Subject: Software Upgrade

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Dear Tech Support:

Last year I upgraded from Girlfriend 7.0 to Wife 1.0. I soon noticed that the new program began unexpected child processing that took up a lot of space and valuable resources. In addition, Wife 1.0 installed itself into all other programs and now monitors all other system activity. Applications such as Poker Night 10.3Football 5.0Hunting and Fishing 7.5 and NASCAR Racing 3.6.

I can’t seem to keep Wife 1.0 in the background while attempting to run my favorite applications. I’m thinking about going back to Girlfriend 7.0, but the uninstall feature doesn’t seem to work on Wife 1.0. Please help!!

Thanks,
A Troubled User

Tech Support Answer:

Dear troubled user:

This is a very common problem that men complain about. Many people upgrade from Girlfriend 7.0 to Wife 1.0 thinking that it is just a Utilities and Entertainment program. Wife 1.0 is an OPERATING SYSTEM and is designed by its Creator to run EVERYTHING!!! It is also impossible to delete Wife 1.0 and return to Girlfriend 7.0. It is impossible to uninstall, or purge the program files from the system once installed.

You cannot go back to Girlfriend 7.0 because Wife 1.0 is designed to not allow this. Look in your Wife 1.0 manual under Warnings: Alimony & Child Support. I recommend that you keep Wife 1.0 and work on improving the situation. I suggest installing the background operation “Yes Dear 1.2” to alleviate software argumentation.

The best course of action is to enter the command C:\ APOLOGIZE because ultimately you will have to give the APOLOGIZE command before the system will return to normal anyway. Wife 1.0 is a great program, but it tends to be very high maintenance. Wife 1.0 comes with several support programs, such as Clean and Sweep 3.0Cook It 5.0, and Do Bills 4.2.

However, be be very careful how you use these programs. Improper use will only cause the system to launch the program Nag Nag 9.5. Once this happens, the only way to improve the performance of Wife 1.0 is to purchase additional software. I recommend Flowers 2.1 and Diamonds 5.0! WARNING!!! DO NOT, under any circumstances, install Secretary With Short Skirt 3.3. This application is not supported by Wife 1.0 and will cause irreversible damage to the operating system.

So before upgrading from Girlfriend 5.0 to Wife 1.0 please read first all the documentations especially the terms and conditions, this won’t clear up all the confusion but will help you adapt to the new upgrades which are hidden and bundled to Wife 1.0 such as Hergirlfriends 11.9 and it’s upgraded version from old GirlFriend 5.0 plugins such as Gossip 8.7.4 and Activitymonitoring 3.5  a hidden network sniffer, listener and tracker.

Best of luck,
Tech support

Best Friend Or Worst Nightmare

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I’m home alone, bored, and decided I wasn’t done talking in my last post about my wife’s big question. But wait, there’s more. Have you ever just bumbled around the house, bored, nothing really to do? I sat down this morning to write my other post, a tedious event since I do it on my phone, while I was deleting some music and downloading more, yes, I always want more music. But as I got a slab of meat ready for the smoker I wondered what I was going to be doing next. I already ran my errands and knocked that shit out. I realized while writing the last post that over the years as I’ve aged I have changed, both mentally, physically, and emotionally. Not that I miss my youth, but I do appreciate it now where I didn’t then. We all, I guess we all do, find a path in life and pretty much stick to it, mostly out of habit I think. Some call it a “routine”, I call it what it really is, and that’s a habit. Life happens, shit happens, and we roll with it or get rolled over by it.

I’m a pretty relaxed person, some say to relaxed, and I tend to roll with the punches instead of getting into the fight. I realized recently that I have become an asshole to people I don’t know and to those I wish I didn’t know. I suppose this happened over time and becomes more evident the more I get out in public. Seems like every time I open the front door I hear ” welcome to Walmart motherfucker” simply because in the course of my day I will inevitably be forced to interact with people, strangers, other people’s children, and people who definitely should not breed, ever, there dads should have had the common courtesy to just pull out. But noooooooooo, now people with common sense have to deal with your fucking problems because they never did. Anyway, this has nothing to do with the people of Walmart nor is it me thinking I’m better than others, it goes deeper, I’m the problem. I admit it, I’m the problem, or I’m the one with the problem. People are needy little fuckers that just suck the everloving life right out of me. There are many qualities I despise in people, the top two are being lazy and being a liar.

My wife says I have a strange gift, my ability to watch people, read people, and get just shy to understanding them before a word is ever spoken. You’re right, it sounds like I judge them before knowing them. Or I just don’t have time for bullshit and I just cut to the chase. I don’t want my son turning into me, he has a kind a loving heart that never stops giving. The world needs more people just like him, that is of course my biased opinion. I have a crude way I look at life in general, not that I’m special and I’m not the only one life has fucked without any lube, I just learned from it. I don’t want to be a repeat offender at the mercy of others to decide my fate which is decided with a thumbs up or thumbs down. Life has snuck in her fair share of surprises but looky here bitch…… I’m still standing. In people’s defense, I know I don’t give them a fair shake. Honestly, I see no reason to trust a person who has not earned my trust first. Maybe living in the big city has tainted me. I see what Christians call the “7 Deadly Sins” in almost every person I meet or know. No, I’m not perfect, far from perfect, but I do pay attention and I do have a considerable amount of common sense. I learned, and try to explain, the value of one’s life, it only holds value to yourself, only you value you. I spent a considerable amount of my life trying (and failing) to please others to feel as though I have self worth, something frowned upon by Christians, well Catholics, and it took some hard knocks to the head that made me realize I’m more than just a cog in a machine, my life matters to me, and that is what is important.

