Some days fate just intervenes. Take today for example: I sat down earlier and started writing a post. It was a beautiful thing – witty, wise, erudite, everything you could want in a post. I was Moonsplaining something very important, when my computer took a giant dump and I lost everything.
After dealing with the initial rage that occurs every time a piece of technology betrays me (admit it, it affects you the same way too), I decided to take a break. I had a smoke, had lunch, did the dishes, brushed my teeth, took a long-overdue shower and, as I was drying off and trying to remember what it was I was writing about so that I could try to recreate it, I realized that it was really pointless, especially since I couldn’t actually remember what the very important thing was that you needed me to explain, and in fact it was probably a good thing the computer crashed.
There are enough bloviating assholes out there telling you how you should think, and why you should think that way. You don’t need me piling on. Especially in light of the fact that I probably have no idea what I’m talking about (just like most of you, in all likelihood).
I think part of the problem is all the emphasis on “tolerance” today. We’re told we have to be tolerant. To treat those who think, or believe, or act differently, or just are different from us with tolerance.
I think that’s well-intentioned, but wrong. “Tolerance” implies that there is something wrong with whatever or whoever you’re tolerating – at best they’re guilty of something they just can’t help, so you should be nice to them. The problem is that deep down, tolerance means that we think everything would be okay if everybody thought, acted, and believed like we think they should, so we need to convert them.
Thing is, I don’t know anyone who wants to be “tolerated”. I certainly don’t want to be, not by anyone. I personally prefer to be accepted (or rejected) for who and what I am (whoever and whatever that may be – the jury’s still out on that).
I don’t want to tolerate anyone. I want to accept them. I shouldn’t feel that you should change to suit me, nor should you need me to change to suit you. That’s what tolerance gets you. It breeds negativity, distrust, and ultimately hatred.
It causes know-it-alls like me to think that what we think about things needs to be heard by YOU, when the truth is that YOU don’t need to hear anything from me.
I’m not saying that we should be accepting of everything: for example, pineapple on pizza is just an abomination. However, I do have to accept that there are people out there who feel differently about it. Since there is no law, legal or moral, against it, I’ve just got to deal with it. Besides, other than their aberrant pizza preferences, most of them are probably pretty nice people. I need to accept them. I also don’t have to eat their pizza, and just because they’re wrong doesn’t mean I’m right (although I am).
The same could go for any number of things, including most of the things that are dividing us right now.
I’m also not saying that I’m going to stop telling you what I think. I’m only human after all. But I am going to try to do it in an accepting fashion, fully aware that you probably don’t agree with me. That’s okay. I might not even be right. Just keep in mind that you might not be right either, and try to be a little accepting as well.
Some of you may have noticed that I haven’t been writing much of anything here for quite some time. The primary reason is because I find it really hard to write when I’m angry, and I’ve been extremely angry for most of the last two years.
I’ve started to write posts numerous times, and each time, I would start out writing in my usual witty, charming style, and the more I wrote, the angrier I got (because of my predilection for writing about things I care about), and everything became nothing more than just a rant, and there is more than enough of that sort of thing floating around out there. In the end, I would just get disgusted with myself for writing stuff that would just add to the problem.
I’ve realized that part of the problem is the Facebook (and yes, I know how stupid that is). All too often, I find myself just looking for things to make me angry (amazing how well that works, isn’t it?). I’ve begun to think that I need to just jettison the Facebook because I don’t need all that negativity in my life. Of course, it’s not just the negativity that gets to me: much of the positivity gets to me too, especially when the same people who are posting memes seemingly designed to save my soul or bring me closer to God are also posting the most mind-numbing, hateful, and simply unAmerican propaganda.
Most of the time, I resist the urge to respond to that stuff, mainly because I know that the people who are posting that stuff don’t really even mean it. One of the problems with the Facebook is that it often causes me to feel, not even angry really, more just saddened, about people whom I genuinely like/love/admire. People who, in the way they actually live their lives, give the lie to the memes and sentiments they promulgate on social media.
It’s gotten so bad that I find myself waking up in the middle of the night, trying to think of ways to respond that would get my point across without seeming like an attack on them (and yes, I know that is ridiculous too. I’ve never claimed to be a rational person, and noone else has ever claimed that either. If you’re looking for the poster-child for mental and emotional stability and maturity, look elsewhere).
I hate feeling that way. Especially because I’m pretty sure that most of them are better human beings – and better Christians – than I am. At least I think they are.
I never thought I’d miss the days when the most annoying thing about the Facebook was the pictures of people’s dinners. Now, it’s kind of refreshing to see those.
I’ve always said that the only reason I’m on the Facebook is to promote my writing. Obviously, that has just become a justification for my own stupidity (plus, I really love all those puppy videos), so I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to either A) close my Facebook account or, B) start writing something so I’ll have something to promote.
Since I also use the Facebook to keep in touch with friends and family, I’m going to try option B.
I don’t know that what I’m going to be writing is going to be all that funny – although I hope to get back to that. I know that many of you (even those of you who I’m closest to) aren’t going to like a lot of the stuff that I’ll write, and that’s okay. If our friendship isn’t strong enough to survive it, it was never much of a friendship to begin with.
Keep in mind that what I’m going to be writing is largely just going to be my opinion. I’ll try to include links to any material I use as a reference. Also keep in mind that I’m not really trying to convince you of anything – if the Facebook has taught me anything, it’s taught me that that is a fruitless effort – you’ll either agree with me or disagree with me, there’s little or no chance of either of us changing our minds.
I’m going to be writing this stuff just to get it off my chest, and to maybe give you something to think about. I’m not trying to start an argument. Feel free to not read it, you won’t hurt my feelings. If you do read it, remember, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings either.
Well, it’s Christmas time again, and, like the last several years, the war on the war on Christmas is in full swing. All I really have to say about that is simply this: Please, please, please, JUST SHUT UP!!!!!
This year, the big controversy seems to be that we’re not allowed to play “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”. My Facebook feed is filled to bursting with three variations on that theme:
Very, very sad people complaining about how terrible it is that we can’t play that song in today’s politically correct America, and what’s this country coming to anyway?
Smug, self-righteous people declaring that they’re going to continue to play it, regardless of what those ridiculous Social Justice Warriors say!
Intellectual (or, even more frequently, stupid) defenses of the song, laboriously analyzing the context of the time in which it was written, what certain phrases meant back then, blah, blah, blah.
What no one is mentioning, is that nobody said you can’t play it anyway! As far as I can tell, four radio stations removed it from their holiday play list, and everyone lost their minds. That’s four stations out of the approximately 15,000 radio stations in the U.S. The horror!
Now I’ll be the first to admit that I personally like the song. I don’t know what it has to do with Christmas, but I do like the song. I’m not sure why Christians (it does seem to be Christians – or at least Facebook Christians- who are so offended by the alleged ban) are so upset about the absence of a song which, if you take the most harmless interpretation of it, is basically about two unmarried people trying to justify getting (consensually) laid.
It seems a weird thing for Christians to be upset about.
Of course, it doesn’t stop there. I recently saw a meme insisting that if you think Santa should be gender neutral, you should delete him (the meme poster) now, because he doesn’t need that kind of stupidity in his life.
I didn’t even know that was a thing, much less something that I needed to be concerned about. Of course, it turns out that it’s not a thing, and not something that I need to be concerned about.
Apparently some logo company polled 4,000 people in the U.S. and U.K. about “rebranding” Santa Claus, and 17% liked the idea of a gender neutral Santa. The same “poll” found that 21% wanted Santa to be thinner, and 20% want Santa to have tattoos.
That’s 680 people out of 4,000 of the kind of meatheads, knuckleheads, and boneheads that actually take polls from logo companies. In contrast, 100% of the people I know are too busy making a living and dealing with everyday life to bother taking any kind of polls at all.
Now there’s a controversy surrounding “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. People are freaking out because some hippie liberal Social Justice Warriors had the audacity to criticize aspects of the beloved classic Christmas show.
Nobody seems to have noticed that pretty much all of the things the show has been criticized for are exactly the things that we all noticed when we were kids: That the other reindeer, elves, and even Santa, WERE dicks to Rudolph and Hermey, and anyone else who didn’t fit their ideas of what was correct and proper, right up until they needed Rudolph, and then well hey, he was A-OK!
I find it ironic that the only people who actually seem to be offended by any of this are the same ones who, all too often, preface their own posts with something along the lines of “I know this is going to offend some of you but I’m not afraid, ’cause I’m speaking the truth” (there are a thousand variations on that theme).
I haven’t heard or seen a single person, liberal or otherwise, who is actually suggesting banning Rudolph, or “Baby, It’s Cold Outside, or advocating that Santa should be anything other than a jolly, bearded, fat man in a red suit.
It’s enough to make me wonder who the real “snowflakes” are.
I’ve been reading and watching some pretty exciting stuff (to me anyway), and thought to myself, “Ya know, you should really tell someone about this.” So I am.
I picked this up a couple years ago at the Crazy Horse monument in the Black Hills of S. Dakota, and it has sat on my shelf since then. Last week, I forgot the book I was reading at work, and found myself in the lamentable position of going to bed with nothing to read. Well that just wasn’t going to happen, and since this was on the top of the stack by my bed, I decided to give it a try.
I had my doubts as I plowed through the two introductions; they (especially the most recent) were a little on the self-congratulatory side, and left me thinking “Oh crap, is this gonna be another one of those “Let me explain Indians to you,” kind of books, written by a white guy, and loaded with self-aggrandizement and presenting Indians as a bunch of holy men and earth mothers? (I tend toward the skeptical side, and my own experience with Indians has pretty much wrecked that romanticized, Hollywoodized, 70’s liberal view).
Boy, was I in for a (pleasant) surprise. Nerburn has written a book that I very much wished I could write. There’s nothing romanticized here. Nerburn isn’t afraid to show his white preconceptions and biases, nor is he afraid to show those preconceptions and biases getting slapped down for the (well-meaning) bullshit that they are. Dan, the Indian elder Nerburn goes on the road with, isn’t some Black Elk wannabe, full of Native mysticism. Rather, he’s an old man from an exploited, impoverished, and conquered people who has spent his life thinking and trying to make sense of his world, and the white world that surrounds his.
In a lot of ways, Dan reminds me of Jim Charging Crow, a Lakota elder that I, and others in our group, were fortunate enough to become friends with. Full of good humor, but deeply suspicious of whites and their agendas.
Nerburn’s book has opened my eyes, clarified my vision, and at least partially answered questions that I’ve had on my mind for years.
A great book, and an invaluable one for anyone who seeks to help the Sioux, or who seeks a greater understanding of America the problems that face all of us.
Pick #2: The White Tiger, by Aravind Adiga. Five stars, two thumbs up. Fiction.
A very different book, about a very different kind of Indian. The White Tiger is the story of Balram Halwai, who grows up impoverished in rural backwater of India, and how he rose from a peasant destined for a short, nasty, brutal life to become a successful entrepreneur. It’s a fascinating book: both horrifying and very funny, as it exposes the corruption rampant in India, and what happens when a man born with no options decides to make his own.
I found that, although it’s a very Indian story, that it’s also a universal story about corruption and what happens when a society rewards exploitation of the poor and the marginalized, instead of caring for them, and helping them.
A fantastic book; an easy read with some very important things to say.
Pick #3: Hostiles, a film by Scott Cooper. Fiction. Four stars, two thumbs up.
Hostiles, starring Christian Bale, Rosamund Pike, and Wes Studi, is a great movie, albeit one that plays fast and loose with actual history. While it is a western, it is, like all great westerns, about much, much more than just cowboys and Indians, and gunfights. It is a movie that attempts to show the cost that everyone paid (the Indians, the settlers, and the soldiers) to make America what it is today. It is also about the racism that has afflicted this nation since the day Columbus landed in the Caribbean. More importantly, it is about overcoming that racism, putting aside the biases and hatreds that separate us, and bringing people together through mutual, earned respect.
It doesn’t attempt to stick to the facts of history, something that really bothered me the first time I saw it (as a history buff, I kept getting side-tracked by the numerous historical inaccuracies), but once I got past that narrow view, I was able to see it for what it is: a parable of America, and, as that, it succeeds admirably. It’s one of those movies that sticks with you long after the end credits roll. It makes you think: about our country’s history, and about its present, as well as about our own, individual biases and prejudices, and where they come from.
All that philosophical wonkery aside, it is also a damned fine western, with great performances from everybody in it, lots of action, and gunfights. It is also pretty bloody and brutal in it’s depiction of the violence of the old west: definitely not one for the kiddies, or the faint of heart.
It is currently available on Netflix, and on DVD, and Blu-Ray.
Woman Walks Ahead, starring Jessica Chastain, Sam Rockwell, and Michael Greyeyes, is pretty much the exact opposite of Hostiles: It’s based on a true story, and plays fast and loose with actual history, and fails miserably in both telling its story, and in telling a larger truth.
It is the story of Caroline Weldon, a painter and activist for Indian rights, who went to Standing Rock Indian Reservation to paint a portrait of the great Sioux chief, Sitting Bull. So far, so good. Those things actually happened. What is inexplicable to me is why they felt it necessary to airbrush Weldon’s backstory, turning the somewhat Bohemian, divorced activist with a child born out of wedlock, into a widowed, society lady. The actual Weldon’s story is much more interesting.
Less mysterious is the film maker’s rearranging of historical events, to make things center around Weldon (after all the movie’s about her). However, despite what importance Weldon may have had, making this story about her is like making Mrs. Schindler the primary focus of Schindler’s List. I’m sure Frau Schindler made some important contributions, but the most important thing was saving Jews from the death camps.
The film goes so far as to turn Weldon into the stereotypical Great White Saviour, the Feminist Icon who inspires Sitting Bull to lead his people to vote against the “Allotment Treaty”. In reality, it was the Dawes Act, and, as an act of Congress, the Sioux never got a vote in it. The movie downplays the importance of the Ghost Dance, completely screws the pooch about the death of Sitting Bull, and turns Wounded Knee – a direct result of white hysteria about the Ghost Dance, and Sitting Bull’s death – into a footnote. There is a huge, important story here to be told. Instead, they made this movie.
Maybe the biggest mystery is this: weren’t there any actual Feminist Icons to make a movie about? Surely Hollywood hasn’t told the stories of all the women who’ve made huge sacrifices for not only women’t rights, but for civil rights in general. Why take a story about a pivotal moment in U.S. history, and dump all of the truly important stuff, stuff that still affects thousands, if not millions, of Americans every day, in order to manufacture a Feminist Icon? Women deserve better than that, Indians deserve better than that, Americans deserve better than that.
It’s currently on Amazon Prime Video and DVD, Blu-ray.
Anyway, that’s it. If you’re going to read three books this year, I strongly suggest that you start with Thumperica! A Novel of the Ghost of America Future. However, if you’re only going to read one or two books this year, give Thumperica a pass, and read Neither Wolf Nor Dog, and The White Tiger.
If you want to see a historical movie that ignores facts to state a larger truth, watch Hostiles.
If you want to see a historical movie that skews facts in order to get everything wrong, watch Woman Walks Ahead.
As some of you might know, on the 2nd of September, I spoke at my church, Whitewater Christian, about our annual mission trip to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation.
All-in-all, I felt like it went pretty well (there were no lightning strikes, and nobody suggested cancelling my membership!).
Anyway, my daughter shot video of it on her phone. Unfortunately, her phone is an Iphone 8, and my computer’s a PC, and apparently they don’t play well together. After several days of struggling and cursing, we finally figured out how to get it off her phone and onto my computer. Sadly, it’s also a huge file, and I can’t figure out how to shrink it enough to be able to share it here (I was able to put it on the Facebook).
I decided that I would go ahead and post the text here, for those of you are interested. Enjoy!
Also, I welcome any comments about what I had to say. If, at the end of it (presuming that you make it to the end of it), you discover an interest in joining us next June, or wanting more information, just give me a holler.
And now, with no further ado, here it is:
Ever since I volunteered to do this, I’ve thought long and hard about what I was going to say up here. I have frequently wished that I’d thought about that before I volunteered – I could’ve saved myself and you all what may be a really weird and uncomfortable experience. However, I didn’t, and here we are.
