Writing

Touched by the Muse.

Bed of Roses

While pretty, I am best viewed from afar.

Greetings and Salutations!

For some strange reason I decided to overhaul this blog instead of just trashing it. Originally, my plan was to delete the thing and end this voyage and abandon any dear readers that I may have collected along the way. Readers which I am certain have moved onwards and upwards and have forgotten about an alleged narcissicist with  tendencies for degeneracy on scales that can only be measured with “epic” as a qualifying adjective. But I ditched the plan. I have no reason why I have done so – I was having a bastardly bastard of a time coming up with things that I felt were relevant enough to write about (and we all see where that went…). And beyond explaining what has happened it the eon that I have been away, I find myself wondering if I will have material beyond a few days, maybe weeks.

Now, things have changed. I have moved on to a new chapter in my novel existence (see what I did there?), and wonder if the coming experiences will rate sharing with others. It is not that I feel that my life has become or will become boring…that is not something that I believe is possible for me. What is at issue is that I have been avoiding – the collapse of The Foundation. Yes, the collapse of the what was the single most beneficial asset to Samurai City. From beginning to end, the tale is one that I am sure would amuse, horrify, and possible bring about several more indictments; it may be told on various turns of your humble narrator’s new adventure, but do not plan on it (for any of you that care, for those of you that do not…pick a finger). The fall of the Creator of the Thunderdome is a tale wrought the joy, sadness, treachery, and ultimately, a tragedy of Greek literary tradition. But our Foundation life was not a bed of roses, this way is better for us (snicker). Needless to say, instead of focusing my empire on “charity,” I decided to go back to the University. A career in psychology/psychiatry seemed like a new and exciting path for Dear Xavier, so I packed up my office, and traded my ledgers for textbooks.

We all press the lever for food.

The road back to academia was an interesting and treacherous one. I found myself immersed in a culture of students that were significantly younger than me. Now, I am not unused to being around young people, but typically I am bossing the younger people around like some self-important autocrat. However, they younger people are now my peers and colleagues. I am now faced with having to remind myself that these are people with opinions that I owe the same consideration and respect that I would give my fellow Generation Xer’s or some junk (which is not necessarily all that much). Still, the journey has been pleasant, despite learning that I still can count mathematics as an area that I am lacking in superiority. I have also learned that psychologists are an incredibly interesting lot of people.

 

I think the best part of the journey that led to my literary hiatus was  that I got to avoid discussing the 2016 election. I also have to struggle to refrain from speaking of the result of that train wreck. 2016 will always represent where three to four decades of dismantling public education will lead. I cannot even bring myself to watch the news anymore. However, this is not a bad thing because I can avoid local news stories that have not gone away (I get it, the Thunderdome and Arboretum would make an excellent public park and demonstrate good will to Samurai City after the unfortunate turn of events that may have involved the Foundation! I said I was thinking about it assholes!).

These are not real babies.

In addition to avoiding the election, I was able to rediscover a few old interests. Namely, photography. I have turned into one of those people that is an unabashed and unashamed iPhonographer. See that shit? I even used tend-iLanguage to talk about my old/new thing. I am not sure why it all started. I mean, it could have been when I was taking naughty innocent pictures of various sex acts statues. It could have been when I got the idea to take a bunch of babies used for teaching how to not abuse babies and arranged them into neat photos. Whenever it was that it started, it started and now it is a thing. One thing that does not bother me about my journey into iPhotography (I am addicted, maybe?) is that I cannot take selfies. It bothers me that I had to type “selfies” multiple times to discuss this, but it was unavoidable. You see, dear readers, it seems that my arms are in fact too short for me to take a decent self-image. No, it is not an angle thing. No, it is not an inability to frame an image. My arms or too fucking small to take one, and I refuse to use one of those horrid sticks. Instead, I have to request that others take pictures of me, and aside from my secretary, I trust the photographer responsible for the image of me featured above (and one other). Other people will make my head to big or get my fat side or get too much forehead or not tell me what do in the picture so I do not look like a hideous fool. This is why images of myself tend to be a year old, maybe two.

What does any of this have to do with me? Loser!

When people quit smoking, or retire, or elect a dangerous Ferengi that had ear reduction surgery to public office, they tend to remember the date that the deed was undertaken. People remember import, significant, life-changing events. So, it would seem to reason (to me) that I would remember what date the doors to the Thunderdome closed leaving the looming structure abandoned in heart of downtown Samurai City. But, I do not. Which is a little disconcerting to me now. I mean, the amount of litigation alone would probably warrant a course in some law school…but I guess when you leave the minutia to attorneys and sycophants and spokespeople one does not have to be concerned with dates and outcomes. It sounds terrible, but other than maybe having to pay for the demolition of some property, the outcome does not really effect me. And is that not the American way? What does not effect me, should not concern me…right? Is that not the direction our species is headed? I believe you should all be concerned that someone such as myself is questioning the humanity of humanity. I mean, my idea of helping the less fortunate involved elephant stampedes parades, and alleged forced substandard-wage labor in apple orchards. I am not saying that I was bad person (just horribly misunderstood), but friends, I am just saying consider whom is writing this and the implications.

Lately, I have found myself having Dante running through my head: “In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.” It seems that I am headed into a new life – I admit to being eager and horrified.

The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.

Forty Lent Suggestions

Ah, Fat Tuesday. A day that makes my Louisiana borne blood wish for bouncy jazz and bouncier tits. The grandiose parades, the crazy costumes, the people who normally would never be seen in by others in their skivvies dropping trow and raising shirt for plastic trinkets that will be lost before stumbling back to the hotel for two hours of sleep before round two begins.

However, that is just what I like about Mardi Gras. That and those wonderful Packzis, which I can enjoy now that I have found a baker who eschews lard. And which I can eat by the dozen thanks to my unique metabolism and general non-chubby state. Sorry, I am getting of track, thinking of boobs and Packzis can do that to you. What Mardi Gras actually is supposed to be is an advent of Lent, right? Please forgive me, I am a horrible reformed Catholic. All I really can say about Lent is that you are supposed to give up something you like for forty days. I am sure that is a rather glib and flippant interpretation, but that is just what it is sometimes, Jeeves.

I have been encountering friends, Catholic friends, whom have been wondering what to give up for Lent. None of them have liked my suggestions, some have even been a bit offended. That gave me an idea. I should write out some of my ideas here. Maybe even try to get forty of them.

Forty Things to Give Up for Lent:

1) Chocolate
2) Caffeine
3) Sugar…ALL sugar
4) Meat
5) Combing or brushing your hair
6) Swearing
7) Television
8) Sex
9) Brushing your teeth
10) Driving
11) Washing your hair
12) Work
13) Bathing
14) Showering
15) Bathing and Showering
16) Bacon
17) All red foods
18) Deodorant
19) Cosmetics
20) Nose picking
21) Justin Bieber (automatic entry to Heaven if you give him up forever)
22) Beer
23) Alcoholic beverages
24) Smoking (if you can make forty days, congrats! You are a non-smoker and have extended your life. Tell me how you did it so I can do likewise)
25) Masturbation (Or is that still considered sinful, and should not have been something to give up in the first place?)
26) Pickles
27) Standing in line (Simply tell people you have given it up for Lent and move to the head of the line. It will work out well. Trust me).
28) Facebook
29) Your mobile device
30) Being negative
31) Smiling (Your dourness would impress the most ardent of Stoics!)
32) Looking at breasts (If you chose this one, you have already blown it.)
33) Jealousy
34) Any weapons you own (What could possibly go wrong in those forty days?)
35) News media (Just the major news, go indie, baby!)
36) Vice
37) Shaving (This includes: face, legs, armpits, back, etc.)
38) Underwear
39) Your technology
40) Using paper

Enjoy the next forty days.

