General Stench – Page 2 – HappyStinkingJoy

The Citizen and the Cop: A Relationship Damaged?

When I was a child, I had nothing but respect and adoration for (and, of course, a slight fear of) the police. These men (and women, but back then, mostly men) were admired and I considered them to be heroes. I went through the brief period that I think many young boys (and probably some girls) go through of dreaming about being a cop one day: carrying a gun, driving really fast with lights flashing and sirens blazing, stopping the bad guys and saving the innocent. “To Protect and to Serve”… awesome, right?

And then I grew up and something changed.

My dealings with the police have been relatively limited during adulthood. The occasional speeding ticket, a couple of “warnings” for failing to signal at a turn or whatever. Fix-it tickets for an out headlight or taillight. Although none of these encounters were a good time, I wouldn’t describe them as horrible or terrifying.

In the past 6 months or so, I have had two dealings with the local police. Neither of these were even remotely pleasant, and in both cases, I did absolutely nothing wrong.

***

The first instance happened at the beginning of the summer. It was a Friday night between 9pm and 10pm. I had just left Fresh Foods (a grocery store in Gering) on a run for food to make supper the following night. I had turned on the radio and some song came on that I liked. So, to enjoy the song, I drove around a little instead of driving straight home. I drove up a side street, and then onto the main street, and down another side street. I wasn’t speeding, I was signaling, I wasn’t breaking any laws. I glanced in my rear view mirror on occasion and noticed that there was a car in the distance behind me, but I didn’t think anything of it. I turned off of the side street and back onto the main street. The song was almost over and I could take the next side street as the most-direct path to head home. As I turned onto the side street, I heard a motor gun behind me and headlights glared in my rear view mirror. Then the police lights started flashing and the cop was right on my ass. Freaking out and thinking he was on an emergency call and I was in his way, I jerked my car to the parking spots along the street to my right. To my surprise (and chagrin), the cop didn’t jettison past me as I expected him to. Instead, his car jerked to a stop behind me and the cop was quickly at my window.

Now, a little background, I was driving my oldest son’s car. It’s like a 2004 Dodge Stratus. It’s been in a fender bender or two, so it has a few dings on it, but it’s really not in bad shape. It also has tinted windows, legal, but dark. So, I guess the look of the car could have had something to do with why the cop was following me. No, that’s just me trying to make justifications for the bullshit that followed.

After I roll down my window, the cop says, “I’ve been following you for awhile and you seem to be driving aimlessly. What are you doing out?”

“I went to get some groceries at Fresh Foods and now I was just driving around listening to some music before I go home,” I say. I’m having a hard time catching my breath because the way his car flew up on my tail really did freak me out.

“Why did you jerk your car to the right into the parking spaces when I turned my light on?” he asked. There was zero pleasantness in his disposition.

“Because the you scared the shit out of me!” I snapped. I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t like my honesty.

He shined his flashlight directly into my eyes.

“Your eyes are bloodshot,” he said. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

Are you freaking kidding me! I could be out getting wasted at one of the over-abundance of local bars like many of the local yahoos on a Friday night, but I was just getting groceries and listening to some music before going home and, most likely, going to bed. Nothing I was doing would have indicated that I had been drinking and driving.

“I haven’t had anything to drink tonight,” I tell him as calmly as possible. Just follow their directions and do what they say and everything will be okay. I’m a middle-aged white guy. I have nothing to worry about, right? We are given instructions on how we have to interact with the police so nothing bad happens to us. Just follow the instructions.

He asks for license, registration and proof of insurance, which I give him, and he disappears back to his car. Now, the incident is almost over and I’m waiting for him to come back, give me my stuff, and let me be on my way. And really, that is what happens. But while I’m sitting there, my racing heart starting to slow, I try to imagine if this interaction would be playing out differently if, say, I was a young black man, or a Latino. What if a young black man who was doing exactly what I was doing had told the cop that the cop had “scared the shit out of him”? Would that black man still be sitting in his car with the cop checking his information? I’d like to think it would be all playing out the same, but I wonder. And would I have been equally able to remember to follow the unwritten “instructions” that we are told we must follow when dealing with the police if I thought I was solely being pulled over (while doing absolutely wrong) even partially because of the color of my skin or where my ancestors came from? And I wonder if the cop was taken off-guard with there being a middle-aged white dude in the dented Dodge Stratus with the tinted windows…

The cops came back to my car, told me I was free to go, told me he could tell by the way I was talking that I hadn’t been drinking, said that his eyes were probably a little bloodshot too because it had been a long day, and we parted company.

***

The next dealing I had with the local police was in Scottsbluff. Again, 9pm on a Friday night a couple of weeks ago. I was playing (GEEK ALERT) Pokémon Go. Yes, I play Pokémon Go. Yes, I’m an almost 50-year-old man. People with money play golf or people with friends have friends over or something. I play Pokémon Go. It’s what I do.

