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The calm before the storm with the mega-f–king lunatic … and the non-business end of the apex unmentionable

I’m far from the first person or news outlet that you (and every other environmentalist on the planet) have come across since The Donald’s inauguration to report he is already undoing the good environmental work of the Obama administration.

And as I walked my path in quiet solitude in Saturday’s early morning darkness, it occurred to me this rightfully ought to be the lull, a freakish calm before the storm – a firestorm, that is, of resistance and outright rebellion and defiance against this mega-f–king lunatic. My late parents taught me that if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. But mom and dad, please forgive me from your graves because this ‘major, seriously major’ moron deserves the f-word – and worse and I’m all too willing to drop the F-bomb on the King of Bully Bluster. Ironic, too, that His Highness said he “won’t let us (sic) down”  – and he has already done so. In spades.

A few weeks ago, a part of me was willing to give El Presidente some benefit of the doubt. He has Democratic tendencies in his past. But as he cranked up his propaganda/spin/fake news/pully pulpit machine complete with a rogue’s gallery of a cabinet, all that hope went out the window.

He is now my environmental enemy, and he should be so for anyone who treasures a cleaner world and clean water and clean dirt and clean paths.

The f–king lunatic is not my president. Let the firestorm begin.


There are always gross, sordid objects to be bagged, and then there is the apex unmentionable

Over the years of picking up all manner of litter, my bag and I have come across a lot of flotsam we’d rather not deal with in our typical hands-on manner. This is where a stick is especially handy for retrieval. However, I’m inured to most things regardless of the level of grossness; pick ’em up, toss ’em in the bag and move on. (As a rule at this point, I would invoke my localized version of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’)

But I guess I’ll waive that in this case and tell – and show – you anyway.

Plastics tend to give off a sheen beneath streetlights, and so it was a sizeable object appeared near the median on Fairview Road by Philips Place. Since it was early morning and the traffic was near non-existent in the light rain, I stepped across three lanes toward the offending thing.

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You won’t have to look long and hard to spot my latest entry into the rogue’s gallery of finds.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear: a big purple plastic dildo. From the looks of things – and I am no dildo expert – it was in mint condition, having avoided asphalt scrapes during the jettisoning and the flattening effects of car tires.

 

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It sure looked purple in the early light but maybe this bad boy is more mauve in color.

Now, a lot of things race through a naive man’s brain when he sees such a pleasure toy, let alone picks one up by the non-business end. ‘How did it get here?’ ‘Why would it be tossed out on a busy roadway?’ ‘Did it not measure up? (so to speak).’ And finally, ‘Why purple?’ Wouldn’t a nice earth tone be preferable?

Depending on how you look at such things, this is either the zenith or the nadir of morbid, unsavory finds. It just shows my bag and I will go to any length and breadth – ha – to get junk – anything – off the streets.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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