The End Of The World

Well, here it is ; almost 2011. And you know what is just around the corner. Yep. 2012! That’s when the world is supposed to end and everything turns to shit. Don’t scare me though. I figure how much worse can things get?

Back in the mid 70’s I was a member of the Worldwide Church of God. Now those guys had the end of the world thing nailed. God was gonna unleash some nasty-ass shit on the world, and then send his son to take over for a thousand years. That was in the days when regular Christians were trying to get to know Jesus. [I knew Jesus. He has the gardener who sometimes worked down the street and played some really lousy music, with too many trumpets, way too loud for anyone else to enjoy. But he preferred to be called Hey-Zeus instead of Gee-sus as I often called him. Being a loyal WWCOG member, I could never call him Hey-Zeus, cause that who be like saying hello to Zeus, and Zeus is a false god and I wasn’t no idolater worshiping sinner.] I was off my meds during that time, which goes to show you, yet again: the need for proper medication. I’ll never go off my medication again, too much weird shit happens. Boy, I sure learned my lesson.

Anyway, now all the regular Christians are talking about the end of the world, and even hoping it comes soon. That’s what I thought too, cause when the shit starts to rain down from Heaven, I sure want someone to give me an umbrella. The regular guys think they are all gonna avoid ‘holy shit’ ( see there is actually an approved usage for that popular expression of dismay, which is not gross or blasphemous) by getting raptured. When I first heard the term raptured, I though some hare-lip was really trying to say Ruptured, which reminded me of all the adds I’d seen in 60’s Mens Magazines which asked: “Are you Ruptured?”. Back then I was even unsure what ruptured was let alone raptured (which I now know is a mid-air evacuation of all of Gods’ favorites back to heaven); looked like from the picture that your testicles some how got sucked up into your stomach which now had two pronounce protrusions, and the only solution was to wear a special belt. Come to think of it, there is a common denominator here: The only way to avoid some real pain is to gird up your loins. Preferably with Jesus (not Hey-Zeus).

I don’t know where I going with all this. Guess I have no choice but to live in fear. But wait a minute! Don’t go filling your britches with fear. There’s good news. People have been predicting the end of the world and setting dates for years……and they have all been wrong!

So have a Happy New Year…..might be the last one we’ll ever have.

Don’t call me an Idiot, you Imbecile; I’m a Moron!

Don’t call me an Idiot, you Imbecile; I’m a Moron!

That’s right! I’d take great offense at being labeled an idiot by anyone, and have to insist that rather, I am a Moron. Might sound like a lot of fun-with-words gobbledygook, but there is a big difference.

In early 20th century psychology, an “idiot” was a person with very severe mental retardation. During that time, Dr. Henry H. Goddard proposed a classification system for mental retardation based on the Binet-Simon concept of mental age, and were ranked as follows: Idiots, the lowest you could go, had a mental age of less than three years, and I.Q. Of 0-25. Imbeciles. a step higher, had a mental age of three to seven years, with I.Q.’s Of 26-50. Morons, the highest level yet, had a mental age of seven to ten years and I.Q.’s between 51-70.

At this time, an applied science called Eugenics was being popularized by progressives. It advocated practices aimed at improving the genetic composition of a population through selective breeding of individuals. The movement fell out of favor after WWII, when the Nazi’s took the whole concept to its logical, precision engineering extreme. Interesting how certain concepts lose their popularity, and rapidly fall out of favor when actually tried.

Well, along with the fall of Germany, so too fell the psychological communities’ usage of these terms. But us laymen picked em up right away, and started using them as great insults. Imbecile being popularized by the Three Stooges. Only Idiot is commonly used today, and has it’s own hierarchy of rankings. Goddamn Idiots and Fucking Idiots being examples. According to Eugenics though, you never want to call anyone is a “Fucking Idiot”. They are the last people on earth you want sexually active, and certainly don’t want to put any vile thoughts into their feeble minds. There’s already far too many of them breeding right now in my opinion.