So I tell the wife that I need to go hit some PokéStops, because I’m out of gifts and I need some to send to friends. I tell her I’ll be back in like half an hour. She tells me how proud of me and my amazing Pokémon Go skills she is, and I depart.

There is this little area around the local Humane Society that is a good spot to hit for Pokémon Go. There are three gyms and six PokéStops within a short walk/drive. I figure I’m just going to spin each of these and I’ll be good for the night. I pull up to the gym right in front of the Humane Society, park the car, dim my lights and spin the gym with both of my Pokémon Go accounts (yes, I have two accounts). The nice thing about this area for Pokémon Go is it’s off of the street. It’s just little dirt road with very little traffic.

After I spin the gym, I turn my lights back on and drive a short distance to the first PokéStop. Further up ahead, I see two or three vehicles parked haphazardly in the parking area by the Boy Scout office. I think this may be another group of people out playing Pokémon Go and don’t give it a second thought. Again, I park the car, dim the lights and pull out my phones to spin the PokéStop when I notice a dark figure with a flashlight quickly approaching my car.

‘Oh crap,’ I think as I prepare to be robbed or murdered or something. I set the phones back on my passenger seat and ready myself to get the hell out of there when I realize the approaching figure is a cop. Relieved, I roll down my window.

“Hello,” I smile as I am figuring out how to explain I’m playing Pokémon Go without sounding like a complete dweeb.

“Where are you coming from!” demands the obviously agitated cop.

His question completely catches me off guard. Where am I coming from? I know he’s looking for a particular answer, but I don’t really understand the question.

Just follow the instructions…

“I don’t understand the question,” I meekly whisper.

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION,” the cop screams at me as I’m pretty sure he is trying to make my head explode with the intensity of his gaze. And I’m pretty sure he has one hand on his sidearm.

No shit, Sherlock! I think I obviously acknowledged the fact that you asked a freaking question with my response of “I don’t understand the question.” Can you pull your head out of your ass for two seconds and ask a question that someone who isn’t guilty of whatever crime your investigating here would be able to understand and answer.

That’s what I wanted to say. Oh, I was actually starting to shake with the desire to launch this little gem back into the cop’s face (well, the desire coupled with the intensifying fear that I could die), but I could tell that he was triggered. A triggered cop is something to be feared, even if you are a middle-aged white guy.

“My house?” Just like that, a question, because it was true, but I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he wouldn’t tell me what he was looking for and he was triggered and already pissed at me for questioning his question-asking ability (which sucked, by the way).

Even more intensely, he asks, “DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING IN YOUR CAR?”

Dear everything sweet and holy… if you are going to keep asking questions like this that I can’t answer, you might as well just shoot me now. I’m in my car. My keys? I have my licence, registration and proof of insurance; is that what you’re looking for? Yes, I have things in my car, but I don’t have illegal things in my car. I don’t understand the question!

Of course, none of that emerged from my lips. But I honestly had no idea how to answer the question. And I obviously couldn’t tell the cop that I didn’t understand his question again, because that didn’t go over so well the first time. And I can tell he is obviously fishing for something, and he’s trying to hook me, but I don’t even know where the freaking hook is. I feel like I need to find the hook as soon as possible or triggered T.J. Hooker may have me face down in gravel (or worse) in a matter of seconds.

“I… uh… wha… buuu…” I can think of nothing to say. I’m literally speechless, and it is scaring the shit out of me. JUST SAY SOMETHING!

But I can’t…

Obviously very upset that his intense gaze had yet to send my skull and brains flying throughout my car, the cop yells, “A LASER POINTER?”

The suffocating fog that had completely stupefied me began to lift. I began to understand…

“No,” I said as the cop shined his flashlight throughout my car.

I grabbed the two phones from my passenger seat that still had the game on their screens, held them out to him like some kind of magical shield, and muttered, “I’m playing Pokémon Go.”

The cop rolled his eyes and stormed off somewhere behind me. Shaking more violently than I can ever remember, I spun the PokéStop with both accounts. I glanced up at the cars in the Boy Scout Office parking lot.

Cop cars, every one.

I turned my phones off, set them in the passenger seat, and drove home feeling neither protected nor served.

I don’t know exactly at what point in our history as a country our police forces changed, but they have changed. “Protect and Serve” seems to have been replaced with “Interrogate and Intimidate.” I guess if there is a chance that any person you approach could potentially have a gun and the intention of killing you, “protect and serve” kind of flies out the window. And I know that there is a large percentage of our population which is willing to put up with a more militarized-style of police force in order to protect their right to own a gun. Personally, I don’t want my tax money going toward the wages of someone who makes me (or anyone) feel threatened when absolutely nothing wrong has been done.

Just follow the instructions…

But, sometimes the instructions aren’t clear…

But if you don’t understand the instructions, you can’t ask for clarification…

I’m sure there are a significant number or people who disagree with my thoughts on this subject, but I really don’t care. I want a police force that has my back when I am obeying the law and is out to get me when I’m breaking the law. The methods they use to discern which category I fit into shouldn’t make me despise them when I’ve done nothing wrong.

