Reflections from Super Bowl Sunday. Was is it all that bad?

Just got finished watching the Super Bowl. Ugh. I hate the friggin' Packers. It was like watching your best friend get beat up by Dick Cheney. In some years I actually look forward to the commercials more than I do the game. (Love that ETrade baby!) And some years, it's the music. It's always a hit or miss, the halftime show. You can have the supposed greatest Rock n Roll band in the world (The Rolling Stones), and the drunken fools Richards and Wood turn it into one of the worst halftime shows in history, unable to be saved even by Jagger (like I can watch an 80 year old dude prance around like a sex crazed chicken). Then an unassuming guy (Tom Petty) comes along and blows the roof off of the place with no frills, just an awesome band. Then there was this year.

I have to say, at first I was pretty ho-hum about the Black Eyed Peas, but after watching them live, I have to say that was one of the worst shows I have ever witnessed (save a 45 second stretch when Slash made a cameo). Hey, I like some of their stuff on the radio, Cuz tonite's gonna be a good good ni-i-ight. But live, something was bad. Really bad. The mix was off or something, and Fergie's wailing brought back memories of Linda McCartney...WHOOO!! But the whole group? Yea, they can dance, they just didn't sound like a bunch of professionals. I have to admit the light show was pretty cool, when they did give you that rare glimpse from overhead. But that's like putting a crown on the head of a pig. It's all nice and shiny, but inside you know it smells like crap. Maybe I'm too old. Too old to appreciate modern music. But to me, the Black Eyed Peas performance wasn't the musical low-light of the night. That dubious honor goes to Christina Aguillera.

I'm old fashioned when it comes to traditional songs. The Star Spangled Banner never sounds so good as when the guy from the Blackhawk's games does it. Heck I don't even know his name, but that's the point. A relatively little know man can stir your soul with his voice, but a Grammy Award winning diva butchers it so bad, she makes Roseanne Barr sound almost human. Her pace was so slow, it evoked the famous Bleeding Gums Murphey version from the Simpson's. She had more vocal inflections in one word than Stevie Nicks gets in a night. And all that was before she completely omitted one line, and messed up another! Listen. I'm a singer. I get it. I've bumbled many a line in the course of singing 40 songs in a night. But you are Grammy winner. You are in front of millions upon millions upon millions of people. You have to sing one song. One. Learn the fuckin' lines.

Solar power and sex: can the two ever get along?

A couple of posts ago, I might have mentioned how much I like my job. Nothing has changed since then, I still enjoy the work I do. But being in the neighborhood of the construction industry, I get to run up against an array of different ego's and personalities, some only slightly more annoying than the one before. Oh there are a few friendly faces as we plod along our little solar journey, mostly other guys just doing their job. Like Pat the roofer. Nice, affable guy, good sense of humor, easy to get along with. And Al, the guy that helps us hoist the windspires. He could just show up, do his job, take his money, and go home. But he helps out a lot, above and beyond the call. These are the guys that make my job a little less stressful. And then there's the dark side of the force. Those job supervisors who feel it is there place on earth to let you know who holds the real power.

Case in point, let's take a look at "George". (I may have changed his name to protect the innocent, then again, maybe I didn't.) From day one, it was apparent that this guys shorts were on just a little too tight. If it wasn't on the plans, it wasn't going to wash with this guy. The final straw was when, at the very end of the job as we are loading 50lb. bricks into their final resting place, breaking our backs with every step, I get a call stating that we are being too loud. On the roof. It seems a meeting was taking place under our feet, and the suits couldn't concentrate with all that stomping about going on. Maybe it doesn't seem a big deal to you, but after being hen-pecked every day on this project about what we weren't doing correctly, it was like the final straw.

