Holy Fuck Balls!!

Sometimes, I find things I just gotta write about on Facebook.  Today’s one of those days where something I read makes me gnash my teeth and weep for the future.  Because if these kids are it, we are royally fucked.  Fucked, I tell you.  This is the post that got my panties in a bunch… written by a young man who probably thinks he’s enlightened and evolved.  I don’t know, maybe he is… but his theories scare the hell out of me..

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OK… Let’s talk about Nazi Germany for a hot second.  The image below is of Nazi soldiers forcing civilians… other German Citizens… past the bodies of Jewish women (also Germans) who had been starved to death.  They were soldiers following orders.

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Now, I love the American soldier.  They stand between me and a burqa, which is not stylish at all.  They sacrifice their lives, their health and their mental health to give me the freedom to say what I am about to say.  If you think for a hot second that I am going to have complete and utter faith that they will act in my personal best interests… you’ve got another think coming.  They follow orders.  They are soldiers.  They follow fucking orders.

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You don’t really that the evil that exists in the world stops at our borders, you’re not that naïve.  I’d have to  ask you to explain to me why FEMA, a branch of Homeland Security, has a base complete with coffins in the Port of Albany?  Why does Homeland Security have I’s own militia?  Why the fuck are we arming the IRS??  Stop drinking the Kool Aid, Jonestown citizens.  For the record, my ill-informed youthful friends… we fucking interred Japanese Americans during WWII because they didn’t look like we do.  We did not do this with either Italians or Germans, and make no mistake, that’s because they were white.

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An assault rifle is still just a rifle.  In my hands, an AR-15 is going to get my rocks off at the gun club.  I’m not going to head down to my local school or any rally and shoot up the place.  I have no criminal background.  Miss Shannon owns a 7 mm rifle.  I could take down an elephant.  I’m not going to do that either, but it makes you think twice about breaking into my house, doesn’t it?  Lord knows, I’ll probably be on an FBI watch list because of this post.  Stop kidding yourself that keeping weapons from law abiding citizens is going to curtail crime.  If you believe that, I have a bridge in Brooklyn I’ll make you a hell of a deal on.

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To conquer a nation, first disarm its citizens.  Hitler said it, and now our American government officials and presidential candidates are saying it, too.  They say it every time they advocate for taking away the right to bear arms.  Stop telling yourself it couldn’t happen here… it totally can.  Be capable of defending yourself and your children from an attack, either foreign or domestic.  Don’t bet your life that a soldier, despite my deep regard for their place in society,  is going to disobey an order to attack.  The Posse Comitatus Act, which essentially disallows the military from acting as law enforcement officials domestically, is not going to save your ass.  You are betting your life and your personal freedom on the premise that a solider is going to think like you do.  Maybe they do, maybe they don’t.  They’re people, trained to follow orders.  Quite frequently, they are kids hoping for the GI Bill… Just think.  You can do it if you try.

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We have recently passed a law that requires girls to register for the draft.  I have no problem with that… Equality is about having all the same rights, privileges and responsibilities.  Ask yourself… why is this on the table just now?  Currently, our armed forces are entirely volunteer.  What’s coming that the draft for women is now compulsory?  I can speculate, but I don’t know for sure either.  I assure you, it’s classified information but somebody somewhere, whether it’s the CIA or the cupcake brigade has a little wiggle that something wicked this way comes.

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In support of gun control… I’d say that if you’ve made it to a no fly list in the last, say- ten years, maybe you ought not to be able to purchase a fire arm without an act of Congress.  But the American people should have the ability to defend themselves from all enemies, foreign and domestic.  If you are afraid of guns, don’t shoot one.  I won’t even call you a pussy bitch. (Mary, I said the ‘p’ word, lol) Hell, Miss Shannon is afraid of the dark.  (There are things that go bump in the night.  Trust her.) And mice.  Little bringers of pestilence and general yuckiness.  Yuckiness should totally be a word.  My 7mm holds four bullets in its clip.  That isn’t going to get me far in a combat situation.  When will I be in a combat situation?  I don’t know because that information is far, far above my clearance level.  My fellow Americans, put down your Kool-Aid, pull your head out of your asses and realize that there are very real, valid threats facing us.  Baa, baa, little lambs.  Now grow up to be Americans, not sheep.

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Normality is Overrated

The edge of usual is somewhere I kind of live.  Mostly, I like it there.  I get to see things that you regular people don’t… Like, I totally see the exquisiteness in things that don’t cross the average bear’s mind.  Like… ooh, ooh… bubble sugar candy.  You boil the shit out of corn syrup and add alcohol.  It’s from Jesus, people.  You can add coloring.  Can I get an Amen??  I know how to make edible flames in part because your own Miss Shannon rides the crazy train now and then.  My crazy train tends to be a special shade of misty mountain mauve.  I don’t really mind it.  In fact, I don’t always realize something is weird until others comment on it.  If everybody saw the word in the boring old shades of black, white and gray most people notice, it’d be a hell of boring place.  Say it with me, “MISTY MOUNTAIN MAUVE!”

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So this week’s highlight reel included a hilariously inebriated fellow I met at a party.  He was embarrassing the hell out of his poor sister, but I enjoyed his company.  He was throwing horseshoes rather wildly for a while.  I’m both surprised and pleased that no one was killed.  What was funny about him was that he kept coming and sitting down with me to ask me if Good Time Charlie was my boyfriend.  Because apparently, he’s heard all about this guy.  Good Time Charlie is ostensibly the shit.  Then he leaped into the pool, fully clothed, came over and asked me if GTC was my boyfriend, he’s heard all about him and he’s the shit.  Then he put on dry clothes, sat down with me, repeated the previous conversation and told me how hot this chick over there in the red shirt was.  I asked him, “Aren’t you related to these people?”  He said yeah, she’s probably my cousin and proceeded to shake his wet clothes all over me.  This is the sort of thing that happens to me for a variety of reasons: 1. Because I hang out with Good Time Charlie.  2. I have this face that compels people to tell me things. 3. I have never yet learned how to shut people who want to talk at me down.

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That drunk guy kept me entertained all evening at a party filled with people I didn’t know.  And it was funny.  I get a weird sort of social anxiety and I have trouble in groups of people I don’t know.  My friends don’t know that because I know them and so I am not socially awkward around them.  I’m sure at least a portion of this stems from my white trash upbringing… Good Time Charlie says he likes women a little on the trashy side, partly because he knows my penchant for song quotes.  Certainly, I wear my clothes too tight and my hair is dyed…. And then I think… wait, does he think he’s slumming???  Dude, you are totally not slumming, and yes I just called you dude.  Anyway, the point here is that you have to look for the silver lining.  It’s always there, even if it’s weird.

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White Trash… Just say it.

So I cored like 90 strawberries tonight.  For cheesecake stuffed strawberries, which is seriously yummy in the tummy.  Miss Shannon can certainly make you fat… but you’ll die happy.  Now ask yourself, do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?

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My little blog broke 20K this week, sports fans.  Not bad for a girl who knows damned well she was born plain white trash.  There’s a knowing in that… you’re always less than.  Folks don’t always know, but you do.  I’m on this tangent because there are new people in my life and I expect to be found wanting.  Calling all survivors… is this a reality based thought?  I dunno, but I can’t say I care for it.

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So… I’m talking about social issues like gay marriage and transgendered people peeing, rape culture and the fundamental inequality of the sexes.  I talk about witchcraft, religious equality and racism.  I talk about DV and child abuse, whatever strikes me, really.  Intellectually, I find myself to be lofty and uninhibited.  Miss Shannon is all free love, hippy dippy, psych major… let’s all have a group hug.  I’ve been known to talk about sex once or twice.  Normally, I don’t give two shits what anyone thinks about it.  Apparently, that is not the same as knowing people will not approve.

