Gun violence is rampant, and other than restricting access to firearms — an absolute nonstarter — there’s simply nothing we can do about it. Not a single sensible answer exists. Which is why we have to abandon sensibility and latch on to some good ol’ fashioned American hardscrabble ingenuity.
As Abraham stood ready to sacrifice Isaac upon God’s command, America must now willingly sacrifice its young on the altar of its dedication to the Second Amendment. Not metaphorically. Literally.
The natural side effect of easy, constitutionally guaranteed access to firearms is clear: lots of people’s children are destined to die…
America, we’re in a full-fledged public health crisis. We skipped straight past partial fledging on this one.
One out of every three people in the US suffers from obesity, and another third of us is overweight.
The final third is made up of people who’ve clearly never tried Costco pizza. That stuff is delicious, friends. And only $9.99 for a whole pie? Unfettered access to that kind of deal is surely worth the membership fee, cutthroat parking, and impending gastric bypass you’ll need from a steady diet of Costco pizza.
By the way, did you know you can purchase gastric…
My dog, Lemmy, is obsessed with flies.
It’s beautiful these days in Northern Virginia, where Lemmy resides. To that end, I find myself working from our balcony and leaving the door open. I enjoy the fresh air. And the constant roar of Reagan National Airport reminds me of a simpler time when great winged beasts filled the skies with hellfire and fury. Sometimes, I simultaneously play the fife and lute to augment the ambiance. It isn’t easy, but that’s the level of authenticity I bring to imaginary scenarios.
Having the door open allows all creatures great and small to wander…
Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg)
Thank you so much! When I first published it (maybe 2 years ago, elsewhere), I wrote it under the joking pen name "Johnny Quick," just to further nod to the inspiration. Glad you enjoyed it, and thanks for the follow!
“Is it just me, or is that really stupid?”
The lady gestured broadly toward the six adults chatting across the dog park. I had been thinking the same thing and found myself catapulted onto my feet like I’d been swept up at a tent revival. The open invitation compelled me to commiserate with my newly-found kindred spirit.
Minutes before, a little girl in that oblivious group’s “care” had met me at the gate. Her grabby little mitt thrust through the chain-link holes as she yelled “DOGGIE!” at my little buddy. I’ll give her credit; Lemmy is indeed a doggie. But…
Police have a tough job.
It’s not a particularly high-paying career, especially starting out. You’re expected to deal with people who dislike and distrust you for no good reason, other than that you’re an authority figure. The work is physically demanding and mentally stressful, and there’s a chance you’ll get shot in the line of duty.
Sorry, did I say police? This was supposed to be my description for teacher. I’ve been doing this for 26 years, and I “accidentally” drew one rhetorical weapon when I meant to grab another. But I guess this works pretty well for cops, too.
I’ve done it. I have invented a machine that gives you the power to change your race.
I know! I am as surprised as you are, given my complete lack of scientific and technical knowledge.
But now, with the mere push of a button, you will no longer remain confined to the skin color, hair texture, or facial features assigned by your DNA. Please mail my Nobel Prize and large cash award at your earliest convenience.
Want to try it out?
I’m an American, and that means a few things.
It means I’m self-made. Everything in my life was crafted from three simple ingredients: my two hands and a lot of hard work. I won’t take any guff from a communist like you who relies on “big government” for sustenance. If you don’t like the way I live, then fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
My horses? Self-fucking-made, chief. I personally tracked down and bred two wild horses to create my own horse. Once my pony was old enough to ride, we galloped into town — which, incidentally…
If you drive through the coastal plains of Texas, you’ll see a few standard images. Cows behind barbed wire fences. Gas station and barbecue restaurant combos. And around this time of year, you’ll see young suburban families desperately pleading with little Ambreighlynne to LOOK AT THE GOD DAMNED CAMERA as they trespass to get the locally coveted “Toddler Among Bluebonnets” photo.
The state flower of Texas is the bluebonnet. It’s a bright blue wildflower that grows in friendly territory, such as busy highway medians and other people’s land.
Listen here, y’all: do not pick bluebonnets under any circumstances.
“Imagine” is a catchy tune about the pitfalls of religion and materialism, written by a guy who got filthy rich selling jangly three-minute pop songs about love and walruses and shit.
That sentence is a good summation of my bitterness as of late. I’m having a hard time enjoying much of anything, even ubiquitous peace anthems by former Beatles.
I turn on the TV. How’d some lousy sitcom actor get to be famous while I am sitting here in obscurity? I drive to the store. …