Correspondent:: HellPope Huey Date: Mon, 25 Oct 2004 15:19:14 GMT
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I recently saw a disquieting sign, the latest among many. However, this
one was unique. My old radio cohort Billy and I were on a
mini-pilgrimage to Branson, Missouri to visit a mutual friend, looking
forward to avoiding all of the gaudy attractions of that white-trash
Disneyland. Along the way, during a slowdown attributable to the
presence of yet another lumbering and no doubt doofus-filled RV ahead,
we saw a dark warning. Standing alone in a clear spot next to a rusty,
sheet-metal garage was a similarly weather-worn sign that simply read
"Your child could be next." No embellishment, no ad, just the unadorned
statement in block letters.
We half-laughed at it in an uneasy fashion. "Damn, man, that's spooky!"
The intent seemed more sinister than not, yet the statement alone could
wear any one of a number of hats. We swapped ideas on some of those
possibilities, wondering what had triggered its placement and motivated
its author.
"Your child could be next." He or she could be whisked away by the
Boogeyman, swallowed up whole and never return. They could be frozen in
time, a slowly fading picture on the mantle, every Amber or Morgan Nick
alert a fresh spear to your heart, wondering when, how, where. They
could hover over every dinner table, every holiday, every fourth
thought, every other nightmare, every slowly fading guilt that refreshes
itself when you note that they ARE fading into numbness and the ongoing
rush of everyday life. They could be so very gone, yet return a bit
every time you pass a school, hear gleeful kids at the mall,
inadvertantly catch a news segment on Internet predators, see a spot on
TV for "CSI." You hold them closer, chide them more stridently, pamper
them more readily, worry over them a bit more deeply, because they could
be next.
"Your child could be next." They could rise up and surprise you
mightily with a sudden explosion of talent, a burst of heretofore
unsuspected principles, an act of character, an expression of grace or
compassion, a solid confirmation of everything you'd hope for after all
your years of hard work and sacrifice, your cleaning up of various
messes, your relenting before their excited desires to have or do
childish things. They could could make the leap from pest to peer and
hold you in thrall for a golden moment not unlike the special effect
technique in which central figures stop while the rest of the world
moves on in real-time around them. They could Stand Tall, Take Their
Place, Renew Your Love and Ring The Bell. They could wholly justify the
long hours of waiting.
"Your child could be next." They might take flight in a direction you
had never suspected was open to them and show a great passion which you
had all but forgotten in yourself as you matured, focused and mellowed.
They could remind you of yourself at your very best. They could become
the happiest camper in the Golden West and take you along for the ride.
They could go utterly balmy, hear ghostly voices, do a St. Vitus Dance
with unseen partners, haunt your house before its time and take you
along for the ride. They could heroically ride out the storms or leave
you squirmin' like a toad.
They could take up the snake, the gun, the plow or the guitar. They
could take up each in turn and run rampant across the spectrum of
possibilities. They could suddenly take out the garbage without being
asked or spontaneously do the dishes, causing your jaw to drop. They
could marry well and have glorious grandchildren for you to dote over
happily and hand back to them when the diapers become full or evening
edges into night. They could marry badly and have mutant hellspawn whose
best use in life would seem to be chum for deep-sea fishermen. They
could grow feathers or scales, turning into utter strangers so far above
or so far below your ability to grasp that you are left to simply stare
at the Moon and mutter "How in the glittering Hell....?"
"Your child could be next." They could begin walking like Charlie
Chaplin's Little Tramp for no apparent organic reason or become the Jimi
Hendrix of the hammered dulcimer. They could make you glad you got tipsy
on that rosy night and gave in to randy old Pan or curse the Trojan that
failed. Your bright-eyed bundle of joy could become that dusty sack of
potatoes in the corner. They might turn out like Homer Simpson or Ned
Flanders and make you want to kill them in either case. They could turn
the tide when the tide most needed turning and cause you to rewrite your
will so that the house and the stock portfolio are left to them instead
of the Home For Orphaned Malaysian Guinea Peegs.
They could be quarterbacks, two steps above helper monkeys,
philosophers, junkies or the engineers of a new Gate to Heaven in
Flavor-Aid, Texas. One might become the next Pavarotti and the other,
the next Boy George, oh Martha, where did we go so very wrong? For want
of a securing nail to drive through the forehead of a jittering problem
in its infancy, the potential ballet dancer grew up to become an
Incredible Hulk in lime-green stretch pants and the shame of 6 counties.
They could rankle you with clownish televangelism or cause you to take
pride in a most remarkable variant of Sin. People can be so colorful
that way, don't you know. Lips from which spring toads can sometimes
deliver a rare gem and vice-versa. Keep your receipts, everyone's a
winner, no one seated after the beginning of the show. Its just go, go
Speed Racer, petals turn to metal and let's hope the tires hold up.
"Your child could be next." A momentary drop of social dyslexia could
turn solid into soiled and that Fabrege egg can become a pie that had
the poor fortune to miss Ann Coulter's smarmy face, gone in a wasted
splat. They always say children are our future, as if that was sure to
be a golden thing, but the daily news knows better. Won't someone please
think of the children? Sure, no problem, as long as we also take time to
think of something ELSE. They can't hold up to that level of scrutiny
and not suffer, no matter what the intention or environment. You must
stand down from time to time if you are to stand up again later with any
certainty. Allow them their time to be wild-haired and unbridled.
