Author: Wayne Michael Reich

“Lawyers spend a great deal of their time shoveling smoke.”- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

Hello Blogiteers!

What a day for a daydream, eh? And also a nightmare, if my early morning a couple of days ago was any indicator, for that was when I got to partake in a pointless video conference with not only the jackleg who represented both my former employer and their unethical as a Sith Lord business insurer, the Hartford, but with a “judge” of the AZ Industrial Commission as well. The reason why that descriptor has been placed within the confine of quote marks, is because in my personal opinion, this self-alleged impartial overseer came off as a neutral magistrate in regard to my case very much in the same way that Dr. Pepper presents as a qualified medical professional.

A heads up for you, my loyal readers- if one finds themselves complaining about this particularly  succubustic Legalzilla who clearly made up their mind about a case before hearing any details, and bluntly suggest that an act of metaphorical fellatio was performed on the opposing side’s  latrine lawyer to their immediate supervisor, be aware that said administrator is going to get very flustered with you, and suggest that you’re possibly not a nice person. Interestingly however, they also will not deny the validity of what you said, and while this doesn’t prove your personal opinion correct, it doesn’t disprove it either.

Just know that in the end, these bloviating bureaucrats will close ranks to shield their own long before protecting the public whom they claim to serve. It does make me wonder though, if the judicial staff at the AZIC have to provide their own knee pads, or if there is a general fund from the state for that sort of thing.

A question for another time, I guess.

There’s an old axiom among photographers that the camera adds ten pounds, and I have found this to be the case within certain situations, but when I saw the physicality of my legal adversary on my phone screen, the first thought I had was possibly inquiring about how many cameras were currently being pointed at him, because he looked like he could produce his own gravity. I’m not being flippant, but I gave seriously thoughtful pause to the wonderous notion that if he accidently dropped a Mc Donald’s ketchup packet into his lap, it would circle his beltline of its own accord.

And no, I’m not trying to body-shame, as I myself currently look like what might happen if James Hetfield ever falls into a dehydrator head-first, but I’m also not going to lie when the thought that came into my head after “Jesus, put down the fork, dude”, was that if I ever found myself between him and an open crate of Chocolate Twinkies, I’d be a dead man walking. And with that series of playful jokes, I smugly display the sense of advanced maturity I’ve been working on with great intensity for at least the last twenty minutes or so.

In my earlier days of writing, I might have voiced the acerbic and erroneous conviction that these so-called professionals career path was the natural choice for persons far too unattractive to work in porn, but who’s innate ethics proved way too strong to allow them to freely sell counterfeit Ecstasy to Kindergartners.

See? Those are the kind of clearly obvious jokes I would never even think of making these days.

I guess what legendary sci-fi author H.G Wells once stated in his novel Love and Mr. Lewisham is accurate, regarding the development of one’s personal maturity, that being; “There’s truths you have to grow into.” This lone concept by the way, has proven itself to me more than once, but as someone who like the majority of us, grew up among so-called adults, one of the truths I’ve held rather tightly to as I’ve aged is that too many of them are supreme moral failures within the lives they were gifted.

The foremost career demographic that always comes to mind concerning this assessment are naturally politicians, as you might expect, but running a close hair-gelled second would be the practitioners of the carrion fueled industry known as the legal profession. And in third place? That honor falls to any person who works in one of those annoying theme restaurants in Las Vegas where the wait staff sing and dance while you’re trying to eat your overpriced and underdone cheeseburger.

No, “Corky-not-your-real-name”, I actually don’t want to hear you mangle yet another Buddy Holly song, as the plane crash he died in skillfully did that quite some time ago, but thanks for the shrill reminder to all of us why college, if not trade school, is so damn important. Speaking of which, my personal experience with law school graduates has always been uniformly unpleasant. Whether it’s seeing just what level of shameless odiousness one person can achieve in the pursuit of an unethical buck, or the fact that most seemingly have an inner compass that guides their moral path very much in the manner that a catholic priest would of a Boy Scout troop, if he were still allowed to be in charge of one.

It brings to mind the classic joke that goes; “Q: Why did New Jersey get all the toxic waste and California all the lawyers? A: It’s because New Jersey got to pick first.” Which is still one of the best decisions NJ ever made, in my humble opinion.

Well that, and the interesting factoid that no matter where you decide to gas up your car, an attendant will always be on hand to go and pump petrol for you. Remarkably, New Jersey is the only state that doesn’t allow drivers to pump their own gas. This is because of the Retail Gasoline Dispensing Safety Act and Regulations that was passed in 1949, which states that the unusual prohibition is for the safety of motorists.

From the text of the act: “Because of the fire hazards directly associated with dispensing fuel, it is in the public interest that gasoline station operators have the control needed over that activity to ensure compliance with appropriate safety procedures, including turning off vehicle engines and refraining from smoking while fuel is dispensed.” Given how much I’ve grown to dislike the act of filling up my own tank, due to certain physical limitations I now suffer from, I can get 100% behind this.

In fact I’m so impressed by this that I won’t even mention how New Jersey is totally responsible for giving us Bon Jovi all those years ago. Oops… do me a solid, and just ignore that faux pas, will you? I have no real grievance with Mr. Bon Jovi, but I’ve always felt that the master-tape for his song “Living on a Prayer” needs to be burned and then buried in a salt pit, because that’s how you truly eradicate the purest of evil ear-worms as a rule. Coming back from that unanticipated tangent, my morning before the unanticipated clusterf**k to come was fairly typical- I awoke, had my two bowls of Apple Jacks and a cup of Earl Grey, and sat patiently on my living room couch in  New Mexico, cruising my social media with no expectations whatsoever.

There was one concern I had been anxious about for the last month or so, however. This of course, was the uneasy feeling that the jackleg of obesity I was about to soon face was going to attempt derailing my case using not hard facts, but soft technicalities.

Just one time. That’s all I want. Just one time, it would be really nice if my gut instincts could finally be wrong about something. Anything. I’d really look forward to this new experience, if it meant that I’d finally witness people being held truly accountable for their actions. But as Fate would have it, we live in a pre-rigged world where the hardscrabble populace is routinely abused and discounted by the very people who were tasked with protecting them in the first place.

I’ve previously written about my interaction with the impotent Civil Rights Division of the AZ Attorney General’s Office and its intrinsic failure to do the heavy lifting that was required, so it almost feels like I’m trapped in its hastily produced sequel, but with a far lower budget, and a cast nobody’s ever heard of, save for Kevin Sorbo.

For those of you who mercifully don’t know who Kevin Sorbo is, he’s an American actor with a dramatic range regarded as somewhere between that of a urinal cake and a slice of Provolone cheese. He’s best known for starring in two B-Grade TV shows, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, and Andromeda. These television studio tax write-offs should be noted for their respective cultural benchmarks- Hercules exhibited weekly why its spinoff show Xena: Warrior Princess was far superior, and Andromeda proved that the normally reliable Star Trek lightning doesn’t always strike the same success twice. Sorbo, who’s wackadoo political views are just as wretched as his films, may also be one of the main reasons I received a lifetime ban from Twitter due to my consistent postings on his page that if it weren’t for the discount bins at Walmart, there would be no existent archive for his straight-to-DVD career.

Sorry. I went off track yet again. My sincerest apologies. Mainly for making you aware of who he is. Close your eyes and think of a far better actor, and you’ll be right as rain in no time. I promise.

Normally, when I’m challenged by those I consider to be soulless, I like to do it from inside the secure confines of a demon-repelling circle of salt, but to be quite honest, it’s really hard to lay one of those out on a whim and get it just right. Plus, I’m also not sure how such old-school tactics might work against entities who aren’t even in the room with you to begin with. After all, when it comes to the governmental agencies within Arizona, the only one I’ve ever seen do their jobs correctly is the DMV, and those overwhelmed people get all shades of undeserved crap from it’s customers.

You hate waiting 45 minutes to get your tags? Try waiting almost two years for the justice you deserve, only to watch it get sodomized with a razor-studded strap-on, who’s owner then dares to lecture you on the finer points of why you should have appreciated their modern interpretation of a *Tijuana donkey show.
*[A donkey show is the descriptive term for a type of live sex show widely considered as an urban legend, in which a woman performs an act of bestiality with a donkey. These shows were rumored to be located in the Mexican border city of Tijuana, and while one can easily find both women and donkeys there, it’s quite rare to see them being anything other than very close platonic friends.]

But before I get into delivering yet another well-earned Artbitch exsanguination, some necessary past context must be presented. When I first filed all the appropriate paperwork with the AZIC, there was a portent of what was to come. Unfortunately, I relied on my sense of cynical optimism, rather than just going ahead and outright suing both my ex-employer and former supervisor, for shirking the dual responsibility of my medical bills and the callous violation of my civil rights due to an act of discriminatory firing. Go big, or go home, as my macramé coach was fond of saying.

Like most government offices, the AZIC has a front desk person whose sole purpose is to either direct you or answer your questions, and the one AZIC had as their point person was very nice and capable, but also sadly cursed with a massive stutter. One that could have made King George the VI come off smoother than Benedict Cumberbatch wearing a smoking jacket, reading a wine list. Once again, I’m not being a jerk, just remarking on the fact that certain afflictions need to be taken into consideration when one chooses a career path.

Since my hands have a tendency to shake as if I have Parkinsons Disease on the best of days, I shouldn’t be the first person you’d tap for performing acts of microsurgery or a bris, and I’d submit for your perusal that a public contact person probably shouldn’t have to take almost five minutes to eventually spit out the phrase “How may I help you?” It’s the same reason as to why I wouldn’t trust a proctologist or urologist who had steel hooks for hands. Sure, they might be able to do the job fabulously, but that crucial first impression isn’t going to set my confidence in stone concerning their abilities anytime soon.

Just my two cents.

So, I filed the paperwork, and eventually they got a hold of me to get the ball rolling. Except that’s not what happened. In fact, my filing languished for close to a month, and I only found this out after physically going back down to the agency’s office to see why I hadn’t heard anything in regards to my claim. Turns out, I needed to list the date of my injury, which I could not do, due to the fact I didn’t actually recall the specific day it had happened on to begin with.

What I mean to clarify is that while I knew the time frame in which it had occurred, the exact day on which it had was unknown to myself, so I was forced to pick an arbitrary date within said range. When I asked why nobody had bothered to contact me about the problem, as this truly was a time-sensitive issue, I was met with a lazy shoulder shrug, an eye-roll, and a response of “I don’t know”, which as far as my personal experiences have shown, is seemingly the official motto of almost every

so-called citizen protection agency located within the state of Arizona.

As I hope I implied earlier, I will never criticize any employee of the DMV ever again, since those poor bastards work within a Mad Max Thunderdome, and yet somehow, still get the job done with the limited resources they possess. This tax-dollar wasting agency on the other hand, couldn’t seemingly hire any employees that know how to do a competent follow-up using a phone, email, smoke signals, or cuneiform, so I can only imagine what their collective brain trust upstairs must be like. Oh wait, I do know that. And it’s just as disorganized as you’d think.

For instance, even though there was over a month of prep-time for what I believed was to be a tele-conference, AZIC contacted me no less than five minutes before the hearing was scheduled to start, and informed me that it was in all actuality, supposed to be a video-conference. Other than the fact I was still in my Avenger-print pajamas, the real issue was that where I live, the internet can be as reliable as the wedding vows of Donald Trump

You can see the problem, but these slack jaw simpletons didn’t. After all, a lead of several weeks to make sure the kinks are worked out beforehand is hardly enough time to work with when you willingly spend most of it playing grab-ass with the very same people you’re chartered to keep in check. In order to combat their glaring, if not incompetent oversight, I was forced to download a Google app now removed, which demanded access to all of the data on my phone, because I need to have even more of my life violated due to the actions of morally corrupted overseers.

Granted, that’s only my take on the situation in relation to individuals whose only interest in seemingly doing their jobs, is to try and collect the steady paychecks that in my opinion, they don’t deserve and don’t truly earn.

To be fair, the first twenty minutes of this farce were what you’d expect, with my answering the standard boilerplate questions, but soon it became obvious that the deck was purposefully stacked against me. In retrospect, I don’t even know why I bothered to participate, because from my POV, I had the feeling I was no more than a third wheel on someone’s first date. Why do I hold this personal opinion, you ask?

It rests on the fact that despite the Hartfords’ established history of shady obstruction, their multiple unresolved consumer complaints, and a purposeful failure to notify me of my valid claim being denied, none of this was EVER taken into any form of serious consideration. The latter issue by the way, was the causation of why I missed the ninety-day window in which I had to file an appeal,

Also ignored was the myriad of my health issues, which had kept me sadly bedridden for close to five months, and It was also implied that my not being expertly versed in the laws regarding workman’s comp in the state of AZ was solely my fault as well. Apparently, that sort of innate knowledge is something one should just know instinctively as a rule. One other thing I found interesting, was that rather than say “excuse me” or “may I interrupt” when I was answering a question, whenever the judge felt the need to interject, she’d start waving her arms spastically as if she was doing the Wave at a Steelers football game.

While that by itself was fairly insulting, it paled in comparison to having to watch this falsely neutral judge bend over backwards to shield the opposing attorney from bearing any responsibility.

At no point did he state that my injury claim was invalid, he just whined that I had taken “too long” to present my case, which by the way, I’ve been F**KING DOING FOR THE LAST TWO GODDAMN YEARS. When at one point, I accidentally misstated this jacklegs name, I was informed rather snottily what the correct pronunciation was immediately. Not by him, but by her. I’ll tell you right now, if I had known that the persons assigned to assist me were going to gleefully hold me down as I was run over by two combined well-funded and unethical entities, I would have forgone this bulls**t and just sued the life out of the responsible parties involved, which is now what I am going to have to do.

I could honestly care less about the actions of my employer’s jackleg, since scumbags are gonna do scumbag things for other scumbags, but the magistrate who in my opinion, did everything they could do to make sure he did so unimpeded?

I can only assume from my POV that being bought and paid for must come with one hell of a comprehensive dental plan for somebody to justify renting out their ethics. To clarify, I’m not threatened by any woman who’s smarter than me, more capable at being truly ruthless, or can throw down an arrogant front just as hard as any dude. I do however, have more than a few bones to pick with anyone I find to be unethical, uncaring, and totally incompetent at grasping the basic tenets of Humanity, which the rest of us seem to find as natural as breathing.

At the end of the hearing, which I signed off on by cutting my video feed and commenting on open audio that the duo who had wasted my time were “f**king idiots”, for which, I will only utter the traditional “sorry, not sorry”, as a capstone. It’s pretty well known if I feel that I’m going to crash and burn at warp-speed, I’m going to enjoy riding the bomb like Slim Pickens did so happily in Dr. Strangelove. Not too surprisingly, I did run through a brief and very angry mental litany of what I felt were appropriate words to describe the persons I had just dealt with. And as you might well imagine that when it came to the jackleg, I blazed through every obesity joke I knew first, because as someone who has German relatives who both personify and tell them, it’s a shallow pond to begin with.

Sadly however, when it comes to derogatory names or terms for women, there seems to be no end to how deep that well goes. It’s been quite clear to me for a while now that online at least, there are a lot of very angry anti-feminists out there. While a man of lesser words if not intellect, might use some gender-specific terms to render an opinion about the female judge in his case, I’d like to think I’m better than that. I’m not, but I definitely like to think that I am. In that aspect, it’s just like when I talk about how good my microwaving burritos game is. It’s not that impressive overall, but I can still bring it when necessary. I try very hard not to be marginalized as your ‘typical guy”, and unlike most of my gender, I don’t view fraudulent chivalry as a means to get on a woman’s good side.

In person, I tend to be quite respectful to both sides of the human coin, and it’s extremely rare that I use the type of language to describe someone publicly that one might overhear while lounging inside a New Orleans cathouse. But in this instance afterwards, you would have thought I was auditioning for the main role in a Tarantino movie. After hissing out a half-dozen combinations, most of which rhymed with some variant of “brother-sucker”, I came back to the most vile of all the feminine-targeted insults, that being the dreaded, last-resort, and apocalyptic one that begins with, and is noted with great and fearful trepidation as, “The C Word”. And no, it doesn’t stand for “condescending”, or “churlish” in this case, but it could. Breathing room is always nice, but it doesn’t apply here.

Nope. It stands exactly for what you think it does, and for once, I really don’t feel too bad for thinking it.

But as I said, I’d like to think I’m better than that, and besides, it’s also not really that accurate of a description to begin with. If I were forced to look at it fairly, she lacks the warmth, the depth, and the visual interest required in order to carry that assessment forward with full honors, so there is that in her general favor. Once again, that’s just my personally held opinion for whatever it’s worth. And I will happily acknowledge that her supervisor deemed my POV to not only be highly inappropriate, but correspondingly, right on the razors edge of being a tad bit too caustic for him to comment on past a few weak-ass excuses.

What can I say? I’m a people person, and I think it shows. A small side note: when you call the AZIC and inform them that you wish to file a formal complaint against one of their judges, don’t be too surprised that there is no definable path to accountability whatsoever. I claim this, because when I attempted to lodge such an action, the front desk clerk had no idea how to complete my request. He had no knowledge of a form, or website, or any governing division of the AZIC that was in charge of resolving such an issue.

Sigh… what cabal of meatheads writes policy for these agencies? Is it that group lobotomies are a thing now, and I’ve just never noticed? Speaking of which, after being placed on hold for no less than ten minutes as the front desk clerk scrambled to find me the right route to take, I found myself on the phone with what was yet another disingenuous AZIC official, who hemmed, hawed, and deflected the concerns I was voicing.

And while my tone was exceedingly sarcastic, it was also focused on the issues at hand. In retrospect, I probably should have started off this soon to be worthless conversation using flattery, rather than observational cynicism, because there was no way this person was going to do anything but duck reality and cover for his employee, unless his pompous ass was being kissed like a Popes’ ring first. Once again, just my opinion.

When I noted the stunning lack of an easily accessible public forum in which to formally hold his staff member accountable, I was informed, (and that rather tersely) that I could write a letter to him, and he would “look into it”. Oddly, that answer didn’t lend any additional credibility to his platitudes that my concerns were going to be rectified or even dealt with at all. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s probably a good thing that no one owns the royalty rights to the vulgar phrase “go f**k yourself”, because if they did, I’d currently be working four jobs just to cover the usage check I would have had to cut over the last few days.

And while I’m not proud of it, that is exactly how I ended our conversation, because after close to two years of being crudely jerked off by people wearing sandpaper gloves with no happy or remotely tolerable ending in sight, I finally have hit my personal zenith for dealing with the piles of other people’s bulls**t. Maddening as this has been, what’s truly galling is that I’m expected to be the only one who‘s not only civil, but overly grateful, for the graciousness so-called, of being mocked, lied to, and discounted by the agencies who were supposed to help me settle this to its perceptibly logical conclusion.

To quote Nick Fury of SHIELD: “It’s stuff like this that gives me trust issues.”

So, what’s the next step? Now shocking as it may seem, despite the love I have for hollow volcano lairs, along with dreams of possessing both a jump-suited army of minions, and a reasonably priced Death Ray, and even factoring in my penchant for hiring racially ambiguous yet earthily sexy, female secretaries who keep sleeping with dispassionate but heroic British secret agents, I’m still not a Bond villain. I’m not going to announce the minutiae I plan to utilize to legally bring to bear the full force of equitable justice to those who’ve shirked its glare for far too long.

But this is me we’re talking about, so my approach has to have a touch of the creative, to say the very least. I’d feel like phoning it in otherwise, and Odin knows I can’t get down with that. Sure, the usual machinations are to be expected, since my case will have to be settled in the cubicle peoples’ court, and I’m pretty sure that demographic of the judiciary wouldn’t appreciate me bringing in my personal Harkonnen Capo Chair, no matter how well it fits both my persona and wardrobe.

I’m  sure why, but for some strange reason, furniture with skulls as part of its structure really freaks out the straights, but if it helps remind my former employer and supervisor that they’re not above the law, then I guess it will be energy well spent. And if I don’t win in the end, because Life isn’t always fair, at least I’ll have it within the public record of who and what, I went up against. I once wrote that there are hills to die on, and hills to avoid, and a lifetime of experience will tell you which is which.

So, if this is the hill I metaphorically expire on, then I’m going to make sure that everyone will know why. SciFi writer Isaac Asimov once observed that “Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.” What I take away from this sage advice, is that at the end of all things, one finally gets the opportunity to truly rest. But until then?

Stand for what’s right. Raise Hell as often as possible. Make the unjust weep at the mere mention of your name.

And always leave more scars on them than on yourself.

“The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, and wretches hang that jurymen may dine.” – Alexander Pope

 

 

 

 

“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” – Benjamin Franklin

Hello Blogiteers!

I dare say that ol’ Benji was right on the nose with his observation, and I try to follow the first with some consistency whenever possible. Unfortunately, the latter can encompass a wide swath of questionable activities, and some of them aren’t necessarily the most virtuous paths that one should undertake. And due to both social and legal judgements that may be waiting for you at the end, the bitch that is Karma tends to show up with the biggest attitude-adjusting paddle it has, just before the random guests it invited watch the epic reckoning that is about to occur.

In other words, if I had the option to do specific things all over again, I’d definitely sleep with Elizabeth, but not Deborah, avoid at all costs getting engaged to she-who-will-not-be-named, tell at least two of my former employers to go anally pleasure themselves with a razor-studded pineapple, and open up a dialogue with God in order to strike a preemptive bargain not to hold my Mardi Gras trip back in 1993 against me. And if he eventually does, it would totally be worth the eternal damnation- one knows deep inside that you’ve set a personal best for morality stretching when Satan himself not only sends a letter of congratulations, but a fruit basket as well.

Interesting note, he’s still really into apples. Old school is the best school, and all that.

Getting back on track, I will be discussing if not dissecting in this screed, the process of how and why I write- this is actually an area of questioning that I get asked about quite frequently, as if I’m a practitioner of the blackest of linguistic voodoo. Granted I am, but not in the way that most people would ascribe to me. I’ve been told by more than a few people that if you’re going to have a voice, you’d better be damn careful what that voice says, a piece of advice that I tend to reference only occasionally when it suits me or the situation at hand.

By way of example, I have a tendency to be much more cautious when I’m taking swipes at a multi-million-dollar corporation then when I’m going one-on-one with a person who proves by their very presence alone, just why it’s so vital to fund both birth control and public education in this country.

For fairly obvious reasons. I’m also a devotee of knowing what hills are worth dying on, and which ones should be avoided at all costs. Think of it as if your flight got grounded in New Jersey- the odds are that you’re going to be just fine, but why tempt cruel fate by eating the vending machine sushi in the first place?

One of the best things (if you could say that) about being afflicted with a disease that’s nearly killed me twice, is that it offers up a unique perspective in regards to life, and the eventual tallying of your mortal accounts. When my card gets punched, I’d like to think that I would check out fighting on my feet, rather than begging for mercy on my knees.

And if all goes to plan, with my dignity intact as well. But one of the most prominent side effects that comes from knowing that your life path is shorter than most people, is that it really reinforces your tendency to not really give a f**k a about following the established rules of decorum as your hourglass runs out.

It’s rare that I ever apologize for what I write, and I’ve never pulled a piece due to savage criticism, physical threats, or the fact it may not be the majority viewpoint at the time. If I could ever cash in all the free rent that certain individuals granted me in their heads when I was writing about the Phoenix Art Scene, not only would I have my own hollow volcano lair complete with jump-suited henchmen by now, but I’d also have at least one auditorium-sized bouncy castle room, complete with a fully stocked NERF-gun armory.

As far as my compiled literary output goes, between 2005 and now, [December, 2019] I’ve written fifty-nine My Space blogs when that was still a thing, one critical art review for the now-defunct website PhoenixArtSpace.com, eight articles for PHOENIX Magazine, seven that covered local art and one regarding Phoenix’s bike share program, produced one script for a fully-realized video collaboration project with noted filmmaker Douglas Proce, three recent articles for New Mexico’s ZIA Magazine, and at the moment, the Artbitch blog has an archive of eighty stand-alone pieces

As to what the full word count is in relation to all of this effort, I honestly have no idea. The last tally that was taken back in 2014 summed up as the equivalent of writing four full-length novels, which I find astounding to this day. To put this into a relatable perspective, a written piece of mine is remarkably similar to what being trapped in an elevator with me for two hours would be like, but with better seating and access to a good cup of Chai. It’s analogous to how every year a new Adam Sandler movie gets released- you and everyone else may not want it, but it’s going to happen anyway, so just relax, and it’ll all be over before you know it.

The ironic thing however, is that my developing into a writer wasn’t part of the game plan when I found myself released upon the world right after college. Albeit to a somewhat limited degree these days, I was then, and still am now, engaged in what my dad always enjoyed disparaging as not being a real job, that being the vocation of a professional artist. In a somewhat ironic twist, I had zero interest in writing, even going so far as to let other people craft my artists statements and my press releases, because let’s face it, I had far more important things to do.

Like dressing all in black, picking up the random art groupie, going to parties, and occasionally, making some art to keep my chosen lifestyle going. You know. Like you do. And sometimes, when the coast was clear, I’d also sneak out plates of food from the refreshment table laid out at my art openings, because I was both starving and broke as f**k.

To this day, I still maintain that a stash of Tupperware in your trunk and a cheap roll of aluminum foil on your person, can be a total life saver. Not to mention, it really cuts down on the overall cost of your grocery shopping if you do it right, so that’s just a tip from me to you, free of charge. These days however, I find myself happily living the life of a suburbanite in the bucolic Zen that is Southern New Mexico, and despite all the changes that come with a major relocation, it was definitely a long-overdue move for the better.

And while I miss certain aspects of my former life, such as my peeps, particular restaurants, and the retail conveniences that come with living in a major city, I definitely do not miss the pettiness, insipidness, and general marketing incompetence of the art scene that I left behind in my wake.

Now before anybody gets their palette twisted, if you’re familiar with my very public POV, whether that’s through a personal relationship or my previous writing, you’ll know exactly who and what I’m referencing when I say this. After 25 years+ in the arts & advocacy game, I’m enjoying not feeling like I’m pounding my head into a wall of detached ineptitude, and that position only gets more armored every time I see what’s currently going on in the so-called Phoenix Art Scene, (AKA: the PAS) a little over a year out from my departure.

While it is uplifting to see some local stalwarts doing breathtakingly great work, it as equally annoying, if not outright pathetic, to see how many human speed bumps remain who are continually poisoning the metaphorical well of what could be an amazingly creative mecca. These pretentious dilettantes serve as the main evidence as to why a creative scene overseen by hobbyists with a nebulous agenda will never achieve any form of relevant critical mass, no matter how good the intentions behind it may be.

It’s bad enough that the PAS has suffered with a wide range of wholly impotent advocacy groups over the years, but the grave issues afflicting it are compounded when self-proclaimed creatives who can’t envision their way out of a circle drawn in chalk, are allowed to set the tone, pace and standards for the real professionals.

You know the type- the Instagram “influencers”, the I-phone “photographers”, the unqualified if not wholly clueless “art curators”, and my personal favorites, those being the visual artists who recycle other people’s truly innovative ideas, and remarket them as either “homage” or an attempt at “reinterpretation”, which is the most diplomatic path one can undertake as a means towards committing intellectual hypocrisy without actually admitting to it.

Thankfully, this clusterf**k is no longer something I have to deal with, and its absence has not made my heart grow fonder. I still find if funny, if not ironic, that the very same people who used to criticize and mock me for addressing these issues publicly are now the ones who email me regularly, asking for an opinion an opinion regarding the scene I no longer serve, past the randomly occasional show of support for the people I still respect.

They know who they are, since it’s a by invitation only kind of club to begin with. But all of this drama is the main reason as to why I started writing in the first place… sort of.

When I first started blogging on the ol’ MySpace, it was really nothing more than a narcissist extending his normal day-to-day kvetching, and my personal take was that anyone who might bother to read my rants could take it or leave it. No worries, and with no real concerns regarding what people might think about what I was saying, one way or the other. In that regard, not much has changed- I write for myself as always, and hope that what I eventually craft triggers a feeling of amusement, entertainment, anger, enlightenment, joy, or introspection in whomever winds up perusing it.

And it goes without saying, although I’ll say it anyway, that if they don’t like it, they’re cordially invited to take a brief pause and f**k off in whatever direction they feel might be the most advantageous. On those rare moments, when I dare look back upon that very early writing, circa 2005 or so, the glaring wretchedness of my literary inability is truly soul-crushing. It’s an almost impossible temptation that after close to 15 years of writing, to not go back and “fix” all the huge mistakes that I now can see within my past work.

Fortunately, I can also track my learning curve over the years, as I developed my own distinctive voice and style, and while it’s true that you can’t please everyone, as long as I’m happy, that’s really the only person that counts, so far as I’m concerned. Well, me and Milla Jovovich if she ever decides to read my stuff. As noted, I started scribbling down my thoughts starting in 2005, but even back then, the career path was about chasing art, and the idea of working with words in the same way I worked with paint and film, was as far removed from my thoughts as anything could have been at the time. So what changed?

Easy answer. My Diabetes decided it needed to crank our relationship up to eleven, in a full-on attempt to flat out kill me. So in a lot of ways, it’s a lot like my ex-fiancé, minus the lying, blame-shifting, and adultery. Come to think of it, that’s actually a pretty decent upgrade, so I guess I can’t really be mad about it in the end.

in 2009, I suffered a severe attack of *ketoacidosis, which put me into a diabetic coma for four days, and kept me in the ICU for a week and a half. When I left, I was thirty-five pounds lighter, and cursed with two additional free gifts- a severe case of **neuropathy, and extensive nerve damage in both my hands. The nerve pain as you can imagine sucked, but the nerve damage which over time has gotten worse, led to uncontrollable tremors and muscle weakness. This in turn, pretty much ended the drawing/painting aspect of my career.
*[Diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA) is a life-threatening problem that affects diabetics. It occurs when the body starts breaking down fat at a rate that is much too fast. The liver alters the fat into a form called ketones, which causes the blood to become acidic.] **[Neuropathy is a result of damage to the peripheral nerves. It often causes weakness, numbness and pain, usually in your hands and feet. It can also affect other areas of your body.]

But if there is an upside to having hands that from time to time don’t work the way they should, it’s that at least nobody asks me to hold their screaming newborn anymore, so that’s an unforeseen plus. Ok, some people still do, but usually, once is all it takes for them never to do it again. On a related note, did you know that most babies have a natural ability to bounce like a Superball? Nature is truly fascinating, when it gets right down to it.

So, there I was, a few months after my hospitalization, attempting to downplay the destruction of the skillset I had spent twenty years plus perfecting, and wondering what the Hell I was going to do, if I couldn’t make art in the same way that I used to. That by the way, is a rough conversation to have with yourself, when your psyche has a really bad habit of playing Devil’s Advocate, and as a rule of thumb, tends to consistently take the wrong side.

No inner monologue, I really don’t want to think about pursuing a career in the highly competitive and fairly lucrative field of veterinary medicine or big-rig driving, but thanks for your suggestions anyway. Sure, I could have always gone back to stripping, but nowadays that job market is exclusively dominated by single moms, and I really can’t compete against that. Plus, I have no idea what my stage name would be, since I’m also pretty sure “Dick Steele” is most likely being utilized as an avatar name by some anti-gay conservative preaching hypocrite for his Grindr profile.

That’s just a guess, of course. But the odds are probably on my side here, given how often that sort of thing seems to happen as of late. Originally, I started this new batch of personal writing as a means to silence an inner argument I was having with myself in regards to issues I was sick and tired of observing within the PAS. If you know my past work, I won’t rehash it here- if you don’t, go make a sandwich, slip into your coziest jammies, and hit up the archive in order. Trust me, you’ll feel so much better being in the loop like the rest of the cool kids.

As my random narratives of thought disseminated into the art river slowly gaining fans and critics alike, it inspired the now former editor of the Phoenix New Times Amy Silverman, to target me with a pathetic and weakly transparent online “hit-piece” in retribution for my chronicling of her numerous editorial failures in reporting on the PAS, and her inability to competently pass for an actual functioning human.

In the one face to face and highly unpleasant meeting I had with her, I came away with the firm conviction that if boiling water was ever poured down her throat, she’d be spitting out ice cubes mere seconds later, for which I will give her some begrudging praise. After all, not everyone can chill a six-pack of Pepsi just by briefly holding it in their hands, and no matter how you slice it, that’s still a cool party trick, even if it’s unholy as Hell. Now, I don’t know what she was hoping to achieve with her gambit at yellow journalism, but I’m pretty sure her endgame wasn’t planned to give me an unintended audience literally overnight, which it ultimately did.

I once had the notion of showing my appreciation for her inadvertently doing that with a really thoughtful gift, but had to reconsider when I realized it was going to be damn near impossible, if not costly, to acquire an entire basketful of puppies for her to eat.

I’m kidding of course, as I’ve been told she’s really more of a cat person, and there’s no way I’d ever spend my own money trying to make her feel valued. But even given this cravenly veiled attack, I was still undeterred from what I was trying to accomplish overall- that being real change within the scene itself.

I wrote at length (of course) about seriously marketing both the artists and the scene itself proficiently, noted why consistent self-promotion was a vital key to one’s plan of long-term success, and publicly called out the people and organizations I believed were cutting the throat of artistic progress and financial stability within the scene itself. Looking back over that ten-year span, I have to ask myself, was it worth all the hate mail, the snidely delivered arrogant slurs, and the sense of limited, but still unswervingly focused ostracization I suffered?

Well… FUCK YES.

