It really is ridiculous. And it’s not just the current state of affairs in America that I’m talking about.
I, too, am ridiculous. I hurriedly ran out of the studio after doing the show this morning to register for classes. If you don’t get on the computer and hold your place, you risk not getting the classes you want. I’m 56 years old.
I, too, am ridiculous. I hurriedly ran out of the studio after doing the show this morning to register for classes. If you don’t get on the computer and hold your place, you risk not getting the classes you want. I’m 56 years old.
Hate crimes and hate speech,
the political correctness of a
piece of toast.
One side wants guns for
breakfast,
the other won’t touch a
roast.
Shoot then ask.
Spit then conjure up a hocker.
The Wild West has nothing on
the early part of
21st century America.
Saloon whores and
battlefield buttons.
A lone rider stops for a beer,
chaps and all. He’s not even gay,
as far as we know.
All we care about is if he’s
on my side or yours,
and if he has a disease.
Past that, he is of no use to us.
A polio past leaves a limp for the future.
Penicillin pride, ignominious beginnings.
When it gets this confusing,
you don’t know which side you’re
on and you don’t care as
long as you don’t get shot and
there’s someone to hate.
Welcome to the hinterlands,
where principle preceded itself
for a while, but now
nocturnalism knocks negativitity
to the nader of nationalism.
Sit up all night in your underwear
spewing sideways, then yankity
wank spank crank one and go
to bed. If you want an argument,
you can get what you paid for
at the OK Corral.
Guns or trains. Those are your choices
to Chicago.
They closed down the Dan Ryan
today for a few hours to clear
bullets and debris.
Hey, honey, did you start the
dishwasher?
Bam bam bam
screech screech
someone’s shooting
within arm’s reach.
Stop the cars, halt the trains,
let’s figure out who’s
dead or alive.
Then let’s go about our day.
Everything is normal now.
A shootout at the beginning of rush hour
seems about as commonplace as grabbing
a woman’s ass and lying about it.
Both sides lie
Both sides hate
Both sides would sell their mother for a dollar
Both sides tell you they know the truth
Both sides are failing belittled mistakes
esoterica.
I want to tell you about it on the radio.
That’s where it’s supposed to be good and
pure and beautiful.
High school basketball and pierogi fest
dominate the horizon.
What evil is there is in a potato pancake
or a new sports complex
or a breast cancerfundraiser?
How do you hate a jump shot?
Aren’t all voices that phone in beautiful?
Isn’t there truth in simmering calls
against loneliness and fear?
There used to be.
There will be again.
For now, men mail bombs
and shoot up synagogues.
Have you ever seen a dead person
who was just shot and killed?
It’s not pretty.
Where did life go?
It was here a minute ago.
We’ve misplaced it,
like our collective keys.
Oh well, call the dealer
and make another set.
Unless that was your only
key to a car they don’t make
anymore. Then you’re
screwed to a life of
hoping to wake up
to a different reality,
one in which your loved one
wasn’t killed by a wack job.
Wack job this and wack job that,
pinko stinko linko splat.
In the morning there is sun
by night there is none.
And we’re okay with that.
We’re okay with a lot of things
that bring pain and suffering.
Hug, watch, wait, hope, believe,
pray, gasp, ache, cry, beware.
America is not what it seems.
Maybe it never was.
As always these days, I’m having a crisis of confidence in what I’m doing to contribute to the chaos.
Last week, a guy named Cesar Sayoc allegedly mailed bombs to 14 leading Democrats. Over the weekend, a guy named Rober Bowers allegedly shot up a synagogue in Pittsburgh, killing 11. CNN’s trying to figure out if the president’ rhetoric contributed to it all.
I don’t know and, to an extent, I don’t care what answer CNN and Fox come up with. They are not real to me. They are each telling a different side to a fairy tale, one in which we live in a country based on principle, pride, loyalty and acceptance. We do not have a mission. Turn up the volume 10 percent and we will devolve into chaos. I’m sure of it.
I am just as sure that this is a phase. I have six teenage nieces and nephews who live around the corner. In true hillbilly fashion, my brother and sister and I bought houses by each other. My dad lives in the middle. I love to stop by and see my nieces and nephews at their games and at their homes. I take guilty pleasure in watching my brother and sister and their spouses argue with moody teenagers. I was there a few times. I can laugh and giggle, persnickety wiggle, at their household management.
