misanthropy

my disdain of stupid people, intelligence is a constant, the population is growing

Proven: The Total Depravity of Man, Earthly Purgatory Remembered, and Middle Age Rules

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I was one of those wise-assed kids who most teachers really didn’t want to deal with.  Not only was I a whipping post as well as a social pariah amongst my peers, the teachers didn’t like me either, especially in elementary school.  Hindsight being 20/20, I fully understand why a young first grade teacher would be intimidated by a  freaky looking five year old whose current reading list included Dante’s Inferno, the KJV Bible, the Encyclopedia Brittanica, and whatever happened to be lying about the house or in the daily newspaper.  I highly doubt that too many teachers have had the dubious distinction of dealing with a hyperlexic  (or Asperger’s/hyperlexic, because parts of both of those descriptions fit) child, especially in the backwater town where I grew up.  I have all the sympathy in the world for any educator attempting to deal with a child like me.  You can take all the conventional child development theories and throw them out the window because I didn’t come close to following the patterns or the formal stages.  Erickson and Piaget did not encounter kids like me, I can assure you.  I could have had a lot of fun with them though.

I could read when I was two years old, and I can’t remember a time in my life when I couldn’t read.  I read voraciously as a child and still do.  The school system had absolutely no idea what to do with me, so in their wisdom they decided I should go directly to first grade at age five.  The only problem with this was at age five I was reading on the same level as a college freshman. I can just imagine how embarrassed my second grade teacher was when I used the word “sarcastic,” which apparently was not a word in her vocabulary.  She thought I was making up words- until I spelled it, defined it, and looked up the definition for her in the dictionary.  I was transferred to the other second grade class the next day.  That teacher didn’t like me much either.  As a child I made the simple mistaken assumption that if I knew something it was common knowledge.  Today I know better.   It’s safer for me to assume that if I know something, most other people don’t know, which is not a testament to my intelligence, but a sad commentary on the progressive dumbing down of society.  Intelligence is a constant and the population is growing.  I certainly don’t know everything- the more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know- but I do know that humanity has continued to head downhill since the Fall.  No matter what society wants to believe regarding technology and the human ability to build utopia, utopia is not happening.  Utopia is not going to happen at the hands of humanity, believe that.   Dystopia is alive and well though. If anything, human beings just screw things up in ever more creative ways.  Even though I would not consider myself a Calvinist in regard to theology (I lean more along the lines of being a confessional Lutheran as far as theology goes) John Calvin had it 100% correct in his teaching on the total depravity of man.  We are all born with the brown touch.  Everything human beings touch eventually turns to, well, you know, poo.

I’m not implying that I was some kind of prodigy or anything like that.  To this day I can’t explain why I could read at such an early age.  I still struggle with math (anything beyond basic business math is out of my realm) and I have the physical coordination of a drunken mule.  I’m scatterbrained and disorganized.  I remember things I don’t need to, and forget things I need to remember.  I am not particularly social unless I have to be for business reasons, and no one would accuse me of being Miss Manners or Emily Post.  What you see is what you get.

I’ve been trolling some blogs written by middle school teachers lately (oh, my condolences on that career choice) and thinking of that dark portion of my life almost makes me believe in purgatory again.  Middle school had to be the absolute worst three years of my life.  There were some funny parts, most memorably the day Ellen stuck a roach clip on Howie’s belt loop and then locked him in the science room closet, but for the most part it was a living hell.

“Howie” was my eighth grade science teacher.  I have all the sympathy in the world for this poor guy.  First of all, even considering this was 1981-2, he could have used a few couture lessons.  The polyester high water pants and white socks with black shoes weren’t winning him any fashion accolades.  He also combed his hair into an Elvis-style pompadour waxed up with that greasy Brylcreem stuff.  To top it off he had thick (and also greasy looking) coke bottle glasses- the style of glasses referred to in the military as “birth control glasses.” 

I have to wonder if Howie was one of those guys who went to college to avoid going to Vietnam.  I had several teachers in middle school and high school who readily admitted to doing exactly that.  I bet some of them wished they would have gone to ‘Nam instead of dealing with the hellions I went to school with.  Education was one of the easiest majors to complete back in the 1960’s and 1970’s, so a lot of guys who normally would have ended up as factory workers or truck drivers or roofers ended up going to college to avoid the draft.  This probably explains why I was volunteered to correct spelling for my freshman English teacher, and why my sophomore history teacher spent every class period reading the day’s chapter to the class in a dull, dry monotone.

Anyway, poor Howie had his work cut out for him.  My eighth grade science class was filled with every misfit and jackoff in the school.  Howie, being rather soft spoken and somewhat of a wimp, didn’t have any kind of control over that class.  It was cacophony and chaos every day. Most days I left that class with my hair full of spitballs and/or nasty notes taped to my back.  

One of the girls- Ellen- who was 13 going on 35, had a thing for Marlboro reds, enjoyed sleeping with anything remotely male, and rolling up a joint of Marion County Homegrown whenever she could get it, usually sported a pink feathered roach clip attached to her hair like a barrette.  I can only assume that she kept the roach clip handy should the opportunity to smoke some homegrown come along. 

One day Howie was trying in vain to get people to shut up and stop throwing spitballs, eraser tips and other divers projectiles.  At the same time one of the boys decided it would be fun to grab my notebook and draw swastikas and SS lightning bolts on it.   At least he didn’t spit on it or smear boogers on it, which would have been more typical of this particular dude.  There were so many things flying through the air and so much noise going on that it was difficult to discern how many rules were being broken and to what degree.  It was in the midst of this tempest that Ellen sneaked up behind Howie and pinned her pink feathered roach clip on his belt loop.  Howie had absolutely no clue and went back into the back closet to get something, wagging his roach clip tail behind him.  Normally I didn’t take any kind of joy in others being tormented, being no stranger to torment myself, but this visual was so outrageously funny that the entire class was laughing themselves to tears and I was laughing right along with them. 

The science closet had a locking door on it.  A key was required to open the door from either side.  The key was on Howie’s desk as he usually left the closet door open.  Just when the visual of the roach clip tail couldn’t get any funnier, Ellen shut the door, locking poor Howie in the closet with no key.   The entire class (I hate to admit it but me included) was absolutely howling in uncontrollable laughter.

About  fifteen minutes later the principal showed up.  I can’t believe it took him that long to hear all the racket.  He immediately starts looking for Howie and then he hears the frantic pounding from inside the science closet.  Howie was eventually set free, but it took the principal awhile to find the key on the desk.  Rumor had it that Howie resigned from the school system following that school year from hell and got a job driving a bread truck.  I don’t blame him one bit.

Middle school thoroughly sucked.  Also in eighth grade I had the misfortune of being placed with a classmate who had been in all kinds of trouble with the law and technically should have been in Juvenile Hall- he was sixteen, still in eighth grade, and he was a pervert.  Granted, all sixteen year old boys are perverts to a degree, but this lecherous freak was way too close to me- the only thirteen year old in eighth grade with a 36C chest.  Every morning before home room this nasty dude would chase me around trying to grab said chest to the chant of “titty, titty, titty.”   This dude scared me half to death- but there was no way in hell I was going to let him grab me.  One morning he was particularly randy and had gotten very close to getting his wish.  It didn’t help that the other boys were egging him on.  Then my best friend decided she’d had enough of his behavior, so she tripped him.  He grabbed back at her, knocked her down and broke her leg.  The part of this that really torqued me was that she got in trouble for fighting as well as the pervo which in my mind was completely unfair.  I don’t agree with the common school rule that both parties in a fight get punished.  In my opinion there is an instigator and a victim and no one should face a penalty for defending themselves or for defending someone else who is being victimized.  So she got to finish out the school year in a cast.  The pervo ended up being expelled because he had caused so much additional trouble in the school, so that at least was a good thing.

I had a few small victories in middle school, but the best thing about it is that it is long since over. There were too many mornings of being thrown head first into garbage cans, stuffed into lockers, and being chased by a pervert.

There are those who say that they would like to be young again.   I would only want to be young again with one caveat- that I could be young again knowing what I know now.  I think I’d have a lot more fun with it.  Middle age has its disadvantages, but for the most part cougardom is a lot more comfortable.  I don’t worry about impressing anyone, and I don’t think I have to worry about being tossed into garbage cans, stuffed into lockers or being chased by perverts.   I don’t have to wear my sisters’ old clothes nor do I have to put up with guys asking for my phone number to call them for dates. 

Diabolical Sabotage, How Not to Get Things Done, and Basically Farting Off

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I really wanted to Get Something Done today.  Yeah, right.  So far I’ve been mollycoddling idiots, which is not my favorite thing to do.  It’s a few rungs above cleaning cat boxes, or my least favorite activity- which would have to be anything involving cleaning and sorting and/or getting dirty.  I am glad as hell I don’t have to go outside to work, and I am thankful for many other things I don’t have to do.  Still, it gets old when you’ve told the fifteen thousandth ass-pilot of the day that their stuff is not there yet because they are in the middle of a snowstorm.  Your route may potentially be delayed if the freeways are down to 10 miles an hour and zero visibility.  Look outside, you jackwagons!

Anyway I generally don’t like to fart off but my attention span is about that of paint right now.  As soon as I try to concentrate and get something done someone pesters me with something stupid, something that can wait, something I have no control over, etc. and so on.  If we weren’t short handed today I’d put my phone on voice mail and then see how many people solved their own problem/answered their own questions tomorrow.  I would say 85% of the people I talk to with an “urgent” problem either a.) have the answer to their own problem, or b.) are totally farking clueless to begin with, or c.) need to be talking to someone who can actually address their problem and do something about it.   The other 15% usually have a legitimate bitch, and/or something I can actually fix.  So I’m glad I don’t talk to people as much as I used to.  I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again, intelligence is a constant, the population is growing. Unfortunately my patience with stupidity is shrinking which is probably not a good thing, being that stupidity is becoming ever more common.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

OK.  I’ve released some of my frustration with the unwashed masses of humanity.

I am generally not the “huggable” type, even on a good day.  What I would really like to do is go home and have a nice quiet evening of “Dirty Jobs,” cop shows and Chinese takeout.  Unfortunately these are the kind of days I come home to Mr. Drama Queen going off on how someone said something to hurt his feelings at work, so he’s got crank up the stereo, stay up until 1AM and drink a case of Natties to forget about it.

Well, back at it.   I might get something done before the end of the day but I doubt it very seriously.

Grab the Velveeta Cheese and Marlboros! The White Death Approacheth!

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A friend of mine worked in the Kroger’s store in Marion, and she claimed that whenever there was a threat of a snow storm the store would always run out of Velveeta cheese and Marlboros.  In normal places I would assume that milk and bread would go first, but I’ve noticed here in the greater Columbus area it’s not the weather but the time of the month that determines grocery store shortages.  Never, ever go to the grocery during the first week of the month.  Stock up around the middle of the month, especially if you want the stuff you can’t normally afford like beef or seafood.  The only people I know of who are eating steak and shrimp are buying said delicacies with the food stamp card.  I know it sounds cynical, but the reason why working people are thinner is because they are paying for everyone else to sit at home on their fat arses eating the food that working people can’t afford.

Granted, some people are on public assistance due to circumstances beyond their control.  Not everyone is working the system in a dishonest way.  I understand that.  But it does grate me the wrong way when I see the system being abused.  I’m paying for that, as well as I’m paying for a lot more government graft and waste, which is why all I can afford is the day old sale meat and ground turkey.

The Obama lovers wonder why conservatives are pissed.

Anyway, on a brighter note (after having to have a course of antibiotics for a Clara-inflicted neck puncture) Sheena has finally been pronounced free of any funky regrowths since her spay surgery/partial mastectomy.  That makes me very happy although she will have to be watched carefully for mammary growths for the rest of her life.  It’s highly unlikely they will recur since she no longer has a source of estrogen to feed them.

