When I was a tyke soap-on-a-rope hung on aisle ends at local supermarket. I'm not certain its purpose. Perhaps it's a secret message of arcane significance. *qu ominous, dramatic voice* Soap, your days are numbered!

Well I guess it was partially accurate. Soap-on-a-rope did hang, dangle, metaphorically suffocate, strangle upon fibrous . . . hempiness of public opinion and fad marketing. Now but the phrase remains just a droll rhyme.

There was a time when the word 'rhyme' would inspire within me a sublime creative fire and um, uh-h-h-hhhh. uh, uh, uh, so I made a word list that rhymes with . . .

soap because I love soap.

scope

grope (settle down TSA agents shh, the word gets them excited, especially when one-year-olds and diapers are included)

cope

trope

slope

pope (hmm)

elope

Did I miss anything?

dope

hope

nope

Och, laddie. Don't let Washington DC see the next to last one. Orgasmic fantasies of poverty and world domination. Or the one before, which them pissy. Actually the last one does too. Ask this Detroit mother.

As DC (*whisper* the President) aggressively harasses those naughty, naughty states that legalize a harmful, deadly, insidious drug marijuana. Naughty, naughty citizens. How dare you?

What are the side effects?

First, it's cheap.

Second, far fewer side effects. Munchies! And profuse smoking leads to . . . minor depression later in life. Oh my God!

Third, Big Pharma is better. Most drugs have a lot of side effects, many resulting in high death rates.

Fourth, lawyers cannot sue Big Pharma an absence of dead (sic) clients who would have hired them. (Zombie, zombie. -bie, -bie, -bie, -bie, -bie)

Fifth, the government doesn't get their fair share, even as government employees use your money (which you don't have a right to anyway) for plasma televisions, popcorn machines, iPads, tattoo removal, ect., ect.

Sixth, crime rates decrease.

All of these are horrible side effects.

But who am I kidding?

Of course the same can be said for Salvia which has no side effects except that anyone addicted to drugs with very few and sometimes entirely without withdrawal symptoms. (OMG! That is so terrible.) This is of Miley Cyrus bong fame. (WOO-HOO!)

By the way, drug is spelled d-r-u-g. These are man-made and often contain harmful toxins called carcinogens. Plants that heal are called herbs. Herb is spells h-e-r-b and the h is silent. Herbs grow in fertile dirt that is on the ground. You water them, make sure they have plenty of sunlight and they grow.

The government's stance on health: Only doctors and Big Pharma can heal. Soon to be, Only we can heal. And often, Watch, kiddos, as we force it down your scrawny little throats!

So really, the War on Drugs hasn't worked. It's actually the War on Non-Pharmaceuticals anyway. These rules increase crime rates, especially when the people inform Big Brother they aren't wanted.

There are those who have covered these points better than me. The point is that if you don't care, I hope you at least found this entertaining. But if you do care whether you are willing to take advantage of this freedom or not, sign the END THE WAR ON DRUGS petition here.

Remember there are freedoms which you may care about that other people don't, freedom because something you enjoy that does not inflict the act of force upon unwilling participants.

There is further information on this site as well, much more than I could give in a post of reasonable length.

A few sources

http://www.growswitch.com/blog/2011/05/the-obama-justice-department-is-forcing-legal-medical-marijuana-patients-into-the-illicit-market/

http://www.allgov.com/Controversies/ViewNews/Obama_Administration_Threatens_Washington_State_in_Battle_against_Legal_Marijuana_110420

http://www.rawstory.com/rs/2011/04/15/obama-admin-threatens-to-prosecute-state-employees-who-license-medical-marijuana-dispensaries/

http://www.disappearednews.com/2011/05/us-dept-of-justice-threatens-state.html

PS It does smell like burning rope. Ironic.

Edit: This goeth bye-bye. For now. I want to expand it as I've been told that it needs expansion. As well I've had a few more insights but these will have to come when I can apply myself to an epic length post.

I was three surrounded by parents’ peach-hued bedroom walls, starring at a glass penny jar on the headboard of my parent’s bed.  My father was preparing for Germany.

He slipped on Navy fatigues, revealing a large burn mark from his motorcycle accident on his right hip.  “You’re just like Bradley,” he said, leaving the room.

