Adaptive Curmudgeon

For another week Foxinator’s pig remained alive and well and increasingly evil. My pigs, which couldn’t be moved without the trailer, played happily in the sun and behaved like angels. This proves that the universe is always in balance. When your life sucks, it probably just means someone else is having a great day.

One sunny day I’d planned a work trip with an early departure. It was 5 am and I was sipping my pre-trip morning coffee and thinking of reasons why I’d rather be fishing. Mrs. Curmudgeon’s phone chirped.

A text from the Foxinator: “READY?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon texted back: “YEP. LOCKED AND LOADED. BE THERE AT 5:45.”

I sipped my coffee and sat very still. Something was going to die and it was going to get messy. If there ever was an ideal time to be somewhere else this was it.

“Gee look at the time! I gotta’ go. See ya later.” I practically bolted for the door.

Outside at my truck, still clutching my first cup of coffee, I passed our pig pen.

Pig #1: “Morning Curmudgeon! Isn’t it a great day?

Pig #2: “Sure is. We love you dude!”

Pig #3: Sound asleep… “Zzzz….”

Curmudgeon: “Mornin’ guys, here’s a couple stale donuts I swiped on the way out.”

Pig #3: “Thanks man!”

Curmudgeon: (Glancing nervously back at the house.) “Look guys, you might want to hang low for a while. Just stay away from the gate eh?”

Pigs: “Whatever you say. Have a great trip.”

I got out of there.

—-

Fifty miles later I got a text from Mrs. Curmudgeon: “THE PIGS ARE ON THE TRAILER.”

I texted back (don’t give me shit about texting and driving… I live in one of the free states): “WAS IT GRUESOME?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “NOPE. THEY JUST WALKED ON THE TRAILER.”

Curmudgeon: “SAY WHAT?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “APPARENTLY THEY KNEW WE MEANT BUSINESS THIS TIME AND DECIDED TO BEHAVE ACCORDINGLY. MAYBE THE PISTOL WAS A CLUE?”

Curmudgeon: “WAS BILL PLEASED?”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “HE WASN’T PISSED OFF, ONLY GRUFF. I THINK THAT COUNTS AS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED :)”

So the saga ends without a shot fired. I for one am relieved.

I call that a close call… for everybody; possibly even the evil pigs. Two angry, armed women, winching bloody carcasses on a trailer is one of those things best left to the mind of Steven King. Folks, any time you’re thinking your day sucks… Like maybe you’re reading this while at a cubicle and your boss just made you fill out the umpteenth form in triplicate, just remember that you’re not on the bad side of Foxinator and Mrs. Curmudgeon. See? Doesn’t everything suddenly feel better?

After multiple attempts, a few involving five people pushing and shoving and swearing and falling in the muck,  Foxinator still had two pigs she could not get into the trailer. I couldn’t move my pigs (to the butcher) without borrowing said trailer but I didn’t mind. My pigs were delightful critters; a great addition to my morning routine:

Curmudgeon: Tramping toward the truck… muttering under his breath. “Another day, another dollar. If I’m lucky. My back hurts. I think I spilled my coffee. But I don’t care. I hate everything. Because mornings blow…”

Pig #1: “‘Morning Curmudgeon! Isn’t it a great day?”

Curmudgeon: Brightening considerably and patting pig #1 on the head: “Well, I suppose it is. Good morning to you too.”

Pig #2: “Got anything for us?”

Curmudgeon: “Sure do. Come on out sleepyhead.” (Pig #3, always the late sleeper, bounds over to join the fun.) “Here you go guys, a half a baloney sandwich and some fries left over after an unfortunate encounter with McDonalds.”

Pig #3: “You rock dude!”

Pig #2: “I was hoping for a toy?”

Curmudgeon: “Here’s another block of wood.”

Pig #2: Tearing around in circles with a piece of wood in it’s mouth: “Weeeee!”

Curmudgeon: “There’s a hundred pound bag of feed in the truck. Man they make my arms ache, I hate lifting them…”

Pig #1, #2, #3: “You can do it! Go Curmudgeon. Go!”

I’d flop a bag of feed into the feed trough and was therefore the greatest being ever to grace the planet. Trust me on this… you may never meet a human more grateful than a pig.

——

One morning Mrs. Curmudgeon and I headed to town to meet Foxinator. She planned to have delivered her bacon wielding demons. I was going to pick up the empty pig trailer. We met at a parking lot. As is appropriate for redneck greetings, we pulled our trucks adjacent and talked though rolled down windows. The Foxinator’s kids were in the Foxinator’s truck; carrying on loudly, as kids do. There was no trailer to be seen.

Foxinator: “Are you packing? Right now?”

Curmudgeon: “Well that’s sorta’ personal. You see they call it concealed carry because…”

Foxinator: “I want you to kill them.”

Curmudgeon: Glancing at Foxinator’s rambunctious children, “Well the teenage years are indeed tough but perhaps with love and time…”

Foxinator: “I’m talking about the pigs!”

Curmudgeon: (Relieved) “Oh that’s another matter. But the carcasses will weigh a lot… how will we move them? Also isn’t that Bill’s job?”

Foxinator: “I don’t care. They’ve pissed me off. I could NOT get them in the trailer and missed another appointment.

Curmudgeon: “Oh no… Bill will definitely have something to say about that. Repercussions may ensue.”

Foxinator” “Yep. I called him and he told me just how to do it. Says he just uses a pistol.”

Curmudgeon: “What? Wait…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “I’ll bring mine. If you can get them close enough to the trailer… but once we shoot one how will we get the next one to come in close enough?”

Foxinator: “If we shoot them in a flat place I can drive the trailer up to to the dead pig…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Curmudgeon has a come-along we could use to get the carcasses in the trailer…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Do we have to bleed them and gut them before delivery to the butcher?”

Foxinator: “No! We just have to deliver the carcass within a half hour of death, so we have a really tight time frame.”

Curmudgeon: (Getting nervous.) “Ladies you’re freakin’ me out.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “We can DO this. We just need to pen them up in a small place that you can drive the trailer to. We can lure them in with junk food, shoot them in the head and then pull them up into the trailer with the come-along and drive them to the butcher. The come-along is going to be the hard part. Do you know anybody with a winch? If we have a winch the timeline is a snap.”

Foxinator: “Yes! My neighbor has a winch on his ATV. I bet he would let me borrow it if I gave him some of the chops and bacon.”

Mrs. Curmudgeon: “Perfect! Call him and let me know what day will work. I say go time should be 6:00 a.m. so we can get this done before work.”

Foxinator: “Exactly!”

I made a lame excuse and got out of there. All I can say is that you don’t want to piss off either Mrs. Curmudgeon or the Foxinator. They have it all planned out.

The butcher is a man who’s schedule is a combination of ruthless efficiency and utter lack of flexibility. You must call weeks ahead for an appointment. The appointment will invariably be in an inconvenient time. You smile and accept this because a butcher, unlike a doctor or lawyer, is both an artisan and an important pillar of society. We need him!

Unfortunately, Foxinator’s fencing didn’t have room to put the trailer in the pig pen and it didn’t have fences to “route” the pigs up a ramp. Plus, her pigs were acting like assholes.

Foxinator: “Hi everyone. Here’s the trailer, please step in.”

Pig A: “Screw you!”

Pig B: “I fear everything…..aaaauuuuuugggghhhh.”

Foxinator: “Look I’ve got yummy treats. I put them in the trailer. Cmon’ it’ll be great.”

Pig C: “Oh yeah, you gonna’ make me? I’ll kick your ass!”

Pig D: “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Foxinator: “Look guys it’s for a nice ride. You’ll like it.”

Pig A: “You’re just the man holding us back!”

Pig E: “Charge!!!!!”

It would soon devolve into pandemonium; some pigs would be in the pen, others escaped to the lawn, some got lost in the trailer, others wandered around the barn, one was clearly  trying to steal the car, another surreptitiously racked up long distance phone bills, etc… Things would get knocked over, fences got messed up. Squealing was heard. Life sucked.

Finally the phone call was made:

Butcher: “Bills Meat Butchery and Scented Candle Emporium… I’m in a damn hurry so speak fast.”

Foxinator: “I can’t get the pigs to you today.”

Butcher: “Are you insane?!? I’m on a tight schedule. This will have repercussions. Deep repercussions.”

Foxinator: “The pigs won’t get on the trailer.”

Butcher: “Try harder!”

Foxinator: “They’re running amok. One just took all the beer out of the fridge. Another one is surfing porn on my computer. Three are chasing the cat and the dog is chasing a fourth. I think they’re planning a road trip to the liquor store. One is smoking Pall Malls and the other is making pipe bombs. What do I do?”

Butcher: “Your appointment this week is cancelled. Try again next week. Same time. Exactly the same time! Not one minute later!”

Foxinator: “But….”

Butcher: “Repercussions!”

