“OH GOVNO! Give me an Elvis Sandwich please! and hand me the Petri Dish!”

Starts out with scenes 100 years from now, of certain portions of the world deemed unlivable due to the war to end all wars. World War Three, named for the fact that it only lasted for three hours. The surprise nuclear attack by the United Americas (no longer just the United States) devastated much of China, Russia, and the Middle East. This was a huge factor in combating overpopulation of mankind. The person that pushed the red button? Her last name is Trump (great-great-great-grand daughter of the Donald) how bizarre is that? Yes, women are pretty much in control of things by the year 2116. Not so bizarre. Women choose mostly to artificially inseminate when their number is drawn, and men “Spank the Monkey” mostly for the money, if they are selected. The bar is set pretty high if you want to become a “Donor” with things like, intellect, health, physical attributes, etceteras.

Humans have learned how to feed more efficiently, with chemicalized food. No longer cooked, (eaten at room temperature) and no longer grown in the ground. Not pills. That’s too “Sci-Fi”. Future food will look real, taste real, but all food will have the same shitty feel as you bite down. In other words, that Filet Mignon you just ordered will have the same feel in your mouth as that Reese’s Peanut Butter cup. I could get used to the funky texture as long as my steak still tasted medium-rare. Thank God that we eventually learned how to replicate raspberries, and spices like garlic. Water rationing is a normal part of life.

So we have eliminated starvation and famines. One reason for the growth in the world’s population. People are no longer starving to death because we have learned how to manufacture our food quite quickly, and quite inexpensively. Mankind surely could get used to that I guess. Since the whole world has adopted the “one child per couple” law, to help win the war on overpopulation, we all consider life as a very beautiful thing and treat each other kindly.

Which leads to the other reason the planet has become overpopulated. As we evolve and this kindness towards one another becomes the norm, humankind has finally eliminated war and conflict. No wars, no dying. I think one of the other causative factors in the extinction of war, was the eventual coming together as a people, with a one-world system of government. Oh yeah, and World War Three.

Just think. With no more wars, we no longer have the need for…….Let’s say it together, “Weapons of War”. Which means that we have evolved to the point, that weapons no longer exist, all except for the two flintlock pistols (single shot) that are protected like the Holy Grail and used in the “A-MAZE-ING Fight” matches. That means no competing stadiums or arenas, because there are only 2 pistols in existence. It is the only WORLDGOV sanctioned “A-MAZE-ING Fight”, and it moves from city to city all across the globe every two years. Just like the World Olympics used to do many generations ago..

What inspired this post was a few things. The first was something that I heard on a newscast this afternoon. The dude being interviewed stated that (7) million people are born every month on planet Earth. I let that sentence rest for a few hours. Then I opened up my calculator App (you notice I didn’t say I grabbed my calculator, they don’t exist anymore.) So anyway, I tap in the numbers and equations to get to these numbers. 233,333 births every day, 85 million every year. Through-out known history, every so many years, we have a major war or conflict that helps to reduce the rising world population. Natural disasters help as well. I believe that cataclysmic disasters have wiped the planet clean of all life many times in the last billions of years. Wiped the planet clean except for……

Wars and natural disasters are not fun. Perhaps we can come up with a spectator sport that would also help to keep our planet from becoming over-populated? Kill two birds with one stone. Create something that will help balance the increasing population, and give people something to bet on, and to satisfy their inborn lust for blood.

People have been fighting each other for sport ever since the beginning of time. I’m sure that the combatants back in Cave Man days, each had their own sides cheering them on, “Ughh Raggah Daggah!” which translated means, “Kill that Asshole!”.

It’s interesting to see the evolution of boxing from bare-knuckle in the old days, to modern day boxing with gloves, back to bare-knuckle fighting in backyards, with home-made boxing rings, and amateur as well as professional Mixed Martial Arts matches on prime time TV and pay-per-view filling huge arenas.

Instead of a MMA cage, how about we put two dudes in a bulletproof thermo-plastic enclosed, lucid maze “box” the size of a football field. The walls and ceiling of the maze itself would be made of this clear, bulletproof thermoplastic, so the two competitors could see each other at all times. Hand each fighter a single-shot Revolutionary War type pistol, a baseball bat and a flyswatter. The dude that walks out of the other end of the glass box, alive, is the winner. You not only can fill the football stadium with paying spectators, the “Pay- Per-View” money would be huge.

I bet you will ask, “Who’s going to be brave enough to do that?” Convicts with sentences of 25 years or more. United Americas North certainly has the prison population to sustain thousands and thousands of matches. Tell them that not only are they going to be paid millions, they’re going to have their sentences reduced to time served, and their record expunged if they win. The murderers, rapists and pedophiles and republicans would not qualify for this sport.

Two things this will do. It will slowly reduce the prison population, and it will satisfy our bloodthirsty nature. When you think of it, you could televise these matches 24/7, 365 days a year. Have you ever heard the screaming during a MMA match? “Punch him. Kick his ass!” Kill that Dude! Rip his head off!” Imagine the audience screaming, “Go left! No, Your other left!” as the spectators are trying to guide their fighter thru the plastic-walled maze. Lots of dead ends, and running into walls, “Go back you idiot and turn right this time!”.

Halfway through the match, the audience starts screaming, “Let loose the flies” as the Fly Handlers start pumping millions of Horse Flies into the maze from both ends. The convicts, excuse me, “contestants”, know that they not only have to get close to each other, they have to make sure there’s no bulletproof sections of plastic between them when they shoot their pistol.