Being a teenager is a phase. Once you mature a little and figure things out, a cure comes along. That is what is happening to America. We became teenagers. Pretty soon we’ll go to college. There’s danger there, too, but at least my brother and sister don’t have to deal with it on a daily basis.
I’d like to lay in this bed and sleep til it’s all over. Teenagers can be terrible people. But as nasty as they can be, you have to be there for them. You have to endure a little abuse during the waiting period. That’s what being a parent is all about.
That’s what being an American is all about.
Accept the pain of tomorrow
Believe in the beauty of yesterday
On the way to the store,
don’t be a bore,
just stand for the national anthem.
I wanna nap til it’s over, but I can’t. I talk on the radio every morning. Today, we considered Cesar and Robert. Like every other talking head in America, I asked how we could produce such bombers and shooters. What is our responsibility in creating them?
That is what every talking head in America is doing this last Monday in October, two days before Halloween. I should probably start soon on an ode to my mother, who died on Halloween, 1988. As the three or four of you know, every season I re-explain how my mom’s death affected me and my brothers and sisters.
But not right now. There are other things on my mind. I am thinking about Eric Krieg. Yes, Eric Krieg. We talked about him on the morning show. The police say he drove over to the East Chicago post office on his lunch hour from BP and mailed a bomb to a local attorney’s house. He was having a dispute with that attorney and with the mayor of Hammond. So instead of going to Zel’s for a beef sandwich, he mailed a bomb.
Allegedly.
Oops. The bomb went off in the post office instead of the attorney’s living room with kids playing video games nearby. A pregnant woman was injured. We talked about it on the radio for a while. And then we didn’t. The question is this –
What role do we play in creating Eric Krieg? How could a guy with a good job at the refinery just snap?
A guy named Tony called in. He works at BP. He said there was no indication that Eric Krieg would do something like the police are alleging that he did. Tony said that Krieg had a few opinions here and there and that he expressed some concern about certain rules at the refinery. But that was the extent of it. I used to see Eric Krieg around town. He called my radio show. What the hell happened? What is our responsibility? What is my responsibility?
I don’t know. It’s too big of a question to take on right now. I have to study for statistics class tonight. I can’t tell you how much I hate statistics right now. It’s one of those classes you have to take on your way to earning an MBA. I just want a B. I just want to be. Don’t you?
the political correctness of a
piece of toast.
One side wants guns for
breakfast,
the other won’t touch a
roast.
Shoot then ask.
Spit then conjure up a hocker.
The Wild West has nothing on
the early part of
21st century America.
Saloon whores and
battlefield buttons.
A lone rider stops for a beer,
chaps and all. He’s not even gay,
as far as we know.
All we care about is if he’s
on my side or yours,
and if he has a disease.
Past that, he is of no use to us.
A polio past leaves a limp for the future.
Penicillin pride, ignominious beginnings.
When it gets this confusing,
you don’t know which side you’re
on and you don’t care as
long as you don’t get shot and
there’s someone to hate.
Welcome to the hinterlands,
where principle preceded itself
for a while, but now
nocturnalism knocks negativitity
to the nader of nationalism.
Sit up all night in your underwear
spewing sideways, then yankity
wank spank crank one and go
to bed. If you want an argument,
you can get what you paid for
at the OK Corral.
Guns or trains. Those are your choices
to Chicago.
They closed down the Dan Ryan
today for a few hours to clear
bullets and debris.
Hey, honey, did you start the
dishwasher?
Bam bam bam
screech screech
someone’s shooting
within arm’s reach.
Stop the cars, halt the trains,
let’s figure out who’s
dead or alive.
Then let’s go about our day.
Everything is normal now.
A shootout at the beginning of rush hour
seems about as commonplace as grabbing
a woman’s ass and lying about it.
Both sides lie
Both sides hate
Both sides would sell their mother for a dollar
Both sides tell you they know the truth
Both sides are failing belittled mistakes
esoterica.
I want to tell you about it on the radio.
That’s where it’s supposed to be good and
pure and beautiful.
High school basketball and pierogi fest
dominate the horizon.
What evil is there is in a potato pancake
or a new sports complex
or a breast cancerfundraiser?
How do you hate a jump shot?
