For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. –Ephesians 6:12
Of the seven deadly sins mine is rage. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa is rage. My rage is a white-hot rage stoked both by my own inner demons and the numberless outer demons that infest our streets, schools, institutions, and politics. Blossoming this year — as they did last year — are the rage-triggering mega-shitshows of Democrat policy and presumptions as played out daily in homes, towns, cities, and states across the nation.
These shitshows have now gone beyond media moments carefully calculated to get me to click and fume… these I can, to an extent, control. Of late, these have oozed out of the web to my town.
Right now the DemoShitshow has become manifest on the streets and in the stores of my town. I see the piles of the local shitshow in the proliferation of tents and tarps in the parks and along the streams and creeks and my gorge rises until my mind ignites into some sort of old man’s spittle-flecked fuming that requires me to clean the inside of my windshield. Since these rage points are usually passing I most often swallow my rage and drive or walk on. Then it is just a matter of waiting for my blood pressure to come down and my pulse rate to calm… oh SHIT! another one!
Then, if — and only if — possible I check my six and take up my now almost mantraesque prayer,
Lord, remove the rage from my heart and return me to Your new commandment,
“That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.”
Yes, mantraesque because I find myself saying it with the frequency of a Tibetan Prayer Wheel hooked to the driveshaft of an Indy racecar coming out of turn two. I say it and feel chill calm and then, almost immediately, I see something on my streets or hear something on the news or read something on the Web or think something that drops me … right back into the seething mosh pit of rage.
Local example 1: Junkies. The shambling and incoherent meth tweaker trying to run his Stamp Book scam on a young and overworked checkout boy at the Safeway. (Wolf One: “That cheap criminal junkie needs to have his head made into a canoe since nothing cures addiction except a spiritual renewal and he’s not getting one in this lifetime or the next, the scum.” Wolf Two: “I know it takes treatment and spiritual renewal but surely there is some way to reach that broken soul.”)
Local example 2: Masks in stores. Most here don’t wear them but about 35% do. Some even prance in with three masks layered and an eye-shield and a cone mask on their frigging fake “Service Dog.” These marvels of prophylactically sealed hypochondriacs pitching me into silent grumbles of Wolf One: “Oh bite me! Another freezer-aisle death dwarf strutting their personal Covid Porn and thinking they will live forever while condemning me to look at them forever as they judge all others from behind their great wall of masks. Need to punch the face… need….” Wolf Two: “Remember that everyone you see is carrying a burden you can not possibly know. This silly masking is what they believe has worked to keep them alive for a year and a half and they won’t abandon it just because somebody somewhere says it is safe. Their body. Their selves. Go with God.”
Local example 3: The Abandoned Mentally Ill. He stood outside the tanning salon every day. He had a coat of grime on himself and his clothing from head to toe. You know it was grime to the toes because he had no shoes on the days when the sidewalks were burning hot or ice-cold and covered in rainwater. Wolf Two: After seeing this for a few days, I talked to him a bit and then went into a local shoe store and bought him some sneakers in his size and with three pairs of warm socks. He thanked me and put them on, stuffing the extra sockets in his pocket. I felt warm all over for my good, good deed. Wolf One: Back the next day and…. what? No shoes on his feet! Again! Hey! What happened to your shoes? You lost them? How do you lose a pair of brand-new sneakers off your feet? You gotta be fucking crazy to do that. Oh. Right. You are fucking crazy. What a moron I am.
In my town now I can’t let my Two Wolves off the leash when I have to see the streets — every damn day — hundreds of masked Biden voters who brought in a freedom-killing regime headed by a dementia patient in diapers just so they didn’t have to twist and untwist their panties over “mean tweets.” That wolf fight just makes me want to clear my head, calm my rage, and soothe my wolves by cleaning my guns.
These are the two wolves in my heart that I am willing to confess to the world at large. There are other wolves in my heart; wolves so dark and ravenous I keep them walled in the sub-sub-basement of my soul with the stones set up to seal in that Cask of Amontillado that Poe portrayed.
I’m not going to describe mine but you know those dark wolves well. You keep a pack or two of your own sealed deep inside your soul. Don’t deny them. I can see them pacing over the dry dunes of your soul’s desert…
All decent people whose minds are not in shadow feed at least two wolves and maybe many more. And all these wolves now demand many feedings. Every damn day.