Raekwon the Chef & Iron Man

In an Indian fishing village, a larger one, I was consorting with the vagabonds, sharing at pieces of fish, me handing over the rotgut for a moment or two.  Indelicacies disallow the wiping of the rim of the bottle, so we all grimaced at our takes, sitting watching trash burning, that hissing and popping randomly, and our own stomachs doing things, making sounds of sea life.

Orca and Flipper.

I sauntered along the little seafood places and open air markets.  I could hear random squeals from monkeys in cages, birds measuring anguished songs, and the flopping of fish so fresh as to not be quite officially DOA.

I got all hard, walking up towards a dance hall, getting ready for the weekend rap battle.  I could hear from inside, "This is ain't no damn game, fool!"  I was thinking, giving myself a proper talk up, the streets made me, ain't nothing surprise me, not even Santa Claus.  My nuggets weren't hot; I been through stuff, man.  Streets ain't got no love for an honest G.

They were loading Lil Shontay into a rental stretch Hummer, something about Nathan's Famous and the world record.  And when the bathroom doors opened, you could see what was either silenced gunfire or camera flashes.  Something flashing, lit-up like a Christmas tree.  Meanwhile some college buddy cover band was breaking from Sweet Child O'Mine into Welcome To The Jungle, because neither of the two guitar players knew how to play the Sweet Child O'Mine solo, so they made the transition their, at that last chord change before that beautiful melody was supposed to hit.

"ARE YOU READY?  I'M GONNA MAKE YOU BLEED!"

And I was thinking, I wouldn't even have a wake-up beer first, just wait, like the moment they cleared the stage, got their Peavey Amps and chain store p.a. system out of the way, I would come in and do the Godzilla nuclear breath all over the place, melting the microphone, it spitting sparks all over, people's hair catching fire.

I return my observance back to the universe, once more. (or not) Glow-worm edition.

They said something like, "wear a condom if you gaze into the abyss, because Cheever, the abyss stares right back, right into your own hole."  And me, like Mr Clairol, trying to create a natural red, to support one blue, and stymie the other, under a pretense of gross expenditures, that now, so close to the big crunch, we become "budget hawks."

Light in August.  Joe Christmas, self-hating orphan, telling the prostitutes, before they collected his money, "I'm a ni**er", then getting run off before they collect.  As Faulkner took pains to explain, the white half hated the other, and the black half hated it's other.  He just, shut his mouth and ate toothpaste in the middle of the night, hiding in the darkness, feeling for once, at home.

And in such placid moods, I non-chalantly named a lady friend's dildo this morning.

Like, meeting the universe on its own terms, you know?  Fire with fire, love for love's own sake, four in the console, one in the seat.  There but for my own swerve, and then the Long Road Home, back to the monkish virtues I embrace so well, knowing there will be fallout from the recent "seeing".  The little girl will be ostracized.  Shunned for having seen me(not the friend I mentioned earlier).

"Out damned spot" a spritz of hand sanitizer, looking almost like fountain syrup or Caro.  "How much blood the king had!"

the editorial staff wonders if these people even know what they're doing.(non-standard flywheel)

My baloney has a first name.  It's B-I-L-L!  And I'll tell you further, baloney(Bill), egg(your mother) and mayo(my blog), and some of the mayo squirted on my pants leg, like, you can't just explain that away, "tut, tut, looks like rain!".  I deserve not what I've been given, but that's the thing.  I brook not that I need fat wads of stuff, or greenbacks or other such, but just enough to keep the narrative rolling.

And yet there are other concerns.  Tomorrow.  Building the new World's Fair.  Hand-sewn bikinis for the mermaids, a bedazzled top hat for the master of ceremonies, and maybe even a honey-battered corn dog for Mitch.

This can come across, just cinch-up, pull those buttcheeks tight.  Feel my hot breath on your neck.

The Insult Comic Dog, cheese from his lasagna topping, welded to the rough of his mouth.

See them love.

I know so many of us may have been "looked into", "perused", "vetted", without the courtesy of a shoeshine, a bottle of water at the hearing table.  And I add farther that them girls in Cheraw don't like it that somebody wanted to see me.

But I liked it just fine, and I lifted her up.

And I know it just makes them other gals so mad, that one stepped out of line, and stepped right into my game, not for the sake of delivering some prepared statement or some other game bullcrap, but something a bit more human than most of these "single-issue voters" can manage.

It was the most ascetic of times; it was the wurst of times. Legend of the slipped biscuit.

And yet, sunlight pierces through the tree canopy, lighting here and there, like liquid gold, and I was thinking of white-out, erasure, fixatives that doth crawl and creep and broach into the inner darkness of the spirit, a place where none of the trunks and cabinets are locked, because there is no need for security when they can never get past the doorman.

The national guard was out there in it somewhere, looking at the tracks, with a cadre of tormented dogs leading the march.  They were saying that the tracks favored the heel, as of either a prodigious weight or an over-sized shoe, like he wore the shoe to throw them off, that they would think maybe he was taller or something, get the ID wrong so that once he reached the highway, he was gone like a wetdream.

Troutman was saying, "here in the States, he can't even get a job working at Taco Bell, but over there, in the shit?  He flew million dollar jets, tanks, shot missiles."  The deputies all sniggered to themselves.  Whitehead drew a picture of a child kicking a bandana-wearing figure, squarely in his testicles.  It was enough one would think, to make someone willingly throw their snowcone in the trash.  "You go in those woods, all your men die."

"I SAID NO SNIGGERS!" shouted Whitehead, tossing his pad onto the folding table, and them people looked just so stressed.  It was like, if the whitebread lieutenant got them like that, what would happen out there in the sticks when it really got hairy?  He would take their bazooka and use it against them.  Indeed, he knew how to use all their weapons, and only one of them in the National Guard unit could actually even halfway aim the bazooka.

Zen among the ruins.

Of two important friends, inextricably bound together by their hearts, but suddenly fresh and alone as newly ragged-off babes, eschewing the towel, the swaddling, looking upon the world with fresh eyes, but never quite alone at any moment, for that little piece of the other is with them.

And I, through ATL, Atlanta Hartsfield, anyways, not finding my stuff at the baggage trolley, and not ever bothering to yell at the airline about it.  Thinking to myself, "I'll buy some more underwear at Walmart, anyway, and maybe some magazines, other swag, General Tso's."  "Look what GAAAAAHD just did to us man!"  Drinking coffee, looking like the world's most contented vagabond, with only that cup to answer for, meanwhile knowing my change of clothes and tablet are in another airport, somewhere across the amber waves of fruited grain, across the planes.

Meanwhile, Tommy Chong, anxiety, the clawing of nails, burrowing roach-holes into the easy chair.  "That's not what it's about."  I'm thinking I guess that's right.  But so much of a blood clot can kill even the most robust among us.  Don't you see life is killing you?  A band-aid to cope, is infinitely better than suffering without, I know, but to terminally at once brutally solve the queries, to put all of that pain and suffering and anxiety and ankle-biting into one face and have at that.

A blood-burned totem of one's hostility with an otherwise benign world.

In the park, I was pulling a particularly difficult Jenga, and the lady walked by, and I'm like, "don't I know you?"

She's like, "no, I'm sure I don't know you, but I've seen you around."

My hand was sort of jiggering a bit, like you get most nervous in a tense moment, but it was the coffee and the nicotine and all the other in the air, that even if my mood was rather unbothered, the frame of the carcass could have a kind of unguided turmoil.

She had stopped, and I don't know if she was watching me being a Jenga surgeon, displaying my strange aptitude for building something of nothing, something of its own parts, mashed potatoes dipped in gravy, onions, towers built and propagated of their own substance.

"You ever see me at Walmart?" I asked.  "I was there a while."

"Naw" she said, a ghost of a smile, something of an old thought walking across her face like a subtle shadow, "I worked at IGA, though."

"Yar" I said.  "Oh yar.  That's it."

days in the grice are twice as nice.watching the pack mule sleepily meander over the hill with the day's coffee haul.

What did you do today, Don Corleone?

Sprayed some bug killer on my tomatoes.  Went to the mailbox.  Answered some emails at my leisure.  Had a heart attack, lay unconscious while my nitwit grandson sprayed me with the bug spray.

Charred hell out of a steak over medium heat.  Just sat watching the little trail of smoke/steam, letting it come to pass.

Was circumspect in most of the dealings.  But could acknowledge no conscious display of either wisdom or grace.

I still reiterate, "neither a Joe nor a Don", and yes friends, good cop and bad cop stepped for coffee.

I'm a different kind of cop, and forsooth, not even I am really sure of the next course, but will be reasonably sure on how to advance to it, setting forth the one foot in the forward position, as the republic leans towards November, controversies and wanna-be controversies.  Going gets tough with Kayne, then away with Kayne, impulsive behaviors and all, and on with the nude Instergrams.

