Hiroshima: A Love Letter to Ann Coulter

The way to a woman's heart is through a Hiroshima-style
bomb blast... if she's worth having.

Our beautiful bomb exploded over Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Six-year-old Sara was at school, a mile away from the detonation. An absolutely perfect distance for the artistic mutilation we the righteous visited upon her. The pressure wave stripped her school uniform off her body and the intense heat raised her skin temperature to 280 degrees Fahrenheit for several seconds, well down into her dermis. A brief vacuum was created inside the building, causing a second backwash of intense pressure in the opposite direction to rip her eyes from their sockets. They hung loosely at her burning cheeks. It was magnificent.

Debris waved violently back and forth within the room. Sara’s deserving mother suffered a similar fate as her daughter’s, her dress about her in tatters, her skin blistered. A part of the wooden frame of the chalkboard had broken loose and turned into a missile. It pierced her jap belly and tore her open from top to bottom. Just as might be prayed for in the most eloquent Psalm.

All those that were in that school room were justly burnt and gravely injured, under the pleased smile of Jesus. The air was opaque with dust. Sara cried with her charred lungs. She discovered she could see through her disembodied eyeballs, since her optic nerves were still attached, though her vision was very blurry and misdirected. She tripped over dead school mates. She heard cries from teachers that seemed to come from far corners. “Mama!” she gasped.

Mama’s intestines were gathered in her arms, covered in soot and charred debris. A shaft of light illuminated them through the broken wall. Mama urged her daughter to come with her into the light.  Oh, Ann, how must we laugh at this hubris! How more undeserving can these sub-humans be of any relief? What delight we take in the disdainful toss of the head they get from Jesus!

For Jesus remembers Pearl Harbor. That’s when the yellow-belly japs attacked us for absolutely no reason whatsoever. What right do they have to salvation?

Yet Sara and Mama crawl through the debris and make their way down to the river. Sara finds that by holding her eyeballs gently, and by applying a little pressure in certain places, she can slightly improve her eyesight.

They arrive at the bank of the river. Mama wades in and begins washing her innards. She tries to flush the ashes and coal from her floating intestines. Her bowels pull loose and the blood and feces confuse her. Sara thrashes as others approach.

Two men drag Sara’s mother to the shore and cover her with a tarp. She is dead. Another damned jap rid of. Two women bundle Sara in filthy towels and carry her away. Sara survives and becomes an anti-nuke protestor in later life. She’s the worst kind of self-apologizer and anti-American complainer.

Anyway, no apologies owed to that WWII dirt. Hopefully we’ll get a chance to do it again, to those Arab Islamic sand ticks.

I know you’re with me when I say we should round up the ones we’ve got and have us a little 21^st century auto-da-fé American style with a YUGE mushroom cloud. We can re-open the old above-ground test sites in Nevada and shred the skin right off their terrorist bones. And let’s include the idiots who want to defend them too.

We’re peas in pod, you and me. Hatred and cruelty are always mocked by the people who deserve to die. We must set it right. We’re overdue for a death march.

Want to do lunch?

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Yanky Doodle

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What about the Hermaphrodites?

I recently had to look up the term cisgender. Oddly, we need a word for it now. That word refers to somebody whose gender identity squares with their birth penis or birth vagina. It turns out that I am cisgender. I must say, with all due deference to the ill-equipped, that it seems to be a real advantage in life to be able to peek down your underpants to establish your gender identity. Some people are not so lucky. These people may suffer from gender disphoria, which means they’re wearing the wrong underpants, or worse, they are in dire need of a penis tuck.

A year before that I had to look up the ‘Q’ in ‘LBGTQ’. That means “Questioning.” What it is exactly that those folks are questioning isn’t usually made clear, but I guess there are other planets besides Venus and Mars. Shall I board the space plane for Uranus?

Anyway, where does the ‘C’ for’ cisgender’ fit into the alphabet of gender identity? Shall it be CLBGTQ? It seems rude, cutting in front of the line like that. How about LBGCTQ?

Wait! But what about hermaphrodites? What are those? you ask. I quote the sage, Archie Bunker.  They are people who are “too much of both and not enough of neither.” That is, they are biologically bisexual, as distinct from behaviorally bisexual. They are rumored to have the genitalia of both of the reproductive chromosome contributors. One of their great advantages is that they can have sex with themselves without the shame of masturbation. Some species can even spawn this way.

Whether hermaphrodites exist or not, it seems to me we need to cram an “H” into our gender identity code ring. Where shall we put it?

Okay, let’s backtrack. Maybe the fairest way to do it is set it all in alphabetical order. This article has been edited and proofread, so you can’t see me puzzling this out in real time, but after a great exercise of the backspace key I come up with this:

BCGHLTQ

But what about transvestites? This category seems to be more of a “dress-up” thing and not particularly sexual. But suppose we include it (and why not? Transvestites are people too.) The difficulty here is that we now have two “trans” literations to account for in our spell - and if we must keep it alphabetical? My years of government work have provided me with a built in solution:  T(V)=Transvestite, T(S)=Transsexual.  The formula now yields:

BCGHLT(S)T(V)Q

Now I object to myself. The alphabet is arbitrary. There should be some order in the world. Perhaps we should question first – especially if we are a hermaphrodite:

QHBCGLT(S)T(V)

Then ‘B’ seems to be in the right place too.  C, G, and L, are all the same from a biological standpoint. I suggest we group them, to reflect that for clarity.

QHB[CGL]T(S)T(V)

Looks like chemistry to me. I may not be a scientist, but I know how to use a word processor. I’ll let the DSM take it from here.

Anyway, somebody asked me what I thought of transgender girls using the ladies room.  I say a transgender girl should have to use the boy’s room to fix her make-up, where she’ll promptly get beat up by a pack of rednecks as Jesus intended.

Yanky Doodle

GUEST BLOG: Aunt Prude Says

This GUEST BLOG was inevitable.  I let Aunt Prude horn in on my blog back last November and I was under no illusion that that would be the end of it.  Well, she was here on Mother’s Day and demanded her due.  “Nobody likes your stupid poems!” she said.  “My mailbag is bursting at the seams.  The People need me.  You call yourself a writer?  Okay, I’ll dictate, and you write!”  So here it is:  the long-dreaded second installment of “Aunt Prude Says.”

Question:  Ick!  My mother just came out as a lesbian.  It’s bad enough that she’s a philatelist, but now this?  I want to kill myself.  What should I do? – Put Out in Boston.

Aunt Prude Says:  Dearest Put Out, my grandmother was from Lesbos, and believe-you-me there is no shame in it!  Her second cousin even won the Nobel Prize in Poetry!  He was a real poet, not like my stupid nephew.  I know it isn’t popular these days to be from anyplace Greek, but think of the olive oil!  I am concerned about her philately though.  In my day, we didn’t discuss such things in public.  Tell her to put a sock in it.

For the record, Aunt Prude is not a “Lesbian.”  She very well may be a closeted philatelist though.

Question:  My neighbor and I do not get along.  He keeps hammering in a “For Sale” sign in my lawn in front of my house.  My house is not for sale and I have no intention of moving.  When I remove the sign, he just sneaks back at night and puts it back up.  What do I do? – Staying Put in Brooklyn.

Aunt Prude Says:  Go down to the public library and log out on the internet.  They will tell you how to make a flashy bangy thing called an IUD.  Somebody’s probably dog-eared it already.  If you have trouble, just ask the man with the sun glasses and ear piece.  He will help you get everything you need.  Follow the instructions.  The next time your neighbor puts up his sign, he will be in for a LOUD surprise!  I know it works, because the librarian says she gets letters from the government about it all the time.

If you ask me, Aunt Prude knows perfectly well what she’s doing.  Pox on her!  Personally, I think the local mob boss is a better bet here.

Question:  I am a young emo woman who is a vegan and a free spirit, with an unctuous sprinkle of goth.  I don’t shave my legs or my armpits.  My boyfriend says I’m gross and is threatening to troll me on Instagram.  Should I hold my ground or compromise a little here? – Hairy in the O.C.

Aunt Prude Says:  Tsk, tsk, young lady.  I don’t know what emos, vegans, and goths are, but reading between the lines, I assume you’re an ape.  Yes, a little compromise is in order and totally painless.  When I was a young woman, I rubbed my legs and armpits with a two-percent solution of muriatic acid twice a month for a year.  Presto! Hair-be-gone forever!  Of course, there was a nasty red pimply rash.  But that went away after 10 or 15 years.  But I haven’t shaved since!  My nephew tells me I have a very active Instagram account now and I get trolled all the time.  I don’t feel a thing, so it can’t be that bad.

Aunt Prude wanted you to know that her acid bath is not recommended for pubes.  She thought that important, but didn’t want to go there herself, and left it to me to pass on, like all those mea culpas at the end of the pharmaceutical commercials.  Geez, she’s like the back-alley abortion of everything.  I just made up the Instagram thing to mess with her.  She’s not on twitter either.  There is no hashtag to describe her.

