I am a wooden puppet. Strings can be attached to my arms and legs via tiny little metal loops and I can turn into a marionette with my master above me, out of sight of others. He pulls the strings and I dance, or sit, or walk, or run depending on his mood or his thoughts on what I should do. My movements are erratic, fast, and jerky – signs of sure hands knowing which direction I should go – and encountering little or no resistance.
This master has been in my life since the beginning. I can’t walk or run, I’ve recently discovered, unless my actions are somehow governed or approved by my marionette master. The strings are wound in knots that would make the hardiest proud of the craftsmanship. My head hangs low in disgrace, in shame, in defeat because without the master’s command I can not lift it to be my own person. I rest in a heap in the corner, awaiting the next command. Silent and still until the master commands me to move – and in which direction I never know until I am yanked and pulled and prodded to do so.
I am a soft plush puppet, wooden rods are carefully attached to my limbs, body, and head. My movements are soft and gentle. I am as fluid as water and as graceful as a butterfly alight on a flower. I can sweep and move with understated subtly – my movements are slow and easy – signs of hands knowing how to create dance and light and erotic movements – and encountering no resistance.
This master is fairly new to my life. I don’t sit slumped in a corner – I live in a softly lined box to protect my delicate body and soft limbs. A silken towel is placed over my face to make sure my large, doe eyes are protected from any posing danger. My head rolls back, enjoying my respite from the control of my master. While my movements are gentle and at the control of an obviously caring soul, I still am not in possession of my own body – I must still submit to the touch and care of another.
I am a steel, wires, cold knobs and glowing eyes robotic puppet. Prearranged commands control my arms and legs. I already know which direction I’m going and do it every day. No variations. No changes. No complications. My movements are jerky and methodic – destined to be exactly the same each time I do something. When the commands to act aren’t whirring my head I stand as a stone. Unerringly still as a granite tomb, and yet erect and stiff like a slab of reinforced concrete.
This master has been with me my entire life. He controls how I act within certain parameters around other similar robotic creatures. No faux pas or wrong moves are tolerated. I follow his commands, his rules, his allowable movements to the exact specifications, lest I be tossed on the scrap heap and used for parts. I never am given a break from the constant manipulations of this master. He is relentless, demanding I follow rote and lead while moving or not. Stand in the corner, stand in the middle of the room, my place of rest makes no difference – he is all knowing and will adjust me accordingly.
I want to sever ties of control to these ever maddening owners. When do I get to be the one who determines when I move, when I think, when I act?

Body Count

I have entered the time of year I like to call the Death Cage Match. This is when teachers and students enter into a winner take all battle that does not end until spring break. The battle started the day we got back from winter break. It’s three and a half months of hate, cussing, crying, pain, napalm, and possession by evil spirits – and that’s just for the teachers. The kids are even worse. They skip all the middle man stuff and just pledge allegiance to Satan and then try to take over the world, one paper airplane, one thrown shoe, and one hurled desk at a time. I know what the first ring of hell is like – and it doesn’t scare me to die now.
Each day I walk through the steel double doors of my building, I brace for the inevitable Death Cage Match Battle for the very air we breathe. I yank my trusty Kevlar body suit on over my khakis and blue blouse, take up my shield, and tighten my grip on my battle axe (my preferred method of defense). Teaching is no longer an option – surviving is the only goal. And the sad part of this annual purge of common sense and civility, is that the kids also turn on themselves. Shit, they eat their own wounded. I’ve seen it. One kid admits to cheating or to stealing or to shanking someone else, and the remaining baby sharks can smell the weakness in their ranks and descend upon the honest (ha!) student and devour him with curses, name calling, and a general snubbing.
I’ve been wondering when the Death Battles would start, it’s been getting bad – but today it was ON. No more positioning for the best footing when the grappling starts – we’re “in the shit” now baby. Up until this week, the body count was minimal – a jacket here, a lost purse there, a thrown punch after lunch, lobbing iceballs at each other in the courtyard – but today – I had to pile the damn bodies so high I needed to hitch a ride on the shuttle.
In the last two days the body count – just for my team – is scary high and no newsreel footage to back up the claims:
• Five calls to the janitor (I feel for Jennie). Two pee puddles in the boys’ bathroom, a strange sticky substance on the wall of the boys’ bathroom (I did NOT touch it), an exploded Monster, and a massive projectile vomiting incident that include large yellow chunks.
• 7 bags of ice – three bumps on the head from locker ramming with no witnesses, a hallway tackle, a jammed wrist from PE, and one for a sore ball sack after the kid seemed to accidentally smash his own junk on the side of a desk.
• Two trips to the principal’s office because I suck at life.
• Five referrals to the principal’s office because the kids suck at life.
• One shanking with a jagged broken pencil
• One broken chair that was tossed out of the classroom and into the hall by a student pissed about something.

