At that moment, I was sure Brian was dead.

At that moment, I did not believe that he would be telling me his name, or struggling to his feet, or staining my hands with his blood as I struggled to restrain him and convince him to not run away.  At that moment, time seemed to freeze into a solid mass, and my senses all emptied, and I knew only two things in certainty;  that I needed to roll to a stop, and that I needed help.

I met Brian in the early morning hours at the bottom of the entrance ramp where the busy Rt. 30 flows onto the equally overworked southbound lanes of I-95 as they nick the northwest corner of the Boston bedroom city of Newton, MA.  For most of the day and night, this interchange buzzes with activity, a motorized hive, where local commuters and long distance travelers reroute themselves along and across the Charles River east on their way into Boston, or west toward the outlying regions.  

For most who use it, in it’s busiest hours, this intersection of stone and steel and water is nothing extraordinary, just another piece of roadway where risks are abstracts that only briefly cross one’s mind, and only then in the most challenging moments of traffic and weather and time:  Inconsequential moments of everyday living that come and go, appear and dissolve; forgotten almost as quickly as they arrive.

But that wasn’t how it worked out for Brian.  

Brian’s moment came in the quiet hours.

And my moments came shortly after, when I turned to accelerate down an entrance ramp, a common ordinary place, where suddenly and immediately, everything I was looking at,  looked wrong.  Instead of seeing what should have been empty roadways, the lanes before me were clogged with chaotic red smears of brake lights and reflections and sheet metal and slowly moving cars.  

More confusing than the volume, were the patterns of the traffic itself.  Arrhythmic bursts of motion, with cars cutting left and cutting right, braking and accelerating with no discernible common purpose.  And underscoring all of it, the night air groaned oddly with haunting sounds of deceleration.

I wanted to believe I’d blundered into a construction delay, one of those miserable public works projects that, by design, appear in the middle of the night seemingly to mock the travelers they serve.  But as I landed at the bottom of the ramp, I could see that the road ahead of me was clear.  It was then that I began to hear the crunching noises of tires rolling over debris, and the awareness grew inside me that I was somewhere in middle of a terrible event.

To my left I watched as a car picked it’s way through a carpet of small pieces of glass and plastic and steel.  I remember wondering how it was involved and if it was looking for a safe place to stop.  Then it picked up speed and accelerated out my view.  And as it passed, it revealed in it’s wake (to my astonishment) a human figure sprawled face down, alone and still, lying in the middle of the road.

With caution I rolled well forward, pulled onto the shoulder, and stepped from my car so I could get back to the being left lying there on the highway.   I was hoping at that moment that things would not get any worse.  But they did.  

Because there, just fifteen feet away, lying in a shadowy patch of the pavement immediately before me, was yet another body.

I’m not sure to this day if I ever have, or ever will, see anything as lonely as the sight of that second figure lying by itself in the road like a thrown away toy.  Behind us, lit by the glow of sodium vapor, cars were stopping and Samaritans were gathering and a commotion of assistance was building where the original motionless form still lay flat.  But here, thirty yards forward into the darkness, another figure lay with a frightening stillness...out of sight, unnoticed, and, I believed, ...most likely dead.

Dread is an oppressively heavy sensation when you carry it towards it’s source, and as I carried it toward the figure on the ground I strained against what I knew I might be seeing when I got there.  I leaned over, and reached out.

The figure moved and moaned, and to my surprise, began turning itself over until it reached an upright seated position.   Propped up with legs crossed casually underneath like a child, I could see that it was a young man.  Head down but aimed back up the road where the other victim lay, he continued to groan and mutter unintelligible words, and it was clear he was injured and in shock.

I began to speak to him, reciting long strings of horribly dumb cliches of which I cannot recall a single one.  I know only that I wanted him to hear  a voice and stay awake and stay calm and know that someone was with him, and that he was not alone.

He seemed to want to stand and I kept telling him not to, urging him to stay still and seated until proper help could arrive.  But the more he regained consciousness, the more he persisted, until finally, with one adrenalized movement, he prevailed, and staggered to his feet.

For the first time, we were face to face.

He had lost an eye.  That was certain.  Or so I thought.  The area where his left eye socket should have been was a huge mass of purple shredded flesh that was extending down from his forehead to his cheek.  Eventually though, I could see that his eye was still in place, and that force trauma had only blocked my view of it with sections of rippled and torn forehead tissue that had swollen forward over his brow.

His mouth hung open and his jaw was slack, and I could see that most of his teeth had been broken off.  Every patch of exposed skin was peppered with abrasions.  Blood seemed to be coming from everywhere.  I continued to talk to him, hoping that I could engage him and calm him and convince him to sit back down.  I just wanted him to sit back down.  He was starting to panic, and I just wanted him to sit back down.  I asked him his name.

“Brian.” he said.  And then he loudly announced, “I have to go home.”  

He turned and started to move away, trying to run.  I grabbed his sleeve.  He pulled even harder to escape.  “I have to go!  I have to go!” he insisted, pressing his intention to run himself across the median and straight into the oncoming traffic which, in the midst of all this madness, had yet to slow down.  “C’mon Brian”,  I argued.   “You can’t leave.  You’ve got to stay.  You’ve got to stay here.  You need help.”.  By now both of my hands were clutching the front of his jacket which was soaked with blood.  We pulled and shuffled and pushed to our own intents, stepping through a twitchy almost comically macabre dance, like drunks on a rolling pebbled floor. 

For what felt like hours, nobody seemed to realize that we were there.  And then mercifully, came the sound of sirens and footsteps.

From behind me someone approached.  It was a stranger, a civilian, someone I never got the chance to look at or engage, but a being who’s added presence and confident voice at that moment helped to calm and convince Brian to settle down.  He began to comply. The danger lessened, but I never let go, and I never broke eye contact with Brian until the eternity ended and a State Trooper walked up to us, and to my great relief I was able to deliver Brian to the safety of a professional. 

“This is Brian.” I said to the Trooper.  “He needs your help.”  He shined a flashlight into Brian’s face.  “Can you walk” he asked, and Brian nodded.  Taking Brian’s arm, they were gone, off to the ambulance that had just then arrived.

In the confusion the stranger too, disappeared before I could ever identify and thank him for the good that he had done.  His help had made all the difference, and I will always be grateful.

Only after I’d handed Brian over did I realized that I still had no clear idea of what had happened.  It wasn’t until I’d wandered back to the crash site that I was able to put things together.

A car had lost control, struck the center median, and had gone tumbling airborne.  It had eventually launched itself high enough in the air that it struck the I-90 overpass, flipping itself back down into a postage stamp sized space stuffed between a guardrail and the concrete bridge support in the center of the highway.  By the time it landed, on the other side of the abutment and facing backwards, it had been flattened lengthwise, as if a giant had picked it up and clapped it patty-cake style between it’s hands.  It seemed certain that anybody strapped into that car could not have survived.  The two injured men had avoided being crushed only by being ejected as the car tumbled through the air.

The last I saw of Brian he was being treated in the back of an ambulance.  He was alert and conscious.  I never saw, or heard of him again.

The next day I searched the newspaper for any story reporting the accident, but could find no mention.  It’s possible I missed it, but more likely the story was simply not reported, which in it’s own way, was a good thing.  A fatal car accident would certainly have been noted, but a non-fatal single car accident with two injured, no photos, and minimal traffic disruption at 3am on a Sunday morning could easily have slipped through the cracks in local journalism.  These were still the infancy days of the Internet, long before the rise of citizen journalism the instant information luxury of Twitter.

Then again, perhaps selfishly, perhaps too easily, I embraced the absence of reporting as an emotional opportunity, and moved on.

But these days, many years removed from that night, I still find myself thinking about it.  The moments frozen, the event, and my unexpected, unwanted role within it.  In part, that is because when facing it directly, it’s easy to imagine oneself a victim; the body in the road, injured and alone and needing the most basic of human needs.  Then too, it is because, simply, I am as flawed as I am fixated, and I flatter myself at times with a deceit of conceit that when the time came, I was caring enough to at least try to respond to the crisis before me with some level of action, with some level of compassion.

Which of course, is only slightly true.  I was acting out of instinct.  I wasn’t making value judgements.  I was faking it. 

And so what is instead perhaps the more significant self-perception here, is the humbling, sometimes overwhelming sense of irony that has forever framed my memories of that night, and the images that have stuck in my head.  Irony that has since ever-tainted any silly self-notions that I’m a person of empathy and compassion and caring.

Irony, because the truth is, that night, before I had stumbled upon that terrible scene, I had spent eight hours wishing that it would appear before me.  I had just worked a full but uneventful work shift, riding along with a New Hampshire State Trooper, sitting in the passenger seat, working as a cameraman assigned to photograph and document the duties of that trooper for a reality television series that portrayed the daily routines of working street cops.  Routines that sometimes included risk,  or ridiculousness, or violence, or human tragedies.  Tragedies such as those that come from awful car wrecks on empty roads in the middle of the lonely nights.

Irony because my goal had been to capture a lasting image, but instead, with my work day done and my camera put away, a lasting image had captured me.

Irony because I hadn’t wished for a tragedy to occur.  I’d wished to be there if one did.  And now,

 ...I was.

And irony, finally, because when the moment arrived, and my wish had come true, 

...I wished it never had.







©  2013  J. Mark Rast

My behavior has taken a troubling turn over the past year.  I have begun to devolve.  I have become a weirdo.  I have become a person who eats his lunch in his car.

I haven’t always been like this. I used to use my car only for driving.  I used to eat lunch in normal places, like cafeterias and restaurants, or even on nice blankets of grass in parks with sunshine and pigeons and beautiful office workers who all looked like they would want to be my friend for life if I just nodded in their direction and waved and said hello.  I used to eat lunch with my friends.   

But those days are dissolving away.  Now I eat my lunch in my car.  Now I eat my lunch in a moveable cave made of steel and plastic and safety glass, and I eat it alone.  I do it by choice, I actually prefer it, and I don’t see myself changing anytime soon.  The truth is, I want to eat lunch alone.  I don’t want to eat lunch with other people.  I want to eat by myself.

The roots of this behavior are unclear.  Perhaps something dark and disturbing buried deep in my lunchtime past.  A cruel lunch matron with a hairnet and ladles and fish sticks of dubious fish stick intent, or the memory of that weird lunchroom odor (you know the one), and those sinister portions of overcooked franks and beans.

But maybe it’s not something so deep and distant.  Maybe it’s not something that’s going to require regression therapy.  Maybe it’s not me.  Maybe it’s us.  And by “us” of course, I mean maybe it’s you.  Maybe you’re the reason I want to eat alone in my car.

Let’s look at the evidence.  It has two parts.

People’s Item #1.  Let’s say you’re a coworker.  We get along fine at work, but I see you everyday.  That’s why we get along.  We HAVE to get along.  I associate you with work, and stress, and Hell.    I blame you for the recession.  If I’m lucky I get a single 1-hour chance per day to not be with you.  No offense, but I’m going for it.

People’s Item #2.  Let’s say you’re the second part of the equation; you’re a stranger.  This means, to me, you are inherently weird and unpleasant.  You’re politics are going to be wrong.  You’re going to be too liberal or too conservative, and depending on my mood, too old, too young, too attractive, too ugly, too rich, too poor, too fat, too thin, too ethnic, or not ethnic enough. I blame you for the recession.  What’s worse is you probably make a lot of noise eating food items that I think are gross just to look at, let alone chew.

There was a time in my life when I used to be adventurous, when I wanted to meet other Americans.  I wanted to hear their ideas.  I wanted to learn their past.  But that was a million years ago.  This is modern America. This is now.  We don’t like each other anymore.  If I want to meet strangers I’ll go on Craig’s List.

Now I eat lunch alone in my car.  I do it because it’s peaceful and warm.  I don’t have to make small talk or navigate office politics.  I don’t have to smell your salad dressing or listen to you eat your soup.  I can listen to the radio without compromise.  For forty minutes several times a week I have a sanctuary.

When I first started doing this, I was ashamed.  I felt like a social misfit.  I would buy supermarket take-out food and then drive to parking areas next to public use areas where I hoped I’d at least have a good view of some natural resource; a river, a pond, a skyline view, …whatever.  But soon I noticed that other people were visiting these areas too, and they didn’t seem interested in eating a sandwich.  So I changed my grazing pattern.   I started staying in the super market parking lot.

And here is what is most remarkable:  One day, when I bothered to look around, when I dared to survey my surroundings, when I dared to focus my gaze outside of my cave, I discovered an unsettling fact; the parking lot was full of other cars with other people doing exactly the same thing.  All around me people were eating their lunches, alone in their cars.  This is where the modern American culture is going.  We’re becoming a nation of loners eating lunch in our cars.

Curious, I’ve considered approaching these other diners, but that would violate the unwritten code.  These people, like me, don’t want to be approached.  They want to be invisible.  They want to observe that holiest of American car culture codes, the Car Code of Sanctity…that law of preternatural physics that dictates that once inside our motor vehicles we Americans are omnipotent and unshackled and beyond the bounds of rational judgment and man made laws.  We can be happy or sad or mean or stupid.  We can talk to ourselves or sing to ourselves or sling profanities at every person we’ve never liked, …but we cannot, cannot, CANNOT acknowledge the person eating tofu, parked two spaces over.

Those are the boundaries; those are the rules, the ins and the outs, of the dining car blues.







© 2009  J. Mark Rast

So it goes, I suppose.  Sometimes, there is no better way to illustrate an honor than by illuminating a flaw.


Sarge was somebody who was pushed into my life when I was eleven years old.  He was a peripheral character, a complete stranger, both then and now, and I would be a fool and a liar, if I were to pretend that I really knew his story.  I did not know his story.  I did not know it’s beginning.  I never learned it’s end.  I knew only the six hours or so that included my family and myself and the couple of Thanksgiving meals that we shared with him.


But still, ...through and after all these years, his story affects me.


It was my father and mother who deposited him into my memory bank.  Typical of parents, especially mine, it was a clumsily executed gesture, one of those awkward parental spectacles that in the midst of dysfunction, in even the most stable of families, would send any healthy adolescent into a fit of eye rolls and sighs.


And my family, at that time, was a long journey away from stability.


And so, almost by obligation, I did what all adolescents do.  I resented.


I resented, because, through no fault of his own, Sarge had intruded into my fragile space.  Invited seemingly out of the blue to join us for Thanksgiving dinner, (...as I recall my parents had made the offer spontaneously after striking up a conversation with him in a local bar) he had appeared much to the surprise of my brother and myself.  He was an old man.  An outsider.  An emotional interloper with no history, no credibility, no situational awareness.  He had no way of understanding.  Worst of all, by showing up for dinner he had pushed back the curtain and stepped into my shrunken world of sadness.  The dark and hollow and very frightening cave of embarrassment where an eleven year old boy lived knowing the arrival of every sunrise meant the arrival of another day of witnessing the shell of his mother decomposing, in alcoholism, in despair, ...and where he lived with the overwhelming need to somehow, someway, spare her her dignity by keeping her out of view.


