Freethinker's corner

The Need For Speed … August 14, 2013

2013/08/14

I enter the ramp for the freeway and accelerate. My trusty steed, my Honda Silverwing, does not hesitate to answer my call. As I enter the freeway I have reached the posted speed limit.

Soon, I notice, a car approaching. It passes, well, perhaps they are in a hurry. Then, however, another and another cruises by. Have I stopped, parking in the lane of traffic?

I take it up another ten miles an hour, I am now in violation of the law; those who still cruise by are doubly so. Another five miles per hour added, I’m now at eighty. Cruising along the air breezes by swiftly. At this point I am only keeping up with traffic. Everyone is keeping pace at fifteen miles an hour above the set limit. Even Semi’s do not recede behind me, these behemoths, these gargantuan monsters of the highway, even they cruise at eighty.

I would much rather travel at the set speed limit, but I fear if I do, I will become an obstacle. Whether the stories are true or not, I have heard of officers pulling over someone traveling at the limit and then warning them they must keep up with traffic. Why, I wonder, do they bother then to set a limit for safety purposes, while no one obeys it. Why just the other day I observed an officer traveling down the road at forty-five, passing me doing the legal thirty-five. I assumed he was on his way to a call, even though his lights were not flashing. Then, surprise, he stopped at the light and waited like everyone else to be told to go. No emergency there.

My beef then, I suppose, is with those who set and post these legal limits. If they are only going to enforce them when they please, when they must meet some denied quota, then why have them there at all?

If society wants some speed obeyed, a maximum we can travel, why not put governors on each vehicle so no one can go faster? This, to me, seems reasonable enough, since no one seems to have the self control, the common sense, to travel safely. After all, if they had the smarts, they wouldn’t have to be told that they must wear safety belts when driving. To rely on someone to obey the set limits on their personal recognizance and yet tell them they must be safely buckled in by law seems inconsistent.

Perhaps it’s a case of giving up, throwing up your hands, and realizing no one will let a posted speed limit sign tell them what to do. Possibly it’s a case of the mice playing while the cat’s away. In that case, the enforcers must also at times be mice.

Maybe the way to hit the mouse where he lives, is to make the penalties steeper when caught violating the speed set. Give them four miles per hour over the speed limit wherein only fines result, increasing incrementally. Then at five above make the penalty loss of license for the rest of their lives. I am sure that many then would be driving without a license, so what to do then? Well, laws as for locks, as they say, are only for the honest any way.
Both Judge and Jury… August 12, 2013

2013/08/11

Good and bad results from technology as we all can agree. When it was discovered that by arranging radioactive uranium in precise configurations that fission results the claims for cheap, perhaps free, generation of electrical power were exciting. That was the good side. We now know of course that such arrangements, constructed along with the proper catalyst, can produce a most destructive weapon.

The internet has such potential as well. Through the internet information is profusely available in such a way as never before. Learning new things, making friends, spreading word of this or that disaster, and urging others to action is easier than ever before. However, lies can be spread faster as well. Pleas for sympathy for this or that cause, opinions on this or that issue, can spread in less time than just a short time ago.

First there was gossip, spread of news or opinion by word of mouth. The printing press made the spread of gossip easier, and more widely available. Then there was radio, television, and now the internet. An individual can learn of some noteworthy event in some distant land sometimes before the occupants in that land are aware. Unfortunately, this technology can also be used to spread propaganda supporting this or that lie, as well.

People can be prompted by false and misleading information to act as judge and jury and made to form public opinion that is malicious and damaging. Before a trial can be administered for someone he or she can be tried and convicted by public consensus. If the trial proves someone’s guilt, public opinion that had already judged them innocent prompts protests for exoneration. If the trial proves them innocent or fails to convict due to lack of evidence, the public, which had already convicted them, cries foul, urging renewed efforts for conviction. In this instance the technology becomes divisive and sometimes very costly. Hatred can spread very easily, worldwide.

In a country as diverse as ours a ‘jury of one’s peers’ is difficult to construct. If the issue is perceived as one race vs. another it is nearly impossible. Each race involved would desire that the jury be stacked in its favor. Ideally the jury should be composed of individuals who are indifferent and therefore capable of objectivity. That is not only nearly impossible, but completely impossible. As humans we tend to be subjective. Even in an previously indifferent individual subjectivity is formed once the facts and arguments of an issue is presented. The past personal experiences of the jury would eliminate objectivity if information presented conflicts with their preconceived notions. A fair impartial trial exists only in concept.
Whosis, Part Three to Finish. August 7, 2013

2013/08/07

Chapter Three – Truce

First a faint blur, then the image begins to lighten, a nurse, bending over Allen, materializes to his returning consciousness.

