Tagged: Blogging
Winning’s Shimmer
Before he knew it he noticed he only had one blue and one green ring left in his cereal bowl. Looking towards her, he saw he was clearly going to win. Coming at the rings from the side, he lifted them out of the milk with one experienced motion. After removing the spoon from his mouth he shocked her with the news.
“Guess what? Looks like I win.”
“Huh uh, daddy. I’m gonna win.”
“Nope. I already won. Don’t you understand? You can’t win.”
“Huh uh, daddy. You don’t get the trophy.”
“I most certainly do get the trophy. I do. Don’t you see that I won? You always tell me very clearly that when you win, I lose. Well, today I won, and that means I get the trophy.”
Her tears really didn’t bother him until the sound of their creation became deafening. And that only happened as he grabbed the trophy. Not a total arse, he put the trophy back on the table. After all, she was only three-and-a-half. The roar softened to a whimper.
Taking his bowl to the counter, he kept up the banter, making sure she didn’t miss the lesson. He came back and saw she was finally done.
“Can I have a little bit more?” she asked, making the universal sign for ‘liddle bit’ with her thumb and forefinger.
“You can, but you need to understand that this only further proves that I won. Having more cereal after I’m already finished means that even if you had finished the first round before me, you still wouldn’t have won today. Today, I won and you lost. Don’t worry about it. There’s always tomorrow.”
She nodded to placate him.
He watched her finish her second helping. Now carrying her bowl, he made his way around the corner into the kitchen. Upon returning to the table, he noticed she was gone. Her bedroom was in direct line-of-sight only 15 feet further from him than the table. Sensing movement, he peered into the darkness and recognized the little girl. “Why the hell is she standing in her bedroom in the dark?” he thought to himself. His eyes adapting, he saw a shimmer of gold–center mass. Moving only his eyes, he looked down at the table. The trophy was gone.
“Like they say, ‘If y’ain’t cheatin’, y’ain’t tryin’.’,” he thought to himself in a southern accent, smiling proudly.
Shocking GOP Confession: New AR Underwear Political Tactic Gone Wrong
On Wednesday, in what can only be described as a stunning and devastating admission, GOP leaders took full responsibility for the recent controversy last weekend’s release of “Anti-Rape” underwear caused. The party, clearly in no position to risk alienating women voters, is yet again doing an about-face after choosing the wrong side of an issue. This time, however, the demand for an explanation has elicited an even more shocking revelation than simply owning up to having created the controversial AR underwear itself.
Speaking under anonymity, one leader shared, “Times are tough. The rules seem to be disappearing. We just care so much about America that we were willing to try anything. We made a mistake.”
Karen, a local feminist leader, went so far as to claim, “The creation of AR underwear is the single largest setback in the struggle for gender equality. Ever. Rape is not a woman’s fault. Period. Historians will record this as the straw that broke the GOP’s back.”
The details are still sketchy, but we now know that the GOP is, in fact, the creator and sole financial backer of the AR underwear. Constructed out of blade-resistant materials, the AR underwear is nearly impossible to remove without knowing the combination to a special locking mechanism in the waistband. Had the public blindly accepted them at face value the story might have ended there. Unfortunately for Republicans everywhere, the public didn’t accept the underwear. Public pressure mounting, one of the creators finally came forward with an explanation yesterday.
A high-ranking party member confessed, “You want to know the truth? The truth is we need liberals to stop breeding. That’s it. It’s a numbers game. To achieve this, we created a ridiculous pair of underwear that can’t be removed. Everyone involved loved it–until we realized we still needed to give liberal women a reason to wear them.” Clearly agitated, the informant then bemoaned, “Liberals are so damned captivated by the infantile desire for a life without consequences that we thought this “Anti-Rape” marketing campaign might be a winner. Boy were we wrong.”
The informant further lamented, “Everyone knows we’re desperate. We were thinking of our children. We had to try something to put them back in the majority. Regrettably, it looks as though this will be the final nail in our great party’s coffin.”
In what seems little more than a swan song, the informant assured this writer that all remaining GOP congressional and senate salaries will be donated to organizations dedicated to reducing sexual assault in America.
