Dozer: Say what?.

Caught in the headlights...

Caught in the headlights...
The author of Mark's Work, at the botanical gardens inFort Bragg...


Life is a balance...

HappyDay Farms placed eleventh at the Emerald Cup in the flowers category, with our Great Success.

HappyDay Farms placed eleventh at the Emerald Cup in the flowers category, with our Great Success.
Great success!

Family power

Family power
Love is the greatest power.

Our secret weapon...

Our secret weapon...
C D B's; D B's R G's.

It's a new day, yesterday.

It's a new day, yesterday.
One of the mornings the sky caught fire...

Just pause for a moment.

Just pause for a moment.
Beauty abounds!

Peace to you and yours.

Peace to you and yours.
Fort Bragg Botanical Gardens

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Clerical Error

Clerical Error

I wrote about my first date with Gluten-Free Mama the other morning, and how we discussed Bell Springs Road and all it entailed. I wrote about us chatting on about the Giants, where we worked and about San Jose State, where I was going to school full-time, enrolled in a masters program in English.

Having come out of the US Army with a fervent need to be “educated,” I had not only completed my degree in Humanities, in 1979, I had done so with an unblemished 4.0 grade point average. I saw no reason why that should change, just because I was doing post-graduate work.

Without doubt the most rigorous class I ever took, at any level, was Methods and Materials of Literary Research, taught by the head of the English Department, a crusty, diminutive man in stature, who spoke softly but carried a lot of weight. 

He was brusk without being gruff; he was all-business, with the ability to infuse just a hint of jocularity into the environment; finally, he was demanding without ever seeming so. The work level was the greatest I have ever been assigned, and I spent several hours every day that semester, slaving away at this class, but I also thrived.
I filled out hundreds of index cards, I completed every assignment religiously and I aced every test, so I was dumbfounded to find that I had earned a B+ for the class. I had just received my grades in the mail, a day or two before I took GF Mama out for the first time.

So, of course, during our evening together, I spelled out for her my frustration at the grade I had received, for no other reason than to make with the palaver.

To my shock, she hit me up with, “Why don’t you go talk to him about your grade? Maybe he just made a mistake.”

“Dr. Hagar make a mistake? The only time he ever made a mistake, was the time he thought he made a mistake. But you think I ought to go talk to him?” It was truly a novel idea.

She looked at me as though I were a PE Major. “Yes. You should go talk to him and see if it was just a clerical error. If all of your grades have been A’s for the work you have done, then there has to be a mistake.”

I followed up on what GF Mama had suggested, by going by his office the next day to make an appointment to discuss the questionable grade. To my surprise, he invited me in to talk about it right then, his office being devoid of other students at the moment.

There was no question that he knew who I was, my ponytailed hair and fiery red beard possibly jogging his memory. When I showed him the transcript with the objectionable B+, he reached for his grade book, saying at the same time, “Well, this should be easy to resolve; let me take a look. Hmmm, O’Neill. Hmmm.”

Whereas I might have thought that there would have to be some sort of process needed to sort through it all, it took him all of thirty seconds to say, “Plainly there is some sort of clerical error here, because your work has been A quality. I will make the necessary change and inform the university accordingly. My apologies,” he said sincerely, extending his hand.

Just like that.

Never in the history of the universe had I thought anything was going to change, and yet it had, without any hullabaloo. I had only gone because of GF Mama’s certainty that there was a mistake. 

When I informed Gluten-Free Mama of the change in my grade, I was glowing. She, on the other hand, did not seem surprised. 

“Well, it made sense. Now, aren’t you glad you listened to me?”

I’ve been listening to her ever since.

Monday, January 16, 2017

Have Scissors: Won't Travel

Have Scissors: Won’t Travel

I did eight loads of laundry yesterday, without washing an article of personal laundry for either Gluten-Free Mama or me, having accomplished that task the day before with six loads to start off the parade. I ain’t bragging but I ain’t skeered, neither.

