Tagged: Writing

The Rumored Sudanese Family Budgets

The great influx of Africans, in this case Sudanese, is taking on an almost uniform shape at churches across our great country. The general situation is the almost dead whites have their Sunday services as they have for the past 80 years. But then the vibrant-seeming African redeemed, fresh off the airplane, bring out the whole family, extended family, and more and use the same church buildings for their Pentecostal services.

The white pastors, then, in talking to the African church leadership have their finger on this aspect of the immigration pulse more-so than you or I. (If any of this interests you, track down a pastor. He’d love to chat after such a long break.)

The specific heartbeat one pastor revealed to a friend of mine that I want today’s post to illuminate is family money.

Want to know how these non-Western families handle the family budget? I’ll tell ya.

Rumor has it, the fathers are slaving themselves out as their wives spend without limit.

The situation, surely applicable to more than just Sudanese culture, is the wives expect to never be told “no” when it comes to money and then the husband has to figure out how to pay the bill.

Worse, the Sudanese wives, like all you lovely ladies out there, really want to work and have their own money, money which the husband is never allowed to acknowledge exists.

Reader: you know my point. That’s right. The next time you see a midnight-skinned African-looking man whose every fiber screams high strung, summon your compassion. He needs it.

And to you readers who are American wives: if anything I have written remotely describes you, then, seriously, WTF?

Some Uncommonly Spoken, if Commonly Held, Thoughts on Passing Scene

I attend a Black Baptist church regularly. To write about Blacks makes me feel weird, because I probably would be asked to leave my beloved church if anyone ever read my thoughts here posted. But the Blacks don’t read blogs anymore than the Whites do. So nothing to fear.

The Blacks will vote for Kamala. It’s like a “thing” for them. I don’t really believe it is intentional, or even thought through and reasoned. I guess I mean that for them it is instinctive. Sure, Kamala is “half”, whatever that means. And, sure, Obama just did his thing, and he is “half”, whatever that means. But that’s not the reason I know they will vote for her. They don’t have “reasoning” in the classic sense. They have instinct. They need to feel united and so will vote in the way that makes them confident that each Black person they see knows they are in the same boat, even if it happens to be sinking. “Together!”

We have seen this since Black lunch tables. I am not suggesting something new. I am just writing it out. For fun.

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I am constantly courted by conspiracy theorists, White and Black. I don’t know why. It doesn’t seem like the proportions are right. I am just a dad working a job and yet I can’t seem to shake, after the weather talk, discovering that some possible new friend believes some really ridiculous shtuff about how humans do “society”.

And they never have any evidence. Zero evidence.

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The Democrats are scrambling. Don’t be fooled into thinking they are simply implementing some perfect plan—they aren’t. It doesn’t even make sense to hate them so much while you secretly believe they are better at life than you. Unless you’re just plain envious. Which would be weird. Cuz they’re paving the road to Hell, as you and I know.

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Trump is something else. I am reminded of the time when it hit me that four men—myself, my attorney, my ex-wife’s attorney, and a mediator—had jumped, for one short afternoon, into the maelstrom whirlpool that is my ex-wife. One squalid woman somehow commandeered the attention of four men, to the total tune of about $750 per hour, plus whatever price you can put on my leisure time. As soon as the realization landed, I thought, “Fuck this.”

In the sour mood of Ike Clanton while losing to Doc Holiday, “That 12 hands in a row, Holiday, sonnuvaBitch, nobody’s that lucky,” I called it quits. What a waste of resources and time and life.

But Trump stirs the world pot.

Don’t be fooled into the idea that someone can explain it. It is inexplicable.

Moms and Dads of School Children: Buy Their Lunch

It’s immoral to accept free lunch.

Reader: no one, not one person who genuinely needs charity will ever read this blog post. So calm down.

And then call the school and inform them they are not to serve your child(ren) lunch unless your child(ren) pay (or what is equivalent, you have set up the lunch account and it has money in it).

I am calling the school now. I will report back with how the conversation went.

