Passing A Drug Test

Back in the day when I was a probation officer [Oh no, another war story], I had to test some of my ‘clients’ who had drug terms as a part of their probation.  No drug use allowed.  That meant yours truly had to watch junkies, wife-beaters and other drug-usin’ crooks pee in a small jar that I would take from them with gloved hands and send off to the lab for analysis.  Ah yes, doing your favorite thing, and, getting paid for it; don’t get much better than that.  Sometimes when I was out in the field, I had little dip-sticks (for the dip-shits) that could give me an instant read on whether or not the were clean (drug free).  A lot of my clients couldn’t pass their test, and as a result, got in a lot of trouble

Wow.  As groovy as re-living the past is, this whole thing got me to thinkin’.  What if, in a parallel universe, the definition of passing a drug test had a different meaning.  When I was in school, I was tested on what was in my brain.  And in order to pass, I had to put down the answers they wanted.  Pass or fail.  Leaving something blank, or skipping a question often times guaranteed a fail.  So…In my alternative universe, passing a drug test means you have certain drugs in your system, and if ya didn’t, Sorry Charlie, you failed.

In this universe, being on drugs is a good thing.  Maybe cause Big Pharma has finally taken over, and they want you usin’ their product.  “If ya got an affliction, there’s no restriction” on a medication to make life more tolerable.  Mandatory drug testing would assure you were using the right stuff.

Well, we all know that will never happen.  Although they are pushing vaccinations on us (and rightly so..I had the measles and chicken pox; it was no picnic), and on TV, all ya see are ads for different drugs, many with a free 15 day trial offer.  Reminds me of what the local pusher used to say, “The first fix is always free.”

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Flying Yipple-fings

When I draw yipple-fings, I prefer them flying.  I think everybody’s had fantasies about flying and being able to fly.  When I was a kid. I envied birds, how they were able to fly by just flapping their wings and soar in the sky.  I didn’t have any wings, but I sure thought a cape would do just as well.  Kinda like Superman and Batman. Although Batman never really flew by himself like Superman, he always had to use the Bat-copter or Bat-plane to go anywhere in the air.

Angels have wings, but I don’t know if they need them to fly.  They just show up, do their thing (like being our guardians) and disappear.  I bet their wings have atrophied and are more ornamental in nature. However, nobody would believe a wingless angel.  They might think it’s the devil, who was once an angel, but had his wings clipped and fell to earth.  So maybe they do need their wings, which are really anti-gravity devices.

It must have been a trip to see Jesus rise up into Heaven.  No wings.  Just straight up and outta sight.  If He did that today, it’d cause all manner of alarms and radar to go off, and He’d be swiftly met with a squadron of jet fighters armed to the teeth; America don’t mess around when it comes to unidentified flying objects (or in this case deities) intruding over our air space.  It would sure cause a shit-storm in Washington if President Obama allowed Him to fly over the States.  The Republicans would probably petition God, telling Him that right could be rescinded after Obama left office, and that Jesus better have a proper documentation or He’ll be deported.

Schwandal Poofs

Another set of small drawings I call Schwandal Poofs.  Not to be confused with Wavel Furds or Divel-Fipps of earlier posts.  These are totally different – more schwandal poofian in nature.  It’s quite obvious that my Divel-Fippian period is over and it’s time to explore other areas, while still keeping elements of my Waval-Furd roots.

Sure hope ya like em.  That would make me happy.  So have a puff and enjoy a poof.

Heaven

When I die, I’m goin’ to Heaven.  Or so I thought at one time cause I sure didn’t want to go to Hell.  Ya ever wonder what Heaven is gonna be like when we finally get there?  I’m dying to know.  [Couldn’t let that one pass – but it is too bad that only dead people really know what Heaven is like – the living can only guess, or take it on the word of others  who are only guessing].  All I know for sure is: in Heaven everybody has wings, plays a harp (not the blues harmonic variety) and has a halo over their head.  And…there’s no sex!   Nope.   The Apostle Paul (a life long bachelor) said that in the resurrection we’ll be like angels and that we’d all be one, neither male nor female, in Christ.  Sounds like a great big group hug to me.

