There is an old adage that says there is no such thing as a dumb question.  Of course, this adage, like many old adages, is mostly nonsense.  There are many dumb questions.  Should I hit myself in the face with a hammer?  This ice is thick enough, isn’t it?  How many licks does it take to get the center of this lollipop?  Can Batman really fight with Superman?  (No.  Superman can turn the Earth backward and see through people’s clothing.  Batman has a suspicious relationship with his “ward.”)

Anyway, I had an intelligent question the other day and so I did an Internet search (it was related to my wife’s Iphone for all of you snickering children out there).  Upon making my search, a list of other popular Internet searches came up on my screen.  Hot Searches, if you will.  The list was varied and disturbing.  For example, one search was “what to do if a student comes to class wearing such revealing clothing that it disrupts the learning environment.”  Granted, this is a conundrum.  But not one I am interested in, mostly because the weather in this state limits this possibility.  It is a Southern matter and I am a Yankee and should stay out of Southern business.  The last thing we need is another Civil War.

Another question, and quite a popular one, is “how powerful would the church become if demons regularly visited earth?”  (I am not making this up.)  At first, I thought this question a joke until I took a peek at the responses.  Let’s just say that people are very concerned about demon visitation.  Like really, really concerned.  This started to make me very concerned.

What I really want to know is who asked this question in the first place?  Was it a demon?  Obviously, demons want to visit Earth.  But there can be too much of a good thing.  If they visit too much, there is a risk that humans will respond by going to church in greater numbers.  This could result in a veritable pogrom against demons.  Exorcism for everyone!  Hallelujah.  Of course, the possessed would have to pay for these exorcisms which would fill the coffers of the church.  They could then give this money to politicians in order to gain influence over the decisions of government.

A second scenario is that the church wants to falsely inflate the number of visiting demons.  After all, church attendance has been dwindling for quite some time now.  And, without a terrible menace to instill fear in the masses, attendance is sure to continue to dwindle.  What would be more menacing than potential demonic possession?  Other than socialism.

I’ll answer for you.  Nothing.  Make the people need a savior again.  It is a good plan, especially because it is rather difficult to argue against a rise in demonic presence.  You can’t see them and any abberational act is up to interpretation.  Say your child throws a fit and won’t eat her dinner.  She is possessed by demons!

Click.  That is one.  Your wife says she won’t be cooking dinner every night any more.  Possessed by one of Satan’s Minions!!!  Marching in the women’s protest?  Deviltry!

Language too uppity?  I’ve never heard anyone speak like that.  It could only be the work of a demon.  Who else uses the word “obsequious” in a sentence?  I think that is Latin.  I cast thee out in the name of Jesus Christ!

As you can see, the tally can grow quickly.

I just Googled the top Internet searches from yesterday.

Number one- Superbowl 51.  Number two- Doomsday Clock.  Number three- Shia LaBeouf.

Shia LaBeouf?  Isn’t he the guy that ruined the Indiana Jones franchise?  Yes, he is.

I guess this means the we get to watch the Superbowl before the Apocalypse.  That’s something.  Go Falcons.

Bill Belichick is an instrument of the devil.

I went snowshoeing today.  It was a delightful winter afternoon; sunny, little wind, warming into the upper 20’s.  My spirit was alive.  All around me were the wonders of nature.  Chickadees frolicked in the brush along the edge of the frozen creek.  The snow enveloped me in silence, save for the occasional eerie call of a particularly vocal Pileated woodpecker.  I traveled a trail I had broken only two days prior.  The trail weaved through a medley of deciduous trees; oak, birch and maple.  On occasion, I came across a great, gnarled White pine, a remnant of the virgin forest long ago chopped down in the name of progress.

As I neared a sharp bend in the creek, I noticed an otter slide.  Not long after, I could see the tracks of this otter.  The otter was walking down the trail I had made.  Knowing the otter and I had traveled the same path, I felt a kinship for my water-loving, mammalian friend.  Then I came across a place where the otter had shit on the trail.  About fifty yards later, the otter fired again and then once more shortly thereafter.  That is no way to treat one’s kin.  I bristled at the creature’s lack of etiquette.

“Damned otter,” says I.  “Have you no shame?”

The otter, perhaps fearing my wrath, uttered nary a sound.  But he was there someplace.  Shifty, shitting little beast.  If only I could get my hands on his flexible little neck.

Actually, I wouldn’t really want to do that.  Have you ever wrestled an otter?  It is not a recommended activity.  In fact, I am pretty sure that an otter would literally try to eat your face off.  Regardless, I would have given him a good tongue lashing whilst holding out a long stick in case of a beserk otter charge.

