A Lovely Dream About a Gun
Out west some of us dream big and burly and sick, even behind our masks ...We ‘Mericans love our guns. We even dream about them sometimes as our answers to our problems.
In this dream last night an angry, rather handsome dad was being a bully to his two pre-teen daughters and rather rude towards his son and wife.
We were all in a funky little country store and I was standing waiting to make my purchase and leave.
Suddenly, as he berated his wife he turned on me and said, “What’re you looking at?”
My first thought was to say “nothing” or do nothing, ignore him altogether. But then I couldn’t resist, “It’s none of your business what I’m looking at.”
He took a step towards me and mumbled something about beating me up, to which I responded, surprised by my cheerful tone of voice, “Oh, yes, I’m sure you could, you’re bigger and younger and stronger.”
But I didn’t sound deferential, or afraid, more just matter-of-fact.
He kept staring at me and I stared back, unblinking; and I considered explaining to him about assault and battery: assault is saying he’s gonna kick my ass and battery is actually doing it; both are felonies.
Then I realized this was just a dream and I thought why don’t I dream a handgun into the back waistband of my pants, you know, just in case.
I felt so much better then not because I wasn’t going to get beat-up but because I could magically make a gun appear and shrink the bully down to size.
An American dream for sure; ask any gun retailer or frightened man who defines his manhood by an unwillingness to be bullied or by his willingness to fight back.
Our Dog, Rusty Shackleford
That was the actual name given, by the guys at the animal shelter, to our maniacal, one-of-a-kind lunatic dog who hardly ever bit anybody other than a 90 year old nun, a 3 year old kid and few unlucky strangers...
In his brain, wishing he could speak: “This just in, there are people I don’t know/recognize walking around in the common areas outside our townhouse! And even though it’ll interrupt my reading, Do you want me to go mess ’em up? Just say the word and/or open the door and get out of my way!”
While it’s true that Rusty was insane to most people in most ways, he was the smartest dog with the biggest personality of any we ever had or knew. He lived until age 3 before we adopted him, and for 9 years after, until his death in April 2017.
His loss was devastating, but our memories of him create far more laugh-out-loud joy than tears. The pics above barely start to cover his range, but even knowing him a little is your good luck.
So, RIP Rusty. I hope we get to see you again someday. And if even half the humans I ever met or meet were as funny, honest and entertaining as you, I’d have a lot better feeling about my own species.
We must have some limits and boundaries, and if we’ve learned nothing else from 4 years of Trump, it’s that this is too much to ask of some folks.
To the kid on Social Media Who defended the use of finger guns with farts — While I understand that Twitter must have room for idiocy and immaturity — I feel I’d be doing it (and you) a disservice by not commenting here with the following: No, shooting your finger gun as you fart probably is NOT as hilarious and charming as you suppose it to be. This is just one man’s view, of course. But I’m pretty sure I’m right about this; as life apart from Twitter...
I Will Survive
Dedicated to Oscar Wilde And Gloria Gaynor
Imprisoned and sentenced to hard labor for being a homosexual, Wilde’s Portrait of Dorian Grey captured, as well as any work ever, the costs of having to live a secret life. As our species moves towards understanding that being gay is no more a choice than being straight, we must accept heroes of other cultures and remember Wilde’s final words, spoken from his deathbed: “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.” You’ve got to admit, that maybe this could be a fighting anthem for every brave drag-queen to ever strut onto a stage, lip-syncing Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”
Glory and Fame: Touching the Top of the Temple…
Some phrases sound like some great culmination of spiritual ascendency. Don’t they? Well, in this case It’s not; it’s just a cool sounding phrase that includes “touching” and some ambivalent uses and meanings. It reminds me of dopes terrified by “Antifa” and of guys in silly birthday hats that make one look like an idiot... Sorry. but “touching the top of the temple” isn’t anything: I don’t even know what that shit means.