So back to my point. Don’t call me an idiot, or my blog idiotic. Nope. I’m much higher functioning than that. I’m right in there between seven and ten as far a mentality goes. Moron best describes me; and Moronic my style of tried and but true bathroom humor. You can technically call my two and a half year old grandson an Idiot, but he’ll grow out of that. And you probably won’t. So there. We’ll have more on that subject later. Couldn’t resist that one, but hey…I’m a Moron.

Much thanks to Wikipedia for the details.

When is it my turn to be famous?

That’s right, when’s it gonna be my turn to be famous? I’ve been waiting patiently, but nothing’s happened yet. I know I have a multitude of people following me and my blog antics, and I sincerely appreciate all four of you, but real fame? Zippo.

Andy Warhol said everybody should be famous for fifteen minutes. Sounds reasonable, in fact, some people have had more than their fifteen minute share, and even get 30 minutes a week. Sarah Palin has had way too much fame time. And what’s she famous for? Helping McCain lose the election and then bailing as Governor of Alaska. Her new TV show was starting to take a dive in the ratings, so guess what they did? Brought in Kate Goslin (famous for too many kids and letting a marriage turn to shit, plus not being able to dance with the stars) for a visit to Wasilla.

Well ol’ Hansi be dipped in shit if that episode wasn’t on TLC last night, and guess who watched it? Before Kate arrived, Sarah made a trip to the local gun shop to pick up a bear rifle. She was gonna take Kate plus eight camping, and in Alaska you can’t be too well armed if ya encounter a bear (don’t ya know)… [In Southern California we have well armed home-boys to content with.] Sarah fondled all the weaponry in the store, trying out each one, and then merrily walked out to her van carrying a huge package. I wonder if her ratings would surge after she makes a trip to Wasilla’s XXX book store?

After a brief wilderness school with Kate, everybody takes off to the countryside. Kate and Sarah are featured sitting next to each other in a gigantic SUV, with First Dude driving, but wisely saying little. Kate just yaps away, while Sarah feigning interest, is busily texting away. Probably a steady stream of dribble to all her Facebook fans. When they finally get to the camp-site, Kate just complains and whines the whole time about how cold it was; Sarah just rolls her eyes at what a wuss Kate is. Didn’t see any bears, and I could barely stand much more so I clicked on something else.

Anyway, back to me and fame. Does two not famous for anything people make one famous person? Not in my social circles; we are all basically afflicted with the same shit: arthritis, forgetfulness, irritability and lack of testosterone. So if we are all alike, how could one of us be more famous than the other? Advanced stages of the aforementioned don’t make ya famous, just more feeble.

I could go on and on about this cause there’s so many reality shows on the tube about dumb-shits being famous for nothing more than being a dumb-shit. Kat on that Ink tattoo show. Cute girl, but what’s them tattoos gonna look like in 20 years: dumb-shit. Jersey Shore: east coast greaser dumb-shits tryin’ to get into each others’ pants. Guys who run Pawn Shops, do Dirty Jobs, or Pickers going through trash. Maybe we’re the dumb-shits for even watching all this dumb-shit.

What were they thinking?

This will be my shortest posting yet.  All I can say is “What were they thinking?”

See below

Holiday Wishes

Happy Holidays to one and all of my followers. Or maybe that should read Happy Holidays to all one of my followers. Anyway I just wanted to wish the whole world peace, joy and health for the coming year and what better way to do it than on the worldwide web. Yep, with a single click of the mouse, the whole world gets all the wishes for loving-kindness and well-being that I can muster in a single blast. Amazing what one can do with a single key-stroke, but I won’t dwell on that cause it would ruin the spirit of this posting and make ya paranoid.

What’s really important though, universal peace and harmony notwithstanding, is the debut of my grandson Branden’s art work on the web. At age seven you can already tell that boy has talent. And you know where the talent came from. Not only is old Hansi good at spreading what’s on his mind, he was pretty good at spreading his genes too. So featured above is Branden’s holiday greeting drawing. Pretty good!

