Asked whether he intends to run for president in 2016, [Marco] Rubio responded, “I really don’t think about that.” The son of Cuban refugees and former speaker of the Florida House of Representatives said he must first decide whether to seek Senate re-election next year.
Read more here: http://www.mcclatchydc.com/2013/06/25/194932/rubio-defends-surveillance-predicts.html#storylink=cpy
He doesn't think about that?!?!?!?
That's the stupidest thing one of these guys have said in a.... wait... No... They say equally stupid things all they time. This is just more galling because it assumes we, the people, are retarded.
At least, "I never inhaled" was funny. Rubio is a joke. Republicans are a joke. Democrats are a joke. There are no parties, there are only corporately funded goons.
I hear the swishing sound of the toilet in which this country is circling.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
PWNP Entry #3
Webster's defines Evolution as the process of continuous change from a lower, simpler, or worse state to a higher, more complex, or better state. This is a lovely notion and in hopefulness we all cling to the beneficial changes being wrought in mankind over billions and billions and billions of years. Unless, of course, we are speaking of either X-Men or Heroes, in which case, the evolution speeds up greatly and makes for superb entertainment.
Yet, there are other, clear, indications that Evolution is failing us miserably. In today's episode of People Who Need to be Punched we will look at another tribe of stupid that really ought to get a good punch to the midsection followed by an uppercut to the jaw.
Sadly, we must again visit the bathroom. In PWNP #1 we looked at the degenerate who fails to politely knock on the door before trying the door handle. Today we will look at a travesty that occurs within the privacy of the bathroom.
Disclaimer: I can't speak for women's restrooms in this post as I am unfamiliar with the usual standards of cleanliness and consideration that women hold to within the sphere of powder rooms. My few occasions of being forced to use a woman's restroom were the result of such gastrointestinal crisis and horror that my memory fails in remembering whether the facility was clean or not.
Moving on....
I work in what is considered a white collar corporate setting. People are required to wear clothing appropriate to influence and impress customers and vendors. The level of education required for my working environment is generally bachelors or higher. Usually higher. I say all that to make it clear that I am not working amongst groups of savages who blow their noses in their hands or display large amounts of butt cleavage while working. These aren't people who would forget to shave for multiple days or fail to remember to clean their teeth. I supposedly work with cultured, civilized people.
Then why... Oh why... DO THEY PISS ALL OVER THE TOILET SEAT?!?!?!?
It is disgusting! To enter the private place only to find the floor and toilet seat covered liberally with urine makes me lose all hope in humanity. Considering the educated community I work with, this seems like a major paradox. What happens to these polite, well dressed individuals once the door is closed behind them? Do they suddenly laugh maliciously, yank out their junk and just start swing spraying all over? Is it some sort of psychological toddler regression like the adult freaks who eat their boogers when they don't think anyone is looking?
Well, I don't know why they do it, but it is nasty.
There are two horrendous aspects of this putrid behavior that rankle me to no end. First, if I need to sit on the toilet, now I am required to clean up some strangers urine like an aid in an Alzheimer's ward. Second, even if I don't need to sit down but am planning to stand and deliver, I still need to clean up the septic ruin. If I don't and just leave it for the poor housekeeping staff, I could be slandered. What if I am walking out of the toxic depot and a coworker enters right after me? Who are they going to think is the jackwagon who decorated the toilet like some dog claiming territory? Me, of course. Thus, I clean up the toilet. Nasty.
Here is what I would like to do. I would like to set up an ambush station. I would set up some sort of blind outside the bathroom like a deer hunter. Maybe I could get one of those pop up numbers that are so popular around hunting season. Odds are that any spermatic waste who would desecrate a bathroom like those who are the subject of this rant would be unlikely to notice an odd camouflaged tent outside the bathroom anyway.
I would first go into the bathroom and ensure that it is clean. Next, I would grab a bag of Funyuns, a five gallon bucket for a seat, a good book and enter my hideaway to begin my skulking activity. Each time a dude went in and exited, I would bolt from my hidden location and scope out the damage.
When I finally found one of the Morlocks who can't seem to aim their business, I would sneak up behind them tap them on the shoulder and when they turned to see me, I would punch them in the throat. As they gasped and gaged, I would drag them back to the restroom, point to the mess and maybe rub their face in it like a bad puppy. Then, I would secure their wallet, find the phone number of his parents. Using the imbeciles phone (I'm not wasting my minutes) I would call his parents and when they answered I would calmly and clearly ask them the following: "Why... Why oh why... did you let him live through childhood?"
And then I would hang up.
Then I would look down at the pool of human waste at my feet and tell him to be sure to let all his urinally disabled friends know that their days of fun are over. This would work because idiots like this have got to travel in herds.
Yet, there are other, clear, indications that Evolution is failing us miserably. In today's episode of People Who Need to be Punched we will look at another tribe of stupid that really ought to get a good punch to the midsection followed by an uppercut to the jaw.
Sadly, we must again visit the bathroom. In PWNP #1 we looked at the degenerate who fails to politely knock on the door before trying the door handle. Today we will look at a travesty that occurs within the privacy of the bathroom.
Disclaimer: I can't speak for women's restrooms in this post as I am unfamiliar with the usual standards of cleanliness and consideration that women hold to within the sphere of powder rooms. My few occasions of being forced to use a woman's restroom were the result of such gastrointestinal crisis and horror that my memory fails in remembering whether the facility was clean or not.
Moving on....
I work in what is considered a white collar corporate setting. People are required to wear clothing appropriate to influence and impress customers and vendors. The level of education required for my working environment is generally bachelors or higher. Usually higher. I say all that to make it clear that I am not working amongst groups of savages who blow their noses in their hands or display large amounts of butt cleavage while working. These aren't people who would forget to shave for multiple days or fail to remember to clean their teeth. I supposedly work with cultured, civilized people.
Then why... Oh why... DO THEY PISS ALL OVER THE TOILET SEAT?!?!?!?
It is disgusting! To enter the private place only to find the floor and toilet seat covered liberally with urine makes me lose all hope in humanity. Considering the educated community I work with, this seems like a major paradox. What happens to these polite, well dressed individuals once the door is closed behind them? Do they suddenly laugh maliciously, yank out their junk and just start swing spraying all over? Is it some sort of psychological toddler regression like the adult freaks who eat their boogers when they don't think anyone is looking?
Well, I don't know why they do it, but it is nasty.
There are two horrendous aspects of this putrid behavior that rankle me to no end. First, if I need to sit on the toilet, now I am required to clean up some strangers urine like an aid in an Alzheimer's ward. Second, even if I don't need to sit down but am planning to stand and deliver, I still need to clean up the septic ruin. If I don't and just leave it for the poor housekeeping staff, I could be slandered. What if I am walking out of the toxic depot and a coworker enters right after me? Who are they going to think is the jackwagon who decorated the toilet like some dog claiming territory? Me, of course. Thus, I clean up the toilet. Nasty.
Here is what I would like to do. I would like to set up an ambush station. I would set up some sort of blind outside the bathroom like a deer hunter. Maybe I could get one of those pop up numbers that are so popular around hunting season. Odds are that any spermatic waste who would desecrate a bathroom like those who are the subject of this rant would be unlikely to notice an odd camouflaged tent outside the bathroom anyway.
I would first go into the bathroom and ensure that it is clean. Next, I would grab a bag of Funyuns, a five gallon bucket for a seat, a good book and enter my hideaway to begin my skulking activity. Each time a dude went in and exited, I would bolt from my hidden location and scope out the damage.
When I finally found one of the Morlocks who can't seem to aim their business, I would sneak up behind them tap them on the shoulder and when they turned to see me, I would punch them in the throat. As they gasped and gaged, I would drag them back to the restroom, point to the mess and maybe rub their face in it like a bad puppy. Then, I would secure their wallet, find the phone number of his parents. Using the imbeciles phone (I'm not wasting my minutes) I would call his parents and when they answered I would calmly and clearly ask them the following: "Why... Why oh why... did you let him live through childhood?"
And then I would hang up.
Then I would look down at the pool of human waste at my feet and tell him to be sure to let all his urinally disabled friends know that their days of fun are over. This would work because idiots like this have got to travel in herds.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Why I hate Father's Day
It's that time of year again when we all celebrate a manufactured holiday to increase the revenues of mass market producers of goods that none of us really needs but buy anyway.
Father's Day.
Initially created as a second to Mother's Day it never really caught on until the creator, one Sonora Dodd, decided to team up with various retailers of merchandise aimed at men. These schmoes popularized the holiday and made it an essential part of the Mass Market Holiday Cycle (including Valentines Day, Mother's Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas etc...).
I would probably like Father's Day more if it didn't perpetually remind me of my father. Kind of hard to get around that. Facebook is laden with soupy nostalgic vomit aimed toward "dads who were always there" and "to pop who never let us down." Well, I can't relate. My own father was a derelict absent manipulative arrogant whore. He raised me to believe that people were tools and no more. People are implements to be used for my own purposes, so I was taught. Sure, like cattle to be slaughtered, you should treat them as humanly as possible but remember, they're just meat.
The miles I have to go to recover my lost humanity are only beginning. Well, that's not true, I have been trying to make headway for years but for every few steps I take forward, I eventually turn around and march right back. At times, I feel that I go further back with each retro-walk to my pig pen. I'm pretty sure I do, actually.
Here's a Father's Day story of "Pop" to warm all the bleeding hearts out there:
Dad and I were sitting in his pickup truck eating some Burger King during a fine spring morning when I was 13. We were parked along side of his "shop" where he maintained all of his trucks and equipment for his business. I will relay the conversation to the best of my memory.
Dad: "What makes something wrong or right?"
Me: "Um... I dunno..." This was my general response to questions like this from my father as I knew that I would never be able to guess his answer.
Dad: "It's really a matter of perspective and circumstances. Here, I will show you what I mean."
At this point he reaches behind the seat and pulls the Ruger 10-22 from its resting place. "Roll down your window, dummy." I reach over and roll it down. "Do you see those rabbits out there in the field?
Me: "Yeah."
Dad: "Think you can hit one from here?"
Me: "I'm pretty sure I can."
Dad: "Let's see you do it." At this point I take the rifle and draw down on a hapless bunny munching clover in a field. I free the safety, settle the cross hairs, squeeze the trigger gently. I feel the minor recoil of the rifle and the rabbit is left flopping and twitching in the green grass. I reengage the safety and hand the rifle back to my dad glowing with pride that I was able to take the rabbit at a considerable distance. I was also filled the rush of my sympathetic response system sending adrenaline and endorphins throughout my body. I felt good. I felt strong. I felt powerful.
Dad: "Not bad. So, how do you feel?"
Me: "Thanks. I feel good. That was fun."
Dad (smiling): "Is it rabbit hunting season? Do you have a license?"
Me: (suddenly feeling weird and tricked): "No..."
Dad: (still grinning like Satan): "Did you get caught?"
Me: "No..."
Dad: "Then you did nothing wrong. That is the difference between right and wrong. If you are going to do something, you either ensure you can't get in trouble for it or that you won't get caught."
I nodded understanding. I nodded as my psychology was shifted diametrically.
This conversation was my father's version of the Birds and the Bees. We went through this ritual and he threw a box of condoms to me and said "Good luck and have fun".
This is only one scenario of many I could relate. His version of reality was so skewed from what benefits society that he likely could be considered by the "professionals" as a sociopath.
The terrible part is, though, is that he wasn't abusive in the sense that he drank a lot and then threw me around the house. He didn't have rages and make me feel small. He tried to empower me. He taught me the necessity of be self-reliant and to put trust in only a few highly vetted people. He taught me so many things that have helped me immensely in life. Yet, all the education was/is wrapped in the casing of entitlement and arrogance. It's like eating really nutritious food that's been laced with a mind altering drug.
I hate Father's Day because I hate what my father was. I hate what I have been. I hate what I might become. I hate thinking that there are four little people I might ruin. All that hate is wrapped up in the single holiday of Father's Day.
He is in prison now. His world wise ways finally failed him and he got caught. So, apparently, what he was doing was wrong if his bunny lesson is to be believed.
Father's Day.
Initially created as a second to Mother's Day it never really caught on until the creator, one Sonora Dodd, decided to team up with various retailers of merchandise aimed at men. These schmoes popularized the holiday and made it an essential part of the Mass Market Holiday Cycle (including Valentines Day, Mother's Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas etc...).
I would probably like Father's Day more if it didn't perpetually remind me of my father. Kind of hard to get around that. Facebook is laden with soupy nostalgic vomit aimed toward "dads who were always there" and "to pop who never let us down." Well, I can't relate. My own father was a derelict absent manipulative arrogant whore. He raised me to believe that people were tools and no more. People are implements to be used for my own purposes, so I was taught. Sure, like cattle to be slaughtered, you should treat them as humanly as possible but remember, they're just meat.
The miles I have to go to recover my lost humanity are only beginning. Well, that's not true, I have been trying to make headway for years but for every few steps I take forward, I eventually turn around and march right back. At times, I feel that I go further back with each retro-walk to my pig pen. I'm pretty sure I do, actually.
Here's a Father's Day story of "Pop" to warm all the bleeding hearts out there:
Dad and I were sitting in his pickup truck eating some Burger King during a fine spring morning when I was 13. We were parked along side of his "shop" where he maintained all of his trucks and equipment for his business. I will relay the conversation to the best of my memory.
Dad: "What makes something wrong or right?"
Me: "Um... I dunno..." This was my general response to questions like this from my father as I knew that I would never be able to guess his answer.
Dad: "It's really a matter of perspective and circumstances. Here, I will show you what I mean."
At this point he reaches behind the seat and pulls the Ruger 10-22 from its resting place. "Roll down your window, dummy." I reach over and roll it down. "Do you see those rabbits out there in the field?
Me: "Yeah."
Dad: "Think you can hit one from here?"
Me: "I'm pretty sure I can."
Dad: "Let's see you do it." At this point I take the rifle and draw down on a hapless bunny munching clover in a field. I free the safety, settle the cross hairs, squeeze the trigger gently. I feel the minor recoil of the rifle and the rabbit is left flopping and twitching in the green grass. I reengage the safety and hand the rifle back to my dad glowing with pride that I was able to take the rabbit at a considerable distance. I was also filled the rush of my sympathetic response system sending adrenaline and endorphins throughout my body. I felt good. I felt strong. I felt powerful.
Dad: "Not bad. So, how do you feel?"
Me: "Thanks. I feel good. That was fun."
