Like a bad rash. Lies and scratches throws and catches. Like a bad rash.

“Doctor, doctor, gimme the news.”

No pill’s gonna cure my ill.

You had me down twenty-one to zip

Smile of Judas on your lip

Shake my fist, knock on wood.

I got it bad, and I got it good.” (jmm)

Exactly.

What?

You may ask.

(If you really want to know, really want to face the facts)

No pill’s gonna cure the ill.

In the long run.

In the short term.

Circles.

Cycles.

Scooters.

Or.

Skipping.

Over another. To get to another better other.

Unless of course, one finally comes face to face.

Yes.

Face to Face.

With their fears. Their regrets. Their responsibilities.

We have a duty. A steadfast duty. To be there for one another.

Even then, when we are, or may be there— Life is not a guarantee of pancakes and cookies, fluffer -nutters and truths.

Best to ask yourself.

At the end of the day.

How you doin.?

How are you doing?

How are you?

How are you taking care of YOUR business?

How are you caring for your neighbor, fellow man?

Lies.

Twisted truths.

Twisting the mind of another.

To get ahead of the game.

The itchy, scratchy feeling under our skin.

That reminds us that truth is:

The only way to go.

Peeping through the peep hole. Not cool.

Just ask Judas and his sidekick, The Dirt Bag.

Judas and The Dirt Bag.

They knew a thing or two about the rougher side of life. What they had to do. What they would not do. When and where to run screaming to and from.

The truth.

When to relentlessly chase down the truth.

Why?

Certain of us and our lives depend on the truth.

The truth.

The whole truth.

And.

Nothing but the truth.

So. Help. Us. God.

Try. Just try to put one over Him and he may or may not have mercy on your soul…. be it today, tomorrow, one week, next week, the next, next year.

Judas and The Dirt Bag knew instinctively that there is no such thing as escape. That it is really impossible to escape or avoid a situation. Good or bad.

We foolish, foolish humans.

Think we can.

Lie like we can.

Stonewall like we want to.

To bury the truth, deep with in our cores.

Oh. We can bury the truth.

For awhile.

Oh. We can conceal the truth.

For awhile.

Oh. We can screen the truth.

For awhile.

Oh. We can secret the truth.

For awhile.

Either way.

Intentions. Motivations. The itchy scratchy tingly feeling (and it-ain’t-that-of-“love” under-the-skin reminders that we had better address the elephant in the room.

Sooner rather than later.

Judas and The Dirt Bag were versed in all things—hidden.

To some. A lack of filter is refreshing.

Yet. To others. It may show restraint.

Yet. To some it implies deviousness.

Lies of omission count as the worst of the worst.

As Judas and The Dirt Bag grew over time to find out.

After clocking many, many miles running.

Throughout their running here, there and every where.

Lies of omission became the most disrespectful of them all.

The. Most. Disrespectful. Of. Them. All.

The lies.

The itchy, scratchy lies.

Permeate under the skin. Whacking us upside the head to get real.

Now.

Today.

With the narcissistically incessant ways we run from the truth.

Judas and The Dirt Bag knew. All too well.

They had been paid off so many times. Too many times.

So they knew of what they knew.

😵‍💫😳

The good news.

They did not play well with others.

The bad news.

They did not play well with others.

Trust was not in their repertoire.

They did not even trust one another.

Unless of course, it was desperation knocking them down. Then, of course, they had no choice. But to trust one another. Judas and The Dirt Bag were not only a daily run. They were on the run. Running constantly for their lives.

They were on the run.

All day.

Every day.

Yesterday.

Today.

Tomorrow.

They ran and they ran and they ran and they ran.

Ran some more.

From themselves.

Ran from others.

Lied all along the way.

From the persons’ they just duped.

From the person’s who duped them.

Like the three little piggies, they ran all the way home. Home was nowhere and everywhere. Squealing sometimes, too.

Liars make strange bed fellows.

Add in a dash of mentality cuckoo and we have the condundrum of all itchy, scratchy conundrums.

And then the ultimate appears.

To “out” everyone.

And their mother, brother, sister and the family dog.

A rash.

The itchy, scratchy reminder of truth.

Itchy and scratchy alright.🤒

Don the masks.

Don the disguises.

All in plain sight.

Don the veil.

Don the shroud.

All in plain sight.

The rash continues to itch, becomes worse with every lie.

We scratch. We scratch some more. We lie. We pretend. We deflect.

We blame others. We blames ourselves. We blame the dog. (who cannot even speak for their doggy self).

We puff our chests and “run along” thinking we are the super duper dupers of all time.

’Cept we are not.

Not at all.

Exposure has a way of, well, exposing the deepest darkest secrets within the core. No running in all of the world will mask the symptoms of the itchy, scratchy virus that lurks beneath the surface of our lies.

Savvy and adept at all things, “running” Judas and The Dirt Bag knew basically all of the tricks up the sleeves of the homies, street walkers, local street smartypants. At times, they would even marvel at the simplicity with which these lying road warriors got away with stuff.

Provocation is provocative in many, many ways.

There is a profound difference between running and running away.

From truth.

From the truth.

It is actually encouraged.

En. Courage. d.

In this crazy thing called life.

When seeking refuge, a shield, a rock, a fortress.It is a miracle.

But.

There is always a but.

Running from God is a big giant elephant in the room, a big giant,

”No-No.”

It is considered dis obedient. Causes life to move in a downward trajectory. And will cost you dearly.

Dearly.

And.

Physically.

Financially.

Relationally.

We ARE to run from, commanded even to run, to flee, to turn tail and run from an enemy far more vicious than any bear. A bear will physically tear you apart.

Some sins are so strong and so dangerous that we simply cannot mess around with them.

These messes.

Are the invisible ones.

The ones cast upon us to mess with our heads at the advantage of another’s hands. And words. Vices. Invisible is what the provoker hopes for. All the time. So they can run away from the mess of their own creation. The provoker hopes only to run into the sunset.

With you as their means to their insidious end.