Now my boss is a very interesting guy. He is smart, and all business at work. Like you should be. Outside the office, he is always smiling and happy. So it was a slight shock when after I told him all of the BS that "George" was giving me on the job site, and how truly uptight he was, he remarked, "Can you imagine what sex with his wife is like?" Aside from laughing my ass off at the unexpected relaxation in the bosses usual business like demeanor, imagine I did. And it probably went something like this:

George: Ummm, honey, what are you doing?
Wife: I, uh, wait a sec. What do you mean?
George: I mean, what are you doing on your knees?
Wife: I'm getting ready for sex, like we planned.
George: But that's NOT how we planned it. That is not the agreed upon position.
Wife: Well, I guess I was just trying to be spontaneous. The old position is so, well, old.
George: But that's not what it says here on the proposal.
Wife: Does it always have to be the way of the proposal? Can't we just... she trails off, her hand sliding into his PJ bottoms.
George: Stop that! What do you think you're doing? Now you're getting me all confused.
Wife: Well I'm not trying to confuse you, I'm just trying to... hand sliding further.
George: I said STOP! I'm not prepared for that.
Wife: Well what if I just gave it a little, you know, stimulation?
George: Stimulation? I 'm not sure. I mean... I, I...I've got to make a couple of phone calls, he replies, getting out of bed and heading downstairs.
Wife: Where are you going George? Honey? And with that, she reaches into the night stand, the eventual soft buzzing of the power tool giving way to the pleading sobs of her husband on the phone in the kitchen.
George: ...yes, on her KNEES. I don't know if I have clearance for that. Besides, I could see her, well, you know. The hole that the poop comes out? I could SEE it.

Well maybe it didn't go exactly like that. But I am willing to bet somewhere up in the cold reaches of Wisconsin, a housewife is slightly less than satisfied. And a husband is furiously working on a re-draft.

A Guitarman's Christmas

Happy Holidays all! Oh wait, I vowed never to lower myself to the bastions of de-Christmasing Christmas. You know what I mean, in an effort to try and avoid offending someone who is a non-Christian, as if uttering the phrase "Merry Christmas" is some affront to your very well being, society has given in to the PC notion that we must make everything generic, including our holiday greetings. Bah, humbug I say! So with no apologies, I want to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas.

And with that being said, I will now give you some of my very favorite Christmas songs of all time, only slightly altered for my amusement:

Cheap Vodka (to the tune of White Christmas, inspired by the ramblings of an old friend from school)

I'm drinking up some cheap vodka,
just like some wino on skid row.
Where the drunks are drinking,
and beer bottles clinking,
and I am passed out in the snow.

I'm drinking up some cheap vodka,
straight from some Russian homemade still.
May your drinks be many and strong,
and may all your hangovers be long.

The Rastaman's Song (to the tune of The Christmas Song, you know, Chestnuts roasting etc...)

Marijuana on an open fire,
Bob Marley on the radio.
Reggae songs being sung while on ganj
from Negril, up to Montego.

Everybody knows the Rasta man is getting high,
from birth until he's 92.
Although it's been smoked many times many ways,
marijuana's for you.


And lastly, straight from the memories of my childhood (my bro and I wrote this when we were just wee little tykes), I still can't believe I can remember these lyrics,...

Randolph the Green Nosed Tuna (to the tune of, oh heck, you should be able to figure it out...)

Randolph the green nosed tuna, had a very sea green nose.
And if you ever saw it, you would even say it grows.
All of the other tuna, used to laugh and call him names, (yea, we weren't so creative back then)
they wouldn't let poor Randolph, play in any Neptune's games.

Then one foggy fishing day, Neptune came to say,
"Randolph with your nose so green, won't you guide my submarine?"
Then all the tuna loved him, and they shouted out with glee,
Randolph the green nosed tuna, he'll go to the bottom of the sea.


So my kids actually know that one. Taught it to them years ago before they morphed into the brooding young teens that now stand before me. Something tells me that before I teach them the first two, I should wait a few years. Or more. I'm leaning toward more.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Ooohhh! The Guitarman is mad. Mad I tell you!! It's 7:37 and my paper is still not here yet. Sure its a blizzard outside, and yes the roads may be a tad bit yucky, but still. It's this guys job, he needs to be on time. You see, I am always on time when it comes to my job. Only, substitute the word occasionally for the word always, and you have a truthful sentence. You see, what I am actually saying is, I guess I am admitting to be somewhat of a hypocrite on this topic. Which segue's nicely into the moral of the day kiddies: do as I say, not as I do.