This wasn’t the first time he said it; though it is my first distinct memory of the phrase coupled with a setting. 

But let me tell you about Bradley.  In the early days, my half-brother rarely kept a job longer than a week.  Something happened, stirring anger.  He’d curse his boss, even attacked a couple of them, landing him in jail.  He also spent time for child support, several children with different women.  Then there were the suicide attempts.

So why did he say this?  I don’t know.  I don’t really worry about it, though he decided the moment he saw me in the delivery room that I would be.

These slanders were common and increased when he was honorably discharged.  I was five then.

At six, “you’re not even saved” and “your mom saved you” were added to the verbal repertoire.

The revolution in my life began at eight; I began to question.  When I questioned I reasoned and I soon discovered what he expected; I was supposed to think and act exactly as he did, a carbon copy.   Of him?  He made sixty-five grand a year, spent lavishly on himself and much more than he didn’t have.  We didn’t even know where much of it went.  Meanwhile I was wearing his hand-me-downs that didn’t fit.  He treated my mom like trash as well.  My innocent reasonings were defeating his.  Soon the arguments erupted, leading me at the age of nine to challenge in return.  “Do you want me to spank you?”  I don’t have to tell you where that went; it was somewhere I didn’t want to be.

Insults were added then too.  “You don’t have any common sense.”  “You’re stupid!”  “You’re worthless!”  Nice day:  “You don’t have the brain God gave a rock.”  The rest:  “ . . . box of rocks.”  (How creative.)  “I’m the god of this house.  If I tell you to kiss my feet and worship me, you better kiss my feet and worship me.”  “When I die, you can piss on my grave.”

Kind words almost never happened.  Until one day when I went to work with him; he paraded me.  One lady, Glenda--“the good witch,” she called herself--stopped me, said he told her all about me, he was so proud; it made me happy.  You see, I tried--till nine--to please.  It never happened, and I eventually gave up, but it wasn’t till years later that I understood the significance of this little event.

When I was eleven I devised my own manifesto, vowing I’d never be like him, that I’d treat my wife and children with love and respect and be the best father and husband any man could be.

Then there were the few well-intentioned and kind but silly people who told me that when I grew older I’d realize he was right.  It was just a cop-out of course, even if they didn‘t know it; in the end I was proven correct.  But what was I supposed to think then?  That I was stupid, that I was supposed to worship him?

Meanwhile, I was tiring of arguments.  I did everything I could to avoid them with him, resulting in false diplomacy.  First there was “what do you think about this?” At first I fell for it before soon learning it was another way he was starting arguments.  I refused answer, he threatened to beat me.  I gave in, he gave his opinion.  I wouldn’t argue, he threatened to beat me.  When I, as always, demolished his arguments, he threatened to beat me, or he‘d point his finger at me in rage.  “SHUT.  UP.”

I’d stay in my room every spare hour, hiding in books.  At twelve I was grounded from them, my next to last escape--and my great love--taken, leaving only my own imagination.  If I were caught, they’d have all been burned and I knew it.  He forgot good promises much more often than he remembered, but never forgot punishment.  I didn’t read novels for four years.  Every day he’d say, “You’ve been reading your books, haven’t you?” when I hadn’t touched them.  He must’ve known it was true because he wouldn’t ask again till the next day.

I could tell you everything; there are worse stories to tell from my life, and it would fill a sizable book.

But I eventually caught him with another woman.  He told my mother that since they married, he hadn’t been with anyone else besides this once.  It’s a lie of course.  It had been going on for months.  And he’d been sleeping with the maid when he had his motorcycle accident.  I can’t believe they’re the only ones, either.  He was always confident with women.  Glenda was just one example.

I didn’t consciously notice this when I was young but I think my subconscious mind knew.  When I had denounced all of him, I didn’t think I was denouncing confidence.  In fact nearly every single male I’ve ever known confident with females was a womanizer or jerk, those few others counted on a single hand.  It’s easy to automatically assume all confident guys are players and jerks.

But there wasn’t so much a lack of confidence toward him.  One argument ended with him breaking a mirror I shoved in his face.  “Look in the mirror!  That’s the one causing the problems in this house!  Look at it!”

I fought a lack of confidence.  And while at time it does creep up on me occasionally, I know I’ll always beat it and it will soon be gone entirely.  But none of you have any idea what that means, how far I’ve come, so I’ll tell one last little story and conclude.

A few short years ago this girl used to come in where I worked.  It means nothing to me now.  I know now that she wasn’t my soul mate.  She was definitely eye candy, and apparently that’s what she thought of me, because she was always looking back far too often, but as far as it matters, that’s all she was.  One day an associate tried helping me out.  “I don’t know anything about movies, but he does,” he told her. 

And she said “hi,” and my name.  She said my name!  “Hi,” I replied, gulped, turned around and quickly walked in the opposite direction.  Pathetic, I know.  I think of it now and it just seems funny to me really, sad that I was so bashful, but funny and I’m relieved that I’ve improved so much so quickly.

I’m a different person now.  A friend of mine that I hadn’t seen for a couple years even noticed the difference, noticed how much more confident I am than I used to be.

The moral of this post is, you never know how you’ll scar your child with mistreatment.  I know there are others who’ve had it much worse, children that grew up physically or even sexually abused on a regular basis, but just think twice about the words you’ll use before you raise your voice.  They might not turn out like me.  And never fear to apologize; none of us are perfect.  You children will understand and appreciate it. 

It wasn’t exactly uncommon for me to seriously ponder suicide.  The only thing keeping me from it was God’s reminders of what he chose me for, my imagination, the novels I’d write.  I’ve no question I’ll win because I almost have; there’s no guarantee that others’ll be as fortunate.

Don’t think of me as lucky.  I came to understand and that‘s all that‘s necessary for anyone else.  I became aware; it may not be easy, but there’s always hope.  We just have to decide to be aware, decide to release these former events, because they aren’t us.  Awareness is the key to overcoming.  If you know anyone that is discouraged, encourage them.  If anyone can beat persecution they can because it’s been done before.

(I actually wrote this Friday, but when I got on, Xanga was down for maintenance and I didn't feel like getting on Saturday.)

I awoke from the oddest dream and it has been on my mind since.  I was in my bedroom, though this was no room I’d ever been in waking hours.  It was bigger and brighter, and a dresser was where my window would have been in the “waking world.”  Resting atop was an aquarium filled with water where a solitary goldfish lived.  Now I owned goldfish for some time in real life, around four until the age of eight when the last one decided it was time for new scenery, though I don’t think it suspected the territory would be a shiny wood floor.

Anyway, I realized in this dream that the fish had not been fed for some time, so my mother fed it.  (What can I say?  I’m a little boy and I’m four; I can’t reach that high.)

When I turned, there was a giant popping sound and something landed just beyond my reach.  It was red and yellow and the approximate shape of a tomato.  The colors were separated, however, the yellow areas a dried husk, while it seemed the red areas had healed over.  And it smelled like a tomato as well.

When I saw it, I looked up to notice what had once been the little goldfish from which the object came.  It was now very large, as one might see in a restaurant aquarium, but it was dead.

I washed my hands since I really had no idea what the thing was that I had just handled, and when I returned, another pop followed with a similar object.  Then I looked again and there was a second fish, bigger than the first, but also very dead.  This one, however, lay at the very bottom, whereas the fish which had died first rested on an invisible floor on the top half.

It seems there were two fish in the tank all along, though I never saw the last till after it was dead, but when it became visible, a partition had formed as the top floor/bottom ceiling might act in a two storey house.  Beyond that, I don’t understand the dream at all.

Now the typical person would write it off entirely.  “It’s just a dream,” and most of you are thinking that right now but unlike typical dreams, this felt as if it were something waiting to be fulfilled.  I’ve had some dreams come true, with details too exact to be coincidence.  And they were never good, though I must admit, if I’m correct, this was more shrouded than the rest.

I thought of Nebuchadnezzar’s dreams as I lay awake in bed.  They seemed silly, too, and they had disturbed him.  The dreams the Pharaoh dreamed and Joseph interpreted seemed even sillier.

Then I thought about the dreams people had before the Challenger explosion, and days before 9/11.  Very soon I know that “young men shall see visions” and “old men shall dream dreams,” and that it will be to “all flesh.”  Whether or not this morning's dream was prophetic I’m not entirely certain but these things are beginning to happen.  Now all I have to do is find the true interpretation.  And no, Dr. Freud does not help.

