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A Uniquely American Solution

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It is irrefutable that within the borders of our great country, we face complex and ongoing problems in need of a uniquely innovative solution. These issues have persisted for decades, reaching a stalemate whenever they fall under the purview of our domestic federal leadership. The individual states may have their own proposed answers, but they cannot seem to find any common ground. Each one has its own agenda, resulting in a disorganized and ineffective approach towards solving these pressing matters. At the forefront of national discussion are two highly contentious topics. What to do with a fetus and how to regulate gun ownership. At first glance, these seem as related as pineapples and plaid shirts. However, to effectively address them, we must adopt a new perspective and step outside the conventional lines of thinking. There is a belief among some individuals that a fetus is a person deserving of all the rights and protections granted by our United States Constitution. Similarly,
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  Where the Birds Need Chapstick Sweatageddon: The Scorching Hotter Than A Habanero’s Armpit The sun bore down, turning the asphalt into a griddle, the wind a blistering wave and deserted streets into a convection oven set to broil. The air shimmered with heat, as if the entire atmosphere was auditioning for a part in a sci-fi movie about a planet made of lava. Venturing outside was like stepping into a blast furnace; sweat didn’t just drip, it cascaded, stinging eyes and soaking clothes faster than you could say “heatstroke”. It’s so hot outside that even the lizards are wearing oven mitts. Birds panting in the shade of the trees, casting envious glances towards house cats lounging behind cool windows, smugly licking their paws as if to say, “Sucks to be you”. Even the bees, usually buzzing around like tiny drunk pilots, had gone silent, replaced by an eerie stillness that made you think of that creepy moment in a horror movie right before a jump scare. This wasn’t just summer anymore
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Day of the Lawn Lepus

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  The icy stare of cold indifference …Photo by  Wei Fukuyama  on  Unsplash   Thursday is a lawn mowing day around these parts. It’s the day before trash pickup, and I wanted to get the fresh cut grass taken care of, so that I won’t have to smell hot clippings in the can all week. The sun was out amid patchy clouds and a cool breeze is ruffling the palm leaves. That morning was perfect for landscaping. It felt like a scene from a Hollywood production about the best attributes of owning a lawnmower . That’s when it happened. I was just getting the weed wacker battery out of the charger; it was now up to full power and awaiting the assault on the wild and unruly grass. Trimming the yard was the first step. Once I finished trimming the yard, I got the abdominal punishing push mower out of the garage to finish the job. It meticulously caps off the blades, resulting in an even trim that appears good until I get in the pool and look at it from ground level. Then I see all the spots I’ve misse
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Good Mourning!

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  You can’t spell funeral without fun! A friend of mine suggested a side gig after a roommate came up short on rent. I had an idea to get something fun to do instead of the usual soul crushing low-pay bore fest that permeates the current want ads. Something where I could be entertained as well as compensated. The previously stated friend had watched the fine movie Wedding Crashers . After looking into if there were such jobs as a professional wedding crasher (there weren’t), he noticed a posting for paid funeral attendees. When a funeral service has little to no attendance, a service can provide paid mourners to go to a funeral, speak well of the deceased to friends or family and to be respectful at the service. Going to funerals wasn’t something that I ever did. If someone that I knew died, I’d usually say I was going, but then back out just before. When a pet died, I wouldn’t even go to that. I’d usually just get buzzed and avoid the whole thing. But the allure of getting paid change
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After The Fact Nostradamus

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  I KNEW THAT! It’s a cinch when you find a niche. There was a notice in the mail about the circus coming to town. Circuses aren’t what they used to be. They don’t have animal acts anymore. I’m still traumatized by a camel spitting in my eye when I was about ten years old. Mistreating animals isn’t optimal, and something had to be done. But, that takes away from young families not having the experience of something exotic for the kids. The dads still have exotic mammals to marvel at, but that’s a whole other story. Without the lions, tigers and bears, circuses now have to depend on human expositions. Acrobats, gymnasts, dancers and clowns are the attraction now. Leaping and jumping around in synchronicity and discipline is impressive, but cannot replace the uneasiness that happens when watching a trainer do the deadly dance with a wild beast. That’s one reason the traveling circus has become a relic of the past. Oh, there are still a few of them operating. A few strictly sideshow only
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Malicious Balloons Attack!

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  OVERHEAD OPTICS? Or innocuous floating flimflammery There I was, standing on the beach in San Clemente , thinking that if the Earth was indeed flat, I’d be able to see Japan, when a binoculars-wearing local tourist exclaimed with an expletive that something aloft was amiss. Turning to decipher what he was declaring, “Balloon! It’s one of those #!&$% balloons that steals what’s ours only! With all we spend on the government, you’d think they could do something about them!” As I squinted into the vast wide open wild blue yonder, I couldn’t see anything. After letting the aforementioned sky sentry know my eyes were lacking the wherewithal to make out any strange, out of the ordinary shapes, spherical or otherwise, he let me know his opinion by questioning my ability to see. “Here, take these things,” he said, handing me the binoculars. “Now look up over there about where my finger is.” I took the field glasses and looked in the direction he was pointing. After a moment of visual adj
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Top Secret Documents Raid!

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  Or how the FBI helped clean the house There I was, standing in my front yard, minding my own business and wondering what the neighbors were up to. When suddenly a black sedan followed by a phalanx of black SUVs squealed around the corner and pulled up in front of residences on my block and stopped. The doors of the darkly colored caravan flung open and various aviator sunglasses wearing authority looking types disembarked and gathered in a group in the middle of the street. Like a team, they huddled as they gathered instructions on how to proceed in the pre-planned and rehearsed maneuvers that were, from the looks of things, to begin imminently. Once they broke, they fanned out over the neighborhood, scooting up walkways, trampling flower beds and divoting lawns. The concerted knocking on doors and ringing of doorbells began in what sounded like a cacophony of chaotic symphonic hullabaloo. Bewildered denizens answered some doors and well-dressed fanatics forcibly opened others zealo
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