General Stench – Page 7 – HappyStinkingJoy

The Palm Trees in My Basement Bathroom…

We have this bathroom in our basement. I love this room. This room is where I go when I want to spend some quality time alone. The wife has decorated our little downstairs bathroom with a “theme”. The “theme” of this room is palm trees.
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I used to wonder how the lovely wife came up with the theme of palm trees for this particular room. I suspected that Walmart had a clearance rack of toilet-related materials and the only matching set the wife could find was palm trees. The wife claims the theme arrived in remembrance of our honeymoon almost 18 years ago in Cancun…
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… and the soft, warm breezes on the beach and the hint of lime in every shrimp quesadilla… or lobster taco… or 39 peso cheeseburger at McDonalds (seriously, every thing from Budweiser to bacon in Cancun has a hint of lime). Whenever I inquire about the theme downstairs, the wife waxes nostalgic of a time right after she and I stood before a man of God, all our family, and most of of friends and proclaimed our undying love for each other. Cancun for the wife and I was the whipped cream on the Hot Fudge Brownie Delight that is married life. Remember when Dairy Queen used to sell Hot Fudge Brownie Delights? These were the calorie-laden monstrosities that consisted of mountains of delectable soft-serve ice cream resting on plains of nut-covered chocolate brownies separated only by seemingly endless rivers of hot, steamy fudge… and then irresponsibly topped with the snow capped ridges of 100% dairy-and-sugar filled whipped cream. The foundation of marriage is the brownies and ice cream and I do not for an instance regret any part of it… but our honeymoon was the whipped topping, full of fun and sweetness and decadence…
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… everything that convinces a man that he is settling down with the right woman to begin a life of work and responsibilities and children and STINKING FUNDRAISERS!!! I digress…

So, anyway, I spend a large portion of my “free time” in our downstairs bathroom staring at the shower curtain that rests directly in front of the toilet.
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You may wonder to yourself, “now, what exactly could he be doing on the toilet for any measurable amount of time that would lead him to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at a shower curtain?” Well, you may be slightly dented for asking such a question. What goes in must come out, and I am sincerely sorry to point this out, but even Johnny Depp and Katy Perry spend time staring at the palm trees… if you know what I mean 😉

The wife dreams of tropical places when she and I discuss the wonderful places we would like to settle down once we figure out what we are going to do with the rest of our lives. I, on the other hand, tend to lean more towards something more mountainous.
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Of course, both of us are open to the ideas of the other. I would be almost as content in a bungalow on the beach, and she seems fine with the thought of fresh mountain air and fresh-caught trout with wild asparagus for supper a couple of nights a week. One problem is that we don’t know quite how to get to either of these locals. The second problem is that we live in Nebraska, which does have a scenery all its own, like this…
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… and this…
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… and this…
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… along with…
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and, occasionally even…
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… which leads to…
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… and ultimately…
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… but is about as far as you can get from either a tropical paradise or a scenic mountain retreat.

Living in either a tropical paradise or a mountain of solitude would require an income that currently surpasses us here where we actually have jobs, let alone in a remote location where jobs are few and far between. I’d like to think that we would be able to use our retirement savings to get us to our dream location, but I would also like to think that I don’t look my age and that the tooth fairy pays out even more when the elderly loose their teeth. All three of these wishes are pipe dreams. I figure that the only way the wife and I are ever going to see our dreams come true is found in three simple words:

third world country.

Third world countries can be tropical, and third world countries can have mountains. Third world countries are a lot cheaper to live in than the United States. Help me, Third World Country… you’re my only hope!

I figure if the wife and I can save up a few thousand dollars, we should be able to move to some neato place like Guatemala or Somalia or, heck, I hear there are some good deals on property in Afghanistan right now. Guatemala and Somalia both have some nice oceanfront property
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and Afghanistan is known for it’s mountainous regions.

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Heck, that’s where all the fugitive Taliban hide, right?
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For a few thousand dollars, we should be able to live like a king and queen! Oh sure, there would be some language barriers, but I’m sure that any self-respecting country would teach English as a second language, right? And even if they don’t, just think of the millions of Mexicans who migrate to the US who don’t speak a word of English. The Mexicans get by just fine. In fact, many companies and even our government bend over backwards to make sure our Spanish speaking friends don’t have to bother with learning English. After all, on almost any telephone call you can always “apriete dos para español.” As ass-backwards as the US is viewed by the rest of the world, I’m sure these third world countries have even better programs in place to make non-native tongue people feel welcome, right? Of course they do.

There may be some other small hindrances, like decent health care, or a clean water supply, or a reliable food source. And the fact that the wife and I are Christian may lead to a problem or two. We may have to fend off the occasional suicide bomber or be weary of any Muslims with a big knife and a penchant for heads, but I’m sure it will be worth it to live in the type of surroundings that we dream of. I mean, it’s pretty obvious we aren’t going to make those dreams come true in the US.

Ahh… so maybe our dreams really can come true. Maybe there is some hope for our future outside of the good life that can only be found in Nebraska. I mean, either dying a martyr at the hands of a radical Muslim, or staring at another corn field and watching another disappointing Husker football season. At least the martyrdom would be on a beach… or in the mountains…

Well, that’s enough for now. I had a big supper, and my daily fiber seems to be kicking in. I have a date with some palm trees…
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Is that a CPAP on your face, or are you just happy to see me…

Nothing says “sexy beast” like a dude in a CPAP mask.

Just ask me.

I mean, at any given point of the day I have multiple people comment on my sexy goodness, but check me out in the middle of the night when I’m all nose-hosed and compressurized. The sight of me when I’m all CPAPed-up would turn any women to a state of weak-kneed, wanton lustfulness!

Just ask the wife.

Yeppers, CPAP has been the best thing to happen to my love life since… I mean the intimacy level in my bedroom has… well, uh, when the mask goes on, the romance…

Crap.

Who am I kidding…

Wearing a CPAP has helped me sleep better, and that’s it. It has not been at all helpful in the hanky-panky department.

My life has been filled with self-doubt and low self-confidence. I didn’t date in high school or college because I couldn’t expect some poor girl lose all self-respect for herself by being seen in public with me. I kind of assumed that a kiss from me might actually turn the girl into a toad. After college, I was lucky to meet the woman who is currently my wife. She seemed to like me well enough, and she didn’t have any major issues with being seen in public with me. She didn’t turn into a toad. So, even with her glaringly obvious mental condition, I married her.

