If you can’t laugh at yourself, I suggest you have no self-respect. You take yourself that seriously, you need to take a look around you, there’s a lot out there more important than you. More important than you fifty years ago and last week. More important than the misguided soul in your skin right now, especially. I’m willing to bet, or as my Daddy used to say, “Betcha a dollar to a dog turd and hold the stakes in my mouth, you’re so wrong you smell bad,” that tomorrow’s sunrise ain’t gonna elevate your reading on the importance meter.
Fancy myself good at that. Hoping I think, to have folks understand my cynicism and caustic tone don’t mean I feel I am any better than anyone else. See immediately above – I laugh at myself a lot.
Misogyny and Misanthropy
Not really a misanthrope, just disappointed a lot. Mostly my fault. I’m working on it.
I could easily be misconstrued as a misogynist, but I’m not. I can see where folks might want to think that true for the same reasons they’d mistakenly consider me a racist. I’m as much racist or misogynist as I am one who thinks whiney folk considering they’ve been denied rightful entitlement are slugs. Need a name for that. Gastrophobist? Unfortunately, extreme feminists (including pro-feminist males) and purple people (and ‘purple people are downtrodden’ unpurple people) a goodly portion of the time evoke gastrophobia.
Now if you want to talk liberal and conservative, we’re gonna pitch battle.
When I master my misanthropy (or humankind gives me less justification for it) some of my misogynistic and gastrophobic battles will be remanded to a lower court.
Language and Translation
Bumped heads with a senior blogger to whom I am constantly in debt. We disagree civilly on any number of things, agree surprisingly on as many more. I sense a recent misunderstanding. I’ll go at that sideways. Took a jibe from a different reader that I recognized as a good humor poke. Mentioned it. Commented back. It was not a lament that non-English readers needed my assistance. Hell, they’re all sharper than I am, would consider my doing something I’m not ready for an insult or at least unnecessary.
Several talented folks I follow post in foreign languages, some with and some without on-board translate options. I mange with Italian, less so with Spanish. Portuguese scares the snot out of me. Swedish looks like it should be easy. It’s not and there are so many extra letters floating around there, it could run a close second to Devanagari, Russian, Arabic, or Chinese. As much as I dislike Google (we won’t get into that) it bails me out when I get lost in Italian, Spanish, or French, and is indispensable otherwise. Google does not have an option to translate from USA to GrBr. That’s a serious shortcoming.
The original comment was of the sort that keeps writers reasonably honest. Not completely, just reasonably. Oughta figure how to put that in a capsule and make politicians swallow one pill every day.
Read and comment
On the ‘agree’ part – here’s the deal, though it’s a dead horse.
When someone “likes” a post, especially someone not following a blog or from a new or little traffic-ed country, you understand a poster’s curiosity. Worse when someone “reads” incognito. Meh.
But it remains, many do not actually “read.” You know, chew all the words. I get it. Personally, rest assured, if I like or comment on your post, I read that doober. Sometimes twice, and if using a translator, more than that. I owe that to you. It’s an obligation.
I suggest, in fairness, if you didn’t read a post, don’t “like” it. It suggests a certain amount of success that’s pretend.
Comments are invaluable. You don’t care to comment, fine, just read. That’s why writers write. A simple “like” though, is good. Bless, you, thank you.
The value in comments is that they direct, correct, applaud, and chastise a written effort. Or open a dialogue. If I need to explain any further, I’ll get into the disease all writers suffer, egonarcissism. You don’t want that. It’s scary.
Senior Day Parts 1 and 2
Staying mindful that cultural differences flavor interpretation of written words, a certain amount of misunderstanding is expected. A little disappointed that folk on both side of the Big Salty east of here, purportedly speaking a common language seem to be the ones with the most difficulty understanding each other. Looking back, there was a war over that. No. Wait. Some George guy was mostly to blame for that tiff. Yeah. Wanna bet? Like another later day “George” is responsible for all the steam here? Unh-uh. Takes two to two-step, Bubba.
