That’s Entertainment? The Ugly Side of Sports Entertainment: Profesional Wrestling

Warning: What follows is the most shitty and disgusting story I’ve seen in recent years, and it didn’t even shock me. I’ll be pulling absolutely zero punches, so be warned now that sexual assault, rape, trafficking for sex, child sex abuse, and more will be in my discussion. If you think you can’t handle it, please be gentle to yourself and leave now.

If you have stayed after my warning, and you have read it, and if a tag brought you here, or if you’re curious about my continuing attack on our current state of “entertainment,” then hang on to your stomachs. We’re going on a trip to visit Vincent McMahon, who’s on his way to Hell.

I’m not getting into the long history of American (not Olympic) wrestling. Wikipedia should give adequate information to start your research for your own journey into Hell. Or beyond.

I watched it at various times. In the early 60s, on black and white television, with the likes of Cowboy Bill Watts and other oldies.

In the early 70s, I watched Chief Jay Strongbow and Andre the Giant, the Grand Wizard, a manager and a heel, and a lot of other guys I can’t remember. Then I left it alone. Back then, Vince McMahon was no more than a skinny, ugly announcer. But he was determined to convince his father that he was a worthy son to take over the family business. And he did. Or so they say.

1999-2001

My son wanted a video game for Christmas in 1999: “WCW Mayhem” for the original Playstation. I got that and a skating game for him. When he and I couldn’t talk or find common ground, gaming filled the gap between us. I soon bought my own Playstation and was bitten by the wrestling bug. When he visited, we could create ridiculous wrestlers and step into the squared circle together. We had fun. I’m grateful for those memories. Some of the happiest I have.

While alone on Mondays, I watched wrestling, switching cable channels between WCW Monday Nitro and WWF Raw. I was truly lucky, seeing both at their best. WCW was suffering from a lack of a storyline, but Tank Abbott was brought in with a real contract and maybe the promise to fight Goldberg, who, at the time, was out with injuries. Tank had to go through the roster to get to Goldberg. I swear I saw him take on Screamin’ Norman Smiley, plus the incredibly stupid “Demon”, but I can’t find a record of either one. The Demon was inspired by the incredibly stupid band KISS. One fight card indicates Abbott fought Vampiro, who might have been the Demon character I’m thinking about. Somewhere along the way, Jeff Jarrett played the fans by resurrecting the nWo and called the entire arena audience a bunch of “slapnuts” which a heel, of course, was supposed to do: rile up the fans and keep them watching. I hated him, but in fact, I think he’s a square guy, a good man.

I find it troubling: I remember Tank Abbott clearly. But not the matches he had. He also was hardly undefeated, and his famed “Knockout Punch,” his finishing move, doesn’t seem to be as effective as I recall. He also continued with WCW well past the point where I stopped watching.

The gimmick over, I began losing interest in WCW. I wasn’t alone. They weren’t even selling out matches. Terry Funk was always worth watching, and at a stable, in a hardcore match, got kicked by a horse. Before the commercial, Funk could be heard saying, “Fuck!”

While I had been aware for years that it was all a show, because I wasn’t as stupid as John Stossel, I also knew that enough of wrestling was real enough that those people in the ring really were hurting each other. Mostly by accident because they’re basically athletes and stunt performers at the same time, but oftentimes on purpose because of perceived real hits by opponents. Accidents happen in and out of the ring, and wrestlers do go off-script behind the scenes. On camera, of course, but backstage, too.

Kane, the Rock, Undertaker, and Cactus Jack were my favorites, but close behind were the Dudley Boyz, Too Cool (Grand Master Sexay and Scotty Too Hottie), and Kurt Angle.

Who was responsible for all of this soap opera wrestling goodness? Vincent McMahon. He had pooled some of the best talent in writing, stage sets, makeup, and announcers.

At the time, I wasn’t aware that there was also dirty fighting between WCW and WWF. A WCW wrestler named “Montana” wore a black Stetson and made fun of WWF announcer Jim Ross, whose former ring appearances had him “from Montana.”

Having been stricken by a form of palsy, Ross (J.R.) sometimes had speech and facial muscle problems, and it was this that Montana made fun of. The fans didn’t like it. But vindictivness was the primer of the downfall of the WCW. Vince McMahon was the hammer. His WWE bought out the floundering WCW, resulting in a surplus of talent that had to be trimmed. A trimming job for Vince would be to you and I more like something you’d see in a slaughterhouse than a butcher’s shop. You could see it in his face: anger and severe punishment were in his eyes at the same time.

I also did not know about the horrible death of Owen Hart, who had fallen approximately 75 feet from a harness as he was being lowered from the rafters. That fall onto any surface not intended for stunt use, like a deflating air bag, is hardly survivable. In this instance, he landed on the top rope, near enough to a turnbuckle as to make the rope even more unforgiving. It severed his aorta, which closed the deal on his death sentence. It happened at a live pay per view event, but no one at home saw it. Jim Ross was so shocked that he had trouble telling the viewers that Hart was in real trouble and that this was no attempt at drama.

With Hart’s blood still on the ring’s mat, McMahon decided that the show was to go on. This was a clue that McMahon was a greedy and cold-hearted son of a bitch, but also, even as I heard this story, I was unaware of what took place in 1992. And that was sickening to beat all hell.

That story went that Rita, a female referee with WWF, had been raped by McMahon. She appeared on the Geraldo Rivera show, and at some point, she sued.

Then another scandal reared up, this involving a juvenile and a member of the WWF. In a 1992 interview on Larry King Live, even Bruno Sammartino, who I’d also watched as a kid, accused Vince of knowing about dirty shit and lying his ass off.

By 2022-2023, Vince and the now-WWE (the World Wildlife Federation sued to make McMahon change his organization to exclude “WWF” so it became “WWE” for World Wrestling Entertainment in 2002.) reported that the case had been settled out of court. Rita Chatterton would now shut up. Funny, how money makes ugly things vanish, huh? But Rita only settled to avoid further litigation costs, so she wasn’t exactly happy. In her first match as referee, McMahon had actually told the two women wrestlers to break her legs. Fortunately they agreed not to follow his command.

The Recent Scandals

Jake the Snake Roberts, a former wrestler, says that the latest revelations about McMahon are “disgusting” and I have to believe that he had heard at least rumors, as now, it has become public knowledge that in 2005, Christie Hemme vanished from WWE. I was no longer watching, so I never even saw her. The figure of 7.5 million has been tossed around. What was rumored was that the creative team couldn’t find anything for her to do, so she was sent for training. Triple H, Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley’s husband, would be traveling there, too. Stephanie didn’t like Christie’s enthusiasm over being around her husband. So she told Daddy (Vince McMahon), and he canceled Hemme’s contract after a week.

