When a commodity is in such short supply that most people have never actually even seen it, much less have the ability to utilize it if they do come across any, wouldn't that make this commodity rare and therefore more precious?
We certainly wouldn't call this commodity common, would we?
You know what I'm talking about here, right? Something like 'sense' for example...
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Monday, February 26, 2018
Being introspective. AKA Swimming in the pity pool
I've been pissed. Not somewhat irritated. Not experiencing a period of angst. Pissed.
Lately, the smallest thing has been able to set me off. And I don't like it. I don't like being wound so tight that it takes every bit of control I can muster to not kick the living shit out of my little dog when he wants to get in my lap cause he loves me, but he's getting to old to jump and needs a hand sometimes.
This isn't me. I don't kick dogs, and I don't get pissed when things don't go my way.
So what the fuck is going on with me? Time to do some introspective soul searching and figure this out.
And here's some of the off the wall crap I've come up with:
I don't like my forced retirement. I haven't worked since I got crippled in 2012. Not because I CAN'T, but because no one hires a 50+ year old man with a blown out shoulder.
Thanks to my contribution to social security, I still get a check every month. And FUCK YOU out there who say I'm on some sort of welfare. I PAID into this government dole system all my life, since I was THIRTEEN and held my first job. This is NOT fucking welfare, and I'm not trying to sit my ass at home and live off YOUR taxes. This is an ENTITLEMENT. Look up that word. And I'd rather be fucking working. What the benevolent government "gives" me isn't shit compared to what I can earn.
I'm obsolete. Or forgotten. Or replaced. The actual word is up to you, but it boils down to: no one bothers to come to me for shit anymore.
It never mattered what job I was doing, but thanks to my father raising me with a good work ethic, not only did any job I was hired for get done, it got done RIGHT. Some of the tenets I was raised under were "If you take a man's money, you do a man's work", "I don't care if you dig ditches for a living. As long as you dig them damn well", and one of my dad's favorites, "Good enough, AIN'T!".
I always seemed to rise through the ranks quickly in all my endeavors, and quite honestly never thought anything about it. Looking back, all I can say is "Thank you, Dad. You done good."
I USED to be "that guy". The one motherfucker EVERYONE came to for ANYTHING.
Those stupid flip-flops you wore to work blew out? No problem. Just shove that little doohickey that goes between your fat ugly toes back through the hole in the sole and stick a couple pieces of straightened paper clip through it in an 'X' pattern. Won't hold forever, but it'll get you through till you get home and put on a REAL fucking pair of shoes.
Can't change your own broke bulb in that blinker that caused you to get a ticket on the way to work? Here. Not only am I going to SHOW you the four little screws you need to take out, but I'm going to use a piece of the duct tape I keep rolled on an expired credit card in my wallet to tape the allen wrench I used on the back of the light fixture so next time you can not only do it yourself, but you actually HAVE the tool you need to DO IT WITH right there with you.
Need a screwdriver, flashlight, wire, lubricant, knife, wrench, spoon, clip, hair tie, tape, or magnet? More than likely, I got it on me, or I'm carrying a reasonable facsimile to get the job done with. And know HOW to get it done, too.
Or as my adopted granddaughter told her old man when the training wheels broke on her bike: call Stevie. HE can fix ANYTHING!
Plumbing? No problem.
Electrical work? Don't be shocked, but I got this.
Carpentry? If you need a hand, I can even build THAT out of wood. Just ask Bustednuckles. And if THAT guy can't fix it, it AIN'T BROKE!
Guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself lately. Friends are fading from my life. I don't feel like I'm making a difference or even a contribution anymore. Even this farm is getting me down lately. With advancing age I'm not able to work as long or as hard as I used to could. My government dole stays the same while the cost of everything from tool replacement to food goes up. And some days it seems like not only am I NOT making progress, but can't even seem to keep up. Plus I finally got my pygmy goat breeding pair, and someone stole my nanny. I fucking hate thieves. Costs an arm and a leg to buy materials for a decent goat pen, just to come home and find everything still locked up and your nanny gone. With only the buck left, I put him in with the pigs. They get along real well, and anyone wants to go in THAT pen is more than welcome. My boar will even gladly get rid of any evidence....
Well, thanks for letting me rant. I feel a bit better now, and I appreciate it. Guess I'll get out of the pity pool and off my ass now. Supposed to be a sunny day today. Maybe I'll get something done and feel better.
But if ya need something fixed, or just to talk sometime, I know a guy...
Lately, the smallest thing has been able to set me off. And I don't like it. I don't like being wound so tight that it takes every bit of control I can muster to not kick the living shit out of my little dog when he wants to get in my lap cause he loves me, but he's getting to old to jump and needs a hand sometimes.
This isn't me. I don't kick dogs, and I don't get pissed when things don't go my way.
So what the fuck is going on with me? Time to do some introspective soul searching and figure this out.
And here's some of the off the wall crap I've come up with:
I don't like my forced retirement. I haven't worked since I got crippled in 2012. Not because I CAN'T, but because no one hires a 50+ year old man with a blown out shoulder.
Thanks to my contribution to social security, I still get a check every month. And FUCK YOU out there who say I'm on some sort of welfare. I PAID into this government dole system all my life, since I was THIRTEEN and held my first job. This is NOT fucking welfare, and I'm not trying to sit my ass at home and live off YOUR taxes. This is an ENTITLEMENT. Look up that word. And I'd rather be fucking working. What the benevolent government "gives" me isn't shit compared to what I can earn.
I'm obsolete. Or forgotten. Or replaced. The actual word is up to you, but it boils down to: no one bothers to come to me for shit anymore.
It never mattered what job I was doing, but thanks to my father raising me with a good work ethic, not only did any job I was hired for get done, it got done RIGHT. Some of the tenets I was raised under were "If you take a man's money, you do a man's work", "I don't care if you dig ditches for a living. As long as you dig them damn well", and one of my dad's favorites, "Good enough, AIN'T!".
I always seemed to rise through the ranks quickly in all my endeavors, and quite honestly never thought anything about it. Looking back, all I can say is "Thank you, Dad. You done good."
I USED to be "that guy". The one motherfucker EVERYONE came to for ANYTHING.
Those stupid flip-flops you wore to work blew out? No problem. Just shove that little doohickey that goes between your fat ugly toes back through the hole in the sole and stick a couple pieces of straightened paper clip through it in an 'X' pattern. Won't hold forever, but it'll get you through till you get home and put on a REAL fucking pair of shoes.
Can't change your own broke bulb in that blinker that caused you to get a ticket on the way to work? Here. Not only am I going to SHOW you the four little screws you need to take out, but I'm going to use a piece of the duct tape I keep rolled on an expired credit card in my wallet to tape the allen wrench I used on the back of the light fixture so next time you can not only do it yourself, but you actually HAVE the tool you need to DO IT WITH right there with you.
Need a screwdriver, flashlight, wire, lubricant, knife, wrench, spoon, clip, hair tie, tape, or magnet? More than likely, I got it on me, or I'm carrying a reasonable facsimile to get the job done with. And know HOW to get it done, too.
