I was watching the Lakers/Nuggets game last night when I noticed something highly disturbing. In the front row there was a kid- a boy of perhaps 12 years of age- whose head was down every time the camera panned over him. The reason, as I am sure you have surmised, was because he was looking at his damned phone.

While I am not usually an advocate for child murder, I found myself overwhelmed with the desire to choke this annoying Little Lord Fauntleroy into oblivion. Each time his face, or, more accurately, the top of his head, came into view this emotion returned. What rage I felt toward this half-grown Spaulding, this floppy-haired embodiment of the abuses of privilege. A ticket for the seat he occupied surely ran into the thousands of dollars. But, no matter. Mommy and Daddy (or perhaps some famous grandparent) was footing the bill. Besides, there would be other times to watch LeBron James- one of the two greatest basketball players ever- to ply his trade. Instagram, or maybe Candy Crush, needed his immediate and undivided attention. Temporarily thwarted by the thousands of miles between us, I sent silent curses from pagan gods toward this ungrateful child. But to no avail.

That is the problem with curses. They so seldom work. If only I were of Gypsy stock. Then I could drive to Los Angeles, touch this youthful jackanapes, and hiss the word “thinner.” How delightful it would be to watch this overindulged brat wasting away to nothing. Since he is nowhere near as fat as the lawyer in the Stephen King novella, his demise would be near enough to immediate for me not to have to extend my vacation. I could spend some time in Yosemite or in Sequoia National Forest, appreciating the majesty of the mighty Redwoods. The Ungrateful Punk, meanwhile, would be slowly diminishing at Cedar-Sinai, his doctors flummoxed by the ailment contracted by the “Boy from Town.” Hahahahaha, I would laugh, and then twist my mustache in a most sinister manner.

Of course, in real life these well-heeled delinquents rarely get their comeuppance. They go through life, not paying attention to anything, their every desire satiated post haste. They screw up often, but even this is of no consequence. A phalanx of lawyers in Italian suits need only be summoned to solve any and all problems. If an elderly Gypsy comes after them, these lawyers contact the local authorities to apprehend the vagrant and send him summarily to jail. Then they find a different Gypsy and pay him off to counter-curse the “thinner” curse. After that, they use their connections to Republican politicians and Fox News to beat the drum against the immigration crisis surrounding Gypsies. Not long after that, a wall. A wall symbolic of the entitlement of some kid who can’t be bothered to watch the best basketball players in the world from his court side seat.

It makes me extremely angry. On the other hand, I did see Andy Garcia at the game. He looks quite a bit older than the last time I saw him. The last time was probably when I watched The Untouchables for the seventh time. It’s a good movie. Sean Connery is in it. But he gets killed, like how he gets killed in Highlander. Another Immortal lops off his head. That really isn’t how he gets killed, but it would be an interesting twist. He couldn’t be named Ramirez, though. But Andy Garcia could. Easily. Because he is Cuban. Sean Connery was a Scotsman, thus an odd choice for a Spainard. On the other hand, Sean Connery played an Asian in one of the James Bond movies. It might have been in Dr. No, but I can’t remember. Anyway, it didn’t make much sense. They should have introduced a Gypsy character to touch Bond on the arm and say “Asian.” That still wouldn’t have made much sense, but at least it would have been a plot twist.

With all this meandering, I almost forgot my death wish for the kid at the basketball game. Though, maybe it isn’t a good thing for a fifty some year old man to wish death upon a child that he has never met and who is only spoiled because of his asshole parents.

Which is a good point, no that I think of it. It would be better if I could see his parents, perhaps walking through the Minneapolis airport on their way to some exotic and expensive location. I would walk right between them, putting a hand on both of their shoulders.

“Thinner Asian,” I’d say. And then walk mysteriously away, chuckling at my good fortune.

Or I could turn and kick the kid square in the balls. Then do the mysterious walk thing.

I was watching “The Mummy” last night (the one from 1999, not the tripe that Tom Cruise is trying to pass off) and was enjoying it immensely. I have seen “The Mummy” at least forty times, probably more if you count watching a few minutes here and there while waiting for the soup to warm up. It’s a good movie. Not Oscar Best Picture winner good, but a solid “B/Bplus” in the annals of cinema. Anyway, O’Connell is fighting off the skeleton guards and my 17 year-old-stepson says something terrible.

