‘How The Meshugonoph Grabbed Festivus’ suitable for framing – just like #Trump.

Click on the image or this link to download a PDF file you can print out and tack to the company bulletin board when no one is looking.

And pass this along. If you have an employer, I’m no longer safe in your social graph – that’s how you know it’s satire – but you know people who will enjoy this.

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Blow Hard: How The Meshugonoph Grabbed Festivus.

Blow, Meshuga. Blow.

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

Sunday, December 24, 2017

Every Gnome down in Notown craved Marxist hypnosis,
but the Meshugonoph – from Doughtown – cried “Misdiagnosis!”
He didn’t know better – but he knew better than them,
for the lights in their attics burned brittle and grim.

The Gnomes hated everything, the Meshugonoph first,
but their plans for revenge had so-far been cursed.
Not Mueller, not Rosie – not even Eminem –
could sway him to yield to The Swamp and its scams.

You say he’s a hero? I say say he’s bull-headed.
But The Resistance has more been deballed than beheaded:
They flail and they fulminate, they rage, ruin and riot –
while the rest of the country would prefer they be quiet.

Oh, but that’s not for Rosie. Nor for brave Eminem.
He can’t be happy ’til Meshuga is father to him.
And while you might picture Rosie in a manatee’s mumu,
she longs to lapdance that gonoph in a black French Maid’s tutu.

Yet the Meshugonoph came and the Meshugonoph stayed,
with The Swamp and The Resistance evermore disarrayed.
But Eminem swore he could douse the conflagration
with a foul-mouthed illiterate rap incantation.

He gave it his best, but Harry Potter’s a joke,
even bleached-blonde in a hoodie, head clouded in smoke.
He practiced self-absolution, saying, “Hey, it’s all cool.
We all know hip-hop is Doctor Seuss porn for fools.”

But Rosie still raged. She was primed for the killing.
Plus she knew the true star is the berserk second-villain.
“‘Blow Hard’?” she sneered. “Hell, I can blow harder.
As a blowhard, I’m cuter, taller, funnier and smarter!”

The Meshugonoph raged at this facile boasting –
unheard around him since Matt Lauer’s last roasting.
“You may yearn to see me laid out on the slab,
but yours is a Festivus no one should grab!”

The Meshugonoph huffed and Eminem shivered.
He puffed and Rosie’s proud fatrolls all quivered.
But is his holiday movie too suburban, too bland?
The bad guys fell down, but the structure still stands.

The Meshugonoph shrugs – like Atlas, but farcely.
“You elected Bart Simpson. Did you expect Mister Darcy?
It’s Christmas, dumbasses, so be of good cheer!
You can pick up your war of attrition next year.”

Posted in #MyKindOfBenedy, Christmas brutality, Poetry and fiction, Willie stories | Leave a comment

Ladybug’s Christmas dismissal: “The best argument against women in the workplace? Women in the workplace.”

“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your ovaries are blazing and your biscuits are burned.”Photo by: Gabriel González

A Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

“Classy broad. A real lady.”

Ladybug said that, nodding toward the television over the bar. No sound, but the image on the screen was Melania Trump – a world-class eye magnet.

“You know the best argument for President Trump? He can hang onto a woman like that.” She gave that observation some thought. “Now that would really get me fired!”

And, yeah, I know: Uncle Willie in a bar? It happens. I go where the action is, after all. And it would be hard to endure more action than The Dive On Inn can stir up on a Tuesday afternoon: Me and Scarlet, my acoustic guitar, on a little riser, Ladybug at a pub table – my entire audience – and one bored bartender. It’s a strip-mall taproom, west-facing for the cheaper rent, and tiny shafts of light pierce the gloom where the painted-over windows have been chipped or scratched. And when you can spare attention to marvel at the dust fibers floating in the sunrays – that’s when you know you’re in the midst of the maelstrom.

There’s backstory here, but it’s boring, so I’ll make it quick: I got thrown out of Walmart the other week for selling guitars too well, and one of the young scruffians who saw me there and knows me from the choo choo train at the Arrowhead Mall leaned on his grandpa to give me a job in his bar in Youngtown. This I don’t need and didn’t really want, but I don’t have it in me to disappoint a kid who’s gone all Dickens at Christmas.

