Daughters of the American Revolution

Daughters of the American Revolution:  a patriotic society of women descended from Americans of the Revolutionary period, organized in 1890

I will receive no applause, acclamation, nor much readership by sharing this. Nonetheless, I will do it to promote the sanity of our species and grant peace on Earth a chance to give goodwill to men.

No one is special.

When we started believing some people were special, it opened the Pandora’s box brought about by the belief in equality. For if all men are created equal, and we have found some men to be special, therefore, aren’t all men (and women) special?

From that position, we developed the doctrine of uniqueness—“there’s no one exactly like me.”

“I am a daughter of the American Revolution…”

…which actually  means that many generations back, your great-great-great-great grandmother had sexual intercourse with a revolutionary man who was about to be hung by the British Empire.

Because that particular revolution panned out pretty well, I am allowed to feel proud of my old Grandma, and even to assert that I have maintained a drop or two of “special blood” through the process.

Let us not even consider the reality of mutations.

Because a study of DNA immediately informs us that talents, character and attributes are not transferable in entirely through the double-helix.

But as long as we can convince ourselves that we’re special, we might just feel a little better about how mediocre our lives have seemingly turned out to be.

Of course, I’m not nearly as special if you’re special, too.

A debate on who or what might be more special seems childish. So to be special, I must insist that you are ordinary, or even cursed by birth.

So it may appear noble to be a Daughter of the American Revolution, but since you weren’t there, didn’t sew any new flags, or put bandages on amputated limbs, you must understand that it just doesn’t mean shit.

 

Damoiselle

Damoiselle: (n) a young woman or girl; a maiden

The joke is that employees at Federal Express read on a package, “Fragile, handle with care,” and toss that one even higher.

I’m sure that’s not true.

It is the instinct of the human race to rebel against the things we’re told to do.

This is especially true when we feel like someone is being picky or prissy.

So over the years, as women have been trying to establish their equality, the females have also accepted special consideration for being dainty when it suited the circumstances.

Because of this, religion, politics and business have been able to mask bigotry behind a sense of appreciation for ladies, deeming them damoiselles—because this title can place them in distress—and as we often saw in the cartoons, they were tied up and laid on railroad tracks, waiting for the hero (a man) to come and save them.

Many years ago, because I wanted equality with my “sisters in life,” I stopped phony recognition.

I hold doors open for women because I also hold them open for men, and even once, if I remember correctly, a dog or two.

I do not frantically run toward a woman carrying packages and take them from her, lest she break a sweat.

It is how women end up being handled rather than regarded.

It is why a word like “demoiselle,” though just a French translation for “woman,” brings with it the tentacles of oppression.

It’s a sinister way to make sure that women never gain the even footing their stance demands.

If I am working with a woman, I talk to her just as directly as I would her male counterpart. Amazingly enough, from time to time, some women regard this fair play as chauvinism.

Because privately, they want to plead for fairness but also want to maintain the perks of being carried along gently by men—men who are convinced they are innately weaker.

So I say to my dear friends who happen to be the “she-dom of this world,” you must make up your mind.

If you want to stand toe-to-toe, you probably should carry in your own boxes.

And if you want to be considered the same, then demand the same.

 

Damned if I Do, Damned if I Don’t

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t: (n) a situation which one can’t win.

I have become convinced that self-pity is the greatest deterrent to human progress.

If you spend five minutes with any person, he or she will explain both what he or she wanted to accomplish and also why it became impossible.

I suppose this comes about because we think life is a puzzle put together by some Eternal Being and presented to us—and then we patiently but joyfully are to discover how all the portions are meant to fit together.

How could we have free will if we already have a puzzle made for us?

Is the premise that only certain free-will creatures even try to put the puzzle together? Or is it that the puzzle is so difficult that few have the time to pursue it or complete it?

I, on the other hand, happen to believe that life is a shoe box full of rocks, handed to each and every one of us.

The losers in life spend most of their breath-time either lamenting the meaninglessness of the rocks or attempting to put them together in some bizarre configuration.

They are the ones who begin to believe that you’re “damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

In other words, “Since everything is stacked against me, and my box of rocks doesn’t make any sense, what’s the point in wearing myself out—chasing rainbows with my saddled unicorn?”

Here’s a tip:

The box of rocks is a diversion. It creates equality.

It makes us all the same—none preferred—and offers a common paradox.

For once you look at your box of rocks and surmise that there’s nothing to be done with it, then dump your rocks—but keep your box. Then go out and start gathering what you’re going to need to construct what you really envision.

You might think it’s cruel for the Creator to ask us to use our brains to surmise that the rocks are meaningless. But by no means do we want every fool to figure out the puzzle, lest figuring it out becomes droll.

Dalliance

Dalliance: (n) amorous toying; flirtation.

I was there for the death of dalliance.

It was recent, so you may have also been around.

For years and years, I fed my ego, enhanced my library of imagination for masturbation and granted myself a bit of prideful chest-thumping over the glory and beauty of flirtation.

It was very common at one time.

There was only one restriction—you needed to make sure that it was a mutual interaction. In other words, if you were joking around with a woman, as long as she was firing back her “blurt of flirt,” it was absolutely acceptable, invigorating, and released some of the pressure that often occurs in life over the attempt to suppress sexuality.

Granted, if dalliance was occurring from only one person, and the other individual was heading for cover as if there were bullets in the air, then it was certainly harassment and wrong-headed.

But for centuries, men and women have enjoyed teasing one another with false claims, silly innuendos and batting eyes, with stomachs held in and shoulders thrown back.

Then one day it all changed.

We began to believe that even if both parties were participating, it was possible that they were doing so because they feared for their job or they were so frightened by the circumstances that they remained mute, without objection.

I don’t know whether a woman on the job who is flirted with by her boss and returns some of the banter can then claim she was “too scared” to object.

I think we must decide if men and women are equals, or if they’re only equal when we’re talking about job opportunity and pay scale.

Are they equal in their responsibility to speak up for themselves and express their displeasure if they’re being made uncomfortable?

I don’t know how successful we’re going to be if we’re trying to make one person the conscience for two.

In other words, that aforementioned boss should realize the possibility that the employee is too terrified because of the fear of losing her job—so he should not generate any questionable approaches whatsoever.

The human race has survived in a splendid way, riding the wave of dalliance.

I just don’t know who we become if we can’t flirt with each other.

Can we maintain our self-worth if someone isn’t letting us know they think we’re attractive, clever and worth a back-and-forth repartee?

Sexual harassment is a bad thing.

But when does flirtation become sexual harassment?

It is the contention of this author that if an objection is not raised, a door remains open.

Dachau

Dachau: (n) a city in SE Germany, near Munich, the site of Nazi concentration camp.

We forget how dangerous populists can be—because they always say such popular things.

It would be difficult to be critical of a man proclaiming the delicious virtues of chocolate until you realized he was advocating only the consumption of chocolate—to the exclusion of everything else—thus leaving his followers to many dangerous acquired conditions.

Adolph Hitler was a populist.

Long before he was a dictator—perhaps even before he became maniacal—he was a public speaker touting the exceptional nature of the German people.

He explained to them how they had been mistreated among the Europeans after World War I and that it was necessary, for the good of their heritage, to rise up and be counted.

That’s how he started.

It was difficult to disagree with him. Germany had been devastated by the First World War. There was a need for some sort of pep rally, to inspire a renovation.

But as I said, long before populists become dictators, they seem to be prophets of possibility and messengers for magnification.

When does it change?

When do populists–who seem harmless–need to be recognized for their vicious natures and set to the side or pushed out of our lives, so we don’t elevate them to positions of authority, where all of their overwrought ideas can be manifested?

That’s easy.

When the populist starts making a group—a nationality, a gender, a lifestyle or a race—the source of all difficulty and preaches that the situation could be greatly alleviated by targeting these offending individuals.

For Hitler, it was the Jews.

Candidly, he would never have gotten away with killing Jews if the German people didn’t secretly harbor a deep-rooted prejudice against them. Going back to the music of Wagner and the lesser works of Martin Luther, there was an abiding notion in the Germanic tribe that the Jews were responsible for most evil things.

For you see, no populist could have brought about such a dastardly genocide of an innocent people without feeding off the nervous apprehension of those who came to hear.

The end result is Dachau—a prison camp organized for one purpose: to find unique and efficient ways to torture and annihilate the Jewish race.

Perhaps we should do ourselves a favor in this election season.

We should acknowledge that there are populists who desire to rule our country. Their messages may seem innocuous at this point. Matter of fact, it may appear that they are merely extolling the value of American purity or standing up for the poor and disenfranchised.

But listen carefully.

Are they whispering words of disdain, or even hatred, in the direction of a particular group of people?

What is it they are saying about humans with brown skin?

What is it they’re intimating about citizens with a lot of money?

What is their stand on gender equality?

What do they think about those brothers and sisters around them who are different?

I never listen to a populist—no matter how humorous or inspiring the message might seem.

For a populist who honors fat people will eventually do so by portraying that skinny people are evil.

And a populist who regales the beauty of being thin and healthy will eventually encourage you to hate the obese.

We can prevent Dachau.

We can remove the fuel from the ovens that killed millions of souls.

Stop feeling the need to constantly be encouraged, or eventually you will steal someone else’s dignity to supplement your own.

 

Cyrene

Cyrene: (n) an ancient Greek city and colony in N Africa

He was desperately trying to remain invisible.

If not invisible, at least unnoticed.

Although he had arrived in Jerusalem to be part of the Passover celebration, driven there by his deep, abiding faith, he was a black man.

Some people believed he was the offspring of Cain, the punished murderer of his brother, Abel.

Others seemed blind to his dark complexion.

It was confusing to know what to do.

Should he be apologetic for his skin color?

Bold, assuming equality? Or defiant, to scare away the bigoted and cynical?

It was constantly on his mind. Would there be more scrutiny from the religious Jews or the self-important Roman soldiers?

Beyond his will, interrupting his progress, he was swept away by a crowd moving swiftly along the Via Dolorosa, forcing him to change his direction and move with the will of the throng.

It was a procession—a death march to the crucifixion of condemned men, heading up the long hill to die. One was struggling. He was carrying his crossbeam on his back yet finding it impossible to stand under its weight.

He fell and they beat him. He stood and they beat him.

The black man had a spontaneous urge to step forward and do something. He regretted it immediately, because one of the nearby soldiers grabbed him by the arm, asking him who he was and what the hell he thought he was doing.

“I am Simon, the Cyrene, and I was just being foolish.”

The soldier pushed him toward the beaten stranger lying in the street. “Since you give a damn, why don’t you carry his fuckin’ cross?” spat the legionnaire.

At that moment, the man, who had been lying flat down in the street, rose on his haunches and turned to look at Simon. His face was grotesque, bruised and bloody, but his eyes maintained a focus. A warmth, a purpose.

Not wanting to be crucified himself, Simon chose to heed the command. He picked up the broad beam and put it on his back as the soldier helped the weakened victim to his feet.

Trying to regain his balance, the beaten-up stranger hooked his arm with Simon’s. They were linked.

Together they made the journey the rest of the way, to the “Place of The Skull.” It seemed right to all those standing around, staring at the scene, that this black man, condemned by his color, should perform such a duty for the wicked traveler on his way to death.

Simon was stilled in his confusion. He had been black all his life. He rarely left his home in Cyrene because he never knew what level of bigotry awaited him in the outside world.

He covered the distance to the top of the hill, breaking a sweat but still able to support the battered frame of the convict. Before he knew it, they lifted the beam off of him and busied themselves nailing the man to the cross.

Simon had an instinct to stand and watch, but his better sense told him that he could easily be mistaken for one of the criminals and end up slain.

He quietly left.

As he was coming down the hill, a young man, no more than twenty years of age, approached him. “Thank you for carrying the Master’s cross,” he said.

Simon nodded. The young man continued. “His name is Jesus and we believe him to be the Son of God.”

Simon smiled. He felt pity. Or was it respect to a childish dream? He didn’t know.

Matter of fact, for almost five years, he never thought about it again. He never heard the name—until one day, back in his home of Cyrene, a young preacher—an itinerant man bronzed by the heat of the sun—said the name again.

“Jesus.”

He told a story. He filled in details that Simon could not possibly have known. He burst into tears.

“What is wrong?” the messenger asked him.

Simon shook his head. “I know that man. I carried his cross. I just didn’t know that it was the cross he was carrying for me.”

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cunning and Cunt

Cunning: (adj) skill employed in a shrewd or sly manner, as in deceiving; craftiness; guile

Cunt: (n) the female vagina

If you didn’t know for a fact that the dictionary was put together by Noah Webster, not Nora Webster, you can certainly figure it out by some of the subtle definitions that sneak in to establish manly superiority.

Right after we have the pleasure of defining “cunnilingus,” we are reminded that “cunning” is associated with the female of our species. I suppose we might call a military general or a male spy “cunning,” but normally, we attribute that crafty, nearly sinister plotting, to women.

And if that’s not enough, the dictionary then incudes the insulting, debasing and ignorant use of the word “cunt.”

There is little in our society that we are as openly hypocritical about than alleged equality between the sexes.

Even those who insist that women should receive equal pay for equal work are not certain that women can deliver the promise.

Complicating the matter is that women often fall back on cunning. So bad boys call them cunts.

Sooner or later, the genders will have to admit that the games that are played in attempting to gain control steal the possibility of an honest appraisal and appreciation for one another.

So rather than offering this criticism, let me instead make a suggestion to men:

Search out the chauvinism in your life instead of pretending it’s not there.

And when it rises to the top because it thinks it’s cream, call it out yourself. Astound the room with the revelation that you are prepared to change—even if you have to monitor your own conscience.

Likewise, if you are a female, you may want to be on guard about the scheming and deceiving that you privately laugh about with your friends, which makes it nearly impossible to take your cosmetic approach to life at face value.

I am so determined to avoid gender bashing that I am prepared to look and listen when people tell me that I’ve crossed a line.

Likewise I call up my sisters to cease ducking into the shadows when it seems more advantageous to appear weak.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cryptic

Cryptic: (adj) mysterious in meaning; puzzling; ambiguous

Some examples of cryptic thoughts.

It certainly was fortunate that there were ignorant black people in Africa so that American slavery could prosper.

President Trump would be a fabulous leader if he knew where he was going.

It is ironic that the Jews would consider it anti-Semitic to be blamed for the crucifixion of Jesus, even though their Council cast the votes.

Men and women are equally talented and intelligent—and there the equality ceases.

I shot an arrow into the air and I sure as hell hope it didn’t kill anybody.

I am happiest when I know some people are sad because there seems to be a limited amount of happiness.

The best Republican President acted like he was a Democrat.

The best Democrat President was probably a secret Republican.

People don’t seem to be able to just enjoy sex without thinking they are the best at it.

The more we envy others, the less the chance of ever possessing what they have.

Religion is about as close to God as politics is to freedom.

You can always tell when a nation is failing—it attacks its poets.

I blame myself for trusting you to have the intelligence to make the decision that has now ruined us both.

These are some examples of cryptic statements.

Such talk is fun.

Such talk is clever.

Such talk can start wars.

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C



https://jonathanrichardcring.substack.com/

Creature

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Creature: (n) an animal, especially a non-human

I like animals—but I don’t love them.

This statement in itself is enough to make many people cease reading this article—for loving animals has become the symbol of great humanity, mercy and tenderness. I especially find displeasure in those who allude to the fact that they “love animals more than people.”

We have begun to accept such weirdness.

I guess if I felt that the people who loved animals cared equally for people, I would be very impressed and would want to learn from them how to be more passionate about…what is it they call them?

Oh, yes. Our “fur friends.”

But I feel these folks have decided to be empathetic with animals instead of their fellows, mainly because they can quietly overlord the creatures, while pretending equality.

After all, what’s a dog going to do if you insist you love it, but then make it wait an extra fifteen minutes to go out and pee so you can finish your make-up?

And what is a cat supposed to think when you show up two or three times a day for affection, and any time it wants to come and be close, you’re too busy watching TV?

It’s a strange game—because it is easy to love an animal that is not demanding, and not so easy to love one that requires equality.

I am still working on being kind to the sparrow and all other creatures.

But I will begin by loving those folks who I’m told are most certainly created in God’s image.

 

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Country

Country: (n) a state or nation

I just downright don’t like the premise.

For you see, a quick look at the map of the world certainly does not distinguish insurmountable barriers that would dictate as many funny wisdom on words that begin with a Ccountries as we have conjured through our typography.

After all, most rivers don’t forbid people from crossing.

Mountains have been known to be climbed.

And nowadays, oceans are crossed with barely enough time on the airplane to serve soft drinks and peanuts.

Why do we need a country?

Why is it necessary to isolate this land mass as having this particular group of people, which follows a predetermined philosophy or form of government, and declare their sovereignty to such a degree that they are willing to go to war over violations of air space?

Perhaps it’s wise that the only way to truly cure insanity is to voraciously point it out whenever you encounter it. Otherwise, pretty soon it starts making sense to you—and by that time, you’ve hopelessly lost your ability to change the world.

I love my country.

But not because it’s located in the continental United States.

Not because I think Americans are exceptional and better than other people in the world.

No, I love my country because we espouse the principles of equality and freedom, which were hatched in the mind of the Creator when He first sat down and considered His opening line:

“Let there be light.”


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