RSS

Tag Archives: philosophy

Waiting for Santa

Well, my loyal and wonderful readers, I’m taking a break for two weeks to spend time with my delicious family.  They are pouring in from all parts by trains, planes, and automobiles.  The tree is up, the stockings have been hung with care, and I have enough food to feed an army.

Besides being the chief cook and chubby-cheek kisser of all peeps from three – eighty-three, I am on guard Christmas Eve as the Santa lookout.  The Sucker never, ever showed up to my house in The Cleve when I was a child, sending a strong signal that I was perennially on his “naughty” list.   (I’m inclined to believe the dude doesn’t exist.)  I have several years of “memory photos” of the rats eating Santa’s cookies when I hid in a closet with the door cracked to catch him in the act of consuming his midnight snack.

 

Google Image/originally uploaded by pyza

So now that I’m an adult who realizes one has to have a family to “eat the Santa cookies” in order to keep up the ruse, I’ll be standing guard Christmas Eve just in case while WW puts together a thousand piece train set for our grandson.  To help keep myself awake I’ll think about how, if I were a god who wanted to express his divine love to a gnarly bunch of ragamuffins who were constantly acting the fool against each other and the Earth, what better method could that god have used than to sneak in under cover as a baby and hang out in our midst for a few years to show us how to treat each other.

Google Image

To some it is hard to believe, but I actually think it’s pretty clever—hidden in plain sight.   And so with all the hope, love, peace and joy that Christmas offers from God incognito in a manger, Merry Christmas to you and yours from me and mine.

See you on January 5th!

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.

 
22 Comments

Posted by on December 19, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Santahatesme Support Group

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  Even though it has been over sixty years of me giving and receiving Christmas gifts, I am still in a state of shock at some of the gifts I’ve gotten from people.  The one that best comes to mind is the one I got from my mother-in-law at the beginning of my marriage (God rest her soul—I think?) that passive-aggressively declared to any and all who were watching:  “I’m smiling on the outside that I have a new daughter-in-law, but I am pissed as hell on the inside that she is fucking black—why me, God?”

My mother-in-law took utmost pride in the fact she had official papers from the Daughters of the American Revolution, and that she was a direct descendent of Governor Bradford of the Mayflower.  She didn’t have a lot of money but at least she had her lineage, her pride, and her whiteness until her first-born son (the one she just knew would be president someday) came home one Christmas and said:  “I’m in love with a beautiful ebony queen:  Surprise, surprise, surprise!”

During the few short years she deigned to  speak to us, most of her gifts went straight from the postman’s hands into the bin for the poor because they were usually so awful (anything pulled off the triple-clearance rack to check our names off her list would satisfy her).   But there is one present that my husband (WW) and I hung in the hall of shame as the “worst gift” ever, under the sign:  “Oh no, she didn’t!”   I hadn’t thought of the gift in question for years until the other day when I took a nap after too much brandy in my eggnog moose ears, and I dreamt about a Santa’s Support Group for “weird-gift survivors.”

(Google Image) 

SANTA’S SUPPORT GROUP

Google Image 

SANTA:  “Welcome, one and all!  As you all may know, except that little guy and his wife sitting in the back from the lost tribe of the Amazon, my name is Santa Claus, formerly known as St. Nick, and I “do” presents.  I invited you all to drop by to informally start a “weird Christmas gift support group” because, frankly, I’ve gotten tired of the complaints.  Ever since I started my own Facebook page, it has been inundated with complaints about weird gifts you thought I had something to do with.  I’m here to first and foremost declare my innocence regarding inappropriate gifts.  Santa is not guilty.  But I do feel your pain because last year one of my peeps gave me a gift certificate to Weight Watchers along with a Gillette razor.   Hello!  Obviously, they didn’t know me.  Can we all say together:  ‘Don’t mess with the tummy and the beard—facial hair and fat equal job security?’  Having said that, I understand that there are some real grievances amongst you and being the good guy that I am, I thought I’d let you get them off your chest.

“Hum, how about “Eleanor, the blogger?”  Why don’t you come up to the front and tell us your story since you’re the one who started all the brouhaha on my social media page.”

The Blogger:  “Thanks Santa.  Hi everyone, my name is Eleanor and I’m a weird-gift survivor.  I’ve been without the urge to kill my gift giver for three years now.  Praise God.”

The Group:  “Hi Eleanor—welcome to ‘Santahatesme support group!’”

The Blogger:  “Thank you for a safe place to come and try to get healing from these horrible memories.  Let’s see:  My downhill spiral started the third year of my marriage when my sister-in-law gave my mother-in-law a silk flower arrangement she had had especially made by an artist friend of hers for me.  It was to be a house-warming present, and since my mother-in-law had volunteered to mail all the family presents to my husband and me, my sister-in-law dropped off the floral arrangement before Christmas and went on about her business.  When WW and I opened the presents on Christmas Day (two modest presents each for the kids, a sweater-from-hell for WW, an orange and purple gaudy handbag for me, and my sister-in-law’s floral arrangement for our new house), we couldn’t do anything but gasp in horror:

Goggle Image

“The Mother had mailed a floral bouquet that had a tag on it from my sister-in-law to me, wishing me a Merry Christmas.  What WW and I pulled out of the box was an old, three-layer, dust-encrusted, silverfish infested, mite invaded silk flower arrangement whose colors had long been muted by dust and age.   I am extremely allergic to dust so the entire floral arrangement set of a chain of hysterical sneezing and itching that caused me to break out in a horrid round of hives that kept me laid up through Christmas.  Well, you can imagine the hurt and the confusion, Santa.  What signal was my sis-n-law sending?  What had I done to her?  How would I ever be able to build a relationship with her after such a hateful gift?”

Santa:  “What did you do (rhetorical question, everyone, because next to ‘you know who,’ I always know who has been naughty or nice)?”

The Blogger:  “I did nothing.  I was new to the family—I wanted to fit in, yada, yada, yada.  I felt if my sister-in-law could be that nasty, then why bother to engage her at all.  I thanked her for the “present” and went on with my life.  I had my man and he was the greatest gift that could come from them.

“But then, Santa, something weird happened.  Six months later, WW, the kids, and I went to visit “The Parents,” and when we drove up to the house, my sister-in-law arrived at the same time, and we all walked through the front door together.  She and I both happened to glance at a magnificent silk flower arrangement on my mother-in-law’s sideboard as my sister-in-law asked her Mom in confused surprise:  ‘That’s just like the arrangement I sent to Eleanor—I can’t believe you had Flora’s Flowers make you one exactly like hers.  Mom, when did you get this and why didn’t you get a different one?’  As my mother-in-law sputtered and stuttered about why she chose a duplicate arrangement, I looked into her eyes and I knew she had stolen my beautiful flower arrangement and put my sis-n-law’s tag on something she’d had in the attic for years. She looked back at me and I could tell that she knew that I knew.  As my mother-in-law turned beet red and scurried off into the kitchen, I thought to myself:  keep your flowers bitch, I’ve got your son—game on.”

Google Image

Santa:  “Yikes, that one slipped by me!  It sounds like that was pretty rough on you, Eleanor.  I’m curious, did your mother-in-law like the gifts you gave her?”

The Blogger: “Never.  Nothing was ever good enough or up to her specifications. Anyway, I’ve long forgiven her and she has been dead quite a while now so the sting is gone.  Her ‘gift’ kept me from gaining a mother I never had and her from gaining a daughter who would have loved and adored her.  At her funeral, none of her kids spoke on behalf of her life—they remained silent and so did I (I guess I wasn’t the only one whose presents she had screwed over).   One of the reasons I started that write-in campaign to your Facebook page is because I wanted to help other families try and get healed from weird-gift syndrome before it was too late.  I figured you were just the dude who could help.”

Santa:  “Interesting…interesting.  Okay, let’s hear from some others then.  Since we’re doing bad mother-in-law gifts, why don’t we have ‘Angie from Peoria’ come on up.”

Angie:  “Hi everyone.  My name is Angie and I’m a weird-gift survivor.  I’ve been clean now for six months.”

The Group:  “Hi Angie, welcome to ‘Santahatesme!’”

Santa:  “Would you guys cut it out!  There are other names you can call this group.  Sheesh-Louise!”

Angie:  “When I was six months pregnant my husband’s fraternity brother gave me a “one in the oven” cookie-cutter gift set for Christmas.  I brought a picture to show you, but it is going to be hard for me to get through this without throwing up.  It’s called “Fetus cookies: a special gift for the mom to be.”

Google Image

The Support Group (screaming in unison):  “EEEYEUW!”

Santa (yells via PA system for janitorial service):  “Clean up—janitorial cleanup—left of the podium and all across the front row!  Okay, gang, while the janitor mops up this avalanche of today’s lunch, let us bring up a gift that is weird but not so gross, shall we?  I’ve got a year’s worth of cookies and milk in my body, and I just can’t take anything that gives me an upset stomach.”

90-year old black grandmother (angrily yells from the back row as she gesticulates with her cane):  “Then I guess I shouldn’t bring up my Christmas present of “his-and-her” vibrators given to me by my 95-year-old husband, huh?  You do know his randy-ass present idea was inspired by the gift of a year’s supply of Viagra that you gave him–don’t you Santa Baby?  And now I don’t have a moment’s peace?  I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months.  Did you lose your ever-lovin’ mind, Santa Claus?  Just because these mens ask for stuff, don’t mean you has to answer.”

Santa:  “Sorry, Bernice!”

20-year old Rapper shouts from the audience (think Eminem): “Shit Santa, take a look at the Christmas gift from my granddaddy that is hanging behind you.  What the fuck, man?  This thing will destroy my rep, but I loves my pops, so I gotta hang it up!”

Amazon.com Image

Santa:  “Stop it—all of you!  Oh, for God’s sake (and I mean that literally)—it is His birthday.  Get ahold of yourselves.  Show a bit of decorum.  Now calm down and let’s bring up someone less inflammatory.  My list says that there should be a Jim (average dad) present.  Jim, are you here?’”

Jim:  “Yeah sure.  Hi everyone, my name is Jim and I’m a weird-gift survivor.  I’ve been clean for one year now.”

Santa:  “Welcome Jim what’s your weird-gift trauma?”

Jim:  “Santa, I have lived for my kids, and I’ve done so without complaint.  I worked three jobs to put them through college and they never lacked for anything.  They have all graduated and are now back in the house living off me and their mother because they can’t find a job; I get it, and I’m glad to help.  But, you would think that four kids could have found a gift more conducive to who and what I am; instead they gave me a gift that ‘Cleans your way to sculpted calves while you scoot along.’   Are you shittin’ me Santa?!”

Google Image

Santa:  “Actually, Jim, that is a gag gift created by ‘The Onion.’   It just shows your kids have a sense of humor.  Surely they gave you something else?”

Jim:  “No, but my wife knit me this sweater.  Do I kill myself now or after Christmas?”

Google Image

Santa:  “(Sigh) I’m beginning to see the picture and understand your pain—no wonder you’re pissed at me.  Lord Jesus, help us!  We have time for one more, although I can’t imagine much worse.  How about the couple in the back that registered as ‘Mr. and Mrs. 99%?’”

Mr. and Mrs. 99%:  “Hello, everyone.  We’re brand new to the weird-gift thing and we’re barely holding on.  We don’t know if we can overcome our hurt.  We’re confused and dazed and we are kind of wondering if there is a God because we’ve lost our homes, our jobs, our savings, our hope, and our trust in our government (especially the current Congress) and the financial institutions that bet against us not being able to pay our mortgages.  The other day, all the 99% got this present from The Tea Party, the Republican candidates, the Republican Congress, the college school loan institutions, and some (not all) of the 1%.  We each got an empty plastic ball that said, “Nothing from nothing leaves nothing.”  The card that accompanied it said it is the ‘Gift of nothing which is yours to discover.’  Santa, what are we to do?  When did we get to this time and place where the few can basically say to the many, ‘I’ve got mine, baby, if it sucks for you—get a job!’”

Amazon.com Image

I came out of my eggnog induced sleep before I heard Santa’s answer, but I am discovering that if we have people in our lives whose gifts can’t be given from the heart, or the gift-giving is laced with cynicism, and the gifts are just given out of tradition or obligation, maybe we shouldn’t be giving them gifts at all.  Maybe it’s time to really get into the spirit of Christmas and channel our hard-earned money to causes that will give gifts that can change the world.  In every city and every town there are hurting people who, but by the grace of God go us, aren’t lazy or not trying hard enough—they’ve just been screwed over.  I’m thinking our greatest Christmas gift to the hurting world swirling around us is to become a “noticer”—(no turning away, no scurrying past the pain, just really seeing what is in front of us)—then the appropriate gifts have no choice but to follow.

The Author

Best of all, Christmas means a spirit of love, a time when the love of God and the love of our fellow men should prevail over all hatred and bitterness, a time when our thoughts and deeds and the spirit of our lives manifest the presence of God. —George F. McDougall

******

If you live in the D.C. area, one of the best organizations I know that truly “notices” humanity is N Street Village.  Please check it out this Christmas if you have a moment:  http://www.nstreetvillage.org/

******

All text and photos by Eleanor and John Tomczyk © 2011 , except where otherwise noted.

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.

 
36 Comments

Posted by on December 16, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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

I’ll Be Home for Christmas

ELEANOR’S CHRISTMAS LETTER TO FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND BLOG FANS

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  No matter how hard I try, I don’t have anything original to say about Christmas.  I’ve almost worried myself into a heart attack this week trying to come up with something pithy to say in my 2011 Christmas letter.  I got nothing—bupkis!   It’s all been done.  After days of fretting, the only thing I can say is that my three favorite Christmas stories are A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation by John Hughes, and The Christmas Story by Jean Shepherd.  Put those three stories together (which I watch every year) and you’ll get my humorous take on all things Christmas.

I will tell you that in my 63 years of existence, my Christmases have been touched by horror and by deep pain, but they have also been graced with weird wonderment and joy, while being tangled up in multiple cords of three-twined commercialism, with massive bows of:  if the family portrait of what you think Christmas is supposed to be can go wrong, it will go wrong.  My first Christmas was my first memory in life (three years old), and it found me trying to rescue my one and only toy off the top of a frozen eviction pile heaped high outside a padlocked house in The Cleve, while my mother dissolved into her first wave of schizophrenia right before my eyes.  But that is the opening to my memoir (When Monsters Come Out to Play), so that Christmas story can’t be told here but hopefully will have the good fortune of being published next year.  Are you listening, Santa, Baby?

You can imagine since I met my husband (White and Wonderful) thirty-eight years ago, that I have tried to “live the Christmas dream” I never had when it came to creating a wonderful holiday for my children.  I always thought that if Christmas was great for the kids, then it would translate to our children all was right with the world.  Sometimes I hit the target right in the bull’s-eye, and sometimes I missed it by a mile.  Because as a family, you’ll never know who or what’s going to show up (or not show up) on any given Christmas, given the fine print on every family Christmas photo that says, “Have a Merry Christmas, but don’t forget when it comes to humans—all kinds of shit can hit the fan.”

Google Image

All of us have the illusion that the “heart” of our family Christmases should look like an 1800’s postcard which shows an adoring family, grateful for their modest gifts (no brats screaming in protest about the presents they didn’t get), wise and caring grandparents (not grumpy or cranky at all), and contentment with our lot in life, because we’ve only known good bounty from the hand of a loving God.  Even I have this Christmas illusion which is pretty pathetic because there are never any black people to be found in these “perfect” portraits.  Have you ever noticed that?

Google Image

If I were putting paint on canvas, my portrayal of Christmas would always be with warm colors, cordial people (including black and brown people all over the painting), loving smiles full of laughter and joy, and lots of good food and drink.  No one would ever get sick—no one would ever be short-tempered.  No family member would ever get Alzheimer’s, and no women would get breast cancer.  No planes would ever be late traveling home for Christmas, no toilets would ever overflow, no parents would ever argue, no teenagers would ever run away, no one would die on or near Christmas, no parent would lose his/her job, and no home would be foreclosed upon.  But the problem we all live with is that we all have weird relatives (and we’re just a little bit crazy ourselves), patchy histories, economic downturns, latent jealousies, death in our midst, and unresolved hurts.  So when we gather together for the holidays we sit down before the Christmas tree with a powder-keg of the crazies in a Griswold moose glass for our family Christmas toast.

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation “Eggnog Moose Glass”/Google Image

Addams Family/Google Image

Some of us share Christmas with parents who love each other in a weird sort of way, but the kids are bat-shit crazy and borderline psychotic.  Of course, upon closer analysis of the extended family (uncle, grandmamma, and the butler), we see why the kids never had a chance to be sane and in reality should never be left alone with the uncle, grandmamma, or (god-forbid) Lurch, the butler.

The Griswolds (National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation)/Google Image

Before the economic downturn, many of us had slightly upper middle-class families where the husband worked at some ball-crushing job just living for his year-end bonus that he managed to lose just before Christmas.  That bonus would have made everything “perfect” for his family—from award-winning holiday lights and tree—to the perfect roast, perfect gifts, and ultimate Christmas family portrait.  The only problem is that neither he nor his family is perfect, and no matter how upper-middle class you and I become, we’ll always have the type of relatives who join us for the holidays because we have money and they don’t, who proudly announce:  “Shitters full!”  They belong to us for a reason—they are God’s gift to keep us humble.

 

The Gallaghers in “Shameless”/Google Image

There are a few of us (maybe a lot more now since the emergence of the 99%) who grew up with the Gallaghers (of Showtime fame) as a family, and we are a mess as a family unit—“every six ways from Sunday.”  This was more my type of family base as a kid—only instead of alcohol being the co-parent, schizophrenia was.

 

Huxtable TV Family/Google Image

Most of us would like to be the Huxtable family—smart and beautiful—with a lawyer and doctor for parents who are just perfect with children.  The children are smart, respectful, and never, ever do drugs or walk on the wild side.  All their family crises can be solved in 30 minutes.  This is the exact type of family I tried to recreate with my own children once I became an adult (with an uber-Christian patina), given my ignoble beginnings (minus two of the kids and recasting Bill Cosby as a white man to match WW, of course).  But unlike the TV sitcom where the events are controlled by writers, “shit happens,” and reality really messes with the Huxtable image in a way no sitcom script could ever convey and still remain funny.

I am discovering that we all have the ability to have a couple of perfect Christmases, but “perfect” is not always our due.  With the DNA of our families, the sins we’ve committed against each other, and the devastation of living on Earth and what it can do to us, all we can do is dip ourselves in love and hope for the best when we cross the same threshold.  This year our family will come together in its total configuration, for the first time in a long time, and we are beyond ecstatic about this holiday because we know more than life itself, it is about us all being together—laughing, eating too much, cuddling, watching movies, cooking together, and sharing portions of the scary stories of our journeys that have made us the resilient family that we are.  But before anybody steps foot in my house (family, friend, or fan), I’m making all my guests read and observe the following Christmas vacation rules:

Leave your egos at the door

Come together with a servant’s heart willing to help each other

Share (just like in kindergarten)

Let go of your anger

Embrace each other with love and forgiveness

Repent for the wrongs you’ve done to one another

Flush the memories of the hurts done to you down the toilet

Don’t rehash the past (what is done is done and it can’t be undone)

Appreciate everything you receive as a present, even if you don’t wear hats or listen to country music

Listen (really listen with every fiber of your being) to each other’s stories, because they carry multiple secrets about our joys, our pain, our hopes, and our dreams

For the uber-religious in our midst—turn down the volume and listen (don’t, I say, DON’T go ballistic like you did that time over an Obama for President button pinned to a wig-head stand [to tell you the truth, I had forgotten it was there], assuming you knew what I was thinking).  Remember, “When you assume, you make an ass. . .”

No disparaging gay jokes or racial humor!

  Bring genuine hugs and kisses because that works for all genders and races. 

For the “I don’t believe in God”—unplug your ears and listen, you may learn something.

Say “I love you” in a sincere manner at least once to every family member and friend before you leave.

No politics allowed!

We all know what you feel about everything—we’ve seen your Facebook pages, remember.  We’re just going to come together as “family” and our only political platform is love.

Actually, I didn’t quite get it right at the beginning of this Christmas letter.  My favorite Christmas story which infuses all Christmas stories is the original one—the birth of my Messiah, whose name they called “Immanuel.”   Immanuel means, “God with us,” and it means to me the hope and healing needed to survive our families and the other families of man that don’t quite get it right when it comes to cherishing our hearts and our existence, our bodies, and our dreams.

Merry Christmas to you and to us all

And

May the love of God be with you and yours, today and everyday!

In any case, if you need me or want to get in touch, I’ll be home for Christmas.  Love, Eleanor

The Author

“A scientist said, making a plea for exchange scholarships between nations, ‘The very best way to send an idea is to wrap it up in a person.’ That was what happened at Christmas. The idea of divine love was wrapped up in a Person.” – Halford E. Luccock

All text and photos by Eleanor and John Tomczyk © 2011 , except where otherwise noted.

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.

 
45 Comments

Posted by on December 9, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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

Don’t Quote Me—But I Think Jesus Is Pissed!

(This story is a continuation of C-‘48’s Odyssey from blog post: “It’s Sure Gonna Suck for You.”)

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  My sorry-ass was supposed to be “out of here” last week—Oct. 21st (a.k.a. the Rapture).  I haven’t always believed in the Rapture, but I figured why not give it a try.  Earth was becoming a place that was really beginning to suck for a various number of reasons (wars upon wars and rumors of wars, floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, uptick in racism, child abuse, murders, mayhem, and rape—just to name a few nightmares).  I was looking forward to the great escape and going to a place where there would be no more tears, and I could eat great food without gaining weight.  I could stand to trade in all the stress from the chaos and mayhem, and just “hang ten” with Jesus (in heaven I’m going to have a killer surfer bod and be able to surf like a female Kelly Slater).  I’d gotten all my affairs in order, paid all my bills, called in sick to work, kissed WW and the kids good-bye, and prepared myself for a long trip “up.”  But nothing happened!

I’m typing this blog post several days AFTER I was supposed to take flight with my wig and clothes left behind on the seat in front of the steering wheel of my car while my chubby naked ass floated heavenward.  My vehicle would have barreled on down the highway without a driver, terrorizing the “left behind drivers” and the “po-po,” which made me sad at first, but it was just the way the cookie had to crumble if I was going to be part of the “big snatch.”  But. . . I’m still here!   What the fuck?

Google Image/Rapture Billboard

Actually, according to that old dude (Harold Camping) who prophesied the big snatch for Oct. 21st, he promised that I was supposed to be originally raptured on May 21st.

Well, Rev. Camping, you’ve sure got some explaining to do.  It’s like you cried “fire” in a dark theater twice in one year, causing tons of people to panic, but there was no fire.  I’m still here on this planet that I never wanted to come to in the first place (see “It’s Sure Gonna Suck for You”), and your second “snatch day” has come and gone.

So, I’ve had it, Campy baby, and I’m not taking this lying down.  I’d open up a can of whup-ass on you if I could find you (apparently, you’re in hiding), but since I can’t find you, I’m going to do what every little kid on the playground knows to do when they are pissed at one of the other kids:  I’m tellin’ on your ass.

I’m going straight to the person who you claim to be “your boss” and I’m going to tell him how you’re messin’ with people’s minds, causing all sorts of chaos, and making a mockery of your boss’ life and death.  You see, I have discovered the Jesus you talk about is a real stand-up guy, and I’m registering a letter of complaint to him against you.  And while I’m at it, I’m telling on all the other ne’er-do-wells that are saying “God told me this or God told me that” just for their own political or financial gain!  YOUR ASS IS GRASS, MOFO!

COPY OF LETTER TO JESUS

Dear Jesus:

Hope all is well with you and the universe(s) and the hundreds of billions of galaxies you traverse.  I am one of your peeps and I’ve tried to follow you with all my heart for over forty years.  Let me say, first and foremost:  I love you because you first loved me and I remain secure in that love.  However, in the interest of full disclosure, I no longer attend church, but I’m sure you knew that.   I left about a year before the writer Anne Rice left and for the same reasons:  so many of your peeps have lost their ever lovin’, freakin’ minds, and they have become part of the problem and not the solution down here on your third rock from the sun.  They’ve become Fox News worshipers, Glenn Beck idolizers, and Palin-Bachmann sympathizers, as if you, personally, had come down from heaven and knighted these people with a special dispensation from on high.

Which is why I’m writing:  I would like to register a complaint against your Church.  I’m not registering the complaint against all of your Church, just  the crazy parts.  I know that there has always been a remnant of Christians who have been sane and have done the  right thing by your Earth and the people in it, but right now, the crazies are  over-shadowing your “normal” peeps who are just trying to model your example of integrity, love, and grace.

So I’m writing to ask:  what is up with these people and would you please put a stop to them?  You’re such an intelligent God and so outrageously loving and great—with a fabulous sense of humor, I might add—but it’s hard to see that because of what people, who “claim” to be your peeps, are saying and doing in your name.  In case you haven’t been able to catch the news lately, here are a few examples of the freak show:

Google Image/Rev. Harold Camping (False Prophet)

Rev. Camping’s Predictions

“Thus, we must realize that October 21, 2011 will be the final day of this earth’s existence.”

“And now, we have no option. We can’t say ‘maybe’ ‘it’s possible’ ‘it
looks very probable…’ No way! We have to say this is what the Bible teaches!
This is fact! May 21, 2011 is the
day of the Rapture, it is the day that Judgment Day begins…”

“When September 6, 1994,
arrives, no one else can become saved. The end has come.”

Really, Jesus?  I’ve read that in the 90’s, Rev. Camping had approximately eight false Rapture predictions.  And yet I hear today he’s worth 7 million dollars, while the people who took him seriously sold all their worldly goods to help him “spread the word.”  Obviously, he didn’t think he was going very far if he held onto his own millions.  Last time I checked, our money was no good in Heaven.  But here’s the real kick in the balls:  Rev. Camping refused to reimburse the people who sold their homes, crisscrossed the country screaming “the end is near,” and used all their life savings to advertise Rev. Campings false predictions (some foolish guy invested $144,000 of his retirement—all he had).

Google Image/Anita Perry (Wife of Rick Perry)

“God was already speaking to me,” she [Anita Perry] said, “but he [Rick] didn’t want to hear it” (on hearing the distinct voice of God tell her that her husband should run for president and “take back our nation”). . . .  “We’ve been brutalized. Beaten up, chewed up in the press … We’ve been brutalized by our opponents and our own party. So much that is I think they look at him [Rick] because of his faith.”

Jesus, what Anita is saying, just isn’t true.  Ricky is being chewed up in the press because he’s saying idiotic and “anti-you” things but claiming to be called by you to be our next president.  On one hand, he’s presenting himself as a “good, upstanding Christian” (your knight in shining armor), and on the other hand, he’s pathetically defending the existence of a damn rock that bore the name “Niggerhead” at a hunting camp he and his family owned for years in a place that was once considered a “sundown town.”  (Translation:  “Don’t let the sun go down, Nigger, while you are still in our town.”)   Ricky says he painted over that rock in 1983, but at least seven other hunters claim to have seen the sign “unpainted” as late as 2008, and others have said that even with the sign currently painted, discernable letters are still visible.

Google Image/Throckmorton (Rick Perry’s Hunting Camp)

So, Jesus, here is the $64,000 question:  If this man loves you and is called by you to govern people of all races and colors, why didn’t that sign break his heart?  I know plenty of righteous white folks (some of them live in Texas, too) who wouldn’t have slept until that rock was ground into dust, scattered to the four corners of the Earth, and an exorcist brought into the camp to cleanse it of its racist past.

Now your “man of God,” is resurfacing the insulting Birther lie about our president.  When asked why, this “good Christian man” is doing such a mean-spirited thing, he said:  “It’s fun to poke at him (Obama) a little bit and say, ‘Hey, how about it.  Let’s see your grades and your birth certificate’” (keeping alive the lie the Tea Party spread that our President may have lied about his schooling).  Seriously, Jesus?  Does Rick Perry really want to “go there” having graduated as a cheerleader from Texas A&M with mediocre to failing grades in his core subjects?  Does he really want to bear the shame of the world comparing his grades against Barack Obama’s who was the president of the Harvard Law Review?   Rick Perry held a prayer meeting in your name to kick off his presidential campaign, so why is he “poking” fun at his president and mine?  Is Rick jealous or just flat out mean?  Somehow the “love your brother as yourself” just isn’t cutting it with him, and it’s making that prayer meeting of his seem like a total sham.

Google Image/AFP||Getty Image

Westboro Baptist Church “Screaming hatred in the name of Jesus”

Now about that sick Westboro Baptist Church:  This picture speaks a thousand words.  Are these people really going to Heaven?  I seriously might have to reconsider your offer about heaven if I have the slightest potential of living with these racist, homophobic, misanthropic people for an eternity.  Please, say it isn’t so!

You see what I’m sayin’, Jesus; it’s all so perverse!   To Hell with this creepy Rapture stuff!  I know it’s a lie made up by some dude named John Darby in the 1800’s, but you’d be stunned to know how many people actually believe in it and “sell it” like their lives depended on it while their actions are the antithesis of you and what you stand for.

  •  “You’ll be riding along in an automobile. You’ll be the driver perhaps. You’re a Christian. There’ll be several people in the automobile with you, maybe someone who is not a Christian. When the trumpet sounds you and the other born-again believers in that automobile will be instantly caught away — you will disappear, leaving behind only your clothes and physical things that cannot inherit eternal life. That unsaved person or persons in the automobile will suddenly be startled to find the car suddenly somewhere crashes…. Other cars on the highway driven by believers will suddenly be out of control and stark pandemonium will occur on … every highway in the world where Christians are caught away from the driver’s wheel.” Jerry Falwell’s pamphlet:  Nuclear War and the Second Coming of Christ

Remember Jerry Falwell’s multitudinous hurtful and racist statements committed in your name when he was alive?  So, if Jerry was correct about the Rapture, that would make you the God of Chaos!  Sheesh!  (Important reminder, Lord Jesus:  Jerry Falwell also died very rich and politically powerful while preaching we all needed to prepare to be “snatched up” and leave everything behind.)

No disrespect, my Lord, but why do you let these jokers get away with this?  Why don’t you say something or, better yet, do something?

Unless…unless you have already raptured everyone a long time ago, and I’ve been left behind with the likes of Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann, Newt Gingrich, Glenn Beck, Herman Cain, Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry, and the Westboro Baptist Church, just to name a few of the wingnuts!  Oh, my God, what if Fox News is the official news channel for Hell?  I never thought of that!  Oy vez mir. 

Please, please return soon.

Trying to be one of your servants, C-‘48

Google Image of Jesus (not really—just his human skin-casing)

COPY OF RESPONSE FROM JESUS

Dear Cleve-’48:

I am Jesus’ executive assistant and I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible with a letter that he specifically dictated to you.  He sends his apologies that he couldn’t personally speak to you himself (he does far less of that than people claim), but he is dealing with all the mayhem throughout the world that is being caused by the choices of humans who refuse to do right by each other and the Earth. 

Jesus asked me to let you know that he feels your pain.  He also wants to assure you that he never said anything crazy people have maintained he said throughout the centuries—from the murderous crusaders to Rick Perry’s wife saying God told her, “Rick should run for president and take our country back.”  Jesus’ exact response to all of this, to put it in a nutshell, is:  “They are ‘mashugana’”!

As to the Westboro Baptist Church, Jesus has nothing to say about them because he doesn’t know them—you might try Satan’s website for those who have signed up for early registration to Hell.

My boss said to remind you that what he did say to those people, who claim to be acting on his behalf, is a matter of public record:

  •  “Be wary of false preachers who smile a lot, dripping with practiced sincerity. Chances are they are out to rip you off some way or other. Don’t be impressed with charisma; look for character. Who preachers are is the main thing, not what they say. A genuine leader will never exploit your emotions or your pocketbook. . . .Knowing the correct password — saying ‘Master, Master,’ for instance — isn’t going to get you anywhere with me. . . I can see it now—at the Final Judgment thousands strutting up to me and saying, ‘Master, we preached the Message, we bashed the demons, our God-sponsored projects had everyone talking.’ And do you know what I am going to say? ‘You missed the boat.  All you did was use me to make yourselves important. You don’t impress me one bit. You’re out of here.’” (Matt. 7:21-23 The Message Bible—bold and underline emphasis = mine)

Jesus also asked me to tell you that as to this blatant worship of capitalism that is running amok through so many Christians who think he’s an American and a Republican, and who are so against social justice, he’s just “not down” with that.  It is a “cancer” enhanced by the discipleship to people like Glenn Beck (not a spokesman of his, by the way) to Ayn Rand’s philosophy of objectivism which she laid out so poorly in Atlas Shrugged. My boss is still puzzled that Christians can read the ninety pages of John Galt’s speech in Atlas Shrugged which is a manifesto to greed, hubris, self-centeredness, disdain and contempt for the poor, and cold-heartedness to the disenfranchised, and his peeps don’t walk away feeling sick to their stomach when they measure it against his Sermon on the Mount.  Finally, what he actually said to all of them, and they are purposely ignoring, is still a matter of public record:

  •  “Then he (Jesus) will turn to the ‘goats’ (heartless, self-centered, mean-spirited, self-righteous Christians) the ones on his left, and say, ‘Get out, worthless goats!  You’re good for nothing but the fires of hell. And why? Because—
    • I was hungry and you gave me no meal,
    • I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
    • I was homeless and you gave me no bed,
    • I was shivering and you gave me no clothes,
    • Sick and in prison, and you never visited.’

“Then those ‘goats’ are going to say, ‘Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or homeless or shivering or sick or in prison and didn’t help?’ He will answer them, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me—you failed to do it to me.’” Matt: 25:41-43 (The Message Bible – parentheses, bold, and underlining emphasis = mine)

One last point, C-‘48:  Jesus asked me to tell you not to believe everything you hear.  I believe he said:  “If it walks like a fool, and talks like a fool, then it is a fool and has nothing to do with me or what I am about.”

Hope this helps and brings you peace.  Keep on believin’, keep on representin’, and keep on lovin’ regardless of the haters!

All the Best.

Jesus’ EA, Heavenly Dimension, Inc.

I am a Christian, BUT not one of those Christians!

“I like your Christ; I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” Mahatma Gandhi

******

All text and photos by Eleanor and John Tomczyk copyrighted © 2011 except where otherwise noted

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.

 
59 Comments

Posted by on October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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

It’s Sure Gonna Suck for You

Do you know what I have discovered?   I wish I had had an “onboarding” course or interview before I made my debut on Earth.   It may not have made my journey any easier knowing what to expect, but at least I wouldn’t have gone through most of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How do we get here anyway?  When I say here, I mean to Earth.   I don’t mean, what is the biology of it all (at 63 if I don’t know how babies are born, I better give up the ghost).   But it is obvious that we are so much more than instinctive animals.  We have the ability to choose between good and evil.  We also have the ability to choose whom we will love and whom we will hate.  In other words, we have souls.  As a soul, before being stuffed into the sausage casing of my little brown body, I would like to have been shown a DVD of my proposed life and given an edit pencil so that I could take out what I didn’t like and add in what I thought was missing.  That’s all I’m sayin’!

Google Image

IMAGINED ONBOARDING INTERVIEW

 WITH NANNY OF BABY SOULS

Cosmos Nanny:  So, C-‘48, how can I help you today?

C-‘48:   Well, I know it’s getting near my time to take a slip-and-slide through the vagina shoot that will transition me from this world to my birth family on Earth.  But you see, I was talking to the other candidates last night and they said you used to have an onboarding course we could take to help prepare us for life on Earth.  They also said that some of us fair better than others once we get our body casings.  I’d like to take that course so that I side step as many of the pitfalls as possible in my life.

Cosmos Nanny:  Those damn rebellious baby souls are always causing problems by passing along misinformation.  Most of you are pretty well-behaved, but there are a couple of you who are destined for New York City and who have a street cred that makes you too clever for words.  A few of you are always stirring up mischief.  You’re all beginning to get on my every last nerve, that’s for sure.

C-’48:  I’m sorry; I’m just scared of the unknown.  The Earth sounds like a pretty scary place!

Cosmos Nanny:  (Sigh!)  Okay.  We used to have an onboarding course but we don’t any more.  It caused way too much hysteria, and people were always trying to change their destinies or trick other baby souls into taking their place.  So, no, there is no onboarding course.  You’ll just have to wing it once you get there.

C-’48:  Really?  Oh, come on:  throw me a freakin’ bone here.  Like for instance, what race will I be?  What gender?

Cosmos Nanny:  What do you want to be?

C-’48:   That’s easy to answer:  I want to be white; I want to be rich; and I want to be a man.

Cosmos Nanny:  Ha!  Don’t they all.  Well, kiddo, you’re going to be anything but. You are going to be born poor, black, and female, and you’ll grow up in the Cleveland ghetto.

C-’48:  The Cleve!  Shit, not The Cleve!  Anywhere, but The Cleve.

Cosmos Nanny:  Why, what do you have against Cleveland?

C-’48:  A couple of the other baby souls said it is the point of no return.  It’s like the roach motel commercial:  “Once you check in you never check out.”  Where in the Cleve will I be born?  Can it be with the rich white people in Shaker Heights?  Can my mother look like Doris Day?  I really love yellow hair!

Google Image/Doris Day

Cosmos Nanny:  No, you can’t.  Why do you insist on being born “white”?  Black is beautiful; you’ll discover that sometime around the mid-sixties.

C’48:  Crap!  Because according to the other baby souls, things go a lot better for the souls in the white-body casings.  They said if I choose any other casing color (yellow, light brown, or reddish hue), I’ll have a bad time of it on Earth because the white-body casings will treat me like shit.

Cosmos Nanny:  I’ll be sure and tell the Irish how much better life went for them due to their white-body casings the next time I’m sitting in on a lecture about the Irish Potato Famine in the 1800’s.  Did those rascally baby souls tell you that the potato famine killed more than a million Irish souls, and it displaced another million or more Irishmen and women to the New World?  And the pisser of it all is that the people of England let them starve to death while stealing their land, robbing them of their culture, and exporting tons of their food to the world market.  Or maybe instead of an onboarding course for you troublesome baby-souls, I think I’ll reintroduce my course about the Bubonic Plague that wiped out 75 million Europeans or approximately 50% of its population by the time it was over.  The culprits in this suffering were close living conditions, filth, and rats.

“Die Pest in Epiros” (“The Plague in Epirus”) by
Pierre Mignard (1610-1665)

C-’48:  Yikes! That’s supposed to make me feel better about living on Earth?  What other planets do you have up your sleeve that I can matriculate to?

Cosmos Nanny:   Just Earth as far as you’re concerned.  Now hush — enough of this misinformed nonsense.  Let’s get on with the work at hand.  You’re slated to be born in a place called Central-Woodland in a house that won’t be condemned for another ten years after you’re born, but it should have been torn down ten years before you ever entered it.  The house will have rats the size of cats and roaches the size of hummingbirds.  The people in your neighborhood will be trapped by poverty and locked out of education and jobs due to the tenacious long-reaching effect of Jim Crow laws — not “officially” written down in the North, but just as tenacious as the ones in the South.  Your caretakers will be numbers runners, schizophrenics, alcoholics, prostitutes, and pedophiles.  I found a picture of a house cited for Urban Renewal that looks very similar to the one you will spend your formative years in (give or take a few less holes), just to give you an idea of what you’re in for.

Google Image/Cleveland House

C-’48:  Aie-yi-yi!  You’re so goddamn nonchalant about the shit I’m going to have to deal with in my life.
Look at that house:  I can see the abuse and mayhem written all over its framework.  Don’t you get it?  I’m
not cut out for suffering
.  I don’t think I can handle pain – physical or emotional.  Can’t I just stay here?  Or how about this:  Since the sperm hasn’t connected to the egg yet that will form my body, can’t I simply choose to be someone else born in 1948, and you look the other way?

Cosmos Nanny:  Like who?

C-’48:  I don’t know. . .tell me who’s in the catalogue that will be born in 1948.

Cosmos Nanny:  Of the baby souls you would hear about in your lifetime, there will be born a Mikhail Baryshnikov (a womanizing Russian dancer who defects to the US and builds a brilliant career as a dancer but a mediocre one as an actor).  Then there will also be an Al Gore (worth more than $100 million, a US Vice President, and supposedly “founder of the Internet,” and a global warming darling who will cheat on his
wife after 40 years of marriage).  And, of course, we can’t forget Ozzy Osbourne (a drug-addicted, rock musician who bites off the head of a bat on stage and is arguably the father of reality TV that will destroy Western civilization as we know it).  They all will become rich and famous, but they all will have had and have caused their fair share of suffering – none of which you could have survived.

C-’48:  Well, that’s a shitty sampling of rich, white men.  Aren’t there others?

Cosmos Nanny:  Sure there are but they are all Jewish, and you couldn’t handle being Jewish.

C-’48:  Say what?  How do you know what I can handle?

Cosmos Nanny:  I know what you can handle because you don’t want to suffer.  You’ll do anything in
your power not to suffer.  You couldn’t bear the history of the Jewish race bleeding down through your ancestors.  It is going to be hard enough to bear up under the slave history of the African races and all the Jim Crow aftermath that you will inherit.  But you’re missing the point all together:  no race escapes suffering.  No race or gender is better than the other.  No human is immune from life’s sorrow, and no one has a corner on suffering.  Do you remember the quote I taught you and the other baby souls by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?

C-’48:  “If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.”

Cosmos Nanny:  There are lives you will come to know who will be born in comfort of class and skin but once you know their history, you would not want to change places with them for all the money and white-body casings in the world.  The Kennedy clan will have more money than God, but they will bear so much premature death, assassinations, mental retardation, alcoholism, accidents, scandals, and death threats that you would never willingly trade places with their mother in a million years.  Helen Keller was born before you in a wealthy family, but her years of painful isolation due to being deaf and dumb would have crushed you in a nano-second if you had traded places with her.  And the doctor in Connecticut, whose entire family will be beaten, raped, and burned alive by heartless criminals when you are in your sixties, would change his color-casing for your life in a heartbeat, if he could bring his wife and daughters back and save them from that horrible day.

C- ’48:  Okay, okay, I get it.  I have only one more question before I go:  Will I have children?

Cosmos Nanny:  After a bit, but not without a struggle, and that in itself will be cause for suffering.

C-’48:  Oh. . . . Will they suffer?

Cosmos Nanny:  Yes.  They will suffer, all the more, because in your attempt to save them from suffering, they will create their own suffering, especially one of them.  It will take you a long time to learn that making sure children are happy and content is not a raison d’etre for them — serving the poor and fighting for the disenfranchised is.  It causes children to think beyond themselves and their wants and needs.  But the irony
of your children’s self-imposed suffering is that it will be the catalyst of your greatest character development.

C- ’48:  Really?  How so?

Cosmos Nanny:  I can’t tell you that.  That’s like putting the cart before the horse.  You’re going to have to find out for yourself.

C-’48:  What?  No, no, no, no. . . .  I hate this system.  I don’t care what you say.  I’m going to adjust things when I get down to Earth.  I’ll make life easier for myself and my family so we don’t have to suffer — so help me God!  You’ll see.  Now that I know how things are going to roll once I’m born, I’ll make some changes before they happen.

Cosmos Nanny:  You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?  Say good-bye Cleve ’48 because it is time for you to go.  And by the way, once you enter your mother’s womb, you won’t remember a word of our conversation.  This is a good thing because I think you’re going to be a trouble-maker.  But I will throw you one “freakin’ bone” as you put it:  you’ll end up living in a house like this one — a complete juxtaposition
to the home of your childhood — and have the life that picture represents. You’ll encounter a lot of suffering getting there, but it will be the great love of a “white casing” that will keep you there and make it a home.

Author’s House/1980’s – 1990’s

C- ’48:  No, wait. . . I have so much more to ask.  I want to know if there is a God, why is there suffering?  Why doesn’t he stop all this turmoil if he is as good as we’ve been taught?  Are some people born good and others born bad?  If so, why can’t God just keep the bad souls from transitioning to Earth?

Cosmos Nanny:  ENOUGH!  Some things are a mystery, and no matter how much you clamor to know the
answer, to remove the mystery would remove the motivating factors that build character.  Suffering is a plumb line that determines your true depth in the midst of the bullshit that you will try and construct as your earthly façade.  Now go and get into your little brown human casing and prepare to make your entrance.  Trust me — it won’t be as bad as you think.

C-’48:  Seriously?   I don’t believe you – not for a New York minute. I can tell this trip is going to be a very bad one.  I can just feel it!   Send a note to God for me, and tell him that he’s sure got some explainin’ to do — that’s for sure!

***

BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT

Negro baby girl born today in Cleveland ghetto

Rescued from toilet

Mother mentally unstable

Father AWOL

Life of child/TBD

C-’48

“Most people get a fair amount of fun out of their lives, but on balance life is suffering, and only the very young or the very foolish imagine otherwise.” – George Orwell

“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet.  Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”  Helen Keller (1880 – 1968)

All text and photos by Eleanor and John Tomczyk copyrighted
© 2011 except where otherwise noted

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.

 
40 Comments

Posted by on October 21, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,