craptastic – Page 3 – HappyStinkingJoy

Graduations! Ahhh, what a waste of optimism…

WARNING!!!

Recent high school or college graduates, please don’t read this post. I don’t want to be held responsible for harshing your mellow at this time of great accomplishment in your lives. As you travel the road of life ahead, you will have plenty of time to discover the truths held in my words for yourself.

The wife and I took our boys to our niece’s high school graduation this past weekend in North Platte, NE. So, we spent a weekend watching young people being recognized for their accomplishments. This all got me to thinking… thinking how much people could accomplish with their lives if the stinking real-world didn’t have to come along and jack everything up.

I remember graduating from high school feeling like the whole world was out there waiting for me to conquer it. I remember having the same delusions at my graduation from college. At my niece’s graduation, I could read the same thoughts in the faces of all of those graduates. They were imagining their futures filled with limitless opportunities. Give them a few years. They will find the limits. Actually, the limits will hunt them down and stomp many of them into the ground. I know. The graduating class speaker was a well spoken young woman who reminded the graduates that they were solely responsible for their own futures. Graduates and school administrators say that kind of stuff at graduations. Graduates and school administrators believe that kind of stuff at graduations. Now, with graduates being young and naive, such dreams are expected. School administrators, on the other hand, should know better but are extremely biased in their perception of the true value of “education.” Aside from the field of education, I can’t think of a single line of work in the United States of America where further education guarantees higher earnings, seniority, and advancement. A large percentage of people employed in the field of education seem to have lost touch with what it is actually like outside of the field of education, and those people probably should not be allowed to speak at commencement ceremonies; they paint an unrealistically-rosy picture.
.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

Well, I guess we want to give these young people hope for the future, right? No need having them give up when a very small percentage of them are going to accomplish those dreams. As for those who will not accomplish their dreams, they will have plenty of time to figure out what their futures hold.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

.
.
.

Soon enough, most of these optimistic young people will be just like the rest of us… wondering why everyone misled us about how bright our futures were. For the kiddos, when someone tells you that you may need to set “new goals” or dream “new dreams”, this is them gently telling your dreams and goals are unrealistic (see, they lied to you at graduation… you can’t accomplish anything you want). Pick something less-hard to accomplish, or maybe just settle for what you have. Less hard and settling are what most of us do on a daily basis…

A Manly Recipe: Pear/Jalapeno Jam

A lot of guys like to cook. I like to cook. There is nothing wrong with a guy cooking, especially when he cooks something that ROCKS! I like cooking with heat… and I don’t mean on the stove. I like peppers. Hot peppers of all kinds; jalapenos, habaneros, serranos, green chilies, red chilies, yellow chilies. I usually grow peppers over the summer to can or dehydrate to have on hand for cooking spicy food.

My love of spicy has been passed on to my two sons. I guess my constant talk of, “real men like it hot,” and “only wimps don’t like spicy food” has probably helped develop this taste. I think they are afraid to not like things a little spicy. They will try about anything, and hardly ever admit that something is too much (although they aren’t afraid to ask for milk while testing.)

My wife has even developed, to a lesser degree, a tolerance for my cooking. She, however, isn’t afraid to tell me something is too much. She’s such a girl.

I’m always trying new recipes and new takes on old recipes to spice them up. I decided that I need to document some of them here to share with fellow lovers of all things spicy. I’ll throw an occasional recipe into the Happy Stinking Joy mix from time to time, only if I think they are worthy. Some will be pretty simple, and some will take some time and effort. I try to make things mild enough that the wife will eat them, yet with enough heat to make it worth my while. I hope some of you try these out, and let me know what you think!

To start it off, I’ll go with a recipe I made over this past weekend. We went to a farmer’s market and picked up some jams made with hot peppers. We bought some strawberry/jalapeno jam and some peach/habanero jam. $4.00 for like an 8oz jar. Pricey! So, I figured I’d make some on my own. I’m guessing the overall cost is about 1/2 of buying it at the farmer’s market. A little more work that driving to the market, and you end up with more than a bottle or two, but this stuff will last like a year if you can it properly.

Please read the whole thing through before trying this recipe. I’m not a professional recipe writer, and things may be a little out of order. I’d hate for anyone to start and then figure out that there was something they were supposed to do before they get to a certain point.

Good luck!

Adventurer Rich’s Pear/Jalapeno Jam

What you’re going to need:

*6 medium jalapenos (approximate)

*4 pears (approximate) [pears + jalapenos need to yield 4 cups uncooked]

*1 Tbs margarine or butter

*1/4 cup lemon juice

*7 1/2 cups sugar

*1 3oz pouch liquid Certo

*canner

*1/2 pint or 1/4 pint jars with rims and lids, sterilized

Now, the first thing you’re going to want to do is chop up pear and jalapenos. Peel and core the pears, and chop the jalapenos.

I cut up the pears and jalapenos with knife and then dice them. I use one of those fancy choppers that you can get in the infomercials… you know, you stick the stuff in and then pound on the top of it to dice the contents. You want pretty close to exactly 4 cups of diced pears and peppers. If you want it a little hotter, add more jalapenos and less pears. If you want it a little milder, go to a different website. I removed the seeds and white membrane from the jalapenos (to make the wife happy), but if I were to make this again, I would leave them in to add more heat. Once they chunks are the size you think you would like in your jam, throw them in a pot on the stove.

