Update

In early December my co-pilot got really sick. Vomiting, not eating, he couldn't even hold water down. It was a Wednesday or Thursday night around midnight I picked him up, put him in my truck and took him to a 24 hour vet clinic. They gave him something calm his stomach and he seemed to get slightly better until Saturday night. Lori and I stayed with him non stop.
He got horribly pukey again on Sunday night.
On Monday morning I took him into our vet.
They poked, prodded and placed medical devices on the poor mutt in places where nothing should be placed. Not a whimper or a growl. He just sat and leaned his head into my shoulder. The vet wanted to run some blood tests and other tests and get some fluids into the usually slobbery oaf. I left him at the vet clinic and waited to hear back on the tests they could run at the clinic.
Around twelve thirty that day the vet called. She asked to see Lori and I together. My heart just dropped. This is not the kind of thing anyone wants to hear from a vet, doctor, or financial planner.
Lori zoomed over and we were at the vet clinic by two. Just Lori and I standing in an examination room. No Bart. IN walked the vets. Could this scenario get any worse? If you have ever been punched in the nose you may understand the way I know I felt at that very minute I saw the two vets walk in together. My eyes started to water and I know I squinted. The lump in my throat was painful and I placed both hands on the examination table to make sure I kept myself upright and somewhat focused. Lori looped her arm through mine and stood like a pillar next to me. Likely fearful that I was about to have a demon surface through my mouth or just pass out.
Charts and titers and subcutaneous fluid delivery and more numbers with sub categories were flung about like multi sided die at a nerd party on a Friday night (so I hear). I remember only two things from all of this – Bart’s kidneys ammonia levels were 33 times the normal average for a dog his size and another level of kidney output was 4 x normal operating levels. Every piece of bad news that came out of the vets turned my knuckles a shade whiter as all I could do was clamp down on the table and try to listen.
Shortly after, “where’s my dog?” and “What are you saying?” ,the x rays came out. After some discussion about things I know nothing of, one of the vets pointed to a spot on the film. It was one of Bart’s kidneys and from her estimation it was 4 cm longer than the other. The lump in my throat had just gotten larger and I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. The vets were unsure if El Barto had a severe kidney infection or a large tumour on his kidney(s).
“This isn’t possible! He’s only six years old!” My outright denial would make this all go away.
Not being a vet, for obvious reasons relating to me and academia not seeing eye to eye, I chose a career that was more suited to my mental abilities and disposition. As a contractor we tend to do things differently than, well, normal people. Typically contractors will walk into a room drop some plans and notes on the table tell everyone they’re ‘f-cked’ and list the reasons why. We like to get our audiences attention and keep them listening. We will show you what is wrong and why BUT we usually follow up quickly with a proposed solution and the cost.
Vets need to learn this. Lori and I both thought we were there to put our co-pilot to sleep because of some cursed genetic anomaly or because some asshole left a pail of antifreeze out in the open. Don’t run us through the pain of thinking the situation is hopeless. Tell us there’s a problem but there is hope. By the way- I’m not paying to have your exam table sanded and painted. Take that!
Finally we got to take our Black son home with us. He had lost nearly 10 pounds from his weight in October. Bart was on a regimen of 13 pills a day. Now Bart likes what Bart likes, and if Bart no likee-Bart no likee. Bart does not like pills. We tried the ‘pill cookies’ they sell at Pet Smart-no go. I jammed pills down his mouth, held his mouth shut and rubbed his throat. That dog would sit, with dissolving pills in his mouth, wait for me to take my hand away and spit the pills out. Or my favourite- eat the pills then vomit them out because he refused to eat the low protein food the vet wanted us to feed him. That sure was my favourite.
It came down to this- feed him cookies. Wait. Give him his pills. Sit with him, pretend we were stealing his food out of his dish- at which he would walk in front of us, lay down and try to distance us from the food he didn’t want and wouldn’t eat. We got so desperate to make sure he would take his pills we coated them in cream cheese frosting. Bart really liked that. He also enjoyed being fed cookies all day. He had us trained within 3 days.
Everyday I took that meatbag to the vet where they poked and probed him. Everyday (except one day-Lori wanted the Saturday shift) I sat and held him while they jammed a needle under his skin and let fly with 900 millilitres of room temperature saline. Not one whimper or growl. The technician didn’t even bother with the muzzle after the second day. Everyday Bart was eager to leave and everyday, with 900 millilitres of saline under his skin in a mound that would make Pamela Anderson jealous he got stronger and pulled me to the door with his stupid orange ball or squeaky toy in his mouth with less and less effort.
Between moving into and painting the new house, end of season work madness and Christmas insanity all I could concern ourselves with was trying to make sure the slobbery oaf was getting better. There was not a single day I didn’t take the mutt to work with me. He slept under my desk on the dog bed we bought for him. The first week was rough but when Bart grabbed his orange ball and just sat next to my desk staring at me and wagging his tail, I finally knew he was getting better.
We still don’t know what is/was wrong with Bart. Hopefully the next set of tests will let us know he is healthy again. He is down to two servings of antibiotics per day and he is eating like a lab/mutt should and gaining weight.
There were times I asked myself when is enough. That damn pound mutt was costing us a lot of money. A few people told me they would help out and everyone pretty much never even questioned that Lori and I would keep paying the vet bills until the very end if need be. Why? He’s our co-pilot. My Black son. Fatso. El Barto. Every night when Lori and I sit on the couch and Bart’s enormous fat head blocks my view and he gets the hound dog eye thing going and won’t stop until he is invited up on the couch. I watch him as jumps up and does his multiple spins until he finds the perfect place to lie down where he can place his head on either of our laps and just look up at us. It’s this look that makes me know he’s saying thanks to Lori and to me. I hope he knows that it we’re the ones that are thankful.

MERRY OCD

It has been a long year for me. I have accomplished very little in the way of writing. There are roughly twelve beginnings of Blogs that I started and either dismissed, forgot about or just got to busy to finish. SO here I am. Waiting for my next phone call or email wondering what all the fuss is about. What I see lately is obsession. Obsession to find the perfect gift. Obsession to host a perfect party. Obsession to be the people we should be everyday of our lives. Don’t get me wrong. A little OCD isn’t bad. If I hadn’t obsessed about learning to tie my shoes I would still be wearing Velcro sneakers or sandals with my black socks. Last year was a good OCD year for me. It’s this time of year, for me, that I start to remember all the wonderful things I promised myself I would do. I would work less. Spend more time with family and friends. Work on being calmer and more patient. Get my back waxed, and finally figure out how to use floss without hurting myself. I started off really well but things really slid down the cliff after the third day of that bullshit. Perfection is one of those hazy terms that does not mean the same thing to every person. The notion having a ‘perfect’ party or Christmas Dinner is insane. There will never be a perfect gift. There will be great Christmas Dinners and Great parties and great gifts…but chasing the dream of perfection can be dangerous. I’m not saying don’t try. I’m saying if you wear your self out or get frustrated trying to do anything perfect, well, that thing isn’t perfect. You sacrificed yourself for an idea or perception and if you lose the joy of the moment then you have not succeeded in being perfect. Do yourself a favour this Christmas. Enjoy yourself. Don’t go all OCD because dinner was not served precisely at 630pm. So your mom already bought herself a set of ‘perfect’ oven mitts. Now she has two sets. Your brother had a few too many rye and cokes, tripped over the ottoman and took out aunt Grace. Are they okay? Laugh. Why laugh? Remember you have family. You have food and drinks and a great opportunity to have fun and remember why these people mean so much to you. That’s about the closest thing to perfect I can think of. The notion of Christmas is great. Christmas itself has turned all of us into lunatics. Somewhere at some time we sold out to the consumerism of the season. Shop shop shop. Buy buy buy. Fight with crowds. Fight for parking. Get so worn down that you want to punch the Salvation Army bell ringer in the throat. Why? What’s the gain? We see it happening. We know deep down that’s insane but we keep doing it-which is the definition of insanity. Un stuff your Christmas. Get the whip out and tame the OCD monster. Chase that thing back into its Pandora’s Box. Slam the lid down, wrap that sucker up with chains, lock it and melt the key. Revel at the insanity that is Christmas. Dance a jig with your neighbour. Dance a jig with your neighbour’s dog. Have fun. For the love of all that is Holy relax and enjoy your time with friends and family. My Prozac is wearing off so I must away. Merry Christmas to all!