Aren’t all voices that phone in beautiful?
Isn’t there truth in simmering calls
against loneliness and fear?
There used to be.
There will be again.
For now, men mail bombs
and shoot up synagogues.
Have you ever seen a dead person
who was just shot and killed?
It’s not pretty.
Where did life go?
It was here a minute ago.
We’ve misplaced it,
like our collective keys.
Oh well, call the dealer
and make another set.
Unless that was your only
key to a car they don’t make
anymore. Then you’re
screwed to a life of
hoping to wake up
to a different reality,
one in which your loved one
wasn’t killed by a wack job.
Wack job this and wack job that,
pinko stinko linko splat.
In the morning there is sun
by night there is none.
And we’re okay with that.
We’re okay with a lot of things
that bring pain and suffering.
Hug, watch, wait, hope, believe,
pray, gasp, ache, cry, beware.
America is not what it seems.
Maybe it never was.
As always these days, I’m having a crisis of confidence in what I’m doing to contribute to the chaos.
Last week, a guy named Cesar Sayoc allegedly mailed bombs to 14 leading Democrats. Over the weekend, a guy named Rober Bowers allegedly shot up a synagogue in Pittsburgh, killing 11. CNN’s trying to figure out if the president’ rhetoric contributed to it all.
I don’t know and, to an extent, I don’t care what answer CNN and Fox come up with. They are not real to me. They are each telling a different side to a fairy tale, one in which we live in a country based on principle, pride, loyalty and acceptance. We do not have a mission. Turn up the volume 10 percent and we will devolve into chaos. I’m sure of it.
I am just as sure that this is a phase. I have six teenage nieces and nephews who live around the corner. In true hillbilly fashion, my brother and sister and I bought houses by each other. My dad lives in the middle. I love to stop by and see my nieces and nephews at their games and at their homes. I take guilty pleasure in watching my brother and sister and their spouses argue with moody teenagers. I was there a few times. I can laugh and giggle, persnickety wiggle, at their household management.
Being a teenager is a phase. Once you mature a little and figure things out, a cure comes along. That is what is happening to America. We became teenagers. Pretty soon we’ll go to college. There’s danger there, too, but at least my brother and sister don’t have to deal with it on a daily basis.
I’d like to lay in this bed and sleep til it’s all over. Teenagers can be terrible people. But as nasty as they can be, you have to be there for them. You have to endure a little abuse during the waiting period. That’s what being a parent is all about.
That’s what being an American is all about.
Accept the pain of tomorrow
Believe in the beauty of yesterday
On the way to the store,
don’t be a bore,
just stand for the national anthem.
I wanna nap til it’s over, but I can’t. I talk on the radio every morning. Today, we considered Cesar and Robert. Like every other talking head in America, I asked how we could produce such bombers and shooters. What is our responsibility in creating them?
That is what every talking head in America is doing this last Monday in October, two days before Halloween. I should probably start soon on an ode to my mother, who died on Halloween, 1988. As the three or four of you know, every season I re-explain how my mom’s death affected me and my brothers and sisters.
But not right now. There are other things on my mind. I am thinking about Eric Krieg. Yes, Eric Krieg. We talked about him on the morning show. The police say he drove over to the East Chicago post office on his lunch hour from BP and mailed a bomb to a local attorney’s house. He was having a dispute with that attorney and with the mayor of Hammond. So instead of going to Zel’s for a beef sandwich, he mailed a bomb.
Allegedly.
Oops. The bomb went off in the post office instead of the attorney’s living room with kids playing video games nearby. A pregnant woman was injured. We talked about it on the radio for a while. And then we didn’t. The question is this –
What role do we play in creating Eric Krieg? How could a guy with a good job at the refinery just snap?
A guy named Tony called in. He works at BP. He said there was no indication that Eric Krieg would do something like the police are alleging that he did. Tony said that Krieg had a few opinions here and there and that he expressed some concern about certain rules at the refinery. But that was the extent of it. I used to see Eric Krieg around town. He called my radio show. What the hell happened? What is our responsibility? What is my responsibility?
I don’t know. It’s too big of a question to take on right now. I have to study for statistics class tonight. I can’t tell you how much I hate statistics right now. It’s one of those classes you have to take on your way to earning an MBA. I just want a B. I just want to be. Don’t you?
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