Getting divorced, divorcing the Air Force, and getting disowned by my family (parents and sisters) all within a few months of each other does wonders for my self esteem. However, I got mad and I stood the fuck back up, giving life the two finger salute she deserved and I got over it. Fuck it. Divorced? Yes, she needed other men in her life, I didn’t want to share. Over, 13 years in the toilet. The Air Force divorced me, I was no longer fit to perform. Over, 12 years in the toilet. My family, with exception to my mother, disowned me after the found out I was not only looking for my biological parents, but was in communication with my biological mother and the family of my biological father since he was already dead. Want to know more, search this blog, I’ve written extensively about being adopted. In their eyes I was wrong for wanting to where I came from. But, slowly, I got them to understand. Now, we all have a pretty nice relationship, except my oldest sister (also adopted) who still despises me all these years later. Fuck, I just wanted to know where I came from and why I was discarded. Anyway, as I said, I got mad, packing, and off to live my life on my terms.

But, damn, my future wife had (and still does) an ass that commanded my full attention. Women, eventhough they’ll never admit it, are tricky crafty creatures, they play coy but know they are the black widow. One can search the blog for more on her as well. I have a favorite story I’m going to share with y’all, which in my opinion sums up people’s selfishness and how self preservation is more often than not compromised because of being closed minded. The moral of the story you ask; don’t tempt fate.

One day, a scorpion was walking around on a riverbank wondering how to get to the opposite bank. He saw a crocodile basking in the sun. The scorpion went up to the crocodile and said “Crocodile, can I please ride on your back across the river?” The crocodile was taken aback with this said. “Why would I do that? When i am swimming, you will sting me, and I will die,” The crocodile said. “Well, if i sting you, you will sink, and i will drown, for I cannot swim,” the scorpion said. With that, the scorpion climbed on the crocodile’s back, and the crocodile swam across the river. In the middle of the river, the scorpion stung the crocodile. “Why? Why would you do that scorpion!? You too will die now! Why!?” “Because… it is in my nature,” the scorpion replied sadly, and with that, they both sank deep into the water.

I don’t recall where I read or heard this story years ago, but as I aged many things rang true in the story if you relate it to the people in your life. Everyone wants to trust everyone all the time while not being worthy of being trusted. Or let me say that in modern terms, we all want full disclosure but are not willing to provide full disclosure in return. With that being said, y’all can think how you will think, its not my choice. But, I do have trust issues outside of my immediate family, for two reasons, in my opinion, two damn great reasons. The two reasons I don’t trust people are because I don’t know them and becomes I do know them. Simple, right? My wife will tell you I trust only a few because it is part of who I am, part of being a Scorpio (either the best friend or the worst enemy), and partly because of fear. My lack of trust, I suppose, has many contributing factors, gathered throughout my life, and resulting in the current me. She tells me that she likes the fact that I write on my blog, she thinks I need to write a book full of the stories I tell here as well as ones in my private life. I tell her just like I tell y’all, this is just a place for me to “talk”. I don’t consider myself a person who writes, I consider myself a person who likes to share stories, I like it here, I share things I like here, I don’t want it to become ” work”, besides, it’s fun this way for me.

I will never see a day without sheeple being herded into conformity. I don’t want to be one of the sheeple. I’m only sure about one thing in my life, one day I will die, but life will continue for the living. I think on that note I will close this out, I expected it to gradually go somewhere but as we see it never really formed into anything. Like I said, I just wanted to talk. I do know one thing tho, the only alternative to being my friend or enemy is not to exist in my world. But, that would be allot like having a cake and eating it alone.

Time For Your Magic Weekend Stories!

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But wait! What’s the hurry? What’s the big deal? Sit back a moment and I will explain to y’all why the weekend being here is such a big deal. Don’t freak out if y’all have submitted before and it was published, I really love you repeat offenders and I will post for you again.  As y’all can see, here at The Sting Of The Scorpion Blog, I’m pretty open minded as to what I post myself. Anyway, your information can be as private or as public as you want it to be. Upon request I also add your blog so others may find you as they grope around the internet in the dark. I also provide the donating party of the story and pictures a link to place on their blog to use as they see desirable. Want more information or want to just see what has been posted before? Just search The Sting Of The Scorpion Blog for “Magic Weekend” and enjoy.

So, that’s why I’m here today. It’s time for y’all to tell your fantastic stories about your weekend for the “world” to see. So what did your Magic Weekend involve? Sex, Jail, Blood, Money, or Fame? Got questions? Just ask me. Fair enough? Great, lets GO! Be sure to include your pictures with your story!

