In which I make nice to evangelical Christians…

…to Louis C.K., not so much.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. Welcome to the dank, stinking, deep-webbed birth of two thousand nineteen C.E., the year born with a widow’s peak and with swastika-black cat-eyes wide open; the year that explodes from the belly already signed-up for Uber and deploying its influential personal brand. Two thousand nineteen is the malevolent offspring of The Storm who can read the runes, divine the sinister intent in the charred bones and slippery entrails of a former President’s funeral…

…Look! as the playback enters digital slo-mo and we zoom in on Laura’s face, hard and expressionless as stone. She turns with unnerving calm toward George, her downward glance at his right hand spun out to thousands of frames per second; he passes into her left hand an assassin’s final message… 

…White envelopes. In every shot, members of the congregation are handling large, sealed, white envelopes…

…A specialist commentator reads body language, like a sportscaster: Obama’s bored; Clinton’s agitated; Trump’s the only one engaged. She’s right, it seems, but Trump is simply projecting his fascination with his own inner dialog; he’s wondering who’s next he can sack or screw…

What is in the white envelopes? God, what is it?

What’s in the envelope? What is the most obvious supplement, at a state funeral, to the souvenir program and the hymnal? In the wacko world of The Storm, there’s a white envelope, but what is in it? What must it contain?

“Child pornography,” of course: Our sad, lonely epoch’s psychopathic fantasy, its omnipresent allegory of the unspeakable and the uncontrollable.

Child porn—which undeniably exists, but not, as hysteria would have it, around every corner or as a constant given in the lives of our enemies—like the “satanic ritual abuse” of the 80’s, is our generic catch-all for the worst and our ultimate smear tactic, our most indelible stain. It is Medea’s hideous gift of poison coat and coronet that adhere to the flesh and boil it off the bones.

Our desire to stain—someone, anyone, signals our outraged helplessness and our unbounded paranoia. Our innocence, which is to say our trust, has been violated; we have no one to turn to; we sense we can never be as before. Our acting-out is a cry for help not from, or even about, children, but from ordinary, once-sane adults, from you, your neighbours, relatives and friends.

We’re all reduced to faceless confused casualties, wandering in and out of shiny dioramas constructed for our distraction. We’re eaten alive: our most banal secrets pimped out for ready cash, our daily routines surveilled and mapped to the millimeter.

Our thoughts and even our dreams take only the tightly circumscribed, brightly lit paths offered to them, rat mazes continuously reconfigured by the insidious soul-snatchery of THE DEVICE.

And someone must pay.


WELCOME to another year in which Parkland’s traumatized students, their teen years abducted then wiped out by the goons of the NRA, continue their quixotic battle for gun-control and try to recall anything of life in the time before, the time when their lives were ordinary kids’ lives, with no dangers more serious than turf toe, a fight with your best friend, the awkwardness of a first kiss.

For their efforts they are mocked by sad-sack dirt-bag comedian Louis C.K., who asks rhetorically, in his new comedy routine, if they think having survived a mass shooting makes them “interesting.”

No, Louis, in fact they’re the only ones in the room who aren’t thinking of themselves or their image. They’re trying to extract what paltry healing and common good they can from the spilt blood and torn bodies of their lost classmates.

They’ve put aside their private grief to work for the common good of all Americans—even you, Louis. The beauty of what they are doing breaks my heart. They are doing the work that adults have abandoned, adults who are too busy concocting puerile, self-serving fantasies to give the protection that is their duty.

The teens of Parkland are doing what no teen should ever have had to do.

They are making, Louis, the changes that you are too limp to effect, impotent as you are with the pathetic, needy impotence of the flasher. The extent of your comic genius is to diminish their hope, ridicule their bravery and discount their terrible rite of passage, to spit your contempt. You’re revealed not as a fiery preacher of intellectual freedom but as an angry, bitter flop. No, Louis, it’s you who wants to be “interesting.”

Instead you’ve revealed yourself as a rapist: a rapist who uses words to violate his victims instead of his cowed flesh-puppet, but whose mind is every bit as guilty as if he’d pinned them down until he’d finished.


RECENTLY I STARTED a new daily regime that involves, as its core feature, acknowledgement of the existence of people other than myself.

You know, and can I just say, seriously: It’s been hell.