Add the sugar and lemon juice and throw the slap of butter or margarine on top; the fat helps prevent the mixture from forming an undesirable foam on top… and fat just makes everything a little better. Most hot pepper jellies and jams call for vinegar (and even pickled peppers), and many people like the certain tanginess that vinegar adds. I like the vinegar flavored jams and jellies too, but with this recipe, I wanted the fruitiness of the pear and jalapeno to be the centerpiece of the taste… thus the lemon juice as an acid instead of vinegar. Look at me, I’m writing like I know what in the hell I’m talking about! Don’t be mislead… I’m as confused as ever.

Once you have everything in the pot, turn the heat up to medium on the burner and bring the works to a rolling boil. A “rolling boil” means that the mixture’s boiling can’t be stopped by you stirring it. Speaking of stirring, you want to stir this pretty constantly. Sugar burns very easily. Speaking of sugar… that crap gets very hot. As soon as the sugar is melted, I’m pretty sure it is about temperature of the center of the earth. Once it boils, I’m guessing it would make the surface of the sun feel like a day at the beach in Canada. In other words, don’t touch the hot sugar. Seriously. You’ll be sorry (I was).

Once you have that rolling boil, it’s time to add the fruit pectin. For this recipe, I recommend (’cause it’s what I used… and it worked) Certo Liquid Pectin. One three ounce pouch is just right for this recipe. The cool thing is, I bought a box of the stuff, and there were two pouches, so I have an extra pouch to make something else.

Once the pectin is added, bring back to a boil and boil for as close to exactly 1 minute as possible (stirring constantly). I’m guessing that if you don’t boil it long enough, you’ll have syrup instead of jam, and if you boil it too long, it will be more like rock candy; both of which are great ideas, just not for this recipe.

Now it’s time to fill your sterilized canning jars. Remember, this crap is HOT! Be careful. If you get it on your hand, you will cry like a little girl (I did), and the pain will last FOREVER! Fill the jars to about 1/4 inch of the top. If you get some of the mixture on the lip of the lid (which you will), wipe it away. You want the lip clean to ensure a proper seal and prevent icky stuff from getting in.

Alrighty, now it’s time to put the lids and rims on. Again, make sure the lips and threads of the jars are clean. Keeping the lids in hot warrm until you are ready to place them on the jars is a good idea. Why? Who knows. It’s just a good idea.

Now the jars are ready to go into the canner (which should be filled with boiling water). Make sure there is enough water to completely cover all of your jars.

Lower the jars into the water, place the lid on the canner, and boil those bad boys for 10 minutes.

Remove the jars from the canner and set them on a dishtowel on a counter to let them cool. If they are canned properly, the lids should pop down and not pop back up when you push on them. It jam may have to cool quite awhile before the lids don’t pop back up. If you have a jar or two that the lids refuse to seal on, that’s ok; those just need to go in the fridge and be the first ones you eat.

Once the jars are sealed, place them in a cool, dark place and you can store them for up-to about a year (but I doubt they will last that long… ’cause you’re gonna eat this slop up way before a year).

Once of my families favorite way to eat this stuff is on cracker with cream cheese.

You know what’s really cool? Not only do the flavors of the pears and jalapenos compliment each other nicely, and the mild heat of the jalapenos make this a solid spread for pepper-heads… but the jam looks kind of like something you might clear from the back of your throat! Now, that’s a jam a any real man would be proud to eat!

Stinking Google…

I like free stuff. I really, really like free stuff. Google has been giving away free CR-48 computers, and I want one, because they are free.

ChromeOS — Yeah... it looks like a plain old laptop

I want one. I have wanted one for awhile now. In fact, I sent Google my information so that I could participate in their “pilot program”. I think it was in January that I “applied” for one of these cool devices… which are absolutely free, by the way. Almost everything I do with a computer outside of my job is Internet based. I watch stuff on YouTube (owned by Google). I check my Gmail (owned by Google). I use the Google Chrome web browser (owned, of course, by Google). I read blogs on Blogger (owned by Google). Although this blog is not hosted by Google, I do use Google Analytics (owned by Google) to track traffic to this site. Most of the little short stories I have written I store in Google Documents (owned by Google) so that I can work on them from any computer with Internet access. Google Calendar (owned by Google) helps me keep my life semi-organized… at least in theory. My phone is a Droid (more Google). I put all of this information on my application to the pilot program. I figured I would be a shoe-in to test one of these little bad boys out for Google. Yet, I haven’t received one on my doorstep yet. Damn it!

I applied for the pilot program on a weekend. I remember coming to work the following Monday, and one of our phone techs was carrying a new netbook.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s one of them new-fangled Chrome OS computer thingies,” he said.

“Hey, I just applied for the pilot program this weekend,” I said. “How do you like it?”

“It’s pretty neato,” he replied. “It starts up real fast, and it’s quicker than snot on a skillet online. It even has one of thems fancy webcams.”

“Wow, cool,” I said, starting to feel a little jealous. “How long ago did you apply for the pilot program?”

“Oh, I reckon it were a couple a months ago.”

“And what did you say to impress them,” I asked, “you know, to get them to send you one?”

“Oh, I just said silly stuff,” he said. “I told them that it’d be neato to have one and that I’d scream it to the world how great they was and whatnot.”

I just stared at him. Seriously? He put something stupid like that and he got one? Now I knew I was a shoe-in, because my reasoning seemed so much more intelligent. I knew mine would arrive in the mail in a few short weeks.

Well, short weeks have turned into long weeks, and the pilot program is over. Stinking Google. I even own some of their stupid stock. Now I’m just pissed. In fact, my coworker doesn’t really talk like a redneck hillbilly, I just wrote him like that out of sheer jealousy.

