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Tag Archives: HUMOR

SANTA’S NAUGHTY LIST

**Cartoon used by permission: 258154_Define Naughty by Ed Wexler, CagleCartoons.com**

DEAR SANTA:

Eleanor T. here. Why don’t I cut right to the chase?

I don’t like you—I never have. My first memory as a child of Santa Claus was you not showing up when I mailed you my one-item Christmas list: a new baby doll (white or black—I didn’t care) that had never been used. Which meant, a doll that didn’t have half its hair plucked out, or just one eyeball in place, and wasn’t completely naked. The doll never came, and you never showed. Even at six years old, I kind of suspected you’d punk out because we didn’t have a chimney for you to shimmy down where I lived on skid row.

Then when I first heard the song, “Santa Claus is coming to town” in the county orphanage where a circuit court judge had tossed me in the middle of the night, I knew you were full of prunes. During my first Christmas in that “abandon all hope, all ye who enter here” placeholder of my life, I concluded you had determined that I was on your constant naughty list. It didn’t take long for me to realize that if you did exist, you needed to change your MO. I’ve got no problem with you holding people accountable, but you picked on the wrong people group—both then and now. So, here’s an idea: If you want to use your powers for good, how about establishing a new naughty list? BTW: Children should have nothing to do with your manipulative naughty list. Adults only!

**Cartoon used by permission: 258086_New Naughty & Nice by Christopher Weyant, The Boston Globe, MA**

I’ve got plenty of horrid people that should end up on your naughty list and you wouldn’t have to check twice to know they are bad to the core and very undeserving of presents. It’s a given that Donald Trump would be at the top of the list. Add to that naughty list: Kanye West (hater of Jews), Nicholas J. Fuentes (White Supremacist, hater of Jews, Blacks, and anyone with melanin in their skin), and Steve Bannon (misogynist, misanthrope, and racist to the core). You can start with them first. I have a 500-page book of names I can provide for you.

**Cartoon used by permission: 269705_Naughty List 2022 by Christopher Weyant, CagleCartoons.com**

Santa, it goes without saying that Vladamir Putin should top your naughty list. He should precede Trump. Don’t bother giving Putin a lump of coal, just fix it so that he loses the war against Ukraine and gets a one-way ticket to Hell. I bet the children of Ukraine wouldn’t mind skipping toys for Christmas if you gave them their parents and their homes back. Trust me. I know of what I speak.

**Cartoon used by permission: 269469_Christmas for Putin by Marian Kamensky, Austria**

But I state the obvious. If you’re a bit timid about how to rebrand yourself, you can start with the small things, like attitudes. Bring back kindness. Remember how you first started out way back in Patara (modern day Turkey) in the fourth century. Then you were known as Nicholas of Bari, and you were very admired for your kindness and generosity. According to Britannica, you became known as the “patron saint of children, sailors, unmarried girls, merchants, and pawnbrokers”. Legend has it that you rescued three girls in poverty who were being forced into prostitution because they didn’t have marriage dowries. Supposedly you gave their parents enough gold to purchase said dowries and the girls were able to get married. Viola—no hos for the bros! What a story. I recently read (although I find this very hard to believe—understanding how science works and all) that you restored the bodies of three children who had been chopped up by a butcher and put in a tub of brine. Apparently, after you reassembled them, you brought them back to life. (Okay, Santa—way to go!)

The point is, given your history, putting unkind people on your naughty list until they repent shouldn’t be too hard for you. In America, we’ve become very mean SOBs. As the song says, “…we need a little Christmas, just this very moment.”

**Cartoon used by permission: 269902_Happy Holidays by Pat Bagley, The Salt Lake Tribune, UT**

Finally, I’ve had it with the guns killing innocent people—especially our children. Santa, why don’t we make a deal right here and now, that anybody who sends out Christmas cards with pictures of their family sporting AR-15s, as a congresswoman did one year, gets on your priority naughty list with a slip-and-slide into Hell for a stocking stuffer. In fact, while you’re at it, put any politician, the NRA, and gun makers who refuse to modify the gun laws to protect our citizens onto a top priority naughty list.

**Cartoon used by permission: 269375_Christmas Peril by Pat Bagley, The Salt Lake Tribune, UT**

There you have it! Hope this helps. Also, can you do me a personal favor and give a little shout out to the God whose birthday Christmas represents? (Listen, you owe me, Kris!) I personally think you’ve hogged the glory from the birthday king for years now. Not too long ago, a survey was taken in the UK of kids 6 – 13 and at least half of them thought December 25^th was to celebrate your birthday. The other half thought Jesus was the name of a football (soccer) player. Seriously, Dude?

