I Have No Patience Left—– An Open Letter to the Instant Gratification Generation

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Like a good number of techie-type people, I generally operate more efficiently (and with a lot less stress) when my interactions with fellow humans are simple, brief and (most importantly) few and far between.  The older I get, the less tolerance I have for doling out tedious and lengthy explanations.   The pisser is that it seems that the older I get, and the thinner my patience gets, the more stupid (and hence more needy of tedious and lengthy explanations) those around me seem to be.

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Perhaps it sounds hard-hearted and/or arrogant of me to point out that the average person is as dumb as a post, but it’s a hard truth.  I’ve said it before, and if I knew who came up with the phrase I would credit it, as credit is due: “Intelligence is a constant, the population is growing.”    Unfortunately, there are days when I just don’t have it in me to smile and explain the same thing thirty different ways just so that I might have a chance of relaying some tidbit of necessary information into some dullard’s thick skull that he/she might or might not retain for more than five minutes.

It probably doesn’t help that I work in a business in which I have to engage in tedious explanations all day long.  I have to explain to people why this goes with this, or why you can’t use that with that, or that such-and-such is discontinued, which means it is no longer being made. Discontinued means what it is you’re looking for is not available (unless you find someone with used or old stock) and it will never be available again.  Please get that through your thick skulls, people.  There’s a reason why you can’t get all-weather floor mats for an ’86 Chevette.  It may have something to do with the fact that if there were a surviving ’86 Chevette in Central Ohio, it would be very unlikely to still have floors.  Deal.  Better yet, move up into the 21st century.

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These just didn’t have the appeal of chicken nuggets apparently.

Either that or they hadn’t come up with the hot mustard sauce yet.

The problem with having to tell people that they can’t always get what they want, is that unlike MIck Jagger and company, I have to listen to the asinine reactions of the instant gratification generation when their desires are unable to be fulfilled.  All Day Long.  it wears on my brain.

Another thing that wears on my brain is the upcoming contingent of warm bodies emerging from (so-called) institutions of higher learning.  I’ve said it for years that political correctness is poison, and that there will be hell to pay for mollycoddling and insulating kids from anything difficult or challenging.  Face it, in the real world there is no medal for 12th place.

12th place

Not in my world.  Or yours, either.

Now that particular dirty bird- the concept that one is “special” simply due to being vertical and metabolizing valuable oxygen-  is coming home to roost, and it’s really sad.  Now we have people getting all butt-hurt over any kind of controversy or discourse- and people who are unwilling to accept the truth when it’s right out in the open, if that truth reflects the fact that there are inherent inequalities between people because let’s face it, life ain’t fair.

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Hypothetically, I may have had a life’s goal to be a center in the NBA. (No I didn’t, but this is a hypothetical scenario.)  The only problems with that goal are the realities: 1. I am as white and Anglo-Saxon as a person can possibly be and live. 2. I have physical motor deficits. 3. I’m female. and 4. I’m 5’4″.  Rather than lament that I can’t be a center in the NBA due to forces outside of my control, is it not in my best interest to choose a vocation that is better suited to my biological reality?  Why should I feel compelled to change my biology or to whine and cry that it’s not fair that white, uncoordinated, short females (who really aren’t even interested in basketball) can’t be centers in the NBA?

College campuses are no longer institutions of learning, where debate and open thought are encouraged.  They have become centers of artificially inflamed outrage over everything from perceived racial slurs to “gender inequality.”  Hmm, last time I checked, “race” is something different cultures pretty much made up. There’s plenty of different ethnicities and colors, but only one human race. There are generally two sets of human genitalia, and you either have one or the other.   It’s pretty rare (and not usually natural) to have both.

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I wonder what they’re pissed about now.  Most places have a “mystery gender” bathroom somewhere.

My first reaction to the “ooh, everything offends my precious little self,”  is, “what kind of horse shit is this?”  Then I remember my grandfather mocking the hippie generation for “going off to find themselves.”  His contention was that you shouldn’t need to “find yourself” if you’re sitting right in front of your face.