The Lie

If you ever received a “Christmas Letter”, or been allowed to read one you may already know where I’m going with this. Basically, the Christmas Letter consists of two or three pages of letter paper, double sided print and possibly one or two pictures Scotch taped crudely to the paper. It contains endless run on sentences and fails in its attempt to relay how and what a specific family has been doing since the last time you received the almost identical tome a year prior. What you need to understand is that the Christmas Letter’s intent is to make the writer’s “friends” think her life is wonderful and that theirs sucks. To accomplish this, the writer, typically female, never held a job in her life, highly opinionated and usually wrong about everything she professes to tell people… lies. Now I don’t think the writer knows that she is lying. It’s just that she is so out of touch with reality and blind to real fact that she feels that what she writes is the Holy Gospel of what her and her family have done throughout the last year. Simple interpretation of a Christmas Letter is never easy. As one can never be sure what far away happy place the writer of the letter is in while the letter is being written. It is easiest just to assume that every sentence on the multiple sheets of paper is lie. Examples “This may very well have been our most exciting year to date!” This is a lie. Even if viewed subjectively you know these people are about as interesting and fun filled as dry white toast. “Christie is still a free spirit and we couldn’t be more excited by her intrigue with different cultures.” This is also a lie. Christie has been in and out of rehab since she was fourteen. Currently she is shacked up with a Jamaican Weed King and Oh God please don’t let her get pregnant. “Charlie is still very interested in pursuing law and spends most of his time studying.” False. Charlie can’t stand the sight, thought or sound of his mother so he locks himself in his room. He has taken to rage and has spent multiple months in county lock up for yelling obscenities and flashing the Womens League at that bi-monthly white glove picnics. “Ken is still go go go with the company. He just won’t retire and I really think the Bumble Brothers Stapler Works would go out of business if he retired. He’s very loyal and dedicated.” Ken has been installing the same retainer spring in staplers for 40 years. He hates his job but can’t stand the thought of retiring and having to spend more time with his nattering, never happy wife. Ken also has a great fear of retiring and at some point having to eat dog kibble as sustenance because his wife won’t stop buying crap she doesn’t need with money she doesn’t have. Ken prays for the angel of death to release from his shackles of servitude. “Since my accident I have been working on healing myself. I have found a Shaman healer who has done wonders for me physically and emotionally!” My plastic surgeon’s name is Tonto RedCLoud. He caused my lips to swell up to gargantuan proportions- this was my “accident”. Since I threatened to sue him I have had boob, butt, face, lipo and botox surgeries on the house. Dr. Tonto says I am pretty and that makes me feel good. Generally I feel good when I see a Christmas letter. It makes me realize that although my life isn’t perfect, I don’t have to make crap up in an attempt to elevate myself or drag others down. My crap is my crap and I hope you enjoy a crapless Christmas.

Come Gather Around the Holiday Tree.