Or as my adopted granddaughter told her old man when the training wheels broke on her bike: call Stevie. HE can fix ANYTHING!
Plumbing? No problem.
Electrical work? Don't be shocked, but I got this.
Carpentry? If you need a hand, I can even build THAT out of wood. Just ask Bustednuckles. And if THAT guy can't fix it, it AIN'T BROKE!
Guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself lately. Friends are fading from my life. I don't feel like I'm making a difference or even a contribution anymore. Even this farm is getting me down lately. With advancing age I'm not able to work as long or as hard as I used to could. My government dole stays the same while the cost of everything from tool replacement to food goes up. And some days it seems like not only am I NOT making progress, but can't even seem to keep up. Plus I finally got my pygmy goat breeding pair, and someone stole my nanny. I fucking hate thieves. Costs an arm and a leg to buy materials for a decent goat pen, just to come home and find everything still locked up and your nanny gone. With only the buck left, I put him in with the pigs. They get along real well, and anyone wants to go in THAT pen is more than welcome. My boar will even gladly get rid of any evidence....
Well, thanks for letting me rant. I feel a bit better now, and I appreciate it. Guess I'll get out of the pity pool and off my ass now. Supposed to be a sunny day today. Maybe I'll get something done and feel better.
But if ya need something fixed, or just to talk sometime, I know a guy...
Thursday, February 22, 2018
Monday, February 19, 2018
For you gun grabbing asshats who think youll win
Go ahead, Dumbass. Here's your agenda. I'll make it easy for you:
1. Take all automatic weapons from civilians. This will allow "law enforcement" and the federal government to be the only one's wielding these terrible weapons of death dealing terror. Because this will make you somehow safer. Oh, wait. This is ALREADY a fait accompli...
2. Make illegal those nasty bump stocks that turn legal semiautomatics into illegal full automatics. And, again, this leaves you at the mercy of your police state federal government. This making you somehow safer...
3. Take away all semiautomatic weapons because only the military needs something like that anyway...
Once the above steps are accomplished, take away all concealed/open carry of ANY handgun. This will ensure law abiding citizens are unarmed when the bad guy starts shooting.
Make it illegal to own rifles of any caliber. Shotguns are all anyone reasonably needs to procure game anyway.
Remove the right to own shotguns. No one in this age of enlightened snowflakes needs to hunt. The government will provide. Besides, THEY have automatics.
NOW you're safe! Provided for by your benevolent jack booted government thugs carrying the full-automatic authority of government while you reside comfortably in your safe spaces secure in the knowledge that "all is well".
But I'd like to mention what I consider to be a rather salient point:
ONE well trained man; soldier, LEO, backwoods Redneck, with good intent, armed with a lowly .22 caliber plinker, is a bigger threat to 5 men armed with "spray and pray" automatics who think they're fucking Rambo than THEY are to YOU. And is THE answer to stopping terror. The REALLY dangerous man is the only hope we have to remain safe and free. He's the one willing to step up and save your sorry ass. You're more likely to be trampled by the herd of cattle running over you too avoid getting shot than actually being hit by some idiot wanna-be Al Capone spraying his 'gat' like some kid waving around his winkie.
Just saying...
1. Take all automatic weapons from civilians. This will allow "law enforcement" and the federal government to be the only one's wielding these terrible weapons of death dealing terror. Because this will make you somehow safer. Oh, wait. This is ALREADY a fait accompli...
2. Make illegal those nasty bump stocks that turn legal semiautomatics into illegal full automatics. And, again, this leaves you at the mercy of your police state federal government. This making you somehow safer...
3. Take away all semiautomatic weapons because only the military needs something like that anyway...
Once the above steps are accomplished, take away all concealed/open carry of ANY handgun. This will ensure law abiding citizens are unarmed when the bad guy starts shooting.
Make it illegal to own rifles of any caliber. Shotguns are all anyone reasonably needs to procure game anyway.
Remove the right to own shotguns. No one in this age of enlightened snowflakes needs to hunt. The government will provide. Besides, THEY have automatics.
NOW you're safe! Provided for by your benevolent jack booted government thugs carrying the full-automatic authority of government while you reside comfortably in your safe spaces secure in the knowledge that "all is well".
But I'd like to mention what I consider to be a rather salient point:
ONE well trained man; soldier, LEO, backwoods Redneck, with good intent, armed with a lowly .22 caliber plinker, is a bigger threat to 5 men armed with "spray and pray" automatics who think they're fucking Rambo than THEY are to YOU. And is THE answer to stopping terror. The REALLY dangerous man is the only hope we have to remain safe and free. He's the one willing to step up and save your sorry ass. You're more likely to be trampled by the herd of cattle running over you too avoid getting shot than actually being hit by some idiot wanna-be Al Capone spraying his 'gat' like some kid waving around his winkie.
Just saying...
A quick note on pets
Rose and I both have a love of large dogs.
We've mostly been enamored of St Bernards and Great Danes.
Everyone said our place was to small, especially if we wanted a pair.
Well, apparently everyone is wrong, as our house is more than large enough for either two St Bernards OR two Danes.
Of course, WE will have to move out...
We've mostly been enamored of St Bernards and Great Danes.
Everyone said our place was to small, especially if we wanted a pair.
Well, apparently everyone is wrong, as our house is more than large enough for either two St Bernards OR two Danes.
Of course, WE will have to move out...
Friday, February 16, 2018
A few thoughts on breathing
I don't know how many of you out there are 'Preppers', 'survivalists', or even breathing. I do, however, know that when it comes to the last category, I'm definitely a firm convert.
I like breathing.
That slow in and out exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide that allows one the opportunity to not only stop and smell the roses, but also to start up again and run away when the bee that ALSO had stopped to smell the roses gets pissed off at being sucked up your nasal passages.
And I firmly maintain that in order to remain a breather, it is more and more important to be now, or at least start, being one of the former.
I follow a number of sites thattry to separate me from my hard earned money make it their goal to teach me how to be a "survivor".
One of the more informative and enlightening is SHTFPlan by a guy who only goes by Selco. This guy lived through TEOTWAWKI (Google it, or not.) during the Balkan wars.
And in one of his latest interviews on another site I stop by, he compares the former country of Yugoslavia (where it DID happen) with the good ol' red, white, and blue, US of A (where of course it could NEVER happen) and notes a number of surprising comparisons.
Most of it pretty stupid shit, like vilifying the past, and changing it to suit a particular group's own views, or to make one part of the past accommodate the world view THEY think should be the "official" version. Or the impossibility of random attacks on neighbors simply for condoning opposite religious, political, sexual, scientific, racial, or (insert choice of complex individual ideology here). Free speech tolerance, anyone?
Or any number of possible social, political, natural, or man-made calamities.
He makes some surprising observations on all this.
But this is all really not that big of a deal for me. I'm not a prepper. I'm just inherently used to being prepared. Raised that way by parents who actually BUILT a fallout shelter pursuant to the Cuban missile crisis. And I'm not a survivalist. If the purpose of my existence is only to survive, I've missed the point somewhere. My parents did NOT build the shelter to survive. They built the damn thing to protect their children and allow more generations to go on when they were no longer around.
NO one has ever built a bomb shelter in order to live past being dead.
They just want to stick around long enough to either help kick-start the next batch of breeders, or out of a sense of hubris that they somehow have knowledge to pass on that no one in the history of like, FOREVER, has ever thought of.
Which just caused a random thought. Which of course is also going to make this ramble longer, 'cause you KNOW I'm going to have to examine this new thought (Sorry).
Do you realize that we, the baby boomer generation, are the first to have a lower standard of living than our parents? Do you also realize that the term baby boomer comes from all the kids conceived during the threat of imminent extinction through nuclear war that our parents perceived? Again, they weren't being 'survivors'; they were being animals following an animal's instinct to breed in order continue the species. And doing a fine job of it, too!
So, back to whatever it is I was saying....let's see... Not a prepper.... Not a survivor, because I doubt I will survive dead, even though I've managed to give the Reaper a pretty good run so far...
So, that leaves breather.
I actually like this moniker out of all the others out there. I'm a BREATHER! With all the rights and benefits to be accorded thereto.
I have joy in breathing that prepping and surviving can never provide.
I can breathe in the scent of a new born puppy. That one unmistakable smell that tells all small boys there is faithful companionship waiting to explore rolling hills and muddy banks together, regardless if he's ever actually experienced these joys before.
The exhalation of my wife I breathe in as she leans in for a kiss.
The smell of rain. Of spring blooms and plowed fields.
The smell of wood smoke. Providing both the warmth of a comforting hearth in winter, or combined with the scent of a meal prepared with love from hands often grown feeble from age, but never from caresses.
Okay, sure. I'm fairly prepared for life's little surprises. And strive to become more so daily.
I work at being able to survive in the face of adversities affecting my well-being. A little too late for breeding purposes, though if needed for such activity, I would do my damnedest to step up to the task. But perhaps SOMEONE can benefit from my wisdom that has not come to me from age so much as from being a bit of a fuck up and (hopefully) learning from my mistakes.
I'm just a busted up old breather, taking in one breath after having enjoyed all the benefits of the last, and then living in breathless anticipation of the next as that one too is expelled.
Prep if you must, survive as you will, but take my advice: keep breathing.
I like breathing.
That slow in and out exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide that allows one the opportunity to not only stop and smell the roses, but also to start up again and run away when the bee that ALSO had stopped to smell the roses gets pissed off at being sucked up your nasal passages.
And I firmly maintain that in order to remain a breather, it is more and more important to be now, or at least start, being one of the former.
I follow a number of sites that
One of the more informative and enlightening is SHTFPlan by a guy who only goes by Selco. This guy lived through TEOTWAWKI (Google it, or not.) during the Balkan wars.
And in one of his latest interviews on another site I stop by, he compares the former country of Yugoslavia (where it DID happen) with the good ol' red, white, and blue, US of A (where of course it could NEVER happen) and notes a number of surprising comparisons.
Most of it pretty stupid shit, like vilifying the past, and changing it to suit a particular group's own views, or to make one part of the past accommodate the world view THEY think should be the "official" version. Or the impossibility of random attacks on neighbors simply for condoning opposite religious, political, sexual, scientific, racial, or (insert choice of complex individual ideology here). Free speech tolerance, anyone?
Or any number of possible social, political, natural, or man-made calamities.
He makes some surprising observations on all this.
But this is all really not that big of a deal for me. I'm not a prepper. I'm just inherently used to being prepared. Raised that way by parents who actually BUILT a fallout shelter pursuant to the Cuban missile crisis. And I'm not a survivalist. If the purpose of my existence is only to survive, I've missed the point somewhere. My parents did NOT build the shelter to survive. They built the damn thing to protect their children and allow more generations to go on when they were no longer around.
NO one has ever built a bomb shelter in order to live past being dead.
They just want to stick around long enough to either help kick-start the next batch of breeders, or out of a sense of hubris that they somehow have knowledge to pass on that no one in the history of like, FOREVER, has ever thought of.
Which just caused a random thought. Which of course is also going to make this ramble longer, 'cause you KNOW I'm going to have to examine this new thought (Sorry).
Do you realize that we, the baby boomer generation, are the first to have a lower standard of living than our parents? Do you also realize that the term baby boomer comes from all the kids conceived during the threat of imminent extinction through nuclear war that our parents perceived? Again, they weren't being 'survivors'; they were being animals following an animal's instinct to breed in order continue the species. And doing a fine job of it, too!
So, back to whatever it is I was saying....let's see... Not a prepper.... Not a survivor, because I doubt I will survive dead, even though I've managed to give the Reaper a pretty good run so far...
So, that leaves breather.
I actually like this moniker out of all the others out there. I'm a BREATHER! With all the rights and benefits to be accorded thereto.
I have joy in breathing that prepping and surviving can never provide.
I can breathe in the scent of a new born puppy. That one unmistakable smell that tells all small boys there is faithful companionship waiting to explore rolling hills and muddy banks together, regardless if he's ever actually experienced these joys before.
The exhalation of my wife I breathe in as she leans in for a kiss.
The smell of rain. Of spring blooms and plowed fields.
The smell of wood smoke. Providing both the warmth of a comforting hearth in winter, or combined with the scent of a meal prepared with love from hands often grown feeble from age, but never from caresses.
Okay, sure. I'm fairly prepared for life's little surprises. And strive to become more so daily.
I work at being able to survive in the face of adversities affecting my well-being. A little too late for breeding purposes, though if needed for such activity, I would do my damnedest to step up to the task. But perhaps SOMEONE can benefit from my wisdom that has not come to me from age so much as from being a bit of a fuck up and (hopefully) learning from my mistakes.
I'm just a busted up old breather, taking in one breath after having enjoyed all the benefits of the last, and then living in breathless anticipation of the next as that one too is expelled.
Prep if you must, survive as you will, but take my advice: keep breathing.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Quickie note:
One of the reasons I may seem a bit cynical (aside from the fact that I truly am a cynical old bastard) is that I've been fighting this damn flu for the past week and pretty much stuck on the sofa drinking (ichhh) water! Which, as you may or may not know, does not come in an inherently fermented state, and lord only knows what those fish do in it.
I'm on doctor prescribed disgusting shit that my loving(?) wife insists on constantly shoving down my throat, and am getting better, but have watched that previously mentioned feel good video on the "news" multiple times daily, and am becoming rather crotchety in my discomfort.
Plus that whole dietary fiber thing....
I'm on doctor prescribed disgusting shit that my loving(?) wife insists on constantly shoving down my throat, and am getting better, but have watched that previously mentioned feel good video on the "news" multiple times daily, and am becoming rather crotchety in my discomfort.
Plus that whole dietary fiber thing....
MORE local news...