Foxinator: “Sigh…”

The universe tends toward balance. While my pigs were happy. the Foxinator’s pigs were unhappy. While my pigs relaxed in a huge (oversized really) pen and basked in the attention of everyone on the farm, her pigs were more numerous, were in a smaller pen, and she didn’t have time to lavish them with excess attention. In an unfortunate series of mishaps her pigs became juvenile delinquents. They started stealing shopping carts, smoking behind the high school bleacher, and making rude remarks in class.

Foxinator: “Morning guys. Here’s a big pile of feed for you.”

Pig A: “You suck!”

Pig B: “Totally. You don’t understand us and I just crapped on the electric fence to prove it. Also I like listening to rap. And I’m getting a tattoo of Johnny Depp on my ass.”

Foxinator: “Look, eat your feed and chill out ok?”

Pig C: “No way! I’m going to fight with Pig D.”

Pig D: “Bring it bitch.”

Pig E, F, G: “Tonight we’re gonna’ break out, hotwire the car, and head for the liquor store.”

Foxinator: “Sigh…..”

Sometimes life is like that.

My pigs, on the other hand, were at peace. They joined me for morning coffee where we discussed the events of the day.

Curmudgeon: “Morning ladies and gentlemen. Here’s an old apple core.”

Pig #1: “Thanks man.

Pig #2: “Nothing for me. That makes me sad.”

Curmudgeon: “I thought of you too. Here’s a slice of stale pizza.”

Pig #2: “Thanks dude. You’re the best.”

Curmudgeon: “Right back at ya’. Hey where’s pig #3?”

Pig #1: “He’s sleeping in. More apple for us eh?”

Curmudgeon: “Fair ’nuff. How’d you like a toy? Here’s an old feed bag.”

Pig #2: Grabbing the feed bag and running… “wheeeee”

Pig #3: “Yawning. Boy did I have a great night’s sleep. Just like always. I see you’re warming up your truck. Going on a trip?”

Curmudgeon: “Very perceptive.”

Pig #3: “I’m gonna’ miss you.”

Curmudgeon: “Awww… I’ll miss you too.”

Pig #1: “I have great interest in the feeding schedule. When will more feed arrive?”

Curmudgeon: “How about lunchtime?”

Pig #1: “That’s great. You’re the bestest.”

Yes, life was good.

The thing with homesteading is that it’s really hard even if you’re a genius and downright hopeless if you’re an idiot… but it’s always funny. For our homestead pigs I started out smart but doubled down on stupid at the last minute:

In order to get pigs to the butcher you must load them on a trailer for the final trip. Pigs, to their credit, are not likely to enter the unfamiliar trailer without some level of reassurance. This is why pigs are better than humans. I could toss a new iPhone, the keys to a Prius, and/or a coupon for a free tattoo, in a cattle car and half the population of an average city block would stampede for free stuff. Pigs, like I said, ‘aint that dumb.

The solution is planning. You train your pigs. You indoctrinate them. Take your cue from public schools. They start with precocious and curious little minds who enjoy storytime, can’t wait to read, and are self motivated to build pretend fortresses out of cardboard. They end up with semi-literate, nihilist, teenage lard asses who’re steeped in Marxism and barely have the sense of a garden variety nitwit. If schools can make humans into a sheep en masse, homesteaders can train a pig to walk onto a trailer. The difference is that it’s wrong and evil to do it to a person. Oh whoops… perhaps I’ve gone off topic? Sorry.

At any rate I spent the summer interacting with the critters. Feeding them snacks. Petting them. They became downright pleasant to be around. Friendly as dogs. Nicer than cats. They came when I called. They never bitched at me. They seemed happy when the sun shone and grateful the food was plentiful. Frankly I preferred their company to most people.

Every time I fed them I’d wander into their oversized pen; give ’em a little pat on the head and ask them how their day was going. Yes, I talk to livestock. It’s only psychosis if they talk back.

Eventually the pigs graduated from skittish, to friendly, to fairly curious. They’d greet me in the morning when I started my truck. They’d watch me mow the lawn like it was the coolest thing ever. Etc…

Because the pen was so big (which I planned!), my plan was to drive the trailer right into their living space and leave it there a few days. At first the pigs would shy away. Eventually they’d become acclimated. I’d toss some food in the trailer, give a call (they came to my call better than most dogs), and lock ’em in. Then, sadly but necessarily, I’d drive them to the end of their time. (This is an important concept. Planet wide, you don’t screw with country folk because they still understand the whole cycle of life and harbor no illusions. Also we have the best bacon!)

More in part 2.

I’d planned to post dashcam win and promptly drop the topic. There’s a reason for that. It’s Christmas. I don’t want to wade further into Ferguson (which became nothing more than an excuse for rioters to party) or Eric Gardner (who surely didn’t need to wind up dead).  There’s enough negativity in the world. One needn’t seek it out.

In fact, the main reason I posted dashcam win because it was an alternative to violence. Perhaps not a shining light of joy but at least a piece of freedom earned without bloodshed.

In dashcam win, the officer (who’s name eludes me) starts (as such things often do) by tearing into innocent trucker Brian Miner like an angry hornet. Things could have gone badly but they didn’t. That’s what mattered to me. Mr. Miner, innocent and yet treated like a criminal, was firm yet polite. Well done. The officer, after a few minutes off camera, apparently had a change of heart and chose to drop the dick waving. This is what I like to see. A civilized (eventually) interaction between civilized participants leading to a civilized outcome.

We all get angry. When this happens we collect our thoughts, rise to the occasion, and temper our urges. The inability to defer one’s own anger is inexcusable. Even an attack dog, should it fail to control itself, is dangerous and therefore must be euthanized. Humans who can’t clear that hurdle are nothing but apes.

The cop in dashcam win doesn’t come out smelling like a rose, but he is a superior person to one who causes mayhem. Even if it took a trucker with a dash cam and a sheaf of well organized paperwork to nudge him in the right direction, he got there.

…

Alas something popped up today that is much the opposite. See the video here and here.

Pete Vasquez was confronted, subdued, and tazered (twice). His alleged crime? Driving a car with dealer plates but no inspection sticker. This is legal. Officer Nathanial Robinson (incorrectly) thought otherwise. Or maybe he had some other idea in his steamy head? Regardless, it’s not rocket science to sort out disagreements over paperwork. We do it all the time, peacefully and intelligently. It’s a mundane situation. Robinson should know the  difference between filling out forms at the DMV and hitting someone with a rock.

Animals act like animals. Officer Nathanial Robinson wound up pile driving an innocent, non-violent, 76 year old man to the pavement. The clock on the video shows 26 seconds elapsed between the time Mr. Vasquez exited the car and when the officer (Nathanial Robinson) initiated violence. You heard me right. The officer initiated it. He reached out and tried to snatch a paper from Vasquez’s hand. Vasquez was just standing there; holding paper. There’s nothing about a badge that lets you manhandle people. There’s nothing threatening about paper.

Once Robinson let himself off his own leash he went as far as he could go without actually killing someone. I’m not sure why Robinson didn’t go all the way. It doesn’t look like he had anything more on his mind than dominance and control. In a very real and undeniable sense, he was a menace to himself and everyone in the vicinity. Maybe Robinson will go all the way next time? Maybe if Vasquez had been younger, or stronger, or simply unlucky, Robinson would have completed the trip he’d begun right then and there. The man can never be trusted again.

Such behavior wouldn’t have been justified by any license plate violation. It wouldn’t have been justified if Vasquez was drunk, bankrupt, had a pound of cocaine in the trunk, was half his age, and was sporting blue hair. The only cause for violence came out of a police officer’s head. Robinson was looking for a fight and created one out of thin air. He inflicted violence upon a victim. He’s a thug.

Nine seconds later, Vasquez was on the ground and Robinson was tazering, screaming at, and dominating a “non-compliant” person. That’s the rub. It wasn’t a “non-compliant” person at all. It was a citizen. An innocent, free, American, non-violent, citizen. A victim of a thug.

If a German Shepard did what Officer Nathanial Robinson did, the dog would be put down.

While fools dance because of Ferguson and Sharpton wallows in his own greed, you’ll likely hear little of Mr. Vasquez. For one thing he lived and he might be unharmed (a plucky man at 76!). For another he’s not the proper race to foment a riot. Either way, his story is just as important as others. Nobody, badge or not, should instigate or tolerate behavior like that of Officer Nathanial Robinson. No excuses.

There are lots of ways to be free. I’d like to make the pitch that one of the easiest route is to get in the habit of making life a royal pain in the ass to those who would hassle you. That’s what inspired me about the video below.

The setup is simple. A law abiding trucker is traveling down the road when he’s passed like he’s standing still by a cop without lights on and a phone held to his ear. That’s two no nos. Most of us would let it go, then later bitch about how cops are abusing their authority. Not this guy.

The trucker honks the horn at the cop and the cop in a bout of “respect my authority” pulls him over and threatens a ticket for improper horn use (which is apparently a thing). Then the cop starts looking for minor infractions; trucking hours of service, medical card, etc… The trucker handles all this with more class than I. Plus he’s got his paperwork in order and was obviously ready for the interaction; well done sir.

