The dope selling expedition

The white ’61 Chevy sailed through the night, as much like a ship at sea as it was a car on the road.  Not only was the front end pretty clapped out by then, the ball joints loose in their sockets and the tie rods tired, but Shifter had fitted it with a foam padded steering wheel that was all of 8” diameter, like a huge fat donut attached to the column.  On a back road like this one somewhere near Elma, with a pronounced crown to the road and the memory of thousands of log truck loads imprinted in the blacktop, driving the car was an exercise in controlled drifting from side to side as the slack shifted from one wheel to the other, requiring correction by the driver.  That’s probably what caught the attention of the cop who was behind them at the time.  Under Lefty’s seat was a pound of the lowest grade of cheap Mexican pot, so when the lights came on it was a special thrill.

Shifter was Lefty’s high school buddy.  He was lean and mean, and could grow a beard years before some of his classmates, the cause of much envy and status among the boys.  They worked together at the smorgasboard restaurant and partied often.  The Chevy was his car, handed down from his big brother.  They had spent all of one night working on it shortly before that trip to Ocean Shores.  They replaced a used clutch disc with a different used clutch disc for some stupid reason.  It didn’t help much that they put it in backwards, either.  They didn’t know any better.  He had to tow it up to the local shop to get it fixed for $20, and for that they stayed up all night and got all dirty.  Good thing they had lots of peed spills.

So the way it started, there was this musician guy, and he had quit his band, but they held on to some of his equipment and promised to pay for it, but never did, and he wanted to repossess it.  A friend of his was an entrepreneurial sort, and he arranged for Shifter and Lefty to accompany him to the band’s house and be the strong-arm goons in case there was any trouble.  There wasn’t, and the payment for their efforts was the bunco Mexican dope, which the musician guy had been burned on during a setup deal in a parking lot on the side of Aurora Avenue North where you pay your money and hope they come back with something and sometimes they do, but it isn’t worth a shit.  They didn’t know any better, so they took it.  It quickly became evident that they were stuck with this stringy bale of raw hemp that smelled bad, and tasted worse than it burned, which it didn’t, much.

Getting rid of this stuff was the problem.  They started in White Center, of course, their home stomping grounds.  In the parking lot of Lou’s or Herfy’s they ran into Pat Goonbart, one of the local potheads, whose claim to fame was that he could roll joints faster than anyone, having practiced to the point where it was one smooth motion, very impressive.  He got stoned a lot for free with that skill of course, which showed he was a pretty sharp guy.  “Hey, Pat”, Lefty yelled out the window. “What’s goin’ on?”  “Not much”, he said, leaning in.  “Hi, Shifter; what are you guys up to?”  “We got a bunch of dope we want to sell”, Lefty replied.  His ears perked up at that.  “Why don’t you climb in the back and take a look?”  “Certainly!”, he said.  “Fuckin’ A!”.  That proved to be a mistake.  Pat was no fool, and he quickly realized what they had.  “This stuff is bunk!” he said.  “Let me outta here.”  So their goose was cooked, since Pat knew everybody and talked to all of them.  They had to get outta town with the dope, find somewhere the local denizens of wouldn’t know them.  Ocean Shores was the place.  Everybody knew it was party central on weekends, even in October.  Yeah, right.  So off they went, figuring to sleep in the car or get a hotel room with all the money they made selling dope to the tourists at $10 a bag.  Sure, Eddie.  They didn’t know any better, and it sounded like a good idea at the time.

