Boss Hog Limbaugh & The Cynics Revolt

Well the PolitiPornster is back.  I took some time off after a hectic election year and quite frankly, I haven’t been in much of mood to write.  Wow, has everything gone in the shitter!  Everyday some store we’ve grown accustomed to closes.  I’m starting to receive a steady stream of emails at work from former colleagues asking if my office is hiring.  Truth be told, I’m desperate trying to keep myself busy at work what with the assignments slowing down to a freakin’ trickle.

Of all the crap going on in the economy, we’ve got one malcontent, who has taken it upon himself to wish, hope and pray that the President Obama fails in his attempts to right this ship.  You know of whom I write.  That’s right Flush Windbag.

Grandma’s Christmas in April

I thought with the Christmas season upon us I’d get away from politics and share a holiday story that’s personal to me and 100% true.  This story is not only dedicated to Dorothy Dyer but would not have been possible without her.  I’ll let the cat out of the bag here, she’s my Grandma.  She passed away in 1994.  Christmas was very special to her.

Some background is necessary here.  My mother passed away when I was 3 and my father was only 25.  She was only 19 when she died.  Her death wasn’t a sudden event but instead was a drawn out process that would have her bed-ridden for 2 months.  Mom was my Grandma’s youngest daughter.  Although my Grandma would outlive my Mom by nearly 23 years, Grandma would never get over Mom’s death.  Parents shouldn’t bury children and luckily none of my aunts or uncles would pass away until after Grandma died. 

Being a young hippy with a penchant for dealing dope and partying made it so Roy (dad) wasn’t really inclined to raise a child on his own.  Without any reservation, my Grandma stepped up to the plate.  They agreed that I’d spend my weekdays with her and weekends would be spent with my father, why he choose to have me around on weekends escapes me but this little arrangement worked for two years.  During that time, dear old dad taught me how to roll some of the tightest joints.  In fact, I’d become kind of a party trick where my dad would hand his 5 year old some rolling papers, a bag of weed and then tell his friends “watch this” after I’d completed rolling one he’d exclaim “that’s my boy!”

As time passed, my father had found himself another woman.  I honestly don’t remember her, other than her name and in the end this marriage wouldn’t last all that long.  Perhaps he felt that to have a family, he’d have to find me a new mommy.  I vaguely remember a conversation where he explained the whole idea of “step-mothers” to me.

As you’d imagine, my Grandma had grown accustomed to caring for me and having me live her.  This arrangement also provided a welcomed distraction for her in light of the passing of her daughter.  My dad probably figured that it would be impossible to get Grandma to agree to have me move with him to Florida along with the new wife.  So he didn’t tell her.  He just picked me up one day, put me on plane and the next thing I know, I’m in Pensacola, Florida surrounded by folks I’d never met in my short life.

The next 6 months were Hell, OK it was 5 year old Hell but still it sucked.  My dad’s family was so alien to me in comparison to my Mom’s family back in DC.  These folks lived in trailers (not even double wides).  I shit you not, the whole damn family lived in the same damn trailer park.  For all I know they owned the trailer park.

On weekends they’d gather up a posse, hunt squirrels and on Sundays there would be some manner critter slow cooking in a crock pot.  They didn’t say “dinner”, they said “supper”.  Sobriety was not a word they said either and worst of all they weren’t Redskin fans!  I don’t use the term lightly here, but these folks were “Trash.”  In saying this I do not mean to disparage anyone who lives in trailer, in Florida, or even folks that don’t like the Redskins.   

This Hell lasted from approximately October ’til April of the following year.  My Christmas in Hell was laughable.  My lone gift that year was one of those pre-filled Christmas stockings that you find in the grocery stores.  You know the ones filled with candy and plastic cars or toy soldiers.  When my stocking finally made its way to me, however, all of the candy was gone.  See on Christmas Eve one of my father’s brothers had raided my stocking in a drug induced munchies fit.  All that would await me was some plastic cars.  There wasn’t an apology, in fact in my dad’s family it was looked upon as a joke.  To these people, this shit was funny.

My Grandma called me that Christmas.  With no prompting, I told her about my disappointing morning.  She informed me that there had been a mistake.  Apparently,  Santa Claus had dropped all my gifts off at her house and she had planned to stay awake that night to tell him where I had moved to but she fell asleep.  Through tears she apologized.  She promised to look after my Christmas gifts until I returned.

Time passed, the Hell would continue.  Drunks and druggies would come in and out of my father’s trailer.  All the while, I’d be wishing for my return to Grandma.  The Sunday crock-pot squirrel dinners would continue.  Then to me surprise my dad would decide to return to DC.   The move didn’t include a return to Grandma’s house. 

