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David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: A Child's Wrinkled Face

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: A Child's Wrinkled Face: A Child’s Wrinkled Face And so it was a couple years ago I asked members of a private community on Facebook to respond to questio...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: My Older Brother Had Worms

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: My Older Brother Had Worms: The wooden box in our garage on Lincoln Avenue in Dubuque, Iowa was filled with dirt and coffee grounds. At first blush, that box app...

My Older Brother Had Worms

The wooden box in our garage on Lincoln Avenue in Dubuque, Iowa was filled with dirt and coffee grounds. At first blush, that box appeared as a forgotten heap of humus. One scoop of the hands revealed a living mass of movement under the surface. It was filled with worms  - or as we called them in the 1950s, night crawlers. They belonged to my older brother.
Yep, he collected and sold them to any fisherman willing to pay twenty-five cents for a dozen. He even had a sign out front of our house as proof that he was in business. I learned a lot from my brother, Richard, aka “Rick”.
Little did he realize that being two years his junior, I watched his every movement, every action and reaction. To an eight-year old, that was a natural method of learning. However, sibling rivalry often sends brothers in two different paths. When I took his place with each progressing grade level in school, teachers asked me if I was going to be as good a student as my brother. I didn’t listen. When they asked if I was going to play an instrument or be elected to Student Council, I didn’t follow that path either. The drama teacher asked if I was going to participate in plays. I shook my head “No” and thought it was for sissies. Little did either of us realize that a few years into the future my brother would attend college, in part, with a drama scholarship.
I didn’t follow rules like he did. I never made an honor role like he did nor did I earn as many merit badges in Boy Scouts. He always seemed to have either a book or a fishing pole in his hands. I hated fishing – maybe because he loved it. The only thing I ever read was Boys Life.
He ice-fished, fly-fished and sat for hours along the dam that connected Iowa to Wisconsin in my hometown. He was quiet and unassuming. I told stories to all who would listen and had to be the center of attention.
I find it interesting today how I unknowingly admired each of his accomplishments and the person himself when we were kids and teenagers. Little did I know that decades later I would enter the stage and become a national performer with my stories. I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. Our Governor and the General Assembly gave me that title.  www.cowboycomedyshow.com
I followed his path with music. I am learning to play the saxophone. He is currently learning the guitar – in addition to already knowing how to play the violin, drums, psaltery and other instruments.
He has no patience with projects involving anything mechanical and will go berserk if confronted with obstacles he doesn’t understand. In our family it’s called the “Rick Factor”. I use that behavior often and have a hammer nearby in case I need to smash something into tiny bits.
As an “older man”, he is still an avid fisherman. I have recently started fishing. Richard is moving to a city two hours from my home. We plan to fish together.
He reads hundreds of books each year. I have gone from that little boy who only read a
Scouting magazine to an author. I have written seven books so far and one of my works
 will be shopped soon to become a movie. Songs have been written about, The Shade
Tree Choir. http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU  http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70  http://youtu.be/oQApYp1S9O0

Older brothers can be great friends. I know it’s true about mine. We speak on the telephone halfway across the country each and every week – something we have done for over thirty-years. Recently, we have compared notes about music and fishing.
In the middle of the night when I can’t sleep I sometimes wonder about life. Could we have 
stayed this close for some sixty decades because of worms? You will see what I mean when you read 
my short story, “The Hunt” - it can be found in my latest book, If The Hills Could Talk.  
www.davidnelsonauthor.com


