Tag: life

Questions We’ll Still Be Asking in 2026

by earlthepearl137

Yes, we the people are still talking about Jeffrey Epstein.  We know from his trial and your trial with E. Jean Carroll that you and your beastie bestie were both sexual predators.  How were you, or people you know, involved in his sex trafficking?  We’d also like to know why Ghislane Maxwell was transferred to a country club prison after meeting with your personal lawyer, B. Todd Blanche.  Will you pardon her if she keeps her mouth shut about you and Jeffrey Epstein?  How many times was your name redacted from those Epstein files?

We’re wondering why our government, which used to only kill foreign nationals in secrecy through CIA covert black operations, is now openly committing War Crimes and atrocities against Venezuela and putting the incidents on television for the whole world to see.  Of course, we will probably never see the video of the second drone attack on September 2, 2025, the strike that was ordered to kill two survivors in the water.  Does “Kill Them All” also mean Leave no witnesses?  Have you ever read the Geneva Convention? When push comes to shove, who will you throw under the bus to save yourself, Pete Hegseth or fat generals?

People are also talking about the Venezuelan Oil Tankers that were pirated, not by Somolli pirates, but by U.S. armed forces.  Is this about oil, or are you trying to start a war with Venezuela?  We’ve noticed that you are cozying up to the idea of calling illegal drugs “Weapons of Mass Destruction.” Donald Rumsfeld would be proud of you. 

We’d also like to know why you’re more interested in helping Russia than Ukraine.  Do you want to do to Greenland, what Russia is trying to do to Ukraine?  You tried to force Ukraine to sign a peace deal that was written exclusively by the Russians without any input at all from Ukraine.  Whose side are you on?

What incriminating evidence does Russia have on you?  The Mueller Findings resulted in the arrest of many of your associates.  Is that why you closed those and other investigations?

Why, at the 2018 Helsinki summit, did you publicly side with Russian President Vladimir Putin over U.S. intelligence agencies regarding Russian interference in the 2016 election?  Does it have anything to do with your multiple Casino Bankruptcies and subsequent financial recovery thanks to the help of Russian Oligarchs?  Will you give U.S. citizenship to any Russian with $5 million dollars, while deporting actual American citizens and sending them to brutal prisons in foreign countries, even after numerous court decisions have barred you from doing this?

Why are you purposely driving us away from NATO and the rest of our democracy-loving allies around the world, while you praise dictators like Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un?

We’ll also talking about the skyrocketing cost of living for the average person, while Billionaires get huge tax breaks. 

Why won’t you admit that your Tariffs are basically a sales tax that is forcing American Consumers to pay higher prices, while you still try to peddle the lie that China is paying the Tariff?

We’d like to have answers on why American Math scores rank 36th in the world, and why even you, a college graduate, are so mathematically ignorant that you repeatedly claim to lower drug prices by 500%, 600%, 700% 800% or more, when everybody with a rudimentary knowledge of math knows that lowering a price by 100% makes it free.  We know that you were already convicted of 34 counts of Felony Fraud in New York.  Was that bad math, or just another con like Trump University, which defrauded students and the Trump Foundation that robbed charities?

Why do you continue to annoy and threaten Canada and Greenland?

Why did you pardon violent Insurrectionists who attacked police officers and pardon people who defrauded Americans of millions of dollars, and even pardon the former President of Honduras who was convicted of smuggling tons of drugs into the U.S.?  Maybe you just don’t like the idea of former Presidents going to prison for their crimes.

What was your involvement in the January 6th insurrection?  You called the people who were arrested, heroes and patriots, so you must have been in favor of it.

What about the Fake Electors you used to try to nullify the election you lost?  Who was behind that?

How about the Georgia phone call where you tried to pressure Brad Raffensberger to give you the election?  How many votes did you want him to add to your total?

We have questions about why foreign tourists no longer wish to visit and spend their money in the United States.  We also would like to know why you’re trying to turn the United States into a police state, sending armed troops into states where they are not needed or wanted.

We still have questions about the Classified Documents you stored in your guest bathroom and shared with others at Mar-a-Lago who did not have security clearances.

