Dear Diary

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Day 1: Hello, I Must be Going… ♬

I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going... ♬

So, stow’d-away and on the move, I’m going. So far, no one knows I’m here – so far. It’s plenty dark but there’s plenty of room. And I’ll be needing it. Soon.

From a second floor one bath walk-up with “…no closets” to a very Brady 60’s sitcom suburban split-level with tire swing and “…nosy neighbors”. He wants to pee on a tree without prying eyes sneaking peeks. She’s happy to have nosy neighbors.

Twenty-three… my new lucky Lotto pick, got me to be me. No, not Groucho. But for now, just call me X.

…or rather Double-X.

Day 18: Here in My Heart

There is goes again… a little bit louder now. It’s got a nice beat, but it won’t dance. Was gonna complain (but didn’t know who to) till it dawned on me… Oh, that’s me, silly.

Yeah… that’s me alright, and it’s not. Alright. Someone I don’t wanna be is someone who’s always right or always got to be. And too – too quick to complain, too abrupt to judge, and too flying off the handle. The broom handle.

Broom Hilda’s broom handle.

Why is it when everyone… . No, scratch that. Why is it why I jump to a conclusion, it’s usually the wrong one? Need another healthy helping of the Fruits... love, joy, Peaches and Herb, Raisinets, plus one more…

Graciousness: Yeah, that really is the heart of the matter.

Week 3: The Scheme of Things

Daddy wants to get ready, momma’s fussin’ over the hue… pink or blue. Some guy dad calls the four-eyed bald guy wants to know if’n they want to know.

Dad said yes, momma said no.

Day 30: …and I’ll Name the Dogs

Lately I’ve been getting a earful of everything. I mean, everything!

Curious George at the Firehouse
The Stinky Cheeseman, and of course…
How to Balance and Blueprint a Chevy Small-Block 350

(…sometimes dad reads aloud.)

Today Momma was reading from First Samuel. That’s when he told she that she was not. Not Hannah. But I think she thinks she is or wants to be. So, what does that make me? …an answer to prayer.

“𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐒𝐚𝐦. 𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐚𝐦.”  King James meets Green Eggs and Ham

Good thing she wasn’t reading Hamster Huey and the Gooey Kablooie.

Day 42: Pooh for Thoughts

“Sometimes I sits and thinks and sometimes I just sits.”  Winnie the–

Week 8: Got Pizza?

And hopefully within buggy strolling distance. ‘Cuz… we won’t be able to just call and have one delivered.

Those nationally franchised drive-thru’s spinning neon tiles and toga-draped Romans slice up some saucy substance to be consumed with two liter’d high-fructose corn syrup and plasticware (delivered in thirty minutes or less by guys who lick pork rind bags).

Not pizza.

And those cardboard discs stacked at minimum wage in Stop & Shop’s frost bite aisle? whatever they were, at zero degrees they ceased to be. Yeah… gluttony may be a sin but frozen pizza is sacrilege.

That’s right, I said it.

Sure… the Interstate gets you from point A to where you want to be in socially-distanced climate-controlled ease, but you’ll never see the covered bridges, old stone churches, and antique shops that color the local scenery of the two lane blacktop.

Fast food is just a destination. Pizza is a journey, not dough coated with tomato sauce, cheese, and choice of toppings.

…could be, but not.

Not unless baked in wood-fired brick-oven downtown with indecipherable accents, no parking, and fewer tables. An aromatic symphony must be experienced, not summoned by emoji and tracked on an app. Order in person. Pay in cash.

Don’t call ahead
Don’t request delivery
Don’t ask how much

…you can, but don’t. Not if you want a pizza.

Week 8½: Think Pink

Zzzzzzzzzzzz… snorx.

Momma’s asleep, dozing off somewhere between “The Return of…” and “…Strikes Again”.

No, not Star Wars.

Daddy’s still up. So, it’s up to us to finish the mini-midnight Blake Edwards film fest. Daddy is… quietly that is… detailing the scene-by-scene comedy scheme.

Clouseau: “Duz your dawg bite?”
Hotel Clerk: “No.”
Grrrr-arr-arrRR-aRRR!
Clouseau: “I thought you said your dawg did not bite.”
Hotel Clerk: “That is not my dog.”