Well, looks like I’m going to have to get rid of all of the Google in my life. Guess I’ll have to switch to Yahoo! for my mail and calendar… and stop watching YouTube videos… and stop reading Blogger blogs… and find a way to monitor my blog other than Analytics… crap. This is going to take a lot of work. You know, it would be a hell of a lot easier if Google would just send me a free CR-48.

Seriously, please send me a free CR-48, Google. I know that someone at Google will see this post, ’cause I’m gonna tag the hell out of Google in it. If you send me one… I swear… sigh… I’LL SCREAM IT TO THE WORLD HOW GREAT IT IS!!!

Scottsbluff Family YMCA

We have a local YMCA here in Scottsbluff, NE. I didn’t have access to a Y growing up in rural Montana. In fact, the Y here is the first one I had ever been to. I had heard of the YMCA as a kid, and I thought of the Y as kind of a place where a fellow who was down on his luck could get a cheap (or even free) room until he got back on his feet. Apparently, this isn’t what the modern YMCA offers (at least not in the USA).

Scottsbluff has a country club for the wealthy.

The Scotts Bluff Country Club is the kind of place where the rich can go to get away from the common filth of society (you know, the rest of us) and surround themselves with fellow rich people with whom to golf and dine and talk about what rich people talk about. I’m not rich, so I don’t know exactly what they talk about, but I’m assuming they talk about money… and how much those of us without a lot of money suck. At least, that’s what I’d talk about if I was rich.

The YMCA here in Scottsbluff is kind of like a country club for the middle class. Oh sure, they have some sort of reduced-rate program for those at a lower income level, they just don’t advertise it very prominently… and they don’t really tell you what it is. I guess you have to go in and ask so they can look down at you to convince you that you really don’t belong at the Scottsbluff Family YMCA.

My family has a membership to the Y; not because we can afford it, but because it is a benefit my employer offers. Hell, it’s almost $500 a year for a family membership. I don’t know if I could afford that on my own. Not only do they get you on the membership fees, they charge for everything extra that the Y provides. Want to have your kid play t-ball? Only $12 if you are a member. How about you and the wife doing the co-ed volleyball? Only $15 per person… if you are members. Yeah, I grew up thinking the Y was a place where those without a lot of money could socialize and get fit. I was wrong. The Y is a country club for those who can’t quite afford the real country club.

I go to our YMCA almost daily. I have done this for a few years now. I go and I get on an elliptical and I sweat and breath really heavy for about 30 minutes. I started doing this in an attempt to control my blood pressure and to lose a little weight. I burn 500 to 600 calories and get my heart rate up to around 170 beats per minute almost every day. I have not lost a single pound, and my blood pressure was 170/130 when medical people put me on blood pressure medication a few weeks ago. So, it looks like I go to the Y for nothing. Well, nothing except to see all of the skinny people and steroid-heads walk around looking at themselves in the multitude of mirrors that surround the circuit room. I hate these people. With a passion. Here I am, sweating my ass off (in theory, not in reality) and bringing myself to the verge of a heart attack almost every day for the past three years in an attempt to squeeze a couple more years out of my miserable existence, and I’m surrounded by skinny people in their designer work-out gear

and steroid-filled muscle-heads in their… well, their muscles and crap!

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of fatties like me sweating at the Y as well, but why in the hell would I waste time looking at them.

If I wanted to look at a fattie all day, I could stay home and look in the mirror. No, I want to create the most severe case on envy imaginable. I want to look at the people who I will never resemble. I want to make myself feel as worthless and insignificant as possible. After all, hate is what drives me, so the more hate I harbor, the worse I feel, and the more I feel like I’m accomplishing what I was put on this earth to do… whatever that is.

Man, if being surrounded by the fit middle-class at the YMCA can make me feel this crappy, imagine what being surrounded by the snotty rich at the actual country club would make me feel like? Especially if I was in a position where the rich snotties could really talk down to me? Maybe like a dishwasher… or a janitorial position? Yeah, that’s it.

Some rich doctor would run into me in the hall and he’d be all like, “Boy, there appears to be a toilet clogged in the men’s room. Get on it, post-haste. Cheerio!”

And I, of course, would get right on Dr. Snotty’s clogged toilet!

And the hate would grow!

Man, I wonder if they are hiring? I put my current level of mid-life-crisis misery on par with about the 5th ring of hell. A servitude-type position at the country club could move me all the way up to the 9th ring, and the crisis could be complete!

Best McDonald’s Story EVER!

Okay, true story. 100% true. I was going to wait to post it until after April Fool’s, but it’s just too good to not get out right away.

Yesterday, a coworker of mine comes back from lunch and has the most amazing McDonald’s story I’ve ever heard. Actually, this is one of the most amazing customer service stories of all time!

The coworker’s name is… well, I don’t want to use his real name, so I’ll just call him Ron. Ron goes to the drive through at the McDonald’s in Gering, NE to order a little lunch for himself… as is his wont for lunch. “Wont”… not “want” or “won’t”… look it up. I’m all fancy-languaged and whatnot. He orders his grub and is told to “Please pay at the first window.”

So, Ron drives to the first window. Inside, he sees the middle-aged cashier-dude who informs Ron of the total due. The dude appears to be of Hispanic decent. I know that mentioning race seems a little silly, but it will have relevance a little further along in the story. The cashier gives Ron his change. I know, I know, this all seems pretty boring right? We’ve all been through this same experience probably hundreds of times. Typical McDonald’s experience. Typical, until the cashier decides to go completely insane.