Too Many Pandas

This entry has nothing to do with pandas in any quantity. In fact they will not be mentioned again in any form. I was just too lazy to come up with creative title and slacked and hacked on it instead of coming up with one. To be honest, I was more concerned that my entry here be advertised via my social network connections than I was about a title. So, I should not be shocked if people stop reading or feel disappointed. But that is how life goes. We get disappointed. So, I broke the rule of basic writing and skimped on the title. Do not be angry, think of it as not having enough money for an appetizer at Applebee’s.

I missed a bunch of holidays. An election. And who even knows what else. Basically, I have spent the last few months in a spiritual/emotional Hell hole. That, and immersing myself in science studies in preparation for medical school. Yes, medical school. Your dear Xavier has decided to become a medical professional. I am thinking genetic research. At this time you need not know more. Balancing my new forage into academia and my daily Foundation duties has caused me to be horribly neglectful of this here blog. The stories of my having to deal with some legal issues regarding an alleged incident involving escaped alligators and maimed children have been greatly exaggerated. All of the families allegedly involved have been compensated, and no children were eaten, or even killed.

Sadly, however, a tragic end did come to a dear, beloved friend of mine. A friend whom was almost a lover. A friend that I will always have a fond memory of and will never forget how much that dear friend meant to me. A couple of months ago, Darkside Radio went off the air. If I am not mistaken, my broadcast was the last for the show. I will miss the Darkside. It was one Hell of a ride and if I could do it all over again, I would be tormenting the airwaves with gothic sounds, inappropriate humor.

What brought me roaring back out of slumber was a discussion that I had the other day at my local gunsmith’s:

Proprietor: “You’ll love this one, Mr. Rothechilde. I have never seen a weapon fit a person so well.”

Me: “Ray, you say that every time, you flatterer. I could just kiss you. But, I am just not a rifle sort of guy, you know that.”

Proprietor: “Hey, I had to show it to you.”

Dude: “Hey guy, you should reconsider that. Pretty soon, the Government is going to make them illegal and you won’t be able to have them. What’s so funny? They’re going to take all of our guns! First these, then the rest!”

Me: “Silly man. I help pay for government. Those laws are not for me, I can and will do as I please, and they will allow it.”

Dude: “What’re you sayin’? I pay taxes, asshole!”

Me: “I do not. Well, very little, anyway. But I do pay to get lawmakers elected. Just not in taxes. Congress works for you; the politicians work for me. It is the best government that money can buy.”

This would be vanity were I not behind a tombstone.

This would be vanity were I not behind a tombstone.

And that brings me out to say my piece on the gun debate. Apparently, I missed a lot since I was in cyber-exile. Apparently, the country is afraid that the stern hand of Uncle Sam is going to reach into homes and take the firearms out, leaving a population at the mercy of thugs and murderous brigands. The government is not going to take guns from you because the government has more bullets than you. They also have bigger guns. And bombs. And robots that can kill a bunch of you from a distance. The guns you should be saying that you have rights to are already denied to you. I hate to say such things. I really do. But it is the horrible truth. And the reason why I am bringing this up is because the population is engaged in a torrid and sexy debate over what is to become of our cherished Second Amendment right.

This happens all of the time. Some lunatic goes lunatic-y and rudely kills a bunch of people with guns. Afterwards, everyone wants to start “doing something.” That doing something usually involves a statement on firearms. That statement starts the riffraff going on and on and fighting and fighting and eventually something is done, and no one is really happy.

Secretary: “Wow. That was insulting. Who are you talking about this time?”

Me: “Me? Insulting? Never. I am just keeping it real.”

Secretary: “That’s just a way to say ‘Nobody likes me because I tell the truth. People can’t handle my honesty. No. You’re a prick, sometimes. A big one. Not even a hard on, just a dick. And a bitch.”

Me: “You object to ‘riffraff?’I am glad I held back my actual opinion. By ‘riffraff’ I mean that ninety-nine percent that those crazy liberals claim are being selfish and greedy and not paying their share. And that was a little harsh, I am a very nice person when people are doing what I want and need them to be doing.”

Secretary: “Right, right. So, obviously you are not talking about yourself…”

Me: “Sarcasm does not become you, my dear. Okay, I lied, it is actually pretty sexy. But not I am not talking about myself. Those laws do not pertain to me.”

What I mean here is that I can do things that most cannot. Like, I pay to go to dinners that cost thousands per plate to listen to what my candidate has to say? Do you, the general public, do the same? No, you do not. You sit at home and listen to what we tell the media to tell you and then you argue about it. You argue about that and other petty things so that we can have the politicians do what they are elected to do, keep us wealthy and safe. I can have as many guns as I want. As many kinds as I want. Look, you know that guy who is going to start selling passenger rides into space? He has a bunch of dough. A whole lot more than you. Now suppose you are a genius. A Wile E. Coyote level genius. And you build a rocket. And you go out into the middle of the desert and test your rocket in the name of science. Where do you think you will wind up? Yes. Guantanamo. Or some hole similar since that one is closing (cough, cough).  Probably without a trial because your ballistic launch could be construed as a terrorist act, and thereby have you indefinitely detained.

However, I have gone to many dinners and can call up a Washington friend and invite them over to a dinner in their honor that will also raise funds for their re-election. Of course they will be safe because I have plenty of guns, and armed security to protect me from that ninety-nine percent. At this dinner I can secure a permit to launch people into to space, and not be a terrorist. I wonder if that other cat took that approach…

All Goth things must come to an end. Embrace the Darkside.

All Goth things must come to an end. Embrace the Darkside.

Am I being unfair? Really? Think of all of the people in prison right now. How many thieves? How many thieves? Loan sharks? People who founded that legalized institution of Check into Cash, or whatever they call it. There is a standard of law here and it is a stratified as our economic statuses. The less you have the less you can do…and get away with.

But I have gotten off track. I was simply trying to illustrate how myself and those like myself can have guns, why we can have guns, and why we do not need them because we can hire people from beneath us to use guns to protect us. However, the fear is that they are going to take away the firearms from those of you who are not of my ilk. The truth is the government has a vested interest in the general populace be armed. If for some reason those wiley Chinese actually invade, or whatever Jong  Il happens to be in North Korea really grows balls and marches troops in, the US government is counting on the armed citizenry to be fodder before the encroachment. Having some illegal alien take your job is one thing, but some angry Easterner stepping up to you with a rifle saying you are about to be forced to speak another language? Naah…most United States citizens will not have such a thing. The will take to the streets and show the invader what a good ass kicking is all about.

See? That is a necessity. A nation that defends itself costs very little for the government; the extra money can be used to fortify the hiding places of the elite (ahem), build more drones to provide air support for the civvies fighting off the invaders, and shuffle the politicians into Canada or somewhere. Hell, it is very possible that a good month of holding the East at bay in Alaska and California could go by before any dude in a military uniform shows up and says: “Good job, citizen! We’ll take it from here.” Subsequently ending the war and being lauded as heroes. While you, the rest of the nation, waits for Congress to stop bickering over how much relief money should be sent to aid those lives ruined by the war.

So, that is why the government will never take your guns. Nations with an unarmed populace will never enjoy that level of security. However, the problem then arises that the Gubmint may need to lay the smack down on the citizenry. You may cry for health care and equal pay and a sandwich one too many goddamn times and then something will have to be done. But wait? They left you with guns. Damn. That complicates things. To fix that, there are always those drones. They have all sorts of cool ways of seeing you and finding you and killing you from a mile away. So your rifle really does not help much. But, there always has to be a “but”. A big butt. To fill that but you limit ammo. Yes! Limit the ammo. Those rebels have guns, but they sure as Hell will not have as many bullets. Or drones.