Although no one can confirm Stephanie’s involvement or that Triple H was even traveling anywhere at the time, one thing is very clear: Hemme is the former wrestler who got yet another taste of McMahon (literally) and refused to go any further. In fact, it isn’t clear if she ever got that far because not too long ago, she clarified the reason for her inexplicable departure. Because she said she had morals, even asking her father’s permission before appearing in Playboy, which Vince had asked her to do. But when asked to do more, she refused, knowing that the non-negotiable refusal meant that she would lose her job. She may have been cheered by being sent to train. Maybe it gave her some sense of hope. But it wasn’t to be. Vince McMahon was, as we now know, intolerant of any resistance to his commands.

In January of this year, one of many headlines:

“Leading up to the 2024 edition of the Royal Rumble, McMahon found himself involved in yet another case. An ex-company employee, Janel Grant, accused McMahon and former executives of sexual assault and filed a federal lawsuit.”

Janel Grant was in a bad place. Her parents had died. Their house would be taken from her. Someone intervened. He told McMahon about her, and Vince’s face lit up. You know why? I do. Because there’s no better target for sexual abuse, or just plain taking control of, than someone in a bad place. Eager to get work. Soft. Pliable. Someone who would be indebted to you. By this time, McMahon had it down to science. He knew what to do. He carried out each step like the piece of shit he was. Before he knew it, he got a blow job. Then more. He pimped her out, engaging in threesomes with himself, her, and certain other wrestlers. Including Brock Lesner, who is being cut out of his future projects. She was reduced to a fucking sex worker. McMahon even, in one such session, shit on her face as another piece of garbage fucked her, failing to be sickened in the slightest by the vile act.

Let’s be clear: these are sick motherfuckers. Okay? Just so we’re clear on this: more than one wrestler or other WWE employee or contractor (wrestlers, so the company doesn’t have to offer insurance) had forced sex with Ms. Grant. That’s alone, or with others. She was abused in every possible way. Every possible way.

I’m sorry for her beyond any means of or ability to describe. And that’s only the latest known victim. Grant had signed an NDE, which, in the case of violent felonies, federal crimes like sex trafficking and… defecating on one’s face is not legally binding. We know why she would settle for payment. A true victim is fucked up. They want it over. They want closure and a way out. But money can never make things right, or take away the low self-esteem a victim has because they feel guilt or end the relentless nightmares, flashbacks, and everything else that comes with PTSD. To hush her up, the NDA was made, but Vince never paid the second payment, another illustration of how absent of respect he is toward women. It’s like saying to her, “You’re nothing without me. I don’t pay ‘nothings’.”

So, as happens far too seldom, Grant became resolved. If that’s how it was going to be, fine. The NDA wasn’t even a thing anymore. She was free to tell her horror story to the world, so she did. That blew the lid off everything, and I do mean everything. Now, there were fewer wagons to circle. Vince stood virtually alone, with a few obviously guilty dickheads hanging on. In this podcast, you’ll hear why:

Ashley

Ashley was a victim in more than one way. I don’t think I ever saw her except in clips because I don’t remember her being around yet when I stopped watching. I kept playing the newest video games, but the last one, 2024, is so bad that I have to rank it as the worst wrestling game ever made. It is so sexist that every diva in the create suite has implants. Noticeably so. Wow. Now that I think about it, I’ll probably never buy another one. Besides, I know too much now, and playing it would be a problem for me. Even the classic games, which were far superior, might be hard to stomach. But I do recall Ashley being in one of the games. Maybe 2008, 2009, 2010?

Ashley was a diva. I was under the naive impression that Divas were treated well at first. Beautiful and technically very good wrestlers.

It took no time at all in late 1999 for me to see otherwise. Mud wrestling? Seriously? Bra and panties matches? Hey, I messed around with the games, sure. But real life is not a video game. Divas have, as a whole, been treated so horribly by Vince McMahon that I’m frankly concerned that he hasn’t been imprisoned by now. He’s basically kidnapped, raped, sexually abused, beaten, assaulted with bodily fluids and waste, falsely imprisoned, tortured, (and even murdered one victim-that we know of) so many men, women and juveniles that we can never know the full extent of his depravity or his crimes.

Ashley had serious issues from getting concussions. Remember that I said earlier that this might be scripted, but people really do get hurt? Here’s proof. She had endured multiple head trauma, but in her affidavit, she also said that after she posed for the cover of Playboy, Vince set it up so that she flew on the corporate jet and stayed in the same hotels with the executives. She already knew Vince to be a predator. Perhaps you’re thinking that should have made her alarm go off, but she dared to dream that in her case, she was safe. She was not.

Vince tried to seduce her. Tried and tried. He would constantly ring her room and her cell phone all night. In Kuwait, she was raped by an unidentified male, and the fucker was probably put up to it, perhaps even paid, by Vince himself. When someone refused his advances, his wrath was unquenchable, and he was unforgiving. Guilty of stalking and harassment he stepped it up even more.

Now, she was in such despair that the affidavit also said he overrode the writer’s scripts for her and made her say things that she knew would finish her career. Ashley ended her own life in 2017, a direct result of the actions and verbal abuse along with head trauma-all caused then ignored by Vince McMahon. He murdered her.

This information was not made known until after her death. The reason given by her attorney is that at the time it was filed, the bigger issue of head trauma was the most urgent thing.

My heart breaks over such a horrible situation and the death of one who fought to keep her honor.

That said, I am going to state here that I do not consider other victims, the ones he raped and pimped out, to have dishonored themselves. I’ll never do that. Hell, I’m a victim, too. Of really heinous shit, so I know how it feels. Never shame a true victim. A neighbor told me that she (Janel) was “in on it, too.” Holy shit!

I set him straight. At least I hope that I did. Because saying that is bullshit. Believing it is sexist, evil and fucking psychotic. I expected better from him.

Janel was conditioned. McMahon recognized a desperate woman. He took her into his fold and made her dependant. Once that was done, he made her a sex slave. The disgusting nature of everything he’s accused of is not entirely a surprise to me, and that means that I have no reason to doubt them.