A stranger’s presence threatened that.


I remember thinking how distant he seemed from my reality, a squarely shaped man in a world of so many odd angles.  I remember the look in Sarge’s eyes.  His bowed head and his quiet humble manner.  I remember he wore dark wool coats and a button down shirt and a thick knotted tie.  I remember his ruddy complexion.  I remember his white hair.  I remember his slumping shoulders and I remember the awkward sad air that hung around him.


And I knew so little about him.  A soldier?  A cop?  He may have been a great man, he may have been a terrible man.  He may have been a hero or a victim or just painfully ordinary, but I had no way of knowing any of that.  And even if I’d had that information, my mind was shut tight with resentment and I was damned if I was going to let it be opened with information.  So today I can recall little of what I actually saw, and retain barely wisps, of actual memories.  What I own today instead, is just a collection of perceptions.


But the lesson carried forward from my experience was not in the minutia of it’s details, it was in the sense of it’s spirit.  And though it took years to make sense, it was a valuable lesson after all.


What I sensed first, and most, was the crushing loneliness.  A being who’d been forgotten, who’d been washed away in time, and who now sat at a strangers table in a strangers house, a victim of his own longevity.


What I sensed next, was the real gratitude, the appreciation in earnest, from a stranger who’d been brought in from the cold...a wanderer with no clear path and no expectations save the certainty that someday he’d likely die alone.  


But what I sensed most...and most importantly, was what I sensed pouring forth from my parents.  It was the sense, both common and not, of compassion, and empathy, and the charity of spirit.  The sense that just being good, being nice to someone, was a reward in itself.  And as much as I tried, the cynical, defensive, ill-advised adolescent that I was, I could not resent those things away.   And for that lesson, to my wonderful imperfect impossibly flawed parents,  I will always give thanks.


My parents understood little of the root disease that was ravaging our family in those times, only the damage that was being done.  But they also understood that when up against the wall, the only way to fight sometimes is with the spirit of charity.  The only way towards self-preservation is through a sincere demonstration of understanding that there others out there who are suffering just as bad as you, more likely worse,  and that those others, are others who could use your help.


They were not naive.  My parents had grown up in equally difficult circumstances, in a challenged American landscape, in challenged American families facing classic American demons, all exacerbated by an economic depression and a staggering world war.  So they knew with one meal they could not solve Sarge's problems, or erase his pains, or soften his memories, or change his future, but they could let him know, at least, that somebody out there cared.  Actually cared.


My father, in particular, also understood that this was something he needed to teach his children, not just with words but by example.  A demonstration that true acts of charity, even modest ones, are never mere gestures, mere acts of token convenience, but meaningful acts of sacrifice, and that they only have real value when the recipient knows that they came from somebody’s heart, somebody who too, has been there, who has known the sorrow of alone.


So our Thanksgiving would be a little bit different in those years, a little bit awkward, a little less comfortable.  So we’d sacrifice a little privacy. What the hell.  We had a house and a table and the price of a turkey.  Most of all, we had each other.  We still had each other.  In reality, in comparison, we were rich.  We had something we could share, and were not going to let that guy spend his Thanksgiving forgotten and alone.


These days the seating arrangements of Thanksgiving have changed, as has my life’s path, as have my perceptions.  And from my place at the November table I now see Sarge from an entirely different point of view.      


His.  


Forty-eight Thanksgivings later, with as little as I ever knew about him, he still is having his affect.


These days, I can feel the weight of life’s loneliness threatening to press it’s imprint upon me, and while I’m not an old man quite yet, I’ve begun to understand that nothing in this world is certain, that I may end my years outliving my accomplishments, and that I too, through the luck of the draw, may end up the evenly shaped man in the oddly shaped world.  


That’s the reality.  And over it, I have no control.


But I’m not there yet.  For now, ...in hopes for always...I still have my health and my family and the love and lessons of my parents, who fought so courageously through such difficult times to instill in their children a sense of hope, and charity, and humor, and who helped me understand just how lucky I really was.  


My parents were great people, and I am honored to have had them.


And for that, and for Sarge,


...I give thanks.











©  2012   J. Mark Rast

DEAR READER:  WITHOUT REQUESTING IT, THE FOLLOWING CONFIDENTIAL INTERNAL VATICAN MEMO WAS DELIVERED TO THE EDITORIAL OFFICES OF KIELBASABLOG RECENTLY BY AN ANONYMOUS SOURCE.  THE DOCUMENT ARRIVED HIDDEN UNDER A LARGE SAUSAGE AND MUSHROOM PIZZA WITH AN ATTACHED NOTE, HANDWRITTEN WITH PIZZA SAUCE, THAT SAID SIMPLY, “ENJOY!”.  A TEAM OF KIELBASABLOG ANALYSTS IS CURRENTLY WORKING TO  VERIFY THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE DOCUMENT.  THE PIZZA WAS EATEN AND DETERMINED TO BE LEGITIMATE, ALTHOUGH ONE SENIOR STAFFER LATER COMPLAINED OF MILD HEARTBURN.  REGRETTABLY, THE VALUE OF THAT PIZZA AS EVIDENCE IS NOW CONSIDERED DUBIOUS.

ALTHOUGH KIELBASABLOG’S OFFICIAL ESTABLISHED EDITORIAL POLICY IS TO NEVER PUBLISH UNVERIFIED DOCUMENTS FROM ANONYMOUS PIZZA DELIVERY SOURCES, THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF THE CONTENTS OF THIS DOCUMENT, BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN AUTHORED BY POPE BENEDICT XVI HIMSELF, MADE IT IN OUR OPINION, TOO COMPELLING TO NOT RELEASE, EVEN IF IT ALL LATER DOES TURN OUT TO BE TOTAL BUNCH OF HOOEY.  READERS ARE THEREFORE URGED TO TEMPER THEIR REACTIONS AND EXERCISE RESTRAINT AS THEY READ THE EXTRAORDINARY AND SOMETIMES DISTURBING WORDS PRINTED IN THE DOCUMENT BELOW.

THANK YOU,

--THE KIELBASABLOG EDITORIAL STAFF


The following is a transcript of the unverified Papal memorandum delivered to the offices of the Rome Kielbasablog Bureau, September 8, 2012:



Enzo:  Here’s a rough of that memo I’ve been working on.  I need you to tighten and polish.  (That’s polish, not Polish.)  It may need to be softened a little too.

I know this is outside your usual responsibilities (.....by the way, the hedges around the fountain need trimming) but God doesn’t care, and if you still want a decent afterlife you’ll take care of it, pronto.  And I don’t really have time to walk you through any of this.  I’ve got enough problems trying to figure out how to send mail using this goddamn “tablet” thing.

Let me know when it’s done.

-PB16



FROM:  Pope Benedict XVI

TO:  The Faithful.

RE:  Rumors


Dear Flock:


For openers, right off the bat, I just want to tell everybody out there who is pious enough to listen, ...relax, bitches.  This is not an inquisition.  This is not a Papal Decree.  This is not some  “Megamind-Message from God” sort of thing that is going to change your life and make you sell off your position on Facebook.  Which, by the way, I have been taking a freakin bath on.  (...so much for “Papal Infallibility”.)  No, the communique you are presently reading is just a friendly note reaching out to you, my crew, about some of the things that are happening in my life these days, and how they are affecting you, the Holy See men (...“SE-men”, ...get it? HA!) ...And affecting also, of course, you gals too, who are all doing your best to follow the rules so that you can get into Heaven, and not spend the rest of eternity roasting, like a shit pagan peanut, in Hell.