Everybody who has turned on the so-called news in order to 'stay informed', and yet still has an iota of actual brain matter remaining in use, knows that what the local stations call 'news' and 'reporting' are in reality 'feed the masses feel-good puff pieces' requiring all the leg work and investigation of searching yahoo.news or getting stupid shit in their inbox from someone looking for 5 minutes of fame from their video of a horse pissing on an electric fence then doing the "I'm a horse that just pissed on an electric fence happy little pee-pee dance".
Now don't get me wrong. I watch the news all the time.
1. I'm actually hoping, beyond any actual expectations, to "be informed".
And 2. You may have noticed I'm a somewhat cynical old fuck that a little dose of "happy little cute kitten shit" once in awhile probably could do some good.
But sometimes, every now and then, I tend to miss the message I believe these do-gooder, funny-kitten-video showing, self proclaimed 'reporters' happily doing their very damnedest to coherently read the teleprompter to bring you the latest major news event as if they themselves had actually discovered, researched, and are now bringing it to you 'live', are trying to get across.
My rant today is a result of a video story the media has been showing for a whole fucking week now, about a poor widdle doggy owned by some little old lady (of course), being rescued from a frozen river near Tulsa, because, having walked all the way out to the middle of this frozen deathtrap, it now finds itself unable to return to its owner's loving, (but apparently too busy to, oh, I don't know, actually be bothered to keep a fucking eye on the mutt in the first place,) arms.
The paid responders on the rescue team, the absolute best this city can field, rescue this wayward mutt through the beautiful, insightful, wonderfully thought out expedient of risking their very own lives, by putting a blow up rescue raft on the ice and through an amazing display of Olympian-style synchronized butt-scooching inside the raft itself, scoot said rescue vehicle, attached to a safety line, out to the dog, who promptly jumps into the succoring arms of these incomparable heroes. At which point, raft, rescuers, and dog are all pulled back to the safety of the shore.
Story with video HERE.
Beautiful story, happy ending, everyone impressed by the brilliance and demonstrated agility of these two heroes in this daring and thankfully successful rescue!
Right?
Well, almost. Except for that one asshole out there, trying oh-so-hard to see this as the feel good story of his life, who INSISTS on noticing the bridge crossing the river about fifty yards in the background. And wondering, in his typically cynical view of those who claim responsibility for our safety, and that of our pets, because we can't be expected to take care of our own shit, why they didn't send one of these two butt scoochers down, across the bridge, and back up the other side, throw a damn rope across, tie the raft to the rope, pull ONE guy rather than TWO (thus reducing possible ice breaking, butt scooching weight) out to the mutt, and then either back to the original shore, or continue to the other side? Less time, less effort, and less chance of double-butt weight breaking the ice everyone seems concerned the dog's weight alone will crush if he even breathes too hard...
(The intelligence is strong in these ones, Obi-wan)
So in closing, let me say: WELL DONE you life risking, underpaid public rescue workers!
And THANK YOU local teleprompter reading reporters for bringing us this AMAZING video story of daring-do and thinking-DON'T!
(I think I might have to start getting more fiber in my diet, or something, ya know?)
Now don't get me wrong. I watch the news all the time.
1. I'm actually hoping, beyond any actual expectations, to "be informed".
And 2. You may have noticed I'm a somewhat cynical old fuck that a little dose of "happy little cute kitten shit" once in awhile probably could do some good.
But sometimes, every now and then, I tend to miss the message I believe these do-gooder, funny-kitten-video showing, self proclaimed 'reporters' happily doing their very damnedest to coherently read the teleprompter to bring you the latest major news event as if they themselves had actually discovered, researched, and are now bringing it to you 'live', are trying to get across.
My rant today is a result of a video story the media has been showing for a whole fucking week now, about a poor widdle doggy owned by some little old lady (of course), being rescued from a frozen river near Tulsa, because, having walked all the way out to the middle of this frozen deathtrap, it now finds itself unable to return to its owner's loving, (but apparently too busy to, oh, I don't know, actually be bothered to keep a fucking eye on the mutt in the first place,) arms.
The paid responders on the rescue team, the absolute best this city can field, rescue this wayward mutt through the beautiful, insightful, wonderfully thought out expedient of risking their very own lives, by putting a blow up rescue raft on the ice and through an amazing display of Olympian-style synchronized butt-scooching inside the raft itself, scoot said rescue vehicle, attached to a safety line, out to the dog, who promptly jumps into the succoring arms of these incomparable heroes. At which point, raft, rescuers, and dog are all pulled back to the safety of the shore.
Story with video HERE.
Beautiful story, happy ending, everyone impressed by the brilliance and demonstrated agility of these two heroes in this daring and thankfully successful rescue!
Right?
Well, almost. Except for that one asshole out there, trying oh-so-hard to see this as the feel good story of his life, who INSISTS on noticing the bridge crossing the river about fifty yards in the background. And wondering, in his typically cynical view of those who claim responsibility for our safety, and that of our pets, because we can't be expected to take care of our own shit, why they didn't send one of these two butt scoochers down, across the bridge, and back up the other side, throw a damn rope across, tie the raft to the rope, pull ONE guy rather than TWO (thus reducing possible ice breaking, butt scooching weight) out to the mutt, and then either back to the original shore, or continue to the other side? Less time, less effort, and less chance of double-butt weight breaking the ice everyone seems concerned the dog's weight alone will crush if he even breathes too hard...
(The intelligence is strong in these ones, Obi-wan)
So in closing, let me say: WELL DONE you life risking, underpaid public rescue workers!
And THANK YOU local teleprompter reading reporters for bringing us this AMAZING video story of daring-do and thinking-DON'T!
(I think I might have to start getting more fiber in my diet, or something, ya know?)
Monday, February 12, 2018
A rant on some educational issues
There's a rally at the 2nd floor rotunda of the state capital building of Oklahoma. 10:30-3:00...
And I can get behind this one. It's to give OK teachers a huge pay raise they say they need to meet the cost of living here.
I'd even join my voice to this cause if they would be willing to meet a few VERY minor conditions.
1. Teach English. No, I don't mean how to conjugate a verb. I think conjugating should be taught by the parents. It's bad enough they give out free condoms in school without them showing our kids how to go about conjugating with verbs in public, too.
Remember the late 1700's? No? Hmm, well, that's more about history, and we'll get back to that shortly.
I'm talking the English language of the late 1700's. When spelling was secondary to the actual meaning of the words. Try getting a 6th grade kid to read the Constitution sometime. Might as well hand them a copy written in Cyrillic. They're as likely to read and comprehend that as the American version penned by our forefathers.
And don't get me started on the bastardization of our beautiful language by Millenials too lazy and illiterate to even USE real words. ("but, like, REAL words are too BIG and HEAVYISH!")
They're too busy worrying about the fact that precip could ruin their vacay, or of spilling the virtual half-caff lowfat mocha latte they bought at Mickey Dee's on the info hi-way telecommuting to their male-dominated job in Cali on their vajay-jay.
