Grown-ass Geeks Baiting Trolls

The two…or possibly three… of you who follow my blog are fully aware that my writing is crap.  So am I.  But fortunately for me, you’re the kind, gentle sorts of souls who tenderly say encouraging things anyway.   But now, after two years of blissful goings-on about life’s traumas, cyclothymic disorder with mixed episodes, the bullshit at work, the bullshit at home, and the lovely way all things here, there, and in between fall apart, and being left alone by misunderstanding haters, it’s happened.  I’m a shitty writer, and someone has called me on it.

How did I react?

I laughed at it, because I’m thick-skinned like that.  And because one must give deference to one’s betters.  I could have just commented:

Oh, look! A troll!  Someone get the torches.  Forget the pitchforks; where the fuck did I put my two-handed sword?  Oh, fan-fucking-tastic, you’ve used it to grill the shish-kebabs this time, haven’t you, Mrs. M.  What was it last time?  Oh yeah, I remember, you used it to open that cereal bag.  And because I keep all the knives in the house sharp, it worked, when nothing else in the whole house would!  It’s fine, I know where the dishwashing detergent is, and I’m not afraid to use it.  And, you’ve done it again, Mrs. M, these kebabs and rice are aMAzing; almost as amazing as YOU are.  Thank you!”

Back in my high school geeky days (mostly weekend nights, actually) of playing Dungeons and Dragons, we used to roll the dice until our characters had hacked those things to bits and then scraped the bits into a fire pit, along with ogres, goblins, orcs, assorted other monsters, such as the occasional dragon.  That’s right; laugh it up!  I’m old and geeky.  So fucking what?  Just to tell you HOW old, as a VERY young Deon, I first played the ORIGINAL Dungeons and Dragons that came in a small box, with one small pamphlet of instructions!  Thank you, Ernest Gary Gygax!

I also watched the reruns of Star Trek, whenever my older sister wasn’t watching her stupid Little House on the Prairie.  Damn it, Michael Landon!  It was YOUR fault, because she thought you were cute.  It’s not even really your fault, you rugged, beautiful bastard!  I blame Bill Shatner for his unbearable self-awareness-of-his-own-awesomeness-of-being-Bill, and ALL the rest of his male co-stars for not being quite sexy enough.  I can hear the late DeForest Kelley, weirdly addressing Jimmy Doohan as Jimmy Doohan and not Montgomery Scott, in character as Dr. McCoy:  “Damn it, Doohan!  Why didn’t you step up your game?  If you just tried harder with the single ladies instead of just romancing the single-malt scotches, Captain Kirk would have been eclipsed by Scotty’s wild (mock-)Scottish charm!”

Leonard Nimoy AND his character Mr. Spock would both have given assent to the unexpected logic of DeForest’s Dr. McCoy as DeForest, if he ever had said it in their hearing.

The braver of my readers who religiously follow what I write, and vigorously defend my right to write it, are already on the way to the troll’s domain to burn it down and hack the troll into tribble-chow.  Don’t eat that shit, you poor tribbles!  It’ll taste like shit and give you upset stomachs (because it IS shit).  And calm down, you beautiful followers!  I think I handled it, and without my beloved two-handed sword. (I keep a variety of imaginary and enchanted items in my bunker, including this blindingly shiny, sharper-than-shit, two-handed, plus seven sword, with a three-out-of-twenty chance of instantly decapitating my enemies and a five-out-of-twenty chance of causing an enemy to bleed out within two turns.)  I’m going to be fine, having had experience with everything from demons, bullies, and fiends, to various lesser ass holes including the occasional troll, since my childhood.

There I was, innocently reading an enlightening and well-written article about current trends in news and sociology.  That should surprise my loyal readers, because I hate the news.  And I hate the social trends, for the most part.

There are good things coming out of certain social trends, such as intimidating current and would-be harassers and abusers of women, and letting them know that modern American society as a loud group, and women as a now empowered and vocal subset of that group, do not want guys to try to pull any of that kind of shit, ever, and aren’t going to let guys get away with it if we have anything to say, or do, about it.

Another good social trend is letting victims of bullying know it’s not our fault, and asserting to would-be bullies that bullying is ugly and causes lasting harm.  It also teaches that the kid you bully today may grow up to collect bullies’ bodies in his back-yard rose garden.  I’d potentially call it “social justice,” or “karma,” if I believed either were possible.  But if a victim of bullying is strong enough, they can sometimes figure out ways to approach their trolls.  There are ways of slaying trolls that don’t involve actual rusty ochre bloodshed.

Bullies, stalkers, muggers, and rapists, they’re all cut from the same cloth.  They are shitheads who see an opportunity to take an unfair advantage of others, and take it. Another of the same are the thieves who steal investor’s money and tell them the stock market crashed, and another is the rich bosses who vigorously underpay their employees and work hard to try to bullshit them into thinking they’re not victims of trickle-down corporate greed, they’re actually getting better than they deserve, because according to the company’s standards, they’re worthless.  But sadly, social justice is rarely truly just, and karma doesn’t show up on a regular-enough basis.  It’s just as random as the rest of life, leaving lots of victims invisibly suffering at the hands of their assailants.  The victims rarely come forward, because they report any events at their own peril.

“So, Deon, how did you deal with this troll?” I hear one voice asking.

I complimented him.

I left it up to him to decide if I was complimenting him on his highly superior knowledge, literary talent, and amazing use of …um… uhhh… what’s the word?  Oh yeah.  “Words.”  Or if I was being sarcastic.  It’s possible that he’s the best writer the internet has ever seen.  In my comment, I told him he probably is.  It’s also possible, in the nicest and most complimentary way I could (with my feeble verbal skills), that I meant the opposite, that he’s a useless, lowbrow troglodyte, a waste of a perfectly good shit-sack, who should fuck off and not troll or insult me or anyone else, ever again.