(…way too funny.)

Now, if the bumbling Inspector were on the “The Trail of…” my Pink tail, there’d be lots fewer sequels. I’d be quite easy to follow anywhere because I’d leave pawfuls of telltale clues everywhere – stinky, smelly, covered in snot…

Fingerprints.

They may identify me or betray me but do not belong to me. Unique and never duplicated, they are the mark of the 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭.

Mom and Dad have syndication rights.

Week 9: What’s on First?

A thumb! Finally something I can use.

And just in time: Dad bought and oiled a mitt for me. If’n it’ll keep him from redoing that whole Bud & Lou routine, I’m up for some spittin’ and scratchin’.

Hopefully it won’t come to that.

No, dad, What’s on second.
“I’m not asking you Who’s on second.”
Who’s on first.
“I don’t know… third base!”

Father’s Day: To be or not

To honor all fathers, Pastor O’ asked all the fathers to stand. But daddy glued to his pew said he wouldn’t – said he wasn’t. Yet. Momma’s red n’white stiletto left his shin with a black n’blue tattoo.

Good for momma.

Week 11: Just Practicing to be a Comic Strip Kid 

Month 4: Texas Two-Step sorta

Momma mistook my toe-tapping and twirls for something slightly more three-quarter-ish waltzy or pirouette-ic.

Uh-oh. Stay tuned.

Month 4½: I’m that Kinda Girl ♬

So, momma paused and re-shuffled her Inane Eighties playlist to include some culture and refinement and other sucky stuff: Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and Leopold Stokowski.

…and their bands.

(…as if Doc Suess weren’t enough) which begs a coupla questions:

First: What is 𝐆𝐫𝐨ß𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟ü𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫?
…and Second: Who cares?

Dad’s flavor of “classics” tastes more like Texas BBQ and red Solo cups. And out on the road… redneck rules – my ride, my radio: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Charlie Daniels, the Brothers Bellamy and Marshall Tucker.

…and their bands.

Momma threatens to walk.

Well… hopefully our 60’s sitcom split-level is within cork-huskin’ distance of some Amplitude Modulated Hee-Haw fiddlin’ and banjo pickin’, ‘cuz the only longhair ceoncerto-ing I wanna hear is Patty Loveless, Patsy Cline, and Bugs Bunny.

…and their bands.

Momma may never forgive daddy.

Month 6: Willlll-maaaaaaaa!

Saturday morning’s cutie pie was clearly a paint chip off the ol’ Flintstone. Conveniently so – Fred woulda blown his Bedrock top if Pebbles’ ponytail was crayon’d anything but Hanna-Barbera orange.

But momma’s blown-dry chestnut mane is anything but like mine, so my debut may take some getting used to.

Month 7: “＠⋕$％⌃＆⁎ǃ–𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬!”

I’m still a little foggy on the why to, but I’m fairly clear on the how to… double-clutchin’ the unsynch’d gearbox on that ol’ fifty-seven stepside. Yeah, daddy may not always think I’m mindin’ but I am listening. Like when he sez…

The meek may inherit but the world is full of idiots
Prayer time is not me-time
Count your change, Respect your enemy, and of course…
Zip your fly before leaving the john

And if I ever find myself on Jeopardy!…

“I’ll take Da History of Da Bears for two-hundred, please.”

But every so often, he’ll spout something to which momma shrieks back something fierce – something about me running off with bikers. He may be right but why take that chance, she whispers when he’s out of earshot.

She’s a lady. He’s no gentleman. But she’s okay with that.

Me, too.

Thanksgiving Leftovers: Let’s Eat Grandma

The phone rang: Momma’s worried.

She’s pacing. Now she’s stopped. No, she’s pacing again, pacing and reading, reading Psalm 46:10. But she’s reading it wrong. It’s not:

𝐁𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

There’s a comma there, momma. I know you can’t see it in the original punctuation-free Hebrew – it’s silent. You hafta read it like the grainy subtitles of those old black n’whites. So read it, momma – read it right:

𝐁𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 [𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚] 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

Be still, comma.
Be still, momma.
Be still.

…𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐆𝐨𝐝.

