Archive for the ‘surreal’ Category

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The Shape in the Doorway

August 22, 2016

The other night… There’s shouting outside in the parking lot facing my apartment, so I get up to take a look. My door is open, but I can’t see anything between or beyond the luminosity of my back-lit front room and the darkness outdoors. I take a hit of medicinal marijuana, my third or fourth this evening, go the door holding my breath, squint then look outside.

I spot a full grown man, my neighbor’s son. He’s parked right outside my apartment and shouting something unintelligible at an assumable friend. I don’t know either’s names. And I’ve never met the man personally. I’m certain we’ve spied each other in the daytime, but neither of us have stopped, closed the gap between us and introduced one to the other.

The moment I’m ready to expel the therapeutic vapor from my lungs, that son sees me and he just stares, looking blindly at my shadowed shape in the doorway. He eventually says, “Hello, big man.”

“Odd,” I’m thinking. “Who shouts hello from parking lots to strangers after dark.

I reply with a muffled and stunted, “Hello.” And I wait until he turns away before I blow smoke.

Not much time has passed, but in truth, after four hits of marijuana, I’ve already transcended the temporal. In any respect, he – as in the man outside – he turns away and he speaks to his obvious friend. I am released, at least from that restraint on my lungs. I’ve still said nothing more then returned a greeting when those other two begin walking away. Everything seems normal, peaceful once again. But then that son turns his head and strains his neck and stares at me again.

“Odder still,” I quietly wonder. “Is he on drugs, drunk?”

“Probably,” I answer myself. “It is Friday night. Summer.” Yet his fixed gaze is disturbing, disquieting. The guy stares at me like I’m waving my dick at him.

While he disappears into darkness – the opposite direction of his mother’s apartment, I wonder, “Where is he going?” We all know there is a homeless guy in that direction, one who sells methamphetamine. The LA cops have busted the operation a couple times. They even fenced off the nearby dried-up streambed where derelicts would camp. All the same, even today, there are disaffected transients roaming outside peddling anything from yarn jewelry to much harder stuff.

“Carpe diem,” I mutter aloud and out of earshot of the strange passerby’s. “Caveat emptor.” And they are gone.

In modern American English, I still think, “Don’t stare at another man’s dick, son.” I will need to speak to his mother about this.

– Mr. Binger

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Quote the Wolf

October 27, 2014

“Lil’ red

lost her head.

So I

told the girl,

‘Your hood

is no good

anymore.’

And I

took it.”

– Mr. Binger

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The Corpus Cat Chapter Three of Thirteen

September 9, 2014

The Corpus Cat

Mr. Binger

Chapter Three of Thirteen

This cloudy Sunday morning, the Corpus couple come back together in his SUV from a Protestant church service at Saint Luke’s. They go once every month. Neither Dana nor Barry are religious people. They are not, as Barry always imagines the comic book icon, Stan Lee, would say, “True believers.”

And when Barry inks the sketches of the merry fatherly figure in his mind, he always imagines an animated Mr. Lee brandishes a silver cross and simultaneously expels bloodsuckers.

Suddenly guilty that he allows a childhood Satanic temptation to distract him so soon after sitting an hour on an uncomfortable wooden bench under the presence of God, Barry attends his original thought. He thinks as if seized in prayer.

Spiritually, he and Dana pledged to each other their own negotiated understanding of the popular and maligned Pascal Wager. Neither of them ever speak about God, they are not evangelical, not in the least. And if they were ever asked – and they never have been and they do not fear they ever will be – they would not deny His existence.

If He exists, Barry is certain he will know after being dead. And he will gladly shake the Lord’s hand and ask Him when his wife will be arriving. He is confidant they both deserve heaven. Nothing about this daydream is morbid, and merely a curiosity until he and wife arrive at home.

An unusual lightning snap whitens the sky the same second Barry raises the automatic garage door. A nearby boom rocks the stalled vehicle. Inside the SUV, Dana goes, “Whoa, that was bizarre.”

“It’s a winter lightning storm,” Barry tells her with no emotion. He takes the vehicle inside. The garage door closes as the couple open their own. He comments with a drawl, “It’s rare but not uncommon.”

“What?” Dana laughs.

Her husband continues his indistinct impression. “It’s a backwards expression from the rurals of these parts.”

“A backward education, it sounds like,” she judges.

They go into the house while Barry explains, “It means something happens sometimes.”

Dana submits her criticism to her husband when they are in the kitchen. “Who can call this winter, there hasn’t been snow all year. It’s just been cold.”

“It’s because the dry air.”

The Corpus exchange their thick jackets for thicker sweaters and automatically gather leftover meals from the days before the end of the week. Joining the couple in the living room, and appearing as fluffy as the two human beings, Dodgie comes in sniffing the air.

Outdoors, the wind suddenly sounds faster and more fierce. This force of nature presses the house the opposite direction and makes its walls creak. The windows rattle, too, but because the wind is constant, most of the glass panes clack against their sills once and stay pinned against their braces. Dodgie stops in his immaculate tracks and stares out the window.

“Ooo,” Dana expresses for everyone. Dodgie stays absolutely quiet and does not recognize the people in the room – two things the cat does best.

Blown debris flies past the undrawn window and Dana asks the animal, “Dodgie, did you see that?”

He obviously had and the cat trots into the center of the room then jumps onto the shelf below the opening. Barry broadcasts the event action. “There he goes.”

Clearly visible over the cat’s hunched shoulders, Dana and Barry watch in high clarity as late and forgotten holiday decorations are torn off houses, lifted into the sky and scattered throughout the neighborhood. Given the rage outside, the paper trash will likely go blown all over the city. And given the strength of its wind, the ornaments probably come all the way from Des Moines, Iowa. Dodgie lies rapt and scrutinizes the transformed landscape.

Indeed, the cat transforms himself into furry brick. And when a bolt of lightning hits so close to the house, and when all the windows tick as if pelted with gravel, and when the whole interior of the house is injected with white light, Dodgie remains at the glass unbothered.

“Holy!” Barry shouts after the thunder settles and he, all himself, tries to make a louder crack. Dodgie doesn’t bother with even that.

“Did you see?” Barry asks his wife. “Dodgie didn’t budge. He is either blind and deaf or he’s got balls of steel.”

Blinking her eyes, Dana inquires, “Isn’t he neutered?”

“I didn’t have the faith to take him to Bris.”

She scolds him. “Barry…”

Dodgie apparently hears her say a name and he turns his head almost completely around. The cat looks at Dana. His green eyes tell her he expects she will show him something interesting. And neither the cat nor Dana know what that something might be.

Barry makes a projection. “I think he wants to grow up in one piece.”

His wife slaps him on his shoulder and Barry argues, “We did, and keeping all of our parts was good enough for us.”

Without warning, Dana suddenly feels she will drop the smile from her face. The woman’s flush cheeks pale and droop and the corners of her lips quiver. Her husband instantly sees the depressed affect and he changes the subject. Barry points her attention to something odd and obvious. Distractions like these more often seem to help swing her mood.

“Dodgie has been scratching in his litter box a long time.”

The Corpus couple had not noticed when their pet cat jumped from in front of the window. And accustomed to his sneaking around, they weren’t particular concerned where he had gone. Outside, the wind dies and the storm has already passed. They missed its last gasp.

“I know,” Dana says dazed and more chipper. “What is he doing? You look, Barry. Whatever he covered up, he’s probably uncovered it.”

“Gee, thanks!”

And in spite of being assigned the foul chore, Barry is aware he now investigates anything unusual in the bathrooms now and ever after. His wife calls from the living room while he passes through the kitchen. “I love you.”

“Yeah. I love you, too, sweetie,” he replies then goes into the downstairs half-bath alone.

A sulfurous odor identical to that one last night makes the air in this potty-cupboard humid and acidic. Barry thinks aloud, and maybe for Dodgie’s understanding, “Damned if it is the tofu tuna, it’s probably those treats for your teeth.”

Barry switches on the overheard fan with the same motion he uses when he flips on a light. The man is shocked. Certainly, there are cat turds in the litter box and there is more. Dodgie’s silhouette dashes away in a radiant blur. Barely catching the image, Barry assumes it’s all part of one cat. He then resumes acting aghast.

When he gazes into the litter once more, he sees the feces is stale and embedded with saturated silica crystals. The fossilized feline pellets don’t truly smell but they should have been flushed when they were fresh two days ago.

