Adaptive Curmudgeon

The homework bullshit at hand was a call and response exercise about “Disagreeing Respectfully”. Apparently science, math, art, and literature, isn’t enough and the mandate of school is implied to involve “Respectful Disagreement”? I disagree! Furthermore I do not disagree in any manner which could be construed as respectful.

We were supposed to read a line of dialogue and submit alternate more respectful verbiage. The kid began warbling something like “perhaps we can find common ground…”

“Seriously?” I said. “Have you ever said that in your whole life?”

The kid blinked. “Well no, it’s just for the assignment.”

“What is?” I asked rhetorically, “speaking like an unemployed psychologist?”

The kid looked nervous.

“Let’s have fun!” I started.

“First of all,” I began, “if you’re sending a message to an unworthy yahoo who’s annoying you, the signature is key. Do you know who ‘John Hancock’ is?”

“The guy who signed the Declaration real big?” She asked, clearly not seeing a connection.

“Exactly! When someone wants you to do something stupid you should always remember the founding fathers.” The kid looked puzzled. “John Hancock told the most powerful man on earth that he and his whole military could kiss his colonial ass. That’s what it means to be an American!” I signed ‘John Friggin’ Hancock’ on the top of the page. The kid looked around for her mother. Too late! I was on a roll!

“The text refers to anchovies. Too boring. Let’s substitute snail darters.”

“What?” The kid asked?

“Snail darters. They’re a fish that is a sort of a word association between eco-groupies and the Endangered Species Act.”

“Um…” The kid looked nervous.

“All elementary school teachers are secretly in love with Rachel Carson and have a Pavlovian response to snail darters. Especially if we propose to eat them.” I was on a roll.

“Er… I don’t think she’s into fish.” The kid tried to explain.

“Does your teacher think all the polar bears are dying?” I asked.

The kid brightened. “Yes, she said something about that.”

“Well your teacher is wrong.” The kid looked shocked. I was still talking “…and anybody dumb enough to think the top predator of the Arctic cares if you drive a Prius will know what a Snail Darter is.”

I glanced at the next line. “I think you need to work in some quotes from Monty Python.”

“You mean the king guy with the coconuts?” The kid was desperately trying to figure out what was happening.

“Yes! You’re a smart kid. That’s the best place to begin a career of finding pompous losers and kicking them in the proverbial groin. Watch lots of Monty Python.”

By now I had scribbled all over the paper and the kid, despite misgivings, was joining in. Ten minutes later we had jointly composed an essay which was so sarcastic that the paper was practically smoking.

Sadly, mom showed up and realized her little angel was squeaking excitedly and shouting “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

The kid had taken the initiative. “It definitely needs more violence…” the kid was saying. I agreed. Mom was glaring at me.

Mom snatched it up and our work of brilliance was crumpled up and tossed in the trash. Apparently mom wants her kid to ride out another year before finally realizing it’s all a farce. The kid was sad to see the paper go but probably relieved that she wouldn’t have to hand it in.

After they hustled out I grabbed the paper, smoothed it out, and ran it through my scanner. It was a messy copy so I re-typed the illegible responses. Here, for those of you who loathe social engineering in elementary school, I present “Disagreeing Vociferously with Archaic Verbiage”:

I do not think I will be asked to help with homework again.

I’m good at math. I’m not the best but I make a living and the truly awesome math guys are as brain meltingly sharp as they are rare. Conversely the vast majority of Americans can’t math their way out of a paper bag so the bar is set pretty low. Tragic really.

This means I sometimes get shanghaied into helping kids with math homework. I avoid this when possible. There’s two kinds of math homework I like; the stuff I get paid to do by a grateful employer and assignments where I charge struggling college students until they bleed for my services as a tutor. Beyond that I’ll stick to stacking firewood in blissful obscurity. Helping a elementary student in public school? Thankless.

The problem is that I do math specifically for the purpose of finding the right answer. Public schools teach math as if the journey is the destination. It’s not.

Every teaching “professor” tries to rethink basic concepts we’ve known for hundreds of years so they can publish another new, updated, improved, extra-important, “this is the best ever” method with a trendy name like “new math”, “improved logic”, “lattice method”, or whatever buzzword will secure grant money. Their minions at the local school follow in lockstep. Here’s a hint; mathematics (particularly at grade school level) isn’t cutting edge. It’s wise counsel to shut up and teach it without fanfare. Kids are (for the most part) already hardwired for math unless some derelict has gotten there first and beaten it out of them.

Want proof? Amish kids use the same methods that were around when George Washington was carving dentures out of felled cherry trees. At introductory levels this doesn’t put them at a disadvantage. Meanwhile school districts float loans to buy computers for third graders and eventually churn out truckloads of economic cannon fodder. I call bullshit!

Since kids are expected to do whatever wingnut process an education major with spare time invented, I get crap when I help them. I’ll step them through deriving the exact right answer using whatever method makes sense to me (or the kid). Public schools hyperventilate in response. Who’s got time for that?

However this kid was desperate. She’s a smart little critter and had tried mightily. The kid’s mother had tried too. I was asked ever so kindly to help and I happened to have fresh coffee in hand (always the best time to get me to do anything).

I glanced at the paper. Without actually knowing the correct answer I could tell their shot at it was wrong. (You may have guessed my specialty is statistics; identifying “wrong” in a heartbeat is the first step in pursuing “correct within a margin”.) But how was I going to explain it to a kid in public school? “I’m sorry. I can’t explain how to solve this without Algebra.”

“I’m in algebra!” The kid beamed.

Perhaps all is not lost with the next generation! We launched into a discussion of algebra and the kid got to the answer right quick. Kids are meant to be smart; it’s good when they still have their spark!