We as a continent have given up our spines and have forced ourselves to kowtow to the Birkenstock wearing, granola guzzling twits who have deviously, as a minority, somehow made society feel bad about saying what they want. CHRISTMAS TREE. There I said it. I will continue to say it and be pronounced a heretic until the day I am hung on a, ‘t’ (we can’t say cross can we due to religious inference?) and forced to consume tofu and bean sprouts until I pass into the next phase of my carbon footprint- I likely can’t say, ‘until I die and pass through the Pearly Gates’-that’s radical thinking. You know me; I’m a radical Christian zealot. Oh Christmas Tree. Oh Tannenbaum. Why are you being forsaken? Some self proclaimed righters of wrong have declared you a public menace. Your days as a symbol of the most hopeful day of the year are being whittled away. This may be the first step into madness. Next, inexplicably and without our consent owning a Christmas or Holiday Tree will be a punishable offence. ‘Death by Tofu!’ will be their rallying cry. Save a Tree-kill a human! This is the problem with people that believe that Christmas Trees are now to be called Holiday Trees. If they win their fight, they will move on to having something else banned because it offends them in some way. It will never end and we let it happen. Tell you what. I am offended by their being offended. The offensiveness of their offending is oppressively onerous and off-putting to oafs such as me. Does that mean anything? Nope, but I don’t care. If narrow minded morons can have their say then this narrow minded moron wants his. Does that offend you? Guess what. I DON’T CARE! Christmas Tree-Christmas Tree- Christmas Tree! God- God- God. National Anthem –National Anthem-National Anthem. Have I offended? Hang on to your butts because this pig just grew wings. This Holiday Tree thing is just a small item. It should be a non issue. Matters like this start small. We dismiss them and think, “What jerkass came up with that idea and what jackass politician would listen to them?” Next thing you know something has been banned or deemed inappropriate for all because of the whining of some. They natter. They call and they inundate the powers that be until they get what they want. They cause a rift or a crack. When they get what they want they start on something new. It won’t stop. After a while we sit around with our thumbs up our butts and just give up. Not me. Not this guy. It may be a small revolution but it’s my revolution. I’m saying Christmas. I’m saying Christmas Tree. I don’t usually have a Christmas tree because I spend Christmas in some shit hole Mexican Bar singing horribly butchered Spanglish Christmas Carols but I refuse to let some causist do gooder take away what I believe in. Kiss my hairy butt do gooder. Go eat your tofu turkey under your Holiday Tree you turd of a human being. Maybe I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. Maybe I’m not. I refuse to placate some self righteous do gooder with no clue just to keep the Peace. No way. Not going to happen. We have to fight these people. The, ‘Seasons Greetings’ sayers, the ‘Holiday Tree’ morons must be beaten back to their Fairy Tale World. They must return to their unicorns and Happy Happy Bunnies of LaLa Land. Have I offended you yet? Good. Merry Christmas to All. Vive La Christmas Tree!

And the Story Droned On and On

And the Story Droned On and On Seldom do we run into a person who can tell a good story. A person who can turn the most mundane topic into a pants pissing saga that will never be forgotten. Now, a lot of people think they can tell a story well. Some people even think the stories they tell are interesting. This is not true. Personally, I am horrible at telling stories. I tend to leave out key pieces of information and I use a lot of fluff to buy time while I try to remember how a story goes. Public speaking has never been my forte’. If you’ve ever heard the Sean Connery ‘bar’ joke, I am certain that I tell stories in the same manner. “This guy walks into a bar with a dog under one arm and a 2ft salami under the other….I forget the rest but your mother’s a whore.” Self admittedly I am horrible at re telling stories, anecdotes or witticisms. I wish most people could realize that they suck at it also. Two days ago, an acquaintance somehow managed to capture me in between my just parked vehicle and the fifteen foot dash to my front door. The ensuing story made me want to cut open my stomach and hang myself with my own intestines. It went something like this; Him-Hey. I need to ask you something. Me- Okay Him- Do you know that barn on 42? Me- Maybe. Which one? Him- The one near Paul Thurbengurben’s brother’s place. Me- I don’t know who that is. Him- Sure you do! He’s the guy whose niece who won the pig foot eating contest in Yokelville 27 years ago! Me- I’m drawing a blank. I’m sure I don’t know any of those people or even where Yokelville is. Him- Come on! It’s near Makanudo Heights. On the east side of NeverWannaGoThere River Me- Positive I don’t know where that is. Are we done? I’m hungry and I have to pee. Him- You know where it is. I remember I was loaded with used condoms, lots of drag due to wind resistance, twenty six thousands up front and forty thousand rears pulling fifteen speeds through a modified Fuller with double down ace over jacks split when I first met Eunice. Me- Who the fuck is Eunice? Him- You know Eunice! From north of Makanudo stupid. Her brother Charlie, you know Charlie- he perfected the ground hog no hands breeding technique for the cross breeding of ground hogs. She works at the diner! Me- In Makanudo? Him- You don’t listen. North of Makanudo! Me- what happened to the load of used condoms? Him- Well, that c17 Cat broke a post free and the pre cups lost purchase so I had to kick her in the bum and load up the pyrometer. Me- So, you put the condoms in your bum or you burned them? Him- What are you, stupid. Me- I’m coming to that conclusion, yes. Him- I dropped them off in Utica, at the Wonderball plant near Kirby’s Me-Who’s Kirby? Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Stupid Brooks! Him- Kirby. George’s boy the dentist who juggles cats! Me- Who juggles cats? Kirby or his dad George? Dammit! Him- George is a dentist. Kirby juggles cats. Me- Ahhh! Now we’re getting somewhere. NOTE- by this point I have travelled to places unknown and met people I know but don’t really know and learned more about trucks than I ever wanted to know. I’m hungry and my eyeballs are now sight glasses for the urine building up in my system. Him- So you know the place I’m talking about? Me- No! I don’t any Thurgensons. I don’t know Paul, Eunice, Kirby, Charlie or George. I don’t know where any of the places you mentioned are except for the slim possibility of Utica- and that’s based on the wild guess that we are still in North America. I don’t know how you kick a truck in the bum either. I don’t care either. I don’t care. What do you want? Him- You’re a dick! Never mind. I’ll borrow a 2x4 from someone else. Ass. Son of a bitch! Why can’t you just ask for the damn 2x4? Why do you feel the need to drag my mind through a story that would require a team of code breakers years to decipher. You look at me like I’m mid lick on a dirty window when I don’t know who or what you are talking about when you’re the person who can’t tell a story without having some validation that you aren’t as stupid as people think. You are! Focus. What are you trying to say? Get to the point. The longer you drone on the lower I know your IQ is and that is coming from a guy who thinks the Three Stooges should be in Parliament-even though they’re dead. Simply because you know someone does not automatically guarantee that I know that person. Please believe me when I tell you I do not know the person you mentioned when I say I don’t know. I’m not lying-maybe I should so your asinine, pointless story will end more quickly. Dammit! Now I’ve forgotten what the hell I was blathering on about and what the point of this story is. Oh yeah! Don’t do drugs.

