Saturday, May 26, 2018

Spotify has lost its ever-loving mind.

At it again...all for you.

by Angela K. Durden
The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Spotify, a liberal Swedish company, is now going into the hate group identification business.

Well, that is, they are leaving that identification up to groups with no agenda whatsoever, and which groups are fair and balanced.

WAIT! That's a load of hoo-hah! Read THIS to get the lowdown on who will now be choosing your music.

They've lost their ever-loving mind. Did they learn nothing from Bacefook's slippery slope of late?

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

For Atlanta readers: The Retro Hipster Variety Show is coming June 10

Family-friendly show. 
Bring the kiddies and Granny and Grandpa.
Make it a fun family evening
and start your week off right.
(Yes, even our comedian is clean!)


Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Angela's Funnee Du Jour: #1

Angela: Yeah, the jokes are always on her.
by Angela K. Durden
The Most Funniest Woman in the World

According to my ex-husband, I know it all. Attempting to avoid an argument, I agreed with him. Did that make him happy? It did not. Couldn't win for losing...thus the divorce.

Friday, May 11, 2018

How to Identify an Honest Congressman, or not Boinking Beltway Babes

by Angela K. Durden
The Most Brilliant Woman in the World
Citizen Journalist.  Novelist. Author of other stuff. 

Though only 50 admit to it publicly, 100 congressmen sleep in their offices. Why?

Because they cannot afford to pay rental rates in their nation's capital and continue to support their families back home, that's why. So they use the laundry, shower, and gym facilities in the basement of their workplace and carry on.

When I heard of this, I cheered. We've identified at least 100 congressmen who haven't sold their souls to the highest bidder. And look, if they are sending the money home to families, it's a sure bet they aren't spending their precious time with boinking beltway babes. That's right. They are working efficiently.

Better still, this situation is bi-partisan. Both Democrats and Republicans sleep in their offices. That offers a little ray of hope...maybe...sort of.

I can hear the plugged-in snicker in their sleeves at the political brethren they deem to have fallen off the back of a turnip truck on their way to the big city. Rubes. Unsophisticates. Country cousins. Aren't they just so cute sleeping in their offices. Hmmm...but are they breaking the law?

Let's sic the Deep State apparatchiks on them. Uh, oh. Now we hear complaints that The 100 are cheating the government. Receiving free rent! Amenity upgrades! And...

...wait for it...WAIT FOR IT...

...those are income and they are not paying taxes on that income, for shame, for shame.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the psychotic Deep State at work for you. They bite the very hands of those elected to serve but whom they cannot control. They punish those who, at great cost to themselves, are losing money to help out the country in which they live.

And that is how we know The 100 are honest.

Or, at least, not yet corrupted. (A little cynicism is judicious here.) If The 100 were manipulating the system to get funding, then they would not be sleeping in their offices, now would they? And since they have no funding, we know the Beltway Babes aren't getting boinked by them since Beltway Babes are only turned on by the smell of money.

Sunday, May 6, 2018

The Abhoration of a Vacuum: In Three Parts

At it again...all for you. 
by Angela K. Durden
The Most Brilliant — and Funniest — Woman in the World
Part One:

"Nature abhors a vacuum."

You've heard the phrase before, but what does it actually mean? When I was a kid, I didn't even know what a vacuum was. If somebody had told me there was a machine that could suck dirt out of a carpet, I would not have understood because both things were alien to me. Carpets? Vacuums? What are these things? I was fourteen before I saw my first vacuum. Looking back, I now realize that we had never needed one before.

But when I was fourteen, we somehow managed to come into possession of a huge, blue-green, shag rug. It was so big it took up most of the living room floor. It was so big it could not be taken out the door to have the dirt shook off it like our braided oval rugs that were scattered throughout the house in a randomly haphazard fashion with no rhyme or reason to their placement.

For some reason, only I was tasked with vacuuming the carpet. My mother said, "Here. Do the rug." Do the rug? Do the rug? DO THE RUG? What the hell does do the rug mean?

I stared at her blankly. She sighed and hollered for her husband. My step-father patiently explained the concept, walking me through all the steps. Plug it in. Hold the wand. Step on the power button.

My little mind was blown. This was fabulous. But not why you are thinking. I saw this flat rug get fluffy before my very eyes. My stepfather knew at that time he would never have to use that machine ever again. I was hooked faster than a thirty-five year old Admin Assistant at her first whiff of methamphetamine. The rush was immediate and I couldn't wait for my next hit of vacuuming.

But, much like meth, turns out vacuuming is a hard addiction. How hard would it be?

Come to find out, it was quite difficult and time consuming and I will tell you why. It was because of the lines the vacuum left in the shag rug — and I was OCD. My family eventually learned to avoid me when they saw me jonesin' for another hit of vacuuming.

The lines had to be exactly straight from one end to the other. They could not cross each other. They had to be done in one long pass, no short bursts of random strokes would do. And the lines had to — no, must! — run longways. If one of my siblings happened to cross the rug while I was vacuuming and they disturbed the pattern, I had to start all over.

All. Over. Start again. From the upper left corner, methodically, line by line, work my way to the bottom right corner whereupon I could step off onto the hard floor.

Angela came to abhor a vacuum while craving it at the same time. Panic attacks would occur upon plugging in the machine and prayers would ascend. "Please, God. This time...this time, please...let no one cross the rug until I am done. And, please, God, if you would be so kind, allow me at least one lousy minute to stand back and admire the perfection of the vacuum before those brats ruin it."

Every now and then God would answer Angela's prayer and Angela would stare at the perfect lines and have her soul salved, I don't balsam in Gilead salved the collective souls of Abraham's children.

Part Two:  

Fast forward some years. So, there I am, on a panel of Subject Matter Experts. Or maybe at a book signing event and I am one of the Featured Authors and the other Featured Authors are boring the hell out of the audience, or just saying really stupid stuff. In any case, thereby forming a vacuum sucking the fun out of the whole event.

What does Angela do to straighten out this mess? Why, she plugs in the metaphorical vacuum.

Yes, Angela has been known to feed lines, much like a straight man in a comedy duo, only to have them ignored by the idiot who can't figure out that I'm giving them the perfect setup that, when they deliver the punchline brilliantly, will make them look awesome.

It's called Marketing 101. I should be paid to teach this stuff.

However, Subject Matter Experts and most Featured Authors do not get how helpful I am. I usually get nervous laughs from my fellow panelist or author. Sometimes I get stares, which of course makes the audience laugh because they think that is the joke, but does my fellow panelist or author understand they now look brilliant?

No, they do not. And now who abhors me thus making the vacuum ever larger? It is at times like this I sigh like my mother.

It isn't only nature that abhors vacuums. Audiences do, too. If the person on the stage doesn't fill that vacuum, trust me on this: The audience will and that will not be pretty. Given my OCD, that simply will not do.

Part Three: 

Who else abhors a vacuum? Why, bullies and dictators, that's who. Bullies and dictators are simply spoiled children looking for someone with strength enough to set — and hold — strong boundaries for them. We have recently seen this truth in action with North Korea's 3gDL* when Donald "The Hammer" Trump said

And who stopped it? 3gDL, that's who. 

* Third-generation Dear Leader

Thursday, May 3, 2018

Uncertainty is my discipline.

At it again...all for you. 
by Angela K. Durden
The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

"Do you own a gun?" asked Jazz Drummer (JD) from Berlin, Germany.

"Yes, I do," I answered.

He shook his head. "I'm...disappointed. Nobody in Berlin uses guns."

He was misinformed about gun use in Berlin.

But I didn't care to follow that line of discussion, instead attempted to pull the conversation around to music, the thing we both had in common. The man proceeded to ask a series of questions about certain U.S. politicians, current and past. He did not like my answers.

On my way home that night from the Jazz Jam, I reviewed the exchange and JD's reactions to anything I said. You see, given my answer to the gun ownership question, JD was absolutely certain he knew all about me.

JD was surprised to find I didn't give him the answers he expected. His dead certainty rendered null all his arguments for whatever point it was he wanted to make that night. I still don't know what it was he wanted to say.

What I do know is that, as I answered him honestly, he refused to accept anything I said, and stated definitively that I was not living up to my potential while also being a hypocrite.

I always give everyone opportunity to explain what they mean. That opportunity includes asking them questions, listening to their answers, comparing those to what was previously said, and then asking for more clarification.

This threw JD off his stride. When he found he could not intimidate or confuse me with what he thought was his brilliant logic, he closed his eyes halfway through a diatribe, pretending to be enraptured with the sounds of a drum solo coming out the front door onto the walkway.

So I waited for him to finish his thought, but he kept his eyes closed. After two minutes of watching him stand against the brick wall, I said, "Oh, he wants me to go away!" So, I did, and went back inside.