If one dude shoots and misses, it could be all over, unless the other dude misses as well. Then, what you have left, is two dudes with a baseball bat, a flyswatter, and empty pistols. If you shoot first and miss, and decide to try to run back to the beginning of the maze, that would be entertaining in itself. Imagine the dude banging into the almost invisible walls and swatting at the flies, as he’s trying to retreat. The audience yelling at him, “Don’t give up that way”, or, ”Watch out for the ”flies”.

You see, this dude has two choices. Face his opponent and pray that he’s a lousy shot also, and hope that you do better with your bat than he does, and maybe live. If you do live, but you chicken out and make it back to the beginning of the maze without getting shot, they catch you in a net and put you back in prison to serve out the rest of your “25 to life” sentence. There would be plenty of action, a chase scene, perhaps some romance, as the next two contestants have conspired to try to escape instead of play the game. One dude gets netted right from the start. The other contestant, the hero of the story, escapes and a pursuit by the authorities is on.

What got me thinking about the futuristic sport, i.e., my other inspiration, was a documentary that was on tonight called, appropriately, “Backyard Dawgs”. It’s worth watching, if just to get the gist of what I am saying. In a mostly black, impoverished suburb, men are fighting bare-knuckled, bloodying each other up, and literally knocking each other’s teeth out. One dude lost a gold tooth, and someone in the crowd found it and gave it back to him. Brutal. How far did that gold tooth fly?

So, do the math, use your calculator App. Average match lasts 45 minutes. Add 15 minutes for commercials. They are run 24/7 which is 24 matches a day (24 winners, 24 losers a day). Out of the 24 losers, 20 die by gunshot wound or baseball bat. That is a reduction of 7,300 people in the worlds population every year. It could work. Point of my story. Can we learn to NOT fight? Can we lose our appetite for violence and blood? Lets’ just see how we evolve. Will our innate hunger for violence and blood evolve in the wrong direction? Just how blood-thirsty do we want to get?

If it was me 100 years from now, I would prefer that we were less violent, but still enjoyed the “A-MAZE-ING” show. For the right reasons. Reducing our prison population, keeping population growth manageable, and for the sport of it.

Strain: “Gone Nuclear” harvested January 8th 2116

For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

TheDeadArmadilloManuscript112619

Peace & Abide, La paz y la morada, السلام والالتزام , שלום ושמירה, Paix et Demeure, Խաղաղությունը եւ մնալը, Мир и пребывание,, 平和と遵守, 和平與恪守, Aştî û Abad, صلح و عبید, Fred och Abide, Kapayapaan at Patuloy, Frieden und Bleiben, Mir i Ostanite, शांति और निवास, Hòa bình và ở lại, Мир и Абиде, שלום און בלייַבן, สันติภาพและการปฏิบัติ, Mir in bivanje,

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

www.itad-nao.com

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Bazookas and Shoulder-Held Rocket Launchers versus the Deer Hunter with a lifetime membership in the NRA

If REAL lovers of killing animals, wither for the “thrill” of it, like sport hunters (trophy hunters) or for the hunters who actually eat what they kill. There are the hunters that shoot a deer not just for the “Joy” of the kill, but also for the delicious food that Bambi’s father provides to them (or venison jerky, like my cousin Barry sent to me ONE time, hint, hint).

Here’s the if. A “Real” hunter will tell you that they prefer to hunt a deer with a single-shot rifle, hence the name “Deer” rifle. A vast majority of them will be using a scope however. Which I’m okay with as long as they understand that a “Really Real” hunter will use a single shot rifle WITHOUT a scope. The “Really Really Real” hunters will be using a Bow and Arrow, or maybe even a musket, which I have mentioned before in an earlier post.

Single shot from a scope-less rifle. If you miss, that deer just disappeared so quickly, you don’t know if that 12-point buck ran right or left. That’s part of the “sport” or challenge of it. Obviously, if you are not a real hunter, and you are sitting in that deer stand with an AR-15 semi-automatic weapon, and you missed with the first pull of the trigger, you still have a chance of killing that deer with a few more pulls of the trigger, you know, (bang bang bang bang bang, said quickly).

The ultimate in “Hunting”, is to draw back your bow, letting one arrow go. lf you happen to be a lousy shot, and missed with your first arrow and hit a tree standing behind that huge buck, there is some potential that buck will still be standing there, staring at you because all it heard was a slight swoosh or swish, as the arrow went behind and over it’s head.

”Target” range dudes. It’s more or less their hobby. Go to a target range. Walk up to the first redneck you find firing his assault style weapon. Ask him when he last went “Deer” hunting. If you happen to be at a range that is nowhere near a deer hunting state, ask him to show you his ”Deer” license or permit. That redneck, bus driver, doctor or lawyer, that waitress or school teacher, police officer or future terrorist, will give you similar stories.

“Oh, I want to be prepared to fight off the enemy, both foreign and domestic.” Another common response is just stating, “The second amendment gives me the “Right” to own this AR-15″. When they say that, you respond by saying that you hear that they are going to make Bazookas and Rocket Launchers legal. Is that what our founding fathers intended? I don’t think so. Give everybody a musket.

No matter how good you are at hitting a target with a semi-semi-automatic rifle, you are not going to be able to compete in the Olympics. Shooters trying to win the Gold Medal are shooting a single bullet. The majority of the citizens want a ban on assault weapons. Our lawmakers need to follow what the majority of us are asking them to do.

I wish to take it a step further. Ban all clips that hold more than three rounds, INCLUDING pistols. The likelihood of a Bad Guy trying to rob a bar with a three-bulleted semi-automatic pistol is pretty remote, especially if all the patrons in the bar have their own pistols, and they’re not semi-automatic three-shooters, they’re six-shooters, “revolvers”. What about the revolvers, i.e., six-shooters you ask?