Let’s go back to when I was watching WWE. There were a lot of controversial things going on both in the ring and outside of it. X-Pac and D-Generation X were taunting opponents and crowds with the “suck it” crotch chop, Stone Cold Steve Austin was giving the finger all over the place, Stephanie went from a joke and a brat to a pain in the ass who was definitely all heel, replacing Chyna as Triple H’s lover both in character and out.

Chyna’s entrance involved her shooting a cannon from her crotch like a huge penis ejaculating fireworks toward the rafters, a demeaning gesture meant to emphasize her square jaw and ‘roided-up body. Except for her chest, she might have appeared more masculine. The sacrifices she made to have a career… she, too, was part of the D-Generation X. At least until she found out that Triple H was also dating Stephanie McMahon. This ended very badly for Joanie Laurer, aka Chyna. A dedicated bodybuilder and the first woman to be entered in the Royal Rumble, I was quite enamored of her. I found her to be beautiful, incredibly sexy, and not the slightest bit masculine. She was what otherwise would have been an unforgettable technical brawler in the ring. But after an ugly fight with, or because of Stephanie, she had to go. She just vanished. Hunter has cited her porn flick with her next boyfriend, X-Pac, as a reason for her not being admitted to the Hall of Fame. He came to a compromise later where she would be allowed in with the D-Generation X faction. But never solo. Because WWE was a family show.

What a load of shit. During her very short career, Vince McMahon initiated the “Vince McMahon Ass Kissing Club” and he would, in the ring, actually drop trou and bend forward and make wrestlers pay for transgressions by kissing his ass. So much for being a family show. Judging her by a homemade porn film is a bit harsh when all of the stuff on the shows was far more traumatic to children than any sex tape would be for an adult who idolized someone. For Chyna, it ended tragically. Substance abuse and severe depression took a toll, and on 20 April of 2016, she was found dead (not ruled a suicide). I feel certain that she was another victim and that the WWE killed her.

Did McMahon order hits or “bounties”?

Because Vince ordered Rita Chatterton’s legs broken, we have already established that this did happen. So dickheads like Kurt Angle carried them out. Unless someone has the balls to say so or not, I believe that Vince McMahon has ordered wrestlers to injure others. He’s that controlling and that vindictive. I’ve seen injuries that should have never happened. You see something. You know what you just saw. The move was a cheap shot and not an accident. The opponent can’t get up. Then he’s out for almost a year. Vince gave one wrestler incentive to perform a dangerous move. Maybe that wrestler never can return.

Vincent McMahon is a predator, sex offender, needing to dominate and subjugate women more than men, but to him, control is complete, and that means over everyone. There may be some past trauma that’s caused it, but I wouldn’t have any sympathy even so. He even tried to get his daughter into a storyline where he had impregnated her. What kind of father does that?

Stephanie refused, but she and her husband and her mother, Linda McMahon, are in this up to their necks, because they knew, but said nothing, and thus enabled this horrible man by covering for him. The entire family could be charged. A federal investigation is underway. And those kinds of investigations usually don’t go well for predators. TKO, the owner of WWE, says they dismissed him from the board. He says he resigned. He’s childish, always wanting the last word and lying to do it. But it hardly matters; being away now doesn’t mean that he can hide. There are other men and women who have their own stories to tell, and they’re not afraid anymore because Janel is resolved and wants to set an example. Before it’s all over, there will be more wrestling personalities who will lose your respect and mine. This rabbitt hole goes down so far that it can pass clean through hell on its way to infinity. And Vince McMahon will be along for the ride.

And Shane, Stephanie and Linda McMahon? They’re likely to save themselves and turn on the bastard if a federal grand jury is held. Maybe there’s no honor in them, but self-preservation is, after all, a powerful drive in the wild kingdom. Because, when a former wrestler compares their husband/father to Jeffrey Dahmer, Harvey Weinstein, and Jeffrey Eppstein, you know it’s time to bail.

And that you should bail.

Endangered America

On October 31,1880, in Denver, rioting broke out and Chinese people were attacked, one killed, although I believe more died but were hidden in the reports. White “superiority” had always been around, but this event was something that needed an apology for.

More irresponsible decisions over mask mandates have come from major air carriers like Delta. It’s also a drop in mandates for Uber drivers and passengers. A federal judge struck the mandates down in a show of classic superiority from a bench. It also reflects political corruption. Judges are expected to be informed but fair and impartial. This one is neither informed nor impartial. Someone got to him. We’re talking bribery. No, don’t act surprised or as if my accusation is farfetched.

Florida’s problem with CRT is getting way out of hand.

We’ve never been more aware of the problem with Republicans and racism. Now it’s way out there. Approximately 41 math textbooks reviewed in the Sunshine State have been rejected because they use references to CRT. I think the hypocrisy here tells us all we need to know about Republicans. They scream about “cancel culture” when CSA monuments are removed, but banning books and the word “gay” are more damaging than a statue of Robert E. Lee being relocated to a museum. Florida has become a place where bigots, homophobics and women-haters can take refuge with their own kind.

I hope this summer, you will remember this, and boycott the entire state by traveling elsewhere. A country with so much to explore can certainly provide you with plentiful fun, from breathtaking scenery to amusement parks and hiking, camping and fishing or bike riding. Florida doesn’t deserve your hard-earned dollars. Carolina beaches are every bit as nice, and some nicer, than any in Florida. From the Florida state line to Massachusetts, there are awesome beaches.

Fentanyl overdose that killed Mac Miller in 2018 was sold by a dealer who just got sentenced to ten years. It isn’t enough. Ryan Reavis dealt counterfeit oxycodone that contained fentanyl. It killed the rapper. His attorney says he’s sorry (that he gets to see his family and Miller does not). That statement doesn’t work when a man is dead.

Miller died the same year as my son died, from the same drug. The rich and the powerful have caused people in pain to search for opiods on the streets — an inexcusable result of wrongful death and malpractice cases directed wrongly at honest physicians (and also at) pharma corporations. Recreational use and responsible use by individuals with chronic, debilitating pain are two different things, and overdoses, especially fatal ones, from drugs like oxycodone were either never tracked or were incorrectly classified. In fact, I can’t find specific numbers for any group except teens, and fentanyl overdose fatalities weren’t even tracked until recently. The rise of fentanyl as an additive to counterfeit drugs does coincide with the loss of accessibility of pain medication to patients who really needed it.

