Love is in the air.
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What I Know About You is a new feature in nothinggoingonhere.com where I discuss what I know about someone who I’ve never met before, based on information that I’ve inadvertently accumulated—usually without effort on my part. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, and there’s very little likelihood that anyone in my limited audience will know the subject or other persons mentioned in this article.
Yo, listen up. It’s time for me to lay a little bit of science* wisdom on you all. Now, when I was a kid learning about subatomic particles in school, I really identified with the protons and neutrons. They were bigger and clustered in groups right around the center of the atoms. While the electrons would just fly around on the outskirts, forever contained by the gravitational pull of the larger nucleus—which, let’s face it, is more of a popularity contest for subatomic particles than a work center—the nuclear particles would just party it up and laugh. You follow me so far? Continue reading “The Sub-Atomic Social Scene”
“School encouraged me to say things that I knew were wrong!”
“I was influenced by a dishonest media!”
“I thought free speech meant I could say ANYTHING I wanted!”
You were just a young person, trying to find your way in a chaotic society. While others your age were fighting the hideous evil of Islamaterrorism or volunteering to repel intruders at our Great Southern Border, you were taking advantage of the morally lax standards of the period and spreading subversive propaganda on your social media account.
Until this Proud Nation said ENOUGH! So, while you might have been late to join the Party, you’ve seen the error of your ways. We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of when we were young. Embarrassment is understandable, but there is only one path to salvation: Public Renouncement. Continue reading “A Message From The Central Government: RENOUNCE PUBLICLY”
If ever you’re imprisoned in a carnival jail, I need you to remain calm: help is on the way.
I may be on a ride that you didn’t want to get on because turbulent rides “upset your tummy” and I may be irritated because you used the word “tummy” even after I told you how much it irks me out, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not coming for you. Continue reading “If Ever You’re Imprisoned in a Carnival Jail”
Every mornin’, I get up, I shave, get dressed, and make my way down to the train. I try to time it as closely as I can so that I’m not wastin’ no time on the platform, but the train gets there late sometime. You see, the platform is where all the trouble is gonna happen if there’s gonna be some. That don’t mean there has to be. Most folks mind their own business. They don’t got not time for a man holdin’ an old umbrella. Sure, they got themselves busy lives. But I watch them. Not in a bad way, but just maybe payin’ attention a little more closely than other folks do.
So, you know, you ride in a railroad train long enough you get to know faces. Some people, they commute every day, but others just take the train when they got a problem with their car or somethin’. Still others, well, they go down to the train station just because they’s drawn to the folks standin’ around on the platform, and those is the ones you got to watch. Continue reading “The Umbrella Man Watches”
This will make you sad, but that’s alright. If you never feel sad, it will be damn near impossible to ever know when you’re happy.
Earlier today my train was cancelled because an earlier train struck a car that was just sitting on the tracks. The women who was driving that car got out, so that’s not the part that you’ll find sad. She didn’t panic, so she got out and she lived. But it reminded me of this one time when someone didn’t. This is your last chance to bail from this post with your heart in tact. Continue reading “A Tuesday Tragedy”
Consider the timeless and romantic figure of the pistolero. Striking in no manner, other than his poverty, he appears at the edge of town leading the haggard old mule that bears his few meager possessions. Ragged pantaloons, a bloodstained, dirty shirt that hangs on his bony frame, and boots that leave nail marks in the hardpan. He has no rig for his gun, so he tucks it into the rope that serves as his belt.
His weapon is simple in design, but it’s accurate, oiled, and balanced. Some of the men in town speculate that the chambers of the large-bore revolver might be empty, based on the stranger’s disheveled, worn appearance—after all, how does a man live past his thirtieth year and have so little to show—but they aren’t making any serious bets on the number of rounds in his gun. Besides, there’s no law against living a life of destitution—or even being beaten down by life, love, and the elements. The pistolero swiftly fades from the consciousness of anyone who has even bothered to notice him in the first place. Continue reading “El Pistolero”