Hunting With The Curmudgeon: Pics Or It Didn’t Happen

There’s been a mild debate behind the scenes here at Curmudgeon Compound. It’s all about transparency versus paranoia.

Dr. Mingo, who is the saner (and far less secretive) of the two of us, says I should post a photo of the buck. Why? Because that’s what men do. (He’s correct. There are men who’ll show you a photo of an elk or a fish sooner than they’ll show you a picture of their kids. This is good thinking because I generally don’t want to see a photo of some schmuck’s kid.)

From a logical point of view Dr. Mingo is correct. “Pics or it didn’t happen” encourages the transparency our world craves. I usually love transparency. Yet, the people reading this post might be wondering if “Adaptive Curmudgeon” is for real. Perhaps I’m a 13 year old Chinese girl in Beijing, a Seattle Hipster’s alternate personality, or an experimental AI that passes the Turing test but sometimes talks to trees. (Hint: I’m just a generic ‘Merican male, but you already knew that.)

America might be a more stable Republic if we took transparency to heart. Ideally we should round up every employee of the mainstream media and tattoo “Pics or it didn’t happen” on their ass. The only drawback to my wise suggestion is Paul Krugman. Some poor soul would have to look at Paul Krugman’s ass and after all the economic bullshit pulled out of that orifice it’s going to look like the gateway to a deluded and incomprehensible hell. Nobody wants to see that!

So logically, I should post a photo of the buck.

On the other hand… fuck no!

Yeah I’m sayin’ it. The world needs Curmudgeons. There aren’t many of us left. We’ve been hounded since childhood. We’ve endured “group projects”, “group hugs”, and the ultimate “group navel gazing” that is social media. Those last few strange beings that still refuse to post their breakfast choices on Facebook need space. Give us a break, we’re mostly harmless.

“I took a photo of the buck in a trailer, there is no personal information in that photo.” Argues Mingo. (He’s right. Unless you’re going to magically reconstruct my DNA from the trailer’s corrugation pattern, it’s just a dead deer.)

“Fuck you.” I explain.

I’m reticent. I’m not sure why. As I always do when I need deeper wisdom, I consult my dog.

“Dog, what should I do?” (Note I’m not telling you my dog’s name. Why that should matter is beyond me. It’s not like my dog’s name is somehow important…)

“You’re being illogical.” My dog cuts my thoughts short. “You spent a dozen posts naming and renaming Bowling Pin Chicken.” We both bow our heads briefly in silent reverence for the freest creature either of us has known. (He died as he lived, free and stupid.) Then the dog continues. “You posted the duck’s name(s) when it suited you but act like I’m an international spy.”

“I see your point. So I should post the buck photo despite my illogical misgivings?” I ask.

But the dog is ignoring me. It sniffs a plant and squats like it’s going to take a dump on it. Suddenly it changes it’s mind and strides forward to a different plant three yards closer to the mailbox. On this plant, which looks identical to the first plant, it drops a load.

“As I was saying, what should I do about…”

“Did you see that?” The dog interrupts.

“What?”

“The first plant. A fescue I believe. I was fixing to air bomb it… but then I switched to the other plant. I think it was a yarrow. Buried it!” The dog is talking to me slowly; as if I were particularly dense.

“Yeah, I smelled it too. So you’ve got a thing for yarrow over fescue.?” I’m trying to keep up with the dog’s logic.

“Nope, a plant’s a plant. I just felt like crapping on a yarrow today.”

I turn this over in my mind while the dog enjoys the breeze. “So you’re saying…”

“Crap where you wish for the world is yours to behold.” The dog shakes it’s head. “Humans overthink things.”

“I see.” My dog is wise.

So, for those of you who really want to see a photo of the buck, I’ve provided a link here.

Happy viewing.

A.C.

P.S. I’ve been trying for the last month to avoid posting about politics. It’s hard. It’s meant to be my Christmas gift to the world. Like all homemade Christmas gifts, it’s flawed; I went on a half dozen non-specific rants. I can’t help myself! (Keeping my mouth shut during the biggest tsunami of schadenfreude of the decade is hard!) Anyway if you see a hipster who’s in week four of post-election freakout give em a hand up. Smile, pony up for a non-ironic Pabst, and point out that so far cattle cars filled with unemployed baristas aren’t being shipped to… um wherever they’d fear… Texas maybe? Anyway tell ’em there is just the tiniest possibility that Trump isn’t the Antichrist and he probably doesn’t have minions in KKK sheets ready to invade Boston. Perhaps they’ll see that life doesn’t lose meaning when your team loses an election. Hopefully that’ll cheer ’em up. (Or, if you can punch ’em in the balls instead. We all spread Christmas cheer in our own way.)