Have you read the news lately?

moe: Hey Abe, I just read that when you were a mere sheep herder you would sacrifice lambs and then feast on them with your buddies. Is this true?
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abe: Yeah, it's true. But what seldom makes the papers is that my buddies were angels. Usually Michael and Gabriel. Boy, could Gabriel cook up a lamb. He had this special gravy he made by grinding up a few of his bluish feathers and then mixing the paste with some drops of uranium. Man that dude could cook. He used the fire off of Michael's sword to do this stir-fry thing that was just heavenly. At that time, he had no wok, of course. He cooked everything in his cupped hands. Why do you ask?

Hey Moe, I think. . .

abe: Hey Moe, I think I saw a ghost.
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moe: Are you sure? The moon is full and visions come so much easier with the tug and pull of the lunar tide. We are after all 97% water.
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abe: Yes, of course I'm sure. It was a ghost. Don't you believe me?
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moe: Well, if I said I believe in God are you going to believe It exists? Does my belief in what you say validate the existance of the ghost? Or does my pedantic line of questioning motivate you to visualize me as a ghost as you stand there wringing your hands? Wait, don't answer that! I just felt a pang of self preservation.
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Of course I believe you Abe. Did it have any feet?
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abe: How else would I believe in God? Do you think I'm smart enough to come up with something like God on my own? Thanks for the vote of confidence, but it makes me lose a little confidence in your intelligence.
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How do we know anything exists other than through belief? I look at my hand and believe my eyes. I hear this voice in my head and I believe I think. These beliefs get repeated enough and I trust enough to think I know.
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I don't know if the ghost had any feet because it was invisible.
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moe: Well your lessening confidence in my intelligence increases mine in yours. And if you repeat that enough times you'll become the intellectual giant I believe you to be.
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Now back to this invisible ghost that you claim you saw. I find that hard to believe. If it is invisible, how could you see it? Or perhaps a question more germane to your life: how much of that fermented goat's milk did you drink before you saw the ghost?
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abe: Hey, don't knock the goat's milk, Chimpy. That's one of the few means I have anymore of still seeing what everybody else says they see. Getting blind drunk is the only way I can see what the blind are going on about. But, nope, I wasn't on no special sauce when I saw the ghost, except that this blood of mine seems to increase in proof as time goes on.
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Naw, I was just mindin' my business and the ghost appeared. I could see it as plain as day, but of course it was invisible. It didn't speak, but then I can't say I trust my ears after all those years in those bands in the desert. I still can only hear stuff that makes sound. The eyes though, they've been able to see beyond the light spectrum since that day witn the knife and little Isaac.

Post Your COMMENTS here!! please.

Moe & Abe invite you to make your comments, if any, here rather than the usual comments section after each post. The postings by Moe & Abe are on-going and any misplaced comments by a reader may disturb the fragile geist which exists within each creative offing. Thank you for your understanding and co-operation.
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PS. Don't forget to wash your hands when you're done.

You know abe, I've been thinking...

Moe: You know abe, I've been thinking, should someone clean up this mess?
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Abe: The thing about cleanin' up any mess is this, you gotta be able to do it with real clean hands or else you end up just adding your filth to it. I've been workin' for decades on getting myself clean enough to just walk in the room with a real mess.
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Moe: Well I suppose that presents a conundrum of sorts. There's is always this sense of futility knowing that the mess cleaned up leaves another mess. But isn't that we do anyway? Just like breathing, one breath leads to another and another and another until we stop. Messes are things to clean up, the question is always who, clean hands or no. Look at November 2nd, isn't it a question of who has cleaner hands? Tough question considering that they both have spent time down at the abattoir.
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Abe: I'm not talking about making another mess, but rather making this mess worse, or even making a real mess from what wasn't a mess to begin with. Like you said, "Messes are things to clean up," but I'm not sure that what I do cleans. Assumptions assumptions assumptions. It's like story of the man who made the flowers prettier by painting them. The Greeks called that hubris. My pappy just called it, "Dumb-assedness."
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How do we define something as a "mess" in the first place? And, how do we know we can believe the definers? Boy, talk about November 2nd! It seems like right now we're all willing to climb down into the muck-pit those two bloody-boys have defined and been diggin' from the nice clean dirt. We fight to hang our butts out over the pit-lip, "dump" our respective shits down into it and then complain about the stench rising up. What a mess. SURPISE!!
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Excuse me while I take some time to clean my hands.
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Moe: Reminds me of "the Evil Empire" and how it rotted from within long before the Righteous West spent it into oblivion. Their "mess" was created by refusing to accept reality. The people writing reports had to gussy up what they said to their bosses or they risked of being airbrushed out of society. But reality is a lady who will not wait and when she comes to confront the lovers of myth "messes happen".
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Now fast forward to the New World Order and you see the same thing happening. All the societal estates have been subsumed by a self righteous myth which assumes an incorruptabilty that history says just not exist in the ministerings of man. There is no position one can take these days that doesn't assume a more superior and moral foundation. What you may regard as a stench rising up, others exault as a "sweet smelling savour" - a reward for their efforts.
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A mess? You're damned right. I'm just waiting for the media pap declaring with unbounded glee that the New & Improved® War to End All Wars™ is upon us. So, good luck washing your hands. Chances are you will not be able to get that stain off.

Hey, Moe, Did you hear the one. . . ?

abe: Hey, Moe, Did you hear the one about the king?
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moe: Did that one involve poultry, war, and a Middle Eastern deity?
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abe: No, I think the one you're thinking about involves absolutely everything; but yes, I guess, then it would involve the one about the king--and involve poultry, war, and a Middle Eastern deity, to boot. Wouldn't it?
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moe: Yeah, yer right. So... which king is it? The dreamy one, the one in boxer shorts, or the one with a dependancy problem? If I knew what "the king" yer ask'n about, I could answer ya or na. Unless yer talk'n about "The King" ...
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abe: Wow, now you've got me so confused I can't remember which king is the king in the one about the king. With all these kings, where do we turn to know? With thrones shining down from so many places on high, how do I know which way to prostrate?
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moe: Why would you wanna do that? You were gonna crack a king joke just a second ago and now yer running 'round looking fer a direction to lo' yerse'f. You remind me of my dog, Merle, chasing his tail. And that reminds me of a joke: What did the king say to the Grim Reaper?
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abe: "Well now once my conscience left me, I found a hot place to dwell. It's down at the end of all my lies--The Gates of Hell."
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moe: Hahaha! I just spit my coffee all over the place. [Sorry Honey! Can you wipe off the kids?]. It took a few sips of java to get that one, but what an eruption when I did. Funny!
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Say have you recalled what you wanted to say about the king before I ventured on this detour?

So Abe, What Cha Been Up To?

moe: Haven't heard from you in a long while. What have you been up to?
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abe: Lately, just dyin'. You?
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moe: Whoow, that's a heavy. I've been too chicken to try dyin' so I decided to try macramé... still, I can't figure it out. How about you? Is dyin' an art or do you just fall into it?
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abe: Hard to catagorize. Seems like I'm always workin' on it. Sometimes I get too busy to remember I'm doin' it, and so then it seems like I ain't. But, lately, I've had enough time, so I noticed that my dyin' is comin' along just fine.
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moe: Did I just weird myself out or something or are you taking about batik?
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abe: Well, that would explain the different shades of blue spotting my body, but I'm actually talkin' about good old fashioned livingdying dying. Letting the dots not only remain unconnected, but fade into... For a few decades I tried to give dyin' up, taken in by the whole Hollywoody fad of eternally being all you can be. All that pretty plastic. But, you know how impossible and simply boring that is? Dyin's not about being anything. It's the door of being locked open.
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moe: I like that "good old fashioned livingdying dying," as if yer talk'n about gramma's hooch (God rest her soul). I remember up North they have ads by the military encouraging the young to be all that you can be. I suppose being dead is all that we all end up being anyway, so why not hype it? Ahhhhh, OK Abe, now I see why you said "Hollywoody" - funny, ha-ha. I'm a bit slow on the uptake on account of that yakisoba and gyoza I ate a while back *burp!*. Just one thing, how long has the door been locked?
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abe: For as long as now, my friend. And, that's beyond the long and short of the Hollywoody. The real forever. And I liked how you picked up on our famous Uncle's shout-song "encouraging" the young to climb into the back seat of HIStory of limitations. If someone tells you he has the magic to make you what you didn't even know you weren't, much less didn't know you wanted to be, check his eyes for traces of snake blood. Wasn't that the whisper of want that got our good old fashioned Mom and Pop thrown out of Eden and into the hard fields of death in the first place? "Be all you can be," basically means, "You ain't much of nothin' now." Welcome to death's long hallway of locked-closed doors. Get busy bloodying your knuckles with knocking. But, dyin' ain't death. Dyin's the gift we appreciatively give to livin'. Not a payment, rather it's like how you give gramma a bushel of the best potatoes just before it gets to be hooch season, but you don't say you expect, nor want, a gallon of White Lightning by Thanksgiving.
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moe: Ahh, gramma's hooch... I remember her rainbow coalition mash...Idaho Reds, Yukon Golds, Blue Macs, Green Mountains, Pink Pearls and Cal Whites... A panoply of wonder and hangover guarenteed! was gramma's promise. Remember her reposed on the chaise lounge smoking Gauloises and singing I can see a rainbow, see a rainbow, see my rainbow hooch? I'm getting whiskey misty recalling when Death came calling on her. She had him waiting nervously in the hallway and tap, tap, tapping his bony fingers on the boot box. When she came down all in white she took one look at him and said "Why you're nothing but skein and bones!" (Probably the only time Death busted a gut laughing - if that's what ya call that cackle.) I'll never forget her last words as we stood there not knowing whether to shit or go blind, "Don't wait up, boys."...
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Anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, dyin'. So you've been watching yer numbers... what? dwindle or add up? Tell me something, when Uncle encouraged us to "be more" than what we are didn't you feel a bit insulted? I mean, I thought I was already all that I would ever be. I saw no reason to add death to my resume just yet... My glass is empty, time fer a refill. I can see a rainbow, see a rainbow, see my rainbow hooch.
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abe: Just watchin'. What you notice is that the numbers aren't sequential. An 84. A 5. A 17.
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About feeling insulted, at first, not a bit. Mostly, I just felt that usual little pinch of a needle slidin' into my vein and leaving its quickly-decaying sparkle of ambition. Like a reflex, I took to always carrying one of those mirrors you get whenever you sign your name on the dotted. On one side, a foggy and scratched reflection of what you thought you were yesterday. On the other, an accurate reflection of yourself tomorrow, but magnified. Flipping back and forth kept me on my payment schedule and impatiently hoping to get picked for my role in the movie about me.
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moe: You too? Man I have those fantasies too! But I often think who would play me. Jim Carrey is my first choice - "Smoke'n!" I also dream about about being a rock star like Neil Young or Stompin' Tom Connors ...on a Sudbury Saturday night. And sometimes when gramma's hooch really hits I pretend I'm kd lang or Mary Margaret O'Hara doing a music video. Yeah, I'd be up there on stage in sequins singing on key and...
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[Hey Moe, where the hell are you! I thought I told you to take the trash out and clean the gutters! Get off the computer and stop looking at porn!]
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Shit! I gotta go. Mom is going to hit me again if I don't get going.
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[...and I just got a call from the bank...]
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Shit, shit, shit! I missed another payment!! Looks like my number's up. Catch up with you later, hopefully.