Poll Duncers

So the election results are in, sort of, in some places, allegedly, and the Big Red Wave that so many were predicting turned out to be just the same old crimson trickle of blood dripping from Planned Parenthood's dumpsters.

Americans had a chance to vote against inflation, skyrocketing energy prices, failing school systems, galloping sexual deviancy, discrimination by skin color, child mutilation, child murder, unsustainable spending, critical race theory ("White people are bad and should go into shallow graves right after they give us their wealth"), collapsing infrastructure, wide open borders, the destruction of personal responsibility, and so very much more - but instead, a preponderance was convinced by celebrities to, um, "vote Blue." Because they're morons.

None of this was a great shock. I never thought there would be a red wave because it required a willing suspension of disbelief that I just can't conjure anymore. Was there anything - anything - in our culture, media, or the national moment to suggest that great masses of people would suddenly become less ignorant, selfish, debauched, and debased? Nope! And so "more of the same" was obviously what was coming and, sadly, what is coming for the foreseeable future. And no, Trump can't change the equation no matter where he grabs it.

Instead, I'm thinking our nation (and quite a few others) is overdue for the Sodom and Gomorrah treatment. Mike Lindell should stop doing commercials about "My Pillow" and instead start evangelizing about the benefits of "My Pillar" and citizen-shaped stacks of salt, while Boston's "Don't Look Back" rings from stadium speakers. In the words of George W. Bush, "Bring it on."

And I apologize for being such a grumpy old downer today, but I can't help it. The Jarlsberg family has recently been shaken by another death (albeit not family), a succession of gray and gloomy days, and midnight now showing up outside daily at 6 pm.  Plus, I'm currently dancing with a couple of government agencies (Treasury and IRS) in minor but frustrating ways. 

Still, TGIF, a good weekend to all and, most importantly, Happy Veterans Day. Say "thank you" a few times today, in person or in your heart.

Triple Play Friday

Depressingly, this is the actual state of our nation as we head toward Election Day. A president who can't speak without lying, and a major Democrat candidate who often can't speak period. Which isn't Fetterman's fault - the man had a stroke, after all. And it's rare to see someone who has the strength of will to immediately get back on the election trail without taking time for his brain to effing heal. Which it likely won't since he's been literally abusing it during the most critical window for recovery. Still, I don't want to kick a man when he's down...

Okay, that probably LOOKS like I'm kicking a man when he's down, but I have a well-documented psychomotor condition that causes me to kick involuntarily from time to time and if you hold it against me you're an ableist and should be ashamed of yourself.

Of course, we're all looking at a brief period of disability following this weekend...

Some people may take exception to the cartoon above, saying "But Stilton, we get an extra hour of sleep so we'll be feeling great!" And I certainly respect your opinion and that of the horse you rode in on. But for me, personally, whether we're springing forward or falling back, I lose sleep and am out of sync with the world for at least a week or two while playing the "yeah, but what time is it really?" game in my head.

Nor does it help that suddenly it will be pitch black outside about the time I normally consider to be "late afternoon." But hey, I guess turning on all the lights for an extra hour a night won't kill me. It's not like anyone wants us to cut back on energy use to save the planet or anything, right?

The Breather and the Haunted Hand

Last week, I gave you a little taste of spooky fiction. Today being Halloween, I'm offering up some spooky (and funny) non-fiction from my own life. To the best of my recollection, every word is true...

          THE BREATHER AND THE HAUNTED HAND         

When I was a kid, it wasn’t unusual for my siblings and me to have weekend sleepover visits from other kids who we’d known our whole lives and considered extended family. We’d play board games, run around outside, and watch scary movies hosted by the ghoulish “Sammy Terry” on TV.

And sometimes, if the conditions were just right on an eerie, inky black night, my Dad would tell us ghost stories. And these were no ordinary, over-told ghost stories. No cub scout campfire tales about the young couple who encountered “The Hook” in lover’s lane, no plaintive voice in the darkness calling “who’s got my hairy toe?” while drawing unstoppably closer.

No, my Dad told us real ghost stories. Things that had happened to him and to the generations of family members who came before him. Poltergeist activity. Prophetic dreams of death. Sounds in the night. Ghosts.

On the night in question, my Dad was telling his rapt audience the chilling story of “The Breather.” We all sat in the living room with all the lights off and only a flickering candle or two for creepy, shadow-casting illumination. My siblings and our guests were seated on our large, L-shaped sectional sofa. At one end of the sofa, there was a rectangular table and chair, from which my Dad was spinning his dark tale while facing his audience.

“The Breather” was a presence that had followed my Dad throughout his childhood years. At night, alone in his bed, sharing the old house only with his grandmother, he would become aware of someone or something else breathing in the room with him. Something coming closer. And when he pulled the blankets over his face and held his own breath in fright, The Breather would draw near. Inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling…

As my Dad wove his story, I excused myself for a bathroom trip. Or at least, that’s what I said I was doing. In reality, once I was out of sight in the darkness I dropped to my hands and knees and very slowly crept back into the living room and under the table where my Dad was sitting. My younger sister, seated next to the table, was the only person who could see me. I met her questioning look with a “shush” finger held to my lips and she nodded.

As my Dad notched the suspense in the room ever higher, I slowly slipped my hand up over the side of the table and left it directly next to my father. Bent at the wrist, it would have looked like a detached human hand. And then I waited.

The moments which followed are among the greatest memories in my life. Every nerve in the room was stretched taut at the moment my father paused in his narrative for a moment and put his hand down on mine. For the briefest of seconds, I could feel his fingertips exploring and trying to identify what he had encountered. And then came the scream.

My Dad shouted in true horror while leaping out of his chair. And of course, everyone else in the room screamed too. Panic, pandemonium, and confusion reigned until I crawled out from under the table, laughing my young rear end off.  And after a suitable cool-down period, everyone else laughed while sharing how terrified they were at that exquisite moment. 

And The Breather? My Dad speculated that the entity was perhaps someone who had died in the old house where he was raised (now a historical site in Indiana) or a deceased relative just paying a visit. Indeed, he wondered if the somewhat raspy breath, not unlike his own in his later years, had been coming from his own ghost who was returning to keep an eye on his younger self.

It was an interesting and somewhat comforting theory. So that’s the one I choose to believe now, in the dark of night...

...when The Breather visits me.