Why did you destroy the East Wing of the White House?  Was it so that you could have a fancy ballroom to entertain the billionaires who have donated to your campaign for Kingship of the United States?  Why are you giving billionaires big tax breaks while shutting off American humanitarian aid that saved the lives of thousands of impoverished people worldwide, mostly children?

Why do Cabinet meeting always have to start with a full round of ass kissing?

Why do you insist on defying court orders and the Constitution, which you swore under oath to uphold?

We know all about the Hush Money Case you tried to deny, but we have questions about what quid pro quo you plan to give the Billionaires who are contributing to your campaign and funneling money to you?  How much outside money have you gotten as President.  How much did you grift on the hats, t-shirts, watches, coins, mug-shot mugs, phony AI action cards, etc.?  Where, for that matter, are the tax returns you vowed to release once the IRS cases were settled?  Are they tucked away in the same safety deposit box as the Health plan you’ve been promising to release for over a decade?

We also have plenty of Emoluments Questions that we’d like answered.  What was the quid pro quo in the $400 million aircraft presented by the Qatari royal family and the U.S. and Qatar finalized aviation and defense agreements totaling over $243 billion, including Qatar Airways’ purchase of up to 210 Boeing aircraft?  Will that plane be going to your Presidential Library? We know you don’t like to read. Will there be any books besides Mein Kampf in your library?

Have you tried on the ceremonial gold crown you got from South Korean President Lee Jae Myung?  This preceded expanded U.S.–South Korea security cooperation and trade adjustments.

Do you really believe that a made up FIFA Peace Prize qualifies you for a Nobel Peace Prize?

You also got gold bars and ancient artifacts from several Middle Eastern nations, some of which are estimated to be worth tens of millions. These were presented during diplomatic visits that coincided with defense procurement and energy deals.  How big a bribe does a country have to make to get a deal with the United States nowadays?  How much has your family’s net worth grown since you’ve been in office? How many golf courses have you opened around the world?

You accused President Biden of weaponizing the Justice Department, but you’re the one who has turned it loose on your political rivals and political enemies such as James Comey and Letitia James.   How do you explain that?  How do you explain your campaign against Freedom of Speech for comedians like Jimmy Kimmel, Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers, and others?

Whose idea was it to put up the ridiculous picture of an autopen for Joe Biden on the Presidential Walk of Fame?  Are you really claiming that you never used the autopen, even though there are so many people who you claim not to know who have been given pardons by you?  Who added the disgusting plaques which mock the other Presidents?  Did you write those yourself?  They look like some of the revolting middle-of-the-night tweets that you post on your mendacious social media site.

If you are still alive, will you run for an illegal 3rd term in 2028?  In a follow-up question, do you think you’ll still be alive in 2028?  What medical problems are you covering up with bandages and make-up? Why did your doctors order an MRI test?  Do you take medical advice from Robert Kennedy, Jr.?

Speaking of the Kennedys, where do you come off putting your name on the Kennedy Center? 

And Trump Class Battleships??? You know that “Trump Class” is an oxymoron don’t you?

Do you really think that all that orange make-up you pour on makes you look better than Zohran Mamdani?

Will you ever apologize to the Central Park Five, who you tried to have put to death for a crime they didn’t commit?

Tell me, Mr. President — what exactly should we be done talking about, and which news stories are too inconvenient to revisit in 2026?

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

No Kings, the Rally Heard ’round the World

by earlthepearl137

Yesterday’s No Kings Rally wasn’t just a protest — it was a reckoning. A mosaic of causes, signs, and voices, all bound together by one unifying thread: We the People have been stirred to action. Not by policy differences. Not by party loyalty. But by the cruelty, the malignant narcissism, and the corrosive influence of Donald Trump.

Fascism began as a Roman metaphor: a bundle of sticks (fasces) symbolizing strength through unity. One stick breaks easily. A bundle resists. Mussolini twisted that into authoritarianism. Hitler weaponized it. And Trump? He tried to make the bundle serve only him — demanding loyalty, punishing dissent, and mocking the vulnerable.

