Not playing the race card, just noting some common traits among racists and misogs.

WhenEVER these groups go on one of their rail-fests...ya know, all whatevers are ...  bla-bla, all whamen are ...  Both racists and misogs practise exactly what they're accusing one, or more, other races and women of doing. Per the race-haters, even one of their leaders had stressed in an essay, (he'd written some 20 years ago) urging his group to keep their lawns mowed, to abstain from collecting nonfunctioning cars, refrigerators, washers, tvs ....  and to stay the heck away from drunks - because drunks....  Evidently, he saw a need to publish the some ten pages; he kept stressing, "common sense."   

Both racists and misogs are, rather fiercely, into evolution.  Atleast the racists want to have kids.  The misogs?  Eh, per their posts, they're way more into ... puh, ha-ha-hhhobbIes - yeah, that and $5 will get you a coffee and danish - and forgeddabout buying a girlfriend so much as a softdrink...noper, those $3s get hoarded into the travel (pee) pot...ya know, to distant lands, to nail the locals (then, quik, hop on a plane back...before the rabbit dies).  

Yep, the common cart-roap is blame-shifting.  We all know the drill: an eskimo kid, while outside playing, gets killed by a polar bear - which proves all eskimo parents neglect their kids.  Heidi is really really hot - her age and waistline are both 22 (her bra size is 36DD); she expects her (current) boyfriend to buy the four-star dinners and the theatre tickets - which proves all women sponge off men.  

By the way, a naturally thin woman, with a 22 inch waistline, would likely need either a 32 or a 34B or C bra.  That is, if the woman didn't cave into having her boobs altered -  going under the knife...yikes...for what!  ChAD???  Ya godda be kidding!  Anyway, for most bras, the DDs start at 38 or 40.  

After listening to misog-martin's rant, a question had surfaced - one i had thought over, some years ago. When the Lord did that surgery on Adam,

why didn't God make Eve to be more like Steve?  No, wasn't calling the King of kings into my office to give Him his annual performance rating.  Was simply asking a question.  Because the Lord foresaw the mess the couple, would get themselves - and their descendants - into, i believe, the Lord had reasons for having created Eve to think and act way - if not perplexingly - different from Adam.  

Bible scholars - ya know, them smart guys who can read arabic, greek, hebrew and latin,  say that, in the Bible women, generally, represent the church.  Well, even a 9th grade dropout knows that the church is in about every country.  There's eskimos, chinese, africans, itallians, irish...  Different cultures, with different ways of looking at things - like how to set the dinner table, is the salad served first, or is it the soup?  Basically, that kind of stuff.  

And that kind of stuff is enough to cause someone from one culture to look down his snoot at someone from another culture ... over how someone uses his hands while speaking.  So it goes beyond how some guy happens to hold his fork.

There was a certain group of people who were, for centuries, technologically backward.  They lived so far back in the woods, little trade - if any - came their way.  They didn't even have flint.  The area was nothing but loose soil and lots of greenery.  And oh brother, why bother building anything, because come the rainy season... But they really didn't need either flint, or buildings.  The climate was amiable, and food was reasonably plentiful - so, they didn't have to work all that much, and so basically, just hung out.  So, people from the north - where, if you didn't work, you froze or starved to death - are inclined to call those tropicals lazy.  

Anyway, have to wonder, when guys are scowling down women - for no better reason than that women are not men...where does it stop?  

Well that post about says it all...have to wonder, was the reason, wifey-po, became ex-wifey-po, because

she simply became fed up with cheapo-cheapo-charlie?   Heard it said that stinginess - especially towards immediate family - is very telling.  Anyway, in one of the videos, one of the misog-martins was going on about money management.  And yeah, it's smart to live below your means, to delay gratification...bla, bla, bla.  No beef there.  He went on to say, it's okay to splurge a bit here and there - privided, the bills are caught up.  No beef there either.

Then, came the evidence of his true colors.  He went on to say, that once in a while, he likes to enjoy fine dining.  But, he only does that when his girlfriend is elsewhere - and not around to cook him anything.  A single four-star dinner is way cheaper than two steak-n-lobster entrees - plus the drinks and extra tip.  

All's i can say is:  surely heidi-hottie is aware that, while she's good enough to f*k - and cccoooookk, she's not good enough for a fine dinner - let alone a wedding ring.  Surely, (actually, prayerfully!) the young woman has her own money, her own place, and the option, here and there, to go splurge on stuff for herself ... ya know, like a $500 handbag.  She probably keeps food consumption to a bare minimum - heaven forbid, she might gain two ounces, two days before her monthly.

Come to think of it, do women even get monthlys anymore?  Or is that so last century?  Between the push to remain boyishly thin, and to keep on swallowing the (abortion) pill...yeah, talk about identity theft!  No, wait...gets worse:  vaporizing babies, even when they're just at the 40-cell stage...still, that's murder.

And frankly, when a man tells his girlfriend, he doesn't want any surprises, he's basically saying, "hey beech, yer good enough to (flip over and) f*k ... well, atleast for now, but you are by NO MEANS! good enough to ... and never will be - you'll only get worse... for no better reason than (oh gasp and yikes) turning 32 (and yeah, gaining three whole pounds - holy moley!!!)

A certain KJB preacher, over at sermonaudio.com must work ALOT, he is the father of

seven children - all of the same woman, the man's wife.  Anyway, that's alot of food and clothing needed.  He does alot of Bible study,  (from the real one) which is why i listen to his sermons.  Besides preaching each sunday and wednesday at a real church, don't know what other job he holds; all's i know is: listened to alot of his sermons, but cannot recall him EVER grabbing and upending anyone in his church - i.e., telling folks - who aren't sure if they'll make this month's rent - to tithe.  Btw, ten percent off the top is in the Bible...and so is compassion toward people with money problems. 

Anyway, in a recent this preacher - who is quite red-pill - did say something, that stung. While every third or fourth sermon, he'll take a righteous pot-shot at jezebels...women aren't supposed to be deacons and such, because that's not biblical - like it or lump it.

What he said, that stung a bit was:  single people are the most selfish people around.  Not quite the man's exact words, but spot-on, nonetheless.  It stung a little, but enough, because - even though, the Bible quite clearly gives widows, over sixty, a free pass to remain single (while younger widows are urged to remarry)... i absolutely LOVE living alone.   Problem is, i love it too much.

While the Bible passage on, like page 2, "...not good for man to be alone..." applies to men, had previously wondered:  Why?  When Adam was a bachelor, he didn't do anything wrong - besides, he was busy naming animals (and remembering all those names...must of been really smart).  No sin = no worries.  Why was him being single "not good?"  

And yeah, somewhere else in Scripture...not sure where, but it says, along the lines, the entire Bible is important for the "...man of God..."   Anyway, being a gal, haven't yet come across anything in Scripture giving women a free pass to neglect reading and studying even so much as a verse.  

So, was inclined to wonder...why, not good?  concerning Adam's single days - and to think about, how does this apply to a 60+ widow?  Think i know why.  

Because i am so set in my ways - i.e., just plain selfish, and have to struggle against that SIN.  No - and thank You, Jesus - i don't have to go look for a husband - yeah, good luck with that:/  But being selfish, not wanting to be, even mildly inconvenienced, is sin - plain. and. simple.

Most people don't like KJB preachers, because those men have the Lord's way of calling people on their b.s.

Godda go, and get to work.  Bye :)

Oh, the money-show - on several of the mean-girlish videos, shows a man's fist, holding a neat stack of

currency.  Along the lines of, neh-neh-neh, wahmin-free men gots the bucks, and you wahminz don't, neh-neh-neh.  And we broads are emotional??  Bu-but the financial sites are saying, that half the us population is living from pay (or annuity) check to check - that average credit card debt is like eight or nine thousand.  Half the population. Could it be, the female half who's in debt - while the misog-martins are joyfully lighting cigars with $20s?  

