New Blog Feature: A Little Common Sense With Bruce

I've given the matter a lot of thought, and I have the solution to gun violence in public schools.  As many  manic Appalachian folk have shared with me,  the truth is so simple no one thought of it before.  Sports.   The javelin.   An often under-rated field sport.  When was the last time you got horny over a really stacked javelin thrower?   That's so wrong.   Javelin throwing is a graceful sport, and for some reason I feel as though it is the activity of the hour.  The epidemic of school shootings.

 A lot of inner city schools don't even have track and field sports.  They're not insured against human imperfection.  So troubling.  I propose public schools everywhere revitalize the sport, and stock all class rooms, like trout in a cement pond, with javelins which can be thrown at school shooters.  Some nut case comes in the room with an AK, everyone grabs a spear and goes to work.  Hall monitors could get in formation and say, "Halt, who goes there."  This could really raise a lot of positive school spirit.

Shooters can  be teamed up on by school kids wielding modified sports harpoons in a spectrum of bright candy colors, much like those lovely rifles athletes shoot during winter Olympics skiing rituals.  Kids can be encouraged to charge in like Zulus and spear the assailant to death.  And holy jeepers, nothing works better than a common ordinary stick when you need to disarm an asshole with a gun or knife.   The SOBs have been known to work wonders.   Bashing people over the head with sticks has been carried off successfully many times, many places.   It makes me gag the way people are immune to the obvious.  

And never forget, football is a military sport.   That's all for A Little Common Sense With Bruce.

Readers, bloggerites, I am obliged to divulge that I have been having Elvis sightings, right here, my place, my space.    The last one happened three o'clock this morning, I had dined earlier on twelve fried peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwiches with extra Crisco, I awoke from slumber flatulent, and as fragrant molecules permeated the bedding, Elvis transfigured his corpulence from out of the texturized drop ceiling over head. It was a message from the Great Beyond.  "Ya'all quit whining like a hound dog, Bruce.  You just hush your mouth and compose frivolous entertainment features, like your doggone Fashion Report you do on facebook.   And shut the fuck up about politics."

Right on, Elvis Presley.   Things are so urgently fucked up here on Earth that he transported his flabby butt all the way back here to inform that people are giving themselves and everyone else a pain in the ass.  Political activism ain't nothing but a hound dog these days.  Cryin' all the time.  

Right before he left the building, sparkling  off in his powder blue dream-mobile, he said a few parting words.  "Goods and services.  Produce the motherfuckers.  It's more ethical than protesting shit you can't find your ass the long way around in."   

You can see why I have to share this crap with everyone.  It came from Elvis.  He means it.  Quit obstructing and get to constructing things.  Widgets.  Invest in a Quick Lube fanchise.  You will do well.

All poets should allude to old situation comedies.

Abstaining

I will never vote again
till the Martians take over and then
I will choose the buffoon  who is prettiest
wear slogans for the goon that is fittest
for the job of reigning has-been

Not the type to use force
nor am I a work horse
it leaves me the need to meditate
to claim ability to levitate
to josh with the locals, of course

I will no longer endorse
anything more assuming than a horse
I will watch old reruns, of course
I'll watch Mr. Ed till the end

Rhyming All Over the Place!

 Talking My Situation Rag

thrumming a tune in the mauve lagoon
bubbles forming nipples, taking air
zither with slide whistle
imported from Saskatoon
comes up with pelts and hair

raucous party below will be ending soon
been talk of liberation gone slow
chartreuse balloons rising from the party tunes
dancing with dance hall octoroons

friends and relations grown immune
to sun and sky and moon
living it up below
one minute before terminal noon

Is You Is, Or Is You Ain't, Free Thinking?

Secularism and the organic need for spirituality meet and chat over tea and crumpets once a month in another solar system.   Heck, pals, I know that much from gazing in the crystal ball. I pick up some of their ruminations through tarot, seances, and most primarily, the crystal ball.  They're not total light weights beyond Alpha Centauri, yet I could use a bigger ball to render anything close to a determination.  Fuckers remain abstruse.  

 More pragmatically,  the system that's hosting my blog, titled "An O.K. Corral of Thoughts," runs the same bill of goods, same dilemma.  One may be both an atheist and a seeker. Or, too, a rigorous moralist.  Or a jagg off.  All things considered, like the PBS slogan.  A nonbeliever is at liberty to engage in prayer, to any object, any purpose.   He/she can join any believer at all in prayer, much the way lawyers and senators can call a courtesy vote.  A courtesy vote is a shit-bird practice in which wealthy, powerful people take voluntary leave of their moral spine at the behest of a corrupt and desperate colleague.  Conversely, to join a group in prayer is good civics. I can join any group at all in asking Jesus to yield a free powder blue Cadillac to any  & all deserving souls, mine included, if there is such a thing.  I can share the damp, chill emotions when the car doesn't magically appear.  And the mania of their next spiritual initiative.    


On this planet, I'm a hermit with a flair for ratiocination.  Like a gardening tool, I like to put this trait to use when the weather permits and the urge presents itself. There is room for both natural and supernatural, everywhere and anywhere.  Either precept can hide under a thimble.    Though one can't hide the Empire State Building under a thimble.   There's some aspects of materialism people should try to straighten out.  I've seen a few believers fuck up their finances for this spare, paltry thing.  Jesus doesn't pay the bills, stop bullets in mid-air, 
 or take out the garbage.   

One can be passively respectful towards the religious practices of any and all, in a diversified, civil United States of Pure Attainable Pleasure.   Free-thinking, such as is identified by some with the Founding Fathers, is a not-too-aggressively endorsed watchword here.  All precepts and watchwords are small enough to print on a standard business card, and all can be printed, online, for about ten bucks.  Validity is about two inches by three and a half, usually on semi-gloss plain card stock. 

Duplicity

come and get me, Flipper
dolphin don't leave me in the plastic in the ocean
whip up suds and tow away the island
composed of discarded notions

Don't be cajoled by the fishing pole
the diving bell
the spear gun
the swell sporting gear from Sebastopol
you can trust me, television fish
to grant your wish

Now you can't catch me, Mr. Dolphin
don't need you any more
and I'm long gone
don't be sore

 Attrition

dwindling has become a hobby
losing weight as I stand in the lobby

losing touch has become an ambition
silence, an act of sedition

allowing the house to decline
rewarding inverse of a diamond mine

I've let all tired morals
grow porous and pink as sea coral

as snakes and pack-wolves lunge
we grow tired and throw in the sponge