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Rearing Children to Become Less Pathetic Adults

If you want to see what children can do, you must stop giving them things –Norman Douglas

The main difference between the human puppy and the rest of the mammalian world is human children never seem to leave home. This may be because you are obsessed with youth and try to live your lives through your children,,don’t know when to say “no,” and have no idea what their kids can do on their own because they keep giving them too much crap. Johnny or Susie aren’t going to gather too much reality through a five-foot, cheap plastic Kill-Me-Bigly army destructo unit. Your little darling doesn’t need a Call-Me-Sandy doll that can cry, walk, fart, and have a wardrobe of 60 gold lame dresses.

“Jeez Bob, that’s pretty harsh,” you may be saying,  If you are saying that, quit your whining.Your kids aren’t going to be losers because you refused to buy them $400 designer jeans or spend $1,300 on a birthday party at Wally World. Allowing your children to sit in front of a 70-inch TV watching anime cartoons while stuffing their mouths full of trans fat and cholesterol is gross negligence, and you should be fired from your job. What is your job? to prepare them to get the hell out of the house, get a job, and spawn. I shouldn’t have to be telling you this stuff.

Animals have a much clearer picture of what it is to be an adult parent and raise children effectively. Fran Lebowitz, a great lady who is obviously in tune with her inner animal said, “The only time you should ask child what he wants to eat is when he’s buying.” Lions don’t have time or patience to give a damn what their young want to eat; they basically say, “Here’s a dead antelope, eat it, it’s good for you, and don’t give me any shit.” And you know what, lion cubs love them for it.

Let’s turn to my species for a moment. Canines, like most mammals, love kids. Our women have a lot of breasts so they can have a lot of puppies at one time. We love ’em, lick ’em, protect ’em, encourage ’em, play with ’em, but we don’t allow them to rule the pack. They learn, and they learn fast because one day soon, we are gonna throw them out and turn their bedroom into a home office. After they’re gone, no matter how crappy their lives turn out, they never come back. We never have to hear, “Dad, my boyfriend cheated on me, can I come home?, or “Mom I got fired from Starbucks, can I crash at the house for a while.?”

Look, I really like kids:they are always dropping food all over the place, and I eat well when I’m around them. I have to draw the line, however, when they stick toys up my ass or yank on my ears, and their parents say “Oh, isn’t that cute, Little Billy or Chad is playing with Bob.” At times like that, it takes all the restraint I have not to rip the parent’s thorax out.

To help your kids avoid having me rip your thorax out, you may want to follow “Pathetic Bob’s Simple Rules for Child Rearing.

1.Birth “em, bathe ’em, beat ’em, and feed ’em.

2 If you overprotective your child, he will grow up to be a whining pussy.

3 Never ask them what they want; Ask yourself what they need.

4 Be the adult

Summary:

Parenting is hard; quit whining; do your job; don’t ask; drop crumbs when I’m around; watch your thorax

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Whining About Wine And Grape Jelly Won’t Make It Taste Better

Having recently returned from a trip to San Francisco, where the lovely Ms, Em insisted I tag along on a tour of the “wine country.” Wine country consists of Sonoma and Napa valleys in the middle of California. I was reluctant because I’m a little sick of people lifting what is essentially rotten grape juice onto the pillars of good taste, sophistication, and ultimate hipness, when, in fact, it was a mistake of Jesus proportions.

While in San Francisco, I was badgered into taking a tour of “wine country” on a comfortable bus. Before we reached Sonoma county, I had had it up to here with this “nectar of the gods” shit. (I regret using “gods”and “shit” in the same sentence, but not enough to change it,”) Anyway, the tour wasn’t all bad; I learned about “microenironments,” “dry growing,” :French versus American oak barrels”, “sugar content,” “wine clubs,” and pretentious yuppie scum.

