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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Tag Archives: traitor

Dear Media:

10 Wednesday Feb 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

America, coup, Impeachment, traitor, treason, USA, violence

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Please do not quote or summarize or repeat what the likes of Ted Crews, Minorlee Greene, or #MoscowMitch say. Their words mean nothing.  They have worked to overthrow our democracy. They are not interested in fair trials. They are not interested in the rule of law. They are not interested in fair elections. They are not interested in taking their oath of office seriously. 

They are interested in one and only one thing: power. They want power in order to line their own pockets and decide what other people can do in their private lives. They have zero interest in governing, solving America’s problems, or listening to what liberals, Democrats, Independents or experts have to say. 

Yes, they vibrate their vocal cords. Yes, they move their lips and jaws to form sounds that remind people of actual words. But their words mean nothing. 

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Their word means nothing. 

When they take a solemn oath to defend America against all enemies, foreign and domestic, they don’t mean it.

When they take an oath to have a fair trial, they don’t mean it. 

When they say that a Supreme Court Justice should not be confirmed during the last year of a President’s term, they don’t mean it. 

When they say that tax reductions for the rich will benefit everyone, they don’t mean it. 

When they say that they think the attempted coup and the attack on the Capitol was despicable, they don’t mean it. 

They don’t mean anything they say. 

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They bark and snarl and whine and, I grant you, it sounds a lot like actual words. 

But it’s different. They use these barks that sound like words only trying to lie, cheat, steal from Americans and to confuse enough voters and donors to get votes and money in order to stay in power. 

In America, we have a long tradition of trying to be “fair” to “both sides” of a debate, discussion, campaign, election, etc. And, given that you have two sides playing by the rules, that is a great tradition. But if only one side is playing by the rules and the other side subverts and avoid the rules, that is no longer a relevant tradition.

If two sides are both arguing in good faith based on facts, then presenting those facts with various analogies and analyses in order persuade people that their plan, position, or platform is superior, it is good to make sure people hear both sides or all sides of those arguments in order to make a better-informed decision. That’s fine.

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But if one side is telling the truth and one side makes up stuff out of thin air, it is not the duty of the media to repeat both sides. If one side is using words in order to destroy our democracy, it is not the duty of the media to repeat both sides. If one side is on board with a Crime Family and pushing for an absolute dictatorship, it is not the job of the media to repeat their lies.

When a patient has cancer, the ethical doctor limits treatments to those treatments that kill the cancer cells or improve the health of their patient. They don’t give medicine in “fair proportion” — giving equal doses to those treatments that help the patient and those treatments that help the cancer cells. 

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When a general leads his troops in a war, he or she doesn’t go out of his way to make sure the enemy has just as much ammunition as their own troops so they can have a “fair fight.” They call in air support to bomb the enemy. They don’t ask their bombers to be sure to they are dropping shells equally on both sides. 

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The likes of Ted Cruise, #MoscowMitch, and all the other Trumputinists who tried to overthrow our government by refusing to certify the election; the likes of Trumputinists who attend a trial and snub the entire process of prosecuting the most egregious campaign of actions that any President has taken in the entire history of the nation are not involved in true debate, true discussion, true dialog, or true governing. 

No.

They are interested in one thing: power. And they will do anything and everything to get that power — including overthrowing the duly elected government through violence.

Repeating the lies of violence-loving traitors is not part of the duty of the media. 

You might think that it is okay so long as you add the tag line that what they say is contested or even a lie. Sadly, however, that doesn’t really do the trick. Once the lie is presented to people enough times, it will “stick” in some people’s memory. (See this post about the “primacy effect” in human memory). 

https://petersironwood.com/2020/08/21/the-primacy-effect-the-destroyers-advantage/

What betrayal of trust in all of American history rivals the relentless campaign of lies, conspiracy theories and violence perpetrated by Trump and supported by disingenuous, treasonous Trumputinists? There is nothing close. Presenting the so-called opinions, views, musings, thoughts, etc. of the Trumputinists is not the duty of the media any more than it is to repeat the delusional lies of Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, or Kim Jong-un. 

