Maelstrom, Cataclysm, Götterdämmerung and Whatnot

Mmmbop!

Because losing is such a rare experience for the University of Oklahoma football team, any loss is difficult for fans. Last night's loss was a little easier for me, though, as we lost to Brigham Young University, my second favorite team. I like BYU because only attractive, moral and well dressed students are admitted, and that is how it should be. A BYU player is named "Manase." Someone must have run out of names when he was born.

I have scores of friends and loved ones who are big fans of BYU. Every single one of them was gracious to me last night. Not one made a snide comment, or reveled in the misfortune and injury of OU's Heisman winning quarterback, Fantastic Sam Bradford, whose acne has disappeared. Not one.

Contrast that with Texas fans, many of whom would celebrate if Sam sustained a spinal injury and ended up paralyzed from the wiener down. I received from UT fans a host of text messages, emails, Facebook messages and Facebook posts that were tacky, classless and, for the most part, neither funny nor clever. I'll receive more because of this post. My favorite was from my boy Leslie, who said, "the first game played in the new Cowboy Stadium, and OU lost." Cold blooded.

Many Sooner fans have regional loyalties. I do. Several years ago I was proud as could be of Texas when they won the national championship. Why can't we all just get along?

Because Texas is racist and hurtful, and people shoot folks from towers and whatnot.

God Bless Glenn Beck for hammering home the message about the utter awfulness of Green Czar, Van Jones. President Obama appointed him to indoctrinate us with communist theory, and force us to go green. You know the old saying, "once you go green, you never go back."

With Obama, it is all about color. Jones resigned under pressure because it became known he is a nutter and a hater.

During last year's campaign I ranted and raved about Obama, and the danger that he'd appoint a host of radicals and white people to positions of great power and influence. He has done that and more. We have a wise non-dieting Latina woman as our new Supreme Court Justice. She will take affirmative action to a whole new level of idiocy.

White slavery, retroactive abortions and the Alaskan Death Camps for dissenters are coming.

Van Jones. Green Czar. That guy should have been Red Czar, as he is a commie. I love the youtube clips of him referring to Obama's opponents as "a**holes." I don't think Jesus would want him to say things like that about Republicans. Nice. Very ghetto. Spray paint that some place, won't you? Bust some caps while you're at it, beeyotch.

Jones helped found a San Francisco (naturally) group called "STORM." That bunch didn't stress the need to help victims of storms, either. STORM means Standing Together to Organize a Revolutionary Movement." That doesn't sound like Boy Scouts, Mormons, or the Lions' Club putting on a bake sale to buy new band uniforms.

STORM. Storm. The Storm. Der Sturmer. That was the name of the Nazi Party newspaper in Germany, from 1923-1945. Coincidence? Conspiracy? Resurrection of the Third Reich by our first muslim president? I report. You decide.

Oh, and Jones CHAMPIONS the cause of that dreadful, smelly dreadlock havin' cop killer, Mumia Abu-Jamal, who sits on death row in Pennsylvania. May allah have mercy on him. May allah have mercy on his mother for giving him such a goofy name. No offense. Read up on that case when you're in the mood to get really angry.

How bright is our wonder boy president if he appoints radicals like this? Yet his administration is full of them.

Oh well, that's what the Republicans get for nominating that moron McCain.

Glenn Beck and other swell guys took down this rapper Van Jones. Good for them.

Obama's evil minions have many terrible plans and goals. Two are particularly terrifying. They want to restore the so-called "fairness doctrine," which would force media outlets to broadcast opposing viewpoints. People won't listen to hippie liberal communist radio programs because they suck. For real. It has been tried and the efforts have all failed. People don't like things that suck. The solution, naturally is for the government to step in and make us listen to liberal drivel. That'll suck too, but THE GREAT BARACK knows best and sees all.

(even if his wife looks abominable in her "daisy duke" cut-offs, and girlfriend, please do wear a bra).

We will have to endure opposing viewpoints after Rush Limbaugh and others have finished, or they will be shut down. Stations will be taxed and fined by the FCC. Christians will be beheaded in public squares.

The other scary "danger" is the proposal that the President of the United States be granted the power to shut down the internet in an emergency. Yes. I'm not lying, even if this does sound like something I'd make up. That's how the Nazis really achieved power in Germany in the 1930's. Hitler didn't start off as an absolute dictator. He was smart enough to avail himself of and exploit any emergency for his own purposes. This is why THE GREAT BARACK is often compared to Hitler.

Plus, I know Obama is back to smoking, and I hope someone catches him. Michelle will clobber him with a frying pan.

Cigarettes, not crack. Don't be racist.

I play the "Farmville" application on Facebook. It is lame and goofy, and it is an amazing time-waster. One can plant just about any crop he wants. Crops grow, they are harvested, and the player gets "coins," which aren't worth anything. The other day, I seeded my entire plantation with cotton. I thought it'd be kind of cool to see the cotton "grow." My best friend Jordan saw the farm page. He called me a racist and asked me if I could buy slaves to pick the cotton.