Homework wrapped up, I shared a Curmudgeonly secret of life, “Pay attention to algebra. You can use it to solve problems in subjects you don’t know a darned thing about. You can sometimes do this while ‘experts’ in the specialty (if they happen to be math illiterate) wander around with their pants down and ‘loser’ stenciled on their forehead. It’s one of many secret keys to awesomeness.”

Then I related a story about how I (inadvisedly!) snoozed through half a year of undergraduate hydrology. When a mid term rolled aloud I was supposed to have memorized a dozen formulas. (I hadn’t.) With the clock ticking I derived the formulas from scratch right there during the test. Algebra was the method I used because memorization was the method I’d ignored. (Also hydrology ‘aint rocket science). I, slacker from hell, walked away with one of the highest grades in the room. Something that still amuses me now.

For once I had a kid listening to me. Cool! Then came my second proclamation “If you know math. I mean really know it. You can pin an employer on the ground and pull money out of their hands. And they’ll thank you for it.” The kid nodded. “You can do this when half of your peers are washing dishes and aspiring to become a Wal-Mart greeter.” The kid was drifting but I yammered on like the old fart that I am. She dozed the next few seconds and came to as I was finishing my monologue “…drive your enemies before you. That is what is good.”

The kid, sensing an opportunity, shoved another homework assignment my way. What’s this? It wasn’t algebra at all. I glanced around for an escape. There was none. I skimmed the paper.

“This,” I began, “is not math. It is social engineering.”

“Um…” The kid looked uncertain. “I don’t think they call it that.”

“Of course they don’t!” I groused. “They don’t call it bullshit either. Yet thats what it is.”

“Er… What’s ‘social engineering’?” The kid asked.

“Social engineering is when an unqualified worker in the employment of the State takes it upon themselves to manipulate children as they see fit.” I sipped more coffee. “An activity formerly reserved for people deemed more appropriate, such as clergy or respected elders.” I reflected further “or sometimes cult leaders and gangs. Maybe Mafia leaders. You know what I’m saying?”

The kid looked at the paper. She did not know what I was saying.

“But I’ll help you. It’s time to see if your teacher has a sense of humor.”

[Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion to this week’s Curmudgeonly mayhem]

I recently acquired a cat. I did this of my own free will but I cannot say just why. Presumably I was impressed with it’s fierce reputation as a mouse killing machine. More likely I was just too damn happy and needed another cat to make my life suck.

I hoped to replace Curmudgeon compound’s markedly inferior indoor cat with this supposedly excellent mouser. (See The Best Sales Pitch Ever, Chipmunk Wars Part I, II, III, IV, V, and Useless Cat Update.) When it arrived I gently introduced the new cat to the out of favor (and soon to be fired) cat. They greeted each other with the joy of the cold war and the sound of scarcely contained rage. They didn’t, however, fight.

I considered explaining the new workplace hierarchy to the fired cat by grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and tossing it into the snow. Alas it was -11 that day and I figured nothing could survive the transition. I hate cats but I wouldn’t toss one into bitter weather if it had no experience in the cold. Unless, that is, the creature in question gave me an excuse. Miraculously the fired cat sensed my mood and behaved like an angel. Opportunity lost. I decided the fired cat gets to stay indoors until the robins return or it pisses me off; whichever comes first.

The two cats spent the next several days circling each other like tactical submarines. Also like tactical submarines they stayed hyper alert yet refrained from going to all out war. It was mostly prowling and bluff. The new cat seemed to accept that other cats exist and are not edible and are therefore to be ignored or occasionally bullied. The old cat was furious at the interloper but whenever it got too aggressive it was batted down like a bowling pin in front of a tank. I had to admit the newcomer wasn’t a wimp.

The dog, which is condition white with fur, occasionally bumbled near the new cat. Whenever it did, the new cat would poof up to twice it’s size and make sounds like a transmission getting powershifted from overdrive to first gear at 10,000 rpm while being thrown into a volcano. It would lash furiously out at the dog. The dog, which has fur like a woolly mammoth and could probably eat a Buick, scarcely noticed. One day the new cat landed a claw through the dog’s twin armor of size and oblivion. The dog instantly and without hesitation let out a single bark that would make a wolf die at a quarter mile. The cat more or less vaporized. It wasn’t seen for days. Apparently it learned it’s lesson because now it co-exists with the dog quite nicely. I like my dog.

Then, because I’m an idiot. I left town. I instructed the cats to stay away from the credit cards and firearms, kill and eat anything smaller than themselves, and crap only in designated areas. The same instructions I’d give a teenager. Then I drove away wondering what sorts of entropy would ensue in my unsupervised house. The dog was kenneled off premises. A good friend (and original source of the new cat) dropped by once daily to give the cats food and water. Every so often she’d text us on the road to report the situation.

[Day 1] “Everything fine.”
[Day 2] “Everything still fine.”
[Day 3] “One of the cats is missing.”

Um… how can an indoor cat be missing? It can be dead or on fire but it can’t simply not be. Even Shrodeger’s cat was somewhere. Unless it tunneled through the foundation it hadn’t left. I texted back. “Missing? How?”

The answer, and I deserved it, was this:

[Day 4] “It’s not here… that’s how.”

I assumed the new cat had gotten lost in the subbasement and was dead. That would be a gruesome task for spring when I finally figured out it’s location. Yuck!

[Day 5] “Old cat still missing.”

What’s this? The old cat was gone? Not the new cat? The old cat should know the nooks and crannies of the house since they’re the parameters of it’s known universe. Where could it be?

[Day 6] “Found the old cat. It was locked in a bathroom. It’s hungry but ok.”

We’ve lived in this house the old cat’s entire life. Now, and never before, it found a way to lock itself in the bathroom? I didn’t buy it. I concluded foul play had ensued. The new cat had traitorously lured the old cat into the room and locked it there. I was impressed. “That’s how you win a fight!” I enthused to Mrs. Curmudgeon “Lock the opponent in an unpleasant situation of your choosing. Starve the bastard to death. Win the war without a shot fired. Well played!”

Then it got weird.

[Day 7] “What’s with the garlic?”

Ok I’ll play the game; what is with the garlic? I gave up and called. Turns out that one or more of the cats had found a big bag of garlic powder and spread it all over the place. Obligatory jokes about vampires ensued. Mrs. Curmudgeon and I wondered where the hell the cat (or cats) found a bag of garlic.

Then I made the worst mistake of the month. I came home. In retrospect I should have stayed on the road. Possibly firebombed the house and headed south where a man can wear a t-shirt without losing limbs to frostbite. I like my house but it’s in a cold location. Furthermore it’s a shithole and my truck is neat and orderly…also mobile. Which is a better place to live? It’s a no brainer if you ask me.

Both cats greeted us at the door as if to assure us of their undying love. I wasn’t fooled. Cats, like robots, psychopaths, and politicians, cannot feel love.

I looked at the garlic powder. It was a thick layer throughly coating one floor of Curmudgeon Compound. It was a terrible mess. I had dark thoughts involving running cats and pellet rifles. The dog stuck close by my side as if to cement it’s already iron clad alibi. Smart dog.

It turns out that the cat, and I’m sure it was the new one, had decided to attack my “camping food”. I’d carefully stored my stuff sealed up and in a closed cabinet but that wasn’t enough to stop the damn creature from getting in and running amok. It spread several plastic bags worth of powdery mess around like it was paid by the square inch to trash my house. It wasn’t entirely garlic. It was a combination of stale pizza crust mix, fish breading, spices, and something unidentifiable which originated in an MRE. It was everywhere.

What kind of creature starts a fight with an MRE!?!

I’m still cleaning up the mess. I’ll be shaking powder out of backpacks and hunting jackets forever. Rather than cleanup I proposed we move to a new house. Mrs. Curmudgeon is less dramatic… but then again it isn’t her camping gear that’s been tainted by a feline terrorist.

Meanwhile I haven’t seen the slightest hint of a mouse. Mice aren’t stupid; they’ve all left the county. Anything that’ll eat an MRE would consider a mouse to be steak with feet.

And that’s today’s cat update.

A.C.

Christmas snow is magic.  New and clean and cold and powdery, it holds the promise of new beginnings, sleigh rides, and sugar plums (whatever the hell they are).  Snow in December is a misty eyed Norman Rockwell joy.  It’s beautiful.  Plowing snow in December is a kinetic joyride.

March snow is a slog.  Plowing snow in March is Kafkaesque. It’s a house guest that clogs the toilet, cleans out the fridge, and won’t leave no matter how much you drop the hint that its welcome has worn thin.  It’s a gray oatmeal of misery shat upon a watery base of weak ice and layers of slime.  It reeks of tax forms and moldy basements.  Shining machinery once proudly tuned for battle in nature’s seasonal maelstrom has been reduced to iced up crevices in the snow blower’s infrastructure and frayed winch cables on the ATV.  The woodpile, once stacked like glorious battlements, has been picked down and sags in terminal decline.  My proud little tractor lies unused because its backblade can’t shove snow chest high and the wheel cleats would only spin on the packed snow base.  In December it was perfect.  In March it’s outgunned.  Chickens are moulting, attitudes are harsh, and the beer is running low.  We have held the line bravely but the siege has been long.

Winter has taken its toll.  I am ready for spring.

Yours truly has been in another one of his self imposed news blackouts.  I’ve been busy and also I haven’t the heart to take the inevitable and fabricated sequestration dog and pony show seriously.  I chose to utilize the magnificent switch on the media box which turns it off.  It’s been a delightful (and productive!) week.

Unfortunately it dawned with enough snow piled around my head that I was forced to take a break.  Snowed in!  These things happen.  I could fire up the 4×4 and do battle with mother nature but there are wiser options.  When snow is building, timing is an art.  Good thing I’ve got cold beer and a good book or things would be downright annoying.

Since I had free time I popped my head over the fortifications and noticed that the previous week’s “sequestration news” had been “all doom all the time”.  Glad I missed that.

I’m not making light of those who’ll have hassles (myself included).  Many of us will be impacted and some to a disturbing degree.  Life can be tough.  But isn’t life filled with uncertainty?  Perhaps I’ll regret my hubris but at the moment the level of panic seems a bit contrived.

Predictions of Armageddon seem overwrought.  As if I’ve the goal is to convince us this is all sudden and unpredictable and in no way within the real of reasonable prognostication.  Which is, of course, poppycock.  Aren’t we riding a wave of massive budgets, all of which dwarf the toughest years of WWII?  Haven’t we been floating on debt for most of the last several (dozen!) years?  Wasn’t this all baked in the cake by entitlements and demographics that were known years (decades!) ago?  Once the budget is “sequestered” won’t it still be huge?  Who didn’t see it coming? (And by the way, it ‘aint over yet by a long shot!)

It comes down to this.  Is any cut, even the smallest one, so terribly inconceivable?  Is our society really that fragile?  And if so; how does that mitigate the mathematical facts that cannot be denied forever.  One way or another, math always wins.

Despite a week of news that we’re all doomed, the sun rose on schedule.  Based on the media you’d think we were plunged into eternal darkness.  How do I balance such things?  How should I capture the sense of unreality?  On one hand, peaceful snow, work to be done, and perhaps some unpleasant but survivable belt tightening.  On the other hand, politicians and their pet press are baying at the moon because the new level of spending which is enormous is suddenly an amount less than desired and anticipated.  Really?  Who has words for that?

