and spouts paranoiac masturbatory falsehoods as if he has two mouths and eight hands whose sole purpose is to keep himself pleasured at all times, but I digress yet once more.
His point of view is definitely not the mainstream, thank Odin, but he still proudly lays more claim to being a self-made buffoonish laughingstock than I will or could ever be. And just by looking at him, you can tell he buys the shitty beer and cheap pepperoni, more often than not. Throw in the incontrovertible fact that Frank is an intellectual patriot very much akin to the way that Niki Minaj is looked upon as an accomplished songwriter, and the alleged psychological issues he presents openly are made concrete. As I said earlier, I’m currently blocked from seeing Franks moronic meanderings deep within the land of Facebook, but fortunately, others aren’t, and were nice enough to send me some deep cut screencaps of his randomized thoughts.
Since the prior set posted in the last blog were such a huge hit, I’m more than happy to do a follow-up of sorts for those of you who enjoyed it so much. Let’s get it started, shall we?
To kick it off, here’s Franks overview regarding Michelle Obama, and what he feels her role in America’s ongoing racial discussion was, and should have been, in his humble opinion.
Not too subtly implying that in her role as First Lady, she didn’t do nearly enough to open a civil dialogue with the very same people who posted images of her husband as a monkey, he finds it to be a supreme failing that she didn’t extend a hand out to certain groups who if they could, would have placed burning crosses on the White House lawn during her tenure there. It’s also noted as a character flaw by his standards, that she didn’t try to give credence to the motivations behind the depicting of her President husband being lynched, the baseless accusations that he was a Muslim asset not born in America, who also happened to be secretly in the closet, and that their kids were adopted, as she hid the fact she was in actuality, a transvestite.
But thankfully somehow, Frank figured out who the real victims of targeted racism in this scenario were, that being the entire white middle-aged male demographic of these here United States. It does make me wonder though, does Frank hold Melania equally responsible for her fraudulent Einstein visa, her role in helping to break up Trumps second marriage by being his mistress, her plagiarism of Michelle’s words, or the stunning tone-deafness of her anti-cyber-bullying campaign that worked so well in curbing her husband’s habit of Twittering like a ten year old? I’m sure he was going to get around to it subsequently, but what do I know?
After all, according to Frank, I’m just a White Boy who’s racked with liberal guilt.
Next up, Frank posts his agreement with the obsessively paranoid opinion of Congressman Louie Gohmert, a Texas (where else?) senator who’s claim to fame is not the bills and laws he’s helped pass, but for issuing statements so dense, that his only competition in major league ignorance is Frank and his mango man-crush.
As the screencap shows, Gohmert’s extraordinary super power isn't just his ability to be higly misinformed beyond belief on the most common-sense issues or current political positions, it’s also the stunning unawareness of his statements regarding them. Past gems by Gomer include:
“So the good news is, if you're unemployed and you go to apply for a job and you're not hired for that job, see a lawyer - you may be able to file for a claim because you were discriminated against because you were unemployed.”
“The dirty little secret on Wall Street: Eighty percent of the Wall Street executives' and their spouses' donations go to Democrats. It's like they've got some kind of little sweet deal, where we'll call you fat cats and demean you and stuff, but you will get richer than your wildest dreams.”
“We've got some people who think Shariah law oughta be the law of the land, forget the Constitution. But the guns are there, the Second Amendment is there, to make sure all of the rest of the amendments are followed.”
“There is no clear place to draw the line once you eliminate the traditional marriage, and it's the same once you start putting limits on what guns can be used, then it's just really easy to have laws that make them all illegal.”
“If nothing else came out of all of this debacle over Obamacare, one thing that should is a class-action lawsuit against the University of Chicago Law School for people that had Obama as their constitutional law professor.”
If you go online, this pretentious hypocrite has a whole range of asinine and typically untrue commentary on topics ranging from Muslims to of course, former President Obama, but I’m certain you already saw that coming. And if there’s one thing Frank likes, it’s to be in the company of his fellow idiots.
Speaking of fellow idiots, here’s where Frank promotes the so-called movie, “Q- The Plan to Save the World”, which according to our low-end Gene Siskel, is only for “Americans who want to know the truth”, which as we’ve already seen, doesn’t typically line up with the actual reality that Franks world tends to ignore. So, what is the synopsis of this world-shattering cinematic truth-bomb?
For sake of honesty, I need to point out first that this isn’t a movie in the traditional sense of that description, it’s actually a YouTube video, produced by an even bigger nutbar who goes by his non-sheep name of “Joe M”. In essence, it’s a short "documentary" regarding a shadowy cabal of Anti-American offenders that secretly control the United States, and whose end goal is to destroy everything pure about this country. According to this painfully produced inanity, the only hope we have is for the amateur citizens and professional nimrod members of the wackadoo group QAnon to rise up, step forward, and save us all from this from this faction of doom. The video has been accessible via YouTube since June of 2018, where it has been viewed over a million times, which one would hope was done under the guise of inciting unintended laughter, but sadly, I’m afraid the majority of those views were posted by people like Frank who see this type of fallacy-loaded tripe as gospel.
This in and of itself is somewhat ironic, as at no point does a solution to save the world present itself anywhere in this video, but as long as it reinforces the paranoiac worldview of its fans, I’m pretty sure they don’t care.
Getting back to Franks favorite scapegoats, that being illegal aliens, we have this meme posted as “evidence” that every non-American who comes here is under the employ of nameless cartels who with no coercion involved, get them to do everything from smuggling drugs via landscaping to destroying the American economy, when they’re not murdering American families, that is.
Now, I might point out that this tragedy happened in Mexico, and not in any of the sanctuary cities that Frank likes to rail about, and I could further add that the ongoing theory being considered by the local Mexican authorities is that a case of mistaken identity may be the underlying cause for these abominable murders. However, this might punch a hole in Franks attempt at disguising his xenophobic racism as community concern, so I’ll leave this critique with this small factoid- by all demographic studies, immigrants, legal and otherwise, commit far less crime than Franks native-born Chicago-American citizens. Darn. Reality has no respect for bigotry, does it?
I seriously have no context for this one, so I’ll just assume either the city council has a woman on it who emasculated Frank, or a transgender person who he wishes would return his frequent calls.
And for this one, I’ll just remind everyone he lives in Chicago, so griping about corrupt politics is kind of like how New Yorkers complain about a rat stealing your pizza in the subway. It’s amusing at times, but in the end, ultimately pointless.
My take here? Considering the story was widely covered, and the corporation involved wound up firing all employees directly involved after their own internal enquiry, I’m going to have to view Franks claims of conducting “further investigation” with the same cynicism that Donald Trump only weighs 239 pounds, has the best words, is really smart, and has never known any of the people in his administration that are either under subpoena, facing a prison sentence, or have a connection to Russia.
Simple summary for this: guy who needs a gun to face school teachers is incensed that local politicians he obsessively posts about as if he’s Mark Chapman following John Lennon’s Instagram, require personal armed security in a city where guns are not only smuggled in from surrounding states to help create an atmosphere of unchecked violence, but also where persons like himself upload thinly veiled threats online. And yet, Frank has no parallel problem with the costs of protecting Trump on weekly golf trips, wherein he fraudulently and smugly, overcharges the American taxpayers for his use of a resort he personally owns.
No need for comment here, as this is just an amalgamation of desperation and delusion getting wasted on a combo of Thunderbird Wine, homemade moonshine, undercooked pork rinds, and a really bad batch of mescaline, at best.
The demographic that purports to have faith in this overly optimistic misbelief, are also the same slur-spewing slackjaws who think news that portrays their president accurately, is “fake”, that climate change is a “hoax”, and tend to view common sense and logic with the same disdain I reserve for bologna sandwiches, avocados, corn on the cob, and pizza topped with pineapple or sun-dried anything. Calling yourself the “silent majority” when you truthfully are no more than the 1/3rd rabble that is as relevant to the national discussion as Trumps marriage vows have been to his roster of ex-wives, is just sheer density spitting in the face of reality, and that’s on a day where all your dimwitted ducks lineup. These lemmings have no more power than when they crawled out from under their rocks in 2016, and 2020 will be no different.
What I find hilarious beyond the pale, is this collective’s hivemind thinking that the numerous investigations, the truthful testimonies and what they are exposing, along with the majority of formerly loyal rats leaving the ship, will have no consequences in regards to Trump’s re-election campaign. While minor cracks have been seen spreading within the structure since it’s erection, the width, the speed, and the intersecting of them has been increasing on an almost minute by minute basis. And if you need proof, look no further than one of Trump’s ego-rallies as of late, where he presents no concrete policies, no new or implementable ideas, and most definitely, no verifiable track record of beneficial stand-alone accomplishments.
However, there will be plenty of excuses, rationalizations, blame-shifting, bizarre and wholly fabricated fallacies, and an ongoing series of increasingly unhinged rants about Hillary, Obama, the Free Press, and whomever he’ll deem as today’s Enemy of the People, depending on who the Fanta Fascist feels would provide the best deflection to help redirect the heat and focus on him at that moment in time. Eventually, this national nightmare will end if the Fates are keeping tabs, and this ichor-dripping demagogue and his brain-dead cultural fodder army of which Frank is an ingrained cog, will get what’s coming to them, no matter how much they think they’re immune.
As Frank likes to publicly threaten, “There will be consequences.”
But these future penalties are never coming for those of us who’ve always been on the right side of History. Nonetheless, it’s obvious that Frank and his harangue platoon are in for one hell of a disappointing assessment when their role in all of this is noted for posterity. When the marks are made aside their names, and the bell is rung to meet the God they think will absolve their sins against Humanity, I can only hope they’re allowed enough time to acquire an asbestos wardrobe first.
Assuming that God would pretend to know any of them in the first place, of course.
“I have been thinking that I would make a proposition to my Republican friends... that if they will stop telling lies about the Democrats, we will stop telling the truth about them.” -Adlai Stevenson I