Belleza, Peligrosa

Belleza, Peligrosa, 07/30/2016, Deon Mumple

I love the way her mind works, in a way quite different from me
Behind those perfect eyes, genius
I know she’s right, most of the time; it drives me a little crazy
As if smart weren’t enough, there’s more pluses,

The subtle and not so subtle curves of her dress
Hint at beauty that partly  escapes
From her fingers, elbows, and hair, “it’s a mess,”
And the gentle smile on her face.

She says it out of habit, her self deprecating style
But I see it from head to feet:
She says she’s just average, flashing a devastating smile
With a musical laugh, to an easy beat.

The sway in her walk is deliberate, helplessly I stare,
Despite knowing she does it because she can
Half-consciously teasing my eyes with the curls in her hair
I’m hypnotized, and she laughs at her man.

She’s a dangerous, too-sharpened sword in a sheath,
Tantalized, I want to draw her out,
I’m just dreaming of seeing what hides underneath,
Defenseless, she could cut my heart out.

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My Plague of Despair

My Plague of Despair, 07/30/2016, Deon Mumple

All day long I talk to people who are desperate,
Who can’t know I’m desperate,
The required disguise, on
When I’m home, still desperate, uncertain,
They can’t know I’m hurting
I pretend and I go mow the lawn

At church I lie, because “everything’s fine,”
“and going according to God’s design,”
But my faith is shards of doubt.
And when I pray I hope, pretend
He’s listening, that answer’s been sent,
Just hasn’t quite come about.

I even tell myself that I’ll be all right,
And tell you not to give up the fight
I believe some of you can win
But in my heart’s darkness I want to quit,
Let the thorns grow, let the garden go to shit,
While I lie, quiet, bleeding, therein.

Mourir d’amour

to Mrs M.

Mourir d’Amour, 7/28/2016, Deon Mumple

Your eyes are my drowning pool,
Deep green, hypnotic, I’m your fool,
Dying to dive in,
When they smile, I win,
When they cry, my soul aches

I’m thirsting for a taste of your lips,
I feel like I’m dying in the desert, for a few sips,
Then just one more,
And then just one more,
Any others would be mistakes.

Because nothing, and no one else, can ever satisfy me
I’m possessed by your perfection
Art and sculpture won’t ever surpass your beauty
For forever, you own my affection.

Starving for your embrace feels quite natural
All the moments separating us are eternal
One more touch, just one…
Wait! Wait, please!  I’m not done!
Stay…

 

and just because I love her voice, this:

I’m Banned in China

Holy carp!

I’m banned in China because I use word play. Because I play with words. Because.  Oh, here.  I found an article about it and they said it right but they should have ended on this note:

Or these notes.  Whatever.  Remind me never to go to China because they’d just arrest me, confine me, detain me.  That would suck.

I’m a walking fountain of bad puns.  How dare they ban me?  A carp is supposed to be a symbol of good luck, not something to get arrested for.  What kind of civilization bans gold caliber humour?

I’ve just been blogging for maybe 2 years, which means the very first blog I wrote on WordPress would have gotten me arrested if I were in China.  Think of it!  You all would have missed out on all kinds of shitty writing.

I bet this picture was taken before 2014, or the lady is in a Chinese prison.

I bet she’s not even a real maid.  The clothes are far too impractical.  She’s outdoors.  Plus, she’s dusting a wall, and a real maid would know to use a vacuum cleaner.  And if she were practical, she’d have some kind of power tool for outdoor work  And she’d be indoors, like THIS lady:

Because cleaning house sucks.  And when it doesn’t suck, it blows.  Half of these toys probably represent puns in English.  Because Hasbro- a fine manufacturing company- makes great toys, in China.  From CSR.Hasbro.com:

Third-Party Factories

We maintain close partnerships with our third-party vendors and factories, the majority of which are located in China, and require that they adhere to our Global Business Ethics Principles. In addition, third-party factories located in ICTI CARE jurisdictions must comply with its program. In 2013, we identified additional factories outside China where we expect to begin production during 2014. 
Holy carp!  I wonder if they were forced to move because the law banned the production of anything pun-related in China?  I wonder if I can haz-bro?

I can haz - I can Haz Bro?

I like my freedom of expression.

I like my sense of humor, despite it being full of horrible puns, and what my kids have declared “bad dad humor.”  I want it to run wild and free, and I want the same for my children and their children.  For that reason, and because I like Chinese food but I don’t want to ever get to the point of just calling it “food,” I don’t ever want to move to China.  I also hear they arrest you or do mean things to you if you are a Christ-follower and dare to discuss the same with anyone.  I like my freedom of speech and having the right to peacefully assemble.  Not that I want to go out and go so much lately, but I like being free to do so if I decide I feel like it.
And just for pun, look at this picture from http://www.china.org.cn/features/60years/2009-10/01/content_18639929.htm


…because this is also band in China.  Well, crap.  On preview the pic doesn’t show  up.  So just go to the link.  Sorry.

And this:

is gold band in china.

And now, something pertinent to my circumstance.  Why do poor people like me bake their own bread at home?

Image result for knead the dough meme
Because they knead the dough.

Hello?

It’s the Chinese police calling.  They want to extradite me to pun prison.  Tell them I’m too square for their jail,  because I’m

 Knot Available.

I found this on
http://mysecretkitchenrecipes.blogspot.com/2013/05/fig-honey-dough-knots.html.  It looks delicious and I think I’ll be following them now.  You should too.  WOW.

What Do I Tell The Doctors?

What shall I tell the doctors?  What shall I not tell them?  Today’s the day, Mrs M has insisted I go tell them something about my mood and my chronic negativity.  She wants the magic little pill that will make everything all right, and I already know it doesn’t exist.  Unless it is a capsule holding $100M.   She wants to understand why I’m depressed in cycles, with mixed episodes in between, and she doesn’t want to hear cyclothymia with mixed episodes in both phases.  She wants to hear, oh let’s put Deon on nauseating medications for depression, with other lovely side effects.  She doesn’t want to hear that riding the medication train could potentially cause the cycle to become more rapid.

She also doesn’t want to hear that the triggers for not a few of my “episodes,” during the manic phase are just the facts of life being fucked up and my feeling helpless to fix any of the shit that’s fucked up, and that I should be depressed as a baseline, and my mind is making a herculean effort to put me in a manic phase in spite of the shit of life.

Sunday our speaker at church told us, although Mrs M had excused herself to do some things at home, that Solomon had more money than anyone should know what to do with, and he wrote Ecclesiastes, about how all of life is a vain chasing after the wind.  He said that people with lots of money still have lots of problems.  That may be true, but if I had it I could do a lot of things that I can’t do while I’m broke and we make bills 4,5,6, 7 and so on wait while we pay a little on bills 1, 2 and 3.  And we both work full time.

I don’t have time for looking for a better job while I have this one, and I don’t want to be unemployed while looking for a job and slipping daily into further debt.  I don’t have time or energy to finish things at home when I feel depressed and don’t even really want to get out of bed, but I make myself do the absolutely mandatory things.

I don’t have encouragement or support from Mrs. M because she wants to be in denial and wants to believe a magic pill that costs a fortune and kills me in the long-term will fix me. And I don’t have the kind of encouragement or support I want from Mrs. M because I’m not the guy she wanted when she started this magical mystery marriage tour.  And when I do bother to tell her what I want or need, she’s busy, she’s sleepy, she’s pushy, she’s grumpy.  And the other 3 personalities of the 7 dwarves are lurking in her head too, waiting to take a turn.

She wants to travel to see family and my car’s “service fucking engine soon” button just came on.  Yay, more unnecessary added to what I already knew about that needed to be fixed.

