Jerry is crazier than a circus badger. Jail is a frat-house, summer camp, and psych ward all mixed together. With some locker-room.

Amigo ( the Guatemalen) was sitting at the foot of  Jerry’s bed. Pinching his leg. Jerry kept yelling “Quit quit I’m telling you AHHH quit!” Crazy like.  Amigo didn’t quit so Jerry exposed himself and made sure Amigo and everyone else saw it.

I was disgusted. So was everyone else. Jerry laughed like said badger. I warned him. Man come on don’t do it anymore! I guess it didn’t bother Amigo as much as I thought. He pinched him again.

I was ready. I had snuck up on Jerry (his head was to me). Circus badger waved his junk again. I smacked it ALL with a size 16 sandal. Jerry jumped up and screamed like a scalded badger. He expose himself one more time, but this time I laughed. My sandal had left 3 circles (markings from the bottom of my sandal) and left the old barnyard red and swollen.

They don’t call me Hardcore for nothing.

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All things work together. I’m praying for you. Trust in the Lord. I can do all things through Christ. Read the Bible it will strengthen you.

I think people stop using cliches after someone uses one on them during a crisis. I have a beautiful Brand New BIBLE. Took a lot of trouble getting it to me. When I’m at my lowest I take it out for a little help. I look at it like its an instruction manual for a Russian nuclear sub. Written in Russian.

I guess I’ve lost my mind more than I realized. I don’t even know how to use the Bible anymore. Try letting it fall open to a scripture. Did that. The building specs on the badger skin coated tabernacle didn’t really lift my spirits. Nor did UFO’s seen by a naked profit.

I’m reading through even the New Testament and words are blurring together and my mind is loose and ungrasping. I don’t know anything.

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Whoeever battles with monsters had better see that it does not turn him into a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

 There was a time in my youth where my mother called me the antichrist. (she however, does not remember this EVER happening.). Just several occasions but enough  for it to take root. My brother thought and thinks it was a hoot. I didn’t and do.

At the time I puzzled over it. I didn’t feel like the antichrist. Sure I got trouble but I loved the sweet Lord.  Wouldn’t dream of overtly trying to derail any plans he might have.

A few years later I asked my Pastor if someone could be the antichrist and not know it. Perhaps the ultimate Manchuria-Candidate.

He laughed and assured me that no the antichrist was or would be fully aware of his role and participating in it with enthusiasm. Needless to say it took a huge load off my mind and heart. Now I’m portrayed as a monster. By more people I loved and cared about. I don’t feel like I’m a monster. I certainly don’t want to be a monster. But what makes something real? It is all of them treating me as if I were?  Or how I feel?

Is the value of my soul based  on popular consensus even if only a partial view is available to them? Or is my self-worth based upon what I view it as? I’m not sure. Frankenstein’s monster was created. It came into being with faults not its own. But its faults nonetheless.

In the beginning it wanted out of the cold and developed a friendship knowing something was wrong with itself but not sure what to do.  When all those around it began to attack it, it reacted and became the monster. And suffered an exile as the end result.

Maybe I’m a monster only if I become one based on my reaction to everyone. If I become what they accuse me of being then I am a monster. But if I am what my heart thinks I am then I don’t lose my humanity. I don’t know anything.

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Last night I went to bed thinking about how I could write a book if I were real wise (Dobson) insightful (Yancy) profane (King) or trendy ( I don’t know I don’t read trendy authors. Think Oprahs Book Club).

Since I’m obviously not wise or insightful I thought profane. But no.  I just don’t have it in me. Baby-killer is STILL trying to get me to curse. So I opted for trendy. I know I said I didn’t read those but I’m a liar. I just got done reading one of Oprah’s Book Club selections and I swear it was the most dull book I’ve ever read. But it was long and in prison you do what does your time (see thats the kind of line that would be in a trendy book. I might be good at this).

So. Seeing as how I’m bored to tears I thought I’d relate a little tale.  Wrote a story about it. Wanna hear it?  Here is goes…

The eighteen wheeler jerked as he shifted from first. The tail lights fuzzed through the dust it kicked up and seemed to wink at me as if they knew a secret I didn’t.  They left and never told me. I looked around. The desert was a deceiver just like the one-armed man waving from the Strip in Vegas. Smiling and waving.

It was night and it was cold. The wind ripped through my tshirt and shorts. Just this afternoon it was 118 degrees in the shade. Now it was 20 degrees in the shade. The wind assaulted me like a billion little glass daggers  ( yes, I said a billion with a B, in trendy writing you can’t just say you’re cold).

I looked up and saw a million stars. Winking at me. A million celestial truckers driving into eternity with secrets that they can’t or won’t or don’t ( yes, can’t – won’t – don’t, you HAVE to love absurd sentences) share with me.  I looked both ways and crossed the two lane highway to the truck stop. (Have to have the ambiguous ending).

 

 

Well, there goes my first little foray into trendy writing. Send me an email at kissit@gmail.com

Next installment I’ll write and use obscure literary and cultural references that no one gets but everyone pretends to so we can all look like we know about something more than American Idol and L.C. And after that, I’ll use big words EVER fewer people understand. NYT Bestseller List here I come.

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Shredder the Bed-Wetter

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve come across stories I’ve written when I was eight years old. I remember getting sent to the principals office when I was nine for a story I wrote.

The Ninja Turtles had come out and were all over the place. Being young and not quite bound with the restraints of copyright law I appreciated their nemesis Shredder.

