All You Need is Love, and a Cat…

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Please note: PdxDragonfly will be changing to Mulligan’s Place

I never wanted a dog. They are icky, flea bitten, sloppy tongued, barkaholics. Yet three of them implanted themselves in my life in spite of my objections. Because my mom loved dogs. Therefore I had to have a dog she said. A cultured (expensive) dog. Fortunately we didn’t have the funds to satisfy her fantasy at that time. What wandered into our lives instead, almost as if intentioned, was a flea bitten, sloppy tongued, barkafrolic, dirt encrusted stray.

Mom said the dingy little tramp had to go to the pound. Dad had the Gift of Noah: he loved animals. Therefore the dog became a Mulligan. I named him Dingy. To remind my mom of the dog’s unique heritage. She insisted the dog stay outside, in spite of the intense bath I gave him. Mom was sure the dog would howl at night, therefore giving her the excuse to pound him. Of course Dingy quickly learned to stay quiet and out of site until I lifted him into my bedroom. I wondered that his ability to hide and stay quiet seemed eerily inborn.

We got away with the ruse, even after Dad left for one of his frequent business trips. Inevitably Dingy and I got caught hanging out. He would have been taken to the pound that day except Dad chose that particular day to surprise us all by coming home early. Mom immediately started her poison tongue strategy, her Theda-Bera self fling onto the bed, etc etc.

After several hours of conversations behind closed bedroom doors, Dad gave in to Dingy having to go, but not to the pound. They sent my dog along with my youngest brother, Douglas Corrigan Mulligan, out into the San Berdoo desert to our “gold mine” to guard it. Dad had some prospective investors coming to visit the mine and he wanted to keep it “safe”. Upon years of reflection, I can now conclude Dad wanted to enhance the illusion of a valuable investment.

Doug and Dingy stayed in one of the three trailers for at least a week before it happened. Before the investors came. Before the salted, cursed mine could prove productivity. Doug and Dingy walked their daily route around the encampment, in the daytime, looking off to the mountains, so anyone from afar could view the mine being guarded. Which is why he didn’t see the rattler. Which was lying, uncoiled, probably ill, and didn’t rattle out a warning.

In the brief eternity as Doug set his leading foot in the sand and the snake struck, Dingy leaped between my brother and the snake. The snake’s venomous fangs struck with such force that they buried in Dingy’s skull. In the few minutes it took Doug to kill the snake, pull its fangs out of Dingy, my dog died.

The newspapers in San Bernardino had a field day with the headlines of how a small dog saved his owner’s life. My dog. I spent several weeks in my bedroom, crying alone. For which my mom was grateful for me out of her hair. She insisted I come out for dinner. She then shamed me for my swollen, red eyes. And for not being grateful, in her thinking, that my brother’s life was spared. What child stands a chance of verbally defending themselves against Cruella DeVille?

Years later, when I married my mom, in male form, I was gifted with a female German Shepard, which I named Zera, in honor of my hero Zena, who in my dreams often rescued me from my physically abusive husband. In real life Zera turned “vicious” to my husband, but was loving to me. One day, as she slept on the floor next to my side of the bed where I lay sobbing from one of hubby’s slap fests, (his form of exercise), he came into the room having decided I hadn’t had enough “discipline”. Zera reacted before hubby could reach me. Snarling and growling, she drove him from the bedroom. I closed the door immediately and loved on her for a good hour.

The next day she was gone. Of course. Hubby donated her as a guard dog to a junk yard. He took me to see her one time. She barked and growled as if she didn’t recognize me. I was so upset I didn’t realize she was growling at hubby, who stood just behind me. I cried for several days until hubby threatened to punch me out if he caught me crying again.

Eventually we had a plethora of animals that people dropped off, at night in the dark, in our cul de sac. One, a puppy cross between a poodle and a cockapoo became my puppy. Sadly she was killed by a rock thrown by someone to quiet her from barking. I never owned another dog after that day. Because I decided I was bad luck to dogs.

But now I have Cat. Who reminds me daily that he is in charge. Who growled like a cougar when three men tried to break into my apartment. They fell over themselves running away. Who has now grown into a 16.5 pound muscular Bengal who is finally learning to control his huge claws and teeth without inoculating me. But insists on smelling the feet of anyone who nervously visits us. Bengals rarely purr, don’t cuddle as a rule, don’t like to be treated like a kitty cat. But he slept on my chest once when we wound up sleeping in my car one dark night. Kept me warm. Saved my sanity more times than I can count.