“What am I doing here?” he asks.

A neck brace keeps him from turning to fully inspect the room. Obviously, it is a hospital room, he correctly deduces.

“You must keep still, sir. A vertebrae was slightly cracked during your accident,” the nurse replies.

“My accident, but I…”

Allen does not finish for then the doctor arrives. She comes in and looks into his eyes, no doubt trying to decide if he was otherwise cranially damaged.

“So, now that you are awake perhaps you can tell me what really happened. The residents of the halfway house reported a story of unusual nature, one I find hard to accept. Although you do have quite a bruise on your chin, and no doubt suffered quite a blow thereon, you didn’t, I presume, give yourself a knock-out blow?” she begins.

“No,” he replies, “ I hit the edge of the table when I blacked out.” Allen rages at this lie. “You know that isn’t true,” he snarls at the beast within. “I admit you caught me off-guard. But we mustn’t reveal your craziness or we will be back to a padded room. You do not want that any more than I do,” responds the demonic voice.

“Well,” the doctor continues,” that makes a lot more sense than the story I was given.”

The doctor completes the examination, assuring him he will be able to return to work soon enough.

As he lays in the bed the voice within returns, “Perhaps we can reach some agreement that will satisfy us both.” Allen, disagreeing, returns “The only agreement that will please me is your leaving.”

“No, I am not finished with you yet. Putting you in the asylum was not in my plans. There’s not much fun involved in throwing you around against the walls of a padded cell. Fun is what I seek, of the mischievous sort. Confounding people, frustrating them, hurting them, is my sport. What if I promise you that I will not kill my prey, hence forth? Will you join me in the fun then?”

“No!” Allen shouts, out loud, surprising himself. Too bad no one remains in the room to hear it.

“Well, there’s the deal on the table. You can choose which. Do I take them out, or do I merely hurt them? Don’t take long to decide, I won’t wait very long. There’s fun afoot.”

Allen looks forward, at the other wall. He knows he doesn’t have much choice, and yet he must choose. Will he condemn the innocents he will no doubt encounter, or let them live. The beast, the demon seems resolute in remaining. His will, though able to force through the blow to put him here, over time will wane. Suicide perhaps would be the answer, but he shudders at that thought. “Just don’t hurt them much, please,” he finally mutters.

“A deal, let’s shake.” Allen’s hands clasp one another most strangely and the deal is sealed.

Chapter Four – Opportunity

Allen spends the week mending in his hospital bed. He does get up from time to time to stretch his legs, and frequently walks down the hospital hallways. Then on Friday his favorite nurse comes in to administer his pain medications.

“The doctor said this will be your final shot. You have improved steadily, and tomorrow you will be released,” nurse Monfurt begins. “We have double-checked your medication vial to make sure it is the appropriate type and amount”

“Double-checked? Have you had some problems?” Allen asks.

“I guess it’s been kept quiet, all the problems we have had. One patient had an anaphylactic reaction to the penicillin he was given. He was supposed to get the same medication as you, for pain, but the vial was full of penicillin, not pain medication at all. His throat and tongue swelled up and he could hardly breathe. Then there’s that wheel that fell off Marge’s wheelchair, threw her straight to the floor. We have even had a surgeon slip on some grease on the floor and gouge him-self with a scalpel. There’s more, but I’m sure you’re not interested to hear them all.” She relays.

“Quite a week, huh?” Allen replies.

To himself, inside his head, “You’ve been busy even while I sleep, you bastard.” “No one died, so what’s your beef. Besides there are still a few things they haven’t discovered, probably be weeks before they come across them all,” responds the creature.

Allen returns to work and the halfway house he calls home. As a result of his odd behavior he must spend the next year at the house, rather than the six months that had been planned. A couple of months pass without much incident. There were the pesky coincidental occurrences at work, the increased accident rate; the sick days some take who have never been sick a day in their lives, but life goes on.

Then on a Friday, Allen’s boss, projecting joviality, comes up to him. “I’d like to talk to you before you take off for the day, got a minute?” he asks.

“What can I do for you, Mark?” Allen inquires.

“As you know, David’s hand was mangled when that conveyor decided to move despite the safety being on. He was a valued member of the bowling league representing our company. He’ll probably never be able to bowl again and I was wondering if you’d like to take his place. It’d surely help us out, Allen. Ever bowled in a league?”

“Why yes, about seven years ago I bowled for Shaloms bakery.” Allen hears himself say. “I would be happy to fill in.”

In his mind he goes nuts. “I’ve never bowled a day in my life,” he shouts to the beast. “Yes you have, you simply don’t remember it. I, I mean you, were very good, until you, I mean I, threw that ball into the back of Tony’s head. He was a snob before and a dolt after that, hee hee.” “Bakery, I’ve never seen the inside of a bakery.” “I, I mean you, used to work there, that’s how you made your bread, making bread,” the beast giggles.

“Good, see you at the alley at 10 a.m. tomorrow, know where it’s at?” Mark continues.

“Yes, passed it many times.”

“They rent equipment, if it’s been seven years you might have gotten rid of yours.”

“That’s great, see you tomorrow” ends Allen.

Allen walks off, deep in conversation. “So, what are you going to do there, hit someone else?” he asks. “As I told you, I am making this up as we go along. Sounds like fun, don’t you think?” “Just remember your promise, our deal.” “For sure.”

Chapter Five – Terminal Bowling

A quarter to ten Allen arrives, on foot, at the small towns crowning gem, “Strike! Bowling Alley”. The other members of the company team are already inside, ordering drinks and snacks preparing for the game. As Allen passes a car, a voice startles him.

“Al, wait a minute, I have something to talk to you about,” shouts Jerry Dorkman, one of the plants foremen.

“Eh? What do you need, Jerry.” Allen hesitantly responds.

“I just wanted you to know that I have my eye on you.”

“What for?” Allen asks, surprise marking his face.

“I think you know, but if you’re too stupid, let me fill you in,” Jerry begins, “Before you came the plant had a spotless accident record. Now we can’t seem to go an hour before someone gets scratched, mangled, or otherwise hurt. The only thing I can figure, since I’ve ruled everything else out, is that it is you. So watch your step, I’m watchin’ you.” Jerry finishes, and enters the building.

Allen stands for a moment, thinking. “There, he’s wise to your shenanigans.” “So it seems, hmmm, what to do about it.” “I won’t let you do a thing about it!” “You’re starting to get on my nerves, Allen, neither of us wants to go to jail, or worse. But, don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it.”

Allen enters and approaches his team.

“Hello Allen, glad you could make it. David used to keep score, think you could handle it?” greets Mark.

“Sure, done it a million times.” Allen says, but doesn’t say.

“I don’t know anything about bowling, you snake.” “Sure you do, we have done this a million times,” the monster replies.

A half an hour passes, the team does well; Allen manages to add two strikes to their score. Now Jerry steps up to take his turn.

“Watch him, how he steps,” whispers the creature to its host. “Notice how precise is his step; always in the same spots.” “So?” “No one steps in that one spot he steps.” “How could you keep track of that?” “I notice things.”

Allen’s turn comes around. As he begins to stand, he notices that for some inexplicable reason his hand picks up two pencils from the table and slips them in his shirt pocket. Stepping up to the ball return he bends and the two pencils fall out. He reaches down to pick them up, but the creature in his head pushes one pencil to the side and allows him to pick up the other.

“What the hell? Why’d you do that?” demands Allen from the thing. “Bowl, you idiot, you’ll look stupid standing here too long,” is the curt response.

Another strike and Allen resumes his seat. “You’re looking great out there, Allen.” “I can’t bowl, you must be doing it, though I admit it feels good to bowl that well.”

As the members of the team continue in rotation, Jerry’s turn comes again. He steps up precisely, almost as a ritual, probably a good luck ritual, and begins his motion to deliver the ball. As he approaches the line his right foot slips just as he swings the ball forward. He falls and his head hits the floor, the sound resounds throughout the building. The ball arcs up gracefully then begins its descent, smacking roundly in Jerry’s face. A crunch, not unlike that produced when a pumpkin is smashed, results. As Jerry’s arms writhe out to his sides, jerking sickeningly, a muffled moan is heard followed by only what can be described as steam escaping; his last breath. The ball remains in Jerry’s ceiling-oriented face as if glued.

“You monster, you lied, you killed him!” Allen cries silently. “Hey, you’re not going to hang that on me, it’s a million and one shot.” “He’s dead, and it’s your fault.” “Calm down. He deserved it. It solves the problem.”

Pandemonium reigns as everyone who has a cell phone simultaneously calls 911. Jerry doesn’t have a chance though. His face was fragile as the result of a previous surgery to save it after a car accident. His nose was hanging by bits of fused bone which easily gave upon impact. His nose, it seems, is now part of his brain.

As the crowd scurries about, Allen, but not Allen, reaches down and grasps the pencil lying on the floor, returning it to the score table.

Chapter Six – The Axe Falls

Monday finds the plant in mourning. Mark would have given everyone the day off if it weren’t for the need to fill the orders of waiting customers. In a small meeting before the day begins he speaks to his loyal employees.

“If I could I would have given you all the day off to honor our foreman, Jerry Dorkman, but reality demands we work or lose our customers to our competitors. However, the funeral is Wednesday, and we will be stopping work at noon so that anyone that wants to can attend. Thanks for your understanding,” he finishes wiping a tear from his eye.

A couple more weeks pass. Then on a Wednesday, as Allen is working using an arc welder to fasten parts together, he hears the inner entity once more. “This is getting boring, this whole place is boring me to tears,” it states in an agitated fashion. “You’ve been silent for two weeks; I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing you again.” “There’s nothing to get into that I haven’t gotten into here anymore.” “A factory is boring, live with it.” “No! This is my last week.” “I like working here, we stay!” “You’re so stupid nothing bores you.”

The rest of the week passes peacefully and Friday arrives. As usual, Allen is on time and ready for a full day’s work.

Later in the day, Mark, working to repair a machine, shouts to Allen, “Allen, please go get a tube of grease from the storeroom, I need it to finish up.”

“Sure thing, Mark. Be right back!” responds Allen jumping up from his machine.

Allen walks toward the storeroom but find his feet diverted to the lunchroom. “Where am I going?” he asks himself. “There’s a little something I packed in your lunch today that I need for you to pick up” is the response.

Allen enters the vacant lunchroom, opens his pail, and then removes a bottle full of yellowish liquid. “What’s this, pee?” “Not exactly, come with me,” replies the creature, forcing Allen’s feet into motion.

Allen enters the storeroom and reaches for the grease. “Not now, we’ll get it before we leave,” he is told. Carefully his hand maneuvers the bottle beneath the hot water heater, situating it close to the burner. “Check the timer, yes, there. It is still set to heat every six hours. It was on an hour ago, so since there is only two hours of work left, it won’t heat again until 7 tonight. Good.” “What… you can’t, not that…” objects Allen. His hand reaches to the boxes to the right and moves them closer to the tank. “On unemployment I will have time to get into a lot of things,” giggles the monster, happily. Allen’s hand reaches for the grease and he exits the storeroom.

Allen, in great inner turmoil, is forced to keep silent the rest of the work day. “You can’t do this. All these people will be out of work. We’ll lose all our customers. It isn’t right what you are doing to that kind man that extended his generosity and gave me a chance.” Allen pleads. “Stuff it, Allen, let’s go!” snaps the voice, as they walk out.

Instead of going directly home the parasitic being makes Allen walk, and walk, and walk. Together, in one body, they walk around the park near the factory a dozen times. Then, around a quarter to seven Allen arrives at the small restaurant across the street from his workplace. “Take a seat, order something good. We will wait for the fireworks to begin,” orders his inner friend. “A small bottle of gas ain’t going to burn the place down.” Allen remarks. “True enough, at least until all the other stuff in the storeroom goes up. It was a foolish way to run a storeroom anyway, all that paper, all those combustibles, just waiting for the right spark,” speaks the beast, smirking.

As the factory is quite large, the smoke from the flames is not immediately noticed. The alarm does not sound until 7:15 and it takes fifteen more for the volunteer fire department to arrive. By the time they arrive the flames are well established. A wall has already fallen inward. The brave lads of this fire department rush in any way. Water pours from several hydrants as the firefighters reemerge. They have pulled a body from the wreckage, badly charred and immobile. It seems Mark had stayed late to do some paper work, and finding the fire, had heroically tried to save the plant.

Allen, standing across the way, on the sidewalk seethes. “You horrible monster, you’ve killed him, killed him!” “He killed himself by working too much.”

Allen tries to deliver another haymaker to himself, but finds no strength of will to finish it. “I’ll kill myself, I’ll throw myself off a building, or jump in front of a car,” he exclaims. He stands watching the drama playing out, unable to move from the spot.

“Look, Allen, it’s been fun, but there comes a time when everyone should dispense with their imaginary friends,” begins the creature. “Finally, you’re leaving,” Allen inserts. “Some people go throughout their lives holding on to the idea of someone watching, coaching them, and guarding them from harm. Some people never grow up, it seems,” it continues. “Don’t slam the door on the way out!” Allen shouts, silently. “No, Allen. It was a desperate move made to avoid a death at the hands of the public that precipitated the creation of this imaginary friend. But now that ‘friend’ has grown troublesome, an impediment. He must go,” it states. “So, go! I won’t miss you,” Allen maintains. “Allen…” the creature pauses, “It’s you. I created you. And now you must go.”

