Some People Say I Was Anointed By Christ to Write Columns
Milt settles into his catnapper, grabs the remote and flicks on the five o’clock news. “All right, let’s see what the mad man’s up to, now.”
He’s referring to the Tangerine Lunatic, of course. A man he’s voted for three times, and he’ll vote for him a fourth time, too, if there’s a possibility it will lead to one transgender out in California feeling uncomfortable. Milt will risk the solvency of his investment portfolio to stick it to anybody who feels apt to shuffle their pronouns. Milt is what’s referred to nowadays as a “Christian” which narrows his toleration down to any white, male American who wears a Trump hat.
Milt for those of you unfamiliar is my eighty-year-old, live-in father-in-law. And by live-in, I’m saying we live in his house, a house and land which will eventually belong to my wife. For all intents and purposes, this makes me the man servant. I cook his meals. I mow the grass. I change the light bulbs, flying in the face of my Polish heritage. Basically, I’m doing everything I’d be doing in the natural course of things, except now when I do it, I gotta listen to the daft old bastard prattle on about how he’s been retired from Chrysler for twenty-five years.
Then he’ll ask if I gottta work Monday.
“Yeah, Milt. I gotta work. It’s a fucking Monday, man.”
It’s not lost on me that he’s the same age as that Pumpkin Bufoon in the White House. There are similarities, and the differences shrink by the day. One asks if I gotta work Monday, the other is trying to ensure I’ll never have to work another Monday again.
Milt naps ten minutes for every five minutes he’s awake. I’m pretty sure the wispy-haired overlord trundles along on the same schedule. I don’t think either one knows what the fuck’s going on half the time, but that doesn’t keep the nonsequential words from pouring out of their puckered lips.
Milt’s hard of hearing, and his hearing aids are perpetually on the blink. When he’s lounging on his catnapper, fading in and out, while the Netflix runs rampant, the tremendous volume of whatever show’s streaming echoes through the house. Whatever these scriptwriters make writing this dreck, I’m sure they’re wildly overpaid. I swear to God, over the course of an hour, all I hear are constant explosions with the occasional “motherfucker” interjected. Much like the mushroom-dicked twit’s situation room if I were to hazard a guess.
Meanwhile, it’s a hot, black rain falling over Tehran, the land of a thousand poets. It’s a toss up whether we like bombing their oil derricks or their desalinization plants the best. This will teach those Muslims not to beat their underage brides for the slightest infractions, I suppose. I don’t know who’s going to teach our pedophile in charge to leave those kids alone, but it’s not going to be the Ayatollah Khomeni. Depending on the news source, between the dithering, drooling moron in the red cap getting his penis bitten and a tent peg jump kicked up his rectum, he was very good at dominating the sex slaves anyway.
And who was it exactly that set up the “iron dome” over Tel Aviv? I wouldn’t let these cats install my garage door. Allegedly, it’s a five-year prison term for anyone sharing videos of Iranian missiles striking targets in Israel. This actually surprises the hell outta me. They were never shy about sharing those Auschwitz films. They seemed pretty giddy about stomping Gaza flat these last couple years. There was no end to that footage. I suppose they don’t want to provide fodder for anyone else to gloat over. It’s kinda like Milt recording his fucking Michigan games. He tends to ignore all the crushing defeats in favor of the runaway victories.
Don’t take these comments to be antisemitic. I absolutely adore humanity. I am antiracist. I have love for every tribe walking the earth. I tend to reserve my hatred for individuals. Though I will say my hatred for individuals tend to be a result of their amassed wealth and the zealotry of their religious beliefs.
For example, if you think for one fucking second, the Cheeto shaped like Jesus was anointed by Christ to usher in Armageddon on my watch, well then, I think you’re a goddam idiot, and I would refrain from inviting you to my next poetry reading. Even Billy Zane has more sense than to spout off reckless gibberish like that. And that goofy bastard lacked the good sense to decline that horrible Brando biopic. Not only that, but Billy Zane was also deluded enough to tell me the distributor was holding the movie back until Autumn for Academy Award consideration.
“You’re talking about the movie your co-starring with Jon Heder?”
“Yes,” Billy Zane answered cooly, arching his eyebrow.
Now, Napoleon Dynamite starring in an Academy Award nominated film is on par with Pete Hegseth being placed in charge of the Department of Defense. Unlikely, but not impossible, and destined to leave a whole lot of people disappointed once the dust settles.
Anyway, Milt’s watching the evening news and when the moppet quotes the anonymous commander telling his subordinates that the spray-painted golf cheat was anointed by Christ to usher in Armageddon, he sputters “bullshit” the same way he did when Michigan’s ex-coach Sherrone Moore was accused of liking the white women a little too much. The same way when Michigan’s ex-ex-coach Jim Harbaugh was accused of cheating all over the place. You just never know what intel an eighty-year-old man is going to choose to accept, regardless of proof.
“That sumbitch is going to end up destroying the world,” Milt says, which I suppose is the nonsecular way of saying anointed by Christ to yadda yadda yadda. “But, I’m pretty sure they got it now where there ain’t no more men competing in women’s sports so at least that…”
Karl Koweski is a displaced Region Rat now living in rural Alabama. He writes when his pen allows it. He’s a husband to a lovely wife and father to some fantastic kids. He collects pop culture ephemera. On most days he prefers Flash Gordon to Luke Skywalker and Neil Diamond to Elvis Presley.
THE POLISH HAMMER POETRY CORNER is a weekly column, posted each Tuesday morning.
