Death Be Not…

I have come to the conclusion that I am either a green-eyed cat; a creature from some Galaxy far, far away… OR I’ve had an Angel living on my shoulder since the day I was born! Nothing else explains why I have survived no fewer than seven scenarios that should have rendered me well and truly dead.  Truly!

December, 1995: It was the week before Christmas and all through the….no, that’s not right.   It was the week before Christmas, 1995, and I was finishing my Holiday shopping in the Pasadena Mall.  Having recently suffered a lower back injury, I was unable to walk without a cane.  So, with a cane in one hand, and a large purse stuffed with small gifts in the other, I hobbled on to an empty elevator, for a trip to the parking garage.

Just as the elevator doors were about to close, two young men, one tall, one short, both with the words “If you can read this, you’re #×*$×!” written in Neon on their foreheads, slipped into the elevator.  Wearing baggy pants; over-sized sweatshirts and grins that Great White Sharks would envy, they stared at me and my cane, and suddenly every cell in my body was screaming “Get out!”  “Oh shit!” I said out loud as I raised my cane, shoved it between the nearly closed elevator doors and hobbled…no, more like gimped (“gimped” is a word, right?), okay, so I gimped for my life.  Behind me I could hear my two would-be assailants laughing and one saying “Oh shit is right lady!”

I was shaking from head to toe as I walked “gimpally” down one flight of stairs and entered the large shopping mall garage.  “Are you okay?” asked a Security Guard who, I’m fairly certain, was at least 14 years old, and appeared to be dressed in his Daddy’s Uniform. “No…nope, not okay. No, definitely not okay”…I babbled, then described my elevator companions. “Yup, sounds like the same guys” Security Guard Baggy Pants said to me, as he sent an urgent Security Guard message on his Dick Tracy Decoder Ring (well no, actually, it was his Walkie Talkie), then he added: “Lady, it’s a really good thing you got out of that elevator cause a woman about your age was killed there last week.  We found her body in a dumpster.  Her throat had been slashed, and the two thugs who did it match the description of the two guys in the elevator with you!” [cue Twilight Zone Theme Music]

January 17, 1994:  It was 4:30 in the morning and, sitting at my desk in my home office, I was putting the finishing touches on a spec script I had written for the TV series “Frasier”.

My make-shift office consisted of one desk, one high-back desk chair, and six 2×4’s, each six feet long, upon which sat a computer tower (you remember computer towers, don’tcha?); a printer; a Boom Box (please tell me you remember Boom Boxes); dozens of books, and half a dozen potted plants in some major league terra cotta pots.  So, there I sat, typing the words “Fade Out. The End” and poof — out went the lights. Something felt wrong — very wrong and very dark — and a voice in my head SCREAMED “Get UP!!!, so I got up. I dove out of my high-back desk chair and, as I did, I heard a thunderous CRASH…then everything started to shake as a 7.1 Earthquake rocked the world of everybody in Los Angeles.

From her bedroom down the hall, my then-twelve-year-old daughter was screaming “Mommy, help!”  “I’m coming, honey” I shouted, though I doubted she could hear me over what sounded like a freight train barreling through our home.  The walls shook and anything not nailed down was flying through the air.  I tried to get to my child, but something was blocking my way, and in the darkness, I couldn’t see what it was. 

Knowing, as all southern Californians do, that, when in a building during an earthquake, standing in a doorway is the safest place to be — second only to standing in a doorway of a building a few thousand miles away — I shouted to my terrified child “Stand in your doorway” as books, dishes, and framed artwork flew through the air. I could hear my daughter shrieking, but I couldn’t reach her.  Dinner plates had become flying projectiles and they were slamming into my back from the open cupboards behind me. All around me everything breakable was shattering.  I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, and I couldn’t move. I was trapped by objects that, in the total darkness, I couldn’t even see.  The noise was deafening, and the shaking of the walls wouldn’t stop. 

Suddenly I heard a neighbor calling my name and then he appeared, flashlight in hand.  Somehow, he made his way to my daughter’s bedroom, picked her up and carried her down the stairs and outside, to safety, with me following close behind. Dozens of neighbors were gathering on my front lawn and in the street.  The rotten egg smell of ruptured gas lines filled the air.  A young man pulled his Zippo lighter from his pocket and, as he flipped it open to light the cigarette that was dangling from his lips, he was tackled from two directions, and his lighter fell to the ground, unlit. “That’s gas, you idiot!” a chorus of neighbors shouted. 

As the first rays of dawn peeked over rooftops, I borrowed my neighbor’s flashlight and carefully made my way up the stairs and into my home. My living room floor was more than ankle deep in plants, potting soil, bits and pieces of broken pottery, shattered mirrors and a bazillion multi-colored, jagged shards of what had been my treasured Fiesta Ware service for six.   My living room had been rearranged – nothing was where it belonged.  My cozy, over-stuffed couch was on the wrong side of the room, with my over-sized TV nesting, upside down, on the middle cushion.