Not only is Branden a good drawer [people always used to say to me when I was a little boy: “Hansi, you’re such a good drawer, you should be an architect some day.” Well I went into crime fighting instead, and the only thing I drew was the scorn and ridicule of my co-workers; those bastards….. oops, back to Branden] and he reads way above his own grade level. Maybe some day he’ll be making a posting on Grandpa’s blog.. Branden’s Uncle, Bad Deacon, who is also a good drawer, but prefers doing wood-cuts these days, took Branden to Comic Con last summer. Below is the fruit of that expedition.

Drawn by Branden.

What’s in the box?

I wanted to post this drawing because it’s the coolest one I’ve done so far. Then I started looking at it and wondered “what’s in the box?”. Now I know I drew the picture and should know what’s inside the box the guy is picking up, but I only drew the outside of the box, not the inside, so I’m just as clueless as you are.

That got me thinking’ about that old TV game-show, Lets Make A Deal. The one where old Monty Hall would yell out “Who wants to make a deal?” to his audience, and they would go berserk (while dressed in funny costumes and holding signs) just so they could come down and make a deal with Monty on stage. If chosen, you would get a gift, And, the opportunity to trade that gift for something more valuable hidden behind three doors or in three boxes.  Stuff like a fur coat or convertible car. There was also a ‘booby prize’ called a Zonk which may have been something like a goat or ten cases of canned Lima beans. So you took your chances in choosing a door. If ya picked door number one, they wouldn’t show it to you right away, but rather show you the contents of door number two or three. You really had a choice to make: either keep the unknown door you had, or trade it for another more valuable door instead. Then the wheeling and dealing started, with greed and fear taking over, and old Monty really screwing with peoples’ minds.

Unlike Wall Street, this was all done in a spirit of fun, except when ya chose the Zonk, and like an idiot, won a goat. What a loser. But in a place like Afghanistan, the goat is the most valuable prize you could win. What are ya goona do with a fur coat? too hot and the girls couldn’t fit it one under their Berkas. A convertible in Afghanistan? There’s hardly any roads, and if you could find a place to drive that wasn’t littered with land-mines and roadside bombs, your Taliban buddies would think you sold out to the Infidels and sniper your ass from some mountain top. Goat….much more functional prize.  What a show.  Better than the crap on TV these days, which is just about bunch of people running around willing to do anything for money.

So what’s in that box in my drawing? I don’t know….but I’ll gladly trade it for what’s behind door number two.

Visions of sugar-plums are filling my head

Visions of sugar-plums are filling my head. And this year I think I got it bad. Of course, I was much more afflicted as a youth, when little Hansi would secretly peal away loose ends of wrapped gifts to see what might lay therein. Christmas is the strangest time of the whole year. It happens around the time of the winter solstice; the time when the sun hits its lowest point, rests there for three days and then starts it’s wintry return from the grave. Hey! That sounds like someone I know…. but I can’t think of His name. Now the sun really doesn’t move lower, this whole thing has to do more with rotation and axis of the earth in her orbit around the sun. But seeing that I am the center of my universe, I prefer that the sun rotate around me and not visa-versa.

Anyway this whole solstice thing has morphed into something totally different. Gone are the days when a bunch of ignorant savages would light logs on fire and cut down fur trees and decorate them with lights and fertility symbols, with the hopes that this would appease the Sun-god, and hasten his return by tempting him with all these bright shinny objects. Well he fell for it every time (we guys still fall for the trashy look), cause sure as clock-work, he came back year after year. Why mess with success.

Now it’s Santa Claus, and where did he come from? Aside from living at the North Pole, I don’t see any way he could effect the sun to return. Actually Santa started as Saint Nicolas, a guy in Germany who gave away stuff to people, but also kept tabs on em too . The American Santa doesn’t care so much about your behavior, except when it comes to spending money. You may want a White Christmas, but Santa wants a Black Friday even more. So Santa is filling us all with visions of sugar-plums, tempting us with bright shinny objects, hoping we’ll return to his outlet stores. Boy, things sure got switched around. And just as we used to trick the sun into returning, sure as shit, Santa keeps tricking us year after year.

May your Holidays be filled with visions of sugar-plums, and a hallucination or two.

Who the hell are the Kardashians?

Who the hell are the Kardashians? I know they have a TV show. But aside from being the Kardashians, what are they famous for. Sarah Palin has a TV show, we all know what she’s famous for. Being a loyal Star Trek fan, I thought Kardashians were an alien race that were kinda evil and forever screwin’ with the Federation. They weren’t likable bad guys like the Clingons, whose language I can speak (stick it up your ‘gazork’ being an example). Did you ever notice that all of these different space species all had the same humanoid bodies, but only their faces were different [the Ferengies can kinda be counted, but only cause they were basically only ugly midgets in need of some dental work]. And if the females of every species had boobs, then they probably also had you-know-whaties, which means they could fornicate with each other, and produce some strange offspring. This was not possible in Star Wars land. I don’t think anything could have copulated with Jobba the Hutt except Jobbinia the Slutt. Anyway, who are these three chicks. To me they are just three swarthy looking Italian tramps with good bodies. If their TV show is about how they go around whoring and having cat-fights with one another, that could be interesting. I suppose I should do some research and maybe Google them or go to Wikipedia. Nay, I think fantasying about who they are and what they do is better.

What really gets me is how these three little trollops are famous for just being famous. I couldn’t resist and did do some research, or at least I know what their next episode features. Well, Kim gets Botox injections because she fears she’s getting old, and has a bad physical reaction: Meanwhile, Kris discovers Kourtney smoking and tries to get her to quit.  Boy, these skanks sure have an exciting life, much more than mine. You wouldn’t want to see a reality show about Hansi [Boring..all the good stuff happens in my mind and doesn’t photograph well]. I’m already old and thats having a physical reaction on me. But three greasie alien chics, that’s a show.

Wonder what Kris was smokin’ that would make Kourtney  jump in her shit?    Guess I’ll have to tune in and find out.

Joe Mama

Back in the day when I was attending Dorsey High School in Los Angeles, one of our favorite activities was to participate in a “chop-fight”. A non violent affair which consisted of hurling insults at one another. Whoever bested his opponent by uttering a completely humiliating invective for which the other had no response (‘what no come-back, it’s all  stuck in the back of your mouth’) was the winner. These were serious matters, for ones reputation at school hung (and speaking of being well hung, I hear your sister has a pair bigger than yours) on how one fared in these duals.

These events usually ended in a draw however, for known to everyone was the ultimate put-down for which there was no come-back. When one was going down for the count, and “so low ya had to look up to see down”, you had no choice but to hurl the ultimate weapon and respond with: “Your Mama”. That usually ended it. Everybody was wise enough, even at this young age, not to pursue the “Mama” thing much further. But, “Your Mama”, or “Joe Mama” depending on which ethnic persuasion you preferred to be, sometimes took on a life of its own. When both participants were really into trashing each other (“and speaking of Trash, How’s Joe Mama?”), things began to roll (“Your Mama; I hear your mama is so black she needs a license to buy white bread”) It usually ended with both fools wishin’ they was orphans or cutting each other up with knives pretty badly.

Well I think it’s time for Your Mama to come back. Not literally, because most of us old guys’ Mamas are up in Heaven where they are enjoying their own chop-fights; where their ultimate put-down is “Your Son”. Instead of always yelling ‘bullshit’ or the ‘F’ word when watching something especially tweeksome on TV; just utter in a low voice “Your Mama”. When Bill O’Riley is going on about some uber right-wing nonsense, don’t get upset, just softly utter “your mama” and you’ve refuted his whole argument. What more can be said. Some politician trying to explain away how they got their hand caught in the cookie jar. Don’t yell motherfucker. Nope, “Your Mama” says it all. You know, I think that I’m gonna stop using the word ‘bullshit’ altogether (might have to give up television to be successful), and instead just mumble “Joe Mama”when a witty repartee is needed.

You think not……. Your Mama!

