Thursday, June 26, 2008
Brainwashed child would have been too distressed
Here's another story about a father who doesn't get to see his son and who will have to rely on the courts (of UK). If you can stand to read truly heartbreaking stuff, read this and weep. More people need to know about this BS.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Letter I sent to my former states's child support agency (redacted info originally included in letter)
To Whom it May Concern Within the State of XXXXXX,
I have recently received yet another ORDER/NOTICE TO WITHHOLD INCOME FOR SUPPORT from your fine state. It is with frustration that I am held in such a reduced state of opinion from my former home state. To be forced from the very beginning of my ex-wife's and my separation some years ago to have my wages garnished without due course at my ex-wife's mere request (although I'm certain she holds no bias toward me), is an insult at best and is highly unjust. Never, no, not once have I ever been given the opportunity to show my own willingness and ability to self-pay.
One look at my record of child-support payments during times of self-payment (due to job changes or periods of unemployment) should suffice to convince any rational person of reasonable intelligence that I faithfully do my children's due—even though I strongly disagree with the many imperfections of the rest of the child-support system.
For the parent (man or woman) who must pay child-support at least this much is certain: time spent with children is likely minimal, and is, at best, less than the other parent/guardian to whom child support is paid to. Therefore, the one who is paying the support is so much the loser as not only he loses time with children, but also pays for that time lost. It's an addition of insult to injury. To then allow an ex-spouse to forcefully dictate whether or not his/her ex's wages are garnished just furthers the injustice.
Understandably, wage garnishment is sometimes necessary. But it should be used only when the payor has shown unwillingness to pay. I have clearly not. Therefore I do hereby request that when the load becomes too much to bear and not bending over is too much to ask, I beg of you all, please, kiss my ass!
Yours truly,
XXXXX
Dedicated father of three
XXXXXXXX
XXXX, XX XXXXX
SSN: XXX-XX-XXXX
DOB: XX/XX/XX
CASE#: XXXXX
I hate fatherhood
I despise cliches. One which I detest the most is the saying, "that which does not kill me makes me stronger." I prefer to turn it around. "That which does not make me stronger kills me." I feel this way about fatherhood. I detest fatherhood. I would wish it on no one nowadays. Too much can go wrong. Too much shit can happen. Call me a cynic. Fatherhood has brought me much pain, thanks to an ex-wife who does all in her power to turn my children against me. Though she has not completely succeeded in this, to some extent she has. I do not see my children frequently enough to know. To speak of the pain I have suffered, however, seems selfish when there are so many more fathers out there who have not seen their children in years or who don't even know where they are. I am fortunate that my children do not hate me and that I still know where they are. Too many fathers have it real tough and my heart goes out to them. Especially fathers who do not have much of a support network to get them through all the shit they must go through. These are the fathers who, according to Just Another Disenfranchised Father (6/20 post), can wind up becoming murderers/suicides. Not that I condone these people's actions at all, but if we all truly understood the suffering of what many of these fathers (and/or mothers) had to endure, we would be much slower to place sole blame on them and much quicker to try to remedy the all too often cause of such horrible acts, Parental Alienation.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
I Hate Divorce (from 2005)
I hate divorce. I hate the angst and heartbreak its victims must endure. To have thrown one's everything--might, mind, strength, and heart--into the creation of a solitaire unit to only have it regurgitated and vomited back into one's face is the ultimate insult.
The shock of hearing one's own worthlessness from the other--that despite having given one's all toward the good and well-being of this concept of oneness formed from the two--is devastating at the very least.
Nothing more needs saying after hearing the otherwise two innocent words It's over. Nothing in this life ever prepared me for those two simple words. Indeed, I had had horrible bouts with depression, paralyzing insecurity (not just during adolescence), and confusion. For at least a decade of my life (I am now 32) these three components combined and proved to be the rule of everyday life. The exceptions occurred while playing with my children or being alone.
I was about eight when my own parents divorced. Oddly, I have no negative remembrance of it. I am grateful for them for the manner in which they handled it. Yet, I remember many occasions on which I felt envious of friends and peers who, unlike me, had their families intact and spent their time together. Though a few years later, Mom would remarry and my brothers and I would have more of a "normal" family, I was still envious.