See ya lost battles

I concede. I acquiesce. I give up. I surrender. I shame Sun Tzu. I can no longer fight the good fight. For me, the war is over. I must bow to some demons in order to survive and slay the others. I knew I was involved in too many bloody, to-the-death battles; felt them every day and in a variety of ways. Each one sucked a little of my soul as I battled with wits, body armor, heart, and rapier. Alas, the candle wick was not long enough to accommodate the light by which I needed to lay my plans for the next siege.
For some reason, I could only devote enough energy to certain battles, I’ve only wanted certain victories, so I allowed other fights to linger in vapid temperatures and with a modicum of the desired and needed attention. I’d fight enough to exhaust myself, then try to use what little I had left to do battle with the other factions.
A phoenix I am not. I won’t rise from the ashes if I am slain in a skirmish I didn’t even know I was fighting. So it’s time to choose a conflict to which I will hand over my weapons – whatever they may be. I know I can not continue to fight so many things at one time. It’s both unnatural, unhealthy, and just not right. It’s easy to fight when you know there is someone standing behind you – watching your back; shouting warnings when danger approaches – someone who will gladly relinquish his or her sword in your time of need. My torch fire is low, I’m having trouble seeing the road in front of me – I need to leave some of the encampments to their own destiny and travel forward sans past demons.
I’m ready to choose what I must loose so that I can fight a bigger, more grandiose and sweeping campaign of the others. I want to handle my territory – but it’s hard to accomplish when it keeps getting swept out from under me while my head is turned in a different direction.
I hate losing. It’s not in me, but I can hear my inner demons screaming that some must be loosed and forgotten. Time for cleaner, swifter and more agile fighting techniques the old way of scatter shot or focusing on one thing at a time can no longer apply if I am to survive at the core.
So bring on the guillotine. Let’s hack some puppies away from the core.
1. Writing – that so stays.
2. Drinking – it’s how I can suffer through the first.
3. Teaching – I’ve left this squander (somewhat) and need to refocus (potentially)
4. Cliched failed marriage – yup gotta carve and hack this one out. Too much time and wasted energy wondering. Setting it adrift on the sea of memories and failed endeavors. Letting waves carry me far from the starting point on this one.
5. Cliched failed friendship – hardest to let go. A grudge as big as life. How could you be so inconsiderate, uncaring, unfeeling, life sucking, knife plunging, gutless, and heartless. I usually judge people well, but, nope, you blocked me well. This is hardest of all battles to forgo, it’s also the most deadly, because I can’t believe what a fool I was to ever think you were something you were not. I should’ve jumped ship on the first affair – this would be my fault. Your venomous fingers clutch at me even in sleep – back to hell evil creature. Plague me no more.
6. Missing Confidence – definitely caused by previously mentioned two. Gonna have to go questing to find this.
7. Money – can’t live without. You stay.
8. Future – yup, you gotta go. I don’t have the capacity to worry or wonder about you anymore. Just be kind and I’ll stop thinking of you.
9. Driving – this fear needs to get the hell out.
10. Superstition – so what if a whole church wants me to spend an eternity in hell, got to relax this a little. Who cares if I broke a mirror two days ago? No more black cats.
Hmm, lighter I feel. Just some remaining residual from where the hate was torn with little compassion from me. That I won’t miss.