Oh the Humanity-Again

It’s been a long while since I tried to fabricate a coherent thought and vomit it out in written form for the small amount of people who read my blather. Writing while fired up or angry has suited me in the past but I have been told that I am sometimes too simple, too aggressive and not grounded in political correctness. Ahem. Fuck you! Starting with the first thing that I can remember that pisses me off; 1) Our Beliefs – Whether it is our political affiliations, our stance on Gay marriage or basically anything involving society as an actual group with opinions and feelings- Don’t tell me I have to agree with anything. My opinion is my opinion for my own reasons. I don’t have to agree or approve of anything if I don’t truly support it. I was never for or against Gay Marriage for the simple reason – I Don’t Care! I don’t have a dog in this fight and if two same sex persons want to go out and lose half of their belongings if the marriage ends that is their decision-not mine. Join the party pal. But nooooo! If you don’t support Gay Marriage you’re a homophobe, cretin or dinosaur. Maybe you’re all three of those things in no particular order. So you can be an overbearing banner waving causist but I can’t be neutral in my opinion? That sounds fair. “Exaggerated sensitiveness is an expression of the feeling of inferiority. “ Alfred Adler 2) Following up on the last smattering of insults – Gun Control. This is a tough one. If all the guns on the planet were melted down into structural steel we would still, in the name of religion, mental instability or need for over compensation revert to flinging rocks and poop at each other. Maybe if we got rid of religion we wouldn’t have so many guns? 3) Banner Waving Causists- Before you speak I suggest you actually write down what your message is and if you tell me that by doing what you want will save just one life, or that I need to think of the children I will punch you in the throat. Your cause is not necessarily my cause. So don’t call me wrong or misguided for not supporting you. 4) Loud Talkers. Talking loudly does not make you right or even remotely interesting. If you were interesting people would listen to you but as it sits right now you’re not interesting, you’re just loud…and annoying. I’d move across the room but I’d still hear you clearly over there so I will just leave because you are such a needy annoying turd that you have become a fun vacuum that you have sucked any possible enjoyment out of the night, unless of course there was a bet to see if anyone could actually toss a pool ball into your mouth while you’re being loud with a side bet of whether or not you would notice. Takers? 5) Turning signals. Don’t be an ass. Use your turning signals properly while driving. As much as I enjoy testing my mental telepathy as often as possible myself and all the other drivers with a clue would really appreciate your courtesy and common sense by the simple effective usage of your turning signals. 6) Ask the question. We all ask questions. Some of us even ask intelligent necessary questions when faced with a situation we are unfamiliar with. There’s a trick to asking a question- it’s called actually asking the damn question. Don’t dance around the root of your inquiry with supposition. Just ask the question you need or want answered. Translating your ten minute babble session into the real question is pissing me off and making me think you are trying to slide something by me. Just ask the damn question. I also need to add that I really despise being cornered with an onslaught of questions of what I am doing on a certain day at this certain time, with whom, etc, ad nausea. You need help with something? Just ask. Don’t try to coral or guilt me into it. 7) English and Math. Learn it. Live it. Love it. Our society has become so bad at speaking let alone writing our chosen language that we are turning into piss poor communicators. Sure we can all speak but a lot of us don’t speak well enough to convey a point. If there is no point, no moral or no direction to what you are saying then you are just making noise and sucking up oxygen. Using big words where a small word will do makes you look like an ass to the rest of us mouth breathers. Quit being an ass. All through high school I sucked at math. X is a letter, as is Y and has no place in math. I finally figured out why I was so bad at math. There was no application I could find for wanting to know if something was greater than or less than at that time in my life. I now use math almost every minute of every day on things that interest me. Hydraulic pressure, air pressure, volumes, rpm’s, gear reductions, cyclical rates, conversions. These are things I need to know and in my business close enough works for most of what we do. It’s math that can be utilized for an actual use and I enjoy applying it. It disturbs me to see people who do not know how to calculate simple volumes. The type of math the people in construction use everyday for ordering concrete, fuel, materials. If you can’t do the math or won’t even try I hate to say it but enjoy your career in the fast food industry. 8) Move. I don’t care where you move to just get out of the way. You know who you are. You are the people who drive down the middle of the aisles in parking lot looking for that magical parking place that will make all your dreams come true. Oblivious to anyone or anything around you hoard the center of the road waiting for your moment to pounce on the perfect parking place even though a 20 step walk from the near empty part of the lot is right there-20 steps away. No signal. No plan and No clue. You exist solely for your selfish existence and pay no heed to the chaos YOU have created. Move! I’m postulating that these are the same people who block the store aisles with their carts or body’s as if annoying and inconveniencing every person in the store is your right or mission. Hike up your MooMoo, shove another cupcake in your screaming child’s fat face and MOVE! I don’t know whether to pity you because you are stupid or despise you because you are ignorant-and likely stupid. 9) Put down the cell phone! I see you trying to hide the fact that you’re talking on your cell phone while driving. Everyone sees it. We also see how that while doing this you can’t keep your vehicle in its lane. You’re a horrible driver. You would have trouble driving without the cell phone distraction but there you are doing two things you likely suck at. Driving and talking. Put it down and focus what little mental ability you have on arriving home safely so you can ignore your children and place Farmville all night. Another thing- we go out for dinner and you can’t stop looking at your phone. Sorry for boring you jackass. Try a wrist watch if you want to be subtle about checking the time or don’t go out for dinner with us. You know what would be entertaining and lessen your boredom? Me-having a heart attack from chasing you around the restaurant while trying shove your cell phone up your butt. I’ve had a few drinks and I’m willing to give it the old college try. You’re going to look silly pushing on your gut to check or send incoming texts but I’ll be chuckling from my ambulance gurney. Shit head! 10) Please and Thank you. Try it. It is so simple to say thank you when someone holds a door open for you or lets you go in front of them at the grocery store because you only have a few items. Just say, ‘thanks’. Life is easier when we don’t allow the Douchebags and entitlement whores win by being stupid. I feel better, slightly.