Now I simply have to try to keep Sheena and Clara from fighting.  It’s one of the harder things about having multiple dogs.  They can and do fight.  Clara fought with Lilo at first too.  The bad thing with Sheena is that when she fights she’s taking a  knife to a gunfight.  She’s uncoordinated and has worn down canine and incisor teeth.  Clara has a perfect set of teeth and spot on coordination.  It’s never a fair fight. I just hope Sheena figures that out very soon.  Clara doesn’t normally start it but she will finish it.

I’m not a sports fan but this is funny.  A big ol’ portion of crow for the president of OSU, eh?

elysianhunter’s Wide World of Sports, cont., Limited Time Offers, and Political Commentary (a Bit to the Right of Reagan)

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I don’t mean the above as an insult to Special Olympics.  I’m glad that there is a venue for those with physical and/or mental challenges to participate in sports activities if they so choose. It’s great to encourage people to overcome obstacles and work hard to get healthy, have fun and achieve a higher goal.  However, the idea of the mentally challenged engaging in a motorsport seems a bit counter intuitive.  I’ve yet to see a chainsaw sculpture competition for people with tremor disorder. I hope nobody ever thinks of that one, because Jerry with a chainsaw could be a very dangerous thing. I don’t know of chess tournaments for those in a vegetative state, or beauty awards for old cougars with bodies that look like roadmaps of Atlanta either. 

Ohio State actually won the Sugar Bowl last night.  I dozed off around 9:30 or so.  I read it in the news this morning.  So now everyone can shut up about Terrelle Pryor and company getting caught hawking memorabilia and getting free tattoos- at least until next football season.

The more I think about it, I don’t think either chess or beauty pageants are technically considered sports.  I could possibly gain an interest in chess, if I had the time, motivation and a worthy opponent.  Chess requires a strategic mind. The closest I get to honing my strategic abilities is in playing freecell and other variants of solitare.  My oldest sister did the beauty pageant thing only to discover two important truths: 1.) There actually are people more vapid and self-absorbed than she was in high school, and 2.) Beauty is generally not compatible with brains.  The beauty pageant crud is also incredibly expensive.  By the time you buy the dresses and the makeup and hairdos you’ve spent a small fortune, but that’s just the beginning of the indignities. To me, the exquisite torture of being confined for inordinate lengths of time with a bevy of dingy bimbos who would like nothing better than to rip out your throat and crap down your neck is even worse than parting with boatloads of cash.  I would pay boatloads of cash to avoid confinement with dingy bimbos if I had to do so to preserve my sanity. 

Thinking about the beauty pageant tomfoolery almost makes me glad I never had a daughter, and that my son is the Straightest Man in the World.  Just ask him.

Apparently chess and beauty pageants aren’t sports, but bowling, billiards and poker are considered sports, at least on ESPN.  Poker I would have to put in the NASCAR category of “non-athletic” sport.  If it were possible to get ripped by sitting on my ass and playing cards, believe me, I’d be learning poker with the quickness.  The same goes for driving around in a continuous left turn with the pedal to the floor for 500 miles.  If I could drive my way to a buff bod, believe me I’d be on it.   I wouldn’t mind continuous driving except for one thing.  If a race is four hours long, do they wear a Depend under their racing outfit?  I don’t know of very many people who can drive for 500 miles without having to take a whiz.   Maybe they have empty Mountain Dew bottles to whiz in, like truckers do.  

Billiards (or pool) might have a bit of athleticness to it, as you do occasionally have to stretch across the table to make those awkward shots.  I thoroughly suck at shooting pool.  Bowling also requires some physical coordination, which is why I completely suck at bowling.  Even though I suck, I do like to go bowling occasionally.  I’m doing really good if I can score 100 or more.  My bowling scores are usually more like 48, 71, or 82.

I have to love the “limited time offers” I see on infomercial TV.  Probably the most hokey one I’ve seen (other than the foot washer and the pecker pump) is for colorized two dollar bills.  Basically someone thinks I am going to pay $10 plus freight for $4.  Not in this lifetime.

I try not to follow the doings of British royals too closely.  Americans don’t have royalty, but we have Hollywood, and that’s far worse.  I try not to follow Hollywood either.  Even though I am not enamored of inbred Europeans, and I generally don’t follow their escapades,  I think  the “limited time,”  “As Seen on TV” horrible knockoff of Princess Diana’s engagement ring is beyond tacky.  I can only hope that Prince William takes after his mother and not his creepy dad. It would be sad if he treats Kate as bad as old creepy Charlie treated Diana.   Ultimately Charlie got even creepier Camilla.  Charlie and Camilla are a far more appropriate match.  Eww.

On one hand, it seems to be a lovely gesture for William to give his fiancee his mother’s engagement ring.  It’s worth a huge amount of money (unlike the cheap gumball machine knockoff advertised in the commercial) but to me, considering the trainwreck Diana’s marriage was, I would consider that ring accursed.  I don’t even want a cheap gumball machine copy that will turn my finger green and has a slide adjust so it “fits any size.”  Anyone who pays $20 plus freight for this is a.) asking to share in someone else’s 30 year old curse, and b.) is stuck with yet another worthless piece of poorly made costume jewelry.

I might like it better if it were amethyst instead of sapphire, but that’s just me.  I’m not a big believer in costume jewelry with the exception of funky earrings.  If I’m going to bother to wear rings, bracelets, necklaces or watches, I want decent stuff that won’t turn me green or fall apart.  Otherwise, I just don’t need it.