Either way, one hopes, he may mend his ways.  If he’s the latter and I was being sarcastic, perhaps he’ll realize that bullying and putting on airs of superiority don’t win any friends, so he’ll decide to be less (undeservedly) prideful, more constructive, and less critical with his comments.  If he’s the former, in fact truly superior, and committed to his own, greater-than-Shatnerian greatness, he’ll realize that with his giftedness, he is only wasting his time approaching anyone beneath his deservedly high and lofty station, and he won’t bother to comment or try to encourage anyone to improve their writing skills because we’re not worthy.

Um…  I meant it as a compliment.  Yeah, we’ll go with that.  Because if anyone commenting humorously on someone else’s blog gets a comment from a third blogger, intent on asserting their own superiority while insulting the humor-writer’s writing skills, it’s the obvious go-to response.  Right?  Especially since he said he read my tag line, so he knew everything he needed to know about me, and my blog, and how to pass fair and righteous judgement, and execute written condemnation.

Yeah, he knows all about seasons of sleepless mania, seasons of depression, triggers, bipolar and all other manners of mental health issues, too.  I bet if he applied his obvious superior knowledge and skills to the field, he could cure us all within a fortnight.  Imagine, no longer needing or feeling compelled to hide because of all the panic-inducing shit in the world!  Imagine, no longer needing medication to feel closer to whatever “normal” feels like!  Imagine, not feeling out-of-control!  Imagine not worrying that what you think is real might not be!  Imagine not stressing out because toxic people tell you you’re not enough and you never will be, even though you keep trying and trying to measure up to what they say they want, so they will accept your offerings and service without criticism!  Imagine not having any trace of a rage that makes one want to choke the living shit out of all manner of evil- bullies, trolls, abusers, rapists, corporate executives, their managers, and other thieves, muggers- and stupid newscasters who report all the horrors in the world with smiles plastered on their perfectly groomed heads and then tell people to “have a nice [fucking] day.”

About my writing talents, sure.  He was obviously right.  He very constructively told me that he was the superior writer, and that I should bask in silent awe at the glory that is his relatively infinite knowledge and talent.  I know!  But some people, like my kind readers so far, have been too nice to tell me.  And I thank you.

The Love Poem I Can’t Seem to Write (Songs for My Tribe)

The Love Poem I Can’t Seem to Write (Songs for My Tribe)
06/29/2017, Deon Mumple

It’s still not good enough, I’ve written the same poem four times now.
I keep trying to say it just right, keep trying, but I don’t really know how.
How do you say this thing, this feeling? What are the right words?
I don’t want to say the same sounds I know you’ve already heard.

It didn’t turn out those times before, when your hope needed fulfilled
And those last two times, when you swore, no more, after the dream was killed
I don’t want to be that way,  I want to be different, and never see you hurt
But I know the times I’ve failed before, don’t trust me,  trust me, you’ll get burned

I’ve written this poem five times now, just trying to say it right
I want to make the promises and keep them, so we always win the fight
I want to be superhuman, and be heroic, but at the same time, be real,
But I don’t feel real; I’m up and down without flying, can’t even control how I feel.

I’ve written this poem six times now, and it’s never going to be perfect
The same as I know about you and me, but I’m not, and you’re not, and we’re not.
I’m afraid, you’re afraid, it’s not going to work, but I hope you’ll give it a shot.
Like this poem, I’m trying to write it right, and keep on writing it wrong,
Me versus verses that don’t have choruses, and a form that’s far from correct
Sometimes even the best composers build a bridge to write a decent love song.

I’ve written this poem seven times, this is the last time, then I’m through.
It may never be exactly right, about like trying on the wrong sized shoe,
But if a hope is just deferred but somehow I know it was meant to come true,
Maybe mixed up words will make the longing fulfilled, so I can win and keep you.

Feels Like Writer’s Block

This
Feels like
Writer’s block
But not the same
I could write something
But it wouldn’t be good
I’m not “inspired.”
Could be just me
Or maybe
Things just
Suck.

6/13/2017 Deon Mumple

OK those of you who only like the poetry can go away now, 1,2,3,4,5,6,5,4,3,2,1.

When Jim Morrison was alive, there was apparently an incident at a concert, and from one I recently attended it probably really did happen.  No, not THAT incident, if you’re a Doors fan.  It probably happened nightly at the concerts.  The fans were at the stage yelling out that the band should play that one specific, popular, well-known song.

If  I did a poetry concert and all you wanted to hear was your favorite poem, and you yelled from the audience and everyone only wanted to hear the one poem, I’d be depressed.  I’d like to think I’m more than just a one-hit wonder, not that any of my writing is that great, but that I’d like to think it.  You paid the admission price, got your ticket because you like the performer and want to hear what they want to say.  Sure, you will probably get to hear the popular thing, but think- the performer has more to offer than that.  They have more of a message than just the one popular thing.  There are things you don’t know about them.  And if you like the one thing, and the style, maybe you’d like the other things they have to say.

Maybe not.  In which case, go ahead to the concert and command the performer!  “Dance, Monkey, DANCE!!”

There’s an inspiration behind the poetry; there’s a narrative behind the narrative.  What you see on Youtube or the news or hear on your favorite music feeds doesn’t tell enough of it.  There’s more than just that.

In the same way, there’s an inspiration behind me washing the dishes (or not) and the laundry (or not) and in general, experiencing any kind of joy in life that motivates me to work, or serve, or help.  If that inspiration turns out to be fake, or misguided, or dwindles over time, or less than I need or hope for or expect, you might find my motivation diminishes over time as well.  Eventually, if the gas tank doesn’t get refilled, the car runs out of gas.  Eventually, if you don’t take the car to the mechanic, Penny, the check engine light you have taped over will turn out to mean something (Big Bang Theory, S2E5).  There’s a repository, we’ll call it full-service-fuel.  Every time you receive full-service of some sort, the repository loses some of its fuel.  If that tank doesn’t get refilled, with the right kind of fuel, eventually it runs dry and full-service slows down, or stops entirely, or is broken,

The inspiration behind this blog is to vent, so I don’t care that I only have two real readers, but it would be nice to have a few more.  But when you visit, I hope you’ll do more than just rush the stage chanting like rabid fans, “Dance, Monkey, DANCE!”