No. Nobody is pregnant and he isn’t dealing Methamphetamine out of the back of Burger King. Worse. He said “The Mummy” was a crappy movie and that “American Sniper” is way better.

It is times like this when I weep for the future of our country. The only good thing about “American Sniper” is what really happened to the sniper guy in real life. Pow Pow Pow makes the world go around. Nutshell, the kid doesn’t know shit about movies. He also thinks that “Days of Thunder” is a great movie. Horrible. Cole Trickle? No. Who wrote that movie? They should be sent to the Gulag. Or at least Oklahoma. Same, same.

Speaking of Oklahoma, it was the ten year anniversary of the F-5 tornado that devastated the town of Moore. Or “No Moore” after the twister was done with them. I watched it over and over on the Weather Channel. Oddly enough, many people in Moore were caught unaware by the giant tornado. Not to criticize, but I was watching the Weather Channel the day it happened and they had plenty of warning. Plus, Oklahoma is the place “where the big winds blow.” What does that tell you, Oklahomans? That’s no train.Tornado on the way. Big one. I enjoy the Weather Channel.

Other than “School Ties,” I can’t really think of another good Brendan Fraser movie. The word “legend” is probably a bit hyperbolic, given this reality. Maybe just Brendan Fraser: Still Kicking. Brendan Fraser: Tarzan, Caveman, Everyman? Brendan Fraser: I Used to be Younger. Eh. So did I. Sorry, Brendan Fraser.

I said “eh” because Brendan Fraser is Canadian. Sort of. He was born in Indianapolis. Some people die because they are from Indianapolis. That probably would have been better than dying because you are from Minneapolis. Minneapolis is a nice city. Maybe the writer of “In the Line of Fire” picked up a case of gonorrhea from a hooker in Minneapolis. Even so, I don’t understand why that guy is picking on Minneapolis. Nobody said, “Hey, bro, you really need to pick up a hooker in Minneapolis. They never have gonorrhea.”

If somebody had done that, I would completely see why he killed a woman from Minneapolis in his movie. It’s why I kill hedge fund managers in my posts. Somehow that didn’t come out right.

Anyway, the hooker from Minneapolis probably grew up in Iowa. Iowans are notorious for that kind of behavior. That and corn shucking. I suppose a person might connect those two things, but I am not that vulgar kind of person.

Anyway, all’s well that end’s well. Penicillin.

My stepson also thinks that the new “Top Gun” movie is awesome. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it is essentially the same story as the first one. Except the lead character is way too old to fly a jet now. I’m lying. I definitely told him that. And then I told him how bad “Days of Thunder” is. Because it stinks. Dick Trickle (not Cole Trickle) was a real person. This information is a segue from the whole gonorrhea thing. But maybe that is best left in the past.

The only Tom Cruise picture I really like is “The Color of Money.” And that is because Paul Newman is in it. Paul Newman was also a real race car driver, unlike Tom Cruise. So, was Dick Trickle. I would like to blame Dick Trickle’s name on his being from the South. Alas, he was actually from Wisconsin. Wisconsin Rapids, to be exact. If you have ever been there, it will make more sense. Sadly, Dick Trickle committed suicide. Probably because somebody named him Dick Trickle. (Not really. Though it seems plausible.)

That’s why my stepson doesn’t like “The Mummy.” Because it could never happen in real life. No kidding, dumb shit. Supernatural beings don’t exist. What are you, Catholic? It’s easy to take shots at Catholics now. Most of them are really old and slow.

Rachel Weisz is also in “The Mummy.” Let’s just say that she has aged a little better than Brendan Fraser. Probably because she isn’t Canadian.

No Moore. Heh heh. I make myself laugh. At the expense of traumatized Oklahomans.

Heh heh. Get it? I just continued the title theme from last week. “Frau Blucher!” Whinny whinny whinny.

I hate horses. Or rather I hate horses who are close enough to inflict harm on me. As you might surmise, I had a couple of bad experiences as a child- one rapid dismounting, one painful bite- that contributed to my hatred of the animal. Though, as noted, I am fine with horses in the field. They can frolic all they want out there. Swat flies with their tail. Make little horses. Just so long as they maintain their distance. Get too close and it’s glue time. Of course, we need glue. It’s what keep us together. Unless you’re a horse. Of course.

Speaking of togetherness, Vladimir Putin is a mighty rider of horses. Who can forget the photos of Putin, shirtless and inscrutable, looking fearlessly into the future? And who knew what the future would be? Surely not the Ukrainian people. Though I am sure that somebody saw this one coming. No matter what the disaster, there are always people who point out that destruction is imminent. All sorts of Germans tried to warn the world (or at least the German people) about Hitler. But Hitler had lots of parades and a cool flag and he was Making Germany Great Again. Until the Red Army came through the Eastern Front and laid waste to the countryside. No Horst Wessel song after that. Those were the days for the Red Army.

Now look at them. Back to the half-assed forces that got Nick 2 stood up against a wall. In Yekaterinburg. Pow Pow Pow. And then several more pows. And then the executioners had to bayonet the royal family. And then that didn’t work, so they finally shot the still living kids right in the bean. That worked. Gruesome. Plus, it really didn’t make a difference. Back to strongman leadership as soon as possible. Those damned Russians. At least they gave us vodka. That’s something.

As the Ukrainians stave off naked Russian aggression, some politicians in the US question whether supporting the Ukraine is the right choice. Oddly, these politicians are mostly Republican. Which is definitely a switch. Because I can distinctly remember Republicans being adamantly anti-Russian for quite some time. Reagan sure didn’t care for them. However, Reagan showed significant signs of dementia his last term in office. So, maybe we can’t always rely on Reagan for our universal truths. He was good with animals, though. Bedtime for Bonzo and all. That chimp probably got Reagan to the White House.

Speaking of chimps (angry ones, in this case), Putin seems like he isn’t willing to quit anytime soon. Never say die, a saying that is most easily used by those who won’t be doing the dying. Kind of like when you go to a youth football game and the dad keeps yelling at his son to “get in there” and “get tough.” In this scenario, the kid weighs 100 pounds and the kid who he can’t tackle weighs 190.
“You’ve got to get in there!” screams dad.

Dad is, predictably, five nine and a half and weighs 165 soaking wet. It is highly doubtful that he could tackle the other team’s running back. Certainly, if he had to tackle one of the 250 pound fathers standing around, he would be a bit less enthusiastic about “getting tough.” Then discretion would be the better part of valor. Anyway, the story ends by the little kid going low and taking a knee to the head, killing him. What? Too harsh? Ok. The little kid gets concussed and never plays football again. He runs cross country instead.

The next fall his dad is screaming at him as he hits the last half mile, “Catch that guy! You’ve got to run!” The kid bears down and falls dead from an unknown heart condition. I did warn you that this post was related to the last one.

I work in mysterious ways. Like when I killed the kid twice in two paragraphs. He’s dead now for real. You wouldn’t have liked him. His name was Nicholas Putin and he would have grown up to be a hedge fund manager. First, we kill all the hedge fund managers. There you go, Shakespeare. Fixed it for you.

Shakespeare. When are English departments going to retire that guy? Read some Russian literature or something. Bulgakov, perhaps. Dostoevsky. Tolstoy. Lermontov. Nikolai Gogol. Technically, Gogol is Ukrainian. He often satirized Russian political corruption. He’s probably not on Putin’s reading list.

Republicans hate that guy. Gogol, I mean. Not Putin. Putin reminds them of someone.

Also, I’m kidding. Republicans have no idea who Gogol is. They think he’s the guy who gets them onto the internet. Yep. There’s a little, extremely old Ukrainian running a switchboard in there.

“Hey, Nikolai! Why aren’t you writing anymore?”

Nikolai pokes his wizened head out of the room. “I’m running the damn internet!”