I was there to learn the ropes, to prepare for the weekend throngs – sometimes even approaching double-digits – so I figured I should do something that looked like rope-learning. Accordingly, I said, “Fired?”

“Fired,” she agreed. “Thirteen years. Can you believe that?”

I couldn’t frankly. Ladybug’s a fireplug – in every way you can imagine. Short and chunky, but she’s still got a waist. Big hair and (more…)

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How can you bury your hopes at Christmas? You can’t. That’s how Dusty found his Phoenix.

Dusty is just enough Willie. For Christmas.Photo by: Sherman Geronimo-Tan

The Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie stories are fiction. I sometimes get pissed-off emails from people who don’t get that – when Willie is playing with real-world stuff they know about. But every Willie story is based hugely in real-world stuff. The best argument for de Vere is de Vere, and Willie tells you what he sees through my eyes.

Dusty is fiction, an allegory about family, but it draws on my real life – in Willie’s typical mix ’n’ match fashion. It’s a little book, just enough Willie. This scene is entirely made up, but it’s still a sweet reflection of my own mother and my relationship with her:

“I was thinking about when your mom came to Show Low.”

That was Adora on the phone, a lifeline. The sun was up behind me, but, still, she must have set an alarm to be with me. That’s what family does? That’s what Adora did, anyway.

“There was a snake, a rattler. We were out walking in the woods, me and Amanda and Megwyn. Meg couldn’t have been seven, but she was leading, like always. We came up on this big old Diamondback, spinning up dust and thoroughly outraged.”

You should take a moment to be petrified. If a snake like that wants you dead, you’re dead. He’ll be dead, too, starved to death in a few days for having wasted all his venom on vermin, but you’ll be dead in minutes, not days. Meanwhile, there is a tiny mammal locked somewhere in your brain who knows without reason to be terrified of snakes.

“Your mom was about to wet her pants, but Megwyn calmed her down just like that. She said, ‘Just take it easy. We’re too big for him to swallow. He just wants us to get out of his way.’”

I said, “That’s just exactly right.”

“Of course it is, but until then Amanda saw Meg as a kid. Suddenly she was the grown-up, and your mom was the kid.”

I smiled at that, smiled at the windshield, smiled at the road. “I’ll bet she saw (more…)

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What happens when #MeToo meets #BanBossy?

Ci women bosses are even worse as leaders than Ci men bosses, and, accordingly, they scream at their subordinates even more than the manicured man-boys they are alleged to be equal to.What do you suppose Ci women bosses scream about?Photo by: GDS-Productions

A few days ago, I batted out a moral ranking of the ‘guests’ at The Sex Addiction Clinic of Misfit Celebrities:

• Garrison Keillor – harmless
• Charlie Rose – clueless
• Donald Trump – mendacious
• Matt Lauer – opportunistic
• Harvey Weinstein – predatory
• Bill Clinton – diabolical

You can quibble about the personalities and their offenses, and I truly don’t care. The point is there are gradations to the kind of behavior we’re condemning, differences in motivation that tell us what is going on.

DISC it: We’re going to find C and I in huge abundance among true offenders, obviously: Both are poorer at reading inbound displays, and hence are more likely in general to faux pas-in-full in social encounters. But C and I are much more likely to treat other people as tokens in a game, too: To see an individual human being not as the present and momentary instantiation of his entire life, but simply as a sale or a fare or a deal or a trick – or a “free” gumball.

Everything that rational people could plausibly object to comes down to predation: Deploying force or fraud (in the form of guile) to induce behavior the victim would not otherwise have chosen. Much of what is being #MeToo’d about amounts either to clumsy courtship or unwelcome conversation – but, of course, women can make anything trivial. In any case, anything short of actual predation should be ignored. That’s the only way adult-babies will learn how to act like adults.

But the motivation of that actual predation matters, because it illuminates the intoxicating, addicting illusion-of-omnipotence that undergirds all socially-abusive behavior: Predation is not about sex. It’s about power. Not even power over the person, directly, but power over the inconquerable laws of nature that say one lion should never be able to enslave another.

