LIVE 6-8 PM EST! http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lisarichardsradio
Tune in 6 PM Tonight to hear youth motivational speaker Travis Angry of http://www.travisangry.com talk about making choice in life: Going back to school, not giving up on yourself when others have, not letting anything difficult in your life stop you from being the person God created you to be, realizing who you are in God and how much He loves you, that you can do all things through God, you can do anything if you put your mind to it.
Travis knows what it’s like to give up on your self and then regret making wrong choice. But Travis realized he could change things by changing his life and making good choices.
No matter who you are or what your circumstances are, you can make it in life if you make the choice to make it and not give up.
TUNE IN TONIGHT 6-8 PM LIVE TO HEAR TRAVIS ANGRY http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lisarichardsradio
No, I’m not kidding with that title. And it’s not as if my mother killed the deer in the normal way— with a shotgun full of big bullets—no, she was forced to run over Rudolph! But in all fairness it was not my mother’s fault: The deer flew over the hills, and through the woods, and into my mother’s brand new Cadillac Coup De’Ville!
And no, that is not her car in the photo.
For that Cadillac attacking act Rudolph deserved to be shot and would have if my mother had a shot gun on her!
Oh you should have seen that scene! I’ll never forget it because it was the first and last time I ever shopped on Black Friday. My Black Friday experience proved to me that Black Friday was war and death over tacky peace offerings!
It was a sunny Friday morning in 1984 when mother and I decided to sign up for Black Friday. Technically there is no enlistment office, you wake up with an insane desire to go hunting for discounted gifts (you would never purchase for yourself) in the middle of chaos committed by violent, over zealous shoppers who need to buy everything they see, but really don’t want, in order to give it to their relatives who will return everything because they don’t want that stuff either.
It’s that wonderful time of the year when civilians become combative over ugly Christmas sweaters, when normally sane people prepare for mortal combat with other shoppers with heavy wallets and big handbags, tackling everyone for ugly Christmas sweaters violent Romans, who invented all things flamboyantly gaudy and gilded tacky–and violent, would have crucified themselves rather than wear that hideous crap, and then apologize to Jesus for the fashion world’s future sins upon the world.
Mother and I get into her brand new, over-sized, limited special edition, fully loaded luxury Cadillac. Oh it was wonderful! Leather interior that smelled fabulous, mahogany veneer trim everywhere, and the dash–it looked like the cockpit inside a 747! It was like driving around in your living room!
Off we drove, down the heavily forested road, listening to Jerry Lee Lewis on the stereo when “goodness, gracious, great balls of fire…what the hell is that!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Mother and I were driving down a steep hill when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something coming at us: “Oh my God!” I screamed as I saw the giant deer leaping over the stone wall toward us. “Mom, look out, a deer! It’s going to hit us!”
One of Santa’s limo drivers was out on an early test run that turned into road rage woodland style: The gigantic deer flew through the woods and leaped over the stonewalls lining the road, and right into mother’s gorgeous, brand new Cadillac.
Mother hit the brakes so hard the car screeched to a halt. Rudolph hit the front end of the car, bounced up in the air, came down hitting the pavement so hard the deer bounced up in the air and onto the hood of the car where it shot over the car’s roof and onto the road behind us.
Mother and I looked at each other wide-eyed and astonished, our mouths agape. The sound of Jerry Lee and his piano could be heard echoing through the woods: “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brains…”
Slowly, mother and I turned around to look out the back window, and we could not believe our eyes. The deer landed on the road, but a small hatchback that had been driving down the steep hill behind us drove right on top of the deer…where it was literally stuck and dangling… on top of the deer.
“I think you killed Rudolph,” was my reaction.
“Oh my God! My car!” Was my mother’s reaction as she gripped the steering wheel of her now brand new, over-sized, limited special edition, fully loaded, luxury piece of crap.
Behind us we could hear “Oh my God! My Car!”
Black Friday turned into a car wreck and the murder of a flying deer. No, we didn’t kill a deer the normal way–with a big double barreled shot gun and 10 pounds of my grandfather’s best ammo. No, we ran into Santa’s head limo.
It may have been road rage, or, it was an apparent suicide since it was, after all, the holiday season.
It was at that moment that a police officer who was parked at the bottom of the hill and witnessed everything ran over to our car and stopped in mouth-gaping shock: “Holy Sh*T! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..noooooo….A Cadillac!”
Yes, we know, we were after all driving the now not so expensive luxury heap!
The cop came over to the car to see if we were alright: “Yes, I’m fine…” Mother said as she hit the bottom to the stereo with her fist: “Oh shut up!” She yelled to Jerry Lee.
“I think you might want to check on the car behind me… it’s stuck on top of the deer.” Mother said in a hushed tone, as if the other animals in the wild might hear and spread the rumor around the country club of the animal world about this embarrassing moment in Black Friday history when my mother killed Rudolph.
The cop turned and looked at the other car behind us and his face froze in shock: “Holy sh*****…..t. It’s really on top of that thing! Oh my God! What did you hit lady?!!”
“My mother killed Rudolph.” I said
Mother looked at me with that look she always gave us kids when we were “going to get it”–the same look James Coburn always had on his face just before he shot someone in the head.
The driver in the other car yelled out her window: “Would someone pay attention to me! I can’t get my car off this thing, and I can’t get out of my car! This beast is holding me hostage!”
“Hold on Ma’am, I’m going to call this in. We’ll get the mechanic and his tow over here, just stay put.”
“I can’t move! Where the hell am I going to go?!” The other driver screamed angrily at the cop.
“Oh…my car!!!!!!!!! What am I going to tell daddy? And he was so proud when he gave this to me for my birthday.”
“Don’t worry Ma’am,” the cop said, “I’m sure your husband has the car insured. These accidents happen daily. Why just two hours-ago two guys were trampled to death on the Merritt Parkway by a deer that jumped the barricade and landed in their convertible, on them…at 65 miles. Completely trampled and crushed them. Unrecognizable.”
Knowing that two helpless men were just brutally trampled to death by a deer, on Black Friday, and they were unrecognizable, was so holiday heartwarming! “No wonder they call this Black Friday,” I said under my breath, “It’s a day of slaughter! And Santa’s reindeer have road rage!”
Next the cop was talking to the station: “Get down here. We have two cars hit by a deer…uh…let me see…the body is under the second car, a little hatchback. Man, this buck is massive! You have to see this thing! The first car was hit… and it’s a Cadi...but you won’t believe what the Cadi did to that poor bastard! It slaughtered the thing! You guys gotta get down here and see this! Boy I wish I had a camera! Took the head right off! Man! This thing is an eight pointer! It’s huge…no, there’s nothing left but the body, and that’s under the hatchback…you’ve gotta see that car… it’s stuck on top of the body! There’s a leg on top of the hood. This Cadi ripped the daylights out of that poor bastard…huh? No, the Cadi looks fine, a real beauty…except for the front grill….” And that’s when the cop broke out in laughter: “Oh you have to see this Pete; Oh I wish I had a picture of this car!”
Then the cop started laughing so hard he was crying: “You have to see this Pete! It’s….” more laughter, bent over laughter, tears running down his face: “Oh you’ve gotta see this! Get down here!”
“What’s wrong with the car? What did that deer do to the car?!!!! Oh nooooooooo, it’s worse than I thought!” Mother said at the point of crying. “I’ll bet the front end is crushed!”
That’s when we both got out of the car to take a look at the front grill to see why the cop was laughing so hard that he was now grabbing his side.
And that’s when we saw it: The car was in great shape, not a scratch on it, not a dent in sight, even the headlights were perfect, but the grill…the grill was now decorated in a way that would have made my mother’s avid, professional hunter father, and my father’s late animal-head-collecting father, prouder than Democrats at a live abortion performance of the arts show: Somehow, when the buck hit the car, the car decapitated the buck’s head and the buck’s head was now positioned onto the Cadillac’s front grill like a Christmas wreath—and it was positioned correctly: Face facing the road like a mounted head on a wall.
“Oh…my…GOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY CARRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” My mother screamed.
“Ohhhhh….” Was my reply. “Pop is going to be so proud when he sees this Mommy!” I said referring to Mother’s father. Mother looked at me again. Silent.
When the other police officers arrived, their responses were no different: “Ohhhhhhh….Shiiiiiiiiii…..” Then laughter, tear-wrenching laughter followed by “You know, ma’am, it’s really not all that bad.”
“No it’s not really that bad,” another cop said. “When you get the head removed, you could have it stuffed and mounted so you can hang it on your wall.”
That one went over on my mother like the Hindenburg on New Jersey. So did the look she gave the cop. Even James Coburn would have shut up, or just shot himself in the head instead of being that foolish.
Another moron cop walked over to the scene and like an idiot asked, “Is that unpurpose or did that happen in the accident?”
Well that did it. My mother was already upset, but to assume that the woman whose style was heralded in the local Westport papers, the woman who was praised in local society as “Best-dressed” “A Flair For Taste and Sophistication,” “The Queen of Fashion Meets Business Savvy,” “Business Woman with Brains and Style,” was just too much to bare: “Yes,” my mother said annoyed, “I went out hunting this morning and beheaded a buck and mounted its head on the grill of my car because, what the hell, this is Connecticut and I felt like decorating my car Texas-style!”
“Would someone help me!” the other drive yelled, “I’m stuck and I can’t get off!”
“Well don’t just stand there, get that head off my grill!” My mother demanded. “I’m not Santa’s helper!”
“You’re not his friend anymore either.” I said.
“Get back in the car NOW!” My mother said through grinding teeth.
“Ma’am,” one cop said as four cops were tugging on the antlers, “it’s stuck, we can’t get it off. You’ll have to take it to a professional to remove it.”
The professional just happened to be at the bottom of the hill at the local gas station and auto-body shop. And he was walking over to see what the commotion was all about. When Dick saw it was mother and her new car he said: “Oh good grief! Not you’re new Cadi!” And that’s when Dick noticed the grill ornament: “How the hell did you hit that thing? And where’s the body?”
“Over their, under the hatchback,” One of the cops said pointing to the car mounted on the deer. Jim just stared. And then he started laughing at what he was looking at: A Cadillac slaughtered a buck, whose head was mounted to the Cadillac grill, and the body of the deer had a hatchback mounted on top of it. “I can’t wait to tell my wife. She thinks all my wrecks are boring, but this one’s a doosy!”
Everyone tried pulling the head off the grill, but to no avail. “I’m going to have garage this thing,” Dick said “But I’m a bit backed up this week with six cars that hit deer, so your best bet is bringing the car in Wednesday.”
“You’re telling me that I have to drive with that thing (pointing to the head on the grill) on my car??? On the road; in front of people?!”
“They decorate their cars like this in Texas you know….” That cop quickly shut up after that slipped out of his mouth.
I wished I had my camera that day. So did the police officers, but this was 1984 and no one had cell phones, I-phones, or anything with cameras attached–not even streets, so what happened then, stayed wherever it happened without proof. And that’s just how my mother liked it!
“Too bad we can’t get a picture of this,” one of the cops said, “just for our local town paper. Nothing exciting ever happens around here. And the kids would love this!”
Oh yes, there’s nothing like Rudolph’s dead head mounted to a car to cheer up the little kiddies on Christmas! In fact, let’s just tell all the kids my mother murdered Rudolph! Yeah, that will cheer up the kiddies in a fabulous way!
I could just see that headline…“The Woman with a Head for Fashion and Business Takes Off Rudolph’s Head in Road Rage!”
The other car was eventually lifted off the buck and towed to a junk yard to be put down like a deer. Since mother’s only problem with the car was a bizarre decoration– and a new grill that was ordered in time for Christmas– we were free to go.
No, cameras everywhere did not exist then, but everyone driving that day got a glimpse they no doubt still remember!
Yes, mother and I drove down the road to the Merritt Parkway and to the mall … with a giant, dead buck’s head attached to mother’s Cadillac grill. We celebrated Black Friday by killing and proudly displaying Rudolph.
Cars honked, men gave Mother the thumbs up, young guys hooted “You go Lady!” It was the 80’s, so left-wing, bleeding-hearted California PETA fanatics had not moved in to the state yet and hunting was still big every thanksgiving season. Plus most people here still had the brains to be Republicans and the good sense to eat meat and wear fur like normal human beings.
Everyone on the road that day naturally assumed mother was celebrating the holiday season by displaying her kill.
And yes, my grandfather was sooooo proud of his little girl!
Black Friday! Just the name says it all: Armies of crazed American shoppers converging on stores for the yearly pilgrimage of the Thanksgiving Shopping Jihad!
Yes, it’s that time of year when Wal-Mart store clerks are trampled to death by obese women wielding giant shopping carts and going into battle over the ugliest discounted items they would never be caught dead in, but must buy for the battle against other shopping jihadists they will blacken the eyes of in order to be the proud conqueror of a hideous, bright orange over-sized T-shirt.
Good grief! Even the terrorist Irish Republican Army, who will blow up your grandmother for any political reason and the right amount of money, wouldn’t go on a shopping jihad and trample innocent Wal-Mart workers!
Really, people, who the hell wears a bright orange T-shirt! Maybe someone on St. Patrick’s Day who hates the Irish! Or if you’re blind and don’t know what the hell you’re wearing because your family loves to mess with your blinded life by dressing you fugly.
Apparently the four female Wal-mart shoppers were arrested last year in my county for blackening each other’s eyes and ripping out hair weaves from their scalps.
The first combat was over that ugly orange T-shirt, and these jihad shopping women took their Wal-Mart mecca experience seriously. Seriously enough to threaten the lives of six police officers who were called in to come to the aid of the eight security guards who could not break up the fight between these two 60 year-old women who ham-fisted the security guard’s heads.
The photo of those two Shopping Jihadists said it all: Two white women, both 60 years-old, both built like teamsters, and looked like Teamsters with breasts. I call them female Wal-Mart shoppers.Oh please, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that! Do you really think you’ll find those women in Bergdorfs or Neiman Marcus even if they have the money? No, you can’t beat the crap out of each other over couture in those stores. The gay managers fight back like women and will take those women down faster than a hunter eying an eight point buck.
Both of the Teamster-esque styled women were dressed like teamsters even though they were not lesbians, and since both women were over the age of 40, both women had given up the beauty salon years-ago in favor of their husband’s barbers for that hair-cut all tough women—gay or straight—get when they hit 40: A man’s haircut that makes you look like a butch nun to fit your butch bitch attitude.
As to the white women’s husbands, well, they were locked into pushing and shoving mortal combat that included heavy four letter F-Bomb artillery.
The other two women were black and were in mortal combat in the Christmas Tree department. Those two women had literally pulled each other’s hair weaves out of their scalps! Apparently the fight was over tinsel.
According to the police, one woman accidentally grabbed a handful of tinsel she saw sticking out of the side of the tree, but the tinsel was not really tinsel—it was glittery, silver strands woven into the weave belonging to the other woman who thought she was being attacked and decided to fight back.
As to the black women’s husbands, they attempted to break up the fight between their shopping jihadists, but that led to a fight between the two men over “My wife’s hair is not tinsel!”
“Your wife ripped my wife’s hair out of her head!”
“Oh yeah, look at my wife! She’s bald! Now she needs new hair for Christmas!”
More cops were called and more cops–and shoppers– were injured when the four women decided to ban together against the cops and their husbands in the name of their god Black Friday.
And you thought the races can’t all get along! Women of every color know how to get along when it comes to killing for a discount! And shopping jihadists will kill in the name of the all visible fat guy in red.
I don’t think i need to explain why I never bother with Black Friday shopping or its discounts.
Weeks later I stopped into that Wal-Mart to purchase a normal colored (that would be black since it goes with everything) sweatshirt hoodie for winter and happened to ask the cashier about the Black Friday incident: “Oh, it was horrible!” The cashier replied in an awed tone. “They really beat each other up over ugly stuff. None of us knew what to do, they were violent!”
“You should have seen the hair pulling,” another cashier replied, “Those women ripped their weaves right out of each others heads! There were big bald patches on their heads!”
Everyone was shocked by the attack. In the meantime those four women were probably at home wrapping cheap ugly crap (and wearing head bandages) under a banner that read “Mission accomplished!”
The bizarre thing is you can get these items at discounts year round. You can go online or to shopping channels and find bigger and better deals. But that’s not what Black Friday is about: It’s about going on a shopping jihad, the pilgrimage to the Mecca of material goods and going into consumer combat just to acquire stuff you really don’t need—or want or you would have bought the stuff months before. It’s about exercising your obsession through pent up aggression over stuff.
It may be a psychological reaction to the tryptophan doped turkey combined with all those carbs, sugary deserts and too much wine. It turns adults into the criminal insane version of hyperactive children.
Black Friday combat and riots make Arab Spring look like an Irish soap commercial.
Live tonight 7 PM EST Lisa Richards Rock N Roll Politics talks live with PJ Media Editor David Swindle about William F. Buckley’s legacy and Conservatism http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lisarichardsradio/2013/11/26/lisa-richards-rock-n-roll-politics
Tune in live and listen in 45 minutes!
What Are We Thankful For? Christmas Friendship from a Whiskey Jug: A Christmas Memory that Shares What Thanksgiving is About
Did you ever receive a gift that changed you life forever? Sometimes the gift of friendship from a stranger becomes one of the most precious gifts received.
Back in the 1980s and early 1990s when my father was a church elder, he delivered gifts and supplies every November and December to a Kentucky Appalachian Holler parish run by Father Biding. It was on the first trip that Dad met a stranger whose friendship became a precious gift in the form of a whiskey jug.
This story lives strong in my family because it is not only the meaning of Christmas, but it is what Thanksgiving is about: Friendship, be it in your family or given by strangers.
Before dad arrived at the Kentucky parish, news had already spread through the Hollers about a stranger from the North who was delivering gifts and supplies to the people of the poor mountain region where visitors were few and friendship was only known amongst the Holler people. The people were excited; they wanted to meet this stranger from the North.
When Dad arrived at the Kentucky parish, the supplies and Christmas gifts were placed in a warehouse. There dad met a volunteer who told him how news of his arrival spread through the isolated and heavily impoverished Hollers. But most of the people were unable to hike down the mountains to the parish and meet dad. Many families were single mothers with small children and some too elderly to leave their homes. This meant dad and the volunteer would go to the people.
Thus, the hike up the Holler trails, into a place that would become forever remembered for friendship, began.
As dad and the Volunteer began their hike into the Hollers, the volunteer explained that hospitality would be abundant; the people were loving, warm, and friendly. However, there was generational illiteracy and generational poverty (Father Biding and his volunteers were working to reverse) caused by mountainous isolation and loss of jobs due to closed-down mills and mines. The volunteer told dad: “I know you’ll feel bad about accepting meals, but don’t turn these people down or feel you’re taking their food. These people have pride and they want to give. If they offer to cook you a meal, let them. It will mean the world. The people will speak of your visit for the rest of their lives. Your visit will be a gift of friendship to isolated people.”
When Dad and the volunteer arrived at the various homes, dad saw the saw bleak living conditions: Dirt floor shacks with plank-board walls. Newspaper was the only insulation the people had to cover walls and block out the cold. Running water was mostly non-existent in places: people hauled water from streams and cooked on wood burning stoves or in fireplaces. Material possessions were miniscule. Because rats were able to get into the homes, and the rats smelled milk on babies, mothers had no choice but to keep their babies inside cages to prevent rats from attacking the babies. Yet despite the poverty, the people welcomed dad, a stranger, into their homes with friendship and hospitality.
The last visit on that day would demonstrate further just how precious the gift friendship is to all human beings.
As Dad and the Volunteer continued through the wooded and mountainous Hollers, the men came upon a lonely shack on the side of the road. It was old, leaning to the side, and looked as if it was about to collapse. “This is the Holler church,” the Volunteer told Dad. The shack was very old and looked abandoned. And certainly it was not what dad, or anyone from outside the Hollers, would have assumed to be a church. As the men approached, the door of the shack opened and a young man walked out toward Dad and the Volunteer. The young man was excited; he raised his hands and shouted: “Praise God! Our visitor from the North has arrived! Welcome my friend, welcome to our beautiful church!”
The man was 30 years-old. He was tall, very thin, and his cloths were old and worn, but his joyful welcome was priceless: “Please, come and see our beautiful church!” The young pastor was elated that “a stranger from the North has come so far to visit my people and our beautiful Church. Please, come inside and see how the Lord has blessed us with great wealth!”
The dilapidated mountain shack was great wealth? Yes, to this pastor and the people of this Holler, this shack, and what was inside, was priceless.
Inside, the church floors were uneven and there wasn’t much except 20, old, folding chairs. It looked like a hovel, yet this friendly pastor excitedly told Dad: “I’m a rich man! God has blessed me greatly with wealth, just look!” The pastor reached up and pulled a string hanging from a light bulb. Electricity! The people of this Holler lacked electricity. “My people don’t have to sit in the dark during service anymore!”
Next, the pastor showed the greatest gift he had received for his people: “Look, someone gave our church a Bible! Now I can preach from the Bible! And we can pass the word around, and all can read it together. I’m a very rich man! And now God has blessed me again by bringing a new friend to our mountains to visit us! We are a blessed people!”
A single light bulb and a lone Bible shared by the people who could not afford to purchase Bibles, were all considered wealth to a man who lived a life of true material and financial poverty. But material possessions and money were not as priceless to this pastor as the few things he felt blessed his life and his people. And now friendship from a stranger was added to this young pastor’s “wealth.”
The pastor heard Dad was a church elder. Another reason the pastor couldn’t wait to meet Dad: he had a fellow man of God to spend the day with, to talk to about God, to read and study the Bible with. This young pastor was elated. The pastor and dad spent time together reading God’s Word and talking. This young pastor lacked financial means, therefore, all he could offer his people was his friendship through his preaching. This was something worth more than gold to isolated people—sharing Christ’s gift of friendship. Now it was being given to my father, who in turn, was giving a pricelss gift simply by visiting a stranger who cherished this friendship.
Before Dad left the Holler, the pastor wanted to give Dad a special gift: an old whiskey jug that had “been in my family since before the war.” By the war, the pastor meant the Civil War. The whiskey jug was an antique, it was priceless. The jug was part of the pastor’s family history. This man could have sold that priceless whiskey jug, but he wanted to give Dad a gift for “blessing me with your friendship.”
The antique whiskey jug was not as valuable to that young pastor as the gift of friendship from the stranger who spent the day visiting with him. Friendship, it meant more than money and material possessions. For my father, the whiskey jug’s meaning was more priceless than its actual worth: dad was a stranger who was welcomed in the Hollers like an old friend.
That first trip to the Hollers happened over 20 years-ago and has never been forgotten by my father and our family.
In my family’s home, on a table next to old family photos, sits the whiskey jug, a priceless gift, not because of the antique jug’s monetary value, but the gift of friendship it represents: Friendship from a pastor in the Kentucky Hollers to a stranger welcomed by the Holler people as a friend.
Friendship is a priceless gift we can all afford to give.