Doing laundry this winter has been a challenge, with the temperature never being quite warm enough outside to completely dry clothes, even when it is sunny. We have three clothes racks indoors, in addition to the clotheslines outside, to hang stuff that GF Mama does not want hung in the direct sun.

I have no such compunctions; I hang my stuff over the railing on the deck, if that is all there is.

It had been a minute or two since I had hauled the little generator over to the side of the house, hooked up drain, water and power, and done some clothes-washing. Rain and snow tend to discourage doing laundry, because of that running generator, normally housed in a location too far away to be able to stretch a cord.

I have made good use of my time in the inclement weather, however, manicuring flowers that have been carefully stored so that they retain their freshness and bouquet. Trimming is the single most challenging job I have ever done. So much so, that I could never consider doing it anywhere but my own home.
My ball and chain
Physically, working the scissors is not as rigorous as, say, working the soil with a pitchfork, but it still requires far more effort. I can turn soil over for four-six hours at a time, without pausing any longer than to hit both the bong and the water thermos, and do it effortlessly.

When it comes to trimming, however, I expend more effort in fifteen minutes, than I do in an entire outing with the fork. Hey, manhandling soil that has not been disturbed for a year, allows me to channel my manic energy into a worthwhile task, with the mutually beneficial results being tilled soil and a calm Markie.

Trimming is hard because I am channeling that same manic energy into what? This tiny instrument that requires that I meticulously clip countless minute fragments of leaf or stem matter, while climbing the walls without a ladder.

Hold on! There are dirty dishes? I LOVE doing dirty dishes. Stoves need firewood? Wood-ring needs wood? Floors need sweeping? Dozer needs a walk? Toby just barfed? Bathroom needs sprucing up, including scrubbing the toilet? And don’t even get me started on Kodak moments, photo-ops that clamor for my undivided attention.

Anything that will get me out of trimming.
I have been working on Lemon Ogre

Fortunately, I am good at it; unfortunately, I am slower than a slug in a barrel of molasses. Last year at this time, when my blog was off consorting with aliens and I was rudderless for six months, I trimmed from around one each morning, until seven in the morning, so that there was nothing to distract me. This way, once I hung up my scissors and cleaned my work station, I was a free man the rest of the day.
Free to do what, is unclear, since I have no memory of those six months of living in the dark without my blog. It is a similar sensation to losing those five years between the time I retired, and the time we got internet service up here on the mountain. 

Talk about back from the shadows.

There are advantages to working the scissors, though, because quality-control is such a vital component to successfully manicuring the flowers. We can’t have medicine being produced that does not measure up to the high standards that we have established.

So I must continuously sample that which I am manicuring to ensure success in this area. It’s a brutal job but someone’s gotta do it.

I ain’t bragging, but I ain’t skeered, neither.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

Never Enough

Never Enough

So yeah, people “with preexisting conditions,” like say, Stage-IV cancer patients, are simply out of luck when it comes to healthcare.

If you can keep it all impersonal, and just refer to these folks as having “preexisting” conditions, then it’s like, well, what the hell, if you have preexisting conditions, too bad for you-tough luck and all that. Sucks to be you.

All of this so that so that the one percent of the richest people in the country, can get a little bit richer. I have used every adjective that can furnish to describe my feelings for people who are so inhumane to others, that they continue to amass fat Swiss banks accounts, off the pain and misery of others. Exactly how much money in a Swiss bank account is enough, has never been established, because, well, it’s never been enough.

Who would want to live in a world that was so immune to others’ grief, that it allowed elders to freeze in their own homes, while not having enough to eat? And I’m not talking about Corn Flakes and powdered milk, either; I’m talking about organic fruit and vegetables, with chicken, fish and beef easily accessible in the freezer.

Why is it that these lawmakers, who are required by their very oaths of office, to look after the basic human rights of all US citizens, are allowed to blatantly ignore the fact that 43 million Americans are living at-or below-the poverty level?