I hear “Dance, Monkey, DANCE!” from a variety of sources.  Work is one, and frankly, I just don’t give a shit any more and I hope something better comes along but I’m not very hopeful.  I hope they don’t fire me, because finding a new job sucks ass.  Change sucks ass.  On the other hand, maybe it would be better after I got over my rage and depression and got off my ass and looked for something better.  Maybe I would find it, but I’m not betting on that contingency just the same as I figured I probably lit $4 between the past 2 weeks on lottery tickets.

Mrs. M and the kids are either very slowly learning that my tank is running on “E” with the check engine light on, or they’re about to suddenly learn it.  In their own ways, they either drain me or sustain me, and the demands from the audience are frankly depressing.  They got in free. They didn’t pay shit for their admission, and they expect a great show, and backstage passes with access to me, my band, our food and snacks and beverages, not to mention all of my damned Skittles, and give nothing in return.  They don’t really want to interview me except to ask about their favorite song.  They don’t want to take the dog for a walk, or take the trash out, or wash the dishes, or vacuum, or mow the grass, or empty the fucking lint filter on the dryer (or wash their laundry), etc.  Well, I played and danced for a long fucking time, and gave encores until you obviously didn’t know the lyrics any more.  The concert is over, the performer is tired, so fuck off unless you start the fan club when you go back to your home town, buy the recordings, help out a little around the house instead of proving your talents as lounge lizards, and hey, Mrs. M, how about a little enthusiastic something extra special back in the dressing room once in a while before you bitch about how tired you are and how late it is and how hard you work and what you don’t like giving but you like when people give to you, and before you go off to sleep and leave me to do more “dancing?” (with myself, see also, Billy Idol).  In another draining way, my stupid homeowners association.  I mean, what the fuck do you do besides take my money and tell me my yard looks like shit when it rains too hard and fast, or tell me my yard looks like shit when it doesn’t rain at all.  All you do is drain and there’s no return for my investment.

There should always be a return on my investment, and it shouldn’t be intangible, because intangible is bullshit.

If you didn’t read to the end, good for you.  I hope you quit reading a few paragraphs before the previous paragraph, because after that it’s just more shit.  If you did read to the end, two things:  First, I’m very sorry.  And second, I appreciate you and your support.  I’m sure it’s just the depression talking, mostly.  But fuck it, that’s what motivates me because there’s little else until the next mania.  The lack of motivation blocks me from sensing that I’ve accomplished anything even if I have.  It’s not exactly writers block, because I just wrote this shit.  I even took my meds this morning.  Fat fucking lot of good it did.  Or, maybe it did what it’s supposed to do and I’d feel even more worthless if I hadn’t taken it.  Meh.  Enough.

And if you read the whole thing, I’m sorry for de-motivating you from commenting.

Predictably Unpredictable

I don’t know what tomorrow or two days from then will bring.  I don’t even know if my mouse will leave the cursor where I want it to be, much less anything else.  There’s an instant unpredictability to life, and I’ve become intensely aware of how it adversely affects me.  I’m aware of how the major episodes and changes and issues boost my stress level.  Stress:  It’s quicker than a click away.  The touchpad needs to have a deonmon exorcised where it will occasionally just randomly migrate to the top right and just sit there no matter what I do using the touchpad.  So I have an auxiliary mouse plugged in using one of the few ports on it.  For a while something was bugging the keyboard too, so I had the second port occupied with an auxiliary keyboard.  all the baggage, the extra things to juggle, it adds stress, and even then, the mouse would randomly migrate and stick.  But the touchpad also randomly right-clicks itself.  The deonmon doesn’t want to leave my cursor where I put it, and will occasionally delete text I’ve just typed, which is bullshit for a random writer who isn’t being paid to write.  If I were being paid to write, I would have my publisher or employer buy me a better system, or, if I were being well-paid to write, I would buy a better system.  Alas, that requires genuine talent AND opportunity, and sadly, I have neither of these.

Lou Holtz is credited with saying “It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s the way you carry it.”  I call that theory “interesting bullshit.” Evidently Holtz never watched Warner Brothers cartoons like Wile E. Coyote vs. the laws of physics and gravity or Daffy vs Bugs growing up. When the anvil lands, it’s the fucking load that breaks you down.

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And sometimes it feels like life’s shit all lands on you like an anvil in a cartoon, except it hurts and it DOES break you down. Fuck you, cockeyed optimists, get your eyes checked. The universe doesn’t hand you what you ask for or I’d have won the $7K a week for life PCH AND the $1B lottery back a while ago.

Sometimes it’s not so much an anvil, less painful but certainly demoralizing.  Maybe almost as bad as the anvil.

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There you are trying to work hard and handle the shit, doing life’s uphill climb, and look what happens.

Sometimes you are able to ignore the shit, work hard and get stuff done, and you feel like you might actually accomplish something and reach a good goal.  And sometimes all you can accomplish is surviving, and barely that.  Sometimes the job sucks, and sometimes it sucks harder.  Sometimes you hope for the promotion, and sometimes you just hope today won’t suck as bad as yesterday sucked.  Sometimes the boss pretends to care, and sometimes the truth is un-curtained, and the boss shoves your career down the bathroom plumbing.  It clogs, and then you have to plunger that away, because even though you know it stinks, the boss isn’t going to help with that shit.

My blog is two years old.

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yay. (I wondered if I could find a Droopy cartoon gif that said “You know what? I’m happy.” But I remembered this one first so that’s what you get.  Kind of expresses the whole thing all at once- audience and blogger alike.)

The random nature of life means we don’t know if we’ll win the lottery or if we’ll die of cancer or if we’ll get a great job or be stuck in a dead end for 20 years and then have our retirement stolen, or if a new blogger we discover will be great, like my readers who blog, or if a blogger will suck.  (sorry!  And thanks for enduring these two years with me, or for not un-following if you’re a new reader.)