Allen senses a lessening in his thought, his vision darkens, “No, I’m real, not you..” and then he is gone.

“Allen, what happened? I just got word.” A fellow employee asks, startling Allen.

“Oh, hi Tom, guess we’re out of work. Mark’s dead, so there’s not much chance it’ll be rebuilt,” replies Allen, whose face is without emotion except the glint in his eyes.
Why No E? …August 7, 2013

2013/08/07

A, B, C, D, F, wait… wait… where’s the E? Ever wonder why you received an assortment of grades while in school, but not an E?

Early records of grades received by students did include an E. One record from Holyoke College indicates an E being used, but it was the lowest grade, as an F is now. Some time later the administrators changed the failing grade to an F, still retaining the E as standing for grades between 75 to 79 percentile. No specific date is discernable as to when E was eliminated but most colleges had discontinued its use by 1930. It was speculated that the instructors during this time were concerned that the E grade would be mistaken for “excellent”.

There is some thought that the letter E was eliminated from all but primary schools to avoid confusion as the primary schools used the letters E, S, N, and U to signify Excellent, Satisfactory, Needs improvement, and Unsatisfactory. Some used E to stand for effort and good behavior, rather than F standing for failure of a well-behaved child.

There is some speculation that E was eliminated as a grade because an F could be easily changed to an E. A child could tell father his grade was E and it stood for excellence, and if the father was in the habit of paying for good grades, the father could be scammed.
Whosis, Part Two… August 6, 2013

2013/08/06

Chapter Two – Reinforcement

Tuesday morning and Allen awakes to the odors of bacon and eggs wafting into his room from the kitchen downstairs. Dressing quickly he descends the stairs and enters the dining room.

“You’re early, Allen, I haven’t finished everything yet. Sit and I’ll get you some coffee,” greets Buddy, cheerfully.

“Thanks. I just wanted to get the day started. I’m eager for my second day on the job,” he answers. Getting used to the voice in his head, he doesn’t even realize he didn’t say what he said.

He sits, sipping on the coffee, his mind battle continuing. He wonders why he picked up and absconded with that tube of petroleum jelly at work yesterday. His wonderment continued last night as he woke up at the head of the stairs, holding the tube of jelly in his hand. “Stealing is wrong” he speaks to himself. “They won’t miss it, it was one among dozens on the bench,” he hears from his demon.

Buddy calls up the stairs to alert the other residents of this halfway house to the completion of breakfast. A voice from above answers back “I’ll be right down”. This voice, tired and weak, belongs to Joseph Lawrance, a recently released inmate of the state prison. Having served forty years behind bars and reaching old age he was given a pittance and set free. His crime was murder; his wife, she interrupted the football game on the television and he shot her dead. Now 75, and no doubt incapable of doing harm, the prison system deemed him harmless, and out he went. The halfway house saw fit to keep him on, he had no place else to go. Now he spends his days cleaning and doing whatever he can to earn his keep.

As he reaches the bannister at the top of the stairs and grasps it for his first step down, his hand slips. His foot hanging in air, his hand no longer holding the bannister, down he goes, feet first, then head over heels into the floor below. As Buddy reaches the crumpled figure it is apparent that from the odd angle of his head that old Joe is no more.

“Call 911, Allen, quick.” Buddy shouts, even though it is apparent that there is little medicine will be able to do.

“Sure thing!” responds Allen as he reaches for the phone. If only Buddy had seen the grin on Allen’s face, the gig might have ended there.

Police and rescue are quick to respond. They examine the man but it is clearly too late. The medic looks up at Buddy and remarks, “There’s some kind of grease on his hand. That’s probably why he fell. Here in the pocket of his robe is the tube. Probably had dry hands.”

“He must have gotten it at our last trip to the store. Why he would buy that I don’t know, we had plenty of hand lotions around here already,” adds Buddy.

Inside, Allen is raging. “You killed that old man, you monster.” “Wasn’t as funny as I thought it would be, oh well,” is the reply.

As the body is carried out the door, in the way of another clue, Allen resumes sipping his now lukewarm coffee. Buddy, distracted by the other residents coming down the stairs, does not notice the cool and calm Allen sitting at the table, and instead resumes breakfast preparation.

“Why, why kill that old man,” asks Allen of his demon. “A demonstration, to let you know, you are no longer in charge,” the creature murmurs with finality.

Abruptly Allen stands erect. Most curiously then, he does something most humans cannot do. His fist comes up with frightening force and strikes his chin with a loud crack. They go down, both man and demon, smashing the chair behind them.
Whosis?

2013/08/05

Chapter One – The Festering

“No, no, no, I scream. Not aloud of course lest they hear me. That inner voice – that blasted inner voice. Be silent, stop your banter, I am sick of you.” Outwardly the turmoil in this man’s mind is not expressed. He sits, constantly monitored, within a padded cell. The monitors never sleep, someone is always watching. Round the clock someone sits, looking for signs that this man’s troubles still exist.

Committed to an asylum for throwing a young woman to her death beneath the grinding wheels of a commuter train, the man, Allen Whosis, has spent two years raving at the walls, the silent padded walls of his cell. Then his cries were silenced as if upon command. Unknown to those who gaze upon the glowing monitors, it was upon command. Even now, even with his hatred seething at the thing within his head, he obeys.

After the tragic incident, after the train had finally ground the woman to indiscernible fragments beneath its wheels, his reasons for doing the deed were explained. “She was evil, she planned to kill me, I have been told.” It didn’t seem to matter to him when it was pointed out that he didn’t even know the woman, that she had done nothing or said anything to elicit such behavior. “She bumped me, said pardon me, and then I knew!” Allen asserted. How did you know, they pressed him for an answer: “That damned voice in my head told me so!” Allen screamed. The proceedings of the court were quick. He was to be committed for insanity.

Due to cost, due to compassion, who can fathom the reason, now the public was giving him a chance to leave this horrid place. If he can only put forth a sane countenance a little longer he might return to normal life. His voice, his inner demon, immediately ordered his physical self to be stilled. Knowing that he is not free of this creature, that he had not healed, he tries vainly to express his frustration, his anger, but finds all efforts stifled. If anything at all is noted about his features, by the observing audience, it is the blankness of emotion, his nearly robotic movements, and his lack of any expression whatsoever.

Under subsequent interviews to ascertain his mental condition the quick and steady responses made without hesitation are duly noted. Progress, it is noted, is being made. The doctors, of which there are many, speak among themselves and pat each other upon the back congratulating themselves upon the fine progress the patient is making under their care. All the while they fail to detect the roiling turmoil which in reality exists beneath the façade.

It is a Sunday morning when the patient is informed that a decision has been made to free him from this prison. “Mr. Whosis, you have been deemed well and will be released into the care of the halfway home nearby. After you spend a few months there you will be free to leave and resume a normal life, isn’t that exciting?” explains the attending doctor. Allen’s face displays a wide grin totally masking the screams inside his head, imploring the doctors not to make this mistake, begging them to change their minds.

Monday morning comes and finds Allen traveling in a plain, unassuming sedan on his way to his new “home”. The two attendants babble to each other engaged in small talk. Allen is oblivious to their voices, as inside his head he is screaming, begging them to take him back to his padded cell. His face expressionless, his countenance calm, the attendants drive on unaware of the bomb within his head that is so close to exploding.

His restraining hand ties removed, he is walked up to the house; everything is, it appears, as it should be. A man greets them at the door, a man who introduces himself as ‘buddy’, how appropriate. “My buddy, my friend, how nice,” Speaks the voice within his head. “Shut up, shut the hell up” responds Allen silently, without an outward sign of his rage.

Sitting at a table with ‘buddy’, Allen is the picture of sobriety, a calm and quiet man of even temper. “I think you will fit in nicely, Allen, we have a nice room on the second floor all ready for you to move in. Later, once you are situated we will take you out and find some clothes and other amenities to make your room, your home,” Speaks buddy with complete confidence in his voice, a genial man, a gentle man, who has greeted many others like Allen before. “What a dupe, what a pushover, this man will be,” the voice in Allen’s head exclaims. “You better not, you monster, I’ll … I’ll …,” responds Allen, silently, of course. “You’ll what? You can’t do anything to me. After all, I’m you,” Is the curt reply.

Alone in his room Allen rests on the edge of his bed. He clinches the pillow securely with his hands, attempts to strangle the life out of it, and then begins to cry. The sobs are silent, as the beast within does not allow a sound to emerge that might betray its presence.