“I’ve always wanted to say this to someone before I quit,” says the cashier. He looks Ron right in the eye. “F$%k you, you fat white f$%*&r. Don’t eat here. Don’t bother telling my manager, ’cause I’m going to quit right now.”

Ron, stunned, watches the window close and then pulls forward. Still in amazement, he is handed his food by another McDonald’s employee who closes her window before Ron has a chance to say “boo.”

Back at the office, Ron is finally laughing as he relays the story to the rest of us. Ron has already gotten over it and thinks it’s funny. Some of the other coworkers feel the same. I, like with most things in life, get a little pissed off.

First, who is stupid enough to speak to a customer like that? It’s not like this guy was some teenager who still has the reason of being young, immature, and ignorant. The dude was just a middle-aged wash-out who is immature and ignorant. Even if you are planning to quit, why would you talk to someone in that manner who has done absolutely nothing bad to you in any sort of way other than try to support the company that pays your wages?

Second, imagine if roles were reversed. Imagine a white dude saying to a Hispanic person, “F#$k you, you fat brown f$%*&r.” McDonald’s would be looking at a lawsuit like no other. “Racism” and “hate crime” would be thrown around and the white dude would have to go live in the hills in Idaho for the rest of his adult life. The cashier from this incident will probably just get another job at another fast food restaurant.

Third, what kind of middle-aged dude works as a cashier at McDonald’s? And the fact that he said “I’ve always wanted to say this to someone before I quit” makes me think that he has had a sting of drive-through cashier jobs… all of which he’s quit. I’m thinking this dude needs to knock over another convenience and land himself back in prison, which is apparently where he’s spent most of his life up to this point. Can you think of any other reason a middle-aged dude would be working a string of fast food drive-through jobs… all of which he’s quit? Neither can I.

So I’m just steamed that this punk had the nerve to talk to someone like that, right? I go home and I’m still all torked out of shape. And then I really start thinking about it. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but other than the whole racist-aspect of the ordeal (the punk needs a little bitch-slap for that), I kind of respect the dude. Here is this loser who is in a really crappy, dead-end job, and he goes out with a bang. He gets off his chest something that has been building up probably forever. I mean, I feel for poor Ron, ’cause he didn’t do anything but try to buy some lunch (and he really isn’t what I consider to be fat… although he is the whitest dude I know), but you have to hand it to the punk. He did something that most of us only dream of doing… every waking hour of every day of our lives. Good for him.

Now this middle-aged dude just needs to find a career where he can utilize his skills, where he can find peace, where he can fit in. Like I already stated, knocking over a convenience store…

Social Etiquette… Sucks!

The worst thing about being an adult is not being able to speak your mind at all times. There is a certain social etiquette that dictates times when we have to internalize our thoughts. I don’t know who came up this social etiquette, but he or she and all of their relatives should be flogged with wet noodles throughout eternity. Social etiquette sucks. In fact, many aspects of our current society suck. At least to me, and that’s all that really matters. See, we all feel pretty much the same, but we aren’t allowed to say so, because social etiquette dictates that it isn’t proper to say that you only want what’s best for you. We have to think of the good of the whole. Did I mention that social etiquette sucks?

Oh sure, I care about others. I don’t like children suffering around the world, and my heart goes out to the people of Japan. I wish that everyone had a decent job, and I wish poverty and war could be eradicated from the face of our planet. But none of this changes the fact if I want to send out a smart ass email at work, I shouldn’t have to worry about who I offend. I’m a smart ass. Period. When I send an email, having to hide my smart-assness only limits me from being who I really am. But social etiquette dictates that I cannot be a smart ass in business related email… or with coworkers… or with customers. Screw that. Life is too short to have to pretend you are someone you really are not. But, I will continue to be polite and try to hold back on the smart ass comments while at work. We all need a job, right? And social etiquette dictates that we have to behave a certain way in order to perform that job, right? Did I mention that social etiquette sucks?

Part of the training for social etiquette begins when we are young. Schools, at times, seem to like focusing on social etiquette more than teaching things of real value. I have a son in middle school. That son recently fractured his foot in PE. So, he can’t participate in actual PE activities until his foot heals. In order to pass PE, he needs to show up and pay attention. Sounds pretty fair, right? Well, the son recently was docked points in PE. Was he docked because he didn’t show up on time? No, he arrived in a timely manner. Was he docked because he wasn’t paying attention? No, he was paying as much attention as could be expected from someone sitting on the sidelines and not able to participate. He was docked points because he didn’t have his shirt tucked in. Seriously, because he didn’t have his shirt tucked in, he lost participation points for that day. Social etiquette dictates that if your teacher makes a rule, you must follow that rule, even though the rule was put into place so that middle school boys can’t look up the shirts of middle school girls during various middle school PE activities and said rule really doesn’t apply to you… because not only are you not participating because of an injury you received in PE… but because you are not a girl. But, of course, social etiquette dictates that you can’t have a rule for girls that you don’t have for boys; that wouldn’t be fair. Social etiquette is all about fairness for the masses and doesn’t really allow for individuality. The whole incident hasn’t really led me to question why my son didn’t have his shirt tucked in. This incident has got me to thinking about why I had to pay my son’s medical expenses. I mean, if I were hurt at work during a work related activity, my employer would pay my medical expenses. My son was hurt at school during a non-optional school activity, shouldn’t the school pay for it? Just wondering.

Social etiquette is all about learning the rules and learning to do things in a manner so as to not upset someone else. Often, following social etiquette prevents someone else from being upset, but it leaves you really pissed off. In my 41+ years of life, I have usually tried to follow the rules of social etiquette. How has it benefited me? Well, high blood pressure and a constant upset stomach seem to be about the only things I can think of that have been the result of following social etiquette. In other words, social etiquette sucks. I haven’t made a fortune following social etiquette. I don’t have a plethora of adult friends because I have followed the ways of social etiquette. I don’t feel personally or professionally fulfilled because of the wonders of social etiquette. I haven’t gained respect through following the mystical ways of social etiquette.

I desire for my kids to think outside the box… to be independently successful on their own terms… to never have to answer to someone they have no desire to answer to. I want them, if someone is pissing them off, to be able to tell that person to take a flying leap. In my mind, this is the way to true happiness in this life. Selfish? You betcha, and each and every one of us would like to be able to do it. The schools are going to keep right on teaching social etiquette. The schools are going to keep enforcing the same rules that I thought were stupid when I was a kid… and I still, as an adult, don’t see the value in. I guess if we all want the same cookie-cutter society that we have had for the last century, this is fine. But we aren’t given the same promises in life that our parents were offered. My employer doesn’t offer a guaranteed pension, does yours? Social Security isn’t looking like it’s going to play much of a role in my retirement (even though I’ve paid into it every year since I’ve started working). I have a retirement plan, but not much is going in, and it sure isn’t growing too fast. At the current rate, I will not be able to retire (which, as far as I can tell, is when you can tell the whole social etiquette thing to take a hike). I want to be the crotchety old man who always speaks his mind and doesn’t give a crap what anyone else thinks. I may never get to that point, so at least I can wish that for my kids.

The Dreams of Our Youth

Ahhh… remember back to the days of your youth. These were magical years where your future seemed so bright. Remember? From the end of August to mid-May, you learned and played sports and hung out with your friends all day. But summer was when the true magic happened. Summers were a seemingly endless period of long, hot days and cool, enchanted nights. You could ride your bike with your friends day after day and it never got old. As young boys, my friends and I would ride bikes and play catch and start a pick-up game of kickball of football and hike paths and climb trees and hang-out at our favorite stores (… uh… it was Fort Peck, Montana, so there was only one) and swim at the pool or at the lake and, as we got older, appreciate the way our rapidly-maturing female friends were filling out their bathing suits in spectacular new ways… and the summers seemed to last an eternity.

As we got older, some of us started getting summer jobs, and some of us got jobs year-round. School got harder, and we had to start really thinking about our futures. Then, college called to some of us, and some of us went straight to full-time, real-world work; but we still held tight to our dreams. Those of us who went to college soon joined our working friends. During these years, many of us fell in love, got married, started families; the dreams were still there.

Our kids started to grow up. Soon, we could see our kids enjoying many of the same things we enjoyed in our youth, and we were starting to feel a little old. The dreams were still hanging on, but we began to wonder how we were going to accomplish them with a full family life. Oh well, maybe after the kids are grown and on their own.

Soon, we start living vicariously through our kids. Maybe we want our kid to be that great sports star we never were. Or maybe we want our kid to be the genius we were never smart enough to be. Or perhaps we want our kid to be the singer or actor or musician we never had the confidence to attempt to find within ourselves. Our dreams migrate to the purgatory of our consciousness, awaiting the day when they will either realize the joyous fruition of heavenly accomplishment or be cast to the inescapable torment of hellish failure. We start trying to help our children with their dreams, which are merely extensions of the dreams we had in our youth. We start to realize that our age is actually catching up with us.

We become obnoxiously proud parents, praising the accomplishments of our children as if they were our own… often to the major annoyance of most other adults around us. Soon, we find that other adults begin to avoid us because they really don’t care how good little Jimmy’s baseball team did… or how excellent little Susie’s dance recital went. We become monsters who seem intent at driving everyone away from us… everyone except our families. We scream at the umpires or referees at a game because their calls made our kid’s team lose. We badmouth the teacher who doesn’t truly see our child’s intelligence. We harbor ill-will toward the second-chair trumpet player who screwed up during the concert and made our first-chair child look bad. We become bearers of vehement hate toward every single person or thing that interferes with our child’s success. Our age is no longer catching up with us; it has caught us and is a driving force in our lives.

Our children, meanwhile, are oblivious. They are focusing on having fun and creating their own dreams.

Soon, the kids are off to college or work, and we have the houses to ourselves again. We are still focusing on the dreams of our kids. We give career advice. We warn them of the mistakes we made along the way. We tell them what they should do to be happy, which is really what we should have done to be happy. Our hindsight is, for the most part, ignored by our children.

Our kids are now adults, they are working full-time, many of them are happily married… and before you know it, we’re grandparents. Our kids seem to have put their dreams on hold in an attempt to help their kids create new dreams. Finally, there is time for us to focus on our dreams once again, so we search. We search our consciousness for those dreams of our youth. We search for the motivation to once again bring them to the front of our minds. Funny thing is, when we search for our dreams, the smell of brimstone becomes overpowering, and just the thought of trying to accomplish those dreams makes us very tired. We have moved beyond old and are now ancient.