So I checked. Players can purchase everything from raspberries to radishes. Signs to silos. Picket fences to paving stones. Tents to Tara. All kinds of farmy stuff.

But no, one can't purchase slaves unless there are also watermelons growing. Now THAT would be funny.

At least ten people will fire me as a Facebook friend for that comment. I generally lose one each time I post a column from my girl Ann Coulter or my boy Pat Buchanan. But I digress. Back to Farmville.

Another friend arranged her plots so they spelled out OSU in pumpkins. It is incredible.

I'm going to do a big swastika with my crops.

There went another ten friends from Facebook.

Get well, Fantastic Sam. Thanks BYU fans and friends for making our loss a little more endurable. Have the best season ever. I also hope OSU has a great season, but I hope even more that OU beats OSU like a red headed stepchild in K-Mart.

Don't hate.

Happy Burfday to G.R.E. Thanks for letting me sniff and hang in yo pound, dawg.

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Racist Kitten and the Sea Lion of the Senate

My racist kitten was born on Lyn’s birthday, June 8^th, so he’ll be three months old next month. He caught himself a mouse in the basement, and I’m proud of him. Never mind he scratches and bites me about 90 times a day. Some cat people refer to the bites as “love nibbles” or something like that. I thought "love nibbles" at first until he was finished feeding on me and my entire arm was bleeding like Abigail Folger.

Walter and Jane once had a cool cat named "Baxter." One holiday, I was invited over to eat. Jane's Mother , Margaret, was there, and we observed Baxter's propensity to "love bite" folks. Margaret said, "sometimes that cat bites kinely hateful." I thought so too, but Baxter got away with it because he was cool. He KNEW he was cool too.

Never cared much for cats, most likely because some of the ones I’ve been around practically begged me to torture them, and I was happy to oblige. The cat always wins, by the way. My best friend Paden’s girlfriend gave the kitten to me. I’m not going to name him. My animals end up deaf anyway, so what’s the point. I never thought cats had any redeeming social value. They are sneaky. They can read minds. They sense precisely what one does NOT want them to do, and then they do just that.

The kitty is a racist, though, just like Dante the Racist Badger, at the Oklahoma City Zoo. Dante’s job is to walk back and forth, and it is sad to watch him. His job sucks.

Zoos are not the best places. I generally leave feeling sorry for the animals and the grubby little Larry Mondello-looking fat kids who go there to eat even more junk food. If you get “Larry Mondello,” you’re old.

Anyway, this kitten is also surprisingly loving and affectionate. He likes to pile up on me. He enjoys sitting under the wheels of my desk chair, almost as much as I enjoy rolling over his tail. “That’s what he gets,” as my sponsor says.

The kitty and my aged Jack Russell, Micky, get along famously, which is another surprise. Once in awhile Micky will catch the kitten and bite his face off, which is payback for all the mean stuff he does to poor aged Micky.

When he gets old enough, I'm going to have his cute little paws sawed off, because I'm tired of being scratched. The cat hates white people, which is why I call him a racist.

Unless he keeps finding mice in the basement. I get them this time of year, and they come in through the dog door, or however else they want, as they are mice. Getting into places is their job. So if the cat keeps exterminating mice, he can keep his claws and scratch me once in awhile.

The best thing Senator Edward M. Kennedy did in his long career was run against that lying phony, Jimmy Carter, in 1980. The best thing I can say for Jimmy Carter is he makes George W. Bush look good. I mean that nice.

Carter wrecked, miscalculated, screwed up, and piously tweeked so many things it is hard to decide on the worst. Most likely, it was the summer of 1979 when he sat there on national television and blamed all of it on us. Double digit inflation, double digit interest rates, and double digit unemployment. Yes, son. Those stats make this dreadful Obama Depression look almost tolerable.

Carter sucked so much it was assumed that anyone who ran against him would win. Stalin would have been better. So Kennedy was talked into running for President, most likely against his better judgment. Many of his supporters figured he'd be anointed by the Democratic party, and he'd go on to destroy Ronald Reagan in the general election. Then came the famous Roger Mudd interview. Don't get into a land war in Asia, and don't agree to an interview with Roger Mudd unless you can explain why you want to be President and why you can't explain Chappaquiddick.

Jus' sayin'. Never hatin'.

Sidebar: I've always believed if Kennedy had told the truth about Chappaquiddick, which is, I think, that he was so drunk he was in a blackout and just doesn't remember it, he could have put that tragedy behind him.

Kennedy's heroic run weakened that putrid Carter. Reagan would have beaten Carter anyway, but it was nice that Kennedy sort of stabbed him a couple of times like the mean emperor in "Gladiator" did when he wanted to win. One of my fondest memories of the 1980 campaign, when I was only two years old, was the spectacle of Jimmy Carter chasing Ted Kennedy all around the stage at the Democratic National Convention, practically begging him to pose with him, hands clasped, for the traditional victory photo. Kennedy was having nothing of it. And so afterward, forgetting his own disastrous presidency, Jimmy Carter blamed Teddy Kennedy for his annihilation at the hands of the Great Ronald Reagan.

