The Why:

I must admit, I am not looking forward to this job. I would've told them to shove it, but I didn't fancy the image of my mangled corpse being dropped into the wilderness to become the last few calories the bears needed before they hibernate for the winter. That is what they do to anyone who crosses them. So, here I am. Who knew that the real power controlling EVERYTHING is even darker than the illuminati, Free Masons, Taylor Swift and RNC put together? Fuck, the real power holders in the world make the illuminati, Masons, Taylor Swift, and RNC look like a bunch of newborn puppies. All I know is that if I want to live and avoid having my family gutted and then hung by their entrails from the oak tree in my front yard like a morbid pinata for my disobedience, I must now do the work of the right hand of Satan himself, those twisted, evil, sadistic master manipulators of the world, the Girl Scouts of America!

The Why:

When I asked them why I was supposed to do the job I was given, the forest green and UPS-Brown clad pony-tailed wearing little imps broke my wrist for my insolence by backing over it with their den mother's Chevy Suburban. I was then informed that their reasons are their own and they weren't revealing anything about their master plan. All I was given was the details of the job along with the threat of a slow torturous death for me and my loved ones should I fuck this up or get caught. So, here I am. If anyone finds this, please WARN THE WORLD! The Girl Scouts are the greatest evil on Earth! How else can they charge an ever increasing amount of money for a box of Thin Mints? No one in their right minds would pay $10 for a box of Thin Mints or Peanut Butter Patties! And they raise the prices EVERY year yet, we mindlessly drop a month's wages on their cookies that're baked with love in the fires of HELL! I never believed in black magic before, but the way we line up to buy Samoas by the case like zombified Type 2 diabetics, we must be under the demonic influences of dark rites and spells.

The Who:

The Assignment: Observe and document the activities of one Shallow Gene Pool. Pool is a white male approximately 50 years of age. In appearance, I'd describe him like this: Imagine if Curley of the Three Stooges, Mr. Burns of the Simpsons, and Uncle Fester of the Addams Family had a hedonistic, orifice expanding, body fluid exchanging one night stand and through the power of this unholy act a child was conceived as an afront to nature. That child abomination would be the exact doppelganger of Pool.

Pool has 4 children, 3 boys, 1 girl, and a shockingly beautiful wife. Curious as to how Pool landed such a beauty, I utilized my biological sample gathering equipment and managed to get a few urine samples from her. The results came back clean every time, so he isn't drugging her to keep her trapped in hellacious matrimony. Maybe he's hung like a bull elephant? Doubtful I know, but it is the only hypothesis that makes any sense.

Pool is a social worker, meaning he and his family live in border line poverty. In fact, he's so broke I doubt he can pay attention. Anyway, he seems fairly proficient at his job, which is just as shocking as his ability to snag a hottie for a wife. I thought at best he'd be able to hold down work where common sense and intelligence aren't required, like at the DMV or FOX News. It just goes to show that you can't determine if your toilet paper is single or double-ply until its out of the package and you use it. Pool is surprisingly double-ply in his vocational abilities. Oh he's the off brand, newspaper soft, double-ply, kind of toilet tissue, but he's double-ply none the less.

The Where:

Pool lives in California's San Joaquin Valley, or as it is called by locals, "The Place Where Cows, Meth, and Orchards are Plentiful, but Hope and Intelligence are in VERY Short Supply." This place is truly a black hole of despair and apathy. I figure that my time in California's foul perineum of a valley will cost me at least 15 IQ points that I'll never regain.

The How:

In order to monitor Pool's every move I set up recording devices, cameras, and even DNA gathering equipment in his home, office, and vehicle. Once my spy equipment was in place and tested, I began to do the bidding of those diabolical, cookie dealing, freckled faced little imps.

Entry #1 Monday, 11/4/24: Pool's Work Week

Pool's work week begins just like most people's. First he showers. This immediately nullified my theory that his wife is married to him because he's hung like a pachyderm. Truth be told, in terms of his phallus, Pool's meat missile endowment can best be described as being somewhere between that of light switch and ingrown hair.

After dropping off 1 child at school, Pool drives to the office. To my surprise, Pool possesses a fair amount of road rage. In fact, his ability to use profanity in creative ways is one of the few talents he possesses! Not only is he able to draw from a vast pool of foul language, he is able to utilize it with what can only be described as a Shakespearian eloquence. Some of my favorite examples:

"Nothing Says, 'I have a micro-penis' like a raised pickup, ASS HOLE! Not sure if your Uncle Ben's Status short grain dick can even do the job, but PLEASE DON'T PROCREATE!"

"That is a handicapped spot, you're parking your Mercedes in lady and I don't see a blue placard or handicapped sign on your plate! Having a hyper-sensitive gag reflex doesn't make you disabled! It just makes your husband chronically fucking disappointed! Maybe blue balls would qualify HIM for the disabled parking placard you insensitive, ableist cunt!"

"Instant Idiot. Just add motorcycle. Gotta love it. The way you ride that thing you're gonna Darwin natural selection your stupid ass out of the gene pool, motherfucker. Cheaper for the cleanup crew too, I'm guessing. All that's needed is a spatula and a trash bag and your carcass is no longer a road or genetic hazard."

Arriving at work Pool finds his way through the cubicle jungle to his own personal 3 walls of despair. From here, he social works for a couple of hours, spends his lunch break sobbing under his desk while curled in the fetal position, and either does paperwork or goes on a home visit. Of course, HIPPA laws prohibit me from providing any information about his home visits. Let's just say that he seems to stumble through them in a frenzied kind of mediocrity, but at the end of the day, the families seem happy. Either that or they feel so sorry for him that they can't bring themselves to complain.

Upon returning home, Pool helps with dinner, helps get his 4 crotch goblins off to bed and settles in for the night.

Entry #4-5 Tuesday, 11/5/24 to 11/8/24: Pool's Work Week

Apparently, Pool is a music snob. He blasts everything from Mudvayne to Led Zeppelin during his commute and while doing paperwork. I call him a snob because as he has explained to his coworkers, if he hears that someone likes country music his distaste is made known by gagging and he experiences a compelling need to warn the person about the dangers of inbreeding. By way of apology he then explains that he barely escaped the trailer park once and now if he hears just a single guitar twang he's afraid that his Johnny Cash/Hank Williams/Willie Nelson related PTSD would likely cause him to have a single-wide flash back resulting in him assaulting whatever or whoever is producing the music all the while screaming, "Die you ring of fire falling, no talent hillbilly, yellow rose loving cousin fuckers and return to the truck stop in Hell from which you came!"

