ODE TO SPANKINGS

I am against spankings

except as a last resort.

Children, who act

rather than think,

sometimes need

a reminder

on their butts

that they are making

bad decisions

that could have

serious repercussions

and perhaps

permanent repercussions

in their lives.

You don't spank a child

for not eating his peas,

but if he keeps

pulling out his little pecker

and peeing in public

despite stern reprimands,

a whack on the ass

never hurt anyone.

MCHALE RETURNS TO FB

I was sitting in Sunrise Mall waiting for my youngest son Michael to complete his buying spree when former County Judge Carlos Cascos stopped to chat. For years he has been walking the mall as part of his daily exercise rouutine. He is slim and trim. And I have never voted Republican as many times as I have voted for Carlos. I won't vote for a Republican at the state or the national level because I refuse to give Trump, the racists, the religious right and the Republican reactionaries any more power than they already have, but I will vote locally because the Cameron County Democratic Party has never been anything more than a steppingstone for ambitious politicians who have never done anything more than talk without the accompanying walk.

"Good news," said Carlos. "I see your back on Facebook."

"Don't blink," I replied. "I may be sentenced again tomorrow. Facebook is a tenuous existence. That's the reason I repeatedly tell my three readers that I'm always available at The McHale Report on the blog at themchalereport.blogspot.com. I also post prose, poetry and photos that I would never publish here because FB would immediately sentence me to another 30 days or I could be suspended permanently.

"Why do they suspend you?"

"FB has an array of reasons ranging from bullying to harassing, from promoting hate speech to failing to meet community standards. I've tried my best to adhere to their restrictions, but a joke to one person is an insult to another. I will once again endeavor to work within their rules, but I thought I was meeting their demands the previous ten times they suspended me."

"You don't write any worse than Trump speaks," offered Cascos who isn't a blind Republican but is more of an enlightened Independent. "These are still politically correct times even thought Trump has been a true iconoclast when calling a spade a spade."

"I have little respect for a man who revels in his ignorance by refusing to wear a mask, maintain social distancing and avoid large gatherings in spite of the 130,000 dead that may exceed 200,000 before the end of the year, but I do appreciate his willingness to hurt people's delicate feelings. Life is a brutal boxing match and not a pillow fight. Unfortunately, I sometimes imitate the president and I'm suspended. Of course, he is the president and I'm a peon."

"You have a reputation for short-term relationships in your personal life. Does this same dynamic exist with Facebook?"

"It's must be karma. FB only treats me as I have treated others. I will say I'm sorry and promise to change my wayward behavior, but I assume I'll bite the dust sooner rather than later for practicing free speech. Thus has been the past. Why should the future be any different."

"At least you have the blog."

"The blog is successful and my traffic varies from 5,500 to 6,500 hits a day. When you consider the low voter turnouts and the quality of my audience, I am in a position to have an impact, but Facebook still has a role to play and I do my best to keep this option, but like a wife or a girlfriend throwing all my belongings into the street for some perceived slight, FB never thinks twice about locking the door and closing the windows to me. I will do my best which, unfortunately, has been judged my worst on previous occasions. I repeat the same message again and again: Please read my blog, The McHale Report. There are more articles and art on the site for beginners. It is what it is, compadre. It's an inconvenience, but I never lose any sleep when FB unexpectedly informs me I've been suspended. It's much less dramatic that past wives delivering me divorce papers or being summoned before the BISD board or TEA in the past with my employment at stake. It's simply the price we pay for speaking our minds. And there are plenty of people in power who don't appreciate our opinions and have the power to silence us."

"I've always liked your reporting, 'mano, although some of your stories and poetry give me pause, but you've often started my day with a chuckle. The best advice I can give you is stay cool in this hot weather."

"Is it summer? Since I retired three years ago, I have lost track of time. And I never live outside of air-conditioning. By the way...my condolences on the loss of your two brothers."

"Thank-you, 'mano."

CHARLES MANSON LOVE DONALD TRUMP

I read about Donald Trump and he excites my killer instincts. The man will do anything to advance his interests. In order to be killer, you have to have the same mindset. I also like the fact that he has had many female followers. Some of his women remind me of my girls. They are as crazy as him just as my gals were as crazy as me.

When I read about the bloody mess he is leaving the country during his savage spree as president, I can't help but recall the two nights when we stabbed those people to death. I wish Donald and his latest lay had been members of my gang. We could have killed dozens more. We could have swum in gore.

I relate to Donald. Why? We're both monsters. In the fantasy worlds we inhabit, we rationalize any behavior, no matter how bizarre, as acceptable. When I'm lying on my bunk and speculating about Donald's latest outrageous deed, I feel I'm in the company of a fellow madman. I ejaculate imagining the destruction we could have cause together.

Donald is working his maniacal magic on the rednecks, the racists and the religious right. If he convinces the most prominent figures of the Republican Party to help him paint the streets red with the blood of their fellow citizens, I will cut my hair to honor an individual crazier than me. You can count on Donald to do the most terrible things. He's blessed. He doesn't suffer from a guilty conscience.

HASTA LA TARDE

Life or death, earth completes one turn every 24 hours. I knew that eventually Tuesday would inevitably become Wednesday and, sure enough, Wednesday broke hot and humid.

I also knew that no matter the result, I was going to get drunk Tuesday at Cobbleheads. Whether it was celebrating a victory or lamenting a defeat or just looking for any reason to imbibe copiously, by the evening's end I was in my cups.

No surprise, I awoke hungover about eight. I live next door to Denny's and crossed the parkinglot to eat a large breakfast. I have returned to my room where I have popped two Excedrins and a Xanax. I'm going to put classical music on my computer and sleep for several hours.

When I am in a more sober frame of mind, I will post extensively about the election on The McHale Report and Facebook. I will offer my own assessment of the three races.

I hope by that time the other bloggers will have published their commentaries although I fear El Rrun Rrun's Juan Montoya may be in worse shape than me because he had every reason to high-five until the wee hours of the morning. It would be a shame not to have my clean-up hitter in the lineup.

Writing is a beautiful thing. Regardless of the good or the bad, the ups or the downs, the successes or the failures, they all give you something fresh to write about. Hasta la tarde!

THE RECLUSE

When the years have reduced me to a wretched state, I will not venture outside my house. (My pride may be false, but it's real!) Though Genesis didn't record the fact, God resumed his labors on the second Monday during which he created both air-conditioning and the computer.

I will remain in my cool room, write stories, take sedatives, sip on a Merlot and sometimes venture onto the balcony to bask in the morning sun like a turtle on a log until I quietly pass into blackness and nothingness. (I oftentimes hear foolish talk about our energy zipping throughout the universe, but I would argue that a loud, smelly fart has more substance than my spirit.)

The xanax is kicking in. I'm feeling more positive. I must delve into the now. I can't run like I once did, but I can take long walks. I can't cover the tennis court like I once could, but I can play doubles and stroke from the baseline. I can't exercise with the same energy, but I can stretch slowly. The phone rings.

"How are things going?" asks my compadre.

"Everything is fine," I answer. "No complaints. Just finished the column."

Much like sex, a completed column brings temporary satisfaction. But there is no rest. In less than 24 hours that unreasonable and insatiable drive will be making its demands again. I have no regrets, despite the many drawbacks of being myself. If I am conscious in the next stage, I will savor my memories of my brief duration as a human being.

DON PEDRO WANTS TO FUCK MELANIA

Don Pedro spoke with a vehemence and assurance that only years and years of writing gives a man's man the right to say:

"I am 88 years old. I want to fuck Melania Trump. Her worthless husband apparently wants to fuck other bitches. No hay pedo. Fuck everything that walks. I've lived by that philosophy all my life. Since I've never had any qualms about porking prostitutes, I've fucked at least a 1,000 chicks in my lifetime, maybe 2,000. Hell, I lost count 2,000 years ago.

