Between Florence and Trump, We’re Probably All Going To Die

Florence. That sounds like the name of someone’s Grandma, not an impending, potentially destructive hurricane. Wait, Florence actually is the name of a Grandma. My Great Grandma, to be exact. Very kind lady, she was. Funny, too, without even trying to be. She’d do silly things like take her false teeth out in church and lay them in her lap. Or take her shoes off and set them under the pew in front of her, revealing to all in her pew whether she wore reinforced toe pantyhose or whether she’d groomed her toenails lately. She spent a lot of her life working a farm and raised nine kids on her own, after her young husband died of a heart attack. She had grit. Somehow though, in the midst of her trials and tribulations, she remained soft. Harmless, really.

Her daughter, my Great Aunt, was Great Grandma’s namesake. She was the youngest of the nine children and only one year older than my mother, which meant Great Grandma and Grandma were having babies at the same time. Anyway, Florencee the Second was actually called Florencee, pronounced as though the first e doesn’t exist. Florencee is funny, too, but seems to have quite a bit more fire in her than Great Grandma Florence ever did. Or perhaps Florencee just isn’t old enough yet to no longer have the strength to have fire, I’m not sure.

I’ve been told I’m a lot like Florencee. I laugh like her. And I often just say what I want to say, forgetting to sugar coat my words. Probably not cool in the midst of the political firestorm we are in, but it is what it is and while I’ve tried to change and always, always be a sweet, harmless little fuzzball, I find that doing so is to be disingenuous, and in today’s world, that’s the sin of all sins, if I’m hearing right.

Be anything you want!

Be yourself!

You do you, BooBoo!

Names are interesting. When it comes to hurricane handles, my vote is to quit using ones that will likely cause potential victims to imagine a harmless little fuzzball on its way for a pleasant visit, complete with a basket of warm, gooey, chocolate chip cookies. There was a study done on this once. It proved that people were more or less likely to evacuate, depending on the name of the hurricane. If the name was male, folks were more likely to get the heck outta dodge. And the more masculine the name, the more likely they were to leave as well.

So, okay. In naming hurricanes, let’s go for masculine, and maybe add I-just-soiled-my-pants scary. How about Chucky. Freddy. Jason. It. Joker. Dracula. Godzilla. The Hitcher. Jaws. The Hulk. Anything that might motivate the most self-proclaimed strong and able (or lazy) person to get a move on, pronto, as if they are about to be destroyed in a very unpleasant way.

Shaun and I, when we lived at the farmhouse, looked out the french doors and saw a tornado approaching. We took a few seconds to stare at it with jaws a gaping. But then we dropped our handy dandy tools we were working with, and left.

Seemed wise, at the time. You can’t be mad at God for allowing natural catastrophes and then, in spite of the grace He’s given via technology that warns of the storm’s arrival, chuck the information and be on your merry, oblivious way. If you can’t get out, you can’t get out. We all know there are folks who aren’t able, for whatever reason. I get that, and though I’m (hopefully) clearly in a foolin’ around mood today, I pray for all in harm’s way to remain safe in the midst of the storm.

I don’t wish death upon anyone, but between Florence coming and Trump still in office, I think many feel as though they might die. I mean, Trump is bad enough, yeah? And now Florence? Maybe God really is judging us for – something. Abortion or homosexuality or the fact that we keep attempting to remove Him from our society, which is laughable, because how can anyone remove an omnipresent God who doesn’t scram just because His little creations tell Him to?

Then again, maybe we are being judged for electing Trump. Clearly, since he’s been in office, nothing good has happened. Nothing. Every American white man has followed his lead and reeks of racism. They all own black slaves and beat them mercilessly for the slightest blunder in the cotton fields. Women are oppressed, too, slaving away in hot kitchens nationwide, barefoot and pregnant, unable to vote, work outside the home, or legally kill their babies if they decide twelve children is enough, even if they’re 39 weeks along. White men have the upper hand, as it’s perfectly fine to utter a command, any command, snap a finger, and expect it to be done immediately by either his slave, his wife, or his children.

American white men, if you want to call them men, have the nerve to come home, sit on the couch like a potato nestled in the rich, soft soil of an Idaho field, switch on the TV, and holler out for a beer after letting loose a gastric belch loud enough to rock the North Pole. Once he has devoured the meal, watched the football game, and snarfed down four Little Debbie’s and a six pack, he falls asleep peacefully, or not so peacefully, since he’s not 100% positive those he oppresses won’t slit his throat whilst he snores. 

Also, our economy is doing so poorly that at least 89.99% of the nation is starving, has no access to medical care, and is unable afford their children’s schooling for lack of gas or even a car to get them there. Sure, we’re all trying our best. Well, not the men. As usual, the women – only the women – are doing all the work, raising, butchering, plucking, and cooking chickens. Gathering eggs. Tending goats. Milking cows. Growing produce in backyards. Cooking. Shearing sheep. Baking. Canning. Sewing. Knitting. Mending holey socks. Stacking firewood. But despite the blood, sweat, and tears, it’s not enough. Johnny and Susie are doomed. Everyone is doomed, except for dictatorial white men who do nothing but capitalize on the labors of others.

My fellow Patheos writer, Anne Kennedy, says that the hurricane is all okay, because Pat Robertson put a hedge around it. And you know, I think that’s a valid point because … Pat Robertson.

Oh, wait. White man alert.

Well. Let’s get Hurricane Granny over with, and then maybe we can do away with Trump and all American white men, and in so doing, allow the oh so oppressed to enjoy the prosperous, peacefully life they deserve.

**Photo by Torsten Dederichs on Unsplash