Disappointing More Than Just Myself…

I like to go for bike rides. I don’t know why, but I find it very fulfilling to put in some earbuds, crank up some music, and just ride. I know listening to music while riding isn’t recommended or safe, but I don’t really care.

Sometimes when I ride, I sense that I’m being followed. It’s not like there is someone behind me, but it’s a presence behind me that I cannot see. I feel an urgent need to distance myself from the presence, and I pedal faster and faster. Often, my heart pounds in my chest and my breath comes in short gasps, but no matter how hard or fast I pedal, the presence is still there.

I manage a bookstore at a local community college. I have had this position for almost five years. I assumed that most of my family knew what I was doing at this point in my life. I assumed wrong.

My mom and I recently had a telephone conversation. I don’t remember what exactly we were talking about, but my job became the topic of discussion. I mentioned something about receiving books for the new semester or something like that, and my mom said, “Why would you be ordering books?”

“Because I manage the bookstore, Mom,” I replied. “That’s kind of what I do.”

“I thought you were President of Student Activities,” my mom said, flabbergasted. “I’ve been telling everyone you were President of Student Activities!”

“There’s… uh… there is no such position,” I explained, “and if there were, I wouldn’t be qualified to do it. What made you think I was the president of anything?”

“You post those videos on Facebook of the kids eating the weird stuff,” said my mom. “Why are there videos of kids eating weird stuff if you weren’t President of Student Activities?”

1 + 1 = 2, right?

“Mom, we do an annual food eating contest in the bookstore,” I said, “and the videos are funny, so we post the videos.”

“Oh…” said Mom.

“I’m just the director of the bookstore,” I explained again.

“Oh…” said Mom again. “Well… I think I’ll just keep telling people you’re the President of Student Activities.”

“… but that position doesn’t even exist, Mom.”

“The people I tell will never know that,” Mom laughed.

When I am riding, I often feel self-conscious. I’m afraid the people in cars and pedestrians I pass are all looking at me and thinking, “Look at that old fat man riding his bike. He must have gotten a DUI and that’s why he’s on the bike.”

There is a bar in downtown Gering called the Union. The Union has a fenced outdoor area that is popular for musical performances in the warmer months. Because it is fenced, people on the outside can’t see in, and people on the inside can’t see out. More than once, I have ridden by the Union on a summer evening and heard the people within the fenced area laughing. It is impossible for me to imagine that they are laughing at anything other than the old fat man on the bike outside. They can’t see me, and I can’t see them… and for me to think that my being there on my bike is of such importance that it would result in laughter from inside is ridiculous… but I can’t shake the thought from my mind.

The instances of laughter outside the Union transport me back to my college days where a few friends and I would go to a bar for some drinks. Inevitably, I would make my way to a restroom only to walk by a table of people who would break out in laughter. I knew without a doubt that they were laughing at me.

“Look at that loser, all alone.”

“Well of course he’s all alone, did you see him?”

Of course, the people at the table didn’t really say that. The people didn’t even know that I existed, why would they waste energy laughing at me? They wouldn’t, but my mind could never find that rational conclusion.

And now, when I ride my bike by the Union, I always make sure I have my earbuds in…

I went back to Montana a couple of months ago for a graduation. At the reception, I was able to see one of my aunts. This aunt was always one of my biggest supporters. She always told me how successful I was going to be. She is one of those “you’re so smart, you can be anything you set your mind to” kind of supporters. She always let me know that she expected big things from me. She was excited to see me, and I her.

“So, you’re working at a college,” said my aunt.

“Yeah, a community college,” I replied.

“So, what are you dean of?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Dean?” I asked.

“With an education like yours, I suspect your a dean… or are you a vice president… president?” my aunt asked.

“Auntie, I have a bachelor’s degree,” I said.

“I thought you earned your master’s,” my aunt said.

“Uh… no… just my bachelor’s,” I said. “I’m not really dean of anything. I run the bookstore.”

“Textbooks?” my aunt asked. You would have thought she just swallowed a fly.

“Yep,” I said.

“Oh… my,” said my aunt. “When will you get your master’s?”

“When I win the lottery,” I joked. “Education is expensive.”

My aunt didn’t smile.

“But it pays off,” said my aunt.

“But I’m almost fifty,” I explained. “Given the constraints of time and money, by the time I could get my master’s, I’d be retirement age.”

My aunt’s left eye started to twitch ever so slightly.

“It’s never too late,” she said as she started to walk away from me and towards another table of relatives. “I expect big things from you!”

My preferred time to ride bike is at dusk. I like riding when the sun is under the horizon but still casts a halo of it’s warm light into the sky. The sun has done its amazing job of warming my side of the earth, fueling the growth of plants, giving us our daily dosage of vitamin D, and everything else the sun accomplishes in a day. The sun’s job is done on our side of the earth, but dusk gives us a daily reminder of the legacy of everything great the sun has accomplished.

