Don't Worry, It's Insured

The Grand-twerp came into command central and stood just beyond my reach. I saw him mentally measuring the distance between us and he took half of a step back. “Do we have any extra TV’s?” he asked. At first I was impressed that he was a giving person wanting to help the disadvantaged. Then I woke up.

“Why?” He took another step back. “Mine is broken”. Silence for a 4-count, and then I repeated the question. “Why?” He hesitated a second and confessed, “It wasn’t made very good. I punched it and it just shattered. Samsungs do that. I looked it up.” I mentally measured the distance between us and lowered the footstool of my recliner. “Why’d you punch it?” He thought for a few minutes and said “I don’t know”. Well, as long as you don’t know, that’s fine. Even money says it was out of joy instead of from anger. People punch TVs all of the time when they’re happy or doing well on their video game. It could happen.

Since I wasn’t happy enough to punch him I took a deep breath and tried to remember why not drinking vodka is a good thing. I centered my chi or whatever the Geezer Life Force is called.

I thought I might’ve bought the warranty with the TV. It couldn’t be hard to find and redeem the insurance. The hunt was on.

We have a filing system. We file important papers in the house. Sometimes we put them in the car or the camper but usually in the house or the barn. Probably the papers were in the house. Maybe.

I finally found a treasure trove of appliance and electronic guarantees in a drawer full of odd socks and sterilized tuna cans. I like to keep similar things together. Six hours, 84 socks, and 3 cans later I found the receipt. Smack that easy button because I am done.

Receipt in hand, I fired up the old compubox. I cruised over to the website of everyone’s favorite cultural and fashion Mecca, Walmart. Their legal department wanted me to load a picture of the receipt in the easiest way.

It took me about an hour to get a legible picture of the receipt loaded. That was easy. I filled out an easy form and hit the easy button. Done and done.
The next day I received an email that said “You’re almost done, just complete these easy steps.” I just needed to reload the receipt again and send proof that I recycled the TV. I also needed to send them a copy of their own email because they obviously don’t have a sock/can drawer to keep important things in.

How hard could it be to recycle a TV? I mean, I’ve seen that someone recycled TVs by throwing them in the weeds, but I haven’t figured out how they got documentation proving it. I called our city office and they aren’t a fan of that sort of recycling. I called various recycling centers all over the Galaxy and TVs were verboten. Finally I learned that Best Buy takes TVs. Their website guaranteed they’d be glad to take any TV, just bring it in, drop it off, and pay $25.
The nearest store is 50 miles away, so I took the easy way and called ahead to ensure that they still welcome TVs. After 90 minutes negotiating with the automated gatekeeper my phone went dead waiting on a human. A recharge and more negotiations still didn’t get a person on the phone, so I took the easy drive to the store through the Indiana Abyss.

I parked in the easy space and went in the store with the broken TV under my arm. I walked around through the labyrinth of backlit glass counters and blue-shirted deaf attendees. I surmised they were deaf because every phone everywhere was ringing and no employee answered any of them.

I finally found a roped off serpentine path to a desk that said “Customer Disservice”. After being next in line for a fortnight I made it to the non-hearing associate. His lip reading was impeccable because he understood my need to pay him $25. He slowly gave me a recycling receipt and a headache.

After the trip home I was able to upload the proof I didn’t throw the TV in the weeds. I waited. The next day I resubmitted everything and I waited. Day 3 came and went. Day 4 flew by.

Day 5 I got an email that my claim was processed. Day 6 I searched the electronic version of a sock and can drawer, my trash folder. My easy-to-use gift card had been languishing there for 2 days. I and it went to the store and got a replacement TV. That was easy.

In the end it took me about 60 hours, 9 gallons of gas, $25 cash, and an ulcer to get an $88 TV replaced. If I earned minimum wage and at today’s gas prices my free TV cost $553. That’s an easy way to get $88. The Grandkid should maybe take a step back.


Fini.

Perfection Isn't

About a hundred years ago the kids wanted to play grown-up by hosting Thanksgiving, or “Turkey Sacrifice Day”. They performed the most important ritual of the season and baked the bird in their brand new stove. With banging of gongs and chants of “ooh” and “aah” the golden bird came out of the ceremonial oven and perched on the top of the range. None of the immature adherents knew how to carve the creature, so I volunteered. I made the males watch as I performed the ritual slicing. When I finished I noticed that the iconic butter-laced broth was miraculously gone. How was I to know that the bird was cooked in a flimsy foil pan? I’d inadvertently pierced the bottom of the pan with the razor sharp dagger. The holiday nectar ran out and into the nether regions of the stove. Thank goodness the fireproof insulation soaked it all up. For years after that the house smelled of turkey every time a cake or pizza was cooked. We missed the gravy that year but the stove smelled wonderful for a long time. Yes family, you’re welcome.

Everyone in the family remembers that Thanksgiving. Nobody remembers the 10,000 times everything went well. The holiday being imperfect endeared it to everyone. In a way they trusted the event because they would have done better than I did. Being imperfect is more perfect.

It’s like my sage council to all of my grandsons. I taught each of them to be imperfect when they go out in public. ZZ Top says girls are crazy about a sharp-dressed man, but they prefer to fix a man who’s half a bubble off of plumb. I taught the boys to mess up their collars before they go out. No lady can resist fixing the twisted collar. The imperfection of the collar makes the man seem more perfect and the guy gets attention. Even sprinkling flour on a dark shirt makes girls brush it off and love the man for it. Once again, you’re welcome.

I used this science when I was selling my car. Many tightwads, like me, nit-pick every little thing to get the price reduced. I made the car seem imperfect to seem more trustworthy. While the guy was looking at the car I distressed over the fact the lighter didn’t work well and the trunk latch stuck. The buyer thought I was an idiot so he trusted me. Since he trusted stupid me he trusted the car and bought it. Imperfection made the car more perfect.

Want more proof? One word: Martha Stewart. OK, that’s 2 words. Martha is perfect. She brags about being a “maniacal perfectionist”. She’s like the Evil Suzie Homemaker. Everything she does on TV she proclaims “perfect” and people hate her for it. She gets on her PBS show and whips up a holiday dish nobody ever heard of in 97 steps nobody can remember and without putting a hair out of place. People despise and don’t trust her because she’s too perfect. Her lawyer didn’t even like her enough to keep her out a jail. If she pulled that “little miss perfect” routine in jail she probably got smacked around by someone imperfect. We all think “that’s a good thing”.

