Wednesday, March 1, 2017

The Fraud That Killed My Son

For some time now I have wanted to put down in writing my feelings about alternative medicine and the many diet theories that I have been encouraged to try by people I know are kindly disposed towards me.  In doing so, I want to emphasize that I do not wish to mock or belittle other people’s beliefs and experiences.  My purpose in writing this is simply to let everyone know how I feel about the subject, and why.
One of the many reasons my wife Amy divorced me was because she came to believe fervently in alternative medicine and diet plans, while I did not.  In our early years of marriage we spent an inordinate amount of money on things like Shaklee vitamins and other so-called nutritional supplements.  Over the years I came to deeply resent the large expenditures, which could have been used so much more usefully in clothing, feeding and housing our growing family, not to mention putting income aside for a rainy day.  But perhaps that is merely the 20-20 vision of hindsight. The point is that I came to utterly reject alternative, and, to me, unproven dietary supplements, while Amy came to believe, and rely, on them more and more.  I do not wish to put words in her mouth, but it seemed to me, at the time, that she treated these alternative medicine theories as revelations, while I treated them as merely commercial enterprises out to mulct the credulous. Looking back, I think I can safely say we were both too extreme in our opinions.
At this point I wish to state that I do believe that men like Louie Pasteur, Joseph Lister, Alexander Fleming, and many others were and are most definitely inspired by God to bring forth medical advances to prolong and ease our mortal existence. These men and women used rigorous and well-defined scientific techniques, which took months, sometimes years, to complete before announcing their discoveries to the world, and in most cases they then gave these discoveries to the world for free, unconcerned with any sort of marketing schemes or personal aggrandizement.  I honor them and the part their work plays in mainstream medicine today.

I also realize that Big Pharma is far from guiltless when it comes to gouging consumers with outrageous prices for necessary medications. But their crime is simple usury, not blatant forgery. 
 I would also mention that I believe in the power of God to bless and relieve his children of disease and pain, through blessings given by His authorized priesthood holders. 
What I DO NOT believe in is relying solely on priesthood blessings, or anything else outside of mainstream Western medicine, when there is a medical emergency or crisis and regular medical care is available nearby.
Several months after the divorce our son Irvin became gravely ill, to the point where he lapsed into a coma and started to turn blue from oxygen starvation.  I was no longer living in the same state as Amy and our children, so I only heard about this by telephone. Amy informed me she had had the Elders over to bless Irvin and she was treating him with some homeopathic remedies.  I begged her to take him into the Emergency Room.  She did not wish to do so at first, but finally yielded to my long-distance entreaties.  But it was too late.  Our little Irvin died in a diabetic coma that night.
I have struggled over the years, since then, to forgive both Amy and myself for the death of our dear little boy.  It has been very hard for me, as I’m sure it has been for Amy.  I am now at the point where I can say with sincerity “Let God judge between me and thee” (Samuel 24: 15) and leave Irvin’s death with God, who has promised to one day wipe away all tears. 
But I cannot, and will not, stop thinking that if Irvin had been taken to a regular doctor in time, instead of being fed some homeopathic nostrum, he might still be alive today.  Therefore, I want nothing to do with alternative medicines and diets that are not part of a competent and licensed medical doctor’s prescription and advice. 
I have very strong feelings on this subject, and I am sorry if I have ever offended anyone in any way for rebuffing their efforts to help me with their own diets and nutritional supplements. But anecdotal evidence is not admissible in a court of law, and I don't admit it is anything scientific either. 
Please understand – there is a little boy laid in the cold ground of a graveyard in Pleasant Grove, Utah, who I feel does not belong there, and would not be there except for a misplaced belief in something that was powerless to save him from death.

That is why I am so strongly opposed to MLM companies and homeopathic charlatans. How many lives have they sacrificed on the altar of money grubbing and sloppy fairy tale thinking? I believe it is in the tens of thousands. 
  

Ahmed Fahour

Down in old Canberra they do like to tell the tale
Of Ahmed Fahour’s fortune from delivering the mail.
He made out like a bandit with a salary so large
They had to float it to the bank inside a gravel barge.
Malcolm Turnbull told him he was making too much dough
And back to Lebanon he would quite gladly see him go.
So Ahmed quit the Post Office and now spends all his days
On the beach in Darwin with the other castaways.