It comes extremely near to positively enforcing a single individual's desire to secrete a saline infused solution from said individual's optic receptors, don't it?
(almost makes ya wanna cry, don't it?)
2. Mathematics. Okay, I think this is a 'core' problem in our schools. In addition to the teachers subtracting any sense of reason from this subject, I think it causes a multiplicity of divisions in the classroom and even in the home. 'Nuff said.
3. History. (See? I told you we'd get back to history in the future. And here we are!)
Here's the Reader's Digest condensed version (and STILL better than the movie!):
We won. They lost.
There, was that so hard?
And speaking of the book being so much better than the movie, try reading the original script of the Declaration of Independence as written by the forefather playwrights for a good look at history! No quibbling, no beating around the bush, no worrying about saying something that could possibly be interpreted as a microaggression toward Henry.
Nope. Just a straight forward 'here's where we feel the problem stems from' and 'here's our intended solution'. Doesn't seem like they were all that concerned with some overseas snowflake's widdle feewings being hurt, do it?
Yes, we beat the Indians
Something like 200-10, and stole the property rights. So don't bring a bow and arrow to a gun fight... Same shit is still being done today, except instead of calling it white privilege, or some such shit, we call it eminent domain, and EVERYBODY gets a chance. And if that don't work, there's always civil forfeiture...still our government, still us.
We bought and sold slaves. Cheaper than gasoline to run the plantation tractors that hadn't been invented yet. Get over it already.
EVERYBODY of EVERY color who was ANYBODY had slaves.
It was SO de rigeur! And like buying land from Indians, a hand full of beads to an African chief who had a surplus of his fellow blacks as slaves already, was a damn sight cheaper than waiting for bred stock to grow up. The only real problem was the shipping.
I have never bought, sold, or owned ANY other individual. Nor has anyone I know to my current understanding . Those that did are dead, deAD, DEAD. So are all the people who WERE slaves. Don't continue to blame me for my ancestors sins, and get off your ass and stop being a victim, already. For reference, actually READ the biography of Martin Luther King. Or per our current educational level in this country, see the movie. THEN maybe we can engage in rational discourse.
4. Government and Civics.
Put 'em back. Then MAYBE we can get an educated people to hold our government to task, who understand the necessity of the golden rule in dealing with they're fellow man.
Okay, there. I'm not asking much in return for a simple cost of living raise amounting to at LEAST 6000.00/year, am I?
And I'd like to apologize to any persons who are offended by my opinions. This is NOT a safe place, so if I've hurt you in any way, I hope that the discomforture caused has been enough to get you to WAKE THE FUCK UP AND STOP WHINING.
(This particular post is in response to a teacher's rally in OK. Which is being attended by MOST of the teachers in the state. This is NOT an official school function. Participation requires these educators of our children to call in sick in order to attend and still be paid for their time.
And these lying, poor examples of proper work ethics, who want our state gubmint to waste more money to buy the services of an untold number of substitute "teachers" so they can NOT work today, want more money so they can call in sick to rally in order to protest...
Yeah, I can get behind that...
And I can get behind this one. It's to give OK teachers a huge pay raise they say they need to meet the cost of living here.
I'd even join my voice to this cause if they would be willing to meet a few VERY minor conditions.
1. Teach English. No, I don't mean how to conjugate a verb. I think conjugating should be taught by the parents. It's bad enough they give out free condoms in school without them showing our kids how to go about conjugating with verbs in public, too.
Remember the late 1700's? No? Hmm, well, that's more about history, and we'll get back to that shortly.
I'm talking the English language of the late 1700's. When spelling was secondary to the actual meaning of the words. Try getting a 6th grade kid to read the Constitution sometime. Might as well hand them a copy written in Cyrillic. They're as likely to read and comprehend that as the American version penned by our forefathers.
And don't get me started on the bastardization of our beautiful language by Millenials too lazy and illiterate to even USE real words. ("but, like, REAL words are too BIG and HEAVYISH!")
They're too busy worrying about the fact that precip could ruin their vacay, or of spilling the virtual half-caff lowfat mocha latte they bought at Mickey Dee's on the info hi-way telecommuting to their male-dominated job in Cali on their vajay-jay.
It comes extremely near to positively enforcing a single individual's desire to secrete a saline infused solution from said individual's optic receptors, don't it?
(almost makes ya wanna cry, don't it?)
2. Mathematics. Okay, I think this is a 'core' problem in our schools. In addition to the teachers subtracting any sense of reason from this subject, I think it causes a multiplicity of divisions in the classroom and even in the home. 'Nuff said.
3. History. (See? I told you we'd get back to history in the future. And here we are!)
Here's the Reader's Digest condensed version (and STILL better than the movie!):
We won. They lost.
There, was that so hard?
And speaking of the book being so much better than the movie, try reading the original script of the Declaration of Independence as written by the forefather playwrights for a good look at history! No quibbling, no beating around the bush, no worrying about saying something that could possibly be interpreted as a microaggression toward Henry.
Nope. Just a straight forward 'here's where we feel the problem stems from' and 'here's our intended solution'. Doesn't seem like they were all that concerned with some overseas snowflake's widdle feewings being hurt, do it?
Yes, we beat the Indians
Something like 200-10, and stole the property rights. So don't bring a bow and arrow to a gun fight... Same shit is still being done today, except instead of calling it white privilege, or some such shit, we call it eminent domain, and EVERYBODY gets a chance. And if that don't work, there's always civil forfeiture...still our government, still us.
We bought and sold slaves. Cheaper than gasoline to run the plantation tractors that hadn't been invented yet. Get over it already.
EVERYBODY of EVERY color who was ANYBODY had slaves.
It was SO de rigeur! And like buying land from Indians, a hand full of beads to an African chief who had a surplus of his fellow blacks as slaves already, was a damn sight cheaper than waiting for bred stock to grow up. The only real problem was the shipping.
I have never bought, sold, or owned ANY other individual. Nor has anyone I know to my current understanding . Those that did are dead, deAD, DEAD. So are all the people who WERE slaves. Don't continue to blame me for my ancestors sins, and get off your ass and stop being a victim, already. For reference, actually READ the biography of Martin Luther King. Or per our current educational level in this country, see the movie. THEN maybe we can engage in rational discourse.
4. Government and Civics.
Put 'em back. Then MAYBE we can get an educated people to hold our government to task, who understand the necessity of the golden rule in dealing with they're fellow man.
Okay, there. I'm not asking much in return for a simple cost of living raise amounting to at LEAST 6000.00/year, am I?
And I'd like to apologize to any persons who are offended by my opinions. This is NOT a safe place, so if I've hurt you in any way, I hope that the discomforture caused has been enough to get you to WAKE THE FUCK UP AND STOP WHINING.
(This particular post is in response to a teacher's rally in OK. Which is being attended by MOST of the teachers in the state. This is NOT an official school function. Participation requires these educators of our children to call in sick in order to attend and still be paid for their time.