But yesterday, we reclaimed the bundle. Not as a tool of domination, but as a symbol of democratic resistance. Many years ago, Chief Tecumseh taught the same lesson with arrows. The Founders echoed it with E Pluribus Unum. And yesterday, the signs told the story.

The signs and speeches were about:

  • Protecting reproductive freedom
  • Defending LGBTQ+ rights
  • Expanding healthcare access
  • Preserving Social Security and Medicare
  • Combating climate change
  • Supporting veterans and mental health
  • Raising wages and strengthening unions
  • Reforming immigration and criminal justice
  • Fighting voter suppression and gun violence

These weren’t isolated chants. They were verses in a shared anthem: We the People demand better. And we demand it together — because cruelty in power has a way of clarifying what really matters.

And then came the sign that stopped me cold: “They’re eating the Epstein files.”

It wasn’t just funny. It was surgical. A jab at the elite’s appetite for secrecy, distraction, and self-preservation. As the files trickle out, the public appetite for truth grows — and so does the suspicion that someone’s chewing through the evidence.

This wasn’t a rally of factions. It was a rally of fusion. The bundle is back — not in the hands of tyrants, but in the grip of citizens. We’re demanding accountability from Government, and we’re doing it together.

So next time someone asks what the rally was about, tell them this: It was about E Pluribus Unum. It was about We the People. It was about refusing to be ruled by cruel tyrants ever again.

Be there for the next rally.  Courage is contagious.

Peace & Love and all of the above,

Earl

Candygram for Earlthepearl137

by earlthepearl137

It happened just after dusk. I was halfway through reheating last night’s chili when the knock came — firm, rhythmic, and suspiciously polite. I figured it was U.P.S. with my Bourbon order. I opened the door to find two masked men, dressed like extras from a dystopian reboot of The Blues Brothers, holding a ribboned box and wearing jackets labeled “I.C.E.”

“Candygram for Earlthepearl137,” one of them said, eyes wide with bureaucratic innocence.

I blinked.  I wasn’t surprised — I’d just published a blog post titled The End of Free Speech: A Love Letter to Monitored Comedy.  I knew the drill. Say something morally clear, challenge selective outrage, and suddenly you’re on the compliance radar.  Satire, when done right, makes some people nervous.

In my latest post, I questioned the double standards of speech policing — how moral clarity gets labeled “aggressive,” while actual harm gets a pass if it’s wrapped in patriotism or profit. I used examples from club signage, media pivots, and the way certain phrases get flagged not for content, but for who’s saying them.

Apparently, that was enough to trigger a “courtesy check.”

The I.C.E. agents didn’t arrest me, though. They didn’t even enter. They just stood there, box in hand, waiting for me to acknowledge the delivery. It was performance art — a compliance ritual dressed as concern. And like all good satire, it left me wondering: who’s really afraid of free speech?

I reached for the candygram, and the masked man winked. Not a friendly wink. The kind that says, We know where you live.

And then I woke up.

I wonder if it was a dream or a premonition.

“No Kings Day” – October 18th. Be there and bring a friend.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Sandwiches and Santa Claus

by earlthepearl137

WordPress sent me one of those algorithmic love notes: “You might like this blog as much as they liked yours.” It’s their way of nudging bloggers into polite reciprocity. When I first started my blog, 100% of my readers were close personal friends.  Now, 90% of subscribers are other WordPress bloggers.  She liked mine, so I clicked her link.

Her site was called _______IsAChristian. I won’t use her real name—let’s just say it was unmistakably evangelical. Now, I’ve been an atheist for twenty years, and an agnostic for twenty before that. So I approached with caution. But etiquette is etiquette. She liked my blog. I owed her a visit.

Her post was a long, winding story about her church group making sandwiches for people on the street. The kind of tale where the sandwiches are almost incidental. The real star was God—God in the bread, God in the mustard, God in the sidewalk. I read about two-thirds of it. That’s more than I give most stories.

Somewhere along the way, I left a comment. I said I wouldn’t try to debate her religion the same way I wouldn’t tell a child there’s no Santa Claus. It was a simile. It was also a little snide. But it was honest. I wasn’t trying to be cruel—I was trying to explain why I wouldn’t debate her beliefs. I figured she’d appreciate the boundary.