That being said, lets get down to business.  I need your help. 


By now, many of you have probably heard some of the irresponsible stories floating around the palazzo lately about “scandals” and “corruption” and “secret nocturnal meetings”, all of which are supposedly occurring here at the headquarters of yours truly, Da-Pope.    You may have also heard talk about “arrogance” and “poisoned atmospheres” and “paranoia” and problems with “morale”.  Well I’m here to tell you, you little sheep shits, that it’s all lies.  There are NO problems here.  And as a Catholic (the BIGGEST, I remind you...and, ACHTUNG!......a GERMAN!) I want to also tell you...I am fucking disgusted.


Disgusted with what?  Well for one thing, the quality of the help here.  “Here” being what my extended family down in Paraguay refers to as, ...”El Rancho Popo” or as you know it, The Vatican.  


The help here is TERRIBLE.  Lazy, judgmental, no sense of humor...  And loyalty?  Shit.  In my day, loyalty meant keeping your mouth shut while you got hung upside down on a cross with a hot poker stuck up your ass.  Not here.  This is The new Vatican, yo, and I gotta say, I was expecting a little more respect.  Not once has anybody clicked their heels when I’ve walked into a room.  


And as you are all probably aware of by now, the most disloyal of all has been my “butler” Paolo Gabriele, or as he’s known around here, “Fink Pauly G”.


Now there’s a guy who just doesn’t get it.  Complain, complain, complain.  Judge, judge, judge.  Rat, rat, rat.  Sitting pretty with a cushy slot right up in the middle of all the good stuff, apparently, just wasn’t good enough for this douche. To put it in context, his biggest daily responsibility was laying out my robes and helping me get into my spanks.  Besides that it was mostly running out to buy me some scratchies, maybe a pack of smokes, and once in a while, you know, make me a sandwich.  (And yes, okay, I admit it...Once I did ask him to take the Pope-mobile and pick me up a bag of weed.  But that was for research.  I wanted to know what was tempting the kids.)


But the point is he had it pretty good, with a lot of cool perqs and minimal demands upon his time.  Time, FOR WHICH, I’d like to point out, he was handsomely compensated, including salary, a clothing allowance, free kneepads, weekend use of the Pope-Mobile, matching 401k donations, guaranteed admission to Heaven, and dental.  


Did you hear me?  


FUCKING... DENTAL!


And what’s the thanks I get?  Stabbed in the back, that’s what.  The Holy Double-Cross.  Undermined and embarrassed by a stack of confidential memos stolen from my desk and turned over to a Roman prosecutors office with more leakage problems than a herd of hydrated nuns on a long bumpy bus trip.  ...And apparently all because Vatican Senior Management doesn’t meet the exacting moral standards of the guy in charge of my sock drawer.


So what’s the Prince of Rome to do?  


Well honestly my first inclination is to go all Adolph on this guys ass...but I’m not going to do it.  Instead I’m going to  embrace this as a teachable moment.  I’m going to resist temptation, and I’m going to turn the other cheek, the one with the dueling scar, and I’m going to set an example of coolness and chill, because as the re-borns would say, acting out in violent acts of vengeance is not “What Jesus Would Do”.  And when I say “Jesus” I’m not referring God’s kid, but to Jesus Jimenez, who is the guy who runs security down at the cockfights I go to on Saturday nights.  Lemme tell you, that hombre has to deal with a shitload of intoxicated stressed out bird rollers on a regular basis, and he never loses his cool.  So taking his cue I’ve concluded that what’s most important is that I’m not going to lose my cool and I’m not going to overreact, because let’s face it, forgiveness is integral to our brand.


Fucking A.


Instead, what I’ve concluded is that the most righteous path for me to take to get out of this mess, and likewise deliver Fink Pauly G. to his rightful place in Hell, is the one that places the burden of labor on you, the mindless unwashed faithful, and your women.  This will require of course, lots and lots of praying, lots of bake sales, lots of candle lightings, car washes, Christmas tree sales, ...maybe sell off an orphanage or two, and LOTS of dollar bills stuffed into the donations box.  Fivers would be even better.  And I don’t care where they come from as long as they make it into the box.  Just saying.


And yeah, yeah, ...I know what you’re thinking, “yet another” test, “yet another” sacrifice on your part, right?


Well “boo-hoo”, excuse me, Job, you’re right.  It IS endless, isn’t it?   Then again, so is eternal damnation, which believe-you-me is something you’ll have top on your mind when the time comes for your big review.  But let me just say here that although there’s no way I can promise it, your support ($$$) could be the dealmaker that gets you that spot in God’s luxury box that we all know you’ve been dreaming about...especially those of you who currently have leprosy.


So in closing, for your peace of mind let me just just reiterate:

Butler=bad.

Donations=good.

Everything that matters=under control.  Trust me.  I have lunch with God every week.  Everything is cool.


Now go back to whatever it is that you do between Masses, as long as it doesn’t give you pleasure and it makes you feel suitably guilty, and whatever you do make sure that under no circumstances do you ever wear a condom.


Thank you for your continued blind obedience.  Pax out.


Der Fuehrer of Faith,

Pope Benny







©  2012 J. Mark Rast

I’ve decided it’s time for me to make my contribution to the cause of world peace.  I apologize for the delay.   It took me a while to figure out a means of accomplishing this that also involved lying on a couch and watching cable TV, but I did it.  


The breakthrough occurred this past week when I flipped on the tube, changed the channel, ...and bingo, there they were, The Olympics.  Specifically, there was Hungary and Romania, locked in a hotly contested, no holds barred, take no prisoners, everything’s at stake, gripping, groping, down and dirty, this one’s for all the marbles, world class grudge match of… 


...water polo.  


That’s right, water polo.  The sport of kings.


Well, not kings, actually.  Serfs is more like it.  In fact, in this case it was two platoons of swarthy, smarmy, surly looking Eastern European guys wearing scowls, Speedos, bathing caps and a whole lot of extra back hair, 


...but you get the idea.


“What better way to avoid global thermonuclear annihilation?”  I wondered as I watched, transfixed.  “What better way to resolve geopolitical differences?  What better way to let off steam?  What better way to avoid a bath?  Water polo!  Forget the U.N. Security Council, ...we’ve got WATER POLO!”


Later I was disappointed to learn that besides the contestants in the pool and the technicians photographing them, there were probably seven people in the whole world who were actually watching Romania inappropriately touch Hungary, and four of them were probably in prison.  That made me sad.  For a few fleeting moments my hopes had been buoyed by the prospect that a proliferation of international water polo rivalries might actually lead to something positive.  In theory, anyway.  And all joking aside, it really wouldn’t be that bad a plan.  Let the world’s natural enemies come together on a neutral playing field, have them let off a little hate steam through organized gamesmanship, and the world just might be a safer place to live in.  Or so it would seem.


But the problem is, not all Olympic contests (water polo in particular), necessarily make for good TV.  A pool full of hairy backs, it turns out, is bad TV.  Bad TV means bad ratings.  Bad ratings means no viewers.  No viewers means no sponsors, and no sponsors means no coverage.  Let’s face it, if world peace is going to break out on American television it’s going to have to be waxed, and sponsored by Budweiser.


Quite a dilemma, huh?  Well this is where I decided I could make a contribution.  I’m a bright guy, I watch a lot of TV, I have a lot of good ideas and basically I have nothing better to do, so I figured I could conjure up a couple of suggestions for the International Olympic Committee to help improve the telegenic appeal of some of the more un-watchable events.  The desired result would be more viewers spending more time viewing more games, ...and thus spending less time killing, maiming, and hating.


So I turned down the volume, opened up a beer and came up with five solid suggestions for improving the Olympic television experience.  Listen up, NBC.  Here they are:


(1)  More nudity.  I don’t believe the logic of this one requires much further explanation.  One need only conjure up one’s own images to appreciate the natural appeal this might have.  Of course, it would have to be limited to certain events at certain times on certain venues, but my guess is that a clothing optional uneven parallel bar competition would draw a lot more viewers from an entirely new demographic.  


And talk about degree of difficulty!


(2)  Combination Sports.  Combo sports would go a long way towards making the games more cost effective as well as serving to bring together an even broader spectrum of socially disparate groups.  For example, consider the sport of target shooting.  Instead of having just traditional target shooting, (which, because it requires long periods of intense mental concentration and virtually no physical movement, currently seems to have no audience appeal beyond your local high school chess club), why not combine it with another more kinetic event such as, say, the 200m high hurdles, which seems to be a favorite of people who’ve spent much of their lives running from the police and Olympic drug testers.  Instead of pointing high tech target rifles at boring stationary bulls-eyes, shooters would be required to use hollow point bullets to hit targets painted on the backs of 200 meter hurdlers.  Talk about motivation!  Make this modification and I guarantee the record books will get rewritten on a regular basis.


(3)  Surprise blindfolds.  In this scenario Olympic officials would surprise competitors in randomly chosen events by requiring them to wear blindfolds.  There would be no exceptions and no advance notice.   Blindfolded runners, blindfolded cyclists, blindfolded pole-vaulters…the high dive event alone would make this a worthwhile endeavor.  And while there’s no guarantee it would improve the performance of the athletes, one thing is certain; adopt this practice and TiVo sales go through the roof. 


(4)  Make better use of petroleum products.  It just seems logical. If most of the world’s conflicts revolve around controlling the earth’s supplies of crude oil, then oil should factor more directly in the games.  This could be accomplished easily by doing things like spreading petroleum jelly on the floor of the weight lifting competition, having oil slicks burn during synchronized swimming events, or having high jumpers land in a pits filled with Vapo-Rub.  That would be fun to watch.


(5)  Final suggestion:  Include monkeys.  


If, as a civilization, we are ever to be successful in moving forward to a world of greater tolerance, a world of greater peace, a world of greater compassion, then we are going to have to start including more primates.  Of course, there’s bound to be some logistical obstacles to overcome, (housing, drug testing, etc.) and a few residency/citizenship issues to hammer out as well, but in general this is a very doable proposition.  Monkeys are superb athletes, they make great competitors, they’re fiercely nationalistic, and except for occasionally flinging their own feces, display exemplary Olympic sportsmanship.  Bring in the apes and I promise you, woman’s beach volleyball will never be the same.  ...I know I’d be watching!


So there you go, Mr. International Olympic Planning Committee Man, you’ve got four years to institute these five humble suggestions.  Four years to rekindle viewer interest, four years make the world a safer place, four years to get it right; for the games, for the planet, for those who matter most.


The people at Budweiser.


And the monkeys. 


Just do it. 






©  2012 J. Mark Rast

Glancing out ones kitchen window, the most disturbing sight a Boston homeowner can usually expect to see is the specter of the oil delivery man, dragging his thick, dripping hose up the driveway.  

(......Good grief.  I’ve got to stop reading that “Fifty Shades” series.  That last sentence is so wrong it even offends ME!)


These days, however, wary metro Boston house hermits have an even more compelling reason to stay inside and drink themselves to sleep every night.  Giant wild animals.  An unprecedented invasion of blood thirsty, man-eating, straight out of the forest, un-licensed, un-employed, and completely un-house broken....... KILLER WILD BEASTIE CREATURES!


According to recent reports from virtually every local news source, the metropolitan Boston area is currently being overrun by rampaging beasts, including moose, bears, coyotes, poisonous snakes, baby-squeezing pythons, tarantulas, and great white sharks.  In recent weeks, sightings of these creatures have been documented from the tip of Cape Cod to the back yards of Plymouth, Needham, Weston, Wellesley, Westwood and Brookline, and as a result, area residents are living in a state of absolute abject terror.  (I'm not sure what abject is, but they're living in it.)


...And they should be!  This rise in erratic animal kingdom activity (as predicted in The Bible, Koran, Dead Sea Scrolls, Mayan Calendar, Ripley’s-Believe-It-Or-Not, Reader’s Digest, Boy’s Life, and most importantly, PennySaver Magazine), is an indisputable clarion call that.... THE APOCALYPSE IS UPON US!!!!!!!!  


...THE END IS NIGH!!!!!  


...THE GATES TO HELL HAVE BEEN OPENED!!!!!!!!!!


(Insert Sam Kinison scream here...."AHHH!  AHHHHH!  RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!  THERE’S A TURKEY !!!  .....IN YOUR YARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!”)


Doing their usual boffo job of ratcheting up the tension in the midst of this mayhem, have been the local municipalities and the fearless leaders who run them, who have decided the best way--(Translation: cheapest way)-- to keep the local populace safe is to warn them via reverse 911 phone calls that that thing that is scratching the outside of their front doors is not just a Jehovah’s Witness, but a mentally unstable bear who probably hasn’t had a good meal since April, and who likes the way you smell.


And further fanning the flames of all this hysteria has been of course, our old friend and time waster, the Internet, where if you choose to do so you can get instantaneous Twitter updates about the movements of these multi-legged and gill breathing demons as they amble, ...fangs bared...fins flapping, through the byways, backyards, and beachfronts of metro Boston, looking for discarded crusts of Papa John’s pizza or the occasional slow moving kayaker.  Local news outlets are playing their usual part as well, deploying all means of electronic news gathering in the hopes of capturing live, that precious moment when some random bear wanders onto a playground and devours a cub scout.  


(Admit it.  You’d watch.)


Thankfully, Kielbasablog has been doing it’s job too, deploying teams of investigative reporters out into the killing fields, searching for the REAL truth, digging for the facts, hanging around playgrounds, and going the extra mile to bring you, John Q. Citizen, the real story behind the not-real story.  And not just the usual degenerates, either.  Some of these guys have been to college.


Which is a very good thing, it turns out, because in the course of their investigation, our team has determined that this story has NOT been over-hyped.   In fact... things are actually much, much worse.  Listed below, are just some of the startling, previously unreported OTHER animal related sightings and events that Kielbasablog has uncovered, ...and thinks you should know about too.  


And how many of these have so far been reported by public safety and other press organizations?  


None.


See?


Meanwhile...


     --A pride of lions has been found living on the grounds of the former WonderLand Dog Track on Route 1A in Revere, Massachusetts.  It is unclear how long the lions have been there, how they got there, how they are feeding themselves, and whether or not they have any gangland connections.  Area residents have all claimed to have been unaware of the lions, although one noted “We did notice a lot fewer homeless around this year.  We were hoping it was a by-product of the Stimulus.”

     --In early March, an enormous California Condor, with a wingspan of more than 15ft, was discovered nesting comfortably atop a pile of bones at the summit of the volcano display at a Rainforest Cafe in the Burlington Mall.  Authorities became aware of the huge bird in the course of investigating the disappearance of a 58-year-old Lynn woman as reported by her husband.  The husband last saw his wife sitting at their table eating soup immediately before he stepped away to use the men’s room.  When he returned, he claims, “She was just gone.”  Investigators say no direct connection has been determined between the bird and the missing woman, but admit the investigation has been hampered because the husband waited four months before reporting the disappearance.  Investigators are now taking second looks at other unsolved missing persons cases in the area.    

     --In June, A Tyrannosaurus-Rex was discovered to have been living for at least six months in an empty retail store in downtown Taunton, where it had been existing on shipments of frozen steaks that it had been ordering on-line using a stolen credit card and a smartphone; “A remarkable feat...” noted one investigator, “...considering the length of it’s arms.”  Pressed as to how the creature could have gone unnoticed for so long living in the center of Taunton’s business district, the official replied, “It’s Taunton Center.  I don’t think anybody’s been there in a couple of years.  Things slip through the cracks.  If we had a casino, this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.”

     --And in what is undoubtably the most remarkable revelation yet, Kielbasablog has obtained this startling surveillance drone video taken along the banks of the Neponset River ...of a mysterious, freakish, unidentified creature so enormous, so disturbing, so terrifying, ...that these images have been suppressed from public viewing so as not to cause a panic.
   

 
WARNING!  THE IMAGES CONTAINED HEREIN ARE EXTREMELY DISTURBING AND MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SMALL CHILDREN, PEOPLE WITH HEART CONDITIONS, SMALL CHILDREN WITH HEART CONDITIONS, PEOPLE WITH SMALL CHILDREN WITH HEART CONDITIONS, QUAKERS, SHAKERS, FUNKY MONEY MAKERS, USERS EXPERIENCING ERECTIONS LASTING LONGER THAN FOUR HOURS, REALTORS, AND THE FEEBLE MINDED.  

It should be noted that the authenticity of the above footage is still being challenged by certain members of the scientific community, most of whom are drunks.  Some of the more cynical have even alleged it to be a hoax.  Unfortunately, because of our agreement to maintain the anonymity of the filmmakers who captured these images, Kielbasablog cannot at this time provide any original source materials to outside investigators for forensic verification.  
Instead, the editors of Kielbasablog would like to emphasize their full and utter faith in the veracity of these images, as well as the credibility and character of the individuals who captured them.  We found them on Craig's List.


Clearly, then, the public is in great peril.  Homeowners are urged to remain indoors, to not answer the doorbell unless it's the oilman, and to not venture outside unless it is absolutely necessary.  If leaving the house does become necessary, survival experts advise everyone to follow these three simple rules of safety:

• Never leave the house carrying a roast beef sandwich.
  
• Use the buddy system.  Never leave the house alone.  Always take a buddy.
  
• Make certain your buddy is even more overweight than you, an exceptionally slow runner, is carrying a roast beef sandwich, and, preferably, is a cub scout.
  

It's a jungle out there, people.

Be prepared.  















©  2012 J. Mark Rast

I’ve went traveling in Ireland recently, which, I have to tell you, was a real freak show.  Leprechauns, Unicorns, sheep, Bono, smiling non-threatening people acting friendly.  It was twisted.  Quaint, but twisted.

If YOU are planning to travel to Ireland, here are some things to be aware of:


--The Irish don’t know what the fuck to do with bacon.  Certainly they don’t know how to cook it.  In fact, I’m not at all convinced they’re even trying to cook it, although they insist on presenting some flaccid fatty version of it endlessly at every meal.  I’ve long been a fan of bacon, but the stuff they have there seems to have been prepared by having prisoners roll around in it in the shower.

--The Irish population is very nice, with the exception of the airport rental car woman, who is a whore, and our waiter from the hotel restaurant last night, who I’m guessing has recently just lost his last job supervising bacon production at the local penitentiary.

--The weather in Ireland is not, as is often reported, cold, gray, wet, and dreary.  However, if and when a day occurs when it improves to that degree, an Emergency National Holiday has been planned to accommodate the retina blinded rampaging mobs of Irish nationals who presumably will be crashing across the landscape tearing off their clothing and splaying themselves grotesquely with legs and arms outstretched akimbo, thrust upon every available square foot of open land in the hopes that at least once before they die, they might experience Vitamin D in it’s natural form and the Keltic equivalent of a one year Caribbean vacation. 

--The Irish are skilled drivers.  When it comes to giving directions, they are criminals.  

--Nobody in Ireland has ever heard of any address you are looking for.  Nobody.  This includes the property owners themselves, the mapmakers, the census takers, police, postmen, as well as residents standing inside of the actual address you are looking for.  

--Driving in Ireland is not difficult.  It is beyond difficult.  To prepare for driving in Ireland, Americans are encouraged to practice, practice, practice.  Besides screaming hysterically, this should also include operating an unfamiliar motor vehicle while wearing borrowed prescription sunglasses and driving the wrong way through an active car wash, in reverse, drunk.  Ideally this scenario will also include a cow.

--Somewhere early in it’s history, Ireland was invaded and occupied by Vikings, whose contribution to the Irish gene pool was the introduction of red hair.  Hence originated the measurement acronym “RCH”, commonly used to describe the distance between two vehicles passing on any Irish road.

--Mealtime in Ireland consists of four courses.  A Guinness.  A sandwich.  A cigarette.  Another Guinness.

--Snack time in Ireland consists of four items.  A Guinness.  A sandwich.  A cigarette.  Another Guinness.

--By law, everyone in Ireland is required to consume at least one sausage product per meal.  Be ready to provide verification.  They take this one very seriously.

-Nowhere in Ireland will you find anyone speaking Gaelic.  Never-the-less, every street sign, menu, receipt, message board, instruction manual, ingredient listing, television broadcast, verbal threat and public announcement gets translated into Gaelic.  Nothing in Ireland occurs without getting translated into Gaelic.  Water gets translated  into Gaelic.  Dust gets translated into Gaelic.  Dreams get translated into Gaelic.  Dogs barking gets translated into Gaelic. If you fart in Ireland, it gets translated into Gaelic.

--Whether you want to or not, expect to tour a castle within three days of your arrival.  By “tour” I mean “purchase something from a gift shop set up next to a heap of old stones”.  Nobody cares if you have any interest in history, just do it.  And make sure to pretend to be enchanted, even if to you it just looks like a big pile of discarded building materials from a medieval housing boom that didn’t go so well.  If you don’t at least fake enchantment, people will become suspicious of your intents, and the tourism police may ask you for proof of sausage.

--Fun fact!  Ireland leads the world in the production of six-legged zebras!  
(click photo>)


--Visitors should be aware that national law in Ireland prohibits the following:

1. Easy access to good tasting coffee.
2. Flavored food.
3. Hotel vending machines containing useful items.
4. Package stores within walking distance.
5. Bathroom fans.
6. Toilets that require less than 7 flushes per use.
7. Cooking bacon longer than 17 seconds.
8. Street signs.
9. Intersecting route signs that appear more than 7 feet prior to the intersection.
10. Any stretch of local roadway longer than .5km lacking a roundabout.
11. Sharing secrets about zoo animals, in particular, zebras.

Finally, American visitors to Ireland should be aware that despite anything you may have heard to the contrary, Irish nationals have practically zero interest in hearing about your Irish heritage, what your mother’s maiden name was, how much you like Colin Farrell, how sorry you are about the DeLorean, how close your great-grandfather came to sailing on The Titanic, how well Catholics and Protestants get along in America, how many times you read Angela’s Ashes, how much you like wool, how much you enjoy having guilt-free orgasms, how much you like Irish coffee, Irish cops, Irish soda bread, or how much you don’t understand hurling.


They’re not much interested.  They’ve kinda heard it before.


Instead, what they do want, is not a pat on the head, but perhaps a pat on the back, and a little recognition, for life has sometimes been hard on the Emerald Isle.  In their long history they’ve had to endure a lot, ...invasion, oppression, famine...and some days it’s hard to be Irish.  But in Ireland they don’t drift in and out of being Irish, they’re Irish everyday.  They embrace it, and they enjoy it, and if you ask them they’ll tell you;  ...They’re proud of it.


...Even if they don’t know what the hell to do, with bacon.






©  2012 J. Mark Rast

Nothing is quite as challenging as navigating those unwritten rules of spectator etiquette that apply to the woe-be-gone parents of soccer players.  

As a seasoned soccer parent, (...and by “seasoned”, I mean “embittered”) I thought it might be useful to you to share some of my years of perspective, and describe some of the ground rules of behavior that you, the neophyte soccer parent, are going to need to survive.


First of all, whatever you do, DO NOT volunteer to assistant coach, help organize, instruct, communicate, schedule, transport, pick up, or lend a helping hand doing anything.  A lot of well intended newbie soccer parents feel obligated to engage in that kind of nonsense, but it is not necessary, and for the most part it’s an ill-advised total waste of time, unless you get some sort of twisted thrill from publicly making zero difference in some stranger’s kid’s life.  Remember, they’re kids but not your kids.  Likewise, you’re not their teacher, you’re not their coach, and ultimately you’re not going to make a difference to them.  In fact, unless they’re yours they likely have no idea who you are; and if approached by you, will either be terrified of you or determined to forget you the moment the popsicles are gone, ...or both.  (My kid is half way through her season and she still has no idea what her coach’s name is.  For that matter, neither do I.)  Let’s be clear about this:  As the parent, you’re not a part of the team.  You’re a chauffeur for one of the players.  Relax.  Know your place, dude.  Stay out of the way, and enjoy it.


Another crucial ground rule you’re going to want to abide by is never sit in the wrong place.  Here again, to the trained eye it’s easy to differentiate the veteran parents from the rookies.  Rookie parents tend to congregate in groups, usually very close to the sidelines somewhere around midfield, while seasoned vets know the best place to sit is in their car, in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio.  This has nothing to do with turf, team allegiance or any particular etiquette regarding end zones or sidelines or home vs. away considerations.  It also has nothing (much, anyway) to do with restraining orders, parole violations, or outstanding warrants (Although, depending on the twists and turns of one’s life journey, it may behove one to keep in mind that a lot of soccer parents are cops.)  What it really has to do with is avoiding having to make small talk with the other parents.  That can be brutal.  You don’t want to venture into those waters until at least four games into the season, by which time you’ll have had a chance to gauge your kid’s relative skill level--“Great”, “Good”, “Average”, or “Brings The Whole Fucking Team Down”--and you’ll have had a chance to prepare (if necessary) an explanation.  (“Johnny was born without any bones.  It’s been a struggle.”)


So now that you’ve garnered enough sympathy to secure a place on the sideline, you’ll probably want a cocktail.  This is only natural.  But enjoying a sideline libation is yet another area where a slow cautious approach is best advised.  To date it is still not commonly acceptable to show up at youth soccer games with a cooler full of Jell-O shots and a beer ball, and incredibly, despite the appallingly dreadful level of play that must be endured, in most communities beer drinking at the 10 a.m. soccer match is pretty much frowned upon.  Considering the nationwide epidemic of fatal soccer riots that have been breaking out between 3rd grade soccer clubs, this is understandable.  Best advice, bring coffee.  


However, this is not to say you shouldn’t plan to stop at the packy on your way home.  You’re going to need it.  After the kids have gone to bed you’re going to want to have the resources to drink yourself into denial about the fact that thanks to Mr. Boneless out there, no soccer scholarships are in your future, and yes, you’re going to have to come up with $200k of tuition money some other way.


But I digress.


At this point it would be unconscionable not to emphasize that one of your most important roles as a sideline parent is to support and encourage your child as they wander aimlessly around the field of play, staring at airplanes, swatting at bees, and cringing in horror every time a ball comes their way,  while contributing absolutely nothing to the team.  To that end, make sure that periodically you let out an audible, “Way to go!”, “Good D!” or “Ooooo...Nice try!”  But keep in mind that it is also of critical importance that you periodically follow these faux-cheers with the names of other kids on your team.  (“Way to go, Shiloh!”  “Good D, Brandon!”, “Great Pass, Rowanda!” etc., etc.) Don’t worry if you don’t actually know which player the name belongs to.  What matters is that the child’s parents (whoever they are...possibly that latte sucking couple next to you, glaring at your beer ball) ...are under the impression that you are keenly aware of, and cheering for, their kid.  This is pure politics, mind you, absolute bullshit, but totally worthwhile.  Once you’ve established credibility as a fan of their spawn, no soccer parent will ever overtly criticize you or challenge your right to be there.  You could be wearing a toga.  You’re good.


However, having firmly established your right to be there, you now have a new, even greater problem: passing the time.  I hate to break it to you, but on a a good day, youth league soccer games usually take somewhere between 5 and 17 hours.  Rookie parents frequently make the mistake of trying to pass that time by actually watching the game, but research has shown that this is humanly impossible.  In one experiment, handcuffed test subjects locked in a cell were forced to watch full length replays of a youth soccer games.  They eventually chewed through an eight inch thick section of drywall in order to escape.  Furthermore, research indicates that long term recovery rates measure higher among people who have been water boarded.  So the reality is you’re going to have to find other means for whiling away the hours.  


To that end, legions of soccer parents over the years have used thousands of coping mechanisms to help them pass the time without going insane.  Thanks to these mechanisms, many have been able to transcend the horror and go on to lead successful, productive, and honest lives.  The rest have become financial planners.  Here’s a quick sampling of some of the current favorites and all time classics:

1. Bring a book:  Primitive...but effective.  No one ever gets faulted for reading a book.  These days one of the most popular, at least among the moms, seems to be the contemporary best seller, Fifty Shades Of Grey by E.L. James.  It must be quite compelling.  Last week I saw a sideline mom who was reading it get hit square in the face with an errant goal shot.  She didn’t flinch.  She did lightly moan.
2. Bring a pet:  Dogs.  Cats.  Baboons.  Peregrine Falcons.  Entertaining, and a good way to meet MILFs...which is probably not the most commendable of  motivations, but hey, you don’t make the rules, and there’s no law that says you have to fantasize about them later when you’re on that romantic getaway weekend with your wife.
3. Bring a sibling:  This is a terrible idea unless the sibling is old enough to run down to the corner to get you a pack of smokes.  (NOTE: Many baboons are trainable.)
4. Bring electronics:  Best case scenario a 50” plasma and a complete Wii system.  Worst case scenario, a personal vibrator.  (See item #1 above)
5. Bring a date:  A real conversation starter.  And is there a more perfect way to take that budding relationship to the next level than by using a town youth league soccer game to inform that new someone special that you are already married with children?
6. Bring an actor:  Expensive but pays big returns.  You pay em and they’ll do anything...pretend to be your friend, pretend to be an interested, shout expletives at the opposing team’s coach...typical suburban parent stuff. 
7. Bring hash brownies:  As long as you’re not distributing them to minors, I see no downside to this at all.  Even better, bring along your IPod and the sibling to run back down to corner to get you some additional snacks.  You’ll need em.
8. Organize a cock fight:  You’d be surprised at the level of interest.  And at the end of the day, you’ve got dinner and probably the name of a good landscaper!
9. Bring a bookie:  Nothing wrong with a few friendly wagers to fill the hours.  Just don’t get too far behind, or the biggest career ending injury will be yours.
10. Bring a local politician running for re-election:  If you’re goal is to have everybody in town hate you, ...forever..., do this.
11. Clean out your garage, bring the debris, and host a yard sale:  That’s right hoarder, what better way to multi-task and make a few bucks at the same time?  Plus, it’s a subtle cry for help.
12. Bring your therapist:  This is perfect chance for your “helper” to observe you in the field.  After a couple hours of watching you in your natural element, they’ll have a much better idea of where to adjust your meds, and what public safety agencies to notify.  

Finally, speaking on behalf of it’s organizers, soccer parents are encouraged to always remember the positive cultural benefits provided by soccer that are so important to providing the tensile strength essential to the fabric of the American way of life, and to keep in mind that as difficult and time consuming as it is to participate in town sponsored youth athletics programs, it is completely voluntary, and that as long as you and your boneless cowardly children are willing to endure the ostracization and lingering shame that will accompany them well into their adulthood, they, and you are free to give up, be quitters, and slink away from America’s needs whenever they are ready.


But don’t worry, comrade.  Your kids will fit in somewhere.  Maybe there’s a nice hacky-sack team for little Ivan down at the local Occupy Wall Street camp.  Go ahead and take a shot.


After all... 


...everybody needs a goal.







©  2012 J. Mark Rast

There are lots of big doings regarding healthcare going on up in the halls of justice these days, thanks to Big Pharma, the President, Congress, 2 or 3 hundred thousand Republican lobbyists, and of course, everyone’s favorite improv troupe, the Supreme Court Of The United States of America.



 Yes friends, by the time you read this post, chances are your life expectancy will in some way have been directly affected by a judicial decision rendered by a group of people who regularly don’t have sex, who seemingly don’t like each other, who smell slightly musty, and who spend virtually all of their most important workdays dressed like they are tenured members of the faculty of Hogwarts.  ...With the exception of not-Chief Justice Clarence Thomas, who spends his most important work days (at least in his mind) totally nude.


This is a problem.  Not because imagining that last visual is at it’s base level, horrifying.  Or because the constitutionality of The Affordable Care Act may or may not pass the smell test of modern jurisprudence.


No, it’s a problem because the people empowered to make this historic constitutional decision...people who are supposed to be ROLE MODELS...look (...on their best days!) like they employ as their personal shopper, Igor the Hunchback.  


This matters, because by establishing and practicing criminally low standards of fashion trendiness at the uppermost levels of a democratic government, a terrible and dangerous message is being sent, and it’s being sent to those people who matter most; That most powerful and influential demographic group ever known: The Hormonally Insane.  


...Otherwise known as fashion conscious thirteen-year-old girls, who text.  


And what exactly is the horrible message that is being sent?


The message is this:  “The adults have lost their minds.  They are embarrassing us.  Eyeewww.  They must be destroyed.”


This message is not being sent intentionally, but it is being sent never-the-less.  And it is being sent loudly, and clearly.  


And this is not insignificant, because to those hormonally insane, smartphone slinging, anarchy prone thirteen-year-old cultural warriors, a response to perceived threats of embarrassment with violent acts of anarchy, even if they result in a loss of personal liberties, and civil rights, and affordable health care, would be but a small price to pay to avoid the embarrassment of being internationally associated with a justice system dominated by geezers who go to work wearing theatre curtains, support hosiery, and in some cases, adult diapers;  an embarrassment so mortifying that it automatically justifies nothing less than the violent overthrow of the government of the United States of America by whatever means necessary, including The Silent Treatment.


And if you are a father who has ever, even unwittingly, humiliated a thirteen-year-old dependent at the mall in the company of her friends, ...by making an appearance wearing black socks and sandals, ...you’ll believe me when I tell you...


...this is no idle threat.


So something must be done, and fast.  Credibility for the court must be restored.  Faith must be renewed.  A bridge to the citizenry must be built.    A modernization makeover is in order...in the court!


Here then, in the interest of preserving the Republic, are Kielbasablog’s twelve cultural makeover suggestions for modernizing the image of the 2012 United States Supreme Court.  


These are:

1. Funner robes.  If you have to wear them, let them be a little more festive.  Two tone, monogrammed, short-sleeved, patterned, leather, zippered, a plunging neckline, ...maybe a little Bedazzling, feathers, barebacked, off-the shoulder cutouts etc...  Even if it’s just a matter of getting accessorized, it would be an improvement.  Personally I’d love to see Anthony Scalia spice things up by occasionally handing down decisions wearing a snap brim fedora and a hemp necklace.
2. Next:  Better footwear.  Skechers, Timberlands, Toms.  For the ladies in particular, knee-high leather boots would be nice.  And although probably a little too late to actually convince anyone of “hipness”, the goal here is to at least introduce members of the supreme judiciary to the 21st sartorial century.  And admit it, nothing would scream “We care, and we’re here to protect your rights!” louder than having Ruth Bader Ginsburg reading a capital punishment opinion wearing cute leggings and a pair of Uggs.
3. Work on the hair.  Especially the men.  Use a little product, and if you think you can pull it off, grow a man-tail.
4. Add a little sizzle.  Start including a few celebrities in the judicial process.  Add a ceremonial rotating guest spot on the bench, and invite whoever is trending highest amongst “tweens” to sit in and ask a few questions, because who better to vet the constitutional logic of Roe v Wade than Justin Bieber?
5. Connect with the citizenry.  Bond with the youngsters.  Misbehave.  Go clubbing.  Guzzle tequila.  Get Instagramed puking your brains out next to your SUV with Gloria Allred holding your robe.
6. Target America’s de facto “leaders of tomorrow” (jocks from Duke) by opening and closing every court session with a trampoline jumping mascot.  Nothing over the top.  A college kid gymnast or clerk/intern in a simple foam “Judge” suit perhaps.  And give him a cute nickname like “Habeus” or “Briefs”
7. Be linked romantically.  If nothing else, to each other, but preferably to someone higher profile or slutty; A Kardashian, Tim Tebow, Russell Brandt, Kanye West, Katy Perry, Scot Peterson, Darrell Waltrip Jr., Carrot Top, Selena Gomez.  
8. Go through a very public break-up with any of the above.
9. Show some wit.  Create an edgy online caption contest.  Have a sketch artist post weekly online drawings of high profile proceedings and invite website visitors to enter caption suggestions.
10. Generate buzz.  Show up at Burning Man.  Open a restaurant.  Roll-out a personalized fragrance.  Promote it on The Today Show.  Do Ellen.
11. Do a swimsuit photo calendar.
12. Tweet.  Preferably from the bench while hearing arguments.  Be ironic.

And finally, on a personal note we here at Kielbasablog have one last very important request:  Unless your goal is to incite an American mass suicide (starting right here in our offices), please SCOTUS,  PLEASE...we’re begging you....PLEASE stop releasing those annual Supreme Court group photos. 


THAT is cruel and unusual punishment.  

....Ughhhhhh!





©  2012 J. Mark Rast