Musings While Fireflies Flicker and Crickets Sing

The overnight hours of late summertime can provide a wonderful opportunity to contemplate the mysteries of our vast universe… thoughts which surface just as the Man in the Moon ducks behind a passing cloud… while the fireflies flicker and the crickets sing their timeless, one note song.

Yet, understanding the cosmos almost seems like child’s play when compared to our attempts to fathom the chaos of the Trumpian Universe… a sphere overpopulated with multiple millions of his diehard supporters.

As of late, I’ve actually begun to feel sorry for them. NO… my compassion is not inclusive of allowing them to have their way / reelect their hero. But still… they are suffering from a form of mental illness and somehow, some way, someone must come up with some therapy… provide them the compassionate care they so desperately, urgently need.

It’s nearly impossible to fathom how anyone could go through life with so little intellectual curiosity… be so utterly unable to understand the cause/effect relationship. About all they are capable of is stubbornly refusing to accept the fact that nearly everything they believe is in error. Further complicating their problems is their deplorable POV… tainted with their white nationalism, demeaning sexism, pseudo-evangelism and mutilated patriotism. All things considered, one has to accept the possibility that Donny’s Diehards just might be beyond any help, whatsoever.

I had originally planned to feature a Donny’s Diehards vid to prove my point… but…

Why humiliate them any further than they’ve already humiliated themselves?

Of course, my following typed out transcript could still showcase one man’s flawed reasoning… yet preserve his anonymity. And believe it or not, that dude, when compared to his peers, was one of the more lucid case histories. Here’s the verbatim account of that vid’s Q & A “oral exam”…

Donny Diehard: Barack Obama had big [sic] part of 9/11.
Interviewer: Which part?
Donny Diehard: Not being around. Always on vacation. Never in the office.
Interviewer: Why do you think Barack Obama wasn’t in the Oval Office on 9/11?
Donny Diehard: That I don’t know. I’d like to get to the bottom of that.

I suppose the Interviewer could’ve reminded Donny Diehard why Barack Obama wasn’t in the Oval Office on 9/11… i.e., mainly because 9/11 had occurred on G.W. Bush’s watch… more than seven years prior to Obama becoming president… BUT… would any chronic, Trump supporter have ever accepted the factual, historical timeline?

To award Donny Diehard some partial credit on his “oral exam”… he did ALMOST get it right. That bit where he had said, “Not being around. Always on vacation. Never in the office.” did perfectly sum up the pre-9/11 G. W. Bush’s asleep at the switch / slacker MO. All of that unpresidential sloth in spite of the fact that W had multiple warnings that Osama bin Laden’s attacks on American soil were imminent!

If you’d still like to see Donny Diehard themed vids for yourself, COPY the search parameter “Trump Supporters Say The Darnedest Things” and PASTE it over at YouTube. WARNING: If you’re not careful, you might wind up binge watching these clips for at least an hour.




Aw c’mon… does anyone really need ask who “YOU” is?


Today is no different. You wake up in a heart palpitating, cold sweat! You leap out of bed in a handwringing, tearing out your hair, pacing back and forth, snorting, hyperventilating frenzy! You are consumed by that overwhelming sensation of sinking – sinking – sinking into the bottomless pit of need.

To attempt filling in this chasm… once more… for as long as it takes… you will rush off in desperate pursuit of your ONE and ONLY true love. You momentarily breathe a sigh of relief once you locate that very person, who is now adoringly, longingly staring back at you… in whatever mirror you, ALONE, happen to be standing before.

You are dead-set certain that all of your thoughts, words and deeds are right… YET… you still rampage onward ISO no-questions-asked, unanimous validation. YET… every kindhearted, critically thinking, living soul on the planet flat-out disputes your self-evaluation. And THAT infuriates you NO END! You stand down only after that little voice in your head reminds you of what a daunting task it would be to FIRST brainwash multiple billions of doubting Thomases and NEXT secure their unconditional love… their mindless adulation.

Even so, you ask yourself, “What’d be the harm in venting my zero tolerance, hostility towards everyone I deem disloyal to me… Me… ME?” With your tempestuous, emotional mood-swings now alternating between woe-is-me, shed tears and spat out bile, one thought consumes you, “How dare they flat out refuse becoming my next-door neighbors in my self-proclaimed wonderland! Only a god could ever make our nation great again! And dammit… I AM THAT GOD!” And a vengeful god to boot.

Ergo, you will plot your crusade. You will track down and severely punish each and everyone who has ever flipped you off. But, having never worked up a sweat in your entire lifetime… i.e., beyond what happens during your panic attacks and sleazy one night stands… you throw in the towel… opt to postpone that mission for another day. Perhaps your standing army of sycophants will do all the grunt work for you? Heed your call to arms? Target your mutual enemies? Execute your suggested… wink – wink… 2nd Amendment solutions?

Till then, your hired hordes of unscrupulous suck-ups will have to suffice. After all, not one of these automatons ever harbors any second thoughts about mollycoddling you. Hell, they’ve made entire careers out of being professional vending machines of alternate facts.