Folks want to have their feel-goods stroked. Give’m a kitty cat, a trusty albeit somewhat daft dog, or a sure-fire recipe for chocolate chip cookies, they experience bliss. They’ll love you to the point of embarrassment.
At the same time, nothing captures a person’s (reader’s) attention like something they vehemently disagree with or that is fatally divisive but what is presently in front of them matches their opinion.
Humans are stupid. Every swinging-Jack one of us. Bile is neither sweet nor savory. I know because I’m good at it. Good at stupid, and good at bile.
Parts 1 and 2 seemed to have been good audience-wise. Not entirely sure I like the reasons.
Senior Day Part 3
Here’s the final tease.
First, at the head of the aisles, directly behind the checkout lines, there are, only on Senior Geezer Days, the sample counters to contribute to the cross-aisle traffic and the checkout lines folding around the length of the already-clogged head aisle. These sample stations are manned by old people, themselves old geezers, performing public service. They offer tiny cups of miniature barbecued sausages, lemon-bars, trail mix, imitation cheese on too-salty crackers, and the like.
If you have a strong stomach, the areas around these sample stations are an interesting study. Old geezers invariably try to be covert taking third and fourth samples of tasty treats particularly to their liking. It is requisite that while chewing, they must continue to talk to the sample-giver as if to convince them they might actually purchase what is sampled, or in lieu of that to chew with their mouths constantly open in an exaggerated way. What they manage to let fall from their mouths piles up on the floor in the immediate area gently nestling with the empty or half-empty sample cups tossed to the floor so as not to overfill the garbage receptacle positioned insanely close to the sample stations, and empty. I did warn you. This area is not for the faint of heart.
Checkout time. Like all males, I’m plagued with wrong-line-itis. It doesn’t make any difference which checkout line I pick. That one is guaranteed to be slowest of them all. I’ve been in lines so slow the wheels on my cart have gone flat. All four of them, including the one permanently frozen into a left turn. Think about that. Those wheels are solid, hard rubber. Going flat takes some serious long-time standing. Which means “waiting.”
“Well, you big goddamn dummy,” you say. “Get yourself and your cart into another line!”
That won’t make any difference. You know it won’t. The line I just left will suddenly move faster than the Colorado River in spring melt, and the one I just lined-up in stops dead so quickly the checkout conveyor belt smokes. The check-out clerk has to go pee. The customer checking out is writing a check on a bank in Afghanistan only the Regional Manager, on vacation in Cozumel, can ‘authorize.’ The seventy-eight-year-old fart buying a six-pack of beer, a jar of salsa and a bag of nacho chips can’t find his driver’s license to prove he’s over eighteen. The only requirement making sense for checking-out this old dude would be to make sure his heart is still thumping, which requires a stethoscope and medical training, not a driver’s license. The bagger and cashier are suddenly diverted completely from Aunt Agatha’s melting ice-cream and her dog Bowsie’s French Chef Kuisine du Kanine by their discussion of last night’s MTV concert.
“Like, pretty-much, that was totally awesome!” This accompanied by a phenomenal rolling of eyeballs back into the recesses of the checkout’s head so that only the whites were visible. Reminiscent of Little Orphan Annie from the Sunday comics.
In case you wonder, there is an entirely correct response to that, and it usually runs akin to “Oh, my Gawd! Like, to die for!” Which, you know, must be synchronized with a false swoon.
Let’s not forget the all-time champion checkout line-plugger…
And here’s the link to the full episode. Remember, it is NSFW, though much less so than parts 1 and 2 for language, more for recklessly taking a hard look at people, and dear reader, myself.
If you’re a glutton for punishment, here’s a link to the whole shebang. Just because it’s a single post doesn’t mean any of the NSFW burn has been smoothed-away. That takes redacting aloe I ain’t got.
Dang. Here they come with my pills…