This all developed from my attempt to figure out, via highly structured, in-depth research, why more people weren’t paying attention to me. Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar if it doesn’t turn out that if you pay more attention to people, they pay more attention to you.

I was fortunate enough to quite randomly pay attention to Mark Landry, whose blog is at, and he in his turn, as God is my witness, paid attention to me—just as the Newtonian Law of Blog Attraction predicted.

Then I discovered—in-depth, remember—that he was, and that his blog was targeted to, evangelical Christians.

Ah, yes. Evangelicals. Nineteen sixty-nine marked the riotous start of gay rights at the Stonewall Tavern, and subsequently that new visibility of the gay sub-culture that was like having all our protective camouflage ripped off and being herded into a clearing, ready for the Evangelicals’ open season. And the buttoned-down but very burned-up Anita “Come to the Florida Sunshine Tree” Bryant, as fellow freshman fag-seniors will recall, was perfectly positioned to light the straw at the foot of the stake as Christ’s perky, big-haired Joan of Arc.

Bryant was so effective in her noxious anti-gay crusade that—true story—every fag and every fag bar in North America boycotted Florida orange juice, thereby getting her fired from the Florida Citrus Commission’s ad campaign and utterly destroying any tiny remaining flicker of social cachet that still dangled from the tiara of the Screwdriver, nature’s own breakfast cocktail.

Save Our Children was the slogan of Bryant’s campaign, a once-whispered sentiment now finally heard loud and clear. She was adamant that gay men were out to recruit the young ‘uns and instruct them in our deplorable lifestyle, a toxic untruth that still, sixty years later, blazes barely contained under the surface of the discussion, like the Centralia mine fire of homophobia.

I don’t know if Bryant is dead, yet, but I’m definitely not. On I gingerly offered my two nickels (inflation) on a post by Mark in which he had suggested his fellow Christians should get with the program and stop vilifying the caravan of Central American desperate and poor. (“Heaven is a gated community!” one gentleman offered; I didn’t check to see if he worked for ReMax or was offering time-share.)

Mark responded to my comment in a way that made me feel completely right and even appreciated for having participated. Later in the day I noticed that he had visited my blog and commented in his turn. Within minutes, I’d received his friendly invitation to write an article for his blog. You can see the results online.

So, pay attention to others and they’ll pay attention to you. I know it seems like desperately uncongenial work, filling in for people’s laziness in not completely re-ordering the universe to put you at the centre.

But it’s all we have.


» Read my essay on grace, compassion and the power of non-judgment, “Pivot Chords,” on



Big Gay Pope David : Let the healing begin!

Hey Francine! BFF♥!!! Lookin' good girl!! (He just won't listen to me about the white-on-white thing. Let. it. GO!)

The Other Pope,  Francine!  Shout-out!! BFF♥!!!   Lookin’ good, girl!! (He just won’t listen to me about the white-on-white thing.)

A great big Hail Mary, Hello Alice to all my flock of gay dudes, lesbian dudettes and those who have not yet found The Way, The Truth and The Lifestyle™!  This is Big Gay Pope David, your “host with the most Host”! ™

You didn’t hear?  Well, yes indeed, my fine feathered friends, and in case you missed the smoke signals, I’ve just elected myself Big Gay Pope, which can only mean one thing –


I’ve spent the last twelve hours at The Golden Griddle, blowin’ a few Hallelujah clouds of glory with Francine and some of the other local trannies while we brainstorm best practices for framing apologies, re-framing our prejudices and winning back the trust of “The Gays”.

Don’t you just go all shivery when I call us that?!  “The Gays”.  Admit it!

You may be wondering about certain impediments to my being Pope.  Oh ye of little faith!. Yes, it’s true, I am a practising homosexual. But Francine (BFF!!! ♥) says that’s OK – I just have to keep practising and practising until I get it right!!!

Kidding!!!  LOL !!! Big Hugs ♥!!  Love you guys!!!  In a Big Gay Pope-y way of course!

And guess what else?  Shhh!!! Secret!!!  Francine says the apology portfolio is mine!    So me and that annoying dove that keeps flapping around, you know, with the circle of gold rays emanating from its head, we’re gonna get that apology bit between our teeth and knock it right outta the ballpark!

Oh lord, I beseech thee – heal my metaphors!