Case in point, the Chicago Mayoral race. Poppycock you say! Politicians are honest, hard working, upstanding, truthful, AACK! Sorry bout that, just choked on my coffee. But seriously folks, lets take a look at the Rev. James Meeks and his week. Outspoken homophobe that he is, it was no surprise when, as a state senator, he voted NO on the soon to be signed bill that allows civil unions in Illinois. His prerogative to do whatever he feels is right, no matter how wrong the rest of us feel it is. But then, with cohones the size of a beach ball, he strolls into Anne Sathers (owned by gay alderman Tom Tunney) for a tete-a-tete with some of Chicago's gay community. To reach out to them. To feel their pain. To pander for their vote. Here's a little hint for the Rev: go play on the highway. Really, how stupid does he think the unwashed masses are? Well, stupid enough to elect him to the state senate I guess, and stupid enough to elect him Mayor, he hopes. But there you have it, a true hypocrite at his shining best. You see, do as I say, not as I do.

Another story this week, this one a little sad, revolves around a set of parents that have witnessed tragedy. The watched their son, pitching in a game for his little league team, get beaned in the head from a line drive off of one of those big barrel aluminum bats. Poor little tyke lost his hearing in one ear. But the parents reaction, as might have been mine or yours, was to sue bat maker Easton for putting a dangerous product on the market. Apparently, the kid who hit the line drive was as big as the kids dad. So don't you think it makes more sense to try and separate players by size, a la pee wee football, rather than age? And maybe, it's not the bat makers fault? And maybe, the big kid would have delivered a similar smash if he was using a wooden bat instead due to his genetically matured body? And what the hell does this have to do with today's moral you dare say? Seems our little guy, when he goes up to bat, after the tragedy took place, uses one of those same big barrel aluminum bats. Do as I say, not as I do.

I got that line from an old job. The boss would constantly be on us for one thing or another, and then turn around and do the exact opposite of what he just said. We would all look at each other on the desk and go, really? Lead by example? Lets hope that Meeks and the parents of the boy hear those three little word some day. But I guess it's a lot easier preach and sue, than it is to reach and do. After all, actions speak louder than words.

No Soup For You!!

Morality. The Guitarman likes to think he has decent morals. On occasion. When the mood strikes him. But my morals are different from yours. And different from the guy sitting next to you on the train. Or the guy ringing the bell for the Salvation Army at the Jewel. Also different from from Bishop Thomas John Paproki, head of the Springfield Archdiocese, as well as Peter Bensinger, former DEA administrator. Both of them also hold the dubious title of fearmongerer.

The Catholic church, as everyone with a brain stem knows, is big on morality. As well they should be, you know. Church. God. The bible. That sort of stuff. Telling it's flock the proper ways to run their lives. And others. Thou shalt not sin, yada, yada, yada. Heard it all before. But reading the paper today, the line, "we are all equal in God's eyes" comes to mind. But apparently, we are not. Not if your significant other happens to be the same sex as you. That's when God, according to the Catholics, draws a line in the sand. "No soup for you!" Soup, in this case, being eternal salvation. The skinny? Illinois has finally come around and is about to give legal recognition and rights to those whose morality differs from those consider themselves the mouthpiece of The Almighty. And how do they do it? With fear. We are all going to hell in a hand-basket if we stray from the white line they painted under our feet. Telling the masses, and in particular Gov. Quinn, that their law is the real law, not some stack of papers that makes up the constitution. That if he wishes to, "speak as a Catholic, then he is accountable to the Catholic authority..." News flash there Bishop: he is accountable to the people of Illinois and their rights. And the people want to live their lives on their own terms.