Mid-December: We Wish You the Merriest… ♬

The tree is beautiful. Must be. Momma’s sashaying back n’forth and all about with trimmings of popcorn strings, blinking LEDs, and chimney stockings, as carols (corny and classic) waft in and out: Bing and Perry, Mannheim Steamroller, The Muppets… so, I know she’s happy.

Daddy’s happy, too – he’s watching football (and helping out by keeping out of the way).

Now he’s barking along with the Jingle Bell dogs, as fourth n’goal gets pre-empted by a Please Stay Tuned… TV time-out for sidekick Linus and Charlie Brown’s classic holiday cartoon:

“𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲… 𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝.” 𝐋𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝟐:𝟏𝟏

That’s my favorite part.

Momma pauses with this Coke-and-a-smile sigh, then fondly trips through memories and reminiscings of my first Christmas, next Christmas.

Not me. I’m enjoying this one.

Day 273: Aquarius with Stuffed Crust Rising

♪ “Let the sunshine! Let the sunshine in your heart shine in…! ♬ Everybody – all together now! Sing with me! ♪ Let the sunshine…! ♬ Hey! Wait a minute! Watch what you’re grabbing there – unhand me!”

If they didn’t like my noise, they shoulda just said so! And oh, the indignity of it all. I’m trying to keep a sense of humor but… buck naked and ankle hoisted high above the padded-cell applause of a herd of antiseptic in-laws, then heinie slapped by that upside-down four-eyed bald guy!

＠⋕$％⌃＆⁎ǃ–𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐬

Dad was surprised. Mom said she knew. My curls are cherry, but my room’s painted this boyish hue. So, while me and mommy do some mommy and me, dad’s off to the Big Orange Depot for a bucket of Panther Pink.

…and a pizza.

Hmmmm… January 22nd. You just gotta love pepperoni with a slice of irony.

3:10 to Yuma
Her life will never be same again. But this is not the story’s end. This is just a new destination.

Free Parking
This is why we can’t have nice things. Everyone thinks they’ve the right to take them from you.

Free Parking

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This is why we can’t have nice things. Everyone thinks they’ve the right to take them from you.

With a simple roll of the dice the corner stop n’ shop becomes a grab n’ go. Now the biggest loser has everyone’s loot (but doesn’t know why), downtown’s a ghost town, the train depots are deserted, and there’s nothing left to buy.

…not because of a some monopoly, but democracy. Scoop n’ Steal is still America’s all-time favorite house rule. Even broke, everyone and their neighbor’d vote for it again.

So, with hats and shoes all packed into their tiny race cars, the rest of majority-rules fools set out in search of Trouble, Sorry! or Hungry Hungry Hippos. Leaving behind…

Foreclosed houses
Shuttered hotels, and…
Emptied jails (No cash bail: Just roll doubles)

When shopkeeps have to lock-up even the thimbles and flat irons… yeah,  the game is pretty much over.

Well… almost. There is still one monopoly left in play:

The Li’l Red Schoolhouse

“Free education for all children in government schools. Let there be necking in the parlor and dancing in the streets.”
Karl Marx meets Groucho

The tenth plank of Marx’s Manifesto (…that would be Karl not Groucho) called for an educational free-for-all giving tenured tyrants a free hand to fill days on end for weeks on end with soul-sucking lessons in:

• Profit is theft
• America is racist, and of course…
• White men are evil

Lesson One: If Ol’ MacDonald had a farm with too many cows in his barn, what would be the nursery rhyme’d remedy to this white (and black) supremacy?

Liberalism: Steal the milk
Socialism: Steal the cows
Communism: Shoot the cows
Black Lives Matter: Shoot Ol’ MacDonald

…E-I-E-I-O ♬

Of course, nowhere in this marxist manure would be the capitalist notion of simply selling off some moos to buy a bull.

(…and that cows and bulls use different stalls.)

Also absent from the lesson plans is that all their infamous “isms” have fabulously failed everywhere everytime they’ve been tried: The former Soviet states, Cuba, Venezuela, and (…that’s right boys and girls!) Plymouth.

In order to secure funding for their voyage to the New World, the Pilgrims were forced to live by a form of socialism (informally known as: 𝚻𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧) and in a land flowing with milk and honey, the settlement nearly starved to death.

But they all lived happily ever after when the commie concept was finally scrapped by their Governor (and our hero) William Bradford.