Kidding!! Love you guys!! Big kiss, no tongue!!!

luscious lavori

Luigi, one of my team of luscious, hand-picked lavoratori, on his cappuccino break!  Ciao, bellissimo!!

But first, a couple of urgent, as opposed to important, tasks – top priority is whipping my hand-picked team of luscious half-naked lavoratori into shape as they slap some cheerful Debbie Travis pastels on that, and pardon my French, but, totally OTT,  fucked-up Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Sistine Chapel! As Francine likes to say, “Oi ve voy!!” which is Latin for “talk about gloomy!”.

You know, here at the Palace of Popery it’s all S & M, all the time, but hey, Vatican – change your pace, no disgrace!  How about a little gnocchi-naughtiness for us vanilla girls?  Seriously??  After all, you know what they say:

“The religious classes
avoid those masses
where all they can see is
Michelangelo’s asses!”

It took a bit of convincing, but after a heated brainstorm with Joshua bar Joseph I chose ‘Crucifixion’ Chartreuse edged with ‘Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me’ White. So when the ceiling’s done, and Debbie says it’s gonna need at least three or four coats, there’s the swag curtains – I’m thinking moss or maybe taupe – some “faithful flock” wallpaper, and a disco ball, obviously, for a little altarnative – geddit – nostalgia!

big gay sistine

Work proceeds apace on the Sistine Chapel refresh – devout yet cheerful! Shown:  “Crucifixion Chartreuse” edged with “Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me White”.

I tell ya, once my Intelligent Redesign is complete, this place is gonna scream ‘devout-yet-cheerful’ from here to Des Moines!

The second task is spritzing a little spiritual Agent Orange worldwide to completely defoliate all that shrubby homophobia, ’cause I’m sorry to have to tell ya, but those friggin’ Evangelical Protestants are at it again.

Evangelicals!!  Not a flicker of humor in a clapboard chapel full of you!   Church-going isn’t supposed to be like attending the annual reunion of the Hillary for President campaign, you hear what I’m saying?

Methodists!  Oi ve voy!! Hillary’s the kind of girl who’d sit in Grade 9 biology class with a box of tissues on her desk, vivisecting a frog with one hand and blowing her nose with the other, and telling everyone to shush. It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work now!

All good practice for freshman year at college, when she entered the charity swimsuit competition then spent an hour in the Green Room sitting on a wicker chair! Downersville!

Which is just your li’l freckle-faced Big Gay Pope rascal gently suggesting to Evangelicals—take a tip from us Cat-lickers, have a little confidence – pizzazz, even! –  and think Broadway musical!

You know, and could I just say, but really. How about some clouds of incense, or a few of those plastic Jesus statues that wink at you – a couplea nuns with guitars – turn some Wonder Bread into the Body of Christ, make it live up to its name!  Up your game a little!

I say this with love, which gives me just the tiniest stirring of a woody, because maybe- and don’t get upset – but maybe with a bit of quality distraction you wouldn’t, like—get all full of yourselves and start imagining people were taking you seriously.

There, I said it.  I mean, I’m sorry, and as Big Gay Pope I should probably soften the blow. But hey.

Anyway,  there I was, reading Francine’s piece on MSN, about how gay people are finally going to get some apologies, and maybe a box of Laura Secord “Turtles” and a Metropass – fingers crossed!! –  for all of the thousands of years of genocide and persecution and hypocrisy and child abuse and unspeakable torture and all that.

You know, “Catholic Outreach”.

And I was getting in the groove, thinking about how I might actually travel north of Bloor Street now, and then I saw them – not just Protestants –

Twat-estants!  Evangelicals!  With their Lakes of Fire and their “One Way” and, well, just listen to our wee Scottish-ly-named homophobe Charles here:

“The end of days is closer than you think… and as the Pope, you are wrong to ask forgiveness of Gays.  Do you think that God will be a forgiving God.  Maybe you should read the Bible again.”

Would you get a load of that!  Telling the Pope to read the Bible!  I called Francine right away on her hotline to tell her, and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

So there was nothing for it but to roll up my hand-embroidered Balenciaga sleeves and compose my very first encyclical – that’s Big Gay Pope for “bitchslap” –  and in fluent Scottish, so Charles will be sure to understand!  – Miracolo! miracolo! – Thanks, annoying dove with the circle of gold rays!