Like I said, I’ve thought a lot about what I was going to say. I could recite mountains of horrific statistics, but statistics reduce people to numbers, and only tell part of the story. Besides, all you’ve got to do is Google “Pine Ridge Indian Reservation” and you can find all of the horrible statistics you want.
I could talk about the history of the Sioux people—the wars, the broken treaties, the 180 or so years of oppression they’ve faced. I could talk about the death of Sitting Bull, Wounded Knee, the Dawes Act, the Indian Schools that took children from their homes, cut their hair and beat them for speaking their native language, the other ways we’ve tried to force assimilation on them, the way, every time we found something on their land that we wanted, we just laid that Eminent Domain on them and took it. In all honesty, if you’re interested, that stuff’s pretty easy to find on your own. Also, even all of that stuff only paints part of the picture.
I could talk about whose fault it is that things are as bad on the Rez, and why so many of them stay there (spoiler alert: it’s mostly—not all, but mostly—our fault), but that’s only just another little bit of the picture.
I thought, well shoot—I can just tell them stories about what I’ve seen out there (and you all know how I love to tell stories). I could tell you about the young woman with 4 little kids walking about 25 miles one way on a scorching hot June day, just because she had no money, and had heard that someone there had free diapers.
I could tell you about the two older women, each pushing a grandchild in a stroller, on a 30 mile, one-way walk on a below-freezing day in mid-winter, to get to the nearest Western Union office because someone had sent them money for food.
I could tell you about the two boys who were on the school bus that discovered their father hanging from a tree along the road side.
I could tell you stories that would break your hearts, but again, those are only part of the picture.
Or, I could tell you stories that would make you feel really good about yourselves for helping to keep this thing going: about how we picked up that young woman and her kids, got them something cold to drink, took them to camp for supper, loaded them down with diapers and food, and gave them a ride home—how we picked up those two older women and took them where they needed to go.
I could tell you about refurbishing churches and community centers, building wheelchair ramps and outhouses, about feeding hungry children, and comforting the heart-broken, mowing playgrounds and parks, about the smiles on those dirty faces, and how they light up and come out of the woodwork when that Whitewater Christian Church bus pulls into Potato Creek, and how they cry and we cry, and they chase the bus begging us not to leave every year at the end of the week, and we could all go home feeling good about ourselves, but even the good stuff is only part of the picture.
I’ve been studying the Sioux people for as long as I could read, and I’ve been going on this trip for, I think, 14 years, and I have to admit that, even with all that I only know bits and pieces of the picture.
All I can really talk about is what I’ve seen, and I’ve seen some amazing things.
See, I’ve come to believe that this little group is about a lot more than just helping the Sioux. I’ve come to believe that this group, for me anyway, is representative of something a whole lot bigger, something that can help not only the Sioux, but the whole country.
I see and worry, as we all do, about how divided this country has become. Liberal VS conservative, Christian VS Muslim, gay VS straight, religious VS secular, etc., and those divisions can be broken down even further, until it’s literally brother VS brother.
We’re all so obsessed with being right, so proud of our beliefs and opinions that we’re willing to put them above everything else, no matter the cost.
Don’t worry, I’m not gonna get all political on you here, but I think you know what I’m talking about.
Anyway, a few years back, I was trying really hard on the trip to post what we were doing on the Facebook every day, to try to keep folks informed, and hopefully generate more interest for the following year.
And it worked—sort of. I got a message from a girl I went to high school with, saying that what we were doing sounded great, and that she and her partner Lisa, would love to join us the next year. She just wanted to know if them being Quakers would be a problem.
Well, I have to admit, I handled the situation badly. I think I hurt her feelings pretty deeply, and I feel really bad about that. Anyway, Dave and I spent a lot of time talking about it. After all, this is a Christian mission. We have a lot of very conservative Christians come on this trip. Often times, they bring their kids, and other people’s kids. Did we want to risk alienating individuals and possibly even entire churches to let a gay couple come on the trip?
Now, Dave and I are both pretty upfront about our own weaknesses and failings. We both know that we’re no better, and our sins, even the ones we still have the energy to commit, are no less evil than anyone else’s. We’ve also had alcoholics, drug abusers, gluttons, liars, gossips, speakers of profanity and obscenity, the selfish, and the prideful on this trip, and that’s just the guys in the front seat of my truck. I don’t know what the rest of the group gets up to, and I don’t want to know.
We’ve also had gay folks on the trip, and it was never an issue. We’d just never had a gay couple before. What would all those good Christians think? How would they explain it to their kids?
The more we discussed it, however the more we realized that all too often, we can’t get the Christians to come, and those that do come rarely come back.
Then we asked ourselves, Who are WE, to say who can and can’t do the Lord’s work? Who are WE to tell someone, No, WE don’t approve of your lifestyle, or your habits, or your issues, and so you aren’t good enough to help us try to help these people?
So, we came to the conclusion that anyone, conservative or liberal, republican or democrat, Muslim or Christian or atheist, Baptist or Catholic, gay or straight or whatever, is welcome to join us, as long as they’re willing to work with a Christ-based mission.
We don’t ask anyone to hide themselves. We don’t ask anyone to pretend to be anything they’re not. We don’t ask people to LIE just to “fit in”. It seems hypocritical to drive all the way to S. Dakota to “minister” to people who are often alcoholics, drug addicts, transsexual or gay, people from broken homes, people in broken homes, the neglected, marginalized, and ostracized, if we are ourselves neglecting, marginalizing, and ostracizing people who just want to help.
Who better to witness to an alcoholic than an alcoholic? Who better to witness to a kid who’s been neglected and abused by his family than someone who has been neglected, abused, and cast out by their own family?
The thing I’ve come to believe is this: this mission is about way more than just helping out the Sioux. It’s about ministering to everyone who comes into contact with us, whether they’re outside the group, or a part of it. I think that’s true of any real ministry.
We, as Christians, have to be willing to get out of our comfort zones, and Pine Ridge is about as far out of the standard middle-class mid-westerner’s comfort zone as you can get.
This year, we were invited, as a group, to attend the Sun Dance. That’s never happened to us before. It’s kind of like inviting a bunch of Buddhists to Easter services at the Vatican. We were deeply honored.
Now some would say that it’s a pagan ritual, and it’s certainly not a Christian thing, but I could see some eerie parallels between it and Christianity. First, there is a crosspiece lashed to the tree that is essentially makes it a cross. The tree has to be carried in by hand, much like Christ carried his own cross. Of course this being about a 30 foot cottonwood tree, it took a lot of us.
The dancers all wore sage crowns, and twists of sage around their wrists and ankles, the crown and twists wrapped in strips of red cloth. Now I don’t pretend to know what they represent in the Sun Dance, but they reminded me of the bloody crown of thorns and the piercing of Christ’s hands and feet.
Shoes were not permitted. It reminded me of the bible, where God told Moses to take off his shoes, because he was standing on holy ground, and when he later told Joshua the same thing.
There were some parts that I kind of wish Christianity had: Some of the dancers had a rope with buffalo skulls tied along it attached to piercings in their backs, and they crawled on their hands and knees, 4 times around the Sun Dance circle, dragging those skulls. If the rope didn’t pull free in those 4 rounds, then others would assist the man to pull hard enough to rip the skewers out, freeing him from the rope
It was explained to me that these were guys who had committed some grievous sin/offense in the past year, and this was how they atoned for it.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I know that Christ has paid the price for our sins. I know that, through him, we are forgiven. The problem is not with Christ, but with me. There are things I’ve done, for which I believe Christ has forgiven me, that I cannot seem to forgive myself for, and I often think that, if I can’t let it go, if I keep my regret and my secret shame alive, can I really be forgiven? I hope that makes sense. I think we’ve probably all got things like that that continue to haunt us, even after we repent and ask forgiveness.
I’ve always wished that we had some way of clearing the slate for ourselves, so, even though I saw that part of the Sun Dance as unnecessary (from a Christian viewpoint), I can see value in it.
That’s the thing about getting out of our comfort zone: THAT is how we learn, not only about others, and what the world looks like through the eyes of others, we learn just as much about ourselves, and what we think and why we think the way we do. It’s how we grow.