Aside from no sex, which would be alright with me cause I’m almost there now, but would still like keep the option open, Heaven must be a very relaxing place.  Stress free, very mellow.  If there’s realms in Hell like Dante said (I worked in one for 30 years), there must be realms in Heaven too.  God has got to be at the top, with Jesus right next to him, the Apostles under Him and so on.  For someone like me who just barely qualifies, there’s got to be lower or entry levels.  Still good, but not up there with the saints like Mother Theresa and Tammy Fay Baker.  That’s cool with me.  I’ve always preferred to do my own thing.  But in heaven, my thing will no longer be sinful.  Maybe that’s another reason why there won’t be sex in Heaven.

I wonder if you can hang-out with your friends up there in Heaven?  Being with your loved ones all the time can get pretty boring.  It was back down on earth.  Sadly, a lot of my friends won’t be up there with me.  They’ll be burning up in Hell, having all the sex they want, and I’ll only be able to look down upon them with fond remembrance while they’re screwing their brains out.  [The reason there’s so much sex going on in Hell is not because it’s such a loosely run wicked place.  Hell no!  Satan is in firm control.  It’s because Hell is the opposite of Heaven, and if there’s no sex in Heaven, well there’s gotta be a lot of it in Hell, or so the logic goes.  Plus, Hell is a place of punishment, so all that sex isn’t meant for your enjoyment but rather torture so you can suffer for your sins (usually too much sex) for all eternity.  See, in Hell you gotta have sex all the time, with no breaks, and with the same person for ever and ever amen.  If you had an ex-wife*, she’d be the first candidate.

Too bad Heaven isn’t somewhere here on Earth.  People would be lined up for miles to get in, even if it were held in some retirement community clubhouse.

*Or ex-husband as the case may be.  Although everybody in Heaven is asexual (mens penises fall off during the resurrection**, making Heaven a truly heavenly place cause ya don’t have to get up three times a night to pee), everybody in Hell is fully sexed which adds to the sexual tension which is part of the eternal punishment, plus, there’s no K Y Jelly (too flammable).  God does work in strange ways.

**Next time you’re outside and feel something plop on your head, it may not be from a bird, but just some old geezer wafting his way up to heaven.

 

Reptile Dysfunction Redux

Does anybody read the crap lost in the Archives, you know, the stuff that’s two to three months old. I thought so. The answer is No. And that’s a good thing. It means I can recycle some of my earlier stuff and nobody will know.

Having a blog is sorta like being in a band. At the beginning of a group, there’s a lot of energy and creativity. A lot of good stuff is cranked out for the first two, maybe three albums, them Zippo. A Greatest Hits album, then obscurity. The juices stop flowing, and it’s a regurgitation of now worn out lyrics. I mean, how long can a group of young men angrily scream about how they’re not getting laid, in a thrash metal band, before one of them actually does get laid, and comes to the conclusion that he much more prefers Barry White to punk music, because he gets more action with Barry than black n blue in some damn mosh-pit listening to the Misfits or Some Other Trash (not an actual band).

So I’m gonna re-lay some Solid Gold on ya, about Reptile Dysfunction. Now this is a delicate subject for a limp lizard is embarrassing. But not embarrassing enough to advertise the shit out of remedies for this affliction. And, there’s nothing better than stories about wee-wees turning into WEE-WEES.

A few years ago there started to appear on television, really ambiguous commercials featuring older couples longingly looking at each other with sappy looks on their faces, who ended up in separate bathtubs out in the country or at the end of a pier. Now I wasn’t paying much attention back then, and thought I heard them talking about Reptile Dysfunction. That didn’t make much sense to me cause I didn’t see any lizards or anything. But then I found out that they weren’t talking about reptile dysfunction but Erectile Dysfunction, or E D. Now that made more sense, cause  I wasn’t seein’ any snakes, and apparently, neither was she.

