Friday, October 9, 2009

Confessions of an earth-bound spirit

As an ancient Celtic spirit who’s roamed much of the earth’s history, I was once asked the question, “was that you on the grassy knoll in Dallas, Texas?”

The short answer is no, I wasn't there. But to be honest, I could have been. You see, the night before Jack Kennedy died his soul made a quick reconnoiter of the sprit world he knew he was comin' home to. He met up with a bunch of his old pals at the Kings Arms where exhausted spirits would gather at the end of the day for a pint or two. I just happened to be along and sitting at the next table and couldn't help overhearin' what they were sayin'.

"So, Jack, I hear you're comin' home for good tomorrow."

"Aye, Paddy", he says, "and it’s to be a dramatic exit I'll be makin' too. Did you know I've been President down there for goin' on three years?"

Well, the talk went on and I was gettin' interested in taggin' along for the big event. This Jack Kennedy fella seemed like a fair nice chum and I finally piped up and asked if there was any chance I could be there for his grand escape. He shook his head rather sad like and said the gallery was already full since the place was not much bigger than a small hill near a bend in the road. "There's to be a big fuss made when it happens", he said. Then he turned to me. "But it's really nothin' much", he says, "just another bullet-meets-head story. We've seen it all before".

Truth be told, I couldn't have made it anyway. I was supposed to be goin' to New York City meself to prepare Doug MacArthur for his own home comin'. I got it into me head that if I could talk Doug outa his body before midnight on the 22nd, it woulda made the 2 greatest single day passin's since Jefferson and Adams.

( Mind you, that whole thing was rigged years before. Another good friend of mine, a spirit with a great sense o’ humor came up with this joke to play on future generations. "Here", he said one night after a lotta bridge playin' and fine cigars, "I've just had the greatest idea. Lets have ol' Tom and that sourpuss Adams die on the same day exactly 50 years after they signed that big independence paper”. Well, we talked about it and decided that this was just the sort o' thing that future human types would take to, like warm pigs to cold mud. So it was decided then and there that they'd both bow out on the glorious 4th in 1826. And John only agreed to it when we promised that he'd outlive Tommy by a few hours. )

But back to ’63. After checkin' with the higher ups my own idea was turned down. It was pointed out to me that no matter what Dougie thought he never actually held the post o' President so havin’ him and Jacky boy dyin’ on the same day wouldn't have anywhere near the same impact.

Jack took me back to Dallas one day later on. He was pointin’ out the school book depository to me when he started to smirk. I asked him what he was thinkin’ about. He said, “you know, I hadn’t thought about it until just this minute. But these humans make such a grand fuss over nothin’.”

I looked straight at him, wantin’ him to go on but not tryin’ to rush things. He continued, “No one’s supposed to know this for a while yet, but I’ll tell you somethin’. I left that Kennedy body long before those people started blowin’ his brains out. He was just a puppet goin’ through the motions. I watched the whole thing myself from this very grassy knoll.” With that he slapped me on the back and we headed straight for the Kings Arms.

-The Celtic Warlord

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Life Lessons 3

Archie and I managed to work the kinks out of the digestive system, with a lot of trouble along the way due to Planning’s decision that there ought to be a large and a small section. There was also a new specification to provide for cramps and something called “diarrhea”. Just one more of the unpleasant functions it had been impressed upon us as being somehow important to the average human. Thankfully there had been no deadline. The finished product worked marvelously, though we both had serious doubts as to how popular it would prove to be with the end users. Then it was time to turn our attention to the bladder.

“Easy job, this one”, Archie began, “simple holdin’ tank, shut off valve, drain tube.” He was eyeing the plans in the manual. “Say, wait a minute. I didn’t know there were two different models for this. In the male version the tube comes right out through the exterior wall. Whose idea was that?”

“Let me see that”. I lifted the manual from his clutch and read the fine print at the bottom of the page. “It says here that the male drain tube is to be integrated with the reproductive system. They never told us that! Typical. It’ll mean re-wiring the nervous system and incorporating some stimulus responses.”

“And just how are these clay models going to go about reproducing?” Archie demanded.

“Why ask me? I’m only buildin’ what they specify for the damn things”. I flipped the book open again. “It says see page 229 for details on the reproductive units…. Yep, here it is. The male unit is supposed to able to use his drain tube in conjunction with a separate excavation in the female unit. Well that sounds ridiculous. Who’d want to bother with that, especially if all it means is adding a bunch of miniature clay models to the environment?”

“Look here, there’s a video came with the manual. Suppose we should have a peek at it?”

There were some instructions with the disc explaining that the Planning Committee had asked the illustrators to do up an animated version of the reproductive process in order for the assembly line to have an idea of what they were making. We watched the video with revulsion and looked back at the calendar to see if it wasn’t April Fools Day. Archie had to leave for a bit and his breath smelled of ale when he returned.

“Now if that don’t take the cake”, he blurted out, “what sorta dance was that pair doin’ anyway?”

“It says here that it’s called ‘coupling’. It’s to be the initial step in procreation according to the manual.” I read further while Archie gaped at me.

“And who’s goin’ to be down there forcin’ them all to take part, I ask you?” He stood shaking his head.

I folded back the pages of the manual and held my finger to the fine print so I wouldn’t lose my place. “The Gene Pool have announced a new set of chromosomes that’s to make them relish the experience. Apparently the men are to have over twice as much of its drive as the women.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, it seems that if the women turn out as easily aroused as the men, there’ll be absolutely no chance of artistic or economic advancement in the species, they’ll be so busy ‘coupling’.”

“I still don’t see why they’d even want to. If the purpose is to reproduce, why not just make it a mechanical procedure without emotional attachment?” For once Arch had a valid point. I flipped the book to a separate section.

“Oh, now it makes sense”, I began, “They discovered that when the sole purpose was fertilization, with the end result being a helpless, noisy, filthy baby, no one wanted to participate. They had to make it an attractive alternative to hunting to ensure long term success.”

-The Celtic Warlord

Monday, October 5, 2009

Life Lessons 2

It had been a rather long day and I was weary with creating. I'd been assigned to work the prototype humans with a fellow spirit. This partner I’d been paired up with was not too quick witted, but a pleasant enough fellow once the day was over and we could go for a pint at The Kings Arms.

I was frowning over the blueprints this one day, when he comes up behind me and points down at the page.

"What's this then, down near the bottom of the body?" he asks.

"Looks like some sort of ventilation unit to me. The designers were pretty vague when I asked about it."

"What's its purpose?” he says.

"According to the guide book it's to let the food out after they've eaten it."

"Why do they eat it in the first place if it’s to come out later on?" he asked.

"Beats me. You know how they are up in the planning office. Always messing about with details makin' things way more complicated than they need to."

We perused the drawings a little longer and glanced over toward the clay model laying on the stainless steel table.

"Here, look,” he says, "wouldn't it be far more efficient if the waste vent was right up there?" He pointed at the neck area. "That way the food can go in that hole in the face and pop right out the back of the neck, since getting it out again seems to be what they’re set on."

"It's not supposed to work that way", I replied, "There’s supposed to be some process where it mixes up inside them and have the nutrients drawn out. Besides, having the waste vent on the neck would be fine through the Dark and Middle Ages, but once they start Ballroom Dancing they're supposed to be cleaning themselves up a fair bit."

"Why don't we just give them the nutrients and bypass the elimination procedure? What's the point of all that food turning to waste?"

"I don't know, Archie", I said gently, "the folks in the Food Dept planned it that way and there's no telling how they arrive at their half-witted ideas."

"By the way", he says to me, "have you signed up to get into one of these things when we're done?"

"What, with all that phlegm and mucous muckin' about in their heads? You must be joking!"

"I hear we're all supposed to take a turn, that's what the grapevine is saying. There's some will be exempt but most of us are scheduled whether we sign up or not." He looked grave.

"Well, I'm not going, you can bet on that. And who are the exempt ones, by the by? I'll tell you who. The ones who invented the darn thing in the first place, that's who. Trust the one's up in Planning to come up with a design for intestines and then beg off when it comes to actually tryin’ them out. Makes me sick thinkin’ about it."

"Hey, look at this!" He waved the guide book over the blue prints toward me. "According to page 116 the food not only has the option of leaving through the vent hole, it can also come back up through the face."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard", I said. "Why are we making them eat in the first place if the food's got two escape routes?"

I made a quick call up to the Inquiry Desk to ask if it wasn’t some sort of typo. I was assured that it wasn’t. When I asked further I was directed to the Efficiency Committee who explained that the food might have to come back up if the sample turned out to be bad. Could the human in question not tell if the sample was bad, I asked? Not always, was the reply. Most humans were not intended to be very sharp.

I switched off the intercom. “Get a load of this, Arch. They say the food might have to come back through the face if it’s bad”

“Why couldn’t they just send it on through, bad or not?”

“They said they were given a list of unpleasant experiences to apply to the model. Someone mentioned this one last night after a round of drinks and they all laughed so hard some of them puked right then and there. Apparently when they submitted the idea it went over so well they were all given an extra weeks vacation.”

-The Celtic Warlord

Friday, October 2, 2009

Life Lessons 1

Greetings, again, from the plane of absurdity and undignified behavior. As a fellow traveler locked in a tomb of flesh, it’s once again my distinct pleasure to help along those hurting souls who are reachin’ out for some form of extra-physical assistance. It’s been my experience that my brother and sister sufferers are often in a state of bewilderment, waiting for somethin’ to fall from the heavens as a sign for them to follow. Well, it ain’t goin’ to happen. We’re put here to trudge along on our own, full diapers and all.

The lesson I learned in the following tale was a difficult one and it took a good part of my life to finally sink in.

It was an unusually hot summer day and I was busy sweating over any one of a number of life’s problems. The point of frustration was rapidly approaching and I let out a good froth of curses just to break the deathly silence. I lifted a soiled hanky from the dirty clothes hamper to wipe my brow when who should appear out of nowhere but His Righteousness himself. The drops o’ sweat were trickling to the tip of my nose and the t-shirt I’d worn for 3 days was clung fast from shoulders to belly.

I gave him a most unwelcoming stare. “What is it ya want now?” I demanded. In the instant the mind is capable of reflecting on a large collection of unpleasant events, I was reminded of the quantity of what the heavenly crowd refer to as “challenges” that had been thrust in my path while I was tryin’ to mind my own business down here. No matter that in reality I had selected each and every one of them myself, we humans are not supposed to remember that, or the point of the whole experience is lost.

He sat in his heavenly lounge chair with a massive stein of ice cold lager and a bowl of fried pork rinds in his lap. He was looking intently into a half-sized newspaper and paid me no attention whatsoever. I edged toward him a bit, tryin’ to see if this was another of those “books o’ life” he was assembling and exactly where it was my own name might appear. To my surprise it was the daily racing form for the entire country; Epsom, Ascot, Cheltenham and all the others. While I watched he carefully circled the name “War Admiral” who was running in the 4th race at Newbury, an 8 year old chestnut hurdler with odds of twelve to one. A drop o’ sweat fell from me onto his paper and he turned to look at me with one o’ those benevolent lookin’ smiles he’s mastered. Then he turned and daintily pursed his lips against the foam heading out over the rim of his frosted glass.

I backed away and made the excuse of a call o’ nature, but instead ran as fast as I could for the nearest betting shop. I placed the whole of next week’s wages on War Admiral to win that afternoon, extending my credit almost to the limit in doing so. Barney told me the odds wasn’t good but I insisted I had a sure thing and talked him into putting a few quid on the same horse. “You’ll be wishin’ you’d mortgaged your shop for this one”, I told him.

Well, I strolled back to the yard and His Holiness was still biding his time, circling more names. I wished I’da stuck around to catch a few for tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure if he’da thought it ethical of me. I strolled up to his fine chair and waited for him to notice me. “So you enjoy playing the horses, do ya?” I queried him. “Makes it a mite unfair for the average Joe, don’t ya think?” He gave me another friendly look but remained as tight lipped as ever.

“So….”, I began again, “that War Admiral looks to be a sure thing then does he? I couldn’t help but notice you’d circled his name there a while back.” He turned to me finally. I darn near jumped out o’ my skin when he actually spoke to me, all the while munchin’ on the piggy puffs.

“I’m not betting on the races”, he says in his oh-so-friendly fashion, “I’m determining their outcomes”.

Determining the outcomes? Well, all the better I thought. Determining the outcomes was he? War Admiral began looking like a gift from heaven itself. I excused myself again and ran upstairs to the bedroom where I knew the wife always had a few loose bills and some change kickin’ around. I scrounged up enough money to have paid for a fine night out and hoofed it back to the betting shop.

“Just in time,” Barney says to me, “the window closes in 5 minutes. First race is about ready to start.”

I dug the grimy money out o’ me pockets and threw it on the counter. “Put it all on War Admiral in the 4th. Hurry!” I pleaded. Then, for once feelin’ as though I had a leg up on the rest o’ the world, I meandered back again to the yard to have a cool drink with the Lord o’ all creation.

“A fine day for racin’”, I said, helping myself to the crunchy snacks. I came all over smug-like; I couldn’t help it. “Yessir, looks like things are finally goin’ to swing my way.” He took a large slug of his beer and offered me some. I took it gladly as the days heat was startin’ to feel dehydratin’.” I piped up again, feelin’ full o’ new life. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve picked Cascade to win the first race”. I pointed to the circled name on the form. Not as good, the odds in that one. I was glad I’d stuck with War Admiral in the fourth.

Like the sweet sound of a nightingale his voice flowed from his holy tonsils. “Oh, I’m not selecting the winners.” My stomach started with a lurch.

“What’s that you said?”

“I said I’m not selecting the winners”.

I tried to keep the note o’ panic out of my voice as I ventured; “But you told me you were determining the outcomes. What’s that circle mean around War Admiral in the 4th race then?”

“Oh, he’s to be disqualified. The jockey’s going to be hauled before the stewards and warned off for abusing a fellow rider.”

“Ya don’t say.” I began to tremble and stifled the urge to grab him round his neck. My voice wasn’t comin’ out right but I managed to croak the words, all the while pointin’ a craggy finger at him. “I put all of next week’s money on War Admiral, plus the grocery change besides.”

“Yes, I know”

I drank off the last of his beer, to teach him a lesson, and dumped the pork rinds on the driveway. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The rage was barely contained.

“Well, you never asked me did you? By the way, I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

I was approaching apoplexy. “A new assignment? But you still haven’t told me what the last one was to be. I’ll never manage a new one!”

“You’ll just have to fit it in won’t you? I say, old chap, I really must get out of this beastly sun”.

And with that he was off, just vanished as quick as he’d arrived. I stooped down to rescue the pork rinds, that is, those I hadn’t crushed under foot. I haven’t heard hide nor hair from the bastard since, and these mysterious ‘assignments’ remain just that; mysteries.

I spent the next week sleepin’ in the garage and I can no longer stand the smell o’ horses.

-The Celtic Warlord

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Introduction


Well, as I understand it you’ve all had your noses bloodied a bit in this life, as have I. Count your blessings as we only feel the wrath of human existence for a little humility now and then. The pit you’ve been dropped into is a deep one, yes. I've been there myself and carved my name on its wall so you'd know you're not the first one down. If you're having trouble keeping your head above the sewage, don't worry, it won’t get any deeper than you can stand on your tippy toes.Now, I don't give a hoot about scripture, and I assure you I'm no weak-kneed preacher offering candy floss compresses to dress your wounds. But I'll quote one of the useful passages I've found in yon bible.

"...and God looked upon all that he had made and behold, it was VERY good..."

Do ya hear that? It was VERY good. That includes you and all that makes up your personality. It includes all the emotions we've been programmed to suppress. Like anger. Show a little now and then to the Universe, they won't mind. If you're out of line they’re not likely to pay much attention, but you’ll feel better for a bit by blowing your stack. If you're not up to talking to them direct, tell your spirit guide to take a message up if ya like. I hear they're pretty cozy, these earth angels and the ones on high. Do ya know your spirit, by the way? Mine's name is Jesse. I told him/her/it that as long as he was taggin' along I might as well call him something, and Jesse seemed apt for either male or female. So, until I hear different, it's Jesse I chat with when I need to convey my displeasure to the deity, which is pretty much a daily occurrence.

Which brings us to the next topic; prayer. I'll have none of it. Since I chose this life and the cesspit in which to live it, then I've got nothing to say to the ones who convinced me that coming here might be a dandy idea. I selected the trials and I'll face them alone. Oh, I've asked for help from time to time, and the Grand Duke has appeared when I want him, but all he seems content to do is lounge in a recliner with his nose in a book while I'm trying to shovel my way through the latest pile of horse manure that’s been conveniently dropped in my path. I've glared at him pretty angry like, and even cursed him a fair number of times, but all he does is pop another peanut in his mouth, sip on his nice cold drink, and give me some idiotic smile, as though I'm to be enjoying the excrement and the phlegm. Seems like an odd way to get someone to love you, as those churches claim is our duty, but they really miss the point.

You see, at some time in my past eternal spirit life, I apparently made some gaff that got this whole human process started for me. It was probably during a card game and I imagine I failed to make the proper bid on a run of hearts when a group of elder spirits, watching from the vantage point of the gallery, singled me out and said, "We’ve got to help that one there". So they approached me after the game and asked if I wouldn't consider going to this great school they knew of far beyond the real world in order to learn a few things that our fellow spirits weren't too keen on teaching me themselves. Naturally I agreed and the next thing I knew I was sliding out of some screaming woman's birth canal. Not recognizing exactly where the emergency was, I set up immediately with some pretty hefty screams of my own. I've had an aversion to all things slimy and bloody ever since and find this wretched body the most disgusting thing I could imagine forcing someone into. Whoever designed it never planned to spend a minute in it themselves, that I can guarantee.

Thank goodness they saw fit to provide us the recipe for Scotch Whisky, which dulls the pain from time to time. Growing up in this vile environment has been a real eye-opener, and I've been trying to get Jesse to take an urgent message back to my as-yet-unborn relatives to let them know that they better change their minds fast and ought not to come. They won't like it a bit. There's not enough vacation time for one thing, and this daily bowel experience is probably the biggest joke they could come up with. I recall being in on the planning session for that one and raised several objections. In the end, though, I was outvoted and I recall one spirit, who up until that time had been a good friend of mine, saying, "I wonder what they're going to do with all that crap when there's six or eight billion of them down there". A real belly laugh he had over it too.

Growing up was very unpleasant and I retained just enough memory of the spirit realm to know that I would never fit in with the crowd, nor would I ever want to. It seems to me that a human being of fairly average intelligence is still appallingly stupid. I’ve been surrounded by them my whole life. And the rituals they come up with for entertainment are nothing short of embarrassing. Dancing for one. Eating contests. And even sex. For all it does to relieve the passions, it's a pretty ludicrous event if you ask me. I passed up a chance to come here about 800 earth years ago, when all my frustrations could have been taken out in the slaughter of neighboring clans, but I insisted on waiting until soap and deodorant were a regular part of daily living. It's a decision I've regretted ever since. Not only would I have been long done with this hellish schooling by now, but I'd have made a few more friends since it's my understanding there's no better bonding for men than to be runnin' each other through with blunt swords and dull axes.

Ah well, it hasn't all been bad. At least I chose the relatively easy route of being posted in an affluent nation with chemically treated water and individually wrapped cheese slices. Sometimes when the pressure gets too much I'll holler at His Holiness to ease off the thumbscrews just a bit so's I can catch my breath and give a thought or two to whatever the “H” my precious “mission” is supposed to be. As usual, he nods, sips his drink and, if anything, tightens them a quarter turn. The key to survivin' it all is to remember that everything he made is supposedly VERY good. So if you have to curse him and everything that’s been put in as an obstacle, this is VERY good. If we weren’t supposed to get mad it wouldn't have been made possible. If this life was expected to be all peaches and roses, we never woulda had to leave home in the first place. So my advice to anyone who feels hard done by is this; hate it if you want to, this is VERY good, but tolerate it as best you can and be willing to ride it out to the end.

And one final word on self pity. The goody two shoes members of the human race frown on it as unhealthy. Personally, I encourage it. Wallow in it as much as you like. In time you'll see that it's a frustrating dead end in itself, but only you can know when you've reached it. I know you'll be thinkin' of me the next time you’re sittin’ on the potty, so take to heart what I've told you. I only wish some Ancient had taken ME under their wing when I was younger. I never woulda taken life half so serious.

-The Celtic Warlord