Cynic of the day
When I run across an article touting “experts say,” I begin to look askance at the whole of it. If you must tell me the individual or individuals you’re propagandizing for are ‘experts,’ you just admitted you yourself don’t have complete faith in what you’re going to insult me with. You’ve laid groundwork for yourself to beat a hasty retreat should I smell coffee and commence to smoking your oysters. After all, it wasn’t you who suggested men of the cloth are always motivated purely out of need to serve their fellow man; that Bridges Don’t Fall Insurance, LLC has your best interests at heart, will find you the best insurance policy for the money, saving you, like they did Quincy Shortbread (on average) five-hundred and eighty dollars per year on your auto policy. The ‘experts’ told you so.
(Snort.) And you believed!
Just tell me the guy in the filmclip accompanying your article, the one in the background with his hand stupidly placed over the blue flame of a Bunsen burner, has been doing viral research for twenty-six years and the charges against him are still pending. I’ll save you a little sweat and do some independent research when you pedal-off to sell your slicer-dicer to someone else. Shipping and handling extra.
One or two of us out here in the boondocks do not believe anyone’s god regularly consults with your ‘experts.’
Oh. You washed-up, out-of-work celebrities who want me to write a check to your charity for orphaned rattlesnakes, whyn’t you just take the bucks your endorsement work promised, give that to the rattlesnakes? Well, maybe the two or three cents of each dollar not siphoned-off to ‘overhead.’
Works for me.
Lookit. I get a phone call from 666-***-**** advising me if I don’t call back right away and make arrangements to pay-off my IRS debt, the IRS is going to send agents to arrest me, torture my family, shoot my dog, and piss in my pansies. What the (use your favorite expletive)?
Why? Why is there not, a national number so it works like this? Jane Seenyle or Benny Idunno gets one of these calls. Niece Nora or Nephew Nathan is there changing diapers and intercepts the voice message. Nora or Nathan calls the “Send the Summitches to Prison” hotline and reports the number. Technology takes over. A real IRS agent calls the number and instantaneously (I don’t care what you believe) locates the origin and every swinging-expletive law enforcement agent from Chuck Norris to Barney Fyfe swoops in, beats the caller stupid, and puts them to cleaning roadside litter for the rest of their natural lives, plus ten. Unless they successfully rat-out their bosses in which case their bosses carry the trash bag hand-picking litter, and the caller uses the sharp pointy stick to keep the boss moving down the road with jabs to the sitter.
Law and Order (Hear the music?)
You was wondering about the stop sign, right? Here’s the deal. “Don’t pick your nose; your finger will get stuck up there, and you’ll have to go through life like that.” Momma said. Never find true love. Never get married. Never have kids (not entirely unfortunate) unless you found another of the binary-or-whatever you care to spend the next until-I-get-bored eternity with – which is scary in itself.
You don’t have to obey any laws if you don’t care to, if it’s inconvenient, or you feel (or have been told) that law represents a violation of your rights. I have to follow the laws. You do not. Because, well, because you.
Lookit. If you won’t stop at a stop sign because after all, I mean, isn’t the intent that you just slow down enough to look for another vehicle that might have the right-of-way or (the insufferable ass operator) T-bone you into being legitimately entitled to a parking spot matching your specialness?
Okay, don’t stop. Cheat on your taxes. Let your dog poop in a yard where kids play. Shop with brick charge cards. Rape. Spit on sidewalks. Maybe even murder or cut in line at the checkout. Once you start, and it starts to feel comfortable, you’re on your way into lawlessness, Bud.
If, some (however feeble-minded) traffic engineer didn’t feel a complete stop was necessary, reckon s/he might have mandated a “YIELD” sign at the exit from your subdivisions?
If the law ain’t right, change it. Not with Molotov refreshments; that will result in limited buy-in; someone as moronic as you but of (how could they?) differing opinions will be disinclined to submit. Do it according to currently established means. Then everyone will have to buy-in. Including me. Then you can send your college professors to arrest me and put me in time-out.
Suppose it’s gonna cost a bundle to replace or overhaul roadway signage. Maybe the money saved by ‘defund’ movements can defray the costs somewhat.
This here ain’t a rant. It’s maybe (just a little bit) exaggerated, but you get my drift. In a real rant, I’d open-up and speak what’s really on my mind. We’ve had enough of that these last (seemingly) countless months. Obtuse? Sarcasm? Cynicism?
Yeah, but I feel better. How about you?
Favorite Insults No. 10 – Mrs. Embry
My husband Riley was down the road with his biggest tractor and our son, Jason. They were pulling a city-slicker’s car out of the mire created when Saskatoon’s Creek revolted its banks and attacked low-lying roads and highways with mucous-y, unforgiving mud. Whatever possessed even the most inexperienced driver to challenge a water-swollen country road with a low-slung, city-street or racetrack-only sportster escapes me. Riley didn’t comment before starting back with Jason to attach chains to the forlorn auto. I knew what he was thinking.
Riley extracted the city dude from his marooned vehicle before the ooze reached the windscreen, filled the vehicle, and soiled the gentleman’s three-piece. He left “Mr. Leslie Barton, Jr.” to watch salvage operations with me on our long driveway high ground. It only took Mr. Barton ten minutes to get comfortable with the aroma from our nearest pasture, uncommonly pervasive, thanks to the saturated ground.