The Tongue is a Fire

“The tongue is a fire…and it is set on fire of hell.”

**********

It was a long time ago and far away when the Apostle penned this theorem. He was sitting under a date palm near the Dead Sea discussing women with his tongue-tied camel.

The validity of the theory was confirmed later that day when with a slip of the tongue he mentioned to his wife something about, “That’s woman’s work.” His tongue ignited a flame that burns in infamy to this day.

The tongue is a torch. It ignites. Sparks from words fly off and can set on fire the course of nature. The tongue is an unruly evil. It’s impossible to tame.

I learned this lesson the hard way. I was born with a forked tongue. It manipulated facts and fabricated untruths. I was 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 grandmama gave me,” I said. The deceit slid off my tongue like greased lightening. I didn’t even have to think about it. There I stood, drooling. Five packs of empty Rolaids wrappers lay scattered about my feet. The severe tongue-lashing and stinging switch-thrashing convinced me that the tongue was not my friend.

Tongues wag uncontrollably. They’re attached in the mouth but lack connectivity to the brain, clearly a flaw in the original human design. No doubt it originated in some mythic fruit tree garden. Sadly, medical science cannot correct the glitch.

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

Shakespeare made this discovery by accident while nursing a hangover. He passed it on to Polonius who warned Ophelia, “…(when) the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.” The tongue boasts more than it can back up. Ask any politician.

The tongue’s fire begins as a spark in the back of the mouth. It roars forward at warp speed, gathers a host of demons and exits the tongue’s tip with a searing flame…too late for a recall.

My friend Marvin, a renowned deep thinker, forgot to bite his tongue when his wife asked him how her new dress looked. His tongue betrayed him. His knee-jerk response went something like this: “It makes you look fat.”

“Just kidding,” he added, tongue-in-cheek. His apology was so shallow it was like trying to put out a house fire by spitting on the roof. Marvin now lives alone in Ludowici, thinking about what went wrong.

Last September was the anniversary of Einstein’s profound equation: E = mc2. It simply states that a tiny mote 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 was eluding him. A stiff nip of rye 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.

Others have made such discoveries. I once remember commenting to my wife with a smug, silver tongue that nobody made banana pudding like mama. For some reason 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’re pulling out the Halloween paraphernalia. Among such is a sign board that 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. Only a pitiful, “Oops” escaped my lips. Too little, too late.

**********

Out there in the vibrations of digital arcana the tweeting tongue twitters…and the fires of hell begin to rage.


Bud Hearn
October 20, 2017

Taking a Knee

“So here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.”

Travis Tritt wrote those lines, having been shafted by a romance gone bad. Country music can synthesize anything with these ‘somebody done somebody wrong songs.’ They lend substance to America’s self-indulgent malaise.

Everybody’s protesting something. Everywhere there’s Unrest, Disunity, Dysfunction and Inequity. It’s a cacophony of chaos. Social media is making martyrs every moment. Take a knee and Tweet your sacrificial rant; fame can be yours, too.

You gotta love the NFL players: their humility, their unity, their locking of arms, their bending of knees, the solidarity of conscience…all in peaceful protest. These growling and snarling turf gladiators who breathe out slaughter on testosterone-infused Sundays, they’re showing their compassionate side.

But for what? Oh, the usual…inequality and barrages of police brutality. Who better to lend credence to the subject of brutality? Res ipsa loquitor.

Ok, ok, back it down, quit foaming at the mouth. Only fools torch such a hallowed institution as football, and this is not a diss-your-darling kiss-off. Head knocking is brutal business. Survival is iffy. Anybody brave or crazy enough to do it deserves respect.

Now let’s set the record straight. I’m not against football in general; I’m just not necessarily for it in particular. Oh, I know, it makes men out of boys, exemplifies team spirit and guarantees orthopedic surgery. My broken nose testifies to it.

But I’m touched by their knees, nature’s built-in body parts that express humility and contrition. And there are plenty of other ways to apply these conciliatory virtues and make a statement. I know these things.

How? Because I purchased a $15 pair of rubber knee pads at Home Depot. I can testify it’s one of the best investments a married man can ever make. Men, when you feel like protesting something really stupid around the house, put ‘em on. Meekness pays big dividends.

My blood is running hot for protesting. The choices are unlimited. Just today I had it out with a gas pump. Did you know that gas pumps now talk to you? Get this: I pull up to one, start pumping. A grinning face shows up on the pump screen. It starts talking, rap music as background. “Hello, friend, you look like yesterday’s scarecrow. You need food. Come on in, I have some hot donuts, a cup of our famous-brand coffee, just for you.”

I protested with a wad of Juicy Fruit stuck right to his screen-smirking face. Was that extreme? After that, I called one of those ‘for-the-people’ lawyers. I got the number off of a billboard that pictured this mean-looking woman, dressed in black, holding a sledge hammer with the caption: “5’ 5” and Full of Mean.” I expect results soon.

Later I want to protest the ‘Unknown’ callers on my cell. Female Robo calls. Is this what the world’s coming to, female robots selling cruises? But protesting might put me on the ACLU hit list as a gender-bashing blowhard. I’m wary.

I was recently invited to join the ‘Protest a Politician Movement,’ that august convocation of disgusted citizens. It didn’t lead anywhere. Nobody could agree on anything harsh enough. I suggested duels with water pistols, or paintball rifles. It went nowhere.

Someone should protest baseball. I’m not that person, no credibility. I didn’t make the high school team because my eyes saw triple balls coming at me. I was made water boy. Today’s games are so long--up to five hours-- that players take naps between pitches and you’ll have to come back to the stadium the next day to see who won.

As I contemplate protest opportunities, I think of other body parts to use. I know it’s a stretch, but think of it as the ‘metaphorical body.’ The elbows with sharp edges. The lying lips. The wagging tongue, the nose butting into someone else’s business. The pointing of the fingers, index and middle, if you will.

The itching ears, the shifty eyes, the gnashing teeth, the run-around feet and the closed pumping fist. Don’t forget the boasting chest, the shrugging shoulders, the sagging bellies and the devious head fakes. Oh, so many opportunities.

So, taking a knee might be the most sensible protest gesture possible. Yet, what could be a more compelling demonstration of unity than taking two knees?

**********

So take a knee and protest. And here’s a quarter, call The Someone who cares. And when you do, say, “Thanks.”


Bud Hearn
October 6, 2017