Polygamy is Having a Dream About Nightmares

I wish society would quite drawing those pesky lines in the sand, because I continue to, inadvertently cross them. Telling it like it is, is the quickest way to get divorced, arrested, shot, maimed or to doom a presidential campaign. People scream for the truth, demand it, but the truth is!!! “You can’t handle the truth.” Jack Nicholson

There comes a time in every red blooded American male’s life when he realizes that the little boy next to him in the sand box is, in fact, a girl. At that point toy cars, baseball card and frogs take a backseat. He knows little about them and wants to know more. I could talk about how much he wants to love and cherish them, how much he wants to buy them a BMW or a charming little house in the burbs, but this is about truth, remember. He’s thinking huuummm how do I get me one of those. He’s contemplating the secrets of life, like how to undo a bra clasp.

He’s heard they are different, and he wants to find out how and why, first hand. The only information he has so far, has been gathered from boys on the playground who know less than he does, older brothers, cousins and uncles. More than likely all of it is wrong. He looks at her and dreams of a world without clothing.  She looks at him and dreams of a world where boys wash their hands after wiping their noses.

Somewhere along here a boy first hears the word polygamy. Once he understands its meaning, well, first his eyebrows raise, he thinks huuuummmm again, boys are deep thinkers. He can’t sleep for a week, and he immediately shifts from trying to select one perfect specimen to imagining being allowed to select four. If the road to truth is too much, turn around now. He is not thinking about commitment or relationships, but has taken the world without clothing thing to a new level in his imagination. He now hates Eve for the apple and fig leaf.

Most boys grow out of this, some never do. After all, the Bible says it’s Ok, they point out. There are numerous arguments designed to convince women, it’s advantageous for them. Women will believe anything, Hugh Hefner, O.J. Simpson and that book about Mars and Venus prove it. I’ll say it if no one else will. Polygamy is a playground in the minds of adolescent males, Sheiks and Zealots.

Don’t kill the messenger; remember this bubbled up in the dubious mind of a male. Ladies feel free to comment from the female perspective as there are likely more reasons to, not marry more than one man than they are to, not marry more than one woman.

I love my wife with all my heart, but can’t imagine have three more of her. When you get over imagining a world without clothing and the possible benefits of such a world, reality sinks in. They do not make houses with enough bathrooms to accommodate four wives. They do not make bathroom counters or cabinets with enough space to allow the hairbrushes, such an arrangement would require, to live the kind of lifestyle they deserve.

Your house would need to contain four bedrooms, four bathrooms and at least seven closets and we must not forget, room for a comfortable couch. The reason such situations are generally reserved for Sheiks and the like, the average man, could never afford the toilet paper. There would be so many creams, lotions, paints, pastes and hair products the house would be classified as a bio hazard area. Dealing with one woman who has two hundred shoes, hairbrushes and personalities is hard enough, multiply that by four. Imagine menopause as all of them reach the age where they alternately burst into flames, their heads spin around backward, and they develop seven new personalities, all of which hate you.

I expect headaches are contagious. If you make one mad, do you think the others will be happy that you stayed out all night playing cards? You my friend are sleeping on the couch. You will eat breakfast with four sets of daggers, formally known as eyes, silently burning holes through you. The silent treatment will be deafening.

You might imagine not getting much sleep and all the exciting reasons for it. It might be true in the beginning, but eventually you’ll sleep with one eye open from fear. Sleeping in one house with four women, twelve kids, four bathrooms, PMS, PTA, twenty knives and a poor economy is the stuff of nightmares. Bet you didn’t consider that at twelve.

I love my wife, all twelve of her, and I can’t imagine having thirty-six more of them. That is the single most confusing sentence I’ve ever written and the most mind boggling idea I’ve ever had.  

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How to Survive in Miami and Other Foreign Countries

Kennesaw

I bet I have heard, welcome to Miami a thousand times this week. While a few were sincere, most were uttered sarcastically just after my expressing sticker shock over some extraordinarily high prices. We tried to rent an apartment before we got here, but many of the ads online seemed too good to be true. There were houses and apartments with everything you might want and need. Only problem, they all belonged to little old missionary ladies who only drove them on Sundays, before they were sent to Africa. “Just give me a credit card number to pay the $2000 bucks and you can move in.” I was born in Georgia, but not in Slingblade, Georgia.

