TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION (a Halloween tale of horror)

(Apologies to Clement Clarke Moore’s “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” for the butchering and ham-handedness of his iconic poem)

Cartoon used by permission: 244465_RGB_1290.jpg Halloween 2020 by Rick McKee CagleCartoonscom

‘Twas the night before the Presidential election, when all through the land,

Not a godly person was sleeping—not a child, woman, or man.

A landslide of votes had been cast for Joe Biden with care,

But folks were nervous that come the new day,

The Trump nightmare would still be there.

Cartoon used by permission: 243693_RGB_1290.png Axing Norms by Pat Bagley The Salt Lake Tribune UT

The Democrats were anxious as they snuggled in their beds,

While visions of a Biden win and Senate take-over danced in their heads.

And Pelosi in her Covid mask, and me in mine too,

Had finally calmed our hearts when we heard a loud “BOO!”

Cartoon used by permission: 244669_RGB_1290.jpg  Running mate by David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star Tucson AZ

I wondered in my grogginess, what could be the disaster,

But soon spied a giant Covid spector and his Trump-like master.

Down to my knees I dropped like a flash,

Looked up to the heavens, and screamed: “Lawd Jesus, save po’ America’s ass”!

Cartoon used by permission: 244879_RGB_1290.png Donald Trump Undertakes the Pandemic by Dale Cummings Canada PoliticalCartoons com

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Illuminated the pumpkin-looking man with the Covid-orange glow.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear,

Trump’s idols, his lackies, and demons of fear.

More rapid than eagles, his flying gargoyles they came,

As he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

“Now Putin! Now Giuliani!

Now Lindsey and Fox News!

Come Hannity, and McConnell,

Come Repubs, and Laura Ingraham too.

“Back into the belly of the Oval Office!

And into the cowardly hearts of the Senate.

Y’all come visit—stay—for 2021 until forever,

‘Cause this Christian-idol mofo is guaranteed to win it!”

Cartoon used by permission: 244350_RGB_1290.png Happy Halloween 2020 by Bart van Leeuwen PoliticalCartoons com

But then in my nightmare, I heard on the roof

A stampede of angelic sandal-clad hoofs.

I ran to the window as thousands flew down

And trampled scary Trump

Into the Halloween ground.

They were led by Archangel Michael—

that champion from stories back in the day

His glorious Halloween costume was

Like a fashionable gay dude from the 1600’s, I’d say.

“Don’t let my outfit fool you,”

he said with a beatific grin.

“No evil is a match for me,

given my sword, wings and fabulous glam trim.”

Archangel Michael by Luca Giordano (1660 – 1665) – The Fall of the Rebel Angels/Public Domain

He spoke a few more words before vanquishing Trump:

“BE NOT AFRAID! The Orange one and his ghouls are a goner.

Tell all your frightened Dem friends

To have hope—Angels’ honor.”

Cartoon used by permission: 244862_RGB_1290.png Election Run by Pat Bagley The Salt Lake Tribune UT

Michael spoke not another word, and went back to his work,

Skewered all of Trump’s demon-pals, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose.

And giving a nod, up to the sky he arose.

His Arch-Angelness hung overhead, and to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew up like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he flew out of sight:

“2020 will not be like 2016!”

“Now calm your faint hearts and have a restful good night!”

Cartoon used by permission: 244884_RGB_1290.png You Are Fired by Marian Kamensky Austria

Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a humorist who is an award-winning voice-over performer.  In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!).  Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival: “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.”  Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker.  If you don’t believe me, just ask her!

Cartoon used by permission: 244926_RGB_1290.png Zombie Trump by Pat Bagley The Salt Lake Tribune UT

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.

 

A Bridge Too Far

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  I am never, ever going to join the world of “The Twitter.”  I realize that it is one of the many forms of communication needed to stay in touch with one’s peeps, especially when one is a writer or an entertainer, but I cannot be trusted with the medium.  I’m 63 years old and I’ve finally gotten to a place of maturity where I no longer use my inside voice (pissy rage) in places or situations where only my outside voice (reasoned grace) should ever be heard.  Just in trying to explain why I wouldn’t engage with the little blue bird when it first emerged, I once commented to a group of my younger daughter’s friends (guys and gals), “I don’t tweet, I don’t twit, and I don’t “twat.”  (Apparently, in the world of twenty-something white kids, the words “tweet” and “twit” are fine, but the word “twat” is not to be used with one’s outside voice, which became very obvious when they all stared at me in horror, and my little vanilla bean daughter slid beneath the restaurant table to hide her mortification.)  Who knew?

ruthawestbrooks8654.highschoolfootballhq.com//Google Image

But that is my point.  The Twitter may be legal and accessible, but it doesn’t mean that someone with my temperament and hot-headedness should ever tweet my thoughts because that would be going a bridge too far in my efforts to conquer my ability to “keep in touch.”

A case in point:  Last week a person whom I’ve known for years, and whom I used to call a friend, finally crossed over the line with me.  Through the years, I’ve put up with her taking me for granted, her Neanderthal husband’s racist comments to me, her verbal attack against me in front of a mutual friend rather than engaging me in private, and finally her public broadcast attack and lecture about a subject that was mine to hold an opinion about that she didn’t agree with but not hers to lecture me on as if I were a child.  All those years of trying to be “nicer than Jesus” with this person finally collided with my hurt and anger, and I realized that we hadn’t been friends for a very long time because she had trespassed on the relationship too many times to count. Had I had access to The Twitter when that revelation of trespassing on my heart hit the hurt and betrayal I felt, all hell would have broken loose because I would have opened up a can of “whup ass” that would have verbally beat the shit out of that woman and left her racist husband’s sorry ass to put her back together again.

Getonmyspace.com//Pinterest

Getonmyspace.com//Pinterest

See what I mean?!  I’m not to be trusted with the privilege of The Twitter or I’ll make Jesus cry, and I would really like to end up in Heaven when I die.   (To all my current friends and readers, please note: I’ve never knifed anybody in my life, except with my words, but the visual of me bitch-slapping somebody underscores why I need as many filters in place as possible to keep my mouth shut until I can calm down, and the appropriate contrite verbiage can be found, which ain’t ever gonna’ happen with an instantaneous access to The Twitter.  I know myself.)  I don’t think I’m the only one who should back away from access to The Twitter given what I read nowadays.  Most of the time, I hear all sorts of famous people screwing up over that thing.  Just ask the actress, Patricia Heaton (you know, of “Everybody Loves Raymond” fame?).  She ran off at the mouth on The Twitter against Sandra Fluke (a young woman from Georgetown University [G-Town]) who was testifying before Congress (you know, the one who Rush Limbaugh called a whore and a slut?).  Well, Ms. Heaton had to eat her Twitter account and come back with her tail between her legs and publicly apologize to Ms. Fluke for being such a self-righteous bitch!

Patricia Heaton’s Use of Her “Inside Voice” on Twitter/E-Online

Without access to Twitter, I thought and prayed about the incident I’d experienced with the ersatz “friend,” mulled over the history between the old girlfriend and myself, decided that that some relationships were never meant to go the distance of a lifetime, forgave her, and then let her go without fanfare or hyperbole.  Then I blocked her sorry ass from my Facebook page and went on my merry way.

2-year-old-Indonesian boy who smoked 40 cigarettes a day/Google News Image

There are other things that come under the umbrella of going a “bridge too far” besides The Twitter abuse.  Take the story of the children from Indonesia who can’t stop smoking.   They are addicted to cigarettes and smoke 25 – 40 of them a day.  Why?  Because there is no law that dictates an age limit to smoke in Indonesia.  If you can puff it, you can have it.  It doesn’t matter if the kid “becomes emotionally aggressive and uncontrollable and acts like he’s possessed by evil spirits,” according to an eight-year-olds father—it is still legal.  Half the Indonesian population lives on less than $2 a day, but cigarettes account for the second largest household expenditure in that country and it has the world’s highest percentage of young smokers according to Yahoo News.

Why is it “because we can,” we humans think we should?  Which brings me to the subject of “every mother’s son:”

17-year-old Trayvon Martin with his little brother who was recently gunned down by George Zimmerman, a vigilante self-appointed neighborhood watchman

You would have to have been living under a rock not to have heard about the egregious murder of the seventeen-year-old child that went out to buy Skittles and an iced tea in a gated community and never made it back to the home he was visiting with his father.  By all accounts Trayvon was a darling boy, a good student, and a football player who had never even gotten into a scuffle in his boyhood life.  As Trayvon walked home in the rain while talking to his sixteen-year-old girlfriend on his cell phone—armed with only a bag of Skittles and an iced tea—a paranoid, self-appointed (unofficial) neighborhood watchman followed him because he was black and wearing a hoodie which made him appear suspicious.  Somewhere in between the store and home, Trayvon noticed the stranger following him in a car.  The last thing that Trayvon’s girlfriend said to him was “run,” but Trayvon said he wouldn’t run (he knew better), but he would walk fast.  The last things neighbors heard were a child screaming for help and gunshots.

