The Lord of the Flies

An excerpt from about 1995:

Clint gets on Carl’s nerves with things that he does that I think are hilarious. Recently at a performance in Steelville, Illinois, we were at an outside fair and flies kept getting in our car. Carl wished for them to get out (there were many). He got in the car and began shooing them out the window.

Clint tried to help by calling the flies by name and speaking to them sternly about not obeying Carl.

“Lloyd! Hannibal! Get on out of there! What’d I tell you?”

He also attempted to explain their uncooperativeness by attributing to them personalities. He explained that Jackson preferred to sun himself on the steering wheel and that Oscar had found a piece of discarded french fry on the floor and did not wish to leave until after lunch. Thorndyke, he remarked, has had an attitude for as long as Clint has known him, and buzzing around his face annoyingly is just the kind of thing Clint would expect from Danté.

Carl got madder and madder at the flies and at Clint and I was holding my gut and laughing with tears streaming down my face.

My Life as a Guy Magnet

Related to my questionable memories of my high school career, let me explain about the first and last date I had with Frank Glendon. My friend, Judy, and Frank went to the same church and youth group when we were all in the same high school. I went to a different church and youth group, but often we cross-fellowshipped.

Frank had a crush on my friend, Debbie. Debbie couldn’t stand him. He followed her around, lurked at her locker, hovered around her when she tried to get to class, bothered her immensely. She complained bitterly to me, and I took pity on her. I told her to let me try something.

The next time I saw Frank lurking around Debbie, he was with her at her locker. I strode up to Debbie, and gushed, “Debbie, where did you get this gorgeous guy?” (Big fat fib.) “Why don’t you walk me to my locker sometimes?” I effused to Frank. Linking arms with the hapless dupe, I led him away so that Debbie could escape out the door.

Sure enough, he left her alone after that. Curiously, he left me alone, too. Problem solved.

A year or two passed and Frank turned up at a Bible study I attended. I was cautiously friendly to him. He was apparently with my friend, Lorrie. (Lorrie was later murdered by a drunk driver.) A day or two later, Frank called, having obviously gotten my number from Lorrie, who didn’t know any better. Before I could get my bearings, he asked me out, and I accepted.

He arrived late Friday night, having gotten lost. The program was to go to a Bible study, and then to a improvisational theater performance. Judy was at the Bible study, and I had a really good time. Afterwards, Judy and the rest of her youth group invited Frank and me to join them for a bite to eat. The bite to eat lasted so long that we missed the improv, which was okay.

I should point out that this date occurred on the coldest night in recorded history. It was very bitter. After the bite to eat, the walk back to Frank’s car was miserable as it was several blocks in the icy temperatures. His arm came around my waist. I didn’t object, but felt that if he has to do this, he should hold on tighter for the warmth.

We got to his car. He put the key in the door lock on the passenger side and unlocked it. I wanted to get in. I wanted to get in soon.

Instead, he turned to me, leaned against the door, crossed his arms in front of him and announced, “Well, I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” Several thoughts went through my mind at once. The first and foremost was Oh, sh*t!

The second thought was a hazy recognition that this whole evening had been set up for this climactic moment when he pulls this off. I am now expected to rush into his arms with an orchestra playing some impassioned crescendo, and mutter, “Kiss me, you fool,” as I climb on top of him like butterscotch topping on a scoop of ice cream.

The third thought that went through my mind was Oh, sh*t!

I did not rush to him, say “Kiss me, you fool,” or jump on top of him. I was cruel and unfeeling. I was brutally honest and vicious. I burst his tender male ego.

I asked to be taken home.

The ride home was a little chilly even though the heater was on. He was giving me the silent treatment as he licked his emotional wounds. I ruminated the whole way about how much he had counted on this big finish and how hurt he must be to realize that I would rather not kiss him.

In fact, I would rather kiss a rhinoceros. I began to feel really bad about the way I had let him down, and reasoned that one kiss wouldn’t cost me anything except a few moments of revulsion.

It wasn’t that he was really repulsive. He was just your average guy. But it was the “I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” approach that was smarmy and repugnant.

He was sullen and angry all the way home. My attempts at pleasant small talk were met with one-word responses spat between clenched teeth and dripping sarcasm. So I added “childish” to my list of indictments against him.

When we got to the house, he walked me to the door. Typical end of date scenario, right? I said, with regret and exasperation thinly veiled, “Why don’t you kiss me, Frank?”

His eyes lit up like I’d announced his winning lottery ticket. He grabbed me by the shoulders and the kiss was such that I was led to believe he was actually trying to eat my tonsils. After a few moments of enduring this, I broke the embrace and said good night.

An entire bottle of Listerine gave its life in an attempt to get his kiss out of my mouth. When he called the next day, I was prepared, and terminated the relationship.

Paper Clip Update: How Did We Get Grown When We're Too Stupid to Live?

