scottsbluff – Page 4 – HappyStinkingJoy

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.

Stinking “Social Network”

So I watched The Social Network last night. My oldest son just turned 13, and he really wanted to see this movie, and this movie is PG-13, so we got it for him for his birthday. If you live in a cave, you might not know that The Social Network is the story of how Mark Zuckerberg started Facebook.

We all enjoyed the movie. I thought they were only able to drop one F-bomb in a PG-13 movie, but it looks like this one was able to get away with a couple. The language and some of the implied sexual content made me a little uncomfortable watching this with my son (The Suite Life of Zack & Cody’s Brenda Song goes all Monica Lewinski in a bathroom stall… which was odd to watch with a boy who has grown up watching that particular show).

Overall, however, this was a good flick. It was kind of cool to see how one of the world’s most addictive on-line presences got its start. It’s kind of funny, the Mark Zuckerberg character is not very likeable, but you just can’t hate him. He is emotionally immature, self-centered, egotistical, arrogant… highly intelligent and hard not to kind of like. He screws over his girlfriend, his best friend, and a group of preppies that are counting on him. In fact, he appears to only have his interests in mind with almost every decision he makes. Still, you can’t help but root for the dorky little jerk. Whether or not the real Mark Zuckerberg is anything like the character played by Jesse Eisenberg, who knows. Not me, for sure. I am neither in the same social strata as young billionaire geniuses nor successful Hollywood actors.

I bet that a lot of people who have not seen this movie (or who haven’t gone to a prestigious college in the last few years) will not know that Facebook was started as an ultra-exclusive, Harvard-student-only website. Quickly, Zuckerberg let it spread to other prestigious universities, and then less prestigious universities, and then, when the true monetary potential of Facebook came into focus… the world. In the original plans for Facebook, us average folks weren’t included.

I remember a few years ago, I had a recent college graduate as a coworker. He had graduated from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln. I had recently started a Facebook account, and I was talking to him about it. He made a comment about how “Facebook just isn’t the same since it isn’t exclusively college students anymore.” I took offense at his statement. I felt he was saying that us old timers and regular Joes were ruining something that had once been “hip” and “fun”. How dare we reconnect with relatives and old friends. How dare we stay in contact with people who would have normally faded silently into our pasts. If I had known then what I know now, I may have said something like, “Yeah, I bet that’s the same thing the preppies at Harvard thought when they started to let a bunch of cornhusker hicks from UNL join Facebook.” Hahaha… sometimes hindsight makes me feel kind of good.

Watching a good movie should do one of two things:

1. let you escape from reality, or

2. make you think.

The Social Network , for me, did both. I enjoyed watching the snotty people get what was coming to them. I enjoyed seeing how Facebook got its slightly-shady start. As far as the thinking goes, it made me wonder why , in the grand scheme of things, some people are smarter than others, thus giving them an unfair advantage in the ability to come up with cool ideas and make a crapload of money. Why am I not one of those brilliant people? I know… I know… anyone can learn anything and you are only limited by your ability to sacrifice and learn and blah blah blah blah… that’s a load of phooey.

**SEE, look at ME, I’m all old using words like PHOOEY, for crying out loud.**

Some people are just naturally smarter than other. Some people have a definite advantage in the race to success. Of course, in the case of the movie versionof Mark Zuckerberg, he kind of screwed over a lot of people to get there. Part of me thinks his sacrifice is not something I could bring myself to do. The other part of me… the sane, rational part… thinks that for a net worth of that is now probably in the tens of billions of dollars, I may have screwed over a friend or two along the way as well 🙂 But since I ain’t real smart or nothin’, I’ll just keep tryin’ the way I have been tryin’ most my life…

The Weather Down Here? It Sucks!

Being short is not cool. Short people are seldom respected, self-confident, successful, or desirable. If being short was a positive trait, then in your youth, your parents would have lectured, “Drink your coffee. That stuff is good for you… it stunts your growth!” Instead, parents emphasized the danger of coffee stunting growth as a warning, much like the if-you-cross-your-eyes-they-will-stay-like-that-forever warning, or the if-you-do-that-too-much-you-will-go-blind warning. Being short is perceived to be as undesirable as walking around for the rest of your life crossed-eyed, blind and acne-scarred… with hairy palms. sigh Being short is not cool.