Let me type that again: FUCK YES. And once more for those who to this day, are still mad at me for my fittingly harsh and wholly valid assessment of their character and inherent worth to the hot-mess that was/is the PAS: FUCK YES. Other than the one and only time I have ever apologized to someone for getting it wrong, I can honestly say that I don’t regret one damn thing I’ve ever written about the PAS, humility and charity be darned. Concerning the numerous moments of personal confrontation, the fourth-hand whispered threats uttered behind my back, and the emails sent by curs of cowardice who wouldn’t or couldn’t, face me eyeball to eyeball, I will not offer any future apologies.

No matter the vitriolic acid and venom directed at me for speaking my mind, it was still minus the one retraction, something I would do exactly the same way, note for note.

Sadly, most of what I’ve predicted has come to pass sooner than later, and a good chunk of it with almost no seriously organized resistance presented by the community it most directly affects. The process of Gentrification may not be a team sport, but you’d never know that from some of the crowd that so easily continues to go along with it.

To be fair, there’s very little a community can do when it lacks capital and political power, but it’s not like there wasn’t the time or foresight to acquire both, and therein lies the seeds of the ultimate failure to protect what was once claimed as so important. The reason why I am beating this dead hoarse (misspelling intended) hopefully one last time is to reference what originally inspired me- the failures of the art scene that I had poured almost 25 years of my life in various incarnations.

In retrospect, that should probably be listed as 24, given the fact that for the last year before I left Phoenix, I was only intermittently participating within the scene. This was largely due to a growing sense of personal burnout mixed with a rising disgust for the direction that the PAS was quickly and seemingly going towards. I was done with hearing the same old complaints, seeing the same work retooled over and over, and I was most definitely finished with observing the ineffective approaches regarding the marketing and promotion of the scene by agenda-driven carpetbaggers who cared for nothing, save for their own glorification.

There’s truly nothing more maddening than those who seek your counsel, agree that the advice you’ve given is correct and on point, and then who right in front of you, do the exact thing that you advised against. And as they return to you, beaten and bloodied, rest assured that they will invariably ask with zero sense of irony, what they should have done differently. Repeat this cycle of inanity a few dozen times, and then you’ll understand why I now have a zero-tolerance policy in place for continuous idiocy. At the end of it all, I was more than happy to rid myself of what was starting to feel like a thankless, and pointless, never-ending job.

Don’t misunderstand, while it is nice at times to have a pot of spicy controversy a-bubbling on the metaphorical stove, eventually you’ll get sick and tired of eating it night after night. Plus, it’s also quite a caustic meal to begin with, and no amount of seasoning it with personal creativity can ever take the edge off of that. But two years prior to my leaving Phoenix, a literary exit-plan of sorts had presented itself, and it was a direct result of my Vonnegut meets Ricky Gervais approach to creative writing.

A now-former editor at PHOENIX Magazine whom I knew from within my social circle, tapped me to write more than a few art-related articles for the publication after I asked them to review my work in regards towards a creative grant, and thus- a new career was born. Sadly, my newest vocation arc was temporarily sidetracked, when a middle-aged compulsive who runs a fan club for a Phoenix-based TV show that nobody save for him, gives a damn about anymore, wrote a wholly slanderous email which he then sent to all the editors claiming he had been mocked publicly on Facebook by yours truly.

Allegedly, I had made fun of a disability he claims he suffers from, but the reality however is that he also has had a long-established history of making public threats and stalking, and was banned from an artist community page I still co-administer for (surprise!) repeatedly harassing fellow members and abusing the “report violation” feature. Seriously. How pathetically hollow is your life when obsessing over a Facebook page ban and fan-girling over a defunct kids’ TV show forms the nucleus of your day-to-day activities?

While this was annoyance was akin to the impotent buzz of a mosquito trapped inside a sealed tent, the real fury came from knowing that I was not informed of this activity by anyone at the magazine in the first place. Granted, while certain editors within this unknown to me loop of knowledge were clearly adept at structuring and presenting the best distillment of the lexicon, they seemingly didn’t know the true meaning of the descriptive noun “professionalism’.

It’s always nice to find out you’ve been delicately blacklisted due to the actions of someone who’s entire history of bizarre behavior could not only be found using the ol’ Google, but was also fairly well-known among several respected members of the local journalistic community as well. And after learning via a trusted back-channel source that ostensibly, no actual evidence supporting his fabrication was even asked to be presented, I’d suggest almost as an act of foresight, that none of those in-the-know individuals should openly brag about their keen investigative skills or sense of professional loyalty to their journalistic fellows at the next AZ Press Club Award dinner.

Just a thought.

There’s a quote I’ve always liked that states; “If you wait by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float by.” This has been consistently (and erroneously) accredited as being found within the pages of The Art of War tome authored by the Chinese philosopher, general and military strategist Sun Tzu, but variations of the phrase have existed within the realms of modern pop culture for decades. Regardless of the actual source, I’ve always personally interpreted it as a statement urging patience during difficult and trying times. Truth will always carry the day in the end, no matter what may be thrown in its path.

So, when I refer to something being water under the bridge, just know that the Karma that somebody earned has already been delivered, and I’m just sitting on the riverbank, enjoying the passing Schadenfreude. And there’s been plenty of that for me to sadly enjoy, let me tell you. What was once a gritty and interesting scene to write about in PHX, has willingly gone out of its way to self-castrate for no other reason than to seek the approval of people who buy art to match their couch or their man-bun-inspired décor.

To quote the bad-ass character of Dillon from Aliens 3: “You’re all gonna die. Only question is how you check out. Do you want it on your feet…or on your fucking knees…begging? I ain’t much for begging and nobody ever gave me nothin’. So I say, “Fuck that thing! Let’s fight it!” This in essence, pretty much sums up how I feel when anyone assumes that my values can be had for a quick, yet hardly easy buck. Especially when it has to be grovelingly collected from the hands of people who regard what I do with the same disdain that they have for drinking an inexpensive nonvegan-kale-cherry smoothie that hasn’t been certified as GMO and cruelty-free first.

And no, I’m not going to listen to your rant about how meat is murder either, since in fact, the odds are pretty good I’ll commit an act of one if you get between me and my bacon, whether it’s literal or metaphorical. As someone who makes his living as both an artist and a writer, let me just give you this cautionary advice: If you are rudely dismissive as to what I do and how I do it, your life options and sense of self are going to be truly and exceedingly damaged beyond repair when I get done responding to you.

Count on it.

That being said, while it was no longer my problem to face, it was still an issue when I relocated to New Mexico, as I found myself facing what for most critical writers might be considered a true nightmare, which is that almost everyone who lives where I do is so damned nice. And respectful. And damn friendly. And dependable. And are the type to occasionally pick up your Diet Coke tab at your local watering hole and regular writers garret, just because you complimented their truly adorable kids.

It’s almost as if I live inside a Norman Rockwell calendar page these days.

You can’t continue to call yourself “Artbitch” if there’s truly nothing that causes you to bitch, now can you? I literally am surrounded by friendly dogs, cute kids, 49 Ford pick-ups, and saintly Grandmas who bake cookies, so naturally, I was at first, quite terrified I’d have nothing to write about. Mainly because up until that point, my raw material was wholly dependent on patiently waiting for the PAS poltroons to willingly offer up their throats for slicing.  

Fortunately, or not, depending on your POV, it was yet another unforeseen medical trauma that forced a shift in my writing once again. This time it was having to go through what the hipster medical kids call a “Minimum-incision metatarsal ray resection”, which is a super-fancy way of saying: “If you don’t mind, and even if you do… we’re going to amputate the little toe on your left foot, along with a section of the side of it.” By the way, I DID mind, and the next to craptastic part of it was that it occurred less than two weeks after moving here. But it was either that, or the sad option of facing Death (again) or worse- becoming a discount-bin *Oscar Pistorius.
*[Oscar Pistorius is a South African former professional sprinter. In 2015, he was convicted of the 2013 murder of his girlfriend. Both of Pistorius’ feet had been amputated when he was 11 months old due to a congenital defect, so if this proves anything, it just highlights how little effort I put into trying to appear more impressive than I really am.]

So, after spending a week and a half in the hospital, I spent the next four months or so in a forced convalesce of sorts. Stuck on either my couch or in bed with my left leg elevated, I was stuck, as if encased in amber. I did all the usual stuff one does when you can’t leave the house- watched a ton of Netflix and Amazon Prime, caught up on my Summer reading, finally balanced my checkbook, organized the DVD rack, and my dead clown crawlspace, and finally settled all of my outstanding accounts with the infernal demon/fallen angel, known as Azazel.

Whom, according to the parable 8:1-3 which is to be found within the Book of Enoch, a tome that predates the Bible; “Azazel taught the men how to make swords, knives, shields and breastplates. He made known to men the metals of the earth and the art of working them and made bracelets, ornaments and the use of antimony (a brittle silvery metal used in alloys), the beautifying of eyelids, all kinds of precious stones and coloring tinctures. There arose much godlessness and the angels committed fornication. Men were led astray and became corrupt in all their ways.”

Obviously, you can see why he and I hit it off right from the start- access to knives, custom jewelry, and the chance to chronicle the multiple sordid stories of angels playing the ultimate game of halo ring-toss? Sign me up, el’ pronto.

There were three things I didn’t know at the time when I initially pledged my well-used soul to his dark cause, however. The first being that I shouldn’t sign legal documents while riding out a Ding Dong bender, the second is that when playing Monopoly, he cheats like a son-of-a-bitch, and the third was that apparently, my older and devout Christian sister is worth at least six of me when it comes to trade-in value.

Sorry Denise, but the only other relatives to possibly exchange in my place were Mom and Dad, and they’ve been working for him since before we were born. But don’t fret, because I managed to close the deal on a reasonably-priced condo with an excellent view of the Lake of Fire for you. And no… you don’t have to thank me. Just knowing I won’t be eternally consigned to Satan’s middle-management team is reward enough.

Coming back to center, there’s only so much reading, movie watching, web-surfing, and darkly blasphemous spell casting you can do before you start feeling like you’re imprisoned inside a Beds Bath and Beyond store, albeit with better entertainment options. Combine this with the reality that every time you take a shower, you have to wrap your foot in a Wonder bread bag first, due to the fact your several-inche long surgical incision is still healing, and can’t get wet under any conditions.

No matter how you slice it, there’s no way to write off the experience as being either pleasant or tolerable. But attempt to write it off I did. In the time I was flat on my back, I wrote no less than six new pieces, totaling 28,569 words. And some of my fans said I couldn’t make my amputation work for me? They stand corrected, methinks.

One person stands alone, however. The shallow jackleg who is representing both my former employer and their shady as f**k insurance carrier however, who at one point, and none too subtly either, opined that I  could have spent some of that time better, because as you might have guessed, my priorities should have been focused on soothing the Hartford’s grifters versus concentrating on getting better and back in tune with the Darkside of the Farce.

But I’ll focus more on that in the next piece I’ll be writing, since it’s kind of involved. When I did manage to get back on my one and ¾ feet, I started compiling story ideas, which led to the subsequent publication of three separate articles for Zia Magazine back in October, and is currently fueling both my seeking out of possible future assignments, and the development of a short-story compendium.

Whether I want to admit it or not, stepping away from the bloated and impotent carcass that the PAS has devolved into was a career gambit I should have set in place quite some time ago. That’s the beauty of hindsight- it’s always 20/20, and confident that it’s take is the right one. So, what’s slowly overcooking inside the Artbitch Easy Bake oven? Well, I’m looking forward to being far outside my previous comfort zone, and I’m equally excited about having some of my more developed literary concepts being liberated from my overcrowded mental filing cabinets, and translated into legible and hopefully perused pixels.

The metaphorical plan as noted above, will concentrate on not only getting accepted for assignments, but varying the type that they are in the first place. Will this new approach work? I have no idea, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, as my Dad always liked to say.

Okay, he might have actually been talking about his upcoming divorce from my Mom at the time, but it still translates into a definitive plan of action quite well, I think. The motivators that initially fueled me as a writer, that being a targeted mix of anger and acidic sarcasm, still come into play obviously, but it’s the need to feel that I’m producing good, if not relevant, work that truly drives the prose Pinto these days. People tell me I’m a good writer. My Editors have told me I’m a good writer. My critics call me an arrogant, self-righteous and over-opinionated son-of-a-bitch, which just goes to prove that sincere compliments can take many forms, and that my Mom’s reputation extends far beyond my own.

And I wasn’t saying that editors aren’t people by the way. I’m just noting that they’re the type of people who will let you know as honestly as possible how much you are (or aren’t} sucking at the time. It’s like when you have close German relatives, the main difference being that they’ll be the ones who don’t want to ruin your life.

So here I find myself, at the beginning of a new decade, with a new chapter to still write. The challenge ahead is to make it worthwhile to do so. And in order to do that, I take to heart what lauded SciFi Author and personal writing hero Ray Bradbury once wrote in his book “Zen in the Art of Writing: Releasing the Creative Genius Within You”. That being: “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” And Odin knows, if there one thing Reality has been doing consistently over the years, it’s attempting to destroy me whenever it can. But things could be worse in the long run.

After all… I could still be writing on MySpace.

“Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.”- Neil Gaiman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“There are approximately 1,010,300 words in the English Language, but one could never string enough words together to properly express how much I want to hit you with a chair.” – Alexander Hamilton to Thomas Jefferson [Allegedly]

Hello Blogiteers!

Man oh man, how time flies when you’re having fun- between writing, sending out magazine pitches and the follow-up meetings, enjoying the occasional green-chile bacon-cheeseburger, prepping for my workman’s comp AZIC teleconference in January, and hand-crafting Voodoo dolls resembling my enemies, the days are just zipping by. Certain aspects of my life however, are still maintaining their glacial pace, but that’s really more of a pathetically transparent attempt by unethical parties to stave off the inevitable of being held accountable for their past actions, more than everything else, hence the quote above.

Although to be fair, it seems like a waste of a good chair, even if its sacrifice across the smug face of some well-deserving corporate slime-slug could be considered an act of nobility. I’ve already referenced one of those entities in my last blogvella and gotten it off my plate, so the end result is that the blade of my lexicon guillotine has not only been successfully tested, it’s also undergone a rigorous steam-cleaning and blade sharpening, just in the nick of time to accept it’s next unwilling dinner guest. But before I start honing my claws on this soon to be scratching post, let’s touch upon something happy, forward-thinking, and super tech sexy- my brand-new insulin pump, made by the fine folks over at a company known as Tandem. I’ve only been wearing this thing less than three weeks, and already have seen several noticeable changes for the better, from a consistently lower blood glucose range to less neuropathic pain, plus some possible weight gain to boot- great upticks, all.

Factor in that within the next month or so, this system will be coordinating in real time with a *BGM, and this tech will truly be kicking ass, taking names, and promptly forgetting them.
*[Blood Glucose Monitor]  

While it’s been somewhat of a personal comfort adjustment to be physically attached to this gear 24/7, it hasn’t been that much of a challenge, past the minor technical issues intrinsic with dialing the system in to fit my specific needs. Lightweight, intuitive, and state of the art, this gizmo has made the most alteration in my health as of late, far beyond the reach of past endocrinologists, diabetic support groups, or the routine cabana-boy sacrifices I’ve been offering up for nearly two decades to the all-powerful Greek blood god, Lamia.

She by the way, was yet another notch on the heavily whittled bedposts of wanton philanderer and perpetual man-boy God Zeus, she suffered the most severe of reprisals from the Goddess Hera, when their affair came to light during a mixer on Mount Olympus. This revelation led to her children being slaughtered, (because the Greek Gods were petty little bitches) either at the hand of Hera, or according to alternate versions of the myth, Lamia herself. To add further overkill to an already salted wound, the spurned Hera then spitefully malformed Lamia into an immortal hybrid of half-snake, half-woman, as seen below.

Feted to be irresistible, she victimizes the demographic of young men, by seducing them carnally, and when done, feasting on their blood, which seems like a fair trade for the unique experience beforehand that one will have. I’m no risk taker by nature, but in order to settle both my curiosity and the feeling of being *terroused, I would totally accept the random whims of a coin toss if she actually looks like this. Cursed with eternal anguish and the inability to sleep due to the loss of her children, she removed her own eyes in desperation to achieve some form of rest. This was “allowed” and noted by Zeus as an act of pity, because apparently as King of the Gods, he had no idea how to not only reverse the non-deserved punishment, but also how to keep his lightning bolt safely tucked inside his toga.
*[Terroused: An amalgamation of sensible fear and arousal, that in general, could almost pass for being a rewarding experience, like say… having mad-dog sex with an immortal snake-succubus.]

Dick move, Zeus. Literally.

1n 1999, the year I was unfortunately diagnosed with this voraciously unkind disease, insulin pump technology was not too surprisingly, some miles away from where it currently is now. At that time, the “hot” model was the newly introduced MiniMed 508 insulin pump, which offered a revolutionary design complete with remote programming, an ability to administer or suspend insulin delivery, the option to set patient specific delivery patterns, a low volume alert, an optional vibrate mode, and most important of all, a child-block feature, which most likely, was designed to thwart adults, because as anyone who’s ever spent any amount of time around children knows, they can get into anything. That’s why I leave all my truly dangerous toys out in the open, and lock up my vegetables. The little bastards fall for it every time.

Viewed in retrospect, it looks like it was originally designed by Fisher-Price, but back then? This was the tech that all the hip Diabetics wore to the coolest parties. As I noted earlier, the one I’m currently sporting however, is the Tandem t:slim X2,  and this doodad is awesome. How does it work, exactly? The pump works by using CGM data regarding my blood glucose levels and automatically adjusts my needs by either introducing or withholding if necessary, the insulin I require. It displays not only my glucose readings, but also the low/high glucose trend rates, as well as the infusion pump data. Every 5 minutes, the tech in this miracle box evaluates my blood glucose statistics provided by the CGM, and forecasts what my future levels will be. If they’re predicted to be too low for comfort, the pump will self-suspend the delivery of insulin; otherwise, the pre-programmed feed rate continues, and I get to go on living, which I’ve always liked.

Granted, while I have had two very worrying low blood sugar episodes in relation to this tech’s dosing output, one of those requiring the intervention of my local paramedics, I’m not holding said tech responsible, since dialing in the baseline for what’s essentially my new external pancreas was never promised to be a stumble-free learning curve, far from it. It’s just going to take time to integrate this into what will eventually be my everyday normal. On the upside, I’m sleeping better, I feel better, and my skin resembling a draping of liquid wax over an underfed skeleton is slowly fading as time goes on, so knock on wood, this might just work out for me.

And if not, I’ll fall back upon my master strategy of harvesting a brand-new pancreas and nervous system from a gullible barista who trusts me when I tell them to take a good whiff of my special soy latte that’s been spiked with chloroform. Always have a Plan “B”, I say. Just make sure you haven’t told anybody where your secret lair is. I made that mistake once regarding my crawlspace and its stockpile of dead clowns, and I’m still hearing about it.

Speaking of disagreeable things that certain people would like to keep secret, it’s been blatantly obvious that of all the cherished institutions within this hallowed and storied country, the modern insurance industry is one of the vilest. Corporations as a rule, share a lot in common with your worst exes- they’ll stretch the envelope until you push back with a consistency of action, and even with that Sword of Damocles hanging over their metaphorical heads, they’ll still be looking for alternate ways to push their endgame past you. Profits over people is the new credo of today’s conglomerate robber barons, and one of the more prominent torch-bearers of this perversion of ethical business practices are the companies who are tasked to protect you and your interests.

Many could debatably argue that these flaws of character should be singularly bestowed upon the bile pond that is our two-party political system, but I would respectfully disagree, if just for the sake of how each presents itself to the public. One of these organizations is unabashedly content with the displaying of it’s complete and total lack of ethics, empathy, compassion, or sense of personal integrity for all the world to see, the other likes to pay millions for advertising trying to sway you into believing they’ve got your back, no matter what awful situation you may find yourself in.

After all, if you can’t trust vintage advertising from an era where married women who wanted to think for themselves needed permission from their husbands first, and American minority citizens weren’t allowed to co-mingle with Whites, then who can you have faith in? Only Walter Cronkite, and that dude’s been dust for quite some time now. As the well-known meme states: “The USA is the only country in the world with “pre-existing conditions… everywhere else it’s called your “Medical History.” Pre-existing conditions is a term created by insurance companies as a means to defraud their customers.”

In my experience, the insurance industry is the only one in the world that forces you to pay for an overpriced product that you will never receive true ownership of, unless your Chakras are aligned, Planet Mercury is in retrograde, a swan cooks a four-course Italian meal, and a Michael Bay movie is nominated for, and subsequently wins, an Oscar for Best Director, Best Screenplay, and Best Actress. In other words, just this side of “never going to f**king happen”. Long before I was forced into having to deal on a semi-regular basis with the purposefully maddening intricacies that embody the American insurance industry, I always opined that the corporate and salacious interests involved were nothing more than legalized Ponzi-schemes at best, and generally representative of what true unconstrained greed can achieve at its worst.

For those of you not familiar with this descriptive term, it is named after 1920’s businessman Charles Ponzi, who became infamous for his perpetration of it. A type of scam known as a pyramid-scheme, it lures in gullible investors and pays them supposed dividends using assets swindled from earlier victims. The continued success of the fraud depends on its victims believing that their profits come from imaginary product sales or investments, and that they remain oblivious to the fact that their payoffs are the end-result of the fleecing of others. This fragile deception can only be sustained for as long as new victims continue to naively underwrite the fraud, and do not expect any form of quick compensation for their initial investment.

A quick show of hands- does the underpinning of this fraudulence sound strangely familiar to a certain industry’s business model? Money exchanges hands for a promised service, guarantees are made and assurances given, and when the time for reimbursement strikes nigh, you find that the persons in charge of said recompense left town two weeks earlier, leaving no forwarding address, and their remaining cohorts claim they never met you in the first place, This is pretty much the SOP for most insurance companies, except that they’ll also generally leave you with a low-quality calendar as a reminder as to who it was that screwed you over in the first place, as they shirk the responsibility they claim to have sworn an ethical oath to.

And in my opinion, when it comes to passing the proverbial buck as if it were covered in fire and girl cooties, nobody does a better imitation of a drunken Vishnu juggling lava than my most recent archnemesis, that being the purported insurance provider known as The Hartford. A company whose total profits last year topped over 1.5 Billion, it promotes its public identity via the figurehead of a strong and noble stag, versus the bean-counting shiver of ruthless corporate sharks that it really is, if I were to offer up my opinion. With a sense of retrospection, I’m afraid I must apologize for that overly caustic comparison. My sincerest apologies to the sharks I may have offended, as actual sharks actually serve a purpose on this planet, and the only point an insurance company seemingly has as far as I’ve observed, is to stand between your doctor and you, as they rifle through your pockets, looking for loose valuables.

On the upside, it must present as a nice change of pace for a used car salesman or even Lucifer himself, to stand next to a person who peddles insurance, and think to themselves: “At least I ‘m not that.” Sure, he may be the epitome of all that is unholy, evil, and selfish, but even the Highest of the Fallen doesn’t deserve to be compared to people who aren’t ethical enough to work as middle management in Hell. I’m kidding of course, because I’m fairly certain that while Satan’s personally questionable morals might not carry over into his HR department, he’s cognizant of the fact that his public reputation is already bad enough that he doesn’t need to be caught hanging out with individuals such as those. But then again, if I have to be truly honest, I’ve always had a particular affinity for persons I find to be shady who pretend wholeheartedly that they’re legit.

It’s that whole Heart of Mold thing I’ve always had going for me. It just tries so hard to see the greed in… oops, I meant “the good” in everybody, no matter who they are. Fortunately for the sake of this screed, that POV is currently undergoing some long overdue renovation, and is at the moment, currently offline. But what isn’t, is my stereotypical approach to how I write- no matter what the topic is, be it the intimacies of my life or a magazine assignment, it all starts with the nucleus of an idea, and a foundational framework bolstered by research to give it the validity it requires. Author Mark Twain once observed: “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.” Wise words indeed. And despite my penchant for the aspect of creative writing, there’s no need to fabricate from sackcloth when reality is far more compelling to begin with.

Think how much more interesting Titanic as a movie would have been if it had bothered to center on any other person on board save for Rose and Jack, its wholly fictional star-crossed lovers. I’d pay top dollar to see a movie about the ship’s band that played until the waters claimed them, or one which profiled millionaire playboy Ben Guggenheim, who’s mythic last words were recorded in history as: “We’ve dressed in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen.” That boys and girls, is what the Russians cite as “личная неприкосновенность” [personal integrity] and is far more worth exploring artistically than the treacle-laden story of a rich brat who won’t share a floating door, which in turn, causes her newest boyfriend gladly choosing to drown rather than commit to a dedicated relationship with someone so cluelessly selfish. Referencing incognizance and rampant self-interest, I harken back to the subject at hand, that being my assessment of insurance entity The Hartford.

As you may have guessed by now, I’m not a fan of insurance companies in general, but I have a very particular disdain for this company specifically, due to my ongoing personal experiences interacting with them and their legal proxy. I’ve previously written about them in aggregation with my former employer, but this time around, my attention is focused solely on them alone. This, depending on what perspective of my claws you’re seeing, can be construed either as a singular privilege, or as a profane curse. But as noted above, research is what gives a story its internal structure, so let me share some concerning their origins. You know- the where, the who, and the want that gives both depth to the topic and an understanding of as to why I currently decry them as the lowest of carrion-feeders.

As noted, all stories start with an idea and it’s corroborating research, so let’s see what exists to back up both sides of this literary coin. Naturally, the best place to find the path to an eventual conclusion is to start with the established history that the Hartford likes to wax rhapsodic about on it’s official website. However, before i do that, I’d like to offer a a gracious freebie of sorts for my newest friend, that being a critique of their online presence in regards to web design. For the sake of trustworthiness, I admit that I have no practical experience in designing websites, nor do I possess any form of mad-dog coding skills. But I do know effective marketing, and my eyes still work well enough to spot a “built-from-a-box” website when I see it.

Seriously. Take a look at this online equivalent of a glass of bargain-basement Ovaltine, and tell me I’m wrong: https://www.thehartford.com/

Photos that despite possibly being custom-shot, still present as if they were leased from a stock photo website or screenshot off of Sprint’s website, is never a good take on a company’s professional look, as it’s the Internet’s version of inadvertently using Comic-Sans to pen what is supposed to present as a professional E-mail. But that’s not even the worst aspect, when one observes their amateurish attempt at creating a viable marketing identity. Once again, I have no actual practice in designing websites- hell, even mine is based off of a generic template, but at least I tried to make it unique enough to distinguish it from my real and imagined competition.

Key to that so far successful concept, was a concerted effort not to make it look cheap, or worse, bog it down with one too many narcissistic bells and whistles, a deliberate act of self-effacement that the Hartford not only ignored, but deemed way too humble to even contemplate in the first place. For proof, just go read the following section on their seemingly designed by a Korean slave-laborer IT guy webpage: https://www.thehartford.com/about-us/insurance-history.

Once again, this is an obvious joke, but you would think that a multibillion-dollar company could afford the investment required to back up the image they so tirelessly endorse in their onslaught of print and television marketing. For those of you who’d rather watch paint dry than plow through a version of truth that’s been over-sanitized into easily digested corporate pablum, I’ll condense it down for you as best as I can. Let me just say that I’ve seen less creative omission while scanning random Tinder profiles, and those hail mostly from truly desperate people trying to get laid on a Thursday in Minnesota. But as should be done with all things, let’s start at the beginning, shall we? The origins of the Hartford date back to 1810, a year that had more than its fair share of notable historical events.

For instance, it witnessed the annulment of of Napoleon and Josephine’s marriage, which allowed the dictator to then marry the Duchess of Parma, Maria Ludovica Leopoldina Franziska Therese Josepha Lucia, less than two months later. I can only imagine what a complete bitch it was type-setting  those wedding announcements with a moniker like that. Moving forward, it was also the time frame in which Beethoven composed Für Elise, when the Rev. Henry Duncan opened the world’s first commercial savings bank in Scotland, which presented pens with a life of chained bondage, and in a moment still celebrated in song, puppetry, and interpretative dance, The Society in Dedham for Apprehending Horse Thieves was founded in Dedham, Massachusetts…

As if we could ever forget.

The year started closing itself out with the publication of [take a deep breath] “L’art de conserver pendant plusieurs années toutes les substances animales ou végétales” by Nicolas Appert which was the first literary-based account of food preservation using airtight containers. This of course led to the vanilla-extract soaked Tupperware wars, in which many fruit cakes were unfortunately, preserved for the ages. The Republic of West Florida declared its independence from Spain, only to find itself annexed by the fledgling United States a few months later. But only after a cabal of savvy diplomats introduced its elder citizens to shuffleboard, early bird specials, and Cubano sandwiches. In social news of the day, King George III of the United Kingdom was recognized as insane, which even now, is quite the feat, considering English royals inbreed as if they were competing for the top ribbon in the Westminster Dog Show.

And in a totally unexpected power move, Sweden of all places, declared war on the United Kingdom, using their time-honored battle tactic of hiding ABBA mixtapes within vintage cuckoo clocks and Marabou chocolate bars. Now, for some of this, I’ve blatantly stretched the truth somewhat, but if an insurance company can allegedly do it without any form of accountability, then why can’t I? After all, my stuff is way better written, and far more entertaining to boot. Plus, there’s the added perk of my action or the lack thereof, not ever actually causing anyone lasting physical harm, unlike say, a certain company that takes the money and bolts when called up to hit the winning home run.

Speaking of which, the Hartford’s first incarnation in 1810 was that of a fire insurance company, which may be the reason why they tend to be such Scrooges with their purse strings, as they’ve had to cover numerous and massive claims over their history. In 1835 and in 1871, devastating fires ravaged the New York City Financial District and the City of Chicago, respectively. At the time of the 1835 incident however, Hartford’s president and directors nobly pledged their private fortunes to underwrite claims. A major departure from the actions of other insurance companies, who didn’t feel the ethical necessity to stand behind the needs of their customers.

The odds of getting that kind of pledge these days is equivalent to me successfully scoring a girlfriend-approved three-way with Milla Jovovich, but a boy can truly dream. And as we shall see later on, that stance of integrity has melted away faster than the Antarctic Ice cap currently has. In 1906, the city of San Francisco was struck by an earthquake, a disaster which killed up to 3,000 people, leveled over 80% of the city, and spawned a hell-storm of individual fires which burned relatively unchecked for days.

Worst. Bouncy Castle. Ever.

The cost of settling related claims at the time was $11,000,000, which when adjusted for inflation, would be the equivalent of $28,594,000 today. To put that into terms you can relate to, that kind of money today could easily buy you twenty-seven luxury apartments set in the heart of NYC, twenty-five McLaren Senna supercars complete with transparent doors, eight copies of Action Comics #1, known as the debut of Superman, or 2,859 “dates” with our current first lady and former escort, Melania Trump. Honestly, I’d rather have the car and the comic book, rather than a case of Slovenian herpes, but then again, having a stockpile of 95,313,333 Ding Dongs would also be nice too, figuring they cost an average of 30 cents each.

Just a thought.

Their high-profile client list ranges from organizations such as Yale University, to American presidents Abraham Lincoln and Dwight Eisenhower, along with baseball legend Babe Ruth among the most notable, and public projects such as the St. Lawrence Seaway, Hoover Dam, and the Golden Gate Bridge, round out this distinguished roster. Along with this impressive register, they’ve also been a sponsor of disabled athletes since 1994, and since 1993, a Founding Partner and the Official Disability Insurance Sponsor of the U.S. Paralympics.

And for once, I’m not going to let my cynicism suggest this sponsorship is nothing more than shelter for a tax write-off or an opportunity to milk a PR stunt for every drop of goodwill it can provide. I for one, am 100% sure it’s all being done selflessly in the name and under the grace of humble charity. You know, like all corporations frequently do, out of the sheer goodness within their hearts? But I have to give them some credit where it’s due, because they definitely have mastered the delicate art of the humble-brag. The most insidious form of self-flattery, it’s where one makes a seemingly modest, statement that is crafted to draw consideration to one’s supposedly admirable qualities or past achievements. By way of example, here’s what the Hartford likes to publicly deify about itself, straight off its own badly-designed website:

“And we continue to this day on a path of excellence. We’ve been fortunate to receive a variety of recognitions, including being named a World’s Most Ethical Company® 11 times over the years by the Ethisphere Institute. But it’s helping our customers prevail through unexpected challenges that we’re most proud of. And we’re looking forward to doing the same for the next 200 years and beyond.”

Christopher Swift, the Hartford’s current Chairman & CEO goes even further:

“Building on our proud history of doing the right thing, you can count on The Hartford to engage on issues when we can make a difference and influence change, and to demonstrate our positive impact on society.”

The first thing that comes to mind as I read these ever so humble declarations from the corporate coyotes who’ve been stonewalling my valid claim for nearly two years, is this: give me a f**king break, you carpet-bagging snake-oil salesmen. If your arms were any longer from patting yourself on the back, you’d be able to give the person sitting three seats in front of you on the corporate jet a full reach-around without even suffering the indignity of a case of wrist cramp. But there’s still yet another curious achievement here for me to call attention to, that being their claim of “being named a World’s Most Ethical Company® 11 times by the Ethisphere Institute.”

This is in fact, a true statement, and is an accolade that the Hartford loves to laud. However, it sets up the question of what exactly is The Ethisphere Institute, and why does their fawning approval mean anything in the first place? Don’t misconstrue my curiosity, as I love compliments as much as the next steeped in pure narcissism scribe, but I prefer to receive them from people I actually know, and/or respect to begin with. For instance, if the late Kurt Vonnegut had ever complimented my writing, I would have had his critique tattooed on my chest in reverse so I could read it in my bathroom mirror every single time I stepped out of my shower. But if my local hemp-clad barista said essentially the same thing, I’d accept the compliment, but would hardly brag about it to the inner circle, if you know what I mean.

