Thursday, November 17, 2022

Saint Joseph and Ice Cream - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love

Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Saint Joseph and Ice Cream

 

“I thought I heard you saying it was a pity…I never had any children…But I have, you know … Thousands of ’em … thousands of ’em…”

 

-Goodbye, Mr. Chips

 

In memory of a happy summer morning with Abbie and Alexander in Ottawa

 

Every man is a father after the Order of Saint Joseph

Every child is his to nurture and protect

A man must practice wisdom and honor

In order to pass them on to a new generation

 

And there is something to be said for ice cream -

I was entrusted with two little children

For a walkabout around Parliament Hill

“And give them nutritious snacks,” their mother enjoined

 

Most strictly enjoined

 

I asked myself what good Saint Joseph would do -

Surely he would buy them an ice cream each

 

And it was so

And now you know

Wednesday, November 16, 2022

Painter's Cough - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Painter’s Cough

 

He tossed his cigarette and introduced himself

And coughed

A weary old man with a weary beard

He coughed

And came inside to check the painting prep

He coughed

And was not happy with the previous work

He wheezed

 

He began bringing in his equipment and paint

He coughed

He gazed around the rooms disapprovingly

He coughed

He sanded and he sanded and he sanded

He coughed

He sanded and sanded all morning long

He wheezed

 

He croaked, “Oh, man, this dust’s getting’ to me”

He coughed

So he went outside for a cigarette

(Presumably he coughed)

His methy helper finally showed up

He coughed too

They griped about the poor preparatory work

One wheezed, one coughed

 

Neither wore a respirator or mask

They coughed

And talked about a nephew in jail again

They coughed

The helper offered me some backstrap at lunch

He coughed

And was surprised when I said, “No, thanks”

He wheezed

 

The contractor went away for a while

The painters coughed

And spent more time outside with their cigarettes

Presumably they coughed

The plastic dust sheets were silent and still

And never coughed

The painters took more frequent breaks and smoked

And probably coughed

 

And so the weary day wore itself out

The painters packed their equipment and their coughs

And promised to return tomorrow and finish

And clear away the piles of dust and debris

And maybe they will

 

Cough

Monday, November 14, 2022

The Weight of a Rifle - poem

 

The Weight of a Rifle

 

I had quite forgotten the weight of a rifle.

 

-C. S. Lewis to his brother, 11 August 1940, upon joining the Home Guard

 

Despite the cold and the morning mist

Some of the fellows reported wild boars

Up against the tree line across the fields

So with my old rifle I took a walk

 

I found their feral diggings and rootings 

And stood and listened to the autumn winds

Sighing in the tree tops, but there were no hogs

Robert Frost could have made something of it

 

I marched for miles in my merry youth

Laughing and singing by squad and company

M-14 rifles slung over our skinny shoulders

Our government thought this was a good idea

 

I found some bright-red holly-berries this morning

Which was more fun than shooting at hogs

 

Or at other men


Letters of C. S. Lewis, ed. W. H. Lewis, Harvest / HBJ, San Diego, 1966



Feral Hogs Attack and Kill a Woman in Texas - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

Sunday, November 13, 2022

Destry Rides Yet Again - column / movie review 13 November 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Destry Rides Yet Again

 

You know, I don't hold too much for first impressions. The way I figure it, the last impression is important.

 

-Tom Destry

 

One of the satellite channels programmed a weekend of Audie Murphy cowboy movies. In my youth these were a Saturday afternoon staple down at the Palace Theatre, of happy memory, and I was pleased to revisit Destry (1954).

 

Dismissing Destry and other post-war shoot-‘em-ups as cheap, mass-produced, predictable entertainment would be easy, and in fact Destry features few surprises: a young, unassuming cowboy whom everyone underrates arrives in a corrupt western down to clean it up. The chief villain is an oily fancy-pants with a concealed Derringer and who surrounds himself with a crew of stupid, disposable gunslingers. There is a bad girl and a good girl (think of Grushenka and Katerina in The Brothers Karamazov), an incompetent mayor, an incompetent sheriff, a kindly old Doc, a brass-voiced old aunt, and assorted fearful townsfolk.

 

Destry, however, stands out because of the director, George Marshall, and an outstanding cast of some of Hollywood’s finest.

 

Marshall was the director of 1939’s Destry Rides again and wanted to re-make it in color and with a larger budget. His 1954 Tom Destry is the son of James Stewart’s Destry, and so the second film could be considered a sequel rather than a remake. That the second film is not as well-known as the first is unfortunate, because it is excellent in its own way.

 

Audie Murphy was a great actor. He is better known for his many cowboy films, but was brilliant as a conflicted young idealist in The Quiet American. Filmed in Saigon in 1958 with some studio sequences in Rome, this controversial film was not a financial success (and author Graham Greene hated it) but Murphy is finally given a chance to portray a complex, conflicted character and carries it off wonderfully. In Destry he anticipates this complexity as a young deputy sheriff dealing with apparently impossible situations while upholding the law.

 

Mari Blanchard, whose career was all too short, is the brunette bad girl who chooses the right path in the end, but because she was the bad girl she must die.

 

Lori Nelson is the blonde good girl, generally forgettable except at the end, when she discharges two revolvers into the ceiling to get Destry’s attention.

 

Wonderful Mary Wickes is the brass-voice old aunt (Doc’s wife, actually, but P. G. Wodehouse would see her as an aunt).

 

Lyle Bettger is the Snidely Whiplash villain, cunning, cruel, and treacherous. He seems to be enjoying his role immensely.

 

Thomas Mitchell is the bumbling, drunken sheriff, often comical but who in the end dies tragically when shot in the back by the villains. This is the point when Destry stops being Mr. I-don’t-like-guns Nice Guy and the plot goes all Katie-bar-the-door.

 

Best known as Scarlett O’Hara’s pa, Mitchell enjoyed a long career in Hollywood and was a closet intellectual and playwright as well as a much-honored actor.

 

Wallace Ford is loveable ol’ Doc. This great actor’s early life was, as many have noted, Dickensian. He was born in England as Samuel Grundy and grew up in a series of orphanages and brutal family placements in England and in Canada. Sam and another boy, named Wallace Ford, escaped to America (Danged illegal immigrants, right? Ford later served in the cavalry.) on a freight train. Wallace Ford was killed while the boys were trying to board another train, and in his honor Sam took Wallace’s name. Now there is a story worth filming.

 

Edgar Buchanan always played bumbling, comical old grumps, uncles, and mayors, but in a surprise turn he is in this film a determined villain and is killed trying to murder Destry.

 

John Doucette steals his one brief scene as a growly-voiced bully, and long before he was the Skipper Alan Hale, Jr. sails a horse as a tough trail boss impatient with the young deputy sheriff’s determination to follow the law in all things.

 

By the end of the film the set is littered with more bodies than the final scene in Hamlet, and yet there is no blood. Why were movie deaths so tidy in those days? Everyone in the cast and crew were survivors of the Depression and the Second World War. Some of them had been in combat in the Second World War and others in the First World War. All of them would have lost friends or relatives in the wars, and all of them knew how fearful, painful, and prolonged most deaths are. We can only speculate that, knowing hunger and death and loss for so long, the filmmakers were not going to show those horrors in their art. It sometimes seems that the brutal deaths in modern cinema are staged by filmmakers whose own lives have featured no more trauma than not making the swim team at Yale or maybe having to wait in line at a Starbuck’s.

 

But this is only speculation.

 

Another reality is that there is little diversity in 1950s cowboy films, although we know that the American West was peopled by all sorts of peoples from all sorts of backgrounds and cultures. But a film reflects the aesthetics of the dominant culture in the time in which it was made, not the time in which it is set, thus all those blonde Romans in Spartacus. John Ford was one of the few filmmakers trying to get things right (cf. Sergeant Rutledge and Cheyenne Autumn, for instance), but he is now faulted for his efforts while the other producers and directors of the time who ignored social injustice get a pass.

 

Well, as the man says in Slaughterhouse Five, so it goes.

 

And I see I have drifted away from my topic, the fine craftsmanship in Audie Murphy’s Destry. It is a good film indeed, almost Shakespearean in its individual tragedies but with the young lovers reunited at the end. We hope that they lived happily ever after.

 

-30-

The Not-So-Red Tsunami Tide Pod - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Not-So-Red Tsunami Tide Pod

 

A plague a’ both your houses!

 

-Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet

 

The Blues and the Reds -

 

At each other they slang and curse and cuss

But while doing so they can’t bother the rest of us

 

Alas that both parties are expensive dastards -

We have to pay taxes to support those (wretches)

Saturday, November 12, 2022

Is This a Carry On Movie? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Is This a Carry On Movie?

 

The Things They Carried The Things We Carry

Things People Carry The Light We Carry

Call Us What We Carry What We Carry

What I Carry

 

Maybe we can put something down, okay?

Thursday, November 10, 2022

When a Man Starts Talkin' about His Jesus - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

When a Man Starts Talkin’ about His Jesus

 

When a man starts talkin’ about his Jesus

Cling not to his faith, but to your wallet

When a man says we all worship the same God

You’d better cling even tighter to your brain

Tuesday, November 8, 2022

A Few Poems for Remembrance Day, previously published in LogoSophia

 The Result was Silence – LogoSophia Magazine


By Lawrence “Mack in Texas” Hall (Rated PG13)


“The Result was Silence”

“Today I initiated a telephone conversation with the President of the Russian Federation. The result was silence.” -President Volodymyr Zelenskiy

There is no silence in Kiev this dawn
Morning commutes, intermittent news feeds
Explosions. Power failures. How many will die
Without finishing their WORDLE today

Old men rattle their dentures in outrage
Sky News reports a couple of police officers
In the street below, smoking cigarettes
Which makes more sense than most things just now

Kharkov’s air-raid sirens are deeper than Kiev’s
There is no silence in Kiev this dawn


A Few Kind Thoughts for Roman Soldiers

If you have stood your watch throughout the night
To guard a clothesline of national importance
Dug foxholes only to fill them up again
And then patrolled through long days in the heat

If you have enjoyed Cinderella Liberty
And talking about poetry and girls
With a few mates down at the coffee shop
Because that’s all your poor pay can afford

You will then understand the conscript guards
Posted to keep order on Calvary


Afghanistan, Graveyard of 19-Year-Olds

Ghosts shriek in the wind from the Hindu Kush
Falling upon the lowlands in despair
Of any reality beyond death
In the blood-sodden sands where sinks all good

Walls, monuments, souls, hopes – all blow away
In the wreckage of long-fallen empires
Their detritus trod upon by tired men
Whose graves will be the howling dust of time

And yet the empire masters will return
And leave fresh offerings, remnants of the young:
A British Enfield, a Moghul’s lost shoe,
A cell phone silent beside the Great Khan’s skull

(First published in The Road to Magdalena, 2012)


We Have No Enemies Among the Dead
For the Young Crew of the Moskva
14 April 2022

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave…
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea -The Navy Hymn

Proud admirals and presidents rattle their medals

The young – in screams among burst steam lines die
Explosions and darkness and seawater and hatches sealed
The bulkheads blown, there is no up, no down
Only pain and horror and throat-torn shrieks

Proud admirals and presidents jing-aling their medals

Training manuals, pocketknives, and comic books
Naughty pinups, letters from Mom, wrenches, and boots
Toolboxes, ball-point pens, and coffee cups
Fall with the young deep down into the sea

Proud admirals and presidents dazzle the room with their medals

Mothers and fathers grieve in emptiness
Our Leaders caution them to mind their attitude

Proud admirals and presidents – to Hell with their medals


Crazy Old Men with Rockets ‘n’ Bombs

When you read to your brother or sister
A go-to-sleep book about bunnies and stars
You are healing a wound in Creation
Made by some malevolent old man

When you sing along with the washing machine
And help your MeeMaw up those tricky stairs
You are healing a wound in Creation
Made by some malevolent old man

When you sit on the steps late at night
And watch a pirate ship sail close by the moon
You are healing a wound in Creation
Made by some malevolent old man

When you pray for the bombed-out refugees
And put a little extra in the collection plate
You are healing a wound in Creation
Made by some malevolent old man

When you sing a song to the universe
It remains in the heavens forever

Because

You helped heal a wound in Creation


No Bombers Over Our Lady Help of Christians Catholic School in 1958:
A Brief Discussion of a Successful Cold War Tactic

from an idea suggested by Kirk Briggs

Some have scoffed about hiding under our tables
As protection from the Soviets’ nuclear strikes
But scorn not this truth of those factual fables:
It worked! No bombers! Post that as one of our “likes!”

Take this Meme and Shove It - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Take this Meme and Shove It

 

A Dirge in Three Chords

 

That which makes a lucrative country song

Ain’t nothing but blood on the porch-steps of life:

Handcuffs, weeping children, weeping exes

Beer-puke on the floor of a ’64 Ford

 

A daughter who found love two trailers over

Because her daddy found love in another town

And her momma’s too damn’ stoned to notice

After losing her job at the Dixie Belle

 

Trey-Boy calls from somewhere in the Dakotas

Needing money for a bus ticket home

 

And there ain’t no money

And there ain’t no home

Monday, November 7, 2022

Amateur Storm Chasers Do Voice-Overs for Their MePhone Videos - a sort-of poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Amateur Storm Chasers Do Voice-Overs for Their MePhone Videos

 

Oh my God

Oh my God

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my God!

Are you ****ing me?

Are you ****ing me!?

Oh my God

Oh my God

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my Goddddddddddddd!

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh my God

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my God!

Are you ****ING ME!?

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh my God

Oh my God!

Oh my God

Oh my God

Sunday, November 6, 2022

Ball Valve-Packing Gland - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love

Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Ball Valve-Packing Gland

 

Valbula de bola-Tuerca de ajuste

Hecho en China

 

I don’t know what a Ball Valve-Packing Gland is

My A & P classes didn’t mention it

Something to do with the rotator cuff?

Or is it next to the sella turcica?

 

A floating bone or a floating bit of plumbing

Because some men were here the other day

To mend a wonky valve with something brass

That glistens richly in the morning sun

 

Yes, that’s it; it’s plumbing, not my diet

And so I can have chocolate cake today!

Saturday, November 5, 2022

A SHORT Speech for Our Children on Remembrance Day / Veterans Day

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

A Few Veterans’ Day Thoughts for our Children

 

Last year I was asked to give a speech (“short,” they said, “keep it short”) at the high school to the students, veterans, and guests for Veterans’ Day, known in other allied nations as Remembrance Day. Because of my poor speaking voice (so much for any hope of a career in radio) few of those present heard it. In my vanity I think the message is good, and certainly our young folks are good, and so here it is:

 

Judge Folk

Veterans

Students of Kirbyville High School

Honored Guests

Mrs. Gore

Mrs. McClatchy

Faculty and staff

 

Thank you allowing me to speak today.

 

There are many men and women from Kirbyville and Jasper County whose service and devotion to duty makes them far more fitted for the honor. But today I guess you’re stuck with me.

 

Master Chief Petty Officer Leo Stanley, who died last month, is one of those whose voice would be better today. I wish he could be here again to share this special day with you. He was a Navy Hospital Corpsman for forty years, earning promotion to the highest enlisted rank there is. In his retirement one of the ways in which he continued serving his country was by serving you, his beloved students, in your elementary school’s reading program. Many of you remember him with great joy, for he and Miss Mary loved helping you learn to read each Friday for many years.

 

If he were here – and perhaps he is - the Chief would talk about you and your service to God and country, and he would expect me to do so too. And I will

 

I will begin with thirteen fine young folks of your generation who were killed last summer while serving humanity in helping refugees escape from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan.

 

You have all seen the photograph of Marine Corps Sergeant Nicole Gee cradling an infant amid the chaos at the airport in Kabul when everything fell apart.  The picture is not a government propaganda photograph; if it were it would be of better quality. This is just a snapshot one of her fellow Marines forwarded to her.  She sent it by email to her parents with the words, “I love my job!”

 

“I love my job.”

 

Those may have been the last words this United States Marine - with her hair tied back in a ponytail - said to her mom and dad.

 

On the 26th of August Sergeant Gee and the others who were killed with her almost surely did not think of themselves as great Americans; they were too busy BEING great Americans.

 

They would have thought of themselves – 11 Marines, one soldier, and one Navy Hospital Corpsmen, just like your mentor Chief Stanley - as only doing their jobs in the heat and dust and violence of Afghanistan, helping civilians escape being murdered by the Taliban.

 

That’s what YOU would do. Don’t let anyone dismiss your generation with cheap and shabby stereotypes. YOU would carry a baby amid the screams and terror and dust and heat to a waiting airplane and then return to the perimeter for another child or young mother or old man or anyone who needed your help.

 

That’s what these thirteen young people did, and they were young, like you.

 

You could have even been on the same school bus run:

 

The oldest by far was Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Darin T. Hoover, 31, of Salt Lake City, Utah.  31 might seem old, but he was young.

 

Marine Corps Sgt. Nicole L. Gee, 23, of Sacramento, California

 

Marine Corps Sgt. Johanny Rosariopichardo, another woman Marine, 25, of Lawrence, Massachusetts

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Hunter Lopez, 22, of Indio, California

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Daegan W. Page, 23, of Omaha, Nebraska

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Humberto A. Sanchez, 22, of Logansport, Indiana

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. David L. Espinoza, 20, of Rio Bravo, Texas

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Jared M. Schmitz, 20, of St. Charles, Missouri

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Rylee J. McCollum, 20, of Jackson, Wyoming

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Dylan R. Merola, 20, of Rancho Cucamonga, California

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Kareem M. Nikoui, 20, of Norco, California

 

Navy Hospitalman Maxton W. Soviak, 22, of Berlin Heights, Ohio

 

Army Staff Sgt. Ryan C. Knauss, 23, of Corryton, Tennessee.

 

They are your generation. They were killed in a scene of horror by a mad bomber who chose hate instead of love. His hate killed those 13 young Americans and wounded some 30 other Americans who were saving lives, and killed and wounded possibly 200 or more Afghans.

 

One unhappy young man chose hate. He doesn’t represent anything.

 

But your generation has chosen love, the love Jesus spoke of when he said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

 

And these young Americans gave up their lives for people they didn’t even know.

 

No greater love indeed.

 

We have spoken of these 13, but let us remember this: every young American in Kabul that day was saving lives – they were helping terrified people get to the airplanes, helping them to safety.

 

That is also the story of just about every American soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, or Coast Guard in our nation’s history.

 

If you look at us sometimes absurd old people, I hope you remember that we were once young like you – maybe when dinosaurs roamed the earth – and that every veteran you see before you gave up some of his or her own poor rations to help feed children, gave up some of his time and sleep and effort in helping those who were hungry or displaced, and risked his life to save others.

 

And finally, that’s your story too. You are going to serve humanity

in some way,

in some place,

in some time – as a soldier, a police officer, a volunteer firefighter, a paramedic, or as a good American civilian who stands tall when needed and helps the community in some way. You may not be called to carry a child to safety from Kabul Airport or from a wrecked car or from a burning building, but you will surely be called to help feed children, encourage children, coach children, teach children in Sunday School or, like Chief Stanley, help out with the reading program at the elementary school or at the library.

 

There’s an old Army National Guard recruiting slogan that says:

 

It wasn’t always easy

It wasn’t always fair

But when freedom called we answered

We were there

 

We and your parents know that, like the young Americans who always serve those in need, you will be there too.

 

Thank you.

Guy Fawkes' Last Tweet - doggerel for the Inglorious Fifth

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love

Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Guy Fawkes’ Last Tweet

 

Remember, remember, the tweets of November

Corporate greed and rot

I see no purpose

Why declaring workers surplus

Should ever be forgot

Friday, November 4, 2022

Tolkien's Shelob the Spider - poem

 

Tolkien’s Shelob the Spider

 

“…a great malice bent upon him…gloating over…prey trapped beyond all hope of escape.”

 

-Tolkien, The Two Towers

 

A poisonous lump of flesh in malignant repose

Her lair all befouled with scraps of souls

In life sought out with her multiplex eyes

Her Sauron-eyes - it was the hopes that died first

 

Should a sunbeam shine in, it would be darkened

Should a breath of air waft in, it would be poisoned

Should a sprig of green appear, it would be withered

Should a prayer be whispered, it would be cursed

 

A poisonous lump of flesh in malignant repose

Within whose realm of hate nothing ever grows

 

(allusions to The Two Towers and Beowulf)

Thursday, November 3, 2022

I will not Mourn for Summer - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I will not Mourn for Summer

for Jean in Canada! 

I will not mourn for the summertime

Those six sour months of soul-withering heat

Desperate leaves and crispy grass and weeds

Dust devils exhausting their metaphor

 

Our November is everyone else’s September

With morning mists at last, sweet cooling rains

That ease the wounds of summer’s injuries

A cooling drink for a patient before he dies

 

Thanksgiving is coming; we will give thanks indeed

If the air-conditioning is silent at last

Wednesday, November 2, 2022

Autumn: Do I Turn the Thermostat Forward? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Autumn: Do I Turn the Thermostat Forward?

 

The thermostat that I set for seventy

In the August heat was entirely too warm

And now in November it’s entirely too cold

Why can’t thermostats get the temperature right?

 

The clocks, hot or cold, have issues of their own

In August they chimed the sunrise at six

But now they chime it at seven-thirty

We can conclude that clocks are easily confused

 

The seasons don’t know if they are forward or back

And I’m unsure myself – alas and alack!

Monday, October 31, 2022

A Tiny Tinsel Star - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Tiny Tinsel Star

 

For Sarah

 

While cleaning house I found a tinsel star

A tiny tinsel star from long ago

When once upon a time it shone so far

Above a Christmas scene in cotton snow

 

Or maybe for a little child’s birthday

Among the paper napkins and candled cake:

“And now you Poof! each wishing-flame away

But keep it a secret, that wish you make!”

 

And in this star her little friends’ sweet cheers

Still sound throughout the house after all these years

Sunday, October 30, 2022

The Governor Wasn't Popping Wheelies in the Parking Lot - weekly column 30 October 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Governor Wasn’t Popping Wheelies in the Parking Lot

 

Could one start a Stagnation Party - which at General Elections would boast that during its time in office no event of the least importance had taken place...?

 

-C. S. Lewis in a letter to his brother, 23 March 1940

 

Last week I fulfilled my duty as a citizen of the Republic / Democracy (Is the United States a Republic or a Democracy? - WorldAtlas) by voting in a free, fair, open, honest, and well-observed election at the courthouse annex in Jasper.

 

The folks working the polls were professional and friendly, and a nice lady gave me an “I VOTED” sticker. Another man and I asked if we could have lollipops instead but the nice lady smiled and said she didn’t have any.  I wonder how often she gets asked that by would-be comedians, and I marvel at her patience.

 

There were no mysterious suitcases, no mules or jack-*sses, no loose boxes of ballots being smuggled in by Boris and Natasha, no cyber attacks (ya can’t hotwire a paper ballot), no loose bricks, no Jewish space lasers, no campaign posters near the polls, no mind-control electronic waves, no bonfires, no one denied me entry, no one looked over my shoulder, no observer was anywhere near me, and my ballot was not already filled out.  I don’t think my ballot was made in China from bamboo containing microchips, but then I don’t take orders from random consonants. Or from vowels, some of whom are silent.

 

But now Euclid and his Five Postulates, yeah, be careful about having anything to do with them, all those rays (and a guy named Ray?), parallel lines, segments, radii, right angles, and equiangle polygons. They’re not in the Bible, you know. I say we need to keep geometry away from our elections.

 

I admit that I did not look in the dumpsters for discarded ballots; I don’t even know where the dumpsters are.  Maybe the albino tri-lateral commission monks are hiding them in their subterranean lair on Oak Island. Where are the dumpsters!? We demand transparent dumpsters!

 

No one followed me through the parking lot, there were no armed wannabe G.I. Joe Secret Squirrel Commandos lurking about, Beto O’Rourke did not dance on any cars, Greg Abbot did not pop wheelies, Ken Paxton didn’t flee any process servers, no one took my picture, and no one wrote down my license plate number. And, really, I can’t imagine that even the looniest Qonspiracy goof snuggle-cuddling his testosterone compensation it’s-not-an-assault-rifle would associate a clapped-out, twenty-year-old heapster as part of a fast-moving unmarked UN globalist conspiracy to infiltrate microchipped bamboo ballots into the system in order to steal America’s precious bodily fluids.

 

Thanks to all the poll workers and poll watchers in Jasper County and everywhere, the worker bees who serve all of us and who are so essential to the peace, freedom, and good order of our democracy / republic / constitutional democracy / representative democracy / democratic republic. 

 

We read about goofy election stuff happening in other states, but through loyalty and good stewardship it’s not happening here. More Americans should act like us.

 

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