Other than that, nothing new to report. Pool is in a rut and apparently too dense to realize it. In fact, his routine could put people in medically-induced comas. In order to stay awake, I've managed to convert an insulin pump into a caffeine delivery device feeding me a steady flow of Red Bull that keeps me awake until Pool blessedly falls asleep.

Entry #6 The Weekend Saturday, 11/6/24

And the boredom continues. Pool's weekend consists of doing chores, giving his kids money, and Detroit Lions football (in California? weird). Once the 4 cum fruit go to bed and are fast asleep, Pool gets a bit randy. Most of the time Mrs. Pool reminds him that it is this very behavior that resulted in the afore mentioned cum fruit. I guess the thought of more mouths to feed acts as an anti-aphrodisiac, because Mr. Pool immediately stops humping the leg of Mrs. Pool.

Now let me say for the record, that I draw the line at snooping in the bedroom, but unfortunately, one night I forgot to turn off the audio feed in Pool's bedroom. What I heard by accident was enough to make me take a vow of celibacy, because just the thought of physical intimacy makes my want to toss my store-brand (NOT Girl Scout) cookies.

I get that sex is a free for all when it comes to groans, sighs, and (if you're doing it right), squeals. Pretty much anything goes during the Squishy-Squishy Yum-Yum. However, the sounds that I heard were the stuff of nightmares. For example:

Goat bleating (not real goat, thank you Jeebus) was a significant part of their coupling.

At some point Mr. Pool cried out, "I am the LOVE MONKEY! Let me partake of your sweet, ripe banana while you swing from my vine!"

For some ungodly reason, the couple started singing, "I've Been Workin' On the Railroad" during their copulation.

There were other sounds of varied pitch, length, and intensity that I cannot quite identify, for which I am grateful. However, I found myself experiencing a skull crushing headache accompanied by bleeding from my nose and ears as their love noises reached a body fluid exchanging crescendo. Strangely enough, according to the morning news, the exact moment the Pool's lovemaking reached its maximum sonic dissonance (11:23 PM Pacific Time) several pods of dolphins simultaneously beached themselves up and down the California coast. I'd like to think that my nose and ear bleeding was coincidence, but I cannot find a reasonable explanation as to why hundreds of sea mammals committed mass, synchronized suicide at the exact same moment.

This assignment is going to drive me to madness. Maybe I should just pray for a quick death in the Girl Scout's Thin Mint oven. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

I'm still not sure why I was chosen to be the first to ever journey into the vast and turbulent fuckery of my own mind, but there I stood with my wife. I was surprised when I was told that I could bring a guest. My wife, Sweetie (not her real name of course, because she'd kill me if she could be linking in any way to my writing) was the obvious choice I figured that she more than anyone else deserves to get some answers as to why I find the topics of trailer parks and human sexuality FUCKING HILARIOUS. Now, if you were to combine trailer parks and human sexuality into one topic, I would probably laugh until my sphincter prolapsed leading me to slowly bleed out as I chortled, giggled, and cackled into a blood loss induced state of brain death.

Well, there we stood my wife's dainty hand in mine, in front of the quietly buzzing portal that swirled with multicolored lights that kind of made me wonder if this is what a person on an LSD trip sees when they try to eat a handful of Skittles mixed with M&M's and Lucky Charms marshmallows. We'd been told that this miracle of modern science before us would transport us into the recesses of my mostly irregular, far from the acceptable operating standards of a healthy human mind ready to go where no one should really want to go in the first place.

Strangely enough, considering the scientific wonder that was about to happen, there was a surprising lack of fanfare as we stood there. In fact, all the lead scientist did was tell us to go with an indifferent waive of his hand. It reminded me of the way you might waive your hand at your waitress at Denny's when she comes to offer a refill of your coffee while your mouth is stuffed with the last bite of your Grand Slam Breakfast. So, without further adieu or adon't for that matter, we stepped into the portal.

Now, let me say that the trip into my mind was a bit anticlimactic. One second we're in a lab within the bowels of Whatsa-Matta-U College of Science and Technology (located in Frostbite Falls, Minnesota of course) and the next we're in this weird hallway lined with doors of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The floor was carpeted in that split pea soup green shag carpeting that was popular in 1970's. To our surprise, we weren't alone because in the middle of the hallway stood a little leprechaun-sized man who looked EXACTLY like Curley of the Three Stooges.

"Welcome to your wee whittle bwain," he exclaimed stepping forward with a smile that was just a bit too happy.

First, the strange little stooge stepped up to me and gave my hand a firm shaking and then he kissed me full on the mouth. While I tried to remove the Curley slobber from my face, and the Curley taste off my tongue the little perv turned his attention to my wife. He didn't offer her a handshake. Instead, he immediately attached himself to my Sweetie's leg like a horny barnacle and proceeded to vigorously dry hump her leg. Of course, I jumped in to save her, but I didn't have to do much because with a practiced movement of her arm, she grabbled little Curley by his littler Curley and gave it a good twist. To no one's surprise, Curley immediately lost all enthusiasm for adding a stain to her jeans and dropped to his knees.

"What'd ya do that for!" he groaned as he tried to untwist little Curley.

"I figured if it works for the whole you when you get a bit randy, it'd probably work for whatever the fuck you are," my wife replied while checking to make sure that her new Levi's were Curley cum free.

"Okay," I said, trying to sound mature, "I think you need to control yourself and who exactly are you?"

"I'm the most responsible voice in your head, so I was elected to be your guide." Curley replied, cautiously and very gingerly moving away from the missus.

"GREAT!" My wife and I responded in stereo.

"Geez. Think ya would be a little grateful to have someone to help you get through the cluster fuck wrapped in a gorilla circle jerk that is your psyche." Curley whined, his feelings somehow hurt.

"Maybe we should get on with it," my wife said motioning to the hallway and all the doors. "What exactly is this place."

"This my dear," Curley said with a theatrical waive of his pudgy hand, "Is your hubby's, "Hall of Important Stuff. Everything that he values is behind these doors and it's all organized by category."

"You'd think there'd be labels on the doors," my wife said approaching an ebony black door with a skull door knob.

"I wouldn't..." Curley gasped trying to stop my missus from opening door.

It was too late, because with the same quickness she used to grab Curley's berries she grabbed the door knob and pulled the door wide open and was greeted by a thunderous wall of noise. The force was such that it knocked the wee horny bastard poor off his feet and like a music grenade sent him flying about twenty yards further down the hallway.

