A Tale Too Dumb for The Twilight Zone

I wear glasses. I have since I was about 10 years old. Yeah, I was one of those dorky kids that got called "Four-Eyes." Don't get me wrong, I wasn't dorky because I wore glasses. I was dorky because I was a dork. The glasses just made it easier for the mean kids to settle on a nickname. 

In high school I switched to contact lenses, which wasn't the transformative moment that movies and TV would have us believe ("Why, Molly, if you'd just take off those glasses and let your hair down, you'd be beautiful." Not how it works outside of "The Brady Bunch" and softcore porn.) But it did make me feel a bit better about myself, which led to having a smidge more self-confidence, which helped me find my own personal style, which...you get the picture. True beauty, like flatulence, comes from within.

Just ask Marilyn, who I'm told was a fan
of beans.

Fast-forward to the present day. I gave up on contacts years ago because lenses to correct my astigmatic eyeballs would be hella expensive and also I'm too lazy to take care of them properly (the lenses, not the eyeballs...although probably them, as well). So I wear glasses every day. And I don't like my current frames. I mean, I really don't like them. They resemble the glasses Michael Douglas wore in "Falling Down," and I don't know why I thought that was a good look for a middle-aged woman.

My crew cut looks better, tho.

I had different frames a few years back. I hated those, too. Guys, I'm so bad at making decisions. I'll try on 30 pairs of glasses at the store, second- and third- and eighteenth-guess myself, and ultimately go with something that feels safe and unremarkable...and doesn't suit me at all.

This, by the way, bodes SO WELL for me trying to buy a home.

"OMG, it's perfect." - my dumb ass, probably

But the frames I had before all of those...I loved them. I really, really loved them. When I look at photos of me in those glasses, I look so good. And not just because those photos are almost 10 years old. I'm probably less cute now than I was 10 years ago, but not that much less cute. 

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

For quite a while I've wished I could take those frames back to the store, get new lenses put in, and be happy. But I can't. Because I lost them.

I don't throw old glasses away. I'm a pack rat. I still have 3.5" floppy disks and external hard drives that don't work with any computer manufactured in this century. Don't get me started on mixtapes that I lack a device to play them on (on which to play them...skip it) and that by now would probably sound like lo-fi whale calls if I did. 

And are as fragile as my ego, to boot.

Yet I somehow managed to lose these remarkable frames. Oh, I've searched for them. Every time I stumble across an eyeglass case - in a desk drawer, a closet, a random box of memorabilia - I check it out. It'll be an old pair of mine, or an old pair of Precocious Daughter's, but never THE ONES. They're just gone...

...is what I thought until a few days ago.

One end of my kitchen island is home to a random assemblage of stuff. It's not a trash heap of impenetrable layers. I can see everything, and if there's something there I actually need, I can put my hands on it right away. I do mostly ignore it on a daily basis, because I'm good at things like that.

A few days ago I was tidying up a bit, and my eye fell on a glasses case sitting among the random items on my island. I've seen it before. I've opened it before, hoping my lost frames were inside. Which they were not. They abso-fucking-lutely were not, any of the times I looked.

Except a few days ago, they were.

Now, I'm a fan of "glitch in the matrix" stories that proliferate on the internet. They're good for a shiver down the spine, like reading a ghost story or kicking a heavy object in the middle of the night (bookmark that for future post, btw). But I don't really believe they actually happen, or that they can't be easily explained away.

So the glasses were undoubtedly there the whole time, and I didn't check the case because I assumed I had checked it previously. That's all. 

But they weren't. They just weren't.

Look, it's far easier to believe that my resident ghost slipped them in when I wasn't looking, or that the very fabric of reality unraveled just enough to allow their passage between alternate planes of existence, than to admit that I'm as foolish and addled as I feel after making my discovery.

Me, now.

To whatever spirit or force or cluster of fried brain cells returned my old glasses to me...thank you. This makes me happy. 