It explains why we love Joanna Gaines on HGTV. She seems perfect at first because she builds a house while raising 5 kids and making homemade jelly in a kitchen she designed using old pallets and Walmart bags. Then we meet her goofy husband Chip that probably can’t tell shiplap from Shinola. We think, “She’s so together but she married this idiot.” That makes her imperfect and we love her for it.

My Grandson Xavier gets it. He’s always been the smartest person in the room and people are suspicious of that. He acts less perfect by being a slacker. In high school he could have had the best grades in the building with half of his brain tied behind his back. He wouldn’t have been trusted or liked so he worked hard at being a slacker that barely passed. Others dug that and he was instantly more likeable. I expect some of his peers found him pretty groovy and perfect.

So what’s the moral of the story? It’s kind of a Zen thing. Perfect isn’t perfect. Imperfection is perfect. Forget Martha and mess your collar up while you ruin the stove. Work at just barely getting by and you’ll get way ahead. You could also say that being remembered for flaws is much better than being a forgotten perfectionist.

You’re welcome.

Fini.

Let's Destroy Humanity. Now.

...Noah was a just man and perfect in his generations, and Noah walked with God. (Genesis 6:9, KJV)

I think that we’re making the generations imperfect. I think we’re destroying ourselves.
A couple of years ago ago I talked to you about the new technology in genetic research. The technology is called CRISPR. It’s an easy, efficient way to edit genes. It allows anyone with the kit to edit genes in an organism. At that time the plans were to sell a home kit to allow splicing genes in bacteria or yeast.

I wrote about the fact that we, as a species, could take this too far. We always take technology and modify in new and unexpected ways. It’s our nature.

Now a Chinese scientist has edited the genome of twins so that they are immune to HIV. This is shortly after authorities swore that the genome project was abandoned.

Scientists agreed not to screw around with the human genome. They said it was unethical. I cautioned everyone that if we can do a thing, we do it. I’m sad to say I was right.

The United Kingdom granted a research application to a team. The Human Fertilization and Embryology Authority is allowing gene editing of human embryos “to look for ways to cure genetic defects and cure disease”. They’re screwing around with the species.
In case there is any doubt, an embryo is an organism that at some point becomes a fetus. To some of us these terms are ways to avoid using the term “baby”. No one wants to experiment on babies. It’s OK to do if you change the language to something less emotionally charged. An embryo and a baby is the same thing, but we don’t think about it that way.

The scientists said that the babies, I mean embryos, would be destroyed after weeks. The babies, I mean embryos, won’t be implanted in the womb. I have no reason to believe them.

In this country scientist said it’s unethical to edit the human genome but they agree to do it anyway. They agree the purpose of editing genes is to eliminate diseases.

Scientists would never try to make a super-human. Designer babies are not on the horizon. Just ask them, they’ll tell you. Everyone agrees that it would be wrong to edit the genome to make a person that is stronger, faster, smarter, or prettier than the person would be otherwise.

If one of our billionaires funds genome research could he or she ever persuade a scientist to make him a custom son or daughter? You know the answer to that. Even researchers have to play politics. They undoubtedly do what they’re told in order to get the money they need.

Does a government want a super-soldier? Of course they do. They’d love to custom order what they want in a soldier or spy. Numerous science-fiction stories have foretold this.

Churches caution that scientists are “playing God”. Others warn that changing our genes can cause genetic disasters. It can take years, or even generations, for us to really know what we’ve done to the family of man.

I know we won’t stop until we find the answers we want. It’s our nature. I just hope we tread very lightly. I hope we don’t create a vortex in the gene pool that kills us all.

Fini.

Cat Heaven

The theory is that there exists a “Multiverse” or “Omniverse”. The theory proposes that in addition to our known universe there are infinite parallel universes. If I understand it properly, anything that could happen here did happen in one or more of the other universes. That means that somewhere there’s an old me with hair. There may even be a universe where I’m tall and can play baseball, but that may be a stretch. Anybody that’s watched Star Trek knows about Multiverse, and that’s pretty much everybody in all universes. Please stick with me, and let me explain.

I live in a houseful of cat persons. I don’t mean that I’m infested with some weird hybrid creatures. What I mean is that my family likes cats and for some odd reason they keep them in the house. I know, it doesn’t make sense to have an animal or a teenager in the house. I’m powerless to stop either practice.

This particular cat, Pepe is now living in cat heaven, if cats can go to heaven. I’m on the fence about all cats being evil, but I can entertain other realities. The family mourns this cat, so I’ll allow the possibility that he could somehow be in heaven. My grandson wistfully commented that Pepe is in heaven, chasing birds and squirrels and napping in the sun. My Grandma Fern always said that whatever makes you happy will be in heaven. If true, then Pepe gets the hunt and nap section of heaven.

OK, I have a problem with that. We’ve all been taught that heaven is a perfect place where it’s all happiness all the time and forever. A cat, any cat, likes to chase and maim smaller animals. If a cat thinks, which I doubt, he’ll fantasize about chasing and catching tasty little creatures. He may daydream about jumping into the sky and catching that irritating bird in flight. The cat may think catching helpless little balls of fluff is heavenly.

What about the bird or mouse in cat heaven? Those critters ain’t liking it if cats are there. They have a dimmer view of a heaven with cats than I do of spending eternity with my ex-mother-in-law. How can it be heaven if they’re running from immortal cats? It can’t be. How can it be my heaven if I’m subjected to a monster-in-law forever? It can’t be.

Maybe eternity is like the Omniverse or Multiverse. There are an infinite variety of heavens specially designed with you in mind. If there’s an angelic mouse at the gate of mouse heaven he may direct the destination of the demised vermin. “Mickey, you pushed Mortimer into a trap. You go to mouse hell, which is cat heaven. Prepare to run.” On the other hand if Minnie has met the mouse ideals she can go to mouse heaven with unlimited cheese. I guess that will make it cheese hell. It may go on forever.

As I developed this theory I made my grandson and wife listen to me explain it. I was thrilled at the brilliance of my new “Theory of Everything Eternal”. My wife was less than thrilled. My Grandson sat in absolute agony, which proves my theory. For him it was horror to have to listen to me in my happiness. My heaven is his hell.
This is blowing my mind. If this were true it would become very complex and hard to balance. That adds more proof to the idea of the Omnipresent and Benevolent Creator that actually takes care of all of us.

As I sit here, torturing my grandson with thoughts of eternity and things unrelated to the puberty agenda, I like this theory more and more. If you believe that we’re all connected then this makes perfect sense.

Maybe this is just a stupid idea, and heaven is just like my Grandma always said it was. Maybe it really has gold-paved streets leading to eternal pie shops and perfect recliners. That would be better than ever going to ex-mother-in-law heaven, because it would mean I’m in a very bad place for a very long time.

When I revealed this theory to my brother he said that he had shared it as a meme on what engineers call “the internet”. While that may be true in his universe, in this one I invented it all alone, down to the mouse names. My universe, my rules.

Fini.

Beware! We're Toxic.

(Photo credited to originator.)

You remember that I have a bunch of Grandsons spread throughout the Midwest. They each have issues with authority in general. This makes them very entertaining and well liked by teachers, employers, and in-laws. I consider it to be a genetic gift. You’re welcome.

Today’s well-liked Grandson is 7 and goes to school in Fancy County. Daughter was at work and in a meeting. When she was finally released she saw she had many missed calls from the school. Like any good parent would, she panicked that the boy was severely injured or kidnapped by terroristic cheerleading stewardesses. She called back while praying.

Boy wasn’t bleeding or missing. The big emergency was that while in the restroom he pointed his finger like a gun and said “bang, bang”. One of the other boys told on him for threatening with a dangerous appendage. To make matters worse, Boy called the snitch a “snitch”. How horrible! Boy acted like, I don’t know, maybe a boy. We can’t have males walking around acting all manly. What’s the new term? Toxic, that’s it. “Toxic masculinity” is the new improved term for males that act like males. Perhaps it’s related to Toxic Shock Syndrome. Someone with a college degree decided that male and female brains are nearly identical, with the exception of the shopping gene. The experts decided that males suffer because society expects them to be assertive and dominating and toxic. Males are naturally sensitive like little girls. It’s all explained in self-help books on male sensitivity. They’re in Wal-Mart by the man-bun dye and women’s hygiene products.

Is Boy a victim of toxic males pressuring him to point his finger and say “bang bang”? If that’s so, then why is he in trouble? He’s a victim too. If he’s not a victim, then he alone is responsible for toxic masculinity. I guess that’s why this 7 year old must be stopped. If unchecked he may make fun of men that cry and have man-buns and skinny jeans.

So Boy was punished like he wasn’t a victim, but a criminal. I personally think the punishment is severe. He has to apologize via what educators call a “thinking paper”. Apologizing for being a male just reinforces the current theory that something is wrong with males.

The paper is like a test. Number 1 is “What did you do wrong?” It goes on to ask why he did the wrong thing, and on and on. I thought he should have answered “What I did wrong is act like my teacher has a clue about how to educate me.” He can’t do that though because psychologists have thought-police degrees that must be respected.

As for being in trouble for calling the boy a snitch, I’d say he’s right on the money. The kid is a snitch. He needs to know. It would be wrong for him to grow up, tell on the other guys in his cell block, and have his man-bun ripped out until he cries all over his skinny jeans. Boy is helping him.

It’s not just him that is being maligned by schools. Boys are expected to sit and study and cooperate and not be toxic just like good little girls. News flash, I don’t care what the brains look like, boys and girls are different. The way they’re treated makes boys think that something’s wrong with them. The misery that Boy and others live with at school reinforces that they’re substandard and toxic. We used to have things like the Boy Scouts to let us be boys, but that’s against us now too.

I’m thinking that it would be kinder if we males skipped 80% of school and went straight into working so we can be male. I never had a job anywhere that asked me to do a thinking paper. Occasionally a job required me to point things at other people. It wasn’t called “toxic masculinity”. It was called being a man and it fed my family without apology. Bang, bang that.

Boy, you should come to Grandpa’s house. We can be toxic and be men without having to write about it. This is where “snitches get stitches”.

Fini.

The Cruelest Game

(The Open)

Outside must have been raw and bleak
For the stoves' fire I knew to seek.
At my age, only four years old,
I knew both physical and mental cold.

That day Mom slide down wall,
to the floor
From the beating she received again, once more.
Finding her earring for her as she cried
Crying, crumpled in a heap on her side.

I looked at the empty shelves near the door,
Where photos and things were just before.
That stove had eaten them as I stood near
Dad fed it all my mother held dear.

Should have been my deepest desire
Was him hurling me into the fire.
It would have been kinder then, for me
What ultimately happened? -Let's see

(The Play)

The Mom I honored and cared for, you see,
Turned vengeance, not to Dad, but onto me.
Perhaps it was just because I had his name.
Probably, it was the rules of the game.

The beatings she took to her delight
For she passed them on before the night.
He made his move, and it seemed to be
Her counter was quadrupled upon me.

I learned my life, before to long
Felt vengeance if her move was strong.
Lashing back would have brought no blame
But that'd be 'gainst rules of the game.

Dad's attack could be more subtle and clean
Soft words to the pawn can be still mean.
Win me to his side, for I hold his name.
Urge me to always follow the rules of the game.

He the king, and she the queen
And me? - Stuck in between.
I am still their pawn, I confess.
In their perverse game of Chess.

Each has to win, no matter the cost
Even if the pawn is lost
To hurt the opponent attack what's near.
Damage something the other holds dear.

That's where I come in, do all of the math.
Pawn or proxy, I stand in the path.
However you say it, it's just the same.
They're only following the rules of the game.

Mom died, of cancer, one hot summers day,
Though not for a moment did it end the play.
Dad plays his pawn just the same.
He still follows the rules of the game.

You'd think with one of the opponents gone
The game would now and forever be done.
But still the malevolent play carries on
In hopes somehow this game can be won.

Check

In years to come when he too is gone
Perhaps I'll still be out there alone
Repelling attacks from ghosts just the same.
Eternally, following the rules of the game.

Maybe I'll get just one moments sleep
In a grave cold, silent, and deep.
Before to hell I've unwillingly came
to once again follow, the rules of the game.

Checkmate

Southern Illinois Werewolf

Werewolves are fearsome things, or so my wide-eyed Grandsons told me.  They're regular folks that grow hair and fangs and howl at the moon.  They sometimes attack little boys, according to Tommy and Adam, who were six and five, respectively.  Their narrative was rich with animation and weird postures.

The next day I realized I had to give them a way to fight these werewolves.  I thought about giving them a silver bullet and gun, but settled for that time honored standard of werewolf repellants- "Howl Out" werewolf spray.  I dumped the window cleaner and used the spray bottle to concoct the most effective spray a kid had ever seen.  Starting with a base of grape kool-aid, I basically cleaned out the cabinet.  I added garlic juice, onion flakes, nutmeg, a sardine, coffee, some "Hi Karate", and a bay leaf to give it that homemade flavor. 

I'll admit that I tend to get a little carried away when I'm being creative, and this time was no exception.  I made a label with instructions, warnings, and listed the contents.  I lied about the contents on the label, but what the FWA (Food and Werewolf Administration) doesn't know won't hurt them. 

I presented the Grandsons with my werewolf spray with great fanfare.  They listened raptly as I explained all the nuances of werewolf repelling.  I must have done a good job because their mother (my daughter) smiled a little, which in itself is a cause for celebration. They learned the werewolf must be sprayed as heavily as possible, but too much could kill it, which would be hard to explain to the werewolf police.  Care must also be taken not to get spray in its' face, it could put an eye out.  Then you'd end up with a blind werewolf bumping into stuff.

My daughter called me the next day.  It had to do with her furniture which used to be white.  It seems Adam had awakened from a dream about werewolves. Sure there was one in the house, and being a brave little man, he handled it.  He denied the vile thing the use of the living room by spraying everything: The walls, the couch, the floor, the TV. Their mom awoke to a purple stain everywhere, including the formerly white couch with matching white easy chair and ottoman.  The carnage was amplified by the powerful aroma of rotting fish mixed with other nasty things.  She wasn't impressed when I reminded her that it's stupid to have white furniture when you have kids.  My adult children have no sense of humor.

Shortly thereafter it occurred to me that we had an opportunity for a real adventure.  I found a real good drawing of a wolf footprint, enlarged it, and made a stencil.  The next day I used it and some black spray-paint to make wolf tracks on my daughters walk and porch. For good measure, I added a footprint to the kids' bedroom window. 

When they got off of the school bus they noticed the tracks right away, and realized the beast had looked in their window.  I helped with the charade by long explanations of werewolf behavior gleaned from late night TV and cheap novels.  They drank in my every word. To quote my guru, Montgomery Burns, "Excellent".

The next was the third and final phase of the adventure.  I went into the city to a costume shop and spent big bucks on a really good werewolf mask.  Driving over to the werewolf proofed house of my daughter, I killed the engine and headlights and coasted up the driveway.  Before easing out of the car I donned the mask and admired myself in the mirror. I looked like a character from "The Howling". The snout was in a snarl, and the rubber lips pulled back to reveal hideous teeth. Cool.

Easing up onto the porch, I kicked over the lawn chairs with a bang.  I imagined the kids went still but instead Tommy almost caught me when he opened the door and looked out.  Thank goodness he didn't see my car. I ran around to the side of the house, tripped over a bicycle, and let out a horrendous howl of pain.  Limping to the back door, I slapped it repeatedly with my paws and growled as loudly as I could. 

I put my ear to the door and the house was quiet. Too quiet.  Were they up to something inside?  Had to much fake fur and latex on my head muffled my hearing?   I felt my senses heighten as I pondered the question. 

I  nursed my bruised knee as I limped back to the porch and fell over the stupid bike again.  Hobbling up the steps I took several deep breaths to steady myself.  I let out loud howls in rapid succession as I leaped through the door. Landing in a crouch in the living room, I hoped my knee would hold as I growled and reached out my paw.

As long as I live I'll never forget seeing the Adam clinging to his mother. But something was amiss. I'd forgotten Tommy had a hockey stick until I saw him swinging it at my head.  As it crossed into my line of sight, I started to scream "Wait!" before everything faded to black.

                    *  *  *  *  *

The exam lights in the E.R. were blinding when I awoke.  I raised my throbbing head and looked over to see my daughter and wife with amused looks on their faces.  They and the nurse must have shared a joke because she was smirking too.  Not expecting any compassion I stayed silent during the skull and knee x-rays and suturing of my head. 
I sat quietly and stared straight ahead when we arrived at home.  The Grandsons laughed at my stitches and limped around the living room on my new cane, saying, "Look, I'm an old grandpa wolf". Brats.

It's been a few years since then.  Tommy is looking forward to joining the NHL, and Adam is becoming a wild wolf expert.  The realtor says to sell the house we've got to get the wolf prints out of the concrete somehow.  As for me, the scar on my head is barely noticeable when I wear a hat, and I have a new brace to support my mangled knee.  My wife and daughter still tell the story of the Southern Illinois werewolf every time the moon is full or when they want to embarass me.  They take great relish in my humiliation. If I could make a spray to repel them...

Fini.

Old white blues by Charlie "Bland Geezer" Melton

My wife's menopausal,
She can't get her fill.
she doses up my oatmeal
with that Viagra pill.
I got the...
Old impotent white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

The doc checked my prostate,
It's big as a lime.
When I'm in the bathroom
it takes overtime.
I got the...
Old swollen white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

We both go to Walmart,
It ain't quite so far.
Then we spend hours looking
for the damned car.
I got the...
Old forgetful white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.


The kids come on over,
Monthly to see if I’m OK.
Visits curiously coincide
with my pension payday.
I got the...
Old stingy ass white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

I bought me a RV,
A condo on wheels.
I'll either miss payments
or skip lots a' meals.
I got the...
Old month to month white man blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

Fini
(artwork credited to creator.)

Grandson Repair and Reclamation

The other day I was complaining that my Grandson was disrespectful by getting damaged. He can’t do chores. I ended up having to do them because I’m not allowed to hire a live-in cheerleading mower assistant.

We took the boy to an orthopedic surgeon, which for the record does not work for free. They charge more than a plumber on a national holiday. They charge more than a lawyer with a condo in Aspen. We drove “up north” to the ortho-dude office in “Mount Carmel” even though I’ve never seen a mountain of any kind in this state. Maybe there used to be a mountain and it was sold to pay a surgeon.

We took the grand-malingerer to the clinic and filled out 57 pages of forms. We eventually got in an exam room. When the surgeon came in the room the female spousal entity lit up like a menorah on the last day of Hanukah. She was as happy as a squirrel in a bird feeder. She was smiling like Hillary when Bernie dropped out. The wife thought the doc was pretty but I don’t know why she’d think that. What’s so great about a rich man with muscles and a head full of hair? While she was all googly-eying the doc I actually listened to him. He determined the kid needed surgery. I’d said the same thing that morning, but nobody stared longingly at me. We scheduled for Friday because Doctor Hunk could get him in and fix him first, because, hey, he has great hair.

Friday came along and we checked in to the surgery center and coffeeteria. I think the hospital is Latin for “The Dreadful Center for Hopelessly Long Waiting Times”. It was 0700 hours because we were first. Boy got all prepped, gowned, pasteurized, and homogenized. He had to be ready because we were first.

Hospitals follow the book of Matthew when Jesus said “The first shall be last and the last shall be first.” A man went in because he was an emergency or was paying cash. We got bumped by a lady for mowing her foot off or something equally trivial. I’m pretty sure another man went in because he and the doc had a tee time. A local politician’s 2nd cousin’s wives plumbers’ neighbor got to go in and get something done to something. I made many trips to the complimentary coffee bar. I noticed that in the hall a couple of women were trying to break their own bones so they could visit Doctor Perfect Hair with the muscles.

