January 1. No hangover…

Another January 1 without a hangover. No remorse about what I did, what I seem to remember I did…and what I suspect might have happened on New Year’s Eve not because I remember but based on who my acquaintences have called to tell me I offended and now owe an apology.

Ah, that’s my first thankfulness of the new year. It’s all due to a simple omission. I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t take drugs. (Well, only a few drugs. Carvedilol, Lisinopril, Atorvastatin…and they don’t seem to cause psychotropic changes…)

Next up: reflections and ruminations on the past twelvemonth period.

Fall season has been rather filled with major happenings during recent years. November 20, 1998. My mother died. A few years later, my old cat, Zachary, passed away. My other old cat, Abigail died in December a couple years after Zachary left. My father flew south in early December, I’m not sure which year. His cunt wife neglected to inform me of his death. No surprise. She misstated his place of birth and his mother’s name on his death certificate, too.

Then in 2013, I made an attempt at departing this world myself. Almost, flatlined a couple of times, but as Bill Clinton said to Al Gore, “Close, Al, but no cigar.” Was that a reference to Bill’s experience with Monica?

So, nothing particularly momentous in the late year season for 2019. My old Isuzu Amigo (model name, not that it was my friend) died, but that wasn’t as significant as mother, father, cats or self. I didn’t even care much for the Isuzu. Not sure what happened to it either. It still runs, just makes a death rattle in it’s throat. I suppose when my job ends (sometime in the next few months) I’ll have the Isuzu hauled away. Don’t know if it will be cremated or disassembled.

That’s OK.

When my time finally arrives, I don’t know whether I’ll be cremated or disassembled, either.

2020!!! IT’S HERE!!!

December 31, 2019. Significant other and I have reserved a table at one of the local dive bars. We are scheduled to arrive at around 4PM so we’ll have time to prepare for the New Year’s Celebration. Whoooo-fucking-pee! By midnight we’ll be trashed.

Agenda includes two quarts of aged-in transit red wine. (Wine choices: #1 Red, #2 White. Please order by number) I like red wine. The color lets me know what I really need to wash out with bleach; white is too bland.

Of course we’ll have a few pitchers of beer to prepare ourselves. Beer lubes the way down for the wine.

All of this will be accompanied by pickled pig’s feet and stale potato chips.

Of course significant other seldom imbibes and when she does, she limits her intake to a glass of wine, two at the most. On the other hand, if I stumble through another month and a half or so of not drinking alcohol, I can celebrate 36 years without a drink.

Ah, well. Fuck the New Year. Forget about the dive bar, cheap wine and flat beer. We’ll watch a streaming movie on Netflix ‘n go to sleep by 10PM.

Day 10/11. My identity was stolen.

Yes! That’s why it’s another double-posting day. My fucking identity was stolen. Purloined. Copped. Taken. I would have posted yesterday but…no shit…my identity was gone.

It’s been really trying, too.

I woke up yesterday* (don’t worry: I’m not woke) to discover I didn’t know who I was. Not a clue. I don’t mean the way my ex-wife referrred to me, either. (You guys know what I’m talking about.) “He’s fucking clueless,” ex-wife says to her friends. If my ex-wife has any friends, which I doubt. Note: she doesn’t think I have friends, either. I don’t. Likely that’s why we were with one another.

And I’m still searching, too. I’ve looked under the water bed (ever try to lift a water bed, particularly when it belongs to the neighbor and she’s still sleeping on the mattress with her fat girlfriend?) I returned home then searched in the cheap IKEA bowls. All I found was dead moths. On the bright side, the dead moths add body to Campbell’s soup. That’s what I ate the last time I used the bowls. ‘Least that’s what the stains appear to be.

Tomorrow I’ll go back to searching for my identity. For now, I wanna watch the porn show. It’s an old lesbo movie starring Nancy Reagan and Donna Reed. Maybe my neighbors will wake up ‘n want to join me. It’s a great film.

