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Archive for December, 2011

2012 Prophecy

Ron Paul’s promise to make marijuana legal replaces the need for a black president

Iran starts to use the good China

 A new drug for depression causes others to go mad

 Stories told by fondled little boys is just the start of a new social disease – one where Big Brother no longer watches

 Pay as you go social media is just the start

Google this

Search that

Log off for a while

And see God on December 21

 The path to the underworld appears in the nigh sky

The white man returns to the Mayans

But they are no longer on the Yucatan

They have all run north just in time for the Ice Age of democracy

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A police officer was inside Lucy and Juan’s apartment yesterday. It seems Juan’s casual threats to call the cops on his wife came to fruition. Juan whispered to me in the hallway last week that his wife with her new head of colored red hair had stolen all the money from his bank account and that he was through with the “puta”. He asked to use my cell phone to call the police to report the incident.

 

“I’m sorry, Juan. I’m not getting involved in a domestic dispute between two senior citizen Puerto Ricans. Lucy will cut up chickens and put a curse on me. I know better than that. I’m sure Lucy will be back home in a minute with an explanation of why she needed to drain your account. Ask to use her free government phone when she returns,” I insisted to the little Rican with silver hair.

 

Lucy cut Juan’s hair again. The tinsel curls are gone. What remains are only a few millimeters on the top of his head. The sides have been shaved like mine. It seems Lucy’s infatuation with me has reached a level that is unacceptable. Poor Juan looks like a drowned rat. No longer do I let her rub my hair and ‘pet me’ as she has done ever since I’ve moved to this neighborhood filled with psychotic Latinos.

 

The pill-popping Lucy Ricardo look-alike asked to borrow my hair clippers last summer. I told her no, imagining that she may use my sacred hair sheerer to crop her grey public hair. Nothing surprises me when it comes to those two. It’s such a shame they never had children. They seem so desperate in their old age for someone white to adopt.

 

“Do you know the Mexican woman that is over here all the time?” Juan asked soon after he begged for my cell phone to call the police, last week.

 

“Yes. I’ve seen her around. How could I possibly miss her? You leave your door open all the time, and when I open mine, I’m confronted with the smell of beans and pork brewing and I get red lip stick all over my face from your wife. “Yes, what about the fat puta?” I asked, showing Juan that I am a quick study when it comes to learning Spanish.

 

“She’s such a cunt,” Juan said, dropping any hint of a Spanish accent as the English word rolled from his lips in perfect precision and enunciation. “They are planning to put me in a home and they are going to run away with all my money.”

 

“Are they Lesbos?” I asked, assuming perhaps the reason why Juan and Lucy have no children after all these years is because Lucy does not crave cock like she does Juan’s social security money. Juan looked at me with a confused expression. It seems he does not know what the English word Lesbo means. Juan gave me an evil eye and told me that I was wrong for not letting him use my phone.

 

When I saw the police through my peep hole yesterday, I thought for sure Juan was finally being taken to a home where professionals could tend to his Alzheimer’s concerns.

 

I was wrong. Lucy was at my door at 9 a.m. this morning, soon after my lover headed off to work.

 

“Hi Baby,” she said, reaching out to grab my neck to pull my head closer to her so that she could kiss me. I let the puta kiss me as usual, but when she attempted to step inside my apartment, I told her to get out, that I needed my ‘space’ early in the morning and that she needed to stop knocking on my door so often.

 

“Sorry,” she said, looking at me like I was some sort of paranoid schizophrenic. “All I wanted was a few shopping bags. You got any? Are you coming with me to the food bank? There’s a short line today and they are giving away bags of onions. Come with me, Papi,” she begged.

 

“No Lucy. I cannot. Tell me. What were the police doing in your apartment yesterday?”

 

“That’s a personal matter,” The puta said, quickly running from me as if I were the one who did not respect boundaries and the privacy of one’s neighbors.  

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The Fruitcake Chef

The Post Office is still the most efficient and least expensive way to mail small packages. In the age of instant e-mail and overnight express mail, it’s nice to receive Christmas gifts that are delivered by the original Santa—Mr. Postman.

 

Yesterday was the deadline for mailing parcels that need to reach their destination by Saturday. There are two boxes on a sorting assembly line somewhere in Philadelphia today that is causing the entire postal facility to smell like a bakery.

 

With just minutes of shopping time remaining on my tight schedule, I ran to the ATM at 6:30 am yesterday and withdrew my entire unemployment check. I did all my shopping at the supermarket for under $20 and had hundreds left in my wallet for the beer I will need to endure the depression that always comes this time of year. The two packages were less than $15 to mail all the way to Pennsylvania.

 

A pound of Georgia pecans runs $12 in New Jersey. As I purchased the ingredients for the two holiday gifts I mailed off yesterday, I wondered how it was that Butter Pecan ice cream is no more expensive than regular vanilla ice cream. For an instant, I considered buying a half- gallon of ice cream, melting it down, extracting the nuts from the cream, just to save nearly ten bucks, but I splurged on the nuts because Shop Rite had Heckler’s flour on sale for under a dollar.

 

It took nearly a half hour to find fresh yeast in the store. I asked customer service where the yeast was. Fortunately, a lesbian supervisor was near the counter, overheard my question that could not easily be answered, and she escorted me all the way to the back of the store, near the eggs, to where the yeast was hidden high above on a shelf where old ladies never could reach.

 

Under the gun, with less than three hours before the Noon deadline for mailing, I quickly mixed a batch of Sticky Pecan Rolls, following a secret recipe that is in my copy of the California Culinary Institute’s “Cooking A-Z” that was published in 1990. Despite the fact that I threw away all my Anne Rice novels when moving to my new apartment, I kept that old cookbook—and for a very good reason; the homemade, hand-kneaded bread is infused with the zest of an orange, giving the buttery, brown-sugar and cinnamon rolls a twist of the old country.

 

Having read and followed those instructions many times, I felt like a fool when I neglected to remember the hours it takes for the yeast to rise. My buns went in the oven at exactly 11:30 and were inside their respective boxes by 12:05.

 

I ran to the post office with little time to spare. The boxes were warm on the bottom, and outside, in the rain of Jersey, I swear I saw steam escaping from the carefully addressed packages.

 

The rolls were baked inside a 9×12 aluminum pan with its own lid. I left a post it note instead of a Christmas card stuck to the silver lid which read as follows:

 

Warm in oven for 10 min,

Allow pan to rest on a rack for 1 min.,

Invert pan,

Wait 30 seconds

Remove pan and serve on lid

 

The biggest surprise about my secret dish is the fact that the Georgia pecans are on the bottom of the pan. Before placing the rolls in the pan, I melted a half-stick of butter and sprinkled a cup of brown sugar. The orange infused rolls are what Christmas is really all about. I hope the postal workers in Philadelphia remember that this is the holidays and it is a federal offense to tamper with the U.S. Mail.

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Deer Dad

My father mailed me a ziplock bag of deer jerky for Christmas. It has been a long time since I hurt my teeth chewing something. Having been raised on wild game, my body will sink into a deep depression if not nourished by a wild animal for an extended period of time. I ate the entire bag while watching the morning news last Friday. I feel ten years younger and my stomach, which had been upset for nearly a week, suddenly was still.

Dad no longer hunts. He got the jerky from a butcher shop for deer where he worked for $8 an hour over the past month. He tells me that it is no longer in his heart to kill anything, but he does not mind cutting various roasts and loins from the deer that others bring down. I remember as a child, the most important thing to my father was that his sons grew up to become good hunters and fishermen. I never had much of a desire to kill anything. We spent countless afternoons shooting birds with a BB gun that my brother received one year for Christmas. That gun was the most widely used Christmas gift in all our lives.

Dad said he lost his desire to hunt soon after he stopped drinking. He no longer is that angry man who causes my mother’s nose to bleed.

“Did you get the check I mailed separately?” Dad asked when I thanked him for the deer that came in the mail last Friday.

“Yes. I did. Oh, and thanks for the beer I bought on you. It tastes so good with the jerky.”

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A new variety of Corona beer has hit markets in North Jersey. Unlike the original golden variety of Corona, the new brand is dark and comes in quart- size brown bottles that Mexican liquorstore owners in Union City call “CaGuama”.

 

“That is a very good beer,” the owner of my favorite store mentioned yesterday as I placed $7 in his wrinkled, brown Mexican hand. “In Mexico City, we call this beer CaGuama. So when you come in, just ask for CaGuama,” the old man instructed.

 

“What does that mean?” I asked, attempting to sharpen my Spanish tongue. It is my goal to learn to read, write and speak Spanish before I die.

 

“It means a big bottle of beer,” the old man noted.

 

That’s strange, thought I as I sounded the word out, repeating it exactly as the old man had mentioned—‘ca wa ma’—that does not seem like the Spanish version of the word bottle or beer that I learned in 8th grade Spanish, so I looked it up, on Google.

 

It appears CaGuama is the word for turtle and the reason the Mexicans in Mexico City call the beer ‘ca wa ma’ is because these new big bottles are shaped like the loggerhead turtle.

 

It is not wise to learn a new language from the people who already speak it—otherwise, white men are left confused and drunk here on the streets of Union City—the New, New Mexico.

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The town of Three Springs, PA is nestled in the mountains, an hour south of State College. People in Three Springs have dubbed State College “The Vatican of the Keystone State”. State College is home of Penn State University, and has always been known to be a progressively liberal town to people in places like Three Springs. When I was a child, I was aware that there was a gay bar in State College, but it meant nothing to me. When grownups talked about the queer village, it was rarely in a positive manner.

Unlike the Catholic Church with priests of the pedophile cloth, Protestants in Three Springs have already washed their hands of the child molestation scandal that took place in a locker room just over the mountain. They sing church hymns with a certain ‘Old Rugged Cross’ drag in Sunday school. Gayness and the attraction of grown men to young boys is an issue that parishioners of the First Baptist Church rather not think of during the Sunday sermon, especially when the church bulletin announces upcoming Advent events including a Christmas Eve church play of the Nativity scene and the topic of family values lined up as the topic for the morning sermon.

Baptists in Three Springs still submerge those seeking repentance of sins, fully underwater; a pool located behind the pulpit is cleared of plastic Christmas decorations this time of year, and Holy Water of sorts is pumped in from the Three Springs reservoir then heated, and young boys and girls put on gowns, walk down a tiny set of stairs and are dunked by Pastor David Chevy holding their noses. There is nothing inappropriate about the tradition.

In the 1980’s there was still no running water inside the 100 year- old church. When sins were washed from me during Easter of 1984, the volunteer fire department of Three Springs had to come to the house of God with a truck and fill the Baptismal pool. The water was not crystal clear; there was a sense that one was meeting John the Baptist when entering the brown waters and falling into Pastor Chevy’s arms. Pastor Chevy rarely was seen without his thick glasses. His aura had changed when he took them off and caused my moment of purification to be remembered as a moment of total shock.

Pastor Chevy once gave a sermon touching on the subject of homosexuality at the start of the AIDS crisis. His words, somehow pulled from the pages of the Old Testament, frightened me terribly. During a school trip to the Nation’s Capital, I was terrified of catching the ‘punishing virus’ put here by God because I was one of the few who actually listened to Pastor Chevy’s sermons.

Although still a virgin at 14, I knew the lust for men that was in my heart was as real as the Virgin Birth. I was sure I was gay too because when I had thoughts that were not pure; my imaginings were always of men. It was in my nature. I was destined to catch the deadly bug, I figured, so I would not drink from public water fountains while visiting Washington.

Pastor Chevy ran a youth group in the church. Young Three Springs Christians, still wet behind the ears, caroled in December and distributed fruit baskets to the elderly who were often deaf, which shielded them from our out-of-tune hymns and terrible singing voices.

During a Baptist Youth Fellowship meeting, Pastor Chevy decided that we needed to elect a president of our ‘BYF’ group. We were handed small pieces of paper, and just like at the Vatican, we wrote the name of whom we wished to elect. Pastor Chevy pulled the pieces of paper from an empty coffee can and read out each name– my name was repeated more than a dozen times, as a matter of fact, no other names were read by Pastor Chevy that day. Pastor Chevy laughed and looked at me– “You even voted for yourself,” he commented.

I didn’t think the election was funny. Had I lost, I may have become a Baptist Preacher, but instead I washed myself of the idea of becoming a preacher, besides, as far as I was concerned, I would die from AIDS before I ever finished college at a place like Penn State.

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Christmas lights were more beautiful before they were made in Japan. Huge bulbs did not flash; when one went out, the string did not suffer from an electrical plague that made all black.

 

Aluminum icicle strands, no wider than yarn were woven on real trees. Like our ham, we sealed in freshness with the silver strands of thread foil. The huge bulbs were sometimes chipped of paint, causing an illusion of a real candle to appear on the tree. Those lights were so striking alongside the waterfalls of silver. Artificial snow in a can was not around. They strung popcorn on thread and wrapped it about.

 

A bicycle was what every boy wanted before the year Space Invaders and Atari invaded our homes. That was the year they came out with flashing strings of light so small and annoying that one rarely turned his eyes from the screen and a new row of critters that did not cost twenty-five cents a game to shoot, like the real ones in video arcades.

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