Why limit the semi-automatic pistols to only three bullets, and not change the revolvers? Who would want a semi-automatic pistol if the clip could only hold three bullets? Basically, by limiting the number of bullets that can be fired before reloading, you decrease the amount of deaths and wounded, and increase the number of survivors. Of course, there also has to be a change in our way of thinking, about a lot of things.

All of the assault weapons that function in a similar way to the original AR-15 (M-16) invented by the late Eugene Morris Stoner, Jim Sullivan and Bob Fremont at the firearms manufacturer Armalite in the late 1950’s, was originally designed to hold a twenty round clip. Now the arms manufacturers are designing weapons to hold as many rounds as possible. Twenty, thirty-round capacity clips, forty-round clips that can be duck-taped together to afford the quickest possible reloads.

This is beyond our founding fathers wildest dreams, as their intent was, via the second amendment was to allow all the citizens to carry a single-shot pistol and have a, guess what? A single-shot………Musket! Give them bazookas and rocket launchers too!

For that dude looking to kill that elephant with whatever kind of rifle he has, give him a spear. Let’s see who lives. I think the odds are 50/50 that the elephant could win against one spear. That’s why the hunters of our not so distant past and our prehistoric relatives, hunted large prey with packs of hunters. Okay. That’s kind of harsh. Instead of a spear, give that hunter a musket, and plenty of powder, and bags and bags of lead balls. If that hunter is a crack shot, the elephant has less chance of winning. The shooter that is so bad, he couldn’t hit the road with a rocket-launcher, even if he was aiming down, is going to get trampled to death.

I’ve got a suggestion for all the War-Mongers. Let’s teach chimpanzees to operate, at least in the beginning, “Fully Automatic” assault weapons. Once we have our distant cousins trained to fire and reload the weapons (costing us millions of bananas), and we go to war somewhere, we can drop the chimps out of airplanes over the enemy. Yes, we have to teach them to remove their parachute harness when they hit the ground.

Now that makes as much sense as you NEEDING a semi-automatic assault weapon with a twenty-round clip to go deer hunting, rabbit hunting, or any other kind of hunting. As far as protecting your home and loved ones, how many families really want a weapon meant for killing our enemies during wartime, in their home? Well I suppose. If your neighbor has a bazooka, you gotta have a rocket-launcher. Again I say. Give everybody a musket.

I think there is a healthy portion of National Rifle Association (NRA) members who are real hunters, who will agree that they really don’t need an assault weapon to go deer hunting, or varmint hunting. I suspect, if they did an honest survey, they would discover that the vast majority of NRA members have never shot a deer, or any other animal. That vast majority of members fall in a category which include the target tin-can shooters, the far right-wing militias and the nut that wants to see how many people are going to die before he sees his 97 virgins, or whatever number they have been told their going to get.

It just seems senseless to me that people have to have a weapon meant for war, no matter how it physically looks. Let’s design the next assault rifle to look like you’re holding a furry little bunny rabbit in your hands, thirty-round clips and all. Bottom line, I was a NRA member when I was a kid. I had to take a course and pass a test. I was proud of my membership in the NRA. The organization was different before the invention of assault weapons. It was all about gun safety with simpler weapons.

It’s still about gun safety and education today, it’s just the “RIFLE” in NRA has changed dramatically. Think about it! A great commercial for the ban of assault weapons is a video of a father, son, and grandfather during deer season, tracking a deer the old fashioned way. Opening scene. They are crouching behind trees, and the grandfather looks back at the camera and says, “I taught my son the proper handling and use of a deer rifle when he was a kid, and he’s passing that education onto his son”.

View in the camera switches to the huge 14-point buck in the distance, snorting the cold November air. View of the father, looking into the camera, as he says, “We wouldn’t own a semi-automatic rifle, even if they were free”.

Last view in the camera, the grandfather and grandson holding the massive buck’s head up while the father takes a picture with his cell phone, and the grandson say’s, “I’m proud to be a member of the National Rifle Association, and so glad for everything I have learned about being a good hunter and safe rifleman”.

For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

TheDeadArmadilloManuscript112619

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

www.itad-nao.com

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The Facebook Page for the Orlando 102, and, it’s NOT Disneyland or Walt Disney World

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Two old dudes playing chess

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Muskets and Porta-Potties

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The story about the 26 foot turd by that Woman in Michigan is just not true! or, “How to perform a vasectomy on your neighbor’s Pit Bull”

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Reflect on Memorial Day, why it’s not a “Happy” day

This was originally posted Memorial Day 2016, and I re-post it every year.

We place flags on graves and remember the “Brave” who have given their lives for their country. In other words, you are NOT going to be “Memorialized” until you’re dead. Of course we appreciate our military men & woman who are still living, from the limbless Marine propped up in a wheelchair, to the veterans both male & female who have come home with the hidden injury we call PTSD. We honor and thank you particular folks on “Veterans Day”. Please understand, I don’t “celebrate” therefore I don’t say, “Happy” Memorial Day! I swear, I did not steal that from an old George Carlin routine.

Tonight, the day before Memorial Day, I was watching the UFC fights live on television from Las Vegas. I noticed that the two or three fighters who mentioned the holiday during their victory speeches, saying “Happy Memorial Day”, were speaking to “Living” military folks who have come back from a conflict injured and uninjured i.e., the Middle East. ”God Bless our Troops” people say, as they wave their miniature flags at the soldiers walking in the Memorial Day parade. The only symbol we have left is if the news show pictures of soldiers planting flags next to the headstone in a military cemetery. Headstone. Sort of a slang term for a, wait for it”…………..a “Monument”, something made from a material that won’t rot and blow away. Granite.

Although I admit that for most of my life, it’s just been another holiday that gives me a three-day weekend, I was really struck by the fact that most people will include the living veterans when they are remembering the military dead. Ask the parents who have given sons and daughters who they think of on Memorial Day. If you are a Veteran, you are still alive! As I was growing up, Memorial Day was fun. Even when we were planting flags next to the graves at church on Sunday for Memorial Day. I was scolded one day for taking a flag from a soldiers grave. He was ninety when he died, and wanted to be buried next to his wives ( Mormon soldier). Pretty fancy monument with an Angel on top.

Mom caught me pushing the General’s little flag into the ground at my sisters grave. I went and stuck it back in where I found it. That I was scolded isn’t entirely correct. My mother explained the true reason for Memorial Day. Remember, we didn’t have 60″ Televisions and Facebook when I was growing up. As I grew older, I always remembered and took to heart how we should honor the millions of people who have given their lives for their country. Veterans Day we do honor the living. Those that have come back home with injuries, and those who came back unscathed. Maybe today’s generation needs to be educated. Maybe we should have a ”Wounded Veterans” day? For those of us that survived a war and came home, Memorial Day is the day we honor and remember our buddies that didn’t make it home alive.

Memorial Day is not supposed to be a happy day. It’s not supposed to be a sad day either, except for the parent or child of someone who has made the ultimate sacrifice. If you have a normal experience of memorializing a loved one, you also remember the happy times, as you watch home movies or look through family photo albums. People who have lost a loved one, can laugh as well as grieve. For the rest of us, that’s all of the people that did not lose a loved one, it should be a day of solemn reflection, honoring all military who have died during war. Just don’t confuse Easter with Christmas. Think about it. The memorial holiday was created to remember and honor the fallen, i.e., to memorialize those that were killed in battle.

Although as a veteran, if you die at 98 Years old, you can be buried in a military cemetery. I think that should be changed. They should only bury soldiers who have died in combat or as a result of their wounds, in military cemeteries. Even if you are wounded in any way but live to be ninety, you should be buried in a civilian cemetery. The government should provide that same simple white headstone that you would have received for your government burial. Your family could use the simple white monument, a really fancy one that costs thousands, or both. The Veterans Administration would also cover the cost of the civilian cemetery plot.

Don’t worry veterans, we will remember and honor you when you die. On Veterans Day. Not, Memorial Day. If you are still breathing, we will shake your hand, honor and thank you for your service and sacrifice, on Veterans Day.

So, along with those surviving parents and children, let’s all remember our fallen heroes. If you give your life for your country, no matter how fucked up war is, you are our heroes.

For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

TheDeadArmadilloManuscript112619

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

This website is not filled with a bunch of “Click-On” ads for the latest in “Toothbrushes” “Fashion” or “Free trips to wherever” generating millions of pesos in income. We are not seeking your financial support as a primary goal or function of this website, although we know at some point, that we will have the necessary funding to carry out our mission at ITAD-NAO. First and foremost, If you feel this is worthy of your financial support and you do donate, that’s great, and we sincerely thank you, but first and foremost we are looking for your involvement with whatever skill-sets you may have to offer. Communicate with us, help us organize, help us plan, and help us execute the plan. Thank you

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Cinderella’s Godmother and pissing on their party

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What do you say to the cute Redhead standing at the bar?

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There’s a man with a gun over there, telling me I got to beware; Paranoia strikes deep, into your life it will creep

I don’t think that I’m a Paranoid Schizophrenic, but why is it, that everywhere I go, people are following me. At the grocery store, I’ll turn around and look. See, that little old lady is following me. Standing in line at the DMV. Don’t even turn around, cause they are ALL following you. In a crowded mall, I’ll stop abruptly and turn around to look. Sure enough, those cute little high school girls are following me. The sure way to fool them is to sit down for a minute, until they pass by. Then, as you stand up and start walking again, you glance back and notice that someone else is following you. If you see a dude walking past your house carrying an AK-47, don’t be paranoid. Call 911. I think half of our planet has developed real paranoia. Especially against people of different faiths and religions. Its not just racism and bigotry. These differences in our cultures have been there for thousands of years. “Onward Christian Soldiers, marching off to war, killing millions of other people who don’t believe in the same God as you do”, (sung to the same tune). “From the beginning Men used God to justify the unjustifiable” – Salman Rushdie.

Mankind has a troubled and bloody past. And it seems like we are bound to continue on that same path. The only difference is that our weapons continue to get more and more sophisticated. Its no longer huge swords, and face to face combat. It’s remotely operated Drones firing missiles and dropping bombs with built-in cameras, so the ”Remote” operator can guide that weapon right through the front door of your house.

I think the settlers who came west in the covered wagons got just a little paranoid when they saw the Indians gathering on the hilltop over yonder. Especially if they had been attacked once or twice before. “Circle the Wagons!” People can say, that’s just progress. That’s how the good ole U. S. of A., came to be. Our forefathers were courageous explorers and settlers. We fought the Indians, and settled the land. We trapped the beavers and shot the buffalo. Bullshit! We wiped out their nations and took their lands. Think about the blood of the women and children of the native indigenous people we massacred.

I’m reminded of the story of “Bear Hair Bob”. A trapper who was fortunate enough to survive a “scalping.” Bob covered up his bloody skull by sewing a fresh patch of bear skin to what was left of his scalp. Pretty odd looking, bear hair and all, trimmed in a thick crew-cut fashion. When the Indians came upon his campsite, he had tried to negotiate with beads and trinkets that he had on hand. The Indians took those, all his Beaver pelts, his horse, scalped him, and left him for dead. Why you ask? For the Indians, he was trespassing on their land, and trapping their beavers. How would you feel if some hunter with a deer rifle came on your land without permission? Bear Hair Bob eventually ended up back in Boston, charging a nickel for anyone who wanted to touch his ”Hair”.

