Year: 2010

Camp Laramie Peak

I recently spent a week with my 12-year-old son at Camp Laramie Peak Boy Scout Camp in Wyoming.

Laramie Peak, WY

This is the second summer that my son and I have attended a scout camp.  Last summer, we enjoyed a week in the beautiful Black Hills of South Dakota at Medicine Mountain (I say “enjoyed” only because it didn’t suck as much as Camp Laramie Peak).

Dead Dudes

(at Medicine Mountain, we actually set our tents right inside Washington’s nostril… who knew there was an entire scout camp inside the heads of the dead presidents?!?)

Ahh… sleeping on the ground in a tent as the rain pounds down and the winds gust up to 90 MPH, what could be more fun?

I am an Assistant Scoutmaster.  This means that I don’t want (and am far from qualified for) the position of Scoutmaster, but I like helping the kids reach their goals.  I am not an utterly complete pessimist (although I am within spitting distance), and I really do believe in trying to help young people find a measure of success.  I have been a leader in scouts since my son was a tiger cub and he is now a Second Class Boy Scout.  This means I have been involved in scouting for around six years.  Six years is far longer than I have held any single job with any single employer.  Let’s face it… I’m a quiter.  When life throws an obstacle or stress my way, I quit.  Quitting is easy, and starting something new is exciting, so there you have it.  When something starts sucking, I quit; but I have never quit scouting (although, trust me, I have been very tempted).

Camp overall was pretty good (the food kind of sucked and there wasn’t enough of it, the weather was horrible,  getting up early bites, etc.etc.etc. and all the other stuff I could go on and on bitching about) considering these camps are meant to build character in boys.  I’m old and my crappy character is beyond help, so I tend to look at these camps as a chore and not a vacation (even though I have to use up precious vacation to attend).

Something that really struck me with camp this year was the way the counselors were “looking out” for the scouts.  If you’ve ever been to a scout camp, you know that the majority of the counselors are not that much older than the scouts.  Many of the counselors are high school and college kids just pulling a summer gig.  It was easy to tell these counselors had been trained on how to make sure a kid isn’t being abused.

During this camp, many of us adult leaders went through “safety training”, which is little more than “how to cover your ass as an adult male when working with young boys”.  I’d like to throw a big thanks out to all of the stupid pedophiles and the Catholic Church for making this stinking training necessary.  Never be alone with a scout; never touch a scout; if you suspect a scout is being abused in any way, shape or form inside or outside of scouting, let the district council know (not the police, not the boy’s parents, not any kind of authoritative figure in the boy’s life whatsoever… the disctrict council; all of this is to cover your and BSA’s asses).  The training really didn’t make it seem like we volunteer our time to help the boys succeed.  The training really focused on how not to get Boy Scouts of America sued.  Ah… what a wonderful world we live in.

Anyway, back to the counselors.  Anyone who has spent a week with boys ranging in age from 17-years-old all the way down to 11-years-old knows that an 11 and 12-year-olds who are away from their mothers can have, well, to put it politely, mild emotional breakdowns.  These vary from slight bouts of teary-eyed whininess to full-blown tantrums.  On this trip, I got to deal with a couple of full blown tantrums, and during each tantrum, a counselor happened to walk by right smack in the middle of each.

When a young boy throws a tantrum, one of the first things he tends to do is try to stomp off on his own to show how mad he is.  Of course, at scout camp, the boys are required to use the buddy system.  There is to be no stomping off.  A boy eaten by a mountain lion wouldn’t be good for BSA’s image.  So when the boy with the attitude starts stomping off, you must stop him.  Of course, you can’t touch the boy, so, at times, you have to raise your voice to get the boy to understand that he seriously can’t stomp off by himself.  This is exactly what was happening with the first instance.  A group of scouts was heading to a merit badge class for the afternoon and I was escorting them.  One of the boys started getting, well, kind of tantrumy, because he wanted to hang around camp instead of going to the merit badge counseling.  The more I told him he needed to go to his counseling, the less he wanted to go… until he got pissed-off and started stomping off.  Of course, I couldn’t let him stomp off by himself, so I told him to get back with the group.  He kept walking and the further he got away, the more I had to raise my voice.  Finally, I ran to the boy and stood in front of him.  “C’mon, man, get back with the group,” I told him.  At this point is when the teen-aged counselor was walking by.  The counselor stopped right beside us and looked straight at the scout.

“Are you okay?” the counselor asked.

“He’s fine,” I responded.  “He’s just doesn’t want to go to his counseling and he thinks he needs to stomp off by himself.”

The counselor completely ignored me.  He continued to look at the scout, “Are you okay?”

The scout finally responded, “Yeah, I’m fine,” to which the counselor simply turned and continued on his way.

As I watched the teen get farther and farther away, it popped into my head to yell, “Thanks for the help; couldn’t have done it without you,” but I thought better of it.  It still took some time and effort to get the upset scout to rejoin our group, with no help from the interfering counselor.   I figured that the counselors were trained to do exactly what this one had just done, which made me feel a little like a turd clinging to the side of the toilet bowl of scouting… but that’s why I volunteer my time, right?

Second instance was similar.  One of the scouts wanted to borrow some money from me to buy some crap at the trading post.  I have made it an official rule of mine that I do not lend money to scouts for unnecessary items.  I have seen other leaders get burned in the past by lending scouts money and never receiving that money back.  I volunteer my time… because time is more precious than money (and I have more time than I do money).  Well, the fact that I wouldn’t lend the scout cash so he could buy an energy drink (yeah, just what I needed was a hopped-up 11-year-old to watch after for the afternoon), apparently was enough to send him into a stomping-away tantrum.

Right, crap, here we go again.  I start hollering for the boy to rejoin the group right as a counselor is walking by.  The scout is crying and whatnot because that stupid energy drink is so flipping important to him at that moment in time.  I jog up to the scout right as the counselor is asking “Are you okay?”

For crying-out-flipping loud!  These guys probably report all of this crap back to the “district council” and I’m gonna look like a child beater or something.  “He’s just mad because I wouldn’t lend him money to buy a stupid energy drink,:” I explain, feeling a little stupid for having to explain the situation to an acne-faced teenager.

The counselor doesn’t acknowledge me at all, never taking his eyes of the boy.  “Is there anything I can do?” the counselor asks the scout.

By this time, I’m getting to the verge of throwing a tantrum.  I feel like I’m very discreetly being accused of doing something wrong.  I spent my own money to “volunteer” my time to go to camp and help BSA accomplish it’s mission.  I was not spending my time and money to be ignored and accused.  I’m getting pissed.

I sooo wanted to say, “I’m glad your offering assistance, ’cause it’s so much easier to smack them silly if someone holds them… can you grab his arms?” just to see what kind of response I could get out of the counselor, but I didn’t.  The scout finally shaped up and we all went our separate ways.

So, I guess the moral of the story is counselors at scout camps are trained to cover the ass of the camp, adult leaders are trained to cover not only their own asses but the ass of BSA, and the whole stupid thing makes me wonder if it’s really worth having to cover my ass to volunteer my time and money to an organization that apparently a lot of people want to sue.

You know, maybe I’m looking at this from the wrong angle.  Maybe I should be looking for a reason to sue.  You know, all of the stupid bagels they served at the mess hall did tend to go straight to my ass… making it that much harder to cover.

barf
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.FatAss

I could sue for that, couldn’t I?

High School Graduation

I spent a weekend about a month ago going to a couple of high school graduation receptions.  Man, I can remember back to my high school graduation.  Remember those days… when you still partially believed that life was fair and you could accomplish any goal?  You were going places and had a lot of success in front of you?  Then, life smacked you upside the head and — POW— life not only is not even close to being fair… it spends a large portion of time stinking.

Once we realize that success seems to only be for someone else, and then we start justifying crap to ourselves to make it seem like we found some measure of success… you know… “I have a great family, therefore I am successful”… “I get to go to work every day, and there isn’t much more to success than that”… “I don’t live in a trailer house, so I must be successful”… “I can put food on the table for my family and my kids love me; success, success, success!”  I’m not saying that these things are bad; I’m just saying that these things are not a measure of success.  These things are a measure of not being complete and utter trailer trash… which is the antithesis of success.

Success is a measure of worth.  Worth is a value that you place on yourself and that others place on you.  For example, people living in trailers (or low-income housing, or where ever) who feed their family exclusively with food stamps and don’t have job because, well, they can make more living off of the tax money paid in by people who actually work for a living, and a job may interfere with their addictions to medicaid-funded painkillers and Budweiser…  I see these people as having very little worth.  These people, however, may see themselves as having a lot of worth.  Therefore, they are delusional.  No… they have a feeling of self-worth but no actual worth, because they do nothing of value to society.  When your feeling of self-worth and society’s value of your worth are both in the positive… Ta-Da… SUCCESS!  It really isn’t hard to find something to do that society values.  Society values a good Big Mac… and somebody has to flip it.  Society values having trash collected and removed from houses once a week… and someone has to remove it.  The problem is, as individuals, can we find a measure of self-worth in doing these “lowly” jobs?  Maybe if these “lowly” paid paid more…

Our society is so majorly screwed up.  I know this is going off on a tangent, but why aren’t the jobs that create the most value to society the ones that generate the largest income?  Alex Rodriguez is a great baseball player.  In other words, he is really good at playing a game.  He makes millions of dollars a year.  If A-Rod died tomorrow (and I am not wishing this on him by any stretch of the imagination), how would our society really be any worse off then it is today?  In fact, if baseball completely disappeared off the face of the earth, other than lost marketing revenue and maybe a few people who make a living manufacturing baseball bats and stuff losing their jobs, society really wouldn’t be too severely hurt.

Now, let’s consider a garbage collector.  These noble steeds who drive the big trucks around and take away all the stinky stuff you no longer want probably make around $30,000 to $40,ooo per year.  Imagine if these people suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth.  How much more would society suck without these guys collecting your crap.  There would be a dramatic increase in the suck-o-tude of society without garbage collectors… yet they make only a small fraction of what a baseball player makes.

“Supply and demand” you may scream.  “Anyone can be trained to collect garbage, but not everyone can hit like A-Rod!”

Right… not everyone can be trained to play a little kids game and be really good at it.  If baseball never were, A-Rod would most likely be a lumberjack (one of the few “real world” places where the ability to “swing” has a payout).  Anyway, it is hard to find the self-worth in your job when society deems you be paid only a small, small fraction of what someone who plays games for a living (or, in the case of an actor, pretends to be someone else and looks pretty while doing it) makes.

Okay, tangent over, back to high school graduation.  High school graduates are people to be emulated.  They are cocky and full of life.  They are ready to succeed.  They are, for the most part, full of delusions and will be bitterly disappointed with what life actually offers them, but they see the glass as half-full as opposed to half-empty.  Me, I see the glass as not full.  I don’t give a rat’s patootie if the stinking glass is half-empty or half-full… the glass is less than full and that sucks.  I want a full glass, but a full glass is reserved for those who either were blessed with the ability to play games with an extreme amount of athleticism, people who are unnaturally pretty, people who are so full of self-confidence that they make the rest of us sick to our stomachs, and politicians.  Working hard doesn’t cut it.  Working smart doesn’t cut it.  You have to work both hard and smart (and being pretty or tall doesn’t hurt) to succeed… and doing both at the same time gives me a headache.  I don’t like headaches, therefore, I am not successful.

To all of the recent high school graduates out there who are reading this blog (seriously, there might be one!), keep your head high and keep dreaming of success.  If you give up now, you are utterly screwed.  If you remain positive… well… there is a chance you won’t be disappointed.

For the rest of us who are not recent high school graduates: if you haven’t found success yet, you probably never will.  If success isn’t important to you, I’m sure you have a special spot in heaven with your name on it.  If success is relatively important to you and you haven’t found it in your many years following high school… welcome to the happy stinking joy that is your life 🙂  It could be worse; you could be living in a trailer.  If you are living in a trailer and have no future hope of getting out of that trailer as you improve your circumstances, QUIT USURPING MY TAX MONEY!!!

Man, I miss high school…

Tickle Me…

Last night, during the commencing of the bedtime rituals for my youngest son, we shared the nightly scratching of the backs.  This means my little guy said, “Dad, can you lie down with me for a little bit?”

And I said, “You know what would keep me here?” to which he giggles and starts scratching my back.

This ritual happens almost every night.  He will scratch my back for awhile, and I end having to scratch his back for at least twice as long as he scratched mine.   We do this like two or three times every week because… well… I love having my back scratched and so does he 🙂

Last night, after he finished scratching the same five square-inches of my back for about 30 seconds, I began scratching his back all over, as I always do.  As always, as I moved to the sides of his back, he wiggles around and giggles,  “Quit ticklin.”   Of course, I don’t stop.  I continually tease him with the occasional tickle for a good four or five minutes.  He loves it.  Tonight, however, the tickles raised a question.

“How come you aren’t ticklish?”

I don’t know quite how to answer this.  The youngest son, although he usually concentrates on a specific, limited portion of skin on my back for his scratching, has moved around the sides and underarm areas in an attempt to get a tickle-response out of his old man.  I can think of no time that he has actually evoked the tickle-response.  In fact, I can’t remember actually being ticklish since I was in high school.

“I guess I outgrew it,” I said to the boy.

He looks at me with those soft brown eyes that are always just wet enough to keep you guessing as to whether he is about to burst in to tears or burst into laughter, and he says, “That’s too bad.”

That’s too bad.

And it kind of hits me; that really is too bad.  Since when did I not want to be ticklish?  What part of growing up dictates that I can no longer be forced into uncontrollable bouts of laughter by someone brushing their fingers across my skin?  What part of the aging process forces the skin to be not so easily moved to silliness by another person’s touch?

A part of my youth is gone… has been gone for an extremely long period of time… and I will never get that back.  Neither of my sons nor my wife will be able to ever sink their fingers gently into my ribs to evoke a giggling response.  I think I miss that.