I followed up with something more generous: “As an atheist, I wasn’t moved by the religious framing, but I was moved by your group’s compassion for the hungry.” I meant it. The sandwiches mattered. The kindness mattered.

She replied: “You don’t love Jesus as much as I do.” And then more sermon. Less sandwich.

I commented one last time: “Bye.” And unsubscribed.

Then came the final message. A digital benediction wrapped in barbed wire:

“It was pleasure meeting, but I would be so blessed if you deleted me as a subscriber, so I don’t have to hear your negative comments on my posts because I don’t care about you, bye.”

My first reaction, of course, was “F*** you,” but I’ve learned to count to 10 when I’m mad.  My second reaction came after 2 or 3 reps of Seated Marching exercises. Ten counts on each leg. My final reply was simply “Done and Done. Bye.”

I’m telling this story from my point of view, of course. I imagine hers would be very different. Maybe she saw me as the Grinch who stole her comment section. Maybe she felt invaded. Maybe she just didn’t like the Santa Claus line.

But here’s the thing: I saw kindness in her actions. I saw people feeding the hungry. I just didn’t see the need to wrap it in theology. And maybe that’s the real divide—not belief, but packaging.

Sandwiches and Santa Claus. One nourishes the body. The other comforts the soul. And sometimes, both come with a side of unsubscribe.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Raiders of the Lost Liquor Cabinet

by earlthepearl137

Back in the day, our basement wasn’t just a hangout—it was a teenage Shangri-La with vinyl grooves, checkerboard tiles, and just enough parental distance to feel like we were living on the edge. My brother and I would head down there with our friends to spin records, swap stories, and—unbeknownst to each other—conduct covert operations involving Dad’s liquor cabinet.

We weren’t throwing wild parties or reenacting scenes from Animal House. No, our rebellion was more… artisanal. A sip here, a splash there. Just enough to feel like we were pulling off a heist worthy of a Saturday matinee. And we had a system: mark the bottle with a crayon, take your sample, top it off with water, and erase the evidence like a magician with a disappearing act. Genius, right?

Except we were both doing it. Independently and repeatedly. By the time Dad poured himself a highball, it had the alcohol level of a snowball. His bourbon gradually became as colorless as gin with less kick than a Shirley Temple.

Our parents were highball aficionados—elegant glassware, fizzy mixers, and drinks so gentle they could’ve been served at a toddler’s tea party. The real excitement came during neighborhood card nights. At our house, the games were quiet, strategic, and sober—unless someone brought beer, which we hadn’t yet figured out how to misappropriate. But when the party moved down the block to a neighbor’s house — That’s when the cards flew, the rules bent, and the laughter spilled into the street like a runaway keg. We could hear them singing from a block away, and we knew: those folks weren’t sipping watered-down whiskey.

It wasn’t until last month, during a visit with my brother, that we finally compared notes about our teenage years. We were mildly surprised that we’d been running parallel bootlegging operations like two competing moonshiners. We laughed until our ribs hurt—not just at the memory, but at the sheer absurdity of thinking we’d fooled anyone. Dad probably knew. Maybe he even preferred his bourbon with a splash of sibling sabotage and a twist of teenage ingenuity. Maybe he was glad nobody got rip-roaring drunk in our house.

🧪 Teenage Highball Recipe

  • 1 part Dad’s bourbon
  • 3 parts tap water
  • 1 crayon (for marking the bottle)
  • 2 stealthy siblings
  • Stir with guilt. Serve with laughter.

Bottoms up!

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Floating to Freedom in Jamaica

by earlthepearl137

I woke up not on a cushiony cloud of air but with a hardwood frame pressing against my arthritic hip.  That’s to be expected occasionally from air beds, though, so I just rolled out of bed and looked for my air bed repair kit.  While I wandered around the house looking for my repair kit, I recalled a fond memory.

It was 1980, and my marriage was on the rocks. We had been separated for three years, and Ginny wanted a divorce. I hesitated, and she sweetened the deal: “Sign the divorce papers, and I’ll take you on vacation to Jamaica.” I asked only one question: “Does the hotel have a pool?” She said yes. I signed.