Dad (smiling): "Is it rabbit hunting season? Do you have a license?"
Me: (suddenly feeling weird and tricked): "No..."
Dad: (still grinning like Satan): "Did you get caught?"
Me: "No..."
Dad: "Then you did nothing wrong. That is the difference between right and wrong. If you are going to do something, you either ensure you can't get in trouble for it or that you won't get caught."
I nodded understanding. I nodded as my psychology was shifted diametrically.
This conversation was my father's version of the Birds and the Bees. We went through this ritual and he threw a box of condoms to me and said "Good luck and have fun".
This is only one scenario of many I could relate. His version of reality was so skewed from what benefits society that he likely could be considered by the "professionals" as a sociopath.
The terrible part is, though, is that he wasn't abusive in the sense that he drank a lot and then threw me around the house. He didn't have rages and make me feel small. He tried to empower me. He taught me the necessity of be self-reliant and to put trust in only a few highly vetted people. He taught me so many things that have helped me immensely in life. Yet, all the education was/is wrapped in the casing of entitlement and arrogance. It's like eating really nutritious food that's been laced with a mind altering drug.
I hate Father's Day because I hate what my father was. I hate what I have been. I hate what I might become. I hate thinking that there are four little people I might ruin. All that hate is wrapped up in the single holiday of Father's Day.
He is in prison now. His world wise ways finally failed him and he got caught. So, apparently, what he was doing was wrong if his bunny lesson is to be believed.
Sunday, June 09, 2013
PWNP Entry #2
Due to the overwhelming response of one person, I have opted to continue the critically acclaimed series of posts titled People Who Need to be Punched.
In today's episode we will cover a truly nasty population of epsilons. These folks are a cadaverous mob of unobservant and inconsiderate creepers.
Grocery shopping. Some love it. Some hate it. Some do it to survive. Some do it because their lives are boring and frequenting grocery stores helps them feel like they exist. Still others patronize because carnival freak-shows have been outlawed and now these people don't have any place to display their attributes except at the local Walmart.
Personally, I enjoy grocery shopping. Likely, it is because I belong in a freak-show and now have no where to show off my freaky attributes...
There are many frustrating elements to grocery shopping ranging from people who park their carts in the middle of the aisle (there is a special level of Hades for these peeps right next to bad priests) to parents with children who demonstrate why eugenics may not have been such a bad idea. This post, however, is reserved for a special group of specials. I shall call them U-scan snipers.
We all have probably used a U-scan by now. If you haven't, you are also probably still using a flip phone and refer to email as "the email". These clusters are generally located at the extreme ends of the check out zones. They are normally limited to 12 items or less which, to my chagrin, has repeatedly demonstrated our nations growing ineptitude for simple mathematics.
The sign says "12 items or less" you window licker, not "12 items or less unless you mean my 24 cans of Kitty Vittles."
These self-service areas are a magnet for me when I am in a hurry. It elevates two scenes I loath. First, I don't have to make chit chat with the dull eyed scan boy with H8 tattooed on forehead who is guaranteed to bruise my apples and squish my bread. Second, it reduces the amount of time I have to try and avert my eyes from the car wreck of magazine covers showing different celebrities in various levels of undress who were photographed without the benefit of an airbrush artist... yikes... Thank goodness for airbrush artists... My false idea of human beauty can be sustained... wheeew.
The U-scan area seems simple enough to understand. There are four stations available. Well, usually there are four. Sometimes one has the "please ask attendant for assistance" flashing on the screen and when you look at the "attendant", they are clearly ignoring the issue and are staring blankly at the florescent lights overhead. Sigh...
It is a simple matter of societal organization to figure out how to manage this area. Customers should form a single line and wait for a machine to become available. The customer then moves to the open machine and begins the process of doling out hard earned cash on mediocre and likely poisonous food (to hell with you Monsanto!!!!). Then the sheeple behind that customer wait for the next of the four machines to open and the cycle continues in utopian bliss.
Alas, some people don't like utopia or bliss. These people wake up wondering how to create chaos. These people watch reality television. These people travel 15 mph on the expressway entry ramp. These people are bad.
Sometimes, instead of the above mentioned simple process being followed, some jackwagon will avoid the obvious line of people, stand off to the side and wait for the next machine to open and rush in to take it. These fungus don't seem to recognize that the shuffling line of people next to them aren't just waiting there in hopes that someone will offer to buy their groceries but are attempting to bring light out of darkness, peace from war, love from hate. They seem incapable of seeing that there is a process to be followed. Instead, they wait like thugs in a dark alley lurking for that hapless pedestrian and snipe the next available U-scan.
Worse yet is when you see them creeping and, being a civilized person who recognizes the legitimate purpose of eating utensils, try and let these genetic failures know about the line. They just stare at you as if you suggested some mystical theory. Of course, it could be that my passive aggressive nature inhibits my voice from carrying the authority I wish it did.
Inside my head: "Hey pal, do you see the fricken line. How about you take a couple breathes to oxygenate the two brain cells you have and figure out where the end of the line is, tool."
What I actually say: "Um... Hi... There's kind of a line..."
So, my pansy suggestion gets ignored usually. Now I must enter a primal place of stand off because if the U-scan atrocity was allowed to continue, as the Riddler so elegantly put it while looking down at the unconscious Batman; "he wouldn't learn nothen". My whole body language changes. The fight or flight instinct has been initiated and the fight option has won the day. I am attempting to watch all four machines at the same time. Both the sniper and I see that one of the shoppers is clearly finishing the check out process. The sniper leans forward a little. I clearly glance their way and take a step forward. Using my best Die Hard Bruce Willis look, I stare down the primate who is attempting to take the machine for which I have waited. This normally does the trick and the minion looks away in shame conceding the inevitable. This is especially true when the sniper is an 84 year old woman. NO WAY she's getting to that station before me. HAHAHAHAHA.... Ahem...
It doesn't always end so successfully for me, though. Sometimes I am not at the front of the line and I am forced, in prolonged agony, to watch as snipers slip in and steal U-scan machines from we few civilized humans. They need to be punched.
In today's episode we will cover a truly nasty population of epsilons. These folks are a cadaverous mob of unobservant and inconsiderate creepers.
Grocery shopping. Some love it. Some hate it. Some do it to survive. Some do it because their lives are boring and frequenting grocery stores helps them feel like they exist. Still others patronize because carnival freak-shows have been outlawed and now these people don't have any place to display their attributes except at the local Walmart.
Personally, I enjoy grocery shopping. Likely, it is because I belong in a freak-show and now have no where to show off my freaky attributes...
There are many frustrating elements to grocery shopping ranging from people who park their carts in the middle of the aisle (there is a special level of Hades for these peeps right next to bad priests) to parents with children who demonstrate why eugenics may not have been such a bad idea. This post, however, is reserved for a special group of specials. I shall call them U-scan snipers.
We all have probably used a U-scan by now. If you haven't, you are also probably still using a flip phone and refer to email as "the email". These clusters are generally located at the extreme ends of the check out zones. They are normally limited to 12 items or less which, to my chagrin, has repeatedly demonstrated our nations growing ineptitude for simple mathematics.
The sign says "12 items or less" you window licker, not "12 items or less unless you mean my 24 cans of Kitty Vittles."
These self-service areas are a magnet for me when I am in a hurry. It elevates two scenes I loath. First, I don't have to make chit chat with the dull eyed scan boy with H8 tattooed on forehead who is guaranteed to bruise my apples and squish my bread. Second, it reduces the amount of time I have to try and avert my eyes from the car wreck of magazine covers showing different celebrities in various levels of undress who were photographed without the benefit of an airbrush artist... yikes... Thank goodness for airbrush artists... My false idea of human beauty can be sustained... wheeew.
The U-scan area seems simple enough to understand. There are four stations available. Well, usually there are four. Sometimes one has the "please ask attendant for assistance" flashing on the screen and when you look at the "attendant", they are clearly ignoring the issue and are staring blankly at the florescent lights overhead. Sigh...
It is a simple matter of societal organization to figure out how to manage this area. Customers should form a single line and wait for a machine to become available. The customer then moves to the open machine and begins the process of doling out hard earned cash on mediocre and likely poisonous food (to hell with you Monsanto!!!!). Then the sheeple behind that customer wait for the next of the four machines to open and the cycle continues in utopian bliss.
Alas, some people don't like utopia or bliss. These people wake up wondering how to create chaos. These people watch reality television. These people travel 15 mph on the expressway entry ramp. These people are bad.
Sometimes, instead of the above mentioned simple process being followed, some jackwagon will avoid the obvious line of people, stand off to the side and wait for the next machine to open and rush in to take it. These fungus don't seem to recognize that the shuffling line of people next to them aren't just waiting there in hopes that someone will offer to buy their groceries but are attempting to bring light out of darkness, peace from war, love from hate. They seem incapable of seeing that there is a process to be followed. Instead, they wait like thugs in a dark alley lurking for that hapless pedestrian and snipe the next available U-scan.
Worse yet is when you see them creeping and, being a civilized person who recognizes the legitimate purpose of eating utensils, try and let these genetic failures know about the line. They just stare at you as if you suggested some mystical theory. Of course, it could be that my passive aggressive nature inhibits my voice from carrying the authority I wish it did.
Inside my head: "Hey pal, do you see the fricken line. How about you take a couple breathes to oxygenate the two brain cells you have and figure out where the end of the line is, tool."
What I actually say: "Um... Hi... There's kind of a line..."
So, my pansy suggestion gets ignored usually. Now I must enter a primal place of stand off because if the U-scan atrocity was allowed to continue, as the Riddler so elegantly put it while looking down at the unconscious Batman; "he wouldn't learn nothen". My whole body language changes. The fight or flight instinct has been initiated and the fight option has won the day. I am attempting to watch all four machines at the same time. Both the sniper and I see that one of the shoppers is clearly finishing the check out process. The sniper leans forward a little. I clearly glance their way and take a step forward. Using my best Die Hard Bruce Willis look, I stare down the primate who is attempting to take the machine for which I have waited. This normally does the trick and the minion looks away in shame conceding the inevitable. This is especially true when the sniper is an 84 year old woman. NO WAY she's getting to that station before me. HAHAHAHAHA.... Ahem...
It doesn't always end so successfully for me, though. Sometimes I am not at the front of the line and I am forced, in prolonged agony, to watch as snipers slip in and steal U-scan machines from we few civilized humans. They need to be punched.
Thursday, June 06, 2013
People Who Need to be Punched (PWNP) Entry #1
My new series is called People Who Need to be Punched and will be reoccuring as I discover new levels of individuals who require this readjustment based soley on my own judgment. Yes, I realize that may seem egotistical, however, I believe that years of working for the government, pervasive interest in logic and, what I believe to be, an inordinate amount of common sense all combine to make me an expert. If you disagree, you will probably end up on this list.
That being said, entry #1
The first group of people who are blessed to be added to this list are really special. I will add that this group is not the first because their level of idiocy is necessarily greater than those that will appear in future posts, but rather because this group happened to cross my path today.
The first group of PWNP are those people who insist on trying the doorknob of the bathroom door before knocking.
What are they thinking? What are they hoping to find?
This can only have three possible results.
First, the door is locked and the poor sap inside nearly jumps out of their skin when they hear the sudden violent jerking and turning of the doorknob as if the FBI was on the other side determined to get in and discover some nefarious deed of the occupant. This is such a horrible feeling that it can seriously alter the proceeds in the bathroom and continue on throughout the day. They need to be punched.
Second, the bathroom is occupied and, for whatever reason, the door is left unlocked. Perhaps the push button lock didn't catch. Perhaps the sophisticated locking mechanism fails at the violent doorknob turning. Perhaps the occupant, in a hurry due to a recent trip down Lebanese Food Row, fails to engage the lock. The doorknob jerker now finds himself/herself face to face with another individual in what all humanity knows to be the most compromised position possible. Here we are, sitting and totally unmasked of our cool veneer that we wear to work and in general society. Hairy legs splayed out (unless your the afore mentioned "herself" in which case, let's go with no hair please), pants bunched around ankles and a look of tortured shock smeared across his/her face. The trespasser suddenly becomes aware of their grave mistake. They, too, turn multiple shades of red and back out apologizing rapidly and incoherently. Worse yet is if they happen to work together and I don't mean work together in the close knit sense where you will laugh about it later, but in the sense that you work in the same space and now the occupant knows that this person has seen them in the worst possible human condition and they have to pretend it never happened. Awkward to the max, dude. The worst part about this scenario is what I like to call "Post Invasion Anger". I am not referring to the righteous indignation of the occupant. I am referring to the pointless and aberrant anger of the invader. These schmucks will get angry and hold the occupant responsible for the collective embarrassment of the situation. They sooth their idiocy by accusing the occupant of not ensuring they had securely locked the door. They need to be punched.
Thirdly, the door is unlocked and the restroom is empty. The moron then enters, locks the door and the cycle continues. They should be punched.
Solution: Just knock on the freaking door, you jackwagon. In the name of all that is holy, don't touch the bacteria ridden doorknob. Just a little rappity tap tap is all it takes. Sure, it's still awkward for the occupant to know what level of volume he/she needs to use to ensure that the doorknob is not engaged, but that's a whole lot better than options 1 and 2 above.
That being said, entry #1
The first group of people who are blessed to be added to this list are really special. I will add that this group is not the first because their level of idiocy is necessarily greater than those that will appear in future posts, but rather because this group happened to cross my path today.
The first group of PWNP are those people who insist on trying the doorknob of the bathroom door before knocking.
What are they thinking? What are they hoping to find?
This can only have three possible results.
First, the door is locked and the poor sap inside nearly jumps out of their skin when they hear the sudden violent jerking and turning of the doorknob as if the FBI was on the other side determined to get in and discover some nefarious deed of the occupant. This is such a horrible feeling that it can seriously alter the proceeds in the bathroom and continue on throughout the day. They need to be punched.