Post The Rules

A lot of things piss me off. And a lot of things are just plain frustrating. The expectation to behave in a certain manner, without knowing what that expectation is hits both of these nails directly on the head.

In the early days of the Internet I was corresponding with someone and accidentally used all capital letters. I was subsequently rebuked, and admonished that I was ‘shouting’. Now these were the days before Skype where you can actually use your computer to shout at people. I didn’t know I was shouting; I didn’t even know I hit caps lock. Nobody informed me of this rule; I was barely able to use the damn machine. To me, all I did was type capital letters instead of lower case. I wasn’t shouting at this Internet snob. I replied “ sorry, FUCK YOU.” As far as I knew, nobody posted the rules for Internet etiquette.

Another time, the wife and I attended the wedding of the daughter of some close friends. The wedding was up in the mountains in Humboldt County, and was going feature a native American peyote ceremony the night before. I’d never been to a peyote ceremony, but I was willing to try their ‘medicine’. Again nobody posted any rules of expected behavior, or of what was going to go on in a big tee-pee that evening. The Indians didn’t speak to white men, and these folks were so baked form smokin’ weed all day that they could barely sit up straight and clean the little buttons they couldn’t wait to consume. Well this pre-nuptial barf-fest got started pretty late ( they were all too stoned to start getting high) and I was getting tired. I sat through an hour or two of this dis-organized shit and wanted to leave before all the puking began ( my bias being munchies over vomiting on yourself if you’re gonna have a side effect)….. But I didn’t know the rules. You just couldn’t get up and leave as I wanted. No you had to go up front and stand there in front of everybody and get ceremonially smoked. Look at me, I’m bailing on ya.   Nobody posted the rules

There is one place however that does post the rules, and post them very clearly. When you go and visit your loved ones in County Jail, all the rules are their right at the entrance for all to see. Guess the place is already full of folks that didn’t know the rules, and they don’t want any more coming in.

So if you expect me to act a certain way, let me know. POST THE RULES

Talking Machines

Just when I thought that I was running out of things to rant about, I got an automated call from UCLA Medical, where I had a orthopedic referral for my foot. It was a talking machine, which in a very pleasant and polite female voice, asked of me to confirm my appointment for the next day. It was a nice voice, soothing, helpful and conveying a willingness to be of service. Kinda took me by surprise, for I haven’t had such an uplifting conversation from a stranger in a long time; at least one that I wasn’t being charged $3.00 a minute for. I was euphoric; filled with wellbeing. So, with an attitude of loving-kindness, I pressed 1 for English, and filled with universal love, 2 for Confirm.I felt aglow, pressed the pound sign and hung-up.

Now I was lucky. I knew I was talking to a machine (I was un-medicated at the time), but it was a pleasant machine, programmed for politeness, not abuse. Good thing someone didn’t flip the switch in the back of this gadget to evil, for I would’ve had a whole different experience if some female sounding like my ex-wife was callin’: “Hey bum-fuck, get off your lazy ass and get it to the doctor…and where’s my check?”. My (present) wife even gets calls from machines letting her know that Her medication is either running out or on its way in the mail. How wonderful, I never get my medication in the mail; it would be a serious felony. That would go on my permanent record.

During the recent elections I got tons of calls from machines, asking me to do this or that. I even got a call from Charlie Sheen. He was going on about something, but I just wanted know if all he really did was sit around in shorts and cool shirts all day, drinking beer and screwing women. I was persistent, but he wouldn’t answer, and I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise. Some programmer probably slipped some ex-wife software into his spiel. I could go on, but I’ll have my machine call ya and fill you in on the details.

 

Guest Geezer Post

Oh woe is me!  With the conversion of General Motors to Government Motors,  my Pontiac Vibe became an orphan and.  If that wasn’t bad enough, with the end of this date,  I no longer can look forward to count-down days.  It’s all over for me and my fellow Gregorian calendar users.  It was fun while it lasted.  It’s gone folks, and many will never know what they’ve just lost.