Day 8/9: One week of new posts, weakly.

It’s difficult to force myself back into the groove of writing–even a few lines of this drivel–on a daily basis. I began writing this post on Wednesday, December 4, 2019, but I didn’t get around to completing the thing then posting it until Thursday, December 5.

Completion and posting was after returning from a work-related trip to Willcox, about an hour and a half drive in each direction and four hours of talking to people between the two stints of driving.

OK, what happened to days of churning out thirty and forty pages of copy–not tapping on a silly plastic keyboard–pounding on a big, old manual typewriter, never seeming to run out of ideas? Then, after writing, I had the energy to go out on the town and celebrate. Yeah! Every-fucking-day.

Maybe those times are gone because I’m not getting paid to write six or eight hours each day. Truthfully, I doubt that’s the reason.

When I was funded as a hack, no matter how distasteful what I wrote was to me personally, I enjoyed what I did. Didn’t matter whether the material was motivational shit or advertising crap or news, public relations, or even writing letters for old men who paid a goofball like me to create a public presentation likely because the old guys’ ideas were purile and sophomoric and the worthless farts wanted people reading their stuff to think there was at least an iota of substance lurking on the page.

I really enjoyed writing.

So: I still enjoy writing. It’s almost 4AM (when I began creating this mess), I wasted yesterday driving to the city, hours shopping for household stuff, drove home, arrived late, unloaded the car…and I pounded away in the middle of the night (on the keyboard, not on my willie) to create this. It isn’t just ’cause I set myself a goal to post a few word on this web log every day for two weeks. I still enjoy writing.

Could be that I’m old. Is there a connection between prime years as a human being (or being a human being as closely as I can approximate one) and prime years of being a creator? Probably, but I don’t think that’s the reason, either. I still enjoy writing. I have more experience to serve as source material, more years of collecting opinions, ideas, dreams, fantasies…all that stuff.

Maybe: I’m just lazy.

Day 7: I can’t create shit in 7 days, let alone heaven and earth.

Do many people wonder about what God thinks about? Like when He created heaven and earth. Did He wonder why the stuff came out the way they did, like when I write a story? “Shit, that wasn’t what I wanted.” Maybe there’s a celestial trash can filled with God’s rough drafts.

Well, I wonder about that sort of crap. I’ve wasted time thinking about such meaningless drivel for as long as I can remember. Like, when I was a kid, about the age when my parents sent me off to kids’ Sunday school, the base chaplain directed me to pray.

“What’s ‘Pray,’ chaplain?” I asked. “That’s when you talk to God,” the chaplain answered. “Does God answer me?” I asked. A smile from the chaplain. “He listens to you. That’s what is important. God listens to everyone’s prayers.”

“Well, what if He talks to me?” I asked. Chaplain’s smile evaporated like drops of water on a hot girdle. Er. Gridle. Only chaplains (and other clergyfolk) can study a well-made set of buttocks without having evil thoughts. “Does He talk to you?” chaplain asked. “Of course not,” I answered. “I’m not fucking crazy. God never talks to little kids. He saves His words for the colonel.” Chaplain’s smile returns.

“That’s right, son. What about the generals? Does God talk to them?”

“No, sir,” I answered. He listens, snaps a salute, then says, “Yes, sir.”

Another smile from the chaplain. “Very good, son. Someday you’ll make a good officer.”

Chaplain was wrong. Years later, after I had slunk through OCS (Officer Candidate School), I wasn’t a good officer. See, I had told the chaplain what I thought he wanted to hear, same as I did with God. It’s what they expected of me.

I never learned to do that for my military superiors.

Day Six. Quoting God: “The Limits of My Power…You Gotta Understand…

godI was reading one of the many, many stories about the Pope’s comments as he travels about the world. Wow. I was fascinated by Benedict’s insights regarding God’s reaction to victims of abuse. Benedict believes–and since Benedict is the Pope and the Catholic Church decided back in the 1870 that the Pope is infallible in matters regarding what God believes, he (Benedict, not God) must per force be correct–that God weeps when He reads about victim abuse.

