Bad Dreams or Good Reality

August 25, 2012:  Requests continue pouring in for further Blah-ugh! entries. Myriad topics remain left untouched and people are starting to worry—my anxiety, my diarrhea, my constipation, my mother, my mother’s constipation, my mother’s mother’s constipation … It’s hard to know where to begin!

Recent events have influenced the direction of my life, meaning the things that happened to me over the past few weeks have directly impacted these last few weeks. (And if you’ve fallen for that mumbo-jumbo, it’s no wonder America’s in the kind of shape it is!)

Which reminds me of a hysterical and simultaneously awful dream I had last night, wherein it was revealed that President Obama was fooling us all by really being a foreigner, and during one symposium he inadvertently began speaking with a heavy west African accent until one of his handlers kind of smacked him really hard on the shoulder and he stopped. (It’s still unclear to me how I knew it was a west Africa accent, and I’m probably a racist for thinking it, although I’m not sure why for that, and it all just goes to demonstrate that I either read too much Joseph Conrad or not enough.)

Anyway, I hate to report negatively on Obama, even though I’ve always suspected his name was somehow linked to terrorism. As many of you know—and even fewer of you care—I’ve literally garnered extensive scientific research demonstrating the fallacy of the Republican platform, and indisputably determined what fallices so many of them are. But at the end of the day, anybody who’d enter politics has got to be deranged. And if they’re not deranged, I’m far too lazy and disinterested to determine otherwise, and so will continue to focus my attention on art, spirituality and photos of naked women on the Internet.

On another note, I’ve been researching trees—not extensively, but I have this great children’s Golden Guide book that provides all the information I need to differentiate an oak from a sycamore. It’s a rather hysterical book, actually, because it emphasizes the importance of trees for the good of mankind, in particular for things like baseball bats, ship masts and tennis rackets. (I keep waiting to read something about the oxygen factor, but I guess they didn’t know about that back in 1969.) I can’t tell you how fascinating I find the identification of trees—at least the ones I know. I consider it a badge of pride that I can handily ID tulips, sycamore and catalpas. Of course, elms are harder, but part of that may be that they’re all wiped out. I’m not sure. After all, it’s only a children’s book.

Finally, I think it’s high time to have our cat fixed. A stolid young gentleman, Bob’s spastic outbursts continue to disrupt family members and cause pillows to be unceremoniously knocked to the floor. I’ve long suspected that the removal of testicles would work miles toward aligning his disposition and bringing him into the family fold. Plus, he’s begun getting a bit rude and forward with the older, fatter cat, who, like all of us, finds his rear advances both distasteful and vaguely frightening.