Cat scatology aside, Barry sees the name of his deceased son. “Again?”

Dana overhears him ask himself in a loud voice. She already knows the answer but she repeats the question and asks her husband, “Again?”

“Yes,” he says beneath his breath. He meant not to say anything even if this reply went unheard.

The name today is written in cursive, drawn across the ragged lumps of litter. The writing confuses him and appears written by someone other than the artist who printed the bloody letters upstairs. The script has been etched much better than indicated by the crosshatch scratches the Corpus had heard from the other room.

Acting on instinct as much as the damned admission slipped out of his mouth because alarm, Barry drags the sole of his dress shoe through the glass beads, digging up stiff logs of poop and setting them on their ends. He chides himself, “Hey, you, remember to dump this one, too, when you do the box upstairs.”

Eager for an answer, Dana asks her husband again, “Really?”

His answer is stalled so long, she joins him in the kitchen. Dana stands directly behind the man and pokes her nose against the back of his neck. Unexpected of her, she insists, “Don’t erase it.”

“You want to see it?” Barry had not wished it for himself, and he is surprised his wife wants to view the evidence.

“Too late,” he says before she discovers he’s wiped the writing away.

“Why?” Dana asks him before she sees what he’s done. Her question is the same but she does not repeat herself. When she sees, she says, “Oh, Barry.”

He tells her, “I’m sorry. I was thinking of you…”

“I know,” she says when she interrupts him. Dana rolls her head and grasps her husband’s arm. He wraps his other around her back and hugs the woman.

“Are you sure it was there?” she asks him. Barry starts wondering about himself.

Dana points at the overfilled litter box. “Dump that, please.”

… continued tomorrow…

 

 

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A Man Who Does Not Care

August 21, 2014

 

The man is not insensitive,

The exact opposite.

He just does not care.

One day I warned him,

“I saw a spider go into your ear.”

He said, “There are three.”

“There are three of them in there.”

“Two are standing up,”

“Each on six”

“Of its own legs.”

 

– Mr. Binger

 

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Monster, Monster

August 17, 2014

Monster, Monster
Mr. Binger

“Monster, monster,” a homeless man cried all night. In the day, he shouts at people, “Keep away.”

I am there at a pharmacy where outside the man squats in tattered tan trousers atop a flat, overworked cardboard mat. I’m too intimated and won’t ask him questions, but three identical kids do interrogate him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a monster.”

He thinks he’s been coy afterward because of the reply. Bloody, un-brushed teeth flash from inside a nettle of black whiskers.

The mother of the children calls off her offspring.

The family had a dog, too, and now that is gone. The animal never barked but I did spot a small mutt on a leash. I watched it tangle itself in the tether. That same leash now lies loose on the concrete sidewalk.

“Where’s Princess?” the mother asks her kids.

They tell her simultaneously, “I don’t know.”

“She belongs to you,” the mother reminds her children. “You’re suppose to take care of your animals.”

“I’m a monster,” shouts the homeless man.

The family has moved away from him and into the parking lot – and the homeless man did not address specifically them – but he sounded as if he was next to us. I paused near the fleeing family when the man’s voice sounded as if it came from the very ground beneath us.

“The bum got her,” explains the smallest of the family. He is a thin boy. His hair is also lightest. And in this guise of simple innocence, he states, “He told me his name was Mister Gobblings.”

The middle child, an equanimous brunette girl, shouts back a question for the homeless man.

“Are you a troll?”

The shocked mother quizzes the littlest kid, “You talked to him?”

The woman does not wait for an answer and instead flails at the oldest, another girl. “Were you watching your brother?”

“I was with her,” states the tallest and darkest of the children. A sharp thumb spears in the direction of her smaller sister.

Both feel the same responsibility for their little brother – a disappointment in themselves is plain on their transparent faces. Their mother acts the opposite and she looks ridiculous in her outrage.

“Well, we’re lucky the homeless man didn’t eat your little brother, too.”

The oldest child begs, “Mom…”

Her mother answers, “You heard what he calls himself.”

“Mister Gobblings,” repeats the youngest.

The homeless man yells again, “I’m a monster.”

The words make me jump.

My own shock disorients me.

Once I have recomposed enough of my awareness, I recognize I eavesdrop on the family’s conversation in the pharmacy parking lot. I avert my attention. The woman’s voice lingers in the air and I recall I heard her call for help.

“Hello, police?”

She uses a mobile phone, I saw so before I turned away my face. The rest of her summons occurs out of my range of hearing. Also vanished from my sight, I assume the woman goes away and takes her children somewhere safe and middle class.

“I’m a monster,” shouts the homeless man.

I do not look at him but I do feel certain he does not tell me again. I think he would say the same to me over and over, except other customers enter the pharmacy. Three immature men and an older teenaged girl stop walking before any pass the homeless man.

“What did you say?” growls a gruff young fellow.

Another boy among the three asks the transient, “What’s your name?”

Curious, I approach the encounter. Cautious, I stay quiet and shield my body behind the youngsters. Fast food has ensued me these teenagers provide plenty of cover, even at their early ages. Unfortunately, their extra padding insulates sound and the conversation within their circle remains mostly incomprehensible. The only words I do hear is when the homeless calls himself, “Mister Gobblings.”

The older kids chuckle, I clearly hear them laugh. I watch the older girl who stands between two of the three boys. There were two guys on her left before I glanced at her bouncing bottom, then I look back and I see that she jogs in place with nobody opposite her last male companion on her right.

She screams, “Who are you?”

The homeless man stays hidden from me. I assume the young woman was shouting at him until I hear his reply. The echo of his voice comes from behind me, from further away than a city block but not far.

“Monster, monster.”

The remaining adolescent couple drifts apart and plainly show the self-deprecating transient has gone. They have vanished, too, when cops arrive.

“He’s over there,” I tell the police and point east. “You can hear him calling – it’s a warning. His name is Mister Gobblings.”

“You heard that?” one of two trim female officers asks me after she and her partner exit their squad car. A smile drifts unto her flush cheeks. She clarifies, “I mean, did you hear that from somebody?”

“I heard him say his name,” I tell both police officers.

The second professional woman comments, “Uh-uh, everybody knows you’re not suppose to ask him his name.”

She snickers then her amusement infects the first cop I spoke with.

“I’m just trying to be helpful,” I plea. “I don’t want to get involved, not really.”

“I didn’t make the phone call. I didn’t see anything that’s probably not on camera – look, it’s a pharmacy.”

My gesture toward the roof of the building goes ignored. The first officer tells me, “Sorry. Mister Gobblings is a hoax, an urban myth.”

“Huh?”

“Everybody knows about him. You don’t ask him his name.”

The second brusque lady claims, “If he tells you his name, you’re marked for life.”

Disoriented, I claim, “But the teenagers…”

The second officer interrupts me and states, “That explains everything.”

“He’s gone now,” opines the first.

They both then wish me, “Good day, sir,” and they go into the pharmacy. Outside, I only stammer, “I never asked his name, I only overheard him say…”

-_End=

Gnawing for more? Read more from Mr. Binger and the originally author Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords

 

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Those Veils of Satan

August 5, 2014

Those Veils of Satan
Matthew Sawyer

Any Christian apologist worth his or her published book royalties must address the problem of the devil. The faithful must know what the archfiend is up to still. And the world has heard enough about his damnable self scattering dinosaur bones across the face of the Earth. People are bored, they lose interest and don’t buy reprints. “They don’t go to museums to see the same old stuff,” one must admit to oneself. “Not anymore they don’t.”

People rather hear about Satan undermining Jesus Christ. Saint Justin Martyr insisted the devil counterfeited all the Christian mysteries. “The fiend made copies,” he said. “There were antichrists before the Messiah was born.” I paraphrased.

Satan wrought confusion and doubt long before a particular Son of God even touched the ground. Good ole’ Justin pretty much left his answer there. The decapitated man might not have had time to say more before he and his friends lost their heads in 168 AD to urban perfect Junius Rusticus. Justin’s dramatic soliloquy instead made the handwriting of the day.

“That is our desire, to be tortured for Our Lord, Jesus Christ, and so to be saved, for that will give us salvation and firm confidence at the more terrible universal tribunal of Our Lord and Saviour.”

– J. Quasten, Patrology vol. 1, p.196-197

Then again, the bygone saint may have been martyred at some divinely-inspired moment. Surely by now, we all know how God thinks. He has a pronounced modus operandi. Mankind may not yet know what shadows the devil throws. For even especially in the Garden of Eden, there were mysteries suspended before our primal ancestors and both were commanded not to look.

That was when Satan allegedly convinced Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge and see for herself. From what most grown-up believers eventually come to believe, God engineered the event. He promoted the Fall then designed a plan for redemption that would satisfy himself with the blood of his only analogous child. It’s all there in the Book.

And according to Justin, Satan proactively sought to obscure the whole gory affair. The devil presumably did so, according to Justin, to stem a flow of reborn sinners into an ever-after paradise. Although a morbid number of true believers since reading has been taught in schools does suggest the subterfuge was overkill.

Where now is there harm in peeking behind those veils the devil has cast? Certainly a sentence forever in the Lake of Fire can’t be made any longer. And for those who yet cling to hope or find some way to grab hold a golden rung, all one must do is ask forgiveness.

For those of us who remain in flame, we see the flickering shadows latter-day apologists need revisit. They must reveal insights to us unwashed and re-dirtied masses. Where is the harm in them shedding light? That’s what they are suppose to do. They are professionals and they are shielded from divine punishment because all their evangelizing. And in their worldview, there is no sin found in book and DVD sales. Anyway, it has been too long since anyone has addressed this particular subject.

Alexander Hislop, a Scottish minister and dead since March 13 1865, he essentially claimed in his book Two Babylons, 1858, all pagan beliefs and Christian rituals originate in a just barely-historic Babylon. 4000 to 3500 BC. There Satan first under-painted the mystery of Jesus in history and desecrated the timeless sanctity of a mother and her child.

The Bible itself mentioned Semiramis and her resurrected son Tammuz. Semiramis was the wife of Nimrod, Ninus in Greek and the great grandson of the Biblical Noah. He was said to have tried building the Tower of Babel. She was a harlot who seized control of Babylon and she will be the whore who rides atop the dragon in the Book of Revelations.

Semiramis, Satan tells us, was the progenitor for Mary, the virgin mother of Christ. She claimed herself to be the Mother of Heaven and made herself a goddess. This, the woman accomplished, after she tricked her husband into being torn apart by hallucinating religious fanatics.

Understand, Babylon was a new, pagan civilization; the first civilization. Like all pagans, the early citizens of the walled city-state recognized the cycle of seasons and an annual death and rebirth of every year. They sacrificed a lamb at the recurring occasion. They took plenty of psychedelic drugs and tore the living animal apart with their bare hands.

A newborn lamb was then produced from nowhere and this one was fattened up for the same ritual murder the following year. Semiramis convinced Nimrod that he was that lamb. How she managed such a diabolic feat is vague, but she was said to tell her husband he was a god. Like the lamb, he would be reborn. And when all of Babylon witnessed his resurrection, he – like his tower was meant to be – Nimrod himself would rise to heaven.

He did not come back to life. His evil widow instead produced a son. His name was Tammuz. So that he would not be sacrificed next year, his mother proclaimed the boy was Nimrod resurrected. There would be games every year from then on. And while Semiramis ruled as the queen of Babylon, the image of her and her son together grew beyond the mundane. They were depicted on idolatry in the vestige of mother and child – Aphrodite and Eros in Greece, Venus and Cupid in Rome – the Pieta by Michelangelo.

Fitting a goddess, Semiramis adopted a new origin, one fitting a queen and not the prostitute she had been. This latter truth was hidden from the tribes of Israel. Nimrod probably knew who Semiramis truly had been but the mortal man was fatally deluded in love.

Semiramis claimed she was born half-fish with the head of a human girl. Horrified, her mother threw her away and the infant chimera was adopted by birds. The strange creature became a woman. After finishing her reign in Babylon she was said to have then grown wings and flown up to heaven.

Her son, Tammuz, was said to have been born from an egg. He was killed by a stag when he was hunting one day and his mother is still today told to have wept forty days. Her sorrow and endless tears resurrected the killed boy. This became the representation of the yearly cycle of seasons. Ezekiel 8:14 cites as much…

“Then He brought me to the entrance of the gate of the Lord’s house which was toward the north; and behold, women were sitting there weeping for Tammuz.”

– Ezekiel 8:14 New American Standard Bible (NASB)

Semiramis became Ishtar in Mesopotamia and the rebirth of Tammuz was called Easter long before the Roman Catholic Church reassigned the pagan holiday a Christian theme. They also did not reveal Semiramis of Babylon invented crucifixion. The torture and execution was first implemented thousand of years ago.

The Canaanites believed these stories. The trinity of Nimrod, Semiramis and Tammuz spread across the known world and adopted new names. In Egypt 2400 BC, there were the roughly equivalent fables of Osiris, Isis and Horus.

Unlike the Sumerians who eventually settled on Marduk as their supreme deity, the Egyptians did not taste monotheism until Akhenaten, 1351 -1336 BC. He proclaimed himself the only sun deity and introduced halos and immortality to the world. Given the Egyptian ruler’s original name was Amenhotep IV, it is irresistibly curious to wonder if the conclusion in prayer, “Amen,” had been preserved because his egotistical impact.

Undistracted for long by Satan’s idle lure, we return to that devil’s veils over the time line of Creation and course of salvation. In Egypt again, 387 – 283 BC, Ptolemy 1 Meryamun Setepenre proclaimed himself “Sotor,” savior. And said he was Christ and he heralded resurrection. There were Christians hundreds of years before the Messiah was born. And there was a whole nation who rejected him because he came as a conqueror. Hadrian wrote to Servianus, 134 AD…

“Egypt, which you commended to me my dearest Servianus, I have found to be wholly fickle and inconsistent and continually wafted about by every breath of fame. The worshippers of Serapis here are called Christians and those who are devoted to the god Serapis (I find) call themselves Bishops of Christ.”

The image of this bearded antichrist bears a disturbing resemblance to the condoned Caucasian semblances of the Christian lord.

Still, only a little of the devil’s deception is so late. His dark veils have covered Greece and the Etruscan empire since before 1500 BC. More popular saviors with Christ-like powers materialized in these regions. Here is where Mithra and Dionysus appeared. Satan uncovered these fallen angels, these demons because the Roman Catholic Church declared they were.

Setting these Bronze Age deities to age, Satan encouraged other mortal men than Ptolemy 1 to assume the forged role of the Son of God. Simon of Peraea was killed by Rome in 4 BC. The man was rumored to be the Messiah while he fought to deliver his Jewish nation from foreign oppressors. His body vanished after four days leaving his undying followers only hope. They claimed he would reappear alive. He never did.

There are a myriad veils.

Let us ignore all the ancient Sanskrit Satan forged hundreds and a thousand years before, those that record the ideas of the Jewish and Gentile messiah before he said them or he was even born. In that time Jesus graced the living with his presence on Earth in Galilee, a man named Apollonius of Tyana toured Greece. Satan put him into this world 15 – 100 CE to do those same things Jesus said in the Middle East. Saran made Apollonius say what Christian apostles will write down generation after their Lord was born, before Jesus died for the sins of the world then rescue far fewer people than believers know from the pain of hell.

– Matthew Sawyer

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Do Fruit Take Pleasure In Being Eaten

July 30, 2014

Sunday, my new neighbors were having sex while kids on skateboards and roller skates rode outside on the public side their bedroom window. The sidewalk makes a loop around the apartment complex so the children made multiple passes. Here is where a clever or indecent allusion should go, but won’t. This post is about mundane reality. And psychiatric hearsay might claim there alone is the reason for my neighbor’s untamed hedonism. That is according to my knowledge, carnal and otherwise.

I don’t know if the anxious couple next door could hear the noise outside, not above the moans she made. The children didn’t notice or care. I’m sure it was something they’ve heard before anywhere around this neighborhood. An old woman who walks by everyday for sake of exercise heard. I know she ignored them. Yet I was distracted. I try to write, so when I see one of those two, I think I will let him or her know, “I heard you stub your toe.”

“Why would you say anything?” readers are expected to ask, that is the writing convention. If America is truly a Christian nation, 85% of the literate population is intended to have stopped reading. I don’t need an argument for these good folks. The transgression is understood.

Only an Evangelical would insist I show these sinners a picture. But, hey, maybe they can’t take a subtle hint…

Inferno

 

 

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