Now, this wasn’t just about tropical leisure. I had a mission. The king-sized airbed I slept on back then had recently sprung a leak, and every morning I woke up on hardwood instead of a heavenly cushion of air. I’d tried everything—soap bubbles, flashlight tests, even listening for whispers of escaping air. Nothing worked. I couldn’t find the leak, and if I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t fix it.  But I had a plan: if I could get that bed into a pool, I could find the leak.

So I stuffed the deflated bed and a bathing suit into my suitcase and flew it to the Caribbean with Ginny.

Once we arrived, I inflated the beast and floated it in the hotel pool like a proud inventor testing his prototype. And there it was: the elusive leak, bubbling up like a confession. I patched it, let it dry, and suddenly we had a giant floating mattress perfect for ocean paddling. We spent the entire week drifting, laughing, and—somehow—rediscovering a spark. We even had sex regularly, which was more than we managed during the actual marriage.

We didn’t reconcile, but we did become friendly again. Divorce papers were still signed, but now we had a shared fresh memory of good times.

We were staying at a resort in Ocho Rios, the kind with orange rooftops, endless rum punch, and a view of a tiny offshore island crowned with a stone turret and three cabanas that looked like they’d been designed by a romantic pirate. Tower Isle, they called it. Clothing optional, they whispered.

We didn’t have a boat, but we had a big red airbed—tufted like a Victorian fainting couch and twice as ridiculous. We launched from the beach with the grace of two determined manatees, paddling with our hands and a sense of purpose that bordered on delusional.

The water was warm, the sun forgiving, and the raft surprisingly cooperative. Locals waved. Somewhere along the way, we invented synchronized paddling and declared ourselves the champions at it.  We laughed so hard we nearly capsized.

Tower Isle loomed closer. The cabanas stood like sentinels. The tower watched us approach, unimpressed. We didn’t storm the beach so much as gently bump into it, while waving sheepishly at a couple who were decidedly less clothed than we were.

We didn’t stay long. Just long enough to say we’d been there, to feel the thrill of the forbidden, and to paddle back with sun-kissed shoulders and a story that would make us laugh for years.

Then came the airport.

Customs took one look at my deflated bed and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?” “An airbed,” I said. “I brought it here to fix a leak.” They weren’t buying it. They wanted me to cut it open. “No way,” I said. “This bed and I have been through too much.” They insisted. I refused. I suggested drug-sniffing dogs. That’s when I felt a kick.

My ex-wife, now nervously jabbing me in the shin, whispered, “Just let them have it.” “No,” I said. “This is my bed. I love it. It’s finally not leaking.  I’m not leaving it.” She kicked harder.

Eventually, customs gave up. They felt the bed, deemed it empty, and let us board. On the plane, I turned to her and asked, “Why were you kicking me?” She confessed that she had two ounces of pot tucked into her bra and was terrified the dogs would sniff her out. I was defending my mattress like a knight guarding a castle, while she was praying the hounds wouldn’t sniff her stash.

I laughed. She didn’t.

And that, dear reader, was my divorceamoon in Jamaica: a week of patching things—beds and relationships. I came home with a fixed airbed, a friendlier ex-wife, and a story that’s been floating around ever since.

Her birthday was last week, but I didn’t send her a card, because I don’t know where she lives. I haven’t heard from her in over a decade, but I still remember that the best vacation of my life was on our Divorceamoon.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The Seaford Way

by earlthepearl137

The Seaford Way

When Brother X—known in legal circles as Donald—turned 75, he didn’t ask for much: just a day at the ballpark with 50 people who mattered. For a man whose influence spreads through family trees, Lions Club meetings, and neighborhood barbecue debates, this was no ordinary birthday. This was a coronation.

But before the crown and sash came the journey.  Since his family frowns on him taking long road trips alone, Donald and his daughter Beth arrived in Lancaster Thursday night so they could pick me up Friday morning and avoid a round-trip marathon in one day. Beth, a cop, rode up front. I climbed into the back—on the right side.  I stand facing the road and back into the seat.  Then I push myself as far into the vehicle as possible with my good right leg.  I hit an obstruction, an arm rest, so I raised it and pushed again.  Success, so, I swiveled to adjust myself into the seat and I was ready to go.