In fact, I still am. I regret growing up without my father at home. I imagine that for others whose parents have stayed together, there exists a firmer ground for them to stand upon. I imagine an anchor, so to speak, that can always be lowered during stormy times and trouble.
But there is more envy than this, I regret time not spent playing catch together in the backyard. Or times when Dad did not come to see me play ball (he lived 4 hours away). Doubtless there would've been times when he would've shown me how to just do things--things I would've hated doing, like painting the house or fixing the car, yet things I would always remember because "I learned it from my Dad." What I wouldn't give now to have been able to hear him say, "I'm gonna put my foot up your ass!" a few more times than our eight years together allowed him to. (By the way, he never once kept that promise.)
My greatest source of concern is my children. They will now have thrust upon them much of what my brothers and I had upon each of us. Though circumstances are different, times change, and they seem to have many advantages which we did not, one fact remains the same. Their mother and father will not ever live with them together again. Talk about finality.
The shock of hearing one's own worthlessness from the other--that despite having given one's all toward the good and well-being of this concept of oneness formed from the two--is devastating at the very least.
Nothing more needs saying after hearing the otherwise two innocent words It's over. Nothing in this life ever prepared me for those two simple words. Indeed, I had had horrible bouts with depression, paralyzing insecurity (not just during adolescence), and confusion. For at least a decade of my life (I am now 32) these three components combined and proved to be the rule of everyday life. The exceptions occurred while playing with my children or being alone.
I was about eight when my own parents divorced. Oddly, I have no negative remembrance of it. I am grateful for them for the manner in which they handled it. Yet, I remember many occasions on which I felt envious of friends and peers who, unlike me, had their families intact and spent their time together. Though a few years later, Mom would remarry and my brothers and I would have more of a "normal" family, I was still envious.
In fact, I still am. I regret growing up without my father at home. I imagine that for others whose parents have stayed together, there exists a firmer ground for them to stand upon. I imagine an anchor, so to speak, that can always be lowered during stormy times and trouble.
But there is more envy than this, I regret time not spent playing catch together in the backyard. Or times when Dad did not come to see me play ball (he lived 4 hours away). Doubtless there would've been times when he would've shown me how to just do things--things I would've hated doing, like painting the house or fixing the car, yet things I would always remember because "I learned it from my Dad." What I wouldn't give now to have been able to hear him say, "I'm gonna put my foot up your ass!" a few more times than our eight years together allowed him to. (By the way, he never once kept that promise.)
My greatest source of concern is my children. They will now have thrust upon them much of what my brothers and I had upon each of us. Though circumstances are different, times change, and they seem to have many advantages which we did not, one fact remains the same. Their mother and father will not ever live with them together again. Talk about finality.
Divorced/Separated Dads: Refused from Seeing Own Children?
Just curious...Any Dads out there have any kids with an ex-spouse who is using your children against you? Do you try to visit your children and find it difficult and contentious when even your own blood looks up at you and says "Daddy, I don't want to go with you today?" When one ex bashes the other one in front of the child(ren) or uses them to manipulate the other ex, this is called Parental Alienation (PA). Parental Alienation Syndrome (PAS) is the affect that this behavior may have on any children involved. According to the material I've read on this topic, the custodial parent is by far and away the greatest perpetrator of this child abuse. Although fathers are sometimes guilty of this form of abuse, mothers form the greater majority.
I write this because it sucks when things happen to you but you can't quite explain them. You know, when something stinks but you can't quite discern the smell. For all of you men (or women) who have been on the receiving end of this abuse: look it up. Do a google search or two on "parental alienation (syndrome)." There is hope, and it's also nice to know there's a name for all the injustice being done to you and your children.
I write this because it sucks when things happen to you but you can't quite explain them. You know, when something stinks but you can't quite discern the smell. For all of you men (or women) who have been on the receiving end of this abuse: look it up. Do a google search or two on "parental alienation (syndrome)." There is hope, and it's also nice to know there's a name for all the injustice being done to you and your children.