It now appears, at least from the number of ED spots on the evening news, that there is an epidemic of us old dinosaurs with limp lizards that just can’t raise our ding dongs: old guys begin’ for a boner, wishing for a woodie, suffering from lack of stiffies, or just plain hankerin’ for a hard on. I wonder what’s the cause of this ailment? How could something that worked so wonderfully as a teenager, peter out on ya late in life? Maybe it’s those sixty plus hours a week ya work, the pressure to put kids through college, maxing out your 401K. Or maybe it just gets down to this: after 30 years, how many more times can ya keep hitting that same thing???

Now most of these commercials are really stupid in their attempt to be more metaphorical than real. I like the Ciallis for daily use commercials. Show me a 50 year old guy that needs that for “daily” use, and I’ll show you a guy who ain’t married or in a long—term relationship. So what do these couples do when that romantic moment hits, like when cleaning out the garage or doing the laundry? Get naked and do it?? Flop her over a sawhorse and do it doggie style? Hell No!! That would be just awful. No, it’s a leisurely romantic stroll before anything meaningful starts.

Or the two folks in them separate bathtubs? How the hell you gonna do the big nasty in separate tubs? They need to get their butts in a hot tub; glass of wine; a little Barry white playing in the background. Togetherness, NOT separate tubs.

Floating

Don’t ya just sometimes wish that things were weight-less and could float in the air before your eyes, and if ya wanted to, make them float over to you so you wouldn’t even have to move a muscle to get them?  I sure do, especially when I’m nearly horizontal on my Lazy-Boy recliner.  I know, sounds like total geezer heaven.  But that’s what happens if you’re on a space station where there’s no gravity except for the movie.  I wonder if that’s what it means to be ‘spaced-out’?

Most of my drawings consist of stuff floating around in a spacial area.  I call them hallucinations, but they’re really not hallucinations, just imaginations I’ve seen when in a dream-like state with my eyes closed (best way to see things).  In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real hallucination before.  But then again, if I had, it would have seemed so real that I’d never think it to be a hallucination, but just boring old reality gone berserk.

Maybe everything is a hallucination.  A distortion, perceived, not as it truly is, but filtered by our likes and dislikes; what we desire vs. what we detest.  I do that a lot: love it, hate it.  Reminds me of that old slogan, “America – Love it or leave it.”  Back in the sixties I loved America so much that I joined the National Guard so I wouldn’t have to leave it and get my ass shot in Vietnam. [mother-fuckers]

It’s a good thing that WordPress only has a Like button, and not a Dislike button.  It would be very interesting if they did.  Then you’d find out how many people thought what ya wrote was a total waste of time, and wound up so pissed-off they were too speechless to even make a comment, but had the common courtesy to say they stopped by.  [My stats would soar, and maybe  I could have the most unpopular blog on the internet]. It would be like saying, ‘fuck you’ without having to be a gross potty mouth by using the f-word.

A dislike button would be good for the TV too.  But sadly that is yet to happen.  Guess I’ll just have to use the red ‘power’ button on my remote whilst softly uttering a dis-approving fuck you.

The Book Of Hansi

Wouldn’t it be a trip to have a book of the Bible named after you?  All you Matthew, Mark, Luke and Johns know how cool it is, as do some of you Ruth, Esther and Nehemiahs.  There ain’t no Book of Hansi, or gospel according to Saint Hansi.  Maybe if my parents would have named me Deuteronomy, I wouldn’t be in such a quandary.

What if our whole world went up in smoke?  The ‘unthinkable’ happened, and all that survived of that holocaust was my (or maybe your ) blog. And, having lost all knowledge of the past regarding the arts and sciences, your blog (or better yet, my blog) became revered as the definitive source of all knowledge and wisdom.  To be studied, and copied in monasteries by following generations.  If your blog survived (which is unlikely), there could be rival factions, each claiming to hold the truth according to their blogger.

As societies started to rebuild, and reclaim lost knowledge, they could marginalize ‘the other’, leading to divisions and eventually wars over which Blog contained the truth.  Quite a novel idea.  The novel I stole it from was “A Canticle For Leibowitz” by Walter Miller Jr.  I don’t think there’s a Book of Leibowitz in the Bible.