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Hell, I don’t approve.  I’m a girl with a dragon tattoo, including all that entails.  I am one of the people your middle class values don’t apply to.  That’s because I come from a place where degradation is the norm.  My most recurrent memory of my childhood is that my Aunt Carol would always take us in… usually in a farm house without running water.  Have fun getting water out of the crick in January.  Make no mistake, I am grateful to her.  Quite frequently, she was the only thing standing between us and homelessness.  I wish I had a picture of Sparky, her dog.  I suspect my fear of chickens developed there.

 

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Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t a girl with a dragon tattoo.  There’s not enough body wash on earth to wash away the dirt that lives in your soul.  Life is still about choices, and you have to make your own bones.  So, I did.  Once again, you either mire on down in the muck or you rise above it.  Mostly, I think I rose above it.  But there are moments when it doesn’t matter that I run a successful business, that so far none of my kids are serial killers (I think) and that I drive a car that I am not afraid of.  Moments like when my guy gets this look on his face and asks things like… Have you been raped?  Of course I have.  I’m a woman over twelve.  According to RAIIN, 1 in 6 women is a victim of rape or attempted rape in her lifetime.  I think it’s more.  The water doesn’t get hot enough to wash that away.

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Now I joke about these things, because you either laugh or you cry and Miss Shannon would always rather laugh.  The causes I choose tend to be about women, children and hunger.  Why do you suppose that is?  News flash… if you can be a victim of it, I’ve been there.  Survive.  There is no other option.  Thrive because it infuriates them.  There’s pleasure in that.  Then hold your head fucking high and remember all the diamonds are formed in fire.  Again, I was absolutely born plain white trash… but I can’t look back.  There is right now and there is tomorrow.  Maybe.  So judge away… and know that your only claim to being higher class is that you were born there.  I clawed my way to my safe place and I suspect I enjoy it more.

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Kenneth White

So I went on a bike run to honor the memory of Kenneth White, a small boy who was murdered by his unmedicated, mentally ill cousin.  Most of the people in attendance, myself included, never met that kid.  We’ll also never have the opportunity for several reasons.  He was placed in an unsafe environment by “Judge” Gerard Maney, one the most vilified family court judges in the region.  He was unlucky enough to be born into a chaotic family with mental health and substance abuse issues.  He couldn’t remember what the flash cards, probably sight words, said on the day his cousin, Tiffany, choked him, bludgeoned him and tossed him into a snow bank where he died of exposure.

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Now I think about Kenneth and I see a whole lot of tragedy.  I see a beautiful little boy who never had the chance to decide who and what he’d be.  I see his two sisters who are now pawns to the family court system.  It’s been nearly 18 months.  Create some permanency.  We bloom where we’re planted… For fuck’s sake, plant them and not with people who murder their brother.  We all want to just blame the little girl who killed Kenneth.  But she, too, is a victim.  Who protected her?  No one.  Bad things happened to that girl along the way.  Bipolar disorder is both hereditary and environmental.  I think about that baby’s mother… who birthed at least eight babies she cannot care for.  I think about his aunt, who was at least trying.  She knew her daughter wasn’t well, of this I have no doubt.  But she needed to run some errands and she bet on the wrong filly.

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Chaos is not unfamiliar to me.  Anything can happen.  Anything.  I was particularly struck by a very nice lady giving a speech who said, “If it can happen in our beautiful Hilltowns, it can happen anywhere.”  Yes.  Yes, it can.  They didn’t know that.  They really didn’t know.  Not because they are stupid, or blind.  By and large, most people just don’t see it.  Children are broken every day.  On that same run, a lady shared with me that her child had been abused by a relative.  (It’s that face thing, again.  People just tell me things.  Terrible, terrible things, sometimes.) Put away your middle class values.  Stop burying your head in the sand.