So-So New Look, Shabby (Even for a Hack) Title.

I have been making changes. Many changes. In fact, I had gotten so caught up in changes, that I had completely forgotten that I had this blog. Actually, that is a complete and total falsehood. I was fully aware that I still had this blog. It clung to the back of my brain like a cybertext yarmulke. However, it was causing me a large degree of anxiety. A tremendously large amount.

To begin, I hated the way the damn thing looked. Being unfamiliar with how the formatting thing-a-ma-stuff works here, I am unable to manipulate the design as I was able to back on MySpace. On MySpace, I was a God! I could format the blog’s appearance, and add pictures, and adjust the layout of each blog entry so I could dazzle and amaze! Then MySpace became terrible, and Facebook seems to have something against blogging, so I came to WordPress. I came to WordPress where I saw things like CSS and strange empty windows that would allow me to somehow type something in them in order to create a spectacular looking blog. I searched for templates on the web. I did not have the patience to try and figure out anything I found. Sure, there may be an easy way to go about doing things to give me the blog of my creative dreams, but I just do not have the patience to sit and figure all of the subtle cyber-nuances that would help me create the design of my twisted dreams. C’est la vie.

I know I am being harsh, but I already agreed the old design sucked more!

OCD is a terrible creature. It makes life difficult in the most innocuous, but crippling ways. For me, the anxiety of having a blog with dysfunctional pages was making me nauseous; just thinking about the idea of of WordPress was giving me cold sweats at times. This may sound weird. But it was not WordPress, per se, it was the pages that were a part of my blog that had no data and were just sitting there like failed cyber trash or those blank pages that you can never get rid of in a Microsoft Word document unless you get certified in its use at one of those seminars taught by some IT geek from the regional office of your corporation. Certification that is going to be invalid after the latest update comes out a week later.

To avoid the anxiety, I ignored the blog, occasionally suffering guilt from not writing, and more from disconnecting from the words of friends and colleagues that I share this bloggy part of the net with. I managed to log in periodically and keep up with the blog of a Mr. D. A. Adams. He tends to write daily, and I did keep up with most of what he had going on, but I refrained from commenting on things as I have been feeling significantly less that witty, or able-to-say-something-meaningful-y.

I did try to write a few times during this dark period of apathetic writer’s blockage. I have about four lengthy drafts stored up, waiting for some sort of finish that more than likely will never come; I have grown to hate those drafts. While they started out as interesting tales, they now only seem as relics, fossils, of a lost time period that started with a catch line that was the greatest thing since “Once upon a time,” and eventually came to that senseless drivel that you can read in the fifteen or less line at the local Piggly Wiggly or Kroger or where ever you get your groceries.

And then Arabella posted a blog, And another. Two from her that quick was a bit of a shock to my system. And then Apple sent me an update for my WordPress app on my iPhone. The technology that I had been using on a daily basis was starting to remind me about WordPress. That was odd, but a little motivating.

And so here I am today. I decided to figure out how to remove the offending pages (which I did), find a new design (I stuck with a non-custom design, I hate the fucking orange highlights), and that is where I am at the moment: a new look and a shabby title, and hideous, orange, fucking highlights. Shabby title for now. I have decided that it would be a good idea for me to take small steps. And this is the smallest step that I could imagine taking. For the time being. Yet, in that small step, I also took a spectacularly large lunar leap for Xavier-kind; those that know me well, would have seen that right away. What is this thing? It is the picture of myself that I have added to my blog. There, on the sidebar, a picture of me in full color, non-oldtimey or black and white. A picture that further defies convention and shows me wearing a blue, three-piece suit, rather than my standard black, two-piece with black tie. I am not sure how I feel about that one for the time being, I may remove it once I come up with a better title for my blog.

However, my anxiety and apathy does not begin and end with this blog. I stopped training. All aspects of training, I simple ceased. It was easy to stop running because I hate running and can do without that means of cardiovascular exercise. But I stopped lifting, and calisthenics, and stretching, and most significantly – jujitsu. I stopped going to the dojo. I even stopped thinking about technique. The idea of doing anything just crept from my mind and body. It was if my brain decided to go on strike, and my body joined in a sympathetic shut down of operations in solidarity. Next my desire for inane fun left; the Playstation 3 sits there getting dust, the newly discovered verb, “Batmanning,” slowly creeping from my vocabulary along with the Third Street Saints and Ezio Auditore.

“Bonnie Parker”

What I have been doing, is riding my newly acquired motorcycle. Ever since the last one was crushed by that imbecile, I had been displeased with riding. Sure, I was able to replace the mirrors and turn signals, but I felt like I was riding a victim. It felt as if taking her out was a further violation. And then, the gear shift broke. So, I was no longer faced with the guilty sensation of pushing my poor, injured, bikey to her limits unnecessarily.

Fortune smiled upon me and I was able to acquire another vintage beauty. A nineteen eighty-one Honda Silverwing. I named her “Bonnie Parker” after Clyde Barrow’s infamous, but compelling partner in crime. Since I got her, I have added a windshield (which was graciously given to me from a fellow rider, more on that later), and even gotten some luggage for the back so I can carry things, like tools, Monster drinks, and spare ammunition and tazer cartridges. Oddly, one of the things that pleases me the most about Bonnie is the convenient helmet holders on her sides. Once I figured out how they worked (Thank you, Manthony), I was fascinated with them. I have no idea why. It just is what it is… And yes, although the great State of Michigan has repealed the mandatory helmet law, I still wear my helmet when I ride.

I also joined a motorcycle riding club. From what I understand, there is a definite and distinct difference between a motorcycle club and a riding club, I am a member of a club of the riding variety. While I may offend few by saying this, I wish to be completely honest and say that all that matters is that I have a few cool cats to ride around with and learn how to become a more skilled rider. Sadly, I have not gotten to ride with my new pardners, my schedule is being a total bitch. Happily, my schedule has not prevented me from riding Bonnie. In fact, my schedule has become one that ensures that I have to go places, and the recent spate of decent weather has further ensured that I have had the opportunity to ride to those places.

So, I guess this is where I am. I hope that I have finally gotten through those doldrums that I have kept me in a see of apathy, non-motivation, and generally ho-hummity.

After Two Weeks, I Return to Abuse Your Ears or Tonight on Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier

Greetings and Salutations! This rush of unusual weather has kept me very busy…and very paranoid. Really. The weather has been driving me crazy and threatening the future occupations of several of my orchard laborers. Have you any idea what unseasonable warmth does to cherry and apple trees? Why it tricks those bastards into blossoming and getting ready for the upcoming summer and growing season. And in Michigan, this is bad. You would think that by now the fauna of our state would begin to appreciate that warm weather in March does not mean there will not be a horrendous blizzard in April. A blizzard that will drive the cost of fruit up due to low yield. Low yield means that there are fewer people needed to tend to the lovely trees…

Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier

Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier

So, for the last couple of weeks I have been running about trying to figure out a strategy to deal with the potential economic woes to be foisted upon my poor orchard. Well, parts of the orchard. The employee parts. As for me, I expect record profits this year as the low yield will drive up prices and demand. One would think that despite the reduction in labor needs, I would keep all of the staff seeing that I expect an increase in profit. If one thought that, one would be wrong. That is not the American Way! Here, we do not reward anyone with less work because of acts of nature! If I kept the extras on, what would I be teaching them? That it is okay to slack off because there is less product? No sir! Less product = less workers. Read your Adam Smith.

Well, enough of that senseless prattle. I had a rough, intoxicating night last night and am fully aware that I am prone to babbling on if I am allowed. Hopefully, I will not feel the need to yap-yap all during the show tonight.