The Level My Grandma and Brother Are Complicit

The level my grandma and brother (her a democrat and he a smarty-pants lefty) are complicit in the attempted assassination is directly related to how they defend President Biden’s response to Mr. Holt.

Headlines across news outlets use the words “Biden”, “Mistake”, and “Bullseye” in close proximity and suggest the president admitted erring. But here is the transcript.

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Biden: “I didn’t say crosshairs (inaudible) focus on look the truth of the matter was I guess what I was talking about at the time was there’s very little focus on Trump’s agenda-”

Holt: “-Yeah the term was bullseye.”

Biden: “It was a mistake to use the word I didn’t mean I didn’t say crosshairs I meant bullseye I meant focus on him focus on what he is doing…”

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(That took an inordinate amount of effort to transcribe, btw. You’re welcome.)

The question remains. What do my grandma and my brother do with this?

How they speak of it determines as accurately as any other measure we could develop how complicit they are. The range being

1. NOT competent to stand trial and NOT complicit. This would be the case if they change the subject and unashamedly suggest they had no idea guns existed, let alone would be used on any one of the several billion good-to-the-core fellow men.

2. Competent to stand trial and complicit. They are complicit according to their level of earnestly believing it is not their role to monitor Pennsylvanian young adults’ or elected officials’ integrity. Make no mistake, this option is the more depressed one, at least to those of us happy-go-lucky bible readers and our “Am I my brother’s keeper?” story. This second option would be the case if they actually attempt an on-point answer, but its content indicates they will never concede that Biden did not admit erring.

A Rooster Crowed

And as Peter was below in the courtyard, one of the servant-girls of the high priest came, and seeing Peter warming himself, she looked at him and said, “You also were with the Nazarene, Jesus.”

But he denied it, saying, “I neither know nor understand what you are talking about.” And he went out into the entryway.

And when the servant-girl saw him, she began once more to say to the bystanders, “This is one of them!” But again he was denying it.

And after a little while the bystanders were again saying to Peter, “Surely you are one of them, for you are also a Galilean.”

But he began to curse and swear, “I do not know this man you are talking about!” And immediately a rooster crowed a second time. And Peter remembered how Jesus had said the statement to him, “Before a rooster crows twice, you will deny Me three times.”

And throwing himself down, he began to cry.
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On this day, congregation, I ask you, “Did you hear it?”

The Element Peggy Noonan Missed and Why The Dems Will Never Embrace Chaos

Risk.

That’s it. Miss Noonan doesn’t address how “risk averse” or “safety first and at all costs” our society has become.

A better analogy to the Dem’s problem is Hollywood’s problem.

Movies have become so costly to make that the easy/obvious/safe choice is prequels and sequels of winners (or even mere known quantities) rather than tell a new story that might bomb.

So, no, Miss Noonan, the same people who brought us safety (the government) will not act with daring.

Husbands: Throw Away the Romance Novels, A Review of The Island (2004) by Michael Bay

Husbands, I’m looking squarely at you! Throw away those romance novels and pick up the remote control. On Paramount+ right now you will find the most sensational, the most sultry, the most seductive film ever created to help save your marriage. Grab your wife, plop down on the love seat, and get ready for sparks to fly.

Husbands: you know the situation. Right now there is “culture” and there is “husband”. It is war. And us husbands lose every time.

How do we right the ship?

The answer is easy: wives must be shown a model.

Wives, as is well-documented and only too well-known, have little to no imagination. So they need to have a ready-made “felt experience” from which to draw memories. Enter, Mr. Bay’s 2004 classic The Island.

After the film lays out the story (post-apocalyptic indoor world, boring as shyte to men, exciting to women, with the only hope of change being a timely, random lottery every so often promising relocation to the last uncontaminated spec of land on the earth—an island) we meet the needed ingredient to help us win back our families. That ingredient being, the “culture” in the movie—the company cloning the rich people—puts out a “contamination” alert for Ewan McGregor’s character. But McGregor has already got the hand of Scarlet Johansen, and so here’s the kicker: Mrs. Johansen trusts and follows Mr. McGregor despite what the screens and other women advise!

Even more fantastic than this scene, the couple live! As they live on together, often even touching, they both learn just how much the “culture” lied.

Sometimes McGregor leads the running, other times he gets bogged down by some heavy lifting and Johansen continues the chase at the front.

Their object is the same—escape the prison of “culture”—so it really doesn’t matter who appears to lead according to the variables of time and space. What matters is that she chose her man, consequently she and he are now one and, again, at the risk of repeating myself, the wife (future) ignores the “culture” in favor of her husband.

Now, as every Bay fanboy knows, there are rules to the universe and rule 17 requires Michael Bay films to include a perfectly outrageous highway chase scene where the husband must unload railcar wheels onto the highway from atop a random semi which they only leapt onto by sheer chance. But if your beloved has somehow dozed off during the film as this begins, gently nudge her when you recognize the set-piece. Why? Because there is an incredible moment when the wife states husband’s name in a very neutral—yet leaning naggy—voice. After the exact amount of time to be perfectly suspenseful and fully engage the initiative elapses, she says, “Nice work!”

A compliment!! Just amazing.

Like St. John says of Jesus,

And there are also many other things which if they were written one after the other, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.

So we should end this simple film review here. But time is short! Grab your wife. Grab the remote. And take back your marriage!
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Today Is the Definitive Day of Sadness for the United States of America

I feel sad.

It’s difficult not to brood or stew for the next several hours until the press conference.

I don’t join the “elder abuse” or “his family won’t let him” choruses.

I just feel sad.

As a child, all I wanted was to serve our great country, the greatest country the Earth had ever seen, bar none.

As a man, all I feel is sad.

I Am Never Ready

These last three days I learned that despite my training and full belief in the Boy Scouts’ “Be Prepared” motto, there are three things I am never ready for.

Firstly, America’s natural beauty, specifically the Rocky Mountains.

I drove to Salt Lake City from the Springs (and back) and while my eyes were necessarily on the road, I could’t help but marvel at the grandeur passing by my right and left.

I have decided that this area will be my kids and I’s new playground.

Secondly, folk’s response to, “What is the gospel?”

“You are insolent,” the friend of my buddy told me, as we sat next to each other late into the wedding reception. This was preceded by, “You are proselytizing.” Which was preceded by a three to five minute recounting of his entire childhood interaction with the Church which concluded, as he could tell he was avoiding the question, with a tremendously subpar answer, which he knew was subpar as he delivered it even before my eyes surely indicated so. This being preceded by his rehearsal of the lunacy of the concept of the “chosen people” and my, “Well, and to be sure—I am giving you my best now, no pulling punches—you must understand the gospel before you can understand or be at peace with any of the rest of it. There is an order of events, so to speak. So I would ask you (you don’t have to answer) what is the gospel?” And of course this was preceded by his, “You’re religious, huh? My problem is…”

I guess I am just an optimist. It’s my only explanation why I am always surprised that such a simple question can evoke such a dark response.

Thirdly, once in a lifetime offers of unimaginable wealth and luxury.

“Are you happy there? Are you happy with your job?”

I said, “Sorry what are you asking?”

“Are you settled in for good? Do you like your job?” the man repeated.

I had just met him. I learned he was a doctor. He was immediately kind. I believe his opening banter was complimenting the toast I had just given/hosted as best man. And, I never confirmed, but I am pretty sure he was a Mormon.

Do you see it now?

He saw what I had just accomplished in the other room and was ready to put those talents to work for the faith—and we all get richer in the process.

But I stumbled. Someone else was nearby and asking those around if they knew the movie that the current bluegrass band’s song was from, and I couldn’t help but ignore my new friend and lean over to answer, “O’ Brother Where Art Thou?!”

By the time that reverie ended, the moment had passed. The “doctor is out”, and never to return.

Oh well. I do like my house and I do like my job. But I also feel shame that I have acted in the same way during similar moments enough times to recognize the physical sensation I get afterwards as the “missed/blown opportunity” one. And this shame is only made worse in that these moments keep happening to me.

Maybe next time, I’ll be ready.