Solstice Blessings

I see those around me gearing up for Christmas, doing their best to meet the cultural and commercial expectations our mamas all raised us with. I’m not unaware of the change of the soundtrack as I shop for my daily dose of chocolate milk at the local King Soopers or stroll the aisles at Wally World restocking hobo essentials. Santa-branded candy is as overpriced as a class at the late Trump University which is slightly abated by the recent heavy discounts on Bronco-branded merch. You can also pick up some heavily discounted pumpkin-spiced croutons for your salad right now if you know the right aisles to shop.

The sounds of the season and the Xmas themed end-caps at the stores were in place long before Thanksgiving eve. This is the Christian holiday snatched from the pagans and assigned as the birthday of Baby Jeebus fully re-dedicated to the American God of Retail. O’Holy Night and all that and “get your grimey ass back to Mexico” says Tucker Carlson on God’s Chosen Channel. I’m eternally and daily thankful I’m free of the cognitive dissonance required to carry water for this imaginary monster. Hippie Jeebus I could stomach.

Now what to celebrate? Are we totally screwed? Maybe for those whose imaginations need to be filled by self-righteous holy pricks imaginatively interpreting The Goat Herders Guide to the Galaxy. Somebody give these people a science book ferchrissakes.

This Rambo Jeebus, this malignant Christian Nationalist Jeebus, this “FU dirty hippes!” version of Jeebus has soured the entirety of the American religious landscape and made many realize that the true history of Baby Jeebus is as nebulous as the the position and speed of an atomic particle. At least an atomic particle leaves a reliable footprint. Though we may sometimes tire in our attempt to hang onto that which is most precious to us it’s best to maintain a firm grip on the reliable atoms in the rope than to let go and pray for a miracle against gravity, and everybody dam well knows it.

As for me? The most blessed all of the hobo heretics the high mountain meadows can muster? I’ll continue to spread honesty, cheer and happiness around me in as eager and prolific a manner as the spirits of an aging hobo and his old hobo hound can muster, fully leveraging the utility of the companionship my cute publicity-loving-pup adds to the mix. There may be some weed involved, all legally obtained and distributed under the laws of my totally utopian state. I’ll always strive to maintain as much of a positive public image as can be had from such a minimalist perch as this poverty-tainted platform will allow.. Build new friendships and try to maintain the many acquired along the happy trails.

At this most blessed of holiday seasons, I’d be remiss not to note the most serendipitous of the many hobo blessings (that coincidentally happens to make a fundamentalist Pentecostal wince hardest) is that I am living as close to the purported lifestyle of the beloved Baby Jeebus as is humanly possible in the 21st Century. That noted, I’m not nearly as incommunicado, nor has my army of a dozen female apostles completely gelled, just yet. I’m less inclined to push against those wishing to form a religion around me the older I get. It’s a feature, not a bug. Hoocoodanode?

Chalk it up to the curiosity of my nature. It’s what my mama raised me with. That, and a round Earth.

Enjoy.

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The Big Wheel of Wanker Weed

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With Republicans formerly most famous for privatizing jails to profit off imprisoning pot smokers now running after jobs in the pot industry as fast as Trump chasing after a piss-laden prostitute in Saint Petersburg, pot will be legal before you know it. Continue reading

TrumpTV Ratings Disaster

How long before the FBI or the CIA cancel the unabashedly unpopular and horrifyingly vulgar new TV reality series, “Orange is the New Moscow”?

It’d be nice to think that maybe Congress and the Senate could get together for about a five minute confab and clear this overly bronzed Bozo out of the Green Room once and for all but even the good weed out here in the high mountain meadows hasn’t yet managed to make me that optimistic.  (I’ll keep working on it though.  You can be dam sure of that.)

Congress can’t act because as we’ve all witnessed with our own two eyes, every high ranking Republican with the will and a woody must have taken a free trip to Russia for some of that sweet Saint Petersburg poontang.  Putin’s got them all trapped in some sort of piss parade.

The Russians could drop the X-rated hit “Raining Republicans” onto Netflix, charge five bucks a view, and rebuild the entire Russian Empire on the returns from that alone.

Imagine Vlad, shouting out “They will pay for all our walls!” to an enchanted Russian cocktail audience of oligarchs, as Papadopoulos, Manafort and Carter Page tip wine glasses to each other in the midst of that sordid soiree.

Meanwhile, Trump is dancing around Twitter as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Benghazi we loved you!, but Witch Hunt and Fake News are trying to stuff Hillary’s hacked Russian emails into the nutsack of a 300 pound fat man living in his mom’s basement.

The fifteen Russian hackers already living there are seriously short on space because of all the file cabinets stuffed with Trump’s confidentiality agreements hidden behind the left nut.  There’s political gold in the situational comedy opportunities presented right there that have been squandered because of the ineptitude of Trump’s disorganization.

Ratings in the toilet.  Totally ineffective public relations and advertising strategies.

The whole idea of having critics (and potential witnesses) of the series strangled and poisoned by nerve gas has not provided the intended ratings boost to stop the Orange slide.

Cancel the dam show!!  It’s way too derivative of James Bond and Caligula, and I’m going to have to check, but I’m relatively certain the Simpsons already did it.  This is your crazy grandpa.  This is your crazy grandpa on Twitter.  This is your crazy grandpa on Twitter with the nuclear button by his bedside and the FBI about to break into a fat man’s nutsack.

Sleep well America and hope that Uncle Bobbie can wrestle the button away from the Mandarin Colored Muscovite before he blows us all to Hell and back.

Enjoy.

 

 

New Year Thoughts and Plays

I pause once again to thank the goodness of my friends for helping enable the “level of success” I have achieved since returning to the US as a shell-shocked (yet surprisingly fabulous) senior citizen expat widower three years ago.  One thing I’ve learned from the experience is that there are more people out there actually paying attention to my content and concerned for my well being than I would ever anticipated. They’ve been the difference between survival and what I define as surthrival, which is at least halfway up the fourth tier on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.  Self actualization can only be achieved in a sunny high mountain meadow sipping fire-brewed coffee and passing one of Willie’s Reserve around the tambourine circle, but I don’t want to give away all the secret society stuff.  Come visit and we’ll talk.

The Hobo Heretic Has Arrived

I’m claiming my rightful throne as Hobo Heretic of the high mountain meadows.  It’s the direction that providence has pushed me.  A retirement position that combines talents acquired lately in the fine art of minivan living with my lifelong fight against the disruptive effects of belief in things that cannot be tested.  As always, my content will reflect that which interests or concerns me, untainted by the concern of mass appeal or monetary manipulations.  Expect a mix of the usual eclectic high mountain meadows magic, notes on van life along with the occasional political screed, because, well….just because.  (He’s guilty as shit and everybody knows it)

Enjoy.

Peter McWilliams Remembrance Day

Peter McWilliams

Though Peter and I disagreed on matters of faith we were both committed to the rights of patient access to medical marijuana.  Take a moment to give thanks and praise to a fallen hero in the war on marijuana.

Enjoy.