But flipping the page, who the heck is Peter Bensinger, and why does The Guitarman lump him into the category of fearmongering morality police? I am sure he believes in his morals. But like any person in a position of power, he feels the need to tell the rest of us how to run our lives. How our morals are not up to par with his. How any person suffering from one of the over 140 (GOOD GOD THAT MANY?) approved conditions for medical marijuana must put aside common sense and their own judgement for his and his ilk. And he does it with fear. His letter in the Sun Times warns us that if Illinois were to approve medical marijuana, we would all die from cancer and become drug dealers, coffee breaks in the workplace would be replaced with pot breaks, our highways would "become deathtraps", schools would close because all the kids would drop out, the sky would fall, and a cloud of locusts would engulf the world blotting out the sun for a thousand years. In that order. I love one of the statistic he cites: 33% of positive drug test results from fatalities on the roads in 2009 were for drugs other than alcohol. That means 67% were for alcohol. Maybe, dude, your focus should be on drunks, not pot-heads. And that 33%? What little sliver is marijuana? And what sliver of a sliver is from people seeking real relief from their maladies with a joint?

It all boils down to one thing. People in power have let it go to their heads. And their morality drives them to tell the world how it should be run. When they do it with fear, when they try to scare the rest of us straight, they are letting their own true fears be shown. The fear that the rest of us will one day rise up from the ashes of our own destruction and take over the world. That actually sounds like a good idea to me. But hey, who the heck am I? I'm just some dude who likes to play guitar. Now back to those 140 approved maladies. I just know I've got to have one of them.

Do I have to go?

Did the unthinkable yesterday. I worked on a Saturday. Now I know what some of you are already thinking. It's either, I work every Saturday asshole, what's the big effin deal? Or it's But you just told us you love your job, so again, what's the big effin deal? But I wasn't working my for my new boss, I was moonlighting. Only the moon wasn't out. I spent a day painting for a friend. Yea, he paid me, that's why I did it, mostly, I needed the money. But then, on a day filled with the unimaginable, horror struck twice. Tired after a long work week, denied the Saturday morning pleasures of being a complete loaf with remote in one hand and scratching with the other, I went out that night.

Oh the utter horror! Well, why didn't I just stay at home then? The thought had crossed my mind several times. But in the end it was one of those times. You know, those times when you know what you want to do and what you have to do are two completely different things. You see, it was my sister-in-laws birthday, and the wife didn't want to go alone. Now I love all my sister-in-laws equally and without bias, but really? The couch looked so darned good yesterday. It was calling to me, not unlike a wanting mermaid on a rocky outcrop at sea calling to the lonely sailor. Usually I am content to let the girls be girls and have a drunken night of bar hopping all to their own, the wife sleeping over as I am too senile now to drag around behind her shouting "Can we go yet?" over and over like some parrot with a set of car keys. But last night, she really wanted me to go with her, and promised me she would be tucking me in by 11:00. And I knew the SIL would like me their too. So I did what I had to do. I went.

We had fun, don't get me wrong. Nice dinner and a few yucks. (Although I did manage to play the wet blanket when the group tried in vain to drag me past my bed time to a Karaoke bar. I am not against going to a Karaoke bar. I like to sing. I sing a lot. In the car, on the job, with the band, sing, sing, sing, that's me. But it wasn't me last night. Moral obligations do have their limits. It's not like they wouldn't have any fun without me.) But really, I went because it was one of those family obligations that bind us together like duct tape. You have to suck it up, and do something for someone else. Why? Why must we put aside our selfishness for the sake of someone else? Because it lets that person know that you care. That you care about something else other than yourself. That you would sacrifice one night of your life to make them happy. It's not about you. It's about them.

So, young kiddies, lies the moral of today's epitaph. If you want people to do something for you, because you are so special, than show them you are so special by doing something for them, even if you don't want to. Even if you are tired and just want to lie on the couch and watch the Northwestern/Illini game at Wrigley Field that you taped going all day without hearing the score. Even if you have to drive all night through a blizzard with no gas and a broken arm fending off crazed wildebeests knowing all the while you have to work the next morning. Just do it. Take that Nike.

Take this job and love it.

So how do you like your job? Do you really like it at all? Do you actually hate it? Would you rather be doing something else? Would you rather stick red hot knitting needles into your nostrils than get out of bed most mornings? Me? I don't. I think I really like my job.

At first, I am sure, it was the fascination of actually working again for a steady paycheck. But now? Last week I worked 51 hours. Fifty-one. That might not seem a lot to you, or it might be a normal week for you. But for me, I just worked one of the longest work weeks of my life, and when I was done, I didn't hate my job.

For 21 years I was spoiled working 35 hour weeks (getting paid for 40), standing at a desk on the phone. This week, I was on an elevated steel platform putting solar panels on a car charging station, I put a wind turbine on the side of a school in Wheaton, 65 feet in the air in a boom, and spent the remaining 3 days putting up 9 more said turbines at Cermak Mall in Berwyn (ow, Ow, OW!), previous home to the famous "Spindle" (a stack of junked cars that looked like an auto shish kabob). Oh, and each one weighs 624 lbs, not including the 5 foot extension that adds at least another hundred lbs or so. And all the wiring. My fingers feel like the devil took sandpaper to them. This is the life of a Solar and Wind energy installer.

But. I like it. I like the fact that I am somewhere else every day. Doing something a little different than the day before. I like spending hours in the shop cutting metal, drilling metal, bolting metal. It's like I am playing with giant erector sets. Except when I'm done, I go put them on somebody's roof. And my toy on the roof harnesses natures energy and gives them a break on their electric bill. It is almost like, now what's the word...job satisfaction. At the end of the day, you've made your little mark on the world. A far cry from my old career. You try working the trading floors of Chicago half your life, coming home at the end of the day and actually feeling like you've accomplished something. Now I get it. Now I know that feeling I had all those years. All the work I did. All the commuting to that hell in the city. All the yelling and screaming. It meant nothing. There is nothing at all that I can look at and say, "that meant something." But now, when I go home, I really feel like I made a small difference. And you know what? It's a good feeling.

Maybe you are a doctor. Must be a lot of feelings of accomplishment in that. Unless you spend your days lancing boils of the asses of 85 year old men. Or maybe you are a painter. I was for a while. I always felt good leaving someones house knowing that they were happy, the walls looked great, and that scratch you made on the floor was hidden under a rug. Or maybe you are a drug dealer. Your twisted mind tells you when you go to bed at night that you changed a few lives that day. Ahhh, that's a good feeling. But if your job sucks, I mean really, deep down, soul searching, God fearing, I would rather shove red hot knitting needles into my nostrils sucks, then get out before it is too late. Do something to make you feel better. It will change your life for the better. It did for me. Unless, that is, you make like massive six figures or more, then, well, never mind.

The Guitarman's Guide to Voting in Illinois.

Let me start off by saying that The Guitarman is NOT a Democrat. Nor is he a Republican. I am working in the Green Energy field now, but I am not a Green Party supporter. Nor am I adverse to hanging tea-bags from my hat and spewing such nonsensical ramblings like, "I am not a witch." So what does that make me? A moderate? Where is my party then? Who do I vote for? Well I'll tell you, in the first ever Guitarman's Guide to Voting in Illinois. I know what you are saying, ugh. I'll try not to throw stones, but here goes:

Lake County Sheriff No brainer, it's Doug Roberts. Why? I played a fund raiser for his campaign where I found out that Mark Curran was taking down Doug's campaign signs and replacing them with his own. Scumbag.

Treasurer Easy. Judy Baar Topinka. Judy has...wait a moment, she gave up that post to run against Blago. My bad. I guess I will go with Robert Skidmore. Partly because he is an upstanding guy, but mostly because he is running unopposed.

Comptroller Not even sure what the comptroller does, but I'll go with, HEY, there she is! My old favorite, Judy Baar Topinka. Seriously, she is one of two career Illinois politicians that has actually done a good, scandal-free job.

