Dog chats with God – Part 1, The Inheritors

This monthly Best Guest Question for God was submitted by my friend Martha on FB today: (thanks Martha!)

Dear God: ‘Why did you make so many really dumb people?’. 

I always prefer to think of people acting dumb, not being dumb.  Even the smarted person in the world can sometimes act as stupid as a bag of hammers (I really can lol. Ask the ex). Smart people can sometimes act as dumb a screen door on a submarine. About as geniussy as a cactus. About as bright as the guy who had the idea for putting wheels on tuna. I wonder where he ended up?

— potential sidetrack alert —

As my buddy Herm, the brilliant, vulgar, surprisingly anal (and sensitive? that was a shocker) carpenter and humorist – the one you see at Cumbies over in Medrith in the morning with the stubborn old blue van, giant untied Timberland boots and calf-high athletic socks from Wally’s, saying ‘fuck you’ or perhaps ‘blow me’ to someone unsuspecting; yeah, that’s my good friend and longtime co-worker Herm – as Herm is so fond of saying, ‘oh yeah, Dude, he was really a fuckin’ specimen, specimen-and-a-half…fuckin yuuuge bag o sweaty brilliance he was, bro’. ROTFL.

I confess, that under further review, perhaps I am a complete idiot, and here’s the evidence: I cackle like a an eager, innocent schoolgirl every time something like that – or, usually worse and completely NS for where-you-are – comes out of Herm’s mouth. I do. I admit it. If that makes me a jerk, well, have at it, I don’t care. I can’t change at this point. I actually couldn’t change 10 years ago. Or 20. (ask the ex, lol, she’ll tell ya).

So with Herm, if I’m in any kind of decent mood, I go ahead and play along, natch. That’s part of my job as the clever, sometimes annoying but ultimately lovable and flexible coworker: ( yo big guy, just wunnering if your lips are all dry and and cracked from sucking on Jerry’s 20 oz Estwing all night? I saw he left it on the bench for you yesterday with a little pink notecard. (lol) And yo, dude … I think there might be something on your cheek…. ) you get the idea.

However, before you judge us too harshly, which I admit seems likely now, I will say this in our defense; I’ll take one shot at defending me and the Hermstien. You see, this is the thing: This enormous, hairy, volatile, vulgar, generous soul and I get up early every day, and work extremely hard all the day long, summer or snow (I mean body hard, not brain hard), usually on some – again, as Herm would say, ‘some flat-assed, pucker-lipped brie-chompin Masshole’s’ -summer house, on one of the lakes that are numerous here; and we have a shitload of fun.

This would be a good time to introduce our first ECSJ (Every Carpenter’s Secret Joy). This one here is #37. (how I do love data) It is this: do all you customers and clients think we really live in our own humble, never-ever-finished, never-enough-cash, scrappy lil’ capes on the main road with half-finished paint job, the dried-up bushes, the dusty lawn, broken lawnmower, and the 1980’s Honda motorcyclcle out front? The one with my truck parked in the driveway? Hell, no. We don’t live there. We just sleep there with our wives and kids, if they haven’t left us yet. We actually live in these awesome lakeside resorts, banging nails all day, playing horseshoes at lunch, joking around, and fishing in the evenings, on every last one of the 342 days a year that the real owners aren’t using ’em.

Yup, that’s right. Year in, year out. Shhhhhhhh. Please. You think you live in a nice apartment? My daily rider is a mansion by Squam with a koi pond, handmade Philippine mahogany windows and a stone veneer. That’s where I spend all my days. Doing work that I absolutely love. Pssst – Don’t tell anyone. I’ll send Herm after you. Your girlfriend is not going to be happy with that scenario, trust me on that.

(and homeowners, just stop that: before you get all wiggy and squiggly inside, and have spontaneous and disturbing dark thoughts about the nail-bangers who rely on your checks: no, no, we don’t go through your undie drawers while you’re away. We don’t steal the forks (though we may use them delicately at lunch for our microwave mac-and-cheese, clean them carefully, and put them away – that we will do. But we don’t give a shit about your undies. And here’s the thing you should know – every last one of us prefers to stay outside all the time. We have to dress for it, duh? We usually don’t dress mainly for inside. We undress for inside. And besides, you can’t play horseshoes in the den, and our boots are always covered with mud.)