June 28th, Year One

The Big Gay Pope David His First Encyclical

Signed, sealed and bitch-slapped from the
Ruby-Encrusted Honeymoon Suite of the Blessed Jacuzzi
Vatican Hilton

To Charlene and all my overly earnest sad-sack flock

Inasmuch as

I, His Royal Majesty Big Gay Pope David is moved by the annoying dove with the circle of gold rays to speak to ye – and if ye’re too Protestant to get me drift, it’s like, I’m not just “la crème de la crème”, I’m Miss Jean fuckin’ Brodie herself, OK? –

I hereby exhort ye all

to prick up those ears, cause the Communion wine is startin’ to wear off and I’m losin’ me Job-like patience!

This is a matter of extreme urgency, which is why I decided not to just text you “Sup dude?” from the blessed jacuzzi, but to write to you on priceless vellum with a real quill pen, and what’s more, I “Nair”‘d me legs. That alone should tell ye something!

I’m just gettin’ the feel for this pontiff-y stuff – and to tell you god’s truth the robes are startin’ to ride up me crack – so forgive me if I’m blunter than a pair of lamb shears on Maundy Thursday, but Christ Almighty, lad!

I just read yer post on MSN and I have to tell ye, yer makin’ me all nervy with yer dour tone and yer evangelical ways, angry god this and brimstone that, and tellin’ me to read the Bible!

Well it’s a serviceable book, I grant ye, but yer takin’ it so close I’m beginnin’ to think you want me wee job!

Now I’m only going to pontificate this once: Take that oatcake out o’ yer arse if ye can manage to find it, let yer soul flounce out of it’s dark hidin’ place and – speakin’ now not as a Big Gay Pope, but as bonny lad to bonny lad – flip up yer sporran, waggle yer haggis and have a wee bit o’ fun with the boys afore ye croak, hen!

By the hairy balls o’ Christ, Charlie, it’s all a big fuckin’ leg-pull!

There, now I hope yer feelin’ a bit more pastoral and all that.  If ye be needin’ a prayer or a votive candle with a picture of me and Jesus on it, or just something tasteful for the home like a refurbished choirboy, be in touch with the Vatican adoption services gift shop. You’ll be glad ye did once the cold winter nights close in on those bloody Hebrides!

Hail, Mary!   Pope David loves ye!  Big kiss, no tongue!  LOL!!

Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma ..
Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma …

Young Earth Creationists need to take Cher into account.

Just Occurred To Me #498:


cherondinosaurIt’s been common knowledge for years now that people in Kansas don’t believe in evolution and insist the earth is only 6,000 years old – (that’s younger than Cher, if you need a reference – please see conceptualization, above. I know, right??).

This raises serious scientific questions.

Thing is – doesn’t their non-belief in evolution PROVE that there’s no evolution?   Or is it just Kanzanians who did not evolve?

Is there such a thing as selective evolution, you know, evolution just for smart people?

Such a variant of evolution would obviously bypass Kansas completely, if not most of the mainland U.S.A.!  This could explain a lot!

There is, it seems, a huge gap in the fossil record, where – if evolution were true – there should be any number of prominent Kanzanians.  I’m thinking Amelia Earhart, Bob Dole, Arlen Specter, Marlin Fitzwater – of course, this being Kansas, some of their fossils are probably still walking around.  Except Amelia, who, along with fictional character and fellow Kanzanian Dorothy Gale¹, was just kind of embarrassed about the whole Kansas thing and “disappeared”.

Yeah, and her stupid little dog, too. Absolutely.

Anyhoo, all of this hard evidence leads experts in Kanzology to postulate that god, when he, like, created everything all at once, reserved a special lineage for Kansas apart from regular humans.

So god’s schedule was like, for example:  All the lakes, all the mountains, all the meadows, all the squirrels, all the cows, all the dogs, all the trees – then probably a coffee break!  Jeez!  and maybe a light snack like pizza poppers or even a Happy Meal –

THEN – back to work on day two:   All the flowers, all the oceans, all the giraffes, all the insects, all the spiders, all the mushrooms.  And so forth.

Then human beings.  Then Kanzanians.  You get the idea?  Separate.

So Kanzanians are like god’s chosen, unless god was having one of his “moods” or actually just forgot and stuck them in at the end.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  It’s a conundrum.

