Adaptive Curmudgeon

Many years ago the media was atwitter about a strike of TV writers.  I remember joking that it’s like the neighbor’s dog formally announcing it will henceforth no longer crap on your doorstep without a cost of living increase.  Or maybe it’s like the tagger who spray painted your car demanding better work hours?  How could a strike actually work?  TV producers could presumably scrape up whatever trust funders they found lying on the floor of an average college English department, shake them out until they found a few that were at least literate, and keep taping.

After all, this was the media with a business model based more on Gilligan’s Island than Masterpiece Theater.  At the time of the “terrible strike” TV was already out of ideas.  My rabbit ears antennae reported that the entire industry was based on 68 iterations of cop and lawyer shows; all of which were terrible.  An already worn out Simpsons was the only hint that writers occasionally crafted a product instead of hammering keyboards; and that was a damn cartoon.

I found the whole thing amusing.  TV had been called “a vast wasteland” decades ago and it had steadily declined.  I was supposed to worry about “creative talent”?  How much worse could it get?

Well I was wrong.  It got worse.  Scripts slowly went from insipid to non-existent.  Who knew I’d look back on Home Improvement and marvel that it had actors, plots, and lines?  Who knew I’d someday watch repeats of guys catching shellfish?

The suck continues.   Without steady exposure the change is more disconcerting.  I’m shocked when I quarterly turn the thing on and see that it’s dived beneath the lowest bar I’d imagined.

This is a problem because I’ve been working extra hard lately.  When the work day has been a shit sandwich even a Curmudgeon might decide to fall into the warm sedative of television.  The problem… and this is key…  is that TV now so bad that I can no longer stomach it.  I had a beer and an hour to kill.  How could they fail so deplorably?  Taki’s Magazine summed up my experience in today’s quote of the day:

“I want to enjoy TV, but every time I open my mind, a TV executive in LA takes a dump in it.”

Indeed.  I have no problem with video as a media.  I just dislike being treated as less intellectually capable than… say… livestock.

Then the article delivers the kill shot:

“Remember in Idiocracy when Mike Judge predicts that Ow! My Balls! will be the top show in 500 years? Well, about 495 years early, the ‘nut mutilation guy’ has emerged as one of America’s Got Talent’s most popular guests.”

It can’t be!  Idiocracy was supposed to be in the future.  Many generations of stupid removed from the place where I live and work.  Howard Stern and Sharon Osborne clapping with joy watching a guy taking a ball peen hammer in the shorts?  NO!  This is NOT true because it can’t be.  I live on this planet… there’s nowhere else to go.

Ugh…  guys catching shellfish really was the “deep stuff” wasn’t it?

I keep my TV on a leash but I can’t stop political advertisements from showing up in my mailbox like some sort of expensive and depressing alien slime mold.  This year one of the local elections has gone full retard.

It involves a guy I’ll call “Candidate A”.   During the last go round Candidate A brutally defeated the incumbent.  I’ll refer to that incumbent as “Candidate B”.  Candidate B promised me cheaper broadband, green technology jobs, better weather, clean white teeth, a pony, and a handjob.  (Well the last one might be a slight exaggeration.  Only a slight exaggeration.) Candidate B came to my house and groveled most politely.  She drove a Pirus and discussed everything from farm subsidies, a local clinic, freaking anything she could think of…. to get me to vote for her.  I kindly and politely told her to get her free crack off my lawn and decided I’d vote for anybody with a pulse who wasn’t Candidate B.  (If she ran unopposed I’d write in Frank Zappa.)

Candidate A, who won, appeared to be dumb as a box of rocks but he promised me absolutely nothing and seems to have done less.  Well done sir!

This go round I’ve been getting negative political advertisements from both sides.  Candidate A is now the incumbent but apparently this district is still hotly contested.  Every day my mailbox has the same shit.  “Candidate A clubs baby seals”.  “Candidate C, the new challenger to Candidate A, is made entirely of evil.”  “Candidate A once raped my dog…it could happen to you.” “Candidate C is a robot made by unions and built in Detroit.”