What if the Native American lands had been legally and peacefully procured with beads and trinkets? And they were allowed to be a part of, and assimilate into ” American” society? In other words, real freedom. Would there have been a need for reservations? I’m sure most of the settlers wanted to live in peace and harmony with the Indians, they were just singing the wrong song. “This land isn’t your land, this land is my land, from California to the………..this land was made for my cousins and me.”

I don’t think all of us are crazy. I don’t think its crazy to believe that every human being on earth should be treated with respect. I don’t think our cultural, societal and religious differences should get in the way of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Love thy neighbor as thyself. Regardless of who or what you believe is your Almighty God, I am pretty sure that’s the point Jesus was trying to make. Throw in some religious Mumbo-Jumbo, and what do you get? “With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things, and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion.” – Steven Weinberg.

Back to paranoia. I really don’t think that people are following me. I do think that humankind needs a great awakening. In the meantime, treat all people, treat all things, with respect. If you really think that people are following you, see a shrink. If you hear strange voices, it’s not your broccoli trying to give you advice, again, have your head examined.

For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

TheDeadArmadilloManuscript112619

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

www.itad-nao.com

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How to say ”Hello”, “Goodbye” or “Take a Hike, Dude!” with a 7-11 accent

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“I don’t care about the color of your skin” and, “I don’t care about the color of YOUR skin either”, then we both laughed, and ordered another Black Label on the Rocks

This edit added on July 13th, 2020:

BLACK, WHITE, BROWN……..ALL LIVES MATTER!!!!

I’m really appalled at the rampant racism (from EVERYONE) that we have been seeing for several weeks now. Ever since the beginning, after the murder of George Floyd, (if it was a real murder and not part of just another PYSOP False Flag to turn us against each other). This addition to my essay is not about ANY conspiracy theory however, it IS about the insanity of “Bad Apples spoiling the entire basket”.

It’s okay to protest “Police Brutality” or unlawful acts perpetrated upon average citizens by the few “Bad Apple” members of Law Enforcement. Demonstrate, wave your signs, march on your city’s “Hall of Justice”, your Mayor’s Office, your Police Departments, but, and it’s a BIG BUTT, the moment YOU break the law and burn, pillage and hurt other people, you have accepted the “Game Plan” of those few bad apples, the outsiders, that purposely infiltrated your otherwise peaceful (and justified) protests.

Don’t you have enough common sense and decency to see that? As individuals, many folks are on the “Fence” between peacefully protesting, and committing acts of violence. They have a right to protest, but, and it’s another BIG BUTT……a lawful, peaceful protest is NOT a license for violence, in ANY form, and the idiots who advocate and encourage violence, including many politicians and others in positions of authority (shockingly), are just wrong, wrong in every way.

The absolute worst part is that many of the “Bad Apples” DO come from your own neighborhoods, i.e., they are “Home Grown”. They potentially were not bad to begin with, they were just set off, i.e., someone pushed them off that fence in the wrong direction. Their potential for common sense and decency gave way to their life-long bitterness, anger, and frustration. They gave in to the outside sinister influences as they were encouraged to contribute violence and mayhem, instead of maintaining a peaceful platform and regimen. The “Riders on the Fence” in many of life’s situations really don’t have a choice as to which side of the fence they ultimately fall over, and it’s easier to be pushed towards the wrong side of the fence than the right side.

The “Outsiders” wanted YOU to break the windows, wanted YOU to set the fires to businesses and vehicles, wanted YOU to loot the local places of business, carrying off boxes of Nike Jordans, TV sets, whatever. Guess what? Those businesses that you looted and burned, in many cases, they were owned by decent hard-working people from your very own neighborhoods. Your Mama must be so proud, trust me, people of ALL colors and ethnic backgrounds are NOT proud, they are disgusted with the outcome of the so-called, “Peaceful” protests.

The reason I write this addendum to my story about Kenny Strong, my second-best friend in my life, is because I have had about enough of seeing the “BAD APPLES” beating up or murdering other individuals. People that did NOT deserve to be hospitalized or murdered as a result of this mutual SICKNESS called RACISM. You can say that you were/are a “product” of your “environment”, obviously people, some more than others, are not treated equally, that’s the reason for protesting, demonstrating, marching, and holding up your signs……PEACEFULLY.

There ARE MANY people that DO agree with your cause, for your right to protest, many people of ALL ethnic backgrounds do care, but, and here’s another BIG BUTT, I would just bet you that if you are pushed off that “fence”, and falling onto the wrong side into that trap of violence, your parents, and your Grandparents, more than likely are not and will not, be proud of you. How can anyone be proud that you took part in beating an 80-year-old man half to death just because he’s white, or killing an oriental man that was trying to defend his little donut shop that you ultimately burned to the ground……Or shooting an unarmed 24-year-old mother of a three year old child to death simply because she said “All lives matter”. Oh, and that one is not fake news, here’s a link to the story:

Indy mother becomes 2nd homicide along downtown canal in 1 week

Bottom line is all of this racism, from ALL sides has to end. The majority of the folks desire a peaceful resolution to this nonsense. So, instead of blaming the “Other” side, how about we all work together to come to a peaceful conclusion? Before you label ME a racist, please read the following essay about my wonderful buddy Kenny Strong:

This is a short story about my good friend, Kenneth Strong, with a few life lessons thrown in. Although they could’ve been twins, Kenny wasn’t a Sammy Davis Jr., married to a white chick, hanging out with the Rat pack. Not disparaging Sammy, I was a big fan of him, Sinatra, and Dean Martin. I actually can say that Sammy’s daughter was a neighbor and friend, and that his grandson Sam, remains a close friend of my daughter’s to this day. The only similarities between the two of them, was the fact that Kenny was small like Sammy, five foot four or so, and they both could dance like champs. Oh yeah, the other difference? Even though he couldn’t carry a tune in a shoe if his life depended on it, Kenny still enjoyed going to Karaoke with me.

His weight and height was proportional up until when his emphysema progressed. Before he died, he had lost fifty pounds and was skin and bones, ninety-eight pounds (easy to carry up and down the stairs). In his healthy years, Kenny was a muscular dude who worked out and ran a mile every day. Kenny, was an ex-marine and veteran of the Korean War, loved his country and eventually became one of my closest friends. In spite of the fact that when I met him face to face for the first time, I thought he was the biggest asshole I had ever met in my whole life.

Kenny was the only person of color working in his department, so he was an anomaly of sorts. In fact, at that time, there were very few people of color that had risen the ranks and climbed the “Ladder” of success like Kenny had. He wasn’t sweeping the floor, or taking out the trash, he was responsible for administering the procurement of millions of dollars in high tech equipment and support for a globally recognized company. I was a sales dude at the time, and my company had not seen any business from Kenny’s company in many years. Our only competitor had 100% of the business.

After many phone calls to try to get in to see him, (they where in upstate NY), I made the trip from California to New York twice with appointments to finally see him. Both times he blew me off with lame excuses. First time, I was told that he had called in sick. Second time, he was there. When I spoke to him from the lobby, he blew me off again, asking me, “Can you come back next week?”. Kenny knew that I had flown cross country to see him. Lets just say that I was just a little pissed. Patient, but pissed. The third trip was successful, however disappointing.

Lets just say that for the average salesman, it wasn’t just disappointing, it was devastating. I stood in the entry of his cubicle for what seemed like several minutes. “Thank you so much for taking the time to see me this morning”, I stated nervously to no avail. No response from Kenny. It’s as if I wasn’t standing there, gazing at all the accolades and awards on the walls. Glancing at his “Employee of the Year” award, his Bachelors Degree, and all the other plaques, and then looking back at Kenny, I said to myself, “He can’t be hard of hearing, can he?” Lack of peripheral vision?

He was sitting there typing two-finger style, staring at his computer. So I took a few steps to the side chair alongside his desk, and started to sit down. When my butt was approximately five inches from the seat, still directing his gaze at his monitor, he said in a Drill Sergeant manner, ” I didn’t tell you to sit down yet”. Well, I immediately stood to attention and backed up two feet to the entryway into his cubicle. I swear I stood there for another two or three minutes before he swung his chair around and said, “You can sit down now”. Kenny took the next ten minutes telling me all the things wrong with my company. Needless to say, we did not take lunch together, and like I said earlier, I thought he was the biggest asshole I had ever met.

Now, what he said was true. Our prices were way too high, and our lead-times were way too long. I took these insights back to my company, and within six months, we had reduced both to the point where we started to get some of the business. After a year, and several more trips, my company was enjoying 100% of the business, and I was slowly becoming a part of Kenny’s small circle of friends. I share this with all the sales people out there as a lesson. Three things. Be honest. Be genuine. Be patient. Take your time and really get to know your customer. Don’t get discouraged. Be patient. If you are able to look at your customer with one eye, while reading the documents on their desk upside down with the other eye, you are not my kind of salesman.

Of course your company has to be competitive in all areas. I was fortunate that my company was willing to adapt to the marketplace. Over time, Kenny became a real friend. We did things that friends would do. Went fishing. Went to the casino, usually with a few other dudes from his office. My favorite thing was going to the racetrack in Saratoga once a year, to watch and bet on the ” Running of the Travers”. To our amazement, I actually won a Trifecta one year.

Kenneth and I went fishing many times. Once on the Hudson River, and several times at his favorite spot on the Erie Canal. Every time we went fishing, Kenny would give me fishing “lessons”. Like the big brother he was, every time he would try to give me instructions on how to fish, I would tell him, “I’m from Minnesota, I was fishing when you were still in diapers”. Not really true, since he was about fifteen years older than me.

Anyway, Kenny would retort with, ” I don’t care if you are from Zimbabwe, you ain’t gonna catch anything that way”, or, “You’re so full of shit, you should have worn a diaper”, then we would laugh. I would always tease him and ask him to put my worm on for me (I never used anything other than lures).

I always caught the first fish and the last fish before he gave up for the day. Most of the time, I caught the only fish, which really pissed him off. Fishing on the Hudson was fun, but challenging because that one time we did go, it was in an old leaky row boat, oars only, no outboard. We always had a great time fishing except for that one hot, and muggy August day (I did most of the rowing), and we caught nothing.

Kenny and I remained friends after he retired. When his health began to deteriorate more and more, his buddies and I would still take him to the casino. I can remember pushing Kenny, his oxygen bottle, and his cigarette through the casino in his wheelchair. No matter what you said to him about his health and smoking, he would acknowledge, ”Yeah, I know, I should quit, it’s too late for me anyway”. He never did quit, and it WAS too late, he died.

The last time I saw Kenny, he had been retired for about four years. He was so sick and weak at that time, when we went to the grocery store or his favorite neighborhood tavern, I had to carry him up and down the stairs of his condo, and throw his wheelchair in the trunk. That last time I saw him was six months before he passed away.