Ultimately – and aboriginally – C and (more…)

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Men: What’s your best defense from yet another catty #MeToo meow? “She hit me first!”

The “Fighting Words” legal doctrine says that, when you persistently taunt a man into punching you, you’re the bad guy. I don’t know that judges will want to talk about tortious fornicative displays, but that’s what’s going on when a slutty dresser comes to work.Illustration by: Surian Soosay

I think every working stiff in America should file a sexual-assault grievance every time some floozie shows up to work dressed to incite working stiffies. She’s hitting you first. Fight back.

If a skirt shows leg above the knee, standing or sitting, report it.

If arms are visible above the elbow, write it up.

Shoulders? Back? If you’d look hard to see it from behind your sunglasses on the beach – it’s an act of sexual aggression.

Snazzy shoes? They’re meant to make you look at her legs. High heels? Her calves and butt. If you see something, say something.

Is she wearing a long necklace or a broach? She’s flaunting her tits, so she can flail you with them later. Tell HR.

All jewelry on a woman is sex-parts advertising: She’s drawing your eyes to what she thinks is most ogle-worthy. Don’t take the bait, but do report the baiting.

Red outfit or accessory? Eye magnet. Form-fitting clothing? Grope magnet. Perfume? Rape magnet. She’s violating your nature as a man. Speak up.

And don’t forget to remember: Past offenses count, but only your memory of them counts, and the injury was to your feelings, not to anything that can be measured from the outside.

Got three specific grievances? That’s a hostile work environment: You are being asked to labor against a company-endorsed tide of deliberate sexual temptation.

The “Fighting Words” legal doctrine says that, when you persistently taunt a man into punching you, you’re the the bad guy. I don’t know that judges will want to talk about tortious fornicative displays, but that’s what’s going on when a slutty dresser comes to work.

Report the bitch. She’s not just disrupting the workplace, she’s a walking land mine self-programmed to destroy careers, marriages and families. Be a hero and rid the job site of toxic femininity.

Most women who work outside the (more…)

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A dumpster diver’s Christmas.

Screen Shot 2014-12-12 at 6.58.52 AMA Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Willie story

Sunday, December 24, 1995 – Christmas Eve

I can be counted upon to walk, after all.

When everybody’s nowhere and even the laundromats are empty. When the respectable stores are closed and the line at the 24-Hour Slurp ’n’ Burp is 15 deep with people craving cold beer and hot salsa and high-octane unleaded. When there’s one lonely mailman in an immense empty truck delivering insanely last-minute gifts sent via God-Help-Me-If-I-Screw-It-Up-Again Express Mail. When the streets are empty and the highways are empty and the parking lots are empty and, for once, even the bars are empty – I can be counted upon to walk. You’re at home with the yule log blazing, with a glazed ham baking, with a Bordeaux breathing, with the children seething to tear into that cache of treasures parked beneath the tree. And Uncle Willie’s out walking on Christmas Eve, dragging his pencil on the pavement for no good reason at all.

“Storm windows,” John Prine sings. “Gee, but I’m getting old. Storm windows, keep away the cold.” And that’s a silly enough thought in the great outdoors. I was cutting through an apartment complex and the closed-for-the-holidays supermarket next door had left its parking lot speakers blaring. And the radio station was playing a song they’d never play if they thought anyone was listening.

I can hear the wheels of automobiles
so far away, just moving along through the drifting snow.
It’s times like these, when the temperatures freeze
I sit alone, looking at the world through a storm window.
Down on the beach, the sandman sleeps.
Time don’t fly, it bounds and leaps.
The country band, it plays for keeps.
They play it so slow…

I was about twenty feet away from a big blue dumpster and I heard a rustle. You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take away the boy’s revulsion for rats, and I was suddenly in the mood to be walking elsewhere. But then there was a big tumble-rumble-boom, something big knocking into the steel walls of the dumpster, and I knew it wasn’t a rat.

And I knew what it was, too, and (more…)

Posted in Christmas brutality, Poetry and fiction, Willie stories | 7 Comments