Ahhh… it was nice to have dreams. Too bad we never found the time or will to accomplish them. What to do now? Ooooh… looks like the grand kids could use some help with their dreams…

CCCP… or Communist California Collectivism Patrol

I have lately been so wrapped up in harboring hard feelings towards citizens in my own backyard that certain national events have apparently passed me by. I completely missed the fact that San Fransisco passed a law late last year that outlawed McDonald’s Happy Meals toys. Seriously. Outlawed them. In an effort to reduce childhood obesity. McDonald’s will be violating a law if they sell Happy Meals and offer a free toy if the meal has more than a certain amount of fat and calories and crap in San Fransisco and Santa Clara County. And the really strange thing is that there are people who don’t see a problem with this.

I have never been much of a crusader for McDonald’s because… well… McDonald’s sucks… but how can anyone look at this law and not be slightly taken aback. A government telling a business that it cannot offer as an incentive legal products in an effort to change consumer behavior. I can only imagine what a conversation with one of the idiots who passed this law would be like:

Sane Person (SP): So, you outlawed Happy Meal toys, huh?

California Moron (CM): Yup! We have to look out for our fellow man.

SP: But, shouldn’t it be parents’ responsibility to chose if their kids get a Happy Meal or not. And if McDonald’s wants to offer a “free” toy with each meal, what’s the big deal with that?

CM: Childhood obesity is increasing at an alarming level in this country, and we in California are doing our part to put an end to this.

SP: So, childhood obesity is the fault of McDonald’s alone?

CM: Of course not. We are in the process of enacting similar legislation to cover other foods that we feel are inherently dangerous to children.

SP: Uh… like what?

CM: Well, any sugary cereals that offer toys are just begging kids to get fat. Parents aren’t smart enough to make nutritional decisions for their families, so the government needs to step in.

SP: So, no more baking soda submarines with Cap’n Crunch, huh?

CM: No, no toys with cereal. Also, Cracker Jacks will have to do away with their nefarious “prizes”.

SP: But I love those little tatoos…

CM: Tough cookies. Speaking of cookies, we will be outlawing those as well.

SP: Cookies… really?

CM: Yep. Cookies and cake and pie and anything made with sugar. In fact, we will be outlawing sugar. Also, any processed foods.

SP: Processed foods? You mean, 95% of what a grocery store carries?

CM: Processed foods, and also meat.

SP: Meat?

CM: Yes, meat. It’s not good for you, so it will be illegal! Same with most starches, you know, like potatoes and breads and rice and stuff.

SP: … so… what exactly will people be allowed to eat?

CM: Oh my goodness, there are all kinds of healthy things that people will be able to eat. I have a whole list!

SP: What exactly is on the list?

CM: Well, for one, broccoli.

SP: … you realize that broccoli tastes like butt…

CM: Yes, broccoli tastes like butt, but it is good for you.

SP: … I guess with a little cheese it’s not so bad…

CM: NO CHEESE! No dairy products. Just broccoli.

SP: What else is on your list?

CM: Organic oatmeal.

SP… and?

CM: That’s really about it. Broccoli and organic oatmeal. This is all you need to survive. Think of how thin and healthy everyone will be… and how simple the food pyramid will become. I always had trouble with that stupid food pyramid when I was in school. The new pyramid will be so easy to remember! Just broccoli and organic oatmeal. I guess it will be more of a… well… just a line than a pyramid… but it will be easy!

And people in California wonder why the rest of the country looks at them like they escaped from a circus sideshow. I guess this is what Hilary Clinton meant by “It Takes a Village”. I guess this is also part of the reason why I despise Hilary Clinton. Seriously, isn’t our stinking country liberal enough without the government trying to force us in our purchasing decisions? If you want to outlaw fast food, that’s one thing. But, if fast food is legal, and hundreds of thousands of teenagers use fast food restaurants as a miserable stepping stone to a disgruntled life of crappy jobs serving others, why take away the toys? The toys are the best part of a Happy Meal.

You know, if you really want to get rid of childhood obesity, set even more specific guidelines on what can and cannot be purchased with food stamps. Only the healthiest food for those most at risk for health problems. Or, maybe force women in a certain income bracket to have their tubes tied after a certain number of children. We all know that the poor cannot raise healthy children. Of course, I’m being completely facetious; but, really, once the government starts getting involved in something, we all know how likely they are to back down. It’s only a matter of time before we are all sterilized and forced to eat a diet of butt and cardboard broccoli and organic oatmeal.

The City and County of Denver is run by Morons

I received a parking ticket while in Denver a few weeks back. I went to this DISH Network deal, because the place I work at is going to start selling DISH. So, it wasn’t for fun. Hell, it wasn’t even that enjoyable. The whole thing was kind of over my head, and no one was overly friendly, and the whole thing kind of sucked. This is going to come as a complete shock, but I’m not real fond of being around people. I know, I know, I seem like such a people person. Yeah, I’m afraid that too many years of dealing with bitchy, self-absorbed people and their stinking problems that I cannot fix have led me to see the worst in people. I don’t give anyone a fair shake anymore. I just start looking for the aspects of their personalities that are going to piss me off right from the start. Life is easier this way, and believe you me, everyone can piss you off if you just give them half a chance.

So, anyway, after this DISH thing, I go out to my car and there’s a flipping parking ticket in my door. ‘What the hell?’ I think to myself… actually, I believe I may have yelled it out loud. I grab the ticket and try to figure out what it is for.

Okay, so from my rear tire to my rear bumper is in the driveway of the place I went to the DISH thing at. By the way, their driveway is like a football field wide. I had no idea I was violating any sort of ordinance, so once I get home to Nebraska, I call the number on the ticket to dispute it. It is pretty obvious that the chick who answers the phone does not like dealing with people calling to dispute tickets all day. I explain the situation to her, that I’m from out of town, that I was hardly in the HUGE driveway, that there are no markings or signs stating where you can or cannot park, etc.