Re: The conceptualization, see above, which is just a fancy moniker for, like, a crude Photoshop composite.

As likely as the creationist thing sounds, I have some timing issues, and Cher, see above, is the spanner in the gears.

Honestly.  Take a look at the fake conceptualization.  Can you REALLY picture Cher riding a dinosaur, see above? I mean, I grant you, this is someone who wears her pubes as a red carpet ensemble with her armpit hair as a wrap, so sure, the fashion adds up – but basically the idea is ludicrous!

And secondly, check out her face, once again see above.  Her fake birth certificate, see below, gives a date 8,000 years ago, so her face, see above, would be, like, MUCH more haggard and wrinkled by the time she’d lived those 2,000 years before the formation of the earth! Right?

Like, has this not OCCURRED to anyone before?

And yet another mystery, what did she eat, I ask you, in the frozen wastes of space and time before the almighty got his shit together? Not even a microwave to defrost a Bird’s Eye TV dinner!  Which were probably not even invented yet, so let’s say, Swanson.

OK, whichever TV dinner was around, she could toss it into a quasar, maybe, but the cooking time of one-trillionth of a trillionth of a nanosecond as compared to the conventional oven or microwave methods is tricky to manoeuvre at the best of times, without, you know, the floating-totally-weightless thing which puts the kibosh on getting your bearings with regular space-time coordinates.

And don’t even THINK about if she like, got impatient and leaned over the quasar surface to see if the Salisbury steak was done before the apple crisp.

Holy anomalous mother of christ!  A lifetime of hair abuse up the big ol’ dippity do!  FOOM!

I rest my case.  This is the kind of rigorously scientific fake conceptualization based entirely on made-up data and laughably preposterous biblical hogwash that gets young-earthers where they live.

Which is, like— in Kansas.

“If ah could turn back ti-i-i-i-me….”


¹   Dorothy Gale is such a fuckin faggot! – ed.

Bucket of Fresh Cow Offal : A Primer

Never forget how good I am to you.  For although not a single soul has written to request further wet- and/or hard-making stories of my shameless, controlled-substance-derived debauchery, I naturally take it for granted that you were simply too shy, or still too busy wanking to the last lot to shoot off – if you’ll pardon the expression  – an email.

But I know you all too well, mes adultes terribles!  So without further ado I make with the vicarious thrills:  Forefingers on lips!  Shhhhh!  Secret!

First of all, I would like to squelch, and here you may imagine if you will the sound made by a baby cockroach yielding up its tender carapace to the pressure of my thumb, the rumors that I am a bossy person.  Bossy!  As if!

This shows you how fucking judgmental people are.  Yeah, like YOU, Hildebrand!  So listen up, and I suggest you might want to take notes on this in Google Keep, seeing as you’re so Of. The. Moment!

I am not Bossy.  I am Goal-Oriented.  Like, MY goals for YOU.  OK?  You getting this down?

Despair temporarily palliated. (Professional re-enactment.)

Despair temporarily palliated. (Professional re-enactment.)

Secondly, at issue is the celebrated bucket of fresh cow offal.  This has been greatly misunderstood.   The bucket of fresh cow offal is not, I repeat NOT a reaction to five years of veganhood – five years which are now irrevocably lost to me;  five long years of hearing people who’ve never even met a Jew screaming “Hitler was a vegan!”; five miserable years of explaining why you are wearing jute shoes and cloth belts and using paper towels in lieu of the mink bath sheets you so richly deserve ;  five fucking years of Friday nights spent washing  the starch and bran from crude balls of whole-wheat dough in order to create seitan, an aptly-named vegan junk food that chews and tastes like – MEAT!   Holy cock-sucking mother of Christ, just eat some MEAT, DUDE !!

See?  Your first goal.

But enough about you.  The bucket of fresh cow offal is a palliative.  There is nothing, I tell you, nothing quite so soothing as sticking your head into a nice, sloshy bucket of fresh – FRESH, mind you – cow offal as a response to despair.

You may be wondering.

Yes, mes petits, for despite the untold evenings of your worthless lives spent running warm baths, lining up fresh razor blades and counting out the Oxycontins as you contemplate my charmed existence,  I confess that bouts of despair are likewise not totally unknown to me.  The most irritating cause,  naturally, is when people willfully refuse to achieve my goals for them, which we’ve already covered.