Well… unless I got a free Mocha out of it, and then everyone within earshot would be forced to hear about how even the general populace thinks I’m brilliant. So, who are these guys again, and what do they actually do? According to the online information available, The Ethisphere Institute is a for-profit company located in Scottsdale, AZ, that defines itself on its official website as such:
“The Ethisphere® Institute is the global leader in defining and advancing the standards of ethical business practices that fuel corporate character, marketplace trust, and business success.

Ethisphere has deep expertise in measuring and defining core ethics standards using data-driven insights from our Ethics Quotient, and works with the world’s largest companies to enhance culture capital with the insights from our culture assessment data set, which is grounded in our 8 Pillars of Ethical Culture. Ethisphere honors superior achievement through its World’s Most Ethical Companies recognition program and provides a community of industry experts with the Business Ethics Leadership Alliance (BELA).”

Wow. That is certainly one of the of the finest amalgamations of buzzword hubris wordsmithing that I think I’ve ever read, and I’m a huge fan of corporate gobbledygook as a rule. They are also responsible for the publishing of Ethisphere Magazine, and honor select businesses with a yearly World’s Most Ethical Companies award. Founded in 2007 as a facet of Corpedia, a compliance training company, the division was sold in 2010, but the Ethisphere’s proprietorship was retained by current Executive Director Alex Brigham, who was initially responsible for its origin. Other amenities offered are corporate ethics verification services, promoted under catchy names such as “Ethics Inside Certification” and “Compliance Leader Verification”, and an annual Global Ethics Summit, presented in New York City every March.

The question has been raised over the years by a slew of articles [links below] asking how one can balance the granting of ethics awards while still maintaining a for-profit business model, which I feel, is not only a valid query, but a fair one. After all, how can an organization that decides which companies are the most ethical in the world, also accept membership dues from those very same contenders without the appearance of a massive conflict of interest?

LINKS:

https://slate.com/business/2010/03/beware-of-corporate-consulting-firms-offering-awards-for-corporate-ethics.html

https://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-lazarus-20141028-column.html

https://www.bizjournals.com/philadelphia/morning_roundup/2016/05/widener-schwartz-ethic-rankings-pepsi-ups-intel.html

https://www.forbes.com/sites/susanadams/2015/03/19/the-worlds-most-ethical-companies-2015/#2ef1236c51e8

https://www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/blog/ethical-awards-green-wash-sustainability

https://psmag.com/economics/the-oxymoron-of-business-ethics-proves-its-worth-3889

Ethisphere stipulates in an attempt to avoid conflicts of interest, that its self-nominated WMEC applicants contribute to no more than 1.5% of its annual revenue. However, Ethisphere has also consistently declined to inform the public how much revenue it annually collects, so your guess is as good as mine what that figure may actually be in the long run. It has been estimated however by www.owler.com, that it’s revenue may be as high as 11M per year.

Ethisphere’s main source of funding is underwritten by its yearly seminars regarding business ethics, along with ad revenue generated from its in-house magazine, which is published quarterly. This is in addition to the 10K fee that Ethisphere already charges WMEC recipients for their use of the World’s Most Ethical Companies logo, along with a “processing fee”, that companies must pay to even be considered for a review.

As of 2014, this fee ranged from $500 to $1,500, depending on the company’s profit status and annual earnings.

The process required to win a WMEC award, starts with a company who after nobly nominating itself, answers a survey containing 150 specifically targeted enquiries concerning its business culture in regards to its leadership, corporate citizenship, and of course, its sense of ethics. As posted on it’s website, Ethisphere practices due diligence by searching online for information about the company, not only looking at what employees have said about the company, but what’s been written about them as well. What Ethisphere seemingly doesn’t do in depth however, is survey the customers of the nominated businesses they evaluate, or accept input from the general public, which in my opinion, is a far better indicator of veracity regarding a company’s publicly presented ethics.

I only say this because in my personal experience, it’s rare for a current worker to directly call out their employer, and ex-employees may have an axe to grind in regards to the same. Based on the contender’s answers, along with any equivalent evidence they’ve submitted to bolster their claims, Ethisphere then scores and ranks the said nominees accordingly. A process that when done, will result in its assessors determining what companies deserve the status of World’s Most Ethical.

Despite this set of strictly followed guidelines, there have been more than a few cases of companies making the cut, despite being enmired in alleged unethical activities.

In 2014, Blue Shield of California was one of these, who previous to its being bestowed the honor, received a sharp rebuke from the state’s insurance commissioner for its 10% rate hike affecting over 80K policyholders, which was called “unreasonable”. Other dubious winners include the garbage-disposal company known as Waste Management, that in 2011, settled charges that it violated environmental laws in Massachusetts by cutting a check for $7.5 million, and Eastman Chemical, who in 2016, settled a class action lawsuit lodged by 224,000 residents and 7,300 business owners in the state of West Virginia, after the chemical they manufactured polluted the principal drinking water supply for thousands in the Kanawha Valley in January, 2014 This by the way, left more than 300,000 people without water… for days.

“World’s Most Ethical”, in the same way that I’m a “Russian Ballerina.”, or that Donald Trump is “Respected Worldwide”. If I were to issue an opinion, I wouldn’t suggest outright that their system of value assessment is corrupted, but I do believe that they still have a few ethically challenged people to bounce out of the club, as 2019’s list of honorees debatably proves. Shockingly, the aforementioned and the equally reviled Eastman Chemical and Blue Shield of California are back in the fold, along with Allstate Insurance, which has been accused of delaying its claims process in order to thwart its customers, by denying valid claims or offering lower settlements rather than what should actually be paid. It has been ranked as one of the worst insurance companies in America by the American Association for Justice, which I discovered in under two minutes using Google, a factoid that the due diligence team at Ethisphere somehow missed.

Other entities that are on this dubious list of goodness have been accused of having alleged ethical lapses, that in theory, should have permitted the bouncer staff to keep them outside waiting in line, as the truly deserving get escorted upstairs to the VIP lounge. Other honorees that represent a Schrodinger’s paradox for being dually lambasted in public as unprincipled, and yet, are somehow still eligible to receive an ethics award at the same time? For sake of clarity and my readers sanity, I’ll list a small sample of the most egregious, and their alleged offenses, all of which apparently sat well with Ethisphere.

This information by the way, all comes from either deep Google searches and/or publicly accessible archives, for anyone who wishes to see this data for themselves.

Capitol Power: environmental pollution concerns.

Lilly Pharmaceuticals: multiple violations of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act of I 977 in connection with the activities of its subsidiaries in China, Brazil, Poland and Russia. They also paid out in excess of $2.7 billion in fines and damages for deceptive sales tactics, paying $1.4 billion in 2009 to settle federal and state charges that they illegally marketed Zyprexa, which at the time, was one of the largest fines ever levied.

In addition, they also faced more than 200 lawsuits alleging that the company knew that a pharmacist in Kansas City was diluting the company’s cancer drug Gemzar, but failed to notify authorities promptly. In 2003 it was reported that Lilly had paid $48 million to settle the cases.

H&M Apparel: allegations of slave labor exploitation in their overseas production facilities, unsafe working conditions, racist or culturally insensitive marketing, and theft of intellectual property.

At the moment, there are over 120 ‘winners” on the current WMEC award scorecard, and if a less than six-minute search can turn up what I just posted, I wonder aloud what else I might find out if I decided to go all-in on the rest I haven’t looked at. But then again, maybe the remainder are all morally pure as the thoughts of a Catholic priest- after all, Ethisphere has a due diligence team, and just because I managed to easily dig up the bones of Jimmy Hoffa, doesn’t mean that they’ve made a mistake, does it? And aren’t most corporations the ones we look to for calibrating our moral compass anyways?

Maybe it was late on a Friday when they were compiling their *list, and everybody had mentally checked out by 2pm- it does happen. And as noted earlier, the Hartford has won 11 of these honorariums, and is on this year’s list as well.
*[https://www.worldsmostethicalcompanies.com/honorees/]

What fine company they tend to keep. That’s heavy sarcasm, for those of you who are new here.Keeping in mind my own personal experience with these alleged wealth-hoarding hucksters of healthcare, and the unethical hypocrites they find themselves lumped in with, one must ask the question of what particular sins their representative stag tries to trample underfoot in a futile attempt to keep its public face from having  a truckload of egg on it.

And because I’m a giver at heart, I’m more than happy to answer that query for you, in the nicest way possible, and to do so, I’ll be using the Internet the same way Ethisphere claims it does, except I’ll be doing it correctly when I make my final assessment, due to the fact I’ll be posting comments from their customers, not their PR department. A small writer’s note: all customer reviews regarding The Hartford can be found at the links listed below, in case any of you want to be further disappointed with this company then I already am.

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*From https://www.consumeraffairs.com/insurance/hartford_life.html:

*Stephanie of Redlands, CA, April 14, 2019 : We had Life Insurance on my hubby which was taken out automatically for almost 24 years before they started bothering us to double/triple our payments then to finally Terminate the Policy all together without any reimbursement? Hope they enjoy the tens of thousands that we gave them for NOTHING! CROOKS!!!

*Sheila of Littleton, CO, March 9, 2019: My mother worked for Burberry for 15 years. She went on LTD due to Ovarian cancer. Despite her continuous employment Hartford denied the life insurance claim after she passed. My research shows they are the worst. Ironically, she had another policy with a no name company who paid out, no questions asked. Hartford has no problem collecting premiums but it ends there. I only gave them one star because I had to.

*Ellen of Belmont, CA, June 14, 2018: No one should trust The Hartford. The Hartford claims to provide insurance but my personal experience was the opposite of insurance: 5 years of delay and harassment by The Hartford’s attorneys instead of insurance payments. I am not a litigious person but after five years, I had to get an attorney just to close my claim so I could take care of myself independently (not allowed to do that with an open claim). This is a vicious, sadistic company full of psychopaths who delight in harming people desperate for insurance they have been promised in a crisis. My extended family has decided to never purchase any Hartford insurance products because there is no insurance. It’s a fraudulent claim. One star is generous.

*Deborah of Tavares, FL, April 16, 2018: Had Hartford Home Insurance for approximately 22 years. Never had claim on homeowner’s insurance. Recently had two roofs, trees, fence damaged from Hurricane Irma. Our claims adjuster lied to my husband and me constantly saying different things. Going back and forth six months. Not wanting to pay for damages done. Even spoke to his supervisor and nothing was done. Even gave us problems over ten different contractors. Even lied about the amount being paid. Not the correct figures. Now finding out Hartford’s figures were incorrect with another Adjuster being Approximately $2,0000 short of paying Restoration Specialist for repairs. Mr. Edward ** was our claims adjuster and constantly lied to us. And not the correct materials. We are still very upset with the results and how we were treated. Always paid our insurance monthly on time 23 years and was treated like this. Was first claim on home in 23 years.

*Vicky of Marion, VA, Oct. 31, 2017: I took out this insurance will I worked as a LPN… They faithfully took out their premium every 2 weeks. Was deducted out of my paycheck… through a Lutheran nursing home. Then I was diagnosed with cancer. Worked for a while, but chemo and radiation therapy took a toll on my body. Had to quit work… Almost died. They paid me 875$ a month. Until I was to see a Dr. out of their network. Dr. ** … For him to do an eval… Which was touch my toes, walk, and talk to him. Question is he did nothing… I got denied. How convenient for The Hartford. Does not matter if I have memory issues, can’t walk well… Or have bilateral hand tremors… I have been treated unfair by The Hartford and their Dr., Dr. ****

*Joie of Yorktown, VA, May 16, 2017: My husband recently passed away from Leukemia after a long hard battle. I just found out from the company he worked for that Hartford had denied the life insurance claim even though they had been paying for the insurance each month up until the time he died. Harford is stating that since he had been collecting Long Term Disability through Hartford for over 12 months they will not pay us his life insurance money, I don’t understand. Hartford was more than willing to accept the payment each month from the company he worked for but when it comes time to doing what’s right, they don’t. I do not even know what to say.

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Damn… if even half of these are true, and I see no reason why they would not be, I’d opine that the Hartford keeps it’s sense of ethics and personal morality in the same place where they keep their checkbook- that being out of reach of it’s large base of feeling-screwed-over customers. But this site isn’t the only one out there hoping to add the rack of a stag on the walls of its study, far from it. Check out these customer reviews as well, and you might come to the realization as I did, that if this company’s ethics were any lower, they could pole-vault with headroom to spare, under a cockroach doing the Cobra Pose in a yoga class. And that boys and girls, is as low as you can go.

With that being said, let’s read some more reviews of this noted WMEC “winner”, shall we?

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**From https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-hartford-hartford-2:

**Kim J, Temecula CA, 9/11/2019: The biggest scum bag POS company and people ever to exist on this earth. May G_D strike them all down. My tiny company has been harassed for years by these parasitic tape worms. We canceled their insurance, received email of the cancellation, and these blood sucking liars still sent attorney and collectors. This experience makes me very upset with this country’s lack of protection of commerce and individuals engaging in business. DO NOT DO BUSINESS WITH AND HARTFORD DEPT. Why is there NO class action? I’m willing to organize.

**Audrey J, Las Vegas NV, 6/18/2019: I just canceled my policy with this company and switched to another. Multiple reasons. First and foremost, pathetic customer service from the adjuster VERONICA HARRISON and also from the regular agents. Also, the collision company that I was sent to for a repair quote, Gerber Collision on Boulder Hwy in Las Vegas, is just as pathetic:

“Well there could be some damage underneath your car but I won’t know that until I lift it up” … which he didn’t even bother to do before sending a vehicle repair quote.

Won’t elaborate on VERONICA HARRISON’s pathetic customer service skills. Glad I don’t have to deal with her anymore. The Hartford sent me a letter stating that they pulled a consumer report and found that there was someone in my household who was a licensed driver (male, under 25) and considered a risk. 

I needed to contact them and if they didn’t hear from me, the person would be added to my policy and my premium would go up. Adding someone to my policy without my permission or consent is a no no and good reason for me to cancel my policy with your company. I will NEVER do business with this company again!!!”

**Chris M, Bayside NY, 6/1/2019: I had insurance for a small business with Hartford in 2018.  I Mailed, emailed, and called Hartford to give them notice that I was not renewing the policy, yet Hartford did not acknowledge it and keeps sending me bills that I do not owe.  I’m still receiving messages threatening collections for a bill that I do not owe. I received an email this morning at 5:30 am.  I called their customer service AGAIN, but they refused to correct the situation.

**Ali R, Folsom CA, 11/22/2019: If you are an employer do NOT go with this company. This is my workers comp people (unfortunately) while they may seem so helpful and nice, when it comes to actually following through and paying, they are horrible. NOBODY, with half a brain expects to get rich off workers comp we barely make anything out of it yet this horrible claim company treats the little they give out like a cake ration in a sea of asparagus rations.

Point blank I am unhappy, they just put a hold on a very small check after taking over a month and resending it multiple times to get to me. If you are an employer considering going with them please for the sake your employees do not. If you are an employee stay on top of these people because they are the opposite of reliable and honest. Even when they clear and give me the small due amount they promised. It will still leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I can’t dissuade you enough from this terrible company. Just because they come across as courteous and likeable, what really matters is their follow through, and The Hartford lacks in their follow through.

——————————————————————

“World’s Most Ethical”? indeed. And the truly sad part of all these reviews and tales of personal experiences? The lists of complaints literally go on forever. I’ve seen less vitriolic bitch-slaps occur between drag queens fighting over a tube of lipstick than I’ve witnessed within these websites. Hell, I’ve gotten kinder and more charitable reviews from my ex-fiancé, and she had the misfortune of having to see me naked more than once, never mind the additional horror of knowing intimately how creative I can get with a box of Twinkies and a case of spray cheese. 

That disturbing visual aside, I was still very curious about how both the Hartford and Ethisphere were able to square the reality of what I discovered with the merest of research, with what said companies promote publicly. So, to satisfy this nagging concern of mine, I reached out to both organizations, via their media contact departments, requesting an official statement from each, to either defend or clearly explain their respective positions.

In the case of the Hartford, the first and I ,might add, the only one who bothered to respond back, that person on point would be one Matthew Sturdevant, who returned my message within the span of ten minutes, thereby proving he wasn’t trained under the slothful eyes of their customer service department, and for that, I’m extremely grateful. Presenting initially as polite, professional, and to the point, he was the first person I’ve dealt with from this company who didn’t make me feel like I was going to develop an aneurysm while talking to them. Initially. And I was at the time, grateful for this, as I can only afford so many CAT scans in a given year out of pocket.

After establishing the reason for why I was calling, he asked for additional info, to which I responded with this email:

————————————————-

Mr. Sturdevant-

First, thank you for your quick and professional response- it is appreciated. Second, what I’m looking for is a direct statement regarding your marketing as an ethical company, weighed against the numerous concerns and complaints regarding the same, that have been posted online. These seem to contradict the publicly presented image your PR team has crafted over your 200 year+ history, and in regards to my case, I’m simply using it as a conduit to add a personal dimension to my upcoming narrative as to how your company has conducted itself within the context of my experience.

I will be contacting Ethisphere this week as well, to get a similar statement if possible, as their alleged sins seem to be hidden from the general criteria of the public. I’m gravely concerned as a consumer, that they may have advertently created some questions that will have equally uncomfortable answers.

As also noted, I’m not trying to swing the needle one way or the other in my case- that’s for the courts to settle. I’m just interested in being able to use my horrendous experience to hopefully inform others how not to become ensnared within the mire that I and many others have found themselves in. My in-process screed is the first of a series of planned articles in which, I’m hoping to address certain workers’ rights issues as part of a total package for the various magazines I’m “pitching” to, and I feel that they and their eventual readers, will find them interesting, if not enlightening.

One can only hope.

As I stated in our conversation, I’d like to present your side verbatim, as to why I’m seeing a recurring common theme concerning certain issues that scores of your customers claim have occurred. This is solely intended as a means to achieve a truly balanced article that can show both sides of the coin, as it were. I have listed two web-links for you to peruse, that highlight the questions I asked of you earlier, and I hope they will be useful to you and your company in the future. I would also like to note that it took all of five minutes for me to find these resources, and that they are not the only ones that portray an exceedingly dim view of your corporation.

Links:

https://www.consumeraffairs.com/insurance/hartford_life.html

https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-hartford-hartford-2

In closing, I thank you for your time and diligence.

Respectfully,

Wayne Michael Reich

——————————

See? I can be polite when the situation or the authorities demand it. Unexpected wonders never cease, as my Oma was fond of saying. But then again, she also used to tell me hopefully jokingly, that the German race was far superior to everyone else, so it might be prudent to take her advice with a tall pitcher of ice-cold milk and about a pound of ganja-laced *Pfeffernüsse.
*[Pfeffernüsse are traditional holiday spice cookies, that like most good and virtuous things, hail from the countries of Germany, Denmark, and The Netherlands, which have given us windmills, cuckoo clocks, high-end chocolate, as well as ABBA, for which somebody should have gotten some kind of medal. Sadly, as a brittle diabetic, I’m only allowed to eat them under the supervision of a far more mature adult, rather than being left alone with the bag in my living-room pillow fort, as I would be if this world was truly just.]

To be honest, I didn’t expect much from my outreach- after all, why would any corporation with an increasingly tainted reputation want to willingly throw themselves in front of a possibly biased runaway bus? I sure as Hell wouldn’t, and I’m the type of guy who looks forward to confrontation the way a four-year-old looks at Christmas. And to be fair, it’s not like I work for the New York Times, or the Washington Post to begin with, so the only interest they might have in attempting to placate me or my concerns, is strictly one of regionalized damage control- no more, no less. But I could be wrong. I doubt it, but I could be. After all, I’m still flummoxed that the ghastly films Saw and Sharknado apparently deserved a franchise, but the truly magnificent Xanadu did not.

But that’s a topic for another time, as I just find it so infuriating when people fail to comprehend that Olivia Newton John + Jeff Lynne + Electric Light Orchestra = MAGIC. And don’t even get me started on how 1980’s Flash Gordon was snubbed at that year’s Oscars- we’ll be here for weeks.

Speaking of possibly deliberate snubs, I noted that Ethisphere couldn’t be bothered to respond to my request for an official statement, despite several phone messages and an initial email asking for a clarification of their very public stance regarding the number of ethical voids their diligence team puzzlingly missed. If I were to look at this with a cynical eye, I might suggest that a for-profit company that hands out awards for ethics in regards to their accuracy, and whose selection process allows applicants for such to self-nominate, may not be all that interested in answering a slew of discomforting questions. And Heaven forbid, if I were to draw any definitive conclusions from that. One thing I do find odd though, is the fact that there is an *estimated staff of forty-five supporting this company, and yet when you call their contact number as I did for three days, it immediately goes to voice mail. Say what I will about the Hartford, but I didn’t have to sit on my hands for three days waiting for their media liaison to return my messages… initially.
*[https://www.owler.com/company/Ethisphere]

Just a casual observation from me to you, and anybody else who’s currently paying attention.

Normally, I’d be thrilled when my bitchy Thunderdome is a few contestants shy of a full-on Battle Royal, but not this time.  I’m actually quite morbidly curious as to how these companies can allegedly practice the craft of *doublethink without any sense of irony or shame, and I really wanted to see if their respective takes lined up on any level. For me, their reluctance to join in is a mixed bag at best. On one hand, I get to run my mouth unchecked, but I do so without the pride that comes when you’ve earned the right by turning your opponent into a metaphorical if not screaming, holster for your chain-saw.
*[Doublethink is the ability to accept in tandem two contrary beliefs as equally accurate. It is somewhat of a relative to the concepts of duplicity, impartiality, and cerebral discord, although practitioners who possess this self-preserving ability typically never acknowledge the inherent conflict within their divided psyche. This descriptive term was coined by author George Orwell in his dystopian masterwork tome, also known as 1984. In the plotline of the book, the citizenry by and large, are incapable of being able to refuse ever acknowledging any deviation of belief from what they’ve been told by their society’s all-encompassing leader and father figure, AKA, Big Brother. To do so is considered an act of unforgiveable disloyalty, resulting in a criminal charge of Thoughtcrime, typically punishable by incarceration in a prison workcamp, or even death.]

So, it seems an alleged seller of reputations has disappeared into the Witless Projection Program, and yet, one of their best customers remains as viable as ever, despite the easily discovered and apparently common knowledge that it’s metaphorical crawlspace is congested with desiccated corpses that once walked this earth representing its reputation and corporate conscience. But I did say that I would willingly, if not happily, post their statement / rationalization verbatim, and here it is, complete with my responses in return:

Impressive… it only took two phone calls, two emails, and eight days for these poltroons to prove that the numerous online complaints regarding their practices are most certainly not only valid, but possibly underreported as well. It does strike as truly hilarious that this multi-million-dollar company, which brags like a Yiddish grandmother about winning a self-purchased ethics award for over a decade, folds like a Chinese contortionist when any form of focused scrutiny is cast upon them and it. As any American has discovered, when any corporation releases a cop-out statement of “no comment”, it foreshadows their future declaration of “we plead guilty to all charges, your honor”, in an open courtroom. Damn- I just hate it when I win a gentleman’s bet

that was based on noting more tangible then my proven correct sense of pessimism.

But on the upside, there’s a six-pack of Cinnamon Coke, and a green-chile-bacon-cheeseburger from the Toad in Downtown Silver City, NM, that a particular someone now has to pay up, so overall, it’s turning out to be a pretty good day for me, if I do say so myself. I guess it’s true what Albert Camus said: “A man without ethics is a wild beast loosed upon this world.”

And if I were to extrapolate a theorem from this, I’d opine that a corporation without ethics is akin to an unfettered pack of carnivorous *Bilgesnipe, who’s vile bite causes cancer. But not to worry, because these very same creatures who have a well-deserved reputation for trampling the innocent underfoot, will see to it that the payments for your chemotherapy are cut off halfway through your treatment. So, take some sincere comfort in the fact you won’t have to suffer too long a length of time before your problems are over, if even a few of the multiple concerns lodged online are to be believed.
*[In the Marvel Comic Universe, Bilgesnipes are typically depicted as creatures of Asgard who are repulsive, destructive, and dim-witted. Thought to be native to Thor’s home-world, or possibly another planet within the Nine Realms, they share many commonalities with those who work within the ichor-stained halls of Earth’s insurance industry, save for the fact that they actually may possess a sense of shame and remorse.]

If there is one constant in the Cosmos, it’s that the morally craven will always find a true sense of equilibrium- in this case, a group of alleged grifters maintain the illusive veneer of an established customer service-based company, and a lone individual who sold their conscience for a paycheck some time ago, chose to serve as their media flack. Allegedly, and with no names attached, of course. Speaking for myself,

I wouldn’t want to be affiliated with a company who along with purchasing its debatably faux reputation, is tarred with the shame of sharing a commonality with others who have extensive past & current histories of fraud, bribery, labor exploitation, unsafe working conditions, inherent racism, cultural insensitivity, intellectual theft, price gouging, and environmental contamination. I probably should point out what a relief it was to discover that there wasn’t an as yet known sex-trafficking agency among this crowd, because that might have cast a somewhat negative pall upon the sterling reputation these companies falsely project.

Unless of course, they nominate themselves based on their efficiency moving their product across state lines, but it’s still a risky roll of the dice- after all, what would happen if they got one of those questions wrong? Can you imagine the embarrassment you’d feel being beaten out by the company that not only allegedly used slave labor to make it’s overpriced clothes, but who also unwittingly, fell for a brilliant prank wherein they bought the full *merchandising rights for metal bands that never existed? How would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror? If you’re the Hartford, this is probably an easy question to answer, since your basic blood-sucking Vampire generally doesn’t cast a reflection. That’s yet another obvious joke, of course.
*[https://consequenceofsound.net/2015/03/scandinavian-collective-creates-fake-bands-to-troll-hm-over-metal-clothing-line/]

The majority of modern mirrors tend to use aluminum for their backing, rather than the more expensive and traditional silver, so today’s contemporary vampire in theory, would totally be able to see themselves, just in case you were wondering how the upper management team at the Hartford are able to style their hair and makeup. 

But as we reach the end of this, my latest narrative, what have we learned? Well, we know now that with enough cash, you too can easily buy a sanitized (yet hollow) reputation after destroying the solidity of the one it took almost 200 years to establish, that as long as you surround yourself with far worse people, you can still argue you’re the noble one, and we’ve discovered that when it comes to following the virtuous path, most corporations have no idea how to read the map to do so in the first place.

Mostly however, we’ve learned that the entity who allegedly denies widows their deserved benefits, who dismisses valid claims on soft technicalities, charges exorbitant fees for services not rendered, harasses it’s own customers, and launches multiple attempts to run out the clock in order to avoid it’s responsibilities, now vaunts morals that it’s 1835 Board of Directors couldn’t even begin to grasp. After all, Character is much easier kept than recovered, but when one has let their integrity fester for decades, the only solution is to douse the shambling corpse with petrol, light a match, and start anew.

Abraham Lincoln once noted that: “Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.” And if I were to run with this analogy, I’d flat out state that if the Hartford were indeed a tree, it would find itself dying from both it’s own hubris and the most virulent form of Armillaria Root ever unleashed upon Earth’s arbors. This by the way, is a disease that occurs in both hard and soft woods, killing indiscriminately. And is a key leading cause of oak tree failure.

Like most predators, it prefers victims that are already compromised by climate change, pests, or resource competition. It can by its very nature alone, expose healthy trees to future attacks by other harmful agents, which when you give the concept some pause, is a perfect microcosm of what the insurance industry represents as a whole in this country, that being a creeping blight of rot, killing and strangling all that is healthy, pure, and  unblemished about our basic humanity.

Profit over people. Profit over principle. Profit over a sense of personal integrity. And no amount of well-funded and purloined misdirection will ever change that. But al least they can go and post that self-satisfied logo on their website, and that’s what counts in the long run, am I right?

“Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are.” – John Wooden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

“They’re certainly entitled to think that, and they’re entitled to full respect for their opinions… but before I can live with other folks, I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.” – Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Hello Blogiteers!

Today’s theme is all about ethics, or should I dare suggest, the lack of them in modern society as of late. For those few of you who may be tardy to my latest literary party, the word ethics is defined as such: “The discipline dealing with what is good and bad and with moral duty and obligation, a set of moral principles, a theory or system of moral values”. On the surface, this seems like it would be a rather easy concept for most to grasp, if not put forth into daily practice, but sadly, you’d be somewhat mistaken to keep the faith that this is so. All one has to do these days to see my avowal proven in real time, is to either go online, or watch the daily news for five minutes- that is, if you can do so without kicking in your TV screen first.

I’ve touched upon this concern over the last couple of months, mainly due to the fact I still find myself currently enmired within what should have been an open and shut case in regards to a valid workman’s comp claim I filed against my former employer, that being one Engelsen Molding, and to a lesser but far more annoying degree, it’s insurance carrier, a legalized Ponzi-scheme that slithers unfettered among the unsuspecting public under the name of The Hartford.

But before I get into all that, let’s have a history lesson regarding the city my former employer hails from in Michigan, known as Wixom. The beginning of the City of Wixom dates back to 1831, and according to the United States Census Bureau, the city has a total area of 9.36 square miles, of which 9.15 square miles is land, and 0.21 square miles is water. Originally named Sibley’s Corners after the first settler, a philanthropist by the name of Alonzo Sibley, it’s true founding started in 1871 when resident Willard Clark Wixom granted the right of passage for a railroad concern, in 1883. The addition of the railroad’s prosperity attracted a score of business capital, which in due course, helped turn this hamlet into one of Michigan’s largest grain produce handling points, leading to the changing of the towns name from Sibley’s Corners to Wixom.

Tragically, Willard was struck and killed by a train while crossing it’s tracks in his horse and buggy, on the evening of December 24^th, 1901. This just goes to prove that progress is not only always marching forward, it also really has no moral quandary about taking you out if you’re in its way, On a side note, his death does raise a question, that being this- how in the Hell does anyone ever get killed by a train? It literally stays on one path, from which it cannot diverge, maintains a constant speed, and you can both see and hear it from a mile away. Christ, Helen Keller could have dodged this inglorious end, while being a passenger in a car driven by Stevie Wonder, as Ray Charles navigates.

Just saying.

The only noteworthy thing about this city I’ve discovered via the ol’ Google, is that on November 13, 1996, Gerald Atkins “shot his way” (according to eyewitness reports) into the Ford Wixom Assembly Plant with a CAR-15 semi-automatic rifle, eventually killing a plant manager in a hallway, and wounding three co-workers. After successfully absconding from the location, and temporarily evading capture by hiding in various storm tunnels, Atkins eventually turned himself into the arms of the waiting police. Atkins received a sentence of life in prison without the option of parole after a jury rejected his plea of insanity. This judgement is not too shocking, considering most of us have wondered aloud, if not online, what it would be like if we could launch some of our colleagues via trebuchet either into the Sun, or for those of us on a restrictive budget, into the maw of an active volcano.

As of February 2019, Wixom currently ranks *120^th “safest city” when placed up against 211 other Michigan cities, but when leveraged against **national averages, it seems like it might have bigger problems then what’s been noted. For instance, its violent crime rate is 32.7, while the US average is 22.7, and property crime is 40.0, whereas the US average is 35.4. Hardly a sterling reputation to laud abroad, if I may be so bold.
*[https://www.safewise.com/blog/safest-cities-michigan/]
**[https://www.bestplaces.net/crime/zip-code/michigan/wixom/48393]

But overall, it presents as no worse or better than any other rural community transitioning into a mini-metropolis. Growing pains and all that. Essentially, Wixom is the type of nowhere city you drive through on the way to a far more interesting place. When I was employed working for one of it’s prodigal companies, that being Engelsen Molding established in 1954, I was regaled with tales of it’s founder, whom my former supervisor Barry always referred to as “the old man”, hereafter referred to within this narrative as “TOM”. I’m sure he had an actual Christian name at one point, but I don’t believe I ever heard it, much to my current amusement. However, Barry was just as fond of telling me how “TOM” was a rare throwback to that particularly specific 1950’s model of mid-west shrewdness, a hard work ethic, and was in his words, “tough, but fair”.

In other words, if you did your job, he’d have your back, an attitude that in my private experience, was sadly not passed on to at least one of his children who took over the reins of the company when he died. And while I have heard several nebulous rumors, I never had any interaction of note with the son, therefore I won’t make a definitive assessment of his character here. I say this not just for legalities, but for the fact it’d be exceedingly disingenuous, if not downright inaccurate. But when it comes to Ellin, the daughter? Well, let me just state my acidly harsh personal opinion rather clearly that I wouldn’t (in the words of my late Opa) trust her with my wine, my wallet, my watch, or my waffle fries.

Especially my waffle-fries.

Don’t get me wrong, like most people I’ve had the misfortune of serving within an intolerable fiefdom commanded by a cabal of incompetent and madly self-absorbed kings and queens, but JFC, I’ve never dealt with a company quite like this, and I used to work in retail, also known as that particular unnamed ring of Dante’s Inferno where your personal dreams go to not only die, but desiccate under the blazing Ego of middle management. By the by, Ellin may also be the first boss I’ve ever worked for whose employees openly mocked her at work (behind her back of course) with a vigor that would make Richard Simmons blush.