Second, the bathroom is occupied and, for whatever reason, the door is left unlocked. Perhaps the push button lock didn't catch. Perhaps the sophisticated locking mechanism fails at the violent doorknob turning. Perhaps the occupant, in a hurry due to a recent trip down Lebanese Food Row, fails to engage the lock. The doorknob jerker now finds himself/herself face to face with another individual in what all humanity knows to be the most compromised position possible. Here we are, sitting and totally unmasked of our cool veneer that we wear to work and in general society. Hairy legs splayed out (unless your the afore mentioned "herself" in which case, let's go with no hair please), pants bunched around ankles and a look of tortured shock smeared across his/her face. The trespasser suddenly becomes aware of their grave mistake. They, too, turn multiple shades of red and back out apologizing rapidly and incoherently. Worse yet is if they happen to work together and I don't mean work together in the close knit sense where you will laugh about it later, but in the sense that you work in the same space and now the occupant knows that this person has seen them in the worst possible human condition and they have to pretend it never happened. Awkward to the max, dude. The worst part about this scenario is what I like to call "Post Invasion Anger". I am not referring to the righteous indignation of the occupant. I am referring to the pointless and aberrant anger of the invader. These schmucks will get angry and hold the occupant responsible for the collective embarrassment of the situation. They sooth their idiocy by accusing the occupant of not ensuring they had securely locked the door. They need to be punched.
Thirdly, the door is unlocked and the restroom is empty. The moron then enters, locks the door and the cycle continues. They should be punched.
Solution: Just knock on the freaking door, you jackwagon. In the name of all that is holy, don't touch the bacteria ridden doorknob. Just a little rappity tap tap is all it takes. Sure, it's still awkward for the occupant to know what level of volume he/she needs to use to ensure that the doorknob is not engaged, but that's a whole lot better than options 1 and 2 above.
Tuesday, June 04, 2013
People Rant
So, we are investing in some pretty sweet new technology here at work. It uses natural language processing and a phat AI to figure out how to properly medically code patient accounts and helps to find gaps in the documentation to help us ensure we are getting what we need from physicians.
Some people, though, just can't get it through their heads that with new technology comes new ways of thinking, new work flows, and new processes. They sit there and ask retarded (oops.. that's not PC) questions that make lend to my dental bills due to all the gritting going on in my mouth. I wrote up a little analogy:
Mr. Ford stared at the man for a long time… Finally, he tipped his hat, turned and walked away.
Some people, though, just can't get it through their heads that with new technology comes new ways of thinking, new work flows, and new processes. They sit there and ask retarded (oops.. that's not PC) questions that make lend to my dental bills due to all the gritting going on in my mouth. I wrote up a little analogy:
A man walks up to Henry Ford leading his horse on a tether. The man gets Ford’s attention and asks about the new-fangled machine that he had heard about. Mr. Ford was only too eager to demonstrate the ease and convenience of switching from a horse to his new automobile. The man did a lot of nodding and smiling, clearly impressed. Mr. Ford took the man on a test ride and showed how the vehicle can go further and faster than his old bay could travel. Eventually, they were standing next to the vehicle and Mr. Ford asked the man if he had any questions. The man scratched a bit at his beard, squinted and shuffled his feet.
“Where do I put my saddle?”, the man asked.
Smiley kindly, Mr. Ford responds “Sir, you don’t need your saddle for this vehicle.”
“But I really like my saddle. It’s broke in and has been with me for years.”
“I can appreciate that,” Ford said, “but now you will have the leather seats in the automobile.”
The man frowned a bit and shook his head. “Yeah, maybe… What about stirrups? I like my stirrups quite a bit, too.”
Mr. Ford, beginning to lose hope, shakes his head and said; “No stirrups necessary.”
“Hmmm… I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Stirrups are an important part of riding a horse.”
“Sir, you aren’t going to be riding a horse. You will be in a new technology and that technology requires that you change how you think about everything you ever knew about transportation.”
The man frowned again and shrugged. “Well, I don’t know how they do it where you’re from but saddles and stirrups are important around here. Also, I don’t really like how you are talking to me as if I don’t understand technology. I get what you’re selling here… I just think you’re missing my point.”
Sunday, June 02, 2013
Breaking Bad Episode 2 (Cat's in the Bag)
Oh man... Now they are in trouble.
Walter and Jesse have successfully made Crystal that no one can touch in quality. Then Jesse goes and tries to find a buyer and opts to pick the cousin of the dude who was previously working with him to make Meth and whom Jesse thought had gone to jail in the bust that Walter saw on his "ride along" with Hank.
Unfortunetly, both Krazy 8 and Emilio decide that Walter and Jesse are better off dead than partners. In the ensuing unfortunate series of events, Walter uses phosphine gas to rid themselves of Krazy 8 and Emilio who were intent on getting Walter's recipe and then offing the two ameteurs. The poison gas seems to get rid of the two trouble makers but soon Walter and Jesse discover that it has only killed Emilio and Krazy 8 is still, miserably, alive.
Now they have to figure out how get rid of both these guys. They flip a coin and Jesse gets Emilio duty and Walter is supposed to finish off Krazy 8. Obviously, Walter struggles with this and that struggle continues through to the next episode.
Walter's passive aggressive nature is starting to foam through the cracks in this episode and it is interesting and painful to watch.
Skyler is beginning to wonder why Walter is acting so strangely and keeping strange hours. Walter tells her he has recently started smoking pot to knock her of the trail when she discovers his relationship with Jesse. Walter still hasn't informed Skyler of the lung cancer as is still trying to work through that discovery himself. Further, I think he knows that Skyler's maternal oppressiveness will only grow exponentially when she finds out about the cancer.
I'm not sure this blog series is doing what I want it to... Hmmm....
Walter and Jesse have successfully made Crystal that no one can touch in quality. Then Jesse goes and tries to find a buyer and opts to pick the cousin of the dude who was previously working with him to make Meth and whom Jesse thought had gone to jail in the bust that Walter saw on his "ride along" with Hank.
Unfortunetly, both Krazy 8 and Emilio decide that Walter and Jesse are better off dead than partners. In the ensuing unfortunate series of events, Walter uses phosphine gas to rid themselves of Krazy 8 and Emilio who were intent on getting Walter's recipe and then offing the two ameteurs. The poison gas seems to get rid of the two trouble makers but soon Walter and Jesse discover that it has only killed Emilio and Krazy 8 is still, miserably, alive.
Now they have to figure out how get rid of both these guys. They flip a coin and Jesse gets Emilio duty and Walter is supposed to finish off Krazy 8. Obviously, Walter struggles with this and that struggle continues through to the next episode.
Walter's passive aggressive nature is starting to foam through the cracks in this episode and it is interesting and painful to watch.
Skyler is beginning to wonder why Walter is acting so strangely and keeping strange hours. Walter tells her he has recently started smoking pot to knock her of the trail when she discovers his relationship with Jesse. Walter still hasn't informed Skyler of the lung cancer as is still trying to work through that discovery himself. Further, I think he knows that Skyler's maternal oppressiveness will only grow exponentially when she finds out about the cancer.
I'm not sure this blog series is doing what I want it to... Hmmm....
Breaking Bad Episode 1 (Pilot)
A while back I had heard about the AMC hit show Breaking Bad. Initially, I wondered at the appeal. The synopsis I heard was that a burned out high school chem teacher was diagnosed with cancer and decided to start either selling meth or making meth. That's all I really knew. I wasn't sure of the attraction it held for viewers. Then the show started appearing on Netflix and the promo shot for season one always caught my attention with the fierce look that Bryan Cranston (Walter White) has for the shot. I started poking around at IMDB and Amazon to see what kinds of reviews it was getting by viewers....
Start side note - I generally only go by viewer reviews rather than actual "critics" because I am a firm believer in populist opinion when it comes to my entertainment. Critics are usually all caught up in things that I either don't care about or am not smart enough to understand why they matter. Similar to using Consumer Reports to decide my dishwasher purchase, I would rather use the 1700 reviews on Amazon than the small lab of nerds at Consumer Reports. - End side note
The show received huge and gloriously loud praise from a massive amount of viewers. On IMDB, it has a 9.4/10 based on 214,478 viewers. 9.4?!?! To give some context, Seinfeld has an 8.9/10 from 98,578 viewers and the original 1977 Star Wars has an 8.8/10 with 535,074 viewer reviews. To me, this represented a show worth looking into.
Another tipping point was that it aired on AMC, the home of another favorite of mine; The Walking Dead. AMC also happens to be the home of Mad Men, though I am not as big a fan of that show.
So, since I was looking for a new show to occupy my mind while I trudged out miles on treadmill, I thought I would take a looksee at this, apparently, highly enjoyable show.
Episode 1 (Pilot)
The show starts off engaging enough. There is a man in his whitey tighties wearing a gas mask madly trying to maintain control of a Winnebago while barreling down a deserted desert road. It gets more interesting when you realize there is another person in the passenger seat who appears to be unconscious with a gas mask on, as well. Mr. Underwear ends up running the RV into a ravine along side the desert road. When the dust settles, the viewer can hear sirens in the background and the under dressed man departs the RV, leaves a cryptic message on a video camera, places his open wallet next to it, walks to the road and levels a .45 down the road in the direction of the sirens. Cut to opening credits...
Yeah, I was engaged. Who's the middle aged dude in the desert in his undies? Why the seeming suicidal mentality?
The show goes on to show the previous 3 weeks that lead up the desert scene and it all becomes clear... sort of. I will leave the rest of the episode to be viewed by whoever is reading this and will move on to my thoughts about the show.
The shows primary cast is made up of (in my mind) four characters. Walter White (Bryan Cranston) who plays a dried up middle class chemistry teacher at a public school in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He isn't a very likable character as he is weak and pathetic. He has a persona of a man who has been beaten down so many times that getting back up is just too much of a bother anymore. Walter's wife, Skyler White (Anna Gunn) is newly pregnant and seems to be a nice enough character but very overbearingly motherly in a sweet way. She isn't a vulture, but rather a woman who has grown accustomed to taking care of a man who has grown apathetic about life. Their son Walter White, Jr (RJ Mitte) is clearly handicapped physically. It appears that all his mental faculties are intact, but due to his physical handicap, he must use special crutches and also has a speech impediment. The last character I want to mention is Jesse Pinkman (Aaron Paul); Walter's drug dealer sidekick. This guy is probably my least favorite character and that probably means that he is doing a good job. He is a whiny coward who loves to hit the pipe and holds everyone around him responsible for his actions.
When Walter discovers that he has terminal lung cancer he begins to evaluate his life. He realizes that he has nothing to leave his family. As it stands, he works as a high school teacher and has a second job working at a car wash. At both places he is similar to the character Milton Waddams (Stephen Root) from Office Space... Well, maybe a little more personality than that, but not much. Yet, he contains the same "just below the surface" passive aggressive nature. You can tell that Walter is on the edge of blowing something up. Walter ends up doing a "ride along" with his obnoxious DEA agent brother-in-law, Hank Schrader (Dean Norris), to a drug bust because of his growing curiosity regarding the Crystal Meth trade. Walter had heard from Hank that these meth dealers could rake in hundreds of thousands and Walt gets the idea that maybe this is something he could do.
The idea comes to fruition in the partnership of Jesse and Walter. Walter, being a chemist, sees an opportunity to make meth better than any of the street amateurs are currently doing and gets Jesse to work with him since Jesse has the street contacts. Well, Walter was correct and he made a product more pure than anyone else is making and the trouble begins there...
My intention here isn't to tell you what happens in each episode, but to tell you about my feelings regarding the characters in each episode... This task is now seeming to big, though. Let's settle for hitting the highlights and if you get more, consider it a bonus.
The thoughts I finished the pilot with were:
1. New Mexico looks like a seriously dreary place to live. I have been to Albuquerque before and it just as dry and desolate as the shows represents. Constantly blazing sun. All shades of brown. Heat radiance off of every surface. Maybe there are some that think that is beautiful, but I am not a fan of that landscape.
2. Walter needs to recapture the essence of being alive. The shows writers do an excellent job of helping the viewer to feel suffocated by hopelessness. This is a sign of quality film making. The angles and sounds (or lack of). The blank stares and closed spaces all work to create a feeling of claustrophobia within Walter's life.
3. Jesse does an awesome job of reminding me of a childhood growing up in dirty streets around dirty people. He is all about himself and his own wants. He is scummy and unworthy of pity in the first episode.
4. Walt, Jr is still a bit enigmatic in the first episode. Questions remain around how he became how he is. Was it birth or an accident.
5. Hank Schrader is a very unlikeable character. He's loud and arrogant. He demeans Walter inadvertently through his inability to relate to the humanity around himself.
Those are my thoughts for Episode 1...
Start side note - I generally only go by viewer reviews rather than actual "critics" because I am a firm believer in populist opinion when it comes to my entertainment. Critics are usually all caught up in things that I either don't care about or am not smart enough to understand why they matter. Similar to using Consumer Reports to decide my dishwasher purchase, I would rather use the 1700 reviews on Amazon than the small lab of nerds at Consumer Reports. - End side note
The show received huge and gloriously loud praise from a massive amount of viewers. On IMDB, it has a 9.4/10 based on 214,478 viewers. 9.4?!?! To give some context, Seinfeld has an 8.9/10 from 98,578 viewers and the original 1977 Star Wars has an 8.8/10 with 535,074 viewer reviews. To me, this represented a show worth looking into.
Another tipping point was that it aired on AMC, the home of another favorite of mine; The Walking Dead. AMC also happens to be the home of Mad Men, though I am not as big a fan of that show.
So, since I was looking for a new show to occupy my mind while I trudged out miles on treadmill, I thought I would take a looksee at this, apparently, highly enjoyable show.
Episode 1 (Pilot)
The show starts off engaging enough. There is a man in his whitey tighties wearing a gas mask madly trying to maintain control of a Winnebago while barreling down a deserted desert road. It gets more interesting when you realize there is another person in the passenger seat who appears to be unconscious with a gas mask on, as well. Mr. Underwear ends up running the RV into a ravine along side the desert road. When the dust settles, the viewer can hear sirens in the background and the under dressed man departs the RV, leaves a cryptic message on a video camera, places his open wallet next to it, walks to the road and levels a .45 down the road in the direction of the sirens. Cut to opening credits...
Yeah, I was engaged. Who's the middle aged dude in the desert in his undies? Why the seeming suicidal mentality?
The show goes on to show the previous 3 weeks that lead up the desert scene and it all becomes clear... sort of. I will leave the rest of the episode to be viewed by whoever is reading this and will move on to my thoughts about the show.