Paper clip update. You will recall the case of Sarah who recently had a baby by Bill Roberts, one of the men accused of abducting, assaulting and brutally raping a young woman outside of a night club on the east side. Sarah is living with her aunt. I pointed out previously that Sarah is exceedingly stupid. Just terribly stupid. Just mind-bendingly stupid. Like a paper clip.

Carl continually defended her because he liked pretty young women and it doesn’t much matter if they are bright enough to work a vending machine on their own. But he is fed up with Sarah. He was all set to throw some work at her so she would have some extras for the baby, etc. But when she told Carl that she was still in love with Bill and wished he would be out of prison so they could all live together as a family, that is all Carl could stand. He no longer contradicts me when I announce that there isn’t a retarded ferret anywhere in the world who does not have a huge leg up on this little twit.

Not that I have been Einstein when it comes to men. I have committed acts of unbridled stupidity that defy reason, myself. But I have never claimed undying love for a violence-crazed misogynistic rapist.

Another of Carl’s less-than-gifted friends, Chris, is in jail. Several years ago she was dating some guy who mistreated her. So she dumped him and started dating his father instead. Dad was a truck driver who was out of town a lot, so whenever he would leave, his son would call Chris and ask for a reconciliation just enough to get his rocks off. Chris fended him off, but he got angrier and angrier. Eventually Chris married the old man because he was decent to her at first.

But matters did not stay that way. The apple don’t fall far from the tree and the tree don’t grow far from the rotted fruit. The old man began to hit her and so forth so she took her kids (not by him) and left. He pulled some strings and had her utilities turned off and then reported to Family Services that her kids were hold up in a place with no heat or electricity. Family Services removed the kids to foster care.

Chris went through endless grief trying to get the kids back and to prove that she is stable and can provide a home, etc. Once DFS suspects you of something your life can be made a shambles.

Chris eventually did get them back and divorced the old man. This upset him. He and his son came over, and in a cooperative inter-generational effort, beat the crap out of her together. Way to bond with your son, huh?

She got a restraining order against the two men. When the son called her up to notify her that he was on the way over to beat her up again, she called the cops. Our friends, the cops. They arrived and were willing to enforce the restraining order, but could not find it in their computer. So they ran her name through the computer looking for it and a bench warrant popped up for $250 worth of traffic tickets she had not paid. So she went to jail and the kids went to foster care. Hundreds are needed to bail her out and there is not a soul in the world to help her. She is frightened and alone in the jail. Fortunately, she is huge, so she won’t be bullied as much as she could be. Plus she is unkempt and her teeth are green.

Do you realize I have never been physically abused by anyone? No pedophiles have ever done me harm; no relatives have wanted to play doctor, no man has ever raised a hand to me. For years I have wondered how I lucked out on this when there are so many women who don’t. It can’t be because of my sweet and loving personality that doesn’t inspire the rage or hatred usually linked to abuse because a) I don’t have a sweet loving personality; I am a bitch and b) I don’t think the temperament of the victim moves an abuser one way or the other.

There was an occasion when I was seven or eight years old when I was in a movie theater and a pervert sat down next to me. He had a trench coat and everything. He put his hand between my legs and rubbed.

Being uninitiated in matters of pedophilia and sexual deviance, and having no idea at all what this touching was about, I did not respond with fear or panic, but with bewilderment and annoyance. I crossed my legs and leaned away from him and he got up and left. I was lucky.

It was years later when I realized I had been molested. I can’t say that I suffered any long term psychological problems because of it. I think the incident had no impact on me whatsoever. As I say, I was lucky.

I wish now I had stood and screamed my head off in the theater until they had to stop the film and have the man arrested. Perhaps something worse happened to some other little girl because I did not. It pays to be educated about everything.

It is because of this episode and all the things that could have happened to me and haven’t that I suspect my life has been charmed in this area. I guess this is only fair since it has been righteously screwed up in so many others.

How a Man is Like a Sea Lion

I received unconfirmed word that a sea lion living off the west coast of the U.S. may be put to death by wildlife officials because he has killed some 15 to 20 sea lionesses by crushing them to death in an attempt to make love to them. I hate when that happens. The Mike Tyson of sea lions.

I am unfamiliar with sea lions as lovers, but there are men out there who are terrible in bed. I’ve done the field research; I know. There was one guy, Bill, who would have had to improve 1,000% before he could be terrible. When I met him, he was whining about how the love of his life, Sherry, THE relationship, had left him to be with a woman. I felt bad for him. What a blow to ego, self-esteem, etc. After we had done the deed, I had a different attitude. If it is possible to convert to lesbianism, if it’s not actually your nature, Bill was as good a reason as there could ever be. I considered it briefly myself.

Unfortunately, it is my observation that most men know what they are supposed to do, but many just don’t care to be bothered. A shame. I wonder if good ole Bill, the graduate of the pneumatic hammer school of love making, ever found happiness with, say, a female water buffalo or something of a suitable nature.

Let me take this opportunity to say, as the song says, I like a man with a slow hand; I like a lover with an easy touch. I want somebody who will spend some time; not come and go in a heated rush. And I definitely don’t wish to be crushed to death, either. Thanks anyway.

