Purity balls

I miss the good old days.

Days when I could explore neighborhoods new to me in my windowless (for better SPF) van, hand out free penny candy to the kids, let them ride with me and stand proclaimed a friend to all, the Sugar Trust and Big Insulin not least.

Now both the candy and the petrol cost ten times as much, and I have to purchase special child-restraint safety seats, goggles, gas masks and liability insurance to protect me from the kids, their laser-pointers, their Pokemon-pencil pepper-spray and their attorneys on dual retainer since their parents' respective crackups.

I miss the days when I could stroll into the local apothecashandcarry, ask the fountain girl to pop (non-Midwest: soda) a cherry phosphate for me, and while I waited stride manfully over to the druggist, look him squarely in his beady good eye, add on an order for a coke and know that his product line in bottle form mirrored lines of the sort that seventy years later would require the use of a mirror.

I miss the days when an "all-day sucker" was something sweet indeed, of sugar almost as fine as that spun by its latter-damesake the amphed-up neighborhood meth-head paying off her weekly tabs from dawn to dusk and from one dopily-grinning dealer after another, with the vener(e)able coin of barter.

I miss the days when a black wolf could whistle at a white woman without having to live in fear of being dragged off in the night by a gang of ruffians sporting white sheets, in the form of syllabus-bearing bearded pedagogues – men, too – from the local Department of Gender Studies, for a lecture on the presumed evils of that fellowcentrism without which none of the called and chosen monuments to the mind of upthrust engorged throbbing man these last ten thousand years, from the Great Wall and the Eiffel Tower to the Chrysler Building and the





RKO Transmitter, from the Space Needle to the William J. Clinton Presidential Library and InternAtional Antenna (the latter projected, as it were, as an expansion, so to speak, with the otherwise atypical uppercase A, initially a typo, retained after its likeness to the blueprints, and, per waggish insiders, to its dedicatee in at least one regard, was discerned), would have stood half so elect as all-reaming towers of Pisa, as forward-marching back-to-front Arse-an'-alls of Cockocracy. 

Before the Sexual Revolution, when the deviants with their diseases and divorces, the polyamorous polymorphs and the priapic perverts fled their sweaty bohemian ghettoes and made of every paperback rack and video vendor from Times Square to Bel Air their diabolic diaspora, blackening the golden slumbers of those among us content to keep the defilers of the nation's youthful bodily fluids where they belonged, behind a severely-policed cordon sanitaire running the churches, the schools, the police and the armed forces, the Fortune 500, the White House and both houses of Congress, the Supreme Court, the General Assembly of the United Nations, the promised or threatened afterlife, and, overseeing them all, of course, the world banking cartel.

Annuit cœptis, we ask ourselves, from seeing you sooner?

I know that bringing those good old days back from the state garage with my impounded van will be worth every last drop of inflationists' penny candy with which I can resume my probationary rounds as Goodwill (or at least Damnation Army, that short-shriftiest of thrift stores) Embarrassor to the rising generation, and I won't rest until the name

             Do make me come up there

"Uncle DSL." is as familiar from story and song among The Children Our Future ™ and their





spiritual hangmen as those of Uncle Sam and that Eng to his Chang, Old Scratch.