BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Be a person who can make and create--not just a person who shop and buy.
Your childhood may not have been perfect but it is over.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Critical Thinking on the Curmudgeon Line.
Actually, I have been this way all my life—it’s not really a curmudgeon writing--
I would like to stop being so critical of things—everything from the dress a woman is wearing, to the way that someone has parked his car. I become incensed when a woman fails to curb her dog and doesn’t pick up after it, or when she allows her little dog to spend the afternoon and night tied up in her yard yapping. What business is it of mine? —Especially when I live far enough away that I don’t hear the dog. It is the woman’s lack of concern for her neighbors that bothers me.
I am irritated at waitresses who don’t check the table often enough—but also at a waitress who constantly intrudes—“everything okay?” Gad, does that bother me.
Or a child—mine or yours—who tries to dominate at table, demanding this or that food, or not paying attention to the adult conversation, and interrupting at will.
Of course there’s always adults who need to display their wealth—or worse, their imitation of it with their Louis Vuitton handbags (counterfeit or not) and sunglasses marked by a huge Chanel logo, informing anyone who looks that the wearer has money to burn. What a waste—and that bothers me too.
I am irritated by Hummers, and those who brag about their Hummers, using gazillions of gallons of gas. I want to leave nasty notes on their windows. And half the time the owners of these monster cars can’t park them properly, often their tires are over the line separating one parking slot from the next. But these types are so inconsiderate that they just don’t care and they leave their massive Hummers or 4x4s in a space and half without a second thought.
Then, of course, there are those who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. Some have counterfeit handicapped parking cards; others have real ones that they have conned from their doctors. Look, if we can’t stop doctors from giving out prescriptions for unnecessary drugs when people demand them after seeing ads on television, how can we stop doctors from issuing handicapped permits just because they are unnecessary? Why are doctors afraid to say, "NO"! Who is that fat guy walking away from his car after hanging a handicapped permit on its mirror? He looks like he could press five-hundred pounds. And that skinny bleached blond with the poodle getting out of her Mercedes? Does she really need a permit? Talk about road rage? I have parking lot rage—in every parking lot.
I don’t like loud takers—though those who speak too softly also irritate me. I can’t stand people who talk too much; or those who fail to listen to MY stories, especially those who are easily distracted in the middle of one of my stories, and interrupts to ask, “where are we going to eat tonight?” while I am describing the miraculous recovery of my eye-glasses after losing them in the Atlantic Ocean in 1999.
How rude can we get? Well, there are those who carry on cell phone conversations while in a restaurant—and what about those who fail to heed the theater’s plea to turn of their cell phones-and then actually answer it in movie theaters? Would my “cell phone rage” defense be successful were I to murder one of these people?
Another class of people who get my goat are those who speak using pronouns without previously making clear of whom they are speaking. “So he said to him…”
Critical Thinking on the Curmudgeon Line.
Actually, I have been this way all my life—it’s not really a curmudgeon writing--
I would like to stop being so critical of things—everything from the dress a woman is wearing, to the way that someone has parked his car. I become incensed when a woman fails to curb her dog and doesn’t pick up after it, or when she allows her little dog to spend the afternoon and night tied up in her yard yapping. What business is it of mine? —Especially when I live far enough away that I don’t hear the dog. It is the woman’s lack of concern for her neighbors that bothers me.
I am irritated at waitresses who don’t check the table often enough—but also at a waitress who constantly intrudes—“everything okay?” Gad, does that bother me.
Or a child—mine or yours—who tries to dominate at table, demanding this or that food, or not paying attention to the adult conversation, and interrupting at will.
Of course there’s always adults who need to display their wealth—or worse, their imitation of it with their Louis Vuitton handbags (counterfeit or not) and sunglasses marked by a huge Chanel logo, informing anyone who looks that the wearer has money to burn. What a waste—and that bothers me too.
I am irritated by Hummers, and those who brag about their Hummers, using gazillions of gallons of gas. I want to leave nasty notes on their windows. And half the time the owners of these monster cars can’t park them properly, often their tires are over the line separating one parking slot from the next. But these types are so inconsiderate that they just don’t care and they leave their massive Hummers or 4x4s in a space and half without a second thought.
Then, of course, there are those who park in spaces reserved for the handicapped. Some have counterfeit handicapped parking cards; others have real ones that they have conned from their doctors. Look, if we can’t stop doctors from giving out prescriptions for unnecessary drugs when people demand them after seeing ads on television, how can we stop doctors from issuing handicapped permits just because they are unnecessary? Why are doctors afraid to say, "NO"! Who is that fat guy walking away from his car after hanging a handicapped permit on its mirror? He looks like he could press five-hundred pounds. And that skinny bleached blond with the poodle getting out of her Mercedes? Does she really need a permit? Talk about road rage? I have parking lot rage—in every parking lot.
I don’t like loud takers—though those who speak too softly also irritate me. I can’t stand people who talk too much; or those who fail to listen to MY stories, especially those who are easily distracted in the middle of one of my stories, and interrupts to ask, “where are we going to eat tonight?” while I am describing the miraculous recovery of my eye-glasses after losing them in the Atlantic Ocean in 1999.
How rude can we get? Well, there are those who carry on cell phone conversations while in a restaurant—and what about those who fail to heed the theater’s plea to turn of their cell phones-and then actually answer it in movie theaters? Would my “cell phone rage” defense be successful were I to murder one of these people?
Another class of people who get my goat are those who speak using pronouns without previously making clear of whom they are speaking. “So he said to him…”
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