Emily slows me down
Emily Dickinson is the perfect antidote to a racing mind before bedtime. I love to read, ruminate, and theorize--and no, I'm not bragging. My problem is that I rarely read for leisure (right now I'm reading Whittaker Chambers' Witness--a tough one--and a couple other political books that energize my mind more than slow it down). I just have no interest in reading pop fiction--I am, after all, (ahem) an highly intelligent being and far above such low-fray materiél.
So when I stumbled upon my old, trusty, worn and weathered book of poetry by Ms. Dickinson--actually, it's barely left the bookshelf since I bought it just two years ago--I grabbed it, put it by my bed, and have read it for the past three nights just before hitting the lights.
This may sound stuffy, but I really do like her stuff. It's very simple and beautiful--sort of like listening to light Debussy before bed. Just two suggestions if you've never read her before: don't think too hard; and read it as if a child had written it. There's an element of innocence throughout her stuff. Some of it is really sublime.
So when I stumbled upon my old, trusty, worn and weathered book of poetry by Ms. Dickinson--actually, it's barely left the bookshelf since I bought it just two years ago--I grabbed it, put it by my bed, and have read it for the past three nights just before hitting the lights.
This may sound stuffy, but I really do like her stuff. It's very simple and beautiful--sort of like listening to light Debussy before bed. Just two suggestions if you've never read her before: don't think too hard; and read it as if a child had written it. There's an element of innocence throughout her stuff. Some of it is really sublime.
Van Gogh rocks! (originally from 2005)
Van Gogh rocks! Have you ever just stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of a bookstore, public building or any place you just happened to be when Vincent Van Gogh jumped right out and grabbed you, forcing you to take notice? I have. And not just a few times, either. In fact, often, when I pull him from my own bookshelf with the intention of just perusing a few pages, I end up sitting for at least an hour immersed in the photocopied images of his rich paintings and reading some of his biography (you know the book—the eternal $9.99 sale price one at Borders and Barnes & Noble—by R Metzger & I F Walther).
Now I’m no professional art critic, but you don’t have to be one in order to admire this man’s art. My favorite painting of his is A Pair of Shoes (late 1886—not the early ’87 version of the same title). It is a simple piece: a brown worn and weathered pair of shoes with tattered and torn shoestrings set on a lighter brown and dirty background.Though it’s not considered one of his greatest, I’m awed by its simplicity and symbolism. I believe this painting reflects a simple truth: that every man (woman, or child) has his own pair of shoes, his own places he’s been, people he’s known, experiences he’s had. This piece reflects the painter’s compassion for all of us who have walked many miles in our own shoes. It respects no one. It depicts a great truth about all of us: that we each—despite all the help along the way—must walk in our own shoes.
Among other things, Van Gogh is of course well-known for his thick layering of paint. This is what I love most about his work. He just throws the shit on! I love the use of color in The Sower With Setting Sun (June 1888 version), but it just wouldn’t be the same without the thick violet (or, violent) strokes of earth. Even better is Still Life: Vase with Twelve Sunflowers (August ’88). My interpretation of this one is that of a controlled rage. It looks like he’s not only just slamming the paint on, but that he’s also directing and honing his rage effortlessly (note the stunning detail of the seeds), proving his masterful supremacy to the genre that (I believe) he created. And by virtue of his mastery over this rage, we are left with the simple flower (even a few)—the symbol of sunshine and cheer. Brilliant!
If you’ve never given Van Gogh a chance, you should. There’s a lot to be had from this dead man. He just laid it all out—his artwork, his love for his brother, and his life in general. In a letter (#571) to his brother, Theo, he says, “My pictures are of no value; though of course they cost me a very great deal, at times even my blood and my brain” ...well, and your life, too pal. But maybe that’s why he was so great.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Speed Kills!
Speed Kills!
I like to drive fast. What’s the point of getting anywhere if you can’t get there fast? Isn’t there some saying about the journey being the most important part of going somewhere? If this is true why does some nut have to tamper with how I get to wherever I’m going?
That’s what speed bumps do. Who puts those damnable things in the middle of the road, anyway? What right do they have as to how fast I wish to go in my super turbocharged Geo Metro DX ES XP Master’s Ltd Ed. 21,143 DOHC? Oops, can’t forget the wing—er, spoiler, that is.
Cops bother me, too. Just last night I had one in front and two in back of me. I guess they thought I was about to do something wrong. They probably have a special watch just for me. They probably talk about me all the time over their radios (at least I like to think I’m this popular) like I’m some kind of dope dealer they’re just waiting to bust when they finally catch me in the act.
Fortunately, there is an easy way to have fun with a smoky bear when he’s on your tail. The one thing they all love to do is drive fast. Have you ever noticed these hypocrites? They must all think they’re special or something—especially when they have those whirly-birds on their car roofs flashing and screaming.
Well, there’s something you can do about it! Drive slower. You know they hate it. And if you want to make things really interesting, do this when they have their flashy lights turned on.
I’m also not a fan of stoplights, so I don’t let them stop me. It’s not my fault if they turn red at all the wrong times. My otherwise beloved small town in Pennsylvania is not like other towns you’ve been in when if you time it right, you hit all the green lights consecutively. No, that would be too easy. Here, if you time it just right, you have to run all the red lights consecutively.
And we’re also not allowed to turn right on red (at least that’s what they think, tee hee hee). There’s even one intersection that is comprised of two one-way streets. The only way to have an accident by turning on red there is if another car is coming the wrong way up the one-way street.
The pedestrians are another thing altogether. Pedestrians have no respect for cars. I think it should be made legal if I bump off some old guy with a walker who was crossing where he shouldn’t have been—or even if he was crossing where he should have been, for that matter. Wouldn’t that just add more fun and excitement? Besides, streets were meant for vehicles, not people. Who do they think they are?
Perhaps I’m overreacting, but I doubt it. You see, if there were no laws restricting drivers from bumping off the occasional pedestrian—or even the often pedestrian—then people would watch more carefully. They wouldn’t be so disrespectful. Better still, it would put the speed bump makers out of business—what with the human speed bumps everywhere. And that would make any journey worth the while.
I like to drive fast. What’s the point of getting anywhere if you can’t get there fast? Isn’t there some saying about the journey being the most important part of going somewhere? If this is true why does some nut have to tamper with how I get to wherever I’m going?
That’s what speed bumps do. Who puts those damnable things in the middle of the road, anyway? What right do they have as to how fast I wish to go in my super turbocharged Geo Metro DX ES XP Master’s Ltd Ed. 21,143 DOHC? Oops, can’t forget the wing—er, spoiler, that is.
Cops bother me, too. Just last night I had one in front and two in back of me. I guess they thought I was about to do something wrong. They probably have a special watch just for me. They probably talk about me all the time over their radios (at least I like to think I’m this popular) like I’m some kind of dope dealer they’re just waiting to bust when they finally catch me in the act.
Fortunately, there is an easy way to have fun with a smoky bear when he’s on your tail. The one thing they all love to do is drive fast. Have you ever noticed these hypocrites? They must all think they’re special or something—especially when they have those whirly-birds on their car roofs flashing and screaming.
Well, there’s something you can do about it! Drive slower. You know they hate it. And if you want to make things really interesting, do this when they have their flashy lights turned on.
I’m also not a fan of stoplights, so I don’t let them stop me. It’s not my fault if they turn red at all the wrong times. My otherwise beloved small town in Pennsylvania is not like other towns you’ve been in when if you time it right, you hit all the green lights consecutively. No, that would be too easy. Here, if you time it just right, you have to run all the red lights consecutively.
And we’re also not allowed to turn right on red (at least that’s what they think, tee hee hee). There’s even one intersection that is comprised of two one-way streets. The only way to have an accident by turning on red there is if another car is coming the wrong way up the one-way street.
The pedestrians are another thing altogether. Pedestrians have no respect for cars. I think it should be made legal if I bump off some old guy with a walker who was crossing where he shouldn’t have been—or even if he was crossing where he should have been, for that matter. Wouldn’t that just add more fun and excitement? Besides, streets were meant for vehicles, not people. Who do they think they are?
