I can’t remember where I first heard the masses are asses or whether I was told it was first said by Alexander Hamilton which is strange because I remember all sorts of useless trivia.
I can tell about a girl who kept her eyes opened while kissing me, a dog that chased me while I was delivering newspapers and the way certain smells make me feel.
Most if not all of those are of no particular importance to anyone but me, with the exception of the first and even then that is questionable.
Should I add I remember soft lips too or that I was like Evita and kept my promise.
Certainly it is more interesting than telling you about the people on Facebook and elsewhere who called me names, suggested I do something myself that is anatomically impossible and or suggested I die.
Mind you I told those that suggested I engage in stretching exercises to be able to perform said impossible feat that I was interested in accomplishing said action so that I would never be lonely again or need to leave the house.
Perhaps I shall recite the first verse of Frost’s The Road Not Taken and follow up with a you’d didn’t take my hand and that is why you got lost.
Five points for non-sequiturs.
The people that call me by my favorite name, the one with three letters alternated between praising me and explaining why they think my intelligence is lacking.
One suggested I ought not to involve myself in their social life and the other gave me a laundry list of my wrongdoings and then got irate when I said I have sat in his seat.
I told him to watch his tone or risk having me pepper his pike to which he said I ought to stop being disgusting and I replied, “It is clear you don’t understand the reference.”
In retrospect I can see the misunderstanding and appreciate why a man might want go to the heights to see about getting his pike peppered, assuming he could find a proper companion who had skill in the matter.
Many think they do, but not everyone does. Given my discerning palate, love for thick crust, creamy peanut butter and disgust for shrimp, cauliflower and Brussels Sprouts I am the perfect judge.
A wise man once told me I ought to withhold judgement until I walked in anothers shoes or new them from the inside.
I flashed a wicked smile and was told that I am a bad boy who had twisted the meaning of said statement. I told them the only way you would know how much fun it really was to get twisted and was promptly turned down.
Still I spun the wheel and called out “Right leg red.”
That inspired him to ask me what I thought I knew and I said it was best not to inquire for she didn’t want her secrets shared.
It had the desired effect of making him angry and the quick adjustment in body language gave him the bright idea to take two steps backwards before shaking his fist at me.
“Wolfie, shake it any harder and we’ll hear the rocks in your head rattle.”
The hard truth of my life is Socrates is correct, I don’t know a fucking thing about anything and yet I know everything about somethings.
Soft lips said I was crazy, but was very good at making people feel safe so there is that.
Another person said I am an expert at making people crazy so there is that too.
There is a double dose of crazy floating around because there is an arsonist in the White House who is being protected by fools, dolts and dunces.
Every time the fireman try to put out the fires he sets his enablers shake their fists at them and they are forced away or at least placed in a more difficult position than necessary.
A few of these foolish folks have tried waving said fists at me and cried when I tried to break their arms and spirit.
I told them I wasn’t fucking around.
I am not.
Truth is I do know a few things and I am willing to share that knowledge with some, but not all.
Not everyone deserves it and not everyone gets a response.
Call me angry. Call me bitter. Call me whatever, it doesn’t matter because I slipped the bonds of caring about most and even those who have some influence have less than they think.
I took the road not taken and I am still taking it.