Dreadful presidents often lead to amazing ones. Carter made straight the path of Reagan. We're shaping up for another amazing one, which we're going to need, by the way, if that nut gets his $10 trillion health care bill. We'll all have microchips inserted in our foreheads, with the number 666 in arabic. I don't make this stuff up; I read it on the interwebs. Blame Al Gore for that.

I can't think of anything Kennedy stood for that I agreed with. When I struggle to think of anything good, why that is overshadowed by what he did to a fine man, my boy Judge Robert Bork. As many others have written, that slimy stunt ushered in this lovely season (which has lasted almost 25 years) of politics, in which no one plays nice like they were taught in kindergarten.

Wait. Here's a nice thing. In 1982, I was in Washington looking for a job. I passed Senator Kennedy in the hall of the capitol, the building the muslims wanted to destroy. He had an entourage, including "Turtle," "Drama," and "E." He stepped over and shook hands with me. I thought that was nice. Why bother with me? I was nervous, but I couldn't resist telling him I thought he was fat. Not really. But he did shake my hand. He had a fat hand though.

A friend and roommate of mine worked in Senator Kennedy's office in 1985. It was the experience of a lifetime. My friend also got to meet my boy Lyn in Washington. Lyn, typically, said something inappropriate: "has the Senator taught you how to swim?" Or was it "drive?" I can't remember now.

In later years, my friend became a prominent attorney in Kansas City. He and the Senator attended a fundraiser for that awful President Obama. Kennedy walked up behind my friend, put his hand on his shoulder and said, "Now, either I used to work for you, or you used to work for me -- which was it?"

What a memory. What a cool boss. What a mentor.

Kennedy was indeed the Sea Lion of the Senate. Jus' sayin'.

I've read a lot of nasty things about Senator Kennedy since his alleged death. I don't like to see it, because that sort of thing lacks class. It is disrespectful. I suspect people who post things like that at such a time, are fat, never leave the computer, eat Cheetoh's, and lick their fingers. No offense to myself.

Edward Kennedy knew what he stood for, and he got things done (much of it awful), and he made Jimmy Carter's life miserable. Good for him. I admire him for that, fosho.

But he was mean to Robert Bork.

R.I.P., Senator Kennedy.

(c) Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Postman Always Rings Bad

I suppose there are more terrifying things out there if one looks long and hard enough, but when the postman rings my doorbell, my heart skips a beat.

When I think of THE MAN at my door, I conjure up an image of the jack booted ATF thugs who attacked and murdered members of the Weaver Family at their home in Ruby Ridge, Idaho, in 1992. But since I have no weapons (because someone STOLE mine), no meth lab, and no green house for growing illegal plants (other than the 10,000 little Vicodin plants in my underground lab), I have no need to fear THAT MAN. Or do I?

I'm still a-scared of the postman if he rings my doorbell. He is kind of THE MAN, only a little more like "Newman" from Seinfeld, and generally sweaty. He probably isn't alerting me with a courtesy "mail call, Mr. Hodge -- something cool for you today!"

No, it's more likely, "I've something for you to sign, Mr. Hodge."

There are three things in particular the postman makes us must sign for, and they are all bad news. One, someone has sued me, and the plaintiff must serve me. Certified Mail is the favored (and cheapest) method.

Another is something truly evil, a notice from the IRS.

A third is a Notice of Foreclosure from the meanest, most ruthless, devilish, and racist of all THE MEN (besides the IRS): the evil mortgage company. In the old days, a notice of foreclosure was hand delivered by a genuine Nazgul on a black horse. It is cheaper now to send a sweaty postman (who leaves sweaty face prints on the storm door every single day. Jus' sayin'. ) I've had clients in foreclosure before. It was my experience once the bank attorneys get it, there's no backing down, no deals to make, and certainly no "we can work this out" attitude.

If that happens, the best thing for me to do is set the house on fire. Climb up on the roof and scream, "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!" like Cody Jarrett, (Jimmy Cagney, in "White Heat) as I am engulfed and tormented in the flames.


I don't like signing things. I never have, and I never will. I don't like to read what I am signing beforehand, but I have to because of all the crap people can do to us when we sign something without reading it first. I especially don't like signing "slips" or things that tear off, or a document that makes more than one copy (so press hard) or legal stuff, or papers that signify I understand what I just signed. Nothing good ever came from legal papers and whatnot, and white people can't hang on to copies of papers they've signed anyway.

The main reason I hate signing is I usually have to use someone else's boogery pen. I NEVER have a private pen on me when I need it.

I live on a major boulevard. Idiots I don't even know are always ringing my doorbell, and it annoys me each and every time. Did you know there is no law or obligation whatsoever that one must answer the door just because someone rings the bell or knocks? It's perfectly acceptable to let them see me see them, and then watch them watch me play the Ignore Game. That's how I roll. If I am not expecting you, there are only about two people for whom I would open the door. One is Jesus. The other, of course, is David Kelly, and that's only because he'd break a window.

Well, okay. Sometimes I will open the door and buy from fat kids who are selling crap for school activities.

Over the many years I've lived here at Morningwood, I'd say some 10,000 irritating, unwelcome, and uninvited people have come to the door. One memorable visitor claimed to be a "neighbor" who'd locked himself and his wallet out of his house. He needed $20 to pay a locksmith to unlock the door. Would I help him out.

I'd just gotten home from church, so I felt particularly Jesus-y. I fell for it and "loaned" him twenty bucks.

Turns out this same gentleman had been locked out of his house in neighborhoods all over Oklahoma City, and many others also loaned him money for a locksmith. I read about it in the papers. Still mildly annoyed that I'd been taken in by such a lame story, I called the district attorney and advised him that I, too, was a victim. I was practically a holocaust survivor. I wanted to complain, and I wanted slavery reparations, a money-check or compensation from Germany or any other non-bankrupt country.

Eventually, I received a money order for $20 from the guy. It was part of his plea agreement. THEN I felt bad. I wanted to find him, embrace him, and return the money. I wanted to forgive him and tell him to go forth and live a good life, and rip-off no more.

But I didn't. I cashed that thang at the licka stow where I trade.

That guy helped create this monster. This cynic who trusts no one now. This Howard Hughes without the money and long fingernails. I won't give a handout unless the asker admits it is for booze. Those guys are cool. "Why lie? I need a beer."

There are hosts of people I don't want to see or talk to, but my door seems to beckon them all. I used to tell the lodgers, "do NOT open the door unless you know it is for you. Whatever they want, I don't want it, or any part of it, and I don't want to hear it. You are inviting trouble and bother and annoyance. What if it is J. Dubs with "The Watchtower?"

Or it might be another "visitor," like the guy who came to my door two days in a row with the same story, "my car ran out of gas, and I need to get to Pauls Valley today." Right. Throw in "to buy diapers and see my sick child and babymama." Two days in a row! That guy needed an Excel program or something to help him keep up with the homes he'd hit up for money.

I've become old and jaded. Creepy and untrusting. Cranky and murderous. A disliker of about 97% of creation -- and 99% of the people who are still alive. I am sure it is mutual. I saw myself in a character in the movie, "Role Models" played by Paul Rudd. When the kid's annoying parents invited him over for dinner, (Rudd) said, "No thanks, I don't really like having dinner with people."

Well, it is the truth. Why not just tell them you don't like having dinner with people. Then, to make it all better, throw in one of my favorite lines of all time, the ever soothing

No OFFENSE.

Because if you have dinner with people, you can bet someone will double dip.

As my sponsor would say, "come to my cabin, and get a stabbin'."

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Curative Lady

A couple of people liked my piece called "Curatives." Thank you. I liked it too, and I think some of my best blogs are the "nice" pieces. I am sort of sorry the same evil monkeys who inhabit the closet of Chris Griffin on "Family Guy," also live inside my head. They make me write hurtful things about muslims, Michael Jackson and President Obama.

Some have asked me if I followed up on my "promise" to get in touch with the nice lady I haven't heard from in over a year.

First, I thought she was in an assisted living place. I was afraid that maybe due to declining health, she couldn't live on her own any more. I also thought she was 87. Turns out she still lives in her little apartment, and she is only 82. So much for the magic and accuracy of Google.

Sidebar: People are going to stop using Google if they don't knock it off with all the phony "hits" when one searches. Notice the first five or so matches are paid sites that are cleverly designed to look like the precise answer to your search? It is getting worse. Nothing is really free. I have started skipping down to the 5th or 6th result, so I can get out of the fake sites.

After I found she was living at the same place after all, I sent a letter to her. She called me the next day, and we had a great chat. Turns out the reason she stopped sending me cards was rather simple. She said, "well, no offense, but I heard you got fat, and I don't like fat people."

That was hurtful.

I'm not so sure "fat" is the kindest, most constructive or most accurate word to use. There are others, such as zaftig, rubenesque, rotund, full figured, more to love, etc. They all mean fat, though, and they are usually used to describe fat women.

I'm lying again, of course. Not about being fat, which I am, but I am lying about that being the reason I lost touch with my friend.

While I was in the Aryan State of North Dakota, which I love and miss every day, she called my home. One of the lodgers at that time helpfully advised her that I'd moved and wouldn't be coming back. Nice. Thanks for that. Sometimes the Lodgers liked to stir up things. So, thinking I'd moved, my friend stopped sending me the cards and gifts.

Now that we have exchanged numbers, it will be easier to stay in touch, and I intend to do just that. I will also go over and see her if ever the temperature drops below 100°.

I was in Walgreens the other day, and I found the cheesiest, sappiest card I could find. It was lilac in color and overboard in its verse, but so were the sweet cards she sent me over the years. Perfect. So I bought it, and as if that weren't enough to get me kicked out of the males, I found a Lilac colored Sharpie, and I used that to write a short note.

I felt a lot better after we talked. I am going to make it a habit of calling her, even though I dislike to speak on the phone.

I'll tell you something about people I'm always intending to call or write or get in touch with. They'll die on me if I don't hurry.

There are so many people who have been placed along my path over the years. They've helped, taught, bailed me out, pointed me toward a solution, and encouraged me, more than I deserve. I might write a few more tributes to these incredible people.

Bonne Nuit.

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

A Change of Race and Whatnot

Geraldo Rivera recently referred to Michael Jackson's "Race Change Controversy." At first I was surprised to hear that from (yet another) someone who purports to be one of MJ's closest friends. There's the spoon-bending guy, Yuri Geller, and Deepak Chopra, the only doctor on earth who did not give Michael Jackson a huge prescription for awesome drugs. That we know of. They've been all over the media touting how close they were to Michael.

Michael Jackson practically burned off his hair while doing a Pepsi commercial in the 80's. When it is mixed with Pepsi-Cola, Jheri Curl is flammable, son. I suspect that is when he started getting personality and mood enhancing drugs. That is when he REALLY went to Neverland. In the end, he was getting all he wanted of some of the most abused, addictive and terrific pain killers and benzos known to man. Allegedly. His addiction to cool drugs might also explain his other addiction to plastic surgery. Medical procedures often lead to good drugs, if the patient has a truly caring physician, or a pill doctor, depending on one's outlook. When he died, he looked a lot like a Ring Wraith. He was grotesquely thin like someone who gets lots of opiates. No need to eat when one has plenty of those things.

I was never a fan of Jackson's. Whatever it was he sang, shucked, or jived about was lost on me.

The only song I ever liked by Jackson was "Ben." I remember when he performed it at the Academy Awards in 1973. I was only two, but I remember it. Michael was still black in those days, and boy did he have an afro. Afros were cool and fascinating, not unlike color television was in 1969. But afros scared the white folks. This is why his Oscar nominated song lost to one of the whitest and most vomity songs in the history of music: "The Morning After," from the "Poseidon Adventure," one of the whitest and most vomity movies in the history of film." So that slight had to be racism foshow.

After "Off the Wall" in 1979, and "Thriller" in 1982, it was all MJ all the time, for the better part of a decade. He even bullied his way onto MTV, which once played videos by rock bands and stars. Now MTV features a delightful mix of rap, hip hop, ho's, bling, cribs and bitches. Not so sure our nation is the better for it either.

At the height of Jackson's popularity, Nancy Reagan invited him to the White House to receive some kind of award for his efforts to fight drug abuse. Right. I think she really invited him because he was a rich and famous negro, and the 1984 re-election campaign was coming up. I recall getting up and walking all the way to the Rose Garden just so I could say I saw him.

I saw him. It was magic.

I was a little creeped out by his voice and his "wonderful economy with words" (Sir John Gielgud, "Arthur"), considering the occasion. He said, "thank you Mr. President and Mrs. Reagan." That was it. The crowd swooned. It was as if God Himself had just revealed which church we ought to join if we want to be first to see Jesus.

I went back to my office.

Some time in the late 80's he took a turn toward the bizarre, and then he ran for it. He never looked back, either. The surgeries started. Friendships with chimps (different race). His peculiar fetish for young (I mean pretty, young (with emphasis on pretty) boys. It was creepy to see him carrying Emmanuel Lewis around as if he were a ventriloquist's dummy. There were many boy toys. The Culkin brothers, Corey Feldman, not to be confused with that awful Corey Haim, who is always on Soma. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It was boyz for dayz. Ugh.

Reports indicate he paid one of them, Jordie Chandler, over $20 million for wiener touching, and maybe worse. Jackson denied it 'til the cows came home, and they did, on June 25, 2009. True or false, he certainly shelled out a lot of money over what he claimed was a lie, "just to get this over with." Then there was the marriage to Lisa Marie Keogh Cage Jackson Lockwood Elvis Graceland Presley. That was supposed to wash away the sin and scandal of paying off Jordie Chandler's creepy parents,. The Chandlers basically sold the kid to Jackson in the first place. Personally, I think Lisa Marie Elvis Presley's roughly 108-minute marriage to Nicholas Cage was the creepiest, and that is saying a lot.

Folks, all of this started when Bobby Ewing dumped Jenna Wade (Priscilla Elvis Presley) and went back to Pam Ewing (Victoria Elvis Principal). Later, Priscilla, Victoria and Michael all ruined their looks with awful plastic surgeries. Connection? Conspiracy? Coincidence? Plastic Surgery Pact? You decide. But it started going downhill for many people in the mid-eighties. One can trace most bad things back to "Dallas." That's all I know.

But back to the Boys on the Lap. Some parents, like Jordie Chandler's, should be Guantanamo'd off to a muslim country and then beheaded to death. I'd behead Jordie's fat uncle, too, because he cashed in and blabbed lurid details about wieners and everything else we don't want to know about. Well, yes we do, because it is gossip. But we shouldn't.

Then there was the ghetto kid whose family brought the charges against MJ, which resulted in an O.J.-like trial, but without the blood and Fred Goldman's ghastly mustache. Jackson was acquitted, and probably rightfully so -- in THAT case. Based on my exhaustive research into the case, which consisted of asking a friend of mine who knows a little about those halcyon Neverland days, and reading two great pieces in Vanity Fair by my girl Maureen Orth, I concluded Jackson probably didn't touch that kid's wiener or vice versa.

These are well worth the read, and they are still online:

http://www.vanityfair.com/fame/features/2004/03/orth200403

http://www.vanityfair.com/fame/features/2005/07/orth200507

After Jackson's alleged death, and the unusually sparse media coverage afterward (right), I wondered if perhaps Jackson might have been innocent of all that madcap fun with little boys. Maybe he really did simply love children, innocently and Jesusly. Perhaps all he ever wanted was a part of the childhood he lost because his father pushed him into show business (which prevented him from becoming part of Gary, Indiana's prestigious and thriving crack community), which led to his super stardom. Poor Michael.

Torn with uncertainty and anguish, I returned to the documentaries that aired before the molestation trial: the interviews with British journalist, Martin Bashir. I have them on DVD, thanks to Ebay. It didn't take a muckraker to portray Jackson as a weirdo. Filming him with the sound off would have been more than enough, but we heard Jackson speak! We heard his creepy voice (allegedly a phony falsetto, just for the effect), and we heard him talk about the blessings that come with sharing a bed. How "iggerrint," racist and devilish were his critics. How silly it was to think he'd had any plastic surgery or race-changing procedures.

Do what? He said he'd only had two surgeries (on his former nose) to correct a breathing problem. When he denied additional plastic surgeries, I couldn't help but quote Dave Chappelle: "honky pleez."

That's his business, but he was lying about not having had about 6,000 plastic surgeries. Appearances change as we grow older, he insisted. Yes. I know I'm looking more Chinese as I approach my mid-thirties in a few more years.

In another documentary about Jackson, and this one was really juicy, the reporters mentioned several other young boys Jackson had befriended and then discarded once he tired of them. They were his constant companions until they began to reach a certain age. This is a family blog, so I won't be graphic about what caused Jackson to dump them and send them back to their parents with a car, house, or diamond bracelet or something to keep them quiet. The poor kids were left wondering why they were rejected by their hero.

The documentaries rehashed the great trial. I'd forgotten just how much evidence the prosecution had in that case, and I marvel at how they managed to lose it. Yet Nosferatu the Jackson was acquitted. Good for him. Carte Blanche to hole up inside a pill bottle, which is exactly what he did.

Long before the trial, though, I suspect he descended into serious drug abuse, and in quantities and variety that would shock the most hard core addict.

Oh well, he stayed thin.

Now things are really starting to annoy me. Whenever an event of any import occurs involving American Africans, we can expect to see a Parade of Horribles, including but not limited to: Al Sharpton, Sheila Jackson Lee, Jesse Jackson (no relation, different race) Geraldo, and so many others who simply cannot get enough air time. Oh -- there was an alleged nurse on my girl Nancy Grace's program (ugh). In the best tradition of physician-patient confidentiality, this nurse blabbed all, and likely made up a bunch of stuff. All of these people get away with saying the dumbest things imaginable, but no one "calls" them on it because they are Canadians. You know what I'm sayin'. With that bunch, everything is racist. This is why in my daily walk, if something doesn't go my way, I simply declare that person, place or thing to be racist.

I do it in jest. They don't.

There is talk of a National Holiday to honor Michael Jackson. I was already sick to my stomach when Sharpton declared Jackson "the greatest entertainer of all time." Say it isn't so, Al. He left your people in the early 90's, anyway. Isn't that just a bit of a stretch though? Greatest of all time? What about Nick Carter?

Michael's hideous alleged sister, LaToya Jackson (different race though) now claims that Michael was murdered for his fortune, which various morons estimate to be over $1 billion. Right. Michael Jackson died leaving a host of debts and a nice income, which he blew on crap and good drugs every month. Now that he has stopped spending the money, his sort-of children will be very rich indeed. So will his family. Unless his fat former "beard" wife, Debbie Rowe, manages to get her hooves on the sort-of children. She needs to die or go away or something. But, she won't.

(Neither will Sarah Palin, who I am mad at because she lost her mind, and her political career is over. And she won't play the quiet game. But I digress).

In the years to come we can look forward to a lot of drama out of all the Jackson Klan. I mean Clan. Chuckle.

It is hard to grasp when someone of enormous talent (and he had it, even if it wasn't to my taste), wastes it. His fans were forced to watch as he gradually became white. With each whitening procedure, he lost a little more of his natural rhythm. In the end, he danced like the quintessential drunken whiteboy douchebag at his first fraternity party.

He also became massively addicted to awesome drugs, he was surrounded by yes men, idiots, flunkies, vultures, plastic surgeons, white people, pill doctors, and some very rich pharmacists. No one would tell him NO, STOP, EASE UP DAWG, PLEASE DON'T TOUCH ME IN MY BATHING SUIT AREA, OR THERE EITHER, or anything else, other than the people who now claim they spoke to their dear friend just hours before his alleged death. He was like a son, a brother, or whatever to all of them.

That Nancy Grace Show. Geez. You know why I watch it? Because there is some chick named "Sheba," who calls in almost every day. Somehow she gets through. I would like to have some of what Sheba is on. That woman probably feels no pain. Factabidness, most of Nancy's callers sound pilled up.

Oh well, I don't judge. I am all about Fair and Balanced.

I am sorry Michael Jackson died so young. I am sincerely sorry for the three sort-of children. He obviously loved them, and they loved him. He did a some good things over the years, and I'll bet he did some boys. "We are the World," was a good thing, even if the song became putrid, fast. Proceeds from that effort made it possible to send thousands of U-Haul trailers to Africa so those poor wretched people could move some place where there was water and food: Somalia, and later Darfur. Barack will fix it.

Jackson could have changed. He could have stopped. We can all change. or refrain from doing stupid things that are getting us into trouble or killing us. We can avoid surrounding ourselves with enablers. Lord knows help was available to him. Some of his best friends had collectively been to rehab over 750 times. I'm sure I am not referring to Diana Ross (different race), Liza Minelli, and Elizabeth Taylor. But he didn't do nuthin' but use himself to death. It didn't have to be that way, but it was.

Jackson had what most of us don't have: an eternal fount of the most awesome drugs in the world. He was surrounded by highly paid enablers. Not much incentive to stop, so he didn't. The only thing left for him was death. He is now deader than Elvis -- unless he faked his death, which he probably did to avoid paying all those bills. There are people who believe Elvis is alive.

I feel for his alleged sort-of kids (different race), but boy are they fin ta be rich. "Gettin' paid like Oprah," as they say. Maybe, just maybe, they will turn out to be normal, and someone else can be on the covers of magazines.

They will probably join the Church of Scientology and stay out of the tabloid press -- like Tom Cruise (ugh), John Travolta, and fat Kirstie Alley.

This blog is a lot like Michael Jackson's alleged drug habit. It went on and on and on, because no one made me stop. Thank you for reading.

(c) 2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd

Curatives

Curative - definition: curing, tending to cure, or having the power to cure. A thing that heals or brings a measure of comfort.

I like the word Curative. I prefer to think of Curatives as big fat drops of grace, kindness and tender mercy that God provides when we need them most. They turn up at any place, at any time, and for anyone who is troubled. Curatives often come as people who meet and end up helping each other. How is it that some people encounter other people who are uniquely qualified to aid, comfort, inspire and even help them change for the better? They may have nothing in common. Perhaps they normally would not mix. God arranges and shuffles people, places, things, and dogs as He sees fit. He also has a Plan, and we are part of it, whether we like it or not. He doesn’t need us to understand or approve, or even believe in Him, either.

God does this because He can. Maybe He gets bored up there, and He likes to help folks in His spare time – particularly and especially those of us who have made big mistakes and even bigger messes of our lives. He must love us, or perhaps He is simply embarrassed for us; we do make fools of ourselves – and He has to watch it all. Why doesn’t He get tired of us?

In the Parable of the Lost Sheep, a shepherd has an hundred sheep in his flock, one of which prefers to go his own way. He wandered off path, got lost, panicked, and he ended up caught in an evil bewitched thorn bush. The lamb cried. The shepherd heard. To the shepherd, the lost one is as important to him as the entire flock. He dropped everything to search. The lost was soon found. He carefully freed the lamb from the thorns. He lovingly gathered him in his arms and carried him back to the flock. That’s how it works for us.

The Parable of the Lost Sheep shows us how precious each of us is to the Good Shepherd. We ignore good advice. We repeat our mistakes. We insist on “going our own way.” Free Agency permits us to do some remarkably dumb things. If we insist on taking the wrong paths in our lives, we will discover that some paths lead to very dark places.

God never tires of bailing us out, though.

He constantly demonstrates His love for us, even when we insist on being unlovable idiots. Curatives are there for us because God Himself is there for us. He arranges people, places, things, and dogs along our path to guide, guard, protect, and encourage us. People to help us, and people we can help. Curatives show up when we need them, and we don’t even have to ask. God doesn’t dole out too much at one time, though, because we couldn’t handle it. We are a primitive species. Few of us even know what would make us happy, other than winning the lottery.

Many years ago, I represented a nice lady who was about the age of my Grandmother. She had no family, very few friends, and she lived alone in a small town. For reasons I’ll never understand, she made it her mission over the years to shower me with thoughtful gestures. She sent me greeting cards on every occasion invented by card companies to peddle cards. In each card she’d write a lovely note expressing her love, friendship and good wishes for me. She also sent gifts – ties, socks, shirts, watches, wallets, manicure kits, shoe shine sets, desk accessories and other items into which I suspected she’d put much thought.

Occasionally I’d send her flowers, or a card of my own. On Mother’s Day, her birthday, and at Christmas time, I would send her a check. I was too lazy to take time to shop for something special. Lots of thought goes into a check.

Over the years, and as my fortunes declined because of a voodoo curse someone put on me, I developed a deeper appreciation for her many acts of kindness. The cards and gifts were touching Curatives from my friend. They made me feel better, just like a big swig of Laudanum. The cards and gifts she sent brought cheer to my imagined desolation and despair; encouragement to my gloom and doom; and a ray of hope in my anticipated destruction and defeat. Instead of feeling like fat Idi Amin in exile, I felt more like -- Napoleon, only shorter.