Delivery drivers, sales reps, sellers of home-made burritos, the Circle-K clerk who would sell me my morning Mountain Dews, even the homeless guy who claimed that he was Elvis and could read minds, all got to hear what an annoying and wholly micro-managing burden cow she was.

Sorry… that should have read alleged micro-managing burden cow. My sincerest apologies.

I once had to run the warehouse for a week when Barry was away, a job I could have normally done in my sleep, and she somehow accomplished the task of making me so stressed out, that I’d just come home after a hard day’s work and go straight to bed, at 5:30 in the evening. And I’m an arguably actual vampire. Two AM is usually when I go to bed, even if I’ve had a full day dancing naked at the Walmart. Case in point- I had closed down the warehouse and been off work for 25 minutes, heading out on an overpacked Phoenix freeway, when Mistress Micro-harangue called me and wanted to talk about that day’s labor, because if there’s a great time for me to have my unpaid for attention diverted regarding the trivial, it’s when I’m driving home from my brain-dead, low-paying, no respect given, thankless job during the goddamn rush hour.

Oblivious doesn’t even begin to cover it, but that’s only because the German words “ficken nicht bewusst” is too hard for most Americans to say properly. Trust me on this. Keep in mind that my first supervisor answered so many of her pointless calls in a day, I was always truly and frankly, gob-smacked that he ever got anything done within an average 8-hour shift. And when it came to his replacement Toni, she spent whatever time she wasn’t responding to the same said asinine calls, composing an Email to Ellin so caustic it could have stripped the chrome off a trailer hitch

and made Sarah Silverman chide her for using excessively foul language. Ah, the joys of being an unwillingly conscripted peasant in the kingdom of the minutae-mangling Queen. As an aside, before having no choice but to land this craptastic job, I worked in the art framing industry for close to 25 years, before getting cast aside, due to my age and asking price. I managed shops and scores of employees, and was responsible for the design and fabrication of some amazing if not outright cool, pieces. I’ve literally worked the basement to the penthouse, and knew the trade better than the plotlines of all the Resident Evil movies.

And yes, they are all different, even if you remove the commonality of the zombie theme, due to the fact that the next screen writer in line just flat out ignores both the previous movie, and any thought of trying to keep a sensible continuity in mind when drafting the final script. Just look at the story arc of the last three movies, and what I’m saying will all make sense, even if the last two movies do not. The point I’m eventually coming around to is that I know my stuff, and I know what quality is and in the case of Engelsen, what it was not. And for once, I’m not throwing my focused shade at how upper management ran things, but at the quality of specific product lines, or to be more accurate, the dearth of such in relation to said goods.

As is fairly common among the industrial sector these days, the ramped-up overseas production of low-quality goods has hit my former trade like a ton of bricks. Raw molding stock comprised either of extruded plastic, reworked scrap remnants, and the horror shit-show that is known as *MDF, have flooded the market, very much in the manner of a plague who’s end goal is seemingly to aid in the extinction of a high-end quality product.

*[Medium-density fiberboard (MDF) is an engineered wood product traditionally made by the combining of hardwood and softwood fibers with wax, using resin as a binder, which is then formed using high temperature and pressure into panels. Denser than plywood, it is stronger than particle board, but is still just as ugly, and due to chemical off-gassing, is not something I’d truly recommend to frame your original Picasso in.]

So naturally of course, the person who won’t step up to the theoretical plate to honor their inherent commitment to their employees, buys and sells a variety of this back-alley flea-market flotsam. When we used to pull the warehouse orders for these s**tsticks, grimacing all the way, a great deal of our time was spent and wasted, going through hundreds of linear feet in order to find the merest of useable stock to send out to our client base. They in turn a quarter of the time, would send it right back, as the quality of their purchases in no way, shape or form, came even remotely anywhere close to what the alleged sample on their walls promised. Defects included, but were not limited to, visible finger joints, mars in the finish, and due to the varied differences in humidity during shipping and the quality of production materials used, a rate of warpage occurred that I haven’t seen since the day I inadvertently mixed up my “special brownies” with my Oma’s.

My secret by the way, is butter and a truckload of brown sugar. You’re welcome.

All of these contributed to a series of low-cost product lines that in my professional opinion, was not fit to frame black velvet paintings of clowns, much less serve the higher end patrons our customer base was hoping to sell to. Rest assured, you have no perception of what the concept of twisted truly can become until you’ve seen a three-inch-thick cross-section of low-end molding that looks like Fusilli pasta.

Seriously. Raw molding stock isn’t supposed to resemble this sort of thing one iota, unless it’s being sold through a shady Fast Frame franchise, solely owned and operated by Dr. Seuss. If this garbage ever dared to come through the doors of any shop I ran, I’d strap the sales rep who tried to foist it upon me to the boxes containing it, and have myself a BBQ, ala Donner party style, as a warning to those who in the future, might want to send me a catalogue hawking this detritus. And that boys and girls, is how you successfully do middle management, let me tell you. It’s all about providing the proper motivation in the end.

 But here’s what I find interesting. While it’s not myplace as an employee to judge what a company sells, I’d at least suggest carrying goods that aren’t made by the same company that in its downtime, produces knock-off Pet Rocks.

That’s obviously a joke of course, but what isn’t, is how the aforementioned “TOM” would have allegedly viewed these defective additions to his realm. According to one of my former co-workers who worked under “TOM” for quite some time, he would have been allegedly appalled at seeing his good name being associated with such a flawed product. So why was the decision made to carry such substandard stock on the back of a long-established professional reputation? My educated guess would factor on three different aspects: corporate profit, a reserve of personal shortsightedness, and a stunning lack of reverential concern given to the effort invested into what somebody else built and then handed over to the next lucky enough to be waiting in line recipient.

Essentially, the strategy rests on the financial notion of buy low, sell high, a staple of American capitalism. Which incidentally, is also how I endeavored to market my artistic toil back in the day, when my hands still worked. For instance, if a ten-foot stick of molding costs let’s say, fifteen dollars wholesale, odds are it will be priced at 15 dollars per foot when it hits the design floor, so as you can see, the footprint of the profit margin is quite an expansive one. Using that logic, if a box of imperfection only costs you pennies on the dollar, and you can move a small portion of it for five to ten times its original value, does it really matter if the remainder is fit only to be used as kindling? In other words, this just validly cements my personal cynicism that if one is willing to compromise by selling way short the values they were ostensibly raised with, it’s really not too shocking that they view their employees as disposable cogs, to be exploited in the pursuit of covetous profit.

But even surrounded by products and people that I myself would take great pride in never using or promoting, I’d like to just say for the record yet again, that my workplace interaction wasn’t all bad, as I’ve noted in earlier screeds. When it was just Barry, my awesome co-worker Bernie and I, we generally ran like a fine Swiss watch, no matter what amount of long-distance inanity from Michigan we had to put up with. For as Mark Twain once said: “Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer”, and truer words were never spoken in regards to any former employer of mine as much as her.

One of the unintentionally funny tidbits that presented itself as of late, was a letter I received from the carrion feeders that oblige as her legal team informing me that due to my numerous health concerns, Engelsen as an entity, had “no issue” with my attending our mutual AZ. Industrial Commission hearing in Phoenix this upcoming January via tele-conferencing. Let that sink in. The craven in Michigan who won’t face her responsibility as an employer and who is sending a proxy to deflect in her place versus facing me over the Internet, was gracious enough to allow me, her physically limited former employee she’s been screwing over for close to two years, her grace and permission not to have to aggravate his tenuous health by undertaking a ten hour round trip drive with a f**ked up shoulder that working at her shi**y warehouse helped create.

How delightfully White of her.

Ellin, according to the mouth-breathers at the Hartford, claims I wasn’t injured on the job, yet lives roughly 1,993.6 miles away from the Phoenix warehouse, so I’d hazard a guess she’s either out of the loop completely, or has psychic powers on loan from the same place that bestowed “Long Island Medium” Theresa Caputo with hers. To quote comedian Ricky Gervais: “You don’t see faith healers working in hospitals for the same reason that you don’t see psychics winning the lottery every week.” And when it comes to a long-distance boss, I think it’s fair to say that generally, they don’t know jack s**t about what is and what isn’t going on at any given point. Ellin can claim all she wants that I wasn’t hurt while in her employ, and she can feign ignorant absolution regarding my discriminatory firing, but in the end, truth will always root out the unethical as well as the truly deceitful, which in my humble opinion, are the only values that she and her company embody.

It is a shame however, I can’t seek any valid financial recourse for every time I hurt my eyes rolling them at something she blathered over the phone, because if I could, I’d be writing this particular screed from my private fantasy island, constructed out of Ding Dongs, entirely staffed by clones of Milla Jovovich and Angeline Jolie, and populated with swimming pools filled with either Egg Nog or premium Root Beer.

On an unrelated side note, if we ever run into each other, feel free to ask me about the time she bought her alleged to me South American boy toy into my workplace, because singlehandedly, he has cornered the all-denim outfit paired with gold chains market, in regards to his personal fashion. That’s not an insult by the way, I’m just amazed that in this day and age, somebody can still rock the f**k out of that look. Literally, it’s as if he stepped out of a 1974 Super Fly catalog, and strutted into our empty and colorless lives, very much in the manner of Joseph and his Technicolor Dreamcoat, albeit by way of Levi Strauss.

In appreciation of this fact, I can only bestow upon him this Gaelic blessing: “May you have been in heaven for half an hour before the Devil was even aware you were dead.” And that, is a genuine sentiment, from my heart to his closet.

[Granted, not as Fly as this cat, but the experience? Pretty damn close. God bless him for that.]

Currently, Ellin and her jurisdictive jackleg on a leash are attempting to get my case tossed on the softest of technicalities in order to shirk her and the Hartford’s dual responsibility, assuming that I’ll fade off and go away, but that’s not going to happen, now or ever. I sense the spilling of metaphorical blood in the water, and like most sharks, I’m going to follow it to the source, and wallow in it like Donald Trump does with Big Macs and self-bronzer.

The biblical passage Hosea 8.7 provides for me at least, an inherent overview of the situation at hand: “For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk: the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up.” Even if you’re an atheist, you have to admit- God knows how to turn a phrase, doesn’t he? And if there’s one thing more certain then death, taxes, and my unwavering confidence that the next Star Wars movie is going to be freaking awesome, it’s that I will be wearing this woman’s hubris for a codpiece when I am legally through with her. She wants to imply I’m a fraud? She wishes to slur my character via a lawyer who has little, in relation to the fact that she has none? I wish her to feel free doing so. I in fact, welcome the cruel, if unwise, challenge. Because in the end, whether I win or lose, I’m going to make damn sure that I legally cost her more than what it would have for her to just step up and shoulder responsibility by cutting my loyal physical therapists their long overdue check.

A hard acidic rain is coming for this arrogant wench, and it’s going to wash her into the gutter where her personal integrity already resides. Meh, enough about this walking example of why we as a society need to start eating those who bring nothing to the table, save selfishness and condescension- let’s move on to the next cadre of people in line deserving of my literary exsanguination, that being the entity that masquerades as an insurance company, when it’s not inflating its coffers and stock prices via what I allege is legalized misdirection.

But before we do that, I think it’s time for a much-needed break. So, go grab a sandwich, hug those kids of yours who’ve grown up and gone to college in your absence during the time you’ve been reading this, and wonder what your new Alien Overlords have planned now that you’re paying attention to the outside world again. And when we come back… I brag about my new sexy insulin tech, wonder aloud why I didn’t do it years before, and explain why a reputation you purchased doesn’t come anywhere remotely close to holding the same value as one you’ve earned.

“All you have in business is your reputation – so it’s very important that you keep your word.” – Richard Branson

“An arrogant person considers himself perfect. This is the chief harm of arrogance. It interferes with a person’s main task in life – becoming a better person.” – Leo Tolstoy

Hello Blogiteers!

I know I’ve said it before, and I know I’ll say it again, but as a rule, I f**king LOATHE doctors. Not as much as I hate say, corn on the cob or lima beans, but pretty damn close, nonetheless. This disdain by the way, isn’t limited by what branch of the medical field they represent, I find the majority of them, if I were to roughly paraphrase a Klingon rake named Korax, to be: “swaggering, overbearing, tin-plated dictators with delusions of godhood.” 

And those are typically their good qualities. As I’ve dealt with my various Diabetic-related health issues over the last two decades, my initial sanguinity that doctors were people to be respected has eroded to the point where I’d rather be trapped in a city full of *Train to Busan-type zombies, for they at least, would keep you on your toes, focused, and running forward. Can you imagine? Your current cardio workout would look tame by comparison.

*[Train to Busan is a 2016 South Korean zombie movie, whose plot unfolds on a passenger train to the city of Busan, as the Undead take over and start infecting the passengers as if they were missionaries. Onboard Trump fans would need not worry though, as zombies like to eat brains.]

Normally, I just grit my teeth and deal with it, because I have very little choice in regards to my options, especially within the framework of the capitalist Ponzi-scheme masquerading as the American healthcare system, and even more so now that I live in such a small town. Doctors here are hard to find, and even harder for this town to keep. Whether it’s wanting to earn more money, or the grind of small-town boredom, every time I get a new doctor, it’s as if I’ve rudely interrupted them while they’re in the process of loading up a U-Haul to get out of Dodge before *Tom Horn himself enacts his merciless revenge upon the townsfolk.

*[Thomas Horn Jr. was the epitome of the word “badass”. Working as a scout, range detective, and cowboy, he also had a stint as a Pinkerton agent in the Old West. He was alleged to be solely responsible for 17 killings while employed as a hired gun. After being convicted of the murder of a 14-year-old sheep ranchers’ son, he was executed in 1903 by hanging, which is also the worst way for one to try and cosplay being a Pinata, hands down.] 

Granted, this general dislike I have for medical professionals who follow the Hippocratic oath as well as Donald Trump follows his marriage vows, naturally doesn’t extend to all the doctors I’ve had over the years, just a good 90% of them. The majority either being useless, clueless, or as I noted previously, thinking they’re God, despite not looking anything like Barry Gibb in 1977. Since I’ve moved here a little over a year ago, I’ve had more doctors than I can remember or even count, poking, prodding, questioning, and removing more fluids from me than adult film star James Deen could expel in a lifetime, but unlike him, I can’t really brag about it on the Internet.

Not to mention, it’s always delightful when a doctor who makes Gwyneth Paltrow look humble, decides they don’t need to apologize for being unprofessional, rude, arrogant, and in an act guaranteed to enrage the nicest diabetic person of Germanic descent, being late as f**k for a predetermined medical appointment. Ironically, there’s actually a German word that sums up how I’m feeling right now about such physicians, and that word is “backpfeifengesicht” which when you roughly translate it into bad English, comes off as “a face that is badly in need of a punch”,

For sake of clarity and future legalities, I would never advocate violence as an alternative conduit to reasonable discussion, I’m just saying there’s been many a time in my life, when I’d also gladly tie one of these white-coated oracles of obfuscation to the back of a sand-crawler, and go driving through a rock-filled cactus patch for a few hours or so. However, as I’ve noted more than once since I relocated to this idyllic burg outside the town of Silver City New Mexico, I tend to be way more laid back and accepting these days in relation to how I handle, if not cope with, my inherent stressors as of late. The concept of *mañana and all that.
*[The meaning of which is “in the indefinite future”, or for those of us who live In New Mexico, as the time between when you need something to happen, and the time when you die.]

In fact, when I’ve written about living here, outside the noting of my health issues, I’ve been presenting as being on the edge of singing Kumbaya, as I drink a whole gallon of *Kombucha. I know… it’s been freaking me out too, and I don’t get spooked easily. Angry Wayne I’ve been told, is apparently not as emotionally disquieting than Happy Wayne is for some reason, and he’s been laying dormant pretty much ever since my left foot was partially amputated. Sure, I have gotten annoyed if not outright vexed, from time to time, but overall… I can’t get that mad when I literally live inside a Norman Rockwell calendar, no matter what minor annoyances get up in my grill.
*[Kombucha is a fermented, slightly intoxicating, bubbling, sugared tea drink commonly imbibed for its alleged health benefits. A wide range of seasonings are often added to improve the taste of the drink, although the best way to enjoy this abomination of food evolution is to throw it as far away from oneself as possible, preferably into the mouth of an open volcano, or one of those wool-cap wearing hipsters you always see at Whole Foods.].

But that base of Zen may have shifted somewhat, because somebody out here finally pi**ed me off so much, I went and filed an official complaint about them afterwards. This action was undertaken after what I can only describe as a personal encounter so unprofessional, it may have snatched the coveted and long-held “Bitch of the Galaxy” title out of the ham-fisted hands of former PHX New Times Editor, perennial Phoenix basher, and human analog toothpaste tube, Amy Silverman, which is no mean feat, let me tell you. So, who’s my newest in-town human scratching post?

That honor goes to Dr. Virginia Hernandez, who just celebrated the shortest tenure of any of my doctors, that being less than eight minutes, which ironically, is the same amount of time that I believe she’s spent practicing how to wear that human suit in public. Now, I’m on no level saying she’s not qualified to be in her position, nor am I suggesting for a moment that she came by her medical degree by the luck of opening up a box of Cracker Jacks and seeing it laying on top, shining like a jewel, far from it. I’m just saying that as far as patient interaction goes, you’d probably get a far warmer and way more professional reception from Dr. Josef Mengele, than her.

Mind you, this is just my take on the situation at hand of course, because despite my obvious joke, I really don’t think comparing those you dislike to Nazis is appropriate. By comparison after all, your stereotypical Nazi is usually efficient at scheduling their time, and if the Gestapo was ever known for one thing, it was obviously their sense of humor, to quote the sardonic film JoJo Rabbit. I’m just saying that if one possesses all the charm of a sandpaper-wrapped tampon, then perhaps a career in the healing arts should be strongly reconsidered. But as usual, I’m getting ahead of myself, so let me set the scene and the tone of where I’m coming from.

At the moment, and for quite some time beforehand, my life has been revolving around doctors, waiting rooms, and sheer physically embodied frustration. Let me put it this way, it’s really hard somedays to tell who’s been waiting in the doctor’s lobby longer, me or that tattered copy of Time magazine featuring our newly-elected President, Bill Clinton.

Odds are, it’s me. If there’s one maddening constant in the world of chronic illness, it’s that all waiting room magazines are either outdated, represent a weird niche such as neon swizzle stick collecting, or are so desperately macho in tone that one can grow a mustache just by glancing at the cover… sideways. Failing that, if there’s a TV present, it will always be tuned to the worst of the right-wing claptrap or one of those “Dr.OZ” type shows, which push blatant quackery as scientific fact. And just to make sure you know your place, your doctor will ALWAYS be at least 45 minutes late for the appointment they mandate that you be 15 minutes early for, or if you have to cancel, demand that you provide at least a 24 hours’ notice, lest you face a penalty fee.

And if you complain about this treatment, they can arbitrarily dismiss you as a patient, and leave you in the lurch, with no consistency of care, and suffer no ill consequences for their behavior whatsoever. Oh, and as to the value of your time if they cancel? You aren’t getting compensated for that. How dare you even suggest that you should be, peasant. Nice racket, huh? The Mob kicks itself daily for not thinking that set of rules up.

I often like to say that if any other business worked this way in America, we as a society would burn it down, using the perpetrators of such fraud as the starter kindling. And just maybe, we should start doing just that, sooner than later. Think about it- is there any other business where you pre-pay for a service, have to wait an hour on average for it to even start, and have no definitive say over the quality of the amenity you receive? Why is it your average McDonalds staffed with only 3 people can handle over 50 customers with different needs in twenty minutes, but a fully staffed doctor’s office can’t efficiently manage 4 patients over a goddamn hour?

Here’s a small piece of advice, medical industry- take some of that money you unethically grifted overcharging my insurance company for your services, and hire office staff who not only know how to schedule realistically, but also doctors who don’t try to cram a 40 hour week workload into two six hour days. That’s a freebie from me to you, and I won’t even ask for praise regarding it. In the case of the aforementioned Dr Hernandez, our first face to face went South faster than Richard Spencer does when he hears a public statue of Bedford Forrest is being removed.

I arrived early, waited an hour, and when finally ushered in, was tersely told by the nurse that my doctor to be “always runs late”, and that “you should have been told this when you made the appointment”, without so much as a feigned apology for the delay, because that’s the way to show you’re on the ball, right? Just tell the patient from the get-go that your employee in service has no regard for other people’s time, and that they’d better not bitch about it.

Speaking of bitches…

As I walk into the examination room, I inform the nurse that it was now close to an hour past my pre-determined appointment time, and that the doctor had five minutes to get in and do her damn job before I walked out, something I can tell you she did not appreciate, or even give the merest of concern about. She then states that I also need to see the office’s dietician and my future insulin pump trainer on my way out, a visit they could have enacted while I was sitting on my ass for close to an hour, twiddling my thumbs in their beige waiting room, but why do anything close to using common sense when you can crash and burn in a pointless attempt at attaining efficiency?

When Dr. Hernandez eventually saunters in, two things are immediately obvious, the first being that her resting bitch face game is strong, and second, she really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, likes herself. Don’t misunderstand me, I like to think that my narcissism is on a par with Gene Simmons, but even I occasionally like to notice there are other people on the planet from time to time. It makes going out to dinner and a movie that much easier, as you all well know. On the positive side, she was having a good hair day, so there is that. But to be fair, you’re not ever going to mess up your coiffure with an errant hand when you’re regularly using both of them to pat yourself on the back.

When I ask her what the holdup was, there’s no apologies, but I am let’s say, treated to what essentially could be classified as an unsolicited oral presentation of her professional resume. To wit, I am haughtily informed, although I didn’t ask, how she “teaches residents”, is not “a 4 to 5 day a week doctor”, how she may “leave for a better paying gig tomorrow”, how “nothing in life is certain”, how all I’ve done “is complain”, capped with the end question of “what do you want?”, because it’s completely up in the air as to why I would be hanging out at a doctor’s office on a lovely Thursday morning. So, through teeth that are slowly grinding themselves flat, I inform this caustic wench about how I am seeking a *“consistency of care” in this town, and illuminate upon the fact how nice it would be to see the same doctor more than once, as I ask her what she needs me to do to get our new relationship.
*[The concept of Consistency of Care essentially states that a stable uniformity in respect to one’s healthcare from beginning to ongoing management is crucial. Unfortunately erratic, if not wholly inconsistent service among most practitioners is perceived and rightly so, as a major flaw within the incorporated American Healthcare system.]

At this point, she starts moralizing to me about how I’m being rude and disrespectful to her staff, for as I’ve noted, as a patient, I’m not allowed to feel marginalized or irked by their inability to do their job, and she lets me know that if I don’t like it, well… I can always leave. In the business kids, we call that a “cue”, which I am more than happy to accept at face value. And by the by, nothing fills me with supreme confidence more than when a doctor I’m supposed to establish primary care with, enters the room with no documentation or first questions about my medical history that she should have at least taken a cursory glance at in the first place. Honestly, the only reason I think she even knew my name was because it was on that day’s money for nothing call sheet.

Top notch attitude there, Doc. Nice to see that combination of a Caribbean education and Illinois residency is paying off so handsomely. After all, a medical degree from the Caribbean-based St. Matthew’s University, impressively listed as 7,878th in the *world, and a residency at the 460th ranked best medical school in the **United States, is nothing to blithely sneeze at. It’s also nothing to be really excited about either, but at least the argument can be made that she did indeed, learn the basics well enough to qualify for those nifty “MD” license plates that allow you to park anywhere on the theory your skillset might come in handy at some point.
*[ https://www.4icu.org/reviews/11103.htm]
**[ https://med-colleges.com/southern-illinois-university-carbondale]

And while I have very little truck with the issue of her stateside residency, I will note that the majority of most Caribbean medical schools have an alleged shadowy reputation for being both “second-chance” for-profit degree mills, and for accepting almost anyone who can cough up the cash to attend. If you want to educate yourself, search out the topic on the Web, and enjoy the widely disparate reviews regarding her alma mater. In my experience, she apparently didn’t have enough scratch to cover the elective “bedside manner” course of study, and trust me, it shows.

Now as I wrote earlier: “I’m on no level saying she’s not qualified to be in her position, nor am I suggesting for a moment that she came by her medical degree by the luck of opening up a box of Cracker Jacks and seeing it laying on top, shining like a jewel, far from it”, I will note however, that graduates in order to be licensed to practice medicine in the United States, have to adhere to the rules set by the *Educational Commission for Foreign Medical Graduates (ECFMG) which requires students to pass the United States Medical Licensing Examination (USMLE), otherwise that degree they just earned isn’t worth squat.
*[https://www.stmatthews.edu/medical-school-faq]

I don’t know about you, but if I had just spent a few years working my butt off to graduate with a medical degree and wasn’t allowed to use it without even more additional testing to prove my very expensive education took, I’d be madder than a frozen hen, just saying. It almost strikes that the requirements for passing med school in the Caymans might fall a tad bit below the standards set for an American one. Weird, that.

Anyways, as I walk out, I inform Dr. Do-little-to-nothing that she isn’t getting paid for this waste of my time, an opinion that doesn’t sit well with her one bit, and causes her to follow me down the hall, testily noting to the receptionist at its end that all I did “was complain”, implying that no matter what she said or did, I should be billed regardless, and turns briskly on her hooves… sorry, her heels, in the direction of the next unfortunate tardiness victim she most likely refers to as her “malpractice insurance payment.”. After flipping off her rapidly retreating back with an unseen gesture, also known as a New York City wave, I then very nicely, tell the receptionist there better not be an invoice issued, as I will be calling my insurance company, and ask if I can now see the dietician they wanted me to check in with.

As I await a positive answer, she instead introduces me to an administrator named Nick, whom she obviously paged during my very brief hallway dust-up with the doctor, and he very quickly and competently, directs me into his office where he swiftly takes down my full statement and apologizes profusely several times about what just happened. At the end of all this, he asks me if I’d like to file an official complaint, which I do, He then goes one step further, and sets up a future appointment with a brand-new doctor, which is scheduled two days after the official meeting with my insulin pump educator, whose name is Hannah. After getting that off the plate, he then walks me over to Hannah’s office, introduces us to each other, and then leaves. By the way, Hannah for some reason, reminds me of actress Chyler Leigh, who starred in “Not Another Teen Movie” as Janey Briggs, an aspiring artist who is outcast by her classmates for wearing glasses, a ponytail and paint-covered overalls.

Turns out, Hannah’s nice, bright, and possesses a quality I tend to find really sexy in a doctor, that being she’s also Diabetic, which is a huge time saver regarding conversation when you’re one too, Not going to lie, my attention span is going to be greatly helped by this quirk of fate. You have no idea. So, after a very friendly back and forth laying out a rough treatment game-plan and my answering a ton of health-related questions, we part on a hopeful note, with my feeling secure that my upcoming training is in good hands. Granted, it’s kind of terrifying to think I’m going to be part cyborg, but it still beats having a doctor who’s fully embraced their transformation into such.

The Hippocratic Oath, first established in the country of Greece, “requires” physicians to swear that he or she will uphold a number of professional ethical standards. In fact, the creation of the Oath may have assisted the early stages of medical training by requiring unquestioning loyalty to this strict code. Conflictingly to popular belief, It does not openly contain the phrase, “First, do no harm,” which is commonly attributed to it, and it also has reworked often over time, in order to suit the values of the modern medical profession. For those of you who’ve never read it, here it is, with a few notations aimed at Dr. Hernandez:

I swear by Apollo the physician, and Asclepius, and Hygieia and Panacea and all the gods and goddesses as my witnesses, that, according to my ability and judgement, I will keep this Oath and this contract: To hold him who taught me this art equally dear to me as my parents, to be a partner in life with him, and to fulfill his needs when required; to look upon his offspring as equals to my own siblings, and to teach them this art, if they shall wish to learn it, *without fee or contract; and that by the set rules, lectures, and every other mode of instruction, I will impart a knowledge of the art to my own sons, and those of my teachers, and to students bound by this contract and having sworn this Oath to the law of medicine, but to no others.

AB: * Well, this rule was obviously chucked out the window first…

I will use those dietary regimens which will benefit my patients according to my greatest ability and judgement, and I will do no harm or *injustice to them.

AB: * Such as say… insulting them, and leaving them in the lurch, for instance?

I will not give a *lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a plan; and similarly I will not give a woman a pessary to cause an abortion.

AB: * Apparently though, I can in theory, prescribe you a ton of addiction-forming opioids, so we’re in the grey here regarding this one rule… just saying.

In purity and according to *divine law will I carry out my life and my art.

AB: * In other words, obey the Laws of God, but don’t assume you’re him just because you do, ok?

I will not use the *knife, even upon those suffering from stones, but I will leave this to those who are trained in this craft.

AB; * Instead, I’ll just demand that everybody should give me respect that I haven’t earned.

Into whatever homes I go, I will enter them for the benefit of the sick, avoiding any voluntary act of impropriety or corruption, including the seduction of women or men, whether they are free men or slaves.

AB: Since doctors no longer care enough to do house calls, this one can be taken off the books, I feel. And if they want to get it on with the owner of the house in the manner of an 80’s porn video, who am I to judge?

Whatever I see or *hear in the lives of my patients, whether in connection with my professional practice or not, which ought not to be spoken of outside, I will keep secret, as considering all such things to be private.

AB: * No offense, but why would I share anything personal with my doctor? They barely care about their patients to begin with.

So long as I maintain this Oath faithfully and without corruption, may it be granted to me to partake of life fully and the practice of my art, gaining the respect of all men for all time. However, should I transgress this Oath and violate it, *may the opposite be my fate.

AB; * One can only hope, but you’ll most likely get promoted, as in my experience, the profession tends to protect its own.

There’s an old retail adage known as “The Rule of Ten”, that claims for every dissatisfied customer there’s nine more who feel the same, but never speak up, past family and friends, that is. Still, this is a very small town, and word travels fast here. It’ll be interesting to see if her arrogance can keep pace with this fact and outrun it. But what do I know? I’m just an eternal patient after all, and as we’ve all seen, our words don’t count to begin with.

“You may not be able to read a doctor’s handwriting and prescription, but you’ll notice his bills are neatly typewritten.” – Earl Wilson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The writer who refuses to explore the darker regions of the heart will never be able to write convincingly about the wonder, the magic, and the joy of love, for just as goodness cannot be trusted, unless it has breathed the same air as Evil.”- Nick Cave

Hello, Blogiteers!

I am well and truly fried. Previous to the last fourteen thousand plus word blog I cranked out in a month, most of that work being done in my office-away-from-the-office, also known as The Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, I had also recently completed three on-contract articles for ZIA Magazine, published out of Silver City, New Mexico. I also shot principal photography for two of those articles as well, because if I’m going to use up all of my “spoons” in one shot, I might as well use the good silver.

The spoon theory, which I’ve called attention to before, is a visual metaphor for disability that uses spoons to represent how much energy a person with a chronic illness has throughout the day. For every task to be accomplished requires a certain number of spoons, which can only be replaced as one “recharges” after each task completion. If you run out of spoons, you’re pretty much done, if not outright screwed, because the theory has no options for salad forks, and cruelly ignores sporks altogether.

Fortunately, all three articles were well received, both by the public and the subjects themselves, so that’s not only a huge weight off my back, but it provides me a base for hanging out my shingle in my neck of the woods as well, since I’ll have some New Mexico-centric material to push. Baby steps and all that, you know. Speaking of which, my insulin pump was approved and has arrived at my abode, so that’s some additional and long overdue good news. But as I look at the large volume of somewhat intimidating gear that’s currently sitting in mt living room, it strikes that this will be quite the adjustment, even if it is for the better. I’ll essentially be wearing it almost 24/7, which is gloomily, yet another concession to my health I have but no choice to make.

Sleeping in comfort is also going to be a challenge, given the fact I’ll have both a length of tubing and a *CGM attached to my chest like a lamprey, or worse, an ex-fiancé, but if it keeps me alive, I guess any kvetching I might feel inclined to voice, should probably be filed in the “stop griping, you candy-ass” cabinet in my personal vault located within the serene walls of my hollow volcano lair. I am digging the fact I will have a watertight “port” which can be closed when I take a shower or bath, which leads me to wonder if I could set up an Egg Nog IV for when the holidays roll in, a question I should probably ask the team that the manufacturers are going to send to teach me how to use this sexy piece of tech. I’m pretty sure it’s not the first time somebody’s asked.
*[Continuous Glucose Monitor]                    

And while I’m hoping for an upswing in my day to day overall health, I’m also optimistic that it will give me back some semblance of a relatively normal life. By that, I mean I could do without the random dizzy spells, crushing fatigue, nausea, nerve pain, and general feeling of being unwell that I deal with most of the time. More good days than bad would be a delightful thing to experience for once, and I’m hoping this is the start of a forward-moving and long-term cycle of wellbeing. Along those lines, I’m also dealing with the ongoing aggravation of filling an appeal in regards to my workman’s comp, and the two highly unethical companies that have blocked me for almost two years in getting this issue resolved. What’s puzzling is how bitterly hard both companies are fighting my attempt to settle a bill that wasn’t wholly covered by my then insurance company.

I’ve written more than once about the degradation and illegal firing I suffered at the metaphorical hands of my former employer, along with the curiously condescending attitude of their insurance carrier, so I won’t (mercifully) rehash it here, but I will add a small detail I did not include in any of those narratives. The amount of the bill that my Michigan based former employer and their legal Ponzi Scheme indemnification company who last year, posted revenues of 1.8 Billion, are fighting me over as if it were a box of Limited-Edition Star Wars figures, is $3,316.84. 

Yes, you read that right, I’m having to battle for an amount that’s less than what it takes to have Nickelback play at the announcement and celebration of your *Shahada. Ok, I’m not actually sure if that’s entirely true, but there’s no way those musical masters of melodic mediocrity are getting that sweet Saudi Arabian money at the same level that U2 could easily ask for. And this opinion has nothing to do with the fact that lead singer Chad Kroeger reminds me of the barista at Starbucks that you buy low-grade weed from when they close up for the night.
*[The Shahada, AKA: “the testimony”, is an Islamic creed, one of the Five Pillars of Islam, declaring belief in the oneness of God (tawhid) and the acceptance of Muhammad as God’s prophet.]                                                                                                                                                
Regardless of how Chad earns money on the side to support his penchant for writing vapid lyrics about wanting to get laid 24/7, it’s not as if I’m asking for anything past that. I’m not asking for an inflated resolution that some scumbag shyster concocted in order to pad his cut of an unethical payoff, I just want the damn bill settled, so I can get back to living my life and more importantly, concentrate on getting back to both a fighting weight, and a lifestyle where I don’t feel useless and decrepit a majority of the time. This is literally the last nail in the coffin that was Phoenix, and I want it not only sealed in the mausoleum, I want it nuked like Chernobyl afterwards. 

It’s also probably a good time to note that due to my health, the concept of working a so-called normal job is probably out of the question for the rest of my severely shortened life, no matter how or if my fitness improves. After years of working for incompetent and arrogant fiefdoms, I believe I’m done, an opinion that only gets more reinforced every time I go out in public, and see the pointlessness of working not to thrive, but to barely survive. What’s the point of working like a dog for no end if it just enriches someone else, f**ks up your health, doesn’t really aid your finances, or improve your personal relationships?

Easy answer. There is none. None at all.

I’m not by any means, saying I’m never going to endeavor to have a job again, but if and when I do get back on that capitalistic whore-horse, it will be on my terms, and my terms alone. No more faux scraping and bowing. No more sucking down abuse. And definitely no more incurring injuries for companies that if I dropped dead on my lunch break, would have my position filled an hour later, for half the wage. If my past experience working for my last employer from *Hell has proved anything to me, it is quite possible to construct a conscience-free monarchy of sorts on the backs of the broken and bruised.
*[Ok, technically they’re based out of a city in Michigan named Wixom, but if it produces business ethics like these, I can only assume it’s akin to the Wasteland in Mad Max, minus the assless chaps, which due to the impracticality of usefulness during the winter season, were quickly voted aside in favor of those PrimalLoft Packaway jackets from L.L. Bean. Also, I couldn’t think of any jokes about Wixom that people outside of Michigan would understand, so that’s on me… my bad.]                                            

Speaking of a lack of principles, I endured the smugly supremacist attitude of a tele-conference with the law firm who’s representing my former employer, Engelsen Moulding, and its equally unethical insurance lapdog, the Hartford. As noted earlier, I’m not going to rehydrate what I’ve already scribed regarding this contemporary *Burke & Hare, but I will note how nice it is to see that their carrion feeding ambulance chase team of shysters has [in my opinion] the same lack of personal integrity that they do. Birds of corrupt feathers flock together, and all that.
*[William Burke and William Hare were a murder for profit duo operating in late 1820’s Scotland, who after killing their victims, would sell their corpses to an anatomist for purposes of scientific dissection. Something not too dissimilar as to how modern insurance companies artificially boost their profits in these modern times by denying the one service customers have paid for.]                                                                                                                                           
The call was for the purpose of giving a formal deposition, which I had no problem whatsoever cooperating with, but the person conducting it possessed all the charm of a sandpaper condom, and the conversational skills of a drunken urinal cake. To be fair, in the beginning, it was all standard civil boilerplate, as valid questions were asked, clear answers were given, and things were skimming along smoothly, as there was no reason for me to be truly ungracious to someone I’ve never met, but that plateau of good vibes was soon eroded when this *jackleg decided he needed to play “tough” with me.
*[A jackleg is considered by definition as a person who is corrupt, dishonest, or lacks the any trace of professional standards. Not too shockingly, it’s usually applied as a descriptive slur towards the clergy and lawyers almost exclusively. Imagine that.]   

Seriously. Does nobody still use Google to do the merest of research anymore? 

I’m no badass by far, but even the simplest query into how I publicly handle my personal business would tell you that at best, I should be handled with oversized kid gloves and one of those silvery heat-suit outfits you see in all those sexy Volcano documentaries. Other than his incessant interrupting every time I tried to civilly respond to a complex question past a “yes” or “no” answer, he would also chide me as if I were a child when I did, an affront that is always appreciated when you’re old enough to remember when rotary phones were a thing, that six million dollars could get you a partially bionic body, and assurances given that we’d all have jetpacks and flying cars by now.

He also expected me to have a word for word account regarding two minor conversations I had TWO YEARS AGO, because apparently, those are the truly crucial details the three-pound sponge in my head is supposed to give priority to. Hey, legal dude? In an average day, I misplace my sunglasses at least ten times, and typically when I’m searching for them, they’re squarely sitting on my face, but you expect me to have an eidetic memory on loan from Sherlock Holmes? This, as well as the exceedingly date specific information he required, might have been able to be recalled more clearly, if they had previously informed me what they needed to know in the first place.

If I had been given such parameters, I would have gone out to my garage, moved aside my collection of evil clown corpses, found the box with all my tax records and notes in it, and had them ready to go as a means to propel the narrative forward. Instead, the subtle implication that I was lying and/or unintelligent was accentuated by questions intended to trip me up, a tactic that failed not only spectacularly, but hilariously as well. It always strikes me as incredulous when someone who lies and misdirects for a living within the laws their kind crafted, is genuinely stunned by the fact that I, a worker and average citizen, are not intricately conversant with the nuts and bolts of filing civil claims, leaping over bureaucracy, and understanding Latin legalese, which is nothing more than a vile bulwark calculated to confuse the average layman to the benefit of only the valueless vulture they’re engaging with, but I digress.

Yep. He mockingly asked, without wanting the context or background story, why I “took so long” to file an appeal. Because as we know, a company posting assets more than the GDP of some small countries can have all of its plans derailed by a lone individual who after dealing with severe medical concerns that could have killed him, wants what’s due him. If I knew I possessed this much power, I wouldn’t be wasting it on these gargoyles of greed, I’d be using it to get Space 1999 back on the air, after resurrecting Martin Landau first. 

And considering they had my phone number and Email on file, I’m not going to believe any of their garbage that in this day and age that they couldn’t find or get a hold of me. Once again, how hard is it to use the Internet to track someone down? They never seem to have a problem finding someone when that person owes them money, I’ve noticed. When it’s in their interest to pin a person to the wall, you’d think that they had cloned an army of Pinkertons to get the job done.

So rather than finally being able to settle this obviously valid claim, I find myself armoring up for yet another battle royal of principle where the past sins of others are concerned. It reminds me of that scene in Marvel’s Endgame that has Lebowski Thor suiting up against Thanos- sure, he’s not in the best shape to go and kick the ass of someone who so desperately deserves it, but he’s not going to back off from his principles, either. If the Industrial Commission dismisses my case, I’ll just file a civil lawsuit against Engelsen, and take it from that point. 

This resolve has only gotten stronger after I received a letter from the law firm stating that they wanted the commission hearing only to deal with the issue of whether I filed my appeal in a “timely fashion”. In other less slimy words, they’re trying to dodge their obligated responsibilities by issuing the slur that I somehow, with my $3,316.84 claim, have singlehandedly and maliciously, delivered to the doorstep of this 1.8 Billion juggernaut, a truly major, if not insurmountable, inconvenience.

The horror. How could they ever possibly recover? Oh yeah… by using some of that 1.8 Billion most likely skimmed off the top, from the benefits they’ve withheld from their overpaying clients, that’s how.

Let’s review the timeline thus far: I was illegally filed for being Diabetic, filed a discrimination claim that was bobbled by bloviating bureaucrats at the AZ Attorney General’s Office, and eventually filed a workman’s comp claim with the Industrial Commission Office after being billed by my physical therapists clinic for costs not covered by my then insurance carrier. The claim was denied when the Hartford essentially went “okay, we won’t do any due diligence, like talking to the actual therapists who worked on this guy, because that’s way too ethical for us”, and sent me a form letter saying as much. 

I then filed an appeal, and heard nothing… for months. During this time period, my amazing GF Ashley got a job offer from a small Norman Rockwell type town in New Mexico where we currently live, and we spent a few weeks wholly concentrating on packing, boxing, taping, and cursing at the life we had to move one state over.

Roughly a week and a half after we arrived there, I noticed my left foot had puffed up to the size of a small football, and went to my local hospital, where it was determined that I had developed gangrenous gas in my leg, and was in need of immediate surgery in order to save not only my leg, but my life. The cause was a wound on my foot that I had suffered in Phoenix, which from the outside appeared to be healing, but was in fact, not. The end result was that I underwent four surgeries, the last of which removed my little toe and a sizeable chunk of my left foot. In retrospect, it could have been worse, for I could have died, so I’m oddly okay with the outcome, as much as it sucks. Not to mention, I’ve always hated running, and I never was a good dancer, so at least now I have a viable excuse for not coaching my local youth soccer league, or hitting the dance floor at weddings.

All Catholic black humor aside, I spent a week and a half in the hospital, and almost five months recovering at home, flat on my back, with my left leg elevated, either staring at the ceiling over my bed, or stuck on my couch, doing the same thing. Weirdly, I was more concerned with not losing my leg or my life, as my healing factor was impacted by the complication of having Diabetes, which was a major concern among my medical team whose loyalty I cannot express enough gratitude for. I dealt with the isolation and concurrent depression by writing about the experience, which I seriously believed kept me from falling into even deeper despair, or turning to more destructive outlets for easing the psychological effects of what I was suffering.

But let’s face it, I really should have ignored all that I was dealing with, and made the supreme effort to make the Hartford my topmost priority. Silly selfish me. So, when I got back on my feet literally and metaphorically, I sent a letter off to them for an update. No response. I then sent a direct message via my now defunct Twitter account. No response. I called them and through a series of escalating pass-the-buck phone calls, discovered they had denied my claim again, and NEVER NOTIFIED ME. Their bulls**t reason this time? My former employer based in Michigan said I wasn’t hurt working for them, because being several states over and all, they would have the insight to what was happening in Phoenix.

Not to mention, the Hartford’s cubicle monkey claimed that since my doctor never specifically said that the injury he identified and sent on to physical therapy was work-related, it wouldn’t be classified as such. Because as we all know, after doctors make a diagnosis, they also investigate the cause of it as if they were Scooby-Doo and the Gang. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times when it’s been established that I’m suffering from the flu, the doctor turns around and lets me know that I obviously contracted it from the sick third child of my co-worker Janice. I’m sure you can relate. 

Another line of asinine questioning that was set forth, is why I didn’t have multiple follow-ups with my doctor after my injury was diagnosed. This struck me as particularly stupid, since my non-sports-medicine GP wasn’t going to be treating me, or overseeing my physical therapy to begin with past the point of his referral, since I was already seeing the people I needed to see to get the dominant issue fixed.

Sigh… and people ask why I’m still lighting candles and sacrificing virgin ferrets hoping for *Apophis to follow through on the forecast that it will smash into the Earth, ASAP. Lawyers like this, and companies like that, are the reason why we still need to print usage instructions on shampoo, if not Preparation H. Say what you will, but as a writer and artist, I can assure you that jokes regarding my profession are almost non-existent, but you really can’t say the same about lawyers and corporations, now can you? Actually, I take that back, as there’s only two lawyer jokes…

The rest are true stories.

As one of those jokes goes: “What’s the difference between a vacuum cleaner and a lawyer on a Harley?” Simple. Only one of those things has the dirtbag on the outside. Bada-boom, Bada-bing.
                                                                                                                                         
I cannot wait for the day that I wake up well-rested, hopefully pain-free, and the only pressing anxiety that I have to initially face is whether I have enough Captain Crunch or Lucky Charms in the pantry, versus wondering if this is the day I stroke out, go blind, are fated to face any more amputations, have my kidneys fail, or if I lose the rest of the dexterity in my nerve damaged wracked hands. In other words, I’d like to focus on me and my health exclusively, rather than shysters, unethical entities, and bills whose weight should be borne by others, much like I still carry the burden of the injury I sustained working for people who couldn’t care how, when, or where, unless they can manipulate those factors into shirking their responsibilities.

As the saying goes: People suck. Nice people swallow. And Lawyers? Well…

They remind the rest of us how vital a role that always knowing who your father is plays in truly good character development. As someone who’s traversed the Creative backchannels for decades, I’ve met my share of brigands, rogues, pirates, scoundrels, reprobates, snake-oil salesmen, and the like. But unlike their legal contemporaries, these people at least possessed the romanticized charm of a buccaneer as a saving grace. I’m not planning on having children, but if I ever did, I’d rather see them become adult film stars rather than lawyers, it would be for me at least, far less embarrassing to tell people what they actually do for a living overall. At least when they fu**ed people over, all parties concerned would be left satisfied.

I, on the other hand, will have to make a ten-hour round-trip drive with an injured shoulder, to a place I’d rather not spend any more of my valuable time in, just to have my character slurred, my injury discounted, and my request for fair play mocked. Its almost as if I’m back in the dating pond again, except this time there’s no chance for angry make-up sex. As I said earlier, if the Industrial Commission dismisses my case, I’ll just file a civil lawsuit against Engelsen, and take it from that point. Except this time, I’d be holding them responsible for my discriminatory illegal firing, and whatever other legally sound charges my lawyer would think are viable. 

One of the funny things that was relayed from the AZ AG’s Office was that Engelsen claimed I wasn’t actually fired in the first place, because that supervisor didn’t have, and I quote, “the authority to fire him”, which strikes strange, as my supervisor before the one who illegally fired me, apparently had the power to not only hire me, but conduct the job interview where I was hired, and fire one employee later on who didn’t work out, as well.

This response also implies that this was information I should have also known, because the top brass in Michigan would have obviously wanted me, a low wage part-time slab worker in Arizona, who was responsible for packing and shipping boxes and basic data entry, to possess this hidden knowledge for no other reason than if Toni tried to fire me later, I could tell her I knew she didn’t have the authority to do so. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Quick show of hands- how many people reading this who are currently working blue-collar slave-wage jobs in the right-to-work state of Arizona think that their supervisor/s couldn’t fire them right now if they wanted to, no matter the reason? Yeah, that’s about what I thought. 

But let’s play Devil’s Advocate for a moment, even if it’s just to amuse ourselves. If Toni had no authority to fire me, then why didn’t my former employer contact me regarding this fact or to get my side of the story, and if she really hadn’t done nothing wrong, why jump ship so quickly after being questioned only once by the AZ AG’s office? That’s a lot of cover your ass coincidences going on, no matter how you look at it. 

Unfortunately, I can’t include Toni’s [in my opinion] vile and wholly fabricated statement within this narrative, for as I noted in previous screeds, in order to acquire a copy, I would have to sign a non-disclosure-agreement first, and there is no way in Hell I will ever do that. I’ve got nothing to hide, but they obviously don’t want this issue discussed, and I plan on keeping it all in the public’s eye, warts and all, letting the Fates and court decide.

Gah. Done with this for now, although sadly, I’m sure I’ll be revisiting it at some point in the very near future. But let’s talk about something more upbeat for a minute, shall we? My GF Ashley and I just recently had our first get together at our abode, and it was a smashing success. Everybody liked the home-made food, the alcohol, our interior décor, and most importantly- everybody who was invited got along, which by itself, is worth its weight in Ding-Dongs. I can’t even begin to tell you how nice it was to be socially available, something we both haven’t really engaged in since moving here a over a year. But for whatever reason, I haven’t felt the need to be out and about past settling into a routine of writing for at least two to three hours a day, and that’s ok.

The eventual game plan is that as my health and stamina hopefully improve, I’ll be able to get up and airborne again, both career and life wise. And I for one, am openly wondering what my new challenges will be in the future. Hopefully, I can re-establish myself as a writer and arts advocate out here in the wild mild of New Mexico, and if so, beyond that as well. And if I can’t, well I guess I can always go back to pole-dancing… if they’ll have me, that is. All jokes aside, the depth of grist to write about in my corner of the world is inspiring, to say the very least, and the subtle shift away from what I was writing about previously has been both liberating and somewhat terrifying, if I were to offer any measure of a personal insight.

One of the definitive goals is to start writing about “heavier” topics, as I move through these, the newest chapters of my life. The only way I’m going to be able to fly higher than I ever have before, is if I take on some new perspectives, and rid myself of some long overdue to be removed dead weight. This outlook directly inspired the previous screed before this one, and I’m hoping to continue with a steadfast resolve in this vein. I’ll just have to see where this literary lycanthrope takes me, as the new lands to be conquered expand before me. I also have on my metaphorical stove, a simmering bouillabaisse of short stories I’d like to serve up and share, along with a smattering of small-town intrigues to explore, a Pandora’s box that before I open it up, will definitely be mapped to within an inch of its life first.

Speaking of boxes full of the world’s evils and ills, as well as writing about things that are heavy, it seems my previous blog buddy, and unintentional punchline to a joke that the historic city of Chicago never asked for, Frankie Coconuts, loved my piece where’s he mentioned near the end credits so much, he posted it on his Facebook page which serves both as a platform for him, and an early warning sign indicator of his mental illness for all of us, so that his exceedingly small fan base “comment” on it. Granted, as you can see from the screenshot below, Frankie has as much pull in that department as he had when he ran for the job of city clerk, way back in 2010, a position he did not get. 

Only two negative comments? C’mon man, either bring your “A” game trolls and sycophants up to the plate, or just go home already. If I wanted to see you embarrass yourself this bad publicly, I’d just use facts and reality against you in a debate, and watch you run away as usual. In fact, considering how much and how fast this feeble firebrand retreats every time he’s cornered online, it’s amazing he hasn’t slammed into a past version of himself, ala’ Superman, while he does it.

What’s even more fun for me, is that out of all the emails and messages I’ve received in regard to this particular blog, which also happens to be one of my longest stand-alone pieces, is that none criticized me at all, and I wound up picking up not only a few more fans across the breadth of my social networks, I managed to get an even better public sense of what more than a few people in Chicago think of this human pork sandwich analog as well. That new knowledge came courtesy and with thanks, from many of the jokes within those missives that described him as : “the special needs Mr. Clean”, or “what it would like if Pixar made a “Racist Paranoid Penis” cartoon”,and my personal favorite: “the shit-stack from Chiraq.”

Yee-ouch. I may be from the concrete Thunderdome that is New York, but even we don’t pull the pin on that whole “Chiraq” slur unless we want to kill someone’s Chicago Grandmother from a distance.

Hell, we don’t even make fun of the band Chicago, and that’s even after late singer Terry Kath accidentally shot himself and was then replaced by Donnie Dacus. Sure, they’ve never really been the same since, but there’s no need to kick them when they’re down. Besides, Peter Cetera did that already with his stunning imitation of a mannequin singing, so why add insult to grievous injury? 

While I’m not saying it isn’t deserved, given Frankie’s inability to compart himself as a functioning adult, I’m also pretty sure that his truly knowing deep down that everybody thinks he’s a walking after-school special for what happens when you drink all the Kool-Aid at once, must sting on some level, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. However, that’s ok. I don’t mind doing it for him. At heart, I’m really a giver, and I think it shows.

But then again, so are many of Frank’s so-called “fans”. See, after I posted the link for the blog on his page, my favorite sentient Coconut actually became a tad more civil for a fashion, right before he blocked me for posting facts about the history of his Cheeto Jesus in relation to defrauding charities. Frank along with not liking the basic tenets of reality, also gets a throbbing mad-on whenever you dare back up your claims with these things us mere mortals call facts. Now, being blocked by this vapid windbag isn’t really something I’d get normally annoyed over as a person, but as a writer? 

It’s rare when someone or something supplies you with non-stop unintended comedy and idea grist, so if you’re a saturnly venomous bearer of barbs, having your inspiration source cut off mid-stream can be quite vexing, to say the very least.

Nevertheless, the internet still carries onward as quite possibly the last true stronghold of free speech to be found on this planet, and just because I can’t access his page, doesn’t mean that my readers, fans, fellow libtards, cucks, soy-boys, snowflakes, and Demorats can’t, something I think Frank never honestly considered, More on that later. After all, he’s reactive, not proactive, which is why he fears and runs away from anyone who presents a measured argument against his general idiocy. One of the emails I received was from a person who claimed to not only know Frank on a personal day to day level, but who also noted his political reputation among those in the know as such:  

“When a large group of varied people refer to you as “colorful” that’s a socially diplomatic way of saying you’re either completely and insanely effed up, or are one of the biggest mother**king a**holes that walk the planet.”

An opinion I don’t share, as I think Frank has the capability to be both. This is America after all, and we dream big here, something I like to think Frank does too, even when he has no basis for it in the first place.For instance, here’s how Frank presented the link to my blog piece:

I particularly like two things here, the first being his description of me as being “winded”, due to the fact that unlike Frank, I can communicate without the use of block text memes, and second, his description of me as a “Liberal Guilty White Boy” and “Hipster”. I wasn’t aware tham using facts, statistics, and archived research materials makes one feel guilty in the long run, but then again, I generally also don’t take the advice of people who pass out deluxe hand-bound copies of The Monkey Wrench Gang as standard Christmas gifts, either. If I had to hazard a guess, I don’t think Frank actually read it as much as looked at the pictures, something that I’m equally sure also applies to the two fem-bots who commented about it on his page as well. 

And as for calling me a Hipster, here’s the definition of what that actually is: “A person who follows the latest trends and fashions, especially those regarded as being outside the cultural mainstream.” Frank by the way, is eleven years older than me, and if one matches him up against the criteria this definition sets forth, he fits the profile way better than I do among his chosen demographic. So, let’s review some facts here. I’m 50 years old, haven’t bought a new album in at least six years, have no idea what trends are currently dominating popular culture, fashion, or influence, still eat cow-based hamburgers, and if I became any more vanilla mainstream, my portrait would be on the side of jars of mayonnaise, loaves of Wonder Bread, and any advertising material loosely associated with AARP. 

Frankie on the other hand, has tapped into the current psychosis that comprises the ignorant ilk of Trumps base, brags about strapping on his secondary dick to go face school teachers, and spouts paranoiac masturbatory falsehoods as if he has two mouths and eight hands whose sole purpose is to keep himself pleasured at all times, but I digress yet once more. 

His point of view is definitely not the mainstream, thank Odin, but he still proudly lays more claim to being a self-made buffoonish laughingstock than I will or could ever be. And just by looking at him, you can tell he buys the shitty beer and cheap pepperoni, more often than not. Throw in the incontrovertible fact that Frank is an intellectual patriot very much akin to the way that Niki Minaj is looked upon as an accomplished songwriter, and the alleged psychological issues he presents openly are made concrete. As I said earlier, I’m currently blocked from seeing Franks moronic meanderings deep within the land of Facebook, but fortunately, others aren’t, and were nice enough to send me some deep cut screencaps of his randomized thoughts. 

Since the prior set posted in the last blog were such a huge hit, I’m more than happy to do a follow-up of sorts for those of you who enjoyed it so much. Let’s get it started, shall we?

To kick it off, here’s Franks overview regarding Michelle Obama, and what he feels her role in America’s ongoing racial discussion was, and should have been, in his humble opinion.Not too subtly implying that in her role as First Lady, she didn’t do nearly enough to open a civil dialogue with the very same people who posted images of her husband as a monkey, he finds it to be a supreme failing that she didn’t extend a hand out to certain groups who if they could, would have placed burning crosses on the White House lawn during her tenure there. It’s also noted as a character flaw by his standards, that she didn’t try to give credence to the motivations behind the depicting of her President husband being lynched, the baseless accusations that he was a Muslim asset not born in America, who also happened to be secretly in the closet, and that their kids were adopted, as she hid the fact she was in actuality, a transvestite.

But thankfully somehow, Frank figured out who the real victims of targeted racism in this scenario were, that being the entire white middle-aged male demographic of these here United States. It does make me wonder though, does Frank hold Melania equally responsible for her fraudulent Einstein visa, her role in helping to break up Trumps second marriage by being his mistress, her plagiarism of Michelle’s words, or the stunning tone-deafness of her anti-cyber-bullying campaign that worked so well in curbing her husband’s habit of Twittering like a ten year old? I’m sure he was going to get around to it subsequently, but what do I know?

After all, according to Frank, I’m just a White Boy who’s racked with liberal guilt.

Next up, Frank posts his agreement with the obsessively paranoid opinion of Congressman Louie Gohmert, a Texas (where else?) senator who’s claim to fame is not the bills and laws he’s helped pass, but for issuing statements so dense, that his only competition in major league ignorance is Frank and his mango man-crush.As the screencap shows, Gohmert’s extraordinary super power isn’t just his ability to be highly misinformed beyond belief on the most common-sense issues or current political positions, it’s also the stunning unawareness of his statements regarding them. Past gems by Gomer include:

“So the good news is, if you’re unemployed and you go to apply for a job and you’re not hired for that job, see a lawyer – you may be able to file for a claim because you were discriminated against because you were unemployed.”

“The dirty little secret on Wall Street: Eighty percent of the Wall Street executives’ and their spouses’ donations go to Democrats. It’s like they’ve got some kind of little sweet deal, where we’ll call you fat cats and demean you and stuff, but you will get richer than your wildest dreams.”

“We’ve got some people who think Shariah law oughta be the law of the land, forget the Constitution. But the guns are there, the Second Amendment is there, to make sure all of the rest of the amendments are followed.” 

“There is no clear place to draw the line once you eliminate the traditional marriage, and it’s the same once you start putting limits on what guns can be used, then it’s just really easy to have laws that make them all illegal.”

“If nothing else came out of all of this debacle over Obamacare, one thing that should is a class-action lawsuit against the University of Chicago Law School for people that had Obama as their constitutional law professor.” 

If you go online, this pretentious hypocrite has a whole range of asinine and typically untrue commentary on topics ranging from Muslims to of course, former President Obama, but I’m certain you already saw that coming. And if there’s one thing Frank likes, it’s to be in the company of his fellow idiots. Speaking of fellow idiots, here’s where Frank promotes the so-called movie, “Q- The Plan to Save the World”, which according to our low-end Gene Siskel, is only for “Americans who want to know the truth”, which as we’ve already seen, doesn’t typically line up with the actual reality that Franks world tends to ignore. So, what is the synopsis of this world-shattering cinematic truth-bomb?

For sake of honesty, I need to point out first that this isn’t a movie in the traditional sense of that description, it’s actually a YouTube video, produced by an even bigger nutbar who goes by his non-sheep name of “Joe M”. In essence, it’s a short “documentary” regarding a shadowy cabal of Anti-American offenders that secretly control the United States, and whose end goal is to destroy everything pure about this country. According to this painfully produced inanity, the only hope we have is for the amateur citizens and professional nimrod members of the wackadoo group QAnon to rise up, step forward, and save us all from this from this faction of doom. 

The video has been accessible via YouTube since June of 2018, where it has been viewed over a million times, which one would hope was done under the guise of inciting unintended laughter, but sadly, I’m afraid the majority of those views were posted by people like Frank who see this type of fallacy-loaded tripe as gospel. 

This in and of itself is somewhat ironic, as at no point does a solution to save the world present itself anywhere in this video, but as long as it reinforces the paranoiac worldview of its fans, I’m pretty sure they don’t care.

Getting back to Franks favorite scapegoats, that being illegal aliens, we have this meme posted as “evidence” that every non-American who comes here is under the employ of nameless cartels who with no coercion involved, get them to do everything from smuggling drugs via landscaping to destroying the American economy, when they’re not murdering American families, that is.

Now, I might point out that this tragedy happened in Mexico, and not in any of the sanctuary cities that Frank likes to rail about, and I could further add that the ongoing theory being considered by the local Mexican authorities is that a case of mistaken identity may be the underlying cause for these abominable murders. However, this might punch a hole in Franks attempt at disguising his xenophobic racism as community concern, so I’ll leave this critique with this small factoid- by all demographic studies, immigrants, legal and otherwise, commit far less crime than Franks native-born Chicago-American citizens. Darn. Reality has no respect for bigotry, does it?
Now, I might point out that this tragedy happened in Mexico, and not in any of the sanctuary cities that Frank likes to rail about, and I could further add that the ongoing theory being considered by the local Mexican authorities is that a case of mistaken identity may be the underlying cause for these abominable murders. However, this might punch a hole in Franks attempt at disguising his xenophobic racism as community concern, so I’ll leave this critique with this small factoid- by all demographic studies, immigrants, legal and otherwise, commit far less crime than Franks native-born Chicago-American citizens. Darn. Reality has no respect for bigotry, does it?

I seriously have no context for this one, so I’ll just assume either the city council has a woman on it who emasculated Frank, or a transgender person who he wishes would return his frequent calls.
And for this one, I’ll just remind everyone he lives in Chicago, so griping about corrupt politics is kind of like how New Yorkers complain about a rat stealing your pizza in the subway. It’s amusing at times, but in the end, ultimately pointless. 

My take here? Considering the story was widely covered, and the corporation involved wound up firing all employees directly involved after their own internal enquiry, I’m going to have to view Franks claims of conducting “further investigation” with the same cynicism that Donald Trump only weighs 239 pounds, has the best words, is really smart, and has never known any of the people in his administration that are either under subpoena, facing a prison sentence, or have a connection to Russia. 
Simple summary for this: guy who needs a gun to face school teachers is incensed that local politicians he obsessively posts about as if he’s Mark Chapman following John Lennon’s Instagram, require personal armed security in a city where guns are not only smuggled in from surrounding states to help create an atmosphere of unchecked violence, but also where persons like himself upload thinly veiled threats online. And yet, Frank has no parallel problem with the costs of protecting Trump on weekly golf trips, wherein he fraudulently and smugly, overcharges the American taxpayers for his use of a resort he personally owns. No need for comment here, as this is just an amalgamation of desperation and delusion getting wasted on a combo of Thunderbird Wine, homemade moonshine, undercooked pork rinds, and a really bad batch of mescaline, at best.The demographic that purports to have faith in this overly optimistic misbelief, are also the same slur-spewing slackjaws who think news that portrays their president accurately, is “fake”, that climate change is a “hoax”, and tend to view common sense and logic with the same disdain I reserve for bologna sandwiches, avocados, corn on the cob, and pizza topped with pineapple or sun-dried anything. Calling yourself the “silent majority” when you truthfully are no more than the 1/3rd rabble that is as relevant to the national discussion as Trumps marriage vows have been to his roster of ex-wives, is just sheer density spitting in the face of reality, and that’s on a day where all your dimwitted ducks lineup. These lemmings have no more power than when they crawled out from under their rocks in 2016, and 2020 will be no different.

What I find hilarious beyond the pale, is this collective’s hivemind thinking that the numerous investigations, the truthful testimonies and what they are exposing, along with the majority of formerly loyal rats leaving the ship, will have no consequences in regards to Trump’s re-election campaign. While minor cracks have been seen spreading within the structure since it’s erection, the width, the speed, and the intersecting of them has been increasing on an almost minute by minute basis. And if you need proof, look no further than one of Trump’s ego-rallies as of late, where he presents no concrete policies, no new or implementable ideas, and most definitely, no verifiable track record of beneficial stand-alone accomplishments. 

However, there will be plenty of excuses, rationalizations, blame-shifting, bizarre and wholly fabricated fallacies, and an ongoing series of increasingly unhinged rants about Hillary, Obama, the Free Press, and whomever he’ll deem as today’s Enemy of the People, depending on who the Fanta Fascist feels would provide the best deflection to help redirect the heat and focus on him at that moment in time. Eventually, this national nightmare will end if the Fates are keeping tabs, and this ichor-dripping demagogue and his brain-dead cultural fodder army of which Frank is an ingrained cog, will get what’s coming to them, no matter how much they think they’re immune.

As Frank likes to publicly threaten, “There will be consequences.”

But these future penalties are never coming for those of us who’ve always been on the right side of History. Nonetheless, it’s obvious that Frank and his harangue platoon are in for one hell of a disappointing assessment when their role in all of this is noted for posterity. When the marks are made aside their names, and the bell is rung to meet the God they think will absolve their sins against Humanity, I can only hope they’re allowed enough time to acquire an asbestos wardrobe first.

Assuming that God would pretend to know any of them in the first place, of course.

“I have been thinking that I would make a proposition to my Republican friends… that if they will stop telling lies about the Democrats, we will stop telling the truth about them.” -Adlai Stevenson

“Man as an individual is a genius. But men in the mass form the headless monster, a great, brutish idiot that goes where prodded.” – Charlie Chaplin

Hello Blogiteers!

What’s new in your world these days? In mine, there’s a few things of note- I just received some snazzy custom-made orthopedic sneakers with a bespoke insert designed to be of assistance towards both my balance and mobility, and they feel pretty great, albeit slightly weird, overall. On a related aside, I now totally get why rich people imprison cobblers within their basements, let me tell you. Unfortunately, after months of learning how to walk a certain way in regards to my partial amputation, I now find myself having to reboot (no pun intended) and readjust my current walking gait to this new normal all over again. Cross-pollinate the Pepe LePew galloping of Captain Jack Sparrow with the swagger of the Demon Crawley from Good Omens, and you’ll have the correct representation in mind of how I’m currently ambling along.

Along with the new kicks, I’m also currently twiddling my thumbs in Limbos waiting room, attempting to quell all the medical insurance bureaucracies associated with my insulin pump approval, and this, more than anything else, is really the main irritant chafing my metaphorical chili pepper the wrong way as of late. Well that, and the fact that said rooms’ magazines are several years old. Unless “Alf” the TV show is still a thing, and I’m pretty sure it’s not.