Why are they allowed to serve the wealthiest, like the lackeys that they are, without being held accountable for their self-serving agendas? I know I have posed these questions before, rhetorically, because all attempts to communicate with lawmakers, has resulted in a form letter being sent to me, lauding all of the recent actions on the part of said lawmaker.

If I choose to not continue to write about these social injustices, then I have done exactly as expected-protested mildly, and then drifted back to sleep, while people die every day, in the most heinous fashions imaginable.

If you voted for trump, righteous in your indignation, just know that it hits some of us a lot harder than it hits others.

I have written about the upcoming Women’s Marches, in venues all over the country, and I have written about how to counter a public, toxic racial or homophobic attack on someone in your immediate vicinity. Finally, I have found myself in the midst of vitriolic exchanges with friends whose political ideologies are different from mine, and these exchanges can get ugly. 

I see there is an effort being made to boycott the inauguration on television, something that will be easy for me to do since I have yet to see one image of trump on tv or hear one word uttered from his mouth. I’d say it was a case of out-of-sight/out-of-mind, except he rarely leaves my mind.

Boorish, immature, narcissistic behavior holds no allure for me. Old-fashioned attributes, such as integrity, humanity and compassion have far greater appeal, and thus I will continue to rail on against the indefensibly atrocious behavior of our elected “greaders” (greedy leaders).

When it comes right down to it, those of us not in the one percent, regardless of which political party we adhere to, ought to recognize that there is a common enemy here, and it is not one another: Greed is the common enemy.

If we could do this and unite together to fight greed, we could really accomplish something. I mean, 99% against 1%?

Why are we the underdogs?

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Fleeting Moments

Fleeting Moments

Lou’s Village is no longer in business, having closed its doors in 2006, but this restaurant down in San Jose will always remain in my memory, having been the setting for the first time that Gluten-Free Mama and I went out together, on January 16, 1981. 

Considering this took place 36 years ago, come Monday, I remember it better than I remember most of yesterday, my short-term memory not being as robust as it once was. Besides, from what I remember of yesterday, it was all broom, mop and scissors, so my level of interest is not as keen as it is when it comes to the first time I ever sat across from the person, with whom I was destined to raise three sons.

I remember parking Old Paint advantageously pointed downhill because after our meal, I would have to push-start the old VW bus while GF Mama popped the clutch. She didn’t seem to hold it against me and the reality is that I could have crawled under it and strategically placed a screwdriver across two terminals on the solenoid, and prodded the old beast into life, but the rain discouraged that line of thought.
Our first date was here.

I remember the huge aquarium that ran alongside the bar, and how magical the lighting seemed to me, as I gazed across the table at a gal whose smile seemed just as magical. We talked about the Giants, we talked about San Jose State and we talked about AT&T, not Park, but Corporation, for whom GF Mama worked.

What I remember most though, was talking about Bell Springs Road. By 1981 I had been making $67.00 monthly payments on twenty acres, for six years, almost halfway through the thirteen total years I would make that payment. 

$67.00 wouldn’t even come close to paying my internet bill these days, let alone a parcel of Paradise. We couldn’t know then what the future would bring, but one look in her eyes was all I needed to know that I’d like to be standing beside her, when we opened that package.

Ironically, I had not been up north to Mendocino County, up on our property, since a flurry of building had produced three cabins, on three different parcels, by three of my brothers. I was still speaking of the twenty acres as an investment, with no set plan on migrating north.

I was halfway through a master’s program in English, and nothing was in the works until I had accomplished that goal. Nonetheless, it was one thing to have twenty acres “somewhere up north” and make nominal monthly payments on it, and quite another to be talking about moving up north and into a tent.

Besides, until I met GF Mama, I had no reason to think about pulling up roots, anytime soon, and moving by myself up to a strange new land. That all changed when the two of us journeyed up to Bell Springs in February, and stayed for a weekend.

The reality that one could build a small home, and then add on to it as time and money allowed, had never occurred to me. Of course, prior to this point in time, I had never even driven a nail into a board that meant anything, in my entire life, let alone built a house.