How does God know about these victims?

Well, maybe He listens to the stories on Fox News while he watches the Fox cuties as they cross and uncross their legs and wiggle their hoots. Or He surfs the net, you know, dude, the Pope reads Internet stories, always a good source of factual information.

Then, I remembered the teachings of my youth.

God knows everything. EVERY-Fucking-THING. He knows what happens, what’s happening, what will happen. He knows what we’re gonna do before we do it. That, of course, brings up the topic of predestination, which I broached with the Base Chaplain when I was 13 or so. A mistake, believe me. Anyway, I also recalled that God is…not only omniscient (He knows every-fucking-thing), He’s also omnipotent (He’s All-fucking-powerful). He can do anything He wants.

Which brings us to: if He knows everything and can do anything: why doesn’t He stop the abuse before it happens? You know, He could stop war, murder, all that shit? Not a new question, either, is it?

Well, what about an interview with God, kinda like the Republican debates, you know, with zingers. Gotchas, as the Donald calls ’em. Or is it The Donald, more or less like God? Or…The God, since there’s only one of Him.

Maybe I should spend my time contemplating my navel. That’s likely more enlightening than this drivel.

Day Five: Sanna, I wanna…

December 1, just 24 more shopping daze until Xmas. Here’s my list: I wanna new pair of…hold your breath for this…I wanna new pair of fucking everything. A new car (after all, I only got one car ‘n it’s old); a new motorsickle (yeah, I got three of the suckers but they’re all old, just like the car; a new, well, we can go on down the line and double everything I have, everything I have ever had, and everything I might want or will ever want. Maybe even triple it all.

Except for wives, ex-wives, girlfriends and ex-girlfriends. I don’t need more of any of those categories to be stocked or restocked, not even for Christmas.

All right, here it is. You know, what I really need for Christmas:

Huh? There’s nothing in the space following that last colon. No mistake or omission, either. Pathetic, isn’t it? Almost un-American. I don’t really need anything. ((Hmmm. If I were to dig, I could discover some suggestions for a gift. An altruistic suggestion. Is that OK, Sanna? Yeah? Could I have a new President? Puhleese? Or at least a new legislature. Federal or state. Both, if possible, though I’ll settle for either.))

Truth time. Now that I’m considering the possibility, I do have a niggling, miniscule want. Jennifer, are you listening? After all, Brad’s gone. So is Justin. Wouldn’t you like an old dude who doesn’t have swiveling eyeballs, radar looking out for the next pretty woman? A guy who doesn’t think Angelina is particularly appealing; particularly not when compared with you. A guy who would do anything you wanted, a man who would fulfill your inner-most naughty sexual fantasies, no matter how disgusting, degrading, etc., they might be.

Unless, of course, those fantasies included multiple times, massive size…

OK, I need to rethink this.

I think it’s back to paragraph three. I don’t really need anything.

Day 3/4=Xmas Savings!

I saved one post! Yes! I fucking did it! I combined my post for day three and day four to save one day’s writing time, one day’s digital output, one day’s waste of electrical power…

What is all this savings going for? Well, I rushed out to the Black Friday Sales yesterday. The prices were so low that at Walmart, the price was reduced to -.08% of the original ticket price. Yes! If I shoved $100 worth of shit through the automated price scanner, I received 80 cents in change (as long as I used my Walmart Visa card, of course).

Target couldn’t wait to match-No! To beat Walmart’s prices!–at the register. Target was reducing prices to -1.5% of the ticket price. One hundred dollars worth of stuff cost a refund of a buck and a half. Back a 53′ trailer up to the back dock and Target workers will help you load that sucker with goods. You can make a fortune on what you buy.

I’m not telling the truth, am I? Sad, sad, sad. Bad, bad, bad. You don’t win anything if you know who I’m referring to.

