Posts Tagged ‘death’

The Fahrenheit 217

May 4th, 2017

Today, the House of Representatives voted 217-213 to approve H.R. 1628: The American Health Care Act of 2017. The repeal and replace of Obamacare and the attempt to institute Trumpcare.

 

Imagine replacing a car that needed maintenance with a car frame that looked great but didn’t have an engine at all. That’s essentially what you got with Trumpcare now. It will go to the Senate. I’m not positive that the Senate Republicans will vote this down. They might decide to throw a lighter into a jet engine and blow the whole thing up.

 

I’m too pissed off to actually give cogent analysis. So I’m going to just snap on the 217 assholes who decided to hurt their own constituents.

  • Brett Guthrie, I will vote against you in 2018. I will donate money to your general election opponent. I will piss in your boots if I see you. You are a partisan hack. You have no courage. You should be ashamed of yourself.
  • Andy Barr sounds like “candy bar” which is something a diabetic shouldn’t eat. I hope your cock gets gangrene, you future eunuch.
  • James Comer’s name is close to James Comey, the FBI director who feels mildly nauseous about having any impact on the 2016 election. I hope you feel nausea every time you try to raise campaign funds. I hope you vomit on the shoes of a Koch Brother.
  • Hal Rogers represents Harlan. I hope you get arrested for sex crimes.
  • I want to credit John Yarmuth and Thomas Massie (a Republican, nonetheless) for voting against this bullshit bill. 
  • Larry Buschon of Indiana. I hope you have to live in Indiana for the rest of your life.
  • Trey Hollingsworth of Indiana. I hope you die like a character in “Children Of The Corn”.
  • Steve King of Iowa. You’re one of the lowest form of life in Congress and that says a lot considering who your contemporaries. Nearly every time there’s a piece of garbage racist law brought up in the House, you either brought it up or co-sponsor it. I hope you fall into a paper shredder, and your remains are turned into low-grade toilet paper to be bought and used by the poor.
  • Mark Sanford of South Carolina, you know this bill is shit and you voted for it anyway. You should have stayed in Argentina with your mistress. Pull an Eva Peron and pass away prematurely.
  • Joe Wilson of South Carolina, you’re the guy who yelled “You lie” at Obama. You should have been kicked out of office years ago. You lie every day. I hope you get a kidney stone every day.
  • Jason Chaffetz of Utah, you are the lowest of the low. The biggest hypocrite of the bunch. You just had leg surgery. A pre-existing condition. And you voted to take away that protection for Americans. I hope you o.d. on pain meds, you big bag of oatmeal.
  • Paul Ryan of Wisconsin, the Speaker of the House. You did this just to save your job. You miserable prick. If we’re not all dead by 2018, you will be gone. I will donate to your opponent too. It won’t take much, which is a sentence you’ve probably told your wife plenty of times. You needledick, wannabe frat boy fuckboy. I hope you get a metal rod rammed up your pisshole.

You are the Fahrenheit 217 now. And you are going to be wiped out. If we still have elections a year-and-a-half from now. Maybe Dear Leader Trump will ban elections. I wouldn’t do that if I were him. We may just march on Washington, drag the bastard out of the White House and eat him alive. Just a fair warning.

Is This The End Of The World?

April 14th, 2017

If you have been paying any attention to the situation between the United States and North Korea, you would know that tension is high, and leaders from both countries seem too eager to START with a nuclear bomb.

 

I am going to note some of my thoughts and feelings at this strange time in the world. I don’t even feel like I’m writing for anyone in 2017. If the nukes get dropped and a lot of us die, I want to talk about what I was dealing with at the point it happened. I’m writing this for some survivor years from now, or the next generation or later.

 

I am a thirty-nine year-old man from Kentucky. I have things I want to do before I die. I have goals and dreams and aspirations. I live in a small apartment. Right now, my grandmother is staying with me until she gets approved for her new apartment. She hopes to get into a building complex for elderly people. It may take up to two more weeks, she has been with me for three weeks already. Although she doesn’t mean to, sometimes she gets on my nerves. She means well and she worries a lot. We don’t worry about the same things.

 

I wish I could be with a girl I care very much for but she has a boyfriend. Maybe its for the best, especially for her. Maybe my life is a labyrinth that people should be warned against nearing. Even killer whales mate, don’t they?

 

I hated the circumstances that led us to this moment in time. It seems so preventable now that I type about it. Somebody should have done something to stop all this from happening. Eventually, all of us end up in the meat grinder of the industrial complex. Some people don’t know and some don’t mind so much. Some people do know and mind very much and they fight back.

 

I truly hope that Trump is taken out of power before he gets us into a nuclear war. He has been in office less than 100 days. He doesn’t know how to de-escalate a problem. No one in North Korea is going to put a check on their dictator. It’s up to us in the US. Two idiots at a standstill willing to blow up the world over a pissing contest. It would be funny if it weren’t so depressing and plausible.

 

I don’t want to write anymore today. It hurts to think about this too long.

The Emptiest Thanksgiving

November 25th, 2016

Somehow I managed to avoid human contact yesterday. It was a true holiday miracle, the kind that never gets shown in movies. I went to bed about 6 in the morning and slept through until the night came. Woke up for a few hours and went right back to bed.

 

I had a scary dream. Of course it involved Trump. January 21, 2017. The day after the inauguration, just after midnight. Donald Trump is hunched over the fresh corpse of Ivanka Trump in the Lincoln Bedroom. (Since this is my imagination, poor evil Ivanka hasn’t been drugged but straight up murdered in a crime of passion)

 

The new President is spending his first night in the White House raping the corpse of his favorite daughter, the daughter he has just killed. He humps her bloodless, lifeless body. “Kokomo” by The Beach Boys is on a constant loop in the background. “Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya to Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama, Key Largo, Montego. . .” and President Trump is pumping away on Ivanka like Zed on Marcellus Wallace in “Pulp Fiction”.

 

O ye of pronounced wattle!

O ye of pronounced wattle!

How did he kill his beloved daughter? Knowing Trump, he waited until they were totally alone and then he decided to GO FOR IT. If you’re gonna walk on ice, dance for fuck’s sake. Of course, Ivanka being evil but not gross was not into the idea of daddy-daughter time, not like this. They were in this for business, not pleasure. But for the new leader of the free world, business and pleasure couldn’t help but be intertwined. Because Nixon said anything the President does is not illegal and that includes things like this, probably.

 

Oooh, that’s where we wanna go. Waaay down to Kokomo!

 

He had killed her in the struggle, then he dragged her to the bed. It had been stressful on his old, corrupt heart. He was not the type to exercise. He then began to perform the act of which I will spare you many of the details of. Except for the end.

 

Because after a seeming eternity of pumping and grinding, sweating profusely and grunting, rutting barbarically with the corpse of his own flesh and blood with “Kokomo” playing behind him over and over, Donald J. Trump, President of the United States, finally achieved climax.

 

And for the first time in his life, he was happy! He was unfamiliar with this feeling. Pure happiness. Pure joy. What was this feeling? Was this what some people called. . . inner peace?

 

Then his heart gave out and he collapsed and died. Right on top of Ivanka, right there in the Lincoln Bedroom.

 

And that is how we ended up with President Michael Pence.

 

Off the Florida keeeeeeeeeeyyysss, there’s a place called Kokomo. . .

My Arm Hurts

April 22nd, 2016

My left bicep hurts. I hurt myself this morning when I was adjusting my mattress. I fell over and used my arm to keep from banging my head against the wall. I didn’t bang my hang but I pulled a muscle. What made me think I had the arms of Samson that would keep me from banging my head and also keep me from falling down? I have taken a pain reliever but that’s it. I hope this is a temporary situation.

 

My computer needed repair again. Do not buy a used computer. My used computer did not come with all the screws in it. It cost $50 to get repaired. The lack of screws caused the housing to come loose which caused the power jack to come loose and then the the zzzzz…… my god. The hinges and the screws and the power jack and used computer. Never buy a used computer.

 

Since I last checked in, Chyna and Prince died. I don’t know what to say. I enjoyed watching Chyna in the WWE. I liked a lot of Prince songs. Still do. I’ve heard more unreleased Prince songs than I’ve heard released Prince songs. I was really sad about Chyna being dead and then Prince dies and then Chyna becomes an afterthought after a few hours. I haven’t even thought about Prince yet.

 

I keep thinking about how hard it has to be when one is removed from reality and humanity. When you really need love and compassion and empathy but you can’t seem to get it at that moment. Prince was a superstar, a beloved musical legend. Chyna was a fallen star, a reality show reject who dabbled in pornography. And they both died, too young and alone. One from chosen isolation, one isolated by default.

 

I try to be kind to everybody now. I know what it’s like to need kindness and not be able to get it.

It’s Difficult

September 11th, 2015

I am moving in with my mom soon. I think I’ll be moving in with her and my stepfather next month. We want to get me moved in before the holidays start.

 

I have lived in Fordsville most of my life. I moved here when I was in kindergarden, then moved away for a year. I came back when I was in second grade and lived here all the way until I was nineteen when I moved into a WKU dorm. I lived in Bowling Green for three years. I lived in Los Angeles for about twenty months.

 

I will be leaving Fordsville, but more importantly I will be leaving this trailer which I have been in since 2003. When I got back from L.A., I moved in with my grandfather and my cousin. My cousin George got married and started a family. My grandfather passed away last year.

 

September used to be my favorite month. I always loved the weather cooling down and the leaves changing color on the trees. I loved the brisk feeling at night and I loved how pretty the days were without being indescribably hot.

 

I used to love September.

 

The last five weeks of my grandfather’s life was spent in a hospital. He was in pain and got surgery for a hernia that had been bothering him for some time. His body, which was already in decline, went through its’ final stages.

 

My mom’s birthday last year, we both sat with him in his room. He and I sang “Happy Birthday” to her. He sounded tired.

 

The hospital supplied us with beverages and snacks as we sat and watched our patriarch on his death bed. If you go to the hospital to visit someone and walk by a table that has snacks, cokes and coffee in a pot, don’t swipe a soft drink or anything like that because that stuff is reserved for families who are watching a family member in their final moments.

 

September is so beautiful during the day. I looked out the hospital room and saw the grass outside and it was so green and vibrant. The sky was the right kind of blue and the sun looked warm and comforting.

 

The week before he died, I went with Mary and Jon to a WWE show in Nashville. I still talked as if I thought he could pull through one more time. It was a good show. We sat in the third row. I yelled at the wrestlers but I didn’t swear because there were kids around. I swore during the main event because it ended in a disqualification due to outside interference.

 

Jon passed away June 1st. I think about him every day. My grandfather has been gone nearly a year now and I still think of him every day. I sit in the trailer I shared with him and I want to leave. I want a new start and I’m taking it.

 

The old me would be embarrassed at having to move back in with my mom. I feel like a dog that’s been kicked around in the street and I don’t even care. I’m lonely. Living with people will be an improvement. I’ll have my own side of the house. My own shower. My own kitchenette. Mom will want to me to be her “Dancing With The Stars” TV buddy but I can probably manage that. “The Bachelor/ette” is where I draw the line.

 

Nobody comes to see me. This is still his house to everybody, only he’s not here. I can’t afford to see everybody and everybody has their own lives and schedules and it’s harder to make time. Nobody wants to see the empty spaces. I understand but I’m still here.

 

I can’t wait for October. I can’t wait to leave.

 

#700, A Eulogy, A Love Letter

June 17th, 2015

This is the seven-hundredth post on the Kentucky Prophet website.

 

I have not been in a writing mode lately so I will take the time to share and link to Young Mary’s Record and the eulogy she wrote for her late boyfriend, Colonel Jon Hensley, which she read aloud at his funeral. It is funny, sad, touching and long-running like any goodbye worth bidding. No one knew him better over these last few years. Jon and Mary barely had two years together but they were closer than any couple I know. Tracy and Hepburn? Captain and Tennille? Jordan and Pippen? Amateurs, compared to Jon and Mary.

 

A few snippets from Mary’s eulogy, which you should read in full.

 

. . . he’d already been off the phone and heard me inside talking to the landlord and he knew just how my voice raised when I was happy and which one of my comments were genuine and which ones were fodder and he hadn’t even needed to come to the doorway.  “I can always read you,”  he told me.

 

The thing about Jon is – if he knew I had such an audience – he’d want me to have spent none of this time talking about him.  He’d have wanted me to tell you about how his mother and sister are the most beautiful and his daddy was the strongest.  He’d have wanted me to tell you about his Shooter Jennings and about how he is the most fearless  talented musician and the most loyal friend – He’d have wanted me to tell you about his Wanda Jackson – the first female to ever record rock n roll – the apple of his eye.  He would’ve wanted me to tell you that in 1980, Merle Haggard became the only non-jazz musician to be on the cover of DownBeat Jazz Magazine.   And how Dwight Yoakam is a revolutionary.  And how Marcy Playground Sex and Candy is the best pop song.  And how Bob Dylan did not suck on Letterman and if you thought so, you just don’t get it.

 

I laughed yesterday here in this funeral home and I saw a woman look at me, confused.  I could almost read her expression – wasn’t that the 30 year old widow? I worried immediately.  Like every other time, I’d found myself uncomfortable in social world, I immediately wished for Jon.

 

 

Wrestling, Music and Love

June 7th, 2015

I would like to tell you a story about my friend. I met him sometime early in 2013, when he went on a date with my other friend Mary. It may have been their first date for all I know. He became Mary’s boyfriend and I became his friend as much as I was a friend to Mary.

 

For someone I only saw every few weeks at best, I felt like he knew me better than most. He respected my ability as a singer and songwriter and encouraged me to keep at it. I always felt like it was helpful to have someone believe in my work, and Jon and Mary were two such believers.

 

Mary and Jon. Two true believers.

Mary and Jon. Two true believers.

 

For Christmas ’13, I got him an Elvis Presley bootleg on vinyl that I had. He was a major Elvis fan, borderline expert. He had King-ly muttonchops, had just about any Elvis record he could dig up and even dressed like a denim-clad King. He loved the King, he loved Bob Dylan and had a Dylan-ish mop of curly hair. He hated to be considered a hipster. I understand. Hipsters want to look like they don’t care how they look, Jon cared VERY MUCH how he looked, and it showed.

 

Truth be told, he was a bit of a retro-hipster. I’m sorry, Jon. Please don’t get mad.

 

The summer of ’13, we went to a TNA Wrestling TV taping in Louisville. We sat through a sweaty show with a half-capacity crowd just to get a glimpse of Hulk Hogan. After the show, we drove downtown Louisville trying to figure out where Hogan’s hotel was. I can’t remember where we ended up but while Mary and I moped in the lobby, Jon caught a glimpse of Hogan eating in the lobby restaurant and we went in there to have a few drinks and muster the courage to go bother the Hulkster.

 

I heard Jon say something about Sprite to the bartender, and offered to get me one. I said yes, not knowing the Sprite was one-half of a drink. I nursed it and after about a half-hour we got the courage to go bother the Hulkster at his table in the corner, where he was sitting with his daughter Brooke and Wayne from “The Wonder Years” for some strange reason. We mumbled to him like starstruck ninnies and he took a picture with us.

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A few months later, Jon and I had an argument. I have no idea why. We had watched an episode of TNA Wrestling. The one where Hulk Hogan quit and Dixie Carter begged him to stay and clung to his leg like a child. It was so bad and we were in such a bad mood we turned on each other and had words. It was ugly. We made up and I later blamed TNA for being such a terrible show that it almost broke up our friendship.

 

I played him Jethro Tull. He hated it. He played me Bob Dylan. I still don’t know about Dylan. Maybe I’m the dickhead because I prefer Tull to Dylan. I like Tull but not as much as he liked Dylan.

 

 

We exchanged wrestling-related gifts over the next year. I got a pair of Stardust gloves and an autographed picture of Carlos Colon and Abdullah The Butcher battling each other in a Puerto Rican ring, both men covered in blood. I gave him a copy of insider newsletter The Wrestling Observer from his birth month and year (August ’83). I played him some of the songs I had worked on recently and he was always supportive. He always texted me while on the road with his client and friend, Shooter Jennings. Mary always traveled with him, selling merch and keeping her manager boyfriend sane. Long before she began traveling with them, I tried to get her to watch “Frank Zappa’s 200 Motels”, a silly movie with the motto “touring can make you crazy”. While the constant touring could be difficult and frustrating, they never let it break them. The world did not degenerate into a two-dimensional room filled with one-dimensional people like in Zappa’s movie.

 

Jon did not make me less ambivalent about Dylan but he turned me on an album called “Frisco Mabel Joy” by a songwriter called Mickey Newbury (d. 2002). If you’ve seen “The Big Lebowski” you will know a song he wrote for Kenny Rogers called “Just Walked In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)”. I could not get him to enjoy one second of Jethro Tull but I convinced him to give a listen to Alex Harvey (d. 1982) who was the leader of The Sensational Alex Harvey Band.

Jon passed away June 1st, 2015. Worst Monday ever. The funeral was Friday. I saw him in the casket. Mary could not look. I can’t say I blame her. He looked good in there. Even had his shades on. Typical Jon. His family closed the casket out of respect to Mary. After the service in Central City and the burial ceremony in nearby Greenville, the sky cried a long rain for a Muhlenberg boy who made good and left too soon.

 

Life is ridiculous and random and has no plan. If there is a God, then God’s plan is an eternal mystery to its’ followers no matter what meaning we may attach to events. No matter whether you are religious, spiritual, atheist, agnostic or in the music business, just know that we’re only here a short time and no matter what we say we end up taking the narrow view on things.

 

He’s gonna meet Frank Zappa and Freddie Mercury where he’s going and I’m jealous.

 

 

 

Some Dave Cloud Blurbs

February 20th, 2015

I didn’t have a lot to write the other day about the passing of Dave Cloud. It took me by surprise and I think it surprised quite a few other people. I don’t have a lot more to say that others haven’t already said.

 

That being said, here a few different recollections and reminisces of and about Dave and his Gospel of Power. They provide links to other Cloud-articles of note, including the one-shot radio show that Dave hosted in Nashville that hosted where he read stories in dirty magazines, gave advice to callers and sang a touching version of “The Crystal Ship”.

 

Nashville was a crazy fun place to go a while ago. You could go to Springwater and see Dave Cloud and The Mattoid play together. Now, Dave has passed away and Ville of the Mattoid is back in Finland and I don’t know who I envy less. Kidding.

 

Veterans’ Day

November 11th, 2014

(I would rather scoop out my eyes with a melonballer than attempt a follow up to the blog I posted previous to this one. )

 

My grandfather Alva Farmer Jr. was an Army veteran serving during the Korean Conflict. At his funeral, seven military men presented our family with an American flag and performed a 21-gun salute. I still have one of the empty discharges from the funeral. My grandfather was given the ultimate respect in death and for that I am thankful for the solemn duty that our military perform, active and retired. They take the funeral procession seriously. I felt an immense sense of pride as I sat there in front of my grandfather’s final resting place.

 

That was six weeks ago.

 

I have not been back to the gravesite since that day. I have struggled with my emotions a lot since then. I will go Tuesday to see his resting place. There will be some grass over the plot, hopefully. It has been a rainy fall. My grandfather died on a beautiful warm September day. It wasn’t fair to look at him and see him in his final days and then look out the window of his hospital room and see how beautiful and sunny the world looked. He turned himself away from the window.

 

It’s a selfish thought but I keep having it: I need him to be here more than he needs to be gone. Which is wrong, 100 percent. Everybody has their time and Alva Farmer Jr’s time was September 27th or 28th, on or around midnight. He had been in the hospital for thirty-six straight days, battling a variety of ailments. He went in for a successful operation, was released after a week only to return that same night never to leave again. In that time, he battled intestinal infection, a failing liver and kidneys.

 

One thing I learned was that when I first went to see him in the hospital, I would sort-of peek into the other rooms as I walked to his room. Then I would see him in his condition and I never did that again. The gravity of the situation was so much that I smartened up. Even though the doors were wide open, looking felt intrusive.

 

How many times I had to put on scrubs and gloves before entering his room. How many times I had to fight to not visibly bawl in front of him. How many times I expected to get “the call”. How easy it was to take “the call” when I got it. Mom called me in the middle of the night, waking me out of a good sleep. My mom and aunt kept a bedside vigil for the last few weeks. My grandfather’s two daughters. No sons. I am the oldest male Farmer. I am thirty-six.

 

I have to talk about the last days. But I also have to talk about as many days as I can before that I remember. He got my car ready for California in 2001 by having the catalytic converters taken out, which meant they would not pass an California emissions test. (this is where the smiley face emoticon goes). He took me and my cousin George four-wheeling so many times when we were little kids. George liked muddin’, me not so much. We would have to check ourselves for turkey lice, chiggers and ticks. I had a few, George always had more.

 

2013 Fordsville Days. We watched the country band play on the bandstand across the field from our house. In the past we hated that bandstand, but it was nice this time. It reminded me of old times, when he would take me to Rosine when he wanted to watch bluegrass bands. He had his oxygen tank. There’s still a warning sticker on the front door warning “NO SMOKING, OXYGEN!” but all the oxygen equipment is gone. His bed and comfy chair have been moved out. My house is emptier.

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I find it easy to cry these days. My grandfather rarely did. One time was when my mom got married in May. That was a special occasion, naturally. Everybody cried except me. I thought they cried because they were happy, and sure they were. But I’ve been to a wedding since then and now realize tears come for a lot of reasons. Here is my grandfather the day of my mom’s wedding. I have better pictures of him but I’ll be damned if I’m sharing them with you. He wasn’t expecting the camera when this picture was taken. Looking back, that day might have been his last good day on Earth. From then on, he fought the good fight and scraped every bit of happiness out of life he could but the fight took a lot out of him.

 

I truly believe he never wasted a day of his life.

Yet Another G.D. Open Letter To Miley Cyrus

July 25th, 2014

Dear Miley,

 

I know by now you have to be tired of these stupid open letters but this time I’m not going to tell you that you are ruining society with your g-string and lewd dancing. I’m writing to tell you about a fan of yours who is no longer with us. Believe me when I tell you, this guy was your biggest fan.

 

I’m talking of course about the Estonian Thunderfrog, professional wrestler and strongest creature in all the Baltic States.

 

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Miley, I know that you probably don’t watch wrestling. You’re very busy and don’t have to the time to check out wacky independent wrestling in the Philly area, but Thunderfrog was totally your biggest fan. He loved you so much. Thunderfrog loved drinking buttermilk, eating horsemeat and Miley Cyrus. These things gave him strength and made him very successful and popular with the fans.

 

 

 

 

Thunderfrog did not take ill. Rather, he was brought to a premature end by a creature known to some as “Deucalion” at a Chikara wrestling show over the previous weekend. The loss of Thunderfrog has hit his three best friends (the Latvian Proud Oak, the Lithuanian Snowtroll and Jervis Cottonbelly, World’s Sweetest Man) . . . well, like a wrecking ball.

 

Nothing can bring back the Estonian Thunderfrog, but his memory will always remain with those of us who had the pleasure to watch him in action and/or interact with him at shows. Miley, do you remember when the great country singer Ray Price died and you gave him a  “RIP” shoutout on your Instagram? Remember how a bunch of your young, ignorant fans were like “OMG wut who’s he nobody LOL!” The loss of Thunderfrog is a Ray Price moment for me. Not everybody knew who he was but the ones who did knew what would be missed.

 

If you could, Miley, say a prayer for the Estonian Thunderfrog. Perhaps even dedicate a song to him at your next concert. He considered you a princess. He considered every girl a princess. He loved dancing and fun and being happy. Every time I hear one of your songs, I will think of him and be happy.

 

 

 

You know, I don’t even think he got to hear that “Come Get It Bae” thing you did with Pharrell.