“Where’s that coffee you promised?” I asked.

“In the armrest,” he said.

Oops.  I pulled the arm rest down, only to discover that half the cup had already christened the upholstery. Auspicious beginnings as Jack Nicholson said in the movie Five Easy Pieces.  Brother X cleaned up the mess, and I laughed and ate the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which he also provided.  We took the slow but scenic route out of town and had clear sailing until we got to New York—specifically, the Belt Parkway, which transformed into a parking lot with signage.

Beth, ever the navigator, detoured us through Flatlands, where she had worked when she first joined the N.Y.P.D.  Traffic still crawled, but at least it was scenic. We finally reached Seaford just shy of 3 p.m.

With our concert plans for the evening canceled, Donald asked me what I wanted to do. I’d never seen Ted Lasso but had heard enough to know it might be the perfect show to binge-watch in whiskey-soaked solidarity. Donald had already seen all three seasons—but gladly rewatched them with me.

We binged season one.  We cracked open the Jack Daniels he bought for my birthday in August. It was classic Paulson bonding.

Saturday was Game Day. Brother X removed the baby seat from the car, added his late wife’s rollator for me, and Kathleen (his girlfriend, who he met in Iceland in January) and Beth joined us for the ride to Commack. That ballpark is special to him because one year when he was named one of the six Seaford Patriots, for his work in the community, one of the perks was throwing out the first ball at the Commack stadium.  At the ballpark, we joined 47 of Donald’s friends and family. (One missed due to illness.) They handed him a sash: “Happy 75th Birthday” and crowned him with a metal tiara marked with a bold 75.  When it looked like a thunderstorm might pass by, I encouraged him to take off the metal crown he was wearing and hold it up high in the air.  Sarcasm is also part of the classic Paulson bonding.

Many of his friends were also turning 75, so Donald paid for their names to appear on the jumbotron after the second inning. It was festive, chaotic, and beautiful—even if the Ducks lost 7–2 to the Dirty Birds.

For Sunday, Donald had arranged a memorial mass for our late brother Kevin, a gay police captain and columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, who would have been celebrating his 67th birthday that day.  Kevin wrote eloquently about his life with partner Brian and their adopted sons—Zane, who danced too close to the law, and Aidan, a shy, quiet soul now making his way through college. Kevin once said he took inspiration from former Chronicle columnist Mark Twain, who warned, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” I think Kevin held a higher rank than Captain, but I, too, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

As an atheist, I was lovingly excused from church. Instead, I slept in and later, X and I taught Kathleen how to play pinochle.  After she took all our money, we went back to our Ted Lasso marathon.

Kathleen bought me two big bottles of Moscato Sangria. On Monday, we drank wine, ate Chinese takeout, played more cards, and finished season two of Lasso. It was comforting, light, and full of laughter.

On Tuesday, Don and I visited my best friend John, now undergoing chemotherapy. His body had shrunk, but his wit hadn’t. We joked, talked Yankees, and filled his “recovery room” with laughter. It was the kind of visit that sticks to your ribs, even more than the sauerbraten we ate later at Das Bierstube, which I call “Das Digs” combining the old and new names of the bar/restaurant.

My mother’s sauerbraten was the stuff of legend, even outshining what I once tasted in Germany. So we go out for sauerbraten not for flavor, but for ritual: to remember her, to compare notes, and to declare—again and again—that no chef measures up.

That evening, we had hibachi at D.J.’s house. I was too full to eat but not too full to drink. We sipped beers while Cooper and Chloe ran wild in the backyard, turning it into a small summer paradise.

Back in Seaford, Donald and Kathleen went to bed, but I stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing Ted Lasso. I needed that final episode. I needed to feel what Coach Lasso felt when the journalist handed him the book: The Lasso Way.

But Ted had it right. He renamed it The Richmond Way. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about all of them.

