Not sent Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Mean Green
Or
That’s What I Want
I am blessed with having a really good life. However, there is one little detail that I would like to take care of… or, better yet… have taken care of for me; just a little something that would make this moon walk down life’s yellow brick road a bit more bearable. Make the view from my window a little rosier; allow the panorama from my porthole on the ship of my existence to open onto smoother sailing waters instead of, say, approaching ice floes.
What I’m missing is not the gut in my strut, the glide in my stride or the pep in my step. I do not have a hole in my soul or a crimp in my style and certainly, there’s no shame in my game.
I have the love of a good woman, the comfort of friends, the respectful distance of family and the welcome of several bartenders in local watering holes. I have no enemies not of my own making, a vehicle capable of seeing me through another evacuation and an adequate supply of toiletries including product for my hair. I am militant about having an inventory of toilet tissue, all my plumbing works and household chores are shared and completed in a timely and efficient manner. I drink spring water, eat mostly vegan foods, recycle my beer cans and the critters at home love and respect me; I have that. That’s not what’s missing.
I’m in good health and in reasonable control of my demons and body functions and I rarely embarrass people with my actions. Morality is not an issue and I practice kindness, consideration and forgiveness even though it weighs on my patience and nerves. That’s not what is missing from my life; like I said, I have a good life.
I’m educated, well read, artistically inclined and participate in my community to the point of working the voting polls while y’all slackers decide whether it’s convenient to cast ballot or go out for a cocktail. You might ask “what on earth more could you ask for?”
I’ll tell you: I want a bunch of money to spend! Cash, currency, funds, lucre, dough, capital, riches, wealth, I want it. I want more money than I know what to do with it, I want more than I can spend. I desire the root of all evil, that stuff that greases the wheels and cures all ills. Legal tender, coin, bucks, jing, dinero, moola. Gimme, gimme, gimme.
There are those that will tell you to “do what you love and the money will follow”. We know that that’s a load of crap. There are those that say that money will not buy happiness or love. You, above all people, know to park that one where the sun don’t shine. If money is such a bad thing, why aren’t rich people giving it away? Why do poor people want it? Why do I want it? I’ll tell you why.
Money is the great liberator, and like most of us I weary from just getting by, hanging in there and being saved by eleventh hour reprieves. If I can get beyond that ‘two steps forward--three steps back’ dance, why, that would be fine by me. Imagine not having to think about being able to pay a bill, make a payment or pay cash for something without breaking your bank and back. The way I see it, having gobs of money is a necessity and better for my mental health- I simply cannot afford to be broke any more and it’s making me crazy. As the old song goes “the best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and the bees… I need money… that’s what I want”.
Money is not inherently bad, after all, it makes the world go around (a mark, a yen, a buck or a pound) and the world is not a bad place except for the presence of people, but, that’s another tale for another time.
People with money are welcome anywhere, at least until their insipid, name dropping, arrogant, snooty, condescending and uppity personalities make you want to take them outside and fuck them up. I promise that I will exhibit none of those traits; all I want to do is give money away as fast as I can and have more coming in as fast as I do because with money you can do good things. Lots of good things and I promise that you will never know that I am a gazillionaire, you’ll just find that your tab is settled, that expense that was hanging over your head is gone and that silly item that you put on your wish list was just delivered to your door. In short, your check will be in the mail, for true.
Money talks, hell, money sings! And I love that song. I want my hills to be alive with the sound. I want it to fly through the air with the greatest of ease. I want it to rain dead Presidents; I want hay to be made when the sun shines.
Don’t you think that we all deserve more money? Of course you do! Well, it’s got to start somewhere and having worked for money for longer than I care to think about and having absolutely nothing to show for it, well, I propose that I be the first one of us to become filthy stinking rich! And when I find out how to do that, why of course I will let the secret out and soon we’ll all be rolling in dough and want for nothing!
No more picking up extra shifts because our rent is due or borrowing from mom because the cat swallowed tinsel from the Christmas tree and the vet’s gotta operate. Or missing the Stones concert, Superbowl game, Oscar ceremonies or the running of the bulls because our money is funny and we’re as broke as a piecrust. Bfstplk on being poor!
Showing posts with label American Dreaming in New Orleans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label American Dreaming in New Orleans. Show all posts
Friday, August 28, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
New Orleans Beer Thirty Thoughts
Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Harder They Fall
Or
Mother Superior… Jump The Gun
Don’t you think that inconsideration is a crime? Don’t you think that inconsideration should be a crime?
And now you’ll ask: “Phil, How did you get mouse-trapped onto this subject?” The answer is that Phil has noticed that more and more morons disguised as fellow citizens are running rampant through his calm lifestyle and centered aura causing chaos, consternation and confusion. And just what does Phil consider inconsideration?
How about the jerk that zips into a no parking zone to jump out for coffee, the young lady that decides to lounge across three bus seats or how about the seventeen year old mother that puts four inches of cold steel into a bus driver’s chest because she doesn’t want to move her stroller from the aisle; I’d say that they are being inconsiderate and need corrected. Possibly some form of sensitivity counseling.
How about those construction workers that clean their paint brushes into the storm drains that flow directly to the lake, the guy who lets his dog have a bowel movement on the sidewalk where you will eventually step or the litterbugs that have insulted our city with their trash thrown hither and yon like so much urban flotsam and jetsam; offensive in the least, inconsiderate to the max. Kind of like that guy who pumped four bullets into that other guy and left him dead in that neighborhood known for it’s crime, poverty and abandoned buildings. How’s that for inconsideration? (I’ve been told that it would be inconsiderate of me to name names of names and places of murders, killings, mayhem, senseless brutality or other wanton crimes involving the taking of another’s life, liberty or the pursuit. Go figure.) Wouldn’t a support group help?
I swear, with all the attention that I’m paying to inconsideration in New Orleans, it’s all I can do to keep up with the national and international inconsiderations that are going on. How about those pesky uranium enrichment programs going on in those countries that hate our guts and the horse that we rode in on? Is that not more inconsiderate than that sticker that someone put on my car that says “Dip Me In Honey And Feed Me To The Lesbians”? How rude can you get?
Car stickers and tee shirts. Should I be subjected to the flagrant sordid misuse of our language and customs? Do I need to know that that woman is with someone that she calls “Stupid”? And, it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to know that anyone that gets “Bourbon Faced on Shit Street” is not a member of the jeunesse doree. AND… don’t get me started on whoever began the fashion faux pas of young men with their trousers slung below their buttocks.
Yo, how about that ding bat that just turned their SUV onto my street crossing butt with no turn signal because they had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on their cell phone. Or the person on the cell phone in the check out line or at the restaurant table while the waiter waits (?) to take their order; who do they think they are…DeForrest Kelly?
How inconsiderate is it for super heroes to desert me in my times of need? How often have I looked for the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, Cupid and the Great Pumpkin in an exercise doomed to result only in heartbreak? I may as well look for the Mayor or the recyclers or some common friggin’ sense in politics. At least I still have my Obamas.
Now, this is not a rant; so what if my dog just stepped in someone’s tossed chewing gum and I have to figure out a way to extract her from it. No biggie, right? And yeah, I don’t mind painting over someone’s non-art scribbling on the doorframe of the building where I live. Also, I never, ever think about how cigarette butts make up twenty-five percent of all litter and that, shucks, chicken bones and banana peels are organic so it’s okay to throw them from your car window. What the hell do you take me for…the P.C. Police?
Politically corrected people can be a pain in the ass to be around because as Rosanne Rosannadanna would say “It’s always something!” If it’s not puppy mills, over packaging, second hand smoke, care of the elderly, junk food, animal testing, slave labor, pollutants, or ozone layers, it’s the entire GOP. Nothing is sacred to these people: guns, leather, fur, cigars, meat, litter, landfills, chemicals, strip mining, clear cutting and coastal erosion, they’re against them (!) --- you know, American stuff, like gas sucking vehicles, nuclear proliferation, inflated pricing, Chinese imports, Sam Walton and The Army Corps of Engineers. Everything that we hold near and dear to our way of life is under a microscope with these people.
What’s next? Contact sports? Bigotry? Public drunkenness? Irresponsibility? Inconsideration? Can’t a guy spit on the sidewalk without someone looking at him like he’s some kind of terrorist?
Listen, I’ve got rights too. It clearly states in the Constitution that I got the right to Sex, drugs and Rock n’ Roll…Amen. I didn’t come from no damn ape; I am a descendent of Adam and Eve and those other guys. We ain’t got no call to go into outer space, if God wanted us to fly he would have given us wings. And I’m a Budweiser Baptist, if you must know, and there’s nothing like a little talk radio for getting your facts straight. Gimme that old time religion and I’ll give up my gun when they pry it out of my cold dead hands and then they can dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians!
I’m an American just like you and I dare you to tell me that marriage isn’t sacred, hell, ask any of my ex-wives.
Gee it’s great talkin’ to you guys, can I get another beer and one of them Slim Jims? I don’t care what anyone says, this is the best damn country on the planet… except for them inconsiderate schmucks. Say, don’t you think that inconsideration is a crime?
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Harder They Fall
Or
Mother Superior… Jump The Gun
Don’t you think that inconsideration is a crime? Don’t you think that inconsideration should be a crime?
And now you’ll ask: “Phil, How did you get mouse-trapped onto this subject?” The answer is that Phil has noticed that more and more morons disguised as fellow citizens are running rampant through his calm lifestyle and centered aura causing chaos, consternation and confusion. And just what does Phil consider inconsideration?
How about the jerk that zips into a no parking zone to jump out for coffee, the young lady that decides to lounge across three bus seats or how about the seventeen year old mother that puts four inches of cold steel into a bus driver’s chest because she doesn’t want to move her stroller from the aisle; I’d say that they are being inconsiderate and need corrected. Possibly some form of sensitivity counseling.
How about those construction workers that clean their paint brushes into the storm drains that flow directly to the lake, the guy who lets his dog have a bowel movement on the sidewalk where you will eventually step or the litterbugs that have insulted our city with their trash thrown hither and yon like so much urban flotsam and jetsam; offensive in the least, inconsiderate to the max. Kind of like that guy who pumped four bullets into that other guy and left him dead in that neighborhood known for it’s crime, poverty and abandoned buildings. How’s that for inconsideration? (I’ve been told that it would be inconsiderate of me to name names of names and places of murders, killings, mayhem, senseless brutality or other wanton crimes involving the taking of another’s life, liberty or the pursuit. Go figure.) Wouldn’t a support group help?
I swear, with all the attention that I’m paying to inconsideration in New Orleans, it’s all I can do to keep up with the national and international inconsiderations that are going on. How about those pesky uranium enrichment programs going on in those countries that hate our guts and the horse that we rode in on? Is that not more inconsiderate than that sticker that someone put on my car that says “Dip Me In Honey And Feed Me To The Lesbians”? How rude can you get?
Car stickers and tee shirts. Should I be subjected to the flagrant sordid misuse of our language and customs? Do I need to know that that woman is with someone that she calls “Stupid”? And, it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to know that anyone that gets “Bourbon Faced on Shit Street” is not a member of the jeunesse doree. AND… don’t get me started on whoever began the fashion faux pas of young men with their trousers slung below their buttocks.
Yo, how about that ding bat that just turned their SUV onto my street crossing butt with no turn signal because they had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on their cell phone. Or the person on the cell phone in the check out line or at the restaurant table while the waiter waits (?) to take their order; who do they think they are…DeForrest Kelly?
How inconsiderate is it for super heroes to desert me in my times of need? How often have I looked for the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, Cupid and the Great Pumpkin in an exercise doomed to result only in heartbreak? I may as well look for the Mayor or the recyclers or some common friggin’ sense in politics. At least I still have my Obamas.
Now, this is not a rant; so what if my dog just stepped in someone’s tossed chewing gum and I have to figure out a way to extract her from it. No biggie, right? And yeah, I don’t mind painting over someone’s non-art scribbling on the doorframe of the building where I live. Also, I never, ever think about how cigarette butts make up twenty-five percent of all litter and that, shucks, chicken bones and banana peels are organic so it’s okay to throw them from your car window. What the hell do you take me for…the P.C. Police?
Politically corrected people can be a pain in the ass to be around because as Rosanne Rosannadanna would say “It’s always something!” If it’s not puppy mills, over packaging, second hand smoke, care of the elderly, junk food, animal testing, slave labor, pollutants, or ozone layers, it’s the entire GOP. Nothing is sacred to these people: guns, leather, fur, cigars, meat, litter, landfills, chemicals, strip mining, clear cutting and coastal erosion, they’re against them (!) --- you know, American stuff, like gas sucking vehicles, nuclear proliferation, inflated pricing, Chinese imports, Sam Walton and The Army Corps of Engineers. Everything that we hold near and dear to our way of life is under a microscope with these people.
What’s next? Contact sports? Bigotry? Public drunkenness? Irresponsibility? Inconsideration? Can’t a guy spit on the sidewalk without someone looking at him like he’s some kind of terrorist?
Listen, I’ve got rights too. It clearly states in the Constitution that I got the right to Sex, drugs and Rock n’ Roll…Amen. I didn’t come from no damn ape; I am a descendent of Adam and Eve and those other guys. We ain’t got no call to go into outer space, if God wanted us to fly he would have given us wings. And I’m a Budweiser Baptist, if you must know, and there’s nothing like a little talk radio for getting your facts straight. Gimme that old time religion and I’ll give up my gun when they pry it out of my cold dead hands and then they can dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians!
I’m an American just like you and I dare you to tell me that marriage isn’t sacred, hell, ask any of my ex-wives.
Gee it’s great talkin’ to you guys, can I get another beer and one of them Slim Jims? I don’t care what anyone says, this is the best damn country on the planet… except for them inconsiderate schmucks. Say, don’t you think that inconsideration is a crime?
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