And you, the ravenous, gluttonous, praise junkie will bask in their flattery… scarf it all down as if it were the juiciest cheeseburger or “the most beautiful piece of chocolate cake that you’ve ever seen”… YET you will hunger for more and More and MORE!

With nightfall’s curtains now descending upon the done day, you’re back in your royal cambers, all tucked into bed, cozy warm and sucking your thumb. All the while you listen raptly as your loyal subjects file in to tell you fairytale bedtime stories about all the good you’ve done… what a good, big boy you have been all day long. After you reluctantly dismiss them they obediently file out. Yawning, you hit the remote and your big, badass, widescreen TV flickers to life. As you begin to nod off, your propagandist, talking head pals also tell you fairytale bedtime stories about all the good you’ve done… what a good, big boy you have been all day long.

As your snoring rattles the rafters and windowpanes, you rapidly enter the REM stage…

Nightly recurring, phantasmagorical images now flash into your noggin… provide you IMAX™, Dolbyized™, surround-sound, lurid, technicolor, big screen imagery of a world where your Master Race… all decked out in crisp, brown shirts and crooked cross armbands… gives you a standing ovation. They rambunctiously, fist pump while rhythmically chanting out your name.

For the GRAND FINALE, tanks and rocket launchers all roll down the long avenue as battalions of foot soldiers goosestep in formation. Fighter jets fly over in formation… their sonic booms only drowned out by the detonation of the “ceremonial” nuclear warhead. And then… stepping out from the billowing mushroom cloud rushes the resurrected, scramble-brained, mustachioed Adolf, who enthusiastically shakes your hand.  You step up to the podium to ramble incoherently. It matters not what you say… you’ve reduced everyone’s minds to mush long ago.

This scene soon crossfades to visits from your two, newfound dictator pals… your heartthrobs. You swoon before them and feel all lightheaded and schoolboy giddy as your tensions soar higher and Higher and HIGHER… until… Until… UNTIL… just as the rockets’ red glare is in sight and fireworks are about to explode… yet another crossfade takes hold.

You now hear the horrified screams of the countless women you’ve oppressed, grabbed and assaulted… the mournful wails of the hundreds of southern border, tender age children you’ve abused. And that makes you feel like the big man… deep down… you know you are not.

Suddenly… once again… this all crossfades… gets drowned out by the incessant beep-beep-beeping of your real world alarm clock.


STORYTELLER’S ADDENDUM: So just who the hell is “you”? Aw c’mon… does anyone need ask? So, what happens next? For that answer, all you need do is scroll-up and re-read.



bad, Bad, BAD “Grooming”


With all of the recent, front page reportage exposing sexual predators who infest our entertainment industry and political arenas… with many of their victims now speaking openly of how they were abused… I suppose it’s only natural that an old memory of mine has resurfaced.

This incident had to have occurred when I was a 10 or 11-year-old… a public school fifth grader. This was at a stage in my life just prior to entering puberty… a time when I was still totally naive about sexual matters… or more to the point… unaware of the existence of sexual deviants.

You see, the common parental wisdom of that 1960s era, small-town America was childhood ignorance is bliss. Little did they know that kids living in cocoons is every sexual predator’s dream come true.

That certainly set the stage for something awful. In my case, it involved an affable, well respected, “happily married”, veteran schoolteacher, Mr. K… who (no big shocker) also attended the same Catholic church I did. True, I wasn’t officially one of his students. But, since he was also a playground monitor, we soon became pals.

His grooming routine consisted of his ear to ear, grinned greetings and never ending repertoire of silly jokes. His “What’s the good word” catchphrase certainly was a conversation starter, too. His pockets bulging with a never ending supply of chewing gum and candy all but ensured he’d always have tons of kiddies constantly swarming around him.

One day, Mr. K entered the boys lavatory and stood at a urinal near the one I was using. It was just the two of us. At first I didn’t think this was any big deal… but…

Within mere minutes, he turned left… aimed his sticking straight out penis right at me and spewed forth what I believed to be pee. Looking back at it now through my adult eyes, there was no way in hell that that had been urine. Even if it had been, why the need for his messy, abrupt, 90 degree pivot? Huh?

My reaction that day, fortunately, was to totally skip the hand washing routine and bolt for the door. While what Mr. K had done did seem rather odd to me, I simply could not connect the dots… realize that this pervert had just gotten off while, perhaps, even fantasizing about me?

And what if I hadn’t successfully escaped? What would he have done next? Would he have targeted me further in the future?

Well, I did act less friendly towards him afterwards. The very fact that I had run away also must’ve worried him… forced him to believe that I was totally on to him… rattled his cage to the point where he never bothered me again. Back in the here and now, I cannot help but wonder if he ever did the same thing… or worse… to any of my classmates?

Because this had been an isolated incident and sans any physical contact, I’d rank my level of psychological damage to be low. Yet, since I did remember this all so vividly… more than a half century later… I cannot help but wonder if, perhaps, I’m actually underrating it?


Read a related article HERE.



Casting Couch Rapists (One Quick Limerick #032)



Film maker predators make vile demands,
Sexploitive casting call, casting couch stands,
Their own “thinking caps”,
Are just their jock straps,
Their so-called minds overruled by male glands.