Secretary of State Jesse White. Why? Easy. The state is broke and it would cost too much to change all of those letterheads and DMV signs already with his name on it. Gee, this stuff ain't so hard. And I was worried about this election.

State Senator and State Representative Umm, that's two different offices right? There are so many of these little buggers running around our state that I don't believe one vote is going to change anything, so flip a coin. Really. It doesn't matter. It's just a resume builder anyway. Just ask Obama.

Representative to Congress Joe Walsh. Two reasons: 1. Melissa Bean ran unopposed in the primary yet still felt the need to pepper my mailbox and answering machine with her campaign BS. What a true waste of money. 2. He's an amazing guitar player and song writer. My Maserati does 185... We're talking about THAT Joe Walsh, aren't we?

Treasurer Dan Rutherford. I have absolutely no idea why. None.

Attorney General Lisa Madigan. I know what you're thinking. Madigan? Really? But her dad...I know, I know. He is a piece of dog excriment. But, seriously, she doesn't play favorites, she doesn't take sides, she just ruthlessly goes after the bad guys (Blago) and isn't that what you want your Attorney General to do?

And now comes the conundrum. The two races that will actually make a difference. Senator and Governor. Do I have to pick?

Senator Undecided. No way I can vote for career democrat, mobster loaning, party-line towing, Obama buddying Alexi Giannoulis. Not to mention that he lost $70 million of Illinoisans' money that they had entrusted him to save for their kids college education. And Mark Kirk? Way, way , WAY too far to the right. Again, voting the party line rather than his conscience, but specifically his stance AGAINST stem cell research. Really? The most important medical advance in decades and your reason is religion? Go back to the stone age dude.

Governor Well it ain't gonna be Quinn. Too many democrats have ruined our state, we need some Yin for our Yang. Brady? He was my early favorite, BUT...He is against raising our nearly lowest in the nation state taxes 1%. One flippin' percent to help our state get out of this fiscal crisis isn't gonna hurt anybody. I am willing to fork over my share so our schools can stop laying off teachers and cutting programs. And he is way too smamry for my liking. Wipe that condescending grin off your face already! Cohen? Riiight. And in a year or two, Lisa Madigan will lead State troopers into his hotel room and bust him for doing lines off of a hookers breasts with a rolled up thousand dollar bill. That leaves me with no choice to do what I have never done. Waste my vote on The Green Party candidate, Rich Whitney. I like his character. Shouldn't that be enough?

A modern fairy tale: Aesop I am not.

Once upon a time, there was a colony of rabbits. It was a very large colony, so big, in fact, that it was decided that one leader couldn't possibly represent the entire group. So boundries were drawn, and local leaders were elected to rule their local groups. Each new, smaller colony was responsible for making it's own laws, to be enforced by it's own police. One of those laws was the making of Carrot Juice. Although some bunnies thought in immoral, others enjoyed its sweet intoxication. Freedom of choice, right?

But, with all this local power, it was agreed that there needed to be one, All Powerful Leader who sort of ruled the rulers. To bring together all the new, smaller colonies, and have them work as one unit for a common good: freedom of oppression from their enemies. After all, cute as they may be, rabbits are pretty low on the food chain. Pretty good in a stew. Fast forward 150 years.

The numbers of colonies grew 4 fold (after all, they were rabbits), and there were so many of them, with so many different laws, it was becoming difficult for the All Powerful Leader to keep it all together. So he did what he had to do, he started enforcing his own set of rules, to be obeyed by all the colonies, no matter if their own local laws said the opposite. Carrot Juice was banned. To those who didn't partake, it was a joyous moment in their history. To others, it was an infringement on their local rights. So they continued to make the Carrot Juice, grand poo-bah be damned. They drank in the shadows and fought with the All Powerful Leader. After 10 years of futility, he realized he couldn't win this fight, so, against his own beliefs, he made Carrot Juice legal again. The colonies rejoiced. Fast forward another 75 years.