“Denver statute states that you can not park within five feet of a driveway,” she obviously reads from some sort of card.

“How am I supposed to know what Denver statutes are?” I ask. I’m not being snotty or rude or anything, just asking a question.

“Well, sir,” she practically seethes, “you will have to file a protest by mail.”

“Then why is this phone number on the citation I received,” I ask. I’m starting to feel not so polite.

“Or you can schedule a time in front of the magistrate.” She completely ignores my question.

I hang up.

So, I send the following letter, with documentation, to the Bureau of Idiots Who Penalize Visitors to the City and County of Denver… or whatever:

Yes, I’m anal and even included a Goggle Earth image of the driveway… just to prove my point about how long that stinking driveway was.

I mail my dispute, confident that they will let the whole situation serve as a warning and let it rest at that. I figure the next time I go to Denver, I will know better and I will be able to follow the ordinance. I start to have flashbacks to my dispute of my property tax increase with the idiots who call themselves commissioners for Scotts Bluff County, but I figure I can’t lose every time I battle the powers that be, right? Right?

A couple of weeks go by, and I get the following response from the Bureau of Idiots Who Penalize Visitors to the City and County of Denver:

Seriously… a form letter? I go off. No wonder my blood pressure is out of control and I’m on the verge of a heart attack. Every one I deal with has their head up their hiney and is out to get me.

“Screw it,” I yell. “I’ll just not pay it. What are they gonna do, send meter maid Lefebre up to Nebraska to arrest me?”

My wife tells me to calm down.

“I don’t care if they issue a warrant for my arrest in Denver. They’ll never catch me… and if they do, they’ll never take me alive!”

My wife tells me I’m overreacting.

“I’m not overreacting! Stupid meter maid Lefebre is obviously just a Colorado Buffaloes fan, saw my Nebraska plates, and is taking it out on me that the Huskers kick the snot out of the Buffs almost every time they play… and I don’t even care about the stupid rivalry!”

My wife tells me I need to watch my blood pressure. She tells me that the ticket is going to be paid and I don’t need something stupid like this going on my record.

“Fine,” I yell. It’s kind of funny how I let everything piss me off and I end up yelling at my wife because of it. She doesn’t think it’s really funny, but you know what I mean. “But I’m going to let them know how I feel about it.”

The wife rolls her eyes and smiles… which see seems to do a lot when I’m all torked off.

So, I type up the following and include it with the payment to the Bureau of Idiots Who Penalize Visitors to the City and County of Denver:

I mailed it yesterday. They will probably receive it the first of next week, and I bet no one even takes the time to read it… but I don’t care. I feel better for having written it, and the next time I go to Denver, I’m going to violate as many parking ordinances as I can… even though I don’t have a freaking clue as to what any of them are. I bet I’ll be able to do it without even trying… and I bet meter maid Lefebre will be waiting for me…

Why I Avoid Medical People…

My snore has been likened to the thunderous growl of a Tyrannosaurus rex. Now, I know that no living person is exactly sure what a T. Rex growl really sounds like, but I have been told that my snore has to be in the ballpark.

Of course, I have never heard my snore. My snoring has woke me up in the middle of the night on thousands of occasions, but by the time I’m actually awake, I’m done snoring. Funny how that works.

Anyway, my wife and I have been married for over 16 years. My wife has complained about my snoring for, well, a little over 16 years. I finally decided that maybe it was time to do something about it. See what a great guy I am?

Why would I avoid going to the doctor to have something done about my snoring? Well, the reasons are multiple:

1st: I hate doctors. I don’t hate them on a personal level, I just don’t like the fact that I have to rely on someone who makes a buttload of money for my physical well being. I also don’t like the fact that I have to pay said person a buttload of money for services rendered. Yeah… it’s all about the Benjamins.

I couldn’t be a doctor because I’m really not smart enough, and the thought of messing with someone’s other than my own bodily fluids makes me slightly light-headed. Just another of the “life isn’t fair” deals that pisses me off. Okay, so maybe I do hate them on a personal level…

2nd: When you go to the doctor, he or she always ends up finding a bunch of crap wrong that has nothing to do with the reason for your visit. It’s kind of like when you take your car in for an oil change, you know. All of a sudden, you’re needing new brake pads and a front-end alignment and your head-gasket is leaking… you, at the doctor… your car, at the mechanic… it’s all the same. Now that I am “in my forties”, I know that crap is going to start breaking down at an alarming rate. I’d really rather just not know about it. After all, maybe I can get another 2000 miles out of the car without fixing the problem, right? Besides, it seems like when they start trying to fix one problem, everything else starts to go to hell. You know, like the 35-year-old lady who goes in because she sprains her ankle, and they discover she has pancreatic cancer, so they cut her open to get to the cancer, and they find out that it is EVERYWHERE, and she is dead within a couple of weeks… because of a stinking sprained ankle. If she hadn’t gone in for the stupid sprained ankle, she would probably be alive today!

3rd: Uh… I don’t take exactly the best care of myself. I know this. I don’t need some yahoo driving a BMW to point this out and talk down to me while doing so, because when he or she does, my level of class-envy goes through the stinking roof!

Okay, so I don’t like going to the doctor. In fact, I don’t even have a doctor. I go to a local urgent care clinic (Quick Care) for all of my medical needs… which are few and far between. You’d think that, seeing as how I’m getting to the point where annual visits are looming on the horizon, I should probably find a doctor. I don’t like shopping for shoes… and I like shoes… so why would I spend time shopping for a doctor?