The random nature of life means I’ve had days that felt like cartoon anvils dropping.  They won’t kill you but they’ll feel like they might.  And I’ve had days where I actually believed stuff would work out in my favor.  It hasn’t yet, but isn’t hope just fucking adorable?  Hope keeps the lottery alive.  It’s misguided hope, but it’s hope.  Hope feels good, so let’s take it where we can.

I wasted invested a whole two dollars and bought a ticket now that it’s over $200M, knowing the odds.  I used to watch the interviews after people won.  “What are you going to do?” and not infrequently enough, I’d hear someone say “I’m going to fix my teeth.”  I heard it enough I used to kind of chuckle about it, and now, karma.  I couldn’t afford crowns so now they either come out and I get holes, or they come out and I get implants (sexy isn’t it?).  Fuck you, karma.  Sure the life-lesson is there, but do you have to teach ME?  So what will I do when I win?  Fix my fucking teeth.  I wait until $200M, because I have probably 60 or less years of life left, and I want to be able to do whatever I want during that time.  Despite the ridiculous odds against me, I hope I win.  I bet if you bought a ticket, you hope you do to.  One of us should, that’s for sure.  If I win, we can party at this secret, undisclosed hidden bunker I write from.  By invitation.

Let’s see…  a billion to one chance of me winning, times the odds you’ll get invited to the celebration…  Like THAT’s a prize, am I right?  woo…, hang out with Deon…  Please, Deon, at least promise there will be liquor.  Since I can’t even promise better writing, I can’t promise much.  Plus, who says you’ll even be invited?   I can’t promise I won’t suffer a complete loss of memory of anything I’ve ever written down here even if reminded.  Maybe I’ll turn into a total ass if I win.  Maybe I was an ass the whole time.

Except you, you know who you are, and if you’re not sure I’ll stalk you online, and find your address, as if I don’t know that already, and send you an engraved invite and a lifetime pass to the bunker.  Of course, you already knew my real personality (Deon Mumple, annoying ass.) the whole time.  I bet you’d hang out with me even if I DIDN’T win the lottery.

I know all of you are hoping this blog will feature better, more regular writing.  If I win, you might get…. more regular writing, because I’ll have more time.  Sorry to dash that other part of your hope.  I’m hoping my laptop will stop randomly deleting entire paragraphs so I can write a bit faster and not have to try to remember whatever bullshit I was expounding on.  Pounding the keyboard doesn’t work, but I can’t figure out how to ex-pound.  Thank fuck I found the Alt+Z combination.  The trolls wish I could figure out the delete key makes everything better, and in its’ tortured mechanical wisdom and soul-less love for all things good on the internet, my keyboard is sick of this shit and wishes I would stop.  And despite the odds, you’ve kept reading.  Thank you.

Here’s to hoping for better things, and better days.

Milestones

It’s 5 AM.  I woke up because my laptop was making noise I wasn’t expecting, finishing a video I didn’t know I had started watching, one of those idiotic play lists that goes forever even when you’re bored.  I had gotten bored with the video I was watching after it ended, and left the laptop with the window still open, distracted with other things and people.  It still happens in spite of the new treatment plan I started last year.

I started the coffee and realized I was absolutely starving, so I put down some toast.  I shut off the idiot video and I won’t refer you to it.  If it streamed at all normal, it would have been playing by midnight last night when I think I fell asleep.  But no, the computer was quiet until 5:00 AM.  UGH.  I’m going to pour some coffee.  If I had an eidetic memory I’d tell you how many cups I’ve ever had, but I can’t.  But I CAN tell you about another milestone in my life.

300-inset

Sorry KIMKASUALTY for the basically shit resolution of this image.  But you get the honorable mention and the referral because WordPress acknowledges follower 301, not follower 300, Austin L. Wiggins.  But welcome, everyone.  And I’m sorry.  You’re all wonderfully supportive and I appreciate you.  300 followers may not seem like many to a GOOD blogger, but to me, it feels like a lot.

I don’t quite understand why people would to read my crap, so reaching the milestone number of 300 followers is a pleasant mystery to me.  I’ve blogged on and off since February 9, 2015.  I started on a random day, my blog’s birthday, 2/9/15, with https://nombredelapluma.wordpress.com/2015/02/09/hello-world. Deon Mumple, NombreDeLaPluma.  My introduction to the world of blogging was maybe more bold than I usually felt back then.  But I wanted to write things down and honestly didn’t want to care if anyone read it or not.  I wanted to record things, and in an electronic world, Dear Diary on paper is not quick and efficient.  Plus, the outlet to my emotions is, I’m told, a healthier alternative than worsening depression, the end of which, you know.

Let’s be honest.  There are, as I always assert, a LOT of writers who are SO much better than I.  Sure, there are writers who aren’t, but who the fuck am I to be the judge of that?  So I hope I’ve never drawn undue attention to your grammar, punctuation, or usage, unless it was me trying to be funny WITH you.  I hope I haven’t insulted, offended, or angered anyone, because that’s not what I want to be about.  I have my beliefs, which I’ll assert are just as valid as any other person’s beliefs.  I have my faith, shaky though it may seem, which I’ll assert is just as valid as anyone else’s faith, or what some may think is a lack of faith.  I’ll encourage you to explore my faith, and you can encourage me to explore yours, unless I’ve already done so.  I’ll write whatever’s on my mind, whatever I think is interesting or irritating or entertaining or boring, and I hope you’ll do the same

As for faith, I do recall, I’ve looked into two I couldn’t get, and mentioned them once or twice and never got a logical explanation to help me understand how they make sense.  But I also didn’t get any comments about my confusion or my logic, positive, or negative.  Maybe silence is the loudest expression of wisdom.  Believe me, I appreciate silence.  I hate the news, I hate the commercials, I hate the loudness, dogs barking, fireworks, unnecessary bullshit.