The “limited time” offers seem to drag on forever and ever.  I mean, how long is Billy Mays going to be selling stuff from beyond the grave? I can imagine his Oxy Clean and Awesome Auger commercials are still going to be aired twenty years from now, and there will still be warehouses full of that crap for the hawking.  When you think they’re gone, they magically reappear, announcing for the fourth or fifth year in a row, that it’s imperative to call in the next ten minutes- to buy crap that has been sitting in some warehouse gathering dust since the Clinton administration.  I hadn’t seen the Lipozene commercial for some time, until last weekend, when it reappeared in its original form, where you pay $30 for a 60 day supply.  I tried it a few years ago, when I was just a little less cynical and had a little more money than I do now.  It doesn’t work.  Anything that sounds too good to be true generally is. 

I’ve said it many times that I am politically slightly to the right of Reagan.  I am deeply concerned that the political correctness BS has gone amok yet again.  For those who don’t know what political correctness is, I do have a summary.  If I knew who originally wrote it, I would give due credit, but I don’t. Rumor holds that the following definition was written by the winner of a Texas A&M contest in 1997, but I can neither prove nor disprove it.  I do, however, agree with it:

“Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.”

This being said, it is downright offensive to me (but who cares when a Christian or a conservative is offended, eh?) that a distinguished Navy captain can be dismissed for some off-color videos recorded several years ago for the entertainment of his troops.  The videos may have been in poor taste, but shouldn’t the punishment fit the “crime?” It seems a bit ironic that DADT was repealed, and then *all the sudden* no one in the military can make any kind of remark (in jest or otherwise) regarding homosexuals.  I find it offensive that certain special protected groups have more right to be offended than the majority.  Nobody cares about offending a law abiding, native-born, conservative WASP, but just stand back and watch the fireworks when someone says something derogatory about Obama’s pet groups- such as gays, minorities, illegal immigrants, or convicted felons!

The Navy captain incident was bad enough (but again, nobody cares because he appears to be a native born conservative WASP type) but now a jail employee (presumably also a native born conservative WASP who nobody cares about) has been suspended for saying the “Obama Prayer.”  I need this T-shirt. 

The shirt says:

Pray for Obama

Psalm 108:9

Psalm 108:9, in the King James Version, reads:

“Let his days be few; and let another take his office.”

AMEN!

What native born, conservative WASP isn’t praying this prayer or something very similar?

Winter in Central Ohio, Beauty is Where You Find It, I Am the Anti-Football Fan

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I have a hard time finding anything beautiful in a Central Ohio winter.  We don’t get snow like those up around the lake do.  Most of the month of December we had a very small amount of snow cover, which is not typical here, but most of the time winter is simply cold, wet (precipitation forms will vary, but precipitation is a factor on most days) and dark. I can deal with cold and wet, but it’s the dark that gets to me.  It’s dark in the morning when I leave for work and dark when I get home.  Most days are overcast even at high noon so even the daylight hours are usually subdued.  I took this pic at about 5:15 last night.  The pink sky (and the bit of lingering daylight) intrigued me.  Despite rush hour traffic (which sucks) I had to snap off a pic if only for the rarity of a nominally clear sky and no precipitation falling from it.

Beauty is where you find it.

Technically I understand that after the winter solstice (December 21 or thereabouts) the amount of daylight starts to increase by a minute or so every day, until summer solstice (June 21 or so) but during January and February it’s hard to convince me that life isn’t just one big long dark night.

Tonight is a Big Deal among my friends who are into Ohio State Football.  I am not a football fan by any stretch- sure I’m glad they are playing the Sugar Bowl and all that, but I just can’t get ramped up about football.  So I will be nice and rested tomorrow morning, as I am planning on getting to bed nice and early, so I can taunt my hungover co-workers who I know are going to stay up until 1 AM drinking beer and woofing at the TV screen.  Not me.  I’m watching Dirty Jobs.  Later I might troll on over to History Channel or TruTV to see what’s on there.  I might as well get an education.

Cincinnati gets snow even less often than Columbus, but this is the view from my sister’s house on Christmas.  It’s unusual to have a white Christmas in Cinci, so this was kind of cool.

Another Year, SSDD, Be a BOHICA, and Maintenance of the Status Quo

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No one could ever accuse me of being an optimist.   I may be a realist on my best days, a pragmatist most days, and the darkest pessimist on my worst days.  Today I am at my normal level of pragmatism, so right now it’s maintenance of the status quo.  I’m still wondering how I am going to scrounge enough money to get through the month without having vital services shut off, going without either scripts or food or both, and avoiding overdraft charges on my checking account- again, maintenance of the status quo. 

By the grace of God.  Apart from that, I am completely hopeless.

I am usually a tad bit cynical after the holidays.  I’m glad it’s all over as I really don’t enjoy the holidays much.  Maybe it would be different if I’d had some sort of successful life.  Success is not all about financial success- though financial security certainly wouldn’t hurt.  I’ve  lost touch with most of my old friends, a good number of my favorite family members are dead, and Jerry is horrendous to deal with as he goes about jollily rehashing everything I have either failed at or haven’t done for whatever reason in the past 20 years.  Yesterday I had pretty much had it with his incessant whining about food or laundry or the dogs and I decided I would just take off to Mom and Dad’s for the day after church.  He was mad that I didn’t call him but I didn’t call because he would have guilted me into either coming back home first and getting stuck with breakfast detail,  or I’d end up getting guilted into cutting my trip short because there was nobody home to fill the ice trays.

There must be something on that missing part of the male “Y” chromosome that renders human males unable to refill ice trays.  It is a little thing, but annoying as hell when all you have to do is rinse out the trays, fill them with water, and put them back in the freezer.  Since it takes three or four hours for the water to freeze, it makes sense to use the ice, then refill the ice tray so there will be ice the next time someone needs it.  However, in Jerry logic, “I figured if I put them in the sink, you’d refill them,” seems to be an acceptable answer.

If I were to take the same approach to getting things done as Jerry does to filling the ice trays, I could rationalize my whole life away.  It’s the magic solution to having other people do everything for your lazy ass!  Maybe I can try this one- “I figured if I ran out all the gasoline in your truck, you’d refill it.”  That one would go over splendidly for sure.  Better yet, “I figured if I let your dirty clothes pile up until you have nothing left to wear but a pair of whitey tighties with sprung elastic and a big old racing stripe stain up the butt, that you might actually take it upon yourself to learn how to wash your own damn clothes for a change.”

I’m not holding my breath. He would probably take to wearing my clothes instead, which is a visual nobody needs.

I forgot one of the handy acronyms from the texting cheat sheet: BOHICA, or Bend Over Here It Comes Again.  This acronym dates back at least until the early 1980’s.  I remember seeing it on one of Dad’s buddy’s girlie posters in his home body shop.  This dude did amazing paint work and custom restorations- VW’s, Detroit iron, motorcycles, you name it, but he had a real taste for tacky soft porn as was reflected on the walls of his shop.  Back in the day those who worked in automotive were almost exclusively male, so parts stores, dealerships and supply houses would sponsor girlie calendars and posters as promotions for their products.  Today it is considered a bit gauche to sell automotive parts and accessories by placing them next to a nude or nearly nude buxom bimbo, (who likely had absolutely no idea what the carburetor or header or cylinder head she was holding up was used for) but it was common practice then.  Anyway, I remember seeing the BOHICA acronym on one of his bimbo pin up’s T-shirts, with a caption below it spelling it out, and I thought it was funny.  It is a testament to my naivete at the time that I thought that it referred to spankings.  I guess it could, for the S&M fetishist.  Crack that whip, baby!

There is much more to be said for a woman with a mind than for physical beauty .  Beauty is fleeting, but stupid is forever.  Once the beauty is gone, and the pretty young thing is neither, all you’re left with is stupid.  I hope Steve-o gets this through his thick skull, and believe it or not, after his foray into the world of the 34DD bimbos with nothing upstairs, I think he has.   This is probably what starts the whole mid-life crisis for some dudes, when they turn their now frumpy 45 year old in for a 21 year old version.  The irony to this is they don’t have enough sense to see the writing on the wall and realize that bimbo #2 will be just as frumpy and probably even more stupid than bimbo# 1 in 20 years.  I’ve seen it with dudes too, and that’s even more sad.  I’ve seen way too many drop dead gorgeous dudes who are dumber than a box of rocks, but more cocky than a chicken coop.  They attract women like flies, treat them like shit, and move on.  The problem is that twenty years later, when the hot dude is transformed into a balding, paunchy old lecher, he doesn’t have enough sense to know that he’s not hot anymore, so Mr. Formerly Hot Stuff still struts around, grossing everyone out, when he has nothing left worth strutting.  That’s just plain disgusting- unless of course Mr. Formerly Hot Stuff has money, and then the young bimbos seem to have the fortitude to overlook the beer gut, lack of hair and/or teeth, cocaine habit, and dragon breath.

I guess money could overcome a multitude of flaws.  Maybe this is what Hugh Hefner’s fiancee is thinking.  What she doesn’t realize though, is that the Hef could potentially live another 20 years.  I could see him living to be 104. It would serve her right. 

One advantage to being plain and frumpy and poor like me is that you know who your friends are.  I have very few friends, but then again I don’t have much to offer.  I can, however, refill the ice trays.

I must have a purpose!

I’ve been called an ice queen before.  SSDD!

Stuff I Could Care Less About, The Perennial DD, and a Sober Eye on the Festivities

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Ah, the joy of carting the drunk and stupid from one destination to another.  I am so grateful Jerry and his former friend and “drunk and stupid enhancer” Terry had their falling out a couple of years ago. These two guys had the potential to be plenty drunk and stupid by themselves, but get them together and the drunk and stupid and just plain annoying factor increased by a factor of 100.  One night when Terry was staying with us he got incredibly shit-faced, wandered into Steve-o’s room, pulled up the edge of his mattress and proceeded to whiz all over the Christmas presents I had at the end of the bed as well as all over Steve-o and his sheets. I was so pissed I threw Terry out and was rid of him for all of about a month, when Jerry begged me to let him come back over again.  Somehow it just doesn’t seem right to let a “guest” return to your home after pissing all over your kid and your family’s Christmas presents, but what the hey?  When I had to ferry them both back and forth to the campground for Saturday night poker it was occasionally a real nightmare.  One evening they got into a punching match in the car.  Another time, Jerry thought it funny to yank the car out of gear and grab at the steering wheel when he was having a drunk and stupid argument with Terry and Steve-o.   That is not funny at all on the freeway when you’re doing 70 miles an hour.  I do not look forward to shuttling the alcohol impaired, regardless of who is involved. 

Then there is always the potential of the drunk and stupid individual puking in the car.  I remember narrowly avoiding having my 72 Super Beetle spewed in.  Dawne’s sister had been going on with the rot gut whiskey and God only knows what other downers and assorted drugs.  She was notorious for getting drunk and stoned pretty much constantly back then.  I was nice enough to get her a ride home before she ended up getting in a fight, but as we pulled up near Dawne’s apartment, she started to hurl.  Instinctively I reached over her, opened the passenger’s side door from the inside and shoved her out.  Puke smell does not come out of car interiors.  I had to do the same thing to Jerry one night when he got Jagermeister confused with Formula 44.  He narrowly missed spewing all over the inside of my 94 truck.  Of course the Jagermeister Incident should have been more than enough to convince a sane person that drinking to excess is a bad idea, but Jerry isn’t a sane person.

After I had shoved Jerry out of the truck he spewed all over the parking lot and most of the way through the courtyard behind the apartment we lived in at the time.  Somehow I got him up the porch steps and in the door, then he flopped over on the dining room floor, while ranting unintelligibly.  The bathroom of this apartment was upstairs.  The apartment building was built in the late 19th century by German immigrants.  Germans must not have been very tall then, because anyone over 5’9″ would bash their head on the ceiling of the staircase if they failed to duck.  The staircase was also narrow and steep, so much so that the only way to fit a full size bed upstairs would have been to either cut the box spring so it would bend, or to procure two twin-size box springs  and two twin size mattresses and install them on a king size frame.  We put our full size bed in what should have been the living room to avoid this conundrum. 

Anyway, I wanted Jerry upstairs in the spare room (which had a small roll-away bed in it) so he would be close to the bathroom, and so I would be able to try to sleep a little further away from the incoherent moaning, screaming and various noises I knew he would be emitting.  So,  I endeavored to remove his very drunk carcass from the dining room floor and proceeded to more or less drag him up the stairs.  How I got 180# of dead weight up that hideously steep flight of stairs I still wonder, but I do know he ended up with not a little rug burn from the carpet on the stairs.

When Jerry gets to a certain very drunk and very stupid plateau, he doesn’t just pass out like a normal drunk.  That would be too easy.  I got him into the spare room and on to the roll-away bed, only to hear, “Where’sssss my billow, bittcchhhhh?”

I retrieved a pillow from the bed downstairs, opened the door and threw it at his drunk ass and slammed the door.  He had a three day hangover from that little bender. 

I learned my lesson regarding drunk and stupid drinking at age 23.  Waking up in a bathtub full of cold water in a motel room with a half-eaten Domino’s pizza on the ledge has a way of putting one off the liquor.

The New Year’s holiday brings two of my least favorite celebratory activities: drinking (which even if I wanted to, my health really doesn’t permit it) and football, which of course, can be a good babysitter, but it gets old when it seems as if Jerry is going to get bedsores from lounging about in the bed doing nothing but watching football games.  I will find something else to watch or I may take a road trip up to Mom and Dad’s to bring him some beans (gotta love pinto beans and ham) and some pork and kraut.  Perhaps that is not a kind thing to do to senior citizens- bringing them farty food- but I don’t have to stick around long enough to smell it.

I do like the pork and kraut tradition.  I was lucky to find a lovely pork roast (not always easy because there are a lot of people of German ancestry in Central Ohio who do the pork and kraut thing for New Year’s)  so that roast will be wafting its tantalizing aroma throughout my kitchen tomorrow.  The bad thing about pork and kraut is that as far as fart-worthiness, it’s every bit as explosive as pinto beans or White Castles or boiled eggs and beer.

Mmmmm, pork and kraut.  With mashed potatoes and Bean-o.

Next week we return to normal.

Modern Etiquette, The Year in Review, and Just When You Think You’ve Reached the Bottom…

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I’m not against the Second Amendment by any means.  In fact, I believe there would be a lot less crime if it could be assumed everyone is packing heat.  I’ve told Steve-o many times to be careful flying the one finger salute when he’s road raging.  You never know who is out there with an M16 and an attitude.  The main problem with readily accessible firearms is that the people who seem to have them are exactly the people who shouldn’t have them.  I know better than to own a firearm because I know full well that I have a hair trigger temper, and I have a tendency toward depressive illness.   However, there are nutjobs out there -who make me look sane by comparison -who have an entire arsenal at their disposal.  I do tend to assume the worst about humanity.  It works for me.  If one observes human behavior for any length of time, one will quickly discover that a.) Murphy’s Law is alive and well.  What can go wrong does go wrong, and where more than one person is involved the failure is usually spectacular,  and b.) Human nature is such that the twin aims of life are to seek pleasure and avoid pain.  I don’t have high expectations for any of my fellow human beings.  I am pleasantly surprised when fellow human beings do perform well or achieve objectives, but  I don’t expect it.   The Bible even warns us: “put not your trust in princes, in mortal men who cannot save.”  (Psalm 146:3)  I am not trusting at all by nature so it’s not difficult for me to keep a wary eye. I tend to assume the worst until I have proof to the contrary.  The only one I can expect anything from is God Himself.  For everyone else, including myself, it’s “trust but verify.”

This year was sucky but not quite as sucky as last year.  There was a bit of improvement, but overall the gains and losses sort of evened out. 

Last January my 2008 Yaris was rear-ended and pretty well hosed.  But I ended up with a 2010 Yaris that has cruise and power, so that was sort of a wash.

I did get an actual vacation this year which kicked ass. 

I had to spend way too much money on taxes, insurances, scripts and Steve-o, all of which really bite.

On the positive side, I’ve managed to get through this year without too much serious physical injury.

Then again, Obama has yet to either be impeached or to resign.  Bummer.

I’ve also managed to get through this year without any deaths of family members or close friends- but I have to admit I’ve had a hard time with Grandma dying last year.  It still creeps me out that Dad is renting out her house although I couldn’t expect him to do anything else.  He needs the money, and renting it is better than selling it, even though it’s downright weird to have strange people living there. I still can’t even drive by there, which is a lot of what kept me from my Tacky Christmas foray into the west end of Marion.  I didn’t take any Tacky Christmas pics this year, not even in Cinci (and there were some outrageous displays down there, believe it.)  I hope I get back in the mood to do it next year.  It’s fun, but I have to admit I have not been too in tune with fun lately. 

I never want to assume that things are ever as bad as they can get.  They may be as good as they will ever get, but there is always the potential for things to get worse.  It is only by the grace of God that anything good happens- the default is disaster.  It may never get better, but it can always get worse.  Such is the condition of humanity since the Fall.  It’s NOT going uphill, trust me. 

I sincerely hope and pray that next year is better but I am not holding my breath.  Just when you think you’ve reached the bottom, there is always a lower level.  I should make it a point to read Dante’s Inferno again, if only to remind myself that hell has levels, and there is always a level of hell below the currently occupied one. 

I am not an optimist when my perspective is based on human nature and human activity. 

A good example of this is the current POTUS and his praise of Michael Vick.  Obama, of course, always does the polar opposite of what is moral and right, so I am not surprised.   I saw what Michael Vick did to those dogs.  It’s pretty hard to make restitution and redeem oneself for such atrocities, at least in this world.  He might not have personally pulled their teeth out or sic’d them on each other, but he sanctioned it.  He had to know what happens to the losers in a dog fight.  I am not a person who is squeamish or easily shocked, but the mutilation and suffering that goes on in dog fighting- a perfectly avoidable source of carnage- is appalling. As far as letting him own a dog, here’s the way I see it.  Do we let convicted child molesters get out of prison and then encourage them to become day care providers?  It is not unreasonable to restrict someone convicted of animal cruelty from having contact with animals.  Especially dogs.  It’s good the man is playing football. It’s better than drug dealing and other illicit pursuits, and is probably the only thing he can do to earn an honest living. Hopefully his football pursuits allow him to pay some sort of restitution to the shelters and foster homes who worked to rehab those poor dogs.  Even so, as far as I see it, letting this guy own a dog, ever, is on the same level as turning Chester the Molester out in the school playground.  

I know there are bleeding hearts out there who will defend this guy, and to a degree he has a right to a defense.  In the great scheme of things what we do is ultimately between us and God, and I freely admit I am just as bad if not a worse sinner than everyone else.  However, here on this earth, we have to suffer the temporal consequences of our actions.  Even if we repent, even if we make restitution, the consequences are still there. Child molesters should never be allowed in close proximity to children.  Those who have engaged in animal cruelty should be kept away from animals.  It’s not undue punishment, it’s common sense.

I sincerely hope that the new year brings some improvement in my life.  This is my prayer- that I will have enough to pay my way and keep my head above water (and that is a TALL order that WILL take an Act of God), but not so much that I forget to care about God and others.  As cynical as I can be about humanity, I still care about people.  I want to be useful.  I know I’m useful to my dogs, which is encouraging, but it can be so depressing worrying about where every dime is going to come from and how this and that are going to get done.  Only by the grace of God.

Texting Acronyms and Shorthand, aka Insults on the Fly, and More Fun

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It seems that all the music Steve-o is into sounds like bad porno movie soundtracks.  I’ve never been a techno fan so maybe that’s a little unfair, but ewwww!  It’s not my age.  New music- even what the radio stations try to pass off as being rock and/or metal- does bite the big one.  For example, every time I hear the Five Finger Death Punch version of the song “Bad Company,” I want to projectile vomit.  They took a good song and made it suck.   I like the original version that was recorded by the real Bad Company.  Do me a favor and play the real song!  I generally despise modern remakes of good old songs, especially when mediocre bands attempt them.  Then again, with a lot of these mediocre new bands, their original stuff is a lot worse than their lame cover material.  I’m glad most of the old stuff that was really good and that I do like has been converted to MP3, so old farts can enjoy music worth listening to.

I am generally not too big on texting lingo as I get a bit confused by some of the acronyms and abbreviations.  There is a handy decoder site for said acronyms and abbreviations which is proving most useful.  I actually enjoy a few of them, such as:

BBFBBM: Body by Fisher, Brains by Mattel (why are the hot ones usually a little slow on the uptake?)

CINBA: Clad in Naught but Air (could be good or bad, depending upon the message sender)

CRD: Caucasian Rhythm Disorder (I know this one really well, being a sufferer and all!)

DIAF:  Die in a Fire  (isn’t that a lovely thing to wish on one’s enemies?)

FOL: Fond of Leather (again, depends upon the relative hotness of the sender)

GGP: Gotta Go Pee (that’s lame, because there’s no law against texting on the throne, yet!)

HBIC: Head Bitch in Charge (that would be me)

I&I: Intercourse and Inebriation (oh, bloody hell, not since 1993 or thereabouts)

IDGARA: I Don’t Give a Rat’s Ass (also known as the Cliff’s Notes’ commentary on possibly 95% of the crap I see in the news or on TV)

IJPMP: I Just Pissed My Pants (perhaps from a fit of explosive laughter or a severe coughing fit, but never a good thing)

KIPPERS: Kids in Parents’ Pockets Eroding Retirement Savings (no shit! got one of those)

LOPSOD: Long on Promises, Short on Delivery (the Cliff’s Notes’ version of the Obama presidency!)

LORE: Learn Once, Repeat Everywhere (a toddler learning swear words, or a teen girl spreading gossip- same concept)

MTBF: Mean Time Before Failure (pessimistic, but often true)

NWAL: Nerd Without a Life (I certainly get this one.  When I start having conversations with my dogs on philosophical issues, for example.)

PBIAB: Payback is a Bitch (No shit!)

PFA: Pulled from Ass (could mean a lot of things, but not usually good)

POTATO: People Over Thirty Acting Twenty One (Jerry, when he’s partying, only it would be more like People Over Fifty Acting Three- go POFAT s~!)

RCI: Recto-Cranial Inversion (a nice way of saying someone has his/her head stuck up his/her ass.)

RTH: Release the Hounds (I can think of a number of people whose faces Clara might want to chew on, who richly deserve it too.)

SAIA: Stupid Asses In Action (Congress?)

WTHOW: White Trash Headline of the Week (Hot damn, WalMart’s havin’ a sale on ammo, Bubba!)

My son often communicates in text-speak which is a bit awkward for me.  Then again, when I learned to write, computers and word processing were expensive novelties.   We had to actually hand-write assignments, or type them on an old-time typewriter (more of a pain in the ass than actually writing them out long hand, in my opinion.)   Steve-o just writes everything in Word, saves it on his flash drive and prints it at school. 

I have to share this one because it reminds me of Jerry.  He throws a fit if he fails to receive flaming-hot french fries.  This guy in Sandusky had a real problem with his cold fries.

“…Police say they were called when the customer said he wouldn’t leave until he got different fries. He told officers a McDonald’s employee struck him with a mop.

The Sandusky Register reports that a witness said the worker acted only as though he was going to hit the man and said the customer called the employee a derogatory name.

No charges were filed. Police say the man got his money back and left without fries…”

I’m glad the McTeamMember got him with a mop.  I’m also glad Jerry hasn’t gone to Sandusky lately.

As I have said before, any employer who refers to employees as anything other than employees is generally going to be a shitty place to work for. Avoid such employers if you can.  “Team Member” is probably the worst term for employee out there. I particularly despise this euphemism, as firms who refer to their employees as “Team Members” tend also to employ managers who think in terms of sports metaphors (AACK!!!) and who go on and on about “team” this and “team” that. That type of manager means one thing by the dreadful “team” blather, as I have paraphrased here:  There is no “I” in “team,” but as far as I’m concerned, there is a “U”- as in, I expect “U” to do all my work…for the “team” of course.    If your firm refers to employees as “Associates,” the term might as well be abbreviated “Ass,” because you might as well bend over and expect a cornholing.

I think there should be truth in advertising, especially today when jobs are harder to come by.  Let your prospective recruits know that their job titles will reflect the nature of what they will be subjected to on the job.  “Assboy,” “Buttlick,” “Shameless Panderer,” etc. are Truth in Advertising  job descriptions, which, of course, no one would actually use.  I used to have to hire and fire people in better economic times, and then you had to try to sweeten the pot just to get them in for an interview.  I am sure that today the pickings are not quite as lean.  Your potential recruit may actually be interviewing for the position best described as “Toilet Licker,” but you present it to him as if he’s going to be the next POTUS.   Don’t, however, be surprised when he quits within the week, or the first time the technicians’ toilets back up, which ever comes first.  Very few people are accustomed to real work.

Remember: The toilet is not a diving platform.

Lost in the Translation, Christmas for ‘Po Folks, and Helpful Holiday Dos and Don’ts

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I guess “don’t” number one would be: Don’t buy Japanese Christmas cards.  “Chimney” and “Hole” serve similar functions, but are not always interchangeable words.  The nuances of the English language are difficult enough for native speakers, let alone for those who attempt to translate other languages into English.  I know a few native Japanese whose English is at least as good if not better than most Midwestern rednecks’, but these are people who were taught English as well as Japanese from infancy.  However, the most hilarious bad English translations come from the Asian countries, as one may peruse on Engrish.com.

I love the meaning behind the Christmas holiday, but I tend to loathe what our hedonistic society has turned it into.  How much useless crap can one buy for people who don’t need any more useless crap?  How much do I need to reiterate that I don’t need anyone to buy me any useless crap? Now I can use cash and/or Kroger’s or Target gift cards, (help with scripts and groceries is always welcome) but beyond that, it’s really, really OK to refrain from buying me anything.  I don’t need any decorative items, cooking utensils, instructional books, or really anything else that I haven’t already made it a point to acquire or that I can’t afford and therefore don’t need anyway.  I am fussy about clothing and prefer to choose my own.  Many years of wearing my sisters’ old clothes and of Mom picking clothes out for me have made me rather adamant in my clothing choices. I do dress for both economy and comfort, although I like things to fit, and I avoid colors that make me appear jaundiced and/or dead.  This is why I shudder when Mom tries to buy me clothes.  I am not ten years old.  I’m not planning on growing, so I don’t need clothing that’s five sizes too big, and I look hideous in brown, green, orange and/or yellow.  Mom tries, she really does, but sometimes I wonder what she’s thinking when she buys me stuff.  I am still trying to wrap my mind around my mother’s last well-meant, but horribly inappropriate gift to me.  Please don’t buy cookie cutters for a diabetic.  You might as well buy a double amputee a pair of stillettos, or a bra for a rooster.

The commercials on TV are downright disgusting.  Maybe if I woke up on Christmas morning to find a Lexus in my driveway with a big red bow on it, or if I were to unwrap some of that high faluting jewelry with real diamonds and gold that won’t turn me green, I might have a different take on the whole business, but the odds of me receiving either the Lexus or the diamond jewelry are about the same as if I were to wake up and discover that I had been transformed into Demi Moore overnight.  Anyone who knows me knows that the chances of anything listed above actually happening are slimmer than a snowball’s chance in hell.  Knowing Jerry, if he were ever to break down and buy me a Christmas or birthday gift it would probably be a twelve pack of beer, because he knows I don’t drink beer, and I would end up giving it back to him by default.

Radio this time of year is even worse than TV, as the local rock/metal station bombards us with daily ads for the local strip joint’s Christmas party, to be held all day on Christmas day.  It’s bad enough that there are pathetic jackoffs out there who are so morally bankrupt that they would make a conscious decision to spend Christmas day in a strip joint in the company of fellow perverts and strippers, but to make an occasion of it, and to hype it up on the radio, is even more pathetic.  One would think there could be one day for licentiousness to take a holiday, but I guess not.

“Don’t” number two would have to be: Don’t spend Christmas anywhere it is necessary to deposit money in anyone’s underwear in exchange for a lap dance.

Now that I’ve shared a couple of “don’ts,” I probably should include a couple of “dos” to at least sound more positive.  “Do” number one is: Avoid the in-laws.  I made the obligatory appearance at the family holiday party last Saturday night which should exempt me from making an appearance with my in-laws until the same time next year.

“Do” number two is: Do bring activities to occupy the idle hours when the relatives fall asleep.  I have a hard time falling asleep when I am not in my own bed.   Note to self: Bring the charger for the DS, as the battery only lasts four hours.  I already have the car charger for the MP3 player which is right handy as it’s a long drive to Cincinnati.

I haven’t done any Tacky Christmas trolling this year.  Shame on me.  I hope to do a bit down in Cinci- the upper crust does put on some spectacularly Griswoldian tableaux that are worthy of Tacky Christmas status just in the time, effort and dollar amount involved.  I don’t get it but then I’ve never been a person who has had the luxury of money to burn.

I still wish I could find the Bud Light cardboard bimbo display from the west end of Marion that I happened on years ago, but I am sure that after that Christmas (I think it was 2006) it ended up as some Bubba’s target practice or something.

Never leave home without the camera.  You never know what kind of hilarity you will find. (Let’s see if Steve-o ever bothers to read my blog…)