I don’t need to be reminded to hug him every time I can get away with it. Have you hugged your Noah’s Gift today?

Mountain Man…

My father was a mountain man. 

He knew the secrets of animals, 

like where bears hid when they slept. 

He took my brother

and me up into the mountains

to pull cascara from bark and trout from streams.

 

At night we howled with coyotes, listened 

to the moon. 

By day I clung to his bouncing shoulder 

as the cat slipped sideways

down the mountain just barely ahead

 of exploding dynamite. I cried

when they killed my friends: Doug Fir 

and Hem Lock. Father said we had to 

pay for mom’s apartment. 

My father seldom cried 

except once 

when I drank poison. I was a child

and didn’t know

my mother didn’t want a daughter. 

We left the mountains forever 

the year my brother died.

Cancer robs the dignity from man. 

Father cried inside his eyes.

 

I sat beside my brother’s bed biting my hand to feel the pain. 

Wild apples bloom in the foothills. I miss 

the smell of the mountain pines. 

I loved my father

​which is what I should have told him 

when his mind still recognized my voice.

Mother Christmas…

I wrote this poem originally for my Mother-in-Law who was the kindest woman

in a very difficult time in my life. Today I dedicate this poem

to all the wonderful lady friends/mothers I have been fortunate to call my friends:

Mother Bonnie, Mother-in-Law/ Jaqui, mother-in-law to my son/Aunt Clarice,

Aunt Lucky, and my Grandmother. I miss them all terribly. Because of them all

I see myself as a better person.

The aroma of mountain pines

fills the room, mixing with cinnamon

and fresh baked bread. Huckleberry pies

and black cap jelly line the cooling shelves

of your sweet kitchen. We sip amber coffee

from tenuous cups while you dry my tears

with stories, easing my pain, and silence the wounds

your son inflicted as he taught me his vision

of love. You said he learned it

from his father. We take care of our own.

I lay the afghan around your crippled shoulders

not knowing the pain you hid from all of us.

The aroma of your Tabu blends

with the scent of pines. Then

I wake up and remember:

you took Christmas with you

when you died.

Listening…

The rain pours

and the jungle erupts

in silence

as the anthropologist

waits for the warming sun

to dry the leaves of revelation. Should

man consider asking the ape

to define love? 

I turn and listen to my soul: it cannot lie.

My mother was a nurse, she knew 

I had the strangeness

like my father’s sister

who giggled at her own wedding

who taught me how to eat pear cactus

who stayed up all night and sewed my skirts

who taught me how to find my way home in the dark

who couldn’t balance a cup of tea

who showed me how to mark a trail

who said things backwards

who talked with tree sprites and animals

who embarrassed

the family. My mother said

she loved me 

when she gave me ant poison

and said it was a new kind of candy.

Stories From The Moon…

In the time before the Speaking

Before the People stood divided

when the mountains kept their secrets

the People came and chose together.

This was the time when gods brought presents

in the time of new rememberings

the People came and chose together

Then the mountains brought the burnings.

When the burning had no hunger

the People came and chose together

when the hunger had no burning

from the mountains came new rivers.

The People came and chose together

when rivers gave the grasses meaning

grasses gave the People wanting

wanting gave new words and feelings.

From the mountains came new people

in the time of new rememberings

when the words became two meanings

when the People lost their ways.

Hasta La Bye Bye…

The bad news is that bad news is everywhere, from our planet’s health down to we Homo Sap saps’ health. The good news is that as long as we still draw breath, we have a fighting chance. ie: it aint over till the fluffy lady sings. And there are so many questions with variegated possibilities for answers.

The biggest question on my mind right now, is why is the George Floyd trial, he died May 25, 2020 ) is taking so long to resolve? There are probably several answers to that question, depending on your location on the universal color, cultural and monetary wheel. The question is what answer would satisfy the nation, the majority of our citizens? What is the truth of this despicable event?

The underlying truth in my mind is that it is not EX-officer Derek Chauvin who is the only one on trial here, but the increase of deadly force by other law enforcement officers which is coming to light. I don’t believe ALL police are guilty of this, nor even the majority. Our judicial system decides the death penalty in this country, not our police. Which brings us to the question of whether or not Chauvin’s actions were premeditated. According to Google’s online dictionary, “the killing of a human being by a sane person, with intent, malice aforethought (prior intention to kill the particular victim or anyone who gets in the way), and with no legal excuse or authority. In those clear circumstances, this is first degree murder or Murder One.

So now the tricky part becomes did Chauvin deliberatly set out to kill George Floyd “accidentally”? One wonders whether the motion in Chauvin’s movements (tightening his arm, etc) and the illegal position under which Floyd was placed on his stomach is cause to speculate as to whether the kill was deliberate. According to Derek Hawkins on May 29,2020, reported by the Washington Post, the former Minneapolis police officer charged with murder in the death of George Floyd shot one suspect, was involved in the fatal shooting of another, and received at least 17 complaints during his nearly two decades with the department, according to police records and archived news reports. Twenty years of purported violence.

While it is for the trial jury to determine Chauvin’s guilt in the death of George Floyd, one can only hope the reverberations of a guilty verdict will cause major reform waves throughout the police departments of the United States at the very least. Anyone that survived twelve grades of schooling understands the effects of being bullied by a band of broken brothers into not “telling” on them. Perhaps that is the level at which we must begin to end the violence in our great democracy. We must do more than words. Like a successful marriage, we must all work together to achieve it.

Again, I do not believe ALL police men and women are guilty of racism, deliberate violence, nor extreme violation of their Oath of Honor:

On my honor, I will never
Betray my integrity, my character
Or the public trust.
I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions. I will always maintain the highest ethical standards and uphold the values of my community, and the agency I serve.

The good news is that the fluffy lady hasn’t finished singing yet…

Sisterhood of the Rose

After two months off from writing and painting, I feel refreshed after having forgiven myself for such luxurious expenditure of time. I found my book of poems, written originally in 1971 or thereabouts, dusted them off, and am cleaning up what I had considered mind blurbs of the time. The book is titled “Rainshadow, Book of the Dead”. So named because death can mean much more than a physical parting from this life. Because death can also be a good thing. Consider flowers, leaves, greenery that die out in the Fall which then lays nourishment on the ground for Spring to gift our eyes and nose with Hope Springing Eternal. With a freshly nourished connection to this life. Today’s poem is Sisterhood of the Rose.

My daughter once asked me

why I never gave up on myself. I cannot lie.

I gave up many times:

When fear drove me through the snow.

When math kept me from flowing into college.

When I didn’t live up to my mom’s impossible dreams.

When my ex slapped my face into his expectations and warned

he would take my children away from me

if I left him.

When my daughter lay in the hospital with needles feeding her arms

and life dripped from crystal bags

I became a phoenix

rising from the ashes of someone else’s fire.

My fears are snow and ice, not sacrifice like Iphigenia.

I write simple poems, not brilliant speeches like Mrs. King.

I worked in Love Library, mourned the Library of Alexandria.

I wash memories off dishes, remembering the pies of Mother Christmas.

I make compromises, not war.

When I feel insignificant in the presence of Eleanor Roosevelt, Boudicca, Trieu Thi Trinh, Mother Teresa, Artemisia, Fu Hao, Helen Keller, Ahhotep, Coretta Scott King, Lysistrata, Joan of Arc, Queen Mauve, Iphigenia, Queen Tamara, Cleopatra, or all the Sisterhood of the Rose,

I realize if I deny my connection to them

they will have lived for nothing

but themselves.

Wonderlust…

Before I receive a hundred spelling corrections on the title, I know that wanderlust describes a being with itchy feet. I can’t say person because I once had two cats, Nip and Tuck, that walked over a hundred miles (in a little over a month) to find me after my mom made me give them to a neighbor when we moved away. They arrived disheveled, skinny, raw pawed and incessantly meowing apparently to tell me all about their adventure. Dad overruled this time and said they could stay. Said-mom’s eyes turned black, as they usually did on the rare occasions Dad took my side. Because cats are good wanderers and wonderers by nature.

Perhaps we Homo Sap saps should try a little more wonderlust in our recreational menus. The only physical limitations on wonderlust are time outs for food, sleep, bodily necessities. With all the wonderful photos of different parts of the world and the universe available on the internet, even those who feel a limited imagination can go anywhere. And if one is afraid of heights, caves, swimming, flying, no worries. We can even resolve political conflagrations by inventing any scenario we choose. Which seems to me a superior paradigm to wounding and killing people in reality. The only drawback is in letting the wonderlust become reality in one’s mind and then behaving as if it were true in real life. Like in political venues. Into which I once wandered mentally. I did not stay long.

I see politics like interactions with Cat. Because we only speak a few words of each other’s language. I communicate with simple words like food? snuggle? scratch ears? Cat’s communication is more sophisticated. To make a plea for food, he sits in front of his food dish staring at the empty plate while his tail rhythmically sweeps complicated patterns. Ear scratches involve rubbing his ears against my hands until I get the idea, resolving into more complex bodily contortions if I ignore said rubbings. Snuggling is indicated by plopping his 15 pounds 7 ounces onto whatever part of my body is attainable. It would be so entertaining if political debates adopted feline colloquy. Especially since cats tend to get straight to the point with what they want. Much more honest communication.

When politicians argue with each other, they often attempt to couch their convos in sophisticated capriciousness as if their audience was limited to a kindergarten vocabulary. Or, if angered, they convert to words that resemble sexual connotations, such as f**king. Which causes Cat to wonder if they are sexually closeted. It becomes confusing listening to political debates wandering back and forth between sophistication and garbage when they are purported astute communicators. Kind of like the Invaders of the Capitol who apparently wanted desperately to change the outcome of democratic procedures with the use of bullets, bombs, and brunt coercion. So is their point that one only has to rebel against the establishment (like what sometimes happens in other countries, ie: domestic terrorism) to change the political system to their preference? And then the opposition can do the same to swing back to what they wanted? Cat says that just seems to be a waste of time when we already have a proven democracy working for us. But then he is pretty smart for a kitty.

Have you hugged your congressperson today? Perhaps they require a good ear scratching. Or time in a happy Wonderlust.

Crossroads…

While looking at all the events transpiring around us in 2020 – 2021, it is easy to become overwhelmed, anxious, fearful even. And to think prospects for a long, healthy, satisfying life may not be in our future. But that is just one point of view. Which can be changed as easily as removing the dark lenses and putting on a lighter outlook of our current situations. Too often, however, Rose colored glasses appear to be hinky.

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.” –Aristotle

We United States citizens have an incredible opportunity to influence where our future will lead us from this unique Treasure in Time. Because we have a unique ability to create change. Rules that have been set in iron and cement for long periods of time are much more difficult in which to create change – some would say impossible. But impossible is a misnomer. Because nothing is impossible. While other periods in history have presented opportunities for change, it is in our lifetime that we have the most incredible opportunity for creating astounding positive change.

The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” –Nelson Mandela

While recent events have caused America to have the appearance of havoc, that perception only appeals to those who would see the United States brought down to the chaos of a banana republic. We are, in fact a Republic (form of government) that practices Democracy (Ideology shaping the way we run). And we currently stand in the spotlight of purported turmoil while our allies hold their collective breath and our enemies anticipate the depth of our failure.

“Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

It is not to our benefit to force all our citizens to have the same beliefs. It is to our success to create acceptance and unity in the accomplishment of understanding and peace for all our citizens by open discussion, voting, the elimination of poverty, and equal opportunity for success.

“Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn.” –Benjamin Franklin

The greatest change begins with small decisions. Instead of striving to force all our citizens to bend to the rules of a small minority, we must all resolve to develop vocabulary that includes our basic belief: the right of every citizen to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We are, after all, a nation evolved from native peoples mixed with immigrants from many cultures. It is to our benefit to create a new culture that blends harmony, happiness, and health for all citizens while not extinguishing belief systems that differ from ours by finding common ground based on truth, purpose, equality of opportunity.

“The only impossible journey is the one you never begin.” –Tony Robbins

Letting go of personal dogmas can seem very difficult to do. When my grandparents (from my Dad’s side) and great grandmother (from my Mom’s side) came to America, they had generations of ideals from their familial cultures. Blending into the new American culture did not happen overnight. Nor was it an easy task. They worked hard to change the values that did not fit in their new paradigm. Some old customs were difficult to change. But they never looked back with regret, even when the price for freedom was sometimes very painful. As in when My grandparents’ firstborn son was killed in military service to their new nation. As in when my great grandmother was brought from Africa to serve as a slave on a Texas farm. But they made up their minds that eventual freedom was worth the price of change.

The real test is not whether you avoid this failure, because you won’t. It’s whether you let it harden or shame you into inaction, or whether you learn from it; whether you choose to persevere.” –Barack Obama

The First Nations, our Native brothers and sisters, are the earliest original Americans. As conquering cultures from Europe began to wipe out the successful caretakers of this land in order to implant their own rigid belief systems in an attempt to obliterate Native culture, popular writers justified the acts of violence with their own interpretation of “Indian” beliefs. Like insisting that Natives tribes were run by male Chiefs who made all the decisions for their tribe. Therefore killing or imprisoning the Chiefs would conquer the tribes with little effort. In reality, the women of the tribe made the major decisions, including going to battle, because they were the ones who would suffer if their men were killed. Thankfully some of their cultures survived and contributed to alleviating our mistakes, such as turning prairie grass to plowed farmland. Which is what created the deadly Dustbowl in the early days of white settlement. We are only now realizing that all ideals and cultures must weave together in a healthy and honest combination for the betterment of humankind.

“The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today.” –Franklin D. Roosevelt

We have the makings of a wonderful national community. One that will inspire the rest of the civilized world cultures to create their own Nirvana and join with us to achieve World Peace. World Peace. We can do this. Someone has to toss the ball into the court.

Have you hugged your courage today?

Apologies…

On Wednesday, January 6, 2021, After watching a few minutes of the clamoring hillbillies swarming over our National Capitol, I thought it was a prank. Surely no responsible US citizen would attack the vestiges of our Democracy in real time. So I sat down to my computer and whipped out a facetious blog making fun of the hillbillies stumbling over themselves, referring to themselves as patriots, and the little fat boy trying to squeeze through the broken window. Who can break out a window with just their hand? It had to be a staged event. I couched the blog in the most sophisticated words I could muster because I was pretty sure none of them hillbilly folk could read anything beyond cuss words.

Of course I published my blog and went on about the business of the day. It took about an hour or so for my mind to catch up with my brain. I became temporarily mind paralyzed as the reality of what was happening penetrated. The rest of the day’s chores vaporized as the reality of what transpired blazed in technicolor across my mind. The people attacking the Capitol of our nation were domestic terrorists. And amongst all the swear words, they were calling themselves patriots. And the president of our Nation was inciting them with with his well known ability to smoothly lie as easily as a baby suckles hungrily. I suddenly intently wished I could retract the blog I had ignorantly written in farcical haste.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday of the rest of the week I spent most of the time on my smart phone and computer, watching, listening, absorbing the reality of what had transpired. Not only in our nation’s Capitol but in other state capitols around the country. This was the one, rare time I regretted not having television (because I am sick and tired of being told what to buy) so I was reduced to streaming newscasts on my phone and computer. And I educated myself as to the reality of what took place on Wednesday, January 6, 2021.

I owe anyone who read my Wednesday blog a sincere apology.

After digesting the hours of reading, thinking, discussions, I still have several questions irritating my inability to understand what happened.

  1. Why did the terrorists call themselves “patriots”? The original Patriots of America sought to create a democracy by fighting the country that would keep us subjugated to their rules and rulers. ie: Our (real) Patriots killed the enemy, not their fellow citizens. Not the Democracy we were fighting to establish. Not the leaders we elected by honest elections. Not the symbols (architecture) of our Democracy. Because our symbols and our Democracy belong to ALL citizens and not to any individual self-appointing group.
  2. What should the punishment be for domestic terrorists? This applies to the leaders of the attack. Should they receive a slap on the wrist and be free to walk away without paying a price for their invasion of our Capitols? I feel that because these attack “leaders” displayed their disrespect for the rules by which the rest of the nation abides, they should lose their US Citizenship, be deported to any other country that would have them, not be allowed to return to the United States ever again for any reason. Just as we would not allow foreign terrorists to visit our country for any reason. They don’t get to break the rules and flaunt privilege like they accuse our leaders of doing.
  3. What should be the punishment for the main body of people refusing to depart after the curfew was imposed? Those persons who were only caught breaking the curfew should still receive some sense of punishment because they broke the rules never-the-less. Their names and faces should be posted in public places with paper available for the general public to express their feelings about the actions of these trespassers on a public basis. This would be akin to the old practice of placing people guilty of minor trespasses into public stocks at which displeased townspeople could throw rotten tomatoes.
  4. What should be the punishment for Trump? It has been suggested that Trump will pardon himself from impeachment as his last act as President. Perhaps he didn’t read all the rules of being President. One of which states that the President can pardon anyone except someone who has been impeached. Therefore, he cannot legally pardon himself. Mr Trump and his children should also lose their citizenship and be deported to any country willing to take them. I understand the Iranians have issued a warrant for his arrest. We should cooperate with them as a goodwill gesture.

To the puff-faced old woman screeching profanity about the Honorable Senator Nancy Pelosi, thank you for demonstrating the profound need of education in the backwoods area from which you came.

To the idiot who touted the sign about how you terrorists have “pleaded, begged,” etc for years to get your points across: Are you therefore saying it would be perfectly acceptable for our black citizens (who really have extended their best efforts over the years to be heard) to storm your home towns and destroy buildings, steal your things, and walk away as if they were heroes for breaking the law?

And finally:

My deepest sympathies for family and friends of the five victims who were slain during the attack.

Thank you to the hardworking and honorable black ladies of Georgia for your heroic efforts in inspiring voters to make the effort for Democracy. You are true Patriots.

From Where I Stand…

As a second generation American, I have watched my children, grandchildren and now greats, growing up comforted by the same hope for their future as my grandparents had for ours. Last night I watched in dubiety as incendiaries besieged our United States legal seat of government. While they carried de facto arbalest, my first impression was of a clodhopper carousal of bumpkin diversion attempting to assert virility. This impression was exacerbated by the limitation of vocabulary to simplistic blaspheme and the excessive usage of the median extremity. Which is why I am employing my most abstruse vocabulary in this particular blog so that few of the miscreants will conceive the implications of my commentary.

Some delightful moments did occur when watching podgy incendiaries endeavor to access interiors through glass apertures that were obviously insufficient in which to maneuver their amplitude in a crazy semblance of adolescents clambering for confectionery. But sadly this was dampened by the homicide of a female who succumbed to an erratic projectile unleashed by one of their own perps as the gendarmes did not appear to be discharging when the incident occurred.

Which causes pause to consider the possible consequences of placing all the hooligans in confinement and allowing them to discharge until they eliminate themselves. My personal preference would be the surrender of their US citizenship and subsequent deportation to any location in the world that would take them, preferably a country or culture in which the leader bore a resemblance to their prevaricating president. Perhaps the Taliban would find such rapscallions a fine addition to their malignant practices.

In all fairness, we owe our own demagogues for expediting the certification process for our President and Vice President elects. The process of which might have taken longer to complete without the distractions and carried the possibility of several constituents changing their votes to the current president may have transpired had this incident not occurred.

Ironically they labelled themselves as “patriots” which again fortifies the argument for lack of adroitness in lexicon skills. The true Patriots of this nation earned the privilege of being so named because it came at the cost of blood lost in fighting the enemies of American soil, not fellow denizens of this country.

These incendiaries apparently thought they could reverse the decision of the millions who voted legally, honestly, by illegally fostering the lies of a mentally deficient leader who will indubitably be renowned as the most debilitated paragon in the history of our nation. One can only hope he will be expeditiously removed from his current position and placed comfortably within a venue of a sanctuary, such as a psychopathic asylum. This venue will provide him free access to a local population that will fulfill his ambition to have all the adoring attention he desires.

Finally, my deepest respect goes out to all the lawful civil servants that responded to the evisceration of our Country’s Capitol while laboring under the tight changes to law enforcement response, which came about in antiphon to previous occurences of riot control that sadly proved noxious and deadly for law abiding citizens and peaceful protestors. It had to be a tightly controlled line to walk in keeping doltish domiciliary incendiaries in line while removing them from the breadth of their subversion. Thank you for walking through the fire for us.

Have you hugged your legalities today?