George will does!

“Washington chain-saw massacre — we must scrape by on 97.7 percent of current spending!”

Oh that’s just awesome!  Words of gold!  Theres more.

“The sequester has forced liberals to clarify their conviction that whatever the government’s size is at any moment, it is the bare minimum necessary to forestall intolerable suffering.”

Click here for the source.  Well done Mr. Will!

A.C.

P.S.  To repeat, “belt tightening” sucks so I’m not trying to make light of those who’ll suffer… but surely the nation as a whole (a nation which has survived civil war, the Great Depression, WWII, and the AMC Gremlin) has endured worse.

The press informs us that we are a couple of weeks from total Armageddon.  (For the press is made of people for whom even the briefest temporary shutdown of centralized government is indeed horrific.)  Apparently “sequestration” is the new vocabulary for this tragic impossibility.  How did we get here?

The summer of 2012 was an excellent summer.  The skies were clear.  The fishing was excellent.  I even got my tractor running.  I also stacked plenty of firewood… because winter always comes.

What didn’t happen in 2012 was a shutdown of the Federal Government.  Nope.  That little ebb and flow was reserved for 2011.  In 2011 a Federal shutdown came close and a couple of states shut down for a bit.  It generally passed without greatly enhancing our fiscal sensibilities but any time a politician recognizes the concept of “finite” I think it’s a good thing.  True to my Curmudgeonly projections, 2012 was the year when everyone in D.C. endeavored to whistle past the graveyard.  They kept the election year lights on; somehow.  Presumably one cannot shut down the beacon of Obama phones blazing forth from their tower of debt before an election.  Heavens no.

I love probability.  Especially when I can see the outlines of the game board.

On November 5th of 2012 America held an election.  I stayed up late watching the returns.  As always, the peaceful transition of power in our ever more powerful central government is a source of joy and awe.  Unfortunately, the transition of power was from the guy who’d burned money like it was a mission from God to the very same guy.  His fans partied hardy.  I took a stiff drink, resigned myself to another four years of bullshit, and went to bed.  The following day was an important one; I had to repair the chicken coop.  Winter always comes.

November 6th I mentally reconfirmed my intention to avoid most political commentary.  At some point standing on the deck of the Titanic bitching about icebergs just isn’t productive.  There comes a time to put on your life jacket and get ready.  (Possibly grab one last drink at the bar while you’re at it.)

So what came next?  About ten seconds after the media had anointed their chosen one, they discovered a new word in their vocabulary.  “Fiscal cliff!”  Remember that?  As far as the media was concerned there was no “fiscal cliff” until November 6th.  I pretty much ignored it.  The truck needed repair and it was time to butcher our Thanksgiving turkey.  Delicious!

A month later, when the “fiscal cliff” had been safely kicked down the road, it was time to hyperventilate about…  wait for it…  guns!  Yes, the nasty evil baby seal clubbing implements of doom that are self aware and leap off the table to gun down innocent nuns. They were suddenly in the spotlight.  The stampede began and it hasn’t yet played out.  All I can think is that I knew this was coming on November 5th.  So did you.  Who didn’t?  Be honest with yourself; who among us expected a second Obama term without this fight?  Everyone, right and left alike, knew that this was on the wish list somewhere just behind socialized medicine.  So now the stores are cleaned out of Ar15s and my friends are all worried.  I just haven’t the heart to be pissed off.  This, like all political bullshit, shall pass.  Whether it’ll get bad or worse, I don’t know but I never expected a flowering of human dignity and respect for individuals.  This is why, of the many articles about guns I’ve hammered into my laptop, very little has reached my blog.  Everyone reading this made up their mind long ago.  Besides, it was time for Christmas.  While D.C. hyperventilated in their playpen I enjoyed hearth and home.

Now that the gun control fuse is lit it’s time for the eyes of Sauron to turn to their next “problem” in desperate need of solution.  “Sequestration!”  (Funny me but I think of sequestration as putting the ducks and turkeys in a different pen from the hens.  Sequestration is a bizarre way to say “we’re out of money”.)  Sequestration implies that we cannot make wise decisions about debt so we must make unwise decisions about debt.  I don’t disagree.  We cannot (or have not) made wise decisions so math alone forces us into unwise ones.  Frankly I’m simply happy that a decision might be made.

Here is where I’m hoping to say “the glass is half full”… I’m not naturally an optimist so bear with me.

Unlike 2012, it appears that 2013 is a year when unreality cannot paper over the debt.  It feels like everybody (from both sides of the spectrum) is bone tired of pretending.  Denial is hard.  Collectively they might just cut something, a little, when all other options are exhausted, maybe.  Sure it’ll be a mess and people (me included) will get hosed.  Either way it’s at least an acknowledgement of the concept of “finite”.  I never expected an outbreak of fiscal responsibility.  This is as much as I’m going to get.  I’m heartened that neither party is ready to fold…yet.  In fact it seems a bit of a ray of hope.

Sure sure.  I’m a hopeless deluded optimist.  Folks will comment that the end is nigh, etc…  I agree but I can still stop to smell the flowers.  Sequestration will amount to a lot of press releases amid very little debt reduction but it’s a smidge more than zero.

Also, lest you think I’m gloating from my fully stocked fortress of doom, with it’s pile of suddenly valuable Ar15s leaning against a truckload of dried beans… it’s not so.  The bad economy hurts me too.  Our tax bill just grew and the uncertainty of a shutdown will likely kick our little household’s finances in the groin too.  I can live with it.  Bad news is much better than willful delusion and when there’s no more money there’s no more money.  I’ll no more weep over a temporary “sequestration” shutdown than I’d weep over gravity should I slip off a ladder.  The issue is the ladder, not the gravity.

