Not a Repost

     We're all adults here, right? Difficult as it is to be certain about anything in this world, full as it is of illusion and lies, it seems safe enough to speculate that most, if not all, of the populace who count themselves as readers of this bizarre little thing have achieved some level of adulthood. Or, at the very least, have seen an 'R' rated movie or two, and almost definitely would describe themselves as being capable of making their own decisions, even if they dislike being held responsible for them.
     Which, to our collective dismay, we are. Each of us is sadly, regrettably, responsible for the decisions we make, because the best part of being an adult is also the worst:
     As an adult, no one can tell you what to do.
     Sure, some of us may have a boss, or an overbearing relative or significant other, but the decision to obey  lies ultimately with us. Admittedly, freedom from such things comes at a heavy price, one that often includes no small amount of aimlessness and loneliness, but for some unfortunate number of us, it nonetheless appeals as the superior path. Often as not, it's chosen primarily for the silence it provides, and the release from having to hear or consider the input or feelings of other people. People, as we all know, are widely regarded as being the worst, especially by those who operate motor vehicles. Which is why the incentive for interacting with them so eludes many of us.
     Said incentive, already rather an endangered species, is, I regret to inform you, now under a greater threat than ever before. Its already gasping existence is being, at this very moment, further throttled, by a once thought harmless adversary.
     It is known, friends and neighbors, as the Dreaded Repost, and it's day has dawned upon and through us, the unsuspecting masses. Fading in from the digital depths, the Repost is now overpowering the Original Post, abducting those who once wished only to tell the world about the inane minutiae of their day, and transforming them into people who believe they can change the world if they Repost something about how evil immigrants are, or how much fatter one country is than another, or how their glorious deity once carried them around on a beach. Or perhaps the unimportant rantings of a person who claims to desire solitude but constantly makes bids for attention through desperate attempts to disguise irrational anger as humor. I've heard some people do that.
     The Dreaded Repost brings this change about with seductive promises, Which are of course the most appealing sort. It promises us the righteousness of majority, it promises safety in numbers, it promises the satisfaction of successful change in our world. Unfortunately, these promises are false. Reposting does not make us activists, nor does it make us humanitarians, or comedians, or faithful disciples.
     The Dreaded Repost makes us unoriginal, is what it does, often telling us most people won't provide the Repost because of some sort of fear or lack of individuality.
     "Wait!" I can hear the choruses cry, "what about spreading awareness, smart guy?" the multitudes* call to me in unison, searching desperately to defend the Dreaded Repost.
     My reply comes in that longtime favorite and never irksome form of answering a question with a question.
     "What about it?" I say, and then realize I should probably explain. Which I will.
     Think about it for one second, and then read on because an explanation requires more than me just telling people to think about stuff. When a Dreaded Repost rears its ugly head, what do we do? Easy. If it's one we agree with, we give it that much sought after click, feeling reassured that our way is the right one, and quietly rejoicing in the Camaraderie of the Just. Otherwise, we at best ignore it, and at worse react to it negatively, furrowing our brows at the screen and thinking on what an insufferable fool the person who made this Repost must be, wondering why we even bother with them, before forgetting it and getting on with our lives, points of view intact and unchanged, the only awareness successfully spread being the already ubiquitous knowledge that everyone else is a nincompoop.
     I, for one, have even come to find myself longing for the days preceding the rise of the Dreaded Repost, even though they were so full of those once railed against pictures of what people were eating for dinner, or why their job in particular was terrible, or how some ex-significant needs to stop posting all their drama. So, I ask, I implore, I beg and beseech every person the world over, let's put an end to the reign of the Dreaded Repost, and return to a simpler time, one where everyone's idiocy was at least there own to claim.
     Repost if you agree.
-John
   

*Stupid multitudes. Always calling out in unison. How about a round, once in a while, Like "Row, Row, Row your boat?"
   