So, back to the snoring. I call one of them “sleep centers” (Western Sleep Medicine, I believe it is called) to see how I go about getting fitted with one of those Darth Vader masks to make me stop snoring.

They say I have to be referred by a doctor. I say I don’t have a doctor. They say I can use Quick Care to refer me. I call Quick Care and make sure that they can refer me, which they reassure me that they can. I ask, “So, uh, I’m wanting a referral for a sleep study… and that’s it. You aren’t going to test me for a bunch of other crap, are you?” And I am reassured that I will only be tested for the condition that I am visiting about. Great! So I drive on over to Quick Care. Never believe medical people.

I get to Quick Care and they make me fill out the stinking form that all medical places make you fill out when you first arrive. I get done filling the stupid form out and I realize that right beside the line where I fill-out my date of birth, there is a line for me to fill-out my age. I ask the receptionist, “So, why is there a line right beside my date of birth for my age. Wouldn’t just my date of birth be sufficient? Can’t you figure out my age?” Of course, I’m being a little smart-assy, but in a good-natured way. The receptionists at Quick Care are not exactly “good natured”.

“It’s there so we don’t have to figure it out,” the receptionist says, and I can tell by the look on her face that I’m pissing her off by breathing her air, so I let it drop.

So now I’m thinking to myself that I may be making a mistake by not actually having an actual doctor. I’m thinking that using Quick Care for a referral may not have been the swiftest of my most recent decisions. Did I have to list my age beside my date of birth so they didn’t have to figure it out… or because they couldn’t figure it out? I know, I should assume that the receptionist (or anyone else who touches my chart) would be able to figure out my age from my date of birth. However, before I entered Quick Care, I assumed that a receptionist in a place where people are going to have medical issues addressed and are looking for a little comfort would be able to smile… or at least be partially pleasant. I have learned to never trust my assumptions.

After a short wait, I am led into an examination room. The nurse tells me that the first thing she needs to do is check my blood pressure. Crap! This is exactly what I don’t want. This is why I called before I came… to make sure unnecessary crap wasn’t going to be tested. What does my blood pressure have to do with my snoring? But I’m already thinking I need to keep my mouth shut because of the whole receptionist encounter, so I sit down and let her test it.

170 over 130.

She looks at me like I should already be dead.

“Uh, is your blood pressure always this high?” she asked.

“No, these places freak me out,” I said. “It’s usually more like 150 over 100.” Of course my blood pressure is high. Everyone and their dog stresses me out. I hate any sort of confrontation and life is full of it… confrontation that is. The older I get, the less I am able to deal with the basic BS that every person on the planet seems intent on dishing out. If I could hole-up in a dark room and not have to ever deal with anyone or their problems, I bet my blood pressure would be just fine. I pray to God to let me not get stressed out, but stress is still there around every single stinking corner in this road of life… and God just looks down from heaven and laughs. I think jacking around with me is how God deals with His own stress.

Again… she looks at me like I should already be dead.

“I’m going to get the P.A.,” she said and disappeared out the door.

P.A. stands for “physician’s assistant”. A P.A. is like a doctor, except they didn’t have to go to school as long as a doctor, and instead of BMWs, they usually drive Audis. I don’t hate P.A.s quite as much as I hate doctors.

The P.A. comes in and he talks about getting me a referral for the sleep test, he fills out the necessary paperwork, and then he starts talking about what we are going to do about my blood pressure. He has the nurse run a ECG, and then she sticks me with a needle and red crap comes out my arm into a little vial. I’m ready to pass out as he tells me about the blood pressure medication that I’m going to be put on.

Crap!

So, I leave, I go and get my blood pressure medication, and I go home.

The next day, I take the first of the pills. It’s Lisinopril. It’s supposed to have very few side-effects. I notice nothing and think I’m golden.

I take my second pill the following morning. All is well… until I get out of the shower, reach for the hair gel (it’s Sunday, and I gel my hair up on Sunday to keep from looking like such a hippie freak), and I fall to the floor with chest pain. I can’t even stand up. The wife and kids are already gone, because the wife takes the kids to Sunday school.

Crap!

Okay, so I figure I’m having a heart attack. Figures, right? I mean, if I hadn’t gone in for the stupid snoring issue, I would have been fine. Anyway, I’m downstairs, and I need to find a way to get upstairs. I figure out that if I bend over and do not stand straight up, I can walk without a ton of pain. So I hunch it upstairs and sit down at the dining room table. I start weighing my options.

I can call the wife and freak the crap out of her. Yeah… not going to happen.

I can call 911 and get an ambulance coming. That would, however, be expensive. I’m all about the Benjamins.

Then, I start thinking that I really don’t feel like I’m going to die. You know how people who have heart attacks claim that they get all freaked out because they can tell that they are dying? Well, I’m not freaking out. I’m just pissed because my chest hurts. There is no pain shooting through my shoulder or up my arm, just a sharp pain under my left man-boob. Feels more like something is pulled than I’m dying. I think to myself, “If this cramp in my chest gets worse, do I feel like my heart is going to stop?” I answer myself, “No.” So, I sit there and wait for the pain to go away.

Western Sleep Medicine is supposed to call me to schedule a sleep study. I haven’t heard from them yet. I may not have to worry about it. After all, I went to medical people for one problem and they discovered another. I give myself two weeks, tops. Damn it… I swear, I could have got another 2000 miles out of this s.o.b.