Through the Looking Glass (One Quick Limerick #014)



On and on the rash narcissist gushes,

On himself he hath fierce schoolboy crushes,

In looking glass he doth revel,

Were he to be on the level,

He’d admit he adores what he flushes?



What’s Wrong With This Picture?


Two days ago, I read and viewed a WordPress essay where the blogger had been unduly critical in evaluating some accompanying self-portrait photographs.

True, I could’ve used the blog comment section to express how this wonderfully talented writer’s excessively harsh critique had profoundly saddened me… BUT

  1. My reaction could’ve easily been dismissed (e.g., “Oh, he’s just being nice”).
  2. Within this massive social network, comments do tend to get buried even faster than the blogs, themselves.
  3. I felt that such commentary, in my own blog venue, might be better received.
  4. Because nearly everyone (inclusive of yours truly), at some point in our lives, has been hypercritical re our own physical appearance, I deemed this matter worthy of presentation to the entire WordPress blogging community… i.e., in hopes that we might get a long overdue discussion going?

Working towards that goal…

While there’s nothing inherently wrong with us trying to look our best, we must never succumb to embracing the entertainment industry’s narrow parameters of beauty. We must never accept how their odious, meat market mindset negatively impacts humankind… targets and objectifies females far more frequently than males.

Merriam-Webster defines “meat market” thusly…

A depersonalizing environment in which people are treated as sexual or economic resources.

Oh, btw, the first known use of this expression dates back to 1896, which just goes to show us how warped and deeply entrenched this devaluation of human beings is. And to be sure, here, this dates back to the dawn of humankind!

I’d love to believe that we could blame this sorry state of affairs on our genes… i.e., the forces of nature have programmed us into being beauty biased just to ensure that only “attractive”, “desirable” traits will breed true… BUT

How could such mindlessness ever take into account how pretty faces do not automatically ensure pretty minds lurk directly behind them? To be sure, here, possessing / being possessed by “Hollywood good looks” is rarely, if ever, a prerequisite for thinking attractive, desirable thoughts.

Furthermore, do not ugly thoughts also breed true?

Hell… for that answer, we need look no further than the entertainment industry’s corporate big shots who’ve been needlessly instilling inferiority complexes amongst the masses.


I welcome your comments.

A Clear Conscience and Clarity of Thought


Granted, humans cannot be expected to remember everything. If we ever attempted to take on such a daunting task, each day would soon become so chaotic we’d likely drive ourselves nuts.

To help maintain our psychological equilibrium, we assess the degree of importance of events, faces, facts and figures, etc.… compartmentalizing this data as either short or long-term memories. We do tend to dismiss low ranked items… in other words… eventually forget the inconsequential stuff. But, that does beg the following Qs…

Would not folks who… oh… say… hire on as high ranking presidential campaign workers OR staff high profile, presidential cabinet positions all become so impressed with… maybe even geeked about… their assignments that they’d automatically categorize more things as important? Ergo, transform more of what they’ve been experiencing and whom they’ve been meeting into long-term memories?

Should not such individuals… oh… say… when questioned during congressional inquests into suspected wrongdoing, become fountains of knowledge? In other words… are they not uniquely qualified / intrinsically better prepared to supply answers to nearly all of the tough questions? And more to the point… is it not their patriotic duty to come clean?

Yet, more often than not, we hear such individuals hemming and hawing… practically mincing words down to their atomic structure… qualifying and prefacing nearly every last damned statement they utter with, “To the best of my recollection…” And then, there’s always that inquest thwarting, stonewalling, robotically deadpanned, “I don’t remember.”

True such amnesia can be legitimate… but what if it’s not? We then wind up witnessing selective amnesia… a.k.a. the convenient feigning of forgetfulness…the ploys to cover up the guilty party’s incompetence, malfeasance and/or corruption.

Let’s not fall victim to, yet, another form of amnesia. We must NEVER forget that the duties many of these federal employees / appointees are responsible for carrying out oft involve national security issues.

Inquisitors must never let slide anyone’s claims of amnesia. Why not? The following two scenarios will elaborate…

Scenario 1: If the forgetfulness is legitimate (and not an isolated occurrence), that means someone might be seriously ill and in need of prompt medical evaluation. Towards them, we can remain compassionate BUT we must also remain vigilant… understand that unless and until meds/therapy can expeditiously “lift the fog” as it were, we cannot allow anyone to remain in a position where being anything less than fully alert could jeopardize our national security.

Scenario 2: If the forgetfulness is feigned (and a chronic behavior), such individuals are in need of prompt legal attention. Their transgressions need to be evaluated in a court of law. Prison sentences should await all who are convicted. If not? Well, then we are allowing such individuals to remain in positions where their corruption could jeopardize our national security.

In our post 9/11 world, national security is what it’s all about. From each of our elected and appointed government entities we cannot and must not settle for anything less than a clear conscience and clarity of thought. Those qualities go hand in hand with transparency in government, too. For anyone unable to meet or exceed (what should be) our high expectations, they should either resign or be fired.