Remember, if you become your parents, your kids will inevitably become
YOU. If your child is next, you may not be far behind.
I once met a principal who had taught school to both Jewish children
who would not shut up and Mexican ones who would not speak. Where do the
ends meet, or do they simply spin off into nothingness, adding their
small bit to the heat death of the Universe? The mother of a
Jihad-minded suicide bomber in Jerusalem had no chance of seeing her son
become the next Jonas Salk and the professor of sociology often has no
grasp of how a bright young girl of 8 could become the denizen of a
dozen trailer parks. In turn, Ma and Pa Kettle have no idea of how their
son wound up happily teaching English in Japan. Your child could be
next, if they lose their way, if they are lucky, if their work is
rewarded, if you are halfway on the ball, if you both see the signs.
Hey, batter, batter, batter, lay down your dime, give the wheel a whirl,
everyone's a spinner, especially the dog who chases his own tail.
Another day, another holler, so good night, Gracie, wake up, little
Sheba. Some nights can make a man more brave, but not more sober, so
respect the close shave and the sign on the dotted line, because at one
time, you were the child who came next.
--
HellPope Huey
It sure beats a kick in the slats and
a tin nickel shoved up your nose.
It is one thing to ignore the Rites;
it is quite another to expect the gods
to ignore the Penalties.
- E. Bramah
"That's nuttier than a pachyderm's stool sample."
- Dennis Miller
Correspondent:: König Prüß, GfbAEV
Date: Mon, 25 Oct 2004 16:08:25 GMT
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HellPope Huey wrote:
> I recently saw a disquieting sign, the latest among many. However, this
> one was unique. My old radio cohort Billy and I were on a
> mini-pilgrimage to Branson, Missouri to visit a mutual friend, looking
> forward to avoiding all of the gaudy attractions of that white-trash
> Disneyland. Along the way, during a slowdown attributable to the
> presence of yet another lumbering and no doubt doofus-filled RV ahead,
> we saw a dark warning. Standing alone in a clear spot next to a rusty,
> sheet-metal garage was a similarly weather-worn sign that simply read
> "Your child could be next." No embellishment, no ad, just the unadorned
> statement in block letters.
Have you seen me lately? Sam Kennison or Sam Peckinpaw...
My schoolmarm friend says she's going to write a book,
"Hey, Lady! Is this your kid?"
One of the zoo rangers in Stanley Park, Vancouver, Bee Cee
came up to us carrying Woody, four-years old at the time,
and asked if it was our kid; she said she'd found him in the
bear cage. But it was OK, he hadn't hurt or molested the bear,
they were just taking a nap together.
Correspondent:: "nu-monet v7.0" Date: Mon, 25 Oct 2004 11:26:35 -0700
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HellPope Huey wrote:
>
> "Your child could be next."
Once there was a little boy
He lived in a place where bad things happened
He was afraid that he would be brutally killed
Just like all the other little children had been
And then, one day, along came a crab
The boy tried to ignore the crab
But it just stayed behind him
Singing
Then another crab arrived
Still the boy was too afraid to turn around
But, summoned by the song, more crabs arrived
And they danced
The song became calmer
The crabs were still there
The boy was afraid
Then Britney Shpears arrived
"Hey, let's have a techno party", said Britney
And so they did
And some pixel people came too
It was the Chemical Brothers and a guy from Altern 8
And they danced
Techno!
Suddenly everyone disappeared
The boy was left all alone
It was very quiet
He was very afraid
And he stayed standing there for three days
Too scared to turn around
Now, all his little friends are dead
But for some reason whatever killed them
Has never come for him
-- from rathergood.com
--
"YOU BELONG TO US NOW!"
"GET DOWN WITH MY SICKNESS!!"
--Kino Beman, brand name
Correspondent:: hellpopehuey@subgenius.com (HellPopeHuey)
Date: 26 Oct 2004 12:38:28 -0700
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"nu-monet v7.0" wrote in message news:<417D455B.3D95@succeeds.com>...
> Now, all his little friends are dead
> But for some reason whatever killed them
> Has never come for him
His turn will come. Mine has arrived several times, but I've survived
them so far; that's why my hump has such a hefty layer of scar tissue,
but I still find it useful for knocking people aside at Wal-Mart so I
can get to the last jug of peyote-flavored soy milk before them.
--
HellPope Huey
An overbite should be a dental condition
and not a personality flaw.
Marionette porn. Hooray.
-SubGenius Spice
"Hooters is the only restaurant where
if I find hair in my food, I keep it."
- Greg Giraldo
http://69.93.225.186/3661_eggsong.swf
Correspondent:: nikolai kingsley Date: Wed, 27 Oct 2004 06:37:46 +1000
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> http://69.93.225.186/3661_eggsong.swf
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGH! STOP SAYING THAT!
Correspondent:: "ArWeGod" Date: Tue, 26 Oct 2004 21:56:40 GMT
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"nikolai kingsley" wrote in message
news:2u7qonF267mdgU1@uni-berlin.de...
>
> > http://69.93.225.186/3661_eggsong.swf
>
>
>
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGH! STOP SAYING THAT!
Ooodle Doodle!
--
ArWeQuiche
Correspondent:: Ljutefisk Date: Tue, 26 Oct 2004 22:51:36 GMT