We are not having a dialog, or a debate, or a discussion, or a contest with Trumputinists. They want to destroy our country. Don’t be fooled into pretending to have a debate with them. This is an attack on our country every bit as much as the sacking of the Capitol by the British in the War of 1812. Trumputinism is an attack on America every bit as much as Pearl Harbor. Trumputinism is an attack on America every bit as much as were those who flew planes into the World Trade Towers.



—————————————————-

Trumpism is a new religion.

Where does your loyalty lie? 

A query on quislings. 

The Loud Defense of Untenable Positions. 

The Ailing King of Agitate.

Try the Truth. 

Essays on America: A Query on Quislings

22 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

America, Democracy, Dictatorship, IMPOTUS, traitor, treason, USA

Photo by Aneta Foubu00edkovu00e1 on Pexels.com

Case 1: 

You own a dog. You love your dog. And you know your dog loves you. 

Your neighbor, on the other hand, you do not love. 

But you tolerate the guy despite his odd habits. 

Then, one day, your neighbor comes over and shoots your dog dead. 

In court, he explains that bullets only kill evil dogs. Bullets will pass through good dogs without harm. In fact, he claims he was doing you a favor, because an evil dog can appear like a good dog and then kill you in your sleep. And, as it turns out, he knows this is true because he found this out on the Internet. Then he heard it on Sketchy News Channel. He joined a group called “Bullets are Truth” on a social media site called “Parlez Vous Tromperie” which has cool pictures of scantily clothed acrobats all around the edges. 

Your friend is an adult. He went to high school. He came from a reasonable home. He was not on drugs when he murdered your dog. He is not certifiably insane. He insists he was doing you a favor. He was operating, of course, on the basis of misinformation.

It doesn’t matter. 

He killed your dog. 

The fact that he did it based on false information makes no difference in how you feel nor does it make a difference in the eyes of the law. The false information he believed in makes no sense and is easily disproven. It doesn’t matter that thousands of people were duped into believing the same nonsense.

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Case 2. 

You own a dog. You love your dog. 

Same neighbor. Same result. He shot and killed your dog. 

Why?

When the truth at last comes out, it turns out that your spouse called him up and through sobs and hysterical screams, managed to squeak out that the dog had been bitten by a bat and though they had thought little of it at the time, the dog was now rabid and about to attack the children where they were all playing in the yard. She said she knew you had a gun and could you please save her children before it was too late!

Turns out your spouse always hated the dog and the neighbor. After the call, she smiled a very self-satisfied smile at her acting performance. Then, she let your dog out to play, but not before squirting whipped cream all over his muzzle. 

When your neighbor came into the yard he saw your dog charging toward the kids and apparently foaming at the mouth. 

He killed your dog. He did it on the basis of misinformation. 

After all the facts come out, you’ll probably still be pretty PO’d at your neighbor, but you’d be a lot more PO’d at your spouse! 

One crucial difference between Case 1 and Case 2 is that in Case 1, your neighbor had plenty of time to verify the veracity of the claim that bullets would pass “harmlessly” through the body of a “Good Dog.” In Case 2, your neighbor could have reasonably thought that he had zero time to do anything but save your children. In Case 1, your neighbor’s belief was absurd. In Case 2, your neighbor believed something unlikely to be true, but it wasn’t physically impossible. Dogs can catch rabies. And if a rabid dog bites a child, that’s really bad for the child.

What do you think are appropriate punishments in these two cases?



Case 3.

Case 3 is just like Case 1 except that your neighbor comes and shoots your kids. He has all the same excuses. He has all the same misinformation as in Case1. 

What do you think would be an appropriate punishment for your neighbor? How about the people who put the information on the Internet?

Or, perhaps you think all should be forgiven because he was misinformed?



Case 4.

Your neighbor relies on misinformation on TV and internet sites to engage in treasonous behavior toward America.

The minimum sentence for treason is five years in a Federal Penitentiary. 

The maximum penalty is death. 

What do you think is an appropriate price for committing treason when the traitor does it based on an absurd conspiracy theory — one that he sincerely believes?

———————————————


Plans for US; some GRUesome

Ramming your Head into a Brick Wall doesn’t Make you a Hero.

Transcript of Mystery Conversation

A Profound and Utter Failure

Absolute is not Just a Vodka

Where Does Your Loyalty Lie? 