About 1400 hours we were up. The kid went in for his one hour surgery that only took 2 ½ hours. By the time he came out of the OR he was malnourished, dehydrated, and as bored as a Senator without a pay-off.

We finally got released and headed home. I’d had enough coffee that I could have flown, but I trudged along on Highway 1. With the many miles to drive and my overly-caffeinated brain I thought up some alternatives to the way it went at the hospital.
Driving so far and waiting all day to get repaired is stupid. Why couldn’t we just stay at home and get a call when they’re ready for us? They could give us one of those pagers like at Olive Garden and we could drive on up when it goes off. Better yet, how about a RV with a surgical suite? They could plan a route just like FedEx and pull up, roll you in one door and out the other. They could partner with Dominos and deliver pizza at the same time. It would work.

Maybe set up operating rooms at the golf course. Doctors seem to end up there anyway. “Let’s see, a broken femur? You go to hole 3. Clavicles are on the first tee. Uninsured? You’re in the sand trap. Watch out, Osteopath playing through.” The malpractice lawyers can hang out in the clubhouse
.
They could even schedule you like the cable company. “The surgeon will be at your location Monday between 8:00 AM and 12:00 PM to repair your hip and fix your internet. Please be washed up, gowned, and off of the Wifi”.

If all of that won’t work, maybe just improve the conditions at the hospital. Everyone is either bored or nervous, so give families something to do. Put exercise bikes connected to generators in the waiting rooms. People will get healthier and pass the time while generating 110 volts AC. You can even take the electricity generated off of the bill. “Mr. Smith, you generated 7 megawatts so we’ll be taking $42 off of your bill. Mrs. Jones, you had 14 family members pedaling like crazy. The surgery bill is paid and we owe you $873. Please come again.

Any of these can work better than the current system. Maybe he who is first can at least move up to the middle. Also, Dr. Dreamy needs to go somewhere, anywhere, else.
Fini.

My Proof of God

Bob, I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve always been proud to call you my friend.
You made the statement the other day that you’re an atheist. I recognize that you have the right to believe, or not believe whatever you want. It’s one of our most basic freedoms. I acknowledge that, but as your friend I have the right to tell you when you’re wrong.

Bob, you believe that there’s no God. You’re wrong.
I’ve heard a way to understand the existence of God. Draw a large circle. Imagine the circle represents the entire universe. Imagine all of the knowledge that can be absorbed in the universe. Imagine all of the knowledge of physics, and mathematics, and history, and everything else possible in the entire universe is represented in that circle. Now imagine all of the knowledge that you have. If all of the knowledge that exists everywhere is illustrated as a circle, then the knowledge we each possess is a mere pin prick in that circle. What we know is nearly insignificant when compared to what could be known. In all of that knowledge that we do not possess, is there room for God? Is there room for knowledge of God’s existence in all that we don’t possess? Yes, there is. It’s only logical that there is room for God in the universe of knowledge.

I think we all have a need for God. I think that people in all cultures have always sought God. I think it’s coded in our DNA. That means every cell of our body is seeking God. It’s a form of magnetism, just like iron seeks a magnet. We came from God, and we can’t truly rest until we reach God.

The way I think about it is like this. If I understand Newton he stated there is a gravitational force between objects. No matter how far apart you move them the force between them remains. If they have an attraction when next to each other, they will still have an attraction when one is moved to the other side of the universe. The force will be small, but it’s there. That’s the way it is between each person and God. We have a force between us that draws us.

Let me put it another way. All water flows to the sea. Any water anywhere will end up in the sea. It’s where it belongs. It will flow hundreds of mile to become part of the ocean. It always does this because the sea is where it belongs. Even if it evaporates it will condense to liquid and flow to the sea.

We belong with God and we move ever so slowly to Him. Our souls will never rest until they join God.
How can I make these assumptions? I can because of what we do. We seek. We always want more, and seek out “more”. You and I went in the service because we wanted “more”. We each had a need to find whatever is out there. None of us are ever truly content with where we are, or who we are. In some way all of us are always seeking. We marry to find more, and to be more fulfilled. We work to get more. We read to accrue more knowledge. We drink, or do drugs, or gamble in our quest for more of a thing: More peace, more acceptance, more love, more of something.

My point is that we spend out entire lives looking for more and we’re never satisfied. The only people I know that are truly satisfied are those that have found God. You can see a look of peace on the faces of those that have found God.

You know what I mean. You may think that they’re idiots and that they’re lying to themselves because of their inner peace. You may think their fulfillment is delusional. I propose to you that the rest of us are delusional and idiotic. We look for all the wrong things to fill an emptiness that we have from being apart from God. We deny where the invisible force, the magnetism, is drawing our souls.

Bob, you don’t believe in God but you must acknowledge the possibility of God. If you do that, then you know your belief can be wrong. That is the first step to God. It’s the first step to fulfillment. It’s what you’ve been seeking.
Fini.

Be Strong- Wear Plaid!

(Photo credit to originator)

Here is wisdom. A real man doesn’t worry how he appears to others. A man is emotionally and mentally strong. He does as he must, but he chooses his path and how he gets to his destination. His feelings, if “man-feelings” really exist, are his and his alone. He doesn’t care what you think.

I saw a guy the other day that is a brave, strong man. He didn’t have big muscles or a monster truck. He had the wardrobe of a warrior. I hope he’s reading this because he’s a great example to men everywhere. His clothing said, “I know who I am and I don’t care what you think. Bring me pie, then go away and leave me alone.” He wore a pith helmet, which was part of the Air Force tropical uniform that I never had occasion to wear. His clothing was an assortment of every color and texture ever to leave a textile mill. The clash of colors would make a designer’s head explode. It was awesome. He reminded me of times when men were macho and tough.

I watch a lot of old TV shows from the before-time when Hollyweird had a soul. I get to watch things like “Matlock” and “Diagnosis Murder” and “Leave It to Beaver”. In the evening I enjoy Carol Burnett and Johnny Carson and every Star Trek series ever produced.

Johnny Carson is particularly entertaining. The jokes and banter are dated and hearken back to a simpler time when you could hurt peoples’ feelers without remorse or legal action. A safe zone was unheard of in that era. Johnny told jokes that hurt feelings and he dressed like he defied anyone to laugh. He even wore a plaid sport coat when sitting with Don Rickles, the king of insults. Rickles insulted everything and everyone but never dared insult Johnny’s jacket.