The shows primary cast is made up of (in my mind) four characters. Walter White (Bryan Cranston) who plays a dried up middle class chemistry teacher at a public school in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He isn't a very likable character as he is weak and pathetic. He has a persona of a man who has been beaten down so many times that getting back up is just too much of a bother anymore. Walter's wife, Skyler White (Anna Gunn) is newly pregnant and seems to be a nice enough character but very overbearingly motherly in a sweet way. She isn't a vulture, but rather a woman who has grown accustomed to taking care of a man who has grown apathetic about life. Their son Walter White, Jr (RJ Mitte) is clearly handicapped physically. It appears that all his mental faculties are intact, but due to his physical handicap, he must use special crutches and also has a speech impediment. The last character I want to mention is Jesse Pinkman (Aaron Paul); Walter's drug dealer sidekick. This guy is probably my least favorite character and that probably means that he is doing a good job. He is a whiny coward who loves to hit the pipe and holds everyone around him responsible for his actions.
When Walter discovers that he has terminal lung cancer he begins to evaluate his life. He realizes that he has nothing to leave his family. As it stands, he works as a high school teacher and has a second job working at a car wash. At both places he is similar to the character Milton Waddams (Stephen Root) from Office Space... Well, maybe a little more personality than that, but not much. Yet, he contains the same "just below the surface" passive aggressive nature. You can tell that Walter is on the edge of blowing something up. Walter ends up doing a "ride along" with his obnoxious DEA agent brother-in-law, Hank Schrader (Dean Norris), to a drug bust because of his growing curiosity regarding the Crystal Meth trade. Walter had heard from Hank that these meth dealers could rake in hundreds of thousands and Walt gets the idea that maybe this is something he could do.
The idea comes to fruition in the partnership of Jesse and Walter. Walter, being a chemist, sees an opportunity to make meth better than any of the street amateurs are currently doing and gets Jesse to work with him since Jesse has the street contacts. Well, Walter was correct and he made a product more pure than anyone else is making and the trouble begins there...
My intention here isn't to tell you what happens in each episode, but to tell you about my feelings regarding the characters in each episode... This task is now seeming to big, though. Let's settle for hitting the highlights and if you get more, consider it a bonus.
The thoughts I finished the pilot with were:
1. New Mexico looks like a seriously dreary place to live. I have been to Albuquerque before and it just as dry and desolate as the shows represents. Constantly blazing sun. All shades of brown. Heat radiance off of every surface. Maybe there are some that think that is beautiful, but I am not a fan of that landscape.
2. Walter needs to recapture the essence of being alive. The shows writers do an excellent job of helping the viewer to feel suffocated by hopelessness. This is a sign of quality film making. The angles and sounds (or lack of). The blank stares and closed spaces all work to create a feeling of claustrophobia within Walter's life.
3. Jesse does an awesome job of reminding me of a childhood growing up in dirty streets around dirty people. He is all about himself and his own wants. He is scummy and unworthy of pity in the first episode.
4. Walt, Jr is still a bit enigmatic in the first episode. Questions remain around how he became how he is. Was it birth or an accident.
5. Hank Schrader is a very unlikeable character. He's loud and arrogant. He demeans Walter inadvertently through his inability to relate to the humanity around himself.
Those are my thoughts for Episode 1...
Dog Day Of Summer Ch. 2
Chapter 2
Aaron, Jeannette and Tucker worked their way up the trail back toward the cabin where they lived. The trail was rocky and steep; having all the proper attributes of any trail in Appalachia. At this altitude a lot of the maples and elm gave way to hardier oak and spruce. The morning was cloudless and had just enough chill to have the sweat feel icy when it ran from down the skin.
Aaron was reflecting on the past year as the three marched up the trail finishing the three mile loop that they liked to do on Saturday mornings. The move to West Virginia hadn’t initially been welcome. Coming from Columbus to the perpetual rural area around Grayston, West Virginia had been a bit of a culture shock. Not to mention how different the people were. Only a couple hours south of Columbus, but the people were a thousand miles different. Not bad, per se, but definitely different. These folks didn’t like being rushed in anything. Aaron had discovered that the more rush you attempted to add, the slower things were likely to move. So different from Columbus where everything was a rush order and had to be done yesterday. The change had come with difficulty at work, especially. He had taken an director position within a hospital here and immediately tried making fast hard changes to areas where he saw major areas of opportunity. He had been met with amazing resistance. Everyone acknowledged that the issues were pertinent and need resolution, but the speed by which Aaron wanted to get them done was alien to his colleagues. It was suddenly like trying to run through mud; both the walkers and runners would get to the end at the same time but the runner would be a lot more wore out.
It was Jeannette who had helped him see that he needed to pace himself. This wasn’t Columbus, she reminded him and things were different here. It was kind of ironic having Jean help him through this with such patience. She had been really uncertain about the move. Her whole family was in Columbus and she had never lived anywhere else. The desire had been his due in large part to a restlessness that he’d never been able to fully put away. He had no such ties to Columbus. His family was a mess of historic proportions and having anything to do with them would often leave him drained for days. To him, the further his family was the better. Nevertheless, he could understand Jean’s desire to be with her family. They were kind people; patient and generous with affection. When Aaron had first met them, he held them at arm’s length and actually considered them a sort of threat to his hold on Jean. It had taken a while for him to realize that not all families were as predatory as his own. He had finally begun to embrace them as his own family and give as much as he got.
In spite of this change, he still had a general restlessness that wouldn’t let him remain contented long. He had a record of changing jobs fairly regularly. He stayed within his field but either sought different areas within or promotion. Up to this point, the frequent changes hadn’t been considered detrimental, but rather, perceived as a young man attempting to make the most of himself. However, with the move to West Virginia, he knew that he had tied himself to this role until he had seen it through. To leave this job early would start to look like career flipping and that would be very damaging. Convincing Jean to move to the area had taken time and she had mostly relented because she loved him and understood his nature. She hoped that he would be able to resolve this consistent dissatisfaction eventually and had told him so on occasion. When she would tell him this he often thought back to a Metallica song that resonated in his mind and thought of those lyrics now: “New blood joins this earth and is quickly he’s subdued. Through constant pained disgrace, the young boy learns their rules…” He never told Jean this, though, as he knew that she would give him a side smile and ask if he was going to live there forever or would he face the future without dragging his past behind him like a corpse for the rest of his life. He knew she was right, but to release that corpse had proven more difficult than he would have thought. That aside, Jean was resolute in her dedication to him. He was fairly sure that there was nothing he could do that would cause her to give up on him. Her resilience often astounded him. So, she had allowed him to drag her away from everything she had known. There had been other offers in different states, but those all ended up being too far away from “home” and it was a sort of unspoken agreement between he and Jean that they wouldn’t move too far away. Here they were only a few hours away and weekend visits were easy.
They had purchased this cabin home because it was both beautiful and strategically located a few miles from the major artery I-64 that allowed them to get to work in a fairly convenient amount of time. The cabin sat on a single acre, but backed up to a national forest which granted them access to hundreds of miles of trails. This trail had become a favorite and had become the routine on Saturday mornings.
Breathing hard, Aaron looked back and spotted Jean and Tucker coming up behind him at a distance. Aaron often pushed hard on the return trip to get the biggest bang for his exercise buck. Jean could keep up easily, for sure, but Tucker was struggling as usual. Jean would lag back and encourage Tucker to make this final push up this stony ridge.
“Come on, baby. Almost home now. Follow momma. You got it.” Jean’s voice sounded behind him as she pushed the dog to catch up. Tucker was an fourteen year old German Shepherd that had seen his glory years a while ago. Huffing and puffing, the huge dog slowly made his way up behind Jean. Aaron was fairly sure he was throwing dirty looks up the trail at his master, but this was routine and so far Tucker had made every trip. Not to mention, the dog knew that there was a special treat for him whenever they made it back home.
They had acquired the dog a few years before leaving Columbus from a lifelong friend of Jean’s that couldn’t keep him anymore due to allergies that their children had been born with. Jean had known the dog from puppyhood and immediately welcomed the idea of having Tucker around. Aaron liked the idea, too, largely because the home they owned had been in a slightly shady part of town and the hundred and fifty pound shepherd had a way about him that made people think twice about approaching the house. Since then, though, Tucker and Aaron had grown close. Jean and Aaron both knew that Tucker considered Aaron the Alpha and worked hard to make sure his master was pleased at all costs. Sure, Tucker seemed to have a lot of affection for Jean, but it was Aaron that got the loyalty.
Now as they approached the top of the ridge, Aaron could hear Tucker coughing lightly as he tried to keep up with his master. In a shot of empathy, Aaron slowed the pace a little to let the dog catch up a little. Soon he heard Jean and Tucker coming up behind him at the same time the came over the top of the ridge and in sight of the cabin.
The cabin was mid-sized at about 2000sq feet and had an attached garage. There was a wraparound porch that had several rocking chairs and the porch swing that had lent a lot of weight to their final decision to buy the place. They knew it was silly and that you could put a porch swing on any porch, but something about how this rough oak swing looked out over thousands of acres of Appalachian beauty had stolen their hearts. The yard wasn’t as much a yard as a partially grassed rocky slope that led down to the forests. They had cultivated the areas closest to the cabin for flowers and a small garden.
Aaron became aware of a scrabbling behind him and turned to see Tucker sprinting for the house with a last ditch effort to beat his master. Laughing affectionately, Aaron took off after the dog as it past him in the hundred yard stretch to the porch. Tucker went like a bullet causing Aaron to wonder if the dog had been faking with the coughing and wheezing on the hill. They were neck and neck as the porch stairs drew nearer. Aaron made a leap and skipped the stairs landing in a hard roll onto the porch. Tucker came up on him and jumped on Aaron playfully licking at his face. The dog was panting and drooling all over Aaron.
“Ok… ok boy…”, Aaron exclaimed laughing as Tucker licked and tried to get his tongue up Aaron’s nose which was a favorite of Tucker’s. “Let me up and I’ll get you your treat, boy.”
At the word treat, the dog leapt off Aaron and started doing small jumps up on his hind legs. Jean had climbed the stairs to the porch and Aaron looked at her. Her face was flushed with exertion and her walnut hair was shining in the morning light giving it red highlights. She stood about five seven and had a form that was very fit but not bony. She carried all the right things in all the right places and Aaron couldn’t get enough. Jean reached down and Aaron threw his hand into hers and she pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks, babe. That beast was sandbagging on the trail, I’m sure of it now. Did you see him make for the porch? Tired, pish.” Aaron was looking at the dancing dog shaking his head. Tucker barked.
“Yeah, I don’t know where he learns how to malinger so well? Perhaps, someone else in the house is good at acting hurt or sick to get attention…” Jean’s bland tone left no question that she was referring to Aaron’s propensity to get all too dramatic when he felt ill or hurt.
“What? Me? Come on. You know that I save all my toughness for the day I need to protect you from vicious villains that may attack us. If I used it all up being tough when I am sick or hurt, what would you do when that dreadful day came you needed me to save your life?” Aaron eyed Jean with disturbing amounts of faux concern.
“Ah yes. I forgot. Please do save all that manliness for that dreaded day. I have no idea what I would do without my hospital administrator husband to protect me from the evils of the world.” Jean smirked and turned to Tucker to pet his head. The truth was that Jean was anything but helpless. The career change from Columbus to Grayston hadn’t only been for Aaron. Jean worked for the Charleston division of the ATF and had clocked a substantial hours taking down any number of bad guys. The move to West Virginia had allowed her to take a promotion and she had been enjoying the new role. West Virginia had a large crystal meth industry and she worked closely with other DHS affiliates to crack down on the trafficking. Her job was dangerous and her ability to think fast and take care of herself had saved her life a number of times. Aaron, however, had very little in the way of knowledge regarding the handling anything remotely dangerous barring the occasional paper cut or hostile tones in a finance meeting at the hospital.
“Exactly. See, Tucker, that’s how you keep’em in line. These modern women need a stern hand.” Jean turned and quickly started grabbing at Aaron trying to get a hold on his shirt with one hand and neatly aiming the other fist at his midsection. Aaron, laughing danced out of her reach and jumped the railing on the porch to the ground below. With the sudden action of his masters playful fighting, Tucker started barking and jumping around.
“I’ll show you a stern hand, mister. Come back up here and show me how manly you are, there buster.” Jean stood smiling at him from on the porch.
“Sic her, Tucker. Sic her.” Tucker, having no idea what “sic” meant, came bounding off the porch to his master jumping on him and nearly knocking him from his feet. “Useless, mutt. Her, I wanted you to get her…”
“I see you both work on the same level of intelligence.” Jean said with hands firmly placed on her hips.
“Did you hear what she said, Tuck? She said that you’re only as smart as me. Are you actually going to let her get away with that?” Jean made a disgusted sound and turned toward the door. Tuck continued trying to get his master to wrestle some more. “She’s getting your treat, Tuck, you should go with her.”
Those words did the trick. Tuck turned and barreled up the stairs toward Jean. The doorway was not built to facilitate both a person and the gigantic dog going through at the same time and Jean was pushed aside and grunted as she made hard contact with the frame. Aaron’s laughter came in uncontrolled breathless waves.
Jean turned and looked at him as she headed through the door. “Very funny, smart guy. How is it again that you’re planning on getting into the house?” With that she closed the door and Aaron heard the distinct sound of the door locking. His laughter faded rapidly
“Hey… Wha? Come on, babe, I was so kidding around. You can’t seriously be locking me out.” Aaron’s mock look of devastation as he climbed the porch stairs was returned with the curtain on the front door parting and Jean’s face appearing with her tongue clearly stuck out at him. “That’s some stern hand I have…” He muttered to himself.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Aaron, Jeannette and Tucker worked their way up the trail back toward the cabin where they lived. The trail was rocky and steep; having all the proper attributes of any trail in Appalachia. At this altitude a lot of the maples and elm gave way to hardier oak and spruce. The morning was cloudless and had just enough chill to have the sweat feel icy when it ran from down the skin.
Aaron was reflecting on the past year as the three marched up the trail finishing the three mile loop that they liked to do on Saturday mornings. The move to West Virginia hadn’t initially been welcome. Coming from Columbus to the perpetual rural area around Grayston, West Virginia had been a bit of a culture shock. Not to mention how different the people were. Only a couple hours south of Columbus, but the people were a thousand miles different. Not bad, per se, but definitely different. These folks didn’t like being rushed in anything. Aaron had discovered that the more rush you attempted to add, the slower things were likely to move. So different from Columbus where everything was a rush order and had to be done yesterday. The change had come with difficulty at work, especially. He had taken an director position within a hospital here and immediately tried making fast hard changes to areas where he saw major areas of opportunity. He had been met with amazing resistance. Everyone acknowledged that the issues were pertinent and need resolution, but the speed by which Aaron wanted to get them done was alien to his colleagues. It was suddenly like trying to run through mud; both the walkers and runners would get to the end at the same time but the runner would be a lot more wore out.
It was Jeannette who had helped him see that he needed to pace himself. This wasn’t Columbus, she reminded him and things were different here. It was kind of ironic having Jean help him through this with such patience. She had been really uncertain about the move. Her whole family was in Columbus and she had never lived anywhere else. The desire had been his due in large part to a restlessness that he’d never been able to fully put away. He had no such ties to Columbus. His family was a mess of historic proportions and having anything to do with them would often leave him drained for days. To him, the further his family was the better. Nevertheless, he could understand Jean’s desire to be with her family. They were kind people; patient and generous with affection. When Aaron had first met them, he held them at arm’s length and actually considered them a sort of threat to his hold on Jean. It had taken a while for him to realize that not all families were as predatory as his own. He had finally begun to embrace them as his own family and give as much as he got.
In spite of this change, he still had a general restlessness that wouldn’t let him remain contented long. He had a record of changing jobs fairly regularly. He stayed within his field but either sought different areas within or promotion. Up to this point, the frequent changes hadn’t been considered detrimental, but rather, perceived as a young man attempting to make the most of himself. However, with the move to West Virginia, he knew that he had tied himself to this role until he had seen it through. To leave this job early would start to look like career flipping and that would be very damaging. Convincing Jean to move to the area had taken time and she had mostly relented because she loved him and understood his nature. She hoped that he would be able to resolve this consistent dissatisfaction eventually and had told him so on occasion. When she would tell him this he often thought back to a Metallica song that resonated in his mind and thought of those lyrics now: “New blood joins this earth and is quickly he’s subdued. Through constant pained disgrace, the young boy learns their rules…” He never told Jean this, though, as he knew that she would give him a side smile and ask if he was going to live there forever or would he face the future without dragging his past behind him like a corpse for the rest of his life. He knew she was right, but to release that corpse had proven more difficult than he would have thought. That aside, Jean was resolute in her dedication to him. He was fairly sure that there was nothing he could do that would cause her to give up on him. Her resilience often astounded him. So, she had allowed him to drag her away from everything she had known. There had been other offers in different states, but those all ended up being too far away from “home” and it was a sort of unspoken agreement between he and Jean that they wouldn’t move too far away. Here they were only a few hours away and weekend visits were easy.
They had purchased this cabin home because it was both beautiful and strategically located a few miles from the major artery I-64 that allowed them to get to work in a fairly convenient amount of time. The cabin sat on a single acre, but backed up to a national forest which granted them access to hundreds of miles of trails. This trail had become a favorite and had become the routine on Saturday mornings.
Breathing hard, Aaron looked back and spotted Jean and Tucker coming up behind him at a distance. Aaron often pushed hard on the return trip to get the biggest bang for his exercise buck. Jean could keep up easily, for sure, but Tucker was struggling as usual. Jean would lag back and encourage Tucker to make this final push up this stony ridge.
“Come on, baby. Almost home now. Follow momma. You got it.” Jean’s voice sounded behind him as she pushed the dog to catch up. Tucker was an fourteen year old German Shepherd that had seen his glory years a while ago. Huffing and puffing, the huge dog slowly made his way up behind Jean. Aaron was fairly sure he was throwing dirty looks up the trail at his master, but this was routine and so far Tucker had made every trip. Not to mention, the dog knew that there was a special treat for him whenever they made it back home.
They had acquired the dog a few years before leaving Columbus from a lifelong friend of Jean’s that couldn’t keep him anymore due to allergies that their children had been born with. Jean had known the dog from puppyhood and immediately welcomed the idea of having Tucker around. Aaron liked the idea, too, largely because the home they owned had been in a slightly shady part of town and the hundred and fifty pound shepherd had a way about him that made people think twice about approaching the house. Since then, though, Tucker and Aaron had grown close. Jean and Aaron both knew that Tucker considered Aaron the Alpha and worked hard to make sure his master was pleased at all costs. Sure, Tucker seemed to have a lot of affection for Jean, but it was Aaron that got the loyalty.
Now as they approached the top of the ridge, Aaron could hear Tucker coughing lightly as he tried to keep up with his master. In a shot of empathy, Aaron slowed the pace a little to let the dog catch up a little. Soon he heard Jean and Tucker coming up behind him at the same time the came over the top of the ridge and in sight of the cabin.
The cabin was mid-sized at about 2000sq feet and had an attached garage. There was a wraparound porch that had several rocking chairs and the porch swing that had lent a lot of weight to their final decision to buy the place. They knew it was silly and that you could put a porch swing on any porch, but something about how this rough oak swing looked out over thousands of acres of Appalachian beauty had stolen their hearts. The yard wasn’t as much a yard as a partially grassed rocky slope that led down to the forests. They had cultivated the areas closest to the cabin for flowers and a small garden.
Aaron became aware of a scrabbling behind him and turned to see Tucker sprinting for the house with a last ditch effort to beat his master. Laughing affectionately, Aaron took off after the dog as it past him in the hundred yard stretch to the porch. Tucker went like a bullet causing Aaron to wonder if the dog had been faking with the coughing and wheezing on the hill. They were neck and neck as the porch stairs drew nearer. Aaron made a leap and skipped the stairs landing in a hard roll onto the porch. Tucker came up on him and jumped on Aaron playfully licking at his face. The dog was panting and drooling all over Aaron.
“Ok… ok boy…”, Aaron exclaimed laughing as Tucker licked and tried to get his tongue up Aaron’s nose which was a favorite of Tucker’s. “Let me up and I’ll get you your treat, boy.”
At the word treat, the dog leapt off Aaron and started doing small jumps up on his hind legs. Jean had climbed the stairs to the porch and Aaron looked at her. Her face was flushed with exertion and her walnut hair was shining in the morning light giving it red highlights. She stood about five seven and had a form that was very fit but not bony. She carried all the right things in all the right places and Aaron couldn’t get enough. Jean reached down and Aaron threw his hand into hers and she pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks, babe. That beast was sandbagging on the trail, I’m sure of it now. Did you see him make for the porch? Tired, pish.” Aaron was looking at the dancing dog shaking his head. Tucker barked.
“Yeah, I don’t know where he learns how to malinger so well? Perhaps, someone else in the house is good at acting hurt or sick to get attention…” Jean’s bland tone left no question that she was referring to Aaron’s propensity to get all too dramatic when he felt ill or hurt.
“What? Me? Come on. You know that I save all my toughness for the day I need to protect you from vicious villains that may attack us. If I used it all up being tough when I am sick or hurt, what would you do when that dreadful day came you needed me to save your life?” Aaron eyed Jean with disturbing amounts of faux concern.
“Ah yes. I forgot. Please do save all that manliness for that dreaded day. I have no idea what I would do without my hospital administrator husband to protect me from the evils of the world.” Jean smirked and turned to Tucker to pet his head. The truth was that Jean was anything but helpless. The career change from Columbus to Grayston hadn’t only been for Aaron. Jean worked for the Charleston division of the ATF and had clocked a substantial hours taking down any number of bad guys. The move to West Virginia had allowed her to take a promotion and she had been enjoying the new role. West Virginia had a large crystal meth industry and she worked closely with other DHS affiliates to crack down on the trafficking. Her job was dangerous and her ability to think fast and take care of herself had saved her life a number of times. Aaron, however, had very little in the way of knowledge regarding the handling anything remotely dangerous barring the occasional paper cut or hostile tones in a finance meeting at the hospital.
“Exactly. See, Tucker, that’s how you keep’em in line. These modern women need a stern hand.” Jean turned and quickly started grabbing at Aaron trying to get a hold on his shirt with one hand and neatly aiming the other fist at his midsection. Aaron, laughing danced out of her reach and jumped the railing on the porch to the ground below. With the sudden action of his masters playful fighting, Tucker started barking and jumping around.
“I’ll show you a stern hand, mister. Come back up here and show me how manly you are, there buster.” Jean stood smiling at him from on the porch.
“Sic her, Tucker. Sic her.” Tucker, having no idea what “sic” meant, came bounding off the porch to his master jumping on him and nearly knocking him from his feet. “Useless, mutt. Her, I wanted you to get her…”
“I see you both work on the same level of intelligence.” Jean said with hands firmly placed on her hips.
“Did you hear what she said, Tuck? She said that you’re only as smart as me. Are you actually going to let her get away with that?” Jean made a disgusted sound and turned toward the door. Tuck continued trying to get his master to wrestle some more. “She’s getting your treat, Tuck, you should go with her.”
Those words did the trick. Tuck turned and barreled up the stairs toward Jean. The doorway was not built to facilitate both a person and the gigantic dog going through at the same time and Jean was pushed aside and grunted as she made hard contact with the frame. Aaron’s laughter came in uncontrolled breathless waves.
Jean turned and looked at him as she headed through the door. “Very funny, smart guy. How is it again that you’re planning on getting into the house?” With that she closed the door and Aaron heard the distinct sound of the door locking. His laughter faded rapidly
“Hey… Wha? Come on, babe, I was so kidding around. You can’t seriously be locking me out.” Aaron’s mock look of devastation as he climbed the porch stairs was returned with the curtain on the front door parting and Jean’s face appearing with her tongue clearly stuck out at him. “That’s some stern hand I have…” He muttered to himself.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Saturday, June 01, 2013
Dog Day of Summer Chapter 1
This is the opening chapter to a book I started a while back. I am looking for thoughts...
Keep in mind that NO ONE has ever seen this, so the editing will be very shoddy.
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Terrie awoke to the irritating howl of the alarm that was stationed strategically across the room on the dresser. A lifelong addiction to unconsciously smacking the snooze button, or worse, actually turning the demon device off had led him to placing the contraption across the room. Thus far the strategy hadn’t failed him. Something about tripping over the clothes on the floor and blearily smacking the alarm had the effect of thoroughly drawing him from the deep recesses of sleep and back into the stark potency of reality.
Throwing back the covers and feeling the icy touch of the room’s air on his sleep warmed flesh, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. Blinking away eye boogers and rubbing one persistent one away with his finger, he lunged to his feet. Several vertebrae made loud popping noises and Terrie grunted. At 32, he could distinctly remember not waking to these sounds only a few years ago. He didn’t consider himself an old man by any means, but there were parts that were clearly not functioning as well as they had just a few years ago. He supposed it wasn’t going to get any better, so he pushed the thoughts out of his mind.
Shuffling over to the droning, mind numbing electronic noise he finally made it and gave the appliance its due punishment. Silence ensued. A small nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that lying down again just for a few minutes would have no harm. Just ten minutes… what’s ten minutes? He knew this voice well, however. He sighed and snorted a little. Turning from the bed, he made his way toward the bathroom where another, louder voice, was insisting he go. After finding relief, he peered at his face in the mirror. Pale, sleep creased, and stubbly, Terrie was surprised by what sleep did to the appearance of people. How strange sleep is, he thought. En mass, the whole of humanity, regionally of course, climbed into soft platforms, closed their eyes and rendered themselves completely vulnerable to the whims of whatever creeps in the dark. So strange. It was really startling that more terrible things didn’t happen during that time from eyes closed to eyes opened for the population. It was almost as if there was an unspoken agreement between people deep in the ID or Ego or whatever that said, “hey, let’s not mess with each other during this time. Ok?” Excepting for those few violators that decided to conduct their crimes in the homes of sleeping people, the agreement has appeared to hold for eons. And isn’t there some extra horror added to the crimes of people who murder people in their sleep? Isn’t there some societal extra-abhorrence added to those cowards who violate the no hurting people during sleepy-time principle. Terrie thought so.
His attention was brought back to the present by a cold wet sensation in the sensitive spot directly behind his knee. Terrie, smiling, looked down to see Gulliver’s snout poking him there. Gulliver had been Terrie’s housemate for the past seven years. Terrie found that of all the housemates he had ever had that Gulliver was, hands down, the best. The Golden Retriever had been the runt of a litter that one of Terrie’s friends from work had bred. Being the runt meant that it wouldn’t sell as well as the rest and Terrie’s friend had opted to give him away to Terrie as a gift. Truth be told, the friend had owed Terrie a bit of money and was hoping that the tiny golden puffball would make things even. Initially, Terrie hadn’t been sure about taking on a puppy. He had just been exiting a particularly bad ending to a lengthy relationship and thought he needed some alone time. However, as people generally are terrible assessors of what they actually need, Terrie soon found that having the puppy around had been therapeutic.
Gulliver became his best friend and started going everywhere with him. This caused some problems at first, but eventually the places that Terrie and Gulliver frequented became used to the two being together and started enjoying seeing the dog as much, if not more, as seeing Terrie.
The back of the knee nuzzle was a morning ritual between the two of them. This was Gulliver speak for, “Hey buddy, you got to pee, how about letting the rest of us find the same relief.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… I’m coming.” Terrie said while eyeballing the dog in the mirror. With this address, Gulliver’s tail started whipping back and forth with gusto. Terrie squeezed past the dog in the doorway and grabbed his tee-shirt from over the back of the chair he’d thrown it on. Wearing this and a pair of boxers, they both exited the bedroom and headed to the sliding door at the back of the house. As Terrie dislodged the various locking mechanisms on the slider (Subconscious agreement or no, he wasn’t trusting in the collective goodness of man to keep him safe while sleeping). By now Gulliver’s whole rear was wagging out of sequence with his raging tail. Grinning a little, Terrie slid the door open just a little and Gulliver plunged his nose into the opening. Terrie left it there watching to see the dog’s reaction to this little game they played often. Gulliver backed up and looked up at Terrie with a flat look. Terrie enjoyed this game, but it was apparent the dog was longing for a day where he got to have the upper hand in the teasing. Laughing a little, Terrie opened the door all the way and Gulliver rushed out and headed to the grass past the patio and began sniffing loudly into the grass with enthusiasm.
“Gully, it’s the same yard as it was yesterday. What are you hoping to find here today that wasn’t here yesterday, eh pooch?” The dog ignored him and continued his investigation of the small green plot that made up the backyard. The backyard was shared between several houses that backed up to the same area. Standing in the cool morning, Terrie could see the back yards of five other houses; all in various degrees of repair and disrepair.
“Nice legs, Terrie.” The deep voice came from Terries left and he looked up to see the familiar face of his neighbor, Craig. Craig was squatted next to a lawnmower with a gas can sitting next to him.
“Hey, thanks. I have been going for the pale hairy look. How am I doing?”
“Hmmmm… I will give you a seven for hairy and a ten for pale.” Craig replied.
“Seven? Wow. I was really thinking I would be getting at least a nine. If this is seven, I am afraid to see your ten.”
“I come from Greek/Italian heritage, man. There have been bigfoot sightings when my family goes to the beach, if that gives you any indication.”
“Yikes. Maria stilled married you? That’s amazing. Do you shed?” Terrie took a few steps toward the chain link that separated their yards. Gulliver was sniffing closer to his favored latrine location in the back corner of the lot.
“Har har. Clever. No, I don’t shed… much. Say, you mind not heading to close to that chain link in your current attire. I don’t need the neighbors thinking it strange that we are sitting here chatting here with you in your un-mentionables, ok. I’ve got enough trouble with the sasquatch thing already.” Craig made to look around the yard area and Terrie laughed.
Gulliver, having finished his inspection and duty, sauntered over to the fence to inspect Craig’s doings.
“Hey there, fella, this guy treating you ok?” Gulliver’s tongue lolled out and the retriever’s grin started at being addressed. “You say the word and I will come rescue you from this pale hairless sissy.” Gulliver pawed at the fence in what seemed like a plea.
“Hold on a second there, mutt. What’s this about? You’re going to abandon me for this lout? Is this for the door tease earlier? You know, Craig and Monica are vegetarians, right? Say good bye to chicken bones and steak gristle.” Gulliver looked back at Terrie and back at Craig. Suddenly, Gulliver was gone in a golden blur across the backyard. A squirrel had dared to set paw in the yard and the dog had an irrational dislike of the small creatures.
“I think that dog has ADD. Have you considered having him medicated?” Craig said smiling as he watched the dog circle the tree that the squirrel and retreated to.
“No. I don’t have good insurance and the meds cost a bundle. Anyway, Gulliver insists that drugs would hamper his creative drive.”
“Of course. I should have thought of that.” Craig replied turning his attention back to the mower.
“Ok, Cujo, let’s go. I’ve got things to do and standing out here in my skivvies is sure to cause marital issues throughout the neighborhood if I stay here too long.” Terrie heard Craig snort and Gulliver took a couple last sniffs of the tree and scoped the branches one last time and trotted back over to Terrie. “Hey, why don’t you do my yard while you are at it, there Mr. Motivation.”
“You bet. I’ll get right on that. I’ll do your laundry and make you dinner while I’m at it.” Craig said without even looking back at Terrie.
Smiling, Terrie replied, “Perfect. I can see why Monica married you now, in spite of your hygiene issues.”
Craig nodded, saying, “Gully, my offer stands. Don’t believe the oaf about the vegetarian thing, either. He’s just spreading malicious rumors with that nonsense. You know where I live if you change your mind. I will free you from the clutches of this madman.” Gulliver looked back at Craig and barked once. Terrie laughed and was once again reminded how much Gully seemed to be aware of things.
“Seeya, Craig.”
“Seeya.” Terrie and the dog reentered the house. Terrie filled Gulliver’s water and food bowl and headed to the kitchen for his own breakfast.
Shortly after breakfast, Terrie was dressed in a light running suit and was sitting on the end of his bed lacing his shoes. The lacing was taking longer than it needed to due to Gulliver’s excited intervention. Knowing that this ensemble and these shoes indicated a run in the park, Gulliver had ramped up his excitement and was busy stepping all over Terries hands and licking Terries face. This made actually tying his shoes nearly impossible.
“Ok.. Ok.. Hey, if you want to go, you’ve got to let me finish tying these things, dude.” Gulliver relented and sat on his haunches and barked, his tail making swishing motions across the floor. With the reprieve from the dog’s affection, Terrie finished his shoes. Seeing that this was accomplished, Gulliver ran from the bedroom and headed to the door leading to the garage.
Terrie grabbed his keys and wallet and headed out to the garage. Terrie opened the car door and Gulliver jumped in and immediately found his favored spot in the passenger seat of the Range Rover. Terrie climbed in, pressed the garage door opener and started the SUV.
“Did you want to drive? I always forget to ask.” Terrie looked at the dog and Gulliver chuffed in a distinctly annoyed way. Terrie smiled and backed out of the garage hitting the accelerator and brakes just a little more than he needed to give Gulliver a hard time.
Johnson Park was crowded on this sunny Saturday morning. There were a lot of families using the playground equipment. In the large open area there were numerous couples on blankets in various degrees of eating, talking or just reading. The track that coursed throughout the park was scattered with walkers, runners, and stroller pushers. Terrie loved the activity of the park. The crisp autumn air filled his lungs and the blue sky over head rendered life nearly utopian. No thought of Monday’s work load allowed to creep in and dampen this excellent day.
Locking the Rover, Terrie and Gulliver, now securely on a leash, headed over to the crushed granite trail and took off on the last run of Terrie’s life.
Terrie sat catching his breath on a bench near the place where he and Gulliver had begun their run only forty-five minutes before. The run had been excellent and Gulliver looked as though it had been good for him, too. Terrie’s clothes were soaked with sweat and the crisp air was causing the wet clothes to become icy wherever it came into contact with his skin. Gulliver was panting heavily and watching all the other people in the park with interest.
“Good run, eh pooch?” Gulliver turned back to Terrie at the sound of his voice and moved a little closer and licked Terrie’s hand. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad. I’d like to get a little more distance in the same time, but that’ll work for today. You thirsty?” Gulliver again moved a little closer and nudged Terrie’s hand wanting to be petted. Terrie looked around and spotted the drinking fountain a little ways off that had both a doggy fountain and a human one. Terrie stood and he and Gulliver headed over to the fountain. Holding the button first for the dog, Terrie watched the dog drink sloppily and hurriedly. When Gulliver had finished his first round of drinking, Terrie took his own turn letting the cold water fill his mouth and hit his stomach like an iceberg. It was amazingly sweet.
“That’s a beautiful golden. What’s its name?” Terrie was startled out of his water reverie at the sound of the soft feminine voice addressing him. He turned his head standing up quickly wiping the dripping water from his mouth feeling a bit like he looked like barbarian. She was medium height and very pretty with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail dressed in a running outfit as he was. He was suddenly conscious of all the sweat soaked spots on his clothes and knew for certainty that he smelled like a buffalo three days dead.
Clearing his throat, Terrie said, “Gulliver. His name is Gulliver. Don’t let him fool you though, he is terribly vicious. He is actually wanted by the FBI.”
The cute blonde smiled wryly, “Oh, I am sure. That wagging tail and docile expression really just screams man eater.” Gulliver, sensing the conversation was about him, chuffed and moved to the woman and sniffed her shoes. “Hello there, Gulliver.” She squatted and began to pet the dog while getting the dog to look her in the face. Gulliver’s tail was at full throttle now. He lashed out with his tongue and got the lady in the face with a long swipe.
“Oh lovely, ok Gulliver, I am not sure she is ready for that kind of commitment.” Terrie pulled Gulliver back a little testing to see how the woman would respond.
“Oh, it’s fine. I love it. What a good dog.” She laughed and began scratching Gulliver behind the ears.
“Ok, but I am just saying, he licks all the ladies…” Terrie said wondering if he had pushed the envelope too far with that last joke.
“I bet he does. Look at him. Completely irresistible.” She replied causing Terrie too feel relief course through him that she had a good sense of humor.
“Yeah, it’s hard to bring…” Terrie’s words were suddenly cut off by Gulliver who had stiffened abruptly. The previously wagging tail went rigid and his lolling tongue and whipped back into his mouth which had closed with a sort of wet clomp. “Gully, are you ok?”
With a speed that Terrie had never seen before, Gulliver lunged forward and tore into the woman’s throat with his jaws. The woman flew backward, landing on her back with Gulliver following to land on top of her. Terrie was jerked forward as he still held the dog’s leash. Terrie watched in horror as blood bubbled from around Gulliver’s muzzle as he closed his jaws tighter and started to shake the woman’s head back and forth. For her part, the woman attempted to beat at the dog’s head with her clenched fists. Gulliver, however, seemed unfazed by the blows. Terrie could see the fear in the woman’s eyes that was slowly fading to unconsciousness with the loss of blood and oxygen to her brain.
Terrie suddenly came to himself and yanked on the leash with all his might. Gulliver came up on his hind legs, dragging the woman, now no longer beating at the dog, with him. The dog released the woman and she fell backward, her head hitting the pavement with a smack. Gulliver whirled on Terrie and Terrie felt his bladder release. Gulliver’s muzzle was covered in blood and gore. His normally brown gentle eyes had transformed into brown and black portals of hate. His teeth were bared and pieces of flesh were caught in them. When Gulliver snarled, spittle flew from his maw and landed on Terrie’s shoes.
Terrie stumbled backward forgetting to release the leash. “Gull..Gull…Gulliver, boy… What’s go…go..going…” He never finished his question. Gulliver launched from the ground and plowed into Terrie’s chest with all of his weight. Terrie tripped over the doggy fountain behind him and fell to the ground. Gulliver was on him immediately. Terrie felt the dog’s jaws close on his neck and thought about how blue the sky looked as darkness closed in and screaming echoed in his ears.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Keep in mind that NO ONE has ever seen this, so the editing will be very shoddy.
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Terrie awoke to the irritating howl of the alarm that was stationed strategically across the room on the dresser. A lifelong addiction to unconsciously smacking the snooze button, or worse, actually turning the demon device off had led him to placing the contraption across the room. Thus far the strategy hadn’t failed him. Something about tripping over the clothes on the floor and blearily smacking the alarm had the effect of thoroughly drawing him from the deep recesses of sleep and back into the stark potency of reality.
Throwing back the covers and feeling the icy touch of the room’s air on his sleep warmed flesh, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. Blinking away eye boogers and rubbing one persistent one away with his finger, he lunged to his feet. Several vertebrae made loud popping noises and Terrie grunted. At 32, he could distinctly remember not waking to these sounds only a few years ago. He didn’t consider himself an old man by any means, but there were parts that were clearly not functioning as well as they had just a few years ago. He supposed it wasn’t going to get any better, so he pushed the thoughts out of his mind.
Shuffling over to the droning, mind numbing electronic noise he finally made it and gave the appliance its due punishment. Silence ensued. A small nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that lying down again just for a few minutes would have no harm. Just ten minutes… what’s ten minutes? He knew this voice well, however. He sighed and snorted a little. Turning from the bed, he made his way toward the bathroom where another, louder voice, was insisting he go. After finding relief, he peered at his face in the mirror. Pale, sleep creased, and stubbly, Terrie was surprised by what sleep did to the appearance of people. How strange sleep is, he thought. En mass, the whole of humanity, regionally of course, climbed into soft platforms, closed their eyes and rendered themselves completely vulnerable to the whims of whatever creeps in the dark. So strange. It was really startling that more terrible things didn’t happen during that time from eyes closed to eyes opened for the population. It was almost as if there was an unspoken agreement between people deep in the ID or Ego or whatever that said, “hey, let’s not mess with each other during this time. Ok?” Excepting for those few violators that decided to conduct their crimes in the homes of sleeping people, the agreement has appeared to hold for eons. And isn’t there some extra horror added to the crimes of people who murder people in their sleep? Isn’t there some societal extra-abhorrence added to those cowards who violate the no hurting people during sleepy-time principle. Terrie thought so.
His attention was brought back to the present by a cold wet sensation in the sensitive spot directly behind his knee. Terrie, smiling, looked down to see Gulliver’s snout poking him there. Gulliver had been Terrie’s housemate for the past seven years. Terrie found that of all the housemates he had ever had that Gulliver was, hands down, the best. The Golden Retriever had been the runt of a litter that one of Terrie’s friends from work had bred. Being the runt meant that it wouldn’t sell as well as the rest and Terrie’s friend had opted to give him away to Terrie as a gift. Truth be told, the friend had owed Terrie a bit of money and was hoping that the tiny golden puffball would make things even. Initially, Terrie hadn’t been sure about taking on a puppy. He had just been exiting a particularly bad ending to a lengthy relationship and thought he needed some alone time. However, as people generally are terrible assessors of what they actually need, Terrie soon found that having the puppy around had been therapeutic.
Gulliver became his best friend and started going everywhere with him. This caused some problems at first, but eventually the places that Terrie and Gulliver frequented became used to the two being together and started enjoying seeing the dog as much, if not more, as seeing Terrie.
The back of the knee nuzzle was a morning ritual between the two of them. This was Gulliver speak for, “Hey buddy, you got to pee, how about letting the rest of us find the same relief.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… I’m coming.” Terrie said while eyeballing the dog in the mirror. With this address, Gulliver’s tail started whipping back and forth with gusto. Terrie squeezed past the dog in the doorway and grabbed his tee-shirt from over the back of the chair he’d thrown it on. Wearing this and a pair of boxers, they both exited the bedroom and headed to the sliding door at the back of the house. As Terrie dislodged the various locking mechanisms on the slider (Subconscious agreement or no, he wasn’t trusting in the collective goodness of man to keep him safe while sleeping). By now Gulliver’s whole rear was wagging out of sequence with his raging tail. Grinning a little, Terrie slid the door open just a little and Gulliver plunged his nose into the opening. Terrie left it there watching to see the dog’s reaction to this little game they played often. Gulliver backed up and looked up at Terrie with a flat look. Terrie enjoyed this game, but it was apparent the dog was longing for a day where he got to have the upper hand in the teasing. Laughing a little, Terrie opened the door all the way and Gulliver rushed out and headed to the grass past the patio and began sniffing loudly into the grass with enthusiasm.
“Gully, it’s the same yard as it was yesterday. What are you hoping to find here today that wasn’t here yesterday, eh pooch?” The dog ignored him and continued his investigation of the small green plot that made up the backyard. The backyard was shared between several houses that backed up to the same area. Standing in the cool morning, Terrie could see the back yards of five other houses; all in various degrees of repair and disrepair.
“Nice legs, Terrie.” The deep voice came from Terries left and he looked up to see the familiar face of his neighbor, Craig. Craig was squatted next to a lawnmower with a gas can sitting next to him.
“Hey, thanks. I have been going for the pale hairy look. How am I doing?”
“Hmmmm… I will give you a seven for hairy and a ten for pale.” Craig replied.
“Seven? Wow. I was really thinking I would be getting at least a nine. If this is seven, I am afraid to see your ten.”
“I come from Greek/Italian heritage, man. There have been bigfoot sightings when my family goes to the beach, if that gives you any indication.”
“Yikes. Maria stilled married you? That’s amazing. Do you shed?” Terrie took a few steps toward the chain link that separated their yards. Gulliver was sniffing closer to his favored latrine location in the back corner of the lot.
“Har har. Clever. No, I don’t shed… much. Say, you mind not heading to close to that chain link in your current attire. I don’t need the neighbors thinking it strange that we are sitting here chatting here with you in your un-mentionables, ok. I’ve got enough trouble with the sasquatch thing already.” Craig made to look around the yard area and Terrie laughed.
Gulliver, having finished his inspection and duty, sauntered over to the fence to inspect Craig’s doings.
“Hey there, fella, this guy treating you ok?” Gulliver’s tongue lolled out and the retriever’s grin started at being addressed. “You say the word and I will come rescue you from this pale hairless sissy.” Gulliver pawed at the fence in what seemed like a plea.
“Hold on a second there, mutt. What’s this about? You’re going to abandon me for this lout? Is this for the door tease earlier? You know, Craig and Monica are vegetarians, right? Say good bye to chicken bones and steak gristle.” Gulliver looked back at Terrie and back at Craig. Suddenly, Gulliver was gone in a golden blur across the backyard. A squirrel had dared to set paw in the yard and the dog had an irrational dislike of the small creatures.
“I think that dog has ADD. Have you considered having him medicated?” Craig said smiling as he watched the dog circle the tree that the squirrel and retreated to.
“No. I don’t have good insurance and the meds cost a bundle. Anyway, Gulliver insists that drugs would hamper his creative drive.”
“Of course. I should have thought of that.” Craig replied turning his attention back to the mower.
“Ok, Cujo, let’s go. I’ve got things to do and standing out here in my skivvies is sure to cause marital issues throughout the neighborhood if I stay here too long.” Terrie heard Craig snort and Gulliver took a couple last sniffs of the tree and scoped the branches one last time and trotted back over to Terrie. “Hey, why don’t you do my yard while you are at it, there Mr. Motivation.”
“You bet. I’ll get right on that. I’ll do your laundry and make you dinner while I’m at it.” Craig said without even looking back at Terrie.
Smiling, Terrie replied, “Perfect. I can see why Monica married you now, in spite of your hygiene issues.”
Craig nodded, saying, “Gully, my offer stands. Don’t believe the oaf about the vegetarian thing, either. He’s just spreading malicious rumors with that nonsense. You know where I live if you change your mind. I will free you from the clutches of this madman.” Gulliver looked back at Craig and barked once. Terrie laughed and was once again reminded how much Gully seemed to be aware of things.
“Seeya, Craig.”
“Seeya.” Terrie and the dog reentered the house. Terrie filled Gulliver’s water and food bowl and headed to the kitchen for his own breakfast.
Shortly after breakfast, Terrie was dressed in a light running suit and was sitting on the end of his bed lacing his shoes. The lacing was taking longer than it needed to due to Gulliver’s excited intervention. Knowing that this ensemble and these shoes indicated a run in the park, Gulliver had ramped up his excitement and was busy stepping all over Terries hands and licking Terries face. This made actually tying his shoes nearly impossible.
“Ok.. Ok.. Hey, if you want to go, you’ve got to let me finish tying these things, dude.” Gulliver relented and sat on his haunches and barked, his tail making swishing motions across the floor. With the reprieve from the dog’s affection, Terrie finished his shoes. Seeing that this was accomplished, Gulliver ran from the bedroom and headed to the door leading to the garage.
Terrie grabbed his keys and wallet and headed out to the garage. Terrie opened the car door and Gulliver jumped in and immediately found his favored spot in the passenger seat of the Range Rover. Terrie climbed in, pressed the garage door opener and started the SUV.
“Did you want to drive? I always forget to ask.” Terrie looked at the dog and Gulliver chuffed in a distinctly annoyed way. Terrie smiled and backed out of the garage hitting the accelerator and brakes just a little more than he needed to give Gulliver a hard time.
Johnson Park was crowded on this sunny Saturday morning. There were a lot of families using the playground equipment. In the large open area there were numerous couples on blankets in various degrees of eating, talking or just reading. The track that coursed throughout the park was scattered with walkers, runners, and stroller pushers. Terrie loved the activity of the park. The crisp autumn air filled his lungs and the blue sky over head rendered life nearly utopian. No thought of Monday’s work load allowed to creep in and dampen this excellent day.
Locking the Rover, Terrie and Gulliver, now securely on a leash, headed over to the crushed granite trail and took off on the last run of Terrie’s life.
Terrie sat catching his breath on a bench near the place where he and Gulliver had begun their run only forty-five minutes before. The run had been excellent and Gulliver looked as though it had been good for him, too. Terrie’s clothes were soaked with sweat and the crisp air was causing the wet clothes to become icy wherever it came into contact with his skin. Gulliver was panting heavily and watching all the other people in the park with interest.
“Good run, eh pooch?” Gulliver turned back to Terrie at the sound of his voice and moved a little closer and licked Terrie’s hand. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad. I’d like to get a little more distance in the same time, but that’ll work for today. You thirsty?” Gulliver again moved a little closer and nudged Terrie’s hand wanting to be petted. Terrie looked around and spotted the drinking fountain a little ways off that had both a doggy fountain and a human one. Terrie stood and he and Gulliver headed over to the fountain. Holding the button first for the dog, Terrie watched the dog drink sloppily and hurriedly. When Gulliver had finished his first round of drinking, Terrie took his own turn letting the cold water fill his mouth and hit his stomach like an iceberg. It was amazingly sweet.
“That’s a beautiful golden. What’s its name?” Terrie was startled out of his water reverie at the sound of the soft feminine voice addressing him. He turned his head standing up quickly wiping the dripping water from his mouth feeling a bit like he looked like barbarian. She was medium height and very pretty with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail dressed in a running outfit as he was. He was suddenly conscious of all the sweat soaked spots on his clothes and knew for certainty that he smelled like a buffalo three days dead.
Clearing his throat, Terrie said, “Gulliver. His name is Gulliver. Don’t let him fool you though, he is terribly vicious. He is actually wanted by the FBI.”
The cute blonde smiled wryly, “Oh, I am sure. That wagging tail and docile expression really just screams man eater.” Gulliver, sensing the conversation was about him, chuffed and moved to the woman and sniffed her shoes. “Hello there, Gulliver.” She squatted and began to pet the dog while getting the dog to look her in the face. Gulliver’s tail was at full throttle now. He lashed out with his tongue and got the lady in the face with a long swipe.
“Oh lovely, ok Gulliver, I am not sure she is ready for that kind of commitment.” Terrie pulled Gulliver back a little testing to see how the woman would respond.
“Oh, it’s fine. I love it. What a good dog.” She laughed and began scratching Gulliver behind the ears.
“Ok, but I am just saying, he licks all the ladies…” Terrie said wondering if he had pushed the envelope too far with that last joke.
“I bet he does. Look at him. Completely irresistible.” She replied causing Terrie too feel relief course through him that she had a good sense of humor.
“Yeah, it’s hard to bring…” Terrie’s words were suddenly cut off by Gulliver who had stiffened abruptly. The previously wagging tail went rigid and his lolling tongue and whipped back into his mouth which had closed with a sort of wet clomp. “Gully, are you ok?”
With a speed that Terrie had never seen before, Gulliver lunged forward and tore into the woman’s throat with his jaws. The woman flew backward, landing on her back with Gulliver following to land on top of her. Terrie was jerked forward as he still held the dog’s leash. Terrie watched in horror as blood bubbled from around Gulliver’s muzzle as he closed his jaws tighter and started to shake the woman’s head back and forth. For her part, the woman attempted to beat at the dog’s head with her clenched fists. Gulliver, however, seemed unfazed by the blows. Terrie could see the fear in the woman’s eyes that was slowly fading to unconsciousness with the loss of blood and oxygen to her brain.
Terrie suddenly came to himself and yanked on the leash with all his might. Gulliver came up on his hind legs, dragging the woman, now no longer beating at the dog, with him. The dog released the woman and she fell backward, her head hitting the pavement with a smack. Gulliver whirled on Terrie and Terrie felt his bladder release. Gulliver’s muzzle was covered in blood and gore. His normally brown gentle eyes had transformed into brown and black portals of hate. His teeth were bared and pieces of flesh were caught in them. When Gulliver snarled, spittle flew from his maw and landed on Terrie’s shoes.
Terrie stumbled backward forgetting to release the leash. “Gull..Gull…Gulliver, boy… What’s go…go..going…” He never finished his question. Gulliver launched from the ground and plowed into Terrie’s chest with all of his weight. Terrie tripped over the doggy fountain behind him and fell to the ground. Gulliver was on him immediately. Terrie felt the dog’s jaws close on his neck and thought about how blue the sky looked as darkness closed in and screaming echoed in his ears.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
McCain and his silly meddling
What in the world is John McCain doing in Syria talking to rebels there? When I read about this the only image that kept popping into my mind was of a PETA representative visiting the Hell's Angels to discuss the inhumane treatment of cattle. What did he have to say? What possible inspiration could this old white politician have to offer a bunch of hardened rebel leaders? Well, if the dialog between Wolf Blitzer and Mouaz Moustafa is any indication, McCain wanted to ensure the Syrian rebel forces that the US supports their strive for freedom and supports their revolution...
Transcript of Blitzer and Moustafa interview
We do? Who are these rebels? The Free Syria Army is a conglomerate of defected Syrian soldiers and foreign mercenaries. Further, they are teamed up along side such organizations as al-Nusra Front and Ahrar al-Sham; two Islamsist Jihad groups.
Anyway, I wasn't intending to go on ranting about this. I just wanted to post an article from The Onion that I thought was really funny.
Family Concerned After John McCain Wanders Into Syria
Transcript of Blitzer and Moustafa interview
We do? Who are these rebels? The Free Syria Army is a conglomerate of defected Syrian soldiers and foreign mercenaries. Further, they are teamed up along side such organizations as al-Nusra Front and Ahrar al-Sham; two Islamsist Jihad groups.
Anyway, I wasn't intending to go on ranting about this. I just wanted to post an article from The Onion that I thought was really funny.
Family Concerned After John McCain Wanders Into Syria
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Bachmann done running
Today, Madam Michele Bachmann said she is not planning to run for office again. Here is the AP article:
Bachmann finally decides to stop mocking God.
Bachmann finally decides to stop mocking God.
Thank goodness for small favors.
The fact that she is a "Tea Party favorite" made me hate both tea and parties.
Am I a Runner or a runner?
I have a dilemma. Likely, it is a dilemma only in my own mind. Yet, I have decided to write about it to get the message in the bottle out there in the Internet sea to discover if another person on the island of life feels the way I do.
I like to run. Well, I like to jog. Truthfully, the word "like" is probably overstating it. It is more of a grudging acquaintance. Similar to having to collaborate with someone from work with whom you cannot really tolerate but understand on a deep level that without this person, assigned work will never find fruition. That is running to me.
As a side note, there are actually quite a few projects at work with which the above analogy is a reality. I am terrible at project management. Pathetic really. If not for some extremely anal retentive type A people I work with, I would be a total failure. As all lazy managers say, I am an idea guy. Thank goodness for people who make work their life. Here's to you.
I want to be healthy. I want to be active and able to get around the world with my children without feeling winded and sweaty. There may also be just a little bit of macho ism that can't stand the thought that my wife is in better shape than me. Only a little though... I like the way I feel when I work through 3 or 4 miles of jogging and get done. There is a real sense of accomplishment there. Nevertheless, as I sit here writing, the thought of going for a jog does not invoke joyous emotions.
In essence, I have pre-jog loathing and post-jog ecstasy.
Moving along here...
So, the other day someone asked me what I like to do for a hobby. Immediately, I wanted to respond that I am a Runner (notice the capital R) and move right into that conversation. I was hindered from doing this by memories of embarrassment. It is humiliating when I say I am a Runner and the other person gets excited and asks how many miles I have in for the week. Miles in for the week? What? My mind does a little stutter which is quickly followed by my mouth doing the same and all that comes out is, "uh... um... I ran three times this week..." To which the other person responds (slightly less excitedly) "Oh... Well... Uh... how many miles do you normally try and do when you go out?" The truth is, I have successfully run a 25k and regularly run greater than three miles at a time. I have a habit of falling off the running wagon and having to heave my over sized frame back on to it again. Yet, I keep coming back.
It's as if they suddenly realize that they aren't dealing with a Runner, but rather, a runner. Equitable to finding out the person you are talking to drinks coffee and then hearing, with great disappointment, that they mean they drink a cup of Folgers in the morning... That ain't coffee, my friend.
It was a hard realization when I became aware that there was a difference. The scenario above has played out enough times for me that like a child in a Skinner highchair presented with a rabbit, I flinch when Runners start talking.
The other issue I have is my complete lack of Running elegance. I have none. Nada. Zilch. When I come running down the path, mothers move their children away with abject horror on their faces. I am a tall and large man with a rather bestial beard and a shaved head. I sweat like a neanderthal and plod like a swift zombie. Simply try and imagine the horror that the ancient Picts would have felt seeing the Saxons coming ashore in Britain from their longboats. I am fortunate that I am already married because one look at me after two miles and women start making decisions about orientation.
I want to be a Runner but am only a runner right now. Perhaps a better label is jogger. How does one cross the Rubicon from mere runner to self actualized Runner? Is there a hierarchy of needs for running? Secret handshake? Perhaps the difference comes on a deeper level. Maybe there is a subconscious vibe put out by people who don't cherish running but only do it as a means to an end. Maybe it's a micro expression of pain that crosses our chubby faces when we mention our semi-regular attempts at churning out miles on foot.
Alas, I run. I run because, as the meme states, I like to eat.
Eating! Now there is something I can talk about with expert level of knowledge.
Gotta run... Seeya.
I like to run. Well, I like to jog. Truthfully, the word "like" is probably overstating it. It is more of a grudging acquaintance. Similar to having to collaborate with someone from work with whom you cannot really tolerate but understand on a deep level that without this person, assigned work will never find fruition. That is running to me.
As a side note, there are actually quite a few projects at work with which the above analogy is a reality. I am terrible at project management. Pathetic really. If not for some extremely anal retentive type A people I work with, I would be a total failure. As all lazy managers say, I am an idea guy. Thank goodness for people who make work their life. Here's to you.