My Cousin Bobby.

Put in the Fool; Put out the Fool

11 Tuesday Aug 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

America, Constitution, Democracy, double-cross, fascism, pandemic, politics, Putin, traitor, treason, truth, USA

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Another bright and shiny thing!

Let’s all shout and dance and sing!

It glitters in polluted air!

It makes you want to sit and stare!

The newest bright and shiny thing!

happy woman

Photo by Jesus Arias on Pexels.com

 

I’ll cage the babies! Ain’t it fun!

I’m chosen as The Chosen One!

I’ll bring you pain; I’ll bring you down. 

But as of now, my game’s in town!

At end of day, my game is done.

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All my wondrous treacherous creatures!

All my crimes — now being reported! 

But I’ll fight back with reporters deported. 

Let’s open schools and kill some teachers!

They’re over-eager over-reachers!

burial cemetery countryside cross

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

 

Black lives matter? What’s with that? 

I’ve grown fatter! Chomp on my chat!

I’ll spew and spatter racist chatter.

I’ve stolen so much my platter is flatter.

I’m careful as a junkyard rat.

 

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My Pelf on Shelf – he’s such a Sweetie!

Never tries to do his duty:

Lock me away to save the nation.

He’d rather mouth his incantation: 

“Lootie, Booty, Gawd-darned Tootie!”

person holiday people cute

Photo by Public Domain Pictures on Pexels.com

 

I’ll rest at last when all is mine,

“Der Fooler” they will claim’s divine! 

Pootie will show me how it’s done!

Torture, steal — it’s all such fun! 

Just drink a little chloroquine! 

brown and white snake

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

What’s that you’ve given me to drink? 

Why Vlad, you’ve broken rank

Given me polonium — and I drank. 

I threw others under bus and tank, 

But I gave you your life long prize. 

You betrayed me  – what a surprise!

You said I was the light — just right —

The son you never had

Oh, Vlad, Oh, Vlad.

You used me like a tool it seems.

close up photo of woman holding lollipop

Photo by VisionPic .net on Pexels.com

 

I never thought in foulest dreams

You’d play me for the fool.

You’re bad. 

You promised me and now I’m had.

Winning bigly is so sad. 

I’ll tell! I’ll tell! They’ll all believe

Me when I say…

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————————————

Trumpism is a New Religion

You Bet Your Life!

Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: Wednesday

Absolute is not just a Vodka

Plans for us some GRUesome

What about the butter dish?

A profound and utter failure.

Essays on America: The Game

Winning by Cheating is Losing

 

The Ailing King of Agitate

05 Wednesday Aug 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 45 Comments

Tags

ANTIFA, COVID19, Democracy, fascism, life, pandemic, poem, poetry, politics, Putin, traitor, treachery, treason, truth

IMG_1442

 

A lonely lackey claims a throne:

A peasant traitor to the bone;

A peasant who’s impressed with gold;

A coward who pretends he’s bold. 

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The teeniest hands in all the lands;

The teeniest glands among the bands. 

The frailest ego ever found.

The smallest heart to ever pound.

 

male bugs illness disease

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A shroom: Ka-boom! An ort of sorts.

The base proclaim his magic warts.

Eschews a fight that’s not a fix. 

The courts are clogged with crappy tricks.

 

woman with face paint with pumpkin

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Now watch him crumble; watch him fold;

He’s frail and his tricks are old.

He’s flat and rancid as a toad

He’s stupidly squashed upon the road.

 

sign slippery wet caution

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

 

He cannot think from A to B; 

Betrays his country easily.

Now Weenie’s caught; he can’t be taught.

He does not do coherent thought. 

 

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He’s too inept to fairly race.

Instead he hides behind his face,

A mango face with wobbly head

He whimpers; cries of “foul!” Instead.

 

baby child close up crying

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

It’s he himself who’s truly rank

A Fraud as big as Deutsche Bank.

He sucks the wealth of everyone.

But now at last his time is done.

 

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He’s needless slain a host of lives

To compensate, he feints and dives.

He rants and raves; corrupts; depraves.

He likes to rape the younger slaves.

 

woman in black tank top blindfolded

Photo by Thuanny Gantuss on Pexels.com

 

His daddy never showed him love;

Kowtows to every Putin shove.