Nope, don't think so, because the financial advice websites are so gender blind.  Last i checked, both genders buy new stuff, when there's nothing wrong with the old stuff.  Both genders buy pizzas and subs three times weekly, and could save a ton, over time, if they instead brown-bagged.  The last financial site showed how much a pack of cigarettes per day will cost in a year's time.  Last i checked, that money-pit habit is gender-blind too.

What's most telling on these finance sites is: if the money woes were affecting women, and not men, you could bet your boots, there'd be something feminist/w0kist.  Nope.  The sites just tell the viewers to make a budget, stick to a budget, cut up the cards, invest wisely...

And YES, women tend to be poorer than men.  Because women generally live some five years longer than do men.  Women also, tend to earn less - not because of discrimination, but because women choose not to climb telephone poles during high winds.

Yikes, on some of those before-n-afters, the girls appeared to be

borderline malnourished - yeppers, keep 'em barren...can ya spell "without natural affection?"  And no, this ain't some flab-acceptance rhetoric.  Young women are smart to guard themselves from chunking out.  And here's why: because if ya don't,  when ya turn 60-something, you'll need the energy to get yard stuff done.  Come winter, you'll need the stamina to shovel the driveway - and so, save yourself the embarrassment of having to call for a plow for...what...a half foot of snow.  And besides, i'm not their only customer.

Anyway, as for the before photos on that you-tube site, more than a few of those gals were boyishly skinny - and yeah, so it only makes sense to wonder how close to jumping the fence misog-martin, and his toadies are situated.  Meanwhile, the girls' after photos - ya know, aged out at 32 - well, lo and behold, they looked like healthy women.  Not fat, just your normal size 12.

Andrew's post would be funny, but it's VERY not, because most people don't even begin to understand Scripture.

Anyway, Andrew went on to say that when the Lord took out Adam's rib, what the Lord was doing, was taking out the bad stuff.  Meh, guess that means God the Creator didn't do such a hot job after all - hey Andrew, go tell that to His face...oh wait, please, please gimme a few minutes to dig a fallout shelter and jump in...yep, am just a chicken-sheet old broad...shure don't want to be anywhere around, when you go before the Lord and give Him a mediocre performance rating.

But seriously, throughout the ages...and not to put too jagged a point...men, alot smarter than you - and certainly smarter than me :) - have equated man, a representation of Christ, and woman, a representation of the church.  Well, we both know what a buncha screw-ups redeemed people (the church) are.  Have heard it said, the Biblical term, sheep, is by no means, a compliment - sheep are really dumb, and have to be watched, constantly.  While am no zoologist, i understand, sheep are so unlike other animals - other animals can live and reproduce in the wild - and maybe make it.  Sheep cannot - they won't get past a few days, let alone raise young.  

And just as seriously, Andrew, your vicious - and grossly unbiblical statement, will only open radical feminism's broad door - that leads to eternal destruction.  Oh, by the way, Paul the Apostle ... ya know, that confirmed bachelor guy - yeah him ...uhm, he said that people who preach a false gospel, "let them be accursed."  O danger, danger - bigtime.  Andrew, not even just another lane on the broad road; anyway, you don't wanna go that way.  Nuh-uh!

Surely, am not the only broad who was headed in that direction.  So many years ago ... oh my goodness, four decades.  Seriously, stood in that upstairs room, and told God off.  But ya know what!  Couldn't hate His Son, Jesus Christ, because Jesus was kind to women - in an age, in a culture where women were generally treated like garbage - especially after committing that certain loathsome sin ... ya know, turning thirty-two ... oh horrors.

Anyway (never mind, it's a miracle, am still alive) had then resolved to be an atheist.  But that only lasted a few weeks - too dry.

But i used to hate men who mistrusted women! What happened? The Holy Spirit, that's what!

Has to be His presence, because my fallen nature is contentious - struggle with that on a daily basis.  You see, i harbor deep mistrust toward men, and have a strong tendency to give women a pass.  All's i know is, if it weren't for the Holy Spirit, i'd be some stingy old beach, mad at the world...because it rained last night, and the grass will need mowed, again.  

Well, instead, am glad it rained - because, across the street is a farmer's field.  Corn needs rain, needs it's roots to go down, because come july, the lovely green grass will turn depressingly brown and crackley.  Anyway, it's the Lord who allows the funds to pay the lawn team, the morning after the statement arrives in the mailbox - same with the electric and whatever other expenses.

Speaking of theological world views, have long noticed, most people either ignore, or outright scowl down the reality that ... yep, like it nor lump it, we all live under the absolute rule of the Lord Jesus, King of kings.   No breaking news, just mention His name, and don't be the least bit surprised when the knashing-tongue drama unfolds.  

Anyway, like blogging because, can say stuff that folks just don't wanna hear.  Mmkay, fine.  Free country...well, for the time being.  But woah, clown central is taking over.  And quite frankly, if our nation is going to break those ghastly hued bonds, it will be the Men - (per the Lord's grace) who work & fix stuff with their hands - who will preserve this nation.  That is: a free safe nation, where old ladies - living by themselves - can walk out to the mailbox, and come back to the house, in one piece.

As for living alone, my Husband passed away - wasn't able to raise him from the dead - but am allowed to enjoy each day (don't really much care for nighttime).  

Last post - oh wait, what was i thinking? Was thinking about a man who

grew up with his father in his life...like nearly every day.  Every other weekend, and every wednesday doesn't quite get it; not enough time for father and son to get into things that boys need to learn from dad.  Things, start to finish.  Things, which over the years, form a pattern.  Ya know, where, when junior gets started out, in his own place - and between the mortgage and car payments - our young single hero's lawn mower decides to take a dump.  

What ward-cleaver fairy-tale am i sewing together here?  Was fixing to have our bachelor taking apart the stupid mower, finding the problem, and solving it - atleast for a few more cuttings.  Silly female me, forgot that alot of this machine stuff is intentionally designed to discourage - if not to downright prevent - a person from looking into the problem, and perhaps making, atleast a temporary repair.

Things designed to prevent DIY repair...is this drain upon a person's finances also contributing to his (or her) loss of independence, loss of motivation to atleast try?  And yeah, yeah, i get it: there are foul spirits in high places, getting their cookies off, watching young home-owners struggle, and fail.  Young home-owners, whose crime is, not having some easy-peasy cushy-wooshy job that pays 100k.  

Even men's clothing has gone down in quality.  Noticed, a few years before my Husband took ill, when he had worked in the warehouse, loading stuff, his jeans lasted longer back then.  After he retired, had noticed his clothing wore out quicker; noticed the fabrics were thinner.  Of course, i repaired the pants, but the holey t-shirts, they were recycled into rags.

Anyway, all's i know is:  the Apostle Paul was every bit a man.  He worked with his hands, was VERY literate, and faced all kinds of hairy situations as he spread the Gospel.  He made no bones about really liking the single life.  

On the secular side of things, though i'm not sure of Doctor Lambert's - a man, who published back in the 1930s - theological world view.  Will have to hunt down his book.  Anyway, i remember him talking about college athletes - back in the day, when women's teams were about non-existent - he said something about why coaches recommended "cold showers."  Something to the affect that fornicating is a drain - in other words, forni robs energy.  Energy that's better used for tomorrow's game, tomorrow's victory.  He had also detailed this trend in other walks of men's lives.  

Yaay Doctor Lambert!

Mgtow men are going monk - that's a good thing, because

that means, Men of Principle.  Men who are a part of the solution.  These men go their way; have the option to work as many, or as few hours, needed to support their choices.  About a year ago, thinking about what a 30-ish single man would need to keep an apartment and a gym subscription, made up a budget.  Pictured an urban man who enjoyed reading science stuff, hiking, and sometimes getting together with friends at a local coffee shop or pub.  What becme noticable was, since men usually don't care if the curtains match, that means more money saved, or put towards a ski jacket (to replace the one that's basically shot).  

While i am not a spender, still...ugly curtains will not do - and they all godda match!  So, by next year - and another few hundred dollars, and ALOT of sewing, will have the other three rooms draped in natural fabric curtains, complete with real shams - not those fakey things....ugh!  

Anyway, a confirmed bachelor, making the same salary, living in this house, would have a whole lot more money than i (an old lady who doesn't get along well with machines).  A bachelor would have a reliable lawn tractor to cut his own grass (i hire - lawn mowers have blades.  Yikes).  He would also have a plow for his truck (i hire plow service).  He would also buy tires and put them on himself (i hire for that too - tires are heavy, and i don't know how to do that kind of stuff).  He would have bought the materials, and done the roof himself (i called a contractor, and paid a few grand - worth it, they do a good job), and they're coming out to do the one on the other side).  

If a bachelor lived here, the ceiling fan would work- he'd of either figured it out, or replaced it himself.  But i live here, and that fan is on my to-do list - to call a contractor, and have that replaced, because electricity??  Nuh-uh, scary scary.  

Anyway, while am shelling out money for contractors, will not fault a man for choosing to live free from fornication.  If he gets on the net, and goes on about women being not worth the drama, listen up, because he's no hypocrite.

Hugh Heffner and Oprah Winfrey should have gotten hitched.

They had so much in common.  Yeah, yeah, i get it, she'd of been a bit young for him - like half his age.  A lady had advised me, years ago, that going with/marrying an older man is fine, but when the age difference exceeds 15 years, the couple come from different generations, and likely will experience communication issues.

But Hugh and Oprah would have been the exception to that rule.

You see, they each are evangelical...that is, in a most, a basic unGodly sense.  Both have expressed on-going and big-time disdain toward the Patriarchal family ... ya know, the one where there's actually children, (who get off the school-bus, and mommy is there for them - not in some stupid-ars'd job she can barely stand).  The one where dad is actually around, to show junior how to build and fix things.  The one where mom jumps into a decent dress around 4pm, because her husband is coming home, and she wants to look nice for him (talk to Doris, the wife of a delivery truck driver - oh wait, they'd be in their late 90s by now).  

Anyway, kids aren't stupid, while their little brains cannot articulate, they pick up on whether or not they're parents love them / each other...which is probably why, there's so much hate being expressed by men towards women, and vice-versa.  And NO!  Hate is not too strong of a word.  

Oh to think, if Hugh and Oprah would have tied the knot 40 years ago -  why our society would have years ago regressed beyond mere clown-colored hair-do(do)s and after-school satan clubs.  Why their (in)fame, as a couple would have, perhaps, been on par with Ahab and Jezebel.

While mean-pills are high-fiving each other, thought about their victory dancing. Okay, their shelf-life

runs about 20 years longer than women's.  For worldlings, that's like all the time in the world...yeah, but anyone in their late 40s or early 50s is likely to notice how the years have ramped on by.  Anyway, bad boys hit a wall also, though it's made of softer material, it's still a wall.  Granted, BadBob won't notice it until he's in his forties, the barrier patiently waits...for bob to just go on staying out too late.  

But bad boy's a survivor.  As the job doesn't get any easier on his booze-worn frame, there's daddy gubment who steps in to provide the aging lad with disability dollars.  This post is not about scowling workman's comp - accidents happen,  a roofer sees black clouds getting closer...  

The years continue.  Bad boy is pushing 50, and because of this and that, and whatever, he's having a problem with paying his rent.  Needful to say, roommate rudy skipped out - which is just as well, dude was a complete hog.   Anyway - while 40-something cat lady remains on her own to pay her own sheltering - bad boy still has options.

Bad boy - needing a place to crash - still retains a choice of several desperate and lonely wall-gals to charm up and move in with.  These 30 or 40-ish gals will consider themselves lucky to still be able to attract a bad boy - even though his age shows.

Oh wait ... and not too long.  It will get old, soon enough.   You know how "wahmin" are.  Nervy bunch ... they think, just because they pay the rent or mortgage, the internet bill, the gas and the tires ...  ugh, before ya know it, these broads start in with their annoying rules.

No smoking (cigs or pot) in my car, no dirty pics on my puter, no cigs or drugs under my roof - and get yer dern feet off my coffee table!  But our slacker anti-hero still has options.  He packs his hefty and moves on down the line.  Rinse and repeat.

"Whamen" bashers say the darndest things - and with such emotion ... yikes, they outdo us gals in that

department too.  And vicious?  Ha! Move over high-school mean-girl.  Anyway, one of the drama-kings was going on about how career women usually work in hr / fund-raising org, or government.  As in, these jobs are fluff, a waste.

Really?

As in, working for a corporation - where 50-something Fred has to watch his back day in and day out...where the product/s are overpriced, and rather sub-standard, and customer service is met with, after the menu-maze, that is..."your call is very important to us, please hold..."  Because, frankly, a few people are getting very rich, while the rest can bleeping well go jump in the Lake.  As in, a corp job - where they pay vietnamese people like 2 cents an hour (with only 5 minutes for lunch) to make those $120-something sneakers.  Oh, that's a real job?  

And you know perfectly darn well, the rulers of the joint will pay advertisers big money to mind-game the masses into buying yet another pair - while there's nothing wrong with the two other pairs at home.  What's almost funny is how these ungodlies will preach at Fred on how he should retool, (and go into college debt), while the corp masters just go on cashing in on footwear that makes people's feet stink.

Frankly, real jobs are few...ya know, like roofers, cops, plumbers, nurses, lumberjacks, mechanics, doctors, soldiers, warehousemen, waitresses ...

Anyway, as for the women-bashers, their EMOTIONALISM is amazing.  The wokes, really, really need to get on these pill-boards, and learn a few tricks from these guys.

Well, that was interesting - while the qwiverful party goes on about selfish

people not wanting ANY children, a you-tube commenter summed up a list of possible fleas.  Never saw that one before - seen the usual ... things like: being hesitant to trust (smart move) anger (well, who wouldn't be!) health problems, trouble making decisions (toxins do that to people).  But not wanting children?  Makes sense, because - especially women - having children often means being financially - at least partially - dependent on the child's (or children's) dad.  In short, being a woman, who ends up depending on a man.

Very, very sad to say - more often than not - not smart.  Gray divorce is on the rise.  It's one thing for a woman, especially, to go through a divorce at 30 - young enough to get out there, get a job, and when you hit 60-something, be able to go part-time.  Goes like this, at 60-something, strong probably is: you won't have the energy (or workplace b.s. tolerance) you had at 30 or 40.

So, it's way another to have been a housewife, only to be dumped at 55 ... for no better reason, really, than ... okay you gained some wrinkles, along with some pounds.  And, just in the case of any misog-trolls there's a BIG difference between the usual middle-age caboose, and a years' long lazy shrew, who just keeps getting lazier and meaner. 

All in all, guess who really suffers, from adults, who just refuse to grow the heck up?

Yep, the kids.

Kids, those conservatives little creatures...they need a daddy to teach them things like maintaining boundaries, how to get and hold down a job, how to fix a light switch...  And there's something about getting off the school bus, and knowing your mom is home, and yeah, she has all her stuff done, and she'll listen when you tell her all about the deer, possum, dog...whatever, you saw, during recess, running along the woods.

Opinion alert: somewhere out there is Sam. He's late-thirties-something, has a great job, makes well over ...

let's say 100k.  Owns his home, and doesn't owe anyone one thin dime ... oh wait, that weed-whacker, he put on his card - because his old one died tuesday evening around 6pm.  Anyway, Sam is in no way interested in dating.  He has never been married, and doesn't want to risk losing half his stuff in a divorce.  Nor does he want a girlfriend, either - too much of a child support risk. 

And forget casuals/one-nighters, that can end with a case of medical issues.  Sure, the doc can give you pills for the clap, but can "curable" vds, lay hidden damage within bones, muscles, organs which might resurface 30-40 years later, in one or more ways - when a body, no longer can mend itself in a day or two?  

Oh, forgot to mention - and this is important.  Sam is both mentally and physically fit.  Being a busy guy, keeping his property kept up, and improving on it, and hitting the gym, faithfully, three times a week.  Okay, he's 5.10 ... so what!... it's not like there's any shortage of young 5.3 women.  

But he's not interested.  Frankly, since becoming an adult, Sam has not at all been impressed with women.   May sound harsh, but he does happen to live in a country, where people are still free to date-or not, purchase a house-or rent, read a book-or watch television, invite so-n-so to his patio-party-and not invite such-n-such.

And btw... he's no way interested in jumping the fence.

Instead, Sam is interested in doing constructive things with his life - and not wasting it on ... drama.  Sam is a real mgtow.  

Not a fake one - there's way more fakes out there...ya know, the ones who get on the net, bash "whamen" left and right, for no better reason than ... well ... newsflash alert:  us gals aren't guys, women think and act different - and still, even look different from men.  The Lord's plan, but anyway...  

The fake ones continually bash away ... and then turn right around and hook up.  And, of course, cry the blues because ... whatever!

Rant alert: HEY! i was saving that! But, nohoho, the powers that be

came up with yet another way to PUNISH the healthy, the folks who get up and go to WORK - even if they'd rather stay home, and read a book, or make those curtains.  So, i will end up, jacked up, into another tax-bracket.  As a low-level clerical, because i own a home, all taxes total come to just a smidgen under 20% of gross earnings.  

So, Aaron (Clarey) ya don't have to have an iq of 140 to get peeved for seeing your money fund sluff-balls, who keep making the same stupid mistakes.  Btw, he wrote "Curse of the High IQ."  Was an interesting book, ranty yes.  

More rant later.  Back 2 Work.

The matronly wife peeked around the corner into the living room, where a grandfather clock -

a family heirloom, from one of her great grandparents.  It was past seven.  No big shock, but still, dinner was more enjoyable when her Husband took his place at the table's head.  The other end was her seat, but she preferred to sit alongside him.  Their daughter, Molly sat on her other side, their son sat across, alongside his father.  

Molly lifted the 2/3rds second meatloaf from the serving platter and set it into a pyrex loaf pan. The scalloped potatoes were already cooling in a small dish.  The salad and a cake - leftover from Sunday - each sat in rectangular plastic containers.   Molly loaded the dishwasher, with the plates her mom had prewashed in the sink.

"Mom, why is it, when guys do, they're the big hero, but when girls..."

Her mother paused at that one, which seemed to come out of nowhere.  To any recollection, her daughter had never talked about boys - only that Tim kid, to which she'd overheard Molly, during the Labor Day festivities in town, say to him, "Shut. UP."  Then away, with two or three of her friends.  Yeah, there was one boy, but the two rarely spoke - except for a few minutes here and there.  And once they both sat at a table outside the coffee shop.  

When Molly went places, it was with a group.  Her daughter had goals, and didn't want to ruin that, over some player.  Yep, the Lord's restraining grace, couldn't be anything other.  At fifteen, the girl was...like her gran's generation put it, "built like a brick house."  That phrase, no longer in use, because it was considered objectifying.

"Sweetie," her father's voice came from around the corner, accompanied by the light thunk of his laptop case being parked on a small table just inside the front door.  "Boys like that, grow up, get jobs..." Her father paused, then added.  "And their sups have to check their...hmmph, work."

He gave his wife a quick peck on her lips. While, with one hand, he grabbed a fork, with the other, the loaf pan and headed for the dining room.  

"Honey,"  his wife called after, "please, let me warm your dinner, will only take..."

"Nothing doing, I'm hungry."  

But before the castle's King could make off with the previously baked booty, Molly kissed the man's forehead. "Thankyou, Daddy!"  

What was that all about?  The man wondered...for about a second.  Hardly a  few minutes later, came the sound of pyrex meeting stainless steel, and accompanied by a fluidy swish.

Every tuesday evening, from 8:30 to 9pm aired a "Nixon Years" installment.  Was castle King's favorite program - that is, next to thursday's ... "Washington In Focus."  Not even ten minutes into the cracker-dry documentary, Sire was asleep upon his easy chair.   His queen, working some crochet, gazed momentarily at her snoring lord, still in his suit, his shirt stained with meatloaf juice.  She let out a quiet sigh.

No undefiled fun in bed tonight.

The two angels flew past an airport; below them, a plane had just taken off,.

Surrounding it, was a company of their brothers, who watched it carefully, while keeping at bay, a horde of devils.  Aboard the craft were several individuals and families, leaving their homes and jobs to settle a broad.  The plane was to stop in france, then travel on to an airport, not far from Jerusalem.  

While Floyd had been around people long enough to know, that a riot was about to kick off in the city below them, still he couldn't quite figure out the need for some-100 of them.  There were only 1,000-some devils, who were hooting at an egging on members a motorcycle gang, who had simply ridden into town for a concert, when some clown-haired...Floyd wasn't sure what...anyway, clown was having it out with some other ... person, and during the altercation, one of them accidently knocked over a motorcycle - which of course fell onto another motorcycle...  

The two, somehow made it out of there, long enough for one of them to get on the call and "send in the clowns" (title of a Judy Collins song).  Not two minutes later, several old vans pull up, and some really vicious looking clowns pour out.  

Still, Floyd didn't understand why the big fuss.  After all, what was taking place, was typical - devils, being devils, egging on the lost.  A few seconds later, it hit him, as to why his CO had called them all together.  And to think, the lost thought the Lord distant, all about rules, and only saving preachers, geeks and old ladies.  

In the foray, a mountain of a man had just knocked a clown out cold, his hairy fist breaking the jaw of another.  Around him, devils urged him to take the head bozo's life.  While the same was going on all about them, many of the hundred moved in, running off the devils who had been taking bets in how many seconds it would take mountain to finish off clownie, then move onto busting up another freak.

The devils' fun busted again.  Mad, but their only option was to move off for one or more entertainments going on nearby.  That wasn't hard to find.  Two clownies were pounding each other, because the one had supposedly cast his/her eyes upon a third.  And it wasn't even about that.  Clownie #3 had only been there to deliver an 8-ball to clownie #2 - who, by the way, had no intention of sharing the substance.  Nuh-uh, luv-a'la-week could buy/hustle his/her own supply.  In an alley, across the street, a drunk - barely able to even stay standing - was pulling down his pants, in order to take a dump; some devils headed over there - to them, that was like lilacs in may.  

Mountain man blinked, a queried expression washed over his face.  Glancing down, his hand moved up to brush off something scaley from the front of his leather jacket.  Mountain, backed away, walked over to his overturned bike, picked it up, fired it up, and rode away.

In a little church, a few miles outside the city - being a Wednesday night - a Bible study was in progress.  The small group, although a bit leery at their unexpected visitor, graciously gave him space.  Mountain had been inside a Bible church a long time ago; he'd been five, maybe six.  Here and there, over the next thirty-some years, fragments of Scripture being read, his grandma paying attention, would cross his mind, but then would break up into bits and be swallowed by ugly birds.  This time, a single dove sat upon a nearby branch, the uglies could only, impotently, cawk at a distance.

Mountain, arose from the back pew, and went Forward.