Let us rejoice that 2012 is over and some tiny figment of reality still remains.  Should we have a shutdown, let us hope it’s as painless as possible, but painful enough to do some good.

A recent phone conversation:

Ring.  Ring.

“Curmudgeon residence. Curmudgeon speaking. If you’re a telemarketer prepare to die.”

“Curmudgeon. I’ve got a cat and you need it.”

“I need a cat? Why? Am I too happy?”

“Nope. I read your story. The one about the chipmunk. You need to demote your useless indoor cat and replace it with this one.” (Editors note: refer to Chipmunk Wars Part I, II, III, IV, V, and Useless Cat Update.)

“Forget it. Curmudgeon Compound is full. We’ve attained peak cat. We’re domestically independent of cat import needs. I shall not need another cat until the coyotes get lucky.  Unfortunately, for you as well as me, all of my cats appear healthy and intent on living forever; possibly just to annoy me. You’re screwed. Bye…”

“Wait! This cat is special!”

“How so?”

“It kills everything in sight.”

Really?  A cat after my own heart. On the other hand, the creature suffers from the incurable ailment of being a cat instead of something less annoying; like a wildebeest.  “Nah.” I rejected the idea.  Cats are like politicians, more promise than production.

“It’s a good mouser.”

“Sure, and it was only driven to church on Sundays. Not interested.”

“It uses the litterbox, doesn’t scratch stuff…”

“Not interested…”

“It sits on your lap and purrs.  I’ve met your indoor cat and it’s as cuddly as an octopus.  A wintertime book by the fire is a whole lot better with a purring cat.”

“I agree.  The secondary purpose of a mouser is to purr.  But if it’s good for sitting on a lap and still a mouser, why are you unloading it?”

“My kids hate it…”

This was a new one.  What could it mean?  “Tell me more.”

“We had an ‘event‘.”

“Event?”

“The first time we left the cat alone in the house for a day it went on a rampage. You know my kids have got a whole bunch of pets in the house; well they did.  The cat killed nearly half of them.”

“Oh really?”  I know this household.  There are zoos with less diversity.  I love visiting just to meet the critters.  Marlin Perkins could have sold insurance in this house.

“I’m not sure what happened.  We’ve got screens on all of our tanks and I thought the cages were secure.  Maybe the cat figured it out.  The gerbils had babies and the cat ate them all.”

“Yuck.  Well at least you have the adults.  Another few weeks and…”

“No the cat killed them too.”

“Uh…”

“Left them dead… like a gangland killing.”

“Uh…”

“Plus it somehow got the rabbits.”

“Oh man.”

“Yeah, both dead.”

“Uh…”

“And the lizards.”

“Wait a minute.  I thought you had some sort of bearded kimono dragon ‘zilla.  It could fight off a…”

“Not that.  The geckos.”

“Oh…”

“We found them on the other side of the room.  With the snakes.

“The boa that could eat a truck tire?”

“No, the little corn snakes, three of them.”

“Eaten?”

“Just the heads”

“That’s…”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“…tragic.  What?  There’s more?”

“The kid’s 4H project.”

“Um…”

“Baby chicks.  Seventeen of them.”

“Dear God no!”

“We’ll have to start from scratch again.”

“Seventeen?”

“That’s why the kids hate this cat!”

“You don’t have a cat.  You have a badger.”

“…and we lost some fish too – all in one day!”

“It’s not a badger, it’s a wolverine.”

“We’re pretty sure the cat just decided to kill anything smaller than itself.  The kids tossed it outside.”

“How are the farm animals doing?”

“Fine but you know how we just store the feed in a pile?”

“Yeah.”

“There isn’t a mouse left in the same time zone.  Our poultry is free range so they’re used to foxes.  The cat can’t get the drop on them.  It seems smart enough to leave big critters alone.  The pigs, and horse, and dogs…”

“You don’t have a cat, you have a horseman of the apocalypse.”

“Exactly.  Want it?”

I pondered this.  My useless indoor cat stretched out on the footstool in front of the fire and eyed me with the disdainful look only a cat can muster.  That’s my damn footstool.  I put my foot the empty half of the stool.  The cat immediately took a swipe at my slippers, screeched in anger, and tore off like a shot.  As jetted over the couch it knocked down a pile of papers onto the floor.  Just great, I’d have to clean that up.

“What would this cat do when it meets mine?”

“To be honest.  I think it’ll beat the hell out of anything smaller than it.”

Upstairs I heard Mrs. Curmudgeon yelling; something about ‘get the hell out of the cupboards’.  There was a crashing sound.  The dog looked at me as if to verify it’s alibi.  I pet it and smiled.  She’s the size, density, and intelligence of an engine block.  The cat would need a hatchet and opposable thumbs to bother the dog.

“Bring the cat.”

There was a relieved sigh.  “Whew!  The kids will be so happy I bet they throw  a party.  Look if it doesn’t work out…”

“It comes with a guarantee?  If it’s a pain in the butt I can send it back?”  Cool!

“…no. I was going to say if it doesn’t work out…”

“Yeah?”

“…just shoot the bastard.”

Wow, talk about a job reference!

I hung up the phone and went back to my book.  Our current (and soon to be outsourced) useless indoor cat trotted in and glared at my feet.  My feet were resting comfortably my footstool in front of my wood stove.  I’ll give up the comfy footstool to a cat when it pays the mortgage.

I’ll share though.  I motioned for the cat to jump on my lap and relax.  It flicked it’s tail as if to say it would no more share a chair with me than it would share a bottle of Thunderbird with a derelict under a bridge.  Then it sauntered off; probably to break something.  I went back to my book happy in the knowledge that cat staff is about to change for the better.