He felt a quiver and a thrill.

When Putin ordered him to kill. 

 

flight sky sunset men

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

But soon the people will arise

Vote out the Vichy Putinate!

The People all with open eyes

Will oust the King of Agitate.

 

usa flag waving on white metal pole

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

 


 

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

The Watershed Virus

Trumpism is a New Religion

Essays on America: Wednesday

Winning by Cheating is Losing

Unmasked

Index of Patterns — Best Practices in Collaboration

Myths of the Veritas: The Orange Man

(A myth about what happens when insatiable greed is combined with lying).

Myths of the Veritas: The First Ring of Empathy

(A series of tales that features ethical, empathic, & effective leadership in times of crisis and uncertainty. Our tale begins as the leader of the Veritas seeks an eventual successor so she devises a series of seven trials that mainly test empathy.)

 

 

Donnie Gets his Name on Tennis Trophy! 

18 Thursday Jun 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, family, psychology, story, Uncategorized

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

criminal mind, crook, fascism, felon, fiction, IMPOTUS, psychopath, sociopath, story, traitor

 

 

man wearing brown suit jacket mocking on white telephone

Photo by Moose Photos on Pexels.com

 

 

Fred slammed the black phone down onto its cradle and swore. “Damn, damn, damn!!” 

Fred looked up and glared at his three children. His face wore that dangerous mottled red and yellow pallor that often foretold that someone would get a beating. The kids dare not walk away, but none of them wanted to be the one to incur his wrath. They stared down at the floor, avoiding his eyes and each other’s.

“F###ing doctors! F###ing hospitals! They’re keeping your mother for more tests! Well?! Do you have anything to say for yourselves?! Dolts!” 

At last, Junior chanced a response, “I’m sorry, Dad, will she be okay?” 

Fred stared at Junior as though he had spinach caught between his ears. “Who the hell knows? But it means she won’t be here to take care of you! I’m no f###ing babysitter! What the hell does she think I’m going to do with you for another damned day? F###! I’ve got marks to make. Patsies to take. All right, look, Mary, go to your room and read till dinner time. Junior, take Donnie Boy to the club and have him pick up balls while you have a tennis lesson. I’ll pay for all day, so long as he keeps you two out of trouble. GO!! Get your stuff and go! GO!!” 

The three children obediently went off. Mary liked to read but she wondered vaguely as she climbed the stairs what was wrong with her mom.  Fred Junior was silent but inwardly grumbled because his younger brother always spoiled his fun. Donnie Boy was wondering how he could horn in on Junior’s lesson.

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While the boys gathered their tennis clothes, shoes, and racquets, Fred Senior made a quick call to the club. “Listen, Joe, Junior’s coming down for a lesson. Donny’s tagging along. Clear your calendar. I want you to keep them out there all day. Kind of a family emergency. Mom’s in the hospital. I need you to keep those two out of trouble till dinner time. I’ve got a big deal coming up. So, I don’t want to see or hear from them till after 6 pm tonight. Got it? Okay, good. They’ll be there in about half an hour. What? What other commitment? I just told you! It’s an emergency! Cancel the lesson for Missy Fancy Panties. She can come another time. What? I don’t care! Jesus. You’re a smart man. Just make something up. Tell her your hemorrhoids are bothering you. Tell her your cousin from Florida just came to visit. Tell her you broke your arm. I don’t care. Just lie. It’s not rocket science!” 

The boys arrived and soon enough went to court one where Joe had a large basket of balls. The sun shone through a hazy August sky. It was hot and humid and the three of them were all sweating even before the lesson began. “Okay, Fred, go to the service line and let’s warm up a little — like we need to warm up today. He chuckled at his own joke.

Donnie Boy said, “What about me? Where should I go?” 

Joe, who was quite familiar with the whole family, and especially tiny-handed Donnie Boy, thought to himself that a visit in hell might do him good. But he had been promised a substantial tip from Fred Senior if he kept them occupied the whole day, so he bit his tongue and said, “You stand over there Donnie and just watch the ball and watch how I hit it for a while. Pick up the balls that go astray and put them in the basket. Keep it filled. Then, when your brother gets tired, we’ll see whether we can teach you something.” 

