Nice Haircut Dude!

I cut my own hair.

Yesterday I cut it badly. Badly, I tell ya.

Look over on the left at the picture of NY Yankees, Alex Rodriquez and Derek Jeter. Alex and Derek make millions per year playing baseball. They can afford a really good barber I presume. That cut however is worn by a lot of the Yankees players. In fact I call it the ‘Yankees cut.’

How many of you idjits saw the movies ‘Barber Shop’ and ‘Barber Shop II’? Remember all the banter among the barbers and clients in the movie?. I used to get my hair cut at an ‘almost the same kind of place’ barber shop in downtown Fort Worth. All the barbers were African-American like in the movie, except my barbershop barbers were all ancient men. It didn’t stop the constant ‘booolshit’ that went down though. It’s an environment where any one-up comment you might luck out with is soon in second place. I miss the downtown barber shop. But I quit going because it was inconvenient trying to find a parking place downtown and if I didn’t have any meetings downtown I would have to make a special trip.

And….I learned to cut my own hair. I’m not gonna tell you how I learned just because I am probably fortunate if you are still reading at this point. The cliff notes go like this; if you want your hair short like a Yankees cut you can do it yourself with clippers and guards. I’m really good enough at it. In fact you are the first people I have told and several have asked where I get my hair cut. I lie and say “downtown.” Oops I think I just admitted to lying. Deal with it.

The first time I ever cut it I was really nervous. I carefully put the guards on and checked the depth of the cut, followed by close looks in the mirror. Repeat the scene again and again and 14 hours later I had done it! After three years I have reached the point of great confidence and dexterity. I can do it in five minutes now, just like the ol sex life.

Until yesterday. Bear in mind that my ‘make a living’ work involves a lot of numbers, equations, calculations and meticulous detail.

I left my work station and went into the back, taking a break from the work to cut my hair.

It went like this:

Got out the clippers.

Thought about the numbers and calculations on my computer screen.

Stood in the bathtub looking into the mirror, clippers in hand.

Thought about the numbers and calculations on my computer screen.

Raised the clippers to the side of my head with the ease of confidence I had earned over the past three years.

Thought about ‘girls on top sex’ with Reese Witherspoon. Imagined her breasts bobbing up and down and the smile on her face.

Started the clippers and ran them over the right side of my head.

Noticed a large white patch of scalp in the mirror on the right side of my head.

Quit thinking about Reese and her twins.

Cursed a nasty blue streak that would embarrass the actors on Deadwood.

No guard on the clippers.

It’s not supposed to look like that.

That’s not a Yankees cut.

Pondering what to do now.

The suggestion to grow a brain will be considered rude. Across Dallas-Fort Worth friends that know me well and refer to me as the ‘absent minded professor’ are laughing their asses off reading this.

That’s OK my friends, your day will come too.

Any suggestions?

Maybe a Yankees cap?

Next best thing I suppose.

3 Days Gone

A short story inspired by a F.A.T.T.Y. post. If you are having a happy go lucky Disney morning you may want to just skip it.

_____________________________________________________

The sound of his keys entering the front door lock caused her stomach to tighten into bundles of knots. She knew it was her father because she had memorized the sound of his entry. She had also seen enough years to memorize the look of hate and rage etched across her mother’s face as she waited for him to appear.

Her brothers were gone. They knew the rage too well. She wanted to be gone too but she also hoped she could help it be different this time.

His large shoulder banged against the outside surface of the door, opening it wide enough for him to walk through. She could see his profile backlit by the porch light, but not his face or expression. The keys had fallen from the lock as the door opened and the metallic clanking of the keys hitting the floor was the only sound in the fear filled interior of the house. His large frame stumbled across the threshold, falling almost to a knee before he regained his balance and slammed the door shut with a stomach churning force.

She knew he was wearing his dark blue work shirt. She could see the familiar white patch with red embroidery reading “Gulf Refinery – Edward” standing out from the dark blue fabric. His heavy work boots made their way across the hard wooden floors in a halting manner, lightly banging against each side of the wall as he felt his way along the hallway to the bedroom. He had been gone 3 days.

From her spot in the small cramped living room she prayed for him to go to sleep, to fall across the bed in his blue work clothes and boots and just lie there quietly. "Please God", she prayed, with her fingers forming a steeple in front of her face.

She saw her mother rise to her feet and follow the drunken footsteps down the hall. “No mother, please God leave him alone and let him sleep”, she prayed. Palms now tight together and fingers intertwined, she prayed for the knot in her stomach to disappear and the fear to be left for another night.

The high pitched voice of her mother cascaded down the hall in a sickening crescendo of anger and rage. Her fathers voice, just as angry, bellowed back at her in the familiar drunken slurring that made her wonder why her father had to come home at all.

“Please God”, she prayed, “Please.”

The sounds of the thrown objects interrupted what she already knew was another useless prayer. She ran quickly down the hallway just as she had done so many times before hoping to get between the two of them. The naked light bulb above the bed highlighted the stark features of each parents’ face. The hard stucco walls of the room were spinning in front of her eyes as she assessed how best to help. Her father was standing no more than 4 feet from where her diminutive mother stood, but she was throwing any and everything she could find at his face and chest while she screamed in an incoherent rage about where he had been for the last 3 days.

She moved between them hoping to stop what her prayers could not. His large hands grabbed her by the shoulders and with no effort at all he slung her across the tiny bedroom to the base of the doorway where her nose crashed into the hard wooden jamb at the base of the door. Her head spun and her fear made her lie motionless while the war around her raged in fits of thrown objects and screamed obscenities. She felt the warm flow of blood at the base of her nose shortly before she began to taste it, but she didn’t move. She knew it had to be quiet before she moved again.

Her mother stormed down the hallway in screaming retreat. Her father fell across the bed onto his back, staring in a dead man’s trance at the light bulb above. She waited for the quiet. And she did not dare move.

When the quiet finally came, she pulled herself up from the base of the door and wiped the blood from her nose, spreading it across the sleeve of her pink cotton pajamas.

She knew her mother would be locked in the bathroom fearing the resurrection of the man in the blue work shirt. The man in the 3 day old alcohol saturated work shirt was snoring on his back, eyes closed, but still facing the naked light bulb. A hard stubble of black beard glistened under the harsh light. Sweat rolled off his forehead, down his cheek and dropped silently onto the bed as she stared at him.

She walked down the hall hoping to find some comfort in her bed. She knew how to clean up the blood and get her things ready for the school bus in the morning. She had learned to do lots of things.

After all, she was 7 years old. Tomorrow was her birthday and she would be 8. She hoped it was why her dad had come home.

7 Riddle; sounds cool doesn't it?

I thought I had seen every episode of Seinfeld. But last night I saw one I had never seen before.
The thinking behind this post comes from the fact that in this episode George Costanza wanted to name his first child Seven. That’s right, the number 7. He thought of it as a tribute to Mickey Mantle who wore the number 7 on his Yankees jersey.
I am fond of the number seven. In fact I am even a little superstitious about the numbers 7 and 3.
The premise in the Seinfeld episode is that George is being as strange as usual and having the number 7 as your name is completely ridiculous.
But, as Kramer might say, “Hey just hold on there a minute, I think you’re on to something big.”

I like the name. I want Seven to be my new name. Seven Riddle. Or even better, 7 Riddle
As it turns out this fits in perfectly with the history of my mother’s side of the family. My uncle Johnny, my favorite relative of all time had three children, my first cousins. My folks had three children including this blog’s writer, the middle child.
My mother and my uncle had a running argument about which of them had the oddest children. I didn’t get a vote of course as a result of being one of the ballot nominees, however I was known to try and influence the vote from time to time creating greater 'odds' for my side.

Where am I going with this? Simple. The number 7 is an odd number. If I can get my older brother to change his name to ‘9', and my younger sister to take on the name ‘5', that makes me the middle child ‘7' don’t you see. It also immediately qualifies my mother’s children as the odd children. Victory is ours. Much to my mother’s chagrin and my Uncle Johnny’s delight.

My cousins, if they are satisfied in having lost, and yet seeming to have won by not being the odd children, can adopt the even numbers as their new names. This could give new meaning to the phrase ‘High Five’. It could also create some temporary confusions. Asking “Where is One?”, could elicit the response “One what?” but those are just details to be worked out.

It also offers intriguing opportunities for tracking the genealogy of a family. If a 7 mates with a 2 then the first child is ‘9.1' or ‘nine one’ if text is preferred. The second child is 9.2 and so on down the line. This quickly reveals birth order and narrows the possibilities of the names of the parents. Obviously this is much easier in the days of Adam and Eve, but computers should be able to sort out the bigger numbers as we go along.

Many of you mathematicians will try to shoot holes in this design. That’s OK if it doesn’t work out. My chances of getting everyone to call me Seven the rest of the way are pretty remote.
My chances of mating with someone named '2' might be even more remote.

Anybody want 69?

Just wondering.

Psychics Have No Idea What To Expect Next

Ricks Satire Report News
Psychics Conventions - 2006

Reports from the smoky backrooms of the National Convention of the British Psychics Business Association paint a picture of turmoil.

For many years the British psychics have held their convention in a location undisclosed to members. Members have historically been told to use their powers to determine the time and place for the meeting.

Apparently this years meeting was not attended by anyone other than convention organizers.

According to spokesperson I.C. Minithings, the underground phone network used in past years was foiled by a telephone company labor strike. “We weren’t able to get the word out to our members about what to think hard about,” lamented Minithings.

On the heels of the British association’s dilemma comes word from America that trouble is in the works as well for the American Society of Psychic Power Practitioners.

According to my sources the American group is at odds over whether or not to allow members to play state lottery games.

The ASOPPP is divided into two distinct camps of thought with neither side holding a clearly dominant position. The older founding members of the group believe there is great risk in playing the lottery since all members would clearly know the winning numbers before they are drawn. They envision a great deal of inner turmoil being set up among members as to how to split the winnings. Member John Visions proposed that the Society itself benefit from all proceeds, but the governing board shot the idea down saying they already know the Society would never need that much money.

The younger members of the rapidly growing society hold a conflicting view. The group is promoting a secret conspiracy where members share the proceeds based on a complicated formula of seniority and need. According to the younger faction, the winning numbers will be submitted by a well paid non-member leading to a lowering of suspicions among the general public.

The president of ASOPPP Joanna Fullnoggin said she already knows where, when and how the dispute will resolve, but cannot spread the word due to the Society’s by-laws that foresaw such an occurrence and were written to protect members with lesser paranormal skills.

Younger members are less confident saying their fellow psychics have no idea what to expect next.

Founding member ‘Hippie’ Trip Taker said, “These troubles stem from the fact that the Society had no premonition that its membership would skyrocket so quickly. Well, er, I mean we did know of course, but we also knew we would have to go through this to get to what it is we already know will happen…err…never mind…its all over your head I think, err, dammit, I mean I know. I can see it there above your head right now, it's in the shape of your long ago deceased Border Collie. Does this mean anything to you?”

I ended the interview following Mr. Takers vision.

Pushing Science

Everyone who believes in telekinesis raise my hand - James Randi 2002

On a more serious note, why don't we invest more time and science in the study of telekinesis? This could dramatically lower sales of erectile dysfunction drugs while raising the spirits of men across the nation.
It's all in your hands girls

.
And if you are really good at telekinesis will you please raise these old eyelids a little? Its getting harder and harder to see out of them!

To Be Like Water

A couple of days ago Silent One posted a well written post about the effect that rain has on her. I immediately thought about water and the Taoist teachings about water. So, I commented to her, and is often our ‘selfish blogging comment’ way I talked about my feelings not hers.

Maybe she will forgive my self absorption.

Her post reminded me of the ancient teachings about water and my own feelings about rain. The old sages held forth that each of us should emulate water in our own lives.