"Living and drinking in downtown Brownsville, I fuck a different chick every week. How many young bucks can make that claim? I'm talking about a strange piece of tasty tail every fuckin' week. Fuck quality! I'm into quantity. I spread an 18-year-old chick from Matamoros two weeks ago that was desperate for $50.

"If you're an old man with vast experience who keeps his nose close to the ground and can still summon a boner, downtown Brownsville is a treasure trove of twat. There's nothing like sticking your prick in a strange pussy. It's a sensation I can never resist.

"One of my wives put the dilemma in perspective: Once you come, you never come back. I'm not a backdoor man. I stand before the world and proclaim: 'I want to eat your precious pussy, Melania. I want to stick my dick in your wet cunt, Melania. I want to deposit my cum in your luscious cavern, Melania. Come to Daddy. Better yet. Come with Daddy.'"

CANTINA TALK

Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, and Mort Heinman, Brownsville's only uncircumcised Jew, find refuge in a dilapidated cantina. It's not a neat place. The joint stinks of beer and urine. But it has its amenities although air-conditioning isn't one of them. The drafts, though, are cheap and cold.

You won't see anyone you know unless it's one of the real people.Some penitents prefer a confessional. Artist choose a more romantic escape. Both the confessional and cantina are dark places. Conversation is exchanged in low voices. Like a tip, the content is left at the table.

"I want to write in a more confessional style to unleash my energy," intimated O'Connell. "I've lost most my confidence that I can write anything more substantial. I have the title and the chapters for a novel. Now I need to write 250 pages as fast as possible and be done with it."

"Give me the outline."

"I want to plumb the depths of human degradation and hopelessness without our anti-hero succumbing to a crime. I want to create this character who surrenders everything in exchange for nothing. I need to express my own view about life's futility."

"Sounds like your usual existentialistic bullshit to me. What's the title for your latest expression of angst?"

"I'm calling it 'Siete Dias' and each chapter will be a day of the week. I'm beginning with 'Lunes' and ending with 'Domingo' in the tradition of the bible. If God could create this world in seven days, I certainly have the ability to pen a novel in seven days."

"What is the inspiration for this new endeavor?"

"My present circumstances and my need to write. It is a pattern I've followed in my previous novels. Chronology gives order to the chaos."

"Artistically, who are your role models?"

"The usual suspects: Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski and Albert Camus. I want to sit in my air-conditioned hotel room and pound out a sordid tale."

"You pay a steep price for your undertakings."

"I have no other options. I'm better at recreating than I am at imagining. As I've told you many times: Regardless of one's emotional distress over an event or a sequence of events, it gives you something to write about."

"You're basically a sick bastard. You know that?"

"I know, but my battle for sanity has made the difference. I pray I don't fuck up so close to the end."

"I thought you didn't believe in God?"

"I don't, but I believe in believing."

"Two  more?"

"Sure."

POWER COMES AT THE PRICE OF PUSSY

Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, couldn't resist a third bucket as the majority of the Saturday afternoon patrons departed the Vermillion.

"I sure could use some strange pussy to relieve the tedium from my life," sighed Contreras.

O'Connell laughed.

"Have the politicians left us with anyone to fuck?" asked the great unpublished novelist.

"I have nothing against cheating," guffawed the poet. "Clinton proved that sex on the side turns a man into a lover of peace, a lesson obviously not lost on Trump, but when a man chooses power as his aphrodisiac, then pussy becomes our compensation. Those bastards can't have both unless they are willing to admit publicly that they are cheating on their wives.

"We will not allow them to parley fucking the taxpayer into fucking our women. It's the price they pay to us for their ambitions. I relish thinking that a janitor has more freedom and is having more fun that our politicians. A nobody gets a somebody that a somebody can't have.

O'Connell nodded his head.

"Fuck those assholes," he said. "They're worthless. It's time they were scared shitless of us rather than vice versa. Just like a man can never have enough pussy, he can never get enough power. We need to make marshmallows out of their balls and roast them over an open fire."

The waiter refused to serve the pair a fourth bucket.

BEING A KID IN THE SIXTIES

When I was ten years old, there was the national news at 5:30 and the local news at six. We had no concept of the country or the world's geography. A confrontation between a pair of Asian nations or a murder in Nashville, even if they made the news, meant nothing to me and held little meaning for my parents.

They had survived the Depression, WWII and the Korean War. In their opinions it was an imperfect world. These incidents reported by the networks made no difference in their lives. A lynching in Mississippi didn't qualify as newsworthy. My parents probably thought that's the way the good ol' boys did business in the South.

With a large family, my parents worried about bills, which occasionally precipitated a fight with my mother firing objects and my father meekly avoiding the projectiles, but they didn't regard the present with paranoia and they looked upon the future with optimism.

That didn't mean that an imminent Soviet nuclear attack that could destroy the world didn't disturb us or the priest and nuns constantly harping that if death surprised us with a mortal sin on our souls then we would spend eternity in hell burning wasn't unraveling in the dark of night, but in our daily routine we lived a carefree existence.

No day epitomized that joie de vivre more than Saturday. My mother was raised in a middle class family and they had money, but my father came from a working class family and his father was frequently unemployed. From the time he was five selling newspapers on a busy corner until he entered the service in 1943 at 18, my dad was working. He spent more time on the streets than he did at home, so he didn't find it odd that I was seldom around as a youngster. The freedom I possessed wasn't shared by my sisters who followed me in 1952, 1953 and 1954 after my birth in 1950. We were the first half of the ultimate eight.

My sisters never left the house alone unless they were babysitting for a neighbor. They spent most their time with the remaining babies who arrived with regularity. I, on the other hand, had no responsibilities. I didn't have to mow the yard, take out the garbage or make my bed. As the oldest and a son, I was treated like someone who would eventually be king while my siblings didn't have a predetermined future.

On Saturday mornings I would embark on my Odyssey. After a breakfast of cold cereal and toast, I would tell my mother that I was leaving. She would answer: "If you are going to eat dinner, you need to be home by five." I'd give her a kiss, attach my mitt to my bike if it were the spring or the summer and hit the road. We lived in the small community of Broderick on the opposite side of the Sacramento River. My friends and I could walk the tracks, cross the bridge, skirt skid row and frolic on the capitol grounds in 45 minutes. But this was a trek we seldom took because there was little of interest in downtown Sacramento for us.

All my friends attended Holy Cross Catholic School, which was about five blocks from my house. Holy Cross was a blue-collar school and not a prestigious institution like most private schools are today. It was a neighborhood school and all my buddies--altar boys the entire bunch--lived within walking distance of both the school and the church.

The majority of my friends had older and younger brothers and we would congregate at the school playground and play the sport in season. I have no recollection where I would eat lunch, but I was always looking for coke bottles whose deposits provided me with snacks. We weren't mischievous, but there was a Huckleberry Finn/Tom Sawyer insouciance about our relationships.

For excitement, we would venture down to the river which meandered through Sacramento and into the countryside on the outskirts of Broderick. We would wander through the thick growth and high trees that lined the riverbank. The river, wide and deep, scared us and we never swam, but we would imagine that we were a patrol of American soldiers in search of those diabolical Japs.

The day would pass and I would find myself at a friend's house. He would insist that I spend the night. With his mother's permission, I would call my mother and ask for her permission. She would ask to speak to his mother. After a short chat I would receive the phone and listen once again to my mother's famous words, "If you are going to have dinner, you need to be home by five."

Sunday was an extension of Saturday. From Saturday morning at eight until Sunday evening at five I would have one short conversation with my mother. I was ten years old. I was living life without supervision and surviving on my common sense. I have lived the rest of my life without supervision.

Am I a better person for this upbringing than my sons who never roamed the streets at a young age. In our 24/7 news cycle, a child is abducted in Peoria and the wives have panic attacks. "Where are the kids? Where are the kids?" "They're in the back yard playing. They're fine." "No, they aren't fine. You need to watch them instead of thinking of yourself. You're their father. Act like their father!"