We left Seaford at 10 a.m. and arrived in Lancaster by 2. Kathleen treated us to cheesesteaks and a hamburger from the shop across from my house. Then she and Donald went to their hotel for a swim and some sleep before heading back to New York.

The Seaford Way is not about Donald alone. It’s about Beth, with her grit and grace. It’s about Kathleen, who learns card games and brings sangria and cheesesteaks. It’s about Kevin, who kept stories alive, even beyond truth. It’s about John and DJ, Stacy and Cooper, Chloe and sauerbraten—and yes, it’s about me, too.

But mostly, it’s about the people who show up. It’s about how Coach Lasso said goodbye—not with ego, but with love.

And it’s how Brother X lives every day.

This is The Seaford Way.

I love my Brother X, even if he is a wanker.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The Tooth Fairy

by earlthepearl137

Back in January, I decided that the hip pain I was feeling made the pain of a hip replacement worth my while.  So, I told the VA doctor and started on the road to the surgery.  What a long, strange trip it’s been.

First I had to meet with the Orthopedics department to get their assessment of my hip.  They set up an appointment for x rays.  The x-rays confirmed that a hip replacement was in order.  But now I had to get confirmation from my cardiologist and dentist that I was cleared for surgery.  I expected my cardiologist to tell me that I needed more stents or some other work done, since I’ve be sluggish for months.  Nope.  He sent me for two different tests and the results came back, okay.  Not perfect, but okay for surgery.

Then I hit my first roadblock.  I called my dentist who I haven’t seen in years and left a message.  He didn’t call back.  So, the following week, I left another message and again he didn’t call back.  The following week I left another message and the next day I got a call from the office.  They would only see me if I got a referral from another dentist. WTF.  I decided to find another dentist.  When I go to the VA Clinic I pass by a dental office.  The bus there doesn’t run often, but the office is near the bus stop.  I called, and I asked if they were accepting new patients.

There was a pause, where the person on the other end of the line wanted to say, “Duh!” but she controlled herself and just said, “Of course.”  We set up an appointment.

I thought this would be easy as I didn’t have any pain, though I did have one broken tooth.  The X-rays revealed that I needed more work than I thought.  So, I made another appointment to get started.  Now, it was time to catch the bus home.  That bus stop wasn’t far, but it was on the other side of what is basically a busy highway.  It was at least 10 minutes before I saw a big gap and made my move.  Here, you should remember that I have a bad hip.  I made it half-way across, and realized that I would have to wait for another break in traffic to complete the crossing.  So, I stood in the middle of the highway with cars whizzing by on both sides waiting for a break in traffic.  After about 5 minutes, a lady came out from the car repair business on the same side of the street as the dentist.  “What the hell are you doing?  You can’t stand in the middle of the highway.”

I yelled back that I was just trying to get to the bus stop.  She shook her head, and mumbled something I didn’t understand.  Finally, I saw my break and I made it to the bus stop unscathed.

After my dental appointment the following week, I decided to just catch the bus at the same stop where I got off, ride to the end of the line, stay on the bus, and ride home, instead of trying to cross the highway again.  That worked.  It took much longer, but it worked.

After my appointment yesterday, I realized that I had about an hour and 20 minutes before the bus would arrive.  This time I brought my walker, not just a cane, so, figuring that I was now a tiny bit faster, I decided to cross the highway again.  I had plenty of time before the bus would arrive, so I waited until I was sure that I had enough time to make it all the way across.  It was about 15 minutes before I saw my opportunity, and I took it.  I made it.

Here’s where I should mention that the bus stop doesn’t look like a bus stop.  The weeds on the side of the road have overgrown the bus stop sign, and there is no shelter, marking, or anything else that would let you know that it is a bus stop, except that it is across the street from the bus stop heading in the other direction.  I had my walker, so I sat down on the shoulder of the road to wait.

About 20 minutes later a cop car went by going the other direction.  He waited until it was safe, made a u-turn, and pulled up a few feet behind me, lights flashing.  He got out and asked me if I was okay and what the heck was I doing.  I told him I was waiting for the bus.  He didn’t see any bus stop sign, so I told him that the weeds were blocking it.  He checked. I mentioned that I wouldn’t object if he put me in the back of his patrol car and drove me into town.  He said that was against the rules, wished me luck, and drove off.