For my friend it almost had to be a labor of love. I think she looked forward to shopping for me. Why? She went to so much trouble for me, and I am the wretch John Newton wrote the song about.

My friend was a Curative. She was someone special who helped. Our paths crossed at one point, and later on I would be richly blessed by her kindness. She probably had little notion of the encouragement I received from just one of those cards.

At certain times in my life, I have made dumb decisions. There are always consequences. Barack will fix it. Those bad choices led me to expend enormous time, money and energy on such projects as swimming down to the wreck of the Titanic. You can’t get there, folks, but I kept on trying, over and over, for a long time, and always with the same result. It’s cold, dark, lonely, and terrifying down there. Some of those fish are mean. By the time one realizes he can’t actually make it to the wreck of the ship, it is too late to make it back to the surface – unless a Good Shepherd happens by to the rescue. And He always does. He watches over us.

I haven’t talked to my friend in several years. I told you I was a wretch. But I am going to see about her now. She had to move from her small and modest apartment to an assisted living facility. She is 87 now. I don’t know about her health. I haven’t received a card in over a year, which is troubling. I need to thank her again for looking after me.

I’ve had many of these “Curatives” over the years. People seem to turn up in my life when I least expect it, and when I need them most. Just like the Elves in “The Two Towers.” The Curative People are uniquely situated to help me with my own challenges. This is good, because I often wonder if I am genetically pre-disposed to do the next dumb thing. I like to have a mess going on in my life at all times – something to poke at or jab, so I can make it worse. If there are no messes or drama, no resentments or anger to obsess over, then I will create some. This is how I must roll. Unless a rogue Curative comes along and helps me change and quit doing that.

Yep, I’m going to see if there is anything that lady needs. It is my turn to look after her now. I’m going to toss her a few of those Curatives. Maybe do some shopping for cheesy greeting cards and whatnot.


©2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

The Catcher in the Fly

President Reagan ran a fever for several days after the assassination attempt in 1981. His doctors wouldn’t let him take a shower. One night, drenched in sweat, he decided he had to clean up. He went into the bathroom and gave himself a sponge bath. He noticed he’d slopped water all over the floor, and he was afraid the nurse might be blamed for his unauthorized bath. The President of the United States got down on his hands and knees and cleaned up the mess he had made. (Hospitals have people for that)

Last week, there was much press coverage (as there always is of anything President Obama does, pronounces, or emits) of the Fly Assassination that occurred during an interview. Goofy PETA weighed in on how truly precious is the life of the house fly. Buddhists are mad at him, as he might have slain someone who had been reincarnated as a fly, and who was trying to work his way up to wasp in the next life. The Aryan Brotherhood was furious and cried racism because it turned out the fly was actually white. Yes.

I’m impressed Obama was able to kill a fly without a swatter. I never could. Huge mutant flies often come into my house through the pet door. Micky helpfully lounges there, with her head and hands hanging outside, and her rear and hind legs inside the house. No, I don’t know why. Why does she try to trip me when I’m walking up or down the stairs? She is weird.

These big flies seek ME, and hover about ME, and all of my works. This is their job. If I can kill them, I will, because they are annoying. That is MY job. We always called them “dog flies,” because of my beloved dog, Rocky. Fat as he was, Rocky chased those bird-size flies all over the house, and he could actually catch and kill them in his mouth. Try doing that, Mr. President.

Yeah, I thought all the coverage about the fly incident was silly and, as always, much ado about nothing. It was funny when after Obama killed the fly, he flashed a gang sign and declared, “Gotchu, Beeotch. Tupac!” No one had ever uttered such a thing in the Oval Office, but these are different times, and black people are always yelling “Tupac” for some reason. I don’t have to understand everything.

Here’s what impressed me about the Obama vs. Fly story. My Babymama, Maureen Dowd, wrote that after the interview was concluded, the President of the United States took a napkin and cleaned up the mess he’d made when he killed the fly.

Why’d he do that? Why would the President clean up any mess? (They have people on White House Staff for that -- lots)

Here’s hoping that President Obama learned some simple lessons about life from the nice Grandmother who raised him. When you make a mess, clean it up. Think of others. Do the next right thing. President Reagan’s Mother advised him always to “do and say the kindest thing.” He lived by that motto, and he was kind and thoughtful to everyone he encountered.

I think the simple act of cleaning up the fly tells us something about President Obama. He has great power, an Ivy League education, and the amazing ability to read from a teleprompter. He must have an unimaginable ego from all the lemmingesque hero worship, and the animal sacrifices offered every day by his acolytes in secret Obama Temples around the world. (It’s all on the internets)

Maybe somewhere he learned modesty and humility. After eight long years of dumbness and cockiness, we have ourselves a bright President. If he’ll surround himself with smart advisors (not yes men/women), listen to wise counsel, and if he’ll take a little time each day to ask allah for guidance, he might be a good President. With the exception of the “allah” part, that is how President Reagan did it.

©2009 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.