Meditational Glow


The Incomparable Jimmie Beeee!!!!

... but just call me Jimmy Be

Mind Storm

(no subject)


All Things New

New Year’s Day:
The hangover get sober
unholiday holiday —
The blank page,
new chapter of lifebook holiday —
The glop of clay, blank canvas,
block of stone, unrecorded tape,
masterwork-in-waiting holiday —
The wide-open-road, wide-open-spaces
seat-of-the-pants, no-itinerary,
mystery adventure holiday.

Last year is suddenly ancient news.
Behold, I make all things new.
What about you?

              — 1-1-2012, evening, West Seattle waterfront

* * * * * * * * * * * *


New Year's Eve, My Hometown
Ghost-tree silhouettes
On blue-patch cloud-sky:
Nature can’t decide on
Foggy blouse or starry hat
For New Year’s party blast tonight.

I’ll take the gray
When Nature adds accents
To the monochrome:
Soaring fog clouds tinged
With apricot and strawberry,
Like nebulae in Milky Way.
(Which we won’t see till sky returns
’Round middle-March or May)

— 12-31, 2000, Howard Amon Park, Richland, WA

Mind Storm



Eight small flocks of birds
— too far away to tell what kind,
but seagulls maybe —
"V" up and glide south
over the Columbia River,
feathers shimmering like silver
in the last forty minutes of sunlight.

— October 21, 2013, 5:35 p.m., Howard Amon Park, Richland, WA

(Rough draft from the pocket notebook I use
to write poems and recollect dreams)

Mind Storm

LiveJournal: lonely Cold War outpost?

My Friends List used to be such a lively gathering spot for posts and exchanges of ideas and stuffses, but now I receive regular posts from only two people. Occasionally one or two others drop in. Has everyone escaped to Facebook now?

I admit I seldom showed my face around here the last three years, but that was from disinterest in any online posting. I've decided to write here regularly, whether anyone posts comments or not. I want to establish an online social-media "presence," if nothing more than to impress potential employers looking for people who know how to blog. But I do want to "say" something meaningful about life, current events, metaphysics, whatever or all of the above, in my blogging.

Last time I checked the numbers Facebook accounts totalled 12 percent of the world population, whether or not half of those use their accounts regularly or at all. Facebook is a social media cliche (as is Twitter) and my journalism teachers taught me to avoid cliches like the plague. I always rooted for the underdog so I'm sticking with LiveJournal. (But I did briefly consider also signing up with Tumblr. Maybe I'll check it out one of these days.)

An episode of Wizards of Waverly Place that I very much want to see airs on Disney Channel in 12 minutes. Got to go. Goodnight.

Mind Storm

Offline, off computer, on purpose — or, "I'm Unwired, But No Luddite" (But I am an ex Presbyterian)

By the way, I didn't write here for a month because I happily spent most of the time since about June 26th away from computers.

Oh sure, I couldn't completely escape computers: they program your car, phone, cable box; but I deliberately stayed away from the PC, for all but parts of four days. I checked e-mail thrice in three weeks. I did not even transcribe into my poetry collection folders new poems that I wrote.

I did not miss being plugged in. I had plenty of books and newspapers (remember those?) to keep me occupied.

The only reason I would own a smart phone or tablet right now is if I had to use one as part of a job. Ownership would be to teach me how to use them before I was offered a job. I'm not against these devices; I think they'll be very cool to play with. I choose not to own them because staying connected everywhere I go is very low on my priority list — but I must admit I also have not the money to buy said gadgets, let alone pay the service providers. One day I will have and then I'll decide.

Truth is, I never thought much about having a cell phone because I so seldom received calls on my land line (remember those?).

I didn't plan to go computerless. But my sister visited from Pennsylvania for a week and I was busy socializing. Then some new episodes of favorite Disney Channel shows came on that I wanted to watch. Then I had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to take my sister to the airport; then after she boarded the plane I went back to bed. The next thing I knew, eight days had passed. I checked my e-mail, wrote a couple of things in Internet Movie Database message boards, then forgot about the computer again for another week. You see, I also had to take more showers because the weather out here in the S.E. Washington climbed back to its customary upper 90s. (Where it will pretty much hover through August. On July 1st and 2nd it hit 107.) You don't want to read posts that are stinky and sweaty from the heat, do you?