As a rule, there is nothing I loathe more on this planet than dealing with the scripted inanity of the headset wearing sub-class that lounges within beige cubicles, and thinks: “That’s where I can make a difference.” If that’s ever your thought process, please do the Future (and all of us) a favor, and go skinny-dipping in a swimming pool chock-full of blood and Piranhas, because you have clearly, and spectacularly, failed at Life. And that includes both the game and the cereal. One of the puzzling quirks about dealing with the industries interrelated with the profession of medicine is how inept their processes are- it’s almost as if they’ve been purposely designed to be as frustrating as possible. In my case, it seems like the undercurrent of idiocy never stops in having to correct the flow of misinformation regarding my name, social security number, medications, and snack-cake preferences.

So, after a false start of almost three months, several blood tests, and a handful of phone calls interacting with customer service representatives so dense that they could be utilized to form containment walls inside nuclear reactors, I may be on the road to finally getting the tech that might allow me a semblance of what passes for a normal life again.

But enough about my medical consternations. Nobody really, including myself, is that interested in a personal story so drawn out and boring that it could be a limited series produced by the BBC. What should I talk about then? Well, I’m pretty sure I could spend weeks, if not months, writing about the imbecilic, incompetent, corrupt, and vacantly vulgar pumpkin husk that currently masquerades as our noble country’s “leader”, but I digress, because it’s been done to death already, and there’s only so many showers involving bleach that I could take, before I’d decide to just end it all by gorging on Halloween Peeps and Pringles. But before I find myself facing that personal precipice of sugar and salt eye to eye, I’d like to call attention to a psychological quirk known as the *Dunning Kruger Effect.
*[In the field of psychology, the Dunning–Kruger effect is referred to as a cognitive bias, in which people mistakenly assess their known ability as greater than it actually is. It is related to the cognitive bias of deceptive dominance and comes from the inability of people to recognize their lack of ability. Without the self-awareness of the known, people cannot objectively evaluate their competence or incompetence, hence the reason why I still believe I look really good naked. Oh, who am I kidding? I do.]

So as you may have guessed, today’s blog topic is going to be about one of my favorite online time-killing amusements, that being an insight regarding the insidious aesthetic of the modern primitive- that’s right, I’ll be waxing most poetic about the deplorably moronic hive-mind that constitutes the Cult of the Red Hat, AKA the slavishly idiotic fan base of America’s most prominent, yet sadly not only, wannabe fascist that has been openly referred to as the following: Donald Drumpf, Cheeto Jesus, the Mango Mussolini, the Tangerine-Tinted Trash-Can Fire, Cadet Bone Spurs, the Winning Whiner, Adolf Twitler, a Screaming Carrot Demon, the Man-Baby from Mar-A-Lago, Two Pump Trump, Genghis Can’t, a Sack of Gilded Lunchmeat, the Angry Creamsicle, a boiled ham wearing a wig, Stuporman, a decomposing jack o’lantern, Creep Throat, Fuckface von Clownstick, the narcissistic human airhorn, the orange manatee, Prez Oompa-Loompa, and my personal favorite, The Fanta Fascist.

And while I could provide hours of mirth throwing witticisms about in respect to his lack of intellect, his inability to express either empathy or sympathy, or his uniquely bizarre fetish for weirdly exaggerating the size of his tiny hands, or as noted by the esteemed and highly professional wedding-tackle examiner Stormy Daniels, his sex-shroom, I’m going to take a pass. It’ll be much more fun to mine the unintended comedy fields his *Schwarm Idioten directly provide.
*[Yes, it’s German. Feel free to do the Google if necessary.]

Whether it’s mindlessly chanting “Lock her Up” about a current politically irrelevant female rival at Trump’s Nurembergesque rallies, or wearing American flag T-shirts and hats that are Chinese-made, and emblazoned with a KKK derived slogan that America currently sucks, the Trump collective presents as having more in common with a hoard of armless Zombies attempting to build IKEA furniture, than any form of an intellectually sophisticated political movement to date. Sure, there are many parallels that one could draw between them and the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, AKA: the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (NSDAP for short) which is what the NAZI regime fermented out of, but that’s a topic to dissect at another time, lest we be here all day.

Now to be clear, I’m no starry-eyed optimist, nor have I ever been- even as a kid, I truly understood that being educated didn’t necessarily mean you were smart where and when it counted, nor did it mean you were non-replaceable, either. I’ve always believed that there is a sizeable portion of my fellow citizens that are more than happy to allow their pride in being willfully ignorant to fuel their misinformed world view, where the distilling of one’s outward racism, misogyny, homophobia, and mind-numbing gullibility, contributes to the Dunning Kruger Effect that I referenced above. No matter who you are, you’re going to have prejudices, whether it involves food or people- that’s just the unique nature of our monkey-brains, and it’s as inevitable as knowing full well that minus the first one, all the subsequent Highlander movies that followed are just God-awful.

Don’t believe me? Just sit through the “Renegade” cut of Highlander 2, and you’ll want to binge watch the Star Wars prequels on permanent loop mode just to get the taste out of your skull. But I digress. When I was growing up in my suburban 70’s neighborhood, all of these human flaws were just as pronounced as they are today, but in my POV, without the advent of the Internet, they were also isolated to their respective home territories. The poison could spread, but it took time for it to disseminate widely, if it was allowed to extend it’s reach in the first place. Such attitudes and opinions were kept in check by social mores, albeit to a limited degree. They were discreetly masked, and only candidly revealed when one’s personal comfort zone and like-minded company managed to line up.

By way of example, I heard plenty of diatribes in private from my Father and Grandfather regarding how the [insert ignorant slur here] were “ruining the neighborhood, if not the country“, but not once did I witness them issue such abominably asinine utterances within the general public. They wouldn’t have dared, immediate social consequences and all that.

But with the relative anonymity of the internet, if they were given the chance to go online and vent in this day and age…? I’m not so sure if they’d still stay the path, I must painfully admit. I’ve often noted in my previous scrawling, that the Internet presents as a complex, if not multiple edged, and dangerous sword- on one hand, the ability to broaden the depth of one’s intellectual knowledge, make crucial connections, and be both entertained and inspired, is debatably understated in comparison to what are regarded as the prior definitive achievements of Humanity. Nevertheless, the downside of this global access is just as strong, and way more virulent.

The estimated speed of data sent worldwide via the Web, *can (without interference) reach speeds of up to 300 000 km/s, or for us Americans, 186,400 miles per second, which means in the time it takes you to blink once, the data can travel around the globe seven times. This factoid is awesome if said data concerns bettering human nature, but not so much if it’s contaminated with bias and paranoid conspiracies that target a race, culture, or orientation for no other reason than to spread divisiveness and ignorance as a means for the intellectually weak to bolster one’s own fragile sense of place within the world. And if you take into account the misguided followers who will without question, swallow and immediately repost this inanity, you can see why keeping a lid on this carnage carnival is damn near nigh impossible.
*[https://networkingguides.com/how-does-data-travel-over-the-internet/]

In the bygone pre-Web era, the cranks, the paranoids, the racists, and the like had to settle for being the guy on the corner, the guy in the bar, or the guy at work everybody avoided like the plague- they were annoying, but essentially harmless, unless they managed to coalesce into a hateful amoeboid mass, such as a KKK rally, or your stereotypical children’s beauty pageant. And no, I’m not reworking this analogy, as stage moms are the absolute worst. Seriously. Nobody gives a damn that you were “1995’s Mrs. Cornstalk” Karen, we just want you to stop making your four year old up to look like a hooker. Sadly, we now find ourselves hopelessly encapsulated within a nonstop 24/7 news flow infested with disingenuous trolls who attempt to hijack, sidetrack, debunk, or neutralize fact-based information before the populace can ingest or make sense of it.

By way of example, why is it in this day and age that I have to remind my fellow Americans that: vaccines are safe, there is no Muslim cabal being run out of Obama’s house nor is he the Antichrist, drinking bleach and eating Tide Pods is bad for you, the Earth is not flat, windmills do not cause cancer, there were no Muslims dancing in American streets during the events of 9-11, which on a related note, was also not an inside job or controlled demolition, and no- Donald Trump wasn’t “helping out” either. In addition, the Apollo moon landing was not faked, Paul is not dead, Richard Gere was never internally involved with a gerbil, Sandy Hook and Newtown were not false flag operations, nobody controls the weather, or is turning frogs gay, and while there are no aliens at Area 51, I’m definitely sure they make up a good chunk of New York’s population at any given point, especially where their street vendors are concerned.

Noted sci-fi writer Isaac Asimov once stated: “There is a cult of ignorance in the United States, and there has always been. The strain of anti-intellectualism has been a constant thread winding its way through our political and cultural life, nurtured by the false notion that democracy means that “my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge.” There has never been at any time in my life that I can recall where this opinion has rung more true than now, and once again, I’d point an accusatory finger at the World Wide Web for summoning the Americanized version of the Chinese demon *Táowù.
*[Táowù: is considered as a demon of ignorance in Chinese mythology, and is responsible for sowing confusion and apathy, making mortals free of the curiosity and reason needed to reach enlightenment. In essence, he’s a mythological Koch brother.]

What keeps our Táowù fed however, is the consistent torrent of fabrication we’ve allowed to take root and not only spread, but thrive, within the DNA of our free press since the FCC [AKA: the Federal Communications Commission] abolished the Fairness Doctrine in 1987. The Fairness Doctrine, structured upon two critical elements, mandated that broadcasters devote a portion of their airtime to discussing matters of public interest, and to air contrasting views regarding those issues. Stations were given a rather free form of liberty as to how those differencing views could be provided, stereotypically addressing them via news segments, public affairs shows, or editorials.

The doctrine itself however, did not explicitly require that equal time for opposing views be provided, only that contrasting viewpoints be presented. The termination of this rule has been put forth by more than a few political pundits as one of the main catalysts for the expansion of personality driven cable news outlets, such as FOX and others of it’s ilk, where the emphasis and focus centers on promoting a specific agenda or point of view, versus a commitment to fact-driven journalism. And in one of the more striking examples of Right-Wing journalistic hypocrisy…

Sean Hannity, stating that water-boarding wasn’t a form of torture, an assertion he made during his show on April 22, 2009, where his guest Charles Grodin asked him that if he didn’t believe in the fact that water-boarding was torture, would he himself agree to be water-boarded? His response: “Sure” Hannity said. “I’ll do it for charity. I’ll let you do it. I’ll do it for the troops’ families.” But ten years later, FOX’s human analog of an Easter Island Moai, has yet to backup his own words, mainly due to the fact he’s a smarmy, cravenly liar who knows that due to how much he’s despised, that if he promoted said water-boarding as a pay-per-view program, it would be the highest rated and most profitable live-streamed event in broadcast history. Nonetheless, my interest isn’t really centered on the droning interchangeable right-wing bobble-heads that disseminate paranoiac racism as if they were handing out free samples at a Klan rally- no, I’m way more intrigued by who accepts their bloviating bile as gospel, that being the Cult of the Red Hat, AKA: Trumpers, Trumpkins, Trumpists, Trumpanzees, and let’s not forget the always fun moniker of Trumplethinskins.

I’ve never met a more overly sensitive, if not downright angry, group of “winners” in my entire life- offended by everything from coffee cups to razor blades, these people contain more whine than Donald Trump when he’s forced to face the free press. But why is this so? After all, they now have their orange tinted champion in the seat of power, shouldn’t that be enough? Apparently, it’s not. And I’ll try to break down the reasons as to why this insular group who struts around with such unfounded confidence in regards to their own intellect and sense of patriotism, is also the most thin-skinned, racist, homophobic, misogynistic, if not sociopathic and downright toxic, human clusterf**k you’ll ever sadly meet.

This opinion by the way, holds up even if you put it up against the one-wang-Willamina-from-Wichita fanbase of Twilight, hands down. And on a related note, Go Team Jacob, because 101 year old vampires aren’t supposed to be creeping on teenage girls, and they sure as hell aren’t supposed to f**king sparkle, either. A small aside to the fans of this moronic morass of treacle- there is nothing sexy about getting your monkey on with a room temperature blood-sucking corpse, that’s why Ann Coulter is not only single, but also allegedly banned from using Tinder. Just saying. And speaking of tepid temperature corpses, the only reason anyone should date Tomi Lahren is because she can chill a beer just by holding it near her heart.

Heart in this analogy, being used more as a geographical reference point, rather than describing an actual functioning organ, for sake of clarity. But let’s not dawdle from the task at hand, that being the process of breaking down the foundational rivets that hold a Trump supporters’ fragile world together.

The Wrath of Con.
“Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.” -Mark Twain

To kick it all off, we’ll start with the main motivating factor in their cultish devotion to a narcissistic demagogue, a righteous, albeit wholly baseless belief that not only have they been done wrong, but that they have every right to inflict their sense of Wrath on the ones they think are the cause. Hence the rise in the twisted sagacity we’ve witnessed directed at women, minorities, non-white immigrants, the LGBTQ community, as well as the infirm and homeless. If there is one unifying aspect that truly fuels the paranoid fantasies of your average Trumpist, it would be a sense of anger- pure, undiluted, and somewhat to a large degree, self-scourging, anger. This rage, while having obvious feet of clay, is also the main element as to why en masse, this faction represents a clear and volatile danger to this country and it’s solidly democratic process.  No matter how a topic is approached, any debate regarding it always seems to set these “winners” off, especially if it concerns the application of logic or inclusion.

To harvest a conduit for additional giggles and inadvertent comedy, let’s not forget their string of failures in regards to boycotting companies who have refused to get in line with their warped sense of American values. Most of their asinine fury is misdirected at corporations that either promote diversity, equality, women’s rights, anti-gun initiatives, or are openly anti-fascist. This focused ire covers a wide swath, from entertainment to cheap pancakes. This unintentionally hilarious register of so-called Anti-American offenders, to which I refer, is only covered in a small sampling here, because if I listed everyone they despise, we’d miss the next phase of the Marvel Universe, and I for one, am not going to be tardy for the upcoming Black Falcon & Winter Soldier movie.  Go, Team Bucky.

So, who’s on this honored list? Well…

Amazon, Whole Foods, HSN, Wegmans, Perfumania, Macy’s, Apple, Bloomingdale’s, Pepsi, Starbucks, Anheuser-Busch, Nike, Nabisco, Ben & Jerry’s, the NFL, Ford, AT &T, Burger King, the Star Wars movies, the play “Hamilton”, Keurig, Walmart, Netflix, Gillette, Nordstrom, Univision, CNN, HBO, Uber, Lyft, Kellog’s, 23 and Me, AirBnB, Audi, Bank of America, Bed Bath and Beyond, Best Buy, YouTube, United Airlines, TJ Maxx, Sports Illustrated, Samsung, Pizza Hut, Microsoft, FaceBook, IHOP, Heineken, Grubhub, Disney, Converse, Brawny, and [I am not making this up] the game known as Cards Against Humanity.

To be fair, I’m going to try and not make too broad a judgment here, but it seems that your average Red Hat cultist has not only sort of shot themselves in the foot, but put a few slugs in their brain as well, in relation to their mediocre attempt to force or bully these multinational companies into some form of groveling and submissive ignorance. For instance, when these simpletons decided to “take Nike down”, they did so by filming themselves burning or throwing away their already purchased merchandise- which obviously, was a display of pure genius on their part. After all, there’s no better way to stick it to a corporation than by destroying products you ALREADY PAID FOR. Sure, they could have donated those items to charity like the good Christians that most of them claim to be, but setting things on fire is way more mature and politically productive, am I right?

This tactic by the way, was so devastatingly effective that not only did Nike’s stock price go up 33% after the conservative backlash was announced, but it caused the morass of granite-brained deplorables to publicly switch their fair-weather allegiance to Converse, a company owned by, wait for it… NIKE. When these guys collectively boycott, they have the same success rate as I did trying to sleep with my co-worker Elizabeth back in the 90’s,  and I had the advantage of possessing both a motorcycle and amazing abs. Whenever you need a good laugh, go to *YouTube and just enjoy the idiocy of watching fully grown adults handle their issues in the manner of people who are forced to wear a padded helmet around their home.
*[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rleFTp1BSQw]

I’ll admit it. I’m a simple guy. I like the simple things in life. A good zombie movie every now and then, a plate of chilled Ding Dongs, and a decent green chili bacon cheeseburger with a side of pizza rolls is all that I really require to remain happy, but watching these imbeciles on self-shot video bragging about destroying several hundred dollars worth of product  they’ll need to replace almost immediately, is literally divine comedy at it’s finest. At this rate, they’ll run out of places to shop, eat, hang out at, and in general, acquire the things they need. But on the upside, it would mean we’d see less of those stupid hats in public, so I guess there is some sugar to go with the acid, after all. But back to the original point I started off on- their anger. I would think that these winners, as they like to present themselves as, would be wholly euphoric 24/7- after all, they finally have someone in high office just as blatantly vulgar, uninformed, and odious as they are, so why aren’t they in a state of perpetual Zen?

Easy answer. Their so-called “victory” came with no glorification or inherent respect. After years of political irrelevance, mocked beliefs, and the unfaltering steeliness of society’s social repugnance, they thought that finally, they’d be able to come out from under their bridges and metaphorical rocks, and bask in the limelight that they’d been rightfully denied for so long. But it hasn’t worked out that way, and notwithstanding the final election results, their values do not represent the greatness or promise of this country. No matter the pretense to the contrary, they’re painfully aware of this reality, and this is a key factor in why they lash out. If you have doubt, just refer to their deliberate attacks on the Free Press in this country- any journalistic effort that accurately reports on the actions, words, and willful ignorance of their Tangerine Turncoat is swiftly, and maliciously tarred and feathered as “fake news” concocted by the “lame-stream media” in an obviously transparent attempt to deflect attention away from the failure of their movement and it’s leaders to garner even the most begrudgingly tepid admiration.

Shockingly, non-sociopaths don’t react well to racism, misogyny, jingoism, xenophobia, ageism, elitism, narcissism, homophobia, arrogance, fraud, corruption, and deceit.

Weird, that.

But all of these abominable traits are what helps underpin a Trumpists uninformed, if not outright mistrustful, world view. They also are the deciding characteristic as to why when cornered in a debate by somebody using empirical data, Trumpanzees immediately fall back to using slurs, deflection, and threats of violence as a last resort in a wretched attempt at gaining or maintaining the upper hand. First appearing on the internet around 2008, and wrongly attributed to Socrates, the quote “When the debate is lost, slander becomes the tool of the loser.” is the first thing that springs to mind, describing the methodology in which said Trumptwits use in debates, typically falling short of whatever goal they had in mind. Along those lines, I also have a few more debating tips for the Cult of Personality Disorder, that being the following, which I hope in the future, allows them to appear smarter than they actually are.

First, calling someone who already identifies as a Liberal a “Liberal”, is NOT an insult- it just reinforces the truth that we’re on average, a far better person than you. Second, using the terms “snowflake”, “libtard”, “soyboy”, “cuck”, “Demonrat”, or the like, shows that not only are you a less than mentally threatening opponent to begin with, the odds are also pretty good we could distract you with a set of particularly shiny keys and a box of bubble wrap. Third, learn what the various schools of political thought are before you attempt to slur someone as a Socialist/Communist/Flaming Kitten Juggler- in the long run, you will thank me for this, as will your immediate relatives, who for the last couple of years. have had to listen to you drunkenly mash them up at every holiday dinner. All they wanted was you to pass the salt Uncle Ted, not get into a superfluous debate about how you feel immigrants both legal and otherwise, are lazy parasitic slackers “gaming the system”, right after destroying Venezuela, but just before they stole your job, which no matter how you slice it, is still one heck of a trick.

But let’s not forget the additional qualities that set the intellectual geniuses of Dante’s Fifth Circle apart from people who’s souls actually work, the first being a remarkable ability to weather the most horrendous things cast upon them, as long they believe that the people they look down upon as inferior are suffering far worse than they are. The fantasy tax cuts and trade tariffs, by way of example. And therein lies the understated, yet highly disturbing concern: what will happen when an incensed herd of the unthinking, is faced with not only having their core beliefs attacked, but also publically disproven as well, if their Tang-colored leader is kicked out of office. whether that’ll be by the electoral process or impeachment? What bad could possibly come from that? What might be the worst outcome of an enraged hive-mind being forced back into the ichors from which they slithered forth?

Nothing but Nazi unicorns and self-hating rainbows, I’m willing to bet. Well that… and amateur militias who’ve been waiting years to cosplay Tour of Duty. For real, that is.

Praise the Lard!
“Many cults start off with high ideals that get corrupted by leaders or their board of advisors who become power-hungry and dominate and control members’ lives. No group with high ideals starts off as a ‘cult’; they become one when their errant ways are exposed.”- Philip Zimbardo

Another highly visible and vocal demographic within the basket of deplorable dimwits, is the puzzlingly large number of Trump followers who, while claiming to be true Christians, worship this fake-bronze demagogue. In my opinion, it just hammers home the intrinsic hypocrisy of both he and modern religion in general. Sure, I’ve always enjoyed the “KWIC’s” [Keyboard Warriors In Christ] that you tend to encounter within the various forums on the web, whether those threads involve politics or not. I once encountered a quorum of these Bronze Age Book Club poltroons, in a place you might not think of, that being a recipe discussion group… seriously. While trying to track down a substitute for butter, I had to endure an extended harangue about how Trump was not only a “role model for good Christian values” but an “excellent example of ethics in business” as well.

Dude… I’m just trying to make my double-fudge-nut cookies healthier and lighter- I didn’t come here for this.

even knowing that in their duplicitous hearts they’re just trying to rekindle my loving relationship with their petty if not utterly sociopathic God, I’m also pretty certain that isn’t going to happen anytime soon just because of their muttered death threats directed at me, which from an agnostics’ POV, doesn’t really come off as the path someone who follows an all knowing, all seeing, loving God should walk. Just my two cents. To hazard an assumption, I’m also certain given their proclivity for interpreting the Word as if they were *Janus with a severe case of dyslexia, that Christ wouldn’t spit on them if they were on fire, which is ironic, considering that’s where most of them are headed, for perverting the lessons they were expected to follow and more importantly- learn, in the first place.
*[In ancient Roman religion and myth, Janus is the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, and endings. He is usually depicted as having two faces, since he looks to the future and to the past. It’s sort of how Trump fans say they want America to be great again, yet call you un-American and tell you to leave the country if you point out America’s obvious issues.]

By way of comparative and conservative hypocrisy, let’s put the wandering appetites of Bill Clinton up against the vulgar proclivities of our current Liar-In-Chief, who unlike the smooth hillbilly from Arkansas, brags incessantly about what an amazing ladies man he  is. This is obviously the reason why he had to pay 130K for two minutes of sex, of which, a minute and 52 seconds was just him taking off his sexy jumpsuit. Good luck getting that visual out of your Occipital Lobe boys and girls, without bleaching your brain. In that, I wish you the best of providence in your attempt to do so.

Now, please don’t misunderstand me, I was severely disappointed in what Clinton did, and how he tried to make it go away. The man’s lack of moral character pisses me off to this day, and I always found his lying about it to be painfully embarrassing. But here’s the caveat- whereas then the ever so righteous “Party of Family Values” was more than happy to gut Bill like a fish for his inability to keep both his libido and spawn-hammer in check, they’re equally reticent these days to publically call out Trump’s rampant misogyny and hostile vulgarity towards women, nor will they address the multiple and credible sexual assault accusations that are withstanding against him. Most people would call that hypocrisy, but according to the hollow White Chocolate Easter Rabbits who support him, it’s no more than “a private issue”, and is a topic that should be left unmolested- a weird stance from the party who’s male members keep getting busted for child pornography and hookups with underage male prostitutes in seedy hotels.

Given the number of reprehensible rapists and pedophiles within their ranks, who would have guessed that they’d shelter, if not vaunt, a sexual deviant? That being other than anyone who’s intellect still works? And don’t even get me started on how many blind eyes they’ve turned in regards to his stoking the fires of implied violence, starting with his racist speeches and false claims, up to abandoning and throwing our Kurdish allies into the blades of slaughter, while also simultaneously renting our military to Saudi Arabia, his known business partners and the fine folks who brought you 9-11.

The silent complicity of the current GOP says it all, I think.

But maybe I’m wrong here- after all, wouldn’t our Lord and Savior, (AKA: Jesus) forgive a lost sheep who lusts after his own daughter, who bragged about purposefully walking in on nude underage beauty contestants, who allegedly raped a child with deceased and possibly murdered pedophile Jeffery Epstein, and is also a husband who committed serial adultery, and has made a career out of being a con-man who lies, commits fraud, and bears false witness when he’s caught with his freakishly tiny hands in the cookie jar?

Normally, I’d say “yes”, being a good recovering Catholic and all that, but I seriously doubt Trump will be able to con his way through the true Golden Arches when he finally strokes out on top of his last Big Mac, or most likely, his next underage Russian hooker.

If anything, I picture Jesus and Saint Peter leaning up against a post giggling, waiting for Trump to arrive, and telling him he can come in, but only if he can name one other person in the Bible first. The beauty of this scenario is not only can’t he, but he also fails Jesus’s double or nothing offer to recite a single verse of the Word, and has no idea what any of Christ’s teachings are in the first place. And when you take into account how many times he’s shattered or routinely ignored the 1st, 3rd, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th Commandments as if they were his wife and kids, [looking at you, Eric and Tiffany] you can just imagine how happy Jesus will be to kick his corpulent ass into the Lake of Fire, where it bursts into flame as if it were a bag of pork rinds getting deep-fried at the Texas State Fair…  sigh, an agnostic can dream.

Speaking of hollow as a chocolate Easter Bunny Evangelicals, and adding to this pile of pitiful piousness is the fact that the almost certain closet case and current albino VP Mike Pence, once wrote in regards to Clinton: “If you and I fall into bad moral habits, we can harm our families, our employers and our friends. The President of the United States can incinerate the planet. Seriously, the very idea that we ought to have at or less than the same moral demands placed on the Chief Executive that we place on our next door neighbor is ludicrous and dangerous.

Throughout our history, we have seen the presidency as the repository of all of our highest hopes and ideals and values. To demand less is to do an injustice to the blood that bought our freedoms.”

Well, this past opinion is kind of awkward, because when asked about Trump’s affair with adult film star Stormy Daniels, Pence referred to the allegations as “baseless”, despite the at the time known and incontrovertible evidence, and has in essence, refused to comment on the issue or his hypocrisy regarding it, since. Now that could be because he’s perfectly comfortable being duplicitous, or it just might be because Mother doesn’t allow him to talk about other men’s sex lives, for fear he’ll wind up at a Motel 6 with a rough trick named Chaz… again.

Either/or. Roll the dice.

But that seems to be an intractable cornerstone in relation to the Cult of the Red Hat- the mass ability to overlook every detestable character flaw that if it were anyone else, would have resulted in an exodus of support not seen since Van Halen fired David Lee Roth. And if you’re looking for additional unintended comedy, I refer back to the complicit pretense of faux concern I noted earlier. The GOP tripped all over themselves trying to tar and feather Bill Clinton for his multiple sessions of mouth congress, but when it comes to the Orange Fanta F**kup and his well-documented history of racist tirades, asinine slurs, lies, obstruction, ignorance, fraud, incompetence, sexual predation, and outright treason, it’s as if every Republican is currently a hardcore member of a *Mummenschanz cover band.
*[Mummenschanz is a Swiss masked theater troupe who perform in a surreal style, which is usually augmented with stage props, so overall, it’s really not too far off what the GOP likes to do when called out for it’s consistent inability to do the right thing.]

It would be exceedingly easy to write-off these acts of deliberate collaboration to either a desire for the accruement of even more power, or perhaps the furthering of long-held, but deeply hidden personal convictions, but I think this overview is a tad bit inaccurate in the long run. I’ve never attached myself to a flaming train-wreck of destiny, but when one does, is it wiser to exit the car and suffer possible grievous damage, or just hang on for dear life and hope the inferno snuffs itself out somewhere further down the line? For most GOP sycophants, I can only assume they’re taking the latter choice, praying that in the end, they’ll be able to salvage whatever shreds of their personal dignity and/or political capitol they may have left. But at what cost? After all, fame and power are fleeting at best, and a bad reputation tends to broadcast your past transgressions in a manner very much akin to how your ex talks about you- sure, you may have both shared a lot of good times, but do you really want total strangers knowing about your fondness for dressing up as Spongebob Squarepants and playing “Naughty Squidward”? I think not.

Going forward, this would still come off as a minor embarrassment when compared to having the allegorical yoke of treason hung around your neck, as many of these so-called persons of faith will face when this reality TV abomination has finally run it’s carnivorous course. So, in the end, when one tallies up the goals achieved, what will these modern-day disciples of Judas gain other than a vile legacy of grift, deceit, personal cowardice, and complicity? Prison sentences, hopefully. Long ones. And waiting at the end of that mortal penance, will be their God, who strikes me as an entity who’s quite the stickler when it comes to rules that he/she/it set, and even given the concept of divine forgiveness, the Proverbs 6:16-19 are pretty clear as to where the line on the cloud is in relation to staying on the good side of the Supreme Judge.

To quote: “There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies, and a person who stirs up conflict in the community.” The fact there’s a Highway to Hell and only a Stairway to Heaven says a lot about the anticipated traffic when our toil on the coil is done, and if God does indeed exist, these faux Christians will find themselves residing in an over-priced condo development located on the shores of Lake Gehenna.

Reality. What a concept.
“Reason obeys itself; and ignorance submits to whatever is dictated to it.” – Thomas Paine

Along with unfounded anger and the religious zealotry I’ve noted, another keystone in the foundation of the Red Hat Cult is the pride they espouse in being disdainful of reality- it’s equally the most hilarious and terrifying quality they possess. People who, no matter the evidence presented to them, happily and willingly swallow every faketoid that mirrors their erroneous beliefs as if it were free candy This behavior, which mirrors the *”beetle men” of George Orwell’s magnum opus 1984, is at best, nothing short of sociopathic, and at worst- exceedingly hazardous to a unified society.

1984 described the not too dissimilar and just as ardent followers of the fictional despot Big Brother as such: “For the moment he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week.

 And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ration was to be reduced to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty grammes.

Syme, too- in some more complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, alone in the possession of a memory?”

At the moment of this scrawling, our Traitor in Chief decided to host yet another one of his lunacy-filled press conference, this right after having his miniscule semen demon handed to him on a paper plate by Nancy Pelosi, wherein he tried to defend the selling of our Kurdish allies out, our abandoning of an base to Russia, while Turkey seized several of our nuclear weapons and as scores of ISIS prisoners escaped- all of which I’m certain, won’t come back to bite us in the ass.

Some additional highlights from this latest flaming train-wreck of merde, courtesy of the self-styled stable genius who possesses the best words, the biggest brain, and unmatched wisdom:

On the Allies we just screwed: “We have a lot of great people over there we’ll see. In the meantime, our soldiers are not in harm’s way, as they shouldn’t be, as two countries fight over land. That has nothing to do with us. The Kurds are much safer right now, but the Kurds know how to fight. As I said, they’re not angels, they’re not angels. If you take a look, you have to go back and take a look, but they fought with us. We paid a lot of money for them to fight with us and that’s okay. They did well when they fought with us. They didn’t do so well when they didn’t fight with us.”

Regarding the escape of ISIS militants: “We have them captured. The United States captured them. Some were released just for effect, to make us look a little bit like, “Oh gee, we got to get right back in there.” You have a lot of countries over there that have power, and that hate ISIS very much. As much as we do. I think we’re in a very strategically good position. I know the fake news doesn’t make it look that way, but we’ve removed all of our, as we said, 50 soldiers, but much less than 50 soldiers. They’re now in a very, very safe location, heading into an even safer location.”

Pushing his standard conspiracy mantra: “I think people, I know nothing about it in terms of the report. I’m waiting for the report like everybody else, but I predict you will see things that you don’t even believe, the level of corruption. Whether it’s Comey, whether it’s Strzok and his lover, Page, whether it’s so many other people; McCabe, whether it’s president Obama himself. Let’s see whether or not it’s President Obama. Let’s see whether or not they put that in. Wait a minute. Let’s see whether or not.”

More fantasy braggadocio: “Here’s the problem. I think we’re going to take the House based on what’s happening with the impeachment stuff. The Republicans can do the same thing in reverse if they ever have, and I hope it’s going to be a long time because nobody’s done a better job with the economy, with our military. Whether I’ve rebuilt the military, our economy is the best that’s ever been. We have numbers that just came out where, not including taxes, the median household income for the average American has increased $5,000 in a very short time since I’ve been President. Nobody’s ever heard of numbers like that.”

“This administration has created the strongest economy in the history of our country. We have the greatest stock market. We had over a hundred times, we broke the record for stock market. If you look at people’s stocks, their 401ks. If you look at anything you want to look at, they’re far better off now than they probably ever have been in this country. Record stock markets. Don’t forget, stock market’s not just rich people, it’s all people. All people own in the stock markets. New York stock exchange, all of them. They’re at record highs. Nobody’s ever done what we’ve done.”

Regarding his abominable attempt at an ambush photo-op with the British parents whose son was killed by an American diplomats wife: “My meeting with the family was really… it was beautiful in a certain way. They did not want to meet with the person in question, but we had a very good meeting. They’re very nice people. We met with the full group. It was four people, actually. You know how it’s all broken up, and the meeting took place right here at about six o’clock last night. It was very sad, to be honest. She lost,, and they lost their son. I believe it was going down the wrong way because that happens in Europe. You go to Europe and the roads are opposite, and it’s very tough. If you’re from the United States, you do make that decision to make a right turn where you’re supposed to make a left turn.”