The Christmas I’ll never forget came about 2 weeks before Easter.  My Grandma and my Aunt came to pick me up from the house my dad had rented in Maryland.  Before getting the car, I gave my Grandma the biggest hug a 5 year old has ever given.  I was strapped into the backseat and off we went.

When we got to my Grandma’s apartment, she fumbled with the keys a bit and then the door opened.  Walking through the door I was transported in time to December 25.  There in the living room was a Christmas Tree still decorated and lit-up.  The tree was surrounded by what looked like an expanding mountain of wrapped gifts.  Of course, being 5 years old, I didn’t pause for a second but instead just dove right in.  As any 5 year old would I went for the toys first.  Despite my love of toys, the only gift I remember from that Christmas was a leather jacket like the one worn by The Fonz on Happy Days.

Grandma had been right all along.  Santa Claus didn’t get my forwarding address.  Christmas had come but I wasn’t there to receive it.

Years after this Christmas, I would find out that my Grandma had in fact kept the tree up from December to April.  She had also left the gifts out as well.  My Aunts and Uncles would plead with her to put the tree away, but she wouldn’t.  They had told her to send me the gifts but she wouldn’t.  Nope she was determined to have Christmas waiting for me when I returned.

I’ve never met anyone whose Christmas spirit could match that of Grandma’s.  Until her death, Christmas was always special to her.  For me, the memory of that Christmas in April makes the holidays all the more special to me. 

There is no other time of the year where I feel my Grandma’s presence more strongly than at Christmas.  Although she’s gone, I still whisper “Merry Christmas Grandma” when I get up Christmas morning.

It has always been my hope and wish that when my Grandma passed away in April 1994, she was greeted in Heaven by my Mother who then took her to a room that was festooned with a Christmas Tree and an endless mountain of gifts.  She deserved it, she earned it.

Grandma, Merry Christmas!

The Lights Are On, But Nobody is Home

Let’s face it folks, there is some scary crap going on right now.  All of this crap is compounded by the fact that our country is doesn’t have a driver at the wheel.

India just suffered one of the worst terrorist attacks since 9/11.  Our economy is on a fast track to the dumpster and to top it all off, the high seas are now being plagued by PIRATES!  WTF!  Meanwhile, we’ve got a “President” is busily packing up his cowboy boots for their return trip to Texas.  Has the word “malfeasance” come to mind yet?

George W. Bush takes the cake.  It’s all but a forgone conclusion that he’ll go down as the absolute worst President.  With that in mind, this simple minded idiot can’t even pull it together for roughly 3 months.  Instead, he’s just sitting on his hands counting the days ’til January 20, 2009. 

In the military, we had a name for guys like George.  We called them “short-timers.”  These were the guys that were coming up on the end of their enlistments.  As you’d imagine, the closer their separation date came the more their minds would drift off to getting the fuck out of Dodge.  These guys were dangerous, both in a literal and figurative sense. 

Literally speaking these short-timers were dangerous in that their attention to their jobs suffered to a degree.  This small bit of inattentiveness could lead to accidents.  If you were like me and worked with munitions, you didn’t want an inattentive co-worker.  As our instructors in munitions training would tell us, “The last word you’ll ever hear will be ‘Oops!'”  For this reason, the military would re-assign short-timers in my section.  They’d be turned into desk jockeys for that last 2-3 months of their enlistment.  To me this made perfect sense.

If only there was a place we could put George Bush where he couldn’t do any damage.  Unfortunately, our Constitution doesn’t allow for such a place or process.  Instead, we are stuck with this inattentive idiot until our new President takes office in January.  God help us.

The short-timer was also bad for morale.  Of course, we were all happy to see a dude get to the end of his enlistment.  We were equally happy to listen to the short-timer spout off about how he was going to grow his hair down to his ass, smoke a Cheech & Chong size joint, and of course, go to college.  Nonetheless, we’d all harbor a bit of resentment and our own discharge would seem even further away given the immediacy of the short-timer’s departure. 

We’ve seen that all Georgie Boy can talk about lately is how he can’t wait to step out of the limelight.  If the limelight was so freaking tough, why the hell did he run in 2004?  He could’ve taken a page from LBJ.  No, W knows just how he’ll be judged by history and his ultimate hope is that somehow, we’ll be able to forget his sorry ass.  No doubt, he’s already forgotten us.

I can just imagine, W boarding Air Force One for that final ride home.  He & Laura will turn to the cameras prior to entering the plane.  Under his breath, he’ll exclaim through his smile, “happy trails Bitches!”