Water is the great sustainer of life. It is also the most powerful force on earth. It carves Grand Canyons. It sustains veritable oceans of life. We harness its incredible power for a thousand uses.

At rest however, water embodies humility. Watch following a rain and you will see it roll into the lowest places on the terrain. It is always seeking the humblest spot on earth to take its rest.

In this way the ancients tried to teach us to be ‘like water’. When the negative forces of life become too large, or we witness injustice, we are to use our immense reserves of personal power and might to triumph; just as water does.

When we are unthreatened by life we should seek the ‘home of humility’ and express our peacefulness and serenity to the rest of the world.

And of course at all times, whether in powerful acts or peaceful resting, we should sustain the life around us with benevolence and kindness.

That is what I think about when it rains. To be like water.

Are U Like Your Mother? Is That OK?

One of the gems of wisdom that men pass to their sons:
"If you begin to get serious about a girl be sure to get to know her mother. If you don't like her mom then with the passage of time you will not like the girl either. If her Mom is as fat as a State Fair grand champion, then so will be your teenage girlfriend someday; usually one year after marrying her. If mom screams at her husband, you will be screamed at too. Conversely, if you like the mom and she is sweet and kind and forgiving and all things sugar and spice, then you might just be alright."

Yes, in a grand fit of upholding 'man-laws and observances' (don't you love those commercials?) I passed this on to my son. He has had a lot of laughs with it because he has now witnessed it first hand on his own among his girl friends. And, of course, he will pass this wisdom to his sons.

I'm like my dad in many ways. OK, a helluva lot of ways. And my son is a whole lot like me in personality, temperment and general thinking about the world.

So girls, are you like your mom? Is that OK with you? Or did you break the mold? Maybe you are more like your dad?

Guys, is your wife just like your mom-in-law? Or the girlfriend just like her mom?

Overworked and perspiring minds in Texas want to know.

My Crotch Feels Weird

Ever wanted to know why baseball players spit all the time?

My wife wants to know. Every time we watch a game together.

“EEEWWWW” she will say “Why do they do that all the time?”

“EEEWWWW”, did you see that?

She’s asking me because I spent the first 19 years of my life playing the game. When I turned 36, I took it up again in the Senior Baseball League.

I don’t know why we they spit so much. I really don’t. I’ll do some research and get back to you on that one. I wasn’t a spitter.

Most women that watch baseball want to know something else.

Why are they always adjusting their crotches? They do this regularly on national TV. There is even a Saturday Night Live skit about this cultural oddity.

I know the answer to this. No kidding. I do.

I should say this; I know why I adjusted my crotch on the baseball field.
Look at this, especially you girls. It’s called a cup. Yes, I know it doesn’t have a handle.
This has nothing to do with bondage and discipline. Unless you want it to. Hold on Discipline Girl…don’t even go there. You stuff this cup inside an athletic supporter, aka ‘jock strap’, and you wear it. Down there.

Well it is actually a form of bondage I suppose. I don’t know about the discipline part. The question at play here is do I want to put my gentlemen parts into this container, or do I want my gentlemen parts to be smacked by a very hard baseball. If you are wondering, all three members of the family are incarcerated together. Same cell....err....cup.

My baseball position was catcher. For those of you who are strangers to the game, the catcher is the one dressed funny in all the protective gear. He squats behind the hitter. He catches the ball if the hitter fails to actually hit it. We are a peculiar, but hardy species. We rarely spit, due to the mask on our face.

Catchers wear cups. We’re smarter than we look. Well, not in all cases actually.

There is no way to place your gentlemen parts in one of these plastic hells and keep them happy. Your parts will protest. They will fight with your cup. Never any telling which side is winning; it’s a never ending war. It's an evening with Tony and Carmella Soprano down there.

This is where the adjusting comes in. The player wearing the cup is the referee of this struggle. The combatants need constant attention. Think of him as a counselor to a bad marriage. He's trying to help both parties understand the others needs.