Perhaps I’m overreacting, but I doubt it. You see, if there were no laws restricting drivers from bumping off the occasional pedestrian—or even the often pedestrian—then people would watch more carefully. They wouldn’t be so disrespectful. Better still, it would put the speed bump makers out of business—what with the human speed bumps everywhere. And that would make any journey worth the while.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Just Say No!
Here is an article I had published in a school newspaper about six months ago.
Alright, here I go. I’m going in face first. I know it may be tough. But hey, I’m a man. I can take it. What I’m about to say may offend a few. It may offend a lot. Or maybe it won’t offend anyone at all—well, except maybe my pet llama who’s really hungry as I write this. Well anyway, here goes!
You know that whole thing that all sorts of people in all sorts of places have been talking about? You know that….umm….thing? Umm…well…you know what I’m talking about…don’t you? What? You don’t? Alright..well...maybe you don’t. GAY MARRIAGE! There, I said it. Whew, that actually didn’t hurt much. I suppose to please my editor though, I have to say a little more than that. Alright, well, here goes: I’m not an advocate of same-sex marriage. In fact, I really don’t like it, umm…even a little bit. For the reasons why I’m not a fan, please refer to my website at www.spineless.com. Well…on second thought, maybe I should just tell you. Besides, if you go to my website you’ll see that it’s not actually mine—it’s my sister’s. Oops! I forgot I don’t have a sister. Truth be known, I don’t like same-sex marriage very much because, well, it’s different, you know. Oh come on now, you know it is! How can you not know something is a little strange about the idea of one man marrying another or two women marrying each other? I know, I know, it’s also strange that for every marriage there are 3,536 divorces all across the Fruited Plain, but you’re not going to trick me into changing the subject now that I’m on a roll.
WARNING: The next few things I’m about to say may be unsuitable for the faint of heart, so I would advise those who are to read and reread the following paragraph at least 50 times to get your heart back into shape. (Note: out of the fear of my expert opinion being incorrect I have not consulted with your cardiologist).
There are a few perks that come with marriage. First of all, it’s nice to have someone always there to take care of your every need—say, for instance, someone to squeeze your pimples. Another benefit is sex (just because I rank them in this order doesn’t mean you have to). Speaking of sex (here’s the part I warned you about), when a man and a woman put their bodies together and…well…you know…do that thing they do, there is a sort of, well…a natural fit. Something akin to picking one’s nose. I think God knew what he was doing when he created the finger of man—and woman—at just the right size to get the job done (he did a particularly excellent job in my case). But in any event, if you put two men together in the holy order of patrimony—oops, I mean matrimony—the second greatest benefit of marriage (sex, remember?) becomes, well, somehow changed. It’s like the parts don’t fit. Now, since I’ve never actually tried it myself I can’t be absolutely sure, but I have a pretty good idea of how men might try to make it fit. Unfortunately, however, due to spatial constraints (I am limited to only 30,000 words here), I can only express to the men with same-sex attraction that I’m concerned that you may poke out an eyeball should you attempt to pick your nose. Unfortunately, for the females who are attracted to other women, I’m afraid you’ll never be able to pick your nose at all (figuratively speaking, that is) unless you—well, nevermind…
There is, of course, much more that can be said about same-sex marriage. Much has already been said by those in favor and by those who oppose it. Personally, yes, I think it is wrong. However, if, like me, you’re more interested in a personally handcrafted pimple squeeze every now and then than you are in sex, I say what the heck, take a walk down the Aisle with that man, woman, or llama of your dreams. Just remember, llamas are easily offended.
Alright, here I go. I’m going in face first. I know it may be tough. But hey, I’m a man. I can take it. What I’m about to say may offend a few. It may offend a lot. Or maybe it won’t offend anyone at all—well, except maybe my pet llama who’s really hungry as I write this. Well anyway, here goes!