Being tickled too much can be, at the least, annoying, and ,at the most, downright painful.  Being tickled ‘just right’ is a fun way to connect with another human being.  Even when someone is completely down in the dumps, applying slight pressure to the side of the rib area and wiggling the fingers to and fro usually can, at the very least, generate a smile 🙂  The fact that I will never experience this again kind of hit me last night.

That’s too bad.

People are Idiots…

… and, yes, there is a good chance you are an idiot too.

I work for a regional Internet company.  Like almost every job I have ever had, I somehow have ended up in a position where I get to listen to people complain about stuff or to people who are having problems with stuff… and usually the fixing of the stuff is way beyond my power or ability.   This is not enjoyable because, to be completely honest, most people are self-centered, self-serving, semi-retarded morons.

Internet tech support;  what does this mean?  It means that the company you have chosen to provide your Internet service has either an in-house or an out-sourced staff that handles issues you are having with the Internet said company provides.

“My router isn’t working… I need someone to come out and look at my router.”  You didn’t buy the router from us, the Internet works when we bypass the router, so why are you calling us?  And what do you mean you refuse to pay for a service call?  You are an idiot.

“I backed up my Quicken files on a flash drive before I restored my computer, but now I can’t get the files downloaded back on my computer.  How can I retrieve my files?”  Seriously, what does that have to do with the Internet service you pay us for every month?  You are an idiot.

Honestly, this is the truth… “I can’t remember my Facebook password.  Can you get my Facebook password for me?”  Sounds to me like someone needs to pull her head out of her nether-regions and get a clue.  You are an idiot.

People think that because they pay you for a service (Internet) on a monthly basis, all of a sudden, the Internet provider’s tech staff is suddenly the customer’s own personal Geek Squad.  Seriously?!?  You want 24/7 tech support that not only handles any Internet issues you may have but also support for your computer, router,  printer, fax machine, and your toaster toasts a little on the dark side… so you need some help with that too.  Seriously, $40 per month and you get unlimited tech support for everything… along with full-blown high speed Internet service?  You are an idiot.

People think that just because they pay for something, the employees of the company that they buy the service from become some sort of indentured servants.  “Hey, I buy cell phone service from your company… I need someone to come over and rub my feet… my corns are aching.”   Did I mention, you are an idiot?

We recently had a major hail storm come through the area.  Our service usually involves mounting a plastic-covered radio on the roof of a customer’s house to provide Internet.  The hail we saw come through the area was golf-ball-sized to baseball-sized.  Imagine what hail that size being pushed by 60 mph winds can do to a plastic cover on a radio.  And people have the balls to call in and say:

“Am I going to get credit for the time I’m down?  Am I gonna get credit for however long it takes for you to get out here and fix your stuff?” (It states clearly in the service agreement that we have each and every customer sign that we cannot be responsible for interruptions in service resulting from conditions outside of our control… i.e acts of God).

Well, let me give God, you know, the maker of the hail, a call and see if He’s willing to cough up a little dough for you, you idiot!  Seriously, a major hail storm goes through the area, you’re down for less than 72 hours, and you’re wanting a credit?  Okay, you pay about a dollar a day for service, so a $3.00 credit (since you were down for 3 days) seems fair.

“I think I should get a free month, ’cause of the stress not being able to check my Farmville farm for three days.  I coulda lost my baby chicks.”

Yeah, well, I fell like I should be able to walk up to people like you and slap you across the face just for the fact that you are an idiot, but that ain’t gonna happen either.

Dealing with idiots all day can be a very frustrating.  I am currently reading a book by Seth Godin called Linchpin.  Seth is a famous marketing dude who has a very well-followed blog.  I am about half-way through Seth’s book and am so angry I could rip the head off of a small child’s teddy bear.  Seth feels that we all just need to suck it up and find the “art” in whatever it is we’re doing and do the best “art” we can, which means shipping.  Confused?  Yeah, not a great synopsis of Seth’s ideology, but if you follow Seth at all, you know that of which I’m writing.  I think that by “art” Seth means whatever in the hell you are doing.  If there is actually something in the traditional sense of “art” that you would like to do for a living… don’t count on it.  Just do that crap for free, don’t ever expect a return from it, and concentrate on the “art” that is your job.  What does that mean?  I’m not exactly sure, but I know it involves “shipping”.  What does “shipping” mean?  I’m not exactly sure, but I think it means coming up with an idea and delivering the results of whatever that idea is (whether it be a success or not).  Yeah, it’s at this point that one comes to the realization that Seth Godin does not live in the real world.  He works for himself and does not have a boss and therefore shouldn’t be listened to unless one has a sincere desire to be fired by one’s boss.

you: “Yeah Boss, I came up with this great idea for increasing revenue.  I installed a device that tracks our customers’ web history.  Everytime a customer goes to a pornography site, we charge their account a quarter!”

boss: “We can’t do that.”

you: “Already done!  Just think of the extra income we’ll make!”

boss: “That is unethical and immoral, and probably illegal.”

you: “Yeah, like porn is ethical and moral.  Besides, the great thing is, who is going to complain!   What are they gonna say, ‘You can’t charge me every time I go to foot-licker-house-of-fetish.com… of course their not.  They are going to pay for it and never say a word.”

boss: “You are an idiot.  You’re fired.”