There was such a prevalent sense of community up there, with one another helping out, from picking up the mail in town, to constructing ferrel cement tanks, two of which were being plastered that same weekend that GF Mama and I were visiting.

So yes, we put on our best concrete clothes and participated in plastering the already prepared cement slab, rebar and steel mesh conglomeration, that would be transformed into a ten thousand gallon water storage tank. Altogether over the years, we built four on various parcels, the 18,000 gallon tank at my brother Tom’s spot being by far the largest.

So as we sat and chatted across the table at Lou’s that night, my thinking started to shift from rafting lazily down the river, to hoisting the sail and directing my vessel in a northward direction. So much so, that only four months later, I packed up Old Paint, hugged GF Mama tightly, and headed up to the land the same day I got out of school.

For the next twelve weeks, I worked construction in Brooktrails, where I helped build a spec house from foundation through sealing it up for the approaching winter. My brothers and a neighbor did the finish work after I left for San Jose; again, one day I was up in Mendo County, putting on a roof, and the next, I was sitting in a classroom.

During that summer, GF Mama traveled seven times up to Bell Springs, to help me work on our own little cabin, and once, I went down to San Jose with one of my brothers, primarily to get engine parts for Old Paint, the first of several times I had to do serious engine work on the old hippie bus.
Old Paint

Air-cooled engines and dirt roads are a match made in Auto-Parts-House Heaven. I not only wrote the book, I published it, paying for it with engine rebuild kits from United Auto Stores.

Does it seem like 36 years? I don’t know. What’s 36 years here and there among friends? I do know that 36 minutes can seem an eternity, under certain conditions, so the fact that these 36 years have flown by might say something for how I view those fleeting moments.

The moments may have flown by and I may not remember all the particulars, but I do know that my life has been made complete by the love this gal has enveloped me with, and there is nothing a man can ask from life that surpasses that.


Wednesday, January 11, 2017

On the Fringe

On the Fringe

With the Women’s March on Sacramento only ten days away, preparations have long been in the works. Under the best of circumstances, the unstructured nature of this kind of event would make planning a challenge; toss in a few additional variables, like bipolarism and cancer, and it becomes a spin of the roulette wheel, hopefully not of the Russian motif.

We’re not twenty-something anymore, so we can’t just get in the car the morning of, bip over to Sac, do the thingie and return at some point Sunday morning, probably while it is still dark. Been there, done that, don’t want to do it again.
Our ticket...

Gluten-Free Mama and I want to do this expression of support for everyone on the current regime’s hit-list, and we know it can be done, but we must also be aware that if we ignore certain preexisting conditions, there will be much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Don’t you hate to see an old man cry?

GF-Mama lined us up with a room in a hotel, a half-mile from the starting point of the march. A half-mile should be a ten-minute walk, but even if there are a lot of pedestrians/traffic, how much longer than ten minutes can it take, especially since we will be heading over well before the ten o’clock starting time?

Heading over to Sacramento on Friday afternoon means that we can wake up at our leisure Saturday morning, and have plenty of time for a hearty breakfast, including coffee because there will be Port-a-potties strategically located along the route of the march.

We will not have to scramble for a parking place and we will have our backpacks ready for action-ready for danger, filled primarily with snacks and water. I will have my camera battery fully charged, and I will be doing my best to chronicle what I see and hear.

Retaining the room an additional night, so as not to have to drive back to Mendo County after being on our feet all day, also allows a far more relaxed approach to the day's events. Expensive? Yes, but we have been working on this for six weeks now; you go after what matters.

Regardless of how many friends and acquaintances we encounter at the march, or where Gluten-Free Mama ends up, I will be on the fringe of the activity, which is emphatically not the same as being "on the fringe," thank you so much for expressing concern. 

Hell, I can’t even sit at AT&T Park, in an assigned seat anymore, because I feel too tightly sardined in amongst too many people. I just can’t do it. That’s how I know I will be on the outside edge of the crowd, because the crowd has to have a periphery. 

For the past several days on social media, there appears to be a heightened sense of awareness, with folks collectively venting their frustration at a system that refuses to acknowledge, that it has been found out.

As transparent as their actions have been, our elected leaders have gradually transformed our country from one that purports to be “of the people, by the people, for the people” to one that is more “Of the people, by the people, for the one percent.” 

Now we must gather together to assert that in unity there is strength. We must demand that the rights of all people matter, not just those who have a lot of money, because that leaves 99% of us out.
We are ALL people.

We must demand that money not be used to build a hate-wall, when kids and elderly are starving in this country. Even if there is Captain Crunch in the cupboard-with milk-that is still starving. People, especially kids and old folks, need organic veggies, meat and fruit, and they need to have them prepared at home, by people who care. This is not possible on the current minimum wage.

We need to gather together to say that same-sex marriage became the law of the land in 2015, and we cannot back up the truck. Cannot and will not. 

We need to gather together to say that the days of treating women with degradation and contempt, by men who with strong backs and weak brains, are over.

There isn’t even a “Reverse” gear on that transmission.

We need to gather together and demand that health care and medicine be available, for those whose lives depend on it. That’s part of the “pursuit of happiness” that is supposed to be a right in this country. 

Finally, we need to gather together to show that we can and we will.

If we all act outraged, and prattle on about what a narcissistic jerk trump is, but don’t do anything, then it’s the same thing as saying we are OK with all of this business. As if anyone could be OK with Steve Bannon, a self-proclaimed white supremacist, as the white House Chief Strategist.

Why are we still having a one-sided dialogue about this racist nominee? Send him back to the 1950’s, where he belongs.

We are not in the 20th century anymore; we are in the present. That means we expect our leaders to reflect our nation’s values, not bat them back in our faces, as the current regime does with impunity.

Keep trying to bat our rights back into our faces, Republican Party, and we’ll break that bat right over your head.

You ever seen a genuinely angry woman? I mean, spit-firing, screaming, frothing anger? Ever wondered what a whole passel of these riled-up gals might do, if’n they had a mind? If’n they was real pissed off? 

Me too, which is another reason why I will be on the fringe of the crowd.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

No Joke

No Joke

For 45 years now, January 10th has been a Day of Infamy for me. I tread lightly on this date because of the gravity of the memories I associate with the day I entered the United State Army. I did not go willingly. 

Being the fourth of seven sons, with two younger sisters, I had been comfortably ensconced in life, with three older brothers to provide protection, and three younger brothers, for whom I provided the same. It was a comfortable arrangement, and little had ever occurred in my life to rock my comfort level.

Following my June of 1970 graduation from high school, I had naturally begun attending college at Cal Poly, Pomona, conveniently located only twenty minutes away and user-friendly to the max, as we might have put it back in 1970.

Everything was lined up pretty well for me, what with the well-paying union job at the local grocery store and my relaxed approach to college life. I had a wide circle of friends, both from high school and from my new environment, and this led to a broadening of my social life.
I played a lot of Hearts at Cal Poly.

I took up residence in the campus cafeteria, using it as a base of operations, from which I functioned quite happily, even occasionally deigning to actually attend class. I played a lot of Spades and Hearts in those days.

I was so lackadaisical that I even ignored an official notification that I would not be eligible to attend classes in the winter of 1970-71, if I failed to take care of a logistical detail, that of getting a chest X-ray, a routine check for tuberculosis.

All students were required to take care of this detail before starting at Cal Poly, and I had gotten away with attending classes the first semester, before the system caught up with me.

Who knows why I ignored it? I simply did not focus on the repercussions of taking that kind of detail lightly. My draft deferment had been automatic, college giving young men an optional, four-year delay in their lives, before being conscripted by the military complex.

Unfortunately, I “won” number 33 in the draft lottery that year and secondly, I had received my official draft notice in December of 1971, possibly minutes past the time that my chest X-ray was to have taken place. Of course, the Vietnam War was in full swing in 1971, and had been all through my high school years. 

The threat of ending up in the Nam was as palpable as it was terrifying. More than 500,000 troops were over there when I entered the service, and there was not one of the forty of us draftees, sitting together in the entry station that morning, January 10th, in downtown Los Angeles, who did not expect to end up in the jungle.

There was no sleep for me on the night of January 9th, perched as I was on the eve of this misadventure. My oldest brother had escaped the army’s net because he had some sort of issue with his back; my second oldest brother had high blood pressure, and my third oldest bro was a conscientious objector, a route that would certainly have been my choice, had there been anything in my background that might have substantiated that philosophy.

As it was, I was army material. Whereas, Canada may have been an option for some, for me it was not. Being caught up in the army’s clutches was infinitely more my style, rather than forging my path to Canada. As terrifying as going into the army was, it was not as daunting a task, as setting out on my own, to dodge matters up north.

I am not an adventurous person by nature, so when I got my notice, I accepted it as the price I paid for not paying attention to the fine print. The irony is that had I been able to avoid the net for only another eight or so months, I would have avoided the whole shit-show.
This is how I remember Pete Townshend.

But I could not know then, what I know now. There had always been a draft, so my assumption was that there always would be. Who knew? What I did know was that when I saw The Who in concert, December 11th, 1971, one month prior to going into the army, the song “Won’t Get Fooled Again” weighed heavily on my mind.

Hell, there was no fooling going on; it was all deadly serious. When I was asked, in writing, whether I preferred being stationed in Vietnam or in South Korea, I checked the box not named Vietnam. Was this a joke? The last time I checked, they had not been blowing people up in Korea for almost twenty years.

When the weight-challenged sergeant with the Missouri drawl, announced that instead of going right up the coast to good old Fort Ord, in the San Luis Obispo area, the forty of us dudes were going to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, his own home state, I was thunder struck. 

Far from assuming I would be home in only a few short weeks, for a weekend at least, I knew there was no way I would be coming back from Missouri, until boot camp was done. Additionally, as far as I knew, Missouri got awfully cold in the winter and all I had on was a light corduroy jacket, SoCal all the way. Little did I know at the time that Fort Leonard Wood was known as “Little Korea.”

My new friends and I took a battery of fill-in-the-bubble examinations, hours and hours of basic skills tests. Some of my unclear-on-the-concept buddies, competed with one another to create cool patterns with their answer sheets, short-sighted at best-tragic at worst.

We took the same set of exams several times in the first two weeks of service, and I took the same approach each time: I worked my backside off. The result was that before I left Fort Leonard Wood, I had been assigned an MOS of chaplain’s assistant, which according to those in the know, was one of the best jobs one could get.

When the dust had settled, I was reassigned to a company clerk (71B MOS) status, and when I stepped off the plane and was bussed to Ascom, Korea, where we were to receive in-country assignments and our orders, I was whisked into the commander’s office, so fast my head was spinning.

When I stepped into the sergeant-major’s office, there were no fewer than six uniforms in there, one with a captain’s bars, and they were all staring at me. Sergeant-Major Kaylor had my 201 File spread out in front of him and he had a question for me.
Roger Daltrey

He got right to the point. “These are some pretty impressive test scores, I’m looking at, Private O’Neill. How would you like to set up camp with us right here, in Ascom, in the 199th?”

I did not realize then that this was not routine for the other hundreds of dudes I had flown into Korea with; they all got their orders and moved out. I had merely transferred my gear from the entry station to permanent quarters, quonset huts that were open bays, maybe sixty by twenty feet, with a central aisle and twenty-four men housed in each.

My thought was that they seemed to want me here, which was better than the alternative, so I was happy to accept the invitation, and spent the next sixteen months with the 199th Personnel Service Company, cutting orders for troops heading home.