—-   end sidetrack alert, return to story   —

Yeah, we bust our ass all day. Who doesn’t?  After all, we are all here because of the money. And most of us really are happier when you just let us make up our own minds, jam at our own pace, and just get the job done.  Isn’t that the point? Anyway, I have worked with him and his brother Hank for years. Hank was not lucky enough to get same vulgar gene as Herm. He’s got the really nice, trustworthy and sound, big friendly grizzly bear gene. Fortunately, it still takes all kinds. Vive la différence

It doesn’t matter how rich or well dressed or well schooled you are, none of us are immune to the vagaries of spontaneous and magnificent stupidity. It happens to all of us sometime (well, almost all, lol). For example, at the moment, I have no idea where my wallet is. Yup, with all my credit cards, IDs, and brand new debit card from MVSB inside. (not fake news at all, and of moderate concern on this Monday AM). However, around here, in winter, some of us rotate through a lot of clothes, and I haven’t yet searched every single pocket. I am also smart enough to know that it’s somewhere, and that I will eventually intersect with that somewhere in the near future, if I just keep moving – so there’s a ceiling on my anxiety. I’m still relatively chill about it. I have faith even in the face of such yuge-ass mystery.

Jasper has the same kind of faith. I think. He’s not certain yet on the boundaries of his understanding. But I will say this: he also has made a really dumb, self inflicted mistake once. He thought his memory might be wrong about where he buried his favorite bone – the one with the big chip on it, the one Dave worried Jasper had swallowed – the one with a little peanut butter left inside.

Turns out, that was an egregious error. That bone was right there exactly in that spot in the snow bank where he said it was. Ruby’s recent pee-fest near the spot probably had a jammin effect on his olfactory radar. (It can happen to the best smellers, and I was told as much before I acquired Jasper, who certainly ranks among the best. Plott Hound body and legs (click that link, and picture #6 was Jasper when I met him in Concord NH, April 2015, and explains, maybe a little bit, why I just had to take him home). But anyway, Plott or not, the boy has true voraciously curious lab nose cloned onto his otherwise Plottish frame. And the appetite of a lab too, it should be said.

Genetic mixing is the balls, ain’t it? The incredible benefits of customization! That’s what evolution is all about! Thanks Chucky D! (Your 3rd grade teacher said you were smart, and look at you now. A page and a half on Wikipedia!). And to think, fellow humans, that after all of Chucks wandering, and scurvy; all those watery miles, homo-sapial tenderness, and baskets full of exotic, confused pets – after all of that: there are actually people who want to go back. To something like then. From the first link:

‘Devolution, or backward evolution is the notion that species can revert into more “primitive” forms over time.’ lol. No shit they can. Sometimes it takes about 5 seconds. Sometimes I’ve actually made people do it, I think. The certainly seem to devolve into angry, writhing proto-beasts in front of my eyes, lol. This definitely happened to some of my GOP cohorts at the Union Leader comment section when encountering a sudden squall of peevish Dave-ish cockiness (where the hell did he get that thing, they ask incredulously?), genius and ridiculous humor. Some previous Republican foes have simply discorporated right there like some Ghost-bustered demon from shock of the onslaught. So be prepared.

Anyway, sometimes it does really seem, no matter what our friend Chuck surmised, that people are just dumb. (Here’s some good news, it can be cured by education). Characteristically, the scientist in me is naggingly curious, and can’t let it go. Mr Joe Billiant here, after a normal amount of pondering, still just can’t see a good reason for this phenomenon; I mean, so many dumb people. In a world where every bit of scientific information in the world is on your smartphone. And everyone in the world is looking at them all day.

Maybe that’s actually to my advantage. Maybe that’s why I’m baffled most of the time. I’m in the woods, hanging with trees and rocks all day. Wait a minute. Are that smarter than us too? I mean both of these quiet brothers are already less violent, less generally in-your-face, less invasive, way more useful, kinder, and more patient. Now they’re geniuses also? Holy shit, I love this.