Submit your stories & pictures to:

thestingofthescorpion@gmail.com

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For Some People, Work Is Romance

Not for me of course, but from what I understand, many romances have there beginning in the workplace. I’m not a particular fan of the whole “selfie”, however I do see the humor in it all because we all know what is on our cell phones is safe and secure. We also all know that our emails only go to the intended recipient. In the end, we put our faith, no, our trust in the powers that be, that anything we do with devices which replicate and record will not be shared maliciously with the rest of the world. Okay, y’all see thru my veil of sarcasm, you got me. But how often is this kind of shit on the news? After a little research I found that only 1% of 1% of these instances are actually reported, which leaves a whole lot of untold yet equally entertaining stories that are told as rumors and little secrets in dark places. I mean let’s look at this a moment, then I will get the story which was submitted to me to tell here, unfortunately I can’t copy and paste this one, it is really scattered around, so I was asked if I would do it as a first person teller. Many put their lives out there for the world to see. Perhaps one should scan Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, people’s blogs, and so forth. Yea, I post shit here and on Facebook, but go back and look at those posts, nothing about my sex life, or drug habit if I had one, or any other intimate details that are nobody’s fucking business. With that, lets explore how an office “crush” turned into office “stalking” and a mess that could not be cleaned up. As a reminder, all the names and places have been changed, which is good because I don’t think any of the people in this story read my blog and if they did they would just blow it off as a coincidence or something.

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This all began with Stacy and her new job now that she has graduated from a major university up north. She moved back close to home to be somewhat close to home, close enough to visit regularly but far enough away that people have to call first to make sure she is home. After getting settled into her apartment she begins her job hunting. She immediately gets a few interviews and a few of those led to offers and she takes the one at a large company pretty far down on the food chain. College degree plus no experience equals earning a better position later. Not her dream job, but it will pay the bills and let her live a life without ramen noodles. Stacy left a serious relationship up north, one she had invested 3+ years into. Unfortunately, when they graduated she wasn’t ready to get married, settle down, have kids, and do the whole white picket fence thing, so she broke it off by just leaving like a thief in the middle of the night. Once she got into her new place she called to patch it up and things looked like they just might work out for the two of them after all.

One night she was working late on a project and got an idea of how to get her long time beau to remain interested in only her. After making sure the area was clear she went to the copier and entered his email address. This was right before she stripped of her skirt and sat on the copier, this was going to be a quick reminder to him of what he was missing now. However, apparently as she climbed up on the copier to get a good copy of her ass her hand hit the cancel button without her paying attention, so when she pushed the send button it was on the selection of “send to all recipients”, meaning she just found out she sent a picture of her ass and more to everyone in the entire company. At first she was horrified but the realized that the email was sent from the copier with the copier’s email address so no one could possibly know its her ass in the picture. Plus, she wasn’t at her floors copier because it was not working properly, so she was two floors up doing her dirty little deed. Also, she knew that there were 50 plus other women who were still working, so she was confident she will get away with it. She went home, had a hot bath, a few shots of ol Jack, and spent a few hours talking with the boyfriend, never bringing up what has happened.

On Monday she went back to her office, made way to her cubicle, and when she opened the desk drawer to put her purse away she sees a plain white envelope. When she opened it she finds her picture with a note that read “I know this is your fine little ass, you need to let me get balls deep in you or I share your secret”. At first she is confused as hell, should she be flattered or afraid. At the bottom there were instructions, she was to take a post-it note and put a smilely face on it and put it a plain view area that everyone could see if she wished to be compliant. If not then she was to do nothing. Yes, her first thought was sexual, she wondered ” balls deep” where exactly and it might be ok if he’s now hung like John Holmes. But she didn’t want to complicate her new job by having sex with someone from the office, there had to be another way, there had to be a way to turn this whole thing around. After some deep thought she decided to play the game and put the smilely face up for whoever to see. When it was time to go she was disappointed because nothing happened, all the cloak and dagger bullshit and nothing happened.

Following her regular routine in the morning she opened her bottom drawer to put her purse away and there was another envelope. This one was instructions, this one described what was going to happen next. She was to go to the motel listed, using the address provided, check in as Mrs. Smith, go to the room, totally undress, and lay on the bed waiting for him. She thought at first she would just turn this over to the police but really feared the investigation would expose her as well. She went to the motel three hours earlier than instructed to scope the place out. She wasn’t impressed. She went up to the counter to check in and do decided to do a little digging on her mystery date. The girl at the counter was more than happy to help Stacy after she was told this fantastic sex game was about to go down. He registered as James Smith but paid with his personal credit card. After a quick internet search she finds out Mr. Smith is married with two small girls. Stacy asked for the credit card number and information because she didn’t have her card on her and it was given to her. Stacy contacts a male escort service, pays the $1200.00 with his card. Her one request is that he be bisexual because there was going to be a threesome. When he arrives they have a quick meeting and he agreed to the entire plan.

Shortly after getting set up in the room Mr. Smith let’s himself in. In the shadows he could see a naked ass purched in the air as he hears Stacy’s voice telling him he only gets to fuck her ass. Acknowledging that was perfectly fine he strips and begins to go to work. Surprise! The lights come on and a fully dressed Stacy stands as she takes a few pictures of her own. He has the stunned deer look on his face as she explained that she knew who he was, his wife was, his kids, their cell phone numbers, and where they lived. What now he asks? She informs him that her new friend there on the bed that he is poking in the ass is going to repay the favor now. She films the whole thing, being sure to get a close up of the male escort pulling out just in time to make a nice mess on Mr. Smith’s face. She decided to leave, but not before delivering her own message which was if he ever mentions her picture again or ever sees it anywhere she will hand deliver this video and pictures to his wife.

She never actually had seen this guy at work in the past, she still didn’t know who he was, but she has yet to ever see or hear anything ever still to this day.

The Night I Don’t Remember

 

As we know, I do my best to share the stories of my readers. This one really has no direct category to be placed in, but I will add it to the collection of great stripper and strip bar stories. The reader who submitted this story asked to remain unidentified for professional reasons. No, I don’t know what is meant by that, but I always abide by requests and people see it when they read stuff here. I have seen this happen in real life more than once, like every day. One would be amazed what people leave at a strip bar. One would be surprised the efforts people go through to get their stuff back. And, yes, unfortunately it is kinda like talking with a giggly five year old when you call a strip bar, its always been that way because she is never hired for her people skills on the phone, she is hired to be the first thing you see when you walk thru the doors so you go DAMN! let me in. When one enters a strip bar it is like walking through the portal to an alternate universe, often one needs to pinch themselves because the world is cruel outside the doors. So, allot of weird shit happens in a strip bar, but then again a strippers job is to separate a visitor from as much of his/her money in the shortest amount of time, every time. With that being said, read the email.

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Begin email———————

I went to the strip club the other night…allegedly.  I’m not sure it counts though because I don’t remember being there, much less remember driving home.  “Oh the humanity Grayson, the humanity,” I hear the voices saying.  “How dare you drive home black-out drunk; you could have killed someone!”  Shut thefuck up right now and let me finish you interrupting ass-hag!  I didn’t quite drive home drunk and I do specifically remember one incident from the night…being woken at 3:30am by a security guard(?) while passed out in my truck in some establishment’s parking lot.  Whose parking lot it was…I was totally and completely unsure of.  After that, I am wholly unaware of the events except for the fact that I slept for the next 26 hours straight, missing work and occasionally waking up from some pretty twisted dreams of disembodied heads, parallel universes and ex-girlfriends wanting to “give it another shot”…again; then dumping me and shitting – both figuratively and literally – on me and my life.  I mean, this heartless cheating cunt had the audacity to…wait, what the fuck was I talking about?  Oh yeah, right…blacking out at a strip club and not remembering; I’m the good guy.  Anyway, it was like the movie The Hangover, minus the ‘wolf-pack’ and a whole lot more depressing.  Like our lovable characters from the film, I was (possibly) drugged with GHB and had to follow vague clues I’d unknowingly left myself in order to find, not a lost friend and groom for an imminent wedding the following morning, but my debit card and driver’s license.  So yeah, a completely sad version of the now classic comedy.

The entire night started with an innocent trip to a bar, not to drink, but to sit way back in a corner booth with my notebook (actual paper-type book you write in with pens; not a computer…I ain’t fuckin’ rich folks).  Yes, I said that shit with my nose in the air like some pretentious hipster at Star Bucks; feel free to punch me if you ever see me.  Anyway, how I got from said bar to, what I later found out to be Cabaret East, I have no fucking idea; but I figured my notebook might have a clue, since I’m always leaving myself notes.  I had 20 pages of some seriously fucked up and twisted shit written in there that I am proud to say I loved, and don’t actually know when I wrote it that night.  When I got done high-fiving myself and making mental notes to write shit-faced drunk (or drugged) more often, I noticed 2 phone numbers on the last page of writing.  One had the name of a tattoo parlor and the other was for a person named Corrin.  Intrigued, I picked up my cell phone ready to dial her(?) number until I came to the sudden realization that I had to have used my GPS since I surely had no idea how to get where I went or how to get home.  Sure enough, my GPS was the last app I used that night.  I searched the ‘recent addresses’, plugged that shit into Google Search and voila, Cabaret East.  I got the phone number, called that bitch up and what follows is the conversation, verbatim, I had with the receptionist…as much as I can recall days later anyway:

Girl – Cabaret East

Me – Yeah, hi.  I believe I visited your fine establishment Sunday night, and whether I left by my own accord or was forcibly removed, I’m not sure, but I believe ya’ll might be in possession of my ID and debit card.

Girl – Um…what?

Me – I think I walked my tab.  Do you have my debit card?

Girl – Uh…I dunno.

(Silence for ten seconds)

Me – (irritated at this point) Can you…I dunno…look?!

Girl – Oh yeah (giggles), sure, one sec.

Me – Wait wait wait!

Girl – What?

Me – Don’t you need my name?!

Girl – (giggles again) Oh yeah…of course!

After talking to this brick wall of human intelligence for what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to extract from her that, yes, they did indeed have possession of my shit.  I hung up the phone, triumphant that I CSI’d the shit out of my situation,  while also ashamed-beyond-words at the same time because I still don’t know how my shit got there in the first place. I will be fucked until my literal day of recollection.

Later Tuesday evening, I went up to the titty club to retrieve my shit and was met by a big, burly, black mother fucker who looked like he’d choke me with my own intestines; who also happened to remember both, helping me to my truck as I vomited along the way AND waking me up at 3:30 in the AM to send my hobo-ass packing.  I thanked him for telling me about such obviously proud moments in my life, then  I swore to him that I’d been drugged; in return he handed me a bill with a smile…for just under $350.  I fought back maniacal fits of laughter, tears and the intense urge to vomit.

I wasn’t sure if I was playing out my fantasy of a poor man’s Hank Moody from Californication or if I was literally just fucked up enough to get myself into such shenanigans; because I don’t generally share much about my actual personal life other than the intense anger that I feel in general towards society, but I’m pretty sure some people at this point would consider a negative bank account due to a – for all intents-and-purposes – fake night of debauchery, as rock bottom; for me…it’s just another Sunday night.