So we decided to wait until we got here. To rent an apartment, you need a cosigner, great references and at least that same $2000 bucks. There are at least five middle men, sorry or women, who are all getting their piece of your pie. Every one of them is located at least forty blocks apart, and you must visit each one. Forty blocks of slow moving mind boggling traffic, I might add. When you finally make it through the process, you are taken to a one bedroom apartment that cost a $1000 bucks a month. The mailbox is beautiful, and it’s a good thing because it’s bigger than the apartment which just happens to come with it.

Everyone seems to be from another country or at least from a different ethnic background. They all have their own ideas, based on that background of where the best food can be found. So far they are all right. The food in Miami is unbelievable.

The traffic is crazy, you best have a loud horn and be ready to use it. You must also be prepared for others to blow at you for obeying traffic laws. The person behind you blowing the horn seems not to care that you are stopped at a red-light and behind several others who can’t move. Yesterday Ellie Mae and I made evasive maneuvers as a tractor trailer blasted its horns behind us. I was dismayed, Mary Carmen was frightened, and Ellie Mae was miffed. What passed us was a 1978 Pinto. It was three different colors, was missing a fender and had air horns attached to the roof.

The fast lane on I 95 means exactly that. You better have a car capable of doing over 80, or you best stay out of it. Moving from the fast lane is akin to landing a 747, the slow lane is like the fast lane during rush hour in Atlanta. You know that sound the tires make as a plane comes in to land?  Yeah you must come down from supersonic speed and move over into the next lane. You must try not to get run over by the faster cars behind you or the slower cars beside you. All the while you must be blowing the horn, performing sigh language and running through the American Sailors dictionary, end to end.  As you do all this, Ellie Mae is reminding you, she is just an old hoopty and Mary Carmen is chastising you for using colorful language, in Spanish.

I don’t care if you speak Spanish or not, you know when you’ve done something wrong. I learned quickly the two most important words any man needs to know. Si Bebe, which is the Spanish equivalent to yes dear, if you’re married, you better know these words. More importantly, you best be able to say them like you mean them. They say to learn a language quickly, you must be immersed in the culture, I am.

As with all large cities there are inherent dangers, but here they have a few extras not found in Atlanta. They have 20 foot Pythons and 11 foot Alligators, both of which are higher on the food chain than six foot country boys. Haven’t met any and hope not to, both make mugging attractive.

We did find a place, we are sharing a house with a delightful Cuban couple. They hardly speak English, but so what, I’ve been told I have the same problem. A properly placed look can convey you are using the wrong fork at dinner. A few Spanish words can convey you are in trouble for using colorful English words. The proper inflection can convey hospitality and warmth from those around you, even when they are in another language.

All jokes aside, I’m loving Miami, the food and weather are great. The bugs are organized, in the union and carry business cards so you’ll know who bit you, but they don’t eat much. The beaches and sunrises are spectacular. What more could a country boy want?

Oh yeah, go Heat, it appears there will be plenty opposing teams to make fun of here.  

  

A Porta-John by any other name.

What’s Up With John

Kennesaw

What in the world is up with John? Who did he make mad? I mean, who would want to go through life having every outhouse and more importantly Porta-John named after them?

Why is he the one who receives all break up letters? Some John, somewhere, must have truly made some women, mad.

Have Johns throughout history been more prone to patronizing women who work at the oldest profession in the world? Certainly, for this name to have become synonymous with the customers of such women, it must be so. Maybe this explains the Dear John letter thing. Women are so disgusted with Johns; they undoubtedly are forever in search of new and degrading ways to use the name.

Okay I found some of the answers, but they may be more disturbing than the questions. The toilet was invented in 1596, but not by Thomas Crapper as most believe. It was invented by a Godson to Queen Elizabeth I, Sir John Harington. This was where the name started, however it was further solidified during the time of Robin Hood.  After a long absence, King Richard the Lion Heart returned to find his kingdom in shambles. For his Brother Prince John’s, inept dealing with Robin Hood and his Merry Men, he decreed that the toilet and his brothers name be forever tied together.

Harington only produced two toilets before his death. The first was installed in his castle and the second in Queen Elizabeth’s. That one was only ordered because he was her Godson. I guess leaves, and the cold night air remained in fashion for centuries to come. Go ahead just try not to imagine the Queen with poison ivy on her backside.

Thomas Crapper was a plumber who would do much to bring the toilet in from the outdoors. While he did not invent it, he figured out a way to turn the John into a money making apparatus. Most people were concerned with the delivery of food to one end of the process; Thomas made his fortune taking care of the other.