These people are not coachable and of course it’s just them them them morning, noon and night, so tant pis.  But a self-starter such as myself knows that to feed the teeming Petri dish of despair is so simple it is not even necessary to venture outside, bathe or get dressed, or even physically encounter someone.

If you’re a beginner, try:
Receiving a text from someone at 3 AM, then waiting until you get the “Five question marks of death”.  This looks like:

[them:] “Sup dude?”
[you] <not responding within their 30-second timeframe, usually because you’re asleep>
[them]: “?????

You see?  That sinking feeling, as though god-the-invisible-dentist has draped the phantom lead apron on your chest, is – yes – despair,  Level 1.  Gold star, sweetie!

For advanced despair, try:
Explaining “evolution” to a Christian.     I give you  Exhibits A and B:

Exhibit A:  A poster seen on Facebook.                                                                                            evolutionExhibit B:  A “dialog”. 2015-10-17 01-12-12And what do we have here?   Why, The Fucking  Lead Apron of Despair, that’s what!  <drape>  Thanks, god-the-invisible-dentist!

There is very little left in my bucket of fresh cow offal these days, so very frequently have I dipped this sorry, aging head into it.  Just a few rubbery bits of grey intestine and, coating the interior of the bucket ,a thin ox-blood-colored  crust of, well, oxblood.   So accustomed have my friends become to my despair-palliated upper regions, they now simply greet me, in tones of arch good humor, with:

“Hey, nice ox-blood-colored head, CASSIE!”

At which point my eyes bulge and I make an ashtray jump off the corner of their desk with my newly-awakened telekinetic powers.

Well.  It passes the time.

In which I admit that I’m kind of wrong about something, but only in a way that totally validates me. So don’t get too excited.

To kick off this exercise in self-flagellation, let me share a post I made online – or “on the computer” as my Luddite friends say – earlier this week.  Here it is, beginning under the image – which is just a screenshot, so don’t sit there clicking on it.  I mean, really.


“   … And one more thing, directed at the author of this piece. I’m not shy about stating that I’m a left-leaning liberal, and atheist/humanist. But putting a caption on the video that starts with “Insane woman” is childish and uncalled for, and sets a poor example of tolerance, to say the least. Although I disagree strongly with this woman’s views, I would never demean her by labelling her “insane”. You need to treat people with respect, even if you don’t respect their ideas. Otherwise 1. You’ve alienated her and lost a teaching opportunity, and 2. you are just exhibiting the same closed mind that you claim to abhor.”

With the wisdom of hindsight:
Reading through my post — which I like to do when I’m not staring into my 52″ gilt-framed mirror and making little smooching noises — I must admit I had a ROTFL moment at “teaching opportunity”. Whatever I was smoking that day, you sure can’t have any because it’s obviously way good.

This woman couldn’t be taught to find her ass outdoors at high noon, a happy outcome that is unfortunately not available to the rest of us, whose light she is blocking. (And is that a dead muskrat on the occasional table? Sounds like lunch!)

Point #2 should be more about courtesy than about closed minds.  And yes, it’s apparent that I, too, need a few more trips, backwards in high heels, around the dance floor of discretion before I master the “Rise-Above-It Beguine”.

So off to the thirty lashes with a wet noodle facility for me, the better to recalibrate my mind under the severe yet lovingly-administered tutelage of my personal trainer, Brick Rod (about whom I still occasionally wonder: Why on earth did his parents name him that? And what’s with all the Art Deco furniture?).

There is a Number 3 that I forgot to add.

OK, I didn’t think of it till now. But still. And though it’s a bit subtle, I’m going to take a chance that you can handle it.

#3. Taking refuge in insults is not just beneath us, it diverts our attention from a serious, even sinister, truth.

Calling this woman “insane” dismisses and marginalizes her; to believe her insane is to believe that she has no power, and also to deny the angry, insane whiner who lives in each of us (q.v. the “Hitler was a monster” trope).

We would like to think of her, and dear addled Adolf, as flukes, freaks of nature; to believe it can’t happen here.

But oh my pretties, how wrong we are.

As my final word on the matter, allow me to share with you a postcard that has pride of position on my fridge:


Hope this helps.

{Quick question:  Are my titles obfuscatingly verbose?   Please be honest.

Oh, really?}

©2015, David Roddis.