As for Corrin…she is a stripper, who had as much recollection of me as I had for her; we will not be in touch.

End email————————–

I like this man’s references to movies and life in general. I have the answer he seeks. It wasn’t drugs, it’s deeper than that, its more mental than that, it was out his normal element if you ask me. Plus, writers are fucking out there in their own world anyway, no offense to y’all writers, but it’s true. People often overthink shit too, which is death to our brains, then add in strippers, titties, alcohol, a strip bar, blacking out, and one can see where the imagination just goes ape shit. Not to mention the movie reference, because those were some pretty fucked up movies. Neither here nor there, he solved his dilemma. Too bad he doesn’t remember what went down. Or does he? Maybe its his mind blocking shit that isn’t in his norm or his mind knows that if he recalls anything that he will be in mental disarray. Who knows.

Why I Stepped Foot In Church

Normally I would not attempt the madness called church on my own, but this last time I went to church not to be preached at, but to enjoy the music of the church symphony orchestra which has a member who is like one of my own children. We go to all of her events, in school or in church. I enjoy the way she can make the cello talk to you, she’s finishing out her freshman year of high school, but listening to her play that cello one would never guess her young age. It may just be my opinion, but she is great. So, that’s what led me to church, I enjoy the way she plays, it makes everything in life, the problems and troubles, just fade into the background where they belong. But, that’s not why we are here today, today I’m going to discuss how my attire was not proper enough to be in a church. Clearly there is confusion, unless you are looking to be offended that I’m not in slacks, a nice shirt, a tie, a jacket, and shiny shoes with a belt to match, oh wait, you are. All I can ask is why? Especially since this wasn’t a “service”, it was a performance.

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I wore what I would wear pretty much anywhere, black Wrangler jeans (no holes, clean), black leather belt, 3 button shirt (black in color, no logo, clean), black gator skin cowboy boots (polished, clean), and a black Stetson with a simple silver band (Stetson is a name/brand/style of a cowboy hat). So, it wasn’t as if I showed up wearing surf shorts, tank top, flip flops, and a ball cap. This is my basic “dress up” clothes, also good for funerals, weddings, and graduations. In fact, after walking in, finding our seat in the main hall (we picked 5 out of the nearly 1300 chairs, its a big Baptist church), I removed my hat, placing it in the seat next to me on my right with my wife on the left. Clearly I’m not a member of this church, I’m here as a guest with invitation in hand, given to me by my other “daughter”. After the 2 hour performance which resulted in a standing ovation and constant applause for the 62 members of the symphony orchestra, it was time to stand in the walkways to hug, shake hands, and chat, all of which I did while standing there wearing my hat. Some would say I stand out above the crowd being I’m 6’8″ to begin with. But people focused on more, people focused on the fact that I was wearing jeans and I had a hat on in church.

The message I received loud and clear from mr. preacher man was that my attire was not proper and will not be welcome in the future, this was said in a snotty rude way, very derogatory and unappreciated by me. I was left with but one option, in my opinion, which was to lean in to him, getting my lips very close to his ear as I pulled him close by the shoulder to say “go fuck yourself”, then I kissed him on the cheek, shook his now trembling hand, and walked out. I never looked back, no need to look back. Shortly after I see my wife and kids following up in my footsteps, we get in the truck, and we left. My wife did not become aware that anything was even said until a few days later, when she spoke with the preachers wife, who she knows outside the church professionally. Of course she asked if it was true, of course I told her it was, and no more was said about it. That whole night does nothing but reinforce my dislike for organized religion, I did nothing wrong and his actions/words cannot be justified in my opinion. Since when do I need to be dressed a certain way to be inside a church, no matter what is going on? So, I got to thinking that I had some thoughts to discuss, and in a long drawn out way that is why everyone was invited here today. So lets begin.

The so-called worship wars of recent years may have produced a winner. Many congregations/denominations remain divided between traditional and contemporary styles of “church”, but in most places the contemporary appears to have gained the upper hand. Your worship services have become increasingly relaxed and informal affairs. You can see it in what people are wearing. Church for today’s worshipers is not a dress-up event. Whatever is clean and comfortable seems sufficient. When it comes to church, attire doesn’t much matter. Most people I have spoke with over the years understand there is nothing particularly spiritual about a dress or a coat and tie. I was even told by a Sunday school teacher of my son’s that God is scarcely impressed by such things as clothes. She quoted something to me that day, “People look at the outward appearance,” we are reminded, “but the Lord looks at the heart”.

I do not intend to wade into the broader debate over worship styles; that’s a different discussion. But I do wish to raise a question about this fucking outdated way of thinking that when it comes to public worship since my clothing matters so much. This common assumption, it seems to me, deserves more scrutiny than it typically receives. Over the last several generations, American attire in general has lurched dramatically toward the informal. A feature that quickly dates an old photograph, just look at a picture of your grandparents. The changes are part of a broad shift toward the convenient, comfortable, and individuality. It’s a shift we see on display everywhere we go each day. Ever been to Walmart?  It’s easy to imagine how one might look over-dressed there, but less easy, short of immodesty, to imagine being under-dressed. Jeans or shorts, tee shirts or tank tops, flip-flops or sandals: these draw scarcely any attention, while full dresses or a suit and tie appear strangely out of place. Relaxed, even rumpled informality is in; suiting up in your “Sunday best” is out.

