If you think a conversation with God couldn’t possibly be FUNNY, you’re in for a very BIG surprise & EVERY word is TRUE! I was given PROOF that no one could deny!
(I donate a portion of EVERY sale to The Breast Cancer Research Foundation)
I have come to the conclusion that I am either a cat or a creature from some Galaxy far, far away. Nothing else explains why I survived three 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 it. It was the week before Christmas, 1995, and I was finishing my Holiday shopping in the Pasadena Mall. Having recently suffered a serious lower back injury, I was unable to walk without a cane. So, cane in one hand, 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 reeking of danger, slipped into the elevator. They grinned as they stared at me and my cane…
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‘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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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!
I could tell you about all of them, but you’re probably busy doing very important things and besides, why would you want to spend your precious time reading about the bizarre, super-natural experiences of some aging Gypsy Crone you’ve never even heard of?! So, I’ll take up only as much of your time as it will take me to tell you about just three of those experiences.
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 being in 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
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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Donald Trump, that putrid pile of festering fecal matter, says America is “rounding the corner” on Covid19. What he fails to mention is that that “corner” is located at the intersection of Democracy & Doom!
According to the Centers for Disease Control (the CDC):
— On Friday, October 30, 2020, One Hundred Thousand (100,000) new Covid19 cases were diagnosed in the U.S. — 25,000 more than in any previous 24-hour period!
— In the 14-day period ending on Friday, October 30, 2020, One Million (1,000,000) Americans were newly diagnosed with Covid19.
— It took America 10 months to record Eight Million Covid19 cases, BUT only 14 days to record an additional One Million cases!
In other words, what had been a contagion rate of 750,000 new American Covid19 cases per month, has suddenly grown to One Million new American cases in just 14 days — less than half of one month!
At that rate, by New Year’s Eve, Covid19 will have infected an additional Four Million Americans, bringing the number of Americans diagnosed with Covid19 to a staggering 13 Million.
When the total number of Americans diagnosed with Covid19 was only (only?) nine million, the death count was nearly 250,000, or approximately 25,000 deaths per One million cases. If that ratio persists, by the first day of the coming new year, 325,000 Americans will have been killed by the commingling of Covid19 and Donald J. Trump’s criminal negligence and incompetence!
But wait…there’s more:
According to the dictionary, the word paranoia means “unjustifiable fear”. That being the case, one must conclude that those, like myself, who fear for the future health and safety of America and her citizens, are not paranoid, because there is nothing, absolutely nothing UNjustified about that fear!
In the past six months, sales of guns and ammunition have skyrocketed! American homes now contain more guns than pets, and the only thing growing faster than the sale of guns in this country is the girth and rabid hatred of Trump’s Legion of Lunatic Lemmings.
If you are aware of the Biden/Harris Campaign bus that was attacked in Texas Saturday (10/31/2020) by a caravan of heavily-armed Trumpists…if you read that the number of gun-toting Trumpists involved in that attack greatly outnumbered the combined forces of local law enforcement personnel…if you recall the recent confirmed conspiracy to kidnap and murder the Democratic Governor of the state of Michigan, in retaliation for her efforts to slow the spread of a deadly plague – if these facts are not news to you, and yet you are not convinced that what awaits us on the evening of November 3rd (and in the days and weeks to follow) is anything less than coast-to-coast chaos and bloodshed, then you, dear reader, are dangerously naive.
I insist that it is not paranoia that prompts me to suggest that when Election 2020 is over and the winners have been announced, the first nation-wide noise you will hear will be the sound of hundreds of thousands of guns being locked and loaded by hundreds of thousands of knuckle-dragging Trump worshippers. What they lack in education and decency they more than compensate for with weapons of mass murder, and a passionate desire to use them!
The old adage “Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst” should now be Thing Number One on your To Do List. Check your current supplies of food, medicine, vitamins, First Aid provisions, dog and cat food, kitty litter, diapers, coffee, tea, Snickers bars, and yes, toilet paper. If you have less than several weeks’ worth of any of those items, get to the store and stock up, now! Fill your fridge and pantry. Don’t forget batteries, flashlights, and anything else you might need in the immediate future.
If you have not yet cast your Ballot, and you plan to do so on Election Day, in person at a local Polling Place, get to that Polling Place as early this coming Tuesday morning as possible. Vote and then go home, and stay home because by late afternoon Tuesday, November 3, 2020, the streets of America will be swarming with heavily-armed Trumpists who will want nothing more than to fire at will (or at Bruce, or Ahmed, or Laticcia, or Sanjay). Itchy trigger fingers are not known for their discernment and anyone who is not ‘them’ will be a perfectly acceptable target. By word, deed, gesture and implication, Donald Trump has declared it to be Open Season on his enemies, and his long list of enemies includes us.
And just who is ‘us’? (forgive my syntax slaying. Desperate times call for desperate grammar.) To help you figure out if you could be a target, I’ve compiled a list of characteristics, traits, and tendencies that might earn you a spot on the Trump Enemy List.
