Ode to General Jane, Patron of the Arts

O. Vic Miller

My muse and me, we sing of little Gen’rl Jane,
Who asked politely that a symphony be sane
Or fair. Or failing that, at least to keep their promises.
Instead of crawfishing retroactively from what they said.
That’s Willson with two L’s, whom we applaud.
Oh happy hour when our heroine withdrawed
her patronage (also her money)
from those who’d squander it to silly sanctimony.

For my own part, I speak with some authority–
Not as the vanguard of the finer arts–
But rather holding up the hinder parts
of her. And I’ve been born again,
and more than once. I’m therefore free of sin,
Thus my muse and I have rose back up
from infamy to judge the dead and quick–
We’re clearly qualified to say who plays our music–
And furthermore, my fortune, age, and waxing impotence
Endow me with a higher moral sense
Than thou all’s. I’m also blessed with a healthy dose of Christian poverty,
Which is to say, I ain’t a commie yet, though lacking fiscal sovereignty.
And I’ve been judged by meatheads for my rhymes,
Condemned to reprobation for sending Valentines
To academes and moralists whose finest hour
is chunking stones from crystal palaces and ivory tower.

Alas, my tux has got too tight for me to don it;
One foot’s too swole with gout to lace a black shoe on it;
My shotgun’s made me deaf as Ludwig Von,
So for symphony I stay home and turn the TV on
and watch the Fox up yonder lashing his baton,
and I’m uplifted some, so here is where I think I’m coming from:
The libido that oozes from the id
can boil up too much pressure if we seal the lid
And make no sweat to sublimate it–
The faintest spark is all it takes to detonate it.
Therefore I’d have our precious arts distilled from better sludge
Than ferments in the brainpans of the dolts who’d judge
an artist, not his work.

There’s no excuse
for all this reprobation and abuse.
Our patronage, such as it is, should be a friend
of artists too– enable and defend ‘em.
Cut them some slack, enable them to do
the work their higher powers call them to.
I say they love not art
Who fail to take the artists’ part,
In making sure he’s happy, free, and fed.
Then you may hear a music that you touched your finger to,
Instead of minor poets flipping one at you.

I’d like to know who thinks the Pope don’t have his toddy.
Or that a human soul don’t have a body.
Who thinks an artist also is a prude
Or says a painter’s model can’t be nude?
Who’d emphasize peccadilloes Toscanini had
Even if his energy be inspired from being bad?
Art comes from fallen saints and resurrected imps,
while prudish judgment rises rigid from a libido that’s limp.
Love’s kin to lust, as beauty’s kin to truth, or maids to whores,
Eros, agape, hypocrites to liars, who say the things that make untrue
the things they said before.

I say a piper’s got to have a lot of fun,
By God, enough to play and dance for everyone.
The sweetest honey’s made from sourest wood,
So if you’d bray that geniuses be good,
Make sure your doltish virtue’s ample
To act it out for those who might improve by your example.
I never saw a saint could write a sonnet
(Though clerics seek a masterpiece to paint some fig leaves on it)

Minstrels are beloved for their songs,
So “If music be the food of love, play on.”
That’s what the Bard, my muse, and me would like to say.
It ain’t nobody’s business who don’t play
a piccolo or xylophone or flute.
So if you got a horn, go toot it
And let the artless Philistines harass,
Who best deserve the jawbone of an ass
upside a head whose brains will never fetch
forth a ditty, doodle, limerick or sketch,
but quick to launch their asses off their haunches
to censure music men before their tunes.
Our arts community should wiggle free of such buffoonery.

I know the libido that oozes from the id
Will build up too much pressure if I seal the lid.
I gotta act temptations out or sublimate ’em.
Or the dimmest spark will ember up to detonate’em.
It’s clear no muse nor deity can budge
Until some saint or sinner stirs the sludge
To dredge up imps and angels from the bottom.
So flaunt your morals elsewhere if you got ‘em.
And let the music blast and patrons dance,
affected critics manage their own pants,
suppressing the appendages inside
their zippers and master their own demons ere they chide.

Humanities will prosper only when
Her acolytes are human, not exempt of sin.
Therefore I say an artist’s got to have some fun
So he can play and dance for everyone.
And everybody knows whose head is on the level,
Best music comes from dancing with the devil.
The sculptress has to fondle human clay
Before she renders marble into flesh
Of Virgin, pieta or odalisque.
Fra Lippo Lippi must’ve known of Aphrodite’s heat
To paint the blush that glows upon his shameless little Virgin’s cheek
In luminescence from the holy fire inside her womb.
Just think of all the bacchanals– the orgies on sarcophagi and tombs
depicted in Italian churches by Michelangelo an ‘em
With gods and satyrs, pans and cherubim
In pagan pageantries of writhing sin.
Hey Ho! hooray, well done, you rascal, and Amen.