Dear John and wait, there are Dear Jane letters too, seemed to have originated during World War II. At that time, John was the most common name in America. Also, all letters sent to servicemen overseas were always started with the names used between love ones. Dear Johnny, Davie, Sammy, when the one sent to end a relationship was addressed it changed to a curt form of the given name. Therefore, Johnny became John and so on. The popularity of the name John would also go on to create other uses for it in our culture. For example, John smith as an alias, and John or Jane Doe for unidentified bodies. The letters sent home to inform the family of the death of a loved one during World War II became known as John Doe letters. The last contributor to the forming of a Dear John letter was a popular Soap Opera which ran in America, on the radio from 1933 to 1944.

John: An anonymous, obscure or unknown person. We all know that men would never lie. I say this as I dodge rotten lettuce and tomatoes. The practice of calling prostitutes customers John which is used by prostitutes and Law Enforcement personnel, alike, originated because so many men introduced themselves as John regardless of their real names. Imagine that. John has now become generic for man.

If we are to discuss this further, we must investigate those Joneses. My grandmother was a Jones, and while she was the proud owner of not one, but three outhouses at the same time, she was not particularly wealthy. In fact, most of her family could have been kept up with, using only a broken down wagon or a bicycle with loose spokes.

Turns out the Joneses were one of the wealthiest families in New York at the turn of the century.  The Astors, Vanderbilts and many others, built their wealth simply by trying to catch up with the Joneses. There was also a popular comic strip, which was started in 1913 by Pop Momand, it ran for 26 years and eventually became popularized in books, radio and movies. In it, the Joneses were never actually seen, but were annoying, pretentious neighbors of the comic strips heroes.

It appears the use of the word Jonesing: craving or strong desire is directly related to the act of keeping up with the Jones. However, it became associated with heroin addiction during the sixties, it and a similar word tripping have now become part of our everyday speech.

I think I should close with two additional definitions.

Idiomatic expression:  an expression whose meanings cannot be inferred from the meanings of the words that make it up.

Idiotic Expression:  any word or phrase, written or verbally communicated by Kennesaw Taylor.

The Sardinian Occupation of a Buick

I don’t know who Murphy was, but his laws are more inescapable than any passed by the Supreme Court and require no gargantuan army to enforce them. As we prepared to leave on Jan. 16th the car, big enough for the trip, succumbed and decided, at the last minute to have problems. A much smaller Buick appeared to do its part in the newest American Revolution, what’s more American than a slightly small, Buick?
It took a shoe horn and grease to load five young idealists, enough ideals to stock Wal-Mart, if Wal-Mart carried such things, the gear required to be homeless for two days and an overweight journalist, into it. Undaunted the Buick smiled and departed on its journey to deliver a heaping, overflowing dose of Americans and their stuff, to the streets of the most important political, capital of the world.
The small Buick and the overflowing amounts of patriotism it contained defied the laws of physics for almost 600 miles, 950 pounds of, insert smelly word here, in an 800 pound sack. Murphy could not fit inside, but was content to ride atop the car, kind of like the dog of a certain candidate who wishes to be the next prince of Pennsylvania Avenue. As the miles passed below, the rain and cold descended from above.
The train ride into the city of Washington DC. was enlightening as people jockeyed to avoid Americans who would dare come to the nation’s capital to exercise their American rights and the signs they carried. The dash across the city, through the rain, intended to dodge the drops falling into the freezing temperatures was doomed. By the time the tent was up, the rain’s victory was nearly complete; except the spirits of the group gleamed through the cold, rainy, predawn, unimpeded.
The march to occupy Congress started at nine and several hundred protesters shouted their way down Pennsylvania Avenue, surrounded by bicycle cops, motorcycle cops, cops in cars, cops on foot, cops on horses and cops driving vans and buses.
As the morning moved along some were arrested, but their reason for being there was not diminished nor denied. Several hundred turned into 1500 by lunch, of course by then most of the media had returned to their rooms to write unflattering pieces about the protesters and their numbers, while drinking martini’s and eating Grey Poupon on imported salmon sandwiches.
At 6:30 the number had risen to over 3000 and with great purpose and a verbal power, adequate for changing the world, they marched to the Supreme Court. The media sipped their drinks and told stories of the wars they almost died in as thousands of average Americans owned the streets of our Capital, “Who’s streets, our streets?” echoed between the high-rise symbols of our freedom and might, as they marched toward the Whitehouse.
Thousands of Citizens arrived at the Whitehouse accompanied by hundreds of police officers and a generous amount of riot gear which waited in the wings, in the end it was not needed. The only thing missing from this, the most important and decidedly, possible volatile time of the day, was the media. I’m sure the Hotels along Pennsylvania Avenue loaded up expense accounts with designer beer and expensive food, as the reporters prepared stories about what had happened instead of what was happening. I guess it isn’t true, that you get what you pay for, or maybe the news industry got exactly what they wanted and not one word more.
After someone was spotted peeking from a window of the Whitehouse, the protest, hoping it was the president, retook the streets and moved back toward Congress for an occu-party, complete with pizza and dancing. The march had taken all day and had controlled over six miles of streets in the most influential city of the world.
If I have a war story to tell, it’ll be of a return trip, in an occupied Buick, containing a young, Afghanistan, war veteran with a tear on his cheek, who after laying his life at the altar of freedom has now lay his tears below the symbols of that freedom, containing a soft spoken Christian from the mountains of Georgia, on a quest to decide his level of commitment, containing a slightly psychotic, conservative, hippy, struggling to find his place in this world, containing an understated, bookseller with no delusions of, but a firm possession of grandeur and an ingrained ability to lead, containing the Buick’s master, a unassuming Massachusettsian who has the capability of being one of the future princes of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
This slightly overweight journalist with bad knees, who struggled to keep up, has always been proud to be an American, but never more proud than he is today. I salute and will always be proud to be counted among the Sardinians.

Pecans, Vegans, Runners and Other Nuts

As I write this my bags are packed, I’ll need to move and change my name as I expect a visit from the Animals liberation Army. While they may not advocate the eating or using of any animals products, they have no such reservations about shooting a meat chomping, Redneck.
I ran five miles a day for over five years, all the while smoking three packs a day; it really toasted the other runner’s shorts. One day while running I realized no one was chasing me. I decided I would never run again, unless someone was.
Later when overseas and involved in Martial Arts, someone convinced me that Buddha, Mohammad, Bruce Lee and Jesus were not only pals but cousins or brothers. It was during that time I became a vegetarian. I spent a year abstaining from meat, but noticed the other vegetarians I encountered were playing with less than a full basket of mixed nuts. It only took one cheeseburger to cure myself of that foolishness.
If vegetarians are mixed nuts then Vegans are a nut roll. A vegan is simply a vegetarian with an attitude, a gun and a little religious fanaticism mixed in. They walk around carrying m-sixteen’s wearing those robes made famous by Moammar Gadhafi and Yasser Arafat. They carry signs saying “Kill the Killers” while yelling “Death to all those who kill”.
If I ever step into the voting booth and see the choices Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, Independent and Vegan on the ticket I’ll know the end is near. If a Vegan becomes president I’m thinking Cuba might become much more attractive. Talk about getting wrapped up in a bunch of wars, the animals of the planet would be safe, but it would be open season on the 97% of us who are not Vegans. If all living things have a soul, that means plants have them too. No one can survive on rocks and dirt, so if the vegans really believe their own words they will become extinct, quickly. Good lord, if no one or nothing can eat anything else, the world will end within a week, making the whole earth experiment pointless.
I know we are all different; it’s what our country is about. I’ll try not to shove a pizza in your mouth, but you best not try to rip one from mine, you might lose a finger. Our country has room for all manner of foolishness and it’s proven every day.
Then you got the work out wacko’s. Try drinking a ton of protein shakes, taking a fist full of vitamins, working out for several hours a day, running for several miles a day, eating expensive organic foods and drinking those eight full glasses of water they recommend. It makes me tired thinking about it and it makes me need to pee. Add to this that soy milk makes you sterile and I’m simply not getting wrapped up in it. How about steroids? Let’s take shots, do what? Not me, why would I want to use a drug that not only doesn’t create euphoria, but may cause you to be so irritable that you kill someone, while suffering from roid rage?
All of us will die of something, someday. I can image sharing my final hospital room with people like these. I’ll be relaxed, probably still sneaking out to smoke. The runners will be paranoid, wondering who might be catching them since they can no longer run and worrying about the seven ounces they’ve gained in the last week, which raised their total weight to that of an anorexic feather. Visions of BBQ riblets and McRib sandwiches, which may or may not contain meat, will be dancing through the vegetarian’s dreams. The vegans will be plotting to kill us all using weapons containing no animal products, while suffering from cheeseburger envy. Secretly they will be cursing themselves for never eating meat and once they give up on the idea, will get really upset upon realizing the only cheeseburger available to them will come from the hospital kitchen and will contain everything, but taste.
We’ll all die, but I’ll do it eating the Big Mac, snuck into the hospital by my overweight grandson. As the vegetarian, the vegan and the runner who is contemplating a new diet so he can die at his optimum weight, look on, I’ll chomp on a fat juicy cheeseburger. I’ll die with a greasy smile on my face rather than the look of shock that will be on theirs. Dying from nothing will be the toughest thing they’ve had to face in life. The only people who will die with a carrot in their mouths will be Bugs Bunny and Vegans. What do pecans, pistachios, vegans, runners, roid riders Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck have in common? They’re all nuts.

The Secret Life of Shoes

Men and women have very different outlooks on shoes. I survived quite well with only one pair, most of my life. For a brief time after buying a new pair I will be the owner of two pair. I can’t seem to get rid of the old ones. They will have holes, stains and rips in them, but deserve to be used until the end. It has something to do with those 10,000 screaming, hungry Chinamen my mother talked about when I was a boy. Whatever happened to them, does anyone know? I heard the number was around 457,000 now, but opted to not saddle my kids with that information. A lot of good it did, Sally Struthers did it regularly on our television. I feel for them, but they never justified eating broccoli and still don’t.
In the first month of my new marriage I have become the proud, but slightly concerned owner of five pairs of shoes, I only have two feet. I have never understood why a man wants more than one wife; you can scarcely keep up with one. It’s the same with shoes, every time I leave the house I fear that the other four pairs are lonely, dejected, or depressed. I fear we need a shoe counselor. My wife has about 200 shoes, what can two cute little feet do with 200 shoes? What do the shoes talk about when the door is closed? I’ve tried to calculate the investment; it boggles the mind. The bright side of the shoe thing, she had them when we met. A house full of furniture is one thing, 200 shoes; well I’d never have gone for that.
Now to that closet where the shoes are living in dejection and where the counselor we hired has all but taken up residence. It is a big walk in closet, if you look real hard and I’m convinced the counselor has, you will find the shoe box in the left rear corner where my stuff is stored. She has a closet full of clothes, but somehow comes up with a reason to borrow mine. Okay she’s cute in my stuff so I’m going to let this one go. Still if she can wear mine I should be able to wear hers. I’ve had my eye on a cute little pink number, but just can’t wiggle fifty years of biscuits into it. I just wanted to wear it while I cooked!
I found myself in need of a couple pairs of workpants this week. I mentioned it to her and she insisted we stop by the Goodwill store; it’s a good place to buy work clothes. After buying groceries we stopped in. I never stop anywhere after buying groceries, as the investment is so high I want them comfortably in the refrigerator as soon as possible. “It will only take a moment.” She said. It was eighty degrees outside and probably one hundred and forty in the car as we shopped for two pairs of pants. How long could it take? Two pairs of pants turned into two work, two dress and two pair of jeans. The she started on shirts, we ended up with about twenty then she added a winter jacket to the cart. It appears she likes to shop, who she is shopping for matters little.
I should have arranged the chops and veggies in a casserole dish as they were cooking in the van while we shopped. Once we had enough clothes to cloth the original 10,000 Chinamen, we headed for the one spot where men just do not go, in a store, the dressing room. We know our sizes, we can read and we look at our shirts to size them. We’re almost never wrong. Okay, okay we are often wrong; still you just don’t go in dressing rooms in front of others. I went in taking only the four items allowed. About the time I was undressed she opened the door and entered with the remaining fifty others. Yes I’m spending time in the closet with the counselor after this. Others keep a lawyer on retainer, I need a counselor. Signs and rules on dressing room doors mean little to South Americans, it appears. We had a great time and laughed out loud for a few minutes as I tried things on. Finally and older woman broke out laughing in the next stall. After laughing for a few minutes she apologized and said she had held it as long as she could. We had a twenty minute conversation with her, never seeing her at all. We got home and found out most of the clothes we’d bought would not fit in my shoe box and after washing and folding them neatly placed them in the pile intended to go to the Goodwill store. Life is good.