Am I A Quitter?

No. 29 of 31 - Thermometer series

The whole pathway you and I have taken this month, striving for and hitting so many of our goals, with the greater goal still in sight, has been marked by many up and downs. Which, if I may draw a lesson that no one else has ever thought of, is also the story of life.

But we're not focused on that today. Today we’re answering the question “Am I a Quitter?” And the answer is no. We’re not worrying about the downside, we’re merely stating it, because Victory is in sight! And even if it weren’t, our resolve remains as resolute as any resolution I’ve ever made. And the idea of quitting now -- while probably not as foolish as it sounds -- is not in my armor-clad bullet-resistant bacon-scented nature.

Remember how I’ve gone on about some of the kids in the neighborhood taunting me? They’re like a sad Greek chorus, one note gloomy gusses. Let me prophesy something about them, and this isn’t my word, it’s straight from my gut: “These kids will get theirs! And it won’t be parades and cotton candy, more like fire and brimstone, the worst of the worst, divine switches on bare hide, and the embarrassment that goes with it.” So many of you have written in that you like it when I take these kids to task. So that’s exactly what I like to give you! Curses on their heads, curses on their tails, may their parents die childless! Petless! Twitching and babbling, not even a bottle of hootch to find wet comfort in! Foaming at the mouth...

You like that? You do? I knew it! Let me reach down in my deepest bowels of disparagement and see what else I can say, give a fresh spin to old taunts, perhaps. Well, you know I’m in the Big City now, and somehow these neighbor kids know all the main blogs online. And they were in the street yesterday with their jump ropes, basketballs, and street chalk. They were taunting me, and I looked down and saw a chalk image that was supposed to look like me, and an arrow pointing at my house. Made me look like a Cyclops with one big ugly tooth and fire flaming out of my nose. Which made me sick!

It’s hard for me to believe these kids — ranging from 4 to 16 — that have this knowledge of the world’s blogs, wouldn't use it to some good, like day-trading or real estate, aspirations for their future. They’re obviously not dummies. But they use their talents only for nastiness. This is no exaggeration. They’re the same kids who just happened to find the bloated body of another blogger in the river. It said in the paper that “someone” was taunting him prior to him wading into the river, yelling, “Your blog sucks!” And, true, it really wasn’t too good. His best post was on locating your mate’s love-handles. You don’t need a blog to do that.

I wish he were still alive. For his own sake, of course. But also to take the heat off me, since these kids just naturally need someone to taunt. Maybe if we’d talked more, I could’ve taken the heat off him and he off me. He wasn’t a bad guy, but is love-handles something we have trouble finding? It’s one of the first things I see.

So am I a quitter? Has the sun quit? Is the sky still there? The moon and the rainbows, do they quit? The moon, no. Rainbows, yes, rainbows quit fast, bad example. The sun and stars, they’re still in the sky. I watch YouTube videos about the stars and experts have come to the conclusion that for the most part stars are there. Once in a while one gets destroyed.  

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"

Talking Trash To Melting Snow

I have so many problems with snow when it's at the height of its power, when it's melting I like to ridicule it. Taunting has always been my thing:

How the mighty have fallen! Thou shalt die the deaths of the uncircumcised by the hand of strangers: for I have spoken it. Good riddance! Don't write, don't call, don't drop by!

It's nothing but the wasted away reminder of its former self. You're not so tough now, are you? I could kill you with a teaspoon of ice melt. I'm going to be out here again in five minutes to beat you to death with a shovel. And the way you're stuck to the ground, it doesn't look like you'll get away. Look at me when I'm talking to you! How do you feel, seeing I'm walking quite unimpeded.

And it's true; I'm able to run circles around it. There's more grass and, unfortunately, more unraked autumn leaves, than snow. There's no slipping, no falling, no care, no concern for the diminishing white stuff. It's completely lost whatever it had that brought us terror. More talking trash: I've heard of being up to your hips in snow, but you're not so tough, my little toe's not even slightly cool. Is this snow or dandruff? Nice sunny day, huh? I can't hear you! If I threw you in the road, no one would notice! They wouldn't send a truck out to scoop you!

I'm getting in some good licks. Although part of me knows I'll eventually have to pay for it, since snow will again one day have its strength. So we shall tussle, but today, right now, I'm the one with strength. And when I have the upper hand, when I'm able to dominate, that's exactly what I'm going to do, without hesitation, without mercy.

Then I go around to the north side, where the snow has a few more reserves, shivering in the shadows. Oh, hiding over here, are you? Come on, be realistic. It's time to cash in your chips, snow, you have no hope, give up the ghost. If you had half the balls you think you have you'd come over to the south side and prove it. How about a bucket of hot water to toughen you up?

Yeah, snow, I hear you, you were a big man there for a while. People passed by and saw a revolting sight. We had old ladies backed up three blocks trying to see the snow man up the road. And I saw you, too, I saw your pride, your feeling you could do anything. At that time, you taunted us ... I'm the man, I'm the man, there's no man like me! Etc., disgusting stuff! Pull up your damned pants!

But you're not looking so hot now. Or perhaps you are looking hot, and that's the problem. This photo was taken on the exact spot where the snow showed off its enormous package. Admittedly, it was a giant that night. As disgusting at it was, it definitely put me to shame. But that was then, this is now. Now it's a few spots of white. Snow swimmers? I don't know.

It's about over. This is getting pathetic. Snow has had its day, and now its day is through, now it dies. You really had us going there for a while. Ha ha, but now, oh boy, you're finished! You sicken me.