Let censors bitch, and balder dashers quibble.
Let painters paint and flutist toot and poets scribble.
The maestro waves his magic wand
And pipers play. I say we ought to pay them for their songs,
And let impious censors sing along.

Who’d raise a moral stink, well, let ‘em do it
From a pew while choirs sing to Jesus, who
Cherished more the content of our hearts than what we mortals do.
And if the scripture’s true, we should derive from it
That Jesus spent more love on whores than hypocrites.

Who’d have the arts subdued by ceremony’s pomp
And circumstance? When happy lovers dance and stomp
In joy to tunes divine and yodel songs,
While all you prudish judges stay at home
Lest undigested piety turn flatulent and make you sick.
I say, rear back, kick up, cool out, enjoy the music!

While covens, corporations, Klans or boards
Hide cowardice collectively. But , oh my Lord,
Our Joy– that source of light immortal–
Transcends the desultory suspiration of the soul
into the meaty fingers weaving leaden straw into the golden
Tapestry of life and the resounding yes of new creation–
The hope beneath the no of spiritual stagnation.

He best loves God who sings life’s praise,
Through all his naughty nights, and brilliant days
Against the braying out of tune medieval laws
That emphasize the weakness of the flesh and human flaws.
The soul loves music flying wild and free
Unbound by tedious stocks of self-proclaiming piety.

Now my own muse ( I honestly confess this)
Is far more lewd than fair.
She rides in on a goat with rhinestones in her hair,
naked as a chicken, but she’d rather see me die
Than languish in a jaundiced public eye,
Brow beaten, viewed askance and harassed
By philistines better served by the jawbone of an ass
upside a head whose brains will never fetch
forth a ditty, doodle, limerick or sketch.
And if a painter’s better angels don’t take over,
Well, his model’s nude and prone beneath the cover.
The masterpiece can wait—I say, lets close the arras tight and turn her over.

Art’s made of soul stirred out of tempted meat.
Without temptation composers can’t create.
So if a rascal slips, we help him up, and bring him home to wash his feet
Of clay, then kill a fatted calf for him to eat,
So he, encouraged, brings to fruit the things self-righteous prudes can’t do.

So, General Jane, this doggerel’s for you,
I know you’d rather that I hadn’t wrote it.
We know self-rightous patrons of the town won’t quote it,
Still the pearl in all this oyster’s simply this:
You gotta have a little hubris
To know your faults and make a better music.
We gotta climb Fools’ Hill and fall back down a time or two
To pipe a universal yes to life and love –creation ever new.
Let’s leave it to the Pope to winnow right from wrong,
For life’s very short and Art is long.
So let the trumpets bray to beat the band with drum and xylophone,
And damn judgmental judges till the Judgment comes
to usher them below to darker shades,
where all the best and hottest music’s made.
And so–Hey ho!– My muse is telling me it’s time to go.
She bids farewell, so with her flourish I shall hit the road.
Goodbye, dear readers. Bless y’all. Adios!
And may you find our mundane musings apropos.


State Farm Chicanery

by O. Victor Miller

I’m wired, wide-eyed as an owl.  Johnboat and trailer still jack-knifed out into the slow lane but untouched, the Blue Goose bashed in even worse than it was before on the shotgun side, all four quarter panels.

When my teeth quit rattling, the ones I was born with and the others, I hop out of The Goose into a crepe myrtle bush at the entrance of Solo Archery’s driveway. I get untangled from scratchy branches and rush over to the Chevy Cobalt with the pig nose beneath the windshield. I jerk open the passenger’s door and slide into the front seat to check out the victim, a pretty Hispanic- looking brunette I’ll eventually discover doesn’t speak Spanish is strapped in behind the wheel howling hysterically, babbling away in some dialect  I don’t recognize–some guttural polyglot packed with grunts, squeaks and consonants–English, it turns out.

Oh God! I see the empty baby seat in back and go bananas, screaming louder than the Hispanic-looking girl who hit me. I hang over the front seat digging around for dead babies, going increasingly and absolutely postal. I’m looking for babies in places where babies absolutely cannot be, under the front seat, everywhere. The Hispanic looking woman and I scream together until it dawns on me there are no dead or injured infants in the Chevy Cobalt. I address the hysterical victim in Spanish, which I assume is her native tongue.

