Tag Archives: honesty

Fox in the Snow, Lion in the Station Wagon

Cops are required to uphold and enforce the law. Reporters are pretty much required to do the same, except, uphold the truth and enforce the truth. Pop quiz: what do you call a false statement that you promote and fence to others who actively look toward your answers and responses? I’ll let that stew for a moment, and continue with cops and shit. An honest cop is dubbed a hero, dubbed noble, dubbed dependable. As long as they are an honest cop. However, within law enforcement, there aren’t always honest cops. Crooked cops. Corruption, mis-information, tamperings-of-evidence. It happens. Figure out the answer to the pop-quiz question?

It’s called a lie. The difference between a cop, and a reporter, is a reporter is guilty until proven innocent. Why that is the general consensus, I do not know. What I do not know, I will embrace. A crooked cop is crooked when he is caught. Logical? Yeah. A reporter will go great lengths; barbed wire, ugly killer dogs, bad music, jurisdictions, aliases, etc. That’s a reporter, also guilty until proven innocent because the truth itself is widely regarded to dissemble the perpetrators, or dissemble the actuators. The truth is dangerous to both parties and only the reporter has any control over such information. i.e. 24, CIA, FBI, the West Wing, Gilligan’s Island, Arthur, etc.

“What about white lies?” Some may wonder? I will then counter with; “how can you tell a white lie from the other?” 

How? I was the reporter, and no good was derived. The cunning and equipped (friends/weapons/truths), are dominant. Those of whom can and will crush whenever they please, and that’s just the world we live in, whilst one is powerful, or whilst one’s forced to work tenuously on obtaining a GED. Sometimes, and at most times (due to my freakishly accurate memory), it was infinitely more advantageous to just not fucking say anything. I just had a thing about taking my own advice. Though, I’d never thought, or dreamed of saying this as a final statement; “The truth will not set you free, it will piss the wrong person off, most every time…

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Filed under non-fiction metaphor, stories

women, hungry

Starving, I picked up the Pastrami Reuben sandwich. I, then, placed it back on the shelf because the Pastrami Reuben burrito wrap caught my eye. I looked at the contents, and placed that back on the shelf, and picked up a spinach and bacon salad in it’s stead. The Reubens had the same content, but under different skins. I was never partial to bacon, but made sure to eat bacon only in front of a Jewish person. They never got angry. Worse is, they never laughed,

I decided I wanted to cook instead. I grabbed a raw chicken from the meat section and various vegetables. I wanted to impress my room mates. Then I put the chicken back, because I was so sick of chicken. CHICKEN for three months. Then I looked for another meat that would compliment the vegetables in my hands. I looked at the lamb section. I decided to put the vegetables back. I picked up the Pastrami Reuben sandwich again. Then I put it back and walked over to the frozen foods section. The employees must’ve thought I looked insane in an over-sized maroon sweater with an E.E. Cummings book of poetry under my arm. I don’t like E.E. Cummings’ work. I looked for curry fried rice. Found it.

Rice reminded me of home, so I don’t eat much rice anymore. But, not today. I read the bag, “Four minutes to warm.” I put the bag back and looked at a chicken and mushroom Alfredo pasta. CHICKEN. They’re so easy to bully. I wanted to find a veal pasta. They don’t make those. I’ve never had veal. I picked up garlic & herbs pizza dough, next to the Pastrami Reuben sandwich, which I glanced at again. I’ll make a pizza and put whatever I want on it. Only seven dollars in my pockets. Two of which, in coins. My pockets had as much change as my mind. I’m losing my mind.

I danced back to the curry fried rice. I hadn’t even looked at the soups yet. This went on for nearly an hour.

I fed on the options and feasted on choices, and I left with nothing. Just my over-sized maroon sweater and a book of bad poetry.


Filed under non-fiction metaphor, poetry