Jonathan Thornton's Open Salon Blog

The Bastard Children of America

Sat, 4 May 2013 23:05:59 -0400

The Bastard Children of America

Here’s to you working man!

You, bastard children of America’s rotting core.

And you, woman with child,

Who labors for the whole nine months.

Here’s to you middle class!

You disappearing culture of can do rough necks,

And to you blue collared specimen.

You forgotten class of gentlemen.

Here’s to you farmers!

You, growers of cotton and raisers of corn.

And to you, herders of cattle,

You underappreciated slice of the pie.

Here’s to you early morning mechanics!

You, fixers of machines and servicers of engines.

And to you, tire changers and car cleaners.

You, who keep the machine of America running.

Here’s to you makers of metal!

You, forgers of steel and welders of iron.

And to you, machinists of gears.

You build the metal for our machines.

You! Formed by Hephaestus

Guarded by Couretes and Dactyls.

You who can wield the lightning bolts of Zeus,

You who build the foundation of civilization!

Listen up, you, underprivileged.

Listen here you back aching, sore necked,

You, hurt shoulder and cracked feet!

Listen to the sounds of America.

Listen, you overworked dogs.

Listen clearly you underpaid,

You, hard workers and over-skilled.

Listen to their lies.

You, brood of America, almost forgotten,

Except in the song and dance and lies of politicians.

You! A folklore that grows bigger with each tale.

You! Hidden, overlooked, but not yet gone.

Here’s to the overtaxed,

The haters of evil,

The lovers of peace

And fighters of war.

Here’s to you who never complain.

Who never change.

You, barely getting by,

You, who still follow the law.

You’re a breed apart!

A culture of Christians,

Atheists, Catholics and Jews,

Blacks, Irish, Germans and Mexicans.

I hear no sound from you,

But your silence is deafening.

You built and keep building this country.

No hatred toward those who reap the benefits.

You need not the rich.

You need not the Law.

You make your own.

You govern yourself!

You vote for the lies.

You vote for the fear.

Sure! Take care of everybody!

But words mean not a thing to you.

That office you vote for,

Used to hold respect.

But now it’s full of lies.

Full of empty promises and empty words!

Here’s to you working America!

You! Backbone of society.

You! Victim of arbitrary government.

You! Fighters for freedom and doers of good.

You pray for the good.

You do no harm.

You do no injustice.

You do no spiteful lying.

You hear malice speaking from their sick hearts

Yet are fooled by their politics!

You are fooled by their prevaricating to win

That House, that Office, that seat they don’t deserve.

Can we not wield our own?

Can we not provide better judgment?

You, who clear the land and punish the wicked,

Can we not set it all straight?

We beat the hammer;

We drive the nail;

We build the house and finish the stairs.

But we can’t fix our country!

It’s not the rich we hate.

It’s not their wealth we covet.

It’s the Congress of Deception;

The rudderless leaders we despise!

Forge a leader of truth and justice!

Forge us a leader of steel and iron!

Weld him with grit and determination,

Build him with sweat and a love of this land!

Here’s to you cast iron backbone of society!

You, unbendable strut of America.

You, redwood and mountain of the West,

You, builders and doers of right.

Here’s to us!

To us, wrench turners, house builders, and cabinet makers.

Here’s to us blue-collared, redneck, leather backs,

To us, dirty handed, callused fingered, burnt oil of America!

We won’t go down with a whimper.

We won’t go down with a hush.

Kicking, punching, fighting, biting,

Clawing, shooting, and yelling is how we’ll go!

We will band together.

They won’t bring us down with lies.

In spite of their lies we’ll show them integrity!

In spite of their malice, we’ll give war-hardened peace!

So here’s to us! Us who have the gut!

Us, who they always call on,

Us, who they’ll need to pull them out of the ditch,

Us bastard children of society!

The Bastard Children of America

Sat, 4 May 2013 23:05:47 -0400

The Bastard Children of America

Here’s to you working man!

You, bastard children of America’s rotting core.

And you, woman with child,

Who labors for the whole nine months.

Here’s to you middle class!

You disappearing culture of can do rough necks,

And to you blue collared specimen.

You forgotten class of gentlemen.

Here’s to you farmers!

You, growers of cotton and raisers of corn.

And to you, herders of cattle,

You underappreciated slice of the pie.

Here’s to you early morning mechanics!

You, fixers of machines and servicers of engines.

And to you, tire changers and car cleaners.

You, who keep the machine of America running.

Here’s to you makers of metal!

You, forgers of steel and welders of iron.

And to you, machinists of gears.

You build the metal for our machines.

You! Formed by Hephaestus

Guarded by Couretes and Dactyls.