“Todo estara bien,” I promise her.

She looks at me wide-eyed and howls some more. Her left hand is raised like she’s been riding a bull, the wrist bleeding, but not bad enough for a tourniquet. Her arms and legs exit her torso at acceptable angles, no fractured bones extruding, but I’m reluctant to feel up a hysterical young woman for broken bones without express permission with her being restrained, as she is, in a safety harness.  Her face is swollen and distorted from crying, best I can tell.

Then, oh my God, I see it! A pearly organ herniating into her lap, some secret female bowel our mothers didn’t tell us about. Ruptured, it eases out like the foot of a giant mollusk, growing and undulating. Whisps of gray smoke rising off this thing.

I’m petrified. Just as I discover I haven’t killed an infant, I see I’ve wombed the mother. Her hysterics are drowned out by my own. I scramble back out of the Chevy.  Nothing in first aid or basic human anatomy covers a rupturing bladder fixing to combust into flames. I tumble out the door, colliding with– thank God–another woman, a mature, capable female who can take charge.

“Are you hurt?” the newcomer asks.

I cover my mouth, holding back the bottomless scream.

Of course, I’ve heard of air bags but I’ve never seen one, never owned a vehicle with one on board. This smoking thing quivering like the viscera of a flathead catfish.

“No, no!” It’s her! It’s her!” I finally squeak through parted fingers. I usher the Samaritan into the front seat with the wombed Latina. “I didn’t touch her,” I protest loudly, getting a grip.

Todo estara bien! Ella te ayuda!” I bleat through the window.  By now I’ve figured out the victim’s womb hasn’t popped out to spontaneously combust. What looked like smoke is actually talcum powder a partially deploring air bag was packed in.

Some panic dissipates, but I’m still humming with adrenaline, hanging on the door frame, still glancing around looking for slaughtered innocence, stand. It’s easy to first overlook something you’re loath to find. I stand by and try to remain conscious in case I have to translate mortal statistics.

The victim mumbles something to the Samaritan.

“What! Wha’d she say?”

“She says she speaks English. She says, call 911?”

“That’s English?”


“I don’t have a phone,” I report.

While I was out sailing the Caribbean, technology got way ahead of me. You cruise around at four knots for seven years, you get terrified of a cloverleaf. Same thing happened when I came home from Korea in 1968.  It’s biologically practical for bipeds to go slowly so they don’t fall down and bust their asses. In the last hundred years or so we’ve artificially acclimated ourselves to high velocity and this is neurotically stressful to human meat. The interstate and the Internet override our animal sanity, run contrary to the biological wisdom we acquired over millions of years of arboreal and pedestrian evolution. That’s why we’re all crazy as cat squirrels in a brushfire.

Mother Nature doesn’t like us hauling our fragile asses around in sheet metal and plastic capsules at suicidal velocities while conducting business and volatile love affairs on a Blackberry. In the good old days when I came along everybody on the highway was just drunk, trying to see one centerline and staying between it and the ditch. Nobody zipping around in heavy traffic screwing with the GPS or television or texting other teenagers on cell phones. Even drunks were more focused than commuters are now. 

Seeing I don’t have a cell phone, a dozen anxious bystanders slap leather. Phones clear hip holsters and pocketbooks–none alike in color, size or design–spectators raising them high like fiddler crabs attracting a mate. They regard me like something that dropped in from outer space when they discover I’ve got no earthly idea how to use the one somebody has handed me. Actually both wrecked vehicles look like they could’ve fallen from somewhere pretty high.

There’re as many phones as bystanders, including the one on the front seat the hysterical victim may or may not have been using when she slammed my ass into the crepe myrtle tree. Of course, I’ll never own a cell phone. My life is fragmented enough without being at the beck and call of every son of a bitch on the planet. You got a Blackberry, you’re expected to stay in touch with everybody you’ve ever met. Some bimbo in Cartagena wondering why you haven’t called her on her birthday for six or seven years. Until my shipwreck I had a radio for emergencies and for entering an occasional harbor. I kept it off most of the time I wasn’t screaming “MAYDAY!”