I picked my way through the rubble, into my little office, and what I saw caused a wave of nausea too overwhelming to control. The shelves that had stood around my desk had collapsed, and there, in my high-back desk chair, at a 45-degree angle, was a six-foot long 2×4 that, had I remained seated in that chair one second longer, would have decapitated me. [cue Twilight Zone Theme Music…again]

November, 1975:  What began as a party ended abruptly with my death.  Drugs can do that!  This time, the inner voice that could, and often did protect me from harm, was silent and so…I died.  But my death was short-lived.  Eight minutes long, to be exact and, how, on that occasion, I was able to return to the Land Of The Living was the strangest experience of all.  So strange, in fact, that I wasn’t sure it had actually happened. I needed proof that my Divine Experience’ really had taken place, and that’s exactly what I got… and it was proof that no one could deny! 

One minute I was alive. The next minute I was dead! That should have been the end of my story but it was only the beginning! I met God! I talked to God and God talked to me! You may not believe my experience was real, but that’s okay because Reality is real, whether you believe it or not!

So, am I a cat who is now living the seventh of her nine allotted lives?…am I a creature from some distant Galaxy?… OR…has an Angel been living on my shoulder for lo these many years? I don’t know the answer.  That wasn’t one of the questions I thought to ask God during our Question-and-Answer Session. Oh, sorry…I neglected to mention that during those eight minutes when I was well and truly dead, I stood at the front door of Heaven and had a Question and Answer Session with God. I did, really, and I can prove it!

Brooke Jones

Amazon Best Selling author Brooke Jones is the author of “WHY ARE THERE MONKEYS? (and other questions for God)” — the absolutely true, deeply inspirational, laugh-out-loud funny story of her Near-Death Question and Answer Session with God. (If you think a conversation with God could not possibly be FUNNY, you’re in for a very BIG surprise!)

The Memoir that the US Review of Books called “Profound…Hysterically witty…Not to be missed!”, “WHY ARE THERE MONKEYS? (and other questions for God)” is available in eBook, Paperback and Hardcover from online retailers and Bookstores everywhere.

(A portion of every sale is donated to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation)

For more information, please visit: http://www.WrittenByBrookeJones.com

From Soup To NUTS!

For years…and years…and YEARS … bloated, bloviating white men MANdated that only white men were smart enough, educated enough, wise enough, to determine what their country would permit its citizens to do, and not do. When a small semblance of sanity reared its conscious head and the law of the land granted the vote to men of color, the bloated bloviaters decided that, in order to maintain their control of all things American, they would have to implement laws that made the possession of “hangie-down parts” no longer sufficient criterion for the casting of ballots. With that dubious decision was born the “Literacy Test” — exclusively given to illiterate, uneducated men for the sole purpose of preventing them from voting.

I mention this… why? Well, because this girl has had e-flipping-nuff!  Raise your hand if you agree with the following suggestion:  From this day forward, (only because it can’t be done retroactively…more’s the pity)no American citizen should be permitted to hold any American elected office unless he or she has passed  the test that anyone who wishes to become a citizen of this country is required to pass. 

If the law of the land required that one who cannot pass the current American Citizenship Test, cannot hold any American elected office, this country would have been spared the likes of President George W. “Africa is a nation…” Bush; and Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor “Gazpacho Police” Greene and, of course, (p)Resident Donald “the Moon is part of Mars” Trump. [and if that  sentence were any longer, it would be on Death Row]

could go on. The list of idiotic statements uttered by elected American idiots is, after all, painfully long, (and getting longer by the day), but a girl can only take so much pain and, frankly, Greene’s Gazpacho Nazis have exceeded my daily limit.

Please, I beg of you America, let us ensure that our nation is ruled by sentient beings whose IQ is greater than their waistline, and whose education includes a working knowledge of history, geography, and the difference between right and wrong. Let us, at the very least, be governed by people who find ignorance abhorrent and education laudable.

To quote Captain Jean-Luc Picard, people, can we please just: “Make it so!”

 “Y.Not?!” (aka: Brooke Jones)


“She Said WHAT?”!!??

What with everybody running around with their hair on fire over the words that fell out of Karen Johnson’s face on “The View” the other day — Karen Johnson is Whoopi Goldberg’s birth name, by the way –this would be an excellent time for a brief History Lesson. Well, actually, this will be something of a HERstory Lesson. (Take notes. The way things are playing out in this sorry world, it is inevitable that there WILL be a test at some point in the not-too-distant future!)

I begin today’s Lesson with the following piece of Reality: Judaism IS a Race – a “Tribal Race”– and one is Jewish if, and only if, one’s Biological mother is Jewish. The “Religious” aspect has to do with the “Belief System” to which those of the Jewish Persuasion tend to adhere. However, unlike Christianity, or Catholicism, or Hinduism, (or dozens of other “Religions”), Judaism is quite literally “rooted” in GENEOLOGY, which is why, while one can adhere to or practice the basic tenents of the Jewish “Religion”, one cannot choose to become Jewish because in order to be Jewish, one must be born the biological off-spring of a Jewish woman, whose mother was the biological off-spring of a Jewish woman, whose mother was also the biological off-spring of…etc, etc, etc. (my condolences to the late, great Sammy Davis, Jr). Of course, this matriarchal lineage dogma rather crumbles if you go back 5,000-plus years, at which point you arrive at an interesting piece of work by the name of Abraham, who is known as “The FATHER of Judaism”…and please do not ask me to explain THAT!