As the song* says, did YOU ever “appear and the soul felt its worth”? When YOU squeezed down the chimney, did the world’s peeps experience a “thrill of hope” that made “the weary soul rejoice”? When YOU got fat off the Xmas cookies left for you, did you stay around to teach us “to love one another” because “His law is love and His gospel is peace”? Did YOU leave notes in our stockings that proclaimed “chains shall He break for the slave is our brother” (that would have been handy during Reconstruction when you first made your recorded appearance in the United States)? Furthermore, if I proclaim the name “Santa Claus”, will that cause the declaration in the heavenlies that “in His name all oppression shall cease”? No, I don’t think so. Bend the knee, Bro, ‘cause you’re a poser compared to the true meaning for the season. (Deep down in your heart, I think you know that.) Therefore, Santa Claus, put a little sack of kindness and love in each of our stockings this year, and maybe I’ll forgive you for your slighting of my childhood. In the meantime, Merry Christmas to you and peace on Earth to all mankind! *Oh Holy Night, by Placide Cappeau (1808-1877)

**Cartoon used by permission: 173168_Christmas Day focus by Dave Granlund, Politicalcartoons.com**

Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a satirist who is an award-winning voice-over performer. In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!). Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival: “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.” Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker. If you don’t believe me, just ask her!

**Cartoon used by permission: 258177_Merry Christmas by Bob Englehart, PoliticalCartoons.com**

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Eleanor Tomczyk and “How the Hell Did I End Up Here?” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

2 Comments

Posted by etomczyk on December 18, 2022 in Uncategorized

Tags: Christmas, Donald Trump, GOP, HUMOR, Jesus is the Reason for the Season, Kanye West, Naughty List, Nicholas Fuentes, NRA, Putin, Santa Claus, satire, Steve Bannon

LET’S TALK, TURKEY!

23 Nov

**Cartoon used by permission: 257287_1290_rgb (1).jpg Thanksgiving In spite of ourselves by Monte Wolverton Battle Ground WA**

AN ODE TO MR. MELEAGRIS GALLOPAVOS

Thanksgiving is coming. Can I be honest with you? I don’t like anything about the featured guest: Le Turkey. I don’t like cooking it. I don’t like the way it tastes. I don’t like the way its leftovers hang around forever. I don’t like the way the remains keep popping up for months on end in soups, casseroles, burgers, salads, tetrazzini, pot pies, and even tacos! However, I love Le Turkey’s sidekicks: gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, sweet potatoes (no marshmallows, please), mashed potatoes, stuffing (oh my God, do I love me some stuffing!), pecan pie with tons of whipped cream. I can’t imagine celebrating T-Day without those hip-expanding yummies.

My hatred of the turkey goes deeper than the culinary, however. When I was four years old, my mother took me into a place where they sold nothing but live chickens and turkeys. The room was the size of a one-car garage, the floor was barely discernable beneath the dust and debris, and the birds’ squawking was deafening. The poultry was in wooden cages and they were stacked against all four walls from floor to ceiling with a spillover of cages forming a fowl island in the middle of the store. If you could survive the smell, the patrons would choose a live bird to be slaughtered on the spot, and it would be taken home to be plucked and cooked. On this particular day a turkey, who stood taller than me, escaped his habitat and proceeded to terrorize me by chasing me around and around and around the butcher shop while pecking at my head and chubby legs until it drew blood. My nightmares revisited that hellish scene of turkey-on-chubby-little-Black-girl-violence for years to come.

**Cartoon used by permission:** **232313_1290_rgb.png Chosen One by Pat Bagley The Salt Lake Tribune UT**

Recently, I told some vegan friends of mine about my hatred of turkeys and my history with that one bird, and they said, “Oh my God Woman, you have turkey bias! You’re a turkey bigot.”

“Not really. I simply believe that the only good turkey is a dead turkey, but it doesn’t mean I have to like eating them. You don’t eat turkeys.”

“We don’t eat turkeys because we respect the turkey. We don’t eat anything that has a mother. We are all one on God’s great Earth. If you make peace with his animal planet, peace will be yours in return. For Turkey’s sake, Girlfriend, you can’t judge an entire race of turkeys by one bad fowl encounter. You’ve got to get out and get to know a few turkeys—to know them is to love them. Find out who they truly are—not to eat them, but to become one with them. You’re a communicator. Go find some turkeys and interview them.”

Well, that is what I did. It was a tad difficult because it seems the turkeys are on the lam—trying to avoid execution this week. However, I found a rebel group leader (Mr. Meleagris Gallopavos) who agreed to be interviewed via email if I did not reveal his whereabouts. So, I sent him a truncated copy of the Proust Questionnaire (a parlor game from the late 1800s made popular by the essayist and novelist Marcel Proust) that is usually used to access the true nature of humans. I figured it should work just fine on a bunch of jive-time turkeys.

**Cartoon used by permission: 257001_1290_rgb.jpg Turkey Supply Chain by Dave Whamond Canada PoliticalCartoons com**

PROUST ?: What is your idea of perfect happiness?

TURKEY: Thanksgiving is abolished from the land, and ALL Americans become vegetarians.

PROUST ?: What is your greatest fear?

TURKEY: Celebration of Thanksgiving becomes a monthly holiday.

PROUST ?: What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

TURKEY: That turkeys are such chicken-shits. We should have led a revolution against the eating of our kind as soon as we got wind of this whole Pilgrim/Indigenous People dinner party event back in the day. Nipped this T-Day sucker right in the bud.

PROUST ?: What is your current state of mind?

TURKEY: Shear panic! Every year approximately 45 million turkeys are eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. That’s 675 million pounds! You do the math: it’s only a matter of time before the butchers catch up with me and mine.

PROUST ?: On what occasion do you lie?

TURKEY: Whenever it suits me. I’ll throw a brother chicken into the oven in my place faster than you can say gobble-gobble.

**Cartoon used by permission: 187876_1290_rgb.jpg Fake news turkeys by John Cole The Scranton Times Tribune**

PROUST ?: What living person do you most despise?

TURKEY: The Farmer in the Dell. He takes a wife, a child, a nurse, a cow, a dog, a cat, a mouse, and even some cheese, but he never once saves a turkey. He had the political power as a farmer to change the genocidal trajectory of the turkey, but he did nothing. Well, I say “Hi-ho, the derry-o” to his sorry-ass.

PROUST ?: Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

TURKEY: Duh! “Gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble…”

PROUST ?: What or who is the greatest love of your life?

TURKEY: Oh Lord have mercy, my babies-mama! That chick heard my matting call from over a mile away and came running. She fell in love with my engorged snood, and the rest is history, Baby.

PROUST ?: What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

TURKEY: Being butchered, feathers plucked, and roasted at 350 degrees for five hours. Not to mention being smothered in a brown sludge that humans call gravy.

**Cartoon used by permission:** **256976_1290_rgb.jpg Thanksgiving Turkey by Guy Parsons PoliticalCartoons com**

PROUST ?: Which historical figure do you most identify with?

TURKEY: Benjamin Franklin. Supposedly, he proposed that the turkey become the national bird instead of the bald eagle. (Actually, that story is a myth, but whatever.) He never slandered the turkey at least, but he sure ripped the Bald Eagle a new one: “…the Bald Eagle…is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly…[he] is too lazy to fish for himself.” So there. Why isn’t the Bald Eagle the juicy choice of slaughter for Thanksgiving?

PROUST ?: What are your most marked characteristics?

TURKEY: My eyes. They can see three times better than humans and I can see in color. My strut. I can run at 25 MPH. My feathers. To date, I have 5, 500 feathers! I am truly marvelous!

PROUST ?: What do you value in your friends?

TURKEY: That we are birds of a feather who flock together. In the wild, we have been known to travel in groups of 200 or more.

PROUST ?: What is it that you most dislike?

TURKEY: That my name is blasphemously used, and I don’t deserve that shit. If something is a dud, it’s a “turkey.” If a Broadway show fails, it’s called a “turkey.” If a human suddenly stops doing drugs, it’s called going “cold turkey.” In the seventies, an entire TV character’s main form of getting a laugh was when he called someone a “jive-turkey”—meaning, a fool. George Jefferson “moved on up to the East Side with a deee-luxe apartment in the sky,” but he ruined my family’s life by using our name in vain.

PROUST ?: Finally, what is your motto?

TURKEY: TLM. Turkey Lives Matter!

**George Jefferson Meme/The Jeffersons TV Show (1975-1985)**

ELEANOR’S SELAH

Whatever you eat for Thanksgiving, it’s not the meal that matters as much as it is the gratitude of being together. I implore you to put aside the rancor, the resentment, past hurts, and old grievances. What matters are the hugs, the smiles, the hope, the love, and the joy shared over a meal—be it turkey or tofu. Let’s be thankful for each other because if the last two years have proven anything: we are not guaranteed a tomorrow.