Johnny wore a plaid sports coat because he could. It’s like my “Dupo Fire and Rescue” shirt. Sure, it’s got a few holes and a couple of bleach spots. I like it anyway. It understands me. That shirt really gets me. I don’t care what others think of it.

It’s like when I was a kid and had to wear a suit and tie to Stokes Chapel church. I’d rather be impaled on a pike than wear that get-up. I’d look across the congregation and see the men in bib overalls and brogans. I’d see the women’s disapproval and the male indifference to that disapproval. Sometimes a man would wear a white shirt and tie with the bibs, showing that he’d had to compromise with the wife. The other men would be sad he’d lost his manhood. It left an imprint on me.

Sure, it’s only clothing. It doesn’t mean anything. You can be a man and dress in a socially acceptable way. You can do that but eventually you’ll lose your manliness. First you wear a shirt with a collar because your spouse is quieter that way. Then, before you know it you’re carrying her purse and shopping for female hygiene stuff. Eventually you’ll be doing housework and crying for no particular reason. Your body will cease making male hormones and you’ll be a girlie-man.

I remember back when I used to be a man that didn’t care what others thought. I ended up at a posh resort on the Mediterranean. The place was full of society types and old European money. I’m proud to say I’m the only person on that fancy beach wearing cut-off fatigue pants and cowboy boots. They weren’t even the fancy boots; they were the clean-the-stalls, kick-dirt-clods boots. I didn’t get many looks from the women but the men envied me like I’d envied the guys at church.

So why care? I’m trying to save you, the young male. I’m trying to keep your “Y” chromosomes from mutating to girlie-man genes. I don’t want you to be reduced to caring what others think. If you start to dress well it won’t be long before you’re moisturizing and talking about feelings. Don’t think it’ll be easy. People everywhere will try to change you. The girlie-man conspiracy has even tried to eliminate ugly plaid jackets. Stand strong and wear what you want, not what they put in the magazines and on Wall-Mart racks. Dress like you want, and defy wives and others. Rock that pith helmet and plaid. Never, ever wear a tie with your bibs. That’ll be the end for you.

I choose to close now. I have to hide the tie my wife bought me.
Fini.

Saving is Losing

Save it for a rainy day. That’s the advice. The axiom is all about delaying gratification so that you’ll have the money or food available when you really need it. There’s even a fable about an ant and a grasshopper that illustrates the point. I’m here to tell you; don’t do it.

I subscribed to that philosophy, except for the money part. For money I follow the Federal Government rule. That rule states to make sure you spend every cent as quickly as possible so that you’ll get more because you need it. It also insures that you get a bigger budget next year. It works for me except for the more money part, I never get more money but I’m hoping that someday I will.

I have a few possessions that I’ve saved for a rainy day. I’m thinking that I made a mistake. I’ve pretty much cheated myself for years.

One of my cherished possessions was a gift from She-Who-Rules. One Christmas she bought me a really nice custom knife with an embossed leather sheath. It was really fancy and would’ve looked great on my belt back when I could see the belt below my gut. I got the knife out the other day and it had rusted. I’d saved it for a rainy day and would never get to enjoy it.

I also have this pair of boots that are pretty fancy. They’re made from an exotic species that may be extinct by now. I’ve had them for years but kept them put up for a special occasion. Back in the day they cost upward of $25 at Hart’s Kosher Shoes and Deli. Anyway, I put them on and they looked real good but the stitching started breaking when I walked. The exotic animal hide cracked. It seems I saved them for nothing. All those years ago I could have enjoyed the comfort of eradicating a cute little forest creature to have awesome footwear. The rainy day I was saving for must have come while I was napping.

It’s like when we went to an estate sale recently. The estate owners had passed away, and the kids hired one of those companies that get rid of things. The inventory included all kinds of collectables still in the boxes. There were ancient kids’ toys still new in the box and decorative plates that never decorated anything. The heirs even sold nice picture frames complete with the photos of the deceased. I’m thinking the benefactors wouldn’t be amused that their cherished knick-knacks went for $1.99. Saving stuff just didn’t pan out for them.

My friend Bud is a saving kind of guy and has all kinds of things put back for the apocalypse. He’s even kept everything his parents put back for their apocalypse which probably includes what their parents put back. It may go back generations. Some nephew is going to either get rich from all the brick-a-brac or fill a landfill somewhere. He’ll curse the junk left behind for a rainy day that hasn’t arrived for eons.

I went back and looked at Aesop’s Fable about the wisdom of saving. It has more than one interpretation. In some cases it’s the ant and the grasshopper, and in others it’s the ant and the cicada. I think the moral of that version is that bugs can be loud and annoying. There’s a version that portrays the ant as a selfish miser trying to make the other insects starve unless they pay severe markups or maybe subscribe to an overpriced service or something like that.

The point is, don’t think saving is always good. You can save that t-bone steak in the freezer forever and say “Man, that beef would have been really good if I’d have cooked it while I still had teeth” or you can enjoy the steak. I don’t want to be on my deathbed and think that I should have worn those boots more. I don’t want my nephew to sell my good knife for a Pokémon card.
Let’s all change our view of the ant and the grasshopper, or cicada, or whichever noisy insect we choose. I say don’t be a greedy ant, enjoy your stuff today. Don’t wait for rain that may never come. Be a cicada today and let the estate sale companies get their own stuff.

Put it another way. Don’t let your boots rot or your knife rust.
Fini.

MY GRANDSON IS BROKEN

Those of you that read my musings and incoherent rants know that I’m grooming a grandson to replace me as pie-consuming Geezer. That’s not as easy as it sounds. I have to proceed carefully or he may become obese or a diabetic. Knowing when to pie and when not to pie is critical and shouldn’t be undertaken by the layman. You’re better off to just bring me your pies, and we’ll take care of it.

I digress. There’s a lesson to be learned.

Mini-Me had a buddy stay over. While it’s a little frightening having two teens in the same zip code, these are partially domesticated and I figured they could mow and weed for their entertainment. Before we got to the fun stuff, they played some of what the hep-cats call “basketball.” They got the bicycles out of the barn and prepared to race. As I told Grandma afterward, I distinctly remember saying, “Charlie, no racing, because you may get hurt.” Really, I did. I warned him right before I said, “ready, set, go.” That should count for something. I’ve also told him a hundred times, “Don’t get hurt, or Grandma won’t let us play ever again.”

On “go,” the boys went. The buddy was in the lead so Charlie pushed hard on the pedals, and then off of the pedals. His foot hit the pavement and caused the bike to go into a quantum trans-warp yaw. He did a face plant on the blacktop. He had sufficient momentum to skid real good. Being a kind and caring guardian, I told him to hurry up and get up before the Grand-enforcer saw him. He didn’t, so I just figured he was being a girlieman. I helped him up by insulting his masculinity and he got up.

When on his uncoordinated feet, his torso looked a little twisted or out of focus. After warning him about what to tell G-ma I let him go in the house to be triaged. Grand-accuser determined he was broken. Since he’s out of warranty we took him to the ER to get him fixed. It appears that in going against my guidance, he broke his clavicle. I know that’s what the collar bone is called, because I learned it by watching the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner hour far away and long ago. He has to see an Orthopedist or Orthodontist, or whatever the bone doctor is called. His repair and convalescence may take months.

A broken grandson is problematic. Even though kids’ duties aren’t as extensive since they don’t have to change channels, they’re still useful. For example, the kid is hurt, so I had to mow. Mowing sucks. It’s not only noisy and painfully boring with the back and forth, back and forth. It’s hot out there cutting grass. Whoever thought up mowing in the summer is an idiot. It would be better to do it in the winter when it’s cold, and the heat from the mower would be welcome. Mower heat coupled with summer heat and humidity is just wrong. Add in geezer andropause, and mowing is the worst. Thanks, Grandson. Thanks a lot.

Now I also have to take out the trash. Once again, I’m not a fan. The can is smelly and needs taken out every five minutes or so. I can’t tell you how many times, as soon as I dose off in my chair, the wife yells, “You need to take the trash out.” I say “I did.” I think I did, but maybe I forgot. It’s a pain anyway.

For the foreseeable future, I can’t tell him to hop on his bike and go to Wonder Mart to get me a quart of meringue or box of heavy whipped coronary artery disease. I may have to shell out big bucks to get pie delivery since we have an errant errand-boy. While he may be able to get out of the truck to check mail, the whining “Ouch, my shoulder hurts” makes it not worth the effort.

I may not even get to sit in my recliner for any significant time. How does the laundry get back upstairs from the dryer? Who feeds the cat? What about if someone rings the doorbell? What about loading the dishwasher? That’s all me now. All this work, and I don’t even get an allowance. I had a thought. I bet by throwing in a few bucks,

I can trade him for a college cheerleading massage therapy coed. I guess that’s not allowed for some weird reason titled ‘not in Grandma’s house.’ I really thought it was a good idea. She could take on the kid’s duties and I’d get to relax while waiting for my massage. She could even mow while practicing her high kicks. That’d be incentive to take the trash out.

The lesson we learned? Don’t screw up. If you do, work a cheerleader into the fix. Also, pie helps everything.

Thank you, Grandson.

Fini.

Snow Daze

Society has stopped. Snow stopped it.

I’m in my recliner looking out at the snow. The glare off of the white blanketed lawn makes my bifocals darken a little but not enough to make it hard to see my episode of “Diagnosis: Murder”.

The grass reaches through the snow. The snow is about 2 inches deep with drifts bordering on nearly half a foot deep. The drifts are so deep that your feet would get cold it you tried to walk across the lawn in flip flops. Outside is just brutal. It’s not fit for man nor beast. I know this because my Grandson hasn’t been in school for over a week. I know this because church attendance is low and Netflix attendance is high. I know this because I only go out to get the mail and to attend the boot sale at Rural King.

I sit up and peer out at the devastation. I pull my attention away from the snow apocalypse just in time to save my feet from being crushed by a 13 year old on a hoverboard roaring through the very room he is not allowed to ride in. Did I mention there’s been no school for over a week? I took a deep relaxing breath as the cat screamed in pain and the hoverboard ca-thumped into the wall.

Times do change. Societies collapse. Communities lose their nerve. Children become sissies. We used to be tougher. Is that my opinion? That is fact, and I can prove it. Get on your phone thing or your phablet and look at Facebook. Check my timeline and you’ll see my proof.

The newspaper clippings are there. It was January 25th of 1978 in Indiana. Hulu and the Internet were just a dream in the mind of 29 year old Al Gore. Incidentally, Al also gave us the iconic saying, “A zebra doesn’t change its spots”. The barometer read 28.23’ Hg in Michigan, which is the lowest barometric pressure ever recorded on the central United States. That’s lower than an Illinois politician that’s fresh out of tax money to waste. That’s lower than a telemarketer without a call list at dinnertime. It’s really low.

The wind blew around 100 miles an hour. The wind chill was -60° F. It snowed around 40 inches in some places but drifts were literally up to the roof tops and the power lines. Lots of people lost power and water pipes froze. Cars were hopelessly buried and would stay that way for weeks.

Where I was stationed it was even worse. Horror of horrors, the cable went out. The TV showed nothing but electronic snow. There was no Netflix, and VCRs cost over $1,200, which for me was like a year’s pay. Nobody but politicians and telemarketers had one.

The next day, the 26th of January, a Thursday, I ran out of cigarettes. That’s when stuff got real. It’s weird what an addict will do to feed the addiction. I walked across the frozen, desolate base to buy smokes. It’s a good thing I knew where I was going, because I couldn’t see. It’s also a good thing that the Air Force issues arctic gear or I’d have died. The surgeon general should post a warning that smoking could cause frostbite and hypothermia.
I got the smokes and made it home. I waited.

Three days later I ran out of food, but the smokes held out so I was good.

Eventually a rescue squad used snowmobiles to deliver food. We got a chicken, milk, bread, corn flakes, and a carton of Camels. It wasthe best meal ever. We gradually dug out and life happened. The cable came back on and Barnaby Jones solved crime.

I overcame the blizzard for the noblest reason, to get smokes. Nobody would do that today. Back then, everyone did similar things because we weren’t sissies.

I think the kids did school work. I don’t specifically remember schools being open, but I bet they were. Just like I had the tenacity to brave the blizzard, parents were brave about getting the little darlings out of the house.

So here we sit, the boy not learning a thing except how to get on my nerves. Here we sit all weak and sissified because a little snow. Here we are with our Netflix from Al Gore without the gumption to go to school or walk to get smokes. What will become of us?

Suck it up and do stuff even when the lawn is coldish. Get out and live. Oh, and stop by. I have a list of things I need.
Fini.

Romance For Beginners

Some of you may know that I’m spending my geezer years eating pie and raising a Grandson, or maybe he’s raising me. I’m new to this game. I only had girls, and boys were a creature that sent flowers to the girls and ran when I caught them on the property. Now I’m responsible for one. If you believe in Karma you probably think I deserve this because of my being mean to a plethora of young men over the years. It’s true that I tortured the potential suitors of my daughters. It’s also true that if a boy hung around the house I’d put him to work. When my girls were teenagers I rarely had to mow or change my own oil.
So Boy 1.0 is officially a middle school, junior-teen adolescent cisgender male. In case you’re wondering, cisgender means his daily life reflects the gender on his birth certificate. In other words, he’s not insane. You gotta love the modern activist trendy-talk.