“I already know how to play! I just want to get better! I want my name on a trophy! Today!” 

Joe laughed in spite of himself. “Donnie, no-one gets a trophy the first day they play. You need to earn it.”

Donnie Boy thought to himself: Oh yeah? We’ll see about that. Aloud, he said, “I told you. I already know how to play. I watched it on TV one time. It’s really easy.”

 

balls close up tennis tennis ball

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Joe shook his head, glared a little more fiercely than he meant to at the scrawny awkward kid. He decided not to pursue that line of thought and instead concentrated on Junior.  “Here you go. Yes. Nice.” Fred Junior proved to be half-way decent, with good form. “No, bend your knees on those low ones. Don’t bend over. Get your butt down.”

Donnie shouted, “If I don’t get to play, I’m going to tell Daddy you said the word ‘butt’!” 

Donnie wondered whether it would rain later. He didn’t think so. Not till they got home. He didn’t want it to rain, so it probably wouldn’t rain. He practiced making it not rain. It didn’t always work, but sometimes it did. It’s because I’m a genius, Donnie Boy thought to himself. He became vaguely aware that play had stopped. Why? 

Joe spoke loudly but did not yell. “See anything missing from our tennis game, Donnie Boy?” 

Donnie Boy blinked. “Well, when I watched tennis on TV, there were lots of fans screaming. Nobody’s watching us play tennis. Nobody at all.” 

Joe shook his head. “Donnie Boy. What do you need to play tennis?” 

Donnie Boy brightened. “Rackets! My dad loves rackets!” 

Joe sighed. “Right, but what else do you need?” 

Donnie frowned. “A court?” 

Joe continued, “Right. A court. And what else do you need to play tennis?” 

Donnie stared at Joe. He glanced at his brother who seemed to mouth the word, ‘Paul’s’ but he didn’t know which ‘Paul’ his brother was talking about. He said, “Paul’s! You need Paul’s!” 

“Paul’s? What are you talking about Donnie Boy? Who’s Paul?” Joe was visibly annoyed now despite his attempts not to let it show. “What were you supposed to be doing while you were watching your brother, Donnie Boy?”

Donnie stared at Joe. “Watching.” He glanced at his big brother again but Junior was just shaking his head. “Donnie Boy, you were supposed to be fetching the balls for us and putting them back in the basket!” 

Donnie gritted his teeth. He hated the word “fetch.” That was for dogs and dark-skinned people, not for the likes of him. “Okay, okay. But when do I get a turn?” 

action adult athlete ball

Photo by Isabella Mendes on Pexels.com

“You’ll get a turn when I say you do, and that will happen much sooner if you help by picking up the stray balls and putting them back in the basket! Just like I asked you to.” 

“Okay, Joe. I’ll get them.” Donnie Boy ran to one spot and picked up a ball and carried it back to the basket and put it in. Then, he went to gather another ball and put that in. Finally, when there were five balls in the basket, Joe asked Junior to go to the baseline and practice backhands. Fred had progressed a lot this summer, but the five balls were gone just as Donnie Boy put a sixth one in the basket.

Fred yelled to his younger brother. “Donnie Boy! For God’s sake, don’t just put the balls in one at a time. You should be able to hold five or six — even in your teeny hands. Take the basket with you so you can put them in quickly. Are you thinking?” 

Oh, I’m thinking brother, he thought. Count on it. Aloud, Donnie said, “Yes, Fred. I’ll get them all. Thank you for your suggestion.” Don’t want him to be on guard here.

Donald put his mouth into the shape of a smile and said to Joe, “I’m going to watch from back here, Joe. I want to see how to hit from the back.” Donnie Boy found that he could only hold three in teeny hands, but he could jam a few more into his shorts.

Joe ignored Donnie Boy but shouted to Junior. “Recover! Hit and recover. That’s it! If you are way over there you need to move back quickly to cover the cross-court shot. There you go. Faster next time.”

Junior was hitting pretty well now and watching the ball intently. He was executing a pattern so obvious that even Donnie Boy could see it. And when the coach hit to Junior way out near the alley, Donnie put four balls in his teeny hands and slid all four onto Junior’s path just as he was sprinting back to just past the middle of the court. 

Fred Junior stepped directly onto one of the stray balls and his right ankle rolled and he fell on his elbow and shoulder. “CRAP!” he screamed.

sign slippery wet caution

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

Joe sprinted directly to Junior, easily hurdling the net in the process. Crap indeed, thought Joe. Now I have to fill out a frigging report and maybe Fred Senior won’t give me that promised tip after all. Crap. Although, half the time, he doesn’t keep his promises anyway. He’ll just deny he ever made the promise. What proof do I have. Anyway, injuries are crap for the club.” 

Joe helped Fred over to the stands and had him sit down. He could see that the ankle was already swelling. He got an ice pack and put it on Fred’s swollen ankle. He looked at Donnie Boy and wondered how someone could be so inept.

Still hoping for the promised tip, Joe kept his face neutral as he said, “Okay, Donnie Boy. Your turn. Show me your stroke.” 

“What?! I’m not doing that in front of you! You pervert!” Donnie put his face into a look of horror and revulsion. 

“What? What the — what are you talking about? Show me your tennis stroke, Donny.” 

Donnie pretended to gain some insight. “Oh, okay. Like this!” As he said the word ‘this’ Donnie slapped the racquet through the air as hard as he could.

Joe sighed. “This is going to be a long afternoon”, he mumbled under his breath. “More slowly, Donnie. Ac-cele-rate through the shot. Never mind. Just don’t try to kill it.” Joe hit an easy shot over the net to where he thought Donnie’s racquet head might go. Donnie swung with all his might and hit the tennis ball onto an adjoining court. 

“I win!” shouted Donnie Boy. 

“Donnie,” explained Joe patiently, “it’s not a contest to see how far you can hit it. You have to make it land inside these white lines. That’s the court. It has to land in the court or it’s my point.”

Joe fed another easy ball to Donnie who swung as hard as he could and this time hit the ball onto a nearby fairway. “I WIN!” shouted Donnie.

“No, Donnie Boy. I told you. It has to land in the court. Inside these lines. Or on the line. But not over the fence.” 

“My shot was IN!” shouted Donne Boy. 

“It wasn’t even close! You have to think about where you want the ball to go, Donnie.” 

“MY SHOT WAS IN!!” shouted Donnie. 

green and white tennis court

Photo by Kelly Lacy on Pexels.com

“It was not in. We not even playing for points, Donnie. I’m just trying to get you to hit a better stroke.” 

“It was too in! You just don’t like me! That’s why you said it was out. You don’t want me to win! You won’t let me win! You don’t like me!” 

The pain in Fred’s ankle was still increasing despite the ice. “Donnie, the ball was way out! Surely you can see that. Anyway, it’s not a match! He’s a professional! You’re a beginner! We’re here to learn!” 

“It was IN! insisted Donnie Boy. “You say it wasn’t in, Junior, because you don’t like me either!” 

“Of course I like you, Donnie. You’re my brother.” Fred Junior tried to make this sound sincere, but he really couldn’t quite muster it. It sounded thin and hollow as though he were reading it off a teleprompter without understanding any of the words. “The ball is either in or out. It has nothing to do with whether we like you.” 

“So people’s eyes never play tricks on them? People always see just perfectly, I suppose?”

Joe said, “Of course, when it’s close, sometimes people are mistaken. Your shots were not close. Not even close to close. They were way out, Donnie.” 

“No, you don’t like me. Anyway, show me how to play tennis. That’s what Daddy’s paying you for.” 

Joe sighed. He amazed himself by suddenly picturing himself sprinting over to Donnie and smashing that thick skull of his with Donny’s own racquet. He shook his head and dismissed the image. At long last, the worst hour of Joe’s teaching career was over and it was time for a short break and lunch. Joe helped Fred Junior hobble inside while Donnie got his bag from the locker room and then stood in front of the club trophy case; stared longingly at the display of cups, plates, and statues. At last, he walked over to Joe and said, “Hey, Joe, I think it would help motivate me better if I could see what one of those trophies really looks like up close. So close, I could grab it by the pedestal! Do you think I could see one?” 

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Joe frowned. It was definitely an unusual request, but hell, why not. If it would keep Donnie off his back for a moment. “Okay, sure.” He took out his keys and opened the trophy case and took out one of the large shiny trophies and handed it to Donnie, saying, “This is the Club Championship Trophy. Be careful, by the way.”

