Innocence Lost: A Mayberry Tale

Many years ago I lived in a ground-level apartment near a busy intersection. This meant that any ambulatory hooligan with bad intentions could walk up to my home and look through my windows. I never understood what the appeal was in watching a strange woman in grungy sweats and bad pigtails eat macaroni and cheese while watching Beavis and Butthead, but evidently some people found this enthralling. Most of these “visits” were made by a psychotic co-worker of mine who somehow managed to find out where I lived, but every once in a while some new blood would stop by.

One particularly memorable encounter occurred one night after I returned home from having a few drinks with a friend. I’d only been home for a few minutes when I heard the telltale rustling outside the window. Normally I would just turn off all the lights and wait for the perv to leave, but on this night I was full of piss and vinegar. And also a few cocktails. So I marched over to the window, raised the blinds, and looked at my uninvited guest eyeball to eyeball. (This was only the first of many ill-advised moves I made that evening.) I stood on one side of the window, and an Ernest T. Bass look-alike stood on the other. I stared at him for a minute. After a little while he got the brilliant idea of laying down in the grass outside the window so I couldn’t see him. The only flaw in his shrewd plan was that the window went almost all the way to the floor. So there he lay in the grass, and there I stood, looking him in the face. After this silent standoff went on for a minute or so, I got all big and bad and said, “Can I help you with something?” He just laid there, looking at me. For whatever stupid reason, I persisted and asked him again if I could help him. After a little while he responded, and in one of the most severe hillbilly accents I’ve ever heard, said, “Deewww yeeewww warrnnnuuh taaawwwk?”

At this point I lost whatever patience I had with this fella, so I told him that no I didn’t want to talk and he needed to get the hell away from me before I called the cops and had his perverted ass hauled to the pokey. I slammed the window shut, lowered the blinds, and turned off all the lights so that dude couldn’t see inside anymore. This meant that I could see outside quite well due to the bright lights from the street. This was unfortunate, because no sooner had I plopped myself down in the dark to wait for him to go away than he stood up and started engaging in an activity that young boys know will make you go blind. He started shouting something about a stupid bitch, I thought, “Oh I know he is NOT talking about me!” and before I knew it he finished his business. Then he left, and I never saw him again.

I’m sure he would be pleased to know that his legacy lives on, because every time I see a picture of old Ernest T., I get squicked out all over again. But I’ve got to give him credit for being so memorable, if nothing else. So to Angry Masturbating Hillbilly Guy, wherever you are: Well played, dude.

This Ought to Confirm My Reservation In You-Know-Where

Many years ago I accompanied a friend of mine to a Bible study. I don’t know why I went. I can only imagine that she plied me with alcohol. Anyway, the subject of the day was something along the lines of “Evolution is a Filthy Load of Crap and Why You’ll Go To Hell If You Believe It.” For some reason – I think I’ll blame it on the liquor – I felt compelled to challenge some points. The instructor was going on about how Adam and Eve were the first humans ever, and that Adam was created out of dust or lava or whatever the hell. I asked Bible Study Dude what his feelings were on evolution.

“There’s no such thing. The Bible says that God created man.”

“Right. But do you think there a possibility that evolution is part of God’s divine plan?”

“No.”

“But… I mean, you can look at the different skulls and see how it happened. It’s right there. Where did all those fossils come from?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter.”

“Really? I think it’s pretty compelling.”

“You probably do. So where do you think humans came from?”

“Well, I think that we evolved over millions of years through a series of mutations. Darwin’s theory makes sense, and there’s so much evidence to back it up. But I think an argument can be made for divine intervention.”

“You’re wrong. There is no way that could ever happen.”

“So you find it more likely that an unseen force built a man out of dirt and then yanked out a rib and turned that into a woman?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ok. Well, I guess that means we’re all the products of incest then, huh?”

"We are not! That’s a sin!”

“Well if Adam and Eve were the only two humans on the planet, at some point brothers and sisters had to get their freak on.”

“No.”

“Well correct me if I’m wrong, but by my understanding of your theory, there’s no other—“

“No.”

“But I don’t underst--“

“No, you don’t.”

“Can you explain that to--“

“No.”

“Really, I’m just trying to learn, I--“

“No. Just no.”

Lest anyone think that I derive pleasure from tormenting those of the Christian faith, let me say this: I was raised a Christian myself, and if at any time Bible Study Dude had acknowledged my queries and said that he understood my questions and he didn’t have all the answers to them, and that he believed as he did simply because of his faith, I would have been happy to drop it. But he treated my questions with disgust and me with disdain. And that is the opposite way of getting me to shut up.