Now, in addition to being a rather unsightly fellow, I snore like a mother. Yep, always have. Roommates in college cringed at the thought of sharing a room with me. If I had a dollar for every pillow thrown at me in the middle of the night, my wealth would put Warren Buffett’s to shame. My wife, bless her, put up with it for more than a decade before she could take no more.

So, I have the sex appeal of Quasimodo, a snoring ferocity that would silence a caterwauling cat, and the love-making skills of a zombie on crack. Yes, my wife is a lucky lady.

I figured that if I reduced one of the many negative traits that make up — you know — me, maybe I could score some points with the wife. You know, increase the frequency of the cracked-out zombie lovin’ just a bit. Then I realized what the wife was looking at on the opposite end of the bed every night and morning…

… and I realized that my previous thoughts and motivation were somewhat deluded.

Damn it.

Not only is a CPAP more effective than a chastity belt, it’s hella expensive to maintain. My CPAP contraption is made by Philips. You know, the light bulb people. Apparently Philips isn’t raking in quite enough money selling light bulbs, because they try to rape you on the price of one of their CPAP machines. I mean, seriously… A CPAP machine is little more than a reverse vacuum cleaner that blows instead of sucks. It’s got some kinda brain that registers when to blow and when not to. My Droid X phone completes a hell of a lot more complicated tasks than my CPAP machine, but the Droid X cost a small fraction of what that stupid Philips thingie did. Plus, I don’t have to buy outrageously priced replacement parts for my Droid X. This little gasket thingie (I believe it’s referred to as a “cushion” in the screwlicious world of CPAP) costs $65:

Seriously… 65 freaking dollars for a little piece of rubber. And, you wanna take a wild guess at how long that little sucker lasts? About a month.

Yeppers, one solitary month, or as they stay in China: 一個臭烘烘的一個月.

After about a month, the piece of crap starts to leak. So, with the payments on the machine (we rent… ’cause that’s the way our insurance rolls), the monthly “cushion”, and the other cheaply made, outrageously prices parts and pieces that need to be purchased for this sucker on a regular basis, my CPAP therapy costs a small fortune every year to maintain. I don’t know how people who aren’t on decent insurance can afford something like this (unless, of course, they are in that stupid 1%); oh wait… they can’t. People who are uninsured or have crappy insurance get to die early because they can’t afford to treat their sleep apnea. Well, we’re all better off without them, right? Don’t believe me? Just ask the 1%.

Oh sure, my sleep apnea is somewhat under control now. I sleep better at night. My wife sleeps better at night. But, I will freaking look like this every night for the rest of my life:

Bet you’re gonna have nightmares now, aren’t you? I do, and I’m sure the wife does too…

I Hate the Holidays…

Yep, you read right: I hate the holidays. By “the holidays,” I mean the season starting right around Halloween (which I know isn’t a real holiday, but that’s when this all starts)…

… and ending shortly after the champagne is drained on New Year’s Eve.

I hate this time of year. Not that I don’t appreciate things like Christ’s birth. You know, He went on to die a horrible death on a cross for our sins! His is a birth worth celebrating. It’s not that I don’t need to show my appreciation for all that I have by gorging myself on turkey and mashed potatoes and pecan pie… I do that just like I’m supposed to. The reason I hate the holidays is because the holidays are a two-month extravaganza leading to the ending of another year. The holidays are also the beginning of a new year that is supposed to hold new promise and hope for great things to come. Whatever…

Being an old pessimist, the ending of a year means another year of exactly what I expected: nothing spectacular.

I spent about 35% of my waking hours in 2011 getting up much earlier than I cared to and going to a job. I sat at a desk and talked with people who were upset with their Internet service, tried to manage a small cast of characters, and had any creative marketing idea I came up with shot down faster than the boss could say, “I’m not feeling it.” I think a funny YouTube video with a grandma, an alien, a “probe” and Internet would be hilarious and create much interest in our Internet services. The boss disagrees. Whatever… it’s his company. If he wants to keep it a “family-friendly” local business, that’s his choice. I guess my ideas are better for a national (or even world-wide) audience. My thoughts are too grand for Crapbraska.

After work, I almost daily went to the YMCA to do some cardio, which I recently discovered was pretty much worthless. Even though I worked my butt off at the Y, I didn’t lose a pound (apparently everything on my butt went straight to my gut), and I still found myself going on both high blood pressure and cholesterol medication this past year. I’m destined to be a fat person who doesn’t quite fit in…

At this point, it should be fairly obvious that a large portion of my life is nothing more than a huge waste of time. That’s always gratifying… knowing that a large portion of the time you spend breathing air is nothing more than time spent stealing air from someone who makes a difference.

So, the holidays do nothing more for me than remind me that I spent a large portion of the year not mattering. See, an optimist may find that realization a little depressing; for a pessimist, it’s the status quo. Long live the pessimist, usurper of the air of people who matter!

Thus, what the new year holds for me is little to get excited about. Lather, rinse, repeat. Such is life.

The great thing about being a pessimist is I know exactly what the new year is going to bring… no pleasant surprises. And if there is a pleasant surprise, it will be just that: a pleasant surprise.

The sucky thing about being a pessimist is I know exactly what the new year is going to bring…

…happy holidays, or whatever…

My Arch-Nemeses…

Do you have an arch-nemesis? Do certain people upset you just by the fact that they are alive? Do you find yourself in a social situation and come to the distinct conclusion that a certain person is ruining your social experience just by the mere fact that he or she is breathing the same air as you? No? Well, maybe it’s just me. I tend to be a little odd in that way. “That way”… hahaha… like that’s the only one! No — I’m odd in a multitude of ways. The topic of this post is, however, going to be my arch-nemesis.

I do not have a single arch-nemesis. No, I have the privilege of having several arch-nemeses. Yes — I had to look up the plural for nemesis, and yes — it is nemeses. Just because I didn’t know this does not make me less of a blogger. The fact that I’m admitting it may in fact mean that my grammar is derelict amongst the uppity-ups in the blogosphere, but that brings the point full circle to the purpose of this post. The uppity-ups are my arch-nemeses.

What do I mean by “uppity-ups”? One may think that an uppity-up is someone who looks down on others through some misconception that said someone has about being better than those he or she looks down on.

No.

My definition is based more on my feelings and how I think that person feels about their relative importance to society. I am most likely completely incorrect in my feelings and thinking, but this is how I judge someone’s arch-nemesis-worthiness.

Confused? Yeah, I may be too. Let me give an example.

Let’s pretend that last night I went to a choir concert. Let’s pretend that I was at said concert with the wife for the purpose of viewing my oldest son sing with the choir. Yes, he’s in the choir and no, he did not crash the concert in an attempt show off his singing ability. He is his mother’s son as much as he is mine. At this pretend concert, the wife and I enjoyed the experience and it was a fulfilling hour of musical entertainment.

Now, the pretend concert is over and my family and I are making our way from the auditorium to the parking lot. This is when I start to spot them: my arch-nemeses. First the shoe-store man and his wife. I know that this man is a zillionaire because, if you are buying shoes in the panhandle of Nebraska, most likely, you are buying them from him. Money is practically oozing out of this guy. He doesn’t have a clue as to who I am, because… why would he? Suddenly, it’s on! And up-up-and-awaaaayyyy goes my paranoid mind:

This guy probably thinks he is better than me. His wife think she is better than my wife. Their kid thinks he is better than my kid. Other people like Shoe-store Man’s family better than they like my family because the guy is a bazillionaire.

Other kids in school treat Shoe-store Man’s kid better than they treat my kid because Shoe-store Man is a quadrabazillionaire. Shoe-store Man’s kid is going to have a better, more successful life than my kid because my kid has me for a father instead of my arch-nemesis.

My kid hates me and secretly wants Shoe-Store Man to adopt him! My wife secretly desires an affair with Shoe-store Man because it is blatantly obvious that Shoe-store Man is a better provider for his family than I am. Shoe-store Man is like seven-foot tall and attractive… and I am at 5’7″, fat and ugly… and I really can’t blame my wife for wanting to leave me for Shoe-store Man. Shoe-store Man is destroying my family and robbing me of my life!

Shoe-store Man must DIE!!!

The wife asks if everything is okay.

“Are you kidding?!?” I seethe. “Do you see that SOB and his wife, acting all like their better than us and crap?”

“What are you talking about?” The concern in the wife’s voice is filtered out by the pure hatred in my soul.

“There,” I point, my entire body shaking as I try to aim my finger in the general direction of the shoe-store guy and his family.

“What about them?” asks the wife.

“They are ruining this for me!” I say through clenched teeth.

“What are they doing?” asks the wife.

“Can’t… can’t… can’t you see it?” I stammer. “They’re… he is… tall… their net worth… and the smug… she looks so…designer clothes… AAUGH (because I may actually turn into Charlie Brown when I’m upset) — THEY ARE RUINING THIS FOR ME!”

“I think you need to go to the car,” says the wife calmly. She has seen me like this before.

“I WILL!” I yell and then stomp off toward the parking lot once again. I glare at shoe-store guy until he is out of my sight.

‘Don’t think I don’t know who you are, Shoe-store Man,’ I whisper to myself. A small girl in pigtails with a lollipop in her mouth hears my whisper of rage and stares at me wide-eyed like I’m crazy. I growl at her and she looks away.

And as I am about to exit the building, I see him. A chiropractor, smiling as he mingles with the throbbing mass of after-concert crowd. A chiropractor whom I suspect to be a multi-quadrabazillionaire. The one who may very well be my arch-nemesis… The Chiropractor!

Hahaha… of course this is all an exaggeration (… or is it?). None of this really happened (… or did it?).

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, so I tend to use mine whenever possible… not always in the most productive ways, but I’m using it. I use it daily. I’m using my mind to sniff out my arch-nemeses…

Have I Mentioned the 40s Suck?

I recently had a guy from the church I go to invite me to participate in a mens support-group-type-thingie. Having never been invited by much of anyone to participate in much of anything since moving to the wonderful panhandle of Nebraska, I was at first quite excited. He explained to me that this would be a group of guys getting together once a week for a couple of hour shooting some hoops and, you know, just being there for each other if anyone needed some other guys to talk to about, you know, guy stuff.

What a spectacular idea! I thought this sounded pretty cool, and I was stoked that this guy had thought of inviting me to participate! I was stoked until he asked me the following:

“You are 40 or over, right?”

Oh crap.

“Yes, I’m 42,” I said, suddenly feeling a little nauseous.

“Great,” he said. “We’re doing this for guys 40 and over. You know, the younger guys have other stuff they are involved in and support groups in place. When you get to be our age, it’s harder to keep up with the young ones but all guys need a little male bonding. We thought it would be pretty neato if a group of us older guys could hang out.”

Suddenly, my mind is racing. “Our age”… I believe this dude just turned 50. All of a sudden “our age” is 50? Crap. “Harder to keep up”… “older guys”… “neato”… I don’t remember anyone from my generation ever using stinking “neato” in daily conversation… am I starting to lose my memory? All of a sudden I’m being asked to join a senior citizens’ group! It’s almost like he just handed me the stinking senior discount card for Perkins and is asking me to join him and the other codgers for some pie and coffee at 4:30 in the stinking morning. This is what I’m reduced to?!?

I’ve never really had a “group” that I fit in with here in the wonderland of Nebraska. At 42, I feel like I may well be stuck in some sort of groupless vortex. Those younger than me are either hanging out at the bars or doing the sports thing. I’m not too keen on any kind of bar scene, and the thought of taking off my shirt for a pick-up game of shirts and skins makes me (and anyone who has seen me) have a little bit of throw-up-in-the-mouth action going on. I don’t really hunt, and fishing is fun for about 15 minutes. Driving for 8 hours to Lincoln for a Husker game — along with the 4 hours of the game itself and the 8-hour drive back… plus the cost of the ticket and travel — is time and money from a short, poor life that I would never be able to get back. Willingly going to a Husker game would be kind of like paying the police $300 to spend the day in jail; it’s just not something I personally could do and still claim sanity. I’m at an age and level in the local society where I really just don’t fit in with any group.

Many of the guys my age or older seem to be either:

A — of a higher social standing than me and/or making more money than me.

B — on foodstamps and welfare and happy as hell that they are living off of the taxes of others.

C — of a similar social standing and income to me, but they like spending their evenings and weekends at the bars or rooting for the Huskers.

C- — This is a subsection of C. These are guys who are in pretty much the same crappy, sinking boat as me, but they have something aside from work to latch onto. They have their music, or they have their art or their hobbies. They get together with a bunch of other geeks once a month and play Dungeons and Dragons. They have something in common with others that draws them into groups.

So, even though I may be resigning myself to the fact that I am approaching ancientness, I decide to be thankful that at least the old guys at my church are willing to invite me into their group.

“So, who all will be there?” I ask the inviter (who happens to own his own successful insurance agency).

