Books for Everyone!

Solstice 2021

50 Ways to Leave . . .

During my penning of THE GHOST in 2013, I’d become somewhat intricately, and inextricably, involved in assisting my editorial assistant and dear dear Friend with her personal grievance. I call it a personal grievance because the situation was rather personal, and it was a real grievance.

Unfortunately, she had no Grievance Form to fill out, just my shoulder to lean on. And lean on it she did, much with my consent and encouragement.

This peerless peer was worried, terrified at times, that the Young Adult Children in our lives would not know how to leave the bartering sponges they’d attracted to themselves. The Millennial Group had, and probably still has, more than its share of users, intermixed with the naive souls who want to be of use — which is not the same thing as being used, unintentionally or otherwise.

I’d had to explain this grievous match-up in the match game to my literary associate. She felt appalled at this “revelation”, somehow forgetting the romantic rip-off acts of her own past. Or maybe not!

I clearly had not forgotten those of mine! My auditory memory recalled major portions of the soundtracks of soured sweet-hearts who weren’t sweet at all, and who’d had no hearts!

“Do you think our Children are too good for their own good?” Dear Worry-Wart inquired of me.

I commented, “I do not know if there is such a thing as being too good for your own good, but their good vastly outweighs that of the Other.”

Gasp. Horror. Trepidation.

I was sternly advised by this hovering and overly protective parent to perform a 1st responder deed of daring to intervene in the intimate calamity of a young adult child who needed to grow up, and unavoidably would, through the cuts, bruises, and perhaps even scars — of being roughed up in the Love Arena.

“Otherwise,” she warned me, “Dire consequences would occur . . . You are THE MOTHER, after all. You must intervene!”

“No. I will not short-circuit life’s lessons to anyone, but especially to my own Adult Child.”

It was my consistent, persistent and unyielding position that because I am The Mother, after all, that it’s my duty to stand back, way way back, and to let life teach anyone over 21, heck, over 25(!) — the lessons of life, and of the heart. Dear dear friend did not have the courage of my convictions.

There was also within my friend a noticeable lack of faith and confidence in the Young Adult Children of today, hers, mine, theirs, anyone’s — to make their way to . . . tomorrow. I pondered, at times, whether she was one of Those Parents with an App to track her offspring, but her loathing of Computerized Anything precluded that kind of snooping.

“But,” she implored me, “How will They know how to leave their . . . Pally Friends?”

“Haven’t you heard of the 50 ways?”

Sudden laughter erupted, and she realized I probably was right: There Must Be Fifty Ways to Leave Your . . . Whatever. Now if only They’d get started today, or yesterday!

Mr. Paul Simon is not one of my favorite recording artists, but he did pen a clever composition in the 1970s, when there were, without a doubt, more than 50 ways to leave your non-loving lover. I have thought often of this song, during the past two years or so, concerning the prisoners of the Nanny State — everywhere — around the world. Those free citizens wished to leave their Nanny-State Mother, who ain’t much of a lover.

The road to being surveillanced has been paved with bad intentions, and with the citizen paving that way with cellular compliance!

You, Hovering Mother, are not Following The Kids: The Nanny-State Hag is following You!

You’re the bull-eye in COVID-Bingo, and the sweepstakes are big-big-big for the Pigs in the Corporate and Government Piles.

I therefore present the slightly modified Verses of Mr. Simon, along with a complete re-write of his snappy chorus from “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover”. This long-overdue advice is offered — free of charge — to the overly prescribed peoples of the Planet, presently pissed-off at the political prisons into which they feel they have been entrapped.

The sleazy political whores are the ones trapped in their own prisons of greed, venality, stupidity and corruption. They’ve sold whatever was left of their souls to the big-pharma devils. Every one of those toxic snooty hypocrites inhabits a 21st-century form of Dr. Josef Mengele-Land. That evil Nazi worm in a white coat has been replicated, worldwide, into gain-of-function grotesqueries, bewigged and bedeviled by their own internal infernal infamies against people, dogs, cats, any life form that will exponentially increase The Funding.

Who could have thought, or imagined, that the Angel of Death would return by the 21st century in the form of government ghouls with their monomania, their meglomania, their mucho and fully taxpayer-paid laboratories, their non-scientific scientists, their mercenary fake-modelers, their anti-medical doctors, their anti-human parasites feeding off of us??

They’re freaks, all of them, mutations and variants of real human beings. Heartless, bloodless, conscience-less, they are abortions of humanity, those devotees of the culture of death that Adolf Hitler and the Nazis initially displayed to all the world about 80 years ago.

Lest we forget, that macabre history composes much of my opus, THE DAWN. My dear dear friend and editorial assistant knew only too well the days and nights that I poured my heart, my soul, my life, into that work; and, then, into its translation into the French, L’AUBE.

Only to look up, during 2020 and 2021 — and to witness the appalling actions of modern-day science-gone-evil through socialized medicine gone broke and maniacally amuck. With abhorrence, I observed the putrid monstrosities and miscreants of “government”, as we in the free world today must call the Official Imposition of so much chaos, ineptitude, crime, and misery created by the crassly arrogant buffoons and vulgar puppets who comprise the Elected and Non-Elected Elites.

Those crude and lewd corporate shills might even believe they lord over All of Us. Lord have mercy on them, but I doubt He will. The chains of Marley’s ghost aren’t heavy enough for their callous and casually committed abominations against the masses they despise.

We, The Patients — We the People — need to find only 1 of the 50 ways to leave our Nanny. She’s been diagnosed as criminally mad by any competent practitioner of real medicine, and by the sane among us. Nanny needs to go away, far far away, for a long, long, long time.

The only surefire remedy, which is a time-tested and completely 100% proven effective treatment, comes in the form of this musical prescription:

Fifty Ways

"The problem is all inside your head," he said to me.

"The answer is easy if you take it logically

I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free

There must be fifty ways to leave your Nanny.”

He said, “It’s really not my habit to intrude

Furthermore, I hope my meaning won’t be lost or misconstrued

But I shall repeat myself at the risk of being crude
There must be fifty ways to leave your Nanny.”

Just hack into your App, Jack

Get rid of those ring-tones, Joan

You don’t need to be tracked-and-traced, Grace,

Then you’ll get yourself free.

Scotch the automated bells, Kell,

You don’t need their cyber-hell

Just drop that device on dry ice

And you’ll get yourself free.

He said, “It grieves me

To see you in so much phoney pain

I wish there was something I could do

To help you think again.”

I said, “I appreciate that.

Would you please explain

About those fifty ways?”

He said, “Why don’t we both

listen to Nigel tonight

And I believe by solstice

You’ll begin to see the light.”

Then he tossed out my digital device

And I realized he probably was right

There must be fifty ways

To leave your Nanny:

“You just hack into your App, Jack

Get rid of those ring-tones, Joan

You don’t need to be tracked-and-traced, Grace,

Just get yourself free.

Scotch the automated bells, Kell,

You don’t need their cyber-hell

Drop that device on thin ice

And you shall be — free.”