terrytown – Page 3 – HappyStinkingJoy

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!

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…

How To Make Money With A Blog… yes, that’s a question…

I have really big plans for this blog. Someday, I will make enough money with this blog that I can spend all of the time that I now devote to my job doing nothing more than bitching about stuff here all day. You know what they say, do something you love, and it won’t really be “work”. Well, bitching is about the only thing I do that I really enjoy, so this has to be the answer to my prayers… at some point… right? Oh please, let it be so.

Okay, so to make money with a blog, you have to… uh… COME ON! There has to be a way to make money with a blog! Every once in awhile, I put a link to something on Amazon on here. I’m an Amazon Associate, which means I can get commission if someone clicks one of those links and actually buys something from Amazon. I have been an Amazon Associate for about two years, and I have actually made some money doing it. Of course, I haven’t seen any of that money yet. Amazon won’t actually pay anything out until you have built up at least $10 in commission… and I haven’t hit that mark yet. In another three or four years, I should get my first $10 check from Amazon.

I’m stoked!

There is also Google Ads. I could have a list of stupid links on the side of my blog with Google ads and I would get paid every time someone clicks one of those links. Happy Stinking Joy doesn’t really have a lot of visitors, and, at this point, I’d rather have you stay and read my thoughts than get distracted by the ads on the side and leave my site. Also, it would mess up my ultra-professional layout… or something.

I haven’t exactly had an onslaught of individual advertisers approaching me with bids for some of the precious real estate on my site. I guess rant sites aren’t real popular with traditional advertisers. Before I’m going to see any real revenue from this site, I’m going to have to get more than a handful of people coming here on a daily basis.

Most popular blogs seem to fall into a couple of categories, the first of which is the “expert” blogger. You know, these are the Seth Godins of the world who share all kinds of free insight into crap that they are experts about. Their whole ploy is to give you “free advice” to make you feel like a friend, and then they try to sell their books to you or try to talk you into hiring them to do consulting or speaking engagements. Well, my forty-one-years of life have not exactly led me to become much of an expert at anything. I know a little about a lot, but a lot about little. I have been too busy chasing the next-step-up in middle-class pay to stay with any one company in any given field for more than a couple of years. If your current promotions and pay increases aren’t getting you where you want to be: quit, and maybe the next job will take you where you want to go. Of course, the next job never does. So, I’ve had the opportunity to work with all kinds of interesting people in many different fields, but I haven’t stuck around any of them long enough to actually have become an expert at anything. I’m an expert bitcher, but companies aren’t going to hire me to give a “bitch seminar” to their workforce… at least not yet. I figure if I pray about it long enough, God, if nothing else, will get tired of me asking and either give it to me just to shut me up or strike me dead…

… either of which would lead to no more Monday mornings dreading work.

The other major category of successful bloggers seems to be those who cover current events. Whether it be Perez Hilton covering the latest embarrassments of the rich and famous, or any of the slew of Yahoo! bloggers covering the latest in world events; people who get the story first tend to get a following. I think this may be the route I need to follow. I need to get the hot stories first. Of course, I live in Nebraska, so the celebrity fodder may be a little out of my grasp.

Ooh… Ooh… Miss America is from my part of Nebraska, so I could dedicate my blog to digging up all of the crap I can to humiliate Miss America I did a little blog about Miss America right after she won and it was actually one of the most visited rants I have posted! But… I have a pretty strong suspicion that Teresa Scanlan is almost as squeaky clean as you would think a Miss America should be. I bet she actually believes what she says she believes, and I don’t think that “Miss America thought about skipping church once because she was just too tired to go, but then she prayed about it and changed her mind” will draw a lot of visitors to my little site.

So, I’ve got to find a way to get the latest and greatest news before anybody else. This is a “must” if I ever want to make this thing my sugar daddy. Okay, so here it goes:

Breaking news… Charlie Sheen has gone insane! The impact was devastating. Damages are estimated… oh, great, my kid just looked over my shoulder and informed me that this is old news. Okay, I guess I need to find something a little more “hot”.

Alright, I just did a Google search for “breaking news” and I don’t think I’m going to be able to go this route. It seems that all of the “news” sites already have the breaking news covered. The news sites and a bunch of Twitter people. I don’t tweet or chirp or cockadoodledoo… or whatever it is that those people do. I’m not quite hip enough for that. Besides, all I’d be able to add to the Twitter conversation would be unique things I’m experiencing.

“It’s windy in Nebraska… again!”

See, it just doesn’t work.

Hmmm… I gotta figure something out. Okay, I know, I could just make kind of creative news stories. No, that wasn’t “make up news stories”, it was “make kind of creative news stories”. There’s… uh… sort of a difference.

Breaking news…. There is a humongous oil leak in the… uh… Gulf of Istanbul. Yeah, and it’s causing infertility in the… uh… Great Northern Spike-Backed Whale. Oh, you should hear the sad song those poor whales are singing at this moment. It would make you cry.

PETA — Okay... yeah... I don't know what Alicia Silverstone being a Vegetarian has to do with "funny whale oil leaks" either, but a Google image search came up with this. I love Google...

This just in… apparently the oil spill was caused by… uh… Miss America! Yeah, that’s it! Apparently Miss America was on a diplomatic mission to Alderan and she and her entourage accidentally knocked over a big oil thingie in the Gulf of Istanbul. Anti-American sentiment is through the roof in the countries bordering the Gulf… and by Great Northern Spiked-Back Whale lovers around the world! Check back to this site often for more of the latest…

This just may work 😉

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?
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Tom Cruise has done pretty well for himself. And like I wrote earlier, he’s well respected…
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I mean, it’s not like he’s a little crazy or anything…
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Oh, who am I kidding. Tom Cruise is a complete freaking nutjob…
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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?