Here, in no particular order, is a list of more “concepts which piss me off” (TM).

1. Being called a racist by someone who is a racist:  I’ll often spend all day in the presence of my dog and wood splitter only to have some professional victim on the news declare that on that very day I and everyone like me was a racist, bigoted, moron.  How?  If you know nothing about me except my race you pretty much don’t know shit. I refuse to believe that I’m racist when chowderheads like Al Sharpton walk the earth.  He can’t eat his breakfast without foaming at the mouth and he’s part of the “discussion” that will lead to a “solution” and eventually “healing”  Really?
2. More racism:  Can we please dispense with the concept that if you’re a “minority” you’re instantly issued a halo and if you’re not you come with horns and a pitchfork.  Also can we drop the fallacy that if you’re white your granddaddy automatically owned a plantation in 1830 which somehow paid for your Subaru in 2013?
3. Minority as a word of art:  As demographics change, folks skate ever further into the stupid zone using “minority” in a way that makes no sense.  Minority is a math term.  It means less than the majority and nothing more.  If I’m a white guy and I’m in a room with 37 women and 3 guys then in that room I’m a minority.  If I’m in a room in France then Americans are the minority.  If they’re all black except me, then I’m still in the minority.  If they hate me just because of my appearance then they’re racist.  If they hate me because of my personality then maybe they’re fully justified or maybe they’re dickheads… math can’t answer everything.
4. High count prosecutions: Ever hear following; “The defendant was charged with 250 counts of being evil, 10 counts of super extra bad murder, and 4 counts of littering.  He was cleared on 263 counts but was found guilt on one count of littering.  He was fined $500 and kicked in the nuts by the bailiff.”  Really?  There’s a word for someone who’s had 50 charges leveled at them and beat 49; that word is innocent.  (Or at least “guilty with insufficient evidence to convict”, which in American law is supposed to equal “innocent”.)   Judges who let this shit fly are a pox on our world.  Juries that eat this shit need to shovel it back down the prosecution’s throat.
5. Diversity as a surrogate for quality:  I’m all for human diversity in the overall scheme of life but I wish they’d give it a rest when I’m just trying to get a job done.  When I bring my truck to the garage I don’t really care if you’ve got a full range of the human experience on staff.  Neither me nor my transmission care if the overdrive was tuned by a Lebanese transgendered Buddhist, an inner city black kid, or an illiterate redneck asshole.  I only care whether it’ll crap out on a mountain pass.
6. Diversity as a code for uniformity:  Diversity is supposed to mean the whole range of human experiences.  So why is it that a I can walk into a “diversity laden” coffee shop and be the only guy there that has ever been hunting, paid taxes, or fixed a radiator.  What are the odds?  Conversely, if ten people all dress like Elvis Costello is it no longer ironic and simply sad?
7. Tax deduction math:  If I can take the mortgage interest deduction and get ten grand back from the government on April 15th that’s fine with me.  You know what’s also fine with me?  Not paying the ten grand in the first place.  There is a significant population that’s so brainwashed they think they’re getting an awesome deal with the deduction and I’m getting hosed not paying in the first place.  Not surprisingly all real estate agents have this illogic baked into their DNA.
8. State radio:  The only radio station I am guaranteed to receive everywhere is National Public Radio.  I know what they’ll say on any subject before they open their shrill mouths to spout surprisingly uniform platitudes.  I understand the function of Pravda in Soviet Russia.  I understand the function of American state radio in Bulgaria during the cold war.  Why is NPR still running  in the homeland during 2013 and why is a tax supported entity perpetually dry humping one of two parties?
9. Tax deduction manipulation:  It’s groovy cool to spend money on solar panels and college tuition.  It’s equally awesome to spend money on hookers and beer.  Social manipulation through the tax code is a bad idea.
10. Moral Relativism:  Some things are simply wrong.  It’s common to over think in an attempt to justify doing what you want to do anyway.  I don’t buy it.  Deep inside we all know better.
11. TSA:  Does any sane person think the Transportation Security Administration is a good thing?  Knowing the TSA will be burning tax dollars doing perv scans, stealing baby bottles, and X-raying shoes every time I fly for the rest of my life totally depresses me.
12. The political ends that justify the means:  If the guy in your political party wants to aggregate power but only to do something ultra-awesome that will save orphan kittens and give flags to the poor.  Don’t do it.  Sooner or later the douchebags on the other side will get their hands on the weapon you just made.  Neither party has a clean conscience on this one.  Quit it!
13. Government budget / tax cuts:  If a budget this year is X and next year it’s even one dollar more, then the budget was not cut.  If tax collections this year are Y and the next year it’s even one dollar more, then taxes did not go down.  Every single word spoken otherwise should be met with a knee to the groin.

“There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.” Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy

I’ve been told to believe too much inconsistent nonsense and it’s bad juju.  Therefore I’ve sifted through a small sample of bullshit which has been shoveled my way and started a list (in no particular order) of “concepts which piss me off” (TM).

1. People who would ban cigarettes and legalize pot at the same time:  If you smoke many cigarettes over several years you face an elevated risk of cancer.  Everyone and their dog has understood this for 50 years.  Some folks decided that they are extra-special and have Godlike powers of awesomeness.  Thus they’re justified in coercing other people to stop smoking.  They regulate, tax, sue, and harass the hell out of smokers safe in the conceit that they’re morally superior instead of just the petty bully they look like to me.  Some tobacco Nazis simultaneously turn the dial to eleven and think it would be groovy to legalize marijuana.  Once you’re confident in outlawing cigarettes on the way to a legal toke why not just make a law that everyone ought to be just like you?
2. The rope argument: Hemp was historically used to make rope but now it’s banned as part of the “war on (some) drugs”.  So what?  Nobody gives a shit about rope made with hemp versus rope made from nylon.  You’re not fooling anybody.  Be honest and say you want to legalize pot because it feels good.  You’ll get my vote anyway.  Also quit bitching about glaucoma.  I’m happy with “it makes Pink Floyd sound better”.  Honesty is superior to obtuse discussions of eighteenth century rope technology.
3. The muffler / suppressor paradox:   I’m required by law to maintain mufflers on my vehicles.  This mitigates the theoretical risk loud engines pose to other people’s hearing.  My rifle will unquestionably damage exposed ears.  I am banned by law from equipping it with a suppressor to mitigate the demonstrable risk it poses to my hearing.  Go ahead.  Ponder that for a moment.
4. Cheap is good except when it’s not:  I was told that it’s a good thing to have “affordable housing” for the poor.  When the real estate market crashed, housing got a whole lot more “affordable”.  Success!  Except the government is turning somersaults to prop up housing prices.  Either cheap is good or cheap is bad.  Pick a goal and go with it!
5. If it saves just one life it’s worth it:  No its not!  Life is dangerous and we’re all mortal.  Get over it and make your own choices about risk.  Then leave my choices the hell alone.  Mandatory helmets on a motorcycle make no sense when you compare a Harley to a Volvo.  Mandatory seatbelts in a Volvo make no sense when you compare hurtling down the highway in a Volvo to sitting on your couch.  More people are killed with hammers than assault rifles, more people drown in swimming pools than die of Ebola, and you’ll be hit by lightning before you win the lottery.  Suck it up puss.  Ralph Nader can take his “unsafe at any speed” sensibilities and go cry under his bed like the scared little shit he is!  I’ll be rocketing down the freeway on my deathtrap motorcycle with a Glock in my pocket and a smile on my face.
6. Who needs that:  I do.  I need it.  I need it now.  I need it because I’m big and bad and rich and scary and awesome and you’re a bully who wants to control others to make yourself feel good about your failed little ignorant existence.  You don’t get to decide if I need a 450 horsepower muscle car, sixty guns, a dog bigger than Detroit, and a full collection of the Monkees greatest hits on 45 RPM vinyl.  If I can afford it and I want it I’m going to have it.  That’s what freedom is all about.
7. Cheap is good except when it’s not:  Gun control fans call cheap pistols “Saturday Night Specials” and claim they serve no purpose but to commit crime.  Funny thing but my cheap guns never commit crimes.  Nor would I feel somehow better if Tony Soprano did me in with a pearl handled classic worth more than my car.  The phrase “Saturday Night Special” was coined because “we can’t let poor people have guns” doesn’t sound good on TV.  This concept also rears it’s head whenever someone opines that a $0.50 tax on a round of ammo will somehow improve the universe.
8. Destroying things is good: Cash for clunkers used tax dollars to destroy functioning but obsolete vehicles.  It had no effect on the lifestyle of sanctimonious urbanites who never drive crappy old cars but I personally got hosed.  I’d like to say a solid “fuck you” to the assholes who used my my tax dollars to nuke my supply of inexpensive parts and replacement vehicles.  Destroying something poor people need so rich people can feel good is a rotten trick.
9. The intolerant tolerant: There is a significant overlap in the yoyos who harangue me about being tolerant and the jackoffs that get the vapors over a Nativity scene at Christmas.  How intolerant is someone who drops a legal deuce on a whole religion’s peaceful vision of global spiritual redemption?  If you’re too special to  simply ignore the Nativity you left “tolerant” in the rear view mirror years ago.
10. Europhiles who haven’t been there:  I’ve been told ad infinitum that America should be more like Europe.  There is a place that’s a lot more European than America.  It’s called Europe.  I’ve been there.  Meh.  Europe has good points and bad points but it’s not Utopia.  Many of the people who extol Europe’s superiority are excited about a dreamy eyed never never land of socialist awesomeness that doesn’t match reality.
11. Honesty in everything that doesn’t matter:  If athlete A and athlete B compete in the 100 meter dash, the one with the fastest time wins.  We all get that.  If student A and student B compete in college admissions their test scores are but one of many factors blah blah blah diversity blah blah blah underprivileged blah blah blah.  Bullshit!
12. Human Resource Departments:  The ability to do a job and getting hired for it should be a one to one correlation.  When you’re applying to be a transmission mechanic the person who does the interview had better know how to swap a clutch.
13. More on gun control:  Regardless of your politics on the matter, I want everyone to admit one thing; nobody has ever been shot by a criminal and gone to their grave thinking “at least it didn’t have a bayonet mount”.

I can’t say how long it’ll last but Curmudgeon Compound’s “EMP Resistant, Non-OSHA Approved, Overland Work Unit” (i.e. my antique tractor) is running! (This isn’t a new development but I’ve been afraid to mention it because I didn’t want to tempt fate.) She’s a bit anemic (I must have kergiggered the carb wrong?) but every time I’ve asked she has sputtered to life and performed like the plucky little powerhouse she is. Good!

Tractors, like Curmudgeons, are only good if they can work. Can I rejoice? I don’t know. I’ve been hurt before. Maybe it’s all just a ploy to regain my love. Who knows? For now, though, my driveway is plowed like a runway. Huzzah!

When I bought her she leaked like the Exxon Valdez even before the engine croaked. During the rebuild I managed to get the engine so tight that it didn’t leak at all! Awesome! Unfortunately, it didn’t run. Not awesome. Much swearing and banging of knuckles happened before I finally got her moving under her own power. By then a tiny oil leak had developed. Damn! The leak is minuscule. For a tractor of her age it’s normal. Yet it annoys me. On the other hand I’m afraid to fix it. If I tear it down again who knows what’ll happen?