Floyd and Lloyd, two of the Lord's angels, flew past the home of mr.andmrs.policechief. "Aawww," exclaimed one

of the angels, catching a last glimpse of the couple nestled on their sofa.  One was reading a book, the other looking at grandkid pics.  They continued on, in response to their angelic CO's order to assemble with their company, over a not too distant city.  Flying over a suburb, Floyd was very startled at some typical perversion, going on below.  

"UGH! hear ya...really bad when men do THAT to women," Lloyd, frankly, also wanted to puke.  Ever the physiology fan, THAT didn't even make sense; after all, those particular muscles were designed to expel waste, not to...even an intellectually  challenged 5th grade dropout knows..."

"Oh, to be back on Jupiter, taking methane readings!"  Floyd blurted.  "I loved that job."

"But that was only a..." Lloyd cited that position's serial and grade.

"And, should have goofed off, atleast a little bit, because would still be either there, or on...monitoring ice volcanics, but, nnohoho, wouldn't waste a second ...earned this 'terrific' promotion."

Oh brother, here we go again, Lloyd shook his head.

Glen fished in his pocket for a small tablet, he'd received as a thankyou,

from tireplanet.  Seeing about some parts, he jotted down the guy's number.  Old fashioned writing stuff down, worked - and besides, glen didn't care to have his phone on, during church.  Whoever wanted to call, e or text, could wait.  Mom was okay, the tightness on her left side was just stress.  

Just stress...HAH!  Who wouldn't be stressed!  Coming into work, only to be told - after some, what, eighteen years - you're history.  Strange...just last fall, she'd received a little plaque, it sat on a table, in one of the downstairs rooms - among some pictures - for...whatever project was going on.  An earlier little wood-veneer little plaque was upstairs on the bureau, in the room where his parents slept.  A room, mom would only go in, with rag and mop - and come out, misty eyed.

Glen had, for some time, made up his mind, that if anything happened to mom - when, anything... he'd sell his share of the property to Brian for something like a dollar.  Glen had his own place, and keeping that, was enough house, thankyouverymuch.  Glen could never get how people would have a house here, and a summer house there - too much like maintenance.   Got in the way of ... well, living, and doing other things, seeing other places.

Ya know...like the writer's workshop.  That was a good place for him go have been...a blessing.  Having met Ohio's mrs, the nice lady, somehow got him to thinking about Traci.  Still, a bitter pill to swallow...taking up with that ... Borjus, or whatever th' eff that grease-gun jockey...still, Traci was his sister, and yeah whatszisface, was his brother-in-law.  Way things looked, didn't look like he, brian or mom would be able to write or call - much less, see Traci and her...the word stuck, Husband, anytime soon.  Any nephews or nieces yet? 

Yep, like that redhead kid... Molly? sitting two pews in front of him, had said to some other kid, during the break.  "Stupid war."

Joyce set aside her menu, she already knew what she wanted; her girlfriend was still deciding.

After the wait-person brought their beverages, the two somehow got to talking about books, then authors.

"You like WHO??"

"Yeah, why?"

"Wouldn't read a single page from...that"!

"Okay..."

"You know, apparently, he doesn't like women."

"Huh?  But he's married." Joyce added a splash vinegar to her salad, then added, "and it seems, happily...yeah, I know, that doesn't happen too much."

Both women assented to that.

"Joyce," her friend looked up from the roll she was buttering, "Ohio is one of those..." a sneer took shape in her friend's face, "who despises american women, we're not good enough."

Joyce suppressed saying, the same thing could be said about american men - such a statement could be taken out of context.

"Carla, have you ever met one...from anywhere, that was?"

Both women giggled.  For Joyce, however, her mirth was but a screen.  She really didn't want people to know that she thought feminism was a bunch of bunk - and even back in the day, she'd had her doubts.  Oh yeah, some unresolved issues.  Those harpies LIED at her - ALOT.  Wow, what if she'd been run over by a truck and DIED believing the Scriptures were but a means to suppress...Enough on all that, Joyce was free in Christ, and free people can enjoy their tuna melt sandwich with a side of mac salad, and a pickle slice.  

Came that nudge.  The subject was on it's way into an area that was best, skirted around.

"Where is your family from?"

Oh nice move, Joyce.  Carla's people, on both sides, came from a certain nation, involved in the conflict.

"Yours?"

"Over there somewhere."  A truthful statement, because Joyce didn't really know, or care.  Her dad had taken off, when Joyce was in like 5th grade.  And mom had had too much to deal with, and no time - nor spirit - to do mom things.  Joyce had basically felt more in the way, than anything.  'k, enough...what's done is done.  And anyway, Joyce had Family now - Family that counted.  Family in Jesus Christ.

So, how do you tell people?  Come off like some tract?  Written by someone who'd grown up hearing granddad's stories?  Grown up singing that hymn around a campfire, about some unbroken circle?  Joyce didn't know that many hymns, and frankly, they were unfamiliar to her.  But she sure did like those old puritan ones from like the 1600s.  They sounded so...regal, kingly.  

But outside of church, you can't go around saying stuff like that.  It was like people were just waiting for you to say something they could spin.  Oh wait, she recalled to herself, that's somewhere in Psalms.

But hardly anyone outside of her church family even mentioned a Psalm, or any other Book in the Bible.

Was frustrating. Was like the only topics you could discuss, without getting snarled up, were the boring ones.  Ones like, who's staring in ... bluuck.  Joyce had never kept up with that sort of crap anyway.  And fashions?  Forget that!  What was the point in wearing skimpy, overpriced stuff that you froze in all winter, and sweated, like a pig, in summer.  And hurt your feet?

Our half-sized saint wore comfortable tees, jeans and sneakers - and boots in winter.

Meanwhile, a few counties away, and across the state line, two other foul spirits were grumbling.

They were just about to spark off a quarrel between Ohio and his wife.  The topic, the couple were engaging in, oh, bad to be diverted.  If it wasn't, the two demons didn't want to think about flubbing up this one.

"...our daughter needs to be around other..."  Oh, where did that tired one come from?  Daniella was around other children...sunday school, church pot lucks, family gatherings, her ballet lessons.

Ohio's wife, after four years, still struggling with english, paused.  Choosing her words carefully, because she didn't want to come off contradicting her Head.  But, at the same time, there were topics being taught in schools, which were neither necessary - much less appropriate for children.  On that, both parents agreed.  The girl was only four - WTF!!!  The woman's eyes narrowed, where that awful phrase come from?

Still, Ohio had issues - legit ones.  And neither did he want to just blurt out something his wife might take the wrong way.  Frankly, the little girl's accent; being taught by her mother - who, resoundingly YES, could teach their daughter well - but still, the little girl needed teachers whose dialect was ... 

Above the parent's living room, the two bad angels - and their a crew of lackeys - had abruptly scattered.  Yep, and Praise the Lord ;) wo of the HIS angels had shown up.  And, yeppers, they were staying.  The bad angels, now somewhere over north dakota, trembled; they knew they were both in for some misery, sooner or later.  And as if their rotten luck would have it, didn't take too long for whatzizsnout, and his company of...ugh, twenty or so.... Youch!

For some reason, unknown to Ohio, he recalled an incident, shortly after he and his bride had gotten off the plane - with little more than the clothing on their backs.  Then about a year or so later.  Neither, nor a third incident had been any big deal.  As a matter of fact, until now, he'd completely forgotten about them.  

Did his lovely wife have a problem with her hearing?

The two unclean spirits, while having enjoyed the

show, had a few scripts of their own, and so wanted to rehearse, switch roles, and in general, just have alittle bad dirty fun, but simply watching hank push around his bot, was all the two reprobated spirits were able to do.  And so, this instance - there were others before, and there'd be after - of not being able to play in their territory.  But that was the thing, devils who couldn't cut it in places like detroit or istanbul, sure made a big roar in fly-over places, like po-dunkville pennsylvania.  

But they knew the drill:  the human and the bot were currently occupied by dagon-wannabe and his flavor-of-th-week, isis-wannabe.  The two, who could only watch, both laughed - if either the real dagon or isis even came within a thousand miles, which wasn't going to happen...seriously, why would either waste their growing-short time?  Anyway, but if they did, woah, the two wannabes would sorely regret it.  Youch!

A day or so later:

"Haah!" the one laughed, "ya godda hand it to AI's masterful preprogramming."  Below them, the robot had recently made another "misstep."  Just a bit earlier, rov had interrupted its owner, while he had been brown nosing up to a potential client - one who had been a dinner guest.  The guest had, after dessert, departed - likely, with the account; btw, that having nothing to do with rov.   Didn't matter...just hank being hank.  "HHAAH!" yuk dripped from the devil's maw, "bot's gonna get it now."  The two Lake-bound spirits hooted while exchanging various lewd gestures.

Around the same time, Ha..ha..hhannk had been slapping around his robot, for...

AI had the "wrong" brand of mustard, brilliantly preprogrammed, when the unit, several days previous, had called in the grocery order - while it had damp-mopped the kitchen floor, while of course, not getting one fleck of dust, nor drop of cleaning solvent out of place.  

Humans...so easily manipulated, the two foul spirits cackled.  "Puddah paper crown on that..." a third foul spirit flew to watch the scene unfold.  Hank, the pompous jerk, sitting in his easy chair, his arms upon its arms, while rovenna...  Some two minutes later, foul spirit #3 takes off to find weirdo amusement going on elsewhere.

Anyway, some four or five counties over, and into the next state, Ohio bit into his "sammich."  He wrinkled his face alittle.  Store brand.  He could always tell the difference.  How could anyone not??  Ohio chuckled to himself, seeing his four year-old's attempt to mask making faces at the sandwich, she didn't like it either.   

Talk about, saved by a muffled bell.  His wife's phone rang from within her purse - which sat on a stand just inside the front door.  Ohio signaled his daughter, with an index finger over his lips, to pass him the untouched half of her sandwich.  "We'll both get something on the way to pick up the..."

His wife returned to the table, and nibbled her sandwich.  From a brief expression upon her face, she also appeared less than wild about the sandwich.   But Ohio knew the drill.  Short of him pulling Divine ordained rank, and about this-side-of ordering her to throw that jar, directly into the waste can...uh, uh, no!  That Ohio wouldn't do.  

As a small boy, he'd never gone to bed hungry, then come morning, there being about no breakfast either.  Not so, for his wife.   

Hank powered up his laptop, and logged on to, what he assumed, was

a super-secure trading page.   One which, of course, he wasn't supposed to have access, but anyway...

"COFFEE!"  Hank, without turning around, barked beyond the doorway into whatever adjoining room rovenna was currently occupying.  She cooked, she cleaned, even ironed his gym clothes.  A moment had passed.  Where was that coffee?

The AI unit, running within rovenna's head cavity knew exactly - and certainly better than it's class-based master - at the very second, when to direct the light click of it's almost-four-inch heels.  The boyishly slim, except for the double-d chest area, was wearing a scant tissuey apron over an equally designed skirt.  Unlike a human live-in, rovenna never spilled anything - so the apron, which wouldn't have survived the morning, upon a human's mid section.

Rovenna's visual components were appropriately cast down, her smile was mixed with just the right amount of fear, as the unit, without a sound, set the coffee tray upon the desk, at just the right distance from it's owner's laptop.

"Oh, yer too much rov."  Hank grinned, half giggling.  He rose from his padded seat, reached around, grabbed the unit, sending it's front cranial region to hit the desktop.

After some two-minute later, Hank now relieved and, as if the unit had never been present, turned to the waiting website.  "GO make me a sammich!"  He spoke, staring at the screen.

While the unit had barely enough time to straighten what scanty clothing upon its frame, it did have more than adequate time to record and file the highly dubious trade it's owner was in process of making.

Somewhere, in a place unseen by some 99.99 percent of humans, a very ugly spirit winked at his equally ugly companion.  "Humans..."

Molly, Part 2: She stared in disbelief at the screen. Instead of Lydia's website, a message - that started off with "We're sorry, but..."

Yeah, they were sorry alright!  She had needed to print out the bodice instructions, thought she'd had it down - and besides, if even she didn't know any better, less ink was being put in those ink cartridges.  Sure, mom would help her with the pattern, where to mark, and where NOT to cut.

Come to think of it, didn't she hear one of one of the older women, over at church, say something about a push that had gone on, back in her grandmother's day, to "conserve fabric?"  Yeah, that was at church, because her mom had thumbed up upon hearing the other woman's "...was an excuse then, to keep women out of their... and sure is now."  After which, another woman had cited a Scripture - something about, some girl in the Old Testament wearing a long t-shirt, one that was too short, to be grinding flour.  

Stupid war.  

Yeah, Molly got it:  you don't waste things.  You read over your story, check the spelling, before sending it off to the printer; and you don't wear a good sweater to goof in town.

Sweater...those two creeps...had taken alot of babysitting money...  The one with the pen knife was in her Sunday school class.  But something he had said to the kid sitting beside him...something about a race car driver, who had turned up missing.  "...like a pattern being formed..."   While Molly could have cared less about who was driving, what they were driving, her dad and her brother were fans.  The driver was a Christian, and none too shy about it, either.

While Molly screened back to her email, or wherever, her mom passed behind her.  The woman, on her way into another room, paused briefly, taking a double-take.  While her daughter was either emailing or texting, mom couldn't help noticing her daughter was filling out, top and bottom.  A half eaten donut was sitting upon a napkin, near the mouse.

Molly, Part 1: It was coming on evening. Molly, put on her sweater. Where she and her friend, Val, were sitting, faced north.

The two teens, were waiting for the fireworks to start, and would soon find a better place to watch them.  Molly pulled out her phone to text another girl.  A moment later, came the bing.  It read, "across from the bake stand hurry up, before the seats get filled.  The two girls lit from the grass and headed over.  Molly's eye caught some interesting looking pastries.  Her friend made some snarkeyremarks, but it was all in good fun.  Val knew Moll had eyes for Nick the baker's son.  Though the young man was nowhere in sight, the pastries were.  While Val went over go join their other friend, and claim a third seat, Molly bought a few pastries.  

The girls, each holding a delight, admired them in between taking bites.

"Hey Moll," the kid whose soda had permanently added the orange hue down the front side of Molly's sweater, called from across the street, "yer gonna get fat, eatin' that."  He then guffled at his rhyme.  His buddy, the other kid, who had been a partner of the ruination of the sweater, made some remark, concerning Molly five years from now, having a brood, and being fat with another.

Molly didn't hear it all, but heard enough - including a slur, which she did not appreciate.   "Shut Up, you're such a jerk!"  She yelled back.

The young men continued their way.  As with others in the gathering crowd, also looking for seats, certain current events,  predictably - especially, on this day - were being discussed and, here and there, points disagreed upon.  Molly paid little attention to the newscasts.  What she couldn't understand was, how adults would let themselves be played, and then turn right around and lecture teens for giving into peer-pressure.

Meanwhile, the two young men, after high-fiving each other moved on, to a different topic.  One of great importance.  

"He's not driving"

"WHAT!"

"...they said sponsors pulled out."

"...but all's he said was gas is too high...had nothing to do with..."

"Doesn't matter, and labor day doesn't look too promising, either."

"But he didn't say anything wrong!"

"Doesn't matter."

"Aw maann, that just ..."

Glen, Part 2: "Thwock!" A sharp axe-blade made all the difference. He and his older brother, Brian, would have it all split

before july moves in.  The two men took a break.  "Yeah, about done with it," Glen added to what they'd been previously talking about.

"Done with what?"  Brian wondered, not sure if this was about a certain customer, who was late, again, or something else.  Glen did mention, that he'd been seeing ..."

"The internet."  Glen added, "That is, anything outside of work."

"Can't fault ya there!" His older brother commented, then added, rather hastily, "it's like sites, even mommy-blogs, are getting pulled...for no reason."

Above them, a fast-mover flew past, then took a rather unexpected turn, through the woods toward town.  

"It's like they're doing the wow-thing up there."

"I hear ya, Glen."  Brian called for his older son, who was still stacking, to come over and get some water.  The boy, of course, wanted a soda, but Brian, said he could have a soda later.  With bottle in hand, the boy spotted their dog, who was in pursuit of a small critter near the wood's edge; the boy took off to investigate.  

A silent understanding.  Both men knew they'd been seeing more of them.  This wasn't the mere stuff of conspiracy websites.  And they both had, on one or more previous occasions, had expressed concern for their mother.  Any other time, as soon as the weather turned warm, the old woman would - in the morning - part the curtains in most the rooms.  That didn't appear to be happening, this year.

"Dunno," Glen looked around the old stereo console - which held various tools and just ...stuff - and found a fly swatter.  The annoying fly, somehow knew, and took off...for atleast a minute or so - to wait until Glen parked it elsewhere. 

Glen turned and faced his brother.  Point blank he spoke.  "There is an enemy, but it's not the russians.

Wow!   No slurs, that was a first. Brian kept his mouth from dropping.

Ohio, Part 3: Okay, maybe the outfits were a bit dressy. But it shouldn't have been. He followed

his wife and little girl out to the hotel lobby.  As they made their way back to the room, he couldn't help but to notice snarlish glances coming from a few women.  

Why?  

He could only conclude, his wife and daughter had committed some sort of crime for wearing crinoline dresses in public.  

While fishing in his pocket for a cigar, as he headed out the door, he heard an elderly woman's voice, softly exclaiming,"...such dears, edna."  Finding a spot, politely away from the entrance, to light up, Ohio turned slightly.  Inside, two old ladies, one in a skirted suit, the other was either wearing a dress or a jumper - was hard to tell, the later was wearing a rather thick sweater, on this june evening.  Likely the old woman's next to last trip with her friends; she appeared frail.

How do old people deal with ...?

If they're in Christ...no brainer.

One thing Ohio knew, the meeting space would be occupied, come the following day,  with about three dozen members of that particular church group.  Throughout the late afternoon and early evening, he'd seen them amble in - some with walkers - a few on wheelchairs.  Here and there, had arrived a member or two members of that mennonite/baptist - with some calvinist, thrown in the mix - who weren't quite as ancient.

Hopefully, these people were the congregation's old folks.  Ohio had heard it was a for-real enough church, but other than that, he didn't know anything about their demographics.  But he knew the drill.  Most churches, where the Bible is actually preached, were steadily getting older.  To find a church, where there were children and young couples amongst the flock?  Sadly, that was about this side of rare.  

Ohio butted the cigar, squeezed the end to make sure it was out, pocketed the rest for later, then returned to the table.   As the waitress brought over two seltzers, Ohio's wife returned, and took her seat.  

The couple enjoyed the next hour or two, chatting among themselves and with other couples or individuals.  Around ten or so, they returned to the room.  Daniella was fast asleep.  Her parents quietly, but hurriedly, undressed and slipped into bed.  A moment later, the lovely green crinoline made a soft "pooff" as its yardage slipped from a nearly chair onto the carpet. 

Next morning following breakfast:

"One plus one is two, two plus two is four, four plus four..."  Up front, the little girl's parents smiled at one another.  Just ahead, a sign welcomed the family back into their home state.  "Sikteen and sikteen is thirty two..."

As the car continued down the highway, a  similar sort of addition activity was in progress, within the front seat's passenger.

Ohio, Part 2: This one was looking good, he paused, reading the young guy's screen.

The kid looked to be barely old enough to have registered for the workshop.  Eighteen.  Ohio continued reading.  Before moving on, though he wanted to read more, he suggested to the kid to cut in half - if not thirds - his paragraphs.  One appeared to have taken almost an entire page.  Ohio had noticed something else; that something else, he'd also noticed among two or three of the other writers.  

He moved along to the next screen.  It appeared to be a story of an archeological expedition, either in france or in germany.  Sparked his interest, and brought to mind a certain archeological assignment to which his former employer had sent him.  Only to see his article hacked to less than half; the editor even left out...  Didn't matter.  Leaving that paper was the third smartest move he'd ever made in his entire life.  The first, accepting Christ, the second was having met his wife.

And it was time to move on - to the next screen.  They should have made this a three-day, instead of just two days.  But then again, not everyone has the option to work at home and for themselves.  About half the guys could only do a day - maybe just, after driving 200 miles, just the afternoon.

Ugh! What the heck was that?  

Ohio continued by, but a bit faster.  Why was he even here, anyway.  But you'll have this at any writers' conference.  There's bound to be a few, who only come to talk writing, more than actually do the work, go on and on about themselves.  In short, time-trap.

Frankly, Ohio wanted to take and throw the bony load out the window.  A pic of a bikini babe is one thing.  She poses for that, and wants guys to attach it to their emails.  But a little old country lady, with back trouble, just out of the shower and picking up a flannel nightgown to put it on?  The caption was just as sick:  "Gives new meaning to Skinny Cow."  

Out of the corner of his eye, a slow move passed the window.  Ohio's face turned a deep scowl.

Ellen, Part 3: she had been keeping tabs on Ohio, she had researched his history, had read his website.

And neither did she care, that Ohio was steadily gaining influence as a men's rights activist.  As far as she was concerned, he and his merry little band of wannabe writers, could go on all they wanted about the pathetic state of pre and post-wall western women.  Frankly, Ellen agreed with them on that point.  While the men thought it unjust that a wife or girlfriend could walk away with the cash and prizes - and so, more than a few of these guys were upset about imposed international travel restrictions.  Ellen had little regard for breeders, she'd heard enough of their sob-stories pouring out the domestic relations offices.  

Neither did she care, that many - if not most - the red-pillers were interested in young honies, and - except for a one nighter, maybe two or three - were passing over women her age.  As far as Ellen was concerned, getting married was ... you might as well pack it in and check the heck out!  She'd never been married, and sure enough, didn't want even anything monogamous.  At 30-something, she was well equipped, thank-you-very-kindly, to continue upon the carousel.  Ticking bio-clock, the very idea was enough to make her want to barf.  

No, Ellen's beef went far beyond stupid women.  Ohio and company were getting hits, and they were becoming bad for business.  It was the inner circle, that had her most concerned.  They were reaching men, which reason would tell you, these young guys wouldn't be interested.

But there was interest.  Maybe not a whole lot, but more than enough.  Posted upon Ohio's page were several sermons, given by a pastor jason, who lived somewhere in fly-over-ville.  His sermons were getting hits.  Hits from young guys, who were becoming done with the drugs, the music - and the toys.

Bad for business.  

Ellen's master was also becoming concerned with these recent events.

Ellen, Part 2: Why RedPillRiters decided to hold their convention at THIS place,

Ellen rolled her eyes, then took a sip from her NA fruity poolside cocktail.  Just as well, it wouldn't serve this early in the pm, to catch a buzz.  She nudged her companion, who was sitting in a neighboring chaise.

"The poppins has landed."  

Both tittered, the other scoffed, pointing at the young mom, standing in the shallow end, "from which booshka's closet..?"  

A little girl, somewhere between three and four years, wearing an inflatable over her swim-dress, swam around the floating black and floral circle of her mom's swim skirt.  The little girl then pointed to deeper waters.  "Doi-yoing, Mamma!"  

"No,..." The next phrase was, evidently, an endearement that moms used over there, Daddy will..."

"When, Mamma? I wanna go-won th' doi-yoing."

That same phrase again, reaching her ears, Ellen stuck her index finger in her mouth, pretending to gag.  Her companion shook her index, pretending to chide.

"...a bit after we go down to dinner."

Well, that sparked off one or more lewd comments, and some gesturing between Ellen and her travel buddy.  Ellen's phone binged.  She looked at the text-message, which had just come through.  Third one today.  Ellen rolled her eyes, then hit the D-key.  Goodnight! give a gal a few roses, and she gets ideas.   

A boy, on the verge of manhood, had just done a cannonball, while the little girl excitedly twirled and clapped, the life-guard, understandably, was neither high-fiving nor calling, "you ROCK, dude!"

"But Mamma, why can't you take me?"

"[That phrase again] I cannot swim."

"But why, Mamma?"

The woman paused.  She had almost said that where she grew up, there were few lakes and streams. "Oh, because."

Her little Daniella had recently begun asking questions. Did her Momma bake nut rolls?  Is she going to visit when they have turkey?  Did her Daddy write stories, and did he take her to the baseball game? 

Earlier that morning, just after Ohio had departed to the am round of workshops, mother and daughter lingered a bit.  The wait-person had brought a second cup of coffee, and a glass of milk, the talking heads started up - again - on the screen.  Another disagreement...

From a table across the room, a sibera-frigid glare was aimed right at the part, between Mrs O-G's thick braided tresses.  Dear Reader, our young war bride was oblivious.  And why not?  Mrs O, had neither spoken to Ellen - much less kill her kitty kat.  (By the way, Ellen hated cats, and dogs, and goldfish - she didn't like children either.)  

Ellen was just being Ellen.

Mrs. Ohio-Guy, Part 1: They'd just goeen home from wednesday service. Ohio was in his office, and

Mrs. O-G was in the livingroom.  Embroidery gear at hand, she was working a pattern along an edge of soft cotton.  She laid it aside and entered the kitchen; the teakettle had whistled.  Setting it on the trivet, she reached into the frig to pour her daughter a cup of milk.  The girl tottled over, took a seat at the table and took sips between humming a song they all had sang, hardly an hour ago.

"...that's no surprise..." Came her husband's voice from the office, which adjoined the dining room.  "Should have cut-n-pasted...yeah, partially believe it...  Where?  ...Okay, will check that out, thanks."  He savored a sip or two of his wife's tea.  A few seconds later, another bing.  "...uhm, better idea...snail that."  

After three, going on four, years, Mrs. O-G yet had difficulty with understanding english.  She could read it well enough, but the ever changing slang - and the marked increase of code words...ugh!  And frankly, there were things - namely, what the men were discussing- she just flat out didn't want to know.  As in, too close to home.  But simply pounding sand in your ears, isn't wise.  

But steering clear of news, wasn't booking a flight-fancy from reality.  While the jargon was fuzzy, she could read facial expressions as the lips from various talkin heads thought themselves so clever in masking their little jibes.  "Empathy for Both!"

Lies!

When news came on, she walked away.

It's getting late, and time to be getting back to Sunday, May 1, 2022.

Ohio Guy, Part 1: Ohio had a page up on his computer. While doing a bit of research, for his 3rd

of the series, coming from somewhere behind him, he heard the rattle of what sounded like teacups.  Another one of those  annoying tremors, nice.  He returned to the article of which he was reading.  Along the side, a supposedly abandoned big box store was pictured, with two, maybe three, trailers backed up to loading docks.  At the image's edge, if you looked close enough, you'd see a NO Trespassing sign bolted upon the barbed metal fence. 

He switched to his word document, and saved it - just in case his wifi decided to throw a hissy.  Yeah, the ballots were tallied - he needed to to switch to a better quality provider.  It wasn't like the extra money would set them back for his ramen days.  His publishing, and various side-gigs, kept the little cape-cod in order, kept food on the table, and decent tires on the truck.  And afforded some little extras - like snacks and whatevers at the IndependenceDay Fair that was happening this weekend in town.  Seriously, no point even going to those things if you can't even buy a small bag of peanuts.

Stupid tremors!  

He turned in his swivel seat.

No tremors.  Atleast not the kind that come from underground.

His wife, holding a tray containing his tea, a little silvery pitcher, a small plate of lemon cake (his favorite) stood there...staring at the screen.  Mumbling something in her native language, she set the tray on a small folding table, that was parked in front of a book shelf, wrung her hands upon her crisp apron, she often wore - to preserve the blouse and jumper - backed out of the room.  Her moccasin'd feet padded up the stairs.  

Their bedroom door opened, shut, then opened again.

"Mommy?"  the little girl queried.  "Can I show you...?" whatever their daughter had occupied herself with, while stuck inside.  Outside, the rain drops danced with the wind.  For late June day, it was almost cold enough to turn on the heat.  "Sure," his humble, yet stately wife replied.  "Wow, your stitches are GOOD!"

Ohio turned back to his calling.  Having a job to do, a family to provide, he focused on his work.

This is 2031 not 1961, what's with the wife's puter-phobia, anyway?   Our paperback hero was clueless, but talk about eureka...was just what he needed to start off the chapter after the next.

Joyce, Part 4: The wordship service concluded, the people conversed. Some mingled from group to group. Joyce, keeping a low profile -

being yet new, and unfamiliar with church life, was looking over the tract rack.  WOW, now here was one that spoke.  Upon its cover was a sketch of hands in the air: around the hands, flowed small streamers and musical notes coming from a jagged guitar, a set of drums, and a gong.  Near the center, was pictured a shot glass.  In short, the sort of gatherings Joyce had formerly looked forward to, but now ... no thank you kindly!

"Yes, I heard about it." from beside her, a woman spoke, "never saw it, but I heard ... Book had shut it down."

"Oh, they'll cancel a cake recipe for, what they think, calls for too much sugar."  

Joyce's fingers shot to her lips, in time to supress a laugh.  It was more about the comment, and less about the guy who made it.  He owned the bakery, that much she knew - and, evidently, liked his job.

"...I dunno," came another voice, "...yeah... fie wan truf, fow read my Bible."  Oh brother, Joyce mused,  bet that's a dentist bill and a half!  Talk about gratitude, the Lord's preservation of His own - Joyce's recent visit had only set her back some $300.  

"...still up over at..."  Another voice.  "Think it's for real?"  "Don't know..."  "Maybe." "...cousin's neighbor's dad had said..." More voices.  "Sad to say, but Scripture says it." 

The voices paused, giving heed to this latest participant to the group, gathered alongside the rack.  "Think about it, in 1963, that loudmouth OHara broad - or whatever, 1973 it became okay to kill kids, and then, what? 2015? two dudes could get...bluuck!  Could be...Judgment call!"  The voice, Glen's voice then added.  "Ya think??"

Oh brother, that guy's one firecracker.  Joyce slipped the tract in the ratty little purse she had hanging from her shoulder, then made her way to the door.  On the way out, she paused a sec, in mid-step.

Firecracker could be right.  

Her sunday afternoon plans had been focused on getting home and reading ohio-guy's second last-days installment.  Oh, the story had been on her mind from the moment she had finally ordered herself to put the book down, and get ready for church.  

Of course, her daughter didn't want to come along.  And Joyce would NOT push.  Neither was she in any condition to go anywhere.  All's Joyce knew was: her daughter didn't get in until three-thirtyish.

Anyway, one of ohio-guy's central characters is some little old black lady who runs a diner.  While chit-chatting with a customer, and long-time friend, the old woman's comment - about russians having eternal souls too - is overheard, by some psycho, named Sssamanntha, and - of course - becomes so wrested out of proportion, it looks like she's soon to be on-the-train.

Driving home, certain fragments of the post-worship chats played.  Maybe she'd spend the afternoon doing something other than reading.  Maybe, go for a walk along the river.