But you were just “shipping” your “art”, right?

I will write more on Seth Godin’s Linchpin when I, well, actually finish it.  The main thing that popped into my head while writing this post that made me think of Seth is the fact that customer service people need to find a way to make an upset customer a happy customer who goes out and helps build your “tribe” (more Seth-speak).  I don’t know how much time Seth has spent dealing with upset customers but, I’m guessing, it hasn’t been much time.  Positions in customer service and tech support usually have a relatively high turnover rate.  Why?  Because there is very little “art” to be found in dealing with idiots.  Even when the idiots are not idiots, they like to treat you like you’re an idiot, so the whole situation sucks no matter what.

My main issue is the fact that I really can empathize with people.  I wish I couldn’t, but I can.  I understand how you might be upset that your new router isn’t working.  I understand why you would turn to your Internet provider for help with this issue because, after all, if your router doesn’t work, your Internet doesn’t “work” (which it will, once the router is configured correctly).   The problem is, when you actually take the time and help these (usually computer illiterate so you’re looking at at least a half-hour phone conversation) people, these people don’t help you grow your “tribe”, because you have done what they expect (even though you have just gone above and beyond).  The expectations that people have make it had to win over customers because the customers expect way more value from a service than they are willing to pay for.  In other words…

People are idiots.

Stinking STRESS!

Stress sucks.

Stress causes high blood pressure, headaches, twitches in a body’s limbs, facial tics, premature balding, premature ejaculation, erectile dysfunction, world hunger, saggy boobies, Tourette syndrome (which is, in my humble opinion, is the coolest of all the syndromes… son of a b#$@*, mother %$@!*&^ bas#$rd, %*&# sucking @$$ licker!) and, I believe, the gout.

Stress sucks.

Now I am going to share with you my tried and true methodology for surviving, and even defeating, stress:  uh, and now come the words of calming inspiration that will lead so many of you to a higher level of satisfaction with your lives.  This is the part where I share the sure-fired method of stress relief that have made my abilities to deal with stress legendary.  Here it comes… are you ready?  Are you ready to completely change your life and eliminate the stress that plagues your every move?  Well? Are you?

Yeah, so am I.  sigh ( meek sigh of hopelessness).

Ok, so I don’t have an answer to the question of stress.  In fact, I am probably the last person on the planet who would hold any sort of credentials in the field of stress-relief.  Stress wears on me like one of Rosie O’Donnell’s chins… completely worthless and grosser than snot on a sneeze guard at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

sigh

When stress attacks me, I turn into a gelatinous glob of goo: weak at every joint with muscles resembling over-cooked pasta.  My mind converts from semi-functional to a position of complete worthlessness… and my vocabulary resembles that of a Tourette’s victim in full dysfunction-mode.  Stress renders me almost completely unusable.   I know that certain people thrive under stress… I am not one of these people (crap, I don’t think I am worthy of cleaning dog poop off the bottom of these people’s shoes when stress attacks).

I have a coworker who seems to have stress all figured out.  He says he can control his stress-level with breathing techniques.  He also speaks of positive and negative energies and some sort of life-force that connects us to the earth by means of our groin areas.  All of this aside, he also does not eat meat, which he feels better keeps his alkalinity level on the appropriate path to… uh… enlightenment, or something.  Ok, so I don’t have anyone at work I can turn to.

I know that nothing is too big for God, and if I just turn it all over to Him, life will be much better.  So, will God speak to the next pissed-off customer that I have to deal with?  Will God make things that are completely out of my control somehow suddenly become under my control?  Of course God won’t do this.  I believe God is trying to teach me patience and perseverance… two things that stress the crap out of me.

Ok, so how I deal with stress is by hitting stuff.  I get stressed out and I hit stuff… and the more stressed out I am the harder I hit.  There is still a dent in the refrigerator door in the break room at Alltel that I believe I fractured a knuckle creating.  I am not proud of this dent (ok, maybe a little proud 🙂 )  I got a little stressed at work this past Friday and I ended up punching my desk… my solid-wood desk.  The desk is fine; one of my knuckles is still bleeding a little bit.  This behavior cannot be healthy, and I am constantly getting on my kids for dealing with stress in an aggressive manner… but, man, when you get that little bit of pain-thing going when you are all stressed-out… your mind clears just a little bit.  Your focus comes into a bit more of… well… focus.

I think every employer should be required to install a punching bag in a discreet location at every place of employment in America.  You have to deal with a screaming customer… take ten and tackle the bag.  You find out that something is broken that you cannot fix… and you are going to have to pass this information along to people who rely on your service for not only their entertainment but, in certain instances, their livelihood… take five and work it out on the bag.

I have tried to talk my wife into moving the family to Alaska.  You know, a little shack up in the wild.  We’ll trap critters and sell the furs for cash to buy the basics… such as fruit and vegetables, flour, medicine, and toilet paper.  I’ll kill all the meat we need.  We can home-school the boys and we will hardly ever have to deal with another person on this entire planet other than those we have selected to spend our lives with.  We will have little… but that won’t matter because we won’t have the TV screaming at us what we need to own to be important.  The grass will never seem greener… because there will be no neighbors.  We will have the basics, we will have the adventure associated with living on our own in the middle of the majestic nothingness and beauty of the untamed wilderness, and we will have each other.  Stress would be almost non-existent.  But… my wife kind of likes electricity.  Damn electricity!

Ok, I am pretty sure that I will never have control over the stress in my life.  I am pretty sure there is a heart-attack in my not-too-distant future.  There may not be hope for me… but I think I may have discovered a methodology for surviving, and even defeating, stress:

Hit stuff… hard!  And, if that doesn’t work, move the family to a shack in Alaska.

Good luck!

Why?

Why do I do this?  Why do I blog… or, even better yet, why do I write at all?  I do not feel naturally talented in the area of writing, nor entertaining… nor much of anything I actually enjoy.  I do, however, love to write.

I also love to laugh, and I wish I could laugh more often.  Few things make me laugh anymore.  My boys make me laugh… with their innocent comments and their grand expectations… and their silliness.  My wife makes me laugh when she tells me how goofy the boys were at this or how I would have loved to see that… my wife makes me laugh:)  Did I mention that I love to laugh?

So, why do I do this? 

I write to entertain.  I have no false hope that what I write will enrich lives or fulfill destinies… I’m not a fool.  I do think, however, from time-to-time, I can write something that someone, somewhere may find slightly amusing; that is what this is all about.  When I can write something that makes someone else think or, especially, laugh, I’ve accomplished my goal.  When I write something and it makes me chuckle, I have every hope that at least one other soul will find it amusing… even if that soul is someone I have never met.  Perhaps someday, that soul I’ve touched and I will meet and have a good belly-laugh about how much Nebraska sucks… or how much turning 40 bites… or how retarded half of the people on food stamps are…… or how great it is having a family that you could not live without.

My wife didn’t marry me for my wealth; when we met, I was broke.  If the status of my wealth had mimicked the status of my waistline, my wife and I would now be rolling in dough… but we’re not… and I’m fat.  Sigh.  My wife also did not marry me for my looks… I can make a dog howl just by sticking my face in his.  Sigh.  My wife stands firmly by my side, however, so I can bear the burden of whatever life throws my way.  I don’t know what my wife saw in me when she agreed to spend her life with me, but I’m glad she saw what she did, and I feel an unusual commitment to live-up to whatever expectations she may have (or have had.)  She saw something, and I write in hopes of finding what she saw… and unleashing it. 

I write because writing words that someone else reads makes me feel alive.  If I didn’t feel alive, I’d most likely feel… uh, I guess, dead?!?  I write because I don’t want to feel dead.  Who wants to feel dead?  I hope someone enjoys it 🙂

Happy Easter!

I just wanted to take a few minutes to wish each and every one of you a happy Easter!  This is a day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it:)

I spend a lot of time on this blog bitching about, well, life in general.  Griping and complaining are fun for me, and I hope some of you get a chuckle or two out of reading my rants.  However, I never honestly want anyone to come to the conclusion that I am not thankful for all God has given me.  The greatest gift I have received from God is remembered on the holiday weekend  that is just now coming to a conclusion.  God sent His only only begotten Son so that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish but shall have eternal life.  This in and of itself is a great thing and is what we celebrate on Christmas.  The greater gift is the sacrifice that was made for all of us on Good Friday and the glory that is the Resurrection.

Christians take a lot of heat for all kinds of crap: being hypocrites, being sinners, looking down on non-believers, trying to push our point of view on others, etc., etc, etc.  Yep, we do all of these things because we are all human and all full of sin.

Being hypocrites and looking down on others are not justified in any way shape or form.  Christians who judge others need to take a little look in the mirror and realize that all sin is equal in the eyes of the Lord.  We shouldn’t be casting any stones.

When a Christian takes the time to tell you about the saving grace of Jesus Christ, they are doing it because they love you and they want you to find salvation.  It is our responsibility as Christians to inform non-believers of the joy of Christ… and that is where our responsibility ends.  From that point forward, God is in control.  If you want to chastise Christians for their evangelism, go ahead.  We can take it.  We want as many of our friends, family, neighbors, and even that nice guy who works down at the Loaf n’ Jug, to spend eternity with us in the glory of God’s love.  We aren’t trying to convert you to gain points with God.  Nothing we do, and I mean NOTHING, can save a soul other than the sacrifice of the Blood of the Lamb.  You don’t want us to “push” our beliefs on you… and we don’t want to see you spend an eternity in hell.

And, yes, we do disregard other religions.  Ours is not a faith that says it’s okay to let others believe what they will and we should all just get along.  “Live and let live” is not our creed.  This being said, a true Christian does not hate a Muslim, because a Muslim is also a child of God.  A true Christian does not hate a Buddhist.  A true Christian does not hate a doctor who performs abortions.  A true Christian loves all of these people, and a true Christian sees it as his or her responsibility to spread the Word of God to even those whose beliefs are different from our own.

I hope each and every one of you are close to ones you love today and are finding a day filled with peace and joy.  Well, I gotta go… apparently I have to mash the stinking potatoes.

Do You Know Who I Am?!?

You are dealing with a customer-service-type-situation.  The person you are dealing with is asking you for things that are above and beyond not only what the rules and regulations of the company which employs you dictate as acceptable; the things this person is asking of you are beyond what a normal person would expect.

“Do you know who I am?”

Or better yet, “Do you know who you’re dealing with?”

Of course, if you have heard one of these phrases  or something similar, the first thing that popped into your mind is probably pretty much the same thing that pops into my mind:

“Uh, yeah, apparently you’re a jackass!”

Of course, you don’t say this.  You try to explain why what the moron is asking for is unreasonable and, after talking down to you in more ways than you ever imagined possible, he or she ends up tromping off in a huff (or hanging up if on the phone).  They then work their way up the chain-of-command above your head until, 99% of the time, they get what they wanted in the first place.  Would have been kind of nice if you were given the power to grant their request, but you weren’t; so you will always be the peon who “didn’t know who they were.”

People who throw out the “do you know who I am” spiel should all lose their ability to speak… immediately; this is my wish.  Just the fact that someone would use this phrase shows that he thinks he is more valuable to society than you are.  Wow, who doesn’t like to be talked down to?  Who doesn’t like some arrogant jackass making demands and belittling you in the process?  The thing is, these jerks often complain loud enough and hard enough that they get what they want, which only reinforces their unbearable behavior.  These jerks have had “the customer is always right” driven into their heads for so long that they actually believe  this “rule” is the gospel in each and every situation they come across in life.  The fact that these morons have a position which they perceive as power-filled does not help the situation.

I live in rural America.  The snobalicious people I am referring to in rural America usually hold some sort of political office.  Small town mayors are notorious for being butt monkeys.  Small town mayors make almost no money by means of their office, so they apparently think they need to get lots of “perks” from businesses that serve their community.  It’s kind of like the mayor of Littletown, WY.  Now, Littletown has a population of about 8 people, and for some reason they have a mayor.  The mayor probably makes around $7.28/year for being mayor.  The mayor also happens to raise (and smoke) meth (bet ya didn’t know meth could be grown, huh?  Well in Nebraska and Wyoming, meth grows on the prairies like stink grows in Rosie O’Donnell’s armpits.)  So, Mayor Littletown calls you up ’cause he buys a service from your company and he has a perception that something isn’t right.  Let’s say it’s satellite TV.

Littletown:  My TV ain’t workin’!

You:  What seems to be the problem?

Littletown:  My kid chucked his baseball through the front of the TV and now it ain’t workin’.

You:  Uh… what does that have to do with your satellite?

Littletown:  Look, I pay you guys for service every month and I want something done!

You:  But, Sir, we just provide your satellite.  We don’t have anything to do with your kid throwing a ball through your TV…

Littletown:  DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO?  I’M THE MAYOR OF LITTLETOWN AND I HAVE A LOT OF INFLUENCE IN THIS COMMUNITY!  YOU WILL FIX THIS OR YOUR COMPANY WILL BE DONE IN LITTLETOWN!

Ok, so the Mayor Littletown has a lot of influence… over 7 other semi-inbred rednecks (who are also the mayor’s best customers for his meth crops).  Being the mayor of a community of 8 people does not mean that you were elected due to your impressive electoral campaign or your innate ability to reduce deficit and balance a budget.  Being the mayor in a community like Littletown means… uh… it was your turn.  Next term, your neighbor Jedidiah with the rotted front teeth and the constant tweaks gets his turn.

In rural America, it doesn’t usually seem to be the successful business people who are the butt monkeys (although there is a cafe owner in small town Wyoming that I would like to punt for a field goal.)  Most rural American butt monkeys are usually paid with taxpayer money or “volunteer” to help the community: city council people, county commissioners, school board members, school administrators, city management, community development leaders, etc,etc,etc…

I’m not saying that all people in these positions are butt monkeys; I’m saying that a large percentage of the particular type of butt monkey which I am discussing (the “do you know who I am” butt monkey) can be found in one of the aforementioned positions.

You may wonder why I refer to people who I have issues with as “butt monkeys”.  Well, it’s funny 🙂  Just the mental image that “butt monkey” conjures gets me giggling.  You know, little monkeys… in your butt… peeking out every once in awhile and annoying the CRAP out of you (figuratively… or not…)

We the people, in order to form a more perfect union, need to destroy all butt monkeys!  Whose with me?  C’mon, let’s grab our butt-monkey guns and bag us some butt monkeys… wait, that would take effort… ok, lets just agree to make a crapload of fun of all butt monkeys.  Agreed?  And small town butt monkeys need to realize that they are butt monkeys and that they annoy the crap out of most normal people.  So, if you know a butt monkey, make sure to slap them every time the butt-monkiness comes through.   I think I’ve even come up with a slogan for the new anti-butt monkey campaign:

Give “spanking the monkey” a new meaning – slap the crap out of a butt monkey today!

A Hummingbird’s Promise

 A Hummingbird’s Promise

 

The dream comes again.

 

My son and I trekking up the narrow path

of a steep mountain.

 

To our left, brightly colored field flowers bloom,

their summer scents surround us

and call to the birds and bees and butterflies.

 

To our right, a steep cliff descends down

into a dark abyss whose secrets only God knows.

 

Beyond the dream, in the distant portion of my mind

capable of distinguishing dreams from reality,

I recognize what is coming, but

I’m powerless

to stop events from unfolding on a subconscious mountain.

 

In the dream, my son holds my concentration

as I hold his hand.

I watch his every move

and protect him from the cliff.

He skitters up the path, smiling at the birds and giggling at the bees;

the small zoo of life delighting him.

 

The warm sun beckons sweat from our pores

as we travel on our trek to destinations unknown.

 

A flitter to the left announces a hummingbird’s arrival at the zoo;

the promise of a splendid sight,

the promise of a beautiful day,

the promise of … wonder… happiness.

 

For a moment,

only a moment,

my senses shift from my son to the hovering form of the hummingbird.

His hand slips from mine

as I point to the miraculous promise of beauty contained in the small bird.

“Look, Buddy,” I whisper in awe…

 

Sandpaper scratching steel, small shoes slipping,

            Quick               Loud

as his feet… legs… waist disappears down the cliff

towards the dark abyss.

 

I reach, falling forward as my right hand finds his left.

My left hand grasps the ground over which I’m sliding

and finds the top of a rock protruding from the path.

 

The son of my dream weighs almost as much as the mammoth in my chest

forcing air from lungs struggling to draw breath.

My right arm and face protrude over the cliff’s edge.

The rest of me glues itself to the sharp sand of the pathetic path.

 

My son flails beneath my gaze,

confused, terrified,

his eyes screaming to me for help.

 

“Daddy, Daddy,” he cries to me,

and the sky, and the cliff,

and the unknown of the abyss,

as his flailing increases his weight.

 

Burning sunlight beats sweat from our pores

as his small hand begins to slip from mine.

“Hold on, Buddy,” I cry as my hand loses strength and his slips even more.

“I’ll never let you fall.”

 

Then flesh on flesh is no more as his screaming eyes

grow smaller and smaller against the rising dark abyss.

 

I sit up in bed, drenched from the sun of my dream.

Out of bed, across the hall to his room,

to his bed, by his side, my legs moving quickly, quietly;

a hummingbird’s wings.

 

He breathes softly, his eyes shuttered,

his blanket up to his chin.

 

My right hand moves to his head.

Trembling fingers rest on his crown, wiggling into his hair.

My touch promises:

a world with no bounds,

all his heart desires,

an unbroken heart…

I’ll always be there.

My heart flitters in my chest.  The mammoth is gone.

Hair feels alive to a hand that could not hold on.

 

The dream will come again, and again he will fall.

To hold on to the slipping hand forever is the true dream.

 

I gently squeeze his sleeping crown as a father’s tear slips

off my cheek to the dark abyss of the bedroom floor.