My significant other and I stayed at home on Black Friday. Weather here in SE Arizona wasn’t nice. Wind, rain, cold…

So, I missed my chance to save, save, save. There was a bundle of shit I wanted, too. I was gonna buy a new douche bag. Douche bags were on sale at Walgreens. Or, I could for a few dollars more, have purchased cheap douche bags in Washington, D.C.

There’s a special on douche bags in the nation’s capitol. Our executive branch is full of them, to say nothing of the legislature and the judicial branches. Aren’t we fortunate?

Day Three: nooz f’um th’ census fokes…4 Thanksgivin’

Day Three of two weeks of senseless new posts…and while we’re referring to senseless, it’s time for a 2020 Census reminder. I quote this factoid (no joke; this is taken directly from a Census webpage):

Did You Know? The estimated {of what is now known as the United States} population in 1620 was 2,499 according to this table on page 25 of “Historical Statistics of the United States,” published in 1949 by the Census Bureau.

Right. Did those 2,499 European white people who had staked claim to an entire new world without having an iota of an idea of how big the land was or any concept of whether or not they had the right to make such a claim…did they so much as consider the possibility that some day in the far, far, distant future the descendants of an estimated ten million or so native Americans or first Americans (as we refer to them now) who were alive and residing within the area that would become known as the United States would be considered…human beings…four centuries later?

What a silly question.

The colonists had no concept of what they were doing here. They didn’t really know where here was. These interlopers had no clue how many of the odd, red-skinned creatures lived here. Right was not considered for, after all, a white-skinned, Christian God gave all rights to His people. And, it’s laughable to even think the colonists could have imagined in their wildest dreams how many of their descendents would populate this land four hundred years in the future.

Another factoid: modern anthropologists speculate that somewhere around ten million aboriginal men, women and children were alive in North America in the early 1600’s. In 2019, the estimated total of native Americans (people sometimes referred to as Indians) living in the United States numbers around five million. Elizabeth Warren, a Democratic Senator who is campaigning to be nominated as her party’s 2020 Presidential candidate, is not one of these native Americans.

Sorry, Pocahontas. Maybe in another lifetime. Meanwhile, you might slather on a tube of ManTan self-tanner if you can find some. It made people look kind’a red.

Disclaimer: I am a causasian though I can’t say I’m particularly proud of what my race has done to the world. I’m a registered Green, though my home state no longer recognizes the right of Green Party members to be on the ballot. I don’t particularly like Elizabeth Warren but she’s a prince among politicians compared to that fat fuck who is our current US President.

Day 2. Why I’ve been absent.

Yesterday, Day 1 of a planned two-week posting hegira on this web log, I referred to not placing any new crap on my blog for the past seven months. Though part of the absence has been due to my innate laziness, there’s another causal factor. For the past eleven months, I’ve had a…job. Yeah. A real, paid weekly (weakly?) job, funded by the US guv’mint. ‘Course, at my rather advanced age, this is likely my last job. No matter, it’s still a job.

Aside: Know why old liberals don’t like oral sex? ‘Cause old liberals don’t like any kind of job. Disclosure. I’m an old liberal.

For almost a year now, I’ve been paid by the US Commerce Department, Bureau of the Census, to wander about the county where I live whilst talking to people about working as enumerators for the 2020 US Census. I’m a recruiter, in government-speak, a recruiting assistant. I get paid on a hourly basis, if I work more than eight hours in a day or more than an accumulative forty hours in a week…I receive time and a half overtime. I get differential pay for time worked before six AM or after six PM. I get premium pay for working on the Sabbath.

Hmmmm. ‘Course the people I work for would rather put me up in a motel than pay overtime. Overtime is verboten under almost all circumstances. My masters would rather dole out money to motel chains than to even consider adding ten bucks to my hourly pay.

This isn’t–as I’m sure you can well imagine–the only inconstancy in the funding for this job. More on that sometime later. This post is an explanation of why I’ve been remiss in posting, not to delve into how verrry strange I find this job to be.