Many seem convinced it’s a good thing, because, again, it’s the heart that counts. Yet precisely for this reason, because it’s the heart that counts, I want to suggest that what we wear in our public worship may matter more than we think. To grasp this connection, let us extract some helpful insights from daily communication we all see. Verbal behavior refers to all those ways we use language to communicate: speaking, writing, sign language, etc. Nonverbal behavior focuses on all those ways we communicate without words: facial expression, gesture, posture, eye behavior, vocal inflection, our use of space, or touch behavior. In our everyday relationships only a small percentage of what we communicate is conveyed via verbal channels. The rest is conveyed nonverbally.

The avenue of nonverbal communication I will call one’s physical appearance and dress shows more about a person than words, or does it?. Here are a handful of observations based on our human interactions.

The wearing of clothing is exclusively a human characteristic. We share many attributes with other creatures, but the inclination to clothe ourselves is not one of them. Where, if any, is there a moral or even a spiritual dimension to human clothing? Why is so much emphasis put on clothing? Our clothes serve a variety of practical, social, and cultural functions. Protection and modesty spring first to mind, but our clothes do far more. We sometimes dress to conceal or deceive. More often our clothes serve to reveal. We use clothing for decoration, for sexual attraction, for self-expression and self-assertion. By our attire we display our gender, our religion, our occupation, our social position, or causes with which we identify. Many dress to impress, while others choose the reverse: they express their rejection by intentionally flouting accepted clothing norms.

Our clothing is one of our most elemental forms of communication. Long before our voice is heard, our clothes are transmitting multiple messages. From our attire, others immediately read not only such things as our sex, age, national identity, socio-economic status, and social position, but also our mood, our attitudes, our personality, our interests, and our values. We constantly make judgments about one another on the basis of clothing. Common wisdom has it that you can’t judge a book by its cover. But this is only partly true; we regularly read one another’s covering. What’s more, we’re better at it than we think.  We spend our lives making judgments based on appearance and then testing those judgments in our subsequent relationships. In this way, we become rather adept at the process. Judgments based on appearance are rarely fucking accurate, of course, and we are wise to hold them tentatively. But it’s almost impossible to avoid making them in the first place.

Because our clothing is one of the fundamental ways we communicate with others, what we wear is never a purely personal matter. Our attire exerts a social influence on those around us. What we wear can shape patterns of communication around us, depending on what messages people are picking up. Consider, for example, the varied cues we send by the way we dress: “I want people to notice me.” “I’m very confident.” “I want to hide.” “I care only about comfort.” “I want to look seductive.” “I repudiate you and your expectations.”

How we dress not only affects us individually; it also affects those around us. How we feel and who we are influences the clothes we put on or leave off, and the clothes we put on in turn shape how we feel. Changes of clothes can generate a change of mood. As an example, I felt different in my Air Force uniform than I did in street clothes. In some settings our choice of clothing can make or break us. If we like the way we look for a job interview, for instance, it will tend to strengthen our confidence. We feel better about our chances, as reflected in improved posture, more fluent speech, more dynamic gestures. On the other hand, inappropriate dress can suck the fucking life out of our confidence. We have all experienced the uncomfortable effects of feeling under-dressed or over-dressed in a particular social setting.

Much of the social meaning of our clothing is contextual. The appropriateness of our clothing is often dictated by the situation. Dress that would send a given message in one setting might send a very different message in another. Times change, values change, situations change; what was proper ten years ago may not be proper today, or vice versa. All of the above is why we should not conclude too quickly that because God looks on the heart, what we wear to church doesn’t matter. Our internal and external states cannot be so easily disentangled. The fact is, when it comes to how we clothe ourselves, our external appearance is often an expression of our internal state.

What is worship, after all? It’s the act of acknowledging and praising God as God. Is that not a personal choice? According to my wife, “when worshipping, we come before God with awe and reverence, focusing on him in loving contemplation, celebrating him for who he is and what he has done. We willingly bow before him in surrender, delighting in the privilege of extolling his worthiness. In worship we join our small voices with the celestial choirs in a grand chorus magnifying the Creator and declaring his excellences, his purity, his power, his beauty, his grace, his mercy, and his love.” No, I do not agree, but we smile and agree that will do not agree. In reference to what she said, I ask, can’t that be done naked or in a suit of medieval armor? I think the term “stink-eye” covers the expression on her face the best, she was giving it to me.

According to the bible (yes, I’ve read the bible a time or three in my life), God called his people to public worship. It’s everywhere in the Bible. Your corporate worship of organized religion is supposed to please God? Everyone who has ever built a fire knows how quickly lone embers cool and die. But gather those embers and they create a furnace effect that burns hot. Corporate worship of organized religion is no different, its designed to generate that furnace effect in people. Where there is collective thought there is collective action, do as the crowd or the crowd will be undone, the absolute fear of the sheeple culture.

