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Musings from Moyieboy ... |
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It’s not nice to fool with Uncle Nature |
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March 12, 2017 |
By Ken Carpenter
It is human nature to blame Mother Nature for
all natural catastrophes, while she rarely seems
to get credit for the good things inflicted on
the world’s many life forms.
Of course, it is many human’s nature to try to
find someone or something to blame for
everything that goes wrong, even if it is
self-inflicted. That does not change the fact
that bad things around the world seem to be
outweighing the good in the 21st century.
Mother Nature, or Mother Earth or the Earth
Mother, as she was and is referred to in many
cultures, was first known for her life-giving
and the nurturing of nature.
As with most things, Ancient Greece came up with
the concept. Old tablets mention a female boss
of the natural world in the third millennium BC.
I understand why they chose and continue to
choose a woman for the role, for they are the
ones who give birth. As history has proven
though, Mother Nature is a witch just as often
as she isn’t. Or is she?
Based on the premise that her sweet needs a sour
half, I have come up with the theory that Mother
Nature has a cohort to take care of the nasty
stuff.
A cross-dressing uncle with a sick sense of
humor and a cruel streak would seem to fit. His
cackles and shrieks of amusement are often
mistaken for gale force winds, and thunder is
nothing less than his common bouts of
flatulence.
Imagine his overpowering hilarity when Mount
Vesuvius exploded, and the sly grin he showed
when he invented black widow spiders.
While she may be fostering life in all its
forms, he has some hideous demise waiting for
them down the road.
Let’s assume for a minute that Uncle Nature,
with his vast and uncompromising powers, decides
to take human form. And let’s say that he
decides to become, ohhhh, a standup comic.
He would surely have no depths where he would
fear to tread.
I suppose he might start in Los Angeles, where
he would fit in like an organic suppository in a
constipation clinic. He would undoubtedly wear
something outrageous, and just possibly he would
bag his usual unmanly attire.
I can see him decked out in bellbottom pants,
hemmed three inches above his ankles, sporting
horizontal lime green and bright orange stripes,
held up by purple suspenders. His puke yellow
dress shirt would be adorned with donkey and
baboon butts, with one long sleeve and one short
one. His shoes would be pink army boots with the
toes cut out and his hat would be a replica of a
warthog smoking a cigar.
His lone facial adornment would be a handlebar
moustache extending four inches past the side of
his face with dried lizard droppings dangling
from the tips.
I guess that image may well suffice for his
stage act, dubbed Uncle Perverto’s Universe. Yes
indeed, he could then bask in the glow of having
stirred complete and utter disgust among the
dubious crowd before him, without uttering one
word.
He may start out with, “So, as I peer around at
this collection of smug jerks and toothless
shrews, I am reminded of the time I decided to
spice up the English upper class by putting pig
urine in all of their tea. They’ve had their
noses in the air ever since, and they don’t even
know why!”
“Boooo!” yelled the crowd, “You ain’t near as
funny as you look!”
Uncle P scowled and girded his loins for another
go. This job was harder than he thought it would
be, and his warped mind actually thought he
looked decently unique, not funny.
“You should have seen the looks on all the faces
when I conned Europe into going for the Black
Death gig. The idiots thought I said Black
Breath, which they all had from not brushing
their teeth anyway!”
“Get off the stage, you slackjawed boob!” the
onlookers shouted as one, “Go back where you
came from!”
This was too much for Uncle P, so he lifted his
hand on high, twirled his finger, and a
decimating tornado ripped through the building,
killing everyone. He smirked as he walked away,
then glowered at the thought of his failed
venture.
“Damn it!” he muttered as he walked away. “I
think I’ll stick with what I’m good at and go
bury Boundary County Idaho under a bone cracking
snowfall. Then at least I’ll get a good laugh
out of this day.” |
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