One day I got four negative pamphlets.  Three from incumbent Candidate A and one from plucky challenger Candidate C.  I’d had enough.  I made my decision.  “The incumbent, Candidate A, has spent too much money sending shit to my mailbox” I declared.  “Anyone who’ll waste his own money that much shouldn’t be within arms reach of my tax dollars.  He has lost my vote and I shall burn an effigy of him on the front lawn.”

Whew.  It’s hard making informed decisions.

Then Candidate C went totally apeshit.  One day I got three negative ads; “Candidate A is a secret gay mafia assassin”, “Candidate A causes the Plague”, and “Candidate A sets libraries on fire.”

“What the hell,”  I moaned, “I already decided to vote for Candidate C, “now that tool is muddying the waters by blowing metric shittons of cash sending crap to my mailbox.  Does he enjoy losing?  Doesn’t he realize he’d win if he’d just shut his damn piehole?”

The next day there were four more from Candidate C.  “Candidate A runs over nuns with his truck.”  “Candidate A was hatched in a Nazi laboratory.”  “Candidate A likes disco.”  “Candidate A shot the tooth fairy.”

I also noted that the negative ads missed the mark for me.  Accusing your enemy of annoying unions, being in favor of voter ID, cutting spending, and liking guns; this is supposed to make me dislike the guy.  How?  Have his enemies even seen the hinterlands where I live?  Or do they drive Volts and therefore can’t reach this far from their home habitat of cities and cubicles?

My kitchen table had accumulated seven glossy mass mailers in 24 hours.  Or, as I calculate it, one dose of asshole every 3.4 hours!

I changed my mind.  Anyone who has pissed off folks so much that his enemies send me a glossy printed character assignation every four hours?  He must be doing good!  It takes style and flair to be that hated.  I could kill, gut, and eat the neighbor’s horse and they wouldn’t bother to send seven consecutive fliers accusing me of being a duchebag.  Candidate A has enemies with deep pockets and lots of spare time.  Exactly the kind of person who should hate me too.  I tip my hat to him.  He infuriated entrenched interests for (as far as I can tell) doing nothing but wearing a suit and looking stupid.  That’s awesome.

I’m now a committed voter for Candidate A.  Negative campaigns work!

After a while the three kids returned. One was silent; possibly pondering homework on Christmas. The other two were in a heated argument. One was shouting that Mrs. Obama had banned deserts. He insisted she should be blasted into space and also the president should have ketchup thrown on his head. The other responded; “you can’t say that about the president.”

A pitch over home plate cannot be ignored.

“Gentlemen!” I interjected. All three stopped; eager to see what stupid thing I was about to say. This was going to be awesome.

“Did I hear one of you declare what one can and cannot say about the president?” I asked gravely. “That is absolutely not true. This isn’t Russia.”

The kids looked blank.  Whoops; I forget. Russia isn’t what it used to be. This launched an internal monologue:

Remember the old days when Russia was the indisputable demonstration of socialist totalitarian evil? A source of James Bond villains, guys to fight Rocky, and nincompoop spies who try to blow up flying squirrels? This shared cultural reference kept our National mind out of the gutter.  It seemed silly to flush our thriving capitalist economy down the crapper when Russia was intent on vaporizing Baltimore.

Remember Nikita Khrushchev pounding tables with his shoe and shouting that some schmuck in the UN is “a jerk, a stooge, and a lackey” and a “toady of American imperialism”?  They just don’t make them like that anymore.  It gave a clarity to things.  (Vladimir Putin tries.  He’s practically Darth Vader.  But Russia no longer resembles Modor so he can’t carry on the full tradition.  Give the guy a break.)

Now it’s different.  America is actively trying to emulate the EU while it burns.  Were modeling our economy after a place that formerly had shortages of toilet paper. Even the Chinese embraced capitalism.  Now those bastards own us!  How did we become the jockey that won the horse race and decided to kneecap his mount?

