Coexist and Let Live

My ghurl Genna posted something on the facebooks the other day. In the wake of the Tucson shootings, it was a plea for us to be more tolerant of those with whom we disagree. I've never been a "Coexist" kind of guy, and tolerance is a tough one because I hate almost everything. I need to work on tolerance, and about everything else.

The Jews and Christians are good, since we invented the Bible and Western Civilization, and I suppose we need males and females. The peace sign is for hippies. They left off the swastika because of racism against the Nazis. The other stuff is weird.

Not really.

Lately, it's as if all the atheists in America have been in my face. Whether it's blasphemous cartoons depicting the Baby Jesus, snarky little facebook posts that demean God or my boy C. S. Lewis, or haters who practically threw used condoms at me because I celebrated the news of the Beatification of Pope John Paul the Great on May 1st. How can someone hate John Paul II? I dunno, but they do, trust me. It's always about condoms with some people.

Most of the atheists I've encountered are angry. They are angry at God, but they don't even believe He exists. They are angry at people who believe in God, but they don't believe in Him. Many of them delight in belittling people and matters of faith. I don't get it.

Check the comments after any article on religion in any major newspaper online. A lot of comments are nasty, mean and disrespectful, and they are from atheists. Why bother to comment on a subject that should be irrelevant to someone who doesn't believe in God? Why'd you read the article in the first place?

Growing up in a small town, I don't recall ever meeting an agnostic -- much less a real atheist. Everyone went to church or was of some faith, or at least pretended. There weren't a lot of restrictions on practicing faith, whether at school or at a football game. Atheists have ruined that. Atheists and lawyers. No offense to myself.

When my very spiritual grandma died in September, I thought of her life and great faith. She prayed me through every challenge, crisis and mess I was ever in. Yes.

How amused she would have been at the notion of someone not believing in God. She'd have been polite, but I can't see her spending a lot of time talking about faith with someone who didn't believe in God. Lightning might strike. Plus, she'd think an atheist was just plain goofy. She didn't hate though.

My Aunt Lois. One of my favorites. In the 70's my cousin was home from serving in the Peace Corps in Iran (those were the happy golden days of the Shah). We were all enthralled with Linda's tales about the culture and people of what would eventually become the despotic Islamic Republic of Iran.

Sidebar: I loved the Shah. Granted, he and SAVAK got carried away sometimes. It happens.

Aunt Lois asked one question, "do they have any Churches of Christ over there?" I loved that. In those days perhaps the Church of Christ was allowed in Iran. It wouldn't be permitted now, though. In the Islamic Republic of Iran they behead and stone people -- not necessarily in that order. They also don't allow competition from other faiths. The culture and food were all fine and good, but my sweet aunt wondered if people in Iran had access to a family of believers who could share the wondrous faith she enjoyed.

I am lucky I was and continue to be influenced by many people with great faith -- FROM many faiths, from Pentecostal to Mormon to Catholic. Real. Strong. Simple. Assured. Earned.

No miracles needed. Just a little experience. A little reliance on God to see if He is there. A few childlike prayers. A great many adultlike prayers. Discovering that God is there. Faith is a gift. We're lucky when we have it. Once we have some measure of faith in God, it is always there, no matter how "prone (we are) to wander or leave the fold of God." See hymn below.

I need God most in time of trouble. When I am afraid, and when I feel helpless. When I don't know what to do, or where to turn. I don't know how this life DVD ends, so it is my nature to fear. It doesn't matter that situations have always worked out for the best -- exactly the way they were supposed to. It doesn't matter that the elves always seem to show up in time.

There is a fat little data tech nerd living in my head. Every night, he deletes the part of my brain that would help me remember that God is big, He loves me, and He has always helped me.

It seems to be God's nature to fix and help -- even when I don't deserve it. Even when I forget to ask Him. Even though He has fixed and helped me about 20 million times. I keep forgetting.

When Lyn got sick I told him that I was mad at God. What a cliche'. I got mad at God because I didn't like the way He was running the universe, or because someone got sick. Lyn advised, "God doesn't need your approval, and He probably doesn't care if you are mad at him."

Lyn reminded me of a verse in the Book of Job, which we both loved: "Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?" He told the oceans when to stop, too. I wasn't around when the morning stars sang together, either. I missed all of that.

It worked out the way it was supposed to, but not the way we wanted. It was during that difficult time (harder for him, as he was the sick one) I discovered my favorite quote from C. S. Lewis:

"I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless; I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God; it changes me."

It changes me.

Dr. Charles Stanley once said he prayed because it helped him get into the Will of God. Might as well, because the Will of God is what's up. God wins.

God loves us, I am convinced, but He doesn't need us. He'll USE us if we want to serve Him. He gave us gifts, and He'll throw us in amongst a pile of people we are uniquely qualified and experienced to help. If we want. If we are willing. If we aren't interested, He'll find someone else. Still, He loves us enough to chase after us quite awhile.

He doesn't need us, or our approval, but I think He likes it when we hang out with Him, and when we help His other children. Things happen, good and bad. God intervenes or not, at times, and we're not given to know why. People are mean. God isn't mean.

It's as if He created us and turned us loose. He made us different so He could see how we'd treat each other. How we'd "coexist." He steps in now and again, but mostly we have free will to shlep about and step in things. It turns out we don't treat each other very well at all.

In the end it all gets fixed and people don't cry any more. That's enough for me, for now. Not that I won't be worried about something tomorrow.

I stopped texting long enough the other day to listen. A man said, "I can't prove to you that God exists, but God has proved His existence to me."

Word.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUhU0HgTq94

Very nice hymn, that one.

©2011 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd. Thanks, MBS. Pour vous.

The Pompous, Pusillanimous Popinjay & The Kraken

Our god-king speaks to us tonight about the catastrophic boo-boo in the Gulf of Mexico.

As suggested by “Avatar” director, James Cameron, the President’s plan for plugging the oil well is to summon the Kraken. The Kraken is a mythological creature which, according to Cameron, is real, and he is as “big as Dallas.” An added plus is he has extra arms and whatnot. For the bargain basement price of $12.5 trillion, Cameron has persuaded the Kraken to dive down to the alleged site and plug the well. The two became tight during the filming of Cameron's hideous film, "The Abyss."

The creature, whose Christian name is "Virgil," will use a custom-made Kraken condom, which the creature doesn’t need anyway, since there aren’t any girl Krakens with which to party. Sources say it is a very large condom, as the Kraken’s wiener is, as you might expect, also big. The President insists his is larger, but who can say. He'd be the first to enhance and amplify, if you know what'm sayin'.

Government experts, including that Nobel Prize winning guy the White House brags about all the time (but who doesn't seem to know anything), recommended we retain the much meaner Kraken that starred in the 2010 version of "Clash of the Titans. Alas, that Kraken wanted $100 trillion, which would increase the national debt more than even Obama can stomach. So we are getting the Ray Harryhausen version from 1981.

Can the monster do it? Do monsters renege? What if he gives us the niggardly effort we've come to expect from most monsters from the early 80's? Will he even remember his instructions? Can he swim all the way down to the alleged spill, seal off the pipe with the giant condom, and will the condom hold back the oil until the equally mythical "relief wells" are drilled, some time in 2025?

One question Helen Thomas should ask is why would the creature want 12.5 trillion bucks? Granted, that's a lot of money but what's he going to do with it? Thank goodness James Cameron promised to give the check to the Kraken. We don't know his address, and he won't return text messages from The Barack. Cameron does know how to reach him, but he "promised" not to tell anyone. This is good.

He made "Titanic." He is reliable. Just ask his ex-wifey who beat him for the Oscar® for Best Director this year. Albeit Cameron's lame "I am the King of the World" speech when he won for "Titanic," still makes me cringe, and so does the movie, but I digress.

An interesting twist. The boring guy who starred in "Avatar," Sam Worthington, also starred in "Clash of the Titans, 2010." They replaced Harry Hamlin because he isn't pretty any more. Probably fat too.

Watch this: James Cameron >> "The Abyss" >> "Avatar" >> Sam Worthington >> "Clash of the Titans 2010" >> "Virgil," the Kraken from "Clash of the Titans," 1981 >> James Cameron. Coincidence? Conspiracy? Too many connections? Maybe. Sounds very George Noory "grassy knoll" if you ask me.

Who manufactured the giant condom? Sources say it was the great Halliburton. The much maligned corporation has come to our aid, yet again. No one appreciates them but our Dick, Dick Cheney.

The White House insists the "Kraken Plan 9 from Outer Space" cannot fail. After all, the President is himself a Nobel Laureate, and he would be the first to tell you he is excessively and vulgarly brilliant. In the unlikely event something goes wrong (these things can break under certain conditions, for example), there is a super secret Alternate Plan. President Obama will restore the abandoned, but often juicy practice of conducting human sacrifices to the Roman God of the Sea, Neptune, whom the President has secretly worshiped for years. Neptune don't take no jive bribes, son.

Aquaman is in rehab again, so he can't help.

This will be his first speech from the Oval Office. It will be long and he will read very well. from the Chinese Teleprompter. No need to watch; I've already given you the highlights. However, he is also expected to nationalize British Petroleum, declare martial law, and send writers of satire off to the Alaskan Death Camps. So goodbye forever.

One suggestion, far more helpful than blaming the dumb President Bush (and he will). The President should muster ships and crew, men, women, tanks, "Brownie" of Katrina fame, nukes, planes, guns, knives, a bunch of thugs from "Blazing Saddles, innocent Joran van der Sloot, some registered nurses, and about a trillion doses of meth, for that added boost of energy.

Try and stop the oil from reaching shore. Every little effort helps. Clean up the mess that reaches the formally pristine coastline. Basically, this is the help Governor Bobby Jindal pleaded for from the beginning. He didn't get it. Barack was having date night, on another vacation, blaming the Dumb Bush, or playing his 10,000th round of golf since America's "Baby Doc" became President for Life.

Blame, fine, demagogue, politicize, determine "whose ass to kick" and urge passage of that communist "cap and trade" bill later. Right now, to borrow a phrase from my girl, Laura Ingraham, "just shut up and clean."

I'd help, but I threw out my back.

©2010 Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.

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