I like my coffee in a clear cup, you know, and millions of others agree.

Think the little model one, Kendra or whatever, will marry a basketball player?  And if so, will this make the news?  Or if Kimber selects either another rapper, or a basketball player, will this eclipse royal wedding coverage, and we've seen how essex middlebutton royal imploded.

You know what they say when you quit Walmart, that once you take off the badge, you are "uniquely qualified to work the other side of the street".  I mean, you build an enemies list while on the job, you know, and so many people are just out to get you.  Doug and Kevin.  Matt Dixon's brother.

From the BWO "Pin Me; Pay Me" files: The hydraulic replacement for internal combustion engines.

Presented for you perusal, a cut-away of the notoriously inefficient Wankel/Rotary Engine.

I think again today of my "water engine" which uses(so far) an oil based medium for which to generate hydraulic force, which, by virtue of the engine, transferred into rotational force or "torque".

As I envision it, there is an intake and exhaust stroke, just like a conventional gasoline or diesel engine, however, the stroke generally just either builds pressure on intake, or relieves pressure on exhaust.

In a two-cylinder configuration, we have a simple elbow intake, like so, leading between the cylinders:

So far, what is conceived is a sort of "non-throttled" version that runs at constant RPM, and might be used as a power multiplier for something like either a smaller gasoline engine, or even an electric motor.

There are also other unknowns, such as at what PSI internal pressure becomes explosive, how to control that pressure(safety valves), and of course, throttling.  So then we have a kind of "perpetual generator" engine that runs at a low operating temperature and needs no added fuel.

Also thinking of a kind of single-cylinder mock-up with kind of a master power cylinder, and a slave cylinder relief tank.  I think of home well water setups on the slave cylinder, an actual tank with a rubber bladder that helps to regulate pressure, but there could be something of a boot or actuator that is applied to that bladder to alter pressure, basically just push the bladder around alternately increasing or decreasing fluid pressure with the medium.

The backstory:  So I was about 10 years old, having seen movies like Dawn of the Dead 1978 and the Stand tv miniseries, daydream about "what if there were no other people?".  I would have a cool car, I thought, with flame graphics on the side.  But I thought further, no power, no fuel supply: how could I get gas for a car?

They say if you want a problem solved, bring it to a child, because they see things so simply, without a lot of the mortifying constructs that adults get taught.  Simply, "ask a child", and you get an unfettered no BS response without any of the clotting or contradiction of common sense or a liberal arts education.

The pooka of a distant lover.

"Oh, how exquisite" the old hub-bub was remarking.  "Slight fracture" he was saying, squinting, looking under and around, moving the thing all around his field of vision, "but it truly adds to the beauty, I think."

"I'm thinking it may be Persian or something, from somewhere like that, using a process long forgotten" said the shopkeeper.

"Would it be an expensive ware, I wonder?" said the hub-bub.

"Think of all the children's teeth that could be made from this thing" said the shopkeeper.

"Oh its really just an emblem of my lover" said the customer, the hub-bub.  "See, its like this: its to be kept on a shelf so much, then maybe postulated with some hot food at requisite times, like called upon to be used in service."

"How utterly Jolly" said the shopkeeper, reaching for the bowl, as if he were so enamored by the idea that he might keep the bowl for his own personal use.  He had his hands out, like a faux-wooden dance partner, with some indistinct space in between.

"Certainly you understand the little lady at the thrift shop shall die" she was saying, a ghostly hand at her own throat, some color having come to her cheeks.  Rose and cream, all it was with her, so slight a countenance as to be floated across the room by the force of simply his coarse breathing.  And there was further ghostly blue smoke hanging in the air, between the various drafts in their rooms, the glorious open window with the curtains drowsily fanning at soft washes of wind.

"Something of substance for her then" said the hub-bub, taken a sudden scowling toward the indolent child on the fringed-area rug.  "Liver, maybe.  Dinner bread, milk gravy and such."

"What a lovely thought" said the mum.  "I shall present the fare with our new golden bowl".

"You shall do no such thing" said the husband.  "Do not touch that ornament until asked by me.  Elseways, I would think to recommend the little lady to debtor's prison."

"I'm afraid I've brushed across your felicities with an indelicate, trembling hand, love" said the mum, head tilted oddly, as if marking an odd thought inside that head beneath the pinned hair, and that with powders and scents dabbed.

Out of the room, a besmirched explosion of glassware.

Immediately, the husband came, his sockfeet looking rather elvish, and with a perfect horror he saw his weekend ruined, his ritual timing vessel, you see, laying in pieces, that golden bowl, quite dead, discorporate and now rendered quite useless.

The golden-dipped bowl was lying there in three pieces, now hopelessly broken.  And with a voodoo-mysticism-inspired horror, he pictured his own lady of the evening, his secret other, of dirty postings and boxes of secret undergarments, that she would be lying broken herself, possibly at the bottom of a dark stairwell.

Toe-to-toe with old Kirstie Okeechoke.

I was afeart at my own self, afeared for the world proper and the values democratic.  Putin not condemned.  Precocious is the word for an old man, now, is it?  Christine had a night out, with Buddy Ripperton turning up smooshed in an alley way, red paint everywhere.  A gas station blown up.

Another fatbody bites the dust.

I come in the rent-a-wreck garage, and am walking around.  There's Christine, all fubar.

Somebody even took a shit on the dashboard.

I said "show me" and then there was the screech of twisting metal as the old Plymouth reformed herself.

It was all too much.  Classic Detroit.  A pillar, C pillar, vinyl top, trim around the headlights.  It was really like getting to me,

and I was like, "could you?  would you go on?  could you do that?  Go on, like?"

My friend had bought gas, pumped it, and was buying a lighter for a cigar in the store.  As he walked across the parking lot to the car, looking rather absent in aspect, I thought, "who ever heard of a gay serial killer?"  Indeed, "the pathology runs much deeper".  "He may even entertain the delusion of a kind of same sex regard, and yet that's not what keeps the wheel spinning."  Anderson.

He sat down in the car, tossing the lighter in the console, and said, "I love it when a plan comes together."

It was like Putin all over again, shirtless on the horse.  And I was thinking, he's taking the back way to his meth hook up.  Around by Crimea.  Over that way.

It was all, by and large, just another day in the grice, another day above ground, full of "homo's", dictators, broken people living the mass delusion, the mass confusion, 

Dish: I want my Braves' baseball.  I want my Hornets Basketball. RTFM.  I detect the distinct plausibility that the channels were only pulled because I liked them.  Remember, Dish, you can get dropped too.  I'm on a diet, too.  That's one of your own metaphors knuckled back into your sphincter.

Braves baseball.  Hornets basketball.  On Dish.  And you can stick those corrupt collegiate conference networks back where you found them. They generally lack content.

Legend of the One Punch Knockout:CLT Edition/Death Becomes Caroline Hicks.(From the "WBTV and Me" file)

I was literally, like hiding, on the other side of the bed, peeking out to see, if by some small token of mercy, the danger would pass.  Johnathan would have to throw holy water on that bitch, maybe, God being our last line of defense, in a faith that was badly shaken, but mercifully still there as some small comfort.

And I'm thinking.  She can't bite me with her Covid Halloween mask on.  Thank God for small favors.  But I'm still, staying my ass on the other side of this bed, furniture between me and her.

But all this year, Maureen has looked particularly healthy and happy, and I'm wondering if there was some change in her life, like marrying a top law enforcement officer, or exercising, or going gluten-free.  When someone presents news the ways she does, its a more pleasant experience, no matter the subject matter of the actual stories.

I'm thinking, what a general air of positivity about her work.

And what will Tyson look like when he next he hits the squared circle? (left uppercut, then right uppercut, followed by left hook, right cross)

"over on the mountain: thunder, magic, foam." cup half empty.

"Run through the bungle;

don't look back, again."

A night of bad dreams, me thinking more so, "cup half empty", the long-term prospects of the family questionable.  Three bad dreams, spread across the night, each so disturbing they caused me to awaken.  I saw those that were lost, saw them as I remember them best, not necessarily as the broken figures they had became before death.

6/28 and all that.

Some concerns just overwhelm.

"Evil man make me kill you,

though we're families apart."

The rest is minutia; there is only waiting.

I mean, truly, 9/11 guilt not withstanding, Covid antipathy, thinking with the future of the family in question, the list of people I care about growing shorter, I think, from my own perspective, a lot more of the faceless masses could just wink out of existence.

Truly.

In the perfect sense, one keeps himself centered, and I can't claim that kind of peace at the moment.  One has some level concern for others, and I can't claim that either.  I have in that sense, in the face of the universe, failed at Stoicism for the moment, at least.

an enlightened third party with no clear path to victory: neither a joe nor a don.

Yeah.  I heard years ago before this election stuff kicked up, about Don "just being Don", like "special in the head" or something, and people generally liked Joe, even if you made sure to check over your place after he left.  I heard all that, and made my ass raw.

And I'm thinking.  They better not sing any of my songs on stage, either.  I won't stand for it.

We hear people saying this or that is "not in my wheelhouse", and I'm like, you know, its never really been in my wheelhouse, between a few people I could name that I've never actually met, and then some people on television that I don't like.

Last time I got near one, I was told to bring 500 dollars and a carton of cigarettes, and I thought the whole time, I would probably get shook down for the rest of my money on scene by the wayward husband, or maybe even my car stolen if I made the meet.  How charming, world.

And that guy thinks he is WHO, now?  I remember talk of tapes and files and so forth, and I was wondering how complete the data really was, with me actually hearing some of the points.  I still say they got some of that from people that didn't like me, but therein lies a certain brilliance, that if you want the juicy dirty info, you don't go to people that actually like the subject.

And the lady at Hartsville with the headset was like, "I can't hear you", and I'm thinking that's about the biggest bunch of bullshit I've heard.  If that's the mgmt style there, then I'm glad I didn't make the team, you know?  I mean, for all I know, they would hear it if I farted IN MY CAR, outside in the parking lot.  

Not so much that it matters, you know, I just don't like a lie.  I believe most people would agree with that last statement.  Like that other time, I let the numbnut cousin order the food when the lady couldn't hear me.  Which was fine.  She wasn't quite bright enough to know to take a step or two closer so she could hear.

That's those "equal opportunity employers" I suppose, the pitfalls of the Americans With Disabilities Act, accommodations must be made for impaired employees and the like, standing there nearly stone deaf with her order pad, seeming otherwise empty-minded, too.

I should make a movie where a guy kills a lady by jabbing a screwdriver in her ear.  I know, I know, "that would be offensive to Rush Limbaugh."

On a more positive note, the dining area is closed at that restaurant in Cheraw.  That's what we call a silver lining, in the whole Covid mess.

Screw you all.  And good night.

Double-down Don torches a suit of his own clothes because it had cat hair on it. Oh drat. How about that?

Honey, I beg your pardon;

I never promised you a rose garden.

But I am the sort,

to carouse on the sun porch.

You know it's gotten really thick when:

a)Little Gramma recommends the public use "common sense".  WTF!?!?

b)Spittin' Joe promises that a bald man will pay our bills if he is elected.

Spooooooon River.......

Meanwhile the 1500 is backed-up to the Stonewall Jackson topiary hedge, trying to break the stump so the damn thing will just die.  And I'm getting my Doubter's of the Confederacy newsletter, and that makes me want to spit, sort of like Joe.  Richard Parton and Richard Kaiser were busy petting their own birds with Sean, congratulating themselves, making unkind funnies about Democrats.

Special birthday wishes to Jerry Lawrence.

I mean, I'm not letting this go.  He's telling the same people who eat Tide Pods, telling them that they should use "common sense".  Between all the videos of cats playing pianos and tweens wiping-out on their ATV's, I think I just made like Eminem and picked-up Thor's hammer,

so I can fix all this.

Richard Parton fighting all the way against hope, the button: "Battened Brick Butter."

Should they by chance forget either me or my opponent, this grand race for the soul of the Free World, then surely, the key will have gotten rusty and fell off the wall.

"I have a bald man to pay our bills in the future."

"We need to dramatize America's failing infrastucture.  Demolish more schools across the country."

In the citadel of the mind, these things purse not through the fog, but instead, make a kind of lampoon-fodder for Attic writing, in between bouts of chasing women and tending to my pets, sundry other blog posts from realms untold.

I'm literally sweating under my titties right now, and that with a fan pointed at me.  If I took a bath this afternoon, the good would be gone pretty quick, and I would need a good freshen-up re-bath before going next.

All I know for sure, when Donald finally leaves 1600, make sure somebody counts the silverware before he is off the premises, because we might have to look in his pockets and coat.

a va-cay-cay mercifully encumbered by the previous.

Sergio Leone should've made his comments about America in a less staid format than the "oater", but rather, the plaid with khaki shorts, loafer-wearing man of leisure that is Pater Familias.

"Our misery" they cry, "end it for us; I beg you mercy!"  And me, my brick in my hand, kind of pre-occupied, myself, busy kind of taking a lay of the land and so forth.  Point is, blessed free of mercy-killing blood on my ignorant hands.

Your babies?  Your choking?  I brook not what I should not forthwith advance among my own board of chess, nor the game of Life, nor Candyland, nor Magic: The Gathering.  Rather I should attend at what is mine, feel confident it is enough, and call all these other things, your iphones and such, entirely foreign matter, matter that does not touch scarcely the most distant in my circle.

an unhelpful how-to: Either Fix your Rogchester Crotchrajet or "just walk away" as the warlord says.

Dude, think he bad, walks up smoking a Camel, saying "bet you ain't got the vacuum secondaries hooked up".

You insult my Rochester Quadrajet, you have besmirched me.  And will get answered in "due time".

"KH" I said, "get your Blue Oval-lovin' ass far away from my El Camino".

Sure its a 305 with delusions of grandeur, dreaming its an LS or even a garden-variety 350, but I can dream, man, because dreams don't cost a thing.  Just like my passenger seat "personalized seat cover" has "JADA" on the headrest.  I got my own dreams, not just some gaucho driving a half-car/half-truck mutant.

I got my dignity, even though, hell no, the vacuum secondaries were not installed properly, because nobody knows how to do that, probably not even the people that designed the infernal contraptions.

And that's right, the car/truck has a bed like truck.

All the better for sexing some womans.

Has it been ten years already?

So it was the tenth anniversary of the housefire other day, and I got my people choked up by being the first to mention it, summoning up for them their own unpleasant memories of that time.  I remember that time, I remember having worked on writing a novel that morning before the fire, then I'm thinking a few hours later, "well, the computer is gone".

I was on a sublingual mood stabilizer at the time, and I generally didn't get bothered by much.  Even watching all my worldly possession burn, my mother crying her eyes out, and my father urging on the firemen.

So we finally did bury DBizzle.  And we got to hear from some of his loved ones, his other loved ones, that is.  I just can't help but remember how full of life and happy he seemed just days earlier standing in his Grandma's kitchen talking about getting to see his daughter after a few months away.

I was asking if KT liked younger men, you know, my horndog way, mind never straying far from the main course.  I mean, why get all bent about appetizers?  I mean, I'm not the one who emailed-in wanted to see Megyn Kelly's buttocks.  My attitude was more like, "I'm right here, little gal."  But they have various travails and such forth, careers and side hustles, I mean they put 6-8 years of college then hit tv like they're on fire or something.  I remember so Jenna trying to stand out, before I started satirizing her news stories.

I'll sell you for a handful of sheckels, little Jenna.  Little Kristen.  You know, in the files you've seen, that I don't get all bent about bad things happening to people I never met, except maybe Breonna Taylor.  That stung a bit.  Law-abiding Jane Q, shots through the door, and all that.  Not the happy stuff about adopting puppies and children, you know?  But instead, random people getting the long kiss goodbye, and the shove-off on the long swim to China.

Just plugging holes here, little Jenna.  Little Kristen.  Poppingjay.  Putting those square pegs near the square holes, like the nice orderly asks, and they got the video of the whole thing, how adept I am at puzzles, but I can't quite get my own life in order.  Its all misgivings and such, writing letters to strangers about things that happened years ago.

Yeah, my burning house was on front page of the June 13, 2010 edition of the newspaper, and it was like, "oh look, my nightmare!"  How very cool.  A firefighter bending-over in front of our burnt-out storage shed.  I'm in the Virginia Slims ad, remarking on many things, but imparting this above all, "you've come a long way, baby."

I mean, me getting mad.  Me watching them watching me watch them, and all that.  But in the end, that really gets me nowhere, you understand?  I have my own rows in the garden that need to be tended daily, hoeing the beans and all that, ant poison and such.  Then I bet, the power that be would be crapping themselves thinking that I had stopped just watching them all day, and started worrying about my own groove, "laying in the cut", singing my own song, one which they struggled to put in context, and would be far less certain about any meaning therein that they could apply to their own lives.  I mean, jump on my nuts Karen.

And that's the difference between Trump and me.  He paid his gets.  I make my gets pay me.  I'm angry for other reasons, I guess, and pa didn't give me any buildings.  He gave me a Hyundai Sonata that I later sold for 300$.