I wish my computer had let me sleep longer, but because it woke me up, you got this crap in your feed today and again, I apologize most sincerely.  When you finish reading this, or when you quit because it bores you, maybe you’ll have time to read something better.

If silence is the loudest expression of wisdom, I may be the world’s biggest fool, but for now, I’ll shut up.

Math Language Disection IV

Hello again, readers, fans and celebrated literary critics!  It’s been a while, you all have been warned, SEVERAL TIMES, and despite my cautionary notes advising against it, to date there are, according to WordPress, 297 lost souls who for some reason have clicked “follow” at the bottom of one of my wellsprings, by which I mean pits, of insanity.  You may think it’s writing, but this blog is the dumping ground, the killing floor, and the outdoor crapper all in one, for my wasted genius, my grief for undercompensated best efforts, my useless emotional outbursts, and any pitiful kernels of spirituality, dropped and immediately snatched away by birds, and choked lifeless by the cares of the world and the Powers that be which could do something about shit but couldn’t be arsed because, to shamelessly steal from Jeff-fa-fa Dun-Ham (dot-com)’s character José Jalapeño (on a stick) [they’re] “laughing too hard.”  At my damned expense.

Did you see what I did there?  See, we all love readers, we all love fans, and we all love it when a reader or a fan has something nice to say and posts a comment about our writing.  We don’t like the haters, because nobody likes a hater.  But instead of just pushing away, which really resolves nothing and might even provoke an antagonistic response, I gave the haters a little dignity, a little respect, in calling them “esteemed literary critics.”  Maybe that’s all any of us needs.  Personally, I’d love to be a literary critic.  Because what do you do?  You read it, or you skim it, and you offer an opinion about what you read, or about the author.  You can literally say whatever shit you want.  If you’re in a bad mood, fuck your subject, fuck your readers, and fuck the world.  If you’re in a good mood, fuck your subject, fuck your readers, and fuck the world, but enjoy doing that.  Being a critic:  It’s something similar to being tangential, except instead of being tangential at a given point, a critic offers a tangent at any point.

A good critic will offer encouragement to continue doing whatever a person being critiqued  is doing, but to continually work hard, in an effort to do it ever better.  One doesn’t normally just give a status report, a numeric evaluation, without any kind of answer guide or explanation.  One might establish a baseline expectation of performance, either based on prior experiences there, or industry standards, or One gives things the subject should keep on doing that they’re doing well, a kind of “run.”  And then one gives things where they need improvement, a kind of potential to “rise,” or “fall.”  You give an “O-pinion”

An O-pinion is something that’s unpredictable.  The tangent might lie anywhere around the circle, the “O” if you will, and go in any direction established by the critic.  That is to say, if a place did better the last time and they were crap this time, a downward slope might be indicated.  If a critic only pinioned a subject, in contrast, there would be no room to breathe, you would be unable to move, which is why an o-pinion is preferable.  If you were racked and pinioned,  you’re probably already finely ground between the teeth of the gears.  And stretched, if you were racked correctly, and immobilized if you were pinioned correctly.   If you were pinioned, always keep in mind that being immobile has the benefit of being what’s called “nodal,” meaning you are not moving up or down.  If that’s the case, it may suck, but at least things aren’t getting any worse.   And if you were the same as last time, you may get a slope that’s a horizontal line.  It may be on the bottom of the o-pinion, which means you sucked and you still suck and your critic has abandoned all hope, but still gave you a shot, or it may be at the  top, which means you were excellent before and you’re still excellent.  The benefit of a horizontal line is they liked you the same as last time.  I’d hate to have a slight upward slope.  It might give me false hope of actually improving, for fuck’s sake.

There are chefs in restaurants who literally live, or have died, by their rating.  Chef Bernard Loiseau was in debt and suffering clinical depression, and still worked his ass off in the kitchen all day, before killing himself, on February 24, 2003.  I haven’t forgotten.  I never got to go to his excellent restaurant while he worked there.   It is a tragedy, and I will never forget.   I’m not sure which is more tragic:

a) being in debt, which I am, and working your ass off to get out of debt, only to figure out that your employers are shitheads with jackboots on, and realizing there is no way to climb out of the pit because when you try someone is up there to kick you back down;

b) not being able to fix the situation enough to become more comfortable or at peace, no matter how hard you work at it, which I am, precluding some kind of miracle, see below;

c) being prone to depression like Monsieur Loiseau, which I am, though perhaps not quite so severely, after working so hard to succeed and feel good, you get the boot and fall again and feel like a failure who’ll never succeed, which I do.  I married an absolutely fantastic woman, and I love her beyond what I believe is anything normal, but she is a fucking backward nit-picker.  You work your ass off, deal with the details, pick all the nits you can find out, fix everything your little detailed brain can handle until you’re too tired to see, and she comes in and only needs a minute or two to assess, whereupon she always tells you where you fucked up, what you did wrong, the 1 tiny nit that remains out of the five hundred you carefully combed out and killed, the 1 to 3 percent of whatever project you didn’t accomplish, and why it’s not enough and you feel like it’ll never be enough, so why keep trying?  So far, I keep trying and she hasn’t kicked my  ass to the curb yet, so I must be doing all right I guess, even though I feel like a miserable piece of shit;

d) realizing that the only people who really matter to you are all like the above, never satisfied with anything you have ever done.  What’s the hope they will ever not be looking down their fucking noses at everything you ever will do, all the while forcing you to either eat your rage or just accept whatever they do, because your love covers a multitude of  their sins, but evidently they don’t love you enough to overlook yours.  Trust me, it’s a shitty way to live;

or,

e) not being quite stubborn enough or angry enough at them to stick around if only just to piss them off.  I’m one stubborn bastard, which is why I’m not dead.  In my heart and soul, I do care, and I wish that what I brought was enough.  But my stubbornness dictates that I ultimately reach the point of va te faire enculer, and I let the critics go their way with my French, um, well-wishes, trusting they will be self-satisfied and content with their lives while they destroy mine.  In the spirit of said va te faire enculer, I do sometimes pray for a critic to be adjusted, gently given a little bit better perspective, and meanwhile I work until I’m tired, and I get up the next day and try again.  If only I could be self-satisfied as they are, and let that be enough.  If only the hard work I do could be appreciated and well-compensated at work, and reciprocated at home.

Alas, my day job dictates that I be subject to critical opinions and unrealistic timelines and expectations that keep me bruised and kicked down, no matter how hard I work my tail off to satisfy the requirements.  Career advancement might have been possible if I had kissed ass, sucked …up… and let the bosses steer my career.  I didn’t, so I’m dead to them.  They don’t give a shit, they labor hard and long to think of reasons why they can’t give me a fucking cost of living increase, but turn with the same two faces and tell me how much my work is appreciated.  In reality, I know the truth of the matter:  they’re just waiting for me to die, or to quit, and it can’t happen soon enough to suit them.  Fuckers!

Alas, my family life is the same, and I am already bruised and kicked from work, so there’s nothing left to offer but blood and body parts.  I’m not important enough, or depressive enough, to feel that what I do or don’t do is worth getting depressed enough to kill myself. I appreciate solitude, don’t get me wrong.  But Mrs M, bless her heart, more days than I actually appreciate, gives me a nonverbal va te faire enculer and then probably takes that and applies it literally in her own way, because how the fuck should I know when she goes to sleep and leaves me awake and dealing with my feelings all by myself.  I’m not crying, because that’s not me.  “Fucking WAAHH!”  Nope.  I’m just angry, and I eat rage for midnight snacks, and wait for Mrs M to decide she’s relaxed and not tired, and just bored enough to use me.  One of my readers teases me about how I make such a good fucking wife.  I love her, but at the same time…I love her.

Oh, Monsieur Loiseau!  To have ended yourself just for having disappointed one or two smug fuckers, customers who think they know better than anyone else what service, and food, should look like, and taste like, and what you should cook, and how you should cook it, blah, blah, blah.  As if their way was the only fucking right way.  And, as if, disappointing one or two customers mattered, when you’ve literally satisfied a few thousand others.  Those critics probably don’t even pay l’addition, s’il vous plait; les rapiates!  Putaines!

Notice that hope for the “critic.”  I could have just said:

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via GIPHY

and left it at that.  But no.

If I were driven to be the best writer, instead of just expressing what I feel, or writing what I’m thinking about, I’d be done.  I’m aware that my writing can be surpassed.  I have days when I can almost pull it together.  I may have written something crappy last time, but maybe this time, it’s not AS crappy as then.  The slope of the tangent, from last time to this time, is upward.  The love from encouraging, soft-hearted people, comes along.  Other days I’m not so together, those same loving, encouraging, soft-hearted people are too kind to offer a word of criticism because it might be taken harshly.  Because, sure.  Let a heartless putain de connard literary critic come along and shred me, the weak, worn fibers will no doubt tatter easily.  The slope of the tangent, from the quality of yesterday’s writing to today’s, is downward.  Why?  Well, Deon, maybe it’s because you didn’t write anything yesterday, but today’s is crap so why should we expect better?  There are people with better audience appeal.  There are people with more interesting or more compelling subject matter.  There are people who have a better sense of humor, a better way of expressing themselves, a better vocabulary, a better site layout, betterbetterbetterbetterbetter.

There are writers who can actually focus and write on a topic, without rambling.  And speaking of rambling, the moment you’ve all somehow had the stamina to endure for, has come.  My ramble is rambled, my rant is ranted, at least for now, and finally…

It’s time for Math Language Dissection IV:  Today’s Dissection:  Derivatives

Oh, Deon.  Not again.  We could hardly stand it the last time, and this time you rambled on about shit no one cared about until no one was still reading.

But Oh, Yes, more Mould.  Or Math Language Dissection.  Because that’s the nature of math, and mould- it grows on you.    Four times as much math dissection as the first time.  Last time I did this, I nearly lost 212% of my readers, which should be impossible you say, but just trust me, it almost happened.

At the risk of doing it again, click here and look through this webpage.

If you did that, and actually came back to my blog, you intuitively know something about people who studied math on purpose, more than our basic masochistic leanings.  But you should also intuitively understand that the reaction you just had is the same reaction EVERYONE has, especially students who are forced to learn mathematical derivatives.  It’s an entirely human reflex action, as natural as what happens soon after ingesting Carapichea ipecacuanha syrup.  Mmmmm.  Deliciatives.

We hate derivatives.  Derivatives try to copy the original.  You THINK they’re hard to figure out, but when you scratch the surface and take a good hard look under the gilt-edges, you see the truth.  They’re fakes, cheap imitations, trying hard to pretend they’re just as good.  They follow the slope of the original function, or the recipe, if you will, but the flavor is flat as a dropped soufflé.   They follow the concept, you get the idea, but they have no soul.  It’s there, it’s OK, sure, but every OUNCE of the love has been sucked out.  Like The Machine in The Princess Bride sucked the years out of Wesley, a derivative is The Machine turned up to 99: not until the function is “only mostly dead,” but until the function loses its’ purpose.  There’s almost nothing left- it’s a skeleton, where there once was a captivating, lush-lipped, full figured, gorgeous woman.

We loved Alan Rickman, for instance, but there isn’t a human being who can match the snark, the bitter sarcasm, the attitude, the absolutely harsh, absolutely charming ennui, of Mr. Rickman.  He could be apologetic and still, under the gently sorrowful words, you somehow knew he knew he was right.  Fortunately for the pretenders, but unfortunately for the rest of the world, he’s gone.  Attention, all you haters:  You have a chance to aspire to the new number one.  Unfortunately for you, haters, it’s me.  That’s right.  I’m sorry (no, really!), but your opinion is worse than irrelevant, it’s powerless to change the fact that I’m right, and it couldn’t be more exhausting to me.  It’s exhausting, because you so strongly believe you’re right, that you wear everyone out with your endless, foolish, barbaric garrulity.