And these lying, poor examples of proper work ethics, who want our state gubmint to waste more money to buy the services of an untold number of substitute "teachers" so they can NOT work today, want more money so they can call in sick to rally in order to protest...
Yeah, I can get behind that...
Saturday, February 10, 2018
Quickie notes
In case it seems like I haven't had a lot of fun mixed in amongst the weeds, it HAS been an uphill climb, but when I stub my toe occasionally, watching ROSIE laugh seems to make it all worthwhile!
it has helped lately, when things get rough, or like now when both myself and Rose are dealing with the flu, and have to still get did what needs doin' that I have always believed God NEVER gives you more than you can handle. I DID NOT however realize he's take that as a CHALLENGE!
Or as ROSIE puts it, God never closes a door without opening a window.
(Which, when you think about it, isn't all that comforting if you happen to live on the 18th floor on the backside of a building burning in front of and UNDER you...)
.
it has helped lately, when things get rough, or like now when both myself and Rose are dealing with the flu, and have to still get did what needs doin' that I have always believed God NEVER gives you more than you can handle. I DID NOT however realize he's take that as a CHALLENGE!
Or as ROSIE puts it, God never closes a door without opening a window.
(Which, when you think about it, isn't all that comforting if you happen to live on the 18th floor on the backside of a building burning in front of and UNDER you...)
.
Friday, February 9, 2018
At Phil's behest
Okay. I know. I go over a year without posting, then do the unforgivable, and post about kittens!
So, I'll go over a few salient points in a 'year in review' sorta thing, and maybe go off on a rant or two if one happens by while I'm swiping this tiny little screen.
I still have shoddy connectivity on the phone service, and web is almost non existent. So I don't got no computer, 'cept this phone. Broke screen on it too. So if some of my typing gets a little skewed, it's the cracks running through the text, and in no way literary ineptitude.
Hmm.... Let's see, guess I'll start with January 2017, as that's about as far back as I can remember these days anyway...
Turned 53.
Yep. Guess that's about all that happened that month of any interest. And that pretty much only to me and the Missus.
February : I got nothing
March: nothing
April: not too much until around the end of the month. Started having some gut pain that got pretty intense, so I went to the emergency room. They admitted me to the Nazi experimental human testing facility to do some tests, put me on a saline IV and pretty much left me to marinate for 24 hours.
During this 24 hours, they told me:
1. It could be pancreatitis. A potentially fatal little nasty. They'd know more soon.
2. Congratulations! It's NOT pancreatitis! It looks like it may be a blockage TO the pancreas from gall stones. Testing in progress.
3. NOT gall stones. Okay. Possibly a problem with the gall bladder itself. Hey! Here's an idea! Let's gut this bugger and rip that sucker right on outta there! What'd'ya say, huh?!
(Couple of side notes here: during this time, I had not urinated at any time. Actually don't recall if I peed at all the 24 hours earlier either. Not something I generally spend much thought on, personally, and no one asked, so...
Fever spiked.
Started hallucinating.
Pain increased exponentially.
Asked for prune juice.
BEGGED for coffee. (I get EXTREME migraines when the blood levels get to high in my caffeine stream)
but was told NOTHING liquid or solid orally per admitting doctor. (personally, I think he was admitting incompetence....) happened between Thursday evening through Friday. So, due to the increasing level of my discomfiture, and out of their natural concern, (not necessarily for ME, so much as the fact that as fast as I was going downhill, if they didn't do SOMETHING, and SOON, I'd never last long enough to get a bill) they scheduled agall bladder bladder-ectomy for Saturday morning. No big deal; sleep, 4 tiny incisions here, here, here, and.... here, clip this thing here, that one there, quick tug, and.... Take this guy to post-op. NEXT.
Problem solved, right?
WRONG.
By Saturday afternoon, they decided to bring in a lung specialist, and a pee doctor. (Yes, I believe that IS the medical expression used to describe these two types of specialists. Possible not, but at least you get an idea of their specialties this way, so if they have another, more clinical, sounding name, keep in mind: I really don't care.) Apparently I'd developed double pneumonia AND my kidneys had shut down.
Apparently, "someone" should have noted that they'd been pumping gallon after gallon of saline INTO me, and nothing had been coming OUT.
My hands and feet were so swollen with fluid that you could barely see my toes, and my hands looked like Popeye's right after he blows it up through his thumb, and just before he nails Brutus.
I was drowning in my own body. Literally. Couldn't expel liquid, lungs filling...
I spent the next seven days peeing, through the magic of modern diuretics. (Not to be confused with Dianetics. Doubt they'd have ANY affect on my urinatin') and on oxygen, fighting to get (just) well enough to walk out on my own two feet. (so of COURSE you have to leave in wheelchair)
Got home on Saturday, had a follow up with my regular doc on Thursday. When I went to my appointment, after four days at home, gasping like a fish out of water the entire time, I realized I had to go wee-wee. A situation I tended to give a great deal more consideration to these days... I made it to the toi-toi, went wee-wee, and collapsed halfway back to the waiting room. My blood-oxygen saturation was at 70%. It SHOULD NEVER go below 90. Man, was my doc 'pissed'!
She wouldn't let Rose take me to the hospital. She called an ambulance to transport me.
I remember getting to the hospital, placed in a bed in the emergency room, and...
(cut to June)
...waking up some time later.
I'd spent May in a coma. No fucking clue where the last month had gone. Time sure flies when you're not paying attention, huh?
Coming out of the comma was funny, painful sad, happy, and a bunch of other adjectives, but I digress... That by itself will probably be a post on here sometime. If I get around to figuring it all out. Maybe.
Okay.... Where was I? Oh yeah, June.
Nothing.
July through December: I got nothin'.
January 2018: both Bustednuckles and myself had birthdays. Unless his was early February. Which pretty much catches every one up to date on me. (Happy Belittled Birfday, my OLD friend! And no, that ain't a spellchecker issue...)
There are a few other honorable mentions:
I was diagnosed with non Hodgkin's lymphoma some time back. Don't remember when, don't care. By the time this slow acting cancer kills me, I'll probably be already dead at least 3 years from old age.
I broke my back. Not broke-broke, just kinda middlin' broke. Was moving a big billy goat, who was acting kind of gruff, to new pasturage, and he took off down a ridge we were traversing. I held on to the rope lead, rolling down the ridge to give the goat something to keep him amused as he hopped and bounced along beside until I finally brought him to a shuddering halt by the expedient method of wrapping my own body around a small tree.
Guess I showed HIM!
However, when wrapping trees, one should always remember to go WITH the grain. Yours, not the tree's.
I broke one of those spur looking thingies from a vertebrae. I forget which one. They told me, but it didn't mean so much to me as where the spur thingie ended up... Which is under the vertebrae below, compressing and pinching my sciatic nerve.
I don't have medical insurance thanks to one of America's Afro-American presidents (hint: one of the more recent ones...) and am having the devil's own time getting Medicaid due to inept beaurocrats, so have been dealing with both of those issue's physical and emotional bullshit since 2016 or so.
