Category Archives: Neville Cole

The Dead Dicks – A Tom, Dick and Harry Saga

07 Friday Sep 2018

Posted by in Neville Cole

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Story by Neville Cole

PART ONE: BUCK UP BUTTERCUP

Harry staggered from The Bottled Blond sweating like he’d just run a marathon. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. His face was blotched, his pupils like pin pricks, but he had a smile from ear to ear. Harry fell into a waiting pedicab and blurted out two words: “Coach House.” As the driver pulled away Harry surveyed the scene like Caesar in his chariot returning to Rome until gravity got the best of him. His head fell back and his jaw dropped open. It was quite glorious. The lights above Indian School Road were comets bursting across the heavens. Harry finally keeled over for good just as the Coach House came into view. That big, dumb grin was still on his face. Then his penis exploded.

* * *

Tom could not believe it. His career was in flames. Twenty-five years with a perfect record and now this. A Performance Improvement Plan no less! Sixty days to prove himself all over again, or else. To make matter worse, it had been less than six hours and he’d already failed the very first objective. He could not bring himself to call his boss and tell her the bad news. His hand would not physically reach for the phone.

Objective One: Notify manager immediately of any issues or concerns that could lead to a potential schedule delay by phone or IM (not email).

Instead of sticking the plan, Tom sat in solemn silence and stared at his inbox waiting for the next shoe to drop. His cell phone rang. He tried mightily to ignore it. It kept ringing. He picked it up. It was Harry. Perfectly awful timing, as always.

“Harry?” Tom said quietly. “What do you want?”

“Tom Hopwood?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” Tom answered. “Who is this?”

“Mr Hopwood. This is Detective Ramirez from the Scottsdale Police. I am afraid I have some bad news.”

* * *

Harry looked around. He was dizzy and confused. He’d blacked out and woken up in some pretty strange places before but never anything like this. In the shadows, a man in a tan houndstooth suit and teardrop crown fedora lit up a cigarette.

“Where am I?” Harry whispered hoarsely.

“This would be the morgue, brother.” Said the man in the hat in a cloud of smoke and vapors.

“The morgue?” Harry stammered.

“Yeah, pal.” The man said moving into the light. “Hate to break it to you, but buddy, you’re dead.”

“Dead?” Harry repeated.

“It’s takes some getting used to, I know.” The man said reaching out his hand. “Believe me. I’ve been there. Name’s Dick. Dick Downes. Dick Downes Detective Agency. Mind if I ask you a few questions? While things are still fresh on your mind.”

“Dead?” Said Harry again.

“Why don’t I give you a moment. You still need to adjust. How about a drink? Hair of the dog?” Dick pulled a flask from his coat and handed it to Harry. “Mind you, drinking ain’t the same when you’re dead.” Dick dropped his cigarette and pressed it under the toe of his gumshoe. “Neither is smoking, for that matter; but, good news is, this stuff can’t kill you anymore and, even better, it never runs out. I’ve had this same flask and the same pack of smokes since ’62! Don’t do nothing for me and it won’t for you. It’s the all about the ritual. Keeps me going somehow.” Harry took the flask from Dick and stared at it for a moment. It was glowing slightly in the darkness. So was his hand. “Go on,” Dick urged. “Take a hit. I don’t know why, but you’ll feel better. Harry took a sip from the flask. He felt a slight tingling sensation but there was no taste at all. “I got a theory that buzz is electrons or some kinda sub-atomic particles just knocking around. Hate to tell you but that’s one of the few feelings you got left. You might as well enjoy it.”

“How am I dead?” Harry asked taking another sip from the flask and returning it to Dick.

“Well, that’s what I’m here to find out, pal” said Dick tucking the flask back in his pocket. You died under what we call mysterious circumstances.”

“Mysterious?” Harry couldn’t seem to manage to say much more than repeat the last thing he heard.

“I’ll say,” Dick laughed. “You had a massive heart attack in a pedicab and your dick exploded. That was some night, brother. What the hell happened, anyway?” Harry reached down between his legs. Everything was still in place.

“Dick exploded? What are you talking about?”

“Take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.” Dick was back in the corner leaning against the wall. Harry unzipped his fly. His penis was still there but was ripped open from shaft to tip like gutted fish. “Jesus!” Harry exclaimed.

“Don’t worry about it, bub.” Dick said quietly. “Not like you are ever gonna need that thing again. Believe me. Those days are done and gone.

“What the fuck is going on!” Harry suddenly shouted.

“Alright!” Dick said, suddenly back next to Harry. “Now we are getting somewhere. Anger is part of the process. Here’s the thing, brother. You are what we call DNG. Dead Not Gone. For some it’s just temporary; for others, well, like me, it’s probably permanent. My job is to figure out what happened to you and…” Dick lit up another smoke.

“And…”

“File a report.”

“A report? On me?”

“Yeah, you got it. See, until the powers that be figure out what happened to you. Until they read my report. Well, they wont make a decision on what to do with you without more evidence.”

“Everybody goes through this?”

“No,” Dick shook his head. “No. No. Some people it’s obvious. Some people got a long record. Some people got witnesses. A lot of people got it all worked out before they kick the bucket. Then there’s the likes of you. You got very few witnesses. Mysterious circumstances and all. Right now.” Dick exhaled a string of smoke rings and watched them drift away. “Right now, your best hope of wrapping this up quick is someone turns up at your funeral and gives us a clue. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise?”

“Don’t worry, bub. I always nut it out eventually. I’ve been at this seventy years or more and thirty before that while I was still alive. You’ll get your report. Buck up, buttercup! So, unless you want to mope around with the rest of these stiffs all day, what do you say we get out and do a little haunting?

 

Pardon the Platitudes

04 Friday May 2018

Posted by in Emmjay, Neville Cole

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Nev Bravely Facing the Future

Story and photograph by Neville Cole – Pig’s Arms North American Correspondent Extraordinaire

Dear Pigs,

I got a note from our good buddy Mike a little while back. After his usual kind felicitations he got right to the point. “So, I’m asking you”, he wrote, “as one of the Pig’s Arms sage old friends, do you – with your knowledge of so much of the planet – whether you have anything you would like to say about this stage of life?”

Well Mike, I’ve never been one to wear my heart on my sleeve. I like to keep things close to the vest; but as they like to meme about on twitter: Hold my beer! You see, in this stage of life, as with so many of other stages in my life, I can only repeat what I’ve always said. Let’s call it my mantra. It’s better to be lucky than good. You see, friends, I am, and always have been, a glass-half-empty kind of guy (I find it lessens the pain when things go wrong and makes the good that much more surprising and somehow satisfying). Maybe it’s just me. Before I get to my point though, let me give you a quick history lesson about what I’ve always considered my lucky break.