A few minutes later, JD came in and walked by me three times. On his last pass, he leaned over me and said, "Hey, know...the drums..." He shrugged and went back to the bar where he proceeded to allow yet another person to buy the famous guy yet another beer.

Of course, JD, of course. Let me tell you what confused JD about me: He couldn't understand how it was I was not dead certain about anything he was certain about. If he had asked, I would have told him, "JD, uncertainty is my discipline."

JD would not have understood that.

Being uncertain allows for the inclusion of more facts and opens paths for more solutions. Uncertainty expands the conversation, it does not shut it down.

I find myself being all too human, though, not liking the state of uncertainty, preferring life to be ordered and all big questions answered so that I can get on with whatever it is I want to get on with. That is why rigid and strong religious beliefs and political ideologies can gain footholds so fast. The state of uncertainty is not one that humans like to be in.

Most humans would rather be told what to do and live within those confines even if it means dying or killing for something they've never given thought to. To question is to paint a big old target on your chest that says "Kill the thinker", and they don't want to be a target.

As I look back on my life, I've come to realize that uncertainty has always been my discipline, but that for a long time, just to get along, I pretended it was not. I pretended to believe that the answers were known. During these times I was unhappy because of living a lie. As I allowed myself to again recognize uncertainty as a powerful state — one that was not bad, one that enhanced my belief in God — then my happiness returned.

Sure, not having all the answers causes me anxiety, but it is an anxiety that is much less painful than living a life built upon false promises and half-baked but dead certain ideas.

Uncertainty never promises anything except that it will always be there, true to itself, and faithful to me. Uncertainty guarantees a great conversation, something JD will never have.

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Out of sight. Out of mind. Or, going shopping in my closet.

Ears, nose, glasses, and makeup
courtesy of Snapchat.
Hair and oversized wife-beater
t-shirt courtesy of me.
Earrings supplied by
kiosk at mall.
by Angela K. Durden

Out of sight. Out of mind.

That phrase pretty much sums up my entire life's journey with clothes. You see, I have a taste in clothes that can sometimes border on the interesting, but it is always good taste. Folks are always saying to me, "Angela, I've never seen anybody put together an outfit like you do."

Now, if that isn't high praise for my ability to put together outfits, well then, I don't know what it is.

Hang on. My producer is telling me we have a call-in reader. Yes...Go ahead, call-in reader. I'm sorry, could you, uhhh, say that a little louder?...Because I didn't quite catch what you...

What do you mean "that's not exactly a compliment"? What else could...And what's that supposed to mean?...Crazy Aunt Ang...

Don't tell me to calm...You know what?...Oh, yeah!?!...Well, you can just...What do you mean you don't like my outfit?...

I'm gonna igno...I...I said...I said I'm gonna ignore you now because the readers do not want to listen to you insult me...

No, they don't, so you can just hie yourself...

I did not tell you to get high...I did not...I did not. I said you could hie yourself...Well, that just shows how much you know...Look it up yourself...Same to you, buddy!

Sheesh. Honestly. Sometimes these call-in readers just...anyway...

Back to my story which, as we all know, is more important than that other opinion. So, as I was saying. A Macy's near me closed a couple of years ago. During the sale to get rid of stock, I found a red jacket that was exactly what I'd been looking for. Made by Calvin Klein, normal price would have hurt the feelings of my wallet, but on sale, my wallet did a little happy dance.

I took it home. Off came the tags. And in the closet it was hung. And here is where I went, "Oh. I forgot about that jacket. And, oh my goodness. Whoa. I could wear that one next winter, too."

Door closed and I promptly forgot about them all, resorting to my go-to fave hanging in plain sight.

Well, as I have started to do more live performing, and performers are pretty much expected to dress interestingly (so there, you little creepy call-in reader), I needed something different for a last minute thing I was going to do.

But I didn't want to wear my everyday stuff. Where, oh, where could I find something fast?

DING! DING! DING! The closet.

And there was that red jacket which, when paired with a funky pair of customized jeans, black leather shoes, and a S&W Bodyguard on my hip...

JUST KIDDING. No gun on my hip. 

I'm just messing with any P-HWPCDLRSFC* who might have happened to stumble upon this article since it is about shopping and the picture is from a Snapchat filter.

Anyway, when all that, sans weapon, walked into the event, well, all the women were like, "Oh. My. God. I. HATE. Her. Where DID she get that jacket?" And all the men...well, it wouldn't matter what I wore because men don't need clothes on a woman to appreciate her awesomeness. 