So what are your strange dreams?  Have you ever had any come true?

Some time back an acquaintance of mine mentioned that he was reading a book.  Now I was aware of the book and the author.  I had previously looked at the title in particular at the bookstore with utmost skepticism and, after having read the back and a few paragraphs, returned the volume to its shelf with disgust at its particular stupidity.  Now this is the kind of acquaintance that, if he claimed any book was good, you would really have to think twice, or even three times, before reading it.  So I said, "Really?  It looks kind of stupid," toning down the edges of "What a horrific waste of time." 

"It's a book; I'm chapter five, but he doesn't write very well."  Wow, coming from a person that normally would not know good or bad writing if it poked his eyes out.

Two days later I was at the bookstore.  Twice I had to walk past the sign to believe my eyes.  The author was doing a book signing there?  What?  When?  So when I approached the sign a third time, I saw that it was that very day.  In fact, he was talking to a worker at the front counter.

I simply wasn't interested, so I walked around looking at the books.  I noticed as it neared closing a woman's laughter.  Not the kind of laughter that says, "This is funny; I can't help laughing," but the kind of laughter that says, "Hey, we're both single, you make three times the money I do" (he's never made a bestseller list) "and I want to make you feel good."  I.e. fake, fake, fake.

Now I wouldn't put myself in this author's shoes because I would never want to write anything like him, but I put myself in the situation, at least from the standpoint of an author doing a book signing.  When I communicate with people, I want them to be real.  I want them to be themselves.  If there's anything in the world I hate more, it's insincerity.  Now I might have let it pass a couple time, but all day of it?  I would have had to stop and say, "Look, I'm sure you mean well and I'm not trying to be rude.  However, if something isn't funny, or you don't think it's funny, please don't laugh, even if you fear risking offending me.  You won't, and I'll appreciate it."  I like when people speak their minds, when they don't compliment if they don't feel it's worthy of such, because if they do it just seems that all they desire is some sort of gain, that they feel they are taking advantage of a situation.  This might not be true at all but more often than not it would be and an individual must, in order to play it safe, treat the other as if they are well-meaning.

I guess the moral of the story is to be real, be yourself, but be the good part of yourself, and do it regardless of the cost.  Unless it means your death or something, but that would be an unlikely circumstance after all.

Last week, things were different.  The world was brighter.  There was hope.  Now hope is fleeing.  It is abandoning us.  No, it’s not just Barack.  It’s something bigger than that.

You see, at one point King Tooth could post his lengthy digressions concerning the uses of raccoon saliva and get a hundred fifty-two recommends and thirty-eight thousand, five hundred and seventy-one views.  Why?  Everybody knows King Tooth.  He’s famous.  And he’s my friend.  I want everybody to read him.  So his next post about using cacti as toilet paper and gargling bleach to clean your teeth gets an obamanable level of recommends.  (Did I say obamanable?  I meant abominable.)

You’ve never heard of King Tooth?!  What do you mean?!  Everybody has; he’s famous. 

Anyway, the point is, people visit his posts and are grossly disappointed.  And now he only gets about ten views per recommend.  Ya, tough luck, huh?  But then, with less views, it gets less recommends, gets less views, less recommends, less views, less recommends, spiraling into oblivion, until Xanga has posted number in the negatives.

Now put yourself in King Tooth shoes.  (Say that five times as fast as you can.)  W hy did this happen?  Well, maybe some people recommended a bit too often.  Maybe a limit should be imposed, such as no more than five a day, with the exception of the ones that would roll over because they aren’t used.

Because there ARE some very important posts that everyone should see and they’re not all goofy to make a point.  People need things for more than just entertainment.  They need to know about the 800 concentration camps in America, about the stimulus package that the Senate is due to vote on tomorrow.  And these things are not getting out like they should.

So dump King Tooth and recommend somebody worthwhile that everybody should read like Shamelessly Red, and recommends will start meaning a lot more again.

How often do you recommend?  What changes do you think should be made?

P. S.  King Tooth’s last post about Pseudo-Corn Paste on the planet Zorcon completely lost me when he said it used ear muffs as torpedo blasters.  Man!  If only he maintained the realism and logic of the first half!  It would be much more believable if it used baking pans as electroponic plasma beams.

Hey, you; recommend this.  NOW!