He proceeds to tell me that there will probably be a couple of other successful business owners, a couple of dentists, a pastor, and other various successful guys. Once again, I’m starting to doubt that I stand much of a chance of fitting in.

“And when do you meet?” I asked.

“Mondays, from 7 to 9 at night at the church,” he said.

“Oh… that’s too bad,” I said. “I’m a boy scout leader and we have troop meetings every Monday at 7.”

“Well, if you ever get a chance, try to make it,” he said.

“I will, ” I probably lied.

So on Monday nights, instead of hanging out with a bunch of good guys who will unwittingly make me feel even more down about my social lot in life, I’ll still be hanging out with the boy scouts. Boy scouts are young and eager and full of optimism… and I have the responsibility of awakening them to the realities of life as I see them. How’s that for hope for our future 😀

The Panhandle Smells… Apparently Like Money…

I remember back to when I first moved to the panhandle of Nebraska way too many years ago. I remember all of the disgusting smells that should have warned me that I wasn’t going to like it here, smells that I ignored and have somewhat gotten used to. I remember complaining about those smells only to have one crusty old codger or another tell me not to complain. “Smells like money,” was the codgerly proclamation. I didn’t understand it then, and I don’t understand it now. Money, from what little interaction I have with it here in the panhandle, smells of musty paper and cocaine. None of the things around the panhandle have what I consider to be the smell of money. I have people tell me that I need to appreciate the beauty of the panhandle. These are the same people who go around taking pictures of weeds and sunsets and crap and find beauty in these simple things. My observations tend to tilt in a little different direction, so I have tried to capture the stench of the panhandle through pictures. One of the first smells I had to adjust to was the smell of processing sugar beets.

A sugar beet is a tuber-thingie that tastes like a potato. Apparently, through some magical chemical process, sugar can be drawn out of these bland wads of starch. I don’t know exactly how it is done, but I know it involves lime, a lot of heat, and the production of some major stink.

Sugar beet is a major crop around these parts, and you can see the harvested beets in seemingly endless piles around the area.

I remember the first time I inquired about this stench. “Smells like money,” I was told. I don’t remember ever opening up my wallet and being met with the smell of sun-ripened vomit, but I guess, to some, that’s what money smells like. And, apparently, the smell of money is good for the environment, too.

There is another smell that permeates the region from time to time.

No, that’s dead possum. Although it didn’t smell that much more unpleasant than what I’m referring to… and it does remind me of a series of unrelated pictures that I have on my phone. I think I’ll share them here. In other words, here lies a totally unrelated sidetrack. Stay tuned for more of the stench of the panhandle…

Okay, so last winter after one of my posts dogging on Nebraska, this guy comes up to me and says, “Why don’t you try to find the beauty in our area? Why can’t you be more like Katie Bradshaw?” Apparently, Katie recently moved here. She does a blog on her experiences (which are far different from mine), and she has major photo-taking abilities. Her blog actually landed her a position with one of the the local newspapers. I don’t have much in the way of photo-taking abilities, but I thought I would give it a shot.

I thought I could document the businesses that have gone under in our spectacular rural community.

Problem is, this business is still open. This business was a car wash, tanning salon, custom embroidery, restaurant, cocktail bar with a self-service dog wash. No kidding, I couldn’t make something this ludicrous up. Apparently, the rest of the business is doing great, they just had to close, you know, the restaurant part?!?

Then there are the plethora of these:

During my younger days in Montana, I used to hunt… a lot. Public land was everywhere, and finding a deer or an antelope or a pheasant or a grouse to take home and put in the freezer was easy. In Nebraska, private land rules the range, and if you don’t know some crotchety old landowner, there is no reason to buy a hunting license. Needless to say, even after 15+ years of living here, I don’t know any crotchety old landowners.

I could have focused on what we meager-wage-earners have to look forward to here in the panhandle…

… but that would have just been plain-old depressing.

I’m going to throw this one in just because I think it’s cool. It’s from a local tattoo shop and the outrage that it created was extraordinary. It was free speech versus the anally uptight… and free speech won 🙂

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Wait a second! What’s that beautiful dark figure in the awesomely artistic photograph I have taken below?

Ah, the beauty of a winter’s night in the panhandle of Nebraska. Is it a beautiful winter street flower? Is it a fairy from the tales of old?

Yeah, no, it’s a dead cat. This stupid cat had been in the road by my house for like a week. Poor thing was hit by one of the speed-limit breaking residents of the trailer park up the road. I was going to dispose of it when I first saw it, but I figured there may be a little girl somewhere missing her lost kitty. I wanted the family to be able to find the cat for, you know, some closure. However, after a week, I was tired of looking at it and decided to scrape it’s frozen butt off the street and throw it gently place it in the trash receptacle. So, I scraped it and bagged it. Little did I realize that frozen cats are a little… pointy.

So, I did what any good samaritan would have done… I double bagged it.

Still pointy. If not so morbid, it’d almost be a bit funny… you know, how pointy that frozen cat was. Wouldn’t want to swing it around because you could put an eye out or something.

Anyway, so ended my attempt at capturing the beauty of the panhandle in pictures. I disposed of the cat properly, said a few words for the family who was probably still looking for her, and may have made a pointy-cat joke or two. Katie Bradshaw can keep her picture-taking ability.

Okay, so now we get back on-track to the smell of money that reminds me of roadkill.

That’s right, the good old feedlots. When the breeze blows just right, you can get your face full of the smell of feedlot at any given time of the year. Summer seems to be best though.

“Smells like money!”

Seriously? Are you sure that smells like money?

“Yep, smells like money!”

Smells like cow shit to me, but to each his own, I guess.

Finally, the third horse of the smells-like-money trifecta: the railroad. In our little community, we have not one railroad line usurping the positive energy from our lives, but two monstrosities of greed and power to interfere with our daily being. Stupid BNSF and Union Pacific.

“Don’t complain, ’cause it smells like money!”

But the railroads don’t really have a smell, do they. I mean, that really doesn’t even make any sense…

“Shut up, whiny boy! Smells like money!”

Okay, whatever. The railroads apparently smell like money, too. A few years ago here in the wonderful panhandle of Nebraska, BNSF smelled like benzine. We got us a little national press coverage, and BNSF paid-off a lot of people to guarantee the prevention of future lawsuits. Now, all is well. I mean, there is the occasional child born with extra digits and whatnot, but we make them feel extra special… like one of the X-men.

“I’m gonna count your piggy toes… yes I am! 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13! 13 just means you’ve been blessed by the benzine, and your special… like Wolverine… except with extra piggy toes instead of super claws. We’ll call you Piggy-Toe Man, and your foot stench will be extra powerful… because, you know, you have extra piggy toes…”

Ah, the joys of benzine. They should put it in our water… you know, like fluoride. ‘Cause I’m guessing benzine may actually be less toxic than fluoride…

The tragic thing is, you can actually get stopped by multiple trains at multiple crossings if you are traveling from one end of Scottsbluff to the opposite end of Gering. That’s right, not only can you get stopped by both BNSF and UP trains, you can get stopped by more than one train at each crossing. But you know what really sucks? What really sucks is when BNSF decides to close multiple crossings in Scottsbluff for repairs… AT THE SAME TIME! BNSF has like 6 crossings within the Scottsbluff city limits, and 4 of them are currently closed.

Talk about throwing a major screw-up wrench in the daily lives of thousands of people. What mongoloid idiot made that insane decision… and why did no one from the city do anything to alter those magnificently dubious plans? City manager Rick Kuckkahn made a statement to local news outlet KNEB and he said he understood drivers’ frustrations. Does he really? Apparently BNSF has “extra people” in town, so the jobs can be completed quicker than normal. Notice all of the people humping ass to get the work done in my pictures above? Yeah, drive by any of the closed crossings and they all look pretty much the same. And not only is there an apparent lack of urgency in completing the work necessary to re-open the crossings, now all of the trains creep through town at like a quarter of there normal speed. Talk about some small town gridlock. Mr. Kuckkahn said the closings were “unavoidable.” Really, Rick, unavoidable? The city manager has no say on not closing the majority of crossings in the town he manages? I don’t think Rick Kuckkahn understands much of anything. Smells like money to me.

I have come to a distinct conclusion after considering the various smells of money that permeate our community: there may very well come a time when one must stop living in a community where one can smell the money and move to a community where one can actually earn it.

The Leaves of Fall

A few years back, I had a job that required me to spend a large portion of my time behind the wheel of a truck. Early mornings were common, and I’d drive a lot of miles before returning home. One memory stands out in my head above all others from that period of my life, and I believe that memory helped shape my current attitude toward the community I currently call home.

The day I remember must have been really close to this time if year. The leaves had mostly turned, early mornings demanded a slight scraping of frost from the windshield, and the jacket I wore to brace against the frigid morning breeze rested on the seat beside me before noon. Fall in Nebraska is almost like two seasons in one: the pleasant, warm time while the sun brightens the day, and the crappy, cold time when the sun, too, has had its fill of Nebraska. On this particular day, I had left at around 3:00 am for some early morning business in Kimball. The business in Kimball didn’t take too awful long, and I found myself driving back into Scottsbluff at around 11:00am. As I drove north on Highway 71 and drove over the bridge spanning the meek North Platte River, I couldn’t help but notice all of the leaves that littered the side of the road. The area around the river is one of the few places where you can find a multitude of trees all in one spot in western Nebraska, and a significant wind must have blown through the previous night. I can not remember a time before nor after that day where I have seen an exodus of leaves along the roadside of that magnitude. I was so impressed that I actually pulled over to the side of the road and just stared at the leaves.

A light breeze blew, and the leaves tumbled and twirled along the embankment. Brown leaves, yellow leaves, and even some green leaves and the occasional red leaf — leaves of all shape and size, though mostly cottonwood leaves — bustled along in an attempt to find the final resting place where decay could completely consume them. The leaves fascinated me. They were just a bunch of stinking leaves, but they were beautiful in their own way. As I watched the leaves, I realized that they had all come to this stretch of road in Scotts Bluff County, probably through no choice of their own (I don’t think leaves have “choice”, do they?) either to die or because they were already dead.

While watching the leaves from my truck by the bridge over the North Platte River, I remembered a man I had recently seen at Walmart. A funny looking man standing back in the dairy section caught my eye. From a distance, the man appeared to be quite well-off. He appeared to be dressed in a nice suit with shiny shoes and a stunning little bowler hat.

“How odd for someone to be dressed like that in Walmart,” I thought to myself, “and it’s not even Sunday.”

As I pushed my shopping cart closer to the man, his clean, crisp image began to unravel. The man’s suit was not really very nice at all; it was haggard and stained… and it smelled… smelled bad. His shoes (although it was obvious that a great deal of care had gone into their shining) barely had any soles, his right toe peeked out from not only the right shoe but the right sock as well, and the frayed laces appeared to be just getting the job done of keeping the shoes on his feet. The white sweat stain that circled the man’s bowler added to the appearance of age that the runs in the bowler’s fabric created. The old man seemed to be in a hurry to find something. As I passed him, however, he offered a sincere, toothless smile as he gently touched the brim of his hat… then he bustled on his way.

The memory of the man faded, and once again I watched the leaves — the leaves whose sole remaining purpose was to become fertilizer for the next generation — the leaves whose final resting place may be a stretch of road in the panhandle of Nebraska.

My mind wandered again, this time to the overweight population of Scottsbluff. In 2009, Quality Health ran an article titled “10 Fattest Cities in America.” Scottsbluff (not a community that graces many “top ten” lists) with 31% of its population classified as obese, came in at number seven. Seventh fattest city in America… there’s something to take pride in. See what a little corn-fed beef and buttered corn on the cob can do for a community? And don’t forget about the wonderful high fructose corn syrup! Corn… it’s what for dinner… and it leads to obesity! Maybe people here just don’t know how to take care of themselves. Maybe people here just don’t care. Maybe people in the panhandle of Nebraska are just trying to tumble and twirl through life and get what little pleasure they can along the way. A lot of pleasure can be found in a couple of Big Macs with a large fries and a Coke.

As I continued to watch the bustling leaves, I started to get cold. The leaves I watched put on quite a show, but I started to realize that they really weren’t as beautiful as I originally thought. I began to suspect that, upon closer inspection, the leaves might actually be kind of gnarly — full of bug bites and patches of disease and torn flesh and broken dreams. I thought of the people that I know who have a bachelor’s degree in this or a master’s degree in that, and they are stocking shelves at a grocery store or working as para-educators or slinging a construction hammer. The leaves weren’t searching for a fulfilling life there along the side of the road in Scottsbluff, NE; they were there because they were dying or dead.