In other words, the restriction of pain treatment drugs caused desperate people to look for relief elsewhere, with high mortality rates being the result. And tracking those deaths is impossible because it was not done or it targeted teens only. I’ve read no source and seen no data I consider accurate in the least. The NIH reports are centered on teens. The CDC is preoccupied with COVID-19 and if they have been tracking fentanyl overdose deaths, I found little evidence of serious research.

People I know are currently suffering unbearable pain, myself included, and are being denied relief. They are labeled “addicts” and if one should have a mental illness listed in their file, the answer will always be, ” no, it’s all in your head.” The compounded stigmatization is humiliating and shameful and can cause people to end their own lives. Better that than lying about, useless, embarrassed and groaning in pain.

Meanwhile, deaths from China White climb. No one wants you to know this. If you know, you can take that information and throw it in the faces of the men who control prescription drugs.

We are a nation (United States) of barbarians and corrupt leaders. Republican politicians get all the pain medication they need. All the kiddie porn their jaded souls can take. Even street drugs are no problem: give them all drug screens and watch them howl in protest. They’ll refuse. But let an everyman or everywoman have a verified medical condition. One that keeps them in pain so intense that they go to street dealers. They’ll all die, of course. No one sheds one tear. Better to have them off the Medicare rolls than give them legitimate treatment, right?

Because that’s what it comes down to. Making millions suffer because they’re afraid of lawsuits. Looking up the arses of doctors and preventing them from actually being doctors.

And whether you like it or not, corrupt judges exist and corrupt politicians are part of our reality. Our focus should be on those who clearly don’t care about the people who voted for them, or anyone else. Republican politicians routinely challenge or violate the Constitution. And where do you think it will end?

I’ll give you a hint: you won’t like it. Please consider this when voting. Heartless Republicans — or Those who have fought them. Fascism or liberty? Humanity or barbarity?

You have to choose.

Not Fragile

This post concerns the subject of suicide and should be read with care. If you, or anyone you know, currently have thoughts of suicide, the clock is running. Please call (800) 273-8255 or hit this link for help 24/7. You can talk to someone right now. Please close out this blog and call or visit the website. If you are in a country other than the USA then please go now to a site for help or call your local Emergency Servive.

Stop. Please scroll back up and consider what you are about to do. There’s nothing worse than what you’re feeling right now. I get there often. I know feelings of deep loss, guilt, inadequacy and heartache. I’m so very sorry that you feel them too, but there’s help for people like us, and no matter what you think right now, you deserve that help. You do. Please go after it right now. We are stronger and better with you than without you. And you still have better times ahead that your mind will not allow you to see right now. Call or click. Please.

***

“Yo! Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, you mangy privates!”

That’s what I heard in basic training. And it’s the dumbest thing you or anyone else can say to someone in a crisis. It doesn’t motivate. It hurts.

An existential crisis. One in which the person, military or civilian, is told to saddle up anyway when they’re unable to take anymore.

The implied explanation of “unable to take anymore” is the same as the obvious one. A man or woman has reached their limit. They’ve tried. They’ve given everything they had and found themselves lacking. They feel guilty. They think they’ve failed or will fail. That they’re not good enough. That death is the best way out.

Fort Leonard Wood reported an all-time record number of suicide attempts and chain of command reports of suicidal ideation in 2019.

First, I believe 2019 is the first year such numbers were reported under a new initiative. But bear in mind that the military has always kept records of suicides. The numbers include active duty, reserve and National Guard troops. No one is ignored in death; that part is reserved for the living.

There are two overall reasons for this. One is, people who find themselves in over their heads are desperate, and seek out the military as a way out. They’ll be trained for a job, get three meals a day, be busy and grow stronger and more disciplined. Of course, that’s the goal of armed forces as well. Recruiters don’t care; they sign up a volunteer and the rest is out of their hands. It is only after the training begins that problems surface.

But the second part is merely the nature of the military. Its training is down to a science: tear down the civilian and build a soldier in its place. It is an unyielding and tough period for drill sergeants who school for the job and are given the task of training recruits according to a set of rules considered inviolable. There was never room for deviation or special treatment for any one recruit. With the exception of remedial PT (physical training) for recruits who failed the first PT test, everything was the same for everyone, for better or worse.

This strict regimen should quickly root out those unfit for service. Most of the time, it did. Some never made it past Reception because depression and homesickness took root their first night on base.

I’m not sure about now, but when I arrived, all the new recruits arrived in the middle of the night. The purpose is to take away your bearings, disorient you and begin the breakdown process. Hell, I couldnt even tell I was surrounded by mountains.

At Reception, you see some scary things. None of us had haircuts or uniforms yet. We fell out in the morning in bright yellow sweat suits and cadre sergeants called us “Bananas”

My second night there I was aware of more trainees coming in. Being somehow uncomfortable with keeping his hair until we went to the barbershop, one guy took a disposable twin blade razor and shaved his head. He spent all night in the latrine doing it, and in the morning before I saw him I heard people comparing him to Jason. Oh, yeah. That Jason.

I saw the back of his head in the chow line the next morning. He was so cut up that he looked like he’d cut his hair with a lawnmower. He got an Article 15 for that stunt. Nobody gets an article 15 in reception.

A week of getting haircuts, uniforms and shots is followed by the “Duffle Bag Shuffle” in which a short march by a reception sergeant guides company to its basic training area. Once stood in formation, drill sergeants come out of nowhere, seemingly from every direction, infiltrating your ranks and screaming into the ears of E-nothing privates who absolutely don’t know what the fuck is going on.

And the breakdown process has begun. It is designed for mild shock and making privates submissive to command.

Once divided into platoons, the recruits get to scramble into their barracks where drill sergeants are waiting to make the process of filing in beside bunks orderly. No talking and no buddying up. By now they’re rattled anyway. Shaking from head to foot as they stand at attention, not knowing how long they will really be that way. Legs wobble. Eyes water: what happened to my world?

The breakdown process is intensifying. A kid without any vestige of facial hair is berated as a shitbird by a drill sergeant. The guy across from him is told to come forward and dry shave the shitbird. The shitbird is left bleeding. The drill sergeant is pleased.

Back to soldiering. A demonstration on making a bunk and hanging uniforms in wall lockers. Then back out on the quad for basic drilling and marching. To move as one. Fuck up and everyone is “dropped”, meaning that they assume “the front lean and rest position”: ready to do pushups.

A lot of those will follow. Nobody counts. Only the sergeant really knows and he’s got other things on his mind.