If you wanted to return my youth, my 26-inch waist, or my unblemished liver, I'd be OK with that, too.

Knock-Knock. Who the Hell Is There?

Hi, it's me, talking about ghosts again.

Boo.

For the record, this isn't an "I watch waaay too much Buzzfeed Unsolved" thing. I absolutely do gorge on Buzzfeed Unsolved, but I'm not looking for spooky lights or whipping out the old spirit box. Yet.

Oh, and even though I totally believe in ghosts, I'm a #Shaniac, not a #Boogara. Because Ryan is kind of a whiny bitch, whereas I'd be right next to Shane in an abandoned mission yelling "Hey demon boi!" any day of the week.

Um...if I've lost you and you have no idea what I'm talking about, forget about it. Or check it out.

Prepare to binge watch.

Back to me.

Last night, I slept on my couch. That's a thing I do now that I live alone, partly because sometimes I'm too damn lazy to move to my bedroom, but also because the pull-out couch is much firmer than my bed and I find I toss and turn a lot less. There's also more room for the Siamese Kitten, although she'd rather just curl up in the middle of my pillow while I awkwardly try to fit my head next to her.

So there I was, sleeping, when I was awakened by a noise. A series of noises, actually. A series of thuds. They weren't dull thuds, they weren't sharp thuds. They were just...thuds. Sometimes there was a single thud, sometimes they came in pairs or even three at a time. A few seconds would pass between each one.

They seemed to be coming from various locations - overhead, from the next room, outside. It was hard to tell exactly where they originated. I had no idea what was causing them. My first idea was that the wind was blowing around fairly heavy objects that were on the building roof and/or patios. That would explain the different directions they came from. But when I looked outside there wasn't a breath of wind, and what would have been up on the roof, anyway?

Then I thought maybe it was noise from the construction site next door. But it was way too early for the construction crew to be working. I didn't see people or moving vehicles over there, either.

I even thought it might be the Siamese Kitten having a middle-of-the-night zoom. As she does. Nope, she was fast asleep on my pillow. In fact, she didn't even seem to notice the thuds, except once when she briefly lifted her head, then immediately settled back. The thuds were much louder than her typical thunderpaws, anyway.

The noises were definitely not simply a neighbor walking down the hallway of the building. It's concrete, and it echoes - a lot. The thuds had no echo at all.

Finally, it wasn't noise associated with the furnace. The heat kicked on and then off during this episode - the thuds continued whether it was running or not.

Eventually they just stopped. If they ever came back, I slept through them. Weird.

Ghosts probably hate when we do that.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel at all afraid or uncomfortable during any of this. Strange noises in the night usually freak me out a little - especially when I'm alone. But all I felt was curious as these unexplained thuds beat out their odd tattoo around me.

What do you think, Drunkards? Do I have a (pretty tame) poltergeist? Or am missing a really obvious explanation?

On Ghosts

Yesterday I wrote about my dream house.

And Christopher Waldrop, one of my very favorite Drunkards - and totally a Friend I Haven't Met Yet - commented that some of the images I posted looked as if they might contain ghosts.

And I realized, I forgot to mention that my dream house will absolutely have one or more ghosts.

At the very least, I hope that the ghost that's been following me around since 1989 or so will decide to follow me to my next house.

It might decide to go with my future-former-spouse. That would bum me out, but it's lived with both of us this whole time, and conceivably it could be his ghost rather than my ghost.

In that case, I hope that I would be able to acquire a new ghost.

Because I like ghosts.

And maybe it's strange that I would consider a haunted house to be my dream house. Except that it's my dream, and my dream includes ghosts.

Thanks, Christopher Waldrop, for reminding me that it takes more than bricks and beams to make a home.

It takes occasional unexplained noises and cold spots.

I'm still totally confident that I can find it.

I'm less confident of when, but I'll keep you posted.

Whole Lotta Shakin'

Oh, Drunkards, if ever a post needed a musical backdrop, it's this one. So crank up your speakers and press "play" before you read on.





It was Earthquake Day in my corner of North Texas today.

Honestly, this meme never, ever stops being funny to me.

But big deal. The Dallas area has had something like 20 minor earthquakes in the last year or so. Yeah, earthquakes in Dallas are a thing. More on that in a minute.

But today was different. First, there were as many as four shakey-shakes today in the space of a few hours, ranging from 2.9 to 3.6 in magnitude.

Second, and far more important: I felt one of them.

It's 2015, gotta start weaving in those Back to the
Future II references whenever possible.

For the first time ever, I experienced an earthquake. It was small. It was brief. It felt sort of like driving over a particularly bumpy patch of of road, except I was sitting at my desk at work. Californians may feel free to laugh at the amazement we all felt when the ground shook a tiny bit for less than two seconds.

Still, the point is: Holy shit I was in an earthquake I actually felt the fucking Earth tremble beneath my feet as if maybe it was about to stop spinning in its orbit and just collapse into a pile of space-rubble.

So much for the Cowboys making the playoffs.

Earthquakes are weird, guys. Even itty-bitty ones. I feel confident in saying that I would lose several years' worth of lunch if I were ever in a major seismic event. The very idea of my planet rising up to damage or destroy my home is absolutely terrifying. The ground should not be able to do that.

Yet it can, and it does. And we all know how and why earthquakes happen. You know, uh, tectonic plates and physics and stuff. Yeah. Basic science.

As I understand it, the Earth is a series of tubes.

The thing is, until recently, earthquakes were exceedingly rare in Texas. Way rarer than the Cowboys fielding an effective defense, or a Democrat being elected to statewide office. Un-freaking-common, is what I'm saying.

There's a popular theory that says fracking - the process of injecting pressurized water and chemicals into subterranean rock to release natural gas deposits - has caused the ground beneath us to become unstable. Hence, the sudden recent onslaught of temblors. This is a pretty obvious conclusion, since the oil and gas industry is EVIL, EVIL, EVIL.

By the way, my car (Benedict Cumberhatch) runs on unicorn farts
and the dreams of fangirls everywhere.

I think the anti-frackers are on the right track, but I don't think they go far enough to explain just how fracking and Texas earthquakes are related. Fortunately, I have a theory that ties up all the loose ends.

Because of course I do.

Here's the thing. Everyone knows that once something is interred in the Earth, that ground becomes sacred. You don't mess with graves, man. We've all seen Poltergeist; we know what happens when you mess with an Indian burial ground.

Pretty soon you're desperately seeking a tiny badass woman to come and
cleanse your house of evil clowns.

You know what's buried beneath most of North Texas?

Goddamn dinosaurs, that's what.

Just another day in prehistoric Fort Worth.

Why are we having all these earthquakes in North Texas? Because we've pissed off the dinosaurs by dicking around with their graves, and they're stirring from their eternal slumber.

They've been dead a long time, so it's taking them a while to get good and riled up. That's why our earthquakes have been in the lower range of the Richter scale.

But how long do you think that's going to last, people?

Also, they know there's a new Jurassic Park movie coming out,
and dinosaurs are masters of public relations.

So people in California are always going to live with the threat of The Big One, because they decided to live on the ass-end of North America that's hanging on to the continent by one tiny, ever-eroding faultline. Enjoy those beaches before the West Coast relocates to Utah.

But here in Texas, we've brought our problems on ourselves. We've incurred the wrath of thousands, perhaps millions of ghostasauruses. Two dollar a gallon gas is great until you're bitten in half by a spectral T-Rex. And that day is coming, people.

Today was just a foretaste. The real apocalypse is coming.

As foretold in the Chronicles of Barney.

Y'all better be noivus.

This May Be the Weirdest Thing I've Ever Written

Read that title again.

The woman who has written about crusty vagina fruit and Anthony's Weiner thinks this is weird. Yeah.

Oh, two-headed calf, you try.

I went into my bathroom tonight. The lid on the toilet was down. Which, believe it or not, was not the weird part. I lifted the lid and saw...

Should I have taken pictures?

Maybe I should have taken pictures.

But I didn't. I mean, how many of us have the presence of mind to snap a photo when the unexpected happens?

GIANT BABOON ATTACK GIANT BABOON ATTACK
AAAAAAAHHHHHHH 

Anyway, I lifted the lid and saw that the toilet bowl had a bunch of little short curly black hairs floating in it.

If you don't know, Precocious Daughter and I - this is the bathroom we share - both have blondish-brownish hair. She flat-irons hers, and mine only holds a curl if you douse it in Twinkies-grade industrial chemicals, and the last time I did that was in 1991.

So my first thought on seeing what was floating in the toilet was, Why would my ex (yes, still living with my ex; no, not going to talk about it) come into the ladies' bathroom, trim his pubes into our toilet bowl, then fail to flush? And also, did he use my antique toenail scissors to do it?

I have had them literally my entire life.
They're not as shiny as these, but they still
cut a mean toenail. Am I the only person
who uses something like this to self-pedi?

I called him into the bathroom and asked if he knew anything about the wiry black hairs in the toilet. He swore he didn't, and after 26 years, I know when the man is and is not bullshitting. At that point PDaughter wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I mean, I wasn't going to let her look at the scene of the crime until I knew for certain that I wasn't going to be exposing her to her father's pubic hair.

Did I really just write that?

Or maybe it was Bill Cosby's hair!
Or...not. Sorry, Cos.

PDaughter knew nothing about it. Look, I give my beautiful daughter the privacy she deserves. But I know for a fact that no part of her body produces kinky black hair. Mine either, for that matter, and even if it did, the dementia has not progressed so far that I wouldn't remember thinning out the crops and dropping them into the toilet.

Not completely related, but...OMG, best tattoo ever.

SO HOW DID THE LITTLE SHORT CURLY BLACK HAIRS GET INTO MY TOILET??

We finally decided to agree that our senior cat, who is a tuxedo kitty and loves to jump onto the toilet seat and drink out of the bowl, must have left the hairs. Did she fall in while we were all out? Did something startle her while she was drinking, causing her to quickly drop a bunch of little furs? Did said furs, assuming we're buying any of this story, suddenly become short and curly instead of medium-length and silky upon hitting the water?

Without ever really meeting one another's eyes, we sort of agreed on some poorly articulated version of that story and dispersed. I flushed the intruder hairs away (without photographic documentation) and went about my business.

And I never did speak aloud my pet theory of how those strange hairs came to inhabit my toilet.

GHOSTS.

Fantasmas muy machos. Orale!

Specifically, male ghosts of Mediterranean descent who decided to haunt my bedroom and use my toenail scissors to man(ghost)scape themselves when I wasn't looking. Except they forgot to flush the toilet, because they're goddamn black-haired ghosts with hairy scrotes, what do you expect?

I really have no other explanation for how short curly dark hairs ended up in the toilet used primarily by fair-haired women who at least know how to flush, for God's sake.

Again, not strictly related, but thanks,
Google Image Search.

Bottom line: I believe my home has been visited by hirsute ghosts who decided to take a break and clip their spectral pubic hair into my actual toilet bowl, then dematerialize without flushing.

And I double-dog dare you to come up with a better explanation. You want this goddamn blog? You can have it. Just relay what actually happen.

PDaughter and I and our swarthy spirits are waiting to hear.

Follow-upses

Here's what's been going on since I wrote some of my recent posts. Because you've probably been on tenterhooks wondering.

Tenterhooks. That's an amazing word.

This is not a tenterhook. But it should be.

On the subject of Ted Nugent: He remains holed up somewhere, cowering in fear of me. OF ME. His Twitter feed has been completely silent since I launched #TedNugentBeatdown. And get this: the last time his website was updated was the very day I first announced my intention to kick Teddy's ass in a violent and embarrassing public forum. Radio silence, even after the newest flap about some poor small town regretting the hell out of asking him to come sing for them.

Coincidence? No way, uh-uh. I've got the Motor City Moron on the run.

On the subject of my cat's personal ghost: On closer inspection, and as suggested by Drunkard

linaThumbe, it's just barely possible that what I thought was a photograph of a spectral manifestation was actually my bedroom's ceiling fan reflected in my laptop screen. I still maintain that the preponderance of evidence totally points to ghost. But I'm willing to entertain alternative theories.

 

As long as they include me seeing a ghost.

 

On the subject of sewing: Drunkards BekS and Smee are trying to pull me into a Stitch and Bitch party. Smee is posting more patterns on her Facebook page. Dear God, I started rummaging through my pattern stash last night. This is exactly how a recovering junkie feels when Lindsay Lohan sends him a friend request, isn't it? (And a personal aside to BekS and Smee: It's not reluctance to sew that keeps me from RSVPing. It's that you expect me to socialize. Can't I be alone with my addiction?)

All I need is a presser foot and some fusible interfacing.
I'm fine.

On the subject of my car: Still no word from the insurance company. More importantly, still no check. They can keep their damn words, I just want money. Unless anyone knows of a car dealership that will accept words as a down payment. In that case, I can afford a damn Mercedes.

If not...

Finally, on the subject of random facts: I loved the response I got to that post. If I promise to do another random facts post, do you guys promise to leave more really entertaining comments about spiders and the Banana Splits and whatnot? I hope my Drunkards know that every comment I get makes me feel like the first time I touched myself while listening to David Bowie. Um...that's a good feeling. Am I oversharing? But that's kind of my point, so...reader comments make me feel like getting off to an androgynous 70s rock star.

Honestly, it's a compliment.

OK, gotta go. If anyone has Teddy Nugget's phone number, pass it along. I'll give you a credit.

My Cat Is Haunted

Last night I posted a bunch of random stuff here because I didn't have much to write about.



As shocking as it is to believe I would
do such a thing.

Anyway, I meant to include a picture of my senior kitty, the Tuxedo Cat, who had jumped onto my bed and allowed her picture to be taken. The Tuxedo Cat is mellowing as she gets older, but she's not an I-Love-You-and-Want-You-To-Take-Endless-Pictures-Of-Me kind of girl. She's more of an I-Shall-Grant-You-Clemency-And-Not-Murder-You-If-You-Photograph-Me-Now kind of cat.



She considers Grumpy Cat a media whore.

I just forgot to include the picture of Tuxedo Cat in the post because I was ranting about bras and candles. This morning I found it on my phone. Here it is.



*sigh* Capture my soul on your electronic device,
if you must.

She's a beautiful girl, and she looks lovely against the purple backdrop of my bedroom wall, if I do say so.

If you look very closely, you can see that yesterday's post is actually on my laptop screen, being written. Oh yeah, I'm pulling back the curtain on the creative process. It's like drinking with Hemingway, or vomiting on Hunter S. Thompson's shoes, or something.

Except when I looked closely, I saw something in the photo that wasn't actually there when I took it.



Prepare to be creeped out, people.

I don't know what that thing in the bottom right-hand corner is.

According to the laws of Basic Cable, anything in a photograph that can't immediately be identified is, by definition, a ghost.

Or, more likely, a ghost's straw boater. Belonging to a ghost
who really admires Jay Gatsby.

Tuxedo Cat is totally checking out a spectral manifestation that humans can only see when captured in a photograph. It's some kind of three-dimensional object floating in space beyond the perception of the living, unless you're a cat.

Wait, let's pretend we saw it on the night-vision scope.

Bathed in eerie green light = completely believable.

I've had ghosts following me around for years, so I'm not freaked out by the idea of sharing my home with spirits. It's just that my ghosts typically have been sound-oriented - you know, disembodied voices, strange whistles or moans, that kind of thing - rather than the spectral apparition type.

My ghosts are probably as physically graceful
as I am.

This leads me to believe that my hat-shaped visitor likely is a ghost belonging to Tuxedo Cat herself and was only visiting my room because she was there. She's a pretty stylin' cat; she would have a ghostly pal who resembled a handsome chapeau.

Or maybe just wore one.
I don't really know...ghost protocol.
SWIDT?

They seem to be buds in the photo. I would think cats and ghosts get along pretty well: they're both mysterious and secretive, and also mostly silent until they decide to randomly make a huge, unnerving ruckus for no logical reason.

Whatever. I love you. It's 3 a.m. Shut up.

So Tuxedo Cat brought her little ghosty friend into my room. No biggie. She's not the kind of cat to put up with any crap, so I'm guessing if this ghost decides to make trouble, she'll claw it back to its own dimension.

I'm kind of pleased to have gotten a picture of the two of them. It's not every day you get to photograph a ghost. Or a 15-year-old cat who mostly only comes out of her closet at feeding time. I feel doubly honored.

But if I start seeing the head that is wearing that hat, I may start randomly zooming around the house and crapping in a box. Because I think I just figured out that ghosts make cats insane.

I'm so getting my own cable show. I just need one of those cameras that make everything green.

Stupid Stars

I read my horoscope every day. Because I like to read fiction.


I also believe in poltergeists, ESP, and especially the chupacabra.

The horoscope in my local newspaper - because I also believe in print media, which is stranger than all that other stuff combined - includes a number rating each day in addition to the usual platitudes about love, work, and following your damn heart. So you can see if you're having a day that's a 10 - woo-hoo! - or a two.


AKA most days ending in Y.

So for the last several days, my horoscope has pegged me at a solid 9.

The lesson is: Horoscopes are stupid.

Also a nine.

On the other hand, others look up to me as a leader and true love is just around the corner.

Whatever, stars.

And Bigfoot. I totally believe in Bigfoot.

The only thing that can accurately predict what kind of day I'm going to have is my own attitude. I can look adversity in the face and overcome it, I can stare down obstacles and sail over them, I can get through anything if I believe I can.

Because I always have before. And I'm not going to stop now.

I believe there are better days ahead.

And ghosts in the pantry. Believe that, too.

If I just relax and let things be, they'll work out for the best.

At least that's what my horoscope says.

Oops. Sorry. Force of habit.

Dammit, You're Scaring the Ghosts

It's Halloween! We put up some really cool scary decorations at Chateau Baudelaire, like an entire cemetery in the front yard.

I didn't take any pictures, but it looked a lot like this,
only less adorable and candy-covered.

I mean, we had zombie hands reaching from the cold earth, skeletons hanging from trees, cobwebs everywhere, glowing eyeballs, the works. Spooky stuff. We were ready to traumatize some neighborhood children for sure.

And then the roofers called and said they were coming today. So it all had to come down.



A guy with a hammer and his ass-crack hanging out...
that's kind of scary, right?

 I mean, you can't have old shingles and shit falling and breaking your faux-stone styrofoam headstones into pieces. (Aside: Faux-stone Styrofoam Headstones would make a great band name.) And you can't tell the roofers not to come on Halloween. Texas roofers are way busy people, what with giant hailstones and massive windstorms and the sun beating down on your roof until it cracks like a tortilla chip and all. If they say they're coming on Halloween, you let 'em come, or you might not see them again until the Christmas decorations are up.


Falling debris wreaks havoc on manger scenes.

 So no outside decorations. And no ghosts inside, because no self-respecting spirit is going to haunt a house where it has to compete with the sound of nail guns and workboots on the roof. Ours are definitely staying at the spectral version of Motel 6 this week to escape the commotion. This is shaping up to be a disappointing Halloween.

Maybe Beloved Spouse will have time between the end of today's roofing activity and the start of trick-or-treat to put all the decorations back up. But depending on how chaotic and trashed-out the yard looks, we might not get a bunch of costumed kiddoes venturing up the walk this year. Which means the two very large bags of candy we bought to hand out might end up staying with us. Four pounds of Tootsie Rolls and Milk Duds, stalking me, beckoning to me, unleashing their eerie cries of deliciousness...

That's scary.


I vant to raise your blood sugar.

On the upside, we'll have a nice new roof on the house. It will help keep the attic cooler in summer and warmer in winter. I hope the ghosts are happy. I like ghosts. They're quieter than roofers, and they don't have ass-cracks.

Happy Halloween, everybody! Save me an Almond Joy!

A Little Dickensian Perspective

Don't lie: You didn't watch the Tea Party Republican debate on Monday. Hardly anybody did. I didn't. Common sense dictates that if someone is going to spend 14 months running for President, he or she is going to fill the first 10 or 12 months with inconsequential crap that can be readily forgotten without jeopardizing his or her message. I'm going to vote on November 6, 2012. Come back next year, sometime after the 4th of July, and I'll be ready to listen.

Still, everyone has seen the clip of Ron Paul condemning uninsured people to death and the audience erupting in cheers. At least that's what a lot of people say they saw. Myself, I saw this clip - maybe it's the same one you saw, or maybe I was intercepting a clip from the Bizarro universe:




I heard moderator Wolf Blitzer - in an atypical moment of tastelessness - boil down the complex, emotionally charged issue of health care for the uninsured to a gotcha question: "Are you saying that society should just let [them] die?" I heard a small number of yahoos clap and shout in assent - probably the same upright citizens who cheer at a football game when a member of the opposing team suffers an injury. And I heard Ron Paul offer some very wise words:

"We've given up on this whole concept that we might take care of ourselves and assume responsibility for ourselves, our neighbours, our friends, our churches would do it.... The cost is so high because we dump it on the government. It becomes a bureaucracy. It becomes special interests. It kowtows to the insurance companies, then the drug companies."

I don't know from what debate the London Daily Mail got this headline:

'Let them die!'
Tea Party fanatics in debate audience shout at GOP candidates to leave uninsured ill people to fight for themselves

That didn't happen. Really, it didn't.

I'm not sure what more I can add to this debate. On one hand, this trumped-up "scandal" isn't deserving of debate, although the issue it trivializes surely is. I don't believe the value of a human life should be taken by dragging it through the mud of politics and seeing if it still shines. On the other hand, I think we need to look at this issue seriously and thoughtfully - fat chance in an election campaign, I know - because the issue of what a civilized nation does about its citizens without means is not going to go away.

It hasn't gone away since 1843, anyway.

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir."

"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.


"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.


"And the Union workhouses?" demanded Scrooge. "Are they still in operation?"


"They are. Still," returned the gentleman, "I wish I could say they were not."


"The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?" said Scrooge.


"Both very busy, sir."


"Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course," said Scrooge. "I'm very glad to hear it."


"Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?"


"Nothing!" Scrooge replied.


"You wish to be anonymous?"


"I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there."


"Many can't go there; and many would rather die."


"If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides—excuse me—I don't know that."


"But you might know it," observed the gentleman.


"It's not my business," Scrooge returned. "It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!"


Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.

- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol (of course)

Thanks, Mr. Dickens. You said it pretty. Of course, we know what happened to Ebenezer Scrooge. I don't know what's going to happen to the Republican candidates. But maybe they - and their Tea Party supporters - should take a closer look next time they come across a door knocker.


"Jacob Marley? What a relief.
For a minute I thought you were Rick Perry."

God bless us, everyone.