And that's what I did on this part of my summer vacation, teacher.

Mind Storm

Fifty-five years later, I had to repeat first grade


I was required to repeat first grade at my old Catholic school, even though I am 61 and graduated from high school and college decades ago. But I was happy to do it.

I had to sign a form first. I joked to the school guy that if I were 6 years old I'd sign with a big fat pencil. I signed my regular sig with a ball-point pen.

I read some of the reasons for having to repeat first grade. One was my deficiency in Devotions the first time, plus a few other Catholic religious requirements I fell short of in 1958. At the bottom of the form someone also noted: "Likely to go to Hell."

After I signed the form I decided I needed to take some paper towels to the classroom, so I happily cut sheets off a roll in the hallway. I looked up and noticed it was 9:02 a.m. I was two minutes late. I wasn't worried. Apparently I was repeating an old habit from the first time. (In reality I was very seldom late as we had to be in our seats no later than 5 minutes before 9.)

I can't tell you how my first day went because I was still in the hallway when I woke up.

I half-hope the dream continues this morning. I want to know how school-redux turned out.

One thing I still hazily remember from real first grade is that on the first day Sister wrote words on the board and drew form-fitting boxes around them. She was showing us that letters have different shapes and sizes an dthey make words. Eventually we all learned to read those words and many, many more, short and long.


Mind Storm

Easter Egg Night Blanket

Easter Egg Night Blanket

(“A poem is whatever you say it is” — Jimmy Be)

Esoteric Sandoval
Pink Eye handball
court. Me with your best shot
of 7-Up Dr Pepper
chaser raw say raw
in the raw birthday tux this nonsense
into bed for night.
Forsooth what yon dreams
await thy fate, yon prince?

Yawn! Can’t be much senselacker
than these lines, eh, Guv’nor?
Tally ho no!

Turn on the dark
and park your loopy head

Blue-eyed shady
Easter egg night blanket
Resurrect poet’s morning.

                 — Mid-October 2010

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
(Copyright © by Jim Bacon, aka Jimmie Beeee!!!! and sometimes Jimmy Be)

Mind Storm

It popped off as I dropped off

i am writing this from my old bedroom at my mom's house. It now is the computer room. From 1969 until I moved out of the house in 1975 it was my room and no one else's. A perk of being the oldest child.

Forty years ago this summer I wrote a poem based on a strange image that sent me into naptime on my bed: A rocket unexpectedly launched itself — whoosh — from behind the light switch panel. The poem is long lost, but I remember one line: "It popped off as I dropped off."

I still see weird images and dreamlets, and hear random phrases, when I drift off. Like the two guys scooping plates off a table into boxes with their hands after a big dinner; then they suddenly they assumed martial arts poses and freeze-framed.

The mindworld between consciousness and sleep is a mysterious and wonderful place. If only I could record the images and share them on YouTube.

Mind Storm

What do you do?

What do you do now?
        I don't know, but I know I do it every day.
What do you do now?
        I don't know, but I know I do it anyway.

    — The Bonzo Dog Band
         (from album "Kensham")

Mind Storm

Nosferatu and Lizard Ice

Untitled 6    

Nosferatu the Vampire
haunts my TV.
Bloodsucker of 1922 silent epic
creaks from brainsucker box
before me.
Beat Buddha Kerouac in my lap
got those Mexico City Vampire Blues:
“We’re all taking shortcut
Through Death Valley
   The Volcanic Mountains
   And the Lizard Ice . . . ”

I’m going to bed, to the deathlike
astral trip thru Dreamville.
(As TV’d Nosferatu rises like a cartoon for his
   midnight stroll around the deck:
“The Ship of Death has a new captain.”)
Visions of the Other World await me.
Set sail, Captain Dreamer.

(copyright © by Jim Bacon, aka Jimmie Beeee!!!!)

Written late fall 2004; it is from a collection I titled "Karma Dharma," an experiement in free-form, first-thought-best-thought poetry inspired by Jack Kerouac; 62 poems in all written fall 2004-spring 2005. I pulled out a few for various amounts of additional editing, polishing and rewriting. But this one is almost as I first scribbled it down in my pocket notebook. I tweaked a word here and there for clarity in this revision. I tried a fairly substantial revision earlier, but it felt forced. I looked at the original again and decided it worked fine.

I will post more poems in the days ahead.

Mind Storm

TRAVELING DREAMS: Plenty of trips but why do I never arrive?

I'm off to bed shortly wondering where my dreams will take me this morning and how much of them I will remember. I used to remember my dreams i great detail, but now I have trouble recalling snippets most days. It might be an after-effect of the heart meds I've taken since April 2009. But it might be the result of continued mind/soul turmoil over finances, lack of employment and jobs in my career field that I can still do. (The longer I remain out of the field, the faster it rushes by me and changes as the focus goes more and more to social media tie-ins; but all that is another story for another post.) I also am feeling another shift in my spiritual perceptions and my reluctance to be very public because most of the people in my circle of friends right now would dismiss it as The Devil at play deceiving. Which I say is bullcrap. I simply see the world and universe through different, and I believe clearer, spiritual eyes. The turmoil, I think, is my resolve to be authentic about my beliefs, and not care what others think. With 7 billion people on Earth, I'll meet others who support me.

Anyway, as to the dreams, I'm focusing on solving the mystery of content and retnetion of details. I've been reading the section called "An Exercise to Develvop Creative and Symbolic Dreaming" in a book by Bobby Lake-Thom titled, "Spirits of the Earth A Guide to Native American Nature, Symbols, Stories and Ceremonies." My hope is it will help me understand what the Universe is teaching me through it's highly imaginative "night classes".

I've had a series of traveling dreams again lately that always end before I arrive anywhere. I feel like the message is the Universe affirming that I am still looking for direction, metaphorically speaking. Still wondering where I will "end up" when I lay this body down. (Which I don't plan to do for another 41 years, at age 102.) So far, no definitive answers.

Over the years I've dreamt I was on the Space Shuttle, flying backward in effortless silence, not in space but in the air just above trees and tall buildings. In this dream another space shuttle passed the one I was in.

Sometimes I dream I am walking on long trips I normally take by car. Last year, or maybe it was two years ago, time goes by fast at my age, I was walking over Snoqualmie pass on the freeway from Seattle to my hometown in southeastern Washington, a 223-mile car trip. There was no car traffic, I was pushing a baby carriage with no one in it. (I have no children or grandchildren.) I used to dreams often of walking from my very late Great-Aunt Minnie's home in The Dalles, Oregon, to my hometown. That's 137 miles approx. The part I remember most (it happened every time) was walking down a long grade into a town that in real life does not exist. This spot is where the freeway along the Columbia River makes (for real) a sharp bend. I remember it as a pleasant town, what I saw of it before I woke up. I also used to walk from Portland to Cannon Beach on the Oregon Coast. It was an easy walk, only 76 miles.

My dream travels have almost always been fantastic; Often I drove through parts of cities I didn't know existed, including a very old part of my hometown, with old storefronts and a building that looked like an early-20th Century courthouse. They don't actually exist, but it would be cool if they did (especially that part of my hometown).

Maybe I will dig out my old dream journals and post some of these dreams.

But the mystery remains: Why don't I ever arrive? The last couple of weeks the dreams have troubled me. I am going through another "awakening" as from hibernation back into spiritual consciousness. I'm "groggy" and searching for, not direction necessarily, but the right road for this part of my life-journey.

I guess I'll sleep on it for now.

(Forgive typos above; it is late, my computer is slow at "sending" my typing to the LJ server that fills the text composition box, and sometimes letters get skipped over; also, my typing gets worse every time I use a computer keyboard. I don't know why I still haven't figured out the rhythm ofthe things.)

Mind Storm

The doors and windows of perception . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"There's more here than meets the eye."
— Ringo Starr in "Help"

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Based on comments to a friend regarding self-rituals and perceptions:

I've been a stair counter since grade school, although not as much today at 61. I must go left, right, left, right, left, right . . . . . .  If necessary I take a long or very quick right step so that I hit the first stair with my left. If I must start on the right foot I sometimes count even, odd: "Two, one, four, three, six, five . . . . . . " I usually count sips when I drink something, often in blocks of 13 (my favorite number).

Faces jump out at me everywhere in random lines, dots, broken concrete, paint splatters, clouds, you name it. Most electrical sockets remind me of that painting "The Scream." I photographed a cartoon man walking his cartoon dog and published it on the cover of a weekly shopper newspaper. No one in the office saw what I saw in the bulbous blobs of ice stuck to the Minnesota winter small-town street. That was about 23 years ago.

I associate numbers with colors: 4 is red, 5 is blue, 6 is green, 8 is black, 9 (and any number ending in 9) is brown, 11 is orange, 13 is purple (my favorite color). I haven't fixed colors for 12, 10, 3, 2 or 1 yet. I might have fixed one for 7 but I don't remember.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Colors blind the eye.
Sounds deafen the ear.
Flavors numb the taste.
Thoughts weaken the mind.
Desires wither the heart.

The Master observes the world
but trusts his inner vision.
He allows things to come and go.
His heart is as open as the sky.

— Tao te Ching #12
(Stephen Mitchell translation)

Mind Storm

Only three days until Platypus Day!

Saturday, March 2, is Platypus Day. Wear your favorite Perry the Platypus or Agent P shirt all day. I'm going to wear my Perry eats his dinner shirt ("NOM NOM NOM"). What? You've never heard of Platypus Day? Why, it's a day of fun and games!

Mind Storm

The perfect name for a U.S. President

If the name were the main qualification for president of the United States, then the most qualified man in America is: SHELDON WHITEHOUSE, United States senator from Rhode Island. I can imagine the headline now:
It's Whitehouse to the White House

Speaking of perfect names: 
— This congressman should invest in a string of Starbucks franchises: Robert Goodlatte, R-Virginia.
— This (former?) college and pro basketball star should invest in several International House of Pancakes franchises: Jerry Stackhouse.

That is all. Good night.

Mind Storm

Back home, acclimated and happy, with memories of shaking hands with Billy Graham and President Ford

I've been back in Richland, Washington, the city where I grew up, for 42 days now. Fully acclimated within 30 of them.

I'm very happy to be back here. I do not miss Seattle at all. It was a fun place to live in the late 1970s when I was in my 20s, but the city is too sprawling now, too BIG CITY. Back then and into the mid-80s it was merely Big City, which I liked. Now I like the slower pace over here in Eastern Washington.

Highlights of my early days there:

— I covered the grand opening of the Kingdome on March 27, 1976. It was demolished in 2000, one day before its 24th anniversary. Century Link Field, home of the Seahawks, was built on the site. Highlight of the grand opening: Danny Kaye, then a minority owner in the new Seattle Major League Baseball team to be named later, spoke to the packed audience and envisioned the day when he could say, "Get your World Series tickets here." Danny Kaye is many years dead and Mariners fans still wait for that World Series. (They also had to wait a year for the first game. The Mariners didn't start play until the 1977 season.)

— May 1976 I covered all eight nights of the Billy Graham Crusade. It was a bit trippy, seeing in person what I saw only on television for years. A lot of people from the little Christian college I was attending in 1976 said they saw me taking pictures, but I wasn't nervous about being in front of 50,000 people until the night Johnny Cash was a guest and the overflow crowd was seated on the Kingdome floor. Now they were within touching distance and I got a little nervous about "performing" in public. (Look, it's the Jimmie Beeee!!!! camera show!) It wasn't so bad when they were way up in the seats. Johnny Cash and his wife, June Carter Cash, "posed" for me from he stage while they sang a song. It looked like Johnny saw me taking pictures and he turned toward me. I met Graham and shook hands with him a couple of months earlier at a press conference when he was in town promoting the upcoming event (and his new book about angels). I was in the front row doing my official news photographer gig and he shook hands with all of the front row people.

— August 1976 I covered Jimmy Carter's presidential campaign stop in Seattle, where he spoke to the American Legion or VFW (can't remember now) and promised to pardon all the anti-Vietnam-War draft dodgers. I was a little concerned standing between Carter and a packed Seattle Coliseum audience of angry veterans booing his announcement. I was hoping a riot would not break out; hopes were satisfied. (The war officially ended a year earlier with our hasty exit from Saigon, and the draft dodgers still touched raw nerves among people who fought in Vietnam — and their families and friends.)

— October 1976 I covered President Ford's campaign stop in Seattle. He shook my hand at Boeing Field where Air Force one landed. I was on the fence line on official news photogapher duty and he was pressing the flesh. He mainly just grabbed hands, shook them, said thanks for coming out and moved on. He made eye contact with everyone he shook hands with before and after me but looked away when he saw my press badge. He did not fall down the steps from the plane. (He had a knack for clumsiness, as captured deftly by Chevy Chase on "Saturday Night Live.")

Hmmm, all of the big events took place in 1976, my first year in Seattle. Looking back, I guess I peaked very early. By "covered" I mean taking photos for the school yearbook and newspaper.

Meditational Glow

Jimmie Beeee!!!! is moving back to his hometown in five days

Mrs. Beeee!!!! and I are leaving Seattle on Thursday, moving back to Richland, Washington, the city where I grew up.

We put our house on the market on 11-11-11. It took a year, but if all proceeds on schedule Monday morning we will sign papers to officially close the sale. We have to be out by 5 p.m. Wednesday. We'll stay at her sister's place Wednesday night then head east, finally.

A lot of people looked at the house. We had five offers. A short sale was approved in April, but the negotiations went on too long for the buyer-to-be: the deadline from his lender passed and he no longer qualified for the loan. Three other offers came but the buyers-to-be backed out. Then this last one went through.

When we first put the house on the market at the end of 2008, barely anyone showed interest. The housing market was still in the tank from when the real estate bubble burst in 2008 (or 2007, not sure which year now).

We have wanted to resettle in Richland for several years now, and now we will. I got sick of living in Seattle. I want the quieter pace and atmosphere of there.

Richland is small, about 32,000 population. It is part of the Tri-Cities of Richland, Pasco and Kennewick. When you add the three cities and some small "suburbs" (aka farm towns) together the area population is about 150,000. But despite the size, it still has a smaller town feel.

Richland is headquarters for the Hanford Nuclear Reservation, which is just north to 20 miles north of the city. Hanford made plutonium that went into Cold War nuclear bombs in the 1950s and 1960s. Plutonium from Hanford was exploded in the A-bomb that leveled Nagasaki and ended World War II. Since the 1980s the federal government has been engaged in cleaning up the radioactive waste left behind from flexing our macho military muscles. Hanford has been called themost polluted place in the Western Hemisphere.

The Richland neighborhood I grew up in is quiet. My old street is wide enough for people to park on both sides of the street and still leave plenty of room for two cars to pass each otehr without one driver having to pull over. That's one of the biggest annoyances of driving in Seattle. If you get off the main streets, the side streets are essentially one lane roads when people park on both sides.

We've lived in Seattle almost exactly 16 years and in the area for almost exactly 20, give or take a week or two on each. We first moved to Vashon Island, then to Ruston (a very small, unincorporated neighborhood attached to north Tacoma), and then about six blocks south in Tacoma proper.

I will miss two things about living in Seattle: the sweet folks I've gotten to know at the Center for Living church on Sand Point Way sne my first visit there in 2002 (I kept coming back), and easy access to used record stores that sell lots of 45 RPM records. I've stopped seeking out albums and gone back to singles, which I started collecting in large quantities by trading a "hit" record to the kid up the street for a box of 30 to 40 "junk" singles.

Jeff Upson had a fake radio station but got on the mailing lists for free records from all the major companies. "You should go for quality, not quantiy," my mom said often. But I was exposed to many genres of music by going for quantity. I'm sure some were hits on the R&B, Country and Easy Listening charts. I got a handful of Top 40 pop hits, too. I wound up with three copies of "Just Like Romeo and Juliet" by the Reflections. It's still a standout in my collection. Around five years ago I found and bought two "Jeff" records that I used to own, records I donated to the Pasco Goodwill in 1975. Somehow they survived the decades. I recognized them by the date stamp I used on my Jeff records. Jeff stamped the date of receiving on the hit side and I often stamped the other side, emulating him. His stamp was larger than mine and my font was also different.

OK, that's the news update. Back to packing.

Meditational Glow


Ah, the busy life of an eighth-grader ......

  8:00         Get up.
  8:15         Eat breakfast
  8:40         Leave for school
  8:55         Begin class
10:55         Recess
12 P.M. 
12:10         Lunch and afternoon recreation
  1:10         Begin class
  2:45         Recess
  3:20         Dismisal
  3:30         Leave school
  3:45         Arrive at home
  4:00         Play outside or inside
  6:30         Eat Supper
  7:30         Do homework
  8:30         Watch Television
10:00         Go to bed.

James Bacon
November 2, 1965

I found this in a bundle of old papers from my Catholic grade school days (the school was grades 1-8). You'll note that I devoted exactly one hour to homework, but one and a half hours to watching television and two and a half hours to playing. When I was 13 my priorities were different. Come to think about it, they didn't change much when I was 23 and in college. Except for the television; it was a communal set in the dormitory lounge so I didn't watch much. I remember that "afternoon recreation" tended to include calesthenics in the gym, taught by Mr. Yencopal.

Meditational Glow

(no subject)

Text and formatting) copied from a post I made on September 14, 2001 (scroll down at the link to see it), inspired I am sure by the song  "supercalifragilisticexpealidocious" in "Mary Poppins" (the movie version), which was out about the same time in the 1960s:

Word of the day


— One of Uncle Martin's experiments on "My Favorite Martian"

Meditational Glow

Dust Bowl Ballads, 14 great songs by Woody Guthrie

This is a great album  

I'm listening to this album, on the vinyl copy I bought in 1973 from a friend who was into Bob Dylan and the late-fifties, early-sixties folk music revival. RCA Victor issued this collection in 1964 of the 14 songs Woody Guthrie recorded on April 26, 1940 about the Dust Bowl and Great Depression. The picture above is the cover of the RCA album. (Available on Amazon.comstarting at $15.00)

One song is "Pretty Boy Floyd," about the legendary outlaw, which contains lyrics relevant to today:

"Yes, as through this world I've wandered
I've seen lots of funny men.
Some will rob you with a six-gun
and some with a fountain pen."

I'm thinking about the megabanks and their shady practices that lent mortgage money to people they knew weren't credit-worthy; but the banksters knew they could repackage the loans, run them through the shredder, make many bundles of the shreds and sell them to investors at a profit. Then the banksters' actions shredded the economy and their bottom lines to the point where we were stuck bailing out the banks or risking Great Depression II if we didn't.

Two tracks on the album are "Tom Joad — Part 1" and "Tom Joad — Part 2" (both sides of the original 78 r.p.m. record), Guthrie's summarizing of John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath." He wrote the song after seeing the movie version. "I wrote this song," he said, "because the people back in Oklahoma haven't got two bucks to buy the book, or even thirty-five cents to see the movie, but the song will get back to them and tell them what Preacher Casey said."

Anyway, get the album used on vinyl or a CD reissue. It's a grand one.

Oh, I also highly recommend "The Anthology of American Folk Music" — 84 ballads, topical songs and religious music by various artists recorded in the 1920s and 1930s.

Meditational Glow

Dream of Life

"Life is an adventure of our own design intersected by fate and a series of lucky and unlucky accidents . . . "
— Patti Smith, "The Dream of Life"

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Connect-the-dots-at-random Life.

 “The whole damn world’s a stage and we all just the cast!”
          the Bard once spake.

“Wild spinning theater of the improv!”
          spake I now.
                    Sperm drills egg, chromosomes wed,
                    DNA spirals, cells divide,
                    What’ll crawl ashore on the womb-sac’s tide?
                    Peacenik, warrior, playboy, geek?

                    Healer, heathen, Jesus Freak?

— Jimmy Be

Meditational Glow

(no subject)

The Magnifying Glass

It’s all a big mind game, this demonizing of “the other.”
It’s like a science experiment gone wild:
the brain turns into an out-of-control magnifying glass.

People find two teeny verses in their holy book
that tut-tut some behavior, and suddenly the rule breakers
have visited pure evil upon the land by the millions.

Truth seekers, don’t take the lens God gave you
to help see His magnificent creation more clearly
and use it to fry people like they were ants.

That’s not what God’s Love Light is for.
What were you thinking?
What did the ants ever do to you?


Weirdness I wrote Oct 16 and 17, 2012, filtered through Hafiz; A poet I am; a mystic, not so much.

But my sentiment holds true and honest. I am amazed sometimes how "religious" people will glom onto cherry picked verses of "thou shalt not" scripture and use them "in the name of Almighty God" to justify demonizing an entire group of humans. But when people tell them, "Hey, don't be so mean," the religious ones have the gall to whine about being persecuted.

End of sermonizing.
Good night, sweet readers.


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