The Hunt ©ByDavid Nelson
The sudden spring shower earlier that evening was enough to get them moving. The grass felt damp on my hands and knees as I crept along in total silence with my flashlight. Above me was my second grade classroom, and directly above that was my older brother, Richard’s fourth grade room. I was in the front lawn of one of the oldest elementary schools in Dubuque. Audubon was probably one of the oldest schools in all of Iowa.In my seven brief years of life I had come to know each and every square foot of Audubon’s playground. In the dark that evening in 1957, I was learning every square inch of the front lawn. My heart raced with excitement but my eyes were focused straight ahead. I felt every muscle tighten in my little body as I crawled on all fours. It was the first time I had been invited to go night crawler hunting with my brother, Richard.I looked behind as if to seek his approval each time I dropped a juicy, slimy, seven-inch worm into the once empty, three-pound Folger’s coffee can. I saw Richard’s light at the far end of the lawn by the flagpole near Johnson Street and imagined he was having as much success as I was with the hunt.I poked and prodded at my half-filled can and knew my brother would be proud of me. It was important for me to feel his pride in me. He could once again set his wooden sign against the front of our house at 617 Lincoln Avenue that read “Night Crawlers 25¢ a dozen.” A few days earlier he had sold the last of his stash to a fisherman on his way to the Mississippi River a half-mile from our house. I felt the eerie quiet of the evening. And that was strange because Audubon was anything but quiet in the daytime. Hundreds of children from surrounding neighborhoods played at Audubon year round. The sounds of laughter and sometimes an occasional fight among boys echoed off the houses lining the school property, small houses placed just feet from one another.  Audubon playground was where I learned to play baseball. In winter we played basketball on the frozen, snow-covered ground that earlier in the year had been center field. Every summer, the Dubuque Recreation Department offered playground activities for children of all ages. It was there that we played foursquare, tetherball, Ping-Pong and tossed horseshoes. We had coloring contests, played word games and assembled puzzles. There were relay races and individual sprints in preparation for the all-city track meet. Little did I know, that one day I would become the fastest high school sprinter in all of Dubuque County. Suddenly, a night crawler slid across the back of my hand and brought me back to the night. I lifted it with my fingers and dropped it into my can. That evening was a special time and place for me. And still is.

Bernie Sanders Morning Joe FULL Interview

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: <!--[if gte vml 1]> <...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: <!--[if gte vml 1]> <...: The Earth Is Our Home Fishing some lakes and rivers in East Tennessee gave me pause when I noticed one thing in common...

The Earth Is Our HomeFishing some lakes and rivers in Eas...

The Earth Is Our Home
Fishing some lakes and rivers in East Tennessee gave me pause when I noticed one thing in common. It was trash! Everywhere I fished it was the same. I don’t understand why people discard bottles, cans, paper products and other items along the banks of the waterways.
Seeing such sites reminded me of a cowboy poem I wrote years ago. It can be found in my book titled The Campfire Collection of Cowpoke Poetry. I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee, an honor given to me by our former Governor and the General Assembly. You can find my books at Amazon and on my web site at www.davidnelsonauthor.com
I hope maybe, just maybe my poem will remind ay least one person to stop and think before he/she pollutes.
Keep America Beautiful
I was after supplies riding down the mountain along the Rosebud River.
The trail was rough and rocky, but bein’ this here close to God made me shiver at this here gift.

I stopped to watch the swaying in the riverbed as the current bent many a weed.
I saw a ten-inch trout ripple the water when he snagged a bug for feed.

Both horse and I leaned down to quench us of thirst,
And I knew this here cool morning we were the first to visit Nature’s sanctuary.

The water ‘bout cracked my teeth when I sipped it from its source.
The rapid’s spray misted me and helped to cool my horse.

With the music of the churning water playing at my side,
I didn’t mind the thirty-mile ride into town down below.

The closer I got to signs of people I had to stop and think
About why the river changed its color and why it had a stink.

My horse, she blew and snorted. Her fear she couldn’t hide.
For she had never seen a mattress lying by a river’s side.

Clogging the flow were soft-drink cans, shards of glass, plastic wrappers and an old mason jar.
The water licked the sides of an old abandoned car.

They say I’m an endangered species. They say cowboys are a dying breed.
A cowboy and a rancher would never harm something we all need.

I saw a bumper sticker go floatin’ by. It said “KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL.”
I dipped my head, lowered my hat and wiped a teardrop from my eye.



DON’T POLLUTE

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: To Pee or Not To Pee - That is the Question

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: To Pee or Not To Pee - That is the Question: The following is a short story from my book, PALS: Part Two Copyright by Cowboy Poet Press 2013 www.davidnelsonauthor.com “The Pi...