**Cartoon used by permission: 257376_1290_rgb.jpg Being thankful by Rivers CagleCartoons com**

4 Comments

Posted by etomczyk on November 23, 2021 in Uncategorized

Tags: Family, HUMOR, Supply Chain, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, turkey

GIFTS OF HUMOR IN A HUMORLESS TIME

08 Apr

I’ve always been a human being who could find humor in the worst of situations and times, which is one of the reasons I think my childhood did not drive me mad. This week, as I mourned a friend who had passed from the coronavirus and prayed for two of my friends and two of my enemies who were stricken by this curse, one of the tools that helped me through the morass was finding humor in unexpected places. Like receiving my carefully planned and expensive DIY pedicure equipment from Amazon (complete with top grade foot soaker and massager and lavender-scented Epsom salts) only to discover I can no longer reach my feet due to my 71-year-old chubby-ass body. A bougie problem, I know! Nevertheless it is a problem for me since my husband has not volunteered to give me a pedicure and probably never will. We’ve all been affected by this pandemic, whether by mere inconvenience or debilitating loss—personally and financially. Obviously, I’m still in the “inconvenienced” category by the grace of God. I know this. I am grateful, but I still need to laugh or I’ll turn into a ball of rage because I blame everything from my friend’s death to my inability to maintain my diva nails and toes on one person and one person only: Donald J. (“I don’t take any responsibility”) Trump!

**Cartoon used by permission: 237420 Incompetent Trump by Bob Englehart PoliticalCartoons com**

As I contemplated the absurdity of having seven out of my ten throbbing fingernails wrapped in Band-Aids (the result of trying to perform a DIY acrylic nail removal which gave birth to four punctured fingers and three torn nail beds), my sister-in-law sent me a list of coronavirus laugh lines entitled “Effects of the Coronavirus.” Actually, she got them from her husband who was sent them by his old college roommate, but when I Googled them the published source turned out to be Chuck and Anne Norwood from The Laurinburg Exchange in Scotland County, North Carolina. Chuck and Anne say these coronavirus laugh lines are not originally from them but were sent in by a reader who collected them from God knows where. If these coronavirus quotes turn out to be the brain children of some of America’s gazillion wonderful comedians, please forgive me for not giving you the proper credit…blame it on the COVID-19 insanity or the mind-numbing pain emanating from my bleeding fingers that is slowly eroding my cerebrum and my well-being.

EFFECTS OF THE CORONAVIRUS

**Cartoon used by permission: 236678 Here’s toilet paper by John Darkow Columbia Missourian**

“I used to spin that toilet paper like I was on Wheel of Fortune. Now I turn it like I’m cracking a safe.”

“Classified Ad: Single man with toilet paper seeks woman with hand sanitizer for good clean fun.”

**Cartoon used by permission: 237317 Almost Time To Eat Again by Ed Wexler PoliticalCartoons com**

“Half of us are going to come out of this quarantine as amazing cooks. The other half will come out with a drinking problem.”

“I need to practice social-distancing from the refrigerator.”

“PSA: ‘Every few days try your jeans on just to make sure they fit. Pajamas will have you believe all is well in the kingdom.’”

“Quarantine Day 5: Went to this restaurant called THE KITCHEN. You have to gather all the ingredients and make your own meal. I have no clue how this place is still in business.”

**Cartoon used by permission: 236749 NATIONAL COVID 19 school closings by John Cole,The Scranton Times Tribune PA**

“HOMESCHOOLING REPORT, FAMILY OF THREE—ONE ADULT, TWO KIDS: ‘Homeschooling is going well. 2 students suspended for fighting and 1 teacher fired for drinking on the job.’”

“Day 5 of Homeschooling: One of these little monsters called in a bomb threat.”

“Day 6 of Homeschooling: My child just said ‘I hope I don’t have the same teacher next year’…. I’m offended.”

**Cartoon used by permission: 237299 Upside to lockdown by John Darkow Columbia Missourian**

“This morning I saw a neighbor talking to her cat. It was obvious she thought her cat understood her. I came into my house, told my dog—we laughed a lot.”

“I’m so excited—it’s time to take out the garbage! What should I wear!?!”

“I hope the weather is good tomorrow for my trip to Puerto Backyarda. I’m getting tired of Los Livingroom.”

“Still haven’t decided where to go for Easter—The Living Room or The Bedroom”

**Cartoon used by permission: 237093 Easter Bunny Covid 19 safety by Dave Granlund PoliticalCartoons com**

Happy Easter and Happy Pesach everyone! Wishing you all bountiful gifts of gratitude, kindness, and comfort of heart as we reflect on the miracle of Passover and the hope of the Resurrection of Christ. Stay well. Stay safe. Stay kind because we are all in this journey together.

**Cartoon used by permission: 237469 The Promise by David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star Tucson AZ**

Eleanor Tomczyk is an author and a humorist who is an award-winning voice-over performer. In 2011, she created the blog, “How the Hell Did I End Up Here” which features mostly satirical posts that have thousands of readers around the world—although she was recently banned in Pakistan (for real!). Tomczyk’s three books were featured in a recent book festival: “Monsters’ Throwdown,” “Fleeing Oz,” and “The Fetus Chronicles—Podcasts to my Miseducated Self.” Currently in her 70s and living life like it is freakin’ golden, she is a consummate storyteller and much sought-after motivational speaker. If you don’t believe me, just ask her!

2 Comments

Posted by etomczyk on April 8, 2020 in Uncategorized

Tags: Coronavirus, Easter, HUMOR, Political Humor, Trump

OH MY GOD: DONALD TRUMP SENT ME AN EASTER PRESENT!

18 Apr

ESSAY ON EASTER AND MINDFULNESS

I take back everything I’ve ever said about Donald Trump not knowing what he’s doing for the people of the United States and the image of Christ. He’s an evil genius! Also, I take back every disdainful thought I’ve ever had against the MAGA hats that put Trump in office and are keeping him there. Because of them, I’ve found a new lease on life, a calmer demeanor, and a deeper trust in God this Easter. (Thank you, oh Crazy Orange One and your MAGA hat minions for my Easter present!)

**Cartoon used by permission: Pat Bagley, The Salt Lake Tribune, UT** , **Cagle**

My non-believing sisters and brothers, do you know what Lent is? According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary, it is “the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter observed by the Roman Catholic, Eastern, and some Protestant churches as a period of penitence and fasting,” which is to draw one closer to God by the time Easter rolls around because the resurrection of Christ from the dead is so awesome that it is every Christian’s hope that if Christ can conquer death, he can conquer every other type of evil plaguing our lives. The reason we give up things at Lent that have some control over our appetites is because we hope it will be easier to scrub off the veneer of fear and hopelessness that blinds us to the power of Christ’s resurrection help in other areas of our lives.

Well, Eureka! The Holy Ghost gave me a revelation. The messianic imposter in the White House had caused me to momentarily think he was indestructible, invincible, and made of Teflon (none of his sins were ever going to stick to him and bring him down), and there was absolutely nothing I could personally do about his reign and damage done to our country. (If his Evangelical supporters are to be believed, I am not operating in God’s will by opposing the Orange One—in fact, I am a sinful little snot who will burn in Hell.) I was full of fear (not of going to Hell, but of Trump getting away with murder, which seems so much worse than living in Hell), and that led to chronic anxiety which led to eating a gluttonous amount of chocolate-covered bon-bons washed down with buckets of mojitos (not really, but you get my point).

I am seventy years old and counting—I cannot afford to waste any more of my days on fear and loathing.

So I had a Lenten revelation: I need to give up Donald J. Trump, not just for Lent, but for the end of time. He is like an obnoxious, spoiled toddler who is only happy if he is absorbing all our attention every second of the day. I no longer give him the attention he is demanding. I have replaced thoughts about Trump with gratitude and mindfulness via meditation, and I’m letting the God of the universe fight the things I cannot control—including kicking Trump’s ass.

I have become a mindfulness aficionado (more about this in the weeks to come).

Every morning when I wake up (before I get out of bed), I thank God for what I have—not what I’ve lost. (At this age, one starts losing things, people, and memories on a daily basis as if they were pennies in a pocket full of holes. Trust me, getting old is not for the cowardly.) In other words, if I can still breathe, walk, see, hear, talk, and learn…it’s a good day!

Then I mediate, and the sole script of that meditation is a prayer to the God of Easter:

“I have no plans today for my life—only sketches.

Reveal to me your path—where I should go, who I should meet, what I should do.

May I be slow to anger, quick to listen, and slow to speak.

Grant me courage, wisdom, grace, mercy, and above all love for those I encounter along the way.”

It has been amazing! No more stress, no more anxiety, and no more anger at Trump or anything else—I am as cool as an iced cucumber and I’m no longer in search of bon-bons. (I fully believe he’s going to be flushed down the toilet of life, but I’m not worried about the if, when, how, or by whom, anymore.) Consequently, I’ve had the most amazing encounters during the Lent season. As you might expect, I met a Tin Man who needed a heart, a Scarecrow who needed a brain (actually this was a woman), and just recently, a Lion who needed courage.

Let me tell you about the most significant traveler I met along the way since the beginning of my new mindfulness journey. The Lion. He was a driver for a car service in New York City. He was Asian, young, handsome, and spoke fairly good English. On his dashboard was a miniature picture of the Dalai Lama. Our driver had shoulder-length black hair which sported a cocky backwards baseball cap that displayed the slogan: “Let’s get fucked tonight!” Since I had no intentions of doing anything that day but get to the airport on time and try to return home in one piece, I said, “Delta Terminal C, please,” and proceeded to get lost in conversation with my husband about our magnificent grandson and daughter who we had just spent a wonderful weekend with. The driver seemed lost in thought but said nothing except an explosive “sigh” every minute or so which was very disruptive—each sigh was like the percussive sound of a steam engine. (It was so unnerving that I almost yelled at him and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Turn on some music if this is the best you can do for conversation!” But this is the new and improved, mindfulness Eleanor, so I was not “quick to anger,” nor was I “quick to speak,” (plus, if the truth be told, I didn’t want my Uber rating to take a hit—it’s bad enough as it is!).

I thought the driver was frustrated with the traffic, and I made a mental note to give him a one-star rating where it says, “Driver was a good conversationalist” on the ratings form at the end of our destination. After a long twenty minutes and about thirty Eeyore sighs later, we finally pulled up in front of our designated terminal. As soon as I unbuckled my seat belt and hastily reached for the door, the driver turned around and said: “If you had a friend whose wife was having an affair with his best friend, would you forgive her and try to make the marriage work for the sake of the kids (he has the kids), or would you take the kids and run?” In the midst of a traffic jam with horns blaring, in front of an airport terminal, trying not to be late to catch a flight, my husband and I gave a broken-hearted lion a few minutes of counseling that I can only hope gave him the courage to let love win and try to save his marriage. (I’d like to think there was something about our mindfulness that encouraged him to open his Dalai Lama-loving heart to us…)

But one thing I’m certain of, ever since I let go of Trump and let God take over my mind and heart, I am encountering the most amazing human beings and having the most outlandish conversations. I shall keep you posted. In the meantime, if all the mess of Donald Trump and his minions gets you down or your life is one that makes you mourn and sigh, remember the God of Easter and his amazing resurrection life makes all good things possible, and in the words of one of my favorite authors:

“Everything will be all right in the end.

If it’s not all right, it is not yet the end.”

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

**Cartoon used by permission: Bob Englehart, Middletown CT, Cagle**

WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR? Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOKS: Monsters’ Throwdown, Fleeing Oz, The Fetus Chronicles on sale now at Amazon!

***

**Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Minnesota, Cagle**

11 Comments

Posted by etomczyk on April 18, 2019 in Uncategorized

Tags: Donald Trump, Easter, HUMOR, Lent, MAGA, Mindfulness

WAITING FOR SPRING, MUELLER, AND JESUS—NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER

09 Mar

Do you know what I recently discovered? Lent has started and Easter is less than 40 days away. Also, March 1^st was the start of “meteorological spring,” which should mean that spring is just around the corner. Then someone said that Mueller should be releasing his report soon. Looks like if any of these things actually show up, it’s going to be a bombastic spring. But all three of these items (spring, Easter, and Mueller) seem to be in jeopardy, if you ask me—if you really want to know.

Cartoon used by permission: **Darkow, Columbia Missourian, Cagle Cartoons**

I suppose, as a spiritual being, I should really be getting myself prepared for Easter (I haven’t even thought about giving up a thing for Lent—except maybe news coverage about Trump), but I can’t concentrate because the weather is kicking my ass. According to Joel Achenbach from The Washington Post, spring is going to be delayed because we’ve entered a polar vortex (“the very cold air mass that normally circulates in the Arctic”), and it has broken “into pieces, with a fragment hurtling south and creating dangerously cold conditions in the Lower 48 states.” I didn’t need Achenbach to tell me that the world seemed to be coming to an end via the weather, all I had to do was look at the weather map. Snow where no snow has rarely gone, temps going as low as minus 60 degrees in states other than Alaska, floods and tornadoes wiping out entire communities, and rains coming down so frequently that this year is considered the wettest year on record. It’s beginning to feel like these are the days of Noah.

Although I’m praising God that I don’t live in Minnesota and the Dakotas (recorded 30 – 60 below zero temps last month), California (mudslides), Seattle (record snow), Tennessee (flooding), Alabama and Georgia (tornadoes from Hell), I am really sick and tired of being sick and tired of rain in Virginia. It has been raining almost nonstop for over a month, and everything is covered in mildew—including my body. I got so ill from the weather that I became a walking, hacking, sneezing mucus factory.

**Cartoon used by permission: John Cole, The Scranton Times-Tribune, PA**

About 2 ½ months ago, it started to rain, and in the midst of all that rain, I woke up with an upper respiratory infection that felt like bricks had been piled on top of my head while I was being water-boarded. No matter what I did, I couldn’t rid myself of the symptoms. No antibiotics helped. After 20 boxes of tissues, my nose was stripped raw of its skin leaving it too tender to even touch and looking like I had the beginnings of vitiligo on my skinned bulbous. Scores of chickens were sacrificed at the altar of soup cauldrons to make chicken soup—Jewish penicillin—and I combed the Earth looking for effective cough meds like a junkie looking for her next fix. My husband was banished to the guest room to escape my incessant hacking cough, and my friends started making the sign of the cross whenever I came into their presence. Somewhere in the middle of my snot and sneeze tour, I went deaf (WTF!!). When I dragged myself into the ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor), he came at me with a suction tube on one side of my head and a miniature ice cream scoop on the other. The nurse told me (after reviving me from my fainting spell at the horror of it all), that she and the doc had scoped out a candle factory’s supply of wax in the left ear and sucked out six months’ worth of mucus in the right ear—restoring my hearing within minutes. In the midst of this torture, Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow and proclaimed an early spring which has turned out to be a big fat lie, and if I ever get my strength back, I shall hunt him down and open up a can of whup ass on him that he’ll never forget. (Nasty-ass rodent!)

Having nothing better to do in my snotty state of mind (how much snot can a 70-year-old woman expectorate? Turns out that the answer is: 2 tons!), I started meditating on liars—inspired by Punxsutawney Phil.

According to dictionary.com, a lie is: a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood. Something intended or serving to convey a false impression…. Well, clearly my nurse practitioner had lied when she told me the antibiotics and the little translucent cough pills would do the trick and clear my symptoms right up. In reality, she had no idea her advice would work, but she charged me $234.19 and sent me on my way, anyhow. I started watching the Cohen testimonies from my sick bed and realized that I was watching a professional liar trying to shed himself of a professional liar who is now our President, while those that still follow him continue to lie to themselves that “Trumpee, Trumpee, he’s our man, if he can’t save us, no one can!”

**Cartoon used by permission: Steve Sack, The Minneapolis Star-Tribune MN, CagleCartoons**

When the Cohen testimonies made me sick at heart, I turned to the coverage of the Vatican’s cover-up through the years about the pedophilia priests in their midst, and immediately erased Pope Francis from my Christmas card list. (Seriously, Francis, I thought you were going to be different than all the other popes, but all you’ve done is talk, talk, talk. For Christ’s sake: call the police and throw all those sick pervs in jail. How hard can that be?)

My disappointment in the current Pope really made me really sick at heart, and I thought I couldn’t get any sicker until I watched the four-hour HBO documentary and Oprah’s follow-up interview on Michael Jackson’s alleged years-long serial pedophilia against two of his victims and scores of other children from ages 5 to 14 or so. This was after I had grooved to a dance mix of “Thriller,” “Bad,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” and “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” (suddenly those lyrics take on a whole new meaning!) to try and cheer me up from the stories about pedophilia in the Catholic church. Yuck! Being a Michael Jackson fan, how the hell did I miss this? If these stories are true, M.J. was one sick fuck.

**Cartoon used by permission: David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star, Tucson, AZ**

At that point, I turned off the television, crawled under the covers in despair with another bowl of chicken soup and my tissue box and made a declaration that I planned to stay there. I mean what’s the point of trying to get well when humans are such horrid creatures. (Physical sickness causes me to feel really sorry for myself and very agitated with the world at large. If you look at me the wrong way, I’ll fling my snot at you. Be glad I don’t have any magic powers or you’d all be turned into fried frog legs. God may have had his Noah’s flood, but I’d come at the Earth with a zapping power that would fricassee everybody’s ass who got on my nerves.)

Then I was reminded that Easter was coming soon. I love Easter! It’s my favorite high holiday. It is connected to spring, and it reminds me that winter won’t last forever, bad people won’t get away with murdering the hearts of the innocents ad infinitum, and that I need redemption and salvation just as much as those that I’m judging. As I poked my head from underneath the covers, I began to recite this anonymous prayer I found on the Google machine to ease my aching body and soul:

“Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime. No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. Easter is meant to be a symbol of hope, renewal, and new life. For I remember it is Easter morn and life and love and peace are all new born.”—Anonymous

The problem is—with me, as with many others—will we recognize Easter when it shows up?

**Cartoon used by permission: Aislin, The Montreal Gazette**

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I’m discovering that I have no idea when the madness—physical, political, sociological, or meteorological—will end. I just know I’m tired of being sick and tired. (To my horror, I just got in a CNN News bulletin on my phone: FLU SEASON MAY NOT HAVE PEAKED, AND THERE’S ANOTHER WAVE OF SEVERE INFECTIONS UNDERWAY, CDC SAYS.) What to do…what to do? Shall I take the chance and come out from underneath my covers and reenter the world? Shall I look to the sky in anticipation for spring while hoping and praying for the resurrection of Easter to sweep away the dross of winter from our human hearts—from here to the Vatican on down through the Michael Jackson fans who are threatening violence against the survivors of M.J.’s alleged sexual abuse? I think so, because if I’ve learned anything, hope does spring eternal and winter never lasts.

**Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, PoliticalCartoons.com**

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WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE AUTHOR? Check out her website at www.eleanortomczyk.com

THE AUTHOR’S LATEST BOOKS: Monsters’ Throwdown, Fleeing Oz, The Fetus Chronicles on sale now at Amazon!

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REFERENCES

https://www.washingtonpost.com/weather/2019/03/04/historically-cold-march-temperatures-are-freezing-large-part-lower/?utm_term=.72a3d2e4e9af

https://www.washingtonpost.com/national/health-science/spring-put-on-hold-as-storm-rolls-across-us-and-polar-air-arrives/2019/03/02/2cacafe2-3d0d-11e9-a2cd-307b06d0257b_story.html?utm_term=.d5196785a7e1

10 Comments

Posted by etomczyk on March 9, 2019 in Uncategorized

Tags: Donald Trump, HUMOR, Michael Jackson, Mueller Report, Polar Vortex, Pope Francis, Winter

YOU KNOW YOU’RE A GOOD MOTHER WHEN…

11 May

Do you know what I discovered this week? Mother’s Day is coming. I hate this bogus holiday! It’s that ONE DAY a year that mothers get celebrated for something we should be applauded for every freakin’ day of our children’s existence. What we manage to get done in a lifetime of rearing kids boggles my mind. My kids are in their 30s, and I still can’t believe I never accidentally lost one of them along the way when they were little or strangled both of them when they were sassy-ass teenagers. They survived—I survived—and they turned out okay in spite of me.

Cartoon used by permission: Dave Granlund, Minnesota

I’ve been thinking a lot about motherhood lately. Wondering what my kids will say about me in their memoirs when I’m doing the “nae-nae” (for the uninitiated, this is a dance of exuberance) in heaven. I wasn’t always calm. I scolded when I should have consoled, I prodded when I should have nurtured, I lectured when I should have listened, I confined them when I should have let them run free out of fear for their safety, and I thought too much about what others would think of my child-rearing when I should have let my kids just—be. I did what I thought was right—I did the best I could.

As all these juxtapositions about my motherhood were rummaging through my head the other day, a repairman came to fix our garage door. He was of the MAGA persuasion and immediately started in on a diatribe about the caravan of “illegal aliens storming our borders with their kids” and how “the gov’ment better do something to keep them out because we just can’t take everybody in who wants to come to our great land.” Although his logic made sense, his morality did not. He said this to me knowing that Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III, our current Attorney General from Hell, had announced morally corrupt plans to immediately separate children from their mothers—placing the mothers in detention centers and the babies/children in foster care when they try to arrive in America. There is a strong case to be made that many of the children will not have proper identification or language skills to be able to be reconnected with their mothers before they are deported back to the countries from which they fled for their lives. I think I told the idiot repairman that I would be right there in the midst of the caravan if I thought it was the only way to save my children from violence, rape, and starvation because that is what a good mother would do.

Sessions and the Mothers David Fitzsimmons The Arizona Star Tucson AZ

Cartoon used by permission: David Fitzsimmons, The Arizona Star Tucson, AZ

I was miserable for the rest of the day. It wasn’t just because I generally get depressed like this when I come in close proximity to a Trump supporter and their lack of humanity. It was more than that. I was miserable because I could sense the pain of the mothers who were going to have their kids snatched from them in their attempt to flee hostile and violent lands as refugees and would end up losing their kids in the process.

I thought of all the American upper-middle class “Pinterest” moms who make motherhood sound so awesome and Martha Stewart cute—making pancakes in the shape of bunnies, and kids’ beds into rocket ships and princess thrones, when most women of the world are just trying to keep their kids alive.

Suddenly I had a revelation: Motherhood is not the fantasy that some mothers post on Facebook, Pinterest, and Instagram. For most women, motherhood is not easy. Anyone who says it is easy and all sunshine and lollipops is lying. In fact, a woman doesn’t always get to define when she’s a good mother in the deepest sense—her responses to her children’s actions do, which is why I compiled a sampling of how one knows when one is a good mother or when one sees a good mother. It’s called: You Know You’re a Good Mother When…