My anger subsided eventually.  What was to be done?  The otter was gone, leaving his little piles of number two as a calling card.  Pondering further, I realize the otter’s defecation was really a metaphor.  No matter how good your intentions, it is up to the other to respond with gratitude.  Sometimes you get thanks and praise for your good deeds. Other times you get- in this case, literal- shit.

It is just another example of the random nature of existence.  Good intentions and all that.  Even so, I wonder what that otter is thinking right now.  Does he think of me and the kindness I tried to do him?  Or is he merely filled with rage at the mere mention of the two legged interloper into his territory?  Unless one has Doolittlean abilities, the thoughts of the otter will remain unknown.  Regardless, I wish this otter well.

Actually, that is a lie.  In fact, I pissed on the trail twice just to irritate the hell out of him.  He is probably taking an otter laxative right now just to get his revenge.  Don’t worry, you little bastard.  I will be back.  And this time I am drinking three big Gatorades before I leave home.  There will be a river of red piss in the snow when I am through.  In your whiskered face, you damned sodden Mustelid.

And if that doesn’t work I am going on an all bean diet.

One, two, three, four, I declare a colon war.  And my colon is huge compared to an otter’s.  Bigger than huge.  Yuuuuugggge.

Speaking of bodily functions, did you see where Trump had prostitutes piss on him?  Pow pow pow.

Somebody needs to put a little Trump in a bottle of urine.  “Piss President.”

“POTUS of piddle?”

“He’s not or-ange, Lester.”  The hillbilly licks his lips and undoes his trousers.  “That boy’s yeller.”

 

There is a television show called Nashville.  As luck would have it, I was able to watch this show last week.  And it was a two hour special.  My luck cup runneth over.  This show is about country music singers and their problems.  Think a really twangy soap opera.  Anyway, as you may have already surmised, I found this show relatively uninteresting.  That is until I realized that a person can make a country song about almost anything.  What an amazing revelation!  Don’t believe me?  Watch this.

You made me watch your show, I was too much of a pussy to say no,

I’d never seen so much country kitsch anywhere- ere, errrrreeeeee.

But I can’t lose, it kickstarted my muse

And now I know you really care-ere, erreeeeeeeeee.

Trust me, you can do this with most everything.  I changed the channel during a commercial to the Big Ten network where there was a basketball game that was not nearly as interesting as Nashville.  Of course.

Iowa and Nebraska in a basketball fight,

Corncob up your ass tonight.

Then there was the commercial to check your prostate the easy way (this is a true story).  You see, you can take a dump in a bag and send it out for testing to see if you have prostrate problems.  Thank you, Country Music Channel.

She thought it was over, that I couldn’t change,

My life was all set, could not be rearranged,

And then I said I was a man of science,

Didn’t need to leave her anymore,

I shit in a bag, sent it out of the door.

Shit in a bag, shit in a bag, I won’t be leaving her no more. orrrrrr, orrrrrr.

Jist’ don’t want to get none of this shit on the floor. 

This song could also be called The Lament of the UPS Man

My wife left me, my dog run away,

I wear children’s short pants, and drive all day,

I thought it couldn’t get worse, life was too absurd

Then I opened a package and handled another man’s turd.

Anyway, Hayden Paniteire is in Nashville.  She was the short, blond girl from that fine movie, Bring It On.  Hayden is playing a singer who has had too much success, too early, and now has all sorts of problems with drugs and stuff.  In the episode I watched she was in a terrible plane accident.  She was the only survivor.  But her spinal cord was injured and now they didn’t know if she would ever walk again.

It was very touching.  She was helped at the accident scene by a black woman who could really sing.  In her altered state, the Hayden character thought the black woman was an angel, which is completely ridiculous.  Everyone knows angels aren’t black.  This storyline is just another example of Hollywood’s Leftist agenda.

Out in the sticks, we don’t need your Hollywood schtick,

We know what’s right, we know what’s wrong,

That’s why there ain’t no black angels, in a real country song.

You know, I never thought I could like country music.  But I am starting to get the hang of it.  I started drinking at 8am today.  And I don’t have a dog so it is easy to pretend he ran away.  This fictional dog’s name is Duke.  After the real Duke, John Wayne.  There is a song called John Wayne’s Teeth.  True story.

She don’t know I’m drinking, she don’t know I’m drinking,

but that country show got me to thinking,

About life and purpose and the prostrate cancer,

There is no good answer.

So I’ll get drunk and write on my blog.

Oggggg. Oggggg.

Now, for the uplifting part- pause in an artistic way and then sing along with me.

Blogging when I’m drunk, blogging when I’m drunk,

That damned Trump is an effing punk.

I wish I had my own Reality Show-oooo-ooooo.

You never know.