Instantly sheriff prowlers and police cars from two counties materialize. EMT vans and a fire truck howl up. Then one of two ambulances totes the victim, splinted into a gurney and wearing a neck brace, off to the hospital. The wrecker winches her Chevrolet Cobalt up the ramp of its flatbed. My own neck hasn’t started hurting yet. Or my back.

The ranking police officer, Corporal McClure, commander of Georgia State Patrol Post 40, takes charge.

“Tell me what happened, Mr. Miller?”

“I got no earthly idea, Trooper. “When I heard the tires squalling, I turtled in my neck, felt the crash and saw some celestial pyrotechnics. I didn’t notice her in my rear view mirror, I guess because she hit me in the side. I was turning in Solo Archery here for longbow strings.  Bam!  I’d be afraid to tell you I know what happened. Except I know I was going slow. I always go slow. Traffic terrifies me. I sailed the Caribbean for seven years. You get used to four knots for seven years, man, a bicycle’s too fast. If you always go slower than everybody else, I guess it’s logical you’re going to take a hit in the ass.”

“How slow do you think you were going?”

“I was going slow enough to pull a boat trailer into a business driveway without turning over. Then I was I was going sideways faster than forward.”

The wreck didn’t shake me up. I’ve been in wrecks for fifty years, some of them doozies, and “The Goose” had been rear-ended earlier this month coming out of Open Air Barbeque in Jackson, Ga., the outdoor restaurant Flannery O’Connor recreated in “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” Waiting for the highway patrol, this young lady palavered on and on about automobile accidents she’d had. The Goose turned the front of her Japanese sedan into a pig nose just like it did the Chevy. Before the highway patrol got there, I told her if she’d promise never to text in a moving vehicle, I wouldn’t file against her insurance company. There wasn’t much noticeable new damage to The Goose anyway, which has a steel bumper.  I hadn’t been driving that time. KK had. She won’t let me drive when we’re going somewhere together. I drive too slow, for one thing.

“What scared me was the baby seat, then, ugh, that air bag!”

“You wearing your seat belt, Mr. Miller?”

I’m able to answer that. “I never wear a seat belt, never have. I’m scared of driving off a bridge or catching fire.” I point to The Goose. “I got roll-up windows and manual door locks, a ball peen hammer in the floorboard in case I got to come out of there through the windshield.”

Trooper McClure informs me that although drivers of trucks aren’t currently required to wear restraining harnesses, the law will soon change. With all this protection, why don’t I feel safe?

Cpl. McClure notices a lot of stuff besides a ball peen hammer.  Several longbows, a dozen arrows, a .308 deer rifle, a 12 gage Winchester pump, two pistols, a fly rod, a tackle vest, and one pair of jockey briefs in a paper bag with a cheese sandwich.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I explain. “Everything’s in season.”

Of course, the johnboat’s full of stuff, the truck bed too. Cpl. McClure wonders if any of the guns are loaded. They all are, of course, except maybe the shotgun.

“A lot of this was in the backseat before the crash,” I explain.

“How about a driver’s license and proof of insurance? You got anything like that?” 

 “Oh, sure. I got all that stuff in here somewhere,” I’m proud to say. I try to stay legal, hate being in jail. I plunder the truck for proof of insurance. Plunder is what my mother called it when I got to looking for something I probably won’t be able to find. I discover an expired learner’s motorcycle permit, donating worn out organs to anybody hard up enough to need them. I proffer my tote permit and my Senior Lifetime Sportsman license. There’s a note on the visor with K.K. Snyder’s number in case I’m discovered dead, demented or too addled to make sense. Like in case I start speaking Spanish to hysterical women who don’t.

“I’m retired,” I grin. “I hunt and fish a lot and write about it sometimes. If it ain’t fun, I don’t do it, and if it is, I take my own sweet time.”

I shuffle through the canasta deck of expired insurance cards from the glove compartment the wreck jarred open.  “This might take a while.”

Never mind, he can check all that out on the computer. 

So why’m I required to tote all this shit around if it’s on the computer.  The firearm license makes sense if you got a truckload of loaded guns, I guess, although almost as many folks have tote permits as cell phones. They’re a heap more guns than permits.  The tote permit didn’t keep me from going to jail in Belize on an undeclared firearms charge after the shipwreck.  After K.K. flew down to get me out of jail, I’d lost 40 lbs, my yacht and most of my net worth including a lot of toys. After the $5000 fine to get out of jail and the expense of flying me, my two Boykin spaniels and K.K. back home, I had $4200, which I’d spent on The Blue Goose to pull my Airstream, my home. Before the shipwreck I lived on my CSY 44 cutter-rigged sloop. Ex-wives and their lawyers had relieved me of my house and property long before I retired.

Although it doesn’t look like it to Cpl. McClure, I don’t sleep in the truck, but in the Airstream parked on the riverbank of my family home of sixty years, where I’m trying to simplify life enough to afford to live it. With Social Security and teacher’s retirement, I do fine as long as I don’t buy anything or borrow money. I have a “three-sisters” native American garden (corn, beans and squash) on the riverbank. My sister, who lives with my son in the big house, is a gourmet cook so we eat very well on what we grow and whatever I can catch, shoot or run-over, which is why I need a vehicle sturdy enough to sustain collisions with deer, hogs and other large animals, as Tonette Gezzi might testify. Well, that’s why The Goose is so full of stuff. It’s where I keep my toys.

Although I’ve done a heap of winnowing since I retired, the Airstream’s still too small for all the stuff I salvaged from the shipwreck, police and pirates. She wasn’t much when I bought her, the cheapest of several taken out of service by an electrical company. Since then I’ve sideswiped some trees in the woods, sculpting a gutter down the shotgun side from a pipe fence that swung to when I was hauling a deer out of a former student’s hunting lease. I thought the sound was a privet bush and kept on going, digging a trench down quarter panels already damaged when I bought her with my last $4200. If it hadn’t been a junker, I couldn’t have afforded it. Since the shipwreck I have become what is called a gentleman of reduced circumstances.

 “The wreck didn’t do all that,” I tell Trooper McCall, “but she hit everywhere there was already damage and some virgin territory.”

Cpl. McClure asks that I get to the point and wonders if The Goose can pull the johnboat off the highway to let some of the officials directing traffic go home. She cranks right up in a dependable veil of blue smoke. I drag the boat deeper into the parking lot. Officer McClure shows me the skid marks where the Cobalt jumped the curb and clobbered me after I’d already executed the turn.

In some ways The Goose is better than before. It never has been the kind of vehicle anybody would try to carjack or break into to steal the tape deck. Thieves steer clear, afraid that while they plunder The Goose. I’ll steal something from them. Plus, there’s all those guns. Now the passenger door is jammed so there’s only the driver’s side to break into.  It’s safer to drive now too. The wreck left both doors sprung ajar wide enough to scoop in fresh air with not quite enough space for a thief to reach in to snatch my pistol off the front seat. I never have to worry about carbon monoxide poisoning.  

The heat and AC didn’t work even before Ms Tonette Gezzi plastered me. Plus I’ve been trying to own the most economical transportation possible to move my home off friends’ property when they get tired of having me around. The Goose wasn’t worth much in money before the wreck. Now two body shops have declared it “totaled,” so I feel like I’m down to the economical bare minimum of vehicular simplicity. I’m driving a “totaled” vehicle that was practically worthless when I bought her. The Goose don’t owe me nothing, and I can take pride in the ownership of property that doesn’t actually own me. Like the johnboat Ms. Gezzi charitably spared.

A few days later I drive The Goose by the State Patrol Post to pick up the accident report. It cants a little to one side, the frame being bent, but it’s drivable at least for speeds I’m inclined to drive it. It still pulls my johnboat and the lights and blinkers work. I have high hopes it will still tug the Airstream out of my sister’s backyard when she runs me off.

One thing about all the technology I haven’t kept up with, it’s capable of producing very unambiguous accident reports complete with a digitally reproduced drawing of a Chevy Cobalt  jumping the curb,  passing a  johnboat and trailer on the right and T-boning The Goose, a glancing blow that scored the shotgun quarter panels from the rear hubcap to the front bumper.

Imagine my surprise when State Farm Claims Investigator Jim A. Tidwell wrote me that he had determined that 50 percent of the accident was my fault. According to Ms. Gezzi, their hysterical client, I swerved into the center lane before turning into the driveway, which is what I thought you had to do with a diesel Ford F-250 pulling a 14 ft. johnboat around a sharp right turn.  To avoid hitting my boat the Chevy Cobalt jumped the curb and hit The Goose, which had already entered Solo Archery’s driveway—according to State Trooper McClure and the accident report. State Farm’s accident investigator apparently hadn’t conferred with the mob of official witnesses, police, firemen, EMT’s, plus a dozen or so bystanders with designer telephones who were on the scene. Tidwell just decided to rule on the case contrary to the State Police report.

“But Ms. Tonette Gezzi was charged,” I point out, “and I wasn’t.”

“We conduct our own investigations,” says Tidwell. He tells me I can drive the totaled truck to Byron, Georgia, where Ms. Tonette Gezzi resides and take it up with the magistrate. State Farm isn’t going to fix my truck, but they won’t claim against my liability insurance if I don’t contest Tidwell’s findings. By now it’s the end of January. I’m holding $3500 worth of airline tickets for Tierra del Fuego, where an Argentine couple who once crewed on my boat have invited me to visit. I’m not inclined to go to Byron, Georgia and get mixed up in local politics trying to make State Farm accept an accident report prepared by a post commander of the Georgia State Patrol.

I contact the insurance firm my family has used for six decades. “Your liability insurance is with us,” the pretty secretary explains. “You don’t carry collision.”

“Collision! Who’d buy collision on a 1997 truck?” The Goose wasn’t worth much when I bought her, but she’s the only transportation I’ve got besides the johnboat and a 650cc dirt bike. I’m not licensed to drive the bike on paved roads after dark because I dropped it during the driving test and was too embarrassed to go back to retest.

“Listen, I’m a retired teacher on a fixed income. I live in a travel trailer. How can State Farm refuse to pay for my truck when the State Police charged their client with the accident?”

I call a lawyer I grew up with at Radium Springs a half century ago. He turns me over to his partner, who isn’t interested in cases not involving personal injury. Well, I know I have neck and back pain I didn’t have before the wreck, but my quasi-aristocratic mother taught me it was “common” to go to court in the first place, and it’s the worst kind of cliché to go in wearing a neck brace and yelling whiplash.  At my age, the injury could’ve been caused by any number of things besides an automobile accident. My electric toothbrush could have backfired, for example. The neck pain didn’t get really bad until after I bounced over several thousand miles of bad highway across Patagonia in a Volkswagen sedan.

Once trial lawyers, judges and insurance commissioners get involved, even I won’t remember the truth. And truth is what we got to live with when we shave. In your case, Mr. Tidwell, the evidence shows you willfully ignored an official State Police report to cheat a 67-year-old school teacher on a fixed retirement income out of the only semi-reliable transportation he has, and it looks to me like you encouraged or abetted a young lady’s involvement in chicanery, maybe a conspiracy to defraud the Grange Company, my liability insurer. You lied when you told another writer, K.K. Snyder, over a telephone she knows how to use, that State Farm wouldn’t claim against my liability policy if I kept my mouth shut. I find now that you’ve indeed filed that claim.

Even though I haven’t yet legally contested your ridiculous ploy, I’m posting the accident report, your letters and a MRI X-ray of the old bones damaged by your client on this blog.

A reading public and fellow motorists can decide for themselves if they ever want to do business with you and State Farm. Perhaps you have friends and family, maybe children who’d like to respect your memory. Perhaps you consider yourself respectable, a company man who strolls in church among prospective clients nodding like a pigeon. Maybe you content yourself that you are just doing your job, a rising star in a mega-firm rapidly earning a reputation for shirking contractual obligations. Maybe you think it’s just good business to save State Farm a few bucks by rendering claims too frustrating for disenfranchised baby boomers on the last lap of their earthly spawn to bother pursuing.

I’m lucky The Goose still runs well enough to illuminate your and your company’s shenanigans. I hope I can make you both a little more famous and notorious, contenting myself for the time being to warn other folks my age against mega-companies that lobby into law universal mandates requiring liability insurance, then ignoring  their obligation to live up it. Did you frighten Ms. Tonette Gezzi, warning that her daddy’s premiums would go up if State Farm made good the damage she did to my meat, bones and property?

Since the accident I’ve spent $800 to keep The Goose running down the road, advertising this blog and State Farm’s felonious chicanery. And  Ms. Tonette Gezzi has made The Goose conspicuous. I don’t expect I’ll go away. Every time neck or back pain keeps me from fishing, drawing my bow or lifting my grand-nieces for a hug, I’ll remember you and your clients in Byron, who apparently lack the courage or responsibility to insist you make good the liability protection they’ve paid for. I plan to drive The Goose until it won’t move another foot. Then I’ll make a planter out of it in some conspicuous place visible to a gullible public. When I die I expect to be buried in my junk beneath a stone marker warning that recalls State Farm’s chicanery.

No I won’t. I’ll will The Goose to any teenagers who’ll promise to keep her moving perpetually around the USA, advertising State Farm Chicanery. A very good day to you, sir.