Why I Hate Blogging
“No, ‘hate’ is not too strong,” he said, raising his voice. “I think it is perfectly descriptive. I. Hate. Blogging.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause it gives me hope,” he lamented. “I hate that I sit there, typing away on those loud keys, pouring out myself in words, and afterward I discover a few other humans ‘like’ or ‘follow’ the blog.”
“Not makin’ sense friend.”
“Okay, let me put it this way,” he continued laboriously. “I feel alone in the world sometimes. You know, the whole ‘misunderstood’ crap people talk about? Yeah, that’s how I feel sometimes-”
“We all do, dude.”
“-Right. But there is a difference. I can write. I can communicate myself to others. I can waive a flag letting people know ‘I’m alive. If you are, too, let me know.’ Not everyone can do that. So I started writing. I started putting myself out there–no holding back. I even wrote a post which taught some of my senior-citizen followers a new curse-word, which I have since made private because it was so shameful.”
“The ol’ ‘fucktard’. I remember that one.”
“Yeah. Anyhow, every once in a while people respond favorably. I was shocked that people responded at all. So, you can imagine how it feels when people respond favorably. More than favorably, sometimes people will comment in a way that shows they got it. And in getting it they get me.”
“I see, Pete. I see. You hate blogging because it gives evidence that there are people out there who get you. But, you think this doesn’t really count, because you only know this via the computer. And this digital evidence, as it were, downgrades it to little more than hope.”
“Exactly. See, that’s why I’m telling you this. You get me. I get you. But I don’t feel like there’s many others out there. And so this blog, then, is little more than the force that propels the emotional pendulum which swings from ‘Hey, life’s great. It’s filled with people who live on this planet’ to ‘how is this world even self-sustaining?'”
“Well, as you know, I don’t know what to tell you. Cheer up. I like reading your stuff. It makes me laugh.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Thanks.”
Life Without Money
No, he didn’t mean to conjure up some imagination-land inspired by John Lennon. He simply meant to capture some observations about life. Sometimes he had lots of money, and sometimes he had just enough money. He figured this made him similar to other people.
Of late, he found himself in the “just enough money” category.
Maybe it was just him, but when he had lots of money his problem was perfection. In both situations he spent all that he had, but when the dollar amounts were great, he took time away from some things he now values tremendously to find “the perfect” item. First, the perfect piano (really, it is amazing). Second, the perfect guns. Then there was the baseball phase. He bought the authentic Babe Ruth replica mitt. He found the greatest soft-toss machine, and accompanied it with an on-the-field hitting net the MLB itself uses in spring training. And just before the money ran out he bought the perfect motorcycles. One black-and-chrome American classic, and one dirt-cheap faux sport-bike. Not to mention the top of the line protective gear.
Had he stayed in that position, his next plan to relieve himself of money was race-car driving lessons. Yep, it was going to be great. Oh, and not that he was the boastful type, but this was on top of saving for college, having a nice home etc. But today? Today, he doesn’t plan out his expenditures. He pays for what needs to be payed for. And there’s something more. It’s difficult to describe, but for him there is a very tangible, attractive quality to the dream of returning to wealth. It’s almost as if he finds the dream of wealth more gratifying than the possession of wealth. There are times when he really, really, really hopes to have lots of money again. Sadly, though, he knows that when he does, the dream will end.
The Lacking Ingredient
At first, like everyone, he was only slightly annoyed. As time ticked on, however, his curiosity grew. What made them such positive people? After all, they could no longer eat bread.
He couldn’t live without bread. Really, he couldn’t–he had checked. Right on the Hot-n-Ready box it listed bread as an ingredient. What could he possibly eat instead of pizza on weekends? Next he lifted the stack of pizza boxes off the top of the trash can to retrieve the wrapping on his most recent McDouble; sure enough, the material encasing the all-beef patties and cheese was bread. Even if he was able to find a pizza substitute, there is no way he could give-up his lunch and dinner staple. Not finding ‘bread’ on his Canadian Hunter whiskey bottle, he thought he was in luck. Nope. Mr. Google decreed that ‘rye’ was another word for ‘bread’.
Flustered, he shouted to the night, “How do they do it?” He couldn’t figure how the new wave of gluten-free eaters were able to stay so positive when life had handed them such a lemon. Then it hit him. Gluten itself must contain the answer. “What even was gluten?” he wondered. On his way to discovering its chemical signature he deduced the simple truth: Gluten must contain a healthy amount of realism. It had to.
Yep, life made sense again. Until now, he had found himself unable to make sense of the situation. He couldn’t believe that for the last year he had actually felt bad about himself when he was around glass-half-full gluten-free crowds. With his discovery, though, he could remorselessly return to his simplistic worldview. “Finally!” he exhaled, collapsing onto his couch.
Make no mistake, the afflicted’s resilience is remarkable. It’s just that now he knew it wasn’t difficult to be positive–what with an ingredient lacking.
Walk of Shame
Her elbow as the hinge, her hand lowered the phone to the bed after she finished her morning dose of Dieter. She pushed the sheets off her body, bumping him, and climbed out of the bed.
Pulling her underwear followed by her pants over her hips, she remembered feeling the electricity of his fingers as he took them off only hours ago.
Fully dressed, she closed the door to his house and began her walk. Thinking about the night, she recalled her surprise at his home’s level of décor. At the bar, he was nicely dressed, but so were most of her other conquests. She discovered early on that not many men had the stamina to match the presentation of their home to the presentation of their body. But he did. She liked that.
She recalled that the wine he served her was remarkably smooth. “Then again at 2:00 am, (or was it 3?) what wine wasn’t?” she laughed to herself. They drank it in his wine cellar before he led her upstairs. She remembered thinking that she didn’t need the comfort of a bed. Loving how he was so in control, she willingly followed.
Already 9:00 am on a Sunday, she was sure everyone driving by could guess how she spent her night. After all, her hair was disheveled, she was in heels, and her clothing was not exactly the type women wear for a coffee run. Let them wonder, she thought. They would never guess everything. They would never know her feelings for him. They would never suspect that afterwards she turned his head–always heavier than expected–so the draining blood wouldn’t soil her half of the thousand count sheets as she slept it off.
Rage Against Home School Teachers
“It is simply a matter of time. Quantity over quality,” he told his boss, the principal, as he resigned. He had never been so torn in his entire life.
How does one give up on a child?
****
He felt like crying.
The first step in solving any problem, he knew, was identifying it. The school district wanted high performance on standardized tests. The start of his resignation began when, as an outsider looking in, he surmised that the powers that be thought there was a direct correlation between the amount of paper on classroom walls and high performance on standardized tests. Finding himself in vehement disagreement, he wouldn’t support this doctrine. Remembering, or rather, not remembering there being much paper, certainly not much memorable paper on the walls of his childhood classrooms–save an attempt to show Pi’s irrational nature and a few motivational quotes–he couldn’t help but laugh at the sick joke.
In dealing with 13 year old’s who didn’t know their times table (and didn’t care to learn it), he recollected something he learned in college. He recalled learning that the notion of a juvenile, that is a 13-18 year old human, is man made. The theory goes something like, “until relatively recently puberty marked the coming-of-age of a human.” Puberty marked the entrance to manhood. It marked the entrance to womanhood. In at least Western civilization, however, we have something in between childhood and adulthood. We have the juvenile. For the deserving, this truly is a privilege. The deserving, those 13-18 year old’s who possess an ability to appreciate this extended grace period, should reap a benefit from past generations diligence. But the undeserving? What should happen to them? No matter whose fault it was, the undeserving should be placed where they’ll be placed in a few years anyhow–the adult world. “Don’t want to learn? Work. Find the simple joy of labor. Or, regret with a vengeance the stupid decision to not want to know how to think for yourself.” Either way, they’d be better for it.
Alas, frustratingly, even if he identified the problem as a misunderstanding of human biology, he only opened the door to another problem. What could have been done to teach 13 year old’s to value a readily available, free, and rigorous education? The answer? A home where education is valued. A better home school.
In his short tenure at the school he refused to call any of his student’s parents–for their protection. He wasn’t trying to protect the students, but the parents. He knew once the conversation began he wouldn’t be able to stop. “How could you raise your children with such carelessness? How could you not read to your children? How could you not ask about school and homework? How could you not demand the highest standards of behavior and performance? How could you reward their poor behavior with enabling feigned as ignorance?”
His own achievements convinced him of the simple truth that no expectation was too high. His own achievements began with the fear of earning a mother’s scorn. No way would she, or his father, have let his school advance him to 4th grade without doing his best in 3rd grade–and having the grades to show for it. His student’s parents though? Ha. They weren’t human beings. They were jokes.
****
How does one give up on a child? Most adults avoid situations which might result in needing to answer that question. He finally saw why. The answer was simultaneously unthinkable and the right thing to do. He cried.
Longing
We used to be so close. Your touch was so soft, so warm. When I needed you, you were always there for me. Sometimes you’d pull away in the middle of the night. Sometimes you’d get all twisted up. Sometimes it seemed like I had to fight to get you back. But return, you always did.
Recently, I feel like the one who has been neglecting you. I’m the one who has been staying away some nights. I’m the one who has chosen a shoddy imitation of you–even though I know better.
When we touched the other night I almost cried. A flood of memories came rushing back. We used to spend hours upon hours together. You don’t know how desperately I want to return to that life. I just can’t right now. There are bills to pay. There are mountains to explore. There is writing to do.
I’m sorry Sheets, but I just don’t think this reduced amount of time together will end anytime soon. I miss you.
This Past Sunday Women Learned There Is A Fourth Species of Spider…Now Wondering, “Are there more?”
Black Widow, Brown Recluse, Daddy Long legs. Until Sunday, women knew of no other spiders. Until Sunday, women would see a spider, then say, “Is it a Black Widow?”
Or, “I think that’s a Brown Recluse…I read that leaving near-empty mayonnaise jars out will act like a trap, if you suspect you have them.”
Or, “Hey, look, a Daddy Long Legs. Did you know that Daddy Long Legs are the most deadly spider in the world? It’s true. They just don’t have big enough teeth to pierce our skin. Kill it anyway, will ya, hon?”
But this past Sunday, a spider had the nerve to bite a woman. The spider didn’t look anything like one of the three, so she did what any reasonable women would do and Google’d it. Using her phone to take a picture, she searched Google Images for the spider. Lo and behold, it was another species of spider altogether. All along she thought there were only three species of spiders.
Words cannot describe the joy she felt as she called her mom to share the news. Naturally, her mom didn’t believe her at first. But then her mom remembered that her father had always said there were more than three types of spiders when she told him what she thought she saw when she was growing up.
Alas, the elated feelings were fleeting as the mother daughter tandem soon realized they unknowingly opened the door to learning. “Are there more species we don’t know about?” they silently wondered to themselves.
Disappointment
When that Aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,/And bathed every vyne in swich licour/Of which vertur engendred is the flour…*
“Okay, Chaucer, that’s enough Middle Earth or whatever for tonight,” he thought, exhaling.
Straining to lift the book, heavy reading seemingly adding to the already heavy weight, he placed it beside him on the couch. He closed his notebook, and placed it too beside him. In a move foreshadowing a time not yet, he pushed the couch with his hands to stand up and proceeded to the kitchen. Water cup in hand, he turned the faucet on, and confirmed a cool temperature with a rapid flick of his fingers. He nearly finished in one swig, but habit caused him to stop early and pour out the remainder. The slightest feeling of guilt pestered him as he wasted the water. “Whatever.”
As he walked back towards the couch, he eyed an open bag of tortilla chips. “Pretty sure I’m doing chips and salsa tonight,” he announced.
At first, head movement; pupils adjusting to reality next. Finally, his friend smiled.
“We finished off the salsa the other night. It’s all gone,” the friend disclosed.
“That’s fine, we still have the Pace in the fridge,” he said, knowing his friend would never stoop so low to eat, let alone serve others, bottom-shelf salsa.
Like Aesop’s cloak-removing sun, his friend’s smile only grew.
“You finished the Pace?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, there was only so much good stuff left, so I just mixed it all together. I didn’t want to run out with people over,” informed the friend.
“Oh.”
*****
*Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales
Captain’s Log 