Trayvon’s body lay in the morgue for three days as a “John Doe” while his parents frantically searched for him.  Who goes out for candy and tea and doesn’t return?  His body was drug and alcohol tested by the police (he was clean) but the murderer was never tested, never investigated, and never asked to provide proof of his claim that he shot in self-defense.  Trayvon is dead but the murderer, as of this posting, has yet to be arrested because he pursued this child under the protection of two Florida laws:  The Right to Carry a Concealed Weapon and the Stand Your Ground law.

Some people think the murder of Trayvon was a hate crime (there is some confusion as to whether there was a racial epithet said to the 911 despatcher by Zimmerman just before he shot the son of the Martins) and some people think it was what my peeps like to call “Walking while Black.”*  My gut tells me that it is an extremely complex situation with both racial overtones and thoughtless gun laws that go a “bridge too far” for our volatile and fragile society.  We won’t know just what motivated Zimmerman until he can stop hiding behind the gun laws and be honestly investigated.  We do know that in Zimmerman’s zeal he had called the police department over 46 times to report “incidents” that never came to fruition.  But one thing is for sure, the murder of this child better be a “come to Jesus” moment for our nation and our love affair with guns, because next time it could be any mother’s child or grandchild, no matter what the race and no matter what the place.

President Obama’s comment today, March 23^rd

“I can only imagine what these parents are going through,” Obama said. “And I think every parent in America should be able to understand why it is absolutely imperative that we investigate every aspect of this, and that everybody pulls together — federal, state and local — to figure out exactly how this tragedy happened.  If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon. When I think about this boy, I think about my own kids.”  The Washington Post

“Walking while Black:  A Cautionary Tale”

*I am discovering that “Walking while Black” is something that every black child used to learn at the knees of their parents or caretakers.  It means that you must always assume that most (not all) white people will think you’re up to no good when you walk through an all-white neighborhood, therefore, you must walk with hands exposed, a pleasant expression on your face (even if your dog just died), you mustn’t wear anything that obscures your features, you must answer every rude white person’s questions in a polite manner (even if what they ask is none of their goddamn business), and you must never, ever, ever run!   I’ve been married to my man, WW (“White and Wonderful”), for almost 33 years and because he has always made decent money, for years we lived in all white neighborhoods.  In the beginning of our marriage, I was a long-distance runner and, like clockwork, the white Po-Po (police) would stop me mid-run to find out what I was doing in the neighborhood I lived in.  So I started wearing make-up, pearls, and diamond tennis bracelets (it’s a wonder I wasn’t robbed every other day), and the latest fashionable jogging attire so that my persona screamed “I’m a corporate executive’s wife, so if you mess with me, you’ll have hell to pay.”  That worked for a while until I moved to a different location further south.

By the time I arrived in Virginia Beach, Virginia (a beach town with a church on every corner and a military pit stop), I was no longer a runner but did enjoy a morning constitutional of a brisk walk or two.  Out of concern for my safety, WW made me promise to only walk in our neighborhood and only with a couple of neighborhood women who had befriended me.  So three times a week for six months the ladies and I walked the same route (it never varied) through our neighborhood (at the same time), while wearing the same thing (jogging wear and a head wrap/scarf, full makeup and dripping with bling), and life was grand.  But one day both of the white ladies, whose husbands were in the military, had an event that required their attendance, so I went out alone to walk the same route, at the same time, in the same outfit I’d worn for six months.  Within ten minutes, a car with two white women in their fifties pulled up alongside me and the driver angrily demanded to know who I was, what I was doing in their neighborhood, and why were my hands in my pockets?  I started laughing because I thought they were joking.  “Ladies,” I said.  “You must be pulling my leg—haven’t you seen me pass your house every other day for six months?  I’m your neighbor for God’s sake!”   They did not think me humorous at all and as I looked up and down the empty street, I realized that if these women shot me, no one would believe that I had been minding my own business and was just out taking a walk.   As I “slowly” pulled my hands out of my pockets to show them that all I had was a Walkman and a couple of tissues, I’m not ashamed to say that I did a “Step-and-Fetch-it” (servile persona) routine with a toothy grin plastered from ear to ear as I said:  “Aw, shucks, Ma’am, you knows how it is with us womens of certain age—we’s gots to keep up our constitutionals or we’s will turn into little porkers, and we’s can’t have that, now cans we, girlfriend?”

The saner of the two women forced the angrier woman to move on as she shouted, “I’m watching you; I can tell you’re up to no good—you better not be here when I get back.”  I slowly walked the “one block” back to my home (forcing myself not to run)—back to my babies, my sweet, precious white husband, and I thought, “I must spoil the garden of racial equality that I’m raising my girls in and tell them what happened to me today.  I must tell them about what it means to be ‘Walking while Black.’  I must warn them.”  And I wept!

I didn’t end up teaching my children about “Walking while Black.”  I just couldn’t bring this evil fruit into their lives.  In fact I never told them this story because hope springs eternal, and WW and I decided to rear the children to be color-blind (which they gloriously are as adults today), but I often wonder if we blew it by not warning them of certain perils so that they wouldn’t be blind-sided.  Because I now have a grandson who looks the spitting image of Trayvon Martin at three-years-old, and I am concerned that that survival technique will not be passed on because I naively thought we were headed for a brave new world in America by now.  Maybe Trayvon thought, as my children still do, that color is irrelevant—heart and character are the defining motivators—and given that, he probably thought he would have had nothing to fear simply walking to get a bag of Skittles and an iced tea.

Author: E.L. Tomczyk

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.

 

Karma Can Be a Bitch

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  There is a God because every once and awhile the shit hits the fan against the enemies of our souls and we are vindicated.  Most bullying situations in life don’t have a Hollywood ending, but every now and then, karma has a way of circling back and biting the bully in the ass, and to that we—the bullied—cry “OO-YAH”!

justcapshunz.com/Pinterest

At my moonlighting job as an advice columnist, “Big Mama Speaks,” I received several letters of interest this week from bullies, their bullying relatives, and innocent observers of bullying.  I’d like to share with my readers a sampling of some of the letters along with my answers which illustrate the “payback is a bitch” principle when it comes to being a bully, and that the best revenge against a bully, of any type, is “living well.”

BIG MAMA SPEAKS!

Osama bin Laden’s hideaway being demolished/AP Image

Aasalaamu Aleikum, you infidel, Big Mama:  Let me please introduce myself—I am one of Osama bin Laden’s wives and we have heard of your blog and your advice column, even in Pakistan, where we are now under house arrest with our many, many children.  Of all Osama’s (Allah be praised) wives, I have always been the most sophisticated and forward thinking (as you can see, I speak English very well).  Now that “O” is no longer alive to try and take over the world, I am a realist and realize that we wives will need to get jobs to support ourselves and our children, but we have no skills.  I have been checking out your American television programs.  Most of them are disgusting (what can you expect from infidels, yes?), but I do watch Downton Abbey (what a delicious show about the disgusting British Imperialism), The Oprah Channel (I secretly envy her empowerment as a woman), Desperate Housewives (this gives us all the guilty-pleasure giggles), reruns of Big Love (who knew we had something in common with you Americans?), and select pickings from the Bravo channel and the Food Network.  After much thought and careful discussion among the other wives, we’ve come up with an employment plan that may work, and we don’t have to leave the house (which would cause an international incident) to get it done.  What if we filmed our lives in our current “house arrest” situation and submitted it for airing on the Bravo channel?  We would call it:  The Real Housewives of Abbottabad.  I am writing to see if you would be our representative with the Jew, Andy Cohen, who produces the housewives series in America.  We could do a demo and send it to you to pass along.   I have uploaded a picture of our favorite Housewives cast so that you do not get confused as to which one we wish to pattern our show after (the Atlanta ladies have such great swag).  I have also included a shot of my sister wives and me so that you can gauge our potential as reality show material.   I look forward to your reply.  Signed:  One of “The Real Housewives of Abbottabad” (TRHA)

The Real Housewives of Atlanta/Cast photo

Wa-Aleikum Aassalaam TRHA:  Big Mama doesn’t even know where to begin, child.  To be perfectly blunt, I did not like your husband.  (No, I did not, girlfriend!)  Matter of fact, I had to keep myself from doing the “Jumping Jack Flash” dance of joy when I found out your old man was dead.  Since my mama always told me I should never speak ill of the dead because it was bad luck, about the nicest thing I can say about your boo is that he was a horrible bully.  (Also, before I forget, I don’t know Andy Cohen or I’d submit my own housewives reality show to him:  Big Mamas Who Take No Shit from Terrorists, Bullies, or Otherwise.)

Google Image

But I am so glad you wrote because Big Mama has a butt-load of questions that I’d like to ask you given recent news reports.   I read that three of you wives, eight children, five grandchildren, and support staff all lived in the suburban house that was recently demolished in Pakistan.   (Is it true that bin Laden was married 22 times and has 54 children?  How did he find time to do anything else but the “nasty” given all those women?)  I also read that “First Wife” is a colossal bitch and that she and the youngest wife (Osama’s favorite—is that you?) were the Nene Leakes and the Kim Zolciaks of your own “Real Housewives” scenario.   Word on the street is that all the wives bitched and complained so much to bin Laden that he stayed holed up in his room watching hours of endless porno tapes to keep his head from exploding.  It is all so delicious and I must tell you that, as an American, I relish the thought that you all tormented your husband’s sorry-ass until he couldn’t think straight.  He probably was the one that tipped off the Navy Seals about his own hideout just to have some peace.  According to the interviews given to the Pakistanis by all of you, Osama was in terrible health, as well as mentally unstable in his final days.  Wow!  I guess you do qualify to become a Real Housewife of “fill in the blank.”  Good times!

Osama bin Laden/Google Image

Your terrorist bully of a husband is probably thinking by now that Hell is a five-star resort compared to living with his bitching and complaining wives—all under one roof with nowhere to go day, after day, after day, after day.   (I’m sorry; I don’t mean to revel in Osama’s misery—but then again, I think I do.)

So what else can I tell you?  I don’t have the clout to make you and your “girls” reality stars.  Big Mama is not a miracle worker.  But you’re probably as much victims of Osama’s bullying as the rest of the people he terrorized around the world which does soften my heart towards you, I must say.  My advice to you, baby, is to write a tell-all memoir and live well off the proceeds (Our Lives As Wives With That Son-of-a-Bitch, Bin Laden or He Promised Me the World But All I Got Was This Lousy Burqa).  It will be a bestseller, I promise you.

Book Jacket/Google Image

“Limbaugh became a radio powerhouse and a leader of the Republican Party, through withering attacks that rile up his base. . . . This time Limbaugh picked on a soft-spoken young woman no one had ever heard of and mockingly challenged (Sharon) Fluke to post a sex video online. He looked like a bully.” By Howard Kurtz (Why Rush Limbaugh’s Apology for Sandra Fluke ‘Slut’ Remarks Bombed—The Daily Beast)

***

Dear Big Mama:  I am visiting your country from another planet and have been following your American slander gab shows.  No offense, but have the people in your country all lost their minds—especially the Conservatives?  Who is this person called Rush Limbaugh?  You know— the one who flings racist darts at your leader and his family as if they were human piñatas whose bodies he’s trying to poison.   Is there any race Mr. Lumbaugh likes other than the white one?  This kind of incivility is unheard of on other planets.  I had heard of your “American Exceptionalism” on my planet, and I was intrigued and really looking forward to getting to know what that was all about but it seems to breed only arrogance.  I googled this Rush Limbaugh and found that Mr. Limbaugh says he talks to God every day.   But from what I know of God, I don’t think he is listening, do you?   I’m looking forward to your perspective for my travel journal.   You are an interesting species, to say the least.  Signed:  Disappointed in Americans

Dear Disappointed:  RL says hateful things about everyone who doesn’t agree with him, and it is all for the Benjamins.  Rush is such a bully that an entire political party is scared to death of him.  God is listening, alright, Sugar, but I don’t think any of us wants to know how severely he finds us wanting for our hatefulness towards each other.  Unfortunately, we have a slew of these bullies, my celestial friend (most claiming to have some type of God connection), except for maybe the mean-spirited, manipulative conservative watch dog, Andrew Breitbart, who just crossed over the “great divide” with a lot of explainin’ to have to do to his Maker for his serial character assassination plots and manipulation of information used to destroy the lives and livelihood of innocent people for sport.  If there is a God, Andrew Breitbart should have to serve as Shirley Sherrod’s butler for the first third of eternity.   I don’t know about where you come from, Alien-Baby, but evil doesn’t remain status quo forever here.  Bullies get their comeuppance in the end ‘cause bad karma sure is a bitch, and it will come back like a boomerang to bite them in the ass when they least expect it.

Snapshot of JC Penney/Ellen DeGeneres Commercial

Dear Traitor to the Name of Jesus, Big Mama:  I am one of the One Million Moms who signed up to get JC Penney to drop Ellen DeGeneres as a spokesperson for their company because she does not represent family values and promotes a degenerate lifestyle.  But I have noticed that you have refused to join our cause and what is even more maddening is that you have publicly come out in support of this lesbian.  Our campaign against JC Penney was a bust because of people like you.  And you call yourself a Christian.  You should be ashamed of yourself.  Well, I’m writing to tell you that unless you repent, you’re going to burn in Hell! Signed: OMM “True Believer”

Dear OMM Bully:  Oooooh-kay!  Can I suggest you switch to decaf for starters?  After you’ve calmed down a bit, Bully-Mommy, I’d like to point out that your group’s name is a “teensy-weensy bit” overstated, so you might want to rein that verbosity in a tad bit.  The last time I checked out your website, you had 44,000 “likes” and counting.  Not quite 1M.  The One Million People for Ellen surpassed your group 5 times and counting within days of its launch.  Second, I didn’t see anything anywhere where Ellen DeGeneres or JC Penney said, shop with us and Ellen, and we will give you a 20% coupon to our next, “You too can be gay if you just walk my way” seminar.   Finally, “judge not lest ye be judged,” OMM groupie.  Ellen’s sexuality is Ellen’s business, not mine or yours.  If this is such a big deal with God, why don’t we trust him to have a little chat with Ellen and Portia?  Or don’t you trust God to do the right thing?  You know what I think?   I think you secretly suspect that God doesn’t hate the things you hate.  Isn’t that a bitch?  In the meantime, Hell ain’t half-full yet, so keep on “actin’ ugly” and we’ll let God be the judge of who wins the race to Heaven.

  At this point, JC Penney, Ellen, and me

 are happy as hummingbirds in a hibiscus tree.

 (Damn, I’m a poet and don’t know it!)

******

I am discovering that not being liked never killed anybody—how we react to not being liked is the thing that can do us in.  I don’t remember a day that passed in my elementary, junior high and high schools when I wasn’t being bullied.  It was a rare day when I didn’t cry myself to sleep most nights because I didn’t fit in, wasn’t accepted, wasn’t loved, or was just having the plain ol’ shit beat out of me.   Bullies flanked me on my left and right, front and back, top and bottom, home(s) and school(s), playgrounds and alleyways, but I never let them have the final word.  The more they tortured me, the more I resolved not to let them win.   I encountered my first bully when I was six years old and even at that tender age I instinctively knew that no one else was the “boss of me.”  When a caretaker was beating me senseless with a razor strop (thick leather strap used to sharpen straight razors) while she screamed, “I better see some tears or I’ll beat your fat ass into next week,” I determined not to shed a drop of tears, and I didn’t.  I still remember the look of fear in that woman’s eyes when she realized a six-year-old, with fury emanating from my dryless eyes like fire bolts, had stood up to her bullying and had won the day.

I am very supportive of the anti-bullying campaign of “It Gets Better,” but it only tells part of the story.  When the bullied don’t let the bullies define them, and we chose to live our lives to the fullest in spite of them, then that truly is the best revenge.

Pinterest.com

“Never be bullied into silence.  Never allow yourself to be made a victim.  Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.”  ~Harvey Fierstein

******

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.

 

Get Up Outta My Face

Do you know what I’ve discovered?  I’d love to have the power to “zap” the hell out of people when they get up in my face with all their trash talkin’.  I’ve always been a great fan of the Harry Potter books and all fantasies with wizards and wands, and after watching the latest and final installment of “Deathly Hallows-Part 2” (I had read the book ages ago, of course), I truly wished I had a magic wand.   But unlike Harry, I’m not so sure I could have given up possession of the “Elder Wand” (the most powerful wand that ever existed).

As I languidly daydreamed about what it would be like to have my own super-powerful wand which I would name “Bitch-zap,” I thought to myself that I could do some serious damage against all the people who got on my nerves.  Depending on who pissed me off and in what mood I was in that day, you’d hear a “BITCH-ZAP” here and a “BITCH-ZAP” there—here a “ZAP,” there a “ZAP,” everywhere a “BITCH-ZAP”!  Now don’t be alarmed!  With my super-charged ability to cast a variety of spells, I would be very benevolent and would only turn most people into a motley crew of odd looking animals—until they shut the fuck up.  It wouldn’t be about physically harming anyone, as much as it would be about making them “get up outta my face.”

ZAP!

Google Image/Eleanor’s Favorite “Tomato Frog Zap”

ZAP-ZAP!

Google Image/Eleanor’s Favorite “Thumb Nail Frog” Zap

I think I would limit my powers to a couple of categories (one never wants to be greedy in one’s grasp for wand power):  personal grievances and political annoyances.

For the men who did me wrong in the past, I used to think I would obliterate them from the face of the Earth.  But in retrospect, meeting them helped me realize what I didn’t want, and when I met my husband, WW (white and wonderful), my vision had been greatly sharpened, and I knew he was the real deal.  So now I’d just turn those “players” into Blob fish and bury them at the bottom of the deepest sea.

ZAP-ZAP!

Google Image/Eleanor’s “Blob fish Zap” used against players

For the employers who’ve represented “The Man” in my journey (they’ve all been white and male), I’d turn those silly white men into Axolotls and toss them to the bottom of the deepest sea, especially the one who told me that he thought I wasn’t very bright (I had disagreed with him on something).  That “Boss-man” told me I should make a note that when he walks into a room he is normally the smartest person there on any given day; therefore, nothing I had to say could possibly trump what he had already declared.

ZAP-ZAP-ZAP!

Google Image/Eleanor’s “Axolotl Boss Zap”

When my teenagers started hurling their “sassy-mouth,” right-of-passage smack toward me, I wouldn’t have wanted them to come to any harm, but I would have used my Bitch-zap wand in a heartbeat to “zap-a-zip” on those argumentative sassy mouths and would have kept them zipped until their late twenties when they began to see my brilliance as it should have been seen at sixteen, and who now think “I’m all that and a bag of chips” (Girls, that’s all I’m sayin’)!

ZAP!

Google Image/Eleanor’s “Bird of Paradise Zap” Used Specifically for Mouthy Teenagers

 When it came to politics, I would have a field day!  Ann Coulter and her slave mentality of “our blacks are so much better than their blacks” would be sent back to Madagascar with her suitable rodent-like teeth and extended middle finger that she could no longer use against all the good people everywhere who oppose her snarky, mean-spirited commentary.   This Negro would insure that her middle finger could only be used to forage for grubs out of the knots of trees.

BITCH-ZAP!

 Google Image/Eleanor’s “Aye-Aye Zap” (Reserved for Ann Coulter only)

Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, the entire cast of Fox News, and Pat Buchannan with their barely disguised racism against Jews, Blacks, and Latinos (who would like to see us all “banished” from their “great country”) would be zapped into an animal that rarely sees the light of day and has no human contact of any color.

ZAP! ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!

Google Image/Eleanor’s “Star-nosed Mole Zap” for Fox News and Racist Radio Pundits

And of course, I’ve made it well known that I have no regard for people who claim to speak in God’s name, claiming that God told them to ascend, acquire, or acclaim a position of power when they’re just plain ol’ greedy, ambitious, and trying to promote a book.

EXHIBIT A:  “I prayed and prayed and prayed—I’m a man of faith; I had to do a lot of praying for this one, more praying than I’d ever done before in my life.  When I finally realized that it was God saying that this is what I needed to do, I was like Moses:  ‘You’ve got the wrong man, Lord.  Are you sure?’  Now, you’re not supposed to doubt God, but I’m going, ‘I think maybe you’re looking at somebody else’…but I did not look back.”  Herman Cain’s Mountaintop experience as reported in Huffington Post.

Herman, let’s just say God did tell you to run for president.  He didn’t tell you that you would win—now did he?  Think about it.  Anita Perry heard the same thing about her husband, Sarah Palin heard the same thing about herself, and Bachmann claims the same hotline to God.  You can’t all be right.  I zap-zap Hermie to the bottom of the sea—instantly!

ZAP! ZAP AND DOUBLE-ZAP TO BOTTOM OF SEA!

Google Image/Eleanor’s “Double Octopus Zap”

(Reserved for only the stupidest amongst us)

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I had a lot of grins and giggles pondering this harmless daydream for several days until the Penn State nightmare began to seep into my psyche.  As I came out of the “clouds” to stare into the glare of reality, I realized I’d give anything to really have an Elder Wand with its “killing curse” because I would do a hell of a lot more than turn people into odd looking creatures.  I’d do God’s job.

As any of my friends will tell you, I don’t know diddly-squat about football programs (I barely can recognize the shape of a football), but I know an inordinate amount about the evils of pedophilia.  I know what it looks like, I know what it feels like, and I know what it sounds like.  I was made painfully aware of its presence at ages 6, 7, and 8 and then again at ages 9, 10, and 11.  Jerry Sandusky, I’ve read the Grand Jury Report from cover to cover, and I heard your shameless interview with Bob Costas.  “Jerry Sandusky,” I KNOW YOU!  I’m one of the millions of children who was left “alone, abandoned to evil, and weeping in the dark,”* because of perverts like you.  If I had a magic wand, I’d point it at your penis and blow it to smithereens because I know your “voice,” and I know you’re guilty!

Jerry Sandusky, if I had the power I would go on a “seek and destroy” mission with my wand on behalf of all your victims and I wouldn’t stop until justice had been done.  I don’t give a shit how many football games your “Joe-Pa” has won or how many great football programs he put into place.  I don’t give a fuck if Penn State ever plays another football game as long as the Earth exists.  I would make Coach Paterno, Asst. Coach McQueary, and all who colluded with them to keep your deviance under wraps, sit face to face with every victim of your touch, while they graphically relayed what you did to them and the subsequent trauma of trying to find their way onto the path of a “normal” life as they attempted to grow up.  When Joe-Pa and all his cronies finished listening to the victims of Penn State, then I’d have them listen to all the victims of the Catholic Church, and finally they’d listen to my childhood terror.

I was six years old, Coaches Paterno and McQueary—six-years-old!

Coach Paterno, Assistant Coach McQueary, Athletic Director Curley, Vice President Schultz, and the janitors who saw Sandusky in action but never told, so as to protect their jobs:  Do you have grandchildren, little nieces and nephews, or little godchildren?  If forcing you to listen to the retelling of all our stories didn’t drive you insane, as to the prospect of this type of abuse happening to your own flesh and blood, then I’d finish you all off with a “zap” into Hell for your egregious sin of omission which allowed Sandusky to get away with the murder of our innocence, our psyches, and our childhood.

******

But I don’t live in a daydream, and I refuse to become a monster in order to demolish one.  I live in reality and I am discovering that I’ve had a magic wand all my life, and I’ve used it frequently:  its name is forgiveness; its power is the reason I am sane.

I am discovering that forgiveness is not for the perpetrator as much as it is for the victim.  I learned that a long time ago. The perpetrator(s) may never repent (mine never did), but forgiveness is still the most powerful wand of the day that allows the victim(s) to become a triumphant survivor(s) and get on with his or her life.   I’m also discovering that to hang onto bitterness and revenge against the Jerry Sanduskys of the world allows the evil to continually rape us.

If I could give a magic wand to the precious “children” of Penn State, I’d give them the wand of forgiveness to be used toward their rapist and all who colluded against them.  However, if I could “zap” the misguided students of Penn State who rioted on campus like petulant children upon hearing about their beloved coach’s firing, I would zap them with the wand of “compassion” and “accountability.”  They are not too young to learn something Joe-Pa failed to exemplify:  all children are our children.

The author on the left at six-years-old

******

Upon finishing this post, I learned of another sexual abuse cover-up that happened at The Citadel in their summer camp program by one of their camp counselors (Louis Neal “Skip” ReVille) four years ago.  The Citadel did not report it to the police.  Mr. Reville graduated and went on to become the principal of Coastal Christian Preparatory School “where he coached sports for several years,” according to the Huffington Post.  ReVille was arrested in October for allegedly molesting at least five children unrelated to the Citadel whose program is now defunct.

Have we had enough?

Speak up!  Keep a child safe.

www.stopitnow.org

No higher cause can trump that obligation (natural justice) — not a church, and certainly not a football program. And not even a lifetime of heroism† can make up for leaving a single child alone, abandoned to evil, weeping in the dark.* From an Op-Ed NY Times piece, “The Devil And Joe Paterno” by Ross Douthat (†Referencing Dario Castrillon Hoyos who “was elevated to the College of Cardinals and placed in charge of the Vatican’s Congregation for the Clergy, where he came to embody the culture of denial that characterized Rome’s initial response to the sex abuse crisis.”)

******

Forgiveness is the answer to the child’s dream of a miracle by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is made clean again. —Dag Hammarskjold

******

It really doesn’t matter if the person who hurt you deserves to be forgiven. Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. You have things to do and you want to move on.  Real Live Preacher, RealLivePreacher.com Weblog, July 7, 2003

Text by Eleanor Tomczyk © 2011

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