S T R E A M # 7

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Germs don’t hate at night when you’re dreaming about Jesus basking on the beach under a sunny, cloudless sky, with a joint and a bottle of Guinness. And you want to tell Mr. Christ that Guinness from the tap is much better than the bottled variety. But, you know, he’s the Son of God and all, so he’s probably got the right idea. He’s probably got the best bottled Guinness that’s ever been bottled. I wouldn’t know. I’m sure if I asked he’d – excuse me He’d – be more than happy to share. But I’d be WAY, WAY too intimidated to approach him – if “intimidated” is the right word. Then again, why would the Big Guy be basking on a beach with a beer where / when there’s so much to be done? Probably, he’s an imposter. But you don’t want to take the chance that he’s not. And you don’t want to take the chance that he’s snot. (Because, when read aloud, “he’s not” sounds a lot like “he’s snot.”) It may very well be all part of His Plan. But it’s a dream. Or it’s a possible dream. It’s something I’ve made up on the fly, and yet, I’m offended buy it. I’m thinking I should save myself a lot a stress and delete it and start over. Somebody out there is bound to take this wackiness as blasphemy. This aforementioned musing may very well ruin some devotee’s day. It may give them a heart attack. Probably not. But it very likely won’t make them happy. There was that “item” in the news… Jesus Christ. “Item”? Well, why not? You’d want it to be an “item” — that is: that which you could pick up and toss away. It’s what you’d like to do with most news, no? Anyhoo, there was that “item” about some whoever who was punished and fined for calling a couple of colorful kids climbing a tree, “Monkeys.” I’m not saying it was right. I am saying I’m slightly aghast at how we’ve become a society of censurers. Not really, no. Really, I’m just looking for a reason to wield the word, “aghast.” Look, I hate unsalted crackers just like any sane person would. But perhaps I shouldn’t use the word, “hate.” Perhaps instead I should use the word, “pity.” And I mean pity as one should pity any poor, self-loathing, hapless schmuck. Particularly if they're hapless. The point is, for better and for worse, there is no freedom of screech when folks are fined and fired for making a mistake, or when their words are misconstrued. But I’m sure my words here and elsewhere have been and will be taken out of context and used against me in my next presidential campaign. Or, these words will be used against some friend or relative or distant acquaintance in their next presidential campaign. You, no doubt, will accuse one of my loyal readers (HA, HA!) of being a basket case ‘cause they’re amused by all the absurdity one finds amongst these pixels smack dab here. What can one do? I know: Eat cheese on a sunny day when the cows want to wash the dishes in the mud over in the swamp where the tomatoes grow. This wasn’t meant to offend or instruct or inform and it never is and it never will be. This was meant to eat the whole loaf of bread when it is baked. Because you’ll possibly get sick if you eat the bread when it’s not fully baked. I am not fully baked, not at all baked, but no doubt I come across as if baked. But, truly, I haven’t toked up in over a year. Perhaps it’s been two. Perhaps it’s been three. More? Who can say? A few can say. Mayhap one. Yea, one can say. At least one. Or two. I don’t indulge as oft as I ought. No doubt I’d be far more interesting if I did indulge as oft as I ought. Truth: I feel cleverer for having wielded the phase, “as oft as I ought.” Once you muster the courage to pull your gaze from this screen, please find a way to wield the phrase, “as oft as I ought.” It matters not a whit (to me) if you muse “ought” as one should muse “should.” Oopsie. Smuse me. Bottom reached. (Nay, bottom surpassed.) 

14 April 2008 

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