Thank you, Keith Holt

To the great readers who like my mini-memoir “What Happened to JoJo” I want say May All Your Days Be Circus Days!

Keith Holt
Clark Kent
Robert E. Handley
Chris Twiford
Mike Weakley
Leo Acton
Gabriel Romero Sr.
Andrew Fronczak
Sandy Weber
Mike Johnson
Regina Wollrabe
Fred Baisch
Kenneth L Stallings
Mark Riddell

“You are the wind beneath my box kite”


Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Bill O'Reilly

O’Reilly gets his experts from a spectrum that’s so broad
It’s more than just stupendous -- you might even call it fraud.
He’s looking for an adept or a doyen who agrees
With his point of view (and never mind about the fees.)
I’m pretty sure that talking heads no longer fit our needs --
Especially when hollow, like a gourd with dried up seeds.


What Happened to JoJo

JoJo the Dog Eared Boy worked as our gofer in clown alley for several months. As noted in earlier entries of this saga, he was rather credulous and held no threat for Albert Einstein. Like so many marginal personalities in this venal world we inhabit, he was constantly ignored, taken for granted, or put upon. Swede Johnson once sent him out for a can of “fat-free lard.” He was gone for two days, and when he returned he mournfully confessed to Swede that stores and pantries in the tri-state area were completely out of that mythical substance. I am sorry to say that I was not immune to such thoughtless raillery either. One day I gave him a dollar to go buy me a box of powdered water so I could make Tang while sitting at my trunk. Even his slo mo thought process caught a whiff of ripe baloney from my request; he wrinkled his nose quizzically, but then shrugged and went out. He came back with a can of Carnation Evaporated Milk.

“It’s the best I could do for a dollar” he told me while he counted change back. “I like Tang and milk; don’t you? Huh, dontcha?”

JoJo also functioned as a part-time dresser. Prince Paul did a come in gag with Murray Horowitz in which Prince was dressed as a mouse and Horowitz was dressed as a cat with a gigantic mousetrap ready to snap shut on Prince. After various thrusts and feints Prince managed to snap the trap shut on Horowitz's tail, and then they both ran off. The mouse and cat costumes were ancient relics made of dyed velvet and papier mache. They weighed a ton and were as cumbersome as deep sea diving suits, circa Jules Verne. Prince promised JoJo five dollars a week to help them get in and out of the costumes. JoJo faithfully helped them in and out, but at the end of each week Prince would say “Listen, boychick, I’m a little short this week.” Then he’d wait for JoJo to laugh (since Prince was a true dwarf.) JoJo never even cracked a smile. Shaking his head wearily, Prince would continue: “I can’t pay you this week, but I’ll make it up to you on Good Friday with a fish dinner.” JoJo nodded cheerfully and went about his other business. This was in the middle of July.

When Chico realized what an ideal patsy JoJo was, he dusted off the old Abbott & Costello routines.

When JoJo was flush with cash due to his hard work and complaisant ways, Chico would rush up to him and demand: “Quick, JoJo, lemme have two tens for a five!” JoJo would comply, and never seemed to catch on.

Or Chico would sidle up to him with a friendly smile and say “Pick a number from one to ten, JoJo.” JoJo would pick a number and Chico would sadly shake his head: “Sorry, JoJo -- that was the wrong number. You owe me a dollar.” JoJo would humbly pay up, wondering out loud why he was so bad at this game.

Many of the arenas we played had freight elevators which could be operated automatically from a distance with a switch attached to a long electric cable. Whenever such an elevator was close to clown alley, the switch was appropriated by Chico, Roofus T. Goofus, or myself, and the fun would begin. At JoJo’s expense. Seeing him ambling along, I’d toss a piece of wadded up paper into the freight elevator and ask him to go get it for me please. Once he was inside the elevator I’d squeeze the button -- shutting the doors on him -- and then send him up to the roof. It always took him a while to figure out how to work the elevator to bring him back down.

“The darn thing went haywire on me” he’d say when he finally escaped. “Went right to the roof. The roof!”

But it finally came to pass that on a warm day in September in Saint Louis we all got our comeuppance.

The matinee was over and JoJo had just come back with several orders of burgers and fries from a place down the street called Happy Clown Hamburgers. They were giving clown alley a significant discount for permission to tape a sign in their window reading: “WE SERVE THE BEST BURGERS TO THE BEST CLOWNS AT RINGLING BROTHERS!”

The alley was unusually quiet that afternoon. Dougie was not playing his trumpet; Kochmanski’s dog Kropka was not barking incessantly to be let out to pee; Horowitz was not arguing sports with anyone; and Prince Paul was dozing quietly on top of his clown trunk. So the ensuing dialogue was heard by all of dumbfounded clown alley.

A well-dressed middle-aged couple timidly poked their heads into clown alley to ask if there was a Joseph Frantze there.

“Nobody by that name here. Sorry” Holst took it upon himself to reply.

“He sometimes goes by his nickname, JoJo” the woman said softly.

“Hey JoJo” Holst called across the alley to the individual in question. “Someone here to see you! Come into the alley, folks. Everybody’s dressed decent.”

When JoJo reached the couple the woman pounced on him with an affectionate half-nelson.

“Joseph! Joseph! Don’t you remember me? I’m your Aunt Mabel!”

“Joseph” the man said with quiet authority. “Come out of this place so we can talk.” He placed very audible and disapproving quotation marks around the words ‘this place.’

I won’t draw out the suspense. Joseph Frantze, JoJo the Dog Eared Boy to clown alley, was a scion of the Anheuser family. His wandering fancies had cut him off from communications with his loving, and very rich, family -- so they hired a detective agency to track him down. He was now old enough to come into his trust fund, set up when he was an infant. And it was a big one. Clown alley heard the figure quoted, and clown alley nearly had kittens.

All JoJo seemed capable of saying in response to this revelation was “Hot jiggers!”

Eventually alerted to JoJo’s sudden change in fortune, Prince jumped off his trunk, pulled a wad of greenbacks out of his civilian pants, and raced out the alley roaring “Hey JoJo, bubala! I got your Good Friday backpay right here! A bonus, too! Where the hell is he?”

But JoJo was gone -- quickly whisked away by his aunt and uncle on a magic carpet of wealth and privilege, never to be seen again by clown alley. He didn’t stop to bid us farewell or to thank us, or to spread a little mazuma around -- and truly, why would he? We treated him like dregs and dross. Cozened him. Checked his basic dignity as a human being at every turn. By rights he should have hired a gang of plug uglies to come beat us all up. But he just left. And clown alley soon forgot all about him. Contract time was coming up and several new showgirls had been hired to augment the cast for the upcoming Chicago date. They needed some serious ‘chaperoning.’  

But I remembered JoJo, especially whenever I attended Sunday School class in the coming years and the teacher used Hebrews 13:2 as their text: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”


Mayor Bill de Blasio

Standing tall in Gracie Manse, de Blasio as Mayor
Looks to be a savvy and long distance kind of player.
He’s done some good, though fundraising is not his metier;
He’s better at the gifting to New York of free Pre-K.
But on the whole he’s been okay; the mohels like him fine.
(Just don’t ask Ricardo Morales with him today to dine.)


George W. Bush

Mr. Bush, who likes to paint
Self portraits without constraint,
A coffee table book released--
Now hopes that int’rest is increased.
George W., don’t hold your breath;
What makes great art is usually death . . .


Elon Musk


Elon Musk please leave me be;
I don’t share your trajectory.
The moon and all the space beyond
Is only for the rich beau monde.
Outer space with risk is fraught;
I’d rather orbit Pixie Lott.



Thank you, Mike Johnson!

Thanks to readers who liked my mini-memoir “The Ballad of Pie Car Chili.” Writing with you in mind is always fun.

Mike Johnson
Robert E. Handley
Amy Snyder
Leo Acton
Gabriel Romero Sr.
Mike Weakley
Sandy Weber
Victor Ruiz
Chris Twiford
Billy Jim Baker
Herberto J Ledesma
Pat Stevenson
Glenn Godsey
Fred Baisch
John M Peters
LaVahn Hoh
David Denmon
Tim Cunico
Kenneth L Stallings
Mary Pat Cooney
Linda F Vogel Kaplan
David Orr
Dan Knopp
Scott O’Donnell

“May good fortune be contagious; and may you catch the chronic kind”


Monday, February 27, 2017

Paul Ryan

Paul Ryan wants to take away the old folk’s pension plan;
His leader wants to add more gravy to the dripping pan.
Neither man is rational when they must compromise,
And so I guess the old folks will be left to oxidize.