When I ride at dusk, the presence doesn’t seem as close. I feel the most free when I ride at dusk. Once the horizon completely swallows the last of the sun’s light, the presence gains strength. Dark is when I usually head for home, because the presence can be almost suffocating. I head for home, my short little legs pumping and my lungs gasping for breath, in an effort to get home before I actually discover what draws the presence to me — or what exactly it is. Ignorance, after all, is bliss…

Answered Prayers for the Short… for a Price…

I know that people are probably tired of me complaining about being short.

Tough.

“Quit using that as an excuse for being a failure!“

“There’s nothing you can do about it, so complaining about it doesn’t do any good!“

“Don’t focus on the negative, focus on the positive!” (like what… short-people clothes cost the same as regular-people clothes, and Chili’s doesn’t offer an under-average discount on Wednesday nights…)

Besides, there actually is something that can be done about it.

There is a procedure that can be done to increase a human’s height. I am a short human. I would like my height increased. This procedure can add approximately 3″ to a human’s height.

I’m currently 5′ 7″. The average height of a white adult male in the United States is 5′ 9.5″. With the addition of 3″, I would be 5′ 10″. I would be above average. I would be above average in some way for the first time in my life. I want this.

Here are the issues:

The procedure costs about $85,000
The procedure can be done for less (around $16,000)if you can spend a few months in Russia to have it done.
The procedure involved the breaking of leg bones, stretching the bones apart, and letting everything grow back together while stretched. It is a very slow and very painful process.
There is an extensive and painful physical-therapy heavy recovery period.
The whole thing (barring complications and with having to pretty much completely relearn how to walk) could take up to a year or more, so that’s a year without a job or income.

Still… sooo worth it. I would sign-up to do this tomorrow… if I had the money and a job waiting for me after I was all healed-up and tall (actually, more like average, but that works). Giving up a year of my life to feel normal would be priceless… but the price tag is too high. Since insurance doesn’t cover this, who exactly can afford to have this procedure done? I bet a Fortune 500 CEO could afford to have this procedure done. Of course, the average height of a Fortune 500 CEO is close to six-feet tall. These people don’t need to be taller. They are already tall and confident and make enough money to afford the surgery which they do not need.

Meanwhile, here in Smallsville, Shorty McShort Butt doesn’t make enough to afford elevator shoes. It’s like a classic Catch-22. I might have to try stuffing newspaper in my shoes to appear taller so I can get a really good-paying job so I can save up to have the surgery… when I’m 65 and my bones don’t heal anymore…

Are there any millionaires looking to adopt a 49-year-man who is in desperate need of a surgery?

Oh – WAIT! THE POWERBALL IS UP TO $750,000,000 – but if I have the money, I’ll probably no longer need the height. And if I don’t have the money, I need the height. Everything would just be so much easier had I been born with better DNA…

The Slow, Stinky Death of My Fortress of Solitude…

I have written about my bathroom basement before… back when I used to actually put pictures in my posts via Photobucket because they weren’t out to screw me. The downstairs basement was very special to me.

Every man needs a retreat, a Bat Cave, a Fortress of Solitude, some place just to get away from everyone and everything… and that place needs to be in his house (or “on my property” as the rich and famous would say). The downstairs bathroom is that place for me.

I don’t have a man cave. My garage is not a place I like to spend time. The tree house retreat of my future hasn’t been built yet (because I haven’t won the PowerBall yet). So, the downstairs bathroom is my place to escape.

I get ready for work in the downstairs bathroom. This is where I shower. This is where I shave. This is where I brush my teeth. This is where I sit and think about all of the mistakes I’ve made. This is where I ask God, “Why?” This is my place. Except when it’s not…

Our house is a place that tends to be a gathering place for family. When my family visits, they stay at our house. When the wife’s family visits, they tend to stay at our house. It makes sense for family to stay with us since they are visiting us… I guess. The holidays seem to be a time when our house is constantly ~~invaded~~ (my wife doesn’t like when I use that word… because it’s usually her family that blesses us with their presence) blessed with the visits of family. Even if the family isn’t staying in our house, all of the meals tend to be at our house. Our house isn’t tiny, but when full of family, it doesn’t seem very big. I really don’t like being around a lot of people. I feel claustrophobic. It’s times like the holidays when my retreat in the basement comes in super handy. However, a recent trend has developed at my house. I think this trend has existed for longer than I am aware, but my eyes… and nose… just recently discovered it.

We have two bathrooms upstairs in our house. These are the bathrooms closest to all of the action when family abounds. They are close to the living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms, and the dining room. The downstairs bathroom is close to nothing. The two upstairs bathrooms are in constant use when family is around. Someone almost always seems to be going into or coming out of one of the bathrooms. What I recently noticed is, every once in awhile, one of the male family members disappears. At first, I thought they were maybe getting some fresh air outside or something. I really didn’t think much of it at all.

And then I saw one of them…

It was a nephew or a brother-in-law or someone like that… my memory is slightly foggy… probably PSTD. I had reached my limit of family togetherness and need a take-five. I descended the stairs to the basement and was headed for my retreat when I saw him. He was walking away from the general direction of the downstairs bathroom. I looked at him questioningly, and he got a little smirk on his face.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I sprayed.”

???!!!???

I hurried past him to my retreat… my Fortress of Solitude… when the smell hit me. The deodorizer I keep in the downstairs bathroom is “Warm Flannel” scent. I have no idea what in the hell “Warm Flannel” is supposed to smell like, but this scent sounds manly enough to be the scent of choice in the downstairs bathroom. What I was smelling at that moment was not “Warm Flannel.” What I was smelling was “Warm Flannel” that had taken an extended vacation in some dude’s colon. The smell was not pleasant, nor was it “warm” in any way.

I was destroyed.

Memories of passing various male family members (Daddy?!?) in the basement on my way to a five-minute break came rushing back. The glances at the floor as they passed me. The half-smiles and smirks and moments of eye-contact avoidance. I thought that maybe they had just been looking around the basement, but I now know what they had been doing.

THEY WERE POOPING!

At the earliest available moment, I pulled the wife aside and quietly exclaimed, “Did you know that all of the guys are using my bathroom to poop?”

“First of all, how do you know that,” she replied. “Second, it’s not your bathroom? And third, better down in the basement than right by the dining room.”

“I know it because I smelled it, it is my bathroom, and the women are pooping up here and it doesn’t stink up the dining room,” I whispered. “The guys can poop up here too.”

Mid-eye-roll, the wife said, “It’s not your bathroom, how many times do I have to tell you that women don’t poop, and it’s not a big deal, so don’t turn this into something it’s not!”

“You do realize that when you smell something,” I continued rapidly, “tiny particles of what you are smelling actually land on receptors in your nose. That’s how smell works! It’s not just air or something, it’s tiny particles… of POOP!”

“Knock it off,” said the wife. “That’s gross and you’re being ridiculous.”

“MY TOOTHBRUSH IS IN THAT ROOM,” I shot back, to which the wife just turned and walked away.

The walk-away was the last we discussed it. There have been numerous family visits since the incident, and I now notice that the male trips to stink up the downstairs bathroom are quite common. We go through a lot of toilet paper and “Warm Flannel” deodorizer during these visits.

I don’t say anything.

I just let the resentment build.

Someday, I will visit the homes of these villainous poopers, and I will save-up a “special delivery” for each and every one of them. For now, I just bide my time… and my toothbrush finds a new home during family visits…

Adult Men Don’t Have Friends…

This is just speculative. I can’t say for a fact that all adult men don’t have friends. I just know that I don’t have friends. I mean, I have friends, just not close friends of the same sex who are close to my age.

Guys my age tend to be ass-hatty. If they are more than a couple of inches taller than me, they are jerks and I want nothing to do with them. If they are shorter than me, they are most likely in a circus sideshow somewhere and too busy cleaning up elephant poop for a friendship with me. If they are more successful or make more money than me, they are jerks and I want nothing to do with them. If they are less successful or have less money than me… even I don’t want that kind of loser in my life. So about 70% of the of available guys my age are automatically eliminated from the potential friend pool. And then there is politics… and I live in Nebraska… there goes another 29% (actually, political views and the desire to constantly spout those views eliminate 99% all by themselves). So, about 1% of the guys my age around me are potential friends… but these losers are so pathetic that no one would want to be their friend. This is my 1%.

Women seem to have an easier time surrounding themselves with friends. They go have coffee or they start book groups or they have movie nights. What do guys do? My 1% isn’t athletic or into sports, so we don’t “catch a game” or meet to “shoot some hoops.” My 1% views golf as the elitist sport that may have very well led to the formation of the Nazi party, so we don’t mess with that. A group of middle-aged ladies going to the movies together is cute. A group of middle-aged guys going to the movies together is queer – as in the old definition of “queer” that means “strange”, not the new definition… who am I kidding… middle-aged guys going to the movie together is gay.

I try to think of what I would do with friends if I actually had friends, and I can think of nothing. My 1% is probably into things like Dungeons & Dragons…

DUNGEONS & DRAGONS!!!

We are a pathetic little group who, due to our nature, probably shouldn’t congregate with our kind. Alone, we can slip around in the shadows mostly unnoticed. In groups, we could draw attention to ourselves… and I’m too old for a stinking wedgie…

I Need a New Place to Work Out… or How MLM Ruined My Gym

So, I’m looking for a new gym. I have been going to my current gym for over a year and I love it. It’s close to my house, it’s open 24/7, and it has nice, clean equipment. I thought I had found the perfect gym… until a muscle-bound meathead ruined it for me.

I’m one of those idiots who, you know, acknowledges other people. I go to the gym late in the evening because I don’t like exercising (or doing much of anything else) around other people, but I always acknowledge the others that are there. I know, it doesn’t make sense… part of being a “nice guy” (i.e. loser).

There is this guy at the gym every time I go there. You know the type, 6’4″ with biceps as big as his head, always walking around with a smile on his lips and a look in his eyes like he may very well have a couple of bodies in his trunk. So, I acknowledge this guy every time I walk past him… you know, a smile or a “Hey” or something simple like that. That is about as strong of a relationship as I ever wanted with the guy. Guys like him just reinforce my feelings of inadequacy and make my self-confidence fall a little deeper into the toilet (again, part of being a “nice guy”).

A couple of weeks ago, I finish my time on the elliptical and am heading out the door after another sweat-session that will do nothing to help get rid of my ever-increasing belly fat. This non-gamma-radiated hulk stops me at the door.

“Hey, I see you here every night and thought I should introduce myself,” he says as he proceeds to stick out his hand and tell me his name.

I smile and, hesitantly, tell him my name.

“You know,” he says, “I see you in here all the time and I just wanted you to know that I’m concerned about your health.”

‘Oh f***,’ I think to myself.

“I was wondering if I could talk you into watching a video about something that could change your life,” he says and gives me his best “I’m-just-a-big-teddy-bear-but-I-could-tear-out-your-throat-in-less-than-five-seconds” look.

“Please, just tell me what it is,” I squeak, wondering which level of multi-level-marketing-hell this creature crawled out of. Amway? AdvoCare? Shaklee? Herbalife?

“I can’t explain it nearly as well as the video,” he says. “If I could just get your phone number, I can send you a link.”

… and… I don’t know why… but I gave him my phone number…

“Great,” he says. “I’ll follow-up with you in a couple of days.”

So I watch the video, and it is MLM, and it’s a $50/month “supplement” that is really just like green tea extract and turmeric, and it has no real live-people clinical evidence of anything. It’s one of those things that, if it really did what it said it did, everyone would be taking it and we’d all live forever.

A couple of days later, the guy messages me asking if I had watched the video. I had, but I was actually just pulling into the parking lot of the gym when I received his message. At least I can exercise in peace, right, because he’s obviously not at the gym.

And them I see him… sitting in his car, lights on, car running, like he’s just leaving… and I just sit in my car waiting for him to leave. He got done working out and he got in his car, and he messaged me.

And I wait for him to leave.

And he doesn’t leave.

I’m in a vehicle that I’ve never driven to the gym before, so I know he doesn’t recognize my car, and I just sit there waiting for him to leave.

And he doesn’t leave.

Fifteen minutes go by and he doesn’t leave. The lights go off in his car and the engine turns off.

And I start my car and leave.

I drive home and respond to his message. I message that I’m not interested, he messages that this product is truly a miracle, I message that I’m not interested, he messages that he knows this stuff works and it can increase my life expectancy, I message that he might want to consider pitching this to people who are actually wanting to extend their lives, and he messages that he appreciates my time and if I have any questions just to let him know.

So, we’re through, right? Not even close. Now I know what car this guy drives, so I can avoid the gym any time he is there, right? The problem is… HE’S ALWAYS THERE!

ALWAYS!!!

I like to exercise between 9 and 10 in the evening. That’s just when I like to go. I used to go to the local YMCA, but then they cut their hours and started closing at 9:30pm, so I started going to my current gym. I like going home after work and spending some time with my family, and as they are getting ready for bed, I go workout. I come home and relax for an hour or so and go to bed for a great few hours of sleep. Now I can’t do that.

If I were to continue with my current gym, I’m either going to have to go earlier in the evening (and miss out on family time, which I don’t want to do), or really early in the morning before work (hahaha). So, I need a new gym.

Why did this guy have to approach me? Because I’m too approachable. I’m a short, pudgy, unattractive middle-aged man who always smiles at everyone. Everything about me just screams, “Hey, I won’t tell you to go screw yourself if you try selling your MLM garbage to me because I’m a life-beaten Beta Male!” I need to start being a complete douche. No more smiles. No more acknowledging anyone. Just portray to the world what an angry little troll I really am instead of putting on the pleasant smile to make others more comfortable. But then people might not like me, and that would make me uncomfortable…

I know this is all my fault. I shouldn’t let this guy selling his MLM stuff ruin my gym for me, but it already has. I don’t even wish failure on this muscle-bound dude-bro. If he can make a few extra bucks peddling his snake oil, more power to him. Plus, I could walk into the gym and this guy wouldn’t even say anything to me, but he could walk over to me and try talking about his stupid yellow pill… and I don’t want to deal with that. I will do almost anything to avoid any and all confrontation or feelings of uncomfortableness. “Avoid Everything That Makes You Uncomfortable” is my motto and my creed and explains everything about my current lot in life.

I’m too old to change the way I deal with people or any of the stresses they create in my life. However, I’m not too old to change gyms…

The Good Things About Getting Old

Man… I haven’t written on here for years. I got a new job. The site crashed when the server it was on got struck by lightening. I had to find a new host and someone to help re-set up my site. And, honestly, I’ve kind of stopped seeing the funny in the stuff I used to complain about.

I started this blog as a place to vent about getting older and living in rural America and the crappiness that is associated with both. I was not yet 40-years-old when I started blogging. I’m now slightly over a year away from being 50. 50 is when you are officially old, and there is not a single thing about being old that appeals to me.

Because getting old appears to suck in every imaginable way and it appears to have absolutely zero redeeming qualities, I decided that I needed to really look for the good things about getting old, you know, to keep from losing my mind and all sense of hope. I needed to truly search my soul for the good… for the positive… for the reaffirming. I needed a list of positive things to be the light that can lead me toward and through the darkness that is old age. After hours and days and months of searching, I have finalized my list, and here it is:

…

… being short is completely and utterly awesome…

Usually, I complain about stuff here on this site. I tend to go on and on about many of the small, unfair things that transpire in my life. My motto is “life sucks and then you die”, so rarely will I point out the positive in much of anything. This post is going to be an exception to my rule. This post is going to emphasize the positive.

Today, I went to the youngest boy’s middle school band competition thingie. As I was standing around after the performance with the wife, I looked around at the other people waiting for their kids. I noticed, as I have increasingly done, that I was the single shortest adult male at that performance.

At work, I am one of the (if not “the”) shortest man at work. I am surrounded by college students all day, and the vast majority of the male students and what seems like a smaller majority of the female students are taller than me. Needless to say, I spend the vast majority of my time looking up at people and being looked down upon by others.

I know, it may seem like I am heading into my usual mode of bitching about stuff, but that is not the case. One may think that being a short man is horrible, but the opposite is true. Being a short man is complete and utter awesome-sauce.

As a short man, I don’t have to worry about making as much money. According to an article on Slate, for every inch a person is taller, that person makes about $1000/year more than his shorter counterpart. So someone who is six-feet tall will make, on average, about $5000/year more than me. Now, I know that may seem like a bad thing for the shorter person, but money is not a good thing. Money is inherently evil. Think about it, money leads to buying those luxury items that you really don’t need. The lack of money means one is more likely to just be able to afford the basic necessities in life. People with a lot of money take their fancy vacations and have their luxury automobiles. Us shorter guys have to save for years to take a middle class vacation, so we appreciate them more, right? Us shorter guys can never afford a brand new automobile, so we don’t have to worry about our vehicle losing 20% of it’s value by driving it off the lot.

Those who make more money can put more money away for retirement and have better retirements. Us short people get to work our entire adult life. That’s a blessing, working until the day you die, because… it just is.

Tall men are seen as more powerful and garner more respect… those suckers! Who wants to be respected when you can spend your entire adult life being looked down on. Being looked down on is FABULOUS! No one expects much of you as a short dude because, you know, you’re so tiny.

Another great thing about being short is we shorties tend to be, according to Time, unhappier than the tall. Unhappiness RULES! Who would want to walk around feeling happy all the time. Happiness is overrated. Try being bitter for awhile. Bitterness is pretty fantastic. The Time article also points out that tall people tend to view short people as having chips on their shoulders, like us shorties have to make an extra effort to command attention. Command of attention is something that just comes naturally for taller people because of their size. But I wonder, who really wants to command attention when you can just sit unnoticed in a corner and lead your insignificant life in peace. Then, you can die and be forgotten. See, being short is pretty awesome.

I love how the things that we have absolutely no control over (like height) can have such a dramatic impact on our lives. Of course, there are plenty of happy short people out there, I’m sure. Short people just have to work a little harder to find happiness. Short people just have to look in more non-traditional areas to find their happiness, since it won’t come through income, respect, admiration of peers, or anything like that. Tall people don’t have to work harder to find happiness, because they do command attention just by walking into a room, and they will make more money and command more respect in general. So tall people are inherently lazy because stuff comes easier for them. I know, I’m digging, but I’m really trying to find the positive in all of this.

My wife says she is going to ban me from Google, which may be a positive…

BREAKING NEWS: MEDIA FULL OF APPARENT SPINSTERS WHO ARE OUTRAGED AT TRUMP’S USE OF “VULGAR” WORD

Pussy.

Yep, I wrote it. The word “pussy” has multiple meanings. I went to Merriam-Webster.com to get the skinny.

The most basic definition of “pussy” is pretty simple: a cat.

Another common definition of “pussy” is: a weak or cowardly man or boy (synonyms are “wimp” and “wussy”).

Finally, a third definition of “pussy” is: slang for a woman’s genitalia, and this usage is considered “vulgar” (it has “vulgar” in red letters beside the definition on the Merriam-Webster website).

The media as been on fire recently about The Donald repeating what one of his supporters shouted about Cruz. Yes, the supporter called Cruz a pussy, and yes, The Donald didn’t just let it go. The Donald spent too much time saying he couldn’t repeat what the supporter had said just to end up saying himself, “He’s a pussy.” The Donald went on to teasingly reprimand the supporter, to the laughter of his supporters. “Hahaha…” and all that jazz.

Why is the media so on fire about this statement? Maybe calling an opponent a “pussy” is unprofessional (it’s The Donald, would anyone expect more?), but he (or his supporter) was not calling Cruz a woman’s genitalia. I’m pretty sure the definition was more along the lines of “wimp”. The media just hates The Donald and will try to make him look as crude and vulgar as possible to accomplish the media’s own ends… ends that dismiss the wishes of about half of our country’s population.

I think of “pussy” in pretty much the same category as “crap”, or “sucks” or “screw you”. These are not words of phrases that I want my kids using, but unlike more severe words, they would warrant a talking to and not a slap across the face (unless “pussy” is in reference to a woman’s privates, then it is slap worthy… but you can set up some pretty cool double entendre if you put your mind to it ).

I am not offended by The Donald making light of a supporter calling Cruz a “pussy”. What is amazing to me is the irony of the situation. I find it ironic that The Donald would refer to Cruz as a “pussy” when The Donald himself is such a twat…

The Rich and the Poor and the Pools They Swim In…

So, those in charge of the City of Scottsbluff have closed the only truly public outdoor pool in Scottsbluff. The Splash Arena has been closed, and a “shortage of lifeguards” is cited as the reason.

For those not familiar with the Westmoor Pool, it’s not really a swimming pool. The Westmoor Pool is a kiddie park with some water. The Westmoor Pool is a crowded and loud wading pool with water tainted by the urine of hundreds of toddlers. I do not like the Westmoor pool. But I love how the dude in the video is asking patrons not to come right at opening. I love how he is asking people to wait until about 3:30 pm to come to the pool, you know, to distribute the pool load. Apparently Mr. Mader has never been to one of the outdoor Scottsbluff pools in the late afternoon… you know, when the evening thunderstorms are starting to roll in. I have been at our pools during those times, and it is a joy to watch the lifeguards.

If there are dark clouds on the horizon, the lifeguards’ attention all turn to the skies. You can see the giddy excitement on their faces, I’m sure imagining a short shift and planning what they are going to do with the remainder of their day since they know work will end early… yet again. If there are dark clouds on the horizon (which, on many, many evenings in the panhandle of Nebraska, there are), you best be watching out for your own kid’s safety, because the attention of the lifeguards won’t leave the sky until that first flash of lightening in the 30 mile distance is sighted, the whistles blow, and you get to go home with no refund or complimentary pass for a later time. Yeah, let’s encourage people to go to the pool at a time when they are going to get screwed by the weather. Brilliant!

Of course, there are other options given by the representative of the city. The City of Gering has a nice public outdoor pool. The only issue with that is that the residents of Gering HATE the residents of Scottsbluff. If all of a sudden the Gering pool is at capacity because of an influx of Scottsbluff residents, there will be blood. Gering residents would rather have their pool blown up by Islamic fundamentalists than let the residents of Scottsbluff pollute it with their “north-of-the-river” disease.

The video also mentions the YMCA Trails West pool, which is a private pool and is not available to the public… unless you want to rent it… for $75 an hour… with a two hour minimum… not exactly an affordable option for most folks.

The last option offered up by the brain trust at the City of Scottsbluff is the Scotts Bluff Country Club pool.

Seriously?

They’re gonna make me give my opinion on country clubs?

Okay, here we go…

You have to be a member of the Scotts Bluff Country Club to use the pool at the Scotts Bluff Country Club. Most residents of the City of Scottsbluff and surrounding area cannot afford a membership to the Scotts Bluff Country Club. Most of the people who frequent public pools (myself included) are exactly the kinds of people who country club members are trying to avoid by joining a country club! People with money join country clubs to hang out with other people who make a similar amount of money. People do not join country clubs to hang out with the kind of people they may run into if they are forced into a trip to Walmart. Successful business owners join country clubs so they are assured they will not run into one of the low-paid employees they have to deal with during the work week. Lawyers and politicians join country clubs so they are guaranteed they will not run into much of the “common trash” they represent. The fact that a representative of the City of Scottsbluff would list the Scotts Bluff Country Club pool as a viable option for the swimming needs of anyone other than the elite of Scotts Bluff County makes me realize how out of touch some people are. The elite already use the country club pool. The elite wouldn’t be caught dead (or have their children caught dead) at a public pool. Mentioning the Scotts Bluff Country Club pool in a PR piece that attemptes to give alternatives to a frustrated general population may actually have an opposite effect. Many patrons who will not get to use the public pools as much as they would like have just been reminded that, up on the hill, there is a place where the local financial elite have their own pool… and we’re not welcome to use it. Thanks for the reminder, City of Scottsbluff…