Jonathots Daily Blog
(4021)
A. Side profile for candy pose is not flattering
B. Children think rabbits lay colored eggs
C. Colored eggs insist on being called “Chicken-born Americans”
D. Suing hip-hop music for stealing “hop” from “hoppity”
E. Dying on the cross for the sins of mankind
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4020)
It happened two weeks ago.
I yelled at somebody when I should have chatted. I judged instead of questioned him. I attacked instead of approached.
I can tell you a thousand reasons why I did. I could even spin it so you would be on my side. Yet at the end of that exertion, you would be deceived, and I would still be wrong. I was overwrought.
I didn’t need a hammer when a toothpick would have been just as effective. It wasn’t necessary to scorch the Earth when no fire was required.
I did it because I could.
I was offended and I wanted to make sure the person who offended me felt as small and insignificant as possible.
Following this indiscretion, I was briefly tempted to be self-righteous. But there is a seed inside me which has grown into a full, blooming Tree of Life, which will not allow me to hide my motivations or make excuses for my iniquity.
Understand, there’s nothing special about me.
I’m an average person—not particularly a great guy. Just a dude.
Yet I found it intolerable to live with my bratty behavior. It bugged the hell out of me and the heaven into me. I had to make it right.
I didn’t want to.
My position, my prowess and my pride screamed that this one little breach of propriety was nothing, and I had a large enough resume that I should be forgiven no matter what.
This is the bullshit that shows up right after the bull does its dance—and the dancing bull always believes he’s right because he’s powerful. So he figures that where he shits shouldn’t matter. Everybody knows he’s a bull anyway.
I don’t want to live that way. I’ve never wanted to live that way. And since I’m just a “God-loves-me-anyway-piece-of-shit,” it tears at my soul that we live in a nation in which we can’t find two decent people to rub together to ignite the bonfire of sanity.
Our Attorney General has been thrust into an impossible situation—but still squeaks like a mouse.
The Democratic Party seems to be disappointed that there isn’t more filth to parade in front of the American people.
And our President is proud that his lame-brain ideas were not enacted by his staff and is taking a bow for being protected from his pending bloopers.
Is there anyone who could be just as contrite, torn-apart and upset as I am? I, who am the “me”—who am not much of anything?
On a normal day I would say that I am the chief of sinners, but I keep getting voted out of the position as the Tribal Council brings worse candidates forward for consideration.
Is there anyone who will join me in saying that there will be no justice until we finally confess the injustice in all of us?
Is the search for power so intoxicating that our consciences are rendered powerless?
I am tired of watching people who should be more intelligent, more forward-thinking, and more qualified than me act worse than I do. How could anybody find a lower position of character than I often portray?
Yet they do.
But according to tradition, God is only faithful and just to do that once we’re willing to confess our sins.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4019)
1. Love your neighbor as yourself
2. Knowing what is God’s business and what is the province of the government
3. Carrying a cross you never have to use
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4018)
art by smarrttie pants
Music performed by Elizabeth Cring
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4017)
I lived in Nashville, Tennessee for nearly twenty years. Overall, I found it a very pleasant experience.
Yet seventy-four miles south of my home, on Interstate 65, was a town called Pulaski. It is the community where the Ku Klux Klan began. So most assuredly, confidently and sadly, I will tell you today’s word that should never be used again—the “K” that should not be spoken—is the Ku Klux Klan.
It’s not so much their views. I don’t agree with anything they say. Yet if they were coming from a position of personal experience, I might need to consider their perspective. But no member of the KKK has spent fifteen years playing in the National Football League, surrounded by black men. If they had done this and come out with a negative insight, then I would have to conclude that they had a right to their opinion.
Or if some of the members had lived in Israel for ten years and after the visitation, had stated that Jews were greedy and less than human, I might question their premise but certainly would have to acknowledge that they had been involved in a live-in experiment.
But there’s no member of the Ku Klux Klan who has spent any time with members of the black race or the Jews. They are not well-traveled individuals who, after careful research, developed a doctrine of the division among the races, with the hypothesis being that “white people are better.”
These are little boys and girls who were never allowed to formulate their own thinking but instead, absorbed the prejudice, anger and fallacious notions of their ancestors.
Unfortunately, these ancestors came to the conclusion that keeping their cotton crop in the black was much more important than the blacks who made it possible for them to have a cotton crop in the first place.
They are childishly ignorant—ignorant because the philosophy they cling to was long ago abandoned by people of reason, science and emotional well-being; childish because they’re still trying to please parental figures, aunts, uncles, grandfathers and ancient kin who held to a belief system that found its only power by leaving others powerless.
There is a school of thought that if you want to do away with the Ku Klux Klan, then let them speak their mind, let them be heard, and they will be revealed for who and what they are.
Unfortunately, unfoldings in our country over the past ten years tell us that giving breath to a murderer is granting license to murder.
This is why I’m saying the KKK should never be mentioned. It should not be discussed. It should not evoke either anger or apathy.
We should pretend that it does not exist until it’s so small that evolution can swallow it back into the earth—where it will finally die—with the graves of those who were once so presumptuous.
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Although your instincts may be to duck away, hide your faults or come up with an explanation to excuse your errors, the human race around you is geared to dig up unseen naughtiness, exploit it and make the doer of such deeds look not only evil, but treacherous for trying to disguise the actions.
It’s been proven throughout history.
Those who confess their sins before they’re forced to do so always fare better than the hapless shysters who attempt to use legal means or clever methods to get an adjusted verdict from the court of public opinion.
Without trying to be controversial, I will go so far as to tell you that if Adolf Hitler, arguably the most sinister sinner of all time, had realized that he was losing the war, negotiated peace and tearfully articulated the darkness and foolishness of killing the Jews, he would have certainly been punished severely—maybe even had his life taken—but still would have been granted a bit of human grace.
It is ironic that we teach diversion and lying while simultaneously tracking down those who use such practices like we are on the hunt and they are the foxes.
Have your own resurrection this year.
Hang yourself up on the cross for a brief time, so that your decision to recant ignorant ways can be acknowledged by the masses, your old ass can be buried, and you can rise to new life.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4015)
Karin made the quality decision to stop off at her apartment in the city to shower, change clothes and gather her wits before cruising back to the newspaper. She didn’t realize how frazzled she was until she was sitting, riding back into town, and saw her right hand twitching without her permission. She needed to calm down. The last thing she wanted to do in front of her editor was appear rattled—or by his definition, female.
She had once read that feeding the belly calms the soul, so she nibbled on a bit of cheese and took a sip of wine to ease her nerves, attempting to feed a much deeper hunger, which would have to wait its turn for the time being. There were important matters to be taken care of—at this point, much more urgent than a tasty meal.
She ended up arriving at the newspaper office very late, but as far as Karin knew, the editor was always there. Matter of fact, she was convinced that he had been sitting in a chair, and people came and built his office around him. When she walked into the office, the man didn’t even look up from the daily reports he was perusing.
“Do you have a story?” he asked. He was never much for formalities. He had once explained it to her. He found cordiality to be useless, prohibiting anyone from finding out what they really wanted to know in the first place.
Even though Karin knew he was in a hurry to receive an update, she was savvy and well aware that she needed to pace herself and remove all breathiness and frantic from her telling. She sat down, nice and slow, in a chair in front of his desk.
“I have a story, but I don’t,” she began. “And before you ask me what that means, let me tell you. Sometimes I think even though journalists are not supposed to become emotionally involved, our stories can transform us into missionaries.”
The editor looked up with a threatening frown. “Koulyea, you aren’t some damn nun. If you want a ministry, go hunt down the Pope. I need stories, and I need people who can get them, write them clearly and go out and find more, instead of discussing how good the last one was or musing over whether their hearts were moved.”
Karin was offended. “I know that,” she spat. “Don’t talk to me like some cub who’s coming into the first day of work. It’s just that I’ve uncovered something that may be worth more than eight column inches and a byline.”
The editor eyed her for sincerity. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Karin leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “I came across two boys in the desert. Two twelve-year-olds who defied their parents and their friends so they could be together. You see, one is Jewish and one, Palestinian.”
“Jubal and Amir? So I heard. Right?” The editor sprouted a grin.
Karin could not hide her shock. The editor laughed out loud, greatly satisfied that he had bettered his subordinate. “Listen, I’ve heard all about it. You should know that raging parents are louder than stampeding elephants.”
He picked up a stack of papers on his desk. “I’ve had ten messages just today about these two rascals,” he explained. “But you know, I don’t see a story here, unless we’re in a mood to do live coverage of a spanking.”
Karin was tired of being thwarted. “They have a hand grenade,” she pronounced, trying not to be too emphatic.
She couldn’t believe herself. But it was like the words came out on their own. She would never have given them permission to leave her mouth if she had known what their intention was. But she was tired of being treated like a nobody.
Still, in the scheme of things, she had just lied to her editor. There was no longer a hand grenade. But it caused the aging newsman to lean back in his chair. “Hand grenade, huh?” he said. He took a sip of his drink and swallowed slowly, and then continued. “I guess it’s useless for me to ask where they got such a thing. Would you tell me?” He gazed at Karin and shook his head. “Of course not,” he decided. “Okay. I guess it would be better to ask what they intend to do with it.”
Karin decided she needed to take some heat off of herself. She rose from her chair, stomped across the room and punched the door with her fist. “My God, man! They’re twelve years old! Do twelve-year-olds ever intend to do anything? A hand grenade, on the other hand, knows exactly what it is primed to do. We’ve got to do something for these kids.”
As she finished, she inched back toward him, reached out and rapped her knuckles on the desk. She was breathing heavily, full of anger.
Karin wanted to know how serious he would be about this serious situation. Or for that matter, if he, a man trapped in the Middle East, had the foresight to take a young woman seriously.
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A voice writing in the wilderness
