The Tongue is a Fire

Discoveries are sometimes made with a simple slip of the tongue. It’s when words like, “That’s woman’s work,” slide off of men’s lips. This thesis was revealed to the Apostle Jimmy while he was camping out with his camel near the Dead Sea. He penned these words, “The tongue is a fire…and it is set on fire of hell.”

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The tongue is a torch. It ignites. Sparks made of words fly off and often set on fire the course of nature. The tongue is an unruly evil. It’s impossible to tame, especially with men.

I learned this lesson the hard way. My tongue made me lie. I must have been five or six at the time. I had discovered some packets of what looked like candy. Like a dog, I ate anything. I remember exactly how the events unfolded.

“Son, what are you eating? Mama asked.

“Uh, candy grandmamma gave me,” I said. The lie just rolled off the tip of my tongue. I didn’t even have to think about it. There I stood, drooling. Five packs of empty Rolaids wrappers lay scattered about my feet. After a severe tongue-lashing and a switch-thrashing, I discovered the tongue was not my friend.

Tongues have a tendency to wag. They’re attached in our mouths but many lack connectivity to the brain. It seems to have been a flaw in the original design of humans. To date no discovery has been made that will resolve the glitch.

Tongues boast of great things. This is the main use of it among men. It becomes quite lively after infusions of firewater. The context of such wagging tends to be centered on exaggerated achievements concerning money, athletics and embellished exploits with women. Not necessarily in this order, and nothing believable!

Shakespeare made this discovery by accident after pulling an all-nighter. He passed it on by Polonius’ warning to Ophelia, “…(when) the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.” The tongue boasts more than it can back up, to be sure.

There are two favorite words that the tongue prefers to use for mischief: fat and age. Used in the presence of women, it’s a disaster of gigantic proportions. I have discovered this trigger more than once. I’ve coined a word, ‘fatage,’ as a reminder.

My friend Todd, is a noted PhD, a deep thinker. He forgot the power of the word ‘fatage.’ He once suggested to his wife, tongue-in-cheek, of course, “If you get fat I’m gonna leave you.” His tongue betrayed him. “Just kidding,” he said. So shallow is this apology it’s like trying to put out a house fire by spitting on it. Todd now lives alone in Ludowici, thinking about what went wrong.

Last September was the birthday of a famous equation: E = mc2. It simply states that a tiny bit of mass can yield enormous energy. In fact, the nuclear bomb that exploded over Nagasaki contained less than an ounce of plutonium. Einstein made this discovery by accident.

One evening he came home, frustrated from thinking. The equation had eluded him for days. He had a quick nip of rye that sharpened his tongue. In his best Yiddish he snapped at his wife, “Velkh iz oyf varmes, eyfele?” Translated, it’s “What’s for dinner, baby.” E = mc2 came to him at the precise moment when the matzah ball exploded on his forehead.

I have made such discoveries. I once remember commenting to my wife with my smug, silver tongue that nobody made banana pudding like mama. Believe it or not, banana pudding has not been in our refrigerator since that comment. Such is the power of words.

Is there hope for the taming of the tongue? Nothing yet has been discovered that will mitigate the damage caused by this double-edged sword. I found this out again the hard way only last week.

We are cleaning out the garage. I find some Halloween paraphernalia; among such is a sign board. It reads, “The Witch Is In.” I show it to my wife. We laugh. She leans it against the pumpkin on the front steps. My tongue suggests we should nail it to the door permanently. Oops. It’s not wise to print the consequences.

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Somewhere in the distance a tongue laughs hideously. The fires of hell begin to rage…

Bud Hearn
October 25, 2013

Damage Control

Cesare Borgia was a 15th century Italian statesman. He was the illegitimate son of Pope Alexander VI. He knew about life’s vicissitudes, saying, “I have taken care of everything in the course of my life, only not for death, and now I have to die completely unprepared.” Damage Control plans are sometimes useless!

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The Gump movie has a memorable scene. A runner’s yellow shirt is splashed with mud, soon to become the Smiley Face emoticon. The runner utters the proverbial response, “Ah, Expletive.” Gump’s terse reply? “It happens.”

We exist on the precipice of an invisible abyss. It’s called Life. Things happen there. Life sneaks up on us. Things can go sideways. We’re “born into trouble as the sparks fly upward.” Dog owners know this. “Uh oh,” is a clarion call to action…damage control.

‘It’ happens to me often. Like a couple weeks ago. I’m unprepared for the consequences of lunch at Hot Dog Alley. The enormous ‘dogs’ are toxic. They laugh in the face of heartburn. Human nature is satanic…we yearn to test ‘the edge,’ just to see if it’s still there. It always is!

Dairy Queen is my damage control plan. Ice cream overcomes all sins. I ease into the drive-thru queue, order a chocolate-dipped cone. Large, of course. I pretend it’s a panacea. It’s precisely what a pill-pushing gastroenterologist would prescribe as a palliative for my stupidity. Pretense is my anesthetic of choice. Denial is a close second.

I take a huge bite, then smugly drive off. Ice cream has its own nature…it melts. Tiny rivulets trickle down. They pool at the dam of my fingers. My tongue is thrilled. It licks the leaking nectar.

The trickle soon becomes a raging stream. I lick frantically. My car weaves wildly. Two bikers avoid becoming a hood ornament. They curse me maliciously, something about my mother.

It gets worse. Hysteria takes over. So frantic is the licking that all mental synapses fail. Then ‘it’ happens…the cone crumbles. I watch helplessly, anticipating an impending disaster. The gigantic blob of ice cream seems to take a week to fall into my lap. Yes, I used the same expletive you would have.

Everybody has these stories. Take red spaghetti sauce. Its sole purpose is to ridicule you in public. It loves all things white. A bib is the only known damage control plan for such a spectacle.

Ah, cell phones. They have a built-in affinity for all things wet. Never talk on one anywhere near a toilet. One day I’m sitting on a bench, talking on mine. A cup of hot tea sits harmlessly on the floor beneath me. You know what happens. Quantum mechanics can’t explain how a cell phone can end up in the bottom of a cup of hot tea.

Want a fail-safe damage control plan for soggy cells? Forget hair dryers. Bake ‘em. That’s right. Pre-heat the oven to 150 degrees, turn it off and stick ‘em in. A couple of hours later you’re back in business.

Life is unpredictable, a gamble with incredible odds. Who can argue? If it were a bet you wouldn’t take it. But then you weren’t asked. And if life weren’t so serious it’d be a joke. It’s about attitude. We choose---a smile or a frown.

Robert Burns, the poet, wrote: “…(the) best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry, and leave us naught but grief and pain for promised joy.” Hamlet had his say: “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them though we will.”

Most damage control plans are useless. Maybe they simply assuage our obsessive control-oriented nature. Where humans are concerned, who can say? But Life’s in control here…it has its own schemes.

John Quincy Adams, our 6th President, abandoned his damage control ideas: “I inhabit a weak, frail decayed tenement; battered by the winds and broken in on by the storms, and, from all I can learn, the Landlord does not intend to repair.”

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Damage control plans--make ‘em if you must. But for today, loosen up…remember, the only way to paradise is in a hearse. Buy the ticket, enjoy the ride.

Bud Hearn
October 18, 2013

The Southern Art of Buying Junk

Americans love bargains! Yard sales are the place to find them. Forget trying to beat some Turkish rug merchant on a deal. You’re not in his league until you’ve cut your teeth on the art of negotiating for junk.

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If you don’t think America has been on a buying binge, go yard shopping. Junk abounds. My bargaining skills get rusty, so I dust them off and go shopping at some ‘Estate’ sales. Here are a few pointers, and caveats for buying bargains in the arcane world of ‘too much junk.’

Never get in a rush! Leave that to first-timers. Seasoned yard shoppers know: shop late for low prices. Last Saturday we fueled up on caffeine, a couple of Red Bulls thrown in and prayed for rain. Yes, rain. Why? If you have to ask, you’re not ready to shop.

Sufficiently primed, we stuffed a wad of George Washington’s in our jeans, gassed up the pickup and headed out. Pickups are essential components of the ruse. They say, “I’m here to buy!” Same with clothing. No jewelry, no Rolex watch, no tortoise shell glasses. Just the basics: jeans, tee shirt and yesterday’s stubble.

We scout out several sales sites. At the first house an expectant couple greets us. She’s horrified at the public airing of their household follies. Hopeful anticipation is stamped on his smile. It’s early yet. Change is coming. Panic will etch itself on his face as the day wears on. She’ll hide in total humiliation.

We stroll around casually. Time’s on our side. We comment on their keepsakes in whispers just audible enough to hear. We snicker for effect. Their intuitive responses reveal their horror of failure. We assess their attitudes. I remove my wad of cash and count it for effect. The man hyperventilates. Cash does strange things to people.

Sellers must be sized up carefully. Are they greedy? Early on, they all are. They want to recoup something, anything, from that precious heirloom that’s now become an albatross. Will their face-saving pride get in the way of a sale?

Do they have emotional hang-ups with their castoff crap? Like the sofa the baby was conceived on, or their dog’s favorite chair? Are they desperate yet? They soon will be. We buy nothing here and move on. They’re dejected at our rejection of their treasures. I think I saw her cry.

All savvy yard shoppers know the first rule of buying bargains: you gotta risk losing it to get it. It eliminates the sense of urgency to buy. How does a seller read that? Buyer disinterest. The price free-falls.