But you don’t have to go to a Sun Dance or a sweat lodge ceremony to get out of your comfort zone on the Rez. I love the look a middle-class, mid-western, middle-aged, Christian mom gets on her face when a grubby little 5 or 6 year-old Sioux kid tells her to go commit an obscenely impossible act to herself. That’ll shake you out of your comfort zone really fast.
Those kids will test you. They’ve been let down by so many people, that they’ve learned to not trust anyone. They’re just like us—they want to be loved, but have been so beaten down and abused by the world, so let down by those they should be able to depend upon, that they’ve often decided that they are the problem, that THEY are unlovable.
I’ve seen 10 year olds tell us that they’re possessed by the devil, or that they’re evil. And they often do their best to prove it, acting up, starting fights, hitting our people and other kids, cursing, and generally raising hell, and making themselves and everybody else miserable.
And I’ve seen those same shocked, middle-class, middle-aged, mid-western soccer moms persevere, with love and loving discipline through a really tough week.
Finally, I’ve seen both those kids and soccer moms weeping and clinging to each other at the end of the week, because those soccer moms had to go home.
That’s another great thing about getting out of your comfort zone—if you stay out of it long enough, it grows to encompass where you’ve gone. Your world is much, much bigger and better. You find, if you go often enough, that people you once referred to as “Those people” become actual people, with names and everything. They become part of your circle of friends, and even family, and you become part of theirs.
Now, people often ask “what did you accomplish on the trip?” or the ever-popular, “How many baptisms did you have?”, “How many souls did you save?” A harder question is “are you doing any good? Are you making any difference?”
The truth is, I don’t know. I believe we are. Granted, it often feels like we don’t accomplish much. In 15 years, we’ve only had two baptisms, and those were kids who were part of the group. We’ve saved 0 souls—only God can do that.
As far as “are we making a difference, or doing any good,” there’s no easy answer for that. Only the Sioux and God can really answer that. I believe however, that it is not our job to worry about the harvest. Our job is to plant the seeds, and to try to nourish them as they grow. The harvest is God’s job.
I do know that being involved in this mission has done me a lot of good. It has humbled me. It has made me aware of how blessed I am. It has made me think less of myself, and more of others.
It has made people who are marginalized, and ostracized (and I’m talking about our people here, not the Sioux) feel loved, and accepted, and part of the family of God, sometimes for the very first time.
I’ve seen this trip open the eyes of our youngsters to injustice in the world, and to how much, and how blessed they are, to have full bellies, and a roof over their heads.
I’ve seen it force Christians to really use those Christianity muscles, again, sometimes for the first time.
I’ve seen people make pretty serious sacrifices to continue being a part of this group, and never ask for credit.
That’s the thing about this group that I was talking about earlier, how it represents for me something thatis good, not only for us, or for the Sioux, but for the whole country. It brings us together, and it’s not about US or what we think: it’s about God, and serving him.
In our group, we’ve got wild-eyed hippie liberals like me and staunch, even rabid, conservatives. We’ve got the old and the young. We’ve got the gay, the straight, and the really confused. We’ve got biblical literalists and those who think much of the bible is meant as allegory. We’ve got Fundamentalists and progressive Christians, regular church-goers, and the unchurched. We’ve got people who are, at best, on the fence about what they believe. The one thing we all have in common is a willingness to put our differences aside and work together, with love and acceptance, to accomplish the will of God. A dedication to something greater than ourselves.
Just think what a country this could be if we could all do that.
Finally, I want to say this: Whitewater Christian Church is only a tiny country church, and yet the seed YOU planted 15 years ago is still growing. It has not only continued but, because of the work you’ve started and supported, has sprouted new seeds. Two churches in Tennessee have, for the at least the last 3 or 4 years, started going out their own trip to pine ridge. Another little country church in Spartanburg has started their own annual mission trip to Appalachia.
Missions aren’t just for missionaries. You guys are all an important part of this mission group. Whether you go with us or not, this whole thing would have dried up and died years ago. Your support, your contributions, your prayers are what makes all these things I’ve talked about possible, and I thank you, deeply and sincerely.
I hope that you feel a little bit better informed about what’s going on with the group now. Does anyone have any questions?
As some of you know, yesterday was my birthday (and for those of you who didn’t, what the hell, man? It’s like I’m not even one of the most important people in your life anymore. That’s just hurtful). I turned 53, and it was one of the best birthdays ever. First, I did a little birthday shopping for Jess (she is lovely and talented, but not always great at buying gifts, so I thought I’d do her a solid and do the birthday shopping for her ((also, as you can see, I haven’t lost my love of parenthesis))).
She got me some new albums by the Wood Brothers and by the Hard Working Americans, both great bands I’ve just found. Then, on my actual birthday, I had a pretty doggone good day. We got up and went to church, survived another board meeting, and went to lunch with friends. My friend Garth got me wound up talking about Trump, and sat back to watch (I mean, who doesn’t enjoy dinner and a show?). We got through lunch without me making too much of an ass of myself, and then came the only low point of the day: going to Walmart.
I really, really hate going to Walmart. However, since the object of this distasteful task was ice cream cake, I didn’t pout too much. Then we got home, and I got what every man on earth wants for their birthday — to sleep with the most beautiful woman on earth. The gorgeous and equally somnolent Jess and I got stuck into one seriously intense Sunday afternoon nap. It was awesome, and just what I needed. Jess enjoyed it too. Sadly, I can’t nap like I used to, so it only lasted about 3 hours (it’s sad when your stamina starts to go), but sometimes you’ve just gotta be thankful for what you get.
After the nap (and in case you’re thinking I’m using the word “nap” as a metaphor for something else, I’m not. Get your mind out of the gutter!), we had some leftovers, watched a couple movies, and went back to bed, and I read a couple more chapters of A. Lee Martinez‘ new book, Constance Verity Saves the World, an excellently funny book with a lot of heart, by one of my favorite living authors.
Then I went to sleep. It was a great birthday.
See, I like the unimportant birthdays (well, less-important ones anyway. They’re all important. If you don’t think so, try not having anymore). The big ones, the milestones like turning 40, 50, 60, etc., are a pain in the ass (often literally, because there’s always some jackass who thinks it’d be funny to whack you the appropriate number of times ((while I appreciate the thought, and under normal circumstances, you have to pay extra for that, I’ve reached the age where by the end, it’s just boring and painful))). Everyone also feels obligated to point out to you repeatedly and loudly that you’re one step closer to impending infirmity and death. Granted they still do that on regular birthdays, but they’re much less insistent about it, and easier to ignore.
It’s also nice, because there’s no company involved, which means I’m free to indulge my newly expanded, no-pants policy (basically it’s No-Pants Friday applied to all the other days of the week).
If you do ’em right, the less milestoney birthdays are just like regular days, only most people try to be a little nicer to you, and you get cake. There are no colorful banners announcing to the world that you’re becoming increasingly irrelevant, no boisterous well-wishers gleefully reminding you that you’re a lot closer to death than you used to be, no mess to clean up, no muss, no fuss. The biggest downside is having to respond to a large number of “Happy Birthday” posts on the Facebook, but you can even put that off a day or two.
Of course, I suppose having birthdays that are pretty much just like regular days is only good if your regular days are pretty doggone good themselves. I’m one of the lucky ones. Sometimes I forget it, but then I look at the life I have vs the life I probably deserve, and realize that pretty much everyday is a birthday, and I’d be a fool not to be grateful. As the great Ray Wylie Hubbard said, in his song “Mother Blues” (a song that I really relate to), “The days when I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations . . . well, I have really good days.”
Also, while there’s no need for you to get me anything, but you might want to get yourself a little something in honor of this auspicious day: I recommend my novel, Thumperica! A novel of the Ghost of America Future (you didn’t really think you were going to get through this without a plug for that did you?). It’s available on Amazon. Heck, if you’ve got Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free!
Also, also, do yourself a favor and check out the links to the Wood Brothers, Hard Working Americans, Ray Wylie Hubbard, and A. Lee Martinez.
