Grandmas and Bullying

   
   "Grandmas and Bullying"
   
   Neither of my Grandmas accepted the humility of bullying; alas, Christ with the Crown of Thorns, meditation upon the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Holy Rosary and on that particular suffering equates to a love of humiliations; still, they, the elderly females, took no shit.
   Grandma King was English/Irish, and Dad told me she stood up to truculent neighbors armed with animosity concerning her slow-moving age--the steeled lady, holding her own.
   Grandma Bertha, had a witch bottle, like Nancy Reagan, potent with the forces of the Milky Way Galaxy, filling it with pins, needles, wine, and possibly a hefty urination.
  I adore the Irish and their Celtic Knot, that Endless, Mystical Transfiguration of Regeneration.  We must all be Doc Holliday at some point, even having a friend in Wyatt Earp, his cunning wisdom knowing that a gimp can gunslay the best of them, and that standing up for yourself against a wicked commentary aimed to take control and iniquitously aim your compulsions into a mortification of the senses beyond the Saints, well, that is hideous, and deserves Saint Patrick's wolfmake; plus, the shield and sword of Saint Michael himself, a fighting angel, armed with unearthly steel, like Tungsten, and beyond the scratch of defeat.