Back on track I continued. “It is long standing tradition that Americans do indeed insult their president. We do it often and loudly. It is not only your right, but your duty to trash this and all future presidents.” I paused to let that sink in and then started the rest of the sermon. “For example, I am not only free to assert that Obama is a clueless moron and Romney is a pencil necked geek but it’s the right thing to do.”

The kids smiled. I had a true teachable moment on my hands.

“Some of the insults are traditional, like calling Romney a ‘pinhead’ or Obama a ‘wanker’. But it’s best if you can come up with something unique. Homer Simpson said…” The kids nodded. They didn’t know Russia but they knew Homer. “…he said that the French were ‘cheese eating surrender monkeys’. That was superb.  You should aspire to that kind of insult.”

“However, Mrs. Obama, is not an elected official. The first lady is just someone who hangs around without a day job. I’ll admit she’s got some good qualities.  She’s got huge biceps and looks like she could bite a cinder block in half.  They should turn her loose on Vladimir Putin with a bull whip and a blowtorch.  But she’s not really in the government at all.  She’s more like the government’s groupie.  She didn’t win an election so she’s irrelevant and pointless.” The kids smiled.

“The school lunch tragedy,” I emphasized this last word, “is a result of the entire Federal Government’s bad behavior. Its is not just because the First Lady is selfish and wants all the cookies for herself.” The kids had never thought of this. I could see it on their faces.  What had she done with all the cookies? There must be a warehouse full of them somewhere? They would never forgive her now!

I continued. “So if I wish to call the first lady a ‘monster that hates children’ or even ‘scarier that a bout of the plague’ that simply isn’t factual.” Though it sure was fun!

Mrs. Curmudgeon was desperate to get me out of the building.

“The bureaucracy is at fault. So you should save your anger for bureaucrats.”

The kids blinked. How can you dump ketchup on a bureaucracy? Undeterred I kept going with the civics lesson.

“So here are some choice words you might want to remember…”

Mrs. Curmudgeon, gave certain visual clues to indicate she would murder me if I continued. I stopped. Sorry kids, the lesson had been canceled.

“Well I suppose that’s something you’ll have to figure out yourself.” The kids looked disappointed.

I couldn’t help skate a little further.

“Look in the dictionary. That’s the printed thing that happened before wikipedia. It’s in your school library.” They nodded, apparently the kids knew what ‘library’ and ‘dictionary’ meant. Excellent!  There was still hope!

“Look through the dictionary for quality insults.  Really go for it. Calling someone a ‘jerk’ lacks style.” The kids nodded. This was a new concept but they got the idea. “Put in some effort and go for a really big word or even a whole phrase. That confuses stupid people. If you’re lucky they’ll confuse your teachers too! Don’t forget that insulting politicians is your civic duty.”

The kids agreed that this was a good idea. Then one kicked the other in the shin and chaos broke out again.  The moment was over.

I was proud. I’d done my part for America. I had helped pass wisdom on to the next generation. As to the debate, even Mrs. Curmudgeon got bored and we left. As far as I could tell, the only people still watching were three guys paying Pokemon. Remember this on election day; dorks playing Pokemon.

And that, folks, is as true as anything you’ll hear on CNN.

As the debate droned on, a group of three hefty men carrying hefty ring binder notebooks arrived. They plopped down near the TV and watched the debate with rapt attention. They were youngish but old enough that any parent who kicked them out of the house would be justified. They were dressed in slightly dorky attire. They might have jobs but they probably didn’t have girlfriends.

“How nice to see those fellows watching the debate.” Mrs. Curmudgeon observed.

“They’re bookies.” I said. “The notebooks are their oddsmaking charts. Political betting is very hip these days.” I continued.

Mrs. Curmudgeon restrained herself from throwing a meatball at me.

“In the old days bookies used laptop computers. With the advent of the iPad they had to revert to pen and paper. Trendy iDevices squander all their computational power on social media and Angry Birds. “ I paused, enjoying myself. “Paper is just as good anyway. It’s a little known fact that John Glenn learned his slide rule skills for the Saturn rocket program as a bookie in Gary, Indiana…”

The waitress interrupted my musings.  “Could you turn the sound up.” Mrs. Curmudgeon asked.  She was desperately trying to ignore me.  The kids headed off to play a video game.  I ordered a drink. “Your cheapest red wine please.”

My hearing isn’t as good as Mrs. Curmudgeon. All I heard was Mitt and Barack mumbling.

“What are the bars?” Mrs. Curmudgeon asked. She pointed out two bars going up and down at the based of the screen. Line graphs, like the blue lines in hockey, are presumed to be a male concept.

“The yellow one seems highly variable. Also I noticed it goes down whenever Obama’s lips are moving. I’m going to say it’s the stock price in Hong Kong where the markets are still open. The green one? I’m not sure. It looks pretty flat. Maybe it’s the number of months before Greece goes supernova?”

I liked my explanation. Mrs. Curmudgeon, committed to reality, moved closer to the TV. To her disappointment I followed. I started reading a local paper. “Hey they’ve got Marmaduke…”

“Can’t you pay attention like those nice fellows up front?” She waved her hand at the three guys who were idly flipping through three ring binders without moving their eyes from the TV.

I couldn’t hear most of what was going on so I added my own local commentary. “The guys up front are reviewing ‘binders full of women’.” I explained.

“Well they’re not acting dumb like you…” Mrs. Curmudgeon observed (correctly I might add). “Why not act mature like them.” Sigh… she was right. Deflated I watched the politicians ramble on the screen.

Then one of the guys turned a page and we both saw that it was filled with cards from a role playing game. Possibly ‘Magic the Gathering’ but for all I know it was Pokemon. Mrs. Curmudgeon glared at me; daring me to insert a punchline about the mature gentlemen so fully involved in the deliberative process.

Wisely, I shut up and gulped the last of my wine.  (This was the smartest thing I did all evening.)

Straining my ears, I heard one of the two politicians prattling on about public education. (No mention of desserts!). Text on the screen said the question had something to do with Benghazi.

“Do we have public schools in Libyia?” I asked.

Mrs. Curmudgeon thought this was funny. Whew!

Then I realized the line graph scrolling across the bottom of the screen was approval ratings from males and females. I pointed this out to Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“Why do they separate out reactions from men and women?” She asked.

“Where do they put the sensors?” I added.

Mrs. Curmudgeon wrinkled her nose. I was about to say something socially unacceptable.

“This is an important scientific matter.” I began. “They’re reporting statistical aggregations in real time. This is crucial.” I paused thinking of the next joke. “Clearly it would have to be a sex based sensor array to differentiate the two data streams. Possibly something like jumper cables for women. Maybe a conductivity test for the men?”

I liked this idea. “Sir, put your nuts on this metal pad. It’s for America.”

Sometimes I don’t care if anyone laughs at my jokes. “We’re with the TSA.” I crack myself up.

“Shush…” Mrs. Curmudgeon was annoyed.

“The equipment is banned in Kansas of course. But it’s a popular group activity in San Fransisco.” Tragically something this creepy probably exists. Ugh…

I wasn’t out of jokes yet. “Imagine the possibilities. They could measure the actual wattage of Chris Matthews ‘thrill up the leg’.” I was loving it. Comedy gold!

I couldn’t have asked for a better evening.  But the fun wasn’t over yet…

The kids were still pointing at Michelle Obama on the TV and complaining loudly that she was screwing up their desert menu.  Clearly it was time to inject some reason into their angered frenzy.

“Did you know she’s going to take away recess too?” I asked.

The kids gasped.

“Yep. No dessert and no recess. School all year round.” I was on a roll.

“Even on Christmas?” One had eyes wider than saucers.

“Homework on Christmas.” I added sadly.

Mrs. Curmudgeon stopped my fun. “Don’t listen to him kids,” She explained “he has dementia because he’s old. And stupid.” She looked at me. “Very extremely stupid.” The kids laughed. My spell was broken. Now they were going to wind up playing bongos in Berkley. Oh well; I’d tried.