Time passes slowly. Sleep is sound and hard. That’s when the mindfuck really begins. Early to bed, and there better not be anyone fucking around, but up at a different time. Sometimes 05:00, sometimes 03:00. Nobody knows anything except it’s dark and they’re tired.

Unreasonable expectations follow. Run this fast, this far. Climb this obstacle in 15 seconds and your feet better be back on the ground on the other side faster than that or you’re doing it again.

Slow to file out after chow? The platoon or company gets dropped for pushups or grass drills. Dinner ends up at your feet when it’s over.

Dress right, dress. Parade rest. At ease. Doesn’t it run together? Yeah. It does.

At some point my company was shipped in cattle trailers up to the New Mexico desert. Winter. Colder than you’ve ever imagined being. In the dark of the morning you’re stood at attention and left there while drill sergeants return to big tents with potbelly stoves. You’re tired, nodding out from sleep deprivation and the cold. You fall asleep at attention. You watch each other in undeclared shifts to make sure no one falls. No fucking talking. They’ll hear you. Drills hear everything. If a private farts in the desert they’ll hear it back at Bliss. You learn to hold it. You learn to hold everything in. No weakness. No doing anything the others don’t.

Sleeping in a two-man tent in bitter cold. Each with full winter gear still on, including boots, pile cap. Sleeping bag zipped all the way shut.

Graduation feels well earned, a day of self-pride that will be with you the rest of your life.

But some didn’t make it, did they? One night asleep in their bunk, which is stripped down to bare mattress the next. Where’d he go? Nobody dares ask a drill sergeant. They know better. We all know better. It’s taboo.

Unless of course something happened when you were there. Guy gulped a can of Brasso. Cut himself with a bayonet. Cried all night and gone before morning chow.

The new statistics are sickening. Alarming. Something has gone wrong. Fort Bliss doesn’t do Basic Training anymore but that’s the rearrangement from long ago. Cost-cutting and shit.

Drill sergeants had no idea outside of training at Jackson what to look for as far as a suicidal private. They only look for the obvious. But the act is very often spontaneous. Thought about as a way out while trying to stay strong. No soldier can be fragile; can’t show it and can’t talk about it. So suddenly it just happens. Then it’s over. Usually the attempt fails. But not always, and every minute from then on, that recruit is in danger.

I’m not encouraged by the report where it states that privates who attempt suicide are closely monitored afterward. I don’t believe that they are ever safe. They cannot be soldiers. It isn’t meant to be. And I dont give a fuck about their “history” not showing mental illness or suicidal thoughts. The Army doesn’t know shit like that and if they did should never have allowed him to make it to Basic in the first place.

Drill sergeants are not psychiatric professionals. That’s not what they do or what they’re for. Sure, troops have to be ridden hard, that’s the process and the procedure. Nobody’s arguing with that. Therefore the problem lies elsewhere.

But going up the chain of command is not the simple thing you think it is because there’s immediate resistance. You’re dissuaded from going for help. You’re not supposed to be fragile. You signed the goddamn contract.

Army chaplains get called in as if they’re any better. They are not. They can be some of the meanest and unforgiving bastards you ever met. I wouldn’t seek help from one of them; they’ll make it worse. As if God expects you to heal yourself and go forth kicking and to kick ass.

Training units have dealt with suicide for right near two hundred years. It is not in their nature to be understanding. A drill sergeant will call you names. The company commander will call you worse names. If that doesn’t stop you then perhaps a visit to the base hospital will. They’ll put you in restraints then walk away and leave you. That just fills you with joy and renews your confidence. Not so. You feel like even more of a failure, a freak. Nurses sneer at you. And they’re officers. You better not say shit. Your world, bleak as it seems, can get worse. Perhaps that dawns on you. Or maybe not. But it doesn’t matter; you’re in a nightmare, a horror movie written by a madman. God has turned and looked the other way.

It could be that the 2019 report wakes up high command. I hope so. People who have the will to serve should be regarded as the assets they are, to be handled and trained by observant and trained staff who won’t insult and do more damage to them if they get into a crisis.

America has a fine military and right now low recruiting numbers show that incentives for enlisting aren’t enough. Stories from veterans dont help. A new approach is desirable and essential. Because nobody who turns out to be fragile is dishonorable, but the way they’re treated is. That raises questions we should all be asking about the future of our military.

Take “Positive Thinking” and Shove It

CAUTION: this post deals with sexual abuse and suicide. If you are feeling suicidal just scroll down for information about help. Some readers will find this post disturbing.

All my life, I’ve heard — no — had — Norman Vincent Peale thrown at me. In case you don’t know who he was, he was a religious hack who wrote a book about how to change your life with “The Power of Positive Thinking”. He probably got a lot of people killed.

I’m not going to give a boring recap or critique of the book. I am not in the habit of regurgitating pseudopsychological bullshit.

Nobody throws that positive thinking doctrine at me and gets away with it. I’ll throw curse words at you that you’re never gonna forget. Please don’t make me do that. I really don’t want to.

“Dr. Peale” made a name for himself. He wrote more bullshit in his life than anyone else besides Billy Graham. At least the latter had the honesty to solicit your cash after his crusades. I’d rather someone be a thief and be up front with it; at least they aren’t guilt-tripping you like Pat Robertson or selling plastic buckets as life preservers the way Jim Bakker does. And at least he wasn’t overtly antisemitic like John Hagee (my auto spell doesn’t have your name, Pastor Hagee, jeez. I wonder why? You should sue!)

Pseudochristian writing is as old as the first Easter. And with it comes all the bullshit you know and love: Medieval demonology, the execution of witches, the thievery of the Templars.

Then the bloodshed of the Crusades stained the roads from Europe to fallen Israel, then we just had to let them get into our heads with writings that led to the 20th century and beget idiots like Peale. Not so much an idiot about making money; but definitely a man out of his league with psychology. And why, you ask, all this animosity, and why my claim that he took lives?

Because he, like so many other straight, white conservatives was a preacher who “reformed” his church, thus perverting the doctrine of Christ, who taught that true evil is real and that in our lives, we would suffer. He never promised an easy path, but instead warned against false teachers and fake messiahs. Peale had an answer for that: Think positive.

His first book was absolutely torn apart by critics in the mental health field. In fact some were outraged.

My mother bought me a copy. Fucking ironic, isn’t it? I mean, she and my dad would come into my room on Saturday nights (Saturday was always my night) and take me into the den so she could mount me on the sofa while my father watched TV or read the newspaper, or joined in. Perverts.