Counting down to doom or triumph has long been a part of our everyday lives.  Cross a street on any given day in any great metropolis and you’ll be prompted to pick up your pace with red neon numbers counting off the seconds that the signal will hold motorists at bay for your passage.  Trip to the moon,  or infinity and beyond,  and you’ll encounter yet another countdown.  Mission Control in Houston has not even up on launch countdowns, just launches for which countdowns would be recited, and there is certain to be a year-end countdown in Times Square.

Alas, my last countdown is today,  December 11, 2010.  12, 11, 10.  Dates in sequential numeric order cease for this generation,  just as palindromic years ended in 2002.  Perhaps I’m assigning too much emotion to what amounts to be an abstract.  There are still plenty of number patterns to beguile us, as any Soduku puzzle player will attest. Furthermore, some cultures still have calendars which might provide a numerically sequential year in an existing life-span.

There will continue to be number patterns beyond 12/11/10.  Think math,  BIG MATH!   As for lowly me, I just need to fire myself up for the straight sets in Yahtzee  and not dwell on my loss.  Besides, with time running out for all mankind in 2012, my Mayan chums just don’t seem to give much weight to my little lost countdown.

Geezerpuss Rex, the Less Elder signing off….

 

 

 

 

 

The Ultimate Arguement For Gay Marriage

Same sex marriage used to be legal in California, then it wasn’t, but now it is, but is stuck in a legal limbo in the appellate courts. I say let gays marry. Even if you don’t like gays, ever more so the reason to let em tie the knot. Now there’s a lot of arguments against gay marriage. But they really don’t hold water because of the faulty assumption that marriage has somehow made it to the endangered species list; or that God ordained marriage as indicated in the Bible.

The first argument against same sex marriage is: it’s not Biblical. Well, a lot of stuff is Biblical, like “an eye for an eye”; but who wants a bunch of blind people walking around? And those “holy men”, the Patriarchs. Those guys idea of marriage was a bunch of wives and a stable of live-in whores called concubines. “America’s Best Christian”, Betty Bowers explains what true traditional marriage is on You Tube. Check it out; will blow your mind. To me, anything that you need a license to start, and a court order to end is not sanctimonious nor holy, but barley a baby-step above having your dog licensed. The other standard argument is: same sex marriage will destroy the family. Well let me share a little secret. Every family has ‘One’ and it hasn’t destroyed any families I know of. I have a gay sibling, and for her it wasn’t just a matter of choosing a frivolous flamboyant life-style. It wasn’t her fault; she fell out of the crib, not me.

My conservative friends are probably thinking: “Hansi, you’re full of shit and have been dipping into the medicine jar again.” Well, perhaps. And I’d have to plead no contest on both counts. You can also call me and old hippie who’s in favor of socializing everything from senior citizen’s health care to their retirement programs, but here’s the clincher, the Ultimate Argument For Gay Marriage: If you’re a true homophobe (which I’m not), and really hate them homos , then you Want them to marry!! Yup. Let every last one of them walk down that aisle of doom. It’s a statistical fact the every other marriage (50%) fails. Why should us straights enjoy all the ‘benefits’ of marriage: nasty divorces, years of child support, financial ruin, alimony, and leave the gays out of all this sacred fun. It would be like ol’ Rush wishin’ them love, wealth, and peace of mind to leave them out. No sir! You want theirs asses hurtin’, and not from you-know-what. But eating dung, like half of us are; and sometimes, not getting enough, going back for seconds, thirds, and even four helpings before we get the message. With all us heteros bailing’ on marriage; we want them gays suffering right along side of us…… but not too close.

Now how can you argue with that?

Tri Phoria: Men Are Doomed!

I hate to be so negative but it’s true. Men are doomed, or least, as I used to say in my probation reports, serve no useful purpose. Men have been replaced by machines for centuries. Recently it’s been robotics in Detroit, and computers everywhere else. Now, we’re even being replaced in the bedroom.