As you may or may not know, I have actually written (and published) a full-length novel entitled: Thumperica! A Novel of the Ghost of America Future. I’m pretty proud of it, I think it’s pretty darned good (of course, all parents think their baby is beautiful, even the parents of ugly ones), and I think it’s got some important food for thought on the direction this country is headed. It’s available in print, and as an ebook on both Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com
It’s been on sale for about a month and, although there have actually been some sales, I’ve got a long way to go before I get on the best seller’s lists (8 down and 4,992 to go! Stephen King is probably not losing sleep yet.).
At any rate, I’ve decided that maybe a free first taste might be just the thing to generate some interest (yes, I do mean sales. You see right through me, don’t you?), after all, it seems to work for heroin (not that my book is bad for you in any way, unless you think that being caused to think is a bad thing, in which case, I think you need to rethink your thinking).
Anyway, all this self-promotion (and yes, I do mean shameless begging) is getting a little embarrassing, so without further ado, please enjoy the foreword and 1st chapter of Thumperica!
The cover of the ebook edition, designed by yours truly.
Glossary of Acronyms
AARP—American™s Actively Resisting Persecution
ACRONIM—Agency for Contraction of Rightful, Officially eNdorsed Idioms and Meanings.
ANGEL—Angelic Nymph of God’s Exquisite Love
BIEF—Better Ingredients in Every Food
CA or C of A—Church of America™
CEOPIPOTUSGAME—Chief Executive Officer of the President-in-Perpetuity of the United States and God’s Annointed Messenger on Earth
CIO—Chief Information Officer
CMO—Chief Military Officer
COO—Chief Operations Officer
CPO—Chief Pastoral Officer
CSO—Chief Security Officer
GOON—Guardians Of Our Nation
HARLOT—Hospitality And Recreational Leisure Operations Trainee
Excerpt from Silas Joiner’s book, What Happened? How We Got Here, and Who’s to Blame, published by Liberty Island Underground Press, in 2183:
In the early part of the 21st century, mankind collectively went completely off the deep end. Decades of war, terrorism, fear, economic collapses, a resurgence of nationalist movements, creeping paranoia, distrust of establishment politics, and willful ignorance, fueled by organized campaigns of misinformation caused the United States to elect the bizarrely coiffured, financially and morally bankrupt businessman, and reality television falling star, Ronald Thump, president[1] in 2016.
These events were followed closely by an explosion of corporate imperialism, accompanied by a corresponding increase in world-wide poverty. National governments, apparently feeling left out, or perhaps just not recognizing their own growing irrelevance, responded with an increase in totalitarianism and nationalism.
Roughly half-way through his first term, President Thump resigned, citing health issues and pointing out that it had absolutely nothing at all to do with the blizzard of indictments against members of his staff, cabinet, and administration, as well as himself. In his farewell address, he stated: “I’m tired. I’ve been working so hard, and, I must say, doing such a great job—wouldn’t you agree?—I thought so. I’m going to take a little break, just a little break—I know, I know, I’ll miss you too—but I’m leaving you in good hands. Great hands—the best hands—C’mere Mike, show ‘em your hands—look at how big his hands are—he’s a chip off the old block, trust me, you’re in good hands. And don’t worry, I’ll be keeping an eye on things. If things start to go bad—and how could they with this guy in charge, am I right? Of course I am. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it—but I promise you—I will be back, and we’ll keep working together to make America the greatest and most powerful country the world has ever seen.” This, of course, is only an excerpt from the rambling 45 minute speech. Following the speech, Thump disappeared from public life completely, leading to speculation among his enemies that he had died. His political base however, continued to insist, for hundreds of years, that he was still alive, and just hasn’t resumed power because everything is going just fine. Vice President Michael Shilling was sworn in as President.
Before his resignation, President Thump had begun building his Mexican Border Wall, but the collapse of the U.S. economy left it unfinished. Mexico, completely disgusted, and unable to support the number of illegal immigrants flooding across its borders from the U.S., completed the wall in 2019. Numerous wars broke out world-wide, increasingly fought by corporate-owned mercenary armies.
Public confidence in conventional institutions continued to disintegrate: in 2019, the satirical news website The Onion was designated “America’s most trusted news source.” One popular comment was, “Well, at least with the Onion, I know it’s bullshit. With the rest, who knows?” The entire staff of The Onion resigned in disgust.
Shilling took credit for “forcing” Mexico to pay for the wall, and, campaigning on a platform of “Still Making America Even Greater Again” won a second term, aided by the disenfranchisement of minorities, immigrants (anyone less than 3rd-generation American on both sides), homosexuals, and the implementation of a complex illiteracy requirement (people with a high school diploma or less, got two votes, as did collegiate business majors. Humanities and Liberal Arts majors got ½ vote each. In Shilling’s words, “We’re giving power back to the good and godly Christian people who made this country great.”).
Early in his second term, Canada began erecting its own wall. The European Union collapsed, and took Great Britain with it, possibly out of spite. Industry stalled, as did much scientific research and advancement[2]. Poverty, disease, starvation, drought, and warfare began to wipe out huge portions of the world population (ultimately by as much as 60%, over the next 100 years, thanks to the reportedly “inadvertent” release of several man-made viruses). President Shilling was impeached and 92% of the nation’s Senators, Representatives, and governmental officials were indicted for high crimes and misdemeanors.
A special election was held, and ThumpCorp, former President Thump’s corporation, ran for the office of President, citing the historic “Citizens United” ruling by the Supreme Court as precedent[3]. It won in a landslide. Thump’s fifteen-year-old son and CEO of ThumpCorp, Viscount Thump, was sworn in as CEO of the President of the United States of America.
In 2022, President ThumpCorp, citing increasing civil unrest, suspended habeas corpus, established privately-run industrial “patriotism retraining” camps, and began implementing huge cuts to the national military, increasing reliance on defense contractors like the Koch Rangers, the Cheney Freedom Fighters Inc., the Republican Guard, and its own personal military and security force, the Thumpers. Texas seceded[4] again, setting a precedent that would gain popularity in the coming years.
In 2024, President ThumpCorp won a second term, campaigning on “Still Making America the Greatest Ever Again,” after disbanding Congress and the Supreme Court, completing privatization of the U.S. military, and revoking presidential term limits. The nation splintered.
Eventually, a total of six new nations would emerge from the wreckage of the former Superpower: Texas, the New Confederate States of America[5], the Indian Nations[6], Cascadia[7], the Nation of Zion[8], and the United States of America[9], leaving the original United States of America™ (trademarked in 2025), a mere fragment of its former self. Most of Southern California broke off and sank, and the ocean flooded the remainder, from roughly San Francisco to Mexico.
All of these nations built walls wherever no natural boundaries, such as mountain ranges or major rivers existed. Alaska, apparently feeling the need for an even stronger, more authoritarian leader, seceded and was voluntarily annexed by Russia. ThumpCorp’s government responded by suing Russia for a refund. Everyone apparently just forgot about Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the American Virgin Islands, which were happy to win their independence by default.
The splintering of nations was not limited to the U.S.A. The United Kingdom also split into its component parts. Around the globe, nationalism continued its slide into tribalism, resulting in countless civil wars, and such a constant redrawing of national boundaries that soon Cartography had the highest suicide rate of any profession.
In 2025, ThumpCorp declared itself “President-in-Perpetuity of the United States of America™,” at the same time that a coalition of the three largest and most powerful evangelical organizations, the Diehards In Christ, the Knights of Heaven, and the Evangelicals Against the Destruction of Society[10], proclaimed CEOPIPOTUS Viscount Thump “God’s Anointed Messenger on Earth.” Shortly thereafter, the three organizations combined to form the Church of America. CEOPIPOTUSGAME Thump quickly announced Christianity as the official religion, and the Church of America as the official church of the United States of America™
Over the next one hundred years or so, chaos reigned worldwide, with national borders shifting constantly. More walls went up. Eventually, everyone either died, ran out of ammunition, or just decided they’ve had enough. National borders stabilized. The more totalitarian regimes were too busy trying to control the undesirable portions of their own populations, and stopping the flood of refugees from their lands to devote time or resources to conquest. Gradually things settled down, and people began rebuilding.
Inside the dark and dusty ACRONIM office[12], Hubert Dillerschlinger was not a happy man. A very literate and, he liked to think, literary man, he spent all day, every day, all alone[13] in this room, his desk flanked on one side by a table supporting a gigantic, ancient dictionary, and another table with a matching thesaurus on the other. These were the tools he used to mutilate language to please morons, twisting meanings and mutilating beautiful words to give tacitly legal justification for the powerful to mock the powerless.
A short, baby-faced, bespectacled, balding, slightly overweight black man of forty-two years, he had started out as a messenger, and slowly worked his way up through the clerical ranks despite his race. Of course, his bookish demeanor and natural timidity had certainly helped, as had his Germanic surname; Hubert suspected that many of his superiors, having never deigned to meet him, were probably unaware of his race[14].
Hubert had dreams beyond this office however; he dreamed of writing a book – a book that would change the world, that would expose the rot in America™ to the light of day, and change the corrupted hearts and minds of the people, causing them to turn away from their xenophobia, from their fear of each other, from their prostituted, state-sponsored religion, and spur them to take their freedom back[15], but for now, he had to turn HONESTY into an acronym for the “revamped”[16] Office of TRUTH, and Y’s were always a bitch to work with.
The office acronyms were bad enough, but what really stuck in Hubert’s craw were the job titles. He felt that while most people, if they thought about it, could see through the office acronyms, it was the titles and terms by which they were referenced, that did the most damage. If girls were taught from an early age to want to grow up to be a HARLOT or a WENCH, if boys were raised to think that being a THUG, or a GOON was the highest aspiration a boy could have, if working class children grew up thinking of their parents (and themselves) as MORONS and SAPS, then they would always think of themselves as harlots, wenches, thugs, goons, morons, saps, etc., even though, deep down, they would know what those words really meant. As a NIGGERR who had risen to the ranks of middle-management, he knew that much.
Hubert looked at the clock; quitting time, thank God. “Are we ready to call it a day, Mr. Johnson?” he asked his GOON, Charlie Johnson, who was dozing in the corner[17].
“Hmh? Oh.” Charlie looked at the clock on the wall, “Yeah, yeah. I was about to say that.” Charlie wiped at the line of drool dripping from his chin. “I was just resting my eyes for a minute,” he said, for the benefit of the ThumpCom CompleteSecure camera mounted in the corner.
Hubert assumed the traditional position while Charlie patted him down to make sure he hadn’t pocketed anything, Like there’s anything here to steal, they both thought, and then Charlie escorted Hubert through security, and out to the street.
“See you tomorrow Hubie.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Johnson. Seven o’clock sharp, just like always.”
The two parted; Charlie headed to the bar, and Hubert for home. As he walked the potholed streets and broken sidewalks, past the murals and statues of the various Thumps and other national heroes, he saw some GOONs beating a handcuffed kid for spray painting “Fuck ThumpCorp!” across the bottom of a mural showing Genghis Thump[18] riding a bald eagle as he slaughtered some generic enemies of the nation. Everywhere he looked were flags, banners, and stickers displaying the golden Thumpsticka, the Revolving T of Thumpian Progress (building a better next week, tomorrow!) The few people on the street made a point of not noticing each other, as they scurried from one door to another, like roaches hiding from the light. It made him sick. This is no way for people to live.
It was only a thirty minute walk from the office to his apartment (twenty if he was feeling particularly brave or extra late, and took the old subway tunnels that crisscrossed the city, but like most of the not-that-desperate, he preferred the streets), and he didn’t see one smiling face or even anyone making eye contact. It all made him that much more glad to be home. At least in his apartment, he had his books, and there were no people to remind him of how alone he was.
While unlocking the door to his basement apartment, Hubert surreptitiously checked the door for signs that it had been opened. The toothpick was still wedged into the doorframe, but the short length of monofilament line glued to the inside top of the doorframe was protruding on the outside of the door. Someone had been inside, someone who didn’t want him to know. That meant government men, probably GOONs. Thieves wouldn’t have cared, and wouldn’t have bothered closing the door, much less replace the toothpick, and TIA agents would have been smart enough to realize the toothpick trick was too well known. Either that, or they thought he was stupid enough to rely on it anyway.
Either way, it made him happy. There was nothing the least bit incriminating in his apartment, and, knowing that they had been here made finding both the listening device and the drugs they’d hidden much easier. He left them both alone. He had nothing to hide from the bug, and, if they (whoever “they” were, this time) really wanted to get him, then getting rid of the drugs would just tip them off that he was onto them[19].
He changed his clothes, and then heated up a Wealthy Choice meal[20]. He hated the very idea of them, but as exploitative and condescending as they were, he had some faint hope that at one point, the food may have had more than a passing acquaintance with a farm, as opposed to a laboratory. He knew he should just be happy that, as a government employee, he could afford to eat at least that well. He felt vaguely guilty as he thought of the vast majority of Americans™ who couldn’t, and had to make do with BIEFburger[21] and VEGGIES[22] or worse, for every meal. As always, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when it turned out to be almost completely tasteless. After dinner, he cracked a can of Thumpweiser, selected a book – The Collected Works of John Stuart Mill, cleverly printed with a cover from Mein Kampf[23] – from his meager collection, and sat down to read[24].
When the alarm on his Trumplex wristwatch beeped, he laid the book aside, removed the watch, leaving it on the arm of the chair[25], and used a remote control to start random playback of the sound effects he had recorded of himself coughing, going to the bathroom, fixing a drink, and making various other “no need to worry, I’m right here at home” noises.
He slipped quietly out the door, setting his little traps, softly closing it as the recording played a particularly harsh coughing fit. He made his way out the back of the building into the dark streets, winding his way through the street markets, past the buildings with their giant murals of the various Thumps and other national heroes. When he reached the Only The Best Chinese Takeout, he stepped inside.
A counter ran the full width of the room, trapping the customers in a short but extremely wide waiting area, and the air reeked of rancid oil and burnt meat and noodles. There was only one other customer. “Use your bathroom?” Hubert asked the surly old woman seated on a stool behind the payment console, reading Atlas Shrugged as smoke from the cigar[26] clamped between her teeth rose into her rheumy, unblinking eyes. She stared at him for a moment, and jerked her nicotine-stained thumb toward a door marked “Private.”
He stepped into the tiny, reeking bathroom, stood there for a moment, then turned, opened the door, and rushed back out, dragging a wave of stale stench behind him. As the foulness washed over him, the other customer blanched and pulled his shirt collar up over his nose, and Hubert told the old woman, “There’s no toilet paper. Also, I’d like a number 24.”
She scowled even more deeply, and handed him a fistful of napkins. He returned to the bathroom, where he closed and locked the door, laid the napkins on top of the toilet tank, and quietly knocked “shave and a haircut” on the back wall. From the other side, came the “two” knock, and he finished with the “bits.” Half of the wall panel behind the toilet folded back, revealing a man with a gun.
Hubert stepped through, and shook the man’s hand, “Phil, good to see you.”
“And you,” the man smiled, “you’re the last to arrive. I was starting to worry.”
“I just took a longer route this time.” Hubert went down a flight of steps, into a room with several people who all looked up at his entrance. An extremely large, young, black man in an Only The Best Chinese Takeout t-shirt stepped forward, nodded in welcome, took Hubert’s hooded jacket, squeezed into it, and started up the steps. “Don’t forget to flush,” Hubert called after him, then shook his head as he thought, It’s a good thing we all look alike to them.
The young man – Kwantrell – was a decoy. He would pose as Hubert for the camera upstairs and leave, then return with Hubert’s coat in a backpack. When Hubert left, he would wear Kwantrell’s OTBCT jacket, and his own coat in a delivery bag, leaving Kwantrell’s in a designated place.
A tall, fiercely handsome man with a movie-star smile shook Hubert’s hand. “Good to see you Hubie.” Tough, strong, picturesquely scarred and meaningfully tattooed, Ajax Steele was an honest-to-God hero, a man of action and the most-wanted resistance leader in America, and surrounded, as always by a crowd of starry-eyed young female admirers hanging on his every word. Hubert respected the man for his reputation, loathed him for his personality, and sometimes seriously questioned his mental capacity. Still, Hubert had to admit he’d been good for recruiting, bringing in as many male admirers as female to the cause. He was one of those guys that women wanted, and men wanted to be.
“Good to see you too, Ajax.”
“Let’s get down to business,” Ajax said to the crowd, and they all surrounded the table. “I hereby call this meeting of the AARP to order.” He pounded the table with the ancient six-shooter (reputed to have belonged to either Wild Bill Hickok, John Wayne, or General George Patton, depending on how much alcohol Ajax had imbibed before telling the story) that he used as a gavel, and grinned at Hubert. “Sorry Hubie, I know you hate it when I do that.”
“I just don’t think it’s safe.”
“Ah, you worry too much. Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. Hit it, Mr. Secretary.”
Hubert gritted his teeth as he returned Ajax’ smile. Just call me Hubert, you moron. “Okay, Clari, you’re up first.”
Clari, a stocky, middle-aged woman cleared her throat, and reported that her crews had tunneled into four of the six known GOON munitions storage facilities and were close to breaching the others. In the four already accessed, they were making slow, but sure, progress in sabotaging the ammunition. “If we can get more equipment, it’ll go a lot faster though.”
Ajax instructed Luis, their head of supply to get with Clari, find out what she needed, and do everything in his power to get it for her. “Alf?” he asked, turning to another man, “how’s it going on bypassing the internet filter servers[27]?”
That’s okay, you just run the meeting then.
Alf, a heavy-set, older man with food in his beard cleared his throat, stood up, and proceeded to give a lengthy report, very little of which was even remotely understood by anyone else present. As far as Hubert could tell, Alf and his techies were busy backward learning a CCIT blahblahblah, blah, blah blah choke packet and attempting to install a blah, blah, blahblahblah, blahblah, blah, black hole cluster controller in the resource blahblahblahblah in order to tweak and upload a blah, blah, and blahblah, blah blahblahblah, blah in the blahblah blah blahblahblah in order to subinterface an X1200 blahblahblahblah blahblahblah encoding into the blah of the blah and blah blah, or something to that effect.
When he sat down Ajax, Hubert, and the rest did their best to appear to consider his report. “Uhhhh,” Ajax said, “. . . and that’ll do it, you think?”
“Oh yeah, no doubt,” Alf said, “as long as the . . .,” and he was off and running again while Hubert’s and everyone else’s eyes glazed over. Eventually, Alf wound down.
“Okay then . . . that’s great . . . really great work Alf,” said Ajax. “Thanks for clearing that up for us.” Before Alf could erupt into another burst of tech-speak, Ajax asked, “Does anyone else have anything to report?”
Alf’s hand shot up.
No, no, no, don’t do it, keep moving, keep it moving.
“Pete, Michelle, how are the new recruits working out?” asked Ajax, clearly not noticing Alf’s hand, which waved like a fifth-grade teacher’s pet practicing semaphore.
Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, Ajax.
The meeting continued until all past and current business had been covered, and plans had been laid for their next steps. Like all staff meetings, it was long, boring, and not really worth recording, and long. Very long.
“Okay then, I think we’d better call it a night.” Ajax slammed his six-shooter down. There was a pop and a puff of smoke, one of Ajax’ groupies grunted, and everyone else ducked. “What the—“ Ajax said, looking at the gun, “—I could’ve sworn I unloaded . . .”
Hubert took the gun from him, while others examined the groupie who’d been hit. She was lucky—the powder was old, and the bullet didn’t have enough velocity to even break the skin.
“Are you happy now?” Hubert asked Ajax.
“Hell no, I’m not happy,” Ajax said, “that bullet was an antique too, part of the set. Do you know how much money I just lost?”
Hubert looked at him disbelievingly, or at least mostly disbelievingly.
“I mean, yeah, I’m happy that Julie—Jenny?—Ginny?—dammit, her—that she’s not hurt or whatever too, of course.”
Hubert was speechless.
Ajax wasn’t. “That’s why gun safety is so important people!” he announced to the room. “Think about what could have happened, and let that be a lesson to you all. These things are nothing to fool around with.”
After that, the assembly broke up, everyone leaving individually by various exits. Ajax waved Hubert over; “Hubie, I’ve been thinking. I still think we need a better name, one with some . . . uh . . . some oomph to it.”
“Oomph?”
“Yeah. I was thinking something like The Avengers, or The Guardians; it’s not fair—all these security groups have such cool names and our name sounds like somebody throwing up, you know what I mean? I mean, dammit Hubie, even our competition all have better names than us[28]”
This again? “Ajax, it’s just a name. It doesn’t matter what we’re called, it’s what we do that’s important.”
“Yeah, but still . . . I was hoping you’d be able to help out, you know, because of your job, you know?”
“I think we’ve got more important things to worry about, don’t you?” Hubert put on Kwantrell’s jacket, and handed the gun back to Ajax. “Listen, you think about it and we’ll talk about it next week, okay?” He started up the stairs.
“But that’s what you said last week!” Ajax called after him.
Hubert waved without turning around. It’s what I’m gonna say next week too, you jackass. Good God, it’s going to be a long revolution
[1] As previously noted, establishment politics were viewed very, very unfavorably at this point in time. In fact, Thump’s bloviating style, abrasive attitude, and monumental disregard for anything that didn’t have his name on it, worked in his favor. Voters seemed to think that he must be a political outsider, as he was simply too big an asshole to get anywhere within the system.
[2] Except, perhaps ironically, cosmetic surgery, certain recreational transplant procedures, erectile dysfunction medication, penis enlargement procedures, and cryogenics, all of which became prohibitively expensive for virtually all but the richest and most powerful.
[3] One campaign ad stated, “The Supreme Court said I’m a person: If I can buy a politician, why can’t I just be one?” The campaign was hailed as a return to truth and transparency in politics.
[4] The first successful national campaign for peace occurred at this point, when the remaining states unanimously refused to go to war to force Texas to rejoin the Union. The day the secession was announced, The New York Times headline was, “Finally Some Good News!”
[5] Same as the old CSA, with the addition of Kentucky and W. Virginia.
[6] Essentially everything from Texas to Canada, and from the Rockies to the Mississisippi River
[7] The northwest, from what was left of California, to the Rocky Mountains.
[10] Somehow, the irony-challenged leaders of these organizations never considered the inevitable acronymization of their collective names, until it was enshrined in the national consciousness.
[11] Formerly New York City. Now the capitol of the United States of America™
[12] “ACRONIM” had been formed not long after the accidental acronym DICKHEADs became part of the public consciousness, largely to prevent similar embarrassments in the future.
[13] Except, of course, for his GOON, who made sure he didn’t slack off on his work, and made sure he got through security every day.
[14] Although it is possible, maybe even likely that they knew: It is entirely possible that Hubert’s advancement was the result of a little known government program known as Affirmative Action, a program aimed at proving that equal opportunities were available to all, by ensuring that a token number of (mostly lower-level) government positions were filled by minorities, as a way of “proving” that racism in America™ was a thing of the past. It is also possible that they were simply unable to find a white candidate willing to spend all his time with his nose in books, thinking about words.
[16] Frequently changing the names of agencies and offices, under the guise of rooting out corruption, along with “appointing special investigative task forces” and other false flag operations generally removed the need for any further changes.
[17] Give the guy a break. The only thing more boring than making acronyms all day, is watching someone make acronyms all day.
[18][18] CEOPIPOTUSGAME #23 (They started the count over with Viscount Thump).
[19] Being a black, low-level executive in America™ was a dangerous and complex life.
[20] Wealthy Choice: made from only the freshest meals left over by the very best people. You may not be rich and famous, but now you can eat like them at affordable prices. Now beggars CAN be choosers—eat like a winner, not like a loser; eat Wealthy Choice. From Thump Foods.
[21] a line of affordable meat-adjacent food products from Thump Laboratories’ Digestibles Division. BIEF was one acronym Hubert tried very hard not to think too much about.
[23]Mein Kampf ranks high on the list of Approved Reading Material, right between the collected works of Ronald Thump, and Ayn Rand’s works,
[24] While clearly, the disguised books would have been considered incriminating, there was no safer place in Thumperica to hide something than a book, which were largely just considered knickknacks for those with delusions of intellect.
[25] It is widely (correctly) suspected that all TrumpTronix products have GPS tracking devices installed.
[26] One of the major accomplishments of President ThumpCorp’s first term was the repeal of virtually all health and food safety regulations.
