The Quality of Mercy

Portia – Henry Woods

The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath.
~ Portia in William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice

Strained as in “forced.”

These tRump inspired horse’s asses (not to dis Appaloosa butt or anything) make me ill NEARLY beyond words. They've gone down to the southern border to “greet” the caravan of hungry, bedraggled men, women and children who are escaping the horrors of their home country. These folk are lawfully seeking asylum and need our deep compassion and help. Are the gun fetishists waiting there with food, clothing and medical assistance? FUCK NO! They're sitting on their fat, fucking asses with guns, drones and drooing hate.

These greasy, hate-for-the-sake-of-hate, gun-humping, psychos wanna play war so much, they should join the Army (only, I’m guessing, none would pass the physicals – mental and otherwise). If any of these fuckwads kills even one, single soul, they ALL, every last motherraping militia asswipe, should be locked up and treated to some good ol’ fashioned, Clockwork Orange-esque aversion therapy.

Yeah, me and “mercy” aren’t strictly speaking, on good terms here.

There’s mercy and there’s forgiveness.

So-called family members, in past years, have exhibited a stunningly complete lack of compassion, mondo greedheadedness, preznint ITS-ALL-ABOUT-ME levels of narcissism and a few bits of stellar treachery.

Forgiveness is irrelevant – this holds particularly fast seeing as none of these cretinous, feral bags of toxicity to which I’m sadly related, have ever, EVER apologized or made amends. In case you hadn't noticed, I ain’t no meek, dimwitted doormat (‘cept to Coco and Umlaut, of course). As Jim Wright might say/ask “can you find your way to the airlock on your own or would you like an escort because OUT YOU GO.”
 
Life is short and already filled with more than enough pain and grief. I aim to have the happiest, most peaceful, creative, cretinous asshole-free life possible.

 As for mercy, if any of the virulently malignant, toy fucking soldier militia shits were on fire, I’d throw a teacup of water on them. Maybe.

As for the “family” who’ve done me some serious dirt? I don’t know. I suspect, if they actually, sincerely apologized, if they grovel prettily enough and offer a tanker load of contrition – yeah, I’d give ‘em a second, molto cautious chance, sure. I do actually have a heart. Shocking...I know.
 
To date none have offered up so much as a repub/grifter/fascist “I’m sorry IF you were offended by my outrageous greed/narcissistic social incompetence/complete dearth of compassion."  

I'm not holding my breath waiting for real OR fake apologies.

I’ve ranted about this smelly family feces before – this time it’s really, actually by way of giving MEGA thanks for the family I do have—Jen, Oni, Celeste and Hillel. The care they’ve been giving me both in and out of the hospital is brill, comforting, amazing and utterly humbling. 

Later today, Jen’s gonna take me for a walk down to the seawall. It’s just across the damn street BUT, ya know, baby steps. Recovery time is six to eight weeks and I’m just at seven days post-op.

FYI, I am, seriously, fucking BRIMMING with appreciation and thankfulness.

Mercy, Mercy Me – Marvin Gaye (live at Montreux 1980)