“What did you do that for?” I said. “I was just warming up to explain Obamacare’s new involuntary organ donation program. It was going to be epic!”

“You’re going to get arrested.” She explained (as if I wasn’t willing to risk jail for a good joke).

“But it’s Halloween season! What’s Halloween without zombies? Organ donor zombies. I just made that up. Isn’t that the coolest idea?” Just then the pizza arrived and the presidential debate started. This spared me a detailed explanation why I should keep my mouth shut. (Which is good counsel that I regularly ignore.)

I’ve read too many conflicting analyses of the last presidential debate so I’m here to set the record straight by telling you what I experienced.

It had been a long day so I was worn to the bone and feeling loopy. Plus, for no particular reason we were keeping track of a trio of ‘as yet undeveloped proto-adults’ (otherwise known as ‘children’).  We ate dinner at a nearly deserted pizza joint with two TVs. One TV played football (this is required by law). It was on mute and being ignored. I considered asking for the remote so I could switch to the cartoon network. Maybe Phineas and Ferb would be on.  (I suppose the kids would like this too but the cartoon idea was all about me.)

Mrs. Curmudgeon pointed to the other TV. It was playing the “pre-game warmup” to the presidential debate. It was too far away to hear and I couldn’t see well either. Perfect! All I could recognize was a big red stage and Michelle Obama looking very angry. I don’t know why I mention that because Mrs. Obama always looks angry.

The stage reminded me of a boxing ring. I started singing “Two Tribes” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. “Hey, Mrs. Curmudgeon, remember that music video where Reagan body slammed Gorbachev in a boxing ring?”

“Shhh…” She was trying to listen.  The kids, meanwhile, were occupied with crayons.

The waitress brought ice water and I popped an aspirin for my tired muscles.

“Headache?” the waitress asked.

“Imploded spleen.” I responded.

She paused; deep in thought. “I practice martial arts.” I added. That should clear things up.

The waitress brightened. “Kickboxing?” She was a fan.  Oh no.  I hate kickboxing.  I had to defuse the situation by referring to something as far removed from it as possible.

“I’m a grand master of origami.” I replied. “I’m also a student of krav maga and  prana bindu. My chosen weapon is the stapler.”

The waitress smiled and left. I would remember to give her a big tip. She was gifted in the art of ignoring morons. Mrs. Curmudgeon, God bless her, sighed in resignation at being married to one.

Meanwhile the kids sprang into action. “That’s her!” One pointed at Michelle Obama on the TV. Michelle looked like she’d enjoy snapping a puppy in half.

I hate to see kids get involved in politics. They’ll have a whole lifetime to learn that adults are lying weasels; no need to speed the process. Also they’ve been hopelessly brainwashed by public schools. “I suspect the kids are Obama fans… that pleases their overlords at the school administration.” I stage whispered.  An already frustrated Mrs. Curmudgeon tuned me out.

The kids were jabbering excitedly and pointing at the screen. I watched them with a sinking feeling. The poor bastards were getting communism lessons every day in school. When they were older they’d get the bill for the solid gold iron lung every baby boomer wants. Then the cold hard truth would settle on their shoulders. They will eventually wish they’d been born somewhere with a brighter economy; like Bulgaria.

“She took our dessert!” One of the kids shouted; clearly enraged.

What an interesting surprise. I knew about the Michele Obama’s “Eat Healthy Food Because You’re A Serf Who Shall Obey Me” school lunch program. I hadn’t considered its effect on innocent kids. Talk about unexpected consequences. Now the kids loathed all things Obama. How much leftist indoctrination had been squandered just to seize a kid’s dessert?

“I hate her.” Shouted one of the kids. It was a teachable moment!  Time to seize the day!

This morning my (land line) phone rang.  That’s one of the reasons I hate phones.  I didn’t recognize the generic corporate caller ID but I answered.  (I was expecting an important business call about something I’ll neither confirm nor deny but definitely did NOT involve any broken down heavy equipment I saw on Craigslist.) Nobody was on the line so I hung up in ten seconds.  I cursed my stupidity in answering.  I assumed that my number had now been recorded by iNinjas who would send me marketing materials about Steve Job’s toenail clippings encased in Lucite as a Christmas gift.

