THREE OLD MEN AND THE WHITE HOUSE by John Iwaniec aka taxigringo

"I coudda been an actor." You would never think that beneath my confident, assertive face lives a dejected, lonely person. I feel like such a Sad Sack.

June 30th looked like a typical day. After toast and coffee I headed for the park because even I can‘t stand too much of my own company. I used to like watching the pretty ladies walking their dogs, but after getting back nothing but hard looks I quit looking.

I don’t mean to wear it thin, but let me just say that being around people is painful to me. You know it had to take a lot of curiosity for me to approach three old men who where standing in an open area near the walking path. Their behavior was just to weird for me to ignore.

One man reached up to the sky and, then, made like he was putting something into his pocked. He kept doing this over and over. The second man was doing the opposite. He would put his hand into his pocket and act like he was throwing something away. The third man was the strangest of all. With two fingers of his right hand he did a walking motion on his left forearm and just kept repeating.

“What are you men doing?” I asked.

Without looking at me the first one answered, "I'm taking stars from heaven and putting ‘em into my pocket."

The second man said, "Can't you see that I'm taking stars from heaven out of my pocket and throwing them away?"

The third man ignored me. He just kept on with the finger walk.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"These two guys are nuts. I'm getting the hell out of here." At that the three old men busted out laughing.

I'd been had again. Red from embarrassment I hurried away to a street that I'd not been on before.

Now, what are the odds that just as I was thinking about ending it all I saw a white house with big letters: PRIVATE MENTAL HEALTH CARE. Below the sign were two doors, and each had a smaller sign which read PSYCHIATRY, the other PSYCHOLOGY.

I opened the PSYCHIATRY door, and found myself in a room with two more doors. One read PSYCHOTHERAPY, the other PSYCHOANALYSIS. After thinking about it a bit I entered the PSYCHOANALYSIS room. Again there was another room with two doors which read INCOME OVER $200,000 and INCOME UNDER $200,000.

I was shaking as I walked opened the door for lesser income.

Sure enough I was back on the street.
www.taxigringo.blogspot.com

LONELY GUY by John Iwaniec

I must be some kind of lonely guy. Just so I wouldn’t be alone I left some breadcrumbs on the kitchen counter for the tiny yellow ants that share my apartment. The ants are so tiny that a company of them can live on a breadcrumb for a week.

Not too long ago I was enjoying a cup of my ten dollar a pound double French Roast coffee. So I got to thinking about my imaginary pet. Some people have an imaginary friend; I have an imaginary pet, a two foot long cockroach that I call Knorge. It seemed only proper to leave out some of the coffee for Knorge. It is the way that I would want to be treated if I was an overgrown cockroach.

It is surprising how even the lowliest creatures respond to a little kindness. Knorge is considerate and doesn't leave a mess like most roommates. He uses the toilet just like humans. Only thing is, he also drinks out of it. Well, what of it. Even high bred dogs will do that.

Lately I noticed that Knorge has a problem. He hides under the couch when family or friends come over. I’ve discussed it with him and he finally blurted out, “Everybody hates me. They despise me. I wish I was dead.“ I was not only surprised that Knorge could speak but especially that he was so sensitive to rejection.

Now I care about Knorge, but I’ve got to have a life too and have to make a living like most of you. I drive a big truck and am away for two weeks at a time. It sure feels good when I come home and crawl into a real bed. Last week I was on home time and slept like a baby until I woke up with Knorge wrapped up at my feet. I jerked and kicked my legs. It broke his left antennae. Man, was he down. He was convinced that the only person he trusted had turned on him. He wouldn’t even talk about it with me.

What could I do? What would you have done? I told him that he had to get used to reality. He said nothing. It looked like tears where falling from his bulging eyes.

“Look Knorge, God made you the way you are for a reason. You are a fine creature and it is not you that people reject but a conditioned association in their mind. I don’t know how to help that, and the fact that you always have your guard up doesn’t let people see the good side of you.”
With one of his six feet he wiped his eye. I was getting somewhere. “God made you a beautiful creature and somehow, somewhere in this grand universe someone sees you as beautiful.”

Poor Knorge was sniffling. I began to realize that if a person, even a cockroach, gets enough rejection it can downright kill him.

Little by little he loosened up and began to realize that he had a God given right to live and that God saw him as he really was and had a special plan for him. The people who hated him really didn’t hate him, because they didn’t even know him. They hated something in their imagination. Knorge did not have to let this be his problem.

I want to tell you that from that point on Knorge presented himself to company and his new confidence allowed people to see his true self for the beautiful creature he is.

Sadly this is not the case. Though Knorge now stays in the room when company comes they look past him as if they don’t even see him.

DIAMONDS IN MY NOSE

No, I haven't been getting much sleep. I wake up in the night not able to breath through my nose. My tongue gets dry and cracked; I wake; I can’t get back to sleep.

For a long time I didn’t think much of it, but it kept getting worse. This might not sound strange, but you haven’t heard the beginning of strange. When I wake my nose is full of obstructions. The boogers I’m picking are real gems. I kid you not. They are perfect diamonds.

I even took them to a jewelry store. The man put them under a microscope and didn’t want to give them back. He said he had never seen such flawless diamonds. I wouldn’t tell him where I got them from and sold them for a nice chunk of change.

Before you think that this is a blessing, think again. The diamonds are up to a carat in weight, and the loss of sleep has me hearing voices and seeing things. I'm even afraid to tell anyone about it for fear that I‘ll wind up as an experiment in a laboratory.

At last I went to a priest who didn’t believe me until I showed him the diamonds. He made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist who happens to have a degree in bio-chemistry.
He got right to the point. “How can I help you?” When I told him my story he asked if I use drugs or drink.
“I don’t use drugs, I don’t smoke and I don’t drink, unless you count coffee.”
“And just how much coffee do you drink? “
I answered, “Two or three pots a day. It’s not cheap. I pay $25 per pound. It would be even more, but I buy it in bulk. It’s really the only vice I have. It is made from a very special bean from the mountain sides of South Africa.”
At this, something captured his interest. He took blood samples, tissue scrapings and hair clippings. I figured that it would be a week or two before I would find anything out, but he had a lab in his office. Over and over he stopped what he was doing to look up my nose with a light scope.

I had plenty of doubts, but what else was I to do?



Finally he gave me his whole attention. His face was solemn, and I sure didn’t like the tone of his voice. “John, I don’t know how to tell you this. There has never been anything like it. Somehow your DNA has been altered into something inhuman. I think it is a response to all the carbon you take in from the roasted coffee. It has altered the biological tissue in your nose to act as an elimination organ for carbon. Each time you exhale the carbon dioxide from your lungs is chemically condensed into diamonds.

This saddened me much, “Doctor, isn’t there some other way to fix this without me giving up coffee. I don’t think you know how much it means to me. It‘s all I got.”

At this the doctor became saddened. “John, the DNA change cannot be reversed. It is going to get worse until the only thing we can do is to cut off your nose.”

A faint smile of hope crept across my face. “You mean I don’t have to give up the coffee?”

SERIOUS

It has been almost seven years since I died. Though I no longer inhabited my body the biological tissue was still functioning. It continued to be animated by neural networks of the brain and appetites of the body. Most people saw nothing unusual in the automatic responses except a very flat personality. From a remote spiritual vantage point I longed to repossess that aging protoplasmic body. I had a desire to be with loved ones and wanted to make reparations to people I had done wrong.

It began to occur to me that I could still motivate actions in that body, though, only in a remote way. One day I came up with a splendid idea. It involved getting the body to listen to comedy tapes by Rodney Dangerfield. Yes, he had a fine personality for a body in such a situation. More and more the body I once inhabited took on the personality of Rodney. I confess that I was having a lot of fun with it.

A day came when my little one of eight years of age said, "Daddy, why do you always talk so crazy?"

I took her home and showed her the Rodney Dangerfield audio cassette. Looking at the cover picture she said, "Daddy, he looks just like you." I wasn't flattered. When I played the tape she added, "Daddy, he talks just like you." This time I took it as a compliment.

Rodney has since passed on, and I have not been the same since. My face has become sullen and deadpan. My body doesn’t want to move. My friends don’t call me anymore.

I’ve been thinking about searching for another personality, but it makes me feel like a ghoul. Maybe I'll just try work with my original self and see what I can do with it.

I've really tried, but I tell you, nobody takes me serious, and I still don‘t get no respect!

If I ruled the world I would hire George W. Bush to manage it for me. The man demonstrated a selfless love of America and great virtue in the way he took on and managed a problem that others had left to fester for thirty-five years.
After September 11, 2001 I was one of the people who approved of President Bush's strategy in dealing head on with the growing cancer of terrorism against western civilization.
Two days before the Iraqi invasion I called the White House Hot Line and left the following message: "President Bush, I recommend that you remove Saddam Hussein from power for two reasons: 1. To deter other countries from harboring terrorists. 2. To free the Iraqi people."
In the most expeditious manner imaginable, he fulfilled my request. The defeat of Iraq and the removal of Saddam Hussein by the US military was successful beyond all my expectations. I expected all people of good will to hail our president as a great hero.
A momentum had been gained to build a world where people would be free to govern themselves within their own respective cultures. My hope was high.
Instead the secreted agents of what was once called communism came out in full force and their force was focused on President Bush who, almost alone, spearheaded an American spirit which I had waited for all my life. The people who were most effective in this long delayed war were relentlessly attacked. Mr. Rumsfeld, Mr. Cheney, and Mr. Rove particularly come to mind. The enemy had control of the mainstream media which itself was with the enemy.
There were legitimate reasons to go to war against Iraq, and the fact that Iran lies between Afghanistan and Iraq made the mission even more imperative. Do you remember the staging problems that the U.S. military had before the start of the Iraqi invasion?
All true warriors are lovers of peace, yet when malignant forces become active the work of the warrior is required.
I remember President George W. Bush as a true warrior, a lover of God and goodness, and a man who selflessly served the United States of America within the constraints of the Constitution.