You won’ t believe this, and I shit you not, but early this morning I was using the remote to channel surf down from the Hallmark channel (which the wife watches after I go to bed) to the Business channel (which I watch in the morning while stretching and having my coffee) when I came across this infomercial which featured a group of women at a bridal shower raving on about this gift they’ve given to the bride that will blow her hair back. Well, it seems the folks at Trojan, the same company that provided you if all those ‘rubbers’ as a youth, has a new product out, just for women. I always thought that their products were kinda for women (why put a rib on a condom, did me little good).

Now they have the Tri Phoria personal vibrator just for the gals. And they want you to know it will “blow your hair back”.Don’t believe me? Check it out! If you don’t already have the Trojan site bookmarked, then Google Tri Phoria and see this ad for yourself. A fake bridal shower, with bride to be wearing a white veil, and all her tramp friends sitting around; everyone of these little harlots making a pitch to this gal as to how wonderful, and even better than  older models this appliance is. (I thought they was supposed to give ya a toaster, not a dildo!)

Message to newly-wed guys: When it comes to marital bliss, your ass is optional.

In an attempt to make this whole concept acceptable. Also featured is a photo of a couple, the guy with a smile of approval on his face. Don’t fall for it. He’s Gay! He’s just waiting’ for his turn to sit on that thing. You can bet your last beaver pelt that he First Dude up there in Alaska would never put up with this shit. We’ll maybe Sarah…….better not even go there.

I love the name Tri Phoria. Not only will this thing “blow your hair back” but with different attachments, there’s three ways to get you phoriating.  A double A battery will provide 30 minutes of continuous use ( if you’re not a little slut and keep it on high the whole time) . That’s 10 times the voltage ol’ Hansi can generate. You can even order one on-line….with free shipping.

Free shipping….Hmmmm, where’s my credit card.

Nerf Guns

There’s an arms race going on out there, and it’s not between us and China or some other country, but among our kids. It looks like the people who brought us the Nerf Ball are now busy arming our kids to the teeth with guns and rifles that shoot little orange darts.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not against boys playing with guns. I did. And next to playing with their penises, it’s their favorite pastime.

My 2 year old grandson loves playing with the little pump-up shooter we have at home.I pump it a few times he presses the button. I say “weeeeee” and it shoots three feet into the air. He merrily chases after it and wants to do it again, and again and again. My 7 year old grandson has a Nerf six-shooter revolver; a piece of crap that’s already broken. The kids down the street have Nerf shotguns and a rifle which comes with full clip of Nerf darts. But now for only $29.99, at Target, your kid can sit behind a Nerf Machine gun, complete with tripod and ammo belt of 25 darts, and like the kid in the Sunday ad, spray the neighborhood with a smile on his face.

I may be old fashioned, for I always preferred to make love and not war; and in the 60’s the only thing I wanted to shoot was a wad of boys into the reservoir end of a condom. But this is frickin’ over the edge. I can just see it now. My blond little grandson, who we’ll call “G I Joe” locking and loading, and laying down a field of fire on the little kid down the street, who we’ll just happen to call “Charlie” . Or get together with the other boys and do a team sport thing: shirts vs skins like in PE.   All the boys with camouflage shirts on one side, while the kids in plain white t-shirts, take them off and wrap them around their heads like a towel. Let the fun begin.

I’m not a conspiracy theorist, cause nobody seems able to keep their mouths shut long enough these days for anything to turn into a real conspiracy. But I gotta question who or what is behind this mini arms race and what it means. I can’t believe its just demand form young boys for ever more lethal weaponry. In the 50’s, I thought I had the Ultimate Weapon when I cut a crude gun shape out of plywood, stuck a clothespin on one end, and shot rubber bands made from old inner tubes about ten feet. I sure hope it’s just good ol’ American Capitalism cashing in on the latest craze. And like the hula-hoop, will die its own natural death. But if our government is somehow involved, and in anticipation of being in Afghanistan forever, is grooming the next generation of ‘volunteers’ to keep us safe, well I just don’t want to go there. “Be a real patriot son. War is fun. Those darts didn’t hurt, did they”

WE’RE  DOOMED!!