This life stage involves fewer toy cars and more incidents with razors and buckets of axe cologne. I’m serious, I think he’s got a mud bucket full of axe and he takes a dunk at odd times. It’s hard to breathe when that stuff is aloft. His young teen world also involves some male arrogance which makes him puff up his chest. The arrogance makes him think for a moment he can take me on. He also pays attention to a creature he calls “girls”.
Teen boy and girl relationships are exactly the same as 50 years ago. They’re the same, except for texting and Snapogram and Instachip or whatever. Come to think about it, the technology has made teen years a lot more time-consuming than half of a century ago. No teen has the chores we geezers had. No teen has to slop the hogs, get in the coal, and work in the salt mine like I used to do. They type and will end up with thumb arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome. Not the same thing.
Boy came in the living room and interrupted my episode of “Swamp Thing”. He announced that he and girl are “Going out”. I asked, “Going out where?” He rolled his eyes like I was the stupidest person on the planet. “We’re going out. We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Going out” he explained. It seems that “Going out” is the same thing as “Going steady” or “Dating Exclusively”.
I asked him where they were going, and he said “Nowhere”, which to me defies any interpretation of “going out”.
In compliance with the new normal of courting, the girl sent the boy a photo via messaging. Girl put on makeup before she took the picture. Boy’s response was one of the funniest things I’ve ever read. Boy texted back, and I quote, “What’s wrong with your eyes? Did someone beat you up?” When asked about it, he really thought she’d been hit in the eyes. He didn’t understand why she was upset.
Eventually he went to church with her. Well, he sort of went to church with her. I delivered him to the church she attends and picked him up. Even though it’s winter I kept the truck window rolled down in a failed attempt to breathe around the cologne vapors. I hope they kept the church ventilation on high because I’m sure he filled the sanctuary with his man-scent. I didn’t see any gas masks or decontamination booths when I picked him up, so it must have went well.
Boy and girl have since broken up. In his words, she “dumped” him. Other than meeting up at church, they never went out while they were “Going out”, and now never will. It’s all very confusing. The only differences I can detect are that he’s not texting as much and I can breathe better. He’s still puffing up his chest, but it does him no good. I caution him that he could end up looking like he has makeup on, but he won’t have any.
Fini.

Take the Ball and Go Home

I stopped at the supermarket in a part of a city I don’t frequent. The neighborhood seemed OK, but was exclusively not white. I needed to stop, and stop I did even though I stood out like a sore thumb. When I walked up to the door I noticed something odd. I noticed something I had never seen before. The glass door was plastered with signs. You couldn’t have gotten another piece of paper on it anywhere.
All of the signs were hand written in marker on brightly colored printer paper. With a dozen signs on paper meant to stand out, nothing stood out. All of them screamed loudly trying to outdo each other. Every sign was negative. They all started “No” or “Don’t”. They’d have done better putting a huge “No” and then listing everything not to do. The store proprietors wanted no customers with backpacks. No children without adult supervision. No smoking, no guns, no knives, no weapons of any sort. I guess that baggy pants offend the owners, because that’s prohibited too. What else, let’s see. Oh yeah, no loitering. Loitering was a big deal because it was prohibited at least 3 times.

Reading all the orders put me out of the mood of doing business there. I wondered why anyone would want to shop there. I completed my business but never went back. I drive by occasionally but have no desire to patronize it. To me it’s obvious that the company doesn’t like, or value, or trust the customers. The people shopping there, and there are always a lot of them, aren’t welcome. Their money is welcome but they aren’t.

Maybe all businesses in minority neighborhoods do business that way. Maybe the clientele has nowhere else to shop. Maybe I make too much of little things, but I don’t think so. I think that the customers should not spend money there. I think they should vote for businesses with their wallets. It’s like the grown-up version of refusing to play and taking your ball and going home. They should say, “I don’t like this game. I’m not playing.

That long lead-in brings me to my current concern. Mainstream network TV hates me and my way of life. I first noticed it years ago with Jay Leno making fun of working class rural whites. He used terms like “rednecks” and “trailer-trash” or similar insults. I actually wrote to him at NBC but of course I received no response. I dropped the issue.

Now I and my ilk are insulted constantly on network TV. White people, especially rural Christian whites, are the butt of all jokes every day. Even dramas characterize us as inept and ignorant or just plain mean. If we express displeasure in any way we’re called racist.

Tonight on Fox I saw on “The Resident” minority characters taking charge, which is OK by me. What I don’t like is that they have to overcome the white character that is portrayed as evil and stupid. It’s constant and flagrant.

The next show, a reboot of 9-1-1, has more of the same. The good black female police person threatens and overcomes the dim witted overweight white cop. While I can deal with my fair share of that attitude, the constant cultural engineering is offensive to me.

That same racist attitude is prevalent on any network anytime. They always work hard to insult me and the things I care about. I won’t even get into the late night talk shows that have spent every minute of every monologue every night making fun of our elected leaders. I can, and have, accept a little ribbing but the constant attacks are angering.

It’s a little like the store owners we talked about. The entertainers don’t like me and don’t want me around but they’re happy to take my money. I know this but I’ve been giving in for a long time. I patronize the companies paying for the shows. I actually watch the drivel, which is approving it.
So what can I do? I guess I could just sit back and wait to see what happens, but that technique hasn’t worked so far.

I’ve considered buying stock in the offending networks, which will give me a voice in what happens. If a lot of people that think like I do buy a share or two in Fox or ABC they can influence TV.
One of us can do a petition on change.org and share it with like-minded folks. People do that for all kinds of things. My Grandson shared one about Snapchat, so any subject is OK. Several hundred thousand rural white people could voice their concerns pretty loudly. Then again, we did that when we elected Trump and people lost their minds over it.

I submit to you that the best way to show our displeasure is to “take our ball and go home” by not watching the offensive shows or spending money with the people that hate us. If the big insurance company loses thousands of customers because they’re financing hate towards rural white people, they’ll have to stop or they’ll not get paid.

We all complain about “The View” but it’s still on TV. If we stop buying the widget that is advertised on that show, the widget maker will take her ball and go home leaving “The View” on the cutting room floor.
Maybe we should each let our wishes be known so we can shop without being hated. We can watch TV without being insulted. We can refuse to play.
Fini.