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The essence and stuff of life itself.

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Good morning, World.

There must have been something in the (non-carcinogenic) coffee this morning. I have this urge. I want to author a long, rambling manifesto that may someday be found in scattered loose-leaf format covered with mouse droppings in some shotgun shack up in the hills, to be marveled-over by sociologists and ruminated-upon by long-lost former acquaintances who will say, "He always seemed like such a NICE boy ..." 

This planet is going to heck in a handmaiden's handbasket. Didn't they say that in that book?

What strikes me personally is that those people -- those human beings -- were participating in some of the activities that are engaged in while, you know, LIVING. They were dancing, and laughing, and relishing the company of their partners and loved-ones. They were holding hands and hugging one another. Their eyes were bright and their hearts were a-flutter. For a short time, they were in love with life, they were in love with each other, and they found a way to be in love with themselves -- something that is very rare and precious, especially for those whose very existence is so often and so easily condemned by the savagely, brutally ignorant. These human beings were living and loving, then ... BOOM. How fragile we are.

Again, and again-and-again-and-again, this outrage, this tsunami in the Force, is perpetuated by the piling-on of more outrage -- outrage upon outrage. There are those warped souls that will shine their sick light upon these twisted occurrences and trumpet, "SEE!?! I TOLD YOU SO!!" They will ... justify. They will justify their warped myopia by clarifying the darkness that shrouds their own profound ignorance. It's happening right now. It's happening right there in your own neighborhoods. You can see it with your own eyes right over there on that other site. Move to the Dark Side.

I'll confess to gaining a selfish kernel of nourishment, having my own notorious infamy remembered, perhaps with some degree of quirky fondness, over there. I've revisited the archives of my own -ahem- contributions prior to the insurrection. Pretty tame stuff, actually; and some of you may be willing to recall that my own Waterloo was an observation about cinnamon toast, of all things. As I've stipulated, my penchant was for the nonsensical, and I've offered all manner of lame excuses over the years for the type of metaphorical jalopy I drive.

That being said, my heart has always been on my sleeve, and my moral outrage tipped when the hatred of one specific "evangelical" individual permitted her own vitriol to flood. She hates "queers", and embroiders her inchoate hatred in some kind of a phoaquine "gawd" thing. And it's being shat-out again. Well, I never. I actually received a friendly fend-off, from one of our own (genuinely respected and honored!) contributors, who kindly and accurately pointed-out that all I was doing was, in as many words, pissing on a conflagration of true insanity fueled by incendiary hate. Yep, you were quite right, K.

Estoy uno plombero. A working stiff. Absolutely fundamentally unimpressed by any notions of a Great Big Invisible White Man in the Sky hovering over my house or anybody else's house. As awestruck by the existence of pathogens as by a magnificent sunset. Pretty much uninspired by all but maybe 467 of the 7 billion people crapping on this planet -- even myself more-or-less half the time. But I'm egalitarian and pragmatic and I know how to put tinker-toys together to make poo-poo go away kinda sorta forever. I hate that shite!

Actually my job is to wrap ribbons around dreams, and not even my clients get that. I make sanctuary. I make the bad things go right down the drain, but it's much more than that. That sanctuary is where little Bobby gets his boo-boo washed off, and his tears dry and he smiles again. Melissa learns of her own Goddess nature as she comes to grips with her menses. Spanky discovers the euphoria and shame of his other appendage. Mom and Dad cavort in a fancy bathtub and seeds are fertilized. Visiting siblings use cool water to wash the grief from their faces when confronted with the passing of elderly parents. Sanctuary. This kind of sanctuary works for everybody. What we all seek. Sanctuary is sought-after in the home, in the churches (and temples and synagogues and ashrams and mosques and ...), in the wilderness, in wherever we most sense the beating of our own hearts. It's why you moved to Panama.

We seek sanctuary, and the next thing you know, "They" come and muck it up. That's right, "Them." We all know who they are. They're different, alien, queer, strange, and a lot of 'em speak gibberish. Of course, you're stoo-pud, so MY notion of who "Them" is happens to be more encompassing and comprehensive than yours. If only you weren't so damned ignorant, we'd all be better off.

Meanwhile, over there, they're dukin'-it-out just like the glory days of Lee's tenure. There are accusations, name-calling, spats, rhubarbs, imbroglios, wrestling-matches, and verbal fisticuffs. And wouldn't you know, gawd is right there in the middle of it. Gawd -- the ultimate politician. And since gawd made the guns, Bob's yer uncle.

