 |
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.”