Don’t Get Me Started
Some of you know I’m a writer. Some might not understand that, ’cause it’s been a while since I posted any excerpts from my slowly growing body of work. I have three novels and two short stories I self-published on Amazon.
Don’t get me started.
You’re gonna ignore that advice? Okay, you asked for it.
How does that work, anyway? Self-published? On Amazon? If I think about it, which I try not to because it makes my head hurt… But if I think about it, I’m not completely self-published. Amazon is doing the publishing work, and the printing work, and I’m paying some dude over in Eastern Europe five dollars to create the book covers. So all I’m really doing is the writing and uploading. So it’s not really self-publishing, is it?
Which leads me back to my point, if there is a point to this. I told ya. Don’t get me started.
Yeah, I’m a writer. Novels, short stories, even a poem, here and there. I also write an occasional blog. And almost every day I write Facebook comments that piss people off. Those ones are about politics and politicians. So you can imagine, I get bitched at from all directions. Left, right, center, up, down, and all around.
Think about that for a second. Politics. The root word, poly, means many. And anyone who’s ever had a dog or a cat know what ticks are. Not to mention folks that got Lyme disease; they know what those little buggers are too. Guaranteed. And how the hell do limes give you a disease, other than indigestion and a sour tongue? So then, people who work in politics, I think you get where I’m coming from.
Don’t get me started.
But….
That brings up another point. Is politics work? You couldn’t tell from all the vacation time those people take. More than us regular folks can get, that’s for sure. Unless our job closes down, or we get fired. Then we get a long as shit vacation, whether we want it or not. And it’s unpaid, unless you count that little bit of unemployment the state gives you out of the goodness of their hearts.
Yeah, right. The state doesn’t have a heart. If it did, it wouldn’t make you go broke, lose your house and car, spend all your 401(k) and health savings account just to stay above water, and then get fined for the privilege, and finally have to declare bankruptcy. All that just from getting sick. And sometimes you can’t even get the medicines you need to get better.
So what happens then? You get even sicker, and then you die. That’s called being sick to death. Not to be confused with the pit of fire and brimstone deep in your belly when someone really pisses you off, over and over and over, and you know you can’t do shit about it. Unless that gets you sick too. Then you could die from that as well.
Now where was I? I mean besides here in beautiful Kingman, Arizona?
Oh, yeah. Being a writer. You know, some people don’t seem to know that more than one word can mean the same thing. Take my screen name on Facebook for example. Author Don Rice Jr. Some folks think that’s my name. Author. Cn you believe it? I even had one fool ask me who the hell would name their child Author?
Like it’s Arthur or some shit like that, like that guy the movie’s named for, played by this little short fella named Dudley. Reminds me of a cartoon I used to watch when I was a kid. Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties. Those are the cops in Canada, ya know. The ones who ride horses to catch criminals. I heard rumors they ride bicycles now though. I’m sure they catch a lot of crooks that way.
A few folks think Author is my name, instead of what I do to maintain what’s left of my sanity. I started losing that… my sanity, not my name, which, let me be specific for a second, is not Author. So I became an author after I became disabled. Yeah, I started writing. So sue me. Or shoot me. Whatever suits your fancy.
So like I said, I write novels, short stories, blogs, even poems. But I’m thinking of a new as a creative endeavor. No, not the old space shuttle Endeavor. The space shuttles are dead now, ya know. Just like all the people who couldn’t afford their medicine. Which might include me, if the many ticks people have their way.
No, I mean work, so I can keep that little bit of sanity I still have left. I’m thinking about re-writing songs. I even have a few on top of my head, where my hair should be. I’ve gotta cover that up though. Baldness puts more pressure on a guy. The Sun shines on a bald head, well, that can have some consequences. I don’t want people going blind from the glare. So I wear a hat.
Last warning. Don’t get me started on hats. I’m not going there. Period.
Don’t get me started on those either. Nasty shit!
Anyway, here are a couple song lines I have on top of my head. Ready? I’m not. But here goes anyway:
I won’t sing no country music,
I won’t sing no rock and roll.
All these goddamn cigarettes,
They took away my soul.
Truth is, I can’t sing. I used to, when I was young. Back in high school. I was in the choir. But now-a-days, if I sing, folks will be slapping me with lawsuits for busted eardrums and brain damage.
Speaking of singing:
I sing the songs
That make your
Eardrums break.
I sing the songs
That make your
Bra-ain cells flake.
You want more? Okay, here’s one that some of you can probably identify with:
I’m drinkin’…
All that Night Train
Down in Georgia.
Had to stop doing that. That stuff will give ya brain damage too. It’s worse than Mad Dog 20–20.
And here’s the one that got this all started. I thought of it when I woke up this morning.
I warned ya not to get me started, didn’t I?
You remember that young lady who did a song about how she enjoys sex? Here’s a line of my rewrite. I’m pretty sure some of you older folks, around my age, 65, or older, will understand completely:
My neck, my back,
All these pains,
I’m feeling jacked.
That’s it. Any complaints, see the manager. I’m leaving the country tonight so you can’t sue me.
I told you not to get me started.
It’s not my fault you didn’t listen.
© 12–21–202 Don Rice Jr.
