humor · life

consider yourselves warned

Over the course of my life I’ve been pawed at, propositioned, manhandled, flashed, molested, drugged, threatened, and harassed. By hormonal clods, such as the newest Supreme Court nominee. I chose to ignore these episodes and move on, because I didn’t want to deal with the indignity of reporting them or confronting them or giving them the time of day.

The doddering geezers of the Republican Party, however, have changed my attitude toward sexual aggression. They dismiss it as inconsequential or plain delusional. To even consider the possibility of impropriety they demand airtight evidence of sexual assault, verification along the lines of notarized photographs and certified, time-stamped documentation. Proof far above and beyond any doubt — reasonable or otherwise.

All rightie, fair enough.

In that case, the very next asshat who makes a lewd comment, grabs me or my ass, ‘accidentally’ brushes a boob, or so much as leers in my direction will be walking funny the rest of his sad, dissipated life. The police can then examine his bruised, swollen testicles and enter them into evidence for the court proceedings I’ll cheerfully initiate.

I swear to God, I’ve had it, so keep your hands to yourself or I’ll go full feral on you. And don’t forget to thank your GOP Representatives for their assistance. Their absolute indifference has been an inspiration.

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life

dear canada

Hello, eh?

You Canadians are sensible people, right? You’re bright, well-mannered, helpful, a perfect neighbor. So would you do us all a big favor and invade America? Seriously, send your armed forces, by land and by sea, and save us from the bloated misfit in the White House (located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC  20500 — you can’t miss it). We’d really appreciate your assistance.

Come on, you’ve dealt with that blowhard. You know he’s nuts. He goes around scaring me and everyone else with his wild ranting and unhinged threats and trashy friends. The guy is not only a danger to society, he’s ruining the country.

America used to be a nice place, remember? We had our problems, sure, but we were decent folks just doing our best to get by. We got along with people. We had allies. Then Sideshow Don colluded with the Russians, the election was hacked, and, well, you know the rest. It’s been nothing but disaster and chaos and disgrace after disgrace after disgrace ever since.

Trump is either repealing thoughtful policies and / or looting the place, those are his only two strategies. We’re now, for all intents and purposes, his own personal country club, where he decides who is worthy and who isn’t. Pfft, like he’d know. Without swift and effective intervention, Trump is on course to bankrupt the U.S., morally and financially, drive us to the brink of civil war, and then skip away scot-free. The damage will take decades, maybe centuries, to repair.

Please, Canada, I’m begging you, send your Army Guys.

Sincerely yours,

the whirly girl

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life

that wasn’t a tax cut

Let’s be clear. The Republican ‘tax cut’ isn’t a tax cut; it isn’t tax reform; it isn’t an overhaul or economic stimulus or job creation. It’s a redistribution of wealth.

In starker language, it’s the rape of America, a craven power move to show who’s in charge. Simple as that. Forcible, nonconsensual, frenzied, and carried out in the wee, small hours. Darkness is the preferred venue for criminals and their nefarious activities, you know.

However, for the sake of decency, we’ll call it a pillaging. The Senate and House will like that better, sounds manly and war-like instead of gutless.

We — the ordinary folks — have no standing in this government. We’ve no voice, no influence, and no hope things will change anytime soon. America no longer exists for us. It’s been repealed and replaced by an underhanded party of toadies, men who are beholden not to voters in their redrawn and gerrymandered districts, but to fat-cat donors — the neediest, most deserving among us.

Heck, the Russians have more influence than the average citizen, just not legally or openly. Campaign contributors and lobbyists, consultants, people with deep pockets and narrow minds run things now; they’re buying up media outlets to peddle their warped, delusional philosophy. The poor dears are pretty heavily outnumbered — by roughly 99% to 1% — so distorted messaging is called for. Think Breitbart. Think Project Veritas.

We shouldn’t expect government protection from their practices or Wall Street or pharmaceutical industry greed. Nor do we need the foresight of environmental regulations or access to healthcare. What we need are more guns and less education, dammit; college isn’t good for us, according to 54% of Republicans. It puts thoughts in our heads. We’ll gain far greater benefits by learning practical skills rather than original, independent thinking.

An educated population is nothing but trouble. Which pretty much explains the GOP’s blind devotion to Sideshow Don, an inept businessman who rose from bankrupting his own companies (6 times) to bankrupting an entire country — morally, ethically, and soon financially.

So here’s my question: if this is such a powerful, all-encompassing solution, why the rush? Why the secrecy? Why the running and the hiding? Why the misrepresentations? Let me guess — because it’s a stinking handout?

Fasten your seatbelts, buckaroos, we’re in for a long, very disheartening ride.

 

copyright © 2017 little ittys

humor · life

the not-so-secret society of flashers

I have a friend. She moved last week, but I can see her apartment whenever I look out the window.

She is, in fact, only three short blocks away — happily situated on the tenth floor of one apartment building, while I’m content on the eleventh floor of another. And, as luck would have it, we face each other. Nothing stands in our way, we have a clear, unobstructed sight line. It’s a perfect setup.

The nifty arrangement allows us to skip the traditional phone calls and visits. In their place, we use the clandestine messaging technique of 10-year olds: we flash our lights. Every night at 10:00 we position ourselves at our respective stations — she at a light switch, me on the balcony, flashlight in hand. The trial run wasn’t very promising; my co-conspirator fell asleep before the 10:00 pm rendezvous. That’s the big danger when you’re our age. Spontaneous naps.