You Might Be A Target Of Trump’s Army of Asshat Assassins If:
- your Family Tree has more than one branch
- you have all your teeth
- you can effortlessly pronounce words of more than two syllables
- your IQ is at least 20 points higher than your body temperature
- you own more books than guns
- you love someone whose personal plumbing resembles your own
- you wear a Mask whenever you are in public
- you do not consider “visible butt crack” to be a fashion statement
- you have a natural, year-round tan
- English is only one of the languages you speak
- you do not celebrate Christmas
- your favorite Family Night movie is not “Deliverance”
- you do not think of Pork Rinds as Health Food
- you do not have at least one old car sitting on blocks in your front yard
- you do not worship Donald John Trump
Take care, all…stay safe…and believe, as I do, that the Pendulum of Life swings back and forth, and, some day soon, sanity, decency, and compassion will rule.
–Y.Not?! (aka Brooke Jones)
To see more, please scroll down… AND…to be notified of new offerings in the land of “What If?”, scroll to the bottom and CLICK on the FOLLOW button.
Conspiracy Theories Abound. Some are silly, some are strange, and some are flat out sick – the musings of minds in desperate need of medical attention…but…
WHAT IF….Donald Trump’s announced diagnosis of Covid19 is nothing more than a plot to avoid the long and legendary arm of the law? “ How?” you ask. Well, maybe like this:
A report, issued by the White House Thursday night, informs the world that Donald Trump has contracted Covid19, the diabolical hoax virus that affects almost no one. Shortly thereafter, Donald is flown by helicopter to nearby Walter Reed Hospital. The details of his status and treatment are closely guarded secrets, so secret, in fact, that even his attending physicians are not permitted to know.
Meanwhile, in another part of Trump Town, his Legion of Lunatic Lemmings frantically pace their trailers, clutching their guns and smacking their gums. “Oh my God, what are we going to do? Gladys, where did I put my teeth?” “Have you looked in the Spittoon?”
Back at Walter Reed, though unconfirmed, a new story is spreading: Trump is dead! Moments later, Twitter is flooded with reports of the passing of Donald John Trump. And then the official announcement from Fox TV’s visibly sobbing Tucker Carlson:
“The China Virus has claimed another victim — Donald Trump, our beloved 45th president of the United States, is dead”.
Suddenly, in shacks and shanties, bars and barnyards, there is much gnashing of teeth…or there will be, as soon as they find their teeth, and millions of weeping, wailing, MAGA hat wearing, butt crack bearing, off-spring of the marriage of cousins polish their guns and promise revenge.
Covered by a newly made (in China) American flag, a gurney carrying the body of the deceased president is wheeled from his private hospital room, loaded onto a waiting helicopter, and flown to an undisclosed location, where it will be prepared for its final Reality Show appearance.
A White House Press Release informs the world that Donald John Trump, America’s 45th president, the greatest president in the history of the United States, has died, but only after fighting a valiant battle against the most evil enemy America has ever faced. No one has ever fought as bravely as he did! The president’s last words were: “I am the strongest president in the history of presidents. No president has EVER fought this enemy, but I fought it and I fought it better than ANY one’s ever fought it, and I love my people SO much that I am giving my life for them!” The Press Release concluded with the news that the body of Donald J. Trump, the most brilliant president America has ever known, will lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda until all his cherished followers, friends and family members have been able to pay their final respects, at which time he will be buried, with full military honors, in Arlington Memorial Cemetery, as befits the bravest Commander-In-Chief this nation has ever been fortunate enough to know.
In keeping with standard protocol, flags throughout Washington D.C. are lowered, then raised to half-staff. Amid a hectic storm of activities in the White House, led by Ivanka Trump, a lavish funeral is being arranged. News crews from around the world plant their cameras and shoot anyone and anything that moves. Anything except the one most important thing – the one thing they will never know.
As the sun begins to set and the October skies darken over the nation’s capital, no one notices the unmarked Boeing 757 jet as it takes off from Andrews Air Force Base and heads east, over the Atlantic Ocean. A Steward pushes a food-laden trolly into the the plane’s silk-lined master bedroom. Removing the solid gold lids from two large dinner plates, he exposes four McDonald’s Cheeseburgers, four containers of French Fries, and four bottles of Diet Coke, then turns on his heels and walks out of the room.
Hearing the door close, Donald John Trump studies himself in his 24-karat-gold-framed bathroom mirror and laughs. Patting down one errant strand of hair, he winks at his mirror image, walks out of the bathroom, and seats himself in front of his dinner. As he digs into his favorite meal, he clicks the TV remote and the giant screen on the far wall comes to life, showing him thousands of MAGA hat-wearing, gun-toting, adoring disciples as they weep uncontrollably over the loss of their adored leader. “Man, I am good!” he says as he shoves one half of a Cheeseburger into his mouth and reaches for a Diet Coke.
–Y.Not?! (aka Brooke Jones)
Scroll down to see more…AND…to be informed of new offerings in the land of “What If…?” please scroll to the bottom and CLICK on the FOLLOW button.