Like I mentioned, I'm a plumber. I know from tools, and I gotta bunch of 'em. Guns? Whoa, Charles, I gotta mess o' guns! I got screw guns, nail guns, staple guns, and even powder-actuated fastening systems. I got glue guns and caulking guns. Susan even sez I got "nice guns" -- my manly biceps. All these guns have very specific uses -- for instance, you wouldn't want to try to use a pneumatic nail gun to affix glitter to your tutu, you'd want to use your hot-glue gun. Am I right? I've even got a drill motor called a "Hole Shooter". It's used for drilling larger holes through wood (BORING!!), but it doesn't exactly "shoot" them, you really gotta work that puppy to shove it through! Maybe that's why I've got "nice guns". Every tool has its functional purpose. I've got other guns, too. Weapons. You know what their functional purpose is? To kill people. Well, you could say that they could be used for killing "varmints", but 9 times out of 10, those varmints would be ... people. I'm a "good" people, so in my case, my guns would be used for killing "bad" people. It's fun, and extremely practical, to go to the gun range and practice firing one's weapons, but guess what? Even the targets are people-shaped. Your instructor teaches you to aim for "center mass". I mean, do varmints even have center mass? Varmints ARE center mass. 

I have my guns to kill bad people if they come into my house. I've learned that if bad people come into my house, I'm to loudly yell that I have a gun, the police have been called, but the bad guy better get out because I will kill them. I'm not afraid in the slightest -- the odds that some bad guy is going to break into my house are infinitesimally small -- but I'm not going to mention that to folks that have been invaded. If some ******* breaks into my house intent on doing harm to myself, or to Susan, or to our dogs, or to Susan's fish "Finny", I sincerely hope that I have the balls to kill them dead. Frankly, I would wish that I had some kind of a magic potion so that I could kill them dead, revive them, kill them again, like, seventeen times, and put it on Bad Guy YouTube so that bad guys the world over would realize that if they insist upon being bad guys, somebody was going to kill them dead seventeen times. 

Children can't get my guns, I'm not going to accidentally shoot the milk-man, I don't get drunk and play with my weapons ... at least, not THOSE weapons -- and I'm pretty sure that Susan doesn't have any inclination to off me (yet). We do practice from time-to-time, and dutifully notify the neighbors so they don't freak out. I did pop-off the shotgun in the wee hours one morning to scare-off a durned bear that was harassing the dogs, but I wasn't even aiming at him.

I don't belong to the NRA, but my gun-nut buddies who do don't seem to mind. I don't think that Obama is going to come take my guns. I'm not going to vote for Drump, cuz he is simply a common, gutter-level *******. I actually think that most politicians are ********, but I've been known to vote for what I personally consider to be a lesser-grade *******. Yes, guns are tools, but I won't buy false equivalencies that "cars kill more people" because cars aren't actually engineered to kill people. In my opinion, I don't actually need thirty rounds to kill the bad guy breaking into my house, but there are those who do, and I know I'm not going to be breaking into THEIR houses. I honestly hope that if they go berserk and start shooting innocent people at Mickey-D's or the mall that somebody blows them away before they kill anybody, because they're insane, and I don't give a rat's ass what they call the Great Big Invisible Man in the Sky that poured the spiders into their heads. I hate those bastards, and I hate the twisted bastards that become so adept at pouring bucket-loads of spiders into other people's heads. I hate bad guys! I hope they get dead! I hate haters! See where I'm going with that irony-thing? I HATE HATERS.

Actually, they'd better not outlaw guns, cuz I want a bazooka! That's right, a Rocket-Propelled Grenade Launcher! It's my right! (Just kidding, NSA!)

Whew. I feel better, don't you? Let's get together for refreshment. I could do some more boring! Just don't come around in the wee hours without announcing yourself, cuz, well, I might whip-out my hot glue gun in strict, um, adherence to protocols.

Whatever you choose to do, whoever you choose to vote for, even if it's the World's Biggest *******, be gay! One way or the other, be totally and wholly gay!


Your friend in auto-immune defenses, diatribes, and pointless manifestos,

Davitt M. Armstrong

Durango, Colorado, not Panama

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A note of explanation is warranted here. CL has an automatic filter for a small set of "bad words". It is called the profanity filter.

Where you see a string of asterisks ("****") in WryAwry's above text, that is the result of the profanity filter doing its thing. There is no personal (meaning subjective) review and decision; it is a simple, direct, automated, and immediate removal of certain words.

The words on the profanity list are, by policy, not shared. Prior experience says that only causes arguments.

Yes, there are ways to trick the algorithm, but we leave that as an exercise for those with nothing better to do with their time.

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10 minutes ago, Penny said:

Ooops, wrote this before I read the entire diatribe where he says he's a plumber so there's no big revelation there.

Maybe no revelation, but there certainly is a revealing.

I just could not resist.  9_9

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