Bob Barker Says Lucy Is the Poorest Elephant in the World

Is An Oppressed Member of a Different Species Worth Your Concern?
by Tommy George

"When you get to the bottom of it, it is always greed"--to paraphrase Bob Barker's statement in a Toronto Star interview given after his failure to help Lucy the Elephant retire from the Edmonton Valley Zoo in Alberta, Canada. In 2009 animal activist Bob Barker tried to purchase and retire the long-solitary elephant star of a radically off-climate zoo.

Portraits in Real Women: Cristina Swinton

posted by Tommy George
written by Joan E Thurman

Cristina with the Pink Harley Davidson Left her by her late husband Ron, who passed in 2009.

When lousy heartbreaking things happen to real women, they buck up their courage and carry on. All women have loss, just as all men do. The difference: females in our culture are conditioned to fall apart and act helpless. Men are not. Cristina realized what she had to deal with right away: "I knew it was only me. All up to me now," she said about her husband's passing. She looks like she dealt with all those sad details well, and today enjoys the happy memories and puts the bad out of mind.

Christina Swinton lost Ron in 2009, but he left her loving memories and a pink 1967 Harley Davidson that turns heads on any road she travels--as does the youthful, down-to-earth widow herself. She is one of the new breed of grown-up hotties: thoughtful souls who populate this college town of Waverly, Iowa and keep it vital.

Women of character learn to resume happy lives: fighting the temptation of Christ to become broken up and completely dependent on God (or others) because of the tragedies which inevitably come. They learn to keep on moving forward, laughing, and remembering the good.

Cristina Swinton. This Woman Rules! How about you?

jt/30 Aug. 2017

Sula Whitekiller, Lovechild, Overcomes Racism: Passing, Part I

by Tommy George

2015-10-18. Today would have been my mother's 100th birthday. It was on my great-great grandfather's Indian settlement land--a 250-acre margin of earth where Oklahoma's salt-plain left off, and tillable topsoil began--that my changeling mother entered the world in 1915. She was the pale love-child of a young, darkly beautiful Cherokee woman named Undantva ("Oona") Whitekiller, a 19-year-old girl left to her own willful ways when the last of the Whitekiller elders passed away. 
My Maternal Grandfather. Where's my inheritance? Damn your drunken bones!

Pyrates of the Poop-Deck

by Tommy George 

Ye be sailin' into biblical headwinds, Matey
moonin' over that frilly yellow-haired doll
who felled ye in the first place, a-falling
drownin' yer soul in her poisonous squall.

Suicide for the Lethally Fashionable

by Tommy George

Leave ‘em mourning happily

A Thousand Words in 106 Lines of Doggerel

Written By 
Tommy George

The Two-Legged Creature Most Feared by Black Cats

by Thomas George

Friday, June 13, 2014. I long tried to make friends with a big black tom-cat that roams the farm town of Allison, Iowa. The animal and I never did share anything beyond a single, brief transaction, the outcome of which guarantees that our friendship now shall never be. Superstition has sprung up between me and Big Black Tom like prison walls that will not come tumbling down any time soon. Any hope of this was killed by the accidental connection between us: exchanged glimpses of the soul that lasted less than a second, but carved dangerous pits in both our minds.

Denied a Dignified Death: Elizabeth Ann Tasseff

by Tommy George

2015-10-18. Today would have been her 100th birthday. During the shortening days of December 2005, my mother, probably the only real friend I ever had, fell into a deep depression from which she never recovered. "Failure to thrive" was doctors' enigmatic diagnosis. It seemed more apt for an infant than a geriatric patient, but it had by then depleted most of her life reserves.

The Questionable Damnation of Good Pope Formosus

by Tommy George
The Scandalous Dissolution of his Papacy in 883 C.E.

By the time of Summer Solstice, 883 C.E., the mortal coil of Pope Formosus had long been off-shuffled, and the dead Pontiff's eternal soul attuned for a perfect half-score years to the seamless bliss of Paradise. In the instant of his immortal soul's reawakening, Formosus realized all: his liberal Papacy had moved its own clerics to mendacity, and sown discord among them. Despite his efforts as Pontiff to improve the lives of the peasantry under his reign, the spiritual life of the Universal masses had plodded on the same as always–heavy as an anvil, ignorant as an ox.