Her Mother’s Jade

She gave us a million dollars, surely we can grant her this one thing?  Keep it alive, that’s all she asked.

Her mother, she says, was a saint.  This jade came through her, and through her mother, and her mother’s mother.  Jade is a special sort of plant, kind of like a Wandering Jew in that way, give it what it wants and it’s immediately invasive, take it out of its narrow comfort zone and it withers dramatically before dying.  Your negligence would be in the spotlight for months while you went on not noticing, or, not caring.

She was a saint, it is said.  She could knit through wails for twenty minutes before noticing a thing.  Once trance broken, “Oh, Oscar stop already” muffled huff, return to needles.  Oscar scoffs, and stops.

Saint is code word for Expert of Dissociation.  Give the lady another medal. She could read or knit or drown in TV while the seas parted around her, and remain oblivious.  She could minimize and whitewash every ‘love bite’ and ‘love pinch’ and smile, or shrug, or eye-roll her way through a dozen abusive slurs.  That’s what it means to be a saint.

Long-suffering Jades, pass it on, don’t forget, don’t neglect, and always, pass those seeds on.

 

 

At the Ashram

At the entrance was a sign informing new visitors that the guru offered private consultations by appointment.  They decided together they should each make one.

Dan and Sue had heard of this ashram from a mutual friend.  They agreed to each pay their own way, but to share a room.  The agreed also they’d discuss moving in together finally, maybe even getting married.

At his appointment, Dan confessed he was getting cold feet.  The guru nodded patiently, emanating compassion.  He did not interrupt while Dan recited his list of doubts and grievances.

The guru sat in silence for what seemed to Dan too long a moment.  When he finally spoke he looked grim, solemn, Dan had to strain to hear him.

“Mr. Dan, I have met your lady friend.  I’m sorry to say that I concur with you, she is not the one for you.  Too many problems, you are sure to be unhappy.  She is too strong-willed for you, too hot tempered, too much fire.  I suspect too much conflict for a good match.”

Before their departure Sue sought out the guru again, taking him aside and handing him a thick envelope.  She hugged him warmly, her eyes glowing, and said, “I can’t thank you enough!  It’s been positively magical!”

“Not at all,” replied the guru, “it is my great pleasure to serve.”

“We’ve set a date!”

“I’m not surprised,” replied the guru.  “I can see he’s a very difficult man, you have your work cut out for you.”

She nodded.  He turned to take his leave, saying, “Well played, mum.”

Why Does it Stink Like Grape kOOl-aid in here?

Letter from Grandpa from the beyond, sent through James True.

Dear Readers, thank you for being here.  I should say that more often.  I’m sorry for all the cream pies to the face, I know it’s not polite, and I really do appreciate you putting up with me, and sometimes even pressing like.  I know some of you are real people, not just bots or spies, and I don’t think about that enough.  It’s cool that you’re still here with all my weird ravings about conspiracies, and bad poetry (sometimes on purpose, it’s a trick, now you have a secret I’ve been keeping), and just in general not being good enough.

James is right you know.  Even if he’s planning to start a cult, he’s still right.  Know more.  Do better.  Wise up! Look who you’re up against.  You’re hardly even a fly in their cellar.  You’re a like a maggot about to pecked up by a hen.  You’re snooping around their closets like a raving idiot.  Who wants that, come on now.  Of course you’re going to piss them off eventually, so you better back off, or buck the fuck up.  (James added that bad word Gramps, I swear it wasn’t me.)

Man up, woman!  This is a dojo, whether you like it or not.

 

Misbehavior Is New Word for Abuse

As the lifetime actors in the Hollywood-Politiko class try to reign down their terror on anyone who questions their absolute authority we have on MSM the latest Weinstein’s piggery, or I guess it’s Epstein this week, left to digest during the dinner hour.  Yum.

”He should be spanked for his so HUGE Mis-behavior,” says the bleach blond tween posing as a news reporter.

“For sure! Nine spankings, and eleven Hail Mary’s! Right? Get it . . . the code,” says the greased up fat turd next to her . . . wink, wink.

Translation following, for the unhappy few in this asylum who miraculously still possess a set of standards and a moral compass:

Abuse is relative, you know!  

You got it!  One boy’s abuse is another’s sexual fetish.  It’s all good.

It’s really sad more folks don’t understand that. If you pretend it’s not abuse, then you think it’s not abuse, so obviously then it’s really not abuse. It’s all about perception management.

Yes, for sure.  They subject themselves to more abuse, because they can’t understand that their abuse was totally relative.  Why keep whining about spilled milk?  I mean like, you didn’t get your dick chopped off, right? Because, that happens.  And that didn’t happen to you, so I really don’t get why you can’t get over it already. Consider yourself lucky.

And besides, you know misbehaving can be fun!  I misbehaved in choir once, but it wasn’t really my fault, I mean, she practically ass-ulted me.  Really.

I sometimes fantasize I meet these assclowns celebrating some nonsense at a local bar with a small band of their mesmerized fan cult.  Two vodka sodas is just enough for me to say the following, without a shadow of remorse, laughing myself to sleep for days.

”So, do the folks around you in your life really put up with your bullshit on a regular basis?  I mean, they must right?  I’ve been watching you for a year and it’s like one con after another—denial, gaslighting, whitewashing, spinning, selective memory holes.  It’s like you’ve learned from a true master.  I imagine you must treat everyone this way, right?  I mean a person’s professional work bleeds right into their intimate life.  Every time I watch you I feel bad for the future man in his old age who’s going to have to look back at the shyte he did to make a living, and he’s going to see bright and clear what a douche he was his entire life.  That’s gotta hurt.”

Blank stare from the professional tele-prompt readers.

“And I can imagine how hard it is to keep all those plates of bullshit spinning! No wonder you have migraines and chronic IBS.  Sucks to be you.”

”Hey, but let me be a sport, ok, no hard feelings. I’ll buy y’all a round if you give me a bit of advice, it’s about my neighbors.”

They don’t mind being insulted, because they’re locally famous in this these rural parts, so they agree, just another crazy story to share on Instagram.

”So, here’s my problem.  My neighbor’s dog keeps killing my chickens.  This has been going on for a couple years now and the neighbor refuses to do anything about it, considers this to be my problem, for having chickens.

“Being the solution-oriented person that I am, I’ve got to solve this problem.  But, being a dog-lover I hate to shoot the dog, or poison the dog.  So, I thought what if I just break the dog’s leg, that way he can’t chase the chickens?”

Wide eyes and astonished looks from the peanut mob.

Greased-up fat turd replies and all nod in unison, “You’ve got to give up your chickens, DU-UH!”

grey bird in close up photography
Photo by Markus Distelrath on Pexels.com