It’s entirely my fault of course, because if I just had a better job that paid a couple extra thousand a month we would meet our expenses.  Um, no shit, Mrs. M.  Trigger number 4,378,261 was earlier this month when my boss, who isn’t even my boss any more, screwed me out of getting any raise this year at work now that I have a new boss, same as the old boss.  Bitch.  I prayed regrettable things upon her head.  Like that she would die of inexorable, slow growing obesity from eating the blessing that I should have received from her hand.  We shall see.  Fat bitch.  But I can’t get more money in this job while raises are denied.  In spite of how horrible my prayer sounds to normal people, if it were answered in the affirmative I would laugh my ass off.  In exchange, I’d rather have enough money to pay my bills, fix my broken shit to a reasonable degree, (teeth and cars mainly,) and maybe have some left over to give to help people I know who are also in need.  Option 2 is a much better answer to prayer than request option 1, I really would prefer to have what I need and leave her alone with her guilty conscience.  Except, I let her off the hook on the phone when she told me what she did.  Instead of giving her the earful I wanted, I kept quiet and said I’d keep looking for a better job and I’d be fine.  Except I’m not fine.  I’m bitter.  And if she dies a fat lonely bitch, I’m fine with it.

I don’t actually need $100M.  I need $50K now to get solidly out of debt, and then in order to not slide back to where I am right now, another $50K annually with cost of living increases.  And I want a college fund for the kids.  But $100M would be great fun to deal with the crises, set up the kids and extended family’s kids, and then help other people with the excess.

The world is a shitty place, with demanding wife and kids I wish I could give what they wanted and needed.  With dentists that charge exhorbitantly for teeth that fall apart.  With HVAC techs charging exhorbitantly for a safe furnace that won’t kill us in our sleep come winter.  Except they aren’t.  It’s my income being too small and them not operating on a sliding scale based on my pay.  With selfish drivers demanding I share the road with them after letting them have my share.  With armed idiots roaming the streets wanting to kill the police who only want to serve the community, but they are too busy trying to protect it.  With politicians I can’t trust talking out of three sides of their two-sided mouths.  With preachers who preach faith and congregants and church leaders who help, but only so far.  With government agencies that will help only so far, and when you think you’re just about to be free, they kick the ladder out from under you so you’re back down where you started, or worse.  Fucking DON’T FUCK with the minimum wage unless I get a commensurate raise, which at the present rate would be about $30 an hour.

What do I say when it seems like the powers of hell are bent to fuck with me, starting with physics and everything falls and tries to break or falls apart, and ending with my teeth and car and heating system and other things falling apart, me being helpless to fix them as they decay, and my wife not knowing how she can encourage me, and me not knowing what to do to help myself.

And, just to show my readers that I’m not completely out of balance emotionally, while I’m busy being bitter about the long-term prospects, my generous work neighbor has provided me with the breakfast of anyone’s best daydreams.  So I have what I need for today.  I have to say, I didn’t ask and God and my neighbor provided, so I’m grateful for the short-term provision.

The question of the day is, what do I tell this doctor when my wife is pressuring the poor man or woman to give me a little magic pill that’ll fix my bad attitude, and pressuring me to not tell him or her I know what this is and I don’t want to be the doctor’s experimental guinea pig?

Top Ten Reasons You Should NEVER Feature Me On Your Blog

10.  It’s YOUR blog.  You’re brilliant. Why would you want to put anyone else’s stuff on YOUR brilliant blog, and detract from the glory that is you?
9.  You’ve got better ideas and more creativity in your 10 little fingers than I have in my entire house.  Why would you want MY lame ideas to distract from your great ones?
8.  I fucking swear.  Who wants that shit on their blog?  It’s offensive and vulgar.
7.  Sometimes I put evangelistic messages on my blog.  If that doesn’t scare the shit out of you, or better, scare the hell out of you, it should.
6.  I lack focus, switching between complaining about my life, to bad poetry, to daydreams and wishes, to reflections on the news, to confusing things that make no sense, to other weirdness, and back to bitching and moaning about how much my life sucks and various ideas I have that might make it better.  Sunday the speaker at our church told us all that whatever various ideas I might have, if I had them, they wouldn’t make it any better, I’d just have other things to bitch and moan about.  He didn’t say “bitch and moan”.  It just doesn’t have a central theme.  A good blogger, like a good comedian or  writer or anything else should have focus, not ramble on and on and on about nonsense that no one cares about or has time to read thoroughly.  I mean, if you’re full of bullshit, you don’t get featured on other people’s blogs, and clearly, I’m full of bullshit and have nothing worthwhile to say.
5.  I’ll sometimes take a year to get back to you on the comments.  Seriously.  A year. I’m not kidding.  Sometimes I won’t.  At all.  Seriously, I’ll allow the comment to stand on the blog and then NEVER get back to you.  I’d like to say it’s WordPresses fault sometimes.  The like button, the other things, they don’t always work.  But no.  It’s operator error or ignorance, and I’m sure it’s the latter.  I mean, I don’t always have the time to read other people’s blogs, or even comment to them about how good they write, how much I appreciate them, their subject matter, their brilliance, or how important it is that their message get out to the world.  I follow slowly, I respond slowerly, and I invent words when it fits the prodispaciche jareschermolsetch.  Google THAT!
3. I’m a straight, married, middle-aged, white, male, Christ-follower, underpaid, shitty blogger who washes dishes, vacuums, mops, likes to go fishing on his day off, and used to change diapers, and flirts with all of you hot sexy bloggers.  You THINK you live mundane lives, with life problems you decompress from by writing your blogs and you THINK this means your writing isn’t very good which is why you might think you should feature someone like me on your blog, but look at the list of character traits I put up there at the beginning of #3.  All those mean I’m clearly a narrow minded, ignorant, arrogant, racist, sexist, misogynistic, wimpy, hack, shitty writer.
2.  I don’t keep up with current trends, have a smart cell phone, dress fashionably, or even TRY to act like the popular kids.  I’m not on various social medias, I barely use twitter or whatever is the newer hotter one, I’m not on Fakebook at all, and what’s worse, I don’t play Pokemon Go.  I mean FFS, what’s NOT wrong with me?
1.  My blog sucks.  Why do you read it anyway?
0.  I don’t always  do top 10 lists, but when I do, I routinely have more than 10 things on my lists.  That’s got to be the dumbest thing to do, right?
-1.  Other bloggers write so much better than me, I mean, take ANY of the blogs I have on the right side of my articles, and they’d be worth featuring.  Seriously.  Anybody else.
-2.  I don’t write every day.  Sometimes I take a day or two off, and don’t even bother to write a scheduled post.  I mean, if I were a  really GOOD blogger I would at least do that out of respect for anyone who followed my blog.
-3.  You don’t have my permission, for “any rebroadcast, retransmission, or account of this [blog,] without the express written consent of the” MLB, the NBA, the NFL, the AFL, the CIO, the FBI, the CIA, any of the other many-lettered organizations, me, or my mum, which “is strictly prohibited.”  Unless I grant it, which might take a year or might never happen, which means whatever I write will be irrelevant by the time you obtain said written permission, not that it’s relevant the instant I write it.  However, you do have my express written permission to like what I write, in spite of how shitty it is, and to copy a link for your readers to click on to get to my blog.  Good luck getting the express written consent of any of those other parties.
-4.  I’ve just attracted the attention, likely negative, of those organizations, and if you ever reblogged any of my shit, they’d be onto you too.  Oh, fuck, now I have to hide another seven years in my bunker until they’re off my trail.  Send alcohol and various meats.  Please.  A ribeye steak would be nice, and a bottle of pinot noir.  And tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow, tomorrow, please send vodka, scotch, and rum.
-5.  There’s a right method to encourage people to follow your blog, which generally involves writing your stuff, making it good stuff, and using the categories and tags judiciously and in ways to appeal to readers.  I don’t follow this method, which is another reason to see #1.  And to not repost this shit to your blog.  You can do it right.  You can do it better.  So do that and your blog will ALWAYS be a reflection of your own awesomeness.  I  looked in the mirror today and you wouldn’t believe how awful it looked to me.  OMFSM, AWFUL.  Look away.  Your own reflection, like your own writing, is better than mine.
-6.  I lie.  I mean, in one sentence I tell you that  I’m boring and I look like hell, but in truth I’m the sexiest, most interesting man alive.  So who can believe anything I ever say?