To Pee or Not To Pee - That is the Question

The following is a short story from my book, PALS: Part Two Copyright by Cowboy Poet Press 2013www.davidnelsonauthor.com
“The Pissing Neptune”byDavid Nelson Nelson
I have no ability to use tools of any sort. When my wife sees me with a hammer or screwdriver, she tackles me to prevent damage somewhere around the house. I have patience with people, but not with mechanical objects. At my first house, I had a swimming pool built. I created a three-layered garden with railroad ties across one side of the fence. My goal was to have something different in bloom at all times. At the end of another side and in the corner I left a space to accommodate a metal storage shed for storing pool toys and pool supplies. In another corner I left an open spot inside the concrete deck where I could plant flowers.
The nine A.M. sun was already hot when I pulled my car into the plant nursery. I heard him as soon as I got out of my car. It was Neptune, the god of the sea! He stood with great pride while water came from his penis and moistened the grapes in the bowl beneath. I had to own this. I just had to.
I pictured just how perfect he would be guarding my pool while holding an urn covered with grapes. I envisioned numerous plants in full color surrounding the pedestal that held him high for all to see. I made the purchase and ignored the salesman’s recommendation of finding some help to move the heavy three-piece object. The thirty-inch high pedestal held the four-inch thick cement bowl that had a diameter of some forty-five inches. Each was an individual piece. Lastly, there was Neptune holding the huge urn. Being a ‘Know-It –All’, I just knew I would be able to carry each item to the pool area without assistance. After all, it was pretty light loading the first part into my trunk with help from the salesman.
I tied the trunk lid with some twine and thanked the fella for helping me load it. I promised to return shortly for the other two pieces. I zigzagged backwards into my driveway because my vision was limited due to the open trunk lid. After several attempts, I was close enough to carry the cement structure the fifteen feet to its location. Or at least that is what I thought. A chunk broke off when I lost my grip and it fell to the driveway. I knew people would not notice a small imperfection. I was able to lift the 200-pound object and carry it about two-feet and had to rest. I could feel my pulse in the sides of my head seeming to wiggle my ball cap in and out. The sweat covered my lenses and gave me a vision of 3-D. I was sucking in air like a horse that just finished the Kentucky Derby. My blood pressure was increased and my biceps were in spasm. I had just completed one third of the required distance. One third! Two thirds to go.
I decided to shimmy the darn thing left and right to its terminal resting position in the small garden. The chips of concrete that rubbed off the bottom were of no concern to me. I knew people wouldn’t notice the imperfection. I was soaked with sweat and finally caught my wind when I sat in my car ready for trip number two.
“How did it go?” The salesman asked.
“Oh, it was alright. It wasn’t as heavy as I thought,” I lied.
About twenty minutes later I was parked at the unloading spot in my driveway. It sure was easier loading with two of us at the nursery. I was determined. The round water bowl was lighter than the base by some fifty pounds. I was able to wiggle it out of the trunk and get a grasp across the forty-five inch diameter. My palms dug into grapes that circled the monster. I walked like the guy from the movie, “The Mummy”. My legs were locked, my arms rigid, my back arched, and I carried that darn thing over to the pedestal. With great effort I hoisted it up and managed to chip off three clusters of grapes as it hit the edge of the pedestal. I knew people would not notice the imperfection.
I gulped three glasses of iced tea and soaked a hand towel with my sweat as I tried to recover. My back was a bit sore, my left knee had a twinge in it, and I removed my glasses to clean them with the dirty towel. I drove about fifteen miles an hour to the nursery trying to recuperate. Only one more piece, I thought, as I leaned forward into the air conditioning vents in my car, blowing full force.
“How did that one go? You didn’t drop it, did you?” The fella said laughing a bit.
“No, it’s all going fine,” I responded with a forced smile.
To protect the most important piece, I brought a blanket to wrap around Neptune. With the salesman’s assistance, we slowly lowered it into the trunk. While I tied the lid for the final time, the salesman gathered the pump and tubing to create the water flow with the garden art. He returned and gave me a ten-second education about proper length of the tubing to make the penis squirt water correctly. I did not listen as I was trying not to pass out from fatigue and humidity.
It was about thirty minutes later when I set Neptune atop the bowl and filled it with water. Neptune was also a struggle, but not like the other two chunks of concrete. With a beer in one hand and my garden hose in the other, I watched the bowl fill with water. Just the sight of this small success got me excited. Did he say a shorter tube was better or a longer one? I thought.
How hard could this be, I wondered as I balanced Neptune against my right shoulder. I slid the clear plastic tube into the connector at its bottom of the statue. I set it back in place, and stopped for a minute. I needed a rest. I returned to the same position with it balanced against my shoulder. My back pain increased as I bent further forward to connect the other end of the tubing to the pump. Once again, I slid the statue in place and was excited to see if I’d connected it properly and if he would pee correctly. I connected the electrical plug from the pump into an extension cord and Neptune did his thing. Neptune shot water across the deck and hit the diving board and splashed into the pool. It must be shorter is better, I thought. Well, now that’s ironic.
It took me six attempts to get that piece of crap to pee correctly. I balanced, I lifted, and I cut tubing with scissors, and managed to break off more concrete while fine-tuning the pump action. I cut the final piece of tubing too short. Neptune looked like a guy with kidney stones. He barely peed at all. I had to go the hardware store to buy another piece of plastic tubing and start over. It was the wrong dimension and I had to go back to the store again. I was cussing, I was soaked with sweat, I couldn’t remember where I put my “3-D” glasses, and I was ticked. Not to mention determined.
Another bottle of Red Stripe beer seemed to settle me down. I felt a sense of pleasure as I walked around my masterpiece. The chips on Neptune’s bottom were small in comparison to the others, but I didn’t care. People would never notice. I had one final puzzle piece to complete the project. I had to cut the end of the pump’s cord, re-wire it into a longer cord and then the pump would operate without the extension cord. To do so, required digging under the fence and under the concrete to reach the pump. I’d never done anything like this before. Again I thought, how hard could that be. As the sun dropped in the western sky, I sat at the table thinking of the best way to complete the electrical project the next day.
I wanted to be finished long before the sun and humidity became unbearable. I started just before sunrise. I dug a hole under the fence and had a mere four feet to reach my goal of digging under the sidewalk. I used every tool I owned to dig the tunnel. Nothing was working! The Alabama red clay was more stubborn than a mule when you are trying to lead it across a swinging bridge. As my trowel bounced off the clay, I felt like the prisoners in Alcatraz in June, 1962, who dug their way to freedom. They tunneled out of their cells with spoons. I only had a couple feet or so. Surely I could complete my mission, surely.
“Hey, Mister David, can we swim? Huh, can we? Pretty please.” I heard from above, as I tried to un-wedge my head from under the fence.
I rolled over in the dirt pile and asked the four little girls standing over me what time it was. They didn’t know, but from the sun’s position, it must have been late morning. There they were, in swimming suits and holding their towels. What was I to do? I gave approval after hearing they had permission from their mothers. I walked to the back door and peeked inside at the clock. It was 11:45.
Holy Crap! I thought. I had been digging for almost five hours and had only gone a grand total of two feet. It was time for the big gun. I left dirt tracks on the carpet as I went to the laundry room and grabbed my deer antler-handled hunting knife. The virgin blade still glistened like the day I bought it. It had never been used, but today, I was going to break it in.
I returned to the small pile of dirt, and with all my pressure against the handle I began chipping clay. I felt little pieces crumble into the hole. I felt assured that the job would be completed soon. That blade was like a crushing machine deep underground in a Kentucky coal mine. I chipped out rocks, cut through roots, and crumbled dirt by the teaspoon full. At last I was making progress. The constant screams of little girls yelling, “Marco Polo” were irritating but didn’t dampen my spirit of success.
Pulling open the gate to the inside of the pool area, I was reminded of my futile attempt to hang that darn gate. It seemed to me at the time, I must have purchased a wrong threaded cement bit for my drill. I attempted to drill holes into the brick side of my house in order to insert mollies that would give me anchors for the screws holding my hinges. No matter how hard I pushed on my drill, the bit refused to dig a hole. I nearly fell from my perch on the ladder a couple times. I was frustrated, hot and soaked from the Alabama heat. I called Dwayne who came over and slapped me on the side of my head after looking at the drill. He said, “You idiot. You have the drill on reverse.”
“Oh, so that explains it,” I responded.
I managed to complete that project without any further difficulty. Isn’t it amazing how tools work when you know how to operate them correctly?
Now, back to my digging. There I was on the opposite side of the fence in the pool area. My goal was to dig another tunnel to eventually connect to the other side. I would then feed my cable through the hole, splice my electrical cords and be finished. I dug as far as I could with the shovel under the concrete. I could have gone further, but kept bumping into the damn statue. I lay down on my side and used the dull knife’s tip to dig in the opposite direction. I could see the stick I propped up at the other side. That was my mark and I felt success was at hand. For some reason, the dirt on this side of the sidewalk was softer and easier to chip away.
I was on my left side reaching under the cement as far as I could go. My face was pressed firm against the walkway. Little chips of concrete stuck into my face. I must have looked like my brother, Richard when he rose up from the floor mats after sleeping in the car on vacations. The concrete chips were left from the statue parts that I broke the day before. Those girls began to irritate me with their high-pitched shrills and constant yelling of Marco Polo. If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times, “Hey, Mr. David, watch this.”
Finally I could take it no further. I told them they had to leave. I was firm but not mean. They disappeared in nothing flat and the silence was deafening. I sat at the patio table trying to see where I went wrong. Despite my attempts, the two tunnels did not meet in the center. Why had I not connected to the other end? I was defeated. I was broken. I was really pissed-off.
The following Thursday the electrician smiled and said, “Well ya missed your mark by at least six inches. There is no way those two tunnels were ever going to meet. Just thank yourself that you aren’t in Alcatraz, cause you would never dig your way out.”
That was the best money I spent for an hour’s time. The electrician connected the cords, dug under the sidewalk and the pissing Neptune emptied his bladder just like at the plant nursery. Finally, success!
Two days later I had a pool party with many neighbors attending. Dan was blowing smoke from his cigar when I approached him and other fellas admiring my Neptune. I poked out my chest and with pride walked up to hear Dan say, “Hey, David what’s with all the chips on your fountain here? I hope you didn’t pay full price for obvious defects with this thing.”
I was crushed and quickly exhaled. I had to think fast. “Oh heck no. I told the guy I wanted it for 10% off because of those defects,” I said with pride.

He looked amused. “Huh, I would have asked for 30% off ‘cause I could see the defects all the way across the pool.”

Clarence Anglin, John Anglin, and Frank Morris attempted the June 1962 Alcatraz escape. They burrowed out of their cells, climbed a ventilation shaft onto the roof, and then climbed down. They left the island on a makeshift raft and were never heard from again.
Be sure to check out all my books on my web site. Feel free to share this story. Comments you make below would be appreciated.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Political Poop - A Satirical Essay

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Political Poop - A Satirical Essay: Morus And so God called out to the old man sitting by the campfire in his backyard and said, “Morus, I need your help and command you...

Political Poop - A Satirical Essay

Morus

And so God called out to the old man sitting by the campfire in his backyard and said, “Morus, I need your help and command your assistance.”
Morus, slurping from a can of beer, swallowed the last sip and threw the can to the ground next to the other fifteen empty ones. Through bloodshot eyes he gazed at the night sky and wobbled in his lawn chair. “Do what? Y’all want me to… Who is this? Go get your own beer, I’m not giving y’all any of mine.”
The knuckles of Morus’ hand turned white as he clung to the shaking chair at the sound of thunderous words rumbling from above and in the process blew across the fire. A nearby bush burst into flames from a sudden spark flying from the fire pit. It too began to speak. Commands were heard in stereo – from that Burning Bush and from the Heavens. “You will go to Home Depot and buy supplies to build a boat. This shall be a boat like no other. It shall be called Life. You will build Lifein your driveway and thou neighbors initially will think thee is insane. But they shall remember thou are from Kentucky and ignore you. I want you to paint the boat red.”
Light from the moon and stars reflected off Morus’ one tooth when he looked up and grinned. “Tell y’all the truth, I’d rather paint it Wildcat Blue. I’m a Kentucky fan, but what the heck, it don’t make me no never mind what color you want. Well, don’t this beat all? Just the other day, I done purchased new tools at “Jimmy Bob’s Used Tire Emporium and Junk Shop. I got a table saw, a …” He was interrupted by God.
“Morus, shut up,” the Bush bellowed.
“Thou will then load Life with pairs of people. Remember, Morus - a pair means two. Get a pair from each State in your America. I am sending you a list of those to gather. When the boat is filled there will be a big party. It will be a Grand Old Party remembered by all. It shall be known as the GOP.”
Morus popped another beer and poked at the fire. He turned to sit and noticed a piece of paper with instructions scribed thereon. He shinned the flashlight on the paper. It was the same light he used for spotting and poaching deer out of hunting season.
He turned the paper over and noticed the instructions were written on letterhead from the I-Hop Restaurant. “Ya, know God, I-Hop is where all the one-legged waitresses work. Y’all do know that up there, right?”
The Bush shuddered, and spoke. “Morus, you are an idiot. That is why I had your parents name you such. Morus is the Greek name for moron or idiot. I figure what better person to construct a boat filled with GOP party folks than an idiot. Now finish reading the list.”
Morus scanned the list briefly. Reading was not his favorite activity. He found descriptions of people God wanted him to collect. The descriptions included those with hate in their hearts, people who disliked women, minorities and the Federal Government.  Some of the GOP members collected subsidies for farming and proclaimed to detest federal assistance for others. Some received school loans and received free healthcare from the very government they didn’t like. All used the roads and bridges built by the Government. Many collected social security disability and yet wanted to terminate Food Stamps for the needy.
The list also included bankers, wealthy individuals with off shore accounts who paid no income tax, along with corporate executives who moved their company headquarters to other countries for cheap labor and avoided paying taxes altogether. God also wanted Morus to gather up people who wanted to break up Unions, plus those who created an environment where business people could fire employees for no reason. They called this the “Right to Work” – but in reality it should be called the “Right to Fire.”
Other people Morus was to gather included members of the KKK, Christian Conservatives who hated anyone different. There were Tea Party members who insisted on a Federally balanced budget – yet most had low personal credit scores and were unable to manage their own financial households.
Then there were people who were part of the ignorant masses. The sheepthat believed the Government was going to take away their guns. These people were cut from the same mold as Morus and as a result, he had no difficulty identifying them.
Morus also had no difficulty locating the pairs. He was given a special tool from God. It was a hand-held radar system that emitted a sound each time he passed by a house where people listened to Fox News.

Morus threw his beer can into his front yard and looked up and belched. “God, I have ‘em loaded up. What do you want me to do now?”
“Tow the boat to the Mississippi River, launch it and cruise America’s waterways for four years. Keep them confined and quiet. Six months before each Presidential election dock the boat and allow them to scatter across America,” God laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“There’s a bunch of us sitting up here bored and we like to see all the commotion these folks start each cycle. We had another fella create a second boat for our entertainment. It’s painted blue and has a huge elephant trunk on the front.”
God cleared his throat and continued. “That boat is filled with people who tend to be intellectuals. Those are intelligent people, Morus.”
“Huh, do what?” Morus asked.
“Forget it,” God said and continued. “On that boat there are people who want to help those in need, they like Federal control over the masses. They support women, Gay folks, Unions and consumer protection. They don’t want trees cut down and the land should be protected. Ya see, Morus – they are total opposite of the people on your boat. We like to watch the entire lot of them argue every four years and point fingers at each other.”
Morus straightened his ball cap. “God, I don’t get it. I don’t understand this thing you created called politics. I may not be real smart, but I don’t think it’s funny. Who wins? It’s like me and the boys fighting over the same dead deer. If we end up tearing the deer to shreds pulling it in different directions then nobody gets the deer. We all lose. I’m real confused here.”
Suddenly, there were two lights from the Heavens. One was the golden light of the sun and the other was the silver light of the moon. They combined together and the single powerful light floated down to stand before Morus.
He pulled his NASCAR ball cap down to shield his eyes from the light and fell to his knees when the light spoke. “Morus, you Sir can tell others you have seen the Light. For I am the Light of Truth.”
Morus shuddered and bowed his head before the Spirit. He felt the words rumble through his chest when the Spirit spoke.
“We have created this system for our entertainment. We have developed politics to keep all of you fighting among yourselves. Ya see, Morus – we like to gamble. Yep, it’s a vice but we do so enjoy making bets on which idiots you people think will represent you in Government. For we know the truth. The ones you send to the place called Washington D.C. only care about being re-elected, making money through bribes and cheating those of you they represent.”
Morus looked up with furrowed brow. “Hold on there a gaw dern minute. You mean to tell me this is all a sham? Politics is crooked just so all you angels can make bets?”
“Yep,” the angel giggled and the light flickered.
Morus stood to attention and was no longer humbled before the Light. He was mad! “Well, then. We need to stop this! We need to stop re-electing the same people and do that thing I heard about at the gas station the other day. The thing called Term Limits. You angels need to find another thing to bet.”
The Light flickered again. “Good luck with that deal. It will never happen. Only you see the light. The others never will.”
With that, the Light disappeared. Morus tried in vain to share his story. Nobody believed him. They thought he was insane. After all, he was a Kentucky fan. The masses would rather argue and hate their counterparts than to step back and join hands to eliminate the politician’s reign over them.
Meanwhile in Heaven St. Peter looked to another spirit. “Hey watch this, I’m going to have that preacher talk about gun control in church next Sunday. What do ya want to bet a bunch of his followers join the NRA?”