 
## Not an Average American

## ipam

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2016 Pamela Joan Barlow Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Present day and place

Metro City, USA

Pink colored brick patio

Sunny day. Hot temperatures. Cloudless sky.

I think a lot. I read a lot. I rest inside a lounge chair on my back patio, quietly pondering my active mind thoughts. Sometimes, my brain can't stop thinking.

Then I gasp with shock.

I am not an average American.

I venture an expedition, researching the word, average.

I stand and swing from the lounge chair in my nakedness, since I live in the small town, where my back yard lawn faces a grove of thick green lush forest trees and numerous wild animals.

So the coyotes and the rabbits can see my naked and suntanned bee-hind move into my house.

I had been sunbathing in the nude which keeps my old skin looking fresh with some more wrinkles, of course.

My plot of five acres is a corner lot of land on top of a hill. There are four houses across the street. The plot of land was a church lot with a church building.

The church couldn't pay the mortgage monies and had to sell the land.

So sad...

A rich man purchased the entire church campus land and the church building instead of helping the church.

So bad...

I do believe that might be a deadly heavenly sin there, but I will let Almighty God take care of that divine issue.

Then the rich man built a small community of homes and ran out of money.

Almighty God does stop, look, and listen. This is both a warning and a lecture for everyone, who is a Christian.

I purchased five acres of the land with a crummy house and added to the crummy house, making a fine big house, after my lousy divorce from a loser.

Yeah. I got it all, babe.

I enter and move through one of three French doors that cover the patio, grabbing and wrapping an ankle-length thick terry cloth robe around my entire nakedness. I do not like sitting my naked bee-hind down on any piece of semi-clean furniture even my own furnishings.

I am a female. All females have an extra hole within their biological body, the vagina.

And all furniture pieces, dishes, beach sands, and your hands contain both good and bad bacteria.

Both the good and bad bacteria crawl into your vagina, then the bad bacteria fucks over the good bacteria inside your wet and warm vagina, creating a new set of bacteria, making your life hell for a very long time, maybe forever until kingdom come.

This is the reason why Almighty God invented the pink girly lacy panties for your open hole.

I keep strolling through the large room to the corner wall, stopping and standing in front of the elegant writing table.

I love my elegant writing table. A vintage desk of charming French design in white painted wood made in about the year 1880, sturdy and well built too. It is 50 wide and 30 feet high and 27 feet deep and it has a set of bowed legs from the Louis the fourteen era of furniture making. It is priced at 3,000 dollars. But I purchased it for two hundred dollars at an antique store.

Yeah. It was a dead old woman's piece of furniture, where her kids sold it through the antique store for money.

Yeah. It is creepy inside my brain cells, thinking that somebody else's finger pads roamed over the smooth mahogany wood, but I have polished it really good, hoping to remove the ghost-prints.

The writing table holds a laptop for typing. A pair of reading glasses for reading. A dictionary for spelling corrections.

The other fabric bound books are located in the built-in book shelf behind the writing desk for accessing my hobby.

My hobby is writing, sorta.

The table does not contain a lamp, since the entire room has a set of rotating ceiling fans with a light fixture and two long walls of glass windows for bright pretty yellow sunlight.

I touch the soft leather of The Bible on top of the dictionary. The Bible is bigger in width than the dictionary, since it is a big word book which is composed of both letters and sentences. The letters are one-eighth of an inch.

That's big for both letters and numbers for my poor old age eyeballs.

The soft leather and smooth pages flip open as my mind thinks of the past visit from Mr. Pope.

I am not an average American.

Mr. Pope...

Mr. Pope visited the United States a short time ago.

First, I was baptized as a brim and hell stone protestant, not a pussy Catholic.

However, I do believe that both the people in the two churches worship the same two VIP supernatural entities, the Almighty God and his son Mr. Holy Jesus Christ.

I do not understand 'the pope and circumstance' of his numerous worldly visits to the rich and popular nations of the word, if he is so high and mighty with Almighty God.

Because, I am a woman, not a man like him.

I do not understand why he is not over there in the other foreign country of Hungary, helping out all these Christian people to find food and water and shelter and negotiating peaces with the fools with the guns.

Because, he is a man like I am a woman.

I do not understand if he is so high and mighty with Almighty God why he does not fly over on his private jet and stop all the wars that kill millions of human lives, hourly.

Because, he is a man like I am a woman.

I do not understand if he is so high and mighty with Almighty God why he does not order all the modern day drugs for every single child throughout the world to stop the killing diseases?

Because, he is a man like I am a woman.

I do not understand. If he is so high and mighty with Almighty God, then why he does not order all food boxes to every hungry mouth around the world, too?

Because, he is man like I am a woman.

I do not understand why every human mouth drools over this man.

Does the man heal the sick by touch like Brother Jesus?

Does the man feed the hunger with fishies and loafs of bread like Brother Jesus?

Does the man turn poisoned water into drinking water like nobody can do?

I do not understand. He is only a man like I am a woman.

Yeah. He prays for the people of the world.

I pray for a nicer and cleaner world too, every morning and every night. I have the right like him to talk with Almighty God too.

However, the Bible says that I can't talk directly to Almighty God or Brother Jesus. They are two supernatural pure VIP entities of both love and lightness. And I accept that cool concept. So I must talk through the Holy Spirit. So I pray to the Holy Spirit to food and cloth and heal all the people and animal on planet Earth.

So I have been praying to the Holy Spirit, since I learned of God at the age of nine years old. And I have not seen any good changes happening here on planet Earth either.

However, the Bible says that Almighty God likes to take His own time and space.

I am not an average American.

The Words...

I do not understand the fluffy words of Mr. Pope either.

Mr. Pope tells the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants to have hope in the USA. He tells all the native born or naturalized Americans to show mercy to the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants. And he is a son of an immigrant too. And he reminds each American citizen that all native born Americans came from a pot of immigrants too.

The USA is the melting pot of the world with some horse turds in the stew.

Hell yeah...

To Mr. Pope and all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants, you are missing the creation of the United States of America.

My great-great-great-great-and-more-great blood kin grandmother came from Great Britain as royalty, not a peasant on the Mayflower wooden ship. But she landed as a peasant on the beach sands to live and fight for her right to be a citizen of the United States of America.

And I am her great-great-great-and more-great blood kin granddaughter.

My great-great-great-great-and-more-great blood kin grandfather came from foreign country of Ireland as a peasant too and he lived and his blood family fought and died for his unborn children to become an American citizen.

And I am his great-great-great-and-more-great blood granddaughter too.

So both sides of my blood family fought and bleed and died in the Revolutionary War of 1776 and the War of 1812. These two major wars were fought with guns, fists, blood, and graves to create and form the great United States of America.

The Revolutionary War really lasted for eight year, eight months, and twenty six days to January 14, 1784.

Yeah man...

Do you as a native born American know that?

The Germany men fought with the British soldiers.

The France men fought with the USA.

Go USA...

So I have earned a birth right to live in the United States of American here from my blood relatives.

I am not an average American.

The Immigrants...

Yeah. A long time ago, all type of immigrants came and tromped down the wild lands of America, including my blood relatives. And my blood relatives and the other native born American blood relatives had to fight with guns, fists, blood, and graves to keep the lands and their homes for freedom.

Everyone is missing that point of the great United States of America.

The land of the brave and the home of the free, those are fighting words which were chanted and fought by mine and your grandparents.

Hell yeah....

Now, Mr. Pope comes to America and tells the Americans to accept all peasants, who did not fight in their native country for freedom.

I am American. And if something threats my life, my child, my blood family, my US native State, and my birth country, then I will fight back with my two fists and the T-bone steak knife.

Stop...

I do not own a hand gun. I shot a hand gun at the age of twelve and it was scary too.

To Mr. Pope, you have no right to insult me and my country, where my dead and buried blood family kin bleed and died to be here.

To Mr. Pope, you say that your family left or ran away or abandoned or gave up your native country rights and freedoms.

I do not understand why your biological dad and mom did not fight for your freedom like my great-great-great-and-more-great grandparents.

To me, that makes you a chicken shit for not defending your native county and your native friends and families.

To all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants, go back to your home country and take up arms and fight for your freedom like my blood related immigrants of America did in the year 1776 for eight long years.

I do not understand why all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants do not fight for your freedom within your native country like my great-great-great-and-more great blood kin grandparents did in the War of 1812.

To me, you are a chicken shit too for not defending the land that you were birthed upon.

Hell yeah...

You cannot have the land that my great-great-great-and-more great blood kin grandparents fought and died over. The land and the freedom belongs to me and my blood kin and my future blood kin as my right as an American citizen.

For the American born bleeding hearts that support all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants in the United States of America, you take an illegal alien family or two into your house and give them a bedroom. Let them eat from your table like Brother Jesus did sometimes as an invited guest.

You claim to be Christian people. Then, you open up your house, let them bath inside your bathtub. Let them shit inside your toilet. Let them sleep inside your bed mattresses. Let them wear your designer clothes. Let them drive your expensive car. Let them use your mobile telephone. Let them spend your bank accounts.

I do not want to spend my hard working pennies and nickels on the bastards and bastardettes.

To the American born bleeding hearts that do not support the United States of America, your are invited to get out and leave my native country too and shit on someone's dirt soil.

I do not want to socialize with you either.

I am not an average American.

The Freedom...

In the Bible, Almighty God told Joshua to fight for the freedom and the land of the Jewish people. And Joshua obeyed Almighty God.

In the Bible, Almighty God told lots of men and women to fight for freedom and food and stuff.

I do not understand don't you believe that Almighty God knows what He is doing.

So does Almighty God need to teach all the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants to go back home and fight for your native country for food and freedom and stuff too?

I do not understand why you do not read the Bible that is the personal instruction manual for your life to fight and exist on shitty and evil planet Earth.

Even in world history, the France peasants took over their native country from an evil France king for food and freedom. The Chinese peasants took over their native country from an evil Chinese emperor for food and freedom.

And so world history shows that the American colonists took over their farm land and street houses from an evil British king for food and freedom.

Yeehaw...

So what makes all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants more special than an American colonist or a France peasant or a Chinese peasant? These native peasants bravely fought with fists, arrows, blood, and graves to win over their freedom in their native country.

Do you now understand?

Do you see the historical trend here?

I do not understand why all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants think that they come over to the USA without a fight for freedom too.

In the Bible, all Jewish people have had to fight for their right of religious freedoms through modern times.

I do believe that it is very sad. Since in my heart, there is only one Almighty God and one Brother Jesus.

Shit happens.

I have friends who were birthed in another foreign country and have become a naturalized American citizen. And they do not raise a foreign flag or converse in a foreign language in my face. When my friends are asked what country they belong to? They loudly scream: America, hell yeah!

I do not understand why all the illegal aliens and foreign immigrants raise a foreign flag over their skull on the soil of America. If you love your native country so much, then you need to go back home and work and live there, not here in my native country of the USA.

In America, the American flag waves in the yard like me. An American wears a shirt with the American flag like me. An American loves their country like me.

If you do not want to wear an American flag on your shirt, then you are welcome to leave the USA and never to return. Go back to your native country, illegal alien.

I do not understand why Mr. Pope tattles his promises hope for the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants.

To Mr. Pope, you are making up and tattling lies.

The world is evil and getting more evil.

The American families do not want the all the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants.

And mark my typed words, there will becoming a war in the USA between the American flag wavers and the not American flag wavers.

USA. USA. USA...

Brother Jesus said. "The wars are true and here to stay and continue. Nation against nation. Kingdom against kingdom. Brother against brother...."

Yeah. That's all happening past, present, and tomorrow and the next day after tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.

Because, Brother Jesus is coming back for the second time with all His angels and His swords to His Father's property called planet Earth.

Yeehaw...

In the meantime, the children of God get to duke it out with each other, so that Almighty God can see who's a Christian-person and who is not.

My advice to my American brethren and sister, you should strap into your seat with safety belt, do not enjoy the ride, and suffer like a Christian.

I am not an average American.

The Wrong Hope...

I do believe that Mr. Pope's fluffy words are giving folks false hope and not stern warnings.

The world is running amok with evil.

Hell yeah...

Come out of your closed bedroom doors, open your closed eyelashes, and see the ugly world of murders, rapes, corruption, vanity, selfishness, and the other seven deadly sins.

Wake up, people...

The world is getting worse and worse. Brother Jesus told us this in the Bible.

The world will become more rotten to the core with more evil people and evil ways.

The good die young...

To Mr. Pope, do you read the Bible?

To Mr. Pope, you had invited three family unit into your house. However, I didn't one single young adult male among the three families that was fleeing an ass from the war torn countryside. Why is that? You selected three families. One had an elderly grandmother. A second family was a young couple with a child. A third family was a middle aged with teens. So where is the single male without a family unit who is both a young and adventuresome lad?

What at fucking hypocrite?

Do you know that Almighty God sees and knows everything, all the damn time?

Right, fucking right on!

So then, Mr Pope, you should invite and take home all the other illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants from my country of American into your house. Let them shit inside your toilet. Let them eat your food. Let them piss on your satin bed sheets.

To Mr. Pope, why are you so fat in your ironed and pressed white robes? How can you eat a plate of food when little children around the world have no food? Do you ever fast and pray with no food and water like Brother Jesus did? If so, you should be skinny, not fat. How can you sleep in your warm bed at night when little children around the world live in the cold outside temperatures without blankets?

In the Bible, Saint Peter died hanging upside down on a cross until death. So Saint Peter was skinny for his body to be hung upside down.

I do not understand why Mr. Pope is so fat?

News flash, Mr. Pope vows to hold clergy accountable for sex acts to child.

I do believe that the news report typed up the wrong words.

News flash, Mr. Pope vows to hang clergy accountable for sex acts of finger fucking of children.

Yeah man...

I do not understand why people believe in Mr. Pope.

To me, Mr. Pope and the pope's church does not give a shit about children.

Phew...

I am a protestant. At my church, if a preacher man was caught messing with a child, that preacher man would be hanging from a tree limb naked as each one of his hairy balls is being shot off with a shot gun.

Amen...

This is why I do not watch television and see the starving children for food, the finger fucked children by a gang of priests, and the murdered children by a gang of thugs.

Thugs shoot the guns. Guns do not shoot themselves ya'll.

All the visual shit makes me feel both sad and ashamed. However, I go to sleep with a full belly every freaking night from having a good job and lots of money. I never get finger fucked thou. And I do not own a gun.

The first thing I do in the morning is eat my breakfast to fill my growling tummy.

Do you follow a similar routine?

Since the US Federal Government advertises on the television screen that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Do all the children receive breakfast in the morning too?

To me, the world is divided into three groups of people.

The poor, the people do not have a plate of food or a roof of shelter or a shiny mobile telephone.

The showoffs, the people love attention from the poor people that do not have a plate of food or a roof of shelter or a shiny mobile telephone.

The other, the people have a plate of food and a roof of shelter and a shiny mobile telephone.

Which one are you?

Who are you going to vote for the President of the United States?

O...

The Bible says that the Rapture will come. Then all the good people, who have suffered for Brother Jesus and have not cuddled and hidden any material possessions, will go to heaven or go someplace really good nice smelling.

I admit that part of the Bible is really scary to read at night alone in my bedroom.

I am not an average American.

The People...

I do not understand why Mr. Pope does not talk about Brother Jesus and His words for all people to work a lot for nothing and not to steal merchandise and not to murder other people.

The Bible says that murder is breaking one of the ten commandants from Almighty God.

Did you read that also?

Brother Jesus did not ride in a bullet proof kart or sleep in a bed with satin sheets or used a mobile telephone to talk to His disciplines or flew in a private jet or ate at a table or wear satin robes with cute tassels.

Is Mr. Pope not a preacher-man who is supposed to quote the Bible sentences and remind everyone to be humble and thankful like Brother Jesus had showed in the Bible scriptures?

To me, Mr. Pope really knows that the world is too evil to save and no one gives a shit about the world but themselves.

Look at Mr. Pope? He rides inside a bullet proof kart, so that he is not murdered by a nasty thug criminal either.

So Mr. Pope confirms that no one cares what happens to the other child or their other family or their neighbor or the co-worker or their police officer.

Look what is happening to the devoted police force that protects your ass, every single hour of the night and day.

Thank you for protecting my ass...

Amen.

Innocent police men and women are being murdered in cold blood by nasty thugs and criminals.

No one cares.

And lots of people cheer.

So sad...

Brother Jesus is so right. He said. "The war is true and involves brother against brother..."

Shit man...

The red highlighted words of Brother Jesus are all coming true.

Right on.

I do believe that every person should be armed with a hand gun for protection. Then there will be no need for a police officer.

At first, a lot of mean and innocent people will die from stupidity that will get rid of the fools and idiots and thugs, who should not be carrying a gun anyways.

And then your town will be free of crime.

Ta-da...

So if a nasty criminal tries to steal from you, then you kill him between the two eyeballs for your protection and self defense.

I do believe that we would not need any more judges or juries either.

I do not own a hand gun. But I can learn to shot and carry one for my protection and my family's protection, because I do not give a shit about your or your child or your family either.

Why is up with the Planned Parenthood hoodies, hitting people with rubber condoms?

First, it is so funny.

Second, it is so wrong.

I do not own a television. I saw it on the television in my office lounge.

My office has a great big lounge with a television set, a refrigerator of cold drinks, a top oven for cooking food, and a table with chairs for socializing. My office provides breakfast, lunch and snacks.

I never cook at home. Well I can't cook. Actually, I don't cook. So I eat at work all day long.

You should not hit a person with a bat, a club, a fist, or a condom. You are breaking God's law for murder and harm and second, the USA law for violence and harm.

All those persons should have been arrested and jailed for attempted murder and fined with $1,000,000 dollars for attempted murder too. And they should miss their work and their families.

Do not hit a person ever, never.

What is wrong with you? Where are your social manners? Where is your respect for human life?

Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me.

These are words that are invisible, non tangible, and not physical.

I gasp with shock.

The world is full of shameless and violent people. And those women showed their asses of harm and violence. And their asses should be punished too.

I am not an average American.

The Working Class...

I do not understand why Mr. Pope only visited the immigrant populations in the big cities.

The working class lives in small and big towns and small and large cities too throughout the USA. They are the backbone of America.

The illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants who had fled their native country for free and luscious hands out of food and money from the working class America citizens are not the backbone of America. They are assholes of America.

To Mr. Pope, you are a racist against the working class of white and black and yellow and pink colored native born Americans, whose blood carries their kin legacy that formed the great United States of America.

To me, you have abandoned your native country.

Well I will not abandon my native USA, ever.

To me, Almighty God chose the Jewish people as His people, which is not very nice. But then He made up for it, He gave the world His only son, who loves everyone.

Yeah man...

But the world does not seem to love Brother Jesus either.

Boo man...

I do not understand why the USA Congress forgets about the working class too. They talk about the working class, wearing their expensive designer business suits, riding in their government paid limousine, and eating their free government paid food platter, and storing their government paycheck.

The working class is a dying breed of Americans. The working class is also working their persons into an early grave.

At my office, each American family has two to five children. Children need food, shelter, clothing, books, toys, cars, mobile telephones, CDs, college education, wedding stuff, and other stuff.

I do not understand how an American family with two to five kids has it all.

Because both the native born American parents work their asses off to make lots of money for it all. Then the American family does not have time to participant in the politics of their native country. The parents are grouchy and tired. The children are whiny and lazy. The teen is fucking her boyfriend. The college student is fucking his girlfriend. The young adult is living with her parents to save money. The elderly parents are living their children to die.

Man...

The average American family is too busy with life to care about an illegal alien or two and too selfish to think once or twice.

This will be the downfall of the American family when no one is interested or looking all their precious jobs, houses, cars, mobile telephones, plasma televisions, clothes, and food will be taken away.

Who are you voting as the President of the United States?

It was in a blink of an eyelash. My stuff was robbed from my house.

I worked and paid for every item that was robbed from my house and my person.

Is that fair?

I work and pay for my personal items. And thugs break a window and steal it.

Tough shit...

I am the middle working class. I have a job. I have started working after college like a college graduate.

Honestly, I do not want to help an illegal alien with my money. I work like it states in the Bible. It is my money to spend on my family and my purchased items to pay my bills.

As a matter of fact, I do not want my income taxes to go to an illegal alien or a welfare recipient a social security recipient or a Medicare recipient. I want my money back to me to help my child and me, not you or your child or your mom or your grandmother or your aunt.

I am not an average American.

The American...

To me, the native born America family does not want to care for all the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants that are present in the USA or planning to come to the USA either. The native born American family is only interested in caring for their families, having a job to make money for to buy pretty things for their families.

The native born American family has a house, two or more kids, two or more cars, two or more mobile telephones, four or more televisions, and other tons of material possessions, numerous cabinets of food, and numerous bedrooms with many bed mattresses.

Drive around your neighbors and see the more of personal possessions of the native born Americans.

The native born American family goes to church and asks Almighty God for more material possessions. They never pray for the illegal aliens or the foreign immigrants.

If they did, then Almighty God would help. Right? Right!

The native born American family does not want another person to mess or shit with their house, their cars, their food table, their mobile telephones, and their children. Therefore the native born American family does not give a shit about illegal aliens who do not have shelter or food or a clean toilet to shit inside.

The native born American family is too busy working for money, cleaning the house with germs, cooking the meals for nutrition, and watching television for fun.

The native born American family sees the plight of the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants on the television and turns the channel, turns the cheekbone, and turns the cooking egg inside the frying pan.

The native born American family does not want one single illegal alien and foreign immigrant living in their nice and safe neighborhood.

To the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants, go and return back to your native country which ain't the US of A.

In my hometown of Metro City, USA, my co-worker told me that his daughter's car was struck by an illegal alien. His daughter was injured and hospitalized for a week in the medical center.

The illegal alien was not arrested.

The local police officer cannot arrest an illegal alien.

Did you know that?

So the illegal alien was freed from any legal law to steal around car and maim someone else for fun or meanness or stupidity.

The illegal alien did not have a driver's license and did not have car insurance to fix the damaged car or pay for the damaged female driver either.

So bad...

My co-worker had to pay for her medical hospital expenses and car which came from his car insurance.

So glad...

I dare you ask your family member, your church buddy, your co-worker, or your neighbor to take in and care for an illegal alien person or two or a whole family to shit in their toilets, to eat their bread, to sleep on their sheets, to drive their cars, to wear their clothes, to talk on their mobile telephones.

And you tell me what they said.

I know what they will say.

Hell fucking ass no...

Did you see the three year old boy that washed up on the beach like a dead fish?

Of course, you did.

What are you doing about the deadly and sad situation?

Of course, you are doing something.

Hmm. Do you care?

Hmm. Do I care?

Hell no, I do not care. That dead boy was not my child. That dead boy was not an American. That dead boy was killed by his stupid mom for leaving their home and traveling over the water to freedom.

Hmm. Does Brother Jesus care?

Hmm. Does anyone care?

Is this what Mr. Pope is talking about and asking for more illegal aliens to invade the USA?

Is this fair that the daughter of my co-worker was tormented with pain and suffering for an illegal alien that did not belong here?

To Mr. Pope, your past visit to the USA was a waste of your busy time.

The average American family had heard the fluffy and puff vocal words of Mr. Pope but they are not going to do anything. They will go to work on Monday morning like always and drive their new car and talk on their new mobile telephone.

So you left the USA to go back to your satin sheets on your bed and your big platter of food.

The native born American family will go back to work on Monday night for food, shelter, new cars, new mobile telephones, paid cable, new clothing, and other new stuff.

I have said enough about the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants.

I am not an average American.

The Protection...

I do not understand why Mr. Pope has to have men and machine protection, either.

Can't he defend his flesh and blood body like devoted Daniel did in the lion's cage? Daniel prayed to Almighty God to save him. And Almighty God did it.

Wow.

That one is a great Bible story.

So who is going to kill Mr. Pope?

Brother Jesus said. "When you hear of wars do not be troubled for such things must happen. But the end is not coming yet. It will be nation against nation, kingdom against kingdom, and brother against brother..."

Scary shit...

Do you not read The Bible?

There is some scary real shit in there that did not come from Hollywood either.

So, I guess someone might could and try to murder Mr. Pope. Since Mr. Pope is only a man of flesh and blood and not Brother Jesus, who has a cool move with coming back to planet Earth.

So, that is really happening now with meanness and badness and wickedness in the world, every village and every day, today and tomorrow too.

Yeah woman...

I guess some nut person could try to murder the pope. But so what?

Ain't the pope supposed to sacrifice and die for Brother Jesus like the Bible states?

I would die if Brother Jesus asked me too.

Over in the other countries of Iraq and Iran, the soldiers kill in the name of Almighty God?

So I do not understand why Mr. Pope is not over there to bitch about their bad behavior that beheads innocent children.

Children are a gift from Almighty God.

To me, Mr. Pope only talks fluffy words about the issues that he wants to talk about.

Because, he is a man like I am a woman.

I am not an average American.

The Church...

And I do not understand the role of the church in modern times either.

In ancient time, the church possessed grand power of money and prestige and beheadings too until the wise and mean kings came along and took it all way.

Thank you, Almighty God.

So I do not understand what the church is good for.

I drive by several churches every day, commuting to my work for my job and for my pay.

The church is pretty. The lawn is lush and green. The doors are closed.

Wait a minute...

I thought that all preachers take an oath to help the all Christians, all the time. Right? Right!

The Bible says. 'the preacher man is the steward of Almighty God'. Steward means helper. The preacher is to not self-willed asshole or an angry bastard or a wine drinker or a woman beater or into internet porn. 'He is a lover of good men.'

Yeah...

It states that in the Bible.

So why are the doors of the church bolted and closed?

The church should be opened and gay with lots of people for saving their souls.

O...

I guess in my hometown all the souls are saved. Or all the souls are dead. Or I don't know where the souls are.

To me, the church manicured lawn and nicely paved parking lot should appear like a refugee camp with numerous cloth tents and tables of food for the homeless and starving people too. Right? Right!

I do not understand who pays the bill water for the lush green lawn or the new paint the fresh looking doors or paved new the parking lot?

I didn't. I am a protest-ant.

At my church, the preacher man bitches to me and the other parishes about money too. He says give me your money for blab, blab, and blab...

Yo, man...

Go and ask Almighty God first. In the Bible, He told the Jewish people that all the gold and silver belonged to Him always and forever.

Hell yeah...

I do not attend church for that reason the nagging of my money to the church for payment of minor vendor invoices.

The church should cut the electricity power off and make the people wear shorts and sandals or go naked like Adam and Eve.

The church should use the electricity fund to pay for the heating and cooling electricity bill of the very elderly people throughout the freaking world.

I bet Almighty God and Brother Jesus thinks that is a good idea too.

Hmm. Do you?

I do not give my money to the greedy church people either.

Do you know that a church employs people to type letters, answer phones, clean the shitty toilets, paint the rooms, annoy the parishioners, and do other silly stuff?

Did Brother Jesus have a paid staff of church employees?

Of course, He did. His devoted and hungry disciplines did not have money or sandals or robes or mobile telephones or cars or food or designer suits but they obeyed Brother Jesus day and night too.

I like going to church to sing but the racket of the preacher man gets on my nerves too much. And the church wants my money all the time.

Now, the Bible says give me to the church. I read and understand that. However, it looks little suspicious when the money basket is passed around the first time and then the second time and then the third time.

Yes, truly...

The money basket at my church is passed round three times for you to give to Almighty God three times.

Now, I thought that I was supposed to give to the church.

Where is written in the Bible that give three times in one church session?

Hmm. Do you know?

Face it.

The money of gold, silver, copper pennies, and wrinkled green tinted dollar bills is Almighty God's property.

The Bible says that Almighty God took it to the Jewish people.

Okay...

I am cool with that.

I am going back Almighty God's money to the church. However, I see that the church buys new lawn grass, new trees, and new paved parking lot.

I am not cool with that.

Hmm. Are you?

When I did go to church on Easter and Christmas, I put in one dollar in coinage.

Yeah...

And then I received a letter from the church with a pack of tiny envelopes that I am to tie or die ten percent of my paycheck earnings.

Is that before or after taxes on the ten percent which is a requirement of the US Federal Government?

Is that before or after I paid my health insurance which is a requirement of the US Federal Government?

Is that before or after I pay my pension plan, since the US Federal Government or the church has not promised to take care of me in my old age?

Hmm. Do you know?

I will confess here. I make $150,000 per year and after taxes I make $6,666 per month.

Is the number six an unlucky number?

O.

It is the number 666, the sign of the devil-man.

Okay...

I'm cool.

Phew. I was sweating off my $250 per ounce designer perfume.

Anyways, that is a lot of money for me. So after I pay for all my living expenses which is also stated in the Bible. Then my money goes to the twenty four stray puppies and dogs that live on the side of the road in the woods.

So sad...

All those dogs have no home or food or love.

Someone tossed a dog out their car door or out the rear door of their house. Then the dog met another dog and mated. Now, there are two mama dogs that have four groups of baby puppies between him.

It looks like poor lazy dog show on the side of the highway.

So sad...

This is a major highway too where all the fast cars drive to and from work every morning and every afternoon. The dogs and the puppies are there every morning and every afternoon.

No one stops to check on the welfare of the dogs either. Everyone is too busy to get to work on time and make that first cup of coffee to do their job and make Almighty God's money.

Hmm. Do ya catch the last part?

Everyone drives very fast by the display of God's creatures.

Hmm. Do ya understand the last part too?

Sometimes a puppy or two is killed by a car but that's okay.

The local city road service crew comes by and collects the dead animal from the roadside before it stinks or looks shitty to the eyeballs of the Christians, who are sisters and brothers of Brother Jesus.

Hmm. Do ya get that last part also?

Yes. I feed the dogs and puppies every morning at five and every night at nine pm.

Yes. I asked for help to save the dogs and puppies without a home, a place of shelter, a plate of food, and a hand of love.

Yes. I cry and pray for the dogs and the puppies to be rescued.

Yes. I told Mr. Veterinarian.

Mr. Veterinarian said. "You can't save them all..."

What the fuck?

I dare you Mr. Veterinarian to tell that statement to Almighty God and his son Brother Jesus, if They were present.

O wait.

You can tell Almighty God and Brother Jesus in person after you have died and ascended into heaven with a face-to-face meeting.

Hell yeah...

Of course, you can save each dog and cat and kitten and puppy with some help from a gang of loving and caring Christian people.

Is it not mankind who is to take care of God's property and creatures as stated in the Bible?

Hmm. What do you think?

Yes. I called the local animal shelter.

The animal shelter said. "We do not service out in the rural country there. So fuck off..."

The animal shelter is paid by my income taxes. And they refuse to pick up abandoned and stray animals. Actually, I learned that the outsourced to a for-profit animal company. The for-profit animal company kills all the animals that come into the animal shelter at a rate of ninety percent (99%).

No animal lives to see the sunrise there.

Yes. I called the humane society agency.

The human society agency said. "We do not pick up stray animals. So fuck off too..."

I found out that the humane society agency received 100,000 dollars of my tax money to pick up stray animals with a picture of the director in the newspaper accepting the check.

Pictures do not lie but people do.

Almighty God sees and knows.

Yeah man...

Where is the 100,000 dollars at? What is the 100,000 dollars being used for? Who is the 100,000 dollars being paid to?

Yes. I called numerous other dog rescue services.

The dog rescue services said. "They only pick up certain dog breeds, such like, pit bulls or boxes or greyhounds or German shepards. So fuck off also..."

I do not give up.

When I found out that the 100,000 dollar came from my income taxes, I wrote to the county commissioner's office where the money came from.

I received a letter that stated. "Fuck off."

Yes. I have tried with telephones and letters and pleads.

There is no hope for the twenty four dogs and puppies.

No one gives a shit. No one gives a damn. No one cares for nothing but their fur-less hind.

So sad...

Presently, the dogs and the puppies still wander the roadway for a covered back porch, a plate of food, a hand of love.

I am not an average American.

The Preacher...

And where is the preacher man when the church is closed and bolted by the front entrance door? He is at work for money to buy a new car or a mobile telephone or a dish washer.

Yeehaw...

At my church, the preacher man stands on top of elevated platform in his mom's bathrobes to proclaim that the church needs my money to pay the electricity bill and the cable bill and the telephone bill.

I thought that the love of the money was evil.

I did not recall reading that Brother Jesus wore a set of pressed and iron silk white robes with cords of navy blue ending with tassels of yellow, asking for money from the peasants.

I do believe that Brother Jesus asked for you to repent of your sins and give your money to the peasants or leave it with the nasty queen of the land, since it ain't coming to heaven with you.

I do not understand why Mr. Pope, the church, and the puffy words of the preacher man are so special.

Brother Jesus said. "Beware of the scribes, which love to go in long clothing and love greeting in the public places."

In my hometown, at another church, which was not my church, the US Federal government and local police department discovered a child pornographic ring that consisted of old and young married and single men and the preacher man.

And it gets worse.

When the police were coming to the preacher man's house to arrest his ass, he murdered his wife and tried to kill his college age daughter too. The daughter survived, but the wife died and bled over the floor in the kitchen.

Hell yeah...

The co-workers in my office love to quote the media reporters around the water cooler. However, my office does not have a water cooler but a refrigerator.

I thought you should know that.

Brother Jesus said. "Beware of the scribes, which love to go in long clothing and love greeting in the public places."

Hmm. What do you think?

Hmm. What does Brother Jesus think?

I think that Mr. Pope was birthed between a pair of hairy legs from a hairy pussy like me and you. He had a mom and a dad too like me. Therefore, he is a man like me I am woman.

I will die when my heart stops and then my soul goes to heaven. The body tissues will go back to the ground.

The pope will die when his heart stops and he will go to heaven too. This body tissue will go back to the ground too.

So how are we alike?

So how are we different?

I am not an average American.

The Parade...

I do not understand all the pretty parade of pictures and television cover around Mr. Pope.

I do not remember reading that Brother Jesus demanded the television and news media must be present at his preaching sermons on top of the earth mound either.

I do not understand why all that money for Mr. Pope's parade did not go to feed the homeless and the hunger.

I read the Bible too. I feed the homeless cats and dogs too. I take in homeless cats for pets also. And I go to church and give God's money that I make and receive when I work my job to the church too.

The Bible says Almighty God told the stubborn Jewish people that all the silver and gold was His not yours or mine.

So is Almighty God greedy and jealousy, too boot or not too boot?

Hell yeah...

I sing the choir also. I help all the depressed people around my church, my neighborhood, and my office work. I am a very happy person, smiling with joy every day, making my surroundings every humble and happy too.

I love life and celebrate it every day.

So I would say that based on all those good Bible stuff that I should be the poopy popette too.

To me, Mr. Pope is a man.

To me, Mr. Pope is a fairy too.

I will retype.

News flash, Mr. Pope vows to hold clergy accountable for sex acts to child.

I do believe that the news report typed up the wrong words.

News flash, Mr. Pope vows to hang clergy accountable for sex acts of finger fucking the children.

I think that I can rest my legal case, but I like being an assholette too much.

Yeah man...

I find it very entertaining in my old age that the snobby church and the more snobby church people bitch about other people, such like, people of different colors and race and sexuality.

The Bible says that man should leave his family and take a wife for marriage.

Mr. Pope does not take a wife ever. He does not marry, never. He is a fairy without fucking another vagina of a female.

Thus, his priests are not married and missing some good loving too and attack the poor children.

O my. My. My.

Those men should be hung naked on a tree limb and each hairy ball shot with a gun.

Hell yeah...

I find that very odd and strange and abnormal and a total contradiction with the Bible. I cannot understand why other people like the Catholics, the Protestants, and the other non-protestants, and the other church people have not figured that out too.

The Bible says that a man leaves his family to find a wife.

So why does the single non-married, non-fucked priest leave his family and not fuck a woman?

Hmm. Another fucking mystery to be solved by Almighty God, I guess.

I am not an average American.

The Marriage...

And I realize that there is some theological talk about Brother Jesus marrying.

I actually do not believe it, since he was an angel on earth and not really a man.

Because a man cannot walk on water. A man cannot bring back the dead. A man cannot turn water into wine, only a supernatural entity can to that.

So Brother Jesus was a human-looking angel without awesome wings, who was preaching about his Father and how you get into heaven, permanently and by passing hell, foreverly.

Hmm. Did ya read that last part?

And I do not believe that Brother Jesus fell in love and married.

I fell in love and married like a woman. I loved my husband and did things for my husband, such like, back rubs, tickles, and other sexual stuff.

As a Christian, the wife and husband sexual fantasies taint my image of Brother Jesus first, and make me want to vomit second. Therefore, I conclude my argument that Brother Jesus did not marry.

Second argument, I birthed a child. I love my child. I love my child so much that I would kill any and all persons that tried to harm my child.

So if Brother Jesus did get married and He did produce children like some scientists say, then He would feel more love toward his wife and his child and lots of less love toward the rest of the fucking planet of people like me and you. Therefore, I conclude my argument that Brother Jesus did not marry.

So Mr. Pope tells me how to love when he has never fallen in love with a woman. And Mr. Pope bad mouths the same-sex marriage.

Hell man...

A same-sex partner leaves the family and takes a wife or a husband. So they actually follow the law of the Bible much better than Mr. Pope, since he ain't be fucked or married or loved or wanted or desired or nothing with a partner like the Bible states. So how can a man who was born from a fucking whore or a married wife understand love and compassion?

I do not understand why Mr. Pope is not fighting with his cuss words and his two folded fists for the right of the aborted fetus at the USA Planned Parenthood centers?

Is this not the point of his USA visit to bless the meek and bitch at the rich and privileged?

Or did he come and eat a New York pizza slice?

What an ironic name for a murdering center, parenthood?

It should be 'parent hooligans' or 'parent hook ya up with death.'

Yeah man...

At my age, I am still shocked and sprinkle a tinkle inside my pink lace girly panties.

To the physician of the murdered fetus, you told an oath of live for a human being. How can you butcher a little tiny innocent and helpless human being like a dead cow with your conscience?

Have you ever read about the step-by-step procedure of an abortion on the internet?

The physician, who is swore an oath to save a life, stabs the knife into the body of the fetus and...

Well, hell...

You go and get into the internet and read about, too.

I gasp at the mental thought of a live tiny innocent red colored baby being cut into red bloody ribbons by a physician to harvest the body parts, since I do not pay for television service.

I do possess a mobile telephone. But I did not. And I do not want to see that gory video tape.

And still no one cares about the suffered little newborn.

Life happens when the egg and the sperm fuck and mate.

However, the average American family is talking about the gory video tape that they saw on their mobile telephone. But they are not going to do anything about and do not give a shitting damn, since the tiny baby was not their biological child.

Hmm. Do you care?

Hmm. Does Brother Jesus care?

Hmm. Does any human being care?

I do not understand why Mr. Pope does not tell the female to birth the baby and give the child up for adoption.

I do not understand why Mr. Pope is not protesting on the parking lot the Planned Parenthood center either.

I do not understand why Mr. Pope ignores this heavenly sin of murder.

Because, he is a man like I am a woman.

I bet Almighty God will not ignore the heavenly sin of murder.

Hmm. What do you think?

So Mr. Pope and I will be judged in heaven between Almighty God, Brother Jesus, the Holy Spirit and the Devil-man too.

I am not an average American.

The Saint...

Mr. Pope declared a bunch of men as saints here in the USA during his visit.

How can he do that without permission from Brother Jesus?

Queen Elizabeth was born a princess of a nation and became the queen of her country. She can bestow a title of sir or dame on a person as the queen for fun or for drama or for whatever.

That title is not coming with your soul up to heaven or down to hell.

Hell naw...

I personally pray for the title of angel in heaven. Actually, I wanna be a warrior angel in heaven and fight against old Satan too.

Hell yeah...

So the pope must have a special divine mobile telephone to talk Almighty God for the discussing the declaration of a saint.

I have not found that specific reference in The Bible either.

All the disciplines of Jesus are saints. We say Saint Peter. Saint Paul. Saint, whatever? Honestly, I don't know all the names of the saints. But I hope that I do meet them in heaven and then I can learn their names there.

Yeehaw.

Hmm. Do you agree?

Brother Jesus said to his disciplines. "Go out and heal the sick, raise the dead, preach about Almighty God and..."

So Brother Jesus declared them as a saint and an angel too.

I do not know a person that can heal a person by touch with a hand. I do not know a person that can raise the dead either.

Do you know a person that can heal by touch of a hand or raise the dead with the first name of saint?

The Bible says that a person cannot talk directly to Almighty God or Brother Jesus. They are too pure of love and lightness. So you talk with the Holy Spirit like a mobile telephone, bitching about your life with a lousy job with money for food or an old model car for transportation or a last year's mobile telephone for talking to your mom or not even money to buy a newest designer dress or a pair of sneakers, since you have gained weight from eating too many times at your favorite restaurant or the local fast food joint.

Yeah...

I do believe that Mr. Pope is full of crappy shit. He is a man. He is equal to me and you. His words are not colored in red.

Hmm. Did you get it?

His pronoun is not capitalized either.

Hmm. Did you get that one too?

Brother Jesus said. "Beware of the scribes, which love to go in long clothing and love greeting in the public places."

Hmm. What do you think?

I am not an average American.

The Murder...

Thinking about Mr. Pope makes me sad first and ponder murder second.

I do not personally know a murderer. And I am not talking about hearing it on the radio or seeing on the television. I am referencing the immediately face to face group of people that I deal with on a daily basis.

So I have never met a murderer, a person that killed someone in cold blood for fun or for revenge or for meanness.

Do you know a murderer?

And I do not know anyone that was murdered either. And I am not talking about hearing it on the radio or seeing it on the television.

Do you know a person that was murdered?

But I am a murderer. Yeah. I didn't do it with a gun or a knife or a fist. I commanded with a vocal word. I ordered my sick cat murdered.

Or I ordered my sick cat killed.

I guess the word kill and the word murder are not the same thing but perform the same result of death.

I had murdered by order a group of numerous cats when they were sick and dying of a disease or an ailment. And it was very strange to me. I felt strange at the moment. I did not felt a thrill or an excitement emotion. I felt lightheaded to faint in my head and sick to vomit from my stomach. I did not. But I thought that I would faint from the thoughts of killing an innocent animal that only enjoy its life on planet Earth. And I felt so sad and cried before, during, and afterward for the death of my sick cat.

I do believe that a sick animal should be 'put to sleep.' That is a stupid phrase that I learned as a child when any animal on my farm was killed for being injured or sick.

Wow.

Thinking of the 'put to sleep' phrase, I think of the new law in the US State of California where a person who is sick can decide to commit suicide and not exist on planet Earth anymore by their own hand. But the sick person is calling it assisted murder or assisted death or assisted something stupid.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

It is suicide.

I do not understand why Mr. Pope did not address this heavenly sin either.

Only Almighty God can kill ya dead. In The Bible says that it is a place and a time for planting and harvesting and dying and stuff.

Do you not read your personal instruction manual, if a Christian?

It is so wrong to murder your own life form. Your life form belongs to Almighty God, not you. Almighty God created that life form. You have a soul hidden inside the borrowed life form that you can abuse or use or praise.

This is why your life form becomes wrinkled and fat and old. It dies but your soul lives on and on and on foreverly.

I do believe that your soul, after committing suicide, bypasses heaven and goes straight down to hell.

I laugh my ass off.

A sick person on planet Earth who suffers from my terminal aliment whines and moans and complains and bitches to everyone in her bed with pain and aches. Then the sick person gets a physician to stab a needle of poison into the arm vein to stop the heart, the sick person dies and goes to see Almighty God, Brother Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and the Devil all at the same time in the office of Almighty God.

Shit man...

I do not want to attend mine or your face to face meeting like that method with the VIP supernatural entities.

Almighty God rules that the soul has commit suicide and has interfered with your suffering to be a Christian.

The Bible says that a Christian suffers in the flesh to make the soul pure and light and right and might. Suicide is a heavenly sin.

Shit...

Even the concept and act of suicide in the USA is a felony crime. A person can and does go to jail.

I do not understand why.

However, I don't give a shit either if you kill your fucking ass or your parents' butthole or your sister's ass.

I read an article that a murderer knows the murdered victim.

So I will repeat that I do not know a murderer. I have never seen a murderer up close and personal either. So the odds that I will be murdered by an unknown murderer are a negative zillion numbers to one.

Now, if you are drunk with alcohol or not drunk without alcohol, you purposefully kill someone with your car or your fist or your gun, you should die in the electric chair or the gas chamber or on the bed by a needle. I really don't know how they kill a murderer, since I do not watch the depressing daily news of murders and killings and other bad news.

Who in the shit wants to hear that?

I don't really give a shit if someone is murdered or dead?

And the murdered person doesn't give a shit either. He is dead.

Brother Jesus said. "Let the dead bury the dead."

So Almighty God passes a quick judgment on your ass after you commit suicide and your ass goes with the Devil down to hell.

Fuck woman...

Not me.

I like to suffer as a Christian for Almighty God and Brother Jesus. I like to work and make my pennies to barely pay my shelter and my food and then share my money with other people and animals. Hell, it is God's money, not mine. And I pray over my shelter and my food, every damn morning and night. I like to make people smile when they are sad. I like to feed the stray cats when they are hungry. I like to go to church and song off-key to annoy the other assholes that get pissed off.

I bet Almighty God and Brother Jesus likes it too.

The Bible says that the flesh (body) is in conflict with the soul (spirit) all the time.

Hmm. Do you agree?

I do believe that the soul does not hurt from a physical infestation of fleas or an inflection of a knife wound.

Mind over matter.

The soul cannot be harmed or injured or bruised with bullets or drugs or cancer cells. It is the soul that grows when the body is suffering.

The body is a piece of tissue that grows old when the person grows old.

"Beauty fades." Jesus said.

I am not an average American.

The Dictionary...

I exhale with my other fleeing mental thoughts, since I am an older female as my mind jumps like a flea from one subject to another.

And then my mind remembers that I am in pursuit of the fact of an average.

I shove The Bible to the side, lifting and flipping through the pages, reading out loud. "To inflict a punishment in return for revenge..."

I am so sorry.

I had used my old naked two eyeballs instead of wearing my cheap five dollar grocery store pink colored reading glasses. So I accidentally searched and defined the wrong noun in the hard copy dictionary.

I love my hard copy torn leather covered manual dictionary plus my real books of rough bound fabric cloth. Some of my books are so old and ancient that the pages are yellow and torn.

My child uses the mobile telephone for everything but shitting. However, I predict with quiet certainty that some smartass might just invent something, allowing you to shit via the electronic microwaves.

Whatever...

I own a section of numerous dictionaries inside my built-in book shelf from the tiny to the gigantic. I used the dictionary for spelling my long sentences while getting my college degree. I have a dictionary that is five inches thick and over 2,000 pages, a literal paper weight. It has a set of beautifully colored world maps, a section of ancient Latin terms that no one reads or uses, anymore.

I do not read or speak Latin or Spanish or French or German.

I speak American, ya'll.

However, I had tried really hard to learn and speak a foreign language. I think it's so cool to speak two or three different languages. I attended not one but six different foreign language classes for free at my work company, trying to learn conversational Spanish.

I am not an average American.

The Spanish class...

I was so excited. I was going to learn a new language and be cool and cuss in another language at my naughty child for fun.

I listened to the cool foreign instructor. In a conversational Spanish class, the instructor taught vocally and then you repeated the verbal words while learning to speak that particular foreign language.

So I listened.

The other students were repeating exactly what the instructor said.

It was my turn.

I uttered the word 'hello' in the cool Spanish language.

The instructor frowned with disgust and repeated the Spanish word, hello.

I said with a smile and a nod always happy, repeating the Spanish word, hello.

He frowned. "That is not correct. You must practice your pronunciation, chica."

"Chica" means a girl in the Spanish language.

Yeah. I did learn that one.

I mumbled through the other common Spanish phrases until the hour long class finished.

I returned the second week to my free Spanish conversational class, after practicing with my child.

Present day, my child is in college, deciding to become a pharmacist or an engineer or certified public accountant. My child is both a smartie and a smartass, taking after me on both accounts.

Yeah. I admit it.

Today, you must be tough, rough, and bold with your personal personality and not let people take advantage of you in either business of professional or personal endeavor.

Back in my olden days, my young child attended private school, because I received a college education, making great amounts money even as a divorced parent. My child learned the Spanish language being smarter than the biological mom and dad.

In my second Spanish class, it was my turn to say 'hello' in the Spanish. I uttered something with a smile and a nod always happy.

The teacher said with a confused brow, shaking his skull. "You must practice, articulating and rolling the tongue. Trill. Trill. Trill..."

I smiled being a good sport and a lousy learner of a foreign language. So I practiced, rolling my tongue with the weird sounds. Trill. Trill. Trill.

Third week of Spanish class...

On the third week of the academic Spanish class, the Spanish instructor blocked the archway, shaking his skull, pointing to the far wall. "No. You cannot enter. You cannot speak Spanish. You are speaking something very weird, using your southern accent combined with the Spanish language. Please leave."

I exhaled with a puff of unhappy and sad emotions with a nod, standing and swinging to the door. I went back to work, since all the Spanish classes were offered during work.

As my child learned to properly speak the Spanish language, I would converse with my new Spanish words too.

One day, I spoke something a short sentence in a series of Spanish words to my child. I was so happy with a grinning smile.

My child stood with a sour frown and walked to the mother, placing a hand on the collar bone, shaking the head. "Do not ever speak Spanish! I don't know what you said, but it sounded really vicious and threatening. Your southern accent coupled with the Spanish words twists it into some really strange, mom." Then my child spun around, sitting and doing the required homework assignments.

So I failed and fell really hard to learn and speak a foreign language. Between my slow talking southern accent and my slow thinking neurons, I could not accomplish that task.

No big deal...

My talent drowns in mathematics, not languages.

I am not an average American.

The Dictionary continues...

The thick dictionary has numerous sections too. Some of the sections are both mathematical equations and scientific formulas that scientists use I guess. I don't use scientific equations at my job or around my house or in my church.

I also own a hard copy set of manual encyclopedias. That is a hard word to spell from memory. I own two hard copy sets, looking stuff up for both fun and entertainment.

My child uses the mobile telephone, looking up spelling words, phrases, and everything.

I look up the word, average.

Woe. Whoa. Wow.

There are numerous definitions. I scan through the definitions, seeking the best answer. I like the mathematics category, the bestest.

Average is defined as an intermediate between extremes like a scale. For example, the average for a set of math numbers 8, 9, 4 equals 21. To find the average, I divide the three numbers into the total number of 21, which equals seven.

But an American is not a number. An American is a person. So my pondering has lead to some complicated concepts.

In the 1950s, an average American was married, owned a house with a wooden fence, had two children, and a dog.

Now, I am researching the average American.

To find the average, I must explore each extreme. An extreme American consists of the very, very old which is the elderly on one end of the figurative ruler. The other extreme end would be the very, very young Americans which are the school age children going down to the babies that cannot work.

Presently, an elderly American is make up more of the population. So an average American is elderly, who does not work being retired. She or he receives monies from the US Federal Government and if a fucking ass smart, she or he receives a second pot of money which is a retirement pension from a business company.

I am not an average American.

The Money...

I work, saving my earned pennies, nickels, and dimes, dumping my money in two places, a personal retirement fund at the bank and a business pension fund at my company. At my company, I can deposit up to twenty percent of my gross paycheck salary into the company retirement money account.

Yeah man...

That's a shit load of money, when you make $150,000 US dollars per year.

Let us calculate the monies math percents for fun and verification.

$150,000 dollar times 20% equals $30,000 per year.

I have been contributing an average of $30,000 per year for ten years. So my retirement account, since working has increased by $300,000.

Shit man...

And the money is taken out before the calculation of the US Federal incomes. So I do not pay taxes on the 30,000 dollars, because the US Federal government allows me and other hard working Americans to save their pennies and nickels. Thus, we can retire and not live off the shitty social security monies...pennies.

I follow the shitty local and national news broadcasts. Last year, the monthly money payment for the social security benefits dropped.

The word dropped is defined as going down or lower or not more, but less.

So the social security benefits dropped, lowering the monthly payment checks to the existing recipients.

That sucks for both them and me and you.

As I get older, I must contribute as dictated by the shitty US Federal Government into the money pit...pile of social security. However, the money pile is not piled with money either.

As more young people do not work, they do not contribute into the social security money pile. As more illegal aliens work, they do not contribute into the social security money pile either. As more millionaires do not work, but live off their millionaire dollar investments in the bank, they do not contribute to the social security money pile also.

So the average hard working American must pay their average hard working monies into the social security money pile and then fuckingly pray to Almighty God that the hard working American will get back their hard working monies when it is time to retire.

And our US president wants to cut the money going into the social security money pile which is the backbone of the retirement resource for all the average hard working Americans.

Fuck it...

I am not an average American.

The Future...

I received a college degree, getting a good paying job immediately. I have been contributing the payroll social security taxes into the social security money pile too for thirty plus years. And I have been contributing my earned payroll monies into a personal retirement account also for thirty plus years. So I can retire enjoying life and doing nothing but fart and piss inside the clean toilet.

My child promises to take care of me during my elderly, wrinkled, gray headed and toothless years being a good child. The child loves and respects me. And the child promises to clean my ass with a stream of dripping smelly shit and bath my nasty body like a puppy dog when I cannot do it anymore, because my child loves and respects me.

And my child says that I will live at the child's house too when old and almost deaf and blind. My child keeps a spotless college apartment, including a shiny and pine smelling bathroom. And my child will not place the mother into a nursing home just to get the mother's lush retirement pension.

I am not an average American.

The Find...

I find the internet a fascinating piece of hardware.

I was reading this article related about slashing the food stamp program, increasing the social security benefits, and the whiny ass senators afraid of losing their cushy jobs in Congress.

This person typed into the comments section that they were getting food stamps. Then the person complained about not knowing about the eligibility for social security benefits.

Well fuck...

How in the hell is she is paying money for internet access which costs her money to comment on an electronic newspaper article when she is getting food stamps?

Somebody investigate and arrest this bitch?  
To bitch lady, you should stop paying money to your internet company and stop busy bodying around the internet and get a damn working job for money. So you can buy yourself some fucking ass food. Then you will not need to be on food stamps and using my tax dollars too.

Busy bodies are destined for hell per Almighty God along with the murderers and the cheaters as stated in the Bible.

To bitch lady, look it up.

And if everyone got off the fucking internet and got a job then nobody would need a booklet of food stamps or yearly welfare checks. Then I could keep all my hard earned monies, while making an honest living for a better life for me and my child.

Almighty God tells that everyone should work for their food. It is commandment number six.

Yeah...

They are numbered for all the fools of the world.

Look it up too...

I have a brain, two hands, and two feet to work for my fucking living. And I have purchased every single thing that I own.

I had too.

I came from a biological family of six people with limited cash. When I finally find love and got married, my parents gave us as the newlyweds a chest of drawers.

Yeah boy...

The chest was an upright piece of old furniture with three drawers about three and one half feet tall. The wood was light colored pine and so thin that my fist could broke the outer shell. Inside the second and third drawers, the bottom shelf which was usually held clothing was broken and busted over two-thirds of wooden shelf.

The chest came from my tall and wicked older brothers who had used the shelf as boxing objects.

I laugh my ass off at the old memory.

Who in the hell can utilize a chest of three drawers with two of the drawers missing?

I could not.

Eventually, that little chest of drawers was stored in the rear room and the ex-hubby got it from the divorce.

Why would I want a chest of drawers with one working shelf on the bottom? Why would my loving parents give a gift of one working bottom shelf?

I cannot answer.

I am not an average American.

The Social Security...

I have been working for thirty plus years, since graduating college without honors. Every paycheck, I deposit my money into my retirement account and then my company deposits equal that amount too.

Twice the love of money, babe...

And I deposit my hard working money into a personal retirement account as allowed by the US Federal Government. So I can retire and not working and not worrying about my pennies that will come in tiny amounts from the US Federal Government.

Let us face the reality fact here folks...

The US Federal Government is not going to have enough money to pay all the old farts who do not possesses hair or teeth or neurons, anymore.

Since we are discussing the subject of old farts.

Why is the US Federal government taking my hard working monies and paying it to all the old farts, who never worked a lick in their life or don't want to work getting their hands dirty?

Brother Jesus said. "He is more worried about the dirt in your heart rather than your hands."

Everyone should work a fucking job or fucking starve to death.

Brother Jesus said. "A man works for his meat."

And every old fart should be cared by their biological child, or children, or blood family member like in the olden days.

Used too, in the 1730s, 1830s, 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, everyone worked or starved and the family took care of their blood-relatives and not the fucking US Federal Government.

I do not want to take care of your fucking ass grandmother. She is not my ass fucking grandmother. You should do your legal duty, your family loving duty, and your Christian duty and then take care of your own fucking grandmother and your own fucking ass self and your own asshole child.

I have plans to take care of my parents. They are healthy and enjoying life. They do not depend upon any fucking body, including me. They planned it like that too.

And I have future plans for my child to take care of my old wrinkled smelly pissing inside the granny diapers, because I have planned it like that.

I am not an average American.

The Problem...

This is the fucking problem with the nation called America. Lazy asshole people think someone else should take care of them.

I do not give a shit about you, asshole. And I do not want to hear any quotes from The Bible shit to me either.

Jesus said to his disciplines. "Do not ask for coin or clothing. A man works for his meat."

I have attended church, since I was born. I am a protestant.

The protest-ants go to church on all fucking day and night on Sundays and all night on Wednesdays without missing a song beat or a plate of food.

You must be southern to get my lousy joke.

Protestants love to sing during church services and eat three plates of food after preaching.

I work for my food and my family.

I give a shit about my family unit. And I provide money, shelter, and food for my family unit, because I love and respect my family unit. So I work to provide for my family unit.

If you cannot provide money, shelter and food for your family unit, then you should get an abortion, and murder that unborn fetus.

I do not give a shit about you or your kid or your grandmother.

I do believe in concept of abortion. It is a concept like the death penalty and the illegal aliens. There are not heavenly laws about these concepts. These concepts come from man and his vicious mind.

My mind argued earlier that the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants should not come over to the USA.

I changed my mind.

I do believe the USA should bring over all the illegal aliens and the foreign immigrants to my nation and my US State.

Then I will fire my current illegal alien cleaning crew that cleans my house and mows my lawn and gardens my pretty flowers, since I do not do domestic chores.

I have a set of pretty painted puke green colored long rounded fingernails that do not touch dirtiness.

I currently pay the illegal alien cleaning crew fifty dollars to clean my house twice per week. Honestly, the house is too big and really need to be cleaned on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

The bathroom toilet needs to be cleaned daily, since I shit turds from my ass on a daily basis making the toilet dirtier than hell.

So I can hire two sets of illegal alien cleaning crews and pay them twenty dollars per week. Then I can get my big ass house cleaned four days in the week.

Calm down...

My neighbors used the same illegal alien cleaning crew too. That's why they can only clean my big ass house twice per week.

Competition sucks...

And one of my neighbors only allows the illegal alien cleaning crew into her house on Sunday, the day of Lord. These poor bastards cannot go to church on Sundays either. And she walks behind them as they clean and she bitches her orders all morning long.

That's a true bitch.

I am not an average American.

The Abortion...

The concept of abortion is a woman's decision. It is her right as it is her body to do with as she pleases.

This is called Free Will. This is given to each human by free choice.

Why are the busy bodies of the world inflamed about what a woman does with her own body?

It is her body, not your body.

We live in a free nation. Based on the first amendment, we have the right of free speech.

I do not include the right of free annoyance and free bitching at one single individual citizen in the free speech forum.

I do not agree that a group of protestors should protest around a business or a personal home. If the business was doing something illegal, the police will arrest the person and persons.

I have never protested with a group of protestors?

Why not?

I have a fucking job to pay for my food and electricity. I cannot leave my fucking job to protest. I would lose my fucking job and then I could not pay for food and my electricity.

Where does a group of protestors live? Who pays for your food and your shelter?

The fucking ass busy bodies should fuck off with the abortion protests. It is a legal law. It is not your problem.

It is her problem.

And if you are a baptized Christian person, you will see Almighty God and Brother Jesus, I would bet a zillion dollars on that, if I had a zillion dollars. Then you can explain the abortion issue in private, because Almighty God is the big Man who will judge your ass, sweetheart.

I will not judge you, because I don't give a shit.

It is your body, female.

I do not know a female who has had an abortion either.

Hmm. Do you?

I am not an average American.

The Video Tape...

And I did not see that disgusting video tape from the undercover sting on Planned Parenthood agency.

Abortion is legal in America. A federal judge judged it legal.

And it will never change.

However, I do believe that cutting and dissecting an alive and kicking tiny helpless baby is murder in my eyeballs and I bet in Almighty God's eyeballs too.

I hear about it from some person who likes to busy body with gossip.

I am not an average American.

The Old Age...

When I see the Mr. Pope, I think of my old age too.

Man...

The old body cannot do the things it used to do. I fart when I laugh. It is very embarrassing for me and the nose holes of the person next to me. I burp when I talk, another embarrassing moment for the nose holes in front of me.

I am a female. I told you that twenty plus pages ago. I have hot flashes at three in the morning or so.

Woman...

My body must heat up to 120 degrees and sweats like the sun is resting on my chest.

And I know how hot 120 degrees is. I used to go to the spa and sit inside the sauna during the wintertime.

The wooden box contained steam always. To add more steam, you poured a cradle of water for a set of the heated rocks inside the bottom of the spa box. There was an interior temperature gauge. When I entered the sauna box, the temperature read ninety degrees. I would pour the water over the rocks and send the gauge to 120 degrees.

Once it reached 120 degrees, I couldn't breathe and I had to leave the spa box to breathe. My body was red colored too. My face was sorta maroon colored.

I have low blood pressure and my hands and my feet stay cold all the time. So I warmed by body by sitting inside the sauna. And it worked greatly.

I discovered that I could sweat a common cold out of my sickly biological system too.

During the wintertime, people become sick.

At my work office, some of my co-workers do not want to use the vacation days for any sick days. So they come into work with sore throats, strep throat, runny noses of green snot, watery eyeballs, and coughs which go around the office.

I am a very healthy woman. I rarely become sick. When a person sneezes near your body, the icky germs will cling to your skin. Then the itchy germs will roll up your skin and find an opening. Then the itchy germs will enter the opening and fuck with your immune system.

My immune system wins out every time. But I will have a sore throat or a runny hole for a few days.

I find in my old age when I catch a cold virus, it likes to linger and lick my immune system for a few weeks.

Some of my older co-workers will keep a cold virus for few months.

When I felt the sore throat, I would run and enter the sauna box. I crank that heat up to 120 degrees. When I exit the sauna box, I am not sick anymore. My sore throat is all dried up.

I literally sweat my cold virus out of my body.

Hell yeah...

The enamel on my teeth is thinner. So I drink a lot of soy milk. And I hate soy milk. But I can't drink cow's milk. Or I blow out my breakfast about two hours later in the toilet. That's why an illegal alien needs to clean my shitty toilet. I ain't touching it.

My teeth are shifting sideways. My dad's teeth have done that too. So I will be wearing a mouth brace at sleep.

Romantic, too...

My kneecaps pop with my arm joints too, sometime in sync. Most time, it is not but it sounds like a tiny musical band.

Not joshing...

My hair has been gray for years. I quit coloring it due to rashes from the chemicals. And it is slowly getting thinner and that's sucks.

My fingernails are thinner too. So I can't do the domestic stuff around my house without breaking a nail.

Shit...

I have a touch of arthritis. Arthritis is the swelling between the bone joints. I feel it more in the mornings when I awake. I stretch out my fingers and drink plenty of sodas with sugary and water and salt.

Yeah man...

We all die of something and then go and see Brother Jesus.

Amen...

The worse part of old age is the eyeballs. Once I had 20/15 vision. Now I have a pair of cheap ass reading glasses for typing on the laptop and reading books when my eyeballs get tired.

A pair of expensive driving glasses is needed for driving the damn car at night. And a pair of expensive working glasses is used for seeing the paperwork at my desk.

I do not have the tri-folds or bi-folds or fuck me glasses. I just change out the different glasses for my purpose. I usually don't wear the glasses when driving during the daylight or walking around the house.

However, I guess the morning that I cannot see my face in the reflection mirror I will be wearing eye glasses permanently.

But it sucks...

My muscle tissues are starting to sack. My skin is sacking too.

It is weird too.

My old body is slowing falling apart.

I have been tall and skinny all my life. Now my old body does not want to cooperate anymore like it has given up.

But my spirit has not given up, ever.

And the food allergies arrive alive to annoy your old body. I am allergic to strawberries, fish, vanilla, wheat, nuts, and eggs.

Yeah man...

I found out the hard way by eating a couple of fresh strawberries, finding a pink geometric patch on my right cheekbone within two hours of the meal. I was stunned into cluelessness with the pretty but itchy geometric design on my face.

I do not wear makeup, after discovering the products were tested on innocent cats, rats, and dogs.

So I was not allergic to any makeup products.

I have used the brand of body soap since I was birthed.

So I was not allergic to my soap.

I have used the same clothing detergent since my birth.

So I was not allergic to the detergent.

I am sensitive to synthetics clothing.

It was wintertime. I tossed out the fuzzy fake sweater. I had figured out that was attacked my face and caused the pink geometric rash.

The rash was hollow and designed in a funky jagged outline of pink color. It was clearly a rash of an allergic reaction from the clothing.

I know my body. I know when something ain't right.

The pink geometric rash took two weeks to clear from my right cheekbone. The rash was not present on my left cheekbone, only my right.

Strange...

A few days later, I ate a couple of strawberries for breakfast. Within two hours, I had a pink geometric rash.

Ta da.

I was allergic to the strawberries, the first sign of menopause skin sensitivities.

Each skin sensitivity produced that pink hollowed outline in a weird geometric rash on my right cheekbone and it itched like a line of ants were crawling over my face.

I was extremely careful with eating a food item. Some food items are common allergies like peanuts and types of acidic fruits. I lost weight during my trial and error phase of what I could eat and not eat.

I visited my parents' home for some weird reason and was talking like to my mom like everyone does.

I smiled down at the good smelling food that was prepared by the cleaning crew.

Now, my mom has to really pay money for someone to clean and to cook.

I said. "I have discovered with great pain and suffering that I'm allergic to some food items like eggs, strawberries, nuts, vanilla, fish, and maybe other food items. Do ya know that?"

My mom viewed the cooking pots of drifting steam with a sour frown. "I know. All females know..."

I gasped to see her nose profile. "Yeah. You fuckingly know, Mom? And you couldn't tell me in advance of my old age years..."

My mom lifted the lid to stir the food. "Yeah. Females find out..."

I fuckingly talk to my mom like that. She is an asshole for not talking her daughter about the female body. This is the same mother that did not talk about sex to her daughter either.

Another sign of old age...

I do not need more sleep. I can go to bed at midnight and awake at five in the morning, feeling rested.

And I do not need to eat so much either.

And the forgetfulness...

One night, I left the car keys inside the unlocked car outside the garage in the driveway. The house keys outside the unlocked house in the unlocked door.

I found all this the next morning.

The day before...

I left my car keys inside my unlocked car, after I drove to the grocery store for cat litter. Because I was going to go back to the grocery store for something that I forgot as I was driving home from the grocery store.

But I entered the house and forgot that I had forgotten to go back to the grocery store for what I had forgotten.

You figure it out, because I can't.

I opened the front door with the key, because my car keys and my house keys are on two separate key chains.

Why?

Because, I have a great big cute dragon key chain for my house key. And the cute super girl pink key chain with my car keys that match my cheap non-designer pink purse that I used all the time for shopping.

So I opened the front door with the house key with the big cut purple dragon. And my house key is colored purple too. I want to the store and copied my house key about ten times. So when I lost the original key, I had nine more copies.

Smart...

So I opened the door and left my purple key on the purple dragon in the lock, because I was going to go back to the grocery store for the forgotten item. I entered the house and slammed the door shut, since I was carrying around twenty pounds of heavy cat litter.

I moved and walked to the third bathroom that is devoted to shitty turds of the cats and rested the heavy bag on the floor.

And then I forgot the rest of the story, since I am old woman.

But I found the house keys and the car keys the next morning, after getting dressed for work and hunting for my car keys, after having a mini-heart attack for the lost and the surprise.

I left one of the French doors opened, after I locked the garage door and the secured the garage door and entered my car for work.

I have a pet door in the garage and kitchen for the cats to come and go as they please and not perturb me.

And I lock the garage door to the kitchen, so no one enters to harm me.

This particular morning, my cat had left a present. A dead chipmunk rested in the sun rays.

If I did not pick that boogie up, the back porch would smell of death germs that evening along with ants over the dead body tissue. So I propped open the door, so the cats could come in and out. They followed me around the house and were always curious about my activities.

I scooped that boogie into the one dollar dust pan with the big dust broom, trucking around the front porch and into the garage and into the trash can.

I moved the trash can to the curve for trash day.

I turned and scooted the cats into the garage and into the house for my day of work, washing my hands in the tiny sink in the garage.

I never opened the kitchen door to the house.

I turned and moved, entering into my car, closing the garage tight and might.

The patio door stayed opened all day long.

I did not remember it being an old fart, too.

But my house was not raped and robbed. My body was not been raped and robbed.

I live in a very nice neighbor.

My nice neighbor has no welfare niggers or illegal aliens or foreign immigrants.

What is your home neighborhood like?

This is the reason that dumbass me can leave the door open and not get robbed.

The second worse thing of old age is the body smells. My left armpit started smelling. I freaked out and hit the internet. The internet has lots of answers. And the left armpit smell is normal.

Stop...

My mom did not tell me any of this as I was growing up. And it would have been some good advice. I remembered everything that my parents lectured about. I did not understand it as a child or a teen or a young adult. But I remembered it like to wear clean panties in case of a car accident.

Been there. Done that.

And I was wearing a pair of clean pink girly panties too for the emergency doctor to see after my car accident.

The left armpit odor is bacteria from something being produced in my body like the fucking farts and shitty burps. I mean, after I bathed my body with hot water and soap, the armpit still smelled.

Nothing gets rid of the smell either.

There are different treatments. Go to the doctor. Rub alcohol underneath the armpit. Use prescription power from your physician. Create a powder from baking soda and water.

I found that the baking soda worked perfectly. So I do not smell anymore.

Ugh...

Old age sucks on rotten eggs.

My mind is still sharp.

One of my grandmothers died in her nineties. She had a strong awareness of her person and her family.

My other living grandmother does not know the time of day or her children.

So sad...

And the elderly American retires at age seventy years old, an average.

However, I am not an average American.

The Average American Hunt continues...

As I continue my search for the average American, I turn to evaluate the other extreme.

An average American is young and not working a paying job.

For simplicity of reading and saving my typing strokes on the keyboard, I will assume the pronoun, she.

She is in elementary or middle or high school. Her parents take care of her ass until adult age.

Been there. Done that.

Or the US Federal government uses mine and your hard working monies in the form of income taxes to pay to her money for her shit, such-like clothes, mobile telephones, cosmetics, food, cars, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, tattoos, and other non-food stuffs.

When I was a young child, my parents who are still married took care of my fragile little precious flesh and blood body.

My parents had celebrated their sixtieth anniversary too.

Yeah...

When I was a young child, growing into an adult, my parents provided for my person, including an ancient old car, the hand-me-down clothes, the worn shoes, lots of love, tons of laughter, and every day happy praise.

I was born the baby of the family. I have four other siblings, two brothers and two sisters.

I don't mind being the baby. I like being the baby. And I learned from their stupid ass mistakes of older brothers and sister. And I did not repeat them.

It is so sad that the modern family can't stay together for love and respect, not greed and selfishness.

I am not an average American.

The Average American Hunt continues...

Within the extreme category of an average American, the young also includes the young adult, which is over the age of eighteen that is an adult.

An American is adult age young who does not work. She receives monies and food from the US Federal Government again, enjoying the free ride, using my hard working monies in the form of income taxes.

I have never received a penny back from the US Federal Government for paying my food, my electricity, my water, or my clothes.

Hmm. Do you receive money from the US Federal Government?

I have a job with my college education. I am the American who pays the US Federal Government through my income taxes, every day for the bums that don't work or don't wanna work or don't give a shit. I work five days per week and rest on the weekend.

Or the American young adult bums off her parents, screwing and fucking her parents.

My parents never allowed me to screw and fuck with them.

Naw sir...

By the way, I never ever allowed my child to screw and fuck me for nothing.

Hell no...

And I always knew where my teen was located. I always knew what my teen was doing. I always knew anything, everything, and everyone about my teen.

Hell yeah...

I was back then and still am today an overprotective mom. Now, my child is in college and not dead from drugs, not dead from robbery, and not dead from silliness.

When my child fucked up, I punished my child immediately, because I loved and protected my child until the fucking day that I will be burned dead. I will be cremated for $7000 and not buried in a $25,893.27 dollar coffin.

During the development of the mobile telephone, in the olden days, the telephone minute structure was used and paid based on a certain amount of minutes. For example, in one month, the mobile telephone plan was limited to 1800 minutes of talk time. That is thirty hours of talking on the phone. That is talking on the mobile telephone one hour per day.

So let us analyze that for a teen.

You lived at home and never talked with your mom. You went to school ten hours out of twenty four both learning academic studies and playing sports with your friends. Then you goofed with the same friends after school then finished your homework, then ate your supper, then bathed your stinky body, and finally went to bed.

So these activities had accounted for the rest of the twenty four hours of the day for a teen.

Please explain to me? How was it impossible to overuse talking 30 hours in a month or one hour per day?

Yeah. I still can't answer that fucking question.

However, I reacted badly.

I received a mobile telephone money invoice for six hundred dollars in one month. Yeah. I was very, very, very upset. I moved and marched into the child's room and investigated but not yelled. I also tried really hard to follow the Bible rules.

Be kind. Be patient. Be tolerant.

Children are so intuitive.

I did not say one word but held up the invoice for the mobile telephone.

The child played on the mobile telephone and answered without eyeball the mom. "Dunno, Didn't do it."

Not a great explanation...

I extended out my empty palm which was not being immediately filled with the child's mobile telephone. So I wiggled my fingers and magically the palm possessed a phone. Then I turned without saying one word and marched into the kitchen.

The mobile telephone was dumped into the kitchen trashcan with my personal mobile telephone. And the mobile telephone plan was cancelled, permanently.

Yeah. You punish the wicked and they never forgot.

Does that theme have a familiar ring?

Yes.

Almighty God has future plans of punishing the wicked and they will die.

Be gone, forever...

Six years later, I provided a new mobile telephone to my college student.

Why?

I grew up in the age of the landline. At my birth home, I used a two-party landline. The telephone line is shared by two different houses on the same roadway or to the next house. When you picked up your telephone, you had to make certain that the other party wasn't talking with his girlfriend.

It was a nightmare during my teen years. I could not privately flirt with a boy on the telephone, because my parents would ease drop by picking up the second telephone for their shitty fun. Or my siblings would ease drop by picking up the third telephone for their shitty giggles.

Or worse, the other party would listen to my private conversation on their landline and tattle to my parents. The other party was my mean cousins.

Therefore, I did not need or desire the usage of a mobile telephone for many, many years.

What happened when I needed road service for my car?  
It happened before the mobile telephone age.

My car battery died. When a battery dies, the car doesn't go-go. However, the next strange car came traveling down the road stopped to help me.

People are nice...

Why waste my money or my time for a stupid object of gold?

Yeah. The child complained a lot. Yeah. I was tough-ass mom. Yeah. You punish the wicked and they never forgot.

Present day, my child does not hate my guts instead my child is grateful for the motherly tough love behavior, figuratively kicking the child's ass into becoming a mature and responsible American adult. My child is in college, getting a college degree to make a living and then provide for an American future.

I am not an average American.

The Average American Hunt continues...

An average American young female adult does not go to school or get a job or live with her parents. But she fucks a guy for both food and money, enjoying the screwing for some fun sex.

Yeah. Fucking sex is great...

I am evaluating the extreme part of the average concept. To continue the extreme assessment, an American is adult age young in school. She receives monies from the USA Federal Government for food, money, and stuff.

I do not have a problem with an American student receiving a free education by using my monies in the form of income taxes. So take all the taxpayers' monies going into the fucking welfare checks and pay for all the teens to go to school and get an education, so they can get a job and become a productivity member of the American society.

Do not put a teenage in financial debt. The US economy stinks now. The poor teen will never pull her ass out of the shit tank using this type of illogical horseshit, ya'll.

I believe every American student should go to some type of college or trade school, all free of charge.

Shit man...

And if the student can't make the passing grades in a school environment then a trade should be assessed for the kid to get a working job. There are plenty of jobs around American for all Americans, if the fucking American really wanted to work.

I know.

I went to college too. And I graduated with a passing grade of C. Yeah. I received a college degree with the letter grade of C, the average. The white and colorful piece of paper with my name got me a good paying job which led to a good paying career and finally a good future without any worries or cares.

I am not worried about my future and my selfie. And I damn shore don't give a damn about you or your fucking mom or your fucking grandmother or your fucking child.

I am not an average American.

The College...

Presently, I understand if a university student fails three college courses, then the student is kicked out of college. The student should be. College is for hard working Americans students who want a future and a job and not some fucking assholes with nothing to do but party.

I know.

My child is in a public college and not private college. It is both expensive and a fucking joke.

One college class costs 360 dollars without the cents. This is one month of food. This is three winter coats. This is seven pairs of shoes. A poor teenager cannot pay for one college course.

To graduate any college, a student must take about thirty three classes which is $12,000. And that money doesn't include the books, paper, pencils, gasoline, food and maybe a computer laptop.

Fuck it...

The American university system is a rip off to the hard working Americans. Individual millionaires donor their hard working money to the universities, first off. Second off, students are required to pay a ransom, the money tuition before allowing the wood to slam behind your ass. Three off, every fucking US State government office is paid money directly from the USA Federal Government which is mine and your taxes again. The USA State government monies go directly into the money pot of state public universities for something.

So fuckingly tell me why a student has to pay for their post graduate education? Where does all that money go to? Or whom does that all money go to?

I am paying through the nose for my child.

Long time ago, my child had a college fund which was cash. The cash was sitting inside a bank account. When my child turned eighteen years old, the bank account was released into the child's possession for some fucking fun.

Yipe...

The child went fucking ass crazy with a good time and didn't want to go to college with a cash filled bank account like the biological parents had hoped. So after a few years, when the cash ran out, the child came back.

Actually the child ended up abandoned by the partying scum bag friends, evicted from the trashy rental apartment, and maxed out on the credit card.

I came to the rescue, of course, having only one child on purpose.

Back then, when a convicted murderer was sentenced to death by the electric chair, the television news reporter would be stationed at the building, where the execution was taking place. There would be hundreds of people. Some were protesting the inhuman execution. Some were cheering the execution. Some were there for some sick ass fucking reasons.

But all the busy body television reporters would be there to interview all the people for news drama.

Fascinating shit...

The television reporter always interviewed the mother of the murderer. The mother would be crying and saying that her child was innocent of the crime.

What the fuck?

Now, I completely understand. A mother's love runs deeper than depths of cold black outer space which is infinity.

The mother of the murderer was showing her love and defending her child literally to the death.

So, when my only child fucked up without harming or murdering a single person, I came to the rescue. And I didn't send my child back into college for a fucking free ride either.

Hell no...

I work hard for my money, honey.

My child lived at home in the same bedroom with the nice happy mom but got a low paying work job, actually two jobs to save all the pennies and nickels. My child worked to pay off the maxed out credit card. So my child learned a very valuable life lesson which will never be forgotten.

I went to the university after graduating high school. I did it the old fashion way. I worked a crappy waitress job, saving all my pennies and nickels.

Since my parents give born to five kids to feed and clothe, so there wasn't much in the bank account of extra monies.

So I paid for my entire college education, the school textbooks, gasoline, paper notebooks, and ink pens, because I both loved and respected my biological parents.

My biological parents are good people in my eyeballs.

They own a farm house, free and clear. They are retired now. But back then, they went to work. They provided food on the table, home cooked meals, not fast food. My dad would not eat fast food.

Actually I grew in the country, the real country. I lived in the real country, where the cows grazed. The field crops grew tall yellow corn stalks and tall white cotton bolls. There were no streets, only dirt roads. There were not traffic lights but only intersections, where everyone drove five miles per hour anyways.

Exception for me, I drove fifty miles per hour over the dirt road in my hand-me-down car, an old muscle car. You could see the car coming a mile away due to the whirling red dusty tornados.

But, you gotta watch out for potholes, thou. A deep pothole will tear up the axle of the car. My dad promised, if I torn that car up by way of a deep pothole, then I would have a car anymore.

And ya gotta watch for a roaming black and white adult cow. A fucking cow will tear up the car, beautifully, maybe kill your ass too.

I honestly admit. I never hit a cow but some of potholes were hard to see, at midnight.

O man...

In the real rural country, there were no stop signs and no car accidents either. There were no street signs either, because everyone knew where the road intersected with the other road. And everyone respected each other's life forces.

But time flies by without stopping to say hi or bye.

Modern day, there still is not a single electronic traffic light, or a concrete street sideway, or a single overhead bright shining street lamp on the ugly paved road, where my parents currently live in the rural country. However, my biological parents both lock and bolt their front door, every minute of the day now, since my parents were robbed a few months ago.

Hell naw...

My parents still work their farm land and life with grazing cows, galloping horses, knee high wheat hay, and a colorful garden of fresh fruits and vegetables, without the deadly chemicals.

Hell, yeah...

The reason, my parents are living very healthy lives without drugs and only wear a pair of cheap five dollar grocery store reading glasses. They use the reading glasses to read the newspaper and read the music book at church. They can see the television with their naked eyeballs. They are in their eighty something years old age now, maybe to live to be in their ninety something year age range.

My grandmother is still alive and kicking at ninety six years old too.

O mama...

I am not an average American.

The Robbery Day...

The animals needed to be fed. The hay needed to be cut. And the garden needed to be picked. So my parents would leave the patio door unlocked like the last forty years as they attended to the daily farm chores like the last forty years.

One hot sizzling afternoon, my dad came in from the crop fields and stomped into his private bedroom. He immediately noted his worn leather money wallet was gone.

My dad placed his wallet on his personal nightstand, since the first day of his marriage to my virgin mom. His personal nightstand was off limits both for his children and his wife. The top of the nightstand held his leather belt, encircling with the following items: his car keys, his money wallet, his wrist watch, and his coinage for the last forty years.

When I was allowed to wonder into the bedroom of my parents for something like a clean washing towel which was almost never, I saw his personal nightstand and the belt, encircling his personal possessions.

I grew up with five siblings. The number one house rule: no person touched another person's personal property for no damn reason, including death.

Therefore, I did not barge into the private bedroom of my parents, because I loved and respected my parents. And I did not barge into the private bedroom of my siblings, because I feared my parents and that damn belt. And I also loved and respected my sister and brothers, sometimes.

Second, my dad used the belt on your ass when you broke that house rule along with others.

I honestly confess.

I was never been whipped with the belt by my dad ever. And I have never been whipped by any one or punished as a teen.

And I was a good girl.

Now, I can't tattle the say 'tail' with my two nasty and mean brothers.

I recalled the wicked time, very clearly.

I am not an average American.

The Kittens...

Her brothers stole the two baby kittens and placed them onto the high branch of a small tree in the pasture land. They were nine and eight years old, respectively. I was four years old. So I couldn't jump to reach the tree branch. And they purposefully blocked the tree, standing in front of the lower branch and not allowing any person to play.

So I spun around, running back to the kitchen.

Her mom was always inside the kitchen, cooking every single meal for breakfast, mid-morning snack time, lunch, mid-day snack time, supper, and nightly snack time. Her mom is a shitty southern cook.

So her mom has a personal maid and cook servants to help with that duty.

The door opened.

I ran to my mom and the cooking stove like always. By this time, my face was stained with tears and red colored from running.

Her mom didn't bother to view her daughter. With four kids, someone was also yelling or crying or bleeding or beating another child. So she ignored the noise but listened to the story.

I fingered the door, like it was the tree. Then I tattled that my brothers stole my kittens. My kittens were mewing and scared and dying up in the tree. And I couldn't get them off. And my mean brothers were laughing at me.

Stop...

I have never told a single lie to either one of my parents, because my dad would blister your ass if he found out. And my brothers never ever hit me either.

Now, her brothers fought with each other, some bad hits with their folded fists. And my older sisters jumped into the battle with their flying fists. Her parents just let the war rage and wear out.

So her mom yelled for her husband like always, the massager of truth.

Her dad appeared at the archway like always, the enforcer of justice.

Her mom summed the story in three words. "Your sons, again."

Her dad shook his skull and marched toward his baby daughter. He picked up and hugged her into his face. He told her to stay put inside the house, dropping her down to the floor. Then he marched out the back door for both the kittens and the sons.

About thirty minutes later, her dad came into the house, cuddling the kittens. He gave them to his daughter and patted her head, telling her to run along and play with the toys.

About two hours later, her brothers came inside the house for suppertime. They were both covered in shitty smelling grass, red clay dirt, and hay straws, after performing some extra chores around the farm. However they stood while eating supper.

Yeah. I was the tattle tale of the family.

But my kittens were very special.

I love cats. I really am a true cat lover.

I am not an average American.

The Wound...

As a young child, I visited with my grandmother who lived on a great big farm. Her farm had cows, horses, goats, pigs, chickens, dogs, rabbits, and cats. The cats ate the rats that fed on the animal food which was stored inside the barn.

However, my grandmother also fed the tiny kittens that couldn't catch the big nasty rats for food.

You have not lived until your eyeballs behold a dead big ugly half-eaten gray rat.

Hell yeah...

Every evening, my grandmother fixed a batch of kitten meal, consisting of raw cow's milk, a small jar of fresh poured bacon grease, a pan of baked corn bread, and bits of raw hamburger meat in a big pot for the tiny kittens. She would stomp outside onto the side porch, where the honeysuckle vines grew and the pasture lands laid. Then she would pour the kitten meal into ten individual tin pails.

The tin pails and the kittens lived out there, permanently.

And no one was allowed to bother them ever.

The kittens would grow into adult cats, taking the place of their feline parents. My grandmother's farm also housed hungry foxes, coyotes and wolves that liked to eat the smaller farm animals, like wandering cats and run away puppies.

Well I always followed my grandma around the house, learning the domestic stuff, sorta. Since my own mom was too busy with her own house. My grandma didn't mind and enjoyed her baby granddaughter around too.

This particular day, I was five years old, visiting my grandparents along with my parents and my siblings for the afternoon.

I walked outside on the side porch with my grandma. She stopped and poured the nasty smelling kitten meal into all the tin pails. I just held the tin pail, getting bits of the food particles on my skin.

It was summertime. I was wearing a sleeveless shirt, a pair of walking shorts, and my bare feet.

My grandma finished pouring out the kitten meal, turning and moving back into the house. She never stayed and watched the tiny kittens eat or play being too busy running a farm.

This particular day, I kindly asked to stay and sit on the edge of the porch out of the way. And I was granted the request. So I sit on the edge of the porch, watching the tiny kittens dance to the numerous tin pails.

The kittens lived and played underneath the honeysuckle vines.

Now, if ya ain't a farmer.

Honeysuckles vines are the favored food of flying and stinging bees also. So the mom cats were smart to keep and store their kittens there. A bee stings all life forms either human or animal.

The kittens pranced by ones and twos to the tin pails.

I had pulled three tin pails really close to my body within my arm span. I really wanted to hold a kitten, today.

The kittens immediately halted, smelling a stranger. Then they decided their hungry stomachs needed nourishment over the stranger's smell.

I sat perfectly still, observing.

The first line of kittens advanced and halted, eating at the furthest tin pails of food. When a new kitten tried to join it was hissed away. Eventually, all the tin pails were occupied with kittens, except for the three pails in front of me.

My grandma had over seventy cats at the time of her death.

So there were always lots of kittens.

Five kittens could not find a spot among the occupied food tin pails. And the food was being eaten also. So the five kittens slowly pranced to the new tin pails, mine. I sat perfectly still and quiet, grinning with excitement.

The first brave kitten advanced to the one of the food pails. Then it smelled the food being hungry. The kitten stopped and started to lick up the milk first. Well the other kittens saw and heard the food being eaten. So they run and scooted around the rest of the food pails, sitting and licking the milk. When the milk was gone, the kitten crouched down chewing on the corn bread pieces, distracting the kitten from the stranger.

I watched and waited until the tiny teeth were chewing on the tough corn bread piece, making its mouth occupied and its neurons happy.

Now, kittens have tiny stomachs. The tin pails were not always empty after the kittens finished eating. They ate then quickly filled their tiny tummies too.

So I had to be swift to capture my pretty prey.

The first kitten finished eating, sitting back on its rear legs, washing its face with a wet paw.

I studied the last kitten.

It was crouched over the tin pail, chewing on the soft corn bread. Its eyelids were closed too. It was chewing and chomping on the large piece of food, filling its hungry stomach.

I lunged forward, grabbing the kitten with my two cupped hands. One palm covered it head. The other palm held its expanded tummy. I rolled sideways, cuddling the kitten into my chest. I fell off the low porch and landed on my knees.

I was five years old with a low body to the ground.

I still cuddled the kitten with both my cupped hands. It was scared, screaming and clawing at my fingers, my chest, my arms, and my neck.

The other kittens spun around, dashing away from the loud commotion.

But I held on, feeling hot blood and intense pain. I giggled with delight. I had a kitten, my very own kitten.

I shoved the kitten underneath the throat, tilting my chin over the kitten. I was trying to keep it from escaping within my grasp. It was flinging claws and teeth on my body parts, creating both blood and cuts. It was mewing and hissing too.

A good sign of a feral feline.

But I didn't give a shit.

I had a kitten now. And I was taking the kitten home today. I was walking with the kitten towards the front door. If I could get it inside the house, then my mom would calm it down. Then I would have a new pet.

It was tiny gray and white tabby cat. But I had never held a kitten before. Our farm had cows, horses, goats, rabbits, dogs, and wild-ass spitting and hissing cats. The feral non-vaccinated cats never came near me. The cats were only kept to chase or kill rats.

And the baby kittens were birthed, lived, and played by the row of barns. I wasn't allowed near the barns being five years old without an adult.

When I tucked that the kitten underneath my chin, its claws started scratching my face. One sharp kitten claw caught my cheekbone flesh and pieced the tissue. I reacted with my sissy girly instinct, releasing the kitten, grabbing my new blooding cut.

The kitten run away, sliding underneath the honeysuckle vines.

I moved and ran to the house with a giggle and a grin from holding my first kitten, slamming the door and hollering. "Caught me a kitten."

My mom turned around and turned white with faint even as an ole country girl. My grandma gasped in shock too.

My face, neck, arms, and chest were covered in a series of ugly geometric tiny numerous lines of fresh red blood, where the kitten had clawed and cut my tender baby skin.

But I didn't give a shit.

I had held my first soft little kitten. And I wanted to hold it again tomorrow after feeding time too.

My grandma turned with a stern face and ran out the room, returning and carrying an open bottle of smelly rubbing alcohol. She dumped the stinky stuff directly over my arms, my chest, and neck.

Shit fire...

The stinging alcohol burned all over my open wounds of cut and broken baby skin.

But I didn't give a shit.

I was beaming with love and smiling with glee for holding my first baby kitten.

My parents and my grandparents were worried about my capturing cat scratch fever.

But I didn't give a shit.

I was smiling and laughing with happiness about capturing and holding my first kitten. At suppertime and throughout the night, I talked on and on about capturing another kitten tomorrow, after feeding time too.

I loved cats. I wanted my own kitten for my room to care and love and pet.

My family went home from my grandma's house after suppertime.

My mom washed my cuts with soap and water, again. Then she placed red iodine over each kitchen wound. And I didn't give a shit. I talked about capturing another kitten tomorrow at my grandmother house.

The next day, I dressed then entered the kitchen for breakfast. I smelled the food. We prayed ten ate and finished.

My mom started cleaning the kitchen as my dad asked for his baby daughter to accompany him to the barn.

I obliged being five years and loving my dad.

We walked to the barn, seeing the farm workers, the trees, and the grazing horse. My dad stopped and opened the side door on the barn. The side door held the stuff for the horse, including the saddles, the horse equipment, and the horse food.

I gasped with happiness.

There were two tiny six week old kittens, playing in the hay.

My dad gently shoved her into the room, kneeling and saying with a smile and a nod. "These are your kittens, honey. Now, ya don't have to try and chase your grandma's kittens. They can stay in your room safe and sound until old enough to run around outside. What'da ya want to name them?"

I bounce and mouth spat with joy and happiness, looking up the rafters and down to the hay, racking my brain cells for a cute loving name. I turned with a smile and a nod to my dad. "The solid gray kitten is Precious. The solid black one is Baby..."

Original...

I was only six years.

I was so happy with my kittens until my mean brothers kidnapped and tormented them. My brothers placed them in the tree branch.

After my tattling, my brothers didn't bother me or my kittens again.

Hell no...

Yeah. I love cats.

Present day, my parents lock all the doors at their house.

Back then, my brothers never bothered me again.

I have never used my hand or my foot or my elbow or my belt to hit another person, including my precious, sometimes, annoying and devious child. I wanted too but never did.

Do you know of a person that beats the shit out of another person?

I do not know of a person that beats the shit out of another person.

I am not an average American.

The Child Abuse...

The other day, I had eye witnessed child abuse which had been performed by my neighbor across the street.

Have you ever witnessed child abuse?

Honestly, I had never seen a child abused before this far sighted incident.

Well, the mother slapped the shit out of her little three year son. The son had hit his sister. The sister tattled like baby sisters do.

The three were standing beside her car, readying to go someplace.

Well, that woman reared her arm behind her curls and slapped that child in the face with a loud pop.

And then the child cried.

I turned around seeing and watching, some more.

Then, she reared an arm back again and then slapped the son in the face again and then again and then again until he escaped her womanly gripe. He scooted inside the car.

Fuck...

I was both shocked and scared for both me and the child.

Should I have intervened as a pissed off and scared mother too?

The woman was a divorced angry mother of two small children, except she had purchased a brand new SUV, pretty shiny gray colored. Every afternoon for the past two weeks, she was outside in her driveway bathing, washing, and perfuming that new damn car. She cleaned the windows with care. She vacuumed the interior rugs with love too. Then she would actually pat on the clean engine hood with her hand when finished.

And she smiled at her new car.

Stop...

I do not wash my car. It is a car. It is a machine that takes me from point A to point B. It is a good car. It is an older car which is paid. When it rains, I sit it outside, so it gets washed sorta. It is not coming into heaven with me, since it is staying here on shitty Earth.

Whatever...

And my child sometimes cleans it, but my child is busy in college. I do not boss my child around.

I am not an average American.

The Child Abuser...

I came home like always from my working job and parked the car in the driveway, looking out the rear view at the most curiosity commotion on the other side of the street.

There was a police car and an ambulance vehicle present.

Being a great busy body neighbor, I pranced over to see if I could spy, up close and personal.

Well, the first thing that caught my eye was the rear bumper of her brand new SUV vehicle. It was destroyed, ya'll.

The driver's side was meshed and smashed inward, causing part of the bumper to both protrude and separate.

Note: metal should not protrude out from a moving car.

The middle part of the rear hatch was indented like going the wrong way into the car. Someone had reared end that car. Or that car had reared end someone.

I saw and collected visually enough data. Now, I wanted the partial story.

Who done it?

The mother was crying, pointing to a stranger who was standing on the sideway.

The stranger was red faced and angry too. The police officer was taking notes with a stern face. The paramedic was standing around with a smirk at the entertainment event.

Well, the mother had reared end another car inside the parking deck of her work office building. Then she drove off without apologizing or tattling her nasty deed.

The stranger knew which car did the dirty deed, seeing a gray painted imprint on his new white car too.

I saw enough to know the story, swinging around and walking back home with a confused brow.

I deeply pondered if I should have intervened during the eye witness child abuse the other day?

But Almighty God sees and knows every fucking thing.

I am a very mellow female, sometimes, shy too. I have never been hit or punched and never reciprocated with a punch or a hit either.

How you ever been hit by a fist or a hand?

But do I use my acidic tongue, instead of my hand.

The old axiom says that the pen is mightier than the sword.

Or in my case, the curse word works beautifully.

I am not an average American.

The Vice...

The woman of the new but wrecked car had lots of vice like hitting her cute little kids which I bet pissed Almighty God off his puffy cloud.

A vice is something not good. I don't wanna use the word, bad. There is lots of really nasty bad stuff in the world like a beaten woman, an unwanted baby, a starving cat, or a homeless man.

These are some terrible examples of nasty bad ass shit to some shitty unlucky folks.

I have never been homeless, or unwanted or beaten, or starved.

Off subject...

I got a vice too like everyone else.

I do not drink alcohol. I do not like the funky bitter taste. Actually, my stomach tosses the fermented grapes or potatoes or corn right back up a tight esophagus. So I tried then tossed up my chewed up food entrees.

My stomach is weird like that.

I cannot eat and digest nutritional vitamins either for some strange reason. When I swallowed a hard vitamin, it landed inside my stomach, then it tried to come right back up through my nostrils.

I would burp with indigestion all day long.

So I never ever consume alcohol or vitamins.

DNA is funny like that too.

Now, the drug company invented the awesome gummy chewing vitamin. I can consume them, without a belly ache or shitty diarrhea.

Now, my preacher-man lectures that drinking alcohol is bad for the soul.

Beg pardon?

The heavenly soul is invisible. It does not eat or drink. Now, the earthly flesh is a different format of biological matter.

I do not mind a person consuming alcohol around me until the social situation becomes silly for the person and butt-annoying for me. And I can attest especially encountering my teen child at the front door of my home, after one of those few heavy intoxications of spirits.

Let me stop here...

I pray and think Almighty God, Brother Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and my heavenly angels that there has never been an incident during a drinking bout.

And I believe a person who drives any vehicle slightly buzzed or totally drunk should be arrested, handcuffed, jailed, and financial penalized, each and every time on sight. They should miss their working job, their Sunday school preaching, and their family time.

And I informed my child of my wise ass decision.

If the child was caught again, the car was gone. If you land your ass in prison jail, it is too fuckingly bad for you.

You can contact your dad or your uncle or your aunt or your granddaddy or your grandmother as I was a divorced parent.

I am not an average American.

The Drunken Date...

I had one shitty ass experience, riding with a disguised drunkard one night as a newly employed worker and not married without children. And it scared my butthole into shitting all over my pink lacey panties too.

I was on a date with someone who was not from my work office environment.

We were at a nightly social adult party without children around the holidays.

I do not drink.

Back then, I did not drink either.

Remember?

My stomach and mouth do not agree on liquor.

Well the evening rolled by nice and fun. The social gathering ended close to midnight. We moved and walked outside the house.

The yellow moon was shining. The white stars were brightly twinkling. The weather was heated and hot in the summertime, a hot romantic night.

He escorted me to the front passenger door. I entered into the seat, smiling and giggling.

Stop...

He had picked me up from my house too before the party for a fun night of two young adults.

I do not drink alcohol. And I do not need to drink alcohol to be smiles and giggles.

I am a very happy female, always smiling and giggling every hour, because I love life and not desiring death.

I love getting up in the early morning, going to work or seeing my child or working on my brain or feeding the stray animals or volunteering at church.

I do not like cleaning the damn house. I hate it. I have a paid maid service, because I work a good job, making lots of money, honey.

I am not an average American.

The House...

The maid service does a very good job of cleaning my big nasty house except for cleaning the cat shit outta of the nasty litter boxes. I do that.

Hell man...

I wouldn't sentence my former husband to clean the stinky cat shit outta of the triple litter boxes.

Fuck that...

You have not lived until you have cleaned off the new carpet inside the never used third bedroom floor with a beheaded dead bird. The bird is clearly dead without a head, a beak, and two eyeballs. And there is a pile of pretty red and white seedlings dripping from the gawd damn bloody opening which was the dead bird's throat.

Fuck it...

And I have not found the head yet.

More fuck...

I guess the cat ate it, because the cat carried the dead bird inside the house while I slept.

That's sound like punch line to a horror movie.

I have a kitty door, so the cats can run in and out without perturbing my sleep. Since I sleep very well during the night and the early morning hours

Actually, I do not problem falling asleep for any reason. I like to catnip during the weekends. And I like to catnap after work if the weather is too hot or too cold too.

The cat that killed that damn bird is a Maine Coon feline. The species is bred to find and kill rats inside and outside horse barns. She is an excellent hunter, three years old, seven pounds, and ten inches long without the fuzzy tail.

The dead bird was half her length.

She is a meanie feline, thou. She fights with all the other cats, all the walking dogs, all the running children, and the all the flying insects, and the moles, the chipmunks, and all the birds.

No matter the size or shape or fangs or claws...

I found her abandoned near a garbage bin at the grocery store at night. It was raining when I came out of the store. But my acute hearing heard a mewing sound. Being a cat lover, baby kittens sound like human babies.

I started searching and found her. She was both wet and scared. I kneeled on the wet concrete, finding and tearing off a piece of bread.

She was both scared and hungry. Then she pranced over, eating the bread.

I patted her wet head and picked her up. She was so skinny and fragile, only a tiny kitten. I took her to the veterinarian, getting her shots, and her female parts removed and spaded. She is beautiful solid black cat, enjoying her pampered life, and still hunting all the wild insects and small rodent.

Let me tell you?

I grew up the rural country with snakes and horses and have seen some nasty shit. But a dead bird, without a head, spilling a batch of eaten seedlings over the clean carpet was disgustingly yucky. This stationary event was both cough gagging and spit drooling.

I wanted call the maid service like a chicken shit. But I didn't. I used the trusty one dollar great big plastic blue colored dust and the tiny broom and swept that dead bird into the pan while wearing the plastic pink gloves and holding my bile. Then I dropped all three into the nice clean trashcan.

And then I wrapped the plastic bag up tight.

Then I bathed the rug bloody spot really good with a cup of chloride on the first day, a cup of vinegar on the second, and a cup of apple vinegar on the third.

Yipe...

There is a dull gray spot on the white floor but it is sanitized good.

I have six cats that enjoy bathing in the sunshine or playing under the plant shrubs along with the sticky black spider cobwebs.

I be damned.

Each cat comes inside the house, padding from the bright outdoors to fucking shit their perfectly rounded brown turds inside one of the two clean and expensive litter boxes.

Goodness...

I could be save precisely $503.68 per fucking year in money, if the damn cats acted like damn cats and then shitted outside anywhere in the pretty manicured lawn like a barbaric animal.

I am not an average American.

The Drunkard Date continued...

Her date slid around the front bumper, waving and winking to the girl. Then he slipped into the driver's seat of a cute sleek two-seater sports car with a manual transmission.

I can drive a manual transmission gear box too and not many females can drive a stick. I like driving a manual transmission. But I don't do it in my three inched designer heels. I drive with bare feet, exchanging my high heels for flat shoes or flat feet.

I have owned three sports cars.

Zoom...

And then I wrecked and survived a crash inside a sports car with the convertible top down too.

Ah shit...

I am not an average American.

The Car Accident...

The car accident was not my fucking fault.

The asshole sedan driver ran through a stop sign, deciding to use my car as the stop sign.

Before the car wreck, I did not have a stop sign for stopping. The roadway only had one stop sign.

Anyways, I was a good safe driver. These particular words were printed on my driver's license too. Then I slowly rolled through the stop sign, going about five miles per hour in first gear.

The asshole hit my sport car, doing only twenty five miles per hour. The asshole tore my car to big ugly metal pieces, hitting the grill, the headlights, and the rest of the engine hood on my little sports car. He took it all with him, traveling across the street intersection until his car wrapped around the piercing hot metal.

And then he halted.

The asshole was lost inside the city limits being a tourist. So, instead of driving his car with both caution and restrain like fuckingly slow, he drove fucking fast and finding me in the night.

The air bag implored on top of my body, of course. I jerked both my arms forward as a survival instinct, protecting my pretty face.

I am a pretty girl and have won some beauty contests too. I have a set of rhinestone tiaras to boot.

Presently, the beauty doesn't matter now when you are old and gray and wrinkled.

Brother Jesus said. "Beauty fades but wisdom endures."

Yeehaw...

Anyways, I wore a long sleeved sweatshirt that night. The sweatshirt protected my entire upper body. But the sleeves were shoved up to my elbows, exposing my forearms. The air bag hit my left naked forearm, leaving a shallow red bloody cut, breaking the skin tissue but not my bones or my nerve endings.

The wound healed into a permanent circular scar on my arm, always reminding me of the nasty incident.

However, I was not injured on any other body part.

I was both stunned and dazzled like I had been hit with a club or something, sitting quietly inside the seat with the air bag covering my body but not my face. Then I got pissed off. My sharp and active neurons kicked in. My brand new convertible blood red colored two-seater sports car was wrecked, only three months old.

And that asshole was standing healthy and unharmed beside his torn-up four door luxury sedan, talking to the one of the passengers.

My sports car was smashed in at the driver's side too. I couldn't get out the driver's door, exiting the car. And the air bag was hugging my body. So I violently jerked the air bag from my body. Then I struggled getting the safety belt off my body without feeling any pain. I lifted my ass from the seat with both my girly biceps.

I struggled with both my legs and my arms and stood in the seat upright, kicking the nasty air bag from my legs and my shoes.

An air bag was composed of a tough rough fabric texture like a tent canopy. And it contained white powder. The powder kept the fabric slightly moist for ease of imploring the fabric over your face and body. But it did save a precious human life for me twice.

Yeah man...

I survived a second totaled car wreck again and not my fault again. But that's another story for another novel.

Anyways, I always wear my safely belts, then and now. I always secure my safety belt first, before staring the car. And I always lock the door first from any lingering crim-animals, before securing my safety belt. And I always carry my car key in my right fighting side. I am right handed dominate. I always carry the pointy end forward in case of attack to stab the sharp point tip into an eyeball or the tenth rib of the asshole for his pain and my escape.

I learned that sleek car key trick in my karate class in college.
O boy...

I had fun in my karate class too. I was one of two females in an all male karate class with seven other tall cute and buff teen males. You ain't live until your body has been wonderfully and purposefully man-handled in the mostest desirous place at numerous times during a karate exercise by a set of good looking college guys.

Yeah baby...

And I am a green belt. I received it by paying my college tuition for the class, asshole. I couldn't bust the silly wooden one inch board over the two towers of bricks with my right fighting hand ever, since I am tender prissy female with a set of manicured pink painted nails.

I am not an average American.

The Car Accident continues...

Back to my first car accident, I turned my angry distorted face and non-injured body to see the front passenger seat and stomped over the second deployed air bag that was resting inside the passenger seat.

I was in a sports car with the top down, ya'll.

Then I stripped out the dirty sweatshirt of white powder, tossing in the rear (the tiny baby trunk). I squatted and shoved with those same girly biceps without getting the damn door opened with my girly weakness. So I stood then jumped...naw... slowly climbed over the door frame.

I struggled over the door frame and stood by the car door which wasn't hit but stuck. And I was fuming pissed off mad, balling my hands into fists at the fucking ass lousy driver. Now, the verbal cussing would about to explode.

The emergency personnel and vehicle came immediately and stopped at the nasty wreckage. The roadway was a big ugly wreck site, spilling the guts of two red and blue painted automobiles. The emergency personnel quickly scattered about the vehicles and the drivers.

Then the nice emergency paramedic dashed over to the smashed up blood red colored two-seater sports cars, not finding a driver. He was really confused too. Then he spotted the standing girl on the other side of the sports car. He jogged over, asking a really silly question. "Where's the driver of the car?"

"Me." I slapped my breasts, sneering and watching the other healthy driver. He was walking around unharmed and alive, not dead and bleeding.

The paramedic looked at the car and the girl. "Where's the driver?"

"Me." I slapped my breasts again with a sneer at other driver.

"Were you a passenger in the car?"

I frowned and turned to see him with fury, pointing at my wrecked car. "I own the damn car. That's my damn car. That fucking ass driver wrecked my damn car. I can't drive a wrecked gawd damn car." I thumbed over my collar bone to the alive and breathing other driver.

The paramedic frowned at the girl and looked at the wrecked sports car and looked at the girl with a confused brow. "You can't be driver? If you were the driver, you would have blood over all your face. Both of the air bags imploded. Usually, the driver is covered in both white powder and red blood. You don't have white powder on your face or your body. And I don't see any blood on your face. So where is the driver? Did another ambulance show and take the driver to the hospital?" He turned and scanned the empty roadway.

I eye rolled with annoyance, exhaling with fury.

The police officer jogged to the paramedic and the girl, asking. "Where is the owner of that red sports car?"

"Present. Here. Me." I turned and raised my hand with a grin and a nod.

The police officer frowned with puzzlement. "Was the owner taken to the hospital? The air bag imploded. Why aren't you covered in blood and powder? When the air bag implores, the driver is covered in blood and powder?"

Now, I am really annoyed. "I'm the driver of the car." I looked down and viewed my clothes without seeing any white powder. Then I remembered, looking up with a grin to the police officer. "O. I tossed my sweat shirt that I was wearing over my body in the back inside the trunk during the accident. I think that it's covered in powder."

We moved and walked to the car.

The police officer said to her. "I need to see your driver's license, the car registration, and your insurance information."

I leaned over the passenger window and pulled out all the identification from the glove compartment to show the police officer all my proper legal documents.

He looked at the papers and gasped. "You do own the car."  
"Yes. Now, go and arrest that asshole for beating up my nice new sports car, sir. He ran the stop sign."

The police officer looked at the wrecked car and at the girl. "How did ya miss from getting whacked with the air bag?"

I pondered that thought, while my arm was burning with pain. I looked down at a circle of blood on the underside of my, rubbing my arm. "O. I remember now. When I get hit by the asshole driver, my car lunged to the right. Well my body followed the direction of the spinning car. Then I raised both hands, ya know like protecting my body. Then my left arm caught the air bag. And I remembered, seeing the fully imploded second air bag in the passenger seat. See my arm is bleeding?" I extended and presented my arm, fingering the wound.

The paramedic gasped with shock, grabbing her arm. "You're the driver of the car. You're in shock. You can't remember what happened."

I pointed my other hand at the other driver. "I just told ya what happened. That asshole hit my car. I am fine..."

The police officer frowned at her. "How did ya exit the car? The driver's door is smashed. And the passenger door won't move. I can't open it."

I exhaled, looking at the police officer. "I walked in the air like Brother Jesus walked over water..."

The paramedic was dumping white oily mediation over her arm. "She's in shock...."

"She's an asshole. You are very lucky that this car accident was not your fault, miss." The police officer was writing down her identification information inside the little notebook for the police report.

I sneered. "Naw. It ain't my fault, sir. It's that asshole's fault over yonder, who is drinking the water. Go and arrest his ass for causing a mess in a public city street and wrecking the city public property. He also hit the brick wall of the public library where it lived in the street corner too. Are you fucking blind, sir?"

The paramedic jerked her to him. "Are you bleeding anywhere else? Are you dizzy? Are you sick? Are you ready to vomit? What is your name? What is your address? Where do you live? What city is this?"

I exhaled with fury and thumbed over my collar bone to the other driver. "Naw. I'm fine. Are you going to arrest that asshole? I wanna be present and cuss out his ass..."

"She's in shock." The paramedic was yanking on the girl, trying to move both of them to the open doors of the ambulance. "She should go to the emergency room and get checked over after being in a head on collision..."

The police officer smiled with a nod to the girl. "Yeah. She is in shock. You should take her to the emergency room and get her medical admitted after getting whacked by the air bag from a head-on car accident. Bye, Miss Smartass." He swung around and moved to the other driver.

"No." I pulled back from the paramedic.

He jerked her forward to the ambulance. "You're going to the hospital, miss. The air bag hit your head. You're in shock. You don't remember the accident."

I struggled with him. "Naw. I'm fine. I wanna go home."

"You need immediate medical attention, ma'am." He shoved her into the rear of the ambulance and tossed her ass on top of a body board, strapping her flinging arms and legs over the hard wood.

The door closed.

Inside the emergency room, I laid as a hostage on top of the damn straight body board for three fucking hours, shouting and screaming, until I had completed a couple of chest and head X-rays. Then I was admitted into a hospital room for medical observation.

I calmed down and slept through the rest of the night.

The next day, after I was released from the hospital, I didn't get a medical invoice, because my car insurance received the hospital invoice

My insurance company paid for everything when it was labeled a car accident from the ambulance service to the emergency physician to the emergency visit and the inpatient room.

And all the payments compliment of my insurance company.

However, my insurance company sued the shit balls off the asshole driver's insurance too. The asshole driver's insurance paid for my new car, my numerous hospital bills, and my many doctor visits.

And I sued the shit balls off the asshole's driver's insurance company in a personal injury lawsuit and won lots of money, since it was asshole's fault.

Fuck yeah...

My lawyer got most of the insurance settlement money rather than I as he was the true villain of my story.

All lawyers are scum bags.

I do not know a trustworthy lawyer.

Do you know of a trustworthy lawyer?

I find it intriguing that a person sues for money.

The lawyer is not suing for a moment of praise or a nice apology or a piece of whatever. He is suing for money.

The love of money is the root of all evil.

A person sues for money to the physician that saved their ass or the drug company that saved their balls or the pacemaker that saved their heart or a cigarette company for smoking cigarette.

A person with a medical condition should be grateful for the extra few months or years.

Hell naw...

A person pairs with a lawyer to sue the company for money.

Where is the Christian purpose here?

I do not understand.

Do you understand the Christian purpose here?

Do you know a person that has sued for money for smoking a cigarette too?

If you smoke cigarettes, you will die of lung cancer, stupid?

If you receive a pacemaker, you will die of a heart attack, asshole?

If you take drugs for any medical condition, you body from God will reject it and you will die, asswipe?

If you were saved by a medical procedure, your body might not like it, then you will die, shit ass?

You should not blame anyone.

The part of death comes from Almighty God and not the company or the physician or the cigarette.

Fuck you...

I do believe that cancer is not going to be cured ever by any scientist never or ever.

What a waste of my taxpayer's money?

The Bible says that the flesh will suffer.

Well, a person with cancer suffers a lot and then dies.

Anyways, I am not worried about catching cancer or a common cold. I am a healthy woman. And my genes are healthy too.

And to add to my protection, I drive really very slowly inside my big ass SUV which is paid for. It is so big if someone hits it, I will not know for a couple of days when I find the dead body hanging off the rear bumper.

I am not an average American.

The Drunkard Date continues...

After the social gathering during the holiday party, my date started the car, talking and chuckling like a normal guy. The way a normal guy acts during a normal date.

I lived along a curvy and winding road. Part of the curvy road was cliff side near the ocean, very beautiful. To get back to my apartment, being a working single girl, you drove along a two lane highway, the shortest route.

The two lane highway was built along the edge of the high cliff. Below the cliff, there was an ocean bay which was five hundred feet down. One side of the car which was my side, there was only air and water and not a landscape of groomed grass, tall trees, and plant bushes.

The other side of the road which was his side, there was a flat landscape of manicured colored wildflowers and planted trees, and parts of the sandy ground, the landmass. The landmass was connected to the rest of the landscape and then separate by the nicely paved windy highway.

My date started driving, slamming into first gear, while talking and chuckling. Then, he jerked into second gear then third gear, driving along the two lane highway, the cliff.

Then, my date rammed the stick into fourth gear. My date chuckled, winking. He was not watching the road but the girl. "Ya wanna see how fast we can get you home?" Then, he drifted into the wrong driving lane of the highway.

I saw him driving down the wrong lane, yelling with my distorted and angry face. "No."

My date chuckled, winking at the girl, driving in the wrong lane of the highway. "Ya wanna see how fast I can go?"

"Get back into your driving lane. No."

My date chuckled and downshifted as my heart sank.

We were cruising in the wrong traffic lane. It is midnight black as pitch tar. The bright stars were billions of miles away. The moon was bright which did not substitute for day sunlight.

I slowly inhaled and held my breath and did not vocal a fight with the fool. I wanted to live to the next morning.

He downshifted again.

We were traveling at seventy miles per hour on the dangerous curvy two lane highway at midnight.

I unlatched the safety belt, holding onto the door handle. If the car skidded out the highway, I would survive after falling over the cliff and into the water for a wrecked car. I did not give a damn about his pissing life.

He chuckled, weaving and not on purpose back and forth into both lanes. He was driving at eighty miles per fucking hour.

In physics, he could not navigator a car between the brisk cliff winds and the curvy road.

I prayed to live to see the sunrise tomorrow. I slowly controlled my breathing, while controlling my rapid heart rate. I had to remain both conscious and alert for the upcoming car wreck, so I would survive.

I pressed the smooth metal button.

The window dropped.

My face burned with short bursts of whipped air currents.

He turned with a sour frown and a yell to see the window. "Hey. Why'da ya do that?"

I yelled over the flowing air currents on my worried brow. "I'm hot. I wanna go home. I wanna go home now. I'm tired from the party."

"Well, sure. We can to your place..."

I nodded without a smile. It was really dark. You could not see my face or my fury. "Yeah. Yes. I wanna go home now. Get us home now. Pronto. Fast. Faster..."

My plan was to move away from the curvy highway and the cliffs. And my plan worked too

"Yeah. Yeah. Hold on..." He nodded with a grin and held the steering wheel with two hands, driving around the curves of the road and away from the cliffs.

I closed my eyelashes, holding back the fury and the vomit, leaning my curls against the head rest.

He drove over the roadway when it turned into a four land highway to my apartment.

The car slowed and stopped.

I sat in the passenger seat, calming my nerves and my fury.

He killed the engine, turning with a smile to see her nose profile. "Hey, babe. We are here at your place for some more fun. The night is young. And we are young and frisky..."

I cracked open the door, standing and twisting to him. "Fu..."

Puke.

I burped and gagged, leaning over my empty car seat, vomiting over the polished leather. I mouth splattered one more time my nasty green vomit from the good tasting food from the party. I wiped the mouth with my back of my hand, sanding and slamming the door and the odor shut. "Bye..."

I turned and entered my apartment.

The guy drove off, screeching the tires.

That was my only encounter with a drunkard asshole ever.

Note. A drunkard inside a car drives and harms other innocent people like me or worse my sweet child. This is all documented and proven as real fact.

Why on planet Earth does the American society not go after and attack the drunkard instead of other non-vicious and non-violence parties?

Fuck them...

I am not an average American.

The Good Deed...

When I was a child going to church, I was told by the preacher-man numerous things. One, I am to do a good deed every day.

Well he said that if I did not repent of my sins in front of the damn congregation that I would go to hell, if I were to step outside and get hit by his car.

I was scared of the preacher-man for a very long time until he died. Then I thanked Almighty God for His task.

I do not believe that preacher-man was a nice person.

But he told everyone to do a good deed every day. Day and night equals twenty four hours which is lots of time to do a good deed.

Honestly, I cannot remember what daily good deed I selected as a young child.

Present day, I collect my postal mail in the morning right before hitting the nasty ass traffic jam. I live outside nasty ass Metro City, USA that contains one live and breathing million folks within a ten mile radius.

And you meet all one million drivers at the same damn time for traveling to work in the morning. And you meet them traveling to home in the late afternoon.

Hell yeah...

Why a business or the fucking ass government entity do not alternative the working class scheduled hours?

We live in the technology age.

Maybe, the answer to my personal wise question is because Americans could save some wasted time, lots of valuable expensive petro, and those precious lives.

Most accidents occur, during the hours of the infamous traffic jam, when dumb shit drivers speed their metal machines on the roadway to their employment, for some stupid dumb reason.

Or a stupider driver is texting on the mobile telephone.

I see it every day morning and afternoon while I am driving.

You can tell when the car veers into your lane. Then you veer into the grassy roadside, without causing a car accident.

I fucking wished that I could call the police and get that a driver arrested. Or, I fucking wished the police would ride, along with the morning and afternoon drivers, preventing that shit from happening to me or my sweet child or you or your sweet child.

I have noted, that when a police car blends into the morning steam rolling automobiles. Every single driver slows down. This is great. Every single driver should drive, really slowly.

Then my fucking car insurance rate would be twenty dollars per year and not thousand times that financial amount.

Or try this one?

Americans would not need to purchase any car insurance for a new wrecked car, because nobody would be causing an accident.

Another rip off of my hard working money...

Right on...

Well I was young once too.

Now, I am an old fart with fifty ply years, gray hair, facial wrinkles, yellow teeth, and cellulite on my ass. Yeah. I am the one who drives forty miles per hour in the right lane, motherfucker.

Back then, as a young adult, I received my share of speeding traffic tickets, too. I remember the metal foot, also.

In my twenties long time, ago, I got chased down by a police car, performing hundred miles per hour on the open highway.

Yeah man...

I really was driving at hundred miles per hour. I was in an old car, watching the speedometer line to the right.

In an older model car, the speedometer was a long line of numbers going across the dashboard. The zero number is on the left side of the speedometer. The number 200 is only the right side.

And the speedometer line was moving fast across and to the right.

Yeehaw...

I was in college, coming back from a fun time, driving at midnight to my house.

I lived at home with my biological parents with tons of love, freedom, and food. I didn't have one single fucking responsibility or a shitty debtor's note or a single dollar bill. My only goal was to graduate college with a piece of paper per my dad's desire, for a good paying job.

And my mom's revenge of not marrying that farm boy.

And I fulfilled his wish or else get married or work a waitress job.

I am not an average American.

The School Bus...

I eye witnessed a few days ago a poor school bus driver could not get over into the proper lane for picking up the children.

Where I live, the roads are always being paved or worked. So the four lanes were pair down to two lanes.

The school was in the left hand lane and needed in the right hand lane like always.

Stop...

I drive to work at the same time. I am a creature of habit. I wake up at the same time. I go to bed at the same time. I arrive at work at the same time.

Every day, I drive with the cars to work and the school bus for children.

This day was not any different.

Except, the school bus merged into the one lane and needed to move over the right hand lane to stop and pick up the waiting school children. The line of school children were waiting for their school bus for school. And the bus was way ahead of me. However, there were a line of five cars in the right lane beside the school bus.

The school bus driver tapped his blinker to move over to the right hand lane.

Stop...

I would see this school bus every morning. The school bus drives down the highway and merges into the left lane with the other cars then the bus moves into the right hand lane and stops.

The school bus turns off the highway to pick up the children without disrupting the traffic flow too.

The school bus could not move over into the right hand lane. The five cars zoomed by without stopping and yielding for the school bus to come over and pick up the school children.

And the school bus missed the turn off onto the side roadway.

As I approached the school bus, I slowed down to allow the school bus in front of me but we both had passed the turn out point.

It did not matter anymore.

The school bus went up to the next road intersection and turned around.

I was so mad at all the shitty ass car drivers who showed no respect to the school children and the school bus driver.

Fucking assholes...

The school bus needed over into the proper traveling lane and the other rolling cars did not yield the turn signal.

People are fucking assholes.

People do not care about nothing else but themselves and their cars and their mobile telephones and their plates of food and their designer clothes and their...

I do believe that a police car should follow behind every school bus in the USA and ensure that the children get on the bus both safe and secure.

I am not an average American.

The Speeding Ticket...

I lived in the country. To reach the country, you exited out of the city limits. After I hit the last traffic light out of the city, there was nothing but rolling hills of smooth pavement. I drove a dull painted old muscle car with eight cylinders, badass fast. It was the hand-me-down automobile at age sixteen after being wrecked and gifted from my brother.

And then he got a shiny brand new sports car for fucking the girls in college.

Nothing ever changes for the sexes of brothers and sister.

Hell yeah...

I had a full tank of gasoline and nothing to do on a Saturday night at midnight but go home and sleep.

I do not drink. Therefore, I was not drunk while driving my sports car fast.

I downshifted into fourth gear, jumping the pistols into eighty miles per hour. I jammed the stick into fifth gear, slamming the gas pedal down into the car floor, watching the dark road ahead of me. My excellent peripheral vision saw the tall trees dance like blurred ghosts in the night hot and heated night air.

But I could feel the acceleration of the engine, burning through my foot sole. Both hands were glued on the steering wheel, slightly sweating from a high speed heart pounding thrill ride. The car drove both fast and steady.

Smooth as a baby's butt, man...

The countryside was marred by rolling short hilltops. And the roadway followed these same rolling short hills. I went up and down then up and down, staring into the darkness with my excellent eyesight. My headlights provided some awesome shitty visibility at about hundred feet or so.

But I didn't need the headlights. I was born here. I knew all those main highways and back country roads by heart as a smartass girly teen.

Hell man...

I had to drive the old truck at the age of twelve, helping my dad around the farm.

By my twenties, I was a race car diva, flying at hundred miles per hours.

Shit man...

I could have driven that car blindfolded, knowing each dip along only paved highway.

I heard the zoom sound my flying car up and over each familiar hilltop, seeing how fast she could go as my eyeballs focused only on the dark asphalt.

No cows lived on the main highway ever. No traffic lights either. No police cars ever.

This part of the highway was stationed inside the county limits, not the city limits which was not patrolled at night, especially at midnight.

To access my house, I must slow way down and then make a very sharp ninety degree turn, coming from the only US highway inside my county. And this was the only country road directly leading to my house.

I slammed the brakes, hearing the rubber melt. I slowed my speed down enough, cornering that right angle without sliding off into the two foot dirt ditch. Then I floored the gas with a gasp.

There was a solo dark colored police car turning the same right angle corner with me. The police car did not have the siren horns blasting only the white and blue lights running.

I had a shitting heartache, releasing a fart as well. Then I slammed the brakes, rolling into a stop totally.

I was caught driving hundred miles per hour.

Hell yeah...

Please be gentle with the hand cuffs, Mr. Police Officer.

My hands shook, tossing the purse upside, exploding junk over the front passenger seat. I looked in the darkness for my shitty ass driver's which would be revoked for a month or two. The valid and updated car registration was paid by my dad. These items should prove me innocent.

Not...

I dropped the electric window, seeing a fucking cold barrel, belonging to a handgun. It was pointing in my face. I tossed my hands into the air and heard.

"Shit..." The police officer frowned, whipping his hand gun into the air away from her face. He holstered it, smiling and exhaling. "Phew. I thought you were a drug raider or something. You were traveling at hundred miles per hour, sweetheart. Did ya know that? Where are you going? Are ya being chased? Why are driving so fast? Girl, what the hell are doing out here at midnight? This is a country road to nowhere."

I said with a grin and a giggle with silliness and nodding like a sweet innocent southern belle. I presented my license, car registration. "It goes to my house. I...I live here on this road. And I...I missed my curfew, sir. My dad's gonna be really mad at me. So I...I really need to hurry home," still grinning.

"Are you in school?"

"I am a college student."

"O. Me, too. I'm working on the college degree during the day. I go to work at night."

"That's nice. You can give me the ticket now. So I can run along to home now." I was not getting out of a hundred mile per hour speeding ticket.

He taps her drivers' license with a nod and smile on his hand. "I know your dad."

Ah shit...

He smiled. "Does your dad know that you're out this late?"

I exhaled. "Well I'm in college, over the age of eighteen. But I do need to get home now. It's late, ya know."

He scratched his whiskered face. "Well, I'm going have to write ya up for car speeding. Ya know I had to call it into the department, chasing down a highway speeder, especially going way over the posted street sign limit. I thought you might've been a drug runner or a fugitive. Ya understand? And I'm the city police officer, but I chased ya into the county. So I gotta show that I investigated and did my job here tonight. So I'll make the speeding ticket out for seventy five miles per hour. That way ya don't get into bad problem being a teenager. But your dad's going to be mad as hell, girl," laughing.

I nodded, smiling. I accept the paper restriction, instead of a prison restrain. "Thank you. Thank you. Please write the ticket, now. I...I'll talk with my dad about it."

He turned the looked down the dark country road. There were not any set of illuminated street lamps. He looked to her with a grin and a nod. "Ya know being so late and so dark on this ole country road, I'll escort you to your dad's house."

Ah shit...

My grandfather was not wealthy, but smart. He owned thousands of acres of fertile crop land, along with a couple of personal businesses. Then he made damn shore that all his children received equal shares of land property for both living and working. My dad was the baby of twelve kids.

Back in the olden days, before birth control, a woman birthed a litter of children. The children grew up, working the farm. My grandparents were no different. Each child, boy, or girl lived and worked the farm too.

Some of the children grew up, moved away, and kept the land for money profiteering. Then the same children moved back at their elderly years. Then they gave the land to their children, for living or money profiteering also.

Now days, farmers are becoming an existent breed, within America.

Someone please explain to me?

How are we to live, if all the field crops are being used and turned into residential homesteads? Where is all the food, coming from? How are people making a living, from the computer industry? From warfare? From sports and entertainment?

My dad being the last child got the worse load of the field crops and the ole house, from his parents.

Better than nothing...

I got nothing, coming from my parents as an adult. I was the baby too. So I got a wedding proposal of marriage which was viciously rejected with my mouth spit and unladylike words.

That's another story, ya'll.

My grandfather built a new wooden house for his new bride. As the children multiplied, my grandfather built a bigger house for his wife and many kids. The other house was used through the decades by various blood relatives.

I was told which was not verified.

One blood relative committed suicide inside one of the upstairs bedrooms and it was not mine.

Yeah.

I checked for blood stains on the wooden floor and the ceiling.

When a body is hung from the ceiling, there is splattered blood.

Whatever...

But I always lived with cats as a little child too. Cats are the guardians of the underworld.

And I never saw a ghost inside that house either, but the house ceiling did creak and crack with creepy noise at night a lot.

So my dad inherited this old shitty ass ancient three story old mansion and he spent as much time fixing the house as fixing the food crops.

The police officer followed behind me to the edge of the driveway after getting my speeding ticket that night.

I did not tell my dad.

But the insurance company sent an invoice and increased the car insurance.

My dad found the invoice in the mail and yelled at my mom as she denied the crime. Then he turned with a sour frown to see me.

I giggled and slapped my chest. "Me..."

My dad frowned. "How did you pay for the traffic ticket?"

"With my own money..."

My dad spun around, shaking his head.

There were numerous other speeding tickets during my marriage. The police officer issued each speeding ticket with a smile, but my insurance company loved me more.

Yeah woman...

I am not an average American.

The Fast Food Joint...

I work. But you know that.

I arise every morning on Monday through Friday and get dressed and drive to work. I own a car that I paid with my hard working dollars and cents. My parents did not give me a car.

I will retract that statement.

I received an old muscle car at sixteen years old, because I was the only kid left at home.

My sisters were married off at the age of eighteen years and one day to a nice local farm boy. My brothers both attended and graduated college.

I used that old muscle car driving back and forth to college for classes.

And then it happened.

My brother graduated college and get a job and then he get married. His wedding gift was my old muscle car.

My parents worked and liked to take back their assets.

Currently, at my work office, I sometimes drive to get fast food.

Yeah man...

I crave a gulp of pink slime in my hamburger too.

I drive down a city street between two housing projects.

A housing project is a set of matching apartment usually brick with one door and two bedrooms and two bathroom for the niggers throughout the USA. Since the welfare niggers birth between three to four children for the free welfare money checks from my income taxes, each month.

O.

Let me back track.

When I drive down the highway from my neighbor, I steer through Boggier Town, USA.

It is a really the black colored skin people in Metro City, USA.

My dad called it Boggier Town, USA.

I guess he was referencing the boggier man or something stupid. Honestly, I didn't understand until later in my life.

As I drive down the nice clean highway at a really slow pace, since I am older with slower reflexes and slow thoughts. My eyeballs catch and see numerous abandoned stores that used to hold merchandise. The stores display broken windows, busted down doors, ripped off brick stones.

My eyeballs see roaming animals, mostly dogs or a pack of dogs.

My eyeballs see abandoned houses with broken windows, busted down doors, ripped off wooden planks. Or the abandoned house is partially burnt with black colored frame.

And my eyeballs see best that old, young, and mature adults walk up and down the vanilla colored sidewalks. They smoke cigarette, carry beer cans, and walk and talk.

Yeah man...

Now I am driving to work. I rose up at six thirty to feed my cat, dress my body, empty my garbage and enter my car to drive to work.

If I do not drive to work, I do not receive a check of money to feed the cats, dress my body, gas my car, and fill the garbage with eaten food products.

However, I see every morning, the abandoned stores, the abandoned houses, the stray dogs, and the lazy people.

Near my office building, the city street between two housing projects is littered with papers. I mean actually sheets of flat paper which words are fluttering around the road like a pile of tumbleweeds in the desert. The litter also includes paper cups, soda cans, beer cans, broken glass, dead animals, individual shoe, a left foot.

There are individual pieces of clothing like jackets, shirts and hoodies.

Yeah man...

This is modern day America.

For the hard working average American, the welfare check is your taxes from your paycheck that is paid to the welfare niggers to do nothing but fuck and have baby after baby after baby. The welfare nigger never moves or leaves the housing project but stays and has baby after baby after baby.

This is modern day America.

I drive down the street of the housing project which is near my work office.

In the morning time, you should see the number of children from the housing project. There must be twenty kids between the ages of four and twelve taking the yellow school bus to free school and learning nothing. Then the second yellow school stops to pick up the middle school kids. There must fifteen or more of them.

No matter.

The damn welfare nigger babies will grow up to be nigger thieves and murderesses and murders like always. They will kill each other. Or they will rob each other. Or they will fuck each other with more nigger babies. And they all will get USA welfare checks and food stamps.

That means they will not work for money, eat free food from the grocery store and do nothing for the rest of their breathing days.

Sometimes, I leave my work to cheat on my healthy diet and drive to a fast food place. The fast food restaurant is two streets below the black nigger housing project. I drive down between the housing projects during the middle of the day, there are six local police cars there arresting or handcuffing a nigger for stealing or raping or drugging or fucking or maiming or something illegal.

Told ya...

This is modern day America.

I pay the salaries of the police officers and the police cars and the police dogs.

I mean six police car are parked only the street that is there for something.

Do you have six police car parked along on your city street too?

I do not.

In my nice and quiet neighborhood, a police car is not parked outside my house or my neighbor's house or another neighbor's house.

This is America.

I am not an average American.

The Robbery...

I have been robbed and not by gun point. I bow down on my kneecaps and thank Almighty God. I probably would shit a big smelly turd inside my pink lace panties if someone aimed a gun in pretty face. Or I would be dead. Since the nigger would want my purse with my cash.

I carry around three hundred dollars cash all the time for purchasing item, such like, a bag of cat litter, a bag of eating groceries, a gallon of gasoline, and anything else that I wanna buy.

I started that trend after I divorce my asshole ex-husband. He never carried around cash, because he spent cash faster than an old space shuttle launch.

After the asshole divorced me, I started withdrawing cash money and toting it around in my purse. I am still old fashion with the purse. My purse is not a designer handbag.

It is a purse.

How many purses do you really need?

The answer is one.

So I carry around cash which could be stolen or robbed from me. But I ain't worried. I live in a safe community without robberies or burglaries or druggies or wicked people.

But my house had been robbed and raped by a gang of teenage niggers. The police told me that too. The police knew who it was but couldn't catch them. A gang of niggers were going around a few different neighborhoods, breaking into house and stealing stuff.

I have a job to work for money like The Bible states from seven am to five pm every day, doing what the Bible says.

And then I was robbed.

The niggers broke the window and entered my house during the day when I was at work, taking their time and going through the house.

The drawers and closets were opened. Items were scattered all over the floor and the bed mattresses. It was a big mess.

I actually felt violated like I had been touched by their wiggling nasty fingers.

I called the police.

And then my poor house was the victim.

They arrived and finger printed the house with the black ink.

Another mess to clean...

The material possession that the niggers stole meant nothing to me, including the televisions, radios, telephones, gold encrusted dishes, money, and jewelry.

I guess that the welfare niggers needed the items for food for their nigger babies and beverages for their nigger kids.

Whatever...

I am not an average American.

The Second Robbery....

And then my house was robbed the second time as we came home to the same fucking ugly scene with the open closets and drawers, scattered clothing and non-breakable items. They did not take much more. We did not replace the other valuables that were stolen before.

But overall I felt like my body was invaded with their nasty black finger pads.

Actually, in the second round of robbery I learned to care less about material possessions rather than my precious life.

I also had two cats that were scared and unharmed. But every time a limb hit the rooftop or a swishing sound hit the floor, my cats would run and hide underneath the bed.

They were the real victims.

And I was so grateful that my cats were no harmed or kidnapped.

Bad people kidnap precious pet of cats and dogs and sell from lots of monies to the research companies. So the research companies can toss chemicals into their eyeballs and eardrums to see if they suffer and die.

And I got that information from a former chemical engineer at a former chemical company that makes products to clean your bathroom and your kitchen, so your kitchen smells good and does help your pinky toes.

Did you know that all the caged animals in research laboratories are alive and suffering with pain and torment, so that you didn't burn your finger on the house hold chemical.

If you did not, now you do.

So what are you going to do about this animal torture? How are you going to explain to Almighty God that you know that His creatures were being tortured and tormented and you did nothing about it?

I do not wear cosmetic makeup, because the cosmetic companies test the makeup products on live animals to protect the paying customers with money for their bank accounts.

I do not use chemicals on my floor and my bathroom. I clean it with lemon juice and water.

I do not kill the bugs outside my house, because my cats get them first.

I am not an average American.

The Good Deed...

Presently, after I collect my mail of monthly invoices, since I must pay for air conditioning and bathing water too. I see a lot of junk shit mail, numerous glossy but useless colored pamphlets, and other people's mail.

Other people's mail?

I can't believe that the fucking post man or woman cannot read plain ole American words.

I receive other people's mail inside my personal US Postal mailbox. The envelope clears shows a different street address from mine too.

So I drop that piece of not mine mail by the Post Office building for re-delivery to the proper street address which his not mine.

Then I receive within my mail with my proper street address, a different proper name, because, I purchased the house from the son of a dead couple.

Yeah creepy...

I didn't have to learn that part of the real estate story, when I purchased the big house. But, I haven't found any lingering ghosts, hiding in the dark walk-in closet yet.

Not to worry, I have six cats.

Cats are the guardians of the underworld and every corner of my door and window archway. Nothing gets by my cats, whether two or multiple legs.

My cats capture and eat everything. They eat bugs, spiders, and houseflies.

I had this one cat that would chase and capture a housefly. It was the weirdest freaky thing.

My cats hunt and capture live moles, mice, birds, and chipmunks. Then they torment the animals too death without eating it, except for my beautiful Maine Coon. She eats the poor dead mammal too like a wild tiger.

Why?

I don't have the guts to save the poor critter. I just watch it run and bleed as one the cat's claws slaps its head with another vicious cut. And ya don't mess with the live prey of a drooling cat, the fourth cousin of a tiger.

Shit naw...

However, my lawn gets free pest control service. No rodent or bugs eats my flower garden.

My cats eat them first.

I love cats. I fell in love with cats at the tender age of five years old. And I never looked back as they say.

I am not an average American.

The Good Deed continues...

So I write on the top of the envelope on the other people's mail: Please return to sender!

The post office will receive the marked envelope and send it back to the business vendor, notifying the business that the person does not live at my address.

My good deed...

Then my nasty deed, when I receive all the fucking ass junk mail that I never open or read or use. I also write on top of the envelope: Please return to sender!

Then I drop off by the post office building too.

The post office must return the envelopes to the vendor and then it charges the vendor for all returned mail items.

Money out the door....

And it works too.

I do not receive any more junk mail inside my mail box. Now, some vendors are either stupid or silly as I do continue to receive a few pieces of junk mail but not a lot. So I implement my nasty deed again with perfect results.

I am not an average American.

The Work Office...

I finally arrive into a nicely paved parking lot with a rooftop cover, so my car does not get sunburned and hot. My car doesn't get cold or chapped either. It is nice having a parking cover over my car.

My car is a lucky duck.

Yeah man...

I exit and move to my office, sitting at my office desk, hearing.

The morning conversation drifts throughout the hallway from a huddle of office coworkers near the office doors.

They chat about the latest television shows the previous night, the latest Hollywood movie film during the weekend, and other social engagements that weekend or the upcoming weeks.

I do not really ease drop as much as the information flows down to the end of the hallway. I have the space at the end of the hallway, so I receive the whines, the cheers, the moans, and the groans of the latest television program without seeing the action.

I do not watch television. I possess a television set, a nice big one. It is never powered on. It stays blackness, all day and night.

I do not pay for a cable service for television programs. Therefore, my television plasma only shows silver and gray snow, coming from outer space, if the television is powered on.

Did you know that?

The silver and gray snow on your television is part of the big bang theory that comes directly from the Milky Way Galaxy, our home.

I learned that in my science class in college, a long time ago.

Cool...

When my big screen plasma television is powered on, I slide in a DVD for an old movie. I possess three Hollywood movies.

Ta da...

I was robbed a long time ago.

Have you ever been robbed in your house?

The robbers desired to add to their personal collection of DVDs. So they took all my purchased DVD movies and the musical CDs too.

And I did not replace the stolen DVD movies or the CD musical songs either.

Take that, Mr. Robber...

I do not rent DVD movies either.

And I do not go to the movie house to see repeats of repeats of repeated plots of Hollywood movie films.

How many fucking times is Superman going to land on planet Earth as a baby and then save the world?

If I count up all the produced Superman programs and movies, the super entity should be about 345 years old by now.

Whatever...

I do not waste my hard working money on silly or bloody or scary or sexy Hollywood movies. So I can get a co-worker to tell me about the entire plot of the movie if I am interested, since I really don't wanna see it.

Or I can read with my two eyeballs about a completed plot about any particular Hollywood movie film movies on the internet. People type on the internet in a really good detailed plot with the final ending to every single move that is produced by Hollywood.

I guess that is sorta like intellect property thief, a minor offense.

I possess a great vivid imagination as I read the words on the screen of the computer.

Actually I am very simple minded. I want to know just the ending.

In a murder mystery, who killed him?

In an action file, who died?

In a love story, did they marry?

If I am really curious, then I read the movie plot and the ending on the internet. Then I feel really good about not wasting away 14.75 dollars plus the twenty five dollar bucket of popcorn and the fifteen dollar gigantic soda.

And I find the new Hollywood movies too long in minutes, 2.5 hours for a movie.

Really...

The movie is too stupid in plots. I am fifty plus years old. I have seen and read almost every shitty or brilliant plot to date. And my ass gets numb after eating the twenty five dollar popcorn bucket and the fifteen dollar gigantic soda.

And then it happens.

Yeah woman...

I must go piss in the middle of the movie. And I hate that. So I wait if I can.

I do believe that when you go to the movie, you should eat a buckle of popcorn and drink a gigantic soda, an American average...naw...treat.

Good joy...

I am not an average American.

The Work Office continues...

The light chat slowly dies. Then the co-workers move and enter their individual offices to work for pay and the work day.

How intriguing...

My eardrums do not hear my co-workers converse about the ugly inhumane events around the street corner, in the US State, in the USA, around the world. They pretend it does not exist and live a carefree and happy life in a pretty world of non-war and wonderful beauty.

I do not want to hear all the nasty shit going around on inside my home town, my home country, and the other parts of the fucking world either.

The television presents too much true grit violence and crime.

I don't give a shit about seeing true grit violence or vicious crime either. And the committed bloody crime does not affect me also.

But my house was broken and then robbed when I was married. It was our fault being both young and naive. We went away and enjoyed a ten day long golf and spa resort treatment after not canceling the newspaper service and not stopping the postal service. And we didn't tell the lawn company to mow the tall grass.

When we arrived home, the mail was overflowing out of the email box over into the tall grass. The newspapers were piled up against the front door. And the grass was knee high in the hot sizzling summertime.

Newsflash to the robbers: the assholes are not home.

And the asshole robbers were smart too. They robbed the house as we were driving back home on the weekend, the last day of our wonderful vacation.

We parked in the driveway, seeing the piles of newspaper and heap of mailed letters. The front porch looked abnormal as we argued about which person did not cancel the mail service.

We collected the items and opened the door.

O shit...

Every single cabinet door and closet was opened which was not normal. We could see all the missing merchandise items which were mostly our wedding gifts being a young married couple of two years.

I had a big blowout wedding including the limousine, the cake, the alcohol, and the dress. And I received lots of nice shit. The mostest nice shit was pretty decorative and useless house items. I received sixteen sets of candle holder. They were made in glass, ceramic, wooden, and metal.

I didn't know there was such thing as a metal candle holder. I thought metal and fire was not a good idea to mix or hold.

Whatever...

We never used the candle holders for an occasion. They were always stored inside the closed cabinets that were all opened now.

The asshole robbers had plenty of sunshine time to comb through my entire house for our nice shit.

And then they took it all, mama.

I received ten cookbooks as a set of wedding gifts. The asshole robbers did not take the cookbooks. They were still hanging onto the shelf inside the kitchen.

Too bad, I do not know how to cook.

Well I can cook tacos.

After my husband prepared and cooked the spicy raw hamburger meat, I would toss on the store purchased packages of fresh shredded lettuce, fresh cut red tomatoes, and shredded yellow cheese.

Ta da...

I cooked a meal.

I was the baby of the family. My mom was too tired and too busy, cooking and baking for six hungry people. She showed my sister how to cook.

And then my sister got a good husband, too.

When I stood by the stove, patiently watching for a cooking lesson, my mom showed...naw...shoved her baby daughter into the dining room. I can set a mean formal table with a lacy tablecloth, a couple of wool placements, a set of crystal goblets, the china plates, the nice shiny silverware, and real cloth napkins that skill set got me married too.

Anyways, our house held lots of expensive useless shit.

Then future ex-husband filed a great big financial claim. The claim was legal. I had been smart. I had read to take pictures of all our possessions. Being a newly married girl and a good wife, I had done that. I had big fat photo book of all our possessions like that was coming to heaven with me too.

Anyways, we sent in parts of the physical photographs for all the stolen items by the gang of niggers and received a great big fat money check. Of course, the ex-husband spent the money the next day.

This is the primary reasons that your insurance rates are skyline high.

I am not an average American.

The Work Office continues...

I work but you know that. I work in the city which has all kinds of noises like police sirens.

No one in my office bothers to comment on the police sirens or find out the purpose of the police siren either.

They continue to sit in the thickly padded chair, working on the computer for their day and a day of work.

The office co-workers do not talk about the nasty shit of bullets in people, knives in people, bombs in building that occurs outside their immediate four walled office. They do not voice a sad or nasty comment when a terrorist bomb explodes or when a head rolls from the body.

To Mr. Pope, you have wasted your visit to the USA.

I find it intriguing that some of the banks in the world are collapsing. Some of the foreign countries are building nuclear bombs.

And then the co-workers continue to work to earn the weekly paycheck and do not give a shit what happens outside their office window in the real world just like me.

One day, I asked about the dead little boy on the beach to the co-worker.

The co-worker said. "Yeah. I saw it. What are having for breakfast today?"

On day, I asked about the beheadings of the children to another co-worker."

The other co-worker said. "So sad. What are we having for lunch? How about pizza?"

The other day, I asked about the visit of Mr. Pope to another co-worker."

The other co-worker said. "Yeah. Saw it. I want Chinese rice and chicken for lunch today. Who else?"

I am not an average American.

The Baby Shower...

The office hosted a baby shower for one of the employees, a young mother, her first child.

So sweet...

The mother was happily married, had a good job at my company, and lived down the city street from her biological parents. She will have a happy and joyful live.

The light conversation rotated around baby stuff, consisting of baby clothes, baby food, baby equipment.

I thought the atmosphere was apropos.

The day before, the television news showed the dead three year old boy who had washed ashore on the beach like a bloated whale, like an animal.

I do believe everyone remembers that picture.

The party room was decorated with a set of rounded tables in pink colors of ribbons and bows.

I sat with my co-workers and leaned over the abused plate of eaten food. "Is it not sad with what happened to that little boy?"

The co-worker smiled at the opened baby gift. "What little boy?"

I said. "The little boy on the beach..."

"What little boy on the beach?""

"The little boy who floated upon the sandy beach like a dead whale after drowning..."

The co-worker sneered. "Do not talk about _that_ here. This is a time of joy and happiness here. We are having a happy baby shower here..."

"O." I turned and stared at the mom-to-be opening the next baby gift.

A pink dress...

Before the shower, during the shower, and after the shower, no one wanted talk about the poor dead three year old boy who had died to find freedom and washed upon the shoreline like a dead fish.

No one talks about the violent beheading of children, the bomb explosions of buildings, or the killing of other people, because the co-workers exist in a pretty world of non-violence and non-war.

During the baby shower, the co-workers enjoyed a morning breakfast of home cooking and entertainingly competing with who had cooked the best food dish.

And somewhere in the world, children are starving from hungry, but the co-workers did not think about that when eating each dish of food.

The baby showered ended with fun time of smiles and awes.

And then the co-workers went back to work to make their paycheck for the week on a work day.

I find it intriguing that the co-workers do not talk about the violence in the world or around the street corner of their house during the work day.

Are the co-workers not allowed?

Are the co-workers too busy?

The co-workers drive to and from work like me through the heavy traffic from their residential home to their paying job, listening to the radio music or the radio announcer.

The co-workers work the required nine hours and drive back through the same heavy traffic jams also like me.

Honestly, I have such a routine life that I see the same cars drive with me to work and back home, because they have personalized car license plates like me.

Amazing, we all live in the same town and follow each other around but do not stop and have coffee.

I hate coffee.

The next day, I repeat the roadway process with my co-workers and my strangers as I do not know their names but their license plates without blinking an eyelash at the malice outside the working building to go to work for my pay.

I am not an average American.

The Decision...

I switch off both the meanness and ugliness in the world and around my street corner by pressing a button on my remote control which powers the paid in full one thousand dollars wide screen plasma television screen. Actually I have done that literally.

I do not pay for cable television. I do not watch the make-believe television programs or the fake ass television shows which are rigged or the violent nightly news for sick entertainment.

However, I do hear the numerous and annoying emergency sirens on top of the emergency vehicles, traveling around the roadways. The sirens signal another old fat fart was having a heart attack due to eating too much food paid with the US Federal government food stamp program

Or a house is burning down due to neglect of poor maintenance and not having paid one penny of house insurance, either.

I do not give a shit.

Let the old fat fart die and descend to heaven and converse with Almighty God about their greedy life of laziness and their overconsumption of gluttony food that a starving animal or person needed instead.

Hmm. What do you think?

Let the neglected house burn down and live outside in the heat and rain and snow for being stupid.

I do not give a shit.

I planned and provided for my own house. I take care of my house which is expensive and necessary, so it does not burn down to the ground. So I continue to have a place of shelter.

The insurance company asks for a set of inspection documents when the annual renewal rolls around, too. And the insurance company should.

I live in my pretty world surrounded by singing birds, rows of pretty colorful flowers, and an ugly fence keeping out the nosey neighbors.

Since I do not have or meet a nasty burglar. There is no violence in my pretty world in my community of charm.

There is no illegal alien in my pretty world in my community of grace. There is no foreign immigrant in my pretty world of beauty.

Hmm. Do you have a nasty burglar in your community?

Hmm. Do you have an illegal alien in your community?

Hmm. Do you have a foreign immigrant in your community?

I am not an average American.

The Television...

Yeah...

I must say and write and think it.

The programs on the television screen are not real. They are fake, made up.

However, I find at the office that the co-workers love to challenge each other knowledge of last night's television program.

What?

In the real world, people are dying, starving, freezing, blooding, and other terrible things, but the co-workers talk about the fantasy television program and the long and lousy advertisements that they have to see.

Poor things...

I do not live in a make-believe world of television programs. And I do not live in real world either. I press the button.

The button to the remote control cuts off from my eardrums and out from my eyesight all the violence, gory, and inhuman stuff on the television screen, the radio channel, and the mobile telephone too that makes me want to lean over and vomit in my sink or curls my toes with horror or not eat food for a week. And I do not buy paid television services. Therefore, I do not see the terrible recordings.

Hmm. Do you feel like that too when you see horrible stuff on the television or your mobile telephone?

Honestly, I do not watch the horrible video tapes on my mobile telephone. I do not want that really bad stuff to invade my pretty world of happiness of beauty and plentiful of grace. Then I would feel something like shame, greed, and maybe selfishness.

To Mr. Pope, you told that American should embrace the illegal alien and the foreign immigrant.

The American is only interested in embracing his own children, his home, his dog, his food, his car, and his mobile telephone. The American does not give a shit you, an illegal alien, or the foreign immigrant or his neighbor or his co-worker either.

The American is only interested in going home from work, eating two plates of food, watching four hours at night inside the make-believe world of television to reality.

Brother Jesus said. "The rumors of war are true. Brother against brother..."

I am not an average American.

The Death...

I find death an interesting concept now.

You blink an eyelash. The personality is dead and gone and not here on Earth anymore.

Wow...

It is the personality of the person that you miss when the human body stops functioning.

"A time for planting and harvesting..." Brother Jesus reminded.

A person is supposed to grow old and weak and die, the cycle of life and death as a living person, whether a Christian or non-Christian.

I remembered my first visitation to the funeral parlor. I was six years old.

And I do remember the damn dead body too. It has been over fifty fucking years and I clearly remember the damn dead body and the damn trip to the funeral home.

My father stopped the car in front of this big pretty tall reddish brown brick building without a front porch of columns. Then he scooted out of his driver's seat and marched around the car, opening the rear door and jerked my ass out of the car.

I was dressed in a dark blue dress with a curly bowtie at the neckline and a pair of white shoes as it was summertime, fifty plus years ago.

He lifted and toted me like a bag of groceries from the car and to the building without talking or laughing or smiling or whispering.

I was kinda dumb at the age of six years old, so I did not question the trip or my father's purpose.

He walked into the big building with a set of white double doors.

The white double doors were solid white without pretty flower pots.

The door opened.

He walked through the archway.

My nostrils reacted first to the smell. It was kinda like flower fragrance mixed with alcohol.

Both pungent and sweet.

He moved down a quiet hallway with the sound of soft classical music. The floor was whitish-beige. The walls held framed pictures of my home town.

He continued walking and going passed wide archways without people and did not stop to talk to anyone.

As we neared the correct archway, I saw small scattered huddles with familiar faces of family members and unfamiliar strangers in the quiet hallway, mumbling and acting really proper.

I saw my older brothers and sisters and some cousins too. They were acting quiet and really proper too.

The next archway was square shaped and wide. It was so wide that a grand piano could fit between the wooden frames.

He moved through the archway.

The room was stark white. The floor was light blue carpet. The audience of people huddled in same groups with whispers. They wore dark or black clothing. Each wall corner held a low soft light. There wasn't any type of light fixtures inside the middle of the room, so the room was semi-lighted.

The coffin was silver tinted with a mat of white thick padding.

And I could not see the body from the archway.

My dad moved closer as I perched and cuddled onto his collar bone with intrigue and confusion.

The body was big. The man was very tall and overweight. The skin was glowing white. The hair was glowing black. He was a middle aged man that died from something. He looked asleep with his eyelids closed. His arms were inside the business suit of navy blue was by his side.

My dad whispered. "Do you wanna touch him?"

I did not scream as much as I yelped like a puppy dog when you touch its tail for fun, turning my distorted face, kicking my white shoes into the chest of my dad.

Hell naw...

Well my dad turned around and left the dead room and the dead body.

Honestly, I didn't remember what happened after that, since I was fucking traumatized at six years old with dead bodies.

I will repeat.

I remember that vividly in my mind at the age of six which was over fifty years ago.

Fuck you, dad...

Do you remember your earliest moment in your life?

I close my eyelashes as my mind floats backwards in time with each vision, sitting upright in the chair.

The chair is heavily padded with fabric for working or writing or sleeping.

The most recent events will stay out with clear vision, such like, yesterday at work.

I am not an average American.

The Second Funeral...

I rode inside a limousine for the first time.

And it is not what you think.

My grandfather died. He was a very nice and popular man in my home town. So all his children came together and gave him a good send off to heaven even though he was dead and he didn't see it. The children rented four black shiny limousines to tarry his children and their spouses and the grandchildren to his permanent grave site even though he was dead and he didn't fell the smooth ride of the fancy limousine.

It was a pretty summertime day without rain even though he was dead and he didn't see the pretty sunshine.

There were about one thousand people who came and attended his funeral.

I left my house with my family, driving and stopping at the same pretty building with the set of white double doors. Actually, I was nine years old. So it was three years later. And the building looked the same and smelled the same too. I wasn't upset like sobbing or crying that wasn't my style.

My grandfather was a very, very old man with a head of long gray tinted hair, a chin of gray tinted whiskers, a pair of pale blue eyeballs, a tone of pale tinted skin, a pair of calloused hands and he wore a pair of unpolished cowboy boots.

I was nine years old and thought he was old and then he died. So I thought he died and went to heaven.

I was a simple child.

Actually, I did not think about much of subject matter at nine years old, except how to get of brushing my long hair and brushing my dirty teeth and not taking a bath. I did not have girly fantasies about young boys in the fourth grade. I was too busy failing the academic studies of science and spelling and was more worried about that damn belt from my dad's fit waist.

I was not a good academic student in elementary school. I was worse in middle school and the worsest in high school.

I sat in the rear of car with my brothers and my sisters fighting over the window seats which I lost. And then I fought over to see out the window which I lost too.

When we arrived at the same old funeral building, I stepped out of the car and walked to a side door. We did not use the front entrance doors that were starkly freshly painted in white.

The door opened.

Shit man...

It was tiny room filled with all my numerous blood relatives.

My biological family is huge, the first family of the county.

Actually my grandmother had twelve kids. My great-grandmother had fourteen kids too.

So I was kin to everyone in the county and that room.

We moved to the rear of the tiny room, standing against the wall. I could not see anything.

So I did not see the body tissue of the dead person or the coffin.

There was a really short ceremony of people talking about my grandfather which was boring and whatever.

The talking stopped.

The preacher-man prayed.

The coffin lid was closed and moved to the hearse.

Then my parents left the room without me.

I gasped with panic with knowledge of understanding being inside a spooky pookie funeral home building.

Shit man...

My parents were escorted to the funeral procession car.

There were five black colored limousines.

The children occupied the first three vehicles. Since my grandmother had twelve kids plus spouses.

For your information, six to eight adults fit comfortable inside a limousine.

The four, five and sixth limousines held the grandchildren, not the cousins or the aunts or the uncles of the dead person.

My cousin moved and escorted me and my siblings to the sixth limousine. And I was glad that the first vehicle was the hearse. I was far, far away from that the dead body tissue too.

I stopped and scooted into the soft leather of black, feeling the smoothness on my naked legs underneath my dress. It was so cool. There was only me and my brothers and my sisters and the one older cousin who was in college.

And the wide glass windows on the limousine allowed you to look outside without arguing over the window seat.

The funeral procession started.

And the limousine ride was smooth and quiet.

As the funeral procession parade hit the main highway, traveling cars would pull over and onto the shoulder of the grass for respect of the dead body tissue.

I found it enjoyable to see all the cars pulled over.

In the front of the funeral procession, there were two police cars too.

The family plot of more dead body tissues was located about twenty miles from the funeral home. So it took the parade a long time to reach the family grave site.

After the three miles, the limousine trip was boring. There were not food snacks or drinking beverages only my crabby cousin who was reading a book.

No mobile telephone in the 1960s.

We finally made it to the graves site and the rest of my memory was unmemorable.

However, I did not see the dead body tissue of my grandfather. And I do think that he minded either.

And then I was happy.

I am not an average American.

The Third Funeral...

Yup.

I had to go to another dead body tissue celebration.

My other grandfather died as he was old and wrinkled with a heart attack, the cycle of life and death.

I had to show up for the once in a life time event per my mother. I stumbled into the death room with an open casket, gagging and turning white with nausea.

And there was food table in the corner.

And people were eating, drinking and laughing.

And I continued to gage and turn white from nausea. So I performed the most logical step, swinging and stomping to the archway for some fresh air.

My mother reached and grabbed her arm. "Where are you going?"

"Fresh air..."

My mother said with a nasty tone, holding her arm. "You must pay your respects to your grandmother...

I turned with a distorted face to see my arm in her cupped hand. "Why? He's dead and in heaven. He really doesn't give a shit about me down here on Earth."

She pointed to the open coffin of the dead body tissue. "Get over there and view your grandfather. This will be the last time that you will see him."

I moved to the archway with a shout. "My grandfather is in heaven. That is a dead body of drained blood and shrinking tissues. I learned that in my college biology class."

She stomped her shoe and pointed a finger to the dead body tissue. "Young lady, get over there and say good bye to your grandfather..."

"Fuck off, mother dear..." I moved out the archway, before vomiting on my dress.

I moved out the archway, down the hallway, and out the funeral home building to my car. I was happily married at the time and lived in my own house with my husband. So I drove home with an upset stomach, not an upset tears.

And I drove into my garage when the husband greeted me at the car door.

I pressed that electric button, seeing his unhappy face.

He said. "The funeral finished. And your mother is at your uncle's house for the wake. Your presence is requested..."

I nodded and pressed the electric button as the window rolled up. I backed out the car and drove to my uncles' house.

I drove and parked my car way down the street from the house due to the long lines of other parked cars, scooting out my car, walking to the front door.

I entered the front door, seeing a table of food.

I was nauseas sick with upcoming vomit from my esophagus again.

I moved around and find my mother to cuss her out and turned, leaving the wake.

How can people eat in front of dead body tissue? How can people after attending a funeral of a dead body tissue?

I cannot.

And I have never attended another funeral ever. And I will never will either including my own funeral.

I will not attend my parents either. I have numerous brothers and sisters that can deal with the death procedure. And I do not want a damn thing from the house of my parents either.

When my grandmother died, she lived in a grand house.

The house was three story levels with a formal dining room, a parlor room, a library, a music room, eight bedroom, and six bathrooms. The kitchen was the size of a living room with three ovens and four refrigerators. There was a root cellar or basement. There was an attic too.

My father was the executor of her will. He called on the telephone to invite me to raid her house before he opened the doors to the blood throaty relatives.

I told with a sneer. "Fuck you. I do not want one single item from her house." The receiver slammed the hook of the landline telephone with a puff of annoyance.

The end of my funeral midnight, sorta...

I am not an average American.

The Sorta...

A couple weeks after my grandfather funeral, who was my mom's father, I was visiting and stuffing my face with food in the kitchen.

Normally, a kitchen contains food for eating.

I turned and moved to the refrigerator where all the cold beverages and food time were kept. I was chewing on the food, pulling out and pushing in numerous boxes and pitchers looking for something yummy. I pulled out this small box, touching the lid and hearing.

"No. Don't touch it. Don't open it." My mom said with worry.

"Why?" I hold and stared down at the tiny cold box.

"The flower's in there."

I frowned. "What flower's in here?"

"Your grandfather's flower from his coffin, a couple of weeks ago."

"Ugh." I held back the upcoming vomit and shoved the tiny box back into the refrigerator.

My mom moved and stood in place of her daughter, reaching and grabbing the tiny box from the shelf with a smile and a nod. She opened the tiny box, waving the bottom of the box around the room with a smile. "Come and look..."

Ugh." I turned and ran to the bathroom.

Is that weird-ass?

Hell yeah...

So I did not eat at my mom's house for a very long time.

Present day, I still do not take out anything to drink or eat from that old refrigerator either.

Shit man...

You are invited here.

P.S...

The tiny box still lives in the refrigerator with the damn frozen flower.

More shit...

I am not an average American.

The Dead Person...

So I have been lucky so far that I have not been forced to face death in my life of fifty plus years. I have attended three funerals of dead body tissues or dead people. Face it. It is a body, not a person. The soul is in heaven, talking to the superior being.

Or it is someplace else, if you believe that way too. And I am not going to debate with you about the afterlife.

Face it.

I don't know either what happens when you die.

Honestly, I don't think about it. It is a scary concept death.

Therefore, I find the makeup cosmetic covered dead body both gross and yucky. And I do not want to be near it the dead tissue of drained blood and liquids.

And I do not understand why a dead person has a funeral. Funerals are very expensive with one $15,483.26 coffin and a shit load of $3893.93 bouquet of fresh cut and arranged flowers.

I would think the fresh flowers should go to people in the hospital who are having a baby or who recovered from an operation or to the nursing home for some happiness to a live body, not a dead body.

Face it.

I could put two industries out of business, the funeral home and the flower shop. If there were not any more funerals, then you would dump the body in a big dirt grave and be done with it.

Brother Jesus said. "Let the dead bury the dead."

Now I find the translation kinda strange. But I translate it as a dead person is nothing but a piece of matter like a dead plant, a flower, a piece of weed, a tree and a wild animal. No one praises the dead animals. So the dead tissue of a blue body should be burned or buried without celebration.

Shit...

The dead person is not here to hear any words of praise from the family or the friends or the foes. Actually in my spiritual faith, I do believe the dead person might be looking down and laughing her ass off or talking with Almighty God and Brother Jesus as an angel.

So why do we praise a dead body?

We should provide and help a live body that needs medicines, guidance, food, clothes, shelter, money, work, and other necessities of life.

Someone help a living person, please.

My former mom-in-law and father-in-law both passed away which was very close within a couple of calendar months.

My child was very, very upset with the sad event.

However, I did not attend the funerals either. But I feel sadness for them, passing into heaven.

I mean I have received news of other people dying and passing into heaven too. But it was a name that had left planet Earth.

This news was hard.

I actually find a hole in my heart.

My former mom-in-law and father-in-law were really nice and caring people. And I had known them for thirty years of my fifth plus years in life, a long time.

Now, they are gone and never to be seen again. That is a strange feeling and mental scary thought.

I will never see them smile or shake a hand or hug a shoulder.

Wow.

Death is really permanent.

I am not an average American.

The Death Penalty...

I do believe in the concept of death penalty. The Bible says that if a man or a woman kills another person, the man or the woman is put to death. I do believe that rule to be very clear cut. However, I could not perform the act. So I do not want to be the one doing the death act.

I find it both scary and repulsive at the same time.

Hmm. Is that normal?

Hmm. What do you think?

A person should die for taking a life. But I could stab a needle or drop the switch or press the button to kill a murderer in prison.

O.

I can see how another person would be against the death penalty.

So a murderer lives the rest of their sorry ass life in a prison for the murder of another human being. Well that does seem a minor punishment. Or the murderer becomes reformed in the prison for the murder.

Well that does seem possible but the dead person is not coming back to planet Earth.

Then there are the Bible Ten Commandments from Almighty God by way of Moses that one must not murder. So it is a heavenly sin and a federal law also.

A double wrap...

Does Almighty God forget and forgive the murderer too?

O.

I know.

Why doesn't one of the victim's family members should get to do press the button or drop the switch. I bet the prison system could ask for monetary payment too and make some money to cover all the prisoners in the prison cells as well. One of the victim's family members would be the perfect choice to justice a life for a life.

Hmm. Do you agree?

I am not an average American.

The Joy...

I have a joy. My joy is my child. I have a second joy too. My second joy is going to the dentist. I love to go to the dentist.

After I visit the dentist, my teeth are shiny white and clean. I attend the dentist four times per year and not the standard two cleanings.

I pay with cash for the other two cleanings from my bank account.

My dentist does not mind.

My good dental insurance pays for the two standard cleanings.

Your teeth are supposed to last a life time which means that you die with your teeth attached to your gums.

I wonder why a dead person is not smiling during the funeral. That would make the sad occasion more fun or funnier or whatever.

Yeah man...

At my dentist office, my teeth are sprayed clean with a water jet with a combination of liquid toothpaste and water. The water jet hits the teeth, spreading a series of tiny particles of toothpaste and water all over my face and my tongue. I feel like I have been to the sandy beach after my teeth cleaning.

I do not like the twirling rounded tooth brush around my enamel.

And then my teeth are very happy too.

I am not an average American.

The Earliest Memory...

My eyelashes are closed, wandering through my mind of my earliest childhood memory. Some memories are very clear and very repeatable like some of my fun work days, such like, the company picnic at the zoo, the company holiday party at the dog races, the company paid conference training trips to Puerto Rico.

Yay...

I conned my company into sending me to Puerto Rico for five days and four fun nights on their dollar which was over 3,000 dollars. I had to fly coach. But my hotel room looked over the bluish green Atlantic Ocean.

I waddled in a bikini and naked feet in the ocean waters at 5:30 am in the morning before my training classes in the month of June with no hurricanes either.

I skipped most of my training classes to rest in the hot sunlight and burn my body into golden brown.

It was a resort with lots of old farts and lots of newlywed couples.

I enjoyed the mini-vacation.

I am not an average American.

The Earliest Memory continues...

It is easier to maneuver through my old memory banks from backward of present to the past.

The bestest, clearest, and most repeated old memory is the birth of my child.

The birth of my child was both memorable and pleasant, since I did not experience any pain.

Yeehaw...

I have a perfect pregnancy, gaining twenty five pounds with a bump of baby. I was not sick during my pregnancy and I did not eat any sugary foods like ice cream or cake.

One time, I woofed down a piece of chocolate.

O my...

The baby did the hustle inside my stomach, going back and forth from the sugar rush. That was the last time that I ate sugar. I ate good foods like meats, vegetables and fruits and lots of milk for the baby.

And then my pregnancy was perfect. And the baby was two day early from the expected delivery day.

The birth day, my water broke.

I was so smart.

I felt a hot sensation coming down from the uterus and ran to the bathroom, sliding over the toilet seat.

Splash...

All the water fell into the toilet without a big mess on the floor or my clothes.

However, after I cleaned my vagina I was leaking the water.

I am not an average American.

The Baby...

We drove to the hospital with excitement and joy our baby was coming. We did not know the sex of the baby either. We wanted it to be a surprise.

And I was surprised.

In the grocery store, the old women would say to my bloated tummy, you are having a boy.

In the church auditorium, the old women would say to my bloated tummy, you are having a girl.

We parked the car in the emergency room parking lot and walked into the emergency room, registering to have a baby at the hospital.

A wheelchair came for me.

I entered and rolled to the labor and delivery room.

The only question the clerk at the labor and delivery room desk asked. "Do you want a blue or pink room?"

I giggled. "Blue room for boy, please."

My room was the size of a living room with a hospital bed and all the mechanic surgery equipment around the bed. On the side wall, there was a living room setting with a loveseat and a two sitting chairs. The loveseat pulled out into a bed too for the father of the baby to stay and spend the night.

A nice touch...

This is the era of the LDRP rooms which cost one thousand dollars per night.

My health insurance paid for it all.

One the other side wall, there was a long counter with a sink and numerous cabinets that held the surgery equipment and all the baby items, such like, diapers, bottles, shirts, bids, and booties.

There was a big basket of fruit and flowers from the hospital too.

I moved and stood, crawling with some help into the medical bed, waiting for the moment of the baby.

My water broke at seven am, precisely. I crawled into the hospital bed at eight am, precisely.

And then I waited, sitting with a grin and a giggle, feeling nothing.

Yeah woman...

I was not in any pain. My water had broken. The baby was moving around in my bump, but I could not feel any pain.

Lucky ducky...

I am not an average American.

The Delay...

The door opened.

The physician entered the room, wearing a pair of surgery scrubs with a grin, moving to see his patient.

I smile with a giggle, bouncing inside the hospital bed "When is the baby coming? Why are in scrubs?"

He frowned and stopped at the bed side of the patient. "Why are you happy and smiling? You're having a baby."

I said with a grin and giggle. "Yeah. I'm having a baby. I feel great. No pain..."

He frowned. "You are not experiencing any labor pains..."

I said with a grin and a giggle, patting my bloated belly. "No. I feel great. No pain..."

He moved and leaned down his torso to check the position of the baby inside her uterus. I yelped with pain. He lifted his torso with a smile to her. "Well I expected you to have a difficult time with a delivery vaginally. You are not dilated. The baby is moving around inside your belly. I can see the humping line on the fetus monitor. But I do not understand why you are not in pain. Normally, a mom-to-be is cursing and yelling at this point."

I said with a grin and a giggle, patting my bloated belly. "Not me..."

"Yes. I can see that. Well I will be performing a caesarean surgery procedure when you become tired and are ready to get that baby out of your swollen stomach." He turned and moved to the doorway. "I will return in a couple of hours. I am making rounds with my other patients. See ya later..."

The door closed.

And then I waited until I moved out of the bed, waddling around the room, patting my swollen belly.

And then the fetus monitor flat lined.

The labor and delivery nurse run into the room, yelling with alert. "Get into the bed. Get off your feet."

I turned and waddled back to my hospital bed, climbing inside.

And then the fetus monitor jumped into the humping line again.

The nurse exhaled. "You cannot walk around the room. You must stay in the bed..."

"Poop." I frowned, patting my swollen belly, waiting on the baby.

Yeah man...

I stayed in the bed for over ten hours, waiting for the baby that never came.

I mentioned before that I am tall and skinny, wearing a size zero.

Yeah...

The number zero was my clothing size.

I am not an average American.

The Baby continues...

The door opened.

At 12:02 pm, the physician entered and moved to his patient with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

I said with a grin and a giggle, patting my bloated stomach inside my hospital bed. "I feel fine. I still do not have any pain. When is the baby coming?"

He stopped and leaned his torso to her uterus again, checking on the baby.

I yelped from the pain.

And you do not what to know how it was done either.

He lifted his torso with a frown. "You have not dilated. And I am not surprised. You are a very tiny person with no fat cells. I heard about your episode with the flat line with the fetus monitor. I suspect that the cord is wrapped around the baby's neck, so when you stand, the cord gets tighter around the baby's throat. Therefore, you must stay in the bed and all will be fine..."

I pouted, patting my bloated stomach. "I wanna delivery vaginally, not by surgery."

He exhaled. "Well you are in good cheer. And with amazement, you are not in any pain which is very abnormal for a baby delivery. So I will allow you to stay to see if the head of the baby's crests. And if not, you will have a caesarean surgery procedure." He smiled at her, turning and leaving the hospital room.

The door closed.

I exhaled, patting my bloated stomach. I rose from the bed and took one step.

And then the fetus monitor would flat line.

I sat in the hospital bed room from eight am to five thirty pm without any pain. I could see the humping line on the monitor where the baby was laboring to come out.

I am not an average American.

The Baby continues...

The door opened.

At 5:30 pm, the physician entered the room with a stern face, moving and stopping at her hospital bed. "The baby is still not here. I can believe that you are still smiles and giggles."

I said with a grin and a giggle, patting my bloated tummy. "I am still here and happy..."

He exhaled. "I am not happy. And it is time for my dinner. Stand up and walk for me..."

I slid out my bed, standing and slowly took a step.

And then the fetus monitor flat lined.

He clapped with a stern face. "I am taking the baby, so I can go home to my wife. She is having a caesarean emergency now..."

Yeehaw...

He shoved her back into the bed and grabbed her husband by the arm. "You must leave, sir. We have to prep her for surgery and take the baby. The baby is ready to come out." He shoved her husband out the door.

The door closed.

Lots of nurses were running around me. One stripped me naked. One shot a needle into my arm.

And then the labor of the baby stopped.

The physician and the nurse shoved me over to a portable gurney.

I rested flat on my back over the sheets with a pillow.

The physician yelled. "I'm pushing her to the OR. Call the anesthesiologist to the OR now."

He shoved the gurney out the nursing room and down the hallway, entering the elevators.

The OR was on the fourth floor.

I was on the second floor.

The elevators were closing with the physician and me without my husband.

The physician yelled to her husband. "Go the fourth floor to the OR and get gowned."

The door closed.

I am not an average American.

The Operating Room...

The door opened.

The physician shoved the gurney out the elevator carriage, down the hallway, and into the OR suite.

The room was ice cold.

My naked body was freezing with a tiny blanket.

The physician stopped the gurney in front of a tall male who was the anesthesiologist.

The anesthesiologist moved with a smile, standing behind her, probing her back spine. "Now. I am going to give you an epidural for the pain. You will feel like you are paralyzed from the waist down, but you are not. Please lean over..."

I leaned over when he inserted a needle in my back spine. "Shit. Fuck...."

"There is no need for that language..."

"Then you have the fucking baby...."

He finished, pouring the stinking mediation into her back spine.

I rested over the operating table, feeling cold and excited.

The baby was finally coming.

I was in labor for almost ten hours and did not feel any pain. The baby was laboring too inside my stomach. I could see the humping line on the screen monitor but I did not feel a labor pain.

Yeah...

I am weird.

I am not an average American.

The Baby continues...

At 5:50 pm, I was resting over the sheeted table with a vertical black curtain in front of my face. I could see the skull that wear a surgery cap, two eye sockets and the surgery mask on the physician. I could feel him touching my stomach too. His hands went across my bloated belly.

He was probing and poking for the right angle to the cut the skin, grabbing the baby.

I yelled. "Wait..."

He leaned over the curtain. "What?"

I looked with a sour frown to see the surgery mask and two eyeballs. "Are you certain that I am numb there? I don't wanna blood and die..."

He exhaled. "You are numb and ready for delivery of the baby." He leaned back to continue probing and poking around her skin.

I could feel his touches with a touch of panic and yelled. "Wait..."

He leaned over the curtain. "What is it now?"

I exhaled with more worried. "Are you absolutely certain that I am numb down there? I don't wanna feel any pain or see any blood..."

"Yes. You will not feel any pain. Time to take the baby." He leaned back, probing on her stomach.

The anesthesiologist whispered into her eardrum. "Sh. The doctor needs for you to be quiet. So he can deliver the baby..."

I smiled. "Okay..."

Yeah...

I had a caesarean surgery procedure where my tummy was cut over to grab the baby.

I stayed in the one thousand dollars per room for four nights and five days with the baby inside a tiny crib beside my bed like an ugly beach resort without the ocean water and the sandy beach. And I was in pain from getting slicing across eight layers of skin to grab the baby.

The torture, on my last day of my hospital stay, my husband was served steak and lobster for seeing the birth of his baby.

I ate gelatin and chicken broth for having a baby.

Yucko...

The physician explained to me that I was too tiny in the hips to have a baby. And the baby weighted only five pounds and eight ounces. So the baby was too small to exit my vagina.

Therefore, if I ever had another baby, it would be by caesarean again.

I am not an average American.

My Earliest Memory continues...

I clearly remember most of my job being at work, since the work never ends which is a good thing. I need a job and I need the work. And I am near ending either.

Some of the best job functions were attending the free and fun gala balls. The gala balls always had dinner and dance. And I wore a variety of long flowing ankle-length sparkling gala gowns too.

One gala ball event, I wore a long black colored sequined gown which was a halter top. It was really tight around every body part that I owned and really hard to walk in the dress too.

During the gala ball events, we took the company limousine too. It was my husband's work functions for his job.

Yeehaw...

You should have seen me trying to get my body out of a low level limousine in a tight sequined halter gown, but I did it. Then I spent the rest of the night prissing around the tables.

At the gala ball events there was dancing too.

I spent lots of my time dancing and whirling and twirling around and around the dance floor.

I was young and frisky.

Another gala ball event with an Egyptian theme, I wore a tight sheath ankle-length sleeveless dress in the color of sapphire. I borrowed the unique pair of my grandmother's dangling sapphire earrings for my ears and her matching sapphire bracelet for my naked arm. I was hot and sizzling.

Yeah man...

The next gala ball event with a Las Vegas gambling theme, I wore a tight fishtail light gray ankle-length dress. It was chore getting into and out of the limousine also. I did not own any diamonds. So I wore my diamond earrings stubs and my long hair down. When I walked in that dress with the fishtail waggling behind, my bodice went to the left as my hips went to the right.

Those dresses looked good in pose but were difficult walking around in a pair of four inches heels.

I was young and frisky.

Another gala ball event was at the ballet, I love to watch ballerinas perform too. We sat in the four row center. My husband did not like it, but I loved it.

I wore a long tulle dress of pink.

The skirt was made of pink netting of tulle with two crinolines underneath the skirt. The fabric of tulle is really itchy if it touches your skin. So the two crinolines made the tulle spread horizontal, keeping the itchy fabric from my naked legs and my tender ass.

I never wore a pair of panty hoses underneath a long gala gown or a pair of girly pink panties.

Throng, babe...

In my youth, I loved to wear a throng, the freedom of movement. It always felt like his hand was touching me when his hand wasn't.

Yeah man...

The bodice of the tulle dress was decorated in swirling patterns of light pink lace which was see-through to my skin in all the right spots.

And you do not wear a bra with an evening gown either but ensure the fabric covers the right spots. There is also a series of flesh toned body tape to cover the wrong spots, so that no one sees all the right spots.

I wore a tiny choker of pink pearls with a set of matching pink earrings, and a wrist bracelet with my pink tulle dress for the ballet, a perfect pair for a perfect night of a perfect event for fun. I thought that the cute lace was both dainty and elegant with the pearls.

I always paired a piece of jewelry with my evening gown, such as, a pair of earrings, a bracelet, or a necklace. All my jewelry pieces were compliments of my mom, my sisters, and my grandmothers.

Thank you...

I attended two more ballet events with his company and selected the same tulle dress in white with a set of pearl earrings, a matching bracelet, and a tiny matching choker too. For the third event, I wore a black colored tulle ankle-length dress again with a set of black pearls that was composed of a throat choker, a pair of earrings, and a wrist bracelet.

Really slick...

All the gala balls were held in a banquet room where five hundred people attended too with low dimmed lightning, a set of rounded decorated tables with center pieces of flowers, china plates, and crystal goblets. There was always presented four courses of food items, in order, the appetizer, the salad, the entrée and the dessert.

I really didn't eat all my food, depending on the dress. My evening gowns were always too tight to breath much less eat food. I gave my food to my husband. He could eat for three people. I enjoyed the dancing all night long.

Another gala ball event was a charity ball for adoption of animals. I wore a plantation dress with three crinolines. I found the plantation dress the easiest to walk around inside, except when the edge of your puffy dress hit a drinking goblet.

Yeah woman...

You had to be careful walking around the tables. Getting out of the limousine was very, very difficult with all the extra layers of fabric that was wadded into a bundle of loose clothing. I could not see my shoes and I could not climb out of the bench seating without help which came in the front of the husband.

Once I cleared the limousine seat with the extra wide doors, I stood as the skirt blossomed into three feet of fabric. It was hard to walk with my husband too.

He kept tripping over my dress or jerking the fabric from his walking pace.

I ended up walking in front of him to the entrance doors.

And if there was a set of walking steps up to the entrance doors?

O dear...

I had to yank my dress hem up to my lipstick for seeing each step and missing the edge of the concrete in my sandals.

A plantation dress is a dangerous outfit.

Once I cleared the walking steps, I released the dress and three crinolines it was smooth sailing. I found the plantation dress the most fun to wear around a gala dance and dinner event. You were also hitting someone with the sides of fabric for fun or for annoyance.

The bitchy women complained the mostest.

The nice gentlemen just turned with a smile and complimented my beauty...my dress.

Whatever...

However, I found sitting in my chair another challenge. The dress wanted to eat my salad with me. I was all the time knocking the sides and the stiff crinolines down to the floor and then the crinolines would pop back up to my elbow. I really needed a single loveseat for sitting with my plantation dress.

One of the most elegant gala balls was the holiday event. I found it difficult to wear actually dead animal fur on an evening gown.

The gala ball rooms were filled with five to thousand people and slightly crowded as you stood and moved around between the heated bodies, traveling to the bathroom.

And the WOMEN'S BATHROOM was constantly crowded with the older women pissing and the young women reapplying their makeup.

Yeah woman...

I only attended the powder room to pee and that was a chore with in my plantation dress and three crinolines. But an average gala event was six hours long, starting at six pm and ended at midnight.

And we stayed until midnight, so the ex-hubby could drink the alcohol for free, since the limousine took us safely back home to our house.

Inside the WOMEN'S BATHROOM, there was an obese black skinned woman, who directed the female traffic to each stall.

No lie...

She sat in an old fabric sitting chair in the corner of the bathroom, telling the woman which bathroom stall to piss inside next. Before you entered the bathroom stall to pee, you also placed a dollar bill on top of her platter for a pissing tip.

Really...

So do not leave home with a few one dollar bills. Some women left a five dollar bill.

Inside the banquet room, the room was air conditioned even during the wintertime, but there were too many bodies. Once you started dancing, you became overly heated and hot.

During the holiday gala ball, I selected a blood red velveteen sleeveless ankle-length dress with a tiny trim of rabbit white fur around the top of the bodice. The fur trim was enough to look holiday-like with the spirit of the event. I paired the red velveteen with a white throat pearl choker and a pair of white pearl earrings.

Pearls go everywhere.

One of my favorite gala balls was the King's Ball, where each guest had the option of wearing a crown to pretend to be a prince or a princess.

Yeah man...

I wore a princess dress made of satin. The bodice was sleeveless white satin. The skirt was black satin with a half crinoline to get it some flare. I wore a set of elbow satin gloves over my naked arms.

I wore my hair long with a tiny silver tinted rhinestone tiara. I borrowed one of my sister's tiara from her beauty pageant days. I was a tiny tiara with a set of combs to stay in my hair.

It was the party and the dress that make the event fun.

All the females wore a tiara from tiny to gigantic. Some of the males wear a rhinestone bowtie with the tuxedo, making them look like a prince.

The King's Ball was a fun event for all.

At midnight, I returned back to a plain old American girl.

I am not an average American.

My Earliest Memory continues...

I was wandering around my old brain, seeking my earliest memory. As I dig deeper and stumble into my wedding memory which I do vividly remember, but it is useless now as I am divorced.

So I plunge deeper to recall my first working job.

Yo boy...

I was paid 12,000 dollar per year.

My college education has definitely come in hand over the past thirty years.

As I go backward inside the time tunnel, I remember my college days that were fun and hard work until I graduated.

Yeehaw...

Then school was out forever. I had completed my doctoral and I had finished going to school.

A good education is a necessity for a good job for a good life.

Now...

My mind is moving backward into my high school days. I do not really think about my high school days, since I have so much activity with my present days. So I will bypass some of the more interesting events, such like, prom night, football games, and band practices.

I graduated high school to attend college.

My old gray matter is accessing my elementary school. I do not see any real exception super duper event in there, except falling off the monkey bars without injury. I was a tough little girl.

I clearly remembered starting to play a musical instrument at the age of eight years old.

Okay...

This is very significance.

The old piano teacher would strike my fingers when I missed the stupid note. And I complained to quit which didn't work either.

My brothers and my sisters had to endure a year of piano playing too. Then they were allowed to quit. Therefore, I de-turded too...

The age of six has vivid and rich memory recall.

I am not an average American.

Age of six years...

I started my first day of school, riding the yellow school bus with the number 66.

Is the number six an unlucky number?

I guess it is the number 666, the sign of the Devil.

Sorry...

Anyways, all the children down my road traveled on that particular school bus.

It was first time that I ate school food and I learned to hate school food on my first day of elementary school.

Hmm. Does any student like school food?

I did like to eat on hamburger day. All the children liked hamburger day with the French fries and ice cream cups.

I recall learning the alphabetic lettering system as the entire class had to repeat in off-key harmony. "A..."

"B..."

"C..."

It is miracle that I graduated from first grade and into second grade. However, I cannot recall any academic or social event in the second grade as I back trace my old brain cells.

Wait, I am getting an image of color.

I remember one outstanding item, my second grade teacher. She was very, very tall with a head of short bright red colored hair and a ton of freckle over her nose and cheekbones on her tone of pale tinted skin.

That's good.

Back to the first grade, I remembered this gross thing. I peed in a foreign toilet. It was a very intriguing experienced.

Geez...

I cannot remember if I washed my hands after I peed in the stinky elementary school toilet, the first time on my first day of school.

Maybe...

Maybe not...

Present day, I actually see a few un-named co-workers that do not wash the hands after pissing in the toilet.

Gross and nasty...

I wished that I could tattle tale to someone too.

I remembered playing on the playground with the big slide, a set of swings, a set of monkey bars, and a see-saw.

Hmm. Do you know what a see-saw is?

However, I do not remember coming home on my first day of school, but I must have.

O...

This is so cool.

I remembered my first grade reading book.

See Jane.

See Spot.

See Spot run.

See Jane run.

However, Jane had a boyfriend too with her inside the reader book. And I can't remember Jane's little boyfriend.

Okay...

I cheated with the internet.

My first grade reader books are called vintage books now. Jane's little boyfriend was named Dick.

I am laughing my ass off.

O...

This is another great flashback memory.

Before I started my first day of first grade, it was near my birthday and I was given a Barbie doll with long blonde hair.

I was not impressed. As a matter of fact, I was greatly disappointed at the age of six years old. The doll had small parts, such like, hands and feet.

I was a child of six with clumsy fingers and two feet. I did not care to play with the new Barbie doll. I think my sister stole her and played with the doll.

The first day of first grade at my old elementary school has been pretty vividly recorded into my brain cells when I was six years old.

I am not an average American.

Age of five years old...

I am pinging into my memory banks for the age of five years old and found something pretty good.

I remembered hitting my sister in the head with an empty glass soda bottle. I drank the soda first. As usual, she was annoying everyone with her fingers in their face.

As usually, I was not bothering anyone, but I freaked out with her yelling. And I raised my arm and hit her skull. The soda actually hit right below her eyebrow.

Blood...

It was very messy.

However, I really didn't get into trouble with my parents. It was hard to get into trouble when your parents were absent from the house and racing to the emergency in the city with your sister and her bloody head and her crying tears.

Whatever...

I am not an average American.

Age of four years old...

I clearly remember my brothers kidnapping and storing my kittens in the tree limb, yelling at them.

They laughed, as usual.

I turned and tattled, as usual.

I guess that an old memory is formed and linger around if it is associated with a trauma.

But I will not relive that old memory.

Well we are getting closer to uncovering my earliest memory of life.

I have uncovered a new memory at the age of four years old.

Our old house had a floor furnace which is an electric heater in the floor base. The furnace was between the kitchen and the living room.

One dark night, I stumbled out of my bed and my room probably for the bathroom. I heard a noise downstairs near the kitchen, thinking it was one of my parents. I was young and curious and fearless. I moved to the staircase and slowly dropped down one creaky old wooden step at a time in my long flannel blue and white nightgown.

My nightgown had a matching blue and white robe. But the robe was on my bed.

It was the wintertime, but the house was warm.

I dropped down to the wooden floor in my bare feet, looking straight ahead at the front door.

The room was cold and very dark with the moonlight outside on the ground and not coming into the windows.

And the timing was too perfect.

Between the kitchen door and the living room space, there was an old furnace heater that clicked on to heat the house with a blaze a cloud of heat which looked like puff of an orange glow at night in the dark, coming up from the floor.

A dark tall figure was facing the orange glow in front of the furnace, moving and coming from the front door.

Well I saw the orange glow and then I saw the dark tall figure.

I did not scream but fainted.

Yup...

I fainted, awoke in my bed, and surrounded by my parents with concerned faces.

My daddy was making all the faint noises downstairs, moving and checking around the house like a good father for wild animals and strange sounds to protect his family.

I was not making any sound, coming down to the living room, so he didn't hear or see me as he had checked the front door and turned around to see me.

However, the orange glow masked his true appearance to my eyeballs.

Yeah man...

After that scary life changing incident with my dad, I never slept in my bed without a light on that shined inside my bedroom, so I could see the dark shadows and scream for my parents. My parents placed a side table along the wall of my room beside the door frame with bright lighted reading lamp on top.

Every night, the reading lamp was lighted before I entered my private bedroom.

My brothers and my sisters closed their bedroom doors to the light.

Ah naw...

I never closed my bedroom door. I never slept without that light powered on. And I used that light until I was married and left that house.

Present day, even when I visit my parents and stay over at their house, I use that lamp.

Yeah man...

I remembered that scary event.

Now I have exhausted all my memories at the age of four years old.

And I do not wanna repeat them either.

I am not an average American.

Age of three years old...

Wow...

Can I go that low?

Hmm. Can you see an old memory at three years old too?

I am concentrating really hard with my eyelashes closed. My hands sweat over the terry bath robe from stress and excitement. I am seeing something.

Yeah...

I am seeing a vision in my mind which is coming, kinda fuzzy.

Yeah...

I am really seeing a vision. The walls are solid white with a hanging picture. The wall is beside a long book shelf.

This is the living room of my house.

The woman is sitting in a rocking chair. The woman is my mom who is holding a baby.

Strange...

I am the baby of the family.

I do not understand why she is holding a baby. I am the baby and I am three years old.

The baby is big and fat with a bald head in my mom's arms.

Okay...

This is one of her nephews, her sister's baby. My family has the oldest children in our family tree.

Okay...

I am standing next to my mom at the rocking chair, swaying to avoid getting my shoes injured from her rocking motion.

My mom is wearing a dress, a pretty red and blue dress. She is rocking and smiling down at the baby, talking to her sister. Then she touches the baby's lips, slipping her finger into the baby's mouth.

I find the motion funny. My mom removes her finger, rocking the chair, talking to her sister. So I copy cat her motion being a cute little girl, lifting and placing my finger into the baby's open mouth.

And then the baby bites my fingers.

Okay...

The baby boy was the first child of my aunt who was born in July. He has two teeth, so he was around six months old and fat.

So I was three years and six months.

Wow...

I did it. I remembered a memory at three years old.

Hmm. What is your earliest memory inside your mind?

I remember the emotion more than the picture. I am the baby of the family, feeling jealous that my mom is holding the baby instead of me.

I am not an average American.

The Music...

I find it interesting that I cannot remember any nursery songs inside my old memory banks.

Music soothes the beast.

You would think that a musical song would trip a long term memory. I usually do not listen to music. I do not turn on the radio to listen to the free radio waves either.

I enjoy music, all types of music.

I participated in both the college and the high school marching bands, playing all types of musical songs.

I found that I like to hum and make up my own songs with great pleasure and good harmony.

However, I do get annoyed at the radio programs. The radio announcer pushes a set of advertisements of merchandise all the damn thing that I will never need or use. Or worse, the radio announces plug a piece of merchandise that they are being paid to lie about.

How can a person lie to gain money?

Is that vanity or selfishness?

Is that a Bible sin also?

Hmm. Do you get paid to talk about a product?

I could never be a famed celebrity. I would never lie about a produce in exchange for money.

When a spider roosts in the high wall corner of my house, I get a small tree twig and wrap both the cobweb and spider around the twig. Then I release it back into the trees, its home.

But my cats usually kill the spider, if they are bored.

However, the spider is a life form, coming from Almighty God.

My walls are very high. I can't reach all the webs and sleeping spiders. So I like them hang and stay along with the dust bunnies in the corner walls. And the cleaning team of my illegal aliens do not mess with the live spiders or the dust bunnies either.

Hmm. Why must everything be killed or terminated?

I do understand that I will eventually die too.

I live in my private world of both grace and beauty like a royal princess but better. I do not attend social parties or shake the sweaty palms or be photographed with a bad hair day. I do not bother anyone. And no one bothers me.

I have no other cares in the world except for the stray cats and kittens.

Yeah. I rise my ass up at five in the morning to feed them, every morning and night. I can't control their individual fates, only Almighty God can do that.

And I can't adopt them into my household of six cats. My vicious babies would shred them to bits and lick the blood from their paws. So I will Almighty God take care of the stray animals, like He has been doing, since the beginning of time.

So I have no worries in the world.

When I awake from my nightly rest, I am fully rested. I have always been available to fall asleep even after gulping down three sugary caffeine sodas or lying down over the steel patio chair without the nails, please.

No matter the furniture. I sleep very well when I am exhausted.

So when I awake from my nightly rest, my first thought is the current worry of the day.

Hmm. Do you do that?

I do not worry about my job. I do not worry about the traffic. I do not worry about my family. I do not worry about the weather. I do not worry about my child.

I do worry about the all the sick and starving animals in the world, but I also have confidence that all other these things are fine.

Almighty God sees and knows everything.

In my past, I worried about my child a lot, especially during the periods of time when I had to toss the child out of my house.

That's a different tale with a good ending, thou.

I am not an average American.

My Minor Worry...

Okay....

I worry a bit.

Hmm. Do you worry a little bit or a lot of bit?

I wake up from a good night's sleep, wiping off the numerous sleepy crumbs and think about my worry for the day.

I have a worry.

Do you want to know my worry?

I worry.

Do you really want to know my big worry?

I have a good worry.

Do you really want to know my great big worry and fear?

I worry about feeding the stray cats and dogs before it rains.

Yeah.

When it rains, the food gets wet. The cats hide in the woodlands without eating.

I feel sad for the cats and the dogs.

So I do follow the weather patterns for rainy days and plan accordingly to feed the animals, my only worry.

I am not an average American.

The Child...

I birthed one child on purpose. I raised one child right, almost right with a few wrong touches that got corrected.

I do not understand why a female births more than one child for stupidity of love or lust or greed or selfishness or whatever.

Someone interview the bitch-mama, please.

Without a stack of scientific research papers of twenty years, every parent knows that two or more children fight, hiss, bite, scratch, and pee on each other in one family unit.

And I know very well.

I had two older brothers and two older sisters, who constantly fought with a pair of bloody hands and a set of more bloody noses or bitched with a set of vile words of hate while drooling mouth spit that hit the bloody noses.

Yeah. I hate my blood relatives too.

After we all had finished high school and went our separate ways, we did not see each other anymore for social event. We all have families and husbands and boyfriends and grandchildren and whatever.

I am very busy with my only child. Whatever my only child needs, my only child gets from me.

Since the father of the only child has another family unit with two more freaking children.

Dumbass...

I did not make that mistake, never.

I am fifty plus years old with a child in the twenty something years, who is still deciding the future of life. So I do not want or desire or need a teenager or a toddler.

And there is that not happy time family reunion during these busy and rushed major holidays as one of my sister dominates the conversation and the layout of the room with her three grandchildren, who stink and smell and stay sick with viruses.

Yeah. I hate my other blood relatives too.

I did not make that mistake like my stupid mother or my stupider grandmother or my stupidest great grandmother. I selected and planned for one child at the age of thirteen years old.

When I was in the seventh grade in the high school at the age of thirteen years in the home economics class, the school teacher asked each pre teen girl to plot and plan out the rest of her fucking life.

A challenge?

I was excited and thrilled to ponder the rest of my life as pre-teen. I wasn't even a teenager. I thought about the rest of my life throughout the rest of the school classes.

I wasn't a very good student but I was a genius. Geez. I never studied and received the letter grade of C.

Now, if I opened that school textbook and read or if I had written down one single word of the school lecture, then I might have gotten an A plus-plus.

I did not. Instead I floated through my classes and my homework assignments using a blue colored ink pen, my signature color, receiving the same old grade.

I remembered when my brothers and my sisters each traveled through the fifth grade and brought home their academic report card for a drama show and a big reward.

My dad had an award program. The letter grade of A was rewarded with a ten dollar bill. The letter grade of B was rewarded with a five dollar bill. The letter grade of average C was rewarded with a one dollar bill. The letter grade of D was received with a face to face meeting with my mom and my dad in your room.

And the letter grade of F was received with a belt across your ass. Well I always stayed in the middle and away from the belt.

However, I found a sense of intrigue with the thoughts of planning out the rest of my life as a young and mature adult.

After band practice which ended at 3:59 pm, riding home with my brother in the truck, I wandered up and in my room to ponder the rest of my long, long life.

I rested on top of the nicely made bed cover by the cleaning crew.

My mom had a group of poor uneducated women come to her house and clean every day.

Yeah. This was a long time ago before civil rights and other government shit.

Anyways, she paid them five dollar or less per day to stay and clean her nasty house with five kids. And they stayed, cleaning and cooking for the family too.

Hint: My mom was a shitty cook. I was skinny throughout high school, because of her shitty food meals. Today, I continue to hate pot roast, salmon paddies, pork chops, sausage, bacon, ham, tenderloin, and green vegetables and other foods.

Anyways, I rested on top of the clean bed cover in my room, pondering my life and my mind was blank. So I moved and wandered down to the kitchen.

My mom was heating up the cooked food in the numerous pans and pots on the stove. I always wondered if my dad knew that my mom didn't cook that food.

I stopped and stood in the corner wall kinda by the edge of the stove oven but not near the stove oven as she stirred and tested the heat on each food item.

I drew a big breathe with a stern face. "Mom, my teacher asked me to present for my home economics class what I am going to do for the rest of my life."

She lifted the lid, stirring the food. "Home economics is sewing and cooking, which ya need to learn how to do, child. Why she need to know what you're going to do for the rest of your life. You're only thirteen years old..."

I nodded with a grin. "I know. But I don't know what I wanna be and do the rest of my life."

"Old maid..."

I gasped. "What the fig?"

She turned with a sneer to her baby daughter. "Do not cuss in front of me, child."

"I don't understand. Old maid."

She sneered to her baby daughter. "You can't cook. You can't sew. You can't knit. You can't dance. You can't sing. You ain't pretty..."

I gasped. "I am pretty..."

She laughed, stirring the pot of food. "Not pretty like your two older sisters. They got all the good looks in our family. The long pretty blonde hair and green eyes with the glowing pale skin like a pair of angels. And they sing like angels too in the church choir during Sunday mornings. They bake like a chef. They sew like a seamstress. They dance like ballerinas. They ..."

Yeah. My two older sisters looked like a set of angels but acted like a set of demons with their nasty ass personalities which my parents did see in the children's wing of the antebellum house during the late hours.

My mom didn't spend time with my two sisters either. The poor servants that made five dollars per day did all the teaching to make my two sisters desiring material for two stupid but good looking farmer husbands.

My brothers were painted in a tone of pink tinted skin with a pair of green eyeballs and a head of bright red head. My dad's family had emigrated from the country of Ireland during the Mayflower voyage or close to it. My mom's family came from the country of Italy after Brother Jesus died or before. My mom had a head of blonde hair with gray strands and a pair of blue eyes surrounded with tons of wrinkles too.

I chuckled. "I got the Egyptian blood..."

Her mom frowned. "What ya fibbing about? Ya betta not be fibbing. I'll slap you ass with my belt." She touched her worn cow leather belt for a butthole whipping.

I pointed down to her ugly toes with a smile. "Your second toe is longer than the rest of your other toes. That is an Egyptian trait..."

She sneered. "Ya calling me a nasty name, child?"

I shook my curls. "No ma'am. I learned in my literature class about the Egyptain culture and physical characteristics.

"Ya don't?"

I shook my curls with a stern face. "Yes ma'am. My literature teacher told all of us about the Egyptian ways. Queen Cleopatra was Greek, not Roman. She had dark skin and dark hair like me. And she had a set of toes like this and like me. All the Egyptians had toes like this. It is inherited from their mom or their dad. So ya see that me and you come from a line of royalty..."

"Ya fibbing to me again? You words make no sense. And I am talking to your literature teacher tomorrow at school."

I was not impressed or perturbed. My mom never came to my high school building, since my oldest brother drove the family truck.

My family worked a farm from sunup to sundown with feeding animals and feeding the crops. So my mom attended the animals being an old farm girl. My dad attended the fields being an old farm boy.

I touched my long black hair with a smile. "Well I don't have blonde hair and blue eyes like you. And I don't have red hair and green eyes like dad. So I must come from another great-great-great grandmother in your side of the family a long time ago. So see I am smart..."

"Ya ain't smart. Your brothers are smart. The oldest one is going to college on a sports scholarship where the college pays for everything. We don't gotta pay one penny. And my second boy is going to follow your brother too. I'm so proud of them, the first one to attend college in our family."

Yeah. My two brothers were both smart and talented. They played numerous musical instruments in the band, made an excellent set of good academic grades, and were preparing to go to college. My older brother is the first one in my family on either side of my parents.

So my brothers were both smart and talented, working a good paying job. My sisters were pretty and cooked, working on a good looking husband.

And I was me.

I nodded. "I might go to college too like my brothers."

She lifted the lid, stirring the food. "Ya ain't. This is a man's world, where a man gets a job and takes care of his wife and his children like your dad does for his family. I prepare my sons to be a man and get a job. College will get them a good job. They are smart and talented..."

"You don't have to be talented to go to college..."

"Ya don't know nothing about school or college, since ya ain't going to college. Ya ain't smart..."

I nodded. "My sisters could go to college too."

"Waste of their pretty beauty. They win all the beauty pageants at school." She laughed. "They take turns winning each year..."

Yeah. My sisters were pretty and popular with a set of good teeth and a head of long blond hair. They won every single beauty pageant at my high school. And every single girl was jealousy too.

My mom tossed my butthole into my first beauty pageant at the age of four years old at the elementary school along with my sisters. I was so scared of the packed audience of people with white eyeballs during the semi-darken floor in the big gymnasium that I stood in the center of the platform stage and pissed in my pink lace panties in front of my mom, my dad, his family, her family, and packed audience from stage fright. So thankfully that ended my reign of terrible pageants foreverly.

I frowned. "If my sisters don't get married..."

She sneered, stirring the food inside the pot. "Hush your mouth, child. Your sisters are planning their wedding now and will marry right after their high school graduate and be good moms and wives for their husbands..."

I nodded learning something new. "Okay. When my brother graduates college, what will happen to him then?"

"Your brother will make me so proud and so happy. He'll graduate college, the first one in our family and get a job..."

I nodded. "Then what?"

"Well he'll meet a nice girl and date..."

"Then what?"

"Well, then he'll marry that girl..."

"Then what?"

"Well, then he'll get a house and a family to start his own life like your dad and me..."

"O."

She laughed. "But ya be an old maid, because ya ain't smart for a good job. And ya ain't pretty for new good looking husband. That's the answer for your silly question. Get now. I gotta fix and finish the cornbread..."

"Yes ma'am." I surrendered the serious discussion, turning and moving back to my private bedroom. I pondered her words with rejected and sadness plus angry and determination.

I was smart in my own way. And I was pretty in my own way too. So I had decided that I would go to college and got a good job too like my brothers too.

The home economics teacher had instructed us to be creative with our future life and display the information in a presentation format of any type.

So I ran upstairs to the office room, where my dad kept all the ink pens, blank paper, reading books, pencils, a typewriter, a set of locked filing cabinets that housed all his farm and household business stuff. I stopped at the large desk, pulling out different drawers, finding a set of new colored construction paper, a pair of scissors, and a couple of colored markers, turning and leaving the office room.

I ran back down the hallway to my bedroom, sitting on the floor, cutting out the construction paper into circles. I completely the circle format for my personal life presentation without writing down any words.

I was still clueless. And I was not writing down old maid on any of colored construction paper.

But I had learned some new information form my mom. She had outlined my brother's life pattern.

So I started at the beginning of my circled cut off construction paper.

I am born. I go to high school. I go to college. I get married. I get a job. I have a baby. I live happily ever after.

My cycle of life.

Well my life turned out exactly in that order, except for the divorce part. But that wasn't in my seventh grade life book only in my real life.

But I am living happily ever after with my old long life.

I am not an average American.

The Pets...

I love cats. But I told you that already.

My six cats are so spoiled that they eat upon an individual paper plate with a cute colored decoration on top. I purchase the nicely colorful paper plates with either circles or growing vines or growing flowers or squares.

Every cat tongue gets a new cute colored paper plate for breakfast and dinner. I am not home at lunchtime. Bu the cats sleep during my working hours like a bunch of lazy ass welfare recipients, who receive both free food and free shelter too.

A plastic plate will give a cat some type of mouth disease. You should never feed a cat on a plastic plate. I read that the wise medical information inside cat magazine. And fish products will kill a male feline.

I found out the sad way. My veterinarian told me that after I had accidently killed my male Persian by feeding him a can of tuna fish per day. One morning, he was dead on the kitchen floor by his used plate. I cried for a week and then get a new kitten.

I wonder about what a plastic plate does to a human mouth, a set of lips, and a skin of ten fingers.

My cats also drink spring water from the bottle. I live in a small town but the water is smelly shitty. I don't drink the water without puking up my morning muffin.

After each cat finishes eating their meal, I toss the paper plate away in the garage.

And I have such a good job and a good income that I buy my cats the tiny cans of cat food. Each one has a particular touch.

Precious is a regular tabby cat who only likes the smell of stinky fish.

Ding-ding only likes the taste of cow beef, who is a tiny Maine Coon that captures and eats the nasty live mammals around the yard.

Babe eats any can of opened food plus her dry food plus all the remaining left over food items from the other cats. She is quiet fat and lazy at eighteen pounds, but she is a very large Maine Coon feline that only cleans her paws and fat tummy.

Blossom is a tiny pure white Persian who is only seven pounds and loves only hearts and livers of chicken cat food.

The Persian felines are not hunters. They are beauty queens, lounging in the sun and sleeping. Blossom only disturbs the sun rays in the living room.

Cal is my calico male, who bothers every one until I feed him. Or I run his tail into another room or outside the house.

Disc is my black colored Siamese who fight with Cal and protects the smaller cats from Cal.

All my cats are its. They have been spaded and neutered and cannot have any baby kittens. They are all healthy and happy.

After my nice easy divorce, I moved back to my home town and purchased a land, settling into my old age and upcoming retirement around the age of seventy or so.

I am working until I die on my desk.

I love my child, but my child is still in college. And my child has lots of college tests and days to finish before graduating. When my child finishes with the college examinations, a job.

Yeah man...

When my child starts a job, a marriage.

When my child gets married, a life of happiness.

Yay...

My child has mentioned in passing on several occasions that I might not be a grandmother ever. My child was overly concerned about that decision and my response.

Hell naw...

I am very pleased, since I would worry greatly with a newborn grandchild. I worry over my child now.

The world is rotten evil to the core and getting worse and worse.

Why would a loving person bring a baby into a world full of hate and selfishness?

The baby will be hated for something, such as, skin color, hair color, eye color, crooked teeth, big nose, small hands, ugly toes, too short, too tall or another physical characteristic.

Brother Jesus said. "The war is true. Kingdom against kingdom. Nation against nation. Brother against brother..."

Hmm. Do you worry about your grandchild?

I wonder what the world will be like for a grandchild, such like, a job, a house, clean water, clean land, an accident, a beating, a murder, and others.

Looking forward, never look back.

I have a great big house which will be sold after I retire from working. Currently, the house is valued at $500,000, half a million dollars, lots of dough and bread.

Yeah man...

Within another ten years, it will grow in value. When I sale the house, I will make a lot cash money. Then I will go to a fancy accountant and ask him to pay the least amount of US Federal income taxes, so I can keep my money, foreverly.

Or until I burn in that incinerator both naked and blue colored.

Hint: That's what the wealthy people do to save their inherited dollars and cents.

I will add the money sale of my house to my retirement pension monies then I will live a carefree and happy live in my pretty world of non-war, non-violence, and all beauty.

Conclusion...

I open my eyelashes.

I slap my palms on the edge of table and scoot back my chair from the vintage writing table, standing and dropping off the terry cloth bath robe down into my nakedness and swing around, feeling the cool air conditioning on my body.

All my cats are lying over the cool tile floor and licking their soft fur in the bright sunlight.

The day temperature is ninety five degrees Fahrenheit and sunny hot.

I love hot days. And I am ready to return to the patio and my lounge chair to suntan some more.

I move between the cute six fur balls on the floor without perturbing their sunbathing. Within two hours, it will be mealtime. But first, they will catnap.

The door opens.

I keep the door and window closed during the hot summertime.

I move to the patio and the lounge chair, sitting and resting on top of the crunchy but dry beach towel. It is not really a beach towel. It is a great big hotel bath towel that I stole during one of my many trips to another city for a boring work training conference.

The cleaning room lady had left six of them on the hotel bed. The towel is six feet tall and soft.

I could not resist and did not resist.

So I did.

I stole for the first time in my life.

Well my sin is minor I guess when compared to a few other people.

Another woman stole my husband. So I can't top that one and will not try.

Adultery is a heavenly sin.

The other woman will sit down and powwow with Almighty God for that one.

I settle my rear skull into the soft towel, closing my eyelashes to the bright sun, feeling the sun touch my nakedness and burn my old skin into a brownish gold color.

My mind recalls quickly all my mental thoughts of an average American as I have concluded my hunt for the average American.

An average American does not give a shit about Mr. Pope, his fluffy words, or his USA visit.

An average American goes to their church and reads the Bible.

An average American loves their country, singing the American national anthem, flying the American flag over the manicured lawn.

An average American is proud to be from a family of foreign immigrants.

An average American loves their freedoms.

An average American owns a gun or two or three.

An average America has a house, a car, a television, a mobile telephone, a child, and a dog with numerous merchandise items of matching furniture and matching clothing sets.

An average American goes to work for a paycheck like the Bible states.

An average American pays cash to a group of illegal aliens to mow the yard and clean the house.

An average American saves all their vacation days to go to the beach or the mountains or the theme park with their family members.

An average American goes to work for a paycheck like the Bible states. I mentally repeated that important one.

An average American does not steal from other people, which is a Bible sin.

An average American does not kill another person which is a Bible sin also.

An average American has worries about his or her family members.

An average American does not hit their child or their pet or their family member or another person for meanness which is another Bible Sin.

An average American is not robbed by a lazy and mean thug.

An average American does not talk about the terrible nasty inhuman events outside the work office or the front door.

An average American does not socialize with an illegal alien or a foreign immigrant.

An average American does not give a shit about the damn welfare niggers.

An average American does not give a shit about an illegal alien.

An average American does not give a shit about a foreign immigrant

An average American is only concerned with their immediate family members.

An average American lives in their pretty world without violence and good smelling food and good taste in matching furniture patterns plus their clothing styles.

An average American is pretty healthy person and grows old in age and then dies, passing into heaven.

Amen...

Then it is the end for an average American who lives in the United States of America.

After all my written, verbal, and mental arguments, statements, and discussion points, I have concluded.

I sat and bend at the waist with a grin and a giggle, shading my eyelashes from the bright hot sun on a Saturday afternoon with a clean house, six healthy and sleeping cats, a college education, a good job, some food stuffs in the refrigerator, a bank account of money, a loving child and nothing else to do for the rest of month.

I am an average American. Yeah! Yeehaw! Yay!

O. By the way, what are you, darling?

The American End