You know that whole thing that all sorts of people in all sorts of places have been talking about? You know that….umm….thing? Umm…well…you know what I’m talking about…don’t you? What? You don’t? Alright..well...maybe you don’t. GAY MARRIAGE! There, I said it. Whew, that actually didn’t hurt much. I suppose to please my editor though, I have to say a little more than that. Alright, well, here goes: I’m not an advocate of same-sex marriage. In fact, I really don’t like it, umm…even a little bit. For the reasons why I’m not a fan, please refer to my website at www.spineless.com. Well…on second thought, maybe I should just tell you. Besides, if you go to my website you’ll see that it’s not actually mine—it’s my sister’s. Oops! I forgot I don’t have a sister. Truth be known, I don’t like same-sex marriage very much because, well, it’s different, you know. Oh come on now, you know it is! How can you not know something is a little strange about the idea of one man marrying another or two women marrying each other? I know, I know, it’s also strange that for every marriage there are 3,536 divorces all across the Fruited Plain, but you’re not going to trick me into changing the subject now that I’m on a roll.
WARNING: The next few things I’m about to say may be unsuitable for the faint of heart, so I would advise those who are to read and reread the following paragraph at least 50 times to get your heart back into shape. (Note: out of the fear of my expert opinion being incorrect I have not consulted with your cardiologist).
There are a few perks that come with marriage. First of all, it’s nice to have someone always there to take care of your every need—say, for instance, someone to squeeze your pimples. Another benefit is sex (just because I rank them in this order doesn’t mean you have to). Speaking of sex (here’s the part I warned you about), when a man and a woman put their bodies together and…well…you know…do that thing they do, there is a sort of, well…a natural fit. Something akin to picking one’s nose. I think God knew what he was doing when he created the finger of man—and woman—at just the right size to get the job done (he did a particularly excellent job in my case). But in any event, if you put two men together in the holy order of patrimony—oops, I mean matrimony—the second greatest benefit of marriage (sex, remember?) becomes, well, somehow changed. It’s like the parts don’t fit. Now, since I’ve never actually tried it myself I can’t be absolutely sure, but I have a pretty good idea of how men might try to make it fit. Unfortunately, however, due to spatial constraints (I am limited to only 30,000 words here), I can only express to the men with same-sex attraction that I’m concerned that you may poke out an eyeball should you attempt to pick your nose. Unfortunately, for the females who are attracted to other women, I’m afraid you’ll never be able to pick your nose at all (figuratively speaking, that is) unless you—well, nevermind…
There is, of course, much more that can be said about same-sex marriage. Much has already been said by those in favor and by those who oppose it. Personally, yes, I think it is wrong. However, if, like me, you’re more interested in a personally handcrafted pimple squeeze every now and then than you are in sex, I say what the heck, take a walk down the Aisle with that man, woman, or llama of your dreams. Just remember, llamas are easily offended.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Tolerate This!
What’s up with this tolerance thing? Teach tolerance this, teach tolerance that. Surely you’ve heard this before. Just what does it mean? And for all of you who use this codespeak, admit it, you know what I’m talking about.
Tolerance is not my favorite word. Well, actually I don’t like it very much at all. In fact, I detest it! It is eeeviiiiill. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! If I was in charge (don’t worry, no one would be witless enough to give me any power), I would enact a law that states if anyone is caught using this word (or even if they’re not caught!), he or she can choose one of two penalties for his punishment: 1) immediate public beheading performed by spouse, or, 2) being subjected to the wannabe words ‘yada yada yada’ 4,836 times in a row. Personally I would choose #1. But since I’m remaining objective here I will abstain from saying so.
Why, you may ask, would I choose such extreme penalties as these? To this, I have only one answer: I am an extremely tolera—oops, I mean lenient guy. I mean, if I really wanted to get nasty I would choose to punish the Tolerant Society by secluding myself to some remote island so no one would ever hear from me again; fortunately though, I’m too nice a guy.
I suppose I should explain why I take the position I do about (t-word). I can think of two reasons:
First, the definition of (enter t-word here) carries a negative connotation. It means to put up with; to forbear begrudgingly. Take, for example, the following two sentences regarding two 3 year old friends. One describes tolerance, one doesn’t:
1) Johnny told Sally he guessed he’d just have to risk the potential for emotional instability being friends with her would cause him, since his best friend, 4 year-old Stevie, had said to him, ‘Sally is not exactly a charmer.’
