Tag Archives: Chick-fil-A

The Bright Side of Life

Do you know what the Dalai Mama has discovered?  There are two kinds of people:  optimists and pessimists.  And when the shit hits the fan, IMHO, it is better to be an optimist.  I’ve also discovered that E.J. Dionne, The Washington Post columnist, was right when he quoted a pollster friend recently:

“When you give conservatives bad news in your polls, they want to kill you,” he said. “When you give liberals bad news in your polls, they want to kill themselves.

Last week, even though I am an eternal optimist, I wanted to kill myself when the Prez acted like his strength had been zapped by anniversary sex (Didn’t anyone tell POTUS and the FLOTUS that just because it was their 20th anniversary not to do the “wild thing” before sending the Prez into the boxing ring against Romney?).  Every athlete knows you can’t be distracted or have your potency drained before the big fight even if your honey of twenty years is one fine lookin’ woman.   Mohammad Ali could have told the Prez that salient piece of advice from his championship days.  I mean, what else could it have been?  I’m just sayin’.    Next time:  Focus, Barack, focus goddamn it!

Anyway, an election that was beginning to look like a slam-dunk for anybody who is part of the 47% or cares about human beings in general, or adheres to the “true” teachings of Christ, suddenly came up for grabs as the polls tightened and The Mittens trounced our President in the first debate and declared a fatwā against Big Bird and his homies on Sesame Street.  (I don’t know about you, but threatening the big yellow six-year-old bird whose raison d’etre is to teach little kids the alphabet was the last straw:  “Your ass is mine, Mittens, and you are going down,” I screamed at the TV as I slid into the worst depression I’ve suffered in years.)

Sesame Street to Mittens: “let’s rumble”||image of

Then the sharks began to circle the perceived “blood in the water,” as hateful vitriol intensified against our president and his legitimacy, women and reproductive rights (“legitimate” and/or “easy” rape), 47% as “takers” not makers, and black people in general who “need to be taught good discipline and character as per Paul Ryan, the arrogant Catholic.  Finally, the week was topped off by a truck load of manure dumped in front of an Obama campaign headquarters in my home state of Ohio. As a born-again Christian who is fed up to my eyeballs with the numb-nut stupidity of my ex-religious leaders (I have summarily left the Church but kept my Jesus), I waited for at least one prominent Christian evangelical leader who claims to love Jesus to come forth and speak up for Big Bird, speak up for the poor and down-trodden, speak up against the “Christian” Congressman who claims our daughters can be “legitimately raped,” and speak up against the latest racist claim by a “Christian” legislator that “slavery should be considered a ‘blessing’” cause it brought Africans to America where we are so incredibly blessed.  (Well, we black people truly thank you, Massa!)

Fired by “Mittens”|image by

All I heard was the sound of crickets—no righteous Christian leaders speaking up to defend the poor and down-trodden like Jesus did.   And the Dalai Mama wept as I decided to pack my suitcase in disgust and move to Canada (where else am I going to get healthcare in my old age if Romney/Ryan wins the election?).  My husband, WW, who is white and also a born-again Christian suggested I not be too hasty, and that I take a road trip to the beach with him to clear my head before I did something so drastic that I’d have to learn French before migrating to Quebec (if one must live in Canada, one must do so in Quebec City because it’s like moving to France).  I really trust his judgment so I acquiesced to his plan, but told him if the beach didn’t manage to cheer me up, he’d better brush off his passport and dust off his French.

Abolitionist, Frederick Douglas calling Christianity to task for its deceptive stance on
slavery and women’s rights in the 1800’s ||image from and

On our way to the beach, we were forced to stop at a Chick-fil-A, which was the only eating establishment within miles because as WW said, “I am too hungry to stand on principle because I have to piss like a race horse and I am falling asleep at the wheel from lack of food.”  With baseball cap pulled down over my face and large bumble-bee sunglasses secured to disguise my face, I furiously lectured my husband about my signed online petition against Chick-fil-A and how they perfectly illustrated one of the reasons I was going to have to migrate to Canada, because of their contributions to organizations that specialized in hate.  As we scurried past long lines of very fat-bottomed white people (I was the only black person for miles around, and my ass is quite normal, thank you very much!) who were still engaged in their month’s long “chicken-in” demonstration of support for Chick-fil-A against the gays, my husband made me promise not to go all Norma Rae all over the place and get myself arrested while he was in the little boy’s room “pissing like a race horse.”

Cartoonist: Mike Lukovich/Atlanta Journal

I refused to even order a soda, and I know that I stuck out like a raisin in a bowl of milk, so it didn’t take long before one of the employees came over to ask if she could help me as she looked me over with a frozen smile on her face trying to determine if I was a lesbian reporter about to cause all kinds of trouble up in that place.  I don’t know what motivated her to engage me in conversation.  Maybe it was the fact that I was furiously taking notes in my blog notebook while trying to hide my face, or maybe she saw me contemplating what it would take to climb up on one of the tables without falling off and breaking my ass to start my Norma Rae impersonation as I mounted my very vocal protest:  “Why do you hate gay people; what have they ever done to your chicken except eat it like the rest of us? Why can’t we all get along in this great country of ours, and What Would Jesus Do to you if he knew the hate you were spewing against his children with our chicken dollars?”  Just as I thought I saw Sarah and Todd Palin queuing up for a couple bags of chicken which gave me all the motivation I needed to start my revolution, WW returned, grabbed me by the arm and marshaled me back to the mini-van before the two policemen staring at me in the corner had a chance to put down their chicken sandwiches, arrest my sorry-ass, and ruin our beach vacation by throwing me in jail for disturbing the peace.

The Palins “protesting” on behalf of Chick-fil-A|

After WW convinced me that I was hallucinating from lack of food and backed up urine, and that I didn’t really see The Palins in that Chick-fil-A, I spent my vacation at the beach thoroughly bummed out about the first presidential debate until one of my blog friends gave me a verbal swift kick in the ass (Frank Angle) and told me to “snap out of it.”   WW added his two cents and told me to cheer up because “it’s not over for the presidential election, or anything in life for that matter, until the fat lady sings—so don’t worry, be happy” (and WW is a pessimist—go figure)!  Once I realized WW wasn’t talking about me as the “fat lady” (I’m slightly chunky and an ex-opera singer), the clouds lifted, my optimistic personality came back into gear, and I returned home, ready to greet a new day.  I am going to add a couple of disciplinary actions for my mind, however:  I don’t plan to watch anymore debates (I’m an Independent but I’ve already made up my mind so why be tortured), and I don’t plan to read any more stories about what the haters are doing in our midst to rob me of my God-given joy.  Haters will always be hatin’—but I don’t have to be listenin’!  (I’ll just keep prayin’ that God zaps their sorry asses into the lowest point of Hell, though, so that the rest of us can live in peace!)

Haters be hatin’ but I’m gonna ignore ‘em all and just be chillaxing

image from

I am discovering that there are two ways to live one’s life:  either as Henny-Penny (“The sky is falling”) or as Little Orphan Annie (“The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow”).  Henny-Penny may be proved right in the long run, but Orphan Annie will have a hell of a lot more fun and peace of mind before the sky flattens her, especially since she has little to no control over the powers that are making the sky fall.  So to all of my “depressed Democratic friends,” get up off your sorry-asses and do the only thing in your “Orphan Annie” power that can defeat the Koch Brothers, the racists, the shit dumpers, the liars, the Ayn Randians, the 47% haters, and the 1% makers:  GO VOTE, take a friend, and say a little prayer while you do it!  We may just win the day ‘cause God is alive and well and “God don’t like ‘ugly’ (a.k.a. ‘haters’).”   (Besides, WW thinks Obama will win a second term, and he’s a pessimist!)


Some things in life are bad,

They can really make you mad.

Other things just make you swear and curse.

When you’re chewing on life’s gristle,

Don’t grumble, give a whistle,

And this’ll help things turn out for the best, and…


Life’s a piece of shit,

When you look at it.

Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke, it’s true.

You’ll see it’s all a show,

Keep ’em laughing as you go.

Just remember that the last laugh is on you.


“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” from The Life of Brian by Eric Idle

“Between the optimist and the pessimist, the difference is droll. The optimist sees the doughnut; the pessimist the hole!”—Oscar Wilde

“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.”Helen Keller

“For myself I am an optimist – it does not seem to be much use being anything else”—Winston Churchill

      “In the long run the pessimist may be proved right, but the optimist has a better time on the trip.”—Daniel L. Reardon

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on October 12, 2012 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

War of the Worlds

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  The cicadas are coming—they are coming, and they will arrive in my area in 2021 after a 17 year hiatus.  I’ll be 73 then—WTF!  God only knows how I’m going to handle them the next time around.   The last time they were here, I almost lost my mind, almost broke my leg after falling down my deck stairs while running from their attack against my body, almost got into a car accident, and almost went deaf at the sound of their horny cacophony.  Left to my own devices, I’ll probably break a hip fleeing from them in my garden and be eaten alive!

Image from||andersondesigngroup


By E.L. “Orson Wells” Tomczyk

I know now that I should have anticipated their arrival—should have felt them watching me beneath the ground—waiting, growing, and listening for the call from their leaders to break through the surface of the Earth and terrorize my very existence.   They had been here before in 1987 on a mating mission, but I lived near the ocean then where their kind cannot survive.  But I swear they swore to return—swore to attack me where I lived in the future.  What had I done to them to warrant such hatred, such scorn, such vitriol?

I know now that I was being watched by the aliens for my atrocities against the insect, reptile, and fish world.  In my naiveté, I foolishly thought that my experience with being able to squish a bug every now and then in my own home with a fly-swatter, or mutilate a snake here and there in my garden to keep from being bitten, or dispense with a half-dozen gold-fish in my aquarium because they were getting on my fucking nerves, made me an expert when it came to thwarting the invasion of a massive alien attack.  Hadn’t I helped kill a water moccasin underneath an azalea bush with my bare hands and whacked a coiled 5-ft black rat snake into oblivion, armed only with a fly-swatter and a yardstick?  Hadn’t I flushed Pokey and Ramona down the toilet when I could no longer stand being the only caretaker of the goddamn family fish tank that WW and the kids swore they’d be responsible for but quickly abandoned after two weeks?  Could I be blamed by the Universe for having told a little white lie to the children that Ramona had begged to be set free to return to her peeps down under the sea while we sang “born free” as the swirl took her down, down, down into that great waterway via the sewers, praying that Jesus would give her safe travels?  Would any adult, having walked in my shoes, really judge me when subsequently the last living goldfish (Pokey) in our algae covered aquarium that everyone refused to clean, “ran away” to be with Ramona in her love-sea nest beneath the toilet seat?   Apparently, the Universe could forgive me, but “billions of black, shrimp-size bugs with transparent wings and red beady eyes” could not.  They saw what I did, they knew where I lived, and they swore I would pay.

Cicada Brood X|Image by

That night in May of 2004 was like any spring night when the cold-hearted beasts began to emerge.  My hibiscuses were flourishing, my petunias were springing, and my roses were impeccable.  We had had some warning about the subsequent invasion, but like all pre-war attacks, my area treated it like it would be a game and no big deal.  After all, we were the humans—they were simply insects.  How hard would it be to keep them under control?  And then they began to emerge in the night.  Thousands upon thousands of them came up through my lawn, poking their heads up from the soil in the dead of night, crawling up everything that was vertical until they reached the tops of the tallest object in their path (bar-b-que grills, walls, decks, and trees).  Here’s what I have discovered about nature:  5 bugs are a nuisance, thousands of bugs is a horror story!

This is a swarm of locusts, not cicadas, but it best illustrates what the cicadas looked like on the trees surrounding my house|Image from

Oh God, the horror!  They crawled to the top of the highest trees, singing their love song in one accord as they searched for a mate before their cycle of death within the 24 hour period.  As they flew from tree top to tree top, they blocked out the sun, and as they screamed their high-pitched love song, no conversation could be heard for miles around.  I hid in my house as much as I could, using an umbrella and hats with veils when I needed to venture out to water the garden or run an errand.  Many times they flew right at me and when I swatted them with my umbrella their high-pitched screams were otherworldly.   My method of getting to and from the car when I went to work was to run like hell and zig and zag in the hopes that I would make them dizzy, only to be driving down the highway after getting gas one day, hearing the “ZZZZZZ” buzz of their wings and having two of them (one perched on my left ear and one zip-lining down my bangs) crawl toward my left eye and smile in unison.  As my car ran off the road toward the ditch, all three of us let out bloodcurdling screams as I shouted “Jesus, take the wheel” six years before that title ever entered Carrie Underwood’s brain.  What kind of arch nemesis was this?  What purpose on Earth could God have created them for?  Where could I run and hide from this insanity?

And then something bizarre began to happen:  the alien dudes sang, the females responded by twitching their wings, the male and female cicadas did the “wild thing,” and then the dudes keeled over and died, falling by the thousands out of the sky.  While the putrid rotting flesh of the male cicadas piled up in heaps on the ground, females laid 600 eggs or so per invader into the slit branches of our best trees leaving behind scores of dead
limbs while the females soon followed their lovers to their graves.   I am told that 6 weeks later the “nymphs”
crawled down the trees and into the ground to feast on tree roots until 2021 when Brood X will take their revenge on other unsuspecting humans.  It scares me to think of them underground as I garden, waiting, growing, and planning their invasion.

Cicadas mating|image from

One morning we woke up and there was silence.  As my neighbors and I wandered outside in sheer wonderment and began to shovel up mountains of rotting cicada carcasses, in between holding our noses and vomiting, we told tall tales of the invaders that were both uproarious and horrifying.  When we regaled each other about our cicada invasion survival, we were neither black nor white, Indian or Arab, gay nor straight, female nor male.  We were simply the survivors of the “war of the worlds” between the Cicadas and our neighborhood, and we helped each other clean up the mess.

Primed and ready to go||image from

I am discovering that there is a hell of a lot of things coming down the pike that we know nothing about that the “cicada invasion” is a euphemism for, and we will only be able to get through the mayhem if we hang tough together.

We are currently being attacked by what I’ve dubbed the “Brood Y-Insanity/Chick-fil-A” invasion.  Guess what?  I am a “born-again Christian,” and I don’t agree with Mr. Cathy’s viewpoint on gay marriage, BUT he has right to say what he wants to say and spend his money how he wants to spend it.  I have a right not to patronize Mr. Cathy’s restaurant along with others who think his ideology is not biblical or even human.  However, IMHO the mayors of San Francisco, Boston, and Chicago ought to be ashamed and held accountable.  They were grandstanding—it cost them nothing to showboat their support of gay marriage while whipping up an invasion of protest against the Chick-fil-A restaurants.  They cannot keep out a legitimate business from their boundaries—period!  It’s unconstitutional.  The self-serving Mike Huckabee and Rick Santorum were also showboating with their rallying call for the Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day.  They knew exactly the message of hate they were whipping up with a portion of self-righteous, Christian-fascists within the Church (not everybody who calls themselves Christian fit this description so don’t harass me, a Christian, with your hate mail) who could so easily delude themselves into thinking they were protecting God’s honor while gorging themselves on chicken.   (I agree with the columnist who wondered how many of them donated their chicken sandwiches to the starving people in their cities—I’m just askin’?).  Other bloggers have said and I concur, Christians who participated in this chicken appreciation day will someday come to regret this empty gesture much as many have come to regret their intransient stance during the civil rights movement (God, I can only hope and pray).

And to my Gay and Lesbian sisters and brothers, you did not help your cause by falling into the stereotypes that the Christian-fascists have painted of you with the chicken kiss-in.   Huckabee and Santorum baited you and you bit, dog-gone-it.  And no, this is not the same as when my peeps and I couldn’t eat at the Woolworths counter in the 60s (we couldn’t eat anywhere), or drink from water fountains, or swim in pools, or live in decent neighborhoods, or go to the same schools where whites existed.  The day Chick-fil-A stops you and yours from working or eating in their restaurants, I’ll be the first to pick up a protest sign on your behalf.

Gabby Douglas|Image from

And speaking of my peeps, I’ve got a bone to pick with some of them about the “Brood Z-Nappy Hair Invasion” that has descended upon Gabby Douglas from SOME of the short-sighted, vain brothers and sisters from the black community.  (My white sisters and brothers, you might want to skip to the cartoon below because this has nothing to do with you—you’re totally innocent—and what I have to say is not going to be pretty.) 

Okay, my Peeps :  WHAT THE FUCK!  WHAT THE FUCK!!   Sixteen-year-old Gabby Douglas, with a smile that could light up the darkest room, is one of only a handful of African-Americans who has ever been able to compete in the Olympic Games, and she is the first African-American woman to take “all around gold” for her individual title.  AND she is a superb representative of her country as well as our race.  She will grace the covers of Time, Sports Illustrated, and multiple branding deals making millions of dollars—more than your sorry-ass couch-potatoes could ever dream of in ten lifetimes.  But after accomplishing something none of her critics could ever do, the focal point on social media and comments to stories about her brilliance is criticism about her “nappy hair” (TRANSLATION FOR MY WHITE READERS WHO DIDN’T OBEY ME AND ARE READING ALONG:  hair around the edges of the scalp resorting back to its African roots of really tight curls due to the copious sweat from extreme heat and exertion [rent Chris Rock’s “Good Hair” for more details].)

Oh God . . . oh my God:  Martin, Malcolm, and Medgar are rolling over in their graves!  All those who posted this crap online—shame on your own nappy-headed ignorant minds!


Here’s the deal America:  “United we stand, divided we fall.”  Gay marriage, chicken sandwiches, a misguided old man, Christians, Muslims, Atheists, Republicans or Democrats, nappy heads or not—these are not the issues that will destroy us—being unable to love our neighbor or to focus on the majors rather than the minors are the things that will eventually tank our country from within.  When our love for each other truly grows cold—like the man who shot his neighbor in the face the other day out of spite and was surprised when he got arrested but immediately declared his hatefulness to the police, “What’s the deal; I only shot a Ni@@er?”—we, as Americans, are sitting ducks for an “alcicada” soul invasion in the making.  Peace!

Nick Anderson|image from Houston Chronicle

“The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”—James Baldwin

 “We have learned to fly the air like birds and swim the sea like fish, but we have not learned the simple art of living together as brothers.”—Martin Luther King, Jr.


Thanks to (“Cicada Invasion Begins: Eastern U.S. Beset by Bugs”)  for their wonderful education on cicadea or cicadias.  All definitive quotes about this amazing creature are to be attributed to them.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


Posted by on August 4, 2012 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , , ,