The same gang that brought you sizzler mini-skirts and diazepam, brought you this chicanery. First they trick young women into wearing clothes that are a disgrace. Then they convince older ones that they need gravestone for a counter top.
What happened this morning is not the first time a glass exploded after tapping the rock. Hell no. I have shattered dishes, chipped coffee cups and busted up many treasured items on my slab of granite.
No wonder the church ladies are crocheting doilies. Those are to keep your dishes from exploding when you put 'um on your counter top. I knew the risk of having a granite counter long before we moved to this house. But you can't seem to get away from them. They have been a stupid fad for at least 15 years.
The average American is gullible. He believes TV, newspapers, magazines, a spinning ball earth and the fast-talking man in a white coat who tells him that his wrist is broken. In 5 places. And will require surgery. Better check that x-ray, fella. It may be, instead, a hair-line fracture calling for only a cast. Oh yes my velveteen bunny. Get that 2nd opinion. With the x-ray in your face. The medical industry is full of corporate predators.
The mother-in-law had a saying, "If you act like a pancake, you will be eaten as one." That is how it works. So don't be a mouse or a bunny. In these waters you must needs be a tiger shark. Pelagic top-feeder. Merciless and sharp. Or they will tear you to pieces.
Or sell you a granite counter top. What a ridiculous fad. Let's segue into the next allegory. Keeping up with the Jones'es. Remember back in high school? Some "popular" girl shows up in a stupid, uncomfortable outfit and by the end of the month, every girl who can afford it, has one too.
That is what happened with granite counter tops. T6 has been studying humanity for centuries. They even brag about it in their incendiary treatise (The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion). They know what you people fall for. Pride of life is everything to most folks. But. "Pride goeth before a fall."
When I see a slab of granite, I think "grave stone." King Carter's Sarcophagus. The tomb of Ronnie VanZant. Dude, it's a funeral monument. A place for us to store and commemorate dead bodies.
A crypt where the horses don't wanna go. The Baltic island of Oesel used to be part of the Holy Russian Empire. Settled by German nobility, they had family crypts of granite and marble. Slabs and walls of it. The coffins were lined up down there for generations.
I'll never forget it. There was a man in their family who decided to cut his throat one morning with a shaving razor. From ear-to-ear. They found him in a pool of blood and wagged him on down to the crypt.
Ear-to-ear. Boy done a good job on hiss'eff. And exemplifies why suicide will put your soul in the hurt locker. Let it be a lesson to you pride-of-lifers. This guy was the reason horses would freak out when they had to pull carriages by the place. Oh man oh man. The terror of those horses was a telling wall of what went on down in the crypt. Such terror that some of them dropped dead of it. Animals can see things most humans cannot. What were they seeing? The noises coming up from the crypt were getting heard by people though. What they found will make your hair stand on end.
Bolsheviks re-named Oesel and usurped it along with the Russian Empire in 1917. Go visit. That crypt is subterranean. I bet it is still there. Who would have the guts to go down there? No bolshevik. They serve the devil with two hands. But are notorious cowards. That is why they hire bottom-feeders to do their dirty work. Crooked mechanics and old-lady stranglers. Today, entire armies. That is why they wean your kids on war-killer video games.
As for the haunted crypt of Oesel, you can read all about it on pages 186 - 194 of U.S. Congressman Robert Dale Owen's book (Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World), published in 1875 by Trubner and Co., London, Brighton). Don't read it alone nor at night. Owen waited till the end of his life to publish case studies that he compiled for decades.
We are first spiritual beings. Sojourning in flesh for a term. God is the owner of our body and soul. Never think otherwise. Nor let the devil's people divide us. They have corrupted texts, infiltrated churches and defiled just about everything. Why Queen Isabella ran them out of Spain in 1492. It was not about Cristo Colombo sailing the ocean blue. Nor any other of their cock and bull.
Granite is a rock. Meant to weather centuries. Simon Barjona was a fisherman on Lake Galilee when our Lord changed his name to Peter. "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church. And the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." (Matt 16:18) Peter means rock. Therefore the Holy Roman Catholic Church is built on Saint Peter. Whether they are popeless or not. They will never be hopeless. Not if Peter and Leo XIII live in their hearts. Peter the Rock, people. He was their first Pope. As long as they have Peter, they have hope.
Segue back to my counter top. For Christ Mass, I sent some of you double-paned coffee cups. The big, 16-ouncers from Grosche. Since a lot of us are stuck with granite counter tops, be warned and take a lesson from what happened to me this morning.
The Grosche glass cup is my favourite of all time. And I shall have another. Be careful with these cups near granite. If you so much as tap or let it slip from wet hands, the granite will cause an explosion of glass to rival the horrors of Oesel.
Shards of glass will explode in all directions with a violence. Like a shockwave of daggers. I am typing with a band-aid on my finger where one of them struck me. The noise it made was like somebody firing a pistol next to my ear. PLEASE BE CAREFUL.
The other stupid thing about granite counter tops is how they camouflage everything from dead flies to a new dime. Most of them are a mosaic of earth tones that glare up at you. We have a mottle of black, brown and nine shades of grey with amber veins meandering through it. Try to find a bobby pin and you cannot do it.
Granite slabs are things of beauty that belong in cemeteries. But because they were in "style," people went into debt to get them. Now they can't tell if they are clean or dirty. Kind of like men who wear brown underwear. Young ladies, I advise you to avoid these characters. Tighty-brownies will never do.
And no, I never wore sizzlers. Just platform shoes that nearly broke my ankle. And a translucent, sky-blue "visor" of no efficacy on the beach. Because that stuff was in style. You get me? Style. Like a powdered wig two miles high. Like white vinyl shoes and clackers. What exactly is style?
Do your own thinking. Ask your own questions. If something has no utility, toss it in the rubbish. Forget about the Jones'es.
Clothes, furniture, shoes, counter tops, etc., should be useful, salubrious, comfortable and prudent. Anything less is a gimmicky swindle. Don't blame Grosche's coffee cup. They make a work of art that not only keeps hot coffee from burning your hands, but also is big enough to keep your tail bushy. (happy gerbil face)
Gerbil wheel, here I come.