So what sort of clothing might benefit such an exalted occasion? Observers in the gallery of the United States Supreme Court are forbidden to wear hats. Out of respect for the importance of what’s taking place there, the Court’s firm rule for visitors is, “Inappropriate clothing may not be worn.” If this is so for a merely human institution, what might be suitable attire for God-honoring worship? Must there be a rule, must we give a shit, must it cause such an uprising within the walls of the churches of organized religion? Readers will be relieved that I have no dress code to be here at The Sting Of The Scorpion Blog. Read at will, however you are dressed, you will not be judged here in the House of Scorpion. But why don’t I care how you are dressed? Why do I not feel the need to judge how you dress when you are doing what you are doing? I reserve the right to judge you only at Walmart and Starbucks, y’all know who you are and why.

That which is special, that which is our best, that which is sacrificial: We may be tempted to think such standards made sense in the context of Israel’s ancient worship but have little to do with us in the modern world. After all, none of us shows up at church on Sunday morning bearing sacrifices now do you. Everyone has their own reasons for going to church, some go to worship, some to ask for forgiveness of their sins, and one of us went to hear the incredible musical talents of a young girl whom he adores as his own. If you ask me, which your not going to, so I’ll just say it now, I don’t think any of us belong in a church. Salvation isn’t found in church in words translated 10,000 times over by MEN who aren’t concerned about me and you. Think about it. Want a “relationship” with God? You want something/someone to believe in for the comfort of your soul? How do men give that to you? How do you really know what are looking for in the first place?

The question for all of you is this: When you gather for worship, does this sacred event generate within you any similar sense of “awe and reverence”? A perceptive observer of the contemporary church scene might be forgiven for scratching her head over such a question, wondering whether you have grown oblivious to the significance of your own gathering. How often, she might ask you, do you prepare for Sunday as if it mattered, guarding, for example, Saturday nights so as to be fresh and focused the next morning? How come your pre-service gathering so often sounds more like a bowling alley than a people meeting to offer themselves fresh to their God? How is it you are so susceptible to the lure of personality and entertainment up front, obscuring the God-centered purpose for which you have met? How prevalent is the notion that you can worship just as well at home, or on the golf course, or before a TV screen, or perhaps forfeit worship altogether due to inconvenient weather, the priority of other things, or who may be preaching that week?

Not just anything will do when you come before God. He is still honored by what is holy, what is our best, what is sacrificial. The kingdom to which you have come, says the writer to the Hebrews, requires us to “offer to God acceptable worship with reverence and awe,” because “our ‘God is a consuming fire” (Heb. 12:28–29). The casual attitude toward worship may indicate that you have failed to grasp this important point, a sign of your being more conformed to this world than so transformed in your minds that by testing you are able to discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. Don’t you know you are not allowed to make your own decisions? What of your church attire? You deceive yourselves when you breezily claim that God does not care what you wear to church. God cares about your hearts, and what you wear is often an expression of your hearts. So what does your relaxed worship attire say about you? What internal disposition are we revealing when we dress no differently for church than we do for a trip to the mall or hanging out with friends around a barbeque grill? Could it be that our casual dress, chosen merely for our own comfort and convenience is a reflection of an equally casual, can’t-be-bothered attitude toward worship itself? What about those around you? What message is your choice of clothing sending them as you gather for worship?

Can Christians who gather for worship afford to ignore what their church attire may be saying to those around them? Does your choice of clothing communicate to others that this gathering is an important occasion, thereby encouraging them to see it as important as well? Or does it send them in the opposite direction? Why is it that the wrong clothes can distract your fellow worshipers.In this way and others your choice of clothing can be sinful. But this does not render your everyday (“common”), come-as-you-are attire “spiritual” or “honest.” If you care for your fellow worshipers as you ought to, you will take them into consideration as you dress for worship. We will clothe ourselves in ways that edify them and strengthen their own worship. We will attempt to avoid the nonchalant attitude that says this event is entirely routine; that it merits nothing special from me; that my only consideration in what I choose to wear is what is easiest and most convenient. Such a self-centered attitude is corrosive to a true spirit of worship. Instead, the goal in our choice of clothing should be to express to the Lord and those around us that this event matters, that I view it as a holy occasion, one which deserves our highest regard. If the first audience for our nonverbal messages is God himself, and secondarily, our fellow worshipers, dress that best suits these first two audiences may also serve a third: outsiders who join your public worship.

Evangelistic gatherings can in many ways be designed to fit the unbelievers you are trying to reach. But this is harder to do with your corporate worship. The church must first shape its worship to honor God, a goal to which all else must be subordinate. But thankfully, watching believers do what they do can have its own evangelistic effect. Attire that genuinely reflects a God-honoring attitude toward worship may well contribute to a similar result. Can you take a wild guess at what that is? You can guess until you are blue in the gills but you will never truly have your own answer unless it is spoon fed to you, just my personal opinion of course.

None of anything I have said above leaves us with a dress code for being in church, no matter the reason. It certainly does not translate automatically into coats and ties for men and fancy dresses for women. Idealizing bygone eras won’t work here; the meaning of human clothing is too contextual for that. It varies too widely from place to place and time to time, and there are too many other variables to consider. We are left having to judge for ourselves what is appropriate for worship and what is not. Every denomination has their own dress code and rules, whether you want to admit it or not, they do. Want to know my rule? Fuck your dress code!