2) Johnny told Sally to go hang herself on his pappy’s hog slaughtering meat hook.”
Can you tell which of these is pro-(t-word)? If not, let me explain it to you like I was in 4th grade: The first sentence depicts the amoral rationale of the multifacetudinously exponentiality of the directive proffered in the Conciliatory Conference held in Dwain’s basement when we were tired of playing PlayStation (Dwain is my other best friend). Unlike the first sentence, which was full of PC BS (politically correct fertilizer, for those of you in higher ed.), the second one establishes a clear, if not lucid, description of why just three days later Sally was found firmly ensconced in the air on…nevermind.
Here is why the scenario described in sentence 2, the anti-(t-word) sentence, is preferred. If you were Johnny, would you like to feel pressured to put up with Sally even though you didn’t like her? Or would you prefer to be honest and truthful—in other words, have her killed? Don’t answer that. (Note: Sally’s viewpoint was not represented here due to her untimely passing.)
The second reason I object to (t-word) is because those who spread it—The Almighty I Know What is Best For Society Scholars—would have the rest of us numbnuts' believe that we should all join hands in a big circle, sing Kumbaya, and whisper sweet nothings into each others’ ears. Frankly, this would be okay with me because I need a vacation. But, unfortunately, since I’ve used up all my vacation time cutting down 900 year old sequoias in the Amazon, I think I’ll just have to wait until next year.
Tolerance is not my favorite word. Well, actually I don’t like it very much at all. In fact, I detest it! It is eeeviiiiill. I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! If I was in charge (don’t worry, no one would be witless enough to give me any power), I would enact a law that states if anyone is caught using this word (or even if they’re not caught!), he or she can choose one of two penalties for his punishment: 1) immediate public beheading performed by spouse, or, 2) being subjected to the wannabe words ‘yada yada yada’ 4,836 times in a row. Personally I would choose #1. But since I’m remaining objective here I will abstain from saying so.
Why, you may ask, would I choose such extreme penalties as these? To this, I have only one answer: I am an extremely tolera—oops, I mean lenient guy. I mean, if I really wanted to get nasty I would choose to punish the Tolerant Society by secluding myself to some remote island so no one would ever hear from me again; fortunately though, I’m too nice a guy.
I suppose I should explain why I take the position I do about (t-word). I can think of two reasons:
First, the definition of (enter t-word here) carries a negative connotation. It means to put up with; to forbear begrudgingly. Take, for example, the following two sentences regarding two 3 year old friends. One describes tolerance, one doesn’t:
1) Johnny told Sally he guessed he’d just have to risk the potential for emotional instability being friends with her would cause him, since his best friend, 4 year-old Stevie, had said to him, ‘Sally is not exactly a charmer.’
2) Johnny told Sally to go hang herself on his pappy’s hog slaughtering meat hook.”
Can you tell which of these is pro-(t-word)? If not, let me explain it to you like I was in 4th grade: The first sentence depicts the amoral rationale of the multifacetudinously exponentiality of the directive proffered in the Conciliatory Conference held in Dwain’s basement when we were tired of playing PlayStation (Dwain is my other best friend). Unlike the first sentence, which was full of PC BS (politically correct fertilizer, for those of you in higher ed.), the second one establishes a clear, if not lucid, description of why just three days later Sally was found firmly ensconced in the air on…nevermind.
Here is why the scenario described in sentence 2, the anti-(t-word) sentence, is preferred. If you were Johnny, would you like to feel pressured to put up with Sally even though you didn’t like her? Or would you prefer to be honest and truthful—in other words, have her killed? Don’t answer that. (Note: Sally’s viewpoint was not represented here due to her untimely passing.)