While we were being hauled from winery to winery, I got out my laptop computer and found some other “wine” stuff on various esoteric web sites. At one page–Biblewine.bull–I learned that because of a mistranslation from Greek into Hebrew, modern Christians have this whole wine-and-crackers ritual all wrong. It seems at the big wedding party where Jesus was supposed to have changed water to wine, he actually changed it to grape jelly. The wedding caterer hadn’t brought enough food so Ishmael–the bride’s father–asked the prince of sandwiches to come up with some finger-food. Jesus was a little irritated but complied with the request. He asked for grapes and peanuts, and the PB&J was born. Take a sack lunch to your next church meeting.

At another site–Blotto.snark–I found that wine was the original “Holy Spirit.” In fact, why we call alcoholic drinks “spirits.” today. Eons ago, man and woman found that when they slurped rotten grapes, they’d get high, and let’s face, eons ago things sucked for the average person so getting stoned helped ease the torment a little.

Pretty soon, society invented professional imbibers, who they called “priests,” who would get all liquored up have hallucinations, then tell the moderate drinkers they were getting messages from invisible beings they called”gods.” The people raised the drunks to God interpreters. And, the people–at least the Romans–were ecstatic when the interpreters came up with a new god named Bacchus because a great time was had by all.

Wine didn’t get another big boost in popularity until some French drunk monks made more wine they could drink and decided foist the surplus off on unsuspecting peasants who, after all, would eat or drink anything…even snails. The French lower class loved the stuff, so, of course, the French Upper Class stole it from them and claimed is as their own, thereby giving it a false identification with advanced taste.

Hundreds of years later, French and German immigrants met up with the local Hispanics in California and said, “Holy shit, grapes will grow here. We might be able to make a buck.” These families set up little wineries in farming country and made a little wine until the last part of the 20th century when some advertising and marketing guys said, “Hey, if we convince people rotten grape juice is cool, we can make a shitload of money and cause the price of the land to rise so high, the peasants will move to Los Angeles.

Anyway, that’s the story of how you’ve been duped by the wine industry, Oh, by the way, that “wine makes a meal taste better” crap is only true if you are eating sour owl shit.

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Pathetic Bob Extends Einstein’s Theories With His Own

Since I’ve been here in Deadland, I found Einsteins’s E=MC-rounded theory, on which he was working at the time of his death. It seemed to me Einstein was tinkering with equations seeking proof for what he termed,”The Planetary Law of Pressurized distortion of solid and ethereal magma as they relate to world events and flavor enhancement of blueberry pancake syrup.”Although many of Al’s calculations make a great deal of sense, it is obvious to me, as his worked progressed, the great physicist fell under the spell of crack cocaine.

After much study and very little help from living scientists, I believe I’ve finally completed Einstein’s seminal research and arrive at a simple, yet beautiful, conclusion I call the theory “The Planetary, Pressured, Latex-bubble, and Expansion and Retraction of Yin-Yang Core Disruptions.” In layman’s terms, my theory states “Good shit and bad shit occur simultaneously or the planet will explode.There can be no Kardashian without a Steven Hawking, no Kellyann Conway without a Rachel Maddow, no theist without atheists, and no storms without sunny weather. It is a bse for much Taoist principle, and it is evident, if you take some time to look.

It is well known the Earth’s is under tremendous pressure, and, without pressure relief valves to release some of the pent-up energy, it would pop like an overfilled condom. Hence, volcanoes and underwater that allow the Earth to vent. What is not as well-known is the Earth is also under huge loads of psychic pressure. Emotions such as hate, greed, envy, etc, that float about the surface are absorbed by the planet until it is so full of them, it has to deflect them outward or face a breakdown. The outwardly psychic pressure is what causes wars. Wars are the pressure valves of negative energy build-up within the planet. You may have noticed there are always hostilities going on someplace on Earth, and if peace breaks out in one region, war will have to break out in another.

Gaia (Mother Earth) is under assault; she’s being raped, plundered, and poisoned; that pisses her off. Many of the species that once roamed her surface and contributed to her health have disappeared like intellectuals did under Hitler’s, Stalin’s, and Mao’s regimes (watch out America.). When you create bad shit, Gaia will send it back to you in spades. When you worship a Kardashian, she will send a Donald Trump, when you fart in Australia, people in India will smell it.

Anyway, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.

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Pathetic Bob’s Kimono of Gods Debunked

Flora

As I was reading my morning e-mails, Pathetic Bob called me via the potted plant. “Em, Em, unto this day, five gods are born, and the Japanese people better repent.”

I was engrossed in an e-mail offer from a college I’d never heard of to sign up for an online degree program in solar podiatry. I wasn’t sure I had heard Bob correctly. “What did you say,” I asked.

“This is big Em, real big! I was just reading in the paper that a Kimono Dragon in England named Flora gave birth to five eggs that hatched into five dragons. Bob was excitedly jumping up and down. “Now, here’s the interesting part,” he exclaimed, “Flora was a virgin! That’s right, a virgin, That means she didn’t make the dragon with two backs with a guy dragon. It’s a miracle! Well, actually it’s five miracles.”

“Calm down Bob, calm down. I have to admit the news is pretty interesting, but what on Earth does it have to do with the Japanese people?”

“Jeez Em, sometimes you can be so dense. Let me spell it out for you.  Everybody knows that when virgins give birth, their offspring are Gods. I mean look at Mary…uh I forget her last name…Mrs.  Joseph…her kid turned out to be a pretty popular, right?”

“Well,” I started, but Bob plowed on.

“Anyway, Flora had five gods; can you imagine how popular they are gonna be?”

“I’m not sure….” Again, Bob interrupted me.

“They’re gonna be real popular. Lots of people are gonna love them, in including the Japanese.”

“So why should the Japanese repent and not other people?”

“Think about Em. For centuries the Japanese have been wearing robes made out of Kimona dragons; Now, dragons have evolved to God status, don’t you think they’re gonna be a little pissed.”

“Bob, I think you misread the story. It’s Komodo dragons, not Kimono Dragons. Japanese kimonos are usually made out of cotton or silk, not lizards.”

Bob picked up the newspaper he was reading, and he poured over the story intensely. He looked at me. “Oh,” he said. I guess that changes things.”

Bob was quiet. Then he said,”Em?”

“Yeah, Bob?”

“Out of respect for the lizard semi-gods I think you ought to send Larry the Lounge Lizard to Japan as a token our misrepresentation”

“What do you me ‘our’ misrepresentation?”

“Look, all I’m saying is that it would be a nice thing to do.”

 

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Electroconvulsive Therapy, I Was A Monkey Who Got Shocked

Have you ever had electricity shot through your head to cause convulsions…on purpose.

Medically, it’s called  Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT), and I’ve had it done 38 times in the past 20 years. I didn’t do it to get high, although I could have use a good high about then. I did it because I had a particularly hard case of depression, and meds were not effective. I would cry at birds and lick sandpaper for hours. My doctor decided to try what used to be called “Electricshock Therapy.” Back when it was called that, they did not use anesthesia, just a jolt of two of good old electricity. It could help you or fuck you up. The 38 ECT treatments I underwent did not have any effect on me unless you call lighting my cigarette with my nose an effect.

After the first 19 treatments done in the basement of a hospital, they were discontinued by me Sin favor of peyote and Jack Daniels.or “PeyJack.” Unfortunately, PeyJack therapy could turn you into slick-tongued Gila Monster who garbled a lot of his words.

I found a new psychiatrist a few years later, and I’ve been with him for more than 15 years. He’s a good guy, and he’s treated me with almost every psychopharmaceutical the Food & Drug Administration allows. Some worked for a while, then their efficacy petered out and we’d go on to a new one.

Eventually, It was decided another round of ECT was called for. These  “shock the monkey” sessions, ” were held in a hospital as part of a trial program. After another round of 19 ECT, this time with anesthesia, I still found no relief, I did, however, lose my memories of early childhood. I quit. Several of the shock monkeys stayed on, but I don’t know what happened to them.

I kinda like electricity, it provides power to my electric wine-bottle opener, makes my TV work, and lights up the Christmas tree, but zapping it through my brain has lost its luster. It never made me feel better, but it never made me feel worse. It’s sorta like watching football, it didn’t matter who won or loss, I just liked the excitement.

These days they have other electric-probes types of therapy. From what I understand, It doesn’t cure anyone. But medical science loves electricity, and i”m waiting for the electric enema.

Now, I’m not a doctor,.nor do I play one on General Hospital, but it is my medical belief that loving someone and be loved back has way more power than a probe up your ass.

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Barry Eats Sheep

Barry’s lunch

Last week, I started old school, and tomorrow, my first homework assignment is due for my class in memoir writing. I’ve already completed the assignment, and anticipate a fairly decent grade, but I’m worried about my classmate Barry.
Barry is 81 years old, and up until 11 years ago, he was in the poultry technology field for more than 50 years. He says he is gay even though he has never had sex with a man…or a woman. His statement made me a little wary, so I asked him if he had had sex with a chicken. He assured me that that was not—nor would it ever be—the case. I dropped the subject.
I’m worried about Barry not because of his gayness, but because I think he might receive an F on his homework assignment. Our teacher asked us to write about our favorite childhood foods. After class, Barry confided in me that he wasn’t very keen on revisiting his childhood and recalling the slaughter in which he participated. “You see,” Barry told me, “I was raised by wolves.”
Now, I was raised by a military officer, and I don’t think being raised by wolves could be any more traumatic than that, but Barry insists he will be ridiculed and persecuted if he puts down on paper the somewhat grizzly meals he consumed as a child. “I just know that other people are going to write about fried chicken, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and stuff like that,” said Barry. He looked around to make sure no one else was listening, and said, “You know, Em, I wish I could have eaten that kind of stuff, but mostly what my parents gave me was raw, bloody sheep. Damn, to this day, I can’t even wear a wool sweater.”
“Well,” I told Barry, “why don’t you just write that you liked mutton as a child, even if it is a lie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t lie.”
“Ok…uh…I’m sure you probably ate something else besides sheep once in a while; there must have been something you liked.”
“Well…yeah,” said Barry with a guilty look on his face. “There were a few treats.”
“Then write about them,” I suggested.
“I don’t think people would understand Em. I mean wolves have different appetites than humans.”
“How bad could it be Barry? People eat animals all the time.”
“I’ll tell you, but you got to keep this to yourself, Ok?”
“Sure Barry, no problem. I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion, but go ahead.”
“Well, when I was a kid my favorite things to eat were aliens.”
I just sort of stared at Barry, thinking Alzheimer’s hat set in. “Aliens?”
“Yeah, the wolf pack I lived with was based in the hills of southern New Mexico. About once a month or so, dad and my uncles would go out for a sheep kill, and as they were stalking, they’d run across an undocumented alien who had gotten lost. He didn’t stand a chance. It was sure a great change of pace from sheep, and I always got the ankle.”
I think class tomorrow is going to be real interesting.

 

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Broken Fish, The Dubious Science Of Hazel Capon

Dr. Hazel Capon was deeply concerned. The funding for project “Broken Fish” was running out, and without significant results in the next four months, it was unlikely the Flugler Foundation would continue its support of her work.

Dr. Capon was the only ichthyo-orthopod in the country specializing in rib injuries to broken salt-water fish. Her previous work with crustacean amputees led to the development of “Capon’s Leg,” a salt-powered prosthesis that allowed amputee crabs to sidle normally, had vaulted her to fame in the marine biology surgical world and opened the funding wallets for new research. The people at Flugler poured millions into the Broken Fish project, hoping to be associated with new, cutting-edge surgical techniques for repairing shattered fish bones. But now, two years later, the foundation trustees were rethinking their position. Without the slightest hint of a breakthrough from Capon’s work, they were considering moving the foundation’s funds to a group that was doing groundbreaking work on alleviating pre-menstrual stress in bison. If that happen, Hazel’s once-proud standing in the fish field would suffer considerably.

