Author: John M. Williams

The 100th Post

This is my 100th blog post.  That’s apropos of nothing, I suppose, except that I’m quite full of myself to believe that I have that much to say of interest.  A year ago, I said to my wife:  “I think I’ll start a blog.”  She said:  “A blog?  Those are just full of trivial bull shit that no one wants to read!”  True to her word, she has never even looked at my blog.  So, I can say things like this:  I’ve been married 25 years, but it seems like 100 sometimes.

She was wrong.  A lot of people have read my posts.  My posts have been viewed 18,500 times, in fact.  One I wrote about hippies is the all time leader at almost 2700.  It even drew the ire of a real hippie who posted a scathing comment castigating me as materialistic.  People as far away as Estonia and Moldova have read me.  America of course leads the way, but I’ve had hundreds of readers in the UK and Canada, too, this despite posts needlessly attacking both those fine countries.  Go figure.

People often ask me: “How do you come up with ideas for your blog?”  Actually, I’m never asked that, but I like to imagine that people want to ask me.  Things just pop into my head.  I usually have drafts of two or three posts just lying around waiting for inspiration to finish them.  Sometimes, people suggest things–like my recent post about becoming Pope.  Other times–like the hippie post–I just spew a stream of consciousness which offends many, many people.  Occasionally, I’ve tried to be helpful with tips on small talk, child-rearing and the law.  Oddly enough, no one has thanked me yet for these pointers.

Some of my posts are torn from the fabric of real life experience–like the tale of my being violently assaulted by a coarse ruffian of a woman in a restaurant.  Some are apocryphal tales which could be true, at least to some extent.  Others are just things that interest me, like freak shows and the film Road House.  Sometimes, I blog about things I hate like TV’s The Waltons, Aunt Bee and Charlie Brown.  My blog is a vast array of trivial bull shit as some might say.

Some of the reasons I am so prolific:

  • I write a lot in my job, but that writing requires research and proofreading.  The slapdash nature of blogging is fun.
  • The use of curse words.  I don’t often get to use those in writing, unless I’m writing my Congressman.
  • It’s cheaper than therapy
  • It’s fun to broach a controversial topic and then deflect it with a series of flippant and inaccurate observations.
  • As long as I don’t defame someone, I’m free to write what I want.   Even if I do, it’s okay as long as the defamed person never sees it.
  • No one reviews or edits my work (obviously)
  • I can start sentences with words like “and” and “but,” and no one cares.

Now, I’m on the verge of a milestone:  100 posts.  What significant topic can I address?  Can I change someone’s life for better or worse?  Can I move someone to tears?  Perhaps I can intone on some mundane subject and move thousands of Brits and Canadians or even the random Moldovan to action.  What about that one guy or girl in Iceland who read one of my posts?  Maybe he or she is waiting for a topic of interest.  Should I blog about that Icelandic volcano–Eyjafjallajökull?  Probably not.  That’s just too damn goofy to type over and over.

100 is special.  A 100th blog post should be, too.

Dictionary.com defines 100 as “A cardinal number.  Ten times ten.”  That’s plain enough. It’s one after 99 and one before 101, too.  It’s the square of 10.  It’s also an 18-gonal number, which sounds slightly dirty but isn’t.

Anyway, 100 seems significant.  Why?  Maybe because 100 is an important number.  Don’t you feel kind of special when you have a $100 bill?  Four twenties or two fifties just aren’t the same.  The $100 bill is usually new and crisp.  It’s so special that you worry that people can even make change if you use it.

There are 100 pennies in a dollar and most other currencies are based upon units of 100.  100 is important.  Without it, our money would be a confusing mess.  We might as well go back to pelts.

If you’re a sports fan, answer this question within five seconds:  “Who scored the most points in an NCAA basketball game?”  Time’s up!  I have no idea, either.  Try this one:  “Who scored the most points in an NBA game?”  Wilt Chamberlain.  How do we know this?  Because he scored 100, not 98 or 102.  An even 100.  Wilt, as we know, was a man of prodigious numbers:  55 rebounds in a game; 20,000 women; averaged 50 points a game one year and 27 rebounds a game another; led the NBA in assists as a center and on and on.  But the number we remember is 100.  100 points in a game.  Because I am repository of useless information, I know that he also hit 28 of 32 free throws in that game, astonishing considering Wilt’s infamously horrible free throw shooting.  Others just know the 100.

wilt

Wilt knew how to set a record people wouldn’t forget.

One of the many reasons that American football is better than Canadian football is that our fields are 100 yards long, not 110 like our friends in the Great White North.  We know how fast is fast to run 100 yards or even 100 meters.  How about 110 yards?  No clue.

If a running back rushes for 100 yards in a football game, we take notice.  If he slogs for 99, we think “Eh, decent game, I guess.”   Pitchers who hit 100 mph on the radar gun are to be feared.  95 is great, too, but hittable.

It’s special when people live to be 100.  Bob Hope did (I think).  So did Charles Lane. Who?  If you watched TV in the ’60’s and ’70’s, you know him:

lane

Actor Charles Lane, TV’s grumpy authority figure.

I bet you’ll remember him from now on.  I’ve had a lot of relatives live into their ’90’s.  My Papaw died at 91.  An aunt at the same age.  I have an aunt still going strong at 95 and another at 93.  My wife’s grandmother is 95.  100 years old, though, is rarefied air indeed.   During one of my infrequent forays as a regular church-goer, I went to church with a man who died at 104.  He seemed like a super hero.  Let’s be honest here:  90 or 95 or 99 are just as impressive as 100, but we don’t think of it like that.

If you’re 100, congratulations.  Also, why the hell are you wasting what precious little time you have left reading this?  You were 16 when the stock market crashed in 1929 and 28 when Pearl Harbor was bombed. When you turned 40, I Love Lucy had only been on the air for a year.  You are 4 years younger than JFK. You were in your 60’s when Nixon resigned. On 9/11, you were already 88.  You’ve seen the advent of air travel, sound films, TV, computers, cell phones, space travel, innumerable wars, super models, the Internet and just about everything else that makes life worth living these days.  You were alive when the Tsar ruled Russia and outlasted the Soviet Union for its entire existence!  You survived the Spanish Flu Pandemic.  You’ve seen a lot and probably done a lot, too.  You may even remember some of it.

I suspect that living to be 100 isn’t so great.  We probably just see the folks who are doing well, like this lady:

100th

The ideal 100th Birthday Party

A lot of people at 100 are probably just like a lot of folks at 95–infirm and not able to do much.  Let’s just not think about that.  Some people make it way past 100–often in Japan.  That’s also impressive, but they usually die.  Even though living to 100 might actually be miserable, we all would like to do it anyway.

When the temperature is 100 degrees, it’s damn hot.  It’s still damn hot at 99, but 100 is worse.  Of course, I’m talking Fahrenheit, not Celsius of Kelvin or some other weird foreign scale.  100 is the worst.  100 degrees Celsius is probably a lot worse, but it could be better for all I know–I have no idea.

Take your temperature.  If it’s 99.5 degrees, you’ll think “That’s weird, but I feel fine.”  If it’s 100 degrees, you’ll become bedridden.  At 100, you’re sick as a dog.

What if you get a speeding ticket for driving 100 mph?  That’s seriously reckless behavior.  99 mph doesn’t seem quite so dangerous, does it?

100% is great in just about everything.  Athletes try to claim that 110% is better, but it isn’t, mostly because it’s not real.  100% attendance, grades, effort, etc.  All good.

100 is the sum of the first nine prime numbers which means nothing to me but is probably very cool to my son who is a math major.

100 is the atomic number of fermium which you can find in abundance in nuclear fall out.  Bad.

100 years ago is a long time.  A century is 100 years, not 90.  There’s a reason for that, I’m sure.

Everyone is interested in the President of the United States’s First Hundred Days.  No one gives a damn about his first 63 or so.

The number 100 is significant, for sure.  The evidence is undeniable.  A 100th blog post should carry the same significance.  Alas, I have failed.  Regardless, though, I can now truthfully say I’ve posted 100 times on this blog.  Now, that’s impressive.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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Papal Bull: A Modest Proposal

Pope Benedict XVI recently gave his two weeks’ notice.  He’s resigning.  I didn’t know the Pope could do that, but he can.  After all, he’s the Pope.  His real Pope name is Papa Benedictus Sextus Decimus, which is a bery cool name, indeed–much cooler than his real real name, Joseph Ratzinger.   

Now, there will be a new Pope.  Who will it be?  I know there’s an election and something to do with smoke being released when it’s over.  It’s not like the Dalai Lama where they go find some kid and name him Pope.  It’s also not like royalty–the celibacy thing prevents that from being effective.

My friend, Larry, suggested that I throw my hat in the ring (it’s a regular hat, not a big Pope hat–not yet).  I’m not Catholic which could be problematic.  Larry may or may not be Catholic, but his idea intrigued me.  Having failed in my quest to become football coach at the University of Kentucky, why not shoot for Pope now?

I don’t know what the qualifications are to be Pope.  Catholicism on at least some level may be a prerequisite. Maybe it’s like the U.S. Supreme Court–you don’t have to be a judge or a lawyer, but it helps.  I also don’t know how you get on the ballot.  So, let’s just treat this as my registering to run for office.  So, here we go.

As full disclosure, I’m married and have three children.  I don’t think this disqualifies me.  Some old-time Popes were married and had children before they became Pope, just like me.  My wife would be a fine Popess or Vatican First Lady or whatever.  My kids might be a bit unruly for the Holy See, but–hey–Lucretia Borgia was a murderer and her Dad was the Pope.  Mine aren’t likely to be that bad.

I don’t have time to become Catholic.  I know people who have converted to Catholicism, and it is a long process requiring counseling, classes and study–even prayerful reflection.  It’s harder than becoming a Shriner.  I’m a busy man, and I simply don’t have time for that.  This will be especially true when I win the election and am burdened with Poping duties.

I also want a really cool Pope name.  There has already been a Pope Hilarius (a funny, funny guy, by the way).  Of course, they was Pope Simplicius (also known as The Dim Wit Pope); and Pope Hyginus, the cleanest Pope. Linus, Liberius, Sixtus, Boniface, Innocent, Urban, Felix (huh?), Stephen, Julius, Eugene, Nicholas, Leo, Pius and many other Pope names are available.  There has never been a Pope Todd or Kevin or Earl.  My name is John, possibly the most popular Pope name, but I don’t want all those Roman numerals after my name.  I’m the Pope, not the Super Bowl.  Besides, there have been so many Pope Johns, that they’ve lost track of them.  I don’t want my number all messed up.  Plus, there’s already a Papa John.  I don’t want folks calling the Vatican wanting pizza. If elected, I’ll hold a contest via Twitter and Facebook.  NAME THE NEW POPE!  My personal choice is Sexius Beastus Superius, but I’ll let the people decide.

I’ll rock the Pope Holy garments.  I know the Pope wears an alb, because I have two friends who are Catholic deacons, and they wear albs.  My alb will be more like a bathrobe but encrusted with jewels.  Think Ric Flair but with overtly religious overtones.  I’m not wild about the dress the Pope wears or the red shoes, but I can take those on rare, formal occasions.

riclfair

Nature Boy Ric Flair modeling one of my choices for Popely garb

I will tone down the hat.  Okay, I’m sure the hat has a holy significance, just like the staff or cane he carries.  But, I’m a baseball cap kind of guy.  The hounds-tooth hat, fedora, bowler or derby don’t look right on me.  The Pope Hat would be particular difficult for me.  I also favor wife beater t-shirts and sweat pants.  I’m sure those can be modified to a more dignified look for the papacy.

pope

My Pope Hat

I want the Pope car, the famed Popemobile.  I know that the Vatican doesn’t like it being called that, but I love it. I’ll have a fleet of Popemobiles, Popecycles, Popeboats, Popecoptors, Poperockets, Pope Jet Packs and Pope Hovercrafts.  You’ll know me when I show up–in style.

I’ll have a steep learning curve what with my almost total ignorance of Catholicism.  I assume that the Vatican–like any government–has a staff of long-time civil servants who can show me the ropes.  How hard could it be, really?  Get me an alb and a sensible hat, and I can fake my way through it until I get the hang of it.

Once elected, I will embark on the most ambitious Popely agenda ever.  Among my many reforms will be the following:

  • No more Latin.  We’re going all English all the time.  I’m almost certain that God speaks English.  Why shouldn’t we?
  • The vows of poverty and chastity are going to have to go, at least for the Pope.  As the first Protestant Pope (as far as I know), I can’t be expected to get bogged down in all that minutia.  That’s for Catholics.
  • We’re going to simplify all the kneeling and chanting.  As a non-Catholic, I’ve found myself baffled to the point of delirium attending Catholic church services of any sort.  Kneel, say something, repeat this or that, etc.  It’s exhausting.  We’ll install light-up signs like in TV studios that will tell everyone what to do and when to do it. Problem solved.
  • There’ll be no more indulgences.  You step out of line, and that’s it.  I’m not running a loose ship.
  • I’ll immediately issue a papal bull putting an end to this University of Notre Dame nonsense.  One of my first acts will be to read off a list of all the Catholic universities in the United States and show their overall sub-par performance in athletics.  If that doesn’t work, I will simply display a huge photo of Digger Phelps with the caption:  IF GOD FAVORS YOUR SCHOOL, EXPLAIN THIS!
  • I will officially declare that any comical photos of empty dresses, chairs, etc., describing Manti Te’o’s girlfriend to be mortal sins.  It was funny at first, but it’s grown tiresome.
  • Wilt Chamberlain’s former home in Bel Air will become “Vatican West,” because…well…it’s cool and so was Wilt.  It will also be known as the Wilt House.
wilthouse

Vatican West

  • I’ll re-institute the Crusades.  At first, we’ll start small, terrorizing the Italian countryside.  If that goes well, we’ll branch out.  Perhaps we can go somewhere like New Guinea and give everyone a deadly strain of the flu.

You’re probably wondering why I want to be Pope.  First, have you seen where the Pope lives?

vatican

The Pope’s turf. Not too shabby.

Next, the Pope is just generally well thought of by folks.  Okay, there was that one nut job who shot John Paul II, but think about this:  He was shot 5 or 6 times and lived!  Even Stallone couldn’t do that.  There’s something to this Pope thing.

I also like the idea of papal infallibility.  That would be a big confidence-booster for me.

According to some really sketchy research I’ve done, the official title is cool:  Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God.  (Okay, the “Primate” thing isn’t so cool, but I guess it’s accurate.  As far as I know, all the Popes have been primates).

Finally, it would have to boost my standing with God.  Now, the Pope isn’t a god, like the Dalai Lama or the last Emperor of China or Emperor Hirohito of Japan, but he’s pretty important.  Given my many past transgressions, that has to help.  It certainly can’t hurt.

Will I be a good Pope?  It’s doubtful.  But, I certainly won’t be the worst Pope ever.  Come on, there have been so many Popes, at least one or two had to be terrible.  Surely, there was a Franklin Pierce or Andrew Johnson among them.  Now that I know I can resign, that takes some of the pressure away.  Worst case scenario, I’ll be the Richard Nixon of Pontiffs.

If I can’t be Pope, I can be Antipope.  There hasn’t been an Antipope in at least a few hundred years.  As Antipope, I could claim to be Pope but not really be.  I can even appoint Cardinals who will be called Quasi-Cardinals and Cardinal-Nephews or Quasi-Cardinal Nephews.  I have cousins who might like that.

Oh, there will be some rough days ahead for the Church.  I might cause a schism, maybe several.  My tendency to addresses my audience as “You miserable bastards” will take some getting used to.  But, I’ll do the best I know how, which is probably what every Pope does anyway.  Remember:  “No Pope, no hope.”  I’ll be better than nothing.  Or not.  At least I’ll make the next Pope look good.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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Cheerleader God

raylewis

Ray Lewis shows God His Lombardi Trophy

I’m a big sports fan. Huge, actually. I’ve ruined substantial chunks of my life grieving over sporting events in which I had no stake other than as a fan. None of the players or coaches knew me nor did they care one way or the other about how their pitiable performances affected me. Nevertheless, though, I grieved.

You know who else is a big sports fan? God. That’s right. Capital “G” God. The Big Guy. The Alpha and Omega. The Big I AM. How do I know that about the unknowable? Athletes have told me. Repeatedly.

Ray Lewis says so. God glorified him (or vice versa–sometimes it’s hard to follow Ray) with a Super Bowl win. After the Ravens’ win, Ray said “It’s simple: When God is for you, who can be against you?” That is pretty simple. God is all-powerful, all-knowing and omnipotent. If He’s for you, who CAN be against you? Well, a lot of people, really. The other team, for instance. Their fans. Maybe people who just generally hate your team or you personally. Atheists, too.

Ray’s simple observation begs many questions, of course:

  • Was God against Colin Kaepernick?
  • Was God for John, but not Jim, Harbaugh? If so, why?
  • What did God think of Beyonce?
  • How about the guy in the suit that John Harbaugh screamed at? What sin did he commit?
  • What was God’s deal with the Harbaugh parents? For or against?
  • Why didn’t God see that holding call on Crabtree? Or did He see it but smite the officials with blindness, because he was for Ray?
  • Is possible that God was on the side of Michael Oher, the guy from the movie The Blind Side, and Ray just benefited from it?
  • Why did God turn out the lights in the second half?
  • What kind of God would allow Destiny’s Child to reunite?

If it were just Ray, it wouldn’t be that big a deal. Other athletes are just as bad–or maybe it’s good. Boxers praise God–right after they beat the holy crap out of someone. “Thank you, God, for giving me the strength to inflict permanent brain damage on this other child of yours.” Basketball players do it. Baseball players. Everyone who wins has God on his or her side. Some invoke Jesus, which is really the same thing except with a decidedly Christian take.

That’s right. God picks sides. He’s picked the World Series, Super Bowls, NCAA Championships, fights–you name it. There isn’t enough hard drive in the Cloud to list all the athletes that have credited God for their wins. God plays favorites. No doubt. God is definitely a Calvinist when it comes to sports.

The uncomfortable flip side of this is that God clearly dislikes certain teams and athletes, too, not to mention their fans (like me). This is rarely acknowledged, with one notable exception. Former University of Kentucky football player Stevie Johnson is now a star wide receiver for the Buffalo Bills. A couple of years ago, he dropped a potential game-winning touchdown pass. Just dropped it. Stevie saw the hand of God in it.

twitter

Stevie Johnson’s ill-tempered tweet reflected a lot of fans’ thoughts.

Predictably, Stevie took a lot of heat for this. But, if you are a sports fan, haven’t you at least thought this before? Sure you have. Of course, I remember Stevie catching a touchdown pass to beat the University of Louisville. An act of God, for sure.

I’ll confess that I’ve prayed to God about sports. “Oh, mighty God, PLEASE let this free throw drop!!!” Of course, this type of prayer is fruitless, but I’ve done it. My life as a sports fan has proven and disproven the existence of God many times:

  • Jim O’Brien hits a last-minute field goal. Colts beat the Cowboys in the Super Bowl. No God.
  • Roger Staubach hits Drew Pearson with the original “Hail Mary” pass in the 1975 NFC Playoffs. God lives!
  • UCLA beats Kentucky for the 1975 NCAA Basketball Championship. No God.
  • Six months later, the Reds rally from 3 down to win the 7th game of the World Series. Big God!
  • Jackie Smith drops a touchdown pass against the Steelers. Cowboys lose the Super Bowl. No God.
  • Kentucky wins the 1978, 1996, 1998 and 2012 NCAA basketball championships. Big, big, big, big GOD!!
  • Christian Laettner hits a three to beat Kentucky at the buzzer in the 1992 NCAA Regional Finals. There is a God, and He hates me.
  • Billy Gillispie is hired as Kentucky’s basketball coach. God hates Kentucky.
  • John Calipari is hired as Kentucky’s basketball coach. God actually loves Kentucky but has a twisted sense humor (see Gillispie, Billy).
  • University of Kentucky Football: No God or at least not one that will let us be great at two sports.
Christian_laettner_1992

I, for one, refuse to blame God for this.

For brevity’s sake, I won’t list the other 200-300 examples. One can readily see that I have struggled to see God’s handiwork in my life as a fan. For others, look no further than this year’s NCAA Football Championship. Notre Dame has Touchdown Jesus, but Alabama whipped them like Samson breaking bad on a bunch of Philistines.

The problem is that for each instance in which I have been crushed by a sporting event, others have felt an equal and opposite reaction. Call it Newton’s Law of God In Sports. He loves one team and hates the other. Okay, maybe He doesn’t hate them. Only if you’re a member of the Westboro Baptist Church do you embrace the hating God. But, at the very least, He’s cruelly indifferent to the other team and its fans.

How does this happen? Do the other fans pray better? Are the players better people? If so, what can I do to help my team? If more of our fans pray will that tip the scales? Or is the quality of the prayers, rather than the quantity, that matters most? It’s hard to say, really.

What about Tim Tebow? By all accounts, he’s a fine young man, sincere in his faith and an all around good guy. He played quarterback for the Denver Broncos in 2011 and won a bunch of games. Now, truth be told, he didn’t play particularly well, completing less than 50% of his passes. Yet, he won or, more accurately, his team won. Many folks attributed this to God. Tebow is a Christian, and God wins games for him. Many of my devoutly Christian friends manically cheered for him, as though he was the first Christian to ever play in the NFL (I don’t think he is, by the way). Then Tebow got traded to the Jets, because the Broncos preferred Peyton Manning at quarterback. Tebow barely played for the Jets and did nothing to help them win–to the extent the Jets did win. Did God turn his back on Tebow? Doubtful. Tebow just ended up on a team that didn’t want to play him. Like Tebow, Danny Wuerffel was also a Heisman Trophy winning quarterback from the University of Florida and a devout Christian. He had no success in the NFL. Why? Because that’s sports, not God.

Now, you’re thinking: “What’s your point?” Here it is: God isn’t picking games. If he did, the parochial schools would never lose, and Bob Knight would have never won a game. God is God, which is a good thing, but one can only hope that He is occupied with more important things than Ray Lewis’s retirement and my desire to see a teenaged college student make a free throw.

I won’t even belabor the obvious such as the horrific injuries–and even death–suffered by athletes. If you’re a sports fan, you can think of an almost endless list of vile humans who have excelled in sports. What about cities like Chicago and Cleveland? What are they–the Sodom and Gomorrah of sports? If God is picking sides, surely he could cut them a break.

So, the next time you think God has picked your team or favorite player, remember that just means He’s back handing someone else. Eventually, He’ll show you the hands, too. Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with praising God. Some believe that He demands it. It’s just that suggesting He won a game makes as much sense as crediting the military for it. After all, we should be thankful for our soldiers, too, but let’s be reasonable.

Okay, now God, UCLA has 11 NCAA basketball titles, and Kentucky has 8. Do you think you could see your way clear to…..never mind.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Three Horsemen of Stupidity

Lots of folks moan and carry on about the American education system. Some people hate public schools, envisioning children goose-stepping about while befouling the flag and hurling curses at a God they are taught doesn’t exist. Private schools chafe others who see them as elitist enclaves filled with privileged children who don’t need educations anyway because of their family largesse. Of course, there are the home-schoolers, helicoptering above their kids hoping not only for a better education but also to insulate their young angels from the evils of society, i.e., other children taught in one of the aforementioned alternatives.

All agree, to some extent, that we can do better. We can achieve higher and produce generations of intellectual titans conquering the world by the sheer force of their intelligence. Maybe that’s true. Maybe not. We ignore the sad, brutal reality that a very real learning disability yokes many Americans to the oxen of mediocrity. This demon has not been conquered despite many years, centuries even, of effort.

I want to be clear about something up front here. I’m not talking about what most people call learning disabilities. For example, I once knew a guy who had dyslexia. That’s a bad deal to be sure. It makes it hard to learn to read and, once you do learn to read, it affects your comprehension. Fortunately, there are ways to compensate for this–at least to some extent.

I also know that ADHD and ADD affect people, too. Hey, if you can’t pay attention, learning is going to be pretty darn tough. Future generations may question whether addicting our children to amphetamines was the best remedy, but at least we recognize the problem.

There are people, too, with identifiable organic brain impairments which impede their ability to learn. Genetic and injury-induced impairments are well-recognized today, and we don’t expect these folks to achieve at the same level as those of us fortunate enough to have avoided the chance occurrence of such maladies.

Of course, mental illness is no impediment to learning. John Forbes Nash and The Unabomber are but two examples of brilliance developed through the fog of grievous mental illness. As we all know, serial killers are often intelligent, too.

No, I’m talking about a daunting condition which has eluded scientific treatment and continues to hamper many of us. Stupidity and its three horsemen: dumbness, ignorance and laziness. These three elements in some combination can result in chronic, untreatable and incurable stupidity.

DUMB, DUMB, DUMB

Some people are smarter than others. I’d say everyone agrees with that. A corollary to that is that some people are dumber than others, too. Now, I’ve hit a hot button. Not everyone agrees with that. It’s become unfashionable–if not downright cruel–to acknowledge the obvious: Some folks just ain’t all that bright. We all know this but are hesitant to point it out, at least not loudly. Everyone should be able to do as well as everyone else.

I suppose when we acknowledge that some are smarter than we are, we can still cling to the idea that we, too, are smart–just not that smart. Then we can derisively note that those of superior intelligence are just plain weird. We’re smart, too, but not weird smart.

We all are less smart than someone. I have son who is smarter than I am. He is. It’s the same as him being taller than I am. It’s a fact. He studies math at a major university and is clearly far beyond my intelligence. His youngest brother laments that the oldest “sucked all the brains out of our family.” Perhaps, but it’s undeniable that he’s smarter than the rest of us. Being dumb, though, is much different from paling in comparison to someone brilliant. Dumb is dumb, regardless of the context.

We aren’t supposed to say people are dumb, of course. Perhaps they learn at a slower pace or differently or not at all. We’ll readily send the smartest kids to special or advanced classes or schools. When I was a kid, we had “remedial reading” which was pretty much an educational wasteland of some sort or that’s how I viewed it. I don’t even know if they do that anymore. It’s probably good that we don’t have dumb classes in school (assuming that’s true). School is hard enough as it is, I suppose.  I’m not talking about Special Education.  That’s a good thing, even though I was a bit frightened of the Special Ed room in high school (see my comments below about ignorance).

What happens when a child fails at school? The school or the teacher is blamed. If they would do better, so would little Johnny. Maybe, we blame the parents. But we don’t blame Johnny. We dismiss the possibility that Johnny is just a dullard. Maybe he’s dumb. Plenty of adults are. It only makes sense that kids would be, too.

If you’re dumb, learning is tough. Why? Well, you’re dumb. That about sums it up. If you’re dumb, you might not even understand why you need to learn something. Oh, someone can explain it to you, but you probably won’t get it. It just won’t make sense. You might think: “Why is that weird nerd telling me that?” or “Hey, there’s something shiny!” Lots of cloudy thinking will confuse you.

How do you know if you’re dumb? Hell, I don’t know. I’m smart, but not that smart. Even if I could explain it, you probably couldn’t understand it, anyway. We used to rely on IQ tests, but those are now out of fashion as inaccurate, culturally biased or just plain wrong. I suspect no one likes them because they demonstrate that some people are more intelligent than others. Then again, I’m not smart enough to know for sure. Not dumb, mind you, but not that smart, either. If you even suspect that you’re dumb, you probably aren’t. You have to have at least a modicum of intelligence to know that others are smarter than you are.

By the way, we took IQ tests in high school. I did alright on mine. One of my friends scored a 78. Another friend looked it up in what had to be an out-dated medical book. 78 was “high moron.” Oh, how we laughed. We would occasionally greet him with “Hi! Moron!” Like I said, school is tough enough, I guess.

I do think there are some tell tale signs of dumbness:

  • The Look: You’ve seen it. It’s a dull-eyed, vacant look. It’s in the eyes. There just isn’t much going on back there. You’re never sure if anything you say registers. Don’t worry. It doesn’t. George W. Bush has the look. So does Joe Biden. Oddly, George H.W. Bush doesn’t have it. Neither does Dick Cheney. Brad Pitt? Yep. George Clooney? No. Britney Spears? Oh, yeah. Madonna? Oddly again, no.
  • Disdain for the intelligent: “He ain’t got no common sense.” This is the calling card of the dumb. Desperate to denigrate the smart, they point to highly valued “common” sense as the true measure of intelligence. Sure, Einstein may have revolutionized centuries of scientific thought, but he lacked common sense. Just remember, the translation of this statement is: “That person is immeasurably more intelligent than I am, perhaps to the point that we belong to different species.”
  • He’s a nerd: A variation of the point above, this type of comment is designed to point out that you, although quite dumb in comparison, possess certain invaluable social traits lacking in your more intelligent counterparts. This is likely true. Why? Because the smart people are in the minority. If they were just average, they’d be hanging out with your ilk. Remember: The nerds are the ones that will sign your pay checks. Be nice to them.
  • Practiced Illiteracy: I’m not talking about literal illiteracy. Hell, if you can’t read, that’s a problem but fixable. Practiced illiteracy is the conscious choice not to read. No books, magazines or even newspapers. You might even call pornographic magazines “dirty books.” You’ll only look at the pictures in those, anyway. The advent of the internet gives you access to the same content without the need to be slowed down by type face. You’ll rarely read the newspaper, even then just the headlines. Reading is for nerds. (See point above RE: Nerds).
  • What do other people say? If you are often called names like dumbass, idiot, moron, fool, slack jaw, dullard, wastrel, lunkhead, muscle head, numbskull, nit wit, twit, git, pea brain, lame brain, brain-damaged, stupid, imbecile, simpleton or dolt, you’re probably dumb. Why else would people call you all those names?

When I was a young attorney, I took the deposition of a psychiatrist in a workers compensation case. The doctor described the claimant as suffering from “PPP.” When I asked what that was, the doctor said: “Piss poor protoplasm.” The doctor’s point was that this young man didn’t have the gray matter to do much in life. Sad, but true. He was just plain dumb.

(As a totally unrelated aside, that doctor was the ugliest person I’ve ever seen. He was the kind of ugly where you stare to try to figure out if he had some accident or cranial-facial anomaly. I don’t think he did. He was just ugly. I digress….).

If you’re dumb, you may be able to compensate for it to some degree, unless you fall prey to the other Horsemen.

BLISSFUL IGNORANCE

“Ignorance is bliss” said someone named Thomas Gray in a pretensious-sounding work called Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.  Dumb is different that ignorant. Smart people can be ignorant. Despite marrying me, my wife is smart, but she’s ignorant of history. She doesn’t like history and makes a concerted effort to avoid it. I could tell her that Chester Arthur was Bea Arthur’s real name before Bea’s sex-change, and my wife might believe. This isn’t because she’s dumb. She’s never tried to learn these things. She’s just ignorant (I mean that in the nicest way, of course).

I, too, am ignorant of such things as automobile mechanics. I understand the basic workings of the internal combustion engine, but that’s about it. When I look under the hood of my car, I get confused and a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps I could learn about it, I just don’t want to try. On the other hand, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball history. Does that benefit me in any way? No, but it tells me that I can’t be dumb if I can remember all that minutia.

Ignorance, sadly, holds us all back to some extent. We readily recognize such vile things as racism or my fear of the Special Education room as being the product of ignorance or even dumbness. I submit that ignorance is a common thread binding us all. For me, it’s auto mechanics. For my wife, history and basic cooking skills. For you, it might be sports. Here’s the rub: For the dumb, it’s all kinds of stuff: Politics, religion, science, health, hygiene, math, world events, child care–the list is endless. The dumber you are the more likely you are to be ignorant of things. Sorry, but that’s just how it is.

The more ignorant you are the more likely you are to do something dumb. Here in Kentucky, stealing copper is quite popular, so much so that some thieves will steal electrical wiring. Now, one can persuasively argue that this is just dumb. It’s probably also a sign of gross ignorance. Electrical wiring often, by definition, carries electricity. Electricity, for all the good it does, can kill you. You need to know things like this before you steal stuff carrying electricity.

Stay ignorant about enough topics and pretty soon you’re stupid. Sorry, but that’s how it goes.

Most us, me included, write off our ignorance to lack of interest. If I’m not interested in something, why learn about it? That’s a pretty decent point, but it leads to my next topic.

LAZY DAZE

Laziness is dumb’s lazy brother-in-law. Laziness gets a short shrift when discussing learning disabilities. Don’t underestimate the power of laziness. Laziness can neutralize intelligence and breed ignorance like a pen full of rabbits.

The lazier you are the less likely you are to learn anything. It’s just not worth the effort. As with ignorance, you do not have to be dumb to be lazy. Many smart folks are lazy, too. In fact, they can use their intelligence to half-ass their way through life. “Hey, if I can be average with minimal effort why wear myself out to be exceptional? Now, what’s on TV?” After awhile, your laziness and ignorance will lead to outright stupidity.

Sadly, I have suffered from laziness. Emptying the dishwasher, for example, is a daunting task for me, to the point that I am ignorant of where all the dishes go. Now, I’m not so dumb that I can’t figure it out, but it’s difficult because of my laziness.

The truly lazy have lost their ability to learn, if they ever had any. I have another son who likes to lie on the couch and watch television. School work is to him as the dishwasher is to me. His high school career has consisted of  gradually dumbing down his schedule to the point where watching television does not affect his grades. He doesn’t seem dumb to me, but it’s hard to tell, really.  His learning disability is laziness but stupidity could be in his future.

What do you do about being lazy? Getting up off your ass and doing something is a good start. At least that’s what my Dad thought.

CONCLUSION

If you’re smart, you may have noticed that this post is bereft of citations or any sign of research. That’s true, but it’s not because I’m dumb. It’s a blog, and I don’t have to do all that. So, I’m just lazy and possibly ignorant.

I maintain–and believe scientists would agree–that stupidity remains the number one learning disability in our country. Why do I say that? Because no one else will say it, even though in our heart of hearts we all know it’s true. If you’re stupid, that’s a hurdle that’s almost impossible to clear.

If you’ve managed to read this entire inane post, I have good news. You’re probably not dumb or you would have lost interest when you noticed there were no pictures. You’re also slightly less ignorant (maybe). And you’re not so lazy that you won’t at least read something. Congratulations.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Gym Rant, Part II

I’m back with more ravings about the gym. Don’t get me wrong–I love the gym. But I spend a lot of time there, so I’ve developed certain likes and dislikes, even prejudices.  Many of these are just personal to me.  They might not bother a so-called “normal” person.  That matters not, of course.  What matters–as always–is me.  If you’re interested in things that bother you, I suggest you write about them yourself.

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Your beastly author

A few months ago, I posted thoughts on a few things that bother me at the gym. Since then, I’ve thought of others. Here goes:

PUT YOUR $&#^! CLOTHES ON!

Every time I go in the locker room, there is a naked guy. Oh, it’s not the same naked guy. If it were, I’d make a formal complaint. It’ll be some dude, and he’ll be naked.  The locker really is a public area (public, not pubic).  The public–me included–is present.  How about covering up?

Put on a towel. Better yet–your damn clothes. You can towel off back by the showers. No one–NO. ONE.–wants to see you towelling your ass. This is especially true if we non-naked folks are sitting.  Oh, do you want to sit down naked guy? Put on your damn clothes first or lay down a towel. We don’t want your ass matter on everything.  I’m sure I speak for everyone on that point.

Hey, here’s another problem. Don’t talk to me. You’re naked. You want to talk? Here’s what I have to say: “Put your g **damn clothes on!” That’s the same thing I’d say to a dinner guest or co-worker under similar circumstances.  Simply put, I am incapable of engaging in casual conversation with naked people, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Do you really need to bend over? Then, you damn well need to cover up. Getting naked in front of strangers is weird enough, but bending over? Unless you’re planning on tucking bucks, that ain’t gonna fly. Stop.  And see the comment above about the rest of us sitting.  Please.

Finally, you would think that folks who parade around naked would probably have enviable physiques.  Nope.  It’s like a nude beach.  The people who do this have every reason in the world to wear many, many layers of clothing.

Until we join the 21st century and embrace my plan for non-sexist, unisex locker rooms, I’m not backing down on this one.  And, if I do back down, don’t worry–I’ll wear a towel.

SPOT ME, DUDE

If you go to a gym long enough, someone will ask you to spot him.  If you’ve ever lifted weights you know what that means.  If you haven’t, I’m sure it sounds vaguely obscene, but it isn’t.

Here’s how it works.  Someone is lifting, usually the bench press.  He is working with weights that are just slightly too heavy.  He needs a boost to get going. So, you spot him.  On the bench press, this means you hold the weights to give him just a little more lift to get going. Sometimes, the spotter needs to stand there for the whole set, you know, just in case the weights come crashing down on the lifter.

Spotting is considered a courtesy at the gym.  It’s kind of like holding the door for someone.  I don’t mind doing it on occasion, but really that’s not why I’m at the gym.  I would, of course, like to point out a couple of things to keep in mind.

If you weigh, say, 300 pounds and are benching let’s say 400 pounds, you might need someone of similar girth to help you.  I’m 50 years old.  I weigh 160 pounds.  I’m in pretty good shape.  In fact, for my age, I’m in excellent shape.  It’s a solid 160.  This does not mean, however, that I am the appropriate person to spot someone benching 2 1/2 times my weight.  If you start to give out and the weight is coming down, what can I really do for you?  Perhaps I can hang on to the weights and crash down on top of you.  Maybe I can throw myself between the weights and your body to cushion the blow.  That’s about it.  If you are a behemoth of some sort, bring another of your massive ilk with you.  You guys can put on those big leather lifting belts and spot each other.  Trust me, it’s a better plan.

Also, if you need spotting for your entire set, it’s possible you’re using too much weight or you need a permanent assistant.  I’m there to work out, not be your spotting manservant.

With those qualifiers, I’ll spot you, just not too often.  If you bug me too much, I could just drop the weights on you  anyway.

SUPPLEMENT GUY

Maybe this guy is just at my gym, but I don’t think so.  He uses dietary supplements.  He asks me if I use supplements.  “Do you use creatine?”  “Do you load?” “What kind of protein do you use?” “Do you use a T booster?”  The list is endless.  He’s like a drug dealer.  He wants to know what you’re doing and then tries to get you to do something else.

My gym’s Supplement Guy doesn’t look like he uses any supplements, but he does.  He’ll tell me I need more supplements so that I can look the Michelin Men who work out at the gym.  I’ve told him, gently, that some of those guys are using REAL supplements, nothing you can buy at GNC.  He doesn’t care.  He needs to tell me what he uses.  What he uses certainly doesn’t work, but he doesn’t care.

Supplement Guy bothers me and not just because I don’t care for idle chatter at the gym.  I’m in far better shape than he is.  He has no business suggesting I do what he’s doing.  In fact, he should do what I’m doing.  Maybe that’s why he asks, but I don’t think that’s it.

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

We all reach a certain age where people become curious about our age.  I guess.  I’ve been asked on several occasions at the gym about how old I am.  Why?  It’s possibly because I am an Adonis of some sort.  That’s doubtful.  I think it’s because I’m there almost every day, and some folks are fascinated that an aging fellow like me would do that.  There’s one guy at our gym a lot older that I am–20 years at least.  I’ll admit that I want to ask how old he is.  Even though I’ve known this guy a long time, I still won’t ask his age.  It just seems awkward.

It’s not an awkward subject for some people.  They’ll ask without hesitation.  Sometimes, this can be misconstrued.  I will believe I’m being flattered.  A while back, I was approached by a comely lass who couldn’t have been more than 25 years old (at my age, I can’t really tell–she was no more than 40 for sure).  Here’s the conversation:

HER:  “Excuse, me.  I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how old are you?”

ME:  “49”

HER:  “Do you use a personal trainer?”

[Now, it’s clear that she has seen something she likes. I still got it!]:

ME:    “Well, no.”

[This is 100% ME, baby!]

HER:  “Oh, I just wondered.  My dad is 46, and I’ve been trying to get him to get in shape.  I thought I’d ask if you used someone here.  Thank you , sir.”

ME: [sigh] You’re welcome.

Oh, well.

Here’s another one:

Young Man:  “Hey, how old are you?”

ME:  “50”

Young Man:  “Wow.  No wonder you’re here all the time.  It must be hard to stay in shape when you get older.”

That passes for a compliment in some cultures, I’m sure.  Here’s the deal.   Unless you’re older than I am, don’t ask me how old I am.  It’s not really relevant to anything other than your morbid curiosity.  I will say this, however, to these youngsters.  Check in when you’re 50.  It IS hard to stay in shape at my advanced age.  It’s called OLD MAN STRONG!

I HAVE LEGS LIKE  A GIRL

I suffer from some genetic anomaly which results in my having oddly feminine-looking legs.  I know this, because I’ve been told so on many occasions.  Usually, someone will say:  “I wish my legs looked like yours.”  That someone is always a woman.

I’ve worked on my legs.  I’ve lifted with them, run miles and miles–they’ve never changed.  They get no bigger or smaller.  That’s just how it is.  I also lack superfluous body hair.  I like to think of it as advanced evolution.  My ancestors crawled out the primordial ooze a little bit ahead of yours.  This only adds to the girlishness of my legs.

legs

My penchant for sitting like this certainly doesn’t help with the girlishness of my legs.

I don’t need to hear this anymore.  If you see a man with girly legs at the gym, it is probably me.  Don’t tell me.  I know it’s a compliment, but it doesn’t come across that way.

WHITHER MY CUBBIE?

My gym used to have cubbies.  You know, the little cubbie holes like elementary school kids use to store their stuff.  They were great.  They were in the work out area, and you could just toss your coat and car keys in one and be done.

This past year, my gym was sold to a large, national gym chain.  Overall, this is a good thing.  Whether it was the economy or just poor management, the gym had slipped some.   Equipment was in disrepair and cleaning was poor.  Plus, our gym’s owners had been subject to many complaints over their business practices.  It was probably a good time for a change, but it came at a price.

The price was our cubbies.  Why?  No one seems to know.  If the workers at the gym know, they aren’t telling.  Oh, we tried to protest, but it was to no avail.  Corporate America often ignores the little man.  Now, even if it’s just a light jacket, we must use the lockers.  Not only does this expose us to naked people, but we also must hang out in the stench of the locker room.  Do we need locks now?  So far, no.  At some point, they’ll probably force that on us, too.  Frankly, I thought my stuff was more secure out in the open where I could see it–in my precious cubbie.

cubbies

Despite our begging, the cubbies are no more.

So, the cubbies are gone, and I’m none too pleased about it.  Sure, there was the time someone took my car keys, but they returned them several hours later.  And, yes, someone took my lifting gloves once.  I consider this a small price to pay for the convenience.  Oh, well, I’m glad I had the foresight to take pictures of them before they were gone.

cubbie2

Even this last ditch appeal to the Christmas spirit failed.

You might have read this and thought “He hates the gym. Why does he go?”  No, no, no.  I love the gym. That’s why these little imperfections bother me.  It’s just like with my children.  I dearly love them all, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have traits which make me curse them.  Much like the gym, I’ve spent quite a bit of money on them and gotten much enjoyment out of it, but they can and should do better.  I would blog about them, but the Draconian “rules” of the so-called child welfare authorities prevent that.

I could go on about such things as people working out in jeans or couples who hog up machines for 30 minutes at a time, but I think I’ll stop.  By the way, I just got back from the gym.  I’m pleased to report that I remain clothed the entire time.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Way of Te’o

I’ve never had a fake girlfriend.  Oh, I may have dated someone I thought was my girlfriend, but that’s not quite the same, is it?  (Turns out she was several people’s girlfriend, but that’s another story). Of course, almost every man has had someone he wished was his girlfriend.  Men don’t really talk about that, because it’s unmanly, but trust me it’s true.  There’s really nothing wrong with that unless you start believing that she’s your real girlfriend.  Then, she becomes your pretend girlfriend.  That’s when restraining orders start getting served on you.

Until a few days ago, only football fans knew the name Manti Te’o.  Now, just about everyone knows his name.  Why?  He has a fake girlfriend.  Or should I say “had?”  You see, she died of leukemia, but not really.  She fake died, which fake people can do.  Te’o says he’s the victim of hoax. Made up girlfriend. Made up love.  Made up death.  If so, there are some sick puppies out there who are definitely NOT Manti Te’o fans.

Te’o is a football player for the University of Notre Dame.  He is Hawaiian.  I know this because of the random apostrophe in his name.  He’s a linebacker and an excellent one at that.  He is also a famous football player–so famous that he was runner-up for the Heisman Trophy.  It’s easy to be a famous football player at Notre Dame, but winning the Heisman Trophy makes someone really famous.  Ask Johnny Manziel.  He beat out Te’o for the Heisman.  A year ago, no one had ever heard of him.  Now, he’s called Johnny Football and dates a model.   She’s a real person or so it seems.  I’ve seen pictures of her.  Then again, Te’o saw pictures of his girl friend, too.

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Johnny Football’s girl. Heisman winners date real girls.

It is beyond my abilities to unravel the Te’o mystery.  Here’s what I know.  It was widely reported that his grandmother and girlfriend died on the same day last September.  Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention to this, other than to note that it was bad deal.  Sports media beat it to death (forgive me for that).  I heard it about it every time I watched Notre Dame play, which was a lot because all their games are on TV.   Somehow, these deaths inspired Te’o to play better.  On January 16, 2013, Deadspin.com–sort of a snarky sports gossip site–ran a story that the girlfriend didn’t exist and not just because she was dead.  She wasn’t real.

Notre Dame’s athletic director held a press conference where he, too, said she wasn’t real.  Te’o was the victim of a hoax.  The AD cried, because Te’o will never “trust” again.  He didn’t say that Te’o would never love again, but that’s possible, too.  Te’o has weighed in and agreed that he is a victim. Now, he claims that it was just an Internet relationship.  They never met, but he loved her.  Okay.

As more details pour out about this, it is all very confusing.  Now, Te’o and his school claim that it was all an Internet relationship–that the two never actually met.  What did Te’o know and when did he know it?  Why did he keep quiet if, as he claims, he knew it was a hoax on December 6, 2012?  It’s a bizarre story.

Naturally, the whole weird tale got me thinking about me.  What if I had a fake Internet girlfriend?  Could I have one?  What would it be like?  What would we do?  I don’t think I would do well with a fake girlfriend for a number of reasons:

  • I had a difficult time getting along with real girlfriends.  Fake ones probably are no different.
  • I try to keep this blog PG-13.  Enough said about that.
  • Te’o said he talked to her on the phone for 8 hours a day.  I can’t imagine anyone having anything to say that I could listen to for 8 hours.  The first 8 hour phone call, and I’m out.
  • I would like to actually see my girlfriend on occasion.  Call me weird.
  • I’m not an All-American football player, so I might be exactly the kind of guy who would need to date someone on the Internet.  Regardless, at some point, I’m at least going to Google her name.
  • One of the best things about a girlfriend, as I recall, is that they smell good and nice to touch.  Without that, I’d lose interest.
  • If a beautiful woman contacted me on the Internet and said she was interested in me, I would immediately assume it was a scam.  It’s not like I ever had that problem in real life.
  • I’m married and have been for some time.  Fake girlfriends probably don’t go over any better than real ones.
  • I’m sure a fake girlfriend would eventually want a fake marriage.
  • Fake divorce would follow a fake marriage, but I’m sure the fake wife would still get half my stuff.
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My fake girlfriend is happy when she gets to work on my car.

So, I’m out of the fake girlfriend game.  That’s a good thing, I suppose, but it doesn’t stop me from pondering about how this could happen to someone.  If you’ve seen the documentary Catfish, you know it can happen.  I will confess, though, that some of the scenes in Catfish seem contrived to me.  Maybe not. Maybe this kind of stuff is just so weird that it’s unbelievable.

Common sense seems to be one’s best protection.  Here are some things that should be red flags:

  • Your girlfriend’s Facebook profile lists Hogwarts as her high school.
  • She lists Manti Te’o as a reference on her resume.
  • She calls with her condolences when your grandmother dies–and while she’s in a coma herself.
  • She claims to be a cheerleader at Faber College.
  • Every time you want to get together, she is either in a bad car wreck or has leukemia.
  • She says she’ll “just die” if you don’t win the Heisman, then she does.
  • She’s smokin’ hot, but trolls the Internet looking for a boyfriend.

These are just a few things which come to mind.  More importantly, though, is how to tell if someone else has a fake girlfriend.  In Te’o’s case it’s pretty easy now.  What’s not so easy is trying to sort out the truth from the fiction now.  I don’t know this young man and doubt that I will ever meet him.  But I’m a lawyer, and I know a thing or two about lying.  No, not me lying–other people.

When someone lies, it’s like looking at someone with a go-funny eye.  At first, you’re not quite sure what’s up, but something is off.  Then, you get it–“he’s got a go-funny eye!”  That’s how a lie works.  You hear it, and it’s not quite right.  Something is off about it, but you’re not sure what.  It might take some digging, but you can figure it out if you have time and patience.

As a father of three sons, I also know a thing or two about lying.  (That’s right.  Your kids will lie to you.  Sorry to bust your bubble).  As I write this, my sons are 20, 17 and 10.  I’ve learned to challenge anything that sounds the least bit implausible.  For example, a few months ago, one of my sons claimed that he was robbed of ten dollars outside his school.  Was I terrified?  No, because I didn’t believe it.  I had him come to my office and explain the story in detail.  Go-funny eye.  The time line made no sense.  Why would they steal $10 but not his phone?  He swore it was true, until several hours later when he admitted he lied.  He needed $10.  Why go to such lengths for $10?  How should I know?  I’m his father, not his psychiatrist.

I suspect that Te’o is in the same position. He’s telling a story now that just doesn’t fit.  Someone pulled one over on him.  Instead of facing the embarrassment of that, he perpetuated it.   If he did, he lied.  Something about the “he’s just a victim” story sounds wrong.  Not all of it–parts of it are no doubt true.  There are parts that just don’t sound right.  Go-funny eye.

Men my age like to call college age men “boys” or “kids.”  Te’o isn’t a kid.  He’s a grown man.  If he perpetuated this story after he knew it was a hoax, he is responsible for that.  It seems that no one at Notre Dame challenged Te’o on his story. Certainly, none of the journalists who swooned over his tale of woe did.  Maybe he just thought he’d get away with it.  Usually, that’s the point of a lie.

Like I said, he’s a grown man–with a fake girlfriend.  The more cynical of us note that defensive players don’t win the Heisman.  Maybe pulling at heart-strings would help.  Now, he’s the butt of jokes (I’ve come up with some good ones myself) and a media onslaught.  Of course, Te’o may be telling the truth.  If so, truth is again stranger than fiction.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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Why I Loved Carnivals

Last night, I saw a lady at the store who looked like a carnival performer I once saw.  When I was young, I loved carnivals.  REAL carnivals.  I’m not talking about something your church does as a fundraiser and calls it a carnival.  I’m also not talking about a circus.  A circus is a completely different thing.  A carnival is, well, a carnival.  Cotton candy; funnel cakes; rickety dangerous rides; sketchy employees; rigged games; cheap prizes; rough, flinty women; side shows; and a land armada of trailers where the workers live.  A carnival rolls from town to town spreading joy and not a small amount of trepidation when it arrives.

I grew up in Harlan County, Kentucky.  We had carnivals, usually at least once a year.  The Guthrie Shows was the big one.  The Shriners sponsored it.  It would set up in the parking lot of one of the local high schools for a week.  Ray Guthrie was from Middlesboro, Kentucky and would roll his carnival all around Southeastern Kentucky.  We loved it.  There was also Myers Midway–excellent, too.

I’ve written before about how wrestling brought out the real Harlan Countians.  The carnival brought our everyone.  It created a vast melting pot of our small corner of Kentucky.  You could see people from Holmes Mill to Pathfork at the carnival.  When I was in high school, some friends and I stood in line for a ride behind some stereotypical Harlan Countians.  Trying to get a rise out of them, we began to complain loudly about how bored we were and shouldn’t have vacationed in Harlan.  A woman turned around, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and said:  “Who sent you here fer a vacation?  All we have here are back stabbins, back shootins and cooooold-blooded killins!”  She wasn’t from the Chamber of Commerce.

When I went to college, I would still go to carnivals, albeit not quite the same as in Harlan.  Lexington, Kentucky has the yearly Lions Bluegrass Fair.  It has evolved into more of a state fair atmosphere over the years, but–in the 1980’s–it was pure carnival.  It was the Guthrie Shows on steroids.  Good stuff.

Why the love of carnivals?  Let’s see…

CARNIES

As most folks know, carnival workers are called carnies.  They are a singular subculture.  They have a grizzled, dangerous look about them.  They set up the carnival, operate the rides and run the games.  It’s not a carnival without the carnies.

They often have missing digits or limbs.  This doesn’t stop them from doing their jobs, of course.  They’ll pull the lever to start the Tilt-A-Whirl with that one good arm with a smoke dangling from their lips.  Sometimes, they’ll have an eye missing.  Do they wear patches or buy glass eyes?  Of course, not.  They just leave a gaping hole or simply sew the eye shut.  They’re carnies.  I saw a carny with a lame arm.  He just had it strapped to his side.  You don’t see that outside the midway.

Carnies fascinate me.  What is life like for them?  They live in their trailers at the carnival.   I imagine them drinking rot gut whiskey and playing cards far into the night, perhaps stabbing someone.  The romance of it all is intriguing, but it probably sucks..

CARNY BLOOD

My Dad’s Uncle Jay was a carny for many years.  Jay’s wife, Aunt Ruth, was a fortune teller.  They were true carnies. I believe they may even have lived in Gibsonton, Florida at one point.  Gibsonton is famed as the Winter home of carnies and sideshow performers.  Such luminaries as Lobster Boy and Percilla the Monkey Girl called it home.

Jay was a barker.  The barker is the guy who yells at you when you walk across the midway trying to get you to waste your money on something.  After he retired, Jay came back to Harlan for a visit.  As luck would have it, a carnival was in town.  Jay went to the carnival and ended up staying there a week.  Carnies all know each other.

My parents once visited Jay and Ruth in Florida.  They were told that Jay’s house had a “big palm” in the front yard, as one might expect in Florida.  As my parents drove down the street, they spotted it.  Yes, it was big palm–a hand identifying the home of Madame Ruth, Fortune Teller.  True carnies.

Once Ruth was trying to find Jay who was, apparently, wont to disappear on occasion.  She came to my Granny’s house demanding to know his whereabouts.  Granny responded with:  “Why don’t you look in your crystal ball?!?!”  Granny wasn’t impressed with carnies.

CARNY TOWN

I grew up in Loyall, Kentucky, which had a bit of a carny flavor to it.  No, it’s not because the residents looked like carnies, although a few surely did.  It’s because there was a family in town that owned and repaired carnival rides.  One member of that family was my younger brother’s baby sitter.

The patriarch of the clan was “Hoss,” a man whose girth no doubt led to his nickname.  He had rides and parts of rides all over his yard.  For a brief time, he even had a small Ferris Wheel.  My little brother loved that house.  The best days at the baby sitter were when he would come home and say “I played with Hoss today.”  Hoss also had an even more imposing son called “Mighty Moe,” but that’s a story for another time.

When I was small, that house was a wonder to me.  Why did they have all those rides in their yard?  I thought they were part of a carnival.  I was a tad disappointed when I found out they were just regular people.

THE FREAKS

Real carnivals had side shows or, as they were called in less politically correct times, Freak Shows.  I know that we’re not supposed to call people freaks.  It’s just not good form anymore.  That is, however, what they were called.  I didn’t come up with the term, so don’t assail me for using it here.

220px-Freak_show_1941

You don’t see this much anymore

Sonograms and evolving human decency have largely destroyed the Freak Show as an art form.  Modern medicine has also played a part in limiting the numbers of qualified entertainers.  Surely, the Elephant Man and the Mule-Faced Woman would receive at least some rudimentary medical care before their conditions became acute.  In days past, these unfortunate folks had little else to do but turn to the world of side shows.  It’s not like they could work in service industries.

If you want a good look at this bygone world, rent Tod Browning’s classic film, Freaks, made in 1932.  It stars real sideshow performers such as Prince Randian The Living Torso, Johnny Eck The Half Boy, Josephine Joseph and Zip The Pinhead.  It was so disturbing at the time that Browning had difficulty even finding theaters to show it.  It was banned entirely in England.

freaks

Prince Randian and Johnny Eck, stars of Tod Browning’s Freaks

I will confess that I have attended several freak shows.  This is nothing of which to be proud, but it’s true.  I’ve seen many of the typical freaks, such as Blockheads.  A Blockhead is a person who will push a nail straight into his face just beneath his nostril.  It’s gross, but anyone can do it if he or she is will to poke a hole in their face.  It’s more of trick than it is pure freakiness.

blockhead

Typical Human Blockhead in Action

Here are my personal Freak Show highlights:

Helga The German Giantess

I saw Helga at a carnival in Lexington, Kentucky.  She was billed as The World’s Largest Woman.  The sign claimed that she was OVER 7 FEET TALL!!  I was with a couple of friends, and we were intrigued.  We paid our money and were led to a dingy tent where Helga sat on a shabby throne.  She wore a long, black dress and a tiara.  I’m not sure how old she was, but I would have put her in her late fifties.  It’s really hard to say what with her being a giantess and all.

She held court and prattled on about her adventures.   Then, she stood up.  I don’t know if she was really seven feet tall (they cleverly had her sit on an elevated stage), but she was big.  REALLY big.  Maybe 6’8″ and a good three bills.  She asked for a volunteer from the audience.  There were 6 or 7 people in the tent and some young fellow raised his hand.

The volunteer made her look even bigger, because she was about a foot taller than he was.  She held out one of her gargantuan hands and ask him to hold it.  My friends and I squirmed at the thought of it.  On her hand, she had a ring with a large fake diamond (I say fake, because if it had been real, I doubt she would have been toiling in a Freak Show).  He took her hand with all the enthusiasm of someone meeting a leper.  Helga then boomed:  “MAKE A WISH!!”  Then, she took a step back and hiked her dress up to her navel.  The giantess wore not a stitch of under-clothing.  She dropped her dress and said “DID YOUR WISH COME TRUE?!?!”  For some reason, this terrified us, and my friends and I fled from the tent.

More disturbing was that one of my friends kept saying we should go look for her trailer.  We said “no” and slowly backed away from him.

THE LSD FREAK

I saw her in Harlan when I was a kid.  She sat on the floor of a tent, chained to a post.  She held a baby doll in one hand and drooled.   The story was that she had been a normal college girl until a “bad trip” turned her into the LSD Freak.  Now, she was a dangerous lunatic who had to be chained up.  The barker said that if she escaped she would kill everyone.  I didn’t believe that, because her condition appeared more catatonic than psychotic.

Now, she wasn’t a real freak, not in the classic sense.  She was probably the wife or daughter of one of the carnies, but she disturbed me.  Why?  Because I wondered–even as a kid–about what kind of bad turn one’s life could take for that to be your job.  The Elephant Man had little choice in regard to his profession, but this was something else entirely.

I felt sorry for her and the whole lot of them.  But, I never forgot it.  So, it must have been a good show.

BLOCKHEAD EXTRAORDINAIRE

As noted above, Blockheads aren’t really freaks.  They’re just people willing to do something weird.  Like a sword swallower (which I’ve also seen, by the way).  I’ve seen several Blockheads, but one stands out.

Again, I was kid, maybe 10 or 11.  This guy was billed as “The Human Blockhead.”  He came through the back of the tent and was an unimpressive sight.  He might have weighed 130 pounds.  He was pale and somewhat unhealthy-looking, perhaps the pallor of someone who lives in a trailer behind a carnival.

The Blockhead disinterestedly pushed a nail into his face.  People gasped.  Then, he breathed some fire.  Ho hum.  He walked in box of broken glass with an apathy that made me think he really wouldn’t care if his feet got shredded.  He laid on a bed of nails.  Yawn.  Then, he did it.

A couple of guys set up two folding chairs while The Blockhead lay in the dirty floor. The two men picked him up.  He was stiff as a board.  They placed the back of his head on one chair and his heels on the other.  He was still perfectly straight.  A cinder block was placed on his stomach.  He didn’t budge.  This was an impressive feat of strength.  THEN, one of the guys picked up a sledgehammer and–BOOM!–smashed the block!  The Blockhead just bounced up and back down like a steel beam. He was still perfectly balanced on the two chairs.  The guys picked him up and laid him back in the floor.  He stood up, took a bow and left with the same apparent ennui with which he entered.

I was there, and I saw it.  It wasn’t a trick.  They smashed a freakin’ cinder block with a sledgehammer on his stomach! I don’t know how he did it, but he did.  I hope The Blockhead went on to bigger and better things.  I doubt it, but I hope so.

FOOD

I can’t discuss carnivals without mentioning the food.  Corndogs, funnel cakes, cotton candy, snow cones and all manner of other food you wouldn’t eat anywhere else.  Everything that can be deep-fried is deep-fried.  And it’s all good.

There are still carnivals, although they are somewhat sanitized now.  Oh, you’ll still see a two-headed calf or dwarf on occasion.  There might even be babies in jars somewhere out there (Truthfully, I hope this one has been permanently eliminated).  You might even see a blockhead.  They still have all the crooked games on the midway, but I was never a fan of the games, anyway.  Some folks still have freak shows, like The Jim Rose Circus.  For the most part, though, the carnivals have lost their flavor.

Carnies remain the same–sketchy, dangerous and forbidding, but the rides seem safer.  I guess decades of litigation took care of that.  I haven’t been to a carnival in years, but I don’t think I can top what I’ve already seen.  Why try?

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Flu Blues

I don’t have the flu–at least not yet.  My wife does.  So does my 10-year-old son.  My other sons–17 and 19–also don’t have it.  My 17-year-old rarely leaves the basement and, when he does, it is usually out the back door.  I find this habit both annoying and disquieting, but now I embrace it as preventative health care.  My oldest son is home from college on Christmas break.  If he can avoid the spreading virus for the next 24 hours, he will be on his way back to Pittsburgh.  He attends Carnegie Mellon University, the alma mater of such diverse personalities as Andy Warhol, John Forbes Nash and Lenny and Squiggy of Laverne & Shirley fame.  His academic rigors can ill afford to be interrupted by disease.  On my advice, he is staying away from his childhood home except to pack his belongings and flee.

How bad is this flu?  Pretty bad.  My 10-year-old, normally an energetic cuss, has been rendered almost immobile.  My wife, too, has been felled, for the time being at least.  The good news is that the horrid virus has not diminished her ability to bark orders.  Thus, our home will continue to run like a well-oiled machine.

I now face a conundrum. My office is less than two miles from home, making it an oasis from the disease around me.  I must, of course, occasionally visit them while they are sick.  How can I make enough of an appearance to still be engaged as the titular head of the household, yet protect myself as any sane person would?

Before proceeding, you should know that the flu fascinates me a bit.  Several years ago I read The Great Influenza: The Epic Story of the Deadliest Plague in History by John M. Barry.  It is an excellent book about the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918.  THAT was a bad flu, killing in the neighborhood of 40 million people, including 600,000 in one month in the U.S. Since then, I’ve read a lot of material about the flu.  If I wanted to appear brainy, I could rant about various flu strains, antigen drift, corona virus and other minutia.  But it all comes down to this:  The flu comes in many forms, changes constantly, is highly contagious and incurable.  The good news, as Barry notes in his book, is that–even its deadlier forms–it’s just the flu.  It won’t kill you.  Probably.  Now, if you’re elderly, it can lead to pneumonia which no old person wants.  Bad stuff there.  Much worse than the flu.

How do you know if you have the flu?  Oh, there are many symptoms.  Here is a simple test:  Are you coughing like you have Black Lung and do you feel like crap?  If so, you may have the flu.

Even though I won’t pretend to be a doctor, I do want to clarify something.  There is no stomach flu.  There are viruses which will cause unimaginable gastrointestinal disruption and strip you of your dignity.  You can be like I was about year ago.  Start feeling a little weird in your stomach and then–BOOM!–puking pizza through your nose for an hour.  But, that’s not the flu.  Could be a virus. Maybe it’s bacteria, i.e., food poisoning.  Just don’t call it the flu.  The flu is the flu.  If you say you have the stomach flu, it makes as much sense as saying you have a facial hernia.

Anyway, back to me (as if we ever left that topic to begin with).  Once the disease hit, I had to think fast to protect myself.  I considered several options before settling on one:

RUN LIKE HELL

Like any animal, fight or flight is my reaction to terror.  In this case, flight is the only reasonable option.  My initial plan was to get a room at the Hampton Inn across the highway from my home.  It’s close to my office and home.  I could stay there until the trouble passes, plus feign immediate availability for the sick.

I love Hampton Inn, by the way.  I travel a fair amount for work to many places that don’t have 5 Star Hotels.  Most areas do, however, have a Hampton Inn.  They are all pretty much the same.  Nice, clean rooms, pool, exercise room and free breakfast.  Good deal.

My wife shot down my running away plan.  I simply asked, “How bad would it be if I got me a room over at the Hampton and just brought you all stuff when you need it?”  Her answer:  “Very bad [cough, cough, cough].”

PLAN B

I have a friend who will occasionally come up with an idea for something.  He will call these ideas “Plan Q.”  Why?  I don’t know.  I considered calling this Plan Q, but–while a fine fellow–he is a litigious sort who would likely take umbrage at this.  So, I call this Plan B.

Here are the steps of Plan B:

1.  Wife and Son retreat to the master bedroom of our home on the second floor (now called the “Phlegm Chamber”),  It has a queen-sized bed, television, sofa, ample books and a bathroom.  In keeping with today’s lingo, we will call these wretched souls the “Ratchet.”

2.  Dry foodstuffs, MREs, liquids, medicine and supplies will have been previously stocked in the Phlegm Chamber.  This will include, but not be limited to, Theraflu, Tamiflu, Kleenex, NyQuil, Advil, Tylenol, magazines, newspapers and a legal pad in case they want to draw.

3.  Once the Ratchet are safely ensconced, duct tape will place along the door facing.  This will ensure that the deadly miasma produced by their constant breathing and coughing will remain contained within the Phlegm Chamber, unable to escape to the rest of the house, now known as the “Clean Zone.”

4.  Cell phones will be provided to allow text messaging and limited phone calls to me.  I will guarantee a response within two to three hours of any message left with me, unless I am napping.  In that case, I may respond the next day, if at all.

5.  The Ratchet will not be allowed in the Clean Zone until they have gone 24 hours without a fever.  This is a bit of gamble, because I’m not insane enough to check their temperatures myself.  However, if they venture out while still feverish, I’m sure there’s some app for constantly monitoring a rectal thermometer.  If not, I’ll get my egghead kid at Carnegie Mellon to invent one.

6.  Once the Ratchet are able to leave the Phlegm Chamber, they will immediately visit a doctor to confirm that they are no longer contagious.  Once this is confirmed in writing, they are free to venture about the Clean Zone wearing appropriate surgical masks until all coughing has subsided.  Since the Clean Zone is likely to be a bit messy, the Ratchet are then expected to help straighten up a bit.

The problem with Plan B, despite its ingenious detail, is that it requires cooperation from the Ratchet.  Thus far, that cooperation has been lacking.

HOWARD AND ME

The name Howard Hughes likely doesn’t mean much to young folks.  To people of a certain age, like me, his name conjures up the image of fabulous wealth, daring adventure and, of course, crippling lunacy.

Hughes made fortunes in the tool, film and aviation industries.  He once declared that his goal was to be the greatest golfer, pilot and film maker on Earth and the richest man in the world.  Except for golf, he could at various times have laid claim to all those titles.

When Hughes was in his 50’s, he developed, at the very least, serious obsessive-compulsive disorder.  Eventually, he retreated to one of his hotels, sitting in the dark, naked, watching the film Ice Station Zebra over and over.  He was so obsessed with germs that he wouldn’t wearing clothes or even bathe.  He covered his body in Kleenex and put the empty boxes on his feet.  His hair grew to his shoulders and beard to his chest.  He collected his bodily waste in jars.  He hired a staff of Mormons to serve him, because he believed them to be clean.  He had a good point about that.

A dramatic recreation of Howard Hughes's last days.

A dramatic recreation of Howard Hughes’s last days.

I’ve thought about adopting Hughes’s lifestyle, at least until the plague passes.  But, I’ll have to pass.  First, I’m concerned that I would quickly become enamored of living the life of a billionaire and not be able to return to my Regular Joe existence.  Second, being naked bothers me, especially in front of Mormons.  Finally, although it sounds like it would be effective defense against influenza, I suspect that I might expose myself to other equally deadly germs.

FULL COURT PRESS

I’m left with an all-out defensive effort to protect myself.  Here are my tools:

  • MASKS:  I am wearing a surgical mask at all times.  Two, on occasion.  The downside is that I’ve discovered that I have foul breath.  My breathing also fogs up my reading glasses.
johnboy

Your author fends off sure death.

  • GLOVES:  I’m wearing latex gloves.  That’s right–latex.  I don’t have a latex allergy.  Or a gluten allergy, either.  In fact, if they made latex gloves infused with gluten, I’d wear them just to prove what a bad ass I am.
  • HAND WASHING:  I’m washing my hands every minute or so–even with gloves on.  My skin is now like that of radiation burn victim, but I’m germ free.
  • LOOK, DON’T TOUCH:  This is simple.  Don’t touch anything. If you have to touch, use your elbows or feet.  The one exception is the remote control, of course.  You can scrub it with bleach and it’s as good as new.
  • BOILING:  Boil things.  You’d be surprised at how many things can be boiled.  Food, for example.  Toothbrushes. Shoes.  Some clothes.  Your hands.  When in doubt, boil it.  Caveat: It doesn’t work well with electronic devices.
  • MEDICINE:  Take all manner of medication.  If the Ratchet have prescriptions, take those.  Buy your own.  Just keep taking them.  Yes, the flu is incurable–as far as we know.  You might hit the right combination and win a Nobel Prize to boot.

This last plan, like many good ones, was born of desperation.  Yet, it has been remarkably effective so far.  Of course, the germs are everywhere, stalking me, crawling on me.  I am certain that all of this will ultimately fail me.  What now?  I wonder if Ice Station Zebra is on Blu-Ray?

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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How To Stay Married: Secrets of a Married Man

I’ve been married for almost 25 years.  That’s almost half my life.  Arguably, marriage has consumed the best half of my life.  That said, I’ve had a long, happy marriage.

People often ask me:  What is the key to a successful marriage?  Okay, that’s a lie.  No one asks me that.  Ever.  Not once.  I wonder why.  People ask me about other things.  What’s it like to be a lawyer?  How are your kids?  What’s wrong with you?  I’ve answered these and many other questions, usually truthfully.

I’ve always believed that the most annoying advice is the kind you don’t want.  Maybe marriage is like that.  Folks just don’t want to hear about it.  It’s probably because they are either happy themselves and need no advice or they are miserable and hate people who aren’t.  Surely, young, single people want advice.  I doubt it.  When I was young and single, I knew most everything, especially when it came to the opposite sex.  What could some old guy tell me? He doesn’t know that I’m in love and that’s all that matters.  Fools.

People write books about marriage.  I’ve seen them, but I’ve never read one.  There are marriage counselors. Marriage therapists. If you belong to church, you can talk to your minister about your marriage.  Even Catholic priests–who have vowed to God never to marry–counsel couples before and after they marry.  Yes, there is much advice.  Add me to the list of experts.  The difference is that I have a quarter century of inexplicable success backing me up.

Much advice is useless.   A chimp could tell you–if he could talk–that things such as infidelity, violence and disappearing for days at a time can break any marriage.  Those things set the bar far too low.  Marriage requires many more subtle precautions to flourish.

MARRY UP

This is also known as “out-kicking your coverage.”  Marry a woman who is more attractive than you.  Of course, what I mean is that she is more appealing to the opposite sex than you are.  Why?  Isn’t the conventional wisdom that an ugly woman is likely to be more faithful?  I call B.S. on that one.

At some point in your marriage (probably a day or two into it), patience will be important.  Very important.  If you are about to say or do something untoward, one look at your ridiculously beautiful wife will make you pause and think: “Whoa!  I need to be careful.  There’s no way I can duplicate this deal.”  Those pauses are one of the key components of staying married.

Let’s say you look like Brad Pitt.  It’s almost certain you are prettier than every woman you’ve ever met. Not only are you irresistible to women, most men find you attractive, too.  The first time your wife does something stupid–like lose the remote–you are likely to explode, thinking:  “Why did I marry this hag?  She can’t even keep track of the remote!”  I’m certain that’s why Brad and Jennifer Aniston split.  As beautiful as she is–and she IS, by God–can anyone, male or female, honestly say that he or she is prettier than Brad?  I guarantee you Brad doesn’t think so.  Nor should he.

Personally, I married WAY up.  My wife has even become prettier over the years, while I’ve simply aged.  I’m a troll compared to her.  When I introduce her to people for the first time, the typical response is:  “This is your wife?”  I once overheard someone talking about me, and she said:  “Have seen his wife?  She is really pretty.  Really.”  Shocking.

Conversely, when she introduces me to people, they get a look of pity on their faces, as though they just met that kid from the movie, Mask.  They all assume I am incredibly wealthy, but I’m not.

This works well in our marriage.  Sometimes, I’ll be about to say something about the remote or her cooking and then I’ll catch a glimpse of her.  I’ll still say something, but I try to take the edge off it.  I’m simply not going to be able to duplicate my success.

I’m not suggesting that marrying up is easy.  Few worthwhile things are.  It takes work, and–in my case–alcohol.  Attractive women are no different from ALL men.  They often exercise poor judgment under the influence of strong drink.  Use this to your advantage.  Of course, you may be incredibly wealthy.  If so, this is no problem.

You may think that an attractive woman married to a physically repellant man is more likely to stray.  I guess that’s possible, but it beats the hell out of looking at an ugly woman all the time.  Also, remember that it is all relative.  If you are an extremely ugly man, you can marry up by marrying a plain or even homely woman.  The point is–aim high.  It works.

THINK FIRST

As noted above, a brief pause before speaking can make the difference between a long marriage and an annulment on your honeymoon.  Here are examples:

WIFE:  Let’s go see my parents tomorrow.

HUSBAND: For God’s sake, we just saw them two days ago!  My parents are dead, but yours are some kind of immortals!  I don’t get it.  Maybe it’s because they are Hell beasts….

By responding immediately, this man has made a critical mistake.  He has spoken his mind on a subject of great sensitivity.  The better, more reasoned response goes like this:

HUSBAND:  It seems like forever since we’ve seen Mom and Dad.  Let’s go today.  We should cherish our time with them.

By pausing just for a moment, this husband’s ludicrous response has prevented marital discord. This type of answer has the added benefit of possibly preventing the visit.  How, you ask?  Simple.  When the wife sees the husband enthusiastically embrace this suggestion, she is likely to cancel the visit altogether and focus on a request the husband may dislike, such as yard work.  Even if you can’t muster such an impressive response, you can always choke out a simple:  “Yes, dear” or “Whatever you say.”  These responses, while not preferable, are always good in pinch.

BRING ON THE NOISE

I have a White Noise app for my phone.  It’s great.  I go to bed before everyone in my house, but this doesn’t stop the other residents from being quite loud.  This app allows me to turn on “white noise” to drown out the mad cacophony.

You can do the same thing with your wife.  Once you’ve been married for a while, you may hear the same things over and over.  For instance, you may leave towels in the floor or be incapable of properly folding them.  If so, you are likely to hear about these shortcomings many, many times.  One approach is to say something like:  “For the love of God, would you just shut the hell up about those [expletive deleted] towels?!?!  Honest to God, I can’t take it anymore!”  Honesty, despite its value in general, is definitely not the best policy.

With practice, you can turn up the white noise in your own brain to filter out such offending exchanges.  Personally, I am unable to properly use a sink.  I splatter water on the fixtures or even the mirror.  No matter how I try or how much I wipe it up, it’s still no good.  I have trained my brain to deal with it.  If am asked this question:  “Did you use the sink in hall?”  all I hear after that is the soothing buzz of white noise.

Men have a well-deserved reputation of being poor listeners.  You will be reminded of this.  DO NOT FALL INTO THIS TRAP.  If you become a better listener, it is a recipe for disaster, for you will then listen to the very things which threaten marital harmony.  It is better to properly condemned for one flaw than to pay heed to many things best left unsaid.

YOUR OLD LIFE WAS A WASTE

Sure, your enjoyed your single days.  You lived as you wished.  You had friends.  It was a good time.

Think again.  Your old life was useless.  When you get married, get rid of every piece of furniture you owned as a single man.  If you don’t, your wife will begin a systematic purging.  Just get it over with.  Same goes for your clothes.

You will be asked about girls you dated.  You hated them.  All of them.  They were horrible people.  Unattractive, too.  They may have been sluts.  I don’t care if you dated Kate Upton, never even hint to your wife that she was the least bit appealing.  It is best to humbly express regret for your poor judgment.

Your friends were idiots.  Your wife may actually like some of them, so you can still like those few.  The rest of them are fools.  Plain and simple.  Stay away from them. Your wife is now your best friend.  If not, she’s likely to be your only friend after a while.

What does it say about you that you dated worthless women and your friends were all idiots?  Nothing good, my friend.  Your wife saved you.  You should appreciate that.

When you took your marital vows, you abandoned your old life.  Keep it that way.

KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON

This one is simple.  Stay married, unless you just can’t do it anymore.  That’s what we’ve done.  I can assure that I annoy my wife.  I know that I enrage her on occasion.  I’m sure she does all the same things I suggested above.  If not, she should (Expect the marry up part.  She’s screwed on that one).  My best advice would be to marry my wife, but you can’t.

I hope this has been helpful.  If not, hey, I’m no expert on any marriage but mine.

When I told my wife that I was starting a blog, she responded by saying “One of those things full of trivial [expletive deleted] that no one wants to read?”  Thus, I think it is unlikely that she’ll read this.  On the off chance she does, please read the following important disclaimer:

The foregoing is meant only as general advice and any reliance upon it is at your own peril, as I do not know your wife nor do I know if you are a jackass or anything.  More importantly, any resemblance between the above scenarios and my own wife’s behavior are mere coincidences.  She would never do anything of the sort described.  Plus, I listen to everything she says, because she is always right.  And she really is very pretty.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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“Great” Britain: Satan of the North Sea

Some months ago, I posted my simple plan for swift and decisive military action against our “neighbors” to the North, that deplorable hell hole known as Canada.  As I expected, neither of our feckless presidential candidates dared to cross the amoral overlords of that frozen wasteland.  Sure, I might have had a visit from the Department of Homeland Security, but they were no more interested in my carefully crafted strategy than your average mush-dog driving Canuck.  After they tasered me a couple of times, I dropped the subject.

Why does no one take me seriously?  How can right-thinking Americans simply sit back and await the inevitable decay and destruction of our great country?  I’ve thought a lot about this, and I have the answer.  Canada is merely a pawn, a Trojan Horse if you will.  The REAL danger lies far to the East in Jolly Old England.  Our old oppressors and so-called allies pull the strings.

That’s right–England (if that’s what it really is).  Is it England?  Or Britain?  Or GREAT Britain?  What the hell is the United Kingdom?  The Commonwealth of Nations?  They have a staggering number of names for the place.  What’s in the United Kingdom?   England and Northern Ireland, I guess.  What about Scotland?  I think so, although I’ve seen Braveheart a bunch of times, and I’d cut those violent, skirt-wearing, bagpipe-playing loonies a wide path.  Wales?  I guess so.  My ancestors came from Wales, and I’ve never heard anything about it being a country.  Then again, I don’t pay much attention to current events.  Maybe it is a country. How the hell should I know?  I know Northern Ireland is part of it because they used to blow up a lot of stuff.  What about Canada?  I have no idea, but it seems like they are part of the same Axis of Evil.  I’m pretty sure Australia isn’t part it, because that’s where England dumped all their convicts, at least the ones that didn’t end up in America.

Their government is sketchy, to say the least.  Have you ever watch Parliament on CSPAN?  It consists of people standing up and flipping through notebooks while exchanging insults.  I’m torn between thinking it is the ultimate democracy or a Monty Python skit.

So, I suppose England is part of the UK which is a collection of countries.  Sounds like Communism to me.  That alone should make them our enemy.  But there are other equally compelling reasons to take Draconian measures against this “nation.”

THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR

I know, the war is over.  Really?  What makes you so sure?  The Treaty of Paris was supposed to take care of that, but allow me to point out something that the mainstream media conveniently ignores.  King George III was well-known to be totally insane.  As such, I question his competency to agree to anything (there’s a little lawyering for you, free of charge).  Any day, those Brits can back up on that deal and start trying to tax us to death again.  (One small upside is that The Tea Party’s name will then make a little sense).  I say strike first and put an end to the war once and for all.

THE ROYAL FAMILY

Americans love the Royals, you say.  So what?  We have a perverted fascination with celebrities, especially those famous for only being famous.  Each generation has its vacuous icons from Zsa Zsa Gabor to Paris Hilton to Honey Boo Boo.  This fundamental flaw in our national character does not justify royalty.

There is a QUEEN of England.  Think about that.  A Queen and bunch of princes and princesses, Dukes, Earls and whatnot.  Why?  No one knows.  The Queen isn’t really in charge of anything.  She’s just the Queen.  Check out her official title:

Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of Her other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith

Wow.  Is it really much different than Idi Amin’s title?

His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular and the Last King of Scotland.

Actually, Elizabeth is the Queen of Scotland, I think.  Do you know her name?  Elizabeth Windsor.  That’s a damn nice name–but not as nice as being a QUEEN, I guess–but it sounds like a name a pretty girl would have.

royals

HA! HA! We laugh at you commoners!

I’m not suggesting anything bad happen to the Royal Family.  I’m not French, for God’s sake.  It’s just a bit of silliness that we can do without.  There are many “royal” families, but you don’t see us falling all over ourselves over King Michael of Romania or Ahmad Shah Khan, Crown Prince of Afghanistan.

Once we take over, the Royals can be American celebrities.  Instead of being exalted as better than the rest of us, they can have reality TV shows like our other celebs

  • Will, Kate and Kate Plus 8:  Hilarity ensues when Will and Kate inexplicably move in with Kate Gosselin.
  • The Amish Royal:  Prince Harry lives the life of an Amish man on a farm in Central Ohio.
  • Toddlers and Tiaras–The Royal Addition:  Elizabeth is hired to coach Honey Boo Boo for her many pageant appearances.  Plus, she moves in with the family, forcing her to fight off the unwanted advances of Sugar Bear.
  • Princess Anne–Bigfoot Hunter:  The title is self-explanatory.

These are just a few of the ideas that immediately come to mind.  The Royals will provide us an endless supply of entertainment.

THE WARS

What do the American Revolutionary War, The War of 1812, World War I and World War II have in common?  The British forced us into all of them.  Okay, I’m not sure about the War of 1812, but I think that’s right.  On the other three, I’m dead certain.

In both World Wars, we were forced to save their asses from the Germans.  If it weren’t for us, they’d be goose-stepping in front of Buckingham Palace right now.  Arguably, the Japanese forced us into WWII, but why do you think we were in Europe?  To save France?  Don’t make me laugh.  England.  Plain and simple.

Now, check out this little bit of history:

  1. Germany tries to take over the world.
  2. England starts getting its ass kicked.
  3. USA jumps into WWI.
  4. German ass is kicked.
  5. Germany is torn apart
  6. Germany becomes a democracy.
  7. Germany becomes a bunch of Nazis.
  8. Germany tries to take over the world.
  9. England starts getting its ass kicked
  10. USA jumps into WWII
  11. Germany gets its ass kicked.
  12. Germany gets torn apart again.
  13. Germany becomes a democracy again.
  14. ???????

Do you see a pattern here? Hopefully, they’ll skip the Nazi thing this time, but it’s clear that the Germans will try to take over the world again.  Then, we’re right back in another war.  How is this England’s fault, you ask? It is obvious that they are particularly offensive to Germans and an inviting target as well.  But, imagine if they were part of the old US of A?  We are the most powerful warriors the planet has ever seen!  The Germans will stay right where they are, except maybe for overrunning France.  Again, who cares?

NUCLEAR THREAT 

England has to have nuclear weapons, doesn’t it?  Indian and Pakistan do, so England has to.  I’ll just assume that’s correct.  Imagine if those weapons fell into the hands of the Scots with their fiery temperaments and willingness do battle.  How about Northern Ireland?  Violent drunks–good lord.  Is there any other country full of such unstable sorts that we would allow to have WMD (other than us, of course)?  We take over and seize all the weapons.  The world will be safer for it.  I expect at least one Nobel Peace Prize for this idea alone.

GENERAL GOOFINESS

The pure silliness of the Brits is enough to justify military action.  Their penchant for monocles, top hats and tailcoats.  Their odd money–pounds, pence, quids and guineas.  But, it’s their language which reduces them to little more than a sideshow.  Consider that they say–and understand–the following:

  • I attend University.
  • I am going on holiday.
  • I am queued up.
  • I say, old man, where is the wash closet?
  • I’ve stored that in my boot.
  • My lorry needs petrol.
  • I’m cheesed off at your cockup!
  • He’s a beastly bugger–a bit of an arse.
  • I enjoy a fag with my tea.
  • She’s such a jammy bird, why is she with that josser?
  • Don’t give me any of your cheek, you git!

To their credit, their accents make them sound smart, at least until some of that nonsense starts pouring out.  If you’re Scottish or Irish, you have the added disadvantage of also being incomprehensible.

THE PLAN

You may think conquering England, Britain, Great Britain, The United Kingdom and The Commonwealth of Nations is a daunting task.  I think not.  I’m sure our military leaders have already planned out a takeover “just in case.”  If not, I have devised a simple strategy to crush them.  Here is my plan:

  1. We establish a beach head in Southern Ireland with the cooperation of our Irish friends whom we will ply with strong drink.
  2. We will proceed on land across Ireland.  Those who are not dead drunk after that march will stage an attack on Northern Ireland.
  3. We will roll through Northern Ireland chanting anti-British slogans lulling them into inaction.  Northern Ireland will then serve as our base of operations.
  4. Simultaneously, we will invade Wales.  I can’t imagine they have a military.
  5. Once the Scots get wind of our invasion, they will rise up again, paint their faces blue and attack England from the north.  Just to be safe, once the war is over, we’ll build a huge peat wall to keep them at bay.
  6. Once hemmed in, the Brits will surrender realizing that no Americans are available to save them.
  7. Scotland and England will be combined into one land–Fabulous America.
  8. Northern Ireland will become a penal colony for political dissidents.
  9. As my ancestral homeland, I will grant Wales its independence but only as a puppet state.  One condition–Tom Jones has to be named President.
  10. Crest White Strips will be distributed throughout the country by air drop, thus winning the hearts of the people.
tomjones

Wales President-for-Life Tom Jones

Bye, bye “Great” Britain.  Hello, Fabulous America!  With their overlords crushed, those hockey-playing Canadian goons will be vanquished to the scrap heap of history.  What then?

uklarge
This map shows the proposed invasion route and how the UK will look after it is liberated.

I suppose every group of savages has its redeeming qualities.  The same is true of the British.  Their humor is excellent.  Monty Python, Marty Feldman, Harry Enfield and Benny Hill are just a few of their entertaining sorts.  Certainly, their music has been fine with The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bon Scott and Led Zeppelin.  We’ll preserve some of that.

bon scott

This statue of Bon Scott isn’t even in Scotland. It’s in Australia. I’ll fix that.

Beyond those few attributes, the rest of their culture will be wiped out.  No more bangers and mash.  Beer will be served cold–not luke warm.  French fries are French fries–not chips.  They’ll eat cookies, not biscuits.  Iced tea will be iced.  Football is football, not soccer.  Quit boiling all your food.  Drive on the correct side of the road.  Our cops aren’t called bobbies, and they carry guns.  Everyone else does, too, so get armed, and Bob’s your uncle!

In this new world, the USA is supreme, if it isn’t already.  France will reflexively surrender (old habits die hard, you know).  Canada will fall without even a whimper.  And that, old chap, will be jolly good. Now, bugger off.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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