No Matter How Bad Your Life is, Someone Else's is Worse

I went to grade school and high school with a girl who was severely scarred by a fire as a baby. Her neck and chest and right arm looked as though they were partially melted and huge misshapen globs of flesh rippled like water over rocks in a brook all down her legs. The first time I saw her I was about six, and the sight of her frightened me terribly.

If, in an intimate moment, you would ask her about the fire, she would offer one of several explanations she had prepared. None had anything to do with any of the others. And if you asked her brother, you would get yet another tale. I was never able to determine which, if any of the tales were true, or to what degree. I have often wondered about the secrecy.

After going to school with her several years, though, most of us kids forgot all about the scars. Stopped seeing them. But I was with a deaf girlfriend walking in the neighborhood. We were 8 or 9 at the time. I saw Jeanne with the scars across the street and crossed over to greet her. Sherry, the deaf girl, was obviously terrified of Jeanne and refused to come over. The look of panic, fear and revulsion on her face was clear. I could say or do nothing to smooth it over. I felt worse for Jeanne in that moment than I ever have before or since.

Now I make sure I only hang out with beautiful people. People who are attractive are winners. People who aren’t are losers. I am a winner and only want winners around me. Pathetic ugly people should get off the planet. Image is everything.

Signing off. Jana Meehan. Pioneering new frontiers in superficiality.

Virginity Sucks

I met a man named Richard. He was a noted Christian minister, evangelist, author, teacher, prayer warrior—you know the type. He and his Mrs. had been married for about 23 years, no children, when he abruptly left her and married someone else. The someone else was in her mid-twenties and Richard was more than twice her age.

Stories like this are a nickel a dozen, you say? He had an itch, the cad, you say.? A woman stands by him more than two decades and this is how she is rewarded. The pig!

Keep reading.

When Richard took a powder from his first wife, there was no divorce. There was an annulment. Mrs Richard #1 was unable to argue with his assertion before the court that in 23 years of marriage, the union had never been consummated. Richard entered into matrimony in good faith, not realizing that she. had been taught from earliest childhood that sex is horrible, abhorrent, filthy, sinful, and to be avoided at all costs. Her parents, evidently, were so determined that their little princess be a virgin on her wedding night, that they overdid, and she was still a virgin 23 years afterward. And to this day, as far as I know.

What gets me is that this unfortunate man was faithful and patient for this huge span of time, and did without (or so he says). I suspect arguments took place regularly behind closed doors on the issue, but to the outside world, the couple was the epitome of Christian harmony. But she never upped the goodies. At last,he couldn’t stand it anymore.

The new Mrs. Richard was happy to give him children.

What else gets me is the tremendous power that parents have to f--- up their children’s lives. It happens all the time, that our individual pathologies are rooted in our upbringing. But Lord, have mercy! This was child abuse.

My own mother tried her best to convince me that having sex is tantamount to eating pig slop. It is dirty and humiliating, but must be tolerated if one is to have children. I guess I was supposed to be grateful for her sacrifice in bringing me into the world. I, however, am less stupid and more self-aware than some—plus I watch TV—and managed to overcome this conditioning with remarkably efficacious determination. I like sex a lot. A lot. A lot. It would be difficult, in fact, to overstate how much I like it. Or to stop talking about it at times.

My mother, in her defense, was her mother’s daughter. Gram was raised to believe that one does not discuss the topic in polite company—or in any company. When my mom was 14, she went to the bathroom at school and discovered blood, a lot of it, in her underwear. She nearly went to pieces with panic and fear until one of the looser, less ladylike, more jaded girls came in the bathroom and told her what’s up. My mom was angry with her mom, who felt terrible about he failure to warn her daughter, but to her, talking about menstruation was a sin.

My mom made sure I knew everything ahead of time.

Heroes Come in All Colors

The Apaches engaged the Mexicans, but were under-manned. Losing, out of arrows, and with broken spears, the Apaches noticed four Mexicans coming over a rise to scout their situation. Goldiya grabbed a spear and killed the first Mexican. As he fell, his sword flew and Goldiya caught it in the air. As he killed the second Mexican, the last two turned to flee. He jumped on a horse and gave chase. As he killed the third, he was in view of the Mexican camp. The Mexicans saw the attack on their fellow and began chanting his name, Jerome, to encourage him to escape Goldiya’s sword. He did not.

The Apaches rallied behind Goldiya and went on to victory in the battle. As they attacked, they also chanted the name of Jerome to mock and humiliate the Mexican criminals. That night at the victory party, the warriors officially changed One Who Yawns’ name to Jerome to honor the warrior. Jerome, in the Mexican language, is Geronimo..

The Apaches were very skilled horsemen. Geronimo was taught at an early age to ride a horse at full gallop using no reins and no saddle, but merely his knees to steer and hold on. This left his hands completely free to wield weapons. This is why Apache were fearsome in battle. They could concentrate on their targets.