As the cop stomps away from the cab with a sheaf of paperwork the trucker politely mentions “it’s OK I’ve got it all on my dash cam”. A few minutes later cop guy comes back with an entirely new attitude.

Amazing that! Perhaps a whole lot of obstreperous citizens with hand held video might turn the tide from cops back to “peace officers”. One can hope.

Enjoy the short version from a news show:

Or the longer version I found first:

Hat tip to Ace of Spades and Conservative Hideout 2.0.

Wikipedia says this:

“Hoar frost refers to white ice crystals, deposited on the ground or loosely attached to exposed objects such as wires or leaves. They form on cold, clear nights when conditions are such that heat radiates out to the open sky faster than it can be replaced from nearby sources such as wind or warm objects.”

This is totally missing the point. This is the proper definition of hoar frost:

“Sometimes ice crystals form on absolutely friggin’ everything. It looks just exactly like the universe is made out of rock candy and magic. Because, for a moment, it is. It’s so beautiful you can’t help yourself. You forget that you live in a shitty climate. You’ll qut fretting over your truck. You’ll involuntarily hear Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies. You’ll take pictures of trees and cobwebs. Just enjoy the moment. If you find yourself standing around just soaking in wonderment when you’d normally be bitching about freezing your balls off in a snowdrift… that’s hoar frost.”

My photos don’t do it justice. For one thing the light was indirect; white light from the sun filtered through a crystalline fog to land on an earthly house of mirrors. When light comes from everywhere, it comes from nowhere. The camera, clueless electronic gadget that it is, interprets this as grey nothing, as if the Soviets were in charge of illumination. No matter, I was there and it was gorgeous.

I whipped off a few snapshots by the side of the road. Basically pointing the camera at random because screwing around with focus and framing seemed foolish when everything was crystalline and twinkling. It went on like this forever. Probably an hour solid driving before I saw a hint of color… which happened to be a fox.

You’ll have to trust me on this, it was everything that a gritty urban landscape is not.

An early Christmas gift came to Curmudgeon Compound!

This blog, like many of life’s better activities, is a fiscal black hole. That’s just the way it is. There’s no profit to be gained from fishing, hunting, or drinking whiskey either. I would scarcely consider them unwise. So long as it remains fun and provided the NSA doesn’t crawl further up my ass, I’ll keep writing.

On the other hand, I never took a vow of poverty. If you’re looking for someone that thinks money is the root of all evil, you’re talking to the wrong Curmudgeon. Every bit helps.

Several weeks ago I put up a tipjar. I never specifically mentioned it. Y’all know how a tipjar works; click the button, type a credit card number, and enter any random amount that floats your boat. PayPal’s banking goblins put the money in my Gringott’s vault and e-mail me about it.

Do you have to hit the tip jar? Nope. You can hang out and read for free. No pressure. Loser.

On the other hand, if you give me a tip, you’re a hero and a credit to humanity. Possibly a God among men. At the very least a beacon of awesome. You rock.

Despite (or perhaps because of) the fact I’ve scarcely mentioned it, tips trickle in from time to time. Each one is a party. Really!

Even the smallest amount makes me happy. I’m the kind of guy who’ll stop on a busy street to pick up a penny and be pretty pleased to find it. (Mrs. Curmudgeon points out that blocking traffic to pick up a coin that has the purchasing power of dried dogshit is the first sign of geezerhood. To that I say “kids these days don’t know squat” and pull up my pants to my armpits.)

This morning was a tipjar revelation. I’ve been “off grid” for several days. It’s a busy time and I’ve been too distracted going through the meatgrinder of modern life to fret over e-mail. Also my laptop is starting to crap out so every time I boot it up I wonder if it’ll be the last. If there was an important e-mail I was missing it.

While brewing coffee, I felt a weird obligation to check my e-mail. Lo and behold there was a tip. A pretty generous one! Holy shit! Angels sang from the heavens, I did a Curmudgeonly happy dance, and my dog howled with me. Some coffee may have been spilled. I’m still grinning.

I’d like to personally thank the fellow who gave the tip. Something memorable; possibly write a saga in his honor, paint his name on my tractor hood, and name my chainsaw after him.

However I’m really into anonymity. I extend that courtesy to my readers. So that’s that.

You know who you are. Thank you very much. I hope you have a Merry Christmas and I want you to know that I appreciate your gift.

A.C.

P.S. Yes I made a Harry Potter reference. Yes, I’m aware that makes me totally uncool. Too bad. If you’re looking for cool you surely know that train left my station years ago.