With a television in every room emitting a steady stream of violence and crimes, more information has incarcerated rather than liberated us. My 12-year-old living with his mother never leaves his room except for a few days each week for his swimming lessons. He's a gamer. He told me that he would never leave his bedroom if he had a refrigerator. He is an excellent athlete, but you will never see him shooting baskets or throwing a football with a schoolmate in the street. He subsists on cokes and Cheetos.

We were an older version of the Little Rascals. We enjoyed complete independence. Our folks had no idea about our shenanigans and never voiced any worry. "Take a bath right now" were my mother's first words upon entering the house after a two-day hiatus.

We had so much fun. You don't miss what you've never known and today's kids seem both content and energized by the virtual reality of their video games. My son stays up so late playing non-stop that he considers Friday part of a three-day weekend. Things change. I don't read newspapers anymore. I read the internet. But there's no way that sitting on your bed with your controls all day can compare to life lived in the open air.

CORONAVIRUS HITS HOME

On this hot, sultry, typical South Texas afternoon in the latter days of June, a day when Cameron County hit 50 deaths, Texas passed 2,250 and the nation neared 125,000, I received a text from Joaquin, my number two son who resides in Austin where for more than a decade he has been chasing his musical dream. The fateful news that we've been fearing may have finally hit home.

"Pretty sure I've got the virus."

I immediately called him. He explained that from one day to the next he felt he had been hit by a train. He couldn't stand his body ached so much and his head was throbbing. And there were also the telltale signs of a high fever and dry cough. Unlike the 30-something hipsters with whom he hangs, he has been staying with his girlfriend writing songs and recording music. She has severe asthma and he was avoiding to the best of his ability any behavior that might compromise her health.

After a short chat, I called my compadre Bob Rivard, the voice of San Antonio. He was the editor of the San Antonio Express/News for years and now operates the most read blog--The Rivard Report--in San Antonio. We became brothers in the late seventies at The Brownsville Herald. He was the best man at my first marriage and I was the best man at his only and still surviving marriage. Until the last few weeks when grenades started exploding everywhere in Brownsville, he was the only personal acquaintance who had contracted COVID-19.

"I was on the golf course when I noticed a scratchy throat," he recalled in a voice with a vibrancy that indicated he had recaptured his mojo. "The following morning I thought Joe Frazier had tagged me with the same left hook he placed on Muhammad Ali's chin in the 15th round of their first meeting. I was down for the count for the next three weeks and there are times I feel that I haven't recovered completely.

"My symptoms were no different than Joaquin's except I was hacking up thick globs on phlegm. I never had problems breathing and thank god. I saw a video of a patient being intubated and it was not a pretty process. With the exception of my doctor prescribing a Z-Pak to prevent a bacterial infection that might lead to pneumonia, I did nothing but sleep and sip on chicken soup for days. Both my sons tested positive, but they have been asymptomatic. Except for over-the-counter meds and staying hydrated, Joaquin is going to have to suck it up. Did he have a flu shot? No. It's not the season, but you can't discount that possibility. Un abrazo, 'mano."

Coincidentally, Karina, my step-daughter, was fearful that Coronavirus had infected her. She is in her fourth year of dental school at UT/San Antonio. She couldn't hold down any food as she fought diarrhea. A classmate, complaining of not feeling well, had tested positive earlier in the week. As she lay in bed alone and confused, several more classmates skipped classes due to illnesses. Her cousin took her for a test. She had resigned herself to a preordained diagnosis, but the result was negative. It was either a bug or food poisoning that had waylaid her. Joaquin has scheduled a test for tomorrow and I can only hope. I'm not too proud to pray, but I would be a hypocrite.

I next called Dr. Polyphemous Pangloss, my long-time friend and trusted physician. I remember vividly when he visited my house many years ago. Joaquin, two or three, hadn't had a bowel movement for ten days and was contorted in pain. Doc stuck his finger up my son's ass and he released the most satisfying shit of his short life. Doc is older than me and works non-stop at the two hospitals and at several clinics. Work--returning his patients back to health--reflects the missionary zeal that fulfills his spiritual commitment to mankind. I don't know what I'll do when he is no longer a phone call away.

"You need to have him go to ER?"

"This is only his first day of feeling ill."

"This is a lethal disease. Does he have insurance? Good. Better safe than sorry."

I alerted Joaquin to Doc's advice which scared him. He didn't want to accept that he was that sick even though he had never felt worse in his life. Doc's word is scripture to me, but after checking with subsequent sources and surfing Google, I discovered that I might have been precipitate in my counsel, but these are terrible times and we are at the mercy of a cruel despot who defies common sense with his refusal to wear masks, to maintain social distancing and to avoid large crowds. To add gas to the fire, he wants to limit testing because the apocalyptic numbers threaten his reelection and he is counting on the Supreme Court to deny millions of health insurance in the middle of the pandemic. Satan showed more mercy to Job than this soulless fiend, who missed his calling as a Nazi escorting Jews into gas chambers, is extending to his fellow Americans. He stands in a pool of blood and he couldn't care less.

With Coronavirus and Trump turning the skies black with their thunder and lightning tempest, a variety of storms have befallen me. Besides Joaquin and Karina's health scares, my step-son Darío slammed into the back of a vehicle causing $5,000 in damage to the family car and Michael suffered a concussion during football practice, which sidelined him for a week. Fortunately, Claudia has excellent automobile insurance to cover her son's accident, but she had no idea that she would need her health coverage a few days later.

"She took out the dogs for their evening stroll," I related to Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs and my longtime tennis partner, over the cell. "I was showering when I heard her screaming. I exited the bathroom and she was in the bedroom with blood streaming down her face, her right arm hanging limply at her side and limping badly."

"What happened?"

"She was walking the dogs when a neighbor's cur began pursuing them. She started running when she lost her balance and fell flat on her face. She lost a chunk of flesh near the side of one eye, battered a shoulder, sprained an ankle and covered her knees and ankles in abrasions. I took her to the hospital where the doctor stitched the facial wound. She is going to need extensive therapy for the shoulder."

"I'm sorry to hear that, hombre."

"It was a real drag because she was excited about her birthday the next day. We were going to McAllen to wander the aisles at one of the bookstores and then relax with Michael over an expensive dinner. As much as I lament her injuries, I feel more anguish over her disappointment. One of the few things I do well is wine and dine someone and she was looking forward to our outing. I did buy her a card and flowers, but she was in too much pain to express her thanks other than summon sufficient strength for a wane smile."

"Fucking Trump!"

"You've got that right! Fucking Trump!"

WHO IS JOE BIDEN?

Who is Joe Biden? 

Who gives a shit! 

He could grab Whoopi Goldberg's pussy 

while she interviewed him on The View 

or put a bullet through Lebron James' head 

in front of the White House 

and nobody would give a fuck. 

We want Trump's racist white ass out 

and we don't give a damn 

who succeeds this perfidious tyrant. 

If it were up to Brownsville, 

we would elect local yokels

Erasmo Castro

or Pat Ahumada 

or Ernie Hernandez 

or Roman Perez 

or even Jessica Puente Bradshaw 

in this perverted president's place

who in the long run 

is capable of worst evils 

than Adolf Hitler or Joseph Stalin 

when in a temper tantrum 

after losing the election 

he nukes the world. 

Basta con este bastardo!!! 

AND I WILL BE DEAD

I have this premonition that I will go to bed one evening and sleep permanently. Though it will be a painless passing, too many pending matters will disturb my rest.

I prefer a terminal disease that allows me to ask forgiveness from those I have hurt, a month or two of tearful reminisces and joyous farewells before I turn to heavy dosages of drugs to facilitate the transition.

The night before my sudden demise, however, will probably be like most the others I have lived. There will be plans for the next day, taking the grandson to the zoo in the morning, finishing the biography of Teddy Roosevelt and walking my favorite trail in the evening.

As I lay in bed thinking about my deceased wife as I do every night, I'll check under the pillow and make sure my pistol is close at hand. I will drift off to sleep listening to crickets through the open window and the swoosh of traffic in the distance.

It may be a little too much to ask, but my sentimental wish for those final sounds would include the music of rain tapping on the roof as well as the melancholy whistle of a train departing for its faraway destination.

In the morning my son will come by and check on me as he always does and I'll be dead. He'll close my eyes, kiss me on the check and whisper into my ear, "I love you, Dad."

NOTHING COMES EASY WITH AGE

On January 1st earth completed 4,600,002,012 years of existence. Or there abouts. The dinosaurs have been extinct for more than 150,000,000 years. It seems like they were here yesterday.

I will be extinct within a few years. My passing will be less significant than the splash precipitated by a seagull crapping over the ocean. I will return to my pre-birth state. I will be nothing. I don't know if a conscious supreme power presides over the universe. I do know that I don't figure in any one's plans.

It would be nice to see everyone again, but then again I do have second thoughts. I feel sorry for the Mormons who according to their crazed mythology are sentenced to the same spouse for eternity. Perhaps that explains the men's insistence, spiritually inspired and countenanced by their commander in the clouds, on the need for multiple wives.

I tip my hat to death. Without it, there is no meaning. I've relished life. I'm relishing life although nothing comes easy with age. (The new Viagra commercial: Nothing comes easy with age!) I'm addicted to the anticipation of a unexpected adventure that enables me to uncoil from the fetal position and struggle to my feet each morning. (Most days are uneventful: work, eat & sleep.)

DIE WITH DIGNITY

Life's too short not to squeeze

as many years as possible out of it.

Of course, if I'm attached to a machine,

shoot me up with an overdose of morphine.

I sent an infant daughter on her trip

through eternity with a hospital administered injection.

She departed painlessly and quietly.

I would have no qualms electing the same path.

She didn't reside on earth for long,

but in her short life she taught me a life-long lesson.

We have an obligation to ourselves and our loved ones

to die with dignity.

THE PAST

My father couldn't look at photos. They made him too sad. He couldn't believe that time could pass so quickly. If someone had told him 92 years ago that he would live 87 years and that his oldest son would be writing this piece five years later, he would have shaken his head in wonder.

I'm sitting in my hotel room listening to bossa nova while the air-conditioner purrs. I am alone. In my heart of hearts I know that everything is destined to end badly and sadly. Nevertheless, artists require dark edges in order to carve out their visions. (Will all my writings be lost?)

I am staring at three photos, the last three photos I have of my sons. As part of leaving as much as I could behind too make myself as light as possible for the final descent, I filled two large manila envelopes with pictures that I split between the two eldest and the baby. Two of the photos are of the older two taken approximately 25 years ago and only minutes apart.

In the first they are sitting on a couch with their hair slicked back and attired in ties. In the second they are standing in the garage with their backs to the camera and their arms around each other. Carlos, the bigger of the two, has his arm draped over Joaquin's shoulder while Joaquin has his arm wrapped around his brother's waist. The last time I talked to their mother I started yelling at her. It is all so terrible, so merciless, so final. Those two little boys have long since passed into the penumbra. Like my father's grave, there are only searing memories.

The third picture shows Michael with his hands deep in his pockets. He is eleven and this photo was a school picture taken a few years ago. That little boy hasn't disappeared totally, but he is fading. Michael McHale. What a beautiful name! When I used to collect him at his daycare, the children would be playing outside. I would exit the back door and call, "Donde esta mi hijo bonito?"

My three boys have a profound love for each other. The tears are streaming down my face as I shake my head in frustration. Three failed marriages. But the children stay said a South Texas legend who had mas o menos 30 kids.

"Every one asks me if I had them con la misma," he would tell his audiences. "Yes, I had all of them con la misma."  He would pause for a few seconds while every one would be shaking his or her head  that he had had this many kids with the same woman when he would add, "Con la misma verga!"

Besides an unfathomable and incomprehensible love, it is humor that steels you to the end.

My father, who slowly slumped to his demise over a two-year period as every step forward was met by three steps backward, was sitting in his chair six months before his death surrounded by well-wishers at a family and friends gathering when someone asked, "How are you feeling, Jerry?"

My mother was standing at his side. He gripped the inside of one of her thighs and responded, "I'm feeling pretty good right now."

WRITING 101

I like to write longhand on a tablet. The manual exercise gives me the feeling that I'm painting. The pen also makes a difference. I prefer Paper Mates. They flow across the pad. The writing is much easier if you have something to write about although an empty mind and a blank sheet can be a creative marriage.

Sometimes it is beneficial to get into a Facebook frame of mind and let the mundane thoughts have their moment although you hope it's more substantial than some chick lamenting, "I'm depressed. I just started my period."

I love the anonymous exchanges with people you don't know.

"If my father were alive today, he would be 83."

You respond, "He still lives in you. Happy Birthday."

Estanislao Contreras said there is no sheet of paper than can withstand his challenge once he closes the door, fills the room with Bossa  Nova, rolls a joint and pours himself a glass of wine.

"Time stops," he says. "I write my best shit during these interludes. I feel like I'm making love to myself. My strategy, however, has evolved with the times. To attain the altered state I desire, I take a Xanax and drink two or three cups of tea.

"I've been getting high since I was 15. If Xanax and tea are the worst of my vices 50 years later, I've escaped the joyless last days of many friends who succumbed to drugs and alcohol. I'm lurking on the periphery with a few pretensions, but I've accepted my day-to-day fate.

"Ah, but to clean fresh stash and open a bottle of wine in the company of an attractive woman who longs for you! Because I think that scenario is a possibility, I haven't lost my belief in faith, hope and love."

KENNEY'S ODE TO MATAMOROS

"I have no regrets," said Joe.

"I've got a good wife and good kids.

"I live in a good town

surrounded by good people.

I make a good living

although I'm working harder

and making less

than at anytime in my life.

But I do miss the good ol' days

when I could cross the bridge

and spend a few hours in Matamoros?

When I think of Matamoros,

I feel like I've lost a good friend."

DOWNTOWN AFTER DARK

Downtown is a dismal place after dark. The prostitutes, transvestites, drunks and transients crawl out of their holes once the sun sets. The day and night experience evokes the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde contrasts. As has been said before, Brownsville is a tale of two cities.  

"It's a place for the lost and the losers," opined Don Pedro, the venerable voice of the dying daily known as The Brownsville Herald. "All downtowns suffered the same fate when businesses moved to the suburbs, but many cities rediscovered their roots and return their downtowns to their past glories. That accomplishment has eluded our leaders.

"The vast majority of residents don't give a damn about downtown. They have the same attitude toward downtown as they do toward Matamoros: It just ain't worth the effort."

LET ME GET YOU A TEQUILA

Estanislao Contreras took a seat on the deck at Cobbleheads with a long look on his face. He had thrown back four tequilas before he had taken a sip of his warm beer.

"What's the matter, compadre?" asked Jack O'Connell.

"My ex-wife, as part of the war she has declared, is turning my daughter against me. What does it say about a mother who turns a daughter against her father?"

"It shows that you were blind falling for her initially? Didn't you tell me that after the first time she fucked a new lover, he bored her. How long did you expect her to remain faithful to you? You put your trust in a woman who had fucked half of Brownsville. I told you from the beginning that you were a pendejo for falling for a recycled bitch, but you didn't listen."

"But she was so beautiful."

"Didn't her ex confront you at the Vermillion and tell you that on the long train that had stopped at her station, you were barely hanging on to the caboose? Didn't he tell you that you were feeding on the scraps after all the other dogs had feasted on her?

"I was a blind man who walked off the cliff into her bottomless pussy. She treated me like shit from the beginning, but I couldn't extract her from my system. My mother told me the first time she met her that she was no good, but I have accepted that God has decided that I should pay for my sins here rather than in purgatory."

"Everyone knows you're not perfect. That's why people love you. Everyone knows that you have been a stellar father. I know that dealing with angry children is painful, particularly when you're innocent, but now you know the truth about this woman. In the same manner she has never had any second thoughts about screwing others, she never had any second thoughts about screwing you. Unfortunately, the scores before you only thrust their weapon into her pussy. She has thrust her knife through your heart."

"Let me buy you a tequila, compadre."

"No, compadre. You have already paid too high a price. Let me buy you a tequila."

COBBLEHEADS

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LA PINCHE VIEJA NO VALE VERGA

My wife doesn't fuck me like she used to. One of the reasons I fell in love with her was because I liked fucking her so much. We fuck, but we have dropped from 15 times a week to maybe twice. The fireworks have sizzled.

We used to kiss passionately. I would suck her tits and eat her pussy as part of lovemaking 101. There were massages. There were bites and nips here and there. There was licking and slurping and slobbering. There were stories that rivaled pornography at its XXX best. There were fantasies related in lubricious detail. It was all about coming and coming and coming.

What else is there when one lives an anonymous eight-to-five existence? If there is no ejaculation in your life, how can there be the hope of exultation? I wish I weren't so addicted to sex, but I am. It's a choice between meditation and fornication, nirvana lies between a woman's legs.

In one of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's last novels, he celebrates a 90-year-old man fucking a virgin. In some of us the beast roars for more and more and more. We're whores. I imagine myself dying. After a month or three or six she would find someone to replace me. That would be an easy task. I have no illusions about myself. And how she would fuck him. She would fuck him like she once fucked me.

A security guard offered me this insight as I walked through the gate to watch a baseball game: "They wash their pussies and they're ready for someone else."

Ain't that truth.

AUTHOR MUSES ON A RAINY DAY

I am sitting before a blank screen on a rainy Tuesday evening. It is ten. I live by myself, but my mind is full of people, the majority of whom have exiled me to the periphery of their existences. I am 67 and I have never been more confused in my life. I have finished my book Buried in Brownsville and it should be available on Amazon next week. It is available at billmchale,blogspot.com. This book is my fifteenth literary child.

I have tried to resolve personal issues in my life, but my efforts to make things better have only resulted in making things worse. My most immediate resolution to my challenges is a departure. I have an obstacle that affects my itinerary. I have had my money in a credit union since I first came to Brownsville in 1975, but the debit card is only good in the country. I am therefore transferring my account to another bank, so I can have a debit card good throughout the world. I am changing my direct deposit from the old to the new, but this process can take as long as two months.

I have decided that during this period I'm going to risk Mexico. I have the money available in both my old and new accounts to travel for two months if necessary. I will check out flights, but I may decide to take the bus to Mexico City. I could remain in the capital for the entire time or I could follow the road south through Cuernavaca, Taxco, Oaxaca and San Cristobal de las Casas. I don't know, but I need to clear my head if possible. Mental problems, obstinately, know no time nor place. I am running away from them to determine if they will continue to pursue me or not. There is no hope here. Perhaps, there is hope out there.

Upon my return, my financial situation should be resolved. Then I am embarking on a trip from which I may never return except for visits or emergencies. I am debating between Portugal and Uruguay/Argentina. Portugal is heaven on earth and I work on my Portuguese every day. Unfortunately, a foreigner can only get a three-month visa. At its expiration, a tourist must leave and can't return for three months. For someone like myself who is thinking long-term residency and teaching English, this is a serious inconvenience.

The Uruguay/Argentina option doesn't pose this problem. Both countries approve six-month visas and the visitor only has to leave these countries for one day to have them renewed. I know that Montevideo and Buenos Aires are hot spots and both nations are fascinating in general. Montevideo holds an edge for me over Buenos Aires because it is less cosmopolitan and more relaxed. The meat and wine are just as good as Buenos Aires and marijuana is legal.

I have do something. The mental turmoil is relentless. Karma can kill you for all the sins you have committed, but with money in my pocket and a healthy body, I'm not prepared to call it quits. I will embody the spirit of Anthony Bourdain and sallying forth on my own to places unknown. I have been in Brownsville 43 years. The women I bed were once the lovers of past acquaintances and these old friends express the same complaint about my past lovers. Brownsville has become a huge casa segunda filled with used and discarded humanity.

I will still write. I have a substantial idea for a sixteenth book which will be a novel told completely in the first person. I will imitate the example of my ally /DP-M, but instead of writing about Brownsville from McAllen, I will pontificate from more exotic locales.

I am not well mentally. I am laced with ugly scars and bleeding wounds. I don't expect or ask for sympathy. This is the result of having lived life ruled by a lust for food, drink and sex. I wish it could have been different, but certain things weren't meant to be. You won't encounter me at HEB in the future raving about raising grandchildren. I am too much of a bohemian for baby-sitting duties. Out of the eight children in my family, God chose me to be the black sheep.

I must go.

SPANKINGS WORK

I have raised six children. Four of my children I have never touched. My two oldest boys, however, didn't escape unscathed. There were about five and three when we went to Feldman's. I was looking for something to drink while they wandered about the store. Suddenly, I heard a loud crash.

The two had been horsing around in front of a large wine display and the bottles came tumbling down. It was a scene. I whacked the shit out of their little asses, not so much as to discipline them but to convince the individual in charge that I was completely innocent of the mishap and not hold me financially responsible. The strategy worked to perfection although I gave my sons a tongue lashing that was second to none once we were in the car.

Joaquin, the younger of the two, had an instinctual problem. We would be in a major parking
lot. As soon as I opened the door, he would dash out of the vehicle and start running. He paid no attention to the traffic. I would track him down, grab him firmly by the arm and whack the shit out of him.

"Stop your running!" I would scream at him. "You could get yourself killed!"

Growing up, my father took the belt to me on a few occasions, but I was deserving of the punishment and I accepted my fate. These whippings left no scars and served to curb certain behaviors. In those days, fathers hit their kids because I'm sure their fathers had been equally strict with them.

Back to Joaquin. This madness continued and I would have to resort to tanning his butt red. Like I said: His running was an instinctual reaction that could only be cured in the same fashion that one disciplines a recalcitrant animal. Joaquin was too young to comprehend reason.

I cannot remember the exact circumstances, but we had stopped and he was going to cross a median that divided traffic out of the Sunrise Mall parking lot. I believe his mother was waiting for him in front of a restaurant. He saw her and opened the door. He acted so quickly that I didn't have a chance to detain him. He started in his usual sprint.

I looked back and there was a car approaching that would intersect with him. Panic froze me. There was nothing I could do but watch helplessly. To my shocking relief, he stopped on the median and the vehicle sped by. I dropped my head on the steering wheel and sighed with satisfaction. The spankings had served their purpose. My baby boy was alive and well.

AN ODE TO ROMANCE

She charges him $50 for a massage, but they always end up screwing. He has promised to marry her, but he doesn't want a ceremony, rings and a honeymoon. He wants to continue to live alone and she can stay with her kids.

"I'm used to my solitude," he says. "I would go crazy with those kids around me. I would go crazy if I were with you all the time. You will have your life and I will have my life. We'll get together two or three times a week to fuck and eat. I can live with that arrangement."

"You're not going to help me financially?"

"I'm barely surviving financially. You're the one who insists on matrimony. I'm fine with our present circumstances, but if marriage is so important to you, I'm willing to compromise. We can go to the county, fill out the papers and we'll be husband and wife."

"Are you still going to pay me for the massages?"

"Are you turning into a prostitute? We'll be a couple. I'm willing to marry you because I'll have a clean and safe piece of ass. Why would I want to pay for your pussy as your spouse? If I'm going to pay for pussy, I want to fuck a variety of chicks."

"You want to remain alone because you want to be with other women. Haven't you already fucked enough prostitutes?"

"I can be content fucking you a few times a week. My desire is waning. I don't need women like I once did. If you insist on a marriage, I'm giving you the conditions. I can be a hobby for you. I can be your escape from your mundane existence. But don't include me in any family gatherings or celebrations. I won't have any problems taking you and the kids out to dinner occasionally, but I don't want to have anything to do with the rest of your relatives."

"Will I have a key to your room?"

"That isn't necessary. The only time you will visit me I will be here, so you don't need a key to open the door. I'm also changing rooms from the first floor to the fourth floor. I don't want you spying on me through the window."

"Why is everything on your terms?"

"Because I have been through four divorces and everything was on their terms. If you want this relationship, I know from experience that everything has to be on my terms. You're the one who is in love. You're the one who wants to marry. I'm willing to satisfy your desire for a husband, but I'm tired of chicks ruining my life because I thought of them first instead of myself."

"When are we getting married?"

"When I return from Mexico."

"You didn't tell me you were going to Mexico."

"I'm glad you broached the subject. I'm not going to be informing you about everything I do. I'm a writer. I'm a musician. I'm a bohemian. I am spontaneous. I have my private life and you won't be a part of it. Therefore, I'm not going to explain to you my every move."

"When are you coming back?"

"I'm not sure. I could be gone a month or two."

"Where are you going?"

"I have friends in Mexico City and Cuernavaca for starters. I could continue south to Oaxaca and San Cristobal de las Casas. I'm still trying to recover from Anthony Boudrain's suicide and I need to be liberated from Brownsville. When I return, we'll go to the county and take care of business."

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Until two weeks ago I hadn't spoken to you for three months. You have your job and your kids. The two should keep you sufficiently occupied. I'm hungry. Let's change the subject. Argentina is playing now. We can eat at Olive Garden at the bar and watch the game. Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving."

"Great. Take a quick shower and we'll go."

"How about a kiss?"

"Sure." 

TOWER OF BABEL...

Not only are they among the most ignorant people in the world, but Brownsvillians speak like ignoramuses. An Easterner may have founded the city, but good ol' boy losers on the lam were the town's first settlers.

"England sent its criminals to Australia," wrote a Brownsville historian. "American convicts fled to the border. They spoke an atrocious English that you can hear vomited from the mouths of our local white trash."

The number of dialects amazed Carlos Fuentes, the Mexican novelist during a visit to the university several years ago.

"I stopped at the Brownsville County Club and the residents communicated in Spanglish," he recalled. "In the Southmost it was Tex-Mex. I heard nothing but pochismos in Las Prietas. In La Parra the inhabitants were conversing in a language that reminded me of Huichol Indians on peyote."

The English/Spanish mishmash goes from bad to worse when trailer trash marries barrio basura. Mixing a backwoods English with a bastardized Spanish produces a cacophony of inaudible sounds that would cause both Shakespeare and Cervantes to turn over in their graves.

"Delta" Dave Handelman used to lament when he was at Brownsville High about a reality in the school district.

"Women, who aren't fluent in either English or Spanish, are instructing our students."

OUTHOUSES

Scott Steinbeck, The McHale Report's managing editor, likes to think the blog's readership is rising while the daily's readers are diminishing. He offers this theory about the latter's decreasing numbers:

"As a statistician I have found an intriguing correlation relating to the decline of the Brownsville Herald's readership. I tested various theories but couldn't come up with a definitive answer initially.

"The Mexican-American population in Brownsville remains at about the same percentage of the total population as it was in the fifties when readership was at an all-time high. I do not believe the Herald's racist policies are to blame.

"Adult literacy has improved, but readership has declined. Obviously, no relationship there.

"Population has tripled, but the opposite has happened to subscribers.

"I was puzzled by these results until I spoke with a city planner. He provided me with an interesting insight, which may account for the phenomenon.

"The number of housing permits continues to rise, but all the new structures are built with indoor plumbing. That was not true in the fifties. Outhouses are within the greater Brownsville area, but they have become a rarity.

"I then compared the declining readership graph to a graph of the declining number of outhouses in the Brownsville area. Eureka! It appears that as the outhouses are being phased out, the need for the Brownsville Herald with its piss-poor reporting as toilet paper is no longer a necessity."

WOMEN

We shouldn't hit anyone, but sometimes I feel like beating the shit out of a woman. They can be real bitches with their bullshit. Three days out of the month they treat you like shit. They think they can use their periods as an excuse to treat you like crap.

I know some women who are on their periods the whole goddamn month. They get under your skin with their constant complaints. I've been around some mean critters in my life, but I do believe that women are the unhappiest creatures on this planet.

I've been with women who never remember the hundred good things that I've done for them, but they never forget the one night I came home drunk at the three in the morning after I'd been playing cards with the boys.

A dumb ass like me, I never knew the meaning of hate until I fell in love. I never thought romance could lead to murder. There have been too many sleepless nights that I've spent praying to God to eliminate the latest she-wolf howling outside my door.

These days I'm more attracted to women who cause me no feelings. I fuck them and either kick them out of bed or crawl out of the sack myself. When they start shaking their booty at me to make me jealous, I tell them that a copper penny has more worth than the silver dollars in the safety deposit boxes between their legs.

I've had plenty of courtroom brawls, but I've never belted a woman. I'm a masochist, not a sadist. Instead, I get drunk and pound my head against a wall. 

TRUMP IS NOT A GREAT MAN

The United States always wants to play the victim. We do nothing but good throughout the world, but nobody appreciates our generosity.

For the record, the U.S. stole a third of Mexico and has wreaked nothing but havoc on Central American countries. We seldom do anything out of the goodness of our hearts. It's what's best for our economy that influences our decisions.

We complain about Russia interfering in our elections when the CIA has backed dictator after dictator in Central America. We have engineered counter-revolutions to overthrow democratically elected governments over the price of bananas.

The quicker we stop bragging that we are a great nation, the better off we will be. Look at the Jews! They insist that they are God's chosen people and claiming that distinction has almost led to their extinction.

We should never forget that we are the only nation that has dropped not one but two atom bombs on innocent women and children.

We are not a great people. We have the strengths and weaknesses of the average human being.

And millions throughout the world hate us for our American arrogance epitomized by the treacherous and tyrannical Trump who would use the N-word to address his racist audiences except the "fake news" would distort his intent when he was only rapping to express his solidarity with his black brothers and sisters.

ESTANISLAO RANTS ABOUT HIS EX-WIFE

I am committing suicide with my vice-ridden life, but a woman is responsible for my slow demise. She is like a cancer that goes into remission and then upon my next visit to the psychiatrist I discover that the disease has metastasized. The doctor increases my medication. He comments that my condition is terminal, but the meds will allow me a few more months or years of life.

She infected the marrow in my bones and the matter in my brain. I am imploding. When I hear and read about women complaining that their men are abusing them, I ask myself if these gals are at fault and then act surprised when their ex-lovers want to drag them over the edge and into the abyss with them.

I have never known a more vicious animal than the human female. They will lure you into their webs or lairs. After they have sucked you dry with the calculated way they give their loose bodies, they fill you with their venom and laugh at you as their poisons consume you while they turn their attention to their next victims.

There are days I don't want to rise from bed. There are other days I don't leave my room. She tortures and torments me 24/7/365. I avoid booze and pot when I'm in these dark moods. They only exacerbate my depression and fill my mind with suicidal thoughts.

I have wronged many women. I have never physically abused anyone, but I have punished them psychologically when dealing with them on a daily basis was a concatenation combination of disappointment and disenchantment. For my dastardly deeds my karma is exacting its pound of flesh.

When it came to her, I just wanted her flesh. I didn't need anyone to wash or clean or cook for me. I could take care of myself as well as contribute financially to assure we lived comfortable lives materialistically.

"All you have to do is make love to me!" I would tell her time and time again.

And time and time again she couldn't do it. She would treat me like a beggar at the bridge, occasionally throwing a coin in my can with an indifferent arrogance that she had more than done her duty.

While she would wound and scar me with tales about her many past lovers and their prowess in the sack or in the back seat of a car or on the floor of a closet or up against a wall or on a desk in an office, she would huff during intercourse, "Hurry up! You bore me. Sex used to be exciting!"