So, I went back to patiently waiting for the bus that I knew was still more than 45 minutes away.  It hadn’t even passed by in the other direction, yet.  Then, a woman came out of the dental office and yelled something at me.  I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the traffic noise.  She waited for a break in traffic and ran over to me.  Was I okay?  What was I doing?  Once again, I explained that I was just waiting for the bus.  She told me that she was waiting in the dental office with her teenage son, when she saw me through the window, she was worried that I was a dementia patient or something.  I was slurring my words.  I assured her that I was fine.  I was just going home after a trip to the same dentist, and the reason I was talking funny was because the Novocain hadn’t worn off yet.

She asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home.  That was better than a visit from the Tooth Fairy.  We crossed the highway together, with her holding out her hand to slow down the traffic.  We got to her car.  She called her son to tell him that she would be right back.  Melisa and I headed for my house.

Along the way, we chatted and realized that we both had moved from other places to Lancaster.  She was from Baltimore.  It was an interesting conversation, and she told me to take her phone number in case I ever needed a ride.  We realized that we both like to play Scrabble, so we made plans to get together for a Scrabble game.  So, I wound up making a new friendship, and now have another Scrabble player to hang out with occasionally.

I have another Dental appointment on Thursday.  I wonder if I should bring my Scrabble board.

Peace & Love, and all of the above.

Earl

Monday, Monday, Can’t Trust That Day

by earlthepearl137

On Monday, January 20, 2025, Donald J. Trump, a convicted felon, who is no longer permitted to own a gun, will be handed the nuclear codes as he is sworn in as the 47th President of the United States.

There might be a slight rumbling in the cemetery grounds in Plains, Georgia on that day as the flags that have been lowered to half-mast to honor President Jimmy Carter, will be raised to full staff for the day just to accommodate the Narcissist-in-Chief. The predicted cold weather, though, will force the ceremony to be held indoors.  Too bad.  I’d really like to see all the 77 million Maga-morons who voted for him freezing their asses off on the National Mall as they waited for the price of bacon and eggs to instantly come down.  I guess that his staff will just have to Photoshop the indoor ceremony to make it look like a record crowd.

I’m wondering if all the people Trump nominated for cabinet positions will be there.  If so, will there be anyone left to work at Fox “News” that day.

Of course, there will be entertainment.  The one remaining member of The original Village People will sing YMCA, so that America will get to see Donald Trump do his “crazy hand jive” where he appears to be giving hand jobs to two people at the very same time.

I wonder if Trump will just use the same dance moves when Kid Rock takes the stage to sing:

“Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up drop the boogie
Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up jump the boogie
Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up drop the boogie
Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up jump the boogie
Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up drop the boogie
Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up jump the boogie
Bawitdaba, da-bang, da-bang, diggy-diggy-diggy
Said the boogie, said up drop the boogie (get ready)
My name is Kid
Kid Rock!”

Ahhh, they don’t write love ballads like that anymore.

I wonder if the bookies in Las Vegas are taking bets on which Bible he will use for the swearing -in ceremony.  It has to be the $60 one he hawks with Lee Greenwood.  Product placement, baby.

I also wonder if he’ll bother to bring back all the classified documents he has been storing in his Mar A Lago bathroom.  Since he charges his Secret Service security detail an exorbitant amount for protecting him, while he is there, I can only think that he will also hand his new Secretary of the Treasury, a hefty bill for the four long years he has stored the documents.  Let’s see, $2,000 a month for 48 months….

I can’t really see much difference between Trump’s new official photograph and his State of Georgia mugshot, but I guess he wanted to show a new suit and tie so he can peddle swatches of the material to his cult followers for $99 a swatch. After all, a buck is a buck, at least until Elon converts it all to Dogecoins.

I’m just surprised he isn’t wearing his pirate ear patch anymore.  I guess they stopped selling.

So, America, enjoy the weekend, or like they say, “Eat, drink, and be merry for Monday we die or get deported.”

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl