Posts Tagged ‘Alcoholism’

Timebombs

June 1, 2016
It isn’t possible to send out E-vites before expiring and passing on to heaven, another life or nothing, depending on what you believe.  There are no parties with tears and hugs before getting on to a helicopter and waving goodbye to everyone the way President Nixon did when he resigned.  No smile, wave and peace symbols flashed with your fingers before passing on.  It happens suddenly or it drags on.  It happens peacefully or we agonize and panic.  There really is no good way out.  We really are time bombs and don’t know when it is that we go off.
Andrew Millar received the news that he was going to die from cancerous polyps in his intestine, throughout his colon and into his blood stream.  He felt as he always felt but upon finding blood in his shit quite often, he decided to visit the doctor who sent him for tests.  In the same time in the same town, there was a man name Andrew Miller who was also worried about blood in the stool, saw his doctor and was sent in for testing.  The oncologist that was reading the results of Millar and Miller, mixed the two up.  The doctor told Millar that he should wrap up anything he needed to get done in the next six weeks when actually he just had anal fissures and nothing more and told Miller that he was absolutely fine when in reality, he had about six weeks to live.  It was an honest mistake brought on by the distraction that the FDA and FBI were about to bust the oncologist for prescribing unsanctioned, cheap Canadian drugs that were not approved so that he could make more money than if he purchased the cancer drugs through approved sources in the United States.  Who doesn’t want to save money?
Now Millar was a Jazz guitarist that never quite cracked the fame ceiling and was able to sustain himself just on playing music.  Millar had to teach guitar to young men who wanted to learn Led Zepplin riffs, play Glen Miller ( no pun intended ) songs at nursing homes and Kool and the Gang songs at weddings.  To really pay the bills, Millar was a substitute teacher in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles County.  Millar usually brought his guitar to try to calm the high school age kids.  He would ask them to name songs and he would play them and as time went on, kids no longer listened to much music that required guitar.  They would throw out Ariana Grande, Justin Beiber or other syrupy, bubble gum stuff that really didn’t have guitar in it.  The youngsters were not impressed with his talent.  He was just a dumpy old man who looked like he hated the world.  Millar wore frayed jeans with a collared shirt untucked so as to not accentuate his second trimester belly fat.  He had a receding hair-line and he hated that life seemed to be changing for the worse for people like him- white, male, under employed, baby boomers.  Jazz was his sanctuary.  He would show up for Jazz jams around the city where a couple or two would listen to really great musicians play out of a bible of memorized standards.  It really was the same shit over and over.  It seems that all the Jazz that anyone ever played, was created during a 15 year period which ended with the Bossa Nova fling in the 1960’s.  Other than that, Millar really did not like his life.  Being a substitute teacher is what he loathed the most in life.
Upon receiving the news that he was going to die soon.  Millar was getting ready to sell everything on Craig’s List that he could get rid of and move to Amsterdam until he died.  He was going to smoke hash when the cancer really took hold, fuck prostitutes without protection and play Jazz is some really cool clubs in a very seemingly cool country.  The phone rang early on a Monday morning.
“Listen…  I’m going to die very soon…  You know what I’m saying?  In six weeks or less, it’s taps for me.  I don’t need the sixty bucks a day after taxes just to put up with little fucks who think they have it all figured out.”
“Just this one last time…  I’m absolutely in dire straits right now.  I have illness, births, deaths and not enough people to watch these rooms…  What can I do to sweeten the deal?”
A bottle of Woodford Reserve Bourbon and the day’s pay.  Millar walked into the room to find the students sitting on top of desks, shouting, talking on cell phones and one young black man was dancing in front of a mirror.  The students were part of a “special” class where they were all just incident away from possibly becoming part of true special education environment.  Millar, moved the desks into a circle and then told the students to sit where ever they want.  Millar stood in the middle.  The students quieted down.  They were intrigued by the seating arrangement.  Millar looked down and supported his chin with his thumb and index finger.  He looked both troubled and deep in thought.  A female finally asked him what was going on.
“No bullshit busy work today.  Your regular teacher is dying or giving birth or just blowing this off because she is frazzled.  I have no idea why and it doesn’t matter to me.  I have my own cross to burn today…  I want you each to look at me and tell me one thing that comes to mind about me.  We will go clockwise…  You sir…  You’re first.”
“Old, fat, sloppy, angry, tired, lazy, white, poor, ugly, stupid, racist…”
“Very good…  You’re getting the game.  So let’s back up and guess what I was like as a ninth grader like all of you.  I was a ninth back in 1982!  Before cellphones, graphic porn, PCs, laptops and a slew of other things that have managed to baby sit all of you today…  Sir…  Start again.”
“Nerdy, skinny, small, scared, pasty, introverted, nose picker, masturbator, momma’s boy…”
“Well…  It’s as if you were all right there with me back in 1982…  Okay, now it’s my turn.”
Millar rolled up his sleeves, took out a small bottle of Woodford Reserve from his pocket, took a swig, wiped his mouth like a pirate, exhaled loudly, clapped his hands and then rubbed them together.
“You there…  Art chick.  Tall and blonde, nice brand new body on you.  You may have gone lesbian for shock value or will by the time you enter into a college.  Once the shock of lesbian wares off, you’ll have a black guy.  Not the safe Uncle Tom types that take up ice hockey and if you close your eyes, you’d swear you were talking to a nerdy white guy…  You know what I’m talking about homey, dontcha?”
Millar pointed to the young black man with braids, sitting with his legs spread and his arms crossed, wondering where this was going.  And wondering more- why?
“The oreo type that uses words like awesome after everything.  Maybe calls guys bro or dude.  He likes skiing and salsa dancing with his really white girlfriend.  They’ll take a cooking class together and Lamaze someday when they decide to spawn little zebras…  No not that type of safe black man.  I’m talking about the guy who washes his car daily, with special rims and a special stereo system that sounds like bombs falling on London with the deep bass.  His white gym shoes are a cherished possession.  Maybe was in a gang or is in a gang.  Lives a rough and tumble life in south central LA but gets bused all the way out to Woodland Hills just so he gets to see where really white whites hide away from the real world.  Tattoos, malt liquor, weed and speaks in mumbling, unintelligible half sentences and could never look the young white art chick’s dad in the eye and say, “pleased to meet you”.  Not pleased to meet you actually…  Dude…  What else do we have here?  Ah yes…  You there.”
A muscular white guy with his team football jersey on who was squinting and picking at his nails.  He was intrigued.
“You young man…  The proverbial boy next door.  You won’t probably make it to division I or II football.  You’re too slow, too white and not meaty enough.  You need to put on about 100 lbs and six inches just so you can stand on a line and bash your helmet into another equally grotesquely large man until someday voices in your head tell you to kill yourself.  No, you won’t go pro but you could wind up a bouncer for a really chic dance club near Hollywood.  You’ll marry some petite shrew, divorce, see your kids two weekends a month, sell cars or real estate and learn that you’re not a salesman…  You’ll have an epiphany at the age of like 28 that you should go back to school to become a PE teacher and get a gig as a…  ready for this?  A high school football coach!  My advice- don’t wait until you cannot sell cars or homes.  Go to college and become a PE teacher right away…  What else have we here?  Ah you…”
A chubby Mexican boy wearing shiny black shoes, dress pants, a plain white T-shirt and a blue flannel shirt buttoned only at the top.  Millar walked by and put his hand on his shoulder before going to the chalk  board and wrote a word in large letters.
ASSIMILATE
“Vato…  What is this word in Spanish?  Someday when I’m long gone and white people go the way of the Dodo Bird, it will be a moot word.  A word not necessary anymore.  Y’see…  Old white fucks like me go home and watch old television reruns and wonder where that America went.  Half the shit in this city is written in Spanish.  The Germans, Dutch, French, Italians all learned English.  The Koreans, Polish and Russians have all muddled along but not the Mexicans.  We need to write polite versions of be smart and don’t run on a wet floor in Spanish.  Why not Dutch or German?  Because they Came here and learned the language and became part of America.  Who created Donald Trump?…  Excuse the expression…  You people by not assimilating.  ASSIMILATE…  The word of the day.  Not because you’re rapists and murderers or taking jobs beneath all other Americans…  None of that shit.  For every white or black or Asian children born, there are three Latinos, Hispanics…  Primarily Mexicans being born.  Blacks don’t realize yet that at 12% of the population, they are the minorities.  Not the Latinos…  And that tag makes me laugh.  What exactly is Latin about Mayans who were conquered by Spaniards and forced to learn a European language…  So you, gordo…  You got a charp Chevy Chort…  Maybe a 1964 Impala lowered to about three inches off the ground.  You hang out in your barrio and try to kill others who are not from your barrio, right, essay…  Who have I left out?  Oh yes…  The Asian.”
A smallish Filipino boy sat with his arms folded and was in awe of what was being spewed by the substitute teacher.
“So you speak like you’re black and love the hip-hop culture.  You drive around in a little noisy Honda all souped up to race around with other smaller Asian lads on weekends.  You have a Spanish surname, sound like you’re black and will wind up going to college to become a nurse.  You’ll marry another Asian and get together with only other Asians and will live happily as can be.  That is provided you don’t get a divorce and decide to return to Manila, dress like a broad and sing bad Madonna covers in lounges as a career…  If you do, things are all set up for you here now.  You can piss wherever you want.  You got a cock but feel like there’s a woman trying to get out of you…  Fucking piss anywhere you want.  In fact, I’d claim to be LBG or T just to get a civil servant job.  That new group will be in the front row for any sort of new affirmative action…  Well I could go on and on really.  I hope that I have reached you all in some small way and let you know how we older people see you.  Know that the best years of your life are right now and that when you have to fend for yourself, it will suck.  Can’t wait to be 21 so you can drink?  You’ll need a drink to deal with life in America…  The greatest, strongest, smartest, most witty nation in the world and that is only our opinion of ourselves… where everyone aspires to be just like us except people like this young lady here with the head scarf.  Maybe she will find the love of her life in a camp in Syria, strap a bomb to her chest and take out the French or holiday workers in San Bernardino.  You say that is racist and unfair?  How many Hindus or Buddhists are beheading westerners in the name of their religion?  So unfair to think that way…  I know, I know.  They come here to wear blue jeans and drink Starbucks just like the rest of us.  Maybe they’re just trying to keep us from being more miserable and fucking things up more than we already are.  Picture this as a commencement speech from an angry old man that is dying.  I’m dying and will be dead long before all of you provided you don’t keep your heads up your asses.  Stereotypes aside- you are what makes America what it is.  Love it or go fuck yourself…  I think the bell will ring soon.  Whatever you do, just try to be happy.  Life is short and one day you get to be my age and look at the youth and want to just slap them into reality.  I hope I’ve done that today…  Either way, you won’t forget me for a while…  Class dismissed.”
Millar got home and saw the number 2 blinking on his answering machine that he purchased back in 1988 that was linked to his landline telephone.  Millar had a suspicion about one of the calls and he was right.  It was the school principal and he sounded like he was going to have a heart attack or stroke.
“What the fuck did you do today?  You are not getting paid for today. You are not getting any Scotch. You are not coming back to this school.  You will probably get sued and wind up on the news.  I guess if there is any saving grace to any of this shit is that you didn’t show up with a gun and just kill us all.  You may have killed my job and any chance of becoming a superintendent someday and for that I have to say fuck you, you fucking dick.  You twisted fuck.”
Millar poured himself a drink turned on the computer and checked email.  There was a bunch of junk from the Mayo Clinic, invites to play gigs for twenty dollars here or there and then one from one of the students.  Millar read it and then re-read it.  He turned off his computer and then turned it back on and re-read it one more time.
“Dear Mr. Millar,
I won’t let you know who I am.  I don’t want to be categorized further.  I just want to let you know that maybe we were wrong about you and maybe you were wrong about us.  You are right that we won’t soon forget you.  I cliqued on the link to your music page and you are a great guitarist.  I’m not a Jazz fan but liked what you play.  We all would have liked to hear you play instead of try to stereotype us.  Whatever…  It’s done now.  Just thought you should know that just because you’ve lived longer, it doesn’t mean you have it all figured out and you certainly don’t have all the answers.  That’s all.
 Millar forgot to play the second message on his answering machine.  He went back and hit play several times.
“Mr. Millar, I would like a call back from you but in the interim, I have some good news for you.  You are not going to die in six weeks from cancer.  You results were mixed up with another man with a very similar name to you.  You are absolutely fine and should live a long and happy life.  Call me if you wish to discuss this further.  Please let me know that you received this message.”
Message received.  All of them.
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A Reaction Formation or Nixon with all the Fixins

October 13, 2014

“What in the hell is this world coming to?” Sheriff Terreblanche asked himself as he lay in bed sweating and staring at the ceiling fan that squeaked with each revolution. It had been days since Terreblanche had really slept. He laid there thinking about all of his birthdays going back to the age of four. After forty-four years, there were many he couldn’t remember. He thought about his own children’s birthdays and he couldn’t remember too many of theirs. He stopped to think about things that happened in his life and so much wasn’t clear. Things were fuzzy and distorted and all he kept thinking was that things were changing so fast in the world around him and more change would not be acceptable… Terreblanche would doze off and have bizarre dreams. He might find himself running a race against Charles Nelson Reilly for a cab in New York, spear fishing on an island owned by Marlon Brando but upon taking an anti-anxiety drug and grain alcohol, he found himself in the basement cell of the prison in Monroe County with former President Richard Nixon.

“Terreblanche… Terreblanche… Did anyone ever tell you what those two words mean in the French Language?”

“Yes Mr. President… It means Earth white.”

“You got it, kid. The French do all sorts of silly things with their language like having letters they don’t need or put things like Earth before white. If it’s a goddamn white Earth then call it such. You’re not softening things by a little bait and switch. Savoir Faire… To know and to do. That was I. I think I defined the political arena and when I walked away from it all, I took away American innocence. And really what is innocence? A stepbrother to ignorance. The Roman Empire came down just like the Greeks before them and they all had their reasons for demise. There used to be a show called All in the Family. You were probably just a lad when it was popular.”

“I remember it, sir.”

  • “ Well Archie was sitting there with his hippie son-in-law, married to the screwball daughter. The son-in-law apparently goes both ways. He’s obviously queer–wears an ascot–but not offensively so. Very clever. Uses nice language. Shows pictures of his parents. And so Arch goes down to the bar. Sees his best friend, who used to play professional football. Virile, strong, this and that. Then the fairy comes into the bar. I don’t mind the homosexuality. I understand it. Nevertheless, goddamn, I don’t think you glorify it on public television; homosexuality, even more than you glorify whores. We all know we have weaknesses. But, goddammit, what do you think that does to kids? You know what happened to the Greeks! Homosexuality destroyed them. Sure, both Aristotle and Socrates were. We know that.
    You know what happened to the Romans? The last six Roman emperors were fags. Neither in a public way. You know what happened to the popes? They were layin’ the nuns; that’s been goin’ on for years, centuries. But the Catholic Church went to hell three or four centuries ago. It was homosexual, and it had to be cleaned out. That’s what’s happened to Britain. It happened earlier to France and this is no offense to your lineage… Let’s look at the strong societies. The Chinese. Goddamn, they root ’em out. They don’t let ’em around at all. I don’t know what they do with them. Look at this country. Homosexuality, dope, immorality, are the enemies of strong societies. That’s why the Communists and left-wingers are clinging to one another. They’re trying to destroy us. But, goddamn, we have to stand up to this… Am I reaching you, Terreblanche? What’s that you’re drinking and could you spare a little for me?”Sheriff Terreblanche went and got a tin cup and an unmarked bottle of alcohol from a moonshiner within the county and poured some for the president. Ex-president actually.

    “I call it the Madman Theory, sheriff. I wanted the North Vietnamese to believe I’ve reached the point where I might do anything to stop the war… Just like Truman. My thought was to slip the word to them that, for God’s sake; you know Nixon is obsessed about Communism. We can’t restrain him when he’s angry and he has his hand on the nuclear button and Ho Chi Minh himself would have been in Paris in two days begging for peace. This business of deposing a dictator before knowing what you’re getting is true madness. In Chile we had a plan. You remove one man for another who suits your purposes and continue on with an agenda… I ask you; does this shit keep the Chinese up at night? Protecting a Jewish state, fighting against a religious crusade for over a decade and meanwhile back at the ranch, sagging pants, mindless tattoos, marriage for gays so that they can adopt children … Again I ask about the Chinese… You fight force with force, aggression with aggression. You take the son of a bitch’s hostage long enough and they feel empathy for your cause and sympathy for your plight. A goddamn worldwide Stockholm syndrome. Any nation that decides the only way to achieve peace is through peaceful means is a nation that will soon be a piece of another nation… But here I am rambling on and on. You’re a small town lawman who isn’t faced with the idiocy of change. The world spins at 27,000 miles an hour but your hair never blows in the wind because it’s slower here. You don’t need to worry yourself about the world around you… Let me get another drop of that sauce… Damn good stuff.”

    Terreblanche looked at the president mop his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. He was afraid to ask what the answer would be of the president. He was afraid to ask why he was within the prison cell in a county jail in a town called Tranquil. The question itched within Terreblanche and so we asked; what is America’s role?

    “Just as America’s role is indispensable in preserving the world’s peace, so is each nation’s role indispensable in preserving its own peace. Together with the rest of the world, let us resolve to move forward from the beginnings we have made. Let us continue to bring down the walls of hostility which have divided the world for too long, and to build in their place bridges of understanding — so that despite profound differences between systems of government, the people of the world can be friends… Sounds good to you?”

    “Yes sir…”

    “Well it’s all just bullshit. Anymore of that moonshine?”

A Mother on the Edge or I Ain’t Sayin She’s a Golddiggah

November 3, 2010

My dearest family,
First off I would thank you for your caring and concern. Yes, I took the chance to take a trip without Tim and after 10 precious months of sobriety he faltered. I’m sure each of you who care is asking, how I reacted when I reached home.
(Translation: THANKS FOR YOUR HOSPITALITY ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE. AFTER TEN MONTHS OF CONSTANT BABYSITTING, I LEFT FOR A SABBATICAL AND RETURNED TO FIND THAT LATENT HOMOSEXUALITY AND ALCOHOLISM HAS RESURFACED LIKE A SEA MONSTER.)

I had no idea what I would say, do, or think. I do know that I was raw, ripped apart, and left for dead emotionally. The only thing that kept my mind, heart and mind from exploding was PRAYER! There is not much you can say to a drunken person, if you lash out it only wounds their already self-hating soul, it may give the person lashing out a brief moment of release, but the words can’t be taken back. (Translation: I CAME HOME TO FIND THAT CAPTAIN MORGAN HAS ONCE AGAIN RANSACKED MY HOME. I CAN ONLY PRAY THAT MY PHONE BILL WILL NOT BE CLOSE TO A GRAND AGAIN FOR 1-900 GUYSLOVE. SPEAKING OR RAW AND RIPPED, HOW MANY TIMES CAN A MIDDLE AGED MAN MASTERBATE AND WHY CAN’T HE AT LEAST PULL HIS GODDAMN PANTS BACK UP? FOR FUCK’S SAKE.)

As I sat across the room from this shell of a human being I once loved so dearly my heart cracked with pity and compassion. I prayed again silently, asking that the Holy Spirit would guide my words and help control my own feelings for the sake of this sad creature. The words came, and they were calm and just and clear…it was as if I had left and someone else had stepped into my being. (TRANSLATION: I ASKED MYSELF WHAT IT IS THAT OPRAH WOULD DO OR SUGGEST I DO VIA SOME THERAPIST DU JOUR. I JUST RETURNED FROM MEETING AN OLD FLAME FROM HIGH SCHOOL THAT HAS AN INDOOR JACUZZI AND POOL. HE IS GOING TO RETIRE IN A FEW YEARS AND NEEDS SOMEONE TO HELP HIM SPEND ALL THAT MONEY. I CAN ONLY PRAY THAT HE WILL NOT CHANGE HIS MIND. THANK GOD I STILL HAVE SOME SEX APPEAL LEFT… LOOK AT THIS PATHETIC FUCK. I SHOULD KICK HIM SQUARE IN THE ASS.)

At this time I have set up counseling sessions to help guide me to a choice I know I have to make. I ask that you keep me and Tim in your good thoughts and prayers so that this choice, when it comes will be less painful and that the wounds heal quickly. Until I choose a direction in this matter, I will continue to be strong in my resolve to do the best. I ask patience from those I know love me as mother, and friend and help me when I feel like I’m going to die inside from having to do what will save me and hurt another. (TRANSLATION: LOOK, THIS IS MY FIFTH MARRIAGE. A DIVORCE IS NOTHING MORE THAN A FIRE DRILL AT THIS POINT… AND ALTHOUGH THE LEGALITY OF SPLITTING EVERYTHING REALLY SUCKS AND I JUST WIND UP MAKING SOME YOUNG ATTORNEY WEALTHY, IT HAS TO HAPPEN SOON. I KNOW A THERAPIST WHO WILL SAY ALL THE RIGHT THINGS SO THAT THIS CREATURE UNDERSTANDS HE’S JUST A DRAIN ON MY LIFE AND THAT I’M JUSTIFIED IN WALKING AWAY WHILE I STILL HAVE OPTIONS.)

I love each of you and again thank you in advance for your support, understanding and comfort. I too wish I could blink and all would be resolved and behind me, but life does not work that way. Everything is possible with GOD and with the good will we have within each of us to do things right. (TRANSLATION: I LEARNED FROM MY MENONITE/BORN AGAIN DAUGHTER, THAT USING GOD AS A CRUTCH FOR EVERYTHING ABSOLVES YOU QUITE A BIT. JUST SAY, I PRAYED ABOUT THIS AND GOD WANTS ME TO LEAVE YOU… AND THEN TAKE HALF. AMEN.)

I hesitate to pick up the phone and talk right now, I can’t talk…I have this horrible knot in my stomach and heart. I know you understand. This to me is like a very slow death, I dread the funeral. (TRANSLATION: I ACTUALLY CALLED TWO OF MY THREE CHIDREN AND GOT VOICE MAIL. THAT’S WHY I DECIDED TO WRITE YOU THIS WHILE DRINKING A GLASS OF WINE. ACTUALLY TWO. I HAVE TO REMEMBER TO CALL MY ATTORNEY IN THE MORNING TO GET THIS ALL GOING.)

My love and blessings to all,

Mommy

The Weight of Paradise

December 21, 2009

George sat in his apartment at the Paradise Inn with a view of the automotive repair shop that was across the alley from his room at Paradise. George’s room consisted of a desk with a television, a bed and a Gideon’s Bible on the night stand. The room came furnished and cost George $400.00 per month. If George were to go outside and stand in the drive way across from the Veteran’s hospital, he could see stars and planets at night or large letters like a heavenly beacon. The sign with fifteen foot letters reads; Miller Park. It was subliminal, George wanted and needed a beer and one beer would lead to another beer and so on.

“Organic solution guaranteed to help you lose weight. You don’t need drugs. With our books, you can learn how to control diabetes, erectile dysfunction. The FDA doesn’t want you to have this book, the drug companies don’t want you to hear the secret that lies within the pages of this treasure. Natural remedies for asthma, irritable bowel syndrome, stop smoking. This is the new updated version you must have. You can lose a pound a day with hundreds of thousands of people each twenty four hour period… Have your credit card ready. Operators are standing by…”
George took a large swig of his beer that had a woman in a dress holding a beer on the beer bottle itself. It’s the Highlife (registered trademark).
“For $19.95 follow these three techniques. Motivated for success to make hundreds of thousands per week. You cannot fail… Here’s how it works…”
George was born in 1947 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He grew up and served in Vietnam. While there as an eighteen year old boy, he became addicted to pills and alcohol. While in Vietnam, George was exposed to a chemical that changed his life forever.
Agent Orange was given its name from the color of the 55 US gallons (210 L) orange-striped barrels it was shipped in. It is a roughly 1:1 mixture of two phenoxyl herbicides in iso-octyl ester form, 2,4-dichlorophenoxyacetic acid (2,4-D) and 2,4,5 trichlorophenoxyacetic acid (2,4,5-T).

2,4-D

2,4,5-T
Internal memos from the companies that manufactured it reveal that at the time Agent Orange was sold to the U.S. government for use in Vietnam it was known that it contained a dioxin, 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzodioxin (TCDD), a by-product of the manufacture 2,4,5-T. The National Toxicology Program has classified TCDD to be a human carcinogen, frequently associated with soft-tissue sarcoma, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, Hodgkin’s disease and chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL). In a study by the Institute of Medicine, a link has been found between dioxin exposure and diabetes
Three studies have suggested an increase in the risk of acute myelogenous leukemia in the children of Vietnam veterans, which might be associated with exposure to Agent Orange. A variety of other conditions have been suggested to be linked to exposure, but studies have failed to confirm a link with these diseases. Just 1 kilogram (2.2 lb) of TCDD was released in the Seveso disaster causing widespread effects on people and livestock.

George changed the channel while lying in bed. He twisted another cap to the top of a fresh new bottle of beer while holding a cigarette between his index and middle finger on his right hand.

“You are gaining weight due to stress. Your adrenal glands are causing you to gain weight even though you are doing all the right things. Our plan treats the cause and not the symptoms. Your job, the economy is making you fat. This is an all natural product that will help you lose weight through revitalization of your adrenal glands. Stress attacks your adrenal glands causing weight gain. Call now for your free sample.”

On any given day, a million thoughts run through George’s head while drinking beer and taking antidepressants. The idea of visiting Thailand, Arizona, North Carolina, taking martial arts, learning to use the computer, the chemicals in beef and milk and then the afterlife.

Another cigarette, another beer, urinate, rinse repeat …

“The tribulation, seven years in length divided up in two parts is due to the fact that there are two empires and one is swallowed up during the seven year period. There are ten nations that will exist with this empire. To form this new empire, you must unite regions by culture and religion. The EU has put nations together. The United States, Canada, Mexico and South America will be joining together as a global economic unit. The question remains; who are the ten kings of bible prophesy? King Nebuchadnezzar had a dream of an image that had two feet with ten toes… Are you following this? Two empires made up of ten nations at the time when the messiah comes back. Daniel chapter seven or Revelations chapter 13, you see the horns on the beast, there are always ten in number. There are ten Germanic tribes that overthrew the Roman Empire. Jesus was supposed to return at this time but Jesus did not return. I believe there is a possibility he is on his way now though. In 1954, the Plan of Rome that was devised by the Biderberg Group of Rome divided the world into ten global regions.
1. America, Canada, Mexico
2. South America
3. Australia and New Zealand
4. Western Europe
5. Eastern Europe
6. Japan
7. South Asia
8. Central Asia
9. North Africa and the Middle East
10. The remainder of Africa

The ten kings are the heads of these ten regions. Whether you like it or not, a new world order is coming…

It was all getting to heavy for George. The weight of gravity was getting to be too much for George.

The mass of an object is a fundamental property of the object; a numerical measure of its inertia; a fundamental measure of the amount of matter in the object. Definitions of mass often seem circular because it is such a fundamental quantity that it is hard to define in terms of something else. All mechanical quantities can be defined in terms of mass, length, and time. The usual symbol for mass is m and its SI unit is the kilogram. While the mass is normally considered to be an unchanging property of an object, at speeds approaching the speed of light one must consider the increase in the relativistic mass.
The weight of an object is the force of gravity on the object and may be defined as the mass times the acceleration of gravity, w = mg. Since the weight is a force, its SI unit is the Newton. Density is mass/volume.

George watched a nature show where the world spun like a big blue marble. It was hard for him to believe he lived on such a place that really is very insignificant in the larger scheme of things. A planet in a solar system and a solar system in a galaxy and a galaxy in a universe. George could go at any moment and the only one who would know is the woman who would have to clean his room.
The last bit of information scared the hell out of George before he closed his eyes and floated down stream to a happier place on earth; his own mind during sleep. In his sleep he felt himself flying out of control. Is it any wonder?

By the way, if Earth spun about 800 times faster, it would hurl us off the surface and into space.

Independence and Dependency

October 13, 2009

September 26, 2009

Independence and Dependency

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Independence and Dependency

Wade volunteered in 1968 to fight for the United States of America in the Vietnam War before the government came calling.  His twin brother Warren, left on foot and crossed into Canada through Maine.  One moment he was in Maine and the next moment he was in New Brunswick.  It didn’t look or feel any different at the time.  Warren hitchhiked to Halifax, Nova Scotia and found a job hunting Cod on a really big ship in the Atlantic Ocean.  His brother Wade went hunting small Asiatic people who didn’t know they wanted democracy and freedom.  They wanted equality in the form of communism and in some strange, unexplainable way, it was a threat  to people like Wade in Southern California and other regions of the United States.  That’s what he believed at the time anyway.  That’s what he was told then.
Warren met a bunch of young people who were rebelling against their Scottish upbringing in the highlands of Cape Breton.  They bought a VW bus and decided that they were going to grow vegetables and wine and stuff near Victoria, British Columbia which was only 5000 miles or so away.  Warren smoked a lot of pot, took a lot of pills and fucked a lot of women.  His hair grew to the middle of his back and he had a beard.  Warren learned to play the banjo and got really good at playing Bluegrass music.
At roughly the same time, Wade was walking through the jungle that had recently lost all it’s leaves after a B52 dropped defoliants from the heavens.  Miles and miles of jungle with not a leaf on a tree.  Wade and a colored soldier from some southern state where people protested and white people tried to beat them, came up on a village.  The colored soldier who’s name was Cleveland and had never stepped foot in Ohio, was approached by a small Vietnamese boy who was running fast towards him.  Neither Cleveland nor Wade could understand anything the boy said except the word, candy.  Cleveland who was twenty feet from Wade, suddenly blew into pieces with the small boy.  Wade guessed that the people in the near by village that he and Cleveland were checking on, had strapped a bomb to the boy to kill not just one soldier but possibly many at once.
Warren met a woman in Victoria who held all the beauty and poise that he ever thought would be possible.  Her father was a missionary in Cote D’Ivoire in Africa.  Her name was Joan and she had been born in Africa and lived among Africans and taught poor people about god.  A god that had become Dutch over the course of almost two thousand years.  Joan’s father came back to tend to family business in British Columbia and Joan visited North America for the first time in her life.  Joan fell in love with Warren as hard as he fell in love with her.
Now back in that village, Wade returned with other young men who were thrust into a part of the world that was as foreign as the moon.  None of them understood that they were in a civil war.  None of them understood that most of the people just wanted to live and be left alone.  The people in the village that they massacred believing that they attempted to bomb the American soldiers, were just simple rice farmers who were threatened by the communist troops and killed by Americans who jumped to conclusions.  As they walked from the village, it was Wade who saw the three foot deep, six foot in diameter hole in the ground that would have been consistent with a mine at the spot where Cleveland and the young boy seeking candy, blew to pieces.  Wade never shared that information with the others who had mowed down dozens of innocent crying peasants.
“Remember that my brother is one of god’s children no matter how he may appear and no matter what he may say,” said Warren to his family while driving to their parent’s home to celebrate the United States independence from Great Britain.
Back during the Vietnam War, Warren was the one who smelled and had long unkempt hair and a beard.  Warren was the one who withdrew from society and took drugs and alcohol.  Wade was the god fearing, god loving, patriotic, Nixon loving young man with a buzz cut.  Sitting in the backyard of their parent’s home in Orange County, california, was Wade on one side without a wife, without children, without a home, without a car, without a job.  Wade appeared to be a street bum more than anything.His hair was graying, long, unwashed and uncombed.  Anti-depressants and alcohol, helped to numb the effect of no life and no future for Wade.  Sitting across from Wade was Warren; clean cut and smiling the smile of a well to do evangelist.  His wife and children for as much as they smiled, were very uncomfortable in the presence of Wade.  He smelled and his face sagged.  Wade’s eyes had the look of a zombie.  Wade appeared to be alive but he had checked out years ago.  He mumbled incoherent things to someone who wasn’t there.  Warren reached across the table and took Wade’s hand as the whole family clasped hands and bowed their heads while Warren gave the blessing.
“We thank you, lord… that we can live in such a great country and have such wonderful things with so much hope and so much prosperity.  We thank you, oh lord, for giving us independence and have guided us to where we our today over the course of some 200 plus years… Thank you for allowing us to be Americans.  The greatest nation in the world… Amen.”