Kenny grew up in a farming community in North Carolina, so he knew what Racism and Segregation was. I grew up in a farming community in Minnesota. I didn’t know what the words meant as I was growing up. We would sometimes have spirited discussions about a variety of subjects, whilst drinking our scotch or having a meal.

The most spirited conversations were when we talked about racism and segregation/integration, i.e., life in general. We mostly agreed on things, and our friendship with each other stayed intact. One of our most memorable exchanges was this one night, already three drinks into a long night, and I was a little pissed at something Kenny had said. I looked at Kenny and yelled, “I don’t care about the color of your skin!”, and Kenny paused for a second and quietly said,” I don’t care about the color of YOUR skin either”.

We laughed at each other, and ordered another Black Label on the Rocks. Kenny was a great friend. I grieved when he died, along with all of his friends and family. Lesson number two. Folks, Racism, Bigotry, Prejudice and Indifference are taught and therefore learned, not in-bred.

Strain: “Mark Twain’s Belly Button Lint” harvested March 3, 2016

We sometimes think it is hopeless and against all odds, but hey, we are part of the 99% against the 1% that currently have absolute control. We can and shall overcome the odds, but only if we truly ORGANIZE. Otherwise, we are all just as a “Single Fly, Farting in the Wind” and “Useless as Wings on a Penis”. If you have questions, suggestions, comments, etcetera, again, and you would like to hear my thoughts on possible miracles/solutions, please feel free to contact me. You can contact me by farcecrap PM, send me an email or fill out the contact form below.

For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

TheDeadArmadilloManuscript062120

Here, for your viewing pleasure, is a recent documentary titled, “The World is My Country” Produced and directed by my friend Arthur Kanegis, this documentary is about the courage and beliefs of Garry Davis, who after serving as part of a U. S. bomber crew during World War Two, recognized the insane futility of wars in general, and gave up his U. S. citizenship, becoming the first person to declare the “World” as his “Country”.

You will be touched and hopefully inspired as well, as it is a film of hope and vision. it is well worth your effort. Please share.

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

www.itad-nao.com

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Urinal versus Toilet, “Lets go back to the Rice Paddies”, and walking behind the elephants in my Brooks Brothers suit

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Early Lessons in Life, and, “That could have been my Les Paul Guitar”

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Thanks to the wonderful Surgeons and Staff at the Mayo Clinic, or “Will someone please take Rin-Tin-Tin out for a walk”?

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Alice Cooper and the High School Marching Band

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“Turn left, when it is Safe to do so”, or, “Watch out for that Seagull”

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Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot, you’ll probably never know if you’re really his Father (to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne”)

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My Hot Rod, and “Spanking the Monkey”

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Let there be Peace, in the Valley

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Fishing with a tiny worm

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Welcome to America! Grandma loves “Wrestling”

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The Razor Strap, the Headstone, and the French Fries

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Transistor Radios & Shock Treatments

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I guess we’re not getting a new puppy today!

I think I had just turned eight years old. We had been living at the “Old Boxwell Farm” for three years. My parents paid $60.00 a month to rent the house (built in 1884), and we had full use of any of the buildings that weren’t already being used by the owners, the three Mortensen Brothers. We would end up living there for another six years.

I guess you could say it was like a “Hobby Farm”, just a very large one. 360 acres, a whole “Section” on a map. With a two-story farm house, a huge red barn, a chicken coop (eventually filled with 300 of Mom’s chickens), a shack for the Muscovy Ducks, and several other buildings and sheds. Google “Muscovy Ducks”. Not the small, cute little ducks that go quack-quack, These ducks were large ducks, almost goose size, raised primarily for eating. They could rip a finger off if you weren’t careful.

The farm had two different apple orchards. One orchard produced green baking type apples that tasted a little sour, and had tons of worms. The other orchard had red apples that you could actually eat, had fewer worms. Yes, I did not care much for my mother’s apple pie. We also had a few rows of yellow and purple plum trees. We also had grape vines growing up all sides of the windmill. This B & W photo is our actual windmill. The windmill was a solid luscious green of grape leaves in the summer. As a kid growing up on that farm, it was great to be able to enjoy all of the “fruits” and “vegetables”. And also at that age, it was too bad that I took it all for granted.

About 60 acres was cleared crop-growing land, which was farmed and grazed by the Mortensen Brothers, who had bought the Boxwell farm years earlier in an auction. The remaining 300 acres consisted of woodland with a small creek running through it. The driveway was about 200 yards long and seemed a mile long in the winter time, i.e., this was before the invention of the “snowblower” and after the invention of the “shovel”. On the north side of our driveway was what we called our “garden”, which was about an acre or so. It was a Hobby Farm in that Ed drove 30 miles a day into Saint Paul to work as an electronics engineer at Honeywell, and Mom was pretty much a typical homemaker/housewife. We had a really large garden and ate all the apples and plums we wanted, but we didn’t “farm” the land.

My best friend and companion in my early childhood was my dog Trixi. I can’t recall how we got her, I just know that she had always been there. Maybe she just came with the farm. Trixi was a mix between a Toy Collie, and some other small dog. She had a long beautiful golden, Collie-like coat. She wasn’t a lap dog, and she wasn’t a large dog like a German Shepherd, but just the right size for cuddling and loving. Trixi went everywhere with me, my own Lassie story. When in the house she stuck with me like glue. When we were eating at the kitchen table she would lay down by my feet. Trixi knew she would get a snack or two or three whenever Mom baked a chicken or duck, or pan-fried liver, or cooked any of many foods that I gagged on (see “Running around like a Chicken with it’s head ripped off”).