The second reason I object to (t-word) is because those who spread it—The Almighty I Know What is Best For Society Scholars—would have the rest of us numbnuts' believe that we should all join hands in a big circle, sing Kumbaya, and whisper sweet nothings into each others’ ears. Frankly, this would be okay with me because I need a vacation. But, unfortunately, since I’ve used up all my vacation time cutting down 900 year old sequoias in the Amazon, I think I’ll just have to wait until next year.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Walking Billboards
What is it these days about people and labels? People are mostly smart (at least I like to think so), so here is something I do not get. Why is it that people—and it seems most people do—confine themselves so readily to being labeled by some company who is making money off their own willingness to paint themselves into Dale Earnhardt, Jr. or some other icon? I love walking down the street and being sold to by Nike, Old Navy, or Bud Light or whatever company has successfully extracted a few bucks from some mindless nabob. I can’t help but wonder if the thought had even crossed the mind of the unsuspecting victim that he or she’d been had. I mean, shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t a person be paid to be a walking billboard? You don’t ever see any roadside billboards standing in line at the local rescue mission or the teeny-bopper mall to purchase the garnishment that would cover their own nakedness, do you? Of course not! And you’ll never see me stoop to that level, either.
In fact, when I was pimply-faced and insecure—wait, I still am. I mean when I was in school, I was never reduced to self-labeling or calling myself a variety of names--I had friends to do that for me.
So I just don’t get it.
And then there are those people who drive around with a cute little oval on their bumper which says OBX? What on earth is an OBX?! And why is it these people want me to know that they like OBX? I actually have my very own secret theory that these people are the degenerative progeny of the earliest cavemen and that they are still utilizing their ancestral language that only they know in order to make them feel sophisticated.
But now it’s even worse. We’ve got all these other idiotic indecipherable white ovals plastered to every piece of available space imaginable. I guess these sophisticates are now becoming even more sophisticated. In fact, just yesterday I saw stationary OBX hubcaps. That’s right, you heard me! While the car is moving these things stay upright. They must be weighted somehow so that the letters don’t turn while the car is moving. Wow! Now, if it’s really true what these modern cave dwellers say—I overheard once that OBX is Cavespeak for the Outer Banks—I’m grabbing my wife and kids immediately and am going to spend my two week vacation along the Carolina coast just to find out what the hubbub is all about. Perhaps while I’m down there I’ll find my answer while walking along the beach with a kid at each hand as the sun sets over the beautiful water.
But if not, the next time I see any vehicle with that annoying white oval and those same black letters, I’m going to jump from my car, rip that thing off, and save someone else from the deception—and from spending a few of their precious hard-earned dollars on a wasted trip when instead they could use their money on something worthwhile—like a baseball cap with a big fat checkmark on it!
In fact, when I was pimply-faced and insecure—wait, I still am. I mean when I was in school, I was never reduced to self-labeling or calling myself a variety of names--I had friends to do that for me.
So I just don’t get it.
And then there are those people who drive around with a cute little oval on their bumper which says OBX? What on earth is an OBX?! And why is it these people want me to know that they like OBX? I actually have my very own secret theory that these people are the degenerative progeny of the earliest cavemen and that they are still utilizing their ancestral language that only they know in order to make them feel sophisticated.
But now it’s even worse. We’ve got all these other idiotic indecipherable white ovals plastered to every piece of available space imaginable. I guess these sophisticates are now becoming even more sophisticated. In fact, just yesterday I saw stationary OBX hubcaps. That’s right, you heard me! While the car is moving these things stay upright. They must be weighted somehow so that the letters don’t turn while the car is moving. Wow! Now, if it’s really true what these modern cave dwellers say—I overheard once that OBX is Cavespeak for the Outer Banks—I’m grabbing my wife and kids immediately and am going to spend my two week vacation along the Carolina coast just to find out what the hubbub is all about. Perhaps while I’m down there I’ll find my answer while walking along the beach with a kid at each hand as the sun sets over the beautiful water.
But if not, the next time I see any vehicle with that annoying white oval and those same black letters, I’m going to jump from my car, rip that thing off, and save someone else from the deception—and from spending a few of their precious hard-earned dollars on a wasted trip when instead they could use their money on something worthwhile—like a baseball cap with a big fat checkmark on it!
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