So yes, January 10th is a tough date for me but it gets better all the time. The twenty-plus years of recurring nightmares have ended, featuring me as a panic-stricken draftee, wondering how in the hell “I got fooled again.”

After forty years of resentment, with little to show for my two years of service, the cup now runneth over. I receive VA health benefits, which is stellar because my school insurance “ran out” five years after I retired. I tried to find out where it ran to, but was not successful.

I also get more respect from friends and acquaintances each November 11th, than I received in the forty years before I got into social media. Finally, after being in denial as to the value of the experience all these years, I have come to not only accept it, but to embrace that I would not be the person I am today, had I foregone the military experience.

If nothing else, my being a veteran allows me to express an opinion on, say Colin Kaeprenick, without fear of being reamed. Oh, I get reamed all right, but am still allowed my liberal views because I backed my views with two years of my life.
Except for the finance company, this was the best...

However, this morning my head is buzzing with memories, and no buzz from cannabis can push them far enough away, to make me forget. 
When I march in Sacramento in ten days, my being a vet won’t make any difference. I will be just one of thousands demanding that basic human rights be Acknowledged, Respected and Guaranteed: 


But after having taken off, to circle to the other side of the globe for sixteen months, heading over to Sacramento seems fairly mellow, unlike the angry thousands who will be marching for basic human rights.

Back in 1971, both major political parties in this country still had basic human rights as their platforms-not so now. That we have to march at all to guarantee against racism, misogynism, and homophobia is a huge step backwards, but at least some of us have been here before so this is not new.

As always, if we step together in unison, we will make a difference. In numbers there is strength and any army depends on numbers. I’m just happy to be volunteering this time around-no draft required.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Pecksniffery: Thy name is Mitch McConnell

Seth Pecksniff, hypocrite extraordinaire,
with his two daughters, Charity and Mercy

Pecksniffery: Thy name is Mitch McConnell
Charles Dickens created a fictitious character in his novel Martin Chuzzlewit, named Seth Pecksniff, a sanctimonious surveyor and architect “who has never designed or built anything.” Dickens’ description of Pecksniff is telling: “Some people likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the way to a place, while never going there.” 
The character of Pecksniff led to the creation of a new word in the English language, that of pecksniffery. You want pecksniffery? 
I present to you Mitch McConnell, Republican  Senate Majority Leader, who declared an end to Merrick Garland’s Supreme Court nomination on the floor of the Senate, in March of 2016. It mattered not what Garland’s qualifications might be; McConnell refused to even meet with President Obama’s choice.

Fast-forward 293 days.

Last week McConnell bleated out, “Apparently there’s yet a new standard now, which is to not confirm a Supreme Court candidate at all. I think that’s something the American people simply will not tolerate.”

I was not surprised when the pretentious McConnell asserted his belief that there was a new standard now, except that it was nothing new since he initiated the delay himself, last March.

Hypocrisy, thy name is Mitch McConnell; your dishonesty is right up front. You make no bones who is Number One in your life, and his name is Mitch McConnell, aka the Republican Party. Your efforts to stamp out Social Security, Medicare, Planned Parenthood and every other program that benefits the elderly, are repugnant and transparent.

Money cannot be made off the backs of the elderly, unlike, say weapons production, so the elderly are worthless. Cut aid, focus on business and sweep those old folks right under the rug. And do it openly, without batting an eyelash, looking straight into the camera.

My question is, did you think the rest of the world not named Mitch McConnell, was just going to forget what you said, last March? Do you think we are stupid, or are you so smug in your pecksniffery, that you feel you can act with impunity, and give lip service to what it means to be the Majority Leader?

Aside from being deceitful, insincere, pompous and pharisaical, you are a cad. You live in the lap of luxury, secure in the knowledge that though there are 43 million people in this country, at or below the poverty level, you done got yours.

Got yours? You ain’t seen nothing yet. Karma has a special place in her scheme of things for pecksniffians. You’ll get yours all right.

I can’t wait.

How big?

Brought to you by Mickey Mouse, himself, Mitch McConnell