A couple hours later it happened again.  It had a different (and still vague) caller id.  Nobody there so I hung up in 8 seconds.  I assumed my number was now in the hands of the Vladimir Putin.

A couple hours later it happened again.  It showed a third (and still vague) caller id.  Nobody was there so I hung up in 6 seconds.  I assumed my number was now in the hands of either PETA or a Nigerian banker.

Just now it rang with a caller id that indicated an actual human being, but with a name I didn’t recognize.  The caller identified himself as conducting an opinion poll.  I hung up in 2 seconds.  Then I buried the phone, salted the earth where I’d put it, pissed on the spot, and covered it in cement.  I’ve disconnected my (already unlisted) land line and changed my name.  I am moving to a different state.  You can’t be too careful.

Of course it was a phone poll.  This is their quadrennial mating season.  Yuck.

I’m as amused by Gallup type polls as any other betting man and politically aware person.  However, they’re a mess.  No poll conducted by any phone will ever truly measure my opinions.  Nor will they measure the opinion of anyone who has a pulse and knows how to hang up a phone.  Who actually answers unsolicited land line poll questions?  Are they insane?  Are they needy?  Are they the same people that like jury duty?  Do they have lots of spare time and talk to their cats?  Is it a last grasp at human contact before the sinking feeling that you’re alone in a room full of empty pizza boxes and failure sinks into your soul and playing Warcraft loses it’s joy?

Phone polls are goofy in the cell phone era.  They were inaccurate a decade ago.  They’re tea leaves now.

This is delicious!  Jimmy Kimmel went out before the presidential debate and asked people “who won yesterday’s debate?” Trick question?  Yep!  Did people fall for it?  Yep!  Guess which side?

I’d like to think many Americans didn’t take the bait.  I pray that dozens of people said “there was no debate” or “I didn’t watch the debate”.  I’d even be happy with “I was too busy doing heroin”.  All of the above are intellectually honest answers.

Sadly, several (who knows how many) said “Obama won the debate…he rocks”. Is that not hilarious? Enjoy the show:

This reminds me of Romney’s “47% gaffe”.  The press pilloried him when he said 47% of the population would never, ever, under any circumstances vote for him.  Conservatives responded with a shrug.  To them it was merely a statement of fact.  (If expressed incredibly poorly.)  The press got the vapors.

Kimmel caught some of them on tape.  Anyone who will describe specific detailed memories of Obama winning a debate which hadn’t yet happened is, was, and will always remain unreachable.  Saying a true thing is only a “gaffe” in the mind of the kool-aid drinkers.

Hat tip to Small Dead Animals.

Psych!

I’m watching Firefly instead.

I nominate Jayne Cobb and his lovely assistant Vera as moderators for all future Presidential debates.

There’s no particular reason why I chose this week to ridicule the Obamaphone (or rant over 4% of Americans getting “free” phones!).  Apparently I hit upon a timely topic. Who knew I’d write about anything popular during the crucial “mainstream media limitation period” (patent pending) of the election campaign? (Note: the surgeon General says bullshit is bad for you. Just say no to “journalists” who speak directly from their butt!)

The People’s Cube have described the Obamaphone in exquisite detail. You should click there right now…don’t even read the rest of my post.

You’re reading the rest of the post aren’t you? Nobody follows directions! Ok, here’s a taste to encourage to head for the original article.

Totally true facts about the Obamaphone:

• It automatically rejects calls from people with a different opinion.
• It doesn’t have a plan; it just keeps telling you how bad the other guy’s plan is.
• When it crashes, it blames your previous phone.
• The healthcare app downloads and installs itself without your permission.
• When you make a call, a teleprompter pops up to help you speak.
• It automatically bows down to phones made by foreign companies.
• When you watch a YouTube video, a US ambassador gets killed.
• As opposed to the iPhone, it’s called the mePhone.

H.T. to Irons in the Fire.