When the lights came on Lefty went into flashback mode, to the time when after the community meeting at the drop-in center he noticed that someone had left their keys in their car in the parking lot, so Shifter  snatched them out of the ignition and they came back later and stole the car.  They went for a joyful joy ride until they ran a stop sign on Roxbury at high speed in front of a cop just getting off duty, which in retrospect turned out to be a mistake.  The cop peeled out after them and caught up by the old reservoir, which was surrounded by a thick salal patch in a forest of madrona and hemlock that was the hangout of all the kids in the neighborhood.  As the cop pulled up behind the stalled car, Shifter turned to Lefty and said, “Scoot over next to the door and hold the handle open, but don’t open the door till I say run!”.  Then he rolled down the window as the cop approached.  “You got a license and registration?” asked the fat old officer as he reached the driver’s door.  “Sure”, said Shifter, and then pulled down the visor as if looking for the registration, which wasn’t there.  Then he scooted over a bit and pulled down the other visor, likewise empty.  He scooted over a bit more, opened the glove box door and shouted, “Run!”  Lefty threw the door open and they took off like track stars.  That salal patch had to be 40 feet wide and a good 4 feet deep, and they blew through there like two gazelles beating feet from a hyena.  All the old cop could do was stand there and say bad words out loud.  They stopped to catch their breath on the other side of the patch in the woods, and listened for signs of pursuit.  They knew the patrol cars would be out looking for them, so they had to get through the projects, which were between them and the safety of home base, before he could call out the reserves.

That proved to be a good strategy, as the police naturally assumed it was a couple of bad boys from the projects who did it and concentrated their search in that neighborhood.  They only ran into one prowl car on the way home, cruising down the perimeter road shining his spotlight on all the houses and driveways.  They just had to keep the house itself between them and the spotlight for a bit, then slipped out over the fence in the corner lot and got away clean.  It’s interesting that poor people projects are fenced to keep people in, while rich people projects are fenced to keep them out.

But this time they were far from home in unfamiliar territory, and would have to bullshit their way through it.  Fortunately, they didn’t have any beer with them, and had been smoking only cigarettes on the road, so they got off with a lecture about defective equipment when they said they were headed for Shifter’s uncle’s house in Ocean Shores.

When they got to town they realized they had a problem.  They didn’t know anybody, weren’t old enough to get in the taverns, and there didn’t seem to be any local public events happening that Saturday night where they could mix with our potential clientele.  So they resorted to the desperation move of pulling up alongside some likely customers in a grocery store parking lot and asking out the window, “Hey, do you guys know anyone who wants to buy some pot?”

The first time they tried it actually worked.  Three guys climbed into the back seat and asked to see the merchandise.  They bought one bag for $10 and stole three more from them, assisted by Lefty handing over the entire grocery bag and enabling the old switcheroo con.  I’m sure they had a great laugh over it later, until they smoked the first joint and discovered how badly they had been burned.  By then Shifter and Lefty were already out of town, having realized there was no future in selling bunk dope to strangers in parking lots.  As they sailed down the highway toward home, Shifter and Lefty looked at each other, and, by unspoken agreement, Lefty rolled down the window and threw the remaining bags of worthless dope into the night.  Sic transit Gloria mundus, caveat emptor, and carpe diem.

If God came back to Earth

If God came back to Earth

He’d be pretty disgusted with us, I imagine.  He’d wander the globe for a few hundred years and see what we’ve done to ourselves, and each other, and shake his head.  “Why”, he would ask, “are so many of you rich and provided for beyond any needs you might have, and yet so many others are starving and living hand to mouth?  Why are the rich ones, by and large, living peaceful lives, while so many poor ones are fighting and dying every day?  Did you not listen to my Sermon on the Mount?”

“I thought I made it pretty clear”, he’d say, “that Thou Shalt Not Kill, but look at you, some of you, killing each other right and left, and what’s worse, doing it in my name!  You kill your friends, you kill your enemies, you kill strangers, you even kill your children!  Then I see some apologist trying to say I didn’t mean that, I really meant Thou Shall Not Murder!  Explain how that feels different to the one you killed.”

“Thou Shalt Not Steal, I told you, and look at you, some of you, stealing everything you can lay your hands on every chance you get.  You steal other people’s identities, you steal their trust, you steal their time, you steal their property, and you steal their mate.”

“I gave you dominion over the whole earth, and all its forms of life, and what have you done?  You killed off, exterminated, wiped out many of my most precious lives, often for the most vain and stupid reasons.  You’ve spoiled, plundered and strip mined much of the earth, chopped down way too many trees, poisoned the air and the water, first out of ignorance, and then, when it became all too clear what was going on, you pointed the finger everywhere but at yourselves, and lied about who made money creating the mess.  You have caught most of the fish and oiled the waters as the pollution you spew into the atmosphere has brought about severe changes in the weather.”

“I tell you what”, he’d say, “I’m half tempted to wipe the slate clean and try again, like last time, not that this batch of humans has done any better than the last batch.  Better yet, I’ll just sit back and watch you exterminate yourselves and see who comes up next, the cockroaches or the rats and mice.  My bet is on the cockroaches”.

Fortunately for us, God is not coming back.  That’s because he never was there in the first place; we made him up.  Unfortunately for us, that means we really have nobody to blame but ourselves for the shape we’re in, and nobody is going to step in at the last minute and call us all to judgment, let alone fix all our mistakes.  We have to do that.

We have to do it, and we have to get started now, or it will be too late.  It may already be.

Now, for all you true believers who find this idea offensive, I’m sorry, but you have to accept certain things whether you like it or not.  One is that, absent the coordinates of Heaven or Hell, there is no way to prove their existence, so it must be taken on faith.  The second is that, when you look at your beliefs logically, you must realize that, in every case, you have decided to believe a given tenet because someone you respected and trusted told you to do so.  Very few of us have done the research and read the Bible or the Koran or the Bagvad Ghita in its original versions and languages and made up our own minds.  We always take it from someone, ultimately a priest or minister of some sort.  That makes it easy to point out the obvious, that the person who told you what to believe is making a living on that belief, and counting on you for part of his or her income.  They have a direct conflict of interest.

As far as I’m concerned, the only true Christians I have met are bikers, like Wings of Faith.  They have elders, but no church, no tithing, and no expenses.  Everyone else is posturing to one degree or another, or making a living at it.  The televised criminal hucksters are the worst.  True Believers, however, are all over the place, and most of them are dangerous.

And the Bible itself is full of nonsense.  I’ve had Christians tell me, with a straight face, when I asked where all the wives came from to help make all those people named in Genesis, that they were all descended from Eve’s daughters mating with her sons, and it was ok, because “the bloodline was pure back then”, six words that toss everything we’ve learned about genetics out the window.  I guess, since God wiped out that gene pool anyway during the flood, leaving only Noah’s family to repopulate the earth, they must have still been pretty pure, too.  Yeah, right.  I don’t remember hearing about any yellow, brown or black people on the ark, either.

And all of Revelations is nonsense, bullshit dreamed up by old men on hashish to help keep the masses in line, and tithing.  And the Koran is nothing more than a plagiarized copy of the Bible twisted to the Imam’s or the Ayatollah’s best interests, as well.  Oh, oh, someone is now going to call for my execution because I said that.

What makes sense to me is that all religions, all of them, being fabricated from scratch by primitive bronze age tribes and improved on ever since by professionals making a living at it, contain a grain of truth.  That is the concept of the Soul, as an expression of a complex mind having original thoughts becoming something other than the physical body in which the mind lives.  When that body dies, the Soul changes form and substance and becomes a Spirit, which does whatever the mind of the person wanted to do.  If you have led a good life, and you know it, you will self-assign your Spirit to the heaven of your choice, just as you will send yourself to a Hell of your own creation if you have been a bad person in life, because you can’t hide your inner thoughts from yourself without suffering severe mental illness.

So if you’ve been born a Christian or a Muslim, in all their various sects and branches, and accepted all the baggage that comes with it, you will send yourself to Heaven or Hell when you die, and you don’t need Saint Peter to decide.  You already know.  And that Heaven and that Hell exist only because you believe they do, not the other way around.  That’s why in my Heaven, there’s beer, and God rides an old Harley.

In the meantime, why don’t we all start listening to folks like John Lennon, when he said, “Imagine, all the people living for today, and sharing all the world.”?

It doesn’t take a genius or a saint to realize that we’re all in this together, everybody all over the world, and that, until the poorest members of the least of all the tribes in Africa or Bangladesh or the favelas of South America have realized a sense of security brought about by the knowledge that they will always have a place to live, food on the table, and education for their children so the next generation can live better, none of us in our carefully segregated and overly protected enclaves are truly safe.  We are the ones with the means to bring them up to a minimum level of existence, and if we continue to ignore that responsibility it is inevitable that they will drag us down to theirs.  And cockroaches are everywhere. :-{)}

An Ode to Anti-Seize

Oh lustrous golden-brown ooze

Oh wondrous copper goop,

That plates the parts that mate

Inside this motorcycle,

Especially those that vibrate.

I paint them all

With the brush inside the can

Then put them back together

And see? How well it ran!

I knew I was in trouble when I first put a socket on the exhaust header flange bolt on the front cylinder of the ’99 Sportster that recently showed up in my garage.  One clue was the 92,000 miles showing on the odometer when it arrived.  The other was how it lived in a carport its entire life, and those pipes had never been off.

On an EVO Sportster, the two studs holding each head pipe in place are 5/16” diameter, and every time this bike was ridden to work, rain or shine, those studs would warm up to cylinder head temperature, then cool back down, while the vibrations introduced by the 45-degree V-twin engine rigidly mounted to the frame helped to gall the threads on the studs or the nuts enough to freeze them in place.  So when I put the socket to the first one and loaded the 3/8” Snap-on breaker bar with enough torque to feel the stud begin to flex under the load I was well aware that the force needed to break that nut loose might well exceed the force needed to twist that stud in half, or strip the fine threads at that spot.  That is known as testing to destruction.

In a mess like that, you have several choices, of which I had the good fortune to learn about by way of working for some 25 years with Bob Bentler, one of the true metal magicians, in the Machine Shop at the City of Seattle.  Bob raced in the SCCA Class C Sports Car leagues, and owns several Lotus cars, including a 7 and a 23, just for fun.  He taught me how to braze, and silver solder, and how to straighten a drive-shaft with a torch, and how to rebuild engines, and many other things over the years, but, mostly, I learned from him how to take things apart.

The first of the old tricks I learned was a process called “upsetting the metal”.  That involves a precise blow, or series of blows, delivered to exactly the right spot on the frozen fastener at exactly the right angle with exactly the right punch in such a way as to deliver a shock load through the threads, so as to break the rust that had formed as the two metals bound themselves together with oxides of iron formed at the point of contact.  After the initial blow, a generous portion of penetrating oil is a good thing to introduce to the joint.  The smell makes it seem like you’re working again.  GM X-88 is the shit here, though some swear by Kroil, but any light oil works, really, even Hoppe's Gun Oil.  In the case of a nut on a stud, a tap with a bit of hollow tubing or a hole punch along the axis of the stud will sometimes help.  Then you work the socket back and forth, each time hopefully going a little bit farther until you achieve one whole turn, which is usually enough to spin the nut free.

If that doesn’t work, you need heat, or time, or both.  I knew one old guy who, about trying to remove the cylinder block from a 650 Triumph engine that had laid in the grass behind someone’s barn for a few years, told me this one:  “I built a wooden frame that clamped to the cylinder block in such a way as to hold the engine in the air about one inch, with all the base nuts removed and all the weight of the bottom end on those piston rings.  Then I poured about a half-cup of penetrating oil in each bore, and went away.  Every few weeks, I would check on it, and add a little oil if it looked dry, and maybe tap on the top of the pistons with a block of two by two.  Then one day, about six months later, I checked on it and found the crankcase on the floor.  It just took patience, of which I had plenty in this case.”

If you must resort to the hot wrench or the nut breaker, I consider that a failure.  It really depends on the situation.  In the case of the Sportster, I used a propane torch to heat up the nut, then sprayed more oil on it as it cooled, then worked it back and forth with the breaker bar until it finally came loose.  I bet I spent 6 hours on those 4 nuts over two days.  Good thing I didn’t charge myself anything to do it, I couldn’t afford me.

Part of the reason why that Sportster was a good buy for the guy who came and got it was the fact that, as I went through that bike and replaced every bearing in the wheels, swingarm and steering head, I coated every nut and bolt that went back on that bike, other than the ones for which Loctite is called out in the Service Manual, with a good thick coat of Permatex Copper Hi-temp Anti-Seize Lubricant.  As I have learned, that means he can park the thing in his carport and ride it back and forth to work for the next ten years, and those nuts and bolts will stay right where I put them, and still come back off with ease.  That’s the beauty of that stuff.

Both Honda Shadows that I am currently working on exhibit the same neglect brought on by exposure to weather and lack of maintenance that is experienced by all too many motorcycles when they get to the point where their storage cost exceeds their value and they get abandoned to the weeds and the weather.  This is especially true when you have steel cap screws torqued into aluminum castings.  I’m finding every screw is coated with yuck as it comes out, requiring a visit to the wire brush wheel before the application of the anti-seize, and another one is saved for posterity.

So that’s the point of this story.  If you want what you put together to come back apart someday, goop it up!  That stuff works up to 1800 degrees Fahrenheit, because of the colloidal copper suspended in the solution, and it works on stainless and high-carbon steel, cast iron, aluminum, Monel (that’s the metal, not the painter), brass, copper, nickel, just about anything you want to spread it on that is not toast.  It’s enough to make a guy wax poetic, or something...   :-{)}

Old Friends

The road stretched on ahead straight as an arrow through the scrublands into the distance, where it could be seen curving up out of sight around a distant mesa.  My motorcycle rumbled comfortingly under me as we sailed together under dreamy skies streaked with pale yellow as the rising sun at my back found the horizon.  Up ahead, in the morning light, I saw another rider going solo through the desert.

I caught up with him on the curves going up the hill, but did not pass out of courtesy.  The bike, an old Shovelhead, looked somehow familiar, as did the man in the saddle, an obvious old-timer by the leathers and the ancient Bell full-face helmet with the white hairs blowing about underneath.  As if by signal, we both pulled off at the overlook where the road crested the hill.

Bikers on the road are a common family, so when you pull in to a stopping point and see another bike already parked, that’s where you go, automatically.  I’ve met world travelers that way, and old friends, but nothing that prepared me for the shock when the old man climbed off his bike and pulled off his helmet.  It was Stoney.  A man I had not seen in ten long years, a man who rode with me through thick and thin, stood at my back when I got in a beef at the bar, and always had a good word on him somewhere.  The thing was, and the reason it was such a shock, was that Stoney had died out on Highway 50 one night, alone in the dark in a snowstorm, ten years ago.  We called him Stoney because he always had a joint hanging out of his mouth, and because he could be hard as a rock when he needed to.

I wrapped him in a bear-hug.  “Stoney, you old dog!  Where the hell have you been, and tell me how it is I’m seeing you now, when it seems like yesterday I was at your funeral?”  He held me off at arm’s length and smiled, then turned me around with one hand on my shoulder while he pointed out across the vast open spaces all around us. “I been ridin’,” he said,  “That way goes north into the mountains, and they go on forever, and that way goes to the ocean, where whales cruise near the shore and you can get on a boat and sail the seven seas.  I came back here to pick you up.  You startin’ to catch on now?”

Suddenly, I remembered another funeral, more recent.  I looked down at my own leathers, and realized they were all brand new.  I glanced at my bike, and saw that all the chrome was polished, the paint was perfect, and the tires were new.  “Yeah,” said Stoney.  “I been waiting 10 long years for you to die, too, so I could show you around.  Now let’s get riding.  You’ll notice that your gas tank never runs empty here in heaven, and the beer is always cold at the place we’re headed for lunch, Saddle up!” :-{)}

Avian Wisdom, or feathers on the brain

Much is made of old stories and legends, the sort of forgotten lore to which Poe often referred, or Coleridge in his opium-induced dreams.  Generations of herbal expertise and wisdom are forgotten as elders die in sad circumstances without proper respect, and other wisdom is purposely ignored by those in power for whom personal economic considerations outweigh the common good.  That’s why I was happy to have an opportunity to bring out just one tiny fragment of an old wives’ tale that just might be based on ancient rumor which in turn was first noted on a fragment of stone tablet from an early Egyptian dynasty that pointed out some peculiar properties of hummingbird shit.

Now the hummingbird, when you think about it, is something close to the perfect machine, that intakes purest sugar water from my feeder, along with the most delicate of pollens and blossom effluvia that emanates from the various flowering plants that populate the grounds around here as they buzz around and dive bomb us when their feeders get low, pure energy on display, with attitude.  Ask yourself, have you ever seen a hummingbird shit?

I mean, compared to the chickadees, nuthatches, finches and flickers that mob the seeder and the suet cakes, with the resulting random pile of guano, sunflower seed shells and millet hulls piling up on the ground below, the hummingbirds leave no sign under either of the two feeders hanging off our deck that what goes in must somehow come back out, if for no other reason than to show they’re alive.  It was only after long periods of time spent nursing a beer in the Adirondack chair placed strategically under the feeder that I was able to observe the eliminatory function in operation in the genus.  It seems that, in the act of taking flight after a session at one of the ports on the sugar water feeder, and, precisely as the momentary pause to hover above the perch and scan the area then decide what direction in which to fly ends, a miniscule droplet of perfectly clear fluid is ejected from under the tail of the bird as it rockets off into the distance.  And it was only when, as I reached for my beer, and felt that tiny drop land on the top of my head where the forest is a little thin for lack of trees, that I achieved enlightenment.

At the time, I chuckled, of course, said a bad word at the retreating derriere of the offending bird, and forgot about it.  It was only after I woke up the next morning, and realized that my usual aches and pains were gone, there was a spring in my step that wasn’t there before.  I wandered through a very fine day in a pleasant haze as everything seemed to work out just fine.  It was only later, after the effect had worn off, that I began to suspect there might be something about the hummingbird shit, and started doing some research on the subject.

Sure enough, the ancient Egyptians found some mystical properties about hummingbird shit, and decided it was to be reserved only for the pharaohs and their most favored concubines, for whom its aphrodisiacal qualities alone were a special treat.  In the right quantities, and when applied with the proper rites and prayers, godlike powers would be awarded to those who lived through the ordeal, it was rumored.  I was determined to find out if the rumors were true.

Day after day, in the interests of Science, I took my position under the feeder, with my arm strategically placed to occupy the most likely trajectory of any ejected missiles of mystical awareness that might emanate from the miniscule anus of the subject bird.  I believe I might have been impacted by a couple of them during the collection phase, but can’t be sure, as I was asleep at the time.  I did get crapped on by a crow, however, but nothing came of it beyond him learning a few new words.

Long as I don’t run out of beer, the quest will continue, if only in the interest of bringing hope to the masses.  Look for the Fund My Great Idea campaign, which should be announced in time for the Donald Trump Vice-Presidential Announcement (I’m not saying I’m under consideration, and I’m not saying I’m not).  Those who contribute will be among the first to benefit when I wake up with super powers on the morning of the New Day.  Peace, Brothers and Sisters, and may the Hummingbird Be with you.  :-{)}

Montana teaser

There is a road that leads to heaven, and it starts in Salmon, Idaho.  You could argue that it starts well before that, and I would concede at some point, but Salmon is still the jumping off spot, in my mind.  If you come in from the South on State Highway 28 out of Idaho Falls, or up the western valley on US 93 from Butte City, that would be two sides of the same coin.  If you snuck across the National Forest from Sun Valley up through Challis on 75, then the rest of the way on 93, that’s extra points in your cool road file.

But it all starts the next morning as you tank up belly and bike, then head out into the cool morning air northbound on 93 along the Salmon River Canyon.  The road leaves the river at a place called North Fork and winds up a long canyon to the top, where, at a place called Lost Trail Powder Mountain, you are presented two choices: stay north on 93 as it comes down into the valley of the Bitterroot River on the way to Hamilton and Lolo Pass, a worthy destination in itself, or turn right on Highway 43 and drive through heaven on your way to Montana.  I say take that right, every chance you can.  Just past the turn is a parking lot surrounded by trees, among which more than a few people have chosen to have their ashes scattered as their final resting place.

Highway 43 doesn’t roll, it meanders, accompanied on either if not both sides by the classic stream like the ones in “A River Runs Through It”.   The two-lane blacktop was smooth and freshly paved the last time we went this way, and the clean fresh air combines with the wide open sky and the heartbreakingly green fields completely devoid of any signs of civilization beyond the macadam itself to bring on a bad case of traveler’s grin.  Then it gets better.

As the highway exits the hills it sets up an automatic reaction that occurs in most riders at that point.  The trees fall away, and the road cuts straight as a slightly dog-legged arrow across a wide open valley with the small town of Wisdom clearly visible in the far distance.  There is no stock in the fields, no obstructions or traffic on the road, so what else can you do but lay down on the tank and hold the throttle wide open until you see God or attain Wisdom, whichever comes first?    You’ll know you’re there when you see the floozy on the false front above Conover’s Trading Post.

So if you’re thinking about a road trip this summer, there are no bad choices in Montana, beyond Cut Bank and Browning, about which more can be said later.  In the meantime, let’s get out and do some riding!  :-{)}

Soapbox

Soapbox

… man goes into back yard, digs through pile of junk, comes up with sturdy wooden crate.  Man takes this crate out to the street and places it, upside down, on the edge of his property line, steps up on to it, and speaks thusly:

“All Right!  I Have Had Enough!  I have heard enough of your lying, enough of your exaggerating, enough of your Point-The-Finger distractions to know when I’m being scammed!  Enough Already!”

“It’s time to let go.  Your weasel has popped.

And I’m talking to both of you, on the right and on the left.  This presidential election in America, just like the one in Brazil, is the same old stuff.  The poor people have the votes, and the rich people have the money.  Oh, yeah, and there’s a lot more poor people.

So all of you, with the possible exception of Bernie and Elizabeth, are trying to disguise the true nature of the conflict, which is why all the violent reactions don’t make sense at first.  It’s Science and Truth against Lies and Religion, and for some it will look like the second American Civil War.  For others it will be the end times, unless they get disappointed, and the Anti-Christ fails to appear.

So for the rest of the Silly Season, you can stop all the bullshit, please.  When you root in the sty to find shit to pick up and throw at them, you get some on you, along with all the shit they toss in reply.  After a while you both look like nothing but pigs, happy in shit.  Then you realize that most of the shit is coming from people who are paid to produce that shit, and it’s all being broadcast by networks that make more money on shit than they do on real news!

This is not just a request, here’s what I’m going to actually do to you:  I’m going to tell Facebook, every time I see a picture of what’s-his/her-face, to block everything from that source.  No clicking on the click bait, no forwarding, no comments, no reply.  I’m just gonna use Facebook to talk to my friends.  I don’t wanna hear any more of your shit.  Trolls, stay under the bridge.

So if one of your analysts comes to you one day and says, “We’re seeing a disturbing trend where more and more people are tuning us out, and we’re not sure why.”, tell them it started right here.  Call it the Enough Already Movement.”

Man steps down off crate, picks it up and carries it into the back yard.  This time, he uses it to store stuff, and gets organized. Then he goes back to work.  :-{)}