The drop of oil it left on the ground reminded me of Rodney’s coffee.

. . .

Skip gears a bit and I’ll tell you about this guy I knew. Lets call him Rodney. For all I know Rodney was a genius and a saint but I always thought he was a doofus and a yoyo. He might have been a consumate professional in his field. I didn’t work with him directly so I don’t know and it wasn’t my problem. The only thing that mattered was that Rodney and I (among others) shared the communal office coffee pot.

Rodney simply couldn’t hold a cup of coffee. I have no idea why. Perhaps it was something dark and tragic. Maybe he was kidnapped in Seattle and abused by a barista. Regardless, Rodney blundered through the coffee area like a one man talking tornado.

He was impressively unaware of his surroundings; the living demonstration of “condition white”. He was a big guy. He moved with the grace of Orsen Welles on dope. He was loud. He was hard to ignore.

He would careen into the breakroom with a mug in hand, smack it down on the counter, yank the pot off the burner, pour in the general vicinity, and shove the pot back onto the burner… or somewhere nearby. Never once would he look at either cup or pot. On a good day he’d get three quarters of the coffee in the cup and the rest on the counter. On a bad day he’d get coffee on the rug, himself, even the stupid plastic plant. (Someone please explain why offices have plastic potted plants?) Sometimes he’d splash it on the walls.

On. The. Walls. Have any of you… Seriously now hear me out… Have any of you spilled coffee on a wall?

Rodney thought his hands could pour coffee without his mind’s participation. He simply looked wherever his mouth was aimed.

His speech was Foghorn Leghorn mixed with “Drunk Senator”. Much of what he said was for the joy of hearing his own voice. The rest was for self aggrandizement. As if everything in his brain were a great revelation. “HO HO HO. GOT A BIG MEETING TODAY!” Splash. “I.T. JUST HOOKED UP THE NEW COMPUTER!” Spill. “A NEW PHOTOCOPIER HAS BEEN ORDERED!” Drip.

I like my coffee area laboratory clean (I’ll admit that makes me weird). Intellectually I accept that office coffee pots are never truly clean (people are pigs) but brewing coffee shouldn’t create an EPA Superfund site. Rodney, clearly, had other opinions. After he passed I could analyze the splash marks like a detective determining bullet trajectories.

I’d always fix the mess. Why? Because wasn’t I going to get into a hygiene war of attrition with a human bomb and coffee is important. I’d wipe off the pot, move it from wherever he left it to its proper place on the burner, wipe the counter with a towel, apologize to the plastic plant, tiptoe around the wet carpet, and OH MY GOD… the sugar bowl! What did he do, take a dump in it? (I started bringing my own cream and sugar.)

I’m a cream and sugar guy (especially when the coffee sucks). It’s the only sweetness in my personality. Whenever he saw it, Rodney simply had to comment. “Ho ho ho. I LIKE IT BLACK!” He intended this to demonstrate his awesome masculine prowess. Really? We both knew he couldn’t climb the stairs without having a coronary. I could wear a dress to the ballet and still be tougher than him. For those of you who work up a sweat levering your ass out of a chair; just let it go.

“Ho ho ho. Want a TOP OFF?” He’d shout while pivoting wildly in my direction. I’d hop back as coffee spewed in a wide circular arc. I tried to diplomatically bring Rodney’s focus to the task at hand. “Hey asshole, quit spillin’ the damn coffee.” It didn’t work. Rodney could only hear one wavelength and that was his own voice. Speaking to him was explaining physics to a sea monkey. Not everything is within our power to change. Watching fat braggart whales drooling Folgers on their penny loafers is part of life. It was a lesson I had to learn.

Once I distanced myself from the compost heap he was making out of the coffee pot I felt not merely disgust but also awe. He had a sense of personal importance I’ll never attain. He had found the place where humility grew and battered it to nothingness. As he swayed down the hall at the head of a trail of coffee I’d think to myself; that level of unawareness is simply magnificent.

Once we were all forced to attend a minor safety briefing about a new power unit. Rodney, of course, took charge and narrated the whole thing. Fascinated, I watched him set a cup down with a thump that spilled half it’s contents. It formed a little pool near his right arm. Everyone was watching a screen. I was watching the coffee. Ever so gently I lifted my side of the table. Not much; a fraction of a degree. Nobody noticed. Rodney was loudly reading the slides’ bullet points (based on his personal understanding that we were all illiterate and therefore couldn’t read them on our own). The coffee pool found it’s new low point and started moving. “Balanced position…” he boomed. The coffee inched forward. “Power disconnect…” He orated. The coffee formed a tiny river and spilled on his crotch. I stifled a laugh.

At the end of the meeting he got up, wet nuts and all, and shambled away. I practically died. He never noticed. Was he daydreaming about taking a dump in the sugar?

To save my sanity I got my own coffee maker. Evasion is a legitimate way to deal with the Rodneys of the world. Absent the strange slow motion disaster of watching Rodney drool coffee on… well everything… life became a bit more peaceful. A few years later I left and got a job in a different industry; taking my personal coffee pot with me. I presume Rodney is still where I left him. Their coffee station has surely fostered new life forms amid it’s lively microbial activity.

That was eons ago. How odd that my little tractor’s oil leak jogged my memory.

Back to the present; “If you manage to keep running through the spring” I patted the tractor’s battered old hood “I might try to fix that leak.” I promised. First of all I keep my equipment to be in as good repair as I can afford. Second, I can’t be having Rodney flashbacks. I think I’ll stop writing now and clean out the sugar bowl. One can never be too sure.