“Oh, I will, Joe. I will be very careful!” Donnie Boy made his face look sincere. 

Soon, the three had ordered. “Joe and Fred Junior talked about some tennis people Donnie had never heard of. Suddenly he leapt to his feet! “Uh-oh! Can you guys watch my trophy for a second? I’ll be right back.” Without waiting, Donnie strode into the kitchen. Joe glanced after him, but turned back to the conversation. In a few moments, Donnie returned and sat. Joe and Fred Junior stared at him. “Oh, I had to change my order. I forgot I want a cheeseburger, not just a hamberder.” 

cheeseburger on table

Photo by Adrian Dorobantu on Pexels.com

They talked for a few moments when Donnie called out, “LOOK!” He leapt up, pointing toward the kitchen. Thick white smoke was coming out. The fire alarm shrieked at them mercilessly. The sprinklers soaked them. The quiet chatter of the dining room shattered into cacophony like a dropped stack of dishes. No-one noticed Donnie Boy slip the Trophy into his gym bag. 

The fire damage to the Club was only a few thousand dollars. No-one in the kitchen had any idea how the fire had started. The Head Chef was, nonetheless handed a pink slip. Joe was reprimanded for Junior’s injury. He never received the promised tip. Indeed, Fred Senior had instead threatened to sue the instructor “for every f###ing penny he had” unless he agreed to give a summer’s worth of free lessons to both boys. He rumbled and grumbled before he crumbled.

A few weeks later, Donnie Boy came by to practice his putting and chipping on the practice green. When he checked in, he opened up a pocket in his golf bag and handed a large trophy to what’s his face — the freckled guy with red hair — who often checked people in. Luckily, he had a name tag: WALLACE. “Wally, could you please do me a favor and get this trophy back into the trophy case. Joe was showing it to me when the kitchen caught fire. Wanting to protect it, I shoved it into my gym bag. Well, of course, here it is now, safe and sound.” 

“Oh, you were here when they had that fire! Wow! That was something.” 

“Yes, Wally! It was scary. Nobody knows how it started, right?” 

“No sir. Weird. The cook said someone had apparently spilled cooking oil all over one of the stovetops. No-one remembers doing it or seeing it. Anyway, I’ll make sure it gets back where it belongs.” 

“Thank you so much, Wally.” 

DCA8FC9A-F229-4538-9EA2-D9E13D4796EB_1_105_c

Neither Wallace nor the receptionist noticed that the name of last year’s club champion had been replaced. Donny Boy had scratched the original tag beyond recognition and then had taken it to a jeweler. Donny explained that he had been mad at his Dad and scratched his Dad’s name off of the trophy plaque. Donny clenched his nails into his fist until tears appeared. He explained that Dad would black and blue him if he found out. The jeweler swore it as a low price for the new engraving, but Donny Boy had to pay ten dollars of his own money that he had stolen from his sister’s purse. But it was worth it. Every time he walked through the club lobby, he glanced over at the Club Championship Trophy and it made him feel how special he was. 

Months later, the actual champion, who had since moved to California, returned to play a match with an old buddy of his. He wanted to remind his buddy about his skill and on the way out to court six, pointed to the Trophy in the display case. “Oh, look. What do you know. There I am,” he drawled jokingly. 

His friend glanced in. “Yeah, yeah. Well today…What the—?” He couldn’t believe his eyes. He pointed at the Trophy Case wordlessly.

The champion stepped slowly toward the glass case. He stopped only when his nose touched the glass. His mouth fell open. His name was gone. Donny Boy had instead had his own name engraved. “Who the hell is this?” He seemed to be addressing the question to the universe, but if he was, the universe didn’t answer. 

At least not in so many words.

———————————————

Author Page on Amazon

Other stories of the mythical and completely fictional child sociopath, Donny Boy. 

Donnie Boy Plays Bull-Dazzle Man

Donnie Learns Golf

Donnie Visits Granny!

Donnie Gets a Hamster

Donnie Boy Plays Soldier Man

Donnie Plays Captain Man

Donnie takes a Blue Ribbon in Spelling

 

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