Irreverence is Underrated, the Pithy Humor of Youth, and Mid-Life Angst

I love this kid’s honesty.

In 100 years, statistics would have it that over 90% of people currently inhabiting the planet will be DEAD!  If one wants to keep citing statistics, the odds are 100% that I will be dead in 100 years.   Taking the Dirt Nap.  Sleeping the big sleep.  Not even the little old dudes in India and Russia have made it to 143.  I don’t think I want to be first for that.

I’m sure that in the near future near-immortality will be possible- technically- but let’s face it, that sort of engineering poses some moral questions.  I am not a big sci-fi fan.  The idea of living on as a disembodied computer program and then being deposited into a manufactured body as presented in the reanimation scenarios on the Science Channel show Through the Wormhole  is downright creepy.

Now if I could engineer the body, that would be intriguing.  If I could be about 6′ tall, weigh about 120, and have the perfect man-bait model bod, I could have some fun.  However, being the sexy vixen would take some upgrading to the motor centers of my brain as well as a full body upgrade.  What’s the point of being man-bait if you fall all over yourself and spill crap on your sexy clothes?  It’s no tragedy to spill coffee all over the clothes I bought at Goodwill or off the Target clearance rack, but to spill coffee all over designer duds, or twist my ankles and break the heels off of high faluting stilettos?  That would suck.

What’s really bad is I thought this was Steven Tyler for a minute.  My bad.

Today’s body-mod technology is scary.  I couldn’t afford cosmetic surgery in my wildest dreams, and even if I had the scratch I’d be loathe to actually do it.  The only plastic surgery that seems to be effective, at least most of the time, is breast enlargement, which I need like a hole in the head.  38Ds are enough for anyone.  Keeping them from moving any further south is my ongoing objective.  The things that are wrong with my appearance aren’t fixable.  Short arms, short legs and bad proportions don’t fix.

I’ve had major surgeries.  It takes a long time to recover.  Knowing my luck I would end up looking even worse than when they first started, or I’d get MRSA or something and die an excruciating and macabre death from it.  I think I’ll reserve surgical intervention for the truly necessary things, until they can do surgery like on Star Trek– where they scan you with a high faluting electronic box and you’re magically healed, with no blood or incisions or anything.

Implanting my brain into a super-body is probably not going to happen.  So you do what you can with what you have.

If all else fails, be glad you can “P” !

I’m surprised this teacher didn’t give the kid a gold star for being able to perform bodily functions, as much as the schools have been dumbed down.  Personally I have to admire his weisenheimer attitude even if the teacher’s dreadfully politically correct response sort of dampens the effect.  “Best self?”  What kind of happy horseshit is that?  Would he be a “better self” if, like Beavis and Butthead, he forgot how to pee?

Then again,

It’s fun to screw with others.

Just in case anyone is curious, I found this an interesting assignment too.

Potty Trained and Literate, and Other Parenting Goals

Dad always said that he enjoyed children once they were potty trained and literate.  Mastering these basic skills can occur for some children by the age of five, but I do not have a whole lot of confidence in a young child’s toileting accuracy, and few children gain reasonable command of the written word until about the age of eight or nine.  I can understand why Dad is rather uncomfortable in the presence of infants, toddlers and preschoolers.  He’s sensitive to smells, and he has an almost phobic reaction to the bodily effluvia of others.  After the age of eight or nine kids are a bit less messy.  It is far less likely that they will pee, poo, puke or snot all over you by that time.  They understand using the toilet, and hopefully before they hit puberty, they will understand snot is not a condiment, and they should also have a rudimentary knowledge of how to use Kleenex. 

Steve-o has been potty trained and literate for about ten years, which for a male is pretty good.  When I say “potty trained,” I mean fully trained, as in (for males, anyway) we aim and achieve our target without spraying the entire bathroom floor, AND we both wipe and flush every time, after dropping a deuce.  He could read relatively well by the age of seven, but it took a long, long time for him to get “wipe and flush every time” down.  

There are few things more disgusting than walking into the bathroom to find a huge corn-loaded turd floating in the toilet bowl, coiled up all alone, without any paper to keep him company.   The only thing worse than walking into that sensory gag-fest every time young Steve-o pinched a loaf was his “science” experiment involving Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.   I will comment a bit on this.  If you eat nothing but Flamin’ Hot Cheetos for three days straight, your feces will be exactly the same color as Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I do have some standards.  If you want to see hot red-orange poo, go troll about on Rate My Poo for awhile.  Trust me, there you will find all things poo and then some.

We are working on the Holy Grail of parenting right now, which is: Gainful Employment and Independence from the Parental Units.

Steve-o did work at Taco Bell during his last two years of high school, but for some reason he either can’t seem to find a job or (my personal suspicion) doesn’t want to find a job while going to college.  This is vexing to me- and a major contributor to my constant state of poverty.  The only thing I can hope for is that when he graduates he finds gainful employment and becomes an independent, self-sustaining, meaningful contributor to society.

Some people hold lofty goals for their children, but I’m a realist.  So far Steve-o’s done pretty well, especially when one examines the lame track record of his age cohorts.  He’s stayed out of jail, and as far as I know he doesn’t have a horde of baby mamas after him, nor has he fathered any offspring that I know about, anyway.  I am not opposed to the whole grandmother thing- I’m old enough for it and I like kids well enough as long as they’re not mine and I can send them home- but he’s got to be able to pay for his own rugrats.  I’d also like to request that he be married to the potential baby mama, although these days that’s a lot to ask. 

In some ways Steve-o is better trained than Jerry is.  Jerry is gainfully employed which gives him the overall advantage, but Steve-o is getting close, and he has already surpassed Jerry in matters of etiquette.  While Jerry generally does wipe and flush, aiming is still a weak area for him, especially after a twelve pack or so of Natties.  Older men should sit and pee anyway, because it’s a long, long time and a far, far distance to have to keep that stream steady, and I’m getting too old to have to keep scrubbing dried up stale pee from the toilet and vicinity.

Jerry does reasonably well when he’s sober, considering he was raised by wolves.  When he’s wasted of course, all decorum goes right out the window and he has the potential to piss in the closet, moon the picture window, run outside in nothing but whitey tighties and a smile, and to play horrible old country music at obscenely loud volumes.   I’ve tried to socialize him somewhat, but in practical application, I’ve had better luck with Sheena.  Sheena has learned to sit and be polite if she wants a munchie, she will go to her crate on command, and she knows her name.  She is also very affectionate and sweet.  This is no small accomplishment for a dog who has only been with us for about 90 days.  Granted, Sheena is not the most intelligent dog I have ever encountered (Huskies can be a bit stubborn and dim-witted, and Sheena is no exception) and her physical coordination is abysmal, but she’s a lot easier to manage than Jerry when he’s 15 beers or so into it.

Dogs are easier than kids by a long shot- the worst thing a dog might do is to drop a deuce on the floor or knock something over.  Kids can get into all sorts of trouble, cost all kinds of money, and can end up in jail.  What really sort of sucks is that even after they turn 18 and you should technically be done with them they still cost a boat load of money, hence my anticipation of the day that Steve-o truly takes on his own adult responsibilities for himself. 

The main problem with breeding is the wrong people are doing it.  I was watching an episode of The First 48 (yeah, I love cop shows) last night and one of the murder suspects being interviewed admitted to, “well I have about five baby mamas and two on the way.”  The same scum bucket was found to be guilty of capital murder and received a life sentence.  Guess who’s paying for those seven kids?  Daddy certainly isn’t, that’s for sure.

I don’t believe in abortion or infanticide or anything Godless and evil like that- it’s not the kids’ faults their parents are scum.  I find it ironic that the same people who advocate mollycoddling violent criminals and murderers oppose the death penalty, but have no problem with abortion.  Isn’t that more than a little backward?

I do, however, believe in preventing ill-advised conceptions in the first place, and I have absolutely no problem with society carrying out its obligation to preserve public safety and to deter crime by executing violent criminals (murderers, rapists and child molesters) swiftly and publicly.