I blame my disease on the Russians. There, the secret is out, I said it. Until they are proven innocent, my claim stands. Maybe Congress or CNN will investigate my claim. There has to be a headline there; a morsel of food to throw out to a hungry and angry world. I’m sure I am not the only victim. I suspect that it was my entire generation they had in their sights.
Was it the heinous Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale who orchestrated this dastardly deed? Who knew and when did they know? Did they report to Khrushchev; have a direct line to JFK via Marilyn Monroe and the KGB? Or were they merely wanna-be bad guys, faux villains if you will, Soviet agents too inept for the Gulag, banished to the American entertainment industry and cast in the starring roles of a 1960s cartoon?
It had to be the likes of these two that devised a way to kill off my dopamine-producing brain cells during my formative years. To think that my parents left me alone, unsupervised, in front of a black and white television for minutes on end watching a show that was clearly designed to destroy one’s ability to think critically. How could these simple people, living their simple lives, have known that there were bad people out there without the modern-day the elites telling them what to think and how to live?
It screams of child abuse. Were there no heroes who could have saved us from this despicable act? Really, a moose with a slight lisp and a flying squirrel?
Voices of Reason
The voice of reason in public discourse is all but gone. Hysteria has taken its place leaving behind a combination of straw men and groupthink. Statesmen caved to squealing shills, and those sent to lead locked arms with the lemmings. Those once dubbed the defenders of democracy, are now exposed for what they are — mouthpieces for the vacuous souls who lack the gravitas to present just the facts. If we cannot rely on these elite to shelve their ideology and temper their hubris, what chance is there that they can identify the
A Time to Laugh
I make no apologies for my seemingly irreverent attitude toward my disease. I’ve shed my share of tears when comfort was allusive and used my bowling words when I thought it would help amplify my voice.
It’s time to learn to live with what I have because quite frankly, it is the very thing I can no longer outrun.
A right time to kill and another to heal,
A right time to destroy and another to construct,
A right time to cry and another to laugh,
A right time to lament and another to cheer,
A right time to search and another to count your losses,
A right time to hold on and another to let go, A right time to shut up and another to speak up.
~the Original Quester
Thanks for your patience and for reading, liking and sharing,
Sure Ivy; we can make amends with the Russians. We can invite them over for a Moscow Mule.
Al and his faithful, but diplomatically naive side-kick, Ivy the wonder pup.
That’s good to know, Ivy. We should cover the carpet. Mules can be messy. And hide the good silverware?