My appetite for watching the leaves gone, I suddenly just wanted to go home. Still chilly, I slid on my jacket from the seat beside me as I started the truck and bustled toward home with the dawning realization that I probably had a lawn full of leaves in need of raking…

I’m a Sore Loser… or, What School Sports Taught Me

When I was a kid, I was pretty involved in sports. In elementary school, I played basketball, Little League, flag football, and participated in track. I was very young and relatively skinny then, so I (like most young, skinny kids) did pretty well at sports.

Then I entered high school, and everything changed.

In high school, I started to put on weight. I stopped growing vertically, but I didn’t limit my eating, so I began to grow horizontally.

In other words, I got fat.

Even though I was fat, I tried my hand at various sports. Okay, not really “various”… more like a few. And two is really more like “a couple” than it is “a few”, so I really participated in “a couple” of sports in high school: football and track. Needless to say, I really pretty much sucked at both of them.

I went out for football because my dad really wanted me to. I went out for track so that I wouldn’t put on a tremendous amount of gut-fat before the next football season.

I totally sucked at track. I attempted the javelin, discus and shot put. I was too fat to run or jump, and I wasn’t strong enough to excel at any of the “strong guy” events. I remember one of the coaches didn’t like me very much. In fact, I would dare say that man hated me. I wasn’t good enough to really even be on track, but I went out all four years. This may be hard to believe, but I was kind of a smart-ass in high school. I was never disrespectful to my teachers or coaches, but I liked to make people laugh… and apparently this coach didn’t share my sense of humor. Also, one of his pet runners was one of my best friends. This coach felt that I was a bad influence on his pet. Little did this coach know that his pet was far more of a bad influence on me that I could have ever been on him. However, I liked my friend and was happy when he had success with his running. So, I put up with all of the crap that jackass coach dished out solely to me. I can’t remember a single thing that I did to that man that would have made him hate me so much… but he never once had a kind word for me… not even a smile. Whatever. It’s not like I hold a grudge or anything… that miserable son of a …

Anywho, football was a little more up my alley. I understood the game, and I even came to enjoy playing it. I actually came to believe that I wasn’t half bad at it. My junior year, our varsity team went undefeated and won the Montana Class A State Football Championship. That championship was in 1986… and was the last year to date that a Glasgow, MT football team has won state. I should be proud, right? Well, seeing as how I really didn’t have anything to do with it, nah. In fact, that championship year actually kind of ruined sportsmanship for me. I am probably the poorest loser ever… and I have had plenty of practice.

The summer before our big championship year, my buddy and I started hitting the weight room. At first, we were the only football players there. We really wanted to get a shot to start on a team that we both knew was going to kick butt. Slowly, more and more of the kids from the team started showing up in the weight room. By the end of summer, most every starter on that championship team was in that weight room lifting weights, every starter… and me. I could press a mean bench, and I could squat the crap out of those weights, but I weighed all of a buck-75, and I still wasn’t extraordinarily fast… so I got to sit the bench. Those who tell you that if you want something bad enough and work for something hard enough you’ll get it… are full of crap. I learned this when I was 16-years old. It’s a lesson that I have never forgotten.

Because I showed such dedication in the weight room, the coach must have felt like he needed to throw me a bone. I was put on special teams. I was the center for PAT (point after touchdown). I believe I was on the kick-off team as well. Bones for those who have the determination and put forth the effort… but really aren’t good enough. Some people just aren’t meant for athletics. I hate bones.

So anyway, the team went undefeated in an impressive way and slaughtered most of the competition. Of course, the summer in the weight room was the last time I really ever felt like part of the team, but I was happy for them. And I was ready for the next year.

Another summer was spent in the weight room, a bunch of talented seniors graduated, and I knew that I should have a starting spot. I really like playing middle linebacker (which is where I played in junior varsity), and I didn’t mind center (which I also played in JV). The season starts, and I get both a starting linebacker spot and the starting center spot. Finally, I get to play real high school football and contribute to the team.

The first game comes and goes, and we lose. I felt like I did pretty good. A got a couple of tackles during the game and had several assists. The next week, during practice, the coach pulls me aside and says, “Rich, we don’t have anyone to back you up at center. If you get hurt, we’re in trouble. I’m pulling you from linebacker and we’re going to have you focus on your duties as center.”

I wasn’t stupid. Apparently the coach thought I was. Almost every other player on that team played both ways, and there were many of them who were a hell of a lot more important to the team than I was at center. Like our quarterback, and our running backs, and our receivers… all of whom played both ways. Also, there were two guys who could easily replace me at center… one of whom was a year younger than me but was awesome. He went on to be the center for the Wyoming Cowboys on a scholarship after high school. The coach was feeding me a line of crap, and I knew it. He probably wanted to stick someone else at center as well, but my commitment to the weight room and the fact that I was a senior probably led him to feel obligated to keep me in a starting position… for at least half of the game. I came really close to quitting the team, but I figured I’d stick it out for my final year.

“Sure, Coach, whatever you need me to do,” I said.

We went four-for-four that year. Not nearly as impressive as our predecessors the previous year, but not too shabby considering that a large volume of talent graduated the previous year… and considering that all focus from the coaching staff had gone into those (mostly) seniors and that team.

Still, old people in Glasgow, MT at that time lived and died by Scottie football. It reminds me a lot about how stupid people in Nebraska get about Husker football. I remember one evening, a lot of us football players waiting outside the high school before a basketball game or something. We had a boom box out there and were listening to some tune-age before going in to root for whatever Scottie team was playing in the gym that night. I remember this crusty old piece of crap coming right up to me (why me… I don’t exactly know… probably because I was only 5’7” and he didn’t feel as threatened by me as he did the larger players) and he says something like, “If you boys concentrated more on the game and spent time listening to your loud music, maybe you could actually win a game!”

We were all stunned. The old man hobbled past us and into the building. We turned the music off, staring at our shoes. No one knew who that old man was. No one had ever seen him before, and I don’t remember ever seeing him after. All that I know is that old fart brought down a bunch of teenaged boys very quickly… a bunch of teenaged boys who were doing nothing more than having some innocent fun being what we were: teenagers. Some of the guys went in to watch the game inside. Most of us just went home. Even though I don’t know who that guy was, I hate him. I’m pretty sure he must be dead by now… and that warms my heart just a little bit. It boggles my mind how people get so wrapped-up in sports… or, as I like to think of them, little kid games played by people way too old to be playing little kid games. Old farts past their glory days living vicariously through the efforts of those much younger… playing a little kids’ game. That old fart probably never even played football, yet he took our having a little fun outside of the grueling practices and intense games as a personal assault on what he expected us to be doing. Like I stated earlier… knowing he’s probably dead warms my heart just a little.

So many people talk of the importance of sports… how it teaches teamwork and good sportsmanship, and blah blah blah. For those people, I’m gonna have to call a BS-time-out. In all of my years of school athletics, I didn’t learn how to be part of a team… and I surely didn’t learn good sportsmanship. When we won, it was great. It’s easy to be a good sport when you win. When we lost, I hated life. I was depressed for days after a loss, replaying in my head every mistake that I personally made that in any way could have contributed to the loss. I beat myself up, and I hated the victors for making me feel that way. And when I’d find a way to not focus on what a loser I was and would start to enjoy life again, some crusty old fart would come along and make me feel like garbage. Such is life. Losing is part of the game. In athletics, however, you may learn from your mistakes… but if you don’t have the natural athletic ability, or are not of the right physical composition to acquire that ability, you learn that losing is going to become commonplace. You learn that you, not the team, are a loser at certain things and there is nothing you can do to change that. My belief is that a young person can learn just as much about teamwork (perhaps even more) through clubs and other non-athletic activities that will benefit the young person more later in life than athletics ever will for the average student. America, however, focuses (too much, in my opinion) on athletics. After all, most people aren’t gong to rake in a multi-million dollar contract with a signing bonus by being good at debate. Most won’t even get a small scholarship to a small college to continue with sports after high school. Those same people who focused most of their attention on sports in high school would benefit from being able to enter into a lively debate… but that doesn’t matter. In our society, chase the money and fame even if they realistically don’t have Frosty’s chance in hell of obtaining it. Besides, the starting quarterback has a better chance with the ladies than the president of the chemistry club (at least in high school)… even though the head of the chemistry club will probably make more money in real life. Instead of focusing on developing skills that could actually benefit me in the real world, I played sports… poorly.

I don’t regret my years wasted playing sports. I had some good times and made some good friends. However, if I could do it over again, I probably would chose a different path for my high school years. But hell, if we could do anything over again, I’m sure most of us would change a thing or two (or a thousand). Life doesn’t work that way, at least not until I find that stupid genie’s lamp, or catch that elusive leprechaun. Until then, maybe I should start going to the local high school’s athletic events. I can look around for a bunch of student athletes and tell them how their behavior off the field is causing their lack of success on the field… whether that’s true or not. Maybe, just maybe, I can make myself feel better by making them feel like crap.

Counting Calories and Starving…

With my recent high blood pressure diagnosis and my brand-spanking new high cholesterol discovery, I have decided to start eating healthier. I do not want to do this. This is not a choice that I enter into lightly.

I love food. I love fatty, carb-filled, salty, sugary food, and I love eating it until I feel like my stomach is going to explode and my brain erupts into toe-curling, food-fueled orgasm.

The Big Food O — Food... a necessary pleasure 🙂

Did I mention that I love food?

Now, food that is good for you tends to taste pretty ass-tastic. Normally, if I were given a choice, I would almost always chose a nice, juicy hamburger with a side of crispy fries

Burger/Fries — Mouth-watering, ain't it?

… over a healthy alternative.

Not really that happy... — Just because it's "smiling" doesn't mean I have to...

Healthy food is bland, non-filling garbage. Who could possibly feel satisfied after eating a broiled fish and a side of steamed broccoli? Not me, that’s for sure. But, here I am, trying to burn at least 500 more calories than I’m taking in every day to lose a pound a week… for the next several months. This is going to suck… but I think it’s probably time.

I’m exercising harder than I have in the past. I used to get on an elliptical and sweat away for 30 minutes. Now, I get on an elliptical and push myself to the verge of a heart attack. I still only go for 30 minutes, but by the time I’m done, I can hardly catch my breath and every muscle in my body (including my heart) is screaming. As long as I have to suffer from the absence of the pleasures of good food, I at least want to get a relatively-ripped body.

Of course, I have a long way to go.

before — Ripped body... 1 pound per week... looks like I only have about 7-years to go...

Who am I kidding?!? I’m never going to get in any sort of real shape. I’m going to be a butterball for the rest of my days; I guess I’ve just got to focus on adding days… days filled with the torture of exercise… and crappy, flavorless food… and expensive daily medication.

Not sure I want to add too many days…

The Power of Pessimism… or, Why Optimists Piss Me Off…

Are you an optimist? Do you like to look on the bright side? Do you see the glass as half-full instead of half-empty? Do you tend to tell friends who are going through hard times things like, “Don’t worry, things will get better,” or, “Smile, at least things can’t get any worse”? I’m sorry, but things don’t always “get better,” and things can always “get worse.” In fact, I recommend that if you are going through hard times, you should not only not expect things to get better… but plan on them getting worse! I’m a pessimist, and I’m proud of it.

Being a pessimist isn’t always easy. Sometimes, we too let a little bit of hope crowd its way into our daily lives. However, once that hope is shattered by the lead bullet of reality (hollow-point-style), we are quickly reminded why we chose to be a pessimist in the first place. That’s right, I wrote “chose”, because being a pessimist or an optimist is initially a choice. Over the course of a lifetime, different experiences form our attitudes and opinions, and we can chose how to experience those… well… experiences. My belief is that most of us start out pretty naturally optimistic. Our parents take care of us. We always have food in our tummies. When we get a boo-boo, there is someone to kiss it. Santa Claus is going to bring those presents. The tooth fairy leaves some pocket change for our lost teeth. Our friends are going to be happy to see us after a summer apart when school starts in the fall. When we make a mistake, an apology is all that it is going to take to make things all better again. And then reality sets in. Over the summer, maybe we put on a little weight and now have a belly (yes… I’m a fatty), or maybe we developed a case of acne.

Rich as a kid... — Don't call me "pizza face"... that just makes me hungry for pizza!

Our friends may still be happy to see us, but they are making fun of us as well. The reunion with those friends we hadn’t seen over the summer isn’t as enjoyable as we had imagined it would be. Or maybe we studied really hard for that final exam and believed we were going to ace it… and then we barely pass because the stupid teacher made it an essay test instead of multiple choice… and she didn’t care for the way we worded our answers… and our GPA plummeted. Or maybe you ask that nice, pretty fellow-junior girl to the prom, and she tells you that she won’t go with you because she is expecting that tall, popular, good looking senior boy to ask her. Or perhaps you apply for that dream job only to be told that you aren’t as outgoing as the person needed to fill the position… and that stupid optimism leads to more hurt and pain than necessary if we had just been more realistic in our expectations. We slowly learn that pessimism is synonymous with avoiding pain.

My belief is that people who have more positive experiences in life tend to be more optimistic. For people whom life isn’t quite as “fair”, pessimism is the road more often chosen. There are those who would argue that optimists attract more positivity because of their optimism, but I would disagree. I believe an optimist is more optimistic because, through physical appearance, family wealth, station in life, or plain and simple luck, they tend to have more positive experiences. Of course this is not all inclusive, nor is it, in my strange little belief system, a steadfast rule. There are people who have a picture-perfect life who tend to be pretty negative, and there are people whom life has completely screwed who are able to keep their chins up… but these are the exceptions and not the rules. However, as a basic, general rule, I believe I am right.

It always kills me when the pretty person who comes from the upper-middle class family says stuff like, “If you believe in yourself, you can accomplish anything,” or, “I don’t understand negative people…” Of course you don’t understand negative people! It’s easy to have sky-high self-esteem when the masses in general find you attractive and you and your family aren’t worrying about how they are going to pay for your college. The world population in general treats people it finds attractive different than it treats the rest of us. Don’t believe me? A middle-aged, overweight woman in a muumuu is broken down on the side of the road.

Pessimist — Please, won't someone help me? My belly has fallen and it can't get up!

Along that same stretch of road, a twenty-something of better-than-average appearance wearing short-shorts is broken down as well.

Optimist — Do you really think she is going to have any trouble getting free roadside assistance?

Who do you think is going have more offers of help from passersby (and I’m guessing that this would be consistently higher for both men and women stopping). Which one of these stranded ladies do you think tends to be more optimist… and rightfully so. Nobody said that life was going to be fair… but it seems to be less unfair when you’re good looking (or so it seems from a relatively unattractive person’s viewpoint).

Let’s move on to success. Who do you think is going to have a better shot at a career in sales: an attractive gentleman who has a aura of financial success

Dude — Buy from me... because I obviously make a lot of money doing this.

… or the poor, ugly schmoe who, based on appearances, you would be afraid to leave your small children in a room alone with.

Perv — Hey... I got some candy in my left-front pocket. Why don't you reach in there and grab yourself a little piece!

Which of these gentlemen do you believe would be more optimistic? Of course it’s the rich-looking dude… that’s how life works. This is why the wealthy constantly find themselves on the cover of the local newspaper. There are articles about how this rich person is doing this, and that rich person is doing that. One local rich guy is going to be on TV on the Speed channel because he is rich and has fancy cars. Do you think this guy is more of an optimist or pessimist? I, on the other hand, am not rich (well, I am “Rich”… I’m just not “rich”… stupid name). I’ve never been on the cover of the local newspaper, even though I did write a relatively funny article about technology one time. I work relatively hard and have what I consider to be a strong work ethic. In my 42-years of life, I have never once called in sick to a job. I’d have to be puking my guts out with a brain-searing fever to consider calling in sick. Luckily, I don’t get sick very often. When I do get sick, I have never felt that I was sick enough to not be of some value to my employer. Want to know what my years of working through my mild illnesses has garnered me? Absolutely NOTHING… except boiling my blood pressure whenever I have to take-up the slack of someone who has called in sick. And the pessimism simmers below the surface all the while… eroding my hope and will into the darkest abyss.

Dark Abyss — Don't know what this exactly has to do with the "darkest abyss," I just love this picture. Goth stuff is cool...

Pessimism is a defense mechanism. Like I stated earlier, we all pretty much start out as optimists. It’s only after (usually) years of unmet expectations and irreconcilable defeats that we develop our pessimism. When you expect a positive outcome, and that outcome is negative instead of positive, it hurts. A few of these defeats are natural and build character… or something psychobabblish like that. After a few, the pain involved with the disappointment of failure becomes more powerful than any character-building gains you may receive. We begin to expect the worst. In most situations, the pessimist is the voice of restraint (or, as I like to think of it, “reason”); the one who has thought-out all of the possible negative outcomes to any given process or procedure. The pessimist isn’t prone to “dream”, because “dreams” in the past have meant painful disappointment. To refrain from hope is to avoid the torture interwoven with that hope’s demise. And guess what… every once in awhile, things don’t turn out as poorly as we expected they would… and that is a gracious surprise! Like around 17-years ago when I asked my wife to marry me. Do you think I had any hope that she would say yes? Of course not! I expected a resounding “NO WAY”, and then I would have been free to get on with my miserable life. However, she surprised me by saying “yes” and it was a pleasant surprise indeed. If I had actually been expecting it and she had said yes, it wouldn’t have been a surprise, nor would it have meant as much. So, by avoiding the optimistic risk-taking that so often ends in failure and despair, we actually glean a gleam of happiness when our negativity is proven wrong. It is better to be wrong and happy about being wrong than it is to be wrong amongst the shattered remains of a precious dream. Pessimists don’t dream much.

The problem with being a pessimist is that we don’t dream much. Sometimes, in order to find some sort of value in this life, we need to dream. Often, after decades of having giving-up on all dreams, the pessimist forgets how to dream. This isn’t necessarily bad, since dreams so often lead to disappointment. However, at times, the pessimist may find that a dream is something he or she may want to work towards making come true. We used to have the choice to be optimistic or pessimistic in any given situation. After so much time passing with pessimism working so well for us, we forget how to be positive. We forget how to believe in ourselves or others. We still have a choice, but we have forgotten how or lost the tools necessary to follow a dream with a positive attitude. We can’t see the glass as half-full. We don’t really even see it as half-empty anymore. Now, we believe that because the glass isn’t full to the brim, it’s not even worth drinking… and through our stubbornness we run the risk of dehydration. The choice is still there, but the pain that used to be experienced by being an optimist has reached legendary proportions in our memories, and it is a very difficult choice to make. So, we usually continue along in our pessimistic ways with the occasional happy surprise of being wrong. And we hate optimists.

We are all equal in the eyes of God, and He loves us all equally as His children. Sometimes, I’m sure, He has to wonder what exactly we are thinking when we do stupid stuff, but He still loves us.

However, in the eyes of man, the pretty people with the money rule and find themselves with the self-confidence necessary to be optimistic on a day-to-day basis… which leads to less misery in this realm. I wish I had been born with good looks and money, but I’m afraid I posses neither. My only hope for a touch of optimism while here on earth is the coming zombie apocalypse. My hope is that when the zombies attack, they will go for the rich, pretty people first. It’s only fair that those who have had people falling all over them because of their looks and wealth in this life also have the brain-starved zombies falling all over them during the apocalypse.

Then again… nobody said life was fair…