If you haven’t been able to guess this fact, I’m short. So, what exactly does “short” mean? Well, I’m kind of thinking that “short” means below the average height those around you. In other words, I’m short because I’m below the average height of a male in the United States of America. Wikipedia actually has a really nice breakdown of the average heights around the world.

Ok, so I’m 5′ 7″. The average male in the U.S. is 5′ 9 1/2″. See how they do that crap? ‘1/2″ ‘. They gotta throw in that 1/2″ just to rub it in a short guys face. The bastards! And that’s just “average” U.S. males. The average “white” U.S. male (which, I’m a cracker) is 5’10”. Seriously?!? I’m a full 3″ shorter than my cracker brothers?!? sigh… no wonder I can’t seem to get a fair shake.

Alrighty, so let’s think back to short people who have been successful. Any leaders that you can think of who were short? Well, of course, there was Napoleon Bonaparte, right? You know, the little French dude who was thought to be a little power-hungry. In fact, Napoleon, had a complex named after him: Napoleon Complex.

The Napoleon Complex is an informal term describing an alleged type of inferiority complex which is said to affect some people, especially men, who are short in stature. So, Napoleon must have been a real shorty, huh? Just a tiny little guy, right? Guess how tall Napoleon was. C’mon, take a stab at it! That’s right, Napoleon was 5’7″!!! Oh, for crying out loud…

So, who are some other famous short guys… or, maybe I should write, who are some other guys famous for being short? Well, there aren’t really many famous athletes. In order to be a competitive athlete, one has to be relatively tall. So, a career in athletics was never in the cards for me. So when I complain that athletes are overpaid entertainers, and people say crap like, “They had to work hard to get where they are,” I have to come back with, “Yeah, I guess working hard at having parents with the right genetics earns them a multi-million dollar-per-year contract.” Seriously.

Hey, what about Danny Devito! He’s a short dude, right? He’s famous, right? He makes a ton of money, right?

Well, who would honestly want to look like Danny Devito? I mean, c’mon. If he wasn’t an incredible comedic actor, he would probably be a side-show act at a circus.

Ooh, ooh, what about Tom Cruise? He’s real short too, isn’t he? I mean, he’s a dinky little guy, right? By the way, Tom Cruise is 5’7″…

Tom Cruise, is well respected, right? And he does the whole acting thing, right? He was even nominated for an Academy Award for that Born on the Fourth of July
thing, right? And the hotties… how can anyone forget the hotties of Tom Cruise?
.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.

Tom Cruise has done pretty well for himself. And like I wrote earlier, he’s well respected…
.
.
.

I mean, it’s not like he’s a little crazy or anything…
.
.
.

Oh, who am I kidding. Tom Cruise is a complete freaking nutjob…
.
.
.

See, being short is enough to drive a person absolutely INSANE!

Ok, so being short sucks because you really can’t be a professional athlete, and being short can drive you crazy. Oh, I know, there is gonna be some dipwad who says something like, “What about Spud Webb… Spud Webb was only 5’6″?” Well, Spud Webb is what is known as an “anomaly”. He is one of the shortest pro basketball players of all time. So people of his stature… err, our stature… are not likely to have much success in sports. Also, Spud Webb wasn’t a cracker. Crackers can’t jump.

In addition to the lack of multi-million dollar athletic contracts and the whole going-insane thing, short people are have a 50% higher risk of having a heart problem or dying from one . Also, tall people earn more money than short people, both due to height discrimination and also the fact that tall people are apparently smarter than short people ! For crying out loud… can us shorties catch a freaking genetic break here?!?

Even renowned marketing guru Seth Godin, who stresses that our “Lizard Brain” (which, according to Seth, is the primitive part of the brain that keeps us mired in fear and self-doubt) keeps us from accomplishing our real goals in life, uses a typical short-dude slam to get his meaning across. Of course, Seth is saying you need to build a quality reputation and a lot of anticipation for you and your products online before clients meet you in real life (or something like that), but “I thought you’d be taller” could be taken as “I’m disappointed that you are physically short”. I know (hope) that this is not what Seth meant, but c’mon, Seth… way to help feed the Lizard Brains of the vertically challenged!

So, yeah… us shorties have a rough go of it. I did happen to notice on the Wikipedia link that the average height of a man in Mexico is around 5′ 4″ to 5′ 5 1/2″. Suddenly, I’m all about allowing unlimited immigration (legal, illegal… who cares) from Mexico to the U.S. Hell, let as many of our little Mexican neighbors in as want to come. In a few short years (no pun intended… who am I kidding, pun definitely intended), I will feel like a giant around all of the short Mexican dudes.

Or, maybe I should consider moving to Bolivia. Dudes are only like 5′ 3″ there. I would be like a god to them… MWAHAAHAAHAA!!!

… and all of you jerkholes who look down on us smallies, stick it where the sun don’t shine… err, or in the above picture, where the sun does shine 🙂

The Great Miss America Controversy… Where Exactly is She From?!?

I always write about how nothing good comes from the panhandle of Nebraska. Apparently, my beliefs may not be 100% accurate. On January 15, 2011, for the first time in history, Miss Nebraska was crowned Miss America. Miss America is from Nebraska, and that is something kind of good.

Teresa Scanlan was crowned Miss America in humble Las Vegas, Nevada at an understated ceremony viewed by a few people around the world on ABC. Teresa Scanlan is 17-years-old (one of the youngest Miss Americas ever… and the youngest Miss Nebraska ever), plays Chopsticks on the piano like nobody’s business, fills out a bikini nicely (even if there isn’t much bikini there), looks extremely elegant in evening ware, and isn’t afraid to answer a politically-charged question with a politically-incorrect answer (and she still won?!?). Teresa is intelligent, and her goals are not acting or a singing career or modeling. Her goal is to find a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court… and I know that the Presidency of the U.S. is not something she sees as out of her reach. Normally, I would scoff at a beauty-pageant winner stating that she may have her eyes on our nation’s highest office, but I have been following Teresa’s story for awhile now. You know how some people seem to be able to actually accomplish the goals they set for themselves? Well, Teresa is one of those people. And the kicker is… Teresa is from the panhandle of Nebraska! In fact, she probably lives less than a couple of miles from the humble abode I call home. So, I guess not everything in the panhandle of Nebraska sucks.

Now, if you’ve ever read my blog before, you know that my blog posts that are completely without a complaint are few and far between. In fact, this is my 75th post in about 1 1/2 years of blogging, and I think there have been like 3 posts without a complaint! This post, I’m afraid, is not going to be the 4th.

In past posts, I have complained about the idiocy of Scottsbluff and Gering residents regarding the differentiation of the two communities. Scottsbluff is proud to be Scottsbluff, and Gering is proud to be Gering. The two small communities refuse to consolidate and become one rural powerhouse. Instead, they remain separate in both government and attitude, and they remain two rural economic weaklings. Gering residents especially are territorial and throw major whining fits whenever consolidation of the two communities is mentioned. Gering, of course, is the smaller of the two communities (they don’t even have their own grocery store), and seems to be suffering from a touch of Napoleon complex. My personal opinion is that the two communities should put aside their perceived differences, join economic forces, and become one. With the combined talent and resources of the two communities, we could grow into the next Ft. Collins. Or… we can stay separate, and things around this dump will never change. Each community is already reliant on the other, and neither community will ever thrive without it’s neighbor. Stop being neighbors and start being family!

Well, this division between these two communities was well presented after Teresa’s accomplishment tonight. When I logged onto my Facebook account tonight, after the victory, the division was quite prevalent. You see, Theresa lives in Gering, NE, but Teresa graduated from high school in Scottsbluff, NE. Oh my! Which community does she really claim? She chose Scottsbluff as the place to complete her high school education, so she prefers Scottsbluff, right? Oh, but she went to school in Gering, and she and her family live in Gering, so she is a Gering girl, right? A common example of a Facebook thread is as follows:

Scottsbluff jerk’s status: Congratulations to Scottsbluff’s own Teresa Scanlan!

Gering moron’s comment: You realize she’s actually from Gering, right?

Scottsbluff: Well… she graduated from Scottsbluff High!

Gering: Yeah… but she went to Gering schools too…

Scottsbluff: But she chose to graduate from Scottsbluff!

Gering: … but her family still lives in Gering.

blah… blah… blah…

Seriously… the most prestigious beauty-related award that a young woman in the United States can win… and she is from NEBRASKA, and not just Nebraska, but the PANHANDLE OF NEBRASKA… and you idiots have to argue about exactly which town she is from?!? What would Miss America think?!?

Well, I would guess that Miss America would say:

“I am proud of being from both Scottsbluff and Gering. These two communities have every right to claim me as their own, because I love both and will continue to support both as I complete my duties as Miss America. Scottsbluff: I will continue to shop your stores and eat at your restaurants and praise your school system! Gering: I will… uh… I know there’s something… oh yeah… I will continue to sleep in your jurisdiction… when I’m not out doing Miss America stuff… promise!”

She is, after all, thinking of being President, so she has to learn to diplomatically lie…

Seriously… Husker-football can’t win their way out of a wet paper bag and the Husker-girl’s volleyball choke in the tournament. The most impressive thing to come out of Nebraska in the past few years is Teresa Scanlan… and us locals are arguing about where she is really from?!? And people wonder why I bitch…

Another New Themed-Header :)

Once again, the Tainted Butterfly, has come through with a holiday themed header for my blog. Thanks!

I know… I know… January isn’t even half-way over and I have a Valentine’s Day thing going on. If Walmart can do it, so can I. And I know… I know… hearts and flowers and crap seem kind of sappy, but I like the way my turd seems to have the hots for the floating heart. Ahhh, young love, is there anything that makes you want to gouge your eyes out more?

Someone is Getting Out!

I received a letter-of-resignation from one of our staff recently. One of my coworkers is leaving the employment of the company I work for, packing up his family, and moving to Texas. A better paying job with more opportunity awaits him in a climate that is more to his liking. No one begrudges him the opportunity he is not letting pass him by. In fact, the only mumblings around the office that have been created by his announcement are mumblings of slight jealousy. He has done it… he has found a way out of Nebraska!

My coworkers and I seldom complain about the work we do on a daily basis (unless we have a particularly stressful day of telephone calls or the subcontractors we use for a majority of our service work are giving us grief). We all seem to like our jobs. We do, however, like to complain about living here. We have come to the conclusion that, of our little staff of nine (soon to be eight), the majority of us are not completely in love with living here. I figure that about 5% of the population here in the panhandle of Nebraska… a percentage that consists mostly those in the higher echelon of wages and stature, … actually “love” living here. The other 95% of the residents of our area fall into one of two categories (please remember, there was no scientific research involved in the estimation of these percentages… just raw, gut instinct from a guy who likes to bitch) :

1: People who hate living here. By hate, I mean anything from somewhat dislike to extreme, pull-your-hair-out hate.

2: People who are indifferent.

The second category are a bigger thorn-in-the-side of my attitude than the people who actually love living here (all 5% of them). The indifferent people make excuses and self-justifications and talk down to those of us in category 1. The lovers talk down to us as well, but at least it’s because they love it here and they don’t like us harshing their love mellow. The indifferents talk down to us because our rants about the crappiness of Nebraska makes them think about their own pathetic existences here… and they don’t like that.

The indifferents don’t really like living here, but they come up with reasoning that can be difficult to follow.

“Why don’t you try to find the positive instead of always looking at the negative?” Because “finding the positive” sounds like work, and why should one have to “work” to find joy in a community? If a community doesn’t offer joy, find a community that does.

“Instead of complaining, why can’t you try to appreciate what the panhandle has to offer?” This is like having a turd on your dinner plate. Now someone is telling you not to complain about the turd, and that you should realize that the turd actually has a small amount of nutritional value because of the undigested corn. Pick the corn out of the turd and enjoy it instead of complaining about the turd. Brings new meaning to living in the “cornhusker” state, doesn’t it?

“It’s negative people like you who make it difficult to live here!” The villager who complains about the wolves coming in and eating the village’s sheep isn’t the cause of the lack of food and wool. The villager who complains is bringing light to an issue that will not be solved if the other villager’s don’t realize there is a problem. If no one complains about it, won’t get fixed. Without the pessimist, the optimist has no bright side to look at… or, better yet, no dark side to look away from.

“If you don’t like it here, just leave!” Oh, if only life were so simple. For some of us, there are children in school, mortgages to pay, job commitments, lack of funds for a move, and many other excuses that really do make it difficult to completely uproot lives in search of greener pastures. Plus, I really feel like many of us who hate it here would love to not hate it here, but we don’t know how to institute the change necessary to make it better here. For example, Scottsbluff and Gering are currently two separate communities with two separate governments, school systems, law enforcement agencies, etc. Combining the two communities seems like it would benefit both communities by saving tax-payer money and by attracting new employers and jobs with a single community of about 25,000 instead two separate communities of less than 20,000. Problem is, the morons in Gering want nothing to do with the jerks across the river in Scottsbluff. In fact, the residents of Gering feel so strongly about “keeping their own identity” that they voted out the mayor who was in favor of starting to consolidate the two communities in favor of the hot-head who is all about keeping the communities separate. So Gering took one step forward by electing Susan Weideman and then took twenty steps backward by electing Ed Mayo. Opening the eyes of the people who don’t really want to see the communities grow and thrive as one, but who instead view the two communities as rivals, is a difficult, if not impossible, task to overcome. So, if we don’t like it, we’re supposed to leave; and many of us do leave and the population continues to stagnate… and no one can quite figure out how to fix this!?! We are just doing what you tell us to do!

I’m not usually one who gets too deeply involved in the whole positive/negative energy thing. However, there really does seem to be a negative energy in this place. Don’t believe me? Try spending a couple of hours at the Scottsbluff Walmart on the first weekend of the month when all of the government-assisted shoppers are loading up and you will know the meaning of the words “negative energy”. Given the fact that such a large percentage of the population here is either negative or indifferent, the negative energy thrives. At times, you can actually feel it washing over you. I can feel it, can you?

Happy Stinking New Year…

Christmas in Nebraska…

If you’re dreaming of a white Christmas, stay away from Nebraska!

I can remember the Christmases of my youth in Montana: Christmas days filled with sledding and snow-fort building and snowball fights and ice skating. These are fond memories that my children will most likely only experience on the rare “Christmas visit to the extended-family in Montana.” My boys will grow to adulthood thinking of Christmas as a time of brown grass covering the earth and patches of dead leaves that avoided the rakes of fall. Dust and dirt, brown on brown… nothing screams “Christmas” like the colors of death and decay. This is Christmas in Nebraska.

When most of us think of Christmas, reds and greens and whites (is there more than one?) fill our imaginations. Red represents the blood of Christ that was spilled for our sins. Green stands for life, the eternal life found through Christ’s sacrifice. White is for snow; snow that covers the earth and hides all imperfections, just like Christ. Brown is for… uh… well… there really is no “brown” in the Christmas color-scheme. Brown is reminiscent of… crap? Crap that life can be without Christ, I guess. Or, maybe a donkey in the manger or something.

Southern states can boast of the green of year-round vegetation and temperate weather, and I can see how Christmas could be enjoyable down there what with the reminder of the eternal life that awaits us. Northern states are covered in the virgin snow that reminds us of the love of God. Central states, like Nebraska, remind us that this life can be a pile of crap and, I don’t know… maybe that we can expect donkey-rides in heaven?!?

Christmas should be all about Christ. This time of year, we get caught up in the gift-giving and the gift-receiving and the food and the extended mid-day naps (ok… so that’s probably just me). We all remind each other to remember the true meaning of the Christmas, and then we head out to buy that one last present, or we run to Walmart to get that last box of Jello for the salad.

I’m gonna keep this post short, because I don’t want to complain too much on the day we set aside to remember the birth of Christ. I’m going to try to end this post in a positive manner in tribute to the ultimate sacrifice of our savior. As I look out the window at the brown grass and the blowing dead leaves, I shake my head and try to think positive. It’s too cold outside to enjoy the lack of snow, but it’s not cold enough to go ice fishing or ice skating. Brown upon brown upon brown… I guess riding a donkey would be kinda fun…

The Death of Mrs. Dryer: A Love Story?

We had to replace our dryer. Our old dryer just pooped-out. She had been in a state of deteriorating health for quite some time, but we have put up with her “quirks” because… well… she was our dryer. When the wife and I were married over 16 years ago, one of the first major purchases we made was a washer and dryer.

I can remember shopping for her (the dryer… not the wife… although I vaguely remember that as well). We went to every place in town, trying to get a good deal. We looked at all sorts of off-name brands, but we ended up going with Kenmore from Sears. I don’t remember the exact reasoning behind why we purchased this particular brand, but I know I have felt confident that we made the right choice. I have never looked at our washer and dryer and thought, ‘We made a mistake by going cheap.’ We considered buying our washer at one store and our dryer at another. “Matching appliances” that were to end up in the basement or the laundry room or the spare bedroom were never a big concern for us. However, the particular washer and dryer that we purchased in our first year of marriage just… well… they just seemed to go together, kind of like a newly-wed couple.
.
.
.

.
.
.

Mr. Washer and Mrs. Dryer have been with the wife and me through thick and thin. Whether they were cleaning the bedding and lingerie of a newly-wed couple, sitting in storage while the wife and I hopped apartments in Denver, cleaning the tiny clothes of our firstborn, cleaning dog hair off of everything after we received our family’s first dog, cleaning up the spit-up of our second-born, cleaning up the spit-up of our second-born, cleaning up the spit-up of our second-born (oh, the joys of a RSV-prone and mucous-filled child), or preparing the daily garb of a laundry-producing family of four people and one dog in present day; Mr. Washer and Mrs. Dryer have always tried to be good to us. I have spent many a late night sitting downstairs watching T.V. or pecking on the computer, while Mr. Washer scrubs the whites and Mrs. Dryer fluffs the darks.

Listening to the two of them in harmony could be quite … err… interesting?!? While Mr. Washer went into spin cycle and Mrs. Dryer tumbled her load round-and-round, there unison motions often caught my attention. Mr. Washer would spin, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, shaking the stillness of the basement with his urgency. Mrs. Dryer kept the same unison pace throughout, yet I sensed that they were working toward a common goal. Finally, Mr. Washer, at a frenzied speed in search of some extraordinary outcome… stopped spinning. I could tell he was spent. Mrs. Dryer usually continued on, searching for her own “mission complete” banner. Every once in awhile, the two of them would reach their goal at the same time: Mr. Washer’s final spin cycle quickly grinding to a halt as Mrs. Dryer’s buzzing high-pitched alarm screamed that her load was complete. It was kind of exotic and erotic, in a very blue-collar and… uh… pervy kind of way… probably like the erotic encounters of most married couples 🙂

Mr. Washer started having issues a little over a year ago. He really wobbled when he went into the spin cycle, and we knew that something was wrong. Finally, he just gave out. Every time I tried to start a new load, he would just hum. I tried my best to get him working on my own… which, with my mechanical expertise, resulted in several swift kicks to his nether-regions.
.
.
.

.
.
.
Mrs. Washer did not seem to approve.
.
.
.

.
.
.

Nothing I did (i.e. no matter how hard I kicked) worked. We finally called an appliance repairman. Like $50 later, some doohickey was replaced and Mr. Washer has been working like a champ ever since!
.
.
.

.
.
.

Mrs. Dryer has been in a state of decline ever since we moved into our new house over two years ago. It seems her heating element has been going out… or something. It used to be that we could throw a wet load into her and, within a multitude of mere minutes, she would have it dry. Recently, it would take a second, and sometimes third, cycle to actually remove all moisture from a load of clothes. Apparently, she had come down with something… something terminal. Finally, a few nights ago, she wouldn’t work at all. I threw a load of wet mass into her, closed her door, pushed the “start” button, and… nothing.
.
.
.

.
.
.

Crap!

I figured, initially, that this was something I could fix… given my exemplary track-record with fixing major appliances and all. I gave her several swift kicks. Although the kicks did nothing to spur her into action, I did seem to notice several sever looks-of-reproach from Mr. Washer.
.
.
.

.
.
.

Ignoring the ire of her spouse, I decided to perform a little surgery.

I think I’ve already mentioned this, but my mechanical skills are a little lacking. I blame my lack of ability on the fact that I don’t have the proper tools. Convincing the wife that I needed to add to my haphazard tool collection, I headed to… Walmart… and bought a multimeter. Armed with the necessary tool to assess Mrs. Washer’s condition, I started the procedure.