Dr. Hazel Capon faced a dilemma, a moral dilemma. She knew exactly what the problem was that was hindering her research, she knew it two months after project Broken Fish began, and she knew how to solve it. By solving it, however, she would have to cross a line she wasn’t sure she could cross.

The problem, Hazel learned early on, was that fish seldom received rib injuries. Occasionally, a high-powered speedboat piloted by a drunken fat guy from Minnesota would slam into a carp and snap a rib, but usually resulted in the quick demise of the fish. Other than that, fish just didn’t seem to break ribs…unless…unless you punched them. That was Hazel’s problem; should she start beating up fish and get more money, or admit she screwed up and slink off to obscurity? To make matters worse, Dr. Hazel Capon was born under the sign of Pisces.

Unwilling to become an ichthyo-terrorist, Dr. Capon told the Flugler Foundation her research was proving to be “going nowhere” and closed down the Broken Fish project. She has since changed her specialty to gastropod psychiatry.

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My Eating Utensils Shamed Me

Several weeks ago, I sat down at the dining room table to a meal consisting of corn on the cob, small red potatoes, and a nicely marbled rib-eye steak. After slathering I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter on the corn, I picked up my fork in my left hand and my serrated steak knife in my right. I plunged the tines of the fork into the steak, and as I was about to draw the knife across the end of the meat, a flash of light from the overhead fixture glinted off the knife and blinded me momentarily. In that brief moment of blindness, I heard, “Are you sure you want to do this?” The voice was acute and clearly male.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room. There was no one else present but me. “Hello,” I said. “Anyone here?”

“Yeah, I’m down here,” the voice answered. It came from the table.

I looked down and thought for a second that the meat was talking to me. I poked it with my fork; it was definitely dead. “Over here,” the sharp voice called from my right. I slowly moved my eyes to the right and noticed the knife in my hand was quivering. The knife spoke. “Yeah, it’s me, your knife. I’m sorry to interrupt your supper, but I think you might want to reconsider eating this meat.”

“Yeah, me too,” chimed in my fork. Its voice was unmistakably feminine.

“Did I take my medication this morning,” I wondered aloud. I then remembered downing them with my morning coffee. I decided it would probably be fine to join this discussion so I asked, “Why shouldn’t I eat this steak? It’s dead, it’s cooked, and I really love the taste of a good steak.”

“Well for starters,” lectured my knife, “your cholesterol is a little high. Red meat—actually any kind of meat—can raise your bad cholesterol. You seem to have forgotten your doctor said she was going to put you on some meds if you didn’t lower your cholesterol. Yet, here you are, about to stuff your face with dead cow. You’re pathetic.”

“No I’m not; my dog is path….”

“Give it a rest,” cried my fork. “Speaking of dogs, would you eat one of your dogs or cats? Would you blow a hole in their head with a compressed air gun and make spaghetti and Italian greyhound meatballs?”

“That’s sick.”

“Would you eat a cat burger?”

“Alright, you can stop it right now.”

“The point is,” said my knife, “you wouldn’t eat those animals because you know them and know they are self aware, possess some intelligence, and they’re cute. Lambs are cute, cows are cute, yet you eat them.”

“Yeah, but….”

“Butt head.”

“So, are you telling me I should become a vegetarian?”

“Duh. Look, maintaining a vegetarian lifestyle is better for your health. You won’t be contributing to the needless slaughter of millions of your fellow creatures. There are lots of other reasons, including economic ones, environmental ones and others, but we’ll go into those later. Right now, put me down, walk away, and go eat some tofu.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I whined. “Listen, I’ll give your argument consideration, but I’ve already got this fine piece of meat in front of me, and I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“If you try to cut into that steak, I’m going to stab you,” my knife warned. By this time, my dogs had wandered in. Suddenly, my knife began rapidly cutting bits of steak while my fork tossed them to the dogs. In no time, my meal had disappeared.