Women are shocked when they come down with a venereal disease, which gives them the convenient excuse for which they have been searching to cheat on their spouses.

The problem with being madly in love is the final act: You are reduced to a mad man stumbling blindly from day to day while she jumps from bed to bed. She doesn't deceive herself with hope. Sex is strictly her dope.

In Spanish they say that one nail drives out another nail. Why hasn't fate been kind enough to deliver me a hammer and nail so I can deliver myself from this anguish? Will I never escape this purgatory or have I been condemned to hell?

When I hear that an enraged husband has shot and killed his unfaithful wife, I recall from my readings in the Old Testament that God raised no protest as the adulteress was stoned to death. How can a woman look at herself in the mirror and call herself a mother when she has spent her entire life giving herself so easily to so many men on so many occasions?

Last week I saw her with another man at a popular restaurant. I was drunk. Seeing only red, I stopped at their table and spewed, "Do you know how many trains have sped through this tunnel? You may think you are the engineer, mi amigo, but you're barely hanging on to the caboose.

"Don't be surprised if you're dumped at the next station because there is no man on earth who can shovel enough coal into this furnace. Her fire is a desire that never stops burning. She is death and she has no pity for the scores of corpses she has left in her wake."

My only consolation is that she will pay for her promiscuity. The truly evil persons don't escape unscathed. They quickly grow old and their last years are endured in a bitter cold.

I NEVER EAT PUSSY

Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, and Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, sat in the latter's balcony toking on a joint and imbibing wine when Contreras blurted this confession: "I never eat pussy!"

O'Connell almost choked on his Malbec.

"Then how do you satisfy a woman?" he asked.

"You don't have to eat a chick's pussy in order to satisfy her," argued Contreras. "I know numerous positions and these fingers are incredibly adept at tickling a clit. You know how much I hate shaking hands. There's something about sticking my tongue in a pussy that makes me physically ill."

"We share contrary perspectives on this subject," said O'Connell. "My dick doesn't get hard until I've licked those labials. Nothing drives me crazier than eating my wife when she's on the rag and I've dumped a quart of cum in her. I bury my mouth in her reeking mud puddle and don't stop slurping until I'm bloated from her juices. I'm a swine in a pig sty. Afterwards, I collapse on my back and burp the flavors. They range from chocolate to barbecue."

Contreras swallowed painfully.

"You are one sick motherfucker," asserted the distinguished poet.

PEACE, BRO

You wake up in the morning and you don't care.

You feel like Meursault in Camus' The Stranger. You can be with a woman or you can be alone, you can be at the job or you can be at your mother's funeral, you can be at the beach or you can be in jail.

One of my favorite stories tells the tale of a man led to his cell and shut inside. He is smiling. His glowing countenance disconcerts the guard.

"The authorities have taken your family, your land and your money. Now they have taken your freedom, yet I have never observed a more content individual. How is that possible?"

"They can't take anything else from me."

UNDER EVERY GOOD MAN LIES A WOMAN

They say that behind every good man stands a good woman.

I don't believe that for a second.

I have no faith in the fickleness of a female.

She can flip in a flash.

She can push you off a curb and into the path of a passing car.

She can push you off a platform and into the track of a speeding subway.

She can push you off a bank and into the waters of a raging river.

She can push you off a cliff and into the sea crashing against the rocks.

I say that under every good man lies a good woman.

She can do you no harm and only provide you pleasure.

CONFEDERATE TRAITORS

The Confederates were traitors.

They intended to destroy the United States of America. They intended to spread slavery to the west, to Mexico, to Central America and to the Caribbean.

They had to be stopped and the United States of America led by that great Republican Abraham Lincoln stopped these madmen who had no qualms about killing African-Americans and raping their women.

Adolf Hitler would have felt right at home in the traitorous Confederate South. Like Southern preaches who ranted and raved that God condoned slavery, Hitler found comfort in the Bible in his crusade to eliminate Jews from the face of the earth.

God damn Trump! God damn Hitler! God damn the Confederate South and the monuments to its many villains.

To honor Robert E. Lee and his losers is to spit on the flag of the United States of America.

We owe a great debt to African-Americans for saving the South from perdition and not allowing those states to fall into the hands of the KKK and their kind.

Fortunately, there are good Anglo-Americans who are rising above the white trash surrounding them. They are the true Americans, not these Neo-Confederates who want to worship their rebel gods who betrayed our nation.

HISTORY LESSONS DON'T REQUIRE MONUMENTS TO TRAITORS

Germany and Italy don't honor their ignominious pasts by erecting statues to Hitler and Mussolini. And they weren't even traitors.

The Neo-Confederates with the support of the KKK erected the majority of their monuments decades after these racists had lost the Civil War.

And while these Southern rednecks treated the African-Americans a little better than Hitler treated the Jews, they had no qualms about lynching thousands of their fellow Americans.

We don't need statues of traitors to teach us history lessons about our inglorious past.

JESUS CHRIST'S PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

At The McHale Report we support the rewriting of history if as a society we are committed to the truth rather than perpetuating a myth, which is nothing more than fiction substituting for facts.

/DP-M, the mercurial magician of poetic prose, issued a challenge on his blog, The Brownsville Republic, that the real Jesus Christ, physically speaking, be rendered as he might appear as a living human stripped of the ethereal excesses.

The steadfast Christian has attended enough masses and services to observe more than his share of portraits of Our Lord that are more faithful to cultural prejudices than doing justice to our actual Savior. The veteran scribe insinuates that no way in hell did Jesus Christ share any resemblance to Bill Clinton or Michael Jordan.

"Well, I’ll go on the ever-dangerous assumption that most adult Americans are in on the somewhat-accepted joke, and have been for years," wrote /DP-M. "That blonde-haired, bearded, Bee Gee-looking dude up on the altar in your Christian church is in no way, shape or form an accurate depiction of the Real Jesus Christ.

"Jesus, more than a few experts have said over the years, was a dark-skinned Jew with short hair (not long) and a rough beard. He was husky, almost burly and likely may have played linebacker at the high school level had he been 'born' in Brownsville and not in the harsh Middle East of his day."

"I have visited the Middle East, particularly Israel, on several occasions," says Father Jesus P. Cadissimo, the excommunicated priest who shepherds a flock at Cameron Park. "I can only conceive of him in modern terms, a person who would blend into the flow of pedestrians sauntering along Jerusalem streets.

"I imagine a man of average height, a full head of hair and clean-shaven," articulated The McHale Report's religious expert. "I picture a slender individual with an athletic step in his stride. Attired in a button-down shirt, a pair of kahkis and penny loafers, he would emanate a confident calm that would inspire men and excite women.

"I sent several photographs of both Israeli and Palestinian men to former Brownsville Herald photographer Brad 'Boner' Doherty and asked him to combine the different photos into one assemblage. To his credit, he took his time, the advantage of retirement, and returned this composition to us that appears at the top of this article.

"By coincidence, City Commissioner Ben Neece walked into our historical downtown office while the staff studied Doherty's modern rendition. Neece took one look and suddenly exclaimed, 'I know I've seen that cabrón! Jesus Christ! I swear! I know that cabrón! He said that he was going to bury all remnants of the Confederacy first and then he was going to deposit Christianity six-feet under next.'"

ODE TO DAD

My dad, my sister Paula and I were sitting in easy chairs watching Notre Dame. Dad and I were attired in boxers and T-shirts. On the West Coast the Irish with their East Coast kickoff times start in Sacramento at ten.

It was halftime and I went to the kitchen to prepare a sandwich--four slices of ham, two squares of manchego cheese, lettuce, tomato, slices of red onion and extra mayonnaise. I included a dill pickle and chips on the side. I cut the sandwich into two triangles.

"What do you have there?" asked Dad when I returned to the frontroom.

"A ham and cheese sandwich. Do you want half?"

"I'm not that hungry, but I'll take a bite."

He stood there munching on the sandwich and his face beamed with pleasure.

"This is damn good."

"Here! Take the whole sandwich. I can fix another one."

He took the sandwich and settled down for the second half.

"When are the boys coming home?" inquired Paula.

"Later this afternoon," I replied. My two younger brothers had gone to San Francisco the previous night to attend a concert.

I could hear my father chomping on the dill.

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to eat a pickle, Dad?" I chided him sarcastically.

I awoke. I had been dreaming after taking Melatonin rather than my usual Xanax. It has been a while since my father visited me. Dad has been dead six years.

TEXT MESSAGE

Ex-husband: "I love you. I miss you."

Ex-wife: "I hate you! Fuck you!"

THE ESSENCE OF BLOGGING

At The McHale Report we have been blogging since shortly after the turn of the century. Back then we were known as El Rocinante, a much cherished title that originates in the early 1990s when we published a periodical by the same name. We have gone through several transformations and we have evolved or devolved, depending on the perspective of the critic, into our present presentation. We have also added Facebook as a forum to promulgate our message although we are serving a 30-day sentence accusing of bullying and hate speech.

Why do we blog? The obvious answer is our addiction to writing. If we go two or three days without writing, we suffer severe mental withdrawal. We begin to think that we are meaningless. Why do we exist? we ask ourselves. Writing in a fulfilling diversion. We feel sorry for people who don't record their existences.

Secondly, as young men and women who comprise the staff at The McHale Report, we were raised as journalists. We came of age when the press ended the war in Vietnam and the presidency of Richard Nixon. Our first editor began each day in the newsroom with this booming question," Who are we going to fuck today?"

In a simple statement, we blog to inform and entertain.

Our detractors often find fault with our presentation. They don't understand that a blog isn't trying to duplicate a newspaper on-line. A blog is anything that the publisher wants it to be. There are no limits to its format. We have our style and we are both comfortable and content with it. That doesn't mean there isn't room for change, but we don't hear much negative feedback from our readers in regards to delivery

Even though our publisher has been writing non-stop about Brownsville for almost five decades and generally doesn't go a day without submitting an article or a commentary to The McHale Report, there are those who argue that The McHale Report survives by merely reposting pieces from the mainstream press and the alternative press. They also complain that photos standing alone are a dereliction of duty. It's called wild art for those who once plied their trade at dailies but have forgotten the concept invaluable for filling space.

Since we conceive ourselves as a news outlet, we search for other sources that will impact our audience. We believe that El Rrun Rrun's Juan Montoya, The Brownsville Republic's /DP-M, The Brownsville Void's Booby Witless-Cervezas, The Brownsville Beacon's Diego Garcia and The Brownsville Observer's Jim Barton (the latter two when they write) make important contributions to educating the community about the mass corruption in most our institutions that condemns this woeful stain on the map to being known as the Third World Capital of the United States instead of the New Orleans of the Rio Grande River. And, surprisingly, The Brownsville Herald raises a pertinent point occasionally that we believe should be repeated for broader appreciation.

We go about our business with no pretensions. We have spent many peaceful days and nights composing our blog and reposting on Facebook. One day we picked up a tennis racket and fell in love with the game. That's probably the best explanation for our joy in blogging.

MEXICO CITY DISPATCHES: WOMEN...

In less than a week I will be leaving the cool climes of Mexico City for the tropical heat of Brownsville. I have lived without sex for two months and I am looking forward to making love to Karla and Carolina in the comfort of my air-conditioned hotel room reunited once again with the other two-thirds of my clothes, my guitar and my tennis racket. I will return to a different solitude. I have been living in a self-imposed exile in Mexico City, but I have been residing with my compadres and I have grown tired of them and their family. It's natural. If I were forced to live with anyone for two months, I would be screaming at that individual for leaving dirty dishes in the sink or peeing on the toilet seat.

I have several matters that require my immediate attention. The direct deposit of my retirement money hasn't been rerouted from my old bank to my new bank. The old bank didn't receive my retirement deposit, so a check may be sitting in my P.O Box and the next payment due a few days later may find its way to my desired location. If all goes well, I will have a chunk of cash. The bureaucrats did inform me that the process could take as many as 60 days. I don't expect any complications, but this money is the foundation of my economic well-being and I need that matter settled for peace of mind.

There are also other financial matters. I have to fill out a new financial form in order for Michael to receive his child support payment from the new bank. I have been selling ads for my blog and Facebook page and I must chase down and collect from the politicians. I have been shaking down politicians for years. I'm good at cornering them because nobody wants to pay, but I give them a product and exposure more than worth the price.

I have to come face to face with Claudia and come to terms with my mother informing me that I am no longer wanted in California. I thought I discovered someone special when I met Claudia, but there was nothing special about her. She's like a sample in a store that everyone manhandles. I envision an indigenous tribe sitting together after a day of cutting cane and passing a bottle of mescal around the circle. Each takes a deep gulp and passes the bottle to his neighbor. How many Indians have deposited their viscous gulps deep inside her? I can never escape that image.

Besides her sexual past, I am constantly repeating her family destruction tree: She separated a father from his two sons, separated another father from his son and daughter, separated a step-father from his step-children and finally separated a father from another son. I have lived without seeing or talking with her for two months. I desire her, but her hair has changed to straw, the dugs of her breasts drag along the ground like those of a downtown mongrel, her stomach is a combination of flab and stretch marks and her ass is expanding faster than a balloon. She will soon enter her menopause stage. If her temperament fluctuates hot and cold on a daily basis, imagine the misery of her company when she enters that cycle. I have had her for most her best years although she must have been quite a delight as a teenager. At 44 and time passing rapidly, she is no longer young. Her face retains its beauty, but she isn't a pleasant sight from the neck down. Let the Indians break the bottle and lick the remaining liquid.

I received a letter from my mother before I left that I was no longer welcomed in California because the second oldest of my five sisters had accused me of raping her. Almost sixty years ago, I was more or less ten and she was more or less eight, we started touching each other. As we grew older, I would finger her while I masturbated. We averaged these encounters on a weekly basis for several years. As we matured into teenagers, we seldom had these moments. One day, however, it was late afternoon and we were at home alone. She called me into her room and from her purse extracted a condom. I can remember the setting sun shining through the window. She wanted to have sex and I cooperated. It was the only time we had sexual intercourse. And to the best of my knowledge it was the last time that we were intimate. My sister stuttered from the time she started talking and throughout the years she had terrible confrontations with my mother. On one occasion my mother called the police and the officers took my sister away while all the neighbors watched her being placed in the squad car.

"Looking back I now realized the cause of her distress," my mother wrote as I became the convenient scapegoat for her failures. If anyone has suffered from those encounters, I have been the victim. I can blame my sister for turning me into a sex addict because the pleasure has always been too overwhelming to resist. With the exception of my youngest brother, I don't communicate with the rest of my siblings. We have no problems when I visit, but they have their kids and grandkids, so I hardly rate of their list of priorities, but my youngest brother and I retain a strong bond. When I informed him that mother had exiled me permanently, he wrote in disgust, "We're talking about something that happened more than 50 years ago. Our sister doesn't quit, does she? If it isn't one thing, it's another. Don't worry. You will always be good with me."

When I talk about tragedy, I am talking about Claudia, but there is this cloud that hangs over me that renders me a rapist. It's hard to believe that a mother would abandon her child without investigating if their were extenuating circumstances, but she immediately deserted me because the alleged rape liberated her from the guilt that had burdened her for six decades. I will return to my apartment, call my girls, communicate with my sons, resolve my finances and take one last peek at Claudia to see if there is a light at the end of the tunnel or should I finally consigned our tortured and unhappy relationship to darkness. Most times I hate her more than I love her. To sacrifice my love for her to free myself of my hate seems the logical solution. But I am an animal and oftentimes, my entire life spent luxuriating in licentious behavior, I can't think straight. Nevertheless, it will be nice to be back on the border. It is home.