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“The Emperor’s New Clothes” is one of my favorite Aesop’s Fables.  I’m dating myself in admitting that I ever read such archaic children’s literature (today the Aesop’s Fables collection would prove far too “damaging” to impressionable young children and their precious little self-esteems,) but there were some valuable life lessons in those stories.  There were important lessons in those stories, such as, “the world doesn’t revolve around you,” and “actions have consequences.”

The emperor (and I’m not just referring to Obama, but the fact that someone of his level of extreme ineptitude and overwhelming vapidity is in a position of power and influence is an ominous sign of the times) has been stark raving naked for a long time.

Let’s call the truth the truth, and clean up the political correctness bullshit before Orwell’s visions become fulfilled in their entirety.

Deep and Philosophical Questions- Or Not!

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I just about spit coffee out my nose when I saw this meme.

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Which one will last longer?  My carcass or an unopened Twinkie?

It is fabled that Twinkies will last over thirty years if unwrapped, but the official word from the Hostess company is that they only have a shelf life of 45 days.  I may only have a shelf life of 45 days. Who knows?

Jerry has a thing for Twinkies right now, which is good because at least there is something he will eat.  I’ve never seen anyone as picky about food in my life.  I shouldn’t lose my patience so easily with him because I know he is dealing with chronic pain and illness, but sometimes he can really get on my last nerve.  I don’t play well with others to begin with, so I have to cut him some slack.  It helps if I get a bit of ivory tower time so I can recharge and don’t have to be constantly on guard.  That’s my particular weakness- I can only deal with the rest of humanity in very small doses.  Age and time is not improving that peculiarity of mine at all. If anything I need more time alone to simply stay sane, and that is a disturbing trend.

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I  don’t know it all.  But shutting up is usually a default for me.  I’m really good at the silent treatment.

Jerry went to the campground and won’t be back until tomorrow.  So I am enjoying a little secret pleasure of blasting some Metallica (which he can’t stand.)  Normally I am not a hard core metal head- but I have my moments.  I’ll probably switch back to some Journey or some of Neal Schon’s solo stuff in awhile to mellow out.  But for now, I am having some fun with James Hetfield asking the question, “Am I Evil?”  Yes.  Humanity is evil.  There you go.

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James Hetfield can actually sing rather than scream.

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littering and

Smokin’ the Reefer…

I think weed should not only be legal, they should just hand it out randomly.  Pass it around like the junk mail circulars one gets in the mail every day. Why?  Do potheads go out and commit random crime?  Hell no. They get mellow, call the pizza dude, eat everything in the fridge and then blissfully pass out.  Nice and mellow and thank God, quiet.  Potheads aren’t out there doing violent crime.  They’re on the couch, laughing their ass off to whatever History Channel documentary (the all- Hitler-all-the-time-network, I think sometimes) or whatever Monty Python flick they can find on Netflix.  Until they pass out at about 8 or 9 pm.  That’s my kind of partier.

I can’t wait for the state of Ohio to get with the 21st century and legalize pot.  I don’t care for pot at all- it makes me tired and hungry and depressed.  I’ve not bothered with pot since I was in college back in the 80s.  I have a hard enough time staying awake without smoking something that puts me to sleep.  I never enjoyed the pot buzz, but I can clearly see the advantages of smoking pot for people like Jerry who are both hyper and deal with chronic pain. It could even help with him chronically being an asshole late at night.  Smoking a nice big bowl of ganga might be enough for him to settle down and shut up and pass out early so I can get some sleep.  I don’t do late nights worth a shit, and I’m really tired of getting woke up at all hours of the night listening to him whine and bitch- and play Eminem.

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Reason #11-

So Jerry can get high, pass out early and I can get some mother effing sleep!

I’m Not Supposed to Be Like This (But It’s Okay)

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There’s a rather obscure song written by REM back in the mid 1980s called, “The Wrong Child.” Sometimes this song sort of runs through my head at times.  If I were to try to explain what my childhood felt like, this song captures it pretty well.

I’ve watched the children come and go
A late long march into spring
I sit and watch those children
Jump in the tall grass
Leap the sprinkler
Walk in the ground
Bicycle clothespin spokes
The sound the smell of swingset hands

I will try to sing a happy song
I’ll try and make a happy game to play
Come play with me I whispered to my new found friend
Tell me what it’s like to go outside
I’ve never been
Tell me what it’s like to just go outside
I’ve never been
And I never will

I’m not supposed to be like this
I’m not supposed to be like this
But it’s okay

Hey, those kids are looking at me
I told my friend myself
Those kids are looking at me
They’re laughing and they’re running over here
They’re laughing and they’re running over here
What do I do?
What can I do?
What should I do?
What do I say?
What can I say?

I said I’m not supposed to be like this
Let’s try to find a happy game to play
Let’s try to find a happy game to play
I’m not supposed to be like this
But it’s okay, okay

REM, The Wrong Child

It is a paradox. I  wouldn’t change the way I’m wired for anything but I wouldn’t wish it on anyone either.

I can be an impartial observer, a voice, a navigator of sorts, but I don’t belong on the inside.  I really never could be that carefree child playing with other kids without being constantly wary and afraid. 

I am what I was created to be for what that is worth.  No, I don’t understand and probably never will.

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Arousing the Attention of Law Enforcement, and Vehicle Customization “Don’ts”

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I try to avoid interactions with law enforcement.  I think most rational people do.  I’m intimidated easily enough, and I really don’t want to be bothered anyway, so I try to just live my life, quietly obeying the rules and generally blending into the wall.

I learned a disturbing truth a few mornings ago.  I should know better, too, but I wasn’t paying attention.

On my car (the illustrious Corolla S, with the 6 speed manual, which is an awesome ride) you can just leave the lights and fog lights on (which I usually do) and they will turn off when one turns the ignition off.  But for some bizarre reason I turned the lights off.  When you turn the lights off, the DRLs (headlights only) still come on.  Usually that’s not a real issue.

The headlights are HIDs and are insanely bright, so I didn’t notice that the parking lights or tail lights weren’t on, as I went off on my merry way through the cop obstacle course between my house and the Y.  I’ve been known to see as many as six cops between my house and the Y (1.8 miles.)  This is particularly odd, considering I make this trip between 5 and 5:15AM.  I know there are quite a few speed traps in that small stretch, so I plan accordingly and keep at a painfully slow 35MPH to avoid an unplanned and expensive speeding ticket.

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So I was completely shocked when I had a cop light me up.  I know I was only doing 35 or maybe a bit less, so what in the flying thunder could this guy want with me?

I did remember the most important thing from my CCW class- let the officer see your hands, because he knows you carry the minute he runs your plates.

So as I stuck my hands out the window, all I could say was, “My weapon is in the trunk.” Which it was.  I’m not about lying to cops.

He asks for my driver’s license, and then asked me if I knew my tail lights were out.  Then it dawned on me- I looked at the dash and realized for some reason I’d turned off the lights and was just running on DRLs.  Oh. Shit.

So the officer- who thankfully wasn’t being a douche bag about it, even though he would have had the right- ran my license.  Seeing I had no record, or outstanding warrants, or reason to believe I was running a meth lab out of a late model Corolla, let me go once he verified that yes, my lights all work- when they’re turned on.

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At least I didn’t get a speeding ticket.

I have to wonder if I’d been treated differently had I been younger, male, or belonged to a different ethnic group.  I know Steve-o was randomly pulled over several times when he had his Audi.  The demographics didn’t look good- a 20 year old kid driving a late model Audi A4 in impeccable condition, in an area where the average young 20 something is unemployed,  on drugs, and not averse to stealing things.  I think the cops just couldn’t believe that someone of Steve-o’s demographic actually worked and earned money to buy a nice car via legitimate means.  In their defense, considering most of his age cohorts, I understand their incredulity.

 

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So… the place of notoriety for those of Steve-o’s generation is the “Busted” paper- getting your mug shot plastered all over Central Ohio.  The list of names (center) were all the bizarre names I found in just that one issue of the “Busted” paper.  Anyone with the last name “Hunt” should really have their head examined before naming their child “Michael.”  Another one I found funny was the name “Ciera,” as if her first name should be “Cutlass.” And the name “Crystal,” no matter how you spell it, leads me to want to call her “Crystal Meth.”  Note to self: do NOT use the “Busted” paper as a reference source for potential baby names.  Although I’m sure some people do.

The badly painted (likely with a house roller) Cincinnati Bengals tribute Civic is a more typical vehicle for someone of Steve-o’s age to be seen driving.  Either that or this distressed Accord:

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This looks eerily like Steve-o’s first car, a ’92 Accord with about 400K on it.

As soon as he could afford it, he traded it on a ’95 Integra- but he’s had plenty of cars since then.

 

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I mean, right MEOW.

Steve-o got to sit in the back of a cruiser (twice) while the cop verified that his temp tag was legit right after he bought the Audi.  Not long after he got his regular plates he got pulled over (again) and the K9 officer who pulled him over thought it appropriate to go through the Audi with the drug dog.  I doubt if they found a cough drop or a gum wrapper, (Steve-o is one of those people who doesn’t eat, smoke or do anything in the car that might leave a mess) but the dog did leave behind some hair and slobber that provoked Steve-o to pay for a $150 detail to remove.  In some ways I’m glad he traded the Audi for a (newer, yes, but less ostentatious) Jetta.   He’s not been pulled over once in the Jetta.  Apparently that’s not as much of a head turner as the Audi.

Do I agree with profiling?  Not necessarily, and I realize that if Steve-o appeared to be anything other than what can only be called “super white” that a simple, “have a seat in the cruiser” could have turned far uglier.  Cops are human too.  I know I profile. I know I hit that door lock switch extra fast in certain parts of town. I’m not saying it’s right to do it, but everyone does.

 

 

I Think I Saw a Ghost, Some Enchanting Suppositions (Not to Be Confused with Suppositories)

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What are the odds of encountering one’s best friend from high school (who I’ve not seen in at least 10 and more like 12 years) in a Certified station/ Subway on the way home?  Probably dismal, especially considering the only reasons I stopped there were a.) because I had to take a wicked crap, and b.) Jerry had wanted me to bring him a specific footlong from Subway, and I figured I’d combine errands.

I am really crappy at recognizing people, (even people I see all the time, I might remember the face but not place the name) and I am not at all surprised she had to call me out.  Then again, I see people who I think I recognize all the time- who in reality either I don’t know them from Adam’s housecat and/or they don’t know me from Adam’s housecat either.  So I make bloody sure I know who I’m talking with before I assume anything.  Most people who knew me in high school would probably not recognize me now since I did away with the Big 80’s hair, but yesterday I was probably even less distinguishable since I was wearing the big black rimmed cat eye glasses (the ones in my avatar pic) and a hat.

When I did finally affirm to myself who she was, I swore I had seen a ghost.  And I don’t believe in that stuff.

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But people who know you still know you.  Even when time has not been kind to either of us.  There are incidents in my past that I would rather leave there, and revisiting old friends also means reopening old wounds.  I’m not saying all my memories of back in the day were bad.  Some were funny. Some were difficult.  There was a lot of partying. I stopped binge drinking many, many years ago- 1993 to be more or less exact- so that sort of thing doesn’t really have any charm for me now.  I’ve moved into a different sphere than most of my old friends.  I doubt if we have much in common, but then again, I don’t have much in common with too many people.

I know that my friend has had problems with drinking and addiction on and off, as well as myriad health concerns, which makes keeping in touch even more difficult.  She has been used and abused by men.  She has spent most of her life painfully poor.  I don’t say that as a value judgment, because I could have gone down those paths just as easily.  The wear and tear just looks different.

I almost felt guilty.  I’m not a wealthy woman by any stretch, but here I am with my late model car and smart phone, and she’s asking me if I know anyone with a cheap, crappy used car because she’s been without a car for six months.  Her youngest son is in trouble and has been in and out of the joint for stealing her credit card and for other things.  She’s living in a redneck trailer park.   It could be worse, but it could be a lot better, too.

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I can’t think this could be even remotely aesthetically pleasing. Bubba pissin’ out the trailer door at 3 AM…

What can I do to help?  I wonder.  Would it be condescending to offer what scant help I might think I can give, because I know she is the type to be fiercely independent?

At least we did exchange phone numbers, and maybe I’ll have the courage to call.

Maybe I’m afraid that in getting back in touch with old friends I would be tempted to go back to my old ways- hot boxing cigarettes and getting butt drunk- but I highly doubt it.  Perhaps I just don’t like being reminded of my own mortality yet again, and I don’t like facing the reality that there is never really a way to get back home.  The spheres are forever changed.

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Why is it that some stupid dude getting nutted, especially in a stupid way, is ALWAYS funny?

There are a number of TV shows that seem to capitalize on traumatized testicles as entertainment.  I can’t say I know why it’s funny, but it always is.  Maybe it’s funnier to me because I don’t have nuts.

I think the biggest temptation for me when I meet up with old friends is to get embroiled in the details of their lives again and to make myself too available.  It’s one thing to shoot the shit and hang out with someone from time to time, but quite another to become so caught up in trying to help someone else that I get caught off balance and get my priorities screwed up.  When is it appropriate to be a friend and when does being a friend become being taken advantage of?  Back in the day I provided everything from transportation to cigarettes to even clothes and money at times for my friends, (and they kept me from getting my ass kicked) but I’m not in a place where I can readily do that now.

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I think my first endeavor at subversive cross stitch went rather well.

I just have to mount it in the frame.

Speaking of cats, we are probably soon going to be back at four cats.  The cat rescue people managed to capture the three legged all white cat that has been living on the body shop lot.  I thought it was a male, but it’s a female and she’s recovering from being spayed.  Jerry calls her Tripod (not a terribly nice name) because she’s missing most of her right rear leg.  That cat has been missing most of her leg since she was a very small kitten.

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  I have had a few all black cats. I’ve never had an all white cat. I’ve also never had a cat missing a leg.

It’s going to be interesting.

Things I Should Not Be Allowed to Do, and What a Nostalgic Feeling

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The Right to Bear Arms Shall Not be Infringed…

Hello Kitty supports the 2nd Amendment.  Do you?

I need to stay away from my granddaughter’s coloring books.

I have to say I got the idea from a lovely website called Coloring Book Corruptions  and it is funny.  Hello Kitty with grenades and mortars and an M-16.  Shame on me.  I probably shouldn’t show her getting a contact buzz from a field mouse either.

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Terrible, I know.

I remember how much fun I used to have with old magazines scribbling on the faces and making people look like they drooled or had snot all over them.  Puerile and sophomoric, yes, I get that, but I need some kind of harmless artistic outlet.  It’s cool that I’ve discovered one can do a similar thing with cross-stitch patterns, where you stitch samplers of skulls and knives and gory images with off color and pithy sayings.  There are books out there with the patterns ready made, but before I buy those I’d like to experiment with a few of my own.

It’s been a long time since I really sat down and enjoyed some cross-stitch.  That’s a shame because it can be relaxing.

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Oh, yes they will.

I may have some time for such relaxing pursuits this weekend, as we are supposed to get a big old dose of the White Death here in beautiful Central Ohio on Sunday.  Joy and rapture.  I am not going anywhere in it even if I am driving a 4X4. What people don’t realize is that 4 wheel drive does not make you invincible.  It gives you a bit more traction on snow, but it is not worth a tinker’s damn on freezing rain or ice.  The last thing I need is to have something happen to Jerry’s truck.  He’s rather cavalier when it’s my car involved, but if it’s his truck, that’s a whole different situation.  I’m sure he wouldn’t be sitting around for a month waiting on it to get fixed.

I’m still waiting on my car to be finished.  The last I saw it, they were repairing the decklid and the finish panel under the decklid that is beneath the rear fascia.  The new rear fascia hasn’t been painted yet and neither has the decklid or finish panel.  I am satisfied, however, that the small dent in the finish panel has been duly repaired, treated and primed so the back of my car doesn’t rust out from the inside.

My freaking out about whether or not my car is repaired correctly is worse than when medical people have to be patients in a hospital or doctor’s office.  I’ve been around automotive repair my entire life and I am all too aware of what can and does go wrong.  I see it every flipping day.

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Nasty.

And yes, I have seen cars fall off of racks.  This is not pretty, and in both instances that I witnessed, it was only the Hand of God that kept the unfortunate techie from being splattered.

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Surprisingly, the vehicles usually aren’t that horribly damaged when they fall.

Unless they fall into something else…

I want my car back.  I also want the White Death to go away, so I can not be as paranoid about my car once I do get it back.  Only the White Death won’t go away for awhile yet.  It has yet to fade to the snowbooger grey sticky muck.   Here begins the February Funk, and it sucks ass.

The Unsung Delights of Middle Age, and No One Sends Me Flowers (Just Send Cash Instead ;))

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Middle age has its distinct disadvantages, but there are some distinct advantages to be had for the cougar/geezer set that most people don’t think about.

 

1. No one asks (begs, coerces, etc.) you to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.  This is a very beautiful thing, considering the last time I had to do that was in 1993 , and I’m still pissed at my oldest sister for that outlay of cash and aggravation.

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No, I’m NOT wearing that- or any other dress without sleeves.  Ever.

At my advanced age I don’t have to worry about it. Nobody in her right mind wants my freaky ass in her wedding pictures. My sisters are the only ones who didn’t let me decline the bridesmaid thing graciously. One has been married since 1993 (thank God because there is no amount of coercion that will make me do the bridesmaid thing again- ever) and the other is happily divorced.  Anyone else who makes that request, I can and will tell to go blow with impunity, but my friends pretty much know better than to ask.  I’ll gladly attend your wedding and even buy you crap, (or get you a Target gift card,) but that’s the extent of my involvement.

2. Aunt Flo doesn’t visit any more.  Not since the hysterectomy.  I couldn’t be more delighted with that.

 

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Hot flashes suck- but I can wear white pants any time I want!

3. Older people have a certain amount of gravitas in dealings with the young and inexperienced.  I also have buff young college boys asking me if I need help with my groceries.  I don’t need help with my groceries, though it would be nice when I get home with them if Jerry didn’t disappear every time I’m unloading the car.

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I already brought in the cat litter, dog food, beer, (which I don’t drink) and 12 packs of pop.

Come to think of it, I don’t shit in the cat litter or eat the dog food either, but they don’t have thumbs.

Granted, nobody bothers to send me flowers but I have no idea what to do with them.  They sit on my desk for a few days, die, and then I throw them out.

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Just give me the cash.

Back in the day there was no such thing as political correctness in the clothing industry. We can all remember when fat boys’ clothes were called “Husky.”  I don’t think they have “Husky” sizes any more.

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Even Lane Bryant doesn’t use the “Chubby” word anymore, even when referring to size Extreme Lard Ass.

Imagine the politically correct furor that would ensue should any clothier use an ad like the one pictured above.  Stand back and watch the fireworks.  However, in the 1950’s virtually nobody was fat, so this ad would only apply to a handful of girls rather than most of them.

I say just make everything a one-size-fits-all mu-muu if your ass is that huge.

Side Effects May Include “Death,” But At Least I’m Enjoying the Ride

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I have to wonder at all these TV ads for various prescription meds.   There are a lot of them- especially the ones for rheumatoid arthritis and psoriasis- that actually say in their disclaimers that using that drug can lead to death.  I think I’d rather deal with  joint pain and skin rash.  The last time I checked, stiff and inflamed joints and/or unsightly skin are just a tad bit less severe than death.  Of course you have to weigh the risks vs. benefits when you decide whether or not to take a certain medication, but I try to steer clear of the ones where “death” is listed as a possible side effect.  I’m not a fan of “occasional bleeding from the eye sockets” or “prolonged anal itching” either.

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I know that the trial lawyers are always trolling about to strike it big on the pharmaceutical companies because someone dies (or is somehow maimed)  from a side effect of a drug.  There’s always a commercial on telling people they can get compensation if their son’s ADHD meds gave him titties, or if the pelvic mesh or the artificial hip gives out, or if that pesky vision loss brought on by gratuitous use of ED meds just won’t go away.

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Speaking of rides, I am enjoying mine immensely.  I am quite impressed with the Corolla so far.  Usually I know pretty well what I will and won’t like from the build sheet and tech specs.

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This car doesn’t really scream “mom sedan” like the older Corollas.  I had a 1998 (that was the last Corolla I had) that I really liked- but it was a bit on the frumpy side.  That’s why I just had to have the 2000 Celica when it came out.  I did take a moment to drool over the Scion FRS while I was at the dealer, but I need a four door, and I really don’t want to attract the attention of law enforcement.  This Corolla is about the same size as the older Camrys and is quite a bit larger than the Yaris, but it still doesn’t feel like a land yacht.  The steering and suspension are a lot more responsive than the Yaris (not a surprise there) and it doesn’t get blown around in the wind like the Yaris did.

The freaky thing about this car is the electronics.  It has navigation and Bluetooth and all the toys (which I am still learning) and those things are pretty fun.

Of course I am weird in how I buy cars.  I know pretty much exactly what I want before I even contact a dealer, and I know pretty much what I’m willing to pay.  I know the tech specs – all that stuff about suspensions, transaxles, engine displacement, torque, horsepower, etc. – and features better than most salespeople, although the navigation and smartkey options are new to me.

I’ve always appreciated the four cylinder sports car- along the lines of the ’83 VW GTI  or the 2000 Celica, both of which I can still smack myself for trading off- but in practical application I’ve had more four cylinder econoboxes and mom sedans.

I think I’ve found an interesting compromise here.

A Few of My Favorite Things, and Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

favorite-things

 

Most of my favorite things, I’ve found, are in the absence of nasty things.

I like quiet as opposed to blather and noise.

I like being left alone. (usually)

I like it when my head is free of being clogged with snot. (this doesn’t happen often)

I like it when I am not drowning in the snot that constantly drains down the back of my throat. (also doesn’t happen often)

I must be a really simple person when a good day consists of being relatively quiet and snot-free.

Snot_Bubble_Boy

Why is there no cure for snot?

Today’s sort of good news is that I don’t have a fever (opposed to the last two days) but I still feel shitty and, as usual for me, am plagued by gallons of draining snot.  At least my throat is no longer on fire, which is a plus.  I could, however, do without the distinct sensation that someone is driving a rusty spike through my right eye-hole.  Even so, I was well enough to drag my sorry carcass back to work, even though another day of swilling hot tea and attempting to sleep probably would have been better for me.

Bailey’s and coffee would be even better, except I know how that would wreak havoc on my sugar.

baileys-and-hot-coffee

I wish I could….have a few of these!

I could also do without the pompous ass-pilots of the world, but if they were to suddenly disappear from the face of the earth, about half the population of the planet would be missing.

What would happen to all the Corvettes?

2014-corvette-stingray

Corvette owners have a reputation for being, uh, not-so-nice.  I’m sure there are exceptions to the rule.

I’ve never been a huge Corvette fan (I’d rather have a ’69 Karmann Ghia, or a ’69 FJ40 if I could afford collectible cars) but one has to admit, the new one is interesting to look at.  I wouldn’t want the car payment or the insurance premium, but I’m not evil enough to have the that kind of scratch, either.

Perhaps the week would be more interesting if we had “motivational days” that looked like this:

TheWeekNeedsBetterDays-44841

Overall, I’m thankful to be alive and vertical.  Sometimes I don’t sound like it, but overall, I am.  Even considering dealing with ass-pilots and endless snots and everything else annoying.

I've seen better days

The Curious American Fascination With Royalty, and Other Strange Vestigialities

Queen Elizabeth I

Is that a weasel or a ferret?

I never knew Queen Elizabeth I was enamored of weasels or ferrets, (the creature on her arm is an ermine- a polite name for a variety of weasel) but in Elizabethan times I’m sure a lone member of the Mustelidae family wouldn’t have added much to the general pestilence of the court. Bathing wasn’t terribly high on the priorities of most Elizabethans.  Royalty did bathe more often than the peasantry, who I would assume would only get a good douching in a rainstorm.  I think the royals did bathe relatively often- once a week or so- and they did have access to perfumes and soap.  I shudder to think about toileting arrangements for the masses and their livestock back then though.  No wonder all those people died from typhoid and cholera.  Not to mention the plague, which has recently been identified in a squirrel population in California.  Too bad it’s the wrong kind of squirrel population.

squirrel-9

These aren’t the squirrels to which I refer.

I’ve always thought it a bit strange that Americans still seem to be enamored of British royals.  Truth be told today’s royal family- the Windsors– (or should I say Saxe-Coburg and Gotha) are probably more German by ancestry than anything.  The name change to Windsor was in response to anti-German sentiment surrounding WWI.

King George V

Germans with English names.  Sort of like Steve-o, who has an English name, but has more German ancestry than the rest of the family.

Today’s royalty are more or less figureheads with no political authority, but back in the days of the American Revolution, kings (and sometimes queens) held the power of life and death for their subjects.  Yeah, that kind of power would be kind of cool, but it could also lead to all kinds of witch hunting and cronyism and the mysterious disappearance of political opposition.  Oh, the Obama administration rings a bell, at least as far as the scandal and sleaze factors go.  What’s worse about  Obama is whatever privileges he thinks he deserves were usurped via dishonest means (i.e. only natural born American citizens are eligible to hold the office of the Presidency) as well as egregious voter fraud.  I haven’t forgotten about that- and I’m not going to either.  History will prove me right in the end.

The fascination some people have with today’s royals to me is a sort of a modern-day hold out of the fairy tale myth of the all-powerful ruler.  The closest thing America has to royalty (don’t even think the Obamas, even though they think and behave as if they have royal entitlements) is the Hollywood crowd.

I think the British royals to be far less sordid than Hollywood, and far more admirable than the Obamas.  The royals (unlike most of Hollywood) even have some redeeming features, such as sponsoring legitimate charities, and serving in the military.

I don’t see the Duchess of Cambridge out there screaming about “reproductive rights” (aka: abortion advocacy) while at the same time crying crocodile tears and telling everyone that eating meat is murder. I don’t hear of the Queen telling her subjects that she could have been Trayvon Martin 30 years ago either.  I can see where she might show some affinity for Elton John, as he and the Queen share similar taste in hats, but I can’t see her claiming Trayvon.

anthony weiner

Now this guy is back in the news.  Wiener. Wiener. Wiener.

I don’t think I would vote for this guy- except to piss off Hillary Clinton.  She probably has a bigger unit than him, so she shouldn’t be too upset.  If I really want to sausage-gaze I think there are better endowed specimens than Wiener (in spite of the name) to be found online.   Then again it’s one thing if women are requesting sausage shots from our friend Mr. Wiener, and quite another if the sausage shots are being sent unsolicited.   To me it wouldn’t be nearly as perverted if the women are asking for the pics.   Then at least they’re getting what they deserved.

Now, for a guy to just randomly send a portfolio of Mr. Happy to every female for whom he has contact information, either he’s a 13 year old pulling a rather sick prank, or that’s a cry for attention.

dancing-hot-dog

Am I the only one creeped out by dancing food? Especially dancing wieners.  Wiener. Wiener. Wiener.

Wiener. Wiener. Wiener. Wiener. It’s just fun to say wiener.

I’m not a snake.  I don’t prefer to consume my prey whilst it’s still alive. I don’t want my food to dance. Especially wieners.  I want my food to remain perfectly still until I decide to move it from the plate to my mouth, unless of course I’m eating Jello.