[27] While the internet was still operational, all internet lines coming from outside America™ ran through filter servers that screened out all undesirable information, and all American servers were strictly partitioned; the average citizen could still access social media, pornography, games, and entertainment, but most educational and defense-related information was blocked.
[28] From the “Some things never change” file: Liberals have historically always had trouble working together. Consequently, there are, at last count, 263 recognized resistance movements in the U.S.A.™, all of whom hate each other only slightly less passionately than they hate the current regime. Even the fact that many, possibly even most, individuals of the resistance are members of multiple resistance groups, and the fact that the biggest difference between most of the groups is the wording of their charters. Ajax is right about one thing, however: almost all the other groups have much cooler names than the AARP.
Yes, I have written a novel (cue fanfare). It’s called Thumperica! a novel of the Ghost of America Future, and it’s currently available on amazon.com as an ebook.
It’s a dystopian satire that deals with the United States of America in the years 2183-84, based solely on what seems to me to be the direction the country is going right now. For some, it’s an awesome place: the Church of America is the official religion, the Holy Bible has been replaced by the Holy Pamphlet (much less arguing about interpretation), renewable energy has been cast out, minorities know their place and keep to it, women are largely out of the workplace (and those that aren’t are in lingerie), Organized crime is a thing of the past, all those pesky environmental and health-related regulations have been removed, and patriotism is rampant (those who have trouble with that concept are either in prison or retraining camps). Overpopulation is no longer a problem: World population has dropped approximately 60% due to war, famine, and pestilence. Virtually everything has been privatized, including the military. ThumpCorp is the President in Perpetuity of the United States TM, and its CEO, Caligula Thump is the hereditary “God’s Appointed Messenger on Earth”. Everything is going great, just ask anyone (and if they say it’s not, make sure to report them, so they can get the necessary retraining!)
But everything has its downside: the country has also splintered into seven different countries – the New Confederate States of America (same as the last time, plus W. Virginia and Kentucky, minus Texas), Texas, Cascadia (California, Washington, Oregon, & Idaho), Zion (Utah, Nevada, and Arizona), The Indian Nations (pretty much from the Mississippi to the Rockies, and Texas to Canada), The United States of America (New England), and The United States of America, TM.
Still, it seems that everyone is not happy. Three WENCHes (Wonderfully Endowed, Naturally Cheerful Hostesses) can’t take the abuse from their employer anymore, and end up in a hostage situation they are completely unprepared for. A Church of America Pastor returns from a diplomatic mission with something so dangerous it could shake the Church to its foundations – A Holy Bible (the full version, that even includes the words of Christ!). An underground resistance movement, the AARP (Americans Actively Resisting Persecution), led by a blowhard and a bookish acronymologist are working diligently, but incompetently to overthrow the oligarchy.
It all comes to a head at Executionpalooza! Redawn of American Justice!!!
Will the women escape and make their way to a better life? Will Pastor Paul resist the temptations of success to save the Church? Will the AARP ever get a cooler name? The answer to these and other burning questions can be yours if you buy the book!
How’s that for a sales pitch? If you do buy the book, I hope you’ll enjoy it (although hate-reading it is also perfectly acceptable). Its action-packed, bloody, probably at least borderline heretical, and very funny. At any rate, I hope you’ll give it a try, and if you like it, please tell others about it.
Disclaimer:
There is lots and lots of bad language, weird sex stuff, violence, substance abuse, and general vileness: it is not a nice book, but it does have a happy ending, and there is a reason for all the vileness. If you are sensitive to the stuff listed above, I strongly suggest you give it a pass.
Now you see why I need an agent so badly: I’m really bad at self-promotion.
Ever have one of those days when you really wish Jesus would quit fooling around and just come back already? You know what I mean; we all have days that we know going in are going to be bad, but then they turn out to be so much worse than we expected. This has been one of those days for me.
It started almost immediately: the wonderful but occasionally absent-minded and mildly careless Jess forgot to set her alarm and overslept, so I had to get up, take care of the dogs, fix her coffee and stuff. I really didn’t mind that. It happens fairly regularly, so it’s a minor hiccup–I figure, at least I get to go back to bed, she has to go to work. Then, later, when I do get up, my sister-in-law Andie is up fooling around in the kitchen.
I love Andie and look forward to her visits. However, we were expecting her today, and I figured I’d have time to clean up the house before she got here. She got here yesterday instead.
Now, neither Jess nor I are what you’d call neat freaks. We’re basically feral and, since the amazing and diligent Jess went back to work I’ve been responsible for housekeeping. Needless to say, Andie’s version of clean and mine are pretty different. She likes things to be neat, organized, and genuinely clean, while I feel pretty strongly that as long as nobody sticks to anything they lean on and I know what’s in the piles of stuff, well that’s good enough.
So the first thing I say to Andie as I’m taking the dogs out is that I’m going to take care of the dishes in a little bit. By the time I come back in, she’s already doing the dishes, she’s put away the clean dishes, “put away” some of the piles, and reorganized the remaining piles. She’s standing there waiting for me to tell her where the stuff in the remaining piles belongs. I’m like “right there.” I like to think that Jess and I aren’t the only people on the planet who don’t actually have a “place for everything.” To be honest, I don’t even know what half of that stuff is, much less where to put it.
She wanted me to do something about the recyclables, and then seemed shocked when that “something” turned out to be tying the bags shut and lobbing them down the stairs to the basement (don’t worry, next time I go downstairs, I’ll kick them over to where they belong).
Anyway, I had bigger fish to fry: I’m supposed to get my first colonoscopy (and endoscopy too! Hope they use a different tube for that one, or at least do the endoscopy first.) tomorrow, and so I had to swill down half of a giant bottle of Turbo-Lax to start my day off (gotta make sure I’m squeaky clean inside!). I get to get up at 6 tomorrow morning to drink the other half–yay.
So already the day is not great. When that Turbo-Lax kicks in, it’s not fooling around. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be taking my colon to the hospital in a bucket tomorrow. It’s also kind of tough discovering that I am literally as full of shit as people have always told me (well, not any more, so there!).
Then, Molly, our golden retriever that was my mom’s dog, collapsed on the porch. She hasn’t been doing well for a while, and apparently today was the day. I called Jess and asked her to make an appointment for Molly at the vet, so she did that and then took off early to go with us. While I waited for Jess, I alternated between sitting next to Molly, petting and talking to her, and running to the bathroom.
We got her to the vet, and it was as bad as we had feared: we had to make the call that nobody ever wants to make. They gave us a little more time with her and we both sat on the floor with her petting her and telling her she was a good girl while we both bawled like babies. I told her to go kick Harry’s (another one of our former dogs, who was kind of a jerk) ass, and Jess laughed and then said Molly’d be too busy looking for mom. That really set off the waterworks. I never could look at Molly without thinking of Mom. Molly was the last thing that Mom really recognized. Mom couldn’t remember her name, but she’d cup Molly’s head in her hands, lean forward and say “You’re my dog. Yes you are, you’re my dog.” Then she’d kiss the top of Molly’s head.
Anyway, we’re bawling our eyes out, and the girl came in and gave Molly THE SHOT. She was gone in just a few seconds. She was such a good girl. One of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever known.
Then we come home, and Andie’s cooking chili. The air is thick with the smell of frying hamburger, venison, and bacon. BACON! Who the hell puts BACON in chili? And what kind of monster does it on a day when one of the world’s great bacon lovers and chili lovers is on a clear liquid diet? The sister-in-law kind of monster, that’s what kind.
So my eyes hurt from crying, my ass hurts from . . . well you can imagine, although I recommend you don’t try too hard . . . and I’ve got to take even more laxatives, while smelling all that good food. Food that I CAN’T HAVE!!!!!
I go outside to have a smoke, and there’s a good breeze blowing. I turn my back to the wind, and all of a sudden, there’s a sound . . . a weird sound . . . a sound like somebody blowing across the top of a giant, empty, coke bottle. Halfway through the cigarette, I had to rush back inside, and the sound stopped. I’m pretty sure that, after today, the doctor won’t have to worry about using the micro-camera equipment–he’ll be able to just grab a camcorder and shove his arm up there. I think there’ll be plenty of room.
Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Jesus’ll come back tonight.