Close your eyes girls. NOT YET. WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED READING THE INSTRUCTIONS. Imagine a rigid unyielding plastic bra. Imagine that it comes in two sizes. Choose one of the sizes. Put your plastic bra around your breasts and strap it on tight enough (yes even if it doesn't fit) that you can sprint around, swing a bat and spit a lot. See what I mean?

Feel free to explain this to your girlfriends. Knowledge is power.

Now Do You Get It…….maybe?















As far as what these two good friends might be doing; well I'm not going there.

Anybody Know All the Words?

I have finally had it up to here!

I am going to say it out loud where everybody can hear me. The Star Spangled Banner is a really truly ugly song for a national anthem. I mean, look at Francis Key’s credentials. He was an amateur poet. Hmmm….just like you and me!

Now do not start thinking I’m one of those light shoed demo state liberals like Ward Churchill that doesn’t even like the country that grants him enormous privilege.

In fact, if I wasn’t past what the military views as ‘prime-time’ I would go to Afghanistan and find Osama ‘what’s his name’ and drag his diseased kidney ass down the mountainside single-handedly and go back for another one in the same day. In fact I think George Bush is a bit of a pacifist.

I love my country and the freedom it represents.

Now that the disclaimer is out of the way………..I listened to yet another rendition of the anthem last night before the NBA finals and cringed I tell you, I cringed.

I mean it seems like this torture is 10 minutes long. It has to be the ugliest song I have ever heard. I’m not a singer but it has got to be impossible to sing unless you are Whitney ‘freakin’ Houston or Ray Charles! And Ray is gone!

“Bombs bursting in air” “The rockets red glare” That’s all ancient technology!

If I see one more performer get that “oh shit” look in their eyes when they suddenly can’t remember the weird lyrics…………can’t we just have an “I love my nation pretty song with memorable lyrics” that doesn’t take 10 minutes to sing; that is if you can actually remember the lyrics?

Imagine Ray Charles singing ‘America the Beautiful’.

Now don’t imagine the next odd attempt by some celebrity at making the Star Spangled Banner sound new and improved.

Keep Ray’s sound in your head.

Can’t we at least circulate a petition to send to Congress?

Can we just fess up to the rest of the world that we have a weird and musically ugly national anthem?

And since Al Gore invented the internet, we could give him first shot at the new song…………wait a minute though, I’m not too sure about a ‘global warming warning being part of the new song. Scratch that idea.

Somebody with long distance skills contact Ray………please?

Right Again!

I wrote a couple of days ago about working backward. The central premise being that so much of the purity of what we come into the world with can be ‘dirtied up” by the predators that bring us shame and guilt in pursuit of their own agenda.

In my mind this means that if we practice ‘rediscovering’ our inherent goodness, we develop the ability to see past the shame and guilt barrage that assaults us each day.

All of your comments seemed bulls-eye to me in the interpretation of that idea, and I thank you for sharing your thoughts.

That post also reminded me of something I have meant to write about for a while. Early in my life I was very typical ‘male’ in that I analyzed everything around me and made decisions based on that analysis. I still am often teased about my penchant for placing information into spreadsheets and analyzing certain aspects of finances or other numerically driven data as though the numbers were all that actually mattered.

However, later in my life I have managed to work my way backward to ‘re-discover’ a new skill. I should say for me it is a re-discovered skill, because I know many of you have had this tool in your tool belt for all of your life. My wife says it is the discovery of some of my feminine side. I don’t like the sound of that, but whatever.

I have learned to trust my instincts and intuition. I’m talking about that moment when every siren is sounding in your head about some particular decision or understanding and you actually stop and think, “I don’t have any idea why sirens are sounding in my head. It’s not logical to abandon this action or decision if I can’t rationally explain why, but well….I’m going to listen this time…….and I am going to act on intuition and not analysis.” This process has been going on for me for a while in a positive manner.

Recently I read a book called “Blink” and it gave me some additional peace about the process. Inside the book, the author Malcolm Gladwell explores the phenomena of intuitive reasoning and offers some concise and scientific proof that our intuition is actually operating on real information. (According to the author) The information we are using for intuition processes so quickly that the analytical part of our brain works too slowly to piece it together into ‘logic’ but does understand the information as real. Hence, what we assume is intuition is actually the assimilation of real information that occurs too quickly for us to understand it as ‘reason or analysis.’

And so you see, my initial intuitive assessment that analyzing all things is the way to go has been proven to be accurate. I have been RIGHT all along! LOL

Excuse Me, I'm Working Backward

There is a thread of religious philosophy that argues we must seek a goodness that comes from outside ourselves. Our bookstores are filled with self-help books intent on resolving and making correct all that we find inside ourselves to be wrong.

Evangelists on television implore us to ‘change’ and accept the correct way to walk. Muslim fanatics will kill children for no reason other than being told it will make Allah pleased if they do so.

We rush forward to buy the books that will set us on a correct path. We embrace the truth of the evangelist and he accepts our money, as we look for the secret of how we are to find our happiness. Muslim extremist blow their bodies into small bits taking other souls with them as they work toward their personal nirvana.

Place your forward looking thinking on pause for a minute and let’s surf backward through our lives. Are we looking for what went wrong on this search? Are we looking for what went right? Are we examining where we failed to equal the measure of the book's lesson or the evangelist’s message?

Move backward more until you reach your initial day on earth. Is the innocence of our childhood corruptible? Many would argue yes, and I think I might stand on the side of those that do so. But, is the original purity of soul forever gone?

The Christian evangelist and the Muslim extremist tell us that humans are evil and filled with greed. They declare even the children to be corrupted in this sea of unrighteous ignorance, doomed to an unmentionable fate. We are told every day, if we chose to listen, that we are evil, our hearts and minds diseased by all that is wrong with us.

Go with me now to a different way of thinking; a way that declares there has never been anything to correct. I want to give you a new understanding that we have been delivered whole and that the unnatural focus on correction has corrupted the innocence and correctness of our lives.

I am reminded of my father. With perfectly good intentions he would install television antennas on our black and white 1960’s version television in attempts at receiving a better picture. By the end of the day what had begun as a viewable quality picture became fuzzy and fuzzier throughout the day as the antenna grew taller and its direction was aligned and then realigned repeatedly. He was searching for ever more clarity rather than accepting the clarity as it originally existed.

We are all too often trapped in the far more serious task of seeking a better way than the way that was divined into us at our birth.

I offer to you that the process of addition undertaken by the applied application of the ‘lessons’ might actually be the reverse of what we actually require. Can we make more progress by removing false beliefs rather than adding more false beliefs?

A proud Baptist preacher once told me that without accepting the exact teachings under which I was raised, I was surely destined for hell. He told me life is about constantly correcting all that we do wrong until we find salvation and forgiveness for all that we have, in fact, done wrong.

I asked him if that meant we were sinners when we were born. He said “Yes, certainly!”

I asked him if he took two rocks and worked and worked by rubbing them together could he produce a diamond.

Smiling because he thought there was a trick in my question, he answered “Not unless the rocks were diamonds to begin with.”

Unwittingly, he spoiled his own argument.

We are all diamonds and we come from God to earth in that fashion. Life may create the need to wash the dirt off of our brilliance from time to time, but no more rubbing is required.

Work backward.

Remove the false beliefs, and embrace the paradox.

Keep An Eye Out For Pirates

For those of you who are female (most of my readers) you may want to skip this one….I’m making fun of you a little with this one; or plunge ahead. Just please don’t flame me, it’s only satire from my silly side.

Tattoos for women are now old news. Ladies, the newest thing is eye patches.

For many years now we have experienced women emulating World War II American sailors. Tattoos have popped up everywhere on our previously delicate women. Across the nation our lovely ladies have been stained with God knows what kind of images, unlike sailors that stuck with basic anchors and snakes. It is virtually impossible today to find a lady less than 35 years of age that does not have a genuine WW II inspired ‘sailor-like’, cussing and spitting, Harley riding genuine tattoo.