Since that day, I’ve been working my way into a vegetarian diet. I do cheat. When I feed the dogs, I steal a spoonful of Natural Balance canned food for myself. It tastes like chicken.

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A Great Political Essay Ruined By Gophers

I

I’ve been fighting some seriously hot and humid Texas ennui, but I was determined to sit down at the computer this morning and write. My plan was to write an essay about why I am so disenchanted with my county at the moment.
Sure, I was going to rant about Donald Trump and his gang of thieves, predators and uber-Nazis, but as bad as our president is, I wasn’t going to lay all the blame for America’s decline on him. I was also going to lament the sad fact that the Democratic Party that charged into a majority in Bush’s first  has done nothing but jerk off the American public. I thought about mentioning the latest escalation of surveillance laws Bush wanted and a lot of Democrats voted for or the “non-binding resolutions” the ‘crats trot out to make it look like they are actually doing something about the war.
But, I wasn’t going to stop at Republicans and Democrats or any other political party. I had a lot of arrows to sling at the American public for putting up with all this shit. Points were going to be made about how we sit around with iProducts shoved in our heads watching imploding starlets on television while the economy is ready to crumble and political candidates put on dog and pony shows.
It was going to be good stuff, and you would have probably said, “Jeez, that  can write his ass off, and he’s damn erudite and insightful.” Unfortunately, before I sat down at the computer in my offfice, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could easily come and go to the pool. When I did sit down, I heard a weird noise, turned towards the door and saw a small group of gophers, about 10 or 12 of them. They were carrying tiny swords and automatic weaponry and wore headgear that resembled a buffalo’s skull. Even in my world, it was an unusual sight.
Before I could utter a sound, one of the diminutive creatures stepped forward, raised his sword, and said, “We are Viking gophers from hell, and we command you not to write.”
What could I do? The dogs were no help. In fact, they were hiding under the deck. It was too damn hot to get into a melee with armed rodents, so I surrendered. “Hey,” I said, “no problem. Look, I’m turning off the computer.”
When they saw the screen flicker and die, the Viking gophers retreated, shouting Norwegian war cries and scurrying through the back fence.
I’m sorry you had to miss a great essay.

(c) Mike Hood 2017

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Umlauts Can’t Save The World

She wants Belgium waffles and a Bob Marley joint. “You won’t find them here,” the nose-studded shopkeeper said. Her face rose to the next octave of color, and she danced with an alpaca’s tooth in her hand until dizzy. “Polly Sumatra just doesn’t understand me,” she complained loudly as she fled from the shop. I followed. She floated up the boulevard, black hair trailing in the slipstream, finally stopping in front of The Word Store. I approached cautiously as she peered through the display window. Standing next to her, I coughed, and she turned to look at me. Her electric blue eyes were almost painful to observe. I cleared my throat again and asked, “Do you need a word?”
“I need a whole sentence,” she replied in a cherry-colored voice with a half-smile on her lips.
I wasn’t prepared for her answer, and I stared too long at her cleavage while thinking of something to say. “Uh…I….””
“Are you a vulgarian?” she interrupted my stammering.
“Why yes, I am,” I said, regaining some composure.
“Oh,” she whispered, “cool. Do you have an umlaut I can borrow for a few days?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’ve got several extras, I’ll be happy to give you one.” I pawed around in my shoulder bag, and my hand emerged with a shiny, mint-condition umlaut which I handed her.
“Wow, thanks. That’s a very nice umlaut. Now, I’d like to offer you something in return.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, “It was my pleasure.”
“I insist,” she said. “You name it, anything you want.”
I thought for a bit then said, “I’d like peace on Earth.”
She handed me the umlaut back and walked on up the boulevard.

(c) Mike Hood 2017