Farm is still here. Pigs, chickens, rabbits, ducks, quail. Still struggling with a decent garden and feed corn field as well as wheat, (nothing happened much on that front last year, as in May, my garden and fields have usually just barely gotten started. Last year I was anaffordably (not a typo) deranged (again, not a typo). But each day I make progress. I KNOW this, because I purchased an electron microscope in order to chart my successes!
For those who care, I apologize for my long silence. I do get down every now and then, and have always had y'all's support to boost me up. I owe you some news once in awhile, good, bad, or indifferent. You have not been, and never while I breathe, will be, unappreciated.
And to all of you who have never really given a shit about me, but have followed my blog anyway:
Phhllllllllllltttt.
So, I'll go over a few salient points in a 'year in review' sorta thing, and maybe go off on a rant or two if one happens by while I'm swiping this tiny little screen.
I still have shoddy connectivity on the phone service, and web is almost non existent. So I don't got no computer, 'cept this phone. Broke screen on it too. So if some of my typing gets a little skewed, it's the cracks running through the text, and in no way literary ineptitude.
Hmm.... Let's see, guess I'll start with January 2017, as that's about as far back as I can remember these days anyway...
Turned 53.
Yep. Guess that's about all that happened that month of any interest. And that pretty much only to me and the Missus.
February : I got nothing
March: nothing
April: not too much until around the end of the month. Started having some gut pain that got pretty intense, so I went to the emergency room. They admitted me to the Nazi experimental human testing facility to do some tests, put me on a saline IV and pretty much left me to marinate for 24 hours.
During this 24 hours, they told me:
1. It could be pancreatitis. A potentially fatal little nasty. They'd know more soon.
2. Congratulations! It's NOT pancreatitis! It looks like it may be a blockage TO the pancreas from gall stones. Testing in progress.
3. NOT gall stones. Okay. Possibly a problem with the gall bladder itself. Hey! Here's an idea! Let's gut this bugger and rip that sucker right on outta there! What'd'ya say, huh?!
(Couple of side notes here: during this time, I had not urinated at any time. Actually don't recall if I peed at all the 24 hours earlier either. Not something I generally spend much thought on, personally, and no one asked, so...
Fever spiked.
Started hallucinating.
Pain increased exponentially.
Asked for prune juice.
BEGGED for coffee. (I get EXTREME migraines when the blood levels get to high in my caffeine stream)
but was told NOTHING liquid or solid orally per admitting doctor. (personally, I think he was admitting incompetence....) happened between Thursday evening through Friday. So, due to the increasing level of my discomfiture, and out of their natural concern, (not necessarily for ME, so much as the fact that as fast as I was going downhill, if they didn't do SOMETHING, and SOON, I'd never last long enough to get a bill) they scheduled agall bladder bladder-ectomy for Saturday morning. No big deal; sleep, 4 tiny incisions here, here, here, and.... here, clip this thing here, that one there, quick tug, and.... Take this guy to post-op. NEXT.
Problem solved, right?
WRONG.
By Saturday afternoon, they decided to bring in a lung specialist, and a pee doctor. (Yes, I believe that IS the medical expression used to describe these two types of specialists. Possible not, but at least you get an idea of their specialties this way, so if they have another, more clinical, sounding name, keep in mind: I really don't care.) Apparently I'd developed double pneumonia AND my kidneys had shut down.
Apparently, "someone" should have noted that they'd been pumping gallon after gallon of saline INTO me, and nothing had been coming OUT.
My hands and feet were so swollen with fluid that you could barely see my toes, and my hands looked like Popeye's right after he blows it up through his thumb, and just before he nails Brutus.
I was drowning in my own body. Literally. Couldn't expel liquid, lungs filling...
I spent the next seven days peeing, through the magic of modern diuretics. (Not to be confused with Dianetics. Doubt they'd have ANY affect on my urinatin') and on oxygen, fighting to get (just) well enough to walk out on my own two feet. (so of COURSE you have to leave in wheelchair)
Got home on Saturday, had a follow up with my regular doc on Thursday. When I went to my appointment, after four days at home, gasping like a fish out of water the entire time, I realized I had to go wee-wee. A situation I tended to give a great deal more consideration to these days... I made it to the toi-toi, went wee-wee, and collapsed halfway back to the waiting room. My blood-oxygen saturation was at 70%. It SHOULD NEVER go below 90. Man, was my doc 'pissed'!
She wouldn't let Rose take me to the hospital. She called an ambulance to transport me.
I remember getting to the hospital, placed in a bed in the emergency room, and...
(cut to June)
...waking up some time later.
I'd spent May in a coma. No fucking clue where the last month had gone. Time sure flies when you're not paying attention, huh?
Coming out of the comma was funny, painful sad, happy, and a bunch of other adjectives, but I digress... That by itself will probably be a post on here sometime. If I get around to figuring it all out. Maybe.
Okay.... Where was I? Oh yeah, June.
Nothing.
July through December: I got nothin'.
January 2018: both Bustednuckles and myself had birthdays. Unless his was early February. Which pretty much catches every one up to date on me. (Happy Belittled Birfday, my OLD friend! And no, that ain't a spellchecker issue...)
There are a few other honorable mentions:
I was diagnosed with non Hodgkin's lymphoma some time back. Don't remember when, don't care. By the time this slow acting cancer kills me, I'll probably be already dead at least 3 years from old age.
I broke my back. Not broke-broke, just kinda middlin' broke. Was moving a big billy goat, who was acting kind of gruff, to new pasturage, and he took off down a ridge we were traversing. I held on to the rope lead, rolling down the ridge to give the goat something to keep him amused as he hopped and bounced along beside until I finally brought him to a shuddering halt by the expedient method of wrapping my own body around a small tree.
Guess I showed HIM!
However, when wrapping trees, one should always remember to go WITH the grain. Yours, not the tree's.
I broke one of those spur looking thingies from a vertebrae. I forget which one. They told me, but it didn't mean so much to me as where the spur thingie ended up... Which is under the vertebrae below, compressing and pinching my sciatic nerve.
I don't have medical insurance thanks to one of America's Afro-American presidents (hint: one of the more recent ones...) and am having the devil's own time getting Medicaid due to inept beaurocrats, so have been dealing with both of those issue's physical and emotional bullshit since 2016 or so.
Farm is still here. Pigs, chickens, rabbits, ducks, quail. Still struggling with a decent garden and feed corn field as well as wheat, (nothing happened much on that front last year, as in May, my garden and fields have usually just barely gotten started. Last year I was anaffordably (not a typo) deranged (again, not a typo). But each day I make progress. I KNOW this, because I purchased an electron microscope in order to chart my successes!
For those who care, I apologize for my long silence. I do get down every now and then, and have always had y'all's support to boost me up. I owe you some news once in awhile, good, bad, or indifferent. You have not been, and never while I breathe, will be, unappreciated.
And to all of you who have never really given a shit about me, but have followed my blog anyway:
Phhllllllllllltttt.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Free kittens
Have you ever tried to GIVE something away FREE on craigslist?
