683. Stephen Miller Goes to Hell

Satan:  Welcome to Hell, Stevie. We’ve been expecting you, Dude. If anyone deserves a parade in Hell, it’s you. On behalf of all your former Trump advisers and cabinet members, welcome back. You know Jeff, Kirstjen, John, Kelly Anne, the Mooch, Spicey, Reince, Mad Dog, Rex, Steve B…

Stephen: But, but, wait a second! I was walking across Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a bright warm day in April. The cherry blossoms were just finishing their bloom. A bus full of illegals was going by on their way to deportation.  White nationalism was gaining steam. It was a great day. What happened? Why am I here? I was doing YOUR work at the White House with Donny the Messianic Puppet.

Satan: We wanted to reward you, Steve. You hit your hate quota long ago. I don’t know if any other political animal will achieve your kill records. You are the Michael Jordan of xenophobia. Clutch, Steve, clutch!! There is nothing more to prove, my assassin. We wanted someone else to have a chance, you know?  Greed needs to be shared or it will go extinct.

Stephen: But I was just hitting my groove, Satan! There was 2020 and my Islamaphobia Palooza campaign. Did the Clintons get to you? Was it Soros? Or Bloomberg? No, Ivana? Jared? Silk pants sycophants.

Satan: Steve, relax. You are among fiends here. No need to be so defensive. You did a great job for me with zero tolerance and separating families at the border. Brilliant stuff, Steve. Cages and intimidation. And asylum seekers? You picked apart the Statue of Liberty’s fake news compassion poem, proving that America has always been for privileged white people. I admit that I get to have favorites here in Hell, okay? and I just love your work.

Stephen: Thanks? I mean, I guess I appreciate your appreciation, Satan. I just can’t help feeling I’ve been demoted. An hour ago I was one of the most powerful men on earth, and now, well, it’s better than a Motel 6. However, I was getting jazzed about Maralago over Easter break, and then drone strikes in Tijuana in May. I could almost taste the singed illegal flesh…

Satan: That’s my boy!! You really had a good time up there, didn’t you, son?

Stephen: Absolutely!! I was an ugly conservative Jewish dork in high school and college, but when I figured out how to hate hard, man, my life came into a beautiful focus. I stopped playing defense and started pressing forward like a drunk Russian commissar on a wild racial purification pogrom across the vermin-filled hinterlands.

Satan: Steve, you’re Jewish. Your mom’s people were refugees from Russian pogroms. Your great grandmother only spoke Yiddish. I mean, I am the devil and prince of darkness and all, but even I wouldn’t do that to my great grammy.

Stephen: You’re too soft, Satan. That’s your problem down here, I noticed on the way in. You lack border security. Anyone can sneak in here and open a taco stand without an identity card. Pretty soon they’ll mate with the Asian guy making shrimp rolls and you will find yourself in the minority in your own kingdom. I’ve seen it in New Hampshire, busloads of illegals are gonna be bussed in from Massachusetts to vote for Hillary, and pretty soon Hell will be a Blue state run by libtards like freakin California where I grew up.

Satan: Steve, I never thought of it like that. I always felt that the more souls I persuaded to forgo salvation and party hard, you know, the better for me. My numbers will be up by the 2020 census and I’ll get more representation in the House and Senate.

Stephen: That’s why you need a citizenship question, Satan. All these border jumpers are gonna vote Democrat and then Hell will belong to them. We can’t lose Hell. It’s like Ohio. If Puerto Ricans can vote, then so can Hellians. Okay, you need a hurricane to get on the gravy train.

Satan: Okay, okay. I get it. We need to take names and kick ass. I have been too soft, I guess. So, ya think we need to build a wall too?

Stephen: Duh! Of course. That River Styx is a medieval idea. It doesn’t stop anyone. You can’t think that death scares off the walking dead. Nope, they’re coming here for socialism, AC/ DC live, Obamacare, Food Stamps, welfare, free housing with wi-fi. They are parasites, Satan, enemies of the people, thugs, gang members, rapists, vermin, fleas on the buttocks of civilization… mutants from–

Satan: Okay, okay, Steve, breathe… But they’re dead, Steve, just like you. I mean, I hate to use the word down here, but isn’t this a bit of overkill?

Stephen: Seriously?  What happens when tyrants stop killing, Satan? When the hangman’s noose is empty and clean of blood stains, and the guillotine is idle? Huh? Right, the people lose their fear and tyrants get murdered upside down in a piazza. Is that what you want? Open borders and free champagne for the bloodthirsty savages?

Satan: Steve, did you ever study hyperbole in school?

Stephen: Absolutely, Stan, mind if I call you Stan? You know, just drop the first a and there you go.

Stan: No, sure, go ahead.

Stephen: I LOVED hyperbole, Stan. When the other kids went to prom and homecoming dances and sporting events, I studied hyperbole and played Magic the Gathering by myself. Waiting stoically for my revenge on the libtards, the Democrats, the brown and yellow man, the Muslims, and my own self loathing self.

Stan: Wow! Steve. You are one sick puppy. I’m a pretty tolerant guy without any prosocial values, but I mean, I love my great grammy…

Stephen: What are you saying, Stan?

Stan: Kirstjen, will you tell him?Related image

Kiersten Nielsen: Sure, Stan. Steve, we have to deport you.

John Kelly: You’ll never assimilate, Steve. You are too sick.

Stephen: But, where are you gonna send me? I have to hate someone. It’s in my marrow.

Stan: Russia is nice this time of  year.Image result for putin head shots


682. Traveling

Image result for emma gatewood photosMiddle English travailen, travelen to torment, labor, strive, journey, from Anglo-French travailler. Whether you travail or travelI suppose it depends on where you are and the company you keep. I just finished reading Grandma Gatewood’s Walk, all about an Ohio grandmother who fearlessly hiked the Appalachian Trail three times when she was in her sixties and seventies. That’s 2,050 miles each trip– up and down mountains in tennis shoes. She also walked two thousand miles from Independence, Missouri to Portland, Oregon one way… all by herself, alone, unaccompanied. You get the picture. She traveled, yes, but her travels were intimately connected to the travails of her abusive marriage. Though she gave her husband 11 kids, he never gave her respect. No, he beat her and beat her and beat her. So, by comparison, hiking alone on an isolated mountain ridge was not nearly as scary for Emma Gatewood. Feeling one’s feet pound the rocky trail would naturally feel more comforting than an angry man’s fist pounding on one’s already bruised face. Nature may be cruel at times but not malicious like humans can be.

Image result for old white farmer in 1930Unfortunately, men like her husband, P.C., are not rare. They fit a pattern of obsessing rather than loving. They must possess the objectified target of their passion. Impatience and impulsivity mark their courtship, as they bull rush the woman in their cross hairs.  Possession is the end game not co-equal love, because these men confuse control with love. The two could not be more different. And that’s how it went for Emma. She wanted to be away from P.C. for decades. Then, at 67 years of age, she began walking out a legend, claiming to be a widow rather than a divorced woman. The powerful social difference in the two words is lost on us today.

There are other women, I’m sure, who bide their time and fight the urge to flee for years. But once these victims go, brother, they are never coming back. Emma Gatewood was proof of that truth. Rattlesnakes and porcupines were better company than a misogynist.

Image result for single woman hiking beside a stream pictures

Her story calls to mind an old favorite poem of mine by Irving Layton, There Were No Signs.

By walking I found out
Where I was going.

By intensely hating, how to love.
By loving, whom and what to love.

By grieving, how to laugh from the belly.
Out of infirmity, I have built strength.Related image

Out of untruth, truth.
From hypocrisy, I wove directness.

Almost now I know who I am.
Almost I have the boldness to be that man.

Another step

And I shall be where I started from.

Image result for a figure walking into sunset photos

Sometimes that’s how we find out where we are going, by walking forward, away from trouble and misery until we come full circle. But divorce in the 1940’s and 50’s was not an easy thing to come by. Nostalgic folks like to pine for the good old days when couples stayed together through thick and thin, but that is a sentimental narrative told by a severed ostrich head in the sand. Men beat their wives then… because they could… and they got away with it.February 26, 1996 P. 170

I remember a neighbor lady who, in the 1960’s, was in an abusive marriage with her awful husband, a drunk plumber. Several times late at night she came to our back door crying for my mother to let her in… “Lee is drunk and after me again!”, she cried hysterically. My mother would let her sleep on the couch until dawn, and back she’d go to a hungover louse, who would thrash out at her at another time. No one thought to call the police. It may not have done a bit of good anyway. Being divorced was a worse fate than being in an abusive marriage. You say no? Well, there was another divorced woman who lived down the street, Wayne Kent’s mother. I don’t believe I ever saw the woman. It was as if she had stage 4 cancer or ebola. Divorced! Inconceivable for a single or un-widowed woman to have custody of her own child. Something taboo was associated with that leper woman, but the leprosy was in her fearful neighbors’ eyes and hearts. Image result for pictures of lepers

As the laws changed regarding divorce and abuse and drunk driving, more abusers went to jail and more battered wives got divorces. Which is not the same thing as getting justice or child support. I’m not sure it’s an even playing field yet. So many men claim that their child support keeps the ex wife living in luxury. Well, it’s not about the ex-wife, is it? The bottom line is what does it cost to raise a child, not what is the cost of upholding your entitled male ego.Related image

So Emma walked and walked and walked into notoriety. She inspired countless others to get up and walk through nature at a time when American cars were enormous rolling pleasure carriages on the new interstate superhighway system. ‘If she could do it’, many couch potatoes reasoned, ‘then I can too.’ Funny how the overt story parallels the covert one beneath. Much more important than her walking records, I believe, is her legacy as a survivor who ultimately thrives. Her dying ex-husband asked for her on his death bed. She declined to visit the perpetrator of horror. Some might see this as a refusal to forgive. I can’t tell you what to think; however, I believe Emma rightly saw it as the unrepentant P.C. trying one last time to control her with pity and guilt as the the only weapons at his disposal. The way I see it, she left a house on fire with violent rage and only a fool would travail back there.

Image result for bed ridden old man photos