If you are not already sufficiently confused, allow me to include another interesting “factoid“: Abraham is also known as “The Father of Islam“. Why? Well, because before Abe (who, at the time, was a randy 900-plus-years-old) fathered a son named Isaac (the original “good Jewish boy”), he (Abe), ably assisted by Hagar, his (euphemism alert) “maid“, fathered a son he named Ishmael (yes, we shall “call him Ishmael”, Mr. Melville) — a son he and his 900-plus-year-old wife, Sarah (who was the biological mother of Isaac, though NOT the biological mother of Ishmael — don’t get me started) — soon EVICTED (thus giving us the original “Real Housewives of Palestine”)…AND from Ishmael came… Muhammed, and from Muhammed came…”Islam“…making old Abe the father of the world’s two oldest Religions: Judaism and Islam, BOTH of which are rooted in… Genealogy. And thus ends today’s episode of “She said WHAT???”

Shalom and As-Salamu Alaykum.

Y.Not?! (aka: Brooke Jones)

Want more? If you’re “twisted” enough to answer that question in the affirmative, please seek professional help AND visit: https://www.writtenbybrookejones.com


‘Twas the night before Christmas and in the White House

        not a creature was stirring, except for The Louse.

He sat on his gold throne, device on his knees,

       Tweeting his latest insanities.

Then, from somewhere outside there arose such a clatter,

that he jumped from his duties and dropped his snack platter.

To the window he waddled and looked down to see

a red-suited figure – “Who could that be?”

Then Junior crawled in whining: “What’s all that noise?”

and Barron shrieked:  “Santa! He’s bringing my toys!”

“Oh no, that’s not Santa! Are you dumb or just blind?

That’s old Crooked Hillary and her saggy behind!”

From her sleigh in the driveway then Hillary spoke:

“I’ve got the computers and pictures and notes,

and even the boxes of uncounted votes!

I saw you do all of the sick things you did,

and I know where you’re hiding the secrets you hid.

With the blackmail items that, for years, you’ve stocked up,

when it’s all sorted out, won’t be me who’s locked up!

Your time in the White House will soon be no more

and I’ll laugh and applaud as you’re dragged out the door!”

Then Eric unleashed such a sad, mournful sob:

“If Dad’s not The Boss, who will give me a job?”

“Shut up.  Just shut up!  This is not about YOU!

This is all about ME, but I know what to do!

I’ve got friends, lots of friends, the BEST friends, in fact.

They love me, they’re loyal, they won’t let me get sacked!

I have friends in high places – friends nobody knows,

friends with yuge power and YUGE debts they owe!

I’m too big to fail – too important to touch!

I’ll be President for life – they promised that much!”

Then the pants-suited figure stood tall, straight, and proud

and from out on the driveway her laughter got loud:

“President for life? – Too big to fail?

With titles like that you’ll be well-liked in jail!

With your selfish, disgusting, deplorable deeds,

and your cruelty, lies, and insatiable greed,

you’ve written your future in blood on the streets,

and set it in stone with your 3 AM Tweets!

You’re a cancer – a rancid and festering sore –

a malignant, malicious, international whore!

The time has now come that the Piper be paid.

Time now that the sum of your Evil be weighed.

I thank Flynn, Guiliani, Bolton and Cruz,

and Cohen and all of your ‘Friends’ at Fox News!”

Then, reins in her hands, she hopped back on her sleigh,

and uttered the words she had long wished to say:

“Great thanks to the People who dared ‘take a knee’,

and to Dreamers and Memers who refused not to see,

plus the millions of people with Soul and with Heart

who wept as you tore this whole Nation apart.

Thanks to Mueller, Pelosi, Schiff and Max Waters,

and all of America’s sensible voters,

our Nightmare is over – we’re rid of this Scum

and the soulless bloodsuckers who were loyal to the Bum!”

Then she said, with a wave and a glorious grin:

“Merry Christmas to all – may the Healing begin!”

Y.Not?! (aka Brooke Jones)

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What, Me Worry…?

I wrote this article nearly 18 months ago. It was frightening when I first wrote it…but I find it utterly TERRIFYING today! I’m tempted to describe this article as “URGENT”, but that would be an UNDERstatement! Please READ & SHARE.


I know I’m not
the only child of the “Leave It To Beaver” 1950’s who grew up hearing those
chilling words “You want something to cry
about? I’ll give you something to cry

about!”. Sounds familiar, yes? Well, welcome to the 21st
Century version of that adage: “You want something to worry about? I’ll give you
something to worry about!”.

WHATIF all the fear-mongering, the vitriol – all the hate-laced insanity that spews from every pore of Donald Trump’s bloated being — as ugly, incendiary and terrifying as it has been since he first laid claim to the White House, turns out to be but mild unpleasantness compared to what awaits us when his time in the Oval Office finally, mercifully, ends. (and if that sentence were any longer, it would deserve to be on Death Row). Whenever he exits – whether under his own steam…

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