Humblecity

So, I am paid with public fundage; it’s not a big secret. Shit, you could figure out exactly what I make if you knew where I worked; any public employee’s salary paid with public funds is available for review by any tax payer. File of Freedom of Information Act form asking for said information, or, in most cases and ask and you’ll get an answer.
On the taxpayer’s dime I’m, and other publicly funded employees, are held to a higher standard of scrutiny. We screw up on the job or even in our personal lives and we’re called on the carpet for our actions. We can’t even smoke pot on weekends without the fear of a random drug test the following Monday, or worse, someone seeing us and ratting us out. Moral turpitude takes on a whole new meaning. Not only do you not want your mother to read about your actions in the newspaper, but even worse, you do not want your immediate boss to hear about your raucous party Saturday night; or, in my case, damn if every time I go to buy beer a kid or a parent is directly behind me in line.
All that said, Hell Yeah, these fucking companies who have received bailout money need some type of government oversight. These fat cat CEO’s do NOT need a golden parachute with my money. I don’t get a golden parachute – hell Im just gonna get pushed out of the plane and given a brief wave as I plummet head first toward the big ol’ X on the landing zone. If they are using tax payer money to line their pockets on the way out of the door as their former company cuts thousands of jobs, then yes, we have the right to determine how many feathers keeps their pockets comfy.
Obama limited it $500,000 for salary; still too much. If the CEO lived within his or her means then the ending shouldn’t matter much. If you make millions upon millions – then that list bit at the end, does it really matter? It shouldn’t – not if you didn’t buy the G5 or the homes abroad or in multiple states or the lux cars or the bling bling that would out the eye of the first DeBeer.
I’m just glad that someone is finally remembering how it feels to be stuck in the middle – between the way-too-expensive house payments and the staggering cost of just being alive day-to-day without the help of a house staff or brand name clothing and shoes.
Now instead of eating Kobe beef flown in from Japan that day – the CEO’s will have to door with corn-fed Kansas steer. But hey, I’m still waiting for the day they got to eat Kraft Mac and Cheese for dinner while drinking cold, instant tea from a plastic pitcher stained a reddish purple from all the times Kool Aid has called the pitcher home.

Pizza Dude

Pizza Dude Pizza Dude
You are my hero in a white Toyota Corolla
You bounce into my driveway blaring shocking music so crude
I get the urge to cross myself and eat some virus ala ebola.
Pizza Dude Pizza Dude
What have you brought in that brown paper sack?
Please let it be the food I’d ordered, but not already chewed.
I know you’re an outta work actor, and suck a useless hack.
Pizza Dude Pizza Dude
Here is your payment for the ham and cheese hoagie
Stick out you hand and please don’t further intrude
On my dinner time alone in my house – don’t be that creeping bogey.
Pizza Dude Pizza Dude
I paid you with a check because I’m terrified you can’t make change
From the single 20 I might hand you and then be viewed
as an ass when I ask for money back – you wanting me on a rocket range.
Pizza Dude Pizza Dude
Thanks for delivering my dinner all warm and hot
But, wait, don’t go, I need to check the food
To see if it’s what I sought.
Pizza Dude Pizza Dude
Why are you running back to your car so fast?
You weave and stumbled as if you have imbued
And hey, whatever happened to the ketchup?