My father berated me every single chance he got. He called me a retard, threatened to send me to two different mental hospitals (Crownsville State or Spring Grove, whichever was on the tip of his tongue). He called me stupid. Then, so many names I can’t remember them all, he criticized everything I did, tore it apart, made me feel like I couldn’t do anything at all because I was such a retard. He damaged with his words whatever his whippings, that left me bloody, or the sexual abuse hadn’t fucked up yet. In the end he turned me into a scared shitless little kid who hated himself. The days I could venture out to ride bikes or play football became more rare. I’d lie by my window and listen to my friends, way down the street, playing at dusk, and cry myself to sleep. No child should go through that, okay? Not one.

This verbal abuse combined with trauma from being flogged until I was bleeding or tortured in ways none of my siblings ever knew because of all his kids, he hated me the most. After he could no longer control my older brothers and sister, he took out his rage and need for control on me.

He did a fucking number on my head. Years of this went on. I sit here now, and can barely believe that one man can live who survived all that. And when I began to show signs of having been through too much, my mother thought I might benefit from good old N.V. Peale.

It was such crap that I couldn’t read it. The world, I knew, didn’t work that way. But I started to feel guilty. The people he wrote about, they were so much stronger than me. There was something wrong with me.

Because my world worked the opposite way. I didn’t take him for the crank he was until I learned more about mental illness.

I remember when the trial of the State of Maryland vs. Ralph and Betty Smith (my parents) was over. How people said, “Now you can move on” but never told me how to. I was angrier every time I heard it but knew that if I told them what a mess I really was I’d get a lot of flak. I held my tongue when I just wanted to scream, “What do you know? Fuck you! Walk a mile in my shoes and you’ll scream to be let out.”

And that’s the problem. Some things cannot be magically forgotten, no matter how positive I think.

It’s not over. Never will be, not for me. There’s too much damage and too much pain. Trauma isn’t a skinned knee that you put some Neosporin on, then bandage and go skipping merrily on your way.

Since then I worked years in a union job. I was good, but still very sick. Focus isn’t easy with trauma and the dissociation that goes with it. I had accidents and injuries and sent out product that couldn’t even be used. After that I wound up in a dollar store, three hours a night, four nights a week. I had come full circle. A total loser like my father had predicted, because I had trouble getting through those three hours. I was growing worse and didn’t understand why. Because I knew by then about PTSD. I thought that I knew everything about it. How was it getting worse? How could the Universe be that cruel to one man? I began to drink, cognac, whiskey, rum, vodka, you name it. Just make sure it’s the whole bottle; I wasn’t a bar fixture. I drank while walking home or in private. Because, fuck everyone else.

When I tried for the third time to kill myself I came damn close. I was given the chance to have a bed at Springfield Hospital (which was one my father never mentioned; one last joke on that piece of shit). I was told it used cutting edge trauma therapy. I grabbed that bed up.

Nobody there told me to think “positive”. They didn’t call me lazy or a failure and not once did I hear the word “retard”.

First, the doctors and my therapist allowed me to be sick. They didn’t tell me I had to move on. In the Men’s Trauma Group there were no comparisons; we were all encouraged to tell our stories and we were given treatment. Gently, one step at a time, each of us being on different levels of capacity for effort. One day one of the two women who ran the group saw me outside and said I could be the “poster boy” for PTSD. And so I could be.

I loved my time there. Being treated as who and what I was, I felt somehow liberated.

Since then, in ongoing treatment and assisted living, I’ve made a serious mistake. I tried to be more than what I am, and someone I’m not. The old thinking I was programmed for has never left; I feel like a freak and a failure even though my monstrous parents are long since dead and buried. That’s not fair, but it just doesn’t wear off. I feel that more intensive treatment is called for, but physically I’m running out the clock. So I say “What’s the use?” The tendency to give up is so pervasive that I may never again seek that kind of help.

***

I used to be able to draw and paint. I walked away from it; nothing I ever did was good enough and none of my work was spared the bins. I don’t think I can do either anymore what with my left hand shaking all the time.

In my mind I know it could be caused by lots of things but I go straight to Parkinson’s disease, one of the worst case scenarios. Negative thoughts not from pessimism. From trauma and learned behavior.

Personality disorders are learned behavior and thinking. They are most difficult to treat, and positive thinking isn’t part of that treatment.

In the hospital I was taught cognitive behavioral therapy. It challenges one to not think positive, but to stop and think about what they are doing and saying. Since having covid, my memory has trouble with the list. It consists of various types of actions, responses and spoken words that indicate one is acting on learned behavior that is flawed. If I say “I’m going to fail” for example, cognitive behavioral rules tell me that I’m engaging in fortune telling, which of course I cannot really do. I’ll post a link below for the list.

Another part of cognitive therapy is being “mindful” and I like this part. One day in one on one therapy, my doc unwrapped one of the biggest, deepest red strawberries I’d ever seen. It was organic, he said, and I had never heard of that. He instructed me to take a bite (it was too big to eat otherwise). I was to slowly chew, paying attention to the taste, the texture, and to clear my mind of all but the strawberry. He explained that people often gulp down a burger for lunch, talking to a friend or coworker, never really tasting, fully, the food. And we carry that behavior into every facet of life, and it’s not merely flawed, it’s sad.

I’ve never enjoyed a strawberry more.

Cognitive therapy works. I have to get back to it and do as much on my own as I can. You’re not thinking positively or negatively; just concentrating on the moment. What you’re doing and saying. Particularly what you’re thinking.

One cannot undo a lifetime spent living with mental conditioning that has hobbled oneself and kept them reinforcing every bit of said conditioning (I would do things to sabotage my relationships or jobs because I was convinced deep down that I’d fail anyway).

But one can learn to live each second more aware of what that conditioning has wrought, and once there, changes start to happen. But that is far from easy. It is a tall fucking order.

One problem is that extensive damage can never be cured. Recovery is not complete. That’s not possible. I know this, know my limits and obstacles. But I can at least accept some of them.

***

The problem with positive thinking is that whoever attempts it will invariably fail.

It’s superficial and does nothing to address what lies beneath. The core behavior and thought patterns taught them from an early age when they were helpless and defenseless.

When the failure comes, and it always does, the first thing a person does is to get angry with themselves. They see weakness where a simple task, being positive, is too much for them. Some act out, angrily lashing out. Others, determined to get it right, keep trying…and falling short.

It is enough for me to know that suicides lay in the wake of Peale’s egregious con. You tell someone that simply thinking positively will get them a coveted job. They don’t get the job but they won’t blame you, they’ll think you’re full of shit, but they still blame themselves. With a string of failures already behind them because they need professional help, what do you think will happen?

You hear that his wife has left him.

Next thing you know you’re attending his funeral.

No one knew him well enough to give the eulogy. You surely didn’t. His wife, filled with guilt, stands to one side, sobbing.

The pastor does the eulogy. It’s generic and wooden. None of it needed to happen. But that’s lost on you because you believe you gave him everything he needed to succeed. “Think positive, Hank.”

You’re lying to yourself. You gave him a phantom tool, one that got him to commit suicide.

The human race is not made up of failures and successes. It’s not made up of dark, negative people and those who live charmed lives. Everyone has the same potential at birth. Sure, some have different talents and gifts, but it’s still potential for great things. When natural development is interrupted by evil acts and resultant trauma, the future has been changed. Not just for that person. The world suffers. A man or woman deprived of love and proper care as a child now has less to offer. They’re damaged. They need help. They rarely get it in a system that still neglects and minimizes them. Society still stigmatizes them. They suffer from attendant physical illnesses and it all falls apart. Born with incredible potential, they linger in a health system that isn’t staffed or funded to help.

We see a mass shooting. Suddenly we want mental illness treated, like yesterday. But it doesn’t happen. There’s no budget. Conservatives think mentally ill people are faking to get benefits. That’s when they use “pull yourself up by your own bootstraps” and “they’re draining our budget” when both are lies and the worst of insults.

America eats its own. Men like Norman Vincent Peale only ever made money for lying and getting people killed. Self help books are a huge industry. Almost all of it is total bullshit. Don’t give charlatans your money. Seek help. Ask for references. Don’t give up.

If you’re stuck to your sofa and need a shower, but can’t make yourself do it, you’re not lazy. You need help. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you that you fail because you are too negative. They don’t know you. Tell them I said to fuck off. This is your life we’re talking about. You can be in real danger and not know it yet.

If someone tells you to “move on,” you tell them I said to go to hell. There are too many armchair and shithouse psychologists out there. Piss on them. Most of all be wary of church and “spiritual leaders” who all have agendas, and you’re not on it; your cash is.

Finally, don’t forget what I said. Seek out help from professionals with good creds. I don’t want you to suffer, and it breaks my heart that you do. There may not be a cure, but there is help. You just have to want it.

If you are feeling like a failure, not measuring up to the expectations of anyone else, and you are thinking of calling it quits, believe me, I know how you feel. But the best panacea I’ve ever found is in the act of helping someone else. The ways to do that are infinite; you don’t even need money. Just observe and the door will open. Knowing that you have made a difference, however small you may think it is, is one of the most magnificent feelings anyone can ever have. It cheers you, warms you in your heart and tells you that no, you are not worthless. You’re a decent person. But first, before all else, you need help. And there is nothing wrong with that.

IF YOU ARE FEELING SUICIDAL

For help if you are feeling suicidal, call 911. You need to be seen in a safe place by people who want you to live.

If you don’t want to go that route, call the (US) National Suicide Hotline at

1-800-273-8255 or click Here.

Thinking about suicide is a deadly sign. I can’t bear to think of the world without you in it.

For more information on cognitive behavioral therapy, click here.

Sources: Wikipedia, Google Search

Author’s Note to you, the reader:

I didn’t care until recently whether I had followers or not. Or whether I got “likes” or not. You’ve changed that. With over 60 followers, the other day I received 8 likes in one day. To most bloggers, a thousand is a disappointment. But for me, 8 broke my previous record. I found myself grateful and humbled and I want to say, thank you. To my new followers, I hope you have the chance to read all of my posts. Part of my goal here is for everyone who visits to get to know me. To hopefully find something you can use, learn or at least enjoy. Let me know in the comments section if you can’t access something and I’ll fix it. Feel free to leave comments and tell me what you’re thinking. I’d love to know.

I want to help others like me, to let them see that they are not alone. The only way I can do that is by telling my life’s story and being honest, not holding anything back. To show my damage in all of its ugliness as well as the decent part of me who empathizes, loves and cares about people I’ll never meet. I hope also that still others will gain something to simply think about. I’m not an authority on anything; I offer only a raw look at my feelings and my thoughts. A long life gives one many stories to tell, and I hope you’ll browse and read and continue to keep me company. I’ve realized that I need you, I appreciate you, and I love you. Until tomorrow, be well. Many thanks.

SUICIDE

Trigger Warning: this post deals with sensitive and disturbing subject matter. However, if you are feeling alone, feeling unloved or rejected, or that there is no way out of a horrible situation, read this. It’s for you.

You know that a YouTube vlogger from Brooklyn was just pulled from New York’s East River. He was very popular, with thousands of subscribers. He had posted a sad video that was the equivalent of a suicide note, then vanished.

NYPD asked for tips to help their search. Desmond Amofah, known to his YouTube fans as Etika, was soon pulled from the river. Evidence places him on the Manhattan Bridge, just north of the Brooklyn Bridge, and that he jumped to his death.

I’m so sorry to have come across this story. The 29-year-old young man from Brooklyn had his whole life in front of him. Gaining a following on YouTube isn’t easy to pull off, as many who have tried and failed can tell you. Etika had charisma. A presence. Something that made people watch his life above many others. He’d taken heat from employing some sort of homophobic-type of slur, and everyone famous gathers haters and trolls.

And we all know those are relentless and cruel, and unforgiving. Getting hateful comments isn’t something YouTubers just slough like a wet jacket when they come in out of the rain. Those comments hurt. How would you feel if you, claiming to take up for a group like the LGBTQ community, drove a man so low that he felt alone against the world? And by the way, that particular group isn’t interested in having someone hateful fight for them. They’d rather have someone disagree but with civility and peace.

There’s no indication that it was Etika’s remark and backlash from it that drove him to such hopelessness. But I suspect it was part of a bigger picture. Suicide is a complicated subject. The victim may have one main reason or many. And they may or may not leave a note or video or audio message behind to give a clue as to their final decision and how they got there.

The WorldHealth Organisation (WHO) estimates that each year approximately one million people die from suicide, which represents a globalmortality rate of 16 people per 100,000 or one death every 40 seconds. It is predicted that by 2020 therate of death will increase to one every 20 seconds.