Anyway, as a scientist, still, I got thinking. What do you do if you have too many dumb people in the world and the lag time on a decent education is 20 years? (Oh no, don’t tell me I stepped on another pile of scientific dog doo. Crap. Jasper’s never going to leave me alone. What can you possibly entertain all these dumb with? What movie do you show a zombie – night of the Living Dead? I’m starting to think we don’t have nearly as many dogs as we’re going to need. Although my friend Lacy from the company can’t say no to a rescue and usually has about 15 at her house. And a couple of pigs. She and Scoot have nearly been divorced 6 times. Most of their furniture is in hairy piles on the floor.

Anyway, as for martha’s question this AM, after a few minutes I was still seriously stumped, so I do what I usually do. I thought of some funny stuff to say instead. Here’s a little glimpse behind your new pal Dave’s busy, ridiculous, kaleidoscopic cerebral curtain. Shocking for newbies, I know. What do you think it’s like in here?

Dave’s silly answers for Martha:

‘Maybe labor is needed to screw all the wheels onto the trees for when we move them later?’

‘Maybe the world just has too many rocks, so someone needs to immediately break them into pieces with sledges, so others can immediately load them into wheelbarrows, while others immediately dig holes to bury them in? While someone later runs with a beach pail to get the sand to cover them with?’

‘Maybe God’s just super dumb himself and this really is his image? He’s just sitting up there drinking Bud Light, watching Nascar on the couch, scratching his balls, kicking the dog, pissing his pants a little, and yelling at the wife to get him another, bitch? Maybe that’s why?’

After a few moments, my mind began to real and spin with stupid, time wasting stuff like that … so I quit and punted to try and save some portion of my brain. I just made something up and winged it.

Dave’s actual answer on Martha’s FB:

(gotta explain: This is really just another thinly disguised DaveBomb for the TPrez. I try to plant lots of them lately because I believe I need to do my part to make him look as WRONG! as he really is. Howdy, Donnie! You look great today wink wink* (actually you look your regular daily version of hideous), but you still sound loud, angry, and insecure. Why? You’re the fucking TPrez, and you have more power than anyone else in the world. Can’t you ever just chill? It’s Sunday: go make a ceramic ashtray of your face, glaze it in 20 shades, break it over Melania’s head for dissing you, grab the maid by the pussy, take her back into your golden bedroom for 3 minutes, go make a sandwich with Golden mustard, turn on your 900 golden TVs, and STFU for one golden second. One blessed golden hour. One whole golden day? Too much to ask. Fucking 24/7 news cycle. Anyway, did I mention it was Sunday? Good thing I got the headphones in the house anyway, the neighbor usually starts blasting around 2:00.

Okay, finally, finally finally: Dave’s actually silly FB contribution today (see how much time he wastes?):

 ‘Hi Marta, He told you the ‘meek’ were going to inherit the earth – what’s the surprise? It’s not his problem we didn’t know that ‘Meek’ is actually a misread of the ancient Hebrew word ‘Greek’ – closely related – which turns out actually means, ‘rich, overfed, angry, warlike, narcissistic and hopelessly distracted by weird new writing tablet’. The lord doesn’t lie, M. He just has a killer sense of humor. Now get out of the way, all you poor people! You’re in my lane. lol’

ha ha ha later.. and now, voila……


What does Jeff Sessions know anyway?

About marijuana? Absolutely nothing. Of course. But nonetheless, he has just announced he’s not a ‘fan’ of pot, and so our Attorney General wants to wage a new crackdown campaign against that dangerous, pestilent national scourge – stoners. Here is another defining example of Trump admin putting cronies in charge of something they know absolutely nothing about (See Ben Carson at HUD, Rick Perry at DOE, Scott Pruitt at EPA). I mean, who needs knowledge, experience, or data? Who needs to know enough about what they’re doing to analyze the data in the first place? In any other context these guys would be called hacks. I’m calling ’em hacks right now. You have to know something about the topic. 

Okay …. friends with kids: I know this is a squirmy conversation, and no parent wants to have an honest reveal with their less-than-20 year old kid about weed. But I’m kinda losing it here. I am now officially living in some kinda matrix. This pervasive, mindless, incurious absence of logic, knowledge, data – as well as common sense and basic humanity, I would argue – is mindblowing and dangerous. The continued criminalization (and general demonization) of the ancient, miraculous, and endlessly friendly hemp plant has actually risen to a level of serious social injustice. Not to mention, intelligence-disqualifying joke. Forget the endless usefullness (carbon sink, textiles, chemicals, fuel oil, fabrics, paper) of the hemp plant (the supression of which may actually be the real story), it’s amazing history (can you say, like, enabled ancient sailors to control their boats with hemp rope and discover the world?) or the health benefits of ingesting it (glaucoma relief, parkinsons relief, appetite enhancement, pain relief, relaxation, and reduction of aggression and increase of passivity). Forget all that meaningless, unimportant stuff.

Zoom out, and still – here’s a cheap, simple-to-grow, inexpensive, common plant you could grow in a sunny window that, when ingested in tiny harmless amounts, makes you feel kind of relaxed and peaceful, thoughtful, creative, goofy, and a little hungry – in other words, happy, fun and nice; it also wears off quickly, has few side effects, doesn’t cause cancer, and kills fewer people than alcohol, driving, baseball bats, baseball, football, small objects cast asunder by tornadoes, terrorists, bathtubs, guns, or angry husband’s fists by about a million to one. It kills exactly no one – except perhaps the random enthusiast, temporarily and mildly besotted with a friends donation of nice Kush hashish, caught in the sudden blinding glare of an oncoming semis headlights while absentmindedly upping the volume on Friend of the Devil in his VW Beetle, and driving into a ravine. I mean, even the most adept toke-master can only manage so much chaos on the road at night. Especially when it’s freakishly raining, and you’re driving on tires that could have been brand new except for the fact that it’s illegal-ness makes weed so damn expensive. Also, psssst – as you can see, it turns you into a genius and makes you funny as a motherfucker. I’m dead serious. That and Sundays in the tub with the weekend Boston Globe and this week’s New Yorker magazine. And some middling genetics.

Personally, I truly believe this, and it may sound wacko: we could get rid of all the Ritalin, Prozac, Symbalta, cocaine and heroin that you and your kids are pumping into yourselves and each other tomorrow, call a national bake sale, barbecue, and frisbee toss, and everybody would be smiling, happy, well-fed, laughing with each other, and the only argument would be in the bbq line and about whether to have the cheeseburger or the dog. The other heated argument to break out might be whether to show the chick flick love story or the sci-fi swashbuckler later against the barn. I’d go sci-fi, but whichever one it was, afterwards I know what would happen – everyone would make love in the grass with weird and exotic intensity, have a shuddering orgasm they never knew they could have, and fall asleep – except those folks were already feeling too spacy and tired and had wandered off to the edge of the field to doze. Or gone skinny dipping. Of course, it goes without saying – weird phrase there, but I’ll sideline that thought – that if we did end up going for the sci-fi movie, most of the women would already be asleep by the end of the movie. In the morning everyone would wake up early, sleepy cute and cheerful, give each other a hug and say ‘hey let’s get rid of the those firearms today, whaddya think’? Quote me on that. And this: you can smoke weed 24/7 for a month and not kill yourself. And remain quite sane. You will simply wind up never wanting to kill anyone else. Trust me on this. I experimented, and yes, I inhaled. That is, after all, the point.  Thomas Jefferson and George Washington grew the stuff and loved it. Look it up.

Then, here on the OTHER hand …. in the ‘what’s legal and loved by, every good red blooded American and enshrined in our Constitution?’ column – what can guns do? What is the one and only thing they were ever designed to do? Well, that is to shoot things full of lead. To kill, and kill, and kill. They are, after all, killing machines. Guys get paid big money to sit at drafting tables and think these things up, and how to make them kill better and faster, I kid you not. So what can you do with one that’s useful? You can shoot your neighbor with it, or anyone else who pisses you off for a random reason. You can shoot animals with it. If you’re a pacifist with a gun, you can avoid the live stuff entirely and just shoot a bunch of lead into the earth or the surrounding arboreal life-forms for fun. That’s a good time. Trees are sturdier beasts than us, so they generally don’t die from a couple of shots (I guess that’s the good thing I have to say about guns – trees don’t die when you plug em) but most everything else we care about does. My buddy Kevin’s daughter’s beloved pet got really sick a few years back, so I now oddly know for a fact that with a 12 gauge Remington you can – as Kev put it – “evaporate” a gerbil. Turn it into a ‘pink mist’, as Kev described it. Lately, however, I don’t have any gerbils that need to be mistified, lofl.

Of course, on the other other hand, in the ‘what else is weirdly legal?’ column, there is our savior and salve, the great emancipator: alcohol. Do I really even take the time to write another long-winded paragraph? I know you don’t want me wading into this sacred swamp. Forget the health effects, the costs, the death caused directly; forget the damage that drunk parents do to their kids, to their families, and to themselves. Just for a moment, imagine this hypothetical scenario: it’s 2017, May graduation weekend, a bunch of drunken frat boys from the Crimson Tide – crimson tide, indeed – riding around in their pickup truck on a Saturday night loaded with a cooler of Bud Light, a bunch of shotguns, a case of ammo and a mildly frenzied zeal for a good time. I’m not saying something bad’s gonna happen.  I’m just saying they might not be my first choice for our reps to the annual Oslo Peace accords to work out the next IPLDA (International Peace, Love, and Disarmament Agreement).

I’m not saying that I’m a saint. I have drunk my share o’ wine, beer, and booze – again, I inhaled greatly and dug it, that’s the point – and I’ve even got a couple of nights back there in my youth that are kinda hazy – but I’ve been told by friends that I was a friendly, peaceful drunk and, in fact, funny and entertaining as hell, while I lasted. I also gotta say, I did buy an airgun for pest control,  so I’ve sprayed a little lead myself.  I just can’t bring myself to shoot a chipmunk – just can’t do it – even though they annoy me, and I’ll grant you, guns are wicked fun generally. Okay …. I did actually end up shooting one chipmunk, I admit. But it wasn’t a clean kill: he bled out slowly, his weak chirps fading as I wept, until he fell from the tree with a thump. I felt so bad, I sent checks to his widow for a year. That being said, I guess it is handy to have the security of knowing you can kill anyone you want at any time. Perhaps I’ll need to do that someday, but I certainly hope not. I certainly hope you hope not too.

Human aggression, in general, and war and violence –  with the help of cannons, drones, bombs, missiles and guns – kill hundreds of thousands of people every year. But the soldiers out there doing all that killing are heroes; in fact, they are the most beloved and heroic Gods of our popular culture. They leap dramatically from choppers into our sporting events, and we are dazzled  with the drama and power of it all, and with ourselves. We cheer with pride and glory and we pat the soldiers on the back for their service, and ourselves on the back for our loyalty and patriotism.

But me? Your pal Dave? Sitting in my house reading a book, watching the birds, snuggling with Jasper on the couch, and waiting on the next Chelsea game? I’m an outlaw. A renegade. I have a criminal record. If I get caught again you can visit me in the Belknap County Jail. Bring me a ham sandwich and my multi-tool. Oh, and maybe some duct tape, I might have to bind some guards while I make a run for my Beetle. 

Who are we, America? Why don’t we make sense any more? It actually scares me sometimes. Why do we think war is good, and peaceful relaxation at home or wandering around in nature is bad? Is worthy of incarceration?

The only possible explanation I can come up with is money. Money and fear. That’s all I can figure so far. Perhaps you can do better. Run with it. But for me, those are the only possible reasons. Why? Because most every human being out there is just good kind folks who want to do good, be happy and be left alone with those they care about. So someone’s trying to sell us something. Or we are deathly afraid of something. Or both. That’s what I think. For real.

I believe a question vitally needs to raised at this point in American – in world – history. Are we humans ever going to govern ourselves with reason and logic again, or are we going to let the swirling miasma of our yet reptilian emotions – and, especially, our fears – doom us for all eternity? It’s time to ask this basic question. It’s become key. Fire up a medium doob and just think about it for a bit, I believe you will see the light go on. Of course if you’re the AG or some other closed-minded fabulist, we might have to break out the power bong or even eat a few shrooms. Some minds are simply a bear to crack open. 

Soon (if he’s still around), our aforementioned AG Jeff Sessions is going to try and sell you a line of bullshit that stoners are dangerous, violent criminals and everyone else is a law-abiding halo-wearing do-gooder. That’s just smelly, stinking hokum. And not the good kind. I hope I’m not the only one around here calling him out on his utter, ignorant pile of crap (Jasper, lifting head: ‘crap? huh? where?’). If I were you, I’d watch for those kids careening around blasting mailboxes with their shotguns from the back of the pickup. Someday they just might miss your PO box and evaporate a beloved pet. How would you feel then, huh? That just might get you thinking.

So, anyway. Don’t take this the wrong way. I can sometimes be a little sarcastic and have even, on occasion, been called a prick. I bet you’re surprised by that, lol. I cop to whatever you’ve heard and more. I actually have never given much of a rat’s ass about having a horse in this weird, messed-up race. I’ve got nothing I ever wanted to prove. That’s why I’ve never said anything in the past. Well, actually, I was also busy working and I can get pretty consumed. Ask the ex. Don’t worry, we’re all good. Of course. As a matter of fact, she’d probably be happy to know that I’m pretty darn focused on word-wrangling in this moment. Slippery little buggers. What’s great for me, though, is that these days I can do what I want, and I can say what I want, and I pretty much plan to be left alone to hang with only my friends from now on  (though my friends would probably tell you they haven’t heard from me in months, bless them). That’s why there’s a lot of dog walking, Chelsea fandom, and Netflix in the schedule.

But after all these years, and in spite of the fact that I absorb a lot of TV, I still have a pretty good brain in my head, darn it, and I tell you this: I’m getting extremely tired of utter nonsense being passed around as if it’s not the kind of nonsense* my dog can detect from across the room. It’s like we’re at Fenway and there’s a guy coming down the aisle yelling ‘Hey!! Total Bullshit Heeeeaaah!!’ and everyone’s forking out five bucks like it really was one of those awesome Fenway franks, and gleefully chomping it down, while I’m sitting here drinking my beer watching Pedro strike out the Yanks and going ‘what the f*ck?’. Hey there, pal, heads up – I think there’s mustard all over your face. Just saying.

I ask you, Red Sox fan, and every other sports fan in this seemingly God-damned world: have we become zombies? Let’s just say for the moment, for the sake of argument: there’s a remote possibility that my thinking here might be way better than yours. I mean way better. In addition? Voila: I might just have the statistics to back it up. Call in the scientists and we’ll prove this thing tomorrow. You can probably do it on your smartphone with an app. In the end, here’s what I’m saying: I think there might still be a little Reefer Madness afoot in America. It’s just not the type of madness you think. Duh.

That about wraps it up. By now, you may have guessed that I’ve been pondering this particular issue awhile, and I can’t help thinking I have a pretty good point. I think my facts are solid. I think my arguments are sound. You may call me a peacnik idealist, but I have always also simply believed – total Jodie Foster/Carl Sagan fave movie reference, told you I was a sci-fi nut – that the world is what we make it. What we want to make it. We get to choose. We do. We get to choose, and create the world we want to live in. That’s what free will is. That’s what creation is.

So, let me know what you think. I’d be curious. But know this: You better have your sh*t wired tight. I do not suffer ignorant or drunk fools anymore, I’m too old and got no time, whether they are pointing guns at me or not. Of course if you’re pointing your gun at me I will not be hanging around for long. I won’t be shooting back with my little airgun either. I’ll be outta here. Here’s another thing for which you should be on alert: I no longer just go along with folks shouting uninformed BS at me really loudly and persistently in the hopes I’ll just give up and believe them. Ain’t gonna happen. Those folks just never gonna get it. Not ever.  Not enough time for that, and besides, I have always had a latent but potent aversion to authority. I will likely just walk away and go talk to my dog instead. At least he’s consistent. At least he has a worldview.

So, are we done? Cuz the sun’s out and I got a barbecue to go to.

Look who it is, Jassie!!!

First POST!!! WooHoo! Lookout below.