Sunday Bowls

Superbowl vs. Puppybowl
It’s a tough call. Both shows highlight definite athletic prowess. They both have definite starts and lowlifes; commercials are both ingrained into the contests, and fans cheer on their favorite players, too. I was conflicted this year and found myself channel surfing between the two athletic contests.
Players
• Puppybowl: a whole cast of silly, adorable puppies slobbering over each other, pouncing about playfully, and dragging around a variety of dog appropriate toys. Aussie Shepherds (my favorite being all fur) to bouncy little beagles who just won’t stop hopping to and fro. But like all athletes there are some problem pups. You got the bullies out there who won’t let anyone else near the water bowl to paw and flip the water through the air.
• Superbowl: highly athletic adult males chasing each other around the field, vying for passion of a cow skin oblong ball. They bounce and jump through the air trying to outdo each other for the chance to run the ball around the field. Quarterbacks flinging the ball to other players on their team to linebackers, bent on destroying the quarterback make up some of the species on the field
The Venue
• Puppybowl: in an inside stadium on artificial grass. The emblem of the Puppybowl is emblazoned on the middle of the playing field. The pups cavort inside the walls of the arena so the game stays within appropriate parameters; and, no puppy can make a break for it. Ample seating for fans can be found in living rooms across the country.
• Superbowl: in an outside stadium on real grass. The emblem of the Superbowl is emblazoned on the middle of the field. Like the puppies, the players are also surrounded by fans, and parameters of play are marked so that players know how far they can run to score.
Officials
• Puppybowl: is overseen by humans. Every so often play is stopped so that a white and black stripped person can climb into the enclosure to either settle too rambunctious pups or to clean up accidental puppy messes.
• Superbowl: again, overseen by humans. Play is stopped occasionally so a white and blad clad official can step into the action to settle over hyper players or to determine the position of the ball so play can resume.
Commercials
• Puppybowl: the walls of the stadium are laden with sponsors of the game; and when a mess is cleaned up the “official” showcases the cleaning supplies.
• Superbowl: almost bigger than the game itself. Commercials air every few minutes, allowing viewers to channel surf over to puppy bowl.

Carving Up the World

Im so sick of snow. It’s snowing again. It was in the 60s on Saturday and now it’s snowing again. UGH! I don’t care if it’s winter or not. Darn it. I want spring here – now.
On a good note, I was voted President of the world. It’s good to be President of the World. My first move is to begin carving up the world into different territories. The way it stands now, there are way too many random countries hangout around in the world. Life would be easier if I were to split my kingdom, oops, Presidency, over a smaller area – thus eliminating the need for dealing with so many different countries and languages and ideological systems. I will keep it to a bare minimum, mainly based on geography and the ability to defend the territory from rogue wanna-be Presidents, who would be lacking in all my wonderful characteristics.
So the geography of the world. No prob. I got this. First, America, Canada and Mexico would be merged into one mass super-power country named Camico. This would be where I live – so it would be the Most Favored Nation Ever (MFNE). When it’s cold out, I will live on the glistening blue waters of the western Mexico Coast. In the fall, I would hang my hat in the northeast to take full advantage of the foliage, and in the heat of the summer, I think I’d hang out in Vancouver – cuz, well, I wanna, and I’m the President.
Central America – yeah, well, it’ll stay as it is – but I do have plans to enlarge the Panama Canal. Oh, who am I kidding. I’m gonna mini-nuke a waterway from the Pacific to the Atlantic. This is basically my moat to prevent unwanted types from entering Camico and messing up what I’ve created.
South America – I will vacation here based on the whims of my needs. So I will allow them to continue doing what they are currently doing – except for the drug stuff. Yeah, that’s got to stop. After discontinuing the creation of drugs, I want my surfs to be clear headed when they bow to me, the countries will, of course, pay tariffs for being allowed to exist within my world.
Australia – I will kick out anyone daring to harm the great barrier reef and send them with the rest of the criminals to Siberia.
Siberia – Where all the criminals and basically people I don’t like will go. They will be dumped there with one bic each, and that’s it. Oh, and they’re wearing shorts and tee-shirts.
Asia – Nuke it Nuke it Nuke it.
Africa – kill everyone who doesn’t agree with me, mainly the men, and allow the women the power to rule the continent for a while. It can’t hurt anything. Oh, and make sure each person received sufficient amounts of food and water and medicine.
Europe – distribute all the pretentious jerks to Siberia as well, kick out all the French to Asia, and hire some British types to read Shakespeare to me when and where I wanted to hear it.
Russia – Where I shall have my top secret compound guarded by elite troops who shall guard my life without question. I will only be at this location when Europe misbehaves and I want to play golf in Scotland – where I will stay in a well-proportioned and luxurious castle.