We hit several more yards and perfect our disinterest with the stale aura of detachment. Acting is an art. It’s everything. Nothing works quite so well as wandering among people’s rejects and shaking your head. Sellers intuit this maneuver to mean you see through their stupidity in having bought such rubbish. Nothing works to soften up a seller’s perspective like exposing stupidity.

My favorite strategy is to ask, “What’s your bottom line?” Sellers sweat. They shuffle, hem and haw, tremble with fear of offending a buyer. Whatever the price, I whistle in shock disbelief. It sounds something like, “Whew.” Then I stagger backwards a few steps and utter “Whoa!” It’s a sledge hammer to a seller’s fragile ego. Prices collapse.

After assessing the day’s opportunities, we take a long lunch break. No need to rush. It’s cloudy. Rain’s coming. Prayers answered. Rain is a yard seller’s worst nightmare. Nature beats down prices better than we can. It’s now time to buy. We climb in the pickup and return to the first house.

Furniture galore awaits us. Shoppers avoid the rain like a plague. The owner runs from the house. He’s delirious. He grabs me by my Elvis tee shirt. “Just take it, take it all, it’s free. Take it outta my sight,” he shouts. I feel a twinge of conscience as he begs me and sobs uncontrollably on my shoulder.

“But sir, surely…” He cuts me off. “I’ll help you load it.” Deal done.

We shake hands. I admit to feeling a little cheesy, but hey, one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

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Yard sales are the ultimate in recycling junk. Our good fortune furnished an entire rental house. Free. Yard sales are Gump’s chocolate box…you never know what you get unless you show up. Sounds a lot like life, doesn’t it?

Sometimes you just get lucky in both….

Slang It to Me

Goodbye to the old trusted idioms. They’ve bit the dust. Acronyms of verbal arcana now rule, the new Esperanto. I’ve dusted off a few old ones and have cobbled them together. Perhaps they still convey a coherent message.

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We live in a culture of idiomatic clichés. We’re comfortable with our favorite ones. Such nonsense as lol, yolo and omg will never get you the same response as the Southernism you ain’t just whistling Dixie, bubba. Amen!

Today, our Republic is hanging by a thread. Money is as scarce as hen’s teeth. Politics is business as usual. Congress has slammed the door in our face and the government shutdown is adding insult to injury.

What’s happened to consensus? It fell off the wagon and got in the ditch. Everybody’s posturing, saving face. The wolf is knocking at the door looking for a continuation of hand-outs. We’re robbing Peter to pay Paul just to keep anarchy at bay and mobs off the streets.

But misery loves company. There’s enough blame to go around. The fat’s in the fire when the government can’t pay its bills. Our leaders are assuring us that we’ll dodge the bullet of dire consequences in spite of the eleventh hour. Don’t believe this rot. They’ve hung us out to dry while rewarding themselves with the fruits of our labors.

The moment of truth has arrived. Obamacare is here. We’re running from pillar to post, taxing everything that moves, and searching for money to pay the piper. Our ‘leaders’ are impotent. These hot-dog flash-in-the-pan fat cats have made off with billions and spit in our face.

Our Supreme Leader is seeing red these days. He’s tortured by the fact most of American states are red ones. Blue is his color. We’ve heard his empty rhetoric until we’re blue in the face. We’re fed up. He’s so obsessed with red he’s even drawing red lines in the sands of Syria. The world has figured us out. We’re easy pickings now, saturated with egg on our face and have a yellow streak running down our backbone.

It’s un-American to rub salt in our collective wound. Yet, it’s part of our national heritage to put up or shut up. What are we doing here? We’re passing the buck, some merry-go-round of avoidance and blame, living in a fool’s paradise. America is stooping like a crippled old man. Let’s roll up our sleeves and tell the smirkers of this world to bring it on. They’ll regret that day. They’ll be laughing out of the other side of their mouths.

There’s a solution to gridlock…legalized duels. It’ll put a stop to the endless debating of political issues. We’d get to the bottom of it quickly when it’s a matter of life and death. Such contests focus the mind. It’s a fair and square way of coming to grips with issues. It would be the final nail in the coffin of flawed concepts and idiotic ideology. It would truly separate the men from the boys.

Sadly, today our only recourse is the one vote we each have. Let’s use it instead of just running off at the mouth and eating humble pie. The biased media’s grim handwriting on the wall throws fuel on the fire, while we wait for the sorry mess to run its course.

To make a long story short, most of us have no clue how government works. We tend to our own business and try to make hay while the sun still shines. We still have choices. The long and short of it is we should vow to live vigilantly, and let no grass grow under our feet when it comes to speaking our piece.

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It’s a dystextic new world of instagrams, sexting and tweeting. Get used to it. If you don’t like today, tomorrow will be a real pain in the ass. So join the crowd and tune in to a twerking Miley Cyrus and TV’s version of a dysfunctional Modern Family.

Remember, You Only Live Once…YOLO, y’all.

Bud Hearn
October 4, 2013


Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn