Category Archives: god

Adrian Peterson and Led Zeppelin walk into a bar…

By all accounts (and there were exactly two, which was actually pretty good for the spanse of time), my Great Great Grandfather Lawrence Neal was a surly bastard. He was always angry, and he had one good eye. He married way above his station, as all the Neal men do. His wife, Lavina, came from a pretty good bloodline of entrepreneurs and soldiers. Lawrence was drafted by the wheel the week the war ended. The week the war ended!

A horse kicked him in the leg, leaving him infirm and probably in agony, alone on his big farm for a few days before he died of his injuries.

My Great Grandfather Carlton was a lumber man, putting his sons to work in same. This was in Brookville, PA. No one has ever heard of it. I ask people from Western PA if they had but they never do. I never met him or any of my great grandparents (or even my grandparents), but if one were to judge by the shifty, drifty lives of his sons, he was a shitty parent. He probably drank a lot. I know his sons did. And their sons. I won’t go into much detail here, but there’s been lots of sadness in my family. Infidelity. Abuse. You know, stuff NFL players do.

My dad and mom drank a lot. This I know for sure. And I can say without a doubt that, while being raised by alcoholics can inform your decisions during your formative years, it doesn’t make you put that stuff in you. YOU do that.

I have no sympathy for Adrian Peterson.  He must have thought that fame and fortune meant he didn’t have to practice birth control. Even the real Vikings that Robert Plant sang about knew more about birth control than AP seems to. In fact, in the first studio run-throughs of “The Immigrant Song”, he sang a since-discarded third verse about that very topic. Lost to posterity.

He shows himself (AP) to be a careless hedonist who probably thinks he’ll never have to pay for his boot-knockin’ ways. Well, Robert Plant probably did, too, but he was British. And white. Wait a minute……..

Oh, wait. I was talking about beating the shit out of his children and neglecting the other kids he fathered. He told the kid to get the “switch” because that’s what he learned from Lawrence Hilton Jacobs in that dreary Jackson Family bio-pic. But he didn’t have to hit that kid. It’s not that he learned that behavior. it’s that he never learned what it meant to be a real father. Now he’s tweeting this prattle:

I ask again: What god abandons his children?

I don’t drink. And I REALLY don’t drink in front of my kids. It’s a choice I made, as an adult, not to put alcohol in my system in their presence. You’d….ha…I get it…”Presence”….You’d think a fine college like Oklahoma would have classes on this to prepare their gladiators before they go on to professionally gladiate.

He had a choice. He made the choice to make his kid go get a stick to have himself beaten with. That takes a little time. Go ahead. Time your kids doing it. How much time do you have to ponder what it is that’s about to happen? It’s not impulse. It’s not learned. It’s a CHOICE.

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Those who cannot do…AND cannot teach.

It all started in the summer of 1991. (cue harmonica music)

I was “Reet Petite and how d’ya” do with my government job cashing unemployment checks, waiting for my next raise. I had been fired the previous year from my lucrative position as a software/hardware salesperson at Ingram Micro. I was playing in a band, delving, in a pinch, into the powdered remnants of my long-abandoned Slim Fast regimen. And somewhere within the din of this self-made miasma, the phone rang. It was my old friend Dan Lewis.

He had “had to” “refuse” an “opportunity” to teach music at a South Buffalo Catholic elementary school, but he suggested I might be a good “fit”. That little prankster. He had assumed that his lack of proper accreditation would make the interview process futile. That made perfect sense. However, as I spoke to the nun in charge on the phone (I have forgotten her name, but for this story, let us refer to her as “Nunzilla”.), it became clear that this would not be an impediment. I think they just needed a warm body to spell the “real” teachers for an hour or so on Tuesdays or Thursdays. And I did what any college graduate with an Associates Degree in Music Performance from Villa Maria College was expected to do. Teach music.

I took the job. I took the first step toward fulfillment of my destiny. To change young lives. To transcend the banality of the elementary school teachers I remembered. Miss Nixon with the gray beehive, neck mole, and predilection for irrelevant Americana. Miss Mohr, a stern yet bewildered woman with the countenance of a very unamused Industrial Revolution-era matriarch. I remember how unlucky I felt as our 7th grade chorus endured the verbal derision of our peers as we traipsed through a tepid rendition of “A Little Bit o luck”.

There’s the Casio (a tiny keyboard that fit in a closet and had its own speakers – she called it the “piano”). There’s your desk. This is your room. You can design it the way you wish.

I chose to keep thing fairly austere. Stark, in fact. I eschewed the heavily thumb-tack-holed array of light cardboard half-notes and dancing G-clefs.  I jettisoned the 5-stick chalk holder and decided instead to write two simple words on the blackboard. “Rhythm” and “Melody”. What was I thinking? I was thinking the thoughts of a man who had never been in a room with two children, much less 22, at a time. And Nunzilla led the polite 1st graders into their seats, instructing them to behave for the new teacher. The new teacher could swear that the entire lot of them could literally smell the fear coursing through his blood. As soon as the nun left, the muttering began. And I sat there. Paralyzed. A fake. A fraud.

A year?

Then, as the din subsided, a sweet toe-headed boy approached my desk. Was he going to ask me about music? Was he going to ask me about my experiences in music? My education? Was he going to tell me how cool I was?

“Mr. Neal, what does the INRI on Jesus’ cross mean?”

This one.

“I don’t know.”

And as deadpan as a six year old boy can muster, “It means ‘I’m nailed right in…‘” and he returned to his seat.  I honestly don’t think I heard another word from him the whole year. That was the first day.

I taught every grade from 1-8. I tried everything. Teaching rhythms, having everyone try clapping along to my terrible piano playing. Singing the songs in the tattered old songbooks that they had no doubt been used to from years past. I took attendance. Why? I graded them. On what? At a loss, I resorted to what Miss Nixon did when I was that age. I made them sing. We sang “Kookaburra”.

Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree
Merry, merry king of the bush is he
Laugh, Kookaburra! Laugh, Kookaburra!
Gay your life must be

Each and every time we sang it, the coda was greeted with snickering, from grade 1 to grade 8 (yes, I had 8th graders singing Kookaburra). And after a while, the best part of my day became pretending I had no idea what anyone was laughing at.

We sang “My Favorite Things”.

….and then I don’t feel…so…bad…

And as the year went on, I would start sneering the last few words out, as if I was making fun of the composers to their faces, which I had totally earned the right to do. When the kids would make it through a song a few times without anyone getting hurt, they would ask if I could invite Nunzilla in to hear it. They dutifully sang, with their best posture, she would complement them. But without fail, she would turn around before departing and give me this combination smirk/glare, like she knew I was a fake, and she knew that I knew that she knew I was a fake.

I got in trouble. Once I was trying to impart the history of rock and roll to the apathetic 8th graders. I felt I was in my element. Hip, speaking their language. Snapping my fingers. I sat on the front of the desk like those cool teachers we all liked back in the day. I could be their buddy, their confidant. I figured some of them were getting the shit kicked out of them at home. This was South Buffalo, after all. I could be their refuge. To Sir With Love and all that. Feeling self-satisfied, I went home. There was a message on my answering machine from Nunzilla, telling me that some of the female students were upset because of the proximity of my groin to their faces. Could I please remain behind the desk?

I was a terrible teacher, and the guilt I felt every day kept me up at night. How laughable that I was thinking I could be the spark that could ignite their love for harmony, The Beatles, Stravinsky, I had momentary dreams that I could stage a giant extravaganza featuring all the grades performing in harmony with the others.  A seminal music program to rival any private school in the state. The truth was that I could barely get them through “Erie Canal”.  For the more advanced grades I tried to teach actual theory, but that was a waste of time. Their half-notes (especially the male students) tended to look like little penises. Why were they laughing as they handed them in? And how was I to grade if every single person in the room was waiting for my pants to split?

The highlight of my experience was when I was trying to get the 3rd graders to pay attention, and I shouted “GODDAMMIT SHUT UP!” And needless to say, there was a message on my machine when I got home, telling me that swearing and taking the lord’s name in vain was not to be tolerated. So the next day I meekly apologized to everyone. “Sorry, kids. I fucked up…”

I didn’t really say that last thing.

What a year it was. I wanted to quit very badly, but I’m a real bulldog when it comes to avoiding being seen as a quitter (which will come in handy should any of you decide to include me in your future poker games) and those kids needed me. I think the last thing we did was a talent show which lasted something like 4 hours because I let everyone do anything they wanted to. And everyone wanted to dance to Paula Abdul. Every class. Every girl. Over and over. “Opposites Attract”. About 10 times. I was a terrible teacher. Nunzilla pointed to her watch and gave me the sneer.

Nunzilla said that the music program would be discontinued the next school year. I had destroyed music. No more music. And as I walked past the hand-made “Why God Hates Abortion” posters the 5th graders had crafted, with their Swede-porn-red depictions of what looked like borscht but was, in truth, an array of aborted fetuses, I hung my head in shame, ruing the day that I said yes to this pristine example of the Peter Principle writ large.

The next fall, I went to pick our drummer up on the way to practice and as I pulled up, a kid from the 2nd grade class stepped up to my window in the middle of a street hockey game. He said “Mr. Neal, you’re way better than the music teacher we have this year…”

When a dirty man of the cloth says he “needs help”…

…he’s really saying “I need help hiding my tracks better…” because if he never gets caught, he’ll never seek help, right? All these pious perverts are the same. Do what you want with your cock-n-balls, but stop telling other people how to live, asshole.

NOVEMBER 8–A Catholic priest charged with stealing $83,000 from his Massachusetts parish spent a large portion of the money on his pornography habit, according to police.

Rev. Keith LeBlanc, 59, was removed earlier this year from his pastor’s post at St. John the Baptist Church in the face of an investigation by the Archdiocese of Boston. That review (and a subsequent police probe) determined that LeBlanc used church funds to pay for online porn and pay-per-view adult movies ordered from the St. John’s rectory…(more here)

And here’s another story about these boy-touching fuck-ups.

Just a small minority…

Pious perverts planning to pulverize prepubescent pelvi are plentiful.

SEPTEMBER 13–An undercover FBI sting has netted a Lutheran Church pastor who sought to arrange a Red Roof Inn liaison with an 11-year-old girl he was planning to offer “sexual training,” The Smoking Gun has learned.

More here…

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