And the capper: “The United States and Italy are bound together by a shared cultural and political heritage dating back thousands of years to Ancient Rome.”

By all offered evidence thus far, the case could be strongly made that I am a mercenary realist. I understand that from time to time, one’s brain likes to take an unannounced, if not unforeseen, siesta. But Jesus F’ing Christ, at least when it happens to most of us, we try to unhitch our mouths from the runaway train first. Normally, most presidents have these people in place known as “advisors” who serve as walking repositories of wisdom, tact, and guidance, all of which is utilized to focus, if not control, an administrations course of policy implementation. But the mangozee who’s currently failing at being our leader on a level never before seen, eschews this vital resource, believing that, and I quote: “My gut tells me more sometimes than anybody’s brain can ever tell me.”

Given the size of said gut, he’d make Tesla look like Jenny McCarthy if it actually served as a working brain, but sadly, it being comprised mostly of stale Big Macs, greasy quarter Pounders, lukewarm Diet Cokes, burnt cheap steaks, and a spiritual hollowness that only comes from the knowledge that your parents, wife, and children never loved you, it fails to impress anyone, save the maker of industrial-sized Spanks.

Sure, it can be argued that not every president has the aptitude to become a future long-term member of MENSA, but even the worst that has come before had the ability to at least act like a reasonably intelligent, if not socially civilized, mammal a majority of the time. I could spend my life entire cataloguing the amount of concocted flotsam this blathering buffoon has put forth as Gospel, but why would I do that, when I can sum up his character by quoting a friend of mine who once opined that: “this universally inadequate fuckhead, this avatar of insecurity and a selfishness so thorough it’s likely he’s only brought a partner to orgasm by signing divorce papers, expressed a desire to nuke *HURRICANES.*

On that basis alone, not to mention his asserting that the Emoluents Clause in our beloved Constitution is “phony”, the necessity for not only impeachment, but for his corpulence being launched out of a trebuchet, should be obvious to all. And while he’s bad enough alone, he’s really no more than the side effect of the long-developing uneducated mass that licks his every footstep. Need some definitive proof of this assertion of mine? Well, how about we enjoy a small sampling of the “true stories” that these useful idiots of the right-wing have taken to heart, such as:

Pizzagate. The FBI, CIA, and the Justice department are part of the Clinton/Obama Deep State. Immigrant caravans are attacking America. The Seth Rich “assassination”. The “war” on Christmas and more urgently, Christian white males, The frequency of late-term abortion and it’s funding sources. Pretty much anything regarding the Obamas. How Trumps’ fantasy wall is not only necessary, but how Mexico will pay for it. How Hillary Clinton keeps murdering people and sold Uranium illegally, Big cities have Muslim controlled no-go zones for cops, and are under Sharia Law. Institutionalized racism is a hoax. The LGBTQ community are lusting after your kids in bathrooms. Gang violence is rampant. Every single undocumented alien is stealing your job, and is also on welfare at the same time, which is an amazing feat, no matter how you look at it.

Hired “crisis actors” are staging mass shootings to serve as false flags in an attempt to seize your guns. Healthcare isn’t a human right. Hate crimes are a hoax, World-wide climate change is a hoax, created by the Chinese. Women are wholly at fault for their being sexually assaulted. Schools and product advertising are indoctrinating your children in the Dark Arts of liberalism. Established science is a socialist plot. And despite Trump being in the midst of, and surrounded by, corruption- he’s essentially an honest patriot who’s being set up for failure.

And my personal favorite…  Jesus is as White as a bottle of Bayer Aspirin floating on a sea of milk.

Silly me, I must have skipped over that chapter in the Bible that describes the ancient gated community of Bethlehem where all the Jewish snowbird WASPs hung out. And it’s not just a simple rebuke of preferring a few petite conspiracy theories over established reality, it’s a comprehensive swallowing of a rancid elephant not only whole, but sideways, to boot. Even when the proof comes from right-wing outlets, Trump himself, or a thousand other sources that are undeniable, these slobbering simpletons refuse to accept what’s right in front of them in exchange for a metaphorical hand job that empties their wallets and devours what remains of their souls. The answer commonly presented as to why this is holds that his base is no more than an amalgamation of inbreeds, dullards, and racists, and while this theory does hold some Diet Coke, it’s just not that simple a conclusion. I know plenty of otherwise rational human beings who’ve willingly signed over their pride, patriotism, and principles hoping to be part of the studio audience for this reality show from Hell, all on the thinner than paper certainty that finally at long last, they’re “winning”.

Now, what they’re winning is debatable at best, but it does seem to be fueled by what I’ve already covered- a volatile cocktail of misplaced anger, cultism, and fear. It has to be a heady experience for people who’ve always felt marginalized due to the unpopularity of their views, to be able to truly express themselves openly for once. After all, when the leader of the free world says the things you’ve always wanted to say in public and suffers no actual consequences of note for it, how far would it pave the path for you and others of your ilk to move forward with your plans of desired vengeance?

To quote Voltaire: “Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.”

Given how the vile rhetoric being spewed by these mouth breathers is continually being ratcheted up, is it too much of a stretch to believe that it’s only a matter of time before one or several of these play-time patriots decides to try and impress their Moscow Mushroom with acts of targeted violence against the very same people that he has deemed as enemies? Let’s tick off some boxes in regards to their hypocrisy- they’re Pro-Life, but seem to have absolutely no problems with immigrant children dying in captivity or others living in extreme poverty. They believe in Free Speech, but want the Free Press silenced from criticizing their false idol. They’re American Nationalists, but are okay with their President being not only Putin’s puppet, but also having no knowledge or respect for the Constitution. They’re Pro-Military, unless it comes to taking care of our Veterans. They’ll obsess over the myth of “Black on Black” crime, but ignore the reality whites are just as equally culpable in regards to their own demographic.

I literally could go on for days, but I don’t have enough alcohol and Ding Dongs to do so.

There are three points of view in the Church of the Self- how strangers see us, how our intimate relationships see us, and how we see ourselves. If we’re lucky, these all line up, minus a few millimeters here and there, but it typically doesn’t go that way, especially if we’re forced to look at the big picture with any modicum of honesty. The Red Hat brigade however, doesn’t benefit from this in-built safety valve however- in their minds, not only are they winners, they’re also simultaneously victims, patriots, and the only holders of the “truth”, no matter what the actual realty is. As noted earlier, I can frankly say that I’ve never met so many angry winners in my life, nor have I ever experienced a group of true patriots who resent American values as much as these capitalist cuckolds do.

And as far as their being the lone arbitrators where Truth is concerned, all I can say is this… Wahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!

Sorry, just needed to really get that out of my system before my pancreas up and exploded on me. I like overestimating my importance just as much as the next guy, but even I know that when Chris Evans walks in the room, no one’s going to give a damn about my Captain America impression, no matter how good I look posing with the shield. For people who endlessly mock others for being “woke”, they sure do spend an inordinate amount of time going out of their way to prove their inherent ignorance beyond any shadows of doubt. To have the intellectual flexibility that demands that you gleefully accept a vulgar, adulterous, narcissistic, elitist, racist, misogynistic, mentally obese carnival barker as your paragon of all that is trustworthy, is truly, no pun intended, a case study for future psychologists to dissect, and for Benecio del Toro to make film trilogies out of.

So far, and happily caught on videotape, which his disciples of density refuse to watch, their moronic messiah has incessantly bragged that “nobody knows more than me” in regards to the following subjects:

Taxes, personal income, construction, campaign finance, drones, technology, healthcare, infrastructure, the H-1B, the H-2B, ISIS, the other side of the picture(?), comprehension, environmental impact statements, Facebook, renewables, polls, the courts, steel workers, golf, banks, economics, trade, nuclear weapons, tax law, lawsuits, offense and defense, devaluation, money, the system, cybersecurity, contributions, the military, politicians, the fair-haired boy (?), debt, the game, the internet, capturing ISIS, and the word “apprentice”.

And yet… he can’t close an umbrella, see a limousine parked right in front of him, buy a suit that fits, read a prepared statement without reeling into lunacy, obey marriage vows, stand and breathe like a normal human being, or have spank-me sex without cutting a check afterwards. Real stable genius at work here, boys and girls, let me tell you. But when it comes to his Pavlovian flock of simplistic sheep, there may be a need for the creation of a new term, as “ill-informed” seems far too genteel a description. No matter what issue you’re debating with a Red Hat contrarian, inevitably you will come to the point where using facts and reality will be met with the same resistance that exists every time somebody asks Batman and Superman about family get-togethers.

I often joke that my week is not truly complete unless I’ve received at least two death threats and been called the following: anti-American, transgender, a libtard, a soy-boy, a cuck, a snowflake, a faggot, a Russian Bot who for some strange reason is anti-Trump, or a pussy, and that I politically lean towards socialism, communism, or Nazism, which is ironic, considering it’s usually actual NAZIs saying that to me in the first place. As an aside, I’m pretty sure calling a NAZI a NAZI is what got me banned from Twitter for life in the first place- a badge that I proudly wear with both honor and humor. Especially when you discover that Twitter is loath to let it’s anti-racism algorithm run unimpeded, due to the fact it would red-flag most pro-GOP accounts.

Think about that for a minute- when your custom-tailored program cannot distinguish between NAZIs and Republican politicos, you’ve got a much bigger problem on your hands than an incel influx of Proud Boys. In the last few years of excavating the sediment that constitutes the World Wide Web, I’ve seen the usual racism, homophobia, misogyny, and density of intellect that pervades the conversation attempting to be had by actual adults, but also the fallout from these, the most repulsive of our society’s firebrands. I still maintain that if memes and fake news were not a real thing to be accessed, two-thirds of Trumps fans would have no form in which to undertake communication, unhinged as theirs tends to be. But I tend to just roll with it, using both sarcasm and humor. These are two constructs MAGAts don’t understand, which is why it always confuses and enrages them. But I do try to include them in the unintended comedy they willingly provide, because at heart, I’m a people person.

For instance, if somebody who looks like this,

posts a retort like this to something I’ve said,

I’ll usually post something like this in return.

Just so that they can giggle just as hard as I did when I discovered the similarities by comparison. In the last week alone, I’ve been told that the FOX network who as of late, are now criticizing Trump, is being run by a cabal of liberals, that Trump and Turkey are working as one to undermine the Russians, and that, sigh… the ISIS prisoners who escaped are actually now on our side, and are going to help America fight terrorists. Surprisingly, this noxious Black Widow fan-fiction fantasy is still not the densest thing I’ve heard recently. That honor goes to yet another public appearance wherein our Dumbass Dictator of Dementia stated during his speech at the Shale Insight Conference in Pittsburgh, and I once again painfully quote:

“And we’re building a wall on the border of New Mexico. And we’re building a wall in Colorado. We’re building a beautiful wall. A big one that really works — that you can’t get over, you can’t get under, and we’re building a wall in Texas. And we’re not building a wall in Kansas but they get the benefit of the walls that we just mentioned. And Louisiana’s incredible.”

Sigh…. and yes, as you may have guessed, his idiotic base not only accepted this word salad of insanity, they actually clapped for it as well. Per standard procedure, he’s now claiming it was “a joke”, but have you ever heard of anybody who consistently tells so many non-obvious witticisms that their representatives have to come out anywhere from several hours to several days later and explain that the person they work for was attempting humor? I didn’t think so, but then again, I’ve never been a fan of the Andy Kaufman approach to comedy. I particularly like his claim that you can’t get over or under one of his walls, when he’s been shown to be totally incapable at keeping his marital affairs, his crimes, his treason, and the purported size of his clam-hammer leaking intoour invasive 24/7 news cycle, but yeah… you’re not getting past anything he designed.

After all, he knows more about construction than anyone else, remember? But when it comes to geography, obviously not so much, if at all. To our nations credit, the official responses in regards to his most recent of inanities were filled with swift wit, if not outright savage shade. Governor Jared Polis of Colorado slapped back hard on Twitter with this gem: “Well this is awkward …Colorado doesn’t border Mexico. Good thing Colorado now offers free full day kindergarten so our kids can learn basic geography.”

State Rep Diana DeGette, referencing Trump’s multiple past promises that he would make Mexico pay all the costs associated with a border wall, queried on Twitter: “Is NEW Mexico going to pay for it?”

Speaking as a citizen of New Mexico, I’m here to tell you that, no… we won’t. I am so sorry about this, but we’re up to our necks in unforeseen debt, since we recently invested all of our free money into green chile futures. We, unlike our presidunce, seemingly at least have our priorities straight. But his followers, much like lemmings, will still follow him off the cliff, even at the cost of their reputations, livelihoods, and family ties, if not the valid risk of possible imprisonment. For all their talk about “the intolerant Left” , the only people I see on a regular basis being prosecuted and going to jail for threats, assault, and domestic terrorism are those following the Trump doctrine of ignorant posturing.

Their newest attempt to force the conversation in the direction they’d like, is the threat of a “Civil War” if Trump is impeached, or jailed for his public crimes and treason spree. That’s right, people who swear that they love both this country and its underlying principles, are proclaiming that they are willing to take up arms and rise against it if the Constitution is used as it was designed to be. No sense of rational discord there, am I correct? To be fair, if these human pizza rolls wage “war” as well as they debate, insult, or boycott, we’re all going to be fine in the end, I assure you.

To serve as our Litmus test of what not to do, let’s observe the genius of the hopefully soon to be unemployed veteran MLB umpire Rob Drake, who posted and then quickly deleted, this deplorable Tweet in regards to the ongoing impeachment hearings facing the so-called President Donald Trump:

“I will be buying an AR-15 tomorrow, because if you impeach MY PRESIDENT this way, YOU WILL HAVE ANOTHER CIVAL WAR!!! MAGA2020″

And no, that’s not a deliberate misspelling on my part, that’s the actual verbiage straight from the horse’s ass who took his own reputation and future, and put two slugs behind it’s ear, as it simultaneously fell forward into an open wood chipper. This in effect, almost comes off as a mercy killing of sorts, if his spelling is any indicator of his lack of intrinsic intellect. On a note that is not too surprising these days, Drake is also a co-founder of Calling for Christ, a ministry whose demographic is specifically umpires, whether they are working in the Major or Minor Leagues. So in between a busy week of loving and pimping Jesus as if he were soap, praying on his knees, and flogging his Bible, he devotes part of his time contemplating killing his fellow Americans who just won’t let his orange oracle continue to perpetrate crimes.

Yeah… that sounds about White, doesn’t it? There’s an old joke that says that all umpires are blind, but I wasn’t aware they could possibly be mentally ill as well. I guess when you spend all that time wearing a too tight mask and a chest protector, it’s only a matter of time before you start hallucinating that you’re a noble in Trump’s 14K gilded plastic sword version of the Templar Knights. Currently, I find myself around 10 thousand words (plus) in to this, my current scrawling about the world that’s around me, and despite the fact I have material at my feet that I could mine for days, I’m feeling the need to wrap it up, sooner than later. And to that end, I’ll cap it all off with a personal story of online civil discourse, via a lovely and highly intellectual MAGAt from Chicago, who goes by the name of Frank Coconate.

Frank to be frank, is quite frank in his frankness as to what he regards as the problem with America today- that being anyone who’s a Democrat, a minority, or has the unmitigated gall to use their Freedom of Speech the way it’s meant to be, or heavens forbid, is not a bootlicking fan of our Craven in Chief. On his *Facebook page, a delightful miasma of conspiracies, theories, and not too thinly veiled threats help set the tone for someone who’s grasp of Constitutional law is equal to his comprehension of Reality- that is to say, I’m not sure what the color of the sky is in his world, but I’m also just as certain that if there’s ever a place where one might bump into the blond blue-eyed immigrant-hating Republican Jesus, it’s probably there.

So, this is Frank. And as some of you who have dealt with him online previously have suggested to me. his family tree having no branches may be something we may all want to take stock of, in relation to how hard we try to engage him as a fully rational adult.

And whether he looks to you like the type of guy you’d expect to see cosplaying as a bald Ted Nugent somewhere deep in the woods of Michigan, or the person you sometimes see out of the corner of your eye lurking at the edge of a children’s playground, he’s so much more that that, as evidenced by these screencaps of his impressive ability to combine slurs, white fragility, racism, and sheer paranoia. And I particularly like his multiple threats of unnamed and vague “consequences” for those who want to use the laws found within one of our most sacred founding documents, as a conduit to rid our democracy of the Russian asset currently masquerading as our leader, but I’ll expound upon this adorable quirk a little further down the literary road.

In fact, here’s a not too subtle warning that I’m going to be in some serious trouble right after he’s “done” with a friend of mine first. Granted, the fact I haven’t been called a “pussy” by anyone since I was twelve, in no way, shape, or form should infer that he doesn’t have a truly dizzying sense of intellect, it just shows that he hasn’t developed mentally past the range of 5^th grade insults, which is why he likes Herr Hamberder so much. Birds of a feeble feather, and all that.

There were two things I took away from this pathetically weak attempt at presenting as a badass, the first being that this gaseous windbag is hardly going to get on several connecting flights, in an attempt to come to my small hamlet in the middle of nowhere to have a chat of any sort, especially when he has the linguistic skillset of an undercooked pork sandwich. And second, why am I the backup Plan B here? I don’t wake up, work out, plaster the Web with my opinions, and dress as snazzy as I do to be anyone’s second choice for a Prom date, thank you very much. There’s an order to these things- death threats, some verbal degradation, disco dancing, dinner in a restaurant that has no clown out front and cloth napkins on the inside, and only then, may you lay your hands violently upon me. I tell you, there’s nothing truly sadder than a dastard who has no love for the traditions of their craft.

Seriously… what are they teaching at these overpriced White Supremacist rallies these days, Home Economics? I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this in print, but when you suffer from an illness that tries to kill you professionally 24/7 as I do, you don’t really sweat the minor and nonsensical details. Given all of the terrible things that my condition can and has done to me, a swift death almost comes off as an early Christmas gift, and a long one is more akin to me being stuck at a really boring gallery opening. You want to scare me? Either tell my parents where I live, or my ex-fiancé that yes, I did think her friend Eva was freaking hot, and that if I were single at the time, would have moved on that like the Silly Rabbit going after an unlocked boxcar of Trix.

Screw you kids, all this is mine.

But I, unlike he, do have respect for the art of Troll-filleting, and to prove it, I will bestow my newest fan/stalker with a nickname befitting both his reasoning and overall relevance to the surly political discussion at hand. I’m thinking of going with Frankie *Coconuts, as he comes off not just as a wannabe OG, but as that particular kind of batshit insane that comes only from either huffing cheap paint with your windows closed, or abusing the kinds of drugs that make crack look like a cheese Danish, but I digress.
*[Apparently, this is not too coincidentally, his nickname back home for the very same reason.]

Let’s see what Google has to offer us as a way to understand Frankie and his cut and paste POV on loan from Breitbart. Let’s see… there’s these *articles from 2010, which expands upon Frankie’s assertion that he was dismissed from his city job in 2005 at the Water Department on trumped-up charges of engaging in “a pattern and practice of serious misconduct.” This harsh assessment was leveled by city officials who presented their side based on GPS tracker data that they said did not match his reports of sites he said he examined under his then capacity as a safety inspector.
*[https://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/maverick-frank-coconate-campaigns-against-mayor-rahm/Content?oid=16184842]
**[https://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/21/us/21cncway.html]

Forced for a time to work as a part-time security guard, process server, and in what seemed more like a PR stunt, as a $100 a week “infrastructure consultant” to an Alderman from Chicago’s 32^nd Ward, he eventually went on to win a $75K settlement using a 1983 case filed by Michael Shakman as a basis for his alleging that he was denied promotions and overtime because of his independent political beliefs. A story that I feel isn’t entirely accurate, but hey, it is Chicago after all, so I’ll give him a 50/50 split in regards as to whether this is true or not. In addition to his flaming train-wreck of a Facebook profile, he also has a YouTube blog, which has the exactly the production quality and significance you’d expect it to, wherein he not only promotes his run for the 10^th Ward Alderman seat, but which also serves as a platform for his diatribes against local politicians whom he finds corrupt.

This does seem like an oxymoron of sorts, where both Chicago and he are concerned, due to his obsessive support of Trump, the topmost corrupt and possibly treasonous, politico of recent times. In essence, that’s like calling Mr. Rogers an adulterer, and Donald Trump a devoted Christian and faithful husband. Add to that his sad YouTube “channel” only has FOUR subscribers, and you can see that this conspiracy believing, modern-day civil war agitator is a powerhouse not to be trifled with, unless of course, you really need to stress to your children why funding birth control and staying in school is so desperately crucial in this country.

Now these links are just the top Googlings that mention him, but I’m sure if I dug deeper, I could really get to the meat of this man’s character. I’d place solid money on my sincerely held belief that most of that meat is over-salted SPAM, but it still technically qualifies as meat, nonetheless. But let’s talk about a past political dice roll of his for a minute- as one might have gleaned from the listed articles and screenshots, he seemingly shares a lot in common with his idol, that being charges of alleged malfeasance, unquenchable Ego, thin-skin, and an inability to remain civil and/or mature when crushed under (and by) his own hubris and indisputable facts.

Back in 2010, Frankie Coconuts decided to run for the esteemed position of City Clerk, which is nothing to sneeze at, let me tell you. I’ve often thought about running for office, and it’s been often suggested to me by others that I should, but I could never do it, until people. as Comedian John Mullaney once put it: “… get cool with a bunch of things real quick.” Now, running for and failing to succeed in the acquisition of a position in local or federal government should never be marked suitable for public shaming, unless you ran an amazingly inept or wholly unethical campaign. I’ve always felt that answering the call to public service is one of the most noble things you can do, if your heart and conscience are in the right place. And key to this lofty goal of helping your fellow persons is making sure that all your steps are on decidedly firm and non-ludicrous ground, a concept which our Coconut didn’t think applied to him.

For sake of clarity, I’m not referring to his publicly stated erroneous views on various social media platforms regarding feminism, minorities, our laws, or what he believes about all Democrats. No, I’m talking about the first action that is involved in getting your candidacy green-lit in the first place, namely fulfilling the legal requirements for valid signatures. In the case of running for office in Chicago, that prerequisite is 12,500 signatures to be officially presented in order to secure a place on the ballot. Coconut, along with five other long-shot contenders failed to make this bare minimum, and in turn, decided to *sue Chicago Board of Elections Chairman Langdon Neal, and Commissioners Richard Cowen and Marisel Hernandez, as a way to force the issue, by claiming that the criteria was “unconstitutional”.
*[https://chicago.cbslocal.com/2010/12/07/bounced-candidates-sue-over-signature-requirement/]

This quota by the way, is almost 2.5 times the national average needed to run for Governor in most states, which strikes as a harsh, yet credible means to stave off the latent and interwoven corruption that to this day, still underpins Chicago politics like sauerkraut does a hot dog. But as I am not knowledgeable enough to a degree where I’m truly comfortable opining about procedural election law, this is at best, only a one-shot educated guess on my part.

The *decision eventually handed down was that the statute was constitutional, thereby effectively shutting down the argument. Before this judgement was made however, our loveable Coconut had dropped out of the case after the main plaintiffs filed their third amended complaint.
*[https://www.leagle.com/decision/infdco20130709983]

But let me if I may, dissect a few things here. If this was a calculated political move to call attention to what some have seen as a hindrance or burden in letting the common man run for office, I could get behind this on a few levels, power to the people and all that, as you know. But on a lighter note, does anyone want to guess how many signatures Frankie brought to the table? My girlfriend when I asked her this, first guessed ten thousand, then eight thousand, before eventually settling on seven thousand, to which I replied: “61.”

“Well,” she said, “6100 isn’t a bad showing…” I giggled: “No, babe, he brought sixty-one, not sixty-one hundred.” To which, I can only say her response was charitable at best, mocking as hell at worst. By way of using this thing called math, that’s a percentage difference of 198.057%. For those keeping track, that’s essentially the same number of people you’d find at an art show opening where I currently live, and half the time, we’re promoting the event with free wine and cheese, no less.

Did he go about collecting the illiterate entirety of the mob at one of his “dress up like an American flag and complain about brown people” strategy meetings, and just go home? He lives in Chicago- do they not still register dead people to vote anymore? Seriously. This nationalistic Neanderthal has no love for the craft. However, given his past and current comments online, his predeliction for aligning himself with political power grabs, and his slavish support of a lawless, crude, treasonous, man-child of a President,

I’m hesitant to give Frankie any credit towards successfully crafting the planning of a Machiavellian endgame. It’s one thing to be passionate about your beliefs, but quite another when you post actionable threats of violence towards those that you disagree with, and encourage others to do the same with sneering benevolence.

And as for his self-made persona as a noble disciple of the Constitution? Yeah, I’m going to call horses**t on that one too, right across the board. In my opinion, he’s a patriot in the same way that Trump is, in the sense that he picks and chooses what is and isn’t proper applications of the law, when he sees fit to do so. For instance, Coconuts likes to rant all over his Facebook profile that if anyone “removes my President” using the process of impeachment, which was clearly and specifically to thwart wannabe dictators and their illegal actions from harming our democracy, there will be  “consequences”, which his cravenly self has yet to define the boundaries of, despite multiple requests to do so.  

Speaking of feigned bravery, may I present yet another screencap, whereas we can see his boast of planning to come to Trump’s Chicago Ego-rally carrying a concealed weapon in order to “protect” his fellow White ISIS members from the evil “Anti-American weirdos” who obviously want nothing more than to skin all conservatives alive, and force their surviving children to watch PBS. Other than using the word “the” twice, one could just write this off as a good citizen using his 2^nd Amendment rights to protect not only himself, but others of his political bent from dangerous and violent counter-protestors as they go forth utilizing the purest distillation of their Freedom to Assembly and Freedom of Speech. America. Fuck yeah.

Except… did anyone else notice the rest of his statement? The part where he encourages his fellow citizens of the can’t-get-laid-brigade to bring peaches and eggs because CTU will be there as well? Now at first, I thought to myself: “Isn’t that nice? They’re going to communally make a giant Peach Cobbler to serve as an epicurean olive branch to show their political rivals they have more in common then they realize, and all they want is peace.” But the more I looked at it, I noticed there was no call for the other ingredients that would be needed, such as salt, milk, lemon juice, cinnamon, baking powder, butter, flour, and most importantly, love.

And then it dawned on me, as if the great man Bob Ross himself bitch-smacked me upside the head with his palette- maybe he’s hoping that a riot will break out, because he has a personal fetish that is only sated by watching innocent fruit and yolks get hurt.  

Despite the temptation, I’m not going to judge him if this is so, because if you people knew what I like to do with a box full of Marshmallow Peeps, none of you would ever let me take you to the airport ever again. But if I were a cynic, and Lord knows I truly am, I might also propose that he’s not only encouraging his fellow rabble-rousers to incite a melee, he’s hoping one does occur, so that he has an excuse to whip out his substitute yogurt hose in a pathetically transparent attempt to intimidate his fellow Americans. This is no more than an asinine ruse to justify his already fu**ed up definition of what he thinks a traitor actually is.

Once again, he might have some due cause in being somewhat paranoid, as I for one, would never want to deal with a teeming drooling mass of anti-American weirdos- this is because I already have quite the full social calendar dealing with the anti-American MAGA morons, and free time to add in others is hard to come by these days.

But as noted, considering how volatile these gatherings can get these days, even I would take some precautions, especially if I were facing the combined might of the wholly terrifying organization that operates as brazenly and as openly as the CTU. So, who are, and what is, the CTU? Well, they’re a bunch of [checking Frankie’s notes] America hating, socialism promoting, diversity demanding, liberal soy-boy snowflakes who, when they’re not plotting to destroy our great republic from within, make their unethical living as public school teach… [looks at notes again, pauses, sighs deeply] …ers. Public school teachers.

These are the enemies of Frankie Coconut? The Chicago Teachers Union? An organized group of underpaid [59,528K avg. starting salary] public servants whom without there would be no careers, and who are almost single-handedly responsible for making sure that as children, we didn’t try to eat crayons or use a plugged-in hairdryer in the bathtub?

Now it all makes sense, his call to bring a quantity of fruit and eggs, because I can only assume that Frankie wanted to feed these hard-working and dedicated people who most of the time, work two jobs just to be able to continue teaching the Hellspawn of muttonheads like himself. But if charity isn’t the motivating factor, then that only leaves the possibility that our YouTube revolutionary felt the need to get locked and loaded to face people armed only with dry-erase markers, stickers, construction paper, glue sticks, and if tradition still holds, multi-colored chalk.

Personally, I don’t fear these people due to my familiarity with these items, that couldn’t hurt an immobilized baby, but then again. I also don’t need to have a substitute dick strapped right next to my real dick to voice any of my long-held opinions out in public, either.

But maybe it’s not the classroom accessories Frankie fears, but something far more intangible- that being, logic, knowledge, and Reality. All things he tends to eschew in his defense of Trump’s idiocy, fraud and obvious treason. Frankie claims it’s all because the CTU backs the sanctuary cities concept and teaching the children of undocumented workers, which quite honestly, bothers really nobody of note except marginalized xenophobic ear-breathers like Frankie. Odd that he’s never seemingly commented on the fact that “his president” has not only consistently hired the undocumented class, and paid fines for it, but also married two questionably certified emigres- namely, because no American wants to sex him up without getting the money upfront.

Once again, we observe immigrants doing a highly distasteful job for little money and equally low prestige. I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I will say it again- if your chosen job can be easily taken by a person unfamiliar with the English language, American culture, or it’s history, you and only you, screwed up right out of the proverbial gate.

So, what does the future hold for our Caucasian Coconut and his fellow whiter than Wonder bread “Cival” War wannabe reenactors? Well… the outlook is one I would think will befall those who believe that Elvis, JFK, Marilyn Monroe, Tupac Shakur, and Biggie Smalls, are still alive, that Nickelback are musicians, that there was a need for a third Indiana Jones movie, and that Jean-Luc Picard is the far superior Starfleet captain, when we all know that James Tiberius Kirk is. I will opine that Jean-Luc however, as a means of not dividing my Starfleet geeks, is the far better officer though, so there.

My point is that you can always say what you want, but that doesn’t make it true, and nobody has to respect your opinion in the end- they just have to acknowledge you have one. All that will be presented freely to these Moscow-approved malcontents is a lifetime of mocking scorn and derisive disdain. No more, no less. In time, they will find themselves back under their rocks and bridges, without any havens, sanctuaries, or advocates, and watching them having to distance themselves from their fake tanned Twitler will be worth the popcorn bill we will all collectively have to pay for. In the case of despots, dictators, and petty tyrants, history has shown if not proven, that people who represent the worst of Humanity rarely if ever, come to a glorious and dignified end.

Sure, Stalin died in bed, Mao was ended by a heart attack, and Idi Amin was taken out by kidney failure while in a coma, but let’s not forget how Hitler after killing himself, was immolated as if he were one of my Dad’s notoriously overcooked backyard steaks, and Mussolini and his mistress were turned into a human pinata, sans candy. Now, I’m not suggesting that the Orange Orc will meet the same fated end, but given his fraud, his acts of treason, and his ties to money-laundering Russian Oligarchs, I would at the very least suggest he might not want to drink any cups of tea that are offered him.

I can’t even imagine how it must impact your fragile Ego when, on the very same day your incompetent administration manages to kill the leader of ISIS, you’re literally booed out of a baseball stadium, along with your gaggle of sycophants, from which you excluded your own kid/prop. Even better, is knowing the massive chanting crowd that is currently surrounding the White House isn’t there to praise the accomplishment you succeeded at despite yourself. No, they’re waiting to see you do the bigliest perp walk of all time, and whether Frankie Coconuts and his cohorts want to admit it or not, their demagogue of democracy is set to topple- and there’s not a god**n thing they can or will be able to do, to stop it from happening, no matter how much they pontificate for violence.

So in time, the joy of watching all that our Coconut holds near and dear getting decimated will eventually come to pass. His leader will be reviled in our future History as a corrupt and treasonous failure, his allies will eat and fail each other as they try to save the last of their political capitol, and he’ll get to watch as his subsequent irrelevance comes at him head-on. You know… the direction he’ll only face if he’s safely behind his gun, his Facebook profile, or the group of like-minded embarrassments he’ll send out first.

“There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action.”
– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Collected Works

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“If workers are more insecure, that’s very ‘healthy’ for the society, because if workers are insecure, they won’t ask for wages, they won’t go on strike, they won’t call for benefits; they’ll serve the masters gladly and passively. And that’s optimal for corporations’ economic health.” – Norm Chomsky

Hello Blogiteers!

Today’s screed is all about responsibility, and how some corporations avoid it much in the same manner that I tend to shun gas station sushi. I’ve previously written* about how the Arizona Attorney Generals Civil Rights Division (AZAGCRD for short) dropped the ball regarding my claim of diabetic discrimination against my former employer and immediate supervisor, but their inability to do what they were supposed to do can easily be ascribed to a perversely bloated bureaucracy and alleged incompetence, versus an actual focused unethical intent. While technically not a corporation, in my POV, they’re as useless and corrupt as any of the ones who are.
*[http://waynemichaelreich.blogspot.com/2019/01/2018-11-lard-of-dunce-liar-sleeps.html]

Sure, AZAGCRD may have threatened me with a Class 1 misdemeanor if I wrote anything about the case that I alone filed, but despite my repeated requests for clarity, they failed time and time again to directly inform me exactly what law I would be breaking that superseded my first amendment rights. Therefore, I didn’t lose any sleep over it, as I laid comfortably secure in the knowledge that at best, I was being attacked by an impotent porcupine, that was all gums, badly matted fur, and posessed no actual claws of note, with the odds in my favor that I’d soon have a really nice matched set of quill-free pot-holders as a consolation prize for all of my troubles. I also purposely avoided using the real name of the company I worked for, along with giving the two arrogantly asinine employees I was forced to work with on an almost daily basis pseudonyms, as a means to tell my story without the concern of snaring myself in any legal issues.

But I’m now of the belief that this self-imposed ball-gag of sorts needs to come off, and that right quick. After I wrote my fact-based tale of alleged ineptitude, definite inanity, and defended myself against the wholly ludicrous slander of my former supervisor, I felt there was nothing more to say, or more to the point, do. The Phoenix chapters of my days were over, and I had to move on to the next phase of my new life in New Mexico, land of the “we put green chilies on everything” mind-set that I’ve come to love. And for a while, despite all the health issues I’ve suffered through the last couple of months, there was what can sometimes pass as relative peace within the Lair of Snarkitudes’ storied halls, and to bolster this, just read the previous blog where I wrote extensively about my inner Zen as of late.

Oh, how the times do change.

So what brought about this shift back to my switchblade tongued self of old after months of inner tranquility? In a simple word, ethics, or the lack of them, as displayed by two entities I’ve had the misfortune of dealing with for over a year. The first being my former Michigan-based employer, which goes by the name of Engelsen Frame & Moulding, and the second, collectively known as The Hartford, which allegedly, perpetuates medical grift under the guise of providing insurance. And yes, I can back up my statement, or otherwise I wouldn’t be here at my office away from the office, otherwise known as The Little Toad Creek Brewery & Distillery, writing about it. Sorry for the shameless plug, but I’m trying to get my future sodas for free, and to do that, I need to whore myself out somewhat. I may not be proud, but if all goes well, I won’t be thirsty or sugar-free either.

As to the first entity, I worked for them as a warehouse laborer for almost a year and a half, and hated almost every second of the job, save for the interaction I had with my first crew, that being a great co-worker named Bernie, and my then immediate supervisor Barry, who despite his somewhat conservative point of view, turned out to be both an awesome person and boss. Deep discussions were had, and we ran like a fine Swiss watch most days, despite the hellish heat in the summer, and the crippling cold in the winter. A team worth being proud of, if I were to fake all shades of modesty.

Our so-called top boss Ellen, who was comfortably entrenched in Michigan, was wholly ridiculed by us in the Phoenix division, due to her stunning consistency at being both a micro-manager and a screeching nag, which led to abominable work delays because my supervisor had to spend as much time on the phone placating her uninformed idiocy as he did working, but I digress for the sake of my sanity. But what’s really sad to point out is that Barry had worked for this company off and on for close to thirty years, and was quite fond of talking about it’s founder (always respectfully referred to as “the old man”) as a paragon of ethics, dependability and loyalty- traits which obviously skipped a generation, if I were to be so bold.

A few months before my illegal and discriminatory firing [see previous blog link] Barry gave his notice, due to Engelsen coldly reneging on a false promise they had made in exchange for his uprooting his life to run the Phoenix branch of this once proud company, and with that, my troubles began.

[The following is paraphrased from the previously mentioned blog, hence the reason for the use of Italics]

At first, my new supervisor Antonia (“Toni”) Ramirez, came across as somewhat sweet, even with her internal Damocles sword of self-doubt that was fairly and markedly displayed from day one in regards to how she ran our day to day operation. To be fair, there was a good chunk of days where we ran like gazelles, but on a majority of the days, it was akin to trying to swim through molasses with concrete blocks tied around your feet, as you try in vain to settle down a headstrong three year old who’s having a full-on meltdown, as they grab all the candy out of the racks next to the cash register at WalMart. In addition, Ellen also foisted upon us a dense slab of idiocy in barely human form known as Rick, who in my opinion I’m pretty sure, is the missing link that paleontologists have been searching for all of their professional careers.

Held together primarily by Monster energy drinks, pain pills, and sheer hubris, Rick presented as one of those people that all those after-school specials tried to warn you about. Arrogant as hell, he often clashed with Toni, and visibly chafed at having to take orders from her, as he helped push our customer product return rates through the roof, due to the fact he spent most of his time on the production floor running his mouth and acting as a vulgar distraction to my actually competent co-worker, Bernie. And nothing else by the way, makes you want to work alongside your co-worker on a commercial saw, then their constant bragging about engaging in hard drinking before 9 a.m., let me tell you.

And as an aside, now might be a good time to mention that Rick was also obsessive, engaging in unhinged meltdowns with the local homeless population as part of a clearly well thought out strategy of personal diplomacy, because nothing represents your company better than an employee threatening a dispossessed person that lives rough in the causeway behind your building who’s trying to just get some sleep, with a totally unprovoked beating because they dared to attempt doing so in “your” alley. But maybe this all stemmed from that A.M. drinking he liked to brag about- I honestly don’t know.

Granted, I did expect somewhat of a sea-change given the new line-up, but I didn’t foresee what would eventually happen in regards to my work schedule, my responsibilities, and most importantly, my sense of self-worth. At the time, long before Toni and Rick would go on to darken my metaphorical doorstep, I had already seen my hours cut way beyond the normal parameters of what constitutes a standard part-time schedule, the excuse being that we “didn’t have enough work”, and yet, Rick was given a full 40 hour work-week laboring at most of my previous responsibilities, despite Ellen’s claims he was only there to build storage bins and perform general duties. By the way. we had a full capacity of storage structures already built and in place long before he arrived, but I digress, as I hate glorifying obvious falsehoods.

In addition, let’s all just forget to note the phone call and text he placed to me one day while I was thankfully off, asking if I could score him some pain pills, because fully unbeknownst to me, us Diabetics apparently are on some seriously heavy narcotics, if you exclude our predilection for mainlining Coca-Cola and Ding Dongs, along with our several standard daily shots of Insulin. That’s heavy sarcasm by the way, for those of you in the back who arrived late.

Now at that point, I was still grinding along with a serious shoulder injury I had suffered earlier while in the employ of the company, but as of then, had not yet filed the workman’s comp claim in regards to it, as I immediately did after my illegal termination. Why, you ask? Well, I needed the job, and prior to the management shift, I was essentially an assistant manager, in all but name only, and was tasked with product shipping and tracking, material inventory, overseeing the receiving of deliveries, opening/closing the warehouse, and filing the crucial end of day paperwork. Rick by the way, wasn’t allowed anywhere near the access to the procedures like I initially was, but I’m sure Ellen has a rationalization for that too, if I were to hazard a guess.

However, by the end of my employment, my daily obligations had been brusquely abridged to sweeping the floor and occasionally doing the most basic data entry that Rick, the walking meat slab could not be trusted to do. I was also originally, the lone official

key-holder, but after Toni arrived, that responsibility was, without any form of rational explanation, taken away from me and never returned. Keep in mind, the entire time I was under employ there, I never once received any official rebuke, write-up, or period of suspension- EVER. To this day, I strongly believe that for whatever reason, Ellen was, previous to the hiring of Toni and Rick, trying to get rid of me by a form of not too subtle attrition. And to be quite frank, I wasn’t going to give her the surplus ammunition she’d require to fire me.

Arizona is sadly after all, a right-to-work state, and I’m sure if she had been made aware of my limitation, a dire tidbit of knowledge I suspect my ex-supervisor Barry neglected to inform them of on purpose, she would have fired me on the spot, and of that, I have no doubts whatsoever. Keep in mind, that working with said injury only aggravated it more, but I had no choice. as there was literally nowhere I could go, and I had been SERIOUSLY looking for a new job since the first week I started there. But from the start of her tenure, besides being in way over her head, Toni also took a highly inappropriate interest in my ongoing health issues way past what some might consider to be the normal boundaries in regards to what truly constitutes the boss/worker relationship.

Toni was (at the time) morbidly obese, and came to work daily, wearing a knee brace, compression gloves, talking at length about the salves she used for her bad back, so naturally, she was an obvious go-to for asking how I should tackle my various health issues. Once again kids, that’s sarcasm, and no, I’m not deriding someone’s serious lack of wellbeing, I’m just pointing out that somebody suffering with such, should keep their unsolicited and erroneous advice to themselves, since at that time, I already possessed a cabal of white-coated professionals trained in the medical dark arts.

Not to mention her penchant for eternally composing (on company time, no less) a never sent missive to Ellen, basically telling her to go f**k herself twelve ways to Sunday. That’s definitely an ethical way to justify earning your paycheck, no matter which way you look at it. And as an employee, it definitely boosts one’s morale to have your superior constantly ragging on the top boss as if they dumped you at the Prom. As I noted earlier, we all used to take great joy in mocking Ellen, but none of us ever approached it as if it were a viable career option. Shockingly, I don’t need to be told by what is essentially a total stranger, to “eat better” or that I “should be at home working on my diabetes” nor am I open to any suggestions that Ashley (my GF) “doesn’t know how to take care of me“, a trio of stated discourtesies that if Toni had been a dude, would have been refuted by receiving both of my size 10&1/2 work-boots straight up that mass of extensive cellulite she refers to as her ass, without question or concern on my part.

I’ve already noted my assertion that Toni had no business being placed in a leadership role, but as evidence for what I consider an alleged lack of character, I would like to reiterate that in the official statement to AZAGCRD regarding my illegal dismissal, she talked at length about her not caring one bit about my diabetes, whilst constantly obsessing about my diabetes throughout it’s narrative. Then, after being questioned, Toni abruptly quit working for my former employer, a detail the AZAGCRD investigator somehow missed, despite her inherent Jello-sharp instinct for ferreting out obvious contradictions within Toni’s official retort.

Once again, that’s heavy sarcasm for those of you in the back. And thus, the ending of the Italics proceeds.

But even with all that, I still was willing to let Toni’s slanderous lies slide, as I had a new future in New Mexico to look forward to, and what would be the point of going after a person who along with her lack of credibility, also lacked anything financially worth taking? When I appear to be more fiscally stable than you, odds are pretty good you either need a better accountant, or need to snag a sugar-daddy who’s into both congenital liars and betrayers of trust. But as what I thought was soon to be a settled issue (more on this in a bit) reared it’s ugly head yet again, I realized that walking away was the wrong thing to do, given the principle of the thing, and the harm it’s caused. So, while I’ll be focused primarily on dealing with the soon to be discussed issue first, I’ll concurrently be seeking legal damages against Toni personally as well- that means she won’t have the cover of her former employer to hide behind, and I plan to use every legal method at my disposal… and that’s a guarantee.

And if you’re wondering why I just don’t file an appeal with AZAGCRD, I counter with this thought- why would I place my faith again in an agency with an impotent bureaucracy, who couldn’t do their conscripted jobs properly in the first place, and why would I depend on the naive belief that they’d do it correctly the second time around? Fool me once, that’s on you. Fool me twice, that’s either my personal idiocy or Tequila Jesus taking the wheel. Heck, maybe it’s both, since they do have a legacy of working together as a unified team.

Let’s face it, other than A Clockwork Orange, no truly good story has ever started with a glass of milk. Just saying. But there still was the issue of my filed workman’s comp claim to be settled, and that is why the ol’ Admantium claws have come out of storage, still sharp, rust free, and unlike my partially amputated left foot, ready to dance. When I filed my claim on (or close to) the day I was illegally fired, I assumed it would take some time, but over a year? Either the wheels of Justice turn really slow, or they’re damn outright narcoleptic, a theorem proven after multiple attempts to settle this case with my former employers insurance company, The Hartford, who in my opinion as I noted earlier, is nothing more than an unethical grifting Ponzi scheme. Now, I do realize the sole purpose of most insurance companies is to avoid providing the service that they’re paid extravagantly to supply, but these muck-dwelling carrion feeders take the proverbial cake in this regard.

My apologies. I feel the need to correct myself.

When you look at it more closely, “take” isn’t really the best term to truly describe the absolutely odious malfeasance that I believe they willingly engage in, but I’m trying very hard to be diplomatic in the face of what I consider to be the closest I’ve ever been involved with an alleged white-collar crime ring. Why do I think this? Well, it might have something to do with the fact that they never talked to my first supervisor who was aware of my injury, never discussed my injury at any length with the doctor who diagnosed it, or even bothered to think of questioning the physical therapists who were working with me so that I could hopefully one day, reestablish the full range of motion back to my shoulder.

And in addition, they never once contacted my first supervisor Barry, who was my boss during that time period. It’s known as “due diligence”  and it’s what ethical companies do in order to solidly establish fault or exoneration. But why do that when the employer in question (without any evidence) claims that their former employee “didn’t get hurt here”. I guess I must have strained my supraspinatus trying to move their pile of bullshit out of the path of my life- who knew? A small and unintentionally humorous aside: when one of their treacle-oozing media customer relation reps (AKA: “a professional liar”) called me in a pathetic attempt to cover the Hartford’s metaphorical ass, I made the sarcastic comment that perhaps she thought I had hurt myself at home putting away a dish, and she responded, and I kid you not, with:

“I see nothing in the determination report that mentions any dishes.”

Let’s get real for a moment. We’ve all done dumb things. We’ve all said dumb things too, as it’s a natural part of our being former monkey-brains with opposable thumbs who can occasionally fashion tools and to a lesser degree, television shows starring D-list celebutards. But with the non-existent God as my witness, most of us comprehended sarcasm long before we aged out of that whole paste-eating phase in Kindergarten, did we not? Keep your eyes on this dumb wench, boys and girls, because one day she’s gonna be the Hartford’s newest CEO.

Sigh… if one goes online to see what people think of this company, one can easily find scores of consumer complaints, ranging from the issue of stereotypically poor customer service to charges of outright fraud. No wonder they’re not accredited by the Better Business Bureau, as the BBB generally likes to know their client’s check will clear.

Granted, online reviews are sometimes not worth the pixels that they’re posted with, but there seems to be outwardly at least, the idea that they’re not vaunted as reputable by many. And as someone who spent the last two days on the phone with these parasitic pinheads, I can easily attest that this overall consensus rings true for me. And if I may offer another insight? Soon after I was illegally fired at Engelsen, The Hartford had an open-house hiring drive at one of their locations in Arizona, which I attended, based on the recommendations of two of my GF’s friends, who as current employees, waxed poetically about how great the company was to work for.

The fact that both of these people are as exciting as a glass of sun-warmed milk should have been a tip-off as to what was to come, but I desperately wanted another job where I didn’t have to come home beat to a pulp every day, and so I went to the orientation. First, after being herded into a conference room by a person I would charitably describe as “working off a badly written script”, we were presented with two trays of a refreshing snack combo , that being room-temperature bottled water, and wait for it, individually wrapped, single-serve, LifeSaver brand… mints. Looking back, I can only assume their caterer sent our actual munchies to the retirement community down the street, and we got theirs by mistake.

At that moment, I tried to leave discreetly, but found the only exit blocked by two more barely sentient Hartford houseplants who closed the door, and started the orientation off by playing what amounted to a full-on PR commercial for the company. Let me just put it out there for the future generations of workers yet to come, that nothing makes you want to work more for a company then when it forces you to sit through a narcissistic video circle-jerk, supplemented by unfettered access to tepid water and cloyingly noxious mints. I’m frankly amazed other companies don’t utilize this approach more often, as it seems like a real winner. A casual heads-up? When everyone in a corporate video and the presenters of said video themselves start tossing the buzz-phrase “Work/Life Balance” around as if they own the royalty rights to it, you should be suspicious as all get out.

What this innocuous idiom really means is that the company expects you to put your job ahead of your life, that’s why “work” comes first in that word duo. How was this made clearly obvious to me, you ask? Other than the fact I heard it no less that eight times in the video, where at least one of the “employees” made sure to mention that his “work family” was just as important as his real one, it was dropped into conversation at least another ten during the Q&A section of the conference room orientation, where the Hartplant twins kept saying how much “fun” and money was to be had, but only if people were willing to work the multiple 10-12 hour shifts available.

Hard to believe that in the end, I gave all of this a hard pass, huh?

But if you think having no life outside of your job, slaving away for a company that will use your life-essence to sell a service begrudgingly given to the dupes who paid for it, and that only after being threatened with legal action, sounds like one heck of a good time, who am I to dissuade you? And given the fact that they already had an in-house contingent doing that anyways, it was obvious their recruitment pitch worked on some level, that clearly being the one that houses all the lonely people. Sure, we were politely asked not to talk to or ask any questions of the work/life warriors at the facility, but hey… wasn’t that one heck of an employees break-room we just showed you, boys and girls? Now, I won’t as a rule speak for you, my loyal readers, but I’ve always liked to think that my soul and social life would demand a higher asking price for their submission than a foosball table and free vanilla lattes.

Throw in some free pizza, if not an Asian stripper wearing thigh boots, for God’s sakes. Make it worth my while at least.

Now outside of the brainwashing they hope works on their employees, is the mewling rationalizing that they hope will work on you. When I noted that I had not heard anything from them, despite three letters, one inquiry on Twitter, and half a dozen phone calls, I was rudely informed that my claim had been denied months earlier, with no explanation given. It took an additional four phone calls, and the better part of a day and a half, to be informed of their bullshit excuse that because my Doctor had not expressively noted his diagnosis of my injury as a work-related injury, therefore it was not a work-related injury. And no, I’m not making that up. Despite several months of physical therapy for an injury CONSISTENT with the type of work I was doing, once again, The Hartford, without talking to my therapists or my first supervisor, decided that I wasn’t injured at work at all.

Because it makes way more sense that one day, for no reason whatsoever, I decided to go randomly engage in months of unnecessary stretching, lifting weights, having ice-packs strapped to me, and sweating my skin off in order to make sure various assorted personal trainers got paid, and I wouldn’t see dime one. Anybody who knows me that I walk a lot, but I don’t play sports, I don’t hike, I don’t work out, and I sure as Hell don’t lift. If I drop something on the floor, I weigh whether it’s easier to either buy a new one, or actually pick it up. The only time I’ll engage in non-work related physicality is if sex or Ding-Dongs are on the table, and even then, It’s has to be something I really want to do. And trust me, if I had received this injury doing something manly or sexy, I’d have already written about it here, bragged about it on FaceBook, and then posted a hilarious meme in regards to it on Instagram.

But I do have to give The Hartford’s alleged customer service reps one thing, they tried every way to call me a liar and fraud, without using the actual words to do so. But then again, it’s not like they know how to respond with answers that aren’t scripted anyway, so perhaps I’m giving them too much credit to begin with. But on the upside, they’ve seemingly got the “work” part of their bullshit slogan right, because given their inability to come across as actual people, they might need to work on that “life” half when they’re done doing a flawless impression of a RICO case defendant. So this week begins anew, with me filing yet more forms with the Arizona Industrial Commission, tracking down my former supervisor so I can file a claim against her in civil court, and getting a host of other errands done as well, because let’s face it, I love both the art of multi-tasking, and swiftly crossing items off of lists.

Once more into the breech is seemingly where I find myself at the moment, and if I have to go down swinging, I honestly can’t think of a better reason to do so, than in defense of both my honor and my principles, can you? And while I can’t possibly dent the skin of the arrogant human-suit that is The Hartford, I can definitely (and legally) scratch the paint off both my former employer and their deceitful ex-employee, without breaking too much of a sweat, I hope. And if not…

Well, I’ll always have Yelp.

“There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?” – Woody Allen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go.”- Dr. Seuss, “Oh the Places You’ll Go!”

Hello, Blogiteers!

It is yet another beautiful day out here in the splendor that is Silver City, NM. The sun is shining, the clouds are puffy, the birds are singing, and the sky is the color of blue you’ve only seen in old Westerns and when you’re choking out a Smurf in the ambient gloom of your crawlspace. Idyllic, by and large. But as with all things that are seemingly bucolic, there co-exists within a dark and seedy underbelly, unobserved by even the sharpest of eyes. What is this menace that sows it’s evil under the carapace of many names, summoned by sugary drinks and worshiped by overpriced medical specialists with withered souls and blackened hearts?

Some of you may have guessed by the subtle clues, it’s my old go-to nemesis, also known as Diabetes, or as I like to reference it, the blood-monster nobody writes operas about. As a rule of thumb, I’m pretty much ok with the majority of my adult responsibilities- sure, paying bills does suck, and having to always wear “real” pants when you go outside does tend to put a kibosh on one’s good mood every now and then, but the knowledge that I can have pizza and ice cream for breakfast any time I want* does act as a salve of sorts.
*[UPDATE: I have just been informed, and rather tersely I might add, by my GF Ashley that I cannot in fact, “have pizza and ice cream for breakfast any time I want”, citing my said brittle Diabetes as the core reason for her belief. In addition, it was also noted that it would also be a “cold day in El Azizia” before she, I, and that gothically hot girl who works at my favorite coffee-shop would ever get physically creative in a tub full of Cool-Whip and Jello. I can only assume that she’s worried about my blood sugar spiking, which in of itself, is actually quite responsible on her part, when you look at the situation overall.]

For those of you painfully familiar with my writing, I tend to mine my diabetic condition  every now and then, both for blog fodder and as a means to blow off the 24/7 stress of having to deal with it, notwithstanding the complications it brings to my personal Lair of Snarkitude. Unfortunately, I can’t use my doorstep’s automatic trapdoor system to get it off my back like I tend to do with missionaries and those annoying kids who sell candy at three times it’s price for their school’s band camp program, but you get the idea. If I had to do it all over again, I’d make sure to pick a condition that either comes with a built-in Lifetime movie, such as fighting a corrupt City Hall, or a sense of true adventure, that being abducted by Aliens, or “Grays” as they’re known within the cosmically hip circles.

I definitely would not have chosen this as my go-to back-story, given what it’s cost me over the years, that being one already fatally flawed relationship, my ability to paint and draw, multiple gastric issues, feeling like an overly prodded lab rat, and my personal favorite so far, the forced liberation of chunks from my left foot, resulting in a walking style charitably once described as “the swagger of an overly drunken pirate” to which I can only use the rejoinder of “eat your heart out, Captain Jack Sparrow“. Speaking of said traitorous foot, I find myself swimming within the prosthetic technology river, and so far, my options seem to be rather wide, in relation to where shoe-based fashion is concerned.

Recently, my medical peeps set it up for me to have my foot cast* in order to create a custom insert, which in theory, should limit the need to rely on my cane so much. Say what you will, but if I ever get famous enough to get my footprints placed in front of Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater, mine are definitely gonna be more interesting to look at than Errol Flynn’s, let me tell you.

Even so, I may still decide to keep the cane, because it does add considerable weight to the whole “mysterious stranger in a small-town” mystique thing I’m currently crafting. In addition, I’ll hopefully be getting a sexy state of the art insulin pump* along with a brand-new CGM system**, and if all goes to prescripted plan, I’m just one bionic eye and red 70’s jogging suit away from being the next Steve Austin***, sans the cool sound effects and occasional Bigfoot appearance.**** I’m so looking forward to getting this tech that I’m almost willing to overlook the fact that the med-lab out here not only failed to do all the blood tests they were supposed to do, they somehow LOST MY BLOOD as well, which gives me the impression that certain technicians in charge of my future health couldn’t arrange a fellatio session in a bordello, but I digress.
[*Just look at this tech- it literally does everything, save giving me an erotic backrub, and I’m sure that will be an option relatively soon.
**A Continuous Glucose Monitor measures the body’s glucose levels in real-time by sensing the glucose present in tissue fluid, and are truly awesome, because it cuts way back on the whole “jab a freaking spike into your fingertips” thing. A CGM works through a tiny sensor inserted under your skin, usually on your belly or arm. The sensor measures your interstitial glucose level, which is the glucose found in the fluid between the cells. The sensor tests glucose every few minutes, and then a transmitter wirelessly sends the information to a monitor. Science. It’s just not for accidentally creating armies of the Undead or Kardashians anymore.
***Steve Austin had superhuman strength due to bionic implants inserted after an accident, and was employed as a secret agent by a fictional U.S. government office titled the OSI. He also had a bionic girlfriend named Jamie Summers, and while I know you’re expecting me to make several off-color jokes about oil changes and keeping his piston lubed and polished, I’m going to opt for the high road on this one.

And as an aside, the Six Million Dollar Man Bionic Transport and Repair Station toy was the motherf**king bomb.    

**** This was a thing. It actually happened. And we as a country, are all better for it.

Getting back on track, my first three articles and two photo-shoots for a regional New Mexico publication are finished, which in theory, could lead to further writing and photo opportunities out here, or so I hope. At this stage in my life, I think I’m pretty much done working for a fiefdom type gig- If I ever feel the need to go work for a truly arrogant idiot again, I’ll just cut out the middleman and go straight to my Dad. That title of course, being honorary, as he’s never had any idea how to do the job in the first place. As I’ve explained to friends and strangers alike, I’m the end result of immigrant parents, one German, the other Sicilian, who for some strange and as yet unknown reason where the Universe is concerned, decided not to listen to the grand Cosmos in all of it’s Wisdom, and bred a trio of children with whom they could equally and with a varying degree of success, turn their own individual projected disappointments and failures into cavernous psychological scars.

In other words, the stereotypical American family.  As I’ve often said, we’re the ones who truly put the “fun” in “dysfunctional”, no matter what my therapists say.I recently heard a comedian describe their family as cardboard cutouts sitting around a dining room table, and if that doesn’t describe my family dynamic to a T, I don’t know what does. My mother is for all purposes, a lying narcissist, my father a clueless one, and my youngest brother is essentially a disturbingly distilled version of them both, but with an added dash of arrogance that makes me look like Bob Ross. My older sister on the other hand, is totally good peeps, so there is that. To give you an idea of just how fractured, if not emotionally isolated my so-called family is, my parents and younger brother don’t know that I moved out of Phoenix, they don’t know where I currently live, they don’t know about my amputation surgery, and they sure as Hell don’t know anything about what I do for a living. And obviously, none of them are readers, either. Unless you count pop-up books as actual adult literature the way they do, that is.

Heck, if any of them actually know how to turn on a laptop without the aid of a tutorial given by hand-puppets, I will literally eat a case of knock-off Ding-Dongs as an act of recovering Catholic contrition. But in their limited defense, they always did have an opinion as to how I should live my life, even if all evidence and reality pointed to the contrary, and this has never wavered even in the face of their own shortcomings and failures, of which there are too many to note.

Sorry for the unforeseen Freudian lay-down, but one of the side-effects of living in a place where I can actually breathe and relax for the first time in 20 years, is the time to do some serious self-reflection. Granted, having yet another go-around with your mortality is another aspect that helps this inner conversation, and as a means to underscore my POV, I will quote Thor, the God of Thunder: “The rage, vengeance, anger, loss, regret, they’re all tremendous motivators. They truly clear the mind… so, I’m good to go.” Now, that’s not to imply that I’m walking around with my Admantium claws unsheathed, snarling at the common rabble, but my tolerance for dealing with sheer ignorance has been severely truncated as of late, whether it’s been on Twitter or in the real world.

Speaking of which, I was permanently banned from the Twitverse a while back, and it feels great, knowing that I’ve vexed conservatives and faux Christians to the point where they felt the need to rally en masse- to get me banned is almost a badge of honor for this ol” Snark, let me tell you. And sure, their decision was and is based on sheer hypocrisy, considering whom they’ve let remain, but I’ll defer from commenting on that… for now.As I’ve often said before, I don’t care that you think differently, as long as you have made it clear that you’re THINKING in the first place. No debunked conspiracy theories. No weak debates based on emotion over facts. And I definitely don’t want to hear any racist, misogynistic, homophobic, jingoistic, xenophobic, elitist and wholly uniformed opinions either. I get enough of that every singe time I run into a Trump supporter, and let’s face it- they’re more than holding up that end for their ilk. If anything, I think I’m moving into a position of reinvention for both myself and my focus of what I truly wish to do now and in the future. And at the very least, it definitely does not involve anyone who purposely gets in the way of my destiny, whatever course that may chart.

Aside from my personal cabal of impotent cyber-stalkers, I usually don’t have to deal with too much animosity within the place I currently live, which is a very nice change from where I was in Phoenix not too long ago. And since I haven’t made too wide of an inroad within the local Arts community yet, it’s also been rather nice being a metaphorical fly on the wall in regards to interacting with my fellow Creatives. It’s definitely a nice pace I’ve set for myself here, and coalescing my facets as a writer and artist certainly hasn’t hurt the self-recovery process either. It’s such a relief not having to write about (or experience) the worst aspects of the Phoenix Art Scene anymore- I literally feel these days like I was paroled right before the penitentiary was nuked, and it’s foundational ruins camouflaged with overpriced condos and shitty corporate murals.

Say what you want about Phoenix’s obsessive need to undermine it’s own road towards actual progress, at least it does it well and with stunning consistency. Now for some, there has been what might be considered as bright points of light in relation to the Scene, but when looked at with a practical eye, are they really? Many are hyped about the plans by Sant Fe-based art collective Meow Wolf to open a boutique hotel in Phoenix’s so-called Downtown Arts corridor, but if a city can’t even economically support the majority of it’s artists, can it really sustain an overpriced flavor of the moment niche hotel? I for one, am quite cynical that it can, but what do I know? I only have my well-established track record of calling it right for the last decade or so to draw my conclusions from, and it’s not like that ever carried any weight with those who consider themselves as an influencing force within the scene.

What is worth looking at however, given how some blithely dismissed my point of view in the past, is why I’m still being asked to write about what’s going on in the PAS, even though I’ve lived in New Mexico for almost a year now, and have zero interest in doing so any longer. I’ve served my time in the pointless PHX art advocacy army, I’ve bought the

trendy t-shirt and ate the fatty hamburger, and I’m more than happy to have turned over this thankless task to anyone who in time, and like myself, will eventually come to truly understand that it presents as nothing more than a series of confrontational and wholly circular arguments with people who are more interested in calling themselves Artists, rather than backing it up with solid work, forward progress, and self-benefitting economic stability.

The overall absurdity of people asking for my continued input in regards to a scene I no longer have any interest promoting past the point of calling attention to certain peeps within it, can be best summed up by this quote from my fellow Creative and Obi-Wan of Snark, Artist Peter Petrisko:

“As somebody in a position to write about the arts scene, it’s discouraging to find out that all the news tips are being sent to a dude in New fuckin’ Mexico. #ThatsSoPHX though! 🙁 “

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be missed, but not when the only reason that people do is because they think they can continue in their attempts to use you as their personal hitman. I’m here to carry my own axe, as it should be, not to do the wet-work for others. As the saying goes, my plate is full. But at least it’s topped off with something I’m happy to be chewing on, for the first time in a while. Say what you will about the metaphorical politics and limitations of a small-town art scene, but at least the Creatives here strike as authentic in how they deal (or don’t) with you. One of the highly understated perks of anonymously starting from scratch within a new Lair of Snarkitude, is that you can observe the lay of the land from the shadows of your parapet, before reinventing and presenting yourself to a scene that’s never heard of you, but hopefully, soon will.

Along those lines, my home studio is finally starting to feel like a creative space after almost a year of being tweaked, re-tweaked, and blankly stared at. All it really needs now is a double-wide papasan chair, and an additional bookcase, and I’ll be ready to rock out with my Diet Coke out, come this Fall. But overall, things here are pretty ok- I’ve got a fairly Zen office* away from home that comes complete with a bar and the best medium green chile bacon cheeseburger I’ve ever had in my life, along with being perfectly situated on the busiest corner in this town, where the people watching is excellent, and three cars backed up is considered a traffic jam.
*[That “office” BTW, is called The Little Toad Creek Brewery and Distillery, and I swear on all that’s holy, the entire wait-staff is disturbingly gorgeous. I don’t know what the stats are on that, but I’m thinking I need to go buy some lottery tickets right quick to take advantage of this anomaly within the time/space continuum.]

I will admit however, to feeling a tad bit weird in relation to the fact of how laid-back I find myself these days. If you had told me 20 years ago that I was ever going to be living in a nice 3-bedroom house, complete with curtains and coasters, in a small town where I would find myself willingly waving “hello” at strangers, I would have glared frigidly, punched you in the throat for spewing such inanity, and then, after throwing your girlfriend on the back of my bike, would have roared off into the sunset, laughing darkly.

You know… like you do.

But time heals all wounds, polishes off some of the rough edges, and if you’re lucky, also has enough consistent memory lapses to make your transition from the old life to the new one that much easier. And let’s face it, one’s health being bad also tends to take your pole position of being relevant down a few notches, whether you want to admit it or not. That’s not to say I’ve been sitting on my butt as of late, far from it- but my need to be on the go constantly has been immensely reduced as my time here goes on. Or maybe it’s just old age settling in, and given another week or so, I’ll be yelling at the neighborhood kids to get the hell off my front lawn, as I add yet another of their errant footballs to my ever-growing collection. Yeah, go tell your Dad, Timmy- I’ll be waiting right here.

Hence as I sit here at The Toad, writing this blog, listening to awesome 80’s New Wave Pop music, (Is that Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s “Love Missile F1-11”?!? AWESOME!!) I find myself creatively recharged in a way I haven’t been for quite some time, and it’s a nice change of pace from the position and scene I was up to my neck in for the last 25+ years. It’s amazing how your priorities shift back to yourself, once you’re able to get away from yourself, if you know what I mean. And if all goes well, I’ll be able to figure my own narrative out as I work on the craft of telling other peoples stories.

Well, that’s the plan, anyway. And those always go the way you want them to, right?

“They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” – Andy Warhol,The Philosophy of Andy Warhol