It amazes me what people think YOU should do to accommodate giving THEM something for nothing.
I have five female cats. I picked up two during an all-you-can-eat-for-a-dollar type giveaway at the local shelter. BOTH were spayed.
One disappeared after quite some time here, which does occasionally happen here in coyote country. Not blaming the coyotes, mind you. Just saying it does happen...
Then a friend of a friend had to give up her two apartment cats, and the friend that was our friend told the friend that was their friend that she knew some cat people that were her friends (confused yet?) and that these friends would take that friend's two cats and raise them as their own. Fwewf! Am I glad I got THAT out of the way!
So then I had 3 cats. 1 spay, 2 litter bugs
BOTH new cats came up pregnant, as not owning any male cats, neuter or otherwise, I couldn't be bothered to spay them. Besides, they were INDOOR cats. Complete with a pet door for my dogs that allowed them access to the great outhouse... er... great outDOORS.
After giving away the kittens, we decided to keep the last female left from each litter. Which makes 5 shredders. (1 spay, 4 puffball producers.)
This quota did not overly concern me, as they were all INDOOR cats, with convenient access to the outside to do their business.
Apparently, I myself, and my cats, have ENTIRELY different ideas as to what that "business" IS...
So anyway, about once every six months or so, I have the opportunity to provide free rodent population control to anyone who wants it, gratis.
I do this via the WWWW (World Wide WONDERFUL Web) through the miracle of CRAIGSLIST!
And have never had long to wait to distribute my generosity due to humanity's insatiable desire for all things FREE.
Yet it simply astounds me to what lengths these people WON'T go to to try to fill this desire.
Things like: actually READ the fucking AD, and try VERY HARD to retain the information to be gleaned there
Then the questions! For instance:
Do you deliver?
(No, this ain't fucking Domino's)
Will you hold it for three weeks until my annoying brat's birthday (or bar mitzvah, or campout/cookout)?
(Certainly! 10 dollars/day "Are you fucking kidding me? fee"!)
Will you meet me someplace? (Absolutely! Did you notice the MapQuest insert in the ad? Yes? Good! THAT'S the place.)
Are they eating dry food? (No, unfortunately, although I posted IN THE AD they were weaned, they still need to grind hard food in their MOUTH, with SPIT in order to properly process their bits of kibble.)
Are they fixed? (No. All the indications to date show they were born this way. And if it ain't broke, neither I nor Bustednuckles can fix it)
Are they male, or female?
(Yes.)
How many males/females do you have?
(Like the photo in the ad shows: Six)
Which ones are male/female in the pic?
(All of them)
Do you have any male kittens left?
(I don't know. I feel it demeans our kitten/owner gestalt, and embarasses the kitten, to be thrust on its back, tail pulled to the side, and have their tiny little genitals googled at.
Not to mention, if this is a mis-gendered animal stuck in the wrong birth gender, I don't feel it's my place to judge. God made (insert preferred genital-related pronoun here in accordance to your 'special feelings') the way it is. Let God sort it out.)
Are they litter trained?
(I THINK so. I know I posted IN THE AD they are, but my dogs think cat shit is actually a doggie cookie, and may be covering for them in order to maintain a constant, fresh supply.)
So do these people REALLY want a cat? Or are they just poor, pathetic, little losers, that no normal person would waste time on, looking to connect with some one or some thing in order to give meaning to their pitiable little lives? Be it either a cute, cuddly, adorable, soft little kitten, or the poor guy FORCED to interact with them through his misfortunate choice to post an ad on Craigslist: FREE KITTENS
It amazes me what people think YOU should do to accommodate giving THEM something for nothing.
I have five female cats. I picked up two during an all-you-can-eat-for-a-dollar type giveaway at the local shelter. BOTH were spayed.
One disappeared after quite some time here, which does occasionally happen here in coyote country. Not blaming the coyotes, mind you. Just saying it does happen...
Then a friend of a friend had to give up her two apartment cats, and the friend that was our friend told the friend that was their friend that she knew some cat people that were her friends (confused yet?) and that these friends would take that friend's two cats and raise them as their own. Fwewf! Am I glad I got THAT out of the way!
So then I had 3 cats. 1 spay, 2 litter bugs
BOTH new cats came up pregnant, as not owning any male cats, neuter or otherwise, I couldn't be bothered to spay them. Besides, they were INDOOR cats. Complete with a pet door for my dogs that allowed them access to the great outhouse... er... great outDOORS.
After giving away the kittens, we decided to keep the last female left from each litter. Which makes 5 shredders. (1 spay, 4 puffball producers.)
This quota did not overly concern me, as they were all INDOOR cats, with convenient access to the outside to do their business.
Apparently, I myself, and my cats, have ENTIRELY different ideas as to what that "business" IS...
So anyway, about once every six months or so, I have the opportunity to provide free rodent population control to anyone who wants it, gratis.
I do this via the WWWW (World Wide WONDERFUL Web) through the miracle of CRAIGSLIST!
And have never had long to wait to distribute my generosity due to humanity's insatiable desire for all things FREE.
Yet it simply astounds me to what lengths these people WON'T go to to try to fill this desire.
Things like: actually READ the fucking AD, and try VERY HARD to retain the information to be gleaned there
Then the questions! For instance:
Do you deliver?
(No, this ain't fucking Domino's)
Will you hold it for three weeks until my annoying brat's birthday (or bar mitzvah, or campout/cookout)?
(Certainly! 10 dollars/day "Are you fucking kidding me? fee"!)
Will you meet me someplace? (Absolutely! Did you notice the MapQuest insert in the ad? Yes? Good! THAT'S the place.)
Are they eating dry food? (No, unfortunately, although I posted IN THE AD they were weaned, they still need to grind hard food in their MOUTH, with SPIT in order to properly process their bits of kibble.)
Are they fixed? (No. All the indications to date show they were born this way. And if it ain't broke, neither I nor Bustednuckles can fix it)
Are they male, or female?
(Yes.)
How many males/females do you have?
(Like the photo in the ad shows: Six)
Which ones are male/female in the pic?
(All of them)
Do you have any male kittens left?
(I don't know. I feel it demeans our kitten/owner gestalt, and embarasses the kitten, to be thrust on its back, tail pulled to the side, and have their tiny little genitals googled at.
Not to mention, if this is a mis-gendered animal stuck in the wrong birth gender, I don't feel it's my place to judge. God made (insert preferred genital-related pronoun here in accordance to your 'special feelings') the way it is. Let God sort it out.)
Are they litter trained?
(I THINK so. I know I posted IN THE AD they are, but my dogs think cat shit is actually a doggie cookie, and may be covering for them in order to maintain a constant, fresh supply.)
So do these people REALLY want a cat? Or are they just poor, pathetic, little losers, that no normal person would waste time on, looking to connect with some one or some thing in order to give meaning to their pitiable little lives? Be it either a cute, cuddly, adorable, soft little kitten, or the poor guy FORCED to interact with them through his misfortunate choice to post an ad on Craigslist: FREE KITTENS