At some point in the ensuing years, a couple of rabbits accidentally dropped a few carrots in a fire one night, and breathed in its' aroma. It was an amazing feeling. Different from the intoxication of the juice, but pleasant all the same. Soon they started drying out the carrots, and made Carrot Sticks, which they smoked. It was all the rage. Everyone was trying it. Everyone, that is, except the All Powerful Leader. He wasn't about to let a bunch of burn-outs dictate colony law, so he did what he had to do. He banned the Carrot Sticks. Again to the delight of the non-partakers, it was a righteous decision. But to others, it was another in a growing pattern of intrusion by the All Powerful Leader. So one rather large colony way, way off on the farthest reaches of their land, decided enough was enough. They found that the smoke from the Carrot Sticks was actually beneficial to the health of some of the older, and sicker rabbits. They would let the common rabbits decide with a vote. And vote they did. Against the will of the All Powerful Leader, they made it legal to make your own Carrot Sticks.

But some of the younger, healthier rabbits didn't like the fact that it was OK for a sick bunny to legally enjoy the benefits of the Carrot Sticks, while they could not. If it was actually GOOD for some rabbits, how could it be BAD for others? And who was this All Powerful Leader that he could tell us what is or isn't good for us? After all, it was the All Powerful Leader that was supposed to serve to our will, to save us from oppression from the colonies of the world that would come in and do us harm, not the other way around. So who's law rules the land? The will of the rabbits, or the will of the All Powerful Leader? On Nov. 2 we will find out.

A tale of two shitties. Or three.

He's back. Right when I was not in the mood for him, there he was. I looked into his beady little eyes and I could see the wheels spinning, both of us frozen in the moment. I stared at him, and he stared right back. Of course, I am talking about the squirrel.

Two minutes, three? Five? Finally I blinked.

"Ha!" he shrieked triumphantly. "You humans, with your big brains and opposable thumbs. And what have they gotten you? Nothing!!"

I was taken aback. I had a really horrible day today, and this was all I needed. It started at work with a bang. Being talked down to at age 47 like I am some moronic simpleton by somebody that doesn't sign my paychecks or shares my bed is high on my list of things I tend not to tolerate. Never mind that his nasty halitosis was enhanced by the onions on his hot dog. But mostly a nice guy who admittedly was having an off moment. Never mind, it was quitting time and the day was almost over. Almost.

F*@king duech bag, road raging, asshole screeches to a halt in front of me in the on-ramp 'cuz he thought I was yelling at him. Now, I am no angel, but I did nothing! He gets out of his car, again, in the on-ramp of a friggin' highway, and comes at me. Umm, two words immediately came to mind. Lunatic, and RUN AWAY!!! Okay, it's really three words, but ran away I did. But not before he passed me by and threw (and again, I did nothing!) a tape measure at me. At least it looked like a tape measure, as it missed me by a mile, and it sounded like a tape measure would when it hits the road doing 65. Well, I can only hope that the Illinois State Police will take the license number I gave them and stop by for a little chat with the guy. Day still ain't over.

After a fruitless 15 minutes at the shop, I returned home to be rudely and disrespectfully talked to by brooding young teen #2. Lesson for the day: never try and do homework with her when one or both of us are in a bad mood. And she still wants those $140 boots. HAH! So for my solace, I was left to grab the rake, and attack the back yard. Thus there I was, at the door to my shed, being talked down to yet again. I had had enough.

"You know what? That corn you been munchin' on? You know where it comes from? The corn fairy perhaps? NO! I'll tell you where it comes from you twitchy, buck-toothed vermin from hell! I put it there. Me and my opposable thumbs. Maybe I don't put it out anymore. Maybe I do put out, but dip it in a little anti-freeze, or rat poison first? What do ya think? So next time you decide you want to run out of the old hole for a little snack, just ask yourself. Is today the day? Is today, Jimmy Shaker day?"

And he stared back at me. He looked down at the kernel in his hand, looked back at me, and said, "I'm sorry." It wasn't much, but one out of four ain't bad, I guess.