Maybe Gov-Ed’s thought police assumed Brother Bradford was a Trump supporter and pooh-poohed the classic tale as just so-much MAGA. And (as the oft-used quip goes) when you assume, you make a democrat’s heinie out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.

Give a kid a fish and he’ll stink for a day.
Teach a kid to steal fish and the stinker will vote democrat for the rest of his life.

Of course, shoplifting ain’t really “stealing” stealing: Waltzing outa Walmart with a 4k 1080p HD thin screen is simply wealth redistribution for the culturally oppressed, aggrieved minorities, and victims of corporate greed.

Reparations: The new Get Outa Jail Free card

Well, sure… takin’ something belonging to someone else is wrong (especially if you get caught) but referring to it as… uhm… the ‘S’ word might be just a little too 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝚻𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. After all, you-know-what presumes some carved in stone right an’ wrong, and 𝚻𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 was expelled from the game a long time ago. So…

No Thou shalt Nots
No Do unto Others
No Love thy Neighbor

…just take the money and run.

Or don’t run. Fleeing is consciousness of guilt. And players have no guilt because they have no God. Well, not the 𝐆𝐨𝐝… not the 𝐈 𝐀𝐦.

The god of the palm-worshipers is a woman: Alexa hears their playful prayers and divinely grants them high-speed heavenly access to their heart’s desires and forbids them not.

“And whatsoever feeleth good to thee, just doeth it.”
Colossians something BKE (Burger King Edition)

So, why are we surprised when the pee-pee’rs loot and pillage Boardwalk and Park Place?

Legalized Theft

What else would you call taxing the few more for less so the rest can pay less for more? Nothing else is done this way.

A gallon of milk beep a dozen eggs beep a pound of bacon boop and a tin of coffee. Whirrrr… That’ll be Nine-thousand nine-hundred seventy-three dollars and fifty-three cents. Plus the Biden-Harris Biohazard Tax.

…bacon grease?

No, your diesel sucking stepside.

Even flattening the lumpy code into a single rate, the rich would still pay more for benefits they would never want to use, than those sopping-up those benefits… for which they could never hope to pay.

The Founder’s idea of fairness was for everyone to pay the same. Not the same rate…

The same amount.

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐈 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝚾 constitutionalized any financial responsibility for the shared benefit of all to be shared equally by all. But equality was outlawed by Marx and Engel’s 𝟏𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭: Fairness and equity for me but not for thee.

…welcome to the farm, animals.

Why tax income at all? We should tax stuff we don’t want, like potlucks.

At a church social, a sign at the head of line advised: “𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟ֽ. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫̦ 𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.″ But a hand-scrawled post-it left down on the empty dessert tray noted: “𝚻𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭ֽ. 𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐭ֽ″

Well… piety like democracy is a mile wide and pie crust deep.

After all, what is democracy? except the majority voting themselves a forkful of their neighbor’s entrée while charging them for the privilege. And the first rule of democracy is… there are no rules. Just crumbs of graham cracker.

But if it’s a 𝚻𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 to steal from someone, and a 𝚻𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 to steal for someone, then you darn-well know it’s a 𝚻𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 to vote for someone to 𝚻𝐡𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 for you.

Amen.

Not For Nothing

Still… it’s not enough to say nothing is free. Everything has a price including Free Parking. And someone must pay.

…though not necessarily in cash. Unearned presidential trading paper is just monopoly money: It’s free, not nearly as colorful, and worth even less.

“He who steals my purse steals trash… and a cherry lip gloss, half a banana, and a two-for-one coupon at Bob’s Burger Barn.”
William Shakespeare meets Erma Bombeck

Pack rats are nature’s takers, but they always leave something in return. Because to value what is gained, something of value must be given.

Two-legged rats just take.

Ride it like you stole it. Thomas Paine (…sorta)

Well, he might have…  had he opened a novelty t-shirt outlet. Instead he penned it like this: “What we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value.”

Theft not only devalues what is stolen but also who. What is stolen can be returned but cannot be unstolen. So, the thief, unable to redeem himself, remains a thief.

“But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8

And the parking is free.

I’m That Kind of Girl ♬
Painting expressions of warmth and harmony, or dancing like nobody’s watching and singing like Kathy Mattea.

Let’s Eat Grandma
Hold up on that blue haired buffet, we need a quick powwow with the shoot eating panda.

It’s Groundhog Day (…again)

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“Okay campers, rise and shine! And don’t forget your booties because it’s cold out there!”

“Nice going, boys. You’re playing yesterday’s tape.”

“…but the big question on everybody’s lips – their chapped lips, is – do you think Phil is gonna see his shadow? That’s right woodchuck chuckers, it’s Groundhog Day!”

“Again? It’s still just once a year, isn’t it?”

And you know what that means – every morning for the next four weeks you will be rudely awakened by the same ol’ tune.

No, not Sonny & Cher

“Off to enjoy the festivities?”

You bet! But first… take a knee in atonement for our national whiteout. Oh, and uh… participation is mandatory. Then…

Ice Sculpture Toppling: Jefferson and Columbus are always real crowd pleasers, along with General Lee (or Brenda Lee, Bruce Lee, Lee Meriwether…).

Three-legged Loot and Sack Chase: All plunder not to exceed a felony may be kept following No-Bail No-Jail revolving door arraignment.

The Great White Skittle ®™ Scavenger Hunt: Non-woke white folk (preferably rednecks), townhall “domestic terrorists” protesting classroom CRT, and for Bonus points Trump votin’ Oreos.

“Am I upsetting you, princess? You want a prediction – I’ll give you a prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be gray, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.”

No, not winter.

It wasn’t that long ago, we could argue politics in the pews and religion in the stands and still find common ground in those things which bound us together:

Stars and Stripes
Balls and strikes
…the weather in Punxsutawney

But not today – all  our churches, channels, and children are segregated into Fruity Pebble’d identity camps, and no one can pick a snowball fight without first singing everyone’s personal anthem (except the white one, of course). But then, that’s the pledge of Unwhite History Month – hyphenated allegiance.

No, not unity.

I have a dream! that one day my people will use their skin color to become Blue Wall demonstrators, gas n’go pillagers, statue topplers… .
No, not Martin Luther King Jr.

“Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah… there is no way this is ever gonna end!”

What a snow job. Race hustlers and master-baiters preach diversity and sing of rainbows but their Great Replacement Theory is strictly black ice:

America sucks
White men are evil
and of course… Cop lives don’t matter

They sneer at the world through their cheap souvenir snowglobes and see nothing but identical flakes, then like freaks of nature set out to destroy everything that offends them – everything that is not them: Columbus Day, Chik-fil-A, The Dukes of Hazzard… .

Yeah, the truth hurts.
The truth nobody wants to hear is hate.

And when hate fails to unify, the solution is to plow under whoever’s left standing – whoever’s not protected by Diversity, Equity, and Pregnant Man Emoji …which is easier than facing the real problem – the racist in the mirror.

“Did you ever have déjà vu?”

insanity |in-‘sa-nɘ-te| noun: Voting democrat year after year and expecting a different result

In 1863, Lincoln liberated the Southern plantations of greed. But every first Tuesday following the first Monday, the children of the chained sell “…their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor” back to the democrat’s inner-city plantations of convenience for the promise of free stuff:

Free food
Free housing
Free money
Free education

And on every street corner… a Walmart, Walgreens, or Wendy’s for their smash n’grab convenience.

“In the end they will lay their freedom at our feet and say… make us your slaves, but feed us Chicken McNuggets.”
Fyodor Dostoevsky’s  The Grand Inquisitor meets Ronald McDonald

[Jeopardy music plays softly]

Answer: Always having to say you’re sorry (over and over again).
Question: What is Critical Race Theory?

No, not Groundhog Day

“What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn’t one today!”

We learn too late, so every day ends the same way. Racism is a heart issue, which cannot be treated by bleeding whoever doesn’t look like you. Crime and poverty are not caused by a lack of opportunity, equality, or money…

But a lack of God

So, there will be no tomorrow until the closed fist is replaced by an open hand; the Golden Rule, a few Beatitudes, and Love thy Neighbor. The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

“Is it too early for flapjacks?”

