~ U know, Donnie – U might have been headed to the Dumpster.
~ I’ll be here awhile – believe me.
~ Believe U?
~ Of course.
~@RealDonaldTrump – it’s me & U.
~ Oh, yes. I luvs ya, #Twitter.
~ I’ve read all that you tweet.
~ Lucky U. & THANKS for letting me use more words.
~ U like that?
~ I’ll tell you something about politicians.
~ They love using a lot of words.
~ And so do I.
~ Politicians use a swamp of words.
~ & it’s my SWAMP now.
~ There’s no way of bombing it?
~ Not when I’m living there, & loving it HUGHLY.
~ Donnie – U have less than a year.
~Not to worry – they tried IMPEACHING my ass.
~ Wasn’t that the fake news?
~ And the real NEWS, too. Sons Of Bitches.
~U think the Senate is still your friend, Donnie?
~ I’ve got their short & curlies in my hands.
~ So it seems.
~ Gotta great grip. And I’m pulling hard.
[image] https: //www.dailydot.com/wp-content/uploads/f56/8b/e0d229e9b9400775b67b573c79a81a21.jpg
~ Was it in vain?
~ That you took My name.
~ They crucify me like there’s no tomorrow.
~ There is no tomorrow.
~That’s OK for You to say.
~ I know.
~ But, down here, I don’t get a break.
~ Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?
~ You mean because they don’t understand me?
~ Perhaps more because they do.
~ Hey, I’m looking after Your country.
~ You have other sheep to tend to.
~ But I’m King of the World.
~ You have a big fall in front of you.
~ Oh, I’m protected. I have (haha) more money than God.
~ The eye of the needle is narrow indeed.
~ I’m no fool. I’ll get off and walk.
~ There is no one other to walk in your shoes.
~ You know, we even look alike.
Here we go again. Almost the same scenario this morning, although the speaker was a female. Same cover-tossing on my part, same worry. that something was wrong. My response was so abrupt, however, that I was the party hung-up upon. At least these incidents have been reduced.
The phone rang too early for decent folk this morning, but that can mean there is a problem, so I tossed off the covers and answered.
[jumbled static, tweeps, gurgle, hollow and distant voices]
Heelooo. Eeeestay. Is there Eeeestay?
What do you want?
Eeeestay [static and hollow voices in the distance] Eeeestay, danger to your computer. I can save.
You are lying through your teeth. You know nothing about my computer.
Wha… Eeeestay. I can save your computer.
You are lying through your teeth.
Idiot! [abrupt hangup]
All of which put me in mind of a blog I wrote a couple of years ago of a conversation I had with – possibly – this fellow’s brother
I have a degree of sympathy for telemarketers. I spent a couple of months training to work in a call centre. I was mainly to deal with customer complaints. It was the least offensive such job I could find. But I could just not remember all the stages I was supposed to go through, or keep track of all the various information tabs on my screen. I did not make it through ‘training’.
My modicum of sympathy, and not being totally sure when I first answered that it was a marketing call, made me embark on the following conversation. No, it is not verbatim (I didn’t record it for quality control). And it is condensed. I admit, a certain fascination of just experiencing it, kept me on the line.
To anyone else without a writer’s perversion, do as I say and don’t do as I do.
T: “Hello there.”
M: “Hello.” [another long pause] “Hello. How can I help you?”
T: “Help me?”
M: “Yes. What do you want?”
T: “Are you the Lord?”
M: “The Lord?”
T: “That you can help me.”
M: “Good Lord. What do you want?”
T: “I have the Lord. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.”
M: “You make your Lord annoyed.”
T: “Ha ha ha ha ha lo lo lo lo lo lo moo moo moo.”
M: “You’re speechless.”
T: Moo moo moo moo maa maa maa.”
M: “You sound drunk.”
T: “I’ll put my dick on your ass.”
T: “And show it to your wife.”
M: “It would give her a laugh.”
T: “And I’ll do your dog.”
M: “That’s fine. My dog bites.”
T: “Your wife will have a big smile.”
M: “What about my dog?”
T: “Lick a dick.”
[At this point I begin to feel I am as bad as him. I stop.]
T: “Here is dick. Moo moo moo moo. Hello. Where’s the wife?”
T: “Hello Hello. Got my dick out.”
[Silence – though I still wonder where this might go. Then he starts talking to a voice I can’t hear.]
T: “Sorry, Sir.”
T: “It’s a real call.”
T: “The number is … [my correct phone number]”
T: “He is [the wrong name]”
T: “I am calling [correct city].”
T: “He lives at .”
T: “It is in [correct country]“.
T: “I understand, Sir.”
T: “It is time.”
T: “No, Sir. You don’t have trouble.”
T: “Yes, Sir. I can do that.”
T: “I’ll phone back in fifteen minutes.”
[There are no further phone calls.]
~~ Bernardino Luini – Nursing Madonna
Sometimes, when you read a novel, you come across a described incident you know just has to be true, because even the most inventive author could not make it up.
I will now describe an encounter I had on a five hour bus trip one weekend. It was a fairly full bus. I assumed my tenure of being able to sit by myself would not last the whole time.
In this I proved correct.
At a ten minutes stop, which allowed me to get off and stretch my legs, I returned to find a fellow in the seat beside me.
Early twenties, a tall, thin, white male with a head of blond dreadlocks. He was also dressed totally in white, and expressed surprise my seat was taken (though I had left my knapsack upon it).
Three minutes after the bus leaves, even before we are out of town and on the highway, he asks:
“Are you a Christian?”
This – generally – is not a positive ice-breaker.
I replied ‘more-or-less’, which set him aback.
Asking me what I meant, I said that many people classing themselves as Christians do not follow the teachings of Christ as I understand them, so one man’s Christian can be another man’s Antichrist.
He – surprisingly – agreed.
I confess to being monosyllabic in my responses to his religious-oriented questions, which he spread out over the next hour. He might have had an evangelical intent, but he was not insistent. He did, during his disjointed discourse, relate that he was an ‘art student’. He had some of his drawings in his backpack – might I want to see them?
He expressed no displeasure.
He did ask some other routine questions among his religious comments.
Finding I was a writer he (of course) relayed a dream which would “…make a great story or book.” He planned to write it some day.
He asked after my books. I expected some unwanted enthusiasm when I mentioned The Elephant Talks To God. However, after ascertaining they were ‘short stories’ and that the title was ‘To God’ and not ‘With God’ (which I now ponder might have been a more accurate title) he did not pursue the point, other than to find out if he could purchase the book.
I assured him that he could, over the internet and on Kindle. He did not know what Kindle was.
While sitting beside me he had discussions (I interpreted) with God of his own. He did engage in heated (though muted) conversations with no one visibly present. Indeed, upon occasion, he seemed surprised at some of the comments he ‘heard’.
It was in the midst of this type of behaviour, and related to nothing I said, that he turned to me to relate this brief tale. A tale no author can make up.
He described how once he was staying with his girlfriend in Montreal. An apartment he bet he could still find if given the time.
One afternoon, God instructed him to draw a picture of Christ upon a wall. The only pigment he had was his girlfriend’s nail polish. And, upon the wall (guided, you must accept, by God’s hand) he drew The Christ with the head of Alvin-the-Chipmunk. And wearing an Alvin-the-Chipmunk red tunic, which was often (he said) the colour of the clothes that medieval painters gave Christ.
About ten minutes before we came into the stop where we would part company, he started to engage two ladies across the aisle in conversation.
He used much the same patter (though no Christian talk) that he had used with me. It turned out they were interested in seeing his drawings. He began to unroll a tight wad of papers (about the length of a roll of paper towels), ready to reach them across the aisle.
They were of nude women.
Not poorly done, neither.
Admittedly I set out later than I should, but the poetry readings were to go from 7-9. Enough time for some of it. However, as I was a few blocks away from the harbour (yes, I was also going to stop by the harbour first) I heard Latin chanting.
I greatly enjoy Latin chanting, so imagine my surprise. It turned out there was a large tent set up in a parking lot beside the Roman Catholic cathedral. Six men were chanting a service for a small group. It seemed related (in some way) to the jazz festival happening in the city. They had mics and lights. I lingered by the fence and listened. Evocative and effective.
However, I did feel I should go to the poetry readings, so off I went.
But I gave in to my temptation of visiting the harbour on the way. It was there, as I sat looking out to sea, that an elderly, white haired man struck up a conversation. A visitor who had arrived by train for a week of vacation.
The first vacation without his wife, dead these fourteen months.
She was eighty-four.
When he said this, he saw the look of surprise on my face.
“Bet you can’t guess my age,” said he.
I answered, with some truth, that I never answer that question.
“Eighty-one,” he said.
I granted I would have shaved a dozen years off his age.
“Married sixty years,” he said. Always had travelled with her. Always went by car. “But it wouldn’t be the same,” he said. So he took the train.
So – yes – I stayed to talk to him.
“Get up every morning to fill the day is my motto,” he said.
So I answered his questions about the islands, and if the helicopters flying overhead were military, and if all the ships needed the use of the tugboats we were standing beside, and was there somewhere close he could buy magazines, and how he got this real good travel deal through CAA, and how he talks to everyone.
“Is that really the ocean out there?” He pointed.
~ A Moscow Mule.
~ Since when are you a vodka man?
~ Just trying to fit in with the 46th.
~ Make him feel at home.
~ That is so not-politically correct in so many ways.
~ Neither is he.
~ Point taken, Joe.
~ Did you just say Putin, Boss?
~ So, I’ve gone around the mansion.
~ And I’ve put red stickers on the art work.
~ Like they’re sold.
~ Are you messing with him again?
~ But I’m being subliminal as hell.
~ What do you mean?
~ The stickers are really little red squares.
~ What the –
~ He’s going to be on the hot line faster than a goose to the bathroom.
~ That’s politically correct, isn’t it?
~ Are you shittin’ me, Joe?