I hate hypocrisy, moral justifications, and social pleasantries
For each is dishonest in its way.

Why are people so phony?

Why do people try to excuse their behaviors as being good despite calling out People who do the same thing?

Why can’t a person say “No” to an invitation?

The reason why is because we are a pussy culture that prides itself on Appearance rather than honesty, the gospel, or plain old authenticity.

We primp, we prance, and we dance all about so that others can see us “at out best,” but in the end, all the sacrifice and accommodation does nothing but make us someone who is not true to the most important person…ourselves.

I say be done with the bullshit.

If I don’t want to be your best man or attend some function, so be it.
You’ll have fun without me and I’m okay with that.

If others cannot be courteous, eff them.

If others have to bend everyone else to their way, eff them, too.

And if that is me in this post, then eff me, too.

Trails with hills,
Fox hunting, and lots
Of suburban naturalists
Walking with their fleece,
Cell phones, and foo-foo
Breeds of dogs thinking that they are
Reconnecting with the wilds
Before heading to a microbrew
Or indie music playing coffee house
To brag about how they roughed it today
And how they need to exercise more.

Hah, Hah, Hah.


They will complain about fox hunting,
Horse shit
On the trail, and
Whatever else these hipster family startups
With their pack and play learning stations,
Baby backpacks, beards, and road apple
Senses of entitlement
Can find wrong with a little piece of heaven that
Casts an analog version of something they saw online.

Perspective is the key for me
As I log slow ass miles on unfamiliar terrain.
I’ve got to remember that I’m no better
Never testing the wilds like some do,
Skitterish about snakes,
Too bothered by bugs
To get out there and go all out Walden or Muir.
Eff that,
I’m slogging
Taking the beauty of these fields
And letting it buffer the waste filling my muscles
Without checking my social media,
Without worrying if a fox hound gets within fifty yards
Of my pure bread, long hair mountain-bred puppy mill bullshit
Breed of a dog.

“Control your dog!”
“Control your dog!”

Eff that,
You shut up and walk your dogs
And while you’re at it,
Tell your overly coiffed, digitally addicted husband
To pay attention to the screaming kid strapped to his back
So it will allow me to hear the dogs barking off
In the woods.
Their call is much more soothing than that of your screeching kid
Who is destined to hate nature
Because you guys are polluting the environment
With your personalized formula of toxic waste
That oozes from a can of highly carbonated selfishness
And forces hazmat crews to clean up
After you try to turn this beautiful land
Into Sesame Street, Barney’s House, or
Whatever television edu show you are watching raising the little
Bullhorn on.

Give me Syd and Marty Croft. They seem more natural…

Maybe I should be surprised that a young family
Would act this way,
They don’t know better,
I mean a nature preserve with wide open trails
Has got to be scary to these pseudo hikers
And their early Sunday jaunt over hill and dale.
I bet they even used sunscreen and concentrated on rehydrating.

Just saying…

“You either have it,
Or you,

That’s what the guys said,
A comedian and successful writer,
Both Hollywood sort of royalty,
Both getting paid,
Well, I’m assuming.

Eff both of you,
Your Hollywood is a recycling bin,
Mr. Cable TV, your show is Dynasty without the eyeliner
And pushed up breasts.
I can’t get through your last season
Because it has gone on for too long,
Hedge fund guys do shitty things,
Hey joke man,
Do another impression,
Stop riding Carson’s coattails,
We’ve heard how you are all indebted,
But the more I hear about him,
The more I think he wasn’t an icon
Of anything more than control and power,
Which could be the billionth story line
On that other guy’s show.

The judging of writing is not either or,
It is, the effing moment, if I may.
Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t,
But the two of you make it seem like Hollywood,
The big and little screens,
Are the Holy Grails of writing.
Maybe, if that is your measure of success.
Is making a living writing the only way to be a writer?
Is it sales?
I don’t know,
But what about simple expression,
An outlet that might have some value somewhere.
Can you be a writer doing that? If not, I don’t care,
Because I know,
Sometimes I have it,
Sometimes I don’t.
Maybe someday I’ll write a popular television show
Or be funny on stage,
But if not,
I’m still a writer.

Racking up the self esteem points
In a desperate flamboyance
Featuring the buoyant backside
That nobody but her husband should see,
A marketing machine
Has bobbed into our lives again
As a crack once limited
To that channel surviving only
By the graces of those made up faces
And over developed personalities,
Errr, proportions

Could we invent an “ASP”
A piece of mobile technology
That will allow us to block
That asinine family from our internet feeds,
Cable television, and vernacular
So that they could live
As freely, and in whatever
State of agitation or nakedness,
Suits their their needy butts
Without exposing us to their
Rotund and cheeky
Posterior parading for attention

Understand there is nothing wrong
With thinking,
Or taking a stand
However uncomfortable the dissent
Good nearly always comes
From environments where a freedom
Of expression is coupled
To ideas rooted in respect and simplicity

Too often, though, the understanding is muddled
For the thinking is not about
What is necessary
Instead it’s about covering asses
Having evidence in case of audits
The questions are about confusing regulations
Instead of identifying blind spots existing
In the most obvious of places
And the only stands taken mean nothing
For they bask in chicken dung
Self-preservation tactics

How about the leaders stop playing
The games of Life, Battleship, or
Fifty two card pick up
With the donkey butt exercises
That are less about growth
Than they are about
Creating paper trails

I’ll write your goals
I’ll attend your educational conferences
Hosted by the gurus paid to
Consult and write expensive books
With the recycled gibberish
That is beginning to swing back to the stuff
Being sold
When I first taught

Most of all
I’ll write it all down
Explaining how my efforts to understand
Danielson, Dewey, or Cheatem and Howe
Have made me better

Oh, does it matter how my students do?
Are they not both the priority and the
Predominant determinant of success
Do they really need another graphic organizer
Or open ended writing prompt
How many different ways do they have to be shown
Maybe they need to understand
And competence
Than they need Algebra in elementary school
Maybe they need some play time
Than another lesson, study hall, or AP class

So I’ll gladly look for ways I can do my job better
Like I’ve always done
I always thought it was just part of the job
Silly me…
Hopefully the process will make me “successfuller”

I’m ready for leaders with
the balls to say more about
what they believe
and less about what will get them the money

Leaders with a set
that will allow them to
tell their own party
to shove it when they are the problem

I’m ready for religious zealots
to admit that faith
is as flimsy as science
and none of us really know

But if they aren’t ready
to take that leap of faith
maybe they could stop
treating religion as a trip around the Monopoly board

And for scientists who know
that the Scientific Method has its limits
and is only as strong
as the virtue of the observer

I’m ready for women
to stop talking about how bad
women are
and thinking they should act like men

Go out
Burn a bra
Join Augusta
But stop being so darn caddy

I’m ready for the media
to report
leaving the conjecture
to Las Vegas

I’m ready for people in my home town
To stop praising football players past
Who abused drugs
And paid to sleep with teenagers

I’m ready for my profession
To stop hiding behind tenure
And start providing solutions
To the ails of education

I’m ready for the public
To look more critically
At its indifference towards accountability
For their children’s responsibilities in school

I’m ready for soul in music
Less synth and thump
More feeling and funk
And fewer break up songs from Taylor Swift

I’m ready for sportswriters
To get back to writing,
Off the radio, away from TV,
And free of cliches

I’m ready for the return of boxing
And Ali
And Don King
And Howard Cosell

I’m ready for a rise of independents
Who are flexible
Who believe in all
And are swayed by their own reasoned way

Yep, I’m ready.