But, as I say….it’s now officially over.

The fashion industry, the genuine barometer of women’s actions and feelings has decided that beginning in summer 2006 (that’s now girls!) the newest look will be eye patches.

Yes indeed, from WW II sailor to Pirate in one easy accessory!

Ophthalmologists across the nation are issuing alerts about the ladies apparent willingness to have one of their eyes removed. According to spokesperson John Magoo, the practice means that the women would then have only one eye remaining.

Undeterred by the warnings, 24 year old Linzy Caprice squealed with delight while looking in the new ‘eye patch’ boutique “Pirate by Design.” Said Ms. Caprice, “These are so darling! Look at the pink one with the blue sequins, it’s fabulous! I have an appointment to have my eye removed next week. But, I’m like stuck, you know, on like which one I don’t like actually need, you know?”

Ms. Caprice hopped up and down with anticipation at her recovery from the surgery, because it would allow her to be an authentic eye patch wearer. According to Caprice, “If you just wear the patch, but don’t have your eye taken out, then it’s just fake and like, I mean, everyone would like know it, you know? I mean like how lame is that, you know?”

I asked Linzy where she had gathered the information about the lameness of wearing the patch with both eyes intact. She rolled her eyes heavenward as though to express, “Duuuuh”, then advised me all of the eye patch manufacturers had declared this to be the case.

According to eye patch spokesperson Max Manipulate, the central idea is that since the majority of women in the US now have tattoos and pierced ears, the eye patch movement will solidify the overall Pirate, tough girl look, leading to the eventual marketing of wooden legs and parrots.

First Ants, Then Babies

Rick's Satire Report News
Charleston, South Carolina

The Home Depot in Charleston, South Carolina had it hands full yesterday with anti-abortion protestors. Marchers from the ‘Right to Life Marching Brigade’, based in South Carolina, were up in arms about Home Depot’s sale of “All-Purpose Fire Ant Killer”.

Henry Myway was carrying a sign depicting a box of the fire ant killer with the image of a dead fire ant larvae below the box. A marcher behind him, Harriett Duzennlissen, was wearing a t-shirt proclaiming Home Depot employees to be murderers. On the back of her shirt, which she gleefully showed this reporter, was the slogan “Home Depot supports the use of products that encourage the evil mandate of pro-choice supporters across America and other parts of the world, and the Home Depot board of directors deserves to burn in hell or rot in a Vietnamese prison until Satan decides to charcoal roast them for the rest of eternity.’ The words were very small in order to fit on the shirt and disappeared into the large pants of Duzenlissen, however she pulled the shirt un-tucked so I could record the whole message.

Dozens of other members of the ‘Brigade’ shouted slogans designed to additionally shame the Home Depot alleged killers.

Myway warned that his Church of Christ based organization would picket until Home Depot came to its senses about the wanton killing of fire ant fetuses. According to Myway, the offensive box of fire ant killer in question actually makes the claim that the product kills the ant larvae before it has a chance to become a fire ant.

Home Depot spokesperson Mindy Talkinalot, said she was mystified that the protestors had confused the anti-abortion issue concerning human fetuses with the ‘All Purpose Fire Ant Killer’ sold by Home Depot. “My goodness”, drawled the South Carolina native, “we’re just a’tryin to help folks keep fire ants from a’bitin on their babies and making big whelps on them and it seems like a good and kind thing for us to be doing to me.”

Myway however was not buying Talkinalot’s response for one minute. According to Myway, the killing of fire ants is just the first step on the path to killing human babies. Myway went on to explain, “This is just like that stuff where they start drinking beer and pretty soon the next step is they get hooked on heroin and start in to robbing stores. We just kain’t afford to let this kinda thinking get a foothold here in South Carolina, cause we fear the Lord.”

I suggested to Mr. Myway that actually fearing the Lord might be a failure in his belief system in the first instance, but he quickly asked if I’d like a knuckle sandwich and I declined.