It was way back in 1992. I was 28, a struggling actor stumbling through life furtively trying my hand at one miserable side hustle after another. I was, quite frankly, going nowhere. To make matters worse I had a kid on the way. It was not a good time to be me. I was hanging out at the theater one blessed day (as actors often do) and the phone rang. No one was around, so I picked it up. A voice on the other end of the line asked if I would be willing to come talk, via satellite, to some high school kids in Texas about Shakespeare. “Sure,” I said…and that was it.

Three days later, I found myself, in front of a camera in a tiny studio, rambling on about Romeo and Juliet. As soon as I was done the studio phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line this time said: “What else do you do?”

That’s how my career began. No muss, no fuss. No resume or interview. No college transcript. I walked away (well, sprinted, actually) from my failed acting career and joined the ranks of the gainfully employed. 26 years and 5 mergers later, here I sit in a 4th story office chatting with HR and writing CRs. Liaising with PMOs and VPs and occasionally even COOs. Saying things like “let’s take that offline” and “I’ll put together an LOE ASAP”. My inbox is full of updates about RFPs and PPRs. I attend endless meetings trying to remember the difference between UI and UX and I fret about overages in EMM and getting yet another notice from my arch enemy, JIRA. My life has become a never-ending stream of acronyms.

Friends, it hasn’t been an easy road. Many many co-workers have come and gone and many many times I’ve been tempted to move on. But now, in the immortal words of Paul Anka, as sung by Ol’ Blue Eyes himself: “the end is near. And so I face the final curtain.”

Yep. For the first time in 26 years I am staring into the abyss, my friends. I am coming to terms with the very real possibility that I will be, how do they put it? Oh yeah… let go. Am I ready to be let go? I really don’t know; but do I have a choice? Uh, nope. No I don’t. This is a first for me; but, if there is one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that, Life is a series of firsts; right to the bitter end. We are never really prepared for firsts, are we my friends? First kiss. First pimple. First uh, intimate experience. First break-up. First heartache. First job interview. First tax return. First child. First second child. First divorce. First dating while divorced. First grey hair. First hernia. First death. First… Well, you get the picture. Firsts suck.

The first thing I’ve noticed about all this is how many people have started asking me every day how I am doing. The simple answer is that it depends on the day. Hell, it depends on the moment. There are moments I am quite hopeful and excited for the future. I may be at that moment believing that  good things are happening. Then in the twinkling of an eye I am terrified. Everything is going swell then I suddenly see myself standing at a freeway exit with a Will Work For Food sign. But you know friends, there has always been a fine line between terror and excitement. That, my friends, IS the razor’s edge. I am trying to walk the tightrope, here. I am trying to survive.

The other thing I’ve noticed is that there is a near constant soundtrack to my “process” (which is how I like to describe what really amounts to a lot of flailing around the dark swinging at invisible demons). Anyway, to quell my nerves, I suppose, I have I have begun to sing random songs. A lot. Almost subconsciously… Sometimes I break out into a little John Lennon:

It’s time to spread our wings and fly
Don’t let another day go by my love
It’ll be just like starting over
Starting over

Other times I’ll belt out a little Bowie.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes

Even found myself humming Devo the other day.

Workin’ in the coal mine
Goin’ on down, down
Workin’ in a coal mine
Oops, about to slip down

Pretty soon, I’m sure, some Johnny Paycheck sure to turn up.

Take this job and shove it
I ain’t working here no more!

Yep. It’s a weird time to be me. But is it helping? I honestly don’t know. Does anything help at a time like this? I have worked one place my whole career. Sure, we’ve been bought out a few times and sure the work I’ve been doing has changed but I haven’t even tried to get another job since last century. I am a dinosaur. This is a big first for me. The problem with firsts is you never really know. Firsts are awkward. You make mistakes.  Firsts make you feel like an idiot. First make you look like an idiot. Firsts, basically, make you an idiot.

That’s not to say I am totally alone in this. I am getting lots and lots of solid (and well-meaning) advice about what I should be doing. I’ve been told several times I should be working out. I hear also I should try meditating or reading this great self-how book that changed someone’s life. Some say this is an opportunity to get closer to god. (Oh geez, now I’m singing again: “I want to fu*k you like an animal. I want to feel you from the inside. You bring me closer to god!” Shut the fu*k up, internal DJ! You are not helping.)

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I’ve received all kind of help already. I’ve been handed numbers of employment lawyers. I’ve heard strategies for discussions with HR. I’ve been told about all the things I should be documenting as evidence. I’ve heard tons of suggestions about things I should be telling my boss (and my boss’s boss) and, of course, I’ve got a growing list of people I should reach out to explore other opportunities. It’s all stuff I already know, of course.

I am also hearing lots and lots of well-worn phrases such as, when one door closes, another opens. You know something folks, hate to break it to you but I have evidence to suggests that is literally not true. I’ve also heard a lot lately that everything happens for a reason but, you know, sometimes the reason is “shit happens” ’cause, well… it is what it is and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  So help me god, if I hear one more cliche I am going to scream! (wait… did I just cliche myself?)

But folks (excuse my brief political rant here) the real problem I have is that in another time, in another place, I’d be nearing retirement age. My future would pretty much be set. But this is the USA and this is 2018. This is Trumpland. There is no safety net. I’m going to have to pull myself up by my bootstraps, it seems. I know I am going to have to make some changes, starting now; because friends, you know what they always say: If you can’t change the situation, change yourself. That said, we all know that the only constant is change and while it’s clear that change is painful; nothing is as painful as staying where you don’t belong. Let’s face it folks, change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.

So, Mike, old friend, that’s the world from where I stand. Pardon my platitudes. Hopefully, what they also always say is true and every exit is an entrance to somewhere else because, all signs point to me about to find out where that somewhere else is and all I’m saying is the grass better be greener than here because one day I hope to be laughing about all this, because, you know, in the end, all’s well that ends well.

Cheers to all. Your OLD friend.

Nev

 

The 2nd Email: Love’s 1st Send All

20 Thursday Jul 2017

Posted by in Neville Cole, Poets Corner

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Story by Neville Cole   (Good to see you, sport)

As many people know – or at least those people out there with access to Google who have ever been curious about such things know – the 1st email was written by pioneering computer programmer Ray Tomlinson way back in 1971. He sent it to himself. Ray later noted that first message was “entirely forgettable. . . . Most likely it was QWERTYIOP or something similar,” he quipped in that wonderfully understated manner in which pioneering computer programmers are so adept.

Anyway, no offense to Ray, who I need not remind you will, for all time, be remembered as a pioneering (dare I say “groundbreaking”) computer programmer; but the story of “The 1st Email” is not exactly a page-turner. Now, the 2nd email? That’s a whole other story!

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To fully appreciate the monumental significance of “The 2nd Email,” travel with me back in time to the Summer of Love, specifically to the Woodstock Music & Art Fair — or, more simply Woodstock.

Again, Google informs us that “Woodstock” was a music festival that attracted an audience of over 400,000 people and that it was billed as “an Aquarian Exposition” and that it was scheduled over three days on Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York (near the town of Woodstock) from August 15 to 17, 1969; but that the festival ultimately ran for four days and therefore did not end until August 18, 1969. Finally, the baby boomers among us are also aware that, for a fortunate few, the festival has never ended. Count Ray Tomlinson among those fortunate few.

You see, when Ray first arrived at Max Yasgur’s farm he was not yet recognized as a pioneering computer programmer. He was known at “that punk kid from Amsterdam, New York.” Ray was a “junior nerd” at the technology company of Bolt, Beranek and Newman (now known as BBN Technologies).

It is important to note that at BBM Ray did eventually become a pioneering computer programmer. I mean, the list of Ray’s accomplishments is, well… both pioneering and groundbreaking. As if helping to develop the TENEX operating system including the ARPANET Network Control Program, to implementations of Telnet, and implementations on the self-replicating programs Creeper and Reaper were not enough. Let’s not forget that Ray wrote a file transfer program called CPYNET to transfer files through the ARPANET and changed a program called SNDMSG, which sent messages to other users of a time-sharing computer, to run on TENEX.  I mean that would have been plenty in and of itself, but Ray also added code he took from CPYNET to SNDMSG so that messages could be sent to users on other computers—which is, of course, what is most important to us today because that piece of pioneering computer programming was the 1st email which lead, quite naturally, to the point of this tale: the 2nd email.

Anyway, back to Max Yasgur’s Farm. It’s the last day of Woodstock (extended to Monday as you will recall) and right around 3pm young Ray lay in the mud and filth staring at the grey skies above when like a bolt out of the blue the band he had been waiting to see – Crosby, Stills, Nash and (sometimes) Young – hit the stage. Ray, leapt to his bare feet and let out a primal cry (because he stubbed his toe on an old apple crate someone had apparently recently used as a makeshift urinal); but that didn’t worry Ray because CSN & (a somewhat belligerent) Y were at that very moment commencing a performance that would be, forever after, recognized as the defining moment of their stellar career, the apex of the Summer of Love, and quite possibly (in David Crosby’s drug-addled mind, at least) the greatest single moment in Rock and Roll history.

All it took was hearing Steven Still’s sweet soaring voice sing the first lines of Suite: Judy Blue Eyes for Ray to be transported to…what can only be described as “another dimension.”

It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore
I am sorry
Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud
I am lonely…

But it wasn’t until, CSN (and that miserable SOB) Y continued on that Ray was (not literally) struck by a vision (not unlike) a lightning bolt with a (seriously just a metaphor) blinding flash.

I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are
You make it hard

In that moment, Ray’s life was changed forever. For at that very moment – in the mud, drugs, and mire – Ray saw Sweet Blue-eyed Judy in all her glorious flesh for the very first time. She was in every sense of the word a true (covered in) Earth goddess. Dancing naked and free as if no one was watching (No one but a love-struck Ray that is).

Each moment soon became as one. The siren call of David Crosby, Steven Still, Graham Nash and (was Neil Young even singing? What was wrong with that guy? It’s Woodstock f’christsake!) became Ray’s own thoughts. Each angelic phrase a love letter from Ray’s heart strings through his soul to his love.

Lacy lilting lyric
Losing love lamenting
Change my life, make it right
Be my lady​​​​​​​

And then, in (yet another) moment that Ray would remember with delight for the rest of his days, Sweet Blue-eyed Judy turned to him and simply smiled. Well, not simply. It was more of a smile-that-changes-the-destiny-of-a-pioneering-computer-programmer-in-an-instant kind of smile. It was the moment etched in time, a moment that would last for (not literally again but seemingly for) ever. It was the moment that made Ray one of “the fortunate few” and Woodstock truly HIS Woodstock.

Then, right after that moment I just described, things got just a little weird. For some strange reason, right out of the blue, Crosby, Stills, Nash and (dammit did Young just walk off stage? Where the hell is he?) stopped singing in English and, for no apparent rhyme or reason, broke into Spanish.

Que linda me la traiga Cuba
La reina de la Mar Caribe
Cielo sol no tiene sangreahi
Y que triste que no puedo vaya oh va, oh va

Then, stranger still, for probably the next 14 minutes they only sang one syllable… over, and over, and over…
Doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo
Doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo​​​​​​​


Doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo
Doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo​​​​​​​

But despite all this, Ray’s Woodstock was the most magical time of his young life; because it was there on Max Yasgur’s drug-riddled, trash-filled, sloppy, cold, damp, back paddock that Ray first laid eyes on sweet, beautiful, heaven-sent, blue-eyed Judy. It was just a such a damn shame that he never got up the nerve to actually talk to her or get her number.

Which brings us to forward to 1971 and that 1st email. Or rather, to the inspiration, for the 2nd email.

You see, just as Ray confirmed the delivery of that 1st email. The contents of which Ray later described as “entirely forgettable and I have, therefore, forgotten them.” You see, at the time – before Ray was rightfully recognized as a “pioneering computer programmer” his email messaging system was not considered “important,” or “clever,” or even, sad to say, “pioneering.”  Let’s just say it’s “development was not at the directive of his employer” and leave it at that. In fact, the only reason Tomlinson was pursuing his whole email idea was that “it seemed like a neat idea”.

Funny story: when Tomlinson first showed his email to a colleague, he remarked: “Don’t tell anyone! This isn’t what we’re supposed to be working on”.  Ha! What a sense of humor that guy had!

Anyway, back to the incredible moments just after that 1st email… What do you suppose came on the radio at that very instant? You guessed it! Suite: Judy Blue Eyes!

It’s getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore
I am sorry
Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud
I am lonely…

Ray knew EXACTLY what he had to do. The inspiration for his 2nd email hit him like Neil Young screeching out the chorus of “Keep On Rockin’ in the Free World” (seriously? how did that horrible nasal whine of his ever blend with CS & N in the first place?) Ray’s 2nd email would be the words he wished he’d uttered on that dank, filthy, rotting, garbage-strewn, cow bog back on that damp, chilly Monday afternoon in 1969… and he would send those words out to the whole world in the faint hope that the love of his life was also now a pioneering computer programmer who happened to be at that very moment connected to BBN Technologies famed ARPANET Network Control Program.

“Sweet Blue-eyed Judy of my dreams”, Ray typed up in a flash. “I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are. You make it hard. Love always, Ray.” Then, with all the hope and faith his beaming heart could muster, pioneering computer programmer, Ray Tomlinson launched the very first send all.

Ray never did get a response back from sweet blue-eyed Judy (if that was even her name! and who could tell what color her eyes were with all that mud?). He did however receive very shortly thereafter what has become recognized as ‘The 1st Dick Pic” and even more shortly thereafter that, the “1st email from a wealthy Nigerian Prince” which requested Ray’s assistance in transferring millions of dollars of excess money out of his country while promising to pay Ray for his help.

One last note about Ray Tomlinson… He once noted that he preferred “email” over “e-mail”, joking that “I’m simply trying to conserve the world’s supply of hyphens.” What a card! What a legend! What a story!

—ooo—

 

 

 

Neville’s Pooch Smells

31 Tuesday Jan 2017

Posted by in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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Neville Cole’s Lie Detector

Story by the Pig’s Arms Emeritus North American Correspondent – Neville Cole.

I’ve never smelled rotting human flesh; but I can’t imagine it is a whole lot worse than old dog farts.

I bring this up because I am now very familiar with old dog farts; having been holed up “in an undisclosed location” for the past 10 days with a very old dog. When my old dog let’s rip my mouth curls, my eye’s water, and my hands wave in a desperate attempt to clear the air. It’s not just a smell. It’s a dank disgusting stink so thick you can taste it. Old dog farts roll in dark and heavy like a toxic fog.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is my old dog has taken to farting every time she hears Trump lie. I am at my wits end.

“I saw 1.5 million people out there” Gack! Choke!

“3 to 5 million people voted illegally…and all for Hillary!” Cough! Phew!

“This cabinet has the highest IQ of any every assembled.” Argh! No! Not again.

“This is not a Muslim Ban!” Please! I beg of you. No More!

“I got a standing ovation from the CIA!” That’s it! I can’t take it. Kill me now!

Maybe I should just turn off the TV and ignore this all. I could save myself so much pain and suffering.

Maybe I should turn my old dog out into the rain and cold. She would she would miserable but I would be spared.

Maybe I should make the best of a bad situation and buy a gas mask. Desperate times and all that…

People all over this country are trying to figure out how to deal with Trump’s Old Dog Farts. I’ve seen them. I’ve hard them. They are trying to dealing with the stench… working through the stages of grief.

On the night of the election we saw universal Denial.

“No!” The people cried as one. “This is not happening. What the hell? This is disgusting! What’s that smell?”

The toxic fog of election night seemed to hang in the air all the way till the inauguration. You’ve never seen such gagging and tears and revulsion; but still the inevitable reign of Trump loomed large.

I’m not saying there weren’t moments of hope. When Trump’s Russian Shower party was (uh-hem) leaked to the press it nearly broke the internet. Surely, this completely believable hilarity was going to save us all. Just the fact that more than half the nation heard the story and thought: “yeah, that probably happened” should be a clue that things are rotten in Moscow. We couldn’t possibly swear in Putin’s puppet! Not in the US of A! Not in the land of Reagan. Could we? Say it isn’t so… Argh! What’s that smell?

And so we’ve come to this. The Inauguration has set off a tidal wave of… Anger. 

Hooboy! Are we pissed! You bet your fat ass we are! Hell No! He must go! F-bombs rain down across this nation from sea to swearing sea. From Congress to California, from states both red and blue; we’re mad as hell, to all a fuck you!

punch-a-nazi

Punch a Nazi Day Celebrations

Right now in the USA… The rules have changed. Civility has given way to invective. Want to get likes on Facebook? Forget puppies… post a video of a nazi getting punched in the face. Want tweets retweeted by the thousand? Better be sure to end with fu** YOU!

But here’s the rub…

Can we maintain our righteous anger? Will we soon start to slide from anger into bargaining, depression, and (gulp) acceptance? Will Trump’s gung-ho zeal for scribbling half-baked Executive Orders with his big black sharpie out last us all? Will there be ANY line that Trump will cross that will cause Republicans in Congress give a fu**? Will the damage done eventually be too much? Will we be able to put back together what Trumpty Dumpty has broken?

Or…Will we one day soon just get used to the smell?

 

 

We are Defs NOT Amused

12 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms, Virgil's Aeneid

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The Pig’s Arms delights in the return of Neville Cole !

Queen Victoria once famously said “we are not amused” and for the first time in my life I can identify with that humorless old bitch. This past year has torn out my funny bone and stomped it to dust. I swear to god, Mad Max Fury Road is beginning to feel less and less apocalyptic and more and more like a best-case scenario for mankind.

A year ago, I’ll admit, there was still an aging anarchist inside me screaming: “Bring it on! How bad could Trump be? This shit is going to be hilarious!” But, like a lifelong atheist facing certain death, I’m starting to have second thoughts.

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I think my affliction began in earnest after I re-read Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death. I’m here to say: that book is not fun. It’s just…not. In fact, it’s even more of punch to the kidneys today than it was 30 years ago when it was first published.

These days the things Postman says in Amusing Ourselves to Death don’t so much make you think as jump off the page, grab you by the throat, and beat you into submission.

Consider one of the book’s main themes…

Our politics, religion, news, athletics, education and commerce have been transformed into congenial adjuncts of show business, largely without protest or even much popular discourse.

If you have any doubt that this has happened. Well, let me introduce to you to a little thing we call “the internets.” Folks, we are living in the Golden Age of Show Business.

Some of Postman’s other concerns seem quaint in comparison to our brave new reality.

In AOTD for example, Postman reveals his horror that “the President of the United States is a former movie actor.” Damn! Who among us wouldn’t welcome Ol’ Ronnie back to the White House today with big old bag of jelly bellys* Honest Ronnie! We don’t care if you facilitate the sale of arms to the whole Middle East! Just come back and save us, please! We are begging you!

Hmm… Come to think of it. Seems like he had a point. Maybe we should have been more concerned back then.

After all, one of Postman’s big concerns was that Reagan was a celebrity. He felt that “the politician as celebrity has made political parties irrelevant.” Yeah, just ask the Republican Party about that one. Hey Fellas! You’re Fired!

By the way, does it not seem conceivable that elections could soon be broadcast reality show? Oh! I wonder who with get the Presidential Rose tonight! The way I see it, pretty soon ONLY celebrities will run for elected office. Who else is going to be able to compete?

I could go on and on about how much worse things have got since AOTD was published.

For example, at one point Postman notes bitterly that: public discourse has become dangerous nonsense.  Hoo boy! Do you think in his wildest dreams he ever imagined a Trump Policy Speech? Or the comments section of your local digital rag? Or Twitter, for christsakes!

But, you know, all this said, I can’t say I blame people for not being better informed. I’ve tried… and it’s damn, hard work.

Disinformation is the new norm and sorting truth from bullshit is damn near impossible; especially in a world where facts are irrelevant.

If you, like me, have tried to follow the press following Trump; it is obvious they have given up. There are so many distortions they start every report with a general disclaimer: Everything this guy says is a complete and utter lie. Then they try and pretend they are still reporting news. It is exhausting. For all of us. At a certain point you just have to get up and shut it off. And believe me, I’m not trying to pretend Hillary is all that different. It’s just that Trump has taken this whole dance into a different dimension. This is some historic crazy people.

97cbca5a8c7e66a4c2b6d95dd300ed11

And you know what? We are mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore! I see it everywhere. People are turning off and tuning out. They are no longer amused.

Jon Stewart famously left The Daily Show because of what he termed “bullshit mountain”. He explained that he just had to leave because “Watching these channels all day is incredibly depressing. I live in a constant state of depression,” he said. “I think of us as turd miners. I put on my helmet, I go and mine turds, hopefully I don’t get turd lung disease.”

You know, I think my whole point is… I know exactly how he feels and I am not amused. God help me, I am not amused.

*In case you weren’t aware, Jelly Bellys were Reagan’s all time favorite candy.

 

 

Super Tuesday 2016

02 Wednesday Mar 2016

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Super-Tuesday

From Our Emeritus North American Correspondent, Neville Cole

What a SUPER Tuesday we have in store today! There’s no time to waste so let’s leap head first in the muck!

The Republican Presidential Pissing Contest is getting down and really dirty this week with so many delegates up for grabs.


trump rubiocruz

Little Marco Rubio finally put two and two together (and got five, by the way). He came out with a bang this week by dropping the 2016 campaign’s very first dick joke (though I can guarantee you it won’t be the last).

After, suggesting that Drumpf-a-sore-ass wet himself during the last debate/wrestlemania show he wrapped up his (ah-hem) comments by asking the crowd if they’d ever seen how small The Donald’s hands were. “You know what they say” Little Marco chirped, “Small hands, small… “ Whatever he said after that was lost (under a tsunami of laughs, cheers and what can only be described as violent goat orgasms). The Rubio crowd loves it when Little Marco goes potty.

super tuesday crowd

Have you watched the people behind these Republican’s candidates? I can’t take my eyes off them. Mouths perpetually agape with joy. Sides bent double with laughter. Old men chest bumping each other after each insult. The crowd at the Apollo has never been this animated. The Romans watching the gladiators at the Coliseum were more sedate. What do they feed these people before the show? Deep-fried sugared crack snax?

Jesus Cruz has faded from view this week somewhat thanks to Little Marco’s Drumpf Roast Roadshow; but his (human) dad come out on radio to confirm that his son is here to “share the love of Jesus Christ with every person of every race, color and creed for the love of Christ and the love of this country.” So… there’s that.

Gentle Ben Carson is still around but no one, least of all him, knows why. He did however pledge this week that if elected he will end the non-existent ban against Christianity in America’s public schools. We don’t even know what planet this guy is from anymore. Please Gentle Ben, go back to hibernation…you seem like you could really use a nap.

Meanwhile Drumpf-a-sore-ass blasted a few big ones this week. None bigger than when he literally rolled out super-heavyweight endorser, Chris “Moby Dick” Christie. By some miracle the stage was able to hold the egos of both long enough for M. Dick to blurt: “Sure, I hate this son-of-a-bitch. Don’t we all? But, if America is going to vote for this golden-tuffed lunatic, then Chris Christie is going to be the first big fish who jumps in the boat with him!” The Donald then slapped his behemoth buddy on the back and responded: We’re gonna need a bigger boat!”

trump duke

The Donald solidified the racist vote this week when he picked up the endorsement of former grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, David Duke. With three Southern States on the line Tuesday, Drumpf-a-sore-ass was careful to dodge questions about Duke on CNN this week. Deciding clearly that misdirection was the better part of valor Trumpy played dumb and disinterested muttering random words such as: “Who? What? I don’t know this David Duke you speak of? KKK? What is this KKK? I’m going to have to look into that. White Supremacy? I don’t understand the words that are coming out of your mouth.” Eventually, the CNN interviewer poured gasoline over his head and set himself on fire to get out of having to ask any more questions.

Over on the Democratic side…
Well, folks… I hate to break it to you but for all Uncle Bern’s big talk this race could be all over but the red-faced shouting by Wednesday. If Uncle Bern can’t hold Vermont, Colorado, Minnesota, and put up a really good showing in Massachusetts… his dream of a socialist utopia from Des Moines to Del Mar, from Butte, Montana to Duck Hill, Mississippi, well, his campaign will be as dead as Marley’s doorknob.

Bernie’s putting on a brave face though I’ve noticed his step has lost a lot of its pep. He keeps pointing to New York (April 19) and California (June 7) as the touchstone. Sure, if this election were being voted on by the Academy, Uncle Bern would be a shoe in; but if the silver-crested Bernie can actually hang around till June 7th then I for one may become this modern day Don Quixote’s Sancho Panza. Hate to say it Bernie fans but I think it’s over.

sanders

My SUPER TUESDAY PICKS

Republican Pissing Contest: Jesus Cruz just wins Texas, Drumpf-a-sore-ass wins…EVERYWHERE ELSE! Little Marco celebrates string of strong second places.

Democratic (soon to be) One-Horse Race: Uncle Bern wins Vermont, squeaks by in Colorado, Minnesota, and Oklahoma, loses Massachusetts by more than hoped, and is soundly beaten everywhere else. Both candidates see these results as “a good sign”

Good luck to all…just a few hours to go. Time to start drinking heavily.

The Gospel of Cruz (according to Ted)

09 Tuesday Feb 2016

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cruz-ascension-1

From our North American Correspondent, Neville Cole

Ted.1 (The Begats)

[1] Verily, thus reads the book of the generation of Ted Cruz, the son of Jesus Christ himself.
[2] Jesus begat (by holy virgin birth) Teddy; and Teddy begat Englebert; and Engelbert begat Elvis; and Elvis begat Sonny;
[3] And Sonny begat Fidel and his brethren, about the time they were carried away to Cuba:
[4] And after they were brought to Cuba, Fidel begat Ramon; and Ramon begat Pedro;
[5] And Pedro begat Xavier; and Xavier begat another Jesus; and here’s where it gets tricky because Jesus begat Jesus Jr.;
[6] And Jesus Jr. begat Jesus III; and thankfully Jesus III begat Diego; and Diego thought about starting up the whole Jesus thing again but ended up begatting Rafael who became the husband of Eleanor, of whom was born Ted, who is called Cruz.
[7] So all the generations from Jesus to Ted are fourteen generations (give or take a Jesus or two).
[8] Now the birth of Ted Cruz was on this wise: When as his mother Eleanor was espoused to Rafael, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.
[9] Then Rafael her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to get the hell out of Cuba.

[10] But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Rafael, thou son of Diego, fear not to take unto thee Eleanor thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.
[11] And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name TED: for he shall save his people from their sins.
[12] Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying,
[13] Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Rafael Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.
[14] Then Rafael Bienvenido being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife:
[15] And knew her not till she had brought forth her firstborn son: and he called his name TED.

 

X Marks the Spot

25 Friday Sep 2015

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spook

A Story of love and supernatural intrigue

By Neville Cole

CHAPTER ONE

Martin woke slowly. It took almost a minute before he realized where he was: face down in a pool of blood. He had no idea, however, that most of the blood was not his own; soon after though, he became acutely aware of the still-bleeding corpse that lay diagonally across his back. Together, he and the dead man formed an X; as if to mark the spot. The right side of Martin’s face was covered in blood but he was in no real pain. What was left of the dead man’s head stared straight back him. His grey-blue eyes filled with righteous disdain. His swollen mouth was agape as if in the midst of a raucous laugh. Nothing much about the gruesome display made any sense at all. Then, before Martin had summoned the wherewithal to move, he heard the rumbling echo of distant voice: “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”

In a single motion Martin pushed himself clear of the dead man’s body and twisted around to see who had spoken. There did not appear to be anyone near. Suddenly Martin noticed that he had a gun in his right hand. He raised it up slowly and waited, like a sniper ready to shoot. The problem was he wasn’t sure exactly what direction the voice had come from. This was strange because, as Martin was at the dead end of long dark lonely alley, logically there was only one direction the speaker could be. Therefore, Martin’s still foggy mind concluded, whoever had just spoken must have have moved along. Martin sat up and edged himself back up against the wall at end of the alley wall for support, gun always at the ready. What the hell was going on? Had he been drinking? Had he been drugged? Had he taken a blow to the head so violent it knocked a screw loose? Martin ran the fingers of his left hand all over his skull. Nothing was missing. No cracks. Nothing seeping out. All seemed intact. So what in high heaven had happened? For the life of him Martin could not recall how he got here or anything thing that took place. He wasn’t even sure who he was for certain. He sure as hell didn’t recognize the dead guy at his feet.

“What’s your name, Bub?” Martin jumped to his feet. The voice must have come from the darkness but he still had no sense of where or how or why. The voice seemed somehow very close and far away at the same time. “You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think. Who are you, Bub?”

Martin had no intention of doing anything the stranger told him to but he could not stop his own mind from thinking. “Martin. That’s right. I expect that’s about all you can be sure of right about now. Don’t worry, Bub. It’ll all come back to you soon enough. Well, most of it.”

“Who are hell are you?” Martin hollered with all the bluster he could muster.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” A milky apparition appeared next to the dead body.  Martin shot his gun then fell back to the ground in shock. “You already killed me, Bub. No use shooting me again.” The ghost was much younger than the dead body, and fitter, and more handsome, and more fashionably attired. The ghost wore a well-tailored suit, and a natty, charcoal-grey fedora.

“You’re…” Martin stammered furtively.

“Conrad. Jack Conrad. CIA.”

“You’re…”

“A spook? Well, we in the agency don’t like that term, but…”

“No!” Martin yelled, waving his gun in the air.

“I’m just messing with you, Bub. Hell yeah, I’m a ghost; but I prefer the term spook because I am CIA as well. Well, I was… until you shot me. Well, I was… once: several bodies ago.”

“I killed a CIA agent?”

“Officially, you killed an insurance agent. He was my latest shell but he was going rogue. Frankly, Bub, I’m glad you knocked off that old bag of bones. It was a mistake ever getting tangled with him to begin with; but sometimes… well, we don’t always have a lot of options. I like you, Bub. You are obviously very willing to use a gun. This dummy was never gonna be able to shoot any body. That’s why you ended up killing him, you know? He just refused to pull the trigger… until it was too late.”

“I killed him? I don’t remember a thing.”

“It happens. It’ll come back to you. Eventually. Some of it. I’ll give you some free advice, Bub. Stick with me. Listen to me. It’ll all come back a lot quicker. This ain’t my first time through the drill.”

“Oh my god,” Martin said, dropping the gun. “I shot someone?”

“Look,” the ghost said firmly. “If it will make you feel any better. He shot himself. He aimed to shoot you but wouldn’t do it. You tried to take the gun off him. He decided to shoot you after all. You struggled. He pulled the trigger and blew off half his face. You fainted. He fell on top of you. End of story.”

“But. The gun was in my hand when I woke up.”

“Ok. So, it was a little hard to tell what was going on exactly. Sue me. Here’s the truth, Bub. It was either you or him. If he didn’t end up dead, you were going to. He’d gone rogue, I tell ya. Certifiably insane.”

“Oh, Jesus. I’m going to jail.”

“You are not going to jail. Listen to me. From the trajectory and the distance this is going be a clear-cut suicide. Or rather it can be. All you got to do is clean the gun and put it back in his hand. We’ll clear all the traces that you were here and leave him gun in hand back down in that pool of his own blood. No one will ever be the wiser…and believe me. No one is coming looking for this loser.”

Martin tried to think but nothing would happen. Nothing about this was familiar. The alleyway seemed real enough. He seemed real enough. The dead guy definitely seemed real enough. But this voice in his head and this ghost thing? What the hell is that…spook? Jack Conrad? Secret Agent man. Had he gone mad? This is all some bad dream. Martin looked up but the vision was gone. There was a brief pause, a moment of stillness, then the voice returned. Closer now, more assuring. More like the workings of his own mind.”

“You’re not crazy, bub. No more than any other man. And this ain’t a dream. This is real. And you can take advantage of this situation. You really can, bub. You just need to change your perspective. I can help you but for now you got to do what I say. We’re gonna clean this whole mess up and we’re gonna get you away from here before any knows you’ve been here. Do what I say, bub, and do it now.”

The only thing that really seemed to make any sense was the voice in his head so Martin did exactly what it told him to do. He pulled a rag from dumpster and wiped off the gun, the wall, the ground around the body, it even reminded him to wipe of the dumpster. The voice told him how and where to place the body, how to fit the gun back into the dead man’s hand, how to remove any and every trace of his own existence in this place. Just when Martin felt like he surely must be about done and that he really much get away from this place Jack Conrad, the ghost himself, suddenly appeared once more.

“Martin,” Conrad said directly and firmly. “Listen to me. You are done here, except for on very important thing. This is something you must do. I cannot stress this enough.” Martin paused awaiting Conrad’s instructions. Pull up you sleeves and reach into the inside pocket of this guys jacket. Inside you will find a key. You need to get that key. Without that key you will not get away from this place. Do you understand? Get the key, Martin.” Martin, fully used to taking direction by now, even from a CIA spook, pulled up his sleeves as directed, lifted up the body once more, and pulled a key with a large green plastic keychain attached to it. “Good work, bub.” Conrad nodded. “Now let’s get you the hell out of dodge.” With that, Conrad faded again from view but his voice remained. Conrad’s voice instructed Martin how to exit the alley without drawing attention to himself, it told him where and how to dispose of his blood-stained jacket, it directed him to a public restroom to clean himself up, and after that the voice said simply: “Bub, I’m guessing you could use a drink about now. I know a place nearby that’s dark and safe and quiet. A place you can be invisible, like me. Let’s get you a bourbon, straight up. What do you say?”

Martin, unable to concoct any other plan, continued to follow Conrad’s directions without question or emotion. He had become a blank slate. He knew his first name, or he thought he did, and he knew what the voice told him. He had no idea who he actually was or what he did or where he lived even. “Of course, a wallet!” Martin suddenly exclaimed as he walked into the bar Conrad had told him to enter. “I must have a wallet on me somewhere.” He thought while feverishly feeling his pockets.

“Good thinking, bub. They don’t ask many questions in places like this but they do expect you to pay.”

Martin quickly found a wallet in his back pocket. He whipped it out with a flourish, opened it up as fast as he could and stared intently inside searching desperately for clues.

“Easy bub. You’re acting pretty damn suspicious about now. Remember, the goal right now is not to be memorable in any way. There’s plenty of time for figuring out who you are. You need to cut the nut-job act pronto and head on over to the back corner nice and easy like.”

Martin paused and slowly dropped the wallet away from his face. The bartender and two old flies at the counter were all watching him a little too closely. He pulled a twenty from the wallet and, nodding at the barkeep, said quietly: “Bourbon. Straight up.” Frankly, Martin had no idea what in the hell he might actually like to drink so he took Jack’s advice from earlier.

“Oh Jesus,” Martin thought. I just referred to a ghost by its name. Conrad. Jack Conrad. CIA. Jesus. I am losing it.”

“You’re almost home, bub.” The voice assured him. “Now, pay the man, then go over to the corner and take a seat. Let’s think this whole thing through nice and relaxed like.”

Martin took a seat in a booth along the back wall of the bar. Out of view of any seated out the counter. He stared at the shot of bourbon for a few moments, then took it up and swigged the whole thing in a single gulp. It did not go down well. Whatever he was, he most definitely was not a bourbon drinker.  “Think dammit,” he told himself. How did you end up in a dark alley in a pool of someone else’s blood with a dead body on top of you? Was it really the way Conrad said? But why was I even there in the first place? Then Martin had a moment, a memory, a point-of-view vision of shoes shuffling along a dark street, then a flash of light of some kind, then an old man – the old man at the end of the alley – pointing up at a streetlight. “He brought to the alley,” Martin thought. “But why? Who was he? Why did I kill him?”

“I’m trying to be quiet, bub. I really am…” the ghost butted in. “But this is killin’ me. Anyway, I see you’re starting to remember so maybe you want to move on to your original plan and open up that wallet of yours.

“Oh damn,” Martin muttered. “What is wrong with my brain? I just can’t think straight.”

Martin lay the well-worn black leather wallet out on the table and first pulled out the drivers license.  “Martin Warrick. That’s almost a British name? I’m not British, am I? I don’t sound British.” The address on the license was a California address. It was at that moment that Martin realized he didn’t even know what town he was in. Martin did not realize that while he was puzzling over this Conrad had returned. He was sitting in the seat across from Conrad in plain view of the bar.

“What are you doing?” Martin whispered. “They can see you.”

“No they can’t, Bub”, Conrad broke in. “None of them look like mystics to me. They can’t see a thing. Besides, I know where you are. You’re in Baltimore.”

“Baltimore, Maryland?”

“No. Baltimore, North Dakota. Jesus,” Conrad snorted. “This whole thing has really tapped you out.” Conrad pulled an old pack of cigarettes from coat jacket and a zippo lighter from his pants. His lit up a cigarette and leaned back against the back of the booth.

“I don’t think you are supposed to smoke in here.”

“Relax, bub. They can’t see me, they can’t see this… and don’t give me any lip about it not being good for me. I’m not exactly alive anyway, remember. Besides, it’s pretty much the only enjoyable thing I got left in this world, except for talking to you.”

“You enjoy talking to me?” Martin said curiously.

“Of course I do.” Conrad said while blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. “What else is left for me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything,” Martin replied. “But, I guess, as long as you are enjoying it some much would you mind calling me Martin instead of bub?

“Now hang on, bub. Let’s not get a ahead of ourselves. I don’t know how long this is going to last. This is not my first rodeo, you know. I don’t make a lot of personal connections in my line of business, if you know what I mean.”

“No, in fact,” Martin said raising his hands in surrender. “In fact, I do not know what you mean. I have no idea what your business is with me. I have not idea what is going on… and, I need another drink.” With that Martin got up and returned to the bar and said: “Ah, letsee… let me try a scotch this time. Only, this time, make it on the rocks.” He looked over and saw Conrad happily puffing away in the corner clear as day. Conrad was right though. Nobody else seemed to have any clue. “Haunted by a CIA spook, just my luck,” he said quietly.

The Greatest Wall of T-RUMP

21 Tuesday Jul 2015

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T-rump patrol

T-Rump apprehends another drug-dealer/rapist/terrorist on the Mexican border

By Pig’s Arms North American Correspondent, Neville Cole

During his recent visit to Arizona – in which T-Rump miraculously managed to jam an audience of 15,000 rabid supporters into an auditorium with a seating capacity of 4,000 – the self-proclaimed greatest presidential candidate God ever created paid a quick visit to the Mexican border to round up some dangerous criminals, strike fear into the hearts of the Mexican government, and paint of vivid picture of T-Rump Immigration Policy.

T-Rump sat down with me briefly to discuss his vision before running off into the sunset to “kick some more Mexican ass before the day was done.”

Pig’ s Arms: Thank you Mr. T-Rump for taking time to speak with us today.

T-RUMP:  Call me Don! Or The Donald. Or Mr. President. Look! First and foremost let me say one very important thing. First I want to say that this has truly been a pleasure and an honor to be here today rounding up several hundred rapists and drug dealers that the government down in Mexico keeps trying to send up here to take over our great republic. If I could, and God’s knows how great I would be at it, if I could… I would spend from now until my inauguration patrolling this border from sea to shining sea with the possible exception of spending election night celebrating my victory at T-RUMP Resort and Casino in Atlantic City.

Pig’ s Arms: So, even after you are elected you would come back to patrol the border until the inauguration?

T-RUMP: Yes. See here’s the problem as it has been explained to me. The election don’t mean nothing right away. There’s supposedly this time after the election where everyone has to wait around for the paperwork to dry, or something. Which is one thing I am going to look at very carefully. I think the American people who will vote for me in historical numbers are going to want me to get to work right away. I don’t know why in this day and age we can’t have the vote and sign the paperwork that same day. I got the best paperwork people in the business. I do a deal with China we got the paperwork on the table ready to sign before they even know they want the deal.

Pig’ s Arms: Okay. Let’s jump to the day that… all the paperwork is done and President T-RUMP is in charge. What changes can people down here expect to see right away?

T-RUMP: Apart from streams of drug dealers, rapists and terrorists racing back across this border to get back to Mexico, you mean? I’m kidding, of course. That is going to happen as soon as I win the election. Once I am in truly in charge the real fun begins… I don’t want to let too much out of the bag just yet; but let me just say once people see my plans they are going to have to seriously look at changing the name of the so-called Great Wall of China ’cause that thing is going to look like a garden fence compared to the Greatest Wall of T-RUMP.