Nevertheless, night two went off without a hitch. At the stroke of 10:00, lights flashed like crazy and kept flashing for long minutes. I felt exposed and conspicuous, standing outside, but sheepish gave way to rowdy the instant I started laughing. It was a gas. I waved my flashlight like a shipwreck survivor, sketched wild, swooping arcs with the beam, flipped it on and off and on and off.

Mind you, all this transpires in the middle of downtown, where I’m surrounded by tall buildings and thousands, of windows. Hotels, offices, churches, hospitals, restaurants, bars. Eventually and inevitably, someone somewhere is going to spot these shenanigans and mistake our antics for a distress call. 9-1-1 will be alerted and emergency personnel dispatched. In that case, criminal charges will almost certainly be filed for issuing false alarms or creating a public nuisance. They’ll think of something; city officials are notoriously humorless.

In the meantime, however, watch out! Mooning isn’t out of the question, installing a zip line is a possibility. Obscene gestures and profane signage are virtually guaranteed, as well. Heck, maybe the flashing will catch on and the entire city will start strobing like a disco ball every night.

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life · science

a scientific breakthrough

Gravity, I propose, is cumulative.

I made this astonishing discovery last Saturday afternoon when I went swimming. Although, for the sake of accuracy, I should change swimming to floundering, because I’ve acquired the natural buoyancy of space junk.

That’s upsetting, since water is my greatest refuge. Pools, oceans, rivers, bathtubs, they’re all life-enhancing habitats, in my opinion. Where else are you a weightless, effervescing mass of atoms? Well, I’ll tell you: nowhere. Dry land positively sucks thanks to gravity — a constant force pulling us, inexorably, toward the center of the planet. We’re all victims of this crazy phenomenon. 

Me, possibly, more than most. Crash landings are pretty standard for me.

You see, I’ve tried to defy gravity my whole life and it’s been to my peril each time. Except in water. Water activated my secret booster rockets; it gave me thrust and the fizzy  properties of carbonation. Notice my clever use of the past tense there? That’s intentional. I’m helplessly earthbound these days. The sneaky, invisible accretion of gravity has grounded me.

I expected to be rusty and awkward after being so long away from pools, of course, but I also expected to have some lift. I don’t. I’m dead weight. Diving in gave me no upward trajectory whatsoever. I didn’t soar, I didn’t even rise; I toppled. That ungainly maneuver created an outsized splash similar in scale to storm surge. Other swimmers found themselves yanked and tossed in the roiling waves created by my ‘dive’.

That wasn’t the worst of it, either. My arms didn’t slice through the water, my legs didn’t kick like pistons, I’m not a sleek torpedo. What I am is ballast, resembling nothing so much as a trussed up body in cement shoes with pockets crammed full of rocks. Reality is so discouraging, you know? Swimming was the one thing I could do and do well.

On the plus side, my little misadventure didn’t require stitches or x-rays or the application of a tourniquet. So, yay.

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

 

humor · life

they’re giving misfits a bad name

Oh my gosh, the hostile life forms known as Trump supporters are feeling ‘disrespected.’ Well, hmm, quick question: what were they expecting for their abject contempt of truth and reality and plain, simple decency? Admiration?

The poor dears are deluding themselves, as usual.

We, the genuine, bona fide members of the Misfit Society, would like to set the record straight. We’re not with them. We — the square pegs and odd ducks  — are fine with our outcast status. Really, don’t worry about us. Death threats and mindless chanting are not our thing. Although, we admit, we do enjoy a good conspiracy theory now and again, such as falling rocks are causing the rise in sea levels. But only for the entertainment value. It’s hilarious stuff.

So please just don’t confuse us with them. Our members are a quiet bunch, content with being overlooked and ignored. We don’t hold meetings or rallies or marches, but if we did our signs would have the correct spelling and grammar and we’d be bumping into each other all over the place. As you know, we’ve no sense of direction or rhythm or our own importance. We’re perfectly harmless.

Plus, the Misfit Society does not endorse political candidates. Ever. For anything. We believe they’re all corrupt, venal idiots with shady intentions. In that spirit, we politely request Sideshow Don and his brainless band of toadies, to, please, for the love of God, shut the Hell up. They’re not only making us look bad, they’re giving us a splitting headache.

copyright © 2018 little ittys

humor · life

boo-o-o-o

There’s nothing spooky about Halloween Day. Creepy doesn’t happen during daylight hours. There aren’t any ghosts afoot, or bats on the wing, no hook hands hanging from car doors, or bubbling cauldrons of witch’s brew. That’s strictly after-dark stuff.

So I felt fairly confident when I got up this morning. Work was a frightening prospect, of course, but no scarier than usual. I shuffled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and screamed like a teakettle. An Undead! Glazed, bloodshot eyes stared from a gaunt, desiccated face. Hair plastered to a bony, misshapen skull. I stumbled backward. It stumbled backward. I ducked. It ducked. What th —

Oh, whoops, that’s the mirror. And morning me. Please pardon the screaming. Carry on. And have a crazy-happy Halloween.

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl