To Newt Gingrich & All Idiots Who Make Light Of Poverty
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Herman Wouk Is Still Alive (A strange tale based on a true story by Stephen King)
I wish the hell Newt Gingrich would read this Stephen King's short story and breathe in some of the foul air of poverty. But he knows the stink; he's just playing the game that Republicans like to play. Feed them (their R disciples) what they want to hear and they will follow you as if you were a god. Now that's one big STINK for sure. Anyway, this is an intriguing read based on a true story but get ready for some sadness because that's 90% of what you get when born into poverty.
(“This is reality, not a reality show”.) With this ending quote, I have to wonder if the woman driving the van, contemplated in a moment of time her suicide and the murder of her friend and their 7 children. It's a sad statement and an assertion I do not believe the Gingrichs and the Trumps of this world could ever understand. thinkingblue
Herman Wouk Is Still Alive
Special Report: How Genius Works Brenda should be happy. The kids are quiet, the road stretches ahead of her like an airport runway, she's behind the wheel of a brand-new van. The speedometer reads 70. Nonetheless, that grayness has begun to creep over her again. The van isn't hers, after all. She'll have to give it back. A foolish expense, really, because what's at the far end of this trip, up in Mars Hill? She looks at her old friend. Jasmine is looking back at her. The van, now doing almost a hundred miles an hour, begins to drift. Jasmine gives a small nod. Brenda nods back. Then she pushes down harder with her foot, trying to find the van's carpeted floor.
By Stephen King
Image credit: From The Portland Press Herald, September 19, 2009
I. BRENDA HITS PICK-4 FOR $2,700 AND RESISTS HER FIRST IMPULSE.
Instead of going out for a bottle of Orange Driver to celebrate with, she pays off the MasterCard, which has been maxed like forever. Then calls Hertz and asks a question. Then calls her friend Jasmine, who lives in North Berwick, and tells her about the Pick-4. Jasmine screams and says, “Girl, you’re rich!”
If only. Brenda explains how she paid off the credit card so she can rent a Chevy Express if she wants to. It’s a van that seats nine, that’s what the Hertz girl told her. “We could get all the kids in there and drive up to Mars Hill. See your folks and mine. Show off the grandchildren. Squeeze ’em for a little more dough. What do you think?”
Jasmine is dubious. The glorified shack her folks call home doesn’t have room, and she wouldn’t want to stay with them even if it did. She hates those two. With good reason, Brenda knows; her own father broke Jasmine in at fifteen. Her mother knew what was going on and did nothing. When Jasmine went to her in tears, her ma said, “You got nothing to worry about, he’s had his nuts cut.”
Jas married Mitch Robicheau to get away from them, and now, three men, four kids, and eight years later, she’s on her own. And on welfare, although she gets sixteen hours a week at the Roll Around, handing out skates and making change for the video arcade, where the machines take only special tokens. They let her bring her two youngest. Delight sleeps in the office and Truth, her three-year-old, wanders around in the arcade hitching at his diapers. He doesn’t get into too much trouble, although last year he got head lice and the two women had to shave all his hair off. How he howled.
“There’s six hundred left over after I paid off the credit balance,” Brenda says. “Well, four hundred if you count the rental, only I don’t, because I can put that on MasterCard. We could stay at the Red Roof, watch Home Box. It’s free. We can get takeout from downstreet and the kids can swim in the pool. What do you say?”
From behind her comes yelling. Brenda raises her voice and screams, “Freddy, you stop teasing your sister and give that back!” Then, oh goody, their squabbling wakes up the baby. Either that or Freedom has messed in her diapers and awakened herself. Freedom always messes in her diapers. To Brenda it seems like Free is making poop her life’s work. Takes after her father that way.
“I suppose …” Jasmine says, drawing suppose out to four syllables. Maybe five.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/print/2011/05/herman-wouk-is-still-alive/845...
Another very sad tale of poverty
Poverty is a bitter reality that mankind has lived with since the time he became a conscience being. How dare they, who haven't a clue as to the suffering this economic condition causes, make light and sarcastic judgments upon. The below link is one of the saddest results of being too poor. Let's see Newt Gingrich and the rest of the heartless idiots make light of this tragedy.
http://news.yahoo.com/2nd-child-shot-mom-texas-welfare-office-dies-033254062.htm...
I wish the hell Newt Gingrich would read this Stephen King's short story and breathe in some of the foul air of poverty. But he knows the stink; he's just playing the game that Republicans like to play. Feed them (their R disciples) what they want to hear and they will follow you as if you were a god. Now that's one big STINK for sure. Anyway, this is an intriguing read based on a true story but get ready for some sadness because that's 90% of what you get when born into poverty.
(“This is reality, not a reality show”.) With this ending quote, I have to wonder if the woman driving the van, contemplated in a moment of time her suicide and the murder of her friend and their 7 children. It's a sad statement and an assertion I do not believe the Gingrichs and the Trumps of this world could ever understand. thinkingblue
Herman Wouk Is Still Alive
Special Report: How Genius Works Brenda should be happy. The kids are quiet, the road stretches ahead of her like an airport runway, she's behind the wheel of a brand-new van. The speedometer reads 70. Nonetheless, that grayness has begun to creep over her again. The van isn't hers, after all. She'll have to give it back. A foolish expense, really, because what's at the far end of this trip, up in Mars Hill? She looks at her old friend. Jasmine is looking back at her. The van, now doing almost a hundred miles an hour, begins to drift. Jasmine gives a small nod. Brenda nods back. Then she pushes down harder with her foot, trying to find the van's carpeted floor.
By Stephen King
Image credit: From The Portland Press Herald, September 19, 2009
I. BRENDA HITS PICK-4 FOR $2,700 AND RESISTS HER FIRST IMPULSE.
Instead of going out for a bottle of Orange Driver to celebrate with, she pays off the MasterCard, which has been maxed like forever. Then calls Hertz and asks a question. Then calls her friend Jasmine, who lives in North Berwick, and tells her about the Pick-4. Jasmine screams and says, “Girl, you’re rich!”
If only. Brenda explains how she paid off the credit card so she can rent a Chevy Express if she wants to. It’s a van that seats nine, that’s what the Hertz girl told her. “We could get all the kids in there and drive up to Mars Hill. See your folks and mine. Show off the grandchildren. Squeeze ’em for a little more dough. What do you think?”
Jasmine is dubious. The glorified shack her folks call home doesn’t have room, and she wouldn’t want to stay with them even if it did. She hates those two. With good reason, Brenda knows; her own father broke Jasmine in at fifteen. Her mother knew what was going on and did nothing. When Jasmine went to her in tears, her ma said, “You got nothing to worry about, he’s had his nuts cut.”
Jas married Mitch Robicheau to get away from them, and now, three men, four kids, and eight years later, she’s on her own. And on welfare, although she gets sixteen hours a week at the Roll Around, handing out skates and making change for the video arcade, where the machines take only special tokens. They let her bring her two youngest. Delight sleeps in the office and Truth, her three-year-old, wanders around in the arcade hitching at his diapers. He doesn’t get into too much trouble, although last year he got head lice and the two women had to shave all his hair off. How he howled.
“There’s six hundred left over after I paid off the credit balance,” Brenda says. “Well, four hundred if you count the rental, only I don’t, because I can put that on MasterCard. We could stay at the Red Roof, watch Home Box. It’s free. We can get takeout from downstreet and the kids can swim in the pool. What do you say?”
From behind her comes yelling. Brenda raises her voice and screams, “Freddy, you stop teasing your sister and give that back!” Then, oh goody, their squabbling wakes up the baby. Either that or Freedom has messed in her diapers and awakened herself. Freedom always messes in her diapers. To Brenda it seems like Free is making poop her life’s work. Takes after her father that way.
“I suppose …” Jasmine says, drawing suppose out to four syllables. Maybe five.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/print/2011/05/herman-wouk-is-still-alive/845...
Another very sad tale of poverty
Poverty is a bitter reality that mankind has lived with since the time he became a conscience being. How dare they, who haven't a clue as to the suffering this economic condition causes, make light and sarcastic judgments upon. The below link is one of the saddest results of being too poor. Let's see Newt Gingrich and the rest of the heartless idiots make light of this tragedy.
http://news.yahoo.com/2nd-child-shot-mom-texas-welfare-office-dies-033254062.htm...