To listen click here or copy and paste the address below in your browser. You will need to follow the buttons at the top of the page to open your relevant music player.

Darkside Radio – http://darksideradio.com

Tonight’s Featured Artists

Morrissey
Joy Division
Bauhaus
The Cure
Siouxsie and the Banshees
Big Audio Dynamite II
The Stone Roses
Sonic Youth
Ednaswap
Depeche Mode
Lacuna Coil
Rob Zombie
Primus
Mad Marge and the Stonecutters
The Koffin Kats
The Meteors
Skrillex
Mindless Self Indulgence
Basement Jaxx
Ministry & Co-Conspirators
Nine Inch Nails
Puscifer
Snake River Conspiracy
The B-52’s
Switchblade Symphony
The Gothacoustic Ensemble
Tre Lux
Chris Cornell

Beware the Ides of March

There was once a time where man’s only concern was walking into a Senate Chamber and wondering why sixty of your chums were now stabbing you in the back. Literally. Fortunately, it was not really much of a concern to others unless they also happened to be Roman “dictators” whom had sixty disgruntled Senators (now former friends) lying in wait in a government office with steely knives and murderous intent.

How times have changed!

If you happen to associate with me via any other social networking site, you will have noticed my placing the same soothsayer’s warning on those pages. Status messages. Tweets. Billboards in Times Square and tattooed to pre-tossed dwarves in Las Vegas. All places carried the same warning for all to be wary of this fifteenth day of March.

All places carried this warning in vain. I am certain that most people were not very ware this Ides. I am even more certain that most people that may have read my “warning” (and most Americans) have no idea where that warning comes from. Hell, most adults I have come into contact with lately only know Caesar in terms of pizza and salad. One such person was that elderly gentleman who decided that it was his moral right to turn his wheeled boat out in front of me like he was rushing to the hospital to give birth, only to proceed to drive and swerve in front of me at a very slow speed. I could tell by the confused look on his little wrinkled face as his eyes passed from his blown tires to me, Glock waving out of my window as I shouted “Beware the Ides of March.”

Normally, I would be extremely annoyed with what I may have perceived as literary ignorance. Truth be told, the old man was most likely wondering why no one had come to arrest my tire-shooting ass. He should have paid more attention when Samurai City called for the vote on what The Foundation would consider defense of one’s home and person… However, such ignorance is beneficial on several levels.

The most important of these levels is the ability the knowledgeable have over those who are not so knowledgeable. Sure, information may be power, but literary information is the ultimate power. Armed with such teeth, a body can add a steady stream of insults, innuendoes and other clever Bon mots and your target is none-the-wiser. There is a reason Dubya never challenged people to battles of wits…

Where is this going? I have no clue. But what I do know is that the one thing that I have consistently done when it comes to writing is write a blog every March Fifteenth. And to this day, I have managed to keep my tradition.

An Apology, Mr. Limbaugh? And Tonight on Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier

The Octopus waves, beckons you to enjoy the show.

Octopus says: "Dance with the Green Faery!"

Greetings and Salutations! Last week, I am sure that you noticed that I was not on the air. Truth be told, I was feeling a bit under the weather after the night out at the strip club. But that is not what kept me from the airwaves. What kept me off was the stress from the drama of earlier that day with that horrid interview from last week that was all about making the Rothechilde Foundation look like a group of insensitive thugs due to a minor incident involving a few upset elephants. Although, I have weathered that storm, I am facing a similar, earth-shattering, internet radio stealing mental dilemma this evening as well.

What is this dilemma? Well, it is simple and two-fold. First, there was the clothing anxiety issue that almost sent me into anxiety overdrive. You see, I was asked to teach a jujitsu class as a substitute for my instructor who was off celebrating his birthday. That was not the problem, I can deal with handling that. The problem came as a result of my panicking because of my pants. They did not seem to be my pants.

For one, the color and texture of them felt “off.” The other problem was that they did not feel “right.” I felt like I was traipsing about in someone else’s legs or something. I had a hard time focusing on driving and maintaining my calm because I was focused on the idea that I was, at that time wearing pants that not only felt weird, but felt like they may have belonged to someone else. I mentioned this to my secretary, whom asked me who’s pants I thought they were (I did find them in my room). She asked me what about them made me feel as if they were not my pants and all I could reply was: “everything!” In any case, after teaching the class (for which I had to travel to the most wicked place in Michigan: Frankenmuth), I drove back to my Samurai City digs and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a black mock turtle neck shirt. Actually, I would have preferred to be wearing slacks of some type, but the jeans worked well enough to stave off a full-fledged anxiety explosion.

The next issue that has my mind in a tizzy is this whole deal regarding Rush Limbaugh and Sandra Fluke. The story is, Rush called her a slut and a prostitute because she advocated health insurance plans covering health insurance. Her words to encourage state-sponsored baby anti-proliferation even had old Rushy boy calling for sex tapes so he could post them online. Surely, any whore who is seeking health insurance coverage for birth control must have a host of sex tapes from her numerous dalliances with shady men that are available for mass dissemination via some “porno tube” website.

This has me most concerned because Rush turned tail and apologized. Apologized! This surely is a different corpulent, angry bird of a politico that we have grown to love over the years. What happened, man? I was all for supporting the Republican idea that no one should ever use birth control. In fact, if you do not want children (and cannot afford a nanny or au pere to raise them, nor can you afford to travel to some other nation where abortions and contraceptives flow like milk and honey), then you probably should not have sex. Fucking is for people who can afford the luxury of preventing a potential pregnancy, or eliminating the accidental creation of little monster clones of yourself. If you cannot afford the traditional remedies offered by the wealthy (Brazilian abortions, French morning after pills, or European boarding schools), then either go celibate, or take your chances with a shady, back alley abortion specialist on the streets of Mexico or Seattle.

However, I was betrayed. Betrayal most foul! His Most Majestic Obesity back-pedaled and apologized to Ms. Fluke. He took back his venom and took the wuss way out all because a few sponsors decided to pull their ads from his show. Really? What the fuck, Limbaugh?! These sponsors knew what you were all about, and they probably support you in your medieval attitude towards women and civilization in general. But they know the score, Rush. They know that most people are afraid of the right-wing agenda. They know that people fear the wealthy and our insidious urge to keep the poor as destitute as possible, and as numerous; we need that population to subject and get cheap labor from. The problem is that you spoke the truth that we do not want spoken too often. Here is how it works:

  1. Have horrid right-wing, preferrably a near-racist and sexist attitude.
  2. Wait for some mouthy schmuck to voice this reprehensible concern.
  3. Silently agree, then pull sponsorship from the jerk to keep our customers content and unaware that your corporation fully intends to reward the jerk with perks, back slaps, and tickets to Nazis on Ice at the local ice arena.

Rush, you added an undesired step, and apologized! Now the liberal will know that we are cowards who only want a silent, subtle manipulation of the people. That is, unless they are trying to get a piece of our one-percent pie. If that is the case beat those bastards down and trample them with elephants. So, way to go Limbaugh: you made a girl cry, and then took it back like a wuss. What are you going to do next, put on your girly shorts and listen to Selena Gomez albums with your widdle, gurlfriends?

But enough of that satirical sarcasm, on with the show. Below is the list of artists appearing on tonight’s broadcast. To have a listen, tune your Internet browser to http://darksideradio.com. If that gives your trouble, try opening the link in your media player. But really, clicking the link should take you to the station. If it does not, keep trying. You want to listen, you know you do.

Tonight’s Featured Artists (Subject To Change)

Type O Negative

Bauhaus

Joy Division

Siouxsie and the Banshees

Oingo Boingo

The B-52’s

Sonic Youth

Dead Kennedys

Puscifer

Depeche Mode

The Cure

Blondie

The Police

Switchblade Symphony

Butthole Surfers.

Wednesday 13

Mindless Self Indulgence

Dragonette

Combichrist

Ministry & Co-Conspirators

Nine Inch Nails

Rob Zombie

Lacuna Coil

Bigod 20

Muse

Tool

The Smiths

Snake River Conspiracy

So, tune in tonight and enjoy the program. If you have Twitter, @XRothechilde and @Darksideradio give song-to-song updates during the show.

Commercials are from: “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” and “Grand Theft Auto IV”

Promotion spots for DJ Xavier produced and Created by: DJ Mirage, Ethermagus, and DJ Parallax

Leap Year Address, Two Thousand and Twelve

Greetings and Salutations!

Foundation stakeholders, Board members and Citizens of Samurai City, while I am simply elated to be here with you to celebrate the addition of the extra fourth of a day each year that we ignore save for every fourth year, I am saddened to begin this evening by asking that we all take a moment to remember Davy Jones. Mr. Jones was a good man, a funny man, a man who shared his name with the burial ground of sailors and pirates. He will be surely missed.

With that said, I now present the good news. As it is a Leap Year, it is important that we remember the fact that we are also being lazy; lazy on a scope that has encompassed all of humanity. Why lazy? The answer to that is simple: instead of adding another day to February on a permanent basis, a day that would last about six hours, we have opted to save those hours and bank them into one day extra every four years. In doing so, we have cheated ourselves, and our species.

True, true…that extra day in February would be a short one. More than likely, we would get very little accomplished as a whole. Which is why I would propose that the extra day be a six-hour holiday. Six full hours to do exactly nothing. Nothing! A person could sleep, fly kites, go on a drug/sex/booze bender. What the world needs exactly that: a day that is a holiday with no cultural purpose other than to slack off and not worry about a motherfucking thing.

Now, I realize that some people would want to work, and that some services cannot be avoided. To solve this: triple time. Maybe quadruple time. Yes! For six hours the people that HAVE to be on duty, would get an assload of cash to work on said day. You do not like the idea of cops rolling around in a Benz in their free time while you gad-about in your hooptie? Then behave on the extra day and we will not need the 5-0 up in our grilles for six hours. Besides, if you are somewhere being a complete lazy ass, you should not be getting into any mischief anyway.

So, dear people, as you go about your every fourth year shenanigans and celebrations, think about the benefit and joy that a six-hour jerk off could bring to you and humankind as a whole. Embrace the six hour additional day to February. Strike a blow for relaxation and against greedy day stealing Augustus.

Thank you, and Good Night!

Happy Leap Year!

Friday Night with Charlotte

Last week was quite a week. It started with scandal and ended with an ugly attempt to discredit The Foundation. The scandal was a bit of ugliness involving The Foundation’s war elephants. While it seems that the issue should have been over quickly and with a few payouts here and there, that was not to be. Fortunately, I had a fun night out with Charlotte the Friday before the treacherous attempt to ruin your beloved charitable organization.

I could go on and detail the incidents that led to the horrors of the weekend, but instead, I have decided to go the honest route and provide the transcript of a local news programs morning interview of yours truly.

Bert Berterson: “Good morning. I’m Bert Berterson appearing on this special edition of ‘Samurai City Saturday Morning’ with local mogul, Xavier Rothe…”

Me: “Mogul?! What the fuck did you call me? I am not a snowy lump on a ski slope! Nor am I some brandy sipping curmudgeon sitting by some fireplace in some cavernous, drafty, Victorian mansion. I am a humble orchard operator and general all around nice guy. I am really tired of your slander and libel. You really need to get over that camera incident with Manthony.”

B.B: “No, that is not the issue. True, there have been ‘incidents,” but they aren’t what this interview is about. We are here to discuss the elephant rampage that you and your associates with The Rothechilde Foundation are responsible for causing, avoiding, and admitting no responsibility.

Me: “Berty darling, that is exactly what I am talking about! Okay, so unfortunate things may have happened. People may or may not have been allegedly had the misfortune of standing where an elephant may have been walking. Whatever the case, there is no need to start throwing around faulty, unproven allegations that could result in a hefty lawsuit or potential burying in a shallow grave in Nevada or somewhere.”

B.B: “Did, did you just threaten to kill me and bury me in Nevada?”

Me: “I have done no such thing! I was merely stating things that could happen to a person. I have never gone to Nevada. The sand would destroy my wardrode, I believe. Speaking of which, I have been experimenting with adding color to my wardrobe…”

B.B: “Let’s not get off topic, Mr. Rothechilde, Xavier, may I call you Xavier?

Me: “I would not if I did not want to get ‘punished’ severely.”

B.B.  “Ahem. Before we begin, let’s refresh your memory. Ronald, roll the footage please.”

At this moment, a clip was played that showed a large group of people hanging about Downtown Samurai City. In the background, the Foundation Thunderdome stood majestically in the background. In the foreground, more people. Then the clip cut over to the ass-biscuit that I was currently being tormented by in this interview. Mr. Berterson was interviewing people who were “Occupying Samurai City.” Yes, the wave of civil unrest and general unhappiness of the populist poor had spread to Samurai City and the occupiers were occupying various areas of the city. This was exactly why we at the Foundation came up with the idea to have the war elephants. The occupiers had not come as far as the Thunderdome, but a group of counter-occupiers had begun to head in our direction. These counter occupiers were those who supported the one percent or something like that. Berterson interviewed a few of them as well. Approximately two minutes into the clip, a wave of people could be seen coming toward the camera. In the background, the image and sounds of a herd of elephants rapidly approached the news crew. Fleeing to a safe area (who knew there was a safe place from a herd of stampeding elephants?), the camera still recorded, Berty-baby’s panicked reporting in the background:

Bert: “This is Bert Berterson! A herd of elephants is now rampaging in downtown Samurai City! People are running everywhere as complete and total pandemonium has erupted! Oh my God! An elephant just tossed a police car into the side of the bank! This, this is terrible! Absolutely terrible! Hey! Someone grab that little girl! What the hell are you talking about? You do it! I’m Bert Berterson! I’m not getting stepped on by a freaking elephant! What the hell?! Is that elephant wearing a monocle and a tophat? My God the police have shot the elephant in the tophat! Tophat elephant is down! Holy shit! That elephant has that old lady by the neck! Wait, wait…the elephant has gently set her down. People we have a miracle, the elephant just set her…Shit! He kicked her! The elephant kicked her! Oh my…oh my…she’s, she’s barely moving. Paramedics are trying to help her. Okay, she’s giving the thumbs up. What? Headed where? Oh shit! Run! Ruuunnn!!!

And the clip ended there. To be honest, I was very upset by that footage. There was not one mention or shot of Sister Constance and the nun-wranglers coming in, taking down the rest of the pachyderms with tranquilizers and getting them safely back to the Thunderdome. Two elephants were slaughtered by the man on that tragic day. The monocle and top hat have been turned into monuments in the arboretum.

B.B: “Now, Mr. Rothechilde, clearly you could see what a tragic series of…hey! Are you texting?”

Me: “Yes, you were boring me with that biased video footage. There was no mention of the nuns and their success at bringing this unpleasantness to an end. Not to mention you subjected me to having to witness the brutal slaying of the vainglorious Lord Phant, a pachyderm of distinguished character and with obviously superior fashion sense. I was consulting our legal team to be sure that my comments will not be taken out of context and that the video delay is sufficient for Foundation security personnel to edit out any sensitive information before this hits the airwaves.”

B.B: “What?!”

Blue Boy?