I am the world’s harshest critic.  Fortunately for the world, my harshest wrath and ennui is trapped inside the mirror of ssensselepoh like a damned horcrux.  That’s right, I am the anti-Gilderoy Lockhart, and I speak Parseltongue, too.  I gaze into the mirror and see my soul, my shattered dreams, my surrendered ambition, my brokenness, and everything adds up to intense self-loathing.  All I’m looking at is the image of a harsh reality; what I see is all entirely truthful.  And unlike Voldemort’s foes, no one is willing to even TRY to destroy the mirror I sometimes gaze into, which could potentially be accomplished by giving me any amount of cash greater than $300M.  Thus far, no one has been willing to try, and therefore I can’t die.  Come on!  Someone, give it a shot!

What the world needs is not more derivatives, like those unending old Haim Saban Power Ranger sequelseries, or Stephen J. Cannell’s crime mimeographs, or Dick Wolf Wolves, or Anthony E. Zuiker Zuikers and Bruckheimers, or sappy Aaron Spelling everything-works-out-good-in-the-end-after-the-shit-goes-down-and-people-“just”-fucking-try-harder shows.  Spelling also loved stories where people didn’t appreciate what they had until they got what they thought they wanted.  I hate that shit.  Fucking “It’s a Wonderful Life” DERIVATIVES.   And honestly, I really DO appreciate what I have, to the extent that what I have is good.  What I have is a lush, full coloured painting, of what could be.  What I want is 3-D, so much more, so much better, so very possible.  I love Spelling’s REAL story in spite of myself, because it could have gone really bad but it didn’t, at least not until his misfortune returned in around 2001.  He was MARRIED to Morticia Addams, and what could be bad about that?

What the world needs are anti-derivatives.  Anti-derivatives are the opposite of derivatives.  Instead of being fashionably way too thin and nearly two dimensional, or worse, one dimensional and just showing the slope, an anti-derivative is original, gorgeous, full figured, proud, stark naked and grinning, going in it’s own unique direction, shouting a loud “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES!” to all the critics.  THIS, Chef Bernard Loiseau, is who you were meant to be, except you let them wear you down.  When the haute cuisine world goes off on idiot tangents, if you’re able to be yourself, the anti-derivative, the original function, instead of the tangent off the anti-derivative, it’s a glorious thing, but the critics are always critical.  If you’re classical,they want you to run with the fad and still excel, and if you run with the fad, they bitch because you’re not traditional enough.

Don’t let the critics wear you down.  Don’t, even if the critic is the voice in your own head. What the world needs is you.  Not the you that tries to be someone or something you’re not.  The original, beautiful you.  Be that.  Be the Anti-Derivative.

Writing in the Morning

There’s not enough time.  After two hours of sleep Tuesday morning I forgot to take my meds yesterday, so that was a fun one.  I was pretty tired but managed to not do enough at work, and not accomplish as much as I wanted at home and out at a social/volunteer obligation I basically let other people do most everything and I watched and only carried a few things instead of actually working.  After the not-doing-much at the event I finally ate some chicken chili in a moment between nausea waves, and fell asleep.

So what’s the cure for my insomnia?  Insomnia!  Hooray.

Except it just makes me feel the rage until I can go to sleep.  This is just a side effect of actually taking the meds, but I’m hoping that’ll stabilize after a few days of taking them.  I may be seeing you at 3 Thursday morning, but I’m sorry to confess, I hope I don’t.  It’s not you.  It’s me.  I like sleep, at least sometimes.

I don’t want to write in the morning.  I want to write at work but they’re flexing their security muscles and I can’t do anything extra at work.  I can’t even visit some sites I need to visit to help the clients, because they’re blocked.  It’s over the top, but I understand if lazy fuckers at work aren’t meeting their productivity goals and they’re spending all day streaming cat pictures on Pinterest and looking for another job because the one they have sucks.  I’m waiting for the employer to realize that restricting me doesn’t improve my productivity. It only makes work more stressful because being able to play some Led Zeppelin at lunch just relieves the tension, and being able to blog at lunch and breaks improves my productivity by relieving my stress from the customers.

I marvel at the stupidity.  You’re supposed to be working, and you’re watching a fucking movie online on the company computer.  Not a 3 or 4 minute song on Youtube, but a movie.  Or, you’re chatting up your friends on fakebook.  And you do just enough work to make it look like you’re working, but you’re not working so I get the honor of working harder to carry your fucking weight, and they underpay me for it because I’ve been at the company longer than you, but somehow you make more than I do.

Corporate America, you’re all fucking idiots if you can’t figure out what the difference between a little stress relief between tasks, and professional loafing, is.  If I’m making my goals, meeting my numbers, every day, I’m not the problem.  If you had people who actually supervised people, instead of people who fail at micromanagement of employees in an attempt to squeeze that last drop of blood out of the rocks, you might see the one who is stressing out and needs a little break from helping everyone and carrying the loafers’ loads, and you might notice the ones who are busy “like-“ing their friends cat pictures and watching fucking MOVIES on the company computer on the company time.

So I have to write this in the morning instead of as a stress reliever during the day it’s a stressor while I try to squeeze out the creativity (such as it is, not very creative-feeling, sorry readers) before I have to run out to work for the corporate idiots.  We’ll see what happens with the new restrictions.  Maybe it’s temporary.  Or maybe it’ll actually make the people who hopefully can’t watch the movies and go to fakebook at work, fucking WORK.

I suppose I should be grateful.  Thanks, boss.  But while I struggle to adjust because it’s change and I really hate change, it’s very stressful.  And if I have stress and rage and insomnia and rage, I might have to strangle the ladies social club that now talks more during the day about their family and their family criminals  and their medical issues and their pets, because they can’t vent that on fakebook like they used to.  They talk and talk, and when they’re on their phones I just wish I had high cubicle walls and a door I could shut to seal myself off from their noise, because I can’t yell at the chatty chats, but I wish I could

I wish they would SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

End of rant, I’m off to have fun at the office.  Hooray.

I hope in spite of corporate, and the general American, stupidity, that you all have a great day.  Maybe someone will get a raise or a promotion.  If you do, tell fakebook, and if you tell me, I promise to not be in a jealous rage.  Meh.  It doesn’t matter. Tell me, because you probably deserve it.  But if you work in my office, SHUT THE FUCK UP, I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU BRAG.

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?

Saturday Scheduled Post

If it’s Saturday and you’re reading this, I’ve succeeded as a writer in all ways except for making $0.35 to $0.50 per word.  First, I’m not working because it’s Saturday.  Second, I’m not writing this because it’s Saturday, and like a syndicated writer (sounds kind of mobster-ish, no?) I’ve phoned it in, so to speak.  No, I wrote it early and scheduled it so I would be able to do the road trip, joy, joy, with Mrs. M to retrieve the little darlings.

If it’s Saturday and you’re reading this, my son is lamenting that he has to go back to the hovel, the free food when he talks his father into cooking something, the boredom, and his friends who I get to adopt as my other sons because they spend all their time over at our house eating our food and playing video games all day (sigh!).  And my daughter is lamenting that she has to go back to the gloom and despair of her corner room in the shack, the filth AND squalor of it all (sigh) and her friend’s house, the teen girl I’ve basically adopted as my own, whose house she likes to go when she’s tired of telling us what awful parents we are.  “I love you, but…” At least there’s a preface.  And then there’s being bored with having all day to loll around watching fucking Netflix.  WHY, for fuck’s sake, are summer vacations wasted on the kids?!  If I had that kind of free time I could finish my novel, read a novel or 12, clean out the garage, and take a nap.  Nope.  “I’m BORED!”  Well, you could clean the house, wash the dishes, do your laundry, get a job, take a shower, read a book, go to your friend’s house, ride your bike, go for a hike, cook our dinner, practice your musical instrument, learn a new skill… the list just goes on and on.

They’ve had a week by the lake.  Visits to an amusement park.  Shopping with extended family, on their dime.  Spoilage.  “Why aren’t we rich?”  Well kids, because I don’t like changing jobs enough to quit this one and expect the next one to reward me for my lack of faithfulness like modern society does today.  So they’ve had a week by the lake living the sweet life to rot their hearts.  Probably, insult to injury, a boat ride or two.  They’ll come back wishing they could be adopted, not realizing it’s not normal.  It’s their “Disney Auntie.”

If it’s Saturday and you’re reading this, I’ll be home Monday, or Sunday because driving on Monday will suck.  And the noise on Monday will suck.  I like the light show that fireworks offer, but not the noise.  M80s are great if you’re a demolition crew, but not just for the sake of the bigger boom.  Shut the hell up, July 4.  I don’t need to hear the fucking “bombs bursting in air.”  Want bombs?  Move to fucking Fallujah or Syria or Israel.  They get “rockets red glare” in Israel.  Because certain people want Israel’s part of Jerusalem shoved into the Dead Sea, and the rest of Israel shoved off into the Mediterranean.  I think the world probably will want to do the same thing to the US, if they don’t already want to do that, after we elect whichever schmuck gets the most votes from the electoral college (coughIlluminaticough!!)  (It was a joke, ok. well, sort of, maybe, I hope.)  Nobody likes Israel, and I don’t think anyone likes the direction the US is taking, no matter which direction it goes from this point forward.  I wish the world didn’t hate the United States, but I kind of understand.

There isn’t a bigger patriot in the entire United States, but I’m just disappointed in what we’ve done with the freedom we have.  More on this if I bother to write on Monday.  What I want to do on Monday is eat a fried chicken and some mashed potatoes and green beans, drink several alcoholic beverages, read a few blogs and a good book or two, and just rest.  Because it’s the 4th of July, a holiday.  I don’t feel the need to accomplish things.  I just did the carpets and the yard.  So you can tsk and share how the disappointment is mutual.  Or you can come to the bunker and if I have any leftover chicken or beverages, I might share.

Don’t blow off your hand or your fingers or any other body parts on the 4th.  Have fun, but for fuck’s sake, keep it quiet, please!!  Maybe I am writing the next great American Novel.  Or maybe I’m sleeping.  Both of these will require the highest level of concentration for me to carry off.  Let me concentrate.  If I’m writing, even moreso:  I have difficult beverages to assemble and they require the handling of chemicals with the utmost precision.  I’m no suicide bomber, but I bet there’s a drink with that name out there somewhere.  Yup.  I looked that up, and I don’t want one.  Those chemicals are way out of balance.

If it’s Saturday and you’re reading this, I’ve hopefully arrived at the in-laws and I have a vodka tonic done and another in progress.  If I got hooked up as a writer for the syndicate, as a personal favor to me, this blog entry just earned me $483.00, so I can be the “Disney Uncle.”  I’ll be Scrooge McDuck in human form.  I don’t really want to swim in money.  But I wouldn’t mind wading in it.  The thing I like about the Disney franchise is their movie intros.  They have fireworks.  And I can turn down the volume on my TV set.

Anyone know anyone hiring a garbage-writing opinionated ass hole for $0.50 a word?

How to Deal with Blog Trolls?

How to Deal with Blog Trolls?  6/28/2016, Deon Mumple

I’ve decided how I should
Deal with any trolls:
Not fight it, I’ll write it,
They’ll help with my goals

There’s no point in letting them
Get my soul rattled
I’m bettin’ they’ll be sweatin’
And lose my rap battle!

Do your best, pass the test,
Who knows?  You could win
If the readers, our voters
Give grace for your sin.

We- Will- Be- EPIC!  You critics!
We’ll fight our way through.
Just try me. Tongue tie me.
If I win, fuck you!

Thanks to Spanglish Jill and her readers for the suggestion/idea.