However, all of the above should at least warn you away from the glib assumption that God actually cares about what we wear to church; or that what I choose to wear in church matters. How I dress is a purely personal affair and that my own convenience and comfort are all that need concern me. The truth is, one of the ways we express ourselves as human beings is by the way we dress. Wittingly or unwittingly, our clothing gives us away. God certainly does not need this expression to know your hearts. But as for the rest of us, we do indeed look on the outward appearance, even when peering into our own mirrors. In this way the clothes we choose for church may have things to tell us about our hearts that God already knows, but that you need to hear from other people because you thrive on judgment of yourself as well as others.

You express this embodiment totality in the corporate worship of organized religion through your shared symbols, rites, and rituals; through your posture and gestures as you bow, kneel, or lift your hands; through your actions when you stand or sit in unison or pour out your hearts musically in congregational song. Just remember, your clothing belongs on this list. By it we express to God and those around us what the occasion of being in church means to you. This is why we are taught, brainwashed, when we come to church, our clothing matters.

Wow, that turned into something sermon like. Wait, all of you reading this will burn in hell unless you……. Unless what? I mentioned before, in the House of Scorpion you are free to do as you see fit how you see fit doing it. I have mentioned once, a long time ago, my own convictions and why I have them, so I will not repeat them now. I also mentioned, some of you may find it very fucking hard to believe tho, that in my youth it was my desire to become a Catholic priest. I wanted to be the one bringing the message to the people, I had many years of education for this purpose, many years I allowed myself to be brainwashed, many years of dismissing my own questions and answers, and ending in disappointment because I started to choke on the bullshit being fed me. Who is at fault for my misguidance? Why, me, of course. Something I corrected and haven’t looked back upon. Or have I? As years have passed, I continue in my reading about the commercialization of corporate organized religion, a term many Christians do not like hearing because they don’t like hearing that they are but a cog in a wheel that is just spinning in circles. But, as are most things written here, they are just my opinions on the world around me. I am not wishing to do battle with the “church” or religion or Christians, but I will not be treated as if my mere appearance is so non conformant that it tarnishes the grace of the church I stand in, to watch a symphony concert no less. Next time, yes there will be a next time, I will go in my slacks (dress pants), but I will be wearing flip-flops bitches!

What have we learned today? Not that I was teaching anything, but I’m curious if you have made the choice to look at what is actually important. What is more important, the message or the dress code? This is on my rather lengthy list of why I don’t attend church services. How can Christianity dismiss everything around us, science, evolution, dreams, and individual thought? I don’t want to be part of the “collective”, I prefer not to be in the herd of sheeple looking for salvation. Salvation from what? Damnation from what? One day we need to discuss corruption, greed, and our sinister needs to be one step ahead of our neighbor. I’m pretty sure we all want the same thing, just to live a happy life, a life we see fit, a life we are comfortable living. Until then, we struggle with our own happiness because that is what we are fucking taught to do after generations of brainwashing we don’t want it any other way. Why do we need to be led? Why do you desire being led? Why? Sorry, I can’t answer why, you must first look into the mirror and decide if you are comfortable in your our skin, then you can start asking fucking questions you might not like the answers to. We must all live with who we are individually to be happy, we can’t do that as sheeple, we can’t do that as a part of the collective thought. Who knew, right?

Until we speak again, I leave y’all with a final thought. I do care about my fellow humans, probably to a degree that few of y’all could ever understand. But, it’s hard to sit by idle and watch us destroy ourselves over stupid shit that doesn’t matter in the first place. Here’s an idea, find the person you cherish and live a happy life. The end my friends, the end. For fun, before y’all leave, get a better understanding of the sheeple by reading The Parable Of The Sheep found in the tabs above as well.

The Shining Smiles

I woke to green light and purple shadows. The air was heavy and humid, wrapping around me like a blanket. A faint buzzing irritated my ears. Fear gripped me. They would be coming soon. Coming with their sharp silver instruments and whispered promises that they were “just trying to fix you. It’ll be over soon.” Ignoring my screams. Looking down on me with shining smiles. I close my hand around the glass shard. Not today motherfuckers, not today! They come on time, shining smiles bright red today. Their eyes flash, mine gleam and red drips down my face. Taking a life leaves me buzzing with adrenaline. I turn. I run. I am free. Years of imprisonment in my own mind, in my own body, cannot prepare me for the absolute bliss, the euphoria that comes with the stretching of my muscles, the lengthening of my breath. I am hypnotized by the pounding of my feet on the hard, black road. Alone in the room, I put everything I have into driving each step forward. Rushing air has dried the blood on my face, sticking my eyelashes together in clumps. At the top of the incline, I pause. Far, far behind me my prison is a speck between golden hills outlined by the rays of the rising sun. Red tendrils shoot up into the sky, banishing the inky black night. In flash of light, orange, pink and blue rip the sky in half. I am blinded for a moment. It is in that one, precious moment that a sound drifts up to me from the bowels of the valley that chills me to the bone. The wolves are howling!
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I am crashing through the thicket, branches and thorns tearing at me face, my hands, my hair, dragging me down as if I was running through knee high syrup. The beauty of the world is lost on me. I am consumed by one need and one need only: to get away, to escape. Suddenly, I am free, falling down, down into a ditch. Mud squelches between my fingers, soaks my clothing, sucking me in. Exhaustion presses me into the mud. I watch, fascinated, as my blood mixed with the brown muck. It is cool and strangely soothing to lie here. I turn to watch the sunrise. It is the last thing I see before the hounds swarm, like death itself, down the hill towards me. I await them with open arms, laughing as pain becomes the only existence I know.