I want to be healthy. I want to be active and able to get around the world with my children without feeling winded and sweaty. There may also be just a little bit of macho ism that can't stand the thought that my wife is in better shape than me. Only a little though... I like the way I feel when I work through 3 or 4 miles of jogging and get done. There is a real sense of accomplishment there. Nevertheless, as I sit here writing, the thought of going for a jog does not invoke joyous emotions.
In essence, I have pre-jog loathing and post-jog ecstasy.
Moving along here...
So, the other day someone asked me what I like to do for a hobby. Immediately, I wanted to respond that I am a Runner (notice the capital R) and move right into that conversation. I was hindered from doing this by memories of embarrassment. It is humiliating when I say I am a Runner and the other person gets excited and asks how many miles I have in for the week. Miles in for the week? What? My mind does a little stutter which is quickly followed by my mouth doing the same and all that comes out is, "uh... um... I ran three times this week..." To which the other person responds (slightly less excitedly) "Oh... Well... Uh... how many miles do you normally try and do when you go out?" The truth is, I have successfully run a 25k and regularly run greater than three miles at a time. I have a habit of falling off the running wagon and having to heave my over sized frame back on to it again. Yet, I keep coming back.
It's as if they suddenly realize that they aren't dealing with a Runner, but rather, a runner. Equitable to finding out the person you are talking to drinks coffee and then hearing, with great disappointment, that they mean they drink a cup of Folgers in the morning... That ain't coffee, my friend.
It was a hard realization when I became aware that there was a difference. The scenario above has played out enough times for me that like a child in a Skinner highchair presented with a rabbit, I flinch when Runners start talking.
The other issue I have is my complete lack of Running elegance. I have none. Nada. Zilch. When I come running down the path, mothers move their children away with abject horror on their faces. I am a tall and large man with a rather bestial beard and a shaved head. I sweat like a neanderthal and plod like a swift zombie. Simply try and imagine the horror that the ancient Picts would have felt seeing the Saxons coming ashore in Britain from their longboats. I am fortunate that I am already married because one look at me after two miles and women start making decisions about orientation.
I want to be a Runner but am only a runner right now. Perhaps a better label is jogger. How does one cross the Rubicon from mere runner to self actualized Runner? Is there a hierarchy of needs for running? Secret handshake? Perhaps the difference comes on a deeper level. Maybe there is a subconscious vibe put out by people who don't cherish running but only do it as a means to an end. Maybe it's a micro expression of pain that crosses our chubby faces when we mention our semi-regular attempts at churning out miles on foot.
Alas, I run. I run because, as the meme states, I like to eat.
Eating! Now there is something I can talk about with expert level of knowledge.
Gotta run... Seeya.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Rand Paul goes idiot...
Generally, I have been a fan of a lot of the things I have heard Ron Paul speak about. I have read one of his books The Revolution: A Manifesto and thought it was both provocative and insightful. I am a strong proponent for the "Keep it Simple. Keep it Local" philosophy of government and Ron Paul seems to be on that page as well. I will describe that particular political philosophy further in another post sometime.
Rand Paul, though... Well, I have struggled to like him. Initially, I ascribed to him the attributes of his father without really thinking about it. This, I realize, is pretty dumb, though. Considering how I would feel if I was automatically ascribed the character of my own father... shiver...
I digress.
Rand Paul seems at times to be legitimately concerned about governing well and ensuring that liberty is protected. However, other times he is just... well... Dumb.
For example, take a look at the following article covering Rand Paul's speech at an Iowa Republican Party hoedown where he decided to spend some quality time doing his Republican duty bashing "Obamacare" or, more maturely know as, The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act.
Rand Paul claims Obamacare will include diagnostic codes for injuries sustained from a turtle, walking into a lamppost and burning water skis
This article was successful in both inducing me to vomit in my mouth and finalize my decision that Rand Paul is just another establishment bozo. He is supposedly a doctor (ophthalmologist) and, therefore, should have a firm grasp on what these "new" diagnostic codes are all about. He doesn't.
At one point the article states: "Included among these codes will be 312 new codes for injuries from animals; 72 new codes for injuries just from birds; 9 new codes for injuries from the macaw. The macaw? I've asked physicians all over the country, ""Have you ever seen an injury from a macaw?"
First of all... "All over the country"? What kind of conversations is this guy having where he is asking about macaw attacks all over the country? Ah well...
Secondly, what the fine Senator is referring to here is the decision to move from one medical "coding" system to another more modern "coding" system.
Interlude: Coding here is not computer coding (i.e. programming). Instead, it is the method that translates physician verbiage into a code that is electronically transferable and used for statistical and reimbursement purposes in the medical field. End Interlude.
The Senator's assertion that this code change is an Obamacare function is false. George W. Bush signed the law that required the change from ICD-9 to ICD-10 codes sets in 2009.
Federal Register mandating the change
So, his attempt to throw this on the back of Obama is incorrect and unjustified. Which either means he is uninformed and ignorant or is deliberately trying to further the anti-Obamacare Republican platform. It's probably both.
Another issue with the Senator's comments is that he doesn't know what he is talking about regarding the actual code set. While it is true that the increase in codes from ICD-9 to ICD-10 is mind blowing; it is also true that the change is absolutely necessary.
Currently, there are (as the article states) around 18,000 codes for ALL the things that can possibly go wrong in the human body. That may seem like a lot, but it really isn't. If you don't believe me, look up all the different types of fractures there are and multiply that times the number of bones in your body (roughly) and there you have just the number of codes needed for fractures. That's a lot. Then add in all the different diseases and whether they are new, current, or cured.... If you have any imagination at all, I think you get the picture.
ICD-9 cannot withstand both the growth in technology and the discovery of new pathology. There are no places left in our current coding system to bring these new discoveries into the light. When a new virus (H1N1 etc..) surfaces around the world, the only industrialized nation that has trouble quantifying our outbreak is the US. This is because, unlike the rest of the world who is using ICD-10, we don't have the ability to create an accurate code for the disease. Without the code, the ability to submit this data to be used is difficult to impossible. In other words, our coding system is the equivalent of caveman talk in a room full of Rhodes Scholars... yay America...
As for the macaw reference... There is a whole portion of the code set (both ICD-9 and ICD-10) that have to do with how a person has been injured. This is actually important information. How many people reading this have received a lovely letter from an insurance company asking whether an injury was work related, happened in a car, caused by a sasquatch or some other thing? I have... well, I haven't ever been asked about the sasquatch attack but I should be... brutal...
Anyway, the codes are there for a reason. Just because the codes are there does not, in and of itself, add any difficulty to the whole. Senator Paul is building a straw man.
Rand Paul's made himself a fool. Luckily for him, he is generally talking to fools.
P.S. Our healthcare system is a bloated cadaver of selfish business practices, over regulation, union beareucracy, corporate greed, and political hand tricks. I hate it, work in it and think it is doomed to fail. There is a big fat bubble here just waiting to pop.
Rand Paul, though... Well, I have struggled to like him. Initially, I ascribed to him the attributes of his father without really thinking about it. This, I realize, is pretty dumb, though. Considering how I would feel if I was automatically ascribed the character of my own father... shiver...
I digress.
Rand Paul seems at times to be legitimately concerned about governing well and ensuring that liberty is protected. However, other times he is just... well... Dumb.
For example, take a look at the following article covering Rand Paul's speech at an Iowa Republican Party hoedown where he decided to spend some quality time doing his Republican duty bashing "Obamacare" or, more maturely know as, The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act.
Rand Paul claims Obamacare will include diagnostic codes for injuries sustained from a turtle, walking into a lamppost and burning water skis
This article was successful in both inducing me to vomit in my mouth and finalize my decision that Rand Paul is just another establishment bozo. He is supposedly a doctor (ophthalmologist) and, therefore, should have a firm grasp on what these "new" diagnostic codes are all about. He doesn't.
At one point the article states: "Included among these codes will be 312 new codes for injuries from animals; 72 new codes for injuries just from birds; 9 new codes for injuries from the macaw. The macaw? I've asked physicians all over the country, ""Have you ever seen an injury from a macaw?"
First of all... "All over the country"? What kind of conversations is this guy having where he is asking about macaw attacks all over the country? Ah well...
Secondly, what the fine Senator is referring to here is the decision to move from one medical "coding" system to another more modern "coding" system.
Interlude: Coding here is not computer coding (i.e. programming). Instead, it is the method that translates physician verbiage into a code that is electronically transferable and used for statistical and reimbursement purposes in the medical field. End Interlude.
The Senator's assertion that this code change is an Obamacare function is false. George W. Bush signed the law that required the change from ICD-9 to ICD-10 codes sets in 2009.
Federal Register mandating the change
So, his attempt to throw this on the back of Obama is incorrect and unjustified. Which either means he is uninformed and ignorant or is deliberately trying to further the anti-Obamacare Republican platform. It's probably both.
Another issue with the Senator's comments is that he doesn't know what he is talking about regarding the actual code set. While it is true that the increase in codes from ICD-9 to ICD-10 is mind blowing; it is also true that the change is absolutely necessary.
Currently, there are (as the article states) around 18,000 codes for ALL the things that can possibly go wrong in the human body. That may seem like a lot, but it really isn't. If you don't believe me, look up all the different types of fractures there are and multiply that times the number of bones in your body (roughly) and there you have just the number of codes needed for fractures. That's a lot. Then add in all the different diseases and whether they are new, current, or cured.... If you have any imagination at all, I think you get the picture.
ICD-9 cannot withstand both the growth in technology and the discovery of new pathology. There are no places left in our current coding system to bring these new discoveries into the light. When a new virus (H1N1 etc..) surfaces around the world, the only industrialized nation that has trouble quantifying our outbreak is the US. This is because, unlike the rest of the world who is using ICD-10, we don't have the ability to create an accurate code for the disease. Without the code, the ability to submit this data to be used is difficult to impossible. In other words, our coding system is the equivalent of caveman talk in a room full of Rhodes Scholars... yay America...
As for the macaw reference... There is a whole portion of the code set (both ICD-9 and ICD-10) that have to do with how a person has been injured. This is actually important information. How many people reading this have received a lovely letter from an insurance company asking whether an injury was work related, happened in a car, caused by a sasquatch or some other thing? I have... well, I haven't ever been asked about the sasquatch attack but I should be... brutal...
Anyway, the codes are there for a reason. Just because the codes are there does not, in and of itself, add any difficulty to the whole. Senator Paul is building a straw man.
Rand Paul's made himself a fool. Luckily for him, he is generally talking to fools.
P.S. Our healthcare system is a bloated cadaver of selfish business practices, over regulation, union beareucracy, corporate greed, and political hand tricks. I hate it, work in it and think it is doomed to fail. There is a big fat bubble here just waiting to pop.
Corporations are a disease and cause the necrosis of a free market.
There is a group of Staphylococcus aureas that have become resistant to most of the antibiotics that historically have been used to fight infections. This collection of bacteria is referred to as Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA). Once an individual is colonized by MRSA it is increasingly difficult to rid their bodies of this infection. It is possible but difficult and often times the patient’s colonization will reoccur over the course of their life.
Corporations and MRSA have a lot in common. In early US history, corporations were feared and extremely limited. Over the course of history, corporations have come to be a common, if not essential, part of America’s economy, politics and war industry.
Every move that the government makes is not based on the best interests of the American constituency, but rather, on the mighty bloated corporations that have the resources and time to out fund, out maneuver, out law and out wit the society they are corrupting. They have grown powerful enough to get the Supreme Court to rule that they should be considered as legal “persons” and therefore have equal protection under the Constitution as an actual living breathing US citizen. There is no such thing as a good corporation (LLC) that has the ability to exist as an entity indefinitely.
Two laws, one repealed and one enacted, demonstrate the absolute error of our ways in allowing these machines (LLCs) to continue to exist. The repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act and the Supreme Court’s confirmation of Citizen-United are equivalent to taking a MRSA coated dagger and thrusting it into the unguarded gut of America.
The Glass-Steagall Act protected American consumers from corporations using the money that had been placed in commercial banks to be used for speculative security purchases and trades. Granted, from its inception in 1933, the Glass-Steagall Act had seen a slow degradation of its authority. However, in 1999 when Clinton signed the repeal of this Act, it was the killing bullet to the skull of consumer protection against the unavoidable greed and lust of corporation to use that money to play their trillion dollar games and leave actual citizens to pay the price later.
The confirmation by the Supreme Court that corporations are “persons” equally protected by the US Constitution was the other side of that poisonous dagger that will ensure that not only does corporate MRSA get plunged into the American gut, but it will mingle with and allow the seeping of excrement to enter the otherwise sterile aspects of the American body. The Citizens United decision has to be one of those most grievous examples of the decaying nature of our government’s ability to ascertain truth from fiction.
The biggest problem is us, though. Next time you are at lunch with a smattering of people ask around the table to see who knows what Citizen United pertains to. Ask about Glass-Steagall and watch the blank stares. Then, ask about Honey Boo Boo, Jodi Arias or Casey Anthony and see the sudden shift in the crowd. We are destroying ourselves. We are eating MRSA pancakes and asking for extra syrup.
Back to work
Sigh...
Returning to work after a long weekend will someday be considered cruel and unusual punishment, I believe.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Because it seems like I should...
Blogging... The epitome of throwing your voice out there to see who's listening. Of course, this is the equivalent to throwing a bottle with a note in it out into space and hoping someone reads it and actually decides to write back. I suppose that's not entirely true. There is a large area of space I like to refer to as the spammer quadrant that loves to snatch up the bottle, throw away the message and then place in the bottle a large assortment of pharmaceutical ads, matchmaking sites and, inevitably, NSFW material.
So, in the spirit of blogging, I am creating this initial post because, as stated in the title, "it seems like I should."
My plan... Not really existent, but maybe a mishmash of rants, raves and ridiculous statements. I am notoriously good at making ridiculous statements.
Anyway, I was enticed to commence this joy of pointless word waste by a friend of mine who has two blogs (one updated regularly and the other, not so much). Here's the link to his updated blog: http://gvviews.blogspot.com/
Let's see what we can do.
So, in the spirit of blogging, I am creating this initial post because, as stated in the title, "it seems like I should."
My plan... Not really existent, but maybe a mishmash of rants, raves and ridiculous statements. I am notoriously good at making ridiculous statements.
Anyway, I was enticed to commence this joy of pointless word waste by a friend of mine who has two blogs (one updated regularly and the other, not so much). Here's the link to his updated blog: http://gvviews.blogspot.com/
Let's see what we can do.
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