Trixi slept with me and truly was my best friend. That all ended one summer day. We were working in the garden, and looked up at the road just as she started barking, and running along side Mr. Gustafson’s pick-up truck. This was nothing new. Trixi did it all the time. She chased every car, tractor, or truck that drove by our farm. She just knew how to dodge the tires. Well, this time she yelped and disappeared under the truck. Mr. Gustafson immediately stopped his truck and got out. Picking Trixi up into his arms, he slowly walked towards me with her lifeless body in his arms. Mr. Gustafson was crying, Mom was crying, even Ed had tears in his eyes. I cried for a week. The sadness and grief I was feeling was a practice run for my sister’s death, and eventually my Mother’s death

After about three months, Mom talked Ed into getting a puppy for the family, to replace Trixi. Ed really loved Trixi as much as I did, and I think it was an easy sell to get another dog. They had met a fellow at church, Mr. Freeman, who bred and sold Golden Labradors. So one day, I went with Ed to see this Mr. Freeman to purchase a puppy. I was soooooo excited! Walking around behind the guys house to the back of the yard, we came upon Mr. Freeman beating on one of his Golden Labs with what looked like a leather belt. The Lab was tied up, and Mr. Freeman was trying to get this dog to jump up on the roof of one of the doghouses, like Snoopy. Ed flew into a complete rage, running over and throwing Mr. Freeman to the ground. I was left standing there, mouth open, watching as Ed took the belt and started wailing on Mr. Freeman, “You jump on the Fuckin’ doghouse you Asshole!”. I ran over to them screaming “Stop Dad!!” (or whatever it was that I yelled). Ed did come to his senses, and we walked back to the car. A little fearful, but happy that Ed had stood up for a helpless dog, on the way back to our car, I thought to myself, “I guess we’re not getting a new puppy today”.

The next day the local constable came over and I saw him talking to Ed for quite a while. Turns out, Mr. Kirkdahl, the constable, sympathized with Ed because of how badly Mr. Freeman had beaten the dog. No charges were pressed in either direction, although I thought they should have done something about Mr. Freeman. The embodiment of Joy came about a month later, when our neighbor Mr. Gustafson, came over one day and handed me a Golden Retriever puppy. I named her Alice.

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

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For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

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Then there were five of us, then there were four of us again

It was 1958, and I was ten years old, and Johnny was three. My baby sister Mary was born. I remember, this was one of the times when Ed was put away for spousal abuse. However, rather than receiving a prison sentence, they put him in a Mental Hospital. He was gone for quite some time, at least 9 or 10 months.

I remember it was different at home, better for sure, and I think things were getting better for me at school as well. I tended to “act out” what happened at home. I wasn’t a Bully, but when someone would bully me, I would most often go a little berserk fighting back. It’s a little scary when a skinny ten-year old screams, “I’ll RIP your fucking head off Asshole!!!” That is usually when an adult, like a teacher, would step in and stop the fight. The fighting became less frequent.

Mom was reclusive that first week home from the hospital with the baby. Maybe she knew that Mary was going to die, and the Doctors knew, and just let Mom take Mary home anyway. We buried her at the church cemetery in a grotesquely small coffin. Maybe it was a shoebox, I don’t know. It would be years later when I asked Mom for the one millionth time, “Mom? Why did Mary die?” Mom quietly said, “She had some things wrong with her that caused her to go be with the Lord sooner, rather than later”.

Many, many years later, Aunty Erma told me the nitty gritty of it. Ed had hit her in the stomach at about the seven months stage. That was one of many times when I “visited” cousins while Mom was in the hospital. The doctors ran tests, took X-Rays, and gave my Mom the thumbs-up, and the hope that maybe the baby would be OK. Well, the baby survived all the way through the birth, was NOT okay, and died seven days later. I still think they put her in a Florsheim Shoe box.

At the time, I was too young to understand what happens to people in the Booby-hatch. That’s what we called it, besides Looney bin, or Nuthouse. Shock Treatments. Google it. It’s not pleasant. It doesn’t help. Ed eventually came back home crazier than ever. Of course I was too young to say, “Why didn’t they give him a fucking Lobotomy!” This would be the beginning of the final down-hill slide for my Mom physically, and for the family mentally.

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

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Bellagio Water Show versus Cowboys & Indians

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Tapioca Puddding

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For years and years, from early childhood until early adulthood, I didn’t eat Tapioca Pudding because my cousin Mikey had told me there were fish eggs in it.

Running around like a chicken with it’s head ripped off

I was about five years old at the time. Crazy drunken Ed, running around the yard, chasing the chickens & ducks. Mom is yelling at Ed, Ed is yelling at Mom. He catches a duck, and tears its head off, as he screams, “I’ll RIP all your fucking heads off!!” I’m standing there on the Porch, crying. All over the yard there are six or seven dead ducks, two lifeless chickens, and one chicken still running around headless, with a bloody, stumpy, neck flopping back and forth. At that moment, I knew what it meant, when I would later hear people say, “Stop running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off”.

In the aftermath, Mom just quietly went around the yard, picking up the chicken and duck carcasses, putting them in a gunny sack. After that day, and for many years, poultry was one of the food types that I had to sneak into my pocket for a trip to the toilet. That is, if I couldn’t sneak it to my dog Trixi, under the kitchen table, when no one was looking. Normally, we would clean and de-feather our dinner before cooking, obviously, but this time Mom took the gunny sack to the local slaughter house/meat packing plant. They gave Mom $4.00 total. They sold them thru their retail “Butcher Shop” storefront.

Yadhum oore yaavarum kelir, “The World Is One Family”

Dr. T. C. Saxe, DD, RSISHE

Here’s a new website: https://swordsintoplowshares.net/

For those who have been keeping up with my progress with “The Dead Armadillo” story, here’s my latest:

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Author: Hippie Tom