First, I tested the actual outlet she plugged into. As the multimeter’s needle sprung to action with the insertion of the red thingie and the black thingie into the slots that we are taught from early childhood not to stick anything into, my heart raced. I realized that between my fingers raced enough electricity to kill the average mortal. Feeling slightly immortal through my discovery, I proceeded to the removing-of-the-screws on the back of Mrs. Dryer. Leaving the appliance plugged in, I proceeded to test this and that… not knowing exactly what I was testing, but feeling exilerated that I was playing with something with which I shouldn’t. Not finding a clue as to the current condition plaguing Mrs. Washer, I unplugged her, turned the multimeter device to the “ohm” setting, and continued with my examination.

The ohm setting apparently tests the connection through different electrical components of a system without the necessity of outside electricity… or something. The multimeter’s AA battery provides everything one needs. All of a sudden, I’m not a general surgeon… I’m a “specialist”, as I test this component and that. I become increasingly disheartened as my search proves more and more futile. The wife recommends that we just purchase a new dryer. I remind the wife that Mr. Washer was fixed for next-to-nothing and recommend that we try the same with Mrs. Dryer. The wife points out that the average appliance lasts about 15 years, Mrs. Dryer is over said 15 years, and that we could really use a dryer with a little more capacity to dry our increasing quantity of clothes and linen-type-stuff as our boys grow. Feeling like I had let Mrs. Dryer (and Mr. Washer as well) down, I somberly agree. Mrs. Washer has fulfilled her purpose and her time had past…
.
.
.

.
.
.

Mr. Dryer was devastated…
.
.
.

.
.
.

After quick visits to all of the major local appliance places, we settle on a nice Maytag that Home Depot was offering at clearance prices. We brought her home, plugged her in, and tried her out. She works great. She gets hotter than Mrs. Dryer ever did. The new dryer is sleek, shiny, and has great capacity. We like her a lot. She may have been “cheap”, but you could never tell that from her appearance!
.
.
.

.
.
.

Okay, maybe her appearance screams “cheap”… but only in the softest of screams.

At first, I was afraid that Mr. Washer would hold some contempt towards our newest appliance. However, I think he’s coming around 🙂
.
.
.

.
.
.
In fact, this is the happiest I have seen Mr. Washer in a long time. His spin cycle seems to be a little faster and he cleans better than he has in years… and I can’t quite seem to figure out why…
.
.
.

.
.
.
Appliances… go figure?

National Champs… WNCC Lady Cougars Volleyball!

In my last post, I kind of painted Nebraska Governor Dave Heineman as a dolt. Let me rephrase that: Nebraska Governor Dave Heineman kind of painted himself as a dolt and I wrote about it. I really didn’t have anything positive to say about good ol’ Dave. After thinking about it, I decided that he did deserve a couple of props, so I am going to right that wrong right now!

Governor Dave made a lot of fun of The Star-Herald ! I like making fun of The Star-Herald myself, so I enjoyed Dave’s ribbing of our “local” paper! However, Dave made a comment about The Star-Herald not being like The Omaha World-Herald, and I kind of tend to disagree. The Star-Herald is owned by The Omaha World-Herald and is a lot like its parent paper. I want to emphasize that The Star-Herald has a local staff of reporters, marketers, and support personnel who are, for the most part, good, hard-working people who do a bang-up job! However, just because you are owned by an Omaha company does not mean that you can charge Omaha prices. Also, The Star-Herald does not seem to have a local paper “feel”… and I can’t quantify what I mean by that, it’s just the way it is. So bravo, Governor Dave, for making fun of The Star-Herald !

Second props go to Governor Dave for his honoring of Western Nebraska Community College’s Lady Cougar volleyball team for bringing home a national championship at the NJCAA level! Dave proclaimed December 3, 2010 as “Cougar Volleyball Day”.
*
*
*
*

*
*
*
*

It’s pretty cool when little podunk Scottsbluff can claim a national anything, let alone a championship. WNCC has a great athletics program, and I don’t think we local residents appreciate our student athletes as much as we could. Great job, Cougar volleyballers… we are proud of you!

It would have been cool to see a little higher-profile coverage given to our local national champs in our local newspaper, but I think the Huskers played that weekend…