The pesky little thing about karma is, in my very humble opinion, it’s sort of like the “gift that keeps on giving.”
You see, poor Cliven Bundy, away up thar in the Northwest, is finding out pretty gol durned quick that mayhaps, perhaps, just mebbee now, he shouldn’t ‘a done some of those things he did back home on his Nevada spread, in the year of our lord 2014. (Boy howdy does my trusty, faithful Mac not like the words in that there last sentence. It keeps insisting on proper English and grammar and spelling and whatnot.)
Those words sort of have a certain feel, a certain rhythm, don’t they?
“Poor Cliven Bundy…”
It’s like the first line of an epic ballad.
That’s certainly true. Epic. As in EPIC FAIL.
The whole “anti-gubmint, in yo’ face federales, trash-talking, bitter-clinging to their nifty ammo and guns and ammo and 2nd Amendment rights and guns and blustering and dressing up in matchy-matchy camo outfits” just didn’t pan out the way they thought it was going to happen.
Truly a sad day in the alternate reality/universe that the Bundy Bunch seems to inhabit.
In this said reality, Poor Cliven Bundy thinks he should be entitled to free representation in court by the public defender.
Things that make you go “hmmmmm.”
Does he not intuit the irony of asking the government for assistance in defending his long list of charges resulting from thumbing his nose (and guns and whatnot) at same said government?
Or is it just me that finds the irony and hypocrisy a tad bit overwhelming?
It could be just me.
On the other hand, I suppose I should give him (Poor Cliven Bundy) and the Bundy Bunch the benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty and all that jazz.
Except that the yahoos created all of their own incriminating evidence by documenting much of what they were doing on social media, live video streams, statements to others (that were recorded), etc, etc, etc. (As Yul Brenner as the King of Siam most famously states to Deborah Kerr. Excellent movie that one. “The King and I.” They don’t make them like they used to, for sure.)
So the whole “innocent until proven guilty” might not last too long. I never have truly understood the phrase “rope-a-dope.” But after seeing Poor Cliven Bundy walk right into the arms of the federales and witness the absolute idiocy of the Bundy Bunch at the Malheur Refuge, one can only marvel at the genius of the feds. The gol-durned gubmint. They certainly roped a bunch of dopes.
And, as before, couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch.
I suppose I should now refrain from further comment about the Bundy Bunch and their antics, lest I be accused of kicking a man when he’s down. Nor would I want to encourage bad karma to rain down upon my head. Though, to be sure, I have not wished for bad things to happen to Poor Cliven Bundy and the Bundy Bunch. Maybe an accounting for their transgressions, yes. But not badness to be rained down upon them.
I mean, in some sense, I’m feeling a tiny bit bad for them, sitting up there in jail cells in a state, far, far away. But then, on the other hand, they picked the wrong side of the Force. Darkness always loses. Good always triumphs.
And on that note, I am finally tired and am going to crawl into bed, where I will wait for blessed sleep to overcome me, just to be awakened by the click-clack, click-clack of the 17 year old Labrador Retriever’s toenails (despite being trimmed yet once again this morning), or the honk-schussing snores of the dear husband. Or the pitter-patter, pitter-patter of the darling daughter down the hall.
Some nights I yearn for the days of old: earplugs, single life, carpeted floors and blessed, blessed sleep.
But just as quickly, I realize how empty my life would be. I realize how truly full and blessed it is at this moment. And I realize I would not trade one single second, not one single second, of this life.
My cup truly runs over and I drink from the saucer. I thank the Goddess for the blessings in my life. May they visit yours as well.