Pig’ s Arms: So it is true? You do plan to build an actual wall between the US and Mexico?

T-RUMP: I don’t know if “wall” is a good enough word for this thing I have planned. I got the idea watching Game of Thrones. You see, right now, the Mexicans are pretty much wildlings; but believe me, there are White Walkers right behind them. Well, not White Walkers exactly… more like Brown Walkers. Anyways, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

I will build the best wall, the biggest, the strongest, not penetrable, they won’t be crawling over it, like giving it a little jump and they’re over the wall, it costs us trillions.*  

Pig’ s Arms: Speaking of cost, do you still intend to make the Mexico pay for the wall?

T-RUMP: This is what politicians and laymen and pretty much all chicks don’t get. They don’t get how business works. Let me explain it to you:

Any savvy real estate mogul will tell you, is how it works. You build a big expensive thing and then hand someone the tab and they have to pay it. It’s the law.**

But, I’m not stopping with a Mexican wall. ‘Cause you know and I know that once we stop them coming in from down south they will find their way up north and start streaming in from Canada, so we are building a Canada wall too! This will be a bigger tourist attraction up there than Niagara Falls and Mount Rushmore put together. And then, let me remind you that many of them drug dealers and rapists and terrorists have boats too. So, The Greatest Wall of T-RUMP will extend into both oceans and the Gulf of Mexico as well. And here’s the great thing about that! We are going to build the wall on the American side of the oil rigs, so when they break none of that mess reaches US shores! No more oil spills! And not only that! Listen to this! Know what else we won’t have problems with once I build this wall in the oceans? Sharks! Why The Greatest Wall of T-RUMP will even stop hurricanes and typhoons! This country is going to be the greatest paradise God ever created… with a little help from yours truly, of course.

Pig’ s Arms: Wow, Mr. T-Rump, er… Don, I mean The Donald. Oh hell! Mr. President that just sound awesome in every way!

T-RUMP: I know it does. Let me just say this: this thing is just the thing that will make America great again. I want all your readers to know one final thing: I can’t wait to get started. Now, if you’ll excuse me I got some more criminals to catch.

t-rump

And with that… the once and future President was off and running and Making America Great Again.

* really real quote   ** another really real quote

To Mock a Killing Bird

14 Tuesday Jul 2015

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aiming gun

Die Mockingbird! Die! Die!

Neville Cole Reels the Tell Story ….

Harper Lee’s new book Go Set a Watchman is generating serious buzz and even more serious consternation. Critics, readers, and especially life-long fans report they have been left “shocked” and “aghast”at the revelations within. Those who, years ago, read Lee’s original draft, however; were not at all surprised by how far from grace the once noble Atticus Finch has fallen. 

 In the draft, known only by the working title Die Mockingbird! Die! Die! a teenage, but still grammatically challenged, Scout Finch, discusses, at length, the Finch family’s troubles after the Robinson trial. 

 I thought Atticus was feeble when he was nearly fifty. Hoo-boy! You sho’ have done seen him when he was nearing sixty. To be fair, the years after Tom Robinson’s trial weren’t easy on old Atticus. He kept getting calls to defend pretty much every innocent black man in town and every time he proved they didn’t do nothing of the sort and every time they hung the poor chump anyways.

“That’s justice round these parts, Scout.’ Atticus got to saying; “Guilty till proven innocent, then hung… then an alcoholic spits in your face.”

It weren’t much of a good time for me neither. Kids at school all start calling me Spit Ball. Like it was my face all them toothless racists drunks were spitting in. Try getting a date for prom when all and sundry look at you ‘an picture pickled phlem.

All in all, I guess it were much worse for Jem though. He dropped dead in his tracks one day. He were always so darn crazy for football; but, you know, Atticus would never tackle him. He’d always say: “I’m too old for that, son.”

Well, anyways, one day after his broke arm done healed good, ol’ Jem says he’s ready to play football again ‘cause one day he wants to go to Alabama and play for the Crimson Tide.

“An,” says Jem. “If Atticus won’t tackle me, I know someone who will.” ‘An with that, Jem, he goes next door and he calls on ol’ Boo Radley to come out an’ play football with him. ‘An Boo, you see, he don’t really know his own strength and on the very first tackle he done hit Jem so hard he broke his arm again, and both legs and cracked open his skull a bit as well. The doctor tried to bandage him up again as good as he could; but Jem died of the internal bleeding later that very night.

We was all plenty broke up about that for a while. Atticus was even more tired than ever before. He wouldn’t even sit in the livingroom and read at night no more. Actually, that was around that time he started the drinking.

Whenever I asked him why he’d say: “Remember, how I told you that sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse that a whisky bottle in the hand of another?”

“Yessir,” I’d say. “I do remember that. You said there are just some kind of men who – who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one.”

“That’s right,” says Atticus pouring out another five fingers. “Well, I’m finally learning how to live in this one the best way I know how.”

When Miss Maudie heard about that, she said she was going to have some hard words for Atticus; but he just told her that he always believed that when a child asks you something you should answer them. for goodness sake, and not make a production out of it.

Thing was though, Atticus started to pick and choose when he would answer me. The things I really wanted to know – like especially about boys and dating – he pretended he didn’t even hear at all; like he was deaf in both ears in addition to being blind in one eye.

Basically, like me, Atticus was born good and grew progressively worse every year. Then he up and stopped teaching me anything at all. Especially grammar and such things.

But worser than all the rest, was the day Atticus finally cracked. The fateful day he committed the ultimate sin.

I still don’t know how it all came to be ‘cause Atticus wouldn’t talk about it  except to say that I wouldn’t really understand because I couldn’t climb inside his skin and walk around in it so how could I even hope to consider things from his point of view? It must have been all them trial loses or all that spit in the face; but fact is, somewheres along the line, Atticus changed his whol’ mind about them mockingbirds.

Instead of him sayin’ them birds was singin’ their hearts out for us, he’d constantly complain about “that damn noisy bastard out back that never seems to shut up” and that “them mockingbirds aren’t smart enough to make up their own noises so they just copy all the other birds around instead only twice as loud so everyone gets to thinking it was their idea” and always he was saying that he’d bin “woke at the damn crack of dawn again because of them miserable mistakes of nature.”

Then that fateful morning out he staggers just before lunch; gun in hand, still reeling from all the whiskey he’d gulped down the night before, and he lifts that gun sight up to his good eye and mumbles:

“People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for… and I see one dead damn bird that I won’t ever have to listen to again.”

I knew Atticus was a good shot. He’d killed that rabid dog when no one, not even the sheriff dared to try. But, to see him pick off that tiny mockingbird at a distance of well over 100 feet, dressed in nothing but his night robe and barely able to stand from all the alcohol still surging though his veins. Well, frankly, it was time like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the craziest old coot who ever lived.

But you know, like Atticus always said: “You can choose your friends but you sho’ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ’em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.”

Las’ thin’ I ever want to do is look right silly.