That night, after he showers, brushes his teeth, and turns in Allen decides to confront this thing, this creature, this beast, which has made his life a living hell. “Who are you, what are you, you lecherous thing. Why do you torment me?!” he shouts into the darkness of his head. “As you were told before, I’m you,” Is the reply. “What is your name, monster?” For moments silence reigns, then the voice speaks, “You know my name, you sign it on many documents, along with yours. You are Allen, I am Whosis.” With that revelation Allen sinks into a tormented sleep, a nightmarish sleep, images follow, where the creature, the monster, is clearly seen. A beast appearing as an animal, complete with the traditional horns protruding from its head. A head like some horse, or camel, or some other unreal thing adorns its body. Sharp claws, glinting light from some fiery source nearby, frightfully curve from its hands, or paws, or whatever things jut from its arms. As many devils are accompanied by smells of sulfur, so it is with this one as well. “Welcome to my abode, Allen, glad you could drop by,” speaks the thing in low guttural tones. Allen awakes immediately upon realizing it had noticed his presence. Sweaty, highly agitated, he knows that no more sleep will come his way tonight.

Morning finds Allen ushered into breakfast, a breakfast shared with seven others plus the host, his new friend ‘buddy’.

“Allen, I have a surprise for you, someone I know has offered to provide you with employment. He has offered you an apprentice position with training in his plant. All you have to do is say yes, and you will have a job,” buddy, beaming, reports.

Startled, Allen hears himself speak, “Why of course, I will accept his generous offer” The monster has seized control of his body. Allen tries very hard to reveal the truth to these innocents at the table, but instead, merely mirrors the smile on buddy’s face.

“We’ll finish our breakfast and then I will take you down to see him right away,” buddy, pleased with the answer, offers.

As Allen, in the privacy of his room, prepares for his trip to the potential job offer, he rages within with the monster. “Why are you doing this, what plans do you have in mind?! Let me go!” he shouts, in silence. “I don’t know yet, Allen, I’ll be making this up as we go. I’m sure it will be fun, though,” the beast mocks.
People Who Bother Me … August 5, 2013

2013/08/04

Have you ever met a person, alive in all the physical ways, but dead inside? These are the people who drain you emotionally, distress you, bore you. For example, over my life I have had numerous hobbies, one in particular was the making of my own comic books. Almost to the person, people I have allowed to see my work, or mentioned my endeavor to, have inevitably asked why I would do it. Does it make you any money they would ask. Does it improve your skills which can be offered to an employer. It’s a hobby for crying out loud, not a job.

Work, work, work, no time for leisure. From sun up to sun down these people, these burned out shells of human beings, do nothing but that which garners them income, or some means to earn more. They have no hobbies unless they provide some means to increase their wealth. Children, if they have them, are an investment, a tax deduction, forced to emulate their parents, or pushed into service should the parents be self-employed. Children who soon die inside, seeing work as their only purpose. To live is to work, living in and of itself seen as something to avoid.

Sometimes I wonder if these people, perpetually busy, are simply afraid to pause a minute for inner reflection. To discover that one is shallow and devoid within and possessing nothing to reflect upon would be depressing. To face oneself, and find oneself wanting, disappointing. Automatons would suffice to replace such people. They are in fact organic automatons. If you try to talk to them you find that any topic outside of, not related to work, is avoided.

Simple indulgences, like viewing the stars at night, instead of being a time of wonder for these automatons is considered either a waste of time, or is mutated into some science lesson. To express awe and wonder is beyond these empty shells. A bicycle ride for them is not a pleasant outing, instead it becomes an intensive training exercise, to keep them healthy so that they will be more capable of doing more work. They surely are an employer’s dream.

The human psyche needs, I think, moments of physical idleness, moments to think. An appreciation for one’s state in life cannot be developed without reflection.

I have had to work twelve hour days. I know the fatigue, the heavy brow, the slothful shuffle after such days, when it is a even a chore to brush your teeth before bed. I know the dread generated from the knowledge that tomorrow will be the same. You look forward to a weekend earned, a happiness tempered from the realization that it is just a pause between the week you have just survived and the next. Life is so short, does it have to be like this? Retirement becomes a treasured goal. Even so, there are employers, and people, who would deny you that. Corporations, big and small, would rather have willing slaves whose only desire is to work until they drop. Employment offices become merely Human Resources offices. If one body falls you simply replace it with another.

There are other types of people who bother me, but these workaholics bother me most. These automatons who lurch to work each day, whose every waking moment is spent working, if not at the job, at home. These slaves that know not that they are slaves. The perfect employee. Envy them, I do not.
Racism and Reverse Racism… July 31, 2013

2013/07/31
rac·ism/ˈreɪsɪzəm/ Show Spelled [rey-siz-uhm] Show IPA noun
- 1.a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to rule others.
- 2.a policy, system of government, etc., based upon or fostering such a doctrine; discrimination.
- 3.hatred or intolerance of another race or other races.
Does Reverse Racism exist? Does the word racism suffice to cover the phrase “reverse racism”?

There are many today that attempt to change the meaning of the word racism to mean also the ability to carry out that racism. They claim that if the means to carry out that racism is not available, then it’s not racism. I see nothing in the above definition that erases racism simply because the means to carry it out are not possessed. If an employer uses criteria that favors one race over another in the hiring process it is racism, even if the race effected is the majority. Therefore, it follows that affirmative action, favoring one race over another, is racism. Affirmative action is used to correct inequities in practices formerly favoring the majority. Nevertheless, since it favors one race over another, it is racism. As it is used to reverse past inequities, it follows that it is reverse racism. Reverse Racism therefore exists.

However, the definition does not include the mechanisms, or ability, to carry out the racism. In other words, the fact that the means is included, makes reverse racism possible.

In everyday social interactions only racism exists. All races are capable of racism. I have heard and felt racism expressed by all the races I have encountered, in one form or another. Expressions of superiority have been evident in each race. Racism will continue to exist as long as human beings continue to insist that the term race exists.
The Non-Post …. July 29, 2013

2013/07/28

I have elected not to do a post this week as it is vacation time. Sorry, but everyone needs a vacation once in a while.

Vacation… a time for relaxation, a time of being with family and doing those things for which time is usually unavailable.

Ever dream of the the ideal vacation. We had one in 1996. We took a wad of money and rolled down to Florida. We visited numerous sites including Universal (I would recommend a visit to Universal to everyone, when they say 3D, they mean it), the Kennedy Space Center, and floated down the pristine appearing waters at Silver Springs. We visited a large flea market in the Ocala area. During this time we experienced the most ferocious thunderstorm I had ever seen. Lightning in Florida is an adventure in itself.

At one point in our visit I remarked to the family that this vacation would probably be the only one we would enjoy as a family. Disregarding a trip we had made a few years before to West Point, which was to see family there, it turned out to be true. It was the only memorable vacation we really had.

My advice is don’t wait for when the time is available to take that vacation of a lifetime, make time. The years pass so quickly the moment may be lost before you know it. The kids, will not be kids forever.

Whoops! Seems I have made a post after-all.
He’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Corner When He Comes… July 22, 2013

2013/07/21

I came across a question the other day, it was on the cover of a book, I think. It asked if the end times were ever going to end. This question was directed towards Christians.

Christians have believed since Jesus’ supposed time that Jesus was returning any day now to rescue them. Despite the fact that the Bible indicates Jesus meant that he would return during the lifetimes of many attending his sermons, and that he has never returned, you can hear Christians even today, two thousand years later, exclaim that his return is imminent, just another day or so away. So don’t be naughty, be nice, do everything right, for Jesus… is coming to town… any day now.

It has become a standard comic relief portrayal in movies predicting doom, like 2012, to see some bearded long-haired human wreck holding a sign proclaiming the ‘end is near’.

Even if there were a God, and the Bible was His word, no Christian can be sure that their ultimate destination is heaven. Not because Jesus did not promise it, but because they cannot be sure that they haven’t broken some infinitesimal rule, or displeased their emotionally unstable God in some way. Perhaps they were inadvertently nice to someone they should not have been. Maybe they didn’t stone someone God wanted them so very much to smote. Maybe they saw some guy or gal they admired and had a mental fantasy. Whoops, instant highway to hell.

Analyzing this, one wonders if it is all some form of façade. They claim to want the end of the world to occur, yet, it is only part of the veneer, a display to egg the audience on. How can anyone who is a human being, especially a parent (why bother having children?), wish the end of humanity? Such an individual would be a candidate for Bellevue for sure. Imagine the crazed mental state of someone desiring the violent destruction of mankind.

Yet, when you see the works of those who claim to believe, as they attain office in governments, you see some of the callousness such deity belief would produce. Policies are formulated on short term not long term schedules. After all, who needs to preserve the environment when… Jesus is just right around the corner, on his way. Why do anything to alleviate the misery of the poor, Jesus will rescue them shortly. Besides, suffering is good for the soul.

Christians will always proclaim that doomsday is coming and is imminent. How else to entice the followers into action than to promise their holy reward will soon be realized.

So, will the end times ever come to an end? No, Christianity must maintain a perpetual end time scenario. The end, the reward, being just out of reach. The invoice for this reward to be paid by the rest of humanity, no doubt, in advance.