A big smiling welcome to my FB pals, old and new friends from real life, family near and far, carpentry buds, company friends, friends from India and Nepal, carrom buddies, old girlfriends, soccer cohorts, acquaintances, strangers and newcomers. I just launched this Dave Sandwich blog so I could give my FB friends a break. They literally don’t ‘like’ my political opinions in the age of Trump. That’s okay. It’s not for everyone. They probably don’t know that I was writing this stuff before the age of Obama, down at the Union Leader comment section where I did battle for years, in the early days of the web, BBs, and chat rooms. Someday I will compile all those old posts and archive them here, if only for amusement. I personally believe the UL editors will remember Dave, Sandwich, and will in fact rue his return, possibly even shudder at the prospect. They thought I’d gone. But it was the paywall that was in the end my Waterloo. I ain’t paying for that UL jive, I already get enough circulars every week to light fires and clean up dog doo. But I did buy this domain name – – when I left the UL comment ranch. I thought I might be back someday. It was obvious there would be lots more work to do. Since then I guess I’ve been waiting for the shock of the TPrez getting elected President of the United States to shatter my Barack-ish peace of mind and unlock my latent literary vigor.

I do distinctly remember being called every ugly name for liberal you can imagine back then. Libtard was a fave at the time. I was proud of coining the term ‘Rebubbicans’. I was not called any names by the editors, it must be said, though I did endeavor myself to word-slice old Joe McQuiad a few times. Other commenters were more unruly. It was chaotic and heated and fun, sometimes infuriating and often just dumb and base – particularly on the part of the Rebubs, ha ha ha – but I was a little proud that at least my voice was in the vital and necessary mix that is America.

As this is NH, and it was the Union Leader, I was the one behind enemy lines, as it were, for long periods during the 2004, 2008, and 2012 elections. I got blasted regularly – and I was even this funny then – and I duly blasted back. My feelings got hurt a few times but not that bad. As Mom used to say, sticks and stones will break your bones; names can never hurt you. A sustained campaign of verbal abuse? By a parent? Getting bullied at school? These are serious and urgent issues, and that kind of harassment does severe and lasting damage every day all over the country. I’m not arguing. I’m advocating. How do you think I got this way? But me saying your views on the minimum wage or Medicaid are as useless and illogical as a raincoat on a bullfrog, or wheels on a tree? That’s just me being momentarily smarter and funnier than you, so take some deeb breaths, reconstruct your delicate ego, think of something brilliant to say, and get over it.

Ultimately, I have no idea if I changed minds or just made people want to beat me up, but I did do battle, said my piece and I didn’t hurt anyone, at least not physically. A few of those commenters may never be the same, just as a result of the accumulated word thrashing and blizzardy mix of logic, ridiculous humor, and straight up common sense from the Dave,Sandwich. I hope they aren’t the same, cuz they needed some changing. Lol. I stood up firm for my beliefs and I’ll do it again. Problem is, it seems that peoples feelings get really hurt these days, or maybe people are simply overwhelmed with this complicated mess that is 21st century life. It’s gotten so personal, and it doesn’t have to. I don’t hate you. I bet there are 5 things we both like to do if we’d stop and talk about it. I mean, who else likes knitting?

Folks, listen up – these are just ideas, and they can’t hurt you. They are only concepts about real life. They are but vapor. It’s our attachment to the ideas – the emotion we have invested in our beliefs about them – that I believe may be the problem. At least that’s what the Buddhists say. And they know some important stuff; some that maybe we could use.

So how about a biscuit and some big sloppy tongue while we get this freakin’ blog thing stahted, for chrissake? On a mystical yet technical note, I had a dream about once being a web designer, so here’s the deelio on the blog design: sunrise always above the fold, most most recent posts starting below, and menu for pages and bio. If I haven’t lost my mad skills, then on your computer, archive by date and categories and other cool stuff and surprises should be in right column. On your mobile device, they’ll be way at the bottom. If you catch anything that’s fubar, ping at d2ratio@gmail. I may answer. I may not.

Knock yourself out. I’ll try to keep it simple and keep it funny as the infection spreads. Lol.

ME camp, 5 mos.