Me: “You know, like they do on awards programs to filter out the potty mouths. Anyway, about fashion. As I believe we were discussing briefly earlier I have been experimenting with making changes to my wardrobe. I have been adding color. Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of me in the lavender and purple, or gold-brown-black, but I do have a picture of me in blue. Ronald, show the clip, please. As you can see, instead of my trademark black and white two-piece combination, I am sporting a stylish three-piece suit. I even have on a blue tie. Blue! And took a picture that I did not insist be made black and white or some sort of old-timey sepia look. Eventually, I will have some photos of me in the other color schemes soon, and I may come back to your program to discuss them again at that time. However, thank you for the interview, it has been a pleasant…”

B.B: “Excuse me, sir! I tell Ronald what to do around here, and we weren’t discussing fashion. We’re here to talk about your reckless unleashing of elephants on our fair city and what exactly you plan on doing about it! You have some things to answer for sir!”

Me: “I do no appreciate your tone, little man. Now see here, if it were not for those stupid one percenters parading about in their diamonds and smelly perfumes, the elephants would not have gotten upset and that misfortune would never have occurred. The elephants were simply a part of a parade that The Foundation was sponsoring in support of the “Occupy Samurai City if You Want, But Stay the Fuck Away from the Thunderdome” rally. As you can see the rally was a success, the Thunderdome is untouched and still stands as a glorious symbol of compassion and beauty. And we are not even going to sue the city over our beloved Lord Phant. Although it has caused Sister Constance a great deal of sorrow. We had to give her an extended vacation, pay raise, and purchase a new elephant, monocle, and top hat to alleviate her lust for revenge.”

B.B: “Are you saying that the life of that elephant is worth more than the hundreds of people that were injured in carnage laid out by your elephant horde? Are you seriously equating humanity with lower animals?!”

Me: “Well, hypothetically, my statement would appear to be putting elephants above the rest of humanity, but then who needs to be splitting hairs here? Besides, no people were killed, and only a few were maimed or otherwise seriously injured. Further, the occupation business was horribly bad for the already weakened economy. Those people should have been out working and those one percent counter-protesters should have been out subjugating masses or otherwise managing some means of economic oppression. The fact is, those protesters were in all likelihood unemployed; do we need to show the world on the national news that we are a nation of corpulent, unemployed people? No sir! No, I say! If our impoverished looked like those pot-bellied Ethiopians, then maybe we would have something to bitch about. However, we are a corpulent nation that sits on couches and and gets to watch seventy-seven different versions of ‘Law & Order.”

B.B: “Mr. Rothechilde! That is completely reprehensible! Do you even hear yourself? Listen, the Vice President of The Rothechilde Foundation has even come out and said that mistakes were made…”

Me: “Yes! Mistakes were made. Many mistakes! Chief among them was letting that bastard out of the dunge…er, basement during the protests. Had he remained sedated and properly confined, our efforts to fix this bit of unpleasantness could have come to an end much sooner, and I would already be enjoying the adulation of the citizenry of this fair city instead of sitting here and subjecting myself to this horrid interview from a man with the fashion sense of a Mogwai.”

B.B: “What are you talking about?!”

Me: “Your suit is terrible. I know a guy, let me help you, baby.”

B.B: “You’re obviously out of touch. With me and the citizens of Samurai City. They don’t love you, no one loves…”

You are very welcome

Me: “Oh my! I ought to shoot you right in your ugly face! You smug son of a…excuse, what is it? Yes, I understand. Excuse me, that gentleman was one of our attorneys, he suggested, and smartly I should add, that by ‘shoot you right in your ugly face’ that I actually meant “write you a sternly worded note of disapproval, perhaps an email cc’d to your station’s management. As for the love thing, surely you are mistaken For example, take a look at this lovely bit of art; Ronald, show the picture please.”

B.B: “Now see here! Ronald is not one of your lackeys…”

Me: “Obviously, the artist appreciates me and felt that I was worthy of being immortalized in one of her brilliant creations. And then there is Sister Constance. For a nun, she really does go out of her way to accommodate my eccentricities (I am ignoring your lackey comment, by the way. Manthony with surely discuss that with you.) Then, and not the least, there is my personal secretary, whom does me an innumerable amount of service in great variety, and makes sure that I can function on a daily basis. And Charlotte! Dear Charlotte! Why just last night, we went out to a local titty bar…”

B.B: “You can’t say that on public television and this has nothing to do with the elephant incident.”

Me: “I believe I did just say that, and this has everything to do with the elephants. There is nothing better to ease the pain of a deceased elephant friend and huge publicity hit like going out to see some boobs. And this was a great night. There was s lady there named Suzie Malone. She did some classy burlesque dance, magic tricks, and she swallowed a sword. Man, that gave me ideas, I tell you! She even danced around with fire. Fire! Strapped around her waist and in the shape of hand fans she danced with fire. I even had my picture taken with her. It is a topless picture. I am not topless, she is, or else I would have brought it to show. I am not opposed to showing the boobs on television; I just do not want to share them with you.”

B.B: “That is all well and good, sir. But what does any of this have to do with the damage you have brought and the poor people that are suffering because of your mistake?”

Me: “You just really want to beat a dead elephant. Man. Fine. While it is unfortunate that a few people may have received a bump or two because of a few rambunctious elephants, we are not a bank, mortgage company, or publicly traded corporation with stockholders to rape and pillage. The government will not bail us out like they did the people who the occupiers are bitching about (is that what they are bitching about? or is it Obamacare, Afghanistan, gay marriage, or Rick Santorum’s tranny porn stash?). No, as always in these trying time The Rothechilde Foundation will rebuild the damaged property. We have already purchased some of the more severely damaged property and found locations for business owners to rebuild and relocate. We have even offered to allow these business to use the Foundation’s contractors for repair and construction and infrastructure at prices that are much lower than the local business clowns. We are hiring many of the disgruntled occupiers for this Samurai City Reconstruction, and all of this will benefit the local economy. Lord Phant did not perish in vain.”

B.B: “It sounds like all you are doing is making a selfishly greedy cash grab and attempt to increase your personal stake and interest here!”

Me: “And is that not the American Way? Thank you, Samurai City and good day. This is Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, signing out.”

B.B: “Hey!”

And the screen goes black…

Note: Mr. Rothechilde has always reveled in, and proudly proclaimed his status as being a hack writer. If you disapprove of the ending, then you were not paying attention to the original disclaimer. No refunds or apologies should be expected and none will be made.

Sincerely,

Rothechilde Foundation and Trust Legal

“…Cry ‘Havoc!’ and Let Slip the Elephants of War…” (Part II: The Discussion)

If you recall from part one, The Foundation was in the process of introducing war elephants to our holdings. If you do not recall this, or if you did not read the last post: Shame on You! I am not going to spend more time delivering back story elements; nary a clever flashback or past montage to set the mood.

Anyway…I had come to the decision that The Rothechilde Foundation was in danger of usurpation of some sort due to the successful assault on social programs by the State of Michigan. Governor Snyder and his minions are on the verge of stamping out the last vestiges of dedicated labor in the state, forcing them into poverty, stealing their homes, and probably sending them in our direction for relief since they were now jobless and only had the memories of state relief to keep them warm and their hunger sated. This could not be allowed to happen; our coiffures have been clever managed to provide us with maximum tax relief while allowing for minimum of fund spent on actual programs. We are a right and proper charity.

And now we were faced with a potential menace to rival the Ten Plagues of Egypt: if the newly impoverished all started to come to us for aid, the Foundation would have to spend more to provide such aid. Whether this is our purpose or not, this is not how the wealthy are supposed to behave. When we band together to get our wishes through media manipulation of the uniformed electorate of the United States, we do so as a unit. If they are making a massive cash grab in this State, then they are supposed to be making we Board members party to the grabbing. However, they have become traitors to the cause and we now understand that we stand alone! It was time for the Foundation to take action and this action was to be discussed at the emergency meeting that I was about to attend. I walked into The Foundation Thunderdome and headed for my office. It was early, but I was not surprised to see that my secretary had already made it there before me:

Secretary: Good morning, Mr. Rothechilde. I wasn’t expecting you to bring your ass into the office until the last week of August.

Me: I am not sure what you are trying to say. And you had better not swear at me, I will be forced to fire you…

Secretary: Sh! It’s okay, Mr. Cranky Pants; there’s coffee in your office and the rest of the board is on the way here. The Vice President is already here and he wad going to make coffee and take refreshments into the meeting…

Me: Did you just shush me? Why is Smeagol distributing food?! That is highly inappropriate! He could be trying to poison us…

Secretary: It’s okay, your new bodyguard maxed him and replaced the snacks. She’s in the boardroom and the Vice President is somewhere crying and washing his eyes out. Now be a big boy and go get ready to play President-boy.

Me: You are fired.

Secretary: Thank you, I think 10% is an appropriate amount for a raise, and the extra 2 weeks of vacation were unnecessary, but very welcome! I’m going to start planning now!

Me: You are lucky that I cannot run this place without you.

Secretary: Yeah, yeah…now go on. If you would have come in a half hour ago, we could have had a quickie. Now, I have to wait.

With that said, I headed to the board room, greeted M, my bodyguard and got a cup of coffee and a very large pastry that was covered with cheese and a doughnut. M, cleared her throat and eyed me disapprovingly so I added a cup of fruit to my breakfast. Then I told her that I would work it off later, this was not the time for watching calories, I needed to have all of the comfort foods I could grab to deal with the impending crisis. I had just taken a seat when the other members entered the room. The Vice President was the last to arrive, with his red, watery eyes and wearing his workout gear.

Board Secretary: What the fuck, dude? Not only is that not proper attire, but those shorts look like they are made for a toddler!

Charlotte: Ew! Is that your sack peeking out of there? Look, this is not 1974, Kareem, get some longer shorts…or wrap a table cloth around yourself.

Ethermagus: Your chair is too close to the MonitorChair. I can feel your hideous, malformed body through my technology down here in the TechCenter.

Vice President: This is all her fault! She maced me! My suit is covered in mace, and all I had to wear was what was in my gym bag.

Me: Ms. Secretary, could you bring in a Regulation Thunderdome Gym Suit for, Smeagol? His near nakedness is making us ill.

Secretary: I’ll bring it right in.

Manthony: You maced the Vice President?

M: (nods)

Charlotte: With actual Mace?

M: (nods).

VP Smeagol: And if I wouldn’t have fallen, she was going to hit me with that thing!

M: (holds up Medieval Mace, menaces Vice President, smiles)

Manthony: Damn!

Charlotte: That is wonderful! I’m sorry I missed that…

As the Vice President put on the suit, we all settled with our refreshments and were prepared to call the meeting to order. As soon as we were greeted by Sister Constance and Professor Z, the meeting began.

Me: Esteemed board members, please forgive my calling you all back earlier from your summer endeavors, but this is a matter that needs immediate attention. If you have been following the current political developments in our beloved America, you have noticed that a war has been declared on the wealthy. At first, it seemed that President Obama was the aggressor, now it seems that our own wealthy brethren and sistren have turned on us; the neutrality of wealth-shielding charitable organizations is no longer.

Board Secretary: I knew this was coming, we should have made that one percent increase in services to our clients and community…

Smeagol: I was right! Liberal yap-yap smarm, smarm…

Me: Let the record reflect that the Vice President’s comments will often be reduced to onamonapia for ease in transcription of the minutes, as much of what he says will be irrelevant.

Smeagol: I…nevermind.

Charlotte: Precisely.

Manthony: Okay, I hate to ruin the fun, but back to this war.

Me: No, the danger is that we are now attacked from both sides. We were not paying enough attention when the initial salvos from our wealthy former allies came from the banks and that mortgage debacle. However, now our wealthy former compatriots are aiming to hit the poor right where it counts, in addition to raping NPR, the National Endowment for the Arts, and anything else of culture significance to the people. Look, it was already an issue for the poor to have jobs. In our beloved State of Michigan, industry cured that ill and ran away to foreign nations and outsourced to India.

Manthony: You know, if people need jobs that bad, they should consider moving to India…

Me: Ahem! As I was saying, industry fled, and the unemployed came for donations. Now, the rich are complaining that poor still have too much and want to take their appliances and minimal comforts from them. I maintain that we cannot afford to buy refrigerators to keep their damn food fresh as the pundits now believe should be the case! War is on the horizon; horrible war on The Foundation from the poor and the wealthy. The middle class will do nothing and continue to bitch, we are through the looking glass here, people!

Charlotte: I assume that we are going to be needing weapons and more koalas and alligators; I see that the Sister and the Professor have joined the proceedings.

Me: No. This is not about koalas…

Professor Z: No, it’s not. This is about lasers! Multiple lasers, ones that will sear a path through all of our foes and make sure that we are well-defended, as well as provide potential offensive capabilities should need be.

Sister Constance: Then why am I here? My crew has just relocated the koalas; I still don’t see why they have to be put on permanent patrols in the arboretum. Fortunately, they have stopped attacking visitors. If I’m here to discuss the new property acquisitions…

Me: Now hold it, I have been building up to this.

At this point, I pushed a button near my chair and a curtain to the left moved, revealing a model of an elephant habitat. The habit included twenty-fve elephants. It was a wondrous creation! The model plants were actually live, everything was living, except for the model elephants. One thing that was new to me was a model of a Victorian home located in what would be the southwest corner of the habitat. Perhaps, I did not notice it before, but I am sure that it was not there. I would notice this. Since M had not felt the need to remove the object, I assumed it was safe and left it. Eventually, the prankster would get tired of my ignoring the house and speak up. I proceeded with the presentation.

Me: What you see here is a plan for the new War Elephant habitat for the Thunderdome. I have come to the conclusion that a herd of twenty-five war elephants will serve to protect us from our enemies, both old and new. They will also provide an effective means for a preemptive strike if needed.

Manthony: Okay, I think I see where this may be going. But before we get the elephants, shouldn’t we have troops? And, didn’t you say that there are twenty-five elephants?

Charlotte: Yeah, what gives? There are only twenty-three elephants; that’s cool, though. Twenty-three is good.

Board Secretary: Well, which is it? Twenty-three or twenty-five? This is going into the minutes and I really don’t care to edit them later.

I turned and looked at the model; there were indeed only twenty-three elephants. How did I miss that?

Me: Okay, there are supposed to be twenty-five! The plan called for twenty-five elephants! You see, in order to protect ourselves, a herd of rampaging war elephants was to be our secret weapon. The elephants could trample the poor and the wealthy alike! Symbolically, it would have both truth and irony; the truth of the Republican stomp-downs on the poor and the irony of their being crushed by their own icon. Now, now it is not the same…

Charlotte: Sh, it’s okay…

Me: Did you just shush me?

Charlotte: Listen, twenty-three is very good. You can still have as much carnage with twenty-three elephants as you can with twenty-five. Just put twenty-three in the minutes, and we’re all good.

Seagol: What are you talking about?! Carnagae? War elephants?

Professor Z: Laser-guided war elephants? That could be an interesting idea, but how do we get them back once they’ve been launched?

Charlotte: Oh my god! The elephants don’t have lasers. There are no lasers. I see where this is going: a mass trampling. The elephants run amok, tons of property damage, we get them back under control, and all is good.

Manthony: This idea may have some potential. Let’s hear some more.

Board Secretary: As the main public relations contact and creator of propaganda, I have to say that I draw the line at direct, purposeful attacks on anyone. We’d be doomed. I don’t we could pull that off, we’d have to relocate to some third world country with limited or no extradition treaties, like Canada.

Smeagol: Finally! Someone agrees with me!

Charlotte: Hey, shut up! No one agrees with you. Ever. This is your last warning. Look, we can fake an accidental trampling at some public event, say, at a parade or something. Fuck man, they faked that moon landing shit and people are still buying it.

Me: And that is exactly what I mean, well said! We simply wait for a parade, maybe a protest that will attract counter-protesters. The elephants get excited by some strange hippie’s patchouli or right-winger’s Christian recitations, and they run amok!

Professor Z: This is not a practical weapon. The elephants will be too unpredictable. The whole thing sounds too disorganized.

Ethermagus: I have not spoken for a bit. I was taking this all in and believe that the ensuing chaos is what is the best part of the plan.

Sister Constance: Hail Eris!

Manthony and Ethermagus: What did you just say?

Me: Exactly. The elephant’s rampage will cause much damage, maiming, and potential death. However, the collateral damage is acceptable in scope: not too much, not too little.

Professor Z: And how do we regain control of the elephants?

Sister Constance: Now?

Me: Yes.

Sister Constance: The elephants will be controlled similarly to the koalas. Mega-doses of Valium and other assorted treats. And by the way, there are twenty-five elephants in total…

Me: I knew I had twenty-five. You are responsible for that monstrosity in the corner of the habit as well, I presume?

Sister Constance: Oh hush, it’s okay?

Me: Why is everyone shushing me today?!

Charlotte: Technically, that was a “hush.”

Board Secretary: I recorded it as a “hush.”

Smeagol: This is getting way out of…argh!

Charlotte (putting tazer away): I told him that was his last warning.

Sister Constance: As I was saying, the habit is designed to comfortably house the twenty-three war elephants. In the Victorian mansion here to the southwest (as it is the best temperature for the elephants) house Lord and Lady Phant. (She opens the mansion) As you can see, they are clothed in the best of finery, including the Lord’s dashing top hat and clever monocle.

Professor Z:

Sister Constance: Well, the whole thing has a certain classiness, and the Lord and the Lady will present just enough class stress among the elephants that will prove beneficial as a catalyst to fuel a bit of plebeian rage to vent during operations.

Ethermagus: Excellent! I like the mansion idea, it is a smart home.

Me: And that, ladies and gentlemen hopefully I have not only demonstrated need and purpose for our war elephants, but I also hope that you will all see why it is indeed necessary to purchase the old train station, historic or not, to provide adequate land for the elephant habitat. We will also, more than likely, need to purchase all property surrounding it. This will dislocate approximately one thousand residents.

Charlotte: As program director, I recommend moving them to one of our low-rent housing facilities and offer them free rent for two years, after the two years, we charge them for rent. We also allow them to come and see the elephants free of charge for life, provided they come during public visitation times.

Me: With that, let us vote.

And with that vote, all in favor of the war elephants (save one abstention, the Vice President was still “napping”), the Foundation began its latest quest…

“…Cry ‘Havoc!’ and Let Slip the Elephants of War…” (Part I: Historical Background Notes)

The current Governor of Michigan is named Rick Snyder. His campaign was based on him being “one tough nerd.” However, after he began his budget proposals and what have you, it was learned that this man is no friend to labor. However, most surprisingly, he paradoxically began an assault on the education system of our state. One would think that a nerd would be all about education and being the impetus for the creation of a monolithic apparatus of Nerd-dom, but he seems to be just the opposite.  Instead of thinking of the children being educated, the Snydmeister began to “fix” the system by devising ways to rid the State of qualified staff in what he claims are measures designed to fix the economy of the state of Michigan.

For those of you who understand that Michigan is both not in Canada and not comprised only of a large crime bucket called Detroit, Michigan used to be a powerhouse of industry. We really do not care what anyone thinks to the contrary; we invented the car, the assembly line, labor unions, and Rhythm & Blues. On the other hand, we did give Ted Nugent and Gerald Ford to the world, but who is perfect for fuck’s sake? But I digress… For some reason, a few years back, the auto industry, Hell, industry in general, just took off and abandoned us. What was left in the wake was a horde of unemployed people that had been educated to work in the factories and really not possessing many skills beyond that.

To save the state, the medical industry began a subtle takeover. Met by the technology sector, they combined to create a new economic force to save Michigan. However, since most people in the state were not prepared to be employed in this industry, those areas of economic power began to hire foreigners to the state and the rest of Michigan’s residents began engaging in a weird “migrant-laborer” type lifestyle of moving to another state, then moving back to Michigan a bit later. This is known as the “Black Hole of Michigan Syndrome.” All Michiganders attempt to flee the borders, but due to being born in the environment (or living in it for five years), the run-a-ways return. This is not genetic, rather it is a result of microchips installed in every resident at birth by the Michigan Militias in case that resident is needed to fight in the Great Michigan Rebellion or the Canadian Re-Unification (we are all still pissed off about that whole Toledo War business. Sure the Upper Peninsula is cool, but we could have had that real estate and Toledo).

If that was not enough, the unemployment led to other businesses fleeing as where once was a money-hole of middle class laborers to buy all sorts of stuff (mostly guns, flannel, and stuff to go “Up North” with) there was now a frightened, angry mass of armed, unemployed people with a thirst for the blood (and a little hungry, as most had gotten pretty fat from too much fast food, meat, and not exercising save for Deer Hunting Season). The Governor who started this craziness was a fat tyrant by the name of John Engler. Engler was a weird, fat man who once had a Lieutenant whose name is a synonym for “dead penis.” After greedily serving more than two terms destroying the middle class, he pushed term limits for future Governors, got said limits and left office.

He was replaced by a reformed Canadian by the name of Jennifer Granholm. At some time in her life, she crawled through the Windsor Tunnel and pretended to be a Detroiter. Not being able to survive the harsh climate of Detroit (she is no Kwame Kilpatrick or Coleman Young) she moved about the state, befriended the Candian-like Yoopers, and became the leader of the Mitten with the Stag jumping into Wisconsin. However, Granny could not stop the sinking of the USS Bob Seger, and the businesses began to flee with the ex-King (but now more corpulent) of the State. She did what she could, but the economy still began to take a plunge into Hell. Her two terms coming to an end, she left an open seat for the taking.

Enter the World’s Toughest Nerd, Rick Snyder. Keeping in fine tradition of uneducated voting, the residents of Michigan voted for him (probably because his voice is more nasal than any other Michigander, so he is more Michigan than the rest of us) despite the fact that he apparently has a reputation for sending jobs overseas. He quickly began to fix the economy by attempting to dismantle unions and take money from the already impoverished state schools. The rest of Michigan got fed up and started circulating petitions to get rid of this nerd. It has not been working very well, however these angry flannel-clad deer stalkers are still pretty pissed…and tenacious.

And this is where The Foundation and the preparations for this new era of odd began. As a public service non-profit organization, this governor’s assault on the public services provided by the state could be a big problem. With the state making cuts, people would begin to demand more from us. While the Conservative agenda would have you believe that private charities enjoy giving out dough to the needy, the reality is that we are here to provide a pretty face and tax write off for the wealthy. We cannot fulfill our own goals when we are forced to cough up more money to people because the state wants to give tax relief to small businesses and big corporate monoliths. A war is brewing on the horizon: the state is going to begin asking us to do more charity and the needy will begin asking for more help. I for one did not believe that The Foundation is prepared for this potential invasion. An emergency meeting of the Board was called, ending our vacations. We needed a plan of defense.

At that meeting, we introduced a new proposal: The War Elephant.

To be continued…