Click!  ♪…then put your little hand in mine.
There ain’t no hill or mountain we can’t climb.
Babe.
I got you babe.
I got you babe… . ♬

Sonrise
Load up a Remington 870 with double-aught zombie repellant and ᴜɴsᴜʙsᴄʀɪʙᴇ ᴀʟʟ into granola bits.

Square Pegs
If want your square to be a square, then you need to let him wear his own pants.

R is for Redskins

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Not for rose. But what’s in a name?

A shadow vaults a fortress wall then steals silently through a forbidden grove to the castle of his enemy. On a moonlit balcony unaware, a fair maiden appears. She speaks:

“O Melvin, Melvin, wherefore art thou Melvin?”  Melvin & Juliet – Scene 2 Act 2

Of course, Shakespearean purists will be quick to critique: Juliet wasn’t asking where Melvin was but why he was.

Melvin.

…which he wasn’t.

To thine own self be true but his one true love hated his name though not him, or so she claimed. So, was it any wonder that her romantic misplay “Refuse thy name!” ended in tragedy.

What’s in a name? Would an overall’d farm lad straw hat and cap gun, sneak into a Saturday matinee double-play featuring Marion Morrison in Soggy Oatmeal followed by Not Jane Russell and the Rather Harmless Man?

Not likely.

If a rose were an elephant, would you really want a dozen? What if they were Redskins? or what if Moses supposes his toes were roses… ♬

Opinions ain’t Hollywwood musicals. In a free society, All the world’s a stage and offending someone is inevitable, maybe necessary. The First Amendment not only protects free speech, but guarantees unpopular speech.

Amendment XXVIII: What Right doth Thou have to be Offended?

Constitutional arsonists defiantly deny the downright declarations inked in the Bill of Rights, insisting on silly stuff like… you can’t yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater. But what if there is a fire in the theater? or worse, what if there are…

“Redskins!”

Or what if you just need some devious diversion to rescue other hapless husbands from an evening worse than shakesperean death (…which might be preferable once they’re all discovered down at Mel’s Grill & Ale with a wench in one hand and a pint in the other.)

But with a charred wonderbra in one hand and a nutcracker in the other, society’s Juliets set out to cancel everything that offends them – everything that is not them:

Columbus day
Chik-Fil-A
The Dukes of Hazzard

And without the consent of the fans of Major League Baseball, the Cleveland (no longer the…) Injuns now suit up as dreaded Guardians – door-t’door insurance salesmen striking fear in the hearts of harried housewives everywhere.

What a bunch of pussies we’ve become.

But blinded by their own contempt, the unhinged pink pussyhat brigade failed to also censor the home of the franchise formerly known as the Redskins (a name which is actually older than the team itself) which honors the original white male himself – the one and only redskin-fighting Father of our Nation.

Guess now they’ll hafta move.

The Cowboys will be next – soon to be rebranded as The Beta Male Livestock Managers, followed by the Tampa Bay Semi-Aquatic Wealth Redistributors.

Approved rules package for the new NFL season:

• No tackling without permission
• Quarterbacks will be uniformed in pastel pleated mini-skirts
• Half of winning score differentials credited to each losing un-winning team

…resulting in – you guessed it (and fractions).

The woke League ought to grow a pair and recoin all their teams according to the fantasy protocols found in backroom bars and poolhalls. Something like…

Flaming Rat Breath Snot Nosed Puss Picking Belly-Button Lint Lickers.

…or the new Jets. (Oh, c’mon – this is football: Wear a helmet!)

If changing your name doesn’t change your identity but you change your identity anyway, maybe you should just go ahead and change your name: The National Hm-hmm League – yet another Shakesperean tragedy.

Yeah… the truth hurts.
The truth nobody wants to hear is hate.

But names don’t hate. Hate is not a logo, a monument, or a flag painted on an orange car. Hate is heart issue – yours. You are what you see in others. And when everything you see is hate, hate is everything you see.

So there can be no Redskins, no Dilbert, no Blazing Saddles – not until the closed fist is replaced by an open heart…

The Golden Rule
a few Beatitudes
and Love thy Neighbor

The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

Juliet may have been right about one thing: The Redskins by any other name will still be smelly.

X is for Christmas
If your neighbors accused you of being a Jesus freak, would there be enough evidence in your seasonal display to convict?

Dear Diary
Day 1: Hello, I must be going! I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going… ♬