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It’s not about financial status, social class or race.  It’s about having been raised by wolves.  Miss Shannon has often said that when you are raised by wolves, you can either rise above it or mire on down in the muck.  It’s why I volunteer for Junior Achievement.  In order for a child to escape poverty, he must first know it is not inescapable.  To break the cycle of abuse, the victim must first know that something else exists.  I personally, was blessed by a handful of people who were willing to show me another way.  I try not to think too hard about where I come from.  It’s the land of put the crazy on the front porch with a mint julep, and pretend it’s normal.  What’s scariest is that it is normal.  It’s your normal.  What the fuck else is there?

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Most of the time, I’m shooting for funny when I write.  There is nothing funny about a dead five year old.  The only place Kenneth White should have been last Saturday was on a swing set, enjoying a beautiful day.  So what can you, personally, do?  First of all, make the hotline when you feel like something is amiss.  Believe me, every single person related to that case who ever thought…. ‘Geez, I don’t know about that,’ wishes to God they had called.  Sign every single petition to remove that bastard Maney from his position.  By the way kids, the Honorable Judge has placed Kenneth’s two sisters with yet another aunt.  Now, hug your babies.  Consider making a donation to Kenneth’s Army.   And know that somewhere nearby, a child suffers.  Sometimes in ways that you cannot imagine.  Stand for them.  Stand for Kenneth.

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Next Stop: Lynard Skynard

So… went to see Lynard Skynard last night.  I was sixteen or so the first time I saw them in concert… It’s been a hot minute since then, but they still put on a hell of a show.  I had a couple sources of entertainment while in attendance because… well, it’s Lynard Skynard.  Obviously, it was pretty crowded and our seats were smack in the middle of a rather inebriated couple and an old guy.  Inexplicably, the row in front of them was empty.  Being ourselves, Good Time Charlie and I walked down the empty row and stepped up over to our seats.  Now I miss being a Little Person by about two inches, so this is not the easiest thing for me.  Drunk guy held my phone.

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The drunk chick (We’re going to call her Linda Lu) looks at my guy and says, “Where did you buy her?”  This was immediately prior to her old man shoving his hand down the front of her shirt, which she had no objections to.  Here’s what Miss Shannon has to say to that… I have heard far worse from a better class of loser than you, sweetheart.  And, as it happens, my old man’s hand was not in my clothes in front of 10,000 of our nearest and dearest fellow concert goers.  Women like Linda Lu are the type songs like Gimme Three Steps are written about.  Once again, you can tell the strong women from the weak by watching who needs to tear others down.

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Next in our line up…. I’ve got this face that makes people tell me things.  I get accosted in the grocery store by women who have just been diagnosed with terrible diseases, whose husbands are cheating on them and on one memorable occasion in a bar bathroom by a girl who was scared of her old man, but couldn’t leave because he’s connected with Hells Angels.  (FYI… those guys don’t give a shit if you leave your abusive boyfriend.  Really.  He’s full of shit.)  So…. Back to Lynard Skynard…. I went to get Charlie a drink and made friends with Rachel.  Rachel rocks!  We were both being pawed by a guy from a local heating and cooling company.  He told us so, and I suppose it was supposed to be impressive.  At that point, that gentleman was hammered, his wife was going to be pissed because he was buying me and Rachel $16 doubles and a limo was driving him home.  Who takes a limo to Lynard Skynard??  Anyway, I couldn’t leave Rachel alone with him, (chick rules, we do not leave our sisters in unsafe situations) Dude… it’s just you and your hand tonight!

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Finally…. Charlie likes to stand during concerts he’s into.  He’s singing, he’s dancing, he’s having a good time… and this guy in the next section starts bitching because he’s standing.  Now… Good Time Charlie is a biker, and he looks the part.  Folks tend to be a little alarmed by patched guys, mostly because they watched too many episodes of Sons of Anarchy, which is just a television show.  Charlie turned around and looked at him, moved down one seat and that was the end of that.  Which is hilarious to me, because this big, burly man is just a big teddy bear.

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