Yanky Doodle

Second Morning

A Mother's Day Poem by M.W. Thomas

My second morning is sweet, simple peace.

The man of the house showers and shaves and leaves wet towels crumpled on the floor.

I watch without judgment as the rays of the sun grow longer.

I draw my legs in when the rays reach my toes,

For my second morning shall not end too soon.

Second mornings are before the hours of loneliness to come.

It is the time before the tireless waiting

For morning to become afternoon, and then afternoon to become evening.

Me and my mistress paint the night on a large soft canvass.

I keep her near as we sleep, near in my dreams, nearer still in wakefulness.

I follow her when she rises and we greet the crisp morning dew and foraging birds.

Our breakfast is simple and sparse.

When she has to leave me, I go and find the man.

My second morning extends the day

It is my parachute into a peaceful garden of quiet meditation.

When bad memories are forgotten and I can believe at last in happy portents.

My second morning is the breathing emblem of my new life:  the time after.

I am mother to many, to broods of souls I have not seen for many years.

Sometimes I dream about their sighs and whistles, but it is easy to forget.

How they have fared I do not know;

But I have my divine mistress now.

Second mornings extend the dream

Before the long wait in the afternoon shadows,

While the man increases the pile of laundry and I lose myself in the scent of home.

A single morning would satisfy most waking creatures, but not me.

I have two souls to feed and two lives to put to rest.

The warm feel of cloth and safe harbor in filtered light

Chase away those awful sticks and old hunger pangs,

Oh! Those things I barely remember now and yet can never forget.

My second morning is my refuge

Today will vanquish yesterday

It just takes a little extra time.

My second morning brings my truest rest and allows me time to think

I’ve seen my mistress cry; I’ve seen my master cry; but I understand only fear.

Fight or run is all that I know:  Still their tears have moved me.

In the soft glow of home, my trembling is steadied.

Home! Home at last!

Second mornings calm the bad thoughts.

There is no reason to run and nowhere to run to.

Still I must be patient and wait, though I hate to be alone.

I do not mark time, I do not know how,

Except in broad fuzzy strokes that divide misery from joy.

But hear this!  The power of tongues has been given to me for this one day only:

“Happy Mother’s Day dear mistress!

Happy Father’s Day dear man!”

Yanky Doodle

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Charge of the Cavalry at the Battle of Puebla

Unless I am about to be roundly refuted, Cinco de Mayo is not Mexican Independence Day, which rolls around again this September. Instead, this day celebrates the Battle of Puebla, at which the forces of General Ignacio Zaragoza routed the French army on May 5, 1862.

Heads up Spanish-phones (those people de habla Espanol), Cinco de Mayo falls on May 7 this year, unless you want to show up at work on Friday morning with a toilet seat wrapped around your neck.

Back to General Zaragoza.  In the mid-nineteenth century, Mexico was dead broke from two civil wars and Mexican President Benito Juarez stubbornly refused to pay his foreign debts. Britain, France, and Spain and didn't like this attitude and sent their naval collection agencies to Veracruz in 1861 to make him pay up. But six months later, Britain and Spain bailed and left the French on their own. Meanwhile, Abe Lincoln in the US of A was preoccupied with a civil war of his own, and not inclined to intervene in any mischief south-er than south. Napoleon III thought he'd just take a little advantage of that and landed a large force at Veracruz, and began a march toward Mexico City to make Mexico his own colonial conquest.

On their way they encountered trouble. His name was General Zaragoza. He hailed the French at Puebla, which is about 85 miles east of the capital. Although he was outnumbered two-to-one (some big fat liars say three-to-one), Zaragoza toppled the advancing French like Chuck Norris taking out Kermit the Muppet with a roundhouse kick. How did he do it? He told is rag-tag soldiers to visualize the French phalanx as piñatas filled with frogs. Then they just whacked the holy molé out of them. Or maybe that's not exactly the way it happened. Don't ask me. I'm not a military historian.

So, General Zaragoza was one badass dude.  The Battle of Puebla was a brilliant shot in the arm for the Mexicans. It didn't seem to do them a lot of good though, as the French eventually captured Mexico City, installed a new ruler and established the "Second Mexican Empire," which lasted the eons until 1867.

I just wanted you to know that this is what your margaritas and tacos are all about this weekend. Drink to the Mexican Patton. I'll bet you don't really give a rolling tortilla about all this history stuff, but there you go anyway. Happy Cinco  Siete de Mayo!