"I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL"....." "I SEE A LITTLE SILHOUETTO OF A MAN SCARAMOUCHE, SCARAMOUCHE, WILL YOU DO THE FANDANGO"....."FAIRIES WEAR BOOTS YEAH YA GOTTA BELIEVE ME..."

Pummeled by rock lyric's, it took all of my petite Irish wife's strength to get the door closed. With the sonic bulldozer finally contained, Curley was able to stand up on his pudgy little legs. Any enthusiasm the little perv may have had left was officially gone. Now, he stared daggers at Sweetie.

"That is your hubby's music lyric room," he grumbled as he made his way towards us wiping his bald brow. "It's totally useless, but pretty fucking encyclopedic at the same time. PLEASE ask before you open another door! This hallway is filled with stuff that is worthless to us, but it can still be VERY dangerous!"

"How about this door," I asked pointing to a multi-colored door.

"That's one of my favorite's," Curley replied. "Go ahead."

So, expecting the worst, I opened the door and was greeted by, "Rabbit Season!...." "Duck Season!...." I'd obviously found my Looney Toons room. Sweetie was quick to point out that there was a lot more looney toons to me than could be found in that room.

The tour continued from there. Curley was an adept guide and quickly pointed out the more dangerous parts of my mind. The biggest danger by far was the great void that was my intellect. He explained that my stupidity was so intense it was starting to become a vacuum and there was real fear amongst the voices and my personal demons that called my mind home that they could all be sucked into the void's vast nothingness. The running theory was that if I ever reached the watches FOX News level of stupid the void would expand into a vast black hole that would first pull in the various elements of my psychosis and eventually gain enough strength to draw in all life on Earth and eventually the entire planet.

From there Curley led us through this sad little cemetery. Ever the sensitive soul, Sweetie couldn't help bust ask who was buried there. Curley explained in a solemn tone that the cemetery was the resting place for all of my dreams that had died.

As we made our way through the maze of headstones one grave site caught Sweetie's eye because it was covered with fresh flowers and lit candles surrounded the burial mound. Curley explained that this was probably the saddest broken dream of all and he didn't want to talk about it. However, after Sweetie threatened him with another twist of his little Curley he explained that the departed dream died the day my puberty ended. Surprisingly, the memory of that tragic dream brought a tear to our guide's eye as he told his tale. The dream he explained with a sob and a sniffle was that I would achieve at least an average sized penis, but it was a foolish dream because I was Irish and small even by Irish standards. More than a wee bit uncomfortable remembering this long departed dream, I couldn't help but look over at Sweetie. Of course, her eyes held more than just a single tear, and unable to hold back the loss, she sobbed and wailed for what could have been. However, as far as I was concerned that dream need not be remembered and I was ready to move the fuck on.

Eventually, we came to a trailer park at the end of a gravel road. The trailers were run down and of the single wide variety. County fair midway prize tapestries depicting Quiet Riot, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Confederate flags hung limply in dirty windows. Their frayed and faded polyester functioned as curtains hiding their denizens from the light while filtering out the smell of cheap cigarettes and charred grilled government cheese sandwiches. More than a few trailers had rusted Camaros and Pintos up on blocks in the front yard. The dismal air in the trailer park was filled with the smell of a septic system that was stretched beyond it's structural tolerances and somewhere the depressing silence was broken by Free Bird's endless guitar solo For some reason, Curley seemed nervous and put a finger to his lips warning us to be quiet.

It must've looked like Sweetie and I were going to say something because Curley, whispered, "This is where the other voices that live in your head and your personal demons live," he explained while looking around nervously.

"I don't want to disturb them because I owe half of them child support and the other half are pissed because I said that Jeff Foxworthy isn't funny and that a dating website catering to first cousins is A BAD idea," he explained in hushed tones.

Taking his lead, we quietly left the trailer park behind and after what seemed like forever we found ourselves in what looked like a huge art museum. The paintings on the wall seemed to express all of my emotions from the blah all the way through hatred.

"This is where your emotions are housed," Curley explained. "Each painting depicts an emotional response to an event in your life. Everything is categorized. Joy with joy, horny with randy, angry with angry etcetera," he noted taking on the tone of snobbish. EuroTrash.

Sweetie walked along examining the paintings. When she got to shame, she noticed that there were a few paintings that were covered up.

"What are these?" she asked gesturing towards the covered paintings.

"Oh those," Curley chucked. "Those depict times when premature ejaculation led to a bit of disappointment for her and spoiled the mood for all involved. Pretty embarrassing, so the artists are taking their time, so unlike your hubby, they're not finished yet."

"Moving on," I grumbled as Sweetie chuckled.

At the end of the museum stood a huge gate with a sign above it that read, "To Go Out of Your Mind, Exit Here."

"Well, that's your mind. Such as it is." Curley said pointing towards the gate. "I'd like to say it's been fun, but I can't. I'm gonna be walking funny for a week thanks to your wife AND NOT FOR A FUN REASON!"

With no reason or desire to delay our departure, Sweetie and I stepped through the gate and found ourselves back in the lab. Of course, the scientists were there waiting to poke and prod us. Apparently everything came back normal and we were allowed to leave.

As we were leaving, I couldn't help but overhear the scientists, Dr. Badenov and Dr. Fatale chuckle.

"Going off half-cocked," Badenov chuckled. "Hasn't Shallowgenepool heard that you gotta think about baseball?"

"His poor wife," Dr. Fatale said in sympathetic agreement.

Isn't most of life a matter of perspective? For example, for some a good, firm spanking is a reasonable punishment for bad behavior. For others a good, firm spanking is a reasonable reward and the perfect way to end a Saturday night.

Do grizzly bears see camping tents the way we see the plastic wrapper on a microwavable burrito? Oh sure they can be a bit of a pain to open, but the warm, high calorie yumminess on the inside is worth the trouble. Although there is one small drawback. No one ever includes a packet of Tapatio sauce inside the package to add a little spiciness to the overall eating experience.

Has anyone actually seen someone buy one of the 5 pound fruitcake bricks sold at Costco during the holidays? I've always imagined that after the holidays they get shipped by the ton to small developing countries to be used as hurricane proof building materials.

Why don't funeral homes offer funny t shirts as a clothing option for the deceased? For example:

-Wanna See My Stiffy?

-Yesterday Was The Last Day Of The Rest Of My Life

-AHHHHH WHO DECOMPOSED? Somebody Light A Fucking Match!

I've Been To The Mortuary, Was Embalmed, And All I Got Was This Lousy Fucking T Shirt

-I Left My Entire Fortune To My Favorite High Priced Prostitute

-My Last Wish Is That During Cremation, Blue Oyster Cult's, "I'm Burning For You" Gets Played In The Background For Mood Music.

Travel Tip: The only music stations you get on the highway to hell play nonstop country music and at the end of every off ramp is a Walmart, Taco Bell, and your in-law's house.

Why do they call it Social Media when it makes me want to fake my own death, move to a small hut in the forest, and disappear from society in favor of making friends with woodland creatures?

Those who claim to be Christians...Have they READ their instruction manual? Because from what I've seen they collectively missed all those chapters on loving their neighbors, not judging, and giving to those in need.

Should I keep what I'd do for a Klondike Bar to myself because I think it could result in criminal prosecution?

Is it just me or are the most incapable, stupid, completely devoid of common sense, and most given to fucking things up for everyone people the most fertile?

Dear Big Guy(s) or Big Girl(s) or Big Guy(s) and Girl(s) in the sky,

This letter is to inform you that your services are no longer required or desired. Of course, it isn't easy to end this love-hate-wipe out entire populations because you get your celestial knickers tied in a knot relationship that has spanned millennia, but we both want different things and we've been going in different directions for quite a while now. WelI, can't say it's been fun, in fact, it's been downright dangerous to be involved in this relationship with you, but it's time for us to cut our losses and say, "Goodbye." For the record, it's not us, it's YOU that's the problem!

Now, before you start whining about what you'll do without us, let me just say that you haven't been truly invested in a healthy, loving relationship, in well...ever. You don't communicate, you're moody and prone to extreme violence, you're neglectful in your responsibilities, and you've allowed country music to exist. Don't believe me? Well here's some things that've led to this breakup.

1. You don't communicate clearly. How can we know what you want unless you take the time to tell us. Oh, and talking bushes, the Virgin Mary's image in a piece of toast, and the books that are supposedly your word don't count as effective communication! You haven't used the burning bush thing since the Bronze Age and even then, it was only seen by one guy! The image of the Virgin Mary in a piece of toast, stigmata, and crying statues aren't a big deal. I once had a fried potato skin that looked like Mount Rushmore. It doesn't mean that Abe Lincoln is trying to send me a message about how he doesn't like how his birthday is used an excuse to sell Toyotas at, "Prices that'll assassinate the factory MSRP." The holy books? Well, first they read like stereo instructions. Second, books can be manipulated and changed to coincide with the whims of those in power. So, it's only logical that the King James translation of the bible is very monarch/keeping the elite in power friendly. There's no way to insure that we're getting the real low down on God's will. Ya Dig?

2. Your moody and violent when angry. Floods that wipe out all creation, fire and brimstone that destroys cities, and back to back hurricanes show that you're not exactly even handed. I mean, what's up with Florida and the back to back hurricanes? Does the South owe you money or something? Look, I'm no fan of the states where it was once okay for people to own people, but picking on Florida? Florida is the state equivalent of that kid that got dropped on his head repeatedly as a newborn. Give our country's limp phallus a break. Picking on someone too intellectually impaired to fight back is just plain mean.

3. You're a deadbeat parent. Look, I get it that us mortal adults do bad stuff so we deserve what we get. The wage of sin is death and all that. BUT CHILDREN? It makes ZERO sense that a 2 year old has to fight cancer or dies needlessly in a war. What great sin can a 2 old commit that is deserving of death by cancer or a bomb? These deaths are pointless. If you are indeed omnipotent and omniscient, fix it! Oh, don't give me that, "We mortals suffer so that we can learn to be better people b.s." If you are creator of the universe then you created a faulty product. Punishing children so that their faulty parents learn a lesson is totally denying responsibility for the faulty product YOU created and needlessly making innocents suffer. Besides, if you know everything, why allow faulty mortals to leave the factory to begin with? I mean, Ford didn't intentionally design the Pinto to explode when rear ended. If they knew that would happen before the car hit the sales lot they would've changed the design so that the issue was fixed, right?

So, humanity is slowly breaking up with you, God(s). Churches are hemorrhaging members who figure out that their worth can only be found in the collection plate and that the lessons they're being taught from the pulpit run contrary to the values and actions of presidential candidate the pastor is demanding that they vote for. The Old Testament sadism that led to the wholesale slaughter of (if it to be believed) the entire human race minus an incestuous family on a boat is being seen for what it is. Finally, humanity has started to figure out that no amount of wisdom to be gained is worth the death of children who're too young to even say, "Sin" let alone commit such an act.

I'd like to say it's we're sorry to end this, but after enduring centuries of genocide, slavery, war, rapine, and cruelty, I can't. Your suitcase is packed and the Uber has been called. We wish you luck, but please stay out of the business of creating sentient beings because you're not very good at it.

My mind is a lunatic's attic, filled with the rusty, dusty, moldy, moth-eaten, cracked, and bent brick-a-brac of foolishness, folly, and general fuckery. It needs to be cleaned out, but who knows, I might need that list of synonyms for, the word, "Penis" that I've carefully curated and committed to memory someday.

My name is, Smith and I'm a homicide detective. I've seen all kinds of death, but what I witnessed today was a first. The call was a body found at the Single Arms Apartments. It's one of those 1-2-3 complexes that cater to twice divorced men. You know, the bastards that marry once for love, twice for lust, and thanks to divorce lawyers, work three jobs to pay for the consequences in alimony and child support.

I arrived at the scene to find our M.E scratching his head. The body hadn't been moved yet. The victim's feet hung just above the floor, his obviously new jeans still around his ankles. The rest of his body lay backwards on his bed. His rigor-mortised face was strangely red.

"Hey, Bob, whatcha got?" I asked.

"Hi Smith," He grumbled. "Third one this week."

"Really?" I asked. "This makes a third murder?"

"Not murders." Bob replied. "Three middle-aged bastards who gave themselves heart attacks trying to squeezing their fat asses into skinny jeans.

Suddenly, it made sense. When will poor middle-aged bastards realize that no amount of skinny jeans can retrieve their youth especially when you add loneliness and a diet of microwavable burritos.

Not sure if the challenge is supposed to be about the occult or a cult, so I'll mix it up.

I am just so tired of the stereotyping! Look folks. Wiccans aren't wicked, evil, spawns of Satan! We don't fly around on broomsticks wearing ruby slippers harassing members of the Lullaby League and Lollipop Guild! We're being religiously profiled!

So, to all those members of the Manson Family, STOP leaving your kids on our doorsteps to be raised as spawns of the devil! If you want your kids to be raised to be evil, drop them at the Scientology headquarters, the RNC offices, DMV, or an NRA convention!

Oh, and to whatever motherfucker keeps trying to drop a Kansas farmhouse on my head and hitting me with buckets of water...Try it again and you'll be hearing from my lawyer!

"Stuck in limbo, are ya? Maybe next time you'll stretch before attempting to go under that damn stick. Dead or not, if you're not careful you're bound to throw your back out. Too bad you won't find a chiropractor around here, what with the shady way they do billing and all. I'm sure they've earned a place in Hell and will be forced to spend eternity adjusting Lucifer's lumbar region."

I loved the big money challenge prompt, but have no chance of winning, so why not post for fun.

Prologue

Why do people write autobiographies? I mean, our lives begin and end pretty much the same way with just some minor variations. It all starts when the tub we’ve been soaking in (complete with room service) for 9 months suddenly starts to drain. As the last drop of amniotic fluid in the womb tub disappears, it signals the end of our tenure as mommy’s favorite parasite. Suddenly, we find our bodies being uncomfortably squeezed downwards and experience the feeling of our still soft skulls being compressed to just short of their maximum structural tolerances. Next, infant us find ourselves being evicted from the only world we’ve ever known kicking and screaming through an orifice that seems to be 3 sizes too small. Finally, we are forced into this harshly bright new world, weak, helpless and covered in blood, fluid, and our own waste. In death, we experience the universe’s sick sense of irony because in the process of dying we once again find ourselves weak, helpless, often toothless, and in an embarrassing case of deja-poo, our own waste.

So, if the beginning and the end of life are nearly identical in their messiness and excretions, maybe the universe is more interested in what lies between her banally similar mortal book ends. After all, that seems to be where the real action happens. It’s where we get free reign to for better or worse. become who we are. It is here where:

· We’re educated first by our parents and family, television, then by school, graffiti written on the inside doors of bathroom stalls, and finally by experience.

· We learn to love in all its depth and technicolor joy. We learn to hate too, but thankfully like cursive hand writing or a gag gift dildo, we don’t have to use it if we don’t want to.

· During the extended menage a trois featuring Nature, Nurture, and Human Folly we develop our own personality. It is here where our talents bloom and preferences develop.

· We gain independence and begin to provide for ourselves.

· We make money or if you go into social work, you witness people making money. Social workers have to treat their bank’s ATM machine like a slot machine. Hitting the jackpot means there’s enough in your account to put gas in the car.

· We might develop a sense of altruism and dedicate some time to helping others

· We fuck (hopefully well, often, and sans disease) and potentially reproduce.

· We get sick (hopefully not due to engaging in the immediately preceding activity) and we get better.

· We generally screw things up, act the fool, and hopefully when the dust settles and/or one gets released from parole, we learn our lessons and become better people because of our fuck ups.

Of course, one’s autobiography should encapsulate these and many other life defining events. However, who we become is largely influenced by our parents including the good, the bad, the criminal, and the totally fucking insane. Likewise, mommy and daddy were influenced by the life experiences and character of their parents, and so on for generations. So, as much as we want to be pure and unique individuals, we are in fact, just the latest genetic model in a series of heroes, villains, geniuses, idiots, and general fuck ups.

Writing my biography is problematic because the typical sources of family history are absent in my family. Most of my family members who’re still amongst the living either wouldn’t talk to me about the past or they’ve chemically lobotomized themselves with elicit substances to the point that their memories are completely unreliable. Besides, if I started asking questions they’d freak out because most of my relations have been subjected to the phrase, “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law” on frequent occasions, so they ain’t gonna say nothin. Sadly, written records providing accurate information on my family history would mostly consist of criminal court records and therefore offer little of value in terms of my wee life story. So, much of what I present is based on my best guess, stories I’ve been told, conversations (both sober and other), and what little detective work I’ve done over the years.

Please be advised. I will be using false names because those relatives I have that are still alive would consider my depictions of them as incriminating (criminal statutes of limitations not withstanding) and/or potential parole violations. So, in the words of the immortal Bon Scott, “The following is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.”

In order to fully understand the disaster that is Shallowgenepool it is necessary to go back far enough in the past to understand the circumstances and events that led up to this human catastrophy. For example, when investigating a trainwreck, the Department of Transportation will start at the train’s point of origin because the cause of the wreck might’ve taken place before the train left the station. So, if I am going to provide the reader with a good picture of the cluster fuck that would be my life, it is necessary to provide information about those who’re responsible for my existence. Of course, how they came to be who they were is also important in understanding what led two stupid, mentally ill, totally irresponsible, and selfish 19-year-old apprentice drug addicts to even contemplate being parents. Ultimately if the reader is to fully understand Shallowgenepool, it is important to understand a bit about his parents, “Dick” and “Laura.” Let’s start with, Laura, because well, it is. “Ladies first,” after all.

Mom-The Agates

My mom, Laura was born April, 26, 1955. She was the second child and second daughter of Amy Crooks and John Agate. The Agates and Crooks hailed from the cold, hard soil farm country of South Dakota and Minnesota. By all accounts, Grandma, Amy was a spunky, auburn-haired girl who enjoyed school. Unfortunately, her schooling stopped after the eighth grade because the Great Depression demanded that she helped raise her seven younger siblings while her parents fought to grow enough food to keep them all fed on their small farm. Otherwise, young Amy probably would have gone on to be the first in her family to get enough education to realize that pickled pig’s feet are as disgusting (she was a big fan) as they sound and bib overalls were fine for work, but a bit too tacky to wear all the time.

Grandpa John was described to me as being moody, showed little interest in oral hygiene (he needed dentures before he turned 30 years old) and possessed the paternal instincts of a brick. By all reports, John was a pampered mama’s boy who as far as his mommy was concerned, pissed silver and shit gold. John also wasn’t afraid to play favorites with his children and made it clear that his first child, Mona was the prized child. All children after Mona were seen as an inconvenience to be tolerated and not nurtured. So, to rate John’s personality and decency on a 5 star scale, he’d score ½ star, shouldn’t have been allowed procreate.

Now, I’m not really sure what drew my grandparents away from the frigid Mid-West and all the way to Santa Clara County, California in the days before it became the Silicon Valley. My theory is that it was because there’s only so much polka music a person can take before you completely lose it, and that South Dakota and Minnesota are, freeze your wedding tackle off and lose your nipples to frostbite FUCKING COLD during the winter! In addition to much better weather and the blessed lack of polka music, the job prospects in California at the time were also decent and it was an affordable place to raise a family. Of course, this was decades before the Bay Area became the only place on Earth where it costs a million dollars to purchase an outhouse that’s been converted into a 1-bedroom condo. So within a couple of years of becoming Californians, a son Shepherd was added and a third daughter was on the way.

Now, from what snippets I’ve been able to glean through the years about Grandpa John, it seems that he was a man who’d developed a close friendship with Gambling. Though Gramps loved Gambling and spent every second he could with his expensive friend, he rarely crossed paths with Gambling’s beautiful, but fickle sister, Winning. Now, as much as John loved Gambling and tried to get into Winning’s knickers, he spent most of time (and paycheck) with Gambling’s ugly twin brother, Losing. Predictably, grandpa’s relationship with Gambling and Losing led him to seek out and find shady characters who were willing to let him lose his money and then loan him even more money to lose at a very high interest rate. Now, if the interest rates for these loans weren’t bad enough, the late fees were killer. Of course, it didn’t take long before grandpa was facing his creditor’s rather aggressive form of debt collection. Sadly, as is the case with so many of my family members, grandpa’s priorities were ass backwards. Consequentially, his wife and 3 children, (with another wee bairn on the way) simply couldn’t compete with his passion for pissing away what little money he had at a poker table.

In addition to being a very enthusiastic, but equally bad gambler, grandpa was a bit of a coward. This yellow streak made him a bit squeamish about the way his creditor’s obtained their late fees. So, instead of settling his tab or accepting his late fees like a man, grandpa parked under an overpass, ran a hose from the tailpipe of his car to the driver’s seat, rolled up the window, turned on the ignition, and let carbon-monoxide take him to the place where the loan sharks and thugs wouldn’t be able to find him. I’m sure to his selfish and terrified way of thinking, leaving a widow to raise 3 of his kiddos with one on the way seemed a small price to pay to avoid having his legs broken or being filled with .38 caliber holes by aggressive debt collectors.

So, Amy was left alone to raise her 4 children the best she could. Now, job prospects for single moms with only an eighth-grade education in the 1950s weren’t good, but she managed to keep herself, Mona, Laura, Shepherd, and Carol housed and fed. Unfortunately, this meant that Amy couldn’t be home to nurture her children’s moral development, self-worth, and growing sense of abandonment.

So according to all who knew her as a child, Laura, (mom) was so shy that she’d successfully managed to develop a phantom’s ability to be rarely seen and never heard. I’m told that her shyness and the resulting bullying that went with it would develop into a state of being almost agoraphobic by the time she was in middle school. I’m sure that the physical dumpiness that is a byproduct of prepubescence probably didn’t help. Unfortunately, few pictures of my mom from her childhood survive, but I’ve always kind of pictured her looking like Ichabod Crane in drag. Mom was described as being taller than many of her male classmates, thin, and had a hawkish nose that dominated her pale face.

As with all things, change came about and my mom and her sisters would shake off prepubescence and develop into shapely young ladies. Now, with a dead daddy and a mom who worked from dawn to dusk, the reader can probably guess that my mom, Mona, and Carol would develop a malignant case of daddy issues. How did the daddy issues manifest themselves? Well, male attention be it positive or negative of any kind became an all-encompassing need.

By the time my mom and her sisters reached their teens it was the 1970s, a time of change, war, and free love. Happy to represent the time, the Agate girls gave their love, freely, often, and largely indiscriminately. Of course, this was most advantageous to any male that so much as glanced in their direction. As a result of the Agate girl’s eagerness to please, they would become VERY popular with the male student body of their high school. I’ve often wondered if at some point, they didn’t have their phone number written on each and every door of the boy’s room stalls at Wilcox High School with the polite suggestion, “For a good time call Mona, Laura, and Carol at 408-248-3079.”

Of course, many called, and as promised, a good time was provided to almost all (weed, alcohol, and/or amphetamines and an appropriate back seat being the only requirements). I’ve also wondered if the good time directions inside those boy’s room stalls at Wilcox were ever framed for posterity. After all, such consistent and dedicated service deserves recognition of some sort. McDonalds has the, “Billions and Billions Served” statement beneath their restaurant signs, certainly my mom and aunts deserve to be honored for their attempt at competing with the huge number of customers the golden arches has served. Now don’t worry, I don’t think of my mom and aunts as sluts. I think of them as legends.

Somehow, my Mom, managed to graduate from high school in 1973 both child and sexually transmitted disease free. Mona and Carol, didn’t get past sophomore year without becoming a teen pregnancy statistic? Mona would drop out of high school when she became pregnant (arguably the ultimate sexually transmitted disease) at 15 years old and eventually pursue a full-time career as a heroin addict. Carol, not one to be outdone, would also drop out of high school, with bun baking in her 15-year-old Easy Bake (with emphasis on the “Easy”) oven. A late bloomer, Carol would some 12 years later pursue a degree at the school of hard knocks in being bat guano fucking crazy.

Dad-The Urbans

My Dad, let’s call him Dick because it’s close to his real name and even closer to his true nature, was a military brat who was born in South Carolina, but moved to his parent’s home state of Michigan at an early age. At first glance, there were a few glaring differences between my parent's background. Where the Agate’s were largely uneducated farmers of Irish-German ancestry, the Urbans were more worldly with a smattering of college educated types. In addition, the Urbans had more recently immigrated to the New World from Ireland and England. Sadly, relocating to the New World at the beginning of the twentieth century didn’t allow the Urban family to escape the age-old bane of Irish Catholics everywhere, alcohol. In fact, any Urban who didn’t have at least a training wheel case of cirrhosis of the liver by the time they were in their late 20s often had their status as a legitimate Urban questioned.

Now, by all accounts, my paternal grandfather, “Ron” was a man who honored family tradition and as such, became a professional drummer like his father, and also like his father was well on his way to drinking himself into the grave by his early 30s.To hear it tell, Gramps was also a mean drunk and unfortunately for Dick, he made beating his oldest child a favorite pastime.

Ron’s wife, “Dora,” being of the more independent breed of woman wasn’t going to tolerate a drunken and abusive husband. So, Gram divorced Gramps (I’m sure her Catholic parents were just thrilled) and set about raising Dick, his brother and two sisters alone.

Dora, by nature was a bit of a rebel and it only increased as she found her freedom. If divorcing wasn’t a snub to her Irish Catholic upbringing and time in Catholic school, her embracing of militant atheism was an all-out banishment of her parent’s faith. Not done yet, Gram’s rebellion against all her parents held dear continued when she dropped her married name like someone would drop a used tissue found on the floor of a porn theater, went to college, and ensconced herself in the design department of Ford’s light truck division.

It all seems on track for a decent ending, right? This might’ve been the case if Dick wasn’t a violent, budding narcissist, with a deep appreciation for anything that’d get him hammered or stoned out of his gord. It was the late 1960’s so right in the sweet spot of, the “Make Love Not War” movement. Well, Dick proved to share his mom’s rebelliousness and went against the groovy grain. Oh, Dick was totally onboard for the “Make love,” directive and enthusiastically sought to keep little dick wet. He was equally happy to participate in the consumption of any and every illicit substance he could get ahold of. However, the “Not war” part didn’t sit too well, so he improvised and changed the peaceful portion to, “Beat the fuck out of anyone who doesn’t do what I want them to do.”

Well, as it turns out, Dick’s enthusiasm for drugs didn’t go unnoticed by the Ann Arbor authorities and eventually he was caught and charged with possession with intent to distribute. Apparently, the judge trying my dad’s case realized that dad would make for good cannon fodder in Viet Nam, so he was given an ultimatum, join the military of learn about the realities of prison romance. Of course, my dad enlisted. Unfortunately, the judge didn’t direct my dad towards a specific branch of the military, so my dad picked the Navy. The Vietnamese Army, being light on warships posed a minimal threat to our Navy, so my dad would be pretty much out of harm’s way on an aircraft carrier. As strange as it sounds, a judge can be thanked for my parent’s meeting. No wonder why I hate the criminal justice system.

For the record, I honestly don’t know exactly where or even how my parents met. They were divorced by the time I was 2 years old and by the time I was old enough to ask they pretty much had no desire to relive the days immediately prior to my genesis. From what I gather, it was a bar (both blissfully engaging in underage drinking I’m sure) during the winter of 1973. The only reason my Detroit raised dad was in California (a state he hates with a passion) at the time was the Navy had sent him to aircraft technical training school located at NAS Moffett Field in Sunnyvale.

Oh well, I guess the exact where and how doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the fact that the was a disaster of a magnitude comparable to the meeting of the Titanic and iceberg, Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii, or Godzilla and downtown Tokyo.

The long and short of it (in terms of dad’s manhood mom would argue the extremely short of it), my parents’ relationship was a one a 1-night stand that went a couple of months too long. Now, the details here get fuzzy because I was a fetus at the time and my mom wouldn’t remember, but apparently when she found out she was carrying the wee bairn, Shallowgenepool, she decided she wasn’t going to tell Dick. She’d just let him go off to Viet Nam and raise lil’ bastard me by herself. I guess she figured a guy that was going off to war and who wanted to be stoned all the time probably had a short life expectancy. She was probably right. I’m guessing that my dad’s homeostatic state of being perma-baked plus proximity to live munitions equaled Dick coming home in tiny little pieces.

Well, somehow ol’ Dick figured out mom was in the family way and lacking any common sense went and said something, to THE WRONG PEOPLE! Now, by the wrong people, I mean his very Irish-Catholic maternal grandparents. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about my Great-Móraí and Great-Granda, but what I do know is that my 4-foot 9 inch Great-Móraí wasn’t a force of nature, nature was a force of her and a person crossed her at their own peril. When she wasn’t being a baker of scones and committed member of her neighborhood, my Great-Móraí could be found walking to and from mass every day as would be her habit well into her 80s. Now, if Great-Móraí had one flaw, it was that she had a very established Napoleon complex. However, unlike Napoléon, she would’ve succeeded in the invasion of Russia because from what I have come to understand, compared to Great-Móraí, Napoleon was a wuss. So, upon hearing the news that her first great-grandchild was on the way my Great-Grandma did what any Irish-Catholic grandma would do. She told my dad to marry my mom because no wee grandchild of hers was gun’ be born out’n the holy sacrament of wedlock!

Of course, my mom and dad could’ve resisted Great-Móraí’s Irish-Catholic version of a shotgun wedding. In fact, most who knew my parents probably expected rebellion because, it was widely known that my dad had a reputation for being resistant to any form of authority. However, my dad was justifiably TERRIFIED of my Great-Morai, so a ring was bought, a wedding dress was let out to accommodate the little bump that was becoming wee little fetus me, and two people who would eventually come to hate each other so much they had to live on opposite sides of the continent from each other got hitched.

So, Uncle Sam didn’t allow for much of a honeymoon and not too long after the nuptials, my dad was headed to the South China Sea to be a part of the Viet Nam war’s last few months. This was probably for the best because not only does absence make the heart grow fonder, but it also prevents two people who’re about as compatible as battery acid and a rectal exam from getting to know each other better, thus preventing an even earlier marriage implosion.

ShallowGenepool’s Comes Into the World

Apparently, my mom’s pregnancy was a rough one. She struggled with high blood pressure which didn’t respond to the medication the doctor prescribed. Then again, mom was also advised to stop smoking too, but her relationship with Benson & Hedges and its smooth nicotine flavor was an old one and my mom was loathe to see any relationship end. This inability to end any relationship, no matter how unhealthy, would eventually become a source of great suffering for yours truly, but I digress. Anyway, if smoking harmed lil’ old me in-utero, my mom figured that she was young, and she could always have another kid, right? So, she went against doctor’s orders a bit. Besides, at least she’d quit doing drugs as soon as she found out she was pregnant (except weed, weed doesn’t count). Unfortunately for fetal me, the pregnancy discovery occurred just a few days after my mom dropped acid at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer concert with my dad. Side note: I think the LSD exposure when I was just a wee blob of cells explains why I occasionally hear colors, taste sounds, and see smells.

Despite the difficulties, including a couple of trips to the hospital because her persistent high blood pressure caused her to pass out, my mom carried me to term. So, at 4:15 am on Thursday, August 1, 1974 within the OB/GYN wing of a military hospital in Mountain View (the hospital no longer exists) Shallowgenepool entered the world kicking and screaming. I’m told that the delivery was rough and the doctors were afraid they’d lose one or both of us. I’m really not sure if it was a good or a bad thing, but my dad couldn’t be present. At that time of my birth he was in South East Asia because there were peasants to bomb and bills to pay. I was named after him while he was away. Everybody sing!

….AND THE CATS AND THE CRADDLE AND THE SILVER SPOON……

Now, to most people being born on the first day of a month just meant that it’d be an easier birthday for others to remember. However, to a poor kid in the 1980’s the first day of the month was the one day where you might get a Happy Meal for dinner instead of grilled government cheese sandwiches and store brand tomato soup. This momentary access to fast food happened because the first day of the month was the day where welfare benefits and food stamps were distributed to the poor who relied on welfare for survival (the 15th was another day but for food stamps only if I remember right). It was the one day where the chance of eating was better than any other time and if the electricity had been turned off before the first of the month, it could be turned back on.

So, I’ve always looked at the day of my birth as a portent of things to come. It was as if the universe said:

“Unto the world is delivered a child who’ll travail on the dole all his young days. His raiment shalt be the best Goodwill renders unto them on their, 'Dollar a Bag Days.' He will partake of government cheese and 5 the gallon paint can of peanut butter that Ceasar giveth unto the poor. His sicknesses will go without care for Nyquil doth cost much and woe unto him who taketh cigarette money to use it for cold medicine. Let his father depart from him and duck court ordered child support to take up the mantle of Dead Beat Dad.”

·

l

I must admit that there is a mountain range worth of hills that I am willing to die on. I’m not too sure that there is just one time when a guy/girl/and every variation in between must make a stand. It may seem to be a nonsensical thing to most people, but to me the hills I am willing to spill my blood on, to have my exposed oily entrails leave their stain on, and give my last shuddering breath on are worthy of the sacrifice.  You may call me an idiot and you’d be right, but let it not be said that Shallowgenepool didn’t fight for what he believed in (no matter how ridiculous or pointless it may seem to others)! So, what are these hills that I’m willing to die on, you may or may not ask? (either way I’m going to tell you so you should stop reading here if you don’t want to know) Well, here are just a few ideological summits I am willing to sacrifice myself on:

1. Scrappy Doo ruined the Scooby Doo Mysteries.  I’m guessing that the addition of Scrappy was supposed to add a level of cuteness to the show. It was enough to make me spew my store brand cocoa puffs!  Instead, it annoyed even a 7-year-old Me’s sensibilities thus FUCKING UP MY SATURDAY MORNINGS!

2. Some see the movie, “Titanic” as a tragic romance. They’d be wrong.  Titanic is a multi-faceted allegory demonstrating that:

Giving the ship building contract to the lowest bidder might seem like a cost saving measure, but you get what you pay for. After all, what good is cost cutting when what you pay for ends up at the bottom of the Atlantic!

The rich will always victimize the poor.  The poor go down with the ship while the rich get to cling to floating doors.

Rich people are stupid and wasteful.  The sapphire that is a major plot point in the movie…What happens to it?  The old crone tosses it in the ocean.  That blue rock could’ve been sold and the proceeds used to feed countless starving children, but no, the uppity bint tosses it into the brink for closure!  What a waste!

3. So long as it’s between consenting adults, love is love.  However, I must draw the line at the unholy union that occurred between Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. It is an afront to puppet Mother Nature! What the fuck was Jim Henson thinking?

4. Call me a music snob if you will, but country music sucks.  The era of country doesn’t matter either. It can be the old Hank Williams/Johnny Cash era, the new era where some inbred, slack-jawed yokel came up with, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” exists, or everything in between. At the end of the day, I will always feel that country music is the musical equivalent of the bloody, acidic, explosive diarrhea that exits one’s hemorrhoid-lined sphincter after eating at that taco truck that received a half star rating on Yelp and CDC designation of 100% fatal to all organic life.

5. Women are better than men.  My evidence is legion.  Neurological research has determined that a woman is neurologically capable of simultaneously gathering and examining information, identifying potential problems, and finding new and adaptive solutions to those problems utilizing multiple areas of her brain. Men? Our brains are a bit more simplistic, and by simplistic, I mean archaically limited in ability and adaptability. If it’s a problem not solvable by fucking it, killing it, suppressing its rights, putting bigger tires on it, or eating it, our brains kind of seize up and overheat with the results being like what one would expect to observe after shoving a vibrator set on high into newly poured quick-dry cement. The fact is, men’s brains while functional, lack the same level of neuroplasticity that allows a woman’s brain to multitask at a high level while maintaining an adaptability that a man’s brain just can’t come close to competing with.

6. Mary Ann was waaay hotter than Ginger on Gilligan’s Island.  Sure, Ginger was a sultry bargain-basement Marilyn Monroe, but I bet Mary Ann was all sweet girl on the streets, naughty farmer’s daughter in the sheets!

7. Elvis sucked.  King of Rock and Roll?  He doesn’t even rank high enough to be considered the court jester of rock and roll.  Never wrote a song, stole music, and was guilty of statutory rape.  Okay, I guess he has some qualities similar to that of the British Royal family, so maybe he is royalty of a sort.  Like the British royals, he had a thing for underage girls (see Prince Andrew) and was a talentless hack (exactly what do the royals do for a living exactly other than make money off of tourism and the land they stole from their subjects).

8. John Lennon of Beatles fame was hardly a good poster child for the peace and love movement. He was an abusive, money-grubbing jerk who neglected his first child. Plus, he inflicted Yoko Ono on the world.

9. All this blatherskite about illegal immigration in the U.S is hypocrisy at its most despicable.  Unless you can legitimately claim indigenous heritage, you can’t claim to be here legally.  Why?  No one asked the indigenous people permission to live here. There was no naturalization process or Visa program put in place to manage the influx of pasty white moronic Europeans. The government made and then broke countless treaties with the indigenous peoples that were meant to protect the indigenous peoples right to the land they had lived on for millennia.

If any of these atrocities happened today, the U.S government’s policy of breaking treaties with the indigenous people, placing them on reservations, and intentionally infecting them with smallpox would’ve been condemned by the UN and the U.S would be placed on the same level as North Korea and Iran in terms of human rights. Even worse, the U.S would replace Nazi Germany as being seen as the evilest perpetrator of genocide in human history. As to the spoils of war argument used by some to say that the indigenous people lost a war to the United States and as such lost their land fair and square…Fine.  The next time someone breaks into your home points a gun at you and tells you to leave for good. Remember, your property wasn’t stolen, you lost a very brief, geographically small in scope war.  Those that broke into your home won it from you fair and square.  Legal recourse?  The indigenous people signed legal treaties which protected their land which wasn’t honored, so why do you think you deserve to have your property rights protected by the law exactly? Note to those pasty white FOX news watching types who have their Trump brand classy gold knickers all tied in knots about illegal immigration…Please note that many people entering the U.S from south of the border have legitimate claims to indigenous ancestry and therefore can’t truly be called illegal when their people have been here since before you were. So, maybe they should put all those who never went through a naturalization or Visa process implemented by the original inhabitants of the Americas on a ship and send them back to where they belong.

10. Anyone who takes the opinion of someone who calls themselves, Shallowgenepool too seriously needs to seek out professional help.