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I can be an insufferable and obstinate skeezer, but I’m a skeezer who respects people’s faith, no matter what it may be. I don’t have to understand it, and I don’t have to accept it. It doesn’t matter to me if someone worships Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, or a Krispy Kreme doughnut. I don’t have the right to question someone else’s salvation. But they don’t have the right to question mine, either.

Of course religion – while among the most polarizing – isn’t the only subject on which people disagree. Pick any issue and there are plenty of nutbars on either side of the fence. But it seems to me that if there was a little less fingers-in-the-ears-and-“LA LA LA I can’t HEAR you”-ing and a little more acceptance of the fact that reasonable people can disagree, we’d all be much better off. And while there is more than enough bellyaching to go around, I derive the majority of my amusement from the Christian fundamentalists who claim they are being persecuted by those dirty liberals. It doesn’t amuse me because I dislike Christianity; it amuses me because they’ve brought so much of this on themselves.

The overwhelming majority of people don’t hate Christians just by virtue of their Christianity. (Again, there are crackpots everywhere. We all know this. But I’m talking about the majority here. Don’t email me!) But when people try to impose their value system on others, those others get defensive. It’s not that these “others” are trying to make the baby Jesus cry, it’s that they don’t appreciate being informed that their world view must match that of a certain group or else it’s wrong and they’re going to burn in hell forever and ever, amen. No one likes being told that others know how they should live their lives better than the people themselves, and when you foist that crap on people, they get defensive. When that happens, they get all dog-with-a-bone about stuff wherever the opportunity presents itself. Remember the Holiday Tree vs. Christmas Tree clusterfuck that we saw last year? Now, to me, it’s a Christmas tree and it always will be. But when I got a load of all the dillholes squawking about how Christians are only trying to ensure America is the way it "ought to be" and how dare we question God’s Divine Law, and if we don’t agree we hate America and the Pilgrims and the Constitution and the Statue of Liberty and need to get the hell out because we’re nothing but dirty pinkos, I’ll be damned if I didn’t go out of my way to refer to it as a Holiday tree from time to time.

We’ve got to knock off the “If you’re not with me, you’re against me” nonsense. For example, not long ago I learned that I hate America. Color me surprised! And in keeping with my new status as a Very Bad American, allow me to offer these comments: Just because someone doesn’t share our religious, political, or societal views doesn’t automatically make them wrong, nor does it make them our enemy by default. We can’t summarily dismiss someone’s ideas because they differ from ours. We can’t assume that because they don’t share our exact opinions they’re ignorant fools. The people who are the real ignorant fools are the ones who parrot what is spoon-fed to them and condemn anyone who dares to offer a different opinion. By listening and considering, not only might we learn something, we’ll quit alienating people, creating enemies that wouldn't exist otherwise, and making ourselves look like know-it-all asses.

There have been many others who have said the same thing, and said it better than I ever could, so I need to cram it and get off my soapbox.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have some tires to pee on so that I have something to write about next time.

Jesus Would Have Liked It

It was a good weekend.

The Mister and I went to two -- count 'em, two! -- baseball games. We attended the Sounds' season opener on Friday and had such a bang-up time that we were compelled to attend the Easter Sunday game too. There was tailgating involved. And it was good.

A group of us got together at Greer Stadium and sat and ate and drank on Easter Sunday. There was lively conversation in between bites of baked ham and biscuits or swallows of bloody marys or mimosas. Every once in a while someone would make a passing comment about Easter or Jesus or The Ressurection or the Holy Mother of God or whatever, and we'd pause, wipe the crumbs from our mouths, look at our drinks, and sigh. Then someone would say that Jesus would have been all about the tailgating, and we'd agree and chuckle about the poor bastards who were reduced to spending the morning in church consuming the body of Christ. Then we would chew contentedly on our baked ham.

After the game we got the brilliant idea to continue the tailgating while the masses fought to exit the stadium. We sat and drank beer, ate ham (again), and marveled at our genius. This continued long after the parking lot had emptied, but we were not dissuaded. We continued with the drinking and munching because we were certain that is what Jesus would have wanted. But at one point I realized that my desire to wee would not be denied, so I told The Mister that we needed to head home. He didn't want to leave, and I didn't either. But something was going to have to give, and that something wasn't going to be my bladder. After a couple minutes, The Mister offered to move his vehicle back a few feet so that I could do my business behind it. And while this was a noble idea, I would still be exposed to anyone driving on Chestnut Avenue. The Mister solved this probem by providing a human barrier, allowing me to wee in peace. So there I went, taking a whiz on the rear tire of his car, marking my property just like a territorial chihuahua. Step off, bitches! This tire is mine!

We all experience life-defining moments. I can recall a few episodes in my life that, when I hear or see or smell something, take me back to that exact point in time. Of course there are the big things I will always remember, like when I got married or when I first saw my husband. But there are so many other things that, while they seemed insigificant at the time, I will remember for the rest of my life. Every time I smell sage I think of a particular Thanksgiving and my mother looking tired and cranky, stuffing a bunch of crap up the ass of a dead turkey. Every time I hear a certain Cranberries song I think about driving in the snow through Louisville, hearing only that beautiful tune and the crunch of snow under my tires. Every time I hear Laid by James I recall driving through Cincinnati singing that song as loud as my hoarse, hungover voice would let me. (To anyone who may have been within earshot: I'm so, so sorry that you had to hear that. Especially the yodel-y part.)

Anyway, back to the defining moment: I squatted next to the car, listening to the confused squawk of a young bird trying to sing along with Rob Zombie. The sun was shining on my face, the wind was blowing through my hair and the new spring leaves, and my long-suffering husband was herking and jerking to ensure that the humanity of Chestnut Street didn't see the exposed ladybits of his wife. And it was at that time, hearing my friends, seeing the blue sky, watching the birds, and looking at my beautiful husband working so hard to defend what little honor I had left, that I knew I was the luckiest bitch in the history of forever.

Yeah, it was a good weekend.

Saturn Would Like Some Pork Wontons

It’s that time of year again. Taxes. Sigh.

I am not someone who gets too worked up over taxes. I believe there is a price to pay in order to live in a civilized society, and that price is tax. After all, the military doesn’t appear out of thin air, roads don’t build and maintain themselves, and people are not born knowing how to read and write. That being said, when presented with the amount of money we are required to pay for taxes this year, my husband became frustrated and cranky and I came dangerously close to swallowing my own tongue.

I never used to give much thought to taxes, primarily because I didn’t have to pay any. Of course I also used to drink beer for breakfast and stockpile cans of ravioli in case I needed to serve a particularly romantic dinner. But now that I’m a grown-up – and have the gray hairs to prove it – the pedestrian subject of income tax warrants much more attention. Especially since I have to pay it now.

As a result, I’ve been doing some thinking about where exactly my tax dollars are going. Admittedly I haven’t examined this too closely because I’m not an economist and I know that there are a multitude of aspects of the issue that I do not understand. And also, I’m lazy. But anyway, after doing some off-the-top-of-my-head consideration, I’m pretty sure I can make America’s economy better. The solution? Kick that bitch NASA to the curb.

Don’t get me wrong, because I know that NASA has done a lot. Without them we wouldn’t have cell phones, satellite television, or Interplanet Janet. And a world without the full complement of Schoolhouse Rock characters is not one in which I wish to live. But by my estimation, NASA receives about 80 gazillion dollars in government funding per year. While I enjoy pretty pictures of planets and meteors and shit as much as the next person, is this really where we want our hard-earned dinero to go? Can’t we take that dough and try to find a cure for AIDS? Cancer? Athlete’s Foot?

Not long ago I observed a discussion concerning this very subject. One of the points made was that China would surpass our space program if we didn’t keep up the pace.* To that I have this response: Who gives a shit? If China (or whoever) wants to get into a pissing contest, getting all “We visited planet JW447 eight times but you only went twice, neener neener,” then let them. They can take their Kung Pao to Neptune and call it a day. The fear of someone else one-upping us is no reason to spend gazillions of dollars on something that no one really gives a crap about. Do we really need a multimillion dollar contraption to go to other planets, take pictures, and then self-destruct? Sure it’s interesting and we’ve learned a great deal about the atmosphere on some moon somewhere. But it’s some moon… somewhere.

This is not to say that I think we should do away with the space program altogether, because god knows that rocket scientists need love too, and knowledge is a wonderful thing. But 600 brazillian dollars? Damn.

If only I were in charge of the world. There would be fewer rockets, and more beer and ravioli for everyone.

*Or was it Japan? I can’t recall. It was one of the two. And yes, I could research it, but I’m lazy, remember?