Corpse

Corpse: (n) a dead body, usually of a human being.

Sorting through a cavalcade of thoughts, I think I have finally arrived at a couple of notions that seem to hold true in spite of my own personal ridicule of them, and history proving that they’re ridiculous.

One such inkling is that I don’t really mind dying—I would just like to do it well and not have a bunch of people staring at my corpse.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I don’t want to come to the end and be chicken shit or do something stupid like squeal like a squirrel.

I don’t want to have a gun pointed at me, and in a fit of weakness push a nearby child forward to take my bullet.

I don’t want to suffer, but I also would like to have the honor of “last words.”

But mostly…

It’s the corpse thing.

I learned a long time ago to stop bitching about my body and just focus on my body of work.

I got dealt an interesting accumulation of haphazard DNA possibilities. So I don’t want a bunch of people staring at my fractured and now-breathless frame, making judgments.

I don’t want to look “natural.”

I don’t want some technician in a morgue taking a peek at my penis.

(I know it’s silly.)

I don’t want two doctors shaking their heads as they stare down at my blob, speaking to one another in hushed tones about how I could have extended my life if…

None of us were meant to be “a corpse.”

We were just meant to die, and once dead, as quickly as possible, to shed our skin, and somewhere, somehow, possibly become a new creature.


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Cop

Cop: (slang) a police officer

When I was a kid, if you called a policeman a “cop,” you were corrected. You were made to feel like some sort of hoodlum who was trying to be overly cool, overly familiar and by grown-up standards, overly stupid.

Through the years, the constables and police force have adopted the name “cop.” They had a show called “Cops.”funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

The feelings about these peace-keepers vary from city to city, age group to age group and race to race.

What’s missing, I think, is the definition of what makes a good policeman or woman. Because any officer who is “badge heavy” is a cop by anybody’s standards. And by “badge heavy” I mean that they take their position much too seriously rather than focusing on their responsibility.

I want to see a police-person and not think of the word “cop,” or wonder if he or she is an ass. What tells me this is whether he or she appears to be eyeballing the surrounding world anticipating that most people are going to be criminals or if most people are going to be next-door neighbors.

I want a man or woman who is wearing a uniform and carrying a gun to use the wisdom of mercy as much as possible, short of endangering his or her life.

“Cop” is still not a great name for a policeman. It’s one of those things we’ve accepted because our world is too intent on being cool instead of respectful.

But it certainly will not hurt the police officers in this country to carry their badges a bit more lightly, and their respect for humanity with a deeper and heavier consciousness.


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Confiscate

Confiscate: (v) to take or seize someone’s property with authority.

Nasty criminals in the wicked pursuit of evil have made it their business to confiscate our country.

The ransom note has been received. We are being held hostage.

The request is simple–a demand that you and I submit to the New Order and surrender any notions of brotherhood, common good and doing what we should.

They threaten to tear apart our property, our lives and our dreams.

They are convinced that years of toleration, understanding, adjustment and patience have brought us to a place where we have lost our domination and have just funny wisdom on words that begin with a Cbecome part of Earth’s typography.

They are angry.

They are certain of their cause.

They are committed to restoring a former time, which, in its era, was proven to be ineffective and even deadly.

They have a knife to our throat, alternating with a gun to our head, interchanging all of that with a mocking laugh of anything suggesting mutuality or agreement.

We are temporarily stalled by a kidnapping of kindness and a promotion of crudeness.

Should we pay the ransom?

And if the ransom is paid, will we get our country back? Or just what’s left of it?

Perhaps we should take a moment and realize that even though these forces did confiscate our lives, we certainly were more than willing to give up–because of our bigotry and anger.

Can we rescue ourselves from ourselves?

It’s a damn good question.

Fortunately–or perhaps unfortunately–we will all be around to hear the answer.

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Mr. Kringle's Tales...26 Stories 'Til Christmas

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Clay Pigeon

Clay pigeon: (n) a saucer-shaped piece of baked clay thrown up in the air as a target for shooting.

I have shot a gun. It was delightful. I liked it.

Yet I am completely against killing people. Those two sensations do not have to be at odds.

But saying that “guns don’t kill people” is one of the more ridiculous statements ever made.

Guns will continue to be the main way that people kill each other if they happen to be in the same location when people are angry at one another. Strangling someone to death is not even a close second.

What we should be discussing is how much fun guns are–and also opening up more places where people can go out and safely fire a gun until they get sick of hearing it, shooting it and breaking apart clay pigeons, which, by the way, they will probably miss most of the time. (Perhaps the reason we don’t do this is that so many clay pigeons land safely, and somebody has to go out and pick them up.)

Since guns aren’t going anywhere, we should find ways to enjoy them before the lack of having fun accidentally turns us all into killers. And don’t get pious and say, ‘I would never shoot anyone…”

Each one of us gets angry enough to pull a trigger if our finger happened to be near one. But if we had just finished shooting 125 clay pigeons, we might have put the gun away in the closet, weary of the exercise–and the kickback.

 

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Birth Control

Birth Control: (n) various methods for counteracting pregnancy

This amazing idea came to my mind, which probably, upon future inspection, will not seem quite as gleaming. But while it is still glistening in my gray matter, I shall write about it.Dictionary B

Let us be blunt: a man has a penis and a woman has a vagina.

Nature created these physical parts for the purpose of allowing our species to make smaller versions of ourselves, who eventually grow up, forget our telephone numbers and no longer contact us.

Simultaneously, gun manufacturers make weapons which often–even by design–resemble the human penis.

Now, we do have sense enough to find a way to take the procreative weapon of the penis and make it less dangerous to the vagina by generating all sorts of prophylactics to prevent pregnancy.

Only a few cults and religions object to such an intrusion–the Catholic Church, for instance.

So the Catholic Church is kind of the NRA of human reproduction. They believe that every penis should have the right to shoot wherever it wants, without interference.

But other religions, cultures and philosophies allow for the penis-gun to be more limited in its effectiveness. In other words, they allow various approaches to preventing pregnancy.

Without this, we would have indiscriminate births based on the cycle of the female of our species. Then we would begin to do strange things, like pushing euthanasia, turning our heads away from genocide or even trying to engineer processes by which we can control the type of child being born.

No–birth control is a good thing.

It keeps us from hurting ourselves, while still giving us the freedom to enjoy the right to pleasure our parts.

Hmmmm–now if we can just find a way to put a rubber on a gun …

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Armed

dictionary with letter A

Armed: 1. (adj) equipped with or carrying a weapon or weapons.

I shot a gun seven times in my life.

Now, there’s an odd sentence.

What do I remember about the experience? I recall it as being fun.

I pointed a gun at a tin can and shot five times before I finally hit the thing. There was a real sense of satisfaction upon knocking over the former bean container.

I wanted to do it again.

If I really believed that being armed was a choice of recreation, I could completely comprehend the desire.

What I have trouble with is when people tell me they want to be armed so they can prepare to be dangerous.

After many years of dealing with human beings, I can tell you–we were never meant to be dangerous. Matter of fact, there is a real danger in us being dangerous, Why?

1. We are impetuous.

We do many things and are sorry later. It’s just hard to apologize for shooting someone.

2. We feel powerful about the wrong things.

The best gift we have is our ability to negotiate life and get along with others. Feeling the power of being armed sometimes makes us unwilling to be pliable.

3. We need good thoughts.

As long as we feel protected by a weapon, we will not use our better angels to fly in and solve our problems. And if we do, it may be in the back of our minds that we are still armed.

I know the classic saying is, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.”

I can’t argue with that.

But long before we actually kill one another, we can develop an attitude of intolerance because we feel endorsed by our weaponry.

  • It makes us nasty when we could be gentle.
  • It makes us pushy when we might achieve compromise.
  • And it makes us confident in implements of anger instead of instruments of peace.

 

 

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American Dream

dictionary with letter A

American dream: (n) the traditional social ideals of the U.S., such as equality, democracy and material prosperity.

I think the American dream has been over-analyzed by Freudian pundits and politicians who plan on using their own interpretation to bring about the enactment of their particular will.

I’m not so sure I agree with the Republicans that every American wants a gun.

Likewise, the more liberal view of the Democrats concerning giving people license to do whatever they want to under the guise of civil rights doesn’t achieve much more than an emotional traffic jam.

I’ll tell you what I think the American dream is: Hunk, Chunk, Junk.

I think the power of freedom in this country, with the intelligent use of capitalism, enables me to go out and get my hunk. I should have every right to do that. If it doesn’t infringe on the needs of others or hurt my fellow-man and woman, I should be applauded for my efforts and be given a barn to store my bounty.

Then from that hunk, I should get my chunk. This is probably where people will disagree with me. Lots of folks think they need every single dime they earn to cover their own personal indebtedness. If that’s the case, you’ll spend your life pretty miserable. I should be able to break off a chunk from my hunk that will make me happy and keep me in grits, gravy, gravel and glee.

What remains from my hunk actually becomes my junk. Things I don’t need. Things I don’t want anymore. It’s a startling but true statement that if everybody in America emptied their attics and garages of all the things they haven’t used in the past six months, and gave them to their neighbors, 75% of the personal needs of others would be fulfilled.

It’s not treasure if moths and rust are corrupting it and it’s being stolen by time and depreciation.

Get rid of your junk.

Bless someone else. They won’t think it’s junk.

They will treasure it as their hunktheir American dream.