The video Etika left behind was particularly difficult for me. He said he had pushed everyone away, and that he was alone. I’ve spent a lifetime running away from people or being so cruel that I have made them run. I know how it feels. Except he didn’t do that. By all accounts, his video caused alarm in his devoted fans. Many were physically sick with worry when, following the video, he went missing. Now…he’s gone forever. And they’re grieving.

Suicide doesn’t have any boundaries. It is not something restricted to the poor and desperate, prison inmates, celebrities who see their careers going downhill or their fame and riches slipping away, business owners who have gone into bankruptcy, the terminally ill or anyone else.

Suicide is final. There’s no coming back from death. You can’t correct anything, can’t repair broken hearts, bring others back from death, you can’t do anything at all. You’ve taken every opportunity you had with you to the grave.

Etika also said one other thing, something that hit me in the gut with a powerful blow: “I guess I really am mentally ill.”

Damn it. I want him back. Right here, right now. I want to hold him and tell him that mental illness is not a death sentence, that there’s hope, that all the stigma around it is bullshit. That he has an opportunity and a platform to discuss seeking help and actually getting it.

I wish he had used his connection to his fans to open a dialogue about what was going on with him and letting them follow and support him on his path to wellness.

We were stronger with him than we are without him.

And that goes for you. You’re reading a blogger right now who barely gets a view a month. There’s a reason you’re here. Before you make any decision so horrible and final, you need to stop and think about this one thing: YOU matter. Your life is, no matter how desperate and alone you feel, no matter how persecuted or hopeless you feel, priceless. You may be replaced in a job, but your life is unique and special and can never be replaced. I encourage you to seek out help. Right now, because if left to second guess this moment, you could really kill yourself. I don’t want you to do that. We may never meet, never cross paths. But I want you here with me on Planet Earth. Because you don’t know what’s going to happen next. You can, given help and time, go on to be a rock star. You can do things no one else can do. Giving up now robs both you and the world of every good, every great thing, you have the genuine potential to do. And since you don’t know yet what those things are, deciding now to end your life is just not right. You are in danger. Even if you don’t have a plan, sometimes suicide is a spontaneous act.

Start here. A simple phone call that can begin a process that can take you to a better place, a more peaceful place.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 1-800-273-8255

Available 24 hours everyday

You’ll talk with someone who will give you their full attention. Someone who wouldn’t be answering phones unless they cared about people just like you.

And I want you to consider something really deep.

The “history” channel left real history behind in favor of pseudo science-and-history that make us stupid.
Aliens built Egyptian pyramids. Aliens in space suits visited meso-America.
You know what? That’s rubbish.
All of our stealth fighter tech and supercomputer tech came from reverse-engineered alien space ships.
Twaddle. What do you think that says about humanity in general and the people specifically who came up with those things? It’s an insult. It presupposes that we’re incapable of growing and learning. It says that those who gave their whole lives to improving the human condition never even existed. It limits, and labels us, at one and the same time.

In my career, I’ve seen men and women solve problems with simple critical thinking, dispassionate logic and experience. Tough problems, the kind that can cause serious damage to everything from a small transaction to a company staying in business. I’ve often been amazed at the cleverness, brilliance and durability of the human race. I therefore find ancient aliens to be pseudo science-and-history. And I submit to you that you are a part of an awesome species. The things you can do are without limits.

In hospital after my third suicide attempt, a doctor I usually didn’t see stood in for mine. He looked at my file and said “If you try again, you will kill yourself”.

In that moment, I realized the finality of what I sought. I was forced to think about where God would send me. I didn’t want demons coming to escort me to the afterlife.

And I’m sorry, but whether you believe in God or not, you have to consider whether there is an afterlife, and where you’ll go. Because once you’re dead, your life ends and you’re going to be judged. What I’m asking you to consider is, what if God is real?

One thing I’m not going to do is put a guilt trip on you. A lot of people respond to friends who talk of suicide by saying “think about the ones you’ll leave behind. How can you be so selfish?”

It’s not selfish, what you’re going through. It’s a lot of things, but selfishness isn’t one of them. You’re genuinely suffering and feeling hopeless. Like there’s nothing you can do to make things better. No way you can right a wrong. No one else who understands the fix you’re in.

But you’re not alone! There’s hope. Help. You might worry about the stigma around getting treatment for the things troubling you. You can’t allow that to stop you. Better to choose life and take risks than to die by your own hand.

The benefits of getting help are enormous and many.

Talk therapy is a great way to vent, and gain understanding of your feelings. When backed up by drug therapy such as a simple antidepressant which could be temporary or long-term, depending on your psychiatric diagnosis, you can feel better in a few weeks. Be honest, tell them what’s going on. Don’t be scared of 72 hours at minimum in a hospital. Don’t be afraid of anything. You’ll have every chance to get your life back, and decide to keep it. After a few months I left the hospital in summer, 2005. I’ve not been to a psych ward since, even though if I were in serious need of help, I’d go in a heartbeat. It’s been challenging. Hard. But I’m alive, here today to tell you that you are important, special and full of potential that you can’t see right now. That you matter. And that we are stronger with you than without you.

If you’re in crisis, you can call the number above. I recommend a visit to the emergency room if you actually have a plan for your death. That means you’re in serious trouble. Call 911. Or get a ride. Prepare to be stripped to a gown and restricted to a certain area. It’s protocol for your safety.

It will pass quickly. You’ll be in therapy sessions and see the doc every day. There’s occupational therapy which is a lot more calming and fun than you can imagine. When you’re released you’ll have a treatment plan. Probably some medications. From then on you’ll have a support system you can call on anytime. And you will get better.

I care very much what’s troubling you. What your past holds. The fear you’re filled with, the tears you’ve shed. I’m sorry you’re having so much hurt. You and I are forever brothers and sisters in heart and soul. Claim your life. Get it back.

Because together we can do anything.

Finally, if you are one of those who make fun of people in crisis, you need to know that your cruelty can kill. I know that’s okay with some of you. I’ve met the likes of you before. You could benefit from some psychiatric help yourself. You really want a life on your conscience because you said cruel things?

I leave a challenge with you.

Be kind. Say hello to people you don’t know. Show sympathy even if you have trouble feeling it. And when someone else says something you don’t like, then here. This song is for you.

Be the better person. It’s a tough challenge, I know. Try it anyway. One wave. One smile. One kind word…can save someone’s life. Oh. You won’t get to know. That’s how it works. But at least you’ll know you’ve done no harm. I have to tell you, that is an awesome feeling.

In Loving Memory

Desmond Amofah, “Etika”

1990-2019

Rest in Peace