You who can wield the lightning bolts of Zeus,

You who build the foundation of civilization!

Listen up, you, underprivileged.

Listen here you back aching, sore necked,

You, hurt shoulder and cracked feet!

Listen to the sounds of America.

Listen, you overworked dogs.

Listen clearly you underpaid,

You, hard workers and over-skilled.

Listen to their lies.

You, brood of America, almost forgotten,

Except in the song and dance and lies of politicians.

You! A folklore that grows bigger with each tale.

You! Hidden, overlooked, but not yet gone.

Here’s to the overtaxed,

The haters of evil,

The lovers of peace

And fighters of war.

Here’s to you who never complain.

Who never change.

You, barely getting by,

You, who still follow the law.

You’re a breed apart!

A culture of Christians,

Atheists, Catholics and Jews,

Blacks, Irish, Germans and Mexicans.

I hear no sound from you,

But your silence is deafening.

You built and keep building this country.

No hatred toward those who reap the benefits.

You need not the rich.

You need not the Law.

You make your own.

You govern yourself!

You vote for the lies.

You vote for the fear.

Sure! Take care of everybody!

But words mean not a thing to you.

That office you vote for,

Used to hold respect.

But now it’s full of lies.

Full of empty promises and empty words!

Here’s to you working America!

You! Backbone of society.

You! Victim of arbitrary government.

You! Fighters for freedom and doers of good.

You pray for the good.

You do no harm.

You do no injustice.

You do no spiteful lying.

You hear malice speaking from their sick hearts

Yet are fooled by their politics!

You are fooled by their prevaricating to win

That House, that Office, that seat they don’t deserve.

Can we not wield our own?

Can we not provide better judgment?

You, who clear the land and punish the wicked,

Can we not set it all straight?

We beat the hammer;

We drive the nail;

We build the house and finish the stairs.

But we can’t fix our country!

It’s not the rich we hate.

It’s not their wealth we covet.

It’s the Congress of Deception;

The rudderless leaders we despise!

Forge a leader of truth and justice!

Forge us a leader of steel and iron!

Weld him with grit and determination,

Build him with sweat and a love of this land!

Here’s to you cast iron backbone of society!

You, unbendable strut of America.

You, redwood and mountain of the West,

You, builders and doers of right.

Here’s to us!

To us, wrench turners, house builders, and cabinet makers.

Here’s to us blue-collared, redneck, leather backs,

To us, dirty handed, callused fingered, burnt oil of America!

We won’t go down with a whimper.

We won’t go down with a hush.

Kicking, punching, fighting, biting,

Clawing, shooting, and yelling is how we’ll go!

We will band together.

They won’t bring us down with lies.

In spite of their lies we’ll show them integrity!

In spite of their malice, we’ll give war-hardened peace!

So here’s to us! Us who have the gut!

Us, who they always call on,

Us, who they’ll need to pull them out of the ditch,

Us bastard children of society!

Backyard Coon Huntin"

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 07:03:13 -0400

I think most days a person goes through life doing what they believe is the right thing. They don’t tarry to far from their belief systems or from their ethics. But occasionally we all find ourselves in those situations where we have an out of body experience, so to speak. We don’t literally have an “out of body experience” but I mean to tell you that we have moments in our lives where we unintentionally act the part of someone else. Usually it’s a hero of ours, or some actor we saw on a movie or in a book, but we all have those moments.

Yesterday morning, I had me one of them moments. I had unintentionally climbed into the mind of a very important comedian in my life, although I was faced with an intense and dangerous situation, Jerry Clower. My dog, a Husky/Shepard mix, weighing in at about 70lbs had went and picked a fight with one of natures little vandals, the coon. Anyone who has ever gone coon huntin’ knows what a fright your dog can look like after a tussle with one of them coons. But throughout the whole fight all I could think of was, “Knock em’ down Jon!” and as the fight progressed, “Just shoot up amongst us…one of us needs some relief!”

You see I had traps set up for this coon for months. I had even called my cousin and asked his advice on the matter at hand. I didn’t want to kill the bugger, after all he was only a victim of society. If we had been in the woods and my dog had treed him, I would surely have obliged my dog by making that coon into some coon stew. But the fact of the matter is, I felt bad killing this coon. Like me, he didn’t belong in this city, and he had only found the swamp behind my house by mistake, but had decided to stay there nonetheless because it was as ‘country’ a home to him as it is to me.

I had let Chandler, my dog, out around 6am, cause that’s what time in which he is usually up scratchin’ at the door. As I opened that screen door that morning that dog shot out of there like a bullet from a gun. It wasn’t 10 seconds after I let him out that I heard him growlin’ and barkin’ as if he were possessed by a demon.

I instinctively knew that he had either run into a possum, a snake, or a coon, so I ran inside to grab my .22 rifle and a flashlight. I followed his barking and growling and shined my flashlight up in that thicket that’s behind my house. There they were. Swattin’ and snarlin’. Goin’ at it like to Titans up on mount Olympus. Almost naturally I let out a, “Wooooo!” as for a second there I had a flashback to the few actual coon huntin’ adventures I’ve had.

“That coon’s gonna get you!” I hollered out as I saw my dog take a swat at that coon.

The fightin’ continued on as I set there and held my rifle up, ready for a shot if allowed one. With the other hand I held the flashlight shining a straight beam into that thicket.

Just then I got a glimpse of the coon swatting at my dog and my dog actually caught that coons paw in his mouth. “Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “That’s surely gonna make that coon just as mad.” I let out another holler, if only by instinct, “Wooooo… Get em’ Chandler.”

Just then that dog looked up from the fight, which gave that coon time to escape. That little four legged coon come runnin’ by me, face lookin’ like it got caught in a cheese grader and one leg tucked up underneath in the front.

Not a moment later my dog come up to me with not a scratch on him, cept a little cut on the leg. Not nearly as cut up as I’ve seen a pack of actually coon-dogs thathad had a coon drop in amongst them from a tree. And I told him that too. I looked him right in the eyes, man to dog and told him, “You lucky SOB. I’ve seen bigger, badder, better trained huntin’ dogs limp away from a coon fight and here you are with a little cut which one must believe you got from that coon, except those thorns in that thicket.”

Now I know that every hunter wants a dog that can whoop a coon and I don’t blame them. Those type of dogs are one-in-a-million and I hear worth a fortune. You can’t train a dog to fight a coon, most of the time they are born with it instinctively. But knowing that a well fightin’ coon dog is worth a pretty penny to the right man, I decided to place my dog up for sale. I took an ad out in the newspaper just today. “Champion coon fighting dog. Treed many a’ coon. Never lost a tussle with one. $25,000 dollars.” No callers yet.

Backyard Coon Huntin"

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 07:03:59 -0400

“That coon’s gonna get you!” I hollered out as I saw my dog take a swat at that coon.

The fightin’ continued on as I set there and held my rifle up, ready for a shot if allowed one. With the other hand I held the flashlight shining a straight beam into that thicket.

Bra Burning Bunnies!

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 07:02:57 -0500

In the 1960s there was movement of women who thought they were being treated unfairly. These women banned together to show that they were free from the bonds of men everywhere. In their demonstrations these women would burn there undergarments signifying their release. Now a day, stories of this are but myth and legend. The idea of women walking around with no undergarments on is a little hard to believe and erotic at the same time!

Beth, my Liberal lover, was going off at the helm again about how the Republicans might win the election over Obama because of men like me who refuse to change their sexist ways. She kept saying how the country didn’t want change, and how we, uneducated men, weren’t ready for a man to lead the country who thought women his equal.

As she went on about us blue collared, uneducated types, I start drifting off. I was trying to think of a way to get Beth out of this conversation and into some black lace, and that’s when it hit me!

“Burn your bra,” I said to her.

Her response was a shocked, “Huh?”

I then recalled to her the mythical story of women’s liberation of the 60s and how this united women around the country. I explained in dramatic form how women fought for and earned their freedom from the tyrannical men of the world.

Beth had never heard me speak so passionately about anything and so she was persuaded the bra burning was just what this election needed in order to sway the polls to the left.

She started going over things which she need: 1)A place to burn them- 2) A guard to keep perverts out 3)News publicity 4) Someone to keep the fire going.

As the list went on and on I realized that everything she needed I could provide. I told her that I knew a spot downtown we could start a fire that would draw all kinds of attention and eventually the news. I even offered to guard the site while the women chanted and protests against the right. I even suggested that I could help the women take their bras off, so that the girls wouldn’t have to lower their hands from the shouting they were doing.

Beth was all too excited about the burning and she immediately started making cards and signs. She was on roll, and I was getting a beer. I kept dreaming about all those bra-less women, hands held high, screaming and shouting for freedom from the right. I wondered if I hung around the fire long enough, helping the women out of their garments, if they wouldn’t help me out of my restraints that the right has cast upon me.

I ran the idea past Beth. She wasn’t as all excited about the idea of women helping me burn my boxers. “This is a bra burning,” she said, ”Not a weenie roast.”

The idea of some bra burning-bunny helping me burn my boxers soon left my mind. After-all, I was afraid some pervert off the street would see it in passing, think he can burn his, and the next thing you know he’d be helping take off all those women’s bras. The nerve of some men!