Ripsnorters and a Humdinger

     Well slap an alligator and run for your life, but it's been a depressing couple of weeks, hasn't it? Robin Williams, Lauren Bacall, Ferguson, bombing Iraq again, and on and on. I don't know about you, friends and neighbors, but I feel like I've been living in a world written by Raymond Carver and Edgar Allan Poe, and narrated by Eeyore the donkey. So what does one do, when confronted by all this weighty, soul dragging news? Give in? Let the world fade into that lifeless gray,drop one's gaze to the ground, and acknowledge that in the biggest of pictures, very little matters and all of it ends?
     Well, sure, eventually, that's what happens. It's called adulthood, and it's mostly defined as the slow process by which all dreams fade from consciousness and reality takes their place, proceeding to drain the mind and body like a parasite.
     But how about we don't do that today? How about if today, this one time, I go completely against type and we just have ourselves a good chuckle at this stupid, silly world we live in, and maybe decide to have a little fun together on this particular Friday? After all, you'll never see this day again (sorry, cheering people up is a new thing for me, this could be a little rocky), so let's spend it making some merry, shall we?
     Or I guess you could just stop reading right now, never knowing what words of joy lie beyond this sentence, doomed instead to a life devoid of inspirational whimsy and wholesome tomfoolery. Spoilsport.
     As for the rest of you, come along, and we'll have us a real ripsnorter of a good time.
     And we're going to start with the Ku Klux Klan.
     Bet you didn't see that one coming.
     Anyway, it turns out that the KKK has become fractured over a fundraiser started by one Charles Murray (who of course goes by Chuck) to support Darren Wilson, the (family friendly adjective not found) police officer in Ferguson who shot and killed Michael Brown. Turns out, ol' Chuck's fundraiser is so distinctly and disturbingly dreadful that the KKK has banished him. That's right, they didn't just take away his sheets and ID card, they full on banished him.
     Which goes to show, that even in organizations as stupid, as destructive, and as fueled by fear and hate, all is not lost. So smile, already.
     Unrelated tip: use the word 'ripsnorter,' or its variation, 'ripsnorting.' It's good for you, and no one does it anymore.
     Okay, let's do a little rapid fire headline and response, how about why not? That always cheers me up.
     Headline:
     "The most annoying thing parents do on planes"
     Response:
     Bring their kids. Don't you act like this wasn't your first thought, either. Even the parents among you thought it.
     Headline:
     "Pig That Menaced Children Seen Again in Maine"
     Response:
     That sounds like someone watched a humdinger of a bad horror movie for the second time. "The Pig That Menaced Children." Or, if you prefer, "Menace Pig."
     Headline:
     "Los Angeles Port Welcomes Massive Rubber Duck"
     Response:
     They'd better. You ever try stopping a massive rubber duck from docking when it has a mind to? You're better off trying to get a pig to stop menacing kids in Maine. Which never ends well in the movies, let me tell you.
     Headline:
     "Lucky Cat Survives 12-story Fall in New York City"
     Response:
     Of course it did, because cats are minions of the one true Satan, who doesn't so much allow his disciples to die as he does call them back to Hell for redeployment.
     And speaking of cats and bad segues, I have one last thing for all of my favorite people, also known as people who don't own or like cats. I know, I know, most of you are cat lovers, and at the start (well, not exactly at the start, but you know what I mean) of this piece I said I was going to cheer you all up, but here's the thing: cats are everywhere, all the time, including the entire internet, and those of us who aren't fans rarely get the opportunity to express ourselves on the subject without receiving shocked looks, remonstrations, and proclamations of feline adoration that often border on the absurd.
     So just this once, shut up and let us have our day. After it's over, you can go cuddle with your kitty and make yourself feel better. I'm sure it will have no true feelings about it either way.
     Because, as I said, they're demons. Here we go.
     First, and real quick, I saw an article that proposed to explain the three most common problems with cats, and how one might go about repairing said. I did not read the article, because I'd already found an answer, which leads to not only a better segue, but also the following.
     Police officers in Florida have captured a twelve foot long python thought to be responsible for a whole slew of missing cats. The python -or hero, perhaps, to some- is "the answer to so many questions," says resident Pamela Dinola, who lost five of her seven cats. Which is too many.
    The seven, I mean, not the five.
    Okay, it's over, you readers of 'Cat Fancy' magazine. Dry those eyes, and remind yourself that your cat is special, and it loves you.
     Even though it isn't, and it doesn't.
     Cheer up, everyone. As for me, I'm going to have a glass of wine and watch "Good Morning, Vietnam."
     Thanks, Robin.
-John

Surely, I Could At Least Steal A Better Python.

   
     I just read an article in which we, you and me and all the other people who live within the largely artificially created borders of these conglomerated states, were universally labeled as narcissists. Now, I feel I can pretty much speak for every other person who resides within said borders when I say, "What? ME? Well, maybe, but everyone else is way worse than me. I'm not that bad. Compared to some of these other people, I could be considered quite great. I mean, come on, I could go online and find a bunch of people way worse. Some of my favorite sites are pretty much only about how awful everyone else is."
      We could say that, and then we could go online and make ourselves feel better by mocking a bunch of people who have done or said or written terrible, stupid, or terribly stupid things. We could also turn on a few reality shows, and bask in the glory of how much better we are as viewers of it than they are as stars of it. Or, we could perhaps realize that doing such things benefits only the creators of them, and instead put in some energy transforming ourselves into the awe inspiring role models we already believe ourselves to be.
     Which sounds like an awful lot of work, and who wants to do that? I think it's easier, and thus obviously better, if we just insist on living our lives by comparing them to the lives of everyone else, because we can always find someone whose terrible deeds receive far more attention than our own.
     And speaking of professional athletes (rimshot!), I could spend an awful lot of digital ink and paper on the NFL alone, considering how its players, coaches, owners and whatnot seem get away with all kinds of nonsense. Spousal abuse, animal abuse, infidelity, drug abuse, even murder. Actually killing other people. Never mind the financial shenanigans, I'm not even going to get into those. But what difference would it make? It's a religion just as much as any other, and if you don't believe me, ask your favorite football fan when they last prayed. I bet you money it was when their team was losing. And yes, yelling at the screen counts, since it has about as much influence on any situation's outcome. We could actually make a real list of all the terrible stuff professional athletes and their management, and not just in the world of football, get away with, and people would still line up to spend insane amounts of money on tickets to games and replica jerseys and poster and autographs. The most we'd be likely to get is a muttered admission that things could be better, and then someone might get suspended for a game or two. And that's not going to make us feel better about us, is it? If we got caught doing most of this stuff, we'd probably go to prison, because we're clearly not as valuable to the world.
     So let's instead focus on some lower level people we can mock, shall we?
     For instance, how about those people who are getting myriad plastic surgeries to make themselves look more like Barbie and Ken dolls? Personally, I only just heard about the Ken doll guy, but after finding out about the so called "Living Barbie" a while back, I wasn't all that surprised. Now, friends and neighbors, this ought to make you feel pretty good about whatever physical imperfections you may be metaphorically or literally flagellating yourself over, because at least you haven't gone so far round that particular bend that you're trying to make yourself look like a toy.
     Thankfully, instead of ignoring these self obsessed people, we've given them news stories and websites, so they can finally get all that attention for which they've so deformed themselves. Even if it is just because of how weird we think they are.
     The only trouble here is that after you take a second to think on it, making fun of these people seems a little pointless, doesn't it? It's actually kind of sad that anyone's claim to fame is an odd obsession with appearance and plastic surgery. So let's try again.
     Oh, how about that woman in New York who crashed her Prius into a firehouse with a snake -which she apparently stole- wrapped around her neck. Right? Wait a minute though; it gets better. The article, after taking a moment to note that fire personnel who were on scene rendered first aid to the woman -remember where she crashed?- goes on to say that officials are uncertain if the crash was caused by intoxication or being strangled by the aforementioned stolen snake, but marijuana was found, because of course it was.
    Oh, and by the way, the woman was charged with reckless driving, driving while intoxicated, unlawful possession of marijuana, reckless endangerment in the second degree and petty larceny. She, and you knew this was coming, decided to plead not guilty.
     Now that makes me feel pretty good about me. There's no way I'd be stealing snakes and crashing Priuses (Priusi? Priusese? Priusts? I don't know, none of these are especially good. How about... Priusauruses, just because why not?) into firehouses. I'd take my Priusaurus (keeping it) and find myself something that needs to be run into by an intoxicated person being strangled by a stolen python.
    Like a spouse abusing professional athlete, for instance.
    Also, as a final detail, the article points out that small ball pythons are smaller and more docile than other types of pythons.It does not say why this is relevant, but I wanted to include it, because it gave me an idea for a title which I liked, and that made me feel pretty great.
-John