That could be some kind of meme. I should see if I kind find a picture of Gogol laying around. Or I could just draw my own picture. It’s not like anybody knows the face of an old Ukrainian writer. Well, Tsar Nicholas 1 did. TN1 is dead now. Like his son.

As an interesting sidebar, Gogol was not well-loved in school. The other kids called him the “mysterious dwarf.” I think we can all agree that Gogol would have been horrible at football.

It has come to my attention that there has been a bit of a lull in posts from the Orange. I apologize to my faithful readers.

No, I don’t. I almost died! Kicked the bucket. Jumped the shark into eternity. Fell into the black depths of oblivion.

Let’s see you have open heart surgery and write something. But now I am all patched up. Of course, I am now a post-modern human with a mechanical heart valve and a prosthetic aorta.

Not a man. Not a machine. Just something in between. Whooooaaaaaoooooo.

Putting on the ritz!

I’ll be back.

I can’t recall Robocop saying anything memorable, but it has been a while since I have seen that movie. I just remember it was in Detroit. And Detroit was a giant dumpster fire in the future. Apparently, the future is now.

Speaking of science and dumpster fires, I see the Republicans are continuing their assault on education, particularly education that comes in these antiquated little squares known as books. Like the leaders of Gilead, they appear to want to make sure that nobody knows nothing. Just a nation of Sergeant Schultz’s from sea to shining sea. With bad German accents.

If you’ll recall, Bob Crane is the actor who played Hogan in Hogan’s Heroes. He was a fellow with eclectic interests. One of these interests was videotaping and photographing his many sexual escapades. Believe it or not, that interest turned out badly for Bob. His partner in these escapades allegedly ended up bludgeoning Bob to death with a camera tripod. It was never proved. In fairness, when you videotape sex acts, you tend to make a lot of potential enemies. Something about kissing and telling. Who knows? Luckily, we now have access to any kind of pornography that one can imagine. If only Bob would have been born later. Then he would still be alive. So would the guy who played Sergeant Schultz. And Beethoven. Beethoven was another German. Though he died in Austria, where Hitler was born.

Hitler was a guy who enjoyed burning books. Except for Mein Kampf. That one was okey dokey. He wrote Mein Kampf while in prison for trying to overthrow the government. It makes me wonder if the QAnon Shaman has any literary aspirations. Rage of the Buffalo by QA Shaman. What a dummy. It’s a bison, not a damned buffalo.

Speaking of Buffalo, why are they called the Bills? But have a bison on their helmet. Shouldn’t the mascot be a letter from the electric company? Or a fat guy from the suburbs? (A guy named Bill.A plumber, perhaps. Then the helmet could have a fat guy bending over and showing the crack in his ass).

As a sidebar, I see I have already outlived Bob Crane. And I am closing fast on Beethoven. It appears Beethoven died from liver damage caused by heavy alcohol consumption. Only a few more years and I’ll defeat him. Do you hear me, Ludwig?!!

Sadly, Beethoven could not hear me.

Anyway, I continue on in my present form, this leg of my atomic cosmic journey elongated by the powers of science. (There is an elongated leg and Bob Crane joke in there somewhere, but I prefer to refrain from any vulgarities). Of course, this incarnation of the Orange must eventually end. On the other hand, if they can keep my heart going with spare parts, perhaps this ending can be extended a bit. I am not opposed to being more cyborg than man. Better yet, scientists are now growing biological parts in the lab. Maybe I will be able to swap out failing parts for new and improved models, grown from my own DNA.

Some of you might also take advantage of this nascent technology. Just imagine living to 184, telling Bob Crane jokes to people who have never even heard of Beethoven. How you will smirk at their ignorance.

Weakling biological fools. Bow to your cyborg masters.

“Drop it! You’re coming with me, dead or alive.”

“I know you! We killed you!”

Heh heh heh. And then you say “you don’t even know who Bob Crane is, do ya punk?” And shoot down the bad guy with your laser hands.

Unless the Republicans find a way to keep everyone from going to school. Then we will all just be Amish and smell of body odor and cow shit. Though, if you are a man, women will have to bow before you. You will be the cyborg of Amish-land. Elijah Cyborgia can be your Amish name. Or Bob Crane. Up to you.