My story was more comic than the action and I changed  his name slightly to Shredder the Bed-Wetter. Okay, its not Monty Python or Mel Brooks but to a room full of nine year olds it was high comedy let me tell you.

Well, my teacher thought it was an outrage. I remeber her grabbing me by the upper arm and marching me to the principals office. They both stood there glaring at me ( I was crying again) while the principal read the story over the phone to my mother.

I’m not sure what her reaction was, but I don’t remember getting in trouble with her for that one.  I do remember  sitting in the corner with my back to the front of the class for the rest of the day.

It’s incredible the power of laughter. What not ten minutes before had made me feel on top of the world now humiliated me. I doubt even Tolstoy had to deal with that. Gave me some authority.

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Don is an idiot. As much as I lover Raymond I hate Don. Even his name is stupid.

Don doesn’t mess with me. I hardly ever talk to him. You ever meet someone who  makes you wanna punch  him just  by the way he looks?  It was probably Don. He’s real scraggly looking like a bit fat stupid looking muslim. He actually, and I’m not making this up, wraps a sheet around his head like a Muslim headpiece.

When the guard gets on the intercom (its against regulations to put anything over your face or on your head) or say something about it at the door, this moron  tells them  its his religious clothing and if they don’t bring him a prayer rug and tell him where East is that he’s going to sue the jail. And they laugh and walk away.

One day he wanted them to refund $8 for a haircut he didn’t get. He ACTUALLY told them that he was going to blow up our pod if they didn’t give him his money. Someone from our pod was getting a haircut up front and told us that they heard over the radio that a Muslim was going to blow up our pod and all the guards left.

Don had told them he was a suicide bomber with 12 pounds of dynamite. They thought he was hilarious. The guards. I think he’s an idiot. He’s always saying goofy stuff like “Oh boy” and everyone starts it all the time. Hardened criminals.

The other night he told Lee that once he’d caught an albino catfish. Named it Wayne and put it in a bucket of water. Little by little he drained the water until one day there was none left. He had trained the catfish to breathe air. He just kept it damp so it wouldn’t dry out. Said that  he took that catfish everywhere. Trained it to flop beside him around the house.

One day he went fishing and took Wayne with him. Just set him right on the dock beside him. Well one of the bait crickets jumped out of the little cardboard box into the pond. Wayne, being hungry and loving crickets, jumped in after it, And drowned.  Yeah they all think he’s soooo funny. Well I don’t. I think he’s sad.

IMW

6699

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Song 7 – Written by Branden E. Carter Jr.

This is to some one who liven on the road of groly. Now I know your teiling your stroy how you made it over. Befor you went away. You where a freind to me. You will always be within by heart each night an day. But now I just got to whate. An stay on my knee’s an pray that tomorrow will be a batter day.

Now I can know how much life mines to me. The time that we have is not lone but your love will live on after your gone. I pray that some day some one will think that way about me someday.

God has you in His arms knowing that on one can do any harm. So that you can sang your song in the home that God has made for you in the land of groly. So one day we can teil our stray togrether How we over come. The stromes an the rain of the panful ways of life.

Their where some good days alone the way. But now where hair to stay on the road of groly. We will teil our Stroy on this day of groly. Now we live on the road of groly.

By: Branden E. Carter Jr.

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My former pastor (and I use that term in the most liberal sense)told me that I had a problem with authority. His brilliant protege (younger than me) promptly agreed. I thirded the motion. I did and do.

Enduring schools I dealt with a teacher who stood me up in front of the class and showed them my misspelling of my middle name. They laughed. I didn’t. She stood me up and showed them  the book I was reading and they laughed about “Pipi – Longstocking”. They laughed. I cried.  They laughed more. I was eight.

Another had a wonderful program called “Fun Fridays”. If you didn’t get “three check marks” by your name in one day then the week on Friday you got to watch a movie and eat popcorn and drink red Kool-Aid. With my bad attitude (many people called it A.D.D., she called it ‘bad attitude’.) I hardly made it to ‘Fun Friday’. One week I was able to pull it off. With her own words “you need to be made an example of” she gave me three check marks that Friday morning.

Not content to sit me  in the back where the bad attitudes were usually set, she brought me to the front of the room. Next to the T.V. Facing my classmates. They laughed. I turned red. I was nine.

One screamed at me for twisting my hand in the light coming from the window. I had done my work already but she was upset about something. She told the class that I might be retarted and should be in Special-Ed. I cried. They laughed. I was ten.

And on and on and on.  I was taught to trust  and obey those with authority. They abused it. Church wasn’t much better. Sunday school teachers pinching the backs of my arms or twisting my ear in front of all the other kids. Angry sometimes at a parent or family member they came after the ones who couldn’t defend themselves. Wasn’t just me.

I seen chuch ushers slam kids to the ground and put them in headlocks. Young teenagers I was thirteen when they left me and a kid from the bus-ministry to paddle  8 hours by ourselves. “Sink or swim” laughing.  Our canoe was capsized under a tree branch and the kid ws stuck underneath.  A nearby power boat came to our rescue and saved him. Oh boy how they laughed and laughed when the boaters brought us to the church van. Being laughed at hurts worse than being punished in the face over and over. Those bruises heal, but I can still hear the laughter.

Cops who lie, lawyers who cheat, pastors who “only keep you around for your money”. Yeah, I guess I do have a problem with authority. And my bad attitude.  IMW

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