And So it Has Begun,

And so it has begun. Christmas Season, 2012.

The first gunshots could be heard in the US on Black Friday as people swarmed into WalMart and other stores with elbows flying, guns a blazin’ and knives a stabbin’!

For what? The next great gadget or toy? Black Friday is a good name but , “Look at the Morons Lined Up in the Cold to buy Crap they Don’t Need”, although not as catchy as Black Friday, better describes the scene.

“It’s a tradition!” interviewees of local broadcasters proclaimed. Tradition? What the Hell is wrong with you? “Well last year I only got stabbed once and merely grazed by a .45 caliber slug. This year I’m going all in and hoping for a full exit 9mm hole on my leg or shoulder!” IF this your tradition, to slug it out in armed combat for a Penelope Pees A Lot Doll, you’re an asshole. Thanks for helping to flush the toilet of humanity.

Let me get this straight. You wait in line for days, to buy crap you don’t need at a price you think is great, with a credit card that is set to explode. I don’t get it. These are things. Gadgets. They are time wasters. Distracters.  

I am the last person on the planet who would ask you to hug, hold hands and sing folk songs around a fire in the belief that World Peace could be achieved by doing so. Unity is great thing but individuality is better.

Observing others has become a bit of a past time for me lately. Over the last few weeks when I venture into the grocery store or drug store or wherever, I have clearly noticed what the Christmas Season does to us. Refraining from tossing shopping carts out of the way from people who block the aisles, I wait. I watch. Like clockwork there is always someone who will be so put out by this older woman who is looking for baking supplies that their arms go up in disgust, their head whips back and the “Tccchhhh!” sound comes screaming out of their noise holes. Ass! She’s 80 years old! Help her put the flour in her cart and shut up. Waiting in line at the video store there is inevitably a person who needs to ask a question that never seems to end. Let it go. If only for the Christmas Season, let it go. So you get home sixty seconds later. Let it go.

This Christmas, take a few minutes to remember what Christmas is about. The spirit of the Season lies in giving and not receiving. Simple acts of kindness are great gifts. Help someone put their groceries in their car. Go visit the older couple whose kids aren’t coming to visit them for Christmas with a bottle of wine. Take the kids and donate even five dollars to the Pediatrics Ward of your local hospital or the Humane Society or whatever Charity you believe in. People will remember these gifts long after the tree is taken down and toys are broken.

Simply being nice to one another, helping where you can, is how we achieve peace. What better time to start than now.

For those of you scratching your heads and wondering what the hell is wrong with me I can say these things;

1)      I am not suffering from trauma to my brain or body

2)      I have every intention of continuing to be a Jack Ass. I am going to be a helpful Jack Ass achieving it by sarcasm, humiliation or other diabolical means.

But I heard him exclaim ... as he rode out of sight,
" Merry Christmas to All ,
  Be nice to each other or I’m coming back to see you with a baseball bat " Or something           like that.   

Merry Christmas to All, and to all, a good night.