Oh, dear readers. Here's that pesky call-in reader again. You know what? I'm going to take that call. Hello? Reader? You're on the page...

Hello? Reader? Must be a bad — Here we go. Yes?...Yes, I am awesome...No, it is not just me saying it...In fact, it is total random strangers...random...strangers, yes...When? The last time was just the other day when I was in Target...

Of course I shop at Target...Of course I use their bathrooms...Look. I live in the South. Nobody is going to go into a ladies room who don't belong there...Denying bathroom rights? Now you're just being silly...

Who said I was awesome? The checkout boy...No. There is nothing wrong with using the word boy...He was white, you idiot! So young, peach fuzz was on his chin. How can that be racist?...I am going to hang up on you because it is clear you are a complete idiot...So sue me.

Geez, Louise.

Dear readers. I apologize for that interruption. We're coming up on a hard break here, so let me just say this:

Go shopping in your closet. You'd be amazed how many things you find in your color and size.

And now a word from our sponsor. 

P-HWPCDLRSFC is Pussy-Hat Wearing Politically Correct Democrat Liberal RINO Socialist Fascist Commies

Sunday, April 29, 2018

How to Rise to Power Like a Boss...errrr...I mean...Dictator

A proper breakfast for 
your Citizen Journalist.
by Angela K. Durden
The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

April 29, 2018, 7:30 AM. It is a Sunday morning and it is cool on my balcony. I eat a breakfast of uncured bacon, grilled sourdough toast, and two eggs over medium. Strawberry jam is there for the spreading. Enjoying my cup of made-from-scratch hot chocolate and reading an invigorating book, I realized something about a friend of mine and I got quite sad.

This realization came as the absolute proof of something I've said for years: Stupid is bone deep, and we all know you can't cure stupid.

Now, my stupid friend is as nice as can be. And caring. But so, so stupid when it comes to the world. My friend is a P-HWPCDLRSFC*.

I know! You are asking how it is that your Citizen Journalist could have such a friend, but there is something to say for pleasant company as long as the conversation stays on men and music and cocktails. Besides, we have something in common and this friend is very good at that thing, so...yeah...there is that.

However, it dawned on me that it is because of people like my friend that dictators rise to power. See, stupid people believe everything they hear. No matter what. As long as they believe it to be caring. Stupid might be another name for sucker because suckers never think to question.

There are some very smart stupid people out there, let me tell you. In the business arena I'm specifically thinking about investors in Spotify, UMG, and WorldCom, to name a mere handful. Relying on numbers given them by the very people asking for money, investors believe the lies shoveled about — let me stop choking on the irony here — earnings reports.

See? Stupid! Same in politics, but a whole lot worse.

In investing, you can lose your shorts. In politics, you lose your freedom. Which, of course, is exactly what dictators want. So how does a dictator rise to power? Here's the how-to list:

  • Put on a rally and invite everyone.
  • Make big promises (chicken in every pot, phone for everyone).
  • Identify who lines up for the chicken and phone.
  • Identify who walks away muttering under their breath.
  • Tell lies so big they just have to be true.
  • Say you care more than those mean ol' hardworking stiffs.
  • Tell folks you will solve all their problems.
  • Subliminally reiterate "It's too complicated. Let the smart people do the thinking."
  • Take away or severely limit rights and freedoms.
  • Kill or otherwise silence those who mutter.
  • Tell those who lined up for the chicken and phone that those who want them to earn their chicken and phone are evil and should be mistrusted, if not destroyed.
  • Get stupid people to show up for a riot. 
  • Disappear into a penthouse suite high above the fray as the stupid people riot.
  • Avoid most of the initial dictator-setup messiness by inheriting a dictatorship from Daddy and then do all the above some more, including killing your uncles who also want to be dictator.

Of course, what all dictators know, whether they admit it or not, is that they are bullies. And all bullies understand power when they see it. Which is why bullies stop moving forward when real power faces them down.

Real power won't budge. Kim Jong Un — for the first time in his life — came up against real power in the form of the Trump Administration that said

No games. No playing footsie under the table. No winky-winky "this is for the camera, business as usual later" styling and profiling for the stupid people lined up for their chicken and phone.

"Stop it...or else."

3gDL Kim Jong Un
Our third-generation Dear Leader (3gDL) found himself in an awkward position. His country was not nearly as isolated as he thought it was. Even though he outlawed technology and told his people they could not talk to their neighbors in the world, he was beginning to be ignored.

Tourists pose with North Korean soldier
on the North Korean side of the DMZ.
We know this because pictures of North Korea began to surface from tourists who went there. Pictures that showed what the real country looked like. Documentaries about South Koreans being kidnapped and brought to North Korea to perform functions their uneducated masses could not do were distributed around the world. 

Then, when 3gDL acted all tough by rattling his nuclear sabers, and the P-HWPCDLRSFCs quaked in their little jackboots, that is when the Trump Admin said...

Stop it. Or else.

And what happened then. Why 3gDL huffed a bit more and poked out his chest and said

And the Trump Administration took another step in his direction, stared hard, and said:

Ah! 3gDL swallowed hard and took a look around.

His nukes aren't working. His concrete is failing. His country is crumbling. His people are starving and have nothing left to lose. His good Chinese buddies pretended not to know him anymore. 

The rumblings of 3gDL's slave class finally made it through the fog of his upbringing and personal delusions. 

And there was Donald "The Hammer" Trump fixin' to put the beat down on his sorry little ass. So, what happened?

The DMZ: Soon to be a museum visited by tourists.
Why, 3gDL decided it was time to join the 21st Century and make nice. And so, for the first time he crossed the DMZ and he signed the guest book at the Peace House and had dinner in South Korea with his wife, and the president of South Korea and his wife. 

But do stupid people understand any of this? No, they do not. They call bullies their friends and call tyrants those who fight to protect them. 

And that, dear friends, is why we, who do understand, must be ever vigilant. We may be doomed to watch history repeat itself, but we don't have to let it go on as long each time. 

P-HWPCDLRSFC is Pussy-Hat Wearing Politically Correct Democrat Liberal RINO Socialist Fascist Commies

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Family Feud: My family would never make it on the show.

This would be my family on the show.
Still chewing over our responses but never
answering before the buzzer sounds.
by Angela K. Durden
The Most Brilliant Woman in the World

Family Feud. I am of two minds about this show. One: I love it. Steve Harvey is the best host of the show ever. The stage is great. And the families all dress so uptown.

Even the Preggers Sisters manage to match dress colors with Grandma and Brother and Single Sis. 

They all smile and laugh and seem so good-natured and loving and kind. Even if some of them are dumb as bricks, they still make good entertainment, right? Right. Of course, the audience picks the answers, so that is always entertaining to find out what is on the collective whole's mind. 

My second mind says: I hate it — for all the above reasons. 

You see how torn I am. Here is America in all her glory displayed in TV-approved fashion guaranteed to entertain, maybe titillate just a tweensy bit, but never ever offend.  

That is not my family. We wouldn't make it past the application to audition. First, we will not wear matching colors. Our tastes run to the spots, checks, stripes. Business casual? What's that? 

If they were still alive, I could hear Awesome Aunt Number One saying, "They want us to match colors? Oh, for goodness sake. You ever hear of anything so silly?"

Awesome Aunt Number Two would naturally reply, "You are right, Sister. I do not see why we cannot just wear our regular everyday clothes that fit our color pallet. I mean, I could get something pink, but the last time I did that I looked like I was ready for the grave."

Then there would be the uncles. "Awww...hell, no." And that would be that. You would think the cousins would somehow want to have such an adventure, but I can hear them now. 

"I can't stand that long anymore...then there's my prostate..."
"I can't see the board...and there's my blood sugar..."
"Those questions are stupid...who cares?"
"Dress in the same colors? Forget it. Hey, if they want me on the show, they will buy me some new clothes."

That is my father's side of the family. I have four siblings, only one of which is related to my father. But they wouldn't do it, either. 

"What are they trying to pull anyways?"
"Tie? Awww HALEnaw."
"Will they let me wear my knife? No? But I'll wear my dress knife. It ain't got no knicks or dings or grease or pine tar or nothing. "

But let's say we did manage to come to agreement on clothes.

We still wouldn't win. We wouldn't even score. The buzzer would sound before we could even get an answer out and there's a really good reason for that: We are all super smart.

That's right. You heard me say it: We. Are. Super. Smart. We would have several answers that nobody would ever have thought of that, when we said them, the audience would all shut up in amazement that they had not thought of such things. That itself would entail massive conversation further ramping up production costs.

And we are very independent-minded people. That means we don't know how to relate to the masses except in a Socratic fashion, that is, we ask the question then answer it.

Besides, many of us are storytellers. So, let's say a question comes up with four top answers. Okay? And that question is "Name a country that seems to tell other countries what to do." 

This was a real question. The audience's answers were: U.S. (81), Iraq (8), France (6), Russia (3).

Well, already we have a problem with providing a timely answer because the Air Force, Army, and Marines in the family would weigh in and off we would go with the war stories, none of which involved driving a big rig up and down the California cost or smoking marijuana while playing checkers waiting on the trailer to be loaded which is a story a certain ex of mine said his military service was all about.

No, my uncles and aunts were of what Tom Brokow called The Greatest Generation. But there I go. Getting into the storytelling again. Of course, for a writer that is not a bad thing for a reader. But for an audience in front of a live show being taped on a tight schedule with a rabidly strict dress code, it sure is. Let me get back on track. 

What if the question is "Besides chicken, tell me a type of bird that's good to eat"? (Another real question.) Again with the stories of chasing that tough old bird around the dirt yard and then getting interrupted by somebody with the rest of the story. All about how after all that chasing, it was the damn cat that cornered that cock under the porch and ate him all up and how Mama wasn't too worried about it as she made an extra pan of corn bread and the goats sure did output a lot of milk on that day.  

Oh, yeah. And you remember that cat and what he did to your friend's knuckle? You remember. Ol' what's-his-name that lived down the street and his pappy was a school bus driver.

Hahahahaha. Yeah. I remember he also worked in the grocery store as a...

No, he didn't work in the grocery store. That was Jimmy Joe's daddy that worked there and he was a bagger and stocker plus he had a bad knee that gave out on him but only when he took out the groceries for Baby Sister. You remember? He was always fainting dead away and claiming some other such ailment that Baby Sister could "fix."

Oh, yeah. That rotten apple didn't fall from the tree, either. Ol' what's-his-name...

Oh, my God. Do you see how we could not, as a family, answer in time? 

Steve Harvey would be staring at the family with his deadpan eyes, but the audience would be roaring at the stories. But is that the kind of real entertainment they want? 

Hell, no. They want entertainment served up pretty. Color coordinated. Like fast food. Always the same all the time. Guaranteed. 

Damn boring show.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

I bet he wore a pussy hat. I know he self-identified as a woosie.

by Angela K. Durden
"The Most Brilliant Woman in the World"

I once met a man who read a novel I wrote. He said, "I don't think I can hang out with you."

First of all, I don't know where he got the idea we were ever going to hang out, but that's another story and I'm sure I'll put it in a scene somewhere in a novel. I replied, "Huh?"

Durden Kell
"This book," he shuddered. "It's got murder and stuff like that." He whispered, "Really. Sick. Stuff."

His body recoiled at the thought of having to be in my presence much longer; as if I was Evil itself instead of merely using evil as a plot device so the good guys can shine as they outwit and catch the bad guy. I should've kept my mouth shut, but the perverse side of me couldn't let it go.

I stirred his pot a little more. With an easy smile, and in a casually cold voice, I said, "Well then, you certainly won't be able to handle the other novels I'm working on."

He took a step back, his eyes widened in fear, and he swallowed hard. "What?"

"Oh, yeah." I leaned into him. "The evil in this book is mere child's play compared to my other novels."

He couldn't speak. Fear nailed his feet to the floor. He was caught, well and good, in the Trap That Was Evil Angela the Sick Novelist.

I was tempted to say boo, but he might have dropped from a heart attack and then I would have had to give him CPR and that would mean touching a woosie. Now, that I fear.

Besides, and quite frankly, I didn't want him beholden to me for his life because the dichotomy for the poor fellow would have been too huge and might have led to psychiatric facilities and a drain on taxpayers. As a good and proper citizen, I do not want to harm my fellow citizens.

Plus, can you imagine him telling people it was Evil Angela the Sick Novelist that saved his life?

Instead of boo and an evil laugh, I gently said, "Are you for real? I'm mean...really? You are afraid of me because of what I wrote?"

He nodded affirmative. I felt sorry for the man. Here, standing in front of me, was a man so beaten down by the long-term campaign of the RadFem's guerrilla war that he had lost all his manliness. That must be a terrible way to live.

Can any of you men reading this imagine living like that? No, you cannot because you are a real man.

I said to the fellow, "Then you might not want to ever try to meet another author or writer for things like movies and TV shows and such. You see, we're all like this."

I bet he wears his favorite pussy hat when he and his friends march for women's rights. Now it's my time to shudder.