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Rain, irrigation systems & sacrificial children . . .

Apparently I have done something to irritate the ancient god Tlaloc, a high-ranking deity in the Aztec religion whose responsibilities included rain, fertility and water, turning such on or off as circumstances dictated—yeah, good luck on that fertility part!

I briefly thought of saying that I must have done something to piss off Tlaloc rather than irritating him, but I decided to use a more socially accepted term to avoid irritating my legions of visitors. I also have a lofty position to maintain among my minions, and I do have my standards.

Wikipedia gave me far more than I needed or wanted to know about Tlaloc. I’ll try to capsule the information pertinent to my belief that Tlaloc exercised his godly talents to rain on my parade. On this date, workers began their second day on the installation of a state-of-the art irrigation system for my kingly domicile, my palace. Yes, my palace. Must I remind you that I am the King of Texas, properly appointed and anointed?

In the unlikely probability that there may be one or more unlearned among you, my kingly suggestion is to click here to learn who, what, when, where and why I became the King of Texas and became saddled with the task of keeping this horde of 24,782,302 Texans effectively subjugated and at bay. However, I can honestly say with no trace of humility or modesty that I am fitted for the task. In fact, I am seriously overqualified.

The team of irrigation system workers include some that may have been dragged kicking and screaming across our southern border and then enslaved to perform tasks shunned by my native followers. My millions of minions are supposed to be devoted to serving their master and their King—that’s me—relentlessly but they far too often fall short, both of their devotion and also that relentlessly part.

Until today San Antonio was suffering a very serious drought, so severe that several of the surrounding ranchers are claiming their cows are giving powdered milk instead of the real thing—now that’s a serious drought! Since the first of March, San Antonio has received only 0.04 inches of rain, one of the driest springs on record—the average for that three-month period is 9.91 inches. I can only use sprinklers for a total of seven hours each week, from 3:00 AM until 8:00 AM on Thursday morning and from 8:00 PM until 10:00 PM on that same day. Hand-held watering is allowed at any time, as are soaker hoses and drip irrigation. The term hand-held watering refers to the use of hand-held garden hoses or hand-held containers.

At mid-morning today the wind arose, the sky grew dark and the thunder rolled, just as Garth Brooks said in his hit song, and the rains began and continued through mid-afternoon, more than sufficient enough to cause the work crew to batten down the hatches and leave the work site.

My back yard now resembles the Cambodian landscape during Khmer Rouge’s depredations during the late 1970s—rivers of mud dotted with shell holes and equipment—no bodies, of course, or at least none that I’ve come across. However, those trenches are rather deep—I may have overlooked someone.

Tlaloc is in control now, and he will decide whether to sacrifice more crying children to induce further downpours or be satisfied with those he has already dispatched and the rain that ensued.

I failed to mention the sacrifices, and that failure was simply an oversight on my part. When rain was needed, the Aztec high priests took beautifully adorned children to the tops of temples and sacrificed them to Tlaloc in the hope that he would bring rain for their crops.

If the children cried en route to the sacrificial site then rain was ensured, and if they did not cry the priests would tear off the children’s fingernails in order to achieve that effect. However, let’s not be too hard on the priests. After all, they had a job to do and besides, the children sacrificed were always either slaves or the second-born children of Aztec nobles—very thoughtful, those priests!

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

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Posted by on May 12, 2011 in death, Humor, race, religion

 

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Notes on a tiger and its stripes . . .

This posting will present my analysis of, and my comments on, the path that Tiger Wood has followed over the past few years, leaving behind a trail strewn with prostitutes, broken hearts and broken promises—if one can believe the prostitutes that claim their hearts have been broken.

I have my opinion regarding Tiger’s so-called sex addiction, his stint at a rehabilitation center, and his recent apology to his legions of admirers and to the rest of the world’s population, admirers as well as non-admirers—and in my opinion there are far more non-admirers than admirers. I do not believe his apology was sincere, and I don’t believe the sex addiction clinic will work any miracles, even though it is in the sovereign state of Mississippi.

Many of the non-admirers are envious, however, both for his dalliances with hookers and his ability to place a little ball, less than two inches in diameter, atop a large ball some twenty-five thousand miles in circumference and hit the little ball without touching the larger one. They admire his golfing skills, but they do not admire his lack of restraint in sexual matters.

I want to share my opinion with my viewers, limited in number though they may be, and in that endeavor I will invoke the words of some of the wisest men that ever lived. That will include conjuring up long-passed notables such as Henry David Thoreau, Omar Khayyam, Jimmy Carter, Red Foxx and Sir Walter Scott. Note that I have lined out Jimmy Carter, not only because he has not passed as of this writing, but because I do not believe he qualifies for membership in this group of thinkers—I will still quote him, regardless.

As for the remorse voiced by Tiger Wood, the greatest golfer in the world, one of the world’s most prolific seekers of sex for sale and the purchaser thereof—in my opinion the remorse rings hollow. Tiger is not sorry he committed an outstanding, perhaps record setting, string of indiscretions. He’s just sorry that his wife finally got fed up with them and with him, and announced her displeasure with the help of a #9 golf club. She would have to be blind and deaf with no knowledge of Braille to not have known that something was rotten in Denmark (with apologizes to Denmark).

If she did not know, or at least had strong suspicions that Tiger was, and is a serial philanderer, she would have to be the ultimate victim of ADD, the attention deficit disorder that has become so prevalent in recent years. In my opinion, she is not ADD.

I refuse to believe that legions of his admirers believe the story that his wife shattered the windows of his Cadillac Escalade in order to rescue and administer to his injuries, if any. I believe that she truly meant to minister to him, but not to care for any injuries he may have suffered in the crash. I believe she had it in her heart to inflict some deadly serious injuries on him, up to and including a death blow.

Tiger’s wife says she found Tiger inert, apparently unconscious after his vehicle took out a fire hydrant and smashed into a tree near his home. I believe that Tiger was simply and wisely playing possum, a feint that may have saved his life, or at least lessened the possibility of a death blow from the #9 iron.

This just in: GM has recalled all its Cadillac Escalades for demagnetization. The company has concluded that the vehicles are over-magnetized, as evidenced by the recent malfunction of Tiger Wood’s Cadillac SUV at his home—drawn by the magnetism in his Escalade, a metal golf club flew out a window of Tiger’s home and shattered the Escalade’s windows.

I will now invoke the words of Jimmy Carter, a former president of the United States, as told in an interview that appeared in Playboy magazine. The ex-president from Georgia said something on the order of:

Although I have never transgressed, I have lusted in my heart.

Carter is an honest man—not the brightest card in the deck, but honest.

And now for a quote, one that I have badly corrupted, from Sir Walter Scott’s, The Lay of the Last Minstrel (the italicized and bolded words are not Sir Walter’s—they are mine):

Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land! Hot dang, I’d like to have some of that!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand! Las Vegas.
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentrated all in self, A
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, perfect
And, doubly dying, shall go down description
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, of
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Tiger!

The point I am making, however crude and obtuse, is that no man has ever lived—at least no manly man—that did not lust—perhaps with little more than a twinge of lust, but lust nevertheless—in his heart at the sight of a beautiful woman, whether in magazines, in the movies or on the street, whether fully clothed, scantily clad or nude, whether in a gentleman’s club or pictured in enticing positions in many of our nation’s magazines for men. And in my opinion no man will ever live and not have the same thought in those situations, namely, Hot dang, I’d like to have some of that!

Tiger can be likened to a tomcat, and we are all aware of a tomcat’s activities, mostly nocturnal but no tomcat has ever waited for the cover of darkness if the conquest is available in daylight. And trust me, once a tomcat’s proclivities and his routine are established, nothing will ever change him short of death. His routine will continue even if he is relieved of his ability to sire offspring or even to minister to members of the opposite gender, or the same gender should he be so inclined.

Nope, it will not keep a tomcat at home nights even if he is subjected to a surgical process, the very thought of which causes nightmares for the male of the human species, and probably for every tomcat. Be advised, however, that the tomcat will still make his rounds every night. The only difference is that following the surgery he goes out as a consultant.

Now let’s bring Red Foxx into the discussion: Red Foxx, when he was accused of being a dirty old man replied,Yes, I”m a dirty old man, and I’m gonna stay a dirty old man until I’m a dead old man!

‘Nuff said, Tiger?

A leopard can’t change its spots, nor can a tiger change its stripes. Those spots and stripes will be with those animals as long as they live. No amount of money spent at a sexual addiction treatment center will change Tiger Wood, and no amount of new births, a process offered by the Buddhist religion he professes, will change him. The urge will always be there, and the best thing he can do is accept its presence and control it.

He shouldn’t waste time trying to extinguish something that burns with a flame so bright and hot that it cannot be extinguished—its flame can only be dampened by the use of free will. It’s his flame and it will stay with him. It will still be with him when he departs for that ultimate golf tournament, the one hosted by Saint Peter and the angels—or the one hosted by Lucifer and his minions, whichever is the case.

Had Tiger come to me for advice before staging his return to the media’s bright lights, I would have advised him to decline the opportunity, no matter how well staged—and it was staged, with nary a question permitted. My expert advice for him would have been—and still is—just five words:

Shut up and play golf!

And now to support that sage advice, a quote from Khayyam’s Rubaiyat:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

Tiger should pay heed to Omar’s words—he cannot change one iota of the past, so he should shut up and play golf!

An important footnote: I have oft’ quoted and will continue to quote an author that I admire above all others—even above Bill O’Reilly! In Thoreau’s  Walden, or Life in the Woods, one of the most important works in the history of this country and the world, Henry David Thoreau says:

I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience.

‘Nuff said?

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2010 in Humor, marriage, Travel, Writing

 

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